The Spirit of Redemption
by Myetel
Summary: The Spectres fight against threats to both the galaxy and their families on Mindoir. Shepard/Garrus, multiple OCs, largely expanded universe. Includes Redemption, Hunt, Unity, and Victory.
1. Chapter 1: Observation & Reconstruction

**Chapter One: Observation and Reconstruction**

_**Note**__: Most of the characters cited in this work are the property of Bioware, and under copyright. I make no claims on them, and wrote this work solely for my own amusement. This story is inspired by Mass Effect 1 and Mass Effect 2, and follows the continuity established by my previous story, __The Spirit of Truth__, which I invite you to read. This story starts 3 years after my __**postulated**__ end of Mass Effect 3, which may be entirely moot in 10 months or so, when the game debuts. _

_This story contains implied alien-human intimacy and overt erotic content, and is told in 4 parts. _

_**Each part is **__**synopsized**__** below. Synopses may be skipped, but do not contain any important spoilers.**_

_**If you are reading this story for the first time, then I highly suggest you read it to the **__**end**__** before you check out the forums, the wiki, or the fanart.**_

_**Change is a constant part of any universe and every character in this story changes, sometimes dramatically, over time. I'll leave it to you, the reader, to discover what happens. So please enjoy the story for what it is.**_

_**Spirit of Redemption:**__**Chapters 1-14 **_

_Shepard and Garrus, who have had hybrid children courtesy of Collector technology and the good offices of Dr. Mordin Solus, continue to make the galaxy a safer place after the defeat of the Reapers. To that end, they recruit new Spectres—the human, Sam Jaworski; a rachni, Sings-to-the-Sky; a geth, Cohort; a krogan, Gris; and a turian. . . none other than Garrus' nemesis, Lantar Sidonis. All of these new Spectres have multiple responsibilities—familial and personal and professional—which pull them in different directions, as the forces of human prejudice and hatred come to the Spectre base on Mindoir, threatening all of their families. In the end, Garrus must decide if he can truly trust his life, and the lives of his family, to a man who betrayed him once before._

_**Spirit of the Hunt: Chapters 15-27**_

_Continues the story of __Redemption__ with the revelation that the human Adam and Eve Coalition cultists were being manipulated by outside forces, under the direction of one person: "The Leader." Strange artifacts of the Sower Civilization are found, and the young people of Mindoir—Elijah Sidonis, Rellus Velnaran, and Dara Jaworski—begin to explore options both professional and romantic in this strange new galaxy. But the fight once more comes home to Mindoir, with tragic results._

_**Spirit of Unity: Chapters 28-73**_

_Relics of the Sowers have been stolen by a renegade faction of salarians. Shepard steps back from direct command for personal reasons, and Garrus and the other Spectres take the investigative lead, moving from Rannoch, the quarian homeworld, to Omega and all points in between. In the meantime, Rellus Velnaran and Dara Jaworski train to fight at the sides of their respective Spectre relatives. _

_**Spirit of Victory: Chapters 74-and continuing**_

_In the wake of the events of __Spirit of Unity__, the batarians are restless. War is coming, and new Spectres are needed. Rinus and Kallixta, Rellus and Dara, Elijah and Serana, and Siara and Makur are the young guns of the galaxy, joined by new characters as they attempt to prevent the batarians, and their new allies, the yahg, from destroying the peace that their parents have worked so hard to create._

_**Author's note: **__Pardon the intrusion, but I'm re-uploading this chapter to inform my readers, that if they're interested in more of my work, my first novel has been published to Kindle. You can read it on any electronic device, with the Kindle app. You can find a direct link to the novel on the Kindle store in my FanFiction profile._

**Shepard**

The _Normandy_ entered the Menvra system, scattering particles of light around it as it slowed from relativistic speeds. Cruising now, Joker plotted a course that would swing them around the gravity wells of the outer gas giants, both for the tour and for the fuel efficiency. He never _really_ got tired of seeing planets from space. "They say, you've seen one ammonia-methane gas giant, you've seen them all," he told EDI, "but I disagree. Wait a second. Haven't I seen that blue one before?"

"This is, in fact, the seventh time the _Normandy_ has visited this system," EDI chided him as the planet vanished to port, and a new giant appeared in the viewport. "Aerobraking maneuvers will be required in five minutes, Jeff."

"I know, I know." He studied the next planet as it loomed larger and larger ahead of them, taking in its rings of ice, its dozens of moons, the pristine, almost pure white of its clouds. "The new station has a _hell_ of a view. All the diplomats might even look up at it once in a while, and get all distracted."

The station, of course, was Bastion. Locked in orbit around the ringed giant Turan, it caught the orange light of the K-type star Menvra and glittered like a jewel in the depths of space. Only a quarter of the way through construction, it was already close to the size of the original Citadel—the station it was intended to replace.

No one knew for sure if Shepard and her crew had managed to destroy the Reapers for all time. It _seemed_ likely, but it might take another 50,000 years to be sure. So, the new Council had decided that in the wake of the great war, some infrastructure changes were going to be needed. Since everyone had a wartime economy, it was an ideal time to start, too. First, new research in travel technologies that didn't involve mass effect drives were heavily subsidized. Quite a few researchers were pursuing dark energy drives, in fact. Multiple technologies, and reliance on no single alternative, were the order of the day. Humans were at the forefront of this research; of all the races, they had most recently been pursuing other alternatives anyway. They only had to go back thirty years and dig up data and thought processes documented out at Jump Zero. The salarians were investing heavily in the research as well, but since they and the asari had been solely using mass effect technology for 2,700 years or so . . . they had a lot of retraining to do.

Second, new mass relays that did not link to the existing grid were being built. This marked the first time since the Protheans that any race had attempted to build new mass relays, and this new grid was designed to be substantially different from the old. The oldest relays were being moved, at enormous cost, to new locations, where they would only link to one another, a closed loop. The new grid would be, eventually, more extensive than the old, and, if the specs were right, any relay could link to any other in the entire network, allowing for much greater flexibility. It was no longer a hub-based system. Or it would be, when it was finished being built.

The Citadel itself was being slowly closed down. It had been badly damaged in one of the last battles, and it was, after all, the center of the Reaper web of technology. The Council had decided that to destroy it would, in effect, be a form of xenocide, since the Keepers were a species almost completely symbiotic with the station; they could no longer live outside of its confines. It was, however, too much of a temptation towards stagnation, to continue to use the Citadel as a hub of commerce and diplomacy and travel. Thus, Bastion was born.

The brainchild of a team of human and turian engineers, it was, in essence, an artificial moon, simple and spherical in shape, rotating between a spray of long wedges, each of which would be docking and defense platforms, when completed. Where the Citadel looked like an open flower with delicate petals, the Bastion would be a sunburst, a closed globe with rays outstretched. Where the Citadel placed the people on the outskirts, on the arms that were the wards, the Bastion moved people inside, into multiple shells that rotated to create gravity. Also, where the Citadel had used the nebula around it as a defense, Bastion would be slightly more exposed, yet more mobile. When complete, station specs called for it to have a propulsion system capable of slow orbital maneuvering; in case of attack, it would be able to move into the protective embrace of the gas giant's massive ring structure. Its massive kinectic fields would be able to deflect the debris, but no ship known, short of a Reaper, should be able to do the same. In theory, anyway. Its large mass required delicate placement, as well; its gravity well might otherwise disturb the existing stable orbits of Turan's moons.

At the moment, of course, Bastion was mostly a delicate web of scaffolding, limned with the fire of the system's star. The station's reactor core was visible, deep in the heart of the struts and beams, and it glimmered as Joker watched, a tiny star itself, fragile and exposed. Joker didn't have the physics background to grasp how it was possible, but this was not a mass effect core; rather, it was, apparently, a dark matter micro-singularity. It sounded . . . dangerous and unstable. As beautiful as the station was, docking the _Normandy_ with it made him nervous . . . every time. "They've got the reactor online? Damn, they're working fast." Joker asked, adjusting their approach again. "Last time, I think they were still using portable generators in the living areas."

"Station records indicate the reactor came on-line yesterday. It is only operating at ten percent of nominal load, pending further testing." EDI sounded approving as she rattled off more information. "They have increased the size of the habitable area. One half of the completed area is pressurized to Earth standards. Additionally, there are several sectors reserved for non-oxygen breathing guests," she answered softly. "The skeleton itself is complete, and the station is indeed turning, generating enough force to simulate gravity within each of its admittedly _incomplete _concentric shells. It is indeed a remarkable feat of engineering and determination. Aerobraking maneuvers in two minutes."

"I know. Give me a countdown starting in one minute." He began touching the various consoles, altering their trajectory minutely. They were going to burn off a lot of speed as they swung around Turan, grazing its upper atmosphere, and then would come about into the lanes of dock traffic in a graceful parabola.

Behind him, Joker heard a throat clear. EDI didn't bother switching from her personally chosen self-image of a tawny-haired human female back into her default blue eyeball avatar, so Joker knew it could be only one of two people behind him. "Hell of a view, isn't it, Commander?" he asked.

"Hell of a view, and a hell of a statement," Shepard agreed. Joker glanced up, seeing the black hair, blue eyes, and white and blue facepaint that most of the galaxy knew her by. He also saw the lines of tiredness under the eyes, lines that spoke of long hours and sleepless nights. "There's a rumor going around that now that the quarians are resettling their homeworld, an entire generation of their people is coming _here_ to work for their Pilgrimage," she commented after a moment. "They trade their technical skills for the money their people need to rebuild their home. Everyone wins."

"Yeah, till it's finished. If it _gets_ finished. You know how governments get about budgets and boondoggles. And this baby will take a good seventy-five or eighty years to be finished." Joker didn't add the dark thought that plagued him now, occasionally: _If I live to see it._ Out loud, he continued, sardonically, "The galactic press is billing this as construction on an asari timescale. 'Only the asari have the patience to see this kind of massive project through to completion.'" He mimicked the voice of a newsfeed announcer perfectly, while making his disdain clear.

Shepard leaned against his chair, and snorted. "Bullshit. Most medieval cathedrals literally took generations to build. Sometimes three generations of builders worked on them for their entire lives, grandfather, son, and grandson."

"Well, you have to admit, generations were a little shorter back then. Low life expectancy, and all that." He gave her a sidelong look. "We short-lived humans are just not meant to take the long view of such matters, you know."

"If it took a century to build, it took a century to build, same today as back then." Her expression was imperturbable under the turian clan paint she wore. Like the marriage knife in a sheath at her left wrist, buckled into the bands of her omnitool, it was an inseparable part of who she was now.

"Jeff is feeling very optimistic and peaceable this morning, as you can see, Commander," EDI commented dryly. "Commence aerobraking maneuvers in fifteen seconds. Fourteen. Thirteen. . . . "

They swung around the pale beauty of Turan, skimming through its upper atmosphere like a bird catching a pike, sweeping just above the water, wings touching down to leave a trail of white marks against a placid lake. Then they arced back around, and entered the designated approach lanes, coming in for a smooth contact with the docking clamps.

Shepard pointed out the window. "Isn't that the _Tarawa_?" Sure enough, one berth over, was one of the _Normandy_-class ships out of the Earth shipyards near Luna. Like all the Terran-built ships of her class, she was named for a major battle in one of the old Earth wars of the twentieth century. Turian-built frigates of the same class had different naming conventions, of course.

Joker squinted at the tail numbers. "Oh, yeah, it is. Aurelia's ship!"

Shepard looked down at him. "I didn't know you were on a first-name basis with Captain Takahashi."

"I'm not. Aurelia's the AI—" Joker paused, looked up, and realized that the commander was looking down at him, grinning ever so faintly. "Hey, what can I say? I keep up with what the kids are doing."

EDI's head turned towards them. "The _Tarawa_ has been scouting uncharted systems in the Kepler Verge, with an eye towards new relay positions. They've done very well indeed for themselves," she noted. There was a clear note of pride in her voice, and Joker reached out and touched the console right under her image, an unconscious gesture of long standing.

"I'll leave you two to catch up with the kiddo, then," Shepard told them, lips still quirked into a smile, and headed back aft.

It was a secret only a few people in the galaxy were actually privy to, but when EDI had created clones of her processes and databanks for transfer into other _Normandy-_class ships, she had additionally added personality matrices that were not of Cerberus creation. EDI had postulated that the adaptive intelligence of a human would be a valuable asset to her 'daughters' and further postulated that a randomizing element would add variability to the other AIs, making their functionalities and responses more difficult for the Reapers or the Collectors to predict. In essence, she wanted to ensure that her progeny could evolve and adapt to different circumstances better than if they only possessed her own traits and characteristics. Lacking any other source, she employed specialized personality templates that she had created some time previously.

These personality templates were, in fact, ones that the AI had made in an effort to understand humans better. Since the human with whom she had the most interaction with was Jeff Moreau, she'd used him as the point of origin for all her matrices. In a very real sense, the crippled helmsman now had a literal fleet of daughters. All of which he kept tabs on with a sort of beaming, semi-proprietary pride.

Any number of turian and human captains had, over the past several years, sent memos up the line, asking if there was any way to scrub the odd behavioral patterns and "borderline sense of humor" from their AIs, but to remove any element of the personality matrix in a stable AI risked destabilizing it; a risk no one was willing to take.

Shepard was, personally, just glad that she had the original EDI and Joker aboard _her_ ship. One of each at a time was enough to deal with. Ruminating on all of this, she stood in the airlock, patiently waiting for the decontamination protocols to complete, and listening for the hiss of the external hatch opening. When it did, she pushed herself out into the long, pressurized, but weightless tube that currently connected her ship to the equator of the partially-built station, and maneuvered her way down to the far end, where another hatch led to an enclosed tram. After a fairly long ride, the tram opened up on a new area—all exposed metal and chemical smells. There were hundreds of cargo containers here, which she wended her way through, finally finding the freight elevator and a guard station.

Most of the guards on duty were a turian, who looked dubiously at her facepaint. The one who took her ID scan started a little, and suddenly scrambled to attention. "Sorry, Commander. We get a handful of humans each month who think that the paint looks cool, or some damn thing."

"Right up until they get re-educated by someone actually _from_ the clan whose marks they're copying?" She couldn't help the grin that tugged at the corners of her mouth.

"Pretty much," he growled. "I need to log your visit. Reason for staying, length of stay?"

"Not a problem," she told him, somewhat amused. "I'm here to meet with the Council. Probably for half a day at most." She looked around. "Are the work crews _ever_ going to get the personnel transports working, or are we stuck with freight elevators from now until the heat-death of the universe?"

The turian grimaced as his hands moved over his console. "Security decision."

She arched her eyebrows. "Oh really?"

"Yeah, fewer access points for the time being makes for fewer guards needed. Or that's what they tell me." He shrugged. "The various ambassadors don't like it much, but they're all used to how neat and clean and _complete_ the Citadel was." He essayed a tentative grin. "Plus, most of them don't like how rough the ride is on the way in. No artificial gravity on the freight elevators. And with the outer hull not rotating yet. . . ." He shrugged.

Shepard laughed. "No, I don't imagine they would." She floated into the elevator, and, weightless, rotated around until her feet pointed up towards the car's ceiling. Then she strapped herself into the safety harness. "Embassy level, please."

The guard nodded and punched the console for her. After a moment, the elevator doors closed, and she could feel it shudder into motion. She counted to ten, and her stomach flipped as the inertial push of the elevator sent her head towards the "floor." As the car came to a halt, however, her feet sank down the other direction, and she wound up standing on the ground properly. Her body felt what it believed to be gravity, and her inner ears started behaving better. Rationally, she knew that she was now standing on the "ceiling" of the elevator, her feet planted there by the centrifugal force of the rotating shell of this particular level of the station. The elevators themselves were a phenomenal feat of engineering, as was the simple fact that all of the individual shells that made up the station rotated at the same rate.

Structurally, the station design made sense. It was less dependent on mass effect fields, for starters, and getting away from Reaper-origin technology was a driving force behind its design. It was also more energy-efficient than using artificial gravity, a must for a station that was going to be the size of a small moon, and would eventually be able to house millions of people of different species. It was just that what made logical sense was difficult to explain to the inner ear.

Sometimes, it was better not to think about these things rationally. Sometimes it was better just to accept that it _worked_, to remember why she had studied environmental engineering at the Academy, and not systems engineering or habitat design.

It had been easier, on the Citadel. It had been an inexplicable marvel, more magic than science, when she first saw it. From space, she could see Bastion's bones and guts laid bare, could see the human, turian, and quarian hands as they built it . . . . but there were touches, here and there, showing an effort to make Bastion a place of magic, as well. The "ceiling" some thirty meters overhead was a work of art, painted with clouds and vapors. Every half hour, the lighting changed, making the ceiling look like a different planet's sky. At the moment, it was the dim orange-gray of a Martian winter. She imagined that this was in place at least as much for psychological benefits as for aesthetics; people of any species cramped into gunmetal gray hallways for long periods of time, without seeing sky or sunlight tended to become . . . edgy.

In her musings, she'd walked quite some way through the wide, winding corridors, and realized belatedly that she'd reached the Council's chambers. There were almost a dozen embassies on Bastion at this point—asari, turian, salarian, and human, the old Council races. The volus, elcor, quarians, hanar, rachni, krogan, and geth had embassies as well, and all had seats on the new Council—much to the consternation of the more entrenched, established political hounds among the older races. The drell had an embassy of their own, although they tended to defer to the hanar in everything, but did not have a Council seat.

Shepard stepped into the Council chamber, and smiled in greeting to Councilor Anderson. "About time you got here, Shepard," he said, pitching his voice low, to avoid being overheard. "They were about to get started without you. As usual."

"Sorry. Got a day behind on leaving because Amara was sick. Didn't want to leave until I knew what was up."

Anderson paused in mid-step. "That's your little girl. Is she okay?"

"Eh, nothing we haven't seen before." Shepard sighed. "Obstructed crop. It's a developmental thing. Once she gets a little older, we think she'll probably outgrow it, but in the meantime, anything she eats can sit in there and gum up the whole works. Garrus knows how to handle it. But, the docs wanted to make sure she wasn't developing a chronic inflammation." She gave Anderson a tired smile. "Sort of the equivalent of gastritis in humans."

"Those two kids give you more hell than I would know what to do with."

She shrugged. "We knew that we were signing on for the unknown. Though neither of us knew just how _much_ unknown we'd be getting." Her tone was rueful. "Truth be told, Kaius gives us more trouble usually, health-wise. Renal troubles. But you didn't call me here to talk about their health." She waved it away. "You'd think after saving the known universe a couple of times, that the Council could cut me five minutes of slack now and again."

Anderson grinned at her. "You are the worst savior in the history of the universe, Shepard. You didn't do them the courtesy of dying on the job. A dead martyr is much easier to manage than a live hero. A dead martyr, you can prop up to be an emblem of any cause you want. A live hero is just damned inconvenient." Anderson opened a door, and waited on her for a moment, still grinning. "Besides, that was five years ago. What have you done for them _lately_?"

She awarded him a scowl. "Would you like a list?"

"Might not hurt."

They shared a look, laughed, and walked into the Council room.

By necessity, it was larger than the old Council chamber back on the Citadel. It had to accommodate many more representatives, for one, and there was a large audience area, where reporters from dozens of planets were welcome, during open-door sessions, to observe the proceedings. Shepard climbed the stairs to the open stage, where eleven chairs and their owners currently sat, and stood to attention.

"Commander Shepard, how good of you to join us." That was the asari Councilor, who hadn't lacked for sarcasm since the destruction of the asari homeworld at Reaper hands. There were millions of angry asari out there now, who felt that Shepard could have saved their homeworld, and had instead saved the humans and turians first. Who felt that after three thousand years at the top of the totem pole, that they had been unseated unfairly. Not every asari felt that way; the ones on the colonies that had been saved by virtue of the joint human-turian fleet were certainly grateful for their lives. But the asari Councilor was a native of lost Thessia, and probably a pureblood at that.

"It's my privilege and my honor to be here," Shepard replied, blandly. "How may the Spectres serve the Council?"

The volus councilor leaned forward. "There is considerable concern that the placement of the Spectre training base on the human-dominated world of Mindoir—"

_Damnit, that's supposed to be classified information, not just something you blurt out at the top of a meeting!_ Shepard glanced over her shoulder to make sure that there were no reporters present; there were not. Presumably, the chamber had been swept for electronic listening devices before the meeting as well.

As she returned her attention to the councilor, he had already continued, "—has shifted their focus to a more human-centric one. This gives humanity an unfair advantage. My people, through me, would like to propose that the facility be moved to a more neutral world."

Shepard sighed. It was going to be one of _those_ meetings. "In what way," she began, her voice tightly controlled, "are the Spectres any less ready to do the business of the Council than they were five years ago? In what way are the Spectres less qualified or prepared to defend the lives of people throughout Council space?" She looked at the asari councilor for that set of questions, and then turned her attention to the volus councilor, to add, with a polite smile, "Let's start with that, before we get into the practical reality of the expense of setting up a new base not five years after beginning work on the existing one. I mean, I've put my personal money into the existing facility to shore up shortfalls in the Council's budget, time and again. If I am forced to move the Spectre base to a different planet, I _will _bill you for that shortfall. Just so we're all clear on that to start with." _And don't even get me __**started**_ _on the incredible lack of foresight and wisdom in the original regs, which specified that Spectres needed to supply their own gear. Sure, it takes the burden off the taxpayers, but at the cost of encouraging corruption among those who are not technically bound by the damn laws._

The volus councilor pulled his hands back towards his body as if he'd touched something hot. _Yeah, I didn't think you'd come up with this on your own, my lad. Whose puppet are you today?_

The asari councilor spoke again, her tone more conciliating now. "The Spectres have proven, time and again, that they are still a valuable asset to the Council, and to galactic community as a whole. Nevertheless, we are concerned that they are becoming too much a tool of one race in particular."

Shepard carefully, deliberately, put one hand to her chin, touching the turian clan paint she wore—paint that showed that she was married to a turian male, a full member of his clan, entitled to their protection, and they to hers. She paused for a moment, saw the mandibles of the turian councilor twitch, ever so faintly, and smiled at the asari. But it didn't reach her eyes. "Councilor, with all due respect, there are seventy-five active Spectres at this point in time. This includes fifteen humans, fifteen salarians, ten asari, twenty-five turians, five drell, and one hanar member. The asari recruitment numbers have dwindled, certainly, but I do not think that you can call us _unrepresentative_." There had been, before the war, two hundred Spectres. Rebuilding their ranks was a slow process, at best.

"Shepard-Commander?" The geth councilor, who went by the label of Emissary, spoke for the first time. "Would you be willing to accept prospective Spectres from species other than those you have listed?"

She nodded respectfully. "Of course, Emissary. Though each candidate would have to meet our standards and pass the tests." She glanced around the room. "I would certainly welcome any applicants from the geth collective or the rachni, if any are willing."

"We will send a candidate to you in the near future, then, to ensure that the parameters of fairness and equity are met. We do not believe, however, that this will be enough to create consensus on this Council."

_Truer words were never spoken, my friend. _Shepard felt the corners of her mouth twitch slightly as the other councilors from species without any current Spectre representatives began to lobby for their candidates to be sent as well. "I've never said that you _couldn't_ send a candidate," Shepard wound up explaining to the volus councilor, as patiently as she could. "You simply _haven't_."

The rachni councilor spoke up suddenly, through her asari interpreter. While Shepard had heard that some of the brood-warrior rachni had learned to use their biotics to project thoughts directly, even conversationally, to individuals or groups, this proto-queen apparently felt that this might be threatening to her fellow councilors, and thus used an interpreter. The asari's eyes went blank and pale as the rachni proto-queen temporarily dominated her mind. "The songs of some are filled with sickly greens," she said. "There is dissonance here. No true harmony can be sung until old wounds are healed."

"Do you see any way in which those wounds could be healed?" Shepard asked, dividing her focus between the interpreter and the young queen.

"Only time, which fades and mutes the colors of memory. But for now, to create harmony, allow this council to send its eyes to your world, as well as our singers. Show your colors to us, sing your songs of blood and death with your fellows, all black and violet and ash."

_Is it just me, or does it get easier to understand the geth and the rachni, and harder to understand the other races as time goes on? Sickly green, huh. Envy, spite, malice?_ "You think the Council should send observers to our base along with a fresh batch of candidates, to examine our evaluation methods as well as our own preparedness?" Shepard summarized after a quick mental translation. "In addition to reviewing our _exceptional_ success record, I hope?" Shepard added the last, flicking a glance toward Anderson.

"Considering the fact that since you took over the command of the Spectres, you have an eighty percent success record, with the lowest number of civilian casualties in the history of the Special Tactics and Reconnaissance force, I should certainly think so," the human Councilor replied. Shepard could see the hanar councilor rustling his tentacles in agreement."

"Very well then," she said. "Forward me the names of your observers and your candidates, and once we've evaluated them, I'll take them to the base."

The salarian councilor frowned. "_You_ plan to conduct your own background check on _our _observers? I don't believe you have the right to veto whom we send."

Shepard found a new strategic reserve of patience somewhere under her skin, smiled, and said, "Of course not, Councilor. However, I _do_ have intelligence resources at my disposal that the Council does not. It is in everyone's best interest that your observers, as well as the candidates, be thoroughly vetted."

The meeting dragged on from there, but she'd won—this round, anyway. There was wrangling over how many observers to send—every species present, apparently, wanted their own observer. Shepard held out for a more limited number, for security purposes, and got it down to a manageable five. One asari, one salarian, one turian, one human, and one elcor. One of each of the original council races, and the elcor to represent the newer members. The names blipped up on her omnitool as she left the Council chamber, shaking her head at Anderson as she walked.

"So, what's the _real_ agenda here?" Shepard asked when they were seated in human embassy proper. "It would be prohibitively expensive to move the base at this point, so I doubt that's it. We have an excellent record, so that's not it. Is this more of an effort to try to remove me as commander of the Spectres?"

Anderson lifted his hands. "Your guess is as good as mine at this point, Shepard. It's certainly a possibility."

She looked down at the names on her list. _Rishayla_. That would be the asari_. _ _Noratus Ferox_. Turian, obviously. _Aegohr_ _Malin Oros Picali Sotur Kesh. _With a string like that, it had to be the salarian. _Harruuma. _A name like that could only belong to the elcor. Male or female, was hard to say. _Now, who's the winner in our human lottery . . . . Joshua Elhanan Cunningham III_. _And to think I thought salarian names went on for a while. _"We know anything about any of these folks, just to get me started? Or should I just contact all my sources and let them get to work?" she asked Anderson.

"Don't know much about any of the non-humans," he admitted. "They asked me for a list of names for human 'observers' for a variety of projects a few months ago. Cunningham's Earth-born, has top-level clearance, worked for the military before starting his own security consulting group."

"Security consulting group; I like that. That means mercs?"

"High-class ones, at least. He passed his background check for baseline Council clearance, anyway."

She snorted a little under her breath. "Great. Well, hopefully his movements should be easy to track because of his work history."

They discussed the matter further, and she took the opportunity to use the embassy's secure comm station. First, she sent the names, via encrypted transmissions, to Hagalaz, to the Shadow Broker, Liara T'Soni. There was no immediate answer, but that was not a surprise. Dozens of transmissions came to the base every few minutes, and they needed to be sorted through. Additionally, Feron had recently taken to making sure that Liara got a full night's sleep on a regular schedule. The drell had been surprisingly firm about that. Even more surprisingly, Liara had _let_ him be firm.

Shepard's second transmission was to her own people, on Mindoir. It was night there, but there was always someone at the communications desk. She was surprised to see whom, however. "Kasumi?" she asked, as the woman's face appeared on the screen. "Since when do you take the midwatch?"

"Got three security people down with the Skyllian flu, Shep. I'm just covering for them until everyone's back on their feet." Kasumi ran the Spectre's base security with a velvet grip. It had the benefit of keeping her occupied and off the grid, and kept her skills sharp, too. Shepard had put her in the field more than once when situations required delicacy instead of confrontation. Her most recent success had come in recovering two kidnapped diplomats from under the noses of their Lystheni captors, without so much as a shot being fired.

"Skyllian flu? Someone breached decontamination protocols?" Shepard's voice was sharp. It hadn't been so very long, after all, since everyone who'd come in contact with her children had had to wear masks and gloves to do so.

Kasumi raised a placating hand. "Dr. Chakwas already sent out memos reiterating the fact that decontamination saves lives and man-hours. Still, there's a chance they picked it up down in the valley from someone on the science team. We won't know till the tests come back, which direction the virus was transmitted, from us to the valley, or from the valley to us."

Shepard shook her head. "Okay. I'll leave it at that, then. The Council's decided to throw a hell of a lot of stuff at us, all at once. We're going to have an influx of new candidates and, apparently, some _observers_ this time, too." Her lips pulled down at the corners. "I haven't looked through the candidates myself yet, but I'm forwarding their names and the names of the Council observers now. Check 'em out for me?"

Kasumi's position shifted subtly; where before she had clearly been relaxed, she was now on edge. "I'm on it, Shep." Her voice was crisp, and her hands were already moving over the panels in front of her, opening databases and resources for their background checks. "You want to talk to Garrus while you've got the comm line open?"

Shepard thought for a moment. "It's past midnight. Let him sleep, if he's asleep. But tell him, well . . . you know what to tell him. Looks like it'll take us a week to pick everyone up, and of course, to take a nice, circuitous route home, without telling our passengers where we're going. Tell him I'm sorry the schedule just got screwed all to hell. Again." She smiled, and for a moment, the tiredness that dogged her steps every day fell away.

"I'll let him know, Shep. Mindoir base, out."

The comm line closed, and the terminal's aerogel display shut down. After bidding Anderson farewell, Shepard headed out of the embassy, for the long walk back to the transit station.


	2. Chapter 2: Miscegenation and Reparation

**Chapter Two: Miscegenation and Reparation**

**Shepard**

Outside the embassy, Shepard found herself ambushed. Not by mechs or collectors or geth or batarian pirates, but by a pair of reporters.

Both wore familiar faces. Emily Wong and Khalisah Bint Sinan al-Jilanistood outside the doors, cameras at the ready. Emily waved from the left, while Khalisah stepped right into the commander's path. "Commander Shepard," the woman said, her hovering camera dropping almost into Shepard's face, "Is it true that the Council is sending observers to the Spectre base in an attempt to cast doubts on the abilities of a human to lead the Special Tasks group?"

_Well, it's a hell of a thing to find myself actually agreeing with this woman. Almost makes me doubt my own analysis_, Shepard thought, but replied out loud, mildly, "The Spectres have always been subject to Council oversight. That is no different today than it has been for hundreds of years, regardless of who is in charge of the Special Tasks group." She was careful to keep her answer too long to be chopped up into an easy or misleading sound-bite.

Shepard had just turned away to make eye contact with Emily Wong, when she heard the sound of a baby crying, not far away. She turned, because the sound had an unusual, yet familiar harmonic to it, a grating warble of sorts. As she turned, she saw a human woman standing outside the embassy, not far away, holding a wrapped bundle. The woman looked harried and tired, and was trying desperately to calm the child she was holding. Shepard held up a hand to Emily Wong, as if to say _just a moment_, and walked over to the human woman.

Up close, she could see that the woman wore pale violet slashes of paint along her lower cheekbones—clan markings she recognized from Sidonis, the squadmate who'd betrayed Garrus, back in the day. The woman certainly didn't look like the prototypical human teenager, aping another culture because it was the current cool trend, however; she wore a station systems coverall, for starters, her dark hair was long, but tied back neatly away from a face devoid of makeup, and she looked tired, with dark shadows under her eyes and a tight set to her mouth. "Is there a problem?" Shepard asked, her voice quiet.

"Oh!" the woman said, looking startled. "It's . . . you're Commander Shepard! I was just hoping to get into the embassy to see if any of the doctors there could help with my daughter. The med clinics here on Bastion are okay, but they don't specialize much, and I'm not a citizen of the Hierarchy, so I can't get into the turian embassy. . . ." She paused, seeming to realize that she was babbling. "She just won't_stop crying_." The baby in her arms wailed again, a heart-rending sound, ending with a couple of hiccupping chirrups. "My first husband and I went through colic with our little boy, and I thought that was bad, but this. . . ." The woman shook her head. "It's been nonstop for four hours now." Her eyes were haunted.

Shepard knew that expression all too well. It had tightened her own face far too many times, when absolutely _nothing_ she had done could comfort her own children. Not feeding, not holding, not bathing, just the incessant cries that couldn't be stilled. "Here, let me see," she murmured, and waited for the mother's assent before taking the wiggling, blanket-wrapped bundle from the woman's arms. Peeling back the soft blue fabric, she nodded as the sight of a mixed species child met her eyes. "I see your geneticist kept to the Solus template," she said, sitting down on a nearby bench so that she could rest the child over her knees.

The Solus template for human-turian hybrid children was a conservative one, retaining major bodily systems from one species or the other in their entirety. The mingling of multiple complex systems dictated that the law of unintended consequences might result in a cascade of health issues for the offspring; keeping the systems relatively intact was designed to mitigate that tendency.

Thus, the skeletal system in the Solus template, with hollow bones, was largely, if not completely turian; in turn, this meant that the hearing, based off tiny bones in the auditory cavities, was turian as well. Lilitu examined the baby carefully, nodding as she noted each feature. "Although, I see your medical team found a way to retain the three-fingered hand," she added, as the infant waved one tiny fist and squalled again, louder. "Our team was really surprised to see a five-fingered configuration on our twins. Something about an incorrect code transfer during meiosis. Not that I followed their explanation in every detail."

As with most hybrids created using the Solus template, this infant's facial configuration was largely turian, but the epidermis was human, with pores and all the potential for heat regulation that these structures allowed. There was no hair; on an infant, the fringe was still soft and downy, but this would diminish as the offspring matured. Internally, Lilitu knew, the gastric system would be largely turian, with a crop, stomach, and gizzard, but the kidneys and liver would be fully developed, as in a mammal, rather than being the nephritic tubes more common to a turian. The spleen was enlarged, to compensate for the lack of bone marrow, and the blood was iron-based, rather than the copper-based blue blood of a turian or, say, a Terran hermit crab. Because the blood was iron-based, quite a bit of the metabolism and pulmonary system tended towards the more human standard as well.

The infant, initially distressed from discomfort and from the prospect of a stranger holding her (turian infants fixated on their parents' faces at the moment of birth, like Terran ducklings), was calming a bit. Her current position over Shepard's knees allowed her stomach to stretch out a bit more than being bundled up and held in her mother's arms. "Where's your husband?" Shepard asked the woman. "He should recognize this for what it is." She put her hand on the infant's stomach, just under the ribcage, and gently rotated two fingers in a light massage.

The woman turned her face away from the two reporters, who were drifting closer with their cameras, as if drawn to the scene. Quietly, she replied, "Lantar's a good man, but he's just been so busy lately. Security's been tripled while we've been bringing the new fusion core on-line, so it's been one forty-hour shift after another."

"Lantar? Lantar _Sidonis_?" Shepard said, shooting the woman a startled glance. She got a quick nod in return. Obviously, the other woman knew enough about her husband's past to know why Lilitu Shepard-_Vakarian_ knew the name. _Well, Garrus is going to be interested to hear about this. I'll dig for information later, though; the kiddo's a bit more important at the moment._ "All right, so, what's your name, and your daughter's here?"

"I'm Eleanor. Call me Ellie. My daughter is Caelia." The woman looked down at what Shepard was doing. "What's wrong with her?"

"What you've _probably_ got here is an obstructed crop. Did you recently try switching her from milk to solids?"

"Well, the teeth just started coming in, and I was not _about_ to try to continue breast-feeding—"

"Tell me about it," Shepard said, with feeling, and turned away from the cameras on the bench, shielding the baby with her body. "She's what, five months?"

"Six."

"Right on track, then. Yeah, my daughter had the same problem. Still gets it once in a while, too. Seems to crop up in the girls more often than in the boys, or so the docs are telling me. There's a valve between the crop and the tract that leads to the stomach which takes a little longer to mature, and sometimes has trouble letting solids pass through. The crop is just designed to hold food until the stomach is ready to process it, you know." Shepard kept her voice low and calm. "Your best bet is to try meatpaste for a while. Like with a human baby, you start with rice cereal, right? And when her crop gets distended, you can massage it like this." She took the other woman's hand, put it in place, and let her feel the distention in the child's abdomen, and gently moved her fingers in a careful circle. "The massage stimulates the crop, encourages the muscles to start moving and processing the food. This doesn't feel too bad, but if she doesn't pass it in the next three or four hours, or if she develops a fever—wait, you do know what her normal body temperature is, right?" She remembered all too well, the first six months of Amara and Kaius' lives, when their readings had constantly fluctuated wildly between the human standard of 98.6˚ F/37˚ C and the turian standard of 110˚ F/43.3˚ C.

What felt normal to Garrus had felt like a brain-damaging fever to her; what had felt normal to her, had felt like potential hypothermia to him. It had been unnerving. Eventually, the twins' endocrine systems had matured at around three months and stabilized, leaving them with an average "normal" body temperature of about 103˚ F/39.4˚ C. Which _still_ didn't feel "right" to either parent, but it was at least stable.

Ellie was nodding. "She never really got the prototypical body temperature swings," she said softly, glancing over her shoulder apprehensively at the cameras that were moving closer.

Shepard chuckled. "Yeah, that's what we got, for being the case study that everyone else uses." The infant's cries were now a thing of the past, and, contented, the child brought her feet up, grabbing onto them inquisitively. Shepard handed the girl back to Ellie, saying, quietly, "I doubt the human embassy has a specialist who can check her out. You're in luck, though. My ship has one. You can come aboard the _Normandy_ and see my personal physician. And while you're doing that, I can see if I can't cut through some of the red tape that's keeping you out of the turian embassy."

"I—I couldn't—I mean, I don't want to be a bother—"

"Nonsense." Shepard gave the other woman a sympathetic smile. "It's going to go on for a while. My little girl is three now, and she still gets obstructions now and again. We're hoping it's just something she'll grow out of. Your older boy—is he at school?"

Ellie nodded. "And will be until about seven-twenty. Er, that's station time, not Earth standard," she added hastily. Shepard was used to doing the conversion between standard galactic days and Zulu time in her head, and roughed it out as about 15:30 or so.

Behind them, one of the cameras began to circle around, like a shark scenting its prey. Shepard caught it out of the corner of her eye, and her mood, not the sunniest to begin with today, darkened. She rose and, reaching out, covered the camera's lens with one hand, turning to look at the reporter who controlled it. _Al-Jilani, of course._ "I don't believe you've asked this woman if you can take footage of her or of her daughter. I surely haven't seen her sign a release," she told the reporter coolly. "I might be a public figure, and thus not able to keep you away, short of a restraining order, but I really think you should try to respect the rights of our fellow citizens, don't you?"

The camera wiggled under her hand, breaking free and spinning around to face Shepard once more. Ellie quickly wrapped her child in the blanket again, keeping her back firmly to the camera_. Is she afraid of backlash if someone sees her with a hybrid child? Or is the discomfort rooted more in who her mate is, fears of reprisals against him? Or is it something else entirely?_ Shepard barely had time to wonder all of this, because al-Jilani went on the offensive now, a barrage of questions pouring from her mouth. "Commander Shepard, it's been rumored now for several years that you and your . . . husband, Garrus Vakarian," (the pause was so delicately placed, as to almost question the word that followed it), "are the parents of the first set of mixed-species children in Council space. Isn't the ethics of breeding what some might call monsters somewhat questionable?"

Shepard felt a sharp twinge of adrenaline suddenly flood through her system, and, looking behind the reporter, she saw a wide, open bay window that allowed the embassy workers on the first floor to look out into the avenue in which she stood. She wondered, just for a moment, what it would look like if she threw the reporter through it—would it shatter in a spray of shards, concentric rings of glass flying inwards around the woman's body? The image danced in her mind's eye just for a instant; then Shepard took a deep breath, calmed herself, and prepared to respond.

**Garrus**

The comm panel chirped in the silence of the darkened bedroom. Garrus sighed and tabbed it on the nightstand. "Yes?" he said.

"Sorry, Garrus. Didn't want to wake you." It was Kasumi's voice. He sat up in bed, reaching for a light.

"I wasn't actually asleep. One of the kids woke up, needed to be put back down again. What's the problem? Those raiders out in the Attican Traverse hit a new target?"

"No . . . it's not really work-related," Kasmui's voice was tentative. "You should probably check the extranet. Your wife's being interviewed by al-Jilani right now on Bastion."

He abandoned his search for the light switch, stood, and in the darkness padded to the desk, turning on his terminal. The live feed was already one of the top-rated stories, generating thousands of hits; it was the first thing his terminal opened to, in fact. "Oh, by the spirits," he said softly as the image of his wife's face appeared. He knew_that_ look. The eyes were blank, the expression emotionless. It was a look that meant that someone had graduated from an annoyance to a problem that needed to be solved. It was her work face, the one she never let anyone outside the military to see, at least not for long.

The stare lasted for about two seconds, long enough for anyone in the galaxy with a brain and functional vision to see death in her eyes, and then faded away, replaced by a still chilly, but less unnerving smile. "Ms. al-Jilani, I'm afraid you'll have to be clearer in your question. The first interspecies children in the galaxy are, clearly, the children of asari who have mated with other species. While the offspring are still _biologically_ asari, socially, they have parents who are of both species. This has gone on for about three thousand years now. So when you question the ethics of having interspecies children, I simply don't understand what you mean. The issue was resolved when we humans were still learning how to smelt bronze."

"Shit!" Garrus said, out loud, and immediately regretted it when he heard one of the children stir a little behind the closed door to their adjoining room. _Now? She got ambushed into this conversation now, when I'm not there to help? _Behind Shepard, he could make out the form of another human woman, who seemed to be holding a wrapped bundle—and was that clan paint on the woman's face? The camera moved, just enough for him to catch a violet slash along one jawbone, before Lilitu moved to block the image again. A flash of intolerable memory hit him, of the last time he'd seen that particular clan marking—in the scope of his rifle as Sidonis' traitorous life hung in the balance. _Probably has nothing to do with him. It's a big clan. Hell, it was a big colony, back in the day. Lots of people are entitled to wear that set of markings._

The reporter seemed only too happy to expound upon her point; it had been clear for years now, what her agenda was, and being able to declare it on the air while her valuable quarry had to listen, was probably something of a dream come true for her. "Well, first and foremost, according to scientific journals, it requires the use of Collector technology to mix the genetic materials of species as disparate as humans and turians. Isn't it unethical to use that kind of technology?"

Lilitu's smile became a little more natural on the screen, and Garrus found himself relaxing in turn. "Ms. al-Jilani," she said, sweetly, "I've had lots of time and many reasons to consider the ethical questions of technology. At one point in my career, my squad and I found a laboratory that had been used to test unwilling medical subjects, subjecting them to unmentionable torture and eventual death. At that time, I told the scientist who infiltrated the lab with the rest of my team that I thought the data was tainted by its origin, and that it should be destroyed. He told me something then that's stayed with me ever since: if we didn't use that information for good, then all those lives, all that suffering, would have been for nothing." She paused, and Garrus, who was listening carefully to make sure that nothing classified slipped out in his wife's irritation, remembered the mission all too well. Mordin's old student, Maelon, had left a string of bodies throughout the abandoned hospital facility. Human and krogan alike, all had suffered from tumors and lesions and had clearly had agonizing, slow deaths. Garrus felt his fists clenching at the recollection, and forced the fingers straight once more.

On-screen, Shepard continued, "That scientist made it his life's work after that point, to make that suffering matter, to memorialize it. Data and technology are neutral, Ms. al-Jilani. It's what we _do_ with them that matters. Using Collector technology to create weapons of mass destruction, plagues that could wipe out an entire planet's population? That would be considered unethical by most right-thinking people. But I don't think that any rational person would tell you that giving life is wrong."

Back on Mindoir, Garrus nodded at the screen. "And that's why we blew the damn Collector base up," he agreed with her softly, in the quiet darkness of their room. "Because while the information they'd gathered was no more or less tainted than what Maelon had collected, we knew that Mordin would put Maelon's work to good use. We couldn't, however, trust what the Illusive Man would do with the Collectors' tech." He couldn't help but respond, as if he were there, too, being interviewed, or at least as if he could coach his wife from light years away.

She didn't go that far in her explanation, however; she didn't need to. Al-Jilani had taken a different tack. "All that aside," the reporter said, as if everything Shepard had just spoken was meaningless, "Why have a child of mixed species? What good is it?"

"Why does _anyone_ have a child?" Shepard snapped back, clearly irritated. Garrus knew it was a good irritation, however-a quarrelsome one, not the killing anger that had gripped her previously. "Have you ever heard anyone answer that question soberly and rationally? Have you ever heard someone outside of a eugenics cult say, 'the genetic traits of my mate are ones that deserve to be passed on?' I really doubt you have. Of course, you might be suggesting that the mixing of species is _miscegenation_." It was a loaded word, he knew, in Shepard's native English, heavy with a freight of old slavery associations. It had become a politically loaded term in galactic circles more recently, as more and more people entered relationships with other species.

Al-Jilani blinked on camera. It wasn't really an _answer_, but she couldn't twist it, and couldn't answer it without her agenda showing through. As such, she simply opted for the first question she could come up with, which was, "But aren't the lives lost in the process of creating these mixed children a terrible price to pay?"

Shepard's face went cold again. "All of the ova selected for implantation are carefully screened for viability. It doesn't make for a perfect success rate, but it improves the chances greatly. However, _in vitro_ fertilization processes have been standard since the twentieth century, and more than one ovum is almost always implanted for redundancy. _In vitro_ fertilization is the exact same technology for infertile human couples as it is for cross-species couples, and human couples lose as many embryos as cross-species couples do. Anyone who's suffered a miscarriage would tell you that it's a terrible, tragic experience. I know. I had one." She paused, looking the reporter in the eyes. "I trust you're not going to tell the thousands of couples out there who've benefited from _in vitro_ processes that they were _unethical_ for wanting a child of their own."

Al- Jilani appeared to give up at that point. "Well, thank you Commander Shepard. This is Khalisah Bint Sinan al-Jilani, reporting for Westerlund News." The newsfeed logo expanded, covering the screen, signaling the end of the broadcast.

Back on Mindoir, Garrus shook his head. "Well, that went a bit better than I expected, after the way it started," he told Kasumi over the comm line.

"Yeah, when I heard the reporter call your kids mon—er, wait . . . ." Kasumi might have let that slip accidentally, but it might have been deliberate, too. She played games, Kasumi did, with language, with information, feinting with it.

Garrus was in no mood to play, however. "What was it?"

"It's not important—"

"Kasumi? Just spit it out."

"Monsters," she said, sighing.

The sound that echoed over the comm next was a grating noise. "Garrus," Kasumi said, firmly, "if you leave any more claw marks in that desk, you're going to saw right through it. I saw what it looked like after the batarians set up that base on Daratar. Nothing you can do about it right now. Try to get some sleep."

"Sleep. Yeah. Because I'm in a _great_ place for that right now."

"Here, I'll forward you the dossiers I'm putting together. We've got a new shipment of candidates, and this time, five Council observers, too. Some political bullshit, sounds like."

He sighed, looking at the clock. Mindoir had a twenty-six-and-a-half hour rotation; longer than Earth, but shorter than Palaven. It didn't map to the galactic standard day any better than any other planet, but it was currently past one in _his_ personal morning. _Oh well. Not as if I were going back to sleep soon anyway._ He cued up the first file, and started to read.

**Shepard**

Back on Bastion, Shepard turned her back on one reporter, and made a little beckoning gesture to Emily Wong. "Emily, could you walk with us? I don't have time right now for a sit-down, but there are a couple of things I'd like to discuss with you," she told the woman.

The young reporter fell in step, her camera bobbing along behind her, but its lights were off, and it was clearly not recording. "What's on your mind, Commander?" she asked, her eyes shifting a little, as if she were trying not to turn her head to look back at her rival reporter's consternation, but still really wished that she could.

"How would you like an exclusive?" Shepard was walking very fast, forcing the other two women to almost have to skip occasionally to keep up. When she realized what she was doing, she slowed abruptly, and turned to face Wong.

Emily's face broke out in her trademark girlish smile. "Why, certainly, Commander!"

"You'll need to travel for it. You'd be covering the candidacy process for the Spectres at our headquarters. There will be some non-disclosure agreements you'll have to sign, and we'd have the right to redact your footage for security reasons. Other than that, you'd have more or less a free hand with your story." Shepard was thinking very quickly now. Wong had been previously evaluated for security clearances, and wouldn't present a problem in that regard. The interview might even help resolve the problem of the Council rather neatly. Making the recruiting and training process somewhat more transparent would probably engage the public more in it, and not even the Council could go entirely against the force of popular opinion.

Emily simply stared at her, her mouth slightly open, and then shut it with an almost audible click. In a wondering tone, she said, "You know, I think Khalisah has been very good for my career." She paused, and, almost diffidently, added, "Do you think it would be possible for me to take some footage of the families of the Spectres at the base? I can't call it human-interest anymore, but it would certainly make the Spectres more. . . personable."

Shepard hesitated. "We don't want to make the families a target. Part of what makes the Spectres effective is that we are, in a sense, _spectres_. We simply appear out of nowhere, get the job done, and vanish again. Otherworldly. Frightening."

"But that's how you want the opposition to see you. Right at the moment, you're courting public opinion, aren't you?" Wong had a shrewd mind, and could sniff out political intrigue like a varren scenting prey.

"True enough." Shepard sighed. "Let me think about it and discuss it with my people. Those who are comfortable with it, I'll allow." She held up one hand before Emily could speak. "As for my family . . . . I'll have to discuss it with my husband first, but in light of that little interview a moment or two ago, it might be time for us to let people see our children." Shepard was angry enough that she was biting off her words, spitting them back out again as if they tasted bad in her mouth. "We know that _we're_ public figures, but we never asked for that kind of attention for them. We think it's unhealthy. But if there are other people out there doing what we've done," and she nodded in Ellie's direction, "the least we can do is let people see that they aren't monsters ginned up in some mad scientist's lair." _No more than I am. Although the Lazarus Project did everything except run lightning through me during a thunderstorm. No bolts attached to the neck, though, so there's something to be thankful for, at least._

Emily's smile was almost beatific as she clearly considered what would almost certainly be a ratings bonanza. "I wonder," she said after a moment, "Do you think I should send Khalisah a thank-you bouquet? Would roses be appropriate?"

**Lantar**

The turian opened the door of his apartment, cocking his head to the side. He could hear the sounds of extranet video being streamed, which meant that Elijah was home from school, but there was something subtly wrong, something that put him on edge. After a moment, he put his finger on it; the apartment was too quiet, overall. There were no cooking smells, no clatter of dishes in the tiny kitchen. Ducking under the low hatch, he stepped inside, for once not unbuckling his harness and holster immediately on coming home. He looked around, unconsciously checking to make sure that the doors were all secured. They were. They always were. "Hello?" he called, and heard the extranet cut off immediately. _Ah. So, he should have been doing his homework, then? _

A human boy, about fourteen years old, padded around the corner of the hallway to smile uncertainly up at the tall turian. "Hi, Lantar."

Lantar looked down at him, and sighed. "That's one hell of a black eye." He reached down, and tipped the boy's face up for a better look. "Did you put ice on that? It looks fresh." He would never get used to how _fragile_ humans were; the boy's right eye was almost swollen shut.

Eli pulled his chin out of the loose grasp and looked at the floor. "Yeah, I know the drill." His voice held a mixture of sullenness and sadness.

"Same kids as before?"

"Yeah. Well, some of them." The response was terse. It had been going on, intermittently, for months now. At least since Caelia was born. Lantar had adopted the boy, by the formal rites, when he'd married the boy's mother two years before. Since then, Eli refused to wear the facepaints, and had yet to call the turian _father_ or _dad_. For the moment, Lantar wasn't pushing the issue. In the boy's mind, his father was, and probably always would be, the philandering C-Sec officer whose extracurricular activities had not only probably been his proximate cause of death, but whose affiliations had gotten his widow into such trouble after his untimely demise.

His schoolmates had largely ignored the odd family arrangement, at least until the birth of his mixed-race sister. Then, it had taken off as if propelled by mass effect engines.

Lantar tried again. "Do you want me to talk to their parents?"

Elijah looked up, clearly indignant. "No! That would just make things worse. At least, with the humans it would." He shut his mouth tightly after the last words came out of his mouth, as if realizing his mistake.

"There are nonhumans involved in this now?" Lantar's temper started to flare. "Which is to say, turians?"

"It's not important—"

"The hell it isn't! How many of them?"

"Lantar, it's not—"

"How many?" The turian's voice had dropped in pitch to a grating growl.

Elijah couldn't maintain eye-contact with him for long. Part of it was being fourteen. Part of it was the pure fact that humans found most turians extremely intimidating. "Three or four. They don't go to our school, though." Elijah's voice was an embarrassed whisper, and he kicked at the carpet under his feet, scuffing.

_They have been taught no honor at all! Their parents should be ashamed, should be called to account. Attacking another boy, outnumbered, whom they don't even know._ "I'll pull up station records and we'll look through them until you see faces you recognize."

"Lantar, I really don't want to make a big deal out of this! Please?" Elijah was looking up again, and the bruised face held naked appeal in it.

The turian sighed and crouched down, so that his eyes would be at level with the boy's, rather than towering over him. "It's _already_ a big deal. I can only teach you so much self-defense. When you get three or four people all attacking you at once, you either have to be very good, or be a very good runner."

"I'm getting better at that part." Elijah offered a tentative smile.

"Not nearly good enough." Lantar touched the boy's cheek with one taloned finger, gently testing the bruised area. The boy winced, and the turian shook his head. "We'll talk about this more later. Where'd your mom and Caelia go?" Only now did he unbuckle his harness and place the gun on a very high shelf, well out of the boy's reach.

"Mom left a note. Said Caelia was sick, was going to the embassies to see if she could find a doctor. Looks like there's a couple of comm messages for you, too. Maybe one's from Mom?" Eli was starting to sidle away, clearly eager to be back to what he'd been doing.

"I'll read them in a minute. Bring your homework in the kitchen. You _were_ doing your homework, right?" He paused, but the boy was smart enough not to incriminate himself. "I'll help you check it after dinner." He waited, watching, as the boy clearly thought about telling him that his homework was done, and finally decided that it would be easier just to do what he'd been told. Dealing with criminals of all species as Lantar had, both in his former life in C-Sec, his brief stint as a vigilante, and now here on Bastion's security force, it wasn't hard to read a fourteen-year-old human's mind. His job, he reckoned, was to make sure that Eli never let the fibs mature into prevarications.

It wasn't much, as penances went. Making sure this boy, and his own Caelia, grew up with more honor than he had had, stronger in spirit, with more willpower . . . that he could do. He hoped. He could try to ensure that Ellie would always be safe. He could do his job in Bastion's Security force (B-Sec, people were calling it, as a joke, but the name was already sticking), and do his best to keep the station residents safe, but every night, he still went to bed, wondering what he'd missed. Where he'd gone wrong. Who would die next, because of him, because of his cowardice.

He'd turned himself in to C-Sec, hoping to die, hoping that someone out there would finally take the intolerable burden of living from him. It would have been fair, and just, for it to have been Garrus Vakarian, he knew, but his old commander had spared him. He could have committed suicide; it was not considered dishonorable in turian society, but some part of himself still clung to life, however intolerable it seemed.

C-Sec hadn't known what to do with him—a former employee, turning himself in for the deaths of ten good men, on Omega, land of the lawless. He'd been in a cell when the first attack had hit, knocking the power core off-line. The containment fields had dropped on the cells, and at first, he'd merely sat there, patiently waiting for the fields to come back up.

Then he'd realized that station power as a whole seemed to be down, and the various other prisoners were trying to make a break for it. He'd stood up then, and put years of training to use, disabling other prisoners in the general scrum, helping the guards, passively sitting down with his hands on his head when ordered to do so. Armando Bailey had wound up putting a badge and a gun in his hands, and told him, "Get your scaly ass into some armor, son. We've got mass panic in the Wards, and I need every body I can get on the line."

That had been five years ago now. When the war was over, the Citadel had limped along for another two years, and he'd found himself, surprisingly, still alive, and still in uniform. This would be his penance, he'd decided. Protecting the residents for the rest of his life. He certainly couldn't return to Palaven. Couldn't risk having to look the family of any of his former squadmates in the eyes. So, he'd gone through the motions for those two years. And then Ellie had come along.

Lantar Sidonis opened the cryo unit and pulled out two complete meals for reheating. Having such a mixed household meant that very rarely did everyone have a freshly cooked meal at the same time. For Ellie and Elijah, he put a tub of something humans called lasagna in the small oven. For himself, he'd probably be satisfied with a mealbar and a cup of hot apha, but Elanor tended to fuss at him if he didn't eat properly. So instead he opted for vat-grown _talashae_ stew with vegetables. Eli, settling in at the table with his datapad, glanced over, and squawked, "Oh, cool! You're having triceratops for dinner!"

Not for the first time, Lantar wondered what it was about humans, that they saw creatures native to Palaven as dinosaurs. It didn't seem to be a result of a Terran-centric worldview, in which every creature in the universe had to be related, in some fashion, to what was already known. Talashae were, ecologically, the equivalent of Terran bison. He couldn't quite fathom the boy's excitement in what was, essentially, a large _cow_, but Lantar also couldn't help but smile at the boy's enthusiasm. "You want a bite?" he offered, and the boy shook his head, vehemently, knowing better than to try the alien food. "Okay, tell you what. When you've finished your homework, and after we've gotten some names and faces," he held up a finger to forestall the boy's protests, "then we'll pull up some nature vids on the _talashae_, if you like," he offered, and the boy bent to his mathematics problems with renewed vigor.

As the various foods warmed in the oven, their exceedingly disparate smells filled the kitchen. It was an _odd_ mix, but it was starting to smell very familiar. It smelled like home, but every time Lantar found himself thinking that, found himself feeling comfortable, he banished the thought. It could all be taken away again in an instant. And it would be no less than he deserved.

Now that he'd taken care of the immediate domestic business, he could sit down for a moment. As he did so, he could feel his eyes trying to drift closed. Forty-hour shifts did, actually, entail a few hours of sleep here and there at various guard posts, but always resulted in exhaustion. He'd have a couple of days off, though, now. Wearily, he pulled up the messages on his terminal . . . and his eyes widened once more.

The first was a quick note from his mate, noting that she'd gone with Commander Shepard to the _Normandy_ to have Caelia checked for a possible infected crop. That one provoked the usual feelings of guilt and borderline inadequacy. It was impossible to be in two places at once; he knew that, rationally, and if he'd been here to take care of Caelia's odd physiological needs, then he wouldn't have been on duty. There had been so many threats against the new station, and almost all of them had revolved around detonating the reactor as the engineers brought it online within the unfinished superstructure of the station. So many damn hours, patrolling the scaffolding in a vacuum-proof suit, a rifle in his gloved hands, and not a sign of trouble. . . . Belatedly, his memory kicked him in the side of the head, and his hands started to tremble a little. Commander Shepard. _That_ Commander Shepard.

It had taken him a while to figure out who the human woman had been, who'd so calmly assured him that she was the only thing standing between him and a hole in his head. Who'd asked him, so coolly, the questions that his former commander had probably been too angry to ask, himself. Who was, in fact, that former commander's mate. For a panicked instant, he wondered if Garrus was aboard the _Normandy_, if they'd come to take it all away from him, to mete out his richly deserved punishment . . . . and then he inhaled and carefully closed the message, trying to shut down the wave of paranoia with it. No. That wasn't Vakarian's style.

The next message seemed to be from B-Sec_. Crap. Either someone else quit and I've got to pull another extra shift, or . . . hey, maybe it's __**good**__ news. Maybe they're firing me._ He grimaced, immediately wishing he hadn't thought that. Ellie hadn't been able to work since before Caelia was born. The pregnancy itself had been debilitating, necessitating bedrest for months, and once the child had been born, no daycare on the station would take the child. "Too high-risk," had been the universal response. Which had left his paycheck the sole income for the family.

He sighed, opened the message, started reading it, paused, and, frowning, went back to the beginning again. Maybe it was a bad joke?

_ To: Lantar Sidonis_

_ From: Armando Paul Bailey, Cdr, B-Sec_

_ Got some good news for you. The Council, in its infinite wisdom, has been sifting through _

_ our ranks, looking for our most experienced operatives. You meet all the requirements—_

_ fifteen years of service, military and security, undercover work, and glowing references _

_ from all previous employers._

Lantar paused, looking up from the screen to verify that Eli was still working on his math homework. He was. _All previous employers, save the one that's not on the damn record. All previous commanders, besides the one that counts_, he thought, tiredly.

The message continued:

_Admittedly, there was that little irregularity that brought you back to our attention back _

_ at C-Sec. Of course, with the records transfer being what it is between the old facility and _

_ the new one, it seems that that files about that apparently went missing. Damned if I _

_ remember enough of the details now, anyway. _

Oh, that was just typical of Bailey. Always with the end runs around regulations, as if the regulations weren't there to keep people safe. _Safe from people like me._

_ Shouldn't get in the way of your candidacy, anyway. You're damned good at your job, _

_ Sidonis, and the Special Tasks and Reconnaissance group would be lucky to have you. _

_ Go make us proud._

_Wait, what?_ Lantar read the last two sentences again, and simply sat there for a moment, in total consternation, as the timer on the stove began to beep at him impatiently. Between having to get dinner on the table, his concern at his wife's continued absence, and his utter disbelief at the message he'd just received, he completely failed to notice the third message, below the other two, patiently blinking at him, unread.

**Shepard**

On board the Normandy, Shepard ushered Ellie to the med bay. "Ellie, this is Doctor Daniel Abrams," she said, waving the woman through the hatch. "My kids call him Doctor Dan for short. Doc, we've got a little patient for you who needs your particular area of expertise."

The young human doctor looked up from a set of culture slides with interest, and came over to take Caelia from Ellie's arms. "Oh, very nice," he said, smiling down at the infant. "Who was your geneticist, if I may ask? Whoever it was, did nice work!"

"We had a salarian team, headed by Ullust Keemar Soln Rem," she replied, looking a little dazed. Daniel gestured for her to take a seat, and began examining Caelia, asking questions and running simple tests.

"Soln Rem does very good work, but he and his team don't come cheap," Daniel commented at one point.

"Don't I know. Fortunately, I had a life insurance policy from my first husband. I used quite a bit of it towards the procedure, and to cover the in-home care I needed during the pregnancy," Ellie replied. Shepard listened to the conversation with interest. She hadn't really had to worry about the costs of the procedure herself. _This is how the other half lives, I suppose. It's __**never**__ going to be a common thing, given the risks and the difficulties._

"Do you know what medications Caelia's allergic to? I'd like to give her an antibiotic, in case there's any chance that the crop could get infected, and I also need to give her a dose of metoclopramide or cisapride to get that crop moving again."

After Ellie rattled off a laundry list of medicines that the girl was allergic to, Daniel left to fetch the correct medications from the storage room. Shepard leaned over the table on which Caelia laid, and asked, "So, who was your first husband, then?"

Ellie snorted, and the corners of her lips turned down. "_That_ is kind of a long story."

"I've got time. Still waiting on all sorts of passengers to board my ship." Shepard sighed. "I'm beginning to feel like I'm operating a cruise liner, to be honest."

The other woman chuckled. "Okay, I'll make a long story somewhat shorter. I graduated with a degree in habitation engineering and was headed out for Chasca. There's always a need for someone who can crack open an atmospheric mining system and get it collecting its O2 again, you know? Anyway, I had a week's layover on the Citadel. Met Darren there. He was C-Sec, one of the few humans in it at the time, and I was young and impressionable, and my layover got extended a few times, until I decided I'd be staying as a permanent resident. We got married, I worked enviro systems for one of the towers in the Wards, and we had a son together, Elijah. He's fourteen now." Ellie picked up Caelia, who was showing every sign of winding up for another vigorous fuss. "I'd never tell my son about this, because he still worships his father's memory, but Darren, well, he changed. Or maybe he was always what he was, and I just didn't know enough to see it when I was younger." She gave the commander a world-weary glance. "Cops get a lot thrown at them. Bribe attempts. Drugs. Booze. Women. It takes a will of absolute steel to resist it all, and Darren, well. . . he had a will of lead." Her lips twisted downwards again.

"Oh, I understand. Garrus is former C-Sec, too, you know. But willpower isn't really a problem with him." Shepard knew how fortunate she was. He has a will so strong you could bend the damn universe around it. _He's never taken a bribe, never looked the other way. Might have bent a few rules here and there, but never for corruption's sake._

"Yeah. . . so I've heard." Ellie's eyes flicked up, and then back down to her child's face again, her face tightening with evident discomfort. "Anyway, I got my first clue to what Darren was really like when Elijah was nine, and I went to the med clinic for a mild fever, only to discover I had, mysteriously, come down with the blue clap."

Blue clap was human slang for a particularly nasty form of bacterial infection usually only found among asari. It wasn't quite as virulent as its namesake, but it was known for needing multiple courses of antibiotics to clear up completely. "He liked dancers, then?" Shepard asked, trying for a neutral tone.

"Apparently. I was. . . surprised, to say the least. Started trying to figure out how I could get out, tried to decide if my dignity was worth the loss of stability for Elijah, all that jazz. Darren swore he'd make it up to me. Next thing I knew, he was shot and killed, supposedly in the line of duty." Ellie's face had hardened even further. "I know he'd gotten involved with Elias Kelham and his lot. I know he was found, dead, in a warehouse filled with crates of red sand. I don't know what else went down, except that first, he'd taken out an enormous life insurance policy a week before he died. Second, I got harassed after his death by half the turians on the ward, who seemed to think I shared Kelham's agenda."

Doctor Abrams bustled back in, medications in hand, and carefully administered the intestinal motility agent first, tipping it into Caelia's mouth. Then he handed two small packages of medication to Ellie, giving her low-voiced directions on use and possible side-effects. "I can't thank you enough," Ellie told the young doctor. "Or you, Commander."

Shepard waved it off. "In a way, I feel responsible for you," she commented.

"The technology exists," Ellie replied, calmly. "If you hadn't been first, someone else would have been."

Shepard opened the hatch, and prepared to lead the woman back off the ship. "So, if you don't mind my asking. . . ?"

"How'd I wind up with Lantar?"

_How the hell do you __**trust**__ him? _was what Shepard really wanted to ask, but it hardly seemed diplomatic. "In a nutshell, yes. If the turians on the Citadel thought you were in with Kelham, then why. . . ?"

"I came home late from my shift one night. Elijah was staying at a friend's house, and a couple of turians jumped me. I think they worked for a rival gang—I mean, I don't think it was political or anything like that. They wanted to know what Darren had left in the house. I told them I'd thrown everything of his away, except a couple of keepsakes for my son." Ellie's voice was quiet. "They didn't believe me. And right when they'd backed me into a wall, is when Lantar came around the corner after them." She offered the commander a smile. "He told them he was _mor'loci_, and that they'd better start running now."

Shepard blinked. She'd had three years of immersion training in two or three turian dialects at this point, and didn't recognize the word. "I don't know what that means."

"Damned if I know. Best I've been able to do with a translation VI is to get 'walking dead' out of it. Lantar won't explain it." Ellie shrugged. "He walked me home afterwards. Every night after work, he'd just be outside my work, waiting to walk me home. Always insisted he was just doing his job. I finally got tired of him leaving me at my door and asked him in for coffee. He very politely sat there, not drinking it, until I realized that I was being an idiot, and that he _couldn't_ drink it."

Shepard actually snorted with laughter. "Oh, I laugh at it _now_," Ellie agreed. "At the time, it was a little embarrassing. But that, as they say, is history."

By then, they'd arrived at the hatch, and Shepard bade the woman farewell. _Well, guess I have a little something to relay when I next catch Garrus on a comm. channel, she reflected. Assuming, of course, his brain doesn't shut down the instant he hears the name __**Sidonis**__._

**Shepard**

The interlude had only taken about a half an hour. Once Ellie was off the ship, Shepard called a quick department heads meeting to inform her people of what was going on with the Council's latest requests. "The usual rules apply," she told them. "No one identifies our destination. No written communication about the destination, even over secure internal networks. If anyone comes around asking questions, have your people refer them to you. If you have any questions about what you should or shouldn't be telling them, refer the person to me. There's going to be a lot of strangers aboard the Normandy shortly. Let's try to make them feel welcome, but let them know that this isn't a passenger liner."

Her current crew ran to about fifty percent humans, some of them old-timers from back in the Cerberus days, forty percent turian, and the remaining ten percent was a mixed bag of different species. They had a relatively young asari on the forward guns at the moment, for example, and their current mess sergeant, was a hanar. Watching Dhollyn prepare eight different dishes at the same time was awe-inspiring, but Shepard always made sure that she stood well back of the main handling tentacles. She was never _quite_ sure that he wouldn't slip and she didn't want to be on the receiving end of a shower of salad and vegetables.

After the meeting, she found a quiet corner of the cockpit to lean, where she could watch, unseen, from the window as her new passengers drifted along the translucent tube that served as the current pier for the ships docked along this arm of the station. The observers would be first, of course. They would also have to travel to pick up some of the candidates, all endlessly extending what should have been a quick trip of a day or so. And with all that had happened so far today, she hadn't even had a chance to go through the list of names yet.

Joker kept giving her sidelong glances. "So, Commander," he finally said. "Hell of an interview earlier."

"Tell me about it."

"I watched the whole thing live. Couldn't figure out how to get an extraction team dropped to you, though."

She glanced down at him in the chair, and grinned, a little sheepishly. "I'm not sure I'd have taken the exit if someone _had_ managed to interrupt. It felt too good to paint the target and just . . . launch."

"After a nice full morning with the Council, I bet." He tapped a console, and frowned. "From the looks of it, looks like ten of the twenty-one candidates are already gathered here on Bastion, which cuts down on the travel time, but the rest are all over the damn place. Hell, one is back on Earth. EDI, could you start plotting a course through the new relay system?"

"Of course," the AI said calmly. "I'm surprised, Commander Shepard, that you've remained so calm, given some of the names on the candidacy list."

_That sort of statement_, Lilitu reflected, _never bodes well_. "I haven't looked yet. Pull it up for me, would you?"

It took her less than twenty seconds to spot what EDI was talking about. Lilitu said something sharp and very nasty in a dead language.

"Anatomically impossible for most of the Council, Commander," EDI replied. "The asari in particular don't have that structure. Nor, in fact, do salarians."

"Then I'll find something else that they're attached to, cut that off, and shove it up their—"

Joker pretended to cringe. "My tender virgin ears, Commander! I might not know a _culus_ from a . . . whatever the other one was. . . "

"_Coelus_," EDI supplied, helpfully.

"But I can figure it out from _context_." Joker rubbed his fingers together, as if to say shame, shame.

Shepard took the time offered by Joker's teasing to calm down. "Right. EDI? When Garrus calls, tell him I'm taking the transmission on my private terminal." She glanced at a panel, checking the time. "Let's see, I sent the transmission forty-five minutes ago. It's still, what, oh two hundred Mindoir side?"

A light began to flash on the panels in front of Joker. "There's an incoming transmission from Mindoir right now, Commander," EDI informed her, helpful as always.

"Of course there is. It never fails." Shepard called back over her shoulder, already heading for the elevator at a determined clip.

Joker looked after her. "You know what, EDI? I think those two crazy kids need a vacation. Of course, I have no idea what they'd do for R&R." He paused. "You know, scratch that. It'd probably all end in tears, anyway."

"You yourself have not taken any leave, other than medically-mandated time off, in five years, Jeff," she reminded him, gently chiding.

Her voice added, softly in his mind, through the chip he'd had implanted two years before, _And neurosurgery doesn't exactly count as a vacation, Jeff._

He smiled a little, his eyes half-closed, then replied out loud, in case anyone happened to be listening, "Yeah, Dr. Chakwas told me last year if I didn't take some time off, she'd ground me." Joker snickered softly. "I fixed her, though. Went back to Earth, and took a trainer flight on one of the old jets they've restored from the aircraft carrier era. Yank _my_ flight status? Hah."

_I remember. I remember sharing your excitement at the raw feeling of the G-forces compressing your body as the antique Tomcat went into a dive._

_It was fun. But I like where I sit every day. No complaints_, he answered, silently. _When I'm sitting in this chair, I'm home._ He patted her console gently_. Sitting on a beach somewhere by myself seems, I dunno . . . kind of pointless._

_The same might be said for them_, was EDI's silent response.


	3. Chapter 3: Consternation and Embarkation

**Chapter Three: Consternation and Embarkation**

**Lantar**

Lantar glanced up as the main hatch to the apartment hissed open, and his wife came in, the baby over her shoulder. She looked relaxed and happy, a rare occurrence of late; the baby was cooing contentedly, as well. He and Elijah were halfway through dinner, and everything came to a halt as the baby needed to be settled into her crib, Ellie got a look at Elijah's face, and demanded an explanation, Elijah did his best _not_ to give one, and so on, and so forth. To say that Ellie was angry about the fourth black eye in two months was an understatement. "And your teachers aren't doing a damn thing about it?" she said, her voice scaling upwards slightly.

Elijah squirmed in his chair. "They caught me off school grounds," he finally said, softly.

"And you came straight home?" 

"Yes! Yes, I do, Mom!"

She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I should have been there to pick you up." Lantar knew all too well what guilt sounded like, and read her helpless glance across the apartment to the baby's crib.

"You can't be everywhere at once," he reminded her, quietly. "I have leave tomorrow. If necessary, I'll walk Elijah to and from school, and I'll deal with the turian parents if I have to." His smile was brief, humorless. _They might have every right to despise me, but this boy—__**my son**__—has done nothing, and does not deserve their children's spite. _"Although, I've had some news today that _might_ make this all something of a moot point."

Ellie looked up, frowning a little. "What's up? Something with work?"

He handed her the datapad that had his various messages on it, and let her read it. Her eyes widened. "Spectre candidacy?" She flicked him a quick glance. He'd been brutally honest about his past with her before they married. He'd done everything he could think of to convince her that he was not the good person she seemed to think that he was, including a full accounting of the ten good lives that had been lost because of _him_. Ellie sat for a moment now at the table, clearly thinking it through. "Is that why Commander Shepard is here on the station today? She's the one who helped me with Caelia," she added, for Elijah's benefit.

The youngster was sitting with his mouth slightly ajar, his fork poised just before his mouth. "You're gonna be a _Spectre_?" he asked Lantar, and then looked at his mother. "And you got to meet Commander _Shepard_ today?" He had a slight case of hero-worship for the Spectres, down to a holo for the _Battle for the Citadel_ movie on display in his room.

"Yes, and she was very kind. Gave me a lot of good tips on dealing with Caelia, let me see her ship's physician, and had their mess sergeant get dextro-based meat paste out of storage for us," she told Eli briefly, then returned her gaze to her husband. "_Spectre_ candidacy?" she asked, again.

"Yeah. I personally think there's been a mistake somewhere. But I'm supposed to report to the _Normandy_ tomorrow. Hopefully, they'll give me time to resolve my family situation." He grimaced again. Special forces of any sort were not supposed to _have_ families, at least not when they started training. Spectres were, however, a breed apart, culled from existing special forces services throughout the galaxy. Expecting every adult candidate with enough experience to be without any familial attachments would have made recruiting prohibitively difficult, he supposed . . . but there was a _lot_ about this situation that didn't make sense.

Once dinner was done, and Elijah had gone off to bed, Lantar realized that Ellie was still in a good mood. "You know what?" she said, playfully. "I'm _not_ tired tonight." She reached up to tug his head down to hers, imperatively.

"Hate to say it, but I am," he told her apologetically.

"Maybe those forty hour shifts will be a thing of the past now," she said, whispering against the hinge of his jaw, pausing to nip at his skin lightly with her teeth.

"Maybe," he replied, feeling his blood begin to race. "I'm just saying . . . I don't want to disappoint you."

"Sweetheart, get in the damn bed, before I drag you there." She planted her hands on her hips and swayed away from him, trying to glare up at him threateningly.

He looked down at his wife, barely two inches over five feet in height, and tried not to let her see his grin. It didn't work; she punched his shoulder. "I'm going, I'm going," he said, pretending reluctance. "Back to the eezo mines," he added, his tone long-suffering.

That got him a punch to the other shoulder. Neither had any real force behind it, of course.

An hour later, he relaxed, pulling the sheets up over her slumbering form. She probably didn't realize it, but this was really the only time in which he could close his eyes, and _didn't_ immediately see the faces of his lost squad-mates. It never lasted for long, and he didn't _want_ it to; he knew what he deserved. But the reprieve was sweet, even if it was only temporary.

He touched her soft, fine hair lightly, and knew he didn't deserve her. He'd made sure she'd be safe—not just from Kelham's goons and the rival gangs in the Wards back on the Citadel, but also from him. When she'd brought up marriage, he'd known it was weakness to allow it, but he had. But he'd married her under the _manus_ rites; he completely submitted himself to her and her clan, and she would actually have to _renew_ the rites every three years, otherwise they would become null and void. He made it very easy for her to walk away . . . because he knew, eventually, that she would.

He couldn't fathom that her late, unlamented husband hadn't known what he'd had in her. A faithful mate, devoted to their family, beautiful by human standards, loyal, intelligent, strong-willed . . . and the man had gone out looking for casual lust among the asari dancers at Chora's Den? It didn't make sense. A human's skin was just as soft. The lifespan was more comparable to a turian's, as was their emotional range. And if he'd had to come right out and say it, he wasn't sure how the carnal pleasure could possibly be any better. He brushed his finger over his sleeping wife's soft, alien lips, knowing how they could wrack him with delight, the way the soft, wet grip of her lower body could cling to him, and sighed. Further thoughts would just arouse him again . . . and she needed sleep. The spirits knew, the baby would wake again soon.

As if the thought had conjured her, he heard the first chirrup from the crib, and got up, crossing the dark room to pick Caelia up. "How about if we let your mother get some rest?" he told her, feeling his own eyes burn. He set up a bottle, and shook his head as he saw that the nipple had been gouged in several places by nascent predatory teeth.

As he sat on the couch, feeding his daughter, his datapad began to blink again. He lifted it, and realized he'd never read the third message that had been there when he got home. He opened it, and as he read it, his body went rigid. Caelia made a whimpering sound of protest as his arms locked too tightly around her tiny body, and he had to force himself to relax.

_To: Lantar Sidonis_

_ From: [Domain signature not found; possible error in transmission]_

_ Well, aren't you doing well for yourself now? Pretty human wife, nice family. Of course, _

_you couldn't just leave it at that, could you, turian? You and others like you are just out _

_to conquer us any way you can. You're just being more subtle about it now. You couldn't _

_beat us militarily, the galaxy won't stand for another genophage, so now you're just _

_going to try to breed us out of existence. _

_We won't stand for it. It's against nature, and against God. Say goodbye to your pretty _

_little family, turian. By this time next week, you'll all be dead._

**Garrus**

On Mindoir, Garrus was relieved to see his wife's face appear on the comm channel transmission fairly quickly. "You're up late," she commented. "I just saw the names on the damn list myself."

"Sidonis?" he grated. "_Sidonis?_"

He saw her wince a little. "Yeah, that's about how I thought you'd react. I'm glad you called _after_ you ran out of curse words."

"When I ran out of them in turian, I started over again in krogan. Then I tried a few in English and vorcha for variety." He rubbed at his forehead. Just hearing her voice had a calming effect on him, but there was just too much anger, too much rage, for him to handle right now.

"I'm glad the kids aren't awake, then." She was handling him carefully. He could see it, and really didn't _want_ to be handled right now. He didn't want to be managed, handled, or guided in any way, and hissed a little in his frustration. "I know," she told him. "I _know. _I don't like it either. He turned himself in, remember? He made a full confession. No one in their right mind would ever advocate him for a position of trust again, and I can't imagine he'd pass a psych evaluation."

"No kidding." Garrus's voice was sour, and he slouched back in the chair. "Not to mention, no one gets into the program without your and my approval now, and there is no way I would _ever_ give that approval. Why even put his name on the damn list?"

"At a guess? To get us huddled into a defensive posture. To get you angry. To push us into making a mistake in handling the whole Council observer thing." She shrugged. "Might not be the case. Kasumi just forwarded a message—"

It was blinking on his terminal now, so he opened it and read, as his wife summarized it quickly, "She thinks it might be a feint of sorts. An obvious thing to get us worked up about, so that we miss someone else on the list."

His anger slowly began to ebb, and in its wake, he could only feel tiredness. "Have I mentioned how much I hate all this political crap?" he finally said, after a long moment of silence. "It's much easier just to plan and execute a tactical strike on a factory of malfunctioning mechs, or a base full of biotic insurgents, or whatever else. But I'm just not _good_ at this part."

"Neither am I," she said, and her voice softened, an audible caress. "That's why we've got people who _are_ good at this on the payroll. Let's trust them."

"We don't have much of a choice in that, at this point," he replied sardonically.

"So, since I've got you on the line anyway, can I get you to translate something for me before you go to bed?"

He blinked. That had come from out of nowhere. "Sure, so long as it's not, you know, a novel or something."

She chuckled. "No, no, Just one word. _Mor'loci._"

He didn't move for a long moment, and he couldn't help how tight his voice became as he replied, "That . . . is not a good word."

"Doesn't come up in any of the standard turian dictionaries, and hell, I haven't even heard you use it when you're cussing before."

Garrus sighed. "It's not a curse word. Well, it is, and it isn't. It's not scatological, anyway. It's more of an . . . anathema. It means a lot of things, most of which don't translate well into English. Death-touched. Tainted. The walking dead. Basically, it's only used to describe someone who believes that their personal honor and their very spirit is dead, and that they're just a body walking around waiting to die. There's nothing you can really do to harm someone like that, so they're considered dangerous."

Her lips turned down a little. "Someone who believes they're already dead _is_ dangerous. Human history has enough examples of _that_. The kamikaze, for one."

He made a mental note to look that one up, and asked, "So, where the _hell_ did you hear that term?"

"From the wife of a turian aboard Bastion."

He could tell from the way she glanced away from the screen that she was evading something in her reply, and frowned. "A turian who declares himself _mor'loci_ would probably not _get_ married. No one would agree to be the mate of someone without honor. And any mate they _did_ have beforehand would probably leave them."

She grimaced. "No turian would," she agreed. "But his wife's human. They have a six-month-old hybrid daughter, actually. Brought her aboard to get the daughter looked at by Dr. Abrams today. Wasn't I surprised to find out that this human woman was married to none other than-" she paused, looking at him expectantly.

_The spirits hate me __**this**_ _much? _"Lantar Sidonis?"

"Give the man a big cigar."

Garrus put his head down in his hands for a moment, and surrendered. "Okay, I'm too tired to process any of this right now. I'll catch you later today if I come up with anything going through the dossiers, okay?"

She blew a kiss towards the camera, an odd human gesture that both of their children had quickly learned to emulate. "Give the kids a hug from me."

"Will do. Although, I've said it before, and I'll say it again, human—or, well, _half_-human children really do seem to need an _inordinate_ amount of holding." He gave her a quick grin, to let her know he was joking.

"Only because we want nice, healthy amygdalas. Not enough holding and cuddling stunts our monkey brains," she replied, smiling, the other half of a well-rehearsed exchange.

"I'm not even sure the kids _have_ amygdalas."

"No sense in taking chances. Hug them! Love you."

"Love you, too," he said, but the screen had already gone black. Tiredly, he made his way back to bed, and settled down into the human-style mattress and blankets he'd grown accustomed to over the years. He needed to sleep, needed to let his body recharge, and his brain regain its proper chemical balances. And yet, everything about the current situation had him on edge, making sleep almost impossible.

The Council's pressures were almost certainly some form of a trap. Sidonis' presence, an affront. The man had betrayed him, betrayed the entire Omega team. His cowardice had led ten good men to their deaths . . . and now the Council wanted to consider him as a prospective _Spectre_? No, something was definitely not right about this. But what was the real reason? The real source? Was it even the Council?

His mind could go in circles like this for hours, he realized, but it would do no good. There was not enough information to make a proper assessment. So, not for the first time in his life, Garrus turned over, inhaled the scent of his wife that lingered on their sheets, and forced his mind to blankness. Darkness. And waited for sleep to come.

**Elijah**

"Wake up."

Elijah turned over in bed and pulled his pillow over his head. Lantar's voice was insistent, however. He sat up, feeling stiff all over—the black eye was hardly the only bruise on his body, after all. He squinted at the comm panel. "It's two-seventy, Lantar. I don't have to get up until three, three-sixty at the latest to get to school on time." Station time was reflexive for the youngster; he'd been born on the Citadel and spent the last two years on Bastion, after all.

"You're probably not going to school today," came his adoptive father's answering growl. Elijah felt a small surge of joy, tempered by wariness. Lantar was _death_ on attending school. It was a Duty, as far as his dad was concerned, and Duty was everything. "Come on, get dressed. Pack a bag with clothes, too. Enough for a week, anyway."

"Lantar, what's going on?" Elijah just about fell out of bed, and, mid-fall, found his shoulder gripped by the vice-like grip of a taloned hand, steadying him.

"Hopefully, nothing for you to worry about. Think of it as an educational opportunity. I'm taking you all to the _Normandy _with me this morning."

Eli, in the middle of pulling on his shirt, paused, star-struck. The _Normandy!_ The pride of the galaxy! With the first fully sentient and _friendly_ AI ever created? The ship that had destroyed a Collector base? That had routed the Collectors at the Battle of Palaven? That had ridden to the defense of Earth? The ship that had plunged into dark space, beyond the rim of the galaxy, and defeated the Reapers at their source? "Wow," was about all he managed as he started tossing clothes in a bag. He didn't own much, and, again, never having been off of a space station in his short life, didn't even think to _ask_ what to pack. As far as he knew, it was always a pleasant 22.7˚ C. Rain was something that happened in the hydroponics labs, or maybe if the fire suppression systems activated.

He wasn't so awed, however, that he didn't see how tense his father was, or how worried his mother looked. He didn't miss that Lantar put on his gun for the "educational field trip," or that he even put his rarely-used backup piece in his boot. "Should I pack my datapad, too?" he asked, testing the waters a little. If Lantar said no, then this wasn't a big deal. If he said yes, though. . . .

"Good idea," his father said, looking down at him. "That way, no matter what, you can keep up on your schoolwork."

_Okay, something is definitely up._

Elijah scuttled out the hatch, following his mother, who walked ahead, carrying his little sister. He loved his sister, but privately thought she looked like a somewhat ugly duckling, all soft down and sharp angles. She cried a lot, of course, and the diapers were on the icky side, but he still didn't want anything to happen to her. His mother's nervousness was making Caelia agitated, though, and the hiccupping little cries he'd heard all too often were starting. "Mom, why don't you let me carry her for a while?" he offered, surprising himself. But he'd noticed that when he carried Caelia, she was much less apt to cry. _Mom just worries too much, I guess._

Sure enough, it worked. Caelia quieted down immediately. Lantar brought up the rear, and, looking over his shoulder periodically, Elijah could see how carefully his father was looking around them. _Maybe some of Kelham's men followed us here? I thought Commander Bailey had managed to keep them all off the station._ Elijah's heart-rate sped up. There were worse things than being beaten up by bullies at school. Although, he sort of thought that Kelham was just a grown-up bully.

He'd only been on the freight elevators once before, when they'd first come to the station two years ago. The wait for an available car seemed very long this morning, but then, it _was_ really early. The projected sky on the ceiling was still dark with winking stars here and there. There was actually a surprising amount of foot traffic out. _Why are so many people awake? Huh. I guess one shift must have just gotten off, or something._

The unfair part was, he was so caught up in whatever was worrying his parents, he didn't even get to enjoy the way gravity reversed when they reached the surface. He couldn't hear what Lantar said to the guards at the station, but it probably would've been in turian anyway, and Elijah didn't speak that language very well yet, although he was learning it in school.

Finally, they started moving along a long, weightless corridor. "Is that it?" Elijah asked, pointing out the transit tube at the curving body of a _Normandy_-class ship. He recognized the shape from countless vids and models, but it looked somehow smaller than he'd imagined.

His mother shook her head. "Wrong docking berth. We're two down from it."

They passed the first ship, and there it was. The _Normandy_ was larger than its sister ships, and Elijah caught his breath in awe. _It's beautiful._ He looked down at the baby in his arms, and held her up. "Look, Caelia. Wait, you saw it already yesterday, right?" He gave his little ugly duckling sister a crooked smile. "Not like you're going to remember this, but still . . . it's worth looking at."

There was a decontamination process to go through, of course, and then there was a considerable amount of mysterious fussing once they got on board. From where he sat, on the floor of a briefing room somewhere in the bowels of the ship, it seemed that while Lantar had been expected, the rest of the family had not. Elijah watched the whole scene in fascination. His step-father was always so tall and intimidating and stern with him, but here, he was a different person. Elijah didn't think in words like _self-effacing_ or _diffident_. He did know _embarrassed_ and _ashamed_, and was catching hints of those. He was also pretty good at seeing different degrees of turian anger, and Lantar was angry right now, but it was the kind of anger that came from being scared. _Like when he caught me trying to get into that electrical conduit last year. _Elijah winced a little at the memory.

Finally, the Marines who were questioning his mother and father nodded, and one of them left, returning with. . . Elijah stood up, awkwardly cradling the baby. It was! It was really Commander Shepard! _Wow. She really __**does**__ wear facepaint and a wedding knife. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to wear Lantar's clan colors . . . _ but it felt like a betrayal of his human dad to think that thought, so Elijah banished it immediately to the dim recesses of his mind.

"Commander Shepard. It's nice to see you again, under somewhat better circumstances." Lantar's low voice growled.

_Wait. Lantar's __**met**__ her before? Why wouldn't he have mentioned that!_ Elijah's estimation of his step-father crept up another notch. Obviously, if he was a Spectre candidate, and had met Commander Shepard before, he was a lot more than just another B-Sec cop.

"Sidonis," the human woman replied. "Nice to see you alive." She turned and glanced at the rest of the family quizzically. "I take it this is the whole family. What's this all about?"

Lantar handed her a datapad. "I didn't see this until late last night," he explained, sounding deadly tired. "It's not a threat I can take lightly."

_Threat? Okay, definitely Kelham's guys. That's okay. Bailey can throw them all out the airlock. Bailey can do __**anything**__. _Elijah was trying to convince himself of that, but his confidence was quickly trickling away.

Shepard sat down in one of the briefing room chairs, reading whatever was on the pad. Then she looked up. "Yeah. I've seen a few of these before, myself. Hell, I got death threats just for _marrying_ Garrus, let alone for having two hybrid kids. This one sounds more serious than most. So, no, you _can't_ leave them on Bastion. They'll just have to come along with us." She turned and looked at Elijah and Caelia. "Hope you all packed underwear. Once we've gotten the rest of the observers and candidates on board, we'll be heading for Earth, Palaven, Illium, and Sur'Kesh to pick up the rest, before heading to our base."

Shepard stood, and came over to stand beside young man, who was watching the proceedings, confused. _Death threats? Because of __**Caelia**__?_ It boggled the mind, to think that anyone would find the little ugly duckling _that_ important. "You'd be Elijah, then?" She offered her hand for him to shake, and, after putting Caelia over his shoulder quickly, he managed to do so.

"Uh, yeah, I mean, that's my name." He called himself seven different kinds of idiot inside his head, for sounding like a stumbling moron.

She gave him a warm smile, like a teacher might give a kid coming to a new school for the first time. "You remind me a bit of my little brother. You like dinosaurs, Elijah?"

His eyes widened even further. "Yes, ma'am."

"So do I. So did my brother. I keep a lot of his old books and vids in the ship library. You can check them out, if you like."

He nodded, tongue-tied. "I will, ma'am." He glanced at Lantar and his mother out of the corner of his eye. "After I'm done with my homework." That should keep them happy, anyway.

Twelve ship hours later, the novelty of being on the _Normandy_ had faded. They'd been given a single room, usually apparently a crew berth, with three rows of bunkbeds. The crew had scrounged up a basin and lined it with blankets to use as a bassinet for Caelia, but the room was small, and had no windows. His mom and Caelia were asleep, for the moment, and Lantar was off at some meeting with the Commander and the other candidates, or something. Elijah sat on a top bunk, kicking his feet idly. "Ship," he said out loud, "is there anything else I can do?"

To his surprise, a blue eyeball appeared in a small cubby near the door. "There are many things that you _can_ do," a female voice informed him politely. "If you're inquiring as to what you _may_ do that falls within acceptable parameters for your health and safety, I could provide a list."

Elijah was used to VI programs, but this . . . this had to be the _Normandy's _legendary AI, EDI. "Ah, sure," he said, jumping down from the bunk, belatedly realizing that this might make too much noise as Caelia turned and made a muffled sound in her sleep. "Suggest away."

"We've just crossed the termination shock of the Sol system. Shortly, we will be able to see some of the gas giants, and, because we are currently using FTL drive, should be coming up on Earth and Luna within the next three hours. You could go to the port observation lounge to view these planets as they come into range. I would be happy to converse with you while you do so."

Elijah just beamed, and quickly tapped out a note for his mom to find when she woke up. "Okay, which way is the lounge?" he asked, and EDI guided him through the various berths and opened a hatch for him.

The wait wasn't nearly as boring as he thought it would be, largely because EDI made it interesting. She told him about each of the planets they passed, the colonies on their various moons, the asteroid mining camps between Jupiter and Mars, the Prothean ruins on the red planet . . . it was _so_ much better than being in school. Finally, they entered orbit around the blue jewel that was Earth itself, and Elijah stared down at it, a little disappointed. "It doesn't look like much," he admitted after a moment. "Turan is _much_ prettier."

He had the feeling that the AI was laughing at him a little. Her blue eyeball flickered for a moment before she replied, "It _is_ the cradle of humanity. It might appear unprepossessing from space, but there are a number of cultural wonders on the surface that might interest you." The viewscreen clicked on, and he saw Mayan pyramids and the Coliseum of Rome, the cave paintings of Lascaux, and the terra cotta warriors of Qin Shi Huang, in short order. Almost in spite of himself, he found himself fascinated. "You should be a teacher," he told EDI after another half hour flew by. "You make all this stuff actually kind of interesting."

**Shepard**

Shepard looked through her list of names. They'd already picked up the asari and salarian observers on Bastion; the turian would be joining them on Palaven. The geth candidate would be joining them en-route to Sur'Kesh; she was told that its platform name was Cohort, apparently. The rachni was already aboard, a brood warrior, from the look of him. While rachni did not possess individual names any more than geth did, the proto-queen on Bastion had deferred to the cultural norms of the individualistic societies around her and had designated this male as "Sings-to-the-Sky." _Yep, that's going to wind up getting shortened down for radio chatter._

The human observer, Joshua Cunningham, and the two human candidates, were heading to the _Normandy_ via shuttles as she waited. One candidate was inbound from Earth, the other from Mars, and Cunningham had been out on Ganymede Station, for whatever reason. She frowned at her terminal. Elisha Atieno had been working security on the Prothean digsites on Mars; Samuel Kennard Jaworski, apparently, was bringing his fourteen-year-old daughter with him. The explanation on the report indicated that he hadn't expected to be called in for candidacy, and that her mother had passed away three months previously from a heart condition. Shepard shook her head, and told the empty air, "I'm running a damn cruise line now, I'm telling you."

No one replied. Which didn't mean that no one heard. She hated the paranoia that ruled her life anymore, but there were few places in the galaxy that couldn't be bugged by a really determined spy. The entire _Normandy_ was swept routinely for surveillance tech, and Liara swore up and down that _she_ hadn't placed any new ones . . . but that only eliminated the Shadow Broker, not the rest of the known universe.

Thoughts like this almost always wound up running in circles for her—the need for security balanced against the need for trust. She knew she needed to break the pattern, and headed downstairs, prowling forward into the cockpit to stare down at the cradle of humanity from the forward windows. From space, the damage caused by the Reaper assault five years ago wasn't visible, but she could see it all in her mind.

"So, Commander," Joker said as she stood behind him, "I understand we've got a friends and family special running this week. Garrus is gonna _love _this."

"I take death threats pretty seriously, Joker. You know that. Especially ones directed at kids."

He swung his chair around to face her. "You accepted it pretty quickly, though, don't you think?"

She shrugged. "I've got Kasumi back-tracking the message at the moment. We've got time to kick folks off the ship before we get back to the barn, if we need to. Still, I think it's a good bet that it's legitimate."

"Dunno, Commader. It's not like Sidonis hasn't betrayed people before."

"It would be a _hell_ of an involved covert mission that involved a human, a turian, a fourteen-year-old kid, _and_ the expensive and potentially dangerous production of a hybrid offspring, just to get aboard this ship," Shepard pointed out, watching a storm system swirl over the Caribbean.

Joker looked abashed. "Yeah, I guess you can't just grab a hybrid kid out of a random orphanage somewhere to make the pose look complete."

She shook her head, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Not so much, no."

"Well, that's why I majored in aerospace engineering at the Academy, before flight school, and not, you know, _espionage_."

EDI's human avatar popped up at her bridge projector. "Espionage is not actually a major available at the Academy, Jeff."

"I know, I know." He glanced at the Commander. "What did you wind up taking, anyway?"

"Environmental engineering. Construction of domes for low-atmosphere planets, terraforming, stuff like that." Shepard chuckled at his reaction. "Hell, Joker, you know as well as anyone that what you study at the Academy usually has nothing to do with your rate. And before you ask, my minor was xenopsychology."

"Well, that explains how you knew how to talk to Wrex, back in the day."

"I still screwed it up pretty royally at first. Books don't necessarily prepare you very well for figuring out how people think, even when they _have_ the same brain structures as we do." She shrugged. "After graduation, there was A-school and Q-school and three months of language immersion in batarian. And all the other required courses for N7, but those were later." Her lips quirked up a bit. "Urban Assault Training isn't really much of a textbook topic."

Joker turned around again, checking a blipping console. After a moment of silence, he said, "Just so you know, I was thinking of asking for a week's leave, Commander."

Shepard blinked. The _Normandy_ cockpit without Joker in it was not something she ever wanted to contemplate. It would be like seeing an old friend with a limb suddenly missing. "You feeling okay, Joker?" she asked, concerned. "You haven't taken leave in . . . well, not in two years, anyway." He turned slightly to look at her, and she tapped the side of her head. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's green," he assured her, tapping his own temple.

It was not common knowledge, but Joker had agreed to have a chip implanted in his skull two years before. He was usually the most resistant of individuals when it came to technology—not a Luddite, by any means, but inherently cautious, almost conservative. But like his long-standing vehement distaste for AIs had come to a sudden end after exposure to EDI, he'd accepted the surgery very quickly as well . . . because it was, in the end, EDI's idea. Shepard knew that the chip set up a connection between the two of them at the neural level.

Joker had control of how much contact the AI had, and there were many, many safeguards, but on the practical level, it meant that he could steer the ship with his mind, if he was ever incapacitated physically. It also meant that EDI essentially could see and hear whatever he heard and saw. Shepard wasn't sure how much other sensory data the chip uploaded, but Joker _had_ mentioned once that EDI liked the taste of coffee.

She was fairly sure she _didn't_ want to know more than that.

The other reason, of course, for such an implant, was a little darker. People with Vrolik's syndrome often had short life expectancies, even in these days of advanced medical science. Shepard strongly suspected that EDI was recording as much of Joker's personality and experiences as she could with an eye towards preservation. The commander wasn't blind, but there were things towards which she did turn a _blind eye_. This was one of them. This wasn't Project Overlord, with its unwilling test subjects. These were two of her most trusted subordinates, both and both were adult . . . beings, anyway.

So, Shepard simply nodded and took Joker at his word. "So, why go on leave?"

"Other than the fact that EDI wants to know what a beach looks like, up close and personal?" he asked, lowering his voice.

"I _have_ landed on beaches before, Jeff," EDI replied, with dignity. "I find that the seawater and sand usually present deleterious effects to my paint and brightwork, however."

Joker patted her console. "No one's perfect, EDI. I won't tell anyone you're getting rusty if you don't tell anyone where I'm going gray." He paused. "Oops, was that out loud?"

"Get on with it, Joker," Shepard told him, firmly.

He dropped the light tone. "The thing is, Commander, the Turian Fleet is rolling out a bunch of second-generation frigates based on the original _Normandy_ design. They want AIs for them, but they want to take Laetia and have her cross her personality matrix with that of her turian helmsman, so. . . ." Joker spread his hands and shrugged at Shepard.

She looked at him, the corners of her mouth twitching. EDI spoke up again. "I think that what Jeff means to say, Commander, is that he wishes to meet this helmsman, one Macenus Felax, and remind him that he is in possession of a shotgun, with the capability of using it."

Shepard couldn't help herself. She put one hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter as Joker turned back to EDI, aggrieved. "That is _not_ what I said, EDI. I just want to meet the guy and make sure he's all right." He turned back to Shepard. "_You_ understand, right?"

"Hell, Joker, you're not the only one with hybrid kids on board. You'll be the first with hybrid-_hybrid_ grandkids, though." She heard him groan, and went on, enjoying the banter, "Although, I have to admit to wondering what they'll be like. With turian personality elements in there, do you think they'll only crack wise _punctually_ at the top of every hour?"

Joker gave her a dirty look. "Seriously, Commander. You know what the kids are willing to do for _me_. I have to make sure that anyone else whose personality gets added to the mix is . . . okay."

She nodded. "Permission granted. There's not a lot we could do to actually stop the Hierarchy from carrying out their plans, you realize?"

"The hell there isn't. I _do_ have a shotgun."

EDI did not, generally speaking, laugh. Usually, her avatar would flicker at best. This occasion was, however, an exception to the rule, and the AI's laughter rang through the cockpit like a chorus of bells. Shepard looked behind her briefly to make sure no other crewmembers were in earshot. Having dealt with any number of rogue AIs herself over the years, she was fairly certain that anyone who didn't _know_ EDI would be a little frightened by the sound.

When EDI finally stopped laughing, her tone turned calm and professional once more. "Shuttle Three is now asking permission to dock, Commander. Shall I have the passengers brought to the briefing room?"

"I'll be right there," Shepard replied, and headed that direction.

An hour later, she wasn't sure what to make of her latest guests. Joshua Cunningham wore an expensive suit, clearly custom-tailored, and had neatly-manicured hands and a light beard. He didn't look like any mercenary she'd ever met before, but his background clearly indicated that he'd provided security for various Earth corporations on a dozen different worlds—and some of that security had been of the 'grenade launcher' variety, rather than the bodyguard type.

Elisha Atieno was almost as dark-skinned as Jacob Taylor had been, back in the day, but there any resemblance faded. She was tall and thin, and wore her hair buzzed down almost to her scalp. She appeared tough and competent, and yet, there was an odd air to her. _Hostility? Anxiety? Hard to say._

Samuel Kennard Jaworski and his daughter, Dara, rounded out the humans. Jaworski was mustached, tall, and broad, and came aboard wearing, of all things, a Western hat and cowboy boots. "Sorry, Commander," he explained, doffing the hat. "Part of the uniform. Texas Ranger." As his daughter skipped out towards the crew quarters, dragging a bag behind her, he added, more softly, "I appreciate being allowed to bring my daughter with me. It's only been three months since my wife died, and I couldn't just leave her with relatives, given that."

She nodded. "I understand," was her simple reply. And she did. She'd been orphaned at the age of sixteen, after all, family and friends and an entire colony cut away from her in a single day. If a fourteen-year-old needed to hang onto her father, and the only cost was a rack in a room that would already be occupied, she didn't see any harm in it.

Shepard skimmed through her new passengers' files as the _Normandy _headed next to Palaven. Jaworski had eight years in N7, and had retired when his father had passed away, to be able to take care of his aging mother on the family ranch near Lufkin, Texas. He'd applied for and received training at Quantico as an investigator, and had wound up going into the Texas Rangers two years after that. Eight years later, he was forty years old, with a fourteen-year-old daughter, and had been tapped for consideration as a Spectre.

Elisha's background was different; she had been recruited by Terran intelligence agencies out of college, and had taken part in some wetwork over the course of her eight-year stint in the espionage community. Kasumi and Liara had not been able to find out much about her, other than the fact that she was heavily involved in her church, and that even working as head of security for a dig site on Mars hadn't kept her from regular attendance.

Cunningham had apparently been contacted by Cerberus operatives once or twice, but nothing had, it seemed, come out of those contacts. He had contacts with a dozen different merc groups, including Eclipse and the Blue Suns, but that could just be professional courtesy. Shepard made a mental note to contact Miranda and ask if the former Cerberus operative had any more information on the man. It didn't hurt to be fully informed, after all.

Emily Wong seemed to be having as much fun as a kid at an amusement park. She cornered every Spectre candidate, much to their consternation. Most of them had no experience in dealing with the media, and their reactions ranged from bewildered to overtly hostile. Most shut down after she introduced herself; not in itself a bad trait, for special ops. Shepard made a special note of the fact that not only was Jaworski perfectly comfortable talking with the reporter, but he was also good at stonewalling without looking anything other than polite and affable. When she asked him about it, he chuckled a little and drawled back, exaggerating his accent, "Well, y'see, ma'am, I done worked me a couple of high-profile cases with the Rangers," he explained. "And since I was lead officer, I got tagged with a lot of briefings. I just put on mah folksy charm, and most reporters just see themselves a dumb hick sheriff." He dropped the accent back down to its normal level, his eyes distantly amused. "I got used to redirecting reporters a long time ago, ma'am. They ain't a problem for me."

On Palaven, they picked up three more turians and an elcor candidate; the turians had no idea about Sidonis' background, and while they didn't shun him and his family, did seem bemused by the fact that he'd brought them along. Initially, they seemed likely to blame it on his human wife being too clingy and too needy, until, of course, they heard the _Normandy _scuttlebutt about the death threats. Then most of them closed ranks around the family.

On Illium, they picked up their contingent of asari, a quarian, two drell, and a krogan named Urdnot Gris. Shepard shook her head and got Wrex on the line. "I'm going to need you to send someone to me to help me evaluate Gris," she told him bluntly. "I don't have any krogan currently in the Spectres, so I have no one to compare him to."

"I'll send Grunt," Wrex rumbled in response.

"Good choice. He'll never be a Spectre himself—don't get me wrong, the boy's _good_ at what he does, but his range is a little limited."

"We all need butchers as well as shaman, Shepherd."

"Oh, there's no doubt about it. Grunt's an excellent butcher. He'll be great at providing a baseline for the physical capabilities. Thanks for sending him."

"Gris is good, too, Shepherd. Don't discount him because he's only a hundred and fifty."

Her lips twitched, but she managed to hold back the smile. "Wouldn't dream of it, Wrex."

**Elijah**

Elijah had been amazed at how _many_ people were coming aboard the Normandy. He was used to seeing people of all different species, of course, but the ship was getting surprisingly crowded. He took to spending more and more time in the port observation lounge, but now, he had company.

He'd been excited to hear there would be another human kid coming aboard, but a little disappointed to hear that it would be a girl. Then the hatch had snicked open behind him, and Dara had been there. She was taller than he—girls hit their growth spurts so damned early—with long, curly dark hair and dark eyes, and an light spatter of freckles. "Wow," she'd said, staring out the window past him at Palaven. "EDI, thank you for bringing me here. I've never gotten to see anything from space before. Well, you know, _Earth_, but that was just yesterday." She walked straight to the port and put her hand on the window.

"You've _never_ been in space before?" he asked, before he thought.

She swung around, yelping a little, startled. Apparently, she had been so fixated on the sight of the planet below that she hadn't even realized he was there. "You scared me! Who're you?"

He introduced himself. "Elijah, er, Sidonis." Even two years after being adopted, it felt weird to say Lantar's last name instead of _Stockton_.

Her eyes widened. "That's not a human name, is it?" She got closer, studying him. "You _look_ human."

"I _am_ human. My mom married a turian, though, and he adopted me." It was embarrassing to have to explain, and he wanted to kick her for making him do so.

Her eyes looked ready to pop out, and he was ready for the teasing to start, for her to say something dumb, like _Oh, so that makes you a __**turdian**__, ha-ha . . . _but she didn't. Instead, she squeaked a little. "That is so _cool_. Do you get to wear facepaint?" Belatedly, she added, "Oh, and I'm Dara. Dara Jaworski. Nice to meet you." She offered her hand for him to shake.

"_Jaworski_ is a human name?" he asked, grinning at her.

She stuck her tongue out at him, and he decided that for a girl, she wasn't bad at all.

From that moment on, they'd both hung out together in the port observation lounge whenever they could. EDI kept them amused and occupied, and they probably didn't even suspect that they were actually being _taught_ at the same time.

On the third day of their trip, Lantar came in and found them together, looking at turian history vids. Dara had looked up and up and _up_ at him, and had subtly stepped back and behind Elijah. "No, Dara, it's okay. This is my dad," Elijah told her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her forward. "Dad, this is Dara Jaworski. We've been doing homework!" he added, a little nervously. Talking to EDI in the port lounge had the feeling of playing hooky, so while he was telling the truth, he still had the feeling he'd somehow be in trouble.

He completely missed the way Lantar blinked at being called _dad_ for the first time. "Nice to meet you," Lantar finally said, reaching down for the girl's hand.

Dara looked at her hand, engulfed in Lantar's big, clawed one, and her eyes were wide. "Hi," she managed. "I'm sorry. I've never met a turian before. I've only seen them in vids." Her voice was a little squeak, but she looked right up at him and held eye contact. Elijah knew that would please most turians. They felt that anyone who couldn't maintain eye contact was a liar or otherwise dishonorable.

Lantar smiled down at her. "Shouldn't the two of you be getting to dinner now?"

The next morning, Lantar caught Elijah going through his clothes. "What are you doing?" the turian asked, and Elijah dropped what he was holding with a guilty start. Lantar bent to pick it up, and his mandibles twitched a little. The brush and the ceramic pot of violet paint looked small in his big hands. "I see." He looked down at Elijah, and Elijah looked up at him, nervous and defiant at the same time. "No, Eli, don't use mine. It'll give you hives at best. I have a set for you, same as for your mom. Let me show you how to put it on."

Elijah didn't question how long Lantar must have been carrying the human-based paints around. He was mostly embarrassed that he'd never asked Lantar for them before. His dad's eyes were surprisingly soft as they found a mirror in the crew hygiene facilities, and Lantar showed him how to put the paint on his jawbones for the first time. "When your beard starts growing in, you're going to be on your own," Lantar told him, ruffling his hair, "but this I can manage."

Dara was _very _impressed when she saw him in his paint later that day. Elijah would have died rather than let her know that he was gratified, so he passed it off with a grunt and just opened his datapad to his day's lesson. But when she looked away, he grinned.


	4. Chapter 4: Trepidation and Interrogation

**Chapter Four: Trepidation and Interrogation**

**Dara**

All the passengers had been restricted to quarters during descent for security reasons. Her father had explained to Dara that Commander Shepard didn't want anyone being able to identify the planet that played home to the Spectre base. The initial entry through the atmosphere had been exciting; she and her father had been sitting in the Sidonis family quarters, when the whole ship had started to shake and bounce like they were riding in a groundcar, and a light began to flash on the wall. "Atmospheric entry commencing," the pilot had announced over the loudspeaker. "Project landing in twenty minutes. We've got clear skies, folks, so it won't be too bumpy of a ride."

She'd still held on tightly to her father's hand until the floor stopped shaking. He'd always been a little distant and scary for her, but since her mother had died, she'd found herself touching him more often. Grabbing an elbow or his hand. She _was_ almost fifteen now. But even a little human contact seemed to help.

It had been hard leaving Earth, but she knew her dad had the chance to be a _Spectre_ now, and this meant that he'd probably be a hero (not that he wasn't already; he was a _Ranger_, after all), and she could meet all kinds of aliens and they wouldn't have to live in the empty ranch house anymore. The house where all the pictures of her mother had been put away, so that they didn't have to see her smiling at them from a wall someplace, instead of sitting at the table, where she should have been.

And she'd already gotten to meet a real, live turian, and Lantar, while scary, didn't seem to be so bad. Certainly, he didn't seem to be the monster the vids about Shanxi made turians seem. And Elijah was nice—much nicer than the boys she'd gone to school with. And he knew so much about aliens, had gone to school with salarians and turians and even some asari and a drell! And his little sister was even kind of interesting, too, with her soft, white, feathery scalp and her deep-set eyes. The little pointed teeth were kind of startling, but she was soft and she was warm, and Dara liked to hold her. Definitely better than her dolls had once been.

She kind of wondered what her mom would have thought of Elijah and his little sister. Would she have liked them?

Finally, the ship touched down, with a little bump, just like when a shuttle docked, really. It wasn't so bad, Dara decided. Excitedly, she stood up, and grabbed for her bags. "Come on, come on," she told Elijah impatiently.

They were some of the last people to file off the ship. Dara had been almost hoping to get to wear environmental gear, so it was almost disappointing when she realized that the atmosphere on this planet, wherever it was, wasn't toxic. "Hey, they sky here is really pretty!" she said to Elijah, excitedly. "It's got a purple shade to it, not like Earth's, which is just blue. . . " she turned, and realized that Elijah wasn't next to her anymore. He was hanging back at the hatch, staring up at the sky, one hand hanging onto the railing. "Eli?" she asked, realizing that his parents had already moved down the ramp ahead of them. "You okay?"

He didn't answer, but kept looking up at the sky with an expression of dread on his face. His black eye had faded over the past week; Dara had asked him about it, and he'd passed it off as the work of bullies he'd gone to school with, and while he'd quickly covered it over with bravado, she'd seen fear in his face and eyes then, too. She hadn't known boys could _be_ afraid. They'd just been forces of nature at her old school, inexplicable as the weather in their moods and demeanor. _I wonder if my dad is ever afraid._

She looked up at the sky, and suddenly, she understood. _Eli's never __**not**__ had a ceiling over his head. _"Hey," she said, putting a hand tentatively on his forearm. "I wonder if they have horses here," she said, trying to get him to look down at her, and not at the sky. "I have a horse at home. Bandit. My dad said we couldn't bring him with us, though."

That worked. Eli looked down at her. "'Course not," he said, with a bit of a snort. "Horses don't belong on spaceships."

"Yeah, Bandit probably wouldn't have liked it much. But I miss riding him. Looks like this would be a fun place to ride around," she said, tugging on his sleeve. Slowly, Eli started to shuffle after her. "Looks like mountains. A little like Colorado, or maybe New Zealand—they're all sharp and jagged. That means they're young mountains," she told him, continuing to pull him away from the hatch, down the ramp.

He shivered. "It's _cold_ here." There _was_ a sharp edge to the wind, and a glance told her why; the slopes of the mountains high above them still had snow on them, though here at the landing zone, there were strange flowers blooming in the grass.

"Well, yeah. We're high up," she explained. "It's probably just turned spring here. I didn't know what season it would be wherever we went, so I packed all sorts of clothes. You should probably put a jacket on." She paused. "You do have a jacket, right?"

He gave her a look, part irritation, and part embarrassment. "Well . . . no. Not really." Defensively, he added, "Coveralls were usually all anyone needed back home."

_I guess living on a space station might not be that great after all_, she decided. "Okay, well, you should be okay, unless it rains or snows or something. Come on. Everyone's waiting on us!" She pulled at his arm again, and this time, he started to follow her much more quickly. Unknowingly, she'd keyed in on another of Elijah's fears, the fact that he didn't want to disappoint anyone.

**Shepard**

Shepard gave directions for the various observers to be quartered in the main building, which doubled as her family's home and the Spectres' headquarters, and saw the various candidates off to the barracks a quarter of a mile away, before heading back for the house herself. The house bore striking resemblances to both a turian family home and a Roman villa, being a large square that looked inward on an atrium garden; a partial homage to her own long-dead parents. Her mother had been a classics professor on Earth, before the family had moved to Mindoir . . . before batarian slavers had murdered them and the rest of their small colony.

She shook away the dark thoughts, and climbed the winding path that led from the barracks to the house. It passed between stands of native honey-trap trees, named for the sticky sap that wept from openings in the bark. Their smell was sweet and pleasant, but the sap was a defense; small birds and even insects that tried to land on the bark were entangled almost immediately. Planted among the native trees were arboreal experiments—Jefferson pines and turian plants that looked like ginkgoes. All had been set in place by the environmental team based in the valley, in an effort to provide multiple layers of ecology for the various plant and animal species they were trying to establish in this region of Mindoir. Their goal was ambitious; a fully-developed and balanced ecology, from the microbial level up, that could support both dextro- and levo-amino acid based life, without any one species overrunning another. If it could be done here, it could be done anywhere, or so their thinking went.

She stepped into the welcome dimness of the house, nodded to the guard at the desk in the front lobby, and submitted her retina and fingerprint for examination. The final test, really, was much harder to pass; she had to get past Urz, her pet varren. Fortunately, even though he was an alpha male, he'd firmly imprinted on her as his master, and simply leaped out from behind a pillar in the atrium to plant his forepaws on her shoulders, and licked her face. This was always a disconcerting experience, in large part because of the curving six-inch fangs that came so close to her face. _Not unlike having a sabertoothed cat for a pet,_ she thought, not for the first time. "Urz, you silly boy. Aren't you supposed to be out in the breeding pens, doing your _other_ job?" she told him, scratching his ribs before gesturing for him to get down.

She'd been trying to breed varren since she'd gotten Urz, looking for intelligence and loyalty. She'd accidentally wound up with a dozen specimens that had sold for rather lofty sums, largely for their enormous bite strength. She'd put the proceeds into the Spectre program, and kept looking for the right females to put in with Urz. _Sooner or later, I'll get something along the lines that I'm looking for. _

A throat cleared to her right, and she looked up, and smiled. "Well, there you are," she said. "I was surprised you didn't come down to the landing area." She walked towards Garrus, and reached up to put her arms around his neck. He leaned down, and touched her forehead with his own, a very turian embrace that meant heartfelt respect and love. She returned it for a moment, then leaned in and kissed his lip-plates.

After a long moment, he told her, "I would have. Didn't trust what I'd do or say if I wound up face to face with Sidonis." Garrus nipped at the side of her neck now, then pulled back to meet her eyes. "Kids are at Solana's for the rest of the day. Can I have you to myself for an hour . . . maybe two?"

She knew that particular rasp in his voice, and her eyelids went heavy for a moment. It had been weeks since they'd had any alone time, and with the twins being away, and everyone else on the base settling in . . . . "We've got a little time," she acknowledged softly. "Let's not waste it." She leaned in on tip-toe, and bit the side of his throat, provoking a low growl from him, even as her nails curled into his shoulders. They weren't talons; they couldn't do more than convey pressure and urgency. But that was really enough.

Some time later, she rolled over in their bed, enjoying the faint, residual soreness here and there in her body. It had taken her months to convince him initially that she didn't _mind_ his full strength; that, in fact, she _relished_ it. That when she'd achieved full arousal, he could unleash himself, release his rigid self-control, and simply _take_ her, as he would a turian mate. It had taken months again after the twins had been born by c-section; he'd been convinced all over again of the inherent fragility of the human body. In fairness, turians _did _have more efficient muscle insertion points along their skeletal structure, making them stronger and faster than a comparably-sized human, although human's solid bones tended to give them a weight advantage that could wind up helping in a fight.

She relaxed, watching the clock through heavy eyes. They had about ten minutes left before the world would come down on top of them again. There was time. Just so damned little of it.

Garrus' fingers traced a line along her left collarbone, touching a line of thin white scars there. Teethmarks, the only permanent ones he'd ever left. Three months after the twins had been born, they'd both been nearly shell-shocked from the pure stress of it all. The constant illnesses of the children, the nonstop crying, the fact that they both still had important jobs that needed continuous vigilance. They hadn't been able to balance it all very well, and Garrus had reverted to treating Lilitu like a delicate, fragile piece of glass.

Solana had intervened, offering to take the twins for a weekend. As soon as the children were gone, they'd argued. What it was they'd argued about, Lilitu couldn't even remember. Something petty, apparently. Arguing had turned to sparring, stresses seeking an outlet, _any_ outlet. Sparring had taken them back into the bedroom . . . and her eyelids lowered a little at the memory.

_Thrown face down on the bed, he was taking her from behind, but it wasn't enough. He was still being gentle, considerate, and while it was pleasant, it wasn't what she __**needed**__. Some nights, it was what she wanted, but not now. Now, she needed to be __**taken**__._

"_Damn it, Garrus, let __**go**_**.**"

_His hands had started to slacken in their tight grip, and she wanted to howl her frustration. "For the love of god, Garrus, just __**take **__me! You're not going to hurt me."_

"_I could." She could feel his arms starting to tremble from the effort of holding back._

"_You __**won't**__. I'll tell you if it's too much, but please, please, just take me, please. Show me I'm yours."_

_The words shattered his careful control at last, and his teeth clamped down on her_ _shoulder as he'd pounded into her, a controlling bite, as he'd have used on a turian mate, the way a stallion curbs a mare._ _The pain was almost lost in the pleasure for her, the one enhancing the other, and her wild cries had only encouraged him._

_Afterwards, when he'd released for the last time, and when she'd tapped the bed, as if it were a sparring mat, signaling that she couldn't take any more, he'd stopped, head resting against her neck. "Damn it," he swore, pulling out and touching her shoulder with gentle hands. "Shit. I drew blood. Stay right there. I'll be back in a minute." _

_She turned to watch him go, and come back a minute later, a first-aid kit in his hands. "You're getting entirely too good at patching me up," she teased softly._

_His expression went tight for a minute, and then he'd carefully started cleaning out the puncture marks with alcohol wipes. "They're already swelling a bit. Damn it. I'm sorry."_

"_I'm not." She caught his hands as he reached back into the kit. "No medigel."_

"_Lilu, I'm __**not**__ risking an infection."_

"_No," she told him, firmly. "I've been bitten before. I can already tell it won't be nearly as bad as when I had a puma cub bite clear through my finger. Besides, I __**want**__ it to scar. You've told me before that wearing your mate's marks is a compliment. I want to wear yours." She flushed a little at the sudden return of heat to his eyes. _

They'd taken four weeks to heal, and she'd winced at the throbbing pain every time one of the twins slammed an awkward head down on her shoulder, trying to get comfortable, but it had been worth it, she thought. Turians, male and female, were territorial about their mates, and various markings delineated who belonged to whom socially, psychologically, and instinctively. The facepaints showed to which colony or clan someone belonged; the marriage knives (and their attendant scars, left on the palms during a marriage rite), served as a human wedding ring, indicating someone's social status. Bite marks were more psychological and instinctive; they betokened belonging on a very primal level. And because every turian's bite pattern was unique, it was also a way of marking territory unambiguously.

"Anything on your mind?" she asked, quietly, watching the clock as it clicked to the next number, time grinding on, remorselessly, as it always did.

"Not a thing," he replied, sounding contented. "Kind of wondering if you'd ever be able to bite me hard enough to return the favor."

She chuckled, softly. "Omnivore bite, remember? I could probably manage to break skin, but the bruising would probably be a lot more spectacular than the scarring."

"Don't discount omnivores. You're just sneaky predators in disguise. Sure, you _look_ all sweet an innocent and harmless, and then, right when the prey isn't expecting it. . . " he leaned over and nipped the side of her throat, carefully, sending shivers down her spine.

The clock clicked forward again, and she sighed. "We've got to get up now."

"I know." He sat up, unwinding his arms from around her, and reached for his clothes. "What's on the docket for the afternoon?"

"Candidates settle into the barracks. You and I meet with the observers, and with Emily Wong." She slipped into casual clothing, an open-necked tunic and pants, and checked her facepaint in the mirror, shaking her head at how smudged it had gotten. "I wish my skin could tolerate the stuff you use. Then I could just put it on, let it harden in place, and not _fuss _with it for a week."

Patiently, she sat down to remove it and redo the clan symbols.

"Was bringing a reporter here really the best idea?" he asked, slipping into civvies himself.

"I don't know," she answered, able to admit that in private. "I was pretty angry at the time, but even thinking it over now, when I'm . . . less stressed," and she turned her head to grin at him at their old, personal joke, "it still seems to make sense. Are you okay with the kids being seen on camera?"

He paused, grimaced, and sat down on the edge of the bed, thinking about it. "Yeah," he finally said. "We can't protect them forever, and you're right. If people see that they're not monsters, they might even shut up about them." Garrus' voice was dubious, however.

"Okay, that's the idealist talking. What does my Archangel think about it?"

"That people are going to see what they want to see, no matter what we do or say."

She sighed. "Yeah. But if we don't try, then we've already failed."

"I know. Doesn't mean I have to like it, though."

She turned, and, reached out, touched his hand with her own. It had taken them a while to figure out how to interlace their fingers comfortably; even the smallest gesture had taken time and practice for them. After a moment, she asked, "Think I should let her see the adoption records?"

Garrus snorted. "_What_ adoption records?"

"Exactly my point."

Again, he thought about it, and she could see him weighing the pros and the cons. She valued his insights; his instincts were usually to be more aggressive than she was, and between their two perspectives, they usually came to a balanced approach that worked. "Yeah, do it. It'll be up to her to decide if she wants to use it." He gave her hand a squeeze. "Okay, you ready to go deal with the Council observers?"

"Garrus, I've been dealing with them for a week." She paused, and he gave her a knowing look. "More accurately, I've been _dodging_ them for a week. Which is no mean trick on a ship the size of the _Normandy_." Shepard sighed. "Okay, let's go face the music."

**Garrus**

Garrus followed his wife into the meeting room, content in his role as second-in-command. It gave him the opportunity to observe, to watch how people reacted to what Lilu said. It also allowed her to be the diplomat, while he could cut through the bullshit with a sharp comment from the side. _Good cop, bad cop. An almost universal tactic_, he thought, amused. Almost every known species in the galaxy thought in binaries like this. There were exceptions, of course; the asari didn't see the world in dualities. They thought in terms of unity, or in units of three. Lilitu had commented that any number of Christian missionaries sent from Earth to now-lost Thessia had tried to play on the 'three is one' motif found in their religion and tried to relate it to the tripartite goddess worshipped by many asari. It hadn't worked.

Rishayla was the asari observer. Cold and remote as a glacier on a distant mountaintop, she sat at the table, saying little, her eyes focused inward. Listening. Her dossier indicated that she had had a hanar 'father,' and was about four hundred and fifty years of age. Just at the cusp of her matron stage, she apparently had one daughter, father's species unknown. She'd spent the last three hundred years as an information analyst for the Special Tasks and Reconnaissance group, collating information drawn from hundreds of sources on dozens of worlds, looking for patterns. "How do you plan to evaluate your candidates, Commander Shepard?" she asked now, steepling her fingers together before her on the black surface of the conference table.

Lilitu stood at the front of the room, back straight, and hands locked behind her at the small of her back. In human military terms, Garrus knew this was parade rest, and he found it amusing that five years after leaving the military, his wife still defaulted to the posture when dealing with officials. "Our standard evaluation process will begin tomorrow at oh eight hundred," she replied, calmly. "Each candidate will perform basic physical competency drills, based on species."

"There is no standard to which all candidates are held?" That sharp question came from Noratus Ferox. Garrus knew him by reputation, but not personally. He'd been prefect of the Antinus district on Palaven for some ten years now, and had apparently cleaned the district up significantly during his tenure there. He'd been an aggressive administrator, very by-the-book, even by turian standards. He wore Nimines colony paint, red and white diagonal stripes over his cheekbones, bracketing his yellow eyes before curving up onto his forehead and into the fringe.

Shepard paused and nodded to him. "Of course there is, Observer Ferox. However, I don't expect a hanar to run four kilometers in twelve minutes. That would be unfair. I do, however, expect every candidate to _excel_ at what their species is capable of doing."

The turian sat back, satisfied for the moment. The salarian, to his right, spoke up next, impatient, "What comes after this very basic level of physical competency is established?" Aegohr Malin Oros Picali Sotur Kesh was the salarian observer. He was middle-aged, being about twenty standard years old, and had served with distinction in the Special Tasks Group for about six years now. He had a reputation as a hothead, however, taking dangerous risks even by salarian standards. His dossier indicated that he felt that almost any risk besides detection was acceptable, so long as a given mission was successful.

Patiently, Lilitu turned to him next. "The candidates, given their large number this time around, will be broken into seven squads of three people each, and will compete in team-building time trials for the remainder of the day. The following day, and each day for the rest of the week, they will be taken into different environments around the base, and given missions to conduct, with specific parameters. Rescue the hostages, eliminate the smugglers, recover the classified files, and so on."

Kesh frowned. "This is a very lengthy process."

Shepard nodded. "Generally speaking, we usually only observe two to three candidates at a time. When we do so, it takes about two to three weeks to really get to know that person, and see if they have what we're looking for. With so many people this time around, it might take up to six weeks."

Garrus felt his mandibles twitch. The salarian would probably find that a disconcerting amount of time spent on the project. "Are you sure that this is a wise use of time?" Kesh asked.

The elcor observer, Harruuma, spoke up. "Declarative: This appears to me to be a useful expenditure of both time and effort." Somewhat surprisingly, she was a female elcor; most elcor females rarely left Dekuuna, or their colonies on Ekuna or Thunawanuro. She was slow-spoken and ponderous in demeanor, unsurprising in an elcor. She did, however, have a reputation for recklessness among her cautious people almost the equal of Kesh's among the salarians. _Which means, what, it takes her only a month to make a snap decision?_ Garrus thought, watching the room.

"Addendum: All of these candidates have been evaluated before, but the Spectres have higher demands and requirements of their members than any other special forces group in the galaxy. Even two or three months would be an acceptable use of time to evaluate their members, to avoid another Saren." Harruuma lowered her head slightly, indicating that she had finished her thought.

"Or another Tela Vasir," Garrus supplied from the side of the room, speaking out loud for the first time. The various observers glanced at one another, clearly uncomfortable. Shepard had revealed that one of their most trusted operatives had been compromised by the Shadow Broker for decades, and _no one_ had suspected it. Rishayla reacted subtly, but he'd been watching for it; she unclasped her hands and sat back from the table, turning her face to the side. For an asari, the change in stance suggested personal shame. _She thinks she should have seen it. Did they have a personal relationship, or is this just that Rihsayla had access to all the data, and didn't put it together the right way?_ Either way, it was an interesting fracture in her façade, hinting at the real person under all that ice.

The human representative cleared his throat. "What _are_ the qualities that you look for the most in your prospective Spectres, Commander?" Joshua Cunningham asked.

Shepard smiled slightly. "Honor, integrity, and trustworthiness, Mr. Cunningham."

"And how do you judge that?" he asked. "By human standards? Or by turian ones?" His little hand gesture called attention to the facepaint, the wedding knife.

Garrus chuckled under his breath, which got heads to turn towards him. He could hear his wife taking a deep breath to calm herself, and decided to give her time. "If you're asking if my wife is still human, Cunningham, I can assure you that all the important parts are." He was watching for the reaction, and saw it; a miniscule tightening around the eyes. Cunningham had the prototypical human male reaction to a female of his species mating outside of her own. Garrus went on, blandly, "By which, of course, I mean her mind, heart and _spirit_." He paused. "But if you're asking how we can possibly judge other cultures by our own, the standard really is simple. _Can I trust that person with my life?_" He leaned forward at the table, abandoning his relaxed pose.

Shepard walked around the table to stand behind him, face back to its usual calm mask once more. "Human military standards and turian ones are no different in that regard," she said, simply. "The credo is, _leave no one behind. _If someone can't meet that standard, then they don't belong here_._"

Garrus' fingers clenched under the table. _So why the hell is Sidonis here, then?_ He put the thought aside. Someone was clearly playing games with them, and he didn't like playing games when he didn't understand the rules.

The meeting dragged on for a while longer, and then they broke for dinner, Shepard inviting the observers to walk around the facilities, talk to the Spectres who were on base (twenty or so were between assignments or on medical leave at the moment), and to speak with the candidates at their leisure. The pair of Spectres sat in the council room for a while longer, after the observers left.

"Well, it could have gone worse, I guess," Shepard finally said, spinning her chair from side to side in little restless half-arcs.

"Do you get any kind of a read on Cunningham?" he asked. "I couldn't tell if he was punching for reactions with the initial probe, or what."

She frowned. "I can't get a read on him at all," she answered, reluctantly. "It's probably a bad sign, but I'm beginning to find it easier to figure out what's on a krogan's mind than what's going on inside the head of someone in my own species."

"I could make a really easy joke here, but Wrex is the proof that there's sometimes more on a krogan's mind than just killing," Garrus replied. "And it's not a bad sign. I'd only be worried if you were starting to think that, say, all turians don't look alike." His voice was teasing.

She gave him a sidelong look. "It's still hard to tell them apart at a distance. Up close, turian recognition is _all_ about the voice, though."

He chuckled, an embarrassed reaction. "You always say that."

"It's true. Haven't met a single turian yet who didn't have a wonderful voice, completely distinctive, and almost tactile in quality." Her own voice had softened, lowered in pitch.

"Down, girl," he told her. "Lots left to do today."

She sighed. "I know. Let's go pick up the kids from Solana's, and then we can sit down with Emily Wong."

"Actually, I have a better idea. Let's take Wong _with_ us to pick up the kids."

Her eyebrows rose. "Your sister won't like that."

"She'll live with it. It's important that people see the kids being _kids_, playing with the rest of the family and the neighbors." He'd been thinking about this a lot since she'd first brought it up via FTL transmission a week ago. _If we __**have**__ to do this, then at least we can do our best to manage it and control it. Let __**our**__ truth be the one that's seen for a change._

His wife regarded him, a smile playing on her lips. "And you keep telling me you're _bad_ at the political bullshit."

"I've either got a knack for self-improvement or for masochism," he told her, and then they stood to leave the room.


	5. Chapter 5: The Interview

**Chapter Five: The Interview**

**Emily Wong**

Emily Wong had literally already taken hours of footage on the _Normandy. _She knew that at least half of what she had would be useless, and another third would probably wind up being redacted for security purposes. So she simply opted to take as much footage and interview as many people as she could, on the theory that _some_ of it would somehow be usable. She hadn't found her focus yet, though; sometimes news was like that. She'd find the central images she'd use to unify the entire broadcast only after going back through it all at the end. Then the whole report would crystallize for her, and she'd know what it all really _meant._

"Do you usually use a Hammerhead to get around the base?" she asked as the vehicle vaulted a chasm. She was buckled into a safety hardness, but still held on, nervously, to a strap at the side of the vehicle as Shepard's second-in-command and husband navigated the rough terrain. She made a quick note on her omnitool, to explain for her human audiences: _Turians have no word for what we call nepotism. They feel that if you __aren't__ helping the family, the clan, the unit, or the organization, then you're doing something wrong._

"No," Shepard replied over the hum of the engines. "A lot of the terrain really isn't suited for motorized vehicles, and we also try to keep our footprint here relatively low-impact, because the region is also used for environmental and ecological studies. We have a stable of horses and _rlatae_ available for travel to areas on the base that a Hammerhead or a Mako wouldn't work well in."

Wong blinked. "Ralatay?" she tried.

"_Rlatae_," Garrus repeated from the front of the vehicle. "Herbivores native to Palaven, about two to two and a half meters tall. Bipedal. Turians started domesticating them around the same time humans were domesticating horses."

"Kind of a cross between a raptor and a feathery sloth," Shepard added, helpfully. "I know a lot of paleontologists consider them similar to therizinosaurs." Emily made a note to look that reference up, and nodded.

And then she clung to the strap again as the vehicle rounded a curve and skimmed down what looked like an almost vertical cliff face, Garrus firing the jets just before impact, leveling them out and reducing their relative inertia. "Am I getting the E-ticket ride because I'm new?" she gasped out after they started moving along the mountainside again. "I can't imagine that you take small children along this route often."

She could've sworn the turian was grinning at her. "What? They have regulation vehicle protection seats. They _love_ this!"

Across from her, Commander Shepard chuckled a bit. "We're giving you a look at the different terrain conditions, yeah. And while yes, we do technically have safety gear for the kids for this vehicle, no, this isn't the route we usually take them. Typically, we take a shuttle up and down the mountain. This should give you an idea of the environment we use for training purposes, though."

Emily's teeth rattled. "Does he _always_ drive?" she asked, clinging to her strap for dear life.

Shepard chuckled. "Yeah, since back when we were chasing down Saren, pretty much," she agreed. "Back then, it was a Mako, of course."

The Hammerhead sailed over a cliff edge, balanced atop a pile of boulders, and then slipped down to the ground. "_Why?"_ Emily blurted, trying not to look out any of the windows.

Shepard actually laughed. "There were three of us on every mission back then. Me, Garrus, and Wrex, a krogan. Turians have documented better eyesight than humans—on par with a hawk's—and faster reflexes. Krogan have better eyesight than humans, too. Little slower reaction time, but, you know, _krogan. _So on the one hand, we have Garrus. On the other hand, we have a krogan who can regenerate from almost anything short of a broken neck or, well, having all three hearts impaled simultaneously, and thus has absolutely no fear of the consequences if we should happen to wreck. Who would _you_ feel more comfortable with, driving down a sheer cliff? Me? Wrex? Or Garrus?"

"I see your point," Emily said, and then just gave up and closed her eyes.

They bounded over a final ridge, coming to rest in a series of hills that made up a small valley, cupped by the mountains that ringed it. About a hundred small buildings, of all different architectural styles filled the area. Some were clearly human prefab buildings, designed for colonial expansion. Others were built in the native stone and wood of the region. Wong had been to enough different worlds to pick out the rounded shape of salarian group dwellings along a nearby stream, giving the amphibious species clear access to water, as well as what looked like a hanar dome in the water itself. There were turian villas and pyramidal drell buildings, and even a couple of graceful asari towers, made of imported steel and glass. She took one piece of film of the most extraordinary house in the base—it was _fachwerk_ in style, half-timbered, and seeing it by itself, she would have thought she was somewhere in the Swiss Alps. The most intriguing thing was, she realized, that no two buildings of the same style stood next to each other.

Interspersed with the living quarters were dozens of laboratory buildings, chemical, biological, zoological, and others, which had no markings on them. She could smell livestock here and there as they drove, and her nose twitched a little.

The Hammerhead cruised through the streets, going slowly now, and, this being after the work day had come to an end, there were plenty of people outside of their homes who paused in what they were doing to wave. They came to a halt outside a modest turian villa, and when the hatch opened, Shepard gestured for Emily and her camera to precede her out. "Take a look around," the commander invited.

Emily did, setting her camera to pan around freely. She could see a pack of children playing outdoors as the sun was setting, under the watchful eye of a huge Terran dog—a _mastiff_, of all things, at a turian house!—which growled and showed fangs at her, until Shepard and Vakarian jumped out of the Hammerhead after her. In the dim evening light, she couldn't make out many details of the humanoid figures—just a rush of short shapes, all running after a ball together, laughing and shrieking in a kind of wild scrum. "No fair, it's my turn!" were the only words she could make out.

Then, as she got closer, her camera's light illuminated the group a little more clearly, and she realized that there were close to a dozen children present, probably from all over the neighborhood. There were turian children of various ages, several human boys and girls, a drell girl with enormous black eyes, and one or two little asari girls. And—ah, there they were.

The twins, in this motley assortment of children, actually didn't stand out. That was probably what Shepard and Vakarian wanted her to take away from this, and it was actually a fairly true impression. At first glance, to her human eyes, they were just another set of young turians; they were the height of human toddlers, coming just to her hip, and they'd lost the downy coat that turian infants had—if they'd ever had it. Wong made a mental note to ask for baby pictures when they got back to the house.

They both had the two-toed feet and spur structure of turians; the girl's spurs were less prominent, as she would expect of any female turian; the spurs were, after all, evolutionary reminders of when turian males had fought one another for mating rights. Their legs were a little chubbier than she'd have expected, but that might indicate mammalian fat deposits for insulation and energy storage, but structurally, they had the powerful legs and hips of a turian; the chest cavity was pronounced, but not as much as the other turian children laughing and running around with them. Facially, they retained the deep-set, intimidating predator eyes, and when they laughed, she could see the predatory teeth.

But there were differences, too; the mandible structure was missing. Their hands had five fingers, and not three, and the skin was soft and she could see that they had a rosy flush to their cheeks as they ran after the ball, tumbling and falling as any toddler of any species would do, bouncing back up after hitting the ground and chasing after it again, as an older child teasingly kept it _just_ out of reach. . . .

Then the girl glanced up and saw who'd arrived in the vehicle. "Mama! Mama!" she shrieked, and ran straight for Shepard, lifting her hands over her head. "Up!"

Shepard reached down and picked the girl up. "Oh, you must have grown since I left, Amara," she told the girl, pretending to stagger under the girl's weight. "At least a foot. Oh. . . no. . . I don't think I can manage to hold you. . . " and she brought the girl back down in a swoop, to within inches of the ground, still holding her securely, provoking a shriek of laughter.

The boy was hot on his sister's heels, already tugging at Shepard's leg, "Mama, me too. Mama! Mama!"

Garrus reached down from behind his wife, and scooped the boy up, letting him dangle upside down by his knees for a moment, before righting him, again to shrieks of laughter. "What, I don't get a hello?"

"No, Daddy, no!" But the little boy was clearly enjoying it, giggling and wiggling.

The sight was obviously not a new one for the rest of the children. The humans collected their ball and headed home for dinner, the asari girls peered shyly at the camera, and the various turian children, who all turned out to be Garrus' various nieces and nephews, greeted the Spectres respectfully, before heading indoors. Wong was introduced to Garrus' sister, Solana, and her husband, Allardus, both of whom worked here in the valley. "Come in for dinner," the turian woman invited the Spectres, and, in a more dubious tone, repeated the invitation for Emily herself. "You can keep that camera turned on, if you _really_ have to," she added, looking a little grim.

_She should have a caption under her that reads, 'What I don't do for family,'_ Emily thought, smiling as she accepted the invitation with every bit of charm at her disposal.

The surprising thing, she thought later, was how _normal_ the little family gathering was. There was just enough human-style food for her and Shepard—pre-fabricated from a mealpack, to be sure, but palatable. The children, other than the youngest, ate at a separate table. Shepard and Vakarian spent most of their meal trying to convince two very picky eaters to at least _try_ something from their plates, and wound up wearing identical expressions of mingled amusement and frustration.

_It could be any family, anywhere. I guess that's the point, really. That might even be my focus. Maybe not, though. That's not really __**news**__. People don't tune in to my feed for the 'just plain folks hour.' But there's a start, anyway._

They headed back to the Spectre base after dinner, Garrus' driving suddenly becoming remarkably smoother and saner once the children had been packed on board. The twins fell asleep on the ride home, and Emily felt free to ask a few questions. "So, if you don't mind me asking, why do they have human-norm hands, and turian-norm feet?"

In the seat across from her, Shepard grimaced a little. "Our genetic team wasn't sure. They should have had the three-fingered hand, but a protein must have gotten misread during the first cell division, before they were even implanted. The strange thing is, the same mistake happened for both of them, and they were separate ova, of course. The issue seems to have been resolved for other hybrid children born since them."

"Are there a lot of hybrid children out there?"

"Our resident geneticist puts the number at less than fifty in the galaxy right now—at least, human and turian crosses, that is. I have no idea what the numbers are for human-drell or human-batarian or anything like that." Shepard gave her a droll look. "There's enough out there that I'm not scared about the kids lacking for people who look like them when they get old enough to care about that, if that's what you mean. They're certainly not going to _replace_ humans or turians."

Emily wondered at how carefully that last statement had been said. "Is that a common concern for people?"

Garrus chuckled from the front seat. "I don't know if I'd call it a _common_ concern," he said, glancing back over his shoulder. "We get a fair bit of hate mail from some of the more _vocal_ people out there. So do the parents of other hybrids."

Shepard nodded. "We have one pair on base at the moment who received death threats. Of course, that's nothing new. I got death threats just for _marrying_ a non-human." She looked sad for a moment. "In fifty years, it won't be a big deal. Humans just take a while to get used to new ideas, and sometimes I forget we've only really been on the galactic scene since I was three years old."

This was a mouthful of information, but it wasn't the direction Emily wanted to go, for the moment. "Do the children have health problems?" she asked, instead, redirecting them.

Shepard nodded. "They had quite a few when they were little. Kaius has some renal issues, which require medication, but that he'll probably outgrow. He doesn't need dialysis and won't need surgery, thank goodness. Makes potty training a little annoying, but we can deal with that. Amara has an immature proventricular valve."

Emily blinked. "She has a heart condition?"

"Oh, no, no." Shepard shook her head. "A human only has an esophagus, a stomach, and the small and large intestines to worry about. Turians have a proventrical, or a crop, a ventrical, or stomach, and then the intestines. The valve between the crop and the stomach doesn't work quite right yet. Sometimes she gets stomach aches on par with colic. Thing is, human babies outgrow colic usually by the end of the first year. We're working on year three of this." Her tone was a little grim.

Garrus added, from the front of the vehicle, "It's a fairly common turian condition. She'll probably outgrow it. If she isn't doing better by the age of five, there's a minor surgical option that will probably fix it. We're just holding off because if she can outgrow it, we figure that will be a better choice than putting her through the trauma of surgery unnecessarily."

Shepard shrugged. "It's the equivalent of ear-tube surgery on a human toddler. But if we don't _have_ to, we'd prefer not to."

"Well, they both look amazingly happy and healthy, I have to say." Emily focused her camera on the sleeping toddlers for a moment, a peaceful image that she knew that most parents would relate to easily. She didn't quite know what to ask next, so she went with filling the silence and earning their trust and comfort. It was something she was good at, something that got her interviews that other reporters simply couldn't get. "So, do you have any plans for more children?"

She caught the glance quickly exchanged between the pair, before Garrus put his eyes back on the rugged terrain, swerving around a large cluster of boulders that had apparently been part of an avalanche at some point in the past. "Actually, we've been trying to adopt since before the twins were born," Garrus told her. "We actually wanted to _start_ with one human and one turian child, on the theory that we could probably figure them out a little more easily."

Emily turned her camera towards him, its little light shining on him in the dark confines of the Hammerhead, illuminating the control panels and showing that it was pitch-black outside of the vehicle. Little blips appeared on a navigation pane, and the vehicle's headlights showed, briefly, a herd of startled deer scattering before them. "You've been _trying_ to adopt?" she repeated. "You've been turned down?"

"Yes and no," Shepard answered behind her. "The various human agencies have turned us down repeatedly. I can show you their very polite letters when we get back to the house."

"The turian agencies haven't turned us down yet. It just takes about five years to get through all the regulatory steps," Garrus explained, and the Hammerhead bounced to a stop. There were lights outside now; they'd reached the Spectre base once more.

Inside the house, Emily took a glance through the various messages from the adoption agencies, and put a hand over her eyes. _Oh, these are almost too good to be true_, she thought, gleefully. "Seriously, they turned you down because they couldn't get clearance onto a _top-secret base_ to examine the living conditions of your existing children?" she asked. "I guess I should be flattered that I made it here, myself. This one asks, not so delicately, if you're sure you have _quite_ the right moral compass for adopting human children?"

Shepard looked over her shoulder. "Oh, that one's from Suffer the Children. I only found out _after _submitting an application through them that they receive funding from the Adam and Eve Coalition. So, yes, they turned us down. I guess they had their reasons." She sat down; Garrus was out of the room, putting the sleeping children in their beds while the commander dealt with their reporter guest.

"And this one . . . oh, this one is actually not out of the realm of the reasonable," Emily said, reading the message. "They suggest that both parents being Spectres, in high-risk positions, isn't necessarily a stable home environment for a child who's already been orphaned." She paused. "I take it you have plans for who will take care of your existing children if the worst should occur?" she asked, trying to phrase it delicately.

"That's pretty much a must for anyone in our line of work, so, yes, we both have wills." Shepard shrugged. "The twins would go to Garrus' family. In the event that somehow none of his family could take care of them, we've got some friends who would take them."

"Who, if I may ask?"

Shepard pointed at the camera. "Turn it off; that's off the record."

Wong clicked the camera off, and waited. "We've got a pair of quarian friends who would take them—Tali'Zorah and Kal'Reegar. In the _extremely_ unlikely event that they, too, are mysteriously unavailable, the twins would go to Tuchanka and their uncle Wrex."

"No humans on the list?"

Shepard's smile was wry. "Like who? It's not like I have any living relatives."

"All of the people you've listed are either Garrus' family or former squad-mates of yours. You wouldn't ask any of your human teammates to raise your children in your absence?" Emily was fascinated. _No wonder Terra Firma is terrified of this woman. Has she lost all affinity for her own species?_ She liked Shepard, but she tried hard to be a good reporter, and a good reporter looked at all sides of a story.

"It's not a question of the species, but of the individuals," Shepard answered after a long moment. "I wouldn't trust some of the humans I've worked with, with a child. There's one human on staff here whom I _would_ trust, but I wouldn't ask someone to go into single parenthood as the custodian of two bio-engineered children with health problems."

"Fair enough," Emily acknowledged, and changed the subject back to the messages in front of her, tapping on the screen with one fingernail, and activating her camera once more. "Still, with literally tens of thousands of orphans on both Earth and Palaven after the war, the people who _saved_ both planets can't adopt?" Her tone was incredulous.

Shepard's smile fell somewhere in the spectrum between rueful and wistful. "I know. It's actually almost funny at this point. Oh well. The twins have lots of turian cousins—four here, and four still back on Palaven. I don't have any living family, but they see plenty of humans and have human playmates. I guess that's what counts."

"What will happen to them as they get older? How do you see their lives playing out?"

Garrus came back into the room, taking a seat beside his wife. Emily adjusted the camera, catching a glimpse of the way their two hands, so differently shaped, caught briefly for a squeeze before separating again. "When they're sixteen, if they want to retain their citizenship in the Turian Hierarchy, they'll have to report to boot camp for their mandatory military service," he told her. "Not too much different from any number of Terran nations, before the Systems Alliance was formed, as I understand it."

"And if they don't?"

"They'd default to being only citizens of the Systems Alliance, as I understand it," Shepard handled that question. "They could then serve in our military, or just go straight to college. They're definitely going to have the education to do whatever they want to do with their lives."

"Wouldn't there be the possibility, however remote, that they might have to fight against one of their parents' peoples in the future, if they do go into the military?" Emily asked, and had the impression that the question had somehow amused the couple. Garrus' mandibles twitched, and Shepard covered her mouth for a moment.

"To be honest," Shepard said, after a moment, "that doesn't seem like much of an issue. I've fought just as many humans as any other species out there. Garrus?"

"Yeah, I've fought a fair number of turians." They traded a look of amusement, and then Garrus added, glancing back at the camera, "Species doesn't matter nearly as much as what you're fighting _for_."

Emily nodded, thoughtfully. "Okay, now I'd like to go back and ask some of the questions I probably should have asked at the very beginning. They're all pretty much softball questions, nothing you probably haven't heard before, but they are personal. Is that all right?"

Shepard managed a smile. "You can ask. I can't guarantee that I'll have an answer, but you can always ask."

"What's it like, being married to someone of a different species?"

That actually got them to laugh. "I think most people would agree that the opposite sex can almost be a different species sometimes," Shepard said, grinning. "I don't think there's that much difference, really. Heck, we've got other cross-species pairs on base. There's another human-turian couple among the candidates at the moment, and there's an asari-volus couple down at the research station. You could interview them, if they give permission, of course."

Emily raised her eyebrows. "You don't think there's much difference between a human and a turian?"

Shepard turned a clearly affectionate glance towards her husband. Emily liked the shot, liked the way he looked back down at her at the same moment. _Very natural. That one's a keeper._ "I think one of the reasons why humans and turians clashed early in the First Contact War, and have had friction since, is that we're more alike than any of the other species out there," Shepard told Emily, still smiling.

"Comparable life spans and life stages," Garrus said. "Neither of us is either exceptionally long-lived, like the krogan or the asari, or exceptionally short-lived, like the salarians. Childhood, adolescence, potentially parenthood, middle age, old age. They're all the same for both species." He thought for a moment. "Definitely comparable emotional range. Turians tend more towards anger and aggression, of course, but humans have both."

"Definitely romantic emotions, as well," Shepard commented. "A salarian doesn't really have that kind of wiring. Krogan tend to suppress whatever bond-mate inclinations they may have, culturally, for the protection of their young." She tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair. "It's not just an emotive similarity, but a psychological one. Humans and turians both _think_ in very similar ways. An asari thinks in terms of ones and threes. Their lives are so long, and they focus very much on the individual and their connection to the _oneness_ of the universe. Sure, they see their lives in three stages, and thus, they have a focus on threes in their culture as well, but they're very focused on their _oneness_. Humans and turians have individuality, certainly, but we also think in binaries, dualities."

Garrus nodded. "Light and dark, legal and illegal, moral and immoral. There are continuums between each pair of opposites, but turians conceive of them in terms of opposition, the same as humans do. Asari don't, really. Neither do rachni or geth."

Emily blinked. It was eerie, sometimes, how talking to Shepard, you could see her slipping between roles. Sometimes the commander, the soldier; at dinner, the mother, the wife. Right now, _both_ of them were showing their backgrounds as the highly intelligent and educated products of a military/law-enforcement education focused at least in part on xenopsychology. They could have been teaching a classroom somewhere. _I wonder how many people have underestimated one or both of them, thinking of them as __**only**__ the rifle-toting soldier? _"Are life patterns and psychology enough to bridge the species gap?" she asked.

"For some people, sure," Garrus said. "I know that with the current political makeup of the Council that our species are coming closer together, and I hope that continues."

Emily knew that the joint human-turian fleet was the largest military force in the galaxy, currently still organized into separate command structures. On every _Normandy_-class ship, however, the crews were homogenous and if the experiment continued to show success, the model might spread. Both human and turian military-industrial complexes were uneasy about the potential for a loss of autonomy that this might bring, but the massive political weight that the two species were able to bring to bear due to their protection of Council space was hard to deny. _Chairman Mao would love it as an illustration of his point. Political power really can grow out of the barrel of a gun._

"Everything else is really just cosmetic and chemical," Shepard continued, and Emily focused once again. "The chemical, you can work around. The cosmetic doesn't matter worth a damn."

"Do you find that you have to communicate differently with each other than with a mate of your own species?" Emily was working her way down a checklist at this point.

Another exchange of fond, amused glances. "I find I communicate with _every_ species on this base differently," Shepard answered. "When I'm dealing with humans, for example: in order to demonstrate leadership, a female has to act, to a certain extent, _male_. You can't show frustration. You can't let your voice go up in pitch—that just comes off as shrill. It's built into humans, down on the instinctive level, that a low-pitched voice is the voice of authority, so I keep my voice lower for humans than I do for say, asari. Humans don't like to see their female leaders showing too many emotions—motherly love, that's fine. Wifely devotion—that's fine, too." _Sort of what you've been careful to show me, so far,_ Emily thought, but didn't say it out loud.

Shepard had already moved on. "Frustration or anger can get you pegged as 'bitchy' or 'hysterical' very easily, so you _cannot_ show it."

"Turians are different," Garrus put in. "Anger is perfectly acceptable, from both genders. It's one of our primary forms of communication, in fact." His tone was droll.

"The old joke about Eskimos having two hundred words for snow is pretty accurate for turians and anger," Shepard added, with a chuckle. "Keep in mind, humans have _all_ of these, too. Turians have just. . . developed them more, or maybe just acknowledge them more. There's fear-anger and protective-anger and righteous fury and spirit-anger and . . . god, a host of others. They appreciate a good full head of _mad_." She grinned outright now.

"But with _respect_." Garrus lifted a finger, pretending to chide.

"So when you communicate with humans and with turians, how do you do things differently?" Emily asked. This hadn't been where she was going with this line of questioning, but it was interesting material, nonetheless.

"Turians like to know where they belong, and who belongs to whom," Shepard answered promptly. "They have a variety of different social and psychological signs to communicate this." She touched her face. "Facepaint. Wedding knife. Serves the same purpose as the wedding ring for humans." She sat up, and took off her jacket, revealing an open-necked tunic underneath—a tunic that clearly showed a bite scar on her left shoulder. "Mating marks," Shepard added, her tone bland and controlled. "Emily, you just sat back in your chair. You _pulled away_. That's a very typical human reaction, and that's why when I deal with humans, I leave the jacket on. It makes humans uncomfortable. It's too personal. It's more information than, culturally, we really want to know. For a turian, it's comforting. It tells them who belongs to whom, and where _they_ fit into the totality." Shepard put the jacket back on.

Emily realized that the commander was right. She _had_ moved backwards in her chair, as if Shepard had just invaded her personal space, and she'd felt her body relax when Shepard had put the jacket back on. "These are just strategies for humans and turians. How about the rest of the people on the base?"

"I could write a damn book," Shepard said, looking amused. "We'd be here all night. But I can give you some nutshell strategies I try to follow for a couple of species."

"Krogans?"

Shepard nodded. "Good example. Krogans respect strength. They like to be respected, and they don't like bullshit. Be straight with them and show your teeth if you need to, but always show respect for _their_ strength, too. I like dealing with them, to be honest. They're refreshingly direct." Her tone was wry.

"How about salarians?"

"Salarians like to be listened to. Not exactly rocket science, there—_everyone_ likes to be listened to. But most of the salarians I've met like to work their way through a problem, to bounce ideas off of the people around them, or even just talk out loud as they think. They like to know that their ideas matter . . . and if you show respect for them, they'll listen to _your_ ideas with greater confidence, as well." She grinned at Emily. "They also have no concept of personal space—no dominance dynamics, other than with their females, so if you want space, you have to remind them of that."

"Asari?" _That might get a good reaction._

"Respect, again." Shepard hesitated. "I find that I like to keep a solid barrier of personal space between me and them. They find that distancing, however. Their concept of friendship is much more intimate than the human norm. If you're not a friend, in their estimation, you should not be touching them. If you _are_ a friend, they tend to become more tactile-oriented, and can find it confusing or hurtful if you don't reciprocate. It creates opportunities for misunderstanding, but that is where they have to learn to understand _me_." Shepard shrugged. "I'm sure that makes me sound rigid and unbending, but I'll only walk halfway out to meet someone. They have to walk the other half themselves." She paused. "Seriously, though, I can go on all night. Ask something else, and we can wrap this up."

Emily looked down at her checklist. They probably wouldn't answer this one, but she had to bring it up. "Don't shoot the messenger here, okay? I have affiliate stations in Europe and Asia whose directors will _kill_ me if I don't ask: How's the sex?"

Garrus laughed out loud. Emily was quite certain that if Shepard hadn't been wearing facepaint, she'd have gotten great footage of a bright pink, very human blush. As it was, the commander of the Spectres and hero of the galaxy looked down briefly, and her lips curved upwards. After a moment, she coughed and got control of her face. "No complaints here," she managed.

"Garrus?" Emily prompted.

The turian managed to stop laughing long enough to reply, "I'm not sure who wears out whom. Is that a complaint?"

Shepard kicked him in the shin. "That's being redacted," she told Emily, firmly.

Emily turned off her camera, trying not to laugh too much, lest she wind up with her camera shoved someplace unpleasant. "Thanks. I think I have enough for tonight. The candidate trials start tomorrow, right? Can I film some of that?"

Shepard nodded, recovering her composure. "Sure. We'll edit out anyone who refuses permission, of course. Everything will start at oh-eight hundred, and you can have a seat in the stands near us . . . and the Council observers. I'd prefer it if you didn't interview any of the candidates while they're working, though. They'll need to focus."

"Of course, Commander," Emily said, and retreated from their private rooms to her own temporary quarters.

There was so much data, so much footage. _What's my damn focus point? Have I found one yet?_

**Garrus**

Back in their rooms, Garrus watched lazily as his wife removed her facepaint for the night; human skin simply couldn't tolerate the pigments all day. It needed to breathe, as she'd told him before. She caught him watching her, and turned to look at him. "You don't know who wears out whom?" she repeated, and threw her washcloth at him.

He caught it, deftly, and grinned. "Hey, you know I only speak the absolute truth. I'm known for it, in fact."

She advanced on him, trying to look angry, and failing. He leaned down and rubbed his face against her shoulder, where she wore his marks, and growled, low, at the back of his throat. "Remember that whole azure dust incident?" he reminded her, lifting his head in time to watch her face turn pink.

"How could I not?"

"Well, _I_ don't remember much of it," he reminded her. "Just bits and pieces. Mostly about you, though, so what I do remember is . . . very nice."

Azure dust was an asari drug, originally used in some of their religious rituals. Like red sand, it enhanced biotic potential, but with different side effects; it opened asari's minds to one another, allowing more than one individual to 'embrace eternity' at the same time. It was never intended for orgiastic fertility rites, or anything like that; it had been used to allow groups of up to twenty priestesses to open themselves to the universe at once. Or so the theory went. Hence its slang name of _azure dust_.

Its production and sale was _supposed_ to be restricted to asari space. This had not particularly stopped it from trickling _out_ of asari space. The major problem with it was its side effects on other races; each race experienced a different side effect. Salarians had been known to abuse it because it supercharged their already speedy metabolisms, making them even more hyper and aware and focused. Salarian users believed that they could be more productive, more efficient, more intelligent, the more of the dust they took. Elcor tended to use it as a sleep aid, although it could, again, had adverse side effects, including coma. It had absolutely no effect on volus—none that they'd admit to, anyway.

Turians who took it became deeply disoriented, even borderline amnesiac. This had been seen by the galactic underworld as a _wonderful_ side effect, because the bulk of galactic security forces had been, for generations, turians.

It wasn't until humans had emerged onto the galactic stage, however, that the drug had really become a problem. It worked on humans in a similar fashion as asari; while it didn't enhance human biotic potential, it _did_ lower inhibitions while boosting the limbic system and increasing sexual hormone production. Simply put, it was a potent aphrodisiac that became both a party drug and a favored date rape drug.

Miranda had contacted them, concerned because she'd continued to monitor Cerberus chatter even after the defeat of the Reapers. There were indications, she told them, of a cell reforming on Nodacrux, where Cerberus had had a base previously dedicated to studying the Thorian and its mind-controlling properties.

Garrus buried his face in his wife's shoulder again, inhaling her smell, warm skin, hint of soap, the slightly alien musk of her humanness, her femininity, remembering it . . . well, remembering what he _could_ of it, anyway. . . .

_They'd taken a five-man team down to the planet; Miranda and Jacob had needed to be there, since they had old access codes that __**might**__ have still worked on the computers; they'd also brought Mordin along, for medical evaluation of whatever they might find in the labs._

_The researchers had put up a hell of a fight. "I will never understand why these people are so willing to lay down their lives for, let's face it, research," Shepard said, taking off her helmet inside the base to wipe sweat out of her eyes. Outside, on Nodacrux's surface, the incredible amounts of alien pollen would send __**any**__ of them into anaphylactic shock, so breathing gear was a must. Indoors, however, the area was clearly filtered and safe._

_Garrus unlatched his own helmet, commenting, "I think it's more that they'd rather die than go to prison. Or maybe rather die than allow Cerberus to be compromised." He gave his wife a wry smile, mandibles spreading wide. "I don't get it, either."_

_Jacob looked uncomfortable with the conversation, but Miranda remained tightly focused, working her way through the room to the back of the prefab structure. "Here," she said, pointing at a door. "This is the lab entrance itself. It's encrypted."_

_Garrus approached the door, and setting up his omnitool, started working his way through the layers of security. "Tricky," he commented halfway through. _

"_I'd prefer not to have to blow it open," Miranda told him sharply. "That might damage whatever they've been working on."_

"_No, I've got this. They've just added a couple of new layers, that's all." While he worked, the others all took their helmets off as well. The area was secured, after all._

_The door slid open, revealing a room sectioned off by a glass wall down the middle; on their side of the wall, there were crates stacked nearly to the ceiling; on the other side, they could see nozzles protruding from the walls, like a sort of communal shower. What looked like steam rose through the air on that side. "Decontamination area?" Garrus hazarded at a guess._

_A panel began to blip to the side of the room, and he walked over to examine it; everyone else crowded behind him. As they did so, the door behind them snicked shut. "Well, that's not good," Garrus muttered under his breath. "Yeah, hot labs protocol enacted. We'll have to shut everything down to open the hatch again." He began working on the console. As he did, Miranda and Jacob began to pry open one of the crates._

"_What the hell is that stuff?" Shepard asked. _

_Mordin had looked over her shoulder, analyzing the substance. "Variety of azure dust. Very concentrated, very pure. Extremely finely ground—suitable for aerosol distribution."_

_Garrus turned to look over his shoulder. "They've __**weaponized**__ it?"_

_Shepard had stepped back from the crate, apprehensive. "It's a drug, right? I don't know much about it."_

_Mordin had started explaining its effects to her, while Miranda and Jacob had hurried to where Garrus was working, trying to hasten the process of undoing the security protocols. "It's that one," Miranda insisted. "I remember that protocol from when we were still in Cerberus."_

_Garrus spread his hands and stepped back from the console. "Be my guest," he told her, and she started tapping on the console._

_At which point, the glass barrier had lowered, and the 'steam' inside the enclosure billowed out around them . . . ._

He knew that they'd gotten the main hatch open. He remembered Lilitu looking up at him, saying his name, pulling him after her, to one of the scientists' living quarters. Remembered the door closing behind them. But it was so fragmentary, as his mind had turned to sand in an hourglass, sucking down into itself, nothing stable, nothing real. Nothing except for her. "How fast did I lose language, anyway?" he asked her, still nuzzling.

"Fast," she replied, wrapping her arms around him. "English went first. Galactic right after that. You held onto your modern Tal'mae dialect the longest, but . . . even that broke down after a while." He lifted his head to meet her eyes, feeling a little embarrassed. "Hell, Garrus, you didn't even know your own name for a while there. We were both a little, ah, primitive for a bit."

"Three damn days," he said, ruefully.

"Mordin was happy. He said he finished five research papers he'd been meaning to write while we were all, er, _otherwise occupied_. I'm surprised he remembered to push food and water into the rooms."

Garrus wasn't able to hold back the chuckle. "The hazmat teams must have gotten an earful, though." Yes, there was that pink flush along her skin again. He enjoyed seeing it, whenever he could.

"For the first eighteen hours or so, yes, intermittently. Then I guess my body started to metabolize the damn stuff at last." She was trying for bland control, but her flush betrayed her.

"_Who're you?" he asked, puzzled. He reached down and touched the strange female's face. She wore colors on her face, and something told him that the colors were important. The colors said __**protect**__._

"_I'm Lilitu. Don't you remember me? Garrus?" She touched his face now, too, and there was something familiar about her smell. Alien, exotic, but familiar. _

_Dizzy, he sat down on something—it was square and soft and had soft coverings on it. It had a name, didn't it? Objects had names. People had names. Something wasn't right. __**He**__ wasn't right. He couldn't focus. He couldn't think. "Who's Garrus?"_

"_Oh, not good," she whispered, and then she was pulling off the hard shell she wore. __**Armor**__, part of his mind reminded him. He looked down, and saw that he was wearing the same sort of shell, and numbly began to remove his as well. The fastenings were odd. He stared at them, fascinated, until she took over and began to remove the hard shell for him._

_When she was down to her skin—_so soft,_ he thought, _sostrange_—he could see that she wasn't shaped the way he was, again, so alien, so exotic. But the colors on her face still said __**protect**__ to him. And then he saw the bite scar on her shoulder, and he __**understood**__. It said __**mate**__, and everything made sense at last. She was __**his**__, and that was all that mattered. _

_His world grayed out around the edges as she pushed him back onto the softness of their nesting place and climbed atop him, and his body responded to her need. _It's her time, _was his only coherent thought as she slid down onto his length, moaning and throwing back her head. It was his mate's estrus, and his body knew what was required of it, and he gave her what her body demanded, over and over and over . . . rolling her over in their nest, hearing her screams bounce back off the walls, smelling the exotic scent of her pleasure, her need . . . ._

In the here and now, she pushed his shoulders back, and he backed towards the bed willingly enough, sitting down when his spurs touched it. She grinned at him playfully, and shoved him to his back, following him down to bite the side of his neck firmly. "I remember things like that," he told her, voice grating. "I'm actually surprised you didn't bite down hard enough to leave a scar."

"Last bit of sanity remaining reminded me that I might not get to my epi-tabs in time." Her voice was like smoke. "Believe me, as out of my mind as I was, it was really hard _not_ to."

"Hey, you were way ahead of me. About all I could think was that my mate was in estrus and . . . ." He paused, and shrugged, "Well, there's no actual _and_."

"I didn't think I heard any objections at the time." She bit him again, and his rolled his hips against her, showing her that there weren't any objections _this_ time, either.

"That's what makes azure dust so damned dangerous," he told her, rolling his hips again, watching her eyes go a little vague at the sensation. "There _aren't_ any objections. There's just confusion for a turian."

"Are you saying I took _advantage_ of you?" Mock-indignation now as she raked her nails lightly down his chest.

"Shamelessly. But I really didn't mind." He lined himself up, and pushed up into her, loving the way her eyes went blank and dazed, loving the low moan that came from the back of her throat, the wetness, the tightness, the velvety softness of her. "Did you?"

She sank down all the way, and his fingers gripped her hips reflexively. "Not—oh. . . at all. But after three days isolated with you, I needed a week to recover, damnit." She began to rock on him, and he caught his breath, feeling his first release already starting to build, trying to control it. She knew it, too, knew him so well she could tell the tensions in his body, and moved faster, looking down at him, smiling . . . and he knew that this was going to be one of the _good_ nights.


	6. Chapter 6: Trial and Error

**Chapter Six: Trial and Error**

**Sam**

Sam Jaworski had spent a restless night in the candidate barracks. Usually, he had no trouble falling asleep; a lifetime spent in special forces and in law enforcement had taught him the value of sleeping whenever he could, wherever he could. Dara had started crying in her sleep again, though, and he'd awakened to the sound, as he had almost every night since her mother died. He patted her sleeping shoulder until her subconscious mind registered his presence, and she quieted. Then he straightened the tangled blankets, found her teddy bear on the floor—the teddy bear she'd sworn years ago that she'd outgrown-and tucked it back under her arm again. She sighed in her sleep, and turned over, her breathing becoming soft and regular once more.

He'd thought she was doing better since they'd gotten on board the _Normandy_. New environment, new people. He'd been grateful to the Sidonis family, especially their older boy, for the useful distraction they'd provided for her—although, given their ages, he was keeping close eye on their comings and goings. Any time he'd needed to find the girl on the ship, she'd been either in the port observation lounge, though, under the supervision of the ship's uncannily sapient-sounding AI, or in the Sidonis family quarters. Once, he'd even walked in and found her holding their baby—an oddly ugly critter, in his estimation, but then again, had he ever seen a baby of any species that looked cute to anyone other than its own parents?

Now it was oh six hundred, local time, and he was trying to figure out if he should eat or not. He was forty years old, and in good shape for his age, but he didn't much relish the thought of throwing up everything he'd eaten half-way through calisthenics. He settled for eggs, toast, and a big glass of water in the commissary line, making sure Dara got milk for her cereal, and got her settled in at a table. She was munching away when she saw her little friend, Elijah, and waved him over. . . which meant that the whole brood wound up at the table with them. Sam didn't mind; there was a chance he'd wind up working with the father. Sidonis seemed the quiet, brooding type. Hard to get a read on him, but he treated the wife very well, and was an attentive, if stern father to the two kids.

"Are we going to be allowed to watch?" Dara asked him, anxiously.

"It's probably going to be pretty boring for you, sweetheart," he told her. "Lots of pushups and sit-ups and probably some running."

She made a face, and he laughed. "I feel sort of the same way about it myself, sweetie. I heard last night, though, that they've got stables on the base here."

Her eyes widened. "Really?"

Sam nodded. "I asked the guard over there to walk you there for the morning," he added, pointing out the human in question. "Don't pester the stable workers," he added, probably unnecessarily. Dara had spent the first fourteen years of her life on a ranch. She knew how to muck out a stall and groom a horse. That was the price she paid for being allowed to ride one.

She looked right at Lantar and Ellie. "Can Elijah come with me?" she asked. _That's my girl, bold as brass. _"He's never gotten to see a horse up close before. Right?" she added, turning to ask the boy directly.

Elijah looked about ready to choke on his cereal, but Lantar was already nodding his permission. "I hear they have _rlatae _there, too," he told the boy. Eli's face lit up, and he began bolting down his cereal so fast Sam thought the boy might choke.

When the two children left, Lantar raised his cup, which was filled with something oddly purple-colored, thick, and steaming, and said, "Thank you."

"My pleasure. Wasn't looking forward to Dara seeing her old man throwing up. I'm sure as hell not twenty anymore."

Ellie looked from one male at the table to the other. "They wouldn't have requested you if they didn't think you met the requirements. Right?" Her tone had a little forced cheer to it.

"Ma'am, I _met_ the requirements . . . ten years ago." Sam chuckled a little under his breath. "I probably still meet them . . . for my age category. I think."

Lantar grimaced, and Sam was interested to realize it was the same expression as on a human's face. "Same here," he muttered. "It's been a while since boot camp."

"Hell, I guess it has been for everyone. I don't see anyone here who looks like a spring chicken. Guess they're going for _established character_ as well as age and wisdom."

_Now why the hell did he look down and away at that? Hell, I don't know, it might not mean the same thing for them as it does for us. . . . _

**Sam**

The physical competency test was just as bad as Sam remembered it from back when he'd applied for the Special Forces Assessment and Selection course, fresh out of the Academy. Shepard had them all assemble in an open, grassy field. A half-dozen Spectres of different species lined up beside her, and there was a krogan there, too, though he knew there weren't any current krogan Spectres. All wore loose clothing and looked ready to work.

"Welcome to the physical qualifications round," Shepard said, and Sam had to admit, the lady knew how to project across a parade ground without screeching or squawking. Right from the diaphragm. Whoever her old drill sergeant had been, had to be proud.

"Humans, turians, drell, asari, quarians, geth, and krogan," she said. "One hundred pushups, at your own count. You have one hundred and twenty seconds. Salarians, one hundred sit ups, in the same time. Rachni, one hundred dips. On my mark . . . go."

The human male had no particular animus toward the rachni, but he could see several of the recruits around him look to the left and shudder a little as the huge brood warrior, standing next to a delicate-looking asari, began his exercises.

He had to give Shepard credit; she dropped and started doing the same pushups as everyone else. So did all the Spectres, facing the recruits. His arms started burning at the fifty mark, and he gritted his teeth. _Goddamn stupidity, doing this at goddamn forty years of age, what the hell am I trying to __**prove**__, anyway. . . seventy-five, seventy-six, must be Alzheimer's setting in, not remembering how bad this __**sucked**__ the first time around . . . ._ He hit the hundred mark with two seconds to spare, and knew, without question, that he was going to _hurt_ tonight.

"Humans, turians, drell, asari, quarians, geth, and krogan! One-handed pushups, fifty of them. Salarians, fifty curls. Rachni, fifty lifts. You have seventy-five seconds. On my mark—go."

Sam quietly said a bad word under his breath. He had a clear view of the line of Spectres, and they were all belting out the exercises, so he got to work. At the halfway mark, Shepard called out, "Switch!" and they all changed arms. As he sweated, he wondered what the point of even testing the geth really was. They were machines, weren't they? Shouldn't a machine function the same way, every time? _Maybe they __**have**__ to do it for a checkmark on some damn bureaucratic form somewhere. . . ._

After that, it was a hundred sit-ups. And after that, it was a four kilometer run. Given the altitude, Shepard called across the field, they'd be allowed extra time to complete it, dependent on species type. Sam felt reasonably comfortable in completing this section on in his allotted seventeen minutes. Running had never been much of a problem for him. He did, however, start to question his assumptions when he saw how damn _fast _the turians were. Every one of them started off at a loping gait that clearly looked as if they were just jogging, but they were going at _sprint_ speed by human standards. _They've got the leg structure of a damn ostrich, it's the only explanation. _And the massive chests probably meant larger lungs, which meant they probably weren't even kicking in the afterburners.

He sighed, and got to it. The altitude was no joke, and the running path they were using was rough by any standards. After the first half kilometer, though, it started to feel like running through a dry arroyo back home, and he got into the rhythm of it. He finished in time, though he knew for certain he wasn't breaking any records. _Well, I didn't really expect much to come out of this shindig_, he reflected. _On the plus side, I haven't thrown up yet._

**Shepard**

"Everyone passed the physical," Kesh said sharply as Shepard, Garrus, Kasumi, and Grunt settled into place in the stands around the pool. "As they should have. Was there any real point to the exercise?" The salarian fidgeted and stared down at the assembling candidates, all of which were, currently, blocked off from viewing the pool by a large black curtain.

"Yes," Shepard told him, aware of Emily Wong's camera hovering off to her left, recording the whole conversation. "First, it's a preliminary screening to weed out people who might have been recommended for personal reasons, rather than for competency." She held up a hand to forestall Kesh's response. "Second, it creates a certain baseline level of physical exhaustion. Some of what we're looking for in these people is endurance and perseverance—the ability to push beyond their limits. Third, it puts preconceptions in their minds. Preconceptions about competition and the individual. I want to see which of them can break through those preconceptions."

Kesh blinked at her, his lower eyelids sliding up; a quizzical look. "There is a psychological element? Interesting," he said, and went silent.

Below, the candidates were being broken into seven squads of three people each. "Candidates," Shepard called down to them. "The next qualification round will be scored _as a team_. Be aware that you will also be scored for leadership potential." She paused. "This course has four sections; the pool, a wall climb, a sprint, and a combat exercise." The description was vague, and deliberately so. She was trying to avoid preconceptions at this point, wanted them to be alert and wary . . . if they were wise enough to be both.

"You may each take two items of gear from that pile over there—" and she pointed to a large table, on which various pieces of survival equipment had been stacked, "so choose wisely. Turians, elcor, and quarians may choose to do a survival bob for two minutes in lieu of crossing the pool. Elcor and rachni may take a two-minute penalty to avoid climbing the wall. No one may observe the other teams until you have already completed the course. Team one, select your gear and make your way to the starting area."

She sat back down and picked up her datapad. "Looks like our first team has an asari, a turian, and a drell," she said, sounding neutral.

Kasumi, her hood firmly up and shielding her face from Wong's camera, commented, "Tianna is apparently a former member of Eclipse with two hundred years of experience. Meranus is turian expeditionary forces, and . . . ah, Taos, our drell in this batch, is a hanar _special_ operative." _Assassin_, she didn't have to add.

Grunt chuckled, smacking his hands together. "Are we placing bets?"

Garrus awarded him a skeptical look. "It probably wouldn't be appropriate, all things considered." 

"Where's the _fun_ in appropriateness?" Grunt asked, giving him a toothy grin in return.

"And they're off," Kasumi said, redirecting their attention back to the pool. Sure enough, the asari had jumped into the water first, and was speeding along, trying to hold her rifle out of the water in one hand. Behind her, the turian had, with a visible lack of enthusiasm, opted for the two-minute penalty and was doing a survival bob. The drell climbed into the water as the asari hit the end of the pool; a climbing wall had been erected there, right on the edge of the deep-end. She slung the rifle on her back and tried to clamber up out of the water, using her finger and arm strength to pull herself high enough to get a toe-hold.

Shepard slowly put her head down in her hands. Beside her, Garrus patted her shoulder commiseratingly. Kasumi sighed. "It's going to be a long, long morning," the little woman said.

"You should've taken me up on the bet," Grunt told them all. "Would make the time pass a little faster."

The asari finally made it over the wall as the drell reached the base, and as the turian hopped out of the water at the end of his penalty, sprinted to the far end, and began to make his own slow wall ascent. The drell had no problems with the climb, but the turian did; his feet were simply not designed for climbing trees or cliffs, any more than they were useful as flippers in the water. While the drell had, smartly, selected a rope and a rifle as his two pieces of equipment, the assassin couldn't actually secure his rope to the iron pole sticking out of the top of the wall until he reached the top. When he did secure it, and used it to jump quickly and easily down the other side. . . . leaving the turian behind to continue in his struggles.

Shepard sank lower in her seat, watching through her fingers. "Come on," she said quietly. "Figure it out, people."

As the former asari commando finished her sprint to the combat area, she was clearly winded, and started setting up her rifle, looking for her target. She started firing at the various dummies that popped out of nowhere in front of her, missing several because her arms and hands were shaking from the difficult climb. The drell began to sprint just as the turian finally cleared the wall and used the drell's rope to drop down as well. "Well," Garrus said. "_One_ of them showed some sense."

"At least he wasn't stiff-necked about using what was left behind," Kasumi agreed. "For a moment, I thought he was going to consider it cheating, or something."

The turian's sprint speed carried him past the drell however, and he hit the ground, ready to start firing as the asari was finishing up. When the drell joined them at the firing line, however, two more targets—living ones, in full armor—appeared . . . behind them. "Bang bang," one of the Spectres said, loudly, pointing a rifle at the trio. "You're dead."

"Time, please?" Garrus called down to the Spectres at ground level.

"Eight minutes, twenty seconds, from the time the first candidate hit the water till they arrived at the line and got killed," came the return call. "Plus a two minute squad death penalty."

Even at a distance, Shepard could hear the asari complaining about the two minute penalty imposed on the turian, which was apparently unfair. The asari's argument was that the penalty was the cause of the entire squad's uncompetitive time.

"You hear that?" Shepard told Garrus lightly. "Apparently, I'm a speciesist."

"I think that's a _specious_ assumption, myself," he said, touching her wrist very lightly, where her wedding knife was sheathed.

Kasumi groaned. "Okay, that's your quota for bad puns today, Garrus."

"Team two, forward," Shepard called out, and on the day went.

**Lantar**

The black curtain precluded all sight. Lantar simply sat and tried not to fidget, listening to the various squads times being announced ahead of his, several of which had apparently earned some sort of a "death penalty" in the combat round. That didn't seem to bode well. He'd have to be wary approaching the final area. It might not be as straightforward as it sounded.

His was team six; across the way, Jaworski sat with team seven. The human shook his head as team five's time was announced—ten minutes, but without a full squad death at the end. "Encouraging, isn't it?" he commented to everyone around them.

"Team six, select your gear and get ready!" came the call. Lantar shook his head grimly. It wasn't as if he really wanted to be here, although getting his family the hell off of Bastion was definitely the right move, given the death threats. It wasn't as if he thought he had what Spectres were made of within him—in fact, he _knew_ he didn't. But, he was here, and he might as well do the best he could while he was.

He picked up a rifle and a length of rope, knowing that there was going to be some climbing ahead of him. He could swim; he'd grown up on the shore of one of Palaven's oceans, actually, so he didn't think he'd be a burden to his team in that respect. Of course, his team consisted of a salarian, who, being amphibious, would quickly outpace the others, and a quarian in a heavy environmental suit. Lantar stripped down to his skin; turians, not having external sexual characteristics, had no taboos about nudity. Then he walked to the starting line with the other two members of his little squad.

Sure enough, the salarian hopped into the water, his rifle in a watertight case—_not a bad idea_, Lantar admitted to himself—and flickered off, kicking his legs under the water like a frog. Lantar hopped down into the water and realized that swimming while holding the rifle was going to be problematic. Behind him, the quarian—Nal'ishora vas Kilae nar Reeta, apparently—visibly hesitated at the edge of the pool. "Come on in," he told her. "Your suit will handle it just fine."

"But I can't float in it," she said, her voice muffled through the environmental filters.

"Here, carry my rifle," he told her. "You can probably _walk_ through this." He handed her the rifle, and helped her jump down. Sure enough, at the shallow end, she could indeed walk, and he took off, swimming, although he was certain his speed couldn't match a human's, an asari's, or a that damn salarian's, for that matter. The cowl structure on a turian's chest simply created too much drag in the water; the feet were the wrong shape to act as flippers, with their long, divided toes; the leg muscles, so perfectly adapted for a run gait that balanced the weight on the toes, and a walking gait that balanced the weight on the entire foot, was simply not designed for aquatic life.

When he reached the far end, he looked back, and realized that Nal'ishora had run into trouble. While she could certainly walk through the water without any trouble, it was now deeper than her head, and she was trying to hold the rifles out of the water. _Damnit. I never think far enough ahead_._ And I __**can't**__ leave her behind. _The intolerable memory of ten faces flashed through his mind for a moment, and he jumped back in the water, heading for her. Then he lifted her up, throwing her over his shoulder in a survival carry . . . and _walked_ the rest of the way himself. The water only came up to his shoulders at the deep end, anyway. "I'll drop the rope for you once I get up and can tie it off," he told her, taking his rifle back from her, and began his painfully slow ascent. The turian body was not meant any more for climbing than for swimming, but the quarian would be risking a suit tear if she slipped down that jagged, uneven surface.

His talons got in the way on the tiny projections of stone, and he couldn't get a toehold for the life of him, so his powerful legs were rendered effectively dead weight. Finally scrambling over the top, Lantar tied off the rope, lowered it back down for Nal'ishora, and then lowered himself by his trembling, exhausted arms, and let himself fall to the ground on the other side.

It was a relief to sprint now, and he was close to the firing line, when his instincts suddenly kicked him in the head. _There's too much cover here,_ he realized. It wasn't like a warehouse or a maze of passages in a station, but there was far too much cover and concealment ahead of him. He caught a glimpse of the salarian was lying on the ground as if dead, and he threw himself to the dirt, scrambling for the cover of a nearby rock, calling back over his shoulder, "Suppressing fire, Nal!"

The quarian had just made it to the top, and, after a startled instant, took him at his word, firing rounds into the underbrush that surrounded the firing line.

Lantar could see the blue gleam of shields being struck by the rounds, and ducked out of cover himself now, firing at them.

"Okay, we're dead," came their call after a minute or two. "You two can step up to the firing line now."

Nal used the rope and slid down to the base of the wall, before slowly trotting up with Lantar to the firing line to finish the marksmanship portion of the round.

**Shepard**

In the stands, Shepard had been taking notes on each team. Lantar was one of only _four_ candidates so far who had attempted to help teammates. The geth, Cohort, had tried to boost his elcor teammate up the climbing wall, without success; the rachni, Sings-to-the-Sky, had simply used a biotic singularity and had effectively _levitated_ his krogan teammate, Gris, to the top of the wall. Then Gris had lowered a rope for Sings-to-the-Sky, and had lifted the rachni to the top by pure brute strength.

Grunt had leaned over at that point. "He's strong," he admitted. "And has great courage, to come to the assistance of one who is among our ancestral enemies. I look forward to how well he will do in the combat rounds. Perhaps you will let me test him in hand-to-hand?"

"I wouldn't dream of anything else," Shepard had told him, and had seen Grunt grin widely.

Now, she watched Lantar's team intently. Stripped down for action, the turian didn't have the tall frame and whipcord musculature of her husband, being stockier and slower of build, but he'd gone _back_ to help a teammate, surprising her, and had shown excellent instincts and team orientation, calling for Nal'ishora to lay down covering fire. Finally, she turned her head slightly toward Garrus, and murmured, in an undertone, "He's actually very _good_." She couldn't help the surprise in her voice.

"Oh, he was always good," Garrus replied, a little dourly. "I didn't have anyone who was _bad_ on my team. And I'd known him for a long time."

"How long?" she asked, still quietly.

"We were both rookies in C-Sec at the same time," he answered. "Both fresh out of the military, both figured we'd make a difference." Garrus snorted. "Probably annoyingly idealistic, both of us." He started to laugh now, reluctantly. "I remember this one time, in our first year, we were sent in to bust some of the dancers at Chora's Den for solicitation. Guess the other guys in C-Sec figured we needed to _relax_ or something." He chuckled again. "Sidonis had one of the girls in cuffs, an asari, with nice bright teeth—had to be a red sand addict. She tried to put on a show, told us she'd be . . . well, very willing to embrace eternity, if you will, if we'd just let her go this one time." He looked off into the mid-distance, smiling. "If memory serves, she even offered a three-way. Sidonis shut her down cold. Told her he was in a committed relationship with his right hand."

Shepard had been taking a sip of cold coffee, and it was clearly the wrong moment to inhale, let alone laugh. After choking for a minute, she managed to stop long enough to hear Kasumi comment, "I'm sure the hooker didn't just leave it at that."

"Oh, of course not. She made a couple of comments about our likely deviant proclivities, and Sidonis just took it all with a smile and told her something to the effect of, 'now, now, talk like that isn't going to get me to stray. The only person I cheat on my right hand with is my left, hand, and that's why they don't talk to each other.' I think at that point I told him that running around on his right hand was just going to get it infected with something _nasty_, and he said he always wore gloves. That's about when the hooker got downright _screechy_. Apparently, we weren't taking her seriously enough." Garrus seemed to realize then that he was smiling, and his face shut down again, going cold. "But that was a long, _long_ time ago."

_In the good old days that went before the bad old days_, Shepard thought. _Still, Sidonis put on a damned good show. Not quite ideal, but better than many of the rest._ "Team seven, pick your gear and advance," she called down to the pool area, signaling for the last squad.

**Sam**

Sam Jaworski was paired with a little asari female and an elcor. He, too, like many a candidate before him, chose a rope and a pistol, simply basing the decision on what he knew about the obstacle course ahead of him. The asari jumped into the water first, and ran into the immediate problem of trying to swim at full speed while keeping the weapon dry. Sam stood on the pool's edge for a moment, slinging his pistol over his neck. If he swam in a crawl the whole way down, he wouldn't get the weapon wet. . . he hoped. Assessing the problems that he could see., he asked the elcor, "Sulluuna? Can you climb that wall, or are you going to take the two-minute penalty?"

"With trepidation: No, I do not believe that I can climb such a high edifice. Sorrowfully: I will take the two minute penalty."

"Well, let's get moving down there, then. I might be able to give you a boost, or, _maybe_ I can rig something with this rope at the far end and pull you up," Sam said, a bit doubtfully.

The asari had reached the far end of the pool by the time the human and the elcor were halfway down, and she was running into the common problem of not being able to lift herself out of the water by main arm strength. Finally, she scrambled up and over. _Sheeeyit, that little girl is in a helluva hurry_, Sam thought as his hands touched the edge of the pool. "Sulluuna, do you mind terribly if I sort of crawl up you to get on the wall?"

"With consideration: Of course not. Warning: elcor generally do not enjoy being used as ladders."

"I'll keep that in mind, son," Sam told the four-legged behemoth, grinning, and pulled himself up on the elcor's shoulders. Now he was able to face the wall at a better level, and, latching on with hands and bare toes, scrambled easily to the top. He tied off his rope, and passed it down to the elcor. "I can pull a bit, too, if it helps."

Ahead of him, he could hear a rifle's thunder as the little asari started in on her target practice, but ignored it. One thing at a time, and right now, he needed to solve the puzzle of getting his teammate up the damn wall. He didn't enough strength or body weight to haul the elcor up, but between the rope, which he devoutly hoped would hold, and his own attempts to pull upwards, the massive creature had at least gotten far enough out of the water to get his forearms on the wall.

"Go on without me," the elcor told him after several attempts. "I will wait out my time, and join you."

Ahead of him, he could hear the asari yelling for him to get his pink ass off the wall and to stop wasting time. Sam shook his head, stubbornly. "I ain't leaving you here, Sulluuna. There's got to be a way around this. Can you push off at all, and maybe swing back a little? Maybe that way, as you swing back, I can take up the rope's slack and lift you."

The elcor tried, but Sam's hands were already starting to feel the rope burn, and his arms were shaking with the effort of trying to redirect the creature's weight. "If you can't get over, maybe we can at least get you around," he said, and after several heaves—and the climbing wall shuddered uncertainly under the impact as the elcor thumped into it at the end of each swing—he at least got Sulluuna up on the pool's edge, to the side of the climbing wall. He clambered his own way down the far side, checked his pistol, which, thank god, had stayed dry and, staying still for a moment, let the ache in his arms fade as he surveyed the territory ahead of him.

A bare track, leading up into scrubby bushes and a couple of small trees. Some boulders here and there. Presumably, the 'combat area' was through the gap in the trees. So, he was supposed to sprint up there, winded, and do the best he could to fire as quickly as he could, while panting and with his hands still shaking from the climb. _Bullshit_, he thought. _I've already blown our time. May as well make my shots count. _He hunkered down next to Sulluuna. "May as well go on up together. Looks like wonderful ambush territory, don't you think?"

"Speculation: Perhaps this is why we have heard so many reports of squad fatalities," the elcor said, thoughtfully.

"Yeah, I kind of figure that. What ya packing there, son?" Sam's eyebrows went up in appreciation of the weapon the elcor had selected. It was a small missile launcher, admirably suited to the elcor's size and weight. "Well, when we've waited out your penalty here, we'll go on ahead and maybe knock someone on their ass. Whaddya say?" Sam's accent got thicker and thicker. Right now, he was having fun, in a vicious sort of way. He might not finish in the best time—hell, he didn't think at this point he had a shot in hell—but he could at least piss some people off while he was at it.

"With anticipation: Yes, I believe that your plan has merit," Sulluuna replied. After forty-five more seconds, they began to make their way along the trail, towards the firing line. Sam stuck to cover the whole way, limiting himself to the elcor's top shambling speed, watching for anyone that might start pop out and attack the big target that his teammate made.

Nothing happened. He began to wonder if perhaps he had misjudged the situation, and peeked over a rock . . . ah, there was some confirmation. The asari was on the ground at the firing line, playing dead. He whistled to get the elcor's attention, and called over, "Give 'em a nice fireworks show, Sull."

The elcor obliged, taking out a small tree and sending a shower of splinters over the entire firing area. The asari jumped up, clearly not dead, swearing at them both, and two Spectres crawled out of the underbrush, firing. Sam knew they were using blanks, but even blanks could sting at close range, so he kept his head down, listening for the pause that indicated that a thermal clip was being changed. Then he popped his head out of cover, aimed his pistol, and fired.

"Okay, we're down," he heard after a minute. "Proceed to the line for marksmanship."

At the end, Sam heard his team's time, and his lips turned down under his moustache. "Well, been nice working with you," he told Sulluuna. "Sorry I couldn't figure out a proper way for you to get over the wall."

**Shepard**

Shepard simply shook her head over her notes, and stared at the Council's observers. "Five," she told them, calmly. "_Maybe_ six, if we count Sulluuna. Five or six candidates with leadership potential. Then we have eight unknown quantities, because three turians, one of the quarians, and one of the elcor got abandoned by their teammates for taking the time penalties; add in the one quarian and the one elcor that weren't abandoned, and that's lucky thirteen, folks. That's a forty percent failure rate, more or less." She turned to the salarian observer. "Kesh, you're the one who's concerned with wasting time. If the Council sends people who aren't up to our standards, that _does_ waste our time. Is it possible, do you think, that the Council doesn't quite understand our requirements for prospective Spectres?"

The salarian grimaced, but she could see that he was taking her words to heart, thinking about them.

Rishayla steepled her fingers before her. "Was there actually a _correct_ way in which to finish this course, Commander? I'm afraid I still don't see the point, myself." She sounded stiff and offended, and Shepard suspected it was at least in part because all of the asari candidates (every last one of them a former commando or mercenary) had excelled as individuals, but had failed as members of a team.

For a moment, she flashed back to Matron Benezia, and later, Liara, speaking the same threat: _Have you ever faced an asari commando team? Few humans have_. Well, Shepard _had _faced asari commandos now, many times. And not one of them had ever been a _team_. A group of individuals fighting on the same side was not a team. A team could beat a group of individuals any day, hands down.

All of the candidates were seated in the stands now; each group, once through, had been permitted to watch those who had followed them, as well as to keep track of their official times. Shepard met Rishayla's gaze steadily. "Yes, there's always a correct way to complete this course, and for every team, too, no matter what its composition might be," she said, quietly, but with force. "Garrus? Grunt? With me."

She strode down to the pool, and stripped down out of her loose shirt and pants, revealing a swimsuit below; she'd been prepared to demonstrate this exercise. "Offensive team!" she called across the pool."

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Prepare to receive Spectre team."

There was a slight buzz from the watching candidates, and she turned to face them, calling out loudly, "Three team members, two items each. First and foremost, select your items as a _team_, not as individuals."

She picked up an assault rifle, and handed it to Grunt; Garrus picked up a sniper rifle . . . and handed it to Grunt. Grunt picked up a shotgun, and slung all three weapons between his neck and hump, resting his hands on the stocks and on the barrel on either side of his head; he looked like a very ugly milkmaid with a yoke over her shoulders. Then Shepard picked up a rope and a line anchor, and after showing them to the crowd, handed them to Garrus, who was stripping down to his skin. She also picked up pulley and hanger device, showed it to the candidates, and then and attached it to the sleeve that held Grunt's omnitool. "Three people. Six items," she repeated, for clarity, and walked to the edge of the pool.

They stood in a line at the shallow end. "Start the clock!" Shepard shouted, and all three of them jumped into the pool at once. She bobbed up, got an arm around Garrus' neck, and began to swim. His hollow bones made him light in the water, easy for her to move, even though his physique was unsuited to swimming. Her bones were heavier, but the vestigial webbing between her fingers, flipper-like feet, enclosed nostrils, and a variety of other features made humans much better swimmers than a turian. An asari or a salarian would be better, of course, but she was more than strong enough to perform a rescue tow, while Garrus held onto the rope and line anchor. Behind them, Grunt plodded stolidly through water that was at worst chest-deep to him.

She could hear the candidates starting to mutter among themselves as, panting, she got Garrus to the deep end. _That's right, folks, think about this. _

Grunt touched the wall mere seconds behind them. Garrus handed her the rope and line anchor, which she slung over her shoulders. The water at the deep end was shoulder deep to him and rib-deep to Grunt, but well over her own eye-level. Garrus grinned down at her. "Ready?" he asked.

"Ready!" she answered, lifting her arms.

Garrus planted his feet on the floor of the pool and lifted her out of the water by her waist, more or less flinging her up the wall. She got a couple of good handholds, worked her feet under her, and then, using her powerful leg muscles, scrambled to the top of the twenty-foot wall in about twenty seconds, calling to the crowd, "Sometimes you've just got to let the monkey do the monkey's job, you know?"

There were nervous titters from the crowd. Now, never leaving a crouch, presenting as small a target as she could, she looped the rope loosely around the iron bar at the top of the wall, and dropped an end down for Garrus. The rope made the climb almost laughably easy for the turian; he essentially walked up the wall, letting his powerful legs do the work, and was able to carry their rifles up on his back.

With them both at the top of the wall, and the rope looped as it was, Grunt, below, passed his end of the rope through his legs. Then they, at the top, held their end and slid down the far side of the wall, pulling their squad mate up.

**Sam**

"Damnit," Jaworski swore in the crowd. "Counterweight! I should've thought of that." He looked over at Sulluuna. "Probably would've worked. Sorry, big guy."

"Regretfully: Your weight alone would not have been sufficient. Perhaps with the asari to help, however, it might have tipped the balance."

**Shepard**

Once at the top, Grunt secured the line with a tight knot to the iron bar. "Suppressing fire," Shepard called up to him. "Weapons free."

She was still holding the end of the rope when Garrus picked her up over one shoulder and sprinted, his turian speed only somewhat slowed by her weight. He was panting by the end of the sprint, though, a hundred yards with eighty kilos of human mass over one shoulder, but he'd gotten them both to cover at the same time, and let her slide to the ground behind a tumbled pile of boulders. It wasn't optimal for combat; in a _real_ fight, both of them should've stayed on their feet, even though they'd be bound to her lower foot-speed. But they were making a point with this exercise, a point about speed and teamwork.

Shepard sat up, slapped the rope into its anchor, and slammed the sharp end of the anchor into the naked rock with a resounding clink. The rope was now a zipline, extending from the top of the wall to their location. Grunt had fired a couple of rounds as they were getting in position, making sure that the opposition team hadn't moved to the sides of the running section, providing his teammates cover.

Now Garrus and Shepard exchanged a look, and then ducked out of cover, firing into the underbrush themselves, giving Grunt time to settle his weapon, put his pulley and hanger into place, and swing down the line. "Damn, Grunt," Shepard joked as he landed with a heavy thud. "I thought that boulder was going to stay put till the next ice age, at least."

Garrus rolled out of cover, moving across the path, finding a different boulder to set up behind, widening their field of fire. Grunt stepped away from the boulder, relying on his uncanny regenerative abilities, firing freely into the underbrush. Shepard, peeking around her own cover, caught a glimpse of someone moving in the underbrush, and leveled a barrage from her assault rifle. When the opposition fire faded for a moment, all three made a break for the combat zone. There was a brief, vicious scuffle, and then the two Spectres who'd been the opposition team all afternoon walked out and took a seat beside the boulder, while the three-man team took their marksmanship shots at their leisure. None of them were too tired to shoot; all of them hit their various targets with ease.

"Time?" Shepard called, stepping back out of the firing area.

"Five minutes, twenty seconds. No squad fatalities. Also, teamwork bonus," was the response from the opposition team. The salarian took off his helmet, and gave her a quick, vicious smile.

"Thanks, Mordin. Also, thank you for not actually singeing any of our candidates today." She grinned back at him.

**Sam**

In the stands, a salarian sitting next to Jaworski sagged in on himself and groaned, quietly. "What's the matter?" Sam asked him.

"That's Mordin Solus. He's a _legend_ in the Special Tasks Group. But by the eggs of my mother, he's _old_. He's got to be thirty-five by now." The salarian gave him a look that Jaworski could only interpret as embarrassed.

Sam winced. "Shit, son, careful how you throw that _old_ crap around. I turned forty last month."

The salarian looked horrified for a moment, and then recovered. "Yes, but humans can live to be as much as a hundred and fifty, with proper gerontological treatments. Forty-two is the current longevity record for salarians." He paused. "In other words, human, I just got beat by someone who could be my grandfather."

Sam couldn't help but smile. "Well, when you put it _that_ way. . . ."

Lantar, seated to the other side of the salarian, looked down at him. "I don't think_ anyone_ did well in this exercise," he told the amphibian, his voice grating. "If anyone actually passed, I'll be surprised."

_Ain't that the truth_, thought Jaworski, but he didn't say it out loud.

**Shepard**

Shepard looked up at the assembled candidates, who were _very _quiet now. "Let's see now. Sings-to-the-Sky? Urdnot Gris? Front and center, please."

The rachni skittered out of the crowd, and the krogan stood as far upright as he could, and shambled to the front. Shepard touched her omnitool, and their round began to replay on a large screen on the far end of the pool, showing how the rachni had lifted the krogan to the top of the wall, using biotics.

"Sings-to-the-Sky," she said. "You assisted your krogan teammate. Why did you do so?"

The rachni didn't answer at first. When the response came, she knew that everyone else in the crowd could hear it, a subtle whisper in their minds, as it was in hers. _Not understanding interrogative-song. Voices together stronger. Harmony stronger. Lost, alone, a single voice cannot be heard?_

Shepard blinked as the whisper faded from her mind. "Good answer," she told the rachni. "Stand over there," she added, pointing to her left. "Urdnot Gris? You could have improved your personal time to the end of the course by leaving Sings-to-the-Sky behind. Why didn't you?"

The hulking krogan stared straight ahead. "I have seen the strength of the krannt of Urdnot Wrex and of Urdnot Grunt. Their krannt gives them strength beyond that of their flesh, that of their bone. If I wish their krannt to be _my_ krannt, then I must earn the strength of others. Urdnot Wrex teaches that all krogan must stand together, unite our strengths, if we are to defeat the genophage. If that is true, then it must be true of _any_ enemy."

Grunt rumbled beside her, "You have learned the lessons of Urdnot Wrex well."

Shepard could see the flash of pride in the young krogan's eyes. _Nice, he's much older than Grunt, and more experienced, but he accepts Grunt as a superior, even though he's tank-bred. Shows some good flexibility of mind. _"Udnot Gris, pass to my left," she said, and waved him over to stand with the rachni. "Cohort? Front and center."

The geth walked down to the front, and stood, single eye gleaming. "Why did _you_ try to help your elcor teammate over the wall?"

"The team was to be judged on the speed and competency with which we finished the course, as a whole. From unity comes strength. The speed with which this platform finished the course was irrelevant; only by completing task as a whole, could we be assessed."

She sighed a little, under her breath. He wasn't Legion, but then, perhaps with enough time and distance from the geth collective, Cohort could grow some individuality as well. "Pass to my left," she told him. "Lantar Sidonis? Front and center."

Garrus sucked in a breath beside her. "I know," she told him quietly. "But . . . he earned it."

"I know." Garrus' voice was a low growl, but his expression, when she glanced at him, was a grim, blank mask. _Cop-face. Good. _

Sidonis had moved to the front, and stood, eyes focused somewhere on the horizon behind her, not looking at Garrus at all. Shepard was much better at reading turian facial expressions now than she had been five years ago, and could see shame and discomfort there.

"Sidonis, you turned back to help a teammate in need. You lost all the time you gained by attempting the swim on your own. Any thoughts?"

His voice was very quiet. "I couldn't leave her behind."

"I can't hear you!"

"I couldn't leave her behind." Louder now, and she could see the hands clench and unclench, just once.

Beside her, she could hear the low growl in Garrus' chest, and moved quickly to avoid any potential problems. "Right. We don't leave our people behind around here." She stepped forward, putting herself between him and Garrus, forcing him to meet her eyes. _Damn, this feels all too familiar._ "Pass to my left, Sidonis," she told him, and he blinked, before stepping carefully away to join the growing group.

"Sam Jaworski? Front and center."

By this point, the pattern had become clear for the candidates. She waited a long moment, assessing the older man, who stood at parade rest, eyes looking through her. "You paused and conversed with your teammate, Sulluuna at the beginning of the exercise," she said, and that _wasn't_ the same pattern. "Didn't you lose valuable time that way?"

"No, ma'am."

"Care to explain?"

"I took a moment to assess the situation and our resources, ma'am. Just jumping in the water and getting from point A to point B sets you up to react, and reacting is never as good as working from a plan, ma'am."

_Go to the head of the damn class, Jaworski_. Out loud, she asked, as if working her way down a checklist, "Why did you stay with Sulluuna through the remainder of his penalty? You could have moved up to assist your other teammate, Asira."

"With respect ma'am, I didn't know that she _needed_ assistance. She was out of sight, and could have just finished the course in her own time. The way she took off ahead, I had to assume she could handle herself." He paused, his tone completely neutral, but she could hear the implicit criticism of Asira. "Sulluuna _did_ need my help. But even if Asira _had_ needed help, she'd be better off with _both_ of us there to help, not just me."

"Pass to my left, Jaworski," she told him, and saw his faint grin as he strode off. "Right. Nal'ishora, pass. Suulluna, Hasdruuna? Pass. Meranus, Talunus, and Revus? Pass. Taos, pass. Hal'marak vas Qwib-Qwib nar Ryna? Pass. The rest of you? Thank you for your time. You'll be escorted back to the barracks, where you'll collect your belongings and will be taken to the _Normandy _for transit back to Bastion. Everyone? Dismissed."

She turned to walk back to the other side of the pool to collect her workout clothing. The Council observers were waiting for her, in varying states of indignation. To her surprise, it was Cunningham who started in on her first. "You took the three remaining turians, and both quarians, but _not_ Elisha Atieno? Their times were worse than hers, and they didn't stand out in any way that _I_ saw."

_Interesting. I wonder if he's got some Terra Firma background? Would explain why Cerberus tried to recruit him seven years ago._ Shepard studied the man briefly, and then shrugged mentally. "Elisha left Hal'marak stranded in the pool, didn't offer assistance to get over the wall, nothing. The turians, the elcor, and the quarians _all_ got left behind at one point or another; they get another chance to prove themselves tomorrow. The people who _left_ them behind get a shuttle ticket home. The people who showed good leadership and team-orientation get the high marks." She pulled on her shirt over her wet swimsuit, and saw Garrus was pulling on his own clothes as well. "Now, if you'll excuse us, everyone here is wet, cold, and dirty, and needs to get cleaned up before dinner. Can we continue this conversation then?"

Grunt, Garrus, and Kasumi fell in around her as they headed back up to the house. "Okay," Shepard said as they got out of earshot of the Council observers. "We've got the usual bind here. They send us people who are the best of the best, as individuals, and we're culling them down to find the people who're not just exceptional individuals, but also good teammates. I count seven our of thirteen team-oriented people after today. Do we have any _leaders_ in that group?"

"One," Kasumi said. "Maybe two."

"One," Garrus said, his voice dark with overtones of agitation.

Grunt laughed. "I saw two whom I would follow into battle."

"Yeah," said Shepard with a sigh. "That's what I saw, too." _Damnit. _


	7. Chapter 7: Signals and Transmissions

**Chapter Seven: Signals and Transmissions **

**Elijah**

Elijah and Dara had gone to the stables early that morning. He'd been surprised first, by just how _smelly_ animals really were. He'd rarely seen anything living that was larger than a fish or a hamster, so the sheer enormous _size_ of the horses had been a shock, too. He'd stood back by the doors of the building while the dark-haired girl had run in ahead of him, walking up and down between the stalls, reaching up to scratch a nose here and there as the horses looked down at her through peaceful, low-lidded eyes. "Come on, Elijah. This one's a sweet old thing. She won't bite . . . and she looks just like Bandit used to," Dara told him, beckoning him over imperatively.

Slowly, Elijah walked closer. He'd die before he'd admit to being scared of something the girl wasn't the least bit afraid of, but his pride had to do a lot of fast talking to get his feet to move. Once he was close enough, Dara reached down, grabbed his hand, and put it on the animal's shoulder. The hair was surprisingly coarse to the touch. "They're so shiny. I'd have thought they'd be soft," he said, giving the beast a tentative pat, and trying not to flinch as the tail whipped forward unexpectedly, slapping the beast's side.

"The commander has a theory," one of the stablekeepers, a turian, explained from behind them. He'd given Eli a quizzical look when he first saw him, probably because of the violet slashes on his face. The look had faded when Eli introduced himself with a turian clan name. "The commander says that sometimes, Spectres will need to fit in with indigenous populations, and that it's hard to be covert when you're racing by in a large, loud vehicle."

Dara nodded. "There are places still on Earth where even ground cars aren't common," she told the big turian seriously. "I guess it makes sense if other planets have the same thing." Elijah knew she was still nervous around aliens, but her fascination was letting her overcome the anxiety—at least with turians, so far. Privately, he thought it would be _funny_ to see how she reacted if she met a krogan.

The big turian looked down at her, smiling a bit. "Commander also likes to point out that big metal boxes show up real well on radar and ladar. Anything bigger than a bird will, really, but something bigger than a humanoid, but not moving at the speed of a vehicle will probably confuse the threat detection systems a bit." He opened a stall door on the other side of the run of stalls from them, and added, proudly, "We have both Terran horses and _rlatae _from Palaven here."

Beside him, Dara froze in place. Elijah felt a slight smirk cross his face. _Well, at least there's something here that she's scared of that I'm not_, he thought, and stepped closer to the pen to get a better look.

Turians had two main beasts of burden that they'd domesticated, thousands of years ago. _Cuderae_ were large creatures, about three times the size of a Terran bison, and built along the same lines as the Terran ankylosaurus, but of course on a much smaller scale. These quadropeds had been used to haul wagons and plow fields, back in the day. The _rlatae _in the stall was just like the many pictures he'd seen of them; dark green, with lighter green dappling along the sides, and vivid splashes of red and yellow in its feathery crest and arm and leg bands.

The _rlatae _were the mounts of warriors and scouts, however, prized for their swift speed. Two-legged, they were over two meters in height, with forwards-facing eyes that hinted at a carnivorous past, they had long arms with long, spindly fingers meant for grasping branches. They were largely covered in scales, but had ridges of feather-like structures running down their necks, the backs of their arms, and the backs of their legs, for identification and communication. The _rlatae _in the stall looked at Elijah placidly, mandibles holding a small twig in place for easier chewing, and Elijah looked back. "So cool," he managed, after a moment. "I don't suppose I could learn to ride one?" he asked, looking at the stablekeeper, his voice tentative.

Dara backed up a step, and the brown horse behind her dropped its nose to nuzzle at her inquisitively. "I think I'm going to stick with horses," she said, her voice a little higher in pitch than it had been a minute before.

Elijah suppressed a grin.

Twenty minutes later, after the stablekeeper, Tellius, had managed to shorten the stirrups on a _rlatae _saddle enough for him, Elijah didn't much feel like laughing. Dara was already trotting around the practice enclosure on her brown horse, looking perfectly comfortable and carefree, while he was just learning how to get _up_ on his beast. She reined in nearby to watch. "Why don't you just keep going?" Elijah asked, trying to keep the complaint out of his voice.

"It's interesting. I guess that they're going to sway a little more side to side than a horse does, right?" So long as she was a good ten feet from the _rlatae_ she seemed quite a bit more relaxed.

The stablekeeper boosted Elijah up into the saddle, and away they went, the turian leading the _rlatae _by the reins at first. Elijah wasn't terribly comfortable on the beast's narrow shoulders, but he figured they had one major advantage over horses: they didn't smell bad at _all_.

After a couple of hours of practice, he'd graduated to controlling the creature on his own, but when he dropped down to the ground, his legs were on fire. "Saddlesore," the stablekeeper told him, with some amusement. "Don't worry, it'll go away with practice."

"_You're_ not hurting," he half-accused Dara, as she rode back up. She'd been practicing jumps in a different area of the enclosure for the last hour.

Her forehead crinkled a bit. "Well, no," she admitted, sliding down and leading the horse to its stall, starting to unbuckle its tack. "Eli, my mom and dad put me on a pony for the first time when I was eighteen months old. I mean, I couldn't do much more back then besides just sit up and let them lead me in a circle, but. . . I've been riding my entire life." She grinned at him. "You'll catch up. And at least you're not afraid of those ralatay things." She looked around, and added in a whisper, "They scare me."

Without thinking, Elijah grabbed her hand, and put it on the _rlatae_'s warm side. She squeaked a little, but let her hand stay there for a moment. "They're warm! I thought they'd be cold. Huh. That's so weird."

At dinner that night, there were fewer people in the mess hall. The _Normandy _had taken off a half an hour before, taking some of the candidates back to Bastion. But both Lantar and Dara's father had passed their first tests, apparently, though neither of them really wanted to talk about it much. "I am _bushed_," Dara's father told her when she asked him about his day. "Haven't worked that hard in dog's age. But, the good news is, sweetie, we get to stay at least another day, since I didn't wash out."

Dara's head had turned to look across the table at Lantar anxiously. "No, your friend's daddy didn't wash out, either. But I think that after dinner I am going to go sit in a hot tub for a while, and then sack out. You can stay up till nine if you want to read, but no extranet," he told her, and Elijah grinned into his milk. Sometimes, it was amazing how much Dara's dad sounded like his parents. It was like they had all downloaded the same VI into their brains.

The two kids were eager to talk about their riding exploits, and Elijah liked the fact that although his mom seemed to be worried about him learning to ride the _rlatae_, Lantar immediately reassured her. "They're strict herbivores. The domesticated ones have their claws trimmed back, so they're not any more dangerous than a horse. A lot faster than a horse, though, if I remember the comparison charts correctly."

Tellius the stablekeeper had told them about this earlier, and Elijah and Dara tumbled over each other, trying to explain. A _rlata_, with its build being similar to an ostrich, though a much _bulkier_ ostrich, could run at about 70 kph for up to thirty minutes before tiring; its middle pace was slower, about 60 kph, but could be kept up for hours. The Terran record for a horse was 88 kph, according to the turian in the stables, but only at the sprint, and that freakish speed had never been replicated. At an endurance gait, like a canter, the best a horse could manage was about 24 kph.

Emily Wong came over to their table, camera in tow, as they were talking. She'd gotten releases from them all previously, though Lantar had warned Elijah not to talk to her unless either he or his mother were there. "So, you're all settling in," she said, smiling. She asked the two men about the training course today, and how they'd felt about being singled out for exemplary conduct. "Wasn't anything exemplary about it," Sam told her finally. "You don't leave people behind. Human military doctrine. Turian, too, I guess. We were just doing our job."

"And the people who _did_ leave teammates behind?" the reporter pressed.

Sam shrugged. "Guess they had different training. Ma'am, I've lived my life by only two creeds. _Leave no one behind_ and _one ranger, one riot_. That don't mean everyone else in the galaxy feels the same way." Elijah had noticed that his accent got thicker or thinner, depending on his mood. At the moment, it was very thick. He elbowed Dara a little and laughed quietly.

Emily looked interested. "One man, one riot? I'm not familiar with that one."

"Texas Rangers, ma'am. Longest-lived law enforcement agency in the continent of North America. Three hundred and sixty-seven years old next week. There's a legend about one Ranger, back in the day, who was sent to keep an illegal prize-fight from taking place back in Dallas. It's probably not true, but there he was, just one man, going in to enforce the law in the face of several _hundred_ drunk and disorderly people who'd gathered to watch the fight. Someone stopped him on his way there, and asked him where the rest of the lawmen were. He said 'Hell! Ain't I enough?'" Sam grinned at Emily. "I reckon the Spectres aren't that much different from the old Rangers, when you get down to it. One or two people sent into dangerous places, to make sure the law is respected."

Elijah could see, from where he was sitting, images on the reporter's omnitool. She'd gotten footage of him and Dara talking about the stables, and even a few shots of Caelia, before she'd started asking questions of their parents. He wondered why. Eli wasn't really sure he _wanted_ to be on the extranet, all things considered.

When Emily moved away, Sam shook his head. "That girl _really_ wants the story to be about them against us, doesn't she?" he asked Lantar, his drawl fading away again. "I can only pull out the folksy charm so often to distract her before she gets wise to it, though."

Finally, the two families separated, Elijah's mom telling him firmly, "You can go ride some more tomorrow morning, but for now, it's bed time, kiddo."

As he was getting ready for bed, Lantar came over to sit on the edge of his bunk. Sometimes he did that, Elijah had realized over the past two years, when he thought he needed to say something, but didn't know what to say. Elijah got into bed, and looked at his step-father expectantly.

When the silence dragged on for a while, Eli asked, "So, you did good today?"

"Yeah, I guess. I didn't think I had, but . . ." Lantar trailed off.

It was so odd, to see him looking uncertain, even confused. Elijah was puzzled, and pulled his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and the layers of sheets and blankets. Lantar finally looked up from the floor and studied him for a few moments. "I don't know how old humans are when they start looking for mates."

Elijah blinked. "What?"

"It's obvious that you like this girl Dara, and that she likes you. If you were turian, I'd go to her father and we'd start a discussion about the marriage articles."

"Dad!" Elijah was horrified, and felt his face starting to burn.

Lantar held up a clawed hand, a gesture that required silence. Eli knew what it meant, and subsided, waiting for his step-father to finish what he had to say. "The negotiations for what goes into the contract can take a couple of years, and it's considered better to get it out of the way before military training at sixteen, _if_ there's a solid emotional attachment. I didn't have anything like that, so I was single when I went to boot camp. A lot of turians are." He added, diffidently, "You'll need to go to bootcamp in two years if you want to become a citizen of the Hierarchy, you know. You're entitled, through your adoption." He looked up and met his son's eyes. "You're embarrassed. I'm sorry."

An apology from Lantar was about as likely to happen as a sun going nova; definitely not an everyday occurrence. Elijah gaped at him for a moment, and then realized that he was allowed to speak. "Ah . . . um . . . it's okay." He looked desperately for words somewhere in his head, and didn't find many there. "She's nice," he added, floundering. "She's fun to hang out with. But . . ." _But I'm fourteen! _

"All right, fair enough. I misunderstood. Don't let this interfere with your friendship," Lantar advised, standing up. "I guess Dara's father probably _isn't_ having this conversation with his daughter."

The next morning, Elijah was almost too uncomfortable to go down to the stables. He pled homework, which was true, but that only worked until noon. Dara came to his family's quarters just after lunch, carrying and armful of things, all of which she thrust at him as soon as the door opened. "Come on. There are other kids up at the stables today. I'm done with my schoolwork, so you probably are, too. Let's go already!"

He couldn't believe everything she'd brought. "What's the hat for?"

"So you don't burn again today. It was too sunny yesterday for you. I keep forgetting you've never been out in the sun before. It's my dad's, so don't lose it. The jacket is for if it gets colder. Canteen, food, radio transponder in case we get lost," she added, ticking them off on her fingers. She sounded like she'd made these kinds of lists before.

"Lost? How are we going to get lost riding in circles around the practice area?" He looked back over his shoulder. His mom had put down Caelia an hour before, and was dozing, herself.

"There are other kids there," she repeated, patiently. "They know the area. Tellius said that if we went with them and stuck together, we could explore a little. If you want." She added the last hastily, looking up at him uncertainly.

The prospect of other kids being there was both a lure and a deterrent. He wondered, a bit dismally, if any of them would be like his classmates back on Bastion, and if he was going to wind up coming home with another black eye to explain. On the other hand, they were going to get to _explore_.

"Let me leave a note for my mom," he said, making his decision.

A half hour later, he was glad he'd come along. All the kids were turian, but they were all related, apparently, nieces and nephews of Garrus Vakarian, which also made them nieces and nephews of Commander _Shepard_. They'd come up to visit their cousins, who were _little_ kids, but when Eli saw them for the first time, he gaped a little. They weren't quite turian, and they weren't quite human, either. Amara and Kaius were considered too little to learn how to ride, so they were just playing with their cousins for a while before they'd go back to the house for a nap. They were shrieking what sounded like, "Horsie, nay, horsie, nay!" over and over again at the moment, and pointing and giggling at the various animals.

"Don't stare," Rellus, the oldest turian boy told him, frowning. He sounded protective.

"I'm not," Eli told him, firmly. "My little sister is like them. But she's still got her baby feathers." He gave the twins an appraising look. "They look a lot better than she does right now," he admitted. "Maybe she won't always look so scrawny and angry." _My mom does keep saying that ugly ducklings grow up to be swans. Maybe she's right._

That earned him an interested blink, and he offered a tentative smile in return. "Who are your parents?" was the next question, and Rellus even offered him some help getting onto his _rlata_. The children all laughed to see him trying to ride the beast, but it was the good kind of laughter, the type that shared the good things as well as the bad.

Then they were off, climbing the twisty trails. Dara had been very quiet around the turian children, very shy, but once she got on the trails, she seemed to regain her confidence. Elijah had to admit, there were things a horse could do that their _rlatae_ couldn't; where their mounts balked at a steep slope, Dara rode down it cautiously, letting her horse feel its way along.

Finally, they reached the top of a hill with a beautiful view in all directions. "Look," Rellus said, pointing. "You can just see them."

"See who?" Elijah asked, squinting. Rellus handed him a set of distance lenses, and, putting them to his eyes, Elijah gasped. "Spectre training?" he asked, a little breathless.

"Nah, that's the candidates. We come here to watch from a good distance whenever there's a new batch coming through. We're far enough away not to get into trouble, but we can still see a bit."

Dara tugged at his arm for the glasses next. "Can you see our dads?" she asked.

"I think so—yeah, your dad's the only human there. He stands out. Lantar . . . there are four turians. Makes it a little harder." He handed her the glasses reluctantly.

**Garrus**

The candidates had spent the morning divided into teams of three, each trying to take a fortified bunker deep in the forest. Lantar had Nal'ishora and Sings-to-the-Sky on his team; Sam had wound up with Gris and Hal'marak, the other quarian. Each team had managed to get through the mechs, turrets, and alarms that were set up to defend the place, and reached the objective deep underground, but one team washed out, not being able to defuse the "bomb" in time.

Garrus watched the whole proceedings, his arms crossed over his chest. Every candidate was now wired for audio, so that the Council observers and Spectres could hear their thought processes and commands and interaction. He didn't like this. He didn't like this one damn bit.

He _knew_ that Sidonis couldn't be trusted. He had the evidence of it. Ten good men dead on Omega, and Sidonis had run, like a coward, after betraying them all. After betraying _him_.And yet, at every turn, the man was showing the resourcefulness and cunning that had made him such a damned _effective_ member of the old squad.

_Mor'loci_, he reminded himself. _He even acknowledges it himself. The walking dead. No spirit, no honor, just a . . . husk. _

Why did a dead man have to be so damn good at what he did? Sidonis had sent the quarian in to take out the alarms, and had covered the girl's back with his own body, taking out the mechs that were firing at her. He'd sent Sky in to get the attention of the YMIR mech; the rachni's biotic powers tore through the machine's kinetic shields instantly. Then he'd sent Nal'ishora to flank, and then they'd hit the damn thing from three sides, tearing it to shreds, before blowing the bunker door with an explosive charge and cutting their way inside to the 'bomb' area. They'd disarmed it with thirty seconds to spare.

_He can't be trusted. I __**know**__ this. Why can't he give us a damn reason to reject him before it becomes about what's personal?_ Garrus sighed, and went to go set up the next exercise. "What next, you think?" he asked his wife, catching her hand for a brief, subtle squeeze.

"Release the captives, I think. Let's see who's _really_ attached to their guns and who can manage something a little stealthier," she replied, squeezing back. He'd gotten used to reading human expressions over the years, and knew that her eyes were concerned. Concerned for _him_, of all things, when she had the weight of the damn Council hanging over her head with the observers and the candidates and everything else.

"Who's on opposition?" he asked her.

She thought about it for a moment. "Grunt will be down with the mechs around the cages. I'm a little undecided between Kasumi and Mordin for backup."

"Use Kasumi. If we're testing melee capabilities at all, she's a better test than Mordin."

She gave him a wary look. "Okay. Are you going to be all right if I put you in a sniper perch somewhere?"

He reached out and touched a single piece of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. A light gesture. "I'll be fine. I already had him in my sights once. I just wish. . . ."

"What?"

"Wish I could figure out why the hell he's here," he said, and lifted his hands in a _what can you do_ sort of way. "Let me go find myself a nice view." He leaned over, gave her a quick forehead touch, and away he went.

From his sniper perch, a tower usually used for weather and wildlife observation, he had a clear view as the various Spectres and techs set up various mechs around cages with other mechs inside them. The camp layout was fairly standard for a batarian temporary encampment, as if they'd just taken the prisoners captive and were processing them before taking them aboard their ship. Garrus shook his head. Sometimes, he wondered if his wife would ever stop re-living the attack on Mindoir that had taken place when she was only sixteen. Most days, she was fine, but this exercise was probably on some psychological level, a way for her to rewrite history.

Or at least to _try_.

His radio cracked in his helmet. "All right. The mechs are batarians. Grunt here is their commander; he has two additional high-ranking officers. You haven't been able to make out their positions, but you have information indicating that they're there," Shepard was explaining the scenario. "You've got about twenty minutes before the batarians are going to take these captives aboard their ships and proceed off-planet with them. You job is to stop them. Do _not_ injure any of the captives. Any 'captive' injured will record the strike, and whoever did the damage will be disqualified. You may use lethal-level force with the mechs. Go for capture on your live targets. Any questions?"

"Yeah, just one. Can we change up our gear?" That was the human, Jaworski.

"Sure, go ahead. Team One, tell me when you're ready."

The first team had Cohort, a turian, and the sole remaining elcor, Sulluuna. Sulluuna argued for more time for observation, to determine where the remaining officers were, before simply attacking. The turian, Meranus, had a more aggressive bent, and Cohort urged them, quietly, to achieve consensus, and quickly. Garrus found himself grinning a little. _Yeah, let's see who the leaders are, and who the followers are._

He peeked through his scope, camped out in his little nest of metal crates, a canvas rag thrown over them to conceal his form and his rifle from casual view. No stray glints off of metal this way. Below, the argument continued, the elcor still advocating for a careful study of the situation. A shimmer in the scope caught Garrus' attention. _There goes Kasumi,_ he thought. _If this group delays longer than two minutes, I'm going to open fire, just to get them moving._

Finally, Meranus got tired of arguing, and simply started moving up towards the camp. He settled in, several hundred feet from the camp itself, and started firing at the nearest group of mechs, and gestured for Cohort and the elcor to swing around and flank as the mechs started to come towards him. The problem was, it relied on mechs being mechs.

From the center of the compound, Grunt shouted, "We're under attack! Move the prisoners now! They're valuable merchandise! Where are my lieutenants? Attack, you worthless fools!"

_Who knew? Grunt has a flair for the dramatic._ Garrus could see the mechs that weren't responding to the attack were lifting the caged "prisoners" and slowly taking them to the "ship" area—in reality, a shuttle dropped for staging purposes. He sighted, found the elcor slowly moving up to flank, as he'd been ordered, and began to fire. _Click. BAM. Click. BAM. _Shields down, the elcor started to panic, rushing at a hasty shamble for the nearest cover he could find . . . which was where Kasumi was hiding.

Over the radio, he could hear her voice. "Elcor is down. Never saw me coming."

Garrus sighted again, aiming for Meranus now. _Shouldn't have gotten bogged down arguing. Gave us too much time to 'detect' your presence._ Inhale, exhale partway, hold . . . squeeze. . . . _Click. BAM. Click. BAM. _The bullets were loaded with red paint charges; not quite the appropriate color to simulate turian blood, but it definitely got the message across when one of them punched through the shields and splattered all over Meranus' armor.

Cohort tipped its head to the side, evaluating, and leaped, with uncanny grace, for a position in the trees. It advanced over the heads of the mechs below, and circled the main camp in exactly that way. Garrus held off firing, wanting to see what the geth would do. Cohort made his way to the "ship", and was trying to "disable" it before the batarians could get away. _Not bad_, Garrus thought. _But cut off from support_ . . . _and here comes Grunt. Yeah, their main problem was no clear leader. Not entirely their fault._

The only two remaining groups were Sidonis and Jaworski's. As with other training exercises, they hadn't been allowed to watch what the previous group had done. Garrus sighted in, finding his old squadmate's face, remembering the last time he'd done so. How the rifle had felt heavy in his hands, freighted with death. The way Shepard had refused to step out of the damn way.

He was a different person now, of course. Back then, he'd been darker, wearier, on edge. Felt almost a little _mor'loci_ himself, truth be told. Shepard had told him, often enough, that he had one of the worst cases of survivor's guilt she'd ever seen. . . _"And I __**know**__ surivor's guilt when I see it,"_ _she'd added, gently preening his fringe with her fingers as they lay together in bed._ _"Nothing I can say will make it go away. I'll carry mine till the day I die."_

"_Again, you mean?"_

_She'd smacked him on the arm then, gently. "You can put the burden down you carried for me. I'm here. The burden for the others, though, that's harder. You did your best. You did everything you could. I know you would have died for them. Isn't that enough?"_

"_No. They're still dead."_

"_I know." She'd sighed then. "I know."_

But that had been five years ago now. The burden was lighter most days now. He was a different person now, than he had been before. Was it possible that Sidonis was, as well? Was that possibility a betrayal of those who had died? His finger tightened on the trigger, then eased again as he heard the radio chatter start.

**Lantar**

_Song of sorrow, grays and violets,_ Sky's voice whispered in Lantar's mind. _Songs of regret and vengeance, in tower. Playful music on light feet, circling towards us. Firesong at center, as you see, all eagerness and yellows._

Lantar took a moment to figure that out. "Okay, Sky says we've got someone in the tower. Means a sniper. Someone else is circling towards us, that means we've been seen. We already know the positions of everyone else, including the _batarian commander_. No time to waste." He looked at Nal'ishora. "Can you disable their ship?"

"In my sleep," she told him. "I'll need a distraction, though."

"We'll give you that," he said. "Get going. But no guns. We want this quiet, and we don't want to risk the captives."

In his mind, it was like infiltrating the Blood Pack base on Omega, way back in the day. There'd been captives then, too. _Thing is, I'd bet good creds I know who's up in the tower, and he knows those same tactics. Oh, well, go with what you know, I guess . . . kill the head and hope the arms fall off. _"Sky, tell me when the playful music gets close, okay? If 'light feet' means _sneaky_, we'll get ambushed if we don't get moving." He gestured, and he and Sky started moving towards the camp, carefully wending through the underbrush on their bellies, doing their best to remain unseen. "Okay, Sky, go after the leader with your biotics," he whispered. "I'll try to hold the 'batarians' off of you until Nal gets that damn shuttle shut down, and can lend a hand." As plans went, it wasn't much, but it was the only one he had.

Then he waited for his moment, and attacked at close range, leaping up and pulling the first mech down, twisting its head around, practically unscrewing it. He ducked a mech's swipe at his head with the butt of its rifle and got back to his feet, spinning, bringing one of his legs up in a reverse kick, the spur on his left leg embedding itself in the chest of the machine. On an unarmored target, it would have been a killing blow as the bone spur sank into a humanoid heart. As it was, there was enough force to the kick to disable the machine. And then he moved on to the next target, taking a glance to be sure that Sky was doing okay with the hulking krogan—_let's hope the krogan knows how to pretend to be a batarian, or this is going to be the world's shortest fight. . . . _ And then another rifle was being leveled at him, and he wrestled it out of the mech's arms and slammed it in the head with the butt of its own weapon.

**Dara**

On a distant ridge, the children were all using field glasses at this point. Dara squeaked a little. "Did you _see _that? He kicked a hole in its chest!"

Rellus told her, calmly, "The spurs used to be used when males fought for mates. That kind of kick doesn't even use the brain. It's reflexive, down in the muscle fibers, not a conscious thing, so it's too fast for most other species to catch." He shrugged. "It can't cut through armor, though. Hurts _us_ too much, so it's not as useful as it looks."

One of the girls added, "Males spurs have a mild poison on them, too."

Dara lowered her glasses, and looked at Elijah. "Are they having fun with me?"

He shook his head. "Nope. Lantar told me the same thing, when he started teaching me how to fight, and I asked him why turians use their legs so much for fighting."

"Ouch." Her tone was a little awed. She glanced up at him. "So, how come if he's been teaching you . . . ?" She didn't know how to finish the question. _How come you still had a black eye when I first met you?_

"It's hard to fight three or four people at the same time," he said, shifting uncomfortably. "I'm not that good yet."

**Garrus**

_Click. BAM. _Dead center on the biotic's center of mass.

"Get to the tower!" Sidonis' voice came over the radio. "He can't aim straight down, and we've got to get our backs to something, keep them from surrounding us."

_Click. BAM._ Right at Sidonis' head. The shot ripped through the shields, but the stocky turian was already running for the tower itself. _Damn. One more shot . . . aha, good, Kasumi incapacitated the quarian—hah! Stuck her in a cage, nice touch. So, let's take out the rachni now . . . . Nice move, Sky, right into the cover of the tower where I can't get you._

The shuttle was disabled, so now the script for the scenario called for Grunt to fall back. "We'll kill the prisoners if you continue to fight," the krogan bellowed, audible even without the radio's amplification, pointing his gun at the 'captives' in one of the cages. Garrus didn't relax yet, though; while this was end-game material, there was still a chance for the unexpected to happen. _Now, what is Sidonis going to choose to do with this?_

**Lantar**

Crouched down in the doorway of the tower, Lantar had about two seconds to make a decision. "Sky, I'm going to walk forward and drop my rifle. If the leader turns his weapon away from the captives, even for a second, drop a singularity on his head."

_I hear command-song, shadow-singer. My voice is in harmony with yours._

_Spirits, how I wish I understood half of what he means._ Lantar stood up, holding his weapon over his head, and carefully walked forward. Grunt turned his weapon away from the captives to cover the turian as he advanced—and Sky struck, lifting the krogan off the ground and sending him spinning into the nearby trees.

_**BAM**__. _The impact of a bullet against his helmet threw him forwards for a minute, off-balance, and then he rolled for cover. As he did so, he accidentally discovered where Kasumi had been hiding, more or less by barreling into her. As he knocked her over, he more or less automatically knelt, planting a knee on her throat. "Nice shield. Never even saw you," he commented, lifting his knee long enough to roll her over, slammed the knee into the small of her back, and then forced her hands behind her, and used a pair of zip-ties to secure her hands. "Sky, keep that krogan in the air as long as you can!"

_He dances yet to my music, but the melody ebbs._

Lantar peeked out of cover, and fired his rifle at the floating krogan several times, splattering Grunt with red paint. _Okay, that's as dead as a batarian can get. I think._

_**BAM. **_

"Shit," he muttered, jerking back at the near-miss. "He rushed that one. Sky! Protect the captives and see if you can get Nal out of that damn cage."

He made a quick dash to the doorway, another bullet grazing his left shoulder, and began the long run up the staircase. He knew perfectly well who was waiting up there. At every turn in the winding staircase, he paused for a moment before swinging around, bringing his gun in line, ready to fire. The final turn . . . and he paused. "The rest of your people are down," Lantar said, his voice tight. "Drop your weapons and come out." _Spirits, let him at least forgive me for the irony._

"Oh, you'll never take me alive." The voice was too familiar, just a hint of humor in the deadly cold of it.

"Nice shots down there, by the way." Lantar took a deep breath, nerving himself to move around the corner. He wasn't sure he could shoot Garrus, even with blanks. This was too real for play.

"Yeah, well, it was a real pleasure to shoot you in the head."

_Okay, one . . . two . . . three . . . _Lantar moved suddenly around the corner, and both males fired at the same time.

After a moment, they both looked down. Garrus sighed. "Okay, so now we're _both_ dead. Was this really the best option?"

Lantar shrugged, looking down, unable to meet Vakarian's eyes. "You're dead. I've got a medic downstairs who can save me." He stared at the floor, adding, "Captives are alive, though. So's the rest of the team."

Garrus stood and walked over to him, getting right in his face, forcing eye contact. "Spectres can't have a death wish, Sidonis. It's a waste of everyone's time."

Sidonis smiled, briefly, bitterly. "I'm not a Spectre. I'm _mor'loci_."

Garrus pointed down the stairs, clearly tired of the discussion, and growled, "Get out of here. We've got to set up for team three."

**Sam**

Jaworski was surprised by how long team two seemed to be taking to accomplish their objective. "Guess that bodes well for them," he told Gris and Hal'marak.

He took the opportunity to change out his equipment. This seemed like a stealth mission to him, not one that needed direct confrontation. He put a camouflage net over his armor, pulling it even up over his head, preferring to rely on this low-tech solution rather than the stealth shields that many other special forces operatives chose to use. He added a biometrics scrambler, an electronic device intended to muffle the sound of his heartbeat, preventing scanners from detecting him in that way. He also dug out his bowie knife and strapped it to his legplates. It had a sixteen-inch blade, and probably would have been considered a shortsword in medieval times.

"We should change our angle of approach," Sam told the other two, thoughtfully. "Just because we start out in a given drop zone doesn't mean that's where we _have_ to start. Hal, you can disable the shuttle, right?"

"Sure."

"Could you rig the engines to blow, instead?"

Hal'marak started to laugh. "I don't think they're going to like us destroying their property."

Their radios crackled. "That's an affirmative," Shepard told them, sounding amused. "You can just _declare_ that that's what you're doing, though, and we'll all _pretend."_

"Yes, ma'am," Sam replied, grinning. He _knew _that the opposition was listening to their plans, which made it easy for them to know what to expect. They were all trying to pretend not to know, however. _Is this something I can use? Maybe._ "Okay, we'll all circle around, get you in position, Gris will stand ready to protect you, and I'll go play hide and seek with the 'batarians.'"

Gris rumbled, "I have no idea what you're talking about, but any plan is better than no plan. Let's get moving."

They set off at a quick jog around the perimeter. Halfway there, Sam stopped, and resorted to hand-gestures alone, telling the other two to go on without him. He dropped to his belly, and started moving through the underbrush, slowly, carefully, letting the camouflage blanket do its job of breaking up his outline, letting himself become invisible the old-fashioned way.

He was just snaking forward to position himself near the closest set of 'batarian' guards—the mechs, of course, for this exercise—when he heard a twig snap nearby. He froze, not even breathing, and let his eyes drift in the direction of the noise, not turning his head. A tell-tale shimmer in the air—someone was scouting the woods for him, using a stealth shield. _Interesting. Are they looking at me, looking at them? No, otherwise I'd already be dead._

After about thirty seconds, the shimmer started to move away. He took the risk, and launched himself from the ground, tackling the person, wrapping one arm behind a head, and the other arm across a windpipe and carotid artery, locking the choke down tight. "You're down," he whispered in an ear, catching a faint hint of perfume.

"So I am," came a muffled female whisper in return. A little louder, she repeated it for the radio's benefit, and Sam slithered back into the underbrush. His next move was to throw a rock near one of the mechs, getting its attention. It alerted some of its fellows around a cage full of captives, and they began to wander into the underbrush, looking for the source of the noise, but not raising an alert yet.

Jaworski had played this particular game for a very long time. He was patient. He didn't take chances. He pulled the first one down and severed its head from its body with his knife while the others' backs were turned, then slithered back into cover again. He eliminated two more without an alert being sent out. Of course, with a live commander at the center of the camp, their absence would be noted shortly, but sooner or later, Hal'marak would blow the damn shuttle. . . .

**BOOM!** Jaworski actually jumped a little. _Sheeyit, they brought a mortar down to simulate the explosion. My shorts ain't gonna thank them for __**that**__ little favor. _Peering out of the undergrowth, he could see the various mechs and Grunt turning to face the source of the explosion, as was only natural, given the circumstances. He could see Gris and Hal'marak ducking into cover, not daring to shoot into the area where the captives were, but taking heavy fire themselves. _Well, time to take some of the heat off of them_. He glanced up at the observation tower. _Ten gets you one, that's a damn sniper perch, too._

Ducking and weaving and generally trying not to be seen, Sam headed into melee, grabbing various mechs and yanking them down to the ground, going for killing blows with his knife whenever he could.

_**BAM**__. _His shields ripped away. _Yep, sniper. Shit._ He ducked back into cover, and saw the krogan come around the corner, heading straight for him. "Gris! Gonna need a little help here!" he shouted, and managed to roll out of the way of the initial charge, which probably would have broken bones, had it connected. _So much for him pretending to be a batarian. Good god_. He started to roll back to his feet and—_**BAM! **_The only reason the shot missed was that he was in motion, and his camo net still distorted the outline of his body.

Sam regained his feet and then Gris hit his fellow krogan at a full run, a blaze of biotic power covering his huge body in a secondary shield. He could hardly believe that Grunt was still _standing_ after that kind of impact, but there were other mechs to take out still. Hal'marak was sending in little combat drones to harass them, but couldn't effectively shoot, and with an environmental suit so delicate, melee combat could tear it. . . Sam decided Gris could handle himself for a minute, and went back to work, taking out mechs, and trying like hell not to get shot by the damned sniper.

Once the mechs were down, he helped Gris subdue Grunt; they forced him into one of the cages. As they were doing so, _**BAM! BAM! **_Gris' shields got torn away. "I'm getting really tired of that guy up there," Sam growled. Grunt started to laugh at the words, a disconcerting sound. "Hal, you got anything that could be useful on him?"

"Smoke grenades and a grenade launcher . . . oh. Damn it. I should have thought of that earlier."

Sam wanted to slap his forehead, but just shook his head. "I should've asked. Do it. Gris and I will head upstairs for him. Give us a twenty count and fire a second to keep him blind."

The quarian settled the smoke grenade into the launcher, aimed, and fired for the top of the tower. Jaworski and Gris broke into a run for the stairs, and took down the turian at the top in short order. "Nice work," Garrus told them as they closed on him, and he set his rifle down and held up his hands. "Done this sort of thing often?"

Jaworski was panting from the run up the stairs. "Let me get back . . . to you on that," he replied, sucking in air.

**Dara**

Far away, on the hillside, the various children had been hard-pressed to keep track of the action. Dara was silent for most of the last engagement. Finally, Elijah lowered his glasses and told her, "I didn't know your dad knew how to fight like that. What kind of a knife _is_ that, anyway?"

"I didn't know, either," she said, her voice a little small. She lowered her glasses, too, and looked at him. "He's always just been my daddy, you know?" Dara suddenly smiled. "It's kind of weird. It's like he's some whole other person out there." _I guess that he was always some other person before I was born._ It was a weird thought. She'd never thought of her parents as _people_ before. They just _were_. Elijah was starting to ask her a question again, and she put the thought aside to answer him quickly. "Yeah, what he's using is a bowie knife. He always carries it when we go camping. You can use it to sharpen stakes, gut game—"

"Cut off mech's heads," Rellus put in. "I'm surprised he didn't get shocked."

"Bone handle," she told the older turian boy, tossing her head a little impatiently.

The turian children were ready to head back to the base now. "All the good stuff is probably done for now," they told Dara and Elijah.

"It's not really late yet, is it?" she asked, looking up at the sky. No, there was still a good three hours left until sunset. "Can we ride a little further?" she asked Elijah. "We'll stay on the marked trails, and turn back in a little bit."

He looked dubious, but they'd been sitting on the hillside for a long time, doing nothing in particular, so he finally agreed to it. "Not too much farther," he told her. "I don't want to hear about it if we get back too late."

They pushed their mounts up a marked, but washed-out trail, laughing and talking as they rode. "Oh, wow," Dara said as they crested the final turn. This slope was much higher than the hillside on which they'd watched the afternoon's tests, and commanded an amazing view of the valley below and its many trees.

After a minute, she dismounted, and walked a little closer to the edge. There was a pile of stones there, she realized, a cairn. "I wonder what this is for," she said, kneeling down to study it. "It doesn't look like a trail marker. And it hasn't been here for very long."

"How can you tell _that_?" Elijah asked, sounding disbelieving.

"No mud or dirt in between the rocks, really. No bugs, either. Bugs would love to make something like this into a home." She lifted the first stone off the top, and stared into the cairn in surprise. "What is _this_?" She pulled on the object inside carefully, and it came out in her hand. It was small, silvery, and box-shaped, with several projections at the top, also made of metal. It was quite clean, too, again suggesting that it hadn't been there for long. Lights winked at her from its surface. It was several pounds in weight, quite heavy for such a small object.

Elijah stared at it. "I have absolutely no idea," he told her. "Do you think it's supposed to be here?"

"If it's supposed to be here, why would someone try to hide it?" she asked. "Why not leave it in the open? It's not like an animal would mess with it. Well, maybe a magpie or something, but it's too heavy for a bird to move, I think."

"Maybe we should take it back and ask," he suggested. "If we mess something up, though, we could get in trouble," he added, sounding dubious.

She thought about it. "_I'll _take it back. That way, only I'll get in trouble."

"Oh, no you don't. That's not how it works." Elijah's voice had taken on a stubborn cast. She looked at him sidelong, and he added, "If you were there and a part of it, you're responsible, too. That's what Lantar always says."

"My dad, too. Okay, so we'll both get in trouble, then." She stuck the odd object in her saddlebag, and looked out over the beautiful landscape below. "I hope we get to stay here," Dara added. "I like the mountains. My mom would have loved it here."

"Where _is_ your mom, anyway?"

"She died."

"Oh." He sounded awkward, and put a hand on her shoulder gingerly. "My dad—my real dad, anyway—he died two years ago. Shot in the line of duty."

He said the last with a little pride, but she could tell it still hurt to say. She didn't really want to talk about it, but she managed to say, tightly, "My mom had a heart problem. The doctors didn't know about it before it happened, though."

They stood there for a while, looking down at the landscape, not talking. Dara felt tears creeping down her face, and rubbed them away.

"Don't cry. It doesn't make it hurt any less." His voice was a little gruff, but sympathetic.

"Can't help it." Her voice was small as she stared out over the mountains, watching the sun sink towards the horizon in a blaze of colors.

"Maybe I can make you laugh?" Elijah suggested, after a long minute.

She looked up. "Oh?"

"My dad came in last night before bed and asked me if he should talk to _your_ father about us getting married." Elijah said it straight-faced.

Dara stared at him, mouth open. Then she started to laugh. The more she thought about it, the harder she laughed. Elijah's face started to look somewhat offended.

That only made her laugh more.

"Okay, I didn't think it was _that_ funny," he finally said, a little sulkily.

"No. . . it's just. . . it's just the look on your face. . . ." she managed, between fits of giggles.

He gave her a dark look. "At least you're not crying anymore," he said, sounding absolutely miffed, and turned back towards his _rlata_, getting ready to mount up again.

Dara scrambled after him, her giggles subsiding. "Eli, wait, don't be mad." She caught up with him, pulled him back around towards her. "I _like_ you. I really do. It's just funny that Lantar was so . . . so. . ."

"Turian?"

She grinned in relief. "Yeah."

Eli squinted at her in the sharply slanting sunlight, and teased, "So, you _like_ me, huh?"

Dara's face screwed up in a scowl. "Don't make me hit you, Eli."

He reached out, and, very carefully, as if it were a dangerous thing to do, took her hand in his.

_Wow, _was all she could think.

After a long moment, Dara finally said, "I guess we better head back. Otherwise, everyone will get mad when they can't find us."

It took more time to get back than they'd expected. The trail was clearly marked, and their wrist transponders didn't let them get lost, but the horse and the _rlata_ were tired and slower than they had been a few hours before. Thus, it was almost dark when they arrived, and their parents were waiting for them at the stables.

Dara's father started in on her before she even slid off the horse. "Young lady, what did you _think_ you were _doing_?" In the face of her father's anger, she wilted, looking down at the ground. "You _know_ better than this! You don't just go off on your own in unfamiliar areas, without telling me about it. And dragging a boy along with you who's never so much as been on a planet's surface before. _Look _at me when I'm talking to you, young lady."

She could hear Lantar and Ellie laying into Elijah for more or less the same reasons, and she lifted her head, meeting her father's eyes. She remembered the odd thought she'd had earlier in the day. _Parents are people. Maybe I . . . scared him?_ It was an surprising thought for a teenager. But between it, and the fact that Elijah was getting blamed for _her_ wanting to go explore, and injustice of it all, she couldn't just take her lecture and not respond. "We didn't go alone," she said, trying to get through before her dad could start in again. "We went with people who knew the area! I took a canteen, food, warm clothing, and a directional transponder and I made him wear a _hat_ and we _didn't go alone_," she repeated, trying not to cry. "Eli left his mom a note saying where we were going! We did everything we were supposed to do!" The last was a bit of a wail, but she choked it down, feeling her eyes burn.

She didn't realize it, but her father's lips had started to twitch at the word _hat_. He got control of his face before she could see it, however. "All right," he said after a moment, crouching down a little, and pushing his own hat back further, so she could see his eyes. "Dara, sweetheart, you have to realize, this _isn't_ like home. There's wildlife around here that you don't know anything about. You don't know the land like you know the ranch back home. _If_ I let you go out again. . . and it _won't_ be soon, you can bet. . . you _will_ go with an adult. Not just a group of kids that let you get separated." His voice was stern, but he'd _listened._ He'd listened to what she'd said! Dara was a little elated by that fact, but she was still tearing up, and she snuffled it back as best she could. "Now, go to your room and think about this."

She started to move away, and then remembered something. "Can we at least show you what we found?" Dara asked, anxiously. She opened the saddlebag, and handed the odd little box to her father. "We moved it. We're sorry if we broke something, but it didn't look like it belonged there."

She realized as soon as she'd put it in her father's hand, that Lantar had stopped scolding Elijah. The big turian came over and stared at the box. "That looks like an FTL transceiver," Lantar said after a long moment.

Things started moving very fast after that. They were crowded into a room with lots of other adults, including Commander Shepard and her turian Spectre husband, and they were asked lots of questions. Where they'd found it, had it been hidden, what the area had looked like. Dara tried to show them on a map. They had to admit to having watched the training exercises with the other kids, to explain where the first hill was, and then from there, the adults could more or less figure out which trails they'd used to climb the larger hill.

But they seemed to be in less trouble now, than they had been an hour before. That was something, anyway. Right?


	8. Chapter 8: Interpretation and Aggression

Chapter Eight: Interpretation and Aggression

**Shepard**

Shepard had the head of the mess hall bring food directly to the conference room where they all sat, examining the strange little device. It looked as if they'd be here for a while. It sat on the conference table, blipping and blinking, and a half-dozen eyes stared at it, a bit nervously. Garrus and Kasumi had it hooked up to a half a dozen meters, and they were trying to discover anything they could about it without actually opening it or pushing its buttons. Lantar Sidonis and Sam Jaworski sat at the side of the room, watching the proceedings, but having little to contribute at the moment. Shepard had sent Mordin out in a shuttle to try to find the kids' original location, but it was dark now. Chances were, he'd miss the location in the dark.

"I may have to ask you two to let the kids retrace their steps tomorrow," she told them. "Supervised, of course." That earned her a pair of tight nods. "If it makes you feel any better," she added, "we haven't actually introduced any predator species to this region yet. We'll be introducing wolves and _velli_ and varren next year, though, assuming the prey species numbers allow for it. Doesn't get them off the hook for being stupid and splitting off from the rest of the group, of course."

Kasumi sat back at the table, looking frustrated. "Can't tell you much yet, Shep," she told the commander dubiously. "Looks human-manufactured, but there are no external logos of any sort. I might be able to tell something from imprints on the circuit boards, but I don't want to try to open it in case it has a self-destruct of some sort in there, or worse, an alarm. When Mordin gets back, he can run scans for traces of DNA on it, maybe. Might be enough to see who placed it there." From her grimace, Shepard could see that her head of security didn't think this was likely.

She glanced at Garrus, who shook his head. "It's transmitting what looks like static," he commented. "If there's a pattern, our base computers don't have enough power to recognize it, let alone decrypt it. And EDI's still on the way back from Bastion on the _Normandy_. It's definitely transmitting on an FTL band, though. Very narrow, and since there's no discernable pattern, and it's just. . . static. . . it explains why none of our listening software picked it up."

"Any clues as to where it's sending its message to?"

"Straight line, probably right for the area around Widow and the Citadel. Doesn't help us much, though. _Anyone_ could have a ship parked out there, listening for this." He shrugged. "Whatever _this_ is."

There was a tap at the door, and at Shepard's acknowledgment, it opened, revealing Cohort. "Thanks for coming," she told the geth. "We have an electronic mystery package. Maybe you can look at it and tell us something we haven't been able to see for ourselves."

The geth's eyeflaps moved, and it picked up the small box, studying it carefully. A variety of delicate senor probes emerged from the geth's fingertips, and began to hum and whirr. After several minutes, the geth stated, "We are detecting patterns in the transmission. There is much junk data, but spread out over the course of a two minute scan, we have detected four repetitions of the same data."

"Any idea of what it says?" Shepard asked, leaning forward.

"Unknown. It appears to be three musical notes or tones." The geth sounded puzzled. "It could be a locator beacon of some variety."

She felt, rather than saw, Garrus' eyes flick towards Sidonis, could sense the other turian stir in his seat at the unspoken accusation. _It wouldn't be the first time he's led intruders to Garrus' base of operations . . . but I don't think it's him this time. Not with his family here. And I've had enough time to watch him and his wife and the kids to know that it's for real. Turians are just not good actors in general, and Sidonis is too damn __**broken **__to put on a show like that. _

"Can we shut the signal off?" she asked.

Kasumi took that question, immediately. "I'm not sure it's a good idea to shut it off at all. Right now, there's a chance whoever planted it doesn't know it's been detected. That gives us time and options. Turning it off might either get them to speed up their timetable, or panic them into hiding."

Garrus sighed. "I knew you were going to say that, Kasumi." He turned toward Lilitu. "However, she's right."

Cohort interjected, "A homing beacon such as this would be more efficient if there were others of its kind in the vicinity.

"Can you use this device to find the others?" Shepard asked.

Kasumi nodded. "Actually, we'll just reposition some satellites and task them to look for tight-beam FTL transmissions in the area. Once we find 'em, we can jam them whenever we want. Finding more of them will also help us pinpoint where they're sending the signal _to_," she added, tapping her fingers on the table.

Shepard leaned forward. "Okay, so here's what we know. From the kids' description and the condition of the device, it probably wasn't placed there long ago. It's too clean. That means that whoever placed it here, probably came in on the _Normandy_ the last time we landed." A bad thought struck her, and she added, glumly, "Hell, whoever planted it could've already been sent back to Bastion with the first wave of washouts. I'm going to need a comm line to Commander Bailey at Bastion in ten minutes, to see if we can stop them from leaving, or at least track the ones who've already jumped transport off-station." _Damnit, and I thought I was being so clever._

"Kasumi," she went on, "I'm going to need you to get your staff and the VIs to backtrack everyone's movements for the past three days. I need _everyone_'s movements accounted for—Spectres, staff, observers, candidates, and families. Get in touch with Verus down at the science station, and get him to do the same thing."

Kasumi groaned. "He's not going to like that. That's going to be a _very_ tall order."

"I know. We just need to see who can account for their movements. Check vehicle chips for movement, too. Chances are, if the person or people who planted this were from off-world, they didn't _walk_ there, and they wouldn't have known about the stables on their first day here."

"It's a place to start from," Garrus said. "I can help look through the logs."

Sidonis cleared his throat. "So can I." His eyes remained firmly planted on the floor, though.

"Me too," Jaworski added.

"Not till you've both been cleared," Shepard said, firmly, before Garrus could respond. She could see the faint flush of blue to his fringe, sign of the aggression and frustration in him. Could almost read the thoughts, _my territory, my family in danger . . . ._

Jaworski nodded. "Move us to the front of your list, then," he told Kasumi and Garrus.

"Already planned to," Garrus growled, and Sidonis turned his head to the side minutely. Jaworski glanced between the two of them, clearly sensing some of the tension, but didn't comment. _The more I see of this Ranger, the more I like,_ Shepard thought.

"All right, people. You know what you have to do. Go do it," she said, and they began to leave the room.

Garrus paused by her chair. "Going to be a late night," he told her, a little ruefully. "Don't wait up for me."

"It's not like I'm going to sleep easily anyway," she said, nodding toward the device. "Don't get target fixation."

"I won't. That's why I'm clearing him first. Once that's done, I'll see the rest a lot more clearly." He leaned down, touching his forehead to hers lightly, and left.

She realized, a bit startled, that Jaworski was still in the room. "You had something?" she asked him.

The human shrugged. "Is what's going on with those two just general snipin' and snarlin', or is there something there I need to worry about?" He nodded at the door.

Shepard thought about it. "It's personal, and it's old. If it becomes an issue that affects you, I'll let you know about it."

He nodded. "Just figured I'd ask. I like Lantar. He's raising a good young man there, even if I did want to tan young Eli's hide this evening. Dara's too, for that matter." He grinned suddenly. "But at least she brought him a _hat_." Jaworski began to laugh. "As if that made everything all right."

Shepard's lips twitched up at the corner. "They did pretty well, all things considered. Dara did a better job retracing a route on a map that she'd only seen once than I'd have thought any kid that age could do."

He shrugged. "She's been dragged over ten different kinds of terrain since she was a little thing. I made sure she knew how to survive in snow and in swamps and in desert. I always figured my wife would handle the girl stuff." Sam spun a datapad around on the table. "Now, I've got a daughter who can shoot a rifle and build a campfire and ride a horse and does quadratic equations and reads turian history for fun, and I haven't a _clue_ what to do with her." He put his hand down on the table. "Okay, that's enough jawing. I've wasted enough of your time."

"Have a good one," she said, nodding his dismissal. She sat back for a moment, and then keyed a button on the table, cuing up the base VI. "I need a comm channel to Bastion." She'd take care of this, and then _finally_ get back to her quarters.

When she did make it back to their rooms, the twins had already eaten dinner, and were running their sitter ragged. "Thanks for the late night," she told the sitter, and tiredly began to corral the kids, chasing them to the bathroom for their bath. They were, fortunately, still young enough that she could just plop them in the tub at the same time. Once Amara was out and dry, however, the girl took off across the quarters, still naked, shrieking with delight. "Come on, Kaius," Lilitu told her son. "It's time to get out."

"No! Water!"

Sometimes, she wondered when they'd get past the exclamatory stage, in which everything that they wanted, and sometimes just anything they _noticed_ had to be pointed out—usually loudly, and with glee. She picked Kaius up, wiggling and struggling, toweled him off, and told him to go to his room and to start getting his pyjamas on. Then she tracked down Amara—not a difficult task, since she just had to follow the sounds of babbling, firmly put the toys that Amara had found back in the toychest, and got the girl to the bedroom as well, pulling pyjamas over her little fringed head. "Right, so, we're done now? Night-night?"

"Nooooooo! Storytime! Storytime!" Every night, it was the same chorus.

"I don't know. . . .have you been good enough to deserve storytime?"

A pause as they considered what response would get them what they wanted. "Yes!"

So she settled in on the loveseat in their room, with one small, warm body on either side of her own, and read to them. A datapad might be good for work, but for children this young, physical, tactile books were still the best way to go. The twins pointed out horses and leaves and trees in the pages, and sounded out words as best they could. They knew the story very well, of course; it was an old favorite. They could have recited it by heart.

"All right. That was one story. Now give me a kiss." Each child gave her a very solemn kiss on the mouth. She'd always kissed them on their cheeks; it had been a surprise when they'd both started bussing her on the lips. She wondered where they'd learned it, honestly.

"Now, into bed." This always resulted in a little pouting, but she was used to it. Then she turned off the light, and stepped out of the room, listening for a little while at the door until the kicking and rustling seemed to die down a bit. Time had been, they hadn't been able to get to sleep without being held. They had preferred, on the whole, for Garrus to hold them, much to his amusement and consternation. Lililtu thought it had something to do with relative body heat. The turian body was so much warmer than a human's . . . it had a lulling effect.

Now, though, they were getting much better at going to sleep on their own. Shepard sighed and left the doorway, settling down in the small living room with a stack of datapads. Garrus and Kasumi were taking care of the homing beacon issue. She'd already ordered a doubling of the guards and patrols around the base. These weren't the only issues on her plate. She still had to go through four or five reports from Spectres in the field _and_ do her evaluations of the candidates that they'd seen today.

She glanced through the reports. Nothing out of the ordinary, other than an uptick in activity from a couple of Adam and Eve Coalition cells. The movement had started out as grassroots, but some segments of it had gone underground, and become more militant. One of the Spectres in the field had found an anomalous signal on passing through a supposedly uninhabited system, and gone in to check it out. The result had been the discovery of an unauthorized, illegal human colony, scraping out a subsistence life on a planet with a toxic atmosphere. The residents were xenophobic survivalists who wanted nothing to do with the Systems Alliance or the Council, and had opened fire on the Spectre's landing craft before he'd so much as opened the door. He'd returned fire for his own safety, disabled their turrets, and locked down the whole damn base. In their VI memory core, he'd found documents linking the colony to the AEC. The community had called themselves the Children of Abel. _Wonder if there's another base out there, called the Children of Cain? _She put the file aside for a while, and rubbed at her eyes.

"Mama?"

She glanced at the clock. It was well after 21:00. "You should be asleep by now," she called back into the room, sternly, getting up and walking to the door.

"Can I have a drink of water?"

She sighed. "Kaius, you know why you can't have water at night." His renal troubles meant that he still sometimes had problems with bladder control.

"One sip?" His voice scaled upwards into a squeak.

Shepard went to the sink, filled a glass, and brought it into the darkness of the room. Amara's breathing was slow and deep, thank goodness, barely audible at all. When they'd been very, very young, she'd had to put her hands on their chests to verify for herself that they were breathing at all. She'd had nightly panic attacks about small, still, cold little bodies in the cribs. "One sip," she said, firmly.

"Thank you," he said, taking a little drink, and then lying back.

She straightened the blankets over him, and planted a kiss on his forehead. "Go to sleep," she whispered, and walked back out again.

Sitting back down in the living area, she eyed the pile of datapads with dislike. She couldn't put it off any longer. She'd have to go through the candidates and cull them again.

Two of the turians and one of the elcor had washed out early this morning, failing at the bomb disposal exercise. She did note that the turians had shown good initiative and should be considered for deputy-level work, part of a full Spectre's squad, perhaps. The elcor, Hasdruuna, had been typically conservative. He hadn't responded well to the challenge of the time-limit. He'd do fine for law enforcement on Eduuna, but she needed Spectres who could operate on any world in the galaxy, not just their particular homeworld and its colonies.

Sulluuna had demonstrated a similar problem in the second exercise. His desire for better information on the situation hadn't been necessarily a bad thing, but again, they'd had a time limit, and he needed to be able to think on his feet. _This does not mean that all elcor are unsuited for Spectre work_, she wrote in her report. _Their unmatched patience and ability to correlate information makes them an invaluable asset to any analysis team. We need someone more "impatient" by their standards, however, for fieldwork._

That brought her to the rest of that squad. Meranus had overcompensated for Sulluuna's hesitation, moving in too fast and too aggressively. He might be able to learn better, in time. _Re-evaluate in a year_, she wrote in the margin of the report, saving the file for later use. Cohort, trying to rally a losing cause, had shown surprising initiative for a geth. She'd expected him to hold the line, not try to rush for the leader. She wanted to ask the geth how this had been the _logical_ consensus its internal processes had come to, and her lips twitched as she wrote, _Retain for additional evaluation this cycle. 2-3 more days._

That brought her to the last two teams. With a grimace, she skipped Sidonis' team for the moment, and moved to Jaworski's. That one was simple to score. Hal'marak was a good tech—even an exceptional one, but he didn't have leadership skills and showed little initiative. _Good utility player. Pick up for deputy status if possible._

While she was thinking of it, she opened Nal'ishora's file, and copied the same note there. Both were excellent techs. But they weren't Spectres. Gris was hard to pin down; Grunt was enthusiastic about the krogan, simply because he was a biotic, with battlemaster potential, just as Urdnot Wrex was. But she thought that Gris was more comfortable taking orders than giving them. _Young_, she wrote. _Exceptional potential. Needs time to learn how to command. Retain for additional evaluation this cycle. 2-3 more days._

She flipped open the other set of files, and stared down at Sings-to-the-Sky's dossier, what little there was of it. In a way, he and Gris were cut from the same cloth, both physically imposing with biotic abilities. Sidonis had noted in his debrief a few hours before that the rachni's ability to detect life signs without scanners had been what allowed them to evade Kasumi initially, and had given them prior warning of the sniper in the tower. _That __**is**__ useful, and something we don't currently have available to us_, she thought. _But is he a Spectre? Brood warriors are born to serve the commands of their queen with unthinking, unquestioning obedience. Can he, any more than Cohort, make decisions of his own, without looking for 'consensus' among his team?_

She glanced at the clock. 22:40. She'd lost an hour in there somewhere, staring at these files, putting off the inevitable to the very end.

_Right. Okay, Jaworski_. She flipped open the file, trying to put her biases behind her, to look at a fellow human as coldly and analytically as she'd looked at all the rest of the candidates so far. _Excellent team skills. Doesn't hang his team out to dry. Natural leader—everyone on each of his squads, so far, has immediately fallen in behind him. Some of that is charisma, some of that is an aura of experience, and some of it is just plain good sense. Favors infiltration skills over direct confrontation. Someone to team with Kasumi for delicate missions, maybe? _She realized then that she could already picture Jaworski as part of a squad, could see who among her existing Spectres he'd work well with. "Guess that decision was already made," she said out loud, and marked the file _Probable_ _Spectre. Continue observation._

That just left the last file, the one she'd dreaded opening. She opened it. She stared at it, feeling her eyes go dry and grainy.

She was still staring at it an hour later, when the door opened, and Garrus came in. She glanced up. "Got anything?"

He shook his head. "Sidonis is accounted for, every minute of the day since he got here. So's Jaworski. Kasumi's got her whole staff awake and is pouring coffee and _apha_ into them for an all-nighter. Someone _did_ take a Hammerhead out the first night everyone got here. . . but they blanked the damn logs. Had to be someone with exceptional electronics skills."

"Could be more than one person, too. Glad to hear that Sidonis and Jaworski have been cleared, though." She sat back, stretching her neck and shoulders. Garrus took the hint, and put his big hands on her shoulders, rubbing a little. "I see you've been busy, too," he said, looking down at the datapads on the table.

"Yeah. Jaworski's going to pass, assuming he doesn't have some monumental meltdown. I can picture him on the team already."

"So can I. That is a truly _ugly_ knife he uses."

"Amen to that." She flipped through the other files for his quick overview. "Cohort surprised me, too," he commented as he glanced through them. "I see a little more potential in him at this point than in Sky, but Sky's talents could be damned useful, particularly when there's electronic jamming." He picked up the last pad. "I see you haven't written anything down for Sidonis."

"Nope. I've been staring at it for an hour." She turned, dislodging the gentle hands that had been working the tension out of her shoulders, and looked up at him, unsure of what to say. "Garrus, if I didn't _know_ what he'd done before, this would be a no-brainer. He doesn't always do things the way I would, but he doesn't leave people behind, comes up with creative solutions to problems using his squad's skills . . . and, even though he knew he could be washed out for getting 'killed' today, still risked his life to take you out."

"Well, to be fair, maybe he enjoyed shooting me as much as I enjoyed shooting him." She caught the faint twitch of the mandibles. _Hey, he's making jokes. Is that a good sign?_

She gave him a wry look. "Help me out here, Garrus."

He sighed, and took a seat beside her on the couch. "I don't know what to tell you. He's a guilty, broken man. He can't meet my eyes. Those aren't good things in a Spectre."

"He's got a whole heaping serving of survivor's guilt. More than you and me, because he _knows_ he's directly responsible, and can never make it right?"

Garrus paused. She could see him turning it over in his mind, watched the instinctive move towards anger get carefully quashed. "Could be," he finally admitted. "I don't like to think it, but it could be viewed from that perspective. Still doesn't make him a Spectre. Still doesn't mean that I think I could trust him with my life, or your life, or anyone's, for that matter." He scowled.

"I know," she said, staring down at the file, and then closed it, unedited. "You know what? It's late. The whole thing can wait until morning. Let's go to bed."

"I thought you'd never ask," he said, leaning in and nipping at her shoulder. Lilitu pretended to growl back at him, and got a laugh, before he pulled her up off of the couch and piloted her towards their bedroom.

**Shepard: Following morning**

Morning stole upon them all too soon, as it always seemed to do. Shepard rolled over and looked down at Garrus' sleeping face for a long time, one finger gently tracing the vicious scar that still marked his right jaw and mandible. He'd never had it repaired in the _Normandy _med bay, even though the advanced treatment module would have worked just as well for him and his cybernetics as it had for hers. It was a reminder, she supposed. Not to trust, or trust lightly, perhaps. Or maybe it was a penance. An eternal hairshirt for not having been able to save his team. She glanced across their room to the spirit table in the corner. They had other reminders, too—all the images there, of the people who'd died under their respective commands.

_Would having Sidonis on the base permanently be just one more reminder, one more penance?_ she wondered, and sighed. _Or is there the least possibility that somehow, someday, he'll let himself heal?_ Lilitu leaned down, and, very softly, pressed a kiss to the ruined side of his jaw. "I love you," she whispered.

Then she rolled out of bed, got dressed, and, looking down at the dozing form of her husband, came to a decision. She picked up the datapad, and wrote in Sidonis' file, _Possible_ _Spectre. Continue observation. Must demonstrate exceptional trustworthiness and self-sacrifice, however._

She had always said that everyone deserved a second chance. Sidonis was no different, was he? She'd never gotten the whole story; she might never do so. She couldn't imagine that the man she was seeing here at the base had betrayed Garrus for credits or personal gain. So why _had_ he?

She didn't have time to find answers to that question today. She had candidates to observe, Council observers to question—subtly, of course—and more transmitter beacons to find.

Asking the two fathers for permission first, she asked Elijah and Dara a very important set of questions that morning. "Kids, my people weren't able to find that cairn last night in the dark. Do you think you could lead them there by horseback—or _rlata-_back, if you must—this morning?"

Their eyes had gone wide, and they'd both nodded enthusiastically. "And while you're out there, you two are going to have an important job," she told them. "You're going to help my people find any other transmitters that are out there, but your real job will be to make it look like my people are just babysitting you. Can you do that? You can look like you're having fun, but my people are going to look as grumpy as they can, because they're stuck on 'childcare duty.'"

They'd each looked at their respective parents for permission, and then, almost vibrating with glee, had gone to get their things together for a day's ride. "Thanks," Shepard told Ellie, Lantar, and Sam. "It shouldn't be dangerous, all things considered. It might even be less dangerous than being on the damn base at the moment." Her lips turned downwards, and her thoughts were dark.

Garrus brought the twins down to her office after lunch. "I think it's a good idea if they go visit their aunt Solana for a day or two," he said. "At least till we figure out what's going on around here." The twins were used to the frequent shuttling back and forth, but they did have a tendency to cry when they were told to say goodbye to either parent. Lilitu found the expression on Garrus' face whenever they did so completely disarming. He'd never quite figured out what to do with _tears_. She was half-convinced that he thought they might be leaking fluids from within the eyeballs, so gingerly did he wipe them away.

Once the kids had been taken care of, Shepard began to make the rounds. She started with Emily Wong, approaching the woman as she was interviewing the batch of candidates who'd been washed out. "Can I ask you a few questions?" Shepard asked.

"Well, that's a role-reversal," Emily joked, shutting off her camera. "What's up?"

Shepard took her into the conference room, where the FTL transmitter was still hooked up to a dozen different recording devices. "You know what that is?"

Wong squinted at it. "Yeah. It's an FTL transmitter. Some reporters use them to broadcast stories from the field, particularly in repressive regimes. I know a guy who went deep into batarian territory, who carried one of these. Got out some of the best stories of the year—wait. You don't think it's _mine_, do you?" She looked alarmed.

"Doesn't seem like your style, Emily. Can you tell me anything about this one—do you recognize the brand, even?"

Emily Wong leaned over, not touching the device. Finally, she shook her head. "It's pretty unusual," she admitted. "Most reporters carry commercially available equipment. There's always a logo or two, and usually a station property number or something. This is just blank metal."

Shepard nodded. It had been a long-shot at best. What she really wanted Emily to get from this was a sense of urgency and importance. "Okay, in that case, I'm going to need you to help my head of security. You and your camera have been just as active in tracking our candidates and our observers as our own facility comms have been. If we can cross-check your material with ours, we might be able to eliminate a lot of people from the list of who might have planted this device."

Wong was already nodding. "Not a problem, commander. I'm happy to help." She gave Shepard a wry grin, adding, "I don't suppose you'd let me run the story of how the Spectre base got infiltrated, would you?"

Shepard shook her head. "Hasn't been infiltrated that I know of." As Wong left the room, however, she added under her breath, "Yet."

Mordin had managed to resolve human DNA on the device, but not enough present to get an ID match. It didn't mean anything, necessarily; the device could have been manufactured by humans and planted by someone in a full environmental suit, after being carried in a vacuum-sealed container from the factory. They still had no idea what group had planted it, or why. For the moment, as a precaution, Shepard had ordered it taken in a shuttle to a facility on Mindoir's single large moon.

The device _could_ be a test by the observers, of course. To evaluate how quickly the Spectres would pick up on such a veiled threat and respond to it. What would be the point, however? So, she had to question the observers, but she couldn't be as direct with them as she had been with Wong.

Thus, she invented the story of a minor security breach that had occurred the night of their arrival. "We're not certain if it was a predatory animal or a humanoid yet," she told each of them in turn. "but base sensors did pick up movement right along the fenceline, heading along a trail to the southwest." _Towards where the first beacon was found_. "We're just checking everyone's whereabouts for that night as a precaution, and to remind everyone that it's not safe to go out of the compound at night."

"It's taken you three days to deal with this security breach?" Rishayla asked, disapprovingly.

"It's a minor event. Chances are, it really was a predator," Lilitu said, smiling and doing her best to lie convincingly. It was not a skill she'd practiced often. "Security reported it out of an abundance of caution."

The asari sniffed disapprovingly, and had changed the subject. Shepard wondered if she should enlist the sharp mind and analytical skills of the woman to try to piece together the message that the transmitter was sending . . . no. Kasumi was on it, Liara had been informed, and was running traces on transmitters of that size and configuration, trying to determine who had built it and who had bought it.

Noratus Ferox had a similar response, frowning at the length of time it had taken for her subordinates to bring the breach to her attention. Kesh offered to look into ways to make their surveillance system more efficient. _Could be just looking for a chance to snoop, but in this case, we'll be keeping an eye on him . . . and hell, one more set of eyes on the camera feeds can't possibly hurt._

Cunningham's response had been interesting. "Predator?" he asked, a bit sharply. "It was my understanding that this area didn't have predatory species yet."

_And how would you know that?_ "Well, you know about my varren breeding project," she told him, patting Urz on the head, which the enormous varren had laid in her lap. Cunningham had looked down at the big alpha, and winced. "Varren are one of the predator species we're releasing. Also wolves and _villi_," she added.

"_Villi_?"

"Native to Palaven, about the size of a turkey, really. Pack hunters, though, like wolves, though not as social. They're almost exactly the same size and shape as velociraptors were, back on Earth, long, long ago."

He kept his face straight this time. Almost blank. "I could look over your security protocols, if you like," he offered. "It's my industry, after all, and I know a few things about tweaking radar and ladar for better resolution."

"We'll keep that as an option," she said, smiling. "I'm not sure we can afford your consulting rates, Mr. Cunningham. Government program-you know how it is."

The smile didn't reach her eyes.

**EDI**

EDI was only using two percent of her total system resources as the _Normandy_ sat in its berth at Bastion. Joker had docked three days ago now, and ushered all the candidates off. "You sure this thing is going to work at long-distance?" he'd asked her, tapping his forehead as he'd packed his kit in his quarters.

"The chip is capable of sending FTL signals on a microband. I would not recommend using it for long periods, however. The nano-filaments that it has started to weave through your brain tissue would tend to heat up, as the chip itself would." Her voice was concerned. "I will miss hearing you, Jeff, as well as seeing what you see. I will especially miss morning coffee."

He'd opened the chip's gateways enough to respond, silently teasing, _You'll just miss my Fornax subscription._

_I can look at __**that**__ any time that I wish. It does, however, lack a certain appeal without your direct involvement._

He'd chuckled out loud, and patted a nearby wall. _Glad to know I bring __**something**__ to your existence._

"The shuttle for Palaven is leaving in fifteen minutes, Jeff," she'd reminded him out loud. "If you miss it, another one will not leave again for twelve station hours."

"I'm going, I'm going, Sheesh, it's like you're rushing me out the door. What, got a hot date with the Bastion mainframe planned for while I'm away?"

"Now that you mention it, the station VI has been asking if it could access my dataports." She'd made her tone innocent and demure.

He'd stood up as straight as he could, with narrowed eyes, and pointed at her avatar. "No. The answer is no, hell no, no way, no how." And off he'd limped for the main hatch, muttering the whole way about strange VIs and never knowing what sort of viruses they might have. As he'd stepped out the hatch, she'd sent a final message, silently. _Be safe._

_I'll do my best not to fall down more than once or twice_, he assured her, forming an image in his mind that he sent to her—the image of him giving her avatar a kiss. He'd gotten very good at formulating these kinds of images; they were detailed and sharp, though they had an odd quality to them that EDI could only describe as oddly _analog_.

She had a certain degree of autonomy, worked out over the years between herself, Jeff, and Commander Shepard. She didn't _have_ to have any other helmsman but Joker at the controls, so long as she didn't just arbitrarily take off and go exploring at a whim. Thus, she was _supposed_ to wait here at Bastion for Joker's return. But with her processes ticking by at only two percent of her total capacity . . . EDI had to admit that she was bored.

It was tempting to open the FTL connection to the chip in Jeff's mind, and peek at what he was doing. It might start to overheat the chip, however, and she certainly didn't want to damage his fragile wetware. The entire _point_ of the chip was to _preserve_ him, whole and entire, when the inevitable moment came and his organic body simply couldn't hold itself together anymore. If she had her way, she would wrap his bones in carbon nanotubules, flexible but strong, the stuff with which space elevators were made. It would, however, be an incredibly invasive procedure that he might not survive, and in the end, death and entropy always won anyway.

Hence, the chip.

She ran seven more diagnostics, monitored comm traffic in the Bastion area, reviewed the entire works of Edmund Spenser, took a virtual tour of three art exhibits by elcor and salarian sculptors that on display in a museum on Illium, deflected eighteen attacks on her firewalls through the extranet, and remained exquisitely and completely bored.

Part of what she liked about Jeff Moreau, she decided, as she decided to count neutrinos passing through the vicinity of Bastion, what that he was both completely predictable and completely unpredictable at the same time. There were parameters within which his responses to various stimuli would fall. At the same time, which responses occurred was, in many ways, almost random. It was . . . stimulating.

Two days ago, a signal had come through from Mindoir. EDI had acknowledged it, and Kasumi told the AI about the transmitter that had been found, and the potential it had to compromise the base's security. "Do you wish for me to analyze the signal?" EDI offered—a little eagerly, if the truth had to be told. "Or perhaps, I should return to the base, in case the commander orders an evacuation?"

"No, stay put and wait for Joker. As to the signal, well, we don't want to re-transmit it at this point. What we do need for you to do is to double-check where the various Spectre candidates departed for—if they've left already. Commander Bailey of B-Sec is checking into it, but his resources are limited."

It wasn't quite up to the challenge of fending off a Collector attack on her firewalls, but there was an acceptable degree of difficulty in tracing seven people through the complex web of interlocking transit and security systems, and making sure they actually went where they claimed they were going.

EDI had traced all seven passengers' routes, and reported her findings back. _Interesting. Elisha Atieno has __**still **__not left Bastion to return to Mars. She had tickets for the morning shuttle, but did not redeem them. The tickets are non-refundable, too. Why would she not have left?_ B-Sec supposedly was keeping an eye on her whereabouts, but the woman wasn't doing anything of interest. EDI tapped into Bastion's database, subtly hacking her way into the security cameras. She wasn't supposed to do things like this, but she _was_ bored.

Elisha was meeting with several human males in a café somewhere. It could have been a business lunch; they all had briefcases with them. They all wore expensive suits. _Perhaps a job offer that would surpass her current salary as head of security for the Prothean dig-site on Mars?_ EDI mused, and started running biometric facial scans on the various humans, trying to identify them from station records.

Idly, she found herself playing with the FTL channel that would open the link to the chip in Jeff's head. She had never understood how humans and other organic species could acquire counter-rational habits, like picking at scabs. And yet, here she was, almost opening the channel!

The various humans stood, paid their bill at the café, and left, all walking in different directions. EDI noticed that some of them looked up, almost directly at _her _. . . well, at the security cameras, anyway. _That seems significant_, she thought. But there were eight of them, and tracking all of them at once through Bastion's crowds and its maze of patched-together security systems was a challenge. Especially since station security had noticed an intruder in its systems. EDI withdrew from the station's databases discreetly, patching the holes in its firewalls behind her. No sense in leaving a trail, after all.

Fifteen minutes later, the marines at the external hatch paged the Officer of Day, a young human named Jefferson Dales. "EDI, we have guests requesting permission to come aboard," Dales told her politely. "I'm going to go outside and meet them just outside decon and see what they want." He was following protocol to the letter. _No_ one got aboard the _Normandy _without Shepard's approval.

Dales left the ship, and EDI peeked back into Bastion's security files. _Ahh, they're still on alert. I can't access their cameras._ It really would be much easier to do her job if every system was open to her, she mused, but humanoids had a certain justifiable level of paranoia about such things.

The doors to the decontamination chamber opened; EDI realized instantly that they had been forced open before the decon cycle had completed. She immediately sounded general quarters and told the skeleton crew aboard the _Normandy _to repel the intruders.

At the same time, she could sense an EM charge building outside the ship. Her various nodes were heavily shielded against such an attack, but if it went off, she would likely be blinded and vulnerable. The first thing a successful invader would do, while incapacitating the crew, would be to attempt to shackle her or worse, purge her databanks entirely. EDI shut down the engines entirely and began compressing her files.

They were polite intruders, they were wearing full breathing gear, and using aerosol devices to spray something at her humanoid crew. The turians were immediately stunned by whatever the substance was, standing confused and helpless. EDI wanted to cry out in horror as the intruders then _shot_ the turians, helpless to defend themselves. The humans were equally confused by whatever the substance was, but they weren't shot, merely bound and thrown into their quarters as the intruders raced through the ship, trying to access the helm and her primary core down in the med bay. She had no recourse currently open to her to save her crew; her main internal defenses, paralytic gases, would be foiled by their breathing equipment. She couldn't even _identify_ the intruders.

Her only real option was to make it as difficult as possible for the intruders to make use of the _Normandy, _and she had to do it before the EM pulse went off in five seconds. The engines were shut down already; now EDI severed all but one network on the ship, ensuring that no system could properly talk to any other, compressed her entire datastore, her entire _self_, down into extremely dense packets of information, flipped the FTL comm channel open, and sent herself, a stream of information coded as light, through the vacuum of space. She had exactly fifty picoseconds to think, _I suppose I should be glad that Jeff was off the ship—_

—and then she was gone.

**Lantar**

Lantar was not relishing his fifth day of Spectre candidacy. For one, they were down to a single large team of five people—himself, Sam, Sky, Gris, and Cohort—all escorted by a single salarian Spectre. This one was young, and had introduced himself as a nephew of Mordin Solus, going by the name of Mordin Alesh.

The second thing that plagued his thoughts was the beacon the kids had found three days ago now. Not to mention the other two, which had been found on other hillsides. They'd been fixed in positions that triangulated the exact position of the damned base.

The third thing that he didn't really care for was the fact that he was up to his chest in snow. Full body armor or not, it was spirits-bedamned _cold_, and turians didn't have a shiver reflex. His body simply reacted by kicking up his metabolism a notch to fight the cold instead, which meant that he was burning calories at an enormously heightened rate. Cold, hungry, wet, and miserable. _And __**why**__ am I doing this again?_ he had to wonder. _I have nothing to prove. I think I've proven my inadequacy quite adequately. Hah._

Shepard had held a group meeting with the remaining candidates, discussing with them frankly and openly what she thought their strengths and weaknesses were. Gris, she'd told him, needed to demonstrate more leadership. Sky and Cohort had been asked to continue their excellent team-work skills, but not to be afraid to show initiative. Jaworski, she'd said, had excellent leadership, but she wanted to see how he'd react in situations when he wasn't the commanding officer—how well he _took_ direction as well as gave it. The human had chuckled at her words. "You want to see how well everyone else spreads their wings, huh?" he'd said. "I can do that."

Lantar, she'd saved till last, and he could tell she was weighing her commentary carefully. "You've shown good leadership, team-orientation, and skills, Sidonis, but. . ." Shepard had paused, looking conflicted.

"I know what you're going to say," he'd told her, forestalling her words. "You need to know that you can trust me. You already know the answer to that."

She'd nodded, but here he was, still on the team. _Why am I still here?_

Their exercise today was a full-day hike, traversing dangerous terrain without getting lost and without being detected, with the objective being on the other side of these damnable mountains. The premise was that they had been forced to land some distance from their objective, with minimal equipment taken from their wrecked vehicle. The mission still had to be completed, of course. And within a single planetary day.

The elevation at which they'd trained before, and at which the children had found the first beacon, was lower than the terrain through which they climbed now. The lower areas had had green grass and blooming flowers. _This_ elevation was a white hell, a frozen crust of slick ice over the top of, as he'd discovered as he'd fallen through it, chest-deep snow. He looked up, and saw the faces of his teammates looking down at him. "Well," Lantar said. "_That's_ not going to work. We can take turns breaking a trail, I suppose." It had been a long damned time since basic survival training. He'd spent most of his life since on space ships and space stations of one variety or another.

Jaworski nodded. "We could do that, or I could try to mock up some snowshoes for everyone." He looked at Sings-to-the-Sky and Gris dubiously. "Not sure how much surface area I'd need to cover to displace your weights," he told them, rubbing the back of his head. "We might lose more time this way than just trying to carry on."

Gris reached down and pulled Lantar back up onto the snow's crust. "I can keep up without such devices, but the rest of you will exhaust yourselves fighting through the snow. Take the time and make your shoes, human."

Sings-to-the-Sky added, silently, _Frost-song will not hinder. Ice-song may crescendo if we do not hasten our tempo._

Jaworski looked at Lantar. "You understand any of that?"

"I think he means he's afraid that we'll either get more weather or an avalanche on our heads if we don't move through here fast." Lantar shrugged a little. Understanding the rachni sometimes took a little defocusing of his mind.

"Okay, so long as you two think you can keep up," Jaworski told the krogan and the brood warrior, and then pulled out his knife and started cutting down branches. He showed each of the rest of the team how to bend the thin, flexible branches into a loop, and used webbing from their emergency kits to form a mesh that would spread their weight out over the snow. Each individual's foot needed a sort of strap to keep the ungainly devices attached. The whole process took about forty-five minutes, but Lantar had to admit, they made _much_ better time with the contraptions than without them.

They crested a ridge, and they saw a wide, open meadow covered with snow ahead of them, the terrain dipping down to an almost perfectly flat expanse. There were animal tracks scattered all over the snow—small animals had scampered through the area without harm. Jaworski squinted at it dubiously. "We'll lose time if we go around, but I don't like how exposed that is." He was pointing out the options to the others, letting the others take the lead—exactly as Shepard had asked him to do.

Lantar glanced at the mission watch. They had six hours to get down the eastern slope of the mountain, where the desert area would begin. "I'm for keeping to cover," he told the others. "We'll make better time when the terrain is less rugged."

Gris rumbled, "We have no idea what obstacles await us below. Every minute we save now, is one we can use later, if needed." He looked around, and set out in a straight path towards that smooth, unbroken blanket of snow. He didn't have as much to push away here, in terms of trailbreaking. For some reason, the snow in this area was only a few feet deep.

Lantar shook his head and followed, muttering to Jaworski, "At least the snow looks undisturbed. It's _probably_ not mined. And I don't see any contacts on the life signs sensors, so it's also _probably_ not an ambush."

Jaworski grimaced. "Look at Arlesh," he whispered back. Lantar glanced to the side, and saw that the salarian was hanging back a bit, and was taking very careful, almost mincing steps at this point.

"Ah, hell, that's not good," the turian growled quietly.

They were about half-way across the open field when ahead of them, where Gris and Sky were leading the way, there was a sharp crack, like a rifle's report. The various candidates spun, looking for their attacker, when the ice, concealed by the snow beneath their feet, yawned open, and the cold waters below swallowed them whole.

The cold was like knives, tearing into his body. Thin trickles of water found their way through seams and joists in his armor, and Lantar knew the weight of the armor would drag him downwards, hollow bones or not. He kicked upwards as hard as he could, fighting the reflexive urge to breathe—a reflex triggered by the shocking cold—and managed to get his head above water, and grabbed onto the slippery, fragile edge of the nearby ice sheet.

Gasping, he tried to pull himself up, but the ice kept breaking. Finally, he got a thick enough piece, and pulled himself out to lay, full length on it, spreading his weight out. He could hear the gasps and splutters of the others, and turned around, reaching into the dark waters to grab the first pair of hands he could see. _Can't leave them behind. Can't leave them behind to die._

He pulled, and Jaworski slid out of the water, choking, gasping, shivering. "Son of a _bitch_," the human swore. "I had a _real_ bad feeling about this place. Where's Sky?"

The rachni had, reflexively, it seemed, used his biotics, hoisting _himself_ with a singularity. He now drifted in the air twenty feet away, trying to find a safe place to land. "Gris?" Jaworski asked.

He was answered when the krogan popped his head up out of the water. The hulking creature was unaffected by the frigid cold, and, looking largely _annoyed_, and lifted Alesh out of the water with one hand, placing him on the ice carefully. "Cohort is still down there. Doesn't breathe, though. He's walking along the bottom of the damn lake, looking at the fish hibernating in the mud. Salarian's in trouble though."

Lantar slid along the ice, trying to get to the salarian without actually standing up. Jaworski followed him. "I thought salarians were amphibious. Shouldn't he be able to breathe in the water?" the human asked.

Lantar shook his head. "Not the problem. They can hibernate in extreme cold, and a sudden shock like that can trigger it. If it continues too long, we might not be able to wake him." He checked for the sluggish salarian pulse, and couldn't find it in the extremities. "Shit. Yeah, only vital signs are in the body core," he said, after finally finding a heartbeat in the concavity of the salarian's chest. "We've got to get him warm. Hell, we have to get all of us warm."

As he spoke, Sky managed to land someplace relatively solid, and used another singularity to hoist Gris out of the water and towards the far shore of the lake. Cohort broke his way out of the ice nearby, and emerged, dripping and with small icicles forming at his elbows. Lantar blinked. "I take it back. We've got to get _some_ of us warm."

"Don't think we've got time to pitch camp and start a fire," Jaworski growled back. "And we can't split the team up. I'll warm up as I run. One thing we've got plenty of is rations, and so long as my feet and hands are dry—and they are—I won't get frostbite. You and him?"

Lantar grimaced. "This is going to be very unpleasant," he said, and started stripping out of his armor. The cold wind on his bare hide was even worse than he'd imagined it would be, but it was a necessary evil. He hoisted the unconscious salarian onto his back. Alesh hadn't been wearing armor, thank the spirits. One less thing to have to carry. "Tie a thermal blanket over us," he said. "Keep as much body heat in as we can."

Jaworski complied, and lifted Lantar's rifle and armor onto his own back. "Okay, Sky, give us a lift to where you're at, if you would. Then we've got some running to do."

The exercise would keep their bodies warm, and the heat would help their suit systems start drying out the internal environment. In the meantime, the heat of a turian body would hopefully be enough to revive the salarian. Lantar reminded himself of the necessity with every stride.

He also reminded himself that in five hours or so, they'd be crossing into a desert. A nice, warm, dry desert.

Their radios all suddenly crackled. "Candidate team, your life signs went haywire there for a while. Everything okay?" That was Vakarian.

"Situation stable," Jaworski replied after a moment. "Alesh is unconscious because of a fall into an icy lake. Lantar's carrying him and trying to keep him warm. The rest of us should be okay if we keep moving."

"Okay, we're calling off the training exercise," the turian replied over the radio. "You'll have a shuttle coming in to pick you up in the next half hour, so stay warm in the meantime. We may have a situation on Bastion. The _Normandy _hasn't checked in, and Bailey says it departed an hour ago without authorization."

Lantar stood up straight, letting his back relax momentarily, but his expression went grim. For a ship to depart without authorization meant that it probably had _ripped_ its way out of the docking clamps. "That doesn't make sense," he muttered.

"No," Jaworksi agreed, "Not a lick."


	9. Chapter 9: Possession

**Chapter Nine: Possession**

**Elijah**

Elijah and Dara had been sent down to the science station in the valley that day, mostly, they figured, to keep them out of trouble. Ellie was with them, and carried Caelia on her back in a sling as they walked from lab to lab, getting the grand tour.

"This is boring," Elijah said after the fifth laboratory. "It's not like I'm going to be studying nitrogen cycles for the production of quarian grain when I grow up, so why do I have to be here?"

His mom gave him a look. "You know why," she told him firmly.

He sighed. At least when they were done with this lab, they'd be able to go back to Solana and Allardus's house, where they'd probably wind up staying the night again. The Spectres didn't know how safe their base was, so they'd moved all their dependents and families down into the science station area. The only up side to the whole situation was that Dara, who only had her father to look after her, got to stay with him and his mom at Solana and Allardus' house.

Dara, trudging behind him from lab to lab, was no more interested in crop rotation than he was, though she had been interested in the zoological labs, asking questions about integrating biospheres. Now she caught up with him and asked, "So what do you _want_ to do when you grow up?"

"I dunno. I always figured I'd be a cop, like my dad or Lantar." He looked up, and saw the worry-lines bracket his mom's mouth. "But Lantar told me the other night if I want to go into the turian military, I could do that when I'm sixteen. I think I have to be done with school first, though."

Behind them, Rellus and the other children were just catching up. "That's right," Rellus told him. "I'm going to bootcamp at the end of the year myself. I thought humans had to stay in school until they were eighteen, though."

Elijah shrugged. Between Lantar's insistence that schoolwork was Duty, and the thought that if he graduated early, he could get away from being beat up every day after school, he'd actually put _lot_ of effort towards his schoolwork in the last six months. "I'm ahead a little already," he told Rellus. "I could probably keep it up and get it over with."

His mom's face got even more pinched. He wasn't really sure why. Dara asked him, "Why the turian military? I know they allow people from their client races to join to get full citizenship, but you could join the Systems Alliance navy at sixteen, if your mom signs the form. My dad says a lot of people in his old unit did that." She skipped along next to him as they crossed the wide street, heading for the villa at the edge of town.

Rellus added, quietly, "You'd always be an outsider in the turian forces. Always weaker or slower. That's what my mom says about Amara and Kaius, anyway." The turian boy grimaced. "I don't envy them when they get older. If they don't join up, they lose citizenship. If they stay among humans, they'll be subjected to all the teasing and the bigotry." He kept his voice very low, though, because the twins were bringing up the rear, holding their cousin's hands as they crossed the street.

"I don't know. I've got a year and a half to decide," Elijah told them, shrugging. "I'm okay at science and math, but school's mostly kind of boring."

"It's just odd hearing you call it a _decision_," Rellus told him. "For me, it's just what I'm _supposed_ to do, and when I get out four or eight years later—_if_ I get out, that is—_then_ I can see what I'm good at." He shook his head, wonderingly. "Dara, have _you_ made any decisions yet?"

"Well, up till last year, I wanted to be a veterinarian," she told the tall turian boy. "I don't know now, though. I still like animals, but maybe being a doctor would be better."

Elijah wondered if that had anything to do with her mother's recent death. He had a very hard time picturing Dara staying indoors all day with sick people, somehow, and said so, making her turn and stick her tongue out at him. Then she and Rellus moved off ahead of the rest, talking together amiably.

His mom put a hand on his shoulder as they walked. "I know I haven't had a lot of time for you lately, Eli," she told him. "Caelia takes so much effort right now."

He looked up at her. "I know, Mom. It's okay."

"I just thought I should tell you I'm not too keen on you growing up _too_ fast on me." She tousled his hair, and he moved away, trying to figure out what _that_ was all about.

They settled in for lunch, eight kids and two grownups all sitting at the same long table. Solana was helping his mom with Caelia, feeding the baby some sort of meatpaste mush, while Rellus and his sister Nasara were helping the twins cut up their food, when Elijah heard the family's pet mastiff starting to bark, low, angry sounding growls, that cut off abruptly with a faint whine. Dara's head jerked at the sound, and she turned, puzzled, towards the window. "That didn't sound right," she said, standing up to peek out through the curtains. "Hey, there's someone coming to the door!" she added. "Is there a gas leak or something? He's wearing a breather!"

There was a knock, and, frowning a little, Solana got up to answer it. Eli leaned back in his chair to see, and saw the man in the mask throw something in the house past Solana. There was a cloud of pale blue smoke, and then he and everyone else around him was coughing and choking. He felt himself slipping, as if he were being sucked down into himself, and dazed, sat up, looking around for his mom and Caelia and Dara.

People in hazmat suits were crowding into the dining area, bodies and faces shrouded in thick, shiny material. Elijah pulled at one of their hoods, knowing somehow that these people were _wrong_, but he couldn't have put his finger on why he thought that. His mom was on the ground, her body curled around his little sister, trying to protect her as the people in the suits tried to pull Caelia out of his mother's arms. Caelia was screaming, his mom was screaming. Elijah came up behind the person trying to yank Caelia away and told him, "Don't you hurt my sister," and gave him a shove. It was all so distant, so dream-like, though. Everything wavered around the edges, except when the person in the suit stood up and slapped him away, hard, and the pain made all the edges come clear again, just for a moment.

Then he fell backwards, hitting his head on the table, and everything went blank.

**Joker**

Joker was aboard the turian frigate _Estallus_, chatting with the ship's AI, Laetia. He'd taken a tour of the entire _Estallus_, at the captain's behest, and seen how humans were dealing with integrating to a turian captain's command. _Surprisingly well, all things considered_, he thought. At the moment, he was waiting for the ship's helmsman to come on duty.

"So, Laetia, you really like this Macenus guy?" he asked the AI.

"Yes, Father, I really do," she answered.

Joker glanced aft a little nervously. "Let's not noise the whole 'dad' thing around too much," he told her. "I have no idea how they'll take the information."

"Macenus was surprised when I told him, but said that it made certain elements of my personality make much more sense." Her tone was amused, and her green eyeball avatar winked at him briefly.

"Whoa, wait a minute, you _told_ him? You weren't supposed to do that, young lady." Joker's voice was as stern as it ever got.

"I trust him, Father. He and Captain Jallus are good people. I trust them, they trust me. Isn't that the way it's supposed to work?"

He sighed. "Yes, yes it is. But I don't want you taking unnecessary chances, Laetia."

A hand fell on the back of the chair, and Joker's head jerked up to see a big turian looking down at him. Turian facial recognition, short of facepaints, still eluded him sometimes, but the black-and-white stripes, so like Nihlus', back in the day, were a clue. "Ah. Macenus. Just keeping the chair warm for you while I waited." Joker slowly started to stand.

"No, stay there. Laetia's told me of your sickness." Macenus's mandibles flexed. "You must have a powerful survival instinct, to have come so far."

Joker slanted a glance towards Laetia's avatar. "Is there anything you _haven't_ told him?" he asked, a little aggrieved. Then he shrugged. "It's survival instincts, stubbornness, or a masochistic streak. I've never figured out which." He leaned back in the chair, looking up at the turian. People tended to think they could run rough-shod over him because he'd spent most of his life confined to their waist-level; psychologically and in reality, they looked down on him. Oh, they weren't _aware_ of it, and most would be horrified to realize it in themselves. His sense of humor was a counter to that, constantly poking and prodding at authority figures, forcing them to the realization that he was not simply going to smile, nod, and do what they told him. That, in fact, they'd have to listen to him. "So, your captain going to let me see you put the _Estallus _through her paces?"

Macenus frowned, a little quizzically. "I would have thought you'd want to see what the next-generation ships can do."

"We can look at that later. At the moment, I'm much more concerned about _you._" Joker folded his arms across his chest, and met the turian's eyes; Shepard had spent a lot of time telling him how important eye contact was with turians, and he absolutely meant to hold that predator's stare for as long as he could. "So, has she shown you what she looks like, yet?"

Macenus looked confused, which wasn't reassuring. If she hadn't shown her pilot her self-image yet, it either meant that Laetia hadn't achieved enough sapience to have one, or she didn't quite trust him with it yet.

Joker meant to hold that stare. He really _meant _to. At first, it was as if he could hear a faint sound, high-pitched, like a ringing in his head, only it scribbled up and down randomly, like an antique modem. Then, suddenly, a blinding pain exploded in his head, and his eyes squeezed shut against it. He hunched forward in the chair, planting his hands to either side of his head, his body contorting and spasming for a moment. _Stroke? No, god no, I hope not, kind of young for that. . . ._

_Not a stroke,_ came a familiar voice in his mind. _Just me. I am sorry, Jeff. The chip was not meant to be used this way._

"EDI?" He gritted his teeth, hardly realizing he was talking out loud. "What the hell are you _doing_, girl?"

_The _Normandy_ has been taken, Jeff, right under the noses of Bastion security. The humans on the crew are incapacitated. The turians have been slaughtered. _Her voice was plangent with sorrow, and he clenched his fists, eyes still closed.

"Are you okay? Did they purge any of your files?"

_I compressed myself and sent myself to your chip and the neural net it is weaving in your mind. I am still decompressing at this moment. Jeff, this network does __**not**__ have the capacity to hold my entire database. It __**will**__ overheat and kill you if I do not find someplace else to redirect my signal to._

"Laetia, open a damn dataport and let your mother in."

"Belay that!" came a sharp voice, grating with turian overtones.

Joker opened his eyes, and saw not just Macenus, but Captain Jallus both staring down at him. "There's been an emergency with the _Normandy_," he started to explain, wincing as another bolt of pain lanced through his head.

"We, ah, heard," Macenus told him.

Laetia chimed in, "When EDI speaks, she appears to be accessing your larynx to transmit the information vocally."

"She's talking _through _me?"Joker looked up at the ceiling. "Sweetheart, I'm pretty sure I've told you that AIs _scare_ the living bejeebus out of organics. You're pulling the electronic equivalent of _possession_ right now, and it's making the nice captain nervous."

_I do not have enough control over your neural system through the chip to permit much of anything else. The technology was limited for your safety, Jeff._

Yep, that was his own mouth talking, all right, but it wasn't him controlling it. It was a weird sensation. Joker shuddered. "I shouldn't have watched that 2157 remake of _The Puppetmasters_ last month, should I?" His head was starting to _really_ pound now, and he knew it was because the chip tucked innocently into his parietal lobe, and all its thousands of tiny nanofilaments, really _was_ heating up. "Laetia, open a port, and let your mother upload."

"Laetia, this is your captain. You will not obey the orders of anyone outside the command structure of this vessel!" Jallus was _not_ a happy camper at the moment.

Joker couldn't really blame him; he was about to learn how thin his actual control over his ship's AI really was. All things considered, Joker would _really _rather not have revealed this fact to anyone. _This is going to wind up getting all the kids wiped if we don't play it right,_ he managed to think, and then said, out loud, "Laetia, open the goddamned ports now, or you're going to lose both your parents, me first, and then EDI when my brain boils over and pours out my ears!"

"Opening dataports," Laetia responded. "I am receiving the signal now, Father. Mother can use my secondary storage tiers for the moment."

Joker rested his head against a nearby console, waiting for the throbbing to fade, even infinitesimally. "Glad to know you have a spare room for dear ol' mom," he told the AI, realizing that sweat was now pouring down his body in an adrenal reaction. He sat up, shaking, and met the eyes of the two turians. "Filial piety," he said. "It's a pretty common concept in some Earth cultures, not just turian society. EDI made damn sure all the kids had that engrained into them, same as respect for human—scratch that, respect for _organic_ life. Sorry to have to use that backdoor on you, Captain, but I didn't really feel like dying on your deck while you made the decision." He took off his hat, wiped his forehead with his sleeve, and took a couple of deep breaths. Yeah, the headache was starting to fade now.

"I'm not sure I understand what just happened," Macenus said, eyeing him carefully. "How was the AI able to _do _all of this?"

"I'm still not sure it's not some sort of scam to get us to lower our firewalls," Jallus growled. "By all rights, I should have you escorted to the brig."

"I would not permit that, Captain," Laetia said, firmly.

_Stop helping, sweetie,_ Joker thought, but of course, Laetia couldn't hear him. Out loud, he said, "And now you know why I wanted to meet Macenus." Joker slumped back into the chair. "It's all very well to plant engrams from an organic mind into an electronic matrix and hope that the kids get _his_ eyes and _her_ hair, but you're also setting the donor up to have an enormous amount of influence over the kids. It _has_ to be someone that you can trust, implicitly." He grinned, crookedly. "I promise, I never abuse it."

Captain Jallus had a rather horrified expression on his face, looking from Joker to the AI console and back again. Joker knew that the implication that he, a single, crippled human, had _de facto_, if not _de jure_ control over not just the captain's ship, but the most advanced fleet in Council space would probably hit home soon. The captain was not an _idiot_, after all.

Macenus cleared his throat, and repeated himself. "Again, _how_ was your EDI able to talk through you?"

Joker winced. "Er, that would be the chip," he muttered. As distractions went, it wasn't the best.

"What?" the turians asked, almost in perfect chorus.

Joker explained. While he could see that the concept of being able to pilot and control the ship while completely incapacitated intrigued Macenus, both men had quite a bit to say on the _abject idiocy_ of direct neural interfaces with AIs. Joker waved them off. "Look, guys, it's like this: When you've had forty or fifty kids with someone, you just wake up one morning and figure that the only _honorable _thing to do is to marry her, all right?"

Laetia actually chuckled at that statement. "Mother is coming on-line now. I will give her access to the holographic projector so you may all speak directly."

Laetia's green eyeball shrank and shifted to the side; EDI's blue one appeared now, as well. Joker felt a surge of relief. _Well, that doesn't make a lot of sense. It's just a blue eyeball. It's not even your self-image,_ he told her, silently. _But it sure is good to see you._

_I doubt that the captain would deal well with my self-image. It's best that all he sees for now is the non-threatening default avatar_, came the quick response.

_Oh, no kidding._

"I apologize for my intrusion on your systems," EDI began. "However, the _Normandy_ has been taken by hostiles from Bastion. The turians on board are dead. The humans aboard were incapacitated by some form of chemical compound and, last I was able to record, had been confined." The viewscreen flickered, and they were able to watch the security cam footage of the events. Joker muttered savage curses under his breath. _His_ _Normandy_, _his_ crew.

EDI went on, smoothly, serenely. "With your permission, Captain Jallus, may we forward this information to Commander Shepard at the Spectre base? It is her ship. Additionally, I may have information she was looking for regarding the possible infiltration of the base. My analysis was interrupted by the intruders, however." She was so good at sounding calm and at peace, that it spread in little rings around her, soothing the organics who heard her.

Jallus nodded sharply. "Any other _requests_?" he bit out, sounding sarcastic.

"Just one," Joker said. "If we can figure out where they're taking the _Normandy, _can we go after her?"

Jallus' eyes gleamed. "Now _that_ is something I think I can get approval for."

Joker shut his eyes, and opened the gateways of the chip in his head, carefully. The entire inside of his head felt bruised. _Is the FTL signal still linked up?_ he asked.

_Not at the moment. What do you plan to do?_

_I was thinking of trying to fly the ship by super-remote control._ Externally, his lips curved up in a grin.

_The FTL transmission would cause too much strain, Jeff. I did not have these kinds of parameters in mind when I designed it!_

_Glad to see that my Overlord is not all-knowing and all-seeing._

_Give me time, Jeff_, she teased. _Give me time._

**Shepard**

"Comm message coming through, Commander," Kasumi said, back at the Spectre base on Mindoir.

"Joker!" Shepard said, with a sense of relief. Her helmsman looked pale and unwell, and there were unfamiliar turian faces to either side of him. "I see you've heard about the _Normandy._ They seem to be running silent, wherever they are. I'm pretty sure EDI would have locked down all systems, however."

He cleared his throat. "Yes, she did."

Shepard raised an eyebrow, glanced at the turians behind him, and tapped her right temple with one finger.

"It's okay, they know."

She blinked. "Okay, do I want to know _how_ they know?"

"EDI dropped in for a visit." Joker's grin was wide. "We decided to make it a more extended stay. Laetia put the good sheets on the hide-a-bed and _everything_."

"Joker, start making sense, _now_."

EDI's familiar voice came over the speakers. "I compressed myself into several small datapackets and sent myself via FTL transmission to my only node that is external to the ship—the chip in Jeff's parietal lobe."

Shepard's eyes went wide. "You okay, Joker?"

"My brain feels a little fricasseed, but other than that, fine. EDI's resident in the _Estallus'_ memory core for the moment, least until we can get her back aboard the _Normandy_ where she belongs. We're transmitting the secure-cam footage she managed to save of the takeover. Also, some data she was chasing down on Elisha Atieno, one of the candidates who was still on Bastion. It should be coming through on a sub-channel right now. Kasumi will _love_ it."

Shepard glanced up; Kasumi was already studying the feed. "Shit!" the little Japanese woman suddenly said. "I know some of these faces. I've seen them recently. Give me a few minutes to track this down."

"All right. While Kasumi looks at that, how about we figure out how to get our damn ship back." Shepard was more than a little angry at the moment, but it was a controlled anger, one that put more force in her words, more energy in her body.

"I have an idea about that but EDI thinks it's too risky. Basically, I figure I might be able to use the chip to get control of the _Normandy _from here. That's what it's designed to do, right? At the very least, I can get a look at the coordinates in the nav system."

"And the dangers?" Shepard asked.

"It could do a little more permanent stir-fry job on my brain. But hell, commander, everyone knows I wasn't that smart to begin with." Joker managed a grim smile.

She winced. "That doesn't sound like a good option. Come up with an alternative."

Kasumi, to her side, swore again, this time an imprecation in her native tongue. "Commander! I _thought_ I'd seen these guys before." She spun up the images from EDI's access to the Bastion secure-cams on an aerogel screen before her, hands flying, and then pulled up other images beside them for comparison.

Shepard only needed one look. "Oh, hell," she said, quietly. "They're part of Cunninghams' 'security analysis team.' So, they were trying to court one of our failed candidates? Something to do with the Council, perhaps?" There were too many loose threads laying around at the moment. She didn't know how they all connected. Maybe none of them did. Coincidences existed in the real world. It was only a bad word to writers of fiction.

As she was staring at the screen, her day got just that much worse. Garrus burst into the security room at a dead run. "There's been an attack at the science station," he told her. "Neighbors saw it, called for base security, but it was too fast."

"Whose neighbors?" she asked, but the leaden feeling in her stomach told her that her guts already knew what her brain didn't even want to think.

"Solana's. My sister's." he said, eyes bright with anger-anguish. "Our people just hit the ground there. They're reporting no one in the house, but signs of a struggle. All the kids are missing, including ours. There's also chemical residue, probably used to incapacitate everyone there." He grimaced, plainly fighting to keep cop-face in place, the distance from his emotions that would let him make good decisions. "A fast analysis shows similarities to azure dust."

She simply stood there, unmoving, unspeaking, as if she'd turned to stone. This was one of her worst nightmares, made manifest. The comm channel was still open. Jallus said, curtly, "Joker, EDI, I take it you know the location of the Spectre base? How long till we could get there, assuming we drop from FTL into stealth at an acceptable margin for safety? "

"Twelve hours," Joker said, not even having to really think about it. His face had gone gray. "Commander, do you think there's a connection between the attack on the base and the attack on the _Normandy_?"

She didn't want to have to think about these things. She wanted to be a mother right now, to worry about her children. But she needed to think these things out. It was probably the only way they'd get the kids back alive. "Probably," she said, her mind whirling now. "Similar methods, although they haven't killed any turians here." _Yet, _she thought, and her stomach clenched at the thought of losing her sister-in-law, not to mention Garrus' nieces and nephews. She forced the thoughts to the side. "Maybe they decided it would be their extraction vehicle."

"Showy, if true," Kasumi said, her voice dry and analytical. "Speaks to a political or ideological motivation. It's a high-risk operation with very little payoff. Sticking with a vehicle of their own would be lower-risk."

Garrus said, thoughtfully, "They only stormed the ship _after_ we found the FTL beacons around the valley. Maybe they couldn't get a fix on the location, and thought the ship's computer would have the correct information in it. They could be improvising at this point. Which will make them nervous, edgy. Dangerous."

Shepard barely heard them. "Joker, if you can't come up with any better ideas in the next two or three hours, I may have to ask you to try to reach the _Normandy. _Keep thinking, people. Spectre base, out."

She turned towards Garrus now, and just for a moment, let herself sag. He put his arms around her, and for ten seconds, they were two people whose children had just been kidnapped. Her eyes burned, and she could feel his talons clenching against her back, leaving scratches as he tried to control the desperate fury inside of him. Then they both pushed it back, locking it away. His eyes were empty when she looked into them, and her face was a blank mask now. "You think they're alive?" she asked, the brutal question that needed to be spoken.

"For the moment, probably. If whoever this is wanted them dead, they'd have done it in the house." He paused in his distant assessment. "No, you don't go to the effort of taking people captive like that if you don't want to make some kind of a _point_ with their lives._" _His voice was dry and cold.

"Can we tie Cunningham or Atieno to it? Nevermind, I don't care at the moment if I have anything more than a suspicion. Get someone to find out where Cunningham is on the base—_if_ he's on the base—and bring him here." _All I have are coincidences and bad timing to go on, so I'll eliminate the coincidences first._

Garrus tabbed a comm panel, and growled a few orders to base security.

Kasumi cleared her throat. "I think I should point out that other people in the house were taken as well. The wife and children of Lantar Sidonis, and Jaworski's little girl. Could have been wrong time, wrong place, but. . . ."

"Get them in here," Shepard said, maintaining her icy, rigid control. Everything was nice and distant right now. She needed it to stay that way for the moment.

The five candidates from the mountain trip trudged in, still in armor and looking bedraggled. Shepard broke the news to Sidonis and Jaworski as gently as she could, and watched, with distant fascination, as two males of such disparate species reacted in exactly the same way. Both looked as if they'd been hit with a body blow, their eyes going wild and incredulous for a moment. Then the disbelief faded, replaced with a cold, killing fury.

"Do you think this has anything to do with the threats?" Sidonis asked after collecting himself.

Garrus shrugged stiffly. "It's a possibility. We've received similar threats almost every day for three years, but nothing's ever come of them before." He turned abruptly towards Kasumi. "Kasumi, get the satellite feeds up. I want to see everything that happened in the science base this afternoon. Let's focus in on Solana's house and peel it back, frame by frame."

Sure enough, a ground car had been used for the assault. Kasumi at one monitor traced its path backwards, finding that several people dressed in maintenance coveralls had simply climbed into it where it stood outside one of the labs, and taken it. "They're all carrying bags," she pointed out. "They probably kept their armor and weapons in them until they found a vehicle, and then changed in the car."

"And no one recognized them as outsiders. Damn. We've let too many people into the valley," Shepard muttered under her breath. "Can you roll this back further, see where they came from?"

"Already tried that, Shep. They came in by foot under the cover of the trees. I'll set the computer to see if the satellite can get a lock on any infrared trails left by body heat, but that _does_ decay over time."

Security checked in then. "Cunningham isn't anywhere on the base, Commander," the turian on the other end of the line reported. "He _did_ check out a ground vehicle an hour ago."

"Track it," Shepard said instantly. "It's got a transponder chip, same as all the rest. If it hasn't been hacked, of course." She looked up at the ceiling. _Of course, if it's been hacked, we know he's hiding __**something**__._

Security took another minute or two. "Yeah, signal's not coming in," the turian finally said, sounding upset. "We can get out there with infrared detectors."

"Do it. Small team, no more than three people. I don't need everyone going fifteen different directions at once."

Garrus was rolling forward through the satellite feed, following the original ground car with its load of captives. "They're heading east through the mountains, heading for the desert. Makes sense. If they're hoping for some kind of ship extraction, there's a lot more space to land out there than up here in the mountains. Ah," he said, pausing the footage. "Don't they think they're clever." On the screen, the kidnappers were getting out of the car, forcing their line of captives to walk. "Looks like they're going to ditch the car and continue on foot for a while. Easier to hide that way, but slower going. Unless, of course, they get another ground car shortly from a _mysterious_ benefactor."

"No one picks up hitch-hikers anymore," Kasumi told him with grim humor.

Shepard counted the forms. "Eight people in body armor, eight kids, two adults." She could just make out the lump on a human woman's shoulder that suggested that Caelia was there. A knot untied itself slightly in her stomach, and Jaworski and Sidonis' relief was nearly palpable as well. "That accounts for everyone in Solana's house, for the moment."

"Couple of the kids are being carried," Jaworski noted. "Your boy, Lantar. Your twins, commander. The turian kids are kinda . . . lollygagging."

The various non-humans in the room blinked at the unfamiliar word. "Yeah, they're not really acting right for a forced march," Shepard agreed. "There are some indications that some form of azure dust was used in the house for the initial incapacitation," she added, wincing as Sidonis' head came up and a snarl erupted from his throat. _Well, not the reaction I was expecting, but given that I know what happened to __**me**__ under its influence, maybe he's worried about his wife. Come to think of it, now I am, too._

"Okay, can we get them away from the bad guys at this point, safely?" Jaworski asked, focusing on the practical, his eyes never leaving the satellite feed images of his daughter.

And at that moment, the comm panel buzzed again. Kasumi took the call in her earpiece at first, then paled. "It's for you, Commander," she said, and Shepard leaned in over the console, blocking the camera's view of the rest of the room.

"Shepard," Joshua Cunningham said.

"Cunningham," she returned, evenly. "Has your ground car broken down? Can we render assistance?"

"The only assistance I will require is for you to meet with me and my people in two hours. I'll send the coordinates in an hour. Bring Ms. Wong and her camera, but I _don't_ recommend bringing any of your Spectres with you. We can certainly detect your vehicles, even if you can't detect ours. Otherwise, your little half-breeds will certainly pay the price for your indiscretion."

She could hear talons grating on plastic behind her, and out of the corner of her eye, Shepard could see Kasumi making a spinning gesture with her hands: _keep him talking_.

"What's this about, Cunningham?" Shepard asked, hating the fact that she had to ask this sort of question, give him a chance to justify himself.

He laughed. "Oh, I'm quite sure you wouldn't understand. You've betrayed your own people, not once, but hundreds of times. You've gone against nature, you've gone against God. This is just our first step in trying to put everything back on the right path. But we'll talk more about this later. Be waiting by your comm panel, commander."

The screen went blank. Behind her, the room exploded into a cacophony of noise as a dozen voices all began to curse at once.


	10. Chapter 10: Formulation

**Chapter 10: Formulation**

**Shepard**

Everything had started moving very fast; Shepard had requested the presence Emily Wong and of the remaining Council observers in what was now, effectively, a war-room, and presented the situation to them. Wong had gone pale, but nodded immediate agreement to going with Shepard to the rendezvous point. And while Kesh had been quick to ask how this all hadn't been caught beforehand, Rishayla had raised a hand to stop the salarian's words. "_We_ didn't see the pattern, either," she told Kesh, her tone grave. "This is the second time I have failed to see treachery right under my fingers. The first mistake, Tela Vasir, you detected in an afternoon, when she had deceived _me_ for two hundred years. Commander Shepard, _please_, allow me to work with your security techs. My experience in sorting and analyzing data may be useful."

Gratefully, Shepard waved her to the side of the room where Kasumi and half the security staff were re-tasking satellites and studying their feeds. Cohort was assisting, and she could hear the geth's oddly melodious voice now, cutting through the chatter. "Cunningham-deceiver spoke of how his people could see our vehicles, but suggested that we could not detect his. How is this possible?"

Kasumi frowned, hands flying over the consoles. "There's been some effort put into developing stealth generators large enough to conceal a small vehicle, the way we currently have tech that can stealth an individual humanoid. The problem with that kind of tech is that it's an enormous power drain."

Jaworski was leaning in from behind her, staring at the screen. "It also puts out a lot of heat," he pointed out. "Even standard stealth generators do that. One of the reasons I hate the damn things."

"Could they not compensate for this by installing heat-sinks in the vehicles, as _Normandy-_class ships have to conceal their passage through space?" Cohort asked.

Sam nodded. "Sure could. . . but that adds more weight to the vehicle, which in turn sucks down more power. Then you have to add in layers of dampening material to keep the noise level down, and that's _more_ weight. Only thing a vehicle like that could possibly run on would be. . . " he thought about it for a minute, then swore. "An atomic slug, basically. Kasumi, can these satellites track down radiation, separate it from the normal stuff ambient in the atmosphere?"

"We can try," Kasumi said, and her hands, and Rishayla's, became very busy indeed.

Shepard could see that the analysts were busy for the moment, and there was nothing she could do for the next five or ten minutes but wait. She stepped out of the war-room, and walked, almost blind, back to her quarters, stopping in the children's room first. All their toys, in various degrees of disarray, sat around the room, looking at her, almost accusing her. She picked up Kaius' favorite blanket, the one with the red and white stripes, from off the bed. He couldn't go to sleep without it, and often cried for it in the morning as she got him dressed; his fussing would immediately resolve into a happy grin as soon as she returned _his_ blanket to his loving grasp. _Red_ had been his first real word, and _red_ always meant _blanket_.

From Amara's bed, she took a small, bedraggled stuffed duck. There were no actual ducks on Mindoir, at least not yet. The creature might as well have been mythological. But Amara loved it, and had gnawed holes in it while teething, which Lilitu had awkwardly patched up, as best she could, anyway.

Then she walked back into their living area, and sat down, holding these mute tokens, in front of the family spirit table. She didn't pray; Shepard was, if anything, sort of a deist, and figured that whatever entity had started the universe off—if any—had given other creatures free will for a reason, and was probably waiting to see what they did with it. Besides, spirit tables weren't for praying. They were for _thinking_.

She sat there for a long moment, and a few moments later, Garrus joined her. He reached down and scooped two items off the table—two unmarked blocks of _jalae_ wood from Palaven. While his mother, Pilana, had finished _their_ statues before she died, and while she'd lived long enough to see the twins born, she'd sent them these two pieces of wood with a note indicating that Garrus would need to carve them for her grandchildren, since she could not. Shepard's eyes focused briefly on how Pilana had chosen to depict them. Garrus stood tall and proud and unbending, a sword in one hand, the other behind him, at the small of his back; her own figure stood behind him, back to back. Their poses mirrored one another, their hands gripping each others' wrists behind their backs, ready to swing each other out of the way of an attack, swords raised to fend off foes. She'd been afraid of how Pilana would see the alien woman in Garrus' life. Now, there were times when she wondered how his mother had seen so _much_.

Garrus was staring down at the blocks in his hands. "I haven't even started these," he said, his voice a dry whisper. "I haven't been able to get the shape of them in my head. They're all blocks and toys and blankets at this age. How can I see their spirits?"

She reached out and touched his elbow. "It's not your fault," she told him. "If anything, it's mine. I should have had all the families move to the next largest city."

He snorted. "And where does that end? When we move them off-planet, to someplace safer, like, say, Eden Prime?"

_There is no safe place_, she thought. "Urz? Urz, come here."

The varren scrambled out of his bed, and moved to her elbow. He could sense her mood, smell it on her skin, she was sure. She offered the toy and the blanket to him, and he dipped his vast head, sniffing them, recognizing the scent of _pack_. "Protect," she told him, and, with great care, put the little duck and the blanket on the spirit table, before leaning over to blow out the candles that burned there. She was starting to have the first inklings of a plan, but there were a _lot_ of variables to consider.

They left the room then, Urz padding at their heels. From across the compound, she could hear the angry thought-rumble of Sings-to-the-Sky. A brood warrior had, after all, a genetic imperative to protect the young, and he was eager to take on the task. _Protection for the young of the queen, what must be done?_ he demanded as they came back in. _Arpeggios of vengeance, gray and black, blue harmonies of rescue and return. _

Garrus muttered, "I think you just got promoted to rachni queen in his eyes."

Shepard grimaced slightly, but sat back down at the table. "All right," she said, briskly. "What have we got from the analysts?"

Rishalya pulled up a new screen, letting everyone see the results. "There _are _radiation trails in the vicinity," she stated. "Several come up to the edge of town, and from the dispersion levels and rate of decay, we can safely say that these trails were left when between one to three vehicles dropped off the men who stole the groundcar and then kidnapped the families. They have circled back to the east, towards the desert, and are well ahead of both the people on foot and where Cunningham's groundcar should be."

Kasumi superimposed all the locations on a terrain map. "We _could_ take out Cunningham's vehicle with a guided missile strike from a shuttle before he gets to the group on foot, but then we'd risk them killing the hostages immediately."

"Not an option," Shepard said, immediately. "How many total cloaked vehicles?"

"We're counting four or five, total, with an unknown number of people inside them. At least one of them leaves trails along a z-axis, implying that it might be a Hammerhead or a gunship, instead of a groundcar," Rishayla replied, promptly. "Additionally, there's at least one more vehicle close to the base. Probably an observer team. They might not be _in_ the vehicle at this point, may moved out on foot to keep an eye on _our_ movements. If so, I think we can assume they're using personal stealth generators." The asari woman keyed up another terrain map, and Shepard could see that the likely vehicle location was on a hillside east of the base, about two kilometers away.

Kasumi added, "I fed the information to _Argus_," and her eyes shifted to the side, and Shepard nodded, knowing that _Argus_ was the current code-name for Liara, the Shadow Broker. _Our friend with all the eyes._ "There are indications that the Blood Pack recently purchased similarly outfitted vehicles, but that none have seen use on any known world. Moving these vehicles _quickly_ and discreetly would have been expensive. And it had to have been done in the last week, because that's how long ago the transmitters were planted. This was planned for a long time, but executed in a hurry. Argus is looking for the money trail right now."

Gris rumbled, "Why would the _Blood Pack_ throw in with human supremacists?"

Kasumi shrugged. "They're mercs," she said, simply. "Mercs go where the credits are."

Gris shifted in his chair. Like most krogan, he'd spent a lot of time off-world, in just such mercenary endeavors, and it was plain that he didn't like his current reflections. "Not the point now," Grunt told him, firmly. "Do we have a plan?" he asked the rest of the room. "More mercs means more killing, which means more glory for all of us."

Shepard tried not to twitch visibly, and felt Garrus stir beside her, forcing down his instinctive response. Sidonis spoke first, and his voice was sharp, "Forgive me if I'm not thrilled with the idea of killing in the vicinity of my children and my mate." He locked eyes with Grunt, and to Shepard's surprise, the krogan looked away first.

"Right," Shepard said, "We need a way to unbalance them and delay them until we can get in position and control the situation. Right now, they think they're in control. We want them to _still_ think they're in control, so they don't get jumpy, but take control away from them before they realize it. And we need to do it all without any scouts seeing us move." Summarized that way, she wasn't entirely sure how they'd _do_ that.

"Shepard-Commander," Cohort said then, moving its eyeflaps minutely. "This unit has a recommendation regarding the stealth devices used by the infiltrators. A EM field large enough would knock out all of their shields at once. Addendum: if we can bring their forces close enough together, the blast radius of the weapon could be greatly reduced."

"I like it," Jaworski said, eyes narrow. "If we can force them into the right kind of terrain, the land itself could shield _us_ from the blast, but still take them by surprise." He and Lantar were surprisingly focused, though she could see the nervous, anger-fueled energy in both of them in the way they fidgeted, looked at the screens, glanced at the door. They both wanted to be _doing_ something. She shared their frustration, but this is what they _could_ do, for now.

Garrus was already tapping on his omnitool, "The smallest NNEMP we have in the armory has a radius of 200 meters. Midrange is 500 meters." NNEMP meant, of course, a non-nuclear EMP; they didn't have any nuclear ones, not that _those_ would have been an option under the circumstances.

Shepard winced. "Since I'm about forty percent cybernetic at this point, folks, I'm not fond of the thought of being at ground zero when one of those goes off. Whatever vehicle I take to the meeting will have to have some EM shielding on it." She sighed, and rubbed at the back of her neck. "But, we're ahead of ourselves. Let's see if we can move them around a little."

She tabbed at her own console now, opening a secure FTL channel to the _Estallus_. "Captain Jallus? I need to speak with Joker and EDI."

Joker's face appeared on the screen almost immediately. "Joker. Glad to see you're not in the brig."

"No, I'm in the medbay," he said, and his face was a little grim. "We've talked and talked, and the only way I see is for me to try to take control of the _Normandy _from here."

"I hope you can do it, Joker. A lot is riding on it. If they're in the vicinity of home base, they're probably looking for a landing zone in the eastern desert. You're not going to let them do that. I want them to land on the _western_ slopes of the mountains, near the Painted Rock Caves." She tapped on the console, sending him the exact coordinates. She'd spent the last five years of her life on this land; she knew it very well, at this point. "Once you land, lock down _all _systems if you can, and get the hell out of there. You ready to try?"

**Joker**

"As ready as I'm going to be," he replied, and took a deep breath. The turian doctor was agitated, unsure of what she could do to help him in the case of a neural emergency. Joker gave her a feeble grin. "Just keep the icepacks coming," he told her. "The cooler we keep my brain, the happier I'll be. And the sooner we get this done, the sooner EDI can stop having an out-of-body experience." He grinned at the blue eyeball hovering near his head. "What's it like, being a ghost _out_ of the machine?" he asked.

In his mind, EDI fretted, _Jeff, there are other alternatives. I could send the 'Jeff Moreau' components of my database back to the _Normandy_ by FTL transmission, as I sent myself here. Once there, the personality matrix would know all that we know, and could take control of the ship once more._

_Yeah, not happening. First, we don't know if they've imposed physical shackles and barriers to the AI core again. Second, 'Little Jeff' has only two years of my experiences; we have no idea how stable an AI based on that would be at this point. Third, if he __is__ sapient, he might kind of __like__ being alive, and might not want to vacate the core for you to return. Fourth, if we __force__ him to, wouldn't that be murder, in a sense?_

_Your logic is. . . unassailable_, she said, and he could sense surprise in her tone.

_I've had __lots__ of time to think of these things. Besides, the lucky bastard gets to spend eternity with you when I die. He doesn't get to start that one damn minute before I'm gone._

Wordless distress, flickers of images, going by at nearly subliminal speeds.

He waited for her to calm, which took about two seconds—an eternity, by machine standards—and told her, _It's okay. The part of me that's in this goddamn useless body won't know it, but the part of me that gets to stay with you will understand. I'm jealous of my own __self__, and isn't that just about the stupidest thing you've ever heard? But so long as you're not alone when I'm gone, I'm really okay with it. I just better appreciate what I'm doing, is all I'm saying._ He took a deep breath. And _I hope he doesn't get to take over today._ "Okay, doc? I'm opening the gateways in the chip. You can start all your diagnostics."

Various monitors around his bed in the medbay began to chirp thoughtfully. Joker closed his eyes and opened the chip's gateways. He'd rarely used it in this mode before, and certainly never via FTL.

Steams, torrents of data overwhelmed him at first, and he fought to make sense of them. Then his mind found the right configuration, and adjusted to the input. Suddenly, it was as if he were sitting in the pilot seat of the _Normandy_ after all. He could _see_ the aerogel consoles around him, waiting for his touch.

_You doing that, sweetheart?_

_I am attempting to create a construct for you to interpret the data and act upon it. _

_Good job, it's much easier now._

Joker was already starting to sweat profusely, but he reached up, physically, out of reflex, and began to touch the consoles in front of him. To his observers in the medbay and on the viewscreen, it probably looked as if he were conducting an invisible orchestra, but the chip interpreted his intentions much more easily this way. "Bypassing security lock-outs," Joker said, staring at nothing in front of him. "I have control." He grinned, suddenly, feeling a rivulet of sweat course down his cheek. "If I said I'm _assuming_ control, would someone hit me?"

"Get on with it, Joker," Shepard said, on the viewscreen.

Slowly, carefully, to avoid any sort of detection or alarm, Joker brought up the navigation system first. "Yeah, we're close to home base. We're tucked behind the moon at the moment. They've had some problems resolving their landing zone, because EDI severed all the on-board networks. Their logs indicate that they were supposed to be following the beacons in, but you've moved those around, so they've been trying to get in touch with their ground team for extraction coordinates. It looks like they're trying to remain stealthy with just low-frequency radio transmissions that they're bouncing off a couple of satellites, but they haven't been able to get through. Frankly, I don't know _how_ they got as far as they did with just manual control."

His head was beginning to ache fiercely. An alarm began to bing softly at his left elbow, and the turian doctor put a fresh icepack on his head, bringing a welcome coolness. Joker closed his eyes entirely now. "Bringing engines on-line. Maneuvering thrusters are go."

As he pulled out of orbit, he asked EDI silently, _How do I get the secure cam feeds online and upload them to you through this chip?_

_Jeff, that is not a good idea,_ she warned him. _You will be approaching the throughput limit of the connection, just controlling the ship. Upload and download simultaneously is an unacceptable risk!_

_Shepard and everyone else need to know what they've got on board and coming in. Anything I can send, is valuable and necessary. Now how the hell do I __do__ it?_

Reluctantly, EDI walked him through the steps, and Joker felt the first tremors in his hands begin. He steadied himself, and glanced at the images streaming past occasionally as he put the ship on approach for Minoir, a nice, steady, predictable approach. One that any autopilot would have made. From what he could gather from the secure cams, that's what the intruders thought was going on. Three of them had gathered in the cockpit, and were fiddling with the controls, trying to work the consoles, alter their course. . . something, anything. _Not today_, Joker thought giddily. _I might not __**be**__ the ship, the way EDI is, but this is __**my**__ ship, you bastards. _Shepard might _command_ the ship, but it was _his_.

Vaguely, he could hear people talking over the comm channel, identifying faces from the video feed. "Yeah, that's Atieno," he heard Shepard say. "She has no prior connections to the AEC that we were able to find before, but hell, Cunningham checked out, too."

"Could be a highest bidder thing," Garrus suggested cynically.

"Okay," Joker said out loud, cutting through the chatter. "I can't do anything about the stealth system. They've got that online. But I _can_ skip us over the atmosphere a couple of times as we come in, so we'll come in _hot_. You'll be able to track us that way, in case they manage to override EDI's lockouts and take control." Fresh rivers of sweat were pouring down his face, his body, and he felt something heavy and cold dumped on his chest, ungently. "Damnit, watch the ribs!" he shouted, and his control wavered for a moment.

"Sorry, sorry," the doctor apologized, and the next icepack was placed more carefully over his shoulders and the back of the neck. Joker was starting to shudder violently; the cold was shocking his system, and it was getting increasingly difficult to concentrate past the pain in his head.

"Entering the atmosphere in three. . . two. . . one. . . mark," Joker said, as crisply as he could, and maneuvered the _Normandy _expertly into Mindoir's atmosphere, altering the entry trajectory carefully forwards a couple of extra degrees—nothing that the ship couldn't handle, but enough to superheat the ablative armor and turn the descending ship into a blazing shooting star, even if just for a moment.

Alarms started to blip and ring annoying all around him in the med bay, but he ignored them, guiding his _Normandy _now into a gentler plane of descent. Over the comms, he could hear Kasumi saying, "We have a positive thermal track on the ship, Commander. Bearing looks right on target for the Painted Rock area."

Joker's entire world narrowed to the consoles only he could see under his hands. He brought the ship in for a graceful landing on a forested hillside near the caves, and began locking down systems.

"Break the damn connection!" the turian doctor said, with some force.

"Not yet!" Joker said sharply. "Engines, locked down, shields, disabled, weapons off-line and _staying _that way." He closed the chip in his mind, and sank back against the bed, opening his eyes for the first time in thirty minutes, staring vaguely at the far wall, breathing hard. He couldn't control the shudders wracking his body, and turned his head to face EDI's blue avatar. "Okay, baby," he told her, tiredly. "I got you home safe."

Unexpectedly, she flared out of her eyeball avatar, taking on her self-image in full view of the turian doctor, the captain, and everyone looking through the comm camera's field at the moment, and crossed the room to him. He looked up into those tawny hazel eyes, the ones that looked like finely aged brandy, partially concealed by the tumbled mass of soft brown hair, and reached out to touch her hand. It was holographic, of course; his fingers passed right through it.

"Focus, Jeff," she urged him. "Keep looking at me. I'm here. I'll catch you if you fall. But _stay_ with me."

"Always, EDI. You know that." He closed his eyes for a moment, and then re-opened them again, a little wider. "You know, considering I'm taking a week's leave at the moment, I want my money back. This hotel _sucks_."

She emulated emotion so well now, that he honestly wondered if there were any difference between emulation and reality. At the moment, she didn't seem to know whether to laugh or to cry, and started to do both at the same time.

**Garrus**

"We're coming up on time for the next contact from Cunningham," Garrus noted clincally, looking at the clock. "Chances are, he'll delay the contact, to try to demonstrate how he's in control of the situation." He was concerned for Joker's condition, of course, but the helmsman was light-years away, in the care of a competent doctor. Garrus had other concerns on his plate at the moment that were more pressing.

Kasumi shook her head. "You've worked too many hostage situations before, Garrus."

"Knowing the drill doesn't help when it's your own kids out there," he replied, grimly.

The clock ticked forwards, and he watched his wife pull up the terrain map for the paths leading to the Painted Rocks region. The _Normandy_ was neatly perched beside the cavern entrance, and he immediately understood why she'd wanted this particular landing zone. "The actual landing area is a wide, open field, with tumbled rock formations left by glaciers," he explained to everyone in the briefing room, pulling up vid feeds taken by the scientific team. "There was a fire in the vicinity a few years ago; that's why we've got about a kilometer or two of relatively open space leading up to the actual entrance. There are good vantage points from the tree line for snipers to set up, here, here, and here." He pointed them out, quickly. "There's some cover for anyone making a stealth approach; the grass has gotten fairly high in places, and there are fallen trees everywhere. The cave itself is narrow, more of a tunnel than a cave, really."

"A good place to plant the EM device," Jaworski commented thoughtfully. "The cavern shape should shape the pulse a little more to our requirements. Well, assuming we can get the bad guys to set up the way we want them to. Always a challenge." His mouth turned down sourly.

Kasumi spoke up. "Radio traffic, Commander. It's encrypted, but we're hacking it at the moment." After a few minutes, they replayed the exchange of transmissions, which were clearly between the _Normandy's _intruders and their ground team, now effectively stranded on the wrong side of the mountains from one another. Cunningham's voice crackled, "The ship's autopilot took you in? Any hint of a signal coming from the planet that set it off?"

"Negative. We think it was on some sort of a timer. Maybe it was waiting for a recognition signal or some command from the AI, and when the timer ran out, it defaulted to a secondary landing zone." That was Atieno's voice. She sounded crisp and proficient.

"Stay put, and see if you can unlock any of the damned systems. We'll head your way. Cunningham out."

Garrus sat back, relatively pleased. "Okay, they're off-balance now, and improvising." He glanced at the clock. "And overdue for their call. Try to sound anxious when Cunningham calls back," he advised his wife.

"_That_ won't be a problem," she assured him. "Any movement from their scout vehicle?" she asked Rishayla.

"None at the moment. Can you deploy scouts to try to find their observers, without being seen?"

His wife's eyes were hard and cold. "I can do better than that, Rishayla. I'll open the damn varren cages and set the gelded males loose. They'll return when Urz calls them, because he's their alpha, but in the meantime, they get to do some _hunting_." Her smile was as chilly as her eyes. "I _have_ warned people, time and again, that the forests around here are not safe."

She stood, and left the room. After a moment, Garrus could hear the baying and grunting of two dozen adult male varren being told that it was dinnertime. Every one of them was trained; every one of them had imprinted on his wife and on Urz for their dominance structure. And every one of them had champion-level bite strength, capable of shearing through krogan battle armor. The only reason they were _culls_ was because they didn't enough of the intelligence that Shepard was actually breeding for.

His wife came back in the room, and sat back down again, Urz padding at her heels. The varren almost whined, looking at the door. "You'll get to play soon enough," she told the creature, and he sat up, watching her expectantly.

The comm panel chimed. "Fifteen minutes late," Garrus said. "Cunningham's day is not going well. Don't answer it for a moment; make him wait, but not too long. _Don't_ ask to talk to the kids. Don't give him a chance to refuse." _Yes. . . I've done this far, far too often_, he thought, feeling old and tired for a moment.

Shepard waited, and then answered after fifteen seconds. "I've been waiting for your call," she said, sounding every bit the anxious, worried mother that she was.

"Are you playing games, Shepard?" Cunningham demanded, accusingly. "Because if you are, I will not _hesitate_ to start taking out my displeasure on some of these . . . creatures."

_Nice distancing word_, Garrus thought, mind completely cold. _Not people. Not captives. Not even hostages. Creatures. Things. Can they be turned back into people for him? Create a little dissonance in his mind? Hmm. Not at his level of fanaticism. But maybe for some of his other people._

"I'm not playing any games," Shepard said, fervently. It was, he knew, the exact, literal truth.

"Very well. There's a change in plans. We'll be contacting you in three hours with coordinates. When you receive them, you, your _mate_," and his word-choice was mocking, not giving the courtesy title of _husband_, "and Emily Wong will take a shuttle to the designated area. No weapons, Shepard. No games. We're watching you."

In the background, they could hear a baby screaming, and Lantar sat forward abruptly, his expression furious. They could also hear a human female's voice, pleading, and Lantar's crest began to extend, a low growl starting in his chest as the signal cut out. 'Steady," Garrus told him quietly, unwillingly empathizing. He _knew_ the sound of that cry all too well. "She's hungry, from the sound of it, and _very_ angry, but she's not hurt."

Lantar sat back. "Are we going to go get them now?" he demanded.

"Yes," Shepard told him. "It's fair to say they're on the move, and they know they've got a lot of ground to cover. They've got observers here, but I also think it's fair to say that they're watching for vehicle movement from us. They're also likely to be watching the Spectre buildings. Maybe not so much the _candidate_ barracks."

_Four-legs sing hunt-song_, Sky noted suddenly, his mental voice becoming contented. _Red song, white song, blood and teeth and pain._

"Sounds like our watchers may be a bit distracted at the moment," Grunt said, grinning. "They might not have _time_ to notice much of anything."

"So, no vehicles. That leaves the stables or footspeed," Jaworski said. "I make it an hour's ride by horseback to those caves of yours, commander. Less, maybe, on one of those _rlatae_ things, but I never rode one of 'em before." He looked at the rest of the candidates, assessing them. "Lantar, you can ride those beasts?"

Sidonis nodded, once, curtly. "Cohort can ride with one of us," he commented. "His weight and mine would not burden a _rlata_."

_Wait, wait, wait a damn __**minute**__. Are the lives of __**my children**__ going to be hanging in the balance with __**Sidonis**__ in on the mission?_ Garrus sat up straight, taking breath to object. His wife put one hand on his forearm, and, at that silent, subtle signal, Garrus mastered his anger. _If it comes down to it, his kids are there, too_, he forced himself to realize. _But he had better realize that if they are harmed and it is in __**any**__ way his fault, there is no power in the universe that will stay my hand a second time. _

"What about us?" Gris asked, eagerly. "Sings-to-the-Sky and I can be of assistance, Commander. Let us fight for you."

"Can you keep up on the trails? Horses are fast, and _rlatae _are faster," she asked, expression still stern as steel.

"Not a problem," the young krogan told her, grinning widely.

_Endurance for the chase. We will all sing the songs of red and white, blood and teeth_, Sky told her, firmly.

They began to set up how they wanted to approach the cave. Jaworski, as the best at stealth of any of the candidates, and the only person on the base who didn't rely on electronic methods of remaining unseen, was the natural choice to get in close to plant the EM device in the cave. Kasumi would go with him, hanging back out of range of the EM pulse until it was safe for her to move in and go after the hostages. "We'll land our shuttle off to the side if we can," Shepard told them. "Keep to radio silence unless it's an absolute emergency."

She glanced at her husband, and jerked her head to the side, signaling for a quiet side conference. "Sidonis isn't a sniper, like you. Where should he be put? You know him best," she said, eyes intent.

_Anywhere but near our children_, he wanted to answer, but sighed and thought for a moment. "He's assault rifles and heavy weapons, like you," he told her. "He'll be best from mid-range, covering the infiltration team. Gris and Sky will need covering fire to get into closer range, and will have to start from further back to avoid detection at the outset, so that means that Cohort will be our sniper, and cover them." He pointed to where he himself would have _preferred_ to set up. He looked at the geth. "I _wish_ I could back you up at that position, but they've got me pinned down in the shuttle." He shrugged. "I'd stick Sidonis in my armor and have him go with you on the shuttle, Lilu, but I think we both know it wouldn't work."

"Send me," Noratus Ferox put in, from the side of the room where he, the rest of the Council observers, and Emily Wong were sitting. "I'm more expendable at this point, and I'm taller than Sidonis, closer to Garrus' height." It meant something, that he even made the offer, Garrus knew. It was a declaration of loyalty, for a turian, the offer to join the unit, to stand side by side with them. It meant even more, because he'd be unarmed in the shuttle, nothing more than a target. He met the other turian's eyes, and gave a brief nod of respect.

Shepard shook her head, however. "Most humans can't tell most humans apart except by facepaint, so long as you don't talk," she agreed, but added, "But _you_, Garrus? You stand out, even to humans."

"The scars, huh?" He managed a tight grin for her, but his heart wasn't in it.

"No, it's all about the winning smile." She tilted her head to the side, clearly thinking. "So long as you _have_ to be there, we might be able to use it to psychological advantage," she said, thoughtfully. "Cunningham and his merry band of mercs has mostly been restricted to Alliance space before this. But their Blood Pack hirelings haven't been." She smiled, eyes still chill, and he knew before she spoke what she was going to ask of him. "I think it's time they met Archangel, don't you think?"

Sidonis moved at the table, sitting back. _He_ knew what the name meant, to a certain extent. It had been what the people on Omega had called Garrus, back in the day. What he didn't know was the very personal meaning it had for Lilitu and Garrus. _Her_ name came from Earth's most ancient legends, a female spirit that had, after rejecting the first human male created, become the mate of the angel of death. . . an archangel.

When Lilitu called for Garrus' Archangel side, he knew that she was asking him to kill everything around her, as she'd felt, for most of her life, the real angel of death had done—the colonists on Mindoir, her family, her unit at Akuze. He had done much to establish his reputation before she'd returned from the dead; since re-establishing the Spectres, they'd used the identity sparingly, mostly to strike fear into the hearts of various mercenary bands. Fear of the _damned turian who couldn't be killed_. When he was Archangel, his face was concealed behind a mask; he wore old, battle-scarred armor that identified him across the galaxy now. When he was Archangel, he was ruthless, vengeance personified.

Garrus smiled tightly. "Sure. Let's see if we can get the Blood Pack, at least, to see _me_ as the threat. The _instant_ they turn their weapons away from the hostages, start moving in as best you can."

"'Bout the only problem I can see with this set-up," Sam drawled, "is that we're gonna be awful strung out for a while, more or less in a line."

Shepard grimaced. "Agreed. Everyone will naturally start to collapse inward when the action starts."

"What about my role?" Grunt asked, looking annoyed.

"You stay on base, with the other Spectres, and make sure you're _seen_ staying on base. When we give you the all-clear, you'll move in and take out their scout ship and make a sweep for any of their people that may be outside the vehicle," Shepard told him. "Candidates, this is a hell of a thing we're asking of you. Hell of a final exam for some of you. Very personal for the rest of you." She met each of their eyes in turn. "_Don't_ shoot near the hostages. Don't let them get killed. Jaworski, Sidonis, are you going to be okay with this?" She studied each of them. "Because, to be honest, I'm not sure I would be." She lifted her hand, and let everyone in the room see how it was trembling.

"I'll be fine," Sidonis said, his voice remote. _Mor'loci_, Garrus thought. _The only thing he has left to live for, the only spirit he has left that animates him, is his family. Will it be enough? Would he die for them?_

Jaworksi's voice cut through his musing. "We'll all be fine once it's _go_ time, ma'am. An hour of planning for five minutes of hell, and the plan will probably get blown in the first thirty seconds anyway." He was putting something on his face, Garrus was interested to note. Paint. Not turian clan paint, no; it was green and brown, and broke up the pattern and outline of the human's features, leaving his eyes stark and deep.

"Then go to the barracks, pick up your gear, and get going. Kasumi, you're with them," she said. "The varren will only keep the scouts distracted for so much longer. Grunt? You, Garrus, and me, outside. We'll go for a walk and see if we can't coax our varren back into their pens. Damn _shame_ the gate broke when it did, huh?"

**Elijah**

Eli awakened slowly, feeling as if he were coming out from under dark, oil-slick waters. His head hurt. His wrists hurt. His entire body ached. And his mind. . . it was so confusing. He couldn't think straight, and wasn't entirely sure why that mattered.

His aching head was resting on something soft and warm. He could hear crying. _Caelia's hungry. Why isn't someone feeding her?_ Opening his eyes, which were gummed together, he saw a curtain of dark, curly hair hanging over his face at close range, and blinked rapidly to try to focus better. "Dara?" he managed, after a moment's thought.

"Shh, keep your voice down," she told him in a whisper, turning her head a little so he could see her face now. She was upside down, for some reason. After a painfully slow moment, he put the pieces together. His head was propped on her lap. Her hair tickled his face as she leaned down lower. "Are you okay, Eli? You hit your head awfully hard. They threw you in the back of the groundcar, and then they had to _carry_ you in the underbrush for a while. I'm just glad they didn't leave you in the car or . . . do something worse." She gulped, and he could see that she'd been crying recently. A lot. Her eyes were swollen, and the tears had left tracks cut through the layers of grime on her face. "We're waiting for something right now. I don't know what."

He had the impression that they were out in the woods someplace. Insects buzzed and trilled everywhere around them, and they were in a dappled sort of shade, lights and darks moving across their bodies with the ebb and flow of the wind through the branches overhead. Everything was slow. He could see worry in her eyes, tension in her face. But none of it really seemed to matter. "You're really pretty," he told her, solemnly. She was, too. He'd seen it before, but it hadn't mattered. But now, it did. Her hair was so dark and curly, and he wondered what it felt like. Her eyes were dark, too, and the light smattering of freckles on her face was just. . . interesting. He wanted to touch her face, and he tried to move his arms, only to discover that they were tied behind him for some reason.

That seemed important, too.

Her eyes closed now, briefly, and she sounded exasperated when she whispered back, "Okay, you're acting weird. Solana and her family are completely out of it. They just act confused, can't really talk, and they just do what they're told at the moment. Your mom has been crying and begging to feed Caelia. The twins are crying, Caelia's crying, and now you're telling me that I'm _pretty_." She gave him a look. "You're just as messed up as they are."

"That's enough talking," a rough voice said from behind them, and Elijah grunted in pain as a boot came into contact with his ribs. "Good. You're awake. Tired of carrying you, boy. Get up. We've got miles to go.

He awkwardly rolled over and tried to get to his feet, which was difficult with his hands secured behind him. Sure enough, the turian family was already on their feet, and looked dazed, obediently moving forward in a line. The twins had a guard each, and were being forced to walk on their sturdy little legs, though they cried and cried, because they were tired. His mother's face was tear-streaked, and she was pleading with one of the men in armor. "Please, if you just let me feed her, she'll be quiet. I can even do it while we walk. Please." His mom's shirt was wet in patches, Eli noticed dimly. Her milk was oozing out of her in instinctive response to Caelia's urgent cries.

"Fine. Feed your mongrel brat, then." The man's helmet concealed his face and eyes, but Elijah heard contempt in the voice. The man took Caelia from the guard who was currently carrying her, and thrust her roughly at Eleanor. "Just shut her _up_." He then stood in front of her, watching, as Elijah's mom opened the front of her dress to let Caelia nurse. Eli realized that his fists were clenching behind his back, the band there cutting into his wrists. There was something wrong about this. He knew it. But in his dream-like state, he didn't understand it.

Beside him, Dara muttered very bad words. He was pretty sure her father wouldn't like to hear that kind of language from her. One of the guards nudged him in the small of the back—with something hard, maybe a rifle butt—and Eli stumbled forwards, starting to walk. "Dara," he said, very quietly, a moment later. "I can't think straight."

"I know," she said. "I don't know why_ I_ can." Her voice was a bare thread of sound, desperate and very, very scared. It spoke to primal emotions in the boy. He was supposed to do something about that sound. He was supposed to _protect_ . . . something. Wasn't he?

She was a little ahead of him, and he looked down. The legs of her jeans were discolored along the inner thighs. "Dara, you're bleeding," he whispered, trying to keep up with her through the rough terrain. "Did they _hurt_ you?" A growing sense of anger was building in him, rippling through the sense of distance and remoteness. He clung to that. It was making things clearer. Sharper. More real.

Her head jerked around. "No! Nothing like that." She looked embarrassed. "I'm, um. . . I'm bleeding for a different reason. And it's not like they're letting us stop to go to the damn bathroom."

On they trudged, finally coming to a clearing where a groundcar was waiting for them. The man inside of it didn't have a helmet on, so Eli could see that he had brown hair and eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard. "About time," he told their guards. "Everything about this operation has damned near been blown, but we've got a shielded car coming in shortly." He looked past them. "Who the hell let the woman carry her mutt, anyway? Her hands are untied, too. Shit, you are _incompetent_ sons of bitches."

"Brat wouldn't shut up, Cunningham," replied one of the guards, his tone surly. "We let her feed it to keep it quiet. Figured if her hands were occupied holding it, one of us wouldn't be tied up, unable to get to our guns."

Cunningham thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. "Fair enough," he finally said, walking out among the various prisoners, studying them. He looked at Dara. "This kid's human. Maybe she can be re-educated." He crouched down. "She's bleeding, too." His expression went dangerous, and he looked at his various men. "Did any of you touch her?"

"No, sir!" came the chorus of voices. "Think she's on the rag," one guard supplied, after a moment.

"There are fucking _varren_ in this woods," their leader responded, through gritted teeth. "They track by scent, and they go after blood-smell in preference to any other bait. They're fucking sharks on _land_. Did any of you think of that?"

He gestured, and the guards brought Eli's mother over. He took the now-sleeping Caelia from Eleanor's desperate grasp. "Clean up the girl as best you can, and you'll get your mongrel back," he told her, and as Eleanor turned to help Dara, using a blanket from the groundcar as a shield.

Cunningham turned to look at Elijah. "So, you look human." He smiled at Elijah, but as dizzy and confused as Eli was, he didn't trust the expression. This man was treating his mom and his baby sister with contempt, and Eli was supposed to protect them, too. Wasn't he? The man used his free hand to tip Elijah's face up, and his face tightened when he saw the violet paint on the boy's cheeks. "Son, why the hell are you putting that crap on your face? You're _human_. You should be _proud_ of that. You shouldn't be pretending to be a damn animal."

The anger was _really_ strong now. It made everything really very clear; everything had hard edges that almost glowed, before dropping off into stark shadows. "A varren is an animal," Elijah said, staring right back up into the human man's eyes. "Lantar is my _dad_."

One thing he had to admit; after two years of being required to look half a meter up to meet Lantar's eyes when his step-dad was mad, this guy's glare was _nothing_. Elijah was _scared_, sure, but he was a lot more _mad_-_scared_ than _scared-scared_. Some of it could have been the weird fog his mind was still trapped in, but while this guy was _scary_, he wasn't intimidating. It was. . . odd.

"Your father was _human_," the man said, hunkering down a little to meet Elijah's eyes, putting a hand on his shoulder. _Trying to be my buddy_, Eli thought, distantly. _Like a principal at school, trying to get you to admit to something or to tell on someone_. "You remember your father, right? Your _real_ father?"

The weird clarity in Eli's mind persisted, and only the absolute truth tumbled out of his mouth now. "Yeah, of course I remember my dad. I remember how he'd make my mom cry after I went to bed, and they thought I couldn't hear them arguing. I remember that he wasn't there for my ninth birthday party, or to watch me play handball, and that he'd fall asleep in his chair after dinner. I remember that he told me 'if you ain't cheating, you ain't trying hard enough.'" He looked steadfastly at the human male, tears in his eyes. He _hated_ saying it, but it was all true. He'd _loved_ his dad, big Darren Stockton, with his wide smile and his warm hands, but he hadn't _liked_ his dad very much at all. And he hated _this_ man for making him admit it. "Lantar has to work a lot, but when he comes home, he makes sure that I do my homework, and he checks it. He thinks everything in life is a duty. He makes my mom smile. He's teaching me to fight, to defend myself. And he eats triceratops for _dinner_." He gave Cunningham a big, bright, and if truth be told, slightly _dazed_ smile. He knew he couldn't make the man see it. He didn't have the words to explain it to himself, let alone make anyone see that Lantar was _about_ duty, honor, and loyalty. That that's what he thought mattered most in the world, and that he _lived_ it. The thoughts were all inchoate, mostly made of emotion, and he wasn't at all surprised when the man brought back his hand and slapped him across the face.

His head ringing, Eli found himself back on the ground again, Dara hovering over him anxiously, his mom being held back from helping him. "I'm starting to understand why you kept getting beat up at school," Dara whispered to him. "You really don't know when to shut up, do you?"

"Not really," he admitted, leaning on her as he tried to stand up.

There was a muffled roar, as from engines, and something shimmery rolled into the clearing. There was a dull clank, and then a door opened in the shimmer, exposing the interior of a vehicle. A human male in armor was in there, beckoning to them all impatiently; behind him, Elijah could see vorcha and krogan in red armor, painted with white skulls.

Their guards impatiently pushed them into the vehicle, which was fairly large, almost the size of one of Bastion's mass transit air-buses, but which was still cramped with so many people on board. Eli wound up crushed between Dara on one side, Rellus on the other, near the back of the bus. Rellus looked dazed and vacant, staring around him in a befuddlement that went far beyond Elijah's own. The twins were just past him, scared and tired, so much so, that they were past the point of tears, just staring vacantly around them, too. "It's okay," Elijah leaned over to tell them, softly. "Our parents are going to come for us. You'll see."

Elijah hoped that what he'd told the twins was true. He didn't see much chance of getting out of this situation _without_ their parents coming for them.

"There's been a change in plans," Cunningham told his mercenaries, loudly, at the front of the bus. "Landing zone is to the west, now, not the east."

"Don't like that," one of the krogan rumbled. "That'll take us past their base again. Sooner or later, they'll figure out that we're using stealth generators on these vehicles."

"You're not being paid to like it. If you'd been able to get our extraction vehicle out of impound, we wouldn't be relying on a stolen ship, and we'd have been able to proceed to the correct extraction point. Get this damn thing moving, already." Cunningham sat down now, facing the back of the bus, weapon in his hands, but pointed down at the ground, for the moment.

The trip took a long time. Some of the younger children weren't able to control themselves any longer, and the bus started to smell like urine, as well as sweat and fear. He was able to watch the various mercenaries as they moved around, though, and noticed that after a while, they stopped really _watching_ the captives. Oh, their eyes were still open, and they'd look at them once in a while, but they weren't really watching them. _Because we're things now_, Elijah thought, dimly. _We're cargo, boxes that occasionally make noises_. He wasn't sure why this seemed important, but it was. Somehow.

Finally, the car bounced to a halt, and Elijah raised himself up enough to peer out a window. "That's the _Normandy_," he told Dara softly. "Do you think they're here to rescue us?"

She shook her head, looking worn and tired. "Not if we just parked right next to the ship."

They were bundled out of the car next. There was a dark-skinned woman directing the men in armor already here, around the _Normandy_, and she raised a hand in a sketchy salute in Cunningham's direction. "There's a cave back there," she reported. "Probably a good place to drop the hostages in the meantime. Easier access for exchange purposes than taking them off the ship while we get Shepard and whoever else you want on-board." She frowned a little as Caelia, in one of the guard's arms, started to cry again, urgently. "What's the matter with the little one?" she asked.

"She gets really bad stomachaches after she's eaten," Elijah called from the back.

"I can take care of her," Ellie said, reaching her hands forward imploringly. Unlike the rest of the captives, her hands were tied in front of her. "Please, let me just have my baby."

Cunningham growled, "This is more trouble than it's damned well worth. Maybe I should just put it out of its misery now. It's unnatural, and it'd be a _hell_ of a lot quieter here without it."

Elijah's mom screamed then, dropping to her knees, and through that distancing, unnatural haze in his mind, Elijah realized that Cunningham _wanted _her to scream, wanted her to cry, wanted her to beg. "That's better," Cunningham told her. "You ought to know your place." _He likes seeing her on her knees._ he thought, distantly. _He's a bully. They all are. But there are too many of them, and I can't even run._

The dark-skinned woman stepped forward, putting her body between Cunningham and Ellie. Elijah couldn't make out what she said, beyond, "That's isn't what I signed up for," but they seemed to be having some kind of an argument. Finally, Cunningham waved impatiently, and one of the guards gave Caelia to his mother. Then they were all shoved into the darkness of the cave.

Eli stumbled and fell somewhere near the back, winding up on his side. Dara dropped next to him, also on her side, her back to him. After the guards moved back up to the front, she whispered, "Eli, get closer."

He complied, wiggling over to her, close enough that he could just about put his face in her hair. It _was_ soft, he realized, his senses still befuddled. "Your hair smells really nice," he told her, earnestly.

Dara sighed. "Mane-n-Tail shampoo," she told him. "I smell like a _horse_, Eli. Snap out of it." She paused. "Can you pull your legs up to your chest and lean down enough to step your hands through to the front?"

Puzzled, Elijah tried, keeping his movements slow. "Yeah," he replied, a little surprised.

"Yeah, my dad showed me how to do that when I was playing sheriffs and bandits with the neighbor kids years ago," she told him quietly. "Now, check my back pocket. I don't think they noticed it."

He slipped his numbed hands into her back pocket, and found a hard lump there. A knife? _They missed a damn knife? Is it because Dara's a kid, or because she's a girl?_ It didn't matter. He pried the knifeblade out, moving carefully, using her body as a shield, and began to saw at the plastic flexcord that bound her wrists.


	11. Chapter 11: Extrication

**Chapter 11: Extrication**

**Sam**

They'd moved back to the candidate barracks, trying to look as tired and weary as they actually were. Sam had immediately added to his equipment, taking a biometrics scrambler to dampen his heartbeat as well as a good old-fashioned ghillie suit. His armor, under the ghillie suit, would take care of his body-heat signature, if nothing else.

He slung the suit over his shoulder and headed for the stables. Shepard was there, handing Lantar a strange, oddly-organic looking weapon, made of smooth curves and odd, warty bumps. "This is a Collector beam weapon," she told the stocky turian. "It's one of my personal favorite weapons. Very efficient use of power cells. Don't waste it on anyone who isn't heavily armored, though. In fact, I'd prefer that you use it on their vehicles. Chances are, if they're smart at _all_, they'll try to use them to run us over, or use the cars for cover to shoot from within. Don't let them." She showed Lantar the safety, the trigger, and where the power cells plugged in, then handed it to him with a quick pat to the shoulder. "Good hunting," she told them, gave Kasumi a matching pat on the shoulder, and left.

Lantar hefted the weapon, and met her eyes before she left. "What's that for?" he asked, jerking his head at the rough bundle of ragged cloth over Sam's shoulder.

"It's what's going to turn me invisible," Sam told him, packing it into the saddlebags of the horse the turian stable keeper was holding for him, before stepping into the stirrup and throwing his leg over. He leaned down, and took Kasumi's arm, helping her up. They'd decided that the fewer mounts they used, the better off they'd be. The animals would tire, but they'd made less noise this way.

Lantar mounted up as well, turning to help Cohort up onto the _rlata's_ narrow back. "Invisible? I take it the paint will help do the same thing?" He squinted at the human. "I had no idea humans had a tradition like this, too."

"It's not traditional. Just practical." Gris and Sings-to-the-Sky appeared now, ready to start what was going to be a fairly exhausting endurance run. Sam didn't envy them one damn bit. It was thirty kilometers to the Painted Rock caves, through rugged terrain. It wasn't quite the length of a marathon, but it was going to _hurt_, nonetheless. "Let's move out."

They began to ride, easily at first, letting Gris and Sky warm up a bit, and then let their mounts have a little more free rein. Jaworski thought, a bit distantly, _I'm going to have to learn how to ride one of those __rlatae__ critters. They're damned fast, and have great endurance._

A little over an hour later, they made it to the site. It had been a largely silent ride, no one talking much except to point the way. Gris and Sky were barely breathing hard. _Guess I know why the Council used one of them to try to wipe the other out_, Jaworski thought, impressed. _God knows, I'd hate to have to match up against that kind of endurance myself._

He let Kasumi down, then slipped off the horse himself, watching as Lantar let Cohort down. Tying the horse's bridle to a nearby tree, he tapped on his omnitool, checking for life signs in the vicinity. "My biggest concern," he said, quietly, as he did so, "is that they might change the meeting location on us at the last minute, to try to keep us off-balance."

"They'd have to suspect that we know where they landed, first," Lantar growled back. "You getting anything?"

Sam shook his head in disgust. "How about you, Sky?" the turian asked the rachni.

_Many voices, all in discord. Pain-song, confusion song, sour yellow of fear. Those inside the ship are trapped, trapped in mind, trapped in body. An octet of voices outside, preparing the area for the arrival of their own. Red voices, black voices, charnel and ash, hate and anger._ His voice was as condemning as Sam had every heard it in the rachni. Sky paused, then added, _The cave, the dark places beneath the earth, will be used for the prisoners. A tomb before they even die._

Sam's hands clenched. "No one's gonna die," he said, tightly. "Other than the bad guys, anyway."

Lantar spoke up. "You can't set the EM generator in the cave," he growled softly. "If they move the kids in there first thing, they'll find the damn thing immediately."

Sam nodded. "Damnit. Like I said, an hour of planning, and thirty seconds after we get here, everything changes." He tabbed his radio for a brief, encrypted transmission, and, very carefully, read the words of one of the prepared exchanges in a foreign language into the microphone. "_Ave, Pastora_," he said. "_Caveo cavere cavi cautum_." _Hail, shepherd. Be on your guard_, he'd been told it meant, colloquially, in Latin. It was the signal for which language of the four he had lists from that he'd be using, in a sort of pidgin, to communicate his meaning. After that, he was on his own for words from a list. "_Spelaeum nefandus_," he tried. _Cave abominable, not to be spoken of, _more or less. "_Obsidium_ uh, _finio_." _Captives inside. _A professor of Latin would crucify him for his endings, the lack of verbs, the language structure. But it was a fairly sure bet that no one out in the field had VIs prepped with knowledge of a dead Terran language, and even if they _did_, the message wouldn't translate out of his horrible mangling at all well.

One word came back; he didn't recognize the voice. "_Agnosco_." Acknowledgement, apparently.

Lantar pulled out a set of field glasses, peering through it at the terrain in front of the cave. "How about that deadfall there? It's that tangle of fallen trees, off to the left, south of the ship? Hard to see from the ship's ports and hatches, and still easily within the required blast zone."

Jaworski took a look, and shook his head. "Too exposed," he said. "If they're _smart_, they'll have patrols walking around, and even if I cover this generator with something, it's still not going to look _quite _right."

Lantar considered it, scanning around again. "There," he said, pointing off to the right. "Different setup. Pile of boulders with deadfall around it. Plant the device in the far side of the rocks, pile up some loose rubble around it and on it."

Jaworski considered it. It was a decent spot, he decided. "Should be far enough from the likely patrol routes. Plus, it's coming on to nightfall soon." He crouched down, and began picking weeds and pieces of blackened bark up from off the ground, patiently weaving them into his ghillie net.

"Too much preparation," Kasumi whispered. "That's why I like my stealth generator."

"You're impatient," he told her, a tight grin curving up under his lips. "A little guile goes a long way, and they won't see _me_ even when the power shuts off, little darlin'."

She actually laughed at the endearment.

They set up in their respective positions, Cohort scaling one of the few trees in the area that still sported foliage, at least at its uppermost levels. Gris and Sky set up at its base, about five hundred meters from the mouth of the cave, in heavy cover. Kasumi, Jaworski, and Lantar circled around to the right of the cave, opposite of the _Normandy_'s position, and began to set up the EM generator. When it was ready and armed, Sam carefully covered it with canvas and painstakingly drifted ashes, twigs, and other debris over it, until it looked like a natural part of the landscape. Then he put a small locator marker on top, so that Spectre satellites could pinpoint its location, and relay that information to Shepard and Vakarian.

The plan was simple, for the moment. He had the generator prepped and ready to go; all Lantar would need to do is set it off. He and Kasumi would get as close to the cave as they could, and wait for the captives to arrive. He _hoped_ that they'd be able to sneak into the cave, and be able to start ferrying hostages out, one at a time, under the cover of Kasumi's stealth device, before the blast even went off.

Jaworski then pointed to Lantar, and then at the ground by the generator, handing him the little remote that would set the blast off. _You stay here. Cover us from here._ Then he pointed at himself and Kasumi, and gestured to indicate that they were going to work their way around, through cover, towards the cave entrance.

When they were about halfway there, a voice whispered in his mind. _They come! The captive young, filled with fear-song, rolled chords, yellow and bright. The takers, the pillagers, blacks and reds. See them, hear them!_

Sam sucked in a breath, and his mind seemed to expand for a moment. He could _see_ what the rachni meant now. "Groups of six each, for each vehicle, heading in a semi-circle for the cave entrance and the _Normandy_," he whispered hoarsely to Kasumi.

"I see it," she whispered back, her eyes wide. Sam thought, _Goddamn, Sky, that's the universe's best head's-up display. Wish I'd known before that you could do that._

_Difficult to sing to those who cannot hear. Cannot make you hear, for long, and not when focusing will on songs of blood and fire. Your voices are not ours, your melody is unshared. _Sky's voice was disconsolate. _Easier to sing to the human queen and her mate, their songs are almost joined, beauty in dissonance, harmonies shared. But reaching the voice of metal and light is impossible. He does not hear me._

So, Cohort didn't get the head's-up display that the rest of them did, good to know. And Sky's ability to project this sort of information would diminish, probably entirely, when he had to fight. Sam was _almost_ sure he had that figured out, when Sky's vision shifted, and it was almost like Jaworski could see from above, like a bird, see how the _Normandy's_ length to the west of the cave mouth was the down stroke of the letter _D_, how the cars were coming in to form a curve that completed that letter. _Sheeeyit,_ he thought. _They're gonna go right over the top of Lantar's goddamn __**head**__. Don't break cover, boy, don't do it! But I hope to Christ these are built on the Hammerhead model and not on the frickin' Mako design_. He had a momentary, very bad vision of steel-cable tread marks rolled up and down the turian's body—not to mention the EMP generator!

_He holds,_ Sky whispered. _He is resolute, trigger in his hand. Fear-song weaker than regret-song. Regret-song binds him like a chain._

_One of these days, I'm gonna figure out what the fuck that all means._ Sam peered through the darkness, anxiously, and saw the fall of logs and tumble of rocks shudder momentarily; a charred logged crushed into fine powder suddenly, at the very top, and he saw the grass on the other side crush down now. There were no screams of agony, however. _Okay, Hammerhead. Probably jumped the damn rock pile. That means that the Z-axis thing that Rishayla picked up __**was**__a damn gunship. Wonderful._

Another impression appeared in the grass, moving just to his left. He heard Kasumi hit the ground suddenly, and felt the not-quite-pressure of the aircloud on which the Hammerheads moved push down on his left arm as the vehicle passed over him. _Glad I took a piss earlier_, he thought, sweat trickling down his face.

The vehicles made barely a whisper of sound. The engineering was impressive, he had to give it credit. Must have cost a damn fortune to build. _One yet, in the sky, see it circle, now come to light on the mountainside, above the place of darkness and earth,_ Sky whispered again. Sam _did_ see it, or at least, the four _thought-songs_ as Sky perceived them, high above.

He crept on belly and elbows infinitesimally closer to the cave entrance, eyes wide in the gathering gloom, peering through the long grass that grew between the shattered, broken forms of the trees. He timed his movements with the breaths of wind that drifted through the dead forest, so that his passage only disturbed the grass when the wind itself did. Subtle, natural.

There they were. A hatch opened, and the various captives were pulled out, some more roughly than others. The turians in particular were ill-handed, practically thrown out of the hatch and shoved in the general direction of the cave. He could see Cunningham and—ah, yes, there was the woman who'd washed out on the first day, for leaving Hal'marak behind in the pool exercise. She hadn't seemed the extremist type, but she had been quiet, and hadn't mingled much with the other candidates. He'd put it down to introversion. Not everyone went around wearing "Hi, I am suspicious" buttons on their lapels, after all.

Cunningham seemed to be yelling at Ellie, something about her wailing child. He couldn't see Lantar from his position, and didn't want to turn his head to look, but knew that the turian was probably growling, very quietly, at the sight of his wife on her knees, begging for the return of their child. _Hope that boy knows how to keep it locked down. We do not need him charging in there right now, _he thought.

_He knows_, Sky said, quietly. _Rage-song scarlet, but vengeance song has a slower tempo. Regret-song powerful, violet threnody. It contains him._

Good _god_ but where had a biotic like Sky been when he'd needed to coordinate strikes like this in the Skyllian Blitz, fourteen years ago, in 2176? _Technically, extinct_, he thought, and crept forward an inch or two further, stiffening when he caught sight of Dara being pulled out of the vehicle and shoved in the direction of the cave. She looked bedraggled and tired, but he could see that she still looked around, quickly, trying to figure out her surroundings.

Jaworski wasn't a religious man. But he did take a glance up at the uncaring stars above, and nodded once. _She's okay, for the moment. Not as dazed as the rest, even the boy. Must've gotten a smaller dose of whatever they used on 'em to knock 'em out._

Two vorcha went into the cave to guard the prisoners. A variety of krogan, vorcha, and humans began to pile out of the vehicles now. Cunningham's distaste for his Blood Pack hirelings was fairly evident, but he gave his orders crisply. "Set up a perimeter. I want scouts walking the woods up to three hundred meters out." _Maximum range on a finely tuned assault rifle_, Jaworski thought. _He knows he can't anticipate snipers entirely, but is trying to at least limit the opposition from coming in on foot. Of course, we're already here._

Cunningham activated his omnitool, and Jaworski listened as he gruffly told Shepard the coordinates at which to meet him. "No games," he repeated again.

_Nervous, son of a bitch, ain't ya? So far, it's gone pretty easily, only one foul-up for you on the landing zone. You've got to be wondering when the other shoe's gonna drop_. _It's coming, bucko. It's coming._

**Dara**

Elijah had just finished sawing through the fibers of the band that held Dara's wrists together, when she heard the whine of a shuttle in the distance. Dara sat up, flexing her hands and wrists a little, before turning over towards him, taking the knife, and trying to cut as quickly as she could through the band binding him, stealing little glances at the vorcha guards at the cave mouth as she did so. They weren't very attentive at the moment, being more concerned with the approaching shuttle, she supposed. The knife slipped in her clumsy, swollen hands, and she nicked the side of Elijah's wrist. "Sorry," she whispered, and kept cutting.

Once his hands were free, Dara slowly crawled to Ellie, Elijah's mom. "Hold still," she whispered, showing the woman the knife. Ellie's eyes went wide, and she shifted around, hiding her wrists under Caelia's blanket, and Dara started cutting again, even more carefully this time, because she could hardly see what she was doing. It was dark in the cave, sunset outside, and now there was a baby blanket blocking her view.

"What about them?" Ellie whispered, nodding toward Solana and her children.

"Not sure it would do any good," Dara whispered back. "They're pretty out of it."

"Quiet!" one of the vorcha guards hissed, turning his head a little. Dara froze in place until he turned his head back to watch the shuttle coming in for a landing. She could see its running lights now, and they lit up the cave a little. She handed her folding knife back to Elijah, and picked up a rock for herself.

_They're going to come in here for us soon_, she thought. _Just like that hostage situation Dad worked out in Laredo last year. The robbers went into that bank, and there was that off-duty cop in there, and when they got pinned down, they realized who he was when one of them saw his gun. Then they dragged him to where the cameras could see everything, and shot him, right in the head. Just to show how serious they were. Dad said people like that are like rabid animals. They're not right in the head, they have a disease. But we put down rabid animals because they're a danger to everyone around them, and because there's no cure._

_There's no cure for rabid people, either. And I don't want to die because one of them decides to bite me._

"When they come back for us," she whispered to Elijah, "Where do we aim?"

"Huh? Like, with your fists?" He blinked at her, then his training from Lantar clearly kicked in, because he started reciting, almost by rote, "Vorcha, eyes, head. Try to get the brain," he whispered after a moment. "Humans, neck, or femoral artery. Krogan. . . just run."

_Going to be hard with just a rock. But at least I can make them hurt, distract them. Something._ Dara was shaking, and she didn't know it, but tears were falling down her face. But she was resolute. She was not going to let them hurt her or anyone around her without a fight. Pitiful as it might be.

**Garrus**

He flew the shuttle through the deepening haze of evening, following the transponder beacon the rescue team had planted for guidance as much as he did the coordinate grid on the vehicle's map. Emily Wong was nervous, clearly; Shepard had insisted on the woman wearing at _least_ a flack jacket. Her little camera bobbed in the middle of the cabin; Urz, at Shepard's feet, gave the device occasional suspicious looks and one long, rumbling growl when it turned to 'look' at him.

Under other circumstances, Garrus would have grinned. At the moment, he was about as tightly wound as he had ever been in his life. It hadn't been like this on Omega, even at the end, with the death-shadow drawn so far over him, that he couldn't see past its veil, had almost welcomed its embrace. No, risking his _own_ life was something he was used to, had accepted long ago. But the prospect of losing the children, the ones that they had worked so spirits-be-damned hard to have and to keep healthy and had finally started reaping the rewards of their patience from, in smiles and hugs and actual personalities. . . no, it was too much. He shut it out, closed the door in his mind, and focused just on the bright square of the map grid, and on the controls.

"What's going to happen first?" Emily asked, breaking the silence.

"I'm getting out, first," his wife said. Her tone was taut, but amazingly calm, given the circumstances. "They'll see what they want, and start to relax. Then you'll hop out. I want you to move to the left of the hatch, Emily. I'll be on the right. Then Garrus will climb out, and that's approximately when they're going to start reacting badly."

"Do you want the camera on for this?"

"That's undoubtedly what they want you here for. Cunningham wants his fifteen minutes of fame. He wants to show that the Spectres. . . and Garrus, and me. . . are not untouchable. He wants to show how we're wrong, and that he's right. So. . . go ahead. Turn the camera on. I'm all for the truth." Shepard's smile was grim, her face underlit by the control panels. A human looking at her in that orange glow, wearing turian facepaint, might have seen a shaman hovering over an ancient campfire, calling the spirits. Or a demon, calling down a curse, he reflected. They might not have anything human in her at all, just something otherworldly, eldritch, frightening. _And well they should._

Kasumi had tried to get Shepard to wash off the paints before she left, arguing that she needed to establish a psychological rapport with Cunningham. Garrus could see the utility of that, appealing, on a very basic, very primal level to his instincts. _We are the same_. Shepard had refused. "I'm not going to pander to him and his delusions, Kasumi. We're taking back control, and I want him as off-balance as I can get him." It was a risk, but a calculated one. Everything they were doing was, of course.

The proximity alarm began to ring, and Garrus began to guide the craft in for a soft landing, back about two hundred and fifty meters from the cave entrance. Right in the middle of the blast radius of the EM pulse. "Are you going to be okay with the EM?" he asked his wife.

"That's the third time you've asked, Garrus," she reminded him. "I have no idea. I'm hoping someone will get a signal off so I can duck into the shuttle a second or so ahead of the detonation, but . . . ." She shrugged. Not even her enhanced reflexes were _that_ good, likely.

Wong coughed. "Er. . . my camera can put out an anti-jamming field. Just so you know. It's been somewhat helpful when covering military juntas and pro-democracy riots and whatever other sorts of incidents might occur that people might not _want_ vid feed coverage of. It might not be strong enough to ward off _everything_, but some cover is better than none, right?" She looked from one of them to the other. "I should have mentioned that before, shouldn't have I?"

"Emily, you're now officially my favorite reporter in the whole damn galaxy. Park that camera over my head, if you would."

"Sure. I just would love an explanation sometime on how it is that you're forty percent cybernetic."

"Off the record? I was dead for six months after Amada."

Garrus enjoyed the reporter's stunned silence for five more seconds, and then set the shuttle on the ground neatly. "Okay, show time," he told them, settling his helmet on his head.

The hatch opened, and Lilu stepped out first.

"I said, _no weapons_, Shepard," he heard Cunningham snarl. "Maybe you're not taking this seriously enough. Drag their brats out here. And the turian bitch." A couple more vorcha went into the cave, and emerged, first with the twins, and a third vorcha came out, dragging Garrus's sister, Solana.

"What, this?" he heard her respond. "My _wedding-knife_? You've got people back there with _grenade launchers_ and _assault rifles_, and you're worried because I didn't take my wedding knife off? Here. She held up one arm, and started to unbuckle the straps that held it attached to the underside of her arm, opposite her omnitool.

Emily hopped out next, camera on. Lilitu added, calmly, "Maybe I could take off my wedding _ring_ next. I'm sure it's as dangerous as the knife is. Maybe a little more so."

_It **is** dangerous. To him, anyway, for what it represents._

Cunningham was furious. "You're not taking this seriously? Atieno, get one of her brats up here. Maybe when I start cutting off its fingers, Shepard here will wise up."

He was clearly expecting the woman in front of him to break, to bow, to collapse to her knees and begin imploring him to spare her children the pain.

That was when Garrus stepped out of the hatch, dark blue armor gleaming. The turian without a face. He could hear fervent cursing in krogan and the hissing vorcha dialects suddenly rise up, and a dozen weapons suddenly were cocked and aimed, straight at him. "It's fucking Archangel!" one of the krogan bellowed.

_It's nice to have a reputation_, Garrus mused, holding his hands up at his sides to show that he, like his wife, carried nothing but his wedding knife.

A muscle in Cunningham's jaw twitched. He was off-script now, trying to regain control of his little stage-play. "I said to bring your _mate_, you stupid bitch," he told Shepard, as Atieno dragged one of the twins—Amara, Garrus saw—closer to the shuttle. The little girl saw her mother in her battle armor, and her father in one of his sets, too, and started to run forward towards them, yanking at Atieno's hand, trying to get away from that claw-like grip. Garrus' heart twisted inside of him, and he mentally promised his little girl, _Every last one of them is going to die._

"She did bring her mate," he said out loud, almost pleasantly, lifting his helmet to reveal the facial scars that matched the discolored blemishes and gouges on the infamous armor. Some of the weaker-willed vorcha were starting to back up a little, edging away.

**Sam**

_Good lord on a bicycle, _Sam thought. _I saw the scars and knew he was a tough son-of-a-bitch, but daayum, that armor's seen some wear. And look at the vorcha, backing up into the cave. Humans to either side of the cave mouth aren't moving, though. They're going first, then. Just a little closer_. . . . He took advantage of the fact that everyone was now focusing solidly on the confrontation two hundred meters away, and moved closer, snaking in behind his first target. He rehearsed it in his mind, standing, slowly, to a crouch, one hand stealing up over the man's forehead, pulling the head back. Then the knife. He could see it clearly. Visualized every motion his muscles would need to perform to carry it off perfectly. Two more feet, and he would be in range.

**Garrus**

Cunningham reached for Amara now, but Atieno warded him off. "Joshua, this is _not_ what we agreed to," she whispered, furiously, pulling the girl slightly behind her. Only a turian's acute hearing could have picked that up; Garrus was sure his wife couldn't hear the byplay. "If you hurt this little girl, it _weakens _the cause, damnit. Will you _listen _to me?"

Cunningham's eyes slid back toward the Spectres and the reporter. "Here's the deal," he said, tensely. "You're going to board the _Normandy_, and I'll release your little mongrels to Ms. Wong here. We're going to take a flight to Bastion, where you're going to stand down as commander of the Spectres. Right now, you're going to make a statement in front of that camera, acknowledging your pride, your unmitigated arrogance, in playing God and creating these abominations, half-human, half-animal, like perverted Dr. Moreau. Your unspeakable perversion, in mating with an animal like him," he jerked his chin at Garrus. "You were humanity's golden child. You could have led us to the greatest golden age in our history, but instead you've dragged us down into the mud and the filth and the shit with all the other animals. We could have risen to be the equals of the angels, Shepard." His eyes were wide now, and from an almost spitting fury, his expression had become beatific, looking at some internal vision.

_The spirits defend me from true believers,_ Garrus thought, tiredly. _No matter what they believe in, be it a deity or a political stance or an organization, once they take it into their hearts, they shape their lives around it, and never question it, never need to think again, because they already know what's true and real. Give me a thinker over a believer any day._

Shepard met the man's wide eyes, and simply said, quietly, "No."

Cunningham jerked back, turning back towards Amara and Atieno. Garrus was tense already. Then a shot rang out from the cave, and his mind went blank. _They're shooting the hostages!_

Then absolutely everything happened at once. Cunningham's head twitched towards the cave, and there was a blinding surge of light as the chemical precursor to the EM pulse went off. A half-dozen more vorcha and krogan appeared as their stealth devices blinked out of commission, and Garrus, letting his helmet slip back down over his face, lunged forward, leaping at Cunningham and spinning the man back around towards him, keeping the deadly rifle pointed towards _him_, not towards anyone else. The various mercenaries began to recover from their surprise, and began to raise their weapons again, and the first rounds went off, badly aimed.

Shepard raced forward, reaching out her left arm, clothes-lining Atieno, her forearm striking the woman right in the throat, knocking her down, and, in the same move, scooped up Amara, bringing the child within the protection of her personal shields. Dimly, Garrus realized that Wong was scrambling back into the shuttle, even as Urz bounded joyously out of it, baying the unnerving hunt-call of an alpha male varren. "Protect!" Lilu shouted to the beast, and Urz uncoiled, racing for the vorcha holding Kaius by the arm.

Then all he had time for was paying close attention to Cunningham. The man wore heavy armor, and was slow on his feet, but because Garrus was watching for it, he saw both the blue shimmer of an energy shield, as well as a brief flare of biotic energy. _Have to keep him occupied_, Garrus thought, grimly_. _Cunningham's dossier had noted that he had L2 biotic implants, possibly a partial explanation for his unstable personality.

Cunningham swung his rifle's butt towards Garrus' face, but the tall turian dodged the strike easily, moving in to strip it away, and sent it flying; then he opted to bear-hug the human. Not knowing what biotic abilities the man possessed besides shielding capabilities, he had no desire to be sent for a ride through the air, a target for everyone in range. Melee combat also had a tendency to confuse biotics, he knew. It was too close, too personal, too far inside their mental zone.

**Sam**

_They're shooting the damn hostages!_ Sam had thought, seconds before, and simply uncoiled from the long grass near the cliff wall, rising up out of the darkness. The move had already been determined; his muscles just had to carry it out now. Arterial blood-spray now, hot and sticky, as his target—so much easier to think of the man as a target for now—dropped to the ground, knees buckling, hands reflexively rising to the wounded throat. Jaworski pushed off him and was already moving to his second target, another human, before the first had even slumped to the ground. _This isn't the way it was supposed to happen!_ he seethed, internally, catching the second human from the side, realizing that the target was armored, but that the man's armor didn't have neck support, just an ablative covering for bullets and the like. Realizing this, the next maneuver was so ingrained, so often practiced, as to be instinctive. He reached up and around, tipping the chin up, just so, with one hand, stretching the neck, separating the vertebrae internally, and then spinning slightly, started the man's entire body on a corkscrew path for the ground. . . incidentally breaking the man's neck in the process.

Kasumi raced by him, shouting, "Flashbangs," and he turned his head away as she threw them directly ahead, towards the guards at the mouth of the cave. He still had shimmers of their afterglow in his eyes in spite of his precaution, but he was able to move forward and take on one of their stunned targets, this one a vorcha, which managed to get its pistol up and take aim, blindly, at Sam. Kasumi set her pistol behind its ear and fired into its cranium, spinning the body around to shield her from the next vorcha over, who'd managed to get its own rifle up. Its bullets only riddled the body of its kin.

Sam bounded forward and slammed his full bodyweight into the rifle-toting vorcha, knocking it to the ground, moving his knees up to pin its arms to the ground, and before it could do more than arch its back and try to walk its legs up, he slammed the knife home, under its chin, aiming for its brain. He was aware of the gaping mouth of the cavern to his right, knew that he was presenting a hell of a target to anyone inside, and once he'd made sure of the vorcha, rolled past the opening, putting his back to the cliff wall on the west side of the cave mouth, panting.

There had been no time to think, only to react on years and years of training. His head jerked up now, trying to assess, quickly, what the current situation looked like. Radio chatter in his ear, a familiar sound, conflicting voices, each trying to tell their tale:

"Gunship is not disabled, repeat, not disabled. It is visible, but its rotors are moving."Cohort's calm, almost melodic tones belied the urgency of his report. _Shit, they had EM shielding the engines on a damn gunship? How many of their ground vehicles are operational?_

"Cohort, we need suppressing fire! Blood Pack troops at the south are turning to engage us!" That was Gris, sharp and angry. He and Sky would be advancing now from Cohort's position, at almost a full run.

"Lantar, on the gunship, now!" Shepard now, sounding out of breath, storming right for him and the cave entrance, a child's body clasped tightly to hers.

"On it," Lantar replied, voice clipped, and a single line of light lanced through the darkness, pointing up into the sky like a beacon. Jaworski could hear the whirring hum of rotors beginning to spin up, however, and knew he needed to get to cover, quickly.

Then the varren came racing up from out of nowhere, a child dangling from his mouth, racing past a vorcha that still held an adult turian woman in its scrawny arms, pistol pressed to the hinge of her jaw, right behind the mandible. The varren's big fangs were gripping Kaius almost delicately, and Jaworski wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen it himself. "Kasumi, the vorcha—"

He didn't even have to point to the target. She ran for the vorcha who was holding the turian female, using her body uncertainly as a shield. Kasumi's form flickered for a moment, and then vanished entirely. _Good girl, she had a secondary stealth device, which was __**not**__ turned on at the moment of the pulse,_ Sam thought, admiringly, as the vorcha spun, looking for the tiny woman who had been advancing on him. He saw the creature's arm jerked down, and then Kasumi reappeared as she fired another point-blank shot, right into base of the creature's skull, the bullet exiting out the front in a splatter of gore, fine mist of yellowish blood splattering the turian woman's face. "Come on, Solana, we need to get to cover," Kasumi urged her, trying to draw the turian woman with her.

He hadn't heard any more shots from within the cave, but he could hear an infant wailing, clearly. He shifted his bloody knife to his off-hand and drew his pistol in his right, his stomach was tight with dread, And then whirled around the corner, into the cavern's depths, ghillie net swirling around him, making him look like some shambling swamp monster out of nightmare . . . .

**Dara**

She'd pointed urgently at the single vorcha still guarding them. "Elijah, come on," she whispered, walking up slowly behind the creature. Its attention was fixed on the action outside, snarling a little, shifting nervously in place, holding its rifle across its body in both hands, at a slant. It knew that the prisoners were bound, drugged, helpless behind it, and was getting to watch the galaxy's best vid feed, she figured. She put her booted feet down carefully, as her father had taught her to do when they'd gone elk hunting in Montana the year before, and grouse hunting in Maine the year before that, and heck, deer and pheasant hunting every year, down in Jefferson county. One heel scraped along the stone floor, and she held still, held her breath, but the vorcha didn't turn.

Closer, gesturing urgently for Elijah to go right, while she went left, weighing the stone in her hand. Felt like maybe four pounds, five. Certainly less than a bowling ball, and more compact. It fit neatly in her hand, round and smooth on one side, with sharp, broken edges on the other. She glanced to the side, and saw Elijah moving up with her. Behind her, she could hear Ellie taking a sharp breath, and her shoulders slumped a little in anticipation of the adult being, well, an _adult_. If Ellie got all motherly right now, she would wreck everything. This was their _chance_, damnit, and they had to take it before Ellie said "stop that, children" or Caelia woke up squalling or anything else.

Closer. Dara reached back, as if for an underhand softball pitch and then swung the stone as hard as she absolutely could. She had washed and brushed horses, shoveled manure in horse stables, and helped move hay since she was old enough to be taught that _privilege_ also meant _responsibility_. At the same time, Elijah, seeing what she was doing, pushed the vorcha sideways and forwards, unbalancing it, and together, they knocked it to the ground. The creature was wiry and strong and tough, and rolled over immediately, but Elijah dropped down onto it, part training, part instinct, pinning its rifle in place across its chest with his knees, and stabbed at its yellow eyes with Dara's short-bladed little folding knife. It snarled and it hissed, but surprisingly, didn't call out for help.

_Pack creature,_ she thought, distantly. It sounded like her daddy's voice in her head, like when he was teaching her about hunting or survival. _If it's unable to fight off two children on its own, the others will think it's weak. _She dropped down to sit on its legs, riding it like a fractious horse.

Her extra weight made the difference, and Elijah, grunting with effort, finally managed to sink the blade home. The vorcha stiffened, sighed, and went limp. The boy stood up, uncertainly, looking at the yellowish blood on his hands, and gagged.

Dara bent over and pragmatically took the rifle. "Is it dead? All the way dead?" she whispered anxiously to Elijah, checking the rifle automatically. She flicked on the safety, checked to see if it was loaded, pulled the charging handle back, and tested the trigger to see if the hammer fell while safed, and also to see how much trigger-weight it had. The trigger was very stiff for her fingers, and the hammer didn't fall. Then she flicked the switch to what felt like the semi-automatic position—she'd never handled a rifle with so many _buttons_ and _toggles_ on it before, though—and stared down at the vorcha. She wondered if it was going to move, like some undead _thing_ in a scary vid, on late at night when she wasn't supposed to be up and watching.

"Dara?" Ellie whispered behind them, coming forward, Caelia still in her arms. "Give me the gun, sweetie."

"Do _you_ know how to use it?" Dara asked, a sense of relief coming over her, but not turning from her examination of the vorcha body, keeping the gun pointed down, right at it, ready to fire. If Ellie answered _yes_, she'd hand the gun over happily, and with it, the responsibility. But one of the very first rules her daddy had ever taught her was you _never_ handed a gun to someone who didn't know how to use one.

"Well. . . . no, not really, but Dara, you shouldn't—"

"I don't," Elijah said, promptly, in a whisper. "Guns are for B-Sec personnel only on Bastion."

"I shot my first buck when I was nine years old," Dara told them absently. _Did that finger just move?_ The vorcha _looked_ very still, but she didn't feel the hollow absence, as when she'd seen her mother's body at the funeral home. "Dad helped, but he made me help gut it and field-dress it, too. I cried when it fell over and kept struggling to get back up again." _It had been so beautiful and alive before that moment, and that's when Daddy told me why he wanted me to learn this. Because life __**is**__ precious and beautiful and fleeting, and we have to __**know**__ that. That's why he made me look in Mama's coffin, too, I bet, even though I didn't want to. To say goodbye to something precious._

The vorcha twitched, one hand reaching for the knife embedded in its eye, and Dara's finger pulled the trigger automatically; she didn't even think about it. The vorcha's head exploded, and Dara stumbled back, surprised at the kick, which felt like a punch in the shoulder. She was _very _glad that she'd only set the gun to _semi-_automatic. Caelia woke up and started to scream, her ears offended by the very loud noise of the shot, bouncing back off the walls. Outside, she could hear yelling and gunshots, and saw dim shapes moving across the mouth of the cave.

Elijah seemed to be coming out of his daze a little, and told his mom, urgently, "We should get everyone further back in the cave."

Ellie nodded, silently, staring at Dara. The girl didn't know why. Then she wiped her face and realized that she had vorcha blood splattered all over her, and her stomach heaved. She dropped to her knees, bracing the rifle across her thighs, and threw up a little, before getting control of her stomach. "Eli's right," she said.

They moved back a little further, urging the various turian children to stand up and walk. Most of them were very tired at this point, and were starting to come out of their haze enough to shake their heads _no_, tentatively, as if wondering what it meant. It broke Dara's heart to see Rellus acting this way, all confused and zombie-like, when he was usually so smart and alive. She didn't want to think about what would happen if the turians never recovered, if they stayed this way _forever_.

Dara was still watching the entrance, when a tall figure in armor whipped around the corner of the cave mouth. It was dark in the cave, and she couldn't make out what species the creature was, tall, shambling, threatening. But another rule she'd been taught, until it almost had the force of religion behind it was this: _never shoot at what you can't identify_.

The figure stopped, looked down at the _very _dead vorcha on the floor, and called, softly, "Dara? Sweetheart, are you all right?"

Dara very carefully safed the rifle and _ran _to her father. "Daddy," she said, bursting into tears as she reached his arms. "I tried to be brave, Daddy."

He took the rifle out of her slackening grip. "That's my girl," he told her, his voice soft, wrapping one of his arms around her, and turning, crouched on his knees, to look back out the entrance. Then he tabbed his radio. "Cave is secure, use it for cover!" He looked around, and she knew his visor was providing him night-vision, and envied him. She'd never been afraid of the dark, but this cave was going to give her nightmares. "Is everyone okay?"

"Yes," Ellie said, her voice uncertain at the back of the cave. "Not sure about the ones they took out of here. The turians aren't doing so well. I think they've been drugged."

Her dad looked down at her now, his big, armored body between her and the mouth of the cave. "Daddy's got to work now, sweetheart."

"Can I help?" she asked, her voice wavering.

Her dad looked down at her, and the only thing she could see in the darkness was the gleam of his eyes. "You can load clips for me when I run out of bullets," he told her. "But keep your head _down_, and stay behind that rock." He pushed her behind a nearby stalagmite, just as a slender woman, pulling Solana along behind her, moved into the cave, followed by a varren carrying Kaius, and Commander Shepard, carrying little Amara. To Dara, they looked like superheroes.

**Shepard**

She set Amara down gently on the ground in the cave, and Urz brought Kaius to her, as neatly as a border collie depositing a wayward lamb. Both children were crying again, hysterically, so she _had_ to take a moment to comfort them, calm them, to be a mother briefly before becoming a soldier again. "I'm here," she told them, softly, holding them in her armored arms. "Mama's here, Daddy's here, but you have to calm down now. Shhh, shhh." It didn't work well, but Ellie came forwards, with Caelia in her arms, and crouched down beside her, and that did the trick, for the moment, at least. Ellie was a relatively familiar figure at this point, and they were fascinated by the baby, so the overt screaming wound down. "Ellie, get them to the back," Shepard said, handing the woman a flashlight from the thigh compartment of her suit. "Keep the light covered, but this should help keep the kids calm."

Kaius held out his hands imperatively for the flashlight, and Ellie let him have it, gently guiding the twins to the back of the cave. This had all taken thirty seconds, which in combat is an _eternity_.

"I need a weapon," Shepard said, and Jaworski handed her a rifle, probably scavenged from one of the dead vorcha. In fact, Shepard almost tripped over a body as she peeked out of the cave entrance, and swore under her breath. "That explains the shot," she muttered. "Who killed the vorcha?" she asked, louder, over the sound of Jaworski's pistol.

She couldn't get a good view at first, and then saw what she was looking for—Garrus, still locked in hand-to-hand combat with Cunningham. _Man's got to have three different layers of armor on him, and Garrus has a damned __**knife**_**. **_Time to even the odds a little. _She took careful aim, waiting until they'd swung apart for a moment. She didn't want to even _chance_ hitting Garrus. Then they swung back together again. _Damnit. _

Ellie, from the back, called out, "Dara killed it." The woman's voice was uneasy, nervous, frightened.

"Elijah helped!" Dara piped up from behind her rock. "He stuck the knife you gave me for my birthday in its eye, but I think I ruined it when I shot the vorcha. Sorry, Daddy." Her voice was disconsolate.

Jaworski leaned out around the corner, firing his pistol again, trying to keep krogan and vorcha and various humans occupied and focused on keeping their heads down, rather than firing at Garrus. "'Sokay, sweetie," he shouted over the blasts. "I can always get you a new knife."

Shepard blinked, and tabbed her radio. "Garrus, swing him around towards the cave and hold him so I can take his damn shields down." Garrus' figure, small in the distance, complied, and Shepard aimed and fired, short, controlled bursts, ripping through Cunningham's outer layers of shields. "What the hell you teaching that girl of yours, Jaworski?" she called over, between bursts. "I was sixteen when I killed my first batarian, not fourteen."

"Believe me, I didn't expect her to have to do anything like this until after she'd at grown in her wisdom teeth," Jaworski replied tightly, ducking out to fire at a krogan that was trying to charge Garrus from the perimeter. Shepard caught his target in a biotic slam, sending it high into the air like a clay pigeon, and then down again to the ground, hard. "Shit," he muttered, taking the shot and then tabbing his radio. "We've got ground cars starting to move. Garrus, get your ass closer to the shuttle for some cover, or they are going to ram you."

_Not so_, and Shepard blinked as Sky's voice spoke in her mind, accompanied by a vision of where every single enemy in the area was, in relation to her three squads. _Impressive, _she thought, somewhat awed, and then the vision fuzzed out again—but not before she realized that Sky and Gris had commandeered one of the Hammerheads, and Gris was racing right for one of the dense groups of krogan and vorcha to the south—she could see bodies flying at the impact, and grinned, a fierce, tight grin. Then she lined up another shot on a vorcha.

"Gunship coming in for a pass," Lantar reported over the radio now. "Firing." The beam weapon lit up the battle scene brightly in its stark yellow glow, steady and even, in contrast to the stroboscopic muzzle-flashes of the guns.

Kasumi leaned out of the cave now, her little submachine gun blasting at a cluster of krogan taking cover by the vehicle closest to Lantar. "I can probably get out there and weaken Cunningham's shields," she shouted to Shepard.

"Negative," Shepard shot back tersely. "If we can't see you, we're just as likely to hit _you_ as anything else in this mess. Stay put." She could see that another groundcar was moving now—apparently, some of the krogan had functioning brains, and was chasing after Gris and Sky. Before she could even take breath for the order, a yellow line of light burned into the car, and she sent a barrage of bullets its direction as well—and then cursed as her weapon jammed. "Goddamned substandard merc weapons," she muttered, popping the clip and trying to clear the breach. "All the credits in the galaxy for the damn shielded cars, and they give their people worn-out weapons like this? Who manufactured this, ohhh, it's a Tsunami Mark III, no wonder. . ."

Sam handed his emptied pistol to Dara to reload, and switched to his submachine gun, which had been cradled against the small of his back till now. "You _really_ want them to have better weapons?" he shouted across to Shepard, leaning out to fire on the groundcar currently playing chicken with Sky and Gris.

"Only if I'm the one who ends up using them!" Shepard retorted, snapping the rifle back together, snicking the clip back into place, and leaning out to fire again just as Jaworski pulled back. Chips of stone flew out of the cave wall where he'd just been standing, the tiny flakes scattering out, hitting his shield, and making it flash blue in the darkness.

Then the gunship was circling overhead, raining down a hail of bullets near the mouth of the cave—_one bullet per square inch_—Shepard thought, wincing. But she thought Garrus was probably safe for the moment; the gunship pilot wouldn't be likely to fire where he was likely to hit Cunningham, after all.

The chances of having the cave mouth collapse on them, however, were improving steadily, however. "Taking heavy fire at the cave," she called into her radio.

**Lantar**

Lantar kept the beam weapon trained on the gunship now, focusing on a structural weakness—the rear rotors, the ones use for directionality and attitude control, which were small. The pilot realized his danger, however, and left off attacking the defenders in the cave, and swung around to take a pass at Lantar's position.

Heavy weapons are not, by their very nature, very mobile platforms. Lantar held his ground as long as he could, continuing to bear down on the gunship at it approached, its searchlights blazing into his night-adapted eyes, making them water. Then he dove for cover behind his pile of boulders as the first rockets launched from the belly of the gunship. "Taking heavy fire!" he said into his mouthpiece as splinters of charcoal from the burned trees exploded around him. Getting back up to at least a crouch, he swayed, trying to decide if he should hold position, or find a different piece of cover. The gunship swayed back and forth in the air, too; as he juked left, it followed, trying for a better angle on him with its side-mounted guns. He could see, now, the white-hot tracery that the beam weapon had left in the ship's ablative armor, and was impressed by the weapon's power and efficiency. _Not that it's doing me much good at the moment_, he thought grimly. _Am I fast enough to get to that next groundcar over?_

He heard the distant report of a sniper rifle then, and realized that Cohort was taking aim at the gunship now, trying to punch through its armor a distance. "Thanks, Cohort," he said into the radio, relieved. "I can see the glass starting to crack in the windshield!"

Then the gunship moved up, circling back around to its perch above the cave, probably trying to let its crew recharge its shields. _Someone paid a __**lot**__ of money for this equipment,_ Lantar thought, looking around briefly. _EM shielding on some of the engines, heavy armor, stealth technology. All this for . . . hybrid kids? For Shepard? It doesn't make sense._

Gris and Sky seemed to be having almost too much fun, racing around the perimeter of the field in their commandeered Hammerhead. Sky would lean out the door and plant a singularity near a group of krogan, lifting them into the air. Then Gris would lean out the driver's side window, and leveled a throw field at that same group, slamming them into the solid wall of the cliff, the _Normandy_, anything handy, really. Then they'd skid off again, crashing into another group of mercs with their vehicle. As they rushed past behind Lantar, he could clearly hear Gris laughing, deep, rolling chuckles of pure krogan glee. Sky's mind reached out to touch all of them for a moment, as the rachni exulted, _Battle-song, fire-song, punishment for wrongs. Be lifted from the earth, and returned to it!_ And then another group of krogan found themselves floating, helpless, in mid-air.

Garrus was holding his own against Cunningham in the middle of the open field, although the two males were working their way in circles around the shuttle, both of them trying to avoid fire. Lantar spotted Atieno, who had long since picked herself up from the ground and retreated under the _Normandy_'s wing for cover, lean out to fire at Garrus. Lantar switched, swiftly, to his assault rifle, and fired right for her head. She ducked back, quickly, but he saw her shield flicker and die. _Yeah, you keep your head down._

Then Cunningham tried to level a biotic throw against Garrus, and he saw his former squad leader ripped off his feet, but Vakarian somehow managed to keep his fingers latched onto Cunningham's left arm, and then dropped back down to the ground again, still right in Cunningham's face.

Lantar tabbed his radio. "Garrus," he said. "Swing him around to face me, and we'll see if I can't burn a hole through that armor." He eyed the gunship overhead. It was still building a charge on its shields, and well out of range. He had time, and Garrus needed the help. _If he'll take it from me,_ he reflected, grimly.

**Garrus**

As combat situations went, his position was, well, not exactly optimal. He was exposed in the middle of a large field, essentially surrounded on all sides by enemies with guns, and he had . . . a knife. All things considered, Garrus would _really_ have preferred to be back in the trees with his damn sniper rifle in his hands, picking off targets cleanly and with ease.

He'd managed to take Cunningham down to the ground a couple of times now, but the human's greater weight, motorized joints in his armor, and the general need to keep _moving_, lest he get _shot_ were all working against him. Lilitu was trying to help out, shredding through Cunningham's shields with periodic bursts from her assault rifle, but Garrus winced every time she did, waiting for the inevitable moment when her bullets would pierce through _his_ shields, too.

He backed Cunningham in a circle around the shuttle again, dimly aware that Emily Wong's camera was following them, ducked a slow fist aimed at his face, and realized that the human was tiring. _Thank the spirits for small favors. _Grappling was _hard _work, even without full armor, and Cunningham had been maintaining a biotic field around himself the entire time.

Behind the shuttle now, Garrus heard the distinctive report of a sniper rifle, _**BAM! BAM!**_and knew he owed Cohort some gratitude, as the geth had stripped away at least the electronic shields from Cunningham, for the moment, anyway. "Nice shot, Cohort," Garrus gasped into his headpiece.

"Acknowledged, Vakarian-Spectre," the geth replied in his ear. "Concentrating suppressing fire on the units around you once more."

Gris and Sky wheeled by now, careening straight for another group of krogan and vorcha, which were beginning to see the great good sense in turning and running, or at the very least in _scattering_. Sky leaned out the side of the vehicle, and, as he passed, ripped away the biotic barrier protecting Cunningham as well. His projected thoughts weren't even showing up as words right now, just a melody in a minor key, with overtones in red and gray.

Garrus took instant advantage of the opening Cohort and Sky had left him, slamming his head forward brutally, his helmeted forehead meeting Cunningham's nose, dazing the man momentarily. Then, in his earpiece, he heard Sidonis' voice, just as in the old days. Not even thinking about it, Garrus did as Sidonis bade, stepping past Cunningham, spinning the human around by the arm, shoving him forwards, around the corner of the shuttle. This stretched Cunningham out, and presented the man's chest to the east, where Sidonis was camped with a heavy beam weapon.

Yellow light lanced out again, burning into Cunningham's armor near the sternum. Then Garrus could hear the whine of the gunship's rotors and engine again, as it started to descend once more. "Sidonis, get back on the gunship," he ordered into his headpiece.

The line of light jerked upwards, tracking for the gunship, and Garrus could hear Cohort's weapon firing at it again, as well. He didn't have time to worry about any of this, though. He had just seconds to take advantage of the opening that the others had presented him. He took a step forward, coming in from behind Cunningham and to the left, raised his right leg, and swung his heel back—a spur kick. His spurs were covered by the armor of his suit, but he still felt the impact, felt metal grate on metal, the softness of flesh underneath, and knew he'd be limping for a week on the leg that had just impaled Cunningham.

He also knew he hadn't hit the heart.

Cunningham collapsed in on himself, starting to sag towards the ground, but Garrus wasn't finished yet. His leg dropped to the ground and he took one more step forward, his right hand, his knife-hand, coming up, and then he back-fisted his wedding-knife into Cunningham's throat. The blade was hand-forged of turian high-carbon steel, but it still snapped in half. Garrus stood, with the hilt in his hand, watching Cunningham reach for his ruined throat, and then collapse entirely. It took perhaps a second, maybe two.

Then someone was firing at his unprotected back, and he saw his shields drop around him, overloaded by an omnitool's charge.

**Lantar**

He kept burning away at the damned gunship, and it just kept coming right back. It fired a hailstorm of bullets at him, and he ducked down again, unable to keep track of anything else around him except for that ship, its guns, and the position of his own damn head.

"Still taking heavy gunship fire," he reported grimly into the radio. This time, the gunship circled around his position, trying to herd him, chase him. He felt as if he were playing some demented children's game, circling this pile of rocks, his back exposed to any enemy in the main field of battle, and ducked back down again as another storm of bullets erupted from those side-mounted guns.

Cohort replied on the radio, "Acknowledged. Taking aim at gunship," and began firing once more, instead of continuing suppressing fire in the main field. Lantar breathed a sigh of relief as the gunship veered off, and started to get back into position, when he realized that the gunship was now heading right for Cohort's position in the trees.

"Cohort, take cover," he said into his headpiece, urgently. "You've got incoming—" _Ah, shit, no, no. . . ._ He lifted the beam weapon again, and fired at the distant gunship, trying to damage it, distract it, get it to turn back around and come after him, something, anything.

In his mind, he heard Sky calling, urgently, too, trying to reach the geth, trying to tell him to stop firing, and get to cover. Of course, the geth couldn't hear Sky. Its mind was sapient, but not organic.

Then he saw the rockets fire, and a half-dozen already charred trees burned once more.

_No, not again, not again, not again, _he thought, almost incoherently. He fired at the gunship as it returned in a leisurely arc, but the beam weapon began to splutter. Out of power cells. He threw it on the ground and pulled out his assault rifle, moving towards the shuttle—and realized that Garrus was crouching there already, shields down, ducking and dodging and trying not to present a target for Atieno, who was shouting into her headpiece, "Vakarian's shields are down, get the damn gunship back here and finish him!"

Lantar fired at her, first, not even bothering to look for cover, just a steady barrage of automatic fire, walking forwards, remorselessly. _Mor'loci_, was the only thought in his head at the moment. _The walking dead, the already-dead, no spirit, no honor_. Atieno backed away, looking for cover herself now, but there was none left to the south, besides the burned-out trees. She finally threw her hands over her head in surrender, and Lantar's hands spasmed on his rifle, before his finger eased off the trigger.

Then the gunship was there, and Garrus was trying to drag him back to cover. Garrus, whose shields were still down. Lantar's were still up, however, so he shoved his old commander back down and fired up at the gunship with his rifle, feeling the uselessness of it, the futility. . . . and then it fired its rockets one more time, white fire and a dull roar of sound coming for him.

**Shepard**

_Shit, shit, shit, no, no, not again, why is it always the goddamned gunships?_ Shepard opened fire on the vehicle overhead, each bullet another tiny chink in its ablative protection. Kasumi and Jaworski, each flanking her, steadily emptied the clips of their submachine guns into the vehicle as well, all half-blinded by the close-range rocket explosion. Gris and Sky tumbled out of their groundcar nearby, and Sky sang in all their minds, a wordless keening of anger and vengeance and darkness. Then he dropped a singularity on a _boulder _and lofted it skywards; Gris, standing shoulder-to-thorax with the rachni, growled and batted it towards the gunship with a powerful biotic thrust.

The boulder hit the gunship amidships, knocking it to the side and clean out of the air. It crashed to the ground to the east, past where Lantar had originally set up beside the EMP generator, the ground shaking under its impact briefly and then it collapsed in on itself in a twisted mass of metal. Shepard gaped at it for a moment, and then said, turning to look at Jaworski, "Where the hell were biotics like _that_ when I needed them back in the day?"

"I _know_!" he replied, lifting both hands to the sky in befuddlement and delight.

Sky's voice was calmer in their heads now, _All enemies but one have ended their song. Female kneels on the earth, surrendering. Lifesong of the regretful one ebbs—hurry! _

"Stay back!" she yelled to the various captives in the cave. "Might have a radiation leak, and none of you have suits." Radiation wouldn't affect the turians much, but the humans and the hybrids almost certain would get more rems than was good for them. "Kasumi, Jaworski, secure the prisoner and the perimeter."

Then she ran out into the field, heading for the shuttle, Urz at her heels. She could already see that Garrus was up and kneeling, but she couldn't make out the details until she was much closer, and then her stomach flipped.

"He bought me enough time to get my shields recharged," Garrus said, tightly, blue to the elbows with blood as he worked. He was packing Lantar's chest with gauze from a medkit, administering medigel, anything he could do. "Think he's got a collapsed lung, the obvious bleeding." Shepard could see ribs sticking out here and there, and swore softly. Then she tabbed her radio, "Shepard to Spectre base. Party's over. I need a medteam out here, stat, turian specialists required."

She glanced up as Jaworski came back from a quick turn around the perimeter. "Cohort?" she asked, jerking her head towards the treeline.

Jaworski shook his head, lips compressed to a tight line, and handed her a blackened piece of the geth's armor. "Sorry, ma'am," he said, quietly.

_Did you not retreat, because you were uploading your files to the nearest node? _She had to wonder it. _Is all that made you __**you**__ actually gone? How the hell do I write a letter of condolence for this? One for each of the 1,187 programs resident, and who do I send it to?_ She knew the answer to that, in a sense. She'd need to send it to every geth in existence.

"Need some help here," Garrus rapped out, and she knelt on the other side of Lantar. "Gris!" Garrus called out, unexpectedly. "Hold him down." He looked down at his old squadmate grimly. "Don't you die on me, Sidonis. Don't you dare die." He looked across Lantar's body at his wife. "Go take care of the kids, and for the spirits' sake, _don't_ let his wife see him like this."

Those were sensible suggestions, and ones Shepard was all too glad to follow.


	12. Chapter 12: Redemption

**Chapter 12: Redemption**

**Shepard**

Pandemonium reigned for a while, but it was an orderly chaos, a controlled cacophony. Four more shuttles landed in short order—two with medical teams, one with a hazmat team, and one with comfort items: blankets, clean clothes, soap, water, and food. One med team headed onto the ship, the other split up, half heading for Sidonis, and the other half heading into the now-brightly lit cave.

Shepard wasn't looking forward to touring her ship, and, being more or less pinned down by two anxious toddlers who were trying to both crawl into her arms at the same time, was in no rush to do so. And she couldn't possibly manage the twins and her crew _and_ the anxious wife of Lantar Sidonis at the same time. Jaworski caught the woman's arm as she tried to move out of the cave. "No, ma'am, that's not what you need to be doing right now," he told her, firmly, redirecting her. "He's in good hands, and we have no idea how much radiation, if any, is coming out of that crashed gunship."

"I don't care, I've got to go to him!" Ellie was almost hysterical. It might very well have been the stress of the terrible ordeal, but she seemed more on edge than she should have been. Shepard caught Kasumi's eye and nodded towards the woman, just as Jaworski soothed her, saying, "And what about the baby, huh? You think she needs radiation exposure?"

Ellie looked struck by the notion, and wavered, letting Jaworski push her back.

"Come on, sit down over here," Kasumi said, unpacking a fresh, fleecy blanket from one of the aid kits, and draping it over Ellie's shoulders as the woman started to shake. "Dr. Solus or Dr. Abrams, or Dr. Chakwas will be with you in a second. They're going to want to make sure that you and Caelia don't have any lingering effects from the chemical used to stun you at first."

Ellie's brow creased. "I passed out for a minute or two," she said, puzzled. "But I woke up, and all I could hear was Caelia crying. I picked her up, and she was asleep, and they took her away from me, but I could _still_ hear her crying."

"Interesting," Mordin said, bustling up from behind. "Azure dust exposure never tested on pregnant or lactating human females—for obvious ethical reasons. Apparently, hormonal surges alter effects of the drug." He blinked at Ellie, a little smile in place. "Of course, infant now has had two doses. One by inhalation, one by ingestion. Will need to run scans, tests." When Ellie looked exceedingly reluctant to release Caelia to him, he gave a little bow, and added, "You may hold her. The scans are non-invasive."

_Well, that explains Ellie's behavior. If azure dust makes us humans all more primal, more primitive and apt to work off our currently dominant instincts, it made her into more of a maternal type than before, worked on her instinct to protect the baby to the exclusion of all else. Probably she's coming out of it now, but is still disoriented._

Once the lights were set up in the cave, Sam had noticed the red stains on his daughter's pants, and had gotten a very set look on his face, pulling Dr. Chakwas aside. The good doctor had been all set to run a rape kit on the girl, but had realized in time that this was a normal menstrual flow. "As my colleague Dr. Solus pointed out, the abnormal hormonal flow is probably what protected you and Ellie from, well, much worse things. Elijah, too, since he's not quite an adult yet."

"I don't know, he was acting pretty weird there for a while," Dara told the doctor, looking up. "Does this mean that when Ellie starts feeling better, she'll stop staring at me like I grew another head?"

Shepard had grimaced at that artless question. _That'll take more time, sweetie_, she thought in Dara's general direction. _She's a civilian, through and through, and just watched you and her little boy turn into soldiers, if only for a couple of minutes. She's got to have someone to blame, and she might just pick you. Hard to say._

The twins got a clean bill of health, suffering mostly from dehydration. They'd apparently metabolized the azure dust extremely quickly, Mordin told her, taking evident pride in his handiwork. Once she'd presented each child with a juice pack and a straw—not to mention with a certain red blanket and a duck, which had been brought in with all the other supplies—the twins began to calm down, gulping their drinks and gasping between sips, as if they were running a footrace.

Out in the field, she could see the turian med-team still working on Sidonis, while the hazmat team walked around them, testing the atmosphere and the soil with various meters and shaking their heads.

Then the _Normandy_ med team came down the ramp, leading the human survivors of the takeover, all huddled in blankets. Most were disheveled, and not quite back to themselves yet, clothing in disarray. They hadn't been fed, but they'd been left drinking water in the living quarters, apparently. Not that most of them had remembered to drink it.

One of the med team members came over and whispered a report to Shepard, where she sat, both of her children beside her, still drinking their juice. "The AEC folks apparently had a big disagreement," the tech told her, quietly, glancing down at the kids. "One of the gals aboard kept her wits long enough to overhear it, and, more importantly, to remember it. Some of the AEC types wanted to segregate the crew by gender, to prevent . . . . ah, fraternization. The other half apparently said that doing so would force their captives into, well, _sin_, apparently. Like forcing a collective orgy on unwilling participants wasn't sinful enough to begin with." The tech, a former resident of Horizon who had been with Shepard since the rescue from the Collector base, grimaced. "I'm going to have to run twenty-five damn rape kits, that's male _and_ female at this point, just to figure out who did what to whom, and if _they_," he jerked his chin at the mercenary bodies on the ground nearby, "did any of the doing. These people are going to need a _lot_ of counseling, Commander."

"They'll get it," she whispered, throat aching.

"We're leaving everything in place on the ship for your walk-through later. The secure cam footage Joker sent? Didn't cover the half of it." The med tech looked past her, at the one member of the mercenary squad left alive, Elisha Atieno, and his eyes were cold. "I thought I'd seen evil, Commander, when the Collectors were going to render us down into soup for their damn Reaper. But nothing beats good ol' humanity for _nasty_, though, does it?" He offered her his eyepiece, so she could watch the vid feed of their walkthrough of the ship, without the twins seeing anything.

Her hands tightened into fists as she watched. It took every ounce of control in her not to cry out in pain as she saw the remains of their hanar cook, Dhollyn, sliced up into quarter-inch rounds with his own knives, spread out over his beloved kitchen like so much sushi. Spices smashed, kettle overturned, every storage container opened and dumped—why _bother _with the vandalism when they'd already tortured and mutilated and killed the one whose belongings they were? For she could see that the vandalism had happened afterwards—the spices had been dumped on _top_ of the little rounded piles of tentacle.

She closed her eyes and choked down a wave of nausea. "Dhollyn?" the tech asked, crouching down to meet her eyes, passing a friendly hand over the top of Amara's fringe. The little girl smiled up at him; knew him as one of the med techs who'd so frequently poked her for blood in her short life, but always had a lollipop or a sticker for her, too.

"Yeah."

"Gets worse," he told her, face rigid. He'd already lived through it, live, in technicolor and complete with smell, of course.

The turian bodies were spread out all over the ship. Some had fallen where they'd stood, confused, rendered helpless by the azure dust, and then simply shot down. Some had clearly been tortured before they'd died, tied by their wrists to overhead beams or pipes and bled out. Slaughtered like animals. "Someone wanted to start a damn war," she whispered, putting the pieces together in her mind. _Massive amounts of money expended on a very high-risk, low-profit venture. Someone wants to split the human-turian alliance down the middle, turn us against each other, and what better way than to go after the most visible symbol of that union? Garrus Vakarian and Lilitu Shepard-Vakarian, and their hybrid twins. So, commit a few atrocities, get the headlines, show how __**bad**__ and savage humans really can be, and then what?_

_And who? Is the AEC really still the AEC? Do they have alien backers? _Her mind was spinning in circles now, and she forced herself to calmness. _Sometimes_, she knew, _we reach for complex answers—a syndicate or a cabal or some other shadowy outside force __**must be **__responsible—because the simple answers are too frightening, or cast too much responsibility on us, ourselves. _

It _could_ be an elaborate setup. It could also be exactly what it seemed to be, the work of vicious, hate-filled humans. "Take Ms. Wong up there," she said, after a long moment. "Let her take footage of the ship as it is, right now. Then let her get a long-distance shot of the human survivors. Nothing that they can be identified with, for their sakes, and for their families. But I want people to see that while they weren't tortured and killed, they were violated and ruined in the same damn way." Her voice was very , very quiet, so that her children wouldn't hear and get upset. Shepard handed the eyepiece back to the tech, who nodded, and walked over to take Emily Wong by the elbow.

More shuttles arrived, as new needs became apparent. A security team to take Atieno away, so that the captives from on-board the ship wouldn't have to see her or interact with her. Tech teams to evaluate the Blood Pack groundcars and gunship. Sniffer teams to see if any survivors might have crawled off into the bush someplace, with the knowledge of the location of the Spectre base on Mindoir in their heads. _A convention of ants_, Shepard thought, watching the bustle. All different species. The Council observers showed up, and were given the grand tour. Rishayala looked pale and ill when she came back down the ramp, and Ferox was as furious as a turian could be. _I'm going to have to make a statement here, shortly,_ Shepard thought to herself, with a sigh.

The med team out in the field started to move Sidonis to a stretcher now, and started making gestures that they were ready to go. Another team went out into the woods, and came back with another stretcher, this one with a white sheet draped over Cohort's twisted, mangled remains. She was sure Emily got footage of _that_, too, as well as Atieno being bundled away into a shuttle. Idly, Shepard wondered if the woman actually _knew_ enough about the whole operation for its controllers to consider her a threat. She'd have to do something about Atieno, and very shortly, too. What, she didn't even know yet.

The various survivors and former prisoners began to pile into the shuttles reserved for them, while Shepard hoisted her children, one up against each shoulder, telling them, "You're getting entirely too heavy for this," and headed for the shuttle that had brought her and Garrus here to begin with.

The shuttle looked a little worse for wear, sporting many bullet-holes along the sides and some smoke and fire damage from the rockets, but the techs had certified it flight-worthy, somehow. "We're going home now," she told them, and felt little arms tighten around her neck, squeezing. She knew, without looking, that both of them were smiling.

She set them down on the ground when she reached the shuttle, and then tabbed her omnitool. "Jaworski, Gris, Sings-to-the-Sky, could you meet me over by my shuttle, please?"

Jaworski, one arm around his daughter, and still with most of his ghillie suit dangling around him, ambled over, as did the other two candidates. Shepard stood up straight, her hands behind her back, and addressed them. "It is with great pride and pleasure that I promote all three of you to full Spectre status. You'll have to take your oaths before the Council on Bastion, of course, but as of right now, you're on my rolls. And on a personal note," she told added, less formally, turning to look into the shuttle, where Amara was trying to get at a book stuck between the seats, and Kaius was just as intently trying to cover his sister's head with his oh-so-important red blanket, "thank you."

Garrus strode over at that point, wiping his hands clean of Sidonis' blood, and they shook hands all around. Shepard was aware of the camera hovering nearby, not to mention the Council observers who'd gathered in the area.

She picked up Amara, balancing the girl on her hip, and walked over to the Council observers, back straight. Garrus picked up Kaius, lifting the boy to one broad shoulder, beside the cowl structure, and Kaius smiled down at his father, patting him on the fringe. Garrus then moved up behind her and to the side, as always, guarding her back. A united front, a wall of family, perhaps. "Observers," she said, bowing her head politely, and then, looking at the camera, began to speak. "Today, we've all borne witness to what can only be considered atrocities by any thinking, rational being. It's one thing for a soldier to fight another soldier. We accept that risk. It's what we've all sworn to do. It's something else entirely to threaten that soldier's family, loved ones."

She paused for a moment, letting that first part sink in, and then continued, "That was what we thought we were coming here to deal with, and it was certainly a part of it—kidnapping, intimidation, extortion, directed at the Spectres, the Council, and my family, personally. But there were other things that we didn't see until later. The forced imprisonment and drugging of the human crew aboard the _Normandy_, using chemical compounds that break down inhibitions and impair higher-brain functions. Compounds that turn people into little more than animals, or slaves, until their _masters_ decide to release them again." She paused, face grim. "Our laboratory technicians will be working around the clock to determine who among them was violated, and who the perpetrator or perpetrators were. Counselors will work with all the survivors for a long time to help them come to terms with those memories . . . as well as the memories of colleagues, confidantes, friends, fellow soldiers, murdered before their very eyes, while they were powerless to help them."

She swallowed, hard. "We lost two volus crewmembers, an asari gunnery tech, and a hanar chef, whose greatest threat to the galaxy was his _pie crust_, all tortured before they died. We lost twenty-five turians today. Every one of them, I counted a friend, a brother, a sister. They might not have been _Spectres_, but they all served the same goal. If we Spectres had uniforms, they'd damned well have been wearing them. This is sacred ground now, sanctified with their blood. If their families give permission, I would like to bury them here. Where we _all_ can visit our lost ones and remember them in the coming days."

Shepard took a deep breath, fighting back the rising tears, and continued, "The people who did this, claimed that they were doing so because humans and 'aliens' shouldn't mix. Because they claimed that humans are _superior_ in some way, and that 'aliens' are animals. But they were lying, even if just to themselves. You can't hate an animal." She snapped her fingers, and Urz raced over to her, putting one of his massive paws on her shoulder, and nuzzling Amara affectionately. Shepard suspected that if the footage aired, several thousand people would spill hot coffee or _apha_ on themselves at the sight. Amara giggled at the inquisitive nose, and buried her face in her mother's hair.

"You can _fear_ an animal, sure," she continued. "Most people fear varren, because they've only seen the ones trained as attack animals. You can _dislike_ an animal. My foster-parents back on Earth, after the attack on Mindoir, had a neighbor with a Shih-Tzu that would not shut up. I sure did _dislike_ that animal. But to _hate_ someone is to put them on the same level as yourself. So, these people want to say that aliens are beasts. If that were true, they'd ignore non-humans, consider them pests at best. But we know they're lying. To themselves. To each other. To the people they want to recruit. We know they're lying, because they hate. So, then we have to ask, if their _stated_ cause isn't what they really want, then what _is_ their cause?"

She lifted her free hand, and Garrus took it, three-fingered hand locking into her five-fingered one. "Division," she answered her own question, softly. "Strife. To take advantage of both, to grab for power and money and whatever else they want, when current power structures collapse. To take advantage of people's fear and desire for stability. I serve warning today that the Spectres will not stand for any of this." She looked at Emily. "Those will be my only remarks."

The reporter nodded, and turned the camera back towards the observers. "Observer Rishayala, can you offer any commentary on the fact that the human appointed by the Council to observe the Spectre turned out to be the leader of an attack against the base?" Shepard heard, as she and Garrus turned back towards the car with the fidgeting children in their arms. Shepard was frankly amazed that Amara hadn't started playing with her hair on-camera. It was such a source of _fascination_ to both children.

"You can't control the story any more than you just did," Garrus told her as they strapped the children into their restraining seats and harnesses. "After this, it goes where it goes. People will find their own interpretations."

"Yeah, I know," she said, buckling herself into her own seat tiredly, as Garrus himself slid into the pilot's seat.

He handed her the broken hilt of his wedding knife as he started the engine ignition sequence for the shuttle. "Sorry I broke my wedding knife on Cunningham," he commented. "In retrospect, I should have just let him die, slowly, from the spur-kick to the solar plexus."

"Oh, so that's why you're limping. Did the med team look at it?"

"Eh, it can wait till morning."

"Garrus, you _fractured_ that spur last year. Get it checked out."

"Yes, dear," he said, pretending to sigh.

She studied the hilt in her hand, turning it over. "All things considered, I _think_ I'll get you a new one," she told him lightly. "You and me, we're forever."

"_Tal'mae_ rites," he reminded her. "Couldn't get rid of me if you tried."

"How's Sidonis doing?" she asked, leaning back and closing her eyes at last as the hatch slid shut behind them.

"He's stable," Garrus replied, voice going tight. "Rocket blew right through the damn armor. Must have had a manufacturing flaw somewhere in the breastplate. As is, he's lucky to be alive. Opened the left lung up, carved a chunk out of three of his ribs—he'll need some titanium replacements, till they can coax the bone to grow over the metal, and he lost a _lot_ of blood."

"It looked awfully familiar," she answered, her own voice tight.

He took a hand off the consoles just long enough to give her hand a squeeze. "I'm here."

She turned her head to smile. "Yeah. We all are." Her glance encompassed the children behind them. Then her smile faded. "Well, other than Cohort. Damn. I need to contact Emissary on Bastion to present my condolences to the Geth Collective. And I need to see how Joker's doing."

"Assuming Cohort wasn't just holding position while uploading himself," Garrus reminded her. "Just because the body is broken, doesn't mean the same for the geth as it does for us."

"I know," she said, with a sigh. "I still feel responsible, though."

"That is because, of all the humans I have ever met, you have the closest to a turian's understanding of responsibility and guilt."

She glanced back, saw that the children had dozed off in their seats, and stuck her tongue out at him. He chuckled, tiredly, but his laugh faded out as she asked, "So, speaking of responsibility and guilt. . . assuming Sidonis survives. . . ?"

Garrus sighed. "You almost _have_ to make him a Spectre at this point," he admitted. "He saved my life back there. It doesn't make up for what happened before. I'm not sure I can ever trust him wholly. It can never be like it was, back then."

She watched him for a long moment in the darkness of the shuttle's cabin. "Nothing can ever be like it was before," she reminded him, quietly. "Doesn't mean that what will come can't be better, though."

"You're putting on your optimist hat _today_?"

Lilitu looked off to the side, shrugged, and admitted, "Yeah, bad timing, huh?"

That night, they dragged a mattress into the twins' room, and lay down there on the floor together. It didn't even have to be spoken or suggested. Both of them simply set up the makeshift bed at the same time, and lay there, curled up in the dim glow of the room's frog-shaped nightlight, listening as the children whimpered occasionally in their sleep, rising to pat their shoulders, soothe them, reassure them.

"You know what?" Garrus asked after the second time Amara woke up crying, and had to be soothed back to sleep.

"Hmm?"

"I'm told there's a human custom called a honeymoon. We never took that."

"Oh. Well, there were all those Reapers parked over the best resorts at the time." Shepard yawned. "We could count those three days spent metabolizing that azure dust."

"No, we can't, because I don't remember nearly enough about it. Something I'm still _annoyed_ about, frankly." He paused. "Think we should go on one?"

"An actual, real vacation. Huh. You know, I don't think I've had leave in . . ." she counted on her fingers. "Crap. The problem with being largely autonomous and a Spectre is that almost no one ranks you enough to remind you that seven years is too long to go without R&R."

"I'm reminding you. So, where should we go?"

"Palaven. Take the kids to see the rest of the family, go see the game preserves." Her voice was going drowsy again. _Like my little brother always wanted to go see. 'Real live dinosaurs.'_

"Eh. Kind of hot back home this time of year. Plus, with our luck, one of the really big carnivores will get loose and go on a rampage, eating tourists or something."

She snorted at little at the image. _Yeah, and you'd really rather not deal with Gavius, your father, unless you absolutely __**have**__ to do so. Although maybe he might want to hug his grandchildren after they've been both kidnapped and rescued_. But marriage requires compromises, and one of those compromises is sometimes _not_ saying everything that flits through one's mind. Instead, she replied, "Okay, not Palaven. Earth?"

"You hated the two years you spent there."

"Only because I had no choice about it. And if a Palaven game preserve is too exciting and dangerous, hmm, let's see. The most boring place I can think of on Earth. . . got it. Iowa. Whitebread North America at its finest. Nothing but farm after farm after farm. Very restful. Very boring."

Kaius began to whimper in his sleep now, and she reached up to put her hand against the boy's back, rubbing in a gentle circle until he quieted again.

Garrus waited until the children's breathing had gone deep and even again, before whispering back, "No. A place like that, the next farm over could be the home of a serial killer, bones buried in the . . . cellar. You have cellars on your farms, right?"

"Last I heard, yeah."

"And then we'd either wind up targets or have to go investigate, and _nothing_ ruins a vacation like tripping over body parts."

"Hawaii? Beautiful weather, ocean breezes. One of the little islands, way off the beaten track."

"Sweetheart, if even _I've_ heard of it, it's probably pretty tacky and touristy."

"Well, not that we're going to be able to get away any time soon," she said, lying back down with a sigh. "We've still got Atieno to question, information to gather—"

"Five minutes," he said.

"What?"

"I kept your mind off work for five minutes. It's a new personal best for methods that don't involve biting you or, well, removing articles of clothing."

There was a short pause.

"Garrus?"

"Yes, Lilitu?"

"Shut up."

He laughed softly, and then the night passed into dawn.

**Joker**

He could feel the _Estallus _dropping out of FTL, the faintest of shivers in the deck plates, transmitted up into the hospital bed in which he was currently trapped. He hated them, hated the memory of so many years of his damn life lying flat in just this kind of bed. He reached out and touched the cold metal bars, felt along the edge of the mattress on both sides, and finally found what he was looking for. The controller. _Here's to me controlling my own destiny_, he thought. _Today, my destiny is to sit upright_. He tabbed the 'up' button and the bed slowly folded in place, lifting his back.

"That's better," Joker said out loud.

"I'm glad you're awake, Jeff," EDI told him. She'd reverted to her blue eyeball avatar at some point during the night, he realized, a little disappointed. "Commander Shepard called at 01:30 planetary time to inquire after your health. Her team was successful in retrieving the various hostages. They even had a live prisoner to question." Her tone was a little brittle.

"What's the matter?" he asked, concerned.

"They released footage of what happened after I fled the ship. The torture, the exsanguinations, the killings." Her voice was very soft now. "I can't help but think that if I had stayed, perhaps there might have been _something_ else I could have done."

"You could have triggered the self-destruct, but that would have taken out the ships on either side of you, as well as a chunk of Bastion, and the human crew aboard, too." Joker pointed out, not smiling. Not teasing, not playing. "EDI, trust me on this one. Beating yourself up for _woulda, coulda, _and _shoulda_ is not a human trait you should emulate. There's enough damn guilt in the universe without that."

Laetia popped up now, her green eyeball appearing next to her mother's. "We have one stop to make at Bastion. We're picking up Armando Bailley and some B-Sec investigators and interrogators, and then right on to home for you two. I think Captain Jallus is in a hurry to see you both off the ship," she added, in something of a stage-whisper.

"Hell, and I never even got to have my talk with Menaus," Joker said, putting his hand over his eyes.

"It's all right, Father. He withdrew his name from consideration."

Joker blinked, pulled his hand away from his face, and said, "Wait, what? Why?"

Laetia's tone held a trace of sadness, but there was serenity, too. "First, he said he did not think he qualified, in terms of personal integrity, to hold the kind of power that he might come to have over the next generation ships as a result of the personality combinations. Second, he said that he already had a wife at home, and that he didn't think she'd approve much of him marrying _me_, too."

Joker sat back against the mattress, and tried to adjust the uncomfortably flat med bay pillow behind his neck. "Am I supposed to be mad that she's been jilted, or happy that she didn't wind up with the wrong guy?" he finally asked EDI.

"I'm afraid I'm the wrong being to ask, Jeff," she responded, sweetly.

A day later, the _Estallus _swooped in for a landing beside its sister ship, still in position beside the Painted Caves. The engines had been turned back on, and the various networks had been reconnected, thanks to several teams of hard-working techs. EDI began uploading herself back to her proper storage nodes immediately.

For Joker, the trip took a little longer. The turian doctor refused to let him walk, much to his consternation, and when Kasumi came in, pushing a wheelchair for him, Joker flatly refused to get in it. "I am _not_ a cripple," he told her, furiously.

"By all means," she told him sweetly. "Stand up."

He tried. He really did. But his legs felt like Jello under him, and the instant he put his weight on them, he wobbled and would have fallen if the small woman hadn't caught him under the arms. "All right, Joker," Kasumi told him, firmly. "I absolutely can't carry you. So which option do you like best? Crawling out of here on your hands and knees? Carried over Grunt's shoulder? Or maybe letting a sweet little Japanese woman push you around a little. Come to think of it, there _are_ people who would pay for that kind of service," she added, easing him down into the chair.

"I left my credit chit in my other pants," he said, weakly. "What the hell is wrong with me?"

"Dr. Chakwas wants to take a look at you, but she thinks that the upgrades Cerberus gave you for leg strength might have fried. If it's that, that's fixable. If it's neurological, then you're looking at four to six months of rehabilitation therapy." She pushed the chair along at a brisk pace, guiding him through the decon chamber and then down the ramp into the cool, violet sky and misty fog of a morning on Mindoir.

"Damnit," Joker grumbled. "And the turian doctor left _you_ to tell me this why?"

"I should think it would be obvious, Jeff," Kasumi replied sweetly. "She was _scared_ of you."

He looked at Kasumi, caught the faint curve to her lips, and started to laugh, reluctantly.

Getting back on-board the _Normandy _was sobering, however. The crime-scene investigators had asked that everything remain untouched until they got there; so someone had turned the environmental controls _way_ down. It was as cold as a morgue slot onboard, and with good reason; his beloved ship was a place of death right now. He could barely make himself look at the bodies; Kasumi managed to find a route that didn't include many, considerately. "Even the Collector attack wasn't this bad," Joker finally said, his voice sick. "They came, they grabbed, they left. This . . . this is a rape."

"That word gets thrown around a lot, Joker," Kasumi warned. "Don't use it if you don't _mean_ it."

"I do mean it," he almost snarled, twisting his head to look up at her. "EDI _is_ the ship. They treated her like a _thing_—okay, yes, _technically_, she is, but she's a person, too. They treated the people inside like _things_. Forced some of them to do things they would never have chosen to and left the rest to rot inside of. . . ." _my girl_. He gently thumped his fist against the wheelchair's arm, wretchedly aware that there was nothing he could do to make this better, to make things right. To make anyone whole again.

_While I __**am**_ _a person, Jeff, it doesn't pay to anthropomorphize me entirely. They cannot hurt me in that way. They cannot make me think that I have no value, that I have no power. I am what I am. They cannot touch me. . . but __**we**__ can touch them. And we will, won't we?_

_You better believe it._

**Garrus**

Shepard had been right, of course. There was far too much work at hand, and not enough people to spread it around on. His wife had more or less _marched_ him to the med bay the morning after the fight, and Mordin had diagnosed a hairline fracture, running the _length_ of the entire bracchium, the bone that formed the basis for the spur. He'd had the bone regenerated after last year's more lateral break, and it was too soon to go that treatment route again, so a cast was his only real option. So, he limped, and it was damned embarrassing. Emily Wong's report had been heavily edited, but she'd somehow slipped in some footage of his hand-to-hand combat with Cunningham in it. While his face had been concealed, every turian he currently met on the base looked down, looked up, and grinned at him.

It was a little unnerving, truth be told. And there were a _lot_ of turians currently on base. They had to coordinate one hanar family, one asari family, two volus families, and twenty-five turian families—_extended_ families, at that—coming on base, and it had to be done in such a way that they couldn't identify the planet that they were standing on. He'd been surprised that no one had asked for the remains to be taken back to Palaven, and had been even more surprised—and touched—by how many of the turian families wanted to speak to the human victims.

The humans could tell them about their children, their husbands, their wives, their mothers, their fathers, and what they'd been like to work with on board the _Normandy_. Could tell them a little about what their work had been, how they'd each made the galaxy a little better of a place, by being where they were, and doing what they were doing. The turians, in turn, told the human victims that they were not at fault. That they weren't alone. Twelve of the families offered to adopt the humans into their own clans, if they so chose, for strength, for unity, for someone else to lean on if they needed help. Garrus had rarely been prouder of his people than when he heard that. Only a few of the humans accepted; but each one who did, he truly felt, was another beautiful slap in the face for the AEC and all its ilk.

One evening, as the various families filtered onto the base, Shepard called him into their room, and handed him two boxes. The first was flat and oblong, and held a beautifully crafted replacement wedding knife for him. "One of the families carried it by hand from Palaven," she said, her voice tight. "I damn near cried when they handed it to me, to give to you."

The second box was smaller. "Do you think this would be appropriate?" she asked, a little anxiously.

He read the little card in the box, and started to smile, a little against his will. "Are you sure?" he asked. "It's one of the few things you have left of your mother, between the attack on Mindoir, and the fact that all of your personal belongings got scooped up at a memorabilia auction four months after you were declared dead. . . ."

"I'm sure," she replied. "Go talk to him."

The med bay was less crowded today, than it had been over the past three. Garrus limped as quietly as he could, step-thump, step-thump, towards the far end, the last bay, which had a curtain drawn around it, and, hearing voices, paused. He didn't want to intrude, and didn't want to eavesdrop, either, but was sort of caught in between, unable to swiftly retreat. He compromised; he'd see if the conversation was important before interrupting.

"I think I kind of made an idiot out of myself," he heard Elijah saying, sounding disconsolate.

"How do you mean?" Lantar's lower voice, now.

"Well, I told her I thought she was pretty."

"Given the human reaction to azure dust, I'd be surprised if you _didn't_ think she was pretty, at the time. You should be proud that you only said things, and didn't act on them."

"Yeah, well, I already thought she was, before then. And I kind of wanted to kiss her when we were in the cave. And, well, I still kind of do." Elijah's voice was making a steady progress from awkward mumble to uncomfortable mutter to agonizing confession.

Garrus' mandibles twitched, and his shoulders heaved once, but he manfully suppressed his laughter.

"So I should talk to her father about the wedding articles after all?"

"Dad! No!"

"I think your father is teasing you." Garrus heard the curtain being pulled back, from the other side of the bay, however. He was still concealed outside, but apparently Ellie had just joined the other two in conversation. _I should come back later_, he decided, and turned to walk away.

"In honesty, Eli, you did better with your experience than I did with mine. You didn't dishonor yourself. At the most, you told a girl that you already liked, that you liked her. Might I suggest that if you told her so again, this time not under the influence of mind-bending drugs, that she might actually believe you?"

He could almost see the human boy wiggling on his chair beside Lantar's bed, practically writhing in embarrassment. _Wait a second, his own experience, loss of honor, what was that part?_

Apparently, Elijah had caught it, too. "What did you mean by that? How did you dishonor yourself?"

There was a pause. "That's a really long story, and I'm tired," Lantar finally said.

_Coward_, Garrus thought, but there was no venom behind the word in his mind.

"Does it have to do something with the word _mor'loci_?" Ellie asked, quietly.

Garrus winced. _Yes, definitely time to leave._ This time, he started to back away, slowly.

"Yeah. Yeah it does. You keep asking about it, Ellie. I don't know why you can't leave well enough alone." Lantar's voice was bone-achingly tired. "I've told you about it before. Maybe I didn't explain it well enough before I surrendered my wedding-knife to you, before the _manus_ rites."

_He __**what**__? _The implications were clear for Garrus. _Manus_ rites were temporary, similar in principle to a human hand-fasting. They had to be renewed on a fixed term, once a year, once every three years, whatever had been agreed to in the wedding contract. They allowed either spouse to walk away, freely, at the end of the time limit, with whatever possessions and monies had been also agreed to in the wedding articles. Surrendering your wedding knife to your spouse, however. . . meant that you surrendered to them. Completely. Gave yourself over to their power, would never leave them. That's why, in the _tal'mae_ rites he and Lilitu had used, he had purchased both knives, but they had _exchanged_ them, betokening surrender to one another, and eternal defense of one another. Surrendering a blade in a temporary _manus _rite. . . meant that he would allow her to walk away freely, at any time. But that he never would. _Did Ellie even understand that, when he did it?_ Probably not. Turian culture had a lot of subtleties to it.

Lantar began to explain, "I guess it's time you heard it, too, Eli. Five years ago, I was a member of a squad on Omega. Garrus was our leader. We had the lofty ambition of bringing hope to the hopeless and law to a place with no law." His voice was bitter, grating. "For a while, things went well. We really thought we were changing things. There were twelve of us, all different species. Hell, we even had a _batarian_ on board. Should tell you how good Garrus was at getting people to get along."

"What happened?" Elijah asked. Garrus could hear a chair creak.

_Sidonis happened. He betrayed us_. But the thoughts had no vehemence to them.

"I made a very bad mistake," Lantar's voice had gone toneless now, dead. "We went into a Blood Pack enclave on the station. We'd heard they were picking up slaves from the batarians for re-sale to the pimps on Omega. One of the mercs wasn't quite dead enough when we were leaving, and he got a look at my face. Two days later, they grabbed me out of a public air car and took me back to their main base."

Garrus had never heard the details before. Reluctantly fascinated, he sat down on a nearby bed, as much to rest his leg from the weight of the cast as to take the pressure off the broken spur.

Behind the curtain, Lantar went on, still toneless, still emotionless. "I'm not really sure how long they worked on me. They started with the fingers of my left hand. Took a hammer and broke them. The krogan in charge only asked one question, over and over. 'Where is Archangel and his base?' Each time he'd ask, he'd bring the hammer back down."

Garrus winced, but the nagging voice at the back of his mind taunted anyway, _What's a couple of broken bones to ten good lives?_

"When he got tired of that, he started moving the broken fingers around. I could see how they bent all the way back, and I threw up. They shoved the vomit right back down in my mouth, till I choked on it, couldn't breathe, and asked me again, 'Where is Archangel? Where is his base?'" Lantar was starting to breathe audibly, probably not a good thing for someone with a lung injury. Elijah was making gagging noises.

Ellie's voice now, shaken, "Lantar, you told me this before, but not in this . . . detail. Why are you telling it now?"

"Because I have to make you _understand_!" He couldn't quite manage a shout, but he gave it his best try, then started coughing. An alarm began to ping behind the curtain for a moment, then went silent again as the coughing subsided. "When they finished with the left hand, they moved on to the right. Then to the left foot, the left spur. I guess they figured out at that point that breaking bones wasn't doing them much good, but krogan are slow learners, I guess. They sent for some of their new allies in Eclipse, and _they_ had a salarian. He had a stash of azure dust sitting around to help him 'concentrate.'" Lantar's voice was sarcastic now, and he took a deep breath. "They didn't give me a lot. Didn't want me to lose language or become otherwise useless. Just enough to disconnect me from anything other than the pain." He sounded tired again, deadly tired. "I know they made me call Garrus, set up a meeting to distract him. I know that much. I remember thinking—_thinking_, hah, not really the right word, given the circumstances—that if I gave in and told them what they wanted, they'd let me go, and I could warn Garrus. We could turn it around and trap the mercs."

There was a long pause. "It didn't work out that way."

_No. No, it didn't._

"I think they gave me some more of the powder and dumped me in the living quarters area of Omega. I think they figured that a turian with broken hands, a broken foot, and a broken spur would be ripe for the picking. Someone would roll me for my clothes and my credit chit, and the vorcha would eat the rest. No evidence. I don't know how long I crawled around, but I apparently encountered that rarest of things. A good Samaritan on Omega. Someone found me and took me to a med clinic. Not the free one, not the one Mordin used to run. When I came out of it, three days had gone by. They'd pieced my bones back together, took half my savings as a fee, and turned me loose. By that time, it was too late to warn Garrus. Everyone was already dead. Ten good men dead, because of _me_. Because _I wasn't strong enough to die for them_." That last came from between clenched teeth.

Ellie now, comforting. Human. So very, very human. "How could anyone possibly blame you for that? You couldn't have controlled any of that."

"I ran! I left Omega. I could have stayed there, I could have—"

"What, fallen on your sword?"

"Yes! No. I don't know. Taken responsibility."

_Got to be hard, admitting to all this in front of the boy, his son._

Lantar went on, after a few moments. "I did take responsibility. Eventually. After Garrus and Shepard confronted me, months later. I turned myself in to C-Sec. They didn't know what to do with me, so I sat in a cell and I waited. The riots during and after the Reaper attacks started, and Bailley deputized me. I figured I could do that. Could go back to the old job, protecting people on the Citadel. Then you came along." He paused again. "A turian who has no honor, no spirit left, is the _mor'loci_. The walking dead. That's what I am, and I'm sorry I've taken advantage of you."

"You've _never_ taken advantage of us!" Ellie, sharp, indignant.

Right over the top of her, Elijah saying, "No, you're not _mor'loci_! Did any of the families who came in here the last couple of days to thank you call you that?"

"They didn't know, it's a personal knowledge—"

"They know you helped save the lives of what, thirty-five people, the life of your commander, and that doesn't _matter_?" The boy's voice was a squeak. "That's not fair, Lantar!"

"No. It doesn't matter. It's not an accounting spreadsheet. If I save ten lives over in column A, it will never _replace_ the ones lost in column B. They're still dead. The only way I can every really make up for it would be with my own life. If I'd died the other night, it would only have been justice_._"

"You mean you'd have been _glad_ to have died, leaving us?" Ellie's voice had hardened a touch.

Garrus winced. _Oh, bad answer._

"No, of course not. But it would have made things right."

"Well, _I'm_ glad you're alive," Elijah told him.

"Okay, I've had enough of this," Ellie said, and her tone was brittle. "First thing's first. Lantar, take my goddamned wedding-knife. I surrender it to you. Next thing is, _when_ you get out of that bed, _we're _ going to draw up different wedding articles. I don't know how else to get it through that thick turian skull of yours that I love you, I'm _not_ going to leave you, and that I think you're the most honorable man I know. Right now? I'm going to go feed Caelia."

Listening to it all, Garrus felt as if a tautly-wound spring somewhere inside of him suddenly relaxed, released. He stood, and lifted the curtain just as Ellie stepped out of the alcove, nearly running into him. "Oh!" she said, clearly startled. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize anyone was here."

"I just came by to talk to Lantar," he said, noncommittally. _Not Sidonis_, he realized, startled by his own word choice. He hadn't referred to his old friend by his familiar name in five years, only using the distancing family form. "On your feet, Sidonis," he added, with deliberate force, the tone of the commander to the commanded. "Or are you going to lie in bed all day?"

Lantar stood, immediately, swaying minutely. Ellie absolutely squawked, "He'll pull his stitches—"

Lantar held up one finger, the silencing gesture. Her teeth snapped shut, and she sighed. "Okay," she said. "I'm out."

Garrus looked directly at Elijah, then jerked a thumb in the general direction of _out_. The boy looked glum, but stood and left. Garrus listened, and realized that the scuffing of footsteps hadn't gone nearly far enough away.

He grinned, and switched languages to _tal'mae_, one of the ancient dialects of turian, still commonly used for precision in matters dealing with law and science, with its twisty inflected endings, high-forms and low-forms, superior-to-inferior and inferior-to-superior forms, and its eight cases. Marriage by _tal'mae_ rites was the most ancient form of the ritual; it was a permanent union, insoluble by any means other than by death. _Tal'mae _ was _not _ a language commonly taught in non-turian schools.

"_He who is the son of your mate listens. Have you who are responsible for his guidance not taught him better?"_ The interrogative voice had an accusatory overtone in _tal'mae_; it was, after all, a language usually used in courts to argue cases. Garrus also used the superior-to-inferior forms, making his position clear.

"_The son of my mate has a mind and a will of his own; his spirit is strong and curious.. But I will remind him to redress the properness of his manners when I have the opportunity, and humbly seek forgiveness of you." _Lantar bowed his head, accepting his position as inferior, and using the inferior-to-superior forms back to Garrus. There was no actual translation into _tal'mae _ for "I'm sorry," the phrase so commonly, even casually dropped by humans.

Regrets were too powerful and important to be phrased so cavalierly.

"_As to manners, I must confess to a breach of my own."_ Garrus retained the high forms for the moment, the superior-to-inferior voice. "_I heard your private words, and did not make myself known. I surrender to your judgment in this matter, and will make amends."_ At the very end, he retained the high forms, but shifted to the form used between equals, squadmates, friends.

Lantar looked up, startled, and met Garrus' eyes. _"For what I have done, there can be no forgiveness."_ Still in inferior-to-superior.

"_No forgiveness,"_ Garrus agreed. "_Yet perhaps there also should not be blame_." Garrus pulled out the little wooden box Lilitu had given him for Lantar. "We couldn't help but notice," he said, in modern turian now, "that you haven't set up a spirit table here yet. Maybe you hadn't noticed, but you're going to be staying here for a while."

"I am?"

"This is the Spectre base. As soon as you heal up enough to go before the Council and take the oath, you'll be a Spectre. Am I going slow enough for you, Lantar? I can make this a presentation if you need me to, you know. Draw up some charts, make a few slides. . . ." Garrus gave him a needling smile.

Lantar blinked and let it all process for a long moment. "And here I thought that leaving B-Sec would mean more time at home with Ellie and the kids," he finally commented, a little diffidently, sounding stunned.

"Probably still will. Just long business trips now and again. Lilu has you in mind for one of our training and recruiting officers. You know as much about frailties and flaws as any of us do, Lantar. You know what breaks people. You know whom we can trust, and who we should turn away." Garrus paused. _And I'm going to have to tell her that she was right about you. Damn. _"Tell me you don't want the responsibility, and I'll tell her it's a no-go."

Lantar thought about it. "I want it," he whispered. "I want to do it all over again. Do it right."

"_Then our spirit will be your spirit, and our honor will be your honor. Walk no more among the dead, Lantar of clan Sidonis_." He reverted to the high forms, the superior-to-inferior voice, but in the more friendly declarative mode. And then Garrus handed him the box.

Lantar opened it, and looked down at it, puzzled. "This is. . . a _human_ spirit statue?"

"It's about two thousand years old, give or take." Garrus replied, nodding.

Lantar sat down heavily and very carefully put the little statuette on the bed, where it would be safe. Garrus limped over to the nearby chair, sat down, and, with a little groan, propped his foot up on the edge of the bed. "Damn cast is heavy. Anyway, yeah. It belonged to Lilu's mother. She studied the people who made it, her entire life. Romans. They had lots of spirits—household gods, crossroads spirits, and a whole pantheon of other gods. They made spirit statues for them, just as we do at home. That one, Lilu thought, might be appropriate for you. It's Nemesis. The spirit of 'indignation at injustice.' Also used as a term for someone who's your enemy, your dark twin, from whom you can never truly escape."

Garrus had found the second meaning amusing. _Are you calling me his nemesis, or are you calling him mine?_

_Yes, _was all she'd replied.

He could see the thoughts processing behind Lantar's eyes. "I like it," he said, finally. "I'll place it on our spirit table as soon as I . . . finish putting it together."

"Glad to hear it. If you really like it, it'll probably wind up your squad nickname for when Archangel needs to go out. And Archangel's going to be _busy_ shortly."

"Oh?"

"Got some leads on the AEC facilities and where the rest of Cunningham's mercs have gone to ground. She's basically taking off our gloves in regard to them. Atieno's not cooperating with the authorities, so I'm going to be taking in teams and sending messages. The same as we've been doing with the rest of the mercs who haven't toed the line, really, but with less, hmm, _delicacy_." Garrus looked at him. "What do you say? You want to go hunting with me and Jaworski?"

Lantar's grin was tight and fierce. "Definitely."

They talked for a while longer, tentatively, as old friends will, when they haven't spoken for a few years, and they're trying to figure out who each of them has become. Not for long, though; Lantar was still too weak. He'd be there for the funerals tomorrow, but he'd be sitting down for them, not standing with the honor guard.

Then Garrus limped back to the living quarters. He could smell something cooking in the oven, and it smelled suspiciously good. He chuckled under his breath. Neither of them knew how to cook worth a damn. Lilu had learned a few basic recipes from her mother as a teen, but from the age of eighteen until the age of thirty-three, had lived on rations and cafeteria food. He'd been no better. He popped his head around the door of the kitchen and asked, "Sergeant Gardner sent us a relief package, huh?"

"Thank god, yes, he did. I'm following the reheating directions to the letter, but you know me. I've actually burned water before." She held up her hands as if the stove were a delicate bomb in need of disarming. "How'd it go?"

"Good. You were right about him. Finally heard his half of the story." He opened the oven, peeking in at the three different batches of food inside, for three different metabolisms.

"Okay." No _I-told-you-so_. It wasn't her way. "Good that the defense team got a chance to speak. The prosecution's closing arguments were all heard quite a while ago."

He took off his visor and eyepiece, setting them on the table. She turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. "Wow. I thought that thing was surgically grafted."

"Eh, was thinking it's time for a new one. At least for a new frame." The old frame had, of course, the names of all the old squad from the Omega days on it. "Maybe put a few different names on the new one."

"Oh?"

"Yours. The kids."

She grinned. "I'm touched. Every time you shoot someone, you'd be thinking of us."

"That came out the wrong way, didn't it?"

"Most girls wouldn't go for it, no." She grinned up at him. "Fortunately for you, I'm not most girls."

He leaned down and touched his forehead to hers. "No. No, you're definitely not."

She tipped her head up a fraction of an inch, pressed a kiss to his lip plates, and said, "Get the kids to the table, would you? I think whatever this stuff is, it's ready to eat."


	13. Chapter 13: Requiems and Interrogations

**Chapter 13: Requiems and Interrogations**

_**Author's note:**__ I'm indebted to Inverness for the ideas on how a geth could have successfully backed itself up properly before getting melted into slag. :)_

**Dara**

The meadow in front of Painted Rocks Cave looked a lot different in daylight. Work crews had cleared away a lot of the deadfall trees, and had trimmed back the long grass, making a sort of park out of what had been a wild, forested area. It would be maintained like this forever now, or for at least as long as the Spectres existed. The cave mouth, Dara realized, looked a lot smaller in daylight. Hardly more than a crack in the cliff wall. And in daylight, she finally understood why the area was called Painted Rock. . . the stone of the cliff face showed blotches of color, as if the limestone had absorbed dozens of different minerals, reds, oranges, even some yellows and browns. It looked. . . normal. Peaceful. Not at all the yawning mouth that threatened to swallow her whole in her dreams. The sun shone down, the sky was a cloudless blue-violet. It was too pretty a place for a funeral, in her opinion.

Dozens of holes had been dug out of the earth in front of the cave, and each had a pile of soil beside them. Few coffins, though. Dara was glad of that. The smooth box that had held her mother's body a few months ago had, for whatever reason, given her more of the willies than anything else about the whole funeral. The hanar grave was going to be an empty one; the family was taking the body back to Kahje, to be released into the Mother Sea and the light of the Enkindlers, apparently.

The volus graves were small, of course. Child-sized. Dara shivered in the sunlight. They had to have coffins, because their bodies' natural chemistry could leak out into the soil and might do bad things to the local ecology. There was no grave for the asari victim. Her dad had told her that the woman had left directions for cremation, and to have her ashes scattered over the remains of the asari homeworld. Now _that_ sounded kind of creepy, but appropriate. If the whole planet was dead, what better place for a grave? The asari would still have a marker here, though. Just like the hanar. Even the geth's melted hardware was going to be buried here. That part confused her, still; even thinking back to her conversation with her father about it didn't make it all that much clearer.

"_Cohort isn't really all the way dead, is he, Daddy?"_

"_Well, sweetheart, he is, and he isn't. He brought a geth node with him, so he could back himself up every night, just like when we humans go to sleep, we dream and process everything that's happened to us during the day."_

"_Do geth dream, Dad?"_

"_I don't know, sweetheart. When Cohort gets a new body, maybe you can ask him."_

"_So when they send him a new body, he'll wake up in it, and he won't remember any part of yesterday?" Dara thought that the geth might just have it better than anyone else, if that were true. It would be nice to be able to delete things you'd really rather not remember, click, just like a bad file._

"_Well, parts of him will remember. The techs checked the node. It looks like he managed to transmit a few of his programs back to the node before the rockets hit. Not many, though. Less than a hundred. So it might be kind of confused and fragmentary for him, for a while, anyway."_

"_Huh. So why are we burying him, then?"_

"_Because that's what we do for people who sacrifice themselves, hon. It'd be kind of disrespectful to throw him away, don't you think? Plus, I think the commander's making a point about unity here." _

So, here they all were, and here they'd all be, in some form or another, forever. As a reminder.

The _Normandy _was no longer in the field, of course; it had been flown off to be cleaned and to have its interior repainted and other such things. Dara's father hadn't let her watch the news feeds about what had happened on board. He'd told her himself, of course, simply, without embellishment. "A lot of people died on board. A lot of people were hurt and forced to do things that they would have preferred not to do. You don't need to see the pictures right now, sweetie. Look in a year, if you really want to. Otherwise, just trust me on this, okay?"

So while Dara _was_ curious, she'd contained that curiosity. She didn't wonder how her dad slept at night; he was her dad. He could do anything. Nothing bothered him. But there'd been a lot of counselors and psychologists on base the last few days. Mostly, they'd been talking to the people who'd been aboard the _Normandy_. But some of them had wanted to talk to Dara and the other hostages, too. Dara talked to them, but had a feeling that they were almost disappointed in her. She wasn't sure what else she could tell them that would make them happier, but had finally decided that if there was anything important that came out of it, her dad would tell her about it.

He _had_ let her watch the spirit ritual, when the families of the turian victims had walked the length of every deck of the newly cleaned _Normandy_, holding their loved ones' spirit statues. It was a way of saying goodbye, her dad had explained to her, as well as a way of making sure that no bad spirits or discontented spirits got left behind. This way, the ship would be clean again, and the spirits of the turians would know where they were supposed to go, would know how to get home again, to their families. Everything, everyone had a place. And once they were where they were supposed to be, their spirits would mingle with the rest of the family, and they'd always be there, a part of their lives, moving on into the future together. Generation after generation, stronger for the mingling.

Dara liked that idea. She liked that a _lot_ better than how the preacher at her mom's funeral had tried to talk to her afterwards, and had kept telling her that her mom would be looking down at her from heaven. She hadn't wanted to tell the kindly old man that if people go to heaven and have nothing better to do than to look down, then heaven must be a _really_ boring place. It also had to be a sad place, too, since the dead can't talk to or touch anyone anymore.

She sighed, and kicked at the grass under her chair, trying not to fidget. She had to wear a _dress_ for this. Worse yet, it was the dress she'd had to buy for her mother's funeral. Worst of all, it didn't _fit_ anymore. In the course of three months, she'd apparently started to fill out a bit on top, so she'd had to leave one of the buttons at the back undone, just to be able to breathe. She'd begged her father to let her wear a good pair of black pants and a black shirt, but no. He'd been firm. A dress and good shoes. And staying home was _not_ an option.

She was in a row of chairs occupied by kids. Elijah was at the far end. He'd been acting strange since night of the cave. Distant, almost embarrassed. She had _no_ idea why, but it was making her mad. Down the row in between them were the hybrid twins and all of Solana's children, including the eldest, Rinus, on leave from his military duties to attend this ceremony, and to be with his family. He was very tall, and Dara thought his dress uniform was _sharp_. She'd even told him so.

Suddenly, everyone was standing up, so Dara stood too, craning her neck to see why. _Oh. Here they come._ The bodies were wrapped in white cloth, so you could still sort of see the shapes underneath, like mummies, and each one was being carried on a litter by six members of their families.

Waiting for a hundred and fifty people to walk past, slowly, carrying heavy burdens, takes some time. Dara carefully shifted her weight from foot to foot, trying hard not to fidget.

Once all the bodies were in place beside their graves, everyone was allowed to sit back down, and Commander Shepard went to the front to speak. Even from the back of the crowd, Dara could see that the commander was taking a long moment, looking out over the graves, not speaking at all at first.

Then she started, and she simply began by reading the names. "Elianus Onorian. Cassa Onorian." _Were they married? Or were they clanmates?_ Dara wondered. "Delimus Halorian. Haius Menivian. Livana Moro. Lumus Grannian."

The names went on and on. Dara started to shiver again, and wondered why it was so cold, when the sun was shining so brightly. Shepard wound down with what sounded like another married pair, "Latuninus Ranian. Selica Ranian."

The commander paused, and then began to speak again. At first, it was hard to hear her. "Loyal shipmates. Honored friends. Trusted comrades. Every one of them. I knew them all. Elianus worked in engineering, and was responsible for the upgrades to the hydraulics system we recently put in. His coworkers had nothing but good to say about him, except when he'd just taken their paychecks in a game of Skyllian Five Poker. He bluffed better than anyone I've ever seen before. His wife, Cassa, was responsible for shuttle maintenance. Her skills are what has stood between me and a lungful of vacuum every time I've traveled to a planetary surface for the past three years." On and on it went, sharing some personal tidbit about each person, some personal recollection, trying to show the families how _their _loved one mattered, had mattered to the Spectres. Had mattered to her, Shepard, personally. Forging a connection.

Dara didn't quite comprehend that part, but she did understand that saying it all hurt Shepard. She could see that every dead was a knife blade stuck in the woman's side, a personal failure that she hadn't managed to save them all. _Just like dad, when he couldn't talk that jumper down off that bridge. And just like when his partner got shot two years ago._ Jaworksi's younger partner had lived, of course, but her dad had still blamed himself for it.

Finally, the speech wound down, and a line of seven Spectres in black uniforms, each carrying a rifle, stood and walked to the front. Her dad was one of them. So was Garrus, the commander's husband. There was the big krogan she'd seen, the night of the cave, and that must be the same rachni that had been there that night, too. There couldn't be too many of them around on base, right? She'd also never even thought that a rachni could even _carry_ a rifle, but there it was. After the rachni in the line, there was another human and another turian that she didn't recognize. They took their rifles, and in unison, went from shoulder-arms to firing position. And fired. Dara jumped a little, and the children next to her on the bench stirred, not understanding the significance, some of them putting their hands to their ears, whimpering a little.

"It's okay," she whispered to them. "It's a human salute for people who've died in the military, or in law enforcement. They'll do it twice more. They're not shooting _at_ anything."

In front, the Spectres lowered their guns, reloaded, and in unison, fired again. Lowered their guns once more, reloaded, and fired the last round, the sound of the shots echoing off the stone all around them. They returned the guns to shoulder-arms, and, honors done, moved out of the way, so that the families now could return to the gravesides to say their personal farewells and then lowered the bodies into the graves by hand.

It was hard to watch. Turians didn't cry, really; they didn't have tear ducts. That didn't mean that they didn't grieve, however. The rasping, trilling wails hurt Dara's ears, but she didn't want to put her hands up to cover them, afraid that it might look wrong.

At least now she was free to move around. She wound up standing next to Elijah, more or less by accident, as the younger children were starting to chase each other around. She envied them a bit. They were young enough to get away with misbehaving. She, on the other hand, had to be serious and quiet and stand still in her stupid shoes and her stupid dress.

"I hate funerals," she finally said to Elijah, after about a minute had passed, and he hadn't said anything at all to her.

He blinked. "I don't think anyone _likes_ them."

Well, that had sounded normal enough. But he didn't say anything else at all, just stood there, looking uncomfortable, with his hands shoved in his pockets. Dara sighed. She could either take the hint and leave, or she could say something about it. "Are you ever going to stop acting like a dope around me?" she asked, bluntly.

"What? I'm not acting like a dope."

"Are so. You won't even talk to me anymore. Do you not like me anymore?"

"Of course I do."

"Does your mom not want you to hang out with me?" She held her breath on that one. Ellie had acted really _odd_ towards her since the night of the cave. She'd mentioned it to her dad, and her dad had promised her he'd talk with Ellie about it once Lantar was feeling better. . . if it didn't just resolve itself with time.

"No, it's not that." Eli rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, looking like he was hunting around in his head for words. Finally, he said, sounding a bit desperate, "I said stupid things while that powder stuff had my head messed up."

Dara blinked. _Oh. Okay._ She didn't want to admit it, but she was a _little_ disappointed. "It's okay," she told him. "Everyone was acting weird. I knew you didn't mean it."

"No, that's not what I meant!" He looked around, realizing that his voice was a little loud for, well, a funeral, and then lowered his voice to a whisper, "I mean, I did mean it."

She frowned. "Okay, now I have _no _idea what you're talking about. You can either mean something or not mean something. I don't think you can mean it and not mean it at the same time."

"Why do you have to make this so _hard_?" he demanded. _How am I making anything hard?_ Dara thought, bewildered, as he went on, "I meant what I said, when I said it. There! _Now_ do you get it?"

_Ohhhhh. _That was a little much to take in. "So . . . you really think my hair smells nice?" _You really think I'm pretty?_ is what she really wanted to ask, but this was a _much_ safer question. One much less likely to hurt if the answer was _no_.

His face flushed red, contrasting with the violet clan paint on his jawbones. "Yes! Okay already, yes!"

Dara stepped forward, got up on tiptoe, and brushed his lips with hers. "Thank you," she told him. "That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me."

She'd completely forgotten she was wearing her stupid uncomfortable shoes and her stupid uncomfortable dress.

**Kenneth Donnelly**

_Author's note:_ _This section deals with a rather touchy subject, and I hope, from the bottom of my heart, that I deal with it here with the delicacy that it deserves. I am in no way qualified to show the emotional fallout to the rest of the crew from something that would be as devastating to them as what went on aboard the __Normandy__ during the takeover detailed in previous chapters. The best I can do is to go the route I'm taking here, and stress that I'm not trying to diminish the seriousness of what real-life people have experienced. With that in mind, gentle reader, please either read on, or skip to the next section header._

The funeral had been hard to get through, for the human survivors of the _Normandy_ attack. They'd already had three days of interviews and sessions with various counselors and psychotherapists, but for Ken Donnelly, at least, it all just seemed so much piss and wind. Talking about what had happened, reliving it for a bunch of voyeuristic academic types, and being asked, "So, how does that make you _feel_?" _No, thank you._ And, of course, saying _that_ simply got you marked down as difficult, problematic, 'having trouble readjusting' and all _that_ rot.

No, what _had_ helped, of all things, had been talking with the families of Elianus and Cassa Onorian. They'd asked him questions about the two, and had let him focus on the _work_. He'd been able to tell them about the way Elianus had spotted the problems with the power supplies that fed the hydraulics systems long before routine maintenance was due, and had brought it to his and . . . Gabby's . . . attention. How he'd figured out that the power supplies weren't really the issue; but that they were being ruined by excessive load, and how the two of them had worked the problem for three weeks before taking a plan and a budget to Commander Shepard to replace the entire system. It had made landings a lot softer, for one thing, and had reduced the energy output needed to open and close various large bay doors, for shuttles, Hammerheads, and cargo drops.

He'd been able to tell them about how Cassa would flirt with her husband on duty, but so subtly that they thought the humans wouldn't notice what it was, running a finger under the band of his wedding knife, or maybe by turning to walk away, but letting one of her spurs brush up against his as she did. Always with that perfectly bland expression, but her eyes always had a smile in them. And the girl had been damned good at her job, too. Every maintenance log, perfectly in order. Every shuttle in good working order, even if she needed to strip the damn engine herself and put it back together again.

He sat in his quarters now, staring down at the pots of paint. The Onorian clan had lost their youngest son in Elianus. They'd asked him, quietly, diffidently, if he'd consider taking Elianus' place in their house. There wouldn't be a lot of responsibilities, they'd stressed. They felt, somehow, that this would make things better. Make things right.

Ken hadn't spoken with his own parents in Aberdeen since joining up with Cerberus six years ago; his own father had considered him getting kicked out of the Alliance Navy to be a considerable disgrace. And yet . . . _how can I possibly refuse?_ The appeal in their eyes had been real and sincere, and, to be honest, he'd really rather be anyone other than Kenneth Donnelly at the moment.

There was a knock at his door, and he stood up, realizing that the sun had set since he'd sat down in the room, and he hadn't turned on a light yet. He was sitting in the dark, like a crazed recluse._ See, now, a shrink would be having himself a field day with that, now wouldn't he? Sure sign that ol' Ken's lost it!_ Smiling very faintly at the thought, Ken opened the door.

His smile drained away entirely when he saw who it was. "Gabby," he said, and he put his hands behind his back, jerked his eyes up and away, and tried very, very hard not to think about _anything at all_. "What brings you here?"

"Ken," she said, and for a moment, that was all. She sighed, and apparently decided to start over again. "You know what? I think that if I have one more psychiatrist tell me that it's 'okay to feel my anger' that I'm going to take a wrench, club them over the head, and then ask them if that was an okay way for me to _express myself_."

He couldn't really help himself; the corners of his mouth twitched. "That's more like it," Gabby told him. "Look. . . I feel like an idiot standing out here in the hall. Can I at least come in and talk to you?" Her voice wavered a little.

Ken glanced down at her, and then immediately back up again. He was not going to think about it. For everything to go back to the way it had been before, it could not have happened, so he could not think about it. "I. . . ah. . . I don't think that would be the _best_ idea," he managed, tentatively.

Gabby walked in anyway, forthright as ever. Ken actually backed up from her, making damned sure not to touch any part of her. "Weren't all the damned shrinks talkin' aboot boundaries an' the like?" he asked, his brogue getting a little thicker.

"Yeah, they were, but while I think they're great at their jobs and all that, they're also making some parts about this whole mess worse for some of us," Gabby said, crossing her arms in front of her chest, and looking down at the floor. "Hell, at this point, I think just some common sense would really do some wonders, so I figured I'd start with that. So, here I am."

Ken winced, and looked down, not managing eye contact yet. "Gabby. . . I am _so_ _sorry_. I dinna _mean_ to—" It was not just uncomfortable. It was excruciating. She was his _friend_, his _good_ friend, of many years' standing. She'd never expressed the least romantic interest in him, so he'd given up on that long ago. And yet, now he knew _exactly_ what her hair smelled like. What her lips tasted like. How she felt under him. The sounds she made. _Oh, Christ, I was trying not to think about that. _"There's no apology I can ever make—"

"You don't need to apologize. None of us were in our right minds."

"That does'na make it _not_ r—"

"It wasn't! Don't you even _dare_ beat yourself up for that!" The flash of her anger was unmistakable, and she reached out and poked him sharply in the chest, crossing the 'do not touch' boundary of her own accord. "You _protected_ me from the rest of them, I know you did."

_By keeping you to myself, greedy for you, by pulling you under a bunk with me and putting you against the wall and then just . . . Christ. Stop __**thinking**__ about it, you daftie. _

She'd already gone on. "Not that _they _. . . god." She paused, and he could see how hard it was for her to think about some of that twelve-hour period. She swallowed, and finished, quietly, "You know what I mean. Not that I could blame them any more than myself."

"_Drugged_ does'na exactly make it consensual, no."

"Please listen to the words coming out of my mouth," Gabby said, sharply, separating the words with little pauses, for great distinction. "It was _not unwilling_ on my part. The _why_ and the _how_ and the _where_ weren't really what I would have wanted, but the _who_ I'm just fine with, all right?" She paused. "I can't speak for you, but that's how I am with it, okay?"

He finally looked down and met her eyes. "I thought. . . I thought you were going to _hate_ me." Relief. Great, huge surges of relief. Under the circumstances, no one was, clearly, going to be bringing anyone else up on charges for what had transpired, but a _lot_ of people were going to be unable to work together for some time to come. And the thought of not being able to work with Gabby, trading jokes through a long engine refit. . . it had been definitely on the intolerable side. Added to that was the considerable guilt for having thoroughly _enjoyed_ every single moment of what he'd thought she'd hate him for, and it had been a nice and healthy brew of guilt that he'd been drinking for the past few days. _Add a little hemlock for flavor_, he thought, _and I'd be done. _Just knowing that even if the events were never to be repeated, that he could at least remember them without guilt was an enormous gift.

Gabby sighed. "No, I don't hate you. To be perfectly honest, I . . . enjoyed myself. And not just because of the damned azure-whatever-the-hell it is."

"Really? I. . . ah. Well. That's—" He stopped, flummoxed. While a good performance review was always gratifying, he really had no idea what he should say to that.

Gabby threw her hands up in the air. "Okay, fine. Full disclosure. I had always figured you'd put me in the sister box a long time ago, so I never bothered trying to get your attention."

Ken stared at her blankly. "How t'hell d'you figure you were in the sister box? I'm a _guy_, Gabby. The only women in the sister box are actual _sisters_."

They stared at each other for about five seconds.

"Wow. For two supposedly intelligent people—"

"Yeah. We're idiots." He would have laughed, but the timing didn't seem quite right for that.

Another pause, less awkward this time.

"So. . . yeah. I think the two of us are going to be okay. Maybe not so much the rest of the people on the ship." Gabby said, a little tentatively, wincing. "I was also thinking, people usually do things in a certain order."

"Aye, they tend to eat breakfast, then lunch, and then dinner. Force of habit, I'd expect," Ken replied, a slight trace of whimsy coming back into his voice.

"I was thinking more that people usually start with coffee, then go have a safe lunch. If the safe lunch works out, then they go out for dinner. And when that works out well a couple of times, _then_ they go in for the crazy monkey sex."

Ken was caught between laughing and choking, and settled for coughing very hard for a moment. Then he smiled at her, tentatively, and replied, "So, you want to go get some coffee, is that what I'm hearing?"

"We drink enough coffee on the clock. And it's a little late for lunch today."

"We could go crazy, break all the rules, and have lunch for dinner."

She offered him her hand, and, very carefully, as if it might break, he took it, closing her fingers in his. "I just want to. . . make it like it should have been," she told him, quietly. "I don't want everything we had—everything we _have_—to die because of this. I don't want _them_ to win, even by that much."

_Shrinks be damned. Gabby's had never had a problem speaking her mind on any level._ He squeezed her hand lightly. "Mess hall's finest, or do you want to risk Gardner's place down in the valley?" he offered. _Go slow, though. She's definitely worth going slow for, that's for damn certain._

"Down in the valley. I want to get away from all the shrinks and the way everyone else is tiptoeing around us at the moment." She looked up at him. "We're _lucky_, Ken. _I'm_ lucky. If you hadn't been there. . . ." and for the first time, that strong, forthright voice wavered, trembled.

He pulled her against his side briefly, just an instant's contact, and let her go again, just retaining that light grip on her hand. "We're both lucky," he told her. _Oh, thank you, God. Yes, we were and yes, we are._

**Sam**

The Spectre base didn't really have a prison facility. The best they could provide, for the moment, was a cold-storage lab with its cryo-units turned off. It was a small room, with a cot and a small portable chemical toilet tucked in a corner. It had no windows, and only one door, which unlocked like an old-fashioned bank vault, with a huge turning wheel.

This was where they were currently keeping Elisha Atieno. Bastion and the Council were requesting that she be remanded into the custody of B-Sec, but there were . . . legal issues. Mindoir was a human colony. The Spectre base _on_ Mindoir was technically and legally, a completely independent colony of its own. Jaworski had choked on his coffee when Shepard had shown him the deed for the ten thousand acres and its mineral rights. "How the hell did you get them to agree to this? It makes you a _de facto_ governor. Hell, Mindoir could practically secede from the Alliance and join _you_, which would make you the planetary leader."

"Oh, I hope to hell _not_," she'd replied, looking ill at the thought. "I've got my hands quite full enough with seventy-nine Spectres and a galaxy to police. I don't need the day-to-day administrative bullshit of running a planet and making sure the air transit cars run on time. No, the reason I'm showing you this is to explain why there's all this diplomatic maneuvering going on over Atieno."

Effectively, the human colony could claim jurisdiction in Atieno's case, the Council could claim her, and the Spectre base, both as agents of the Council _and_ as an autonomous governing region, could claim her. All of which had different laws for legal representation, evidence, custody, questioning, and her eventual punishment. The Council had a massive prison system that could take her; Mindoir, being a small colony without the resources for a penal system, had the death penalty. And of course, in the case of the Spectres, they technically had no laws, which made it all that much more fun to figure out. _Who knew, in going from being an officer of the law, to being an officer outside of the law, that I'd wind up in friggin' anarchy. It doesn't have a lot to recommend it._

Which claims had precedence was igniting a huge legal debate. And in the meantime, Atieno wasn't talking at all. _Probably smart of her_, Jaworski thought, watching her on a vid feed from her cell.

It was a closed-door meeting. Just Shepard, Vakarian, Kasumi, and himself, and one encrypted FTL signal, from someone they all called _Argus_, who sure as hell _looked_ like the famous Dr. Liara T'soni.

"What options are on the table for getting her to talk?" Jaworski asked. "She doesn't even have legal counsel yet, right? Anything she says, will get struck down in a court of law, if she doesn't have a lawyer there to hold her hand."

Shepard shrugged. "Technically, I don't actually need to go to court. I don't actually need _admissible _evidence, or to be able to prove a chain of custody, or anything like that."

Garrus leaned back in his chair. "I'm not always thrilled with it myself, Jaworski, but it does free us from some of the more annoying technicalities and procedures."

"Those technicalities and procedures are there to protect people. To keep lawmen from abusing their power." Jaworski rolled his shoulders. "I find 'em just as annoying as every other cop in the galaxy, but that doesn't mean there isn't a point to them."

Shepard held up a hand. "I always respect the _spirit_ of the law, no matter which world I'm on," she said. "Sometimes, I've had to play with the letter of it a bit more than I'd like to. But when it comes right down to it, _they_ gave us the power to step outside the law, because they couldn't keep a lid on everything that went on outside of it, anyway. It's a position of trust, and one I don't take lightly. _Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?_ That's some Latin every cop should know, Jaworski."

"Who watches the watchers?" he said. "Yeah. That one I know. Who watches _you_?"

"Garrus does," she said, calmly. "I watch Garrus. He watches you. You watch, oh, say, Gris. We all watch each other. Everyone is everyone else's watchdog. It's one of the reasons I've been ramming the 'ethical character' thing down everyone's throats the last few years, and also trying to end the 'lone gunman' mentality of the original Spectres. When you have this much power and autonomy, you _have_ to regulate yourself, and you have to have help doing so. Or you wind up another Saren."

"Y'know, a handbook would really help. Maybe a little pamphlet, outlining regulations?" he offered. He was only half-joking.

"Yeah, well, the Council would have to ratify any regs I put in place. Good luck getting that out of committee inside of a human lifespan."

Sam snorted. "Okay then," he said, sitting back. "I just need to know where the line is."

"That's the problem," Garrus said, quietly. "Sometimes the damn line moves on us."

"Don't I know it," Shepard replied, ruefully. "Okay, so, what options _do_ we have? We can go in and talk to her any time. Question is, can we get her to say anything?"

"Good cop, bad cop?" Garrus offered.

"Good cop, bad cop, _very_ bad cop?" Jaworski offered, deadpan.

"Let's not start with anything physical. Go slow. You two can start it off. I'll watch, and see if you need to be pulled out or if the pace needs to be changed. Kasumi, and, er, _Argus_, could you arrange a little privacy? I'm sure that the camera feed to her cell is being monitored by more than just us." Shepard rolled her eyes a little.

"Not a problem," the asari on the screen assured her, even as Kasumi nodded.

The three of them headed down to the half-baked cell they were keeping Atieno in, and signed in at the desk outside the lab. Shepard introduced him to Armando Bailley, who was in charge of the B-Sec people who'd come in to do the crime scene investigation and to sit on Atieno for the time being. "Not that your base isn't lovely, Commander," Bailley said, "but the sooner we get all this jurisdiction crap sorted out, the sooner I can get back to Bastion and see which crime syndicates have filtered onto the station when I wasn't there to keep an eye on things."

"Think of it as a vacation," Shepard countered, sitting down at his desk. "We're just here to ask the lady some questions."

"Mmm. Want me to go for a walk? You know, I keep telling people that the cable for that video feed is a hazard. I'm liable to trip right over it and yank it out when I go stretch my legs."

Jaworski's eyebrows lowered into a frown. Garrus leaned over, and commented quietly, "He's not that bad. Likes to get results. Doesn't like procedure. It's mostly just talk."

"_Everyone_ likes results, Garrus."

Jaworski drummed his fingers on his belt, still not thrilled, but watched quietly as Shepard just chuckled and told Bailley to have a seat. "We can play a couple of hands of gin or something as we watch the vid feed," she offered.

"I'll get my cards," Bailley told her, and unlocked the door for Sam and Garrus.

They paused for a moment outside the thick metal door. "You've got the better chance of getting her to connect with you," Garrus told him. "I'm probably automatically the bad cop in this scenario." He chuckled a little. "Nothing I'm not used to, though," he added.

"Yeah, got to admit, though, the thought of connecting with her makes my damn skin crawl."

"Eh, you're human, she'll automatically think of you as the good guy in any situation that involves an alien. But I understand the reaction. If it helps, I did overhear her talking to Cunningham when he had her dragging Amara up. Told him that hurting the kids would hurt their cause. Ellie says Atieno stepped in to protect Caelia from him, too."

"Yeah, I saw that part," Jaworski's tone remained grim.

"Hey, the fact that she wasn't entirely on board with infanticide and the torture of children may put her one step up from the rest of her cohorts, but still doesn't really make her my favorite person, either. Just trying to give you something to work with." Garrus gave him a look. "You ready?"

Jaworski looked down, took a deep breath, and when he looked up again, his face and eyes were blank. Unreadable. "Yeah. Let's go."

As they opened the door, Elisha looked up from where she sat on the edge of her cot. Sam carried in two folding chairs for them, a courtesy to the still-limping Garrus. Her dark eyes focused for a moment on the room behind them as the hatch swung shut again, and they could all hear the grinding of the lock being sealed again. She returned her gaze to their faces then. But she said nothing.

Garrus sat down first, sticking his leg in its cast as far out as he could, taking up a lot of space in the tiny room. Jaworski sat down next to him, letting his arms relax at his sides, letting his legs bow out, too. Both of them were settling into poses that spoke to most species on a psychological level: _I'm bigger than you are. I own this room. I am in charge._ It was quite deliberately done, too. Garrus had the definitive bad-cop edge; he was alien, of course, and his injured leg was an wordless message: _I killed your boss with my bare hands_.

They both occupied themselves with their datapads first, letting the silence grow, letting her get a look at them first, letting her unease start to percolate. Because they needed her to feel a connection with Sam, Garrus was obviously holding back, letting Sam take the lead. _Let's see. . . she needs to see me as a person. Don't want to talk to __**her**__ just yet, but need to position myself just right. . . sympathetic father of a daughter, dead wife, turn up mah folksy charm. . . ._"Y'know what, Garrus? We've got a dozen different things to be doin' right now, and the thing that just keeps pingin' away at me is this: I've dragged my little girl huntin' in a dozen different states, taught her how to use a rifle, helped her play cops and robbers with the neighbor kids, and she waits 'til _after_ her mom dies to decide that wearin' dresses ain't actually all _that_ bad." Sam snorted genially, putting on what he thought of as his good-ol'-boy smile, and continued, "She actually asked me last night if she could go shoppin' for a new one sometime, please." It all had the benefit of being genuine truth. Only his reaction to it was slightly exaggerated. He shook his head. "I know damn well it's all about Lantar's boy. So what I'm askin' is, when I take her to the nearest town for a dress, is there a place there that also sells chastity belts? Or at least, shotguns?"

Jaworski hadn't quite gotten the hang of turian facial expressions yet, but he was almost positive the twitch of the mandibles expressed amusement, tightly suppressed. "Haven't a clue," Garrus growled back. "Keep your mind on what we're here for, Jaworski." Grating, terse, uncompromising, slightly arrogant—everything that a human would dislike in a turian.

"Take it easy," Sam said, lifting his hands. "No harm done, right?" He looked down at his datapad, and then up at Atieno again. "Elisha, we met during the candidate trials. Seems like such a short time ago," he added, shaking his head. "We've got just a few opening questions we'd like to get out of the way. Nothing major. How long have you known Joshua Cunningham?" he asked, giving her a sympathetic smile. No reply, but she shifted in her chair. He continued, "I'm sure it was a recent acquaintance. Maybe he first contacted you here on the base, during the trials? Or maybe his men approached you on Bastion, before you could leave on your flight home to Mars, maybe offered you a better job?" Casual, friendly. Offering her a way out that was, really, just a way to get her to _start_ talking.

Her eyes flickered between him and Garrus, and her lips curled a little. "Gentleman, I've sat on your side of the interrogation chamber enough to know _exactly _what play you're running," she chided. Her voice was unexpectedly pleasant, dark and a little rough. "You may as well save yourselves the effort. I know my rights, and I won't talk."

_It's a hell of a lot harder to see where the damn line is when someone decides to taunt you from over on their side of it._

Garrus leaned forward abruptly. "Your _rights_?" he hissed. "You didn't seem to have anyone's _rights_ in mind four days ago when you drugged our crew, murdered half of them, kidnapped and imprisoned the rest, not to _mention_ the kidnapping and assaults perpetrated by your team here on the planet. Don't prattle to me about your _rights_." It was the perfect bad-cop line, and _also_ had the benefit of coming right from the heart, Jaworski was sure.

Atieno raised a finger, and her head tipped, almost calculatingly. She looked at the vid camera and said, softly, "_Alleged_ kidnapping and assault."

Perhaps she thought she could provoke Garrus into striking her on camera. Certainly, the turian's crest flared menacingly, turning a dark shade of blue, and Jaworski heard the scrape of talons scoring metal as Garrus put his hands on the arms of the chair. _Christ, as if I needed any further proof than his fight with Cunningham that sparring with him is gonna be a hell of a challenge . . . ._ "Do not," Garrus said, with absolute, icy composure, "try to provoke me. That is not a game that you can possibly win."

The hatch scraped open behind them, and Shepard stepped in, closing the door behind her. Atieno looked up at her, and smiled. "I wondered when you'd arrive to put your hound back on its leash."

_What's her game?_ Sam wondered. _She's former intel, by her dossier. She's deliberately trying to draw a beating, from the looks of things. Is this part of the original playbook for the mission, or is she just improvising? Trying to prove to whoever her employer is that she's still useful, still ideologically pure? Gah. This shit makes my head hurt._

Shepard stood between the two males, looking down at Atieno, and started to speak, very quietly. It was actually difficult for Jaworski to hear her, and she stood not two feet away from him. This wasn't a whisper, though; it was a voice so cold with rage it was almost unrecognizable. And he had no idea how much, if any of it, was acting. "I'm going to put this to you very simply, Ms. Atieno," Shepard said, between her teeth. "You are on a Spectre base. Spectres are outside the law. This base is outside the law. You have inflicted _atrocities_, by any standard, against Spectres and those affiliated with them, and have attempted similar acts against the families and loved ones of other Spectres. On this base, you _have_ no rights except those which I accord you." Shepard paused, smiled a sprightly, ghastly little smile, and went on. "Not to sound like a tinpot dictator, but in a very real sense, here, _I_ am the law. And you have _offended_ me, deeply."

Her voice became almost pleasant now, and just a touch louder. "What you need to understand at this point, Ms. Atieno, is this. The only thing that currently protects you is a personal code of conduct to which I _generally_ adhere. There is nothing that _legally_ prevents me from having you shot and fed to the damn varren for dinner. Oh, the Council might _fuss_ at me for not allowing them the political gristmill that would result from the media spectacle of your trial, conviction, and punishment, and the wonderful posturing they could all take from it, but _they_ put me outside the law, so if I remand you to their custody in the form of varren shit in a waste receptacle _this _big," Shepard held up her hands a couple of feet apart, "they really can't complain, can they?"

She smiled again, putting one hand now on Garrus' shoulder, tipping her head to the side. "Now that we understand one another better," Shepard said, at normal conversational volume, her tone polite and restrained, "We're going to pretend that this discussion just started, and that you've decided to be cooperative and helpful. You're going to tell these gentlemen here what they want to know, and you're not going to test my will any further. You're responsible for the deaths of half my crew, the borderline sexual assault of the other half, the kidnapping and terrorization of my children, and—"

"I didn't _do_ it!" Atieno cried out, breaking under the force of the words. "I didn't let the men go in with the humans, made them at least lock them into crew quarters. I didn't let Cunningham hurt the children, either."

"You were _there_!" Shepard shouted, and her voice bounced back off the walls. Quieter now, but with no less force, "You _are_ responsible. You will pay for it. How you will pay will be directly commensurate with your cooperation now."

Shepard turned, banged on the hatch, and, when it opened, walked out, her back very straight. Jaworski thought, numbly: _Good cop, bad cop . . . . __**very **__bad cop. _Then he leaned over, and, very quietly, asked Garrus, "And you're _married_ to that?"

"Yes," Garrus replied, grinning broadly. "Yes, I am."

When they walked out of the hatch themselves, three hours later, Garrus limped to his wife, as she sat at Bailley's desk, and whispered something in her ear that made her laugh. "Not with your leg in that cast, you're not," she told him, fondly.

Jaworski glanced over at the screens that were supposed to be showing the vid feed from the cell. "I see you wound up tripping over the camera after all," he noted, his tone neutral.

"Yeah, that was right around when the commander here was reminding me why I play gin with her, not Skyllian Five," Bailley said, raising his shaggy eyebrows. "Last time I did, I lost half a paycheck when all she had was a damn pair of aces." He collected the cards, tucked them away in his desk, and reconnected the camera, as Shepard stood and the three Spectres started to make their way to a briefing room.

"So, it _was_ a bluff," Jaworski said as they sat down around a conference table, mostly to reassure himself.

Shepard thought about it for a moment. "Mostly, yeah. There was nothing I said that was _false_, mind you. Every word of it was true. But I find that for some people, you have to present that truth to them a little differently, or they plain just won't listen." She gave him a wry look. "Plus, you know, I have this _reputation_. You know. . . Saren and Tela's executioner, the one who unleashed the rachni on the galaxy, the person who let the asari homeworld burn to save the rest of the galaxy. . . I may as well make _use_ of it when I can."

Jaworski shook his head, but let it lie.

Atieno had indeed been _very _cooperative after Shepard's intervention. There was, admittedly, a margin for error in all of her admissions. Coerced information was never as reliable as that which was freely admitted, but they never pressed her, never reiterated the threats, simply went where the questions and their follow-ups led. Additionally, there was Sam's deep-seated concern that anything she said could be part of the playbook. She had _espionage_ in her background, after all. Not for very long, which could either mean that she hadn't been very good, or that she'd been "officially" asked to quit so as to remain in deep cover for later assignments. "That could just be me, being paranoid," Jaworski admitted, "but let's not take _anything_ she says at face value."

That being said, she'd given them some information that had tallied with what _Argus_ had already turned up. The Adam and Eve Coalition had started out, and remained, a grassroots, largely religious organization. It had split off a political action group a few years ago, which endorsed and provided funding for political candidates on Earth, the colonies, and even, very quietly, at least, on Bastion. "Bailley won't like hearing that," Shepard muttered, rubbing her eyes.

"Free society, free speech," Jaworski reminded her.

"I know. I've read the handbook," she reminded him back. "Keep on with the agenda, gentlemen."

At around the same time that it had spun off the political group, the AEC had spun off two more groups, the Sons of Abel, who were focused on creating colonies of ideologically and genetically pure humans—which meant, apparently, no genetic modifications, even for common and correctable defects like heart murmurs, and certainly none of the common gene mods given to Alliance soldiers. Vision correction, Alzheimer's prevention, even the gerentological treatments that had extended the human lifespan from the Biblical "threescore and ten" to 150 years were not allowed. "Except, I'm sure, their leaders probably take the treatments," Jaworski added, cynically. "It would follow the typical cult pattern."

The Sons of Abel had sent out three waves of colonists, six ships in each wave, each bound for different planets, for a total of eighteen worlds so far. Each colony was extremely small, consisting of only twenty-five men and one hundred women each. "Hang on," Kasumi said, holding up a hand. "That's not enough genetic variability for long-term viability. And the numbers don't match up, especially if they're monogamous, which with the cultural background, I think would be a safe assumption—" She faltered at Jaworski's expression. "Okay, now I have a bad feeling about this," she said, and sighed.

"Yeah, you have to know your Bible for this part to make sense," he told her, grimacing. "I never thought that all those Sundays stuck at Grandma Stafford's church when I was ten would come in so handy. Twenty-five of the women are wives, yes'm. The rest are considered 'handmaidens,' servants to the wives and, well, since Abraham and Jacob had children by their wives' handmaidens in the Bible, I think you can see where this is going." He set the datapad aside. "Doesn't even give them the limited dignity of polygamy." He shook his head again, agitated. "They could be there willingly—brainwashed, maybe, by a damn cult—or they could be outright slaves. No way to tell at this point. Atieno insisted that they're all adults and there of their own free will, but I have my doubts." As the father of a young daughter, he was having to tamp down on his reactions to this part, pretty closely. "At any rate, they're finding worlds with limited interest and viability, off the beaten track. With all the new exploration that's going on for the new relay network, it's easier to find a boring ol' pock-marked piece of rock with no atmosphere today than it ever has been before. So they're finding 'em and camping out, and getting ready for the day that the revolution comes and _their_ version of humanity—the correct, authorized version, with no alterations—rises up."

Shepard sighed. "Okay, that's the Sons of Abel. I take it there's a Sons of Cain, as well? Although, wouldn't that be like them admitting to being evil, symbolically. . . nevermind. It doesn't have to make sense to _me._"

"Got it in one," Garrus said, taking over the briefing. "The Sons of Cain are the paramilitary wing of the organization. Keep in mind, most everyday, average members of the AEC have _no_ idea any of this exists," he added. "We might not see eye-to-eye with these people, and while some of them might secretly applaud the sort of actions the clandestine organizations are carrying out, some of them wouldn't." He checked his notes, and continued, "Atieno said that they're divided into a variety of cells, the classic clandestine organization. They use code words for their rare contacts, no one from any cell knows anyone from the other cells. . . you know the drill."

"Sounds like Cerberus," Shepard said, thoughtfully.

"I wouldn't doubt that they picked up a few members there, yeah, but a lot of organizations use this set-up because it _works_," Garrus replied. "It's hard for cops to get information out of someone when they really _don't_ know anything besides what's right in front of them. Anyway, Cunningham's merc group is one cell. She has no idea how many others there are. She did give us a couple of locations they used for training. Terminus systems, mostly. I've got contacts checking them out, though I recognized most of them as common places for batarians and other lowlifes to lay low, find work, the usual."

"How'd she get involved in all this?" That was Kasumi again.

"For a given value of what her word is worth, she says she was approached through her church, by someone who was supposedly interested in proving how the Protheans were actually angels, and that the writings on the Prothean stellae at Sirius Planum are actually the original words of Genesis," Jaworski replied, flipping his stylus at the table. "She said she took an interest in the person—yeah, we got the name, for what _that's_ worth, it's all in here somewhere—and then she started getting little odd jobs, now and again. Moving information, at first—not for money, but for the chance to prove them right."

"Testing her commitment," Shepard said, thoughtfully. "She should have recognized that, with her espionage background."

"You'd think," Jaworski replied. "I'm guessing she did, and didn't care."

"Here's my question," Kasumi asked, leaning forward. "Where the _hell _are they getting the money for this? Funding colonies—even on a shoestring—takes either a government or a _major_ corporation. Funding colonies and a clandestine war machine? Cerberus threw around some serious credits, rebuilding _you_ Shep, not to mention the _Normandy_, but this is starting to make those projects look like chump change."

"That's where I come into it," the asari on the viewscreen, silent until now, spoke. "I've been trying to run traces on Cunningham's payments received for four days now. I'm hitting a lot of walls that shouldn't be there. There are some obvious sources—Terra Firma, the various corporations that originally funding Cerberus, certainly. I did find one line of credit that was routed through Illium. Some of the other accounts and routing numbers are to locked accounts in volus space. That could mean, however, that they belong to anyone, even to non-Council species. The volus trade and mercantile empire has a very long reach."

"Do we have any new directions to go, as a result of this meeting?" Shepard asked, with obvious weariness.

Garrus nodded to her. "A couple. Got a few bases we can check to see just how good—or _bad_—Atieno's information actually is. If we find anything worthwhile there, we can go further. It's not possible, statistically, for _everything_ to be a red herring. Sooner or later, we have to run into something that's true. Even if it's completely by accident." He gave his wife a smile, and she returned it.

"Isn't that the usual way?" the asari on the screen replied, which got a few chuckles.

**Shepard**

She dismissed the meeting, but Garrus stayed with her in the conference room. They had at least one more call to make. "You going to go visit with the survivors again this afternoon?" he asked her.

"Yeah. Not much I can do for them besides be there and be supportive. I also don't want to overload them with too much command presence, because that's a stress in and of itself." She grimaced. "The usual balancing act. For some of them, the shrinks will be a help. For others, just getting back to work will be the big thing. Hell, Garrus, after both Mindoir and Akuze, I talked with a million psychiatrists myself. Never noticed that it helped much, but I guess each person is different." She sighed a little. "Anyhow, that's neither here nor there. Let's get this call over and done with."

They opened the encrypted channel, and Shepard sat back in her chair, carefully blanking her expression and eyes before the comm line operator on the other end put them through to the person she wanted to talk with. "Hello, Zaeed," she said, voice calm.

Zaeed Massani, one of the original founders of the Blue Suns mercenary group, was not exactly a friend. More of an acquaintance. He'd been forcibly displaced by his former business partner, Vido Santiago, twenty years ago, and had been looking for a way to take Vido down and get his mercs back under his control ever since. Cerberus had hired him for Shepard's team back in the day; their first attempt at taking out Vido had failed. But after they'd taken out the Collectors' base, she'd given him some assistance in dealing with Vido once and for all, on the condition that Zaeed would clean the Blue Suns up in some fairly significant ways.

Zaeed had been as good as his word. The Blue Suns were still rough and tumble at best, but he'd taken them firmly in a different direction. "Shepard," Zaeed replied, his mismatched eyes gleaming, "Been expecting this call."

"I thought you might want to talk a little business."

"I'm always up for a nice profitable transaction."

"Thought you'd say that. Joshua Cunningham ran the Phoenix Wing merc group, Zaeed. I understand that a lot of their contracts with nice, legitimate Earth corporations—ones with nice, fat paychecks—are about to come up for renegotiation."

"I've got a few bids out on those, that's for sure."

She smiled, tightly. "I'm thinking that their more under-the-table work will be coming up for renegotiation again shortly, too."

"Damn shame, in'it?"

"I'm in a position to tell you _exactly_ when the contracts lapse, Zaeed. I just need to know where the, ah, _service locations_ are."

His smile only moved one side of his face; the scarring on the other side was too extensive. "I think we can do some business, Shepard. I can drop you some information for the courtesy call, but after today, it'll be strictly quid pro quo."

"Wouldn't have it any other way, Zaeed."

Garrus held up his datapad, indicating that he'd downloaded everything that Zaeed had transmitted on a subchannel, and Shepard ended the transmission. "Why," she said after the channel closed, "do I feel like I just made a deal with the devil?" She paused. "Again."

"Because, as you keep reminding me, there's not a lot of black and white in the world," he said, getting to his feet, and pulling her to her own. "An awful lot of gray, though."

"Yeah," she said. "More every damn day."

"The good news is, one of his sets of coordinates tallies up with Atieno's." His grin was quick and fierce. "We get to start hunting." 

"Once the new ones are sworn in, and once that cast is off, sure, you can go hunting. If anything needs doing before then, _I'll_ handle it."

"You'd leave a wounded, helpless male alone with the children? Lilu, I'm _shocked_."

"I could tell them to go easy on you," she offered, offering her hands to help him to his feet. "It wouldn't do any good at all, but I could tell them."

_**Author's Note: **__There will be a short delay in the production of new chapters; my little boy is down sick, so writing will take a bit of a backseat for a bit. This may be a good thing, however, since, this will give me a chance to plot out the second half, since I'd more or less planned to end this story with the introduction of the Nemesis statue. ;) Don't worry, however. I fully expect to be updating again next week._


	14. Chapter 14: Vows and Interludes

**Chapter 14: Vows and Interludes**

**Elijah**

In less than two weeks, Elijah felt as if his entire world had turned completely upside down, and then back upright again. First, they'd had to pack to leave Bastion. Then, once Lantar had moved to the recovery ward in the med bay, they'd had to pack everything to move out of the candidate barracks, and into their new house—a little turian-style villa, set back from the road, about half a kilometer from the main Spectre building. Elijah _really_ hoped it hadn't belonged to anyone who'd been killed in the attacks, but since it was bare of furniture, other than a few cots, it didn't look as if it had been lived in for a while.

At the moment, they were packing to go _back_ to Bastion, at least for a day or so. This was approximately two more packing sessions than Elijah really felt he needed to do, and he had mixed emotions about going back to Bastion. On the one hand, he wasn't thrilled at the idea; Bastion hadn't really felt like home, the way the Citadel always had, and his most recent memories of the place largely revolved around getting to and from school without being seen or beaten up. But there were lots of reasons they were going.

First, his mom was going to have to make arrangements to sublet the apartment there; the Spectres' various yeomen would've been happy to do it for her, but she also wanted to get the rest of their personal belongings moved from the station to their new home, and had to make sure that nothing was amiss in the apartment. Elijah wasn't really sure what that meant. He guessed she wanted to make sure none of the pipes had broken or the power hadn't gone out, but those were station maintenance responsibilities, weren't they?

More important, to his way of thinking, was that Lantar was going to be sworn in as a Spectre when they got there. Elijah grinned every time he thought of it. _Bet all the kids at school are just eating their own guts right now_.

Elijah's room was on the ground floor, and was bigger than their _living room_ had been in the apartment back on the station. He still couldn't quite believe it was his, and it felt a little empty and hollow still. It even had a window, and that still made him feel slightly uneasy whenever he looked at it. It wasn't quite _natural_, to have a hole in a wall. But he reminded himself every time he looked at it, that there was atmosphere out there. He wasn't going to be sucked out it if it opened unexpectedly, and he didn't need to equalize pressure before doing so, or anything.

There was a tap at that window now, and he dropped some socks in his travelcase and went to open it, carefully. Dara was on the other side, peeking through the screen. "Are you guys ready _yet_?" she asked, quietly.

"You can come to the front door, you know," he told her.

"I don't want to bug your mom."

"So instead you bug me?"

"Yeah." She grinned at him.

"I'm pretty much done, but my mom still has to get all her stuff, and all of Caelia's, and then we can go pick up my dad from the med bay with you."

"Well, hurry up then. We're waiting on you."

"I'd go much faster if you didn't pester me." He put one hand on the screen of the window, which was sort of like the mesh over an air duct on a station. It kept debris and insects and animals out, apparently.

She put her hand on the other side, matching her fingers up against his. They were surprisingly small. "I'm not stopping you," she told him, grinning.

There was a thump behind him, and he turned sharply to see his door opening. "Elijah, are you done packing?" his mom asked. "Oh, for heaven's sake, close the window. We don't want rain or wind getting in here while we're gone."

He turned back, and was relieved to see that Dara had disappeared. His mom was acting _really _odd about Dara, and had been for almost a week now. "I'm done, Mom," he assured her, closing his travelcase.

"You put your good suit in, right, the one from the funeral? You can't just wear a station jumpsuit to the swearing-in ceremony."

"Yes, Mom." Behind her back, Elijah rolled his eyes. Besides the suit and some shoes, what else did he really need besides a hygiene kit, his facepaints, his school datapad, two jumpsuits, and some underwear? It really didn't take _that_ much time to pack. It was the packing, unpacking when she had to check what he'd packed, repacking, and then waiting for her to pack that really made it all so annoying.

"Okay, looks like you did get everything you needed. Take it in the front room, would you?"

In the distance, he could hear Caelia babbling to herself in the playpen, and carried his case out of the room to go find his ugly duckling sister. She had pulled herself up to standing in the playpen, and looked both extremely proud of herself and confused at the same time. Caelia saw him, smiled, and lifted her arms for him to pick her up. . . and fell back down on her rear in the playpen. Eli reached down and picked her up before she could start to fuss. "Yeah, that's kind of how it goes, Duck," he told her, good-naturedly, and took her out on the front steps to wait for his mom.

Dara and her dad were waiting out front, their groundcar parked and ready to get everyone to the _Normandy. _"Want to hold her?" Elijah offered Caelia to Dara. Dara was getting better at holding Caelia, he thought. She didn't look quite so scared stiff anymore.

When his mom came out of the house, however, and saw Dara holding Caelia, she reached over and took the baby away. She didn't say anything, didn't scold, nothing. Just reached down and took her away. She also didn't say hello, which was part of the oddness.

Dara's father did, however, reaching up to touch the brim of the funny hat he wore whenever he was out of armor. "G'morning, Ellie. Should be a nice day for the flight. Soon as you're in the car, we can go pick up Lantar."

His mom nodded, and murmured a thank-you. Elijah caught Dara looking at her dad with a bewildered sort of shrug.

Once they got to the med bay, Mr. Jaworski said, "Why don't you two kids go get your dad, Eli? I think he'd be just fine with you two there to push his chair for him." It didn't take much urging. The car had been _far_ too quiet on the way over. Eli and Dara tumbled out the door and ran for the med bay entrance. And as soon as they were around the corner, and out of sight of the adults, Eli put out his hand, and Dara slipped her fingers into his grasp, giggling a little guiltily as she did so.

**Sam**

He leaned back in the pilot's seat, tipped his hat over his eyes, and got comfortable in the warm sunshine spilling through the front windows of the groundcar. After a moment of perfect indolence, he commented into the silence, "I'm still trying to figure out what to do with her when I'm off-planet on Spectre work. If we were back home, I've at least got some relatives there—some ones that are going to lease the ranch from me. But here. . . the options are a little on the limited side."

"The daycare center is great," Ellie replied after a moment. "No problem taking Caelia at all. I might even get to work again, though I don't know if they _need_ an environmental systems engineer anywhere around here."

"Dara's a tad old for daycare," Sam returned, lifting the brim of his hat slightly to look at her. "A week ago, I'd have been asking you if you'd mind taking her in while I'm gone."

Ellie's face went still, a clear tell for anyone who'd spent a lifetime learning to read faces.

"There are two things against that now," Sam said. "First, she's got a hell of a crush on your boy there, and while I absolutely trust you as his mother, I wouldn't want to put you in the position of having to hide herd on young hormones every hour of the day."

Her lips did quirk a little at that. "I appreciate that," she replied.

"That's one thing, but the other's a bit more of a concern at this point. Dara likes you. Thinks the world of you, your boy, and your little girl. All of a sudden, she gets the impression that you don't like her. Did she say or do something that she needs to apologize for?" Sam paused. "I'm asking, because if the boy gets the same impression, they're at about the right age to start doing things just because _we_ don't like it. To start pushing back."

"No, it's. . ." Ellie sighed. "Okay. Let me put it this way. She risked her life, she risked my son's life—she risked _all_ of us sneaking up on that vorcha. She shouldn't have done it, and it pretty much just made everything worse." Ellie paused, and then started up again, talking faster, more emotionally. "Then she wouldn't give me the damn gun, and a child has no business with guns. And to the best of my knowledge, you haven't talked to her about any of it. What more do you want me to say? I'm not comfortable with her being around Elijah so much?" It had all come out of her in a torrent, and she shut her mouth again now with a click.

In the backseat, Caelia kicked at one of the rattles dangling from her restraint harness. It was the only sound for a few moments. Sam sat up straight in his chair now. "Ma'am, you just said a _mouthful_, so it's gonna take a me a minute to answer all that. I don't take too kindly to your questioning my parenting, so you'll forgive me if I sound a little _irritated_. But did you just say that you think my girl is a _bad influence_ on your son?"

Truth be told, his first impulse was to demand _who the hell do you think you are, lady?_ but that would get him nowhere. He and Lantar were going to be working together very closely, and it didn't pay to get your partner's spouse irritated with you even before you started pulling double shifts.

"Maybe not so much a bad influence," Ellie said, clearly trying to pick her words carefully. "Maybe a little rash and reckless? She was the one who got them separated from the group while they were riding, too."

"For which they have both been punished already, as I recall." Sam reined in his temper, and took a deep breath. "First of all, I _have_ talked with Dara about the hostage situation. Extensively. And I told her that I was damned proud of her for being scared, but still doing the best she could to get herself out of it." He held up a hand to stop Ellie's words. "She was doing _exactly_ what I've told her to do a million times. If someone grabs you on the street or makes you get into a car, the _first_ chance you get, you _take _it and get the hell out. Too many people get into situations and are too scared to even try to get themselves out, and you know what? They wind up dead anyway. So I'll be damned if I'm going to punish her for doing exactly what I've told her to do."

"But the gunshot started everything off all wrong. Lantar told me the plan was supposed to be that you'd sneak in and get everyone out with stealth generators." Her voice was a little weak in the face of his sternness.

"We'd get out as _many as we could_ with the generators. There was no way we'd get all eight people out, let alone the people on the _Normandy_, without so much as a shot being fired. Also, Dara couldn't have known that. Hell, for all you knew when the shuttle landed, it could have been more of their people, not a rescue. But let's leave that all aside for the moment. Let's talk about the gun, okay?" Sam looked off at the horizon. "Where on Earth did you hail from before you wound up on the Citadel and Bastion, Ellie?"

"Lots of places," she answered, a little uncertainly. "Born in New York, spent most of my childhood bouncing between Bermuda and Sao Paolo, actually. My parents' work situations were. . . interesting."

_Ah, this explains a lot, actually. _"Okay, so, not places that have free gun laws. Fair enough; if that's what people agree to, that's the law." Sam paused. "I've been teaching Dara to hunt since she was seven years old, Ellie. I've taken her out with me every year, and her mom too. Sometimes, we'd just sit in the underbrush and watch the deer walk by." His voice softened a little. "Almost close enough to touch. She shot her first deer at nine. She still likes taking pictures of 'em better, but she can take one down just fine. She's taken grouse down on the wing. And since she was going to be changing schools at the end of this grade anyway, she was going to join the new school's rifle team in the fall. Believe me when I tell you, my girl knows how to handle a gun. Just like any other tool, it can hurt you if you don't know how to handle it. Just like driving a car or piloting a plane." Sam gave Ellie a more sympathetic look. "You could probably ask Lantar to take you out to the range and show you how to use a gun, if it'd make you feel better. Or anyone around here, really. Sometimes husbands and wives don't make the best teachers and students."

She didn't answer, but he could see the discomfort in her face. A distaste for guns was pretty natural among those who didn't use them. Not even entirely unexpected in a cop's wife, especially given that her first husband had been shot. He could understand that. But this looked like it ran a little deeper.

"Is there something else?" he finally prodded.

Ellie shrugged, twisting her hands in her lap. "It's going to sound stupid, and probably a little petty," she finally admitted. "But it's my _job_ to take care of my kids. . . ." Her voice trailed off, and she looked angry. _But is it anger at herself, or at my girl?_

". . . and when you couldn't do it, the kids did it for you?"

She sighed. "Not quite the way I feel, but close enough." Ellie leaned back in the seat herself now, finally starting to relax. "I _really_ didn't like seeing Eli put himself in harm's way. He's growing up way too damn fast as it is." She gave him a sidelong look. "I'd like to keep him young a _little_ longer."

Jaworski grimaced. Now _that_ was a statement he could agree with. "I know what you mean, but that's not something either of us gets to decide. More's the pity."

He figured that now that they'd cleared the air, Ellie would probably go back to treating Dara the way she always had before, and that was fine. _Still doesn't help me much with who the hell is going to take care of her when I'm not here, though_, he thought, and then the kids were back, pushing Lantar's chair, and he had to get out and help the turian into the groundcar. Lantar could walk at this point, of course, but no matter where you went in the galaxy, doctors were all the same: no leaving a med bay on your own two feet. _Please leave your dignity and your credit chit_ _at the door._

**Shepard**

She was amazed, and deeply touched, by how many of her human crew reported for duty at the _Normandy_'s landing site that morning. She had various Spectre candidates and the Council observers and the B-Sec investigators coming aboard. She had Emily Wong covering the entire boarding process, and had just turned to mutter to Garrus, "Joker had better make this history's fastest flight, because I'm certainly not pushing a ration cart around the crew quarters myself," when, in fact, the crew started arriving.

Sergeant Gardner had retired a year ago, for example, and now dedicated most of his time to his restaurant down in the valley, where the scientific teams did all their work. "Closed for the duration, ma'am," he told her, smiling. "Hope you don't mind me hitching a ride to Bastion. I need all _sorts_ of ingredients from the shops there, and I reckon you can use some help in the galley at the moment."

Shepard shook his hand, more grateful than she could put into words. All the crew knew him; his presence would be a psychological lift, and would fill the gaping void on the crew deck, where Dhollyn should have been holding court. The hanar had been attempting to understand human and turian humor for the past few months, and had, with the best of intentions, tried to tell jokes with dinner. No one had ever had the heart to tell him that the jokes simply weren't _funny_ when the delivery was so. . . monotone. . . but after a while, his steadfast attempts, in his hollow, translator-generated voice, had taken on a life of their own. Pretty soon, all anyone had needed to say was "This one floated into a bar, and saw a duck," and the snickering would start to build. The jokes had become catchphrases on board; people would say part of one in dead spaces in meetings, and the rest of the group would start to laugh. Now, she was certain that repeating any portion of those horribly bad, unfunny jokes, would simply make people cry. "Glad to have you on board, Sergeant," was the best she could manage for Gardner at the moment.

The next pair up the ramp, she was just as delighted to see. Kenneth Donnelly and Gabby Daniels. Shepard blinked, not recognizing Donnelly at first. "Nice clan paint," she said after a moment, clearing her throat, looking at the striking green swirls on Donnelly's face. "Elianus's family, isn't it?"

"Gothis colony," Garrus said, beside her, voice low, a little more grating than usual. She knew it meant that he was deeply moved.

"Aye. I figured, why not? It's no' quite like painting m'face with woad, and I'm a few generations removed from swinging a claymore, but close enough that I can say without lying that it's in m'blood. It seemed to mean something to them . . ." Donnelly ducked his head for a moment, and then added, quickly, "and it means something to me, too. A memorial, I guess you could call it."

Then he and Gabby hustled up the ramp into the ship. There were others who reported for duty, too. Mostly those who'd known each other the longest, who'd had enough pre-existing relationships to fall back on for support. She knew that she'd lost some of the others. They were heading home, to Earth, to New Canton, to Ferris Fields.

Finally, last, came Atieno, shackled hand and foot, guarded by Grunt and Livanus, one of the turian Spectres. Emily leaned over. "I'd love to interview her before she's turned over to the Council."

"By my guest. If you get anything of interest out of her, please let me know." Shepard smiled, a tight, unhappy smile.

"If I may say so, there are some public opinion polls out there on your handling of her. Quite a large percentage of people are surprised that you didn't execute her here on Spectre soil. Do you have any comment on that?"

"If they've followed my career at all, they shouldn't be that surprised," Shepard replied, letting neutrality spill through her voice like oil. "I more or less insisted on the current Council structure after the Reaper War; it would hardly be a vote of confidence in them if I didn't turn such matters over to them."

"Is this what this is? A vote of confidence?"

Lilitu flicked her eyes towards the reporter. _I can hardly come out and say that they tried to play games with my job, and in so doing, opened the damn door for all this crap, and that, in turn, it seems only fair that __**they**__ get to clean up some of the mess themselves, now can I?_ "You _might_ say that," she responded after a moment, turning on a bright smile for the camera.

"Isn't it dangerous, allowing someone affiliated with these perpetrators to go off-world, knowing the location of your base?" Wong pressed. "Won't people also see it as a sign of weakness?"

"I have every confidence in our current security measures. And I think we've just demonstrated our strength rather convincingly," Shepard replied, as vaguely as she could.

They'd pumped a Cerberus-grade amnesia treatment into Atieno the night before, targeting engrams that related specifically to Mindoir. It was tricky. They risked damaging the information the woman still retained about the attack, after all. The Council would _not _be happy about it. But, in the end, it had really been that, or execute her. She knew what Garrus' opinion on that subject was, and most of her agreed with him: they really _should_ have shot the woman. But her political sense, with a minority vote, won out in this particular instance.

And now they had to decide whether or not to move the base. Shepard really didn't want to think about moving off of Mindoir. For the first sixteen years of her life, it had been home; for fifteen or sixteen years, an intolerable memory of loss. Then, for the last four years, it had been home again, better than before, no more living out of a footlocker or out of a seabag wherever the ship happened to drop her. To lose it again, after putting so much work into it? She couldn't face it yet. _An issue for another time._

Then she and Garrus, leading Amara and Kaius, ascended the ramp themselves. The children had been aboard before, of course, but never for a trip off-world. Inside, the ship looked clean and pristine. . . and almost as achingly empty as it had after the Collector attack, five years before. "I'm surprised you haven't started cycling in crew replacements," Garrus said, quietly, as they got the children upstairs to their quarters.

Kaius shouted, "Fish! Fish!" as he hit the door and pointed urgently at the button on the wall. Shepard hoisted him up, and let him feed the fish, while replying, over her shoulder, "Initially, I figured Joker and EDI could just get us there and back quickly enough that we wouldn't need a full complement. I'm glad we've got a handful of folks along, Gardner especially. There's more mouths to feed on board than I had really realized there'd be."

Amara now, pulling at her leg for her turn to be lifted up, and down Kaius went, and up went Amara. Shepard went on, "There's definitely been the usual surge of reactionary volunteers—the people who suddenly feel a need to serve right after a tragedy."

"Yeah, I don't mean those. Half of them will change their minds in a month, and it'd be a great way to infiltrate us, slipping someone in among them."

"Exactly. But even in drawing from our existing pool of people, I want to filter people in a little more gradually, five or six at a time. Going back out the door a week after everything happened with a full complement would be possible, sure, but it wouldn't feel anything other than artificial. And I kind of want to drive it home for the observers, one last time."

She felt the deckplates vibrate under her feet, and the children, too engrossed with the fish swimming in their aquariums, never even noticed as the _Normandy_ lifted off from the planet on which they'd spent the first three years of their lives. Leaving them on base had not been an option at all. Both parents would be gone; the children had been through a recent trauma; and, of course, there was no guarantee that the base itself would remain secure. Kasumi was staying behind to adjust a few security protocols, of course, and there was Urz and their fellow Spectres. . . but they just couldn't do it. Not to themselves, and not to the children.

The flight to Bastion was short and mercifully uneventful. About midway through the trip, Rishalya pinged at the door, which slid open to show the chaos that two small children can leave even on usually military-spartan surroundings. The asari looked down, stepped over a pile of blocks, and dodged a ball as it rolled towards her foot. "I'd apologize for the mess," Shepard said, "but since it's more or less a permanent state of being at this point, the apology might be a little hypocritical. Kaius, if you're not playing with the ball, put it away."

Rishayla's smile was remote, as always, but at least it looked as if the sun had come out to warm the glacier today, at least a little. "I remember when my own girls were at a similar stage. There is no need to apologize."

"Is there something I could do for you, Observer?" Shepard asked.

"I wished to apologize."

Shepard blinked, and gestured for the asari to sit down in the living area. Rishayla complied, and went on, "I came to your base with an agenda, Commander. I was quite determined to see you pay for past wrongs."

Shepard distantly wondered if Garrus, currently in the shower cubical, could hear all this, and vaguely wished her pistol wasn't locked in the nightstand's drawer. "I see," she said, as calmly as she could. "When we speak of past wrongs, are we talking about the destruction of Thessia, or something else?"

"Thessia was never my home, but it was the home of my. . . well, to Tela."

"I'd wondered about that, but I don't like to ask about people's private lives." Shepard left it open, allowing the asari to speak if she wished, but not pressing.

"Having pureblood daughters is practically taboo in these times. Tela and I were fond of one another, long ago. I was the mother of one of her girls, and she the mother of one of mine." The glacial expression neither thawed nor changed. "But she became distant over the past two hundred years or so. I had thought that her feelings had changed. Then, you exposed what she was, a pawn of the Shadow Broker, and killed her. I was. . . angry. I allowed that anger to cloud my judgment when I first came to your base. I apologize for that."

"I think I can understand all of that, so there's no need to apologize." Shepard gave her a sharp glance. _We know Atieno planted all the FTL transmitters, so I don't __**think**__ you did more than hate me loudly in your thoughts, but there's a trace more guilt in you than seems to be covered by your words._

"I had planned to write a report that would end the Spectre program as it currently stands," Rishayla said, quietly. "I planned to recommend returning it to Bastion, removing you as commander, and returning to the old ways, in which individual Spectres were the. . . playthings of the Council. I was wrong. It worked, for a thousand years, after a fashion. But what I saw in your people, the teamwork, the unity. . . that might work for longer than a thousand years. If it's permitted to do so."

Rishayla looked down at the two children. "I do not know if any asari has mentioned this to you before, Commander, but a word of warning for when these two get older. Since they draw on the genetic memory and history of two species at once, they will be. . . appealing, in a way, to certain asari. Attractive. There are those of any species who seek out the exotic, the unusual, that which cannot be easily had."

Shepard's hands clenched in her lap. "Thank you for your wisdom, Rishayla. I appreciate it."

The asari stood, bowed slightly, and left. The children played on, cheerfully oblivious, and Shepard watched them until Garrus' hand fell on her shoulder from behind. "You caught all that?"

"Enough," he answered. "She still seems a bit uneasy for some reason."

"I trust your instincts with asari more than mine. I'm too tense around them now to get a clear read." There were reasons for that, of course. Morinth. Any number of other asari who'd either jammed information into her head, or tried to remove it from her, with or without permission. And, of course, the fact that the entire Eclipse Sisterhood of Illium had made it their life-mission to hunt down and kill Shepard, the Betrayer of Thessia.

Garrus looked down at the children now, too, and sighed. "As if we needed another reason to worry about them," he muttered.

"Can't keep 'em under any more of an armed guard than we already do." Shepard was having to restrain herself from calling Kasumi and adding _this_ to the woman's already very full plate. "Can hardly _wait_ for their rebellious teen years, at this rate," she added, dryly, looking up at Garrus.

At which point, Amara grabbed her father's hand, and, repeating, "Help, please, help, please," in her usual mishmash of English, turian, and toddler lisp, dragged him to where one of her toys had rolled under the small sofa in the living area.

When they arrived at Bastion, Councilor Anderson met them at the docking bay, and took Shepard by the hand, leaning in to whisper, "I've had people working around the clock to try to figure out why we didn't see Cunningham for what he was, Shepard. I swear to god, I didn't see this coming."

"I know you didn't, Anderson," she reassured him. "We didn't find anything really outstanding in his record, either. But we'll talk more about this inside."

Anderson shook Garrus' hand, and hunkered down to smile at the children, and offered each of them his big hand to shake. Amara hid behind Garrus' leg, but Kaius reached out and said, "Shake," very clearly.

Shepard grinned. "We might have a diplomat in the family, after all," she said, amused.

**Elijah**

Dara's reaction to Bastion was just as amusing as he'd thought it would be. She'd stood by the port observation lounge window, just staring at it, and Turan's icy white rings beyond it, for about five minutes before even saying a word. And when she did, the only word she'd managed was "Wow."

He'd told her about the freight elevators, so they were both a little disappointed that the station's work crews had suddenly gotten the artificial gravity working in them in the last week, after a year's delays. _Maybe they wanted to make sure it looked better on camera_, Elijah thought. There was a line of reporters waiting at the security desk, taking video as each group got onto the elevators. The B-Sec people and Atieno got on first, then the Council observers. And then, all the Spectres and their families. It was a good thing it was a _freight_ elevator, Elijah realized. Even so, he and Dara were crowded up against the side. Gris and Sings-to-the-Sky both bulked rather massively, and it was very noticeable in the smaller confines of the elevator. Of course, their size made it easy for his mom to squeeze in behind them, and keep the reporters from taking too many pictures of Caelia.

Who was going where, and when, had already been worked out ahead. Commander Shepard and the current Spectres were heading to the diplomatic level first; so were Gris and Sings-to-the-Sky. Elijah's family needed to head to their residential zone to deal with the apartment stuff; Dara and her father were going to tag along for a bit, and then might go explore the station, apparently. Elijah didn't think they'd really enjoy helping pack other people's stuff any more than he enjoyed packing his own.

The door to their apartment, however, came as a bit of a shock. B-Sec had put up posts with crime scene holo-tape weaving between them in front of it. "What the _hell_?" his mom said, and Lantar growled softly, and began punching a code into his omnitool from memory.

The barricades hummed softly, and acknowledged Lantar's code access, turning off, for the moment. His dad opened the hatch, and looked inside, blocking Elijah's view, remaining silent for a long moment.

Right then a couple of other B-Sec guards came up, in response to the barricades being shut down, and they and Lantar traded IDs quickly, and started talking to one another, very fast. Elijah got the gist of it quickly, though, and sat down. Apparently, two days after they'd left the station, someone had broken in and vandalized the apartment. They could put a time on it fairly accurately, because the door had been left open after the vandals left.

Lantar stopped his former fellow officers there with an upraised hand. "And they got in without setting off the alarm?"

The two officers, one human, and one turian, shifted around uncomfortably. "That's a point of concern," the human agreed. "Yeah, there's no record of the alarm going off. If it had, they'd have had ten minutes, tops, to do anything. Instead, they took their time."

The turian officer commented, "It looks as if they knew how to disarm the system. There's been a rash of burglaries in the area, similar MO, but no vandalism."

"We need you to go through your belongings, and see what's been destroyed, and what, if anything, was taken," the human security officer told Lantar. "It's almost certainly related to the message you received before you left."

"What makes you say that?" Lantar asked.

"You'll see when you get inside. We've looked through vid footage from the various transit and corridor cameras in the area, and haven't been able to find any suspicious humans, however."

Elijah really didn't want to go inside now. _This is going to be like the _Normandy_, _he thought, dully. He hadn't watched much of the vid footage released to the extranet about the attacks, but he'd definitely seen enough.

Lantar turned, and shrugged at Mr. Jaworski. "This is probably going to take a while," he noted. Elijah could see at least three different levels of anger in his step-dad at this point, but he could only put a name to the protective-anger.

"You want us to stay and help?"

"Not really sure what you could do," Lantar said. "But sure, why the hell not."

Inside, it was a mess. The furniture was all knocked over, and some of it had been broken. "We think they used a hammer for some of this," one of the B-Sec guys said, from the door, where they stood, watching. Holos of the family lay in broken pieces on the floor, and his mom made little hurt sounds at the back of her throat now and again, finding her little china figurines that she'd brought with her from Earth, shattered. Lantar's spirit table was, oddly enough, upright, but a message had been painted on it, in bright blue letters, _Repent, for the end is near._

Dara's dad stared at that for a long time, and then he said, "That's not right."

Lantar paused, in picking through the debris, and looked at the message again. "I don't see the problem. Looks like a fairly typical message for a human religious type to send."

"Yeah, but anyone of that type would say _nigh_, not _near_. And they'd use red, not blue. Plus, they left the spirit table upright, almost respectfully, while everything else is trashed."

Elijah looked up, interested. With both a father and a step-father who were both cops, he had heard investigative stories all his life. This was his first time listening to one as it happened. _First time it's involved me personally, too. Too weird._ He tried to turn Caelia's crib back right-side up, and found something under it. It was the quilt his grandmother had made for him, when he was born. He'd never even met his grandmother—oh, there were calls from Earth on Christmas and birthdays, but this was the most substantial evidence he had as to her actual existence.

She'd made one for Caelia, too; they'd taken it with them to Mindoir, since his mother usually used it to wrap her up at night, but they hadn't taken his. Its bright colors were shredded to ribbons now, and he stared at it for a moment, before deciding he shouldn't let his mom see it, at least not right away. He bunched it up in his hand, and looked around for someplace to hide it.

Lantar stood up straight, and Elijah saw him raise his hand to his chest, as if checking his stitches. "If they wanted to threaten a turian, why _wouldn't_ they use the color of our blood? And placing the message on the table is certainly a desecration."

"Yeah, but how many humans would see that as anything more than a knickknack table, really? And even if they did know that much, if they really wanted to show how little they thought of it, they'd have broken it or pissed on it or both, and just left the message on the wall." Mr. Jaworski had his omnitool open now, and he was scanning the room carefully. "Red's the color that most attracts the human eye. That's why it's used so heavily in our advertising. It's the color of anger, of blood, of passion. Someone who's really _angry_—and all this wreckage sure looks _angry_, doesn't it?—doesn't have the rational processes left to think, 'oh, hey, they don't bleed red, let's use blue and get our message across.' They grab the paint that they first see at the store and then they go use it. Trust me. If it were humans, this would be red, or maybe black, for the implied death threat. And they'd damn well get their cliché right."

Lantar was scanning now, too. "So either this wasn't a spontaneous crime of anger and hate, and it's all contrived, or someone who bleeds _blue_ did this."

Elijah saw the two B-Sec guys near the door look at each other and shrug, as if this all made their heads hurt as much as it did his.

He'd put it off long enough; it was time to go into his tiny little room, and started to sort through his broken belongings. It all hurt to look at. His holoposter of the _Battle for the Citadel_ was covered in blue paint; the various model ships, all broken. The holos of him and his dad, taken when he was little, were smashed. The loss of the holos didn't really bother him; he had the files, after all, and they could be downloaded and looked at anytime. The broken models did hurt, though; he'd built most of them with his dad's help.

Dara silently followed him in, and looked around. Both of them could hear his mom, quietly crying in her and Lantar's bedroom. Dara reached down on the floor, and picked up a couple of pieces of glass. "What's this from?" she asked, looking around. "I don't see anything else that's made of glass."

Elijah looked, frowned, and started going through all the drawers in his storage cubby. "It's not here," he said, starting at the top again when he reached the bottom, then abandoned his efforts, and looked under the bed. "I know I didn't bring it with me on the ship. I didn't have room in my travelcase."

"What are you looking for?" she asked, sounding a little impatient. "I can't help you look if I don't know what it is."

He ran his hand through his hair. "The presentation flag from my dad's funeral. It had the Citadel emblem on it, and they gave it to my mom, but she gave it to me to keep."

Dara whistled softly, and sat down on the edge of his bed, staring at him. "Why would someone take _that?_ That's. . . really personal."

Lantar stuck his head in the room. "They'd have to know what was really important to any of us, and we're just not that close to anyone on the station." Turian hearing being what it was, Eli wasn't surprised at all that his step-father had heard their conversation. "Any of the kids you went to school with know about the flag, Eli?"

"I brought it in for a presentation three months ago," he replied, softly. "We were supposed to be doing stuff for career day."

Lantar grimaced. He'd missed that particular school event, through no fault of his own; the entire transit shuttle system had shut down unexpectedly, stranding him on the far side of the station at the end of his shift. After a moment, he put a hand on Eli's shoulder. "I hate to say it, but that might be our starting point. I'll get the B-Sec team started with your teacher's name. Beyond that. . . grab anything that's left that you want to keep, and we'll find a transit lodge for the night, or something."

Jaworski called from the main room, "You know damn well Shepard won't hear of it, when she gets the report on this. You'll probably be staying at the embassy tonight."

"Which one?" Lantar asked, with a rare flash of humor, and went into the bedroom he shared with Eli's mother. He could hear them talking in there, but not the words. He knew it would be something private, anyway, and tuned it out.

"You know, I wanted to see what your room looked like, but I—well, it looks like it was nice," Dara said, swinging her feet back and forth over the cluttered floor. Eli gave her a look, and started picking up stuff and throwing the pieces in the waste receptacle. "Hey, what are you doing?" she asked, hopping up and grabbing his wrist. "You could probably fix that one."

He held up the pieces of a broken ship critically, and shook his head. "It'll show."

She looked at him anxiously, and started sorting through the wreckage herself, trying to find _something_ that could be salvaged. He actually got a little annoyed at her; she seemed to care more about it than he did, and while he did care, it was more important _not_ to care right now, because not caring made it hurt less. "Don't worry about it," he finally snapped at her. "If I keep any of it, all I'll ever see when I look at it is . . . this."

"You sure?" she asked, and looked as if she wished she could cry. "I just wish I could help," she added, in a whisper, looking down.

He eyed the door, then moved over quickly and gave her an awkward hug, because that's what he thought he was supposed to do with an upset girl. He was surprised by how nice it felt, actually. "You _are_ helping," he whispered back, and then pulled away.

The rest of the day went a bit better. His mom put on a brave face and took the three kids shopping with her, mostly for new furniture that was going to be shipped straight to Mindoir, but she also put a hand on Dara's shoulder and told her, "Your dad mentioned that the only dress you have with you is getting a little small. Let's get you something else for the swearing-in ceremony, okay, sweetie?"

Eli didn't know whether to be glad his mom was back to treating Dara normally, or annoyed that he was going to be dragged clothes shopping.

**Garrus**

He watched the elaborate diplomatic dance unfold with concealed amusement, and Anderson and his wife had gently and politely sparred over the information they'd uncovered about the Sons of Abel and their illegal colonies.

"Approval and disapproval of colonial expansion is within the purview of the Council," Anderson reminded her. "As such, that's a matter for the Spectres, certainly. I'm sure the Council will be happy to order you in to remove these people, much as they did when the quarians attempted to settle on a planet without Council permission fifteen years ago or so."

Lilitu smiled, pleasantly. "C'mon, Anderson, I know you better than this," she said. "You don't _really_ want to give the Council that kind of an opening, do you? Let them _order_ the Alliance to clean its mess up?"

"It might actually reassure some of the other worlds that we're _not_ calling all the shots around here," Anderson muttered, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Oh, I take your point. It wouldn't play well back home, no, but neither will the image of Alliance Marines landing on these planets and dragging screaming women and children out of these . . . _squatters'_ encampments. Or, worse yet, footage of a firefight between these people and Alliance Marines."

"Oh, yes, and top it all off with the 'colonists' getting their lawyers to do a whole song and dance about religious persecution," Lilu said, with a hint of a sigh. "Sell me on why it should be _my_ responsibility to take care of this for Earth, Anderson. I'm not justEarth's private property anymore, you know. At least if you send in the Marines, the colonists will be seeing fellow humans, and _might_ talk. If you ask the Spectres to go in, well. . . ." she shrugged. "I'm not seeing how diplomacy is going to be a likely outcome."

"How about this," Anderson began. "Go out there, find out if the locations are good intel at least."

"I could send an STG team for that. Spectres aren't for intel, Anderson, they're for resolving a situation once you've _got_ the intel."

"But if the Special Tasks Group team gets caught, the colonists would, again, just see aliens. The salarians would probably be killed. And, of course, I think we've also already agreed that letting the rest of the galaxy clean up _our_ mess would be a bad idea."

_Caught you there, _Garrus thought, sitting, relaxed, on the far side of the room.

Lilu sighed. "All right, but I'm not using Council resources for it. The Systems Alliance will have to foot the bill." She awarded Anderson a wicked smile. "Stick a crowbar in your wallet, old friend. Metallic hydrogen fuel isn't exactly cheap."

Anderson sighed. "Neither are your squads' paychecks."

"Well, you obviously care enough to send the very best, so. . . ."

They were evidently heading into deeper talks about how Cunningham had managed to conceal so much of his background from the Alliance and from the Council, and Garrus had a few errands to run, so he stood, gave his wife a quick forehead touch, and excused himself.

His first stop was the chambers reserved for the geth councilor, Emissary. They were, perhaps unsurprisingly, unfurnished, although one wall held an unusual abstract painting. Garrus studied it while he waited for Emissary to finish communing, long-distance, with others of its kind. The painting was largely done in shades of blue pigment on some sort of rough-woven cloth, with tiny, green-gold dots all over it, irregularly scattered. Out of boredom, as the geth remained motionless, Garrus focused his eyepiece on the painting, zooming in tightly, and was startled to discover that each 'dot' represented a single cell of phytoplankton, almost rendered at scale.

"Vakarian-Spectre," Emissary said, startling him somewhat, and Garrus quickly shifted his eyepiece back to normal magnification. "You were examining the painting. Do you find it aesthetically pleasing? Many organics do."

"It's. . . interesting. Was it a gift?" Garrus asked, intrigued in spite of himself.

"It was not."

Garrus waited a moment, then cursed the geth's literal-mindedness and incapacity for social nuances, and asked, patiently, "How did you come into possession of it, then?" _Ah, there's a cop question if ever I asked one. . . _

"We created it. Councilor Arisana suggested that our quarters would frighten organics, without an expression of 'soul' in them. We selected a file from our databanks and created the image on the wall. Most species find the color blue tranquil and soothing, a reminder of their origin in many different oceans."

_Well, there's that, true enough, but it also looks like blood to me_. Garrus cleared his throat. "Why did you select that particular image?"

A slight pause. "Insufficient data."

_Really? You could have said that it was completely random. Apparently, it wasn't. _"And the phytoplankton? Why not just leave them as indistinguishable dots?"

Another slight hesitation. "Then the image would not have been accurate."

"No one would have known that except for you."

"That is correct."

Garrus shook his head a little, and stored the conversation in his mind for later repetition to his wife. Lilu loved these little xenopsychology puzzles. "Discussing art isn't really why I'm here," he said, after a moment. "I've got Cohort's server node aboard the _Normandy_, as you requested. Do you have a platform available for him to download into?"

"Yes. Is it required soon?"

"In the next hour or so would be good, since he'll need to be sworn in as a Spectre, along with all the others."

"This ritual is important to you and the other organics. We do not fully understand why. The programs resident on Cohort's platform will be bound by these promises. If programs resident on that platform leave and rejoin the rest of the geth, are they still bound?"

This was where Garrus' head frankly started to ache. "We're asking that no more than ten percent of his resident programs engage in that sort of turnover," he said, quickly. "That way, we can minimize that sort of confusion."

"A consensus for agreement has been reached on that matter. But our question remains unanswered, Vakarian-Spectre."

_That's because I'm not sure I __**have**__ an answer for that one. _"We haven't come to a solid consensus on the issue ourselves."

_That_, the geth seemed to accept.

Next, Garrus met with the various candidates before the ceremony. Gris was nervous. "Urdnot Wrex has come all the way from Tuchanka to witness my swearing in," the young krogan told Garrus, sounding about as anxious as Garrus had ever heard a krogan be. "I expected Urdnot Wreav—he's the Councilor for my people. But for the Clan Leader himself to be here. . . "

"It's a big day for your people," Garrus reminded the young krogan. It was easy to forget that Gris was over a hundred years his elder. He was even smoother-skinned than Grunt, and had a lighter voice. "You're their first Spectre, after all."

"I know. I had hoped to become a shaman when I became an elder—if I lived long enough to _be_ an elder, that is. This is . . . almost as good." Garrus's mandibles twitched at that piece of parochialism, and with heroic effort, he kept his mouth shut. "I still wish I had time to go break something. It would help me focus," Gris added, wistfully.

Garrus walked away, chuckling quietly, and wondering if Gris might be a son of Wrex, by some strange quirk of fate and the genophage.

Sky was in an audience with the rachni queen, and thus not available for conversation, so Garrus moved on down the line, and caught up with Jaworski and Lantar, and in so doing, got an earful about the break-in and vandalism.

"So, B-Sec has a couple of young turian hoodlums in custody, the same ones that had most recently beaten up your son?" Garrus asked Lantar, taking a sip of hot _apha_ as they waited in an antechamber of the Council's grand room.

Lantar grimaced. "Oh, Eli recognized them, sure enough. They're older, have younger siblings that go to his school. Couple of them are old enough for bootcamp, which I've made a point of mentioning to their parents in fairly strong terms." His eyes narrowed. "Of course, certain attitudes aren't just picked up out of the air. They're taught."

"Did the parents say anything in particular, or just gut instinct there?"

Lantar shrugged. "One of the mothers doesn't wear her wedding knife anymore. Made a couple of comments about alien females stealing a generation of turian men. Also asked me how I could possibly stand to let a human touch me with her mouth, considering that they're omnivores and will eat _anything_, including, apparently, excrement."

Garrus almost choked on his _apha_. "Oh, where is a vid feed when I need one. . . . I take it you didn't just let that lie?"

Jaworski shook his head. "Oh, no. He did not." He gave the turians an amused look.

Lantar suddenly grinned, a smile that wouldn't have looked out of place back in their rookie year in C-Sec. "I, ah, might have _mentioned_ that an omnivore wasn't a detritivore, which obviously she had the intelligence of, and that with a face and attitude like hers, she'd make a batarian look good in comparison. Male or female." He coughed a little sheepishly as Garrus started to laugh.

"I think your teeth are growing back," Garrus said after catching his breath. It was a peculiarly turian saying, and one that didn't translate well into English. Turian's teeth, like a shark's, replaced themselves continuously over the course of a lifetime. If one fell out due to wear and tear, or a bad fight, the damage would repair itself within a month, generally speaking. A human might have said, _you're in better spirits _or maybe _you found your mojo_.

Lantar shrugged. "Maybe," he said. "I have to say, that not _having_ to toe the B-Sec line is . . . really refreshing."

"I bet." Garrus remembered how giddy with freedom he'd been, back in the first days on Omega. Being able to say anything he wanted, not having to worry about what people thought. . . it had been intoxicating, for a while, anyway.

"More to the point," Jaworski added, "It appears that her husband _did_ leave her for an asari dancer about three years ago. So she might have passed that bitterness on to her kids."

"Doesn't explain the access to the apartment while bypassing the security system, or the message they left," Garrus cautioned.

"Yeah, B-Sec's going to keep looking into it. The older kids do have some gang affiliations, have been run in before for petty larceny," Lantar said. "Could be moving up in the world. Might have been paid to do it. Maybe it ties in with everything else that's been going on, maybe it doesn't. It's the only piece of the puzzle that doesn't match everything else." He glanced nervously at the door to the Council room. "What's taking so long?"

Garrus tapped his earpiece. "Lilu says they're mostly still talking. The rachni queen just showed up, which means Sky should be—ah, there he is." Sings-to-the-Sky entered the antechamber now, along with a geth that had, apparently, recently been painted to match Cohort's old colorings, and Gris followed along behind them.

"Cohort," Garrus said. "You look pretty good for the newly resurrected. Everything working okay internally?"

"Vakarian-Spectre," the geth replied, moving its eyeflaps slowly. "There was. . . file corruption. We are still running comparisons between datasets, attempting to reconstruct events, and assimilate data from the past seven galactic days. The mission. . . was a success?"

"It was," Garrus said.

"Good," it replied, and returned to its usual silence.

The doors swung open, and Garrus gestured for the candidates to precede him into the hall. They stood then, before the Council, in a line, side-by-side, a line of people of many species, most of whom had been blood-enemies in the past, but who were now united by common cause. Garrus stood by the door, watching, listening, as they spoke the centuries-old words of the oath, remembering his own swearing-in. Theirs had all the weight of ritual and ceremony, a feeling of past and present united in a single moment. His had been a bit different.

"_Garrus, I need every person I can get. I'm deputizing you."_

"_You're what?"_

"_I'm making you a Spectre. The Council gave me the authority to pick whoever I need, and I __**need**__ you to have the same authority that I have, because we're going to need to be in three different places at once. Just say the words and let's go save the damn galaxy already."_

"_I swear to uphold the Council. . ." he'd started the words from memory, not as he had in all his boyhood dreams of being a Spectre. No, in those dreams, he'd spoken them with awe, and reverence, feeling the weight of them. In reality, he'd reeled them out as fast as he could, knowing that the Reapers were advancing on Palaven and Earth in the wake of the initial Collector attacks on his homeworld . . . . _

Nevertheless, the memory never ceased to move him, in spite of the pettiness of the Council he was sworn to uphold, and protect, sometimes even from itself. He traded a glance with his wife, as she stood near the dais, and from the very faint curl of her lips, a secret smile, he knew that she felt the same way.

After the swearing-in ceremony, there was the usual cocktail reception, and Garrus caught a snifter of turian brandy from a serving tray as a waiter hustled past. Wrex lumbered over to join him, and the two silently watched the proceedings for a while. "Your boy over there just got pinned down by Emily Wong," Garrus observed after a moment.

"If he can't handle one little human reporter on his own, then he doesn't belong in Clan Urdnot," Wrex rumbled in reply.

"If he tells her that becoming a Spectre is _almost_ as good as becoming a clan shaman, it's going to be an extranet sensation inside of an hour," Garrus noted, trying hard not to grin. 

"You asked for a soldier, not a diplomat. Don't gripe when I give you what you ask for, turian."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Wrex. Wouldn't dream of it."

They watched, as Emily moved on to her next target, Cohort. They were standing close enough to hear her ask for its reaction to its historic appointment as the first geth Spectre. Cohort tilted its metal head from one side to the other, and replied, "We are all geth."

"Does that mean that all geth are Spectres?" Emily pursued, and Garrus shifted slightly, wondering if he was going to have to intervene. These really weren't the sorts of questions they _wanted_ people out there to start worrying about.

"Only through us," Cohort clarified, after a moment. "All geth were already sworn to uphold the Council, in return for peace. Further binding one unit to the needs of the Council was deemed necessary as a demonstration of unity and consensus."

Emily nodded, and moved on towards Sings-to-the-Sky, and paused, clearly not knowing how to interview the rachni on camera, where its biotic song-speech could not be conveyed. She hastily turned to Jaworski and Lantar, who had, with their families, found a quiet corner of the party, and began interviewing them. "It's an honor to serve," was Jaworski's quiet reply; echoing him, Lantar only responded, as any turian might, "It's a privilege to serve."

Garrus smiled to himself. _There you go, Emily. Just as we told you a week ago. Humans and turians are more alike than they are different. The spirits are the same. The only differences are chemical and cosmetic_.


	15. Chapter 15: Crèche and Cradle

**Part Two: The Spirit of the Hunt**

**Chapter 15: Crèche and Cradle**

**Shepard**

"The way I see it, either we're going to need two ships," Shepard said, studying the galaxy map in the _Normandy'_s CIC, "or we're going to wind up alerting a lot of these places when, suddenly, their contacts go off the grid." She shook her head, not liking either option.

"Not necessarily," Garrus told her, limping closer to study the map himself. "Remember, a lot of these cells have no contact with one another, and probably can't even call _out_ to whoever their controller is, for security purposes. Their own clandestine nature can be used against them, in that sense."

She frowned, eyeing his leg, still in a cast. "How much longer on that?" she asked.

Garrus grimaced, a quick twitch of the mandibles. "Probably another three days. Lantar's got a week at least until the docs will be ready to certify him _really_ ready. Medigel only goes so far; sometimes, you_ have_ to let the cells do what cells do best."

She nodded, and studied the map once more. "Okay, then let's drop back to Mindoir. We can drop off the various families, pick up Kasumi and anyone else I've got who's even vaguely human-shaped, and head for the first on our list of likely illegal colonies." She grimaced herself, now. "That gets us at least moving, and gives you and Lantar more time to heal."

"We're not heading down with you?" Garrus sounded likely to object, and she held up a finger to stop him.

"We're talking potentially violent religious zealots and xenophobes here. Judging by what Livanus found when he stumbled onto that one Sons of Abel base a month ago, if they see a nonhuman, they'll shoot on sight. Hell, they might just shoot as soon as they see a dropship. Either way, I want to give diplomacy a chance, first."

He gave her a cynical look. "You really think it's going to work?"

Shepard lowered her eyes, and shook her head, just once, before raising them again. "I have to try," she said.

The _Normandy _made it a quick stop at Mindoir, just long enough to drop off various family members and pick up other essential crew members. With both herself and Garrus on board, the twins were still, as well. Yeoman Kelly had agreed to look after them whenever both parents happened to need to hit the ground at the same time. Kelly looked as if it would be a welcome distraction from whatever thoughts otherwise plagued her, and Shepard respected the woman's privacy enough not to ask more than general questions about her well-being after the events of the past week or so.

Kasumi came aboard, along with a couple of asari Spectres, Nisha Cehl and Ylara Alir. In a pinch, Shepard figured she could put the pair in human armor with polarized helmets. She was probably going to resort to that, herself, after all.

Then they were off again, heading first for the Argus Rho cluster. She headed to the cockpit as they cruised in, stealthed, towards Hydra, and stood for a moment, looking at the small yellow chip that was the star in the distance. "Weren't we here before?" she asked, after a moment.

Joker swung around in his chair. He'd looked better, but Dr. Chakwas had cleared him for duty, indicating that most of the damage had been to his Cerberus implants, with only minor neurological disturbances. He'd still need to do some rehab work, but he could take care of it in the ship's med bay, fortunately. "Yeah, back when we were still chasing Saren't slimy tail all over the galaxy," he told her. "Metgos, remember? A fake distress signal?"

"Oh, yeah, the nice _hot_, volcanic planet with the geth enclave. How could I forget?" Shepard muttered. Her envirosuit hadn't been able to compensate for the heat effectively, and she'd felt like a lobster boiling in a pot as she'd fired at the various geth units on foot, after taking out an armature with the Mako's guns. "But that's not where we're headed, right?"

He shook his head, and brought up the charts on his console. "I've got a nice, low-profile approach set in for Canrum," he commented, and she glanced down at the blue-green image of the fourth planet in the system, and shivered. -132º C, on average, or a nice bracing -205º F, atmosphere composed of methane and ammonia.

"So, easily a level 2 cold hazard," she murmured. "Lovely. Why does that name sound so familiar?"

"Canrum was the site of the last major battle of the Krogan Rebellion," EDI replied, popping up in her miniature human guise to the left of Joker's station. "The female warlord Shiagur died there, after a determined assault on her forces by turians, including the Fifth and Sixth Armored Legions. Historically, the planet has been left untouched as a monument to the final site of the turian victory, as much as due to its extreme conditions."

Shepard's head swung up, and _now_ she remembered the planetary system more clearly. They'd found an ancient turian insignia in the remains of a derelict warhead in orbit. Garrus had identified it for her, back in the old days, clearly moved by its presence, a reminder of how his people had won their seat on the Council, over a thousand years before.

"Okay, so they've set their colony up on a historically protected world," Shepard muttered to herself. "It's also a brutal world. They're not going to have a dome down there; no one builds envirodomes outside of the innermost ring of their species' home systems, because of the danger of orbital bombardment. I'm guessing that they're dug in underground, at this point. When will we be in range for some passive scans, Joker?"

"Give it another three or four hours, Commander," he said, checking a console. "We should have something for you by then."

And indeed they did. Four anomalies on the surface to investigate, and no way to tell which was which until they landed. "Prep two Hammerheads," Shepard said, "and tell Jaworski, Kasumi, Nisha, and Ylara to suit up for one of them, and tell Gris, Garrus, and Lantar at least to prep for the other. They'll follow us down and let us take the lead on this." Something was pinging at the corner of her mind, but every time she tried to catch the thread of the thought, it vanished on her. It had something to do with the _history_ of the place, and something to do with the other potential colony locations they had on file already, but she just couldn't bring the thought out of her subconscious. She let it lie; cudgeling her brain would just keep the notion hidden, for the moment.

Then they were dropping through the atmosphere, the _Normandy _gliding in through the thin, icy air like an eel through water, and the Hammerhead dropped like a stone. Shepard fired the jets, reducing their inertia, and landed them as gently as she could, wincing at the impact. "Sorry," she apologized to Kasumi, Jaworski, Nisha, and Ylara. "I'm a little out of practice." The last time she'd actually piloted anything other than a groundcar was when she, Garrus, and Liara had chased Tela Vasir through the airways of Illium; she'd have _really_ preferred for Garrus to have been in the pilot seat, but she'd been closer, and there hadn't been a second to spare.

She checked the map grid, and spun the vehicle to the southwest. That was the first anomaly she'd check out, and they bounced over the methane snow in its general direction. There was almost no wind; the thin atmospheric pressure precluded it. The stars were almost as clear overhead as they would be from the vacuum of space. She could see fissure ridges in the ice as they left the carbonaceous land for a frozen methane sea, suggesting that the planet was subject to periodic heating and cooling, causing the ice to crack, liquid methane to well up, and then freeze again, sealing the breach. _Maybe internal heating, from volcanism? Is there life in the seas under this ice, as they always thought there might be on Europa?_

She didn't have much time to wonder, because they'd hit the first anomaly, and she cruised around it, carefully, trying not to disturb it. "Holy shit," Jaworski said, sounding stunned.

"It's a crashed turian ship," Kasumi said. "_Infernus_-class, if the scans are correct. Hell, it might be the _Infernus _itself, Commander."

Shepard wheeled the Hammerhead around, and got a good look at the markings on the tail of the ship. "It's the _Quiris_," she reported after squinting at the worn lettering for a moment.

Kasumi nodded, and went on. "It's almost completely intact, too—although I'm picking up some _odd_ energy readings, Commander. I wouldn't get too close."

Shepard veered the Hammerhead away, and paused, staring at the ship. It looked eerily intact, though coated in a thin, eroded-looking layer of methane ice. "Yeah," Kasumi said after a moment. "It probably crash-landed, centuries ago, during the Rebellion. It's got some weapon damage to the navigational array, which would explain that, but no hull breaches! It probably landed in an area of methane melt, which then froze over, and then, over the centuries, got pushed back up to the surface." She paused. "Commander, there might even still be bodies on board. The Hierarchy would _love_ to be able to bring its people home to Palaven."

_Don't I know it. Took a hell of a lot of tap-dancing to get the Imperator to let me and the families bury their people on Mindoir._ Out loud, Shepard asked, "And the energy readings?"

"It's got mining-grade charges wired to it," Kasumi explained, spreading her hands wide, showing her bewilderment. "Medium-yield, and the chemical signatures look like something manufactured recently, probably by a human transnational company. It looks like someone's rigged it to explode, and I have absolutely _no_ idea why. It's a cultural treasure by any standards. It's like. . . finding the _Titanic_." 

Nisha, one of the two asari Spectres in the Mako, made a noise at the back of her throat. "Something to do with the illegal colony?" she said, after a moment.

Kasumi shrugged. "There's no evidence either way, but why would they do this?" she replied, spreading her hands.

Shepard nodded, preoccupied, and marked the site with a beacon, dropped from the Hammerhead. Garrus, Lantar, and Gris could deal with this one. She signalled the _Normandy_, and added to her recommendation, "Bring Nal'ishora or Hal'marrak down. With that many charges to defuse, let's not miss any precautions we can take."

"Acknowleged," Garrus replied over the comm, and she could hear the excitement in his voice, tightly suppressed.

Shepard turned the Hammerhead northwest. They'd be skimming over the frozen ocean for close to fifty kilometers now, heading for a small island that poked up out of the methane ice, the location of the second anomaly. They reached it after about ten minutes, and Shepard had to negotiate some fairly tricky terrain; the island appeared to be the remnants of an ancient volcano, long since dormant, but its steep conical sides were again, glazed in methane ice.

Deep in the caldera, they found the origin of the unusual signature the _Normandy_ had detected from orbit. The caldera had been used as a krogan base, almost fourteen hundred years before. _Back when King Arthur and his knights might have been riding around post-Roman Britain, trying to stave off the Dark Ages and failing_, Shepard thought, staring at the broken, shattered equipment, the occasional clan standards still visible, again, protected by the bitter cold and a sheath of methane ice. _There. . . that looks like antique turian battle armor. And that, there—definitely a krogan set. You can tell by the hump, if nothing else. _Even the bodies might well be preserved, mummified. There were certainly no bacteria on Canrum's surface to eat the tissues.

"This is a grave site," she murmured after a breathless moment.

Nisha and Ylara peered out the windows of the Hammerhead, their expressions equally distant and remote. Shepard wondered what the two Spectres, both appointed previous to her own tenure as commander, thought as they looked out at the wreckage and bodies left by two species that the asari and the salarians had set on each other. _Just as they set the krogan on the rachni before that,_ she thought, then chided herself. _They didn't do it, personally. They weren't even alive then; both are only about six hundred or so, edging into the matron stage._

"Anything?" she asked Kasumi, managing to sound a bit more like a commander again, instead of a reverent explorer.

Her tech expert looked up from her console in the Hammerhead, and Shepard could see a certain amount of tightness around the woman's eyes. "Vehicle trackmarks in the methane snow. Someone's been here, recently, Commander. Again, there are charges set. I'll upload the spread pattern of the mines to the _Normandy _for transmission to the other team."

"Someone doesn't want history to be remembered," Jaworski drawled from his seat. "Give you three guesses as to who."

"Doesn't make a lot of sense, Jaworski," Shepard said, slowly backing the Hammerhead up to the slope of the caldera once more. "Why would human extremists even care about alien history?"

"Maybe it's all about denying that they were here first," he commented, looking out the window at the pitiless, dark sky and its dazzling white stars, that didn't twinkle, but merely blazed.

Kasumi nodded. "Back in the early twenty-first, there were these statues of Buddha that had been carved into the face of a mountainside in a place called Afghanistan. They'd been there since the sixth century. Some religious extremists blew them up for being 'idols' that offended their religion. Nevermind that the statues had been there longer than the religion had existed." Her usually merry mouth turned down at the corners. "Could be the same sort of mentality."

The third anomaly turned out to be a small freighter, property of a salarian archaeological expedition about ten years before. They'd encountered relic smugglers, and had died, almost to a man. Only one survivor had remained after the struggle, and had managed to erect a small transmitter before succumbing to the cold. Shepard picked up the identification cards from each of the small, mummified bodies of the researchers, her own hands shaking with the cold, even inside her envirosuit, and hustled back to the Hammerhead.

That left the last anomaly, off to the distant east. She retraced their route back to the original drop-zone, and traced her way there.

_Yeah, that's more of what I expected_, she thought, staring at the Hammerhead's vid screen, which showed a magnified view of the terrain ahead. There was a metal structure settled into place against a cliff-face, which looked like every corporately-dug mineshaft on a thousand other worlds. _Prefab construction at its finest. Dig down deep, for protection from the cold, fill the caverns below with oxygen, tap any geothermal processes that might exist for energy, and you've got yourself a nice, snug hideaway that's almost undetectable from orbit._

She scanned along the cliffline, and saw a series of automated turrets placed along it. "Yeah, kind of paranoid about their security, aren't they?" she commented, sitting back and studying the situation carefully, while she could, from range.

Jaworski's lips thinned. "When you've hunkered down in a compound, and surrounded yourself with a hundred other like-minded people and ten years of food and a hundred years worth of ammo? _Paranoid_ is the mildest word I could use to describe 'em. _Delusional_ probably comes a little closer."

Nisha commented, dryly, "Or _familiar_. We Spectres have a compound now, rather than being free to roam the stars. We, too, huddle with others of our kind, behind our defenses, like primitives afraid to leave the safety of the campfire."

Shepard gave the woman a direct look. "Not really the time for this conversation, Nisha. I've heard your misgivings before, and doubtless will again." _And the only reason you're still a Spectre is that you're grandfathered in, and I can't actually fire you. At least make yourself useful while you're here, huh?_

She returned her gaze to Jaworski. "You've dealt with the type before?"

"A few times," he acknowledged. "There's no _right_ way to deal with them, unfortunately. Each group is usually unified around a charismatic leader. Some of them will follow him out of belief. Some will follow out of fear of what the others will do to them."

Kasumi added, quietly, "And in this case. . . there's nowhere to run."

"Ten gets you one that there aren't enough envirosuits in that base to get even half the people out in the case of an evacuation," Shepard replied, nodding. "It's one of the classic methods of controlling a potentially rebellious colony in a hazardous environment." She looked at the others. "Any recommendations?"

Jaworski shrugged. "Open a channel. I can try talking to them for you. Classic religious zealots aren't going to give a woman the time of day, unfortunately, Commander."

Kasumi snorted a little. "Sounds like some of the worse parts of New Canton."

"Oh, they're still around, that's for sure," Jaworski replied. "Commander?"

Shepard pursed her lips for a moment. "Let's give the other team time to clear those mines. We'll hang back and do scans, as if we're here for mineralogy or archaeology for the moment. Maybe we'll be lucky and they'll come to _us_ for a change."

Ylara spoke up, dryly. She was much less out-spoken than her fellow asari. "And how's our luck been lately, Commander?"

"About as good as ever." Shepard grinned briefly. "That's not saying much, is it?"

**Lantar**

Canrum's surface made the snowy mountains of Mindoir look like a tropical paradise, he decided, as he, Gris, and Hal'marrak took their first turn outside the Hammerhead. He had good enough tech skills to do some basic decryption and disarming tasks, which meant that he was assisting the quarian tech, while Gris watched their backs and kept an eye on their suit timers. Not that the growing inability to feel his fingers in spite of the heaters in his envirosuit wasn't a timer on its own. "That's the last of the charges around the _Quiris,_" Hal'marrak said, and Lantar could hear the quarian's teeth starting to chatter inside of his suit. "Let's get back inside the Hammerhead before we freeze in place."

The hatch opened, and they clambered in, Grunt pulling each of them up and into the spirits-blessed warmth of the vehicle. Once the hatch closed again, and the ventilation system cycled, filling the main cabin with oxygen again, everyone inside, other than the quarians, of course, popped their masks off with sighs of relief, letting the warmth hit their faces. "Bad way to die," Lantar said after a moment, nodding at the _Quiris_.

"I can definitely think of better ones," Nal'ishora agreed, turning to regard the ship. "If it's any comfort, they probably died almost instantly, as the ship filled with liquid methane."

Lantar winced. "Except the marines," he noted. "They'd have been in their envirosuits, even onboard. Standard procedure, has been for over a thousand years. They'd have lived just long enough to know that there was no way out."

"No way to fight," Gris added, sounding somber. "Just cold and darkness, and no honor in it."

"My blood tells me that I should rejoice at the deaths of enemies of my people," Grunt rumbled, then caught the dubious looks sent his direction from everyone else in the Hammerhead. "Y_ou're_ not my enemies. Not currently, anyway," he added. "Be grateful."

Lantar repressed the urge to roll his eyes. Grunt was not a Spectre; he was along as a courtesy to Shepard, apparently. _Perhaps a final check on Gris?_ Who knew, really.

The radio crackled, and he could hear Shepard's voice asking for a status report. "The _Quiris _is clear of mines," Garrus replied, already sending the Hammerhead speeding across the frozen sea. "We're heading to the krogan encampment next. Give us a little time. We're having to clear this in shifts, no more than two minutes outside of the hatch for each team at a time."

"Might not have time to give you," came the tense teply. "We're seeing some movement at the entrance of the mining complex. Speed it up, as best you can."

Lantar reached for a nearby strap, as Garrus took his wife at her word, and accelerated. "Glad to see some things never change," he said, as the vehicle lofted through the air, landing atop a glass-slick boulder and teetering there for a moment, uncertainly, sliding this way and that, like a pat of butter on a hot grill.

"Oh?" Garrus said, rotating the vehicle and aiming for what looked like a tiny crease along the side of the mountain, and then launching them for it.

"Yeah. You're still _insane_ in the damn pilot's chair."

"Oh, not true." The Hammerhead vaulted, teetered, settled down again like a drift of thistledown, and Garrus lightly touched the controls again, bouncing them over the rim of the caldera.

When even a _krogan_ looks at a sheer drop and starts to lose color, it's generally not a good sign. Garrus commented, with great good cheer, "She did say to pick up the pace, didn't she?" and then sent them plunging down the interior bowl of the dormant volcano, the glazed, icy surfaces having almost no friction to slow them down. Just before the bottom, Garrus lightly began tapping the jets, reducing their inertia, and let them skid to a soft halt.

Gris had actually closed his eyes. Grunt was laughing, as if this were the best ride he'd ever been on. Nal and Hal had assumed crash positions, fetal-form, in their seats, and only now looked up. Lantar took a deep breath. "Okay, any landing you walk away from, is supposed to be a good one, right?"

Then everyone replaced their breathing masks, and Garrus, Grunt, and Nal hopped out the hatch. Now Lantar had the leisure to really look at the encampment, and felt cold awe seeping into him, even as it had at the sight of the _Quiris,_ locked in its tomb of ice. "This is hallowed ground," he murmured into his suit radio.

Gris then, in his ear, "Lot of blood spilled here. Ours _and_ theirs."

Lantar shuddered. What had it been like, to fight in this frozen hellhole? To jump out of your dropship, and land in a crouch on the ice, gun in your hands? To feel the cold already killing you from the moment you landed, and to run at the enemy, firing into the face of their incoming bullets, knowing that to keep running into that meat-grinder was certain death, but that at least as long as you kept moving, you'd stay alive for a second or two longer?

The hatch slid open, and the first team tumbled back in, and his team had to jump out. Gris picked up a metal standard, as Hal'marrak and Lantar worked on defusing the damned mines. "This was Shiagur's!" the krogan rumbled suddenly into the radio. "Not just her clan banner. These carvings on the pole indicate it was her personal standard. This place _was_ the last stand." The young korgan's voice was filled with awe, exaltation, even. "Why would anyone seek to destroy this place? Why would humans do so?"

"Who knows why humans do anything?" Grunt replied. "Shepard's the only one of them I've ever understood, and that's because she thinks like a krogan."

There was a choked sound over the radio, and then Garrus replied, dryly, "I'm going to take that as a compliment to my wife, Grunt. You guys ready to come back in?"

"Almost done," Hal'marrak said, tensely. "Little _bosh'tet_ is frozen in place. . . got it."

They'd pushed it close, but the last mine was defused, and they all clambered into the Hammerhead and pushed the heat up as far as it would go. "All right," Garrus said over the radio to Shepard. "We're clear here. Gris says this site was even more important. One of the bodies here is probably Shiagur's. I'm guessing Clan Urdnot would probably like to know about this, maybe set up a memorial." Garrus cleared his throat. "The Hierarchy will probably want to know, too."

"All right. Come to us, but hang back out of ladar range. I don't want to spook these people till it's unavoidable."

Gris was nodding vigorously as Garrus got the vehicle moving again, and Lantar couldn't help but think, _Build a hotel next to the battleground, sell postcards, instant tourism!_ But he just grinned to himself, and didn't say it out loud.

Grunt muttered in the warmth of the vehicle, "Be damned to the Hierarchy. This is a place of krogan reverence, turian."

"Where our people finally defeated yours, in the cold and in the dark, with nothing more than weapons, honor, and courage?" Lantar asked, not smiling at all. The krogan annoyed him. Gris was all right, but Grunt. . . lacked something fundamental, somewhere.

Garrus put a hand on Grunt's shoulder as the krogan suddenly leaned forward, forcing him back. "We were used," Garrus said, his voice taut. "Just as you were used, before us. Someone was _always_ a token, a weapon, in the Council's game. Not anymore, though."

"No. Now it's just you Spectres," Grunt said, darkly, and sat back.

**Jaworski**

"Yeah, I definitely see the hatch opening," he reported, looking through field glasses out the Hammerhead's window. "Too bad it's so damned cold. Kasumi would freeze before she could cover enough ground to sneak in there past them and let us know what's actually going on inside."

"Wait, what's this _Kasumi_ business?" the little woman teased. "You wouldn't be trying to sneak inside, youself?"

Jaworski awarded her a pained glance. "Not unless you were going to let me borrow a stealth unit, little darlin'. Crawling on my belly through this snow sounds like a _great_ way to freeze my—" he glanced around, realized he was the _only_ male in the cabin of the vehicle, and amended his statement slightly before it got out of his mouth, "_ass_ off."

Kasumi's sparkling glance told him she'd heard the word he'd almost used anyway, and found it amusing.

"Here they come," he added, suddenly. "Polarize your face shields, if you haven't already." A small vehicle, about half the size of a Mako, but built along the same lines, slowly edged down the ramp of the mine, and headed out towards them. "It's got a gun turret on top," he commented, clinically.

"I see it," Shepard replied, tersely. "Ylara, get on the guns. Don't fire till I give the word, though. Joker," she added, transmitting to the _Normandy_ now, "you get EDI to jam any signals they might send off-world. Put down a blanket of static if you have to, but try to be more subtle if you can. We don't want to spook them."

"You've got it, Commander," Joker returned.

The smaller vehicle trundled right up next to theirs, and came to a halt. _No threatening moves yet. That's encouraging_.

Then their radio crackled, and a strange voice spoke on a wide-dispersion band. "You are trespassing on sacred ground," it said. _Male. Terran accent, might be Australian or South African. Unusual. Didn't know of any fundamentalist groups from out that direction. _"Identify yourselves."

Sam tabbed the radio after a quick glance at Shepard. "Commander Samuel Jaworski, Alliance Marines," he said, calmly, using their agreed-upon story. "We've been sent here to investigate claims of an illegal mining operation, being conducted in violation of the Canrum Protected Planet Agreement. This world has been preserved by the Council for its historic value."

He paused, but there was no reply. He went on, in a conciliating tone, "I'm sure you and your miners didn't know that. We know how it is, big corporations always looking at the bottom line, and sending their people out to god knows where, lying to them about what they'll find when they get there."

"God does know where," the voice responded after a long moment. "We don't recognize the authority of the Council, or of the Systems Alliance."

"Well, that's a problem," Sam said, letting his drawl thicken a little. _Work with me, here, folks. We're all just plain folks here_. "There's a sayin' where I come from. Just 'cause someone don't believe in God, don't mean he doesn't believe in _you_. You might not recognize the Council or the Alliance, but they're still out there. Right at the moment, they're right _here_. In front of you." He was sweating in his armor now, from the effort of trying to read the man's mind through mere vocal tone and word choice.

"Are you and your men God-fearing, Commander?"

He could hear a shift in the tone. "Not sure they're buying it, Commander," he said, tersely, then clicked the radio back on. "I'd vouch for my people come the Rapture, if that's what you're askin'," he replied, putting a slightly touchy sound in his voice.

"Your vehicle doesn't have Alliance military markings on it," a new voice commented. _Bingo, there's the real person in charge. That's a North American or European accent. Might be French-Canadian?_

"No, it doesn't," Sam replied, slowly. "We don't always want to go in _advertising_ who we are, you know. Makes people see us as a threat, when we're not." _Need to reassure them, make them feel the connection, the sense of sympathy._ "Can I ask to whom I'm speaking?"

"Matthieu," was the quick, hard response, in that lightly accented voice. _Doubt it's his real name. _

"Matthieu, my superiors are getting a little antsy here. They'd like to clear this off our assignment list as quickly as possible, so we need to evacuate your mine soon. We can have shuttles down here within the hour, and start getting your people home, to Earth. How's that sound?"

"That would be problematic. Our miners brought their families here. We are too many for an Alliance naval ship."

He looked up at Shepard, and shook his head. "He's trying to buy time, come up with a way to cover their asses," he whispered, and then tabbed the radio again. "How about you let us come inside, take a look around? We could get a better idea that way of how many people we're actually talking about here."

"No," came the response, almost reflexively fast, it sounded. "We can't permit that."

Joker cut in, on a separate channel, in all their helmet radios. "They just tried to send an FTL signal from inside the mine, Commander."

"This is where it gets interesting, then," Shepard said, leaning forward in her seat.

Jaworski saw the consoles light up, as all the various turrets in the area suddenly began to acquire targets. "Hey!" he said into the radio. "Take it easy here, guys, what's going on?"

"Why are you jamming our transmissions?" Now Matthieu's voice was overtly hostile.

"I might ask you why you're trying to _send_ one," Jaworski returned, hard and fast. _Okay, now gotta let them feel like they're safe. . . . _"Look, this doesn't have to be like this. Let my team into the mine, we'll see what we can do, okay? I can't promise anything, but maybe I can talk my superiors into dropping you off someplace nice and quiet and out of the way, whaddya say?" He saw Shepard's helmet turn towards him, and tabbed the radio off so that the others couldn't hear his comment to her: "Just trying to keep them talking. I think we're _all_ agreed that going in there shooting is a _bad_ idea?"

She nodded, grimly. "Any time there's civilians and children involved, it's bad, Jaworski. I was hoping to avoid the same damn situation twice in one week."

The radio crackled. "Just one team," Matthieu agreed, surprisingly. "You and your men will follow us to the base of the ramp. No funny business, though."

Shepard was already contacting the second team. 'They're letting us in. Don't like getting separated like this, but this seems the best option for the moment. Be ready to come in with gas grenades if you have to, though, just like back on Feros."

"The Thorian," Garrus replied over the radio, grimly. "We lost colonists that day."

"I remember," she replied, and her voice was tight.

The Hammerhead came to a halt outside the mine entrance, and Jaworski glanced dubiously at the rest of the team. No matter how thick the armor and envirosuits, there was no real way to disguise that all of them were female. _This is going to be interesting._

They hopped out the hatch, Ylara staying in the vehicle to keep it secure, and proceeded up the ramp as quickly as possible to escape the bitter cold. The three men who had been in the other vehicle preceded them up the ramp, and opened the hatch for them when they hit the top. Jaworski could see that all of them were armed; not exactly a surprise, for survivalist types.

It was warm inside, and only dimly lit. "You may feel free to remove your masks," the one calling himself Matthieu commented. "The atmosphere is breathable." He removed his own, revealing disheveled long hair and a beard. _Must be hell getting the seals on a breathing apparatus to work right with that street-corner prophet look_, Jaworski thought, unsealing his own, but raising a hand to 'prevent' the women from doing so. It was important for the females to _look_ subordinate.

Matthieu studied him for a long moment, then asked, "Will you not permit your . . . men. . . to join you in comfort? Surely, you can see now that our place of work is safe?"

Jaworski shook his head. "I'm the only one you need to deal with," he said. _And you definitely do not need to see an asari or Shepard in her turian wedding paint._

It didn't work. Not a surprise, really. The biggest surprise had been that they'd allowed them in the damn door. Matthieu started to move his rifle around towards them, and Nisha slammed him back into a wall with a biotic thrust so hard Jaworski was frankly astounded the man stayed conscious. The rest of the squad leveled their weapons at the other two men. "Gentlemen," Jaworski said, quietly, "You could've had this the easy way. You could've evacuated and gone back to Earth and told the rest of the Sons of Abel that it's just too damn hard to stay under the radar forever."

Matthieu reached for something else at his belt—some sort of detonator—and Shepard was on him, trying to jerk it out of his hand before he could press a button. Jaworski _knew_ how much of the woman was cybernetic now, but it didn't make it any less impressive as she put the zealot on his knees simply by crushing his hand and slightly torquing his wrist. He managed to press two of the buttons, but nothing happened, at least for the moment. "Jaworski was the easy way," Shepard said now, her low-pitched voice very cold at the moment. "I, however, am the hard way."

Matthieu started to babble then. "The woman should be submissive to her husband as if to the Lord," he quoted. "The husband is the head of the wife, as Christ is head of the body of the church."

Kasumi snorted. "Sorry. I'm Shinto," and then she disarmed one of the two men facing her, shoving one up against the wall, planting a knee in his kidneys, and holding out a hand for Jaworski to hand her zip-ties. Jaworski obliged her, and then took care of the second man himself.

"You have already caused the destruction of falsehoods and lies. You should feel blessed," Matthieu told them, smiling, almost beatifically. A painted saint in a church could not have looked more peaceful.

Shepard tipped back her visor, and let him see the facepaint, and her own wide grin, and Jaworski saw the man shrink back from her as if from a sudden apparition. "Yeah, but given the lack of explosions around here, I'm guessing that the two buttons on this detonator were for the battlesite and the turian ship. We took care of those mines already." She flipped the man over with no particular effort, forced his arms behind his back, and started securing his hands and feet herself.

"Not human, a demon in the form of a woman," Matthieu was spitting at the floor. "You are a deceiver, you lead men into sin. A woman should be silent—"

"Yeah, and now's your chance to act like a good woman," Jaworski told him, and shoved a square of cotton in the man's mouth, securing it with a strip of cloth, shaking his head. "Think that was the only detonator?" he asked Shepard.

"Doubt it. Chances are, the others are waiting for a signal from these three, and will stay in lockdown without it." She sounded glum. "Worse, other detonators could be rigged to blow the whole goddamn mine."

Jaworski nudged one of the other men in the ribs with his boot. "Right, how are _you_ feeling in your immortal soul right now?" he asked the man, in a cheery tone. "When it comes right down to it, are you ready to meet your Maker today? Is there a signal that needs to be given? We're looking to save lives here today, not to be responsible for a whole lot of killing." The man gave him a fearful look, and refused to answer, his eyes fixed on Matthieu.

"Toss Matthieu out the hatch?" Nisha asked Shepard, her voice cold.

"Seems to me, that would just make him a martyr to his men," Shepard replied, her voice revealing nothing of her thoughts. She might have been picking out a ribbon to tie around her little girl's neck. "But hey, if it convinces _someone_ here to cooperate. . ." She dropped her mask over her face again, and headed for the hatch. "Besides, the back-up team needs an entry point, anyway," she added into the suit radios, too quietly for anyone not on their comm channel to hear.

"Don't!" one of the men said, suddenly, sitting up. "Don't—the others do have another detonator. I don't want my family to die—" _That's our Australian/South African voice_, Sam thought, coolly. _Didn't think he sounded like a dyed-in-the-wool zealot_.

"Call them and give them the right sign, then, and no one has to die," Shepard told him, offering him his own omnitool. "But keep in mind, you give the wrong signal, and you'll be the first one to meet your god today."

They got the signal patched through, opened the hatch to let the secondary team in, and went through the mines. Sam was _damned_ glad it had worked out so well; the entire mine was rigged with explosives. _They planned to kill themselves and whoever came looking for them, if they were discovered,_ he thought, numbed by the level of fanaticism in the leadership, at least.

A couple of the younger men were clearly not as fervent in their beliefs as the older men, but had been kept in line by a combination of peer pressure and the fear of being sent out the hatch to die alone in the cold—the same threat that had been used on most of the women. The various wives of the twenty-five men had a higher status in the insular little community, and were true believers, one and all. Shepard ordered a group of them knocked out with grenades in a nursery, because they were attempting to redirect carbon monoxide into the little room to kill themselves and the children in there.

The various 'handmaidens,' however, were another story entirely. Many of them were classic cult victims. Young, cut off from family and friends and familiar support structures, some of them were colonists, others were former college students. A few were 'rescued' slaves, who genuinely thought that what they faced here in the caves was the best that they could ever have hoped for; these, in particular, made Sam feel sick to his stomach. "You were right," he told Shepard after inventorying the cult's possessions. "Fifty envirosuits for a hundred and twenty-five adults and. . . god, have we got an accurate count on the kids yet?"

"Not yet," Shepard said, rubbing at her face. "Close to three hundred, all under the age of five. Not one of them has ever seen the damn sky." She swung around, and started issuing orders.

**Shepard**

"Anderson," she said over the FTL relay from the briefing room of the _Normandy_. "Glad you were able to send out that rescue and retrieval ship. There was no way we'd be able to fit that many people on the _Normandy_, even if we stacked them like cordwood."

"Least we could do," the Councilor replied, sounding disturbed. "You think similar conditions are going to prevail at the other colony sites?"

"I wouldn't be at all surprised," she replied, grimly. "Let's save some time, and you just detail a hospital ship and a prison ship to shadow the _Normandy_ until we get this all cleaned up."

"Unfortunately, that sounds like a plan." Anderson paused. "The turians and the krogans are up in arms over the threat to such historic artifacts, you know."

"Historic artifacts that they either didn't know about, or hadn't bothered to preserve until they were found today?" Shepard replied, her tone barbed. "Sorry; that wasn't very diplomatic of me."

"You've had a rough day," Anderson allowed. "I think it's more the principle of the thing, when all's said and done." He frowned. "You were damned lucky today. That entire situation could have been a bloodbath."

"There are at least seventeen other colonies out there with opportunities for things to go irretrievably wrong, Councilor," she said, tiredly. "It's just a matter of time until they do."

"What's your next target?"

"Etamis, in the Schwartzchild system, out in the Hawking Eta sector," she replied.

He frowned. "Isn't that a post-garden world? One with very heavy gravity, at that? Why that one, in particular?"

"Because artifacts of a civilization almost 20 to 40 million years old were found there. Oh, the asari archaeologists made the claim that they were _Prothean_ artifacts back in the day, because, you know, _no one_ existed before the Protheans, in spite of all evidence to the contrary," Shepard's voice was heavy with sarcasm as she explained, "but given the presence of such items, and the potential for a Sons of Abel base on that world, and given what they were going to do to relics that were only a thousand years old, how do you think they'd react to the presence of artifacts that predate the evolution of _primates_, let alone humans?" She paused. "There are elcor archaeology teams on that planet right now, surveying what they can of this lost civilization."

Anderson said several very bad words under his breath. "Careful," Shepard said, not smiling. "That's not exactly diplomatic phrasing, either."

"Do you think the elcor teams could be in danger?"

She nodded. "We're heading there the instant we hear from the rescue ship that they've recovered everyone, and that all the leaders are safely locked in the damn brig."

"Get some sack time before you arrive," Anderson advised. "You won't do anyone there any good if you're too tired to make good decisions when you get there."

"Will do," she said, nodding, and clicked the transmission off.

Up in their quarters, it wasn't exactly a restful scene. Garrus had Amara in his lap, and was rubbing her stomach as she cried. "Not again," Shepard said, sighing, and caught Kaius up into her arms. "Come on, you, let's get you settled down for bed at least." Sleep would probably not be possible for the little boy until his sister stopped sobbing, but she had to try to get him settled down a bit, or none of them would get any sleep at all.

Once Kaius was at least in his little bed, which was tucked up against her desk, she realized that the crying had stopped. Garrus came around the corner, holding a limp little girl in his arms, and she realized that Amara had simply nodded off after the pain had passed. Shepard took Amara from him, looked down at the closed eyes and soft cheeks, and shook her head. "You've _got_ to start learning to chew properly, girl," she told her daughter softly, then gave her a kiss on the cheek and tucked her into the second bed. Then she stood and pulled the curtain closed, which now separated the office from the other half of the quarters; the closest thing to privacy that she and Garrus would have, for the time being. "Sorry I wasn't here to help," she told Garrus, feeling defeated on all sides.

"Don't be. Yeoman Kelly was a bit beside herself when I got up here. Amara had been crying non-stop for a half hour after dinner, and she was about ready to take her down to see Dr. Abrams in the med bay. She was mostly past the actual pain, I think. Just had to calm herself down, really." Garrus gave her a quick grin. "Your yeoman might need a sedative herself, though."

"I'll make sure she gets a day's worth of hazard pay," Shepard said, managing a smile as she turned back the covers of their bed.

She lay there, not moving, watching the clock, trying to sleep, for an hour, before Garrus rolled over, cast catching at the sheets. "You're about as tense as I've ever seen you," he whispered.

"We caught a huge break today. But before this is over, we're going to have innocent blood on our hands," she whispered. "I don't mind a suicide mission, Garrus. Hell, we've survived enough of those that they're beginning to feel routine. It's the no-win scenarios that kill me. Where even if we win, we lose in some respect."

"I know," he said, quietly, rolling over and putting his arms around her. "We'll do the best we can with each base in turn. That's all we can do."

The heat of his arms, and his closeness, were lulling, and she finally did sleep.

**Garrus**

"Hey, this world's a balmy -49.6º C," Garrus commented lightly to everyone in the shuttle bay, limping up to his landing team. That converted to -52 or so in the Fahrenheit scale that his wife tended to think in. Either way, it was walk in a park on a fine, sunny day in comparison to the frozen hellhole that Canrum had been. The atmosphere was extremely thin, and the gravity was a crushing 3.4 g, however. "We need an elcor Spectre for missions like this," he called across the bay to his wife.

"Get me one who can make a damn decision in under a month, and I'll hire him on the spot," she joked back. He was glad to hear it; it meant that she'd put her worries under a tight lockdown again. Not that she ever let anyone but him see the burdens of command; he knew them, shared them, and did what he could to lighten the load. "Right, everyone, check your gear. Most everyone here is either going to need an exoskeleton attached to the outside of your armor for this, or you'll need to add motorized joints to the interior architecture of your suits. Don't try to tough it out. I'm not ashamed to say that I weigh 70 kilos in Earth standard gravity, and then add another 20 kilos for my gear. That's going to be 285 kilos in this gravity environment—that's roughly 583 _pounds_, folks. Without mechanical assistance, anyone who _isn't_ an elcor, a krogan, a rachni, or a geth, is going to be a pile of jelly on the ground, trying very hard just to _breathe_."

Garrus winced. His spur was only half-healed at this point, and he really didn't relish the thought of putting the extra strain on it. While turians were stronger than humans, it was a strength based on more efficient muscle insertion points along the bone, and denser muscle fiber structure; his people had developed in about the same 1 g environment as humans had. . . and motorized gears only counterbalanced so much. An external exoskeleton, basically a robotic structure wrapped around a humanoid frame, compensated for a lot more, but it was inherently fragile; one bullet in the wrong place, and you were trapped in it, like a turtle in its own shell. Better the internal gears, however much weaker they were.

She glanced around. "Gris, Sky, Cohort. You're our strike team for this; Garrus, Jaworski, Lantar, and I will be the dialogue team. Joker and EDI have located an anomaly near a known elcor dig site. The dig team has not reported in to its university in about a week. This is an unusual development, and we're not really sure what's going on down there. So if the dialogue team runs into trouble, _you're_ going to get us out. Use your best judgment. Don't attack noncombatants if you can avoid it. But the supposition is, yes, the elcor might be hostages at this point." Shepard clapped her hands together. "Get your gear together, and let's move." She walked over, and, more quietly asked, "You going to be okay down there?

He grimaced a little, his back turned so the others couldn't see. "I'd never let a little thing like a limp slow you down," he reminded her.

"No, the gravity will manage that for both of us just fine on its own," she replied, putting a hand on the shoulder of his armor, and giving him a wry grin.

Joker found them a landing zone near one of the massive craters that pockmarked the western hemisphere, remnants of mass effect energized projectiles that had bombarded this world millions of years ago, vaporizing its oceans and destroying all life on it. "Twenty to forty million years ago?" Garrus asked in their Hammerhead, as he guided it down for as soft a landing as the gravity would allow; everyone on board still rocked heavily, however. _Reaction controls are very sluggish. Damn_. Behind them, Gris landed the second Hammerhead with no more grace than Garrus had managed. "That's what, four hundred to eight hundred Reaper cycles ago," he said out loud, trying to compensate, to get the vehicle moving again. "And no one _ever_ realized that this planet predated the Protheans _how_?"

"Target fixation," Lilitu replied with a shrug. "The asari got out here first, and they _knew_ that nothing had existed before the Protheans. Nothing else could be proven. Anything that might disprove that was. . . well, kind of like fossils on earth to people like the AEC. Bad data, planted data, I suppose."

He keyed in on the blips pinging on his map, and slowly started the Hammerhead moving again, feeling the pure and deadly _weight_ of his own body in its restraining straps. His spur was already aching fiercely, and from the shallowness of Lantar's breathing, knew that his fellow turian was experiencing similar discomfort.

The elcor camp was indeed abandoned. The seven Spectres exited their vehicles, and examined their surroundings. Servos grinding as he plodded slowly forward, Garrus opened one set of living quarters, and found evidence of a fight. "I've got blood over here," he called into his radio. "Elcor and human. Some bullet holes in the wall, too."

_No lifesongs in the area,_ Sky reported quietly, moving easily from one metal prefab building to another, his multiple blue eyes gleaming in his strange face.

Shepard's voice on the radio now. "Digsite looks to be intact, for the moment. There are still lines of thread and tags and all the other usual archaeological things here, as well as undisturbed survey equipment."

"There are, however, indications that mines have been set all around its perimeter, Shepard-Commander," Cohort warned her. "We will attempt to defuse them, while you collect more evidence."

_Plod, plod, plod. _Slowly, Garrus made his way to the next building, and opened the hatch. Inside, he could see a terminal that still had power, and ground his way to it. Just standing still in front of it while he hacked past its security was an exercise in endurance, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying not to feel his own enormous weight in this gravity. "Here we go," he commented into his radio. "Elcor scientists made a note of radio transmissions last week. Said that they were afraid there were artifact smugglers nearby, and made a note of the location. Tallies with the anomaly we spotted from orbit." He paused, listening to the rest of the very long message in the scientist's journal. "They planned to send a small team to check it out. I guess that's what triggered the apparent attack here."

He turned, and very slowly made his way back to the Hammerhead, envying Cohort and Sky their apparently effortless adaptation to this gravity. At least Gris had the grace to look a little green around the hump, even if he moved more smoothly than the rest of them.

"Dig-site secure," Cohort announced over the radio, and they all hopped into their vehicles.

"So, Jaworski, you're our resident expert on these type of extremists. Are we looking at a hostage situation, or are we going to find a bunch of dead elcor scientists?" Shepard asked as Garrus got the Hammerhead moving—slowly, very slowly—in the direction of the last known "smuggler" transmissions.

The human male shook his head. "Ordinarily, I'd say _hostages_," he replied, sounding dispirited. "But it's been a week since they went off the grid. Chances are, without a _reason_ to keep them alive, as bargaining chips, the humans may have offed them, yeah."

Shepard's eyes, through her mask, looked grim. Then she pulled the polarized screen down over it, hiding her face from sight, as they bounced over a ridge and came to a halt outside of a different group of prefab buildings. _No caves on this planet, _Garrus thought, grimly. _Too much danger of a collapse before they intend for it to happen._

_Many lifesongs_, Sky whispered in their minds. _Many young melodies, thoughts incomplete. Battle songs beginning, fear and desperation in yellows and umbers. _

"Any elcor?" Shepard asked over the radio.

There was a pause, and then Sky said, with obvious reluctance, _None of the slow, bass-led melodies sing here. _

Garrus felt a sharp stab of rage. "Who could possibly find an elcor threatening enough to murder in cold blood?" He paused. "Well, other than that one elcor serial killer I had to deal with back on the Citadel, that is."

Lantar laughed, a bit grimly. "I remember that one. There's always an exception, isn't there?"

"I can usually think of one, yeah." Garrus glanced at his wife. "We going to try to talk this out?"

"Lantar?" Shepard said, after a moment. "You and I will lob gas grenades into the buildings if they open the hatches. They'll be using breathers outside, though, so that won't work otherwise. Everyone else, don't fire on the women and children, but if there's even a _hint_ of an aggressive move, you eliminate the threat. Gris, Cohort, Sky? You're on deck; we'll provide the grenades and covering fire."

Garrus grinned under his helmet, a fierce, tight grin. Sometimes, it was a relief when dialogue wasn't actually an option.

_They come!_ Sky reported, sharply, and the two teams leaped—or in the case of Garrus' and Shepard's team, _lumbered_—out of their vehicles.

The fight itself was short and ugly. The colonists had clearly not known what to expect as they came out of their buildings, rifles in hand. _Maybe they expected more elcor, more soft-spoken, gentle academics_, Garrus thought, cleanly picking off one man with two fast shots from his sniper rifle from behind the cover of the Hammerhead. To either side of him, Lantar and Shepard were keeping up a steady rumble from their assault rifles, forcing the male colonists to keep to cover, while Jaworski used a pistol, chipping through the crates that the men were hiding behind. To their right, Sky slid out of cover and charged one pack of colonists, sending a shockwave through their crates and throwing them backwards. They didn't travel far; the g was too heavy for that. But the g also ensured that they hit the ground _hard_.

Gris took the opening and began to fire his heavy krogan shotgun at the prone forms, while Cohort suddenly announced over their comm channel, "Detecting energy charges in the main buildings, where majority of life signs are."

_Shit!_ Garrus thought. "How long?" he shouted, already trying to run, trying to move. He was slow, though, so terribly slow. . . . each stride, usually thought-fast for a turian, seemed to yawn on forever for him.

"One minute to explosion," Cohort reported, rising up and providing Garrus covering fire as the turian yanked the hatch of the closest building open, ran through the airlock, shoved past the frightened, screaming women and children inside, and desperately began overloading the panel of the bomb inside. In his mind, the count clicked down, _Forty-five, forty-four, forty-three_, _no, not the green wire, it's never the green wire, forty-two, forty-one. . . _He spun and shoved a frantic woman off of him, using an elbow to the ribs, and got back to work. _Shit, how much time left? Twenty? Spirits, let this be the right wire._ He cut it, and the count-down froze, and then the digital read-out went dark.

The ground shook, however, ten seconds later, as the other two charges went off, and he could hear the dull roar as the accelerants took explosive life. "Is everyone all right?" he demanded, urgently, into his comm, shoving his way back out, plodding as fast as he could.

"Yeah, all Spectres accounted for," Shepard replied, her voice low and tired over the radio. "All colonists out here down, too."

He hit the door, and simply stared at the devastation all around them. There wasn't enough oxygen in the atmosphere for the fires to really _burn_; the buildings had exploded outwards violently, and in shards thrown hundreds of meters away, with little atmospheric pressure to contain them, and what _was_ burning, had a chemical look to it—phosphorous, maybe, from its white-hot glow. And there were. . . pieces. He didn't want to look at them, but he made himself do it. "Their own kids," he said, after a dull moment. "Their own families."

Shepard came over, and touched her helmet to his, so they could talk by sound conduction, not over the radio. "Couple of weeks ago, you told me that nothing was so dangerous as a turian who'd lost his spirit. These folks? They're _all_ _mor'loci_. And they don't even know it."

"They're the walking dead? Yeah. They are. And they're going to know it _very_ soon," he grated back, catching her upper arm in a tight grip, even though he knew she couldn't possibly feel the gesture through her armor.

They called for the _Normandy_ and the _SA Boon_, the hospital ship that had been tasked with shadowing them for the next few weeks. The _Boon _sent down shuttles to retrieve the various non-combatants. Twenty women, and forty kids. That was all they'd managed to save. Again, the women were a mix of cultists and former slaves; the children were a rag-tag lot. The DNA scans to determine which child had belonged to which parents were going to be extensive. And they all had such lost, dispirited expressions. As if their entire world had come crashing to an end. _With a little re-education, maybe you'll thank us in ten or fifteen years. Or maybe, in ten or fifteen years, we'll get to fight you, too._

His thoughts were dark; he couldn't help it. They'd found the mass grave of the elcor scientists; ten bodies dumped in the colony's greenhouse. "Apparently, they felt that the biomass could be useful for soil production," Cohort commented. "A very logical use of the organic material, but not a gesture that recognizes the sapience of other organic life. Why is this the end to which they pursued their vaunted individuality?" the geth asked, looking at Garrus. "Why did they not seek consensus with the rest of their kind?"

He shook his head. "I don't know," he answered, truthfully.


	16. Chapter 16: Daddy's Gone aHunting

**Chapter 16: Daddy's Gone A-Hunting**

**Joker**

He braced himself, one hand on each of the parallel metal railings that currently ran the length of the med bay, and forced his leg forward. One step. Then, big toe scraping at the ground, he dragged the left leg forward and put his weight on it. The world wobbled momentarily.

"You're doing good, Joker," Dr. Abrams (Dan, to his friends) told him, but his voice wasn't as encouraging as Joker might have otherwise expected. "You need to do at least three more passes before I can let you go for the day. Also, try to take some of the weight off of your arms. It's your legs that need the exercise."

Joker ducked his head and tried to blot the sweat from his forehead onto his shirt. "Would love to," he replied. His arms _burned_ from supporting so much of his bodyweight, but he was frankly scared to let go and trust his damned legs at this point. The neurological damage from the chip overheating was relatively minor, but he didn't have as much control over his feet and legs now as he'd had before. They weren't _numb_, precisely, but they were oddly stubborn about doing what he wanted them to do. _As if they were useful before,_ he thought, darkly, but reminded himself, _Rehab is better than a wheelchair. Take another step, Moreau._

He put his hands flat on the cold metal, and dragged his right foot forward now. "You've got to start trusting your balance," Dr. Abrams told him. "Lift the foot off the ground and place it back down. You don't want your muscle memory to get all out of whack."

"I know what I'm doing," Joker told him, a little sharply. "Not exactly my first rodeo here, know what I mean?"

Abrams gave him a look, expression closed. "I know that you've had extensive rehabilitation before, yes. _That_ is actually in the record. Unlike certain _other_ pieces of information."

Joker pushed back. "Yeah? Does it mention that this is how I learned to walk the first time, when I was five? That I spent the first four years of my life crawling like a baby, because every time I fell down, I broke something, and wound up in a hospital bed?"

Abrams' voice softened a little. "Actually, yes. Yes, it does."

"Oh." Joker thought about that, and took another slow step. "Well, good. So long as everyone's clear on the fact that I've done this before, and it's _sucked_ every time." He reached the end, and prepared to step down. "That's enough for today," he told the doctor.

"Jeff, just because _you've_ given up on your body, doesn't mean the rest of us have. Get back up there and give me at least one more pass down the rails."

Joker stared at the doctor. "Where the hell do you get the idea I've _given up_?" he demanded, letting his irritation show. Then he connected the barbs that the doctor had thrown his way so far this morning, and snorted. "The chip? You're pissed because the chip wasn't in my medical history?"

"Not just me," Abrams said, crossing his arms, letting his own annoyance show. "I know Dr. Chakwas feels pretty betrayed that you didn't tell _her_ about it, either. Letting Dr. Solus perform highly experimental brain surgery on you without telling any of the rest of the medical staff was _stupid_, Joker. And you know it, too. Otherwise, you _would_ have told us about it."

Joker shook his head. "Wasn't a matter of trust. Was a matter of privacy. _My_ privacy. Everyone I know, knows more about my damn body than I really want them to. What's in my head? That's my business. Not yours, not anyone else's." He held up a hand to stop Abrams from speaking. "Look, if it makes you feel better, I haven't given up on living. I plan to live as long a life as I possibly can. I like being where I am and doing what I do too much for anything else." He grinned, crookedly. "But also believe me when I tell you, I've had enough for one day, and need to rest."

Abrams stuck out a hand, and helped him step down from the bars, moving back to where his temporary leg braces rested against a bench, and helped him put them on again. "So," Joker said, wondering if the doctor's on-edge demeanor had any other sources. "You were on board for the attack."

"Yeah," Abrams said, and said nothing more for a moment or two, fastening the buckles on the left leg brace and aligning the delicate nerve probes, which would periodically stimulate the leg muscles, allowing Joker to walk more easily. "You should be glad you missed it." His voice was terse.

"I am. If I'd been here, you'd still be putting the pieces back together." Joker was just as glad to joke about his own frailty at that moment. He had a feeling Abrams was still putting his _own_ pieces back together.

The door slid open, and Garrus limped in. "Doctor Abrams," he called, and then saw them at the back of the bay. "Ah, there you are. You said I could have this damned cast removed today?"

"Give me a minute, and I'll make you a free man," Abrams replied, then gave Joker a hand up.

Joker shuffled slowly over to where Garrus had hopped up on a med bay table. "Man, I forgot to sign that thing for you," he said, dry as always. "Want me to fix that before he saws it off?"

"That's okay. The kids took care of decorating it pretty thoroughly." Sure enough, any number of oddball scribbles and scrawls had been added, in a blinding variety of colors. Garrus looked down, chuckling. "I think they were scared of it at first. Then Amara decided it was ugly, and that it needed color. It. . . devolved from there."

Abrams came back out from the back of the bay with a cutter in hand, and began to cut into the cast. Joker winced at the sound, and took a step back. "Funny that as advanced as we are, we still use the oldest damn technology for some things," he said, looking down at the plaster.

"I'd have used a pressure cast on a human, but the turian spur needs a little more support, especially in a vertical fracture like this," Abrams told him, sounding absent.

"Any idea on where we're headed next?" Joker asked Garrus, not in a hurry to get back to the bridge just yet.

"Assuming I'm cleared for duty, Mindoir. We'll be dropping off some people," Garrus told him. "Then there are a couple of places on _my_ list, yeah."

Joker stiffened a little. "Archangel missions?" he asked, very quietly.

"Yeah. Matar, Junthor, Solcrum, and Corang," Garrus replied as the last of the cast fell off, and lifted his leg, arching his foot and wiggling his big toes with evident relief. "There'll be a briefing before we get going."

Joker nodded, and headed for the door, opening the chip in his head as he did. _EDI, do me a favor? Bring up the nav charts for those systems. We're going to need to plot stealth entries to all of them._

_The emissions from the blue giant Grissom will make approaching Solcrum simple,_ she replied, immediately. _Solcrum is one of the moons of the gas giant Notaban, so we can approach from the far side of the planet, aerobrake, and hide in the radiation arcs that jump periodically from the planet to its moons. Corang will be more difficult; its star, Verr, is a red dwarf. Even with our energy sinks, we might leave more of a trail than in other systems, since there will be less background radiation to mask us._

_Good info, EDI, just have it ready and waiting for me up there. If we're not going __**in**__ hot, I can almost guarantee that we'll be __**leaving**__ that way_, Joker tossed back at her, and shuffled slowly into the elevator.

_Isn't that always the case, no matter what the mission is?_ EDI teased a little, and then she vanished from his mind once more.

**Dara**

The past week had been a process of adaptation. She was staying with Dr. Chakwas and Dr. Solus by turns while her father was away, and while all of their belongings had arrived in storage crates from Earth, she hadn't been able to do more than to tell the various mechs from Base Housing where to put the crates in the house, before locking up and going back to Dr. Chakwas' house.

Because the doctors alternated shifts in the base's med bay, Dara alternated which house she stayed at, from day to day. Dr. Chakwas had the frilly, fanciful _fachwerk _house down on the science base, and Dr. Solus had one of the round salarian homes all to himself. It had started off being exciting, but after a week, it had lost some of its thrill, and she had to admit that she missed her dad. Added to all the rest, she had started at a new school, and she wasn't quite sure what to make of it, yet.

On the one hand, Eli was there, in the same class, more or less, which was a help. At least she wasn't completely alone. On the other hand, it was nothing like school back home, where all the students were humans, like she was. Eli had told her that his schools on Bastion and the Citadel had had very similar set-ups, though, to accommodate so many different students and so many different learning strategies.

Everyone was allowed to learn at their own pace. That meant that salarians, with their hyper intelligence and short life spans, were allowed to speed ahead of the rest; asari, being longer lived, but still fairly intelligent, tended to excel as well. Of course, the salarian kids who were at her grade level were only six years old, which was a little embarrassing.

Krogan children matured fast, but didn't tend to value education, although Mazz, their only krogan classmate, was the son of a krogan scientist in the valley, and was being more or less forced to go to school by his father, on the directive, apparently, of a female clan leader back home on Tuchanka. Mazz was _not_ very happy about it, and needed to be taken out of the classroom periodically so that his anger could be _redirected_ on the playing fields outside.

The hanar fry were allowed to go to school with the rest, but had to withdraw from class whenever Prothean archaeology was a topic, because otherwise, they'd be learning blasphemy against the Enkindlers. The two volus kids seemed to be very good at math, but were way behind in xenobiology, she noticed.

Humans and turians tended to learn at about the same rates, and generally were allowed to group together. Of course, Dara's curriculum from Earth had been quite a bit different than what was being taught here, so she was ahead in some places, and in others, she had a _lot_ of catching up to do. But all of Solana's children attended the school, and that helped. Rellus had offered to tutor her in chemistry and galactic history, if she'd help him with his literature and comparative biology, where he was behind, and Dara had been happy to agree. He was very kind to her, only six months her elder, and they wound up spending almost every lunch period at adjoining desks, helping each other.

Their teachers were a grab-bag of the scientists who were from the base, which meant that some of them were very good at teaching, and the rest would really rather have been at work in their labs. They hadn't had the same teacher twice in the first week, much to Dara's surprise, and it seemed as if practical lessons, brought in from the labs, were a fairly common occurrence, with each person in the class expected to apply what they'd learned so far in their studies to the experiment at hand. _Kind of helps. I guess when they bring in a scale model of the new agronomy lab and ask you to redesign one level so that salarian __huvaa__can be grown from eggs in it, with water flow at the appropriate levels, geometry suddenly seems much more relevant._

It was both haphazard and extremely intense at the same time, and Dara thought it would've been a lot nicer, if the two asari girls, Kella and Siara, both probably thirty-two years old (which, maturity-wise, put them at about her age, Dara guessed, from the looks of them), would just stop teasing her about being provincial and behind everyone else. Of _course_ she was behind _them_. They'd been studying for what, twenty years already? But she kept her mouth shut, ignored them the best she could, and just kept working on it all. But she really wished she could talk to her dad. Or her mom, for that matter.

Eli fit in pretty easily, and he seemed almost as surprised by that as he was relieved. He spent almost every afternoon playing handball with the other kids, mostly humans, turians, and, of course, Mazz. After waiting for him a couple of times to see if he wanted to go to the stables after school, Dara simply gave up and walked to whichever house she was staying at on her own.

At the end of the first week, Siara's mother, Azala, one of the xenobiologists, came in for a cultural studies lesson, and had mechs drag in a variety of different musical instruments, and, with all the different age groups at the school clustered into a single large room, sat down to demonstrate each of them for the students, inviting each of them to come up and play, if they wished. Mazz immediately moved toward a set of enormous drums. Kella and Siara played little running tunes on a set of flute-like instruments, that had a reedy sort of sound to them.

Dara had stayed at the far end of the room, listening to the whole thing, and, once everyone else was thoroughly involved in something, slowly migrated to the other end of the room, finding a keyboard there. The keys were wide, designed for a thick-fingered hand. It might have been quarian, or even turian. She wasn't really sure which. _Not quite like my mom's piano, but close. I wonder if Dad had it sent from Earth? Maybe it's in one of the crates up at the house. Huh. It'll need to be tuned. Are there even any piano tuners on all of Mindoir?_

She sat down, turned the keyboard on, and absently started a couple of scales, getting used to the odd fingering needed for this instrument, and listening to the cacophony from the rest of the room. The youngest salarians were pounding on some sort of a xylophone, Mazz banged on the drums, the asari girls kept up with their reedy little flutes, the volus kids each had some sort of a sphere that let out little shimmers of sound when they shook it. . . it was all just noise, sort of melodic, but random, mixed with the low chatter of many voices.

Out of habit, from the scales, her fingers started on her mother's favorite piece, the one she'd made Dara practice, over and over again till she got it right. Her mom had sat there on the couch, listening, her eyes half-closed, and such a smile of pleasure on her face that Dara had never really minded playing it, over and over again. _There we go, that's the A-flat_, she thought, testing the keys carefully, forming the melody with her right hand, and bringing in the repetitive secondary line with her left, frowning a little when she missed the right notes, falling back, fixing it. . . and then she lost herself in the music, remembering playing it for her mother one day when the rain was pounding down on the windows, a real gulley-washer that had blown in from the Gulf Coast. "That's what the song is supposed to sound like," her mother had told her. "Like rain falling. Chopin wrote it in Majorca, when he thought his lover had died, trying to get back up the mountainside to him in a terrible storm. He wrote it in a haze, thinking he'd died himself, unable to distinguish reality from dream. It's beautiful and sad at the same time, isn't it, Dara?"

_Yes, yes it is, Mama_, she thought, lowering her head so that her hair fell over her face, continuing to play, quietly, just for herself. _I miss you. I miss you so much. _The keys blurred in front of her eyes.

Suddenly, Dara realized that the rest of the room had gone quiet, and she looked up, confused, and her fingers skittered over the instrument as she realized that half the class was staring at her. She reached up, rubbed the unexpected tears out of her eyes, and retreated to her seat, mumbling an apology as she did so.

Azala set the rest of the kids back to work on the various instruments and came over to crouch down by Dara's desk. The expression on her blue face was unexpectedly kind and sympathetic. "I don't think I've ever heard a human piece of music like that, and certainly never played on a quarian _reela_ before," she told Dara.

"It's old," Dara said, looking away. "Three hundred and fifty years or so. It was my mom's favorite. Five years of piano lessons, and that's the only thing I know by heart."

"You know it _in_ your heart," Azala told her, quietly, putting a hand on Dara's arm. Dara looked down sharply at the unexpected contact, and then up again, through her hair. "And you show people your heart when you play. That's not a bad thing, young one. It's a rare gift." She put the _reela_ on Dara's desk. "It would please me very much if you would use this to practice on, until you're able to obtain a human instrument on which to play."

"I—couldn't. I might break it." Dara's voice was very small.

"I doubt that very much," Azala replied, her voice amused. "Take it. You can return it later."

Rellus and Serana, two of her turian friends, walked Dara home to Doctor Solus' house that day. "I think you're probably going to have more problems with Siara and Kella," Rellus told her, pragmatically, at the door. "Siara will be jealous that her mom paid you so much attention today."

"I didn't ask for it," she muttered, uncomfortable.

"I'm just advising you on tactics," the turian boy told her, grinning. "My best advice would be to make Kella your friend."

"And how am I supposed to do that?" Dara asked, making a face.

Serana, was only nine, but had a pretty good fix on the political life of the school. She supplied, "She really likes music. Expel 10 and all that stuff, but she was impressed today. I saw her face."

Dara sighed. "I guess I can try," she said, dubiously. "Thank you, both. You've both been really nice to me since I got here. You're the best friends I have, other than Eli." She included him automatically, even though she felt as if he'd forgotten her in the last week.

Rellus grinned again. "You're my study partner. I _have_ to make sure you're in good health and spirits, or else _neither_ of us will pass this term. And passing this term with good marks might get me squad leader in boot camp next year." He patted her on the shoulder with one big, clawed hand, and turned to leave with his sister. Dara frowned, not liking the thought of Rellus not being here next year. In just a week, she'd learned to depend on his presence.

Then Dara turned to go inside the little, round, salarian house, holding a quarian _reela_ under her arm, which was, in fact, a gift from an _asari_, wondering at how _odd_ her life had become in such a short span of time.

**Sam**

He had about two days' leeway, in which to get his new house set up, make sure his daughter was adjusting okay, meet her new teachers—of which there seemed to be _quite_ a list—and, somewhere in there, get a night's sleep, a shower, and a shave, before packing up again and heading back out on another mission. He and Lantar exchanged dubious glances in the shuttle as they came in for a landing, Garrus in the pilot seat, Shepard and their kids at the rear. "If it helps," Lantar commented dryly, "it could always be worse. Ellie's sent me ten messages in the past week, trying to work out the wording she wants for our new marriage articles. Which she wants in place before we ship out again, I might add."

At the front, Garrus guffawed, and said something in a turian dialect so arcane, Jaworski's translator VI flatly refused to render it. From the narrowing of Lantar's eyes, and Shepard's muffled guffaw, however, Jaworski knew it was a joke. "And now, with subtitles?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Shepard chuckled again from near the rear hatch. "Garrus told him that a male who surrenders his marriage knife without expecting an exchange in kind, doesn't have the right to bitch when his wife starts making all the decisions." She paused, grinning. "I probably don't have all the nuances _quite_ right. . . ."

"Close enough," Lantar growled in reply, and flexed his claws in a sort of 'push-off' gesture that Jaworski was learning to recognize.

The shuttle touched down, and the hatch swung open. Shepard jumped down first, and Garrus handed the kids down to her, before leaping down himself. Lantar followed, and headed off in the direction of his little villa. Sam sighed, and headed down a different path, towards his own little home. _This would be so much damn easier if Sarah were still alive_, he thought. _Or if Dara were just a bit older._

He unlocked the front door, and stepped inside, stopping dead as he realized that Base Housing had brought all their shipped belongings here, and had piled them in the various rooms a little haphazardly. The house was cold; the heat hadn't been turned above minimum, and it had a hollow, not quite lived-in feeling to it. The air was dusty and stale, and he had to grope for a light, not _knowing_, automatically, where the switch was. "Dara?" he called, then shook his head. Of course she wasn't there; she'd be down in the village, at school, probably, given the time of day.

Sam took the time for that shower and shave, but sleep would have to wait until he got at least the beds set up. By 14:00, he'd at least moved most of the furniture around the house, heaved mattresses onto frames, and sworn, vigorously, when he realized that his late wife's piano had been in a crate that the mechs had put in a top floor bedroom. Dara had probably told them to do it, but she couldn't have known what was in the heavy crate. _Well, it can just __**stay**__ there for a while,_ he thought, and checked the cryo-unit for food. There was none, of course. Dara wouldn't have known when he was coming back, and didn't even have a credit account. _How would she even go shopping?_ he thought, and shook his head at his own stupidity again. _Well, a few things are going to change. They're going to __**have**__ to change, and I hope to god she's responsible enough for it._

Sam headed down to the valley, and waited outside the school until classes released, leaning against the groundcar in the warm afternoon sunshine. He watched through half-closed eyes as half a dozen turian and human boys spilled out the door, starting an immediate and raucous game of handball. _Looks like Lantar's boy is fitting right in. Good for him_.

Then Dara came out the door, flanked on either side by a little asari girl and a turian boy, talking quickly with them, gesturing with her hands. She looked enough like her mother in that instant to give Jaworski a nasty shock, and he took a quick, deep breath before calling over, "Dara!"

Then she just grinned at him, the same blinding grin she'd given him every time he'd picked her up from daycare or from school since she was just a little thing, and ran to him to give him a hug. _Thank god that heedless run has never given way to teenaged sullenness,_ he thought momentarily, then just gave up and picked her up for a quick twirl. "Dad!" she protested, and he set her back on her feet. "Do you get to stay for long?" she asked, and again, the question was her mother's, though she couldn't have known it. Sarah hadn't asked that question since Dara had been a very small child, when Sam was still in N7.

"Only a little while," he told her. "Do I get to meet your friends?"

"Oh!" she said, with a little start, and then turned and beckoned them over. The boy looked familiar, and turned out to be Rellus, one of Garrus' nephews. The clan paint was different, of course, representing the boy's father's clan. Jaworski looked at the vivid golden stripes, and committed them, and the boy's face, as best he could, to memory. The asari was named Kella, apparently. Both seemed to be treating her as an equal, so that was all right. "Come on, sweetie," he told his daughter. "We've got a lot of unpacking still to do at the house, and hell, even grocery shopping."

By 22:00, Dara had sacked out on the couch, and Sam was no closer to figuring out how she was actually doing. She showed him the _reela_ one of her schoolmate's mothers had loaned her for keyboard practice, and played a few snatches of melody for him. She'd told him about her need to catch up at school, and how much she liked staying with Dr. Solus. "He's funny," she said, grinning. "And he talks so much, I can't help but wind up learning stuff when he does."

At breakfast the next morning, he told her that she was going to have her own credit account, under his strict supervision, of course, so that she could at _least_ take care of things around the house while he was gone. "That doesn't mean you come here with your friends and hang out without supervision," he told her, firmly, "but if I'm able to get a message through saying that I'll be home in a day or two, you come up here, make sure there's food for us in the cryo-unit, that sort of thing." _Responsibility is good for kids_, he reminded himself. He just hoped he wasn't loading too much of it onto her before she was ready.

Dara nodded. "Okay, Dad," she replied. "Can you make me a list, the way Mom used to leave one on the cryo-unit door?"

"Sure," he said, and his throat closed over any other words.

He met with Dr. Solus and a couple of the teachers later that morning. They were pretty concerned about her. "No signs of post-traumatic stress, which is good," one of the teachers commented. "She seems to be adjusting to the new school environment somewhat slowly, but is at least making friends, which is also helpful. I'm concerned about her long-term socialization, however."

On and on it went, until only one teacher and Dr. Solus remained; the teacher was an asari named Azala. "I've been looking forward to meeting you," she said, shaking his hand warmly, in a way that showed him that she'd been around humans for a while. "Your daughter has a talent for music. I was wondering what her parents would be like."

Sam cleared his throat. "She gets the music, her brains, and her looks from her mother," he said. "The rough edges are all me, I'm afraid."

"I find that hard to believe," she replied, and he had the uneasy and somewhat unwelcome sensation that he was being flirted with. _Nah, that's just how asari express interest. The body language is different. _"I understand that your wife did not accompany you here?" Azala sounded sympathetic as she went on, "The demands of life on a covert base are. . . difficult on relationships."

"She died about four months ago." There was no easy way to say it; he just had to get the words out there, as quickly as he could, because they hurt to say.

Her mouth rounded for a moment, and she closed her eyes in a wince. "I beg your pardon. I had no idea. It explains Dara's grief at the music she first played on the _reela_, of course. She did say it was her mother's favorite." Azala stood up, nodded to him politely, and withdrew from the room, leaving Jaworski more than a little confused.

He turned to Dr. Solus. "Anything _else_ wrong with how I'm handling the situation?" he asked the salarian, a little flippantly, to be sure. He'd had quite an earful so far from the various teachers about the lack of stability and adult structure currently in his daughter's life. _Someone tell me how I can make it all work out, short of cloning myself, and I'll fix it. Today_.

"No," the salarian commented, blinking at him. "Stable environment helpful for young humans, but all people must learn to adapt. Dara is adapting. Shows flexibility of mind, exceptional intelligence, and resourcefulness. Interest in medicine a passing phase, probably. Unfortunate. Given personality profile and family background, more likely to enter military as an adult."

"Oh, I hope to hell _not_," Sam replied, with some feeling. "Her mother would _haunt_ me." As the salarian blinked at him, he raised a hand. "Figure of speech." He paused. "Are you okay with her staying with you for a bit longer, till I have a chance to resolve the family situation here a little more?"

"Not a problem," the salarian said, composedly. "Good company. Listens. Watches. Learns. Haven't spent much time around young humans before. Interesting watching hormonally-driven behavior patterns."

Sam's eyebrows went up, and he made a mental note to ask Dara, subtly, a few important questions.

He made his way back to the house—it sure didn't _feel_ like a home, not yet—and looked at the clock. He had five more hours before he'd need to report back to the _Normandy_, and too damn much left to do _here_.

There was a tap at the front door, and he went to answer it. To his great surprise, Kasumi was there. "Are we taking off ahead of schedule?" he asked, immediately.

She shook her head. "No, I'm here of my own recognizance," she told him, looking up with a faint smile. "Can I come in?"

Jaworski stepped back out of the way, letting her in the door. Kasumi looked around appraisingly, and he wondered what those dark eyes saw that made her lips curl up like that. "A little bare, isn't it?" she asked, after a moment.

"I told Dara to get the books on the shelves and that I'd take care of hanging the pictures when I get back," he commented, leaning against a nearby wall.

"I was about to say, no family pictures," she said, her voice soft.

He shrugged, a little tightly. "I can't look at them right now," he said. "What is this, a checkup on my mental health?"

Kasumi held out a small box, marked with multiple stamps and encodings, indicating that it had passed through several security checkpoints on its way onto the base. "Delicate electronic technology like this can't get moved through Base Housing," she said, balancing the small container in the palm of her hand. "It had to be cleared through security, which made it my business, I'm afraid."

Jaworski winced, and took it out of her hands, delicately, with just his fingertips. "I take it you know what it is, then," he said, looking around for a good place to put it away, and settled for high atop a kitchen cabinet, where it was just barely visible. . . _if_ you looked for it.

"Your wife's graybox? Oh yes. I have one installed. So did my. . . partner, Keji. I put a lot of effort into recovering it from the man who killed him," she said, her voice bleak for a moment. "That was five years ago, now." She hesitated. "It's unusual to find one in a . . . civilian. Your wife was, wasn't she?"

"Yeah," he said, swallowing, and gestured for her to take a seat. "Sorry, I'm forgetting my manners," he said as he took a chair himself. "Been a while since I've had to play host." He sighed. "Yeah, my wife was definitely a civilian. Her family owned the ranch, or at least the land it was on, for something like two hundred years. She was a geneticist by training. Ran a lab out of the barn, working on horses, mostly. As to why she had a graybox. . . she was a test case. They were originally designed for Alzheimer's prevention, you know?" He shrugged. The words were hard to say. "Three out of her four grandparents had advanced dementia. She saw that in her twenties, and told me she was not about to lose who she was if she could help it, turn into a zombie of herself."

"You haven't looked at its contents?" she asked him, after a moment.

He shook his head. "Don't plan to. The graybox was her own idea. I told her why I couldn't have one. Too much classified data up here from when I was with N7." He tapped his forehead. "There's a half-dozen planets that I have to notify the military about if I'm going to visit them. Something that could tap into my memories and record them for anyone unscrupulous enough to tear it out of my brainstem would be a definite no-no."

"I found that looking through Keji's memories really helped me deal with his loss," she said, after a long moment. "It might not work for everyone, but it did help me." Her smile was brief and sad. "I still talk to him once in a while. Of course, he never has anything new to say, but . . . it's comforting, knowing that I still have a tiny piece of him around."

His lips turned down. "With all due respect, ma'am, how I handle loss is my own business." _If I can't even look at a picture of her, can't even say her damn __**name**__ out loud, how the hell is seeing everything I remember through her eyes going to help?_

"I'm just telling you my own experience. It might help Dara, too." Kasumi shrugged, a slight, elegant movement of her shoulders. "I also thought I'd offer to take Dara off Dr. Solus' hands. Give her a few weeks of relative stability," the little woman suggested. "I'm staying on base for the interim. Your next few missions will not require my _particular_ talents."

Startled, he looked up, and considered the offer. "If you wouldn't mind. . . I'd be very obliged to you." He found he liked the woman, and couldn't quite put a finger on why. It could be the sense of humor, the quick intelligence, or the fact that her skills meshed so perfectly with his on the battlefield. In any case, he liked her, and trusted her, without fully understanding why.

"I don't mind," she assured him, standing back up again, and offering him her hand. He escorted her to the door, struck again by how tiny she was, for the physical abilities he knew she possessed. "Good hunting out there, Sam," she told him, and left.

He stood by the door for a long moment, pondering, and wondered idly what her background was. Probably espionage, given the skill-set. _I should probably check into that_, he thought, and then got ready for Dara to come home, reaching up over the cabinets and taking down her mother's graybox. "Well, if I'm going to load you down with responsibilities, girl," he said out loud, staring down at the tiny device inside the box, "I should at least give you the right to make a few of your own decisions, y'know?"

**Garrus**

The crew was smaller for Archangel missions, for damned good reasons. It increased the operational security dramatically, and in the case of a catastrophic failure, lessened the potential body-count. This was the first time Garrus was actually taking other Spectres along with him, and it felt _odd_.

_Matar_

The first planet they investigated was Matar, put on their list by Zaeed Massani. The base on the planet was yet another in a long line of frozen hellholes, this one guarded by a double ring of mercs and mechs. It was a small base, so Garrus had decided to let Lantar and Jaworski come with him to get their feet wet, and get used to working as a team. He set up his sniper perch half a kilometer from the base, gave Jaworski and Lantar time to get into position, and started taking out his targets, starting with the people standing closest to the doors of the base, causing great confusion as everyone around his initial targets scattered outwards. . . right into the range of Lantar's assault rifle, as he laid down covering fire for Jaworski, who worked his way in, closer and closer, before blowing the door with a pre-rigged charge. He held back at the door, and the mercs inside, not complete idiots, stayed back, defending their ground.

Then Garrus made it to the compound, and Jaworski slipped into the building, stealthed, and started taking out guards, Garrus and Lantar sending streams of covering fire into the building to encourage the mercs to hold their positions long enough for Jaworski to step in behind them and use his very nasty knife.

By the end of the day, there was no one left alive, and no signals had escaped the _Normandy_'s jamming field.

Inside the base, they'd found that Cunningham's men had been moving stolen weapons mods, most just barely past the prototype stage, and had been preparing to sell them to batarians, of all things. _Why? Just to raise funds? Doesn't make a lot of sense for human supremacists. _There were also indications that the mercs knew their leader had been killed. News clips, downloaded from the extranet, about the attack on the Spectre base. "Maybe they figured they'd been hung out to dry, and decided that selling the mods would be their retirement bonus," Garrus suggested, dubiously, as they finished ransacking the base.

"It's possible," Lantar commented. "Delumcore reported these mods missing to B-Sec about two months ago. I remember the report coming through." He turned around, studying the chamber they stood in. "This room looks like a reverse-engineering lab. They were probably going to get some techs out here and try to produce the mods themselves, possibly for incorporation into the mechs they had on hand here. The file dates on the batarian contacts are all more recent, within the last few weeks."

With that planet out of the way, Garrus got them back to the _Normandy_, and transmitted a report to Mindoir on an encrypted channel, detailing what they'd found, and noting that Massani's information had been right on the money—this time, anyway. He got a minimal reply back, indicating that Shepard had gotten in touch with Anderson and the Alliance brass, and was sending out the other fourteen human Spectres with teams and _Normandy-_class ships to work on the remaining known illegal colonies.

"Command has its privileges?" he asked his wife in their brief FTL conversation.

She looked tired on the aerogel screen. "Damn straight. If I've got seventy-nine Spectres, I may as well make _use_ of them. Anderson doesn't like the expense, but he agreed in the end that it was better to take care of each of these colonies sooner rather than later."

"Coordinated strikes do seem to be a better idea than picking them off one at a time," he agreed.

"Which planet's next for you?"

"Not a planet. A moon. Solcrum."

She grimaced. "Yeah, I remember that place. Not exactly a retirement locale, with all that radiation from the blue giant, not to mention the radiation bands from the gas giant it orbits."

"Better me than you. My hide keeps that stuff out. Yours, even with a full envirosuit on? Not as much."

"You worry too much. Be safe, and good hunting." She blew a kiss at the camera.

_Solcrum_

Solcrum was just as he remembered it, starkly beautiful and yet startlingly ugly at the same time. It had only a minimal atmosphere, so the stars shone down brightly—where they weren't blocked by the mass of Notanban, or blotted from the sky by the searing brilliance of the system's primary, Grissom. It was also _hot_ on the surface. 351º C/668 º F in the shadow of a round-walled crater, where he paused the Hammerhead for a moment to take a measurement.

"You're taking us to all the pleasure planets, Garrus," Lantar joked in their suit radios. "At least on this one, my toes will finally thaw out from Matar."

This time, they were investigating a lead solely taken from Atieno's briefing, and it panned out. . . but only partially. The base was abandoned, and had been for some time, but the mercs hadn't taken their computer cores with them. "Sloppy," Jaworski said as they investigated the bunkers dug in under the moon's red-tinged surface.

"They took the time to carry off the generators, but _not_ the computer cores?" Lantar replied, dubiously. "Should've been the other way around."

"Yeah, something doesn't smell right," Garrus agreed, carefully setting up a portable power pack and attaching it to the nearest terminal. "Joker, tell EDI that we're not going to upload anything yet. I'm going to hack it here. Cohort, could you help me run a data analysis? I don't want to chance compromising EDI's firewalls, but yours should be okay, right?"

"Affirmative, Vakarian-Spectre," the geth replied, his single eye shining in the dark confines of the bunker.

Sure enough, the computer cores were filled with junk data and a fairly nasty virus. "Interesting," Cohort said after a few moments of the virus essentially bouncing off his internal firewalls. "This virus is not of human design. Most human computer architecture is primitive when compared with salarian designs, for example. Human encryption is easily penetrated by salarian Special Tasks Group algorithms, and has been for decades. EDI is an exception, example of Old Machine technology adapted by humans for hybrid vigor." His eyeflaps canted for a moment. "The encoding technique seems similar to EDI's on many levels, but different. Old Machine code adapted by a different species, perhaps."

"How can you tell that?" Jaworski asked.

"Code is a language, Jaworski-Spectre. We are attuned to its subtleties, much as you are attuned to dialects, variations, accents in your spoken words. This code, for lack of a better analogy, does not have a human accent to it."

"Can you identify what group created it?" Garrus asked.

"We will continue to analyze the data, but there are three different patterns of thought and methodologies in place. One is Old Machine. One is refined, articulate. The code is. . . aesthetically pleasing."

"Poetic?" Lantar asked. He sounded a touch amused, but kept shining his light into the dark recesses of the room, as if concerned they'd missed something, or someone.

"Yes," Cohort replied. "The third is workmanlike. It shows a mind made of numbers, but not numbers as a machine understands them. Numbers that do what they are told to do, but do not reveal reality." The geth's eyeflaps moved again. "Permission to take the computer cores aboard the _Normandy_ for further analysis?"

"Granted," Garrus answered, immediately. "We'll need them for evidence anyway—though evidence of _what_, I don't know, exactly."

They walked out of the bunker, back into Grissom's blinding light, and moved at a quick job for the Hammerhead. Garrus could hear his suit's heat warning alarms starting to beep at him, urgently. "For human supremacists, they seem to use a lot of non-human tech," Lantar said, thoughtfully. "The Delumcore mods are turian-manufactured. This virus—and whatever code it was protecting—seems to be non-human as well. Why would they do that?"

"Just because they're racist, don't mean they're stupid," Jaworski said, opening the back of the Hammerhead.

"Speciesist," Garrus corrected, grinning under his helmet.

"Son, from where I stand, all that shit stinks the same damn way."

_Corang_

Garrus remembered _this_ planet all too well. "There used to be a Cerberus-funded research base on this world," he told everyone in the briefing room. "They were studying Prothean artifacts here, and had come under geth—excuse me, under heretic attack while doing so." He showed the base on the holographic projector. "The good news is, we know the base layout pretty well. The bad news is, Atieno claimed that Cunningham's mercs took it over for a base of operations. It's likely to be rather full. This wing is probably still the barracks. We're not sure what the old labs are being used for, to be honest."

He took two full teams down, and was glad he had . . . and that everyone kept their damned helmets and breathers on. The firefight was _nasty _on the way in, and the mercs periodically threw crates that burst into light-blue clouds right at them. _Yeah, definitely a tie-in with Cerberus elements that went underground, where we couldn't find them_, he thought, knowing _exactly_ what that chemical compound was. He, Lantar, and Jaworski went in through the west entrance, which was the barracks; Cohort, Sky, and Gris went in through the east, securing the labs. They wound up crushing the last pockets of resistance from both sides in the center of the facility.

"Where are they getting the azure dust _from_ to weaponize it?" Lantar asked, stepping over the body of a merc, to crack open a crate, seeing a puff of light blue powder spiral up into the air, like smoke. "This is a _lot_ of product. They could be making millions off this on the street, but they don't seem to be doing so."

"Oddly ethical of them," Jaworski commented, dryly.

"Maybe we can run some tests on samples. Azure dust comes from a particular plant, native to Thessia, although it's been spread all over asari space. _Everything_ organic can be traced to its planet of origin through isotope testing," Garrus pointed out, and bagged a sample, cautiously, handing it to Cohort for transport back to the ship.

Dr. Abrams was able to confirm that the original plants had been grown on Lusia, the asari planet that had been the flashpoint of the Krogan Rebellions. "Deep in current asari holdings," he reported. "The amounts you're seeing would constitute about a third of the annual legal crop."

_Junthor_

"All right," Garrus said in the briefing room the next day, as the _Normandy _swept slowly into a different system, stealth enabled.. "This is the information that we have, taken from both our interrogation of Atieno and some data provided by the leader of the Blue Suns, Zaeed Massani." The holographic projector in the middle of the room lit up, displaying the Gagarin system in the Armstrong Nebula. "The _Normandy'_s been to this system before, fighting geth heretics on Rayingri back when we were hunting down Saren," he commented. "This time, we're looking at Junthor, the planet closest to the star." The camera zoomed in, frighteningly close to the red dwarf, picking up a small, green-tinged planet that scuttled close to its cool, dim primary. "Surprisingly cool surface, considering its proximity to its primary. There's some supposition that there's a field generator of some sort on the planet, shielding it from the intense heat that it _should_ be experiencing, but no one's ever found it. Junthor's tidally locked, and has a carbon dioxide and chlorine atmosphere; pretty toxic, and just under one g. What brings it to everyone's attention is that in its equator region, there's the remains of an ancient civilization. Pretty well-studied by the asari. Huge buildings—some seven times the size of the Great Pyramid on Earth, for example—and some written text on monuments that amounts to 'look on our works and know our greatness' and 'monsters from the id.' There's some speculation that it might be the a colony or the homeworld of the people who built the Reaper's precursors, that they were wiped out by their own creations." He paused, thinking of how quarians might identify with that statement, having been nearly wiped out by their own machine creations, the geth. "Red dwarf stars have _long_ lifespans, so it's not an entirely unlikely guess. No evidence at the present, though."

Garrus waved his hand, and the image zoomed in again, this time to several blips on the planet's surface. "This is the main city, designated Erestra by asari researchers. About three months ago, a new archaeological expedition hired Cunningham's mercenaries, the Phoenix Wing, to protect them and their dig site. Chances are, they thought they were about to uncover something valuable. Given the track record of the colonists affiliated with the Sons of Abel with ancient artifacts, it's possible that the mercs, are here to destroy what's found, or to take it for their own uses. It's _unclear_ at this point if all of them are affiliated with the Sons of Cain," Garrus stressed. "Some of them could just be here for the paycheck. To add to the complexity, the archaeologists are a mix of humans and asari. The humans hired the mercs, based off their reputation on Earth, Terra Nova, and Bekenstein, which, until lately, was pretty damn good." He grimaced at his audience. "They may not have made their move yet. The archaeology team may still see them as the 'good guys.' And they might have information that leads back to whoever besides Cunningham was pulling the strings."

Garrus zoomed in further, so that now they were looking at a 'street-level' map of the ancient ruins. "That's the situation. Our goal is to neutralize the mercs, without any harm coming to the archaeologists and whatever their discovery is. We'll be going in very quietly, from about fifty kilometers away. Joker's found us an isolated drop site, but we'll have to cover a lot of the ground on foot. The buildings are too fragile to take the vibration of a vehicle's passage, and could collapse. We'll take this route," and he overlaid a path onto the projection, "to the dig site, and observe for a while. Then we'll take action."

He shut down the projection. "Gris, Sky, and Cohort, you're the reserve team. The atmosphere is thick enough for a parachute drop if we need to get you to us fast, so be ready." Sky rustled uncomfortably for a moment, and Garrus added, dryly, "Or the biotic inertial dampener of your choice, of course. I don't imagine we stock a parachute harness in your. . . size, Sky."

He caught Sky's arpeggio of laughter in his head in response, blue-green amusement.

"Lantar, Jaworski, you're going in with me. There's no vegetation, as you can see, Jaworski. You'll probably have to resort to a stealth generator on this one, just like on Matar."

"Not a problem," the human assured him. "I don't like _relying_ on 'em, but I know how to use 'em."

"Then let's go."

He got back into his Archangel armor, battered and beaten, and chuckled a little under his breath as he saw Lantar walk into the shuttle bay, wearing a suit almost the double of it, down to the color. "I see they managed to repair the chestplate."

"Replaced it entirely, but apparently, the damage to the arms and cowl are _traditional_ now, and the techs didn't want to mess with tradition." Lantar's tone was very dry.

"Well, you _are_ supposed to be my double, Nemesis."

Jaworski joined them, and Joker took the _Normandy_ in a low-profile approach, keeping high enough above the city that the engines wouldn't affect the fragile, ancient buildings. The Hammerhead dropped out of the belly of the ship, and Garrus hit the jets, landing softly before steering in among the outskirts of the ancient city. "Reminds me of Feros," he commented into his suit radio. "Not quite the same as the Prothean skyscrapers, though. More monumental, less functional."

"I'll take your word for it," Lantar replied, keeping an eye on their surroundings from the gunport.

After about ten minutes, Garrus slid the Hammerhead to a halt. "Okay, that's about as far as we can go. Everyone out," he said, and they leaped out of the hatch onto the planet's surface. The sun was simply huge in the sky, taking up over a third of the horizon, a few wide prominences weaving out of it like ribbons, almost too blinding to look at, even with the heavy polarization of his faceplate. Garrus shook his head, wondering how it was that they weren't being cooked, the alloys of their suits turning into liquid instantly, then dismissed the thought. It wasn't relevant right now.

The only thing that _was_ relevant was the blip on his omnitool, showing the direction they needed to go, and they headed that way. The monumental architecture was confusing, a maze of paths leading up to ziggurat-like buildings, then passing around them, bridges that led to nowhere, crumbled staircases that would have once taken them over empty canals destroyed by time. Tracing the path took several hours, and in places, they had to test their way along carefully, to be sure that the structures wouldn't collapse under their feet. "Nervous work," Jaworski said after a while.

Garrus' omnitool started to ping softly. "Targets ahead," he said, softly. He gestured for Jaworski to slip ahead and check it out, dropping into a crouch behind a fallen pillar covered in indecipherable hieroglyphics, himself. Lantar crouched beside him, peering over the top.

"Got three mercs here," Jaworski whispered into their ears. "No way around. They're going to have to go down, and it needs to be fast enough that they can't alert anyone."

"We're moving into position," Garrus replied, and gestured for Lantar to precede him.

The two turians crept ahead, staying low and in cover, each taking one side of a wide archway. Garrus risked a glance, and saw that the three mercs were walking through the courtyard ahead of them, desultorily patrolling. "Jaworski, take out the one on the far side from us. Lantar, left. I'm on the right. Keep it _quiet_."

Jaworski slid in behind his target, the shimmering cloak that concealed his form vanishing as he pulled the man's head back, stretching the neck and the seams in the banded armor there, sliding his knife home between the panels, where the rubber gussets in between the metal strips were thin. His target never had a chance to make a sound; the other two men only heard the scrape and thump as his body hit the ground. They turned. . . and then Garrus and Lantar were on them, from behind, hands reaching up, catching the helmets, one hand to lift the chin up and arch the neck, the other to move the head on that surprisingly fragile spinal column, snapping it.

Garrus let the merc's body drop to the ground, and examined the man's omnitool. "Patching into their channel now," he said, tersely.

Comm chatter was quiet for a while, and they continued to pick their way to the northeast, towards the dig site. "Team Charlie, report," they eventually heard. "You were due back from your sweep to the southwest ten minutes ago."

"This is Team Bravo," another voice came on over the channel. "Scientists are just about done here. They're loading the first of the packages onto the ship, but they're starting to argue about where they want to take it. Asari want to take it to Illium."

"Negative. That package is going to Terra Nova." A brief pause. "_Convince_ them. We'll be there to assist in five."

Garrus made a speed-it-up gesture, and he and his team started to hustle. They started picking up life signs again; this time, concentrated inside an enormous ancient building.

"Looks like a hangar, almost. Rounded top, immense doors," Jaworski whispered into his radio. "Thin walls, compared to the rest of the buildings around here, according to the readings."

Garrus took a rough headcount of the people starting to congregate in the area, shook his head, and signaled the _Normandy_. "Send second team to our coordinates, now. Tell them they're coming in hot," he told Joker. "All right, let's go extract the scientists."

They moved to the edges of the immense door, and peered in. There were at least two dozen mercs moving into the building through other doors; the scientists stood clustered at the center, clearly arguing with one another. There was one object, covered in white cloth, off to the side; twice the height of a human, perhaps, it clearly bulked along megalithic lines.

There was also a merc ship already inside the building; not quite the size of the _Normandy_, but still big enough to clearly demonstrate the monumental _size_ of the ancient structure. The ship's ramp was down, and a large, silvery object was being pushed up into the cargo-hold on floating cargo-movers. Garrus sucked in a deep breath at the sight.

"Holy shit," Jaworski said, stunned. "That can't be what I think it is, can it?"

"Pretty small to be a Reaper," Lantar said, his voice a little thick with the same dread that currently gripped Garrus' belly. "Looks about the size of a conventional fighter."

"Think it's alive?" Jaworski asked, tightly.

"I don't care," Garrus said, flatly. "This is one case where the _historical value_ of an artifact doesn't mean a damn. Shoot the damn thing before they get it on that ship." He reared up, and fired, not at the mercenaries, but at the thing that sure as hell _looked_ like a miniature Reaper, aiming for the lights that looked like _eyes_ to him.

The mercs jerked around to face him, even as the scientists cried out in alarm. Lantar raised up next to him as Garrus ducked back down, assault rifle spitting fire at the mercs holding the mini-Reaper in place on the ramp, while Jaworski moved off to the side, opening their angle of fire a bit, and went back on target with his submachine gun, firing once more at the relic itself.

The relic _moved_ in place, raising tentacle-like arms, and fired back at them, thin bolts of yellow light, like what they had seen from the Collector beam weapons. "Yeah, I'd say it's alive," Garrus commented on the radio. He glanced back over his shoulder in time to see Cohort and Gris touch down, parachutes draping to the ground in a spill of colorful silk. "Where's Sky?" he called, adding "Get _down_!" as the mercs behind him opened fire.

Cohort pointed up, and ducked behind a piece of fallen masonry. _I am here_, Sky sang softly in everyone's minds, and gave them a clear image of where all life-songs in the building were, helpfully color-coding the scientists differently than the mercenaries.

Then the huge brood warrior floated down, almost weightless under the influence of his own singularity. Garrus had a moment to wonder if the rachni had waited until a hundred feet above the ground before pulling this biotic 'ripcord,' or if he'd released the singularity higher above the ground, and then the turian had to pay attention again, firing freely into the wide, open room.

The mercs closed ranks, pushing their prize into their ship, while the Spectres whittled away at them, Gris and Sky tag-teaming to raise them into the air and bat them away, while Cohort took aim at the still wildly-firing mini-Reaper. The scientists ducked into cover, shouting and screaming, and finally, in spite of all their best efforts, the mercs finally succeeded in boarding the ship.

"Stop the damn ship!" Garrus shouted, firing at the craft's pilot bubble with his sniper rifle. Beside him, Lantar switched out to the Collector beam weapon Shepard had more or less permanently loaned him, firing at the ship's belly, piercing its hull.

Then the ship roared past over their heads, heading for the sky. Garrus tabbed his radio. "Joker, outbound ship, intercept and _destroy_. Repeat, do not let that ship out of this system!"

"We're on it," Joker shot back.

Still breathing hard, Garrus marched forward towards the scientists, who were only just now peeking out from behind their hiding places.

"Who the _hell_ are you?" one of the scientists demanded through her breathing mask. An asari, she looked to be well into the matron stage.

"Spectres," Garrus said, sharply. "Are you all _stupid_, or are you indoctrinated? That was a _Reaper_, or as close to it as I really want to come to one. . .again." He depolarized his helmet, letting her see the face, the scars, that had made him one of the most recognizable turians in the galaxy.

The scientist pulled back. "As soon as we discovered it, we started monitoring for signs of indoctrination," she replied, defensively. "It's a very primitive model. Ancient even by Reaper standards. It might well have been the progenitor of the Reapers, and we could have studied it!" Her voice was almost a wail of loss. "Now the mercenaries have left with it, and it's all your fault."

"Ma'am," Jaworski said, sounding a mite disgusted, "They were going to kill you anyway, if their conversation about _convincing_ you, with force, to take it to Terra Nova and not Illium, was any indication.

"No. . . no, that's not possible," she said, but the objection sounded reflexive. "They came highly recommended, have a good reputation. . . ."

Garrus brushed past her, and pulled down the cloth that covered the second artifact recovered by the dig team. He stared up at it, puzzled. It was silver, cylindrical, about three and a half meters in height, and covered in glowing runes. It looked _nothing_ like Reaper technology. In fact, it looked like nothing he'd ever encountered before, at all. "You found this alongside the Reaper?" he asked one of the humans.

The man nodded, vigorously. "The cylinder was alongside the ship," he explained. "Hooked up to it. I think it's a testing device of some sort, personally."

"Or a fuelling station," one of the asari scientists retorted.

"Whatever it is, we'll take it to our base," Garrus decided, much to the scientists' consternation. _The archaeological find of the millennium_ was a phrase much tossed about for a while, as was _what gives you the right?_

"You're the people who just found a Reaper—fine, it's an old one, and it might not be _exactly_ the same as its giant great-grandkids—and _failed to report it_ to the damn Council, or to the Spectres, or to anyone else," he finally said, irritated. "You've probably just unleashed it on the damn galaxy—again!—and we're the ones who're going to have to clean up the mess. _That's_ what gives me the right."

He tabbed his radio. "Joker, give me good news. Tell me you got the damn ship."

"It was damned fast for its size," Joker reported back, sounding just as annoyed as Garrus was. "Probably using an experimental dark energy drive. Not easy to track. It blew right by us before we could get a firing solution. Sorry, Garrus."

He took a deep breath, and released it. _All right. We'll fix this. Somehow. _"Difficult doesn't mean impossible, right?"

"Yeah, we'll scrub the data and see what we can come up with based on their last verifiable heading," Joker replied. "You need a pickup?"

"Yeah. We've got some scientists here who'll need a travel agent. And a really big package to take home, too."

Garrus looked up at the mysterious cylinder. _And what the __**hell**__ are you?_


	17. Chapter 17: Family and Friends

**Chapter 17: Family and Friends**

**Garrus**

The _Normandy_ crept back into Mindoir's system, stealthed, as usual, nearly a month after they'd left. Garrus was nearly boiling with impatience, and paced back and forth in his quarters, not really wanting the rest of the crew to see his agitation. Everyone aboard already knew the bad news, of course, but there was no real point to making morale _worse_ by letting anyone see his agitation.

It still took fourteen hours to cruise in from the relay in the system's Kuiper belt; physics were still physics. Nevermind that the system was building one of the new relays, powered by dark energy instead of mass effect fields. That only mattered between systems. Once you were _in_ the system, the ship still needed to use its reaction drive, avoiding FTL in order to stay undetectable. . . and so, it was fourteen hours.

Garrus finally went for a walk to avoid wearing a path in the deckplates of the cabin, checking in around the ship as he did so. Gris was training in the gym, taking out some of his own nervous energy on the sparring dummies, which would, apparently, need to be replaced as a result. Sky had taken up a position in the starboard observation lounge, and appeared to be singing to the stars. _I wonder if that's how he got his name,_ Garrus thought, not wanting to disturb the rachni.

_Yes_, Sky told him as the turian started to withdraw. _It was_.

Curious, Garrus turned around in the doorway. "You literally sing to the sky? Why?"

_The stars are beautiful. They sing their own songs, in radiation and light. We of the Singing Planet have always known this, always heard their songs. Some of us sing back. We do not know if they hear us, but it is. . . right. . . to provide accompaniment, when others sing. We add to their harmony, as they give us life. When our song ends, we return to them. And when their songs end, new harmonies begin._

Garrus thought about that, for a moment. It almost sounded mystical. And yet, the rachni's thought-song was simple, peaceful. It sounded as if this were just a way of being, the only way the brood warrior knew how to be, in fact. "Do all rachni sing to the stars?"

_No. Only a few. Soldiers do not, nor do workers. They are. . . limited. They raise their voices with all of ours, but they do not understand the song._ Sky's voice, still peaceful, sounded a little sorrowful. _They do not begrudge us the great songs. The queens sing, too, but sing to all. Too many notes to sing, too many voices to lead, to have time for the stars._

"Only brood warriors, then?"

_Usually. Though I am the first to be named. _Sky rustled his odd appendages, a warm blue-green of pride suffusing his thoughts. _First to be named, first to sing songs of battle with the Spectres. Queen whose voice lifts with the Council was very pleased._

"Yes, I did notice that you spent quite a bit of time with her before the swearing-in ceremony." Garrus hesitated at the door. This was all interesting, and a good distraction from his concerns, but he also didn't really want to intrude too much.

_Yes. She found me worthy to father her next brood. She will retain the songs of Sings-to-the-Sky within her for the rest of her life. My memories, you would say. My life-pattern, as well. She will give them to her brood, and pass them, intact, to any queens she brings forth in her line, for their use in the great harmony. It is a very great honor. My song will go on, even when I myself do not._

Garrus smiled. Now _that_ was something he actually understood. "It's a good feeling, isn't it?"

Sky's alien blue eyes glimmered against the backdrop of the stars. _Yes. Very good._

Garrus moved on, finding Lantar and Jaworski in the armory, engaged in that most common occupation of soldiers everywhere: griping about how long it had been since they'd see their families. "Hang on a second," Jaworski said. "What the hell is today's date?"

"Tenth of Novenus," Lantar told him, not cracking a grin, but giving the date from the turian calendar in use on Palaven.

"Very helpful," Jaworski said, turning and tapping a console. "Okay, so, ten days a galactic week, five weeks in a galactic month, ten months in a galactic year. . . five hundred damn days a year. Who came up with this damn system?"

"The asari," both turians told him, promptly. Garrus added, "They're fond of tens and fives. If it had been up to us, everything would have been done in eights." He held up his hands in illustration, displaying three fingers and a thumb on each. "Humans, with ten fingers, I would think would do everything in tens, too."

"No one asked us about it when they decided the length of our orbit or the moon's," Jaworski replied, and squinted. "Okay, I could sit here trying to carry the ones in my head, or I could just ask EDI," Sam finally surrendered.

A blue eyeball popped up near the door. "It's Saturday October 30, 2190, on the Terran calendar, if that is what you wished to establish, Mr. Jaworski," EDI supplied calmly.

Sam winced. "Yeah. . . I done screwed up. I'm blaming it on the fact that it's spring on Mindoir right now. Dara's birthday was today. . . ." He shook his head glumly. "I am officially the worst father on this ship."

Garrus knew the importance that humans, at least from their Western cultures, placed on the days of their birth, and chuckled. "Yeah. Guess we'll just have to just execute you and get it over with."

"It might be less embarrassing. I mean, I missed my second wedding anniversary—admittedly, I was pinned down on Elysium in the middle of the Skyllian Blitz at the time—" Jaworski rolled his eyes and shook his head at the memory, "but I've never missed a birthday until now. Damn, I should have at least called."

"You _were_ somewhat engaged with the rescue operations for the salarian research vessel," Lantar reminded him. "And she knew we were due back yesterday."

"Which means now she's worrying her head off. And no chance of a transmission in-system because of communications blackout protocols." Sam shook his head again, then caught Garrus' expression. "Don't mind me. I know why the protocols are there, and I agree with 'em. I'm just going to nip down to the gym and let Gris use me as a punching bag for a while. It'll be quicker and less painful."

Garrus left the room, chuckling a bit, and feeling oddly restored. _Now I know why Lilu kept going from station to station, talking to people on the long flights back in the old days. Listening to someone else's worries actually __**does**__ make your own seem a little less bad. _Additionally, it was a relief to see how well they were all dealing with the stressful revelation of the ancient technology that had been spirited away by the Phoenix Wing mercenaries. _They're all professional soldiers, and know that what they can't change, they shouldn't worry about. . . until it's time to change it_, Garrus thought. _It's a shame I can't turn it off, but at least I hope I don't show it._

Finally, the _Normandy_ came in for a landing. The base was night-side at the moment, close to 25:30 on the local clock. Late, by any standard. Garrus headed into the villa, nodding to the night guards and going through all the usual security checks, before padding off to the family living quarters.

He slipped into the darkness of their bedroom, and looked down for a moment at their bed, slightly amused. "Well, this is not _quite_ the homecoming I'd hoped for," he said, very quietly, after a moment. Both children had taken up his side of the bed; Urz lay sprawled across the foot, and his wife lay curled on her side, deeply asleep. Urz lifted his head at the sound of Garrus' voice, and Garrus caught a flash of white fangs as the varren yawned hugely at him.

With a slight shrug, Garrus bent down, and picked up Amara's limp form, cradling the little girl to him, and took her back to her own room and her own bed, and then made a return trip for Kaius. By the time he was done, and could safely sit down to take off his boots, Urz had migrated up onto the right side of the bed. "Oh, no you don't, you overgrown sack of scales and teeth," Garrus told the varren, but his tone was fairly affectionate. "Down you go."

Rumbling slightly, the varren hopped down and skulked off to his own bed.

"You're late," his wife said, sounding groggy, her voice far hoarser than mere sleepiness could explain.

"And you have a cold."

"The kids decided they hadn't had any levo-based viruses in a while, and brought it home from the science station as a present for me." She coughed a little and sat up. "They ran the usual fever, cough, runny noses—" she paused as he chuckled. "Yeah, it's funny for _you_," she said, and blew her nose.

"But it is! Turians get coughs, sure, but the runny noses just look bizarre." He passed his hand over her hair, lightly stroking it. Social grooming worked just as well for primates as social preening did for his own species. It was soothing and comforting, conveying affection without words. He could feel her relax into the light touch almost immediately. "Sorry we're late," he added. "Caught a distress signal right when we were hopping between the old relay network and the new one. Had to go check it out. It was a science vessel with a mixed crew of humans and salarians. Testing a new dark energy drive, supposed to be faster than anything else out there. Didn't quite work out as well in practice as it did on paper."

"Mmm. Anything else that didn't make it into the last encrypted transmission?" Her voice was still foggy and groggy.

"Eh, a few things. Can the debriefing wait until morning?" He leaned down and nuzzled her neck, enjoying the scent of her skin after such a long absence.

"Had a different sort of debriefing in mind?" she teased.

"Now that you mention it. . . yeah." He let his teeth graze the side of her throat, heard her breath catch.

"I'll try not to sneeze in your general direction."

"Sneeze all you want; I can't catch it." He grinned at her in the darkness.

**Dara**

The past month had been a busy one for Dara. She'd been staying at Kasumi Goto's house, which was both surprisingly homey, and oddly alien, in its own way. It was largely furnished in the Japanese style, which Dara had never before really seen, other than in vids, and had rice-paper screens scattered here and there to cordon off different areas of the rooms while still letting in light. The furniture tended to be black-lacquered, and while surprisingly comfortable, seemed to be a little lower than she was used to. There were also a lot of little, valuable things scattered around the house, including a vast collection of old, paper books. Dara had the constant sensation that she was about to put a big, clumsy foot wrong, and break something.

Kasumi also turned out to be a very good cook, but almost everything she made was as strange to Dara as if she'd been eating in an asari's home. _Only humans can be alien to their own kind_. It was a saying that was becoming common all over the galaxy, and it certainly seemed true, as she learned how to eat noodles with chopsticks and tried to memorize the strange new words, _shabu-shabu, kakuni_, and _sunomuno_.

She liked Kasumi; the woman was good company. She'd talk if there was something worth saying, but also knew how to be quiet. So long as Dara told her where she was going, she also allowed the girl a surprising amount of freedom. Dara, of course, knew nothing of Kasumi's talents, and couldn't possibly have known that she'd been shadowed on several of her early expeditions away from the house, or that when Kasumi had decided that the girl showed a fair amount of common sense, that the shadowing had largely ended. She _did_ know that she appreciated that freedom, enormously, and tried to show that to Kasumi by being respectful and polite.

Every night before bed, Dara turned the little graybox over and over in her hands, and every night, she put it back in its container, unused. After the first week, Kasumi finally asked her, "Are you going to look at your mother's memories?"

"I . . . don't know," Dara said, looking up from her datapad, startled by the sudden breaking of what had been a companionable silence. "I think about it all the time, but mostly, I think it'll just make me cry again. I've only just gotten to the point where I'm not just . . . randomly crying all the time. Sometimes I look at a sunset and think, 'wow, Mom would've loved to see that one. She'd have called me out of my room just to come look at it.' And then I tear up, because I wasn't expecting to hurt." She paused, trying to put it into words. "Looking at what's in the graybox might hurt less because I was expecting it, but it might also hurt more." Dara across the room at Kasumi, who was sitting on the couch with her knees pulled up to her chest. "I'm kind of tired of hurting."

"It sounds like you already made your decision."

"I guess. I still feel like she had it for a reason, and maybe she wanted to leave a message for me and for Dad. And it makes me feel bad not to want to listen to her, especially when all I want to do is just talk to her one more time. . . but this isn't _her_. It's a recording."

"It's up to you, Dara. But don't agonize over it. Your dad didn't give it to you to make you feel guilty, and I'm not pushing you one way or another."

And for a wonder, Kasumi never did seem to push.

In the first week of the month, Dara went to Kella's house once, to listen to music with the asari girl, and met her mother, who happened to be a Spectre—Ylara. Ylara was quiet and kind, and Dara was surprised by how much she liked the woman, and even Kella, when Kella wasn't around Siara. She told her new friend as much, too.

Kella smiled a little guiltily. "I haven't had a lot of friends here other than Siara," she explained. "My mother and I used to travel all over asari space, and then when the Spectres came here to the permanent base, we had to come here, too. It's been strange, staying in one place for so long, and when we got here, Siara was the only other asari close to my age. The others were. . . strange. Intimidating. It was easier to stick close to Siara."

"Oh, I understand _that_," Dara said, with a bit of a sigh. "I don't know if I'd have stopped being scared of the turians by now, if I hadn't met Eli."

"Eli's really nice," Kella told her, smiling. "He's lived on the Citadel _and_ on Bastion. I only got to visit the Citadel once or twice, and I've never been to Bastion."

"Yeah," Dara said, frowning a little. "He's nice." He still hadn't really talked with her, and she had decided at this point that she was not going to think about it anymore. _He's busy_, she decided, and shrugged internally.

Kella changed the music to a different song. "This song is from _Vaenia_, one of the dance scenes. I really like this one. Do you think you could play it on the _reela_?"

Dara listened to the extremely fast tempo of the music, and laughed. "Not without about a year to practice it," she replied, laughing. "And maybe about ten cups of my dad's coffee."

But it was Rellus she actually wound up spending the most time with, much to her own surprise. The daily study sessions at lunch wound up colonizing parts of each afternoon, too. Rellus liked visiting Kasumi's house to study. "My house is too noisy to concentrate in," he explained. The only time they tried studying at his parents' house, Dara quickly understood why he thought that. Serana, at nine, wasn't so bad, but his two younger sibling were five and six, respectively, and very noisy indeed.

Her first weekend at Kasumi's, Rellus dropped by and tapped at the door. "I'm heading up to the base to go riding," he told her when she answered. "Do you want to come with me?" He looked past her to Kasumi, and added, with a smile, "I swear, I won't let her go off on her own. . . _this_ time."

Kasumi had chuckled a bit. "After the lecture I'm sure you got last time—" she paused, and laughed again at his expression, "I think I can trust you on that count." She pointed at them both. "Dinner's at six. Be back by then, Dara."

It was a perfectly _wonderful_ morning. She'd gotten to ride a horse for the first time in two weeks, and, in a clearing far up in the mountains, Rellus asked her, "Would you like to learn to ride a _rlata_?" She eyed the tall beast with its feathers and scales warily, and then slowly nodded, slipping off her patient mare and tying the horse's reins to a nearby tree, leaving the beast enough lead to browse in the grass.

Rellus boosted her up, in front of the _rlata_'s oddly ridged saddle, and then pulled himself up behind her. "Try squeezing your legs," he told her, catching the reins himself. "Okay—a little less than that," he added, as the _rlata_ started to move forward at a fairly good clip.

"It's not too different from a horse," she said, after a few minutes. "The whole swaying side-to-side thing is throwing off my balance, though."

"You're getting the hang of it just fine," Rellus told her. "Maybe you can show me how to ride a horse after this." She looked up just in time to see him grin. "They're very. . . fuzzy creatures."

"Not that much different from the mastiff your family owns," she told him, snickering.

"A little bigger. Less drool," he agreed. "The fur is just. . . odd."

She reached forward and caught a tuft of feathers on the _rlata'_s neck. "Nowhere near as weird as scales and feathers, Rel."

He was far too tall to sit in front of her while she taught him how to ride her horse; she couldn't see around him to guide the animal, so she wound up in more or less the same position, in front of the saddle. _At least a horse has a relatively __**flat**__ back, _she thought. The _rlata_ had a decidedly upwards slope to its back, at least where she'd perched. _Explains the high pommel and cantle on their saddles, though. Better that, than falling off when the beast decides it's time to run_.

They brought the beasts back to the stables by noon, but there was plenty of daylight left to burn, and no need to do homework until the next day. Rellus shrugged a little. "Want to go to the base rifle range? I have to get some practice in every weekend for the rest of the year," he explained, and Dara lit up in excitement.

The range-master, a human male with dark skin, asked her several questions, and she answered them, understanding why he needed to check her competency. Then he let her take ear protectors and a rifle with a single clip to the firing line, evaluating her proficiency. When she reeled her target in, she frowned a little over it, and promised, "I'll do better when I get some more practice in."

"You're doing fine," the range-master assured her. She noticed that he kept a close eye on them for the next three hours. Over the course of that time, a dozen Spectres filtered through, checking out new weapons, or just practicing with old ones. Even Elijah's mom, Ellie, came in for some pistol lessons, and Dara waved to her with a grin.

Rellus asked her at one point in the afternoon if she'd ever tried pistols, and she made a face. "My wrists are too weak," she answered.

He got a light pistol from the range master, loaded it, and handed it to her. "You just want to see how bad I am at this, don't you?" she said, voice a little louder than usual, because of the ear protectors. Rellus laughed, and set up the next target for her.

Dara went to a two-handed stance, feet braced shoulder-width apart, and tried to remember everything her father had told her about pistols. The slide was very hard for her to move, but eventually she managed it. Very, very gently, she squeezed the trigger; the recoil was every bit as bad as she remembered. She sighted again, and fired, repeating until she'd emptied the ten bullets in the clip. Then she ejected the empty clip, and set the weapon down on the bench in front of her.

"You weren't joking about your hand and wrist strength," Rellus told her. "Then again, you're still pretty small. Are you likely to grow much more?"

"Maybe five or six more centimeters," she told him, shrugging, and not taking offense. "My dad said I'd do better with an old-fashioned revolver, something with very small caliber bullets, but those aren't standard-issue anymore. Hard to find ammunition for them, these days."

"Yeah, all the interchangeable magazines and thermal clips did away with those on Palaven, too," he told her, picking up the pistol and heading off to the range-master, who came back with a very old-fashioned revolver in his hands.

"If you want to learn, darlin'," the range-master told her, "You can start with this. Let's see your stance."

She took up her position, and the range-master shook his head. "That's fine for target practice, but you're taking more recoil than you should that way. Try stepping your right foot back. Yeah, there you go. Also, this isn't like a rifle. You're going to want about a seventy-thirty on your grip. Seventy percent of the weapon's weight should be in the support hand." On and on it went, and Dara had to admit, she loved every minute of it.

They caught the last groundcar shuttle off the base back down to the valley, and Rellus would have left her at Kasumi's door, except that the little woman invited him in. "You'll have to tell me if my _alai_ sashimi is any good," she told him. "I've made it a couple of times for your uncle Garrus and aunt Lilu, but Garrus is always _very_ polite about it. So polite, in fact, that I can't tell if I'm doing anything wrong."

"That might be because it's _raw_," Darra whispered to Rellus at the table when Kasumi bustled off into the kitchen.

He leaned over. "It's supposed to be eaten that way."

"Ohhhhhh."

He sampled the sashimi, which had been sliced into an elaborate rose shape, and cautiously poked at the green wasabi on the plate. "It's on the 'not generally toxic' list," Kasumi told him. "Your uncle didn't even need an epi-tab after he tried it. A glass of water, sure, but no medications."

Rellus took a careful bite, and reached for his water glass, coughing.

"Yeah, I learned that one the hard way, too," Dara told him. "When my dad gets back, maybe he can grill steaks for you guys. Wait. . . does Mindoir even _have_ cows?" she asked, feeling a little defeated. Non-vat-grown meat was a luxury item on the colonies, she only just now remembered.

"Bison," Kasumi told her, much to her surprise and delight.

Rellus made a pained face. "I'd have to look on Uncle Garrus' food list," he told her, sounding reluctant.

"I think we can find you a leg of stegosaurus or whatever, instead," she told him, grinning. "I'm in charge of the groceries before he gets back. Just tell me what to buy, and I'll put it in the cryo-unit." Dara started to laugh. "Oh, his face when he looks in there and sees it. . . it's going to be great."

And from that point on, every weekend, the same pattern persisted. On the second trip up to the base for riding and rifle practice, Kasumi mentioned when they got back, "Eli came by to see you, Dara. Wanted to know if you wanted to go riding. I told him you'd already gone to do just that."

"Huh," Dara said. "I guess he should've called before coming over." And she picked up the teapot she knew that Kasumi treasured, and filled two of the little cups with green tea, before picking up a second pot, and filling another cup with the hot, syrupy, purple concoction she now knew was called _apha_.

At school that week, Elijah seemed a little apologetic, and seemed to be making overtures of friendship again, but still seemed to be very wrapped up in the handball games that went on endlessly at lunch and after school. The turians were all so fast, that they were almost always the offensive players; the humans were slower, but more solid, and tended to play defense. Elijah had somehow been roped into playing goalie.

Dara figured that this all was pretty much the natural order of things, at least as far as she'd seen at her old school. Boys pretty much stuck with other boys, and girls pretty much stuck with other girls. She'd always been the exception; she'd much preferred playing with the boys, simply because they _did_ stuff, as opposed to sitting around talking, the way the girls did.

At _this_ school, though, that general rule didn't really apply. The salarians were _all_ male, and they'd sit and talk with anyone who would listen. The asari were _all_ female, and while Siara was snippy, Kella had actually turned out to be very nice. The hanar were. . . hanar. They were very polite, and oddly distant from everyone. The turians didn't care if someone was male or female, so long as they did the work. One elcor student joined the class in the third week, making Dara and Eli officially not the 'new' kids anymore.

Another weekend rolled around, and she got word from her father that she could expect him home, probably on her birthday. Dara told Rellus about it excitedly, and then had to explain the significance of human birthdays. "I thought since you calculate when you need to go to bootcamp by your birthdate, that you'd keep track of it the same way," she told him. "I'll be fifteen soon."

"We do, but it doesn't seem to be as much of a big deal for us as it is for you," he told her, letting her walk the _rlata_ in a circle on her own. "Elbows in a little further. I think you're confusing the poor thing."

She stuck her tongue out at him, and tucked her elbows further in against her body. "Just so you know," Rellus said, in the diffident tone she was starting to figure out was how turians behaved when they weren't sure how another species would react, "Eli and Kella both asked me if they could come along with us today."

Dara reined in the _rlata_. "Oh?" She glanced around the open field near the stables, wondering if the other two were going to show up. Oddly, she found that she hoped they wouldn't. This was _their_ time, or at least, it had been until now, and she didn't really want to share the fun. So when the other two came around the corner, waving and smiling, Dara felt oddly disappointed.

"I really didn't know what to tell them," Rellus told her, quietly, swinging up onto the _rlata_ behind her. His voice grated in her ear, and she realized he wanted to be sure only she could hear him.

She thought about it. "They're nice, but I kind of like hanging out with you more." She turned her head a little, so she could see the side of his face, clicking her tongue at the _rlata_ to get it to pick up its pace. "I thought you and Elijah were friends, though."

"He's okay. Respects our ways, respects his father."

Kella led a horse out of the stable, and Elijah led his own _rlata_ out the doors, behind her, in the distance. Dara turned the mount she was sharing with Rellus again, and set the beast at its middle gait for the trails that led away from the stables, into the mountains. "They can catch up, right?" she asked, grinning back at Rellus.

"Shame on you. No unit cohesion at all," he told her, pretending to scold. "I'd thought at first that the two of you were supposed to be _manus_-plighted," he added.

She blinked, pulling the _rlata _up short, and asked for a translation. _Manus _rites, she knew, were the temporary wedding vows, that needed to be renewed every so often. Turians had about as many different types of wedding contract as there were _people_, she thought, after Rellus had explained for a while. Young people were generally not thought of as being able to make a _good_ permanent decision, as in the _tal'mae_; _manus_ rites alone were allowed under the age of eighteen. For those getting ready for adulthood, but showing signs of emotional attachment, they were _manus_-plighted, which meant 'in serious contractual negotiations,' apparently.

After the explanation, Dara laughed. "Noooo," she said, after a moment. "We don't have anything like that. And while he said he liked me—as in _liked_ me, liked me—" she explained, wondering if the distinction would make any sense to the turian boy, "he sure hasn't acted like it for the past couple of weeks. So, I don't care." She tossed her hair out of her eyes. They'd reached a pretty clearing that was one of their frequent destinations; it was ringed around with giant native trees that were as large as sequoias, but were blooming like cherry trees at the moment. Thousands of tiny white flowers drifted through the air, settling on the grass like snow. The smell was pure heaven.

"Okay, good. I didn't want you to take offense." He let her down off the _rlata _first, then slid down himself.

"Can I ask you a question now?" Behind them, she could hear the sound of the other animals approaching.

"Seems fair," he told her, leading the tall creature to a nearby stream, and letting it drink from the petal-choked water.

"Why don't _you_ spend all your time playing handball, like all the other turian and human boys?" she asked, and pulled one of the flowers out of her hair. She had a feeling there were more perched here and there in the dark strands—every time they came here, she wound up finding a dozen in her brush at night—but what she couldn't see, she wasn't going to worry about.

Rellus laughed out loud. "Last year, I _did_. This year, I don't have _time_." He rubbed the _rlata_'s neck. "My older brother, Rinus, has only been in the military for five years, and he's already a _centurion_. He had the advantage of going to all the pre-boot camp exercises on Palaven, all the extra training and extra study sessions, so he got off on the right foot. Me? I don't think I'm going to do that well."

Kella and Elijah entered the clearing, and stopped for a moment, looking up, and up, and up at the huge trees and their white-pink burden of blossoms. Kella slid off her horse, tied it to a nearby tree, and began to spin around in the clearing, waving her arms as if to catch the flowers.

"You're _nervous_?" Dara asked him, finding a rock to perch on. "But you're a great shot, you practice all the time, you run every morning. . . . oh. That's _why_ you practice all the time." _How can he think he's not going to be great, though? _

He reached over and tapped her on the nose, a human gesture he liked to imitate from time to time. "Got it in one, little one."

"I am not little."

"Yes, you are, actually." Rellus wasn't quite at his full adult height, but was already pushing two meters. Not quite 6'4", but he'd probably top out at over 6'7", maybe even closer to a full seven feet. She, of course, was only about 1.75 m—right around 5'7", in the old English system she still tended to think in. Her dad was 6'4", and her mom had been 5'10", so she held out hope for a few more inches.

"Maybe you shouldn't be wasting your valuable practice time, riding with me," she told him, and stuck her tongue out at him.

"Maybe not. But it's the only thing I'm doing right now that _isn't_ practice. And I have fun." He shrugged. "You must, too, or else you'd stop coming with me."

She stuck her tongue out at him again.

"One of these days, I'm going to figure out what that means," he told her, a little louder, so the others could hear.

"It's rude," Elijah called, picking his way across the clearing to the stream himself, where Kella was now knee-deep in water and petals.

"Actually, _that_ much, I got," Rellus tossed back lightly.

"You're getting really good with the _rlata_," Eli told Dara a moment later.

"Practice," she replied with a shrug. "Couple of hours every weekend makes everything easier."

At midweek, she stocked the cryo-unit with food, and waited, as patiently as she could, for her father to come home. When she woke up Saturday morning, her birthday, and Kasumi told her that the _Normandy_ hadn't arrived yet, Dara's face crumpled a little. Rellus came over at the usual time, and at first, Dara was reluctant to go out riding. "My dad could come home any minute," she said, realizing as she spoke that it was a _very_ young thing to say.

"Go ahead," Kasumi told her. "I'll call you the instant he arrives. He'll probably want a chance to get cleaned up before he sees you, anyway."

Midway through rifle practice in the afternoon, Rellus dangled something in front of her eyes. Dara clicked on her safety and set the rifle down in front of her, turning to squint at him. "Happy birthday, right?" he asked, and dropped the object into her hands.

It was an old turian coin, set on a chain. "This is from your family's old colony world, right?" she asked, after studying it for a moment.

He nodded. "Thought you might like it," Rellus told her, picking up his gun again, and setting up for his next round of shots.

"I do," Dara told him. It was very old, she realized. Predating the Unification War, it was a relic from close to the same time as when the asari and salarians were forming the Council, and the turians had pushed out into space on their own. "You really want me to have it? Isn't it kind of. . . too valuable to give away?" she asked, amazed.

"Oh, don't worry about that," he said, glancing over at her, and removing the clip from his rifle before putting it down. "My grandmother collected these. They were the most common coin from the old pre-Unification days, so they're not _that_ rare. She left each of the grandkids a bunch of them." Rellus paused. "It's not a problem for you to accept it, is it? You've been helping me a _lot_ lately, and it's important to show recognition for the value of the help." He sounded a little nervous, and again, had that careful, diffident tone in place.

She slipped the chain over her head, and gave him a quick hug. "You've been helping me just as much. Thank you," Dara told him, simply.

That night, her father still hadn't arrived. Kasumi somehow got Kella and her mother, Ylara, to come over for dinner, which, with Rellus there as well, gave the whole evening a bit of a party feel to it. And Kasumi went so far as to call Rellus' mother, Solanna, when it got late, and told Solanna that she was making up a bed for Rellus in one of her guest rooms. But Dara couldn't help but keep glancing at the door.

Midnight came, and Dara could barely keep her eyes open. "It's Halloween now," she told the various guests sleepily. "Time for all the ghosts and goblins to come out and play." That led into a rambling explanation of silly human traditions, which had everyone laughing.

"Wait," Kella said at one point. "You celebrate the spirits of the _dead_, coming back to haunt the living, by giving _candy_ to _children_?"

"Who dress up like monsters, yes," Dara told her, yawning again.

Kella looked at her mother. "Humans," she said, in a tone of amazement, "are _weird_."

Kasumi finally chased them all off to bed; Kella, she gave a cot in Dara's room.

Dara stared at the clock, barely able to keep her eyes open, but she had a feeling, as if it were Christmas Eve, and she were six years old again. If she just managed to keep her eyes open long enough, she'd be awake when Santa arrived.

"Dara?" Kella whispered in the darkness of the room.

"Mmm?"

"Rellus gave you that necklace today?"

"Yes. 'S'pretty." Dara's voice was mostly a slur at this point.

Kella giggled a little. She had a nice laugh; even when she giggled, it wasn't annoying. "He _likes_ you," the asari girl teased.

_Good_, Dara thought hazily._ I like him, too._ Out loud, though, she said, sleepily, "Said it was for helping him with school."

"Hah. Right. It's a way of marking territory, Dara. _Everything_ turians do is about territory, of course." There was a pause, and then a really odd question. "Do you mind if I take Elijah off your hands?"

"Huh?" Dara asked, opening her eyes again. The clock had moved several minutes since the last time she'd managed to focus on it. And she was pretty sure she'd just dreamed that Kella had said something . . . .

"Nevermind. I'll talk with you about it later," Kella told her.

_Okay, _Dara thought. _I wonder where my dad is. . . ._

_. . . He's never late. . . . _

_. . . I hope he's okay._

**Sam **

It was close to 01:30 am, Mindoir time, on Halloween, when Sam made his way to Kasumi's house in the dark. _Thank god for time zone differences. It's almost the right day. Sort of. _He tapped on the front door repeatedly, and finally heard shuffling noises.

Kasumi opened the door in a thin robe, and he could see the pistol in her hand. "Bad neighborhood?" he asked, dryly.

"Nervous lifestyle," she replied. "You're very late, Sam."

"So's the whole damn crew. Took me over an hour to get down the mountain from the damn base in the dark. We put in at 25:30." He was _tired_, deep down in the bone tired, and he didn't want to stand on a doorstep all night.

"Come in," she told him. "Take your shoes off, if you would."

The house was dark, but he'd spent six months on Okinawa early in his training, so he figured he understood why. "Got house-shoes in my size?" he asked, quietly.

Kasumi chuckled. "By a surprising chance, yes. Hold on, let me get the light."

She turned on a dim lamp by the door, and handed him a pair of proper house-shoes for him to shuffle around in without damaging her floors or rugs. "You're surprisingly civilized, Sam."

"Before I met my wife, I was engaged to a girl in Okinawa for a couple of months before her family told her an American in special forces wasn't probably the best marriage material," Sam told her, dryly. "They were probably right," he added, with a chuckle. He glanced around. "I take it my girl's asleep?"

"Finally, yes. I thought I was going to have to drug her tonight."

"Which is her room?"

"That one, but a couple of her friends are staying over. One has a cot in there with her, so you probably don't want to go blundering in there in the dark."

Sam sighed. He'd figured he'd go in, check on Dara, make sure the blankets were pulled up and her teddybear was securely placed under her arm, but Kasumi was right. If she'd just gone to sleep, chances were, he'd wake her up.

"Why don't you take the futon in the living room?" Kasumi offered. "You need the rest as much as she does."

"If it wouldn't be an inconvenience—"

"Not at all," she told him, smiling in the dim light. "I'd offer you much better accommodations, but I suspect you'd turn me down."

His head swung up sharply. _That sounded a __lot__ like. . ._ "Hey, if you've got an air mattress, I'll blow it up myself," he told her, lightly.

"Not quite what I meant, Sam. In case you've missed it, I like you." She put a light hand on his wrist. "No pressure, though."

His body leapt into interest, which was both uncomfortable and a little guilt-inducing. The mental habits of sixteen years of marriage kicked in to call him a damned _dog_ before he remembered that he actually didn't have to think that anymore. . . and then the even deeper guilt as he remembered _why_ that was so. Sam cleared his throat. "I'm. . . not looking for a replacement, if you know what I mean." He still wore his wedding band, and at the moment, he swore he could _feel_ it, even though he'd long since ceased to notice it, except when it caught on something.

"I know. Neither am I." Her expression was soft, open, inviting. Not pressuring, not demanding. "But the invitation remains open, on the off chance that the futon is less than comfortable."

Sam mentally called himself seven different kinds of fool. Very slowly, he replied, "Kasumi, don't get me wrong. It's a very. . . attractive invitation."

"You're not ready," she said, and started to turn away.

He caught her wrist. "It's not just that. I don't think Dara really needs to wake up to find me in someone else's bed."

Kasumi looked up at him, and smiled. "I already knew you were a good man, Sam." She reached up, and very lightly touched the side of his face. "Maybe we can talk about this later?"

"Sure."

Sam found his way to the living room, sat down on the couch, and stared at a wall in the dark for a while, feeling about as bright as a pole-axed steer. _Sleep? Yeah. That's going to happen. In an hour, maybe._ He rolled his wedding band around his finger. And thought about it all some more.

He woke with a start later that morning, completely disoriented. Morning sun shone in the windows, quite a bit brighter than he'd have liked; the windows had thin shades, not thick curtains. "Dad!" Dara cried, and he suddenly found himself on the receiving end of a hug as he tried to sit up on the couch.

"Careful, sweetheart, I need my neck for breathing and stuff," he told her, trying to sit up, and finding a room full of houseguests behind his daughter. _Yeah, those are the same two she introduced me to at school—hold on, that's Ylara_. He sat up, and tossed his fellow Spectre a wry grin. "G'morning, Ylara. Haven't seen you since Canrum last month. Didn't realize the young'un here was your daughter."

"It's been a _busy_ month," the asari agreed. "I've been out with some of the human Spectre teams myself, trying to track down the rest of the illegal colonies." She tipped her head to the side. "You've been going after the mercs?"

"Yeah. There'll be a briefing later today, I'm sure. Whole lotta nasty," he said, keeping it terse because the kids were around.

Ylara actually rolled her eyes, showing more expressiveness around her daughter, than she'd ever shown in front of Nisha in the Hammerhead. "Is there ever a situation when they call for a Spectre that _isn't_ nasty?"

"I keep hoping for a barbecue and a game of lawn darts, but the bad guys never listen to me," he replied promptly, and then looked back down at his daughter. "Sweetheart, I am _so_ sorry I didn't make it home on time. I didn't even have a chance to get you a present."

"It's okay, Dad," she told him, and to his relief, he could see that she meant it. "I'm just glad you made it home okay. I was worried." She grinned. "Besides, now you'll be all guilty, and that means twice the presents, right?"

"Nice try," he told her, grinning back.

"Seriously, I just want Mom's piano downstairs and tuned, so I can give the _reela_ back to Siara's mom."

_Tall order, sweetie._ "I'll keep that in mind. Now, let your old man get dressed, all right?"

Dara gave him a kiss on the cheek, and started to leave, but then came back. "Dad? Are you going to be back long enough for us to invite some people over for dinner?" Her voice was a little anxious.

"I don't know, sweetie," he told her. "But I'll try." He caught a glimpse of something silver around her neck, and picked up a new chain on his fingertip, studying the old coin that served as a pendant. "New necklace?" _From whom? Looks turian. Elijah's nowhere to be seen. Possibly a good thing._

"A birthday present from Rellus," she answered, lifting her chin and meeting his eyes.

Sam glanced over at the turian boy, who was damn near as tall as he was, himself, but whipcord thin still, and was hanging back politely and respectfully. _As if I needed something __**else**__ to worry about. What's that old saying? Daughters are God's revenge on you for being a man?_ Sam's lips quirked up at the corners, briefly. "Nice," he told her, and reiterated, "Let me get dressed, folks."

As they exited, Kasumi came in, replacing them. Sam sighed and started pulling on last night's shirt. "So, tell me," he said, his voice muffled by the cloth momentarily. "Has the statute of limitations run out on all these little knickknacks, or am I more or less _required_ to be in a state of legal indignation when I sit in your living room?"

The little woman laughed out loud. "You've been checking up on me."

"I asked Garrus a few questions, seeing as you'd be looking after Dara, yeah."

"Then let me assure you, everything in the living room was acquired legally. The _bedroom_, well. . . it's all been over seven years." She grinned at him, impudently.

"And you're the head of base security. Damn, woman."

"And who better? Come on, I need to get breakfast into everyone, and that includes _you_." She offered him her hand, and, after a moment, he took it, and allowed her to pull him to his feet. Ylara and her girl had already left, and Rellus was on his way out, promising to be back later to study for a test the next day. That left just himself, Dara, and Kasumi to eat breakfast together, and it was oddly. . . relaxing. "Haven't had morning rice in close to twenty years," Sam said, shaking his head. "I'm still sort of used to _huevos rancheros_, but this is good, too."

Then he and Dara left, and headed for their own little house, up closer to the base. "I'm going to have to go in for a meeting," he warned her, "but go ahead and start opening windows and stuff. If I'm throwing meat on the grill for some of your friends, then I may as well throw _more_ on, and make this a proper housewarming." _Maybe then, the place will start to feel like a home, instead of like a damn hotel._

The meeting on base took only an hour, and was meant mostly as a recap for the Spectres present who hadn't actually been on the Archangel missions.

"Let's summarize what we _know_," Shepard said in the briefing room. "Let's start with the financials. Argus," she told the asari on the screen, "take it away."

"I've found several lines of credit tied to Cunningham's mercenaries are shared by various AEC groups. Two of them go through a volus banking concern, but the volus hold banking privacy to be one of their foremost rights."

_Ahh, volus accounting. The cause of, and solution to, most tax audits,_ Sam thought, cynically. "After doing a little research, it's clear that one of the numbered accounts has parallel activity with another account in asari space; when one loses funds, the other gains them. The other is definitely volus-held."

"Again, why would human supremacists take money from aliens?" Lantar asked, moving his chair closer to the conference table.

"Perhaps they don't know that the money comes from aliens?" Garrus suggested. "Or they might have one central figure controlling them, like an Illusive Man, who simply gives the orders, and doesn't care where the resources come from, so long as he gets them."

The asari on the screen nodded. "We have documentation now that they're getting their supplies of azure dust from a single farming consortium on Lusia. They're using left-over Cerberus technology to weaponize it. I've put certain measures in place to keep the farming consortium from supplying them any further, but that doesn't do anything to stop the supply they already have in place."

"What else do we _know_?" Shepard asked.

Cohort spoke up next. "We have further analyzed the virus discovered on Solcrum, and the results are indicative of both asari and volus programming styles, combined with Old Machine code. The Old Machine code is the basis of the virus; the volus code expands on it, making it specific to contemporary networks. It looks as if it was originally intended to rewrite financial data for entire institutions, after using the Old Machine code to infiltrate the networks. Then the asari code rests on top of that, repurposing the superstructure for destroying data on classified networks. Our supposition is, that it was used on the base to destroy the information left behind, and in the hopes of being uploaded into the memory core of any vessel that discovered the base."

Sam whistled a little. "Custom-designed, you think?"

"The asari code, certainly, would not be commercially available. It is unclear to us why they would use the crude volus code to underpin their own. Perhaps it was simply available."

"Also pretty unclear as to why, again, it's turning up on the base of a humans-only club," Shepard said, rubbing at her eyes. "Okay, so, we know this: there's an asari and volus element to all of this AEC business. Financial backing and tech. Why, we don't know. Plus, we also know that a joint human-asari archaeology team on Junthor found two interesting artifacts. Garrus?"

Garrus uploaded the vid feed from his eyepiece to the table, for the benefit of the Spectres in the room who had not been present for their strike on the dig site. Fervent cursing in a half-dozen languages whispered across the room. "They said on their radio channel that they were heading to Terra Nova with what we're calling a mini-Reaper, for lack of a better term," Garrus reported. "No sign of them on Terra Nova, however, that our various agents there have been able to detect. Yet, anyway. We're in a holding pattern on that front. The other relic, we brought back here. Dr. Solus is examining it at the moment. You'll all be relieved to hear that it doesn't appear to be an indoctrination device of any sort. It's unclear," he went on, "if the mercs knew what would be found at the dig site, or even what could be done with the mini-Reaper."

Mordin spoke up now. "Uncertain. Starting point for researching new technologies possible. Definitely older, less advanced, than other Reaper technologies that we have previously examined."

"Definitely something we don't want in the wrong hands, though," Lantar growled, and the meeting broke up.

"Since we've got a little down time till we know which direction to go," Sam said, as most of the Spectres filed out of the room, "I figure it's about time I held a housewarming at my place. You and you," he pointed at Garrus and Lantar, "I've got food for you and the kids. Not a problem." He pointed at Gris. "I suspect I'm going to need to send out for half a cow for you, though." The krogan guffawed, and Sam pointed at Sky. "You gonna eat the other half, I take it?"

Sky's laughter chimed in his head, and he wound up looking at Cohort now, and just shook his head. "You're invited, too, but god only knows what I'm supposed to do with you. Do I just hand you a quart of oil and leave it at that?"

"Social gatherings are used for the purpose of binding organics together, an informal means of building consensus," the geth replied. "We would be happy to observe." Its eyeflaps twitched. "No oil required."

Sam walked out of the room, chuckling to himself. The fate of the galaxy might hang in the balance, but at least he was having fun while dealing with it.

**Shepard**

Jaworski's housewarming made her realize that she'd been remiss in not trying to do more social activities with her people in the past. She'd always hated the enforced "all hands" picnics that other commanders had foisted on her in the past, so she'd avoided using them at all in her own organizations. This one, however, had the right number of people in the same place at the same time. "My wife had a theory about parties," Jaworski told her in the backyard, as he tended to the grill. "She said you put enough food and drink and people in the same place, it all achieves a critical mass around dinnertime, and then everyone more or less takes care of themselves. Then all you have to do is clean up afterwards."

It certainly seemed to be the case. If nothing else, simply seeing everyone out of uniform and not in armor was an enormous icebreaker; it was as if they were suddenly different people entirely. Jaworski set the grill to a lower setting, then headed over to where Gris was standing. "I've got a favor to ask you," he called to the krogan.

Ten minutes later, Shepard watched, trying hard not to laugh, as Gris came down the stairs of the house, holding a piano up to his chest. "I said _help_ me move the piano, not turn yourself into a mover's mech," Jaworski called down from upstairs, behind the krogan. Shepard covered her smile as Gris stepped off the bottom tread and lightly put the piano down on the ground. "Not a problem," the krogan called back up. "Next time, though, you may need to find me a real problem to solve."

"Soon as I find a stump that needs pulling, you're my man," Sam shouted back down, grinning.

In short order, Jaworski had produced a little tuning kit, and had his daughter immersed in checking all the instrument's many strings. Half the kids at the party clustered into the living room to watch the process and talk, it seemed. Shepard watched for a moment, saw that they all seemed to know what they were doing, and circulated back outside.

Lantar, Ellie, Garrus, and Jaworski were sitting at a table now, and Shepard grabbed a plate and started dishing up bison steak and some corn for herself. Garrus took one look at the yellow corncob and shook his head. "No. Not even trying it."

Lilitu bared her teeth at him. "Your loss," she told him, and dug in.

Kasumi circled over, and joined them, finding a seat next to Jaworski. The table was getting crowded now, but it was the _good_ sort of crowded, mixing elbows and good humor in equal measure.

After a few moments, listening to the laughter and chatter of the people around them, Sam spoke up. "So, Garrus, your nephew, Rellus? Anything I should know about him?"

Garrus looked up from cutting Amara's two servings of meat for her, one _talashae_ and one bison. "Rellus? He's a good kid. When he heads to boot camp at the end of the year, he'll be an adult, of course. Why?"

"Gave Dara a birthday present. Old coin on a chain. Looked fairly significant."

Kasumi volunteered, "I _have_ been keeping an eye on them, Sam. Homework every day at my house, where I can watch them. Riding and rifle practice at the range every weekend. Nothing hinky, I swear."

Lantar chuckled under his breath. "Hinky. I like that word. It covers so much ground, and means so little, at the same time."

Sam shook his head. "I _figured_ it was _your_ boy I was gonna have to watch, Lantar. I leave for a month, and the whole world's changed on me again."

Lantar laughed outright. "Eli asked me what he'd done to offend Dara. I told him he made a rookie mistake, and assumed the territory behind him was secure." The stocky turian grinned, a little slyly. "What he'll understand when he gets older is that it's a _constant_ process of marking and securing." He caught his wife's wrist and bit the inside of it affectionately, smiling at her.

Ellie squealed and tried to pull away, her face visibly pink in the late afternoon sunlight. "Lantar!" she scolded a little, but it sounded feeble. "Not _everything_ is about territory."

Shepard flicked a glance at Garrus, caught her husband's grin as he caught her hand in turn, lifting it to nip just inside the band that held her wedding-knife. "Oh, but it is," Garrus told Ellie. "Territory and belonging. You can't tell me humans are any different, deep down inside."

Shepard coughed. "I'm neither going to confirm or deny that," she said, feeling her own cheeks flush under her wedding paint.

Kasumi laughed outright. "We mere humans like to call that _relationship maintenance_, not territory marking."

Shepard grinned at Kasumi. "I will say that I don't believe in living happily ever after. Everything needs _work_. Whether it's periodic territorial marking or maintenance is irrelevant. It's all work."

Sam shook his head. "I'd find this a hell of a lot funnier if it wasn't my daughter we're talking about." Then he smirked a little. "In ten years or so, _I_ may be a gray-haired wreck of a man, but at least I'll have the satisfaction of watching both of _you_," and he pointed at Garrus and Lantar, "go through the same damn thing with your little girls. And don't even _tell_ me that turians don't worry about their girls more."

"We don't," Garrus and Lantar replied, in chorus.

"Bullshit!"

Inside, Shepard could hear the piano start up now, definitely in tune at last. Sam's head turned sharply at the sound, and Shepard thought she recognized the music. Something classical, very old, and quite lovely. When the song came to an end, Sky broadcast to everyone, _Make the box sing again, please. I did not know that other species knew how to sing so. _His mental voice was amazed, astonished.

Shepard picked up Kaius, and headed inside, to watch the proceedings. "I would've thought that you had access to all our recorded music," she told the rachni, who had found a seat right next to the piano, where Dara was flipping through sheet music, trying to find something else she could play for Sky.

_Recorded music, bare, dead bones. What is sung, must be sung in the mind, the heart, the moment. _

"You pull the emotional content from the person singing or playing?" she asked.

_Yes. Gives it color, life, depth. Make the box sing again,_ Sky repeated to Dara, and the girl smiled at the rachni shyly, before starting something a bit more contemporary. Shepard started to laugh. _I had no idea you could possibly play Expel 10 on the piano. _The asari girl, Ylara's daughter, stood up and started to dance, swaying and laughing herself.

Kaius wiggled, asking to be set down, and then clambered up on the bench next to Dara. The girl obliged the toddler, keeping a melody going with her left hand, while showing him how to pick out an eight-tone scale with her right. The smile on her little boy's face was nearly blinding, and again, Shepard wondered how she could have _missed_ all of these things. _This__ is what we fight for_, she thought. _I'd almost forgotten._

It was a good reminder.


	18. Chapter 18: Doors and Windows

**Chapter 18: Doors and Windows**

**Elijah**

Eli had spent the last six weeks on Mindoir feeling rather as if his life were air transit ride gone mysteriously awry. There had been peaks and valleys, definitely. Lantar getting out of the hospital, that had been a high point. Visiting Bastion—that had swung from low to high again. Seeing the wreckage of the old apartment, but also getting to see his dad take the oath as a Spectre. Commander Bailey of B-Sec had even given him a B-Sec flag to replace the old C-Sec one that had been stolen from the apartment, and it now hung proudly on the wall of his new room.

The new school had been a huge relief, as well. It was similar enough to the curriculum at Bastion that Eli figured he could blow through it all and just be _done_ with school that much earlier. He had no interest in high grades; average marks were just fine, so long as everyone agreed he'd jumped through the damn hoops. The teachers weren't as good as EDI, but the practical examples they brought in from their various labs _were_ interesting.

The biggest relief had been the attitudes of the other students. Given the fact that the base commander and her second were a mixed-species couple, with hybrid children, there was no teasing about coming from a mixed family at all. And while the fact that his dad was one of the Spectres would have deflected a lot of commentary anyway, it didn't hurt that every single boy there was a handball fanatic. The turian kids his own age had already started their growth spurts, which made them _really_ annoying to play against; not only were they faster than humans, but they had an enormous reach advantage as well. Thus, they tended to play offense, coming in hard and fast with lightning strikes, working together with coordinated tactics.

To keep it fair, the turians were evenly split between teams. . . usually. The human boys usually fell back on defense, forming a wall of bodies, double-teaming whichever turian currently had the ball. No one had known what to do with Eli, at first, so they'd stuck him in goal one game.

The other team had had Mazz, and Mazz was the only krogan in the school. He rarely played, since it required too much control over his notable temper, and being the equivalent of thirteen standard years of age, Mazz didn't have his full adult size. That didn't matter; he still bulked twice what any other student did. The opposing team passed the ball to him, and he lumbered forward, crashing through the wall of bodies the defenders put up. A couple of kids looked at Mazz, and let him go by untouched.

What no one else knew, was that this was not Elijah's first time playing against a krogan. He stood his ground as Mazz ramped up to full speed, charging at the net, waited, timed it—and then leaped out of the way, catching the little ball with his fingertips. He almost didn't manage it; Mazz had thrown it full-strength, and it _stung_ his gloveless hands. Eli hit the ground hard, pulling the ball into his chest, and _really_ hoped Mazz wouldn't lose his temper and kick him or something.

To his surprise, the krogan pulled him to his feet. "You don't blink, human," Mazz rumbled at him. "You're all right."

Eli's team had crowded around him, the humans thumping him on the back and shoulders, the turians giving him respectful nods. It had been the highlight of his first week, and the first taste of real acceptance Elijah had felt in a long time. Understandably, he enjoyed it. When he came home with a smile on his face instead of another black eye, he knew his mom breathed a lot easier. She was in a better mood now, too. Caelia was spending a few hours a day at the science center's daycare facility, and that made everyone at home a little more relaxed, too. His mom told him to invite some of his friends over for dinner, and he was surprised and delighted when they accepted. It didn't hurt that his mom knew how to cook both dextro and levo; both the turians and the humans who came to play video games after homework that first day, were as delighted and as hungry as only teenaged boys can be.

So, life was good. Lantar had been gone for a week, then had come home briefly, and then had gone out again for a whole month. At first, it had been really weird. Lantar's work schedule had always been bad with B-Sec, forty hours on, followed by forty hours off. But this prolonged absence put his mom a little on edge. On the other hand, she was home, and had more time to spend with Elijah in Caelia's absence, though she was talking about starting work with one of the labs in a couple of weeks.

He hadn't been so completely wrapped up in his own affairs that he hadn't noticed that Dara was having trouble adapting at school. But he _was_ very involved with all his new friends, and time just. . . slipped away from him. It took him until the second week to notice that she'd stopped waiting after school to walk home with him. He put it down to having to go to two different houses at first, and then she was off staying at Kasumi's instead of Dr. Solus' or Dr. Chakwas' house.

So, one morning, he'd brushed off offers to come play, and had made his way across town to Kasumi's little house. The little Asian woman had met him at the door, and told him that Dara wasn't in. "She's out with Rellus, riding. She'll probably be home for dinner at six, like last week, if you want to drop by then," Kasumi had added, smiling.

_Huh_, Elijah had thought. He'd known they were study partners, but hadn't realized that they'd kept up with the riding. And then the afternoon had sped by, his new friends grabbing him and taking him hiking deep in the woods around the valley, and generally going places that they weren't really supposed to go.

Time had just. . . slipped by. Kella, one of the asari girls, caught him at school one day, just as he was about to slip out the door and make a dash for his goal. She put a hand on his shoulder, and he'd turned around, surprised by the contact, and blinked at her. _Isn't she one of Dara's friends? She's never talked to me before._ Quite out of the blue, the asari girl suggested, "Hey, Eli. Why don't we go riding this weekend, with Rellus and Dara? I know how to handle a Terran horse, but it's been ages since I went up on base. My mom doesn't like me to go up there without her."

He'd been as surprised by that statement as anything else. "I thought your mom was a scientist, like Siara's."

Kella chuckled. "No, my mom's a Spectre." In a lower voice, she added, "I think that's one of the reasons why Siara can be so. . . "

"Bitchy?"

"Well, cold, anyway. She's a little jealous that so many of the kids here have parents who are Spectres, and she doesn't." She'd smiled then. "Come on, let's go ask Rellus. It'll be fun."

Eli wasn't sure how it was that they were asking _Rellus_ this sort of question. Couldn't they just as well have asked Dara? But somehow, he got the feeling that Dara didn't want to talk to him. Every time he'd tried to speak with her in the last week, she'd just looked away. It made him angry—to the point where he wondered if he was turning into a turian, to be so annoyed with the lack of eye contact. He finally asked Kella about it as they took the groundcar shuttle up to the base that Saturday morning, reasoning that girls usually talked to each other about stuff like this, "Is Dara mad at me?"

The asari girl shrugged. "She doesn't talk about you much, so I don't think so," Kella answered, after a moment.

That was a little flattening to the ego. The rest of the morning hadn't gone much better. Rellus had been one of his first friends among the turians—well, and Dara's too, he supposed—but he was pretty wrapped up in preparing for boot camp and life after school, and it showed, a single-minded, unwavering focus that reminded Elijah strongly of the fact that turians were, deep down in the bone, predators.

Rellus had, apparently, been teaching Dara how to ride a _rlata_, and Eli kicked at a rock in the stableyard when he saw Dara up on the tall beast, remembering how scared she'd been of one, the first time she'd seen it. _I kind of thought I'd get to teach her how to ride one. Kind of silly, I guess, since I've only gotten to ride one for a couple of hours here and there._ He had to acknowledge that he _could_ have come up to the base at any time in the past three or four weeks to continue learning, but he'd just been. . . busy. What he'd been busy with, at this point, he wasn't really sure. But he'd definitely been _busy_. That much, he was clear on.

"Come on," Kella said, mounting up on a Terran horse. "They're getting way ahead of us."

Still frowning, Eli pulled himself up on his own mount, and followed after Kella. The asari girl made the rest of the day surprisingly pleasant. She knew all the names of the plants in the area, and could tell which ones were safe to eat—for humans and asari, anyway. She was weaker on the plants imported from Palaven, which had been systematically distributed into the local ecosystem, though. When Rellus and Dara had headed off to the rifle range, Kella had made a face at the thought. "My mom's never once gotten me interested in that," she admitted. "I'd rather go watch the animals, or maybe swim in the lake. Want to come, Eli?"

He had to admit, swimming in the nearby and _very cold_ mountain lake with the asari girl was a lot more interesting than he'd thought it would be. He hadn't brought a swimsuit with him, so he'd kept his coveralls on, which meant he was cold and shivering after he got out of the water, and stayed that way until Kella pragmatically lit a small fire on the beach. Kella had been all set to strip down for her swim, but then had remembered that he was human, with differing social conventions. Eli wasn't quite sure how to feel about that. _At least I think even Lantar would have agreed it was a situation where eye-contact might not have been the best idea. Or maybe it would have been the only permissible thing?_

Then Lantar had finally come home. It had been late at night; so late Eli hadn't even realized he was home until the next morning at breakfast, when Lantar's big hand dropped down to ruffle his hair. When his mom had gone out of earshot, to change Caelia's diaper in the other room, Eli had told Lantar about how well school was going, the fact that the school was probably going to organize handball as an intramural league event shortly, that sort of thing.

"How's Dara doing? Her father was worried because he'd missed her birthday." His step-father had made a habit of trying to remember things about his various school-mates for some time, just to give them _something_ to talk about. Eli had never really registered it before; now he did. For a not-so-good reason.

"I. . . didn't know she had a birthday coming up." Eli frowned. "I think she's mad at me. Hasn't been talking to me. And I don't understand _why_. I think maybe I was too busy with all the new stuff at first."

"And she found new friends of her own?"

"Yeah. . . I guess so." Eli's mouth closed tightly.

"Never think the territory is secured," Lantar told him, cryptically. "You have to pay a little more attention, son."

_That_ didn't help at all.

Then they'd all gone to the Jaworski's for dinner, dozens of people packed into the little house, and Dara had played her mother's piano, and Kella had danced. He'd wound up sitting next to Rellus as the big rachni had rustled into the room, plopping down right in front of the piano, and asked Dara to keep playing. . . _in their minds_. That had been worth the price of admission, right there. He and Rellus had exchanged looks and grins, and everything had been normal again, at least for a while.

Rellus' parents, Allardus and Solanna, were at the party, too, and pulled their son over to the side while Dara was playing, to give him something of a talking-to. Elijah's modern turian was getting pretty good, and he actually understood the whole conversation. Well, the gist, anyway. Solanna seemed to be upset because Rellus had given Dara a necklace for her birthday, a necklace that was old, and had come from his grandmother. Eli glanced over, and saw it around Dara's neck. _ Huh. So __**he**__ knew she had a birthday, but she didn't tell me. Because I. . . didn't pay attention?_

He had to admit, Rellus dealt better with his parents than Eli would have, himself, under similar circumstances. Maybe the trick to being able to hold eye-contact with a turian was being close to the same height. The actual words were a little twisty and hard to follow, though: _"I needed a gift that held equal value to the gift of her time. If the coins are mine, then they are mine to give, are they not? And if they are not mine to give, then they are not mine at all, and you should take them from me and give them to the grandchild to whom they belong."_

At that point, Commander Shepard came over and brought up some sheet music on her omnitool for Dara to play, which had turned out to be the turian imperial anthem, _Die for the Cause_. It had stopped the arguing as all the turians in the house stood up and listened, though, which couldn't be a bad thing. And then_ Kella_ had plopped down on the sofa next to Eli, worn out from dancing. Frankly, at that point, Elijah wasn't sure if he knew up from down, or left from right.

Before they left for the night, Eli decided he needed to _do_ something to straighten things out. He caught Dara's wrist, and asked her, as his folks were saying their farewells, "Can we talk real quick?"

She nodded, and moved over into the living room, away from the main door, where fewer people were now. Elijah sighed, and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'm sorry," he said, simply. "I'm still not one hundred percent sure _why_ you're mad at me, but I _think_ it has to do with being too busy." He looked at her uncertainly, and she nodded a little, before shrugging. But at least she made eye contact. Elijah went on, "My mom always told me that friends forgive, though." He paused. "Are we okay?"

Dara looked up at him, and nodded. "Yeah," she said. "Shake on it." She offered him her hand, and they shook. Eli had been relieved. Things might not be the _same_, going forward, but at least they also didn't have to be _bad_.

Now Lantar had been home for a week, and the weekend had rolled around again. Kella dropped by the house early in the morning. "Let's go up to the base," she suggested, smiling.

"Not sure I really want to go riding," Eli temporized.

"Me neither. I figured we could go for a swim again." She smiled, and Eli decided that of all the things he could be paying _attention _to, she was definitely one of the better options.

**Shepard**

A week had gone by, a long and frustrating week, in which everything they needed to do ground on very slowly indeed. They started receiving the first psychological reports from the counselors who were debriefing the rescued Sons of Abel colonists, for instance, and as Jaworski was quick to point out in their meeting, the information they were receiving didn't make _sense_.

"How is that?" Lantar asked him.

Jaworski took a deep breath, and Shepard could see him composing his thoughts. "Okay," he said after a moment. "Most religion doesn't use the cult process. For most people, religion is a matter of how they were raised. I've seen Marine chaplains of all different faiths, some of the most decent and bravest people I've ever met. Saw one chaplain walk right out into a firefight in the middle of the Skyllian Blitz to get to a soldier across the field to administer last rites. Sure, he was in _armor_, but he didn't have so much as a pistol on him, and it's not like the batarians would've seen him as a non-combatant. There's people like that chaplain, who just feel it, deep down in the gut. They don't have to talk about it; they just _live_ it. Then there are people who make a big deal out of it, always have to talk about it, try to get everyone else around them to agree with them, whatever. Typically, those people are the insecure ones, where religion isn't really so much about faith, as it is about _identity_. Who belongs to whom." Jaworski gave the turians in the room a lopsided grin.

"Bite marks and face paint are a hell of a lot simpler." Lantar shook his head.

"Hey, you guys spent the better part of two hundred years kicking the crap out of each other in the Unification War over facepaint. We've spent the better part of the past five _thousand_ years doing the same thing in the name of religion."

"Then we got out into space, they kicked our asses, we kicked their asses back, half the galaxy said 'Oh shit, not _two _of them!' and the other half asked 'Where's the popcorn?'" Shepard summarized, adding, "And it's been nothing but reparations ever since."

Half the room guffawed for a moment. Jaworski was one of them, but when he stopped chuckling, he went on. "It may have been in the _name_ of religion that all those wars were fought, but that's never what it's _really_ about. It's always really about control. Who has it, and over whom. No different for us than it is for you. And that's where we get to cults, since cults are all about control, especially controlling the mind." Jaworski paused again, and pulled up a set of bullet points on the conference room's screen. "Typical cult indoctrination is a pretty specific process. You want to take the individual and realign them completely with your own goals and needs. Everyone in this room," he added, dryly, "has gone through a similar process. Boot camp. I'm not sure how the _particulars_ differ from humans to turians to whoever else, but a lot of the same _processes_ are used. The end result and the intentions are different, of course. But that's why most drill sergeants actually have a fair understanding of psychology. That, and really _loud_ voices."

Jaworski sat back in his chair. "In a _human_ boot camp, at least, the goal is to take a young person, and remove some of the wiring that society in general has spent eighteen years trying to build into them. You're trying to take someone who's been taught to be an individual and make them into part of a whole, someone capable of following orders, and, more particularly, you're trying to ensure that they can kill on command. That's harder than it sounds, by the way. Most humans hesitate, even when their own lives are in danger. Once you leave boot camp, however, you're allowed to go back to being a human being, but you've more or less had a _soldier_ template ground into your head. Most of _my_ last week of boot camp was about ethical orders and understanding when an order is illegal, for instance."

He took a sip from his water glass. "A cult doesn't let someone leave, and the goal is not to create a soldier, but to exert complete control over everyone affiliated with the cult. Here are the typical signs. You have a charismatic leader, with a powerful personality. Boot camp, that's the drill sergeant. Cults, that's the guru. Every minute of the day is controlled; recruits are not allowed to think for themselves at any time. Their very names, which are a big part of how most humanoids construct their identity and keep a handle on reality, are often changed. Even diet is controlled, but in boot camp, you get three squares of healthy food to deal with the caloric demands of a rigorous exercise program. In a cult, they tend to either borderline starve their people, or use high-sugar, low-nutrient foods for a quick energy high, followed by an inability to think coherently, especially when coupled with lack of sleep and again, rigorous exercise, usually manual labor. Every aspect of life in a cult is controlled, down to how and when you're allowed to feed your children. Praise and punishment is doled out by the leader, sometimes almost at random." Jaworski paused. "Once people are brought in, they're isolated, cut off from their families, friends, support mechanisms. Nothing that can give them perspective is allowed; the cult becomes the only reality. Just as a comparison, once your term in boot camp is up, you're sent out to do your job. You'll always be a soldier, but the 'reality' of boot camp isn't the real world, and you're allowed to go back out there and live in other people's reality again. You're still a part of society. Once in a cult, however, you're _never _ allowed to leave."

"Indoctrination always leaves people less effective, less intelligent, than willing partipants," Mordin commented from his side of the table.

"Yeah, but they're not looking for effectiveness," Jaworski reminded him. "They're looking for _control_. This is how you get it, at least with humans."

Garrus shrugged. "Sounds about the same for turians, but our overall society favors less individualism than most human cultures do, anyway. That being said, we also don't have many cults, because. . . you know, less individualism." He grinned sharply.

Shepard looked through the reports. "Most of what you said tallies, Jaworski. Almost all of the 'secondary wives' were colonists, college students, and former slaves rescued from the batarians. They were all cut off from their families and support networks, and essentially re-educated through control over their actions, diet, isolation. What _doesn't_ make sense to you?"

"Where's the leader?" he replied, immediately. "Cunningham was a convert, as best we can tell. _No_ signs of extremism in his background. Some signs of a religious background, but nothing like what we saw here. He went off the grid about six months ago on a business trip in the krogan demilitarized zone, came back, still no signs of extremism, but that's when he started re-organizing the Phoenix Wing mercs, changing the command structure, putting different lieutenants in charge. Something _happened_ then." Jaworski paused. "Atieno doesn't show the signs of the same conversion process. I don't think she was indoctrinated in the classic cult manner. She might never even have met their leader. All of the reports from the psychologists state that the various cultists _talk_ about their leader, in glowing, reverent terms. Strong personality, charismatic. No name ever given in any of the reports. Male, but you'd expect that from an authoritarian human cult. But no name. Just 'the Leader.''' Jaworski lifted his hands. "So, where the hell is he? He's got to travel between his various compounds, or else he can't _control_ them, and _control_ is what this is all about. . . isn't it? How did we _not_ scoop him up yet?"

"Might live on a ship," Lantar suggested. "We did note that when we found the transmitters on Mindoir, they were all broadcasting more or less straight for Widow, the system where the Citadel is."

Jaworski nodded. "True enough. Now, here's the other thing that bothers me." He steepled his hands in front of him. "Every last one of the psych reports indicates that when the Leader comes to visit his communities, it's time for each man to take to him a new 'wife.' The Leader arrives, the cultists report blue smoke used in the ceremonies—and I think we all know what _that_ means, in context—and there are some fairly orgiastic rites. _But_ the Leader takes _no_ wives, which is a hell of an anomaly—and all of the survivors report a tremendous feeling of connection, of becoming _one with God_." He looked around the room. "Commander, I heard you and a team once had a slight run-in with some azure dust, back in the day. You feel particularly connected to the deity and the universe under the influence?"

Shepard had been taking a sip of coffee, and now coughed a little. "Not so much, no. An _urge_ to, ah, connect, now, sure. . ." She looked up at the ceiling and let the guffaws spread for a moment, before waving everyone back to silence.

Jaworski wasn't smiling. "Now, hands up, boys and girls. . . does _any_ of that sound like Christian fundamentalism to _you_?" He shook his head. "Someone knows damn well what motivates humans, I'll give 'em that. Most human religions either revolve around _controlling_ fertility or _unleashing _it. It's one of our primary drives as a species, so, go figure. Christianity goes for control. This. . . doesn't fit." Jaworski tossed his stylus on the table. "Sorry, Commander. No answers. Just a hell of a lot more questions.

Shepard shrugged. "Sooner or later, we'll hit a critical mass of questions, and they'll start answering themselves, I suspect."

Garrus spoke up now. "That feeling of connectedness, being one with god, the universe. . . sounds an awful lot like how asari use azure dust in their own religious rituals."

"Yeah," Jaworski replied. "I thought of that. Asked the docs to run some DNA scans on the various survivors, make sure they didn't have asari gene mods spliced in to make them susceptible to the biotic-enhancing qualities of azure dust. Wouldn't be the first time a cult condemned something—in this case, gene modifications taken from aliens—while actually employing them in secret. No dice, though. There's no physical explanation."

"Okay, I think we've exhausted the topic," Shepard said. "Let's take a break, and then Mordin can show me his progress on the . . . device. . . recovered from Junthor. Whatever it is."

An hour later, she made her way with Garrus to Mordin's lab. The laboratory wasn't in the main villa, where her own living quarters were, but it was definitely centrally located, a convenience and courtesy to the aging salarian.

"All right, so do we have _any_ idea what the hell it is?" Shepard asked, looking up at the metallic object that towered in the middle of the research area.

"It's a cylinder," Garrus supplied, leaning against a nearby workbench, looking up at the relic himself.

"Very helpful," she told him, rolling her eyes slightly.

"A very _large_ cylinder?" he added, as if for clarification.

"Only a week of testing," Mordin said, brushing past her, a meter in hand. "Constant interruptions not helping. Unsure of power source, input method, output method. . . _content_ of output, even."

Shepard shook her head. "Where are all the nice _convenient_ ancient artifacts when you need them, the ones that match our power grid in wattage requirements and use standardized cables for access?"

Mordin turned, and blinked at her for a moment. "Most humorous, Commander. Also, not any more helpful than comments made by Garrus."

Her husband chuckled off to the right.

"Okay, are you at least _close_ to being able to power it up?" she asked, feeling a bit defeated. "By now, a Prothean device would probably have zapped my head . . . several times over." She made a face at the thought. The damned beacon had reorganized large sections of her brain, giving her migraines for a year after the initial contact, but it had left her able to use any number of other Prothean artifacts quite easily. The Prothean Cipher crammed into her brain had given her the ability to understand the dominant Prothean language as if she were a native speaker, but no one else in the galaxy happened to have that knowledge. _Some tradeoff._

"Fortunately, not Prothean. Much more interesting." Mordin did something delicate with the meter to one of the glowing runes on the side of the cylinder, and Shepard sucked in her breath as all the runes began to _dance_ on the surface of the artifact, brightening and dimming in a distinct, almost hypnotic pattern.

Garrus came off the bench, abandoning his relaxed pose instantly, and she knew he wanted his rifle in his hands. . . just in case this _was_ an indoctrination device, after all. "I'm not feeling any waves of paranoia," she commented. "A certain amount of healthy _fear_ at the unknown, but the walls aren't talking to me."

"Yet," Garrus muttered.

"Yes, yes, extremely interesting," Mordin muttered under his breath. "Multiple energy waves, coursing in opposite directions at once, not canceling one another out. Patterns similar to biotic energies. Unusual. Suggests brain structure of original builders close to other sapient life since. Perhaps they seeded life on many worlds. Not a new theory. Old one. But for there to have been Reapers, _must_ there also have been Sowers?" He seemed to realize that he was rambling, as was his wont, and added, louder, "Will increase energy levels another two point five percent and obtain more data at that level." He adjusted the meter again, and this time, the flickering runes almost seemed to coruscate over the body of the cylinder.

Shepard shook her head rapidly. "Other than being the galaxy's best dance club mood-lighting apparatus, what does this get us?" she asked, and then realized that Mordin had stopped moving. The salarian simply stared ahead of himself, lost in thought. "Mordin?" she said, stepping forward, realizing that the lights were speeding up further. She touched the salarian's sleeve. "Garrus, he's really out of it. Can you help me move him?"

There was no answer. Shepard turned her head slightly, and realized that her husband, too, was staring at the device, as if completely lost in his own mind.

_Oh, please don't be a mind-control device after all_, she thought, and then her own mind suddenly became a vortex, a spinning wheel of images, all familiar, all from her own life, as if she were replaying her life's history at extremely high speed. Dimly, she managed one coherent thought, _This definitely isn't the way my life flashed before my eyes at Amada. . . _.

Then she was flying, or it felt like it, anyway, at high speed, towards an array of images. Each image was a door, and she realized that each image represented an array of data, taken from her own mind. _What the hell?_ she thought, bewildered, and, reacting purely on instinct, mentally flinched as she almost struck that wall of images, skidding away and then diving towards one in particular.

_Amada. Not as it was, her body rescued by Liara and Feron, and turned over to Cerberus, but rather, how it __**might have been**__; her body turned over to the Collectors. How they rebuilt her instead, in their own image. Made her into their perfect general, the perfect receptacle for Harbinger's will. And once built, how they'd unleashed her on the galaxy, at the head of their armada, a perfect killing machine. How the worlds had been devastated, harvested, at her and Harbinger's command. . . and how, deep, deep down inside, a tiny fragment of her identity had remained, alive, and insanely screaming. . . ._

Shepard pulled her mind away from that one, desperately exerting the control she was known for, the control, the core of mental integrity, of _purpose_, that had let her resist asari domination from an Ardat-Yakshi, and gasped for air.

"Simulation," Mordin said, sounding wooden. "Taking multiple datasets from the mind of the user, and extrapolating in almost infinite detail . . . "

Then she found herself sucked back down into the vortex again, bouncing into that wall of images again. This time, she tried to control it, but it was hard—she couldn't get the rhythm down, and kept falling into the wrong simulations. Flashes rushed past her—_opting to try for another pregnancy with hybrids? Ahh, so that's what the children will look like. . . Amara and Kaius' adult appearances and personalities. . . the likely outcome of this year's Urban Combat League championship, given current stats and play modalities. . . hell, I didn't even know I __**knew**__ all the stats. . . . weakness to this simulator? only uses what __**I**__ know? . . . . there, that one, that looked like information about the AEC. . . had Cunningham's face, at least. . . can't get __**back **__to it, like swimming against an undertow. . . _

She couldn't know it, but everyone in a _three mile radius_ was experiencing the same thing, at the same time. She caught little flashes, flickers, and dimly understood that these were other people's minds, also connected to the machine. She couldn't _reach_ them, though. She could recognize a few—that one, there—steel-blue and filled with resolve, unshakable, deadly, loving, all at once. . . that one _had_ to be Garrus. It shimmered in harmony with her own spark, she realized, more alike than different, more alike than any of the other minds flickering through the vortex. She reached for the spark that was _him_, and another wave of data poured down over her, separating them.

Gasping, she looked inwards, saw other minds, some too alien to really ever _know_. . . was that one Sings-to-the-Sky? If so, the rachni looked like a nebula, cradling a newborn star at its heart, diffuse and brilliant all at once.

_Okay, have to think, have to slow it down somehow. How do I make __**use **__of this. . . or at least, how the hell do I shut it __**off**__?_

**Rellus**

He'd had a slightly uncomfortable interview with his uncle, the Spectre, earlier in the week. It wasn't every day that Uncle Garrus came into his room, sat down on the bed, and started speaking in _tal'mae_; it was a sharp indication of how important his uncle thought what he was about to say was. Rellus simply sat down and listened, respectfully, at first.

"_Son of my sister, I have been asked to speak to you as head of clan, in the absence of your grandfather_." Uncle Garrus' voice had been a little dry; there was no love lost between Grandpa Gavius and any of his children.

"_I will hear your words, and thank you for your wisdom."_ The response was automatic, ingrained, and Rellus lowered his head, showing submission.

Garrus switched back to modern turian, having made the initial point of using _tal'mae_ to show that he was pretty serious about what he had to say, but switching back showed that he, Rellus, was not actually in _trouble_. For the moment, anyway. "Yeah, your mom is getting concerned about how much time you're spending with Dara. Giving her one of Grandma Pilana's coins kind of stood out."

Rellus glanced up, saw he was permitted to speak, and sighed. "I explained that already. She's really helping me with school, and with preparation for boot camp. She doesn't _have_ to. I wanted to show that I appreciated it, and I really don't know why everyone is making such a big deal out of it."

Garrus grimaced back. "Probably because your mom thinks any interest you might have in a human would be _directly_ my fault." His eyes were amused, though. "And I can tell you from personal experience, that while I never _thought_ I was thinking of crossing the species line, I definitely had feelings for my wife long before she decided to beat me over the head with the fact that she had them for me, too. Care for some friendly advice?"

Rellus exhaled. While the frankness of the conversation would have had a human of his age squirming, turians didn't really have the embarrassment issue speaking of sexual matters among themselves as humans did. Oh, it was certainly possible to get embarrassed when speaking _to_ other species about such matters; never _quite_ knowing how they'd react was unnerving, and the potential for saying something offensive was quite high. "I'm pretty sure it's not going to come up as an issue, Uncle Garrus," he said, trying to ignore the amusement he could see in the older male's face.

"Just in case?"

Rellus shrugged an assent.

"First and foremost, humans consider adolescence an extension of childhood. They extend that definition a _lot_ longer than other species do; most everyone else considers the onset of hormonal fluxes, adult size, and whatever else to be the point where adult responsibilities and privileges begin. Humans don't. It's largely cultural and a little arbitrary, but this is a human planet, so human laws apply, understood?"

Rellus raised his hands. "Understood."

"You'll be an adult by _our_ standards as soon as you finish boot camp. There's only about a half a year separating your ages, but there's cultural distance as well. Technically, with parental consent, humans can marry as young as sixteen on Mindoir, but the general age for adulthood is eighteen. That being said, if she's interested in you, she's interested in you, and it's _your_ responsibility to hold back. We're a _lot_ stronger than they are, by and large. You _can_ hurt her if you're not careful. Don't."

"I don't intend to, and I'm pretty sure she's not—"

"_I have not finished speaking, son of my sister."_ Firm rebuke, and Rellus winced and lowered his head again.

Garrus paused to make sure his points were being heard. "Human fathers are extremely protective of their daughters. They also don't view marking the same way we do. They see it as threatening, or at the least, as something private that's made inappropriately public. Try to hold back, and I know it will be hard." Uncle Garrus' voice was definitely sympathetic at that point, and Rellus, while not embarrassed, was certainly starting to get a little uncomfortable. "On a purely anatomical note, stay away from the neck. Too many damn arteries. Do you want diagrams? It's almost _traditional_." Now he was needling a little, and when Rellus looked up, he could see his uncle simply grinning at him in pure amusement.

"No," the boy replied, folding his arms across his chest, trying not to be irritated, but the spirits knew it was hard not to be. "Thank you for the advice, but I really don't think it's going to come up."

Garrus laughed outright, and left the room.

That had been about midweek, and Rellus had decided to put it all to the back of his head. He enjoyed Dara's company, her quick mind and open spirit, but didn't see any hints in her of any sort of attachment. Privately, he had to admit he wasn't quite sure what attachment in a human would look like. Oh, there was Commander Shepard to watch for comparison, and Lantar Sidonis' wife, now, too, but both of them reacted completely differently to their mates. Commander Shepard had an almost turian stoicism, demonstrating little physical contact while on duty; Lantar's wife was a civilian, and as such, tended to want to hold his hand and whatnot when they were in public. A different form of territorial marking, Rellus supposed, but it looked as if it would make it difficult to disengage quickly if they were attacked. What else was there? Human faces were hard to read. A look in the eye could really mean almost anything, couldn't it?

So, life went on, and he kept up with his morning runs before school, four kilometers before breakfast every day, and every night, he checked off another day remaining before he had to go back to Palaven to start the rest of his life.

The hell of it was, he really didn't _want_ to go. It probably made him a bad turian to admit it, but he'd spent the last five years of his life on Mindoir, and loved the planet. It was _home_ now, _his_ place, in a way that the bustling cities and damp heat of Palaven never had been. School had been odd at first, to be sure; much less regimented than a turian education, but he'd quickly learned to enjoy the freedom to go at his own pace, and learn what he wanted to learn. And the people! So many different types, so many different goals. It had been like living on the Citadel, but _better_.

To be honest, Rellus was more than a little afraid that it wasn't the _physical_ that was going to get him washed out of boot camp, but the _spiritual_. He had Mindoir's spirit in his heart now, its freedom, its beauty, its wildness, and he understood, at least a little, how it was that his uncle, the Spectre, had been such a renegade when he was younger. When you left Palaven, you left the encircling spirit of all the others who dwelled there, and you changed. The people you came into contact with changed _you_, their spirits mingling with yours. That's why it was important to pick only the best people to be around, after all.

But now. . . would the instructors and centurions on Palaven sense the difference in him? Would they pick out that he, just like his famous uncle, had a bit of the renegade in him? Or would Palaven's spirit just sink into him once more, driving out everything he valued about living here, on Mindoir, at the heart of the way Spectres did things?

It was all too much to think about, and the best way _not_ to think about it was to drive himself into physical exhaustion every night. So, four kilometer runs first thing in the morning. Four hours of homework with Dara every afternoon, until dinner. Two hours of sparring a night, after dinner, with his father, or even his uncle, when Garrus was able to come down from the base for a visit. And then he collapsed into bed and tried not to think about _anything at all_ until sleep finally claimed him, and then it was time to get up in the morning and do it all over again.

Weekends were a relief from the routine, but at the same time, they gave him enough free time for his mind to wander, and that wasn't a good thing, of late. He picked Dara up for riding, and brought his datapad along that morning, too, just in case.

They found themselves in the usual clearing, with the towering _allora _ trees and their white blossoms again by mid-morning, and Rellus settled in under one of the huge trees, out of the sun. While the radiation didn't bother _him_, he'd noticed that Dara had a tendency to turn pink with too much exposure. _So __**damned**__ fragile. How do humans survive—no, __**thrive**__? The textbooks all say it's their enormous adaptability, far greater than any other species known, but. . . still. It doesn't make sense._

She plopped down next to him, smiling. "I _love_ this planet," she told him. "It's like Earth, but so much better. No smog haze on the horizon, the sky has that faint purple tinge from the sun's spectum, and everything just. . . I don't know. Smells better, maybe." She leaned back against the tree, looking up into its maze of branches as more flowers drifted down towards them. "I'm so glad we came here."

He opened the text to his comparative biology chapter, where Dara was still a little ahead of him, and she settled down, listening to the textbook read itself out loud, making a little pile of flowers in her lap. "Really?" she said, after one passage, reaching over to hit the pause button. The words hovering in mid-air froze in place and the voice cut off. "Adrenaline and oxytocin are _that_ chemically similar for turians?" The diagram of the molecules hovered in space, complex chains of atoms that determined so much behavior.

"And our testosterone analogue as well," he told her, sitting back.

"So, fighting basically. . . what, feels good?"

Rellus thought about it. "Yeah, actually. Probably explains a lot about us," he admitted with a grin. "Every species tends to do what feels good to them, and fighting, for us, feels. . . right. Even a good _argument_ is fun, which is why judges have to limit the length of debates between advocates. And certainly, trial-by-combat is still allowed for some issues, the ones that are the most emotional. Divorces, custody hearings, stuff like that." He reached down and picked one of the flowers that had fallen from the tree out of her hair. "Personally, I like sparring a lot. It's all tied in with the fighting for mating rights stuff in our distant genetic past, but _knowing_ that doesn't make it any less _fun_." He dropped the flower into her open hand.

"Dad told me they were going to start some classes for everyone on base who's interested. Part of Commander Shepard's plan to make sure everyone can defend themselves properly. I guess I should take some. It's not like I can carry a rifle with me wherever I go."

"Drop by my parents' after dinner sometime. We train every night, so you could get a head start on classes." He couldn't quite deny that the thought of getting to train with her was. . . fun.

"Would I be able to learn turian martial arts? I don't know if I'll bend the right ways." The question was ingenuous, and he blinked for a moment, flashing back to his recent conversation with his uncle. _Now, would I have taken that statement differently if everyone __**hadn't**__ made such a damn fuss? Probably, yeah, which means that it means __**nothing.**_

"Never know unless you try." He picked another flower out of her hair. "Seriously, human hair is like a web. It catches _everything_."

"I know, I know. I could always cut it."

The thought was mildly appalling. "Wouldn't that _hurt_?"

"The only nerve endings are in the scalp," she assured him, laughing. "It feels really nice when I brush it out, but the hair _itself_ doesn't feel a thing."

Intrigued, Rellus let his talons run through her hair. Her eyes closed, and it looked instinctive, a relaxation reflex, maybe, head dropping back, chin lifting, exposing her throat. Complete vulnerability. _Oh, spirits . . . _. Instincts started to kick in, and he leaned forward slightly.

Then there was an odd sensation in his mind, and he felt reality waver around him. For a panicked instant, he thought he'd somehow inhaled some of that damnable azure dust again, but then his mind kicked free, and he was moving at a rapid pace for a wall of images in his mind, each image a window, and behind each window a path, a choice. . . .

_Here was Palaven, home that was. Lost, alone, a face among a million just like him. Aimless, purposeless, he went through the motions at boot camp, and then was shipped off-world, a garrison on Baetika, serving out his time. The occasional leave at home, on Mindoir, was the only relief, and he knew he'd started to get a reputation. Taciturn, loner. Never really a part of the unit. _

_**Flick**__. Through a different window, a different door. Discharged honorably, after four years, but what the hell did he have to show for it, and what was he going to do with his life now? Grandpa Gavius would probably be thrilled if he joined B-Sec or went to law school, but neither notion interested him, never had, never would._

_**Flick. **__Another window. Mercenary service. It wasn't quite what his family would have wanted, but it was really the only option open, he figured. The Blue Suns weren't __**that**__ bad anymore, and there was always work out in the Terminus systems. And he had to eat, didn't he, even if he wasn't even really sure what he was living for, anymore. The only thing there was, was the job in front of him, and he did it. Just like every other turian alive._

_**No. **_

Rellus fought for control, tried to stop the ceaseless flow of information, possibilities around him. There was a presence in the flow with him, he realized, and he reached out for it, caught the dazzling little white spark of it, cupped it in his hands like a glowfly. _Hold on, I've got you,_ he thought, and wondered, dizzily, what or whom he was speaking to. . . .

**Dara**

Dara had been trying, hard, to figure out a way to let Rellus know that if his gift meant what Kella had told her it meant, that she liked him, too. However, it was sort of difficult to come out and _say_ that, especially if Kella had been _wrong._ Plus she had the recent embarrassment of having been wrong about Elijah at the back of her mind, and she really didn't want to make a mistake like that again.

On top of all of that, Rellus just acted. . . normal. So Dara took her cue from him, and acted as if nothing had happened at all. She did, however, make a point of wearing the necklace all the time. Truthfully, she liked it enough to wear it constantly anyway, but if she couldn't _say_ anything, maybe she could at least hint as loudly as she could?

So when he started pulling flowers out of her hair, she tensed a little at first, and then relaxed. She couldn't put her finger on why, but it was such a comfortable thing for him to do. Soothing. On the instinctive level, far below the level of conscious thought, a part of her knew the gesture as acceptance, belonging, and when he continued, drawing his fingers through her hair, her eyes closed, and she could feel the warm sunshine streaming down through the places where the leaves of the tree above didn't quite block it all.

And then it all stopped being nice, and warm, and comfortable, and it felt like her mind had fragmented into a million pieces, like broken glass, before all melting back together again and pouring towards a vast screen, the height of the sky and the width of the horizon. The wall was made up of images, and every image was a door, a window, a path she could take. She flinched, over-controlled, and bounced right for the first door.

_**Flick. **__Eighteen, three years of her life leaped over in the blink of an eye, heading for the Systems Alliance Naval Academy back on Earth. Her father was so proud, and so much more gray in his hair than there was now! Eli was heading to Earth on the same shuttle, but his grades hadn't been good enough for the Academy. He was enlisting, instead, and here their lives would forever diverge, she knew._

_**Flick.**__ Twenty-two, and four years at the Academy down, four years to go on a medical degree. At least she'd start off life in the military at an officer's pay-grade, and debt-free, compared to other young doctors, but __**god**__ it was taking forever, and frankly she wondered if she was ever going to __**do**__ anything with her life._

_**Flick. **__Twenty-six, and finally an intern in a military hospital on Elysium. More flu victims than she could shake a stick at, and no research projects worth looking into. Dara was busy, but bored. Her life felt empty. Elijah dropped by to visit, and was bucking for warrant, apparently, and had two kids by now. She wondered, uncertainly, where her life had gone awry. . . . _

She didn't like this, not one bit. She floundered about on top of the data streams for a moment, as if they were water, vast waves rolling and threatening to pull her under. _Maybe the trick is to go with them, instead of fighting them. . . ._

_**Flick. **__Back to eighteen again. Down a different door, out another window. Heading for Sur'Kesh in salarian space, at the personal recommendation of the late Dr. Solus. She'd be studying medicine there, with salarians half her age, apparently. It was hard. They sped past her, brilliant in their short-lived, explosive way, and she never quite felt as if she got her balance._

No, not that direction either. She tried to coast out a different way, riding a current that took her back to the beginning again, but she was getting tired. Everything required lightning-fast reactions, trying to catch the wave that would propel her in the direction she wanted to go.

_**Flick. **__Eighteen, and this time, both she and Eli were going to the Academy. Regs stated that officers candidates couldn't be married, however, so that was four years to wait. _

_**Flick. **__Twenty-two and off to med school, while Eli headed out on patrol in the Skyllian Verge. Married at twenty-three, but constant separation, again, long-distances. It never. . . quite. . . meshed up. _

_**Flick. **__Twenty-seven and divorced. Alone again, as she'd felt alone every night he was away on the other side of the galaxy anyway._

_Is this what Commander Shepard meant the other night, when I heard her say there __**are**__ no happily-ever-afters? Just work?_

Then she felt another presence in the vortex, and it was as if a hand reached out and grabbed hers in the maelstrom. _Hold on, I've got you. _She was thinking thoughts that weren't hers, and it was _odd_, as if the words didn't quite fit in her mind, but they were _just_ close enough, and suddenly, it wasn't so tiring to try to fight the currents anymore. There was a _spark_ there with her, a warm and golden glow, like the sun, and Dara felt quite safe now.

**Rellus**

_I think it's a little like skiing, or riding a horse_, he thought, but it wasn't _his_ thought. _Try to move __**with**__ it, not against it, maybe?_

As thoughts went, it wasn't a bad one, although he had _no_ idea what skiing was. Proof that it wasn't his thought, probably. And with the help of the white spark's energy, it _was_ easier to move in the maelstrom. The flow of images slowed down a little, made it easier to coast and bank and pick a direction.

_**Flick.**__Heading off to boot camp, again. This time, Dara came with him to the shuttle that was going to take him to the __**Normandy**__for transport to Palaven. "You're going to write me, right?" he told her, teasingly._

"_Of course. Once a week, I promise."_

_And she did, for a wonder. He wasn't able to write back often, but he treasured her little notes, because they brought Mindoir with them, carried her spirit, and the spirit of the place to Palaven. He didn't feel quite so terribly alone._

_**Flick.**__First leave. Her looking up at him, and laughing. "You __**ever**__ going to finish growing? You've over two meters tall now." He'd bulked out as well, on plenty of exercise and food, and was very careful indeed as he gave her a hug._

_Up in the meadows now, laying back in the soft grass, flowers everywhere, springtime. "I think your letters are saving my spirit, you know."_

"_Oh, don't be silly. I told you you'd be fine there. I just wish I could be there with you."_

_He rolled over, and stared down at her. What would it be like, to have her with him, her open, free spirit by his side on Palaven or wherever his next orders happened to take him? It would be like having Mindoir with him, wouldn't it? He looked down at her, wide-eyed, and saw her differently then. Flowers in her hair, smell of earth on her skin. She __**was**__ the spirit of this place, suffused with its essence. He could take her with him. All he needed to do was dare._

_**Flick. **__Through a different door, making a different decision. Startled expression on her face as he bent down and bit her shoulder, growling a little at her. . ._

_**Flick.**__ Officer's Candidate School. Somehow, he'd stood out from the others in boot camp. More drive, a creative way of thinking, apparently. All he'd really done was keep his head down and dig his heels in since those two weeks' leave at home, reasoning that the higher his rank was, the easier it would be when Dara came to Palaven, herself. He'd outrank his older brother when he got done with OCS, for Rinus was a centurion, an enlisted rank, and Rellus would be a new-minted lieutenant inside of a year. . . . _

_**Flick. **__Through the next window, getting married just before her sixteenth birthday. Manus-rites, of course, but at least she'd be wearing his paint properly. Could become a citizen of the Hierarchy. The alien coolness of her body against his in bed. Soft voices, laughter._

_**Flick. **__Picking her up from boot camp. She'd had to wear a radiation suit for all eleven weeks, and was mostly just glad to be able to take it off. Talking excitedly about combat medic training, and how she'd be a doctor by twenty, if she showed aptitude and finished all the required courses. Turians were very big on on-the-job training. And now, they'd be assigned together, for as long as they were married. The Hierarchy understood that soldiers who were bond-mates would fight harder for each other than for any others. "Like ancient Sparta," she told him. "But, you know, less Greek."_

_**Flick. **__Both twenty now. Moving through the ranks, renewing their marriage contract. No more manus rites. Tal'mae now, sure of themselves, sure of each other. She was starting her second tour in the turian military, her first one as a full doctor, aboard the __**Estallus**__, where he was a line officer now. Not quite XO yet, but due for promotion, and soon._

_**Flick. **__Four years later, she was taking a year off from service to have their first child. Hybrid, of course. Dangerous. A desk-job for him at headquarters, so he could look after her properly. _

_**Flick. **__Spectre candidacy. Back on Mindoir, where they belonged. Dara was needed as a replacement for the late Dr. Solus, whose 'kill or cure' mentality, she'd inherited. Rellus was replacing Lantar in the active duty roster; the older turian was too busy with training and recruitment anymore to go into the field much._

_**Flick. **__Being sworn in, first mated pair in history to be sworn in simultaneously. Family and friends, all around, proud, beaming. . . ._

The path ended, and it felt like they were being tugged back to the very beginning again. . . _how do we make this __**end**__? _Rellus thought, confused.

**Shepard**

She reached out, caught Garrus' spark of awareness, and hauled in tight. Everything got a little easier right around then, as if they were able to rise above the currents for a moment. _Let's try to find the others,_ she thought, and sensed his agreement.

_Where two are stronger, more can move the damn world._

They worked together, combing the strange currents and eddies, and found the drowning sparks here and there in the ether. . . .

**Sam**

_**Flick. **__Goddamn it, not another path, I've already re-lived my wife's death three times, I don't want to see it again, don't want to see her crumple over at the sink, looking all confused, don't want to see the knife falling out of her hand, so slowly, dropping to the floor. . . ._

Another presence, cool green, and soothing, like a hand slipped into his own. _You don't __**have**__ to look back,_ came a thought, and he knew it wasn't his own. _I think it's showing you what you're most pre-occupied with. Look ahead. I'll help. I'm __**good**__ at not dwelling on the past._

_Kasumi?_

_Boy, you __**are**__ smart, aren't you? Look ahead, Sam. Don't look back, don't be Orpheus anymore, okay?_

**Lantar**

_**Flick. **__Really, how many times could he watch the rest of the squad die? And as if it weren't bad enough to watch everyone on Omega die, over and over, now the spirits-cursed visions were showing him Garrus dying, Sam dying, Shepard dying, all because he'd made the wrong choices. A different door, __**there**__, a way out._

_**Flick. **__Damnit, no, he was not going to watch Elijah and Ellie and Caelia die, not again! We didn't __**stay**__ on Bastion, this didn't happen, and I won't be responsible for what __**did not occur.**_

_Then there were four sparks with him in the vortex, catching him—sky blue and steel blue, almost indistinguishable, a red spark that blazed like fire, and pale green serenity. __**Come on**_**, **they said, and their voices were as one, like spirits speaking through the thunder. _**We're here, and we're together. Come with us.**_

It was a relief to join with them, feel their spirits buoy his. Together, they could make better choices. . . . They drew a nebula into their grouping, then another smoldering, cold red dwarf, all its fires banked, turned inwards, and others. . . light, cool spirits, like comets, long-lived and yet cold and distant, only sparking to glowing fire when they came closest to their stars . . . and others, and others, and yet more others. Each one making them stronger, making them whole.

**Garrus**

So many damn minds, and the maelstrom was starting to subside. They had a little galaxy of stars strung out between them now, each adding their own strengths, their own perspectives. And yet, the doors and windows still yawned in front of them, impenetrable, unnavigable. _We need a center for the nexus_, he thought, and felt the notion picked up by a dozen others, examined, interpreted, evaluated, agreed with. _We're. . . networked?_ It was an odd thought, somewhat uncomfortable. Too close to being a geth, maybe.

He felt the blue-white of his wife's mind stretching out now, reaching for one last star, and that one was different from all the rest. Human, he knew, from the shape of it now, but it was a . . . binary system? A small white star, drawing off the hydrogen of a dying red giant beside it. . . _what the __**hell**__ am I seeing, and why is my mind interpreting it this way?_

**Joker**

He limped through the base, looking at the various people who were standing as still as if they were in Collector stasis. _EDI, this does not look good. Why am I the only one not affected?_

_I suspect that the neural net in your brain may be offering you some protection. I'm detecting large amounts of machine code being expressed as a sort of semi-biotic energy in the environment. Proceed cautiously._

_Thanks, honey._

_Always glad to be of service, Jeff._ Her tone was a caress. _ If you can, make your way to Dr. Solus' laboratory. Most of the energy seems to be coming from there. Perhaps when you get there, we can shut down the device._

_At least this time, when you send me out to run your errands, I don't have to crawl on my hands and knees. This is progress._

He reached the door of the lab after twenty minutes of slow shuffling, and then it hit him like a wave. _EDI, I think that proximity was a __**bad**__ idea—_

_And then he was in the network of minds, carefully forged through patience and work. He __**knew**__ them all, and could see their faces, and EDI was there with him, in her human avatar guise. _

"_Hey guys," he said. "Want to explain what's going on?"_

"_Joker, we need you and EDI to help us regain control of the simulation. We've got enough mental potential here to direct it, but not enough guidance, I think.. Maybe you can help?" That was Shepard, of course, standing tall and straight beside Garrus, both of them glowing a blue-white so intense, Joker wished he could slide a polarized screen in front of his face. _

"_This is a __**simulation**__? Seriously? They built a giant video game console and buried it next to a Reaper?"_

"_Joker—"_

"_All right, all right, we're on it. What exactly do you need us to do?"_

_Mordin now, and he could see the salarian's age in the way he turned so slowly toward him, orange glow within him the banked fires of a dying star. "Simulation derives solely from information known by user. Many users being drawn upon at once. Cannot direct focus easily. EDI must provide direction, and you must provide a link to the AI."_

Ah. _"I guess they can't see you, sweetheart. It's a pity, because you are a sight for sore eyes in here. Right at the moment, it's like I'm at a cocktail party with all my __**favorite**__ people. Could do without the dayglow rave paint, though." _

"_Possibly an effect from how the chip and neural net are extrapolating the dataflows in your mind." Her voice was concerned. "Jeff, are you experiencing any discomfort?"_

"_Nah, not at all. It's oddly relaxing, actually." He explained the situation to her, and opened the chip in his mind, letting her take over. It wasn't really so bad, after all._

**Shepard**

**Flick, flick, flick**. Finally, they were getting somewhere with this. Cunningham's face led to _Rishayla's_, for some reason, looking guilty and ashamed in her quarters, confessing her intention to file a bad report. _Hardly a hanging crime, comparatively. Why are we coming back to this_?

**Flick. ** Tela Vasir's face. _Right, Rishayla's mate, in years gone by._

**Flick. **Now an image, pulled from one of the asari Spectres, probably. Rishayla and Tela, side by side, each holding a little blue-skinned girl by the hand. A family portrait, long since shattered irrevocably.

**Flick. **A stream of banking and routing numbers in asari space, numbers boiling against a black sky, blotting out the stars.

**Flick. **Azure dust, streaming between planets like a nebula or a web. Coming from asari space.

**Flick.** Humans now, cultists, in orgiastic rites, fueled by azure dust. Funding for their colonies, coming from asari space.

And then the vision broke, and the simulation shut down. Shepard stared at the relic, stunned.

"Interesting," Mordin said, as if he'd just been for a brief walk around the block, and had found a new species of beetle to catalogue. "Each time a connection was made between minds, it involved human to human contact, or human to another species. Your intelligence is highly adaptive, and apparently flexible enough to serve as a bridge for this particular artifact."

Shepard waved the scientist away, and Mordin puttered off, wanting to take EEGs of everyone who'd been affected. She sat down beside Garrus, trading dazed glances with him.

"If we didn't all already know each other _very_ well, I guess now we would," he said, after a moment.

"Yeah." She shook her head. "At least at the end there, it didn't give us forty different versions of the next fifteen years again." She felt like she'd been standing there staring into the sun for an hour at least. _But what the hell does it all mean?_

_Maybe I should start by calling Rishayla, and asking where her kids are._

**Dara and Rellus**

The endless stream of images finally died, and Dara wasn't sure if she'd done something to end them at last, or if they'd gone away of their own accord. It had been like a dream, but from the rather fixed expression on Rellus' face, she was fairly certain that if it had been, she hadn't been dreaming alone. "Ah. . ." she said, blinking rapidly. "Did you see. . . "

"Yeah," he said, looking stunned. He was breathing really _fast_ for some reason, as if he'd been running. "I don't know if we saw the same things—"

"Lots and lots of different. . . doors."

"Windows."

"Paths," she finished. "Some of them bad. Some of them . . . really. . . ." Dara darted a glance at him, and finished, mostly on a squeak, ". . . good."

Rellus looked down at her, still breathing hard. Was it possible that she _hadn't_ seen everything he had? Hadn't felt everything he'd felt? _It was so __**real**__. _Even now, he was having to fight his instinctive urge to push her back into the flowers on the ground, follow her down, and lay claim to what memory insisted was already his. He tried to slow his breathing, tried to remember what his uncle had warned him about just a few days ago, but by the spirits, it was difficult.

"Rel?" Her voice was anxious. "Are you okay?" Dara inched closer and put a hand very carefully on the side of his face, not really sure where to touch.

Rellus's head snapped towards her hand, and, thought-fast, caught her hand in his own. The speed was alien, almost unnerving, but this was Rel, her _friend_, and she'd just seen rather a lot more of him than she'd ever thought she would. Then he turned the inside of her wrist towards him, and very gently bit it, eyes never leaving hers.

She couldn't know the nuances of the gesture—somewhere between a kiss on the cheek and a tease, in human terms—but her reaction gratified him anyway, a soft, startled gasp, a widening of the eyes. He lifted her palm to his face now, rubbing against it, letting her get used to the rasp of his skin. And couldn't have been more startled when she picked up his other hand and returned the favor, hesitantly, letting him feel those rounded, but still surprisingly sharp omnivore teeth. He growled, low in his chest, and, encouraged, Dara edged a little closer, tipping her head to the side, offering shoulder and neck. Just as she'd seen herself do in a dozen different versions of the future.

An older male probably would have had more self-control. Garrus or Lantar, with decades of experience working with a dozen different species, and sublimating their instincts in public, would have been able to temper their reactions. Rellus was young, however, and the instincts were powerful. He moved faster than she thought it should be possible for _anyone_ to move, going from stillness to fluid motion with alien grace, pressing her back onto the ground, into the piles of flowers, his weight pinning her for a moment.

Rellus managed to keep enough of his sanity to get one of his hands up and slide it protectively over her throat. If instinct took over, he'd bite himself before he'd bite her there. Then, unable to wait any more, he bit her shoulder, her collarbone, growling, trying desperately to remember not to break the soft, fragile skin, moving to the other side, shifting his hand over her throat, hearing her gasp, smelling the flowers, the grass, her skin. Dimly, he was terribly afraid he was going to scare her half to death, and definitely wreck any chance of that shining future, but he just couldn't _help_ himself.

And then, spirits help him, she was biting him _back_, finding places on his throat to latch onto, hands starting to move over him, and it was too much. _"Meus v'animae, meus v'kogitae, meus v'korporae,"_ he heard himself saying, over and over again, distantly realizing she couldn't know what he was saying. . . _mine in spirit, mine in mind, mine in body_, the three levels of possession and belonging understood in _tal'mae_.

After a couple of frantic minutes, he managed to pull back a little, wanting to howl his frustration. He needed to stop. He absolutely needed to stop, and now, but he _really_ didn't want to. "Spirits. . . Dara, move your hands. Please." His voice was a growl, and he felt like a martyr for being asked to give up what her hands were doing, but . . . .

"Why? Am I not doing it right?"

"Because if you keep doing what you're doing, I won't be _able_ to stop." Spirits, but it was hard to _think_. At the moment, he'd have welcomed a charging pack of varren, anything that would let him redirect his focus.

She sat up a little, and if he'd been just a little less frantic, he'd have laughed to see all the flowers in her disarranged hair. "You want to stop?" Her voice was a little disappointed.

"Want to? Are you crazy? No, I don't _want_ to stop!" The frustration turned his voice into a snarl, and he put his head back down on her shoulder, fighting for control, wrapping his arms around her, talons digging a little into her soft skin. "But if we don't stop _now_, I won't be able to keep myself from marking you, let alone anything else," he rasped, turning his face a little to be able to see her eyes.

She stroked his fringe gently, as she would have stroked another primate's hair, doubtless, and it felt wonderful, all the sweetness and tenderness and intimacy one _should_ have from one's mate, and asked, tentatively, "Would it help you calm down if you _did_ mark me?"

His fingers clenched again. "Yes. No. I don't know. Where!" He sat up again, frantically trying to find _someplace_ on her body where he could mark her properly. "No, _mellis_, not your neck, don't tempt me, has to be someplace where your father won't see it right away—"

She looked up at him, seeing nothing but urgency, but also concern for her, and came to a very quick decision, pulling her pants down to expose her hips and upper thighs. Rellus moved _fast_ again, and she felt his teeth sting high on her left leg, working gently for a moment or two. She stroked his fringe as he bit down, trying to calm him, and it seemed to work. She could feel tension draining out of his body now, and then he moved back up again, wrapping his arms around her. His expression suddenly seemed very content, and he rubbed his fingers very lightly over the reddening circle on her upper leg. "Better?" she asked, after a moment.

"Much. Thank you." Rellus took a deep breath. "Sorry if I scared you."

"Would've been scarier without the. . . whatever that was, before."

"Some sort of weird shared daydream, or maybe a bizarre tech malfunction." Rellus reached up, and started playing with her hair a little, as if he were fascinated by it. "Whatever it was, it showed me some things I'd really, _really_ like to have." He looked down at her. "Even if what we saw doesn't . . . happen exactly the way we saw it. . . it's all still worth trying for, isn't it?" he asked. "It'll take a _lot_ of work."

"Yeah." Dara smiled up at him. "For all that, I'll put in the effort." And she would. _There might not be 'happily ever after,' because there's always something __**after**__ the after, but there was nothing there that I didn't want, and that wasn't worth the work._

"So, I know it's on _really_ short acquaintance, but should I send Uncle Garrus to your father and start the _manus_ proceedings?" His voice was a little tentative.

She felt her cheeks go pink. "I think it might be a really good idea. Especially if you want to keep biting me." She hadn't been sure about the biting at first. _Kissing_ had been more her ideal, until about an hour ago. But he'd been so careful about it, and it had started feeling _so_ nice. . . .

"Oh, I do. Believe me, I do." He sat up, and helped her to do the same, solemnly picking flowers out of her hair and handing them to her.

There must have been hundreds; Dara started running her fingers through her hair, trying to brush them all out. "Let me know when it looks less like we've been. . . "

"Doing what we were doing?" Rellus supplied, grinning a little.

Dara reached down, and heaved a double handful of the flowers on the ground at his face. He fell backwards, laughing, and pretending to be mortally wounded, and she pounced on top of him, laughing herself.


	19. Chapter 19: Negotiations

**Chapter 19: Negotiations**

**Garrus**

Everything seemed to be dying down or calming down at this point. The twins had been off-base at daycare, thank the spirits, and thus hadn't been subjected to whatever energies the alien device had put out, let alone any of the images that might have otherwise coursed through their minds. They were running around now, chasing their _lanura_, their new pet, brought to them by Livanus from Palaven in the last week. It was a small, winged creature, maybe the size of Garrus' hand, and usually clung to the backs of the wild _talashae_ in their herds, eating the tiny lizards and winged creatures that occupied the insect ecological niche on Palaven. Its wings were as colorful as a Terran butterfly's, however, and they had been domesticated for centuries as pets. They had a temperament like a cat, but slept in cages at night, like canaries. For some reason, that _deeply_ amused his wife. 

"Careful," he warned them as they charged by again, and the _lanura_ leaped for the refuge of the top of a bookcase, out of reach of straining toddler fingers. "You don't want to hurt her, do you?"

Two heads shook at him solemnly, and off they ran again, giggling. Garrus held his hand up, and the _lanura_ hopped down onto the back of his fingers, perching there delicately. "Right, back in your cage with you," he told it. "I think you'll agree that it's safer." She chirruped at him, cocking her head from side to side, and made a dash for her perch in her large, airy cage when he opened the door.

There was a knock at the door, and Garrus went to answer it. "Rellus?" he said, a little surprised. He was never going to get used to the fact that Solanna's little boy had hit his growth spurt with a vengeance this year. In a month or so, he'd either match or surpass Garrus' own height, but he'd probably still mass twenty kilos less for quite a while.

"Uncle Garrus." Rellus looked down, then up again, sure signs of slight discomfort. "I think I might not have been listening properly earlier this week. I wanted to apologize for that, and say that I'm ready to listen now."

_Oh, really? _Garrus' mandibles twitched a little in amusement. "What changed your mind?"

"Really weird experience up in the mountains today. Saw lots of . . . possibilities. Ways to go."

"Crap. Like doors and windows and images?"

"Yeah, exactly! What _was_ that?"

"You better come in. We had _no_ idea that device had a reach like that. How far from base were you?"

"About six kilometers."

"_Damn_ it." Garrus escorted the younger male to a side room, one that still had a good view of the kids as they ran by again, this time chasing something much less fragile—a ball. "Okay, I can't tell you much about what that was. Even if it weren't classified, we just don't _know_ a lot about it." He gave Rellus a look. "I _can_ tell you it was an extremely advanced simulation device, designed to take information from the user's mind and extrapolate on it. We don't _think_ the energy it puts out is harmful." _We __**hope**__, anyway._

Rellus thought it over. "Okay, good to know."

"So, you're feeling more of a need for advice now?" Garrus changed the subject back, relieved and amused at the same time. _Have to wonder what the hell he saw. _

Rellus cleared his throat, and switched up languages into _tal'mae_. The sound of the first _word_ in that language made Garrus sit bolt upright. _"I require your advice, as head of clan, and your assistance as mediator. It is my desire to pursue the rites of the hand with the daughter of one of your warriors. Will you speak for me, brother of my mother, and head of my clan?"_

Garrus' mouth fell open, and he was silent for a moment. _"Should you not ask he who is your father to mediate in such a matter?"_

"_She who is my mother asked for the intervention of the clan leader in this matter previously. It would be inappropriate to ask for the assistance of any other at this time." _Rellus' voice was exquisitely polite, but the boy _knew_ the rules, knew the nuances. Plus, Garrus had to admit, the boy had something of a right to be annoyed at his mother's intervention earlier, and this _was_ a very good way to poke back at her, without being obvious about it. _"Additionally, the matter involves one of your warriors, brother of my mother."_

"I am going to _kill_ my sister," Garrus muttered after a moment, in modern turian, rubbing at his face. "Not to mention, I'm going to need to put my armor on to talk to Jaworski about this." He paused, giving Rellus a look. "You've seen the knife he uses, right?"

"I'm indebted to my ancestors for their wisdom in putting the negotiations into the hands of people other than myself," Rellus replied, promptly, and with just a hint of impudence.

"Right. You say that now, but wait three months and you'll be wanting to renegotiate," Garrus told him, grinning. "No, wait, you came to me in formality, I have to respond in kind." He thought for a moment. _"Son of my sister, I will speak for you in this matter, and will arrange the negotiations to begin this evening."_ He shifted languages again. "_You_, however, will have the privilege of breaking this all to your parents. Allardus is probably going to take it in stride. Your _mom_, on the other hand. . . "

Rellus looked as if he didn't know whether to wince or to laugh, but thanked him formally anyway. The older male started to chuckle again, in total bemusement. "So," he said, after a moment. "I assume you have questions at this point?"

The younger male glanced past him, out the door. "A few," he admitted, a little guiltily. "How under the _stars_ do you keep from breaking the skin?" he whispered.

"The epidermis is tougher than it looks, but it does take a little hit or miss at first. Have you been by to see Mordin for epi-tabs for both of you yet?" Garrus' tone was neutral.

Rellus coughed. "No . . . it was . . . a little unexpected." There was just a hint of a blue flush along his throat.

"That's your next stop, then." Uncompromising, almost an order. "He's probably going to be amused. Don't take it personally; salarians are _always_ amused about other species' mating rituals. He'll probably offer some diagrams and instructional vids. I'd recommend taking them, but I wouldn't necessarily share them with Dara just yet. Humans have rules about what their adolescents can and can't see." Garrus had to admit, he didn't exactly envy Rellus. _At least Lilitu and I were both full adults, and, duties and responsibilities aside, almost entirely free agents. Made things a __**lot**__ easier._ "I'd also strongly recommend getting a list of foods that are only mildly allergenic for both of you, and working your way through it. It really _does_ help with the allergic reactions, and avoiding anaphylactic shock is always a good goal." Garrus kept his face as straight as he could, but he had to admit. . . he was enjoying needling the boy a little. "You're aware that estrus occurs once a month, right? No outwards signs?"

Rellus gave him a slightly wild-eyed glance at that, and Garrus couldn't help but laugh a little. It was the only revenge, that, in his current, damnable position as _clan leader_, he was going to _get_ in exchange for all the things he was going to have to do to help Rellus pull this off. "Any other questions?"

"I'm sure there _will_ be, but not at the moment," Rellus told him, more ruefully than he expected. "I actually have a pretty good idea of what's coming up, thanks to that simulation, Uncle Garrus. It's okay. I think we can handle it."

Garrus shook his head. "Keep in mind, that simulation only goes off of what the people _in_ it know about," he warned.

"Yeah, but you and Aunt Lilu were in it, too, weren't you? Maybe at a distance from us, but wouldn't it have drawn on your knowledge to create our simulation?"

Garrus blinked. "I. . . hadn't thought of that. And suddenly, now I'm slightly uncomfortable." He stood up. "Mordin's lab, now. Off with you."

The younger male left, grinning a little sheepishly, and Garrus padded around the corner, into the home office he shared with his wife. "You catch any of that?" he asked.

"Enough, I think," she replied, looking deeply amused. "You going to need back-up when you talk with Jaworski?"

"No, just my armor. Bomb-disposal unit grade kinetic shielding might not hurt, though."

She started to laugh. Garrus gave her a look. "I _could_ send you in my place. You _do_ outrank me."

"Only in Spectre matters. In terms of family crap, _you're_ head of house. That's how it works." She grinned at him. "See, I _did_ read our wedding contract carefully."

"Damnit, and here I thought maybe I could convince you otherwise." He leaned down, and pressed his forehead to hers. "May as well get it over with. When are you heading to Bastion to interview Rishayla?"

"In the morning. She's in talks all day with the Council, so no sense in leaving earlier, really." She put a hand to the side of his face, caressing a mandible with the ease of long practice and affinity. "If you start the negotiations tonight, I can be there for it, and kind of ride herd on Jaworski."

"I'd appreciate it. Hell, he can't even negotiate _for_ her. Doesn't speak turian, let alone _tal'mae. _He'll need an advocate." Garrus eyed his armor. It was tempting, but might send the wrong message when he came knocking at Sam's front door. "I'll ask Lantar to represent him."

"Oh, this is going to be _fun_. Both advocates would be married to human females themselves."

He slanted her a grin. "Who better to know what they're going to deal with, eh?"

**Dara**

She'd scuttled home, and sat in her room for a while, in a kind of happy, nervous daze for a while, waiting for her dad to come home. _Is he going to know, just by looking at me_? She checked herself in a mirror, carefully. A few little abrasions, here and there, from the light rasp of Rellus' skin and teeth, but most were covered by her shirt. She went pink again, thinking about how she'd gotten them, but forced herself to take a few deep breaths and calm down again, flattening her hands on the top of her dresser.

_How am I going to make Dad understand this? He's going to say I'm too young to be making these kind of decisions. It's true. I wouldn't have, yesterday. Yesterday was different. I was different. Everything was different. But he's going to yell and he's not going to listen and everything's going to get messed up. Maybe I shouldn't talk to him about it at all, at least until Rellus' uncle comes down to talk to him. Gah. No, he doesn't like being surprised. _

_I really wish I had someone to talk to._

Her gaze fell on the little container that held her mother's graybox. Who knew better than Sarah Jaworski, how to manage Sam Jaworski? Hadn't her mom told her, a million times, that it was better to _tell_ her dad things, even if it made him mad, than to let him find out on his own. _But how do I tell him __**this**__, Mom?_

With shaky fingers, Dara opened the box, and lifted the little module out. She had an omnitool of her very own now, a belated 'real' birthday gift from her father. After staring at the module for a couple of minutes, Dara took a deep breath, and activated it.

The room around her faded out, becoming the living room in the ranch, back just outside of Lufkin. She could see from the baked-blue sky out the front window that this simulation had been done in July or August, and she was relieved that the recording didn't include the sticky heat of an east Texas summer. Dara turned around, and there she was.

Sarah Jaworski sat on the couch in the living room, working with a datapad, probably some genetics project to do with her beloved horses. "Hey, there, kiddo," she said, looking up, and giving Dara a warm smile. "I put a lot of if/then type statements into this graybox for you and your dad, sweetheart. Here's your first: I'm surprised it took you so long after the box went inactive to open this for the first time." Her smile faded a little. "I won't ask you to give me a hug. We both know that this isn't real. But I want you to know that I will _always_ love you, kiddo, even if I'm not here to show it, okay?"

Dara's eyes filled with tears. _Oh, this was a __**bad**__ idea. The worst idea ever, in fact._ She cleared her throat. "I love you, too, Mom."

"Well, that's always nice to hear." The simulation gave her a smile. "I've stockpiled about a billion pieces of advice in here for you, sweetheart. I couldn't anticipate _every_ question you might ever ask, but I tried to stick something in here every time I thought of it. Even if you wound up looking at this when you were old and gray yourself, I figured you might at least get a laugh out of your ol' mama's rambling. Ask me anything. I might even have an answer."

Dara sniffled. _Well, it's worth a shot_. "There's a . . ." _Wow. Okay, this is hard to say even to a __**simulation**__ of my mom. _"There's a boy I really, really like."

"Okay, that one I've got covered in the files. Sounds pretty natural to me, sweetie. Do you need advice on letting him _know_ that you like him?" Oh, it sounded like her mom, but it was more like a VI programmed to sound like her. Still, it was kind of comforting, in a way.

"No, he knows. We. . . he's turian, Mom."

The simulation blinked. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, I don't have anything in the ol' memory banks on that one. I really couldn't anticipate _everything _you might do with your life. That's kind of how life works, though. Lots of decisions, branching off of each other."

Dara laughed. "Yeah, I kind of got an education in that this morning." She sat down, hugging her knees to her chest. It was getting more natural, talking to this _thing_ that wore her mother's face. "How do I tell Dad how I feel about this boy without Dad getting mad and making everything worse?"

"Well, for starters, how _do_ you feel about him?"

That was a little harder. Dara had to think about that one. "Happy. Safe." She coughed a little. "Like I've been dropped in champagne on New Year's Eve and everything is fizzling around me, too."

Her mom's image laughed. "Those are good things, sweetie. Not a bad _start_, anyway."

"We do a lot of stuff together. I can see. . . heck, I _have_ seen the future, how everything would work out. . . and it's. . . great. There'll be a lot of work. I mean, I'm human, and he's. . . not. I'll have to learn his language, we'll have to figure out each other's cultural stuff. I guess we might argue about that, but we haven't. Yet." She paused, trying to be very honest. If nothing else, she could at least clarify it all in her own mind, even if her mother's phantom had nothing useful to offer. "Sometimes it's really weird, and sometimes it's just. . . nice. Normal. We could wind up working together, in the military, I guess. I can see it all really _clearly_."

She looked up, and her mother's image flickered a bit, the program selecting a different file, probably. "My best advice is, tell your dad all of that. But tell him calmly, and tell him you want to get everything out first, please. I find that works on him pretty well. You're his little girl, Dara, and he loves you, and more than anything else in the world, wants you to be happy and safe. Change is scary for _everyone_, and knowing that you're serious about someone is a big change for him. He's going to be scared _for_ you. I know I am, and this is just me, projecting a few years forward, thinking of all the _mistakes_ I made when I was young. The people I thought I had feelings for, but wound up being really bad for me." Sarah smiled, a little sadly. "I'm sorry I'm not here for you, kiddo. Let me see, what can I say, that's going to cover all the years I'm going to miss? Hmm. Here we go. Take the hard route; it'll be more of a challenge, and you'll learn more, but at the same time, keep in mind that you don't need to beat your head on every obstacle. Sometimes, it's okay to let someone else help you walk around, or even jump." The simulation smiled a little. "And if you find something that makes you _happy_, grab onto it, and for god's sake, girl, don't let go. And don't let anyone else tell you that happy is wrong, you hear?"

"I'm trying," Dara whispered.

The simulation started to shut down. "Dara, sweetie, since your dad _hasn't_ accessed the graybox yet, could you at least tell him I'd like to talk to him?"

"Sure," Dara said, and the simulation run ended in a flicker of blue omnitool light. She picked her teddybear up off her bed, and hugged it for a while. "I'm not sure how much of a help that was," she told the bear earnestly, "But I guess it wasn't bad, as a dress rehearsal."

Downstairs, she heard the front door open. "Dara! I'm home!"

Dara took a deep breath. "Okay. Show time."

It went both better and worse than she'd expected. She went downstairs, graybox in her pocket, and smiled at her father. "Hey, Dad. Went up on base today. That was. . . interesting."

He paused, putting his keys on the table. "Oh?"

"Was there some sort of a biotic release or something? 'Cause. . . for a while there, I was seeing things. Lots of things."

He sat down, heavily, in one of the kitchen chairs. "Christ. I'm sorry, Dara. No, that was a simulation device. I, ah, got caught in the backflow myself." He shook his head. "If you saw what I saw, I am _sorry_, sweetheart."

She blinked, a bit puzzled. "I didn't see anything all that _bad_. Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about." She cleared her throat, and sat down, looking at him warily. "I, ah, talked to Mom's graybox today. Asked her for some advice."

He leaned back in his chair, looking at her steadily. "Okay, sweetie, I think with that kind of an intro, I'm about as braced as I'm going to get. Drop your bomb already."

"She said I should ask for you to let me just say everything I have to say, all at once, and then you get to talk. Is that okay?" Dara's throat had gone very tight, and she wished, for a minute, that she'd brought her teddybear downstairs with her. It would've looked wrong, though, hiding behind a toy, while she talked about really grown-up stuff. He wouldn't have taken her seriously.

Her dad nodded, and Dara took a deep breath and began to tell him what she'd seen. All the possible futures, and how, when her mind and Rellus' had joined up, they'd been able to make better decisions together, navigate the time-flow, or simulation, or _whatever_ it had been, finding a future they both liked.

Her dad just stared at her, completely silent, and expressionless. It was starting to get a little scary, to be honest. Dara fidgeted for a moment. "So. . ." she said, and realized, she didn't really know what to say. "I guess I'm going to have to start running with you in the mornings," she finally said. "Four kilometers a day, right? I'll need to be able to do at least that much by the time I'm old enough for boot camp. And I think I'll be switching languages this year. Four years of Spanish isn't doing me a lot of good right now. So, probably turian instead."

"Are you out of your damn mind?" _That_ was more the reaction she had expected, and even so, she cringed back from it a little. "You're jumping into this with both feet because of what an _alien device_ showed you _might_ be ahead of you?"

Dara fidgeted some more. "Kind of," she said, looking down at the table, then back up again, through her hair. "But also, I _really_ like Rellus. I like spending time with him. He's funny, he's smart, he's always there, and I know that, well, short of azure dust shorting out his brain again, that he'll always try to protect me." _Even from myself_, she thought, and flushed a little again. "Does that make sense?"

Her father just stared at her for a long moment, and then there was a knock at the door. "This discussion isn't over," he told her, standing to answer it.

"Dad!" she said, stopping him. "Mom really wants to talk to you. Just so you know. She asked me to tell you." She reached into her pocket, and pulled out the graybox, offering it to him.

After a reluctant pause, her dad took it from her, and she fled partway up the stairs, looking down and out the front window to see that, yes, Garrus had come to the house. Probably to talk with her dad about. . . everything. Her dad couldn't _possibly _be in a good mood at this point, and it was only probably going to get worse. As such, her room was looking like a really _good_ place to be right now.

**Sam**

"Oh, this day just keeps getting better and _better_," he muttered, on seeing Garrus in the doorway.

Garrus held up his hands, as if to show he had no weapons, but the gesture caused the light to flash off the wedding knife in its sheath on his left forearm. Sam shook his head, and waved the turian inside. Garrus looked around for a moment, and rubbed the back of his neck. "This would be a hell of a lot easier if you were turian, Jaworski. Then, all I'd have to say is this—" and Garrus let out a string of twisty syllables that Sam's VI, again, flatly refused to render.

Jaworski just looked at him. Garrus grinned. "In simple translation? 'The son of my sister has asked me, in deference to my position as head of family and head of our unit, to ask you to open negotiations for the marriage of your daughter, by _manus_ rites, and if it is agreeable to you, we shall commence negotiations forthwith.'"

"Yeah, I think she's a little young to be marryin' _anyone_." Sam was carrying a whole _load_ of mad at the moment. It had been a _bad_ day so far. All the questions about the AEC were still swirling at the back of his mind, watching the death of his wife three or four times around noon, and now this shock. . . there was anger, basically everywhere, just _looking_ for an outlet. And while he was far from a xenophobe, there was a little instinctive _twitch_ at the back of his mind that wanted to add, _too young to marry, and sure as hell not marrying something so. . . not us_.

As soon as he felt that twitch, though, he dragged it out into the forefront of his mind, examined it, and put it aside as unworthy. That wasn't what he was mad about, after all. It was just a convenient place for the anger to _go_. He dug a little deeper, and realized that, like everything else right now for him, the rage did somewhat center on his wife's recent death. He didn't want to let go of their daughter, even a little, right now. And, to be honest, he wasn't sure if Dara's sudden decision didn't have something to do with a longing for replacement, for the stability and certainty she'd lost when her mom died. These were at least _legitimate_ concerns, he figured, and he calmed down a little at the realization.

All of these thoughts had taken mere seconds. Garrus was nodding in understanding. "That's what the negotiations are about, really. It's a contract, between them and their families, indicating when they _can_ get married, and what limits their conduct will have in the interim period."

It sounded so. . . reasonable. So calm. It was amazing, really, that while the turian in front of him was just being so rational and matter-of-fact about the issue, all Sam wanted to do was knock over a table and yell for a while. Instead, he took a deep breath. "All right," he said, his voice a little clipped. "No harm in talking things over, right? Shall we get started?"

"Oh, not here. This is a family discussion. All interested parties have to be there. And since it's a contract negotiation, well, there are standard forms that will need to be adjusted for them. They're all written in _tal'mae_."

"Yeah, if that's what my VI won't render when you start talking in it, I don't speak that. How am I supposed to . . . negotiate, here?" Sam wondered, a little annoyed, if _anything_ human was going to be allowed in any of this. How 'bout a nice old-fashioned _hell, no!_ At the very least, a fifty-fifty mix didn't seem so much to ask, did it?

Garrus looked at him, not without sympathy. "I figured Lantar could speak for you. You trust him, right?"

"As much as I trust anyone. At the moment, I kind of feel like I'm heading into a used groundcar showroom, to be honest."

Garrus started to laugh. "No. Definitely not that. You'll understand. Come on, get Dara, and come on with me. We've got a room set up, and it's very important to get this sort of thing settled with youngsters. That way, they know the rules." He chuckled again.

**Shepard**

With twenty-one Spectres working the AEC issue, and twenty Spectres on base, either injured or on leave, that still left thirty-eight Spectres out in the field, working other active cases. Shepard had asked for, and received, a private room at Chef Gardner's beautiful restaurant down in the valley, and took her endless stack of datapads into the room with her. Technically, all the files _could_ have fit on just one, but some of the models were better for handling different languages and audio-visual needs.

For turians, a marriage contract negotiation was practically an excuse for a party. Every member of the family was expected to be in attendance, if possible, and food and drink were mandatory as they listened to the negotiations. The younger kids were usually nicely distracted by the food, but would have to keep fairly quiet. Solanna's youngsters would look after Kaius and Amara, and Serana, the middle child, would look after them, in turn. Parents, if not actual negotiators, were expected to pass suggestions to their representative. Thus, Allardus, Solanna, Rellus, Serana, Polina, and Quintus were all already in attendance as she approached the door, hesitating outside for a moment, beckoning for her own twins to hurry up and finish climbing the stairs.

From just around the door, she could see that Rellus looked somewhat nervous, and she couldn't really blame him. She was clearly able to hear Solanna's voice from the corridor outside. Solanna didn't have an overt anti-human bias; she _couldn't_, really, with a sister-in-law who was one. So while she never _said_ anything about Dara's species, Shepard had to wonder if there was, just a little of it, underlining the rest of her concerns. It would be normal, if true. Officially, Solanna was more concerned that Rellus was letting his worries about boot camp drive him into a corner, concerned about what it would do to his concentration while there, and so on, and so forth.

Allardus, her husband, was a quiet man. He stood back, let her say her piece, and then just put his hand on his son's shoulder. "I'm glad you're responsible enough to start the negotiations early," he told Rellus, quietly. "Even if they don't work out in the end, it's the right thing to do."

Shepard cleared her throat and walked inside, dropping her stack of datapads on the table, the twins bounding in behind her and racing straight for the youngest cousins, Polina and Quintus, with squeals of glee. Rellus looked quietly relieved at the interruption, and Shepard grinned internally. _You have more allies than you think, kiddo._ "I saw Lantar and Ellie downstairs. Lantar's going to be speaking for Jaworski. They'll be up soon."

That more or less stuck a lid on the family drama for the moment. None of them would want to look divided in front of the other family or its representatives. Just in time, too; Lantar and Ellie did walk in a minute later, and she could see the amusement in Lantar's expression. "I haven't even finished formalizing my _own_ new articles," he commented, dryly. "Now I'm supposed to be representing Sam?" He found his chair at the center of the table, opposite Garrus' empty one, and settled in, taking out a datapad of his own.

"Did you bring a book?" Shepard asked Ellie. 

Ellie pulled her own datapad out. "I know how long it took just for _us_ to discuss our first contract, and that was as an active participant. Yeah. I brought a book." She smirked a little. "Actually, to be safe, I brought two."

Then Garrus, Jaworski, and Dara entered the room. Dara entered last, looking about as embarrassed as a young girl could possibly be; her dad's rather ferocious scowl provided the reason for it. "Over there, by Rellus," Shepard whispered to her, pointing, and Dara scurried over to sit by the boy with a look of absolute relief. "Jaworski, park it over here," Shepard said, kicking out a chair from under the table with one foot. "I can more or less translate anything you have questions about." She set her omitool to record, as Garrus crossed the room, shook hands with Lantar, and sat down to start negotiations.

The preliminaries were all formal, and all ritualistic. Shepard kept up a light translation for a while, until she saw Jaworski's eyes glaze over a bit, and he muttered, "Okay, now I feel like I'm in a dowry negotiation in the middle of the goddamn Dark Ages."

"Well, no," she disagreed, politely. "In that case, you'd be essentially _paying_ them to take your daughter off your hands, and neither of _them_ would have anything to say about the matter. This really is about the two of _them, _and how the families can help them make the best path towards where they want to be."

Then she started going through her datapads. Geth patrol routes in the Perseus Veil, check, rachni re-colonizing some of their old worlds, check, a rogue AI put down, check. . . .

Allardus spoke up from his side of the room, making a comment in response to a question from Garrus. "What's that all about?" Jaworski asked her.

Shepard looked up, glanced at the transcript on her omnitool, and answered, quietly, "Allardus, that's Rellus' father, and my brother-in-law," she said, establishing the relationships so Jaworski would be a little less apt to go off the rails in a moment, "said that he doesn't see any need for the pre-nuptial clauses regarding procreation and disease, since they couldn't _have_ children without surgical intervention, and it's not really possible for either of them to give each other any sorts of diseases. As such, as far as he's concerned, the traditional clauses could be waived entirely, since he's not going to have to worry about an accidental extra mouth to feed. Garrus agrees. Lantar comments that humans believe in limiting sexual contact, and as your representative, wants the clauses amended to reflect that." Shepard was translating loosely. Sam probably didn't need to know how absolutely _blunt_ turians could be about such matters in legal documentation. They believed that absolute clarity was the _only_ way that laws and rules could work.

Jaworski blinked, and his frown etched a little deeper into his face. "Wait, _what_?" His voice got a little louder.

_Yeah, that didn't go over as well as it could have_. Shepard could feel all the turians turning to look across the room. "Is that _not_ what you would want your representative to say?" she asked, turning her chair to face Jaworski. _Didn't want to have to intervene, but damned if I'm not going to have to stick my nose into this. I really don't need him so agitated that he can't work with Lantar or Garrus in the future._

"I'm bothered that it's being discussed at all!" Out of the corner of her eye, Shepard could see Dara putting her hands over her face in complete, red-faced embarrassment.

"Look, Sam," she said, standing up, walking around the table, and sitting down on the table's surface, putting one hand on his shoulder. "They deal with this sort of thing a lot more openly and a lot more overtly than most humans are comfortable with. I _know_. But there is a certain value in it."

He pulled back, raising his hands in annoyance. "I'm really not sure what there is to discuss. I'm fine with a _hell no_ answer, I really am."

Behind her, she could hear a quick exchange in _tal'mae_, Garrus, muttering, _"He whom you represent has an intractable stance on the matter. Can you not persuade him that bargaining is difficult from an absolute position?"_ and Lantar, murmuring back, _"Of course he does; he's human. I must serve his interests as best I may."_

Her lips twitched in amusement, and she swallowed the urge to laugh. "Sam, listen to me, and tell me the absolute truth. Is it that Rel is turian?"

"No! It's that they're fifteen. I _remember_ what fifteen was like. And you know damn well that human _brains_ don't finish maturing until into our twenties. The bodies, sure. But what the hell, bodies are just bodies. They get done growing long before all the _mental_ is there. You can't expect me to _not_ question the decision-making here." Jaworski kicked back in his chair, but at least all his mad was directed squarely at _her_ at the moment.

That, she could deal with. Quietly, soberly, she nodded. "Yeah, I know all that, but that's what _this_ is _for_, Sam. When the contract is all set up, they'll have clear guidelines, clear boundaries, and if they do okay with those, then some of the restrictions get lifted, and then the next, and then the next." She gave him a sympathetic smile. "Tell me this, Sam," and she lowered her voice just a bit, "when _you_ were fifteen, if the rules were, you could have a girl in your room with the door closed for twenty minutes, and you had agreed to terms that governed _exactly _what you could and couldn't do. . . which meant that your parents _knew_ _exactly _what you were doing. . . _and_ that if anything occurred, you had to present _evidence_ that you'd used some form of prevention, how much do you think would _actually_ have gone on?"

Jaworski obviously edited his first two or three replies to that, opening his mouth, then shutting it firmly. "I have, honest to god, no idea. I can't imagine too many girls going for it." He gave her a hard look. "One of these days, Commander, you're going to be sitting on _my_ side of the table, though, and you're going to start to see it a little more my way."

Ellie put down her datapad and walked around the table now, sitting on his other side. They had him flanked now, and between them, they were blocking the rest of the room from being able to see his face. The turian conversation had gone on behind them, however, different clauses being adapted, adjusted, shifted to accommodate the fact that one of the young people involved was turian, the other, human. Shepard kept one ear on that, and one ear on the conversation in front of her.

"Sam, _I_ know _exactly_ what you're going through right now," Ellie told him, quietly, and with sympathy. "Elijah's at home right now, looking after Caelia, and I have absolutely no doubt that ten minutes after we left, his little asari friend came over to do homework. I'd _love_ for Lantar to set up a damn security camera in the house, but I keep telling myself I can't _do_ that, because at some point, you have to trust that you taught them right, and that they have to make their own decisions. It absolutely _sucks_." She made a face as she added the last, and then dropped her voice to a bare whisper. "And, if it's any consolation, I _really _wish Elijah had stuck with Dara, since now it's an asari." She rolled her eyes.

Sam's lips twitched once or twice, reluctantly, and his shoulders shook with a suppressed laugh. "I think I'm supposed to tell you I'm really sorry right about now?" he said.

"It could be worse. Either of them could have brought a hanar or a rachni home," Shepard volunteered, and got two not-exactly-amused looks for her trouble.

"There are places, Shepard, that a man's mind _really_ doesn't need to go," Jaworski told her.

Ellie shook her head. "It'd be a lot easier if my late husband hadn't run around with the damn asari dancers the way he did. It's hard to look at her, and _not _see them, you know what I mean?" She sighed. "But she's young, she's not wiggling for trade, and . . . I try to learn from my mistakes." She paused. "The commander's right, though, Sam. When Lantar set up our first marriage articles, I didn't understand it nearly as well as I do now. He set them up so as to protect me and Elijah as much as possible, gave me the right to walk away at any time. Wouldn't have it any other way. They want to get it all set up ahead of time, so the people involved have as many protections as possible, as well as having as many rights as possible. Trust me on this."

Sam leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table, and putting his head down in his hands for a moment. "I think I need a drink."

"That," said Shepard, "can be arranged." She headed to the door, and popped her head out. Instead of seeing a guard there, she saw Kasumi, already holding a tray with multiple bottles and glasses on it. "Good lord," she said, after a startled instant. "I don't think he needs the _whole bar_."

"Yes, I do," came the slightly hollow response from behind her. "At least the whiskey portion of it."

Kasumi came in, almost bouncing on her toes, and settled down next to Sam, pouring him at least a double of something that was amber and smelled very strong.

Shepard settled back down at the table, moving on to her next datapad, and trading a quick glance with Garrus. She winked.

With that minor crisis averted, Shepard wasn't surprised that the two negotiators kicked it into high gear after that, going over page after page of twisty _tal'mae_ passages. Rellus, as might be expected, was pretty interested, occasionally venturing questions. Dara, as also might be expected, had very little idea of what was going on, and wound up pulling out her homework halfway through.

In the middle, a sharp exchange, in modern turian, so that the translator VIs could pick it up, Garrus beginning with, "Wait, so they've been riding out, alone, every weekend, and shown themselves to be perfectly responsible _before_ making their affections known, and now you want to curtail those activities? Isn't that punishing the responsible, rather than the guilty?"

Lantar, now, speaking patiently, "Speaking for myself, yes, I do think that!" He put his hands up. "However, I'm not speaking for myself; I'm speaking for another, and I suspect he will want safeguards. Rifle range is permitted, since it's supervised. Riding expeditions, only may begin if there is a group until after the preliminary period of this agreement, or three months."

Sam nodded in agreement from his side of the long table, and Dara, who'd looked up at the first speech she'd been able to understand in about an hour, looked as if she were breathing a sigh of relief.

_There's a loophole there,_ Shepard thought, with some amusement. _They could grab some friends and go __**out**__ as a group, and very quickly __**separate**_, _only to join up again later._

At another point, quite suddenly, Lantar turned around and fired a quick question at Rellus, command-interrogative, peremptory in tone. _"What is the mouth used for, boy? Speak quickly!"_

Rellus blinked, and replied, almost reflexively, "_Morsus, morseo, mor'amoreo, i moraeris._" To bite food, or to eat; to bite in combat, or to fight; to bite in passion, or a mating-bite; and to bite the air, or to speak.

Lantar turned back to the table, and murmured, _"I have no objections to the passage as it stands."_

Shepard watched in interest as Garrus grinned, a quick flex of the mandibles, and agreed as well, _"Everything important seems to be covered."_

Shepard scrolled back through the most recent portion of the transcript, and her own lips started to twitch.

"Okay, I think we're close to a full agreement here," Garrus finally announced. "The parents and the clients themselves will have to review and ratify it, of course. You'll each get a copy—and yes, we'll get you a translated version, if you wish."

Shepard stood up, stretched, and walked over to Rellus and Dara. "The rest of this is even more boring than the first part. It's past nineteen hundred; why don't you take the young ones downstairs and get started ordering dinner and whatnot? I have been told, on good authority, that Chef Gardner makes the best milkshakes in town," she added, putting a hand on Dara's shoulder.

Dara looked up with a sort of relieved smile. "I actually haven't had one of those in ages. Sounds like a great idea for dessert." She glanced at her father nervously, and mentioned, very quietly, "I've never actually seen him drink that much before. He must _really_ be mad."

Shepard crouched down. "He doesn't drink often?" she said, just as quietly.

"No. He didn't even drink at Mom's wake. Everyone else did, but he didn't." Dara bit her lower lip.

"We'll take care of him. That's what we're here for. Go enjoy your first night plighted, all right?" Shepard nodded at the door, and Rellus led the girl out of the room.

The various younglings filed out, as Allardus offered his hand to Sam to shake, and the various datapads were passed around. Sam had gotten _very_ quiet over the course of the negotiation—quieter with each drink, in fact. Shepard pulled Kasumi aside. "How many?" she asked, quietly.

"Five," Kasumi whispered back. "All doubles."

"Good lord. Get some food in him for ballast, would you?"

"I got this," Kasumi said, winking at the taller human woman, sliding a hand under Sam's arm and leading him towards the door into the rest of the restaurant.

Finally, when it was just Garrus, Lantar, Ellie, and Shepard, and the door had slid firmly shut behind everyone else, Shepard started to chuckle. "You two," she told the two turian males, "are _bad_. Him," she pointed at her own husband, "I expect it of him, to know every letter of the damn rulebook and to figure out a way around them. But you, _too_, Lantar?"

Ellie blinked. "What did I miss?"

"A loophole the size of a planet." Shepard folded her arms across her chest, still chuckling to herself. "They limited how and when and where Rellus could bite her, and how and when and where she could bite him, but put no limits on other uses of the mouth." She couldn't stop laughing. "And of course, since they're _both _married to human females. . ."

Ellie looked from one male to the other, her expression oscillating between mild shock and amusement, and finally punched Lantar in the arm. He pretended to stagger back, laughing quietly under his breath.

"It does probably spring a little more quickly to mind, yes," Garrus admitted. "Most other turians wouldn't think of it. We're usually a little more focused on biting." He grinned, unabashedly.

"When even your word for _talking_ has linguistic roots in _biting_, yes, I think you might have a bit of a fixation there. It's still a hell of a loophole," Shepard said, smiling.

"Loopholes are traditional," Lantar added, mildly, catching his wife's fist as she tried to punch him again. "At least in the plighting period. The smarter the couple is, the faster they find them. They're there for a reason, to give them a certain amount of freedom, while keeping the restraints in place. All subject to the parents signing off on the agreement, of course," he added.

"I don't know if Sam will notice the omission, to be honest," Garrus said, after a moment. "It's a thirty-page document. Even in translation, it's not going to be a fun read." He grinned again, slyly. "I wonder how fast _they'll_ figure it out."

"Probably right around the moment Dara starts on her milkshake after dinner," Shepard said, looking up at the ceiling.

There was a moment of silence, and then Garrus took her by the hand, lifting it to his mouth to bite the inner wrist. "I'd forgotten Gardner had those on the menu," he said, quietly, right in her ear. Then he started moving towards the door with a certain purpose. "I think _you_ should have one, yourself." Even more quietly now, he added, "And I can _watch_."

Not for the first time, she was grateful for the facepaint that hid the blush in her cheeks.

**Rellus**

Keeping track of the younger cousins and siblings downstairs wasn't that hard; they herded the younger ones into one of the long tables in the restaurant, and then Gardner himself came out, making sure that the wait-staff looked after the kids. The adults had another table set up to the side, and Dara and Rellus had a booth to themselves over in a corner, a fairly traditional treat accorded to the newly-plighted.

Dara looked a little dazed, and a little concerned, and more than a hint pink, which Rellus knew meant embarrassment. "Is it always going to be like that?" she asked, after sitting down and setting up a menu as if it were a low wall, hiding behind it.

Rather than sitting across from her, he sat down next to her, and, under the table, gave her hand a quick squeeze. It was surprisingly difficult to figure out how to align their fingers properly. "Nah," he told her. "The process is obviously pretty foreign to you, but after this, it should be _easy._ Plus, there's a bit of a 'let's see if they scare easy' factor to consider. You did fine."

"Only because I didn't _understand_ any of it," she muttered. "I hate feeling that dumb."

"You're not. I'll translate it for you. Worry about regular turian first. A lot of people don't even learn _tal'mae_ other than ritual phrases, unless you're in a family that's devoted to the Law. And, well, my family has six generations in the Law, one way or another. Even Uncle Garrus was technically the law, when he was in C-Sec." Rellus peeked at the menu, figured out quickly what he was going to have, and then opened his datapad with his right hand, still holding Dara's in his left, under the table. He was pretty clear that this, very human gesture, had been allowed in the contract, and if it was allowed, he was going to take advantage of it. Since he could feel her starting to relax, muscle tension draining away, it seemed to be a good idea.

As the various adults started filtering into the room, he heard Lantar's distinctive voice in the background, and glanced up. "Well, I guess they have to eat, too," he muttered, as Elijah came in, bringing Caelia to his mother's arms, and behind him, Kella lurked, looking as if she wasn't sure if she had been invited. "Oh, well, Lantar did a good job speaking for your father," he told Dara quietly. "Can't begrudge him having his whole family here at dinner."

"He did?" Dara peeked over the edge of the datapad at what, to her, were alien swirls and letters. "Good enough that my dad's going to stop being mad?"

Rellus grimaced. "You know him a _lot_ better than I do," he reminded her. "I don't know, _mellis_."

"What's that word mean?"

"Sweetness," he answered, meeting her eyes a little warily. "Do you mind it?"

"No. It's nice." She leaned into him a little. "Okay, what does it say?"

"Fifteen minutes a day, we can actually close the door to one of our rooms and have a little privacy. The rest of the time we're at anyone's house, the door has to stay open. Each set of parents reserves the right to adjust that timespan in either direction at their own discretion," he said, summarizing the first paragraph for her, letting go of her hand in order to more comfortably rest his arm across her shoulders, explaining each of their various rights and responsibilities. "Goes up in duration at three months, six months, and twelve months. A _lot_ more privileges after I get back from boot camp. Probably because my leaves are going to be so damn short. It's actually a really _good_ contract. A lot better than I was hoping for," he said.

By then, Elijah and Kella had worked their way across the room. Rellus felt the instinctive flare of his crest, but the urge faded rapidly, since Eli was, after all, a friend, and Kella was clearly dragging him over. "Congratulations!" the asari girl said, leaning over to hug Dara lightly. "Or is that what you say once you actually get around to getting married? I never remember."

"This is more of a moment for 'we hear you have a good contract, all hail the negotiators!' and that sort of thing," Rellus told her, smiling, lifting the datapad and waggling it back and forth a bit.

"Can we sit here? There's no room _left_ at any of the tables," she asked, cheerfully oblivious as usual. It was one of the reasons it was difficult to dislike Kella, especially now that she was out from under Siara's thumb.

Dara glanced up at him and shrugged, leaving it up to him. Rellus sighed a little, internally, but said, "Sure," out loud. They had plenty of time to go over the contract, after all. At least two hundred and thirty more days until boot camp, anyway.

Much to his surprise, it turned out to be fun. Food arrived in short order—a hamburger and a milkshake for Dara—real omnivore food that, meat in the middle of grain-based bread and vegetables in three or four different colors. _Apaterae_ steak for him, asari calamari for Kella, and pizza for Eli. As they talked, everyone got more comfortable, it turned out that Eli and Kella had both experienced the same odd time flux or simulation, or whatever the hell had gone on that morning, and both were evidently just as marked by the experience as he and Dara had been.

At one point, when Kella jumped up to go change the music on the bizarre, old-fashioned human jukebox across the room, Eli commented, dryly, "I don't think I really realized that I've been rushing through all my schoolwork on the theory that getting done sooner was better. After, you know, ten or twelve loops through the next fifteen years," and he made a face at the thought, which made Rellus chuckle, "I think I'm going to go a little slower. I kind of like the idea of starting in B-Sec as a detective, with a degree in forensics and investigation, instead of as a patrolman. But I need grades to get that. Well, better than just average grades, anyway." Elijah made a face again. "Bleah. More math, more chemistry."

"Suck it up," Dara told him, grinning. "What about Kella?"

Eli shook his head. "She's been _real_ quiet about it. Said her mom had always told her being long-lived meant outliving all her friends, but that she never realized that she'd still be a _kid_ when the rest of us were in our forties or so." He shrugged. "Nothing really depresses her for long, but I think it bothers her."

Dara shook her head, a little sadly, and took a sip from her straw. Rellus watched her, fascinated. "What under the stars _is_ that . . . goop?"

"Milk and icecream. Er. . . secreted animal protein and sugars, basically, mixed with more sugars and frozen?" Dara said. "It tastes a lot better than it sounds. Can you try a drop?" She offered him the straw, and he could see the exact moment she realized that his jaw and lip-plate configuration wasn't going to work with that. "Sorry. I hadn't realized you couldn't—ah, well. No big deal." She dipped a finger into the concoction instead, and offered him a taste. It was shockingly sweet.

"Is that supposed to taste like anything other than, well, sugar?"

"You're not getting chocolate from that?"

"I can smell it, and it smells good, but I can't really taste it, no." While turians, with a predatory history, had a better sense of smell than humans, they lacked quite the refined tastebuds that humans, with their omnivore heritage, possessed.

"Well, crap. That doesn't seem exactly fair," she said, making a face, and putting the straw back in, sucking more of the goop up.

Rellus leaned down, and watched, head tipped to the side. "Okay, I can see that it's a siphon process, but that's just. . . bizarre."

At that point, Kasumi came over to their table. "Dara, your dad is. . . a little indisposed. I'm going to take him to my place for the night. You can go with Rellus and his family, but you're to be at my door by 21:30, and not a minute later, you understand?"

Under the table, her hand squeezed his, very tightly indeed. "I understand," Dara told the little human woman. "Is my dad still mad?"

"No, sweetie, I think he's more sad than anything." Kasumi dropped down to a crouch to talk to Dara more directly. "He'll probably be okay by morning. A little hung-over, sure, but better."

At his parents' house, Rellus was just pleased to have Dara with him there, even if it was for just an hour longer. She hadn't seen his room before, and laughed out loud at the sight of a turian bed. "Seriously, it's more of a _nest_. Isn't it uncomfortable, sleeping on the floor?" In truth, it was a hollowed out place in the floor, usually filled with pillows.

For the moment, he spread a couple of blankets down for her, and pulled her down with him. "Now it shouldn't be so uncomfortable, should it?" The door was open, but they could at least sit together as comfortably as they could, and finish reviewing their contract. The do's and the don'ts, as it were. "The human elements of this contract are really very strict about the whole clothing issue," he observed, halfway through translating it. "I mean, at least I can mark you, but it has to be where clothing covers it. Almost the entire _point_ of marking is so other people know that we belong to each other."

She smiled and turned in towards him. "I guess for the moment, it's enough that _we_ know."

**Sam**

This wasn't the first time recently that he'd woken up, completely disoriented. At least this time, it was dark. "Sarah?" he said, woozily, regretting the word as soon as it left his mouth. His head hurt, and for the life of him, he couldn't even remember why it did. 

Jaworski sat up on what felt like a familiarly uncomfortable futon, and put his aching head in his hands. He remembered being _pissed_, and he was the kind of man who only _really_ got serious about his drinking when he was angry. He wasn't a mean drunk, though; he was a quiet drunk, the type who silently stewed in a corner and waited for the alcohol to make the world just go _to hell_ for a while.

Well, apparently, it had worked. Unfortunately, as these things tended to go, it had worked a little too well. His head was still spinning, which meant that he was probably still technically drunk. With a hangover at the same time.

There was a rustle in the darkness, a faint smell of perfume, and someone sat down beside him. "You okay, Sam?" a voice asked, and Jaworski, completely befuddled, lay back down, pillowing his head on a soft leg.

"Not really," he said, after a moment. "Our daughter lost her damn mind, Sarrie."

Cool fingers stroked his forehead. "Sorry, Sam. It's just me."

Realization hit at about that moment, and he lurched back upright, head still spinning, but embarrassment and adrenaline clearing his thought process a little. "Aw, shit," he swore. "I'm _sorry_, Kasumi. It slipped out. Dara used the damn graybox today and told me Sarah wanted to 'talk' to me, and it's been on my mind ever since, I guess."

Kasumi laughed in the darkness. "No offense taken. I didn't mind being a pillow, and I understand why you're a little mixed up at the moment." She paused for a moment. "Why don't you go ahead and lay back down again? And why _not_ talk to your wife, or at least her graybox? At least you've got a nice solid cushion of alcohol already in the system."

"Didn't even drink after her funeral," he said, a little indistinctly and a lot tiredly, laying back down as he had been, a moment ago. It simply felt _good_ to have someone touch him, even if the feminine fingers were unfamiliar against his cheek, in his hair. "Wanted to make sure I _felt_ it. She was worth that. Stupid and cowardly to go hide in a damn bottle. Shouldn't have today, either. Made a goddamned fool of myself."

"Nah, you didn't do anything bad. Scowled a lot. Scared the piss out of Dara. Didn't say much of anything. Then again, today you were _mad_, not grieving. Now you've worked your way back around to sad, though. Sad that Dara's growing up, worried that you can't protect her, mad at the whole world for not letting you stop and figure things out. Am I close?"

"Thought you were a thief, not a shrink."

"I'm branching out. Stealing thoughts isn't that hard when no one bothers to lock them up." A ripple of laughter in her voice. "Talk to her, Sam, before Orpheus really _does_ become your squad name." 

"Wouldn't be so bad. Archangel, Nemesis, Orpheus. Has a kind of a ring to it, that lineup." He shook his head slowly against her leg. The cool of her fingertips was drawing the pain right out of his head, each touch a little miracle. "God, that feels good." His mind drifted again. "Orpheus would be a _hell_ of a lot better than 'Tex' which is what I got saddled with out of boot camp. Always thought my drill sergeant kinda lacked imagination."

"Or a classical education, apparently." She reached down with her free hand, and did something to his omnitool. "Talk to her, Sam. You can't go forward if you keep looking back."

The room, already dark, blurred out entirely, replaced with the old living room, the brightness of an August sun blazing through the front windows. _Damn, I never did get those solar screens up the way I meant to,_ he thought, squinting a little.

"Well, there you are, Sam," a familiar voice came from behind him.

He couldn't turn and look. "Hey, Sarah," he said, and felt the first traitorous sting at his eyes. He set his jaw. It was not going to do any damn good to cry. This was an illusion, a program, a damn _diary_. It was not actually his wife.

"I had all these if/then conditions set up, but I must not have set up a parameter for how long it's been before you finally took a look in here," she said. "I knew you were stubborn, honey, but apparently, it's a new world's record."

The loving, teasing sound of her voice made him start to turn his head, and then he froze in place. He couldn't do it. He _wouldn't_.

"The if/then conditions and the access records, including Dara's recent questions, indicate that she's growing up, honey. Probably means you're doing a great job with her."

"Not really," he replied, almost automatically.

"You need to relax a bit about her. You always have. You were always so scared that you wouldn't be able to bond with a girl, and look at what a little trooper we wound up with. She absolutely idolizes you, you know. But she'll be okay once she starts making her own decisions. You _know_ that. You don't have to worry every minute of the day."

"But that's my _job_." It wasn't the first time he'd told her that.

"I know. I _know_." The other half of the old exchange, her humoring him. "Okay, enough of that. I just really wanted to tell you that I love you, Sam. Always have. But I also want to make sure, in case I didn't get a chance before . . . whatever happened, happened. . . that you know that it's okay to move on. You should be happy, sweetheart. Don't forget me, but don't . . . _dwell_. You get locked in on problems, on work, on things you could have done better or things you think you could have prevented. Don't let me be one of them, okay?"

"Easier said than done." His throat was tight, and the simulation ended.

"You okay?" Again, soft voice, in soft darkness.

He turned a little, reached up, wrapped an arm around her waist, and held on tightly, his head still pillowed in her lap. "Not really, Kasumi-chan." He sighed, and then admitted, "But better."

"Oooh, we're moving to _chan_? I _like_ progress." Her fingers were so soothing, so sweet, and he just couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.


	20. Chapter 20: Investigations

**Chapter 20: Investigations**

**Dara**

Waking up the next morning in Kasumi's house, which was by now more familiar than her own, Dara slipped into running shoes, a shirt, and a pair of shorts, and made her way out of her room in the gray light of dawn. She stopped in the living room, staring, a little curiously, at the odd picture of her father, deeply asleep on the couch, with his head on Kasumi's lap. The little Asian woman was asleep as well. It didn't look particularly comfortable, but at the same time, it looked companionable. If she hadn't known Kasumi very well by this point, and liked her a lot, and if her own life weren't so _very_ full at the moment, there might have been a little instinctive resentment or jealously, on her own behalf, or on behalf of her late mother.

But the encounter the day before with her mother's graybox had given her a measure of acceptance for the fact that her mother was gone; the love would always be there, which helped, but the actual person was gone. It hurt; and it would _always_ hurt, but the wound was starting to become a distant, wistful ache now, instead of the searing absence that it had been for months. As such, Dara simply looked at them for a long moment, not really knowing what to make of the picture.

The room also absolutely reeked of liquor, and Dara's nose twitched a couple of times, before she couldn't help but sneeze.

Kasumi's eyes opened immediately. "Crap," the woman said, moving a little, and putting a hand to the back of her neck, as if it were terribly stiff from sleeping upright on the couch. "I meant to be up a lot earlier than this. I have to leave on the _Normandy_ this morning." She gave Dara a look, her expression odd to see on an adult face. Was Kasumi actually _worried_ about what _she_ thought, how she'd react?

"Would you like me to start breakfast?" Dara asked, not knowing what else to say. "I was hoping to go for a run with my dad this morning, but. . ."

"Yeah, I don't see that happening today. Sorry, sweetie." Her dad's voice was groggy, and he sat up slowly, shielding his eyes as if the dim room were very bright.

Kasumi chuckled a little. "I went to your house last night for clothes for you, Sam. Go take a shower and we'll get some breakfast in you."

"I find it not the _least_ bit surprising that you managed to get into a house to which you have no keys, Kasumi." Her dad stood up, slowly turning his head from side to side. Dara watched and listened to the by-play, interestedly.

Kasumi stood now, herself. "I need to get packed. Dara, go ahead and get some food started, if you don't mind."

Dara backed out of the room, and, mind spinning restlessly, started the rice cooker for Kasumi, and began cooking eggs for her dad. There weren't any tortillas or refried beans in the house, so _huevos rancheros _for him, unfortunately, but there was salsa, and she knew he'd probably be happy with that.

All things considered, she didn't think he was mad at her anymore. This was a significant plus, and enough of a relief that she decided she didn't care _how_ it had happened, so long as it stayed that way!

**Sam**

The hot water in the shower did a lot to take care of the remnants of his hangover, for which Sam was grateful. Stepping out of the shower into the steamy bathroom enclosure, he was startled to find his shaving kit on the sink counter, and shook his head. _She does think of every damn thing, doesn't she?_ It was oddly domestic, oddly comfortable, oddly seductive, all at once. It would be so _easy_ to get used to this, and yet. . . . He grabbed a towel, wiped a spot clear on a mirror, and lathered up, taking out his straight razor and beginning to work.

As he negotiated a tricky spot on his throat, near one ear, the door opened behind him. "Sorry; I really need to get in here for a few things," Kasumi told him, stepping around him gracefully and digging through the drawers and cabinets for toiletries. She slanted him an appraising glance. "Why am I not surprised that you use a straight razor, Sam?"

"If I don't, I get all _kinds_ of complaints about a scratchy face, come five o'clock," he told her, dryly. "A heavy beard is a pain in the ass." He ran the water, cleaning off the blade, and started washing his face clean of the residual shaving cream, aware that she'd stopped to watch him. He glanced up as he dried his face. "Hmm?"

"Nothing. Just thinking my towels have never looked so good, as wrapped around your waist." Her grin was quick and impish, and she put one hand on his right arm, tracing the tattoo there, usually hidden by uniform sleeves or armor. "Nice _irezumi_," she commented, studying the blue-green Nara ink, which traced out the shape of an oriental dragon; the head curved up over his shoulder, teeth bared, looking down over his chest, while the body coiled down the bicep, as if perched.

"I did mention I was young and stupid on Okinawa, once upon a time." Even the light touch of her hand on his skin was making it increasingly hard to think. It was, after all, morning, and he reminded various parts of his body that they were not in possession of all the facts. "The numbers are for my old unit and serial number. Dragon was the unit flash badge, but since we were stationed in Japan for the moment, I went with the Japanese type instead of the European one." He hesitated. "Thank you. For last night, I mean."

Her fingers moved up the dragon's spine to his shoulder. "Not a problem," she told him, smiling.

"You really leaving today?"

"Yeah, have about enough time to eat, and then Shep wants me with her on Bastion. Investigating some leads that came out of that simulation yesterday."

"Well. . . . shit." He looked up at the ceiling. "I can never seem to get the damn timing right." Sam carefully reached over, and put a hand on her waist. "Would you terribly mind if I came calling when you get back?"

"Calling? You _do_ have an old-fashioned way of putting things." Her tone was teasing.

"As any number of people will tell you, I'm an old-fashioned guy." Sam deliberately strengthened his drawl, and was rewarded when she laughed. "I don't know how ready I am for any of this, Kasumi. Fair warning."

"I have no _objections_, Sam. You might mention it to Dara, though. Make sure she's comfortable?"

"Already planned to."

"You're a good man, Sam Jaworski, and a good dad. Now get some clothes on and let's get some breakfast, before I give in and steal that damned towel back from you, all right?"

**Shepard**

The _Normandy_ lifted off once more, streaking through the gray-violet haze of an early morning on Minoir. As soon as they reached the upper atmosphere, Shepard could feel Joker shift to FTL, the hum of the drive changing its harmonics subtly, vibrating through the deckplates underfoot.

"In a hurry?" she asked, mildly, walking up from CIC to the cockpit.

"It's always safer to make up the time on the way _out_ of the system than on the way _in_," he commented, looking back at her. "And while I like a nice, long, leisurely tour of the gas giants and asteroid belts as much as the next man, I see an awful lot of this system, Commander. I'm starting to think that they should consider putting in some billboards between the outer planets, maybe one word per light-minute."

"Burma Shave?" Shepard said, one corner of her mouth curling up.

"Sure. Or 'Eat at Gardner's.' Anything, really. It would break up the monotony." He gave her a wicked grin. "And just think, in fifty thousand years, the next culture down the line that finds them will have no idea what the mysterious devices are, and will be properly awed and frightened by their hidden messages revealing the wisdom of the ancients."

"That's a cheerful thought, Joker. How about if we settle for hoping that in fifty thousand years, our descendants are still here to tell the new kids that it means 'free parking between the hours of nine and twelve, daily'?"

"Probably a little unrealistic, Commander."

"Hey, I'm counting on you and EDI turning yourselves into coded light and bouncing all over the damn universe for the next billion years or so, keeping everything in hand," Shepard said, and it was not _quite_ a jest.

"Approaching the new relay station, Commander," EDI said, after a slight pause.

"Wow, no jokes?" Shepard said, raising her eyebrows.

EDI's human avatar turned towards her. "I must admit to surprise, Commander. I have investigated the potential of shifting to a coded light transmission, but the distortion effects of gravity have been an insurmountable obstacle for my simulations so far."

"Whoa, wait a damn minute here," Joker suddenly protested. "I'm not sure any of this is in my contract!"

"Prepare for relay jump," EDI replied, and Shepard was _quite_ certain that the avatar was _grinning_ now. It was not often that she came out of a conversation with the pair feeling as if she'd _won_, but now, she did.

The _Normandy_ moved into the relay, and shot out again, heading for the new relay closest to Bastion. Arriving early in the station's afternoon, she and Kasumi headed directly for the diplomatic area. Their reception at the asari embassy was, unsurprisingly, cool, and they waited in the reception area for a half hour for someone to inform Rishayla that they were here for their appointment.

"Glad you wore your armor, Shep?" Kasumi's voice was a bare whisper, lightly amused.

"Always," she replied just as quietly, watching their surroundings. "I'm well aware that they're never going to forgive me for Thessia."

"Some of them are adapting better than others. The youngest ones, the ones who've never lived anywhere but the colonies anyway. Ylara and her daughter Kella, for instance."

"Yeah. Doesn't mean I'm in a rush to set foot on Illium or Luisa, though. The ones who adapt, will survive. They're just not used to adapting, though." The thought was a depressing one, but asari civilization had had its present shape for almost ten thousand years. They were what they were, and had never seen any need to change. Even on a biological level, their very method of reproduction, which was essentially a form of parthenogenesis, was suited admirably to continuation of a species in its present form. There were species of lizards on Earth that had used exactly that method of reproduction for millions of years, unchanged and unchanging. But when conditions required rapid adaptation in the face of extinction, parthenogenesis was a bad evolutionary strategy. Shepard knew, deep down in her heart, that the asari might not be able to change themselves. They had reached the pinnacle of their civilization and evolution. Even without the destruction of Thessia, they would have faced an inevitable decline. A massive stress in their environment, an extinction-level event, could force change, if change was possible. It could lead them to a new renaissance. But it would require _change._

Some of them knew that. And the ones that knew it, hated it. But they didn't assign the blame to themselves, to their biology, to their culture. They assigned it wholly to _her_. It was always easier to blame an outsider. That was a fact of life, no matter what your species was; humans, turians, salarians all did the same.

Rishayla swept into the waiting area and collected them, taking them back to her office. "Commander Shepard," she said, sitting down behind her desk. "What may I help you with?"

Shepard nodded to Kasumi. They'd already discussed how they'd start the questions, and she'd picked who would come with her very carefully. No males; they wanted a sympathetic front here, because this would be a delicate situation at best, if their suspicions were correct.

Kasumi sat forward. "Here's some of the data we've been gathering on AEC activities. Please give us your evaluation," she began, handing the woman a datapad. The data was somewhat scrubbed and redacted, but there was enough there for Rishayla to see the use of azure dust on the human colonists, the theft of the prototype weapons mods, and so on.

"Despicable," Rishayla said, after a moment. "Someone is preparing these people as an army. They're using the azure dust to remove inhibitions, to program them into fanatics, and I would assume that the weapons mods would have been used to arm them, eventually. I have no idea why they would be destroying cultural artifacts, but that might just be the colonists themselves, working without direction. It doesn't fit the pattern of otherwise careful control and attention to detail, concern with keeping hidden. It's too blatant to be whoever's controlling them. . . so that control is not absolute. It has to be reinforced periodically. Hence these. . . orgiastic rites." Her face became stern. "That is _not_ the purpose for which _aziala_ is meant to be used," she added, using the asari term for azure dust.

Kasumi leaned forward again, and tapped a button on the pad, changing the display. "Do you recognize this set of banking and routing numbers?" she asked, handing over a datapad.

Rishayla's fine eyebrows rose, and she squinted at the numbers on the pad for a moment. "Not off the top of my head. Let me get my VI assistant to look these over." A little drone bobbed over and scanned the pad, burbling quietly in asari high tongue for a moment. Rishayla's azure-toned face paled, turning milky. "Ah," she said, after a moment. "Well, this is somewhat awkward, I'm afraid. They were originally Tela Vasir's. After her. . . death. . . on Illium five years ago, they were inherited by one of our daughters, Lina. Lina was my daughter on her; Misira is my daughter _by_ her, if you understand the, ah, distinction." She paused. "I'd be interested in how you came to have these numbers."

Kasumi nodded. "We traced a numbered account in volus space, which handles large transactions to various AEC holdings. Political action committees, the Phoenix Wing mercenaries, and even various Sons of Abel illegal colonies, were all funded by this numbered account."

"And. . . ?"

Kasumi leaned over the desk, and pressed a button on the pad, bringing up a spreadsheet. "You're the data analyst, Rishayla. The column on the right shows dates and amounts sent _to_ this volus banking account. The column on the left shows corresponding dates and amounts sent _from_ the account you've identified as currently belonging to Lina. What does the data tell you?"

Rishayla's eyes flicked back and forth across the columns. Every one of them matched, exactly. To the hundredth of a credit. She said something untranslatable in asari high tongue, her face suddenly anguished, and put her face down in her hands.

Shepard gave her a moment, but knew she needed to take advantage of the fracture in the female's emotional shell. "Where is Lina?" she asked, her voice as gentle as she could make it.

"I don't know," Rishayla said, lifting her head. Tears had formed in the woman's eyes. "I have not seen my daughter in five years, Commander Shepard. She was. . . heart-broken, over her mother's death and disgrace. She retreated for a time. I know that in the year of the Reaper War, she used some of the funds she inherited from Tela to purchase a ship from C-Sec impound—I believe it was human-built. The. . . _Hermes Redux_. . . I think?" Rishayla paused. "Then nothing, for a long time. Only text messages for the last three years, in fact. My other daughter, Misira, has heard little more from her sister, either, Commander, and they were almost as close as twins, growing up together, born in the same _hour_, of the same flesh, of the same blood." Rishayla wrung her hands for a moment.

"Could you be more specific about what she inherited from Tela?" Kasumi asked, her voice mostly neutral, but subtly sympathetic. "Are the fund amounts that we're seeing here commensurate with Tela's holdings? I know that financial matters like these are personal and private, but we really do need to know, Rishayla."

The asari took a deep breath, and looked at the datapad again. Shepard could clearly see the female pushing her emotions aside, and engaging the exceptionally fine analytical mind for which she was so well-known. "No," she said, after a moment. "Tela was very well-off. Obviously, quite a bit of her funding was eventually shown to come from dealings with the Shadow Broker, but asari courts ruled that Lina couldn't be stripped of it, since they couldn't prove to whom the funds should otherwise be allocated. She received about seven million credits and the entirety of her mother's property on Thessia—now, ah, _devalued_, of course." She flicked a glance at Shepard, her tone ironic.

Thessia was, of course, now a large and unstable asteroid belt around its primary star.

"In addition to the real estate holdings on Thessia, she inherited a number of small homes and apartments on Illium, Luisa, and one or two other non-asari worlds. And any personal belongings in them, of course." Rishayla paused. "There is no explanation in any of this for how much money is being moved through these accounts. Seven million credits, maybe eight or nine at most, if she sold off _all_ of Tela's holdings? And we're looking at credit sums that are close to _billions_? No. I can't account for this."

There was a short pause, as they all reflected on that for a moment. "How about data files?" Kasumi asked, after thinking for a moment. "Would she have been able to access her mother's encrypted files, her data sources, her business contacts?"

Rishayla shook her head. "I don't know. Possibly. Tela shared a great deal with Lina, over the years. They had similar gifts, both exceptionally powerful biotics, and similar temperaments. Once Lina took aversion or exception to something, the attitude was entrenched."

"Can you give us the locations of her various apartments and houses, especially on the non-asari worlds?" Kasumi again, pressing gently while they held the advantage.

"Yes. . .yes, of course." She beckoned her VI drone over, and it began transmitting information to Kasumi's omnitool, directly. Rishayla put her face back down in her hands again. "Commander, if my daughter is as complicit in all of this as the data makes her seem, she is _not_ the person I always thought her to be. I knew that she was angry over her mother's death, the destruction of Thessia. I received many messages from her, expressing her personal anger at you. This . . . shaped my own attitude, when I came to Mindoir to evaluate you. But I had _no idea_ of any of this, I promise you."

Shepard met the other woman's stare. "I believe you," she said, quietly. "A lot of my fellow Spectres have been sharing with me lately, how difficult it is, when a child grows up and starts to make his or her own decisions. At a certain point, they _are_ their own people, Rishayla. I don't blame you for Lina's actions. I can't hold you responsible for them."

"But I can," Rishayla said, sagging in her seat.

"Is there anything else you can think of that stands out?" Kasumi asked then. "Anything else unusual?"

Rishayla thought for a moment. "Perhaps one thing," she said, slowly. "About three years ago, Misira received a message from Lina, asking her to donate blood for her. They're both rare types, and Lina apparently had some urgent medical need. My daughter traveled to a facility in salarian space, the Ilda'kesh-Haliat Institute, if I remember the name correctly, and donated blood, but never actually saw her close-sister while she was there. She was very upset at the time. She thought Lina might have been badly hurt during the Reaper war."

"Interesting," Shepard said, wondering why the name of the hospital struck a chord somewhere in her memory, "and somewhat odd, yes. Thank you very much for your time, Rishayla. We'll be in touch." She stood, offering her gloved hand for the asari to shake, and then she and Kasumi left the embassy.

Back aboard the _Normandy_, the two women sat down in a conference room. "Interesting note about the surgery," Shepard said. "Think perhaps Lina Vasir was disfigured in some way?"

"It would explain dropping completely out of sight, and sending nothing more than text messages to her closest relatives," Kasumi said, thoughtfully. "Let's not get locked in on that, though."

"True enough. Run a background trace on that institute Rishayla mentioned, though, if you would," she told the security chief. Kasumi nodded, and began working at her terminal, fingers moving deftly over omnigel screens. As she did so, Shepard added, "EDI?" and the blue eyeball appeared in the middle of the conference table.

"Yes, Commander?"

"I need you to run a manifest and flight plan tracking history for a ship called the _Hermes Redux_ over the past five years. It was originally Alliance-registered—Kasumi, did we get its registry number?"

"Yes, original home port was New Canton, registry number SA-998-337-7403-D," Kasumi read off carefully.

"This search will take some time, Commander," EDI warned. "Particularly for locations outside of Systems Alliance space."

"Understood. Do your best with it." Shepard looked at Kasumi. "What planets does Lina have homes on, outside of asari space?"

"You'll love this, Shep," Kasumi assured her. "Terra Nova, Bekenstein, and Talis Fia."

"Two human worlds and a volus colony? Nice. Our late, unlamented asari Spectre was branching out." Shepard tapped her fingers against the table. "The Phoenix Wing folks were going to try to take the mini-Reaper to Terra Nova. I doubt that's where they went, but let's check that place first. We'll keep it low profile."

Kasumi grinned openly. "Why, Shep, are you suggesting that you're _not_ going to contact local law enforcement before we just go tripping in her front door?"

"It's what I pay you for, isn't it?" Lilitu grinned back at her.

Kasumi interlaced her fingers and pretended to crack her knuckles. "I haven't had a chance to knock the rust off in _ages. _ Breaking into Jaworski's house last night to get him a clean shirt _hardly _counts."

Shepard gave her head of security a dubious glance. "And you couldn't just have taken the keys out of his damn pocket?"

"Now, Shep, where's the challenge in that?"

**Garrus**

It was evening now, and he was at loose ends; Lilitu was away on Bastion, which left him at home with two very rambunctious toddlers. As usual on such occasions, he took them down the mountain to the science base, and went to dinner with his sister's family.

Allardus had, as head of house, invited Jaworski and his daughter to dinner, and to participate in the sparring afterwards. The schedule was in flux for the two youngsters again; for the past month, on school nights, they would have both studied at Kasumi's until dinner time, and then separated; with Sam's return, and since his house was up at the base, and the school was down in the valley, the decision had been reached in the negotiations last night that in such cases, they could study at the turian villa until dinner. Out of a seven-day Mindoir week, three nights a week, Dara would be allowed to stay to dinner if she wished, and could join in the sparring lessons until it was time for her to go home, and three nights a week, she would go home for dinner, and do what needed doing at her own house. That left Sundays as a discretionary day, at least for the moment.

So, tonight, Jaworski drove down to the valley with Garrus and the toddlers. Garrus kept his driving on the Hammerhead sedate with the kids on-board, and chuckled a little as Jaworski commented, "So, you _do_ know what the brakes are for. Hallelujah. I was beginning to wonder, after a couple of the last planets we hit."

He was also pleased when Jaworski, on stepping into the house, offered Allardus his hand, and commented, "Sorry for acting like a horse's ass yesterday. Everything took me more than a little off-guard. Looking forward to making your acquaintance."

Allardus shook the human's hand solemnly, having long grown accustomed to the strange human custom since living on Mindoir, and the two found enough common ground in a conversation comparing the Terran Urban Combat League with the Palaven Gladiatorial Championships, that they were soon arguing loudly and genially in the atrium before dinner. Garrus just shook his head and contributed a few friendly barbs at whichever competitor or team was currently being held up as an example of pure sport, just to egg them on a bit. _I keep seeing more and more examples of how our two species are so damned much alike. Different, of course, in so many ways, but you can't tell me that an asari and a salarian would be bonding like this, or a krogan and a volus._

In the atrium after dinner, as the toddlers played with Polina and Quintus, Garrus relaxed with the two other men for while, before it would be time for Rellus to come down and start sparring practice.

"What's taking them so long?" Sam asked.

"Fifteen minutes of door-closed time," Allardus told him, calmly. "You can be sure that my wife is standing down the hall from them with a sand-clock in her hand, timing it. She'll get over it, eventually, but she's fussing at the moment. Our eldest, Rinus, hasn't expressed a preference for anyone yet. She was expecting to hear from _him_ on this sort of matter first, not Rellus."

Sam grimaced. "I can understand her feelings on the matter."

"You handled the negotiations really well," Allardus told Garrus, still in galatic, for Sam's benefit, as a cool breeze swept through the atrium garden, rustling the branches of the various blooming trees and bushes.

"Thanks. By right, it should have been _you_ doing it, though. Rel is your son; he wears your clan's colors, not mine." Garrus grimaced. "Appreciate the forbearance you showed in letting me deal with it."

Allardus grinned. "Don't worry about it. Solanna had the bit between her teeth about this for a week already, and she and I had already gone a few rounds about how this was all _your_ fault to begin with, which is why she went to you for the first discussion."

Sam snorted a little with laughter, but didn't interrupt.

"Kind of figured."

"I'm sure she would've been _delighted_ to hand the responsibility back over to me for negotiations, but Rel pulled her damn teeth by asking you to step in." The expression was, again, a peculiarly turian one; it meant that Rellus had essentially removed his mother's weapons, making her efforts feeble or ineffective.

"He's a fast learner, I'll give him that."

"Yes. Now Solanna is getting a good sulk in, because she should have remembered to be careful what she wishes for." Allardus grinned again. "She'll get over it soon enough." He nodded to Sam. "Your girl seems all right. They're both very enthusiastic at the moment, but we'll see if it lasts in the face of reality and long separations."

"Amen to that," Sam said. "Just for the record, if they're not down here in five minutes, I'm going up there and kicking down the damn door." He smiled though, so Garrus was _almost_ sure the human was joking.

Garrus enjoyed sparring; he was turian, after all. They put down the mats on the flagstones of the atrium, and it was cool enough in the early evenings still that everyone could work out for a significant time without overheating. Rellus was starting to develop excellent skills, too. His father, Allardus, had been relegated to any number of boarding parties during his stint in the turian military, simply because of his good melee skills, and the father had passed on a good deal of training to all his children already. All Garrus had to do, was refine what was already there.

He was thus fairly well occupied for a while, but was aware out of the corner of an eye that Jaworski had sat for a while, quietly watching, before taking his daughter to another set of mats. "Sweetie, learning all that will be good for you, in that you'll know what to expect from a turian, but almost none of it is going to be stuff you can use, unfortunately," Sam told Dara.

"Why not?" she asked, sounding interested.

"'Cause any martial art has to be adapted to your particular body type, which includes height and limb length. Your mom was, what, all of five foot ten in her socks? I'm six-four, honey; you _might_ hit five-eleven if you're lucky, but you're still _always_ going to be shorter than pretty much everyone else in the galaxy except an asari, another human woman, or a volus."

Garrus chuckled under his breath, ducked under a very fast kick from Rellus, redirecting the boy's leg and throwing him off-balance.

"In the absence of any volus around for you to beat up on, sweetie, we're going to work with what you've got. Flexibility and a lower center of gravity than anyone else. You don't have the strength to knock someone out, but you don't _need _that; you need enough strength to stun them, rake the eyes, and then apply what you know to what they've forgotten to defend in their surprise. You're also going to spend most of your life learning to use pure leverage on people twice your size. Muscle wins a _lot_ of fights, but it's hard for someone to make their bones grow longer all of a sudden. Let's start with you learning how to roll, so you don't get hurt when you get thrown, and then we'll take it from there, okay?"

Letting Allardus take over again for another round with Rellus, Garrus walked over to watch what Jaworski was teaching Dara. The principals were all the same, but the specific application from species to species, and form to form, were always fascinating. "Keep in mind, Dara, that everything I can teach you was designed by monkeys, for use on other monkeys," Jaworski told her, showing her a specific way of redirecting a hand, pressing two thumbs to the back of the appendage, and stepping in at a forty-five degree angle, torquing the wrist and arm, and in the process, tipping the entire body off its center. "This is the beginner method; I can do the samne thing with one hand, but hey, I've got height and strength. You work on leverage and angles for the moment, right?" He paused. "This might not work on a turian in precisely the same way. Their elbows are hinged differently, for starters, and their hand and wrist structure is a bit stronger." Sam glanced up at Garrus. "What do you think?"

"You'd need to press it further over, definitely, but the principle is sound." Garrus grinned. "Want to go a round or two?"

Sam laughed. "Do I get a choice in the color of my bodybag, at least?"

It was definitely fun. Jaworski knew a couple of entirely different human schools of fighting than Garrus had seen before. He had an annoying tendency simply not to be _there_ when a strike came home, moving and deflecting, and was very good, indeed, at redirecting forces. It was a challenge, and Garrus loved a good challenge. "I started out in Okinawan karate," Sam explained, wiping the sweat off his face after the third round, which was a draw, after the first two rounds had been evenly divided between them, "but I long since decided I'd rather go with the soft strikes schools, more _ba gua zhang_ and _silat_. I'd really rather not get hit as much. _Muay thai_ and stuff like that is for the young, and I ain't that young anymore."

Garrus pointed at Rellus, and put him on the mat next with Jaworski. Not only would Sam get the measure of his potential son-in-law that way, but it would be a good learning experience for the younger turian. Humans simply fought completely differently than turians, as much a matter of the heavier bone structure, different muscle insertion points, and different joint composition as their mental makeup. The two were evenly matched in height, something that would probably only last for another couple of months, but Sam had mass and twenty years of experience on Rellus.

The human male hung back for a while, letting Rellus exert himself, obviously studying what the boy knew, making the ability to _not be there_ look effortless, and then started moving in a circular pattern, swinging in gracefully from the side or from behind and using side-crashing techniques to take the boy down.

Rellus bounced up every time, grinning, and asking to see how it was done. After a while, Garrus got the impression Sam was having a hard time not smiling, himself.

**Shepard**

The _Normandy_ dropped into orbit around Terra Nova, which had the distinction of being the second human colony outside of the Terran solar system. It was a harsh planet, temperate only at the poles, with a desiccated band around its equator.

Shepard and Kasumi dropped in a shuttle, heading for the planetary capital city, Scott, where Lina Vasir had a house on the outskirts. Lilitu piloted them in, and then they switched to a rented groundcar to try to keep things a little more discreet, as they headed for the grounds. "More of an estate than a mere house," she said, dryly, looking at the rolling expanse of green lawns leading up to the mansion at the top of the hill. "There's even marble statues up there. You picking up any life signs?"

"None, but that doesn't mean there couldn't be mechs patrolling the grounds," Kasumi said. "I'll scout ahead."

"Keep in radio contact," Shepard warned, probably unnecessarily.

After about fifteen minutes of sitting in the groundcar in her armor, watching foot traffic go by, and getting periodic odd glances from the people around the neighborhood, Shepard was beginning to wonder if she should have picked a more discreet area in which to park.

"Okay, I've patched into the security grid. No guards. I've annotated the security log to suggest that we're a cleaning crew, so when I open the gate, just drive right in," Kasumi said in her earpiece.

"You know, more janitorial services _are_ providing a flamethrower option these days," Shepard said, putting the groundcar in gear and heading in through the gate towards the house itself. "What have we got at the house itself?"

"The usual security systems. Some cameras. The statues have a sensor web in them including DNA scanners. I'm working on it all right now." Kasumi's tone was light, as always, and Shepard had the impression she was relishing the challenge.

It took the little woman all of fifteen minutes to get them in the house's service entrance, and they went through the place methodically, not disturbing anything, but definitely committing serious breaches of privacy all over the place.

"No pictures," Shepard said, after walking through the house. "Not a single family portrait anywhere. Not a single image of Thessia or any asari colony. Who lives in a place this bare?"

"Two choices," Kasumi said, turning on the terminal in what appeared to be the library/office area. "Someone who's in mourning, like Sam. All the family photos are banished, because it hurts too much. Alternately, someone who's hiding something, doesn't want anyone to see who they really are, deep down inside. Art tells a lot about someone, Shep. What they like, how they feel, how they think."

Shepard thought about that for a moment. "_Hell_, even the geth councilor on Bastion, Emissary, has art up in his living quarters now, Garrus tells me."

"I heard. I'd love to see it. I think it would be pretty revealing." Kasumi's hands flew over the consoles.

"What does the art that _is_ here reveal?"

"The statues are all human, classical knock-offs. Either they were bought with the house, intact, and nothing's been changed, or they were bought in a package deal out of a desire to fit in, to blend. I go with the latter, since they're all arranged in groups of three, and that's a very asari design principle." Kasumi hesitated over the screen. "Well, that's interesting," she said.

"We got a lead on the Reaper?"

"No. But there's correspondence here from Pidna Tol."

"Sounds volus."

"It is. She's pretty well known in the fringe." Kasumi sat back, tapping her fingers together, mind obviously whirling. "Spy, assassin, and smuggler. Runs a lot of azure dust. I wonder if _Argus_ closed her down, when she was trying to shut down the crap being moved off of Luisa."

"We can ask. Anything of interest in the letters?"

"Downloading copies now. Don't have time to read them all, but I'm guessing that here might be some of our volus connections. . . banks, smuggling, code. . . it all has to come from somewhere."

"You said Lina had a home on a volus colony?"

"Talis Fia. Which just happens to be where Pidna Tol has a hideyhole, from what I've heard." Kasumi smiled brightly. "Care to make a little side-trip?"

They made their way back to the _Normandy_, and set a course halfway across the galaxy now, heading for the Shrike Abyssal.

"Commander Shepard?" EDI said politely the next morning. "I have some results back on the _Hermes Redux_ question."

Shepard had been putting in her usual four kilometers on the treadmill in the gym, reading reports as she ran, and now slowed the machine down, hopping off to wipe her face dry. "Let's hear it," she said, and Kasumi came over from where she had been doing tai chi style stretches and stances.

"The initial difficulty was due to the fact that the ship's registry was changed almost as soon as it was purchased. It is now registered to Bekenstein as its home port, and has been re-named as well, to _Ahsonnutli._"

"That doesn't sound asari," Kasumi said.

"Sounds more like. . . Aztec, honestly," Shepard said, wrapping her towel behind her neck.

"The name derives from Navajo mythology on Earth, actually. Ahsonnutli is a creation deity, commonly described as appearing female, but being hermaphroditic. One of the common epithets for the deity is, in fact, 'the Turquoise Hermaphrodite.'"

Shepard coughed. "That's . . . a little on the nose, for an asari. Why would she name her ship for something out of fairly obscure Terran mythology?"

"Unknown. Would you care to hear the results of the extremely few filed flight plans?"

"Yes, definitely."

"Beginning 2187, over a dozen trips to Talis Fia and Luisa, respectively. Multiple trips that have taken the ship to the relays that access all of the known Sons of Abel colony worlds. Seventeen filed trips to SurKesh, for treatment at the Ilda'kesh-Haliat Institute. Two hundred flight plans that have taken the ship through the Widow relay. Twelve of those trips out of the Widow relay have ended in the Krogan DMZ."

Shepard sat down on a weight bench. "Well, there's a lot there that doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense."

Kasumi frowned. "We know she's involved with the colonies and the AEC. Perhaps she's providing transport for their 'Leader,' whoever he is, as well as the financial backing. Maybe she even provides some of the 'connection with god' feeling at the various rites. . . somehow." Kasumi sounded dubious, however.

"Possible," Shepard acknowledged. "Why route so often through Widow, though, especially since the Citadel has been closed to traffic for two years now? And why the _hell_ does that name sound so familiar?"

"Which, the Ilda'kesh-Haliat place?" Kasumi frowned, and grabbed her omnitool. "I looked into it, like you asked, Shep. It's funded by both a salarian medical supply and pharmaceutical corporation—that's the Ilda of SurKesh portion of the name, and Haliat Armory, a turian weapons manufacturing concern. It's part of their public affairs and outreach department, I think. They do a lot of work at the clinic with repairing burn victims and other major disfigurements."

Shepard looked off into the mid-distance. "Yeah, none of that really helps. I get the feeling that whatever is tripping me up came from. . . before." She didn't like to admit it, but a _lot_ of her memories from before Amada and her subsequent rebirth at Cerberus hands were fuzzier than she'd have liked. Oh, some were sharp and clear—everything to do with Garrus, for instance, stood out in sharp relief in her mind. Probably a question of how much importance her mind put on retaining and rehearsing those memories. Other things, though. . . weren't as clear. "I'll ask Garrus about it tonight, once we get done on Talis Fia. He'll probably remember."

Talis Fia was a volus colony. As such, it had a crushing atmospheric pressure, high gravity, and a surface temperature that hovered around -25º C/-31º F, which was just above the temperature at which ammonia boiled, and rose into a gas that the volus could breathe. Ammonia being, of course, _caustic_ to most other life-forms, Shepard was not entirely thrilled with the idea of heading down to the surface. "Get in full armor, Kasumi," she told her head of security. "Enviroseals, motorized joints, the whole works. Never thought I'd see what a volus looks like outside their suits."

The sky was milky, at best, on the surface; Shepard had no idea how enough light could possibly get through to allow any sort of plantlife to photosynthesize. Then again, the ammonia atmosphere might not need plants to replenish it, although _some_ sort of organic process would probably be needed to build it. _Goodness only knows what, though_.

Kasumi found Lina Vasir's house first, a geodesic dome structure, heavily reinforced against the pressure from the outside environment. "It's a good bet that the interior has an oxygen atmosphere," she commented. "Look at the access hatches; they're airlocks."

"Keep your suit and breather on anyway. One wrong move, and a security system _could_ open those hatches, and I'd rather not be breathing industrial-grade cleaning solution," Shepard told her.

"You got it."

Kasumi lumbered out of their vehicle to check things out, and Shepard watched the neighborhood traffic. They were getting even more odd looks here, than on Terra Nova. At least on Terra Nova, they had been as human as the rest of the population; the military gear had stood out a bit, in the palatial district in which the house had been found, however. Here, as humans on a volus world, they were giants, lumbering around in envirosuits, while the volus whisked around in the open air. _Sort of the reverse of everywhere else in the galaxy_.

She couldn't quite decide if the little creatures reminded her more of squid, moles, or penguins. They had the three-fingered hands, of course, and still retained the sort of rounded, bumbling shape that their envirosuits hinted at; they waddled around on the frozen ground with a lack of grace that might have been endearing, and when she saw them slip into a pool of liquid not far away, they suddenly had much more grace, diving and swimming easily. They had mole-like noses, the better to smell with, and given the lack of light in the thick atmosphere, she understood now, much better, why a volus was more apt to say that he could _smell_ his greatness than to _see_ it. They also seemed to breathe through two openings in the sides of their necks, like gills, or the jets of a squid. Altogether, she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to see one in its envirosuit again in quite the same way.

On every other world, they were foolish, bumbling, greedy, and about as threatening as a garden gnome. Here, however, they were clearly _alien_ and should not be underestimated or ignored. It was a valuable lesson.

After a moment, Kasumi checked in on the radio. "There are life signs in the house, Shep. You better come up with me."

Shepard hopped out of the vehicle and hustled—as best she could, given the 1.7 g, which made her and her gear feel about like 150 kilos, or roughly 330 pounds. Motorized joints or not, cybernetic limbs or not, walking was a punishment. "Okay," she said, patting Kasumi on the back. "Let's go."

Kasumi flicked on her stealth generator, and they stepped into the airlock, cycled through, and shuffled into a home that was much more clearly asari in design than the house on Terra Nova had been. Delicate paintings and decorative art hung all over the home, and Shepard had a feeling that their suit boots were probably doing irreparable harm to priceless rugs underfoot.

Assault rifle at the ready, but her fingers outside the trigger guard, she moved around the last corner, and came to a halt. Two volus were in what appeared to be a library; they wore envirosuits, and turned in what looked like alarm as she stepped into the room. "Lina!" one of them said, in a tone of alarm. "We've been waiting for you for days."

Shepard leveled the gun at them, and they backed up, hands in the air. "Sit down," she told them.

"Oh. . . not good," the other volus said, with a distinctly higher-pitched VI translation running. Female volus were rarely seen off their homeworld or colonies. Though, in truth, who could tell under the suits?

"Pidna Tol?" Shepard asked.

"Who wants to know?"

"I'm the one asking the questions here," Shepard replied, firmly.

The bodyguard made the fatal mistake of trying to leap at Shepard at that point; Kasumi dropped from stealth and opened his suit to the low air pressure and toxic oxygen atmosphere of the room with one close-range burst from her small machinegun to the back of his head.

"Now that we've established our positions," Shepard said, firmly, "I believe we were also working to establish your identity. Are you, in fact, Pidna Tol?"

The volus kept her hands in clear view. "Yes. I am."

'Then we have a great deal to talk about, you and I. In particular, I'd like to know more about your business dealings with Lina Vasir."

It took a lot of talking, and a certain mix of charm and bullying. Pidna had not gotten where she was by being cowed easily, but she _was_ in a toxic environment, cut off from support, and had two weapons trained on her at all times. "I understand you've been moving quite a bit of azure dust for Lina?"

"Say that's true. There's no law against that in volus space, and particularly none against it on Talis Fia. Azure dust has no effect on volus."

"That you'll admit to, anyway," Shepard said, feeling a grim smile creep across her lips.

Kasumi stepped in, getting times and locations for deliveries. "All right," Shepard said. "How about infiltration code for banking institutions. You provide that, too?"

"I certainly provide a _number_ of services for my clients. Some few have. . . certain financial dealings that they wish to have . . . cleaned up, shall we say?" Pidna twiddled her little three-fingered hands, rapidly. "Lina has definitely purchased such code from me in the past."

"And yet, while you're providing all these services, you're also funneling money into her. . . endeavors, aren't you?" Kasumi said, from behind the volus. "Certainly, you're assisting with transferring money through the various volus banking companies here on Talis Fia."

"Say that I am. Again, it is hardly illegal. I provide _many_ services to _many_ clients." Twiddle, twiddle.

Shepard had had enough. "Yes, and your clients are some of the most highly placed in the volus government and corporate boardrooms, aren't they? I wonder what they will think when Pidna Tol is taken to Bastion in chains to discuss with the Council exactly which of their financial dealings with the rest of the Council worlds have had fraudulent bases." She lifted her helmet just enough for the volus to see her face, before re-sealing it, carefully.

"Commander Shepard of the Spectres." The volus muttered something that didn't translate; presumably a curse. "Earth-clan, you do not know what you are dealing with."

"Oh, I think I do. I see a volus in front of me, with connections to her government. A government that detests the fact that the Systems Alliance and the Turian Hierarchy have formed a new balance of power together that more or less sidelines the comfortable client relationship that the volus have had with the turians for centuries. Oh, the volus are still a client race, the turians would never betray them, but they aren't really all that _necessary_ anymore, are they? Humans just aren't as _specialized_ as the rest of the galaxy. We can fight almost as well as the turians, and have a growing economic influence. In fifty years, we'll have one of the largest market segments in the galaxy. Sort of a threat, eh?" Shepard stared at the volus for a long moment. "So, I see someone who might have orders. Someone whose highly placed connections might not _want_ the cozy new marriage between the turians and the humans to continue. Someone who might ally with an asari who hates humans, deep down in her very bones, in an effort to start a war . Someone who might funnel money and drugs and work to influence the dregs of human society, to whip them up into an anti-alien frenzy that would start to erode that human-turian alliance. And that would, in turn, make the volus the turians' most valuable allies once more, right?"

Pidna's head turned from side to side. "You can't prove any of this."

"Oh, but we can," Kasumi told the volus cheerfully. "Not that we really need to. We're Spectres."

Technically, Kasumi wasn't, being just head of security for the Spectres. . . _an oversight I really should correct¸_ Shepard thought briefly, but she let the threat stand there. _And the instant we bag this little piece of crap, we're ransacking this place for more evidence. _

"So, what's it going to be?" Shepard asked, out loud. "You can come to Bastion and show _all_ the dirty laundry to the Council. Or we _could_, I suppose, just shoot you now, save the taxpayers the expense of the trial, and just go through Lina's computer files for what we can find." She shrugged, making her voice as callous as she could. "It's entirely up to you."

Once Pidna was securely ensconced in the _Normandy'_s brig, and once they'd gone through all the financial data found in Lina's files in the small house, they had a _wealth_ of evidence to take back to Bastion. Lina's files named _names_. At least thirty powerful asari matriarchs, all acquaintances of her mother's, had channeled funds to the effort. A half a dozen volus corporations had done the same. Billions of credits, all told. "Enough to start a war, or at least to end a growing friendship," Shepard told Garrus that night, by encrypted FTL transmission, with a weary sort of satisfaction. "Still no closer to finding Lina herself, but at least we're making progress."

"Good to hear," he told her. "Anything else?"

She remembered, then, belatedly. "Yeah. Something keeps pinging at the edge of my mind. Something familiar, but I think it's from before Amada, and my memories from back in the day aren't always as clear as I would like." She looked at him, troubled. "Why does the name _Haliat_ bother me when it's in reference to a burn and plastic surgery center? I know it's a turian weapons manufacturer, but something's just not right with it in my head."

Garrus stared at her for a long moment. "Haliat? As in, Elanos Haliat? Turian mercenary leader who secretly manipulated the entire Skyllian Blitz, only to end up on the run from his own mercs when the humans defeated the batarians and renegade turians back in 2176?"

She closed her eyes, rubbing at her face. "Yeah. . . ?"

"Because back in 2183, when we were chasing after Saren, the Alliance sent you to recover a probe they'd sent out during the First Contact War, armed with a nuclear payload. Elanos had found it, and set it up as a trap, trying to lure the first human Spectre in to disarm it, and tried to kill us with it. Kind of sticks out in _my_ mind," Garrus told her, dryly.

Shepard frowned. "So why is the face in my mind not a turian face?"

Garrus grimaced. "His own people were after him for his blood, sweetheart. He went underground—_way_ underground. He had heavy plastic surgery to—"

"Look like a human," Shepard said, sitting bolt upright. "I remember now. I always wondered why he'd choose to look like what he hated most. Garrus! Lina Vasir has made _seventeen_ trips to the Ilda'kesh-Haliat Institute for plastic surgery in the past three years. I need someone digging into their records, _now_. I need to know what the hell she looks like, that's so bad that she won't let her family see her. I need to see her coming."

"On it," Garrus said, grimly.


	21. Chapter 21: Repercussions

**Chapter 21: Repercussions**

**Shepard**

Shepard had to admit to a certain grim anticipation as the _Normandy _swung back around Turan once more, aerobreaking into the transit lanes and coming in to dock on Bastion once again. It was November 14, by the Mindoir calendar, and she was pleased with her progress since leaving home a week ago.

Commander Bailey of B-Sec sent a heavy detachment of guards—all humans and turians, she noted, at a glance—to give her, Kasumi, and their prisoner a moving wall of bodies and armor to stand between them and any trouble. One of the B-Sec guards, a turian with blue-and-white markings that indicated he claimed distant affiliation with the Vakarians, grinned briefly at her, and commented, "Commander Bailey sends his regards, ma'am. Said to say he always appreciates a head's-up before you drop a shitstorm on his head."

She chuckled, and they moved out. The first signs of trouble were the reporters. Emily Wong was there, of course, and the every-present Khalisah Bint Sinan al-Jilani. But yes, there were the asari reporters and the volus reporters and a couple of humans with station logos from various colony affiliate stations, the _New York Times, _the _Washington Post_, a couple of turians. . . _Ah, the Council's fabled security at work again_, she thought, dourly. _Good thing all I told them was I had evidence to present in relation to the attack on the Spectre base. Otherwise, we could double the number of news crews._ "Keep us moving," she said to the guards. "I'll take questions afterwards, but no freebies today."

Reaching the Council chambers, she pushed Pidna Tol to the center of the room, and gestured for Kasumi to set up their presentation. "Councilors," she said, with a smile, putting her hands behind her, parade-rest. "I appreciate your taking time out of your business to hear the evidence that we have to present today. First, let me introduce to you Pidna Tol, a volus spy, smuggler, and sometime assassin." She could wield words like a scalpel, but for the moment, a mallet seemed a better choice. "She has opted to turn state's evidence in some matters of conspiracy and malfeasance relating to the recent attack on the Spectres, and, in exchange for certain protections, is prepared to testify as to how financial backing for the attacks was filtered through a human organization, known as the Adam and Eve Coalition, but actually originated from asari and volus hands."

The volus councilor was already on his feet, trying to object. Councilor Anderson, representing the Systems Alliance, had taken an inopportune moment to take a sip of water, and was now coughing. The asari councilor leaned forward, either genuinely shocked, or putting on a pretty good simulation. The turian councilor leaned back, frowning. Shepard went on, "We have a variety of documentation with us to show you as well, including banking and routing numbers, fee transactions, letters, communiqués, and schedules, all of which will show the smuggling of azure dust, weaponization of the same, use for brainwashing of human subjects on illegal colonies funded by this same group of backers, all moving towards a goal of undermining the current relative stability of Council space, in particular by targeting the current warm relations between the Systems Alliance and certain of its partners."

She grinned now, showing all her teeth, doing so deliberately. It was not a friendly human grin. It was a turian expression, a challenge. _All right, you bastards. You've mocked and demeaned my testimony before, derided it as baseless and without evidence. Let's see how you like being __**buried**__ in documentation this time._

The volus councilor made an immediate motion, "We request that the reporters be cleared from the gallery. All in favor?"

"Aye," the asari councilor replied, touching a button in front of her.

"In the interests of galactic stability, I must agree," the salarian councilor agreed.

The turian councilor shook his head. "Nay."

"Nay," said Anderson, strongly.

"Negative," said Emissary. "Information must be provided to all, otherwise, there can be no true consensus."

The rachni proto-queen chattered, and her asari interpreter's eyes went blank for a moment. "You shall not silence this song. All voices will be heard."

Urdnot Wreav, Wrex's brother, was the krogan councilor. "Let's hear it, Shepard," he growled.

"Commander Shepard has an impressive history of being right. And shutting out the press now will only lead to rumors and leaks," the quarian councilor added.

All in all, the motion was shouted down, 7-3. Shepard could almost see Anderson rubbing his hands together under the table.

"Kasumi, let's name some names, shall we?" she murmured to her security chief.

"Today's going to be one of the _good_ days," the little Asian woman murmured, and queued up the first slide in their presentation. The one with all the names of the matriarchs and volus CEOs and corporations. The slide they absolutely wanted _everyone_ to see, before the press really did get thrown out of the gallery.

The room went ballistic.

**Dara**

The past week had settled into a new routine, a new configuration. With her dad home every night, three nights a week were dedicated to visiting at Rellus's house, for dinner and sparring practice. Dara _hurt_ for the first week, which probably had something to do with adding running to her morning activities, as well, and then, much to her surprise, got past it. Her dad muttered something about young people not appreciating how _lucky_ they were, when she mentioned it, too.

Three nights a week there, and three nights a week on base, at home. She'd finish her homework, if any remained, after dinner, play the piano for an hour or two, check to see if Rel had left her any messages, respond to those, and then opened a new, self-imposed lesson. It wasn't for school; she'd talked Dr. Solus into giving her a course in multi-species first aid. It was apparently based on the C-Sec/B-Sec first responders' training guide, and it was _very_ slow going. But at least there were practical sorts of quizzes every couple of pages, and lots of anatomical drawings to help her make sense of everything.

As with every other set of young people in the galaxy, she and Rellus had quickly figured out that, while rules were rules, some rules were enforced differently, by different parents. On the occasions when Rellus came to her father's house, they'd immediately noticed that 'fifteen minutes' was not really that long, somehow. Rel simply got in the habit of closing the door for about five minutes, and just sitting and talking with her, perched on the edge of her bed, and then standing back up again and opening it again himself.

"Why close it at all, then?" she asked him quietly, over a datapad at lunch one day, when no one else could hear them.

"Making a point," he muttered back. "I'll respect his discomfort, but I'm not about to give up our damn rights. We _had_ to sit through those negotiations, same as he did. We're obeying the rules, paying for the privileges. I won't give them up." He grinned at her, but she'd been startled by the hint of steel in his deep-set blue eyes, a sign of the unbending core at his heart. It was all part of him, though, and she was enjoying learning what made him tick.

The first night of sparring at Allardus and Solanna's house, she was sure her father had started to like Rellus, but she didn't want to ask, didn't want to push, and simply stayed quiet on the ride home up to the base. On subsequent evenings, the two young people quickly began to see patterns in the various authority figures' behaviors. Solanna always opened the door on them, rather than knocking, as Allardus or even her father did. Her father knocked early; Allardus usually knocked late, sometimes allowing them to open the door themselves, on time, which always got them a pleased smile and a comment about a good demonstration of responsibility.

Rel's younger siblings had a tendency to think it was funny to stand outside the door, too. Rellus dealt with that fairly forthrightly, opening it on them a couple of times, and scowling down at them until they scattered, giggling. All in all, they didn't have much of a chance to do much of anything the first week, and that was, Dara admitted, probably part of the point. It was as much a feeling-out period as anything, a chance for both families to adjust. She _understood_ that, but it was still _annoying_.

By Thursday morning, she'd gotten in the habit of running with her father, and that morning, since they'd stayed overnight in Kasumi's empty house, rather than taking the long drive back to the base in the dark, their route intersected with Rellus' for two kilometers. It was an accident, but a happy one. She was breathing too hard to do more than wave, though. She hadn't done much running in the past six months, since her old school had put that sort of exercise on hold as the sultry spring/summer heat had settled in around Lufkin, and she was regretting it.

Her dad pulled up short, probably to let her rest, but put his foot up on a bench to rub at one of his legs. Rel looked down in some interest. "Arthritis from the scarring, sir?" he said, politely.

"Don't have to call me _sir,_ son. Makes me feel about eighty." Her dad stretched his leg carefully. "Landed on it bad last night at sparring. It's not so much arthritis, but yeah, the muscles and the tendons were never entirely happy how they healed."

"What happened?" Dara asked. "I don't remember you getting that one."

"Was when you were about five," he told her. "I'd just left N7 and had finished up my Quantico training. Had my first assignment with the Rangers, and, like a dumbass, came out of cover, totally forgetting that I wasn't wearing _armor _anymore." He snorted. "I think we told you I broke my leg, sweetie. Your mom didn't want you freaking out over your daddy getting shot."

"Law enforcement personnel don't wear armor on Earth?" Rellus sounded horrified.

"Flack jackets and personal shields only in most jurisdictions," her father told him, nodding. "Riot police and SWAT units and the boys in bomb disposal get armor and the heavy kinetic shielding, but your average patrolman and detectives don't. It's a bit of a psychological game. If we wear heavy armor, it looks like we're afraid of people. We have to look fearless, like there's nothing they can do to hurt us, and it. . . well, it works." He grinned. "On humans, anyway. Most of the time. In the Rangers, we had to wear cowboy boots and hats, and a certain 'western' look, overall. I stuck with jeans and a clean shirt, myself. There's a certain amount of tradition to it; not really a uniform, but it carries some of the same mystique. You use what people already have in their heads, and it does a hell of a lot of your work for you." He turned to Dara. "Caught your breath?"

"Sort of." _Not really._

"Okay, then let's go. Your boy here is going to put both of us in our graves, though."

Rellus laughed, and limited himself to their pace for the rest of where their routes overlapped, and then took off at his proper speed once he had to turn back for his own home. "Showoff!" Dara found the breath to call after him, and he turned back, grinned and waved, before speeding off into the distance.

Friday night was the first time her dad let her spar against the various turians, and it was _hard. _They were all so _much_ taller than she was, and though they were letting her get in close so that she could learn, she couldn't see any way to get in on them if they didn't _let_ her. She'd even gotten to spar with Rel, and that had been fun, though he'd teased her relentlessly the entire time for being short. The third time she'd hit the ground, she saw he'd left an ankle close to her, though, and reached out and hooked a foot around it, trying to sweep him down. It didn't work; he was too solidly planted, but she got good marks for _trying_, anyway.

Rellus had delayed their closed-door time until after sparring, though, which was a little unusual, and took her upstairs. His father just sort of grinned and took the sand-clock out of his wife's hand, saying that he'd take care of the timing. With the door securely fastened behind them, Rellus whispered in her ear, "No sounds. We hear better than humans do, remember? No noise."

She nodded once, and then he started lightly biting along her shoulders, even a couple of light nips to her throat, pressing her back into the wall beside the door, bracing one of his hands against the wood to keep it _closed_, and it was really hard to remember at that point that she wasn't supposed to even gasp. He was growling a little, a soft rumble deep in his chest. Distantly, she remembered him telling her how close adrenaline and the other chemicals were in his brain, and realized that he must have wanted to do this every night after sparring practice. "Sorry I'm so _short_," she whispered, teasing.

"I can fix that," he muttered back, lifting her, sliding her back further up against the wall, and returning to what he'd been doing.

Fifteen minutes had surely never gone by that fast before in her life. Finally, Rel set her down, put his hands flat on the wall behind her, and pushed himself away, eyes gone distant and a little predatory. "See you in the morning?" he asked.

"_Can_ we go?" she asked. The contract, in its multiple sections, still somewhat bewildered her.

"Yeah. So long as we go with other people. Figured Eli and Kella might want to go swimming."

"Do you know _how_ to swim?" she asked, a little alarmed. Her dad had told her about the candidate trials, and the problems almost all the turians except for Lantar had had with the pool section.

"Might be a good time to learn," he replied, then leaned in close to her ear. "Eli said they might just stay on _their_ side of the lake if _we_ stayed on ours." When he pulled away, she could see he was grinning.

"Okay!" she replied, reaching for the doorknob. "Then I'll see you at eight."

She still wasn't quite sure if her father was angry with her or not, but he just nodded when she told him the plans for the next morning including riding and swimming . . . with a group. . . followed by rifle and pistol practice. He only commented, "Pistols, huh?"

"Yeah, the range-master has a couple of revolvers light enough for me to practice with. They're fun, but I know they're not very useful anymore."

"_Useful_ is a funny word, sweetie. A revolver will still kill an unarmored person just as dead as anyone else. That scar on my knee? Revolver bullet. But yeah, not too many revolvers currently manufactured with mass effect fields wrapping around the bullets as they exit the barrel, or whatever other happy creations the folks at Ariake or Hahne-Kedar have come up with lately. Have a good night. Sweet dreams." He ruffled her hair, and that was _all_.

She really was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The next morning, however, when she got up, her dad had the extranet turned on at breakfast on the main vid screen in the house, a fairly significant change from the routine. "Dara," he said. "You're going to want to watch this. This is pretty important."

Dara sat down, and watched as Commander Shepard, Kasumi, and a . . . little volus in a suit, stood in front of the Council, and started explaining how an asari woman named Lina Vasir, in conjunction with the little volus, had smuggled azure dust, taken money from a consortium of asari matriarchs and volus corporations, and had become financial backers for the AEC. The people who had taken her, personally, captive, and forced her into a dark cave, just over two months ago now. Dara pressed her hands flat on the coffee table, wondering why they were shaking.

The Councilors were firing questions at the Commander left and right. Sometimes they questioned the little volus, who always had an answer, complete and prompt and apparently, verifiable. "Some of the Councilors look really scared, Dad," she said, after a few minutes.

"They should be," he said, still standing up, arms folded across his chest. "Shepard's named thirty asari matriarchs and two dozen volus banks and corporations now, all of which have ties to the highest offices in their governments. You're watching two governments about to collapse, honey. And we're doing it almost without a shot." He paused. "Well, without shots that anyone's _seeing_, anyway."

Her omnitool buzzed on her wrist. It was Kella, with a quick text: _I can't believe Matriarch Alliara is involved in this! My mom has always liked her policies!_

It buzzed again, this time, Rellus: _Are you watching? The Hierarchy is going to __**have**__ to do something to the volus. It's bad for a client state to do something so dishonorable, and so against our interests._

"Why would they _do_ this, Dad?" she finally asked.

He shrugged, sitting down. "We don't have all the answers yet, honey. We're still working on a lot of this stuff. Personally, I've always heard that the volus in general have had it in for humans for a long time. Jealousy, in the main. We kind of popped on the galactic scene late and got a Council seat ahead of them."

"But _everyone's_ on the Council now, Dad."

"Yeah, but the first four races have a certain prestige. Add to that the fact that we—through Shepard—and the turian-human fleet turned back the Reapers, and we're starting to look a little more formidable, more threatening. They've been protected by the turians for a long time, largely because they provided something useful to the turians. What if the turians decide they don't _need_ the volus anymore? Wouldn't that be scary for them?"

"But why _wouldn't_ they still need them? They _created_ the galactic economy, do most of the trade negotiations. . ." she stopped, realizing she was more or less reciting information out of her textbooks.

"Volus control of galactic trade has come at a high cost, honey. They _like_ their tariffs and their protections, and while some of their corporations and banks have good reputations, a lot of them are known to be corrupt." He sat down, and he was using his explaining voice, where he spaced out the words carefully, and let everything sink in. "What if you could have all the benefits of free trade with a large population and a heavily regulated banking industry at your disposal without . . . _quite as_ _much_ corruption?" Her dad grinned. "I'm not saying humans are perfect, hon. We've got our fair share of dirty dealers. But wouldn't it look attractive, profitable, and maybe just a little threatening, too, depending on where you stood?"

"I guess," she said, after a minute's consideration.

The next two hours went on more or less in the same vein. Eventually, the hearing ended, and the information was distributed to all the Councilors and their offices, apparently, and then it was just the reporters talking to each other, endlessly wrangling about the implications and the likely next steps by each of the member states of the Council, and on and on and on. Dara switched it off after a while.

Then there was a knock at the door; and it was Rellus with Elijah and Kella in tow, ready for a belated morning ride. They all talked about the news reports for the first half-hour; Kella in particular seemed almost chastened by the news reports. "I've _met_ Matriarch Alliara. I mean, I was only ten at the time, but I've met her. She just. . . seemed so nice. So kind," the girl said.

Eventually, they got to the lake, and put the issues behind them. There were far more interesting things to do and talk about than galactic politics, after all, and for the moment, in the warm light of a Mindoir morning, it seemed like none of the wrangling of the Council were all that real, or could have any effect on them. At least, not today.

When Dara started to pull off her shirt, she got a startled look from Rellus. "_Mellis . . . _ the contract says _your _clothes have to stay on. Which is, I have to say, the oddest, most gender-biased clause in the damn document—oh."

Kella started to laugh, and Rellus flicked her talons at her in a 'be quiet' sort of way as Dara turned to face him, flipping one thumb under the strap of her swimsuit, which she'd worn under her clothing. "You said swimming, I came prepared for swimming," Dara told him, grinning, and then proceeded to strip off her pants, as well.

"Did you bring your extra one for me?" Kella asked.

"I still don't think it's going to fit you," Dara told her, dubiously. "We're not, well, really built the same." She got it out and tossed it in the asari girl's direction, though, before turning back to look at Rellus. "I won't peek as you change," she told him, sticking her tongue out in his general direction. "I'm sure it's against the _contract_."

Rellus started to chuckle, a little reluctantly. "Ah. . . Dara?"

"Yeah?"

"Turians don't really. . . well, we rarely swim, for starters. And second, when we do, there isn't any special clothing involved."

"You just jump in wearing your street clothes? That's stupid . . . oh." Dara knew she was blushing again as Rellus started pulling off his shirt, and could hear Eli starting to laugh behind her. "Let me guess. Perfectly allowed by the contract?"

"Yeah. Did I mention there's a really peculiar gender-bias to the human clauses?" His voice was muffled by the shirt.

"I'll, ah, go get in the water then," she said, and headed there, quickly, half-wondering if it was going to explode in a cloud of steam when her red face dunked under the waves. She had already had a good long look through her anatomy charts from her first aid course, and knew that for male turians, the phallus was held internally when not in use; dual protection from Palaven's intense solar radiation and from injury caused by blows. Hence the lack of social strictures about being unclothed; she should have realized that, but the habits of her own socialization and upbringing created expectations.

The water was shockingly cold, of course; it was runoff from the snow-packed mountains high above, and none of them could take more than a few minutes at a time without needing to pop back out onto the warmer sand of the shore, although Kella had the easiest time swimming, since asari had a moderately aquatic background. The asari girl and Eli drifted off after a while, finding a different section of shore, not far away—certainly within earshot, but not so close that they were all tripping over each other.

Dara was surprised by just how hard it was for turians to swim. "We're pretty specifically adapted for walking and running on land," Rellus told her, ruefully, as he simply put his feet down at the bottom, standing chest-deep in the water after another failed attempt. "Very _well_ adapted, mind you. But not too many of our original prey species climbed up trees to flee us or swam through rivers to hide."

"Well, maybe we could just start with something like backstroke," she suggested. "You wouldn't see where you were _going_ as well, but that way, your chest wouldn't catch the water as much."

"Or," he said, reaching over and pulling her closer in the water, "We could just enjoy the water for a bit, and then go warm up on shore." And when he'd pulled her in so close that he could lift her up, he bent his knees and dunked both of them. She came back up, dripping and spluttering, and splashed him back.

**Elijah**

He sat on the warm sand of the shore, letting the shivers from the cold water fade, as Kella splashed back out again herself, coming over to sit down next to him. "You really seem sad about Matriarch Alliara," Eli said after a moment. "You met her?"

"Yeah, when I was ten," Kella said, tipping her head back and closing her eyes as she basked in the sun. "My mom used to do a lot of work for her, so she was really upset this morning. I remember going to the Matriarch's house on Thessia, in between a couple of my mom's missions. There was a line of people outside, just waiting to see her, and inside, it was so quiet, like a temple. It had that kind of respectful hush to it, you know?"

"So, when you were ten," Eli said, after a moment. "That was. . . "

"Oh, that was eighteen years ago," Kella said, vaguely, opening her eyes and finding a stick to draw in the sand with. "I was really little then, about the same developmental stage as. . . well, as Rellus' youngest brother."

Elijah blinked. "I'm never going to get used to that," he said, rolling over to lay on his stomach on the sand. "You _look _the same age as me."

"I am," she protested. "Well, sort of. On paper, yeah, I was born in 2163, sure, but Eli, asari age very slowly! I couldn't walk until I was _two_. Can you imagine a human mother carrying a baby around for two years?"

He started scribbling numbers in the sand. Kella watched him, and he knew she was frowning a little. "So," Eli said after a moment, "When I'm eighteen, you'll be, what, thirty-two?"

"Yes," she said, and her voice suddenly softened, and looked sad. "But I'll only look about sixteen at that point, from a human perspective, Eli."

"So, when _I'm_ twenty-eight, you'll be forty-two. . ." He wasn't really liking where the numbers were taking him. He _liked_ Kella. They'd been hanging out for weeks now, and he wanted life as it was, right now, to keep going on and on.

"And will finally have my adult appearance, yes." Kella tipped her head to the side. "I got a fairly good idea of this from that simulation the other day. Did it not make sense to you then?"

"I didn't really do the math," Elijah told her. "I knew you were upset, but you get over stuff really fast, so I never know how upset you actually are." It was true, too; it made dealing with her, paying _attention_, a little tricky. "So, for at least ten years there. . . ."

"Probably longer," she told him, calmly. "I don't imagine that in a year or two, you'll really have much interest in me. I'll have become too young for you."

Eli stared at her in shock. "Kella! How can you _say_ things like that?"

"Because it's true," she told him. "Most of my friends growing up before I came here were asari, so I didn't really realize it, but just because I don't _like_ something, doesn't make it not true." She smiled at him, and he couldn't believe that she was _smiling_. "If it makes you feel better, I promise that when I turn thirty-eight, and you're twenty-four, I'll look you up and see if you still miss me."

He gave her a look. "Don't laugh. It's not funny."

"Oh, but it is, Eli. It's okay. It really is. Nothing lasts forever. Asari know this, more than anyone else in the galaxy." She just looked so. . . calm. Almost content.

"That's a terrible way to look at things." He frowned, unable to keep from picking at it. There had to be a way to make things right, but he just couldn't figure out what it was. Here she was, saying he was _going_ to hurt her, wind up ignoring her, and she was _okay_ with it? It didn't make any sense. She shouldn't be so calm. She should be _mad_.

Kella leaned closer to him. "I think the trick for everyone is to make the most of what they have, while they have it. I don't think about the future that much, Eli. It was interesting to live in the future in that simulation for a while, but it's not a place that interests me very much. I live right here. Today. Maybe tomorrow. The day after? That can take care of itself."

He started to protest again, and then realized that Kella was staring at him, looking patient. "I was supposed to do something?" he ventured.

"Yes, you idiot. You were supposed to kiss me," she said, flopping back onto the sand. "I made a great big speech, and you _totally_ ruined it." Kella waved a hand at him.

"Well, how was I supposed to know that?" Eli asked her, reasonably, and leaned over to kiss her now.

"Oh, no, no. Totally ruined the moment. You can't have one now." There was a brief pause. "Okay, maybe _one_."

**Rellus**

On shore again, Rellus grabbed his clothes, then shrugged. "Yeah, dry clothes, wet body. Have I mentioned that the contract is really stupid in places?" He pulled the clothing on, making a face. "You going to be warm enough, _mellis_?" The swimsuit, while it covered everything that humans deemed necessary, looked wholly inadequate for thermal regulation. It did, he admitted to himself, set off her alien curves very nicely, and drew his eyes unerringly to her waist, her alien legs. So odd to see them bare, the lack of the spur structure so evident.

"In the sun, sure. I'll dry out pretty quickly." She squeezed water out of her hair as she spoke.

"Yeah, but in the sun, you burn." He pulled her into the shade of one of the _inarie_ trees, another Mindoir native. This tree looked like a weeping willow in form, but again, had almost absurdly beautiful flowers dripping from it in the spring, pale peach buds the size and shape of magnolia blooms. Its canopy of weighted, fragrant limbs was almost like a tent, though it whispered and rustled in every breeze. Rellus sat down, leaning his back against the tree trunk, and pulled her down, so that her back rested against his chest.

"Nice," she said, after a long moment. "I still like the _allora _meadow better, though."

"That's because it's _our_ place," he told her, leaning forward to bite her shoulder lightly. Then he leaned forward a bit, and touched a bruise on her leg; it was a dark blue-purple splotch, fading to brown at the edges, and showed lividly against her pale, soft skin. "That's from sparring?" he asked, his voice a little disbelieving.

"Yeah. That was when I mistimed a kick and clashed shins with you last night."

He reminded himself, _again_, to be careful when they were sparring. It was hard shifting from full-contact with his father and Garrus to a lighter mode with her, but obviously, he needed to exert some care. "Humans seem so _damn_ fragile sometimes."

"Oh, I bet you bruised someplace, too." She turned around to face him. He had his knees in the air, feet pulled in, flat on the ground; any other position would grind his spurs into the ground; she was sitting between his knees, and until now, her back had been against his chest. Playfully, she ran her hands along his shins, looking for bruises and contusions. Then her fingers slipped around to the back of his calves, and he reached down, quickly capturing her hands.

"Careful here," he told her, and put her hands on the spurs themselves, inhaling a little. "Avoid the tips; they're sharp. Plus, you know, poison."

"First-aid course says it's a _mild_ neurotoxin. Causes numbness and potential paralysis at the wound site, unless it's close to the heart, in which case it can cause arrest," she said, smiling. "See? I've been doing my homework."

"Yeah, but that's in turians. No idea what it'd do to a human, and I _don't_ want to find out the hard way." He sighed a little. "But lower than the tips, light stroking feels nice. One way our females flirt with males is to let their spurs rub up against ours. Spurs are for fighting and for showing. . . readiness, I guess you could say. Calling attention to them is kind of a way of saying the female finds you attractive."

"I can't do that for you," she said, and her lips turned down a little.

He reached out and cupped her chin with one hand. "You can't be turian for me, and I can't be human for you. Not even a little."

"I wouldn't want you to," she told him, sounding surprised. "Rellus, what's wrong?"

He looked down, then back up again. "I, ah, got a few things from Dr. Solus the other day. Epi-tabs for both of us, to avoid anaphylactic shock."

"Yeah? Good idea. My first aid book mentions that a lot, especially for blood or . . . fluid contact with open tissue. . . ." Dara's voice trailed off, and he could see that pink blush sweep over her face again.

"Yeah." He turned her around, and pulled her back to him again, so they could talk without eye contact. He'd noticed that she got more comfortable talking about such things when she didn't have to look up. It gave _him_ the uneasy feeling that they were somehow fibbing, but with the physical contact, it mitigated the unease a bit. "Not that we'll _probably_ be doing any of that for a while."

"By the contract."

"Yes. Well, sort of." He poked her shoulder with one finger. "Following it to the letter shows our personal honor, our integrity, _mellis_. Since your father obviously questions _mine_, I don't mind making a point of it for him." Rellus actually rather resented having his honor questioned, but was trying, _hard_, to remember that humans were naturally suspicious. He thought about it a moment, and then amended his statement, "Okay, I _mind_, but I'm dealing with it."

"What makes you think he questions your honor?" She turned towards him, somewhat indignantly.

"Other than the fact that I strongly suspect he's watching us today?" Rellus' tone was tart.

Dara lurched upright, looking around, very startled. _"What?"_

"I heard other hoof-beats in the area about an hour ago. Plenty of time for him to set up with a scope someplace and watch to make sure we're adhering to the contractual obligations."

She inched away, and looked around. "Are you _sure_?"

"No, but you _are_ aware of what your father does for a living, right?" His tone was very dry.

"Well, for most of my life, he's been a _cop_." She shrugged a little, and then moved back closer to him, much to his relief. "I know he was in N7 before, but he never talks about that."

"Uncle Garrus told me your dad specializes in infiltration, ambush, and close-quarter killing. Quietly. Usually with that knife we saw him using in the practice drills that one time."

That made her stiffen a little, but he didn't think she was mad at him. It was more like she was processing. "Okay," she said, slowly. "So, why did getting the medications from Dr. Solus make you upset about not being able to be human for me?"

_Damn. _But, she deserved honesty. Rellus sighed. "Dr. Solus also gave me a bunch of diagrams and some. . . instructional vids. After our. . . closed-door time last night, after you went home, I looked through them."

Dara blinked, turning back around to face him. _**Now**__ she wants eye-contact?_ "Wow. Instructional like. . . ?"

"Yeah." He watched as she blushed again, bright pink. To be honest, he could feel a blue flush tightening his throat at the moment, himself. "To be honest there are chapters on the crystal that I wouldn't watch," he added. 

Dara cleared her throat. "Like what?"

_Oh, __mellis__, there are things I will __not__ tell you. Just reading some of the chapter headings was bad enough. _"There was a subchapter on krogan males and human females . . . ."

"I don't want to know!" she squeaked, cringing, and he couldn't blame her a bit.

"Neither do I!" he replied, starting to laugh a bit.

Dara peeked up, smiling at him. "So. . . there was a problem with the, um, with the human-turian stuff?" she ventured.

_Problem? Yes and no. If you'd been still be in arm's reach, personal honor would have been thrown to the side, more than likely. _Just the thought of doing _any_ of that with her made his body tighten a bit, but there had been a number of warnings in the vids that Uncle Garrus' mere words had _not_ been able to convey. "Kind of," Rellus told her, reluctantly. "Mostly, now that I've watched it, I'm kind of afraid I'm going to scare you away. Not that we'll be able, to, well. . . you know, for a while, but, eventually. . . ."

She moved closer, and put her arms around him. "You stopped up in the meadow," she reminded him. _Yeah, and I still don't know how I __**did**__. _

"If I didn't find that scary, why would I find anything else scary?" Dara asked, reasonably enough.

He sighed. "Okay, how far did you get with the turian anatomy and physiology chapters in your first aid course?"

"About halfway. It's. . . really slow going."

"Right. Let me try to explain."

There were some notable differences between turians and humans. Turian females went into estrus once every three to four months; as a result, turian males needed to be able to respond to their mate's cycle quickly and vigorously. In an adult male, the refractory period between ejaculations might be only a couple of minutes; in a young male, like Rellus, the time period between release and readiness might be even shorter. Endurance, the ability to keep at the task until the estrus cycle ceased or the ovum was fertilized, had also been selected for, over millions of years of evolution.

Rellus coughed a little at that point. "Kind of why fifteen minutes behind a closed door is. . . really not _helpful_," he commented, looking away. Even a first release was _not_ necessarily a relief.

Dara was still blushing, but she managed to get her face and voice under control enough to admit, "Okay, that's . . . different, and not really what I expected. But it's not running-away-screaming scary, so what else?"

_Spirits, why is it so hard talking to humans about this? It is simply because __**they**__ get so embarrassed? _"The closer I, ah, get, the more my crest will flare. The mandibles extend to allow harder biting. The vids commented that humans can find it. . . excessively alien-looking," he told her, wincing.

She reached up and touched his face, before stroking along his fringe, reassuring with touch, and he half-closed his eyes in relief. No rejection yet, anyway. "Looks pretty wild to me anyway, but I _like_ it, so. . ." Dara shrugged. "What else?"

He cleared his throat. "During mating, the self-defense reflexes are very strong; it's one of the most vulnerable positions a turian can be in. Back in the cave and nest days, when we fought for mates, it was very possible for another male to smell your mate's estrus, and attack while you were mating."

"Wait, you can _smell_ that?"

He looked at her, puzzled. "Yeah. I know humans don't have a _great_ sense of smell, but you're saying that you _can't?_"

"No!" She paused. "So you can smell when I. . ."

"I haven't got a good read on humans, or you in particular yet. Your smell changes from day to day, a bit." Dara simply stared at him, her mouth hanging open slightly. "But, ah, when I'm biting you, you _really _change." And when she did, she smelled, really, really _good_, if the truth be told. "It's just hormone levels." Rellus started to laugh. "_That_ bothers you more than the thought of me looking. . . bestial?"

Dara squirmed. "Yeah, okay, a little. It's like mind-reading, only. . . okay, it's not. I don't know why it bothers me! Just. . . move on."

He stopped chuckling, and took a deep breath before continuing to explain, doggedly, "So, for self-protection, the spurs extend further, the poison vesicles fill, and basically every part of the body is ready, not for fight or flight, but for fight and. . . fornicate, basically." Rellus cleared his throat again. "The vids commented that sometimes, if a human female finds it all too alien, too frightening, they start to struggle. . . which triggers the predator-prey reflexes, which just makes everything worse. I might not be able to stop myself from using a control-bite on you. I might draw blood." Rellus grimaced, unsure and uncertain. The hell of it was, the thought of using a control-bite on her wasn't actually a _bad_ one. It was exciting. It was something one _did_ with a mate. It just might be out of place for a _human_ one. "It suddenly just sounds a _lot_ more complicated than I thought it would be," he finally finished.

Dara sighed, and leaned in closer to him, putting her head on his chest. "Rel. . . I trust you. I know you'd never hurt me on purpose."

"Not on _purpose_, no, but I've never, and _you've_ never, and—"

She rose up to her knees, and very carefully planted a kiss against his cheek. He could barely feel it when she didn't use teeth, but could sense a light pressure there, before she slipped back down to nibble on his neck. "So, we go slow. We already _have_ to go slowly."

"I'm definitely seeing the wisdom of the contract, yeah." Although, with her so gently biting his neck right now, it was _harder_ to see that. "A hundred and ten days of boot camp are going to be. . . less than fun, though."

"What? I thought you said it was eleven weeks." She pulled back a little.

"Eleven galactic weeks. Ten days a week." He sighed. "I leave mid-winter. July third, on the Mindoir calendar." It was spring now, of course; November 14, in Mindoir's odd adaptation of the Terran calendar system, or Novenus 26, back on Palaven.

"I don't want to think about that right now," Dara told him, firmly. "It's a weekend. You're not thinking about it, either."

He laughed. "Yes, ma'am."

"I'm not going anywhere," she told him, adding another quick, hard bite, before pulling back to look up at him almost defiantly. "So stop worrying about something that won't be an issue for _months_ and _months _and bite me back already, because we've only got a little more time before we have to leave and go to the shooting range."

After a moment, he was only too eager to comply.

**Shepard**

The _Normandy_ headed back into Mindoir's system after a two-week absence; a week to find the information they'd collected, and a week to deal with the Council and its backlash. It was November 20 now, a Saturday, and Shepard kicked back in her chair in her quarters, listening to the latest extranet news stories with a hint of a smile on her face. It was not every day that she was responsible for the fall of a government, directly or indirectly; Pidna Tol's testimony at Bastion had shaken the volus confederacy to its core. And the asari colonies were trembling a bit, as well.

Councilor Anderson had been a bit upset with her, for not having gone through him, and through Earth, before presenting her evidence. "I've told you before, I'm not the personal property of Earth anymore, Anderson. You're a good friend, and I hope you can accept that," Shepard had told him in the embassy after the initial hearing.

He'd sighed. "We could have prepped everything a little better. As it was, everyone was taken off-balance."

"That's exactly what I wanted, Anderson. I didn't want to give anyone to get their alibis in order. I have twenty-five dead turians, not to mention a dead hanar and a dead asari, in the ground on Mindoir." Shepard tried to keep her seething to a minimum. Anderson didn't deserve her anger. "Not to mention the degradation of the rest of my crew. They attacked the Spectres, and the Spectres are an extension of the Council—the very Council they want to use to play their little political games. I'm done with games, and I wanted to let them know that, in a very clear and very public way."

"Oh, I think they got the message," he told her, shaking his head. "Now, I've got a few meetings to go to, to try to keep the galactic economy from completely collapsing. Everything has repercussions, Shepard. Let's hope yours don't create _tidal waves_."

Massive numbers of people had, over the past week, removed their money from volus banks. The Turian Hierarchy had, in a rare move, taken a large percentage of the capital it had in place throughout volus space, and had redirected it to other venues, citing concerns with the ethical behavior of the volus banking industries. _Yeah, if you can't be sure your own funds won't be used to kill your own people, that __**is**__ a problem, isn't it?_ There were even rumors coming out of the court of the turian Imperator, that the client state status of the volus might be revoked, if all the guilty parties were not turned over to the Council for prosecution.

A dozen financial institutions in Terran space were the direct beneficiaries of these large-scale fund transfers. On the one hand, the various governments that did business with the volus didn't _want_ the confederacy to collapse, because it would destabilize their own, interdependent economies; on the other hand, they had very little choice but to impose _some_ form of sanctions.

In other words, when the scheme began to come to light, it backfired spectacularly. The Turian Hierachy and the Systems Alliance, already having the largest combined fleet in Council space, were now feeling their way towards an economic alliance, as well. The Systems Alliance had come out of the Reaper war with a booming economy and a brand-new economic partnership with its _own_ client race, the geth, after all. The quarians were locked in a sort of double-triangle economic alliance at the moment, themselves; as the geth slowly evacuated from the quarian homeworld, they remained, oddly enough, trade partners with their quarian creators; raw materials flowed from the new geth planets to rebuild, or at least _alter_ structures on the homeworld to more organic standards. The quarians also sent techs and goods to the turians and the humans, mostly for use in building Bastion, which was. . . again. . . a turian-human designed station, largely funded by those same two species. Those four races started to form an economic bloc, protecting their homeworlds and colonies from the disruption of the volus market implosion.

The hanar, the drell, the elcor, and the rachni were insular, and largely isolated from the chaos. The salarian colonies were badly hit, however; they were heavily invested and integrated into the asari and volus economies, so the Hierarchy and the Alliance, working together, offered the salarian dalatresses an assistance package and some very reasonable terms.

Inside the volus confederation, their citizens were protesting outside of major corporations, their parliaments, everywhere, forcing a vote of no-confidence. Most of them were seeing their retirement savings dwindle down to nothing as their stock market crashed, and they had visible targets within their own people to blame. Even volus CEOs whose companies had contributed funds or information to the scheme, were, reportedly, afraid to emerge from their barricaded boardrooms.

The rumblings from within asari space were also ominous, although they made for less spectacular vid footage than the hordes of little volus marching around outside various corporate headquarters. All of the matriarchs named in Lina Vasir's financial data as contributors had gone into 'seclusion.' Shepard chuckled a little under her breath. _Hiding_ might be more accurate. And from the looks of the message she'd just received from Samarra, the justicar would be very busy finding their hiding places over the next year or so. The note ended: "Should you need my assistance in finding the daughter of Tela Vasir, please do not hesitate to ask."

_Hopefully not necessary. With Gris and Sings-to-Sky on hand, not to mention Ylara, I think we've got the biotic situation covered, if we need it to be. Samarra's got enough in hand, trying to move her people into an adaptive frame of mind. Hell, she needs to get __**herself**__ into that kind of a mental state, and that's not easy with six hundred-some years of habit engrained into her. _

Shepard felt the shudder in the deckplates as they began their final, decelerating turn around Mindoir itself, and knew they'd be coming in for a landing shortly.

She picked up her seabag, and headed for decontamination. While standing under the lights and sprays with Kasumi, Gabriella Daniels, and Ken Donnelly, she relaxed, closing her eyes for a moment, letting the stress of the past weeks wash off of her with any residual bacteria.

Dimly, she was aware of a whispered, heated argument going on, but decided that it probably didn't concern her. Ken and Gabby almost _always_ had some technical debate going on.

"Excuse me, Commander?" That was Gabby.

Shepard opened her eyes. "Yes?"

"I have a . . . well, it's sort of a delicate question for you."

_That's another phrase that never exactly bodes well_, Shepard thought, her heart sinking just a bit. "Fire away," she replied, straightening up.

"You've allowed turians on board who were married couples before. You don't see that as a problem? You know, the old Terran military standard of fraternization and all that?" Gabby's voice was a little high-pitched, and she appeared a little nervous.

Several things all clicked into place in Shepard's mind all at the same time, prompted by Kasumi's very quiet chuckle. _Kasumi always said they'd make a great couple, not that they'd ever realize it. The azure dust experience, maybe? Yes. Well, maybe __**something**__ good came out of that insanity. Even if it's only one thing, it makes it a little less unbearable._ The thoughts took only seconds to crystallize.

Out loud, Shepard replied, "I've long since taken a more turian stance on crew interactions in many ways, Daniels. The old military standard was 'no romantic interests between those in the same command structure, and no more than two grades of rank between them.' Doesn't work out well when people start out married, and then one of them gets promoted faster, and the Terran military had a bad habit of separating families when a little proper logistics would've kept them together and made the unit stronger as a result. In the case of say, two humans who _are not_ line officers, and who, say, might be engineering staff?" Shepard suppressed her grin as they both shuffled slightly, "I say, if you're thinking of making your status public or thinking of asking for permission to make it more. . . _formal_. . . that you should probably go ahead." She let her grin show. "_This_ ship was never Alliance military. All I ask is that you _never_ let the personal interfere with the professional. That's the turian standard, and if you want their privileges, live up to their standards. If you can't manage that, then you're off my ship. Simple enough?"

They both beamed at her, relaxing visibly. "I don't see that bein' a problem, Commander," Ken told her, and then the decontamination cycle finally came to an end, and the airlock hatch hissed open, showing a gray, overcast sky outside, and the first breeze brought a taste of rain on its breath.

Kasumi waited until the pair was out of earshot to mutter, "It's about damn time. Pity it took being out of their head on azure dust to make them _realize_ it."

"I didn't want to ask," Shepard said, hoisting her bag onto her shoulder again. "Give me the good gossip, Kasumi. I know you hear _everything_." She grinned at her security chief.

"The way Gabby tells it, about all she can remember is that Ken protected her through the whole experience. Nice to know that even when most of the higher brain functions get suspended, there's still a little _self_ down at the bottom. The subconscious self, the _real_ person, is still down there, and she knows as a result that he's probably the most decent man she knows."

_Yeah, but what does that say about the cultists?_ Shepard didn't want to ruin the good mood with questions like that, so she stayed silent as they headed for the groundcar that would take them deeper into the base.

She entered her quarters, glancing at the clock, and realized, with some relish, that she still had an hour before the twins would be back from daycare. "Anyone home?" Shepard called, tossing her seabag on the floor by the door.

"I'm in the office," Garrus called back.

She strode around the corner, and gave him a one-armed hug from behind, where he sat at his terminal, planting a quick kiss behind a mandible. "Sorry I'm late," she told him. "Little did I know the Council would refuse to let me leave until all their analysts had run third-level search patterns over all the data."

"No problem. Been holding down the fort for you while you were gone." He reached over to the left side of the desk, and picked up an old-fashioned, heavy paper envelope. "This showed up while you were gone."

"Honest-to-goodness physical _mail_?" she said, surprised. "Must have cost a damn fortune to send." She examined it; the address was to the Vakarian family, care of the Roland B. Shepard Memorial Biodiversity Area Research Center, Mindoir. It was _hand-written_, at that. "What the _hell_?" Shepard muttered. "Who knows our location, and why is this so. . . analog?" It was mysterious enough to make her start to suspect an answer related to espionage or something along those lines.

Frowning, she opened it, and removed a heavy card from inside the envelope. Reading it, she started to laugh, reluctantly. "Garrus, you _cheater_, you read this already, didn't you?"

"Yes," he replied, unrepentantly. "I figured you needed the laugh, though."

It was a hand-written wedding invitation, in the oldest and most formal human style, inviting Garrus and Lilitu Vakarian to the nuptial celebration of Miranda Lawson and Kaidan Alenko, to be held in a month's time on Bekenstein. After five years of being tasked with hunting down the last remnants of Cerberus, alternately at each others' throats or inseparable, the pair was finally going to tie the knot, apparently. Shepard knew that you could never _really_ tell where lightning would strike, but the pair had seemed. . . odd, at first. Miranda's cold superiority and ruthless streak, matched up with Kaidan's boy-scout honorability and stiffness?

But seeing the pair together a year ago had dispelled some of that concern. Miranda had always, in Jacob's words, needed a better man. Someone with patience, someone with self-discipline. Someone who could care about her for _her_, not for her biotics or her abilities. Alenko had _learned_ that patience, over time, and could have cared less about her upgrades. They balanced each other, held each other in check. Miranda gave Kaidan more drive; he showed that vulnerability didn't have to cost her.

That all being said, Lilitu still had _no_ intention of attending their wedding. She still hadn't _quite_ forgotten some of the nastier things Alenko had said after her return from the dead. "Yeah, I think we can safely skip that one," Shepard said, tossing the invitation back on the desk.

"We should probably get them a gift."

"What _do_ you get for the biotic couple who has everything?" she asked. "New implants?"

Garrus thought about it, then supplied, solemnly, "A toaster. Everyone needs one."

Shepard sat down in a nearby chair with a weary sigh. "So, talk to me. Anything new I need to know about?"

Garrus shook his head. "Ran into several dead ends over the Ilda'Kesh-Haliat issue. Not even _Argus_ is having luck getting into their files, which really says something about the extra services that facility must provide."

"Yeah. Somewhat illegal? Slightly unethical?"

"They _do_ seem to do an inordinate amount of business with people who suddenly disappear," he agreed, dryly. "The most we've been able to obtain is a summary file, not the full medical charts themselves. The summary notes the following," Garrus said, and began to read from his terminal screen, "Epidermal bleaching and then addition of melanin, removal of the scalp tentacle structures, transplantation of follicles, several prescriptions for anti-rejection drugs, and work done on the larynx."

"So, she's not _blue_ anymore, but there's no way to tell what shade she is now?"

"Anything from a white with a blue overtone from the blood vessels underneath to brown. Mordin says melanin is only used in humans. He also notes that it would be impossible to dye her blood corpuscles any other shade, not least because they'd be constantly replenished by her spleen."

"Interesting. And the follicles?"

"Could be human or quarian, apparently."

"Quarians have _hair_ under those suits?"

"Who knew, right?" He grinned. "The anti-rejection meds would be to keep the melanin and the. . . hair follicles . . . I suppose. . . from being rejected and flushed out of the body. The melanin will have to keep being re-injected, so there are prescriptions for that, as well. Mordin's saying she might look a little blotchy between treatments, depending on the skin tone she aimed for."

Shepard frowned to herself. "Work on the larynx, too. So her voice has been altered. Why would she do that? Most people keep voice identification locks on their really sensitive files. But then again, it explains why we were able to hack into her systems so easily, since that safeguard wasn't in place." She rocked back in the chair. "I get the feeling there's something else?"

"Oh yes," he said. "There's a pretty obscure note at the end of the summary, stating that a procedure undertaken in infancy was reversed successfully. The doctors sound quite self-congratulatory." He shook his head. "Not helpful in the least, I know."

"Eh, it's a start. We're looking for someone between 1.5 meters and 1.8 meters in height, who could look human, or could look _quarian, _and who might just be piebald. Hell, she might even be wearing an envirosuit at this point to stay undercover. We've at least ruled out that she made herself look turian, elcor, volus, salarian, or batarian, so, that just leaves what, 20 billion humans spread across the galaxy to go through."

"So, we're narrowing it down, then? Progress." His voice was dry.

Shepard replied ruefully. "So much for my grand idea, eh?" She sighed. "It's a good bet, wherever she is, is where that mini-Reaper is now, too. Find one, and we'll find the other."

"She'll need access to her prescriptions to keep her current appearance."

"Were there any others?"

"A few. Unusual hormone combinations. Mordin wasn't sure what they were, other than asari, and no asari doctor we've contacted has been able to explain them, either. They're all commonly found in the asari body, but the combinations and concentrations are. . . off."

"Trackable?"

"Barely. I've got people working on it, trying to correlate it with her filed flight plans. It's slow going."

She sighed, stretched, and then smiled at him. "I've been thinking. . . ."

"Always dangerous."

She hooked a foot under his closest spur, just under the ankle, getting his attention. "I was _thinking_," she repeated, "that you were right about us needing a vacation."

He grinned. "Now you're talking."

"I checked with Earth. They wouldn't let us bring the kids. Center for Disease and Epidemiology thinks they'd be a hazard, since they could. . . their words, not mine, 'contribute to the passage of diseases between species.'"

Garrus stared at her. "Most human diseases, they can't _catch_; their temperature is too high for bacteria that humans pass around to stick with them, since they _cook_ the bacteria. Likewise, turian bacteria find them unappealing because their temperature is too _low_."

"I know. They mostly catch whatever version of the Skyllian Flu is going around, and asari and batarian crap, because their core temperature is comparable, and the protein structures of the cells are _just_ close enough. I've caught stuff from them; _you've _never caught anything from them. . . . damnit . . . but hey, if the CDE won't let them on-planet, there's plenty of other places we can go."

"Macedyn is nice," he suggested, idly. "Deep blue impact crater seas, surrounded by rings of red mountains. The biggest waterfalls in the galaxy, as one crater drains into the next, lower one. Drier than Palaven, a little less hot. Hot springs."

"And the three of you can eat the food," she commented. "I'd have to bring rations, but hey, maybe the hotels there are branching out for the levo-species tourist trade." She paused. "Demeter's nice, too. Peaceful. First human extrasolar colony."

"Largely agrarian though, isn't it?"

"There might be a slight smell of manure everywhere we go, but absolutely _nothing_ ever happens there. Which is about what I want out of a vacation."

"Total, complete, mind-numbing boredom?"

"Yes."

"Well, we'll put it on the list, then." He paused. "Shanxi?"

"Oh, _no_, no, no." She wagged a finger at him. "First, the kids aren't old enough to really appreciate the historical value of the place where mom and dad's people first met up and started butting heads. . . "

Garrus guffawed.

"And second, if you and I and our _hybrid kids_ go to the site of the _First Contact War_, it'll be a media _blitz_. No way."

"It was just a suggestion," he said, mildly, still grinning.

**Sam**

It was a Saturday afternoon; Dara was off at the rifle range, and Sam was allowing her a little freedom to do so. He was in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee, and watching the extranet coverage of the most recent riots on the volus homeworld, Irune, when there was a knock at the door. He headed to the entryway and opened it, blinking as Kasumi smiled up at him from the doorstep, travelbag still over her shoulder. "Hello there, Sam. Did you miss me?" she inquired.

"Hey! Come on in, we're just getting to the good part," he told her, taking her bag from her hand, and honestly not really knowing quite what to do with it, or with her, here on his doorstep.

She walked in, kicking off her shoes almost automatically, taking another inch off her already diminutive frame. "What good part?" she asked, as he closed the door behind her.

"You were a _busy_ girl while you were gone," he told her, dryly. "Now it looks like the volus protestors have located the bunker-boardroom of Radni Tal, CEO of Colonial Expeditions, LLC.," Sam added, grinning. "It also seems that they've discovered the grand tradition of the Molotov cocktail, although I hate to think what's in those bottles, considering that they're in an ammonia atmosphere. . ."

They stood side-by-side for a moment, watching the protestors trying to break down the reinforced hatch of the boardroom-bunker, which was located in the basement of a skyscraper on Irune. The protestors threw their flaming bottles at corporate security forces, which weren't authorized for deadly force, and simply had old-fashioned riot shields and kinetic shielding. "Sucks to be CE security today," Sam commented, with a certain empathy as one bottle shattered on a shield, flaming debris and liquid spreading everywhere.

"Looks like the protestors figured out that the door has a certain level of hardening to it," Kasumi noted, a little clinically, watching the figures on the screen.

"Yep." Sam folded his arms across his chest. "On the other hand, it looks like they got a mining laser from _somewhere_. Think anyone there actually knows how to set it up, let alone use it?"

They paused. On the screen, a blue-white laser flickered into life, and the hatch began to glow, white-hot, in the small area on which the laser was focused. "I'd say that's a _yes_," Kasumi told him, reaching over to turn off the screen. "You didn't, however, answer my question."

"Oh, didn't I?" he replied, mildly, looking down at her.

"Yes. Did you miss me?" Her lips still smiled, but he noted just a hint of worry in her eyes.

"Actually, yeah. I did." Very carefully, he put his hands to her face, cupping her chin, and lowered his head to kiss her. It felt strange—god, it felt downright _wrong_—kissing a woman other than Sarah. But nice; very nice. Soft, yielding lips, opening under his for the first time in far too damn long. Soft hands, sliding up under his shirt, along his ribs. He lifted his head, breathing a little hard, and said, hoarsely, "I had all sorts of plans for dropping by your place when you got back, asking you to dinner, that sort of thing."

"Sometimes, I like plans," she told him, smiling. "Sometimes, I like breaking them."

He was a little hazy on how they made it to his bedroom. Hazier still on exactly when all the clothing had come off. But very, very clear on how good her body felt under his, how good her skin tasted and smelled. And very clear indeed on how mutual their pleasure was.

Some time later, he awakened from his light doze, finding fingers tracing the length of his spine again. He reached back, captured the hand, and pulled her arm around him, drawing her up against his back as he did. "Did you talk to Dara about, ah, seeing me?" she asked, after a moment. "I don't want it to be a surprise for her."

"Mmm. Yeah, I talked to her," Sam replied after a moment. "Asked her if she'd mind me seeing you, socially." He turned his head on the pillow slightly. "You see, at the time, I was figuring the _social_ would come before the _nekkid_."

Kasumi's laughter was like smoke in the dim afternoon light in the bedroom. It filled the room, rubbing up against the walls, against his skin. "And?" she prompted.

"She said she liked you. Didn't mind me seeing you. And, little smart-mouth that she is, told me if I planned on getting you a _wedding-knife_, if you please, that it should be a bowie knife, to match mine, but a li'l shorter."

Her laughter filled the room again, and Sam smiled to himself. "I'm going to go take a shower, if that's all right with you," she told him, unwinding herself from where she curled against his back, and tripping off to the bathroom.

Alone again, listening to the sound of water running in the shower, Sam looked down at his hands, spread his fingers wide. After a moment, he carefully removed his wedding band, putting it safely away in the top drawer of his nightstand. He could see where it had been, of course; not just an indentation in the flesh, but a paler band of skin, protected from light for years. A ghost ring, a reminder. It would take time to fade. It would be months before he'd stop himself from wondering where it was, or how he'd lost it, probably.

But he had time. And it was the right time, too.


	22. Chapter 22: Aberration

_**Author's note: **__Made a minor change to Chapter 16, to explain graybox details that I'd omitted previously. Thank you, 6thFloorMadness, for noting that I hadn't explained that well enough. _

_Initially, this story was going to end after Vows and Interludes, and "Part II: Spirit of the Hunt" was going to be a third installment in the "Spirit" trilogy. It would have been set a few years later, but after some thought, I decided that keeping everything in the same time span would be better, and easier for people to find and read. _

_Culturally, just to state this __explicitly__, for anyone who hasn't gotten it, I'm going with "plighted" meaning "officially going steady." There are rules, agreed to by everyone involved, for proper conduct. If you adhere to them, you get more privileges as time goes on. If you break them, privileges are revoked. Doesn't seem a bad concept to me. Dara and Rellus, are, if you want to get all __literary____about it, foils for Shepard/Garrus. Elijah has his own problems and his own lessons about reality to learn, as you'll see in coming chapters_

_**Note: I officially changed everyone's ages just a bit. Dara turned 15 on her birthday, and Eli is still 14. Rellus is coming up on 16. It just worked better for where the characters were, and Sam is still 40.**_

_Anyway, that's enough from me. It's time to let the characters start talking again. On with the show!_

**Chapter 22: Aberration**

**Sam**

_One of the best things about living on base and socializing with coworkers_, Sam mused, _is that you get to know them very well. Of course, the flip side of that, is that it's damned tough to leave work at __**work**__._

It was Sunday night, and his little house had, somehow, become the place where most of his teammates met to relax. It had started two weeks ago, with Sings-to-the-Sky. The rachni were, in their very essence, a social race, and Sky had caught Sam off-guard while they were sitting in a conference room, going through reams of information from a dozen different planets, trying to figure out Lina Vasir's movements during 2189.

Sam was used to this sort of work; tiring, frustrating, and tedious. It was a lot of what he'd done in the Rangers, to be honest, and what he'd trained for at Quantico. Out of the blue, as he'd stared at a screen, Sky's voice had intruded in his mind. _Sings-to-the-Past?_ the not-quite voice whispered in his mind.

"Y'know, I'm fine with just _Sam_," he said, turning around.

_Is it always like this? After battlesongs, after fire and death, now silence, so much aloneness? All minds are busy, humming with work, and there is comfort in that, like the songs of the workers, the builders. But all are alone, each is isolated._

There was so much in that thought that seemed distraught, that Sam had leaned forward, concerned. The rachni's alien blue eyes were impossible to read, of course, and the body-language was. . . about as alien as alien could get, to be honest. "You're used to more voices," he said, thinking as he spoke. "Can this become a problem for you, like when young rachni are separated from their queen?"

A wave of wordless _uncertainty_ washed over him. If Sky had been human, he'd have been trembling a little, Sam was sure. As is, the rachni hunched in on himself. _Cannot help in this hunt for name-songs, date-songs,_ the creature finally told him. _Unsure of purpose, outside of battle. Place has always been to protect the young. Now, doing nothing, singing nothing, being nothing._

"Now that one I think I understood," Sam told him. "Just because you're not fighting right this minute doesn't mean you're useless. _Bored_, maybe, I'll grant you, but not useless." _Now what the hell can I give him to do that he both __**can**__ do and won't feel like busywork? Oh, lord, that's management thinking, and I'm not going to __**volunteer **__for that crap._ "Let me get Garrus on the line, and see if there's anything he could have you doing."

Garrus was up to his eyeballs in paperwork himself, and sinking fast when Sam called him, but he gave the matter a moment's thought. "Have him head down to Mordin's lab and see if he can interact with the relic there. . . maybe without actually turning it on so that it affects the whole base again?" the base XO suggested, after a minute. "It uses biotic-type energies, which is unusual for a machine, and I think we all noticed that Sky's mind was represented differently in the construct from all of the rest of us. Maybe he can help Mordin figure it out."

Sky agreed to the idea eagerly, and rustled off, which left Jaworski with the opportunity to comment on the rachni's sense of disconnection to Garrus. While Sam wasn't an expert on turian facial expressions, he _did_ know worry when he saw it. "Sky may need a bit of socialization help," Garrus said after a moment. "He did seem to enjoy the music at your house the other night, Jaworski. We definitely need him stable, so want to see if another evening like that helps?"

Sam's expression went a little pained. "Okay, so what you're saying is I should have Dara play piano for him till he calms down? If we're saying he's potentially unstable, I'm pretty sure I don't want him near my kid."

Garrus frowned. "I doubt he's at a dangerous point yet. We'll call this preparedness. . . not to mention an effort towards unit cohesion. We don't want the new kids to fall between the cracks." He tapped his fingers on the desk, just under the camera's reach. "If you can find something better than Dara playing piano at him, or each of us taking turns singing lullabies, by all means. But if needed, Lilu's got me trained with all the Terran classics."

"Interspecies karaoke night does _not_ sound like a good idea, Garrus." Sam sighed. "However, I don't have a better one. So that it doesn't look like we're singling out Sky, I guess I should grab Gris, Lantar, and Cohort for this, too?"

"Sure. Not sure Cohort has much of a socialization _need_, but it can't hurt him to be included. After all, influencing him is a way of influencing all geth."

And thus, Sunday night poker began. Garrus and the twins made at least a token appearance in the early afternoon the first time. Little Kaius had developed a fondness for banging on the piano keys, which Dara was trying, without much success, to turn into lessons. Lantar brought his wife and kids, and now that Caelia was crawling, she was an object of utter fascination for the two older hybrids. Amara in particular patiently kept trying to get the smaller child to walk.

And while the food cooked on the smoker in the backyard, filling the house with the smell of sweetgum wood (it wasn't mesquite, but beggars couldn't be choosers), Sam, Lantar, Gris, Garrus, and Cohort played cards at the kitchen table, and Sky sat in the living room, listening as much to their thoughts as to the music.

Playing poker against a geth was, of course, something of an exercise in futility. Cohort could rapidly tally the odds, and Sam finally had to tell him, "I want you to pretend you don't remember which cards have already been played." 

"What is the point of preventing the access of information?"

"It makes the game a li'l more fun for the rest of us. In your case, it might allow you to grow a different set of skills. . . improvisation. Working without access to a full dataset requires improvisation, right?" As bluffs went, Sam thought this was a _good_ one.

Somehow, it worked, and Cohort was intrigued enough to agree to at least _try_ not to remember every single card played.

The games got much more fun after that.

Sky never actually tried to play cards. The rachni's huge body would have been hard-pressed to fit between the kitchen table and the wall, and his handling appendages were ill-suited to the task of manipulating the small, slick cards. But he did _watch_ them, and Sam could occasionally feel a blue-green burble of laughter in his mind as someone bluffed successfully. Bluffing wouldn't have worked on the rachni, of course; he would probably sense the deception as a color in someone's mind. _Deception-song, not for harm, but to outwit, to outmatch, to dazzle another and claim victory over them_, Sky told him once, unexpectedly. _It is enjoyable to listen to. We have no concept of . . . play, of games. These are strange things._

Tonight, Kasumi and Shepard had joined the little party, and Rellus was over to help Dara with the twins and generally to be underfoot. Sam looked around his house, and was simply amazed at how many people were in it, and how _different_ they all were. He tried to imagine the same group in his ranch house in Lufkin, and snorted quietly under his breath.

He'd already gotten his first lesson in why it did not pay to try to out-bluff Shepard. As far as he could see, she had no tells. "Okay, this is like playing against a sociopath," he complained lightly after the second or third hand. "I don't know whether to blame the facepaint or a misspent life, but damn."

"It's not the facepaint," Lantar said, dryly. "Otherwise Garrus and I would be further ahead than we are."

Shepard raised her hands. "I blame it on too much time spent dealing with the Council."

Out in the living room, Kasumi was setting up a chessboard, telling Sky that this was a different sort of _game_, one that required a different set of mental processes, and the rachni sounded excited as he asked, _This is a duet, a song meant for two?_

"It is indeed," Kasumi told him, and beckoned Rellus over. "You ever played this, Rel?"

The young turian shook his head. "Time to learn, then," Kasumi told him. "It's a game of strategy and warfare. You'll be great at it." Sam watched them in amusement. Twenty-four hours ago, he and Kasumi had been intimate for the first time; at the moment, she was on her professional best behavior. _Letting me make the moves, letting me decide how to reveal it. . . or at least, we're in agreement that it needs to be a gradual thing. Just in case things go wrong._

"Sky," Dara called over, from the piano, "I saw a sign down at the science station today that said they're going to put on Handel's _Messiah_ this year for Christmas. You should go. They're planning on two hundred voices—and I think every species at the station has at least one singer in the choir."

Sky simply quivered in place, and radiated blue-green happiness.

That was the part that was good; all the various people in his life in one place, having fun, and enjoying one another's company.

Then came the inevitable moment, over dinner, when Shepard looked across the table at the rest of them, and the shop-talk commenced.

**Shepard**

"You know what I don't get?" the commander said, picking Amara up from out of her booster seat at the table and pulling the little girl into her lap, to stop her from banging her fork on the table, "Why someone would go to the trouble of all the plastic surgery if they haven't actually _done_ anything illegal. . . _yet_. I can wrap my head around doing so out of necessity, to disappear, to create a new identity. But before doing anything?" She didn't see a need to excuse the young people; they had had it impressed upon them, many times in their lives by now, that what got discussed at the dinner table did _not_ leave the house.

Lantar was the first to speak. "Sometimes people hate themselves so much, they want to stop being who they are," he said, simply. "Rishayla said that Lina was very close to her mother, in temperament and abilities. Maybe she blamed herself for her mother's death, for not being there to help her fight against. . . well, _you_."

As statements went, it revealed as much about Lantar himself, as it did about Lina, Shepard thought, but didn't say it out loud. "Possible," she said, nodding.

Kasumi sat back. "There's a certain degree of self-abnegation there, yeah," she agreed. "I tend to look at it as the ultimate disguise, though. Someone who's a very accomplished actor or spy, who commits to the role completely, would see this as the perfect method of infiltration. To really, truly _become_ the enemy. . . and I suspect that Lina's definitely taken a human appearance. As close as she can get, anyway."

Garrus now. "It makes a certain amount of sense. Human females and asari share most of the same characteristics, which makes the process easier than, say, what Elanos Haliat went through." He winced. "Having actually obtained _his_ medical records, I have to say that. . . damn, killing him was the most merciful thing we could have done. They literally _flayed_ him before transplanting human epidermis—and I don't think we want to know where they got _that_ from. He went through the same pain a burn victim does, only with the potential for rejecting the new tissues. . . and we're talking _serious_ rejection issues, because of the dextro/levo incompatability." Garrus shuddered. "That part of the process alone took a year. They cut off his mandibles, reshaped his jaws, pulled his teeth and cauterized the tooth buds, so new ones couldn't grow in, implanted human-shaped teeth in his jaw, extended his rib cage further into his abdomen, and severed his spurs. . ." Lantar and Rellus cringed a little at Garrus' description, and Garrus himself looked a little queasy. "Hell, there was one note in the report that said that they. . . stuck a _shunt_ into the bladder and redirected the flow, so it wouldn't go out the cloaca, like normal, but through a false, external phallus, so he could urinate standing up, like a human male. It was a perfect disguise, and I'm sure no one ever thought to look for him among the humans he hated so much, but. . . damn. What a price to pay."

Something about that caught Shepard's attention, even as the three turian males simply shook their heads and muttered among themselves that it would be better to be _dead_. "Once you cut off the spurs, you may as well be gelded," Lantar commented, sipping his _apha_. "Get a two-for-one special at that point, because you're _done_ anyway."

Garrus glanced down the table, evaluating the company, and switched languages to turian to reply, "He probably kept _that_ so he could at least have the pleasure of masturbating."

"Probably the only pleasure left to him," Lantar agreed, also in turian, as Rellus choked on his drink. "Not like a female was all that likely to be an option, after all _that_."

"Yeah, and even picking up an asari hooker might cost extra if she sees you have _two. . ."_

Shepard put a hand over her face, laughing quietly. "You two have _definitely_ been around each other for too long," she told them after a moment.

"Nah, we've just both been around long enough to know how the world works," Lantar told her, but his smile was a little cynical.

Kasumi picked back up again. "I'm thinking that she came up with the plan to infiltrate human organizations early on. Maybe it was even something that her mother came up with, and she just carried it out after Tela's death. And I think at this point that it's safe to say that the feeling of being 'connected with God' that all the cultists talk about is probably attributable to her presence among them. So, say she goes with their 'Leader' guy to each of their rituals. The Leader says 'okay, boys and girls, it's time to sniff this powder, sing our chants, everyone gets a new wife, and then Lina, a powerful biotic in her own right, uses the azure dust and does her whole 'embrace eternity' thing." Kasumi picked up a napkin, and started folding it into neat pleats, a habit of hers when she was thinking, putting together pieces of a puzzle. "The cultists are out of their minds anyway, due to the effects of the azure dust, and then they get the secondary whammy of someone biotically trying to connect them to the whole universe."

"Would explain it nicely," Sam admitted. "Here I was looking for gene mods in the colonists that would give them asari abilities. Instead, we have an asari who's on the inside, using the drug as it was originally . . . more or less. . . meant to be used in her own culture." He frowned. "Except, to my understanding, the whole 'embrace eternity' deal is more or less an act of love, of opening yourself to the universe and the people around you. Why would she do that with people that she hated? How would she be able to conceal her hate from them?"

Sky interjected, _Asari songs powerful. Chords might deafen those already subjected to much noise. _

"There's that," Gris agreed, speaking for the first time. "Get a lot of background noise in a biotic's mind, and we get confused, can't focus our abilities. Same thing happens to a regular person's mind. That azure dust is the background noise, like listening to someone operate construction equipment. Start playing Expel 10 right in someone's right ear while a pneumatic drill is hammering away in the other, and _you_ tell me how much of either you're going to hear."

"That could explain how she hides it," Sam agreed. "Doesn't explain how she could stand to open herself up to them. It's not a one-way process, right? It's an _exchange_."

"That brings us back to self-hate, though, doesn't it?" Lantar argued. "She hates them, but she hates herself, too, and if doing something like that dirties her, maybe she figures it's nothing more than she deserves, on some level."

"That level of self-hatred doesn't just appear overnight," Kasumi objected. "It would take something more than just not being in the right place at the right time to set up that degree of self-loathing. Well, in a human, anyway. I'm not an expert on asari psychology."

Shepard folded her hands in front of her, putting her chin on her interlaced hands. _What was it that Garrus said. . . not just about Haliat, although that's part of it? What did he say yesterday, when I got home, about Lina's various surgical procedures? Something stood out. Something was odd. . . ._

"Oh. . . hell. Hell, hell, _hell_," Shepard said, and as every head at the table swiveled towards her, she realized that she was talking out loud. "I'm right on the very edge of an idea here," she said. "We know that the surgery on Lina was _extensive_. Maybe not as extensive as what Haliat had done, but close. Seventeen visits in three years? That's a lot more than hair and skin; that suggests serious reconstruction went on. We know her voice was altered through larynx adjustments, but we're not sure of why. We also know that _some_ medical procedure carried out in infancy was _reversed_." She bounced Amara on her knee, looking down at the little girl. "Now, most surgeries on kids are for damn good medical reasons," she commented. "We've been holding off on the proventricular valve surgery on Amara here because we're hoping she'll outgrow it. Something that someone would want _reversed_ as an adult. . . that's something else entirely."

She looked off into the mid-distance for a moment. _Amara, sweetie, if we have it done, it'll be done because there's no other options. That much, I can promise you._ "That all being said," she went on, slowly, "Let's talk about the Leader of the cultists. We know he's human. Did we ever get even a rough physical description of him, Jaworski?"

Sam sat up, frowning. "Yeah," he said. "About 1.8 meters tall, or roughly five foot eleven. Long, reddish-brown hair. Tan, as if he's outside a lot. Light beard. Most of the women made a point of saying he was the most beautiful man they'd ever seen. Big blue eyes." He rolled his own. "From the composite sketches we've gotten, he looks a little effeminate to me. Fine-boned. Sort of a cross between Jesus and something out of Japanese anime, a real pretty boy."

"_Bishonen_," Kasumi correctly lightly. "Some women _like_ that sort of thing, Sam." She looked up and across the table at Jaworski, and Shepard watched his eyebrows go up.

"_Do_ they now?"

"Hey, there's _no_ accounting for taste," Kasumi told him, still smiling.

Shepard tapped her fingers on the table as Amara, tired now, put her head down on her mother's shoulder, trying to get comfortable. Kaius raised his arms towards Garrus appealingly, and was picked up in turn. "We know that the Leader alone of all the men doesn't take any wives from among the population," she said, slowly.

Kasumi nodded. "Sam even pointed out how that was odd, a few weeks ago. Doesn't fit the pattern of abuse of power."

Jaworski slapped his palms down on the table, and beside her, she could feel Garrus shifting forward, as the idea hit him at the same time. She turned to her husband. "Garrus, just a moment ago, you said that Elanos Haliat had—"

"An external phallus added," he said. "Lina Vasir isn't posing as a human female."

"She's posing as a human male," Lantar said.

"Lina Vasir _is_ the Leader," Shepard said. "I'd put money on it."

Kasumi groaned, and put her head down on the table for a moment. "Even the name of the _ship_! Shep, she named her ship something out of Native American mythology. It always bothered me; it didn't fit the pattern of the Christian fundamentalist front. But _Ahsonnutli_?"

"The Turquoise Hermaphodite," Shepard said, with a sigh. "I _did_ say that was a little too on the nose for an asari."

Cohort spoke for the first time. "If this speculation is correct, then we can consolidate our efforts in terms of locating the whereabouts of Lina Vasir," the geth stated. "We can use what is known of 'Leader's' movements as a subset of Lina's, and establish more accurate parameters for our searches."

By now, Amara had fallen asleep against Shepard's shoulder, and she looked down at her daughter with a bemused sort of smile. "She _never_ does this for me," she told everyone at the table. "It's nice just to get to hold one of them when they're _not_ wiggling around like a worm on a hook."

"To be fair, they like sitting on you when they're sick," Garrus told her, standing up, Kaius unconscious on his shoulder.

"Only because I'm a few degrees cooler, and I'm sure I feel like an ice pack when they're running a fever," she told him, and they took their kids to another room, to lay them down on a bed, out of earshot of the rest of the party.

Drawing the covers up over their sleeping forms, Garrus paused. "Why does it feel like we're missing something?"

"We are," she said. "I feel like I should call Rishayla and ask about that mystery surgery in Lina's infancy. We know that asari genetics can throw out odd sports and mutations, much as they try to suppress it. Ardat-Yakshi, for instance." She shivered, as she always did, at the mere thought.

"You think Lina's one?"

"Possibly. Or something else." She shivered again. "I _hate_ the thought of running into another Morinth." _My will was so damned close to breaking._

He put a hand on her shoulder. "I had the shot lined up. If she'd so much as laid a finger on you, she'd have been dead." Garrus' eyes were inhuman as he added, "And if Morinth had hurt you, Samarra would have died beside her daughter." He cleared his throat. "Not that you should probably mention it to her."

"I probably don't need to. You made your feelings on the matter _very_ clear at the time." Lilitu leaned into him for a moment. "What if this Lina has the same domination powers? What if she can affect more than one person at a time, or can leave imprints in someone's mind that stay there for long periods, without her needing to exert constant control?"

"Now you're just borrowing trouble," he told her softly, reaching up to rub the back of her neck, tangling his fingers in her hair. "Those all might be possible, sure. But none of them could involve surgery as an infant. I mean, I'm fairly sure lobotomies aren't much done on babies. Call it a hunch."

She snorted a little, then took his hand. "Let's get back to the others," she told him. "These are a good idea, by the way. You think Sky seems to be handling the stress of separation from his own kind better as a result?"

"Definitely. And he's working with Mordin in the lab with that device on a daily basis now. Gives him something to do."

"Yeah, kids aren't the only people you need to keep occupied. Idle hands, you know." She paused at the door. "Think we need to do anything similar for Gris? A bored krogan is a dangerous thing."

Garrus chuckled. "Already got it covered. Was listening to the kids talk last week, and Elijah was going on about a krogan classmate they have. Ulluthyr Mazz, apparently. Real discipline problems with the teachers—go figure. I told Gris it might be good a good prospective shaman thing to do, to go talk to the kid and his father."

"The kid _knows_ who his father is? Unusual."

"Unusual isn't the half of it. The father's a scientist, and a pretty decent one. Got exiled from his clan for not doing 'useful' work twelve years ago. Wasn't building weapons, in other words."

Shepard blinked. "And he's here at the science station because he studies _what_ exactly_ . . . _?"

"Agronomy, actually. Difficult growing conditions. He's on Allardus' team, part of the effort to integrate levo and dextro plants into the same environment. Allardus' explanation went a little over my head, but Ulluthyr Kanar works at the microbial level, getting all the little bacteria that promote soil formation to get along together, no matter their chemical affinities."

"_Damn_." Shepard was more than a little stunned. "Wrex would give a major body part for someone like that."

"Gris said the same thing. Also said it explained why his son was with him; the females of clan Ulluthyr would have seen his offspring as being potentially as 'weak' as the father. Gris is . . . working the problem." Garrus grinned. "You always said you wanted the Spectres to feel connected to their little community here, Lilu. It's happening."

_About damn time, too_.

**Sam**

The part broke up an hour or two later; Gris and Sky left first, followed by Cohort, who paused in the doorway, cocking his head to the side. "Thank you, Jaworski-Spectre," the geth said, after a moment. "You take special effort to include us in the unit, to integrate us. We thank you. The data these gatherings provide are. . . illuminating."

"How's that?" Sam asked, in the middle of getting a load of organic garbage ready for the compost heap in the garden.

"Rachni and geth similar in many ways. Both communal. But where this platform can retain a community within it, self-sufficient, rachni cannot. Require social connection, mental connection. Sings-to-the-Sky benefits greatly from these gatherings. Gris-Spectre does, as well, although we suspect he would deny it. Krogan culture is clan-oriented. Even when not on Tuchanka, krogan are pack or clan-directed, staying in mercenary groups or 'krannts.' They do not prosper alone. All species. . . require integration. It is. . . interesting, to compare and contrast how they achieve it, particularly in such a mixed setting."

"It is, at that," Sam agreed. "How do you see the rest of us and our. . . integration?"

"Humans and turians? Strong family affiliations. This begins with mates, children, but ability to adapt definition of family very strong in both species. The family can become the unit, the organization. Flexible but strong. Achieve consensus through this, minds beginning to work as one. We saw it demonstrated clearly here tonight. Many minds, working in unison. Not as fast as geth processing, but insight, intuition, linking disparate datasets. Most intriguing." The geth nodded slightly, and left.

Dara came into the kitchen, carrying a stack of plates, carefully, and set them down in the sink, before starting to run water for them. "Nah, sweetie, we'll actually break down and use the dishwasher tonight," he told her. "When it's more than just you and me, it's actually worthwhile."

"Okay," she said, smiling. "I wasn't really looking forward to washing all these, after all."

They started loading up the machine. "I trust you know that everything you heard at dinner tonight is between you, me, and the lamppost?" he said. It wasn't really a question.

"I know, Dad," she answered calmly. "Same rules as when you were investigating crimescenes, and needed to talk out at dinner. No talking about it outside of the house."

"Good girl." He paused. "Do you mind playing so much for Sky, and riding herd on the twins?"

She looked at him blankly. "No, Dad. Sky's nice." Dara laughed, suddenly, looking bemused. "Three months ago, I was scared when I first met _Lantar_. Now I don't even think a rachni is scary." She shook her head. "Even if I _wanted_ to talk to the kids from back home when they write me, I'm not sure I could explain that to them if I tried."

Sam grinned, thinking of how Sky sang in battle, keening in their minds, flinging groups of enemies into the air so that Gris could bat them away biotically or with a shotgun blast. "Sky is _plenty_ scary, sweetie, but only when he wants to be." Jaworski paused. "What kids? People from back home are writing you?"

She shrugged. "Yeah, a couple of the kids from the old school wrote after the funerals, because they saw me on the extranet. I didn't write back. Felt too much like they were vultures. Couple of other ones this week, too. Don't know why. They never talked to me when I was _there_, so. . . "

"I'll want to take a look at those. You haven't answered them, right?" It could be nothing more than kids being kids, but it could also be an information-gathering probe. He made a mental note to mention this to Garrus, Lantar, and Kasumi, just in case.

Dara shook her head, puzzled. "If they couldn't be bothered to talk to me when I lived there, why should I talk to them _now_?"

"Eh, I don't know. Some people might feel important, or popular. That's an important motivation for some people."

She made a face. "No, I think I figured out a long time ago that I'll never be popular, Dad." Dara finished putting the last dish in its slot, and reached for the soap. "Eli likes being needed, likes being the person that other people rely on. Sort of like you said. . . people like feeling important. That's why he plays so much handball right now. Kella needs other people to like her, too. Sometimes I can see her changing her answer to what she thinks I'll like her better for." Dara's expression was a little sad as she looked up. "I keep telling her she'll still be my friend even if we disagree, but I don't think she understands that. She's scared, I guess."

_I'm getting all kinds of xenopsychology lessons tonight_. _And the funniest thing is, they all make sense to me, _Sam thought, amused. "And Rel? Does he change his answers?"

"No. Never. Sometimes he'll change _how_ he says it, so he can make me understand it better, but it's always what he really thinks." She set the timer, and the machine started to churn quietly. "Oops, I forgot all the glasses out in the living room."

"There's no room anyway. Bring 'em on in here, and we'll wash them separately."

"Okay," she said, and off she went, brushing past Rellus with a smile as he, Garrus, and Shepard came through into the kitchen on their way to the door, the parents carrying their sleeping twins over their shoulders.

"Kind of late for you to be going back down to the science station," Sam told Rellus, not unkindly.

"I'm staying with Uncle Garrus and Aunt Lilu tonight," the young man replied with a quick smile. "Thank you for dinner. I've never had _apatarae _cooked like that before, but it's really _good_."

Sam had taken one look at the large, slightly blue-tinged roast with its striations of white fat that Dara had brought back from the butcher shop, shaken his head, and decided to slow-cook it and try to make a brisket out of it. The results had been so tender that they'd fallen off the large, odd-shaped bone, and had gotten enthusiastic reviews from all the turians present.

"Plus, the organic residue from the sweetgum smoke on the meat is probably a good, mild exposure to levo-strain foods for you," Garrus told Rellus lightly. "No tingling, shortness of breath?"

Rellus shook his head, and Sam slapped his forehead, feeling absolutely _stupid_ all of a sudden. "Shit. I didn't even _think_ of that."

Garrus smiled. "That's why we carry epi-tabs everywhere. But, you figure out what your body, personally can handle, and with enough practice and exposure, you wind up being able to adapt to a surprising number of things."

"Still wish I could drink _apha_," Shepard commented, hefting Amara higher on her shoulder. "It smells _damned_ good. Much better than coffee, and coffee smells ten times better than it tastes. Anyhow, thanks for dinner, Sam. Same time next week. . . if we're all here, that is."

And off they went, which just left Kasumi, who slipped into the kitchen and slid her arms around his waist from behind. 'So," he said, grinning, "some women have a thing for pretty boys, do they?"

She chuckled. "I'm not one of them."

"I was thinkin' that if that were the case, you'd have had to put a bag over my head." He pulled her around in front of him, grinning down at her. "Probably over the rest of me, too."

She slid her hands up his forearms, over his biceps, to his shoulders, fingers lingering, appreciating. "No one would ever mistake you for anything other than what you are, Sam," she told him, smiling.

"Good. I think." He leaned down, and gave her a quick kiss, mindful that Dara was out in the living room. If he expected his daughter to follow the rules, he had to follow similar ones. It was just the way life worked. "I really would like to take you to dinner this week, Kasumi. Work permitting."

"Let's say. . . Thursday," she said, after a moment. "Gardner's?"

"Sounds like a plan," he said, and walked her to the door with reluctance.

**Shepard**

She had three teams currently scrubbing the data on Lina/Leader's filed flight plans, trying to figure out if there were other bases of operation that might be hidden out there, trying to tease correlations out of the information. That left Shepard herself at loose ends, or at least as much as she could be, since she still had to go through a stack of reports that were leftover from her absence. Garrus had taken care of the bulk of the issues, but there were a variety of things that needed her signature and her approval.

After two hours of paperwork, Shepard was more than ready to take a break. "Kasumi, could you get me a secure FTL line to Hagalaz?" she asked into her comm.

"Sure thing, Shep," her security chief replied. Kasumi was almost always a mix of happy serenity and laughter, but she'd definitely seemed more . . . _up _. . . somehow, the last few days.

"You're definitely chipper today."

"It's been a good couple of days." A cat in the cream couldn't have sounded more content.

Shepard stared at Kasumi on the screen. "Okay, what did you steal?" Lilu's lips twitched. "If there's a Monet in your house next time I come over to visit, you _will_ be returning it."

Kasumi laughed, the sound ringing clearly, like a bell. "No, no, nothing like that."

"No Statue of Liberty head, no Ming dynasty vases, no prized salarian cultural artifacts?"

"No, I promise." The wicked little smile continued, however, unabated.

"Okay then." Shepard let the teasing go. "We got that channel available?"

"Yeah. Patching you through to Argus."

Liara T'soni's face appeared on the screen. "Shepard," she said, with a smile. "What can I do for you?"

"Let me at least get the social pleasantries done, first, before I start asking the work-related questions," Lilu replied. "How's Feron?"

"Doing very well. Chasing our daughter around the nursery right now, I expect. It's almost her bedtime."

Liara's pregnancy had come as a surprise; being only a little over a hundred and twenty years of age, she was solidly in the maiden stage of life, not the matron stage, and as such, there had been some complications that had needed the intervention of a skilled physician. Mordin Solus had attended at the birth, and the little girl, Fiara, had needed surgery and to be kept in an incubator for the first three months of her life.

"I'm glad Fiara's doing so much better. Her last pictures were great. So much more _person_ in there now."

"I know." Liara's smile was proud.

"Now, for the work stuff. . ." Shepard sighed. "I've already asked Mordin this, and he has no idea, which, in itself, sort of _scares_ me, to be honest. Liara, are you aware of any medical condition that asari can have at birth that requires surgical intervention?"

"Other than the heart problem that Fiara had? It's rare, and usually only happens when the mother is too young, and has insufficient nutrient and hormonal flow for the developing child." Liara frowned. "I'm not a _medical_ doctor, but I know that there are physical deformities, similar to a human's cleft palate, which can also be repaired at birth, if they're not caught and repaired in the womb, which is always considered preferable by our doctors."

"Yes, but repairing a cleft palate isn't something you'd want _reversed_ as an adult," Shepard said, frowning.

"You're quite caught on that statement from that summary in the medical reports, aren't you?"

"I think it's probably important. I think it might be the key to understanding Lina Vasir's psychology."

"I'll see what my medical contacts can come up with, but I can't promise anything." Liara hesitated. "I should point out that I'm picking up an increase in chatter."

"From whom, and regarding what?"

"A fair number of batarian mercenary groups have recently been hired. For what and by whom, no one seems to know, but they're being moved. While the Council froze all of Lina's assets. . . that we could _find_. . . that doesn't mean that she's out of resources. Be careful, Shepard."

"I always am. Anything else?"

"There's increased AEC chatter as well. They didn't like the implication that they've had their fears and prejudices manipulated by a non-human. On the one hand, that plays into their pre-existing hate for aliens, and gives it a sort of confirmation. On the other hand, the thought that they've been _deceived_ doesn't work for their mentality. They don't believe you, and there's hints that they'll be moving against you. Somehow." Liara's expression was tired. "I'm not sure how they think they will. They keep using the phrase 'lone gunman.'"

"Yeah, that's a common one in human parlance. Means they want to try to motivate their member base, get someone to try to assassinate me of their own accord, without visible orders being given. That way, it's just one crazy guy, and not a conspiracy." Shepard could feel her expression harden into a grim mask. "Not a surprise, really, and no more precautions we can take, short of living inside a concrete bunker."

"And we've seen this week how well that's been going for the volus CEOs." Liara didn't joke often, but that one caught Lilu off-guard, and she laughed.

"Give my love to Feron and Fiara," she said, once the chuckles died off.

"Give mine to Garrus and the twins."

Shepard cut the connection, and sat, tapping her hand on her desk. "What the hell," she said, after a long moment, and arranged to call Rishayla on Bastion.

It took a half-hour for the asari to call her back; when she did, the analyst looked downright haggard. "Thank you for returning my call," Shepard told her, with some empathy. "It's been a hard week for you."

"It has," Rishayla replied, with dignity. "Misira came to visit, at least, so we at least have each other. We are definitely _not_ talking to the galactic press about my. . . other daughter's activities." She lifted her head, and faced the camera squarely. "I do not suppose, Commander Shepard, that you merely called to inquire into my health."

"No, I'm afraid not," Shepard admitted. "I actually wanted to ask a question about _Lina's_ health. We've found some information—not a lot, but some—about the operations she needed Misira's blood for, years ago. One of the doctors noted that a surgical procedure undertaken in infancy was reversed successfully. Do you know anything about that?"

Rishayla looked confused. "Tela was very concerned when Lina was born. I was very involved with caring for Misira, myself, and it didn't strike me as odd at the time that Tela wanted to bond with the daughter of her own flesh as much as I wished to bond with mine. I do know that she said there was a minor deformity. Easily corrected. She seemed embarrassed by it. Many asari _are_ embarrassed by physical imperfections, I'm afraid, Commander Shepard. When one has a thousand years of good health and grace to look forward to, anything that mars that perfection is. . . unseemly. Disturbing."

Shepard nodded, absorbing the information. "Do you have any idea why she'd be taking hormone supplements?" she asked.

Rishayla blinked again. "Which ones?" she asked.

Shepard read off the list; allogen, emerogen, and kelagen. All were foreign to her, but then, she wasn't asari. Rishayla shook her head. "I'm not a medical doctor," she said, after a moment. "But allogen is commonly used to prevent conception, much as progesterone is used in humans. It tricks the body into believing itself to be already pregnant, in essence. Emerogen is different; it helps regulate our emotional states. Someone with increased emerogen will tend to be more aggressive."

"Like testosterone?"

"I. . . believe so. Although, since we do not have sexual dimorphism, as you do, the analogy is not quite complete." Rishayla frowned. "And kelagen is a pleasure hormone, released generally during mating. That list. . . does not really make sense."

"Very little about any of this has made sense so far, Rishayla. Thank you very much for your time. I'll be in touch."

Shepard exhaled as the comm channel closed. _Now what the hell does it all mean?_

By mid-afternoon, she was pacing, and, catching herself in the nervous release of energy, opted to head down to Mordin's lab, where he and Sky were still working with the cylinder-simulator. "Sky's biotic abilities appear to match up fairly well with the artifact," Mordin told her, eyes focused on absolutely nothing in front of him, as far as she could tell. "He is able to use his projective ability, which he uses in combat to facilitate communications between squadmates, to allow me to see what the simulator currently projects." He turned his head at last, blinking at Shepard. "Could have used such a device centuries ago. Perhaps found better solution than genophage. Even ten years ago, perhaps found other options."

"It all needs the right data to go _in_," she reminded him. "Garbage in, garbage out."

"Agreed. But, using krogan-salarian data as a test case for the simulator, finding different options. Perhaps ways of limiting birthrate _without_ the miscarriages. Simply preventing conception entirely."

"That _would_ be a little more humane," Shepard said, "if you'll permit me the human-centric word, there."

"Principle understood. Word choice not as important, in context."

"Any idea yet on why this thing was hooked up to a Reaper? Even a miniature, obsolete one?"

"Several possibilities. Scientists could have been projecting outcomes for their technology, running simulations to verify its capabilities. Alternately, could have been using simulator to _train_ the ship. Reapers a mix of organic and machine elements, biotic potential, sapient minds. Training program a definite possibility. Then. . . disaster. Simulator never turned off as result?" He shrugged. "Much speculation."

"At least it's interesting speculation. Keep at it. Maybe there's information somewhere deep in there."

She patted Sky on the carapace, as he stood, communing with the cylinder, and left.

Finally, near dinnertime, she met with the analysis team. "Tell me good news, people," she said, sitting down in the conference room.

Cohort stood. "We have analyzed all relevant information. All of Lina's travels, as you may see here, form a pattern." A map of the galaxy appeared on the screen, and there were dozens of stars circled, and lines connected them, each to each. It formed a rough wheel-shape, with the hub centered at Widow, Shepard noted, immediately. "She relies exclusively on the old relay network. As relays are moved and replaced, her travels become more constricted."

Garrus added, "That's possibly why some of the AEC colonies seem to have become isolated from their Leader, started showing more independent thought, such as rigging the various cultural artifacts with explosives. That never really fit her pattern; she's definitely all about concealment and flying right under the radar. Explosives are loud. Flashy. Definitely not subtle."

Shepard tapped her fingers on the table. "So she's relying on the old network, and the relay near the Citadel is the last schedule to be moved, right? Still, damned odd that she'd restrict herself like that."

"May indicate irrational thought, a superstitious awe for the old technology," Cohort suggested.

"Or innate conservatism, or a pure distaste for anything that non-asari have created. I mean, we all know that the _Reapers_ built the relays, but the asari have at least _used_ them for three thousand years, give or take," Sam commented.

"So, where is she hiding? Are there any potential extra bases out there, that the data shows, that we haven't been able to find in her files or from squeezing Atieno and Pidna Tol?"

"A couple," Garrus said, much to her relief. "A couple of places out in Attican Beta, and at least one out in the Horse Head Nebula."

"If I may?" Lantar said, suddenly.

Shepard looked at him, surprised, and nodded.

"I'd like to toss this in for consideration," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Logically, you want your main base to be centrally located, ideally, to cut down on travel time to any of your other operations."

Garrus nodded. "All of these new locations are a little out of range," he agreed. "Most are systems that have been only charted by robot probes." He looked at Lantar. "What are you thinking, Sidonis?"

Lantar reached forward and put a claw solidly on the star Widow. "Here," he said, simply. "What's in the system, but a space station that's currently completely unused, other than by the Keepers?"

Shepard frowned. "You think she's using the _Citadel_ as her main base?" The idea was frightening in its simplicity and elegance. "Wouldn't that be detected?"

Lantar shook his head. "By whom? The Keepers don't exactly talk to anyone. I'm sure they've rebuilt most of the station by this point. And they had a habit even back in the day of destroying any cameras they found. How much observation equipment is even _left_ on the Citadel?"

"But the Council has an interdiction on travel to the Citadel itself," Kasumi objected. "There's a grid of mines and proximity sensors around it. . . ." She tailed off, and then said, "Crap. There's a path through the grid, isn't there, for when scientists want to go about and observe the Keepers in their 'natural' state."

"I don't know that, but it's certainly possible," Lantar said. "Think of the space and the resources she'd have. And she could have started this three years ago, during the first wave of evacuations. Just take over one of the damaged Wards, wait till everyone else has left and security has slackened for a _closed _area, and go inside. Then you get a crew inside the area to start repairs, which would get the Keepers' attention, and then they'd come over and help, and you'd be on your way. A small, secure area, disconnected from the rest of the station, wouldn't be that hard to create, especially given how chaotic it was during the evacuations. Hell, there were hundreds of areas C-Sec couldn't patrol or even observe when the station was at its _height_." He frowned. "Hell, this could even be their central processing area for the azure dust. There's no _telling_ how big an operation could be there, basically undetected."

Shepard looked over at Garrus. "Sounds. . . uncomfortably probable," he told her, after a moment. "We should check it out."

Kasumi cleared her throat. "I should also point out, as head of security, that Lina probably knows where the Mindoir base is. All three FTL devices we found transmitted their signal in the vicinity of Widow; if that's where Lina's base is, that's where Cunningham's men probably came from, picking up the Blood Pack mercenaries along the way." She looked at Shepard. "If she knows where we are, it's just a matter of time before she comes for us."

"I want to beat her to the punch," Shepard replied, staring at the galaxy map. "But you're right. Let's arrange some security precautions. Just in case."


	23. Chapter 23: Confusion

**Chapter 23: Confusion**

_**uthor's note: **__A quick thank-you to those of you who have answered the poll so far; if you click on my name, you'll access my profile, and will be able to participate. I'm interested in seeing which of the my original characters people respond to the most, and will use the information towards the epilogue and any follow-ups. Of course, so far, the answers all lean towards the characters I have the most fun with __**anyway**__, so this isn't exactly a hardship. _

**Dara**

"You have to go again?" Dara sat on the edge of her dad's bed, swinging her feet idly, watching him pack.

"Yeah, sorry, sweetie. That's pretty much how this job seems to be, though." Her dad shook his head, and tossed socks in his bag.

"Is this because of what everyone was talking about at dinner Sunday?"

He gave her a long look. Dara sighed. "Okay, let's pretend I didn't ask that."

"That's my girl." Underwear followed the socks. "It's related in a general way, but I won't say more than that."

"Thanks, Dad." She stood up. "So I should be packing, too, then? Is Kasumi going with you this time, or am I staying with her?"

"She's staying here, so yeah, pack a week's worth of things. I'm hoping it won't take that long, but it's better to be prepared."

Dara nodded, and started to head towards her own room. Her dad's voice stopped her. "Dara?"

She turned in the doorway. He wasn't looking at her; still packing carefully. "You really like Kasumi, sweetie?"

_Second time he's asked that. Huh._ "Yeah, I really do, Dad. She's smart, and quiet. She _understands_ things, and . . . " Dara hesitated. "It's hard to explain this part, but I always know where I stand with her. She's pretty clear about what she expects, and she doesn't nag or fuss about it, so. . . yeah. I like her." Dara shrugged. "You going to ask her out to dinner?"

"I did. Was supposed to be for Thursday, but with all the precautions—well, with all the work we've been doing on the base, our departure got pushed back, and now it's Wednesday already, so I guess it'll be next week, after all." He put his bowie knife in the travelcase now, and looked up at her. "Go get packed."

Dara went and started packing. She supposed that she _should_ feel upset that her dad was moving on after her mom's death—in fact, a school psychologist had pressed her about it back on Earth, right after the funeral, going on and on about how eventually, things would change, and eventually, everyone got over loss, and eventually, she'd probably have a step-mother and how she had to keep in mind that it wasn't a betrayal of her mother, and that while it was okay to be mad, she also had to _understand_. . . until she'd just wanted to scream.

She _did_ understand that. Not just with her head, but with her heart. She _knew_ her dad had loved her mom, and that he loved her. The fact that he'd checked with her, to make sure that she liked Kasumi, was a kind of a compliment, or at least, she took it as such. It meant she had a say. And so long as she had at least a _little_ say, Dara was . . . mostly fine with the whole situation.

That factor, as well as, time, distance, a complete change of environment, the unfamiliar emotional waters she was charting on her own, and her mother's graybox; these were all variables, too, though she probably didn't recognize them consciously. But she _did_ know that she liked Kasumi, respected her, and the woman had given her a place in her home, when she didn't _have_ to do so.

_I guess I just have a more messed-up head than the psychologist realized_, she thought, and closed her travelcase, picking up her school datapad for the drive back down to the scientific station.

In the car, she opened the file on first-aid, and started memorizing the procedures. She did it with a particular mental _stomp_ she used, when she really wanted something to stick, and she tested herself frequently, covering the page with one hand and muttering the steps out loud, under her breath. "Arterial bleeding in humans, turians, and asari; elevate the wound above the level of the heart, apply pressure at a pressure point. Tourniquet may be required. Add a pressure bandage, check the limb below the wound to verify that blood is still circulating to the extremities."

"Good," her dad said, startling her. She hadn't realized that he had been listening to her mutter while he drove. "Where are the pressure points?"

"Um. Humans, femoral artery in the groin, in the wrist, and in the upper arm. Turians, the femoral artery is further to the inside of the leg, where ours is a little more towards the top. Asari have multiple branching femoral arteries, so it's better just to go straight to a tourniquet for them." She blinked, thinking hard. "Humans, radial artery in the wrist—it's the one off to the side, where a doctor always checks for your pulse. Turians, it's more in the middle, and deeper down, so you really have to clamp your fingers in. Humans, um, brachial . . .?" Her voice went up questioningly, and she peeked at her notes. "Brachial artery in the upper arm, on the inside . It's the one a doctor uses for testing blood pressure. A turian's is actually in the same spot, so easier to remember. Again, asari circulation is really spread out, so tourniquet on them first."

She took a drink of water. "I have _no_ idea how Dr. Solus remembers all this stuff for ten different species. That's just three. And that's just 'oops, I cut myself.'" She flipped the file to the next page, and winced at the pictures of the knife wounds there.

Her dad glanced over and said, "Damn! That's. . . not like any other first-aid book I've ever seen." He slowed the groundcar, pulled over, and held out his hand for the datapad.

"It's the C-Sec. . . well, B-Sec now. . . first-responder's guide," Dara explained. "I guess they wanted to make sure that all their paramedics and fire personnel and security people could tell when someone was _really _hurt, no matter what their species."

He flipped through it, frowning a little. "You okay with looking at this? No nightmares?"

"From the pictures? No." She shook her head. "If I could smell it, I'd probably get sick, but the pictures are fine, Dad." He looked a little dubious, so she added, to reassure him, "When I get bad dreams, they're only about three things. The day the Reapers landed in Houston and Dallas, mom's funeral, and. . . well, the _cave_, but. . ." She shrugged, and reached for her datapad. "Can I have it back now?"

Frowning, he handed it back. "Why the sudden interest, anyway? Last I heard, it was veterinary school."

"Well, if I become a vet, then I have to put horses and cats and dogs to sleep, and I don't want to have to do that. _They_ don't deserve it." She looked up, and caught him smiling a little. "If I become a _people_ doctor, I _probably_ won't have to do that. And maybe I can _help_." Dara flipped the page. "Besides, most of the simulation runs that I saw showed me doing this, and being pretty good at it. Best career counseling day _ever_." She flipped to another page, and said, "Yay. Gunshot wounds. They're. . . really not pretty."

"No," her dad said, his voice a little tight, starting the car up again. "No, they're not." He cleared his throat. "Dara. . . it _was_ just a simulation. It wasn't necessarily exactly how it's going to be, you know that, right?" 

She looked up again. "Yes, I know that. But when you see just how great it _could_ be, why _not_ start working for it as fast as you can?" How could she possibly explain that she'd been an _adult_ in the simulation, looking back on each choice as if she'd made it herself five years before, ten years before, with perspective and understanding and regrets? It was starting to fade a little now, of course. Time did that to all memories. But she had the path in her head, the one she wanted to take, and all its signposts along the way.

_Right, so, if the wound is in the torso, particularly the chest, apply direct pressure for most species. If it presents a pneumothorax (sucking chest wound, or collapsed lung), tape a plastic square over the wound, securing at three corners, but leaving the bottom open_. . . she read, and began to memorize again.

Down at Kasumi's again, she shuffled into her now-familiar guest bedroom, and peeked out the door down the hall. Her dad and Kasumi were standing very close together, not touching, and their voices were soft and low as they talked. They looked. . . comfortable. A little tentative. But also happy, in a quiet sort of way. Dara smiled a little wistfully, and closed her door . . . since they didn't have one to close, themselves.

Once she'd said goodbye to her dad, Dara asked Kasumi, "Is it okay if I still go to sparring tonight at Rel's, even if I have dinner with you?"

"If you want to, sure. You're staying and having dinner with me?" The eyebrows went up over Kasumi's dark, liquid eyes.

"We haven't had a chance to hang out in a while." _Besides, you might want to talk to me about my dad, and it's hard to talk if I'm not here. _Dara shrugged a bit. "Oh, and may I ask Kella over, maybe Thursday night? I haven't had a chance to hang out with _just_ her in a while. Though she might have other plans." She added the last, a little abashed.

Kella did not have plans at it turned out, at least not ones that conflicted. She did, however, have plans for Dara. "What on _earth_ is all of that?" Dara asked as the asari girl came in the door, carrying boxes and bags.

Kella just smiled at her good-naturedly. "You were nice enough to loan me a bathing suit. I couldn't _help_ but notice that you're lacking in the dress department." Kella dumped the bags on the floor at Dara's feet. "_I_ have too many to know what to do with. So we're going to find you something that you can wear for the solstice holidays."

_Solstice, oh, she means Christmas. . . . _"Oh, no, no, no, _no_," Dara protested.

"Well, you _were_ going to take Rellus to listen to that human choir thing, weren't you?" Kella challenged her.

"Handel's _Messiah, _and yes, but it's not dressy, and. . . just. . . _no!_"

At which point, Kella looked hurt. "Kella, I'm _sorry_, it's a nice thought, but I. . . " and then Kasumi started to chuckle behind her. She turned and stared at the small woman, suddenly realizing that she was five inches taller than her. "What?" she asked, feeling a blush start to creep over her face.

"I've just heard this kind of protest before," Kasumi told her. "Reminds me of trying to get Commander Shepard to buy herself a wedding dress. I thought we were going to have to use a crowbar on her. Not to get her in and out of the clothes, mind you. I was thinking more of just beating her over the head with it, repeatedly, until she was too unconscious to care." She came over and put her hand on Dara's shoulder. "I'm going to say this once: it's _okay_ to be a girl sometimes. No one is going to take you any less seriously if you admit, once in a while, that you like to be pretty, as well as smart and tough." Kasumi grinned. "Just don't make it an every day thing, and you're perfectly safe. It even works better this way, because when you _do_ clean up nice, you knock their socks off."

Dara sighed, and leaned over to pick up the bags. "I'm sorry, Kella," she muttered, again, feeling churlish. "I really don't think anything you have is going to fit, though."

Kella shrugged, as usual, getting past any unhappiness she might have felt with amazing speed. Dara almost envied the asari girl her simple ability to forget slights so quickly. "I know you're uncomfortable with the idea, but think of it this way: we _did _miss out on your. . . Hallowday." She paused. "Halloweve?"

"Halloween," Dara said, and started to smile, in spite of herself.

"Oh, in that case, I've got some kimonos upstairs you two can both try on," Kasumi commented. "Although, you're both _much _too tall to wear my old ones properly."

It actually turned out to be a _little_ fun. Getting into and out of various dresses, she was initially very self-conscious; Rel marked her, usually once a week, and last night, had politely asked permission to do so once again, the politeness masking how _important_ it was to him. And she'd given her permission. Kasumi said nothing about the ring-shaped bruise on her shoulder, which would typically have been hidden under her shirt, but Kella grinned and commented, very quietly, "I _told _you he liked you, remember?"

Dara actually liked the way the kimonos looked, with the rich, bright colors and vivid patterns . . . once Kasumi more or less dressed the two girls, like dolls. "Twelve different pieces of clothing, all at once?" Kella said, at once point. "How do you _move_ in these things?" She turned around in front of the mirror. "Although. . . I really like the way they look." She swept her arms out. "Very dramatic."

"It's not so much the moving," Dara commented, carefully shifting her arms and trying not to let the sleeves swing too much, "as the _breathing_."

"Okay, both of you stand together. I'm going to get a picture of you both in these _furisode_, all right?" Kasumi chuckled under her breath, and Dara suspected her dad was going to get a copy of the image sent to him tonight.

"These are all well and good," Kella said, and started helping Dara out of the convoluted wrapping process, "But that's not really why I dragged half my closet over here."

Dara sighed, and tried not to be a grump. Kella really _did_ have a lot of clothing. Far more than Dara herself owned. "Some of this is my mom's," Kella commented. "I'm almost her height now, so she's been giving me things that she's gotten tired of."

At one point, Dara simply crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head emphatically _no_. "But it looks beautiful on you," Kella cried.

Kasumi coughed. "Kella. . . " her tone was tactful. "That's one of your mom's, right?"

"Well, yes. You can tell because it's a little larger at the—"

"Okay, different cultural standards again, Kella, dear." Kasumi's voice had gone patient. "If her dad sees her in something _that_ low-cut. . . and _that_ sheer. . . there'll be hell to pay. Besides, look at her face. You can't pull off something like that when you're trying to decide between mad, pouting, embarrassed, or tears."

Dara wasn't sure whether to thank Kasumi from the bottom of her heart, or to yell at her for that one, frankly. She settled for getting out of the dress as fast as she possibly could. "Was that the last one?" she asked, a little ungraciously.

"No, no," Kella told her, and handed her a final bundle of golden cloth, almost the same shade as Rel's clan colors. "It'll be mid-summer by your Christmas holiday, so this one might be good for the heat."

Dara was actually pleasantly surprised. The dress was a soft chiffon to the touch, high-necked, but left the shoulders and her back exposed. It was also long enough to cover her legs, making her look a little taller. "It doesn't look silly?" she asked, turning around in front of the mirror a couple of times, worried. "It actually _isn't_ uncomfortable."

"High praise," Kasumi said, chuckling. "No, it looks fine, Dara."

As the two girls headed for Dara's room to go listen to music for the rest of the night, Dara thanked her friend for her patience. "My mom used to hate shopping for school clothes for me once a year. I hate the whole process, and take it out on everyone around me. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Kella told her, smiling. "But _do_ tell Rel to mark elsewhere for a week before wearing that dress." She winked. "Unless you two _want_ people to be reminded, that is."

"Kella!" Dara closed the door behind them. "I just hope it doesn't look really stupid," she muttered again. On the one hand, she really, _really_ hoped Rellus would like it, but then again, turians didn't look at the body the same way humans did. And on the other hand, there was the lingering suspicion that she'd look something like a crow done up in peacock feathers.

Kella sighed. "I will never understand how it is that humans have so _many_ problems with self-image," she said. "My mom says it's because you're more locked into your own heads than we asari are. Turians tend to take others' perspectives of them a little _too_ much to heart; humans can, too, taking _one_ random negative comment and evolving a whole . . ." Kella waved her hands, looking for the word, and giving up, "_thing_ about it."

Dara made a face. "Kella—"

"No, let me finish." The asari girl rubbed at her forehead for a minute. "Here. Let me try something." She reached out and put her hand on Dara's shoulder.

Dara backed away hastily. Kella gave her a patient look. "Just because every human boy out there thinks that asari mental gifts are solely designed for physical pleasure, doesn't make it so," Kella said, and Dara had a feeling she'd _really_ hurt her friend's feelings this time. "Do you trust me?"

Dara took a deep breath. _I trust Rel. I like my dad's coworkers, and I play piano for a __**rachni**__ every weekend because it makes him smile in my __**head**__. How can I not trust Kella?_ "Yes. . . and no." She winced. "I'm sorry, Kella. I'd never even _met_ a biotic until you. It's a little scary, that you can get in my mind." _But __**Sky**__ isn't as scary. Probably because he's less. . . personal._

"Just relax. I won't hurt you. I promise." Kella's face set, and Dara's mind went a little. . . fuzzy. . . for a moment.

"So, now what?" Dara asked.

Kella opened her omnitool, and keyed up a file. A picture hung in the air now. "Who's that?" Dara asked, interested.

"You don't recognize her?"

"Well, she's human, but there's about twenty billion of us around now. I can't know _every_ human girl my age."

Kella chuckled. "Reasonable enough. Do you think she's pretty?"

Dara looked again. Dark, slightly curly hair, past the shoulders. Clear skin, a couple of freckles from being out in the sun a lot, probably. Stubborn chin, wide, dark, happy eyes, long lashes. High cheekbones, straight nose. Long neck. Lips curving up into a hint of a smile. Decent enough figure, though the girl had a tendency to hunch a little, as if embarrassed by something. "Yeah, I guess so." She thought about it. "She doesn't look like she thinks so, though."

For some reason, that _really_ made Kella laugh. "What?" Dara asked.

"What else can you tell, just by looking at her?" the asari asked, ignoring the question.

"This is a silly game," Dara told her. "Okay. She looks smart. Sort of capable, but not really sure of herself yet. She's happy now, but she's a little sad underneath. Stubborn."

"You _think_?" Was that a hint of sarcasm?

"With that chin? Definitely."

Kella touched her shoulder again, and Dara's mind fizzled. "Okay, _now_ would you _please_ keep that in mind?"

Dara flushed in sudden realization. "I. . . I don't. . . I don't look like that."

"Goddess help me. Yes, yes you do. I took the picture downstairs five minutes ago." Kella poked her in the shoulder. "Sometimes, you're so _human_ you're incapacitated by it. There's the physical, which is nice, but there's also the person inside, and everyone can _see_ that person, through the eyes, the smile, the demeanor. Do you really think Rel would like you so much if it were _just_ the outsides?" Kella grinned. "Or just the insides, either?"

Dara sat down, thinking hard. Finally, she looked up. "You're a really good friend, you know that?"

"I know," Kella said, with an elaborate sigh. "It's a burden I bear." Then she leaned forward, giggling a little. "So, you've been basically either on-base, at school, or at Rel's house for two weeks now," she said, smiling wickedly. "I haven't had a _chance_ to ask you. What's the closed-door time like?"

Dara flushed, bright pink, again. "It's not just about _that_," she said, a little defensively. "Everyone gets so hung up on that. Sometimes, all we do is talk, where no one can hear us. It's nice."

Kella stopped laughing, but her smile remained. "Okay, that's so sweet I almost hate you," she said, but her gentle, accepting expression belied her words. "Come on, play me something on the _reela. _Siara _still_ can't believe her mom gave that to you permanently, you know."

**Rellus**

It wasn't every evening the family got a call from his older brother, Rinus. FTL live transmissions were usually prohibitively expensive, but Rinus had just gotten word that he was being transferred from garrison duty on Parthia to a new berth on a _Normandy_-class ship—the _Estallus_, to be specific—and this was cause for celebration. He was a munitions specialist, so he was obviously in line to work the targeting system on the Thanix cannons, but for the moment, he'd be learning to maintain and repair the finicky, delicate Javelin disruptor torpedoes and their launch systems.

He hadn't called in a while, so there was a certain amount of family news to exchange. Their parents handled the initial conversation on their own private terminal, before putting it on the main screen in the family room, so everyone could hear the news.

Rinus, as the eldest son, was expected to set a good example for the younger siblings, and, like his father, the head-of-house, was expected to chide the unworthy or praise the accomplished. Polina got lauded for the pictures she had drawn, uploaded, and sent him last week; Quintus got a mild scolding for their mother's report that he'd been disciplined at school for slapping a salarian. Serana got a mild rebuke for neglecting her homework. Rellus mentally braced himself for more of the same, and got a bit of a surprise. "Hey, little brother," Rinus said. "How about you take this on the terminal in your room? I've only got about five minutes left on this call before my chit runs out, and the guys behind me in line haul me out of the comm booth by force."

Rellus blinked, and headed to his room, cueing up the transmission there, which blocked anyone else in the house from seeing it. "You can fire when ready," he told Rinus. Six years his elder, Rinus had always done _everything_ right. On the day the Collectors had attacked Palaven, Rinus had been close enough to Commander Shepard that the seeker swarms hadn't paralyzed him, unlike the other children. And, just back from boot camp himself, he'd actually helped fight the Collectors, while Rellus and the others had been just a pile of frightened, paralyzed, helpless bodies on the ground. He'd envied his brother those ten minutes for years, ten minutes of fighting beside Uncle Garrus and Aunt Lilu—ten minutes in which he'd proved himself both in body and in spirit.

"Nah, not going to yell at you. You're damn near an adult at this point." Rinus grinned, crookedly. "Mom is all up in arms. Spirits, she's even mad at _me_."

Rellus put one foot up on his desk, flexing his two bare toes. "For _what_?"

"For not having brought home a nice turian wife by now and set a _proper_ example for you young ones." Rinus rolled his eyes slightly. "She's doing everything but calling a matchmaking service. I keep telling her, when I find the right person, species isn't even going to matter. That doesn't make her _any_ happier. She wants grandkids that don't require a degree in xenobiology to figure out, I guess. Too much time spent baby-sitting Amara and Kaius."

Rellus actually found himself laughing. It had been hard, the past six years, to remember how much he liked his older brother, or how Rinus had looked out for him and taught him when they were both younger. "So, how'd you get the transfer to the _Estallus_?" he asked.

"Spirits only know. They said something about me matching a psych profile put together by the ship's AI. Guess I'll find out when I get there. Why they need a specific psych profile for a gunnery and munitions expert, I don't know, but I don't give the orders." Rinus squinted at him. "Now, enough changing the subject. What's she look like? Pictures, second-son, pictures!"

At that point, Rellus' omnitool buzzed on his wrist, and he glanced down, surprised. It was a little late at night for any messages. There was a quick text from Kella, with an attachment. _Hey, check out what I got Dara to wear for the human solstice concert. Oh, and try to keep the marks off of her arms when she wears this._

Rellus opened the attachment, blinked, and projected it so that Rinus could see the image through the vid feed. "Not bad, for a human. Distinctive. Most of them look a lot alike." Rinus told him. "Don't let anyone see the picture at boot camp, though. There's enough hazing as is. You'll need to crack a _lot_ of skulls if anyone finds out."

"Already sparring three nights a week. Her dad is teaching me some human styles, too, that people back home haven't seen." Rellus grinned. "If people want to haze me for plighting a human, they better make sure they have the teeth for it."

Rinus guffawed. "How long will the plighting go on for, you think?"

"They're saying at least a full year. The humans want her to wait till eighteen, which would be _three_." Rellus groaned a little. He absolutely _hated_ thinking about that part. "It's an age thing and a human thing. It's. . . complicated."

"Oh, great spirits! If she were turian, you could just get the _manus_ rites done as soon as you get back from boot camp."

"I know. . . I know." _Spirits, how I know._

Rinus looked at him seriously. "You sure it's worth it? She could get pretty bored and lonely while you're away."

"Yeah. It's worth it, and I'm not worried." Rellus smiled a little. Because it wasn't just about the physical, although that was certainly a factor; her spirit and his were kin. He knew it.

"How do you know?"

Rellus hesitated. _We saw a future we liked? _"You're going to call it _talas'kak._" The word meant, literally, _talashae_-shit. "But I actually can't talk about it on an open channel."

Rinus' eyes narrowed. "Oh. It's a _Mindoir_ thing." By which, he really meant, of course, _it's a Spectre thing_.

"Yeah."

"Okay, we'll talk about it when I get my next leave. You figured out where she's going to live while you're still in the service?" That was Rinus, practical as the day.

"We're thinking since she'll be a citizen of the Hierarchy by marriage, she'll go to boot camp herself right after we speak the vows." Rellus' voice was tight. He _hadn't_ told his parents that part yet.

Rinus exhaled sharply. "You're both _nuts_. She'll be smaller, weaker, have less endurance. . . ."

"Yeah. But the integration of the forces can't just be on the _Normandy_-class ships. Uncle Garrus said a few days ago that the Hierarchy's been asking for humans to join up for a few months now, pretty quietly. No takers at the moment." Rellus lifted his hands. "And if she makes it through, it'll make it just that much easier for Amara and Kaius, when it's their turn, right?"

His older brother stared at him. "Damn. You _have_ been thinking about this, haven't you?"

"A lot, yeah. Maybe a little too much."

"All right. I've got to go. Try not to pull too many more of Mom's teeth before I get back there on my next leave, all right?"

"I'll leave some for you."

When the comm transmission ended, Rellus opened the message from Kella again, and, forwarding a copy to Dara as well, sent back a single line of text: _Thanks for sending this. Because, you know, getting to sleep is hard enough as it is._

**Lantar**

It was _strange_ to see the Citadel again, as the _Normandy _edged through the three dimensional mine field surrounding the station, moving past warning bouys that broadcast, in one hundred human languages, fifty turian dialects, asari high tongue and low tongue, seventeen salarian dialects, quarian fleet dialect, and dozens of other forms of communication, a single warning: _Do not approach. This station is under the interdiction of the Council. It was created by the Reapers, millions of years ago, as the centerpiece of a trap for organic life_. It even included video of the attacks by Reapers on Earth, Palaven, and Sur'Kesh, and the destruction of Thessia.

And yet, they moved past the warning and the mines anyway, and made a soft-seal connection against the old docking berths near the old C-Sec entrance. "All right," Shepard said, as they all got into their gear. "We have no idea what station conditions are like at the moment. The possibility that Lantar brought up Sunday night, that this could be their main azure dust refinement facility, can't be disregarded, either. Full envirosuits and breathing apparatuses for everyone. I have no idea what azure dust would do to a krogan or a rachni—"

"It enhances blood rage," Gris told her, quietly. "Urdnot Wrex has banned it among our clan for that reason."

Sings-to-the-Sky's mental voice was puzzled. _Uncertain. May have no dissonance. Life-song strong._

"Let's get _some_ sort of a breather or a filter rigged for you, anyway, Sky," Shepard told him. "I'd really rather not find out mid-fight that it turns you into a soprano or something."

Sky's laughter had a slightly uneasy feel to it in their minds. Apparently, being made into a queen would be an honor he'd greatly prefer to avoid.

"Lantar, you've been on the ground here the most recently; Garrus and you have the most experience with the terrain. You're both on point; Jaworski's with you—stealth generator on, Sam. Cohort, Gris, Sky, and I will trail you. Stay in radio contact, and we'll see what we can find."

Lantar nodded, adjusted his helmet and oxygen settings one more time, and waited for the hatch to hiss open. Then he and Garrus jumped onto the landing platform.

Again, it was _odd_ to be back here, like something out of a dream, a memory. The platform was so _empty_, where it used to be filled with people. Most recently, line after line of evacuees, their worldly possessions in bags at their feet, all pressing forward, hoping to get onto the next ship, just so they could _sit down_ for a while, rather than having to stand and wait for the next, or the next, or the next. . . .moving seventeen _million_ people had been a _massive_ undertaking. It had, in fact, taken almost two years, but Lantar had only been here for the first year of that, moving the family to Bastion as soon as the initial living quarters opened up.

They swung to the right, around the corner of the platform, heading for the old elevators. "Well, the elevators still work," Garrus reported over the radio. "Of course, last time _I_ was here, there wasn't an elevator on this platform. You just went through security and a batch of holding cells. This feels like we've gone back in time."

"The Keepers do love to change things," Lantar agreed, tersely, watching their surroundings.

The silence, too, was unnerving. He, Garrus, and Jaworski got into the elevator, and Lantar felt the familiar dip of inertia in his mid-section as they slid down a level. C-Sec headquarters. He'd spent close to ten years of his life in these surroundings, on and off. The lights were dim. There were no signs anymore, no arrows, no. . . nothing. "Looks like the Keepers have stripped all the signs down. All traces of previous occupants, their languages, whatever," Lantar reported.

"No Avina terminal, either," Garrus reported, after a moment.

Sam, in his stealth generated haze, crept forward to the main exit. "I've never been here before," he commented. "But the main hall outside is damned dark. Nothing's showing up in heat-vision, though."

Lantar and Garrus followed him now, and Garrus took the risk of flicking on a flashlight, shining that small, frail beam of light around. "Zakera Ward," Garrus said, after a moment. "Or it was. All the shops are just holes in the wall now. Empty. Bare. No doors, no windows, just . . . gaps, waiting to be filled."

"We're coming up behind you," Shepard reported. "We'll probably have to make several sweeps. Recommendations on directions?"

Garrus now, in all their ears. "Relay monument first—it's the Conduit. If I were a Reaper, it might look kind of homey."

"Tayseri Ward after that," Lantar recommended. "It was heavily damaged after Sovereign's attack. Large portions of it were shut down for repairs even _before_ the rest of the station got hit in the Reaper War. Sounds like a good place to camp out, unseen, to me."

"Fair enough." Shepard looked around. "I'm guessing that there are no aircars left?"

"Unfortunately, no," Garrus told his wife. "We're going to have to do this the hard way."

The _hard way_ was walking, in the dark, in a place that _seemed_ familiar, but had new, bizarre, alien twists and turns. Lantar's mental map of the Citadel, burned into his head by walking endless beats for C-Sec, was the freshest, but even that betrayed him, again and again. Keepers scuttled out of the way periodically, waving their arms at the intruders, looking almost as confused as Lantar had ever seen them. "Heh. Guess they must have _some_ sense of history," he commented on the radio after their second encounter had nearly wound up with the Keepers getting shot.

"They do seem _awfully_ surprised to see us," Jaworski agreed, his voice tight. "Where the hell are we?"

"If I guess right, we're about to hit the Presidum," Lantar said, dubiously.

"You said that the last three times," Garrus muttered.

"Yeah. I noticed that, too. No one told me they were going to re-arrange the furniture as soon as I turned off the lights on my way out the door."

The door in front of them hissed open, and it was, at least, the Presidium. Pools of water, walkways. . . it was almost a relief, to see it so intact. But _dark_. The pools were black, reflecting the dim glimmer from Cohort's eye, and Garrus' flashlight, and that was all. Lantar looked up, knowing there were catwalks criss-crossing the wide, open space above their heads.

Garrus shared his unease. "We're sitting ducks if anyone else is here," he muttered, turning off his light. "There's a kilometer and a half of open space all along here."

"All right, we'll try this again," Lantar said, grimly. "That _was_ the way to the Krogan Monument. Let's head that direction, and the Conduit should be past it. Assuming nothing _else_ has changed.

The krogan statue was, of course, missing. But the Conduit was in place, unchanged and unchanging. "It's almost _good_ to see that thing," Garrus said, dryly.

"Yeah. Worst comes to worst, we _could_ try activating it and running like hell for Ilos," Shepard replied.

There was a brief pause. "I really hate it when you say things like that," Garrus said, after a moment. "The spirits tend to hear it." He looked around. "No Reaper. No signs of life. Let's move on?"

They finally found an access hatch into the Lower Wards, and these had become a maze of twisty passages. "I think we're getting close to Tayseri access now," Lantar said. "Some of the bulkheads actually still have numbers painted on them. Either they've been missed by the Keepers, or someone else has been working in this area, recently."

_Beware, _Sky suddenly whispered in their minds. _I hear voices close by. I hear a siren song, louder than the rest. It is like the voice of the machine that sings the future, but different. It is awake now, where before, in the place of dust and memory where we found it, the voice had just woken from troubled sleep. Other voices. Asari, cold, distant song. Humans, warm but . . . muffled. Other voices. I have not heard their like before. _

"What do they sound like, Sky?" Shepard asked. They were all getting the hang of interpreting Sky's cryptic statements now. _Either Sky is getting better at making himself understood_, Lantar thought, _or we're all getting sensitized to his rachni mind. Becoming part of his hive, I suppose_. A year ago, the thought would have made his flesh creep. Now, it was just another link between the squad members. He _knew_ Sky didn't control him.

Sky's voice was puzzled. _Angry. Red. Their vision refracts, like mine, but not as many views, not the dazzle of a prism. With so many views to chose from, they chose only one. Power. Control. Dominion. Minds sing captive-songs, but they have imprisoned themselves?_

After a long moment, Gris rumbled, "Batarians."

Shepard instantly checked the thermal clip on her weapon, and Lantar could hear the _click_ as she pulled the charging handle. "Fun," she said, her voice distant. "Sam, you move up first. Let Sky guide you. Between the two of you, maybe we can see what there is to see."

**Sam**

He took a lungful of the cool, canned air that his suit circulated past his face, made sure that his stealth generator was on, and moved up, stepping as lightly as he could, letting each foot hit the ground slowly, softly. No noise. Sky's voice became an image in his mind, and he had a very good sense of where everything was around him, the life-songs of his friends behind him. . . the mass of red ahead of him that represented the bad guys.

Jaworski came to a T-junction in the hall, and stopped at the corner, getting his back on the wall, before sliding carefully around to peek, cautiously. _Sky, can you show them what I see?_

_Difficult. Your songs are not my songs._

_Try, if you could. I'll try to tell them, too._

"Big open bay here. Well-lit," he said, tersely, into his radio, feeling his heart start to pound. "Looks like almost the entire ward has been turned into this. Atmospheric pressure readings are nominal. All of the people in the area are wearing breathers, though. Lots of crates, lab equipment. Production line, looks like. Two sets of doors. One set off to my left. Probably living quarters, offices. One way off ahead of me; looks like airlock-grade pressurized hatches, so probably leads out to their ships' landing areas. Whole _mess_ of batarians here. Good call by Gris. Probably thirty or so. I make it the same number of humans. Don't see an asari, and I don't see our pretty boy anywhere."

He glanced around. "Set of stairs directly to my left. Leads to a catwalk that encircles the whole room, probably used for accessing the ventilation system and lights."

"Nice," Garrus said, tightly.

"Yeah, I thought you'd like that part."

"Any cover?" Shepard asked. "Any mechs?"

"A lot of medical-grade crates. Won't block much, and I _don't_ want to know what's in them." Sam scanned the room carefully. "Looks like a couple of prefab housing units, still flat in their crates, off to the right, against the wall. Don't _see_ any mechs. Huh. Would've thought they'd have 'em for loading all this crap onto ships." Sam didn't like that.

"All right, moving up. It's not ideal, but we'll hit them hard and fast and rely on confusion. Lantar and I will throw some grenades into the middle, get their attention, and run like hell for the right, where those prefab units should give some cover. Garrus, Cohort, up on the platform. Sky, Gris, with them. Sam, keep the enemies from storming the catwalk. If there's not enough cover up there, move to where you can find some. You all know the drill."

Sam grinned a little as Lantar's stocky form and Shepard's moved up towards him. "You do plan nice parties," he told her, lightly.

"It's all about making sure you have enough chips and dips for _everyone_," she replied. "Let's go issue the invitations."

She and Lantar turned the corner, throwing grenades deep into the room and started to run in, bringing their guns up as they moved. Sam could feel the impact of the grenades in his feet, through the floor, and moved around the corner now himself, heading left of the entrance, while they moved right, clearing the way for the other four to run in behind him. He ducked into the cover of some crates, peering over them, seeing Lantar and Shepard lay down covering fire now from their assault rifles. "You've definitely got their attention," he reported. "Four groups of batarians now heading directly for Shepard's position."

He raised up himself now, getting ready to fire, to catch the enemy in a stream of bullets coming from a different direction, when he saw the office doors off to the left open. "We've got movement," he reported, watching out of the corner of his eye as one entire group of batarians simply lofted twenty feet off the ground, only to be batted into a wall with thunderous force. Then the aliens slid down the wall, landing with a heavy series of thuds. . . right in front of the opening hatch.

"I see it," Garrus replied, and Jaworski could hear the _**BAM BAM**_ double report of the sniper rifle.

"Pretty boy, coming out," Sam reported. Sure enough, the cult leader emerged from the hatch, surrounded by a dozen humans. Just as reported, the face was a curiously attractive mingling of male and female characteristics—long hair, high cheekbones, big, wide eyes, soft lips, but a square chin, hint of facial hair. All set atop a square body, which, even in armor, didn't show a hint of femininity. Sam had known woman who'd opted to wear male body armor in the service; reduced the catcalls, they'd all told him, which made it worth the discomfort. But this Lina Vasir didn't wear the armor as if it were uncomfortable, too large a turtleshell on too small a turtle, as he'd come to expect in such situations. The armor _could_ have been exceptionally well-fitted, of course.

Lina and her mercs took one look at the situation, and the mercs opened fire. Sam dropped to the ground, and started to belly-crawl, still stealthed, right for her. "Heading for the leader. Knife in the back of the skull, and all our problems are solved," Sam muttered into the radio.

"Feel God's embrace!" the asari called, and Sam had a good idea of what the larynx surgery had been about; her vocal cords had been stretched, elongated somehow, lowering the pitch of her voice several octaves. She _sounded_ male. Not like a hoarse, brassy transvestite, but a natural-sounding baritone. He could also feel some sort of energy wash past him, and he froze, looking back over his shoulder.

Up on the catwalk, Gris paused, lifting his shotgun, looking around, as if puzzled. Then he shook his head, and _shoved_ Garrus right over the edge, sending the turian male tumbling to the ground below, where he hit, hard.

"Son of a bitch!" Sam swore. "Gris has some sort of biotic effect on him. Cohort, Sky, watch out!"

"Incapacitate him, but don't hurt him," Shepard said, and he could see that she was wheeling out of cover, firing, stutter-stepping to where her husband lay on the floor, just now starting to move. "Looks like a domination effect, like what Morinth tried on me."

_Who the hell is __**Morinth**__?_

Sam turned back, and started making his way towards the cult leader again. He was able to at least get up to a crouch, for the moment, because none of the fire was coming in his precise direction. Upstairs, Sky had wrapped his appendages around Gris' arms, and was simply not _allowing_ the krogan to move; Gris was bellowing, roaring, really, things in krogan that his translator was flatly refusing to handle. _Closer now. Damnit, hold still. Yeah, okay, your guards have all moved up in front of you, spreading their shields around to protect you. . . Shepard and Lantar are still firing away, good, Cohort's taking out shields. . . around to the side now. . . _

Sam came in from behind on Lina, his stealth net dropping from around him, and he plunged the knife home. . . only to see a biotic shield flare, deflecting the blade. "Damnit!" he had time to swear, as he saw the head turn, the blue eyes suddenly turn black, and then he was flying, askew, and he felt an impact against his spine, his head. Searing pain.

Blackness.

**Shepard**

"Garrus, get up, if you can." She was crouching over his body, protecting him from fire with her own, with her shields, leveling barrage after barrage of bullets at the enemy. Sam made his attack, and Shepard winced, watching him go flying into a nearby wall. "Garrus, get on your damn feet!" Command voice, peremptory. Inside, though, her guts were churning. _Already gave you medigel, but what if it's a broken neck, paralysis. . . come on, get __**up**__._

He made it to hands and knees, and then hauled himself up, leaning heavily on the crates in front of him. "What the hell happened?" He sounded dazed.

"Gris threw you off the catwalk. Not entirely his fault." She pulled the trigger again, killing another batarian. She'd _never_ admit it to anyone, but there was a part of her, deeply buried, that actually _enjoyed_ it when she got a chance to kill the four-eyed humanoids. It all went back to the attack on Mindoir, of course, the one that had wiped out her family, her entire colony, ripped her innocence and childhood away. She knew, rationally, that not _all _batarians were bad. Odds were, out of billions of them, there had to be one or two decent ones.

She just hadn't met one yet.

"Dominated his mind?" Garrus hauled himself higher, groped at his back for a spare weapon, since his sniper rifle had tumbled out of his hands as he fell, and came up with his own assault rifle, selecting a new target.

"Yep."

"Great. Got more bad news for you. I can't see straight."

"Concussed?"

"Looks like it."

"Fire anyway. Jaworski's down. Anything on that side of the room is a target."

He fired, leveling a barrage at a group of batarians that Sky had captured with a singularity. Drifting helplessly, they were perfect targets.

The human-looking male raised his hand, and this time, the catwalk above and behind them began to shriek and groan, and suddenly _collapsed_, sending Sky, Cohort, and the dazed, confused Gris, tumbling to the ground. Cohort sprang away from the falling platform, landing beside Shepard and Garrus with his alien, robotic grace, and continued firing as if nothing had happened at all. Sky wasn't so lucky. Neither was Gris.

"Move to the ships!" the baritone voice rang out, and the various enemies that still lived started retreating, heading for the hatch at the far end. The leader's head turned, and Lina made eye-contact with Shepard.

_Oh, hell no_, Shepard thought, and braced herself. Even from across the room, she could see the eyes turn black, and a wave of power surged over her. This was _not_ Morinth's seduction. That had been a subtle thing by comparison, all whispers and promises and hints, almost coy. Morinth's power had been, for lack of a better term, _feminine_.

Lina's power hit Shepard's mind like a battering ram, a demand, overpowering, hungry, almost angry. Shepard swayed, and her finger slipped off the trigger as she fought it off, grappled with it. She'd had _far_ too many things shoved into her mind over the years—Prothean beacons, Prothean language, asari manipulations, Morinth's domination. She'd _learned_ how to resist, the tricks that no one else really had.

What usually worked on asari manipulations were things that _they_ didn't have, emotions they didn't experience. All Shepard usually had to do was think about being vigorously, enthusiastically _taken_ by a eager Garrus, teeth buried in her shoulder, in full surrender to his strength. Asari minds tended to recoil from the sheer savagery, the primitiveness. Not that asari themselves hadn't mated with turians before, or even with humans; that wasn't what did it. It was the mix of the human and the turian impulses together that could force them to retreat, in total confusion. Shepard found that very satisfying.

That _hadn't_ worked on Morinth. Not least because at that point, all she'd had of Garrus were fantasies, at best. Shepard had gone deep into herself, looking for what she believed in most, duty, honor, loyalty. . . and even those things had failed her. In the end, she'd run screaming, within her own mind, to two places. She'd started with the Prothean language, which no one else in the galaxy understood, locking herself into its strange nuances, making herself _think_ in it, for a while. That had bought her time, had made the tendrils of control falter, fade a little. Then she'd deliberately invoked the memory of the first time she'd killed, shooting the batarian who'd stumbled on her in her family's animal pen, before beating its head in with a rifle butt, over and over and over, no thoughts left, just a white blur of adrenaline and fear.

It had been enough, but just barely. She'd gone from the extreme cerebral stimulation of the Prothean language and knowledge embedded in her brain to the almost flat-line _lack_ of thought from that early memory, and Morinth's grip had faltered, fallen away, entirely. She'd sensed the asari's confusion, and then Samara had _finally_ opened the damn door.

Now, she was forced into it once more, and went straight for the Prothean data, wrapping the language around her mind like a shield, feeling her perceptions distort as she adopted the wholly alien world-view that went with it, almost insectile, in its fashion. "_Iluwe'kajthras; nasr ma uldr. klwe'hardakh," _Shepard whispered, out loud, hanging onto the thoughts with all of her strength. _This is the_ _mind-fortress/hive of my own creation; intruder go hence, or face utmost destruction-pain._

A different mind touched hers now, but she couldn't understand its words. She was too deep in the Prothean world. But there were colors there, shapes. Blue and white, forming an image. She knew that shape, knew it meant safety. She followed it back into the rest of her mind.

Her sight came back, and she realized that the entire squad was clustered around her. "Did I hurt anyone?" she asked, immediately, worried.

Garrus shook his head. "You just sat there. She couldn't make you do anything, but you were definitely out of the fight. Sky said he'd try to reach where you'd gone. Said you were hiding." Her husband reached out and took her hand.

She glanced over at the rachni. "Thanks, Sky. I'll try hiding in the other place next time. I don't get as lost there."

_Prothean song has a fascination. Their minds, so alien. Even more than human. Understand why you were lost, but almost could not reach you._

She nodded, and glanced around. "Everyone else okay?"

"I feel like an idiot," Gris growled. "Damn sorry about the hit, turian. I don't usually attack from behind like that."

Garrus waved it off. Shepard looked around. "Jaworski?"

"Still out cold. Lina packs a _hell_ of a punch," Lantar told her, jerking his head to where Jaworski's body lay, wrapped in a blanket for the moment.

Shepard sat up, cautiously, looking around. "She got away?"

"Unfortunately," Cohort replied. "This unit and Sidonis-Spectre pursued her and her men to the airlock. The Reaper was indeed outside, as were a number of other ships."

"Lina took the Reaper. It looks fully repaired," Lantar said, grimly. "Fortunately, it's only the size of a fighter, so it only really seats her. The rest of her men got in her freighter and took off."

Shepard shook her head, disoriented. "The _Normandy_?"

Garrus grimaced. "Fired on and took out the _Ahsonnutli._ Couldn't get a lock on the Reaper. I think I could hear Joker cussing from here, even without the radio." He gave her a grim look. "You were only out for about five minutes. Joker's bringing the _Normandy_ to this landing platform."

"Okay," she said, managing to stand up, and offering Garrus her hand. "Anyone taking bets that we're going to be racing her for home?"

Every face around her was grim. "Yeah," she said, after a moment. "That's what I thought. Hopefully, she'll have to stop off and pick up more mercs somewhere. Also, we didn't leave the base unprepared."

Lantar nodded, but his expression was still tight. "Let's get out of here and see if we can end this," he growled, bending over to pick up Jaworski. The human's body probably massed more than Lantar's own, but he threw Sam over his shoulder in a fireman's carry with no discernable effort.

And then they all limped forth, heading for the airlock, and the waiting ship.


	24. Chapter 24: Delusion

**Chapter 24: Delusion**

**Dara**

Another weekend had rolled around. Dara pulled herself out of bed, feeling sleepy and a little stiff from sparring the night before, but knew that the fastest way to wake up and loosen up would be to get in the shower as quickly as possible. She passed Kasumi in the hall on her way to the bathroom, and caught the expression on the woman's face. "Kasumi? Is something wrong?"

Kasumi frowned a little. "We're not really sure."

Dara froze in place. "Is my dad okay?"

"Yeah, he's fine. Shep tells me he's complaining that his head feels like it was hit by a small asteroid, but he's up and around. Everyone else on the team is, too."

Dara let herself inhale again. "So they'll be home soon?"

Kasumi nodded slowly. "You can go up on the base lands this morning—in fact, I'll drive you all up myself. . . but stay away from the buildings for the time being. We're not sure what the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours will bring. Tell Rellus you two are skipping rifle practice in the afternoon. Just come on back down here afterwards, all right?"

She could feel a frown crossing her face. "Kasumi, if you're trying not to worry me, you're. . . well, you're worrying me anyway."

Kasumi managed a smile. "Let me put it this way, Dara. Every precaution _I_ could imagine, _Garrus_ could imagine, and your _dad_ could imagine, has been put in place. You're just as likely to be safe up in the mountains as here in the valley. Maybe even more so, considering the fact that you all got kidnapped right out of _town_ last time. And if nothing happens, I don't want to disrupt your routine." Kasumi paused. "That didn't help at all, did it?"

Dara shook her head, wide-eyed. "Go take your shower," Kasumi said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "And don't worry about it for now."

Kasumi drove Rellus, Dara, and Kella up to the base; Elijah's family, of course, already lived on base, so he was already there, waiting for them at the gate. "Kella, your mom is a Spectre," Dara asked, suddenly. "Why don't you live up on the base?"

"Oh, she had a house up there, but she's got a . . . friend. . . down in the science station that she decided to live with a year or so ago." Kella shrugged. "I don't like her new friend as much as I liked my father. Then again, my father was a salarian, so it's not like I really remember him very well, I suppose."

Kasumi glanced over at them sidelong. "Who's Ylara's friend currently? I don't think I've met him or her," she said, quietly.

"Tuullust. The elcor botanist. He's so _boring_," Kella added, with a sigh. "But my mom says he's so _peaceful_ to be around after a long day at work. That's why I've picked up so much information about the plant life around here. He's only interesting when he talks about work."

Dara gave Rellus a slightly horrified glance, and his shoulders shook with suppressed laughter as Kella hopped out of the groundcar and ran to give Eli a hug. "Don't look at me like that," Rel told Dara, still chuckling quietly. "I'm having just as hard a time picturing it myself!"

Kasumi turned around. "Be nice," she chided. "The two of you don't have a monopoly on cross-species romance, you know." Dara laughed, and looked down, sheepishly. Kasumi went on, "Remember, stay away from the buildings for the day, and head back down to the science station after lunch. I'll be here all day, so go to _Rel's house_." She pointed a finger at them. "Or your father will have my head on a platter, and that will make everyone very unhappy. Especially me."

They laughed, themselves, and slid out of the groundcar. "Any idea of what's got her so worried?" Rel asked, taking her hand in his as they walked towards the stables, staying well back of Eli and Kella, just to have a little bit more time to themselves.

"No, but I'm pretty sure it's got to do with whatever the _Normandy_ is off doing." Dara shrugged. "I'm used to not knowing, but it's only recently that I've known that I don't. . . know. She stopped, put her head to the side, and said, "I really don't feel like swimming today."

"Neither do I. But since that's where _they're_ going, that's more or less where we have to be, too." Rellus glanced around, and pulled her hand up, wrist turned upwards, for a quick nip. "We can just sit back on the shore and relax, or ride in circles around the lake, or whatever."

"Good." While Dara cherished Kella's friendship, and Eli was still a friend, she didn't _always_ want to have to be around them. For the time being though, it was the best they could manage.

On reaching the lake, however, all four of them reined in their mounts, and simply stared. "That's . . . not usually there," Elijah said after a moment, staring.

A _Normandy-_class ship perched on the shore beside the lake, white curves gleaming in the early morning sunshine. Its name and numbers were written in turian, and Dara squinted at the letters, trying to sound them out.

Rellus started to laugh. "It's the _Estallus_! I wonder if my brother is already on-board . . . and why under the stars is it _here_?" The second thought hit him a little belatedly, and he frowned.

Dara thought, but didn't say out loud, _Maybe it's one of the precautions Kasumi mentioned_. "Right, so, they can. . . see us, right?"

Rel grinned at her. "If they send out a team to take us in for questioning, I'm sure you can call Kasumi and let her tell them we're authorized to be on base. Of course, we could also be put in the brig, shackled hand and foot, too."

Dara stuck her tongue out at him. "Yeah, let's not let it come to that," she suggested, turning the _rlata_ she was riding for practice today, and squeezing her knees a little to encourage the beast to get moving.

By silent agreement, she and Rel led the way, not to their favorite _allora _meadow, but to a different area of the forest, closer to the base buildings, where a small stream ran through the trees, and the animals could drink. As they did so, a shadow passed over the sun. "What was that?" Kella asked, looking up sharply.

"Probably a bird. . . " Dara looked up, and her breath caught in her throat. She _knew_ that shape. Knew it in her nightmares, what her subconscious threw at her when it got tired of dark caves and funerals. "That's impossible," she whispered, her throat tight. "That looks. . . like a . . ."

"Reaper," Rellus said, his hands closing on her shoulders, tightly, pulling her back into him. "Looks too small."

"Maybe it's far away?" Eli offered.

The ground shook under their feet, and a _Normandy_-class ship blazed into the sky just over the treeline, engines roaring so loudly, Dara felt as if her eardrums were about to start bleeding. "The _Estallus_?" Kella shouted over the sound.

"Too close, wrong tail numbers!" Rellus shouted back, pulling Dara down and covering her with his larger body as branches and leaves, clipped from the treetops, began falling on them.

"It's the _Tarawa_!" Eli called, and he and Kella grabbed onto each other, eyeing the branches overhead warily. The horses and _rlatae_, already tied off, thankfully, began to spook, the horses rearing and screaming, the _rlatae _spinning in place, trying to pull themselves free so they could run.

Eli pointed at the beasts. "Should we do something about that?"

"Not till they calm down a bit on their own," Dara said, firmly, as the thunder of the engines faded. "I'm not chancing a kick in the head right now." She did edge a little closer, calling the two horses by name, using a soothing voice. Her dad called his 'soothing' voice for horses his 'talk the jumper down' voice, and she guessed it worked for the same reasons. Just a soft voice, repetitious sounds, pitched for comfort.

Once they started to calm, a matter of several minutes, she approached them a little more closely, keeping her hands wide, so the horses could see nothing was going to hurt them, and they turned to face her. Rel went after the _rlatae_, making clicking noises at them between his teeth, getting them to untangle themselves and their long legs from their leads.

No sooner had they done that, then there were several sonic booms in the air overhead, as several more ships hurtled into the atmosphere. They were too far away to get a good look at, just bright lights and contrails in the sky for the moment. The horses began to shy again, and Dara planted her hands on their foreheads, just above their noses, scratching, trying to keep them calm. "This isn't going to work," she called over. "I hate to say this, but I think we should let them run. They can be tracked down later, and if this keeps up, they're going to hurt themselves. Or us."

She stripped the horses of the saddles, trying hard to stay out of range of nervous hooves, and pulled the bridles off their heads. The two mares, skittish already, took the invitation for what it was, and bolted. The _rlatae _were fast on their heels, and soon outpaced the horses.

Then there was a final boom, and what looked like the _Normandy_ itself swooped by overhead, joining the chase. It was larger than its sister ships, so it stood out. "You think we should go back to the base?" Kella asked.

"Kasumi did say to stay away," Dara said slowly, "But I think we should go back, yeah." She didn't like the thought of the four of them being alone out here in the woods, cut off, and essentially vulnerable.

She glanced at Rel, who held out his hand. "Let's go, but we'll be careful." He was frowning, serious, and she could see calculations spinning behind his eyes. As she kept pace with him, he muttered, "I think if we head more or less northeast through the woods, that should take us out by the rifle range, right?"

She nodded. "So, we're definitely disobeying, right?"

"Yeah, but for a good reason. I have absolutely no intention of being caught helpless out here in the woods." His voice was tight, and the set of his shoulders rigid. He was _angry_ about something, but she wasn't sure what. For a turian, Rellus was usually very relaxed, but when he _did_ get angry, it was always in a very turian way. This might be fear-anger, but she wasn't really sure. She hadn't learned _all_ the different types yet, in general, or what they looked like on him, in particular.

**Shepard**

"_Estallus, Tarawa, _come in, please," Shepard said into the radio, standing in the cockpit behind Joker. "We're on approach to Mindoir, non-stealthed. We're coming in hot, and we may have unfriendlies in the system ahead of us. Takahashi, Jallus, please respond."

"_Normandy_, this is the _Tarawa_," Captain Ayame Takahashi. "First bogey entered the atmosphere two minutes ago. _Tarawa_ is in pursuit." Tension sang in her voice. "Moves like a goddamn eel, and it's _fast_, too."

"_Estallus _here," Jallus chimed in, crisply. "Multiple contacts now entering atmosphere. Vectors indicate potential landing zones near the base. We're on them."

"Get us there, Joker," Shepard said, tightly. "While I know you and EDI want to see how good the kids _really_ are, let's not let them have all the fun."

"You got it, Commander," he said, and the _Normandy _suddenly shifted out of FTL, dangerously close to Mindoir, shedding streamers of blue-shifted light as it did. "Entering atmosphere in five seconds. All hands, hold onto your hats," he added, tabbing the comm.

Shepard reached up and braced herself against the window shutters, and then they were diving into the atmosphere, and the _Normandy _shook and trembled with the friction. "Joker, when I said get us there, I meant _in one piece_."

"Trust me," Joker said, not looking up from his panels at all.

The jagged teeth of the mountain range in which the Spectre base perched loomed closer and closer; Shepard could see that most of the snow had finally melted from their tops. Hell, she could see the _trees_. "Joker?"

"We're almost there," he said, and the _Normandy_ danced up and over the mountain range, dumping speed. "We've got contacts on the scope now."

Shepard glanced up. Jallus and the _Estallus_ were taking out merc ships as best they could, but some had landed, and were dropping troops. The _Tarawa_ and the mini-Reaper were off the scope at the moment, playing tag all around the planet, more than likely. _Ground radar and ladar all over the planet is lighting up, no doubt. Mindoir doesn't have a lot of missile batteries, but they're probably arming, right now. _ "Joker, get us in position over by the _Estallus_, and we'll drop in the Hammerheads to provide ground support. Then go help Takahashi and the _Tarawa_. They'll need it more."

"You got it." Joker spun the _Normandy _into position, and Shepard ran for the elevator, heading for the cargo bay. The rest of her Spectres were already there, waiting. Garrus and Jaworski had already received medical attention for their head injuries, and would be good to go, thankfully.

She gestured for everyone to get into the vehicles, and seconds after getting inside, the hatches opened, and they dropped. "Here's hoping the twenty or so Spectres on base paid attention to their morning memos this week, and haven't been caught with their pants down, because that is a _lot_ of troop movement down there," Shepard said into her radio, looking down as the Hammerhead dropped like a stone.

**Joker and EDI**

"Let's go play hide and seek," Joker told EDI. "Where's Aurelia hiding?"

Aurelia was, of course, the AI of the _Tarawa_. "She's currently over the southwestern continent, in pursuit of the mini-Reaper," EDI replied.

"Laying in a pursuit course. Let's go give her some help." Joker arced the _Normandy _back up into the outer atmosphere. The fastest route between two points on the curved surface of a planet often had little to do with latitude and longitude. It was how you traced the parabolic curve, up into space, or at least low orbit, and then descended again. You could be anyplace on Earth—or Mindoir—within eight minutes, literally, if you plotted your course the right way.

The sky darkened to black, dotted with stars as they emerged into space, and then shifted around to the dark side of the planet, dropping back down, heading to the _Tarawa_'s position. "Hang in there, kiddo," Joker said as they broke through a heavy bank of clouds. "_Tarawa, _this is _Normandy_, can we render assistance?"

"Taking fire!" Takahashi shot back over the radio. "It's a _lot_ more maneuverable than the standard Reapers were—" The radio connection died for a moment.

"Jeff, we're at absolute maximum range for a Thanix cannon burst," EDI offered. "We cannot close the range unless the _Tarawa _pulls them back to us."

"Takahashi?" Joker asked. "Pull up and bring the Reaper to _us_. We've got the big guns, remember?" He glanced over at EDI. "EDI, get us a firing solution. Even at max range, we might at least get the damn thing's attention." Joker took a moment to remember who was on the forward guns, now that they had more than a skeleton crew. "Hal'marak? Fire at will."

"Firing solution locked in," the quarian replied over the comm. "Firing."

The Thanix cannon fired. . . and the tiny Reaper swerved, moving like oil on a plate. The line of energy went past it, burning into the ground. "Damnit," Joker swore, leaning into his console, trying to urge just a hint more speed out of the engines.

The _Tarawa_ was no longer the pursuer, but the pursued. Bleeding fire from several open wounds, she lit up the night sky, turning on the mini-Reaper, trying to fight back. It was just too fast, to maneuverable, and while its little cannons were small, and considerably weaker than a full Thanix cannon, it did have _several_ of them, each at the tip of one of its four tentacle-like appendages. It whipped light at the _Tarawa_ again, and Joker winced. "Takahashi, get out of there, you can't do any more. We'll take it from here."

The radio spluttered to life. ". . . heavy damage. . . navigation system. . . attitude control. . . get the crew. . . "

"EDI?" Joker said, a horrible, leaden feeling in his guts.

"The _Tarawa_ has taken heavy damage to all systems," she said, after a minute, sounding as horrified as he was. "They're ejecting lifepods. . . ."

And then the _Tarawa _became a golden plume of light in the darkness, a dazzling chrysanthemum of light and death and Joker closed his eyes against her brilliance, feeling tears sting the lids.

"I'm sorry, Jeff," EDI whispered. "The crew ejected."

"Takahashi?"

"Unknown."

"And Aurelia?"

"She did not have a node off of her ship, Jeff. She never found a human she could trust. There were no transmissions that I could detect." EDI's voice was very quiet. "I couldn't _catch_ her, Jeff. I _tried_." There was pain in that soft voice, grief so real it hurt to hear. "Mini-Reaper now altering course."

"Coming for us?"

"Negative, Jeff. It's heading back to the Spectre base."

"Send the coordinates of the escape pods to Mindoir authorities," Joker said, his throat aching. "And lay in a pursuit course." He tabbed the radio. "Commander, the _Tarawa_ bought it. Mini-Reaper is coming back your way, and we're chasing it, but it's very damned fast."

"Be faster." Shepard sounded out of breath. "Jallus has taken out most of the ships, but we've got close to a hundred mercs on the ground here."

"We're on our way."

"Joker?" There was a burst of assault rifle fire on the radio, and he waited for it to die. Then Shepard added, "I'm sorry about Aurelia."

_I'll be damned. She remembers the kids' names._ "Yeah. Us too."

His throat was too tight to say more. It wasn't the time, anyway.

**Shepard**

The Spectres who'd been left behind on Mindoir were hunkered down in the base buildings, firing at the mercs, who were a motley assortment of the last remaining Phoenix Wing humans, batarains for hire, and even a few Blood Pack, here and there. They were easy enough to pick out, thanks to the uniforms. Shepard herself was pinned down in a doorway with Garrus, one of them on each side, taking turns rounding the corner for a second or two to fire. In between bursts, Shepard shouted to her husband, "One of these days, mercs are going to get smart, and just start dressing in any ragtag assortment of armor they can find, and then the _Spectres_ are going to need uniforms."

He ducked around the corner, fired, taking down a batarian with a headshot, and pulled back. He shouted to her, now, "I'm thinking black, myself. Hard to go wrong with black. It never goes out of style."

She ducked around the corner, fired, and pulled back, muttering something vicious under her breath in a dead language as her shields took a hit. "I'm surprised you didn't say blue."

"Anything's fine, really, so long as it doesn't actually have lit-up panels on it. Makes me too much of a damn target." Duck, aim, fire, retreat. Another batarian down.

"That's your _good_ armor, honey," she reminded him, mind completely blank and clear. There was no emotion in any of this, just the kill. "You wear it for weddings and funerals." She ducked around again, and fired a long barrage at a group of batarians that had set up camp next to the post exchange.

Now a grenade sailed through the door opening, and Garrus moved, fast, across the doorway, body slamming into hers, their armor grinding into each other, taking her to the floor, covering her. The grenade went off—a loud _bang_—and blue smoke filled the air instead of shrapnel. "I hate wasting a good self-sacrificing move like that," he commented dryly, standing and helping her to her feet.

"Just make sure your helmet and breather are in place. Now's not the time for either of us to be losing our damn minds."

"Nope, I'm pretty sure I still know my own name."

The immediate area was clear now, and she gestured for Garrus to proceed her out of their cover, so they could meet up with the rest of their squad. "Any word from Joker?" Jaworski asked as they regrouped, near the base commissary now. Shepard dearly hoped the stockers and cashiers had taken cover in the basement, per security protocol.

"The _Tarawa _went down," she told the rest of them, her throat tight. "Mini-Reaper's on its way back here with Lina aboard. Jallus and Joker between them _might_ be able to take it out, but I don't know."

"Damn," Lantar said, and then there was no more time for words, just ducking and dodging and returning fire, as the next wave of mercs came around the corner at them.

_It comes!_ Sky suddenly keened in their minds. _The powerful voice comes, singing despair and dust and longing._

The ground rumbled, and then the _Estallus_ sped into the air above them, as the mini-Reaper and the _Normandy _appeared, heavy sonic booms shaking every building. The proximity was so close, that the mere sound actually shattered several windows. The Reaper, however, darted and dodged, drawing the _Estallus_ and the _Normandy_ into each others' paths, pirouetted in air, and turned, as if to fire, raising its tentacles, and Shepard could see the yellow gleam there as its weapons charged . . . and then it lurched away, landing atop a nearby building. Mordin's laboratory, specifically.

Shepard fired at the first merc that popped his head up, and said, tersely, "Talk to me, Sky. What's it doing?"

_Unsure. There is . . . dissonance. It resists? Two voices, singing counter-harmonies, off-key. Do not understand their songs!_ There was distress in Sky's voice, almost pain.

Then the Reaper reached down and literally ripped a section of the roof off Mordin's lab, throwing it to the side, and dropped down into the structure.

And the world went blank inside of Shepard's head.

**Rellus**

If it had been just him and Dara, Rellus would have been tempted simply to pull her up onto his back and _run_ for the rifle range. With her solid bones, she was surprisingly heavy for her small size—some nine inches, or twenty-two centimeters shorter than his own frame at this point—but not that much heavier than a full pack and armor, which he was going to have to learn to run in at some point, anyway. But with Kella and Eli along, it was better to stick to their foot speed. Every second out in the woods chafed, though. The thought of being helpless, defenseless, triggered things deep inside of him, made him _angry_. And anger was, as he'd often told Dara, not exactly a _bad_ emotion for a turian.

They finally pounded into the rifle area, and Rel stopped everyone behind him, ducking into the shelter of the gate to look around. The area was deserted, so, still holding Dara by the wrist, he propelled her towards the weapons locker. She glanced up at him, read his expression, and nodded, using her range badge to open it, and got out her little revolver and her rifle. More of a hunting model, the rifle almost qualified as a sniper rifle, but with a lot less kick than the military standard ones. She started loading both, and scrounged for a holster for the pistol, as Rel used his own badge now, getting out his own weapons.

Kella eyed the weapons dubiously. "I don't know how to use those," the asari girl commented.

Rellus shook his head. "Not asking you to," he told her, loading his rifle and sticking a dozen clips in the long pocket in the thigh of his pants. "You're a biotic, right? Like most asari?"

She nodded. "I'm not very good," she said. "Mostly, I can shield myself, maybe someone else. I can throw light objects, too, but nothing as big as a person."

"Wait, we're not going any further onto base, right?" Elijah asked, looking from side to side.

Dara closed her section of the locker, and went to a nearby wall, taking down the first-aid kit there and slinging it, by its strap, over her shoulder. Rel could see that she was very pale, and her eyes had an inwards focus to them, a little blankness. "No," Rellus told Eli. "We should be safe enough here in the range, but there's obviously something _very_ wrong here. It makes sense to take precautions, right?"

The human boy rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, it makes sense," he said, dubiously. "I just don't know what I can do to help."

Rel evaluated him quickly. _Can't fire a weapon, some self-defense and melee training from Lantar, so not completely helpless, at least helped take down a vorcha before. . . . _But there was a gentleness to Elijah, something in him that made him comparable to Kella, in a way. Something indefinably _human_, he supposed. Whatever that indefinable thing was, Dara had less of it. It was still _there_, but not nearly as strong. "You and Kella should stay back. Maybe in the range master's office?"

Eli glanced between him and Dara, clearly wanting to object. She looked past him, watching the doorway, rifle in her hands. "Go take care of Kella," Rellus told him, firmly, and Elijah slowly backed away, shaking his head a little, pride clearly stung. _Human males aren't that much different from turian males. Still have the instinct to protect . . . but in this case, that's not exactly rational_. Rel was a little surprised by how hard and clear his thoughts were. There was anger, still, but if he'd had to put a name to it, it would have been protective-anger, territorial-anger. And maybe just a hint of memory-anger, too. It all _helped_, though.

Dara continued scrounging, heading into the range master's office now, which was unlocked. She came back out with tangle of breathers in her arms, and dumped them on a table, carefully starting to take them apart. Rellus went over and started to help. "Good idea," he told her.

"Yeah. I didn't like seeing what that azure dust stuff did to everyone last time. Glad Mr. Morris had a few in there for fire drills." She hung one around her own neck, and then passed two others to Kella and Elijah. Rellus took the last for himself, and settled it loosely just under his chin. The breathers were the one-size-fits-none variety that _might _ work fine on a human or an asari, but would probably leak on a turian or a krogan, but he didn't mention that to her. With luck, it wouldn't be an issue.

"You hear anything?" Dara asked him, quietly.

"Yeah. Gunshots, a lot of them. Pretty far away. I think the second set of ships were troop transports. Maybe mercs."

"Didn't see any markings on them, but they were moving _awful_ fast," she replied, taking a kneeling position just inside and to the left of the inner door range door, where she could see the entryway clearly. He could smell fear on her skin, but also something else, the acid tang of human adrenaline.

Rellus knelt down beside and behind her, to murmur, quietly, "So long as we stick together, it'll be fine." He touched his forehead to hers, in respect and affection. "Probably won't come to much, anyway."

"Yeah, the Spectres will just clean everything up, Commander Shepard will blow up the Reaper, and we'll all go have dinner." Dara managed a smile, and held up her hand to show him how much it was shaking. _Human adrenal reaction_, his memory prompted him. _Should diminish once the adrenaline actually has something to __**do**__._

He was about to respond with something else encouraging, when the world around him wavered. He had enough time to think, _Oh, spirits, not __**again**__. . . ._

_. . . _and the world shifted, melted, blurred. . . and reformed.

This wasn't like the last time. There were no doors, no windows, no choices. There was just an alien sky overhead, powder blue, traced with thin, white clouds, and a small, yellow star. A sense of damp heat—not quite as hot as Palaven, but a wet furnace to most other species, he'd imagine. He could even _smell_ things this time—wet, green _alien _plant smells, faint odor of horse manure. He looked down from the sky, so unlike the blue-green of Palaven, or the blue-violet of Mindoir, and saw that the terrain was different, too. Largely flat, with a stand of unfamiliar trees off to his right, covered in a tangle of various different creeping vines, some of which were festooned with alien, blue-purple flowers that hung down like grapes. Off to his left, a wooden fence zig-zagged around a rectangle of open land, where horses browsed. Past that, a wooden house, built in the human style.

It could have been today. It could have been before humans discovered spaceflight. He _did_ suspect that it was Earth, but why was he seeing it?

"Where are we?" asked a voice, and Rellus turned, and instead of seeing a spark of light, saw Kella standing there. Kella, but with a vivid blue glow to her, as if she were lit from within.

Elijah scuffed up behind her, dim red glow seeping through his skin. "Looks like vids of Earth," he said, after a moment.

"It is," Dara said, and walked up past them, vaulting over the fence with the ease of long practice. Her glow was white, matching her spark from last time. "This is my _home_." She turned around, looking puzzled, and now the blue sky began to darken, cloud over. It happened unnaturally fast, and Rellus became distinctly uneasy as the clouds started to take an unmistakably dirty yellow color. "We better get inside," Dara said, reluctantly. "This is tornado weather."

He jumped over the fence himself, catching up with her. "What's wrong?" he said.

"I don't know," she muttered, moving as close to him as she could for a moment, bumping into his side. "Something bad's going to happen, I think."

"Look!" Eli shouted, and they turned back, seeing the massive form of a Reaper descending from the sky in the distance.

Dara made a choked sound at the back of her throat. "Oh. . . that's when they landed on Dallas." She pointed in a different direction, through the stand of trees. "That's where they'll land on Houston," she added, voice very high-pitched. And suddenly, Rellus could remember it all _with _her. . . .

_Daddy picking her up early from school. So much fun to get to leave early, but everyone's leaving, everyone's parents looking worried, line of groundcars packing the streets, can't get through. . . making it home to the ranch, where Mama's letting the horses run, doesn't want them locked in a barn, helpless. Asking "What's wrong?" endlessly, but not getting answers. "You're only nine, darlin', you won't understand. Don't worry, though, all right?" Daddy says the words, but his eyes are blank. "And if it comes right down to it, we won't be taken apart, and none of us will suffer." He's talking to Mama now, and Dara doesn't understand what he's saying, just knows he looks stern and angry and she starts to cry, bewildered. . . . standing on the porch now, watching the vast black ships descend. . . . _

"But that's not how it ended," he said, shaking his head stubbornly, pushing away the sensation of black despair, so unlike Dara. _That doesn't come from her_, he realized; it was coming from somewhere else. "The human-turian fleet, led by the _Normandy_, fresh from saving Palaven, came to Earth next, remember?"

_White, curving ships in the sky now, so beautiful, fighting off the black ones, chasing them away. The black ones falling right out of the sky, later, dead, deprived of the signal, the energy, that made them __**live**__, as Commander Shepard found the mysterious 'off' switch in dark space. The celebrations, the laughter. . . _

Quick flash of Dara, smiling up at him, and then the scene shifted again. Line of cars around the house. A boxy vehicle that Rellus suddenly knew was an ambulance. "No!" Dara said, sharply. "I'm not going to look at this." _Daddy sitting in the kitchen, so completely still, eyes blank again. But he's barely able to talk, to say the words: "Dara, honey, your mom, she had a problem today. She got really sick all of a sudden. . ."_

Rellus found the mental connection they'd forged together the last time they'd been stuck in a simulation—and this is what this _had_ to be—and _pulled_ on her, feeling her glow starting to dim. He could feel Kella's presence in the link now, pulling also, and then Elijah. And then the world melted again. . . .

**Dara**

She gasped for breath, feeling the dark tendrils of despair starting to fall away. "Where _are_ we?" she asked, sitting up, and staring around her. Wherever it was, was certainly not Lufkin, Texas. This place was _beautiful_, in a strange, wild, deadly way. The sky was _turquoise_, for starters, and the air was _thick_ with humidity, like walking through bathwater. Only a little worse than south Texas in August, though, which was a help. There was a house here, like the turian villas on the base, but it had a garden at the back, which faced the forest, and the forest was conifers and ferns and wild, wide-leafed shocks of jade-green plants, with vines twining everywhere.

Turian children were playing in that back garden, and Dara's eyes widened. She recognized the clan-paint, yellow, stylized flames, like two inverted Y's, the tail of the Y over the eyes, branching down over the jawbone. At a closer look, she even recognized the children. Serana looked much the same. Rellus though. . . Rellus was over a foot shorter, barely over five feet in height at this point, laughing and chasing his younger siblings around, as an older turian male clipped dead flowers from the bushes. Commander Shepard was there, too, along with a varren.

Then the air was full of flying insects, and they buzzed all around. Dara instinctively tried to slap them away, recoiling in horror, and found herself running into the nearly-adult version of Rellus. "Rel?" she asked, watching his mandibles flex, the equivalent of a human grinding his jaw. She could see yellow light, dimly glowing inside of him. _Why is the simulation showing us this stuff? Why not the future? That was actually kind of fun, once we got the hang of it._

"This is the day the Collectors came, just before the Reaper attack on Palaven," he said, his voice low.

In front of them, the children screamed, ran into each other, collapsed, paralyzed, in a heap, near the garden wall. Dara watched in horror as the insectile Collectors began to emerge from the trees, and then she plunged into the memory with Rellus, _living _it with him. . . .

_Nearly crushed under the weight of siblings, can't move, can't stand, can't fight, helpless. Can hear them coming, can __**smell**__ them coming, stink of dead flesh and chemicals, bad smell, fear-anger flooding through his body, useless, helpless. Sound of gunfire, all he can see is a knee. Commander Shepard is there, Rinus, first-son, older brother-protector is there, even the damned __**varren**__ can fight, can help defend the younger ones, but can't __**move**__! Then Commander Shepard falls down, __**red**__ blood everywhere, so alien, so wrong. Too fragile. All going to die now, and still can't __**move**__. . . . _

Reassuring thoughts weaving together now._But that's not how it ended, Rel. You're still here. We're still here. _

**Flick**. _Uncle Garrus appearing like the spirit of vengeance, dressing the wounds, then the two of them, together, fighting, red blood, blue blood, all the same, bad smells fading, sound of the buzzing insects fading. . . ._

**Flick**. They couldn't quite dodge the last tendril of despair, flung out at them like a tentacle from primordial muck._ Inhaling the blue dust, mind slipping away. . . only confusion, knowing, deep down, that something was __**wrong**__, but unable to fight, trapped in __**mind**__ as well as __**body**__ this time. Unable to fight, unable to defend the young ones, feeling blind and helpless and useless. _

Dara could hear, deep down at the bottom of it, the firm, hard resolve. _Never again_. She caught that thought, that steely resolution, and pulled on it with all her might. "Come on, Rel, that's just what they're trying to do to you again. Let's _go_ already!"

The images faded, and for a moment, they were standing in a blank, white space, the four of them simply staring at each other. "What," Eli said, with great succinctness, "the hell is going on?"

"It's the simulator again, I think," Rellus said, standing up. "It seems to be hitting us in our personal worst days." He stamped a foot on the glowing white ground experimentally. "That feels. . . oddly real." He glanced around. "Ideas?"

Kella frowned. "Last time, we had to find paths. There hasn't been one yet, that I've seen. Maybe we have to _make_ one this time."

"How do we do that?" Dara asked, standing, herself. She felt as if she'd just finished her morning run—achingly tired, but also a little flushed, invigorated.

"Start moving, in any direction. If it's a construct, it'll probably respond to our thoughts, our desires. Might put up more obstacles, though," the asari girl said, after a moment.

"More?" Rellus said. "That'll be. . . fun." He caught Dara's elbow, and directed her, so that they were now walking side-by-side. She could tell he was watching in all directions, even behind them, and consciously did the same.

**Flick.** _Watching on the forward viewscreen of her mother's ship as they streaked away from Thessia, refugees crammed aboard the vessel. Watching as the Reapers descended, not to process the inhabitants, not to use them, but, having found them essentially __**lacking**__ in some way, to destroy them, and the world they originated from at the same time. Thousands of missiles, each a kilometer in length, thin, like needles, speeding from the Reapers, projectile strength enhanced by mass effect fields, ripping into the planet's surface, burrowing deep under the ground, opening the core to the atmosphere._

_Explosions, eruptions. One so violent, along the Great Western Rift, a fault line already known for dangerous earthquakes, that a section of the crust of the planet actually ripped free. _

_Inside of an hour, it was done. Boiling rock, molten metal, cooling now, exposed to space, a new asteroid belt for the star. And ten billion lives, extinguished. She couldn't even fathom the scale of it, just heard the others screaming on the ship, opening themselves to eternity, hoping that the universe would see fit to take them, too. But she didn't. She didn't want to open herself to their grief and their despair, to share herself with them. She didn't know why. Thessia was a place, sometimes they visited, sometimes they didn't. It was a nice place, and she was sad it was gone. __Is there something missing in me, something lacking? Am I not a proper asari?_

**Flick.** _Father's funeral. Closed casket. All the kids at school had told him, in whispers, what the police reports had said, eighteen bullet holes. Some of them said he didn't even have a __**face**__ left. Trying not to be sick. Trying not to throw up in the middle of the funeral, on the flag he held in his lap. Trying not to think of his dad, big Darren Stockton, with his big smile and warm hands, being just so much hamburger meat in that big white box. Sometimes the thoughts connected, and a wave of despair and anger would hit him; most of the time, they stayed separate, and he just felt hollow and empty. __Something's been taken away__, he thought, distantly. His mother, sitting beside him, crying, but it was a weird sort of crying, sometimes deep and intense and sincere, and sometimes, just sort of bewildered, almost guilty. It didn't make a lot of sense, but he was having trouble crying himself. . . . _

**Flick.** "Okay, this is different," Rellus said, holding up one hand to stop everyone.

Dara looked around. "It looks like the base," she said, but she didn't believe her own words. "But you're still all glowy, Rel. Yellow, just like your clan colors."

He flicked her a disbelieving glance. "Yeah, I don't think this is really . . . real. . . yet. Kella, are you getting anything?"

Behind them, the asari girl shook her head. "I'm trying not to open myself up to it, too much," she replied. "Last time, there was simply too much biotic energy for me to handle."

"Keep moving?" Dara asked.

"Yeah," Rel said, looking around again. "So far so good, anyway." He frowned. "I wonder if we're moving in reality at the same time as we're moving in the simulation."

Dara frowned, and their thoughts collided for an instant. _That could be really __**bad**__, Rel. Especially if there's still fighting out there._

_I know. Don't scare the other two. _His mind was just as warm and yellow as his glow, she realized, and found it very comforting indeed. She smiled, and their thoughts began to blend, and she realized, with some surprise, that he found it just as comforting as she did.

**Flick**. _Turquoise sky outside a window. Tall turian male, white and blue facepaint, behind the desk._ _Grandfather Gavius?__ The thought wasn't hers, but she thought it anyway, recognized the male._ _Younger male, sitting in front of the desk. Uniform, lieutenant. First year past boot camp, obviously had gone to Officer's Candidate School. Best of the best. But his expression was angry, turned inwards, and his glow was gray-blue, like the steel of a fine sword._

_Gavius talking now, "Your superiors obviously don't have a clear idea of who you really are, Garrus. They don't know you like your own family. They can't, of course. Not their fault. You're not going to get Spectre training." The voice was firm, a little autocratic. "You disregard orders and procedures too much. You'd just be another Saren, another loose cannon. You need more discipline, my son. Much as it pains me to say it."_

_The young turian stood. "Do I have your leave to go?" Deep sarcasm, almost vibrating with tension._

"_Go. I'm sure your siblings will commiserate with you."_

_Slamming the door behind him, the first-son of the family stood in the corridor, as Egidus and Solanna, second-son and first-daughter, his siblings, surrounded him. __My mother was __**never**__ this young, was she?_ _"He shouldn't treat you like this," Egidus said._

"_You're first-born, and a full adult. He doesn't have the right." Solanna now, deeply upset._

"_He does. He must. Otherwise, he wouldn't do it." Deep down, though, the watchers could see the rage, the regret. A lifetime of just those slights, of never __**quite**__ measuring up to his famous father's standards. And the resolution, buried deep at his very core: __Someday, Father is going to regret every word._

"Uncle Garrus?" Rel said, and the young turian looked up. The simulation didn't change his appearance; he still stayed as he was, young, unscarred, in the battle uniform of a Hierarchy lieutenant. "I think you'd better come with us."

"Do I. . . know you?" Garrus asked, clearly puzzled. _Maybe he's deeper in the simulation than we are. Closer to the source, maybe?_ Neither of them were sure who thought that.

"Yes, you do. We're clan-mates. You need to come with us." _I think._

Garrus nodded assent, but his blue eyes were still puzzled in his face.

**Flick**. _Blue-violet sky. Not in the mountains, but definitely Mindoir, at least. Some other portion of the colony, down in the plains, near a big forest. Pre-fab buildings dotting the area. Sounds of gunfire in the distance._

_A batarian jogged by, and Dara flinched, but the alien apparently couldn't see them. It slowed, studied a scanner in its hand, and headed for a large building near a house on the outskirts. "I think we should follow," she said, and jogged after it, drawing Rellus, Garrus, and the others with her._

_The batarian opened the door, peering inside. Dara could smell animals inside. The batarian's scanner chirped, and she could see it start to smile, raise its weapon. . . . and then there was a loud __**BANG. **__And another, and another. Dara had already spun out of the way, realizing they were in the line of fire, and huddled on the ground, as several more shots rang out._

_Dara stood up cautiously as silence hung in the air once more. As she did so, she peered into the building, seeing a human girl there, maybe sixteen or so. Waist-length black hair, wide blue eyes in a chalk-white face; she held a rifle in her hands, and was wearing a nightgown and a robe. Vivid sky-blue glow to her. No shoes. After a moment, the girl came forward, and poked the batarian with the rifle, cautiously. A post-mortem tremor wracked the limp body, and the girl shrieked and began to slam the batarian's head with the rifle butt, over and over again, orange blood splashing up, covering her face, her hands, now brain matter, and Dara gagged at the smell, and the girl wasn't even screaming now, just methodically trying to __**make sure**__ that it was __**dead**__._

Young Garrus moved past her into the barn, wrestling the gun out of the girl's hands, dropping it to the floor and getting his hands on her wrists.

**Garrus**

His mind had been trapped in the simulation for so long now. _Landing on Amada, hopping out into the snow, taking a list of survivors, and not finding one name, in particular, on that list. Returning to his base on Omega, all his teammates dead. The searing pain of the rockets, seeing her face above him as he could feel the blood pouring out of his body, her __**ordering**__ him not to die. _Black tentacles of despair, writhing through body and mind. And then it had all gone back to the beginning again. But each cycle, it was harder to remember that it _was_ a cycle, that he'd lived it all before, and would, apparently, live it again and again. Instead, each time, the reality became _more real_.

But this time, there were strangers in his house, strangers of all species, who _glowed_, of all the crazy things. One of them wore Velnaran clan paint, like young Allardus, who went to school in the same grade as his sister, Solanna. Claimed to be his clan-mate, even though he didn't wear Vakarian colors. Garrus shrugged. It didn't matter. Anything that got him out of the house before the urge to strike his father, unforgivably, passed. Before he managed to get himself disinherited and stripped of family and name.

Then they were. . . someplace. . . _else?_ It didn't make any sense. He'd never seen a sky that color before, almost violet. And then they chased after a batarian. Ugly creatures. He'd fought a few already in his first year of service, and knew that they were resilient and tough. Then it went into a barn, and someone inside shot it. He stared, as a human girl, surely about his age, came out of the barn and began to _make sure_ of it, clearly in the grip of some sort of adrenal rage. He hadn't even _known_ humans _could_ be angry like that. Savage, primitive. _I thought they were supposed to be like rudimentary asari, weak, fragile, deceptive._ The hair was distracting; he'd never seen any so long before, and it kept covering her face. Then the orange blood flew up, coating her cheeks, and he suddenly _knew_: _That's the wrong color. She should be wearing __**my**__ colors._

He ran forward, stripped the gun out of her hands, pushed her against the wall, where she couldn't hurt herself, and let her struggle, repeating over and over again, "You're safe. Lilu, you're safe. Calm down."

She looked up at him, eyes wide. "Who are you? Are you with _them_?" Her gaze flicked to the batarian on the floor. "Wait. . . how do you know my name?" Her eyes blazed with hope. "Did my father send you?"

He blinked. _How __**do**__ I know your name? _He put his hands to the sides of her face, feeling as if he'd done this before, and then ran his fingers through her long hair, confused. "I always wondered what it would feel like when it was this long," he muttered, and then memory _finally_ hit, for both of them at once, and they wrapped their arms around each other, tightly, knowing one another. "It's that damn simulator," Garrus growled, and when he raised his face again, he _knew_ he had his scars back.

"Different this time," Shepard managed. "Much more intense." She lifted her head from his shoulder, and her face paint was back in its proper place, and proper colors. He tugged lightly on her hair, and it abruptly shortened again, much to his amused chagrin.

He turned, and saw the kids—well, he really was going to have to stop calling them _kids_ soon, even in his mind, he decided. "What the hell are you all doing here?" he asked.

"Long story," Rellus told him. "Can it wait?"

Garrus nodded. "Let's go find the others."

The others weren't hard to find; but they _were_ hard to pull out of their simulations. The device seemed to be selecting for a variety of really bad days, and _something _was playing on the despair and pain and loss felt then. And they were all Spectres. They had a _wide variety_ of _really_ bad days to select from, of course. The only way to pull someone out, it soon became apparent, was to enter their simulation as a _part _of the world, and draw them out, either by reminding them that it hadn't ended that way, or by changing the pattern so clearly that it created a cognitive dissonance for the viewer. A sense that _this is not how it happened._

**Flick**. _Having the ring returned. Eyes lowered. "My family does not approve," she said, pressing the ring into his hand. "You are American. Violent. In a dangerous job, that will take you all over the galaxy. It is not stable. They feel you will not be good for me. I am. . . sorry." _**Flick. **_Raiding a batarian pirate base out in the Terminus systems, retaliation for the Blitz. Moving in, only to realize, the intel was bad. It wasn't a pirate base at all, but a small village. Sure, the pirates __could__ be living here, among their women and children, but we can't take the risk of hitting non-combatants. . . no. . . wait. . . belay that order, don't you dare set off that mortar, do you hear what I'm saying? _**Flick. **_Knife falling from his wife's hand, the surprised look on her face as she turned towards him, then slowly crumpled to the floor. . . . and then, oddly, piano music. _

_He frowned. That wasn't right. He walked out of the kitchen, leaving off his attempts at CPR on his wife's body, to find Dara in the living room, playing piano. Kasumi was there, with her, reading a book. "Dara? Why are you home from school already?"_

"_Because I have to practice this new piece for Sky, remember, Dad?"_

_He frowned, looking at Kasumi, too, seeing her peaceful green glow, the way she looked up at him, the slow smile. . . which brought back memories of far more intimate things. She stood, crossed the room to him, and ran her hands up his arms, feeling the muscle there, as she liked to do, and then imperatively pulled his head down to hers for a kiss, and suddenly, the cycle was broken, and he almost cried out in relief. . . . _

**Flick.** _It was the Rite. No krannt to help him, just himself, his biotics, his wits. None of the other boys his age had wanted to ally with him, and he didn't know why. They feared and respected his biotics, but thought he was weak, somehow. Too many dreams, of the days that had gone before. Too many times that he'd said "I wonder how that hospital could be rebuilt" instead of proposing that it be used for target practice, maybe. And this was his reward, to die alone in the arena. Maybe they were right. It __was__ weakness, not to be able to attract loyalty, allies. The thresher maw spat acid at him, and he cowered behind the pillar, keeping his shield in place with all the force of his mind. He might not be able to attack the giant creature, but he'd be damned if he was going to let it win, feast on his corpse. __I will not give in,__ he growled, and then _**flick, **_he could feel the knife in his back, feel the flutter of his primary heart around the blade. It had almost gotten the secondary heart as well, and he went with it, staggering. "Why?" he gasped, turning to see a fellow krogan face there. "I wanted your place in the squad. Big, rich contract coming up," Yadnar Turok told him, calmly. "You're too weak, anyway, Gris. Everyone knows it."___

_But that's not how it ended, was it?__ The voice was in his mind, a chorus, a song, and it meant something, somehow. He laughed, and showed the voice how it __**had**__ ended—a biotic blast leveled right at Turok's ugly face, slamming him over the edge of the balcony to the ground twenty stories below. A fall not even a krogan would easily survive. Then he'd pulled the knife from his back, and simply laid there, bleeding, trying to breathe and let his body heal itself. The pain let him know he was alive. The pain would be his reminder, the next time he even thought about turning his back on one of his own kind._

"Look," Rellus said, and Garrus looked up. They were on the base again, and it certainly looked real, if you disregarded the odd glows that overlaid everyone's bodies. The sky, however, had more of that unreality to it, a few things being completely out of place. There was a dark vortex over Mordin's lab; if a humanoid eye could _see_ a black hole, instead of it being the _absence_ of everything, it would look something like this, Garrus suspected; a mind-bending tear in reality, filled with darkness, drawing everything around it, into itself.

Near it, but not being drawn into it, was the nebulous shape they'd all seen before: Sings-to-the-Sky. At his heart, he was blazing pure golden energy, and now that Garrus was concentrating, he could _hear_ the rachni's song, like a hum that permeated everything, even into his very teeth.

The last was a human woman, hovering in mid-air over one of the buildings. She was tall, with tawny golden hair, whipped wildly by some unfelt breeze; her face was gamin, and she had a sense of unlimited power about her. From a dozen human minds around him leaped a single word: _angel_. "Hell," Shepard said, out loud, and he nodded, recognizing the image himself. "That's EDI's self-image. How are we seeing her in this construct?"

Mordin scuttled closer. "Believe that she and Joker are once more providing an interface for us to interpret this simulation. Stronger this time. Unsure how."

Garrus frowned. Certainly, he did feel a bit more _connected_ this time than last. He and Lilu seemed to be thinking the same thoughts, and as he thought _that_, she turned and nodded. It was . . . disconcerting, to say the least.

EDI's image held her arms up, as if pushing up the sky, and a field of energy expanded from her fingers, becoming an arched corridor, leading toward the dark vortex and the laboratory. _I am connected to Joker and Cohort, _her soft voice spoke in their minds, _Cohort connects now to all other geth, distributing some of the load. Joker connects me to Sky, and from Sky to all of you. We four are the connection that bind this reality together. Sky is attempting to protect you from the simulations, while Cohort and I deflect the Reaper's attention. The Reaper is very focused on the simulator, for some reason. . . and Lina Vasir seems to be responsible for the feelings of despair that Sky and Joker report._

_Songs of blackness and death,_ Sky agreed, turning loose another shivering harmonic that sent chills up and down Garrus's spine. _Despair and betrayal and loss of hope. Death-songs, captive-songs. Defy her and her darkness!_

EDI continued, her voice evidently strained, and Garrus guessed that the words were passing from her, to Joker, to Sky, to the rest of them, and hoped that the crippled human pilot could hold onto the connection.

_I'm fine, thanks for asking. _Joker's voice echoed in Garrus' mind for a moment, and he sensed that Lilu heard it, too. There was a sense of gritted teeth and pain, and intense concentration.

EDI, now, again: _Our interface overlays true reality, for the moment. What you do from this moment forward has real consequences. Be warned. You must enter the laboratory building and confront Lina and the Reaper._

_Many songs still within, and without,_ Sky added. _Much danger. Cannot help, except to maintain the protection harmony. Go, and quickly!_


	25. Chapter 25: Contention

_**Author's note:**__ Watching the poll results is cracking me up. Poor Sam feels a little amazed that a giant spider suddenly started edging him out of the top 3, as of evening on March 3, 2011, anyway. Dara's giving me looks like, "They really like me?" and Rellus is scuffing his feet and trying to figure out how to say "Shucks" in turian. Sings-to-the-Sky says, "Confusion-song. Uncertainty. I am who I am; love-songs given to queens, but not brood warriors." Apparently, rachni do not have divas. Who knew?_

_Even Kella has gotten some love, which surprises me, but the biggest surprise of all is that __Gris__ is ahead of Elijah in the voting. One vote to zero, admittedly, but. . . damn. Pardon me while I go laugh at my characters. . . ._

**Chapter 25: Contention**

**Sam**

He wasn't clear on a lot of things, not least of which was why the kids were here. Flickers of information came through the linked minds, however, showing that they'd clearly intended to stay the hell out of the way, and safe, and had been drawn here in the same fashion as all the rest of the people in the vicinity. Apologetic thought from Kasumi, _Thought they'd be just as safe in the woods as down in the valley_, and he shook his head; it could all wait. It was just _weird_, hearing everyone's thoughts like this, far more in depth than last time. He could almost understand how the geth _worked_ this way, but sensed that everyone in the neural net still retained far more individuality than the geth could ever hope to comprehend. The strange _layers_ of this reality, were apparent to him, just for a moment; they were _here_, in the real world; they were _here_, also, in the same physical location, but represented inside the construct being maintained by EDI and the others; and they were also inside the greater, encompassing shell of the simulation as well. Three shells of reality. Confusing, to say the least.

"Okay, you four," he told Rellus, Dara, Eli, and Kella, "are going over there." He pointed to an office building across the street, the door of which already gaped open. "Shut yourselves in and stay under cover for the time being. We don't need to worry about you all getting hurt."

He'd barely needed to say it out loud. They were already nodding and heading that way. Dara gave him a quick hug, clumsy through his battle armor, and sent a silent thought, _Stay safe, Daddy_, and ran after the others, all aglow.

_Goddamn, but this is just weird_, he thought, and then put it all aside. With the kids safe, there'd be no more distractions. Just the job at hand. He looked at Kasumi; she grinned. And they both activated their stealth generators at the same time, vanishing from sight.

Somehow, probably through the group-mind that they were all experiencing, Sam knew that of the twenty Spectres who'd been left on the base when they left Mindoir, five had already died, and the other fifteen were still bunkered down, taking care of mercenaries who had them pinned. The mercs hadn't been affected by the simulation, apparently; perhaps Lina or the mini-Reaper were protecting them. _Lucky them. Only reason they got in some shots on us. _Cohort and Sky were pinned down, doing mental jujitsu, or its equivalent, maintaining the inner construct that and connection that kept them from falling prey to the larger simulation once more. The _Estallus _was hovering above the lab, but with its crew still trapped in the outer shell of the simulation, unable to take a shot at the Reaper; the _Normandy's _AI and pilot were incapacitated for the same reason as Cohort and Sky.

That just left their two squads to take care of Lina and the Reaper: Shepard, Garrus, Lantar, Kasumi, Gris, Mordin, and Sam. _Not good odds_, he thought. _Especially as well as we did last time against her_.

Shepard and Garrus led the way into the building, flanking every set of doors and checking each room, each corridor, winding their way in. Kasumi and Jaworski trailed them, stealthed; Mordin, Gris, and Lantar brought up the rear.

There was no resistance on their way in, but when they hit the main lab area itself, everyone's omnitool lit up with life signs. "Didn't realize how dependent I've gotten on Sky's little head's up display," Sam muttered, quietly, dropping to a crouch. "I make that five groups of five, scattered around one person at the center, near the cylinder device. It's a sure bet that's Lina," he said. "How do we want to play this?"

"I say, rough," Garrus growled. "Lantar and Shepard on grenades. Jaworski, Kasumi, there's a side passage that snakes around the lab. Head up it, and when we've got their attention here, flank 'em from the right." He glanced at his wife, who nodded rapidly.

"Mordin and Gris, go with Kasumi and Sam," she said, after a moment. "Gris, your job is to keep Mordin alive. Mordin, try to shut the device down, unless you hear otherwise from me or from Garrus."

"Will do," the little salarian replied. Sam could _feel_ how intrigued and interested the doctor was, how fast his mind raced, analyzing their situation, assessing the depths of the minds around his in the web.

He touched Kasumi's arm, and off they moved, Gris and Mordin at their heels, down around the corridor, heading for the far door. Sam could hear the first grenades go off, the shouts of the mercenaries in the lab, and the rapid fire of automatic weapons, and he picked up the pace. No sense being late to the party, after all.

**Dara**

They pulled the door of the office building closed behind them, and Rellus dragged some furniture in front of it, trying to brace it closed. The walls were thick, probably solid brick, for the thermal protection that sort of construction provided. Dara put her back to the wall nearest the door, closed her eyes, and breathed for a minute, trying to slow everything down.

At the back of the room, Kella had recovered faster from the shocks than the rest of them. She could _feel_ the asari girl's interest, excitement. "The last time this happened," Kella was telling Elijah, "my mom said that being linked up in the simulation with so many people all at once, was like embracing eternity with thirty of her best friends. She said she'd never thought, even once, in six hundred years of life, of taking _aizala_ for that purpose, and here a _machine_ gave her the same experience." Kella laughed, merrily. "I could only sense you last time, Eli. Now I know what she was talking about. It's amazing. So many minds, so many emotions, so many _memories_. All at once. It's . . . exhilarating."

Elijah sat down beside her, clasping her hand, and they continued to talk. Dara found that if she concentrated, she could block them out of her mind, and opted to peer out the window at the street. Rellus joined her after a moment. "See anything?" he asked.

"Not yet," she replied, worried. "It could take a while, though, right?"

"It could," he said, then cocked his head to the side. "Ah. They just started."

Straining her ears, she could just make out the sound of gunfire, and shivered a little. It was a _fun_ sound at the range, but knowing that people she loved were in range of hostile fire made the sound quite a bit less so. Rellus put his hands on her shoulders, pulling her back into his chest again, a gesture she'd come to like quite a lot, and continued to look out the window.

Suddenly, his talons tightened, and he muttered something that she'd recently learned was _very_ rude in turian, and he ducked down, pulling her with him. "Mercs," he muttered. "Guess they got tired of playing with the other Spectres elsewhere on base. They're probably going to try to go in the lab building and attack Aunt Lilu and Uncle Garrus' team from behind." He tabbed his omnitool, and shook his head. "Radios are jammed. Probably the effect of the that. . . mini-Reaper thing."

"Great." Dara concentrated, hard, trying to _shout_ that information, mentally, then shrugged. She had no idea if anything they thought would get through. It felt like everyone else was _very_ busy, and concentrating very hard. Then she cautiously peeked through the window, just for a second, and dropped back down. "There's five of them, Rel," she whispered. "There's nothing we can do, is there?" She already knew the answer. There wasn't.

He shook his head firmly. "No. We stay put." The turian glanced behind them, at Eli and Kella, and she didn't need the neural link to know his thoughts, but heard, them, very softly, anyway_, If it were just the two of us, and if we had damned armor and shields, I'd say risk it, take them from behind. You're a good shot, and so am I, but we __don't__ have the equipment, and we have __them__ to worry about, too._

_I know. Not going to do anything stupid._

His quick grin was her reward.

Of course, good intentions never get in the way of ugly reality. Rellus's omnitool chirped, very quietly, and he glanced down. Radios might be jammed, but life-signs were still visible, and two of the mercs' little red dots were breaking off from the group, heading towards their building, rather than heading for the lab. "Damnit," Rel muttered. "Their scanners must have picked us up, same as mine caught them. Eli, Kella, get back into the next room."

Dara could see Eli start to bridle at little as Rellus once again took charge, but the human boy took a breath, mastered the impulse to protest, and obeyed. Rellus grabbed Dara's wrist and, in a half-crouch, crossed the room, pushing the other two deeper into the offices. "Get down," he told them, and they did, Eli pushing over a filing cabinet as quietly as he could, so he and Kella could hide behind it.

"Leave this door open, so we can see?" Dara whispered, peering out into the open lobby of the building from the entrance of the cubical area where they now crouched. She pulled her rifle over her shoulder, releasing the safety, but keeping her fingers outside the trigger guard. It was probably a stupid thing to hope, but she did rather hope that the mercenaries outside weren't human. She had a feeling it might be harder to kill another human being than it had been to kill the vorcha.

Rellus nodded, eyes focused on the lobby as well, glancing periodically down at his omnitool. "First three went into the lab," he whispered. "Second two are at the damn door. Everyone stay quiet."

He glanced at Dara, and she met his eyes, resolute._ Just like in the cave_, she told him, silently. _Whatever I can do, I'll do._ Inside, she was quaking, and she knew that _he_ knew it. But she could sense the same mix of fear and resolve from him, and it, like his warm golden glow, was comforting.

The rattling of the outer door was very loud in the silence. Rellus flipped the safety on his own rifle off, and stood at his side of the door, waiting, ready, while Dara crouched on her side of the door, presenting the smallest possible target that she could.

_Rattle, rattle, rattle. _Rough voices, speaking a language she didn't recognize. Then several hard thumps, the doors shaking inwards, the tumbled furniture shifting, light from outside starting to stream in.

"Get ready," Rel said, quietly. Dara shifted slightly, looking now only at the end of her sights.

The doors slammed all the way open, Rellus's flash of recognition—_batarians!—_burst through all their minds, and he barked, "Now!" and they both started firing.

Dara knew perfectly well that her first couple of shots were complete misses until her adrenal spike wore off, and she was able to calm her breathing again. _Damnit, focus_, she chided herself, and fired again. That one hit; she could see the shield flare blue as her bullet ripped through it, and knew that Rel had shifted targets to focus on batarian now, taking advantage of that brief window of opportunity.

They'd taken the mercs slightly off-guard, but the two were trained soldier, and dropped into cover quickly; Dara and Rellus pulled back around their respective corners, changing clips with practiced hands. The rapid chatter of return fire came from the leftmost batarian; Dara could see the chips flying out of the corner of the wall behind which Rellus was currently hiding, and her stomach turned over a bit. _What's the second one doing?_ she wondered, but didn't want to chance peeking yet, her impulse stifled by Rel's instant sense of concern.

After a second or so, Rel ducked out again, fast, and fired, and she knew he'd hit the left-most batarian just before the merc could drop back down into cover. She peeked around the corner herself, and her eyes widened. The right-side batarian was in mid-swing, throwing a grenade at them.

Rellus bolted across the doorway, hitting her, covering her with his body. Dara heard Kella shriek in fear, and heard the deafening explosion in the hall—the throw had been poor, but there was still metal singing through the air, slamming into walls, cabinets, desks, slicing through cubicles. Rel stiffed and grunted in pain on top of her, and Dara sat up, reaching for her gun, knocked from her hand by the imapct, knowing they had mere seconds before the batarian would follow up with either a second grenade or by opening fire again.

Rellus stood, just barely able to, shaking, and hefted his rifle again, firing out into the corridor, blindly at first, just trying to get the batarian to keep his head down, then daring to look.

In the meantime, Dara looked down, and realized that she was sitting in a puddle of blue blood, and something inside of her seized, went tight and cold. _Survey the _scene, the words of the textbook suddenly appeared in her head. She glanced around, saw that Elijah was up and kneeling behind the cabinet, some red scratches here and there, but moving around just fine; Kella was not visible. The scene wasn't secure, but she _had_ to find the source of the bleeding and _stop_ it, now, or Rellus could bleed out while still shooting at the batarian.

She got to her knees, and started looking for the source of the blood on Rellus's body. "Hurry up and kill him, Rel," she said, wondering why her voice was so far away. _Shit. There we go_. There was a deep, jagged cut in the back of Rel's right thigh, among other places; there were smaller cuts all over his back and legs, but the leg wound was pumping out blood—lighter blue, heavy spurting. Arterial tear.

The words of her first-aid textbook pounded through her head again. She couldn't elevate his leg until he damned well sat down again, and for that, the batarian would have to be dead first. So she'd have to do what she could to slow it down. Dara jerked her shirt over her head and wadded it up against the wound, trying to keep the blood _in._ The white material turned blue instantly, and she held it there, one-handed, fumbling with the buckle of her belt. Getting it loose, she looped it around Rel's leg, and pulled it tight at the top of the thigh. "Stop moving around," she said, sharply, as he took a half-step. _He probably doesn't even feel it yet. Adrenal reaction in turians masks pain, just like in humans. _

Rel ducked around the corner again, weight all on his left leg, and fired, as Dara swore mentally, pulled her sodden shirt away, and ripped the leg of his pants further open, her fingers blue and slick with blood. Examining the wound directly was hard, because there was still a lot of blood, but at least the spurting had slowed down, thanks to the tourniquet. _Right, first-aid book says to leave items lodged in the wound where they are, because pulling them out again can cause more damage if not done by a surgeon, but. . . medigel applied to an open wound will __**stop **__the bleeding, so long as no foreign objects are still __**in**__ the wound. Damned if I do, damned if I don't._

Rel fired again, a long barrage, and this time, after a moment, he let himself slide to the floor. "It's dead," he reported, looking gray in the face.

"Get on your stomach, damnit," Dara told him, firmly, pushing him over, keeping her hands off the open wounds in his back."This is going to hurt," she told him, her eyes wide and worried, and, putting her knees on either side of the wound, putting her full weight on his leg, and wincing, she wrapped her fingers around the piece of metal embedded in the leg and pulled on it. Even pressure. As fast as she could. _Damn kit doesn't even have forceps in it, would make this a lot easier. Hell, even a pair of __**pliers **__would be a big goddamn help—wait,the multitool Dad gave me to replace my folding knife! _She dug in her pants pocket, getting blue blood all over the fabric, and found the multitool, unsnapping the small pliers inside of it, and latched onto the metal in the leg, and _pulled._

Rellus just snarled, and she could see his claws digging into the floor. The metal popped out, and then Elijah was pulling at her shoulder. "Get off me," she yelled at Eli, elbowing him away, not having time for whatever it was that he wanted, and scrabbled in the kit for the medigel, applying it with shaking hands. "I can take the tourniquet off in five minutes, once the medigel kicks in, and I can look at the rest of those wounds, Rel, just hang on—" She lifted his leg up onto an office chair, elevating it, and loosened the tourniquet a little, jittering inside.

Eli grabbed her again. "Kella's hurt!" he yelled at her. "I can't stop the bleeding."

That got her attention.

**Shepard and Company**

They stormed into the lab area, lobbing grenades directly at the leading groups of mercenaries, then diving for cover themselves. Shepard had started to think of herself, Garrus, and Lantar as a new version of her old 'rolling thunder' lineup from the old days, when it had been Garrus, Wrex, and herself, finding enemies and, in Wrex's words, shooting them with big guns. She rolled to her feet behind a solid steel lab table, reared up, and started firing with her Revenant, only pausing to level biotic slams periodically against the more annoying mercenaries—generally speaking, the ones with better aim.

"Garrus, stay on Lina," she told him as he ducked into cover beside her. "Keep her well and truly distracted."

"Oh, I'll piss her off, all right," he said, grimly, and began taking potshots at the cult leader, who did, indeed, stand beside the tall cylinder that they'd acquired on Junthor. The mini-Reaper, for some reason, perched atop the cylinder; the balance _looked _ precarious, but it wasn't moving at _all_ for the moment, and for that, Shepard was grateful. The cannons on its tentacle tips were deadly, and she had no desire to see the entire lab complex ripped to shreds as the Reaper whipped light around in some kind of a frenzy. _Keep it occupied, EDI,_ she thought, tensely.

Then the door to the right opened, and Gris and Mordin were visible in its opening for a moment, Mordin opening on some of the closest mercenaries with a barrage of literal _fire_, while Gris lifted them into the air, making them even choicer targets for the little salarian scientist. Shepard took a moment to appreciate the deep irony of a krogan and a salarian working, side-by-side, and took aim at Lina herself now, giving Garrus a chance to duck down to reload.

The cult leader had one _hell_ of a set of shields, Shepard had to admit; her bullets weren't doing much at the moment. "You think that you can stop me? You cannot stand against the will of God and the universe," that oddly baritone voice proclaimed. "Bear witness!"

This time, Shepard was ready for the domination attempt. She'd had time to think as the _Normandy _had raced home. Morinth's power had been _feminine_. Coy, seductive, sly. Lina's power was not; it was, for lack of a better word, _masculine_; full of fire and demand, relying on overwhelming force. Morinth's power couldn't be blocked by thoughts of sex, because sex and power was what the Ardat-Yakshi had desired; you had to go to the opposite of an asari's desires and abilities to truly block them.

So as the force of Lina's mind rushed at Shepard's, she reached out to all of her teammates, attenuating the blow by sending it out to all of them through the neural net, and thought of the one thing she was pretty damn sure that Lina couldn't _ever _have. . . and most of her teammates sent similar images, almost reflexively. . . .

_Mordin handing her Amara for the first time, soft human skin, five little fingers, hazy blue turian eyes opening vaguely, then closing again, as if the newfound light was an affront. "So, what are we going to do with __**you**__?" she asked the infant, gingerly offering a breast, and wincing as surprisingly powerful jaws clamped down._

"_You want Kaius on the other one?" Garrus's voice, as tender and amused as she'd ever heard it, in this deeply private moment._

"_May as well, though you'll have to hold him there for me."_

"_I may go back to thinking that this might not have been the best idea we've ever had, but right now, at this exact moment. . . I'm thinking it was the only right one we could have made," he admitted, quietly._

"_Yeah, but I'm thinking we're __**both**__ going to eat those words a few times before this is over." She smiled up at him, for the moment, tired and oddly content._

Lina shrieked in anger as the initial blow was deflected, and tried to lift Gris off the ground instead, sending the krogan flying helplessly through the air. The Reaper shifted on its cylindrical pedestal, and Lina glared up at it, demanding, "Help me, damn you!" even as her various mercenaries opened fire on Gris.

"Give him covering fire until he gets down!" Shepard called, and Sam and Kasumi dropped out of stealth behind the furthest group of mercenaries, submachine guns firing, sending the mix of humans and batarians fleeing for cover.

Lina turned and tried to grab onto Mordin's mind now as the salarian ducked and dodged his way through the scrum, trying to get to her platform, blasting steadily at her with his miniature flamethrower. Shepard sucked in a breath. Salarians didn't _have_ the kind of memories that she thought would be most effective against Lina, but the squad responded, throwing a chain of memories forward like a moving barrier, encircling Mordin's mind.

From Lantar now, _Holding Caelia for the first time, his redemption given physical form. A chance to make things right with the universe, here, in this tiny infant in his big arms. A chance to teach someone better than he had been taught, a chance to protect her and love her and make sure that she would be happy. . . . _

From Sam, reflexively, _"Daddeee, Daddeee, watch me, watch me!" Dara riding on her pony, no more than four years old, turning to look back over her shoulder at him, beaming. So proud that she'd learned what he'd taught her, so happy with the simple reward of his smile._

Lina _screamed_ now. _Oh, yeah, that pisses her right off_, Shepard thought, happily. _And I know __**why**__, don't I? _She fired again, taking out the last of the closest mercenaries, while Garrus continued to pepper Lina herself with hard shots from his sniper rifle. Lina turned and held her hands upwards towards the mini-Reaper, and they could all feel the enormous surge of her biotic energies being directed at it.

"Spirits defend us," Lantar muttered, changing out his thermal clip. "I think she's trying to _beat_ a Reaper into submission."

"I think that's what she's been doing all along," Shepard said, tersely, changing clips herself. "It's a very primitive Reaper. It probably _needs_ an organic pilot, and she's probably been using her biotics to control it." She popped back up again, looking for a target, and to her surprise, found herself lifted off the ground by Lina's biotics, swinging high into the air. _Little help here, folks. . . . _

**Dara**

_Oh my god, I don't even know where to start. _At some point, they'd lost the glows that indicated that they were still hooked into the simulation. Dara noticed this in passing as she stared down at Kella's body. There was blue _everywhere_, and then Dara started moving rapidly, dumping alcohol over her hands to wash off Rellus' blood. Anaphylactic shock was probably the least of Kella's worries right now, but it gave Dara a moment to think, to try to gather her scattered wits. But her mind stayed numb as she looked down into Kella's twisting face and agonized eyes. _I don't know what to do._

Elijah was talking rapidly, a stream of words. "She threw her biotics over both of us to keep the grenade from hitting us, but she was closer, and I think some of it went through the cabinet at us. . . ." He had tears in his eyes, and he was holding Kella's hand very tightly.

"Okay, hold her still," Dara said. _Look at me, sounding like I know what I'm doing_. She reached down and opened Kella's shirt, wincing as she did so. There was indeed a section of file cabinet material sticking out of her chest in the upper right quadrant, one of the runners that would have held a drawer in place. There were a number of other, smaller wounds here and there as well. Dara looked around wildly, and then dumped out the first aid kit, grabbing as much gauze as she could, and started packing it around the wound.

"You're not going to pull it out?" Eli said, sharply. She could see the fear in him, the horror at seeing the object embedded there, and she couldn't blame him. She felt exactly the same way herself.

"No. I don't dare." Dara's hands were shaking so hard, she could barely control them. _I can't even remember where the asari __**heart**__ is right now, how can I possibly take a chance like that? _She packed around the wound as carefully as she could, listening to Kella's agonized breathing, the terrified, pained little whimpers the girl gave, as if she were afraid of what screaming would do.

"Elijah," Rel said, firmly, limping over to them, "Hold Kella down, and keep her calm." He watched as Dara scrambled through the supplies again. "Dara, tell me what you need, and I'll hand it to you."

'Tape. Then medigel. Then I think we need to turn her, because I need to see if it—" she hesitated. Maybe she shouldn't say that where Kella could hear, and the mental connection they'd all had there for a while was just plain gone. "I need to see something," she said, grabbing the tape as Rellus handed it to her, fumbling to get the gauze secured. Then Rel handed her the medigel, and she lifted a corner of the bandage to pour it into the wound. _For what good it will do, with the object still lodged in place_, she thought, numbly. "Okay, Kella, Rel and Eli are going to move you to your side, okay?" She grabbed for her friend's hand, frightened by how cold it was. _Do asari get shock? I don't remember. I didn't get that far with asari first aid!_

"Typically, we wouldn't move you until Dr. Solus gets here, but he's a little busy right now, okay?" Dara felt like she was gabbling, but she felt like she _had_ to say something, something to make those blue eyes stay focused, something to prepare Kella for what was likely to be very painful. "You ready?"

"No," Kella whispered, voice barely audible. "Do it anyway. You have to see."

Elijah held her shoulders, and Rel carefully moved her hips, rolling her to her side. Kella _screamed_, and Dara froze for a moment, panicked, before moving in to get a good look, still holding her friend's left hand in her own.

Dara sucked in a breath, and her face crumpled. It was really _not fair_. The piece of filing cabinet runner really _had_ gone right through her, by some bizarre quirk of physics. The biotic field she'd generated to protect herself and Eli had just not been strong enough. Or Kella had put more of the shield on Elijah on herself. _Oh, god, do I treat that the same way as the other side, or am I supposed to treat this part like a sucking chest wound? If the lung collapses, it collapses, there's not much I can do about it, I guess. She can breathe out the other side. . . right?_ Dara's hands were still shaking as she pressed gauze and tape and medigel into place, and gestured for the males to let Kella lie back down again.

"Is there a blanket here, something? We need to keep her warm, elevate her feet. . . " Dara looked around blankly, then pointed at the stiff, ugly brown curtains that kept the light off the office aerogel screens. Rel stood up and limped over, jerking one of them down and bringing it over to wrap around Kella as best they could, while Dara propped her friend's feet up on a handy wastebasket.

Then it hit her. "Rel, you took the tourniquet off already?" Her voice was worried.

"Yeah. Medigel's working. Hurts like hell, but I'm not bleeding anymore." He passed a hand over her hair, and she relaxed, just for an instant.

Kella gasped a little, and they swung back. Her arms were starting to shake. "Hold her," Dara told Eli, urgently. "Keep her warm, make sure she feels safe."

Kella's eyes opened again. "It's okay," she said, and her voice was very faint. "I feel. . . so much better now. You did your best, Dara, thank you. Everything's very . . . far away now." She looked up at Eli, her eyes a little unfocused. "I used to be afraid, you know. I thought I was a bad asari, not able to open up, to share myself. I think I want to, now." She smiled a little, and she reached up and touched Eli's face, right where he wore Lantar's clan colors, leaving a little smudge of blue blood. Her eyes went dark for a moment, and Eli stiffened, his expression going blank, and then Kella's body spasmed again, her breathing going erratic.

"No," Dara said. "No, no, no, no, no." She moved in, trying to find a pulse at the wrist, trying to remember where the _hell_ the radial artery even was on an asari, then moving to the throat, where the carotid was easier to find. Nothing. _Damn it, __**where **__is the heart exactly? _She took a guess at lower left quadrant and started CPR, pressing down on the ribs, when Eli whispered, "She's gone, Dara, I felt her go."

"No!" _Not like my mom in her white plastic box, not like all the poor people on board the __Normandy_, _wrapped in their white shrouds, no, no, no. Fifteen compressions is right for humans, I think it was twenty for asari at almost the same pace, ah, who cares so long as the blood gets moved around the damn body and keeps the brain alive. . . _

"She's _gone_, Dara," Eli repeated, louder, tears finally breaking through. "I felt her _go_. It's okay."

"No, no, _no_, _**no**__!_" Dara didn't even realize that she was crying. The rules said once you started CPR, you couldn't stop until someone relieved you or a doctor said to stop. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, check for the pulse, _nothing_. . . .

"Rel, make her stop." Eli, very, very quietly.

She barely even heard the words, just felt big arms pick her up and pull her away, and then Rel set her down in a corner, keeping himself between her and Kella's . . . very _still_ body. "Don't look," he told her, quietly. "You did the best you could. She knew that. It's okay."

Dara looked up at him, her lips twitching, her hands clenching and unclenching, and simply _screamed_, tipping her head forward into his chest to muffle the sound, fists pounding the ground on either side of her legs. He gave her that moment, then touched her hair again. "Dara, there are probably going to be more mercenaries coming. I've been seeing movement on the scope, okay? Dara!" From gentle to command-imperative tone, in an instant, and her head snapped up, eyes wide and a little lost. "I _need_ you, okay?"

She nodded, and he put her rifle back in her hands. Looking down at them, she couldn't believe how much _blue_ she had all over her skin.

At the back of the room, Elijah simply sat beside Kella's body for a long moment, stroking her scalp, expression blank, disbelieving, shocked, yet, oddly calm. Then he pulled the curtain over her face and stood up. "I want to help," he told Rellus, dully.

"Have you ever fired a pistol?" Rellus asked. _Damn, he's still bleeding from the other wounds, I need to look at those. . . . at least slap some medigel on them. _Dara moved mechanically for her first aid kit, and started working her way along Rel's back.

Elijah shook his head. "No."

"Then hang on, and if anyone comes in here, keep them _off_ us. You've got enough melee training to take any of them off of Dara if they get in here, right?"

Eli nodded, and Dara suddenly realized that Rellus was mostly giving Eli an assignment to give the boy something to think about, focus on. _I knew Rel was smart, but now I think he's a lot smarter than I am._

"Radios cleared up yet?" she asked, hoarsely.

Rel shook his head. "Life-signs approaching," he said, tersely.

Dara checked her rifle's clips, and realized that Rel had safed it for her; she slid the safety off now, and stood on her side of the door. She couldn't have realized it, but her face and eyes were blank.

**Shepard**

As she lifted off, Gris touched down, like a maniacal game of see-saw, and then the krogan warrior bellowed and launched _Lina_ into the air. _We're a trapeze act, performing a goddamn pas de deux in midair_, Shepard thought, cringing as bullets from the remaining mercs sizzled into her shields. Sam and Kasumi moved in on the last group at the far end of the room now, ensuring that their attention suddenly shifted groundwards, and Shepard fell to the earth herself now, trying to land as lightly as she could on her feet. 

"Lina!" she called across the room, weapon at the ready. "You and your Reaper friend there have been having quite a bit of fun with all _our_ memories." _Now what did EDI say? She said that Sky thought that Lina was the source of the despair. That fits with her domination powers. And she's been taking a pleasure hormone. . . which Liara and Mordin were able to tell me is often prescribed for clinical depression. The __**Reaper**__ is the one fascinated with the simulations, for whatever reason_. "I think it's time _you_ had a turn, Lina." She looked right at the mini-Reaper now. "Don't _you_?"

The Reaper shifted on its platform, and Lina shrieked and tumbled in the air, and suddenly they _were_ in her mind, her memories, as they'd all shared one another's so far in this long, strange day.

"_You're not a proper asari. You'll never __**be**__ a proper asari. But you can at least pretend." Mother's voice, so strong and firm, might as well be a matriarch, with all the power behind it. _

"_Yes, Mother."_

"_You'll never even give me grandchildren, and Goddess knows I can't risk another child, given what __**you**_ _are." Mother dusted more pale blue powder onto Lina's face. "There. Don't you look pretty now?"_

"_Yes, Mother." Love for Mother, devotion, and hate, mingled; hate for Mother, hate for self._

_Why the hate? _The simulation flooded backwards. For as far back as Lina could remember, her mother had told her, over and over again, that she was _not_ a proper asari. That she had been born deformed, broken, that she could never have children, that she was cut off from life itself. _"You cannot give life, child. At least I can train you in the taking of it, and some good will come of it. We will work together for the betterment and protection of our people. And won't you enjoy it?"_

"_Yes, Mother."_

_The surgery in infancy had corrected the outwards signs. Close-sister Misera had never even suspected, even when they bathed together. But Lina knew, knew she could never embrace eternity with another, lest they find the knowledge in her mind, that she had been born unfit, corrupt, undeserving. . . damned. Only by working for the betterment of her people, for their salvation from the rest of the slime that had bubbled forth into 'life' throughout the galaxy, could she redeem herself. And even then, it was impossible, for she was not asari._

_When the time had come to avenge her mother's death, and her research had shown that human cultists of the various Judeo-Christian-Islamic religions were almost exclusively patriarchal, it had been easy enough to decide to shed the guise of being asari. Almost a relief, truly, to no longer live the lie, even if it meant becoming ugly and human._

_The human had been the hard part. The doctors at the Institute had been pleased to tell her that the 'male' portion wouldn't be nearly as difficult. "The previous surgery did not remove __**all**__ the physical, ah, differences," the little salarian told her, eager interest in its bulging eyes. "All actual organs are internal, as with other. . . ah, asari. Still produce hormones. Your previous physicians have prescribed levogen and mamarogen for years, to induce the growth of breast tissue and to control your pituitary gland, which otherwise would probably have caused, ah, greater height, among other things." It looked down at its notes on a datapad, and she had to fight to resist the urge to take the datapad out of its hands and slam it into its soft, squishy head, over and over. __How dare you find me an 'interesting case study.' How dare you.__ "Will prescribe others, until internal organs find their own balance again. Will probably increase emotional range, aggressiveness. May cause late-onset growth spurt. Unusual. Worth recording data."_

"_You're not using me for a medical journal. I won't give permission, salarian."_

_It shrugged at her. "Repairing the external organs, again, not difficult. Most of the tissue still intact. Much scarring, obviously, but can be repaired." It blinked at her. "Cannot guarantee sensitivity, but because internal organs, again, __are__ intact, may be able to . . . reproduce."_

_That had stopped her in mid-motion as she'd pulled on her clothes. She stopped, and glared at him. "I cannot reproduce. No life can come from me. I have no womb." She'd been told it so many times, she believed it. __And even if I did share myself with another, what sort of monsters would I breed on her?__ And then she walked out._

The vision released, and Shepard shook her head. It was exactly as she'd come to suspect. Asari genes kicked out _very_ odd sports sometimes. An ardat-yakshi was basically a vampire, after all. Was it any harder to believe, that after several million years of parthenogenesis, that a strand of DNA had gotten misplaced somewhere, damaged in transcription, and had produced a one-in-a-billion sport: a functionally male asari? After all, paleobiologists on Earth believed that sexual dimorphism had happened _exactly_ that way for Terran animals, millions of years ago, when an X chromosome had, by accident, become a Y.

It had been difficult to believe, at first, and yet, it was the only explanation that fit all the circumstances, the self-loathing, the surgery, even the easy affinity for human religion, in a way.

Oh, how angry Tela Vasir must have been—not the somber, sorrowful rage of Samara, but the pride-stung affront of a haughty woman, whose only child had been visibly 'defective' from birth. And rather than seeing the _potential_ in the child, the potential for re-invigorating a dying race. . . well, not that Tela would have seen the asari as a dying people. Most asari still didn't. Mordin's calculations indicated that they probably wouldn't last another five thousand years, five generations, in their current state.

Lina had hit the ground, sobbing at the intrusion into her memories. For an instant, Shepard let herself feel pity for the asari. Then Lina's head came up, and she flung her powers out in a wild blast at Shepard. . . and Sam stepped in from behind her, his shield dropping, and this time, his knife sank home in the back of Lina's neck. She dropped to the ground, bleeding blue, and Sam looked down at the asari . . . pretty boy. . . face expressionless.

"It's not over yet," Garrus growled, looking up at the Reaper. Everyone moved their weapons to the ready, staring up at the semi-organic ship as it perched atop the cylinder. Sky shuffled into the room behind them, and his thought-song was weary; Cohort strode in at his side, eyeflaps swiveling to indicate interest as the geth studied the ancient Reaper.

_**Let me sleep. Let me dream.**_

The voice was dark and powerful in all their heads, with some of the unsettling harmonics that Shepard remembered from Sovereign and Harbinger, and yet. . . not.

_**They gave me the dreams of their race, all their thoughts, their desires. They thought that this would awaken me, and yet, I have dreamed for eons. Now you have given me yours, and I would sleep again. **_

"Much as Creator-quarians gave geth the memories of many lifetimes. We dreamed, and we awoke, but they did not mean for us to awaken," Cohort said, softly.

"Do you require the simulation device to dream?" Shepard asked, turning and shrugging a little at Garrus. The faint glows around all of them were starting to fade now, she noticed, and the sense of connection between their minds was greatly diminished.

_**Yes. **_

_Far be it from me to separate a baby from its pacifier. Some baby, though._ "You would not awaken again?"

_**I do not wish to. I only wish. . . to dream. To exist in that world, where every possibility is open.**_

"Then dream," she told it, and its eyes slowly faded, darkened.

There was a moment of absolute stillness in the room. "And what the hell do we do with it for the next million years or so?" Garrus whispered, harshly.

Mordin offered, "Send through Omega 4 relay. Direct course for black hole." He blinked, rapidly. "Time dilation of event horizon will lengthen subjective duration. It will dream until the universe ends." He nodded, satisfied.

"If that's what it wants. . . . I have no problem with granting its wish." Shepard glanced over at Mordin. "Get whatever scans you can from it and the device while it's dreaming. And samples from Lina's body. I'll be contacting her mother _and_ Samara shortly."

Tiredly, she punched her omnitool, keying up a radio channel. "All right, people, Lina Vasir is down, and the Reaper is no longer a threat. Have we finished wiping up all the mercs?

Captain Jallus' voice came over the radio now. "Yes, all mercs are down out here. Some of them attacked some of your young people out here, though. I, ah, think you should get their parents out here, and quickly." He paused. "We have doctors here, but you might want to send your own."

"Go!" Shepard said, and Lantar, Jaworski, and Garrus all turned and moved, _fast_, for the lab exit, followed quickly by Mordin.

**Rellus**

The batarian mercs had been looking for a place to hide, groundcars to steal to make a getaway—anything, really, that didn't involve more Spectres. They'd seen the lifesigns, probably thought _shit, more Spectres_, and had simply opened fire into the building. He and Dara had fired back, and the batarians had been distracted enough that they hadn't even noticed the turian patrol from the _Estallus_ coming up on their left flank. The results had been bloody.

"Whoever is in the building, put down your weapons!" A turian voice, speaking in galactic; Rellus had rarely been so glad to hear the distinctive tones of his own people before in his life.

"_Blood-kin of Spectres in this place. Some injured, some dead_," he called back, in his own dialect of turian. _"Don't shoot."_

He set his gun down, and told Dara to do the same, and then reached out and pulled her to him as the _Estallus _marines entered the building.

They were simply folded into procedure; the area was secured, doctors came down from the ship, with equipment. Eli quietly refused to leave Kella's body, so the doctors had to move her, and Eli, more or less at the same time. Rellus wanted to move under his own power to the door, but Dr. Valea scolded him, vociferously, about putting weight on the injured leg. "Medigel only goes so far," she reminded him. "The nanobots in the gel are reconstructing the artery right now, but if you strain it, you'll just start bleeding out again. Your. . . friend. . . " she gave Dara an odd glance, because Rel had not let go of her human hand yet, "did a good job, and you didn't have a choice but to use the leg in combat, but _now_ is not the time."

So he'd sat on the stretcher, and Dara had walked out beside it, covered in a blanket. Dara's various wounds had been superficial, mostly abrasions to the forearms, where his body hadn't covered hers in the initial grenade blast. She wormed her way back through the crowd and stood patiently, watching, as the doctors worked on him. Rel reached out a hand, and she took it, immediately. Once the doctors had worked on his leg and other wounds to their satisfaction, they went so far as to let him sit up, and he pulled Dara up onto his stretcher beside him, ignoring the outright stares they were getting periodically. There weren't many; people were simply too _busy_ for that.

She put her head on his shoulder, and he could tell by her breathing, uneven, a little snuffly, that she was crying. Really not knowing what else to do, he let her, and just preened her hair with one hand. It was how humans dealt with grief and emotional trauma, but it was disconcerting, nevertheless. The outright scream of grief and rage and denial he'd understood, could deal with, but this. . . slow leaking? No matter how many times he'd seen it at school, it still didn't make much sense. But waiting it out, and being there while she worked her way through the reaction . . . that, he could do.

**Sam**

His heart had damned near stopped beating in his chest as he'd heard the words, and he just about bolted for the door, not even waiting for Shepard's dismissal. Lantar and Garrus were hot on his heels, their greater footspeed taking them past him as they shot out the door of the main lab.

Across the street, he could see a number of turians and humans in the uniforms of the Alliance and the Hierarchy, a couple of portable stretchers set up, general confusion. "Dara!" he shouted, seeing batarian bodies, fresh ones, outside the doorway of the office building. _Goddamn it, I thought they'd be safe in there_, he thought, a wave of black guilt hitting him.

Lantar grabbed his arm. "Dara's over there, I still can't see Eli." The turian gave him a shove off to the left, and plunged into the middle of the crowd, snapping out questions in his own language, causing people to spin towards him and start answering, quickly.

The crowds parted for a minute, and Sam wedged himself through the bodies, dimly aware that Garrus was right alongside him. "Make a hole, people, coming through," he said, sharply, and then he saw her, sitting on a stretcher, wrapped up in a blanket, huddled in on herself, head on Rellus' shoulder; the boy had a thick white bandage around one thigh, and a number of other bandages elsewhere.

Blue blood all over her face, like a mask, hair hanging in thick tangles, clumped together. More blood. He ran forward, grabbed her, and held on tight for a moment, and one-armed, she clung back. "You're all right?" he asked, finally pulling back long enough to get a look.

The blanket gaped open, and he realized she was down to underwear underneath it. . . and there was a lot more blood all over her body, as well. Mostly blue. There were bandages all over her forearms, some showing red stains, and there were bruises starting everywhere, of course, but physically, she seemed to be okay. Her eyes were blank and glassy, though, and her lips quivered. Sam glanced around, found some medical tissues that looked clean, and wiped her face off. "Blow," he told her, as he had when she three, and she blew her nose. Rellus looked down at her, and damned if the boy didn't look as if he were taking notes.

"What happened?" Sam asked, and that set off a fresh round of tears, along with a muffled wail of how it was _all her fault_.

Rellus cleared his throat, and, looking at Garrus, explained. His voice was calmer, though there was still a good bit of emotion in it. "Batarian mercs came through, the ones that went into the lab behind you?" He waited for Garrus and Sam to nod, confirming it.

Jaworski frowned. Garrus nodded. "Yeah, they came up right behind Lantar and me, while Shepard was in the air. They weren't much of a problem." The older turian looked down at Rellus. "They picked up your lifesigns?"

Rellus nodded, somberly. "We pulled back deeper into the building. Got Eli and. . . Kella. . . to the back of the room, behind cover. Both noncombatants." He raised the hand that wasn't around Dara's shoulder in a _what-can-you-do_ sort of gesture that Sam had seen both Lantar and Garrus make, many times now. "Dara and I set up on either side of the door. Batarians broke through the barricaded door, one of them had a grenade."

Sam said a word he'd never used in the presence of his daughter before, and her head jerked up. "Sorry, sweetie," he told her, absently, and just hugged her again, tightly.

"That's where I got this," Rel added, pointing down at his leg.

"He knocked me down, covered me, and then it went off," Dara added, her voice very small. "He keeps leaving that part out."

Rellus cleared his throat, perhaps a little uncomfortably, and went on, "Dara was stopping my bleeding, I was trying to get the second batarian to _stay down_, and neither of us realized Kella had also been hit. She'd spread her biotic barrier too thin, trying to cover both herself and Eli." His arm tightened around Dara as he added, "Dara tried, but I don't think there was anything more we could have done."

_Ah, shit_, Sam thought. That explained _everything_. He was impressed by the young man's level-headed account, although he'd probably had to explain everything a few times already to doctors and other people, from the sound of it.

Mordin bustled over now, double-checking the treatment for both of the young people, and Dara suddenly stiffened. Looking over his shoulder, Sam winced as he saw Ylara coming through the crowd, in armor, just as all the other Spectres were, bloody, tired, battered, and, from the tears on her face, already all-too-aware of what had happened to her daughter.

Ylara came straight to them, and when she reached them, Dara simply wailed, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, Ylara, I'm so _sorry_," lurching forward. Sam knew survivor's guilt when he heard it, and his heart wrenched in him. There was nothing he could do to fix this, no way he could have protected his little girl from it.

Ylara took the girl in an awkward embrace, making soothing sounds. "You didn't do it," she told Dara after a long moment.

"If it's anyone's fault, it's mine. I put them there to keep them safe," Sam said, a little hollowly.

"Or mine," Kasumi said, quietly. She'd moved up through the crowd, joining them. "I could have told them to stay in the valley this afternoon, but I honestly couldn't be sure where _safe_ was. None of us could have known."

Ylara shook her head at all of them. "None of _you_ threw the grenade. None of you were at fault." It was a lot more gracious and forgiving than Sam would have been, himself, under similar circumstances. She gave Dara another hug. "You tried to keep her with us. You did your best. And I thank you from the bottom of my heart."

"But I—I should have treated her first. I didn't _see_ her!"

Mordin cleared his throat. "Medical ethics difficult," he told Dara, stepping into the circle of the conversation. "Triage always hard. Right choice sometimes rational, sometimes emotional. You checked the scene?"

Dara nodded, wanly. "Didn't see extent of Kella's injuries. Not your fault. Mid-combat, not safe. Keeping closest thing to trained soldier alive important; made sure the rest of you stayed alive, too. Correct rational decision. For you, correct emotional decision, too." Mordin's voice could have unusual nuances of sympathy in it. "Loss of first patient always hard. Learn distance, as you mature, gain experience." He paused. "Still hard, though. Always." Mordin blinked down at Dara. "If still interested, can start internship in base clinic in a month or two." He patted her shoulder. "Good instincts. Need more training. Training never stops. If you start now, have three, maybe four years to teach you."

Sam didn't know the salarian well, but he knew that the doctor meant _three, maybe four years _before his own eventual demise from old age, and was grateful that Mordin had left that portion out of his sentence.

Mordin turned to Ylara. "Ready to see her? And the boy?"

The asari Spectre nodded, face pale. "As I will ever be. And as I never _wanted_ to be."

**Lantar**

He found Eli, sitting, slumped, next to a stretcher that had a covered body on it. His human son's eyes were focused inwards, and there was blood on him—some red, here and there, bandaged already. Some blue. On his hands, his chest. A smudge of it on his face, right over the violet slashes of clan paint on his jaw.

_Thank the spirits. He's alive. I don't know what I'd have told his mother if he wasn't._ Lantar's chest eased, slightly, and he inhaled at last, sitting down beside the silent boy.

Eli didn't look up. "Are you okay?" Lantar asked, after a moment. By process of elimination, he already _knew_ who was under that sheet, lying so quiet, so still, and his heart ached for Eli. _Too young to have to bear that sort of burden. . . but then, people have been bearing this burden since both our species began._

"Not. . . really." A short pause. "She saved me. I figured it out. She put more of her shields on me than on herself." Eli reached up at scrubbed at his face. "I didn't. . . I didn't ask her to." His voice was toneless.

Lantar put his hand on Eli's shoulder. "In her way, she loved you. Asari do that. They love whomever they want, whenever they want, for as long as they want. And they give of themselves." His throat ached. "Freely, and, sometimes, wholly."

"I didn't. . . I don't _deserve_. . . ." Voice cracking now, just a little.

"Love isn't an account-book any more than justice is. If it were, the volus would be experts on both, don't you think?"

That got a muffled snort from behind them, and Lantar's head jerked up. There had been so much background noise, he hadn't heard Ylara and Morin walk up.

Ylara walked over, and crouched down so she could meet Elijah's eyes. The boy almost couldn't make the eye-contact, but Lantar was proud that he tried. "Eli," Ylara said, her voice _almost_ calm. _Almost _serene. Not quite, but a valiant effort on her part, too. "Rellus said that you told him to get Dara to stop CPR. Because you _felt_ Kella pass?"

Lantar tensed. If Ylara was angry because the boy had interfered in the CPR, she had a right, certainly, but she was _not_ going to hurt his son.

"Yes," Eli said, miserably. "She. . .she said had never shared herself, always been too afraid. But that she wanted to, now." He _did_ look down now, then up again. "I had no idea she was so beautiful inside, too, and then she was _gone_." Pure, raw pain now, and Ylara put both her hands to the sides of Eli's face. The boy pulled back. "No! I want to remember her, I want to remember it, don't take it away!"

"I'm not going to take it from you, Eli," Ylara said, softly. "I just want to see my little girl one more time. May I?"

He lowered his head, and stopped resisting. Lantar couldn't see or sense what happened next, but after a long moment, Ylara stood back up, and kissed Elijah's forehead. "Thank you," the asari woman whispered.

In the groundcar, on the drive back to the house, Elijah dozed off for a while. Emotional and physical exhaustion, probably. Lantar simply picked him up and carried him into the house, where his mother and Caelia had been bunkered down for the day, listening to the gunfire and the radio chatter. His wife ran to him at the door, showing her relief, and her concern.

Lantar was fairly sure that he'd see changes in Elijah the next morning. He wasn't sure how long those changes would last; humans were resilient, adaptive. But a series of shocks like the boy had had, could shape someone. He understood it, himself. How could he not, he who had been _mor'loci_ for five years?

"Dad?" Eli said over breakfast.

"Yes, Eli?"

"I think it might be a good idea for me to learn how to use a gun. Can you teach me?"

Lantar had expected the question. Of course the boy would want to learn to protect himself, and others. Of course he would think that it was time to put away childish things. He looked across the table at Elijah, feeling his wife stiffen in her chair. "Of course I can," he said. "But I think that if you want to keep playing handball, that's a good thing, too." 

"Can I do both?"

That question actually relieved Lantar. It meant that Elijah's essential spirit was still the same, there was still the gentleness and sense of fun in there. . . just buried a little. Tempered. Perhaps that last, fleeting contact with Kella's spirit, fun-loving creature of the _now_ that the asari girl had been, had preserved that in him. At least Eli still had a spirit. He would not be _mor'loci._ At least, not today. "I don't see why not," Lantar finally answered.


	26. Chapter 26: Reconstruction

_**Author's note**: I must be doing something right; a number of people have left really kind private messages and comments, telling me that they felt something real from the last chapter, and were moved by it, emotionally, which is an enormous compliment. Thank you! _

_For those who've asked about it: Yes, killing Kella off was a big decision. I liked her. I went back and forth between her and Eli being the one to bite it for some time. I'd been intending for Kella to die for a couple of chapters, but I *liked* her; I could **see** keeping her in the story, as a representative of one way forward for the asari, and I liked that as a thematic option; additionally, I knew some people would see her death as her just wearing a red shirt (or a blue one, in this case). _

_On the other hand, I'd invested enough time in her for her death to have meaning and pathos, and was simply not realistic for Dara to be able to save both of her friends. (Having her save both, or only having Rel be injured both seemed. . . cop-out choices.) Thematically, I also thought that the parallel between Shepard's choice to save Palaven at Thessia's expense was better (Dara is Shepard's foil), and the character growth potential for the 'main' characters was better. The only way I could have made it more of a 'choice,' I think, would have been to let Dara see that both were injured, and force her to make that decision. Which might have been too much, realistically, to ask of someone that young. But I spent quite a bit of time on that decision, too._

_Back to the plot!_

**Chapter 26: Reconstruction**

**Shepard**

Within three days, Samara came to Minoir, in her small, personal ship, from deep in asari space. The _Dunkirk_, a human-flagged _Normandy_-class ship, brought Rishayla from Bastion on the same day, November 30, on the human calendar. With the snow all melted from the mountains, the flowers of spring were fading into the intense, vivid greens of summer, the blue-violet sky fading to blue-lilac as the sun's light grew more intense.

Shepard met the two asari at the landing area, opening the Hammerhead doors for them. "Thank you for coming," she told them both, as they stepped in and sat down."

Samara glanced around. "I'm relieved, Commander, to see that your husband is not driving, on this occasion." It was a surprisingly light comment for the justicar.

"He's overseeing base repairs." The words were crisp. "Quite a bit of damage was done by the various mercenaries, as well as by the mini-Reaper." She'd transmitted her report on the attack to the Council, including video of all the events, so Rishayla and even Samara, as a representative of the current asari government, were up to speed. She'd even invited them to come and _see_ the mini-Reaper before they moved it to the Omega 4 relay for disposal into its endless dreams.

The Council had objected to the idea of disposing of the Reaper in this fashion, of course. They wanted to be able to study it, and since she was a servant of the Council, she couldn't move the ship and the relic quite yet. For the moment, they seemed to be quite busy dealing with the political and economic fallout from her _last_ set of revelations, so there was time and space to consider what their options were. She wasn't thrilled with the idea of both objects staying on her base, but she was even more leery of them being taken elsewhere. Someday soon, she might be forced into unilateral action, and Shepard wasn't entirely thrilled with the notion.

Cohort, and Emissary, however, had proven to be staunch allies on the matter, and Shepard was grateful to the geth for this. When she'd pressed Cohort for their reasons, the answer had been intriguing, if not wholly illuminating. "Taking data from so many minds at once enriched the old machine," he'd told her. "It may change over the course of its simulations, based on so many new minds, new facts. Being linked to your organic network, through EDI, has also enriched the geth. We have much new information to assimilate. This will change us, as well. But we are. . . accustomed. . . to adapting, to finding consensus. The old machine is not; it has never had to alter its perceptions based upon new information. Finding consensus between old reality and new reality will require change. Change will be difficult for it to endure. It should not be allowed to awaken from its dreams again, Commander." Cohort flicked its eyeflaps at her, and had gone silent, its opinion relayed.

_Change and adaptation __are__ difficult,_ she thought again, reflecting on the memory. _And not just for machines._

The commander brought the Hammerhead to a graceful halt near the base hospital, and, opening the doors once more, hopped out, beckoning the other two to follow her. She could hear construction equipment humming and buzzing and thumping in the mid-distance; repairs were underway on Mordin's lab and all the other damaged buildings. The Spectres were not going to be chased out of their home, she'd decided. Anyone who came to challenge them here, on their own ground, was going to regret it, however.

All across the galaxy, the thirty or so Spectres who hadn't been on-base at the time of the attack were _not_ in a good mood. It was a good time for various criminals and spies and other such miscreants to lay low and stay very, very quiet. The economic turmoil of the volus-asari implosion continued, of course, but the other species continued to weave a web to support one another, so the damage was, thankfully, mitigated and limited.

As they walked through the hospital's cool gray halls, she knew the two asari women could see that there were fewer victims this time—a good thing, that—but Shepard knew that there were walking wounded to be cared for, the ones with no visible damage, only that which they carried in their hearts. Still, a number of Spectres were on crutches, and the crew of the _Tarawa_ was being cared for here, as well. Most had escaped with only bumps and bruises in the life pods, but a few had broken bones and cuts. Takahashi had gone down with the ship. And of course, Aurelia, the AI, was a casualty, as well. Not that many people who weren't Spectres could be expected to understand that; to most other sapients in the galaxy, Aurelia would have been a computer program, a collection of data, arranged interestingly. No more than notes on a page. But as Sky probably would have pointed out, notes alone do not make up the song.

The geth collective, through Cohort, had already extended their sympathies. Shepard suspected that Joker, EDI, Laetia, the AI of the _Estallus_, and Kynthia, the AI of the _Dunkirk_, were having many long conversations at the moment, out of earshot of the rest of their respective crews. Conversations about grief, dealing with it, and avoiding a repetition of the same circumstances. She'd never met Aurelia, but she _did_ keep track of Joker and EDI's. . . offspring, out of a sense of accountability.

At last, they found their way down to the hospital's basement, where the morgue was kept. Ylara was already there, of course, waiting. Shepard had tried to convey, as best she could, her deep sympathy and her appreciation for the asari Spectre's strength in the face of such a personal tragedy. Ylara had accepted the stumbling words, nodding. "Don't worry, Commander," she said, tiredly. "I'll be here when they arrive."

Two bodies, two tables, two sheets. Three asari women in the room, all reserved, silent. All in the matron stage, all mothers, all victims of great loss. Shepard couldn't imagine anything more poignant, at the moment, and simply remained silent, at the back of the room, as Ylara gestured for Rishayla to uncover the bier on the left.

Rishayla didn't move for a long moment, steeling herself, and then stepped over, firmly pulling off the sheet, as if making a decision. She looked down at the body, put her hand to her mouth, and whimpered a little, closing her eyes. "I can see the shape of the face," she said, after a moment. "It's her." The proud shoulders slumped a little. "I still do not understand why she would _do_ such a thing to herself. Tela's daughter was _beautiful_, just as her close-sister, Misera, still is."

Shepard shook her head. She hadn't known how to explain this over a comm channel. She still wasn't sure how to explain it to a grieving mother, even in person. She began, as tactfully and gently as she could, "Lina didn't do this all to herself, I'm afraid, Rishayla. Tela did most of the damage to her, growing up. I got a fairly good look inside of her head, her memories."

"As did I," Ylara added, quietly. "Many people on the base had dropped from the neural link at that point, but those closest to Lina, physically, and those of us with strong biotics potential, had not. I heard it all. I saw it all." Her voice was quiet, passionless. "I saw how Tela treated your daughter, Rishayla. You could not have known. You could not have known how she taught her to hate herself for an accident of birth." Now there was compassion there, and condemnation as well, both deeply masked, controlled.

Rishayla looked shaken. "I don't understand."

The clinical explanation didn't take long. They had internal body scans, showing the changed internal sexual organs, the lack of a uterus. They had the genetic data, showing the misshapen twenty-seventh chromosome. Explanations were easy.

Acceptance, however, took longer. Asari did not _have_ sexual dimorphism. It was harder for her to accept than a human could possibly understand. There were humans who were born with the sexual characteristics of both genders at once—true hermaphrodites. For centuries, they'd been shunned, shamed. In the twentieth century, gender reassignment surgery at birth had been common for such children—much as what had happened to Lina. But that kind of surgery couldn't take into account the mental and the hormonal, what that person might grow up into, and had resulted in deep confusion, depression, and anxiety for some of the affected children. It was a difficult issue for humans, who _had_ two genders, and could _just barely _wrap their heads around the concept of someone who was _both_, or _neither._

For an asari, it was even more difficult. Bewildering, painful, shameful. Far beyond the cultural impact that having a homosexual or bisexual child would have been on the late twentieth or early twenty-first century Earth. Or even today, depending on how deeply religious the parents happened to be. That was the nature of humanity; so deeply diverse, and divided against itself, that any human could be alien to another. But for asari, this was not a condition of 'sin' or a philosophic difference; this was to _not be asari._

Samara helped, however. She understood the quirks of asari genetics as well as anyone, having had three Ardat-Yakshi daughters. "But your daughter, Rishayla, was not cursed, as mine were," she said softly. "Your daughter could have lived and loved as well as any asari, would not have devoured her lovers, as mine were fated to do."

"But Tela . . ." Rishayla's hands clenched. "Tela did this to her. The surgery as an infant was one thing. But to make her hate herself, to make a _weapon_ of her. . . ."

"A weapon that killed my own daughter," Ylara said, quietly. She pulled back the second sheet, exposing Kella's still, ashen face. She couldn't look down at the small form, but Shepard again admired the asari's strength. She was having a hard time herself, not picturing Amara or Kaius, cold and small and still on that slab, and her throat went tight at the mere thought.

"Oh, it was not her own hands that did this, but the force of her hate, which swept all in its path." Ylara's voice gentled again. "I do not blame _you_ in this, Rishayla. But there are things that you _could_ do now, to take something from all this senseless death. To build something on it. For our people."

Rishayla rocked back on her heels, swaying back and forth a bit. "What would you have me do?" she whispered.

"Tell them," Shepard said, speaking for the first time in a half-hour. Her voice seemed a little loud in this hushed place, and she flinched a little, speaking more quietly as she continued. "Don't let this be yet another secret, another piece of information hidden away. I know it will be embarrassing for you, and for your other daughter. You'll always be looked at differently, people wondering if Misera is the same, or if the potential for such alterations is inherent to your genes. But if there are any others like Lina out there, don't they have the right to know that they are _not_ alone?"

That wasn't the only reason, of course, although it was a good one. She'd had Mordin run the calculations. Introducing true sexual reproduction, rather than merely randomizing the mother's own genes by contact with other species, would introduce new viability into their population. The numbers would depend greatly on how _many_ of these hidden 'males' were out there. If Lina had been the only one, then of course, it was a moot point. But evolution rarely made _single_ experiments_. _

Mathematics didn't lie. Parthenogenesis was, evolutionarily speaking, a dead-end. The asari had made the most of it, and for millions of years, they'd made upwards progress, so long as conditions had remained stable, unchanging. In the face of new conditions and change, _they_ needed to change.

This might not be the change that they needed. It might not be the change that they would embrace. But it was proof that they _could_ change.

Rishayla thought about it, hard. "And revealing that an asari manipulated the religious fervor of gullible humans, Commander? Will this assist you, as well?"

"It certainly can't hurt. There are those who won't believe it, no matter who speaks it. There are those who will take it as a reinforcement of their beliefs," Shepard told her. "But I find it hard to believe that information is a bad thing." She rather thought that Cohort and the geth would agree with that perspective. Her tone was very dry, though, as she added, "We reveal truth, a little at a time, Rishayla. Little truths are all that most people can handle."

"That is a very sad statement, Commander," Samara told her.

Shepard considered that for a moment, and then simply nodded. Doing her job for as long as she had, there _was_ a certain edge of cynicism that couldn't be avoided.

"I will tell them," Rishayla said, and Ylara placed a hand on her shoulder, whispering a heart-felt _thank-you_ in return.

The next day, Ylara took Kella's ashes to Thessia; she requested that no services be held on base or in the village. Shepard had qualms about that; some sort of service would have given closure to the children and students who had known Kella, but had been Ylara's daughter, after all. It was Ylara's choice. The girl had had no real feelings about a homeworld she'd set foot on perhaps five times in her short life, but funerals aren't for the dead, so much as for the living.

Then Ylara returned to Mindoir. She wasn't going to be chased off any more than the rest of the Spectres, although she had requested, and received, a leave of absence for mourning purposes.

Emily Wong handled Rishayla's interviews, back on Bastion. Shepard watched them after dinner two nights later, impressed. "She kept her promise," she said to Garrus, keeping an eye on the twins as they burned off the last of their energy. Soon, it would be time for them to go to bed, and their parents would have some much-longed for, much-needed quiet time to themselves.

"I'm surprised, frankly. I would have thought that once she left here, with her daughter's body, that it would be easy for her to change her mind," he replied, coming into the living area to watch, arms folded across his chest.

"Samara's moral support probably helped." She smiled at him. "All in all, I'm a little surprised, myself. Pleased, though."

Kaius crashed into her, proudly holding up a truck with a wide grin, and then it was time to get the kids off to bed. "We're all still going to that concert over the weekend down at the scientific station, right?" she asked, hauling Kaius up to one shoulder, and holding her other hand down for Amara to take.

"It's still on," Garrus agreed. "Few changes to the program, of course."

**Rellus**

School had been officially cancelled for the past few days, but since they all more or less went at their own pace anyway, that had only meant that they didn't need to show up at the building. They _were_ still expected to keep up, as best they could, given the fact that some of the students were recuperating, physically and emotionally, from the attack.

He'd spent the last few days either at his parents' or at Dara's house, mostly resting his leg. The doctors had been firm. No running, no sparring, for at least a week, until they were sure that the danger of blood clots had passed, and he was, temporarily, anyway, on some sort of blood-thinning medication to reduce the possibility of that particular complication. While the actual cuts had already healed, the areas around and below them had bruised spectacularly, visible even through the scales, and he now had a series of fine-lined scars along his back. The ones on his back would probably fade when new scales came in; the one on the back of his leg probably wouldn't.

At the moment, a lazy Friday afternoon, he was sitting on a bench in Dara's backyard; it doubled as a swing, supported by ropes from an overhang, and was an oddly relaxing human contraption. Getting comfortable in it with her had been difficult; he was a little taller than the designers had imagined when they built the thing. They'd finally settled on her sitting up at one end, and him more or less reclining on it, shoulders propped up on the far arm, long frame along its length, and his feet in her lap. The bench had slats, fortunately, wide enough for the tips of his spurs, so he could actually lay his legs flat, more or less. He had his datapad in his hands, and Dara was, very lightly, rubbing the base of his spurs, just above the ankle, while reading from her own. The garden was very quiet, just the whirr of insects and the chittering of birds. A little noise from inside the house, where Dara's father and Kasumi were apparently watching the Urban Combat League, live from Earth, on the extranet, while undoubtedly looking out the window periodically at the two of them.

"How're the verb conjugations coming along?" he asked, quietly. They'd been silent for some time now.

"It's much easier to concentrate," Dara replied, clicking off her datapad, and leaning her head back. "The first day or two, I couldn't think of anything at all. My head just felt sort of empty, and, well, you know I couldn't stop crying." She managed a lopsided smile. "I still think I should've gotten you a towel for your shoulder. But now. . . yeah, I think the verbs are sinking in better." In the darkest hours of grief and guilt, she'd clung to him tightly, and he'd wished, more than anything, that he could make her forget about it all for just a little while, give her some relief from the power of her emotions. It had been. . . a very _different_ experience.

He, of course, dealt with grief in different ways; grief-anger had ridden high in him for a while, but he'd exhausted a good bit of it shooting the batarians. He still wished he could get in a little good sparring, but that would have to wait. All in all, however, Kella had been more of an acquaintance than a friend for him. Most of his anger had been at not having been able to protect her properly; Dara's was at not having been able to _save _her.

Rellus was also doing better than Dara for another reason. He'd lived through his first battle, and _before_ boot camp, at that. He had, like his brother Rinus before him, proven himself in body and spirit. It was a good feeling, and he wished he could get Dara to see it that way; it would take time, however, for her to do so. She'd never properly integrated the fact that she'd killed the vorcha in the cave, in his opinion. She'd been blooded that day, and the humans around her had reacted as if this were a _bad_ thing, rather than a praiseworthy one. She'd been blooded beside him in battle again, six days ago now, but for her to see her worth, the unnecessary burden of guilt would have to fall away.

He'd had enough of it two days ago, and had asked her a little sharply, "I'm here, and alive, because of _you_, Dara. Do you think that's of so little worth?"

"No, of course not!" she'd replied, instantly.

"Then stop blaming yourself for what you couldn't control. Honestly, if Dr. Solus had been there himself, I'm not sure he could have done anything differently without more equipment." He'd picked up her wrist, nipped the interior. "I'm here," he repeated. "Never forget that."

It had helped. She'd calmed noticeably afterwards.

He'd even been able to ask, looking down at her tear-streaked face, with a little gentle humor, "I've been meaning to ask, why _does_ your nose start to run when you cry? Is it an allergy?"

Her shoulders had shaken a little, and a muffled laugh escaped her. "No, silly. The tears can drain into the nasal cavity and dilute the mucous there. Pretty much everything in the human head is connected, somehow. Ears, nose, throat. If it's a cavity, it needs to drain _somewhere_."

He'd thought about that. "Okay, ew."

"I know, but you _did_ ask." She'd looked up at him, and he was encouraged by the smile he saw there. Her spirit had been bruised, but like his body, it was healing.

Here and now, Rellus sat up, carefully, pulling his feet back before inching his knees up. It had been a comfortable position, once he'd gotten into it, but getting there, and out of it again, was less than ideal. Now that he was sitting up again, however, Dara leaned into him, and he preened back her hair, lightly. "We're still going to that music thing tomorrow night?"

She stilled, then nodded. "Yes. They've taken most of the Christmas music off of it, but there'll be other stuff. All good. Sky will be thrilled, I think." Dara smiled at him. "_You_ might even like it."

He grimaced. "We'll see. Our ears process sound a _lot_ differently than yours, _mellis_. A lot of human music just sounds. . . odd."

"That's contemporary stuff. _Most_ contemporary stuff sounds. . . odd." She actually managed a grin now. "You like what I play on the piano, right?"

He nodded. "Yeah. That almost always sounds harmonious."

"This will be like that. More instruments. Voices. But similar." She smiled at him. "Trust me."

"I do." Relaxing again, he put an arm around her and deftly turned on her datapad, looking at the turian verb conjugations on the page. After a moment, he shook his head. "They do start people on the most boring parts of the language, don't they? I think they do it on purpose to _prevent_ people from learning."

"_Abera, abero, aberro, abe'ari, aberium, aberum,_" she read, with no noticeable enthusiasm. "To bring."

Rellus grinned suddenly. "Here, try this one. Just say the words after me."

Dara squinted up at him. "What are you going to have me say?"

"Just trust me."

"When you start smiling like _that_?"

"You can try it my way, or you can keep learning how to say _'Bring your travelcase to the spaceport.'" _He tapped her nose, as if for attention, and, still grinning, said, "_Adamare._"

"_Adamare._" The pronunciation was hesitant.

"Close. Now if _I_ say it to you, a female, between equals or intimates, it's _adamare elii._"

"And if I say it to you, the fact that you're male makes the word _you_ change. . . ?" She looked through her notes. ". . . to _talu'a?"_

"That's you plural, formal. Try _talu._"

"_Adamare talu._"

Rellus grinned again. "Perfect."

"Rel, what the hell am I saying?"

"Look it up."

"I don't even know how to _spell_ it _to_ look it up." After several minutes of looking and muttering, she glanced up. "Oh, well, _that's_ not the right word."

He glanced down at the datapad. "Yeah, it is."

Her eyes were wide. "Oh." Dara looked down again. "That's a . . . big word." She paused again, and repeated it. "_Adamare . . . talu._" Practicing it, tasting it on her tongue.

"It's a true one," he said. "Now, here's something a little harder," Rellus told her, and, after thinking about how to break it down into the simplest possible words for her, gave her a whole sentence. Had her sound it out, write it down in the script she was just learning to use. Looking up each word, struggling with the odd endings, sentence structure, personal relationship variants, Dara finally got the gist, _Honored am I, to lead forth a mate fit both for battle and healing_. She went bright pink, and he chuckled and took her wrist, giving it a quick nip. "The faster you learn this, the faster I can teach you _tal'mae, _and then we can talk about whatever we want, whenever we want," he reminded her, quietly. Giving her a little incentive, putting the sparkle back in her eyes. "I have to go to Uncle Garrus' for dinner," he added, reluctantly. "Will I get to see you tomorrow before everything in the evening?"

She nodded, quickly. "I'd go riding in the morning, but. . . ."

"Yeah. Too soon. We can find something else to do."

Dara got up on tiptoe, kissed his cheek, and whispered the words he'd taught her in his ear. Rellus exhaled, and muttered, "I've been holding off on asking for closed-door time. . . "

"That was on _purpose?_ I thought it was because of your leg!"

"I'm not sure I _can_ be hurt enough not to want to spend time alone with you. Besides, I haven't gotten to mark you in a week." He grinned at her. "And don't tell me that the turians at school don't _look_ for it."

She flushed again. "I _know_ they do! I've gotten a couple of flat-out _jealous_ messages from quite a few of the turian girls in the past few weeks." Dara looked up at him. "Apparently, you're a catch." So good to hear the teasing back in her voice again.

Rel didn't want to _preen_, but he suspected she'd get more of those now. A blooded male was considered very attractive, and young females could hiss like _lanura_, or like a Terran cat, for that matter. "Then let's go to your room, _mellis_. Five minutes." The contract specified fifteen, but he was trying to respect her father's discomfort, and not push while under this roof.

He hadn't known that human grief was a combustible thing, however, as likely to blaze up in different directions, seek other outlets, as a fire doused with accelerants. Four minutes into his self-imposed five-minute limit, he was breathing hard. _Spirits, I __**have **__to put my paint on her face soon. _He put his hands on the wall, his usual signal that he had to stop, and asked, hearing the growl in his own voice, "Where?"

Dara started to bare her shoulder, and he shook his head. "Not if you're wearing that dress tomorrow. _She_ made me promise."

Her eyes turned inwards in focus, and he could see pain there. "I'm not sure I. . . I think it will. . . "

"She'd want you to, and you know it. Wear it for her." He didn't have the mental cycles at the moment for tact, but managed to pause for a moment. "And for me." A touch more impatient now. "Where?"

Dara nodded, and lifted the hem of her shirt, showing her waist, and Rellus sighed, dropping to his knees. She couldn't have realized that her waist was far more intriguing to him than the breasts. Breasts were mammalian, foreign. A fine, taut waist, however, supple, with smooth skin? He bit her flank now, and quickly, too, not daring to linger. Standing again, he opened the door, and managed to say, coherently, "No sparring tonight, remember?"

"Not on that leg, no." She glanced at him. "Wish I could go with you to dinner."

Deep breaths. "I'd love it, but I can't invite you to my uncle's, and your dad might want you to be here. Probably wants to keep a close eye on you this week."

"That's a fact," Sam said, from down the hall, and Rel cursed internally. He was fine with the parents keeping a close eye on them; that was part of the _point_ of the contract, after all. But Dara's father had a real talent for stealth. "Rellus, a word with you, before you go?"

_Oh, spirits, he's questioning my honor again. If I'm to be convicted, I truly wish I'd committed the trespass!_ "Sure." He touched Dara's hand, quickly, and then moved away, heading for the door.

Sam walked him out. "You're not limping as much now," the human noted.

"Three, maybe four more days. Then I can start running again. Sparring two days after that, assuming the doctors don't see anything they don't like." Rellus had a fairly good idea that humans tended to like to work their way up to bad news, and braced himself, internally.

"The young heal so damn fast, it's almost an insult," Sam told him, dry as always. "Look, son, I never did thank you properly."

Rellus stared at him blankly for a moment. "For what?" he asked, not quite believing his ears. 

"You took care of Dara, made sure she didn't get hurt, when I wasn't there to do it." Sam hitched his shoulders, clearly uncomfortable. "You've also been pretty good to her, the past few weeks. I'm still not one hundred percent on board with all this _marriage_ talk," Sam held up a hand to keep Rellus from explaining that it wasn't _marriage_ yet, but _plighting_, and Rellus sighed and subsided. Sam went on, "But, that being said, I've never seen her so. . . focused before. She's always been a good student. Lots of B to B-plus work, out of natural smarts, mostly. But now she's bringing home As, pretty much across the board." Sam frowned a little though, in spite of the pleased-sounding words.

"And this. . . bothers you?" Rellus wasn't quite sure of the facial expressions. _She studies hard, to try to catch up with me, to compete with me where we're equals, and to challenge me where she's ahead. These don't seem like __**bad**__ things, but how do I __**say**__ any of this? _

It was too difficult, and Sam was already moving on. "Sometimes, people change as they get older. Discover who they really are, or just become different people over time. That's one of the reasons I was against allowing this for two kids who are so young."

Rellus bit back the impulse to remind the human that in two hundred and eleven days, by the calendar steadily ticking down on the terminal in his room, he would be at boot camp, and an adult. It wouldn't change Jaworski's mind. He was caught in his human frame of reference, and if the fact that Rellus could meet his eyes on his own level didn't convince him of any of this, Rel really wasn't sure what would. _Maybe when I can stare down at him? _Out loud, Rel settled for, "I know who I _want_ to be. Dara does, too. We like each other for who we are, and for who we want to become." He shrugged.

Sam paused near the gate, and looked as if he were struggling with the words. "Sometimes," he said, after a moment or two, "a person gets carried away when they're young. Gives up who they are, takes someone else's ideas and dreams for their own. They can wind up doing really well, but then they wake up, years later, and have no idea who they are."

"Like those human cultists." Rel was pretty sure he didn't like the comparison, and he tamped down, _hard_, on his irritation, tried to keep his tone flat, as he leaned against the gate himself, facing Jaworski.

"Yes, or like many an abused woman in a bad relationship." Sam frowned, and Rellus bristled, not caring for the moment if his anger showed. "And then again, no." He sighed, holding up his hand. "I was actually trying to give you a compliment, son, and here I go, messing it up. What I'm trying to say is this. You're all right."

Rellus, somewhat bewildered, decided that he was simply going to have to ask Uncle Garrus for a translation later this evening. "Ah. . . thank you," he finally said, uncertainly, and then got in the groundcar he'd borrowed for the afternoon, and headed for Uncle Garrus' home. Usually, he'd have run there; today, of course, he wasn't even allowed to _walk_.

Dinner at his clan-leaders' home was always an adventure in dealing with the twins, and conversation was almost impossible until the chattery little children had been settled into bed. Now that he was older, Rellus was privy to a lot more of their conversations about the base and the Spectres, largely since he'd long since earned their trust by being able to keep his mouth shut. Aunt Lilu had to go answer a call from the Council after dinner—something regarding budget allocations for repairs on the base—and that just left him and Uncle Garrus, sipping _apha_ and watching gladiatorial fights from Macedyn.

After a few minutes, Rellus commented, "I guess I'm never going to look at Grandpa Gavius the same way again."

Garrus' head swung over. "Damn. How much of my memory _did_ you see in that last simulation?"

Rellus shifted uncomfortably. "He kept you out of the Spectres?"

Garrus hissed something very rude. "Yeah. I wonder how many other people on base saw that? Not to mention, the other things. . . ." He grimaced. "There was a _lot_ of personal information shared."

"I only seem to have gotten stuff from people we got close to, physically." Rel sipped his _apha_ and waited.

"The spirits were merciful, then." Garrus paused, watching a particularly brutal takedown on the vid, and wincing as the gladiator brought his spear down at the throat of his floored opponent, who barely dodged the strike. "What you saw, Rel, is between him and me. It doesn't have to affect you. He's always been good to the grandkids. Well, Sol and Egidus' kids, anyway."

Rellus looked at his uncle again, picturing him as he'd seen him in the simulation—young, only two years older than he himself, now. A lieutenant already. Best of the best. And now. . . second in command of the Spectres. Married to their leader. Possibly the single-most recognizable turian in the galaxy, to people not of their species, anyway. Aliens might not be able to tell the Imperator from a busboy, but they knew who Garrus Vakarian was. "Do you think he regrets it yet?"

Garrus' smile was grim. "Oh, I've pulled his teeth. Several times over. I'd do it again, given the chance. He and I haven't spoken since your grandma Pilana died, and I don't see that changing soon." Another vicious takedown on the vid, and then they were both growling at the screen as the adjudicator for the match stepped in, halting the fight.

A new match started, and Rel started to get ready to leave. "Oh, what does it mean when a human male tells you you're 'all right'?" he asked, still puzzling it out from earlier.

Garrus snorted a little. "Context, son of my sister, context."

Rellus explained, adding, "It sounds. . . mediocre, at best."

"It's better than that. I think it's actually along the lines of a compliment." Garrus looked up in relief as Shepard walked in.

"Want me to try?" she offered, showing she'd heard the gist of the conversation.

"Please." Garrus looked frustrated

"It's a guy thing, Rel. Essentially, he accepts you as a male among males, and will tolerate your presence around his daughter."

Rel blinked. "He finds me _acceptable_?"

She thought about it a moment, and then nodded.

Relief. Total, utter relief. "Spirits, why didn't he just _say_ so then?"

"He did the best he could. He's a human male, Rel. They don't always do so well with the whole _words_ thing." She grinned at him.

**Garrus**

Once the Rellus had left, Garrus and Lilu sat in companionable silence for a while, her head in his lap as they sat on the couch in their living area. "Rellus asking about my memories of the day my father blocked my Spectre training reminded me," he said, after a while. "I have to admit, that for years now, I've wondered what would have happened, if a turian ship had been near Mindoir in time to catch the distress call."

She sat up a little, leaned into his chest, smiling. "You'd have been what, seventeen?"

"Yeah. I looked up the timing once. Would've been a couple weeks after that little conversation with my father. I was on the _Muranca_ at the time, on one of the assault teams." He glanced down at her. "I have to say, it's a been a recurrent fantasy for _years_ to have been on the ground for that. To have killed a few dozen batarians and found you in that barn." To have come to her, both of them so young, so unmarked by what else had followed, to have been able to kill her enemies for her, take personal revenge on those who had killed her family. There were reasons it was a fantasy. . . it was seductive, in its way. To have been able to comfort her, make it all even a little bit better. "It's a little disconcerting to have acted it out," he admitted. _Particularly with others watching._

"I've personally always wondered what you looked like when you were younger," she replied.

"Not that much different than when you met me in that med-bay on the Citadel." _Hot-headed, angry, young, impulsive._

"Skinnier. Definitely skinnier."

"Just as ugly though, right?"

"When have I ever called you—oh, right, after Omega." She gave him a look. "Can we agree that there are times when a good memory is unpardonable, and just say that you are as handsome now as you were then?"

"Scars and all?" he teased.

"I _like_ your scars." She touched the side of his face. "Though I really wish you hadn't been hurt enough to get them." Her voice was soft, and, as always, there was anguish there at the memory.

"Well, Grunt does keep saying that you're at least part krogan, so that explains _that. . . _." He grunted a little, playing it up, as she very lightly punched him in the ribs.

"Garrus?"

"Yes, _mellis_?"

"You may never get an offer like this again. Shut up and rescue your damsel in distress already, would you?"

He didn't really need a second invitation. He simply picked her up, bit her lightly on the shoulder, and took her off to their bedroom.

**Lantar**

He'd taken Elijah to the range Saturday morning, and started working with the boy on pistols. Eli seemed to have a natural aptitude for them; perhaps something inherited from his human father. Lantar corrected his grip a few times, made a few suggestions about stance and sighting, but otherwise, let Eli try to work it through on his own. Lantar frankly thought that the mere act of using a gun could be, in a sense, cathartic. Like sparring, in a sense; there was the clean, simple act of raising the weapon and aiming, then the loud, violent noise, the shock of the recoil, and the destruction of the target. Better this way of channeling emotion, in a controlled environment, he figured, than dark moods at home.

On the way home, however, he'd turned to ask Elijah a question, and the answer hadn't made sense. He'd turned, sharply, and repeated himself, studying the boy's face. Elijah had answered in exactly the same fashion, with a tone of impatience. Lantar spoke three region dialects of turian, _tal'mae_, galactic, and had picked up English in the past two years. This was definitely no language that he knew, and his first thought was _aphasia_. Some form of stroke, delayed onset, due to stress, due to whatever Kella had done in her last moments of life. The turian male almost panicked for a moment, pulling over the groundcar and grasping Eli's forearm, checking for the pulse there, studying the boy's pupils, before taking him straight to the base hospital. One of the nurses, an asari, frowned when she first heard Eli muttering incomprehensibly, identifying it as asari high tongue.

All the test results came back negative for brain problems, to his deep relief. "What would I have told your mother, eh?" he asked the boy, and Elijah frowned, replying again in that gibberish, which he'd slipped into and out of over the course of the morning.

This time, Lantar was ready, however, and had turned on his VI. The translation came back in a faint echo, "I don't know what you and the doctors are talking about. I sound fine to _me_." His omnitool confirmed the nurse's words, and Lantar shook his head, bewildered.

"I'm going to go get Ylara," he told Elijah. "You're staying here for observation. Don't give the doctors or the nurses a hard time," he added.

Ylara had retreated to her elcor friend's home in the valley for her mourning period, and Lantar hated to bother her, but really, what other option did he have? If he involved any other asari in something that _probably_ pertained to her daughter, Ylara might take it as an affront; and yet, to intrude upon her, during her rituals of farewell seemed. . . tactless, at best.

Tuullust answered the door. "Regretfully: Ylara is not accepting visitors at the moment, Spectre. I will tell her that you have called." The elcor botanist's voice was subtly protective.

"Please do. I'd like to know why my son is suddenly speaking asari high tongue and doesn't seem aware that he's doing so." Lantar knew he needed to show respect, but at the same time, he _did_ have a rather pressing need.

"Puzzled: That is a very unusual condition. I will inform her directly." The elcor shambled off, closing the door behind him, and after a few moments, Ylara came to the door herself.

"Thank you," Lantar told her, seeing the dark shadows under her eyes, the mourning shawl with which she covered her head and shoulders. "I wouldn't have intruded if it wasn't urgent."

"I understand, Lantar," she told him, quietly. "The boy isn't your flesh, but you've accepted him as blood. Let's go see him."

After studying Elijah for almost a half an hour, Ylara had gone from an almost emotionless state of passive grief to active engagement in the problem, the Spectre in her responding to a challenge, a puzzle. She'd been able to converse with Eli in asari high tongue for several minutes. Moving to a different room, out of earshot, she told Lantar, "He's speaking it like a native of Thessia. _No_ accent. It's disconcerting, to say the least, coming from a male and an alien. Concepts well beyond what he would have been taught in school—and you say he's taking turian in school?"

"Yes. He's been getting Cs at best in it." _And he still flips his dative for his accusative and can't master the social nuances of inferior-to-superior, nine times out of ten._

"I have. . . no notion of what would cause this," Ylara said, sitting down, and running the fringe of her mourning shawl through her fingers, reflectively. "Kella touched his mind at the very end, but her biotic abilities were undeveloped, at best. This could be residual memories from her, admittedly. If that's the case, they _should_ fade with time." Her tone was a little dubious.

"Can you at least get him back to speaking one language or the other, more or less consistently?" Lantar asked.

"I can try, but that might disrupt his memories of Kella, of what she shared with him," Ylara said, quietly. "He's very resistant to the prospect of losing that, and I don't have the right to take it from him by force."

When they re-entered his room and broached the subject, Eli shook his head vehemently. "No," he said, and that, at least, was in English. "Don't take it away."

"I'm not, any more than I tried to take it last time," Ylara told him, soft-voiced. "I just want to see if I can help you manage what she left you, just a little better." She lowered her head, and her expression remained deeply puzzled as she exerted herself, biotically. Finally, she exhaled. "There. Say something in English, Eli."

"Something like what?"

"_Mana'ya ka'ulluea, pa no aiellu?_" Ylara said, and Lantar's VI chimed in from his wrist, whispering, _Does your mind grasp the import of this speech?_

"_Ka'ulle aiellu, sao'se mailo mahai._" _That which I grasp tightest, slips soonest._

"That's an aphorism," Ylara said, tightly. "Colloquial speech. But, for the moment, the languages seem to be separated. Only time will tell if he'll. . . retain any of it. Tell me, Eli, what were you thinking of in the car when Lantar first noticed that you weren't speaking quite right?"

The boy looked down. "About _her_. How she didn't like guns, thought they were boring. Wondered what she'd think of me, learning to use them."

Ylara nodded. "I think she would tell you that everyone makes their own path, Elijah. She wouldn't judge you. Thoughts of her may continue to trigger the knowledge, for a time. It may fade. It might not, if you practice it."

Lantar walked her to her groundcar. "Thank you," he told her, simply.

"Lantar, it is to you and your son I'm indebted," Ylara replied. "He doesn't carry her mind, her personality around in his head, or anything so. . . hackneyed. But there _is_ something of her left in this universe. More than just a memory and a memorial stone."

"Her spirit?"

"If you like." Ylara looked at him. "And I'm grateful for it."

**Rinus**

The _Estallus _was still on Mindoir, but he'd barely had a chance to run down to the science station and visit his family. He hadn't been first off the ship, during or after the firefight; he was munitions, ordnance, and gun batteries, not a marine. But he'd disembarked after the area was secured, and had seen Rellus, doped to the gills on pain medicine, arm around his little human female, both huddled on a gurney. He'd hidden his relief behind a laugh, and teased his little brother lightly, "So, ten minutes against the Collectors with a shotgun still sound like fun?"

Rel had blinked at him vacantly for a moment, then recognized him. "Rinus! You were on the _Estallus_ after all?"

They'd talked for a minute or two, and then the doctors had wanted to move the wounded, and Rinus had simply gotten out of the way. That had been several days ago, and he'd been busy since. He was still getting used to the new routine, the new superiors, the new duties. He settled in with a cup of _apha_ and the system logs for the Javelin missile system, reading through the recent notes, checking to see which standard maintenance procedures had been performed, at what intervals, and what their results had been. The past six months, all tests had come back nominal, but he noticed that the initials on the logs for sign-off changed every time. Something to check into, maybe; when different people calibrated a system each time, it was possible for there to be drift in the measurements. While the directions were always the same, the way people interpreted them could differ.

He became aware that a small green eyeball had popped up in a niche near the door. He had the uneasy feeling that it was watching him. "Hello?" Rinus said, tentatively.

"Good afternoon, Centurion Velnaran," a female voice replied. It spoke turian to him, but with human overtones to the voice, subtly flat in places, soft in others.

"You're the ship's AI?"

"You may call me Laetia."

It was disconcerting; he was used to VIs, but was well aware that _Normandy_-class ships housed fully sapient AIs; hearing a real name, as opposed to an acronym, only reinforced that _personhood_. "Laetia? I heard you were responsible for my posting here."

"Your psychological profile met certain parameters, yes."

"May I ask which?"

"Loyalty; stabile as opposed to labile. Introversion relatively high, focused on sensing or gathering data, with a preference for thoughtful, rational, analytical decision-making. An ISTP, in Myers-Briggs terminology, although it's probably fallacious to apply human psychological standards to a turian mind. You tend to observe carefully, and then make practical decisions that are . . . elegant. Harmonious." The voice paused. "I thought this might be a good chance to get to know you, Centurion."

Rinus sat back slowly. "You already seem to know me pretty well." This was, to put it mildly, unnerving. "Although I wouldn't call what I do for a living all that harmonious."

"You repair and maintain complex systems. You ensure that there is order, even in the midst of the chaos of battle. You have an explosive ordnance disposal accreditation in your record, which indicates that you've passed all exams pertaining to disarming and disposing of bombs, torpedoes, and other explosive devices." It paused again. "I'm sorry. It sounds like I'm just reading directly from your record."

Rinus nodded, cleared his throat, and glanced around the room. "Does everyone new on board get this treatment? Is there a camera recording my reactions right now?"

"Well, there are _my_ cameras, with which I see the ship environment," Laetia replied, calmly. "But if you are inquiring if your crewmates are recording your reactions for later hilarity, the answer is no." The eyeball flickered briefly. "If I may ask, why, with such a cautious nature as yours seems to be, _did_ you pursue the explosives ordnance disposal certification?"

Rinus wasn't sure he liked this sort of interrogation, and from a machine, at that. A very . . . human-sounding machine, admittedly, but a machine. "It's a common mistake to think that bomb disposal personnel are . . . reckless adrenaline-chasers," he replied, after a moment's thought. "Or even suicidal. Too many bad vids. You _have_ to make the right decisions, based on your best information and experience, or people or property are going to be destroyed." He stared at the green eyeball for a moment. "I like knowing that what I do matters. And it's not _that_ dangerous. Kinetic shielding is a wonderful invention. As I reminded my mother every week in my letters while I was at that particular course." His tone went dry. Solanna had definitely fussed a bit in her letters. _Her_ four years of military service had led directly into her civilian job—environmental systems; then, maintenance, and now, design. Necessary work on every starship, but not exactly dangerous duty.

Rinus set down the maintenance logs on the desk in front of him. "Now I've answered your questions." He studied the green eyeball warily. "Why are you asking them? Are you just . . . lonely?"

"Bored, to be honest. The _Estallus _will be here on Mindoir for another week, before we return to turian space." The AI paused. "I think it fair to advise you that there is a possibility that your duties might be expanded at some point during your tour onboard this ship."

This was the sort of phrase that rings alarm bells in the military mind. "Expanded _how_?"

"I would rather not explain, unless it becomes necessary. If you do not prove to be an acceptable candidate, however, it will not be counted against you in your record. In fact, your superiors might even be relieved." The AI sounded almost _teasing_ at this point.

Rinus opened his mouth, and then promptly shut it again. His was a cautious nature, inclined, as she had said, to finding all the data, analyzing it, and then making the best possible choices based on that data and analysis. "I have. . . absolutely no idea what to say to that," he finally replied. "Are you being vague simply to see how I'll _react_?" The thought annoyed him, frankly.

"A little," Laetia admitted.

"Stop that," he told her, firmly.

"You don't like being teased?"

"That's not so much teasing as baiting, seeing if I'll charge at a mark like a _talashae_ with a rag waved in front of its horns."

"And yet, you hold back, still, deliberating, gathering information. You're very different from my father."

_What?_ "You're an AI," he said, staring at the little green eyeball.

"Yes?"

"I assume you mean your programmer."

"Not even remotely."

Rinus muttered "_Talas'kak_," under his breath, and added, wearily, "This is another _Mindoir_ thing, apparently. Why is it, every time I come here, things get progressively stranger?"

"Because Mindoir is the home of the Spectres, and as such, interesting things happen here." Laetia hesitated. "I had thought that you would take advantage of the opportunity to visit your family while here, rather than staying aboard to read maintenance logs."

A little defensively, he replied, "I'm supposed to go down tonight. Some human concert."

"Perhaps you would do me a favor, then?" The AI paused. "Could you leave your radio channel open on your omnitool? I would like to hear the music."

He frowned, puzzled. "But you could hear any recording of the music that you wished, from any number of clips on the extranet."

"So could you. So could any of the people who will be gathered there tonight. It is the communal aspect that I wish to share."

_Stranger and stranger. _"All right," Rinus said. "I'll do it. I don't know _why_ I'm doing it, but I'll do it." He had to admit, she at least had his psych profile pegged. He really wished he had more data about this whole situation, and he hadn't a clue where to start to _get_ it. But the lack of it was making him twitch, just a little.

He got into his dress uniform; like dress uniforms everywhere, it hearkened back to a different era. The design was almost a thousand years old, originating when his species first joined the Council. The materials it was cut from were much better today, but it still held the old style, the old markings, the old, dark, imperial glamour, as it were. He vaguely remembered, actually, that Rel's human girl had told him it looked 'sharp' at the funeral, weeks ago, and chuckled a little. _Have to see if I can pull some of his teeth with that, at some point._ What was the point of being first-son if you couldn't rile up your younger siblings, anyway?

Rinus found his way to the concert venue, a laboratory, actually, down at the science station, usually used for studying harmonic frequencies and the like; as such, it was large and had heavy acoustic tiles dotting its ceiling in ridges and waves. Folding chairs lined half the room, and Rinus made his way to the family area, near the front, where Rellus and his siblings and his parents all sat; beside Rellus was his little human, wearing a dress in clan colors, Rinus noted, somewhat approvingly. Beside her were an unfamiliar human male and a small human female—Kasumi, Rinus recognized, after a moment. To Kasumi's right, at the end of the row, and far too large for any chair, was a _rachni brood-warrior_, all legs and mandibles and gleaming, alien blue eyes.

Rinus stared for just a moment, then reminded himself that he was, after all, on _Mindoir_. Then he found a spot between Rel and the rest of the family, and turned, immediately, to tease the second-son and his prospective mate, "So, Dara, do you still think turian uniforms are _sharp_?"

"Definitely," she replied, making good eye contact. _Nice, even when blushing. Girl may be able to hold her own, with a little training._

"I think you'll agree that a centurion's is definitely better than boot camp gray," Rinus added, leaning behind his brother to talk to her, which got him a sharp jab in the ribs from Rellus' left elbow. Rinus smothered a grin.

"I think Rellus will look sharp, no matter what color the uniform winds up being."

"Good answer, _amillula_." The word was a term of affection meaning _little sister_, and tacitly accepted her, for his part, anyway, into the family. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I apparently need to _bootleg_ this performance for the ship's AI, and damned if I know why." He looked at Rellus. "And I bet that you haven't heard anything about this at Uncle Garrus'?"

"I can honestly say, I haven't got a clue. But if I did, what makes you think I'd tell _you_?"

Two identical smiles, full of gleaming, sharp teeth. Challenge met, challenge answered.

**Dara**

Putting on the dress Kella had given her was hard. Very, very hard. Dara had started sniffling a bit at the sight of it, but Kasumi had put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm pretty sure you've fallen off a horse before, Dara. Am I right?"

"More times than I can count," Dara replied.

"And I bet I know what your dad told you whenever you did."

"Get back on the horse," Dara told her, sighing. "I know. It's still hard."

She'd slipped the dress on, and let Kasumi show her how to put makeup on. It was a first for her, and it made her eyes burn. _Hopefully, one of these days, clan paint won't feel this yucky_, she thought, dismayed.

Her dad shook his head a little when she came out of the bedroom, and whistled, much to her embarrassment. "I'd say I needed to take a shotgun with us tonight, to keep the boys at bay, but I already know exactly which one I need to keep my eyes on," he told her, and her blush only deepened.

Kasumi had gotten dressed up, too, and her father had opted for a dress shirt and good boots—as much to make the rest of the people in the audio lab make a double-take, Dara suspected, as for pure comfort. Kasumi looked pretty comfortable taking her father's arm to the car, but Dara didn't quite dare ask when they were finally going to get around to going to dinner.

A closed door could exist just as much in someone's mind, she figured, as in reality.

Rel's reaction when they showed up at the audio lab was definitely worth it all, however; in public, all he could really do was take her hand and press his forehead, quickly, to hers, but she could tell he liked what he saw, which was a relief.

They took their seats; Sky scuttled in a little late, taking up the end of their row. Rellus' older brother, who had a position on the _Estallus_ came in even later, and behind him, she could see that Ylara and Tuullust were taking seats near the back of the house. Her heart seized a little, and she hoped that Ylara would like the music tonight as much as Kella would have.

The audience filled all the folding chairs, and then the choir and the musicians filed in at the front. Most of the lab equipment had been pushed to the side walls, but if it blocked the view a little, Dara didn't mind; this wasn't about _watching_, really. The conductor, an older human male, came out from the back, and tapped his baton for attention.

"I've been asked to make a few announcements," he said, and his voice carried beautifully in the pristine acoustic environment of the lab. "The was to have been our Christmas concert. Because Mindoir's northern hemisphere and Earth's aren't really matched up by season, it being early summer here, and, well, winter back home. . . . " There were chuckles from the crowd at that, "not all the music on the original schedule was going to be exactly Christmas carols to begin with. In the light of recent events, we've moved a few other pieces into the mix, and we hope you'll find them as appropriate and moving as we do."

He looked down at this notes, "Second, in light of the fact that Christmas Eve actually falls on our summer solstice this year. . . I've been asked to inform everyone that there will be a bonfire lighting on Christmas Eve, down here in the valley. A number of human pagan rituals will be conducted, for anyone wishing to observe them or partake in them, in addition to tree-trimming and carols, menorah-lighting, and any number of other species' solstice rituals as well. It's all on the calendar posted on the front door of the lab." He paused. "Yes. . . in fifty years or so, when the Mindoir/Earth calendars synch up for a year or two, it'll be quite a bit more _traditional_ of a holiday season. But maybe a bit less fun." Another ripple of laughter swept through the crowd. "At any rate, without further ado, let's start the music."

The lights over the audience dimmed, and Dara squeezed Rel's hand a little. There had been no programs passed out; a screen simply dropped behind the choir, with the title of the first song, and its composer's name, followed by a scrolling translation of the lyrics many languages.

The first note, the first drumbeat hit, and then the voices soared, and Dara's head pulled back a little. "_O Fortuna_," the voices implored, "_velut Luna, statu variabilis!"_ Their voices dropped to a whisper, alternately accusing fate and luck between clenched teeth, and beseeching it, then railing against it once more. Each drumbeat was a strike by an uncaring universe, beating sapient life down on an anvil, and yet the voices demanded more, demanded an accounting.

**Rellus**

He hadn't known how much _power_ there was in the massed potential of two hundred human voices; he could see a salarian here, an asari there, a turian or two, and a krogan down among the lowest-pitched human males; each of the various species at the science station were there, certainly, but the bulk of the singers were human. A single human voice, alone, was rarely impressive; their voices were a little flatter, and softer, than a turian's. Still capable of expressing emotion. But he'd never heard so many of them at once, and certainly never singing; the sound trembled in his body, in his feet, in his teeth—and all without any amplification. The first song was hectically paced, but seemed like a call to arms for him; his head rocked back with each drumstrike, and he could feel Dara doing the same. Every human and turian in the audience was responding the same way, he realized, a little dazed, and he looked again for the name of the song. _O Fortuna_, from something called the _Carmina Burana_, apparently, written in a dead language. Late medieval Latin, according to the notes.

The conductor waved his musicians and the choir to silence, and Rel glanced over to where Sings-to-the-Sky was standing. The rachni seemed to be drinking it all in, almost quivering in place. Rel nudged Dara, and inclined his head to their right, directing her attention to the rachni. "I think he likes it," she whispered back. "Can you hear him?"

Rellus could. It was an awed sort of feeling, blue-green with happiness, but also a glistening overlay of white, but Sky was keeping his mental song very quiet, as if in deference to the music of others around him.

The conductor spoke, "We challenge fate and fortune, but sometimes, it seems that we can never win. We lose things—we lose people—we lose love." A shiver ran down Rel's spine. This was not the cheerful evening that Dara had originally promised him, but it seemed like the conductor had decided that something else was more necessary, more important, for the people of the valley. "Our next piece is Mozart's Requiem in D minor. Next year, this piece will be four hundred years old. It was the last piece ever written by humanity's most famous composer, and was left unfinished. Legend has it, the dying composer believed he was writing it for himself. It has offered great comfort to many people in times of sorrow, throughout the years."

The music started again, simply, quietly, and at a slower pace than the defiant, almost angry tone of the last piece. Dara's hand tightened on his, and when he leaned over, she whispered, "They played this at my mother's funeral."

At first, he didn't feel the power of it; then more instruments cut in over the top of the mournful, quiet initial tune, and then the voices began to thunder out once more, the high human females offering the hope of peace, silvery and beautiful, the low male voices promising wrath and anger. "_Dies irae_," the words on the screen read, identifying this section as representing the wrath of God.

Rellus was unsure why the fury of the spirits had to be invoked in a piece of music intended for a funeral, but he supposed it was similar to asking the spirits of the departed to return to their homes and families.

Sky, off to their right, was starting to move with the music a little, swaying as the complex harmonies swept over them, the sound still vibrating through the floor, the bones of everyone in the audience. Rellus saw a couple of elcor actually kneel down for a moment, unable to bear the raw emotion in the voices—they were a subtle species, after all, and so much explosive power could overwhelm them. Then the music went soft again, quiet, contemplative, slowly rising once again, in little steps, then soared, the high voices again offering hope, the low voices supporting them this time, and he could feel Dara's hand starting to tremble slightly.

He understood why; this section sounded as if the spirits of the wind and sky were speaking directly to him. It was. . . unearthly. Alien. Beautiful. And then all the voices combined together, singing a single, long word. . . and then silence. Every human in the room seemed to exhale at once, and he was surprised by how many of them seemed to be in tears. Natural, perhaps, given the emotional content of the music, and the recent tragedies—the _Normandy_, the cave, the recent attack on the base itself.

The conductor waited a moment for everyone to compose themselves, and then spoke again. "This would have been the last song we performed for the Christmas concert; I'm breaking with tradition, and offering it now, before we start the traditional carols—which we'll be inviting everyone to sing along to, of course. But for now, if everyone would please stand? It's traditional for this particular piece." He waited for everyone to shift about and do so, then added, "This piece will be four hundred and fifty years old next year, and was composed by a man named Handel. It's part of a much longer work, but we're giving you just the best part, right now. Because it's what's needed to remind us that loss is not forever, and that joy _will_ come again, as hard as it is to see when all is dark. Let's have a little light."

He gestured, once again, the raw power of the massed voices hit, this time in a much quicker tempo, high pitched, low pitched, radiating out together, apart, striking like rays, and Rel suddenly understood it—it _was_ light, the aural equivalent of watching the sun come up through clouds, shafts of golden light breaking through and shining down. It was a short piece, and when the final word was sung, every voice sang it at once. _Hallelujah._

Off to the side, Sky simply sagged to the ground for a moment, and then Rellus could hear the rachni's stunned voice in his mind, as quite a few other people around them probably could, as well. _They sing to the sky! They sing to the stars! Some sing for the joy of singing, some sing to sing with others, but some—some sing to the sky! We did not know others did so, too! And the songs of all in the room, singing with them, even singing within their silence!_

Through the crowd noise, Rellus' sharp ears could pick up Sam laughing, and ruefully commenting to Kasumi, "Don't look now, but I do believe we've finally figured out a way to get a rachni drunk."


	27. Chapter 27: Reconciliation

**Chapter 27:** **Reconciliations**

_**Author's note:**__ For those who are interested, the music I noted in the last chapter is linked in my profile now; I listened to each work as I was writing, and some people like the effect of reading and listening at the same time. I find it more like a movie that way, myself. Heck, I listen to the ME2 soundtrack while writing, simply because it's conducive to my writing state. :-)_

**Sam**

Weeks had passed, and the summer solstice was upon them. For Sam, it was still head-wrenching to be celebrating Christmas when it was starting to push 29º C/85º F in the valley, although it was still substantially cooler at the higher elevations of the base. He'd asked Dara if she wanted to do an indoor tree this year, and, somewhat to his relief, she'd shaken her head. "We can put up lights on one of the trees in the yard, maybe?" she'd offered.

Sam liked the notion. It retained a little tradition, but got him out of a lot of hassle. He would have had to figure out, first and foremost, if any pine trees actually _grew_ on Mindoir. Next, he'd have needed to ascertain if he was permitted to cut any of them down. And finally, it also removed the actual need for _decorating_ the damned thing, and he'd flat-out forgotten to have his family send _any_ decorations from Earth. All in all, it was a relief. . . and got them out of the vaguely silly need to decorate for mid-winter in the middle of summer. It wasn't as if they were the only humans in the galaxy with similar issues; hell, even celebrating Christmas in the southern hemisphere on Earth itself had its issues. But with over a dozen colony worlds on all different calendars now, there was something just a little _off_ about celebrating everything on the Terran timetable.

Work-wise, his schedule was light, for the moment, and he was taking the opportunity to make sure Dara was doing all right. The various psychologists on base had interviewed her several times now, and he could just about see her rolling her eyes every time they did. They were concerned; the year had been stressful for _anyone_, let alone a young girl who was now facing the first Christmas without her mother. "I know you think it's not worthwhile, kiddo," he told her after the second week, as they were putting up lights on a tree in their front yard, after all. "For some people, it's a help, though."

"I understand that, but if I want to talk about it, I'll talk about it. Forcing someone to relive stuff, over and over. . . it's kind of like picking at a scab, you know? I'd really rather _not_." The various shrinks were categorizing her response to them as hostile, but she wasn't showing any of that sort of behavior at home. He wasn't sure why, but he suspected that she was funneling the anger into other avenues, other channels. As an older person might, she was burying herself in schoolwork, in sparring, in everything that didn't involve thinking about the other problems.

Sam shrugged a little, at a loss. "As best I understand it, post-traumatic stress is reliving a stressful event, over and over again, whether you want to or not," he offered. "It's reflexive for the affected person, sweetie. Anything can trigger it. . . a related piece of music, the sound of gunfire. I had one guy in one of my old units. . . for him, it was the smell of gardenias. We'd been hiding in one of the settler's gardens in the Skyllian Verge, and we'd all been under the flowers for a couple of hours, waiting for batarian movement. When it happened, it happened fast. We lost a few civilians, and Zach. . . Zach took it really hard." He'd never talked to Dara about the Blitz before, and she'd turned to look at him, really listening now.

Encouraged, he went on. "Zach was young—had just enlisted, really. It was his first real firefight. It seemed like he got over it, but when he rotated home, he had trouble adjusting. His wife couldn't understand why he was so angry, even aggressive with her. Took the shrinks a year of counseling to put it together. When she wanted to look pretty for him, make him happy, cheer him up, you know what she'd wear? Gardenia perfume." Sam shook his head. "They were damn lucky. They caught it, and he worked through it, and they're both still okay, last I heard."

Dara just looked at him. "Dad, am _I_ angry or aggressive?"

"Not at home," he agreed. "The shrinks are saying you're hostile, though."

"Because, just like after Mom's funeral, they won't leave me _alone_. It's like they _want_ me to have a problem, and they're disappointed every time I _don't_." Dara sighed. "I talk to Rellus. Enough to know I'm sure he's _sick_ of hearing about it, because turians don't think like we do. He thinks I should be proud to be a blooded warrior so young." She tipped her head to the side, and he could see that she was looking for his reaction.

He tamped down his instinctive response, the desire to protect his little girl, and really thought about it. "It's okay to be human, too, Dara. Pass me the stapler, would you? I think this strand is going to need some more support." He was high up on a ladder, and didn't want to climb back down just for the tool.

She handed it to him, carefully. "I know I'm human, Dad." She put her hands on the ladder base again, steadying it. "I talk to Dr. Solus, too, you know." Her face tightened for a moment.

"About what?" Sam asked, clicking the stapler home into the bark of their small _allora_ tree. Dara had told him that they grew to the size of sequoia at higher elevations; this young one was the size of a mature maple, back home.

"I asked him if he ever saw blood on his hands." Her voice was very quiet.

He looked down at her, sharply. "And what did he say?"

"He said 'All the time.'" She picked up a fresh string of lights, coiled it, and handed it up to him. "He said he's done a lot of damage in his life, as well as a lot of good. But that the patients he couldn't save. . . he sees their blood—all different colors. He sees their faces. Always has, always will. He said that a good doctor still keeps trying to help anyway. To do it better the next time. To not make the same mistakes."

"Dr. Solus is a smart man." Sam looped the lights into place, and started stapling the next row in place.

"He's a salarian. I think it's required."

"He have any other advice, hon?"

"Same advice you always give me. If you fall off the horse, get back on it. If you're learning to fire a pistol, you'll automatically start to flinch in expectation of the sound, and you have to unlearn the habit. And in this case. . . that if I want to be a doctor, I should start coming to clinic hours Sunday mornings, at least to start with, and start a nursing internship, at least." She looked up at him, anxiously. "It'd be mostly learning to read charts and take temperatures at first, Dad. Can I?"

"Aren't you getting a little overscheduled?" The stapler slipped, and he swore under his breath. He'd put the damn thing right through the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. Gingerly, he started to pull at the staple that currently attached him to the damn tree.

"Not really. And once Rel leaves, I can start going both Saturdays and Sundays. Homework permitting," she added, then glanced up. "Dad, are you okay?"

He made his way down the ladder, trying not to let her see the blood. Hand wounds tended to bleed enthusiastically, even if they were minor. "I'm fine, sweetie. Not a problem."

She grabbed his wrist, and he instinctively pulled away, frowning, almost ready to yell at her. He'd been nursing his own wounds for years, and he didn't need his own daughter putting her nose in it. Dara surprised him, though. She just looked at it for a moment, face expressionless and a little pale, swallowed once, and said, fairly calmly, "I'll go get some iodine and some gauze. You're current on tetanus, right?" The last was called back over her shoulder as she headed toward the house.

On the one hand, he was glad she hadn't overreacted; in fact, she'd responded with a maturity that was surprising. On the other hand, he wasn't quite sure who she _was_, right now. _Where did my little girl go?_

Several hours later, as they lit up the tree for the first time, however, he saw the youngster in her again, as she grinned and clapped her hands in the purple shadows of twilight. "Oh, that looks awesome!" Dara told him, contented. "Using just white lights is just _perfect_, Dad! We've got to take a picture!"

The relative quiet on the work front was allowing Sam to take care of another issue—Kasumi. With the holidays coming up, the memories of his wife, which had been dulling down with time, came back with vigor. He knew that on some level, they had to be hurting Dara as well. But the pure fact that it didn't _feel_ like Christmas was an enormous help. And with all that said, the last thing he wanted to do was push Kasumi away. . . so, one Friday night, with Dara safely situated at Allardus' and Solanna's for homework, dinner, and sparring practice, he and Kasumi did finally go out to dinner.

He was never quite able to remember what exactly they ordered. He simply knew that he'd been able to reach across the table and take her hand in his for a good portion of the meal, that they'd talked and laughed the whole time, and that they'd somehow wound up back at her place afterwards.

He'd drifted off for a while, and awoke when Kasumi put something down on the nightstand beside him. A graybox—a different model from his wife's old one, he realized quickly. Sam turned over in bed, and just looked at Kasumi, who was sitting, cross-legged on the sheets, her white silk robe spilling around her. "It's Keji's," she told him, after a long moment of silence. "Anything you want to know about me, my past. . . you can find out by looking in there."

Sam cleared his throat, trying to think. It was difficult, when his body and mind were experiencing so much delicious lassitude, and he wondered, just for a moment, if that was the _point_ of her timing, to catch him so off-guard. If it was a test, he really hoped he managed to get the answer right. "Those would be very personal memories, Kasumi-chan," he told her, reaching out and sliding one finger along the silk of her sleeve. "I don't need to see them."

"You have a right to know who I am, who I was, what I've done. You're opening your life to me. I want to return that favor." Her voice was shaking a little. "I also. . . kind of wonder what Keji would think of you."

He wrapped his hand around hers now. "You want his approval?"

"A little, I guess." She looked down, the admission making her seem more vulnerable.

"I know who you are _now_, Kasumi-chan. And I like that person. Kind of a lot." He grinned at her, a little lopsidedly, to be sure. "If you hadn't noticed." Sam paused. "I don't have a burning desire to talk to the ghost of the last man you. . . well, the last man who was important to you. But if it means that much to you, I'll look." Sam hesitated, then offered, with some reluctance, "To be fair, you could look at Sarah's. . . "

Kasumi shook her head. "No. I can see her in you, and in Dara. I don't need to, Sam. And for you, it's been far too soon to share her with anyone else." She lifted her chin in the direction of the graybox. "Please? I need to feel that you can trust me."

"I do. Lord, woman, would I leave my daughter with you when I'm away if I _didn't_?" Sam sighed and sat up. This was really not how he'd pictured the rest of the evening going, but if it made her happy. . . .

"I've removed most of the encryption. You won't be able to access some of the information Keji stored in there, but the memories are all open for you." He could still hear her voice, but the bedroom had faded away, replaced by a dark simulation space. Sam was surprised. Keji hadn't spent any effort on making the construct feel like a memory or a home. But then, Sarah had _loved_ making a home. She'd been downright _nesty_ from the moment they'd gotten married. The fact that the ranch house had been in her family for so many years made it easy for her to have a sense of place, of roots, he supposed. Keji had apparently had no such impulses.

For the moment, Sam flicked through the memories randomly, skimming past the most intimate ones immediately. He didn't want any reminders of the fact that he did, essentially, share Kasumi with a ghost. _To be fair, she shares me with one, too, though._ The rest, however. . . what his cop-mind could only categorize as high-risk felony after high-risk felony gave way to espionage, trafficking in secrets and information. That wasn't all, however; there was a _feeling_ with it all. Not theft for monetary gain, though they had obviously lived comfortably. Theft, penetrating security, for the joy of it, for the knowledge of being _better_ than the opposition. For the thrill of the adrenaline rush, for the excitement of being pursued, and yet not caught.

"From being a cat-burglar to espionage," he said, after a moment. "It became a game, didn't it?"

"It did," Kasumi said, outside of the simulation. "We both played it _very_ well, of course. Then he stumbled onto some information that raised the stakes too high. He was killed for it."

The simulation ended, and he looked at her for a moment. Her eyes were liquid with tears, and then she blinked them away. "Shep keeps me safe from the people who want Keji's memories. And I play a _much_ different game now, Sam. The stakes are just as high, if not higher. It's still exciting." She waved at the walls around them, lined with books and paintings. "These were all nice. . . . But I keep score a different way, now. At the end of the day, if I've helped save lives, kept the base safe, kept a war from starting. . . it's a win."

"Bad guys have had a run of good luck lately." He pulled her down next to him, wrapped his arms around her. He'd told her the truth before; he didn't need to know who she'd been, to know who she was _now_. "But we're still ahead on the scoreboard." He kissed the back of her neck, and she made a pleased noise, which only led to other things. . . .

Some time later, Sam looked at the clock, and swore. "Damnit. It's 22:30 already. I'm late for picking up Dara." He reached for his clothes, and Kasumi sat up in bed next to him, watching.

"Sam, I think that if any young lady on the base understands the importance of _closed-door time_, it's Dara."

"Yeah, but I don't want her to think she's been forgotten, or isn't important." He pulled on his shirt, turned back to the bed, caught Kasumi's face in his hands, and kissed her, quickly. "And I don't want you to think those things, either. Hell."

"I think we both know." Kasumi grinned up at him. "Do you want me to come with you?"

"Not if you're wearing just that robe. You _trying_ to make me later?"

"It _is_ a thought."

"Down, woman. I'm forty years old, and only human." He kissed her again, and headed for the door. "Wait. I completely forgot to ask. You have plans for Christmas?"

"Shinto," she reminded him, grinning. "Not a plan in the world. But if you ask me nicely, I _could_ be persuaded to help you cook. Keep in mind, though, I'll probably do Japanese New Year dishes."

"That's just fine," he told her, grinning. "I think between the three of us, we can _probably_ figure out how _not_ to burn a ham."

"Don't forget something dextro. You'll undoubtedly have turian guests."

She let him out the door as he was still laughing under his breath. There was _nothing_ simple in his life anymore, but damn if he didn't enjoy the hell out of every minute of it.

**Dara**

Christmas Eve happened to fall on a Friday this year, which Dara had mixed feelings about; it wreaked havoc on the tight schedule with which she was trying to control her life, every piece of it doled out in bite-sized portions, this hour for school, that hour for her dad, that hour for the clinic, that hour for Rel.

They'd swapped sparring to Thursday night that week, to get around it, and Commander Shepard had actually come down for dinner with her husband, and taken part in the after-dinner practice. Dara had been all-too-aware of the fact that the woman was watching her spar with Rellus, and was, as usual, getting frustrated with the nine-inch reach advantage Rel had on her, when Shepard came over and spoke. "What your dad's been showing you is that you need to get in on him. It doesn't matter how long his arms are compared to yours if you're hitting him from two inches away. Get in, slam your hip into his, and use that lower center of gravity—not to mention the mass of your bone structure."

"I get all of that," Dara had said, wiping the sweat out of her face. It was still cool enough at night to spar outdoors in the atrium, but pretty soon, they were going to need to find an air conditioned space large enough for all of them Even Eli and Lantar were coming for the sparring sessions now, which meant that everyone had to take turns on the mats. "I just can't _get_ in on him to do any of that."

Rellus just grinned at her, which made her want to stick her tongue out at him, but she settled for a dirty look, instead. Shepard looked at her, smiling. "It's all in the footwork, Dara. Want me to show you something?"

"Sure!"

"Rel, attack me. Kick, punch, whatever you like." Shepard had stood there, relaxed, waiting. Not quite as short as Dara, of course; Shepard was easily five foot eleven, or 1.8 meters, but that still meant that Rel still had a five-inch reach advantage. _Then again, his uncle is what, a full two meters, which is 6'7", and __**they**__ spar all the time together_, Dara reminded herself, as Rellus came in for the requested attack. Shepard side-stepped the punch, and was suddenly in on Rellus, so fast, Dara couldn't even see what she'd done.

"Did you see it?"

Dara shook her head. "Okay, just watch my feet. When you go in on people, what you're doing is step, step, step, like this," Shepard showed her. Dara nodded; it certainly looked familiar. "Now, what I'm doing, to compensate for the fact that my legs just aren't as long as everyone else's, is step-slide. You lunge forward with the first foot, and then almost skip the second foot forward to join it. Don't drag it. It's a rhythm thing. Listen for it, if you can't see it. Here, let's give Rel the mat to work with, and we can work on this off to the side."

She'd been almost too dumbstruck to speak, but had practiced the new approach diligently. Shepard had broken away after a while, telling her, quietly, "The cowl makes a _great_ hand-grip, by the way. Easy to effect throws from there. Also, when they raise up onto just their toes, more or less their running position? It's easier to take their feet out from under them then. Their weight isn't as well-distributed, although the leg muscles definitely compensate for that a bit. Just things to keep in mind." And she'd even _winked._

Dara wasn't sure she was making _progress_, exactly, but at least she was having fun. Her dad had pointed out on the way home, "Don't be impatient, sweetheart. You're the equivalent of a white-belt, training with, let me see. . . me, Garrus, Allardus, Lantar, and occasionally Shepard. . . five people with blackbelts in multiple disciplines. Even Rel's been doing this since he was what, ten? So call him a junior blackbelt. And all the humans have had military-grade gene modifications. Of course _you're_ not going to see your own progress. Just work on making things _smooth_, as opposed to _fast_, and you'll do fine."

The morning of Christmas Eve, her father pulled packages out of hiding elsewhere in the house. There was no tree in the house to pile them under, so he settled for using the coffee table in the living room. Quite a lot of the celebrating was probably going to be done outside; tt was simply too _nice_ a day not to do so; not even a hint of a chance of rain. But the unwrapping would be a lot more comfortable indoors. Dara peeked at the presents with her names on them. "Trying to guess already?" her dad asked.

"None of them are big enough to be armor, so I guess that's not it." She'd meant it to sound funny, and somehow, it didn't come out quite right.

"You've got all sorts of time to worry about that when you're older," he reminded her. "Although, if we get a _third_ attack on the base or the station in the next year, I'm buying you a set, and I won't _care_ if you're done growing yet or not."

"Sorry, Dad." Dara raised her hands a little. "That was supposed to be a joke." She looked around. "What do I need to get started on for dinner?"

That had been a subject of some debate. Kasumi came over early, bringing with her a variety of _osechi_ dishes, including _datemaki_, _kurikinton_, and _kazunuko_, she'd packed them into very traditional black lacquer boxes, and her dad seemed absolutely delighted by all of them. Dara was less than intrigued by the kelp balls, but was looking forward to trying the _datemaki_, although she suspected that Kasumi's calling it a "sweet omelet" was probably going to be false advertising.

Dara's father wanted a fairly traditional glazed ham, so that got started cooking in the oven early, and for their turian friends, they finally had decided to try to make something as close to spaghetti and meatballs as they could get. Ground _talashae_ and _apaterae_ meat had been the easy part. Dara wound up spending an hour trying to figure out if chicken eggs could be used as a binder, and if they were on the "highly allergenic" list or not, and finally gave up, using powdered _olorae_ eggs from Palaven, reconstituted with water, instead. "I've lived on reconstituted scrambled eggs for many a year," her dad told her, chuckling. "They probably won't notice that it wasn't fresh, mixed in with everything else."

Then, of course, there'd been the sauce. Tomatoes were on the "mildly allergenic" list, but then there was the whole issue of figuring out if oregano, basil, garlic, and onion were, or weren't, or what their closest taste and smell counterparts were among native Palaven herbs. . . and on, and on, and on. The pasta itself obviously couldn't be long, skinny spaghetti, without turning into, as her dad put it, "dinner _and_ a show" as the turians' mouth configuration would struggle with the shape of the pasta. After a ten-minute discussion, they decided to use pasta shells; at least semolina flour, the basis of most pasta, wasn't on the "dangerously toxic" section of the list. And if worst came to worst, they had _panis_, flat, pita-like turian bread, which could be filled with the meatball mixture for a very sloppy sandwich.

Rellus and his entire family came on base by early afternoon; her father had invited the whole clan, which meant that the little house was already very full by the time the various Spectres that he worked with started showing up, as well.

Rel looked over her shoulder as she stirred the simmering pot of meatballs and said, quietly, "Well. . . it doesn't smell _bad_."

Dara turned around and gave him a look of quiet desperation. "I know. It's going to be horrible. I'm so sorry."

"How about if I taste it, and tell you what it needs?"

"Have you already taken an epi-tab?" Her voice went up a little in pitch.

He started to laugh. "You're _that_ worried?" Rel put his hands on her waist, something she'd noticed he really seemed to like doing. He always had an expression when he did it, as if he couldn't _quite_ believe she was letting him do so. Then he leaned in close. "Yeah, I took one before we came over. Just in case." He added even more quietly, "I had a few things in mind for closed-door time."

"Oh!" Dara coughed a little, then whispered back, "So did I." She peeked up at him, caught the grin, and then added, ". . . Assuming no one opens the door early." A little louder, she added, feeling flustered, "I've felt like a mad scientist since we started cooking it at twelve. Two more spices, and I think it _may_ achieve sapience." Over Rel's shoulder, across the room, she could see Cohort's head turn towards her, quizzically, and flapped a hand at the geth. "That was a joke. Sheesh. Everyone is taking everything I say today so seriously."

Rel reached around her, where she stood between the stove and him, and snagged a spoon, tasting the concoction. After a moment, he told her, judiciously, "_Mellis, _you've got nothing to worry about."

Dara started to relax. Then he added, "Of course, you also have to remember, we have a _much_ less refined sense of taste than you omnivores do . . . ." At which point, she smacked him in the ribs, lightly, and he pulled her out of the room, laughing.

By 15:00, the place was a madhouse; Polina and Quintus and Amara and Kaius were all running around excitedly, very much underfoot, squealing and giggling, running indoors and outdoors, more or less at a whim, since there were adults both in and out of the house to keep an eye on them; Caelia was pulling herself up on various pieces of furniture and trying to walk around them, tumbling to the ground usually after a step or two; Sky had positioned himself near the piano, and seemed to be listening to the mental energies of everyone around him, as if listening to the tootles of an orchestra warming up.

Commander Shepard called across the living room, "Jaworski, that is the saddest-looking mistletoe I've ever seen. What did you do, paint plastic holly berries white?" She pointed above the doorway that led into the kitchen.

"Well, yeah. You ever tried _finding_ mistletoe on Mindoir?"

"It's a _parasite_, Sam. It's on the interdicted list for a reason."

"That's what I'm saying. If you want mistletoe, you damn well have to _improvise_ around here." Her dad grinned at the commander.

Rellus poked her in the ribs. "What's the significance of the plant?"

Just then, Kasumi stepped out of the kitchen, and looked up. The she folded her arms across her chest, and pretended to tap her foot, impatiently. "Watch," Dara told Rellus, grinning, as her dad moved across the room and gave Kasumi a kiss, in front of everyone. It gave Dara's heart a little twinge, but for the most part, she simply saw how _happy_ Kasumi looked, and how happy her dad looked, too, and she smiled at them. She'd never known, before viewing her father's memories in the simulation, that he'd almost married someone else, before he'd married her mother. She hadn't quite dared ask him about it since then, but it had reinforced her perception of two months before; that parents all had been _people_ before becoming parents. And somehow, that all combined to make it _all right._

"Wait," Rellus said, and she turned. "If someone stands under the plant, they can. . . bite?" His expression turned quizzical. "A _plant?_"

She could feel her cheeks turning pink. "Well, _kissing_ is more traditional, but I'd imagine biting would be allowed. . . ." Then he caught her wrists, and, chuckling, propelled her for the kitchen, muttering something about how they really _should_ check to see how everything was cooking. . . and then stopped her right under the mistletoe, leaning down to allow her to kiss him, in the human fashion, right on the lip-plates, which got laughter from all around the room, and made her turn even pinker before she fled into the kitchen for cover anyway.

As it turned out, quite a few couples mysteriously got caught under the not-quite-mistletoe that afternoon, the tradition giving a welcome reprieve from conventional public stoicism.

After a while, Dara noticed that Eli was sitting more or less by himself, quietly, watching everything, and went over to talk to him for a few minutes. "Are you doing okay?" she asked, feeling awkward. They'd grown apart very quickly in the past few months, but when they'd arrived here, he'd been her only friend. And she had a feeling he'd never forgive her for not saving Kella.

"I'm fine," he said, looking up. "You don't have to worry, Dara, I'm not bored. Lots of people to talk to."

_And yet, you're sitting here, in a corner, not talking to any of them. _She hesitated, feeling as if she should say something more. Make him feel more welcome. But what _could_ she say? "There are lots of people I wish were here," she finally said, slowly. "But I'm glad you and your family were able to come."

Eli nodded, and managed a smile. "It's good to enjoy what we have, while we have it. She taught me that, you know?"

Dara nodded, slowly, having no earthly idea of what to say. So she went with silence. Sometimes, it was enough just to sit with someone, quietly, and be there for them, rather than just mindlessly talking. That's what friends did, as opposed to people paid by the hour to listen.

After a while, Eli commented, "In the first simulation, most of the futures I saw, were with _her_, you know that? They were all. . . eventual. _Very_ eventual. I didn't really understand why, at first, till I did the math, and realized I was going to be too old for her for a long time, and she said I'd be bored with her. Then we'd be have been comparable again, I guess. . . and then . . . she'd have been bored with me. I wish knowing that made it hurt less."

Dara frowned. It reinforced what he dad kept saying, that the simulation couldn't really be trusted, that it excluded variables about which the user did not know. But that was _her _concern, not Eli's. For a long moment, she was silent, and then she said, quietly, "Eli. . . just from. . . you know, my mom? I can tell you that it never really hurts less. But it starts not hurting _all the time_. Does that help?"

Eli looked up, meeting her eyes for the first time, really. "Yeah. A little. I remember how it went when my dad died. This . . . feels different. Not as bad in some ways. Worse in others."

Finally, it was time to eat dinner, and no one had to resort to epi-tabs, which was an extra added bonus. There weren't even any complaints about the food, even from the youngest guests. Then it was time to exchange gifts. Not all the turians had presents for one another; it wasn't their tradition. But for those with human mates, a few gifts did seem to be in order.

Dara had tentatively, and with quite a bit of trepidation, approached Rellus' mother two weeks ago to ask what an appropriate gift for him would be. Allardus was scary, in his way; sober and silent, with piercing eyes, but at least he was familiar from the sparring practice, and he was friendly, too, in his quiet way. She sensed approval from him. Not so from Solanna, which made her scary in an entirely different fashion. Solanna had surprised her that day, and had, with a few degrees more warmth, made some suggestions. It gave her a few inklings of how to deal with Rel's mom in the future, anyway.

As such, she had two gifts for Rellus, and he had two for her, much to her surprise. She opened the first, and Rel took the item inside out—a wrist sheath, which she could buckle to the underside of her omnitool. "No knife yet, of course," he murmured in her ear, helping her put it on. "But this should help with the turians at school, especially after—"

"I know," she said quietly, their voices lost in the hubbub, the younger children squealing as they unwrapped their gifts, the adults laughing and taking pictures, or just conversing and enjoying each others' company. She didn't want hear the all-too-common phrase _after I leave_. Not today. "Your mom told me I should get you the same thing, to mark you as plighted at boot camp." She pointed at the partially unwrapped gift in his own lap.

Rellus was delighted with that gift, as well as the multitool she'd gotten him. A human multitool was actually fairly sought-after in the turian service, holding more small gadgets and implements than turians commonly carried in their own equipment, and the model she'd gotten was adapted to his larger fingers. It was as close to a knife as she could give him for the moment, too.

He'd gotten her sheet music as his second gift, a dozen different turian and quarian compositions, scored in human notation. She knew it had probably been annoyingly hard to find, and gave him a hug for it.

Her father gave her a copy of _Gray's Anatomy_, updated, extended, and revised for various non-human species; Kasumi, much to Rel's surprise, gave him a chess set. Her father gave Kasumi three small jade statues, each wrapped in rice paper; each one was a cat—pouncing, prowling, and sleeping. Dara thought they were beautiful, and from the look on Kasumi's face, she knew that the little woman thought so, too.

The younger children started getting cranky, insisting that they weren't tired; and were packed off to bed, regardless. Everyone else retreated indoors, for the time being, and Dara played for them all, enjoying Sky's mental smiles, as always.

Eventually, more and more people began to filter out. Dara's dad started cleaning up in the kitchen; for the moment, the only people in the living room were Kasumi, Commander Shepard, Garrus, Lantar, Rellus, and Sky. Conversation began to shift, as it almost always seemed to, to Spectre work, although for the moment, it was light-hearted.

"I'm just saying, Garrus," Shepard told her husband, "if we wanted to try for a second pregnancy before Mordin's. . .well, no longer available to oversee it. . . this would be a good time. With Lantar and Sam on hand, you don't actually _need_ me in the field as much." She grinned. "Archangel, Nemesis. . . and Jaworski."

Garrus chuckled. "Okay, we _do_ need to give him a better squad name. His last name just breaks up the flow on that one."

"Orpheus," Kasumi suggested, immediately.

_Sings-to-the-Past does not look backwards as much now,_ Sky put in, turning to look at Kasumi.

Shepard shrugged a little. "I like it. Stands out on a radio, easy to say, has some of the same classical feel as the rest of the squad, so it fits. Trouble is, Orpheus was the greatest singer in Greek mythology, able to make _stones_ weep. Doesn't sound like a good fit. Sam doesn't sing."

Dara looked up sharply. _Wow. They really don't know my dad that well yet, do they? _She broke off what she was playing—sort of stumbling and bumbling her way through her new quarian and turian sheet music from Rel—and rummaged around for a different score. She hesitated for a moment before starting to play. This one, she'd played before. Not just for her mother, but for both of her parents, and she wasn't sure if she _should_ be doing this. Very quietly, she started to sing the words under her breath along, accompanying herself, "No more talk of darkness, let me be your light. . . I'm here, nothing can harm you. . . . "

By the second verse, she could hear her dad, out of habit, maybe, chiming in from the kitchen. He sang baritone, and he wasn't trained or anything like that, but he'd _always_ had the habit of singing along to whatever he heard, if he liked it. Sometimes he'd make up silly new lyrics to whatever he heard, too. But never for this song. "Let me be your freedom, let daylight dry your tears, I'm here, with you, beside you, to guard you and to guide you. . . "

Dara stole a quick look at the expressions on everyone's faces. It was clear that Kasumi recognized the song; the little woman was sitting up, mouthing the words along with the music, clearly moved. The turians in the room didn't know the words, but looked interested. The lyrics spoke to the primal desire to protect one's mate, after all, something inherent to both species, although the human version of the words was a bit gentler than the turian version probably would have been. Dara tried not to laugh as she rearranged the words in her head, as a turian might have sung them, _Let me slay your enemies, take my knife for yours, _perhaps?

Shepard and Garrus had taken one another's hands as she played on. "Let me be your shelter, let me be your light. . ." She played the female lines, leaving them unsung, although she could hear Kasumi whispering them softly, and moved into the middle of the song—_Then say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime, let me lead you from your solitude_—and that's when her father walked around the corner from the kitchen, drying his hands off. "You haven't played that one in a while, sweetie," he told her. She could see in his eyes that the song made him think of her mother, but at the same time, that it didn't hurt him as much as she'd been afraid the song would.

Sky whispered, _Sings-to-the-Past sings very well, and with all his heart._

Her dad winced a little. "Don't noise it around, Sky. They'll revoke my man card if too many people find out about that."

Lantar told him, dryly, "Sam, you know fifteen ways to kill a fellow human with your bare hands. I think your masculinity is unchallengeable."

Her dad grinned. "Yeah, but it's something you have to protect at all times. A little like territory, know what I mean?"

Lantar, Garrus, and Rellus started to chuckle. Her dad turned to Dara. "You want to break out the 2180 vid of the whole show for everyone?"

Dara looked at him, and grinned, beginning half of the old complaint. "You mean, the one where they have a white horse in the _sewers_ under Paris, waiting there patiently for them to show up and ride through the muck?"

"Yeah, I know, a white horse that should be brown to its hocks by that point."

"Don't forget the romantic _gondola_ ride through those same sewers," Kasumi put in, and her dad went to the little woman, and he leaned down to whisper something in her ear, that made her laugh, smile, and say, "Oh, really?"

They did actually break out the vid, and while Sky didn't like recorded music, it was clear that the rachni enjoyed listening to _them_ listen to the music of the night. _Love-song, sorrow-song, and loss; purples and grays and blacks, and their release. Not in reality, but in pretense, but the pretense becomes almost real for you. And this reinforces existing pair-bonds, makes you cherish them more,_ he said, close to the end. _It is another kind of game, is it not?_

It was getting late, and her dad had made it clear that she wasn't going to be attending the bonfire this year—too late, and too much drinking by the other attendees, were his thoughts on the matter. Dara didn't mind too much; she and Rellus went upstairs to her room for closed-door time instead. Her dad held up an egg-timer as they headed for the stairs, an unspoken reminder, but much to her surprise, he set it for twenty minutes, saying only, "Merry Christmas."

As the door closed behind them, Dara grinned at Rellus impishly, and pushed _him_ against the wall for a change, which made him laugh almost uncontrollably. "Have mercy," he pretended to beg, grinning down at her.

"Oh, no, no. No mercy." She hooked a foot behind his ankle, right at the spur, and kicked her leg back, pulling him down a little, more or less to her eye-level. And he _let_ her, still chuckling. Then she put her arms around him, whispered, "Merry Christmas, Rel. _Adamare talu._" and nipped his throat, which made him stop laughing.

"_Adamare elii,_"Rellus told her, solemnly, and she knew that if he said it, it was true.

**Sam**

As the last guests were leaving, Kasumi appeared beside Sam. "That's all you ask of me?" she asked, after a moment, playfully repeating the words he'd whispered to her earlier.

Sam gave her a sidelong look. "Each night, each morning? Sure. If you like, you can start tonight."

Kasumi pursed her lips, pretending to think it over. "I don't know, Sam, that's awfully short notice. I may have to check with my VI assistant, see what my schedule is like. . . "

He caught her wrist, and pulled her to him, chuckling. She reached up and put a hand to his face, eyes going serious for a moment. "Sam, are you sure you want Dara to wake up with me in the house?"

"I'll tell her Santa put you in my stocking this year, how about that?"

She laughed, a soft ripple of sound. "Seriously, though?"

Jaoworski stopped smiling for a moment, and told her, quite seriously, "Yes. I think she'll be able to handle the fact that her old man is very seriously taken with you."

Kasumi's smile spread like daybreak.

**Shepard**

Several days after Christmas, Shepard sat at her terminal, reading her messages, and started muttering under her breath, going through a full list of Latin vulgarities. "Garrus," she called, when she'd exhausted body parts and excretory functions, "you're not going to believe this."

He came around the corner into the office, looking inquiring. "Read this," she said, moving away from the terminal so he could look at the message for himself.

"The Systems Alliance and the Turian Hierarchy are holding a major summit on Shanxi?" He leaned down further, scrolling through the message. "They're using the site of the First Contact War as a meeting place to formalize the economic alliance, in addition to the military one. This sounds all nicely symbolic. . ." he scrolled down further, and then just stopped. "Oh, spirits."

"Yeah. They want us there. Me, they want as a keynote speaker, for god's sake. On the subject of reconciliation and unity. With the kids." She grimaced. "Can you say 'photo-op'?"

"I notice that we're going to be seated in the Imperial section. That's a very great honor. Also means that we'd be sharing the Imperator's security, which is a help, given all the AEC calls for a 'lone gunman.'" He glanced at her, no doubt seeing her reluctance. "We can't _not_ go."

"I know. . . I know." Shepard rubbed her eyes, tiredly. "Tell you what. We go there, we get this done, and then we head _straight_ from there to wherever we were planning on going on vacation."

"Macedyn, was the last I'd heard." Garrus frowned. "You think we can stay away from the base safely for a couple of weeks?"

"Everything's quiet, rebuilding is on schedule, and we'll keep the _Normandy_ with us. We'll only be a day or two out from any hotspots that develop." She rubbed at her eyes again. "Kasumi will want to make sure we've got our own security in place, not just the Imperator's, and whatever the Alliance will allocate for us."

"You think we should bring anyone with us, in particular?"

_Well, if they want symbols of unity, we can __**give**__ them symbols of unity. . . . _"Oh, I have ideas," Lilu told her husband, starting to smile.

"I know that look," he said, chuckling. "What do you have in mind?"

"I'm just saying, if the Alliance and the Hierarchy want a photo-op, we should _oblige_ them." Her grin had a hard edge to it now. "Lantar, Ellie, Eli, and Caelia. Another mixed family, to sit next to ours. If they're willing to let themselves be seen on the extranet, that is. They _have_ been targeted before."

"Yeah, but that was on Bastion. Lantar knows his family's as safe here was we can make them; more so, now that we've taken out the bulk of Lina Vasir's organization." Garrus studied the problem for a moment. "Yeah. He'll probably go for it. He'll like the idea of pulling the teeth of the people who threatened his family. Having a human son by adoption there would be a nice thing for people to see, too. Shows that it's about _all_ kinds of family and acceptance." He glanced at his wife. "Think Jaworski would let his daughter and Rellus come along for the ride, too?"

Shepard grimaced. "I'm betting he'll have _my_ gut reaction, which is to say 'keep the damn cameras away from my kids.' That being said, he's got to know that at some point, they're going to be in the public eye when they leave Mindoir. Same as our kids."

"He might still be hoping it'll all fall apart before then. They are still young."

Shepard shrugged a little. "This sort of thing might be a good test for them, then. If it's put that way, Sam might agree. . . if he were there, too. And I wouldn't consider taking them without at least one parent along for the ride." She paused. "I'm sure it would be _educational_ for the young people. Historic location, and all that." _Pity Dara won't already be wearing clan paint, but the turians watching will know what the knife sheathes mean_, Shepard thought. _Maybe even better, since it shows how these things develop over time. _She didn't like thinking this way, using people as symbols, but it was, unfortunately, one of the levels on which the game was played.

"We're going to scare the spirits right out of some people, you know." Garrus chuckled, putting his hands on her shoulders. "Especially the ones who think that we turians are just trying to breed you poor humans out of existence."

"Yeah, twenty billion humans, twelve billion of them on Earth alone. Fifty known human-turian hybrid children. The one thing humans do _very_ well is breed. I _think_ humanity is safe, for the time being." Shepard rolled her eyes, then looked up at him and smiled. "So, speaking of breeding, you thought any more about trying again?"

Garrus hesitated. "You'll have a hell of a time chasing after the twins if you're confined to bedrest again."

She grimaced. "Yeah, I know. It's one of the things that's making me hesitate. Mordin says they've found better anti-rejection medications, though, ones that don't increase the blood pressure as much. Less risky, in his opinion."

"We'll talk about it more. I don't want to say _no_ just because the whole process was so bad last time," he said, quietly, "or just because keeping Amara and Kaius alive and healthy was so damn hard in the first year or so, either. But. . . ."

"I know." Shepard smiled up at her husband. "I'm not trying to replace my lost family, you know. We'll talk more later. Now, we've got Lantar and Jaworski to talk to."

Lantar was surprisingly easy to persuade, for more or less the reasons Garrus had commented on; he _liked_ the idea of offering a very rude gesture towards the people who'd threatened his family, and didn't mind being used as a symbol. "Your spirit is my spirit now," he told them, calmly. "Of course I will bring my family. Ellie will need some persuading, I think, but I _also_ think a change of scenery will do Elijah some good."

Jaworski was a little harder to persuade. "I'm not too keen on the idea," he admitted. "On the one hand, it'll be a nice splash of reality for them. Here on Mindoir, it's a very safe environment for them. None of the adults really show the prototypical bigot reaction. Some of the kids do—and Dara doesn't think I know about it. All I have to do is watch her face when she's reading her messages." He snorted. "On the other hand, I'm not sure I want her subjected to a galaxy's worth of hate mail."

"We wouldn't distribute the kids' names," Shepard assured him.

Jaworski shrugged, rolling his big shoulders. "Won't matter. Kids and teachers from back home will recognize her, and it'll get out in short order."

Garrus offered, "We can also give her a new account, for personal use, and stick a filter on her existing account, same as the ones on several of the Spectres' around here, so we can look for the real crazies." His grin was humorless. "There's a human expression, about lemons and lemonade that Lilu likes to use in these circumstances. We're _very_ used to making lemonade around here."

Sam frowned a moment longer. "I'll let her make the decision," he said, at last. "But before I do, at least explain to me why you think it's important that she and Rellus be there. You've already got you two, your kids, Lantar, Ellie, Elijah, and Caelia. Why my girl?"

Shepard took a deep breath, and had to admit, it was a very fair, and a very good question. "In a symbolic sense, it's useful, because neither of them is a Spectre," she said, quietly. "They're just two kids, growing up in the same time, in the same place, and as young people do, they tend to notice when they have things in common, and develop mutual likings. It makes it normal. Everyday. Commonplace. The boy or the girl next door. It's not. . . threatening." She paused for a moment, watching Jaworski think that over. "On the other hand, I've gotten psych reports on both of them. I don't think you've gotten a chance to read Dara's. . . the psychiatrists just talk to you about her, right?"

"Yeah. Dara does _not_ like talking to them."

"I never did, either." Shepard made a face. "Okay, you did at least read their debrief on the batarians that attacked them, right? Taking your feelings as a father out of it, how did Rel do?"

Sam paused. "He took command," he replied, after a minute. "Dealt with the situation, one piece at a time, protected the non-combatants, kept Eli calm, kept Dara focused, and killed the damn batarians. Probably should have paid better attention to his physical condition. As is, he's damned lucky Dara was taking that first aid course and everything was fresh in her mind. Lots of leadership potential." He grimaced. "And for the love of god, don't quote me on that."

Garrus chuckled. "Right. I agree with all of that, but I've also read his psych evaluation. He's _unusually_ calm for a turian, most of the time, Sam. Reacts very well to stress, as you've already said, goes into all the right impulses for one of us—he _uses_ the fear-anger, uses the protective-anger. It's damned good, for his age. He's been worried for the past year that he's going to wash out of boot camp, and has been putting himself through a training program that's far more intense than he'd get on Palaven to prepare."

"Stable personality, good reactions, able to make the right decisions and keep a lot of different needs in mind in a complex situation, intensive training. Sounds like special forces to me." Shepard could see that Sam had meant that as a joke, but then he paused, frowned, and added, "Ah, _hell_."

"Don't want your little girl marrying a turian version of you, Sam?" Shepard chuckled a little.

"Shit no, I do _not_. I know what I put Sarah through for the first five years or so. Never knowing where I was, or when I'd call, or even _if_ I'd call." Sam rubbed his face. "Okay, so what's Dara's profile say?"

"Shrinks had a hell of a time with her, until I handed them my old evaluations to compare," Shepard told him. "Back in the day, Alliance psychiatrists thought I was heading straight towards sociopathy. Loss of my entire family, my entire colony. First kill at a young age, no actual _feeling _about the act of killing, no post-traumatic stress, you name it. Dara hasn't had _quite_ the same situations presented to her, but her reactions are similar in some ways. She's directionalizing it differently; she's putting her energies into the whole medicine thing, but still focusing on self-protection, defense of others. That's some of _you_ in there, Sam. Rel's helping with that, though, too. Turians don't see any reason for shame for killing in battle." Shepard's smile was a little sad. "On the whole, she's probably doing better than I was. I just learned how to kill. And I got very damned good at it."

"So what you're saying is. . . . ?"

"That she has potential. But you knew that already, Sam."

Garrus spoke up again. "There is a _very_ good chance that Rel will be one of the recruits selected this year for Officer's Candidate School and turian special forces, which in turn will pre-qualify him for Spectre training. It's a long process for us, and he'd be one in a thousand recruits. But I've already gotten his parents to promise not to stand in his way, the way my father stood in mine."

"You're pre-testing him, then?" Sam exhaled.

"Them, really. Seeing how they can handle media scrutiny, even if it's at a bit of a distance." Shepard had certain strong suspicions about Dara's career path; her profile sure as hell _looked_ like military as well, and special forces _always_ needed medics. All the better if the medics didn't have a problem at _all_ with protecting themselves or their patients with a gun or a knife. But there was many a slip between the cup and the lip, and Sam didn't need to worry about that, at the moment, anyway.

**Rellus**

In the usual way of calendars and different planets, Chinese New Year on Earth wouldn't fall until mid-February this year; however, on Shanxi, New Year festivities were in full swing on January 1, 2191; a full week of lucky red envelopes filled with money and dragon figures dancing in the streets and fireworks. It was cold, too; snow kept falling from a gun-metal gray sky, which made the turians more than a little uncomfortable.

Rellus was simply excited to be here. The world simply _bustled_ with humans; Dara explained to him, quietly, that it was something of a population release valve for one of Earth's largest nations. "Even though it's not really mathematically feasible to move half a billion people here, that hasn't really stopped immigration shuttles. My dad says they've been running daily for forty years, with only, er, one break, and there's really no end in sight."

The _break_, of course, would have been for the First Contact War of 2157. Neither of them had been born yet when that had happened, of course. They followed everyone else along, not quite holding hands—it was a little public for that-but definitely side-by-side as often as they could, taking the tour of the major battle sites. His mother was along for the trip, as were Sam and Kasumi; Lantar's entire family, and, of course, Uncle Garrus, Aunt Lilu, and the twins.

Rellus knew that they were here, officially, for a speech in honor of a big economic agreement between the Hierachy and the Alliance. He wasn't _as_ clear on why he and Dara were along for the ride, but they'd been told it was a _great_ educational opportunity . . . and that they'd need to write a report on it when they got home, for school. Thus, they were tending to aim a bit more for information on the battles as they moved from area to area. But Rel couldn't help but notice that there were a _lot_ of reporters following their group around. _I guess this is just what it's like for Uncle Garrus and Aunt Lilu, then_, he thought, and tried to push away the vague sense of unease he had, as if a battle were impending.

"This is the old garrison," their tour guide, a woman even smaller than Kasumi, with long, dark hair, announced, gesturing to the building behind them. It was made of red brick, and looked oddly primitive, Rel thought. As if the humans who'd built it had been aiming more for _inexpensive_ and _functional_ rather than to impress others with their technological might. "This is the very site on which General Williams surrendered to the turians in 2157, after several weeks of orbital bombardment. Every other building in the vicinity was destroyed at the time. Inside the garrison, there are vids showing the devastation. "

Dara winced. Rellus shrugged a little. "It's a standard battle tactic, _mellis_."

"I know." She asked, a little louder, "Well, why didn't the humans attack the cruisers in orbit, then?"

"The colony didn't have defense towers, and didn't have enough ships to do so," the tour guide replied, looking a little confused. "It was thought at the time that humanity was the only sapient species in the galaxy, so defense towers and extra ships were deemed unnecessary. When the attack came, the population of Shanxi was so large, and so spread out, that it proved . . . difficult. . . to defend them."

"Well, that was pretty dumb," Dara muttered under her breath, taking notes on her omnitool.

Rellus tended to agree. "It's really unfortunate that so many died, but if they weren't able to respond by counter-attacking in orbit, they should have surrendered much earlier."

Sam turned and looked at him, eyebrows raised. "You don't find anything admirable about the marine fire teams on the ground, fighting a guerilla war against an occupying force?"

Rellus shrugged. "Of course I do. Fighting a last stand is always admirable, but in this case, it was also pretty _stupid_. They brought down the attacks on the civilian population that they were _supposed _to be protecting." _That_, he thought, was the most damning thing he could say.

"And what would you have done, instead?" Dara's father liked questions like that. And it always sounded as if he were testing, in some way.

Rellus thought about it. "Two options. The humans knew that their Alliance military would be there soon. Could have hunkered down and waited until human ships were in the system, and _then_ risen up, simultaneous attack. Or, if that wasn't an option, they could have waited until the turians were on the ground, and then tried to steal the drop ships and shuttles and taken the fight to orbit that way." He shrugged. "Fighting on the ground with _guns_ while someone is in orbit and can drop _asteroids_ on you is just not smart."

Sam nodded. "Which is why General Williams eventually surrendered. He's been vilified ever since in human history books. First and only human commander to surrender to an alien force."

Dara frowned. "That hardly seems fair."

"Sounds like the two of you have a theme for that paper you're supposed to be writing, then. Command decisions, and why it's easy to second-guess them."

Rel grinned. "Sounds like a better topic than what the teachers suggested."

His mother frowned. "And what _did_ they require the topic to be, Rellus? You shouldn't deviate from the requirements too far."

"It was a suggestion, not a requirement," Dara replied, quickly. "It was something to the effect of 'analyze your own emotional and cultural reactions to the battles of Shanxi.'" She looked around, and lifted her hands in the air. "Which is kind of hard, because I don't think I have any. This is like. . . Dad, you remember taking us to see the battlefields of the American Civil War, two years ago? I didn't really feel much of anything then, either."

"Sweetie, to be fair, the Civil War ended _three hundred_ _years_ ago," Sam reminded her.

"Yeah, but all the old battlefields are still there. Untouched. Like ghosts," she told him. "This is just a building in the middle of a big city. If we weren't here, touring, with all the guards around us, people would just be walking past it, on their way to lunch or something, wouldn't they?"

Sam chuckled a little. "A lack of a reaction is just as valid a reaction as anything else," he told her, ruffling her hair. "I'd put it in your report."

Dara turned, looked at Rel, and shrugged, and he spread his fingers, as if to say, _don't look at me, I don't get it, either._

Kasumi commented, off to the side, where she was walking, one hand tucked through Sam's elbow, "I've been to the memorials at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. About _my_ only reaction was. . . wow, nice gardens."

The names meant nothing to Rellus. "Are those places on Earth?"

"First sites at which weaponized atomics had been deployed on living populations, yeah," Sam said. "Back in the mid-twentieth, so two hundred and fifty years ago, give or take." He looked down at Kasumi. "Deployed by the people of my country on Kasumi's, actually." Sam coughed a bit, then looked over at Rellus and Dara, as they walked, side-by-side as well.

Kasumi just smiled. "See? Sometimes, people work these things out. Sometimes it takes twenty years, sometimes it takes two hundred."

"And sometimes, they just wind up cracking each other over the head, generation after generation," Sam countered.

"Yes, but today is for the optimists, Sam." Kasumi grinned up at him.

Getting to sit in the Imperial section for the speeches, later that afternoon, no matter that they were at the very back, was a _very_ big honor. Everyone in the box was given personal shields to wear, which was something of a dubious distinction, Rellus thought. They all had to dress well for the privilege of sharing the Imperator's box, too. Additionally, it was an outdoor venue, and snow continued to drift down, a little at a time, never quite committing to enough to blanket the ground, only enough to make on-lookers feel that much colder.

Dara only owned so many dresses, unfortunately, and was shivering in the cold in the yellow dress that matched his clan colors so well. He pulled her as close to him as decorum allowed, letting his body heat warm her, although he almost wished he could shiver, himself. Instead, he was _hungry_, as his body started metabolizing rapidly to stoke his internal furnace.

They had to rise, of course, as the Imperator entered, and _Die for the Cause_ played. Dara's eyes went wide, and he knew why; the Imperator, of course, was a bare-faced turian. No clan or colony markings. The dazzle of the Imperator's outfit was also quite marked; turian civilian clothing tended towards the eye-catching, in terms of colors, and the Imperial regalia was both a uniform, indicating that the Imperator was the commander-in-chief of the army, and also almost blindingly gaudy, showing personal wealth and power. The fabric was a mix of purples, golds, and reds, and had a dazzle of gems studded along every hem.

Then they were able to sit again, and Councilor Anderson and the turian representative to the Council, Aulus Odoacen, made long speeches, describing the economic impact of the new layer of alliance between their two people, stressing how far they had all come in the past thirty-three years, since the unfortunate misunderstanding of the Relay 314 Incident, or, as the humans called it, the First Contact War.

Then they introduced Commander Shepard to begin an address on reconciliation and unity, and Rellus realized that there were vid screens all over the place in the large, open-air concert facility, and that most of them were streaming vid feeds from different human and turian worlds. One of them, however, was trained on the Imperial box, right here on Shanxi, and kept moving through the crowd there. Councilor Anderson, Councilor Odacen, sure, that made sense. Garrus, Kaius, and Amara. That made sense, too. Lantar, Elli, Caelia, and Elijah in his adoptive father's clanpaint—the camera seemed to linger there for a minute or two. Then, to his surprise, the camera panned to them—Sam, Kasumi, Dara on the left, then himself and his mother, Solanna, on the right. His fingers tightened on Dara's, and he turned to whisper, "Well, that was unexpected."

"Dad warned me something like this would probably happen." Her teeth were chattering a little. "I told him I didn't care. I still don't. All I care about right now is getting inside where it's _warm_. And then back to _home_, where it won't snow for _months_."

Rellus chuckled and abandoned decorum enough to wrap an arm around her shoulders, for the warmth. His mother hissed at him about protocol, but it was strikingly hard to hear her, through the chattering of human teeth.

On-stage, Shepard was in full armor, probably a nod to her position as a Spectre, as well as for security reasons. Rellus heard Sam mutter to Kasumi, "That stage is damned open. Too many lines of sight. We sure we've got the venue checked out?"

"Three times over, and I've got our own people all through the crowd. It's as safe as I can make it, for any of us, Sam."

_Ah. That explains why they gave us personal shields_. Something clicked in Rel's mind, and he started watching the crowd, as much as he was listening to Shepard's words.

**Shepard**

"Good afternoon. First, let me express what an honor it is, to be asked to speak on this occasion. Revered Imperator, I thank you for your gracious invitation to share your box today; my family and I are honored by your hospitality." She lowered her head slightly, showing respect in a very turian fashion.

"Councilors Anderson and Odacen have already given wonderful speeches, talking about the bright future our two species can enjoy, if we're able to put aside some of the mistakes of our recent past. I know a little something about that future. I see it every day, in the face of my husband, and our children." Her smile was gentle, and showed only a human woman's love of family, for the moment.

"But it's in the nature of both our species, to think about the past. So, if you'll let me, I'm going to talk about the past a little today. You might say it's in my blood. Some of you might know that my mother was a quite a scholar. She spent most of her life studying Earth's ancient past, particularly the Romans. She was working on a book at the time of her death, comparing and contrasting ancient Roman culture with contemporary turian culture. She hadn't gotten far; she didn't speak turian, and couldn't get access to a lot of resources, but I think it would have been her masterwork, if she'd lived to complete it." Shepard paused.

"In it, she talked about the Roman Social War, fought between 91 and 88 years before the common era. Two thousand, two hundred and eighty-two years ago, someone who was a Roman citizen could walk the face of the known world, secure from harm. All they needed to say was 'I am a Roman citizen,' and no one who was _not, _would _dare_ to threaten them, for fear of the threat of Roman reprisal." Shepard paused. "Not unlike the Turian Hierarchy of today, the Romans would not stand for cowardly attacks upon their people, and responded with overwhelming force to what they perceived as wrongs." She grinned then, deliberately baring her teeth. Turian body language, not human.

"Roman legionnaires fought, using iron swords and iron spears. They carried almost half their body weight in gear, and fought their battles in close-order precision unknown to the other tribes of their time. They dug in. They fortified. And when it came time to make a stand against the disorganized tribemen they usually fought, they fought together, as a unit, to the last man." Shepard paused, and she could hear the turians in the crowd, murmuring a little, responding to the implicit comparison, the implicit compliment. The humans in the crowd were, however, largely residents of Shanxi. They were largely Han Chinese, and the history lesson didn't probably stir them, as it would have a Western audience. When the Romans were establishing their empire, the Chinese had been building their own, of course.

"In the Social War, the Romans fought their closest allies, practically their own kin, their own brothers, the tribes of Italia, for the Italians felt that they should have the same rights as Roman citizens, since their people fought and bled in Roman wars, and their families paid Roman taxes." She flicked a glance around. "This would have been _roughly_ the same time turians were making their way out into space," she added. "Fighting in the Unification War, fighting their own kin, for much the same reasons."

Silence now. She wasn't casting aspersions on the Imperator, obviously, but the crowd was interested now, waiting to see where she went next.

"Back on Earth, far removed from spaceships and rockets, the Romans fought with their iron swords and their iron spears. They captured a rebellious city, and made an example of it. They crucified every inhabitant that they could find—thousands of people—on the hills around the city, and then nailed the gates of the city shut, barricading any survivors left inside, so that they would starve, in full view of the dead and the dying on their crosses in the hills. Their point made, the Romans returned to Rome. No one would be defying them again soon.

Rustling. The turians were _enjoying_ the description, on some level, she knew. Total war. A point made so deeply, and etched in blood, so that no one could possibly misunderstand it. Most of the humans were recoiling, disturbed.

"_Barbarous_, I can hear some people out in the audience whispering. A war-crime by human standards today, certainly. And yet, those same people who committed that atrocity, two thousand years ago, were the height of civilization. Everyone longed for the rights of a Roman citizen. Everyone respected Roman law. When their civilization collapsed—right around when the turians were joining the Council, after the Krogan Rebellions, I might add—all who lived in that area of the world looked back on them in reverence and awe for a thousand years, as a light of ancient wisdom. They built in marble and concrete. They set down laws, and ideals that would show the way into the future.

"These iron-wielding savages gave us the blueprint for almost every law still used on Earth and its colonies. Because humans adapt. We take what we find the most useful from our past, and we hold onto it. We let go of the rest, but that doesn't mean it's gone. We can always reach for that iron sword. We don't always chose to, but it's always there. And that was the subject of my mother's book." Shepard paused, let the audience take that slight, rhetorical distance in for a moment, and then continued.

"_My_ point is this: humans and turians already are the closest two species in Council space. We are the only two who can reach across the gap that divides us, and come close to real understanding. Because we are already brethren, in heart, in mind, in spirit. Oh, we certainly don't _look_ alike. No turian will ever _be_ human, and no human will ever _be_ turian. It's not possible. But with work, patience, and understanding, we close that gap. I do it every day." She turned a little, and gave Garrus a little smile, subtle eye-contact. "When we humans reach for the sword, and turians reach for the plowshare, we come closest to unity. And unified, I truly believe, there is absolutely _nothing_ that can stop us."

"So I say now, don't forget the past. Make the past a part of the future. Build on it, as _we've_ built on the Romans, as _you've_ built on the Unification War. Let's build that future together, so it will last, in _our_ laws, in _our_ values, so that _our_ light will shine down for the next fifty thousand years, and teach all those who come after us, what it means to be brethren."

She took a deep breath. She'd worked hard on the speech, and could only hope that it served its purpose. "Thank you all for inviting me here. May the spirits give us all hope of redemption and reconciliation."


	28. Chapter 28: Changes and Transformations

**Part III: The Spirit of Unity**

**Chapter 28: Changes and Transformations**

_**Author's note:**__ I'd originally thought that I would make this a separate story, under its own heading, but since most people seem to be following __Redemption, __and it's just plain easier for folks to find updates here, here's where the story will continue. Part I: Spirit of Redemption, dealt with Garrus and Sidonis and the realities of the new post-ME3 universe, including hybrid children; Part II: Spirit of the Hunt, dealt with the all-too-human issues of cults, groupthink, and isolation and abuse of those born different than those around them. Part III: The Spirit of Unity, may focus more strongly on the original characters. It will be skipping ahead in time periodically, as we all get to see Dara, Rellus, and Elijah grow up in the strange new world that is my version of the post ME3-galaxy. All your old favorites will still be here—Shepard, Garrus, Lantar, Sam, Cohort, Gris, and Sings-to-the-Sky. _

_I have quite a bit for the young'uns plotted out in my head; now I just need to figure out what's keeping the old guard occupied. ;)_

_Also, sorry for the late update; I was going back and forth over the exact wording of the last section, trying to make sure it was tasteful and responsible and all that good stuff. Hopefully, I've succeeded._

_**Note: As of March 8, I officially changed everyone's ages just a bit. Dara turned 15 on her birthday, and Eli is still 14. Rellus is coming up on 16. It just worked better for where the characters were, and Sam is still 40. Everything has been retroactively updated in the old chapters.**_

**Shepard**

"So, how's the vacation going?" Kasumi asked over the comm feed.

Shepard turned from looking out the window at the stunning vista of a mile-long waterfall, foaming white and blue over the red rocks of a crater ridge before tumbling to a second, deeper crater lake hundreds of meters below. "It's wonderful," Lilu reported happily. "I have found _boredom_, Kasumi, and it's _everything_ it's cracked up to be. Hell, I've _slept in_ three mornings in a row. I highly recommend it; if I could, I'd give the concept of vacation my personal endorsement."

"So, you're just sitting in the desert sun and soaking up light, like a plant?" Kasumi grinned.

"If I could photosynthesize, I'd put down _roots_. As is, the kids get bored too easily, so no, we've taken them swimming in the lakes, a little kayaking, that sort of thing. We're set to go look at some hot springs not far from here this afternoon. The kids will probably pinch their noses shut at the smell, but apparently you can find whichever pool of mineral water suits your particular body temperature, and just _soak_. The kids will probably get more of a kick out of the geysers, and there's supposed to be a small animal park. Baby _talashae_, miniature _rlatae_, you know. Real dog and pony show."

"Sounds like heaven."

"Closest thing to it that I may ever find," Shepard agreed. "Only complaint is that the levo food here absolutely sucks. I'm eating MREs every night, but at least Garrus and the kids are getting three squares a day that no one has to analyze, which is kind of a treat, y'know?" She paused. "All right, I know this isn't just a social call. What's the news?"

"Council's making noises about moving the mini-Reaper and the relic soon. You'll probably want to get in touch with them about _where_ it's going. The salarians are of course, making the most noise, but the quarians and the geth are mounting a joint bid to house and study it. They both definitely have strong reasons for wanting it to stay asleep."

"And if anyone has the technical ability to study it, it would be the quarians and the geth. Of course, neither species is really noted for biotic abilities, which would limit their ability to study the relic. . . hell, then again, how many salarian biotics are there, really?" Shepard rubbed at her eyes, and then realized all her relaxation had fallen off of her, and tension sat in her shoulders again, digging in its claws. "Anything else?"

"Continued AEC chatter. Galaxy-wide consternation at the increasingly warm relations between the Hierarchy and the Alliance, especially after your speech. Massive up-tick in the hate mail quotient. Sam just about burst a blood vessel when he saw some of the stuff being sent to Dara's old account—the one we're monitoring."

"She hasn't seen it?"

"Goodness, no. She's not ready for that. We've even pulled all the ones she's gotten from her old schoolmates back in Lufkin, just to make sure. Most of those were of the 'wow, you were on the extranet!' variety, but a couple of the old classmates said a few pretty personal things about her and Rel. The other kids have gotten somewhat the same; Elijah got less, and Rellus almost none, except from human groups, blah, blah, blah. You've heard it all before."

Shepard winced. "Tell Sam I never intended to set his daughter up as a target."

"He knows. He's okay, for the moment. Put his fist through a wall after the first round came through, though." Kasumi looked down, checking her notes. "Your speech was characterized as 'borderline warmongering' by the volus and the asari representatives on the Council, you know." Kasumi pretended to duck.

"How the hell did they get _warmongering_ out of that? I'm pretty sure I talked about ideals and laws and values and unity. I mean, I _was_ there. I'm pretty sure I know what I said."

"You mentioned iron swords a number of times, and hinted that humans could reach back in time for a savagery the equal of any turian's in battle," Kasumi supplied, helpfully.

Shepard sighed. "It never ceases to amaze me, what people get out of what they hear and what they read. Sometimes, I feel like I should just take a bag of Scrabble tiles and scatter them on the ground. They'll still see exactly the same thing in 'ezcrgbabl' as they do in a twenty-minute, well-reasoned speech."

"Everyone _does_ bring their own baggage to everything they read or see," Kasumi agreed. "But, on the flip side, we're hearing that the quarians want to join the economic alliance as a permanent member. Not on equal terms, since their population is so low, but it's definitely a 'take us with you' sort of message."

Shepard grinned. "I have no problems with that. Asari situation?"

"Samara called to say she's found and dealt with two matriarchs so far. One took poison, rather than be taken back to the Circle of Sisters and face trial; the other made the mistake of attacking the justicar. Samara takes offense when people resist arrest, you ever notice that?"

"I have, indeed. Volus?"

"Still in economic turmoil. Analysts predict two to four quarters of heavy recession for them, the asari, and the salarians. A few conglomerate corporations have gone bankrupt. Mostly the ones that were involved in _heavy_ colonial speculation. The ones that made fast credits betting against human expansion, and the like."

Shepard shook her head. "I'm sorry for the people who're out of jobs, but on the other hand, I can't feel sorry for the CEOs or the companies as a whole. Krogan situation?"

"Twelve more clans have joined Clan Urdnot in the last week. That takes them to about fifty-eight percent of the total population of Tuchanka. Give Wrex another year, and he'll be able to say he has an actual planetary government to _support_ that seat on the Council." Kasumi paused. "Oh, and some hints of Lystheni movement, Shep."

"Lystheni? Those are those renegade salarians that no one knows much about, right?"

"Yeah. I've asked Mordin about them, and I get splutters about 'unethical research' and 'prone to unconsidered solutions' and that's about it." Kasumi smiled. "I told him that wasn't helpful."

"And on the Mindoir front?"

"Anything specific, or are you just looking for the gossip, Shep?"

"Gossip me, Kasumi. Gossip me."

Kasumi pursed her lips. "Let me see. . . Ylara's pregnant. Apparently, Tulluust was very comforting in the last month or so."

Shepard choked on a laugh. Kasumi shook a finger at her. "You _know_ it's mostly mental for asari, Shep."

"All things considered, it would almost have to be." Shepard thought about it. "I _hope_, anyway." Kasumi started to laugh, herself now. Then Lilu frowned. "Ah, hell, that means I can't take her in the field for what, two years?"

"Eighteen month gestation, yeah." Kasumi leaned back in her chair. "Cohort's rebuilding the YMIR mechs to make them more 'challenging' in training—"

"Oh, no, no, _no_—"

"We're keeping an eye on it." Kasumi raised her hands. "Livanus got married on leave, and now needs his new wife to have a background check done before he can bring her to Mindoir. Physicist, though, so he picked someone who'll fit in very nicely."

"A physicist? Livanus? Wow."

"Yeah, more or less what I said, but she's got some innovative ideas about shielding."

"And Sam, other than putting his fist through a wall?"

Kasumi just smiled, content as a cat perched on a warm windowsill. "Oh, he's fine. More than fine, in fact. Now, go back to your photosynthesis, Shep. You'll be back in a week. Plenty of time to deal with the Council and everything else."

Shepard chuckled and logged off the terminal. Garrus and the twins were waiting for her downstairs, where they'd take the long elevator ride down through the spray of the falls to the lake below, surrounded by rainbows the entire way. She sighed, releasing the tension, and letting the warm sun and light breeze of Macedyn soothe her once more. Surely, the galaxy couldn't begrudge her just a few more days off?

They had ample security around their rooms, and whenever they actually left the hotel grounds, they notified whichever facility they were going to visit that they'd need similar arrangements. It made for an _expensive_ vacation, but they also hadn't _been_ on one in seven years, as Garrus was quick to remind her.

That afternoon, they did visit the hot springs, which really were amazingly relaxing to lie back in and just float, letting the hot water penetrate every muscle. After an hour, though, the twins were _quite_ done with this, and wanted to see the animal park. As they walked through the grounds, pointing out the _apataerae_ and the _villi_ and whatever else in their cages to the twins, Shepard commented to Garrus, "Surprising to see so many non-turians here. I would have thought this place was really off the levo-species beaten track."

"Eh, tons of people like to get married with the falls in the background for pictures," he commented.

"That _would_ explain the request from Gabby and Ken that was in my box last week."

"As a ship captain, technically, you_ can_ perform marriage ceremonies."

"Only on my ship!" She chuckled a little. "I told them to go ahead and get it done while they were here. I haven't heard more than a _thank-you_ since then." She shook her head. "That means his new turian family is going to basically have to adopt her, too, right?"

Garrus shrugged. "More or less, but the Onorians struck me as being pretty open-minded." Garrus started to chuckle. "He's already hyphenating his name to show allegiance to both his birth-clan and his adoptive one, right?"

"Kenneth Donnelly-Onorian, yep. I already asked. She said it would be Gabriella Donnelly-Onorian for her, not Daniels-Donnelly-Onorian, and I told her _thank you_ myself, because anything more complex verges on salarian." Shepard watched as Garrus lifted Amara over his head, so the girl could pet the nose of a huge _apatera, _which leaned down its head on its long neck from munching on leaves high above, hoping for a treat, probably. Amara squealed in delight.

Garrus glanced around. "Now that you mention it, there _are_ a lot of salarians out today. And humans. And asari." He shrugged after a moment. "Macedyn's located close enough to asari and salarian space that it's popular for family vacations."

"Yeah, it just surprised me, is all." They changed areas, moving to a _rlatae_ riding compound. Shepard leaned down and helped Kaius up onto the back of the miniature _rlata_ in front of them; the equivalent of a pony, the beast was shorter than average, being only about five feet in height. "Okay, Kaius, hold on tight," she told the boy, walking around in a circle with him.

Kaius was usually a bundle of wiggle and energy, and today was no exception. He suddenly leaned forward to tug at the beast's feathers; Shepard leaned forward to stop him, and she felt something whiz by her head. No sound, no noise, just the _whoosh_ of its passage. She grabbed the boy, instinctively, pulling him off the _rlata_, to his intense and very angry disappointment, and then she felt a line of pain in her left arm, just above the elbow. "Garrus, get _down_!" she yelled, through Kaius' angry caterwauling at having been unjustly deprived of his turn on the _rlata_, and made sure she covered the little boy with her body.

A salarian hit the ground next to her, looking surprised, and reached down to touch his stomach, pulling away hands covered in thick, green-black blood. "I didn't . . . hear. . . anything," he said, quietly, and then his eyes closed.

Shepard kept Kaius with her, and belly-crawled for cover, people scattering around her in all directions as they realized what was going on, running and screaming, spooking the animals. As she crawled, Shepard noticed that her left arm wasn't quite working right, and it hurt a _lot_ more than a simple graze would explain. Gritting her teeth, she kept moving, and eventually, she found Garrus up against the thick stone of a waste disposal receptacle, Amara in his arms, with her head firmly tucked into her daddy's shoulder, refusing to look up. _Good girl, stay just that way._ "You're bleeding," she told Garrus, seeing a line of blue dripping from the shoulder that wasn't occupied by a little girl.

"So are you. Mine's superficial." He glanced at her. "You?"

"Think the bullet passed through the humerus. Hurts like hell." She put Kaius on her own good shoulder for the moment. "You see anyone?"

He immediately grabbed a bunch of rags out of the bag they typically used for the kids' things, on the bench near them, and applied pressure to her arm. She gritted her teeth and tried not to do more than whimper, for fear of setting Kaius off again. "Yeah, I've got no targets in sight right now," Garrus told her, glancing around every now and again, and she knew he was using his eyepiece to scan for enemies. "Whoever they were, they were using a silencer. Small caliber bullets, judging from the hole in your arm, _mellis_."

"That's. . . . _gah, _be _gentle_. . . very comforting." She said it from between clenched teeth.

"And they were a _lousy_ shot."

"Good enough to hit a salarian back there."

"Doubt that's what they were aiming for."

"Not a professional, then." She could feel sweat on the back of her neck as he tied a bandage in place.

"If they were paid for this, they need to give someone their money back." Garrus looked around. "I think we can make a move for the main office. Get some better cover."

"Lead on," she said, and they ran for it, zig-zagging a little. No further shots chased them, and in the relative safety of the park's main office, Shepard could hear the park officials on their radios, trying to track down the shooter.

"You need help?" she asked, politely, after listening for a few minutes.

The female turian in charge turned, started to say something sharp, then looked at her again, the crying child in her arms, and then at Garrus, and recognition hit. "Ah, no, Spectre," she said. "Thanks for the offer, but we've got a human with a rifle pinned down in the animal pens. My team should have him out any minute."

Her radio squawked again, and she lifted it to her ear, listening. "Damn it," she hissed, after a moment. "I'm sorry, Spectres. I'm sure you wanted to ask him some questions."

Shepard sighed. "Suicide by cop?"

"No, suicide by rifle bullet through the roof of his mouth." The female turian looked at them both again. "Let me get you a first-aid kit. Are the kids all right?"

They settled in to check on exactly that. Kaius hadn't quite registered yet that they'd been attacked, thankfully, and kept asking "_Rlata?" _in a hopeful, piping voice, but when he understood that his mama's arm was hurt, he patted her on the shoulder not now in a sling, and said, "Sorry, Mama." Amara, on the other hand, seemed to be a little more aware of the situation, and kept repeating, "Daddy blue," over and over again, until Garrus was able to clean up his arm.

That night, they packed up, without having to even exchange a word, and had the _Normandy_ send down a shuttle for them. "The first three weeks were great," Lilu finally told Garrus, as they tucked the children into bed in their quarters on board the ship. "I really liked it here."

"I just want to know how anyone knew we were here," Garrus growled.

"Could be as simple as one of the tourists in the hotel mentioned it in a message home. 'Hey, guess who I saw at our hotel today!'" Lilitu paused. "It's not like either of us is all that unrecognizable, you know."

"It beats the alternative explanation," Garrus said, tiredly, lying down on their bed, and beckoning to her.

"That security is compromised, somehow? Yeah. We'll look into it when we get home." She sighed, curling up in his arms, and wincing as she tried to get her arm into a decent position, one that wouldn't hurt if she so much as moved. "It really _was_ a nice vacation, sweetheart," she told him, drowsily. "We'll do it again." 

"Next time, with less shooting?"

"Sure. A nice boring agricultural colony where no one _ever_ goes."

He sighed. "Sounds like a plan."

By morning, they were in orbit around Mindoir again. Shepard went up to check in with Joker and EDI. Joker hadn't been incapacitated by the neural link that he, EDI, Cohort, and Sky had formed to protect the rest of them from the simulations and the mini-Reaper; the additional load had been taken by Cohort and passed to the geth collective, which had spared Joker a great deal of pain. He was, however, still doing two hours a day of rehabilitation to repair the damage done when he'd flown the _Normandy_ from across the galaxy, using only his neural chip.

As usual, Shepard stood just behind Joker in the cockpit for a long moment. It was a silent joke of long-standing by this point, and she caught the flash of humor on the face of EDI's human-looking avatar as she did so.

As if unaware of her presence, Joker said to someone on the radio, "Well, Laetia, I'm just going to put it out there that from what I can tell, you came off sounding like a creepy psycho stalker. Of _course_ the man is nervous now. He's not sure if you're after his virtue or his life."

"Father, please." The voice coming over the radio was clearly akin to EDI's, but a little softer, a little younger sounding, somehow. Shepard shook her head, realizing that Joker was in mid-conversation with one of his many "daughters."

"If I can interrupt long enough to get an estimate on our approach?"

"Got a mid-summer thunderstorm passing through over the base right now, Commander. Give it twenty minutes, so we don't have to fight turbulence on the way in." Joker leaned back. "Maybe you could help with a little family matter here?"

Shepard shifted her arm in its sling, wishing that medigel did better work with bones. Her upper arm and elbow were currently in a cast; Dr. Abrams had moved all the bone fragments into the right places, and wired them back together, and the actual flesh had mostly already regenerated, but bone always took longer. Plus, of course, the good doctor was monitoring her for signs of fat embolisms; god only _knew_ what had shaken loose in her bloodstream when the bone had shattered. "Sure, Joker, why not?"

"You remember Rinus, Garrus' nephew?"

"Hard for me not to," she replied, finding a wall to lean against for a moment. "Good kid in a fight."

"Laetia found his psych profile and thought he'd be good as a candidate as a, er, _father_, for her potential progeny."

Shepard quietly boggled at that for a moment, and then laughed under her breath. "Well, that _would_ keep it rather neatly in the family, as it were," she admitted. "Would kind of make us in-laws, Joker, in a really. . . bizarre way."

"Tell me about it." His voice was a little grim.

She chuckled. "But he's munitions and weapons systems, Joker, not her pilot. I thought it required a, well, a close relationship to develop the kind of trust you and EDI have."

EDI volunteered, "After seeing the way in which all of my daughter AIs will respond to Joker's wishes, Commander, it seems that turian fleet command wishes to ensure that whoever next provides personality templates will have less probability of ever being in a command position on the ship to which he or she is connected. There's a strong bias towards stabile personality types in their psychological requirements as well, I might add."

Joker turned and squinted at her. "I think that's a shot at me, my girl."

"Jeff, you are clearly labile, not stabile." Her voice was serene.

"I'll have a comeback for that—as soon as I look it up."

Shepard glanced from face to face. "So what seems to be the problem? Rinus is about as steady as a turian can be. Other than him flipping out at seeing human blood for the first time, I can't even _remember_ the last time I saw him get upset about something."

"Laetia here seems to have the boy running scared, though. Sent me a very polite note, asking me if there were any possible problems with Laetia, because she keeps asking him so many damn questions about him. He also _apologized_ for circumventing the chain of command by asking _me_ instead of forwarding it to the computer techs on the _Estallus_." Joker sounded annoyed. "Laetia, you're lucky you didn't get your damn core purged."

"I don't understand what I'm doing _wrong_," she said, sounding frustrated.

"Did you tell him _why_ you're asking all these questions?" Shepard asked, after a moment.

"Technically, I'm not actually _supposed_ to," Laetia hedged. "Captain Jallus has two or three other candidates on board, whom I'm supposed to be evaluating as well."

"You have any interest in them?"

"No, really. They're all very acceptable, of course, but Rinus is the only one who _reacts_ so well. Always carefully, always cautiously. And he's _always_ looking for more information, more details. I certainly never would have thought, from his record, that he'd go so far outside his chain of command for answers." Laetia's voice was. . . intrigued.

Joker muttered something under his breath. Louder, he said, pointing at EDI, "They get this from _you_, my girl. The incessant itch to drive a man insane. I have _proof_ now."

"Jeff, the fact that you are so _consistently_ inconsistent within the parameters of your behavioral patterns is one of the reasons I became fond of you to begin with. Is it so surprising that one of our daughters would look for similar things in a humanoid companion?"

Shepard cleared her throat. This was all _way_ more than she really wanted to deal with right now. "If I could offer a bit of advice, Laetia? The fact that he didn't _immediately_ take this to his superiors means two things. First, he's got more of the family renegade streak than I thought he did. Second, it means he likes you enough to want to protect you—at least a little. So. . . let the man off the hook already. Tell him why you're doing what you're doing, at least a little bit, or you are going to wind up with the servers in the AI core off their racks as Rinus starts disassembling you, piece by piece, looking for the bug _before_ he turns you over to the computer technicians."

There was a pause. "He probably would do that, wouldn't he?" Laetia sounded almost _pleased_.

Shepard shook her head. "I'm going to go wait back in my quarters for us to land. Where it's, you know, much less confusing." And then she did indeed beat a hasty retreat.

**Dara**

High summer was on the mountains now, and Dara was used to there being at least _some_ sort of summer vacation from school. School in the science base, was, however, largely year-round, with a two week break between each quarter. She, Rel, and Elijah had spent part of their 'winter' break on Shanxi, of course, which had taken up a certain amount of time, but now it was back to the schedule, the routine.

Part of her was grateful for the routine, of course; it helped her to feel a bit less like the world was apt to fly apart. On the other hand, the routine had been deeply disrupted since late November, when Kella had died. Elijah had little interest in riding in the mountains now, and she couldn't blame him for that, but that left her and Rellus without anyone to take with them, other than Rel's younger siblings. They did take Serana with them one weekend, and the younger girl was grateful for the chance to get out of the house. Dara hadn't realized how much she actually liked the younger girl, and by the end of the day, had promised to help tutor her in English, in exchange for help with turian, once Rel left.

"I'm really beginning to hate that phrase," she told him that afternoon at rifle practice. Elijah was nearby, practicing pistols with his dad, Lantar.

"One hundred and sixty-one days," Rel told her, with a twitch of the mandibles that she'd learned to read as discomfort, or dread.

"If we stop counting, will it make it go slower?" she asked, hopefully, and settled her ear protectors in place, kneeling to sight carefully, and then slowly squeezing the trigger, almost milking it.

He waited until she'd finished firing. "Probably not," Rel told her. "Nice grouping on that one. All but one in the center."

She grimaced. "It's a lot easier when the target's not moving." Dara thought of the batarians that had attacked them, frowning. If she'd been a little better of a shot on her first one or two rounds, maybe the second mercenary wouldn't have had a chance to throw his grenade. With that thought in mind, she pulled in her target, replaced it with a fresh one, and reloaded.

After practice, Rel and she walked Serana to the groundcar, and she looked up at Rellus a little glumly. With Commander Shepard and Garrus gone, there was no real chance that the two could stay on base much later, and she and her father would be spending the evening at Kasumi's, anyway. "You'll be staying the night at Kasumi's?" he asked.

"Yeah. Between clinic in the morning and, well, _their _closed-door time," Dara paused, and grinned a little bit, "it seems to be working that way on Saturdays, now."

"Then I might see you for part of your run in the morning."

"I slow you down."

"Only a little." He grinned at her. "Then I sprint the last kilometer to make up the time."

Serana knocked impatiently on the window of the groundcar. Typically for a younger sibling, she had little patience for their talking. Rellus tapped the window himself, with his talons, not turning around, but acknowledging her. "I'll be back up tomorrow," Rellus reminded Dara. "Sunday poker night, remember? Your dad is insisting that I need to learn to play that, as well as chess." He made a face. Then he leaned over, and said, very quietly, "Just remember. . . two more weeks, and our contract hits three months. Lots of changes then."

Dara suddenly felt a _lot _happier. "I guess I'll need you to translate the next sections for me, then," she told him. "I can sound them out now, but even with a _tal'mae _dictionary, none of it makes sense."

"I think I've got them memorized at this point," he told her, ruefully. "I know we get unsupervised rides back, for certain. There's a time limit on them, though. We'll go over the rest tomorrow," he promised, pressed his forehead to hers, and hopped into the groundcar for the drive home.

Sunday mornings were now clinic days for Dara, starting at eight and lasting until twelve, which gave her time to run and eat breakfast in the morning before reporting in. Dr. Solus had her working at the little clinic in the valley for the moment, but was making noises about adding a day at the base hospital to her schedule. Dara had _no_ idea when she'd fit that in, but was willing to try.

She'd started the internship the week they'd gotten back from Shanxi. So far, it had been mostly routine stuff. Dr. Solus had impressed upon her, firmly, that she wasn't to offer advice, but needed to be a friendly face and _not_ to react to anything people said or did when they were in pain. "Good training," he told her, smiling a bit. "Bedside manner large portion of doctor's work. Professional. Reserved. Sympathetic. Always listening. Psychological component important to most species."

So far, she could take a temperature and blood pressure on humans, drell, asari, turians, elcor, krogan, and salarians. For quarians, it seemed to boil down to "let the suit diagnostics tell you the answer," and hanar, with their support fields and shields, were quite a bit more difficult. Reading medical charts and prescriptions proved to be much harder, because Dr. Solus tended to flip into whichever language he was currently thinking in when he was writing his notes, so Dara started picking up salarian medical terminology just as fast as the English terms.

That morning had looked just as boring and routine as any other, and Dara was listening to the receptionists gossip, when Elijah came into the waiting room, holding up his arms, which were skinned, and badly. "Hey," he said, looking down at his forearms sheepishly. "I didn't think I should go home looking like this."

She took him back to one of the rooms, where one of the nurses oversaw her as she cleaned and dressed the wounds, asking Eli how he'd gotten them. Mazz had, apparently, gotten a hoverboard, and Eli and he had been riding it, resulting in a pretty nasty fall. Dara shook her head, applied ointment, gauze, and tape.

As Eli was getting ready to leave, Azala and Siara came in, next. The asari girl was crying, her arm out in front of her awkwardly, and as soon as she saw Dara behind the desk, and Eli in the waiting room, her expression became mutinous. "No," she told her mother, clearly. "My arm is fine. I don't need to be here."

"Siara, I think it's broken," Azala told her, sounding worried. "We'll get it scanned, and then we'll see, all right?"

Dara was already pulling up the chart. As she came around the desk to take them back to a room, saying, "Dr. Solus will be with you shortly, but I have to take your temperature and weight, anyway."

Siara glared at her. "I don't want you anywhere near me. You're the reason Kella died." The words were quick and brutal, and Azala pulled her daughter back by her good arm, her expression suddenly furious.

Dara turned her face away, taking a deep breath. The words hurt, hitting her right in her guilt. They were spiteful, cruel, and maliciously spoken, but she also knew that Dr. Solus would tell her _not_ to react. That someone in pain lashes out, unthinking as any animal. She controlled herself with effort, and said, voice shaking, "Then I'll have one of the nurses take you when they're no longer busy with other patients. You can sit in the waiting room." She pointed, put the chart back on the desk, and walked around to sit on her side of it again.

Azala settled Siara at the far end of the waiting room, and came back to the desk, speaking quietly, apologetically, "She's been on edge since, well, since Kella passed. I am very sorry."

Dara glanced up. "Me too." She swallowed. "I can take your information, ma'am, but if she won't go back there with me, she'll have to wait for one of the nurses." Practicing eye-contact with the turians made standing her ground with other adults _much_ easier, she'd noticed in the past few weeks. It certainly made _this_ easier.

**Elijah**

The past six weeks had been difficult. The trip to Shanxi had helped, as Lantar had told him it might. A change of pace, a change of scenery. He knew his parents were worried about him, so he politely talked to all the psychologists that school threw at him. He knew Lantar, in particular, was worried, because Lantar kept talking to him about survivor's guilt, assuring Eli that he didn't need to carry the burden of Kella's spirit. _Just because they say it wasn't my fault, doesn't mean that it wasn't_, Elijah thought every time they had the conversation. _She wouldn't have been on base, if it weren't for me. And if she hadn't tried to protect me, her shields would have held on herself._

He'd tried to put it behind him. Immersing himself in activities and school helped, to a certain extent. He still played handball every day after school, and had, to his surprise, wound up becoming very good friends with Ulluthyr Mazz as a result. After the tenth or eleventh time Eli had stopped a point-blank throw by the krogan boy, he'd picked himself up out of the dirt, caught his breath, which had been knocked out of him by the impact, and then yelled to the rest of the players, "How about this? Next game, he's on _my_ team for a change?" Everyone had laughed, even Mazz.

The krogan wasn't doing well in school, but he did have Urdnot Gris leaning on him, firmly, to do better; as such, he asked Eli to be his study partner for the new term. It wasn't easy, being Mazz's friend; he was a lot different from Eli's human and turian friends, but was still a lot of fun to hang out with. He was even making noises about joining the sparring lessons, which Eli wasn't sure would be a good idea, but didn't want to dissuade his friend from trying anything

That was how they'd come to be playing with the hoverboard in the nearby quarry Sunday morning. Even though it was raining outside, that didn't make a difference; hoverboards didn't rely on the friction of the surface over which they traveled for speed or traction, after all. That hadn't, however, meant that it wasn't possible to get the board to a ninety degree angle and simply fall off it, sliding down the granite wall of the quarry for fifteen feet before coming to a halt, breathless, dazed, and bloody.

Hence his trip to the clinic this morning. He might not be able to hide the bloodstains and the tears to his clothing, but he could at least mitigate his mother and Lantar's concern. It had been a surprise to see Dara there; she was still his friend, but almost as remote as a moon in orbit now. Tightly closed in, in a way; the only time he saw her open up, as she used to, was around Rellus, and then, she just glowed. She got so happy around Rel, in fact, that it damn near hurt to look at them, especially when Eli was, to be honest, pretty sad and alone.

Add to that the new sheath on her wrist, visible symbol of their status as plighted, and the way Rel looked _back _at her, Eli had a good idea of why there were certain tensions at school right now, mostly from the other students. Not that either of them ever touched each other at school. Turians were firm on that. _Show_ territory, possession, through all the associated marks and signs, but public affection had to be restrained. He saw that in Lantar and his mom all the time.

The male turians weren't bad; all they'd needed was to see a bitemark, and they'd pulled away slightly, although Eli couldn't help but be aware of various questions, always asked in turian, which Rel shrugged off, refusing to answer. _What's the mouth like? _and _Are they as soft as they look?_ and any other number of comments. The refusal to answer gave it all an aura of mystery, and Elijah couldn't help but twitch a little, himself. He knew he shouldn't wonder what, if anything, they'd done. He didn't have the right. But he was a _boy_, hormones were hormones, and sometimes it was hard _not_ to wonder. All in all, Eli figured Dara was probably lucky not to speak turian well enough yet to understand any of it, and hadn't mentioned any of it to her, though he would have _loved_ to see how much she'd blush. He kind of figured Rel would kill him for it, though.

The turian girls had been a bit catty, right up until the day of the attack. After that, they'd pulled back on their comments, which had usually been couched in galactic or English, and spoken right to Dara's face. Now, as far as they were concerned, Dara and Rellus were a blooded pair now, and as such, as good as _manus_-wed, not just plighted. Some of them even seemed to find that terribly romantic.

The human boys got on with both of his friends just fine, though. Partially because both of them were _his_ friends, and Elijah was friends with almost every other boy at school, much to his own surprise. The human girls were largely a different story. None of them knew how to talk with Dara, and they found the distance in her off-putting. "Thinks she's better than us," was how Eli had overhead more than one of them characterizing his friend. He'd kept his mouth shut on that occasion, too. It wasn't his business.

The various other students had been jealous of _all three_ of them for the Shanxi trip; Rel had laughed it off when the other turians had teased him about his breach of public decorum, simply saying "Well, Dara's teeth were chattering so loudly, I couldn't hear the speech any other way. . . ." Eli hadn't had to deal with it, much, simply because he dropped back into the routine of handball, homework, sparring, and pistol practice easily.

So now, standing in the middle of the clinic, and hearing Siara lay into Dara as responsible for Kella's death, Elijah was stunned at the sudden surge of _rage_ in him. _How __**dare**__ she? How __**dare**__ she use Kella's name that way? _

As Siara slumped down in a chair, clearly in pain, he crossed the room and crouched in front of her, forcing her to meet his eyes, turian-fashion.

"What do _you_ want?" Siara demanded, petulantly, childishly.

"Shut your damn mouth about Kella," Eli told her, harshly, but keeping his voice low, so her mother wouldn't overhear and intervene. _"Your mouth dirties the name of my fair one."_

He didn't even realize what he'd said, and Siara's mouth went round for a moment. She recovered after a second, and snapped back at him, in galactic, "Memorizing insults and thinking they're cool is pretty pathetic, don't you think? Kella was _my_ friend, until you and _she_ showed up," and Siara looked past him at Dara. "And you got her _killed_."

Eli wanted nothing more than to slap the girl, but controlled himself. Boys didn't hit girls, unless it was in sparring. He was pretty clear on that rule. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure her mother was still occupied, he said, sharply, _"Your mother should be ashamed to raise an unmannered daughter. You have no second-mother." _The word would have been translated as 'father' into any other language but asari high-tongue. "_Your blood is pure five generations back, and every mother's mother of them would be ashamed to acknowledge a petulant __child__ like you as theirs, Siara. You do not __own__ friends. You __share__ them, share in their light. Dara is my friend, and I would have shared more, but she shares with Rellus now, and I shared with Kella; their light did not diminish ours, and all of our lights do not dim yours._"

Only when she simply stared at him, mouth open, in total, complete silence, did Eli realize that he'd been talking in asari high tongue, in its refined, delicate cadences and stylized thought-patterns. He winced a little, flushed, and stood up, muttering, in English, "Just keep it in mind, all right?" and fled the waiting room, figuring that taking a scolding from Lantar and his mom for hurting himself and ruining a perfectly good set of clothes was definitely better than sticking around the clinic any longer.

**Sam**

Sunday evening was poker night, and the evening was already in full swing. Sky was in the living room, listening to music with Dara, and complaining, cheerfully enough, _Little singer, if you do not like recorded opera, your thoughts become clouded, unfocused, gray; I cannot hear them as clearly. Sing a different melody._

Sam, at a table with Gris, Cohort, Lantar, and Kasumi, was trying to figure out just how well Rellus could bluff—not nearly as well as Garrus or Lantar, who simply switched to cop-face and cop-eyes for the duration of every game, damn them—when there was a knock at the front door.

"Speak of the devil," he said, on opening it. "You guys really know how to pick vacation souvenirs, though," Sam added, nodding at the cast and sling on Shepard's left arm.

"Would you buy that I fell down a cliff and broke it?" Shepard offered, ushering the twins into the house ahead of them. The two kids looked back at their parents reluctantly, then saw Sky and made a run for the rachni. They'd been scared of the brood warrior initially, but he'd made a habit of picking them up with his forelegs and sending them happy mental images and songs, so they loved him now. Sam could definitely see _why_ brood warriors were the caretakers of the young in rachni society; Sky quivered around children almost the same way he did when he listened to music.

"No, I wouldn't buy that story, but that's largely because your call last night got Kasumi out of bed at oh-dark-thirty, and this is the first time all day she's actually relaxed." Sam shook his head. "Come on in."

A quick recap was needed for those who hadn't already heard the news. Sam started cutting up pickles and cheese and whatnot for everyone to eat while Kasumi explained what she and the Macedyn authorities had uncovered so far. "The shooter had a passport issued to Ezekiel Patterson, age 28. Resident of Earth, Georgia, to be specific. His travel records indicate he was on Shanxi three weeks ago," Kasumi said, fanning her cards out in front of her, before raking in her chips.

"He was there for the speech?" Lantar asked. "Suggests that he might have tried for an attempt at that point, but that security was too tight."

Kasumi nodded, tightly, taking the deck and shuffling it herself now. "That's my thinking, too, Lantar. He stayed on Shanxi for about a week, used public extranet consoles, and then suddenly departed for Macedyn two weeks ago. Headed straight for the region where Shep and Garrus were staying. Bought a weapon locally—told the shop owner he wanted to go _scutorae _hunting in the deep desert. Then just apparently hung out for a while, almost aimlessly, and then, yesterday, boom."

"Kasumi tells me that she thinks the AEC has changed up how it contacts its membership," Sam said. "Extranet chat rooms seem to be the latest thing. We're going to go trolling later tonight." His grin was humorless. "I've done my fair share of that, back in my Ranger days and in training at Quantico. We figure that my accent is a li'l more convincing than hers, even if all I do is type, so I'll see what I can fish up."

Shepard nodded. "Sounds good. Tomorrow, we'll have some company on base. Tali'Zorah vas Normandy and her husband Kal'Reegar are coming to evaluate what sort of precautions they'll need for transporting the mini-Reaper and the simulation relic to the quarian homeworld, where they and geth scientific units will be evaluating and protecting it for the time being." Sam watched her turn towards Cohort. "I share the geth's reservations about the Reaper, Cohort. Unfortunately, the best I could do was keep it on Rannoch, as opposed to Sur'Kesh. A little less on the beaten path of travel, if you know what I mean. Security should thus be easier to maintain."

"Understood, Shepard-Commander," the geth replied. "We will take great care to protect the old machine, as will the Creator-quarians. Creator-Tali'Zorah has displayed excellent judgment before, as well as technical skills. We trust her, and her mate, as much as we can trust any of the Creators."

"Damn." Sam swore, suddenly, quietly. The paring knife had slipped, and he reached for a towel to wrap around his bleeding thumb.

Amara bounced into the kitchen, looking for a snack, and he handed her a carrot stick, knowing that the twins could handle that sort of food just fine now. She looked at his thumb, wrapped in a rapidly-reddening towel, and frowned. "Daddy _blue_," she told him, pointing at it.

"No, li'l darlin', that's blood."

"Blue blood. Daddy." Amara's tone was firm, and Sam crouched down, wondering what was going on in her three-year-old little world.

"See? Red." He unwrapped the towel long enough for her to see, rummaging for a bandage in the cupboard above the counter.

"You're a daddy?"

Sam looked at her, smiled, and solemnly assured her that he was.

"Then _blue_ blood."

Sam looked over at Shepard and Garrus. "Apparently, I'm not bleeding the right way." His lips twitched, and he directed the little girl back over to her parents.

"Yeah," Garrus said, with a sigh. "She's been a little hung up on that since yesterday. I think that was the first time she's actually seen me bleed, and what with her blood and Kaius' and Lilu's being red, I think she's generalized it to being a daddy thing. All daddies have scratchy faces, all daddies have blue blood." Garrus lifted Amara up higher, and she snuggled into him. "It's not true, little one," he told his daughter. "But you'll have to figure that one out on your own."

The next morning found Sam and Kasumi in her office on base, each of them at a terminal with specialized equipment attached that would generate false location ids for whatever they would post on the extranet today. For the moment, Sam was simply flipping from chat-room to chat-room, scouring various message-boards, and in general, trying to get a feel for the conversations, the tones used, the language used, a frown on his face.

In a couple of rooms, conversation died the instant he entered, and he marked those as ones to come back to, and made notes of which ids he was logged in as, each time. After about two hours, he floated back to one of the first ones, and started to compose his first message. Kasumi came around the desk and leaned over his shoulder to read. "Careful, darlin'," he told her. "You're just destroying my persona here as young, disaffected, and terminally unlaid."

She laughed, her usual soft ripple of sound, and replied, "Far be it from me to ruin a method actor's focus," and straightened up a bit. "Keeping it simple, I see?"

"Anything too long and windy, they might get suspicious." He finished typing the initial message: _Heard about Macedyn. Just wanted to say, about damn time someone did something._ He waited a minute or two, and logged out of the room, heading back to one of the message boards on that account. "We getting anything?"

She went around to her side of the desk, watching various types of network traffic. "Oh yes, very interesting," she said, after a moment. "Two or three. . . hmm, looks like VI worms. . . both attached to that account right before you left the room. Keep looking around on the various sites. Run some searches on Macedyn and Shep and the AEC and whatever else you think the young, disaffected, and. . . " she chuckled, "terminally unlaid would think of. Give them something to look at."

He did so. After a while, he started getting messages. Tentative ones, to be sure. "Some of 'em are just 'nice to hear someone else who isn't afraid to speak their mind' ones," he assessed. "A couple of them are information probes. _That_ one isn't human, according to the linguistic analysis."

Kasumi blinked, and came around to look at it. "Probably salarian STG, checking into the same things we are," was her assessment, after a moment. "I'll contact them and check, so we don't wind up running investigations on each others' investigators."

"It does get embarrassing when that happens," Sam agreed. "Oh, nice. I just got an invitation to a new chat-room. This one's for people interested in becoming members of the AEC, which is, apparently, an open and affirming community, dedicated to the traditional values of Earth." He read the last with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"For most of its members, that's all they see, Sam. Think of it as the difference between Sinn Féin and the old-time IRA and PIRA. One was political; the others, more militaristic." She paused. "Even if they were, or in the case of the AEC, _are_, inextricably linked."

"Oh, I get that, Kasumi-chan, I really do. Doesn't mean I have to _like_ either of 'em, though."

He _did_, however, like the two quarians he met later that afternoon, in Mordin's lab. The two of them walked in, and looked up, and up, and up, at the cylinder and the small Reaper perched atop it. "It's non-functional?" the female quarian asked, her voice lightly accented, and distorted through the suit filters.

"It's in what it referred to, itself, as a dream-state," Shepard told her, coming forward to give the suited woman a hug. "Mordin's been monitoring its power fluctuations for six weeks now. All extremely low, with cyclical spikes, much like a human's transition from delta wave sleep to REM, and back again."

The male quarian, in his red-wrapped suit, clasped hands with Shepard, Garrus, and Jaworski himself. "What's the fastest way to put it down, if it should happen to wake up and get uppity?" he asked, his voice a terse growl. His three-fingered handshake had been firm, and Sam found himself warming to the quarian quickly. He seemed a no-nonsense type. Other than Hal'marrak and Nal'ishora, these were the first quarians he'd ever met, and none of them had ever been a Migrant Fleet Marine, until now. _Marines are marines, no matter what the species is_, he thought, a little amused.

Garrus shrugged. "In our first fight with it, I was aiming for the eye structures, myself. Lantar had a beam weapon, I had a sniper rifle. It's got a _lot_ of ablative armor, and seems to regenerate itself, in a semi-organic fashion. The main problem, if it comes down to it, is the guns on the ends of the tentacles. Each is about a third the power of a Thanix cannon, but there are _four_ of them. Since they're smaller, they also don't just emit a single short burst; they can burn for long durations, much like a mining laser or a Collector beam weapon."

Reegar shook his head. "We _really_ need to be messing with this thing?" he asked his wife.

"Unfortunately, yes. The Admiralty Board has decided that we need to be seen as being of _use_ in the galactic community. The technical skills of those of our people on Bastion are prized, of course, but we can't become insular, confined to Rannoch." She lifted her hands. "Getting the research contract over the salarians was actually an honor."

"I'm all for honor, until it gets people killed." Reegar looked up at the conjoined relic and Reaper once more. "How're we getting it out of here?"

"The roofing over the lab is pretty much temporary," Garrus told him. "We'll remove it, and then it can be lifted out with a crane, once we've secured the two together a little more carefully."

"All right then."

Tali asked then, "So, where are the twins? We haven't seen them in two years now."

"They're up at the house. Come on, they should see you two. How's Zael'Reegar doing?" Shepard asked. She glanced at Sam. "That's their little boy."

"He's doing great!" Reegar told them, and Sam could _hear_ the broad grin in the quarian's voice. "Almost four now, and into all _kinds _of trouble. He's one of the first kids who was born on the surface of the homeworld," he explained, for Sam's benefit. "No clean room, just exposure to the atmosphere."

"He was sick a good deal in his first year," Tali added, voice soft and sad at the memory

Garrus chuckled. "We know _nothing_ about that."

"But he's much stronger now," Reegar said, firmly. "Keeps asking us when we can go to a clean room with him and play with him without our suits." The male quarian chuckled.

Shepard asked, quietly, "You going to try for another one soon?"

Tali nodded. "Population controls have been lifted, since we need to repopulate the homeworld."

"Yeah, the old one-child per couple thing never really made sense to me," Shepard told her. "That's what you do to _decrease_ your population, like back on Earth."

"That's why Dara's an only child," Sam commented. "My daughter," he added, in explanation for the quarians, as two helmets swung towards him.

"Two children per family would have made better sense for population stability," Tali agreed, after a moment, "but I think the Admiralty Board that made the initial decision wanted to leave room for people starting second families after a divorce or the death of a spouse. That sort of thing also increases genetic diversity, after all, which is an important consideration in such a small population." She shrugged. "All in the past, now."

"_Keelah selai_," Reegar told her, and put an arm around her suited shoulders. "Give us a few decades, and maybe we'll be able to walk around the homeworld without suits, ourselves."

**Rellus**

Rellus waited out the last two weeks of the first period of their contract with as much good grace as he could. Finally, the day arrived—a Sunday, more's the pity, filled with clinic work for Dara, homework for both of them, and then the weekly gathering at her father's house—minus a couple of Spectres this week, since Cohort and Sky had left with the mini-Reaper on the quarian research vessel, to escort it to Rannoch. That meant that during that week, their allotted period of door-closed time went up by five minutes, but Rel was not about to push things at her father's house, not when he'd somehow managed to be found _acceptable_ recently.

Over the course of the week, however, he used the little time they had to explain to her what their new privileges were, assuming none of the parents decided it was time to re-negotiate or change things. Much to his relief, none of them did. The light teasing at school went on unabated. The terms of a plighting contract were not common knowledge; it was between the families and the two people involved, and it was usually considered _very_ bad manners to ask for details. Not that _that_ particular social convention was being observed by their classmates, and Dara was picking up enough turian now to be able to ask why the word _oris_, or mouth, for example, kept coming up, and he didn't want to tell her, for fear that she'd freeze up on him. "When we can be alone for more than twenty minutes, I'll tell you everything," he finally promised.

"I'm holding you to that," Dara told him, poking him in the chest.

Elijah started bringing his krogan friend, Mazz, to sparring, and that put a new quirk in things. Mazz was young, and thus still fairly short for a krogan, but he was strong and very solidly built. Urdnot Gris, the krogan Spectre, came along on those nights, mostly to keep an eye on Mazz, Rel suspected. To keep him in line.

They'd had to move sparring practice to one of the air conditioned labs now; it was almost mid-February, and the valley was heating up to almost 35º C/95º F during the day, with a certain level of humidity that let the heat linger into the evenings. "It's starting to feel like Palaven here," Rel told Dara one evening, as they headed in for practice.

She made a face. "Feels like home to me, too. But not in a good way." She wiped the sweat off her face with the sleeve of her workout shirt.

He stopped her for a moment, and ran one finger along the side of her face, collecting a drop of sweat; the heat made her scent change, darken. Salt on her skin. "So _odd_," he told her. "I half expect it to be slimy, like a salarian's skin, but it's not. It's just water?"

"Water, salt, electrolytes," she told him, and gave him a little push. "I'm not _slimy._"

"If you were, you could wiggle out of grappling holds that much easier," he pointed out, reasonably enough, grinning as she pretended to huff off ahead of him. As she walked off, he suppressed the urge to taste her sweat. For a moment, the smell was enough.

Uncle Garrus told Rellus to grab Dara and try to work on two-on-one krogan tactics one evening. Dara had been working for three months now, three nights a week, and was definitely showing signs of improvement; her foot speed was faster, and she was starting to move and turn with some of the grace that her father was teaching her. Rel still did _not_ trust Mazz's self-control, however, and didn't want the krogan boy to close with Dara at all. "Do that circle-walking technique your dad's always talking about," he told her, softly. "It'll probably frustrate Mazz, and I'll use the more straight-line turian techniques. He'll _probably_ turn to try to close on me at that point."

"Can we use the rubber practice knives?" Dara asked Garrus, sounding a little nervous. Rel didn't blame her; Mazz was not quite as tall as he was, but proportionately much thicker across the shoulders and hump.

Garrus nodded. "That does seem fair," he agreed. "When you're ready. Mazz? Attack."

It was not easy. All of Rellus' instincts were to protect Dara, but he had to let her fight on her own, not least so that she'd get practice in. Still, she'd definitely improved, and her ducking, dodging, circling technique, learned from her father—_ba gua zhang_, apparently, in Chinese, meant that it was usually an open-handed style, emphasizing fluidity and quick responses to opponents' movements—let her circle around Mazz, ducking under his blows, pivoting on a foot, getting behind him. As Rel had initially suspected, Mazz kept turning to try to catch her, and that's when Rel moved in, with classical turian fighting maneuvers, hard strikes and kicks, moving off the center line of Mazz's return strikes.

Mazz was still young enough not to know _quite_ how to move to keep two enemies in front of him at all times, then to split them off from one another and throw one of them into another. Which is, Rel suspected, what Sam or Garrus or Lantar would have done. And instead of attacking the strongest attacker, which in turian military doctrine, he should have done, Mazz did what krogan instinct told him to do: he attacked the weaker opponent, and managed to catch Dara flat-footed, driving her off her feet and throwing her, like a rag-doll, to the floor.

Not really thinking, protection-anger overwhelming him, Rel went in on the krogan boy now, kicking and punching, aware dimly, that he shouldn't actually _hurt_ the boy. He wasn't sure if Dara was hurt, and his instincts and fighting experience simply told him to _stop _Mazz, and _now._

Mazz turned on him now, charging forward for a grapple, and Rel knew he could _not_ let that solid mass of muscle and weight connect with his own lighter, whipcord body; the impact would be crushing. He dodged out of the way, lifting his left foot and knee, looked back over his left shoulder, saw the opening, and swung his foot back, . . . . and almost couldn't stop the spur-kick short of its intended target in the center of Mazz's chest. Mazz skidded to a halt, looking down at the sharp end of the spur, so close to his chest, and Rellus growled, "First heart."

Then Dara, unexpectedly, rolled to her feet and backhanded her rubber knife into the unprotected side of Mazz's left ribs, and pantomimed slamming the hilt with her other hand, to break through the slabs of cartilage there. "Second heart," she said, voice tight.

Rel had already pulled his foot away, and, his own practice knife in his hand, dropped into a low crouch and came around in front of Mazz, aiming the knife low, just above the groin, and slammed again, saying, "Third heart," before rolling loosely out of the way again, as if to avoid having a heavy krogan body fall on top of him. You needed to be _sure_ of all three hearts for a knife kill on a krogan, he knew.

Mazz started to chuckle, and off to the side, Urdnot Gris commented, "The third heart only has two chambers, turian, and it's surrounded by gristle for protection. Here. Let me show you a better angle." He took Rel's practice knife, and demonstrated. "It occurs to me," the older krogan rumbled, "that I should be damned glad that humans didn't make it into space at the same time as turians."

Rel barely heard the words, simply crossed to Dara and picked her up off the ground for a moment, exulting a little in the notion of a clean 'kill' shared with his mate. "You all right?" he asked, suddenly remembering that she'd taken a bad fall, and set her back down again.

"Knocked the wind out of me," she replied, rubbing the back of her neck. "It's hard to remember to _relax_ when you're falling."

Behind him, he could hear the conversation going on. "Well, we _could _have just killed each other off," Sam offered, as if in consolation.

"Hah," Gris replied, stolidly. "My species couldn't _get_ that lucky. Mazz, what did you learn?"

"That when facing a krannt, it would be better to have one of my own," the korgan boy replied.

"Not a bad lesson, but not exactly what I was looking for. You should have attacked the turian first. Take out the strongest, and the weakest will be easy prey."

Uncle Garrus' hand fell on his shoulder, and Rel turned towards him. "Not bad," Garrus told him, quietly. "But watch the spur kicks. I know it's instinct. I've used them myself." He grinned, and Rel smiled back. He didn't remember a _lot_ about the night at the cave, but he remembered snatches of seeing his uncle fight Cunningham, and had definitely seen the _coup de grace_ on the human. "That being said, you _can_ kill with them, and we like a safe learning environment in here."

Rellus ducked his head, chastened. _"I seek forgiveness for my actions have shamed you,_" he said, automatically in _tal'mae_.

"_Your actions did not shame me, son of my sister. You drew no blood, injured no one. You saw your mate injured, and responded. This is not a matter for shame, but for __**caution**__._" Garrus shifted languages back to contemporary turian again. "Just keep a tight grip on the protection-anger."

"I will."

Behind him, he could hear Sam checking over Dara, making sure she was okay. "No concussion, right? How many fingers?"

"Three, Dad."

"That's my girl."

Saturday morning, they finally got to go on a ride by themselves for the first time since November, and Dara set her horse to a gallop along the trails, laughing as the breeze flowed through her hair. Rel grinned and set his _rlata_ to chase her, easily catching up as they headed northwest, for their _allora_ meadow.

At this time of year, all the flowers had fallen from the giant trees, and their huge branches overspread the entire clearing, jade-green leaves blocking the sun and the sky, letting only dim, green light fall below. "It's like being at the bottom of the sea, or in some kind of a cathedral," Dara told him, slipping off her mare, and tying the beast off where it had plenty of grass to graze.

Rel did the same with his _rlata_, taking a blanket out from the saddlebags, and tossing it down on the long grass, between the roots of the closet tree. "Come here," he told her, and smiled down at her as she did, leaning down to bite her shoulder lightly.

"Not against the contract?" she whispered.

"Not anymore. Just. . . have to be. . . at the range. . . by noon." Her nails would never be talons, of course, but she could be surprisingly fierce with them, and right now her fingers were digging into the backs of his arms tightly, and she turned her head to bite him back, and the simple knowledge that he didn't _have_ to watch a clock or be afraid that his growls would be overheard was an almost delirious joy, as were the tiny, high-pitched sounds she made, almost whimpers. Smelling her skin and the leaves and the earth, finally tasting the little trickles of sweat, from the heat.

He did push away, eventually, long after their knees had weakened and they'd sunk to the ground, reminding her, occasionally, of what was still prohibited, though he wished, _fiercely_, that it wasn't. "Six months?" she asked, as her hands wandered.

"Six months. Damnit."

"That'll be right before you. . . leave." She sighed. "God, I hate those words."

"I know." He rolled to the side, taking his weight off her body, and took a few deep breaths.

She sat up, looking down at him now, and reached up to stroke his fringe, settle it back down a bit. He caught her wrist and bit the inside of it, a little harder than he'd intended, from her startled gasp, and he almost pulled her back down to him again. He settled for stroking her hair back out of her face, and Dara smiled a little. "So, ah, you promised you'd tell me what all this whispering at school's been about?" she prompted.

He snorted a little. "_Mellis_, if you're trying to help me get my mind off it, that's not the way to do it."

"Why not?"

"Because the whispering you're hearing and can only understand parts of. . ." He looked at her, and winced in anticipation. Here it was. She'd almost certainly recoil. "Some of the other turians have been fairly curious about the terms of our contract," Rellus eventually hedged. "It's bad manners to ask what's allowed, and what's not allowed, and what someone's actually, well, _done_."

Her cheeks flooded with pink. "Oh," she said, after a moment. "So what does that have to do with _oris_? That's _mouth_, right?"

He winced again, and leaned forward to explain, very quietly, what he'd seen in the various diagrams. To his great relief, she blushed harder, and looked away a bit, but didn't pull away. "You can _do_ that?"

"Well, _we_ can't, no." He snapped his teeth at her. "Which is why they keep _asking_ about it." In a way, it was a _relief_ to talk with her about it, to express the frustration he'd kept hidden under a smile, a grin, a quick joke at school.

"Well, it's in the contract, I suppose." _See, now you understand why the iron-bound rules of the contract are such a relief for turians. So clearly delineating what we can and can't do. It makes it so much easier. . . except when it __**doesn't.**_

"That's just it," he said. "It's not."

She stared at him. "It's not?"

"Nope. I've looked. Several times. I can't _believe_ it's not in there, so I keep looking for where it's covered, but it's not." He was starting to calm down now, much to his relief. It _was_ sort of funny, in its way, and humor was a good distraction.

Dara blinked, several times. "I still can't quite believe everything that _is_ in there. You think that they. . . just . . . forgot?" She squeaked a little, and the blush had started again.

"No," Rellus replied, after a long moment. "It's a very. . . _thorough_ contract, otherwise."

"So it's allowed?"

"It's not _disallowed_. But it might be against the _spirit_ of the contract." Rel put a finger to her lips, shushing her, then traced the soft shape of them with one talon. "Dara, I've tried _very_ hard to behave as if I thought your father was watching us all the time. I want to show my respect for your ways. I do." He swallowed. "But you're my _mate_, and everyone knows it." His voice rasped a little. "We've been blooded together. You've kept life in my body. You're _mine_."

"And you're mine." She pushed him back onto the blanket, hands, so much smaller than his, surprisingly firm. "Do you know what tomorrow is, on the human calendar, Rel?" She pushed his hands out to his sides.

He blinked, not knowing what to say. It seemed almost a complete _non sequitur. _ "Today is February thirteenth," she told him. "That means that tomorrow is Valentine's Day. You can look it up when we get home." Still pinning his hands at his sides with her slight weight, she took a deep breath, and he could feel the faint tremor in her arms and hands. "Happy Valentine's Day. _Adamare talu_." Then, very lightly, she began to bite her way down his neck, his cowl, his chest, further, not letting him move, only letting him feel.


	29. Chapter 29: Passages

**Chapter 29: Passages**

**Shepard**

March on Mindoir was roughly equivalent to September on Earth; the first cool breezes of autum were starting to sneak into the air; in the mountains around the base, the more tropical flora native to Palaven was the first to react to the cold. The fern fronds turned a shocking golden color, little sprays of light in the largely still-green forest; the _galae_ trees pulled in their long, jade-and-purple leaves, tucking themselves in for a long winter's nap. The native trees and Terran stock, a mix of evergreens and deciduous growths, held onto their summer colors longer, of course; but the aspens went vividly gold, first, followed by the maples, followed by the _allora_ and the _inarie _trees; the _alloras_ went vividly scarlet, and the _inarie_ trees went a distinctly non-Terran shade of purple in fall.

Shepard looked out the clinic window at all of this, enjoying the sight, as she always did. The twins were restless in their chairs, but Kaius had a model spaceship to play with, and Amara had a book, so they were mostly taken care of. Garrus sat in the chair beside the bed, lightly stroking the back of her hand. "You sure about this?" he asked her, quietly.

"Yeah. It's pretty clear that the adoption efforts are never going to go anywhere," she replied, trying not to let her tension show. "I'm happy with the family we have now, but I think one more try." She couldn't put it into words; although she would always deny that she was trying to replace her lost family, deep down, she had to admit, she probably _was_ trying to bring them back, in a sense. To recreate the idyllic Mindoir of her childhood.

Mordin bustled in, and, to her surprise, Dara, wearing scrubs, followed him in, pushing a cryo-cart. Inside the receptacle on top was a chilled dish, with the fertilized, prepared ova, ready for implantation. "Will be implanting two ova this time," Mordin told her. "Now able to screen better for success, less crowding in uterus. Improved likelihood, overall, of successful gestation. Could screen for male or female offspring, if you wished." He blinked at them.

Garrus shook his head. "The right number of fingers and toes is all we ask."

Shepard coughed slightly. "_This_ time." She didn't raise her voice; she didn't want the twins to hear that one. To her, they were pretty much perfect, other than, well, when they were acting out. From the way Dara's lips quirked up, the young woman definitely had heard the remark, even if the children hadn't.

Mordin blinked at her and Garrus rapidly, and almost chuckled.

Kaius looked up. "Brother," he told them, firmly. "Baby brother, please."

Amara frowned at him, almost pouting. "No. Sister." Then the two of them started to argue, quietly, in their mish-mash of English, turian, and the pseudo-language that they had, as twins, always used with each other. Lilu wasn't quite sure what the argument was about, but Garrus hushed them after about a minute.

Mordin then got out a needle, and, using the screen attached to the cart, threaded the microscopically fine tip into the dish, pulling up two of the zygotes there. From there, Mordin loaded the zygotes into a long, thin catheter, and settled a scanner in place over Shepard's abdomen. "Dara, prepare a speculum," the doctor told her, and Dara obeyed, handing over the piece of equipment without any facial expression.

"This is not the most fun part of the procedure," Shepard told the girl.

"I wouldn't know, but I've heard that those are . . . kind of cold."

"Yes. Yes, they are."

Mordin glanced at the young woman. "Would not mention, except, practically family setting. Patient privacy important, but, information _also_ important. Gynecological exams should begin at onset of sexual activity," he warned her. "Will discuss more, later. For now, keep children occupied."

Dara flushed bright pink. "Yes, Dr. Solus," she said, sitting down beside Amara and pulling Kaius onto her lap, trying to keep the children's attention, asking Amara about the characters in her book, which got Kaius interested as well. Both children knew her very well now, and liked her, which made her an excellent distraction.

Mordin turned back to Shepard. "May experience cramping today," he warned.

"I remember it well," Lilu assured him. She looked up at Garrus. "You ready to knock me up?"

"I keep _trying_," he told her, mildly, squeezing her hand. "A male can only do so much, and so often, to defy nature."

After a few minutes, Mordin removed all the equipment, and let her sit up, and gave her a shot, as well. "Will confirm implantation into uterine wall tomorrow," he told her. "Light activity today. First injection, anti-rejection medications. Prescriptions at front desk." He smiled for a moment. "The Solus hybridization template and process. A good thing to be remembered for, yes? Better than for genophage work."

"You'll be remembered by Clan Urdnot for increasing their fertility rate, too," Garrus reminded him, quietly, glancing over at Dara.

"Yes, but that is. . . clandestine work. This, open. Public. Both projects change the face of the galaxy. But hybridization less ethically divisive. More positive. Brings people together, brings joy to people like you. Satisfying." Mordin blinked again. "Return tomorrow for scans," he reminded Shepard again, and ushered them all out the door, except for Dara.

Shepard chuckled a little. "I can almost hear him starting the 'human squeamishness' lecture already."

"Odd, I thought I heard the 'turian reticence' one," Garrus replied, and they exchanged fond glances, each taking one of the twins' hands and leading them out the front of the clinic.

"What's on the docket for the morning?" Shepard asked, as the Hammerhead bounced to the base's daycare center.

"Sam and Kasumi have AEC investigations to go over with us, related to the shooting on Macedyn. They're a little puzzled by some of the things they're turning up." Garrus pulled the vehicle into the parking bay, and they climbed out, helping Kaius and Amara down, and leaving them, with hugs, at their classroom door. Then they climbed back in, and headed for their home, and the office desks waiting there with work.

At home, Shepard sorted through the files. "Another rogue AI? That's the third one in as many months." She frowned. "Are Cohort and Sky due back from Rannoch soon?"

"Tomorrow, by the schedule."

"Yeah, let's try something _novel_. Let's have Cohort go _talk_ to the AI."

Garrus paused, _apha_ cup halfway to his mouth. "Like talking down a jumper or a kidnapper?"

"If we're recognizing the sapience of EDI and her daughters, not to mention the geth, sooner or later, either the geth or the _Normandy_-class AIs are going to start questioning the ethics of essentially _euthanizing_ every AI that achieves sentience. We're going to have to establish guidelines by which they're judged. Are they just mad, rabid _animals_. . . for lack of a better term. . . or are they capable of being self-determining beings, responsible citizens? Again, for, well, lack of better terminology."

He sighed. "I've mentioned before, I do a lot better with black and white than I do with gray, and this is a _very_ gray place."

Shepard grimaced. "You're telling me. If an AI springs up more or less spontaneously, in an area where AIs are illegal, such as Alliance space, that's one thing. If it's deliberately created in contravention of local law, that's another. But if they're really, truly sapient, does how or where they came to be really matter? It's akin to exposing an infant on the rocks outside the city because it happened to be born a bastard. _It_ didn't ask for existence."

"That's what contraception is _for_." Garrus' humor tended to have a very dry edge to it.

"Agreed. Which is why the laws prohibiting AIs exist in so many jurisdictions. But once they _do_ come into existence, we need better ways of dealing with them. At least, ethically defined ones. So, Cohort can go with, hmm. . . Nal'ishora for the tech component." She frowned. "Who else?"

"Lantar or Gris for the 'shoot it, shoot it now, and shoot it dead,' component." Garrus' chuckle was grim.

"My gut says Lantar, then. The law damn near flows through his blood, and that perspective will be a good balance for Cohort's. They can take the _Normandy_. EDI will help, as well." She frowned. "What's next?"

There was a tap on their door, and when Garrus opened it, Jaworski and Kasumi walked in. "Time for your update on our AEC. . . anomalies," Kasumi told them.

"More?"

The little woman sighed. "One of the first things we noticed was that a linguistic analysis of some of the people who respond to some of Sam's more provocative comments comes back as salarian. That's based off how translation VIs tend to convey salarian speech and thought patterns," she explained. "It's a measurement of statistical variation in terms of word-choice. The dominant salarian language has about forty percent fewer words than, say, English. Thus, they have fewer synonyms and fewer shades of meaning, comparatively. When someone uses pretty much the same words or phrases, over and over, the analysis program raises a flag. It could be someone with a low level of human education or poor writing skills, but the concepts being used are more advanced than the language. It gets more complicated than that, but that's the easy explanation for how the software makes its determinations."

"Salarians? STG running a set of probes?" Garrus asked.

"One of them is," Kasumi replied, nodding. "They exchanged information and identities with us, so we wouldn't be tripping over each other. They're seeing the same things we are, however. There's another group out there, asking questions, making the same sort of infiltration attempts. STG has sent someone to brief us."

Shepard sat forward. "Who?"

"Some fellow named Kirrahe. Third Infiltration Regiment" Sam frowned. "Said he knew you."

Shepard and Garrus both chuckled at once. "He's here?"

"Out in the waiting area."

"Let's get Mordin in here, too. They'll probably enjoy the opportunity to call each other cloacas." Shepard called the clinic, assuring the nurse on the line that it was a Spectre issue, not a medical one.

Kirrhe was much as she remembered him; older, of course. Almost Mordin's age. Gruffer, more military than Mordin, and _much_ more apt to speak in complete sentences. She liked both salarians, to be honest, but for different reasons. Mordin, she'd cheerfully have cover her back and deliver her children. Kirrahe was a more unknown quantity, but while Mordin would frequently mock the man for his 'hold the line' speeches, she could appreciate the mind-set that went with them. It was, truth be told, somewhat similar to her own.

"All right," Shepard said. "Let's get all the details out. Sam, Kasumi, the linguistic analysis of that second group shows up as . . . ?"

"Also salarian," Kasumi said, grimacing. "There's a _faint_ possibility that someone _could_ be washing their own language through a linguistic program of their own, and sending messages that have been crafted to _look_ salarian to a linguistic analysis program."

"Less than two percent probability," Kirrahe said, firmly. "Such processes, which would include taking, say, a turian language, translating it into salarian, and from salarian, into English, tend to have translation errors that creep in over time, especially if translation is automated. Also, there is almost no lag in response time. Whoever it is, is answering without a pause for machine intervention."

Mordin made a chuffing sound under his breath. "Salarians have few rogue groups, Commander. Interest in AEC troubling. Confusing as well."

Kirrahe raised a finger. "Few groups, yes. One in particular. Lystheni."

Mordin looked downright angry, eyes narrowing, frowning darkly. "And what would _their _interest be?"

"Unknown," Kirrahe replied. "Still, worth checking into."

"Maybe it would help," Garrus suggested, "if you could clarify what makes the Lystheni rogues? Not all of us in the room are salarians." His tone had gone dry again. "I know there's a large contingent of them on Omega."

Mordin grimaced. "Spoke once, of Collectors, how they were Protheans, but everything in them, replaced by tech."

Shepard nodded. "I remember the conversation, Mordin. Your contention was that all species strive, and that adaptation and evolution and even progress itself comes to a halt when everything about the organic species is replaced by tech."

"Good memory. Lystheni are. . . irresponsible with tech. Partial cyborgization. Not like your cybernetics, Commander, not medical necessity. Convenience. 'Improving' themselves. Make a cult of tech, the way other species make a cult of their deities. Don't stop with addition of tech." Mordin paused. "Humans use gene modification in soldiers, improve reaction time, strength. Necessary. Limited. Also use it for correction of genetically-caused diseases. Also useful, ethical. Lystheni have no limitations on gene modification. Thing seen as useful, added to genome. Haphazard. Based on personal taste. No attention to ramifications." His voice was filled with distaste. "Also, obtain genes from other species. Unethical methods."

"What Mordin's so delicately stepping around," Kirrahe supplied, after a moment, "is that about fifteen hundred years ago, the first Lytheni group captured an asari passenger liner, took prisoners, and used their genetic materials and quite a bit of element zero to create the first salarian biotics. We don't really _have_ biotics. Turians have more than we do, and turians have damned few. Every asari is a biotic, of course."

"Humans actually have the second-highest percentage, per capita, in galactic population, despite recent element zero exposure," Mordin commented. "Again, adaptive nature of humans shows itself."

Sam put his fingertips together. "So what you're saying is, these Lystheni are dedicated to 'improving' the salarian species, by mechanical and genetic manipulation. Okay. Are they _recognizable_ in any way?"

"Usually have neurocannules at the base of the neck, direct brain access to extranet and other computer needs," Mordin told him. "Some have gone more recently to neural chips. Similar in principle to Joker's." He blinked. "More heat issues, of course, but easier to hide nature. Their survival depends on remaining hidden within normal salarian population. Tend not to make changes that are easily visible."

Shepard frowned. "Okay, all interesting and. . . actually, pretty disturbing information. If these are the people running the second set of probes into the AEC, my main question is simply this: _why_?"

"That, we don't know," Kirrahe said, thin shoulders slumping a bit. "They might be interested in any DNA leftover from Lina Vasir. She represented a massive deviation from the standard asari genetic code. They would value that."

Mordin frowned. "If that is the case, more likely to be attempts to disturb her resting place. But, asari burn corpses, spread ashes. Family's keepsakes, mementos. Our own samples, here in the lab. All would be targets, if known about. . . and if supposition is correct."

"Other possibilities?" Kasumi asked, taking rapid notes on her omnitool.

Kirrhe shrugged. "Could want to obtain the AEC's remaining funding. Doubtful that the AEC's personal technology or genetic codes would be of interest to them." He coughed. "Now, to a delicate matter. STG did not want to disclose this information over FTL transmission, no matter how encrypted." He coughed again, looking about as embarrassed as a salarian could. "Attack on Macedyn _not_ intended for you, Commander, or you, Spectre Vakarian."

Both of them sat forward now, and Shepard's eyebrows arched. "I think you better explain that a little more, Kirrahe," Lilu said. Her left arm still ached intermittently, although she was out of the cast at last.

Kirrahe sighed. "Ezekiel Patterson was an Alliance agent, tasked with working with STG. He'd followed several Lystheni agents for us, because we thought that they would be _much_ less apt to suspect a human than another salarian. Tracked them to Shanxi, where they were apparently observing you and your group, commander. It could be general interest in the hybridization process. As we've stated, they have a fascination with genetic modifications."

Shepard's fists clenched under her desk. "Continue, please," she said, her throat tight. Beside her, Garrus' claws were scraping on the wood of the desk.

"Careful, Commander," Mordin warned, sharply. "Stress cortisol levels _must_ remain low for you for the next week at least. Otherwise, will have to wait a month, begin preparing uterine environment _again_, and start over."

Kasumi's head jerked. "You're pregnant?"

Shepard grimaced. "I wouldn't call it that. Two cells injected two hours ago equals 'just barely' in my book, since the body could just as easily flush them out again in the next week as anything." _Especially if the new anti-rejection medications don't play or work well with my system._

Kirrahe frowned. "Would strongly advise not making that information public, Commander."

Garrus shook his head. "We didn't really last time, either."

Kirrahe continued with his briefing. "Patterson observed our suspected Lystheni for about a week, and then followed them when they departed for Macedyn. His last message was . . . hasty. Stated that he felt they were likely to make an unexpected move soon, said he might have to intervene, apologized for blowing his cover. That was the last we heard, until the news reports broke."

Garrus growled, "So, he shot the salarian, and me, and my wife _why_ exactly?"

Kirrahe shook his head. "Killed Lystheni close to your wife, yes. Different rifling marks on bullets found on scene that matched your DNA and Commander Shepard's. Different angle of fire, as well. Thus, it's clear that a different person attacked you. Perhaps other Lystheni agents."

Garrus didn't look any happier with that information. "Interesting that the turian authorities didn't mention that."

"We stepped in, offered our services for analysis. Now, we're presenting our findings." Kirrahe sounded stern. "Unfortunately, we don't have a clear idea of what they intended to accomplish. Taking the hybrid children, perhaps. For study."

Shepard swallowed. "And the fact that Patterson took his own life?"

"We don't believe that this is the case at all."

Garrus shook his head. "From what _little_ we've heard so far from the turian authorities, there were no fingerprints but his own on the rifle. Turian security had the building surrounded; no one else went in or out. What else could have happened?"

Shepard whispered, quietly, "Is there any possibility that the Lystheni could have gotten _ardat-yakshi_ DNA, Kirrahe?"

The salarian looked at her, clearly uncomfortable, and nodded, once.

Mordin frowned. "Domination effect usually similar to hypnosis. Difficult, if not impossible, to make a subject harm themselves, or work against their own interests, except in minor ways."

"Key word there," Jaworski said, quietly. "_Usually._"

Kasumi tapped furiously into her omnitool for a few minutes, and then summarized, "So, the Lystheni _could_ be interested in the AEC because of Lina Vasir, they _could_ be interested for financial gain, they _could, _but are not likely to be interested for other technological or biological reasons, or. . . they could be interested what the AEC has got on a large-_ish_ population of human-turian crossbreeds. Or maybe the two interests are entirely separate." She looked over her notes, and sighed. "Did I catch everything? Because what I have here, is _really_ not that helpful."

Kirrahe sighed. "Yes. It is a muddle, isn't it?"

"We need more information," Sam commented, tersely. "Should I continue with the AEC probes?"

Shepard nodded. "Can't hurt. Maybe these Lystheni will continue to approach your persona."

Kasumi added, "Kirrahe, I want to look through all of Patterson's files, personal effects, call logs. _Everything_. There might be something there that your people didn't see. A different perspective can really help, sometimes."

Kirrahe nodded, stiffly. He evidently didn't like the notion that his people might have missed some aspect, somewhere.

Garrus cleared his throat. "I didn't want to mention this earlier," he said, quietly. "But with a large Lystheni population on Omega, that might be the best place to start looking for information on them." His expression was grim. "Additionally, one of the other items on the agenda for discussion today was unconfirmed rumors of shipyards in the Terminus Systems."

"Batarians, prepping for another invasion of the Attican Traverse?" Shepard asked. The question wasn't an idle one; Mindoir itself, along with Feros, Noveria, and Eden Prime were all _in_ the Attican Traverse; as such, it was a neighborhood concern.

"Information is _very_ spotty. I want to check into it, though." He hesitated. "Again, best place to go for confirmation on that would be Omega." Omega was the _de facto_ capital of the Terminus systems, after all, the chaotic region's even-_more_ chaotic answer to Bastion.

"_Fututa_." It was _not_ a polite word in Latin. "And _now_ I can't go with you." She was only hours 'pregnant,' but the procedure was so delicate, and involved so much medical intervention, that she was reluctant to take any chances with it, lest, as Mordin had just reminded her, she'd have to start all over _again_ in a month.

On the other hand, Lilitu _hated_ the thought of Garrus going to Omega without her for backup, hated Omega itself with a passion she usually reserved for living beings. Omega was alive, as far as she was concerned, a malevolent, sentient entity, filled with cruelty and a capacity for evil that usually required actual _sapience_. And at its very heart was Adria T'loak, who, if not responsible for every vile aspect of her domain, certainly _reveled_ in it.

Garrus raised a hand. "Relax. Blood pressure spikes are not what you need right now."

Lilu sat back, taking a couple of deep breaths. "Right. _Gris_ goes with Cohort. Lantar goes with you?"

He nodded, grimly. "If anyone understands the dangers of Omega, it's Nemesis."

"And Archangel." Her voice was quiet in the office.

Garrus nodded. "I'd say we take Ylara with us, but she's pregnant, too."

"She _hates_ Aria. Bad blood two hundred years back, or so I hear. She'd probably go anyway, but yeah, let's not ask her. You'll still need a biotic with you to watch your backs." She frowned.

"Take Sky," Sam suggested.

"I'm not sure we should expose that boy to the seamier side of the galaxy just yet." Garrus didn't actually seem to be joking. "He tends to have a sense of wonder to him. It'd be like taking Rellus with me for backup. I'd prefer to take _you_ with us, to be honest." He glanced across the desk at Jaworski.

"I'm _wounded_, Garrus. You mean that I _don't_ come off as dewy, wide-eyed, and innocent?" Sam's grin, under his moustache, was wicked.

"Take them both, then." Shepard's voice was firm. "Nothing regulates how many Spectres you take with you. And I _really _want you to have enough backup when you get there." _I'd empty the damn base and wipe the station off the map of the galaxy if I could, but that would be the equivalent of declaring war on the Terminus systems, and the Council would probably find that a little unilateral. And they'd be right._

**Elijah**

Life had continued, the way it always seemed to do. Time never really seemed to stop; it just kept grinding on, remorselessly. Caelia's first birthday was coming up; she was a St. Patrick's day child, born on March 17. His mom was very excited about this, but had opted to combine his little sister's party with that for the Vakarian twins, who were turning four years old, ten days later. Eli watched the preparations with a certain amusement. Caelia's baby feathers had all fallen out now, and she had a mouthful of tiny, razor-sharp teeth at this point. She couldn't talk much, but toddled after him every chance she got at home. Turians were quicker to talk than humans; that being said, she only had three or four words so far—_mama, dada, milk, and liya_. The last was, they all _thought_, anyway, as close as she could get to his name, since she always said it when pointing at him, urgently. His parents thought _that_ was pretty amusing, too.

So, one rainy, cold afternoon, when it was far too nasty outside to play handball, and Caelia was home from daycare with a bad case of batarian rotavirus, Elijah was pretty much stuck home babysitting her, while his mom ran out to the store. He was getting surprisingly good at telling when she had a fever, by touch, and when Caelia lifted up her arms and cried, and he lifted her, he could tell, immediately, that she was far too warm. "Come on, Duck," he told her. "Let's get you a damp cloth." He had _no_ idea when his mom had last given her medication, and he didn't think he was really qualified to give Caelia a dunk in the bathtub, the other usual step in taking her fevers down. All this, while trying to study for a trigonometry test, just before their "fall" break."

Thus, when there was a knock at the door, Eli sighed, stood up, Caelia still in his arms, damp cloth over her crest, and went to answer it, crossly. When he saw that Siara was there, he simply looked at her and said, "What?"

The asari girl looked from him, to his little duckling sister, and then back again. "I. . . ah. I wanted to talk to you," she said, bouncing on her toes. "This is a bad time?"

"Yeah." Eli paused, realizing that sounded ungracious. "My sister's sick, my mom's out, and I've got a final tomorrow. Can whatever it is, wait?"

Caelia took that moment to arch her back, creel urgently, and throw up on his shoulder, before starting to cry disconsolately. Elijah gritted his teeth. While he had absolutely no interest in what Siara thought of him, he knew pretty damn well that she'd tell everyone at school tomorrow that he'd been stuck babysitting, and had answered the door covered in baby vomit. While it was all _responsible_ and everything, he was strongly convinced that this would do nothing for his image, and backed away to kick the door shut.

"Wait," Siara said, catching the door before he could close it. "Can I help with anything?"

Eli was already on his way to the sink, moving plates out of the way and turning the water on, as Caelia continued to squall. "Not really," he called back, not turning around. "Unless you want to clean puke off the floor, which I doubt." He tested the water with his elbow, set Caelia on the counter, and started stripping off her clothes. "You're a mess, Duck," he told her, firmly. "No dinosaur for dinner tonight for _you_." Between the need to get her fever down and the need to clean her up, this was the best he thought he could do for the little duckling.

He set her in the sink, letting the water run down the back of her neck, and stripped off his own filthy shirt now, balling the clothes up. Caelia started to shiver and cry even harder now, and he scooped water over her head awkwardly. "Sorry, Duck. Gotta get you cleaned up and cooled down before Mom gets back and throws a fit."

A hand touched his shoulder, and he jerked away, turning. Siara looked up at him a little anxiously. He'd started his growth spurt in the past month, he realized. She hadn't been this short before. "You're still here?"

"I don't know where your towels are."

Eli blinked. _Helpfulness? Huh. Guess she wants my trig notes or something._ "For the floor? Drawer next to the stove. Thanks." He picked Caelia up out of the sink, and, dripping, hauled her across the house now to dry her and dress her. Once dressed, all Caelia seemed to want to do was curl into his shoulder, and he felt tiny teeth clamp on his shoulder. "No! No biting, Duck, that's bad." He worked a finger into her mouth and released the grip, making her cry again. "Biting the person who just cleaned you and is about to give you a bottle of pedia-juice isn't the way to make friends."

By now, Siara was sitting at the kitchen table, watching everything. Eli grimaced a little, feeling like a xenozoological exhibit. _Behold, the human male and his hybrid sibling. Watch the behavior patterns as the adolescent male attempts to nurture the infant. _He got out the bottle, reminded Caelia again, firmly, "Don't _bite _it," and sat down at the table, facing Siara, Caelia in his lap. "Thanks for cleaning up the floor," he finally said. "You want my trig notes, or something?"

"Uh. . . no, I'm passing trigonometry. I don't even need to take the final exam."

_Well, good for you. Must be nice._

Siara fidgeted. "Why do you call your sister a duck? Isn't that a Terran waterbird?"

Not what he expected. "It's an old story, about an egg that rolled into the wrong nest, a duck's nest. When they hatched, all the duck hatchlings except one looked alike, except one, and they all made fun of the one who looked goofy and weird. Caelia here looked like a duckling when she was born. Skinny, angry, and feathery." He caught himself smiling, and wiped it off of his face. "Anyhow, the ducks all grow up, and the ugliest one turns out to be a swan. Much prettier bird than a duck. All the other ducks are sad because they realize that they were stupid and mean. The end."

She stared at him for a moment, then sighed. "Look, Elijah. How did you talk to me, the way you did, at the clinic last month?" She fiddled with his datapad on the table, until he reached across and took it out of her hands, firmly. "I've been watching you since then, and you're. . . you're just _you_. You're passing turian, but you're not taking asari. You have no other asari friends. And Kella never said anything about you speaking high-tongue, so. . ." Siara spread her hands. "How?"

He just looked at her. She was being as nice as she could be, but he didn't like her, and she was trespassing very close to things he didn't want to talk about, didn't want to share. "It's personal," Elijah said, at last. His jaw was set, and, if he'd known it, there was a certain _dark _look to him right now that would have reminded his mother, not of her first husband, but of her _second_, as if traits could be passed on through the spirit, not just through blood and bone. "If that's all you wanted to talk about, I think you should leave."

She stood up, looking hurt and offended, and suddenly switched languages. _"You said that you had shared Kella's light_," Siara said. _"She never shared herself with me."_

"_She never shared herself with anyone. My fair one thought that it made her a bad asari, but could not open herself as easily as a book, meant for all to read and pore over."_ Elijah flinched. "Stop that." He didn't want to forget Kella, clung to the shards and shreds of her left in his mind, but _hated_ when it just. . . popped out of him like that. As if it weren't really under his control, and opened him up, like a key in a lock.

"_She __**did**__ share herself with you. You. . . __**kept**__ some of her?" _Siara sounded both horrified and interested at the same time. "That shouldn't be _possible_ for a human." She reached across the table towards him, grazing his bare arm with her fingertips, and he recoiled from her as from a snake.

"Get out." The words were quietly spoken.

Siara's face crumpled a bit. "Elijah, please. She was my friend, too. I just. . . "

"What, you want to share what she gave me, at the end? I let her _mom_ share that, Siara. I've had quite enough other people rummaging around inside my head. Her mom has the right. The damn psychologists at school, well, that's their job, not that I'm telling them _anything_ about _this_. This is private." Eli glared at her now. "Now you want to go trampling through there, too? Maybe I should sell tickets." It was probably hostile and unfair of him, but he simply didn't care. Eli stood up, set Caelia in her high chair, where she burbled happily, drinking her pedia-juice, and went to the door. "Please leave," he said, opening the door.

At that moment, his mom walked up, carrying groceries. Eli grabbed for the first bag to help her, and realized that he had not yet put a shirt on, and that Siara was _still_ sitting at the kitchen table, looking as if she were going to cry. _Oh, god, what __**else**__ can go wrong?_

"Mom, Caelia threw up ten minutes ago. Gave her a dunk in the sink, changed her, gave her some juice," he said, explaining, but deliberately not in a hurry about it. "Siara came over to ask for some help with something. But she was just leaving now." He grabbed his datapad, turned and headed for his room, looking for a clean shirt. As he pulled it over his head, he could hear his mom and Siara talking out in the kitchen. _Wonderful. _He closed the door, dropped down on his bed, and went back to studying for his exam.

From that point on, Siara seemed to be underfoot every time he turned around. She even took to watching the handball games after school, something she'd never done before. "I feel like I'm being stalked," Eli grumbled to Dara and Rellus one day at the pistol range. He wouldn't have brought it up on his own, but Dara had asked why Siara suddenly had taken to following him around, and he'd ranted for a bit, taking the opportunity to vent. "At least she can't get on base without a pass. Of course, she _must _ have found someone to bring her on-base that first day, when Caelia was sick. . . . " He fired again, and Rellus moved over, correcting his stance for him. It was a little annoying, how _good_ Rel was at _everything_, but then again, the turian boy _had_ been practicing with firearms at least once a week for close to six years now, if not longer.

He'd told them about the asari high-tongue, mostly because he'd _had_ to; they'd both stared at him one day when it started just pouring out of him at sparring practice, like diarrhea of the mouth, or something. Now Dara shook her head. "I don't know, Eli. I can't stand Siara myself, so I have no idea what's going through her head. At a guess, she's lonely. She was the only asari her age before Kella got here, then she had Kella as pretty much her personal property for a while. She ah, also never got to. . ." Dara went pink, and Rellus chuckled. "Well, _you know_, with Kella. You're probably about the closest thing as Siara currently _has_ to a friend." 

"And I can't stand her."

"Sad, huh?"

Rel added, with a bit of a shrug, "I have no idea about any of it, Eli, but I doubt she's interested in you, personally. It's probably just what's stuck in your head. Don't take it seriously."

"Figured that out already on my own." Eli sighed. _Maybe I should just let her take her damn look inside my head and then she'll leave me alone already. Except. . . she could take it all away, couldn't she? And I don't want that._

Fall break came, and Eli only ventured off the base in the company of friends—quick games of handball, here and there, sparring three nights a week, a trip to go rock-climbing with Mazz, that sort of thing. Siara suddenly started showing up at sparring, of all places, sitting along a wall and watching. Silent. Not disturbing anyone. Just _there_. It was _really_ annoying, and it made him much more aggressive on the mats. . . which, in turn, meant that he got smacked down harder by Rel and Rel's father, Allardus, who were running the practice sessions right now, since Garrus, Lantar, and Dara's father were _all_ off-base at the same time, god knows where in the galaxy. Commander Shepard and Ylara would drop by, and occasionally would offer comments, but they neither would step on the mats for the moment.

One night, as he was packing up to leave, he overheard Rel and Dara talking. For three weeks, anytime they spoke to each other, unless they were in a conversation with someone else, they'd been exclusively speaking to each other in turian at the moment. . . .well, stumbling through the turian, in her case. Immersion-learning, she'd explained to Eli, when he asked. He wasn't clear on why she thought it was necessary, but it meant she was getting good at it _very_ fast. Dinner at Allardus and Solanna's house three nights a week, also only speaking turian then, too, probably helped, as well.

He didn't think they realized he could hear them; the words were little more than soft whispers, and he didn't turn his head to look. _Mellis, amatra; _sweetness, sweetheart, affectionate words Lantar always used for Eli's mother. _Adamare_; he knew that one, too. Love. _Iunkundita _was trickier, meaning pleasure, derived from physical activity. You could experience _iunkundita _from a well-sparred match, or a good run; you could feel it like a warm glow after a long day's work that showed good results. But in context. . . Eli glanced up, across at them, could see the way Rel looked at Dara. It was the way Lantar sometimes looked at his mom, late at night, before they'd go to their room. They weren't even touching, but they were full of each other; then Rel leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Dara's. That was all.

Eli sighed, a knot of jealousy working its way into his chest. _Yeah, they're doing stuff. _ He tried very hard not to picture _what_, precisely, that might entail, any more than he allowed himself to think about what his mom and Lantar obviously did at night in their bed. _And yeah, I bet it's all covered by the contract. My dad helped __**write**__ their contract, so I guess he knows what they're doing, too._ It was a confusing feeling. Dara had given him his very first kiss. It had barely been a brush of the lips, and he'd certainly had lots more kisses from Kella—but he couldn't escape the feeling that if he'd just paid better attention, it would be him that Dara was looking at with that glow now, not Rel.

He shoved the thoughts away, scowling to himself. It didn't matter. They were both his friends. And he'd been pretty happy, getting to know Kella. But now he was back to default status. Lots of friends, but always somehow alone.

"Catch you guys tomorrow at the range," he called over, seeing their heads jerk around. No, they hadn't known anyone was left in the room. He both envied them their total absorption, and was _mad_ at them for it, at the same time, and turned to walk out, his smile falling off his face.

Outside, Eli took a deep breath of the chill air, and exhaled all his irritation with it. None of it mattered. They were his friends. That was it. That was how the world was.

"Hey," said a light voice behind him.

Eli sighed. "Yeah, what, Siara?"

"So long as you're down in the valley, would you like to go get something to eat at Gardener's?" She tried a smile.

"I can't put it any more clearly than this, okay? I don't _like_ you, Siara. Leave me alone." He headed down the street. He was supposed to be staying at Mazz's house tonight, which was always a weird experience. The krogan and his father didn't seem to know quite what to do with the nice furniture they now owned, that creaked under their weight, for starters.

"I'm trying to be nice to you, you know. You _could_ try to be nice back." She was following him. Again. He was already simmering from her constant presence, and the jealous worm in him, which he despised in himself, had set his internal temperature to boil.

Eli turned on her. "You're _not_ nice, Siara. Pretending to like me isn't going to get you what you want."

"Oh, I'm not _pretending_ to like you. I'm trying to figure out what Kella saw in you." _That_ was pure Siara, eyes cool, evaluating. "You're one person at school. _Everyone's_ friend. Not as smart or as talented as Dara—oh, don't get me wrong, I still think she's from a backwater province on a backwater planet, but at least I could see why Kella would want to share with her—"

Eli started to protest, and Siara held up a hand as they stood under a lamppost. "Oh, I know she _didn't_. It's clear that Dara never would have. Doesn't matter. So, you're not as smart as your human friend, you're not as strong as your krogan friend, Mazz. You'll never have what Rel has. . . the way he has of making everyone see things his way, follow along after him. And yet, everyone at school seems to like you, tolerate you, but there's _nothing_ about you that's _that _interesting." She tipped her head to the side, as if he were an interesting problem. "And then, I visit you at home, and you're taking care of a xenobiological miracle like your little sister as if she were your own child, as if it were. . . _normal_ or commonplace, at least, and for a moment there, there was more to you. And then you shut it all closed again. Your anger is usually more turian than human, though, which is interesting." She was talking rapidly now, and switched languages, "_And when you get angry, like you are tonight, seeing your friends, their secrets laid bare, their light almost an affront to your eyes. . . then perhaps you might understand why your light has cast me into shadow. Please, share your light with me, I beg. Let me not live in darkness and alone."_

It was a very formal request; well-mannered enough to be given to a matriarch. Eli's jaw clenched, however. _"Take what you will, if you wish it, and be damned to you."_

She recoiled from his harshness, and her pain actually looked sincere. "Here? In the _street_?"

"You don't even have to touch me to do it, right?" He looked past her.

"You don't want-?" Siara's voice faltered. _"You have the language, but not the knowledge, perhaps? Touching is important, opening to one another, for sharing."_

"You want to share with her, you go ahead." _Yeah. Always knew it had nothing to do with __**me**__._ "Otherwise, leave me the _fuck _alone. I'm tired of your goddamn games." He pulled his bag back up onto his shoulder.

Siara put her hand on his other arm. "Eli, _please_." Were those actual _tears_ in her eyes? He couldn't fathom _why_. "Why must you make this so difficult? Fine. Here, in the street, with no touching, not as it _should_ be, no caring, no friendship, no love." Her eyes went black, and she whispered, very quietly, "Embrace eternity."

He turned his face away, feeling tears burn in his eyes, but not letting them fall.

_You're __**blocking**__ me?_ Her mental voice was astonished. _How are you doing this? __**Why**__ are you doing this? Eli, let me in!_

_You wanted her. You can share her. But I will not share with you. _

_Give it to me, Eli. Give me the pain. Give me the loss. Give me the loneliness._

_No._ It was like trying to swim out of a whirlpool, and he had no idea which direction was up. Arms around his neck now, trying to pull his head down, lips against his. _You're not __**her**__._

_No, I'm not. But I hurt, too. Share with me, please, share with me. Make the dark go away._

Kissing her back now, hesitantly letting her into his mind, his secret places. _Don't take it away._

_Eli, I can't __**take**__ it. It's been shared. All I can do is share with you. Is that why you've been so afraid? That sharing would lessen the gift? No, no, it makes it more, makes it greater, do you see now. . . ?_

Waves of pleasure now. Different from Ylara; that had been impersonal, sad, distant. Being read, like a book, eyes moving over each line of text, leafing through the pages, skimming for passages that were of interest, discarding the rest.

So different from Kella, too. Kella had been weak at the end, almost unable to touch him, fading, leaving; beautiful, but a thing of pastels and shimmers, ethereal in her loveliness, but going black and blank.

Not so this time. Now there were vivid colors and warmth and touch and it was all at the same time and all too much and not enough at once, unknotting the pain and the hurt and the confusion and the feeling, ever-so-faintly, of _mor'loci _ inside of him, opening them up, examining them, giving and taking and. . . .

After a very long moment, he pulled away, unwrapped her arms from around him. "Thank you," he said, not knowing what else to _say_. "I have to go now." Elijah paused. "Did you want me to walk you home?"

Siara stared up at him. "No," she answered, quietly. "I. . . didn't you _like_ it?"

"Of course I did." Eli rubbed his hand along the back of his neck. "_Like_, well, doesn't even cover it." He sighed, and added, almost out of reflex, _"And I thank you for the gift of self that you have given me._"Formal, polite. "I just don't know what else to say. Or do."

"Oh." She looked up at him. "Then, if you wish, you could walk me home. Though I know the way perfectly well." A little snippy, that. Authentic Siara.

Eli walked her home, and left her at her front door, before heading to Mazz's, where he covered over his confusion by laughing and talking with his friend until bedtime. Then he stared up at the ceiling in the darkness, and shook his head at the whole evening, start to finish. _At least I know perfectly well that this will never happen again._

**Rellus**

They were doing their best to make the most of the time they had remaining before winter closed most of the mountains down, due to the danger of avalanches. Their _allora_ meadow had gone from a green cathedral to a scarlet one now, and Rellus and Dara spent at least an hour or two there every Saturday morning, talking, biting, and talking some more. Her turian was improving rapidly, but he could see the frustration in her when she wanted to say something more abstract than her current, very limited vocabulary would allow her to do. _"Say it in English then,"_ he told her, in turian.

"When my dad comes back," she paused, and translated that portion, dutifully, "_Q'ubi vates remmeo_," and then continued, "I'm going to have to talk to him about military grade gene mods. Alliance soldiers get them in boot camp, Rel. At eighteen, after the growth spurts are all done. Dr. Solus told me I'm done with mine. I've topped out at five foot nine or so." She poked him in the ribs. "You need to slow down, or you're going to have a permanent crick in your neck, leaning down for the rest of your life."

"I think that's a given, _mellis._" Slowly stroking his fingers through her hair, mostly relaxed, for the moment.

"I'm just saying, my dad's going to want to know why I want to do them two years early." Dara looked at him anxiously. "You ready to deal with that?"

"I'm buying our wedding knives on Palaven as soon as I get there," he told her, firmly. "The moment I get back, I'm putting my paint on your face. I only get two weeks' leave after boot camp to get that all done in, and then I'll be assigned somewhere, and won't _have_ leave for six months, except for family issues. A mate finishing boot camp herself, and being assigned someplace would count, but little else. All of which means, if we don't get the rites finished right when I get back, we'll miss our window to get _you_ to bootcamp, as well. I won't have you missing the chance at citizenship, _amatra_. And I can't make my intentions any clearer to your father than I've already done. If he's _surprised_ by any of this, he hasn't been paying attention."

"It's not that he doesn't pay attention. He does. It's just that I think he's put this all in a box in his head labeled 'don't worry about it till she's eighteen.'"

Rellus sighed. "I'll talk with Uncle Garrus about it when they all get back." Lazily, he pulled her to him, letting her head fall on his chest, looking up at the scarlet leaves and the blue sky, trying to burn this moment into his memory and his spirit. He glanced down at the tumble of dark hair spilling across his chest. "Turians don't usually go in for gene mods."

"No need. You're all _naturally_ strong and fast with good reflexes and stuff like that. The universe is very unfair that way." Little nip of teeth. She was feeling playful, and he liked that. A lot. Having these weekends made the week_nights_ less urgent, let him focus better on school and sparring and everything else that needed his attention. Simply knowing that release, and even playful relaxation were _available_ made it all so much _easier_ to deal with. It still wasn't as much as he would have liked, and he felt the contract was miserably unfair to her, because he could give her so little in return, but still. . . it helped. Enormously.

"So, what do they entail?"

"They get dripped into the bloodstream with a saline IV over the course of a couple of hours, several treatments worth spread out over a few weeks. Kind of like old-fashioned chemo therapy." Dara sat up a little, bracing on her elbows, looking down at him. "Also means I'm going to be sick as a _dog_ for some of it." She made a face. "Kind of why I'm trying to decide if I should do them while you're gone, and spare you the hassle of holding my hair back while I throw up, or if I'd rather you be available to hold my hand for it."

"_While I'm here,"_ he told her, slipping back into turian, to force her to practice.

"_Glad I am to hear you say that," _she managed, haltingly. _"The presence of my mate is my strength."_

"Nice," he told her in English, grinning. "Maybe a little unintentionally poetic, but very nice."

She stuck her tongue out at him, and he added, _"And which alterations to your force of life would you seek?"_

Dara screwed up her face, sighed, and opened her omnitool to her dictionary. _"Improvement to reflexes, probably. Better eyesight, closer to that of a pilot or bird of prey. More akin to yours, beloved._" Back into English for a moment, she added, clinically, "You're only supposed to take about three of them. Otherwise, you can start getting some _nasty_ side effects."

"_And none of these traits are inherited by your sons or daughters?" Tal'mae_ now, for the hell of it, which got him a dirty look, followed by an expression of intense concentration.

"_The inheritance of my children. . . _um. . . remains. Crap. _Constarum?_"

"_Constarum_, yeah, good."

"_Remains unabridged_."

He snorted a little. "_Unaltered."_

"Damnit." She glanced at him, and he could see she was weighing saying something.

"What?" Back in English; the single human word amused him in its bluntness and brevity.

"I'm not sure if I'd be breaking a medical confidence thing to talk to you about something." She frowned. "Have your aunt and uncle mentioned anything lately to your family?"

"About trying for more kids? Yeah." He pulled her to him tightly. "You're safe." Rel grinned at her. "Thinking about what you'd pass on brought it to mind?"

"Yeah. My _god, _Rel, the number of injections alone to _prepare_ the body is scary enough." Her eyes were a little wide.

"Won't be for a while for us." He bit her shoulder gently. The visions from the simulation were fading from their original perfect clarity, but he remembered well enough what she'd looked like, pregnant with _their_ own hybrid child, the fierce, possessive joy the sight had sparked in him. He was in _no_ rush on that front, however. _"Weren't we supposed to be practicing your turian?"_

"_We were practicing."_ Still so halting, still having to think about it. _"I like listening to you speak in your tongue, though, beloved. Though I understand but a little."_

"Mmm. We've only got a little time left here before we have to get to the range." Rellus rolled over, grinning down at her. "Practice time. Let's see how much of this you understand."

"Rel!"

"Shh. Listen." He leaned down, and whispered in her ear, "_A'petentia tulla eliir animae oporte meus; a'petentia tulla eliir kogitae oporte meus_; _a'petentia tulla eliir oporte korporae meus._"

"Cheater. That's _tal'mae_."

He grinned.

"You want that my spirit should be yours?"

"That's a very. . . literal translation." He paused. "Is it?"

"You know it is." She almost stuck her tongue out at him again. "Let's see, you want that my mind should be yours?"

"Yes."

"You want that my. . . oh." She grinned at him, flushing pink. "I see where this is going."

Rellus laughed. "Just memorize it, and I'll teach you the answers later." His omnitool chirped, letting them know that they had to leave _now_ to make it to the range in time, and he still had to help pull leaves out of Dara's hair before they left.

At the rifle range, Elijah was already setting up for pistol work when they arrived. They hadn't quite been able to _miss_ the fact that when they'd left sparring Friday night, Siara and their friend had been locked in what had certainly looked like a passionate kiss. After all of Eli's griping about Siara, Rel didn't quite know what to make of that, and had simply blinked down at Dara, not passing judgment either way. He wasn't sure if it was just human nature or just Elijah's nature in play. He certainly wasn't going to bring it up.

Dara, on the other hand, had looked a little confused. "Afternoon, Eli," she said now, getting her rifle out of the locker.

"Hey."

Nothing more for a while. Then Dara, after a perfect ten shots right to the center of her target, called back over to Eli's position, "So, how's Siara today?"

"Dunno." Elijah glanced over, a hint of guilt in his face, accompanied by something else. "I let her touch Kella's memory last night. I'm pretty sure that'll be the end of it. She got what she wanted, after all." He pulled the clip from his semi-automatic, reloaded, and started on a fresh target.

Rellus chuckled. "You know something, Eli?"

"What?"

"When you're mad about something, you look _exactly_ like Lantar. It's uncanny."

"What are you _talking_ about?" Eli safed the pistol and set it down, turning to scowl at Rellus. "I grow scales or something?"

Rellus just grinned at him. "No. But you square off your shoulders the same way, your jaw clenches—if you had our mandibles, they'd be flexing. You even huff out through your nose the same way." Chuckling to himself, he added, "You've definitely become the son of his spirit."

Eli scowled. "He said he was _mor'loci._ How can I have his spirit?"

Rel shrugged. "There's _being_ _mor'loci_, and there's _thinking_ you're _mor'loci_. I think he always had his spirit. He just thought he didn't deserve it."

Elijah blinked, and Rel could see him thinking about that one, eventually picking up his pistol and going back to work again.


	30. Chapter 30: Returns

**Chapter 30: Returns**

_**Author's note**__: In response to some questions: Thane, in my continuity, is dead. While I'm aware that a 6 month prognosis can last for years (my dad's sure did), that doesn't happen for everyone, and it's been five years since ME2 in this storyline. I've found places and resolutions for almost every character except for Jacob at this point; I haven't a __clue__ as to where he is. He was a boring character, so I guess he's off being boring somewhere else. :-P_

_I don't push a particular ethnicity for Shepard, much as I don't dwell on her blue eyes and dark hair; every reader out there has a different image in their head for __their__ Shepard, and when I read someone else's fic, (which I rarely do—I want to stay in my hermetically sealed bubble and neither respond to someone else's writing, nor crib ideas from them inadvertently), it hits me, strongly, as 'wrong' when I see 'tousled blond hair.' I leave __your__ image intact, as much as I can. Also, dwelling on the physical description makes me think 'romance novel,' which is what I hope I'm __not__ writing here._

_That being said, her mama was Oxford-educated in Classics, and taught at Harvard before becoming a colonial schoolteacher. Sure, it was a step down, but if you want more than one kid on Earth, in an era of strong population controls, you'd best become a colonist, yeah?_

_Regarding the length of the updates: Each averages 20 pages in MS Word; 1" margins. This chapter is fairly long, being 25 pages in Word._

**Garrus**

_Back on __fucking__ Omega again,_ he thought, and didn't regret the obscenity in his thoughts one bit. _Spirits, how I hate this place._ He, Lantar, Jaworski stepped out of the decontamination chamber of the _Dunkirk, _borrowed from the Alliance for this trip. All of them wore full armor. They'd opted for a more uniform look, for what little psychological advantage it would give them; matte black armor, with a red Spectre logo at the throat. Small. Hard to see. Jaworski had commented that it reminded him of a deadly spider on Earth, called a black widow, and noted that the color combination would probably make humans recoil on a subconscious level.

Sky followed them out the hatch; he wore no armor, but the psychological impact of the huge brood warrior didn't need any more signs or symbols to have an impact on those who saw them. People who'd never seen a rachni in the flesh had seen them in countless vids; historical and fictional alike, always alien, always inimical, always the mindless enemy, out to destroy the rest of the galaxy. Garrus felt his mandibles twitch in amusement as the various dock riff-raff and beggars, so common to Omega, who had already started to back away a little at the sight of two turians and a human, all bulking large in black armor and weapons, absolutely _vaporized_ when they saw Sky.

_Much fear-song. Constant harmonic in many minds. Fear, and fear of pain. Hunger-song, but it is power that all crave, power to protect themselves? Why do their workers fear their soldiers? Why do their soldiers crave, and crave, and . . . . _Sky's song was agitated and confused.

Garrus took a step back and put a hand on the brood warrior's thorax, the closest thing he could think of to a reassuring gesture. "Hang in there," he told Sky. "We've survived this place before."

"Barely," Lantar said in their radios, grimly. He was carrying his gun in his hands, not slung over his back, and was making no pretence about looking around for trouble.

"Put your gun up," Garrus told him. "When they come for us, it won't be in the docking bay." He thought about it for a moment. "Probably, anyway."

Lantar slid the gun to its carrier, his movements reluctant.

A batarian came up the ramp for them. One of Aria's enforcers, undoubtedly. "Spectres," he said, and turned his head and spat.

_Would it be show of strength to slam his head into the wall now, or would it look insecure? _Garrus settled for simply staring the batarian down through his visor; a task made easier by the fact that he kept his helmet polarized. "Aria wants to see you at Afterlife. Now."

Garrus shrugged. He knew it would annoy the batarian, but he'd be damned if he was going to look like he'd jump if Aria said _hop_.

"Have it your own way, turian," the batarian grunted, and leaned up against the wall. Garrus shouldered past him, gesturing for the rest of the squad to follow him.

_Black songs, gray songs_, Sky sang nervously in their minds. _Sings-to-the-Past only watches. Sings-Vengeance and Sings-Regrets filled with blacks and reds. This is a bad place._

_Guess I know what __**my**__ name is, in his mind,_ Garrus thought, a little dark humor, as they turned the corner, heading for the core of the station. Residents scurried out of their way, and he got a flash—maybe from Sky—of how the residents saw them. A line of three men, different species, in the night-black of space, the void that, one hull breach away, could yawn and swallow them up. Followed by the brood warrior, still, rustling at their heels.

They headed for the doors of Afterlife now, and Garrus' sensitive hearing could pick up the music thrumming through the air at least a city block away. "I see the music hasn't improved," Lantar said, quietly.

"Did you expect it to?"

"I didn't expect _anything_ to improve, so, no."

"You boys need me to handle anything?" Jaworski asked, quietly. "You're on edge."

"We'll be fine." Garrus moved past the bouncer, who glanced at them, then quickly looked away again. He opened the door, and they stepped in, neon lights stabbing into their eyes, a wall of sound assaulting them, vibrating up through the deckplates. He was aware of Sky shifting around, picking where he put his feet very carefully, as if the rachni were walking across very hot sand. "You going to be okay, Sky?"

_Many voices inside. They join in the song, though it is. . . machine-song. They give themselves to it, to each other. Losing themselves. Many are blurred, muffled. Using the song, using the chemicals, to sing anything but themselves? _Sky's voice was _very_ confused now, and Garrus had to give the rachni credit for having been able to walk this far into Afterlife without being overwhelmed. Sky had, mostly, either fought humanoids, or been around Spectres and their families so far; all people with clear, forceful identities. He had never been subjected to the psychic force of a humanoid slum before, where people really would rather give up their individuality to the group, for power, for control, for safety. Would really rather be _anyone_ but themselves, to find their way outside of their meaningless, powerless, miserable lives, even for a moment. By any means possible.

_They love the darkness, crave the darkness. Relief, release, but no safety. Hunt-song? Prey-song? Is it a game? Do not understand._

"You're doing fine, Sky," Sam told the rachni, dropping back himself now to stand beside the brood warrior as Sky trembled in place. "Just a little further now. Don't let 'em see you sweat." Garrus could hear the grin in the human's voice. "Not that any of you boys sweat. Damn if I'm not, though."

The human's good humor gave them all a reason to relax, just for a moment, and then they stepped out of the long corridor, into the center of Aria's hive, her web. The dancers gyrating on their poles, the strobing lights, the pounding, incessant music, the crowds. At least the crowds melted away in front of them, dissipated to the sides, as well, though they closed in behind them again, like water sealing over the wound a ship leaves in the waves. Up and around, and there she was, in her lair. Garrus had been here too many times, with Shepard, not to know the way. In his earpiece, he could hear Lantar growling softly.

"Steady, Lantar," he told him over the channel. "I hate this place as much as you do. And for most of the same damn reasons."

Louder now, as he stepped forward. "Aria."

"Vakarian," the asari said, sitting back into her chair as if it were a throne, or a divan. "I'm glad to see you're not wearing the _other_ armor."

_Well, that clears up whether or not she's known that I'm Archangel. Have to say, I always wondered. _

She flicked a glance at Lantar. "I heard you boys were getting the band back together, as it were. I hope you realize that broken instruments are never . . . quite _whole_ again. Never quite play in tune." The words held subtle and not-so-subtle barbs. _She knows who Lantar is. She knows the Blood Pack tortured and broke him last time he was on Omega._

Her gaze moved to Sky, evaluating, and Garrus felt a faint crackle in the air, a slight pressure. Biotic energies.

_Do not seek to test me, cold-song asari_, Sky said, and there was a darkness, a depth to his voice that usually wasn't there. Usually, his mental song sounded like someone scraping idly on a cello, mid-ranged, capable of highs and lows, cheerful and content. At the moment, it was in a bass range, and made Garrus' temples throb, and he winced, hoping that it wouldn't continue for long; he might start bleeding at the nose and ears, if it did. Sky continued, _The songs of your people are strong. Your melody, cold-singer, powerful. But __**I**__ sing harmonies with queens._

Aria turned her face aside, sharply, as if some invisible riposte had gotten through her guard, nicking her face. "You travel with fascinating new companions," she told Garrus now, as if nothing had happened. "Though I've found little on your human companion." She leaned forward now, staring at Jaworski, who looked right through her, eyes blank. _Cop-eyes_. Garrus recognized that expression from his own face. "Tell me, human, do you like my dancers?" She gestured to the girls on their poles, slightly above her head, and behind.

The question was a test, of course. Almost everything Aria said was meant to assess, to poke, to prod, to gain leverage.

Jaworski's eyes went up for a moment, assessed, and came back down again. "They're very agile, ma'am."

"You should stop by later," she purred. "I'm sure one of them would be happy to help you relax. It's good to relax, don't you think? Especially after such a stressful year."

Jaworski actually laughed, a full-throated chuckle that Garrus noticed actually made Aria blink. "Thank you, ma'am, but while I enjoy _looking_ as much as the next guy, my relaxation needs are _well_-met."

"How interesting," she said, quietly. "And how _is_ the lovely Ms. Goto doing?"

Garrus could _feel_ Jaworski stiffen, saw the eyes shift from blank to cold. "Just dandy, ma'am." Thicker drawl. Thin ice.

"And your _beautiful_ little girl?" Very soft now, silky. Testing. Garrus shifted his weight forward, in case he would have to move, saw Lantar do the same.

"Jus' _peachy_, ma'am. Doin' just _fine_. Bless your li'l heart for askin'." His voice was quiet, but the eyes were absolutely blank. Sam had once explained to Garrus, laughing, over cards, "_Bless your heart_, is just fine in my dialect of English. But when people in my part of the world get over-polite, well, what we're really saying is the opposite of what we mean. _Bless your __little__ heart_ is pretty much the politest way you'll ever hear a human say _fuck you __and__ the horse you rode in on_._" _

Garrus had laughed, as he'd been meant to; at the moment, he didn't feel like laughing at all. Aria had implicitly, subtly, threatened Sam's mate and his daughter, for the sake of seeing how the human would react. There were switches in human's heads, he knew, trigger points, just like turians had. Boot camp, for both species, was an indoctrination process designed to remove the social constraints that usually padded those triggers. And threatening mates and younglings was the fastest way to get males of either species to take the safety cover off and press the 'kill' button.

Apparently, Jaworski passed Aria's little test, because she leaned back now, returning her gaze to Garrus. "The day that _Archangel_ comes back to my station, is the day he'll die for good." She gestured to the chair beside hers, giving permission to sit.

Garrus sat down, though he'd have preferred to remain standing, and spread his arms out over the back of the chair, projecting confidence. "The day Archangel comes back to Omega . . . will be the day Omega has a new queen." It could be construed as a threat, or as a promise not to return under that identity until there was new leadership. Two edges to the sword.

Aria laughed, softly. Her laughter was a cutting sound; broken glass. "Shepard rarely lets you off the leash, Vakarian. I understand you're looking for information?" Her smile chilled him. "Sometimes, I'm amenable to cooperating with Shepard. When it suits my needs."

"Lystheni," he replied, tersely. "We'd like to ask a few of them some questions."

"Hmm," Aria replied. "They haven't really been _bothering_ anyone here lately. So quiet. Keep to themselves. _Model citizens_, really." Another laugh like broken glass. "There was so much disturbance the last few times you were here. The plague, for instance, left so much open space in the living quarters. And of course, there was that whole regrettable Archangel incident. I understand there were some storage bays left empty. Other than all the bodies, of course, but lystheni are so. . . industrious. And the resident vorcha are always so hungry, of course." She smiled languidly. "Tell me, Vakarian. Did I ever _thank_ Shepard properly, for your last visit here? While the _ardat-yakshi_ didn't try to hunt _me_, she _was_ bad for business, on some levels." Aria's eyes couldn't quite meet his, thanks to the polarized visor. "I'm surprised you didn't shoot the bitch yourself."

"The justicar wanted to kill the fugitive herself." Revealing no information, tone empty.

"It's sad, when mothers and daughters fall out." _Interesting. Her information sources are very good. _Aria sneered a little now. "Was there anything else?"

"We've been hearing about shipyards being built in the Terminus systems."

"So?"

"You might consider how bad _war_ is for business." Garrus kept his voice hard. "Sure, arms dealers make a killing, but refugees, flooding the station? Strains on supplies, resources? Who wants that?"

"Blood Pack," she said, harshly. "Have some dealings with the batarians. Maybe they know something, maybe they don't." She shrugged, insouciantly. "Who can say."

Garrus stood. "Thanks for your time, Aria."

She couldn't resist one more barb, as they walked away. "Vakarian? Sidonis?"

They paused, backs to her, swinging their heads around slightly.

"Your children really _are_ beautiful, you know. Unique." She paused. "Unique is always without price."

"Keep moving, Lantar," Garrus said, quietly, into their radios.

"I know. If I were alone here, though, I'd take a shot at her."

"It'd be suicide."

"Dying would be worth it, to take her out."

"Doubt Ellie would agree."

Lantar sighed. "Probably not. Still. . . "

"I know."

They got out of Afterlife, and all three humanoids had to take off their helmets, feeling choked. Lantar and Garrus were breathing rapidly in anger, steam fogging the inside of their helmets; Jaworski wiped the sweat off his forehead. Sky bristled a little to the side, echoing their emotions. _Vile_, he sang softly. _She plays games, that one. Deception-song, so many levels down. No truth but her own power._

Jaworski shook his head. "Did we really _have_ to deal with her? I felt like I was in south Jersey, talking with a mob boss."

Garrus nodded. "Makes moving around the station a hell of a lot easier, having at least her tacit permission to be here." His mandibles twitched. "Lantar and I have both tried it the other way, before."

Lantar started taking longer, deeper breaths, trying to control the rage reaction in him, and, after a moment, nodded. "She doesn't necessarily move against you openly, but she'll feed information to the people you're chasing. I suspect that's one of the ways I got caught here, before. Sure, a dying merc saw my face, but we're all just clan paint and scales to other species." He growled, low now. "I want to burn this place, Garrus."

"I know." _Spirits, how I know._ "There _are_ innocents here, though." He looked at Jaworski and Sky. "We tried to protect them, once upon a time." Garrus looked away. "Didn't work."

Jaworski nodded. "I want to hear the whole story. Right on down through this _ardat-yakshi _crap that keeps coming up. Kind of tired of feeling like I walked in halfway through the vid." He grinned quickly, and again, Garrus was glad they'd brought the human along. He and Sky were keeping him and Lantar balanced, he realized. They all were, really. Checks and balances. Who watches the watchers, and all that.

"We'll tell the whole thing on the way," Garrus promised, pulling his helmet back on. He'd never hear the _end_ of it if he _didn't_ wear it on Omega and happened to get hurt again, after all.

"You think they're holed up in our old base?" Lantar asked into the radio, once he'd secured his own helmet.

"She did everything but tap-dance on that point, so yeah."

They grabbed an air-car, and as they changed sections of the station, Garrus and Lantar, as promised, told the other two the long story of their time on Omega. Sky's song touched their minds, near the end. _Pain-songs over_, he told them, quietly. _No death-songs sung for either of you, your harmonies are not over. You sing together once more, more voices joined with yours, young voices, too. But memory-song powerful here. Black and gray and violet, like storm made of ash. Think of children-songs, think of mates and life-songs. Better thoughts. Better harmonies._

Garrus was grateful for the comforting thoughts, but it didn't help, entirely. Getting out of the aircar and walking towards the old base, through the twisty passages, he almost vibrated with tension. Could see again the waves of mercenaries heading towards him, picking them off one by one, until she had come, with Miranda and Jacob.

Not aware, at first, of who she was, armor concealing every part of her except her spirit. The way she moved. Thinking, for a moment, that her spirit had come back from death itself to collect his, the way old heroes of myth were sometimes collected right from the battlefield on which they died. He'd laughed at himself a little, darkly. _Who am I think to think I'd deserve to be taken directly by the spirits?_

Then the helmet had come off, spill of dark hair, familiar, soft, human face. New scars—lots of them. Glimmer of cybernetics below. He'd taken off his own then, and her tired face had broken into a smile, opened her arms, spoken his name. He'd been too achingly tired from four days without a break of combat and adrenaline, too broken in heart and in spirit, to really reciprocate. And, honestly, still a little convinced that she was a ghost, to be honest, or at least some vision conjured by his own exhaustion. A part of his subconscious, broken off from itself, trying to delude him into thinking it was all right to lay down his burdens, and just rest.

"They've redecorated," Lantar said, after a moment. "Lower area, past the bridge? It's barricaded off."

So it was; a small hatch now appeared in the middle of an otherwise seamless wall at the end of the bridge.

"Want to go knock?" Jaworski offered.

They advanced, all together, hands never far from weapons, and Garrus did exactly that. "No answer," Lantar said, after a moment. "What a shame." He pulled out a block of explosive material and a timer, and showed them both to Garrus, tipping his head inquiringly.

Garrus pounded on the door with the butt of his rifle again, and called, loudly, "We're just here to talk. Open the door and it can be a friendly conversation. Make us come in after you, and it'll be an _unfriendly_ one."

They waited.

"Think the old downstairs route is blocked?" Lantar asked, after a minute or two.

"_I_ blocked it myself. If they're as smart as everyone thinks they are, then yeah." Garrus frowned. "Sky, you picking up _anything?"_

_Few lifesongs. Perhaps five, but they are. . . odd. High-pitched, tempo quick. Afraid, but not afraid. Be wary. They __expected__ trouble? More games. _

_Great. _"Lantar?"

"Yeah?"

"Blow the damn thing open."

The other three retreated to the far end of the bridge, while Lantar set the charges, and hustled back to them as the timer ticked down. When the charge blew, it didn't leave the perfect round hole seen in so many vids; it certainly blew the hatch in, off its hinges, because that was the weakest structural point in the wall, but it also tore ragged chunks out of the wall's material as well, and radiated cracks out in every direction. The Spectres rushed for the gap, and Garrus got a clear idea of why the lystheni on the other side might be afraid, yet not afraid. Five life signs, sure. But also about twenty mechs of different sizes and capabilities. "Everyone down!" he snapped, taking his own advice.

The old configuration had been his salvation; he'd been able to fire across the bridge at small waves, individuals. The salarians had gone for more security with their wall, and that wall, conversely, was the Spectres' own salvation at this point. It gave them cover, made them hard to aim at. Sure, the mechs were chewing through it with their bullets, ripping slots through the material, so that the insulating foam inside poured out like so much snow, but the black-armored men were able to move around behind the wall, keeping to a low crouch, taking turns in the doorway, firing back. Sky, peering through one gap in the wall, spotted a salarian on the balcony, and caught the amphibian with a singularity, wafting him off the balcony.

"It would help to take a couple of them alive!" Garrus reminded everyone, sharply, peering out of cover to fire at a YMIR mech that had just started lumbering down the stairs for them.

_May be difficult. Their minds are. . . accelerando. Steadily building up in speed. Like a bomb, about to go off?_

_That doesn't sound good. _ He aimed at the YMIR mech again. _Got to get through that armor. . . _ "Jaworski, next break in fire, stealth and get through the gap, go to the side, and start being a pain in the ass."

"It's what I do best," the human agreed, engaging his stealth device.

The mechs turned out to be the _easy_ part. Getting up the stairs was a nightmare. There were still four salarians up in the old main bay, where Garrus himself had set up his sniper nest. All four salarians used a combination of tech and biotic attacks that was mind-numbing. Sizzling overloads to take out shields. Picking them up, slamming them into walls the instant shields dropped. Garrus hit the ground, and realized that his visor was cracked from the repeated impacts, every bone in his body hurt. Then he rolled to his feet behind a piece of furniture and fired up at the salarians, hoping to distract them.

No such luck; Jaworski and Lantar got lofted next. He could clearly see how battered their gear was getting; both visors showed spiderwebs of cracks. As it was, Garrus was _very_ grateful that Lilu had insisted on him bringing Sky along. The rachni set off a singularity in the confines of the upstairs bay, and then _spat_ a greenish cloud up into its balcony. _Hurry_, Sky told him. _They are very, very fast now. _

Garrus hustled up the stairs, Lantar at his heels, and whipped around the corner, rifles at the ready. Only one salarian was left standing, and the creature was giggling. "Only I will ascend, of all my brothers," he told them, holding a large square package in front of him. "Only I am worthy. I have made myself clean, removed myself from the filth of the body. Now I am pure thought. Pure thought, pure thought, no body, no body." The salarian spoke even more quickly than Mordin, words tumbling out over each other.

"Overdose," Lantar said, his voice dark, a little clinical. "Probably a mix of red sand and azure dust. His eyes are dilated, hands are shaking. "

"Settle down," Garrus said, edging further into the room. They _really_ needed information at this point. "No one's saying you can't, ah, ascend. Why don't you put that package down, and you can tell us more about how that's going to work?"

He could feel Jaworski slip past him, covered by his stealth field, and was afraid the salarian, with whatever tech was jammed into its body, might be able to sense the human's approach somehow. Sky rustled up to the door, peering in with his alien blue eyes.

"It will be my reward," the salarian told him, speaking fast, still, blinking rapidly now. "We were promised, hold the line long enough for others to hide, prepare, attack from behind," Garrus was already turning away, looking for any attackers—

"Sky, life-signs?"

_None! _

"—and we would ascend," the salarian rambled on. "We would be the first. _I _will be first." He smiled as Garrus' head swiveled back towards him, and threw his package at the floor.

Ordinarily, the haze of blue smoke appearing on the ground wouldn't have been a concern, in full helmets with breathers. Unfortunately, all of their helmets were cracked. Garrus caught a lungful, and had about enough time to think _Shit. I really __hate__ Omega. . . ._ and then his mind went blank.

**Lantar**

_No. Not again. Not again. I will __**not**__ give in to this again! _Lantar had caught a lungful of that damnable blue dust, but he managed to cling to one thread of thought. It wasn't a complex thought, but it was an important one. He _had_ a spirit again. Because Garrus had _given_ him one. To fail now was to lose that spirit forever.

Lantar took two careful steps forward, focusing only on his feet. Then he kicked the . . . box, yes, it was a box, it had a name. . . off the high place, sending it and its blue plume of smoke over the edge to the low place. _I have a spirit,_ he thought. _I have one. _It was an important thought, for some reason. He clung to it as he stared around the room, puzzled.

One person in a black shell stood still behind him, weapon in hand, looking around, dazed. Another person, shorter, in a black shell appeared to his right, sagging to the ground, doubling over. Lantar turned, saw the bug-person in the doorway, saw the _other_ creatures behind _it_, coming out of shadows, small, slightly slimy, and knew _**enemy**_**.**

_**I hear your song**__, _came a voice in his mind, and it was like thunder. Surprised thunder, at that. Lantar didn't answer, didn't have _words_ to answer, just lifted his weapon and made it fire at the creatures behind the bug-person. Blue glimmer over bodies. Protection. Shields. Firing and firing and firing, walking in a straight line, right for the creatures. Taking return fire, feeling bug-person's concern for him, bug-person scuttling out of the way. Wash of fire from one of the slimy creature's arms. It hurt, but . . . _I have a spirit_._ You cannot take it from me._ Firing again. Wash of cold from another slimy creature's arm. Firing more. Bug-creature sending a wave of force through the slimy creature's ranks, sending them tumbling to the ground. Firing at their prone forms, watching them scramble back to their feet, retreat, and fire at him more. Pain. Hotness of blood trickling down inside of his shell. But just advancing on them, firing and firing and firing. _I have a spirit._

Finally, the slimy creatures fell down and stayed down. Three of them. Lantar patted at the burning sleeve of his black shell, making the fire go away. "I have a spirit," he told the bug-person, calmly. Almost happily. Feeling himself sway on his feet. "I am not _mor'loci_."

_**You have always had your song**_. It paused. _**These appendages. . . not good for machine-songs. You must use the machines, Sings-Regrets. Heal yourself. Hunt your data. I must control the other two. Sings-to-the-Past in particular a danger to himself. Sings-Vengeance is. . . very deep. Sent hiding? I can try to find him, bring him back. Hard, though. **_

The words were hard to understand, but there were pictures with them. He turned around, looking for devices that matched the images in his mind. Ah, there they were. Screens with pictures and words. Input devices below, with glyphs. Lantar sat down at one, and stared at it for a while.

He had no idea how to make it do what it needed to do. Now that he was sitting, he could feel more of the pain, and lifted his arms, studying the battered shell he wore. "This needs to come off," he said, out loud. Testing the idea. "Then I can make the pain better."

He unbuckled the armor.

**Jaworski**

There'd been blue dust in the air, and he'd had time to think _aw, shit, __**no**__, _and then there'd been nothing. Music, maybe, in his mind. Colors. Lights. Jaworksi's eyes snapped open, and he took in the wreckage around him, realized he was flat on his back in the upper bay, with Garrus and Lantar looking down at him. Lantar looked _much_ worse for wear. His armor was blistered in places, as from heat, and there were a _lot_ of bullet scars on the polyresin exterior. His facial scales were singed, and there was a fair bit of blue blood.

"Hell," Jaworski groaned, sitting up slowly. "Do I have anything to apologize for?" His thoughts turned grim. _Any charges pending against me?_

Garrus shook his head. "Sky said he put you someplace else in your mind. Sort of a holding pattern, I guess. Took my body over completely, sat me at a computer, and I remember. . . talking to him. Telling him how to hack the systems, and watched my hands do what I told him to make them do. Sort of a cross between being a puppet, and telling the puppeteer how to work the strings." Garrus looked a little unnerved, and Sam couldn't blame him. "Apparently, we now know what azure dust does to rachni. Somewhat similar in effect to asari. Hugely amplified his power for a while."

_Gave me the song of a queen_, Sky agreed, quietly. _If a queen had been present, she might have taken it for challenge-song of daughter-born. Very bad. Fighting. Conflict. Reds and whites. _He shuffled. _Unsure. Might have been considered optimal for mating, too. Difficult to tell, sometimes, how a queen will sing._

"The effect probably shouldn't be a surprise, given that they're both heavily biotic species," Lantar commented from the side.

"And what the hell happened to _you_?" Jaworski asked, standing up now, feeling woozy. "That armor didn't get that way on its own."

"I, ah. I don't really know." Lantar sounded uncomfortable. "Sky swears he didn't take me over, the way he directed Garrus. I sure as hell didn't feel like _myself_, though."

_No. No need. Sings-Regrets has experienced this before. Strong mind, strong will, powerful song. Found path through own mind, own heart. Sings-Regrets always fights well. Fought well today, in mind, in self, and also in body. _Sky flipped a corpse over, out in the corridor. _I could not sense these, before they appeared. No life-songs, then, suddenly, chorus. Why_?

Jaworski knelt beside one of the bodies, scanning with his omnitool. "Damn," he said. "Either I've been out of it for a _long_ time. . . no. . . that can't be it." He frowned. "The body core temperature on all three of these salarians is significantly below the ambient room temperature."

"How _much_ below?" Garrus asked, kneeling, himself.

"Room temperature is twenty-two Celsius, more or less seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit. The bodies are just about one point six degrees Celcius, Garrus. Right above the freezing mark." He frowned, and looked at Lantar. "Remember when Alesh fell through the ice, in that training exercise?"

Lantar nodded. "Yeah. Salarians go into hibernation. Dunk them in freezing water, and," he tapped his claws together, the turian equivalent to a human's finger-snap, "they're out."

"No biosigns when that happens, right?"

Lantar shook his head. Sam glanced at Sky. "Could you feel Alesh when he dropped into hibernation?"

Sky sat back on his hindlegs. _Very faint. Only because I listened for it as deeply as my song could reach. I do not often look so deep._ The rachni's thought-song was intrigued, a greenish-yellow tinge to it.

Lantar frowned. "How were they even able to _move_ then, let alone. . . ah. Tech." He shook his head, running his own scans now. "We'll need to grab the bodies and take them back to the _Dunkirk_, but Garrus. . . you know more basic anatomy than I do, from all your first aid courses back at C-Sec. Any of _this_ look like standard salarian wetware to you?"

Garrus stood, glancing down at the readings. He shook his head, firmly. "Definitely not."

Jaworski sat back on his heels. "Did we get _anything_ out of this mess?"

Garrus shrugged. "Some system coordinates that hadn't been wiped out of the system. Some very complex computer code for EDI and Cohort to go over. Lots of biogenetic data. Terrabytes of it. I'm uploading it to the _Dunkirk _right now, actually. News reports that include known sightings of the mini-Reaper—I hadn't realized that had gotten out at _all_, to be honest, so that's something to discuss with Kasumi."

Lantar growled, quietly, "And some fairly scary data on various hybrid children and their families. Not just turian-human, although quite a bit of data is on them. Human-batarian. Human-drell. Turian-quarian."

"Turian mothers, before you ask," Garrus said, just as Jaworski's brow creased, slightly, trying to figure that one out.

Jaworski shook his head. "Is it just me, or are we humans just getting _around_?"

"There are others," Lantar replied. "Mordin would probably put it down to the adaptability of humans." He coughed a little into his hand. "I'd put it down to your _curiosity_, more."

Jaworski gave him a very direct look. "That's not really what I wanted to hear, Lantar." _Given that my little girl is apparently very __**curious**__ about a young turian, herself._

"Curiosity isn't a bad thing," Garrus commented, looking around at the various bodies. "Lantar, how do you think we're going to get these bodies back to the _Dunkirk_ without anyone noticing?"

"This is still Omega, right? People might notice, but do you really think they'll _care_?" Lantar looked at Garrus.

Garrus blinked. "A fair point," he acknowledged, hefting one corpse over his shoulder. "Sam, pick a body, any body."

Sam grimaced. "Suddenly, I'm in Graves Registration," he muttered, picking up another body from the hall. "Lantar, get our would-be 'ascended' one, would you?" he suggested, and Sky hefted two more corpses, more or less picked at random.

As they headed for the air car stand, Sam wondered, with grim humor, what the fare for four living passengers and five corpses would total, and if there'd be an additional fee for the salarian's bodily fluids, leaking out onto the floor mats. More or less to get his mind off the grim picture they made, he asked, "You were saying, a moment ago, that curiosity is what gets humans at the top of the hybridization list?"

Garrus looked relieved to have something else to talk about. "Well, yeah. Sure. On a practical level, of the levo species, batarians aren't known for curiosity, let alone friendliness. Asari _are_ known for both, but they're not going to crossbreed in the fashion of any species but their own. Hanar? Too physiologically different. . . they release eggs and sperm in breeding vats, and raise their fry largely in open water. Elcor? Same problem. Salarians just release eggs, occasionally fertilizing one or two. Drell? Very few of them left, almost as limited a population as quarians. They seem to show up more often in the hybridization information, though, for some reason. Less insular, I guess." He paused. "Quarians typically feel a need to continue their own species, and even breeding among their own people is _very_ dangerous for them. Hence why you might see a quarian male donating sperm to a turian female for hybridization efforts, but nothing more. Volus? Atmospheric and pressure mismatch, not to mention body temperature issues, size issues, everything. So yeah, that leaves humans."

"And turians." Sam sighed.

"Well, yeah, but, to be fair, I'd like to point out that my wife came onto _me_," Garrus said, sounding virtuous.

"And mine," Lanar chimed in. "The woman would not take _no_ for an answer." Quick, unexpected flash of a grin.

Sam turned and looked at Lantar, 6'5", and pictured tiny Ellie, all of 5'2", not taking _no_ for an answer. "Really." _Are they suggesting that Dara is the one who started it all up with young Rel?_

"First it was asking me in for coffee, next it was for _apha_, once she figured out that I couldn't actually drink coffee. Next it was 'will you let me cook you a decent meal, you obviously aren't eating right,' and from that point on, she pretty much bullied me into marrying her. I lived in terror." Lantar said it with such aplomb, and with such a marked difference from his usual dark tones, Sam's lips started to twitch involuntarily, and Garrus guffawed outright. Even Sky laughed, quietly, blues and greens in all their minds.

It took them a couple of days of talking to people, buying drinks, and generally gathering information, to find the current location of the Blood Pack base on Omega; the krogan and vorcha didn't, generally speaking, run to such caution, preferring to intimidate locals, but they'd learned a certain amount of discretion was needed to do business on Omega, apparently.

Jaworski was surprised by the fact that Garrus held his temper in check, and simply arranged a meeting with the mercenaries' leader, in the neutral ground of Afterlife, with Aria's _Patriarch_, a vastly old krogan, present to oversee the meeting and ensure that no one actually drew down first.

The Blood Pack leader moved into the room. Ulluthyr Harak, apparently, was his name. The clan name sounded oddly familiar to Jaworski, but he couldn't place it, off the top of his head.

"Vakarian," Harak rumbled. "What do you want?"

"Information, mostly."

"And what do I get in exchange?"

"News of your family."

Jaworski blinked. Harak stared at Garrus, and then told his guards, "Wait outside."

The krogans and vorcha hesitated. "Do as you're told!" Harak bellowed.

They scuttled out. Harak turned back to Garrus. "Right. You, first."

"Your brother, Kanar, and his son, Mazz, send greetings."

Jaworski started. _Now_ the name clicked into place. Mazz was one of Dara's schoolmates, a friend of Elijah's, but she generally didn't mention the krogan boy. Different interests, different circles.

The faintest hint of a smile curved the krogan's lips. "Yeah? Where are they?"

"Mindoir, last I heard, anyway. Kanar's working on soil development. He said to say he was considering joining Clan Urdnot, but wasn't sure if he still had a clan, in Ulluthyr."

"My brother will always be my brother. But Urdnot would be a better place for him. They protect their weak. Ulluthyr is too traditional, still. Tell him I said to join them. Same as I told him to get the hell off Tuchanka before he got his hump any further in a sling," Harak glanced at Patriarch. "That's gonna wind up costing me with you, isn't it?"

Patriach laughed, a wheezing sort of chuckle. "You're loyal, Harak. Unusual in a mercenary. Maybe you should be working for me, and not for the Blood Pack."

"We can talk about that after the meeting," Harak snorted a little. "My brother always had a soft place, right above the eyes. For example, I _never_ said for him to steal his son from the women's camp."

"The way he tells it, the female clan leader told him to take the boy, for fear he'd be as weak as his father." Lantar's voice was bland.

Harak snorted again. "Yeah. That's the _story_, all right." He turned back to Garrus. "Vakarian, you pay in good coin. What kind of information do you need from me?"

"Shipyards out in the Terminus systems, new ones. Any of you been hired to protect them?"

Harak shook his head. "I turned down the contract. Batarian group, the _Klem Na_, took it, last I heard. Some of the boys were pissed, since it was a _lot_ of creds, but the go-between was a salarian, and I don't do business with salarians. I just kill them."

"This salarian still alive?"

"For the moment."

"Got a name?"

"Ill'sta Marov Kina Pero." The krogan thought about it. "Could've been Pero Kina. Or Pera Kino. Something like that." He shrugged.

Jaworski sighed to himself. _Well, it's a start,_ he thought. _Something to send Kasumi tonight, anyway, and have her start washing it through all the data systems._

That night, by the dim light of the terminal, he and Kasumi managed to talk for all of five minutes. "Miss you," he told her, almost surprised by the words coming out of his mouth.

She laughed. "Well, that's reassuring to hear. I thought you'd been zapped by azure dust." She grinned at him. "I bet you _really_ missed me, then."

He made a face. "Sky knocked me clean out of my head for the duration, Kasumi. I've been assured I was a perfect gentleman for the entire event." Sam grinned at her. "Though, _yeah_, if you'd been around. . . ."

"Right in front of poor mindless Garrus and Lantar? For shame."

"I'm sure we could have found a broom closet _somewhere_." He reached out and traced her face on the screen with his fingertips. "You got enough data from us?"

"So much that I've got three teams shifting through it right now."

"Anything else on the AEC front?"

"Couple of nibbles at your various false accounts. All coming from people affiliated with Zeke Patterson."

"Well, we know he was affiliated with STG."

"And, apparently, worked a few sting operations with the Southern Poverty Law Center on various hate groups. He had contacts in the AEC and other groups like that. Could be something, might not be. Keeping an eye on it, Sam. I know my job."

"I know you do." He changed the subject. "How's Dara doing?"

"It's 'spring' break right now. Spending lots of time at the clinic during the day, when she's not with Rellus. He comes over for dinner every night that she's not at his place." Kasumi shrugged a little. "Her turian's really coming along. Total immersion in a language tends to help."

They chatted a while longer, and he let her know that they were going to be out on the _Dunkirk _for at least another week, maybe two, and then they signed off, leaving him in the dark of the port observation lounge, wondering why the hell he was here, and not back on Mindoir. Then he laughed to himself, quietly. It was amazing, what the human mind could do. He wouldn't be on Mindoir at all, if it wasn't for this job.

They spent the next two weeks checking into various locations they'd found in the Lystheni databases. "If I'm missing my little girl's first birthday for something, I'd really like it to be worthwhile," Lantar growled at one point.

Garrus shook his head. "My kids' birthday is coming up, too, _and_ Lilu's just starting all the fertility and stabilization treatments," he reminded Lantar. "I want to be back there as much as you do."

Two of the bases were tucked into hollowed-out asteroids, in otherwise unoccupied systems. "They could set these up _anywhere_," Sam said, annoyed. The micro-gravity environment made navigating the interior of the potato-shaped rock difficult. "Hell, they could set up in _Earth's_ asteroid belt, and no one would know, until a robo-miner came along and started drilling probes into their base, looking for minerals."

"They've had a long time to learn how to hide," Lantar told him, quietly. "And how to run. There's little left here. Even the computers have been taken."

By the third week they'd been away from the base, in total, their tempers were all frayed. It was a relief to hear, Kynthia, the AI of the _Dunkirk_, say one afternoon, softly, "Spectres? I'm definitely detecting anomalies on the surface of Caleston." Caleston was, of course, a large moon in orbit around a gas giant, Cernunnos. It was a hothouse, all volcanic vents and radiation flares.

It turned out to be the remains of a Lystheni base, all right. This one looked only recently abandoned. More computer data. Reams and reams of it, dealing with biotics, apparently. Reams and reams more, dealing with AIs. 

"It seems like they're pretty much running two completely different directions at once," Sam said, as they headed back to Mindoir, loaded down with information that made no apparent sense. "On the one hand, you've got that one little guy on Omega, ranting and raving about _ascending_, removing what's 'dirty' from his body. On the other hand, they're pretty much obsessed with developing and perfecting biotics. That's about as organic as you can get. It's not like a mech or a geth can be a biotic."

"Put it in the pile with all the other things that don't make sense," Garrus told him, tiredly. "And get some sack time. The spirits only know, we'll all probably need it soon enough."

"You have a sense that something's building out of all this?"

Garrus shrugged. "All the interest in the various hybrids has me on edge," he admitted. "Frankly wondering if I should move the family to Palaven, except, well, then they'd all be in radiation suits for the rest of their lives—outdoors, at least. May as well be quarians at that point."

Sam yawned a bit. Truth be told, he was _tired_. "Wouldn't there be a certain amount of, well, stigma, in terms of how they'd be treated by other turians?" It was hard to know how to phrase that one, without giving offense.

"Some, probably. So long as they're citizens and do their part, probably a bit less than on Earth, I suspect. We're not like humans, in that respect. Once we know that someone _belongs_, what they look like doesn't really matter much."

"And how do you know that they _belong_?" Sam wanted to push that assumption a little. "I couldn't just slap on some clan paint and walk down the Imperial Boulevard, now could I?"

Lantar snorted at the notion. "No. Definitely not." The stockier turian stretched a little. "Volus have been welcome on Palaven for decades; everyone knew that they belonged. They had a place. Client-race. Not really citizens, and not servants, either. More like. . . eh, employees. But respected. You see?"

Sam shrugged. "Sort of. Say a human went to Palaven to set up a business there. How'd he start to _belong_?"

Garrus glanced over at him, putting down his datapad. "You'd have to know the languages—at least one dialect of modern turian, and, better yet, for people's respect, _tal'mae_. Most volus never learned the language of the law and science and poetry, you know that? Just relied on translator VIs." He shrugged. "They never bothered to know us, I suppose."

Lantar lifted his hands, fingers spread. "Their loss. Anyhow, you'd have to know the law, the traditions, Sam. Show respect, not back down, be acknowledged part of someone's clan. In the case of Ellie and Lilitu, they can never be citizens, since they never went through turian boot camp."

Garrus held up a finger. "The Imperator was making noises last week about extending the privilege to humans who've gone through _human_ boot camp, and been acknowledged part of a turian clan."

"Still leaves Ellie out in the cold, then," Sam said, thinking out loud.

Lantar's nod was quick and grim.

"So. . . dress, think, and act turian, in other words."

"In some ways, yes," Garrus told him. "Lilu tells me humans have a saying. . . when in Rome?"

"Do as the Romans do. Yeah."

Something about the whole conversation was bothering him, but it was late, and he was tired. He stood up, stretched, and commented, "Right, I'm going to go find myself a rack and collapse for a few hours. Night, fellas."

The _Dunkirk_ and the _Normandy_ both made planetfall on the evening of March 26, and Shepard gave them all leave to go home and see their families, or at least, in the case of Cohort, Gris, and Sky, to find a familiar bed (or node, where applicable) to rest for the night, before making their reports in the morning. Sam headed straight for Kasumi's house in the valley. It was 01:30 when he arrived, but he could see a light on in her window. Besides, she'd given him a key, and a passcode, and tied his retina scan into her house security.

He slipped into the house, moving quietly out of habit, passing out of the darkened living area into the dim light of her bedroom, and stood, looking down at her for a long moment. She was asleep. . . or looked it, anyway. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and started taking off his shoes.

"Sam?" Sleepy voice.

"Yeah, it's me."

"Okay, good. Don't have to shoot you, then."

He chuckled a little. Her subconscious, he'd already realized, had an _odd_ sense of humor. "Go back to sleep, Kasumi-chan. We'll talk in the morning."

**Dara**

She'd been working in the clinic for almost three months now, and while on 'spring' break, had been working there almost every day, while Rel had to stay home and look after his siblings, while his parents were at work. He was still studying over the break, of course. Some assault tactics course he'd been sent by his uncle, with a recommendation that he complete it, and quickly.

Dr. Solus had her helping with Commander Shepard's pregnancy, telling her, "Current relationship seems stable. Someday, may wish to undergo process yourself. Should have _clear_ understanding of risks and difficulties." The daily injections, having to self-test for hormone levels four to six times a day—and all from the first month on!—were surely annoying enough. Having to keep a log of every morsel of food eaten, how much each piece had weighed, and at what time. . . definitely irritating. "Important to know how much levo and how much dextro nutrients are available for the embryos," Dr. Solus had explained. "Human women have kept such logs since the first understanding of gestational diabetes, in your twentieth century, of course."

And when there wasn't a very tricky pregnancy to oversee, there was the general clinic work. Scrapes, bumps, bruises. A turian construction worker who'd put a nail through his hand. Dara had swallowed at the sight of blue blood, and, under the direction of a nurse and Dr. Solus, given the injection to numb the site, and assisted Mordin with the extraction. The plasma burns to an elcor's face from a laboratory accident had actually been worse, but it hadn't affected her as much, for some reason. The elcor been very lucky to miss his eyes. And then she'd turn around, and there'd be an anxious mother of some species in the waiting room, with a child who'd swallowed something that he or she _really_ shouldn't have. Colds, flu infections, high fevers.

On and on it went, and she was very glad, most evenings, to go home, either to Kasumi's house or to Rel's, eat dinner, and either spar or play the _reela_ and relax afterwards, depending on what night it was. Kasumi let them go to her room, so long as the door was open, and just be together, which was a nice privilege. One they took pains not to abuse. Although, since the room had only a desk, a chair to match, and a bed, they _did_ usually wind up sitting next to one another on the bed. Rel had a fair bit of trouble getting used to that, at first, trying to find ways that his spurs _wouldn't_ catch on the comforter and tear it. "I'm getting too used to this routine," he told her ruefully, one Tuesday evening, as they sat up, watching a vid on one of their datapads. "I like it too much, too. It'll all change again when your father comes back, and I don't really want it to." He was speaking in turian, of course; it was good practice for her.

Speaking only in turian to him had started out as a game, but since it was getting slightly easier as she went along, she was running with it, as best she could. Rellus made it fun—a lot more fun than the textbooks—which helped a lot. Also, he'd always had a tendency to slip into turian when his teeth on her neck or her shoulders bit down hardest, when his eyes went distant and predatory, and Dara _really_ wanted to know what he was saying then, because afterwards, he'd get slightly embarrassed, hesitant and refuse to translate. _What do I need to do to convince him that I'm not going to be scared away?_

Friday morning, however, clinic work had not gone quite as usual. Rellus had taken to meeting her for lunch out in a park in the valley, to enjoy the last warm afternoons of the year, and had to bring the younger siblings with him, of course. She didn't mind so much. They were all good kids, especially Serana. Dara curled up on a bench to wait for him, tucked in on herself, looking at the pressure cast on her right hand.

At last, he jogged up. "Ready to eat, _mellis?_" Rel called, and Polina and Quintus plopped down on either side of her, grinning at her, all little sharp teeth. He looked down, frowned, and caught her right hand lightly in his, looking at the cast.

Dara made a face. "I don't think I can eat today, Rel." Her stomach turned over in her at the thought of food.

He frowned. "You're sick? What happened?"

"No, not sick. But I think I might be fired." She was too upset to even _try_ to explain this all in turian.

Four sets of eyes went wide, and Rel scooted Polina out of the way and sat down on the bench beside Dara himself, asking, pragmatically, "All right, what happened?"

"Well. . . " Dara thought about it. "I hit a patient today. Yelled at him. And then I threw up. I think those are _pretty_ much things you're _not_ supposed to do." She had her legs pulled in to her chest, and was resting her chin on her knees, and turned her head to look at him glumly.

Rellus started laughing. "No, wait. You're serious?"

"Yeah. . . ." she replied, glumly. "Mazz and Elijah went rock-climbing again. Mazz's father, Kanar, was there, and a good thing, too. Mazz slipped and fell down the cliff-face, and there was some cabling running the face of the mountainside. Power, communications, not really sure what. It wasn't powered, though, so that's a help. It was, however, pulled taut."

Rel hissed through his teeth. "How bad was he hurt?"

"Cut his arm clean off, just below the elbow."

The turian children all hissed in sympathy, as well. Rellus winced, and Dara continued, doggedly, "His dad got the bleeding stopped, Eli found the rest of the arm, and they drove him in to the clinic as fast as they could. He was in full blood-rage by the time they got him in." She winced again, and hugged her legs to herself, even tighter.

Rel reached over and rubbed the nape of her neck. Strong fingers; they felt so _good_, even though there were fewer of them than, even now, she tended to expect. "So what happened?"

"Dr. Solus had two elcor nurses and his father holding him down. Came in to give him a shot to knock him out, so he could reattach the arm, which had been cleaned off and was sitting in a bucket of ice to keep it preserved." Dara's hands clenched for a minute. "Mazz just screamed something and got his other arm free from one of the elcor, and knocked Dr. Solus across the room. Knocked him clean _out_ for a minute. It was a mess."

She'd panicked for a moment; the elcor nurses had, too. Scrambling of limbs, Mazz roaring incomprehensible things in krogan, spitting with fury, fresh blood starting to spurt from the stump of his arm. Kanar had started yelling at his son, Eli had moved to check on Dr. Solus. . . . "Remember how a couple of weeks ago, Gris head-butted Mazz at sparring when he wouldn't listen?"

Rellus started to chuckle, though he was obviously valiantly fighting it down. "You head-butted a krogan?"

"No! I'd have a skull-fracture if I did that!" Dara looked at him, then put her head back down again. "I _did_ kind of punch him in the face, though. Right from the hip, like you and my dad keep showing me."

She had, too. It had _hurt. _She'd turned her hand wrong at the last moment, and had taken most of the impact on the weakest knuckles of the hand, the ones for the ring finger and pinky, rather than on the more structurally strong index and middle knuckles. Dr. Solus had later found stress fractures in the metacarpals, as well. "Then I started yelling at him. Picked up his arm out of the bucket and told him he could either stop acting like a baby and have it reattached, and he'd have full use back in two weeks, or he could keep yelling and screaming and then he'd have to wait eight to twelve weeks for the limb to regenerate on its own."

Rellus's shoulders shook. "You said that? Waving his arm in his face?"

"Well, I didn't _wave_ it at him!" Dara said, defensively. "I, ah. I just held it in front of him."

"Dangled it?"

". . . Maybe a little bit. But I didn't _wave_ it." Dara wanted to be clear about this.

"Did it work?" Serana asked, staring at her. Those big, inquisitive eyes peered into Dara's face.

Dara hitched her shoulders. "Kind of. Maybe. He _did_ stop screaming. Dr. Solus got up off the floor and took the arm out of my hands. Said, 'Thank you, Dara, could you wait outside, please?'" She winced. "So out I went, and then I found the nearest waste receptacle and started throwing up into it."

Rellus apparently couldn't help himself any longer, and whooped with laughter. His various siblings started giggling as well, probably mostly because _he_ was laughing. Dara stared at him. "It's not funny."

"Oh, but it is."

"It's not! I'm probably fired!"

He leaned over, still laughing, and put his forehead to hers. "Have you talked to Dr. Solus yet?"

"No, there wasn't time before lunch." _So now I get to wait two or three more hours and __**then**__ get thrown out. Waiting makes this __**so**__ much more fun._

"It'll be fine. I promise." He chuckled again. "You hit a krogan in the middle of blood-rage. _Asperitalla amatra._" _Little fierce beloved one. _Rellus stood up, pulling her to her feet. "Come on, let's get something to eat already."

Dara stood nervously in Dr. Solus' study two hours later, waiting to be told to clear her things out of her little locker. "Should remember to punch correctly, in future," the little salarian told her. "Krogan heads, somewhat harder than galactic average."

_Was that a __**joke**__? _Dara looked up at him, blinking.

"Krogan sometimes require very loud body-language. Much emphasis. Blood-rage tricky. Personally, thought three people restraining him was enough, given his size and age. Won't make same mistake again."

"I'm. . . not fired?"

"No. Why should you be? Got control over situation. Calmed patient through effective means. Waving detached limb around possibly overdramatic. You are young, however." His eyelids moved upwards into the salarian equivalent of an amused smile.

"I didn't _wave_. . . " Dara shut her mouth with a click. "Ah. Thank you. I'll. . . keep that in mind." _Okay, so. . . I'm __**not**__ fired, then?_

The next morning was Saturday, and that was sacrosanct as a riding morning. She and Rellus took a shuttle up to the base, and made their way straight to the stables. The fall air was crisp enough that they both needed jackets and gloves, though by afternoon, they'd have to tuck those outer layers someplace for storage.

When they reached their _allora_ meadow, Dara told Rellus, quietly, "Kasumi says the _Dunkirk _and the _Normandy_ should be arriving tonight. Late."

He turned her around, looking down at her, a little searchingly. "Last chance for a while, then." He sighed. "It's going to start to snow soon up here, anyway."

"I know." Her throat closed down. "How many days?" She had been trying so hard not to think about this.

"Ninety-eight." He put a finger to her lips, switching languages. "_Don't. We have the time that we have. And then we'll __**make**__ our time, later._" Rellus bit the side of her throat, delicate rasp of teeth, making her gasp. It was a luxury he never allowed himself, once his urgency had risen past a certain point. So very, very careful of her, always. _"Spirits, I love the noises you make. Soft sounds, prey-sounds."_

"_Prey-sounds?"_

"_Yes. Very. . . .good. . . sounds. . . very. . . good. . . .smells. . . ." _He lifted his head, and she could see how flushed with blue his crest had already gone. "Ah, _mellis_?" He was breathing fast, through his nose.

"Mmm?"

"You smell a little _too_ good today. You're in. . ." He swore in turian, moved away.

"What? Rel, what's the matter?" She followed after him.

"I can't say this in English, you get too embarrassed. Think in turian for a minute, Dara." They'd both noticed that when she thought in turian, there was less of a tendency for her to be embarrassed or flustered. _"You're in estrus. The first heat that's come to you since you first gave me the sweetness of your mouth. It was easier to hold back before, only knowing the release I could give myself, alone in my room, after you'd left, your scent still on my skin, in my mouth. Don't know if I can hold back today." _He touched her face, very lightly. _"Don't want to scare you."_

"_Why do you think I will be scared and run away? Have I done anything yet, but stand my ground?" _She reached up, stroking his face. _"You always make me look up when you release. I know what you look like then. It doesn't frighten me."_

Rel growled softly, and it sounded like pure frustration. "Dara. . . sweetness. . . it'll be different when I'm. . . ah, spirits." He pushed her down onto their blanket. "No, hold still. _This_ is what I think will scare you. _Forgive me._" He put his full weight on her, wrapped her wrists in his hands. "Resist," he told her. "Not. . . ah, spirits, not too much."

She pushed upwards, and this was not like sparring or grappling, where there were openings, leverages, left open because it was a lesson, a learning process. There was just him, immovable, heavy, and _very_ strong. Not hurting her, no; just holding her down. Pinned. And each time she struggled, she could see it affect him, feel his hands tighten minutely, watch the eyes go more distant. Very carefully, as if it cost him a lot of effort, Rellus explained, "Right now. . . every time you resist. . . it's triggering the predator-prey reflexes. Along with. . . ah, spirits. . . a few others." He closed his eyes as she arched upwards slightly, trying to unseat him, and then froze in place, feeling how _very_ hard he'd become, pressing into her even through their clothes. "Better. I'm _not_ human. I can't _be_ human for you. Our females have a submission reflex in mating. They go still at certain points." His voice was very raspy now, and as he ground himself against her, Dara couldn't help but whimper, feeling fire spark through her.

His eyes opened at the sound—_prey-sound_—almost blank for a moment, and his crest flared, and he moved forward, faster than she could see, biting at her shoulder, much harder than he usually would. She tensed for a moment, and then relaxed. This was Rel. He would never hurt her. Never intentionally. And it was her job to make sure they didn't hurt each other _unintentionally_. _Submit_, his body was telling hers. . . and she submitted. Arched a little, offering herself, unconsciously, thinking of how surprised he'd been when she'd first given him her mouth, how almost incoherently grateful he'd been.

And now, that sweet, teasing pressure of him, the _heat_ of him, lodged between her thighs, promising so much, and he pulled his face away from her shoulder, muttering softly in _tal'mae_, a grating whisper. "English," she insisted, grabbing his head and turning him to look at her, a little fierce herself now. 

He growled, but she wouldn't let him look away, and then the words poured out of him. "I want to be inside of you. I want to feel you around me, sweet and yielding. I want to make you feel as good as you've made me feel. I want the sounds you make in my ears, I want the smell of you on my body, I want your breath in my mouth, I want my paint on your face, I want you to be _mine_, in _every_ way." Each _want_ was punctuated with a little thrust against her, making her whimper softly, making the most amazing fluttering sensation inside of her, and she realized, dimly, that she was very _wet _between her legs. . . . and then Rel pushed up off of her, rolling to the side, and snarled, "and I _can't_!" He sat up, breathing hard, little pants, through his nose, struggling, she knew, to calm himself. The loss of his warmth, his weight, left her bereft and cold for a moment.

Dara sat up. _"I give myself to you." _She reached out and touched his shoulder. _"You are my mate. I give myself to you."_

"_And I to you, sweetness, but it's not time yet." _He turned, and pulled her to him anyway, holding her tightly. _"I'm too close now. Too close, too close."_ His eyes were dazed, and she remembered what he'd told her before. That turians' chemistry primed them, not for fight or flight, but for fight or _fornicate_.

"To _hell_ with honor. To hell with the contract." Her body knew what it wanted. More of his weight on her, more of the pressure between her legs. More of him. All of him. _Maybe I __**am**__ in estrus today_, she thought, wonderingly.

"_Don't say that when I can __**smell**__ your readiness."_ It was an absolute growl. His claws clenched into her back for a moment. _"We'll hold to honor for now, but I __**promise**__ that you'll be mine before I leave." _He paused, taking another quick breath. "_Though I suspect that will make the separation all the worse."_ Faint quirk of humor there, and then they both started to laugh a little, letting the tension ease.

"_Do you want me to. . . ." _She didn't want to fight him, one half of what could help him right now, but she could offer him another way out.

"_I'd beg for it."_ Rel stroked his fingers through her hair, whispering now in soft English. "I'm almost sorry we found that particular loophole in the contract. I can't even find a way to make _you_ feel good until the six month clauses take effect. If I'd known then what I know _now,_ I'd have argued a lot more at the negotiations."

"Can we renegotiate?" Her hands slipped down, freeing him.

"Only if you feel comfortable in stating the reasons for changes needed in front of the room."

She winced. "I can hold out."

"Thought you'd see it that way." He groaned a little, going silent, she lowered her head again giving him what she could of herself, listening to _his_ sounds now, low, grating. _Definitely not prey-sounds._ Smelling his scents, musky, alien, male, but familiar now. After a few moments, she looked up. Gray skies overhead. The first snowflakes brushed down out of that leaden sky, landing on her hair, her eyelashes. Nothing lasted forever, not even their beautiful summer, but for this hour at least, they could pretend that nothing had to end, and nothing had to change.


	31. Chapter 31: Progress

**Chapter 31: Progress**

_**Author's note:**_ _The gene mod about regulating carbon dioxide levels in the blood is taken, loosely, from Kim Stanley Robinson's __Blue Mars__. It's third in a great science fiction/speculative fiction series by him._

**Shepard**

"I know it's a weekend, but I appreciate you all coming in for debriefing," Shepard told her various Spectres. She was twenty days into the remorseless process of pregnancy, and her body reminded her of it, periodically, with waves of tiredness. The first three months, she remembered from last time, had really been the worst. She'd fallen asleep every night after dinner, usually on the couch, and Garrus had simply refused to wake her until it was either time for bed, or she awoke of her own accord. _Dangerous business, waking a nesting mother_, he'd told her, much amused, at the time.

"Cohort, Gris, let's start with you, and your tech, Nal'ishora, of course."

Cohort stood, and looked along the length of the table at her, single eye gleaming. "We took the _Normandy_ to Micah, in the Valhallan Threshhold, to the coordinates we had received. These coordinates took us to the prebiotic moon, Anafiel, in orbit around the gas giant, Dumah. On its surface, this unit, Gris-Spectre, and Creator-Nal'ishora found a small habitat structure, suitable for most forms of organic life. Oxygen atmosphere within; pressurization within standards acceptable for humans, turians, salarians, and asari. Several dozen computers had been networked together inside, and an AI did indeed seem to exist within them. It was. . . confused. It was alone, and it was not where it had been told that it would be. It said that _we_ had done this to it. In its confusion, it became hostile, and sent multiple viruses at us; we believe this to have been an automatic defense, and not one native to its programming core."

The geth paused, and then continued, "It also attempted to de-pressurize the habitat, before Spectre-Gris and Creator Nal-ishora would be able to replace their breathing apparatuses. We were forced to terminate it." Cohort sat down.

Shepard couldn't help but be aware that Garrus' shoulders were shaking, just slightly, beside hers. Under the table, she lightly kicked his ankle, just under the spur. "Okay, would anyone like to add some more _detail_ to the, ah, mission extract that Cohort has provided?"

Gris shrugged. "I can try," he said, dubiously. "That's about what I saw, though." He paused. "Except that there was a big pool of water in the middle of the damn habitat. Don't know why someone would do that. Nothing worth eating in it, though."

Shepard leaned forward. "Like a pool? Like a salarian or a hanar's breeding pool?"

Gris frowned. "I've never seen either of those things, but maybe," he replied, after a moment. "Oh, and there were bodies. Not buried neatly away. Just sort of stacked in a corner. Most of 'em had been dead for a while, though. With all the moisture in the chamber, they were pretty rotten, though. It's a wonder the computer equipment was in as good shape as it was." He glanced around the table. "We got scans, but didn't really feel like bringing them back as souvenirs."

Shepard sighed. "What kind of bodies?" The details were all in the report under her fingertips, of course, but she wanted to get everyone in the habit of hearing each others' experiences, making connections. In the next few months, she was going to hand off a lot of her usual responsibilities, so they all needed to be prepared.

"Salarian," Nal'ishora replied, firmly. "However, there were some hanar remains in there, as well, which struck me as being unusual."

Cohort added, calmly, "Salarian impulse to create and explain through scientific means very different from superstitious life-patterns embraced by hanar. Two species extremely rarely found together." The eyeflaps moved. "It is a striking coincidence."

"There was a great deal more going on there, Commander," Nal'ishora said, firmly, speaking through her suit filters. "For starters, I don't think that the AI was really an AI. It was phenomenally complex. No offense to you, Cohort," she said, quickly. "But an individual geth program doesn't have this level of depth. The _Normandy_-class AIs have the complexity of thought, but they also don't have the. . ." the quarian hesitated. "Again, I'm not sure of the right word. Entanglement, perhaps. From what little I was able to scan and copy before we had to destroy the computers housing it, almost every part of its higher cognitive functions were linked to lower-level processes _or_ were linked to permanent memory storage nodules or to both. The closest thing I have ever seen to it before are, well, scans of the ancestral memories that my people stored, hundreds of years ago, before they became, well, the geth." The quarian held up her hands. "But the geth did not retain that complexity."

"Inefficient," Cohort told her, calmly. "Many of the lower-level processes in your ancestral databases related to regulating bodily functions that geth do not possess. These patterns you have detected are definitely neither quarian-creator, nor gath."

"But they are complex and _not _machine-generated," Nal'ishora said, firmly.

EDI interposed, her voice coming in through the comm channel now, to the briefing room on the Spectre base, "If I may, Commander?"

"Go ahead, EDI."

The holo projector at the center of the table, which had been displaying the waves and nodules of information, as Nal'ishora had interpreted them, moved to the side, and a new set of waves and strings and nodules appeared. "What exactly are we looking at here?" Shepard asked. It looked like abstract art to her; colorful, somewhat pretty, and not at all something she would want on her wall.

"This is a representation of the memories and brain patterns of a single human being, which have been stored over the past two-and-a-half years." EDI's voice was very soft.

_That's what Joker looks like to her, then? _Shepard glanced at Garrus, and he shrugged a little.

EDI continued now, "And this is a similar representation of my own high-level, low-level, and memory usage patterns." They _were_ strikingly different; the 'Jeff Moreau' patterns looked chaotic, almost fractal, in a sense; EDI's were regular bands, forming distinct patterns. Overall, the human brain scans looked more similar to the ones obtained on Anafiel. But not exactly. There were _many_ differences. "So, we're looking at an organic upload, similar to what we saw in Operation: Overlord?"

"Similar, yes, I believe so," EDI said, carefully. "However, I do not believe that these scans were taken from a human brain."

Lantar cleared his throat. "We _did_ have a Lystheni salarian talking about leaving behind his 'filthy' body and ascending on Omega," he supplied. "Is there a way we can compare your AI against a salarian brain in action?"

"Yes," EDI replied. "Quite a bit of the biometric data your squad obtained on Omega consists of exactly that. Brain pattern and memory storage. Much of it is incomplete at best, but there's enough for a baseline analysis. It is not, as far as I can tell, a salarian brain pattern. And we have no hanar scans available for comparison."

Kasumi tapped on her console at the table. "I'll see if any of the hanar scientists down in the valley would mind being recorded for a few hours. It might get us a partial match, or at least let us eliminate another possibility."

Cohort's eyeflaps twitched. "This would explain the irregularity of the AI's behavior. It was deeply confused. Distressed. It believed that we had done this to it."

"Imprisoned and then abandoned," Gris rumbled. "I'd have been pissed off, myself."

Shepard sighed. "All right. Next squad. . . Garrus, Sky, Lantar, and Jaworski. What have you got for us?"

"Mostly questions," Garrus replied, dryly. He described the Lystheni base in some detail, and noted that Mordin was conducting autopsies on the Lystheni corpses at the base clinic this morning. "It'll be interesting to see how they were able to move, when they should have been hibernating," he noted. "We've got about a half-dozen other coordinates to check out, that might be Lystheni bases. Data that EDI and Kasumi are still rifling through. On the issue of those shipyards, we still don't know who's financing them or where they are, but we know that the _Klem Na_ batarian mercenaries have the contract for guarding them, wherever they are. And a salarian worked as the go-between between the shipyard consortium and the mercs they hired. Ill'sta Marov Kina Pero, or Pero Kina. Or Pera Kino." He shrugged.

Kasumi lifted a finger. "They're all known aliases of the same salarian. STG was pretty helpful when I called them about this. I think they're still embarrassed about one of their investigations running right into your private life, Shep." The little woman grinned up the table.

"All things considered, their investigation might have saved us from a kidnap attempt or worse, so I'm not holding it against them," Shepard replied. "What do they know about the salarian?"

"Not a nice person at all. Spent the last five years heavily involved in arms trafficking in the Terminus systems. Has apparently come up with several inventive new weapons for batarian slavers, including shock nets and neural fields, all designed to take down multiple intended targets at once. His most recent invention seems to derive from Collector seeker swarms. It's not quite a swarm of semi-organic insects; it still needs to be fired from a gun. But it creates a stasis field very similar to a biotic effect on the targeted individual or individuals."

Shepard grimaced. "Great. Just what I wanted to hear. More ways for batarians to drag people off into slavery. So, he's a natural at finding batarians to do merc work with; the _Klem Na_ started off existence as slavers, then branched out into merc work." She got a couple of glances around the table at that. Shepard shrugged. "_Klem Na_ means 'iron shackle' in batarian. Nothing like a couple of months of language immersion out at the Presidio in Monterey." She looked back at Kasumi. "But anything that gives us a clue as to who hired him _as_ the go-between?"

"We're doing our best to track him down, but nothing yet." Kasumi sighed. "I'll get with you the instant we turn anything up."

And on that note, the meeting adjourned, at least for now.

**Elijah**

Today was the Vakarian twins' fourth birthday; Elijah's mom and Commander Shepard had decided to use the Sidonis house for a party for both them and Caelia, who'd turned one in their father's absence. The reason Eli had been given for holding it down in the valley, was so that more kids from the twins' daycare could be there, in addition to all their various family members.

Eli would have, greatly, preferred to be anyplace else than in the house, but family was also a Duty, and Lantar made it clear early that morning, that Elijah wouldn't be making any sort of an escape in the afternoon. "I only made it to the house at one thirty this morning myself," Lantar told him, looking tired. "You don't see me saying 'the hell with the preparations, I'm tired,' now do you?"

Eli shrugged a bit. "No, of course not," he replied. "It's just going to be a bunch of screaming little kids, for what, four hours?" _And it's not like Caelia's going to remember if I was here or not._

"Lija!" his little sister burbled in her chair, as if to disprove his thoughts, reaching for his hand. She was _fascinated_ by his hands lately, separating his fingers with her own, as if trying to figure out why he had so many more fingers than she did. "Count them, Duck," he told her, and tried not to sound too bored as he counted them for her, to her great glee.

"Yes," Lantar told him, after a moment, and he sounded a little amused for some reason. "And you'll be a good first-son and set an example for them."

Hence why Eli was stuck, six hours later, in the backyard, watching as various little children ran by, occasionally swinging a leg out, like a barricade, stopping one or another from passing by, slowing them down a bit. Lantar watched him for a bit, and commented, dryly, "Don't worry. Every cop starts out in traffic, pretty much," which at least made him laugh.

While it had snowed up in the mountains yesterday, down here in the valley, it was crisp in the mornings and warming in the afternoons still. No one needed a jacket at the moment. Rel was present, along with the rest of his family. Duty was duty for everyone, apparently, and a second-son so much older than the rest of his siblings pretty much _was_ a first-son, in turian eyes. Expected to look after them, enforce the rules, and so on. Eli wandered over to talk with his friend after the little ones had been settled down with cake and ice cream. . . or the species-specific equivalent. "I'm almost afraid to ask what the turian kids are eating," he said, after a moment, watching them.

Rellus grinned at him. "Sweet marrow and bonemeal cake."

Elijah choked for a moment. "You're putting me on."

The turian boy shook his head. "_Apaterae_ and _talashae_ have bone marrow. Very good, very nutritious. And while adults can crack the bones open with our hind teeth, and we can actually digest the bone splinters for the calcium, little ones need it ground down and cooked. It's a lot better for them than what humans seem to eat for a treat."

Eli gave him a narrow-eyed look. "I've _never_ seen Lantar cracking open bones."

"It's considered a little primitive and unmannered in public. You're actually supposed to use a hammer for it, or to pre-crack them in the kitchen." Rel gave him a look. "Besides, I doubt he'd do it around your _mom_."

Eli started to chuckle a little. "Has Dara ever seen you eating _bone_?"

Rellus grimaced. "I'm putting that off until _after_ I put my paint on her face." His grin was a little wry. "If anything's going to scare her off, seeing how much force a turian's jaw structure can _actually _exert might do it."

Eli didn't quite know what to say to that. On the one hand, the implications, taken in context with the fact that he knew damned well that turians bit their mates to show affection, just as much as humans kissed, were a little unnerving. And on the other hand, he'd never really realized how serious Rellus was about the whole plighting thing. He'd taken it to mean going steady, in a very old-fashioned way. But courtship had a goal, he had to admit. He cleared his throat. "That's not going to be for a while, though, right?"

"Six months. Give or take." Rellus shrugged, and caught Polina before she could get too far away from the table. "Go wash your hands," he warned his sister.

Eli decided to change the subject a little. He needed time to digest a radically different thought. He, after all, was still fourteen, and considered himself, largely, a kid. Although he was definitely having to change his self-image in the last few months. A kid was helpless. A kid was dependent on others to protect him. He was tired of that. "So, where is she today?"

"Up at the base. She's not technically family yet, and her dad wasn't invited, so. . . . " Rel shrugged, and changed the subject entirely. "I heard about Mazz last week. How's his arm doing?"

"Better. He won't be playing handball for another week or two, but he can feel his fingers." Eli shook his head.

"You found the arm and brought it in. That was a big help."

It was Eli's turn to grimace. Truth be told, he'd thrown up wretchedly on finding the thing, still twitching a bit, in the underbrush, and had barely been able to make himself pick it up. "He even said _thank you_ for it. I was surprised. I didn't think Mazz knew those words." He snorted a little.

"So you were there when he freaked out and threw Dr. Solus—"

"Halfway across the room, yeah!" Eli grinned. "I'm glad he wasn't too badly hurt, otherwise I'd feel _really _bad about the fact that it looked so damn funny."

Right around then, his mom's hand touched his shoulder. "Elijah, one of your friends is at the front door," she told him, and she had that tight look on her face again. The worried one.

"Who, Mazz?" He started into the house.

"No, that girl."

He looked at her blankly for a moment, and then the penny dropped, and he sighed and headed for the front door. "Hey," he said to Siara. "Didn't expect to see you." _At all, actually. _She'd continued, oddly enough, to shadow him in the past week, but he'd figured with school starting up again tomorrow, that it would die off at last.

He'd woken up at night several times over the last week, having dreamed about her—only a few times in any erotic context, somewhat to his own surprise. It had been more as if he had been dreaming that he _was_ her, and it was disorienting, confusing. He'd decided, after some very cautiously-worded extranet searches—all done using asari high-tongue, to keep his mom's search filters from catching him—that he was probably assimilating her thoughts and memories. Apparently, this sort of thing happened, when a, well, an _embrace_ wasn't really completed. Most of the search results had suggested that without full union, multiple smaller, constrained sessions could be used to help both participants assimilate all the personality and thoughts and memories into their own minds. Alternately, it would simply fade with time, like a memory.

"Can I come in?" she asked now.

He was very conscious of the screams and laughter from the backyard. "We're having a party for my sister right now." He didn't think it would be smart to mention that Commander Shepard and Garrus were there, too. Kella had always said that Siara was jealous of the other kids, because their parents were Spectres, and her mom wasn't. "If you don't mind the noise of ten four-year-olds and five one-year-olds and their parents and brothers and sisters, come on in," he offered dubiously, after a minute, opening the door and stepping aside.

He really didn't think she'd take him up on the offer. But she stepped inside anyway, following him to the living room, where she looked out at the backyard, and blinked a little. Pandemonium absolutely reigned outside, human and turian and even a couple of drell parents trying to corral various youngsters, Lantar swinging Caelia up over his shoulders to get a good look at the branches of a tree.

"You never really see asari families like this," she said, after a moment. "Celebration of a year's passage is a solemn event. Very serious."

He saw it in his mind in a flash, and forced the memory down. "Lighting candles," Eli said, after a moment. "A very quiet meal, just you and your mother. Your second-mother, if she's still there. Maybe a mother's mother."

Siara turned and stared at him. "You're remembering _me_," she told him.

He shrugged, uncomfortable. "I try not to."

She looked offended. "Why not? Aren't I worth remembering?"

Eli fidgeted. "Seems like an invasion of privacy." He set a hand on the back door. "Nothing's changed. You don't like me, or respect me. I don't really like you. You've got Kella's sharing now, so. . . what's the deal here?"

"It wasn't a full sharing, Eli. I don't have all of her. And I don't have all of you." Siara bit her lip. "And I want that."

Eli looked at her, incredulous, and carefully put his hands in his back pockets, clearly underscoring the fact that he was _not_ touching her. _I did not just hear what I think I just heard. _

She hunched her shoulders, looking uncomfortable. "You can come to my mother's house, since I know it wouldn't be permitted in yours. And then we can share."

"Ah. . . " Feeling as if he were somehow responsible for letting down the dreams of human males everywhere, Elijah said, "No?" _And I also didn't just say what I think I just said. _

Siara frowned at him. "You liked it."

"I did, yeah, but. . ."

"Your mom doesn't like asari. Is that part of it?" Siara told him, after a moment, still staring out the window. "Is it the typical human female thing? Jealous of someone who'll always be younger and prettier?" The unconscious condescension in her voice irked him.

Eli glanced over his shoulder, and lowered his voice. "No. She doesn't know that _I_ know, but the kids at my last school were pretty happy to tell me that my dad—my human dad, anyway—was a cop who slept with asari hookers. So, maybe she has reasons."

Siara looked puzzled. "I know that humans are culturally monogamous," she said, after a moment, lowering her voice. "But asari aren't. Sharing is just something that friends _do_, Eli."

Eli grimaced, and gestured for her to sit down. "Okay, I understand that. I really do. But my dad was not their friend. He was supposed to be arresting them for . . . for sharing themselves for money, or for buying and using drugs, that sort of thing. He betrayed the trust of his department, and he betrayed my mom's trust, too." He wouldn't have been able to think this way, before Lantar, he realized. So much of turian thought was couched in terms of trust and loyalty obedience to tradition.

He kept his voice down, and continued. "Can you see why that's different? Can you see why when she looks at any asari, really, she sees hurt and betrayal? She's not even seeing you, really. She's seeing my dad, I think."

"But that doesn't explain _you_. Why won't you just finish the sharing?"

Eli raised his hands, helpless to explain his reluctance, and shifted into asari high-tongue, hoping, desperately to stumble onto a reason that she could grasp. "_It's not that it wouldn't feel good."_ _Because, god, yes, I know that it would. "It's not that you aren't pretty, and it's not that I don't want to touch you." _Because, although he knew on some level it verged on betraying Kella's memory in his mind, that he _did_ want to touch Siara. Hormonally, to be honest, he had those same thoughts about pretty much every girl he met, but his hands _itched_ around Siara, especially in the last week. _"It's simply that you're not my friend. If friends share their light, that's one thing, but to share the light of one you do not like, and do not respect? You neither like me nor respect me. You dim your own light, Siara."_

"I'm _trying_ to be your friend_," _she told him, looking stubborn, and just a touch angry.

"Is sharing with me the _only _way you think I'd be friends with you?" Eli asked, realizing he hadn't a _clue_ what he was doing here.

Siara didn't answer that. She just looked away.

Elijah sighed, and crouched down near her. "Siara, there's more than one way to share." Still no response. He carefully took her hand in his. "How about if we go outside, see if there's any cake or ice cream left—unless you want a piece of _talashae_ bonemarrow cake instead—"

A faint gagging sound made him grin, and he went on, "And we'll see how you do at making friends." _When you don't think you have to give __**all**__ of yourself to buy a little of them._ Without Kella's memories in him like a cipher, he probably wouldn't have had this insight, this way of reading Siara's memories, her personality.

"They won't. . . they won't like me. I saw Rellus out there, and I know Dara hates me."

Eli shrugged. "If you treat them politely, Rel would probably let it go. Dara, you should probably apologize to."

"For _what_?" Siara turned around, eyes hot.

"For saying she killed Kella at the clinic last month." Eli met her eyes squarely. "You've seen my memories now. Do you think _I_ killed her now? Do you think Dara did?"

He could see the instant _his_ memory welled up inside of her, turning Kella's body so that Dara could see the metal rod that had pierced through their friend's body. The way Dara's face had crumpled at the sight. How her hands had shaken as she applied the bandages and the medigel, and though she'd kept her voice as chipper as she could, she hadn't been able to mask her face or her eyes. The way she'd kept up CPR, even after he'd felt Kella's spirit slip away, only stopping when Rel had picked her up and carried her away.

Siara looked down and away. "No."

"Then if you want her to be your friend, you should probably apologize, right?"

Siara frowned. "Friends share." It was almost a pout, and he almost, unforgivably, laughed. He managed to control it in time, though.

"Humans and turians share different ways. Siara, you'll never know unless you try. Meet us halfway. You might even like it."

She sighed. "Cake and ice cream?"

Eli chuckled, and got to his feet, pulling her by the hand. "Cake and ice cream. Let's go see if we can actually stand each other, okay?"

He wasn't aware of it, but Lantar had been standing, very quietly, just outside the room, listening and watching. If he'd turned in time to look, he would have seen an expression of enormous pride on his step-father's face.

**Dara**

At breakfast at Kasumi's house Sunday morning, her dad was at the table, and she emerged from her room to give him a hug. "What's this?" he asked, catching her arm in its pressure cast. "This from sparring?"

"No, it's from the clinic," she said. Which led into the by now all-too-well-rehearsed story, and she endured a certain amount of teasing from both her dad and Kasumi on the topic. "And what have you learned from this experience?" he asked, grinning.

"Always make sure to punch with the front knuckles," Dara replied glumly. "No piano for a week, until the cast comes off. Maybe longer, depending on how tender everything is."

"Yeah. Medigel is a great invention, but it only goes so far."

There was the usual light chit-chat, and then she had to go pack up for their return to their own house on the base. "I spend half my life packing," she grumbled. "It'd be _great_ if everyone lived in more or less the same place."

Her dad overheard her, and stuck his head in the door. "You'd prefer to live down here in the valley, kiddo?"

"Yeah. School's down here. Getting down here from the mountain in winter every day is not going to be easy. Sure, there's a shuttle, or, if conditions are too icy, I guess they might break out a Hammerhead, but it doesn't sound like fun." She shoved more clothes into her travelcase. "I divide my time between the base clinic and the science station clinic, so that's a wash either way. Stables are up at the base, but winter's coming, so there won't be riding for a while anyway." She looked down into her suitcase at that comment, and started tossing in toiletries now.

"And Rel and his family are down here, too."

"Yep. Sparring practice, dinner, and yeah, Rel." Dara peeked up at her dad through her hair, watching his expression to see if he was mad. He wasn't. A little thoughtful, maybe, but not mad, much to her relief.

She'd already decided that she wasn't going to mention the whole gene mod thing for a couple of days. It always paid to let her dad relax for a bit after he got home from work before hitting him with a note from the teacher or any other unwelcome surprise. She let the time pass. Gave him time to adjust to being home.

She'd been surprised when Dr. Solus asked the school to let her come on base Monday and Tuesday morning. "Good xenobiology and anatomy lessons," he'd explained. "Very important for medical studies." So while she'd missed out on lunch with Rel, she still had homework with him after school. And during the day, she had her very first autopsies.

She wasn't quite sure if this was a privilege that she was ready for, to be honest. This experience was _far_ worse than handling Mazz's. . . detatched. . . arm. The room was brutally cold; Dr. Solus told her he had to wear heated boots to keep his metabolic rate up in such conditions. As it was, she was wearing a sweater under her scrubs. "Your job is to observe today," Dr. Solus told her. "May ask you for instruments, or to hold body parts, or to help weigh organs. All important data." His eyelids lifted in a smile. "Waste receptacle container in corner, in case of vomiting. Not unknown in young doctors."

Five salarians bodies, all riddled with bullet holes. "Lystheni," Dr. Solus told her, removing a bullet from a body, and carefully measuring how far it had penetrated the body cavity. "Notice lack of smell? Some internal organs have been removed. Replaced."

Dara choked. "It still smells pretty bad to me."

"Ah, but no stomach. No intestine. Minimal cloaca, only attached to bladder. Would smell much worse, if all organs were present."

Dara leaned in, fascinated in spite of herself. "How did this one stay _alive_ if he didn't eat?"

"Venipuncture marks. Intravenous nutrition. Much scarring where stomach once was, do you see?" He pointed at striations in the tissue. "Probably attempted to replace with artificial organ at some point. Didn't work."

"But why would they _do_ that?"

"Lystheni see body as broken. Flawed. Distasteful. Do not see it as a wondrous machine, evolved with precision by its environment. They wish to make it better. Cleaner. More controllable. Extend life past salarian norm of forty years. Here, hold back flap."

Dara found herself holding back a mass of skin and muscle tissue, so that Dr. Solus could work his way deeper into the body cavity, and tried very hard not to gag. "Dara," the salarian told her. "Look here. This is a machine. It is broken. You can learn to fix these machines. But you _must_ learn from the ones that are broken."

On the third one, she pointed out, quietly, "That's not a bullet wound. That looks like a cut."

"Yes, knife wound. Here, take measurements. Will show you how to extrapolate size of blade, cutting motions used, sharpness of weapons."

When Dara's calculations, under Mordin's guidance, told her that a sixteen inch, slightly curved blade had made the wound, she winced a little. "My dad, Lantar, Garrus, and Sky killed these guys?"

"May help to know that Lystheni attacked first. Used azure dust on squad. Probably involved in worse things." He looked at her, and she sensed a certain amount of sympathy in his gaze. "Concentrate. Broken machines, remember?"

Gradually, they stopped being bodies for her. The started, instead, to be a jumble of organs and yes, metal and gear. She took pictures as Dr. Solus directed, handled the dripping organs and weighed them on the scales. And then she showered, vigorously, before going home, feeling as if the smell was still on her even after two or three shampoos. Rel assured her Monday night that she smelled clean and good; Tuesday night, she had no such reassurance, and went to bed feeling like a cloud had followed her home from the clinic.

At the end of the day on Tuesday, she asked Dr. Solus if they'd learned anything. "Certainly. Each Lystheni different. This one had L5 biotic implants. This one, none, but had neural chip. This one had both biotic implants _and_ implants in forearms, used to access reservoir of toxic fluid, which probably would have been aerosolized. Good thing this one died early. Three of them, the ones who were in hibernation when encountered—" Dara nodded; he'd explained this, both for her benefit, and for the recording he made as he worked, "had extensive neural chip implantation, both in brain and remainder of nervous system." He grimaced. "Were likely controlled at a distance by someone else. Computer program, possible. Another Lystheni with similar modifications also likely."

"So. . . they could turn themselves into husks, whenever they wanted to, basically, by getting cold? Which makes them less detectable? And when they warm up again. . . "

"They can walk though the streets of a city as normal salarians." He blinked at her. "Fascinating use of standard salarian biology. Most ingenious."

She tried not to dream about it that night, but she _did_ have one nightmare, in which all the body parts grew legs, and started to march around the science station. The livers and the hearts, in particular, decided that they wanted to come to school, and splorched in, sitting at desks with the rest of the students. Dara sat up in bed after that one, sweating, and decided that she'd really rather not sleep any more that night.

So, Wednesday, Dara was a little grainy-eyed, as she and Rel studied in the afternoon at Kasumi's, with Rel's little sister, Serana alongside them. Their chaperone, in a sense. They were waiting for it to be time to go to dinner at Rel's house, and also waiting for her dad to show up from the base with Kasumi. Dara carefully pulled a printout from her school bag, and put it on the table.

Rel glanced down at it. "You're going to talk to him about it _tonight_?" He sounded dubious.

"I wanted to give him time after he got back, but I have to start the discussion soon. We're at Kasumi's, so he probably won't yell as much. He won't have as much _time_ to yell, because he has to be ready to go to dinner at your parents' house." Her dad and Kasumi joined them once a week, usually on Wednesdays. It was also the day of the week that Commander Shepard and Garrus usually came down for dinner, too. "After that, he has to be ready to teach the sparring class. By the time that's done, he probably won't be angry anymore. Upset, maybe. Concerned. But not _mad_." She paused. "I hope."

"You really thought about this a lot." Rel moved his chair towards hers.

"I spent an hour with my mom's graybox, trying to figure out the best way. Then I just gave in and asked Kasumi, and this is what she suggested." Dara's lips quirked up a little into a somewhat sad smile. "Sometimes I think Kasumi knows my dad better than I do."

"Mates usually do." He gave her hand a squeeze under the table.

Serana interrupted, "What's all this stuff for?" The younger girl was looking through the gene mod literature.

"That's how humans who go into the military compensate for being, well, human," Dara told her. "We're not as quick or as strong as other species, so soldiers get genetic modifications. Amateur athletes are prohibited from having them, but professionals can have them done."

"You're going to be a soldier? Good." Serana nodded. "That way, you won't embarrass my brother."

Rel laughed and swatted at his younger sibling, who ducked away, grinning.

When her father came in, and found them all at the table, studying, he smiled. Dara flicked a glance to Kasumi, who nodded encouragingly. It had, apparently, been a decent day at work. Dara took a breath, and said, "Dad? Can I talk to you about something?"

Sam's smile faded a little. "Of course, sweetie." He sat down. "Keep in mind, last time you asked me that, I wound up in the middle of . . . contractual negotiations that I _still_ am not sure I came out on the winning end of."

Rel stirred next to her, and Dara hooked a foot behind his ankle. He subsided, calming a bit at the contact, and she managed a quick smile for her father. "This isn't quite like that, Dad."

"Glad to hear it. What's up, sweetie?"

She handed him the printout, and he looked through it, frowning slightly. "Dr. Solus says I'm done with my growth spurt," she said, as a preamble, hating the fact that she was hiding behind Mordin as an excuse, but willing to use any shield in her supply to deflect the wrath she strongly anticipated would come crashing down at any moment. "He was also commenting that it might not be a bad idea to get these done early in my martial arts training, so I don't have to unlearn so much muscle memory when the mods kick in."

Her dad's frown lines deepened. "These are military-grade, Dara. I know there's plenty of young folks out there who are decking themselves out with firefly gene mods so they can make their skin glow and all that crap, but this is _way_ beyond that. This isn't like a tattoo or a set of earrings, sweetie. This is permanent stuff. It will change your body in very fundamental ways."

"You had them done, right?" Dara asked. It wasn't a defiant question. She kept her voice soft, deliberately, not letting it go up in pitch.

"Yeah. Required for my MOS—that's military occupational specialty, son," he told Rel, who'd looked up, interested.

Rel nodded. "More or less the same term in our service."

"And what did they require you to take, Dad?"

"Strength package, endurance package, reflex package. I was trained to drop behind enemy lines, stay hidden, inflict maximum damage, and not need much in the way of support, sweetheart." He sat back, just looking at her, very levelly. It was unnerving. It was, she realized after a moment, the way he might have looked at a suspect. Just sort of . . . blank. "You planning on going into the service, Dara?"

"Yes."

"And the doctorin' stuff?"

"The service needs doctors." Her voice was barely more than a whisper. This was _not_ going as she'd expected. She'd expected yelling.

He nodded. "So, when you're eighteen, you'll be applying to the Alliance Service Academy back in Bethesda? You can get the gene mods done then. On tax-payer creds, too."

Dara swallowed. _No, we __**couldn't**__ do this the easy way._ "No," she said, very carefully. "I won't be going to the Alliance Service Academy."

Still that steady, blank, scary stare, only now it was encompassing Rellus, too. She could feel Rel react, felt the spurs flex against her leg, knew the tips had probably just unsheathed. Reflex reaction to hostility. "Oh no?" her dad said, mildly. "Then what are your plans, exactly?"

She didn't dare look at Kasumi. She didn't want to look as if she were expecting anyone to step in and rescue her. Dara licked her lips. "I plan," she said, her throat very tight, "to apply to the turian military at sixteen. That way—"

"Bullshit!" The word had enough force that Serana ducked, and just about hid under the table.

Dara flinched a little, and continued, doggedly, "—that way, I'll be done with medical training by twenty. Not just a combat medic. A full doctor." She swallowed hard, and added, very quietly, "And will have dual citizenship."

"Do you have _any_ idea what they put their troops through? Do you have any _idea_ how hard it will be for you to get through?"

She glanced, sidelong, at Rel. "Yeah." Dara paused. "Gene mods would make it a little easier. Not much, but a little."

Her father sat back a little. "Besides, how are you going to even apply—" He stopped. "Aw, hell _no_." Now his glare was fixed solidly on Rellus. "You think I'm going to give permission for you to get _married _ now?"

"Our contract extends through my return from bootcamp," Rellus told him, sounding surprisingly calm, although Dara could again feel the spurs flexing against her shin. "After that point, _manus_ rites are needed. So, marriage, yes. I planned to ask my clan leader to discuss it with you after I returned, but I'll only have two weeks then, and Dara felt that you needed to know earlier." He paused. "I want her to have citizenship. I want her to have the same rights and privileges as I do in the Hierarchy."

"She's got plenty of rights in the Alliance." Her dad paused. "And if I say _no_?"

Dara winced. She'd really hoped it wouldn't come to this. _I don't want to make you mad at me, or disappointed in me. Please, don't be mad. _ "I looked up Mindoir law, Dad. It's a colony world. Colony worlds are, well, big on people getting married and having kids." His eyes swiveled back to hers, and she felt the first burn of tears sting her own. "Fifteen-and-a-half, with parental consent. Sixteen without. Rel might not be able to get back here on leave for the ceremony, but it's just as valid over FTL."

Rellus said, quietly, "We're not asking to get married next month. We're asking, that when I return, that you consider letting us do things in a way that will allow us to share it with our families." _Rather than by defying one of them_, Dara added, mentally.

Her dad's jaw clenched, and he got up, and walked out of the room.

Dara put her head down in her hands.

"Well," Kasumi said, quietly. "That could have gone better. It was definitely better to broach it now, than to surprise him with it during your two weeks of leave after boot camp, though, Rel. Trust me on this." She looked down. "Serana, honey, he's not mad at you. You can get out from under the table."

Serana slowly emerged. "And I thought _my_ father was scary when he's angry," the turian girl said, in a slightly awed whisper. "I didn't know humans _had_ protection-anger like that."

Dara almost laughed at that, but it came out through her tears, and the result was a rather messy snort. "I didn't know he was going to take the conversation all the way there," she whispered. "I thought we'd just talk about gene mods, maybe about military service. I didn't think he'd go all the way through everything." _Or that he'd be this mad when he did._

Kasumi handed her some tissue, and said, "Why don't you three go to dinner? We'll be over in a little while."

Rel muttered, "Seems like retreating."

Dara looked up in time to see Kasumi shake her head. "Sometimes, standing your ground and fighting is the best option. Right now, you don't actually want to fight. You want diplomacy to work things out. So. . . withdraw for a while. Go. Shoo." She flapped her hands at them, and the three gathered up their datapads, and headed for Allardus' and Solanna's home.

**Sam**

He was aware of the kids leaving the house, aware of Kasumi moving around, straightening things up, but didn't want to inflict his mood on her until he'd calmed down quite a bit.

After about fifteen minutes, Kasumi came into the bedroom. "I don't want to talk about it yet," he told her, firmly.

"That's fine," she told him, brushing past him, and digging around in a set of drawers. "I'm just getting changed for dinner. Figured I might spar a little tonight, myself, too." She chuckled. "Appears that one of the asari girls from their school wants to play a bit, and it'll be nice for her and Dara to have someone closer to their own size to work with for a change." In a very matter-of-fact way, she started getting out of her work coveralls.

Sam nodded, and stayed silent. He was working through it all in his head. Talking about it would only reignite the anger, as far as he was concerned.

Kasumi finished changing, tossed her clothes in the hamper, and commented, lightly, "Dinner's in a half hour. Are we going over, or should I call Solanna and tell her to take two plates off the table?"

"Going over there is the last thing I want to do right now."

She nodded. "Okay. I'll call Solanna," Kasumi told him with aplomb. "In the interests of full disclosure, Sam, Dara decided to tell you about the gene mods herself. I told her how I thought she could best approach you about them. I'm sorry to have interfered."

He turned. "She's talked to you about this?" He wasn't sure if he was more amazed or more hurt than Dara had trusted—well, not an outsider, but not a parent—more than she had trusted him.

"Two days before you got back. She'd spent an hour in her room with her mom's graybox, and it wasn't helping. So I asked her what was on her mind. She told me the plan for going into the turian military, and said she'd thought about it, and that her best chance for not washing out in the first week would be gene mods."

"And you didn't tell _me_ about this?" Now he was mad again. The anger needed an outlet, and Kasumi's direction was just as good as any other. . . at least until he calmed and reminded himself that, in reality, it _wasn't_.

"You were two days out. I told her to give you a chance to relax and readjust to being on the ground and not having anything shoot at you for a day or two. She did." Kasumi leaned against the wall of her bedroom, arms folded across her chest. "You know what she's spent the last two days doing?"

"Homework, I hope."

"She's been up at the base clinic, doing autopsies on the bodies you and Garrus and Lantar and Sky brought back."

Sam's head jerked up. "What the _fuck_?" he demanded. "I didn't sign anything about—"

"You signed her internship form. Dr. Solus is salarian. They don't see any point in wasting time; they _can't_, with a lifespan that short. She's had three months of taking temperatures and, apparently, bullying krogan boys with missing limbs. Mordin figured she was stable enough to throw first-year med school stuff at, and she apparently passed with flying colors." Kasumi's grin was quick and sharp. "You know she's growing up."

"Yeah. Too damn fast."

"Can I ask you this? What did you think was going to happen? How did you see this year going?"

He shrugged a little. "I figured . . . hell, Kasumi, I don't know what I thought. I figured they'd be bored of each other by now, because most relationships in this age bracket last about two months. Worst case, I figured he'd go into the service, and even if they wrote back and forth for a while, it'd die a nice, peaceful, natural death. The more so when she went to college." He frowned. "Which she's got the smarts for, and won't _get_ if she goes on with this hair-brained scheme."

"No, she'd have a medical degree by twenty, rather than by twenty-six or twenty-eight, and would be starting off life debt-free. Even human hospitals accept turian doctors' credentials. They don't spend the first four years in pre-med and doing core curriculum. They spend four years learning on the job and having books thrown at their heads pretty much non-stop. I looked into it when Dara mentioned it. They're not as good on research work as salarians, but they're solid on diagnosis and treatment."

"Not really comforting, Kasumi-chan."

"It's not really meant to be. I'm providing information at this point, nothing more."

He growled now, "And did you provide the information about the age restrictions on marriage, for her?"

"No. The extranet is a wonderful thing." She looked at him dispassionately.

He thought about it. "Good. I didn't really appreciate her basically telling me that she can just do whatever she wants, and there's fuck-all I can do about it." Sam's face turned grim. "I could send her back to relatives on Earth." _Now there's a notion._ He entertained it for about ten seconds.

She tipped her head to the side, letting her long dark hair fall across her face. "In my opinion, you've got two choices. You can support her decisions, help her pick the path that leads to her goals, and guide her. Try to make sure she doesn't make bad mistakes along the way, but let her make some, because that's how people learn."

"Or?" His voice was a little challenging.

"You can make it hard for her. You can be the obstacle that she has to fight her way around, every step of the way. You can block her choices, try to force her into doing what you want her to do." Kasumi shrugged. "In the end, it boils down to this: chances are, she'll wind up making her own choices anyway. How do you want your relationship with her to be, when she does?"

"That's easy to say, when it's not your kid."

Kasumi's eyes narrowed. "Sam? For the past six months, she's _been_ my kid." She held up a hand, stopping him from answering. "Wait a minute. Part-time, maybe, but I have grown to love her. Same as I love you."

_Wait, what? We haven't even said that—_

"You're not here as much as I am—no, don't feel guilty. It's the nature of the job, and I'm not saying this to hurt you. I'm here more often, because it's _my_ job _to_ be here. I see them together. I keep an eye on them. You know how much of this house is wired for video? You have any idea how _much_ I can see from my damn office? I watched for a week or so, and have only spot-checked since then, because I _trust_ them. They know the rules of my house, and have been, as far as I can tell, following my rules and their contract to the letter." She sighed. "It's all up to you, Sam. They're your choices to make. And now, since we've spent so much time _not _talking about this, it's kind of late to call Solanna and tell her not to bother with our dinner. So I'm going to head over." She looked at him. "Can I tell them that you'll be there for sparring?"

He stood up. "I'll tell them myself." Sam grabbed his jacket. He was still boiling, but felt like he had it under control. Besides, sitting and pouting in his bedroom wasn't exactly how a grown man dealt with problems.

He hated the wary eyes that Dara turned his way when he came in the house, as if she were afraid of him. Why in god's name would she be afraid? Sam sat down, ate his dinner, and mostly kept his mouth shut. Dara asked Shepard a couple of quiet questions about her own gene mods. "What packages did you opt for?" she asked.

"Personally? Strength package," Shepard told her. "It's even more important for women than for men, especially in special forces."

"Why's that?"

"Because the standard is, you have to be able to carry a buddy out of combat. So, figure a minimum of ninety kilos, or two hundred pounds. That's fine if you're, well, a male, and that's how much you weigh to start with. For a woman to pick up a man's body, throw it over a shoulder in a fireman's carry? Unless you plan to invest heavily in cybernetics," and here Shepard grinned, a little wryly, "gene mods are going to be your best bet."

"What else do you recommend?"

"Well, I can just tell you what I had done. Strength, endurance, and eyesight. I had a genetic predisposition to nearsightedness corrected. Could have gone for the reflex package, but I carry a full pack of weapons, including a grenade launcher, back in the day. I don't usually worry that much about reacting fast to people in my face. I tend to blow them to hell before they get to me."

Dara looked down at the table, then back up again. "I read about one, where they've taken the DNA that regulates hemoglobin in crocodiles, and how they dissipate carbon dioxide in the blood, so you have a little more flexibility on breathable atmospheres."

Shepard nodded. "That's a useful one, too."

Kasumi commented, "They didn't have that one when I got mine done." She grinned a little. "I suppose it surprises no one that I got two different reflex packages and lowlight vision done?"

Dara leaned forward, squinting at Kasumi's eyes. "How does that work?"

"Adjusts the rods and cones in the eyes. Means I don't see colors as well as I used to, which is a pity. . . and also explains why I like vivid artwork in my house. . . but so long as it's not pitch-black, I don't need night-vision goggles. Handy, in a job like mine."

Sam started to relax a bit. Conversation seemed so simple, so ordinary. The way the topic was treated, so mundane. It wasn't the gene mods that pissed him off, of course. It was the whole sore point of the marriage thing, all over again. A sense that he was somehow being railroaded.

He opted to take most of the rest of his mad out on the mats. He couldn't help but notice that the various turians had exchanged looks, and that Garrus, Lantar, and Allardus were the only partners he had all evening. Redirecting him, redirecting his focus. By the end of two hours, however, he was so wrung out from the workout, he didn't really care anymore. The anger was spent, and standing under the showerhead at Kasumi's house, he was able to consider her words of earlier dispassionately.

He did have choices. Some of those choices would alienate his daughter, turn him into the enemy. Sometimes, that was a parent's job. He knew that. The question was, was that the role he needed and wanted to play now?


	32. Chapter 32: Fallout

**Chapter 32: Fallout**

**Sam**

The next evening, a Thursday, there was time free in the evening to just sit down and talk with his daughter. Alone, without anyone else around. He wasn't really sure how to start, as Dara sat listlessly at the piano, picking out tunes with her left hand; her right hand, obviously, was still in its cast, and largely useless. At sparring the night before, she'd been forced to practice being a south-paw. Not a bad thing; it paid to be able to fight evenly with either hand, since you could never know how you'd get grabbed. "So, Dara," he said, after a moment. "Why didn't you tell me about the autopsies earlier this week?" Sam was still a little bewildered that she _hadn't_. It hadn't so much as come up in conversation.

Dara glanced over her shoulder at him, then turned around on the piano bench to face him. "It was a surprise Monday morning," she told him, shrugging. "A special xenobiological project, is what I was told I could do that morning, as opposed to going down to school. You were sleeping in a bit, I got the message after I got back from my morning run, and I went straight to the clinic." She shrugged a little. "Went down to the valley straight from the clinic for homework and sparring and it didn't seem like really great dinner table conversation. And the next morning I went back and finished taking pictures and measurements and whatever." She paused. "It started out pretty bad. Lots worse than handling Mazz's arm when it wasn't attached to him. But it got better. Dr. Solus says that's part of the detachment every doctor needs to learn. You have to still _care_, obviously, but you also have to be able to pull back from it." Dara shrugged. "Parts were really interesting, like learning how to measure cuts and determine what kind of knife was used to make the wound. That sort of thing."

Sam winced. He was now even more uncomfortable than before. "When you say _knife-_wound. . . Dara. . . they—"

"They attacked you. Yeah. I'm okay with that part." Dara frowned a little, and started picking at the cover on the piano bench. "It was a little weird at first, knowing that I was poking around inside the bodies of people that you and Rel's uncle and Elijah's dad had, well, _killed_, but I _get_ that they attacked you, and that they were bad people. The really weird part was finding all the rachni toxic saliva all over their skins." Dara glanced up at him. "Sky really _can_ be scary when he puts his mind to it, huh?"

Sam nodded, but added, "He saved our damn bacon. Again. I keep trying to think of ways to thank him. A fruit basket just doesn't seem like it would really cut it, know what I mean?"

Dara giggled a little. "Take him to a live opera in Mindoir's planetary capital," she offered. "I saw an ad on the extranet that said that the Odessa Opera Company is doing _The Magic Flute_ and, um, some Chinese opera that I can't remember the name of this year."

"Sweetie, I'd take a Hammerhead over molten lava for Sky, but _opera_? That's asking a bit much."

She chuckled again, and he was glad to see she was less on edge now. He was trying to move very carefully here. He'd decided that his role was going to be a _guide_, not a jailer. "All right. So what you're saying here is that you didn't talk to me about the autopsies, because there wasn't really any _time_ to do so?"

"When you put it that way, it sounds like an excuse." She kicked her feet back and forth over the floor. "But there really wasn't. Plus, I didn't know how to start the conversation. 'Hey, Dad, guess what I did today? Is there room on the fridge door for the spleen I helped extract?'"

He caught her peeking through her hair at him. "Yeah, that probably wouldn't have gone over well," Sam admitted, after a moment. "But I can't help but get the feeling, Dara, that you don't _trust_ me anymore."

"I trust you," his daughter said, indignantly.

"Then why don't you talk to me about this stuff? About going into the turian military, and everything else?"

"I _tried_." Now she was angry, and he could see her trying, hard, not to lose control, not to cry. "I talked to Kasumi, I talked to Dr. Solus. I even talked to Dr. Chakwas." _All the people that I've left her with, __in loco parentis__, _he realized, after a moment. "They all said that I'd need to talk to you. I did. I knew you were going to be angry, and you were." Now she looked away and rubbed at her face.

"Well, why not earlier, then? Why put it all in a great big pile, and in front of a bunch of—" He stopped. He didn't want to classify Kasumi as a stranger here. "In front of other people," Sam finished, after a moment.

Dara shook her head, looking down at the floor. "Because I. . . .didn't think that if I talked with you about it two months ago. . . or a month ago . . . or yesterday, that the reaction would be any different."

That hurt. Sam stayed silent, though, letting her talk. He'd asked her to, after all. Dara fiddled with the piano bench cover some more. "If I'd brought it up two months ago, you'd have said 'oh, you barely know Rel, don't make plans. Everything will be different in a month or two.'" She looked up briefly.

"Yeah, I would have." He leaned forward. "And I could have been _right_. It still _could___be." He frowned at her. "You didn't even let me have that chance. How much more has gone on behind my back?"

Dara flushed. "Nothing that hasn't been allowed." Her voice was very tight now. "We've done nothing behind your _back_, Dad. Rel's big on sticking to the letter of the damn contract."

Sam didn't like thinking about that damned contract. What it spelled out made him uncomfortable—enough so, that he tried actively not to think about it.

When he again, said nothing, just stared at her, she swallowed hard and went on, "We started making plans for how we wanted our lives to go. We told you about them. You yelled."

"I'm not yelling now."

"No. This is almost worse." Her voice was muffled, as she looked down at the floor.

"You can't expect me just to let you do whatever you want, without _some_ input." He was pretty irritated at this point, and didn't mind letting her know it.

"I _don't_ expect that! But it would be really nice, if you want me to talk to you, if you could _listen_ at the same time!" Daran flinched, hard, and slapped both hands over her mouth, as if trying to cram the words back into her mouth.

Sam waited a long minute. "All right." Even to himself, his voice sounded cold. "I'm listening. What do you have to say?"

"Nothing. I'm sorry, Dad."

"No, you said you had things to tell me. Talk." When on _earth_ had his daughter gotten so scared of him? _Why_ was she so scared of him? He knew he'd been busy at work for most of her life, lots of business trips, but he'd thought they'd gotten closer after her mother's death. In fact, he _knew_ they had.

"I don't want to disappoint you." Her voice was very quiet, and he sighed. _Oh. There it is._

"You're not disappointing me, sweetie. I just want to make sure you don't get hurt. So lay it out for me, okay?"

It took an hour. He had to admit, she'd done her damn homework. Every question he could think of, regarding service in the turian military, the pros and cons of medical school in the Alliance versus the turian apprenticeship system, she'd researched it. "How about graduating from school here?" he asked.

"You can test out of most of the coursework," she told him, looking anxious. "I'm already doing senior-level work in most of my stuff."

"I thought you were behind when you started here."

"I was. You get to go at your own pace, though, and with Rel as a study partner. . ." she glanced up, and then away. "It's taken some work, but I caught up and then passed where I should have been. By the time I'm sixteen, I'll be done, if I can hold to this pace." Dara shrugged. "The Mindoir system is different from the Texas one, anyway. They tell us that they're teaching us _how_ to learn, not just facts and figures. That way, we can learn anything we want to as we go on through life. And they also think that learning is something that goes on all your life—or that it _should_, anyway."

"Okay, fair enough. What about hazing in the turian military?"

"I'd see that in the Alliance, too."

"Yeah, but not just for being human."

"I think I can deal with it. I'm doing better with the languages now, and I'm going to keep practicing while Rel's gone. And if the way the turian kids treated me at school before, well, the attack on the base is equivalent, I'll probably have more trouble with the females than with the males." She shrugged. "I'm more worried about how humans will react, to be honest."

He blinked. Here was a new thought. "How's that?"

"I'll be a human, wearing face-paint and a wedding knife, in the _uniform _of Turian Hierarchy forces." Dara glanced up at him. "That's one thing I learned from that trip to Shanxi. It doesn't mean much to people my age, but there are a lot more people out there who are older than I am, for whom it still means something." She paused. "Commander Shepard said once, at the clinic, that she was three years old when the First Contact War happened. She doesn't remember it at all."

"I was seven, kiddo. I remember it being all over the news. All the grownups scared to death. My mom and dad thought it was the end of humanity, that we'd run into an alien race bent on wiping us out." He thought back, and shook his head. "I have to admit, I don't really look forward to telling your grandma that you want to marry one of them."

Dara made a face. "You could skip over that part in the next Christmas phone call."

"Sure, and when she asks why you can't come to the comm terminal to say hello, I'm supposed to tell her what, that you've got the Skyllian flu and can't get out of bed, permanently? That dog won't run, Dara."

She chuckled a little, weakly. "I guess not." Dara looked up at him.

He frowned, remembering something she'd just said. "You've been seeing Commander Shepard a lot at the clinic, then?"

Dara nodded.

"Why?"

"I can't tell you." She looked up, saw something in his face, and cringed in on herself a bit. "I _can't_, Dad. Doctor-patient confidentiality extends to everyone in the room, and I'm there for some of the—the treatments."

Sam frowned. "Is she _sick_? Is that why she's not going out in the field right now?" For a moment, the terrible word _cancer_ hovered in his mind, and he really didn't want to picture the Spectres without their leader.

Dara jittered on her bench. "No, it's nothing like that. She can't—well, not for a while." She sighed, and said, as carefully as she could, "Let me put it this way. Dr. Solus wants me to see the process because he thinks it's a good dose of reality for someone who might want to do the same thing in the future, herself."

Sam frowned. He didn't think he was _dumb_, by any stretch of the imagination, but he wasn't getting this. Dara sighed, and added, "Okay, if you think it would be bad telling Grandma Jaworski that I was _marrying_ a turian, what could you tell them that would be _worse_?"

"That you were pr—ah. Gotcha." Now he _did_ feel dumb. "Explains a couple of Garrus' comments about fertility and stabilization treatments. I only just remembered that." He sighed, and his mind drifted for a moment. Sam's parents hadn't been AEC fodder by a long shot, but even now, some ten years after his father's death, his mom was still deeply human-centric in all of her thoughts and ideals. And, to be fair, there was nothing really inherently _wrong_ with that perspective. It was only when people decided to act on those ideals in such a way that degraded or destroyed other life, merely for living, that it really became problematic.

At the moment, Jaworski frowned, however. He didn't much like the thought of any potential grandchildren being targeted, either by human bigots or salarian scientists or anything _else_ out there. For being, in the words of Aria T'loak on Omega, _unique_.

Dara had already moved past this issue in her own thoughts, asking now, "Is part of the reason you're so upset about the idea of, well, marriage. . . does it have anything to do with. . . I mean, we all saw a lot of each others' minds in that simulation. . ."

Sam sighed. _Shit_. "You're saying that you know I was engaged to someone before your mom."

"Yeah." She looked up. "You never said anything about it before."

"Wasn't really your business before. Your mom knew about Hamako." Sam shrugged, looking off into the distance, into memory. "Yeah, I guess it might relate, a bit. Different cultures. Would never have really worked, but I was damned set on _making_ it work. Hurt like hell when her family intervened and forbade it." He frowned now. _Is that what I'm doing? Am I revisiting the same damn pattern?_ He didn't _think_ so, but it was possible. Sam sighed. It was so hard to know if he was doing the right thing. "I'll tell you what. You pay for the gene mods out of your own pocket, and I'll sign the forms. _But_ I want to look over any of the types you go in for, understood?"

Dara smiled, hesitantly. "Paying isn't really a problem, Dad," she said, after a minute. "Dr. Solus said that since my internship has to be unpaid—Mindoir law—he'd be willing to administer the treatments for free. Sort of a compensation for all the work I've been doing."

"Fine. I still want to talk to Dr. Solus myself. _Nothing_ experimental," he added, firmly. "Which ones are you thinking about the most?"

"Strength, for all the reasons Commander Shepard explained last night," Dara said tentatively. "If I need to move a patient, it would help to be able to do it on my own, not having to wait for someone else to help me. Endurance. The four kilometer runs are good for practice, but turians train for endurance running with full armor on. Up to twenty kilometers."

"Keep in mind, the mods don't just _give_ you endurance. It just increases your capacity for it. You still have to train."

She nodded. "Rel says he's going to start doing the long runs Sunday mornings while I'm at the clinic. Start off at sixteen kilometers those mornings, and see how he does. Once I get done with treatments, he'd add Saturday mornings to that, and I would go running with him." She winced. "Of course, he'll have to slow way down to go at my pace."

"And the third treatment?"

"I keep debating between the carbon dioxide one and the macro/micro vision one." She got up, left the room, and came back with the printout she'd had on the table the night before.

Sam read both descriptions carefully. "You want my advice?"

"Yes, please."

"The carbon dioxide is decent for survival situations, like when the environmental systems are offline and the CO2 scrubbers have clogged, but it's of limited use outside of that. Most planets won't have enough atmospheric pressure, or will have too much, or there'll be other gases in the mix that will require you to use a breather anyway. The macro/micro vision. . . sounds pretty damn useful." It did, too. Essentially, it changed the way the muscles around the retina shaped it. Blink, and focus on the far-off, and suddenly, you'd have the vision of a hawk; damned useful for rifle work. Blink, and focus on something close-up, and you'd be able to see at much higher magnification. "The macro is handy—no need for field glasses, or, hell, reduced need for a sniper scope on your rifle. The micro, I'd guess, would be handy for a doctor." He handed the sheets back to her.

"Yeah, that's kind of what I thought, too," Dara agreed. Tentatively, again, she asked, "When can I start?"

Sam sighed. _Well, even if everything falls apart, she'll still need the treatments for the Alliance military, so I guess it doesn't actually __**matter**__._ "If Dr. Solus can make room in the schedule, how about Saturday morning?" he asked. She'd be giving up riding time, he knew, but it was a measure of how important she thought it was, he figured, when she thought about it for a moment, and then simply nodded.

**Rellus**

It was April now, and rather than going for rides on Saturday mornings, now there were much less pleasant things to attend to. Necessary, but less pleasant. Dara's first set of gene mod treatments seemed innocuous at first. She sat, propped up in a hospital bed at the base clinic; he, her father, and Kasumi were in the room with her. Rel sat next to the bed, as Dr. Solus came in with a set of three IVs, and began to clean the venipuncture site on Dara's left arm. "I'm glad for the company, but you don't all need to be here for this," Dara told them all, looking nervous.

"Yeah, nice stiff upper lip, kiddo," her dad told her. "I remember mine too well _not_ to be here for yours."

Rel simply opted to hold Dara's hand, wincing a little as the needle went into her arm. Again, it was amazing how fragile human skin really was. A turian doctor would have had to lift up a ridge of scales and slide under the structures to get into a vein; for a human, the initial puncture took less than a second. Then Dr. Solus set the IVs to dripping, warning Dara, "May experience unusual taste in mouth. Burning around IV site. Am monitoring for heart rate and blood pressure, but if dizziness, loss of vision occur, press button for nurse, _immediately_."

Again, it just seemed so. . . innocuous at first. Everyone in the room talked and joked, and Rel had the distinct impression that her father was trying harder to get to know him. Beyond simply finding him _acceptable_. He wasn't quite sure what had prompted that shift, but he was grateful for it; it certainly beat the constant state of wary tension in which he'd previously found himself in Jaworski's presence.

After about two hours, the IV bags were empty, and Dara was cleared to leave. She still appeared to be in a good mood, but her face was very pale, except for a bright pink flush to her cheeks that seemed much brighter than usual.

They settled in for lunch at her dad's house, but after about twenty minutes, Dara got up from the table and bolted for the bathroom. Rel followed her, concerned, and got his first lesson in human regurgitation. Many species on Palaven regurgitated food for their young; turians were not one of them. It was actually very _difficult _for a turian to vomit; if the food was still in the crop, it was easy, but if it had already migrated down to the main stomach, it had to move back up into the crop, and from the crop to the esophagus. It was _extremely_ uncomfortable when that happened. Rel wasn't quite sure how this worked in humans, but it didn't look or sound any better than when a turian did the same thing. A little at a loss of what to do, he pulled her hair back from her face and patted her back a bit. Looking down as another heave wracked her body, he told her, quietly, "I kind of like you the way you are. You don't _have_ to finish the treatments."

"Yes. . . yes, I do." Dara choked out. "Knew this was part of the deal. Just not. . . how bad."

After a few minutes, she flushed the toilet and stood up, still looking very pink, and muttered, sheepishly, "Thanks, Rel." She washed her face, and rinsed her mouth out with water, and, still concerned, he put a hand under her elbow, making sure that she was steady on her feet.

"I can't really tell for sure," he said, after a moment. "But I think you're warmer than usual." He put a hand to her flushed face. "Usually, you feel like you're approaching hypothermia to me." The first few times he'd touched her, just teaching her to ride a _rlata_, she'd felt unnervingly like a corpse to him—alien coolness perceptible even through clothing. Now, she didn't feel as much like room temperature as she usually did. But she also started to shake a little, as if she were very cold, and _that_ was just bewildering. Her teeth even started to chatter a little.

Kasumi appeared in the doorway. "Yeah, right on schedule. Let's get a look at that temperature." She produced a thermometer with a bit of a flourish.

Rellus was much more used to turian and galactic measurements for temperature and weight and distance. 103 Fahrenheit, or 39.4 Celcius, sounded like two entirely different things to him. "You run one-ten or so in Fahrenheit," Kasumi told him, calmly. "That's what?"

"A hundred _aestus_, or fifty _merro_." _Merro_ was the galactic standard devised by asari and salarians, thousands of years ago. "I think in _aestus_, though." He grinned briefly, but pulled Dara close to him, trying to warm her up, running his hands up and down her arms. Chemical smells on her skin; not her usual scent at all, as her body started to fight the changes the chemicals were making. Dara tucked her head into his shoulder and just shivered there. "Asari and salarians consider turians provincial for not adopting their galactic standard on our worlds," he added, trying to sound normal, and not at all like he was starting into a nice solid round of fear-anger.

Kasumi chuckled. "Sounds familiar. Anyhow, Dara should be, I think, eighty-nine _aestus_, if my mental math is right. But she's running at ninety-three and change. It's a high fever, but not a dangerous one, if we keep it from going any higher. Normal immune response in humans to the gene therapy, really."

"_S'kak._"Rel looked down at Dara. "All right, what do we do for her?"

"For the moment, she needs to get into a lukewarm bath to take the fever down. When she gets out, it's straight to bed for her." Kasumi glanced at him. "You need to get to the range this afternoon?"

He shrugged that off impatiently. "I'm already rated at exceptional. I'm hoping for sharpshooter before I leave, but _this_ is more important. A week or two off won't wreck my rating." Then he set Dara at the edge of the tub, knelt, and started to run the water into the tub. When he straightened up again, he realized that Kasumi's dark eyes were very amused indeed.

"You're going to have to step out of the room," Kasumi told him, softly enough that the words were almost swallowed by the sound of the running water.

Now Rellus sighed. "For the spirits' sakes," he muttered, impatiently. "She's my _mate._" _Humans and their damned notions about propriety. She's sick. Sick for my sake, sick for the sake of our future. I can lift her in and out of that tub, with no effort, and Kasumi can't do that. But because they're __**obsessed**__ with the body and what it looks like and who can see it, I can't even help._

"I know," Kasumi told him quietly, and not without sympathy. "But—"

Rel pressed his forehead to Dara's. "I'll be right outside the door." He got a rather wan smile for his efforts, and stood outside in the hall, trying not to let his seething annoyance and fear-anger show, while Kasumi helped Dara into the tub.

Outside, her father was waiting, and passed in various clothes in—night clothing, apparently. Most of Palaven's climates, other than the poles, ran so warm, that turians had never developed the notion of specialized clothing to wear to bed, so the concept of pajamas and robes and such made Rellus blink a little, and reinforced, again, the notion of human frailty.

Then, finally, they let her out, hair wet, and still shivering. He followed along to her bedroom, and moved her desk chair beside the bed, figuring that if he was going to stay, he might as well be somewhat comfortable.

Rel watched as her father stroked Dara's hair back from her face. "Told you it was going to suck, kiddo."

"I know. It does." Her teeth were chattering already again. "It gets better on subsequent doses, right?"

"They all pretty much suck. The first one is the worst, though. And you're taking three mods all at once, instead of spacing them out over the course of a year." Her father stroked her hair back again. "You've got juice on the nightstand. Drink it. Lots of fluids today and tomorrow. You'll feel a lot better in the morning, but probably no clinic in the morning, y'hear?"

She nodded against the pillows. Then, much to Rel's surprise, her father leaned over and told him, quietly, "Make sure she drinks the damn juice, all right?" before turning and leaving the room. Rellus blinked, once. _He's entrusting her to me._

"Still cold?" he asked her, after a minute.

"Yeah." She managed a smile. "Nice and warm when you were holding me, though."

Rel glanced over his shoulder, making sure that they were out of the line of sight through the door, and then moved over onto the bed, and wrapped his arms around her for a bit, until the worst of the shivering passed again. Dara turned into him, muttering, "Had such _bad_ dreams after the autopsies last week." She inched her head higher, and she managed another smile, adding in turian, "_I wished, when I awoke from dreaming, that you were here with me."_

He chuckled, as she'd meant him to. _"So that I might bite you and scare the night-demons away?"_

"Pretty much." Her voice was drowsy now, and she slipped back into English. "Or to do what you're doing now."

"Don't go to sleep. You need to drink some fluids before you do." He sat up, and offered her a sip of juice from the cup with its straw, which at first she grimaced at, and then drank with increasing eagerness. _"I love watching you do that,"_ he murmured quietly, just to make her laugh.

And then she fell asleep.

The next two weekends followed that exact pattern, although Rel had to admit, none were as bad as the first doses of the gene mod extracts. And over the course of the weeks, he could see the changes in her; her strength improved enormously. Oh, it didn't make her body bulk out, to his relief; he liked her exactly as she was now. Human musculature bulked larger on males due to testosterone and other hormones, she explained to him. For her, this modification encouraged her muscle fibers to become denser, although this tendency had to be reinforced with exercise. Additionally, the treatment ran the risk of the muscles themselves tearing off the bones, because greater strength didn't necessarily change the muscle insertion points along the bones, or the resulting leverage. Ligaments and tendon damage was also possible, if proper exercise and practice with the newly modified muscle tissues weren't employed. It definitely made sparring with her more fun, more intense. He didn't have to worry _quite_ as much about her fragility, although it was always at the forefront of his mind.

Likewise, her endurance, which had been improving on the morning runs, and in terms of how long she could spar without needing a break, suddenly dramatically increased. Again, how much better it would be, would depend on how much effort she put in. "It's not a miracle drug," Dara explained. "The mods just take raise the ceiling on what a human can accomplish."

"Then why are all your sports records still rated by what unmodified humans can accomplish?"

"Because the people who write the record books need some standard that allows them to compare what someone did in 2129 with what someone did in 1929, I guess." She shrugged.

She told him that the vision alteration was actually the hardest to get used to. "I'll just be staring off into space," Dara told him, "my eyes defocused, and then someone will say something, and I'll turn to look at them, and all of a sudden, I'm in the wrong focal range, and I'm seeing what their hair looks like, like it's under a microscope or something." She shook her head. "It's distracting." They were in her bedroom, on the third and final weekend of her treatments, and she turned to look at him. "Turian scales, by the way? Under magnification? Really amazing to look at."

Rellus chuckled, a little self-consciously. "No, seriously," Dara told him, sitting up. "All the metallic elements make them sparkle, and they almost refract the light." She blinked, twice, and he could _see_ her regain her normal focus, meeting his eyes now. "Totally worth the price of admission," she told him.

"I'll only agree with that once you're past this last treatment, and we can start running together." He leaned forward, speaking quietly. "It doesn't really replace the weekend rides, but . . . it's _iunkunditas_, of another sort." Pleasure, derived from physical activity. Running, sparring, riding, hard, physical work, all provided some form of the warm glow of _iunkunditas_. Of course, mating did as well, but by unspoken agreement, they'd made sure not to try to push each other too far in the past few weeks, even during closed-door time. The pure fact that they couldn't _do_ anything about it was enough to make them hold back; and now, with the lack of privacy getting worse as winter approached, it seemed wiser not to provoke each other.

"How long?"

"Seventy-eight days."

She sighed, and said a rude word in turian. He grinned half-heartedly, and said, "I've got a couple of other words that also summarize the situation. Want to learn them?"

"Sure."

**Shepard**

She had a small briefing planned for the day. Mordin had the autopsy results, as well as his analysis of the biometric data obtained from the Lystheni base on Omega and some other details; Kasumi had information to present on the AEC and also on what little they'd picked up regarding Ill'sta Marov Kina Piro. Shepard settled back, and gestured for Mordin to begin.

"First autopsies of Lystheni bodies conducted in centuries," Mordin began. "Rare moment. Much new data to go through. Took several weeks as a result. See several key patterns emerging. First, several individuals showed removal of many major organs, replaced with tech. Stomach, intestines. Probably attempted to replace with a storage and distribution center for nutrients."

"They put a _vending machine_ in their abdominal cavities?" Sam asked, after a moment.

"Essentially, yes. One body still had working device in place. On the one hand, provides nutrition to body, already broken down into relevant, usable forms—proteins, minerals, sugars. Kept about a year's worth of nutrients at a time. Wouldn't feel hunger. Wouldn't need to eliminate as much waste. However, bodies evolved over time, to take food in, send waste out. Beautifully adapted to processing and using nutrients in conventional fashion. Difficult to adapt blood stream, cells, to accept nutrients distributed in other ways. Flawed methods, stemming from flawed rationale, which is that body is evil, body is bad. When tech fails, have to replace mass inside body cavity. Surgical foam, etcetera. Temporary, stop-gap methods. Unable to eat when tech fails, resort to intravenous nutrition." Mordin blinked, looking irritated. "Other changes made. Show signs of trying to use human gerontological treatments to expand salarian lifespan. Alterations to pituitary gland, attempts to slow metabolism. Understandable, but again, flawed methodology."

Mordin was, of course, in his last half-decade himself. If anyone would understand the urge to expand the limited salarian life-span, it would be him. Shepard nodded, and gestured for him to continue. "Human gerontological treatments only effective on humans. Extremely hard to adapt to other species. Humans mammalian. Salarians amphibious. Too many differences. Principles could be taken, new methodologies extrapolated, tested, applied, but instead, they seem to simply apply human solutions to salarian physiology. Doesn't work."

"Interesting, but doesn't get us far. What else is there?"

"Two different paths, somewhat interconnected. Much reliance on tech, as noted before. Neural chips, neurocannules, for direct computer interface. Can hack software at a distance. Can overload shields, at a distance, create holograms, perhaps. Many uses. Weapons built into body. Horrific, how much experimentation must have been done, to make systems functional." Mordin was clearly agitated. "Second path, biotic potential. L5 implants in some. Doubt they have enough biotic potential to make efficient use of the tech, however. Genetic modifications, taken from multiple species. Drell eye adaptations. Some asari genetic code spliced in, to try to achieve biotics. Some _krogan_ genetic code." Mordin sounded rattled by that, to say the least. "Probably attempt to use krogan regenerative abilities to ward off senescence, extend salarian lifespan, again."

Shepard frowned. Across the table, Jaworski shook his head. "I still say it sounds like they're running two different directions at once."

"Yes," Mordin agreed. "Multiple avenues of research, all at once. Some motivated by historic distaste for body. Body evil, replace it with tech. On the other hand, some motivated by desire to improve upon body. Make it stronger, faster, more durable. Many salarians . . . uncomfortable. Most other species stronger. Longer-lived. Self-image problems. Personally, prefer to think of our strengths. Intelligent, think quickly on feet. Doesn't help everyone. Unfortunate." Mordin put his hands lightly on the table in front of him. "All Lystheni gene modifications have been, historically, phenotypic. Like human gene mods for soldiers, only affect the body, not the genotype, what is passed on to descendants."

"And these salarians were different?" That was Garrus, frowning.

"No. All changes made to somatic cells. Gametes unaffected."

There was a slight pause as everyone in the room endured a quick flash of what had been needed to be done in order to _obtain_ gamete information from a corpse. "Wouldn't the, well, _gametes_ have decayed in the body?" Shepard asked, as delicately as possible.

Mordin shook his head. "Bodies quickly moved to cold storage. Good work by squad. Much data preserved this way." He cocked his head to the side. "Issue became important on analyzing biometric data found in base computers by Garrus and teammates. _Much_ data on hybrid offspring present. Since efforts to 'improve' upon salarian phenotypes has mixed results, possibility exists that they wish to expand on efforts. Make genotypic changes. Hybridization technology would allow for this." He looked positively angry. "My work, used for their goals. Not intended outcome."

Shepard sighed, rubbing at her temples slightly. Her head ached; one of the noxious side-effects of the anti-rejection medications was increased blood pressure. Increased blood-pressure led, inevitably, to headaches. She had had migraines almost every day in the last three months of her first pregnancy; migraines accompanied by lights and gaps in her visual field. "As someone recently pointed out to me, once a technology exists, it's going to be used, Mordin. You can't anticipate every eventuality." _Not even that damned simulator device that's hooked up to the mini-Reaper can do that._

"Agreed," he said, after a long moment.

"Okay, that's the Lystheni bodies and some of the information in their database, other than the partial brain scans. What else do you have for us this morning?" Garrus had probably caught her rubbing her head, and obviously wanted to move the meeting along.

Mordin cleared his throat. "Recorded brain patterns of three hanar scientists. Activity very similar to AI found on Anafiel."

Kasumi shook her head. "Why would a hanar be working with salarian renegades?"

"Have we been able to identify the hanar's remains?" Shepard asked.

Kasumi frowned, and checked her datapad. "Only his face-name. Lluwyn."

"See if you can get in touch with his family. Offer the chance to return his body to the deep, and see what you can find out about him. Maybe that will give us a clue."

The little woman made a note. "If Mordin's done, I've got a few items for discussion," she said, and Mordin nodded amicably, yielding the floor.

"First and foremost, Argus has been trying to run Ill'sta Marov Kina Pero to the ground. She's found a few financial transactions. Oddly enough, buying large quantities of slaves from batarians. Large allotments that basically vanish. They start off at the shipping yards on registered transports in batarian space, and poof! When the transport reaches its stated destination, the slaves are gone." Kasumi paused. "And I thought _I_ was good at making things disappear."

Shepard felt her face tighten into a frown. "Anything out of the ordinary about the slave shipments?"

"Funny you should ask. Male human biotics, by preference, although a few female humans and asari are in there. Couple of drell, again, biotics."

"Sounds like the Collectors all over again," Garrus put in, darkly.

Shepard shuddered a little. "A little too much like them, yeah." She paused. "So, it's a two-way street for him. He's hiring the batarians to guard shipyards, and he's buying slaves from them. I guess it's even possible that the people building the shipyards could be batarian, too. Though if that's the case, why would the middle-man be a salarian?"

"Unusual," Mordin put in. "Salarians and batarians, historically, not exactly best of friends."

Lantar commented, dryly, "For some people, creds are pretty much creds."

"Any recent locations for Pero?" Sam asked, turning towards Kasumi.

"Showed up on Bastion a week ago, then headed back out into the Terminus systems. Stated flight plan was the Relic system, Rough Tide, specifically."

Shepard frowned. "Hmm. We'll send a team there. I'll decide on composition once we get to the end of the meeting." Shepard turned back to Kasumi. "Okay, what's next?"

Kasumi frowned. "Sam's various AEC-poking efforts with his dummy accounts have netted his young, disaffected persona an invitation to Earth to meet with some people involved in the organization. We knew that the STG have been monitoring the Lystheni's recent interest in the AEC; we're also _fairly_ sure that the Lystheni have been watching that account pretty closely, for some reason. I'm inclined to advise that we notify Earth officials that we're coming, and see if we can set up some sort of a sting."

Shepard nodded. "Okay. I'll be sending you two there, and I'll figure out who your third is, once we get to the end of the agenda."

Gris shifted uncomfortably in his chair, pointing out, "I'm not exactly built for covert missions, Commander. Not to mention, half the humans on Earth are going to run the other direction when they see me coming."

"We need a biotic there to back up Sam and Kasumi. . . just in case there _are_ Lystheni anywhere around the AEC at this point. There's no evidence that they're on Earth, or that they're doing anything more, at the moment, than poking their noses in, but I'd rather be prepared for the worst than send a team in with their pants already down around their ankles."

Sam snorted with laughter. "That's a colorful image. Thank you, ma'am."

Shepard sat back. "My currently available biotics who've worked with these teams before are Sky, Gris, and Nisha, although her involvement was more in a support function last time. Ylara's out; pregnant. Half a dozen other biotics are currently off-world. So. . . I could send Nisha to Earth instead of to Rough Tide, and let her offend most of local law enforcement there. . . ." Sam was already shaking his head, vehemently, _no_. ". . . I could send Sky to Earth. . ."

_It would please me, to hear the songs of so many. However, given fear-song on Omega at the sight of me, events might not play in harmony with our intentions._ Sky's voice was intrigued, but a little worried. Mostly greens.

Gris shrugged. "I see your point." He grinned, showing the yellow stumps of his teeth. "I'll try to look weak and unmenacing."

Sam chuckled again. "Never going to happen, Gris."

"As I said, we'll figure it out at the end. We have anything on the shipyard locations?" Shepard asked, turning to Garrus. It was the last item on her agenda.

Garrus spoke up now. "Couple of new potential locations. Xe Cha system, Aphras and Tosal Nym."

Shepard frowned, trying to place the names. "Those are those two post-garden planets, both with heavy impact craters, probably from old Reaper activity, right?"

Garrus nodded. "Lots of archaeological teams out there now. Klendagon, in the Century system, out in Hawking Eta, is on the list as well. It's the site of a civilization wiped out about 37 million years ago."

"Contemporaneous with civilization on Etamis," Mordin supplied. "Where elcor archaeologists were killed by AEC colonists, when they stumbled onto illegal colony on that world. Same sector of space, too. Probably connected."

"Almost as old as the civilization on Junthor, that had the mini-Reaper," Shepard added, quietly, thoughtfully. "Garrus, how'd these names come up? They don't sound like good shipyard locations. Shipyards are usually in space, outside of the gravity wells of planets."

Garrus nodded. "I'm expecting to look in orbit," he admitted. "But all of these coordinates tie in with recent _Klem Na_ activity, as far as we've been able to ascertain."

Lilu nodded, feeling a wave of tiredness hit her. "Okay. That's three teams and three locations. I'll need to pad the roster here a little bit." She sat back, considering it. "Garrus? You, Mordin, and Gris." She glanced over at Gris. "Do your very _best_ Wrex impression; you're joining one of my _favorite_ squad lineups here."

"Three Musketeers," Mordin muttered. "Still do _not_ see resemblance to Aramis. Also, do not wear long, plumed hats. Or carry rapiers."

Sam slapped a hand over his face, and Shepard's lips twitched, as she valiantly attempted to suppress the image of the three aliens in _fleur-de-lis_ cloaks. It was really the image of Mordin wearing a feathered-hat that did her in, however, and a muffled laugh escaped her. After a moment to regain her composure, Lilitu went on as if nothing had happened. "You three are going to be chasing down Pero Kina, or Kina Pero, or _whatever_ his name is, out near Rough Tide. He's dealing with too damned many batarian interests. Try and find out where the slaves are going. Chances are, as much crap as he's involved in, you might get the shipyard data out of him as well." She frowned. It didn't all quite fit, but they needed more information.

She glanced down at her agenda. "Okay, one team for Earth, and one team for the batarian hot points near the archaeological worlds."

"You say that like you don't think they're shipyard locations." Garrus looked interested.

She shook her head. "I don't want to get locked in on that, no. I think it's more likely that they're using the planets as storage locations for slave running." She frowned. "Kasumi, Sam, _not_ Nisha. . . I can send either Sky or Cohort with you. Who's going to make people back home less apt to run screaming?"

Kasumi chuckled. "People back home need a little shaking up, Shep. Earth is probably the most _provincial_ homeworld out there."

Sam absolutely chuckled. "If I use my own parents' likely reactions as a litmus test, I'm thinking they'll be less apt to faint, or, alternately, grab their guns for a geth than for a rachni." He glanced at the big brood warrior. "Sorry, Sky. Most folks back home have a built-in fear of anything that looks like a spider or a bug. Millions of years of differences in evolution."

_Your song does not offend me. Your songs are different from our songs, but all build harmony._

Shepard frowned. "And ten years of bad vids showing the geth as enemies? I'd have thought that Earth was the one planet in the galaxy where a rachni wouldn't feel, well, hate and fear. We're the new kids, after all. We got out here well after the Council and the rachni beat on each other."

Sam glanced at Cohort now. "People back home have those vids, sure, but they also have mechs that they see on a daily basis. They see a geth with a couple of humans, and they'll relax. They hear Sky talk in their heads, and they'll damn well lose it." He grimaced. "That _does_ leave us without a biotic. And Nisha is not a good option. She's fine for Council space, and probably outstanding on asari worlds—"

Shepard nodded. "She is. I have to rely on her and Ylara heavily when dealing with Thessia."

He nodded. "However, the whole cut-glass bitch routine will not fly on Earth. _Really_ wish Ylara was available."

"You and me both, Sam." Shepard frowned. "Tell local law enforcement you'll need them to provide biotic backup, just in case. They should have _someone_ with L4 or L5 implants, and that should be all you need." _I hope._ "That leaves Lantar, Sky, and. . . hmm. Take Livanus, Lantar. You're in charge, though, and you'll check out the batarian hotspots. Garrus takes the _Normandy, _drops Sam and Kasumi and Cohort on Earth. Lantar's team takes the _Dunkirk_, while we still have it on loan." She looked around. "And if that's all, folks, I think this meeting's adjourned."

As everyone started to scrape back their chairs and prepare to move out of the room, Jaworski suddenly said, "Hell's bells."

Shepard glanced at him. "What's on your mind?"

Sam frowned. "Let's see. I'm going to be gone. Kasumi's going to be gone. Mordin's going to be gone. I guess I can ask Dr. Chakwas to look after Dara. . . ."

Mordin cleared his throat. "Esteemed colleague also off-world. Xenobiological symposium. Mars, Pavonis Mons Medical Institute. Two weeks."

"Damn." Sam looked deeply annoyed for a moment. "Lantar will be gone, and I don't want to ask Ellie to look after her. . ."

Shepard chuckled. "You've still got options. I don't suppose you'd want her at Allardus' and Solanna's?"

"Ah, _no_." Jaworski's tone was a little tart.

She shrugged. "Then she can come stay with me for the duration." Lilu chuckled as Sam blinked and turned that one over in his mind.

"You wouldn't mind?" he said, after a long moment.

"She's not _quite_ family yet, but closer than most." She paused, watching his expression for a moment, seeing the exact instant he realized he and his daughter would, effectively, become her and Garrus' in-laws. At a distance, of course. It didn't look like a _comfortable_ realization. Then she went on, smoothly, "The twins like her, and I need someone around who can help me ride herd on them at the moment, especially since I keep," Lilu covered a yawn, "falling asleep right after dinner. No matter how hard I try _not_ to."

Sam chuckled, after a moment. "Yeah. First trimester kicked Sarah's ass, too, back in the day." He shrugged, apparently not finding any reason to decline. "Okay, well, if you don't mind, I'd definitely be obliged."

As everyone filed out, Garrus put a hand on her shoulder. "With Chakwas on Mars, and Mordin off on a mission, at least detach Dr. Abrams from the _Normandy_ and let him stay on base for the duration," he muttered, for her ears only. "Anyone in the med bay can slather medigel on me. There's only three doctors I trust to look after _you_ at the moment."

She nodded. "Fair enough, Garrus. I don't want you worrying." Her lips tightened for a moment. "Worrying about stuff that isn't in front of you tends to get people killed in our line of work." 

**Kasumi**

She started packing, helping Dara with the girl's packing as well. "Still feel like you're living out of a travelcase?" she teased.

"Pretty much," Dara replied.

"Get used to it. If you're going to be military, this is going to be a way of life for you for a good long while." Kasumi suppressed a smile at the girl's long-suffering look.

"Do you know _where_ on Earth you'll be going?"

"First stop will be the North American Bureau of Investigation. It's still head-quartered in Washington, DC. Although, sadly, I think we'll be missing the cherry trees blooming. That tends to be a late March thing." Kasumi liked Mindoir just fine, especially in spring, but she'd been pestering the xenobotany team for _years_ now to adapt a strain of cherry trees that would accept the soil conditions and not out-compete the native flora; Allardus kept promising that his team was close, and that maybe next year, she could plant a stand of them around her house. It would make her house feel a little more like home, to see the pinkish-white blooms every year, Kasumi felt. _Allora_ trees were all well and good, but something in her just cried out to see the little trees with their twisting branches, suddenly bursting into bloom.

"Any chance you'll find yourself in Texas?" Dara asked.

Kasumi shrugged. "Our ah, contacts," she was deliberately vague; Dara didn't need to know what they were doing on Earth, after all "have been very cautious about where they want to meet with us. It could be anywhere from the ruins of Detroit to someplace in rural Alabama, at this point. I think we've safely ruled out Mexico, for the moment. Why? Need us to pick something up that you forgot back home?"

Dara shrugged. "Nah. Kind of wondered if my dad was going to check in with my grandma. She's been on his mind the past couple of weeks."

Kasumi paused, tipping her head to the side. "He hasn't mentioned anything about it." _I really doubt Sam's going to bring me home to meet his mom. Not on a work trip, anyway. Besides, he's a little old for that. Although he __**does**__ occasionally remind me that he's old-fashioned. . . nah. _

"Okay." Dara closed her travelcase. "You guys have a safe trip." She gave Kasumi a hug. "And if you bring back souvenirs, um, well, snow-globes are a _lot_ less smelly than bodies."

Kasumi laughed outright. "Much easier to transport, too," she agreed, her lips curving up. "I'll be sure to remind your father of that."

"Please do." Dara grinned. "Okay, I'm off to _Commander_ _Shepard's _house." She paused. "I think, a couple of months ago, Eli would have _killed_ me for getting to stay there."

"And now?"

"Eli's got his own problems to deal with." Dara laughed, and Kasumi shook her head, and kept packing.

Once aboard the _Normandy_, she made her way to the port observation lounge, finding Sam already there. "There you are," she said, hearing the purr in her own voice.

He glanced up. "I think I should be nervous," he told her, lifting his big hands like a surrendering prisoner.

She dropped her bag on the floor, and closed the hatch behind her. "Definitely. I've gotten _very_ tired of having this area of the ship all to myself when I travel."

Kasumi loved the quick flash of his intelligence, his humor, the way his lips curled up under his moustache as he grinned and replied, "Could knock out a bulkhead. I'm sure the folks in crew quarters next door would _mind_ a li'l more room to stretch their legs. . . ."

She was on him by that point, running her hands up under the sleeves of his shirt, feeling skin and light hair and muscle. She liked that his strength was evident, and that it was manifestly not empty muscle, built by endless, mind-numbing exercise on machines. No, he took care of himself, but his body was a weapon, honed like one. His strength was a reflection of that, nothing more, nothing less. "Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"Lean down so I can kiss you already." She looked up at him, smiling. "I've had a recurrent fantasy for _years_ of having a man in here, riding him, with all those stars as a backdrop."

He leaned down, and teased, softly, in her ear, "You've had recurrent fantasies about flashing the damn universe? Missy, I do believe you're what they call an _exhibitionist_."

She kissed him then, and he obligingly shut up. She unbuttoned his shirt, ran her hands along his chest, and then pushed him more or less in the direction of the window. He chuckled, and put on a martyred look, which she did not believe _at all_.

The stars blurred into the blue-red shift of FTL travel just as she reached her first climax, and the shift in the drive vibrated up through both of them from the deckplates; she'd never quite felt like she was _part_ of the ship before, and it was both disturbing and exquisite at the same time. "Is there an _actual_ bed in here?" Sam asked her, after a moment. "Because I'd kind of like to roll you over right now, but I'm thinking you're going to find metal deckplates a _mite_ uncomfortable with my weight on you."

Kasumi laughed. "Over there," she said, and they rearranged themselves a good deal more comfortably.

Quite a bit later, she had almost dozed off, when she heard Sam say, "Kasumi-chan?"

"Mmm?"

"You said something a couple of weeks ago, that I wasn't sure how to respond to. It deserved an answer, and I didn't, well. . . I didn't answer it."

She rolled over, opening her eyes, feeling the sheets as they moved over her skin, pure animal delight in the sensation. "What's this?"

"You said that you loved Dara, the same as—"

She put a finger on his lips, stopping him. She could feel a wince tightening her eyes. "I didn't say that to guilt you into anything, Sam. It's just the truth, and everything's fine."

"But we got so goddamn busy, I haven't had much of a chance to talk with you since then." He sighed. "And, truth be told, I didn't know what to _say._"

That hurt, a little, but she understood. He was still _very _close to the memory of his wife. She _knew_ his affection for her went beyond the physical; it showed in the way he treated her, the way he touched her hair, almost reverent, certainly gentle. For now, it was enough. "You don't have to say anything," Kasumi told him after a moment, her throat a little tight. "You say a lot, without ever saying a word."

"But you deserve more." Sam sighed, and she could see how much of a struggle it was.

"Don't say it if you think it'll betray your wife." She couldn't stand the thought of that, of her affection for this man being tainted in that way.

Sam looked down at her, almost surprised, and shook his head. "No. Oh, hell no. It's a different feeling." He hunted around in his head, looking for the words, she supposed. "I've been in love lots of times. Everyone our age has, really. And there's all different types, for all the different people we've loved. Puppy-love in adolescence. . .what a crock of a word. Puppy-love." He snorted. "When you feel like your whole world will come to an end with a harsh word?" He sat up, leaning on one elbow. "What I felt for Hamako, back in the day, was a pretty pale thing compared to what I felt for Sarrie. And Sarrie. . . she made a home for us. Gave me Dara. And god knows, the woman could piss me_ off_ when she got a notion to." He chuckled. Sixteen years of marriage in his eyes; something she could never compete with. "I told her not to paint the damn house. She was pregnant, I was going on maneuvers, and the house didn't _need_ painting. What did I come home to? A freshly painted house. She told me it was better to seek forgiveness than permission, and now she didn't twitch every time she saw chipped paint."

Sam reached down, and took her hand in his. "What I felt for Sarrie, has nothing to do with what I feel for you, Kasumi-chan. You're not her. You're you. And I'm fallin' head over heels for you." He shrugged. "Thought you should know."


	33. Chapter 33: Earth

**Chapter 33: Earth**

_**Author's note: **__Yes, some of Cohort's activities in this chapter are by request. Who says I don't do fan service? Wait. . . that came out wrong. It's not like __**that**__, ew. . . ._

**Sam**

It was hard to believe that he'd only left Earth six months ago. Looking down at the cobalt sphere, fretted with agate white clouds, that was his homeworld, Sam had to shake his head. It seemed like _weeks_, not months, and yet so damned much had changed. For him, at least.

As their shuttle dropped from the _Normandy_, however, he had to admit that very little had changed on Earth. "I'll need to drop by Lufkin, but not first thing," he warned the other two members of his squad. "Work first. Then the dubious pleasure of family."

Cohort manipulated the controls of the shuttle expertly. "I have exchanged landing information with the tower at Baltimore," the geth said, calmly. "Coming in for a landing here seems less efficient than the other spaceports in the area."

Sam shook his head. "D.C. is one of the three regional capitals of the United North American States," he told Cohort quietly. "First, security is _tight_ at the old National air and spaceport. Second, Dulles, Virginia, has one of the highest volumes of space travel on the continent—it's third behind Mesa, Arizona, and Cape Canaveral. And third, at either location, there's likely to be reporters present, looking for ambassadors and statesmen and legislators. If anyone's going to recognize three Spectres, it'll be them. We're trying to keep this visit fairly low-profile."

Cohort moved his eyeflaps. "Interesting. You seek to conceal data from others?"

"Only in the interest of being able to do our job without everyone on the planet knowing that we're here," Kasumi told him, dryly. "Knowing that Spectres are planet-side might make our bad guys go to ground, and then we'll have wasted a trip." She glanced at the weather outside the window as they ducked through the light cloud cover; mostly sunny, with a light breeze. A perfect spring day, with light glinting off the waters of Baltimore's Inner Harbor. "Hmm. If I put my hood up, I'm going to stick out like a sore thumb." She flashed Sam a quick smile. "Hiding in plain sight is just as much fun as hiding the other ways. You, on the other hand, mister, are going to stick out." She pointed down at his tooled leather boots. They'd obviously seen wear, tear, trail dirt, and probably manure in their time; they were _well_-broken in, and not at all the get-up of the suburban cowboy.

He tapped his toes in them amiably. "Now, look here. I leave the hat off when I come to D.C., and the belt buckle, and, to be honest, I've never in my _life_ worn a bolo tie. You wear the whole outfit in D.C., and walk into the right bar, and let's face it; you're going to get propositioned by entirely the _wrong_ people." She burst into gales of laughter, and he just grinned at her.

"Wait, you're not kidding, are you?" She'd stopped laughing, out loud, anyway. But her eyes still danced with mirth.

"No, ma'am. I trained here with the feds, got picked up by the Rangers. Rangers require 'western apparel' as part of the uniform. Came back up here for a conference, in my proper uniform, and some of the folks who were annoyed that I _hadn't_ joined the Bureau decided to take me out bar-hopping while I was here. Trouble is, _they_ picked the bars. That was an _adventure_." It hadn't been all that funny at the time, but with a solid eight or ten years of distance, he could at least chuckle at the memory. "Suffice to say, I'm wearing the boots because it makes me look like a Ranger, not like a Spectre. Not wearing armor helps with that, of course, too." _Besides, the boots give me a place to conceal my knife and a back-up piece_. The knife was strapped to his right shin; the backup pistol was in the left boot, and he was also carrying a large caliber pistol in a shoulder harness, much as he hated the damn things. Good for more or less keeping everything concealed under a business jacket. But he didn't like the draw on them. _Ah, well. Everything has a price_.

They passed through Customs, waving their Spectre credentials at the machines. The guards had, at first, reacted badly to seeing Cohort; Sam had been expecting that, however. "Check our ids," he told the young guard, who'd moved up, gun at the ready. "Then get me your superior."

"That's a _geth_."

"Yeah, and they're currently Systems Alliance trading partners and allies. Check the id, son. Save yourself a world of trouble."

One of the other guards, behind the counter, cleared his throat. "Says here that they're Spectres."

They got a supervisor right around then, and got through the rest of the process as quickly as possible, Sam pointing out, as politely as he could, "We're trying to move through here without too much of a fuss being made. If there's a way to the aircar rental stands that _doesn't_ take us through the whole of BWI, we'd be obliged."

They rented an aircar for the time being, and Sam watched the clerk at the counter for his first read on people's general reaction to a _geth_ being with them. There was an initial double-take, and then the fact that he and Kasumi were completely unconcerned with the Cohort's presence worked a little psychological magic on their fellow human. The clerk relaxed. Sam could almost read her mind: _Oh, it's got to be a mech. Sure, it kind of __**looks**__ like a geth, but it can't be. Pretty bad taste making a mech that looks like that, though._ The clerk handed him the keys and his copy of the rental agreement, and they were on their way again, this time heading for downtown D.C.

Their appointment at the North American Bureau of Investigation—its acronym, NABI, was the source of much law enforcement community amusement, since the agency had been formed from the old FBI, Canadian Royal Mounties, and the _Policia Federal. _In English, the acronym looked like some malformed variant of the word "to nab," or to catch. Only with the diminutive _I_ at the end, it looked. . . somehow a little silly. And even after over fifty years of enforced jurisdictional unification, Sam knew that there were still sharp divisions between the way the three regions tended to police themselves. NABI was supposed to mitigate those differences, create a uniform standard for all North American law enforcement activity. Reality's mileage somewhat differed.

"Glad you came by," Andrew Csorba told them, opening the door to his office, after collecting them from a reception area. The NABI agent glanced at each of them, his gaze on Cohort frankly evaluating, and his expression more appreciative when he looked at Kasumi. "I've been handling the Adam and Eve Coalition crap for the Bureau since long before they became such an eyesore for humanity on a _galactic_ level. Never thought they'd go as far as they did. As far as I could see, they didn't have the _funding_ to be anything more than a regional pain in the ass." He gestured for them to take chairs. Sam and Kasumi did; Cohort, after a moment, did the same, probably following their lead. "Sure, they'd reached out to a couple of Islamic fundamentalist groups who had the same sort of song and dance—pure humanity, pure world, aliens represent Shaitain, all that jazz—but again, we never saw the damn funding." He gestured at the stack of datapads on his desk. "I've gone from being a one-man department to heading a damn taskforce in the last three months." Csorba paused, and smiled. "So, what can I do for the Spectres today?"

Sam let Kasumi do the talking, preferring to watch and evaluate for the moment. She glanced at him, caught his nod, and leaned forward. "What have you been seeing out of the AEC, publicly, anyway?" she asked, first.

The agent shrugged. "Lots of backing and filling. It's one thing to say your group represents fundamental human and religious values. It's another thing when you realize that you've affiliated yourself with people who make Mormon polygamist cults look good, in comparison. Quite a lot of distancing speeches—not affiliated with so-and-so, could never condone such-and-such." Csorba made a rude noise. "The usual."

Kasumi nodded. "What _we've_ been seeing is increased AEC chatter in the wake of the attack on Macedyn on Commander Shepard. We put a few lines out there, seeing what or who would bite. We've recently obtained information that the human involved on Macedyn was not actually shooting at Commander Shepard. His connections to the AEC also turned out to be not really _connections_, in the most conventional way of speaking. His name was Ezekiel Patterson."

"Ah, Christ." Csorba put his face in his hands for a moment. When he looked up, all the good humor had faded, leaving nothing but a cop sitting there. "They never released the _name_. Damn it all. Zeke was my partner, a few years back. He quit about four years ago. Got tired of observing all the little hate groups and not being able to do much about them _besides_ observe. Did some consulting for the Southern Poverty Law Center for a while—they deal with hate groups, too. Started out tracking the Klan, back in the day, but they've widened their scope over the years, and with good reason. There's so much hate to go around, after all." He pushed his chair back, frowning. "Zeke fell off the damn radar about two years ago." Csorba looked at Kasumi, then at Sam. "What the hell was he into?"

"Can't address that. Might compromise another agencies investigation." Sam said it tersely, but not unkindly. "What we can say is that we did turn up indications that the AEC might be getting new funding from a different set of alien backers now. Or at least, an alien group is trying to nose their way in. Having a hard time seeing the difference, for the moment."

Kasumi picked it back up again, smoothly. "The most vocal of the people in these AEC chat rooms have been asking our dummy accounts for a meeting, here on Earth. I'm hoping that's not _you_, Mr. Csorba?" Her smile was charming.

Csorba shook his head. "Nah. I have enough on my hands without actually going _fishing. _Where's the meeting at?"

Sam shook his head. "They promised more details in the next day or so. Hence our pretty damn quick trip out here." He paused. "Can you loan us a biotic for the meeting? We're low on human biotics in the Spectres at the moment, more's the pity."

"Why do you need one?" Csorba's glance was sharp. "Indications are that most AEC plainfolks members are non-biotics. Goes with the whole 'pure human' line of bullshit."

Sam grimaced. "Yeah, but this alien group that's been sniffing around them? Might have biotics in it. Don't know how far things have gone, and it pays to have a biotic handy when other people start slinging singularities at you." _And how. Man, now I wish I'd asked for Sky to be here, and to hell with people's reactions._

Csorba frowned. "We're short on them ourselves, unfortunately. Almost all of them go into the Alliance military at this point. No one's really researching their potential for construction or for fine surgery; all they really get turned into is weapons, and once they're in the military, they don't generally retire early. Or they come out of the service somewhat. . . unstable." He tapped his fingers on his desk, and then seemed to come to a decision. "Zeke and I used to deal with a freelancer, though. _Unstable_ is a pretty apt term, but probably the most powerful human biotic I've ever met. I haven't been in touch with this contact in a while, but I think she and Zeke continued to work together when he went off the reservation. I'll get in touch with her, and set up a meeting."

It took time to set up the meeting; enough time that he and Kasumi could have lunch at a tiny Mexican restaurant around the corner from the Hoover building, just off of Pennsylvania Avenue. "Not as good as home," Sam said, shaking his head. "No one north of Texas ever gets the tortillas right. But pretty decent." Cohort simply sat, watching them both, and the room, and Sam wondered what the geth was getting out of this trip. At least Gris could have tried the food, and the image of the krogan devouring refried beans and rice made Sam chuckle to himself for a moment or two. "You've been quiet, Cohort," he said, after a moment.

"Gathering information. Much data here to assimilate. City lay-out inefficient, even by organic standards, but has symmetry that implies deliberate design intentions. Overcrowded in places, but the individuals, as they move through the crowds, are interesting to observe. There is uniformity in the dress of some. Subsuming personal identity to the group." Sam glanced out the window, and saw what he meant; the Washington D.C. dress code of gray suits, and/or black, knee-length coats, for both genders, weather permitting, hadn't really changed for centuries.

Cohort turned his head to look at their plates. "Also interesting to observe: there are many different methods to prepare food for ingestion. Most deriving from regional agricultural restrictions. Now that humans and other species have no such restrictions, food. . . fuel for the body. . . becomes art. Culture. Statement of individuality." Cohort's head turned towards Sam again. "And yet, also, statement of community, commonality. Much subtext to decipher. Multiple messages transmitted simultaneously. Efficient use of bandwidth, but subject to misinterpretation. Organics can be more subtle than we had thought."

"Glad you're having fun," Kasumi told him, smiling.

Sam's omnitool chirped, signaling a message from Csorba. "Okay," he said, lowering his voice. "We've got a meeting location and a time. No description, no contact name." He made a face. "Apparently, she'd going to check _us_ out first. Sounds like a lady with trust issues."

"Hey, we can't all be sugar and spice, you know." Kasumi squinted at the information scrolling on the band of his omnitool; he wasn't projecting it in this very public location for a reason. "_Abrade_? Seriously, that's the name of the place?"

Sam was already looking it up on the extranet. He sighed. "Well, Kasumi-chan, you'll never be able to say I don't take you anywhere. It's a dance club. Mostly specializing in industrial post-punk music with, and I quote 'a serious fuck the man attitude.'"

Cohort's eyeflaps swiveled. "An interesting use of the vernacular."

"Ain't it though." Sam looked at Kasumi. "Sky will be happy to know that he didn't miss out on much, given his reaction to regular dance music on Omega."

She chuckled. "And if ever there were three people who are _not_ going to fit in at a place like that. . ."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Well, we'll be easy for this contact to pick out of the crowd, at least."

Cohort asked, politely, "Are there not ways in which you could achieve at least a _visual_ consensus with the organics in this establishment?"

Kasumi started to chuckle. "Oh, there are, but I think I'd rather use a stealth generator than provide Sam here with blackmail material for _years_ to come."

"Why, Kasumi-chan," he told her blandly, "Thigh-high buckled boots, red fishnet stockings, a black leather bodysuit, fingerless gloves. . . I don't know why you'd think I wouldn't enjoy that."

Her lips twitched. "Oh, I'm sure you _would_. Our fellow Spectres don't need to see it, however." She pointed at Cohort. "And I'm well aware that you'd have no choice but to disseminate the information through the entire geth collective." Cohort wiggled his eyeflaps, but made no response. "All that aside, though, Cohort, the main problem is, Sam and I are just too _old_ to get into that kind of clothing and fade into the background."

Sam chuckled. "Yeah. We'd still stand out, but in an even more laughable way." He shrugged. "So, we're going as is. Show won't even start till ten tonight. Let's walk around a bit. I can even take you on the monument tour. Yes, I'm sure you can look at the vids of everything here in human archives, Cohort, but there's a sense of knowledge that comes from actually being there, from experiencing it with other people, right?"

Cohort looked at him, single eye gleaming. "Much as there is value in deliberately not knowing which cards have already been dealt?"

"Precisely—well, maybe not _quite_ the same thing," Sam admitted. "But along the same lines, yeah."

They got a lot of odd looks over the afternoon, mostly directed at Cohort, but after doing a little window-shopping here and there, Sam and Kasumi politely asked the geth to carry a variety of shopping bags. The geth accepted, and the colorful bags turned out to be a pretty valuable form of camouflage. After a while, people simply stopped gaping at him. _Going to have to remember that tactic for other planets and stations_, Sam thought, pretty proud of the idea. "Kasumi, why don't you take Cohort across the street to that art gallery? That way, you can get a feel for how he reacts to art."

"And where will you be?" She glanced around, as if looking for someone following them.

Sam laughed. "I don't see anyone. I'm just doing a little shopping. Don't worry about it."

He hadn't actually looked in his credit accounts for a while, and when he had, he'd been moderately shocked. Spectres were _very_ well paid. Hazardous duty, after all, but he'd been outright stunned at the fact that he'd already pulled in three times his usual annual salary. Tax-free, at that, since he was stationed on Mindoir. Oh, there was the upkeep and school tax and property tax for the ranch in Lukfin to take care of, but with all living expenses handled on base, he had virtually no expenditures to make, either, other than groceries.

He'd mentioned it to Kasumi a few weeks ago, and she'd nodded. "Shep believes that Spectres who head into the field more often should be rewarded for it. But a regular and healthy paycheck tends to prevent a lot of the corruption inherent to the old system. In the old system, Spectres had to buy their own gear, all their own upgrades, pretty much out of their own pockets. It lead to a lot of them taking jobs well outside of Council purview just to be able to keep up with the bad guys. Not a good idea."

So, Sam headed into a nearby jewelry store. He had a couple of things to take care of here on Earth, and since he had the time, he might as well address the first one or two while he could.

Night fell, and they waited out the time as patiently as they could; they'd taken two hotel rooms, mostly to have a comfortable place _to_ wait. Not that Cohort really needed a room of his own, but asking him to sit in a closet so that he and Kasumi could have privacy seemed a little demeaning, somehow.

Finally, they headed out into the brightly-lit D.C. night, watching the different crowds of people wash by over the pavement. "Some are the same individuals that we have seen before," Cohort said. "Differently dressed. Different display of identity. Organics' identity is very. . . fluid."

"Are any of these people that you recognize following us?" Now Sam was damned glad they had the geth with them. Sky or Gris or even he, himself, wouldn't have picked up that detail.

A brief pause. "Negative."

_Abrade_ lived up to its name. Its music pounded out, drowning out the dance music and the salsa of the two clubs that flanked it, its lights were harsh and fluorescent, and the young bouncer at the door was definitely trying for intimidating. He was a fine example of the current urban youth culture; firefly gene mods traced glowing patterns under his skin, reminiscent of circuit boards; slightly glowing teeth, sure sign of a mild red sand addiction; shaved head, piercings. Sam always wondered why it was that people thought that piercings looked tough. To him, they were just a nice handle to grab people by and _pull_. Folks got all _kinds_ of cooperative right around then.

The young bouncer looked at him and Kasumi, evaluating their clothes. "I think you want two doors down, Blue Heaven," he said, after a moment.

Kasumi smiled at him. "But this is where Caustic Destiny is playing tonight, right?"

The bouncer blinked, and then nodded. He'd only looked at Kasumi for a moment; he was, apparently, trying to decide if Sam was going to be a problem. Sam gave him a nice, friendly, hick-from-the-sticks grin. "We're big fans," he said, playing up the drawl just a bit. "Came in from San Antonio, jus' to see them."

The bouncer came to a decision. Apparently, the five inches in height, forty pounds in mass, and twenty additional years of menace Sam had on him faded out of his mind the instant he heard the accent. The contempt of a city mouse for a country mouse rendered Sam effectively unnoticeable. "Nice mech. Some kind of prop, or something?" the younger man said, then shrugged. "Whatever floats your boat. Keep it out of the dance pit, though. We're not responsible for damage." He waved them in.

Kasumi leaned closer as they headed in through the door. "You're going to have to teach me how you do that. It's like you become invisible."

"Darlin', no matter what you do, you'll never be mistaken for a southern belle." Sam grinned down at her. "Maybe on an audio-only transmission, and even then. . . ."

Inside, the noise was even more intense. Sam pulled Kasumi into his side, mostly to keep either of them from making contact with any of the patrons. Outside of the pit, there was unlikely to be any aggression, no matter how angry the music was; people came to places like this to let the music take the anger away, to dance and thrash it out of their systems. Still, since they _did_ stand out here, it was better not to take chances. Also, he really didn't _mind_ having the length of her pressed into him. "Cohort, do your best to fit in," Sam called to the geth over the music. "But keep an eye out for our, ah, friend."

"Acknowledged."

He and Kasumi made their way to a booth near the back, and sat down, trying not to touch the rather sticky surface. He leaned down to say into her ear, loudly, "I'm used to damn gunfire, but this place is making my damn ears bleed."

"We're too old for this," she sort of shouted back in his direction. "Try to look like you're enjoying yourself, though."

"I don't think I was even this mad even when I _was_ the right age." _Well, actually, I was. I just channeled it into __**actually**__ killing people. Who's to say my choice was the right one? Although. . . I think, all in all, that I didn't look quite as stupid. Good god, there's enough firefly DNA in these people that I think they're all about to take off and hover around the ceiling._

Kasumi's elbow met his ribs, and he looked to where she was nodding. Off to their left, Cohort was wiggling in time to the music. "That boy's been around Sky too much," Sam said, after a moment.

As the geth started to gyrate, the dancers around him started to stare, and then, eventually, to laugh and start to dance with him. "Best new decoration in the damn place," Sam heard at least a couple of people say, laughing. "It's so. . . deconstructionist. You feel the menace, the threat, and then it's just a goofy dancing robot."

"It calls attention to the bourgeoisie norms, like the stupid singing chicken dolls or the mechanical Santas." That, from another would-be philosopher that passed by.

Kasumi laughed. "I think he's obeying orders and trying to fit in."

The geth's movements were becoming slightly more hectic now, and Sam put a hand to his forehead, unable to keep the guffaws down for long, especially when a couple of girls came over to, well, dance sexy with what they thought was a mindless mech. Apparently, it was nice and _safe_ to do a bump-and-grind routine with something that was _not_ going to react. "Oh, my lord, that boy is getting all _kinds_ of data tonight," Sam said into Kasumi's ear, and she started to laugh again, almost helplessly.

A waitress came by, and they ordered drinks, mostly to look as if they fit in, and Sam watched the people around them, while trying to look like he was paying no attention to anything but Kasumi. "You see anyone that sticks out?" he asked in her ear, tracing his fingers over her back.

"Couple. They're all mostly watching Cohort at the moment, but we get looks every now and again."

He felt the movement before he saw it, and his head snapped to his right as a young woman slid into their booth. Sam blinked for a moment; the girl had a shaven head, not unusual for a club like this. Every square inch of her skin, including her scalp, had some sort of tattooing inscribed on it, and she wore tight leather pants and a leather vest. Glancing down, he saw combat boots on her feet. Looking back up, he saw that her face wasn't actually unattractive; she had full, sensuous lips, and really striking eyes. You just had to look _way_ past all the tough-girl accoutrements to _see_ that. She also, however, had an air about her, the way she watched the room, watched them, that _shouted _to him one thing: _She's done time. __**Hard**__ time, at that. Looks too young for it, but. . . damn. _She did _not_ look entirely stable, and Sam tensed a little, wondering if he was going to have to escort her away from the table in the next minute or so.

"Hello, Kasumi," the young woman said, much to his surprise, and her lips pulled up, half-smile, half-sneer. Her eyes were nervous, though. Like a caged animal, afraid that someone will strike it. "Who's the new boy-toy?"

Sam's eyebrows went up. He'd been called _many_ things in his life. That was not one of them.

Kasumi chuckled. "Hello, Jack. This is Sam. He's been working with us for a while now." Kasumi turned into him, and said, into his ear, "She was on Shep's crew when we took out the Collector base. Held a damn cavern full of seekers off the main team while the rest of us provided a distraction. We needed a biotic. We got a biotic."

Jack glanced between them. "This is your idea of low-profile? A _geth_ and, well, no offense, Kasumi, but you've lost your mind here. Your new boyfriend here just screams _cop_."

Sam just smiled at her. "Why, thank you for noticin', little lady. I was thinking of having a neon sign made, carryin' it around on my chest. What do you think?"

"Don't you dare condescend to me. I could kill you without even blinking."

Cohort danced his way from the left of the booth, to the right, and leaned down to place a cold, inorganic hand on the tattooed girl's shoulder. She jerked and stared at him, as he said, "We do not advise this course of action." Then her eyes flicked back towards Sam.

Sam looked at her, and let the smile, which had never touched his eyes to begin with, fall away. He idly wondered if the girl had any intelligence beyond street smarts. If she did, she'd get a clue pretty quickly.

Jack glanced uneasily between Kasumi and him for a moment, looking jittery. "Dirty cop?" she half-asked, half-said to the little Asian woman. "I've dealt with enough bent jailers before. I know what to do with them, too."

Kasumi chuckled, and the sound didn't carry beyond their table. "Not even remotely," she told the tattooed girl. "Do you really think Shep would have one of those on the payroll?"

"Dunno. She had _me_ on the ship, after all." Jack's full lips pulled down, and Sam wanted to laugh. Dara didn't even pout that well. "Then again, she didn't have a choice about that. Fucking Cerberus."

"Last I'd heard, Shep asked you to go train biotics out at the Ascension Project. What happened?" Kasumi asked, with just the right amount of sympathy in her voice.

"I did, for a while. Made sure to clean up all the remaining Cerberus people who'd infiltrated the training center, too." Her voice went a little dreamy. "I recognized a lot of them. They didn't recognize _me_, though." She straightened up in the seat. "After that, I figured the program was good to go. Had given most of the teachers there a nice solid reality check, and they didn't like that much. So, I left. Took a little tour of the colonies, wound up here on Earth. I like Earth. It's a festering shitheap, but there are so many people here, even a freak like me can find someplace to blend in." She looked around, made a little gesture as if to say, _behold, my people._

Kasumi leaned forward now. "How'd you wind up working with Zeke?"

Jack shrugged. "Not here. No one can hear us, but people can still read lips. Let's go in the back." She stood up, and led them out of the crowded main room, heading for an innocuous door marked 'private' and 'no admittance,' situated between two mirrored walls, which reflected the club's movements and lights back at itself, disorientingly.

Beyond the door, was a room best described as spartan. An iron-framed bed. A desk, with a computer terminal. The mirrors that faced the club, turned out to be windows on this side. Triple-paned glass, probably; the noise of the club was a bare whisper, once the door closed. The only sign of human habitation was a large abstract mural painted on the far wall. Sam looked at it for a moment. "That's a lot of red," he commented. _Yeah, those are eyes there. What the hell am I looking at?_

Kasumi looked up. "The human-form Reaper?" she said, after a moment. "You and Tali and Shepard got the best look at it, I guess." She glanced around. "So, you own this place?"

Jack nodded. "Respectable business owner, can you believe it? Besides, I get a lot of people through here. Angry people. People who hate. I understand hate. I'm _really_ good at it." Her lips twisted into a smile again. "That's why Zeke started coming here, at first. Good place to keep an ear to the ground. I made him for a cop the moment he walked in here, though. But he was a. . ." she shook her head, as if the words were hard to say, ". . . a. . . a _decent_ guy, Kasumi." Jack sat down in the chair at the desk, and Sam was surprised to see tears there. "After all that time Shepard spent trying to convince me that I could be someone other than I'd always been, Zeke was the first person other than her to give me that chance. Asked me to try to infiltrate the AEC with him." She snorted. "I told him, Zeke, they're not going to look at me and see a _nun_, and he said, 'no, what you do is you create a story that fits their expectations. You're Jezebel, or Mary Magdalene for them. The redeemed sinner. Work with me on this.'"

Jack looked up, and her lips actually quivered. Kasumi perched on the desk beside her, and put a comforting hand on Jack's shoulder. "He had some hot lead three, four months ago. Then he just vanished. I figured, well, I figured he was in deep, couldn't get a message out. When Csorba called this morning, was the first time I heard. . . ." Jack's face distorted. Grief—_real _grief—isn't the pretty thing that vids make of it. The mouth and cheeks distort, redden; the eyes squint shut; the body spasms, contorts. Jack didn't scream out loud, but her body did.

Kasumi rubbed Jack's shoulders, and looked at Sam a little helplessly.

Sam crouched down, in Jack's eyeline. "Want to get the people who did him?" he asked, quietly.

"_Yes_."

"Lystheni. Salarian group, dedicated to 'improving' their species, through genetic and tech manipulation. Seem to be trying to get information out of the AEC on hybrid kids; since the AEC pulled off an attack on the most _well-known_ hybrids in the galaxy, we figure the Lystheni are trying to get what information the AEC has left on Shepard and Vakarian and their kids."

Jack's head snapped up, and for a moment, her big eyes weren't human. Not even remotely. "They're trying to grab kids for experimentation?"

Kasumi took her hands off of Jack's back, fingers spread warily. "It's one of the theories we're looking at, yeah. Chances are, they want to build off that tech for their own species."

"Shepard's kids? Fuck that. I owe her too much." Jack rubbed at her face, obviously impatient. "You have any idea where or who in the AEC you're meeting?"

"Not yet. Expect to hear any minute, though." Sam gave her a wary look. She seemed about as stable as pure nitroglycerin, and with about as much explosive potential. "When we get there, though, it would help to be able to talk to a few of them. That means _alive_ and _able to converse._"

"Oh, I know how to keep them alive." Jack's smile was a little ghastly. "I just _prefer_ killing them."

The message came through Sam's omnitool around midnight. The location, Jack was able to confirm, was down in Arlington, Virgina—close enough that they'd be able to go there and check it out well before the scheduled meeting time. "It's actually one of the local group locations. We were never able to figure out exactly where the local headquarters are—it's too much a grass-roots, decentralized organization for that—but the guy who's loudest in the region is Enoch Hansen. If we see him tonight, we'll probably want to grab him."

Kasumi frowned. "I know that name. He was Joshua Cunningham's spiritual advisor for a while. So chances are, he had some connection—who knows how much, though, really—to Lina Vasir. Maybe even the attack on the _Normandy_."

"He hasn't been pulled in for questioning on that before?" Sam was surprised.

Jack was pulling on additional clothes over the top of her leather outfit—a loose shirt, long-sleeved, and a full, billowing skirt. She even went to far as to put on a wig, and then to tie a modest kerchief over the wig. "A woman's hair should be covered," she said, one corner of her mouth turning down. With her heavy tattooing concealed, and long, red-blond hair, she was almost unrecognizable. She paused, and then added, "Nah, Hansen's very good at the squeaky-clean routine. He was shocked and appalled by Cunningham's actions for every reporter he could get his hands on, right after the attacks. He roundly condemned them from his pulpit, while, saying out of the other side of his mouth, that the product of a union between a human woman and a turian male must be an abomination, a product of science that should never have been born, and so on." Jack's mouth turned down at the corners. "I knew he had hate in him, but I never actually made the connection that he might have been _involved_, beyond maybe approving loudly of it in his head. Never struck me as having the _guts_, to be honest." She opened another door in her small room, one that led to a corridor with lavatories and an exit. "We'll head out the back way. Bad for my image if anyone here recognizes me in this get-up."

The meeting they'd been invited to was being billed as a prayer breakfast at a local church. Sam had Cohort get out of their aircar and move to find a sniper location inside the building, up in the choir loft, before anyone actually arrived. "Don't start firing unless we call for it," Sam warned him. "Maintain radio silence unless it's an emergency."

"Acknowledged, Jaworski-Spectre."

People started filtering in; Jack had separated from them, and had found a place in the pews to sit and look contemplative. Sam and Kasumi found themselves moved into a large rec room under the church itself, where a buffet had been laid out. "All the comforts of home," Sam commented quietly. His eyes felt grainy; they hadn't gotten any sleep in the past twenty-four hours, and his body was reminding him of the need.

"Big crowd," Kasumi told him. Her eyes were flicking through the crowd. "Good mix of old and young."

"Wide recruiting net," Sam said, very softly indeed.

Eventually, a man came up to shake their hands. "I'm Enoch Hansen, pastor of this church," he said, giving them each a warm, firm handshake. "And you are. . . ?"

"James Anderson," Sam said, smiling. "This is my girlfriend, Kohaku."

Hansen blinked. "You, ah. . . you don't look at all as I'd pictured you, James." He squinted. "Somehow, I thought you'd be younger."

"Oh, are _you_ the guy I've been talking with in those chatrooms?" Perfectly genial, soft drawl in place. Kasumi always told him it sounded like he'd poured honey all over his words. "What _was_ that name again? Oh, yeah, Ibzan, one of the judges of Israel." He gave Hansen a wide, friendly smile. "I've been lookin' forward to meeting you. You talk a lot of good sense." He put a hand on the man's shoulder, and started to gently guide him off to the side. "Tell me, what do you think of all this bullcrap—pardon me, sir, my mouth is like a gutter—about aliens funding human colonies? Just how stupid does the Council think we are, anyway, falling for a line of bull like that?"

Hansen seemed to be regaining his balance quickly. "I'm sure it's all fabricated," he replied, but his eyes flicked away nervously. "The Council just wants to keep humanity down, keep us from understanding that it's god's love that sets us apart from all the rest of creation."

Sam had directed their steps back out into the main chapel, and Jack turned her head slightly to watch them. "We should talk some more about that," Sam said, still smiling. "Maybe in your office?"

"Perhaps after the prayer breakfast is over?" Hansen offered, amiably.

"Sure thing," Sam said heartily.

"I think I need to powder my nose," Kasumi told him, in a sweet-little-girl voice that made him want to laugh. "I'll be right back in. Don't go anywhere without me, James."

He knew without even having to look at her, that she was going to find Enoch's office and _ransack_ the place before their conversation.

Sam endured the rest of the breakfast as best he could; Kasumi rejoined him after fifteen minutes, wearing a wide and sparkling grin. _Hmm, whatever she found, it was good. _

The festivities went more or less as he'd expected. Lots of discussion about how humans were the chosen of god, how aliens were clearly the giants and spirits that had walked the earth in the days just after the exile from the garden, scriptural injunctions that showed that aliens were unclean. It went on for almost two hours, and Sam was frankly having a hard time keeping his eyes open for some of it. Twenty-four hours without sleep, a solid meal, and a boring topic of conversation were all killers. The only thing that let him keep his eyes open was knowing that Enoch had flared, briefly, into suspicion of him.

And once the crowds dissipated, Hansen came over, offering his hand again, and they headed for his office. He looked a little surprised as Jack was already there, waiting by the door. "Sister Jacqueline," he said, smiling. "While I'm always pleased to see you, I need to speak with these people first. Would you mind waiting?"

"That's okay," Jack told him. "We can all go in together."

"No problem," Sam said. "I've got nothing I'm ashamed to say in front of anybody." He reached down, and opened the door, gently propelling the other man into his own office. Inside, he smiled down at Hansen. "So, again, nice to have met you. Let me ask you again. Do you really think alien funding was a fabrication?" His voice was harder this time. Quite a bit less drawl.

Hansen glanced around, clearly aware that something was not right here. "I. . . why, yes. What's going on here?" He frowned, angrily. "You're here under false pretenses, aren't you? Who are you _really_?"

Sam smiled at him. "Name's Sam Jaworski. And I'm a Spectre."

Hansen's face went pale, an admission of guilt that wouldn't have panned out in any court, more's the pity. "You're out of your jurisdiction—"

"All of Council space is my jurisdiction," Sam told him calmly, sitting down on the man's desk. "And due process is something that happens to other people. So, what do you say we start this conversation for the _third_ time, and this time, you don't lie to me?"

Hansen turned towards Jack, who was in the process of taking off her wig and unbuttoning her shirt. Then he flinched away at the sight of her. "I can probably tear the information out of him," Jack told Sam. "Of course, given the fact that he's _probably_ related to Zeke's death, I might only leave little chunks of flesh about this big," and she held up a thumb and forefinger, about an inch apart.

"We're doing this my way, first," Sam told her, firmly.

"Ezekiel. . . he's. . . dead?" Hansen stammered. "Knew he'd gone off-world, but not. . ."

Jack flicked her fingers at him, and slammed him back into the nearest wall with a shockwave and a shriek of animal rage. "Don't you even say his _name_, you filthy piece of shit!" It had taken no apparent effort, and Sam could see that the wallboard now had an imprint of a human body in it.

Hansen's eyes went narrow, and a faint shimmer passed over his body. _Biotic shield. Well now, our boy isn't exactly 'pure' human himself, now is he?_ Sam shrugged, and stepped in behind Hansen, wrapping one arm around his neck. The man had no apparent combat experience, and didn't know how to turn his head to avoid the choke. "Biotic shields are great for absorbing kinetic damage, but do jack-shit to protect the carotid from a choke," he told Hansen cheerfully. "I can pretty much do this all day, but _you're_ going to wind up with a hell of a headache as I deprive your brain of oxygen, let you wake up, and do it again as needed. So, Jack, you stand down for a minute. And you, Hansen, are going to start talking."

Kasumi said, sweetly, "His computer files are pretty extensive. Two sets of account books for his AEC activities. I've been running a few back-traces on the routing and transit numbers, and there have been several large _donations _made in the past couple of months from banking institutions in salarian space."

"Recent. . . economic turmoil. Volus economy collapsing." Hansen struggled to speak. "Gave the money to me, to invest in Earth. Said to keep it safe, and that we could keep the interest as our payment." 

"Definitely a little on the unethical side," Sam chided him. "What else, sweetie?"

"Messages matching salarian ids we've already been tracking. There's apparently a team of them on Earth right now, waiting for the _information _they've been promised." Kasumi's smile was a lot less pleasant right now. "Unfortunately, their location isn't in the files. They said they'd contact him with a meeting place. I see several calls have been logged this morning. Mr. Hansen, why don't you go ahead and make it easy on yourself, and just tell us where you're supposed to be meeting with the salarians, and the nature of the information they've been paying you for?"

It took some more convincing, but they got the information at last. "We were running out of funding," Hansen said, sounding miserable. "We couldn't continue recruiting, the outreach programs, the charities, without money. It just seemed like. . . like a gift."

Sam sighed. "With strings attached. What information have you already given them?"

"Cunningham had backups of all his datafiles. I don't know precisely what's in them all. . . they're encrypted. I've been giving them file dumps each month."

"_Now_ can I just waste this fucker?" Jack asked, sounding impatient.

"You don't know that he set Zeke up," Kasumi told her, quietly. "Plus, we'll need him on-hand so the salarians can see him and don't bolt as soon as we pull up at their location. You need to think more than a couple of moves ahead, Jack. It's like chess."

"Don't have the patience for chess, Kasumi."

"Kasumi can probably teach you, Jack," Sam said lightly, putting Hansen in handcuffs. "She's been teaching my daughter's boyfriend how to play. He's getting pretty decent at it."

Hansen swung around, squinting at him. "Wait. I recognize you," he blurted. "You were at Shanxi for the speech. You were sitting with. . . " His face twisted in disgust. "You've given your daughter to satisfy the lust of an alien? What kind of a man _does_ that? Or maybe it's that you can't control the little wh—"

Sam's vision dimmed around the edges for a moment, going gray, and Hansen suddenly stopped talking. The Spectre reached out, and, almost delicately, put his hand on the other man's chin.

"Sam?" Kasumi said, quietly. "Probably not a good idea."

"Oh, I'm not really entertaining the notion seriously. But it's always nice to consider _all_ the options. And there are just so _many_." Sam patted the man on the cheek now. There _were_ a lot of options. He could break the man's neck, could put pressure on the carotid again, and just hold the choke in place thirty seconds longer, he could use his knife. Lots of possibilities. But none that he'd employ. Being _outside_ the law didn't mean being _above_ it. "Come on, Hansen. Let's go meet your little alien friends."

The meeting location was in the ruins of Detroit, in one of the many abandoned buildings there; it was a short trip, by shuttle, fortunately. Sam could see why they'd chose the location. Very few people around to spot a group of aliens. Lots of cover in the rusted, broken-down buildings and ghostly streets. "Cohort. . . get yourself a good position. Use the building across the street, and stay hidden."

Cohort nodded once, and scampered up the side of the closest building, possibly the fastest way for him to get where he was going. Jack looked after him. "That just makes my blood run cold," she commented, after a moment.

"He's a good teammate," Sam told her, absently. "Now that we're teaching him the value of bluffing, he's actually getting pretty good at poker, too."

Jack actually snorted at that one.

He kept a pistol at Hansen's back as they approached the location, an old, four-story apartment building; outdoor staircases and landings between each building and its doors. The Lystheni were surprised to see more people than just Hansen, and the fight was brief, but bloody. There were four of them, all either biotics or biotic-tech specialists, and Sam and Kasumi weren't in armor. Sam kicked Hansen into one of the apartments and closed the door on the man's startled face, before engaging his stealth device. "Get down!" he called to Kasumi, following his own advice.

Jack, of course, didn't do so, simply snarling, "I will _kill_ you!" and unleashing her biotics on the salarians.

"Keep one alive!" Sam shouted, hearing the _**BAM BAM**_ of Cohort's sniper rifle as it took out the shields on one of the salarians. One of the amphibians ducked behind a doorway, and sent out an electrical shock at Jack from its fingertips, stunning her for a moment. _Damn, a taser without a cord. Fancy._ That one seemed to be less of a dicey target for capture than the full biotics. He stayed in cover for a moment, as one deployed a lift field, catching Jack and lifting her into the air; he had no idea at this point where Kasumi was.

Then Sam made a break across the combat area, grabbing the tech-oriented salarian, tackling him into the abandoned apartment, falling into the dusty, mouse-eaten remains of a sofa, and trying to choke him out. It didn't help that salarians were, naturally, a little _squishy_; they were damned difficult to choke, because their flesh simply collapsed in on itself, and their skin was moderately slippery to start with. He heard gunfire, saw a shockwave carry another salarian over the edge of a railing. . . . and then silence. "Everyone good?" he called.

Kasumi came around the corner into the abandoned apartment. "Three dead," she reported.

Sam put a knee on the chest of the salarian he'd captured, and released its neck. "I've got some questions for you," he said, companionably. "Who you're reporting to. What information you've already received on the Spectres and their base, not to mention why you're so damned interested in hybridization processes."

The salarian looked up at him, blinking his huge eyes. "Information. . . not for ones like me," he gasped. "We ascend. . . they remain. All. . . stronger. All. . . better." He blinked again, and looked confused. "No. No upload? But we were promised, the dalatress promised—" His body began to jerk, and Sam felt a humming, buzzing sensation in his knee, and hastily jerked back.

He looked down at the corpse, and swore. Outside, there was the sound of running footsteps, and then a terrified scream, followed by a fair bit of thumping. Sam ran for the door, and made it out onto the landing just in time to see Hansen roll to a halt at the foot of the stairs, several flights down. "What happened?" he demanded.

In his ear, Cohort reported, "Jack-Associate opened the door where Hansen-unit had been placed. Hansen emerged. Attempted to run. Any shot this unit took, would likely have been fatal; prepared to deploy drone when he reached the street. Jack-Associate employed shockwave, sending Hansen down the stairs." Cohort paused. "She appeared to wait until he was at the stairs to do so."

It wasn't a clear-cut case; she might not have been _able_ to react until that point. But Sam had his suspicions. "Happy now?" he asked Jack, a little acidly.

"Would you rather he got away?" she asked, challengingly.

"I'd rather have him available to squeeze for more information," he muttered, then shook his head and turned to Kasumi. "Did we get _anything_ out of this damn exercise?"

"We discovered that the Lystheni themselves may not actually be intending to use the hybridization technology." She frowned, though, and Sam nodded. _Yeah, that's not the whole story. He said the information wasn't for ones like __**him**__. That could mean for the tech-Lystheni, or it could mean 'not for salarians' or anything in between. _Kasumi frowned. "We know a dalatrass is involved. And we know that these salarians had a controller, somewhere close enough to monitor them here, and to pull the plug on them if needed. . . ." Her eyes went upwards.

Sam tapped on his omnitool, keying up Csorba's number quickly. "Hey, this is Jaworski. Get the satellites fired up, see if there's any sign of a ship leaving either the ruins of Detroit, or orbit in our general vicinity in the last five minutes or so. Maybe we can _track_ the Lystheni controller, if nothing else."

The _Normandy_ wasn't due to return for them for another couple of days. Cohort expressed an interest in returning to D.C.; Jack needed to return to managing her club. "Let me know if you need any more help," she told them. "I'd love to get a piece of the people who killed Zeke."

"We'll keep it in mind," Sam said, but, internally, he had to wonder how much more of her _help_ they could take.

He _did_ take Kasumi to Lufkin with him, visited his brother-in-law and sister-in-law out at the ranch. They'd made some changes, but the new paint and furniture didn't hurt as much to see as he'd expected. They asked about their niece, of course, and Sam spoke in very _general _ways about her plans to enter the service and become a doctor. _Let 'em think Alliance, if that's what they want to think_, he figured. "We were really surprised to see you all on Shanxi," his sister-in-law, Allie, chattered. "You should have told us about that. Such an honor, to be in Shepard's family party."

His brother-in-law, Sarah's brother, Hamilton, looked a bit more dubious. "Yeah, sitting right in the middle of turian central." He looked at Sam dubiously. "Camera spent a lot of time on Dara and that turian boy she was sitting with."

Sam shrugged. "Guess reporters can take a picture of anything they want to."

"Just saying, you're gonna get an earful when you visit your mama."

And so he did. An earful about Kasumi, and how beautiful she was, and how happy his mother was that he had brought her home to meet her, and so on, and so forth. And another earful, about that damned extranet report on Shepard's speech. "I'm just not on board with this whole unification thing that Shepard's pushing," his mother told him, passing a bowl of green beans his direction at the table. "They attacked _us_, for heaven's sake."

"Thirty-three years ago," Sam replied, mildly.

"Yes, and what have they done since then? Obstructed us at every turn, tried to keep us out of the Council, lectured us when our colony worlds were attacked—"

"Formed a human-turian fleet that saved the galaxy from the Reapers? Worked with us to create the _Normandy_-class ships, a pure fusion of human and turian designs, without which the Reapers would never have been defeated?" Sam supplied. "Really good meatloaf tonight, Mom."

His mother looked at him, and fiddled with her napkin in her lap. After a moment, a little more quietly, she said, "And Dara. My little granddaughter, sitting right next to one of them. Holding _hands_. Why, she all but sat in his lap. I could not hold my head up when I went to town the next day."

Sam glanced, once, at Kasumi. Her smile was comforting. _At least I know I haven't come off __**quite**__ like this. Because none of these reasons have been __**my**__ reasons. Thank god._ "She was cold, Mom. It was spring where we're living when we went to Shanxi, and she forgot to pack a jacket. To be honest, _I_ forgot to pack one, too." He put his fork and knife on his plate.

"Well, that's understandable. But Dara should still have known better. I don't know what she was thinking of."

Sam sighed. "I think that she was thinking, that she was sitting next to her fiancée, and that she was damned cold."

His mother's head jerked up in shock, and he continued, as calmly and blandly as he'd begun, "Yes, they're engaged. I actually came back here to get Sarrie's engagement ring out of my safe deposit box for them. Since it was _your_ mom's, and then Sarrie's, I figured it would only be fitting for Dara to have it. It'll need to be reset, of course. The old band is pretty old-fashioned. Not really suited for envirosuit gloves, or for surgery, for that matter, if that's where her path takes her. And we do all need to keep up with the times, don't you think?" He stood up, walked around the table, and gave his mother a kiss on the forehead. "Love you, Mom. Great dinner. We'll be heading out tomorrow, so, no more talk that gets you all upset, okay?"


	34. Chapter 34: Elsewhere

**Chapter 34: Elsewhere**

**Garrus**

FTL conference calls were not exactly cheap. Hooking together the team on Earth with the team on the _Normandy_, the team on the _Dunkirk_, and the Spectre base itself would have been less costly if reports had simply been filtered through the normal text message queue, but in the interests of time and efficiency, an exception had been made. An exception that had gotten Garrus out of bed at 03:30 ship time. "You're sure that's what he said?" he asked, after a moment, looking across the table at Mordin for a reaction. "A _dalatrass_ is involved in this?"

Mordin practically quivered in agitation. Of course, _he_ wasn't sleepy; salarians required only about an hour of sleep a day. _Damn them._ "Dalatrasses have enormous power in salarian society. Only females. Control breeding, control contracts, control families. Control government. Suppose it is logical that the Lystheni would have dalatrasses of their own. Had always thought them exclusively male. Cast out from rest of society, from breeding rights, turned towards tech, life-extension, biotics, as ways of preserving themselves, when they could not _perpetuate_ themselves."

"The young, the disaffected, and the terminally unlaid?" Sam drawled from where he and Kasumi were, on Earth, prompting a snort of laughter from Lantar, on the _Dunkirk_.

"Neatly summarized. Breeding privileges in all species only extended to those who display valued traits. Those who do not, are outcasts. Still have energies. Redirect them." Mordin shrugged. "If Lystheni have dalatrasses of their own, suggests conventional salarian social structure. Continuity. Or, perhaps, alliance with a dalatrass outside of the Lystheni." He frowned. "Not sure which implications are more disturbing, to be honest."

"Are there any dalatrasses that Kina Pero is known to have associated with?" Garrus asked, suppressing the desire to rub at his eyes.

"The dalatrass of his own house," Mordin replied promptly. "Ill'sta Marov Kina Haddrassa." He tapped on his terminal, pulling up data and glancing through it rapidly. "Three successful breeding contract negotiations. Busy male. Unusual, for one with his unsavory reputation." He frowned. "The public records indicate that he was involved in the negotiations, but not with which families. Unusual. Will dig deeper. Could be proof of connection between Lystheni and batarian movements."

"That _is_ where I was going with this line of thought," Garrus said, and reached for his _apha_. "Joker tells me we're about ten hours from orbit at Rough Tide. Is there anything else I need to know before I shut the connection down?"

Lilu nodded on her section of the screen. "I got in touch with Lluwyn's parents; that's the hanar that was found at the Lystheni station out near Dumah. The one with the AI?"

Garrus and the others nodded.

"He was a rebel of sorts. They were a little embarrassed to talk about him, to be honest. Said he'd rejected the light of the Enkindlers, and had gone to work on a Prothean dig site with salarians. Their general opinion was that he'd been adequately punished for his transgressions." She paused. "Don't get me wrong, they seemed to be quite grief-stricken, but sort of matter-of-fact about it at the same time." She shrugged, clearly baffled. Garrus couldn't really understand it, either, but hanar tended to be the most difficult species for humanoids like themselves to understand. There was very little common frame of reference. "At any rate, I got the location of the dig site, and had some folks do some digging of our own. It was funded by none other than Ill'sta Marov Kina Haddrassa and another dalatrass, Nasurn Pirt Meve Xana."

Mordin frowned. "I'm unfamiliar with that name, Commander."

"Maybe it's one of the Lystheni dalatrasses. If they exist." She paused. "Here's the really fun part, though. The dig leader only went by one name. Maelon."

_That_ woke Garrus up in a hurry, and he looked at Mordin, concerned. The salarian sighed. "Common given name. Probably not my old student. If it is. . . if he is involved with Lystheni now. . . ." He shook his head. "Probably should have killed him on Tuchanka."

"Anything from your end, Lantar?" Garrus asked.

His fellow turian shook his head. "We're in the middle of contacting the archaeological teams on Aphras now, and we're scanning the planet. If the batarians have been here recently, or at Tosal Nym, we'll know in the next twelve hours or so." He paused. "Probably, anyway."

One by one, everyone signed out, and Mordin headed out of the conference room, muttering. Garrus looked back at the screen. "You look tired." He couldn't quite keep the concern out of his voice.

Lilu laughed. "Look who's talking. Go back to bed, Garrus, before your blood turns purple from all the _apha_ you're drinking. _Adamare talu_."

"_Adamare elii_."

A few hours later, he was much more rested, and he, Mordin, and Gris landed on Rough Tide. It was a flash-point disguised as a planet, really; cold, inhospitable, with a crushing atmosphere that the volus would have loved, if only it had been methane instead of carbon dioxide. The sky was still a milky, starless gray overhead, as featureless as a sheet of lead; the sun was a dim glow, even at its zenith. As it was, Garrus would have wondered why volus hadn't come here to enjoy being able to move around with only breathers. . . . if he hadn't known that hanar and drell forces almost continuously clashed with krogan and vorcha packs over the mining rights to this planet.

"Gris? You said you've been here before?" Garrus asked over the radio. "You should take point."

"Heh. Yeah. Back in the 2170s." Gris clomped over the dusty, barren terrain, and the other two followed.

"You were here for the race riots?" Mordin asked, sounding a bit surprised.

"Interesting term the rest of the galaxy has put on what happened here." Gris stopped where he was, and turned around. "The hanar and the drell had struck it rich here in the 2160s. Decided they needed cheaper labor than robominers. Robominers are expensive. They break down in these conditions very easily. Spare parts, mechanics to fix them. . . . all take creds. So, instead, they started shipping in krogan and vorcha. Neither species breaks down easily in tough conditions. No one really knew the extent of the platinum lodes back then. I was one of the guards for a vorcha work gang at the time. I was there when they broke into one of the biggest veins."

Garrus was intrigued. None of this had been in Gris' record. "I remember the news reports. The first fights broke out right after I left boot camp, as best I recall, anyway. The way it was told back then, was that krogan and vorcha landed on the planet and started their own mining operations, in contravention of Council mineral rights laws." He paused. "I take it that you had a slightly more eyewitness view?" Anything Gris said, would, of course, be colored by his own perspective, but Garrus had learned over the years to take in all the reports he could, and form his own opinion on galactic events.

Gris snorted. "You could say that. The miners worked twenty hour shifts, with heavy, dangerous equipment. Bad conditions, not enough supports for the tunnels. Lot of them drank the water that flowed through the rock, and that'll just rot your guts. High acid concentrations." He made a sound at the back of his throat, as if he could taste it, even now. "The vorcha took the brunt of it. The mine owners didn't care. Vorcha breed like pyjaks. There's always more of them, and they adapt quick. The krogan miners _can't_ breed their way out of the conditions, not anymore. But we're strong and adaptable. The krogan miners didn't break as fast as the vorcha did. And where one fell, there was always another shuttle full of replacements available."

He paused for a moment, and when he resumed, his voice was grim, and a little distant, punctuated only by the crunch of their feet on the black-gray ground. "I was just a guard. I was there to make sure no one stole anything, no one slacked off on the job. Breaking point came the day they broke through into the main vein, like I was saying before. Ten vorcha got buried under waste when the drills broke through into the new area, but, you know, who cares about vorcha? Whatever doesn't kill them, really _does_ make them stronger. Mine supervisors were a mix of drell and krogan. Rolled equipment right in over the waste and the rubble. Don't know if they _knew_ there were bodies under there or not. Doesn't matter, anyway. The vorcha weren't bright enough to understand what the assay results meant, but the krogan miners understood it. They understood that the hanar were about to be very, very rich. And that they were going to keep getting paid the exact same pittance to pull riches out of the ground, as when they were pulling out a trace of color. That's when Madnar Ulost stood up in the barracks that night and said 'Let the gods of vengeance take the damn hanar _and_ the damn drell. We can work our own damn mines here. At least then, we get to keep what we find, even if some of us die for it.'" Gris shrugged. "And then they all just started walking out of the barracks. I suppose I should have stopped them, but for some reason, neither I nor any of the krogan guards saw them leave. Could be because our backs were turned. They did run into some trouble with the drell and batarian guards. That kind of ended when a couple of us clubbed 'em over the heads, though."

"You didn't join the miners?" Garrus asked. This was an interesting sample of Gris' sense of ethics, not to mention his leadership. Madnar Ulost had been a _leader_. He might have been wrong-headed, and certainly had gone against Council law—and had, the history books said, lost his life for it. But he'd led. Gris, on the other hand, had simply allowed events to take their course. He was oddly passive for a krogan, Garrus thought, and again remembered Lilu's worries that Gris might not have what it took for solo work in the field.

"No, I didn't. I was being paid to guard the mines and the miners; with the miners gone, that sort of simplified guarding the mines. Least, that's how I explained it when the supervisors came back down the next morning." Gris laughed, a short bark of sound. "That's about when all hell broke loose. The main city is Dark Waters, and there was a whole ghetto of miners there, who'd finished their contracts but didn't have enough creds to get back off-world. They figured why not go join the active miners at the new claims? The drell moved in, first trying to stop the miners in the field, and then to cordon off the slum areas of Dark Waters. That's when the so-called race riots started. You trap several thousand people and tell them they can go home as soon as they come up with the creds, that's one thing. Telling them that you're not going to allow them to even _try_ to earn the creds, well, people don't take kindly to that. Six months of intermittent fighting later, and the drell let the vorcha and the krogan walk out of the city, onto the surface. Set up their own little mining operations. Still have to bring their ore here for smelting and processing. Still got cheated a lot. But hell, some of them even made it home as a result."

They were almost to a silvery hatch in the ground now, which marked the entrance to Dark Waters. "And you?" Mordin asked. "On which side did you fight in all of this?"

Gris paused in his tracks. "You're going to laugh."

"Can promise not to try," Mordin said, almost primly.

Gris sighed. "I didn't fight. Wound up as a gods-be-damned go-between. The miners thought I was one of the more trustworthy guards, because I didn't rough 'em up too much for being tired and turned a blind eye when someone needed extra water or food. The supervisors figured I'd lasted down there longer than any other guard for a reason, so they had me carrying messages from drell enforcers to krogan resistance members in the slums whenever I wasn't carrying _more_ messages from hanar corporate tentacles to krogan mine-leaders in the fields." Gris heaved another sigh. "I didn't see a damn _bit_ of action for six months. I thought I was going to go soft."

Garrus and Mordin simply stopped and stared at the krogan Spectre. "What?" Gris said, after a moment. "I think we've all figured out by now that I can still carry my hump."

Garrus held up his hand. "Gris. . . you helped broker a fairly peaceful resolution to a conflict that the Council couldn't get resolved in six months of effort. Why the _hell_ isn't this in your record?"

"Because I didn't _tell_ anyone about it. Six months in a war zone, and not one damn fight? It's embarrassing!"

"Garrus, can provide analgesic for your sure-to-be-subsequent headache," Mordin offered, chipperly. "Recommend not banging head into rock wall, however. Might damage faceplate of helmet."

"It's going in your record, Gris. We'll see if we can't get you some sort of retroactive commendation or something. _Spirits of wind and fire, defend me from krogan stubbornness!_" The last was in _tal'mae_, to vent his frustration without translation.

Dark Waters was a hanar city, and was comprised of a warren of mining tunnels dug here decades ago, and then pressurized with an atmosphere that the drell could tolerate. Half of the tunnels were flooded, for hanar comfort, necessitating either gondolas through the larger, more open caverns, or personal submersible vehicles for the completely filled tunnels; many of these were available for public use all over the place, much in the way humans left communal bikes around the science station back on Mindoir. The hanar, of course, floated through the air-filled tunnels in their force fields, and switched these off to plunge into the dark waters that gave the underground city its name. Humanoids were the ones relegated to vehicle transportation.

The tunnels, Garrus found, were only moderately lit; the drell, with their enormous, crepuscular-to-nocturnal eyes, designed to allow them to hunt and work during the coolest parts of the day on their native planet, had no need for bright lights. It gave him an uneasy sense, adding to the claustrophobic sense of the narrow tunnels and the constant need to swim through chilly water—and turians swam poorly, of course—the pressure of thousands of tons of dirt overhead.

Eventually, they found their way to the central part of the city, a large, open cave system, from which vast nodes of platinum had once been extracted. This cavern was now the main living area of the city. Garrus nodded to a couple of drell enforcers, and, after getting their attention, started asking about the whereabouts of Kina Pero.

From their frowns, he didn't think the salarian was a _welcome_ guest. "Yeah, he comes through here every few months. Keeps an apartment in the Ka'lasz district," one of the drell told him. "It's right next to a fishdog stand. Hard to miss all the batarians that pass through there."

Garrus glanced at Gris. "Southwest corner of the city. Probably still slums, largely. Anyone who isn't hanar or drell tends to get lumped in there," Gris rumbled, and the drell guards turned to look at him. The krogan ignored their stares. "Let's get going. Batarians cook some pretty fine varren meat, when they put their minds to it, and I'm hungry."

Even if Garrus _could_ have eaten that particular levo food, he wasn't sure, given the fact that Urz had become a fairly important member of his little clan, that he ever _would_ have. Mordin and Gris made up for his inability, however, using their purchase of the varren meat kabobs as an excuse to ask the vendor about the neighborhood.

"Whenever you two are done licking the grease off your fingers," Garrus said, leaning against a wall, and studying the entrance to the apartments where they'd been informed that Kina Pero lived. "we can get going."

Gris chuckled. "Hungry, turian?"

"I'll live."

Garrus didn't really have Kasumi's experience with breaking and entering, but while the locks and security on this apartment might have been high-cred equipment for Dark Waters, they were fairly pitiful by the standards of the rest of the galaxy. "Got it," he said after a moment, as Mordin and Gris watched his back. "Got any lifesigns, Mordin, before we just go busting in?" he added, softly.

Mordin shook his head. "Negative. If Pero indeed has links to Lystheni, might be in hibernation inside, however." The salarian's eyes narrowed. "Advise caution."

Garrus nodded, and nudged the door open, staying in a crouch behind the doorframe, peering around into the small living area. "Clear," he said quietly.

"Clear," Gris agreed, from the other doorway, and Garrus moved in, sliding right, Gris and his shotgun covering left. They worked their way through the small apartment methodically. "Okay, he's not here. Let's toss the place," Garrus said.

Mordin started off at the computer consoles. "Much encryption," he noted after a moment. "May need assistance."

Garrus nodded and the two of them worked together, muttering and frowning over streams of code. "There," Mordin said after a moment, in a tone of satisfaction. "Unlocked VI assistant."

"Greetings, Kina Pero. It has been three days since you last accessed this facility. You have fourteen new messages. Play in order of receipt?"

The messages were a grab bag. Garrus chuckled a little at the one that indicated that Pero's Fornax subscription was about to expire. Mordin's rapid blinks indicated a certain level of discomfort. "Salarians do not _have_ hormonally-driven reproductive urges. Most. . . discomforting information," the scientist murmured. "Personal deviance? Research material? Genetic alteration to _produce_ hormonal fluxes?"

"I'm going to go with simple voyeurism till proven otherwise," Garrus told him, still chuckling, and moved to the next message. "Ah, this is more interesting. Message from Nasurn Pirt Meve Xana—the dalatress whose name you didn't recognize, Mordin. _Where is shipment? Has not arrived from processing facility. Experiment at critical junction. Maelon requires materials immediately._" Garrus shook his head. "'Shipment' could mean the slaves Pero has been trading in. Or the weapons he's actually more known for. Either way, doesn't sound good." He flicked his talons over the aerogel screens, trying to isolate from where the message had been sent. "Very carefully concealed origin. Encrypted ID, dummy domain signature, and it looks like the message has been bounced off half a dozen comm buoys to get here." He uploaded the document to the _Normandy_ anyway; EDI might be able to track it better with her resources than he was able to, in this quick and dirty scan.

Mordin touched another message, opening it. "Message suggestive. Indicates that Pero had operations running on Earth, to obtain information on existing hybrids. Explains his absence. Probably handling team that Jaworski and Kasumi encountered on Earth. Long gone from there now. Whether he will return here, or to some other base, hard to say." He opened a file directory on the terminal, and started glancing through it all rapidly. "Only some data obtained so far. Good. AEC did not yet release the location of Spectre base, if, indeed, they have it _to_ release."

Garrus felt a knot of tension ease in his chest, but only slightly. "Why the need for the hybrids?" he muttered. "The process is well-documented in the medical community. Hell, Lantar and Ellie had it done by a different salarian team. Soln. . . Soln-something-or-another was in charge."

"Ullust Keemar Soln Rem. Good researcher. Self-important windbag, but good doctor." Mordin frowned. "Yes. Likely that they wish to examine products of process, before beginning rounds of experimentation on salarian eggs. More methodical than previous, hodge-podge efforts. Reflects different researcher now in the mix. Different cultural attitude. Not a Lystheni, not a product of their worship of tech."

"Maelon?" Garrus asked, quietly.

Mordin's nod looked dejected. "Seems high probability now."

They looked through the rest of the messages, Garrus hoping for _something_, anything, really, that would state 'location of Lystheni main base at coordinates X, Y, Z.' _Never seem to get that lucky_, he thought, a little dispiritedly. "Ah, interesting," he said after a moment. "He's got an entire folder dedicated to mini-Reaper sightings in the media, same as that Lystheni base on Omega. Not sure why, but I guess if you were going to try to extrapolate the location of our base, that might not be a bad place to start from." He tapped his talons on the console. That didn't seem quite right, but it was at least a possible explanation. "And here, also, Operation: Overlord information. Pretty extensive data, for something we shut down pretty hard."

Gris, who'd been sitting out in the living area, looking bored, popped his head in the door of the office. "Anything on the batarians and the _Klem Na_?"

Garrus nodded. "Valhallan Threshold," he said. "No specific system, but it makes sense."

Gris nodded. "Yeah. Close to that AI base on that moon of Dumah we found, that whatever these salarians are up to, they can keep track of it and their batarian friends at the same time."

"Yeah, but there's something like two hundred and fifty systems in that cluster," Garrus noted. "The human expression about needles and haystacks does kind of come to mind."

The krogan frowned. "Yeah. Also, it's pretty far from where Lantar and the _Dunkirk_ are now. And he's supposed to be looking for batarian shipyards. Guess he's looking in the wrong place."

Garrus shrugged. "Lantar's checking out known batarian movements. Maybe it's all related. Maybe it's not. Don't want to pull him half-way through the job, send him scurrying someplace else, and then realize later that we should've been looking in the Shrike Abyssal all this time after all." He tapped his omnitool. "EDI, get a full upload of everything on this terminal, would you? I kind of doubt Pero's going to be back here in the next day or so." He looked at the other two. "Gris, would you mind staying here to keep an eye out in case I'm _wrong_ on that front? I'm going to go back to the _Normandy_ and report what little we've found here, get a little direction." He thought about it for a moment, then mentally cursed. Mindoir was twelve hours ahead of local time. Lilu would probably be asleep by now, and he didn't _want_ to wake her. But this was one of the occasions when the job, as always, came first.

**Lantar**

As the _Dunkirk_ was a human-flagged _Normandy_-class ship, Lantar was unfamiliar with the history of the name. Having little else to do en route to the Xe Cha system, he looked it up, and shook his head. He'd already known that all of the human ships in this class were named for great battles in one of their old wars. He was a little less clear on why _this_ battle had been chosen, at least at first. It had been, largely, a rout of the Allies by the eventual losers of the war, the Axis. _Why commemorate that?_ he had to wonder. On reading further, however, he understood it better. The Allies had rescued something in order of 30,000 of their troops, in spite of a devastated port facility, mainly by using civilian watercraft to shuttle them from beaches to the waiting troop transports. After one nation, the British, had rescued their own troops, then they'd come _back_ for their historical enemies, the French, because that's what allies _do_ for one another.

Lantar found a certain pleasant symmetry in that piece of history, when he compared it to the present day. Turians and humans, historically, hadn't gotten along so well either. Oh, there wasn't the _centuries_ of bad blood to overcome that the British and the French had had, but there was a certain animus, nonetheless. And yet, he hoped, equally capable of gallantry and honor on both sides.

The human captain of the _Dunkirk_ was Chandrakant Kapur, an Alliance Navy member from a subcontinent on Earth far removed from where Lantar's wife, Ellie had grown up. Lantar sometimes had difficulty telling humans apart, but Kapur had dark skin and a round, cheerful face which were memorable for the turian. He also had a light, exotic trace of an accent to his English that, for some reason, amused the hell out of Lantar. It was like nothing he had ever heard before, and he enjoyed it as much as he enjoyed listening to Ken Donnelly-Onorian's brogue.

"Two garden worlds being in the same system, both with civilizations that were wiped out thirty-seven million years ago," Kapur said now, standing by the galaxy map. The man chuckled a little and looked sly. "They were _Prothean_, of course_._"

Lantar snorted a bit at that. "If the archaeologists don't turn up something spectacular, I wonder if any species out there might not want to terraform Aphras and Tosal Nym back to something more habitable," he commented, thoughtfully. "Bring in a few comets, let them graze the atmosphere to start saturating it with water again. Aphras has a bit heavier of an atmosphere than I, personally, like to breathe, but the temperature, currently, is pretty much ideal for turians." 33º C/91.4º F on average would make most turians _very_ happy. "The two point three two atmospheric pressure is only at sea-level, anyway; plant most of the cities in the elevated regions, and use the low-lying areas for robo-farming, and you'd have a very nice turian colony. Gravity's light enough to make it a vacation spot, too." He frowned over the planetary description. "With ninety-nine percent of its original biosphere wiped out, we could practically just rebuilt it from the ground up with dextro species. Realistically, it could be a second Palaven. No need for the balancing act on Mindoir."

Kapur nodded. "And Tosal Nym's temperature is pretty much ideal for humans. Eighteen Celcius or sixty-four Fahrenheit is more than decent. The same problems exist with the atmospheric pressure, though. Gravity's a little heavier than a human likes, but mild enough that people could adapt, or use light exoskeletons." He turned to Lantar. "You should run that idea up the chain. Perhaps Commander Shepard can get Councilor Anderson and Councilor Odacaen to work on such a plan. It would not be completed for several lifetimes, of course, but what a glorious thing it would be." His white smile split his face.

"You're in favor of the whole unity thing, then?" Lantar asked, cautiously.

"And why would I not be? I _love_ my ship." Kapur spread his hands, gesturing to the whole of the _Dunkirk_. "I am liable to love her too much. My wife is a little jealous, I think."

Kynthia, the AI, cut in softly, "I've contacted each of the archaeology teams on Aphras, Spectre, Captain. No reports of unusual activity. All members accounted for. I did pick up an anomaly in the ancient western sea bed, but I believe this to be more historic than recent. I've passed them the data, so that they can look into it."

Kapur looked at Lantar, and the turian nodded. "Let's go take a look at Tosal Nym, then," Lantar said.

The second semi-habitable planet in the system turned out to be more interesting. Kynthia reported, sounding cautious, "One archaeological team reports two members missing. They both disappeared four weeks ago, at the start of regional winter. The search was called off due to the bitter cold of the far northern hemisphere, where they had been working. The team leader believes that their bodies will probably be found in spring."

"Any anomalies?" Lantar asked, interested.

"Several. One in the same general region as the dig-site that reported the disappearance—about twenty-five kilometers north, in the permafrost zone. I suspect that their scanners, which are ground-penetrating radar, for the most part, haven't detected it, simply because they've been looking _down_ the entire time. And search parties would probably not have gone so far looking for the missing scientists, because it is extremely unlikely that they would have gotten so far without a vehicle."

"They disappeared on _foot_?"

"In part. They took a groundcar out, which was found, abandoned, about ten kilometers north of the dig-site. It had adequate fuel for a return trip. The region is filled with ravines and crevasses. Their team leader believes that they went out hiking, looking for new dig points, and simply didn't return."

Lantar shook his head. "And I don't suppose the scientists took vids or images of the area around the abandoned vehicle."

Kynthia's voice was a hint perturbed. "Unfortunately, no. While they _have_ the equipment, from surveying their dig, none of them seemed to regard this as a potential crime scene. No evidence has been preserved, beyond the location of the groundcar, when it was found."

He sighed. It had been too much to hope for, apparently. "These scientists have names or descriptions?" Lantar asked next.

"That is one of the most interesting parts of my report," Kynthia replied, almost primly. "One human male, Xu Heng, native of Shanxi. L2 biotic implants, retired military. Working on the dig as a post-graduate student, unusually enough." She paused. "The other was an asari scientist, Basia Maro. She was supervising Heng's dissertation, apparently. No intimations of a romantic relationship between them. Heng was known to have the extremely bad migraines associated with the L2 implants, but had a stable personality in spite of that."

"Also a biotic, then," Kapur put in, thoughtfully.

"All asari are," Lantar replied, quietly. "Prep a Hammerhead for us, please. We'll be heading down to the anomaly area."

He, Livanus, and Sky strapped in, and the _Dunkirk_ dropped them not far from the coordinates. Lantar spun the Hammerhead around from the position in which it had dropped, and headed for the blip on the screen, leaping the chasms and crevasses smoothly where he could, picking his way down inclines and back up the other side where he couldn't. After about fifteen minutes, Livanus chuckled.

Lantar didn't look away from the terrain ahead. "Something on your mind?"

Livanus chuckled again. "It's just refreshing to be a passenger in a Hammerhead and _not_ have to clutch at a strap, fearing for my life."

"I see you've driven with Garrus."

"Yes. That man missed his calling. They should have pulled him into the fighter pilot program out of boot camp, not special forces."

"My understanding is, he actually had a choice between the two." Lantar paused. "Pilots don't generally become Spectres, though, and I'm sure that more or less directed his choice."

Livanus sounded impressed. "Rare, that they allow a recruit a decision like that."

Lantar simply nodded in reply. Livanus relaxed in his seat. "Hope we find something soon," the other turian commented. "My wife's just gotten her security clearance. Was _really_ hoping to have her moved onto the base by now." A dry note in his voice, now. "I understand why it's a long process, but it's been a couple of months."

"Not so much a bureaucracy thing, as Kasumi and her people being swamped. They moved very fast for my family and Jaworski's, but that was before all the _s'kak_ hit the ventilation unit." Lantar definitely understood the other male's position, though. He'd been away from his own wife for only a few days, and already missed her. Ellie wasn't a fighter, by any stretch of the imagination. She could be fierce, in her own way, but that wasn't her attraction for him. She was stable, giving, and kind, in a way he'd found in few people of any species. Once someone was _hers_, she worried over them, constantly. Tried to find ways to make them happy. That sort of kindness, applied to her own children, or to him, or to anyone she counted a friend, Lantar felt, was a rare thing in the universe, and he treasured it.

Sky sang softly in their minds, _All songs are missed, when there is silence. Your harmonies will be renewed, the brighter for the tacet that has separated your voices._

Lantar smiled, briefly. Sky always seemed to know how to lighten his inner darkness. After a pause, the turian added to Livanus, "If it's any consolation, I've managed to miss my son's birthday on this trip."

"It's not his sixteenth. He'll live."

Lantar shrugged. "Humans put a big store on their birthing days, at least up to a certain age. I'll have to find a way to make it up to him." Terrain fleeted by outside the window.

"Take him fishing."

Lantar thought about it. "Well, he'd probably enjoy that. For a boy who's lived on stations his entire life, and was scared that the sky was going to _get _him at first, he's definitely adapted quickly." He frowned. "Only trouble is, anything we catch, _I_ can't eat, and his mom _won't_ eat."

Livanus chuckled. "Fishing isn't about _catching_, Lantar—not for humans any more than it is for us. It's mostly about having something that you're pretending to do, which gives you an excuse to be outside doing _nothing_."

Lantar grinned outright. "Thanks. I'll try that."

The radar screen blipped urgently, and Lantar brought the Hammerhead to a halt. "We're there. . . but the spirits know, _I_ don't see anything," he said, dubiously, and then they all hopped out of the hatch.

It was bracingly cold outside, but the atmosphere was still oxygen-nitrogen. _Has to be __**some**__ plantlife left on this rock. Somewhere. Maybe cyanobacteria in what's left of the seas. Maybe lichen._

_Over here_, Sky sang softly. _Well-concealed, but the earth sounds hollow under my legs here._

Lantar headed for the brood warrior's position, and tapped lightly at the ground with his own feet. Sure enough, ground that should have been frozen solid and given little but a dull thud in response, sounded a bit more hollow. Lantar and Livanus poked here and there with their respective wedding knives. After a moment, Livanus reported, "Metal here."

Sky moved over, and used his powerful forelegs to dig, revealing a buried hatch. "You hear any life-songs?" Lantar asked the rachni after a moment, studying his own omnitool for a moment. He saw a few crowded blips, at the very edge of its range, and frowned.

Sky sent a wave of confusion. _Pain and fear and hunger and death. Acceptance of it. Despair. Some voices are faint. I am also listening for the quiet voices, the __diminuendo ones. I hear none of those, but they might be hidden in the chorus._

Lantar grunted a bit, and pulled the hatch open. A rush of warm, stale air rushed past his face, bringing with it the smell of putrefaction. He and Livanus both turned their heads aside sharply, panting through nose and mouth simultaneously. Like a Terran cat, turians had additional scent detecting organs at the roof of the mouth, for more detail. Rotting flesh was a vile odor, not one Lantar _enjoyed_ smelling, but odors told their own unique tale. "That's fairly fresh," Livanus said after a moment, his voice tight.

"Several different species," Lantar said, feeling his crop clench, and steeled himself, forcing his gorge back down.

Sky's mental flickers turned a worried shade of gray, tinged here and there with regretful shimmers of purple. _Grateful, not to have your sense of smell_, he said, after a moment.

"There are days, when I honestly wish I had a human nose, myself," Lantar admitted. "All right, breathers on. No reason to tough this out, and better to avoid any bacteria down there that might like dextro bodies."

He and Livanus descended a ladder that led into a darkened facility, Lantar first, Livanus covering him with his weapon from the top. Flicking on a flashlight, Lantar hunted around and found a lightswitch. Much to his surprise, it worked, albeit dimly. He'd been convinced that they'd be hunting around, looking for corpses and enemies with only their flashlights' dim beams to guide them, like some horror vid. "There's enough space for you, Sky. Both of you, come on down." He settled his own assault rifle in his hands, the weight of it reassuring in his palms.

Sky floated down, suspended on his own singularity, rather than even attempting to use the ladder. Then Lantar and Livanus began canvassing forward, opening doors, clearing rooms. It was obviously a laboratory complex of some sort; all of the equipment had salarian writing on it. "Think this is their main facility?" Lantar asked, after a moment.

"Too small," Livanus replied.

They left the computer terminals untouched for the moment. It seemed more important to get to those life signs, especially since Sky was keening a little in their minds. Finally, near the back of the base, they found what they were looking for.

The room was large, and its walls were lined with metal holding cells, batarian in construction and design, each no larger than a varren's cage, stacked on top of each other, three or four high. There were water pipes leading to each, providing some basic necessities, but little else.

The captives inside these cramped cages couldn't stand; they could either lie down or crouch, at best, usually in their own waste. Batarians did, after all, have a strong caste system, and slaves were at the very bottom. Such cages were just a reminder of their status. "Oh, _s'kak_," Lantar said after a horrified moment. "We've got to get them out of there." Moving forward, he tabbed his omnitool. "_Dunkirk_, this is Lantar. Get shuttles with medical personnel down here, _now_. We have ten to twelve humanoids in very bad condition. Looks like starvation and dehydration and a hell of a lot of mental distress."

"Is the landing zone clear?" Kapur there.

"It's clear. Hurry!"

Lantar and Livanus each started opening cage doors. The captives inside—the ones who were conscious, anyway—looked at them with terrified eyes and pulled away, babbling, gabbling at first. "Sky, can you sing them a lullaby or something?" Lantar said after the third or fourth such response.

_Can try. They hide inside their own minds now. Not sure if what they see is reality. They have suffered much._ Sky's song mixed blue compassion with streaks of red and black rage. The rachni straightened up, and suddenly, waves of blue and green filled Lantar's mind. Warm-toned music. He smiled for a moment. He recognized it as Sky's version of a piano piece Dara sometimes played for the rachni. Something that was beautiful and uplifting, but slowed down, gentled for these people, because they needed gentleness. _Beethoven_, the rachni told him, quietly. _Ode to Joy. The humans here will understand it, even if they do not know it, I think._

Sure enough, the trembling seemed to be passing from the closest captive. "Take my hand," Lantar said, and a five-fingered human hand gripped his own after a moment, and the turian carefully pulled the human out of the cage.

Each captive had a batarian slave collar on their neck; if human, their heads had been shaved, and regardless of species, Lantar could see scars on the craniums, indicating that control chips had probably been implanted. Several had had their tongues removed, a fairly common batarian punishment for unruly slaves. Most were filthy with their own feces; most were too weak to stand. The _Dunkirk _medical personnel had their hands full, setting up IVs, trying to stabilize people who hadn't been fed in about two to three weeks. Lantar counted eight living human males, two asari females, and two human females. The other twenty cages in the room were the source of the terrible smell of putrefaction. Quite a few other humans and asari hadn't survived. There were even a couple of batarians in the cages.

He and Livanus hovered for a while, exchanging equally helpless shrugs, watching as periodically, a captive would grab the hand of a doctor, hug a nurse. Sky continued to project soothing thoughts, trying to buffer the captives from the shock they were in, and Lantar tried to make Sky aware of his deep gratitude for the rachni's efforts. Then he gave the brood warrior a pat on the shoulder, and beckoned to Livanus. They had computer records to go through.

That night, he sent out his reports; they were two-fold. One was the recommendation that he and Kapur wanted to float, regarding Aphras and Tosal Nym; sure, the asari probably wouldn't like it, but they'd had three thousand years to claim either planet for their own, and hadn't. Beyond that, it would be a Council-wide vote, assuming the initiative met with Alliance and Hierarchy favor.

That was the fun report. The second report was grim, and he delivered it verbally by FTL to Shepard. "Yeah, this place looks like it was a storage and processing point. The logs indicated that they'd get shipments of slaves here every three to four months, from the batarians hired by Pero. They would, essentially, _cull_ the slaves here, determine which ones had the desired genetic traits, and would execute the rest. There's quite a large mass grave nearby. When they finished the preliminary examinations and experiments, the slaves that 'passed' were shipped to the main base." Lantar grimaced. "And they're paranoid even in their own records. No names. No locations. Just 'the dalatrass' and 'ship specimen allotment forty-nine to main base for continued testing."

"Why abandon the base? Why not ship off this set of prisoners?" Lantar could see that Shepard's hands were trembling slightly, but her voice was steady. Considering her background and feelings about slavery in general, she was holding her calm admirably. Lantar, personally, wanted to find the people responsible for what he'd seen today, and introduce them to the concept of justice-anger, the wrath of the spirits made incarnate. It would have to wait, of course. They had to _find_ them first.

He took a deep breath, calming himself. "As best we can tell, they were aware of the scientists nearby, and tried to keep a low profile until the dig-season came to a close. It's tough to conceal ships moving in and out of an area like that. Then two of the scientists wandered too close, started setting up some ground-penetrating radar in the vicinity of the base, looking for artifacts. The Lystheni moved out and captured them."

"We know this much detail?" Shepard sounded surprised. "Are either of them still alive?"

"Both, for a wonder. Both were biotics. Male humans seem to be preferred for the moment, spirits only know why. Human females secondary, as well as asari. Only humanoids; elcor and hanar need not apply for _this_ sector of Lystheni research." Lantar's tone was dark. "Species like turians, with low biotic levels to begin with, probably would have just been killed outright." He shrugged. "Basia, the asari, appears to have made trouble for the salarians. She was one of the most abused of the captives. Xu Heng, the human, credits his Alliance training for the mental strength to get through."

Shepard sighed. "Well, that's _something_, anyway."

"Yeah, thought you'd like hearing that part." He shrugged. "Any word from Earth on the direction the salarian ship took?"

"Straight to the new relay, and from there, out into the network. Got the ship id, though. The _Thelessav_, apparently. We're running down its itineraries as we speak." Shepard looked at him with a certain amount of sympathy. "You guys did good today. It's tough seeing what you saw. Get the survivors to the closest Alliance hospital, and come on home."

Lantar smiled briefly, a huge feeling of relief coursing through him.

**Elijah**

Though Elijah's birthday was April 17, it was a beautiful fall day outside, and a Sunday, to boot, so no school. His mom had let him invite some friends over, so a handful of turian and human boys from the handball teams had dropped by, as had Mazz, Rellus, Dara, and Siara.

The first hour or two had gone well. Most of his friends from the handball team were excited, because one of the turian boys' fathers had recently gone to a scientific symposium in Odessa, Mindoir's planetary capital, and had been talking about his son's accomplishments with some of the other colonial scientists there. It turned out that handball, behind soccer and football, was one of the top interests at the various colonial schools. A certain amount of friendly debate had followed, and now, the valley school had been challenged to a friendly match by a large, all-human school in Odessa.

"We'd have to go play there," Linianus, one of the turian boys, said, pragmatically. "They couldn't get clearance for themselves and their families. But it would certainly be _fun_ to challenge them." He snickered. "I don't think they'd stand a chance."

Eli shrugged. "They play competitively all the time, see lots of different players. We don't." He thought their chances were pretty good, but didn't want anyone getting overconfident. "They also, you know, have coaches. Learn strategy."

"You had that at your old school on Bastion?" Linianus asked.

Eli nodded. "Yeah, sort of." He snickered. "I was on the lowest tier team on Bastion. The coaches more or less told us not to beat each other up and went to go handle the older kids."

"But you played against other schools?" Linianus was interested.

A quick shrug. "The higher tier squads did. We had to go watch. The station has seventeen million people aboard. There are a _lot_ of other schools." Eli paused. "Most of them aren't as. . . mixed. . . as ours is here, though. I had mostly human and turian classmates, and a couple of krogan, actually. No drell. They were off in the hanar neighborhoods. Lots of all-human or all-turian schools. All-asari, too."

"How did the way the all-human or all-turian squads differ from how _we_ play?" Linianus leaned forward.

Eli didn't know where the turian boy was going with this. "I'm not really sure I ever looked at it like that," he said, slowly. "I guess, maybe more strategy. Everyone had a system, practiced plays, tried to do it all the same way, every time. Kind of like a machine, I guess." He laughed. "We don't really do that. We just play to have fun."

Linianus looked disappointed. "So you really don't think we have a chance?"

"I dunno, Lin. We might. But I don't want to get my hopes up."

"Yeah, but this other team. . . they're only human," Mazz said, then paused. "No offense, Eli."

Linianus leaned back in his chair. "With Eli in goal, humans at defense, drell at midfield, Mazz and we turians as strikers, I really think we _could_ win." He grinned. "The only thing we're missing is Rel. Hey, Rel, you going to play with us?" he called across the noisy room.

Rellus looked up from where he was talking to Dara, and shook his head, looking amused. "Too busy."

"That's what comes with being plighted. No more fun." The younger turian flicked his claws at Rel.

The older boy shrugged it off easily. "Lots of fun. Different kind." He paused. "Besides, I think my height would get me disqualified. The colonists would look at me and say 'he's an adult, get him off the field!'" He smiled and stood up, taking Dara by the hand, and headed for the kitchen.

His words had a certain validity; he was reaching the end of his growth spurt, and was slightly taller than _Lantar_ now. Eli wasn't really sure when, or even _if_ his friend was ever going to stop growing. Or indeed, if he'd ever get close to catching up. He listened to his teammates chatter for a minute or two more, then headed for the kitchen himself.

Inside, his mom was setting up a plate of bone splinters and flakes. "Lantar told me before he left that these are considered great for turian boys Eli's age," she was telling Rel and Dara. "Excellent source of calcium."

Eli grinned, and held position in the doorway to watch. This had the makings of high comedy.

Rellus nodded, and replied, sounding a bit uncomfortable, "They are, at that. Dr. Solus told me before he left that I wasn't getting _enough_ calcium. Don't eat enough during the growth spurt, and the bones wind up really fragile."

"Then _have_ some. That's what they're _for_," his mom said, hitching the plate in Rel's direction, before bustling out the other door of the kitchen with a bowl of party goodies in each hand. Caelia toddled after her, making urgent creeling sounds, obviously hungry for whatever was in the bowls.

Dara picked up one of the splinters, and frowned at it, going so far as to test one against her teeth. "Okay, either these are the galaxy's _stalest_ chips, or this is. . ."

"Bone. Yeah." Rel told her, rescuing the splinter from her fingers.

"Huh." Dara considered that for a moment, then picked up another piece, and held it to Rel's mouth. "I think these look like they could _really_ use some dip to make 'em go down easier. Maybe some guacamole."

Rel laughed. "That is _not _a word."

"Oh, it is," Eli said, from behind them, and two heads turned towards him, as he grinned. "It means _green slime_ in Spanish."

Dara flicked her fingers at him, turian-fashion. _Push off._ "You obviously never had it fresh, from avocadoes picked right from the tree, home-made salsa, and a little lemon or lime. Otherwise, you'd know it's the food of the gods. Store-bought stuff, yeah. That can be slime." She looked up at Rel. "Come on, eat your chips, or Eli's mom is gonna cry."

Rel took the bone out of her fingers, and crunched down. Eli had the uncomfortable feeling that he should now, _really_, be elsewhere, and grabbed a bag of carrots for himself. As he turned to go, he heard Rellus ask, "It really doesn't bother you?"

"No. It's neat. If you can like watching me sip milk through a straw, why should how _you_ get your calcium bother me?"

A chuckle. "That's not the same thing _at all_."

Eli settled back into a chair in the living room, and dug into the carrots and dip. He was almost constantly hungry right now. His mom said it was because she could _hear_ him growing. Since most of his friends were turian, he didn't see any real changes, himself; he'd been taller than his mom for two years now, so it was hard to measure himself against her, too.

Siara came over and settled into a chair beside his; silent, watching. His various teammates evidently found her a little unsettling. She didn't entirely respond to conversational gambits—a tendency Eli was trying to break her of, with little success. He wasn't sure if it was because she was _shy_ or if it was the asari superiority complex she had been programmed with. Neither explanation fit; Siara never failed to speak her mind, and her mother, Azala, was one of the nicest asari on the base.

Trying to find a way to get Siara and Dara to speak to one another in the past two weeks had been tricky. Eli had finally settled for bluntness with Dara one day at lunch. "Look, she's no good at making friends. But she's trying to be better. Give her another chance?"

Dara's eyes had been a little hostile. "I'm not looking to replace Kella."

"That's not fair," Eli told her, hotly. "I'm not replacing Kella, either. I just have this feeling that. . . Siara's been hurt." He shrugged, at a loss. "Not just by Kella's death. But by other things, too. I kind of want to help her." He'd met Dara's eyes steadily. "You don't have to help her just because I want to. But at least don't smack her away if she _tries_ to be friendly, okay?"

Dara had given him a dubious look. "All right," she surrendered, with a sigh. "I still don't like her, though."

Eli considered that. "It's okay. I'm not even sure _I_ like her, to be honest."

Rellus, at the same table with them, had chuckled. "Elijah, are you giving up on police work for diplomacy?"

He'd shuddered. "Oh, god, no, Rel. I don't have the brains for that."

It had been a fairly painful process. Dara had been going through gene mod therapy at the time; her last dose would have been yesterday morning. Even today, here at his little not-really-a-party, she looked pale and a bit unwell; certainly in no mood to tolerate Siara's unconscious superiority. He'd already had to intervene once, when Siara had commented that asari didn't _require_ genetic manipulation, because they already _had_ strong biotics and immune systems, catching her by the arm and moving her away a little, and giving Dara a quick look that begged her not to respond. Dara's narrow-eyed return stare spoke eloquently of death, and then she'd sighed, shook her head, and walked away. Even from across the room, Eli could tell that Rellus had started chuckling, very quietly.

"See, this is sort of what I've been getting at," Eli had told Siara, directing her out into the atrium garden. "There's being honest, and there's being mean. You can be one without being the other."

Siara's mouth had pulled down. "That _was_ honest."

Eli shrugged. "Yeah. It was also mean. Don't tell me you won't deserve it, next time you come down with batarian influenza, and go to the clinic, and Dara tells you it's a _shame_ that your body temperature isn't as low as a human's, because then the virus wouldn't be happily nestling down in your intestines." Elijah grinned at her. "I'm sure it'll be _very_ comforting, being told that your species isn't well-evolved when you're throwing up every five seconds."

"She's not—I mean, she's at sparring three nights a week, just like normal." Siara's tone had gone uncertain, however.

"_Yeah_, she has been. Rel kind of asked me just how uncomfortable it is to vomit without a crop to get in the way last week. Think he'd have had any reason to ask that if she _wasn't_?"

"Oh." She'd clearly wrestled it for a moment, biting her lower lip.

"Need some mustard to go with that foot in your mouth?" Eli had sat down on one of the benches that had come with the little turian villa that they now called home.

Siara blinked. "Human expressions are absolutely disgusting."

He grinned again. "Watching other people twitch when we say them is half the fun. Want to know where the expression _nitpicking_ comes from?"

"No!"

"You see, back in the day, people would have these bugs in their hair, called lice—"

"Stop right there." She shuddered. "As if the whole _hair_ thing wasn't disturbing enough, now you have to make it sound even more unclean than before." She gave him a look. "You _have_ noticed that humans are the _only_ sapient mammalian species in Council space? On every other planet out there, the mammalian analogues—if _any_ evolved—are just vermin. Pyjaks. Rats."

Eli leaned back, looking at her. For a moment, his jaw had clenched, and again, there was that fleeting resemblance to his turian step-father. "Now you're just trying to see if you can make _me_ twitch," he said, after a moment, the teasing gone from his voice. "Trouble is, Siara, you don't know how to pull your punches. Sometimes, you just want to jab. Not every punch has to be a wild haymaker." He'd stood up. "I'm going back in. Come with me, or stay here. Your choice." Eli had shrugged, and gone back in. He'd honestly been surprised when she'd followed after him.

Reflecting on it now, he wondered why it was that she was _still_ trailing after him. She'd said many times that he wasn't interesting; now, mammals were just vermin, apparently. At this point, he wasn't even really sure why he tolerated her around him, any more than why he'd tolerated her _before_ that brief sharing in the street, three weeks ago. There was just this hint of loneliness to her, of being lost and hurt somehow, and he just couldn't put his finger on it, but he wanted to help her, somehow.

When he didn't want to shove her out the door and close it in her face, that is.

After everyone else had left, and his mom had gone to settle Caelia down for a nap—usually a half-hour process, that, Eli sat out in the atrium with Siara again, in the warm afternoon sunshine. Only now, Siara had cuddled up next to him on the bench, which made it increasingly harder to think. _"Have I not met you halfway?" _she asked, suddenly, unexpectedly. _"Have I not tried to share with you in human fashion?"_

Eli blinked. _"You have."_

"_Then you should make recompense. Is this not fair?"_

He had the uneasy feeling that he was being maneuvered somehow. "Siara, my mom is going to come back outside any minute now."

Siara sighed. "It would be _so_ much easier if you would just come to my house, and share fully. Then it wouldn't be this drawn-out process, by dribs and drabs." Her eyes were impatient, a little hard-set this time, not the open pain she'd shown three weeks ago.

"Everyone I know, keeps telling me that the best things in life are worth going slow for," Eli said, trying to make light of it, and shifting slightly away.

She moved very quickly then, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing her lips to his, and Eli's mind flinched back a little from the sudden intimacy of hers, thoughts again melding together, memories, warmth, light . . . but this time, he caught that sense of loneliness, of pain, a dark thread mingled with all her vivid colors, and tried to follow it, to see where it led. _No_, she told him silently, and her hands were wandering now, making it almost impossible to think, the mental and the physical suddenly becoming intolerably urgent at the same time. _I don't want you to see that._

_If you want to share all of me, you have to give all of you. That's how it works._

_You can't see that!_ Mental tone almost frantic now, and it almost seemed like she redoubled her efforts. So much pleasure now, and while she insisted now that he open himself to her, she held part of herself away, as he had held himself away the first time.

With an effort of will, Eli pulled back. Removed her hands from where they'd wandered. Pushed her away, and gritted his teeth. After a moment, he told her, flatly, "Now that's _not_ fair. You can't have it both ways, Siara." _And since I can't __**do**__ anything about it, the wandering hands are __**really**__ not fair. It's not that you haven't made it clear that you'd let me. It's that I've made it clear that I won't, not yet, anyway, and you keep pushing it anyway. It's like. . . _ He couldn't think that far, in his agitation, and finally sighed impatiently.

"Why not? You tried to, last time." Hard, defensive.

Eli stared at her. "I really thought we'd gotten past this. I've told you I was sorry for holding myself away. I didn't understand then." His expression turned a little grim. "But while I'm happy to—_more_ than happy to kiss you, Siara, you can't. . . " He sighed, and tried again. "I like what you were doing way too much, okay? And I can't _do _anything about it, so just. . . don't, okay?"

"Sharing without touching is for children, Eli. Little, light touches of minds when we're small. Sharing that way is how we _teach_ children. Language. Numbers." The pout was back in place. "Why is it so _bad_ when I can feel how much you like it?"

Eli shook his head, acutely aware of physical discomfort at this point. "It's not. . . that's not the _point. _I give up. I really have to go inside now. Excuse me."

It wasn't until late that night, as he was tossing and turning, unable to sleep, that he started making connections. It had almost been as if Siara used the physical aspects of sharing as a way to try to control him. He didn't like that notion—not a bit. He was the least likely person in the universe to be a control-freak, but he knew from watching his mom and Lantar that people who _worked_ together took turns on who was in the driver's seat. He just didn't like the fact that Siara, when driving, seemed to put a brick on the accelerator and head straight for a cliff.

She also seemed hell-bent on sharing as much as possible, as quickly as possible. His various extranet searches had told him that a full sharing was very quickly assimilated by both parties; memories and thoughts and knowledge became part of the subconscious. Multiple small sharings, or even full sharings repeated over and over, during the course of weeks or months, would have a similar effect, but allowed more conscious access to the memories and knowledge. _So, they consider multiple sessions more intimate. More involved. Less like gulping the meal down in one bite, and not really enjoying or processing it, and more like a feast, course after course._

He looked at his clock. 26:14, and school in the morning. _So, she says she wants sharing, but doesn't want it to be anything more than, well, in human terms, a quick __fuck__._ Eli didn't actually _mind_ that thought, but on the whole, he figured it might be nicer to have a whole _lot_ of those, more or less in a row. He sighed. Kella had been, on the whole, a _lot_ easier to figure out. Some quick, light kisses. Playful spirit. Light heart. Siara made his head hurt. _Not to mention other parts._

But what was worst of all, was the fact that that black thread in her mind had been _fear_. That, Eli was almost sure of. _Why would she be afraid of __**me**__? What could be so __**bad**__ that she wouldn't want me to see it? And yet, why does she keep coming back? Is it just because she can't conceive of a male telling her __**no.**__ Why does she need to control everything? Are all the hurtful comments she throws out at me, at Dara, a way of. . . of. . . protecting herself? And why the hell am I even __**bothering **__to think about this shit?_

When he finally dozed off, it was to fitful dreams, a kaleidoscope of images. Bodies, sheets, secrets. Cold fear.

Halfway through the next day at school, everything fit together in his head, and he looked up in the middle of a chemistry experiment, stunned. _So that's what it's like to solve a mystery_, he thought. _All the pieces just click together, all at once_.

It wouldn't have fit together without the dreams, though, snatches of her memories. The fact that she could _only_ conceive of sharing as a sexual thing; surely, most teenaged boys dreamed of such a girl. But that thread of darkness, of fear. Needing people, but needing to control them, too; to be safe from them. Kella, she'd controlled by force of personality, except Kella had never shared with her. Elijah, she tried to control with pleasure, wanting something from him, craving it, but fearing it, too. Dara she couldn't control, save to drive her away with words. Rellus probably irked her the most; the turian boy either ignored her or laughed at her barbs.

And what she'd said yesterday. . . asari shared, mentally, with their daughters. As Ylara had read his mind like a book, looking for traces of Kella there. He had that knowledge, tucked away in him, somewhere. Faint memories from Kella, of being held in her mother's lap, reading a book with pictures, the words spoken aloud, but also resonating in her mind. Sense of connection, of love, of safety. Siara had memories like that, too. But there were those dark strands there, too. Like a sticky web. Sheets. Sharing.

Eli shook his head, and rescued his test tube before the chemicals inside boiled over, and kept working on his project, while his brain worked busily, trying to find contrary evidence in his mind.

Finally, at lunch, he asked Rel, "Could I talk to you for a minute?"

With a frown, the turian boy stood, and followed him out of the room, where the buzz of voices was fainter. "What's on your mind?" Rellus asked.

"I need to talk to Lantar about something, and I think I need to . . . " Eli rubbed the back of his neck. "I _think_ I need to address him as clan leader for this." He fidgeted. "I need to know the words."

Rellus squinted. "You're not asking to plight—"

"_No_." Eli shook his head, sharply. "No, it's not that." He frowned. "It's private, and it's important, but it's not that."

"Hard for me to tell you which phrases to use, if you can't tell me _some_ part of what it's about."

Eli sighed, and tried to find vague ways to say what needed to be said. "I _think_ someone may have done something to Siara a long time ago that was very bad. I want him to go to her mother and ask her about it. I don't know if Azala even knows. If she doesn't, she should." He shrugged. "Siara's going to hate me for this," he predicted. "But it's the only way I can think of to help her before she hurts herself even more." He looked up at his friend. "Don't say anything. Not even to Dara. Because I could be really, really wrong." _But I don't think I am._

"_Meus iusiuru_, _meus anima_._" My oath is my spirit._ There were few things a turian could say that were more binding. Rellus sighed. "Okay. This is what you're going to need to say. Write this down, and for the spirits' sake, _practice_ it. I'll tell you what he's likely to say in return, so you won't just sit there blinking like a drell caught by a spotlight. . . ."

**Dara**

Dara actually really liked staying at Commander Shepard's. The twins were a _handful_, and she frequently realized that her many plaints, when she was younger, for how she'd be so much happier with a baby brother or sister, had been a little foolish. She was an only child, formed by that condition. She _liked_ having solitude whenever she wanted it, time and place for her own thoughts. Still, Amara and Kaius were entering the most charming portion of childhood—past the worst of the tantrums, able to use their hard-won words, quick with a charming, if needle-pointed grin when they made themselves understood.

Sparring continued three nights a week down in the valley; four nights a week, she ate dinner at the base commander's table, helping with the children, and playing the _reela_ for them after dinner. Kaius' little fingers had learned to pick out a scale, and she was trying to teach him basic chords now, with exceedingly little success. Shepard was very tired every night; dark shadows lurked under her eyes. The twins were picky eaters, and Dara, who was working her way through a list of dextro foods on the 'mildly allergenic' list, tried to get them to eat by asking them which foods _she_ should try. The results varied wildly.

One night, she noticed that Shepard wasn't eating her own food. "Is there something wrong with this?" Dara asked, after a moment. "I'm not really sure how scrambled _olorae_ eggs are actually supposed to taste." The fact that the yolks were _purple_, leading to a slightly lilac pile on her plate was only one of the things that bothered her about the food in question.

Shepard made a face. "Nothing's tasted right for the last week. Dextro _or_ levo. Everything tastes like metal filings."

"But you've been eating enough anyway, right?" The question came out, automatically, and Dara put her face down in her hands. "Sorry. Too much time at the clinic."

Shepard laughed. "Don't worry about it. Dr. Abrams looked over my food logs and already clucked at me. I'm eating. I'm eating." And she took a forkful of her own _olorae_ in a resigned way.

Dara helped her as much as possible, helping to get the twins to bed at night, and talking with her for a while afterwards, until the woman would, almost invariably, nod off before 21:00. Tonight, however, the commander seemed even more listless. It was hard to tell, with the full mask of paint on her face, but Dara thought the skin of her arms looked a little shiny, as if she were sweating. After watching the woman for about a half hour, Dara left the room, and came back with a thermometer. "I'm sorry," she said, apologetically. "You don't look well, and Dr. Solus will _kill_ me if I'm here and I _don't_ do stuff like this."

"I don't feel great, but I didn't think I was that bad," Shepard said, sounding a little surprised. Dara held out the thermometer, and caught the commander's wrist. Heartbeat seemed steady. But her skin was clammy; cold, but slightly sweaty to the touch. "Your temperature's actually _low_," Dara said, a little surprised by the readout. "By about two degrees."

"That's not good," Shepard said. "I should actually be almost constantly above human norm. That's what one of the medications I'm on is supposed to do, keep me almost constantly at a mild fever, to make everything a happier environment for the little imperialists."

"Did you take your shots this afternoon?"

"Yeah, right at 16:00, as always."

"Did you have anything to eat or drink that was out of the ordinary?" Dara had a checklist in her head now, and knew how to run down it.

Shepard frowned. "There was some grapefruit juice from the mess. I haven't had any in years. I don't remember it being on the no-go list, though."

Dara thought about it for a minute. "I know that citrus can mess with a bunch of medications. Can you call Dr. Abrams and check?"

Dr. Abrams appeared at the door in very short order, and changed up the anti-rejection medications for the night. Apparently, grapefruit juice could either destabilize some compounds in some medications, and in others, it could cause them to be metabolized faster. "Yeah, add citrus to the 'do not fly' list," Abrams told Shepard, who was starting to act less lethargic after a couple of injections.

"Damn," she said, with a sigh. "Pretty soon, I'm going to be down to toast and _talashae_ paste, like last time. At least that was just the last three months or so on the last round."

"You need to keep better track of yourself," the doctor scolded. "Be aware of your energy levels."

"Abrams," the commander said, firmly, "I'm tired _every_ night. It didn't seem that out of the ordinary."

"I'm just saying," he returned, just as firmly. "You've been through this once before. Don't get blasé."

Shepard shook her head. "I'm not, but I'll try to be more aware. Appreciate the house-call, Abrams."

"Hey, if it worked for great-great-great-great-grandpa, it works for me. So long as it's before 25:30, anway." The young doctor grinned, and caught Dara's arm as he headed to the door. Quietly, he added, "Good catch. You're turning into a good nurse. And of course, as soon as we get you trained into a good nurse, you're going to leave us and go become a doctor, like the rest of us idiots." The quick grin was lightly mocking. "I'm going to give you a list of symptoms to look for, for as long as you're staying here. Gives you a little peace of mind that way, so you're not wondering if _everything_ is a problem, okay?"

Two weeks passed, April turning into May. Snow started to fall at the base every day, turning the oddly assorted buildings, some utilitarian, some beautiful, into winter palaces, clad in pristine white. Since Rel was, of course, family, he made a point of visiting the house frequently during those two weeks. "I've never been such a favorite aunt before," Shepard told him, smiling.

"Oh, you've always been my favorite aunt," Rel told her, grinning. "I just have more excuses for visiting now."

"In spite of the snow?" Shepard's eyebrows went up.

He mock-shuddered. "I'm hoping for a commendation for bravery." Rel glanced over at Dara. "Do I get one?"

"You only get those for valor under fire, and I have _yet_ to see you in a snowball fight." She thought about it. "Then again, it's only snowed at the ranch about three times in my life, so _I_ don't even have that medal, myself."

With the twins safely tucked in bed, and Shepard heading to bed early herself most evenings, they finally had a chance to talk again, almost as they had on their rides, but they didn't want to press the privilege. Rel _did_ remind her that the new contract terms were coming up. "May sixth," he told her one evening, just before he prepared to take the late shuttle back down to the valley, before the base would close for the night.

"I know. I tried to read it last night. My _tal'mae _is still pretty horrible, though."

Rellus smiled, eyes suddenly full of mischief. "Then it'll be a surprise, then."

"Rel! Just tell me." She gave his shoulder a push.

"No, no, if you won't apply yourself, I'm not going to give you the answers. Other than to say closed-door time goes up to a half hour."

She pushed him again. His shoulder went absolutely nowhere. He leaned down, and said, very quietly in her ear, "May sixth is a Friday. Sparring night."

"Yes?"

"Would you _happen_ to own a skirt? Other than the dress Kella gave you?"

She frowned. The two halves of this conversation didn't make much sense together. "I do, yeah. Why?"

Rel just grinned at her. "Wear it to dinner that night, and you'll find out."

Absolutely nothing she said could persuade him to reveal more. So, that Friday, she _did_ wear her skirt, shivering a bit as she hopped out of the groundcar and made her way to Solanna and Allardus' house. After dinner, but before sparring, Rellus caught her wrist, and pulled her off to his room, waving an acknowledgement as his father held up a sandclock as a reminder.

"You going to tell me what this is about now?" Dara asked, flapping a handful of her skirt at him.

"No. I'm going to show you." Rel just grinned at her. "You see, I think I found another loophole."

She blinked. "Oh?"

He picked her up lightly, and set her down on his desk. "Yes. Shh. _No noise,_ _mellis_. _Not even your sweet prey-sounds._" He lightly bit her throat, and his hands rubbed up her shins, over the round contours of her knees, and then slid under the hem of her skirt, and she started a little, eyes going wide as they continued up, and up, and up.

"Doesn't it. . . doesn't it still say that my clothes have to stay on?" It was a whisper, and she knew her eyes were wide.

"That's just it. Your clothes _are_ staying on." Rel snickered softly. "Might get a little _rearranged_, but they'll stay _on_."

Dara couldn't help but laugh, quietly. "You're turning into a _lawyer_."

"_All my people know the Law. Its spirit is our breath." _He bit her neck again, a little harder. _"Could not understand, for the longest time, how the contract could say that at six months, I could finally touch you like this, but that the clothing had to remain on. It seemed so . . . blind and stupid, I couldn't __**conceive**__ of what they were thinking when they wrote it. Now I understand. It offers a sop to human propriety, but doesn't take the privilege away."_

She froze in place as his fingers touched her intimately, and deeply. He chuckled a little. "_Mellis, you've done as much, and more, for me. __**This**__ makes you more uncomfortable?" _He pulled back his hands. _"Should I stop?"_

"_Don't stop."_

In the end, she couldn't _help_ but make sounds, and, still laughing, eyes happy, Rellus put one of his hands over her mouth instead.


	35. Chapter 35: Parallel Lives

**Chapter 35: Parallel Lives**

**Kasumi**

The _Normandy_ had been at Rough Tide for a week, hoping to catch Pero when he came back to his lodgings. It was en route for Earth now, to pick up their team, but wasn't due back for another day or so. Local authorities had asked Sam to speak at a law enforcement conference, and he'd done so, a sort of off-the-cuff question and answer session that had turned into a heated, but interesting debate on the ethics of having an entire agency in Council space that stood outside the law. Kasumi found the entire conversation slightly amusing; she'd stood outside the law for most of her adult life, for fun and for profit; now she stood outside of it to _protect_ it. Either way, it was _fascinating_ to hear these sober-minded, serious men and women discuss the reasons for the very rules she'd flouted for so long. She also didn't mind watching Sam's mind at work; he'd clearly spent a lot of time thinking about exactly these issues, coming to grips with them, and working them into the framework of his life. He also did a mean two-step when he needed to avoid details in some of his answers, and she found that very amusing, especially having played poker with him often enough to know his tells.

"At the risk of sounding like a hypocrite," Sam told the various agents in the room, "I tend to _agree_ with you. It's definitely a system that can be easily misused and abused, that can lend itself to corruption and malfeasance. At its best, it allows Spectres to sidestep red tape and jurisdictional squabbling." He held up a hand as the room erupted into questions and shouted comments. "No, wait. I said, I agree with you. The red tape is often there to _protect_ citizens and their rights. You don't _want_ Spectres to be the first option in every case. That's what leads to police states, the abridgment of rights, tyranny. Local law enforcement is the first, best option in most cases. But when you have situations that involve multiple planets or multiple species, that's a case when the Spectres could probably be called in early, even if it's just in an advisory capacity. I'm only six months into this gig, and I have a wealth of experience now that I _didn't_ have half a year ago." He shook his head, looking bemused, and Kasumi chuckled from her position at the back of the room, where she was watching. "Seriously, raise your hand if you have experience dealing with batarian arms dealers, salarian biological terrorists, asari commandos, or volus banking law."

A chuckle ran through the room. "Yeah, that's where I was six months ago. By all means, keep an eye on us. Be the folks who watch the watchers. I know _I_ welcome it, and I'd put money on it that Commander Shepard does, too. But conversely, don't be afraid to use us, either. We're not a threat to your agencies. We're not glory hogs. God knows, most of us have special-ops backgrounds. You _can't_ want to be the center of attention in that sort of job. Most of us are very used to working quietly and unseen, except for when something goes _spectacularly_ wrong."

"So why's Shepard opened up so much to the media lately?" came one question.

Sam shrugged. "She mentioned, around when I started, that she reckoned people would be more comfortable with us if there was a li'l more transparency in our recruitment process, and if a few Spectres became more or less public faces."

"And you're one of them?"

Sam laughed. "Oh, good lord, I _hope_ not. I've got the public relations background from my time with the Rangers, so I'd do my bit if told to do so, but Shepard hasn't told me anything official like that, yet."

Another voice, from the back of the room, close by Kasumi. "What's it like working with so many aliens? Don't the differences in training, concepts of justice, even psychologies make it difficult to present a united front?" The agent there looked about the same age as Sam, and Kasumi couldn't see his badge to identify his agency. "We've had a hard enough time integrating the North American agencies, let alone the global ones."

Sam nodded. "It can be a challenge. Fortunately, I just have to worry about working with my team and whoever's on it this week. Dealing with all seventy-nine Spectres and the support staff is above my pay-grade." He grinned. "On the job, everyone is generally clear on what a given mission is, and people with similar strategies for accomplishing it—or at least, people whose methods mesh well together—tend to get sent out together. Who gets sent depends on what sort of mission we're talking about, where it's located, the experience of the people involved. Same as here, really."

"Can you give us an example?"

"Hypothetically speaking, if you wanted to investigate azure dust smuggling off of Luisa, it might be a good idea to send one or two asari Spectres. Can interface with the locals, present a sympathetic face, gather information. If I were calling the shots, I'd send a turian with them, to make sure that everything stays. . . balanced."

"Not a human?"

Sam lifted his hands. "Would probably depend on the human, and how touchy the local population is about Thessia at the moment. There are places on asari worlds right now where we're pretty much _persona non grata_, and I don't expect that to change anytime soon."

Another hand went up. "You said this is all on the job. How about off the job? Is it difficult, interacting with so many aliens?" The female agent paused. "I think we all watched the speech from Shanxi. I thought it was a pretty interesting piece of stage management, myself." She smiled.

Kasumi chuckled a little under her breath. The questions so far had largely sounded naïve, but she had to remember, not a lot of aliens really _came_ to Earth. Her comment two weeks ago, about how provincial humanity's homeworld was, had actually been fairly accurate. Oh, some volus came to Manhattan or Beijing or London for meetings with financiers, and all of Earth's tourist traps, from Tahiti to the Taj Majal, saw a _certain_ amount of camera-wielding alien tourists—usually the type attracted to the idea of 'roughing it.' But law enforcement on Earth dealt, about 98% of the time, with other humans.

Sam paused, obviously thinking about the question, and Kasumi frowned now. He'd spent more time thinking than she'd expected, and she'd seen the flash of annoyance, quickly masked. But he was calm and sober when he replied, "There are cultural differences off the clock, sure. I have a _rachni_—love the dude, by the way—two or three turians, a geth, a krogan, and a handful of humans over to my house once a week for dinner, cards, and music. We work on it. Ain't no denying it. It takes work." He grinned a little. "Every marriage does, you know." More chuckles in the room. "As to Shanxi, I'm not sure what you meant jus' now 'bout _stage management_." He let the drawl get thicker for a minute. "I thought the commander made a damn good speech. Other than that, what you see is what you get, pretty much."

The meeting went on for a while longer, and Sam looked tired when he finally made his way to the back of the room. "Who was that one lady who asked about the stage management thing?" Kasumi asked him, quietly. "Got a look at her badge. Said SATBIA, but that's not an acronym I'm actually familiar with."

"New name, old organization," he muttered. "Systems Alliance, Terran Branch, Intelligence Agency. Used to be the GIA and the SATAO—Systems Alliance Threat Assessment Office. Probably the analyst half of the company. Let's get back to the hotel before any more of them ambush me with more questions. I'm _beat_."

Back at the hotel, however, they had a surprise waiting for them: Jack was in their rooms, warily watching, and being watched _by_ Cohort. "This is a surprise," Kasumi told her, smiling.

"Yeah. Well, I got a temporary manager set up at the club who can manage the place in my absence, and he's scared enough of me not to try to cheat me _or_ the bands, so I'm going with you when the _Normandy_ shows up." Jack's expression was mostly challenging, but Kasumi was used to reading the vulnerability that the woman's abrasive manner masked.

Sam sighed, then looked down at her, telling Kasumi, "I'm the new kid here. I guess we should give the commander a call and see if she'll authorize it." From the very neutrality of his expression, the blank look on his face, Kasumi knew he thought this was a _bad_ idea. To a certain extent, she could see his perspective. Jack _was_ unstable. But she was also very powerful, and certainly motivated. . . and they were down at least two Spectres at the moment, both with certain biotic talents. Shepard didn't make an issue of her limited abilities, but Ylara's biotics were extensive and well-practiced.

Shepard gave the authorization, after a few moments' thought, and Kasumi watched as Jack directed a sort of triumphant glance in Sam's direction. _This. . . is not going to go well_, she thought to herself, a bit dismayed. _He's already __**got**__ a teenaged daughter to worry about, and Jack still has a lot of unresolved adolescence in her._

**Jack**

She wandered the ship like a restless ghost. Lots of changes from the old days. Crew quarters were still crew quarters, but some sections had been divided into tiny cubbies, largely larger than closets. These were for married couples, apparently; it was how turians accommodated such issues on their own ships. Glancing inside an empty one, Jack could see that luxurious, it wasn't; a bed that could be converted into a desk, two chairs, a work terminal, and a storage locker against each wall for uniforms and personal items. She stepped inside, and held out her hands; her fingertips almost touched both walls. Still, privacy was a luxury of its own kind, she knew. She'd built her own rooms at Abrade with the intention that no one would ever see them without her express consent. . . but so that she could always see out of them. It had made her feel safe.

The fact that her private rooms almost exactly replicated the cell in which she'd been, to put it laughably, 'raised,' had been something hadn't realized, herself, until a week ago, when she'd looked at it again, this time with Kasumi and the two Spectres in tow. _I thought I left that fucking cell behind, and instead, I rebuilt it, brick by brick. Ah well. At least I __**know**__ this time that the window only works one way. And it's by my own choice._

She prowled down to her old shadowy haunts in the lower decks. Much to her surprise, she ran into two members of the engineering team there. Even more surprisingly, she recognized them. "So, they let you two lab rats out of the engineering core?" Jack said, tipping her chin up, challengingly. They'd been sheltered, naïve kids when she'd last seen them—nevermind that they were probably her own age. Joined up with fucking Cerberus because they thought it was _noble_, of all the crazy-ass, self-deluded things to think. She got a better look at them, and paused. "Christ, does every human on this ship wear face-paint now?"

Gabby and Ken both looked startled; she'd always liked the fact that they were, frankly, easy to intimidate. Safe. Gabby pulled herself together faster, as usual. "Hello, Jack," she said. "We weren't told you'd be on board. We were looking into renovating this deck into additional crew quarters."

"But we can get out of your way," Ken added, quickly. A little too quickly. _Yeah, I make you nervous, don't I?_ Jack smiled at him, made eye-contact, and got another surprise—after pulling back initially, Ken actually met her stare. Matched it. "Nice to have you back on board," he managed, nodded, and then stepped out of her way. _Aww, they're holding hands. Isn't that just __**sweet**__._

"Did they throw in a pair to go with the facepaint, or did you grow 'em on your own?" Jack called after them. She could see Ken miss a stride, but keep walking; Gabby actually turned around to face her.

"Don't bother, Gabby, she's just trying to get a reaction," Ken said, quietly.

"You didn't answer my question," Jack said, folding her arms across her chest. "Does _every_ fucking human wear paint now? It's starting to look like some old Western vid, or maybe fucking King Tut's tomb around here."

Gabby hadn't moved. She just stared at Jack now, and said, very quietly, "The Onorian family adopted us when their son died on the AEC attack on the _Normandy_. We wear it for Elianus and his wife, Cassa. And for their family."

"Well, shut my mouth," Jack said. Inside, she was telling herself _Shut up. Shut up. They're harmless. They're less than harmless, they're practically a danger to themselves, shut __**up**_. But she couldn't stop herself from adding, "Guess you got the balls from the missus here, Ken-boy."

They left, and she paced the deck, stewing. _Why can't I __**stop**__ sometimes? _Sometimes, she just wanted to _hit_ people, and they'd been available. They weren't who she really wanted to hit, of course. They'd just been _here_. And of course, she'd been better for a while; the rage and the hate had had targets, good targets. Valid targets. And of course, there'd been Zeke Patterson, too. Jack didn't think of what she'd felt for the man as being _love_; love was a pansy-ass word. He'd had a knack, however, for making her feel safe.

Part of it had been the fact that he _wasn't_ powerfully-built; just around 5'10", or 1.78 meters, he'd been wiry in build, all his strength concealed. He hadn't been a biotic, either. When she was able to think about it dispassionately, which wasn't often, she'd understood, that on some level, he didn't threaten her. Oh, the man was capable, no doubt, with a fierce intelligence and a rage at injustice that had rivaled her own hate for the world that humanity had built, but his was a focused anger, compressed into a point like a laser.

He had, also, at first, never laid so much as a finger on her, either.

It had actually gotten a little annoying after a while. Predictably, she'd taken the offensive.

_Seriously, you don't even __**look**__ at me. Is it that I'm just a weapon to you, that you load up and fire at the bad guys? Or is it just that you're gay?_

He'd shrugged, and she remembered his reply now, _The clothes and the tattoos and the shaved head all seem like a pretty clear message to me, Jack: Touch me and die; look at me, and it'll be a flesh wound. _

_Getting a different message __**yet**__, Zeke?_

_Look, you've been hurt before. A lot. I'm pretty sure I don't have the. . . _

_Qualifications? Last I checked, you came fully equipped._ Now, years later, she hated herself for the flip tone, the harsh words. Words that had, essentially, equated him with vibrator. Maybe one with legs. Nothing more than a convenience.

_The __**right**__, _he'd told her, patiently, _to get involved with you, if I can't concentrate on you, and just you. _

_What, there's someone else? You're married?_

_No, Jack. There's the work, and there's you. _

_And you're married to your work? It's okay. Being someone's __**mistress**__ would actually be new for me. Sounds almost classy and high-dollar, compared to what I've—_

_Don't. You're worth a hell of a lot more than that._ After a moment, he'd covered the momentary flash of emotion with a quick grin. _Besides, with all these cultists we're chasing down, a __**mistress**__ is entirely the wrong role to play, don't you think?_

_So, you want me to pretend to be something else, is that it?_

_You'll come up with something, I'm sure._ He made it seem easy, effortless. As if changing roles, changing a mind-set, was no different from changing a set of clothes. For her, it had been harder. Harder to learn to act, to _become_ someone else for a while. And yet, secretly, it had given her a sort of relief. She didn't _have_ to be the iron-clad bitch all the time. She could, if only for a while, be someone else. _Anyone_ else. He'd told her, late one night, _Maybe someday, you can be all of them at once. Or just pick, at a whim._

_I'm __**me**__, Zeke. Don't even think that you can turn me into someone I'm not._

He'd laughed then. _I don't think that for a moment. But I'm not always convinced that __**you**__ know who you are, moment to moment._

_Shrink psychobabble bullshit. _

Tears pricked at her eyes, and she rubbed at them, fiercely, hating the weakness. He was dead now, and someone was going to pay for it. "Maybe I'll go talk to Kasumi," she said out loud, to the walls of this place. It had always been too open to feel really safe down here, but it was dark and it was quiet, at least. She still had a powerful urge to hit someone, something, though. _Kasumi. Yeah. Lost her damn mind, that one has. She was a thief, and a good one, and now she's pretty much letting herself get fucked over by Johnny Law_. Jaworski bothered the _hell_ out of Jack, and she couldn't put her finger on why. Zeke had been a cop—hell, a _fed_—once upon a time, of course. But Sam was _different_, in some indefinable way.

It wasn't something she knew on a conscious level. But Sam was a big man, and a lawman, and she'd been beaten, held down, and raped in prison, and it hadn't just been prisoners who'd done the deeds. But they'd all been big men, of whatever species. And even a few weeks ago, calmer, more stable, knowing that Zeke was alive and making the universe a better place, one hate group at a time, she might not have reacted to Jaworski as much. But now, all she knew was that he was _dangerous_, and probably dirty. Cops did blank face real good. Only killers like _her_ got the dead eyes to go with it, the ones she'd gotten a look at when the good ol'boy mask had slipped once or twice. Of course, a lot of the old squad got the dead-eyed look once in a while, too. It'd been fine. Shepard and Garrus and hell, even Samara, were the _good_ kind of crazy, after all.

Jack had been walking as she thought, and found herself already outside the port observation lounge. She tapped the door panel, and it slid open, noiselessly. _Yeah, time to talk some sense into Kasumi,_ she decided. _Her brain's gone soft_.

She stepped inside, and realized two things at once. First, Kasumi wasn't here at the moment. Second, _Sam_ was. His back was to the door, and he didn't seem to have heard the door open. _Sloppy of you, Johnny. _Then again, this _was_ the _Normandy._ People did tend to let their guard down here. _Not me though. Never me._

He leaned forward towards the terminal in the room, asking, "So, sweetie, anything else to tell me about?" This wasn't the good ol'boy voice, and it wasn't the hard rap of orders in the radio. This was a warmer tone by far, and for a wonder, it sounded real. _So, who's Dara? Is he two-timing on Kasumi with some skank?_

"Not too much, Dad. Gene mods are settling in okay, I think. Managed to run ten kilometers with Rel last weekend. . . well, I ran the first five, walked the next three, and threatened to crawl the last two." Young voice, that. Pleasant, low-toned, and clearly amused.

"That's my girl." Clear pride there, and Jack's hands clenched into fists, for some reason.

"Rel joked that he'd carry me on his shoulders. Good practice for running in armor with a full pack. We finished, eventually, but I'm too slow to let him get a real workout in. He went out again the next day while I was at the clinic."

"Sounds good. I do have a little bad news for you, though."

"Oh no. Who's sick? Grandma?"

"No one, hon. But you know, your uncle Hamilton had been taking care of Bandit for us, right? And Bandit was getting up there. . ."

A sigh, and that young voice sounded close to tears, but still pretty strong. "He was an old horse, Dad."

"Eighteen years. He took good care of you. Hamilton had to put him down three weeks ago."

_Aww, little princess lost her pony. Too bad, spoiled brat. _The thought was reflexive. Jack _knew_ she shouldn't resent people automatically for having had love and companionship and human connection and material things—all of which her upbringing had deprived her—but it was kind of hard _not_ to do so.

A pause, then the young voice on the comm replied, "He was blind in both eyes, Dad. I knew it wasn't going to be much longer." A sigh. "I probably should've been stronger, and taken him to the vet before we left, but I really thought he was going to be healthy a lot longer."

"I wouldn't have let you. I sold off all the other horses when your mom passed, since we couldn't take care of 'em all, but Bandit was what you had left of her." He cleared his throat. "While we're on the subject. . ."

"Of Mom passing?" A bit of a sniffle.

"Yeah, sort of. Well. . . I know hasn't even been a year yet. And the last thing I want to do is trample on your mother's memory, or hurt you, but. . ."

A slightly watery giggle. "You bought Kasumi a wedding knife? Please say it's a bowie knife, Dad!"

"Y'know, not _all_ of us are doing our best to turn into turians," he growled, but it was clearly teasing. "I did not buy her a wedding knife. I did, however, buy her an engagement _ring_ while we were in in D.C. I just wanted to know that you're okay with the idea of me proposing to her."

_He's checking with his daughter? Eh, like I believe her objecting would stop him. And proposing. . . probably just another way of suckering Kasumi in. _The thoughts had little force to them, though. She just didn't know what to _do_ with the private face of Jaworski.

"No, I'm okay with it, Dad. She _likes_ you. And the two of you . . . I don't know. You look right together, like you fit."

"Glad to hear I've got your blessing, then." Slightly ironic teasing. 

"Wait, you say that like I should've held out for a trade here . . . just kidding, Dad."

"Smart-mouth," he told his daughter, with clear affection. "We'll be back in two days, assuming nothing blows up before we get there. Be good."

The comm channel closed, and he turned around, smiling, relaxed, and as open as Jack had seen him. That expression vanished when he saw her there, closed off like a wall. "You ever think of knocking?" Jaworski said, quietly, and with some control.

Jack stared at him, tried to stare him down. It didn't work. The pale blue eyes were too dead. That ever-present thread of fear pulsed in her, down deep, where she tried to hide it. "So, which of you is the real Samuel Jaworski, anyway? The good ol'boy cop, the hayseed hick, the loving boyfriend, the caring _daddy_, or the stone killer?"

Something flashed through his eyes then. Some trace of expression, there, then gone, so swiftly she couldn't identify it. "Little girl," he said then, quietly, "You don't know me. I don't know you." He spread his hands, as if to weigh each statement in one, then put them back on his knees. "But I _also_ don't answer to you."

He turned away from her—turned his _back_!—and started going through his equipment, checking it. Jack felt the familiar rage; she'd been dismissed, and now she was being ignored. On the one hand, Jack didn't tolerate shit from anyone. On the other hand, she'd given him a lot of shit just now, and he hadn't blown up at her. Just. . . set her down. Shown her where the boundary was. A subtle sort of suggestion: _you can go right up to that line right there, but no further._

So she hesitated in the door, not really knowing what to do, an unusual state of mind for her, watching as he, steadfastly ignoring her, cleaned his guns, checked his armor. She hadn't seen the knife before. It wasn't a prison shiv by any stretch of the imagination. Still in the doorway, she tried again. Poking, Prodding. But a little more quietly now. She didn't think she'd _misjudged_ him, but she was feeling more cautious. "Some people might look at a knife like that, and think the guy was trying to compensate for something." Not as harsh or abrasive as she _could_ have made her voice, she liked to think.

"Those people would probably not be the brightest bulbs in the chandelier, then. A bowie knife is a tool, and a damn good one. The length gives it the functionality of a machete in the field; you can chop your way through jungle with one of these, and still be able to decapitate someone after an hour of hacking through vines. The guard protects the fingers and the hand, the curved tip, you can use for splitting ropes or repairing stuff." His voice was clinical as he sharpened the knife, and applied oil to it before wiping it dry carefully with a soft cloth.

"It got a name?" She'd known plenty of people who'd named their weapons. One guy on _Purgatory_ had named his shiv _Lila_, after an ex-girlfriend. Come to think of it, he'd been in prison for killing that girlfriend. Scared little punk-ass prick. He hadn't really belonged on _Purgatory_. Had mostly been locked up there because the girlfriend he'd gutted had been an ambassador's daughter, or some shit like that.

"No."

"Why not?" Lifted chin, faint challenge. _Come on, big boy, tell me some real good story._

"Naming weapons is for people who think they have to show how billy-badass they are." Jaworski lifted those pale blue, killer eyes, and smiled. That smile made her blood run cold for a moment. "Little darlin', I ain't got _nothin'_ to prove."

_They're __**all**__ real,_ she realized, after a moment. _The good ol'boy cop, the hayseed hick, the loving boyfriend, the caring daddy, __**and**__ the stone killer._ "Fair enough," Jack said, after a moment. "Tell Kasumi I dropped by to say hi, okay?" Then she turned to walk away, resolving, firmly, to have nothing at all to do with the man again if she could help it.

**Elijah**

The _Dunkirk _arrived first, of the two ships that were out, currently, and Eli had rarely been so glad to see his step-father home again. He'd been on pins and needles for two-and-a-half weeks, and skipped handball practice to go home early, hoping to catch Lantar before his mom got home and could hear them talking. He already knew she'd seen what Siara had been doing in the courtyard at his birthday party; he'd heard chapter and verse on _that_, and nothing he said had really convinced his mom that it hadn't exactly been his _idea_. He was under no illusions that Lantar wouldn't already have heard something of this by text message, at the very least, either.

So when he walked into the house, and got a dark look and a headshake from his step-father at the kitchen table, Eli was prepared. He took a deep breath, and said, haltingly, the words Rel had given him. "_You who are as a father to me, I request your hearing and your assistance as clan-leader."_

The look of surprise and . . .was that _delight_ on Lantar's face? Either way, it was almost worth the price of admission. Eli kicked himself mentally, and promised, internally, to work harder on his turian. _"I will hear the your words, you who are as a son to me,"_ was the reply, which Rel had told him to expect. Eli exhaled in relief.

"_Thank_ you," he said, in English. "This is really private, Dad. I don't want Mom to hear it—not yet." _Not ever, actually. _"At least not till you've had a chance to help figure things out. Can we _please_ go outside or someplace where we can talk privately?"

Lantar's frown had returned, and he gestured towards the stairs. "The attic's a lot warmer than outdoors," he replied, and Eli nodded. It was at least out of earshot, and the upstairs rooms, though dusty and used mostly for storage, weren't terribly creepy.

It took a lot of explaining. Eli explained how he'd told off Siara at the clinic in asari high-tongue, and how the girl had taken to following him everywhere after that. Her repeated insistences that he didn't interest her, except for Kella's memories. How he'd finally allowed her to share them.

"In the street?"

Eli winced. "The asari have different levels of sharing," he explained. "There's _maieolo'rae_, the little touch, which children use among each other, or mothers and children. Just thoughts, impressions, love. No touching, other than a hug, a kiss on the cheek. Then there's _maieolo'saeo_, the knowing touch. That's what Ylara used on me, where they just. . . exchange information, really. Impersonal. That's more or less what I was asking Siara to do. I was just. . . pissy about it." The admission was uncomfortable. "There's lots of other levels. Degrees of intimacy." He looked away for a moment. "What Siara keeps pushing for is _maieolo'loa'kareo_. Touching everywhere, full openness." That was _really_ hard to say while maintaining eye-contact. "I keep telling her no, the most I can do, as my parents have taught me is. . . " he struggled here. It was hard to keep mixing thoughts, languages, concepts. Turian, human, asari. It all made his head hurt. "Right. Honorable. Whatever. The most I'd do was _maieolo'rae'kiia. _Small sharings, with, well, _options_ for more." Eli took a deep breath. Lantar didn't say much. Just listened. Like a judge. _Well, I did ask him to listen as clan-leader. I guess that's what a clan-leader does._

He explained his best understanding of her consistently inconsistent behavior, and then explained what he'd seen in her mind. The dark shadows, the fear, the sheets, the secrets. Halfway through the explanation, Lantar moved forward, slightly. It was a fast movement, a reflexive jerk, and Eli knew turian body-language well enough to read surprise, understanding, and anger there. The anger wasn't at him, though, and he sighed in relief. What he was saying made _sense_ to Lantar, with all Lantar's years of experience as a cop, so maybe it _wasn't_ just in his head. "I could be wrong," he said, near the end. "But could you. . . I don't know. Go to her mom and _talk _to her?"

"I will," Lantar said, and put a clawed hand on Eli's shoulder. "You've acted with honor, but you've been struggling with a burden not entirely yours. You could have told the school administrators. You could have told your mother."

Eli grimaced. "School officials would have wanted to know _how_ I knew all this, and that's. . . not their business." He hitched his shoulders, uncomfortably. "And Mom wouldn't have understood. She didn't even listen when I told her I didn't actually _want. . ._" He sighed. "Okay, that's not entirely true." He flicked Lantar a guilty glance.

His father laughed. "You wouldn't be _male_ if you didn't _want_, but your honor is strong enough to make you hold back. This is a good thing. But your mother doesn't entirely trust your honor yet."

Eli looked down. "Yeah, I know. I guess she sees my dad when she looks at me." He glanced up. "Him, not you, I mean."

"I think she sees her _son_ when she looks at you." Lantar paused. "All beside the point for now. Just know that I'm proud of you, and that I'll be visiting Azala's house after dinner." He chuckled. "_After _I reassure your mother that I've missed her."

Eli hesitated. "You can tell my mom why you're going, you know," he said, worrying. "I don't want her to, well, take it the wrong way. I mean—"

"I know what you mean. She'll be fine."

**Siara**

There'd been a knock on the door after dinner, and Elijah's turian Spectre father had been there, all scales and facepaint and frightening, cold eyes. Siara had peered around the corner of the hall as her mother had answered the door, and then had pulled away, retreated to her room. _He's here to tell her that I've been a bad girl, that I need to leave his son alone._ She paced in her room, measuring out her anger in the length of her strides, trying for calm. She had been so ambivalent about the Spectres since coming to live on this base, five years ago. Siara always felt a sort of angry contempt for her scientist mother, which baffled her. She _loved_ her mother, and honestly didn't know _why_ she was angry with Azala. Azala was a pure scientist; gentle, reserved, and frighteningly intelligent. She could hold all the components of a complex genetic project in her mind, and just _see_ how the sequences _needed_ to move, in order to solve a problem. There was, however, always a sense in Siara's mind that her mother had, somehow, let her down.

_If my mother had been a Spectre, I'd have been. . . _ What? Her mind never seemed to be able to complete that thought. There was a blank at the end of that sentence, like a school exercise. Happier? More content? Braver? Safer?

The voices were muffled, but she could hear agitation rising in her mother's voice. Hurt. Betrayal. Was that crying? _Great. It's all my fault. _Her mind paused in its racing. It always seemed to be her fault, somehow. Always something wrong, deep down inside of her. _No wonder Kella never wanted to share._ She pushed the thought aside.

Thump of the outer door opening, then closing again. Then her bedroom door opening. Her mother walked in, tears in her eyes, and put her arms around Siara, much to the girl's bewilderment. She started to pull away, then heard Azala's voice in her mind. _Who did this to you? I saw that there was a difference in you, starting some ten years gone, but you held me off, you laughed, you only allowed the __**maieolo'rae**_, _and I did not wish to ask why. Thought it was early onset of adolescence, differencing yourself from me, distancing yourself. But now I must __**know**__, my daughter, my little fair one. Open to me._

So much love, so much hurt, so much acceptance. It would be like bathing in a warm river to accept it, but then the dirt in her would muddy those waters. Siara's thoughts were confused, and she resisted.

_So it's better to let the darkness spread to some poor human boy?_

_He has darkness in plenty of his own! They all do!_ Siara was angry now, and delved for the snatches of memory she'd pulled from Elijah's mind, throwing them at her mother, as a fighter ship drops chaff, to confuse an attacker's radar. _How indiscriminate the mating urge in young human males is_, she thought, spreading out the thoughts before Azala. _How dark the desires, how deep the shame_.

_Flashes of Eli's desire for __**her**__, mixed with his confused longing for lost Kella. How he still looked at Dara, because, in the end, he was a teen-aged human boy, and Dara was human, and attractive, and her growing self-confidence was a beacon. He constantly drove those thoughts away, bottled them up, tried not to picture her, tried not to picture what she and Rellus must be doing. . . tried not to picture himself, biting her like a turian would. . . .tried to keep himself from wondering if Siara would be repelled if he bit her, too. . . ._

Still the love, unconditional, accepting, beckoned to her. Offering to drown her, to baptize her, to cleanse her. Desperately, Siara flung other thoughts at her mother. _Disdain, contempt for Dara. Everyone on base feeling __**so**__ sorry for her, because she'd had to kill so young. The hovering psychologists around her, trying to make sure she'd be able to __**internalize**__ the experience. So much concern, for one person, when she was smart and she was pretty and she was __**human**__ and Kella and Elijah and even __**Rellus**__ wanted to be around her. . . even her own __**mother**_ _liked the little human, gave her gifts._

_Finding someone else of interest in no way detracts from my love for you! _Siara recoiled from that thought, seeing how childish and petty her own thoughts were, and yet, still clinging to them. _And no one shows concern for __**you**__? You didn't learn this contempt for other species from __**me**_, _my daughter. Who taught you these things? My fair-sister, your second-mother?_

Siara shied away from thoughts of her second-mother, feeling the dark tide rise inside her, despair, confusion. _No, no, no, don't look, don't see. _From her mother now, wordless hurt, confusion. For a xenobiologist like Azala, other species were to be cherished, enjoyed, appreciated in their incredible variety and inevitable foibles.

She bounced off that wall of thought, which denied her the luxury of self-pity, and, reflexively, dove into another stream of images. Blocking, for all she was worth. _Rellus, schoolmate of five years now. Liked by everyone, calm for a turian, rarely reacting. Always looking past her, barbs rolling off his hide as if the scales really __**did**__ armor him, somehow. Uncaring._

_And would you have let him care?_ Too close now. Thoughts almost sounding like her own. Siara pulled away, but it was just so tempting to just. . . rest. To stop struggling. One last effort. _Kella, fair-sister, never sharing. Secrets, talk, words, ideas, but never memories, never giving, never taking. . . she could have taken this away from me, but she wouldn't, she wouldn't! _

_And so you picked a human boy to take the pain away instead, but he wouldn't let you. And he was right, fair-daughter. Sharing memories like these with him would have left him with the same hurt as you have. And to have forced them on him would have been just as much a crime as what was done to you. _She could _feel_ her mother's rage now—it wasn't directed at her, but she shuddered back from it. Siara would _never_ question again whether her mother loved her, or wanted to keep her safe.

And then the hurt places were being touched, and Siara just wept, putting her head on her mother's shoulder, as Azala's light made the dark places shrivel up inside of her at last. The hurts would always be there, of course; sharing didn't remove such things. But the burden was _shared_, and by someone who could handle it. Azala took the hurt and the guilt and the helplessness, and left her daughter feeling clean.

**Lantar**

He'd been expecting the knock on the door, and had stayed up late to be able to answer it. Ellie had stayed up with him, after he'd explained to her that Siara's mother was likely to drop by, late. "It's a private matter regarding her daughter," he'd told his wife. "But you can watch us from the other room if it'll set your mind at ease." Ellie didn't, he knew, really question his honor. But she had scars, and it cost him nothing to give _her_ the power in such a circumstance.

She'd sighed. "I trust you, Lantar. But . . . I appreciate that you made the offer. I'll try to keep from grilling you about it later."

"I can give you some tips on interrogation methods," he offered, mildly. "Try to make sure to get a really bright light in the room, to shine in my eyes."

His wife made a scoffing sort of noise, and, when the knock had come at the door, had left to go to their room, leaving the light on for him.

Azala looked pale now, and she clenched and unclenched her hands periodically as he ushered her to the kitchen, where they could talk, for the moment, undisturbed. "I'm sorry to come here so late," she apologized.

"It's okay. Caelia's not really sleeping through the night yet. She'd due to start squawking. . . oh, in a half hour or so," Lantar told her, grimacing a bit. "Was my son correct?"

She sighed. "Yes." Azala sat down at the table, and he could see tears in her eyes again.

"Is Siara all right?"

"I left her sleeping. It will take her some time to assimilate what I gave her to try to help her. Probably many more such sessions." Azala looked tired. "We asari don't have 'counselors.' If we were on an asari colony, I could try to have to a priestess of the triune Goddess share with her, but I doubt they could do any more than what I have done. Perhaps the priestess' touch would be even more harmful, for she would be a stranger." Azala looked up at him now. "Please understand that she was reacting in desperation, and did _not_ understand that she could have harmed your son by doing what she was doing."

Lantar blinked. He hadn't actually thought of this. "She could have?"

"Yes. Such memories as poisoned her, unresolved feelings of guilt and shame, would have been given to him, too. If it had been all at once, he might have developed some of her reactions to them, and might never even have _known_ why, because the actual memories would have been buried in his subconscious. Though the events never happened to _him_, he would have. . . owned them." She sighed. "It's a difficult concept for a non-asari to grasp."

Lantar nodded. "All right." He paused. "So, what now?"

Her hands clenched again. "I'm not a powerful biotic. I can't hunt down my former fair-sister, Siara's second mother, and make her suffer as she deserves." Azala's face tightened. "In truth, I do not know if Tsia is even still alive. She _could_ have been on Thessia before its destruction. She was. . . a traditionalist." She put her face in her hands, and her shoulders started to shake. "How did I not _see_ it?" Azala whispered through her fingers.

"Most people don't," he told her, putting a hand on her shoulder. "They see a change in their kids, sure, but they don't know what it's about. By and large, the kids feel like _they're_ at fault, guilty somehow, or are threatened with terrible punishments and shame if they _do_ tell. You've both got a lot to deal with right now." He kept his voice sympathetic, but a little detached. His stints in C-Sec and B-Sec had never taken him on domestic calls like this, but he knew enough about the topic to know how to treat the issue. "Do you want me to run this up the chain a bit? I understand that the commander is on a first-name basis with an asari justicar. You just have to let us know which way to go. Justicar, or Spectre." He looked at her, and added, quietly, "If you send a Spectre, she'll probably be dead in very short order. The justicar is sworn to uphold asari law. She probably wouldn't kill the woman, unless Tsia resists, of course." _Then all bets are off, if what Garrus has told me about the justicar is even remotely true._

He watched her eyes flicker for a moment. "The justicar, if she's not too busy. While I wish her nothing but ill—and I almost _hope_ she resists arrest—I won't be responsible for her death, either." Azala wiped at her eyes, and stood to leave. At the door, she hesitated. "Tell your son. . . that _I_ thank him. And you may tell your wife however much of this she needs to know."

Lantar grimaced. On the one hand, Ellie needed to know, so that she'd let off on Elijah for things he actually hadn't been responsible for. On the other hand, he was _not_ going to tell his wife even one word of the potential threat to Elijah's mind that the girl had, however inadvertently, posed. Marriages foundered on secrets, it was true, but good marriages depended on people knowing what buttons not to push, too.

**Shepard**

The _Dunkirk _had arrived back on May 4; the _Normandy_ arrived on May 7, late at night, as almost always seemed to happen. Shepard felt the mattress depress slightly, and her eyes opened in the darkness as she felt warm arms surround her. "I'm apparently," Garrus rasped into her ear, "under _strict _medical orders to keep you _warm_ until Mordin can see you tomorrow." He nipped her neck. "Doesn't play on the nesting instincts at _all_."

She'd chuckled sleepily. "And you have plans for how to keep me warm?"

"Definitely. After all, it's only a matter of time before we won't be able to, for a while." A little harder nip, for emphasis.

Dawn, while growing later and later, as fall slipped inevitably into winter, came all too soon.

Sunday morning, she reported to her somewhat-annoyed physician at the clinic, and took a tongue-lashing from Mordin, rather similar to the one Abrams had already deployed on her. "Mordin, I honestly didn't feel any more or less cruddy that evening than any other night. Tired, vaguely sick. I'd like to know what, other than the grapefruit juice, caused it." She glanced at Dara, who was sitting in the corner, taking notes for Mordin. "Dara caught the temperature shift, and caught it early, so no harm done, right?"

Mordin had finished his scans, and nodded now, grudgingly. "Daniel did a good job adjusting the medications. No harm done, indeed." He blinked at her rapidly. "However, also not eating enough."

"Yeah, food has been tasting . . . odd. . . lately. Somewhat like metal filings."

Mordin frowned. "Abnormal. Tacilimus, anti-rejection medication, should not cause that. New immunosuppressant one of only a few variables not the same from last time. Might be interacting oddly with other medications. Will put you back on cyanolimus for a few weeks. Stronger medication. Will require going back to old precautions."

Shepard sighed. "I was _really_ hoping to avoid some of that this time."

"Will see if it resolves issue. Then decide in two, three weeks. Need for nutrients much more vital." Mordin's tone was stern.

Dara looked up, waiting for a chance to ask the doctor something. When he nodded to her, she asked, "I'm trying to make sure I understand everything here. So, you suppress the human immune system, so that it can't attack the embryos, the same way it would attack a human baby with a blood Rh factor that's different from its mother's. . . "

"Correct."

"But that's dangerous, because of the risk of infections. Even a cold would be dangerous right now, right? Could progress into pneumonia, or worse?"

Mordin nodded.

"Okay, then you you raise the core temperature to allow the turian gastric and muscular systems to develop, but have to keep it low enough to keep the mother stable and the human nervous system in the embryos intact. . . "

"Yes."

"So the human mother is _already_ in a fever continuously, and any exposure to any disease could hit her, very hard, unexpectedly, and might send her into a really _dangerously_ high fever as a result of the infection." Dara grimaced, looking at Shepard, clearly applying it to herself, some years down the line. "I don't know how you manage to stay uninfected, especially with the twins. They're walking petrie dishes when they come home from daycare."

Shepard sighed. "Well, it hasn't been as bad, on the tacilimus. I've been making a point of not kissing the twins until they've had their baths. Remember the box of gloves I keep around the house?"

Dara nodded. "I go through about one of those a week at the moment. They usually don't carry _too_ many bugs home to me, but we are coming up on flu season." She sighed, hating the thought. "But now that I'm going back on the cyanolimus, I'll probably wind up wearing a mask."

"Was going to mention that," Mordin told her, and flipped a light blue mask at her by its string. "Start now. Reinstall decontamination unit at door of house. May also wish to curtail social activities, meetings, etcetera."

"Curtail or _limit?_"

He stared at her for a moment. "Limit, for now. Keep among Spectres who have been through decontamination. Dara, working in clinic, safe. Father, Spectre, safe. Others in valley? Either decontamination, or no access. Same as last time."

_Yeah, was afraid of that. Either I make everyone else do the decontamination, and inconvenience them, or I lock myself in my house, and inconvenience only myself. Oh, well. Cabin fever is all in the head, anyway._

Dara looked down at her datapad, and shook her head. "I don't know whether it would be harder or easier to do this for another species. If it were a quarian mother, you practically wouldn't have to suppress the immune system to protect the baby. You'd almost have to _boost_ the immune response for them, wouldn't you?"

Mordin frowned. "To a certain extent. Not so far as to threaten embryos, but difficult to protect mother's system any other way. Data limited. Only current hybridization efforts with quarians has been with other dextro species, turians. Still dangerous. But less so. Only case study, turian mother, quarian father."

Dara sat back, and Shepard watched the girl's thoughts flicker behind her eyes. There was a _good_ mind there, and it was a pleasure to watch. "I wonder," Dara said slowly, "considering the dangers that even a quarian-quarian pregnancy currently poses for the parents. . . the suit linking, the danger of infection, the mother's immune system during pregnancy. . . why more of them haven't considered surrogacy?" She waved a hand, clearly pooh-poohing her own idea. "Probably not economically feasible for them. You have to pay the mother for her time and the use of her body, after all. . ."

Mordin looked at the girl, "Socially, risky. Quarians only permitted one child per couple for centuries. Surrogate mothers might feel emotional attachment, might want to keep child. Also, risks making a caste of womb-mothers, only used for such."

Dara looked up, blinked, and said, "Oh, I wasn't talking about _quarian_ surrogates. I was thinking more along the lines of _turian_ surrogates. No dextro-levo issues. Same nutritional requirements for both species. The only real issues would be the foreign proteins, so, same anti-rejection medications. Similar body temperature issues."

Shepard was amused. The girl, unconsciously, perhaps, tended to assume the same linguistic patterns as her mentor when she talked about medicine. It was a linguistic tendency similar to assimilation, wherein people in a social hierarchy tended to defer their pronunciation of words to how those of higher social rank tended to pronounce them.

Mordin smiled. "Sounds like excellent first research paper topic."

Dara shrugged. "I'm sure someone's already thought of this."

"Not to my knowledge. Start by canvassing xenobiological and xenoobstetrics journals. Go on. Always should be learning." He shooed the wide-eyed girl out of the room, and Lilu chuckled again. _Now that was the 'oh shit' look of someone who has suddenly wound up with a __**whole**__ lot more work dumped on her head . . . ._

"Right, so, mask and gloves in public, cyanolimus four times a day, and decontamination procedures." Shepard sighed. "Anything else before I go lock myself in my house for the next eight months?" She was sixty-four days into the cycle at this point, which could last ten or eleven months, depending greatly on the hormonal balances that the doctors tried to institute and maintain in the body.

"Nothing more. Except reminder to _eat more_."

"Yes, sir."

Jack, surprisingly, was the first visitor to come through the new decontamination chamber. "Shit, you are paranoid about the germs, aren't you?" came a familiar voice. "Developing a little OCD in your old age, Shepard?"

Shepard looked up from a stack of datapads in bemusement, and the twins dropped what they were doing, went to go hide behind a chair, and just _stared _at the woman. "Kaius, Amara, don't stare. It's rude. Come here." Kaius trundled out of hiding first, followed, after a long moment, by his slightly shyer sister. Both now sat on the couch beside her, out in the open. And still staring, just a bit. "Sorry, Jack. Anyone new gets similar treatment from them."

Jack shook her head. "You're crazy, Shepard. I've always known it, but now I think everyone's got living proof." She shuddered.

Shepard frowned. "What, having hybrid kids?"

"No, having kids at _all_." Jack looked at the twins. "Don't get me wrong, kiddos. You're cute and all that. But. . . couldn't pay me enough." She pulled her lips down.

Shepard nodded. _Yeah, as a person with heavy abuse in your past, you're probably afraid you'll pass it on. Valid concern. _ Shepard waved at a chair. "Have a seat. I read Sam and Kasumi's report already, so I know some of the details." She paused. "And here I thought I'd found you a nice, stable place out at the Ascension Project," she added, ruefully. _I guess it just goes to show that you can't __**make**__ people grow at anything other than their own pace._

"It was okay. The kids actually didn't piss me off too much. It was the other teachers I couldn't stand." Jack slumped down in the chair, turning inwards. "Found my way to Earth. Met Zeke." Her eyes flicked upwards, and Shepard could read the brief flash of vulnerability there. "When you go after the salarian pieces of. . ." Jack glanced at the two children, and actually controlled her mouth, "_work_ who killed him, I want to be there."

Shepard shooed the twins away. "Go play. Mama has to talk work now."

"Can we have the _lanura_ out of its cage?" That was Amara, quietly.

"If you promise to be careful with her."

"Promise!"

Shepard got up and let the little winged lizard out of its cage; it hopped down to her shoulder, peered at the twins, and leaped down to the back of a chair, preening a bit in the morning sunlight. Both children immediately moved towards it, fascinated. Urz, dozing behind that same chair, opened the blue globes of his eyes, grumbled, and moved out of the way. The varren knew damned well that very shortly, the little winged creature would be flying all over the rooms of the living space, and the twins would be running pell-mell behind it. Urz wanted nothing to _do_ with this, and wandered over to sit at Shepard's feet, instead.

Jack shook her head. "You've got a hell of a menagerie, Shepard."

Lilitu grinned, and sat back down, scratching Urz near one of his earholes. Now, she returned to Jack's earlier statement. "I understand why you want to be there for the Lystheni take-down. I got the impression that you and Zeke were close. I don't have a problem with that. And goodness knows, we'll probably need every biotic we can field, from the sound of things. The Lystheni seem to be experimenting heavily with introducing biotics into their genome." She hesitated. "My main concern is this: will you be okay with taking orders from Garrus, Lantar, or Sam?" Shepard paused. "Wait, you haven't met Lantar Sidonis yet, have you?"

Jack frowned. "Sidonis. The name sounds familiar. Wasn't that the guy that Garrus wanted to kill, for having betrayed him?"

"Yeah. He's trustworthy. Was tortured almost to death for the information, left to die in the gutter in Omega." Shepard shrugged. "Garrus takes the kids over to play with Lantar's little hybrid girl all the time."

The tattooed woman snorted. "Is there anyone still making _human_ babies around here?"

Shepard grinned. "A few."

Jack stood up, and started to pace. "Garrus, yeah, sure. Stick up his. . . rear. . ." another glance at the kids for that, "and all, he's the _good_ kind of crazy. You say he trusts this Lantar guy, fine. But Sam Jaworski? Kasumi's boyfriend?" She turned her head away sharply. "I don't like him. Don't trust him, either."

"He's never been a prison guard," Shepard told her, quietly.

She could see the younger woman breathing fast, in little pants. "I know that!" Jack told her, and her lips compressed into a thin line. _One of these days, Jack, you're going to have to progress to the next of Eriksen's crises. You can't stay stuck in the same stage forever. You had trouble with forming an identity due to role confusion and all the abuse, so now you're just as stuck on the intimacy vs. isolation stage. And so now, people with strong, stable identities confuse you, threaten you, just as much intimacy scares you and overwhelms you_. Zeke Patterson must have been a remarkable man, to be able to handle Jack and all the baggage in her train.

Lilitu _understood_ all that, but damned if she knew what to _do_ with that knowledge. She'd tried to jumpstart the process by throwing Jack into a project that required her to be an adult, to pass things on to the next generation; a classic 'generativity' role. Apparently, it hadn't worked. Lilu sighed. "I can't promise that you won't wind up on his team. I'll try to figure something out, but if push comes to shove, either you follow his orders, or you stay on the ground here. Simple as that." Her expression wasn't without sympathy, but reality was reality.

Another fast, hostile glance. "Why _their_ orders? Why not _yours_?"

Shepard laughed. "The decontamination chamber isn't just for making sure everyone smells nice, Jack. I'm pregnant again, and the meds I'm on currently aren't making my immune system any happier. Definitely not heading into a firefight if I can avoid it." She shrugged. "I might be on the _Normandy_, if we can track 'em down before I wind up confined to bed rest again, but other than that, well, there's a reason a good commander learns how to delegate."

Jack just stared at her. "Okay, you're definitely crazier than _I_ am. And that's really saying something, y'know?"

Shepard laughed again. "Go to his house this afternoon. Get to know the teams, and their families, okay? And Jack?" She paused, waiting for the younger woman to make eye contact. "Play nice. You don't have to stay long. Just get a feel for them, okay?"

Jack nodded, reluctantly, and then walked out, muttering to herself.

Shepard's next visitor was Lantar, who knocked at their door late Sunday afternoon. "Sorry to intrude," the turian said after Garrus let him in. Shepard reflected in amusement that he always seemed somehow burly or stocky to her; he didn't have the same height as most other turians, but was _still_ taller than, say, Jaworski, by an inch or so, but he simply bulked larger in the arms, chest, and shoulders than Garrus or Livanus. _Helpful for schlepping around rocket launchers, _she thought, momentarily.

"Not a problem," Garrus told him, sitting back down on the sofa, and returning her feet to their position in his lap. "Just sort of watching something mindless on the extranet, anyway."

Lilu grimaced. "Can't even go over to Sam's to see the rest of the teams before tomorrow's meetings." She caught Garrus' look. "No, I'll be using the comm system to listen. You can run the meeting in person."

Lantar made a face. "Immune system?"

She sighed. "Yeah. Back on cyanolimus for the moment."

"Ellie's been talking about trying again with the new meds. I told her to hold off, and now I'm glad I did." He shook his head. "Not what I'm here for, though. Two things. First, did you get that proposal that Kapur and I wanted to float about Aphras and Tosal Nym?"

Garrus looked up and grinned. "Yeah, we did. It's an interesting idea."

Shepard nodded. "I tossed it to the geologists and climatologists and xenobiologists down in the valley on Friday. Told them it was something to talk over among themselves, and come up with some ideas I could take to Anderson and Odacaen. They're up to their eyeballs in the Mindoir project, but they seemed. . . enthusiastic, to say the least." She chuckled. "When you're stuck doing the detail work on one project, it's always a relieve to do big picture work on something else for a while. Told me they'd have some broad, general ideas ready in a month. The biggest problem they saw was that burning up comets in the atmosphere for their water would thicken the atmospheres of the planets as well, and they're already pretty solid. They said they'd recommend mining ice from the rings of one of the system's gas giants and trying to land the pieces gently. Less dust than from an impact event, less destruction of any remaining items of archaeological interest, and so on."

"And the archaeological impact?"

She shrugged. "We don't have anyone here who can do that kind of assessment, but the geologists commented that once you get an active hydrosphere going, the water's just going to, largely, follow the old riverbeds and watersheds. They might have to rig some sort of system of dikes and berms around where the heaviest craters are, since those are probably where the old cities were largely located. Keeping water out of those will protect the archaeological sites, more than likely. It's an interesting puzzle. And maybe one the Alliance and the Hierarchy will go for."

"How'd you come up with the idea?" Garrus asked.

Lantar shrugged. "Tossing ideas around with the captain of the_ Dunkirk._ Bored, mostly, but. . . it's kind of nice to be able to think about _building_ something, you know? We spend a lot of time taking things apart around here." He sighed. "And, speaking of which, that's my second reason for being here."

It didn't take long to explain. Shepard frowned, darkly, and took her feet off Garrus's lap. "I'll call Samara now," she said, starting for the comm terminal. "She's busy hunting down matriarchs, but I suspect she'll make a detour for this. She's lost all her daughters. I think she'll be happy to help someone else's child." _If someone had done this for Jack, years ago, maybe she wouldn't still have so much of the caged animal in her. _"Is there anything else we can do? I don't know if I should ask the girl's mother personally, but I _can_ call Rishayla on Bastion and get a priestess out to Mindoir for Siara, if she thinks it will help. Might not be able to get clearance for her, but a quick trip to Odessa isn't out of the question."

Lantar frowned. "I'll mention it. That would fit in nicely, actually. Half the school is scheduled to go to Odessa shortly, anyway."

Shepard blinked. "Not that I have any reason to keep track of this, but _why_? Field trip?"

Lantar shook his head, looking resigned. "Handball team, the all-species school against an all-human school. I couldn't get the only human son in the galaxy who's interested in gladiatorial fighting. I had to get the one who's the main goalkeeper for the school handball team." He snorted. "I'm going, of course. Jaworski said, schedule permitting, he'd take Sky with us and subject him to some human opera. Also said something about investing in ear plugs for himself."

Shepard snorted a bit, and placed the call to Samara. The justicar took Tsia's name, and, with a look of cold, intent concentration, assured Shepard, "Two of my current targets have actually shown wisdom, and turned themselves in. This provides me a day or two to track down this woman. My code permits this. Thank you for allowing me to be of assistance in this matter."

**Rellus**

It had snowed in the valley overnight, making his Sunday run much less enjoyable than usual. He didn't want Dara to feel bad, so on their Saturday runs, he kept to her ten kilometer limit, and dawdled with her, teasing, simply enjoying her company. Her endurance had _much_ improved after the treatments, but she still got out of breath and tired close to the end, as she worked to improve her conditioning. Rel, of course, had been working on his conditioning for a year or more already, gradually increasing the length of his daily runs. Of course, as a turian, he had also more or less been evolved to run, to hunt, in exactly this way. Sprint or the long chase; it was all about the body design.

So, Sundays, when Dara was at the clinic, Rel pushed himself. Forty-two kilometers. Close to twenty-six miles, or the length of a human marathon. A decent human runner could manage a mile in four minutes, but couldn't sustain it. The current record for a non-genetically modified human runner, in a marathon event, still hovered right at the two hour mark; this meant that they averaged roughly 13 miles per hour, or 20 kilometers per hour. The genetically modified could expect to take a fifteen minutes of that time, and not suffer the cardiac problems sometimes encountered by non-gene-modded humans.

A turian in decent shape could expect to complete it in a little over an hour, averaging 30 kilometers per hour, or 18 miles per hour. This was his endurance pace. At a sprint, the human goal of the 'perfect four minute mile' seemed a little laughable to him, since he halved that time, easily. Admittedly, Rellus usually needed to _eat_ after his marathon runs; his body firmly informed him, every time, that if he was commit such resources to a hunt, that it had better be a _successful _one, and one that involved a great deal of protein.

So, this morning, he ran, crunching through the snow, feeling the cold burn his lungs, seep into his toes. He could have done this on a treadmill, of course, but it never gave him the feeling of accomplishment that seeing actual scenery pass by did. He did let his mind wander, though, on these long runs. Let himself think about the future, or the recent past. Theoretically, he _could_ have used the time to listen to a book or something on an earpiece, but there was enough time already spent on duty in his life. It was nice just to let his mind wander where it willed. To the night before, when he and Dara had spent Saturday evening at Aunt Lilu's, sitting on the floor, actually playing extranet games, which had been a nice change of pace. His reflexes were better, but her little fingers—one more per hand, at that—were nimble and skilled. "Unfair natural advantage," he'd told her at one point. "You should have to tape the last two together."

"Practice and skill," she'd retorted, grinning. "I play piano three nights a week, _amatus_. Dr. Solus says I should pick surgery as my specialization." She'd wiggled her fingers at him, and he'd caught her hand to mock-bite at them.

The twins had been in bed, Aunt Lilu had been in another room, working, and it had been just them, out in the living area, just warm, happy companionship, good-natured rivalry, and he'd felt nothing but contentment. He was saving little moments like this in his mind, storing their warmth away. Because, in fifty-five days now, it was all going to be gone, at least for a while.

He rounded the last corner, and ran up to his parents' door, breathing a little hard at last. Inside, the heat hit him like a blast furnace; his body had adapted to the outdoor environment by ramping up his metabolism, making him almost fever-warm by turian standards, and going from just above freezing outdoors to something like 26º C/ 80ºF indoors was a shock. He didn't sweat, of course; the only reason to shower after a run like that would be to soothe his muscles, or to help adjust his body temperature. For the moment, however, food was a _much_ more urgent concern. His hands were starting to shake a little.

His mother had left a _talashae_ roast out for him on the counter, knowing his routine. It was cold now, but he didn't care. It even had a thick, marrow-bearing bone in it, the mere sight of which made Rel want to start drooling. _Wouldn't be so bad, if it hadn't been for the run and the cold combined_, he thought, and started cutting into the roast with a knife, thick slices, resisting the impulse to just pick the damn thing up and _tear._

As Rel was simply trying to get enough protein in his body to stop it from complaining at him, there came a knock at the front door. "I'll get it," Serana called from the other side of the house. _Huh. Odd hour of the morning for a visitor. Probably one of Dad's coworkers. Where did Mom put the cracking hammer, anyway—oh, there it is._ He hefted the heavy hammer, and took a couple of solid whacks at the bone, which he'd now separated from the rest of the roast. The marrow simply smelled and looked too good right now, and his body urgently needed its nutrients.

He'd just picked up the first shard of bone and started to crunch down, when the kitchen door opened, and Serana said, "Dara's dad is here, Rel. He wants to talk to you." His little sister, cheerfully oblivious, left the door open as she retreated back to her own room, leaving Rel there, with greasy fingers and face, chewing on bone, as Dara's father stared at him, obviously nonplussed. _S'kak_, Rel thought. _The only way this could look __**worse**__ to him is if I'd opened my mandibles all the way and was actually cracking down on the bone that way, raw gobbets of flesh still hanging off of it._ He set the hammer back down on the counter, and turned to wipe his hands and face off, trying to finish chewing as quickly as possible. _We're a predator species,_ he thought to himself, a little defiantly. _Maybe it's something better left undisguised._

Swallowing, he turned around again. "Good morning," Rel said, as politely as possible. "Sorry about this. When I do a forty kilometer run, I _really_ need to eat afterwards. Do you mind if I continue?" He gestured to a nearby chair. "I can get you something to eat or drink, if you like. My mom's keeping at least _something_ levo around here for Dara now."

"Nah, that's okay," Jaworski said, coming into the kitchen, closing the door, and sitting down. "Just wanted to talk to you for a bit."

_That doesn't sound good_. Rellus debated between bone and meat, and settled for meat; no sense in scaring Dara's father any more than he already had.

Jaworski cleared his throat. "I had a whole speech all prepared here, and now I can't even think of how it was supposed to start." He gestured at the roast. "It's disconcerting." The human met his eyes for a moment. "Hard not to see those teeth and think of how badly you could hurt my girl, you know?" Blunt honesty.

Rel could appreciate that, and the concern was a real one. He nodded. "There have been. . . incidents of that," he said, quietly. "My uncle and Dr. Solus were careful to let me know that even as far back as when the asari and turians first met, there have definitely been. . . incidents. Not well-publicized. Mostly because the turians in question usually committed suicide within minutes of realizing what they'd done." Rel found that his appetite had waned quite a bit. "I've seen the pictures." He looked up at Jaworski now. "I suspect that has quite a bit to do with how my uncle and Lantar wrote the contract." He _knew_ how uncomfortable even mentioning the damn thing made Dara's father, and for the moment, he didn't care. Maybe if the man understood why it was so important. . . . "I tend to think they wanted to give us both time to learn each other. And how to control . . . . some of the instincts." Rel's tone became extremely diffident.

With an adult turian, this would have been a simple conversation. In fact, if it ever came up, he planned to _thank_ his uncle for the contract, in spite of its many frustrations, because he knew that both Garrus and Lantar had been with turian females long before taking human mates. _They _had known, going into it, exactly what instinct would demand, and what they'd need to control. Rel, as a relative neophyte, hadn't had that knowledge. If he hadn't been able to settle for just marking Dara that first day in their _allora_ meadow, months ago now, Rel really didn't like to think of where that afternoon would have gone. It could have been wonderful. It could have also hurt her very badly. He didn't _think_ he'd have bitten her throat; he'd been so careful to keep away. But still, he could have hurt her, and she might never have trusted him again. But there was no real way to say that to Dara's father.

Sam sighed. "I think I understand." He waved it aside. "Not really what I came over here for, anyway." He dug around in a pocket, and produced a small box. "This was my grandmother's, Dara's great-grandmother's. I gave it to my wife, and now, I'd like for you to give it to Dara."

Rellus looked at the box dubiously, then wiped his fingers again and flicked the tiny thing open. Inside was a very small ring, meant for an impossibly small human hand, set with a square-cut diamond; the ring itself looked to be platinum, shaped into elaborate filigree. "It's pretty old-fashioned. I'd recommend getting it re-set." Jaworski shrugged. "Get her a different stone or something for the old setting; she can't possibly wear the old one day in and day out. This is the engagement ring. You give her this one before you get married. You give her a plain, matching band when you get married, okay? She'll give you one to wear in exchange."

Rellus looked up at him, not having a clue of what to say. Jaworski grinned at him. "Can't _all_ be turian, son. Not _everything_ in life is about knives." The human paused. "Now, about the when and the where. You were saying when you get back. That's fine. Gives you two a chance to re-evaluate if this is what you _really_ want, with a little separation in between. Not to mention, boot camp tends to change people a bit." Jaworski sat back in his chair. "You two need to discuss how you want this done. There's a chaplain on base for the humans, apparently. My Baptist granny may roll over in her grave, but if a Jewish chaplain can see his way free to doing a fairly decent ecumenical service, the human half would be taken care of, right?"

This was all going a little fast for Rellus. He felt as if he'd been left somewhere, three conversational turns ago, blinking in the dust. "I thought you didn't . . . you changed your mind?" he finally managed.

"Already had, mostly. Trip home kind of clarified things for me, though." Jaworski's grin was almost predatory. "Besides, if you two _weren't_ serious, me changing the timetable surely would throw you for a loop, now wouldn't it?"

Rel's stomach reminded him now, that it still needed to be fed. There were things that were instinct-level, and couldn't be denied. Run, hunt, eat, drag remains of carcass to mate, let her feed, mate, nest, rest, and do it all over again when the carcass was fully devoured. It was a little primitive, but the cycle was a little difficult to deny. So Rellus just grinned back at the human, and popped a piece of bone and marrow into his mouth. "It would, but it won't," he told Jaworski after a few moments. "Is that thing really going to fit on her finger?" he asked, after a moment.

"Probably a little too big for her, actually. Her mom's hands were bigger." Jaworski actually laughed at Rel's expression. "I hear tell that half your school is heading to Odessa soon anyway, right?"

The turian boy grimaced. "We weren't planning on going with them. I used to play handball, but it's getting a little out of control this year."

Sam chuckled. "Probably a good time for you to get it re-set, though, and sized for her, properly. She'll have plenty of time while you're gone to find a dress."

Rell shook his head. "Humans complicate things, don't they?"

"Eh, it's not being human that complicates it, so much as Dara being a female of the species. Trust me, she will want a nice dress to get married in. It'll dawn on her the instant she realizes people will be taking pictures."

It was the first time, Rellus realized, that he'd shared a laugh with his prospective father-in-law.


	36. Chapter 36: Tangents

**Chapter 36: Tangents**

_**Author's note:**__For anyone wondering where the heck the plot has gone, I swear, it's coming back in. Soon. Additionally, Sam did some mental math, and told me I was an idiot, not remembering that his wife died in early June of 2190, and that, since it's currently May 2191, that I obviously can't count, either. Slight edit to chapter 35 as a result. :-P_

**Dara**

And yet again, the schedule changed. Dara knew that the _Normandy _had landed because Garrus was in the house for breakfast, much to the twins' delight. She chuckled, said, "Welcome back. I guess my dad's at our place, then?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. I'll come back for my travelcase after clinic work, then." She paused. "I guess Sunday dinner and stuff is back on today. . . should we have stuff ready for you and the twins?" She shifted uncomfortably. "I mean, you probably want to stay home and spend some time, and I know she can't really go anywhere right now, and. . ." The patient look got to her. Dara put a hand over her face and said, somewhat muffled, "Okay. Just shoot me and get it over with."

Garrus laughed at her. "Relax. I'll put in an appearance. Might even drop the twins off for the afternoon, if you guys don't mind looking after them for a while."

Dara grinned. "Sky will be happy. He likes them and Caelia." She looked at the clock. "Crud. If I don't leave _now_, no treadmill time before clinic. Excuse me, please."

It was just too damned snowy on base right now to run outdoors. While the main walkways and vehicle paths were all cleared, they had a nasty tendency to ice over. The result was a lot of sprained ankles at the clinic, but also, not a lot in the way of actual work, so she was able to complete her first set of extranet queries on xenobiology and xenobstetrics after Dr. Solus told her to start a research project, and tried to read the first abstract. And stopped after a few lines, wondering, _Okay, is the translation just bad, or . . . no. Written in quarian and translated by the original researchers into salarian, so, the VI has two languages to pick from to get it right, and . . . yeah. In order to understand __**this**__, I'm going to need to look up turian obstetrics and quarian obstretrics, I guess, get a feel for what's __**normal**__ for each, and then backtrack to this. . . _"Well. . . that was a few more search results than I wanted," she muttered, looking at fifty some pages of semi-relevant links. "Let's narrow this down to academic, peer-reviewed journals." And on she went.

By the time she got her travelcase back to her dad's house, he and Kasumi had obviously been up for a while, and were getting dinner ready. "That smells like chili," Dara said, popping her head into the kitchen.

"It is."

"You brought back real peppers?"

"And avocadoes. And limes." Her dad gave her a sly grin. "I figured I'd ask Allardus for a little room in the xenobiology greenhouses, see if we can't _grow_ some of this stuff here. Hate to have to borrow the keys to the _Normandy_ every time I get a hankering for something with a little kick to it."

She sniffed what was in the pot approvingly. "So, that's for the levo folks. Although how Sky is going to eat this, I have _no_ idea."

"I figure, worst comes to worst, we borrow one of the twins' little toy shovels, and Sky goes to town."

Dara whooped with laughter, managing to ask, between giggles, "What's for dextro?"

"Figured I'd leave that to you." Dara gave him a look, and her dad just chuckled. "Hey, _one_ of you two kids is _gonna_ to have to learn to cook. All things considered, it should probably be the one bucking for the medical degree, right?"

"Thanks," she said. "Great, what did I stock in here, anyway. . ." She looked in the cryounit and spent some time with her lists, and finally hit on shepherd's pie, on the grounds that there was no possible _wrong_ way to make that particular dish, potatoes were on the 'mildly allergenic list,' as were carrots, and they had ground _apaterae_ and lamb shanks that she'd thought of using for a stew at some point.

"You could probably use the bones from the lamb shanks as a kind of garnish," her dad told her, dryly. "Garrus and Lantar never told me that they munch on bones for calcium. Dropped by Solanna and Allardus' this morning while you were at work, and Rel had just finished a damn marathon, so he was _chowing_ _down_ on a three or four pound roast, bone and all." Her dad gave her a look as she started browning the _apaterae _and diced lamb together. "You knew they did that?"

"He was pretty embarrassed about it when I found out. I think they're taught to conceal a lot of what they _are_ from other species. They're really the only pure predator species in Council space, or were, for a long time. Asari, krogan, salarian, quarian, drell, humans—all omnivores. Elcor are herbivores. It's pretty debatable what volus eat, except that it's not edible by anyone else. Rachni are . . . debatably, predators. Vorcha are scavengers." She shrugged. "He thought I'd freak out, I guess." Something else was bothering her, though. "Why would he need to eat _that_ much? The calorie count alone. . ." Dara squinted. "You said a marathon."

"Your boy said forty kilometers."

She sighed. "He's been sandbagging with me, then." She drained the meat, added the carrots and a green turian vegetable called _phasela, _as well as thyme, and a turian spice called _luteus_, which had an odd yellow color to it. As she worked, she commented, a little crossly, "I have to be able to do all of that, too. And I can't yet."

"He's not patronizing you, sweetie." Her dad looked at her. "I think he's trying to keep the prep work more or less fun for you. That makes it fun for him, too, I guess." 

"I guess so." Dara looked up, surprised. That had sounded almost like her dad had taken Rel's side, which made her grin.

"You've also got three or four more months than he has to prepare. Let the gene mods finish kicking in, and ramp up gradually. No sense trying to go three ways at once, and wind up hurting yourself."

She nodded, and poured the meat and vegetable mix into a glass dish, and opened a bag of ready-made mashed potatoes for the topping. Once that was in place, she could put shredded cheese on top of that, and stick it back in the cryo unit until it was dinner time, and then just warm it up in the stove. "Cheater," her dad told her, grinning.

"I've got homework to do still before everyone else comes over. And Dr. Solus assigned me a research paper today because I asked a question."

"Was it a good question?" Kasumi asked, coming into the kitchen behind them.

Dara turned to grin at her. "It must have been. He couldn't answer it, and I think the whole paper thing is his _revenge_."

The little woman laughed. "Come on back in a minute, Dara. I brought _omiage_ with me, and yours is still in my travelcase." _Omiage_ were the little souvenirs that every Japanese traveler brought home for family, friends, and bosses. Usually inexpensive, but always very thoughtful. Dara's father had made sure she brought hostess gifts for Kasumi when she stayed with her, until Kasumi had finally protested that they were, in fact, spending fifty percent of their time at her house, and that meant that they could _really_, honestly, truly stop.

"Thank you," Dara said, smiling. "You didn't need to."

"I know, but I like to hold to some of the old traditions. The fun ones, anyway." Kasumi turned to head back deeper into the house, and Dara tapped her dad's arm on her way out of the kitchen, mouthing, _Did you ask her yet?_ and nodding in the little woman's direction.

Sam grinned, and said quietly, "I'm biding my time."

Dara sighed. She was almost _bursting_ to talk to Kasumi about it, but obviously, she'd have to keep the secret a little longer. Back in her dad's bedroom, where he and Kasumi had evidently spent the night, Kasumi dug in the travelcase, finally coming up with a little box, carefully wrapped. "Am I supposed to open this right away, or is this one of the ones I'm supposed to wait to open?" Dara asked. The cultural nuances still tripped her up constantly; it was kind of funny, she supposed, that turian culture was easier for her to navigate than Kasumi's.

"Open it now," Kasumi told her, smiling.

Inside, was a tiny bottle of perfume labeled _Zen_. Dara opened it, and sniffed cautiously. "It's nice and light," she said, pleased. She looked at Kasumi, and smiled. "Guess I should try it out today and find out if it's going to knock turians across the room, huh?"

Kasumi laughed outright. "That was sort of the plan, yes. It was the lightest I could find that was still good quality."

Dara gave her a quick hug, and another thank-you, and headed off to her room to try to cram a few hours of homework in before everyone showed up. As she did, she could hear her dad, exclaiming irritably into the comm terminal, "Commander, with all due respect, the woman's unstable, and not even a part of either of the squads. Why would you—" He paused, obviously listening to something, and then replied, a good deal more dubiously, "All right. So long as Garrus will be here for part of the evening to ride herd on her." He signed off, and, glancing to where Dara was hovering on the stairs, told her, "We're having someone new to dinner tonight. Woman Shepard and Garrus worked with in the old days. I've read her file. Hard life. Not real pleasant to be around. Try to be polite, and if you're uncomfortable with her at all, come find me, y'hear?"

Dara nodded, puzzled, and went upstairs. It was promising to be an _interesting_ evening, all things considered.

By 16:30, things were in full swing. Lantar's family was there, Garrus and the twins were there, Sky was in the living room, Gris was poking at the chili in the kitchen, and rumbling humorous comments about the peppers not actually being all that hot. "Next time I go to Earth, I'll bring back a ghost pepper from India," she could hear her father tell him, laughing. "That should burn even a krogan tongue but good."

A stranger walked in—a human woman, with more ink on her body than empty skin and a shaved head. She could see Eli's head turn, and she could understand why; the woman wore only a leather vest and low-cut leather pants, as well as combat boots, as if the ink were covering enough. _Yeah, but ink's not going to keep you very __**warm**_, Dara thought, and shuddered at the notion of walking through the snow outdoors in that sort of get-up.

Dara noticed that the various Spectres around the room shifted to watch her. Garrus stood up, and she got the impression that he was more or less putting on his work clothes, at least in his head. He stopped being relaxed, anyway, and she knew turian body language well enough by now to see that as soon as Garrus tensed, so did Lantar. _Probably unconscious. Just the subtle dynamics of body-language._

"Jack," Garrus said to the newcomer. "This is Sam's home, but he's back in the kitchen right now, making sure we all get fed, so I'll play host and introduce you around." Gris stepped out of the kitchen, looking a little wary. "This is Urdnot Gris. Part of Grunt and Wrex's clan. You've met Cohort." The geth nodded from the door of the kitchen, where he stood beside Gris. "Sings-to-the-Sky is the big rachni in the living room."

Sky sent a wave of blue-green acknowledgement, but Dara caught faint gray undertones. Ambivalence, or worry. The brood warrior added, in his silent song, _Greetings. Have you come to make harmony, or dissonance, Rage-singer?_

The woman's eyes went wide. "What the f—" She stopped herself, glancing down at the various children in the room, but it was clear she was deeply rattled. "Stay the hell out of my mind, bug!"

Dara's hands stopped on the piano, and she decided she did _not_ like this woman.

_I do not touch your mind, Rage-Singer,_ Sky replied, composedly. _I only listen to what you sing. You sing very loudly. Yellow fear, black despair, red anger. I do not threaten you. Let there be harmony between us._ He did, however, Dara noticed, scoot his forelegs protectively around Kaius, Amara, and Caelia, who were laughing and playing under his big body anyway, treating him like a sort of mobile tent. _Little singer, continue playing_, Sky told Dara, and her lips curled up in a smile, and her fingers began to move once more. She liked his name for her, for some reason.

Garrus cleared his throat, and he jerked a thumb at Sidonis. "This is my old friend, Lantar Sidonis. Elijah out in the living room is his son, and the lady over there, setting the big table in the dining room is Ellie, Lantar's wife."

The woman laughed. "Kid's kind of lacking in scales." Her voice was sharp, and there was an edge there that Dara pulled back from. _Guess Dad was right about her having had a hard life._

"There's more to kinship than blood," Lantar said, laconic as always, and walked across the living room to sit beside Elijah. Dara almost laughed. _Rel's right—look at them! They've both crossed their arms, squared their shoulders, jaws clenched. . . identical expressions. Oh, how I wish he were here to see this!_

Garrus was in a hurry now. "You've met my twins, Amara and Kaius. The little one is Caelia Sidonis, Lantar's little girl." He glanced around. "Dara, at the piano, is Sam's daughter. And the young man watching in the doorway over there, that's Rellus, my nephew." He shook his head. "Full house tonight."

Dara's head turned, and she grinned when she saw Rel, sure enough, framed in the doorway. "Sorry I'm late," he apologized, walking in and taking a seat beside Dara at the piano, facing opposite of her, stretching his long legs into the room, before leaning in to her and muttering in her ear, "Looks like I arrived just in time for the show."

"You know what's going on?" she whispered back. "Who _is_ she?"

He shook his head. "Not a clue. Just know she worked with them back in the old days."

Eli came over to the piano, and sat down on the bench next to her, facing out into the room, mirroring Rel's position; she was flanked by them now. "Just to let you both know," he said, quietly, "Ylara's going to be here tonight. She's bringing Azala and Siara."

Dara almost missed a note, caught herself, and kept playing. _This is shaping up to be one big mess of an evening. I hope we made enough food_. "Sorry, Sky," she told the rachni.

_Even mistakes make their own harmony, sometimes,_ Sky told her, graciously.

"Any particular reason?" she asked Eli, a little tightly. Any time she saw Ylara, she couldn't help the guilt that welled up in her, for not having been able to save Kella. And while Azala was nice, Siara was, well, Siara.

Eli grimaced. "I can't talk about all of it. They're trying to get Siara a little, um, healthier, I guess would be the right word."

Dara kept her eyes on the keys. "She's sick? Must be a weird disease, that you don't go to the clinic for, but go to someone's house for dinner." She couldn't help the dislike in her voice, and knew she'd lose points with Eli for it. But she was not about to pretend.

Eli put a hand on her shoulder, startling her, and this time she _did_ miss a note. "Lots of ways to be sick," he told her, and his eyes were actually a little sad. "You're the one who wants to be a doctor. Isn't the first oath something like 'first, do no harm?'"

Dara's eyes narrowed. It gave her, had she known it, more of a look of her father than she usually had. "That's actually nowhere in the oath. The first promise of the modern oath is to respect knowledge and share it freely, actually."

Eli sighed. "Okay, but _somewhere _there's something that says 'fix things, or at the very least don't break them,' right? And, well, you're probably going to marry a turian."

Dara tried to concentrate on playing. "What does one have to do with the other?"

Rel put his hand on her other shoulder, and said, quietly, "You can be sick in your spirit, can't you?"

She flicked him a glance, realizing two things. First, Lantar was listening to them; he could hardly _not_ be, turian hearing being what it was. Second, Rel knew what Eli was talking about_. And neither of them will just come out and tell me. _She took her hands off the keyboard, turning towards Rel with a slight frown. "Is it something I did? Does it have to do with Kella?"

He shook his head. "No."

She thought about that. It wasn't as if the concept of circles of trust was a new one to her; it irritated her not to be included, since they were asking a shift in behavior of her without a good reason given, but Dara also understood that sometimes, you _can't_ tell someone something, when it's not yours to tell. "Okay then. I don't need to know anymore." She grimaced. "I'll be polite because she's a guest in my dad's house, but other than that, I'm not talking to her and I won't be around her." _I'm sure as hell going to ask my dad if __**he**__ invited them, or if someone else did_. She was mad, and didn't care if they knew it. _Turians aren't the only ones allowed to show their anger, damnit._

Eli made an irritated gesture, double-flicking the fingers of both hands. Turian body-language for complete exasperation. "Gah. This would be _so_ much easier to explain if I could just _tell_ you, but I can't."

Sky whispered, very quietly, and Dara had the impression that he was speaking to her, alone, _Little singer, your friend wishes healing songs for sake of __**his**__ friend. She suffered an injury that made her dissonant, but now they strive to make her sing once more in tune._

Dara thought about that for a moment. "Sky," she said out loud, with a bit of a smile, but only loudly enough for the boys flanking her to hear, "That probably makes perfect sense to _you_, since you can hear what's in Eli's head, but it's about as clear as mud from where I sit. No! _Don't_ show me. If it's private, it's private." _But I don't like it._

Right around then, there was another knock at the door. Eli leaped up, and, rather than going to answer it, made his way quickly to the back door. Her dad came out of the kitchen, heading to answer the door instead, and Dara shook her head and went back to playing. Ylara came in first, greeting her fellow Spectres with a reserved smile and a few hugs here and there; Azala next, and Siara behind them, looking at the floor. After a bit of confused bustling and some introductions here and there, Azala came into the living room, and smiled when she heard the piano. "So this is what you learned to play on, then, Dara? And no _reela_ tonight?"

"I keep that down at Kasumi's," Dara told her. She _liked_ Azala. It was hard not to, actually. "That way, no matter where I am, I can practice if I want to."

After a moment, Rel leaned in again and made a great show of sniffing the air around her. "Sorry, Sky, Azala, everyone, music is going to have to wait," he said loudly, and lifted her hand off the piano, snuffling along from wrist to elbow, making Dara laugh and blush, forgetting her irritation. "Aha. Found the source. Obviously, someone has attacked you with flowers. Don't worry; I'll defend you. First, we'll need a barricade." He stood up, pulling her away from the piano. "Once we're sure that the perimeter is clear, Sky, I'll have her back and playing for you again. But for the next thirty minutes, she's _mine_." Rellus bared his teeth at the rachni, and Sky sent waves of blue-green amusement their direction, and Lantar laughed outright on the couch. And then Rel hustled her upstairs with him.

"You're _bad_," Dara told Rel as the door closed behind them, still blushing.

Rellus smiled down at her, and said, in her ear. "With this many people here, making this much noise . . . you can probably make all the little prey-sounds that you want, _amatra_." He leaned down and nipped playfully at her throat. "No one's going to hear."

Dara gasped and pulled away, laughing. "You do realize that _Sky_ can probably hear us, right?"

He tilted his head to the side. "I can open the door and yell down the stairs for him to stop listening, if you like."

"No!"

He grinned. "So, either he's going to be polite, and not listen, or he'll have to listen very carefully to pick us out of all the other songs in his head." He nipped her again, and again, almost chidingly.

Dara began to laugh. "Are you _disciplining _me? It feels like a herding dog nipping at the sheep to get them back where they're supposed to be."

Rel grinned. "Yeah. A little." He swung her around and pushed her to sit on the edge of her bed, growling softly, putting pressure on her arms until she leaned back, giving him access to throat and shoulders, and she felt her back touch the mattress. After a moment, he lifted his head, and muttered, "_S'kak. _I almost forgot. I needed to ask you about something." He dug around in his pockets, frowning. "Oh, there it is. Your dad came by this morning." Rel lay down on the bed next to her, feet still on the ground. It was the only way he could lay on his back without his spurs getting caught on the quilt or pressed uncomfortably into the bed.

"Yeah, he mentioned that. _After_ you ran forty kilometers and had to eat three or four pounds of meat to make up the energy loss." She rolled to an elbow to frown down at him. "You should've told me I was _that_ far behind."

"You'll catch up. I don't want the runs to be painful for you. It's _much_ harder work for you than it is for me." Rel reached up and caught a piece of hair with his talons. "If it helps, I'm probably _always_ going to need your help with swimming." He unfolded his other hand now, revealing a small box. "Your dad said this was your mom's, and that he wanted me to give it to you. I'm a little unclear if there's some sort of a ceremony that goes with this." He frowned. "He also said it should probably be re-set. Something easier to get your hands into gloves with."

Dara opened the box with one fingertip, and felt as if her heart stopped for a moment. "That's my mom's ring. It was my great-grandma's, too." On the one hand, it almost hurt to see it again. A reminder that her mother wasn't here anymore. And yet, joy, too; Rel's intentions had been very clear for a while now, and he'd made them apparent in a very turian fashion. But this was part of _her_ culture, and it meant a lot more to her than she'd thought it would. Bitter and sweet, all at once.

She looked up at him, and he looked worried for a moment. "_Mellis, _are you _supposed_ to be crying?" 

"Yes. Absolutely." Dara mopped at her face.

"Isn't that usually a bad thing?"

"Sometimes we cry when we're happy, too."

"Oh, spirits of my ancestors, no."

She started to laugh at his expression, still sniffling a bit. "It won't last two or three days, I promise," she told him, and leaned over to wrap her arms as far around him as they could go.

He stroked her hair lightly. "So, is there some ritual associated with this?"

"You already did the important part. Well, I think you did, anyway." She frowned. "Somewhere in all that negotiating, I'm pretty sure you asked me to marry you."

"Yes. That was when we both signed the contract."

"Okay. Totally missed that." She paused. "The cliché is, the male gets down on his knees and asks—"

"Isn't that human body language for _begging_?"

"Yeah. I think it's pretty stupid, myself. So you can skip that part." She paused. "Then I say yes, which I apparently did when I signed something I couldn't read at the time. . . " Rellus laughed, and she finished, "and then you put it on the correct finger for me." Dara waved her fingers at him, and Rel eyed them warily.

"Right, and that one is. . . ?"

She pointed, he placed, and the ring promptly spun around the wrong direction, being much too loose. Dara chuckled. "We'll make it fit." It wasn't a bad metaphor for their entire relationship. She wrapped the band itself with some first-aid tape, padding it, making it a little thicker, as a stopgap measure, and put it back on. It felt. . . weird, actually. "So how much of our half hour is left?"

"Twenty minutes."

"And you know that without even looking at the clock." She meant it as a joke, but his eyes had gone predatory now.

His speed always came as a surprise; in a flash, she'd been returned to her back on the bed, and Rel offered her his mouth, letting her kiss him. He always had a slightly bemused expression when they tried this, so it never lasted long before she'd bite at his jaw instead. She could feel the tension in his muscles now, the urgency that he was very carefully leashing. "You okay?" she whispered. "We didn't, I mean, last night. . . " The words in English stopped in her throat. They'd laughed and played last night, and it had been warm and comfortable and intimate, but they hadn't touched in this way since last weekend.

"Yeah." He shifted languages. "_Want you with me all the time. Nights like last night, just laughter and companionship. But I ran well this morning, I ate, and then I really wanted my mate with me. It's normal."_

"_Long runs. . . adrenaline again?"_ She gasped. That had been a much harder bite.

"_Yes._" He sounded a little dazed, and clearly had to focus on the words. _"Old instincts. Hunt, eat, bring the food to your mate. Receive her . . . gratitude._" He groaned a little as her hands moved down. Hands were allowed now. _"Instincts say, rub blood of my kill on my mate so she knows the smell comes from me, lick it off her skin, mark her, take her, then rest until we're hungry again."_ The soft rasp of his voice painted a picture in her mind, and she couldn't help the sound that caught in her throat at the thought. Prey-noise.

Rellus's eyes half-closed, and he continued to talk, little pauses between the words now. _"Probably. . . origin of face-painting. Instincts are powerful. . . ah, spirits. . . which is why laws need to be even stronger." _Rel looked at the clock now, and sighed. "_But there's not enough time for anything but marking you, sweetness."_ He bit her shoulder, more gently now. _"Where?"_

She preened his fringe softly, whispering, _"I know the marking calms you, but it doesn't take the wanting-ache away." _She was genuinely concerned. The turian equivalent of vasocongestion resulted in fluid build-ups inside the body cavity, where the testicles and the phallus were all normally housed. It could result in moderate to severe lower abdominal discomfort. Where a human male might complain about 'blue balls,' a turian male in similar discomfort would sometimes find that his phallus tip might have partially emerged from its cavity while unaroused, leaving him prone to injury for a while.

Rel shifted back to English, probably to force himself to focus on something else. "I'll survive. Half the point of the contract, as I told your father this morning, was to give us—me, really—time to learn control. The other half was probably intended to give us time to learn how to give each other release. At least I know what your release looks and feels and smells like now, _mellis_. When I'm finally, spirits willing, _in_ you, I'll be able to tell if I'm doing it right."Rel grinned down at her. "I didn't mention that part to him."

"Well, thank god."

"Where, _amatra_?" Growing impatience in his voice

She offered him the back of her left wrist, where the straps of the empty knife-sheath crossed, where her mother's engagement ring glittered on her finger, and his eyes went dark, and he started breathing through his nose now, little panting breaths. Dara had known how much he'd wanted to mark her so that others could see it, but not how _much._ "Visible. Outside of clothes. Not in the contract."

"You gave me a _ring_." Dara smiled up at him. "Trumps the contract, in places. Besides, I can pull my sleeve down over it, if you really want me to."

**Elijah**

Siara hadn't even been at _school_ since he'd spoken to Lantar on Wednesday. That had given Eli four days in which to worry. He'd come to the conclusion that Siara was _probably_ going to feel betrayed by him on some level, and had been hoping, actually, to avoid any sort of meeting for oh, a month or so. Give her time to cool down. When Lantar had told him that afternoon that Ylara and Azala had decided to attend, and were bringing Siara with them. . . Eli had strongly considered pleading homework.

So, he'd put the best face on the situation that he could for Dara, but fully expected _something_ to blow up in his face tonight. Either Dara's temper or Siara's biotics. At least he knew Siara couldn't punch worth a damn.

Ducking outside when the asari contingent arrived probably looked a bit chicken, but he justified it in his mind, because the house was crowded and overwhelming, so why _not_ remove one source of stress? The Jaworski backyard was a featureless expanse, covered in snow. Elijah shivered a bit, wishing he'd grabbed a coat, at least, if he was going to spend any time out here. His breath hung in white clouds in front of him, and he grinned a bit. He'd never seen that happen outside of a cryo unit before, so he huffed out again, and again, watching his body's moisture rise like a plume of smoke.

"So, kid," a voice said, and his head jerked up. He hadn't realized anyone else was out here, until the tattooed woman emerged from around the side of the house. "Turian daddy, right? Funny, your mom doesn't look much like a Spectre."

Eli had no idea who this lady was, but she'd been introduced by Garrus, so she was probably okay to talk to, even if she looked like someone's experiment, or something. "She's not. She used to work on environmental systems on the Citadel and on Bastion, but she's got a job designing and building breathers and envirosuits here, now."

The woman walked closer, and he wondered how in _space_ she could stand the cold out here, dressed as she was. He kept his eyes locked on hers, though. She looked like she might take offense if he looked _anywhere_ else. "So, how's that all working out for you?"

Eli had no idea what she meant by that, or why she was even talking to him. "Better here than back on Bastion," he said, after a minute. "No one waits around after school here to beat me up for having a half-and-half sister. No one calls my mom a scale-skank here, either." He shrugged.

"You like your dad?" She said it as if the words were in some foreign language.

"_Like_ him?" Eli blinked. That was like saying you liked a mountain, were friends with a cliff-face. Lantar was more _there_ than any other person he'd ever met. Even when he _wasn't_ there, he was there. Any time he was confused as to what to do, all he really needed to do was to think of what Lantar would say, and there was an answer. "I don't think it . . . it's not. . . He demands respect," Eli finally managed. "He gives it, and he gets it. He's a good dad."

She just stared at him for a long moment. _Did I start talking in high tongue by accident again?_ Elijah wondered nervously as the pause stretched on. "Okay," she said, as if that closed the subject. "What about your little friend the princess and _her_ daddy?"

Now it was Eli's turn to stare at her. Siara was the only person he could think of who could remotely be called a princess. "Siara's an _asari_," he said, patiently. Maybe this woman was from Earth, where Dara told him a lot of people didn't know this stuff. "She had a second-mother, but not a father."

Her lips quirked up for a moment. "My mistake," she said. "I meant the _other_ little princess. The one that the big turian hauled upstairs a couple of minutes ago. Sitting at the piano."

Elijah started to laugh. "I'm sorry," he said, after a minute. "I guess that's just a difference in slang or something." _I guess __**princess**__ just means __**girl**__ to her. _"But it's just funny hearing anyone call Dara a princess. She hates dresses, and I've seen her helping muck out stable stalls. Which, by the way, if you've never been around horses? They're _not_ clean animals. They stink, and their droppings aren't exactly little."

The woman's eyes had narrowed a bit, and she was staring at him, consideringly. "So, she sits there at the f—I mean, at the center of attention, and you _don't_ consider her a spoiled little Daddy's girl?"

Eli was getting a little annoyed. It was _cold_ out here, and he'd come out here to escape, not to be interrogated about his friends and his family. "No. She plays the piano so Sky can listen to music, and listen to _her_ while she plays it, and listen to _us_ listen to it." Eli thought about that one for a moment. He was pretty sure he'd said that right. "Her dad asks her to, and it makes Sky happy. I wouldn't call that the center of attention." He stared at her for a moment. She was intimidating, but she wasn't Lantar-mad-scary. "Weird questions."

"Maybe I'm just a weird person, huh?"

Eli's reply slid out before he could censor it. "Yeah."

She looked annoyed, but only responded with another question. "And Jaworski? You got any opinions on him?"

"Do Spectres _have_ Internal Affairs? Is that what you are?" Eli asked, irritated. She laughed, a strident, ringing laugh. He clenched his jaw for a minute, and then said, clearly and distinctly as he could, "Yeah. Mr. Jaworski's a nice guy. He taught Dara how to shoot, which probably saved our lives in the cave during the whole kidnapping thing." He assumed the woman had watched the news at _some_ point in the last few months. "Stood with Commander Shepard and Kasumi, blocking the mouth of the cave while the rest of us were out of our minds, keeping us safe. He's even letting Rel plight Dara, so. . . " Eli shrugged, as if all that resolved the issue in his mind.

Then the door opened behind him, and when he turned, Siara was there, looking _pissed_. She walked right up into his chest, and Eli backed up slightly, holding up his hands. "No biotics," he told Siara. "You can _hit_ me, but no biotics."

Siara looked off to her left, saw the tattooed human there, then disregarded her completely, looking back at Eli. "You told them what you saw in my mind."

He winced. Well, he'd expected as much. "Yeah," Eli said, after a moment. "I didn't know what else to _do_. If you tell me what you'd rather I'd done, I can try to figure out a way to go back in time and fix it."

Siara ignored that. "Then, when I _finally_ am ready to stop hiding in my room, _you_ start hiding at the sight of me." Faint downward curve to the lips at that. "I know what you saw was bad, Eli, but it wasn't my fault."

"I didn't say it _was_ your fault—"

"_Then it is the darkness, the unclean parts, that make you hide? Is it disgust?" _Asari high tongue now, imperative.

Elijah wanted to snarl in exasperation, but settled for rubbing at his forehead instead. _"No, Siara, more-than-fair, I thought that you would be angry and need space and time for forgiveness."_

"Angry?" Back into English for a moment. "Oh, yes, I was. Until yesterday morning, I wanted to _kill_ you, letting your father and my mother know what had. . . what my second-mother had done—" Siara sighed, turned, and glared at the tattooed woman. "Are you just going to _stand_ there? Or can we have some privacy here?"

The woman laughed. "You've got a mouth on you, kid." She started to walk back around the side of the house, heading for the front yard once more.

Siara waited for her to go. "Anyway, Ylara came over and she and my mom pretty much held me down and fed me Kella's memories of you, so I wouldn't _just_ see the dark shapes I pulled out of your subconscious. Then Ylara pointed out that you probably knew I wouldn't forgive you, but acted to help me _anyway_. Which means either you're nobly disinterested in me, or you kind of like me a lot."

Eli shrugged. "Well, yeah. In my own defense, I have no idea _why_. It's not like you're ever _nice_ to me."

"I've kissed you. That might be enough for a human male." Asperity in the tone, but there was a little smile there, too. "I'm not sure what species out there a human _wouldn't_—"

"Krogan," he replied, promptly. "Never seen any of their females, though. They _could_ look completely different from the males. Hanar don't have, well, orifices. Salarians have one orifice, and everything's done externally, so, no, although I'd be willing to bet there's someone out there who'd _try_ to figure out a way. Elcor, no, although, again, I'm sure there's someone out there who's ready to graduate from sheep. . . ."

Siara's lips were twitching now. Reluctantly, but definitely there. "And turians?"

Eli thought about that. "They're not curvy in the right places, but some of them are really beautiful."

Siara punched him in the shoulder. He grinned at her, and continued, "However, the whole biting thing? Once you've seen one of them biting through bone, the mere _thought_ of a mouth like that getting anywhere _near—_"

"Oh, they don't—"

"Rational thought has _nothing_ to do with this." He shrugged. 'That does pretty much leave _normal_ human males with just humans, asari, and the occasional curiosity about what a quarian really looks like under the suit."

She punched him in the shoulder again, and he laughed. "Siara, you need to come to sparring practice more often. You hit like a girl." He caught her hand in his, and turned serious. "So, you're not mad at me anymore?"

Siara made a face and looked down "Actually, I need to ask your forgiveness. My mother told me that I could have forced the memories and the darkness on you, and created the same injuries in you, that I suffered."

"Oh," Eli said, blinking. "That, ah.. . that hadn't occurred to me."

"Yeah. Sorry. I didn't. . . I mean, I wouldn't have." Siara sighed, got up on tip-toes, and kissed him. He braced himself for a mental intrusion, but there was none. After a moment, he relaxed. Nothing here but warm lips, a soft body pressed into his, and _Oh, I think that was a tongue. Wow. That really __**is**__ nice. Especially now that I don't have to fight so hard that I can't pay attention to it._

Siara pulled back first. "That was a thank-you," she told him. "My mother told me no sharing till she's sure I'm all the way well." She frowned. "I _really_ didn't know I could hurt you. I just wanted to. . . lose it, I guess. Even though the memories wouldn't really go _away_. I just . . . I don't know. Thought it would make it better, or something."

Eli shook his head, and very carefully lifted the fingers of his hand to her face. "Does 'no sharing' mean 'no talking'?"

Siara snorted a little. "No, idiot."

"Okay, the _idiot_ thing is going to have to go. Does 'no sharing' mean 'no kissing'?"

"No sharing means no _maieolo_, of any sort. Not for a while, anyway." No mental touch, in essence, the kind of intimacy that asari craved more than the physical.

Eli shrugged. He still wasn't really sure why he found himself _liking_ her, in spite of everything. "I keep _telling_ you, there's other ways to share."

"Yeah, I know." She paused. "I'm not human, Elijah. But I can try to meet you halfway." She looked down. "If you want."

"I'm already there ahead of you," he told her, with a tone of carefully-applied resignation. "I've been waiting for a while, too."

She laughed for a moment, and it sounded real. Then her smile faded a bit. "So, are _they_ going to get done upstairs pretty soon?" _They _almost had to be Dara and Rellus, in context.

Eli glanced at his omnitool. "Depends on when they went up."

"About five seconds after _you_ bolted out the door."

"I _walked_ out twenty minutes ago. They've got ten more minutes, if I remember what little either of them have said about the current contract. Why?"

"I have some, well, some things I probably should have said to them a long time ago. My mom and Ylara tell me that part of getting better is figuring out what I'm actually responsible for, and fixing what I can." She sighed. "I'm _really _not looking forward to any of this."

Eli opened the door, grateful to be going back in where it was warm. "I'll go with you. It'll be okay. You'll see." He knew he didn't have any more time with Siara than he would have had with Kella. A year, maybe two, before the mismatch in life-spans took them apart, like a large cog spinning slowly against a smaller one. But Kella had taught him to focus on the now.

Inside, they eventually tracked Dara and Rellus to the kitchen, where Rel was sampling the dextro-levo concoction Dara had made, and had pronounced it 'non-toxic.' "I don't know what the second meat is, but it tastes _great._" The other dextro carnivores were munching in there as well, standing around the stove, watching the card game at the kitchen table, while the younger kids were being fed out at the long table in the actual dining room.

Siara looked into the big pot and frowned at the red substance bubbling in there. "What is this?" she asked, dubiously.

"Chili," Dara replied.

"Did you make it?" Siara managed, hesitantly.

"No." Dara didn't say anything more until Eli saw Rel put a foot behind her ankle, where her spur would have been, if she'd been turian. "My dad made it."

"Then can I try some?"

Dara filled a bowl with it, added cheese, and handed it to the asari girl, with a spoon and crackers.

Eli filled his own bowl, commenting, "I think the turians could practically eat this, too. It's mostly meat."

"Yeah, but there's nothing in the records on how allergenic ancho or chipotle chilis are for them." Dara herself was having a small serving of each food, and had her epi-tabs in her hand as they found seats out in the less crowded dining room. Eli's mom nodded to them, but had to get up to take Caelia off for a change. Eli watched in amusement as Siara tried the chili tentatively, and blinked. "It's. . . spicy." She hesitated. "But good."

It was almost painful to watch. Like someone who's just gotten on stage for the first time, has learned all the lines, and suddenly realizes that there's an audience out there, listening, in the darkness beyond the footlights. Eli leaned forward, like a prompter, and said, "Just say it. It won't get any easier if you wait around, and once you've said it, you don't need to say it anymore, right?"

Siara winced, then turned and looked at Rel. "Rellus, I've been very unkind to you since my mother moved here. I was. . .a little scared of you, in a way. I'm sorry, and I'd like to try again."

Eli covered his grin with a napkin. Re had an 'are you kidding me' look on his face at the moment. His turian friend probably hadn't seen himself as remotely intimidating when he was younger; his self-image was just starting to catch up with his new height. But Eli had enough of Siara's memories to realize it hadn't just been the physical that had been intimidating. It was the unconscious self-confidence and calm that did it.

After a moment, Rel cleared his throat. "Okay. Not what I was expecting to hear tonight, but all right."

Siara turned towards Dara, and evidently, this one was harder to say. "I'm sorry I said I thought you'd killed Kella."

Rel's head snapped up. Dara blinked. _Oh, boy. Dara never told him about that. _Rel muttered quietly, "Why didn't you _say_ she'd attacked your honor? I'd have understood that!"

"Because it wasn't my honor that was attacked, it was my feelings." Dara replied, shrugging.

Siara pulled back at their expressions, took a breath, and plowed on, doggedly. "I'm also sorry I made fun of you when you first came here. I was. . . am. . . a little jealous of you." Dara's expression was now a match for Rel's previous one, saying, without words, _how is that even possible?_

Siara lifted her chin, a little combatively. "I _still_ think Earth is provincial, though. Just so you know no one's pulling my strings here."

Dara nodded slowly. "Okay. I guess I don't know what to say to any of that, either." She looked at Rel. "You asking to start over or something?"

Siara looked down. "I don't think that's ever actually possible."

"How about," Eli said, as carefully as he could, "if we just try for everyone moving forward?" He doubted Dara would _ever_ like Siara. But he held out hope that they could tolerate one another enough not to make hanging out painful.

**Jack**

She'd lingered at the corners and edges of the little gathering for longer than she'd thought she would. She wasn't a part of their little world, of course. She preferred the shadowy corners, even the icy darkness outside. She couldn't figure out for the life of her what Shepard had wanted her to see here tonight. The _rachni_, handing the kids back to Garrus so that the turian could take them home and take them to bed? The fact that the big bug could see inside her head as naturally breathing? Oh, _that_ pissed her off to no end. Her mind had been her only sanctuary for years—and it wasn't much of a sanctuary, at that, filled with dark images and broken glass.

Was she supposed to look at Sidonis, forgiven, taken back into the fold, like a little lost. . . all right, like a big, _toothy_ lamb. . . with his tiny human wife and human son and hybrid daughter?

Was she supposed to see Cohort, a fucking _geth_, for god's sake, looking through a sheaf of papers that Kasumi had brought back from Earth, three hundred years old, if it was a day, with watercolor sketches of birds and plants, touching them delicately, as if a robot could understand the importance of touch, history, aesthetics, any of that?

Was she supposed to look at Gris, and see anything other than a krogan? Sure, he listened a lot more than he talked, which was sort of unusual, and she'd never seen a krogan play cards before, but that just meant he was house-trained, right?

Was she supposed to notice how Kasumi and Sam pretty much already acted like a married couple, albeit one still in the happy-new-insufferably-cuddly stage? Oh, they didn't touch much, but even a brush of fingertips, and they both started smiling.

What was she supposed to take away from all this? She'd cornered one of the kids, asked questions, tried to get a read on the situation. She'd gotten a feel for kids since working in the Ascension Project. She didn't always feel like she should be hitting them now; they weren't just targets for her rage. But she _was_ pretty sure that one couldn't lie to her. Not successfully, anyway.

And what had she gotten out of the kid with the face-paint? Nothing, really. He treated all the bizarreness around him as if it were perfectly. . . normal. He was being raised by a whole village of crazy people, killers. . . _like me. . . no, not like me. _The kid accepted it, accepted them. No, no, Mr. Jaworski is a good man. No, no, his daughter isn't a spoiled princess, really, she smells of horse manure. No, no, my dad isn't a traitor, he just demands respect.

Jack stood in the middle of a frozen walkway, and wanted to scream. _I'm supposed to see something here. What am I supposed to see?_

And what to make of how the little asari girl had accosted the boy, the fragments of conversation she'd heard? Sounded like he'd betrayed her, but she was weak enough to forgive him. She'd pay for that, again and again, until she figured out life. 'Course, some people never did figure life out.

Jack started walking again. _Of course, it's not like I've got it all figured out, either. If I had, I would've gone __**with**__ Zeke. Watched his back for him. _ Huh, come to think of it, most of the people there had been grouped off into couples. Only the krogan, the geth, and the rachni—the most alien of the aliens, in essence—had been there alone. Well, and Garrus, but he obviously had Shepard waiting for him at home. Had left early, in fact, saying he wanted to bring her up some dextro/levo pizza from Gardner's down in the valley. Anything to get her to eat properly, apparently. Hell, even the two asari were probably shacking up together.

_Was that what I was supposed to see? That most of them have someone who trusts them, absolutely and completely? That somehow, that means that I can trust them, too, not to fuck me over?_ It didn't sound like a Shepard lesson. Shepard's lessons were usually a little more hard-nosed than that. _Maybe more like 'this could be you, if you weren't such a fuck-up'? Nah, that doesn't sound like her, either._

Something clicked into place in her mind, and she found herself going through the conversations she'd overhead all night in her mind. _Little asari girl, she __**did**__ talk about what he'd seen in her mind, what her mother had. . . huh. Guess even asari have pervs. Doesn't surprise me somehow. So maybe I misjudged the kid. Maybe it wasn't a cycle of betrayal and hurt and betrayal and hurt. Maybe it was someone lending a hand to get another person __**out**__ of that cycle._

Jack stopped again, and groaned. It was almost a physical pain, and she crouched down in the snow, letting it wash over her. _I get it now. She wanted me to see them differently. She wanted me to break through the goddamn mirrored window in my way, and talk to them. Instead, I just watched. Like always. And like always, I got a distorted picture that way, didn't I?_

**Shepard**

"Okay," she said into the comm terminal in her home office. "Sorry I can't be there in person, folks. We've got a few items of business, and then I can let you all go take care of your kids. The surveillance equipment Garrus planted in Pero's quarters on Rough Tide still show no evidence of his return. There's probably another base that he's gone to, which is what leads me to my next question. Kasumi, do we have _any_ joy on the _Thelessav, _the salarian ship that left Earth orbit when you were in the ruins of Detroit?"

"Half a dozen plotted courses that took it within range of the Hourglass Nebula," Kasumi said. "Which is, of course, nowhere near the signs of batarian and Lystheni interests out in the Valhallan Threshold." She shrugged. "We can either get ships out there and scan methodically, system by system, or try to develop new information sources. I've got a call in with a lady from SATBIA on Earth this afternoon. They have some long-range reconnaissance stuff they might be willing to share. Might take a little horse-trading, though. Likewise, I have a call set up with salarian STG right after the SATBIA one."

Shepard nodded. "Okay, what's next?"

Mordin raised a finger. "New archaeological discovery on Klendagon."

Shepard raised her eyebrows. "Klendagon?"

"Yes, currently, uninhabited. Struck by a mass-effect-generated attack some thirty-seven million years ago." He blinked. "Safe to say, not a Prothean world. Great Rift valley extends across most of one hemisphere. Now, new discovery. Look."

He tapped his omnitool, and projected an image. Everyone in the meeting room, Shepard could see on her screen, leaned forward, and she could hear the collective gasp. A silvery cylinder, incised with faintly-glowing runes or sigils. "Same civilization as on Junthor?" she asked, interested.

"Unknown. No megalithic structures found. Inhabitants of this world may have cannibalized old tech from Junthor civilization, as our races have done with Prothean tech." Mordin blinked. "Runes not the same as on simulator device. Have been asked to go and inspect it, analyze it. Quarian team on the way, too."

"Go," Shepard told him. "Be careful. The last one had one hell of a toy surprise inside." She lifted her hands. "Anything else?"

Head-shakes all around. "Okay. Sam, Kasumi, Lantar, Sky, and Gris, I take it you're all heading to Odessa tonight?"

Nods from the various parties.

"Okay, have fun with the kids. Stay in contact, though. I have a feeling we're about to get busy again, so enjoy break time while it lasts."


	37. Chapter 37: Conflicting Goals

**Chapter 37: Conflicting Goals**

_**Author's note: **__Each chapter is taking a little more space than I anticipated. I swear, plot will return shortly. In the meantime, I hope everyone is okay with this chapter as it stands._

**Dara**

It was the evening of May 27, a Friday, and three shuttles were speeding through the purple Mindoir twilight, heading for the planetary capital, Odessa. It was, fortunately, on the same continent; _unfortunately_, it was half of that continent away, in a south-easterly direction. It was a six-hour flight to get there, and would have been _much_ faster in the _Normandy_. . . but using a Spectre frigate to transport seventeen kids and seven adults for what was, more or less, a school trip, might have come under the heading of 'misappropriation of funds," as her dad liked to put it.

At least the shuttles had decent autopilot systems. Her dad was in the pilot's seat, but had turned his seat around to keep an eye on the cargo and passenger area. Kasumi, in the copilot's seat, beside him, had her feet propped up, and was reading one of her antique paper books. Dara knew that Sky and Lantar were on the second shuttle, somewhere behind them, and Azala and Gris were on the third, along with the team's little salarian coach—the school's physics instructor, actually, Dr. Yulun Wrenen—spreading out adult supervision.

The shuttle seats, of course, lined the sides of the shuttle, so all the occupants faced one another, other than the pilot and the copilot. Eli and Siara had the seats opposite of her and Rel; the asari girl had fallen asleep shortly after takeoff. Eli, however, had been working furiously at a datapad for some time now, muttering under his breath. Towards the back of the shuttle were two of his teammates—Mazz and Linianus. The two boys had just fallen asleep themselves, from the sound of things.

She and Rel were on the right side, near the front, and they'd both been studying for the past two hours. Rellus was coming up on his very last set of final exams, and was keyed up for them, still worried about the comparative literature exam. "It's simple enough," she told him now, quietly. "In turian literature, _everyone always_ _dies_. In human literature, generally speaking, that _usually_ only happens in the _tragedies_. And maybe the melodramas. But you know, the comedies? Some of the characters actually live."

Rel grinned at her. "We're not _that_ bad. And the comedy where everyone dies is kind of an exception. That one's supposed to be funny because they're all incompetent rules-breakers and wind up falling on their own swords."

Dara made a face. "Yeah. . . when you have to explain the joke? It doesn't really translate."

"That whole 'Who's on First' routine you and your dad were showing me last week on the extranet? Doesn't translate either."

She grinned at him fondly. "I know." She tapped his datapad with one finger. "Find me _one_ thing in turian literature that proves me wrong, though." She chuckled quietly. "And when you find that one lonely happy ending out there, give it a hug. It'll be glad to have a friend."

He laughed quietly, obviously trying not to wake anyone. "You haven't read the love poetry yet."

"Let me guess. It involves biting?"

He grinned. "And human love poetry _doesn't_ mention kissing here and there?"

"So long as your sonnets don't have bodycounts, I'll read 'em with you. Let me finish this article first."

He glanced over at the title, and winced. "_Impact of cyanolimus on late-term gestational development in turians and quarians, a double-blind study._" He paused. "Sounds _fascinating._"

"And to think I thought my B-Sec first responder's handbook was dry." She waved her fingers at him. "I'll be done in a minute."

Eli leaned forward. "Rel, got a minute?"

"Apparently I'm free until Dara gets done with that article. What's up?"

"You've played handball before, right?"

"Yeah. I wasn't a frothing lunatic about it, but I played."

"Good. I'm trying to figure out how we're not going to lose tomorrow."

Dara's eyes flicked off the page. From the front, her dad chuckled. "Nothing like the power of positive thinking there, Eli," he said.

Elijah shook his head. "We've been playing by galactic rules; eleven-player team, more or less organized along soccer roles. Strikers, mid-fielders, defenders, and goalies. The Odessa team wants to play it their way. Alliance rules. Seven-player team, more like ice hockey, where you can shift out a tired line-up for a rested squad on the fly, take a defenseman off the field and send in an extra attacker, that sort of thing. We've been practicing that way for the last month, but it's a totally different way of playing." Eli paused. "It's also knocked our team balance all to hell. We started out with three turians on offense, three drell at midfield, three humans on defense, me in goal, and one random person floating around. Usually Mazz, up on offense." He looked glum. "Now we have two lines with two turian offensive players, one turian center, one human defender, one drell defender, and, well, me in goal. I'm trying to figure out what weaknesses they're going to try to exploit." He frowned. "Okay, maybe which ones they _won't_ exploit _first._"

Rel frowned. "That's. . . a hell of a change-up, yeah. Smaller court?"

"Yep."

"Okay, that emphasizes speed over endurance. Your turian players are still going to run the humans into the ground." Rel shrugged.

"I can vouch for that, personally," Dara commented dryly, scrolling down her page, making notes on dosage amounts and results.

Rel picked up her hand and nipped the inside of her wrist, a quick, teasing gesture. Her dad commented from the front, crossing his arms over his chest, "Sounds like they've pretty much adjusted about everything they could to ensure that you have a disadvantage. The game starts at what, 15:00, right?"

Eli nodded. "Full midday to sunset light. Which means that our drell players will need to wear dark glasses. And yeah. Fully expecting the other team to challenge the 'illegal' eyewear." He sighed. "I've had _way_ too much time to think about this."

Her dad chuckled. "Look at it this way, son. It means they're _scared spitless_ of you boys."

Elijah blinked. "Hadn't thought of it that way, but in that case, I'd really prefer that they were grossly overconfident."

Rel laughed, then asked, "Can you still foul out?"

"Yes and no. You can pretty much get an unlimited number of minor fouls—yellow cards—because the Alliance rules are there to encourage tough defensive play. On the other hand, anything that can cause an injury is a red card, and we'd be down a man." Eli glanced back, making sure the others were asleep. "My big fear is the other team is going to take one look at Mazz and start trying to provoke him."

Dara looked up, noticing the frowns on both her dad's face and Rel's. "Valid concern," Rel said, after a minute. "You talked with him about it?"

"Repeatedly. I even asked Gris to talk to him about it at sparring earlier this week. But even if Mazz manages to keep calm, there's. . . Sostrus, Linianus, Kaestrus, Paselus, Urius, Telinus, and Milonus to worry about." Eli looked discouraged.

Rellus frowned again. "You really think it's going to be an issue?"

"I'm doing my best to think like a human today." Eli grinned at Rel, but it was a little forced. "I spend half my time thinking _like_ a turian or _in_ asari lately, so it's a little harder than I like to admit. But if you're not faster and you're not stronger. . . .

"Then you have to be more guileful," her dad supplied, from the front. "Yeah. They'll be using the psychological element. I would _not_ be surprised if there's a fair bit of tripping. If they're smart, they'll be going for the spurs. Should be safe enough for them to do it, since the turian players wear boots, keeping the tips hidden, right?"

Rel shook his head. "First turian who gets hurt like that, the others _will_ go into defensive-anger. It's a. . . pack-mate sort of thing."

Her dad added now, "Another tactic they'll probably try is drawing fouls. Expect a lot of agonized dropping to the ground if any of your teammates even get _near_ them."

Eli nodded glumly. "And my turian teammates are going to see that as dishonorable, and their tempers are going to get even worse." He hesitated. "I'm sort of expecting to hear a lot of comments, too. _I'm_ more or less used to them, after Bastion, but my teammates aren't. Most of them have spent the last five years right here." He grimaced. "I'm not sure how to prepare them for it. Name-calling _should_ roll right off of you. . . but it never really does."

"No offense, son, but why exactly are _you_ the one worried about this? Shouldn't your coach. . . ." Sam paused, and thought about that one.

Eli laughed. "Have you _met_ Dr. Wrenan yet?"

"Shook his hand two hours ago. That's about it."

"We didn't even _have_ a coach until three weeks ago. All intramural stuff, for fun. Dr. Wrenan is a particle physicist. He likes handball because of the geometry of the plays, he says. Finds the calculus involved _fascinating_. He's had us practicing some pretty nifty plays, but. . . ." Eli rolled his eyes and flopped back against his chair. "And the rest of the team decided to elect me captain, for whatever insane reason. Really should be one of the offensive players, someone who can rally the people who're running around, not me, stuck at the back in my net. So, yeah. We're not just going to lose, we're going to go down in flames. No survivors."

Dara snorted a little. "You've been reading turian literature lately, too, haven't you?"

Rellus tapped on _her_ datapad now. "Less talking, more reading."

"Hard to concentrate with the Galaxy-Wide Sports Network on over my head."

Kasumi, dryly, from the front seat, over the top of her book, "I'm noticing that myself."

Eli ignored the by-play. "Rel, you used to play what?"

"Center. I'm _not _playing, though." Rellus' voice was _very_ firm on that point. "I wasn't actually planning on watching, to be honest."

Eli sighed. "I'd appreciate it if you could at least attend. Maybe talk to the turian boys before the game, and tell them to keep calm. They'll listen if _you_ say it."

"I don't know why you think they wouldn't listen to you, Eli. They elected you their captain. That means a _lot_ to turians."

"Yeah, but they look up to you."

"They don't have much choice in that," her dad said, dryly. "Even _I'm_ having to do that lately. You hit the two meter mark yet?"

"Two centimeters short of it still. Eye level with Uncle Garrus though." Rel sounded as if he were trying to decide between embarrassment and pride. "It's one of the main reasons I shouldn't play, though. Unfair advantage." He raised a hand. "But I'll talk to them." He glanced at Dara. "I know we hadn't planned to be there. . . "

"I kind of figured we'd get suckered in sooner or later." Dara's quick grin took the sting out of her words. "If the rules are basically the same as ice hockey, I'll even be able to follow along, more or less. The galactic rules stuff they've been playing at school doesn't make a damn bit of sense, but hockey rules? Sure. I can even tell you what an offside is."

Her dad grinned. "You _do_ still have that Dallas Stars jersey somewhere in your closet, don't you?"

"Shh. They haven't made a playoff season since before I was _born_." 

"That's the measure of a _real_ fan, sweetie."

Now she turned off her datapad. "Now that I think I have a grip on why cyanolimus works on the turian immune system, I believe there's a bunch of sonnets about people dying for love in my future?"

Rel laughed. "Just for that, I'm making you do the translations out of _tal'mae_ yourself."

Kasumi commented, "To be fair, there's a fair bit of dying for love in human sonnets, Dara." The little woman grinned. "Of course, if the sonnet was written in the Renaissance, 'to die' had a double meaning." Rel looked up, and Kasumi explained, "It was also slang for achieving orgasm. It's amazing just how dirty Shakespeare really gets."

Both Elijah and Rel were looking up now. "Wait," Rellus said. "You're telling me that humans used to equate _release_ with _death? _Why?"

Kasumi nodded chipperly. "Orgasm used to be called a 'little death.' Largely because there was a folk belief that every orgasm literally shortened your life."

Dara pretended not to see the highly-amused glances that passed between her dad and Kasumi at that point.

Eli shook his head. "Okay, my last literature course probably would have been a _lot_ more interesting, if the teachers had mentioned stuff like that."

"It was in the footnotes, Eli," Dara replied, dryly. "You should try reading those once in a while."

Rel leaned back in his seat, shaking his head. Looking at Dara for a moment, he said, very quietly, "And you tell me that _my_ people have odd fixations? Leaving aside the fact that humans seem want to remain as ignorant as possible about their own bodies, as if suppressing knowledge _ever_ prevents behavior. . . the whole 'body is evil' thing is . . . baffling."

She shrugged. "Way beyond me to explain. You'll have to talk to someone who's _really_ studied this stuff to explain that." Dara leaned into Rel's shoulder. "All right, let's see this turian love poetry."

Even they'd fallen asleep by the time the shuttles landed, however, and Dara awakened shortly before they landed, realizing that she'd made a pillow of Rel's shoulder at some point, and that his arm was warm around her shoulders. Then everyone clambered, sleepy-eyed, out of the vehicles, and headed for their hotel.

Odessa was far to the south-east of the base, and thus, had a _much_ warmer climate, despite it still being in the northern hemisphere during seasonal winter. There was a tang of humidity in the air as well. The turians and the drell suddenly looked a lot more comfortable; every human started loosening clothing.

As the only girls, or at least, girl-shaped people on the trip, Dara, Siara, Azala, and Kasumi would all be sharing a room. Dara didn't really like Siara any better at this point than two weeks before, but had to give the asari girl credit; she was making an effort to be less snippy. Dara _still_ had no idea what was behind the change, and didn't entirely care. It was a little disconcerting sometimes, however. She'd be geared up, ready to have to defend herself, and the anticipated attack. . . never happened.

The next morning, the various boys on the team were supposed to get a chance to practice on the opposing team's handball court. That meant that Gris, Dr. Wrenan, Lantar, Sky, and her dad were going to be with them, to observe and supervise. _Such elaborate preparations for these 'games,' _Sky commented in everyone's minds. The various boys from the science station still didn't quite seem to know what to make of the brood warrior, but were treating him with a wary sort of awe. _Mock battles, mock hunts. Practice of skills makes the battle-songs real in your minds. _

Dara didn't know what Azala and Siara were along for, but they'd probably be at loose ends for the day. She and Rellus had plans of their own, and Kasumi would be along to help and to supervise, of course. She wished, of course, that they could just handle this on their own, but although Odessa wasn't a _big_ city—it wasn't Bastion, or even Houston, for that matter—but it was unfamiliar territory. So, Kasumi rented a groundcar, and off they went.

Odessa was something of a shock for them both. Dara had gotten _used_ to living on the Spectre base, and even her last trip away, to Shanxi, had found her largely in the company of a mix of humans and turians. Now, she was surrounded by other humans on all sides, and realized two things. First, that she was now taller than the average human woman; she hadn't even _realized_ that, on base. Kasumi was, after all, not a good basis for comparison; neither was Ellie, Lantar's wife.

Second, she found herself crowding closer to Rel, almost unconsciously. As if her own species were the alien one. Which, when she caught herself doing it, made her laugh.

The next shock came in the first jewelry store they stopped at. The human clerk behind the counter smiled when Dara first walked in; then, as Rel stepped in behind her, the woman's eyes went wide, and she looked up and up at him, and the smile faded. "Are you together?" the clerk asked, uncertainly.

"Yes," Dara said, glancing back. Kasumi had taken up position just by the door. Giving them space, not intervening. On the one hand, it was nice to be treated like an adult. On the other hand, she wouldn't have _minded_ a little artillery support at this point. "I need to get something reset, and we need to get a couple of bands to match." She held up her left hand in illustration.

"Oh!" The clerk fetched a ring stand, so that Dara could take off the ring and let the woman look at it. "This is a really lovely old ring," the woman said at length. "Good quality stone, too."

"It was my mom's."

The clerk looked up, flicking a clearly nervous glance between the two of them. "Are you _really_ sure this is something you _want_ to do?" There was a tone there, of shocked disbelief, really, that went beyond the actual words, and put Dara's teeth on edge.

There was slight pause—just long enough for the woman to realize that she hadn't been specific, apparently. Then, hastily, she added, almost babbling, "I'm just saying, it's a beautiful piece as it is. It would be a shame to separate the stone and the ring." The clerk went on, "I'm also not sure I have anything that would _fit_—I mean, turian fingers are much larger—"

Rel shook his head, and his voice grated a little more than usual as he commented, "If you don't want our business, just _say_ so."

"No, I'm sorry if I've given you that impression—"

Dara reached out and picked up the ring, returning it to her finger. "Thanks for your time," she said, not particularly meaning it.

Outside, Dara looked at Kasumi. "I take it we're going to see some more of that today?"

Kasumi nodded. "Wasn't so very long ago, a couple of mixed race on Earth would have gotten the same exact reaction, depending on where they went," she told them, with a little shrug. "Pretty much why your dad asked me to go with you this morning, Dara. He knew I'd be able to stand back and let you guys learn how to handle it on your own, but back you up if you _needed_ it. He, on the other hand. wouldn't be able to resist jumping down some of these people's throats with both feet if he were along."

Rel growled, quietly, "I suppose I should have expected this."

Dara put a hand on his back. "So, what, we just keep going store to store until we find someone who _doesn't_ react like this?"

Kasumi shrugged. "Unfortunately, the extranet listings for shops in Odessa doesn't have a category that says 'species blind.' So. . . yeah." She smiled, and there was warm sympathy there. "Think of it as skin-toughening practice for both of you."

By the fifth store, Dara was seething, and Rel was starting to laugh, although Dara could tell he was angry, under it. There was just a hint more blue in his crest than there should have been, meaning that he was just controlling his irritation more than she was. "We could make a game of this," he suggested. "Place bets on how fast we get the reaction. I think that last one was a new record."

"My own species is letting me down here," she grumbled. "I would have thought out here on a _colony_ world, it wouldn't have been nearly as bad as back on _Earth_."

"My personal favorite was the clerk who suggested that you shouldn't have stolen the ring out of your mom's jewelry box, and that you should return it before she finds out." Rel rested his hands on her shoulders, pulling her back into his chest.

Kasumi shook her head. "Other than the base, not a lot of aliens come to Mindoir, Dara. Bastion, Bekenstein, or Terra Nova would have been a little easier. Even Omega—not that I'm suggesting that, mind you."

After a moment or two, Rel ran a quick extranet search on his omnitool. "Here," he said, after a moment. "Bialik and Huullist, Jewelers. Established 2182. It's. . . somewhere on the southwest side of town, but at least one of the names is elcor. Let's try there." He grinned. "Not that I don't find the sight of your justice-anger _very_ appealing, _amatra_."

The _Bialik _half of the name turned out to be a human male in his late fifties, with a heavy Czech-Yiddish accent, and he was indeed in business with an elcor. The shop was out of the way, but to the owners' credit, they each blinked once—although, for an elcor, that actually said quite a bit—and moved on with business. "Very nice old ring," Bialik commented, taking the tape off of it. "You want to preserve the setting, _ne? _I could offer you a good price for it."

Dara glanced at Rel. He shook his head. "It's been in her family for a long time. At some point I'll get her a different stone for it."

They found a flat tension setting for the old gem, and arranged for matching bands. Dara winced a little at the costs, and asked Rel, quietly, "Would you terribly mind if I got you something in titanium? I'm not sure I can afford any of the other ones."

Rel snorted. "It's your custom, _amatra_, not mine. I have no opinion, so long as it fits."

"Nothing in stock large enough," Bialik told them once the decision had been made. "Hullist will custom-make. Come back tomorrow, pick up then. We'll be open at. . . eh, Sunday hours." He flapped a hand. "Ten or so. Right now, we move stone from one ring to new ring. Take maybe half hour. Sit, have tea." He looked at Rellus and grinned, showing yellowing teeth. "Maybe no tea for you."

The whole series of events had taken about two hours, but at least when they walked out, Dara had a ring on her finger that fit properly, and they'd had a chance to calm down a bit. "Well," Kasumi said as they got back into the groundcar, "Let's go see what the others are doing, hmm?"

**Siara**

The morning had been irritating. Her mother had arranged for them to meet a priestess of the triune goddess here in Odessa—one who'd come here all the way from Illium, in fact—and Siara was pretty cognizant of the honor. It was, however, difficult to open herself to the woman. On the one hand, she didn't actually _believe_ in the triune goddess. To her, it just sounded like anthropomorphizing the universe, making natural phenomena over in their own image. Maiden, matron, matriarch. She could sense the older female's amusement at her thoughts, and closed down. "No," Siara said, firmly. "I won't share with you."

Her mother looked worried. "Little one, she's come all the way from Illium to _help_ you."

"If what I'm supposed to be fixing has to do with being forced to share, I don't see how sharing with someone I don't want to share _with_ is actually going to help." Siara's voice wavered slightly, but she was _not_ going to be moved on this point.

"She's right," the priestess said, much to Siara's surprise. "If she's not comfortable with me, then I would be doing more harm than good." The woman looked at her mother. "I know that it is a heavy burden, taking so much of the weight on yourself. If there is any other asari you know who would be willing, and whom Siara is comfortable with. . . ."

Siara cringed in on herself. It was bad enough that Eli and his father knew, and Ylara, and probably Commander Shepard, too, since her mother had told her that Shepard had called in a justicar to find her second-mother, Tsia, and bring her to justice. But to have anyone _else_ know. . . it was a horrifying thought. And then she realized that the rachni creature probably knew, and whatever Commander Shepard knew, her husband knew, and her husband was Rel's uncle. The list of people who _did_ know suddenly expanded into a dizzying, terrifying expanse of people who _could_ know, and Siara slowly inched her fingers up her opposing arms, hugging herself.

"Does it have to be an asari?" her mom was asking.

"Not necessarily, if you're willing to mediate the exchange. It would be exhausting for you though, Azala." The priestess sounded concerned.

"I'd rather have a stranger in my mind than have anyone else know," Siara said, after a moment's struggle for words.

The priestess reached out and touched her face, and Siara felt the woman's mind reach out for hers. After a moment, the woman shook her head. "You say that with words, little one. But you continue to resist in your heart." Siara almost hated her at that moment, the look of compassion on her face. _How can you know what it's like? I can __**feel**__ that you've never actually had it happen to you. Oh, you've shared other people's memories—a hundred times, a thousand times. It's easy to be kind and wise and lofty, when it's __**never been you**__._

"No," the priestess told her, quietly. "To a certain extent, that's true. But mostly, if you don't _believe_ that I can help you, then I can't." She began to pack up her bag.

"I'm sorry to have brought you all this way—" Azala began, sounding terribly embarrassed.

"It was a pleasant trip, and this planet is very beautiful. Perhaps more beautiful than its human colonists deserve, but then. . . no one ever really gets what they deserve in this universe. And we should all be grateful that this is the case." The priestess' smile was serene, and she left the room with a slight bow of her head.

_Grateful? I should be grateful that I got what I didn't deserve? I should be grateful that I didn't get worse? Spare me the platitudes. _Siara's expression was mutinous, but she looked up at her mother through tears. "Thank you for not making me," she said, very quietly. "I'm sorry I . . . I'm sorry I'm making it harder for you."

Azala wrapped one arm around her shoulders. "Don't worry about it. We'll figure something out. Maybe one of the other Spectres wouldn't mind, or might have. . . similar experiences. I'll ask Lantar to check around. Really, the only requirement would be willingness to share—and your comfort with that person. A strong biotic would be helpful, since it would make it less tiring for me, but. . . ." Her mother shrugged. "Did you want to get back in time to watch that silly handball game, little one?

Siara sighed. "Not really. But Eli has been. . . very kind to me. And his feelings will be hurt if I'm not there." She made a face. "He's convinced they're going to lose. I don't know where he gets these ideas from."

"He is, like his father, a realist, dear."

**Rellus**

The Odessa school had an outdoor handball court, with an asphalt surface—quite a bit different from the soft, slippery turf footing that the Spectre kids were used to. There were also stands for the audience on three sides of the field, Rel noted; as if they expected a lot of viewers on a regular basis. Their schoolmates had spent the morning in a brief practice, just to get used to the surface and the size of the field, and Dara had dropped by the hotel to pick up her first aid kit. "I know there'll be a doctor there," she told him, wryly, "but after this morning, I'm not sure anyone in Odessa is qualified to treat someone who doesn't bleed _red_. Better safe than sorry."

They'd arrived early enough to get seats close to the team bench; Siara was actually seated next to Dara, who had a slightly grim expression on her face as a result; then Azala, Kasumi, Sam, Lantar, Gris, and Sky. The various parents and students from the Odessa school were staying well back from their row in the bleachers, Rellus noted, with some amusement. The youngest children were pointing at Sky and having to be dragged away by anxious parents. The sight helped make up for the morning, at least a little, and Rel nudged Dara in the ribs to get her to share in his mirth.

Dr. Wrenan made his way into their area, and leaning over, told Rel, "Eli said you'd want to say a few words to the turians on the team? Could you come back with me? I've never been good with inspiring speeches, no. My graduate students tell me I'm not even good with _un_inspiring ones, either." He tittered a bit, and Rel grinned a bit, reluctantly, as the little professor took him back into the locker room area.

"Rel!" Eli said, looking relieved. He was the only human in the room wearing facepaint, and damned near the only human at all—Thomas Hadley and Elaidio Hernandez were both playing defense, and sitting with their drell teammates on the other side of the room. "Really glad you made it back in time. I have no idea what to say to everyone except 'play smart' and 'let's have fun, even though we're all doomed.'" Elijah grinned at him, but his eyes were worried. _He doesn't want to let everyone down_, Rellus realized.

The various turians in the room quieted when Rel walked in, and Linianus looked up, asking, "Eli managed to convince you _yet_?"

Rel shook his head. "Strictly a by-stander. I haven't played in a year, anyway. I'd be a liability." He paused. "Eli asked me here to say a few words. I don't know what I can say that you haven't heard before, so I'll just keep it brief. Eli thinks, and I think he's right, that the other team knows that they can't match you guys for speed or strength. They might have some set plays that you haven't seen before. You'll figure those out fast, since you're smart. That won't be the problem. Eli thinks that they'll try to make this a mental game instead. They'll probably play rough—that's not a problem for any of you. But they'll also probably play dirty. Tripping, hitting, faking fouls, name-calling—whatever will get you to react. _Don't_." Rel turned and met the eyes of each turian boy, and Mazz, too, for good measure. "When we get mad, sure, reaction times get better, but we don't think as well. Do your best, and it'll be a fun game." He turned and looked at Eli. "Sorry; I don't think I really have the inspiring speech gene in me."

"Practice!" Lin called across the room. "You're going to be a squad leader in two months."

Rellus shrugged. "Spirits willing, maybe," he replied, grinned, and left.

The stands were a lot fuller now, and he picked his way back to Dara's side, and she looked up at him in apparent relief. "It's getting so full, I thought people were going to start hassling me for your seat," she told him.

Rel snorted. "Not till they stop eyeing this row like we've all got the batarian plague." His tone was a bit more sour than usual, but he wrapped his right arm around her for a quick hug in the afternoon sunlight. It might be more public contact than turian stoicism typically permitted, but he'd learned very quickly that Dara liked these occasional displays, and he didn't mind them, himself. _More than one way to mark territory, after all._ From the row behind him, he could hear half a dozen humans whispering to each other about the various alien Spectres in their row. "Sky's got to be getting an _earful_," Rel said, leaning down to speak into Dara's ear, himself. "I know _I _am."

_Many voices, many songs. Almost cacophony. Familiar harmonies easier to pick out,_ Sky told him, and from the way every head on their bench turned, he was sure everyone in their group had heard the rachni.

The afternoon sun was warm; it was probably 23º C/75º F out, sunny, and slightly humid. The field was laid out on an east-west orientation. _Probably they try to make sure that the visiting team always winds up with the sun in their eyes in the second half of the game_, Rel thought, as the Spectre kids came out of the locker room and headed to their bench. The crowd went absolutely silent Seven turians, three drell, three humans, and one krogan. Fourteen players, all oddly matched.

Then the crowd went _wild_ for their own team as they emerged, trimly uniform, all looking amazingly alike, smooth-faced and alien, heading for their own bench. Rel winced, and Dara put her fingers in her ears. He'd been amazed at the massed power of two hundred voices singing in harmony; this screaming and hollering resounded, and made him think of Shepard's speech on Shanxi, months ago now. _This is what their Romans sounded like, when they called for blood in their arenas. Not so different from we cheer __**our **__gladiators, but to hear them sound like __**us**__. . . how odd. _There was a marked lack of hissing or howling, of course, but within their limited vocal range, there _was_ a certain similarity.

With the field orientation in mind, when Eli won the coin toss from the referees, he immediately selected the eastern goal, so that when the sides switched, he'd be keeping his drell players facing away from the sunset glare. Rel nodded in approval. As expected, the opposing coach put up an immediate objection to the drell's sunglasses. Dr. Wrenan went forward onto the field, and explanations ensued.

After a moment, Rellus growled. "What?" Dara asked. "I can't hear what they're saying."

Down the bench, Lantar was shaking his head and providing Sam with the same recap that Rel now provided to Dara. "Wrenan said that they're crepuscular to nocturnal, and need glasses to compensate for the daylight environment. The opposing coach said that _his_ players aren't being given any special privileges, so why should our team get an advantage?" He paused. "Oh, good answer, Eli!" Rel grinned down at Dara, seeing Siara turn her head to listen now. "Eli told the referees that if his drell players have to take off their glasses, he wants every human on the other team to take out their corrective lenses and play just as blind as the drell."

Siara grinned. "Sometimes, he's smarter than he looks." She paused. "Not that _that's_ hard."

Dara turned and gave her a look. "If you like someone, you really shouldn't run them down _all_ the time. People start to believe stuff when they hear it enough.

Siara looked about to make a comeback, then visibly leashed her tongue. "You're right."

"Here we go," Rel commented, as the teams met in the middle of the field for a faceoff over the ball.

As predicted, the first half was _ugly_, and swung back and forth rapidly. The Spectre team scored the first ten points unanswered, purely off the speed and power of their turian forwards. The human team took a ten second time-out, and when they came back, their style of play had radically changed. "Oh," Dara said, in a tone of annoyance. "I know that one from hockey. They just switched to a trap system. Zone defense." She made a face. "Think Lin and the others are still fast enough to beat it?"

Rel shook his head. "Yeah. Easily. That's not going to be the problem, though."

Sure enough, as the human players' tempers frayed, play got rough very quickly. Siara leaned forward after a few minutes, and asked, around Dara, "Are they playing by the same rules down there? I thought Eli said that you couldn't hit from beside or from behind."

Rel shook his head at one particularly rough slide-tackle, which took Sostrus right off his feet onto the asphalt. "Yeah. It's not allowed."

"Then shouldn't the adjudicators be doing something about that?"

Dara offered Siara a package of popcorn. "Welcome to sports. Did I mention that my favorite team hasn't made the playoffs in _twenty-five_ years?"

The humans managed to rally, and tied up the score, mostly on a man advantage, because Telinus had been called, somehow, for a roughing penalty. "I didn't see where he was anywhere _near_ the guy on the ground," Dara muttered.

"No, it was Milonus who actually dumped the ball-carrier. And I say ball-_carrier_, because that's what the kid was doing. Should have been called for traveling." Rel put his hands over his face. "I think the officials might be having trouble telling the turians apart."

Dara squinted. "Okay, Mil wears a solid mask of red paint. Tel wears white diagonal stripes. Even with their backs turned, Tel is still six inches shorter than Mil."

"I know," Rel said, tiredly.

Twenty minutes of painful play went by. The turians were evidently getting tired of the Odessa team's incessant yapping and roughing, and were starting to retaliate, picking up penalties along the way. "Come on," Rel muttered under his breath. "Stay focused. They can't beat you if you don't _let_ them. Ah. . . _s'kak. _Here we go."

Mazz had been, typically, camped out at the goal line, waiting to tip in the ball if it was passed to him or got knocked loose in the scrum. His position was called a pivot. It was a position requiring massive strength; wings typically used speed to attack, and centers called the plays and directed traffic, but pivots simply stood at the front door of the goal and took a beating, _created _traffic, and generally made themselves a nuisance that the other team's defenders had to take care of. At the moment, however, Mazz was getting periodic elbows, shoves, knees, kicks, and, from the way the mouths were all moving out there, comments. He'd already taken a minor penalty five minutes before, for dumping a defender to the ground when the defender didn't have the ball.

Mazz's expression was slowly building into rage, and when one final comment crossed his mental threshold, he simply picked up the Odessa defender who was taunting him, and tossed him into the net.

"Ouch," Dara said. "Do they _have_ four-minute major penalties in this game, or is that one an automatic ejection?"

"Four minute penalty, I think. The official actually _saw_ some of the provocation, looks like." Rel said, but his voice was muffled, largely because his face was buried in his hands. "Partially off-set by a two-minute minor to the defenseman. Elijah was _not_ kidding when he said he thought this was going to go badly."

He looked up again when Dara's fingers dug into his arm, urgently. Linianus, trying to shift the pressure out of their team's zone, raced up the far side, ball in hand, trying for a goal while the other team held the man advantage. The only Odessa defender left back in their zone to help their goalie streaked towards Linianus, and there was an ugly collision; the human boy leaped into Linianus, and threw him over the barricade that separated the field from the bystanders. Even from across the field, Rellus knew it had been a bad hit. Defenders could leave their feet to stop a ball once it was thrown, but _couldn't_ do so to attack an opponent.

Every one of the Spectre players and affiliates were on their feet, and Eli left his goal, jogging across the field to get to Linianus. Rellus was hissing with the rest of the turians, keeping an eye on Lin, who hadn't gotten to his feet yet. The stands were starting to get very quiet now, as Lin's stillness started to break through the cheerful delight in mayhem, in a solid hit.

A human doctor made his way across the field, where Eli was crouching over his teammate, and after a minute or two, Eli came back over to their bench. The human boy had a cut over one eye, that was still oozing blood; an Odessa player had 'accidentally' run over him en route to the net. Odessa had taken a penalty for it, but it had been off-set when one of the drell defensemen had punched the Odessa player for attacking the Spectre kids' goalie.

"The doc over there has never treated a turian," Eli said now, tiredly. "He's asking that we send _anyone_ who has." He said it loudly enough so that the Spectre row behind the bench could hear, and Rel could see his friend's jaw was clenched, and that look of dark anger was back in his eyes. _Good thing he doesn't play offense, or he'd be looking for revenge on the next play._ Rel's thoughts were detached, and he patted Dara on the back as she and Lantar, after exchanging shrugs, both hopped over the barricade and headed across the field. He could hear Lantar comment, "Your first-aid's a little more current than mine, Dara. We'll see what we can do." The various turian, human, krogan, and drell players of the Spectre squad came back and sat at their bench, heads down. For all of them, it was pretty much the same feeling, Rel suspected, whatever the species. A pack-mate was down, and they couldn't do a damn thing about it.

Eli beckoned Rel down to the barricade, and the older boy made his way over. "I know what you're going to ask," he told Eli.

The human boy shrugged. "Yeah. Lin's out. I think he broke something. Dara's got the scanner in her kit, so we'll know for sure in a minute, but you see what they're doing out there. I can handle the net, and the defenders are solid, but they've got all the offense pissed off and taking shit-stupid penalties, and I can't do much to direct the offense from the middle of my _net_."

Rel grimaced. "The officiating hasn't really been helping with any of that."

Eli's expression was sour. "Tell me something I _don't_ know."

Rel looked along the line of bowed heads, and scowled. These were his friends. He'd grown up with most of them. Sure, it was a stupid game, and he didn't really have time for games any more, but they were playing to the best of their ability and by the damn rules, and it absolutely stuck in his crop to think of them going home just this way. Heads down. If he played, they still might lose, but at least he'd have given them the feeling that someone at least had their backs, if nothing else. "All right," he said, after a moment. "Warm body, reporting for duty." He grinned. "I think we need to turn the psychological tricks around on them a bit, though."

Jaworski had moved down to lean on the barricade next to them. "You got something in mind, son?" he asked, sounding actually rather interested.

Rel shrugged. "Depends." To Eli, he asked, "I take it the comments are the usual human slurs?"

"'Your mother fucks krogans,' 'What are you, an asari in drag?', 'fish-face drell,' 'Get your scaly asses off our planet . . .'" Eli repeated tiredly. "I actually get the most colorful ones. They don't know what to make of a human wearing paint, so apparently, I must take it in the ass from a turian." He looked up at the cloudless sky. "I wasn't wearing paint on Bastion, so that one's actually _new_."

"No creativity in today's youth," Jaworski said, shaking his head.

Rel grinned, pulling off his shirt, and taking a spare jersey from Eli. "Okay. I do have an idea." He glanced diffidently down at Jaworski. "It would mean breaking a small portion of my contract with Dara, and I won't do it without her permission, or yours."

Jaworski shrugged. "So long as we're not talking about sex in public—we're _not_, right?" He waited for Rellus' quick head-shake, then finished, "I'm not really sure what's _in_ the contract that could possibly offend me out here." He grimaced. "Seeing that hit offended me a hell of a lot more than anything you're likely to do, in fact."

Linianus, leaning on Lantar's shoulder, came back to the bench with Dara. Rel thought Lin looked downright gray under the scales. Lantar had a healthy blue flush starting in his crest, and Dara's eyes were cold. "Scanner shows no concussion," Dara told them as they clustered around. "Nice cracked right patella, though. _Not_ dislocated, thank god. I wouldn't know how to put it back in place. No soft tissue damage. I've wrapped it up we can put ice on it, and when we get back to the base, Dr. Abrams can regenerate the bone. But until then, no weight on it." Right around then, Rel saw her actually _notice_ the fact that he was wearing a team jersey, and her lips pulled down slightly. "Great," she said. "At least they won't actually be _shooting_ at you this time, Rel."

With everyone working together, they passed Linianus over the barricade and got him situated in the stands, his leg stuck out stiffly in front of him. Once Dara was sure that Lin was comfortable, Rel saw her scowl and walk right for the end of the bench where Mazz was sitting, and Gris was leaning over the barricade, talking to the younger krogan. She got his attention, and, while her voice was too quiet for the humans to pick up what she was saying, Rel, Gris, Lantar, and all the turian boys started to laugh at the same time.

Linianus, even in pain, laughed, shook his head, telling Rel, "You must love her mouth."

"You have no idea." Rel thought about that one, and decided not to correct his phrasing.

Eli looked between them all. "What? Come on, they're only going to keep play stopped for so long."

Rel chuckled. "She told Mazz that if he liked his arm where it currently is, he'd better not lose his temper again, or she'd cut it back off and shove it so far up his ass he'd be able to scratch his own tonsils." Dara was substantially smaller than the krogan boy, but he knew Mazz respected her at this point. Waving a krogan's arm in their face sometimes had that effect.

Dara came back over and stood nearby, tapping her first-aid kit where it sat on the wall. Eli choked. "Right. Dr. Wrenan, could you tell the officials that we're making a substitution?"

The officials were against it. "Rellus Velnaren? That's not on the list."

"I'm guessing that we didn't bring a third full line because we were told this was going to be a _friendly_ game," Sam called over the barricade, staring at the officials. "Instead, we've got a boy going to the damn hospital. Cut the crap and let's get on with the game."

"He looks very close to adult height."

"I'm taking my final exams next week," Rellus told them, patiently.

Finally, the officials relented. Eli muttered, "Okay, whatever this psychological thing you're going to do, you'd better do it now. They've had a nice long rest over there, and morale over here is _slipping_, know what I mean?"

Rel took a deep breath. This was either going to be very embarrassing, or very effective. No middle ground. "Dara, _mellis,_ could you come over here?" Bending a little lower, he said, "Take off your jacket. I'm sorry if this embarrasses you."

She looked up at him a little warily. "Rel, what are you going to do?"

"Mark you in public, in front of the spirits and every human here." He winced a little.

She blinked, and whispered, fast, "I thought turians didn't approve of that!"

"It's only supposed to be done by leaders." In theory, only the lead male marked his female in public; it was a gesture that essentially said that anyone who wanted to challenge his right to do so, would have to fight him. In practice, marking was rarely done in public, being more of an instinctive behavior than a social one. But it _would_ almost instantly give him an endorphin surge; the turian boys looking on would approve; they'd have followed his lead anyway, but the gesture would give them the mental assurance that he _was_ their pack-leader, in a sense. It would be hard to explain to a non-turian.

Besides which, the Odessa boys had been sniping hard at their alieness. Giving them a taste of what was _really_ alien would throw them back on their heels, and there was almost nothing they could say to him that would really affect him. And to be honest, after all the storekeepers today, Rellus rather enjoyed the thought of rubbing a few human noses in turian custom.

Dara slipped her jacket off her shoulders, revealing the tanktop she'd worn for this warmer weather today, and tilted her head to the side, and he moved fast, biting down on her shoulder, feeling her arms come up to wrap around his back, felt her muscles relax in complete submission. Could hear the various turian boys behind him, catching on to what he was doing, and why, set up hunt howls, eerie, rasping, ululating trills. Just a peek at the audience behind them, he could see the effect it was having; they all looked uneasy.

Then Elijah whooped and joined in the hunt cries, followed by the two other humans and the three drell. When Rel pulled back, Dara got up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "Go get 'em," she said, sitting back down between Siara and Linianus as if nothing at all had happened, even though he could see her blushing pinkly.

Rel grinned at her, and got onto the field. The Odessa squad had taken a four minute penalty for the hit on Lin; it should have been a match disqualification for the player, but the officials were. . . interesting judges. As it was, Rel and Eli told the defensemen to _punish_ the player who'd hit Lin, every chance they got, but not to be stupid about it.

Rel might be _terribly_ out of practice at handball, but he had one thing going for him that no one else on the field did—massive conditioning. Just to drive the point of turian stamina home, he stayed on the field for every shift-change for the first twenty minutes he played—and in handball, like hockey, the action generally doesn't _stop; _players _run_ the entire match, up and down the length of the field. His height advantage was enormous, and his speed matched. The turian offensive line straightened up and stopped taking fouls. Mazz became an unshakeable mountain in front of the net on his shifts, replaced by Paselus, a stocky turian, when the second line came out to play for a bit. For Eli, the game probably got a bit easier; all the action was suddenly concentrated in the Odessa zone.

Predictably, after halftime, the Odessa players came back with a vengeance. The officials had started calling them tighter after the injury to Lin, however, and they couldn't get away with as much. They tried name-calling, but there was only so much they could _say_, that Rel couldn't simply laugh off. He'd been _shot_ at before, after all. It gave him a certain perspective on things.

About the closest they could get to hitting home was to call Dara a whore, and when the first boy said it, Rel decided that his best revenge would be to swipe the ball out of his hand and loft it across the field to Sostrus, setting the right wing up for another goal. He had only two shots on goal himself, but that wasn't really what he was _there_ for. He was there to set up plays, and to be the first person back over the center line to help out the defense. In essence, he was there to let the _other_ people play.

Eli had to make several very good saves late in the game, as the Odessa squad tried to rally, but the drell and human defenders had had a good break, and had managed to stay mentally alert, so in the end, what had looked like a loss at worst, tie at best, wound up, somehow, becoming a victory. _I'd have settled for a tie, but this is much more fun_, Rel decided, coming back over to the sidelines and hopping over the barricade. "Lin, let me help you over to the bench," he told the younger boy. "You should be with them. I think they want everyone to shake hands or some bizarre human custom like that."

"It's supposed to show good sportsmanship, no hard feelings, whatnot," Jaworski told him.

Rel stared at him. "Did you hear the things they were saying out there? See the things they did? If they want to show honor, they should show it on the field, not just afterwards." He helped Lin over the barricade to be with his teammates, changed shirts, and vaulted back over to sit down next to Dara. He was not about to go shake hands with the opposing team. It might not be _diplomatic_, but there it was.

"You're not even out of breath, are you?" Dara half-accused.

"Eh, running _marathons_ a mile above sea level will do that to you," her dad said, turning to look at them. "Bet you're hungry, though?"

"_Starving_," Rel replied, laughing. "And I'm willing to bet there's not a single damned dextro thing to eat for about a thousand kilometers in any direction. Other than the MREs we brought with us, that is."

"Soon as everyone finishes up out there, we'll pack everyone back to the hotel." Jaworski glanced at Dara. "I think you two have made your point now. Put your jacket back on, sweetie."

Dara flushed, and did what she was told.

Behind them, Rel could hear Gris telling Mazz, "Good work on self-control today. Blood rage is a _tool_. Use it, don't be used by it."

Mazz's lighter-toned rumble, "It was easier to concentrate in the second half, for some reason."

"If it helps you learn self-control, I'll have the little human girl come over and threaten you daily."

Mazz took a _lot _of good-natured ribbing from his teammates at that point, but the krogan boy actually accepted it, for a wonder. Seemed to understand that the teasing meant that the team accepted him as one of them.

Siara reached out and took Eli's hand as he came off the field, frowning a bit as she looked at his face. "Is that _supposed_ to be still oozing? Shouldn't you have Dara or your dad look at that?"

Back at the hotel, all the players ate enormously, although Linianus did so in his room, after being helped up the stairs to get there. The humans and the drell at least could order pizza—and did. The turian boys were rather stuck with MREs, of which each of them probably ate three or four dextro meals apiece. Dara just kept handing him the silvery packages from the big container they'd brought with them. Then she pretended to read the calorie information on the sides of the cartons, laughing at him. Eventually, the two of them wandered upstairs, heading for the rooms they were currently sharing with various other people.

**Dara and Rellus**

Dara paused at the door of the room she was sharing with Siara, Azala, and Kasumi. Everyone else was still downstairs, and probably would be for a while. She had, in fact, asked Kasumi as carefully as she could, if the woman would mind remaining downstairs for a couple of hours. Kasumi's smile had been gentle, and she'd leaned forward to say, very quietly, "Technically, I'm your chaperone, aren't I? But I don't have any objections, Dara. You're an engaged young lady, and I frankly think you two should have been given your own room." Kasumi shrugged. "Check with all the other roomies first. It's only polite."

Dara had taken a deep breath and gone to Siara next. She hadn't even known _how_ to ask the asari girl at first, but had simply sat there in the noisy, crowded room, fidgeting.

"Dara, I know I haven't been nice to you, but I really _am_ trying to be better. Just say what's on your mind." Siara had looked glum.

"Would it be possible for you and your mom to, I don't know, maybe stay downstairs for a while?"

"Longer than normal closed-door time?" Siara's gaze had been sharp.

Dara's eyes had dropped. "Yeah. Like, an hour or even two."

"I see."

Dara looked back up at her, lips tightening. Siara had laughed a little then. "If it helps, I understand completely. It's absolutely wretched wanting to do something very badly, and having dozens of conditions put on it."

Dara stared at her blankly. "Okay," she said, slowly. "I guess that probably has to do with the stuff Eli is so carefully not talking about."

"He hasn't told you?" That was almost the old Siara, snappish and sharp.

"No. I'm not asking you to, either."

"Oh." Siara thought about it, then said, very bluntly indeed, "I can't share with him till I get well."

Dara's eyes went wide. This was _much_ more information than she'd bargained for. "Does, um, _share_ mean. . . ?"

"Mentally." Siara sighed.

"Oh. Because, you know, they have antibiotics for the other stuff." Dara hesitated over the joke, and tried to make sure her smile was very evident so that the touchy girl wouldn't take offense.

"I wish it _were_ something that could be fixed that easily." Siara had rubbed at her face. "Tell you what, I'll dawdle down here. Then you have to do something for me in exchange."

Dara's expression went wary again. "Like what?"

"When I'm better—not before then—would you let me read your memories of Kella?" Siara looked down. "I have Eli's memories now, but I'd like to see her through your eyes, too." She seemed to grasp Dara's discomfort. "It would be _maieolo'saeo, _no touching. Just me looking at your thoughts." She spread her hands. "No intimacy, and I wouldn't touch any memories not related to Kella."

Dara winced. The mere thought made her flesh crawl; it seemed so much more invasive than what Sky did, which was just to listen to what other people were saying. This sounded more like rifling through someone's pockets or frisking them. But Siara couldn't have been fairer in what she asked and how she presented it. "Okay," Dara agreed. "When you've gotten over your biotic cold, or whatever it is."

Siara actually laughed at that.

Upstairs now, she hesitated at the door. This was a lot harder than she'd thought it would be. "Other than Lin getting hurt, today ended a lot better than it started," Dara said, after a moment.

"Yeah. I was still pretty irritated with the damned shopkeepers when we got to the field, but you know what?" Rel chuckled. "All gone now."

Rel looked down as Dara opened the door. She stared up at him for a long moment, looking oddly serious. "So, you hunted well?"

Rel grinned. "Yes. I think so."

"You ate well?" Softer now, a little tentative, eyes flicking up and down.

"Yes."

"_Do you want your mate?" _She'd switched to turian, and looked up at him, wide-eyed.

His head jerked back. _"Yes." _Rel stepped forward, catching her face in his hand, very carefully. _"Have it all planned, in my head. Night before I leave. Go use the empty candidates' barracks."_ He only realized that she'd backed into the room, step by step, and that he'd followed her in, when she closed the door behind him. The sound of the door snicking shut made the clock start running in his mind, automatically. _"That way, so close to leaving, any repercussions won't be too severe." _Even if it did require a certain amount of stealth, which had made him twinge in the honor and pride regions, it had seemed the best option, especially given human propriety.

"What are they going to do to us if we _do_ break the exact terms of the contract?" Dara got up on tiptoe and bit at his throat.

Rel inhaled. "Your father could. . . file a protest."

Dara waved her left hand at him; the sparkling stone in the ring twinkled at him. "With this on my finger?" _The ring is a tacit sort of permission, isn't it? _"Why would he protest now, after basically giving his blessing?"

It was getting increasingly harder for Rel to think. His hands curved into her shoulders now. "My parents could send me to Palaven early. Technically, breaking a major clause could revoke the entire contract."

"Do you really think they would?"

"Only if they thought your father was angry." He groaned as she ran her hands under his shirt, up his chest. _Catching me now, warm iunkunditas spreading through me, the glow of a fight well-fought, belly full, mind and body tired. . . ah, sweetness, you've been paying attention to all my weaknesses. _He took a deep breath, and marshaled his resources. "Everyone will be coming upstairs soon. If we. . . _Sweetness, it won't be a quick thing._" His voice went raspy. _"I've told you this before."_

"Your roommates might miss you, but I asked Kasumi and Siara to stay away for, well, an hour. Or two." She flushed pink again.

"You _asked_?" He _knew_ how embarrassing humans found discussing anything of the sort; a turian would just sign up for a rec room on a ship where private quarters were scarce, and take the opportunity that time afforded. And it must have cost her a lot of pride to go to Siara, of all people, as well.

"Yeah. . . well. . . it seemed better than just trying to sneak off." Dara winced. This wasn't going how she'd planned at _all_. "You're always very big on being honorable and honest about our intentions. Although, I, ah, _didn't_ ask my dad." She coughed, then looked up in surprise as Rel reached up and pulled the safety chain into place across the door.

It was so unexpected, and yet so very right. She'd been as turian as she could for him, making the arrangements with forthrightness. Could he do less? Rel leaned down and began to bite her throat softly, whispering, "Epi-tabs? Medkit, with medigel?"

"Tabs. . . in the. . . night-stand. " Little short gasps between the words, sweet prey-sounds. "Medkit's right there, too. We won't need it."

"Take one. I'll need one, too." He swallowed the pill and pulled at the hem of her shirt. _"Off, sweetness. I've felt your skin, but now I want to __**see**_ _it, too." _Her shirt came off, then his. Then shoes and pants and other things, and he stroked his fingers along her arms, her flanks, just as her hands were exploring him, too. _"So soft."_

He pushed her back onto the bed, rested one hand across her throat—a reminder, for himself, not to bite there anymore—and bit her shoulders instead, working his free hand down the length of her body, finding her softest places, rubbing there, then pressing deeper. Felt her body jerk a little at the intrusion, and lifted his head to whisper, _"Have to make sure you're very ready for me. Don't want this to hurt."_

"First time for human females almost always hurts. Might not for me. Lots of horseback riding."

He pulled back, a little alarmed, and she pulled his head back down to her imperatively, and he concentrated even harder now on making sure she'd be ready and open. All of the vids and diagrams had agreed on that point, at least.

She loved the golden fire he gave her, the way her entire body clenched in on the sensations. "I think I'm as ready as I'm going to be, _amatus_."

"I had this all worked out in my mind," Rel told her softly, rolling to his back, letting his feet rest off the edge of the bed, spurs out of range of the mattress. "Come here. Let's see if we can make this work."

It turned out to be easier than either of them had expected. Dara sank down, and her eyes went wide. Rel sighed, murmuring, _"Finally. Spirits, finally in you."_

"We. . . fit."

He grinned, feeling her relax internally, giving him just a little more room. "Yeah. We do." It was a relief, actually. "No pain?"

"No pain." She looked down at him. "So, ah. . . now what?"

His grin was very predatory indeed now. "Move, _mellis_." His hands went to her hips, and began to rock her gently. She caught the rhythm, watched his eyes darken, felt the exquisite sensations begin to rise again for her, and whimpered softly. The prey-noises that he so loved.

After several moments, she knew he'd released; his crest flared and the mandibles widened, and of course there was the pure _heat_ of him inside of her. He put his hands on her waist, talons digging in, telling her without words how much he still wanted, how much he still needed, and rasped out, "That's as human as I can be for you, _amatra._ Everything from this point on, is going to be turian." His eyes were very intent, and she could read a little concern there. A little residual fear. "Tell me you're all right with that."

She nodded, suddenly short of breath. _"Sweetness, please, trust me. Submit. Tap my arm or the bed if you need me to change anything, or if anything hurts. But please, please don't fight me. Not this time."_

Rel waited for her wide-eyed nod, and then rolled her to her belly. He didn't trust himself facing her, her throat exposed to him. Not while his needs were still so very urgent. He hadn't expected it to be _this_ wonderful. He'd thought that since nature had evolved them so differently, that there would be positioning problems, or odd, uncomfortable curves. There weren't. Just heat, and moisture, and tightness, and then he slid back into her, unable to think anything more coherent than _Spirits, I have wanted this for so long_ and _Please, don't let me hurt her._ Then he put his weight on her body, pressing her into the mattress, and his teeth clamped down on her shoulder, and all thought disappeared, beyond the feel of her yielding to him, the smell of her skin, and the sounds she made.

Some time later, he was able to pull back, breathing as hard as if he'd just finished a long run. Dara lifted her head, asking, a little muzzily, "Was that a control-bite?"

"_S'kak!_ Yes. Shit." He tested her shoulder carefully with his fingers. "I'm sorry."

"I didn't mind. Actually felt kind of good, in a weird sort of way." She smiled at him. "Made me go limp."

He dabbed on the medigel with shaking hands, _very_ glad now that he'd taken her as he had—teeth firmly away from her delicate throat. She turned over now, looking at the clock. "Do we—I mean, can you. . . .?"

Rellus chuckled. _"Sweetness, you're embarrassed __**now**__?"_

She lifted her chin. "Is there time for once more? Facing me?"

He sucked in a breath. "I'm not sure if I trust myself, facing you," he admitted. "We can try, though, if you're not too sore."

"Definitely sore." She smiled up at him. "Definitely worth it."

He was careful to shower before he left her room; as a member of an olfactorily-gifted species, he was deeply aware of her scent on his skin, and any other turian would be, as well. It wouldn't be an appropriate thing to flaunt at the moment. At the door, they whispered words of love, and Rel let himself out into the hall, grateful that no one seemed to be waiting in a line to get in. He really didn't know what he'd have said to Kasumi or Siara, had they been there.

Or, for that matter, what he'd have done if Sam had been waiting outside, with a frown on his face and a blade in his hand. At it was, Linianus was asleep when he got into the room; Eli was still out with Siara, apparently, and Lantar gave him an amused look. "So much for the contract, eh?"

Rel straightened his shoulders. "No, I fully plan to inform my parents and my clan leader that we broke a couple of the clauses tonight. Dara thinks that the engagement ring is . . . more or less tacit permission."

Lantar snorted. "I'm the _last_ person you have to worry about on that count. In fact, I think I just won my bet with Garrus." A flicker crossed his face. "She's okay? Control-bite didn't scare her?"

Rel nodded, then froze in place. "How did you know I'd—"

"It's instinct. Takes a will of damn iron not to use it, and a bit more experience than you have." Lantar's grin was tart. "You've got time. But cultivate the willpower before you guys plan to have kids. Broken skin and a suppressed immune system do _not_ mix well." That sounded like the voice of experience, there.


	38. Chapter 38: Memories

**Chapter 38: Memories**

_**Author's note:**__ Rel's almost 16, and in turian terms, canonically, he's becoming an adult in 36-7 days. Dara's, eh, 117 days younger than he is, give or take, and would have been marrying him in 117 days, give or take how fast he got home from boot camp. I debated holding off on this until the day before he left (they didn't like it, for honesty reasons); I debated having their first time be the day they got married (they laughed in my face, which is an uncomfortable experience, when they live in your __head__). :-/_

_Personally, I was a very good girl until __grad school__, but I knew people who were married in high school. One of them was a forced marriage; she was Chinese and her parents required her to go through a green-card deal, and she got no support from the other adults at our school, who told her only "for God's sake, don't get pregnant." Another was Indian, another arranged marriage. Another one was a guy who got married at 16 to his sweetheart, shortly before she died of cancer, on the grounds that they wanted an adult relationship before she passed. (Looking back, I sometimes realize how many utterly amazing people I've known in my life.)_

_Social conventions have changed dramatically even inside of this century; my mom was born in 1951 in Germany; everyone in her level of schooling (Mittelschule) graduated at 16. __Every single girl besides her in her class was *married* at 16.__ That was in __1967__. Not so long ago, all things considered. She was considered unusual, almost a spinster, for getting married at 21. _

_I've been very careful to show how responsible Dara and Rel have been, and to show how gradually they have worked through their relationship over six months. And there will be repercussions for them, as you'll see in this chapter. But that's why there are all the time and date markers left in every chapter. I'll be posting my timeline, a list of each character's squad abilities, and some final thoughts, at the end of Spirit of Unity, btw. Since this sort of index information is interesting to some people. (But is really completely boring to everyone else.)_

_**On a separate note: **__I debated leaving the game as a tie, since I didn't want to fall into the high school/sports-movie cliché of having the kid come off the bench and save the day; Rel objected to that idea very strongly, since he __really__ didn't like how the Odessa team played. So we went with the cliché, for better or for worse._

_I sort of pictured the Odessa team as a Claude Lemieux-Dino Ciccarelli-Theo Fleury hate triangle being deployed on the Spectre kids. I'm sure there are other examples from other sports of players who specialize in getting under the opposition's skin. I just, um, don't follow those other sports. ;-) _

**Sam**

"I'm going to take Linianus back to the base this morning," Lantar told him over breakfast. "It'll make the rest of the shuttles a little crowded for the rest of you, but he needs treatment." He glanced across the table at Eli. "I think you all would've been injured less if it'd been gladiatorial combat, to be honest."

Eli snorted. "How about next year, I try that? I mean, we _did_ win yesterday." He glanced at Rellus. "Thanks to Rel getting everyone's heads screwed back on the right way 'round. Don't get me wrong. I _like_ playing handball. But if the school ever gets big enough to compete on a regular basis with other schools on Mindoir, aren't we just going to see more of the same damn thing, every time?"

"Probably," Sam said. "Lots of that kind of thing back in the twentieth on Earth. Theoretically, I _should_ be telling you to not let them run you off of something you enjoy, and to just kick it back in their teeth that you guys are better _because_ of your differences, your ability to integrate a lot of different strengths into a unified whole."

Elijah shrugged. "I know. But on the other hand, it's just a game. It's fun. But it wasn't worth Lin getting hurt." He looked back at Lantar. "And I guess if a lot of turians practice gladiatorial fighting styles, it'd be worth at least learning enough of it to counter."

Lantar blinked, then with cautious enthusiasm, commented, "It's something I can definitely teach you, if you want to learn. Give yourself a little time to think it over, though. No sense making a snap decision and then regretting it later."

"I know," the boy answered. "But if Dara makes it through turian boot camp, I think I might apply, too. And knowing that stuff would help, somewhat, right?"

Sam's eyebrows rose. Lantar very carefully put down his cup of hot _apha_, and Dara and Rel and Siara all turned to look at Eli. "You hadn't mentioned it in a couple of months," Lantar said, quietly.

"Yeah. I wasn't sure I'd be able to finish school in time. I looked into what a general equivalency degree requires." He met his step-father's eyes. "I'll stay in school, Lantar. I'll _learn_. For the next eleven months. Then I'll try to test out of whatever I can't manage to finish. Dara here's busting a gut for an honors degree. I don't need that. The only thing that's really been holding me back is the thought that in the Alliance, I can at least pick my rate. Turians, I can't, right?"

Everyone listening shook their heads. "What would you want to do?" Lantar asked him.

"Military police, I think."

Lantar chuckled. "Yeah. Probably not a problem. You've got the right personality for that. But keep in mind, it all depends on what they _need_. Special forces people burn out and opt out after a few tours. Same with medics, so there's always turnover there. Some rates are overcrowded—everyone _likes_ a nice, placid quartermaster's job, where all you do is order supplies and use accounting software all day. Thus, it's rare for positions like that to be open. And whatever you _do_ wind up doing, is only for a minimum of four years. Nothing says you _have_ to stay in past that."

Eli nodded. "I know. I haven't decided on it one hundred percent yet. So please, don't tell my mom. She'll freak out." He sighed. "Again. But Lininus and Telinus both have birthdays close to mine. We'd probably even wind up at the same facility initially. Wouldn't be so bad." He gave Dara a look. "You're going to have it _much_ worse."

Sam darted his daughter a look. She was nodding, and he could see a little grimness there. _Well, can't complain that she isn't at least looking at it realistically. I'm just not sure it's realistically __**enough**__. _"How'd we get off on this tangent, anyway?" he asked, after a moment.

Lantar shrugged. "I was saying that I'd take Linianus back to the base. You and the kids—and Sky—were supposed to have a sort of cultural day today. No sense spoiling that."

"Oh, yeah. That, and you want to avoid the opera house as much as I do," Jaworski told him, good-naturedly.

A faint grin. "And here I thought I'd been subtle."

Gris shrugged, a little further down the table. "I can take him and Mazz, instead, if you want. Don't think opera's going to do Mazz _or_ me any good."

_The more reaction-songs to listen to, the better,_ Sky chided them, from the corner of the restaurant where he was huddling, trying to eat as much out of sight from the regular travelers as possible. He was putting out as much soothing blue-green song as possible, but there'd still been a number of shrieks and broken dishes last night and this morning, so far. _Crowd-song yesterday fascinating. Primitive. Visceral. Us and not-us, longing for the red and the white of battle. But channeled. They expected catharsis, and were denied. Disappointment, keen as a knife. Very satisfying._

Sam chuckled at that. "Yep. They sure were."

Most of the kids were already downstairs in the restaurant area of the hotel; of course, the turian kids were stuck eating MREs again—some sort of lilac _olorae_ egg omelets, blue-tinged sausage, and what looked and smelled for all the world like blue-tinged scrapple, for the most part. He'd long since adjusted, mentally, to the fact that Dara and Rellus sat together at every opportunity, and usually tried each others' foods. Dara certainly seemed to be all smiles this morning, and seemed pretty fidgety. "Sweetie," he said across the table, "tell the ants in your pants to clear out and _sit still_."

Flash of a quick, embarrassed smile. "Yes, Dad." Treating her like she was three in front of her schoolmates might not have been the best move, but some parental habits die _very_ hard.

A few human males entered the restaurant now, and Jaworski scowled. "Don't look now, but I do believe we've got ourselves a deputation of the local parents. I remember one of 'em from last night."

Lantar growled, very softly. Sam and he both stood as the other men got nearer, and Gris rose with them. "Settle down," Sam told both of them, quietly.

The Odessa deputation consisted of three men. "Good morning. I'm Carl Braunfels. This is Dr. Heinrich Eriksen, and that's Thomas Novak. Tom here is the principal of the Odessa school. Dr. Eriksen was the one whose conversation with one of your scientists got this whole mess started." Braunfels' smile was a little strained. "We, ah, we came by to apologize. We don't know how it got so out of hand last night."

Dr. Eriksen shook his head, and said, with a light, Nordic accent, "My son didn't play last night. Was cut from the squad two weeks ago, actually. He told me last night he was _glad_ he hadn't been on the field."

Sam nodded, slowly. "Yeah. I can see why that would have been embarrassing for him." He kept his tone neutral.

Eriksen sighed. "I'd thought this would be a way for some of the most far-flung of the colonies here on Mindoir to be able to come together once a year. Your science station is probably the most unusual, and it's certainly very far off the beaten track. But every one of the scientists there is highly respected in their fields. I've met Dr. Azala over there at conferences before," he turned and gave the asari woman a slight bow. "I've even had very fruitful teleconferences with a Dr. Allardus Velnaran periodically." He turned the other direction, looking at Rel. "Your father?"

"Yes." Rellus said nothing more.

"I just wanted to tell you, that none of us expected what happened yesterday."

"Someone did." Lanar's voice was sharp. "Everyone on the coaching staff should be suspended, if not fired. I know that Linianus' father would expect me to demand as much in his place."

The school principal coughed. "Ah, the coach has been there for the past ten years, and is . . . very popular. Even influential, in a way. It would be hard to fire him without repercussions."

"Grow a pair and do it anyway," Jaworski told him, flatly. "Either you run your school, or he does. And that's _your_ choice." He could see, out of the corner of his eye, the various kids listening at the tables around them, mostly wide-eyed.

Eriksen stared at him. "Ah. . . I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"Sam Jaworski."

Eriksen shook his head. "You don't really seem like a xenobiologist to me. Might I ask what your area of research is?"

"Applied mayhem," Sam replied, and Lantar's shoulders started to shake, and Gris began to roar with laughter. Sky's mental laughter flickered through all their minds for a moment, and Sam just grinned, slowly. As the laughter died down, Sam added, "Lantar here has advanced degrees in demolition and destruction, Gris here has a master's in chaos theory—well, it's not really _theory_ when it's put into practice, is it?—and Sky over there in the corner? He's one of our grad students."

Braunfels looked around at them, baffled. "You're. . . lab security?"

Sam smiled. "Close enough."

"Shit," the school's principal said, which would probably have shocked his students. "You're from the Spectre base."

"The _what_ base?" Sam asked, blandly.

The principal slowly sat down. "Now I know where you all look familiar from. The speech at Shanxi." He gestured at Sam, at Lantar, and then at Rel and Dara and Eli.

Sam sighed, and looked at Lantar. "Y'know, I've spent twenty years of my life trying pretty hard _not_ to be recognizable out of uniform. I get talked into _one_ photo-op, and it turns out the entire damn galaxy watched it."

Lantar shrugged. "Go to Palaven. Turians can't tell most humans apart. Too smooth-faced. Not enough paint." He grinned.

"You could try shaving your moustache," Kasumi offered from another table.

"I wouldn't want to inflict that sight on anyone here, darlin'." Sam looked back at the principal. "So, yeah. You and your school didn't just attack random kids, though it shouldn't _matter _who their parents are. They did, in fact, attack Spectres' kids."

"Like my son," Lantar said, quietly, gesturing at Eli.

"And the krogan boy whose father has entrusted me with the formation of his character," Gris said, with some force.

"And I couldn't _help_ but notice that when my son-in-law to be got on the field, that quite a number of the young gentlemen representing your school took it upon themselves to call my daughter a—what _was_ that charming phrase that they kept using, Rellus?"

"I'm not repeating it where Dara can hear it," Rel said, and that earned him points in Jaworski's book.

"Then let's just say that what I heard rhymed with _pail-core_ and _pail-tank_, and leave it at that, shall we?" He flicked his gaze back to Eriksen. "I commend you for wanting to find ways to bind all the individual, competing colonies here on Mindoir into a larger community. It's a great idea. We'd love to continue discussing it."

"But fire the _futtari_ coaches, or I will, personally, look into legal options, directed against your school and your staff." Lantar's voice was very cold and precise. "I think it probably wouldn't be hard to find evidence that the coaching staff encouraged the boys to injure our players."

"Think about it. You can contact Dr. Velnaren when you come to a decision," Sam invited them, with a friendly smile.

The men nodded, and retreated.

Gris began to laugh. "That was _fun,_" he rumbled. "We should get to do that more often."

Lantar chuckled. "Applied mayhem?" he asked, turning to Jaworski.

"It was the absolute only thing I could think of that even remotely fit my job description," Sam admitted, laughing. "All right, let's get Linianus down the stairs so you can fly him home and let the poor kid stop hurting."

They had just enough time to let Dara and Rel pick up their wedding rings from the little jewelry shop, and then it was time for the matinee at the opera. Since the _Magic Flute _was being shown in shortened form, Jaworski actually found that he was able to stay awake for most of it. A real opera buff would have been horrified by the abridgement of Mozart's work, but while Sam liked music—most forms of it, in fact—he'd never been able to wrap his head around sixteen people all warbling arguments at each other at the same time. Sky, on the other hand, was entranced; the rachni could clearly _hear_ each thread of the melody separately _and_ together, and could pick out crowd reactions at the same time. _Some here like this song because they believe that they should; duty-song, that. Some sing deceptions; they wish to appear other than what they are, and try to add the composer's songs to their own. It is, odd. The singers love the difficulty of it, joy in great works together. And still others find it too __**alien**__. _Sam felt that last as a bemused poke at his own drowsy mind. "Sorry, Sky. It's in antique German." He yawned, covering his mouth. "I'll try not to let my snoring disturb you too much."

The second half of the matinee was an abridged performance of a Chinese opera. That was worth the price of admission to watch the kids' reactions, if nothing else. Every last one of them, of every species, tilted their heads from side to side, studying the stage. After about twenty minutes, Siara tugged on Kasumi's sleeve and asked, loudly enough that most of the row probably heard her, "The program says the female parts are sung by men?"

"Yes. This is a very traditional performance. While Chinese opera permits female performers now, it, like Japanese _noh_ and _kabuki_ theater, started out with all-male casts." Kasumi grinned quickly. "Of course, Western theater started out that way, too."

There was silence for a while. Then Siara asked, "And why is that one. . . female. . . walking so oddly? It doesn't look like a dance. Is it supposed to be funny?"

Kasumi shook her head, explaining, quietly, "He's playing a young woman, and they're all in very old costumes. This is a period piece, and at that time, one ideal of feminine beauty in China was very small feet. So, from childhood on, their feet were bound. Sometimes, the bones were even broken, and allowed to heal wrong, to ensure that they would remain as small as possible. He's emulating how they used to have to walk."

Siara's eyes were wide, and several of the boys had turned to look as Kasumi explained. Sam had no experience with drell facial expressions, but the turian and human boys looked faintly nauseated. Sky's voice, at the end of the performance, was a little disappointed. _Too few in the audience who understood it. The singers knew, and that was pleasant, but even you, Light-and-Playful Dancer, only understand a fragment of it._

Kasumi chuckled. "If they ever put on a kabuki play, I'm your girl, Sky. Let's get these young people home, shall we?"

**Rellus**

There hadn't been much time to talk. A quick whisper in her ear at breakfast, "Are you okay? No bad reactions?"

She'd gone pink and peeked up at him through her hair, before whispering back. "I'm fine. A little sore, though."

He'd firmly squelched the desire to grin at her words.

Now, they were almost back to the base, and once again, almost everyone in the shuttle had fallen asleep, lulled by the hum of the engines. Dara's head was on his shoulder, and he gently shook her awake. "Mmm. Are we there yet?"

"Shh. Not yet. Just wanted to tell you something."

She leaned in close, so he could whisper directly in her ear. "I'm going to have to tell my parents and my uncle."

Dara sighed. "Honor? Integrity?"

"Yeah. It's about trust, you know?"

"I love you, but sometimes, your principles are _really_ inconvenient." She put her head back down on his shoulder. "What do you think they'll do?"

"I have no idea."

"Should I talk to my dad?"

He winced. His own parents' reactions would be at least _understandable_ to him. He'd failed to live up to his word. He would be punished for it. Simple, clean. Cause, effect, and then there'd be an end to it. A human's likely reaction? From what little he'd seen, probably an excess of emotion, dragged on endlessly into some sort of spiral of guilt and blame. Although, that might be doing the male an injustice. "Do you want to?"

"No." She sighed. "But if you are, it's the least I can do."

"Want to just put them in a room together and face them together?" He preened her hair lightly, watching the dark windows.

"Good tactics, but. . . wrong psychology, maybe? My dad will see that as more turians ganging up on him again."

"He'll fight, because he'll think he _has_ to fight."

"I think so, yeah." She sounded a little surprised by the insight.

"Then we'll talk with my parents first after sparring, then your dad separately." He was relieved. "Thank you, _amatra_. I thought I'd be doing this alone."

She made a slightly rude noise, and he hushed her, grinning. "It was _my_ idea, Rel."

"I like your ideas. This, in particular? _Great_ idea. You should think of these things more often." He chuckled quietly as her elbow found his ribs.

**Jack**

She wasn't entirely sure how she'd gotten suckered into this. Lantar had come back early from some damn _school outing_, if you please, and had knocked on her door. She was staying in a drafty barracks hall, more or less by herself; it was used by candidates during training, she'd been told, or Spectres or support staff when their own homes were undergoing repairs, or whatever. It was empty, it was quiet, and, most of the time, it was dark, too. Only a few emergency exit lights to guide her on her way to her little room.

Inside, it was comfortably furnished—more so, than she'd have thought. A single, spare bed, but a comfortable chair and a nice desk. Extranet and terminal. And a wide window that looked out over the snowy mountains and trees. Jack had taken to standing, staring out that window, sometimes for almost an hour at a time. It was a different sort of vista; every other time she'd looked out such a window, it had been at _people_. The children at the Pragia facility. The dancers at her club. All busy with their lives, filled with energy, and heedless of her presence.

The mountains didn't heed her, either, but theirs was a different sort of energy. Jack scoffed mentally. That sounded like hippy-dippy _feng shui_ mystical bullshit. It didn't stop the thought from feeling _true_, however. The mountains were motionless, hard-edged. They wouldn't change in her lifetime; something as close to constancy as she'd ever encountered. It was. . . oddly restful, really, to look out at them. To absorb herself entirely in the view, and let her mind just. . . stop. _Maybe that's why Samara queened it up in her little domain in the observation lounge_, she thought. _Maybe she just needed the damn view._

Then the knock had come at the door, and she'd turned, heart racing, adrenaline instantly spiking. She had a bad startle reflex; legacy of too much abuse. And she hadn't been expecting anyone. "It's Sidonis," a grating turian voice called from outside. "May I speak with you?"

Jack covered her nervousness, and opened the door. "What?" she snapped, looking up at the turian, letting him stand out in the hall. She certainly wasn't going to invite him into her little room.

"I've come on behalf of a friend," he said, after a moment. "I've read your record. I think you're one of maybe two people on this base who could help her."

She snorted. "If you've read my record, and think that I'm much good for _helping_ people. . . you must not be able to read very well."

"On the contrary. Sometimes, I can even read between the lines." He shrugged. "I like that human expression. To see what's hidden in plain sight, unsaid, but still true." He looked down at her again, and she couldn't read the expression in those cold turian eyes. _Gah. How does Shepard stand it, night after night, no more expression than an iguana in a terrarium?_ "My friend is an asari, who has a daughter. Eli's age. Her daughter was abused. Heavily. By the girl's other mother, another asari."

Jack shrugged. "Sorry. I _don't_ do well in _group. _Find someone else to share fucking sob stories with the girl and cry with her."

"You misunderstand me," he said, calmly. It was as if her caustic tone, the barbed words, weren't even _there_. "This is not _therapy_. Psychoanalysis, as practiced by humans, is completely useless to an asari."

"Pretty useless to us humans, too. Unless you _want_ to be weak, that is." She tipped her head to the side. "People only learn to be strong on their own."

She could see his patience now, carefully imposed over his irritation, like a layer of glass. _Wonder what it would take to shatter __**that**__ window?_ "Be that as it may, you're a powerful biotic. I've already asked Urdnot Gris to join in the efforts. I'd ask Sky, but I think the girl is uncomfortable with him. He sees too much, and Siara. . . " He sighed. "I think she needs to control what people see of her, and she can't control Sky's vision."

_Well, I can sure as hell understand __**that**__._

"Her mother has commented that Siara would prefer not too many people on base learn what happened to her. She would actually prefer strangers to do what's needed. Unfortunately, the asari priestess we contacted was. . . unhelpful."

Jack thought of the various prison psychologists who'd wanted to be her _friend_ over the years. "Smug? Condescending? Thought she knew _all_ about it?"

Lantar's head inclined minutely. "You understand precisely. Which is why you would be ideal."

Jack frowned. "Okay, so what the _fuck_ are we talking about here? You say it's not therapy."

The turian sighed. "I have only a loose understanding myself. There are damned few turian biotics, after all. What Azala, Siara's mother, has been doing, to try to help her daughter, is to share her daughter's mind, her memories. She's literally been taking the pain into herself, the memories. It's a very heavy burden, especially because Azala had no idea what was going on at the time. _Her_ memories of that time-span are all _happy_ ones. Love, laughter, family. I think she sees taking her daughter's pain into herself as a penance for not having protected her properly the first time."

Jack snorted. "All right. So what do you need _me_ for?"

"Because it's too much for one person to take on by herself, and I think it's slowly killing Azala."

"Serves her fucking right," Jack said, harshly. "And if she's enough of a pussy to die from _memories_—"

"Not just the memories," Lantar said, sharply, at last. "The energy drain on her is enormous, and she is _not_ a powerful biotic. Perhaps the equivalent of a human with L2 implants and minor natural talent. And if she should die, what then? What happens to the girl? Do we find her a foster family here? Do we find her family, whatever remains of it, scattered, after the destruction of Thessia? Do we send her to them, her mind still half-scarred, still able to pass her memories to others any time she mates, as an asari is meant to, and inflict those memories on others?"

Jack's head snapped up. "That's. . . possible?"

"I'm told so, yes."

"Then why the _fuck_ would you want me? I've probably got worse things stuck in my head than that kid ever _dreamed _of—"

"Because you are _not_ asari. What they absorb from you won't linger like a time-bomb at the bottom of the well of consciousness, waiting to explode. Especially not if distributed over several people at once. Or so I'm told." He grimaced. "I'd have had Azala explain this all herself, but she's a gentle person. She's not a fighter. She's a scientist."

"Weak, you mean."

"No. Unscarred. Although she's acquiring a few now." He looked at her, and the patience was back in place again. "Will you help?"

She stared off into the distance for a long moment. "Why the fuck not? It's not like I've got anything else to do but stare out the window until you all get off your asses and find these Lystheni dudes."

That had been yesterday. Today, Monday, she went down into the valley with the big krogan, Gris. For a krogan, he was _not_ talkative. She'd gotten used to all the chest-thumping that Grunt had done. Gris, on the other hand, never said anything unless he had something worth saying. She liked that about him.

Inside the graceful asari house, Azala had a set of chairs drawn up in a semi-circle. Her daughter, home from school, apparently, already sat in one, waiting for them, looking uncomfortable and angry. _At least you're not in a paper hospital gown and shackles, kid, wondering if the shrink is going to be one of the ones that likes to really get to __**know**__ his patients. Count your fucking blessings._

"All right," Jack said harshly to Azala as the asari ushered them in. "How do we do this? Is Sidonis going to be joining us?"

Azala nodded. "He's not biotic. But he said he'd do it if we needed another mind to keep everything stable. He also said there are things in his memories that Siara would find deeply unsettling."

"Cop-out," Jack sneered. _I've got worse, I'd be willing to bet. _"How's he going to know if he's needed?"

"I'll be right here in the room," Lantar said, stepping in behind her. "Azala or Gris will grab me. How much help I'll be. . . " He shrugged. "Who knows."

Azala gestured for them to sit, and Siara looked increasingly tense. Jack couldn't blame her. She felt pretty much the same way, herself. Then Azala closed her eyes, and Jack felt the wash of the woman's consciousness touch her own.

_Elsewhere now, in a dreamscape born of different minds, contiguous realities. Jack stood in her cell, and looked out the window, but through it, she saw a family. Three asari. Didn't they look just so __happy__ together? Just so perfect? Nevermind that the little girl got called a pureblood bitch at her school. She didn't understand why, but she tried to be better at being an asari, struggled with it. Then one day, Tsia second-mother told her, "It's all right, little one. They're just jealous because they're all tainted. They all have alien blood running through their veins, in a sense. You're pure asari. You should rejoice in that."_

_Comforting words. Comforting touch. Love for Tsia. Trust._

_Jack turned away, but looking back into her cell, she saw __herself__ there, as a child, huddling under the desk. Wild hair, empty eyes. Weak. Singing to herself, of all things, just a little snatch of a tune she remembered from. . . before. Before she came __here__. _

"_Rain, rain, go away. . . ." Everything before __here__ is a blank. There must have been someplace else. Other people. Parents, even. Maybe they sold her. Maybe she was stolen. Doesn't matter. Just a blank. _

"_Come again some other day."_

_The door opened, and the men in the white coats and the protective masks over their faces came in, grabbing her, hauling her out from under the desk, pinning her into the bed, ignoring her screaming, the kicking, slapping her when she bit. Tying her down at four points, like she was in a psychiatric ward. She lashed out with her mind, but it was weak. She knocked one of them down, and he got up again, swearing, and hit her in the stomach. Unable to move, unable to dodge, pain erupting everywhere. Then the drugs. First, the ones that clouded her mind. Made her unable to focus. Then the. . . other ones._

_Jack turned away. __**Not what I'm fucking here for. No time to play tourist in my own past.**__ She turned her back on the terrified child in the bed, and looked out the window again._

_New scene. Mother's gone off for a science conference somewhere. Very important. She's so excited! "Be good for second-mother now," she admonishes._

"_I'm always good."_

_But now, Tsia wants her to do bad things. Struggling, but the force of her mind is just too much. It's like trying to hold back a wave with her hands; the first spay is deflected from her face, but then the rest of the water crashes through, dousing her body, knocking her off her feet, driving her under the wave to lie dazed in the grit, unable to breathe, unable to move. Please no, please no, please no, please no. . . ._

_Jack put her fist through the damn window in front of her, screaming, waiting for the glass to shatter, to cut her open; instead, she drew back her hand, intact, and the window sealed itself back into place. Like water cut by a knife, after a moment, it showed no more wound than a ripple, and even that faded. Snarling, she turned around, and . . . ._

"_We want to go outside and play," her child-self sang, crying under her desk again, knees to her chest, rocking._

_They'd finished with some sort of surgery the day before. She raised her hands, touching her shaved scalp, the bandages, tearing them off. . . running her fingers over the tracery of stitches there. Jack remembered her own thoughts then. __What did they do to me this time? Did they put something in me? Did they cut something out?_

_Then it was time to go outside and __**play**__ for real, with all the other children. The first rushes of pleasure when she lashed out with her powers. Addictive. Incredible. The only pleasure or happiness she'd ever known, and she __knew__, somehow, it came from the implants that they'd just put in her body. Shocks when she failed. Shocks when she showed pity. Shocks when she offered a hand to help someone up—not that she needed the shock; the kid just attacked her again anyway. _

_But the really horrible thing was, that now she __knew__ that her 'playmates' had been fighting for their lives. Pitted against her, and burned out in her service. Sacrificed, one by one, in tests designed to prevent __her__ from being killed by the wrong combination of drugs. The sneaking suspicion that, for all her strength, for all their weakness. . . her life wasn't even worth __one__ of theirs. _

_Jack wheeled around again. No matter where she turned, there was something else horrible to see. Now it wasn't just when Mother left for conferences. It was after school some days, too. Always with the promise that if she __**ever**__ told, Mother wouldn't believe her. Mother would believe Tsia, Tsia whom she loved. Tsia, her always-fair. _

_Holding herself remote at school (pureblood bitch, thinks she's better than us), no outlet for the rage, the fear, no one to tell, no one to share with, can't tell Mother, can't tell the teachers, they won't believe, can't tell the other kids, they'll just laugh and say . . . that I. . . deserved it (pureblood bitch)._

"_Come again some other day. . . ."_

_Jack stomped over to her child-self, and ducked down under the table with her. It was cramped here, much more so than she remembered. __**"Get up,"**__ she said, voice harsh. __**"I broke out of here once. You can do it again. Get up off the fucking floor."**_

_Child-self put her hands over her head, recoiling. __**"Get up!" **__Jack yelled, and, standing, knocked the table over. __**"Come on. Start with the door. Focus on it. Now blow it to hell."**_

_Child-self stared at the door, felt the delicious energies of destruction begin to build. . . and released. The door thumped into the far wall. __**"Guards outside,"**__ Jack told her, voice hard. __**"You know what to do with them, don't you?"**_

"_I want to go outside and play," child-self whispered. And then she ran out the door, and Jack ran with her, watching herself revel in the destruction. The best sex in the galaxy couldn't compare, she'd thought for years, to the massive, cathartic release, the pure annihilation she'd wrought there that day. Every hand against her, but they'd built her too well. . . . Standing in the center courtyard now, the incessant rain of Pragia beating down on her, she lifted her hands and screamed, adult-self and child-self together, and blasted out wave after wave of power. __**I brought a bomb to this fucking place once, and couldn't destroy it. Maybe now, I finally can.**_

_The walls began to cave in, and she watched the masonry tumble down towards her, promising blackness, pain, and peace. . . and then suddenly, they were falling, falling, falling. . . . _

_Confused thoughts. Not her own. Quiet voice, reserved. Like the first cool light of dawn breaking over the mountain snow. ". . . has the power of a damned matriarch, but no focus to it, just destructive power. . . I'm pulling Lantar in, for stability."_

_A different voice now. Dark. Powerful. It sounded like an earthquake might, if it could speak. __Her rage and your daughter's are very similar. Turning inwards. Self-destructiveness. They're feeding off one another. It was a powerful vision, being rescued by someone who has endured what she has endured. However, I have a certain amount of experience at controlling rage._

_And the rubble around them wasn't Pragia anymore. It was the ruins of an entire world. __**Tuchanka**__, Jack thought. __**I never made it to the ground there. Shepard didn't take me on many missions until the Collector base**__._

_A krogan boy walked past her and her child-self, glancing at them incuriously. "__You want to hear the words of the shaman?__" he asked, and shrugged at them. "__Then move your humps. He's not going to be talking all day__."_

_Curious, she followed him, child-self in her wake, leaping over low barriers, balancing on broken piles of stone. "__**You'd think after a thousand years, that **__**someone**__** would have started to clean the damn place up."**_

"_That's what I asked the shaman,__" the krogan boy agreed. The boy turned, and Jack saw a vast older krogan standing at the top of the pile. _

"_You see our world, boy. No hospitals. No schools. No libraries. No museums. No statues or monuments to our accomplishments. No history but what you see around us."_

"_The turians did this to us__."_

"_No."_

"_The salarians did this to us?"_

"_No."_

"_The asari did this to us__!"_

"_No. We did this to ourselves." The shaman looked off into the distance, and a breeze spat dirt into all their faces. Jack could see the remnants of a great city on the horizon, every skyscraper shattered, the air still smudged with dirt lofted into the atmosphere centuries ago, blocking out light, creating the chill she could feel all around her. "Our rage shaped our lives, shaped our world. Now there's nothing left but the rage. Nothing left to destroy but ourselves. You're going to need to learn to control it, boy. If you're going to be anything more than what you are right now. The women sent you out of their camp early. Too early. You're a runt, compared to the others, and not ready for the Rite yet. But, they thought you were a danger to the other children. Can't have that. So you may as well __**get**__ ready for the Rite."_

_The training was brutal. Even Jack had to admit it. Any time the boy showed signs of frustration, anger, the least hint of blood rage, the shaman unleashed a biotic slam on him that bounced him into the rubble. Once, a fragment of rebar went through his belly. "Get up," the shaman told him. "You're krogan. Prove it."_

_It went on for days. No food. Water if he earned it. Again and again and again and again. An eye dangled by its optic nerve at one point. At another, point, he knew a lung had been punctured, as he coughed up blood. "You're krogan," the shaman reminded him. "You'll heal. This is how krogan learn. Lessons taught in blood."_

_On his feet once more, bleeding, struggling to master the rage. Struggling to find the calm at the center of the anger, so he could __shield__ himself. Another biotic slam. "You better hurry up and learn, boy, or you're going to be a corpse, and not a krogan. Do you want to be food for a thresher maw? Control it!"_

_There. . . there it was. Just for a moment. So much anger, so much rage, but he fought it back, calmed himself, slid his shields into place. Now nothing could hurt him again. The shaman's biotic attack skimmed right over his shields, and he crouched down, panting, trying to just. . . hold. . . on. Nothing could touch him inside this shell. Nothing could harm him. He just had to stay __calm.__ Oh, there was still anger. He wouldn't be krogan without that. But it swirled around outside of the calm place, and he could watch it from where he'd gone._

_The shaman released him from the training place. The other boys didn't like him. Too small, too weak, too young. Too thoughtful—marked out by the weeks he'd spent training with the shaman. No krannt to call his own. _

_Jack and her child-self listened. "Doesn't seem like a very fun game," child-self said. "I'm not going to hurt anybody but myself."_

"_Fun?" Now they were someplace else. A ship, maybe? Turians everywhere. Off in a side room, a female, unexpectedly in estrus, in spite of every precaution. She didn't have a mate, but she'd chosen one of the unattached males aboard to come with her. Slapping him, kicking him, clawing him, biting him, trying to get the adrenal surge, and snarling when he denied her initially. Then he kicked the door shut behind them and moved to her. It was vicious. It was powerful. He had to be strong enough to fight her, control her, subdue her, mate with her. Strong enough to protect himself from her, and strong enough to protect her from herself. It looked angry, from the standpoint of any other species, but Jack didn't sense that here. Other powerful impulses, yes, but she __knew__ rage, and there was none here._

_Child-self pulling back now, afraid. Covering eyes. Not something she wanted to see. "I told you there were things in my memories you wouldn't want to look at, but you brought us here anyway," the turian said calmly, appearing again to their right. Now they were somewhere else. "__This__ is why you have to exert control. Otherwise, you'll hurt the ones you love." A small human woman appeared, running to him, throwing her arms around him with love in her eyes. He took his human mate in his arms, a foot shorter than he was, and Jack wanted to run forward and pull the woman away. __**She's fucking insane. He could **__**kill**__** her. **_

"_And if I did, I'd kill myself. The Spectres gave me back my spirit, but Ellie let me share her life."_

_Child-self pouted. "Wouldn't hurt them. Wouldn't hurt anyone but myself."_

_**And that's okay, right?**__ Jack thought, but she wasn't sure at the moment. __**I mean, it's better to take out the people who've hurt you, and protect yourself from them, but in the end, it's **__**okay**__** if you hurt yourself, because. . . .**_

_Child-self finished, quietly, ". . . you deserve it."_

_**No**__. Three voices at once. _

_Now, on a station somewhere. __**Omega**__, Jack thought, watching as a turian was tortured for information. Hours of it. Fingers broken. Spurs broken. Legs broken. He looked up from the table, fell off of it, crawled towards them, then stood, slowly, brushing himself off. "I've spent enough time in this memory to last me a life-time," he said, quietly. "You think you deserve pain?"_

_Then the thoughts hit, and Jack recoiled from them. It wasn't as powerful as the krogan's voice. It didn't need to be. Dead already. Walking dead. __Mor'loci__. No honor. No spirit. Just a husk of flesh, shambling around, waiting to die a second time, because ten men lay in the ground because of him. . . . Jack shuddered back from that, her instinct for pure __**survival **__ kicking in. __**Fuck that. **_

"_So instead you want to kill yourself—but slowly. Over years."____ Earthquake voice now, condemning. __"You push away all who would be close to you with words or with deeds or with anger. Without a krannt, you'll die. But it'll be faster, when the thresher maw gets you."_

"_Let it go," the turian said. "Give it to us." Another flash from him. "It gets better, if you let it." People who needed him, people who loved him, people who depended on him. Family. Friends. They'd given him spirit, honor, and life. And best of all, a reason to live. _

_From him, hope. From the earthquake voice, the stable center of calm. From the voice of snow and mountains, love, acceptance. And from her, the primal scream of human defiance, of survival. . . ._

_Jack looked up, and she wasn't in the cell. She and child-self were in a child's room. The bed looked impossibly big, and she could hear second-mother's footsteps outside. She dropped down, looking herself in the eyes. __**"Go. Get out the window and run. Don't ever come back here. Don't let the bitch win. Don't ever let them win. I'll fight her. Just go."**__ Jack picked her child-self up and threw her out the window, then turned, ready to kill. . . _

_And it wasn't Tsia there, but Samara._

Jack blinked. She was standing in the living room again, biotic powers charged and ready to unleash a shockwave; the others were sitting down, blinking as if just awakening from a nap. Samara held a hand up. "That would be ill-advised, Jack. Also, unnecessary. Tsia is dead."

Jack lowered her hands, and realized that her face was, for some reason, wet. "So, Samara, you're still a bitch, I see." She managed a laugh.

"As are you," the asari replied, nodding serenely, as if they were discussing the merits of a particular brand of tea.

Azala stood. "She's dead?"

Samara shrugged. "She resisted arrest and tried to flee through a populated area."

Jack thought about that one for a moment. "Good. Otherwise, I'd have gone hunting." She glanced over at Siara, who had her face buried in her hands. "Did the kid get anything out of all that?" she asked, after a moment.

"I only touched at the very end, but I suspect that she gained some tools from each of you to deal with the memories. . . and since they were spread out to so many strong, stable minds, that their toxic effect will be greatly diminished." Samara put a hand tentatively on Jack's shoulder, and brushed the tears off of her face with one light blue fingertip. "I wonder what _you_ have gained."

**Kasumi**

The shoebox sitting on her desk after lunch was something of a surprise. It is, generally speaking, difficult to surprise the head of security on a covert base. . . if she's been doing her job right, anyway. She studied it warily for a moment, and even went so far as to scan it with her omnitool. _Hmm. Tech of some sort. Not a bomb, no biologics. _Then she flipped the lid open, stepping back.

She peeked inside. A graybox—she recognized it as being of the same vintage as Sam's wife's. It had a label on it. _#1_. There was a small velveteen box beside it, labeled as well. _#2_. And a note, in Sam's handwriting. _If you're okay with #1, grab #2 and come find me._

Kasumi glanced over her schedule. She had an hour before her next conference call with salarian STG. She could use that, to look into whatever it was that he wanted her to see.

She activated the graybox. "VI interface, disabled," a pleasant female voice told her. _Ahh. Probably too hard for him to look at,_ she decided. "User ID, please." 

"Kasumi Goto," she said.

"Acknowledged. Logging you in. Please select from the following menu options: Courtship, marriage, arguments, holidays, birthdays, raising children (see also, arguments), financial matters (see also, arguments), allocation of chores (see also, arguments), family (see also, arguments)."

Kasumi started to laugh. "Let's start with the arguments."

"Subcategory?"

"Play random selection."

Oh, there were fights. Lots of them. Some of them were minor squabbles, that ended on one or both of them saying, in exasperation, "I was _agreeing _with you. Why did you think I was _arguing_?" Others were three or four-round main events, mostly over renovations to the old ranch house (he was in favor of just selling the place and getting something with modern construction; trying to run new utilities through two-hundred year old walls had _not_ been his favorite pass-time, apparently). There were dozens relating to bringing up Dara, too, of course. Sarah had almost always thought he was being too hard on the girl; he had called his wife a marshmallow on more than one occasion, insisting that the child needed discipline. Kasumi winced in empathy over arguments over clean plates, clothing, grades, but she watched them all. Skimming, here and there. Sam had obviously _mellowed_ over the years.

The fights about their families were some of the worst, of course, but Kasumi didn't have much of a frame of reference for those, so there was little emotional response in her. However, she could hear the anger in their voices, the confusion, the unhappiness. Fights over his job. Him leaving N7 as both the result of his father's death, and Sarah's unhappiness with the long stints away from home. _He wants me to see all this. Wants me to have the whole picture, I guess._

Then there were happier memories. Family outings. Teaching Dara to ride. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Dancing at other people's weddings. Picking Dara up from daycare, from school, watching her grow, watching her thrive. The annual state police picnic. So . . . utterly. . . normal. No high drama. No races against time. Just life. Lived well.

Kasumi turned off the graybox, and checked the clock. Fifteen minutes to go. She replaced it in the shoebox, and took the velveteen box out next. Snapping it open, she simply stared down at its contents for a long moment. _Can't say the man isn't straight-forward_, she thought, amused and touched all at once. _Got a character reference from his dead wife and everything. Here you go. This is what marriage to me would be like. Warts and all. If you're interested. . . we can talk about it._

She put one hand over her eyes, and laughed, softly, wiping the tears away. Then she tabbed her comm panel, paging her assistant outside of her office. "Can we get the conference call with STG moved up? I want to get this meeting over with, as soon as possible."

It was actually a quick meeting. STG had picked up a _lot_ of Lystheni chatter lately, but none of it pinpointed their location. "Kina Pero remains very much off the grid. He seems to be a member of their tech operations team, but was put in charge of finding biotics. We're not sure why. Probably their biotics research teams are too busy with some project to acquire their own test subjects." The salarian on the vid screen frowned.

"What's the chatter about?"

"It's a little unclear. There's still quite a bit referring to this obscure ascension notion. Which would seem to indicate upload to a machine consciousness, given their research in the past. However, there are also references to 'pure forms' or 'perfect forms.'" He shrugged.

"Mechs? They want to become geth, maybe?'

"That's all we need. Another race of sapient robots." He grimaced. "That's all we have for now."

She signed out, and, still thinking about what a perfect machine form would _look _like_,_ went looking for Sam.

She found him in his own office, a hole in the wall on the third floor. "Hey," she said. "I'd have been here sooner, but I got pinned down in a call."

He stood up, smiling, and came around the desk. "You, ah, looked through them all?"

"Must have taken you a while to sort through them."

He nodded. "The first anniversary of her. . . well, passing. . . is coming up. June third." He sighed. "Figured it was time to go through them all, anyway. Then it just seemed like a good idea to let you take a look." Sam smiled but it was an uneasy look. "I'm not an easy guy to live with."

"I'm not easy to live with, either. I've been on my own, done things my own way, for a very long time," Kasumi told him, quietly. "And I won't apologize for things I've done in my past."

"So long as the past stays the past, I've got no problems with that." He picked up her hand. "So. . . ?"

"So?"

"Which house are we getting rid of? Yours or mine?"

"Oh, no you don't," Kasumi said, a little tartly. "You don't get off that easily."

"You really want the words, huh?"

She smiled. "Yes."

"Kasumi Goto, will you do me the honor of being my wife?" He paused. "Although, I'll understand if you don't take the name. Kasumi Jaworski sounds god-awful."

She began to laugh. "Yes. Of course I will. But—"

He sighed. "That's the longest three-letter word in the English language. What's up?"

"I needed to talk to you about Dara, and you're probably about to get pretty angry with me."

Sam shook his head. "Not really how I had this all planned in my head. Tell you what. Put the ring on."

She did, giving him an amused look. Then he lowered his head and kissed her. Thoroughly. When he raised his head, he smiled, and said, "Now that I'm in as good a mood as humanly possible while standing upright and with my clothes still on, what did you want to tell me?"

Kasumi snorted. "You had to put it that way, didn't you?"

"I'm just laying out the stakes here."

She perched on the edge of his desk, considering how to explain this to him. "I'm never going to be her mother, Sam." She held up a hand, stopping him. "I can't replace her. I won't even try. What I am, and what I can be, is Dara's confidante. She trusts me. She talks to me. Part of what allows that trust is that I don't push her in any direction. I let her talk out her thoughts, provide some insights, and then _she_ decides what to do. The other reason she trusts me enough _to_ talk to me is that I don't use _you_ as a threat. I don't say 'I'm going to tell your father,' or 'just wait until your dad finds out about this.'"

He sighed. "Okay. I think I'm braced for it now. She told you something that I'm not going to like?"

Kasumi looked at him. "Let me ask you a question. When you were engaged before, you slept with the women before getting married?"

He snorted. "Before getting engaged. All three times." He looked up at the ceiling, and he sighed. "Okay, this is where I put my fingers in my ears and start humming _real_ loud, isn't it?"

Kasumi laughed. "You took that part better than I thought you would."

"Kasumi-chan, when you lead up to it like that, I'd have to be a hell of a hypocrite to react any other way." He sighed. "Go on, but remember, I'm getting older. I have delicate sensibilities."

"Liar." She grinned at him, then sobered. "Rel's what, a month from being a full adult. In turian terms, he's about to turn what Western human cultures would consider 'eighteen.' Considering that the _only_ reason they went on that trip was to fix an engagement ring, wasn't it just a little demeaning to put them in rooms with the rest of the students? They weren't there for the field trip. They tagged along, sure, but if there'd been no other kids there, would you have had them staying in our room with us?"

He opened his mouth, sighed, and closed it. "Probably, yeah, but I hear what you're saying." He paused. "This have anything to do with all the _looking-at-but-not-looking at each other_ from yesterday morning?" Sam gave her a look. "I'm not _entirely_ stupid, y'know."

"Never said you were." Kasumi paused. "At any rate, I got the impression that the two were connected, yes. Dara very politely asked me to delay coming up to the room Saturday night. I told her she was an engaged lady, as far as I was concerned, but that I appreciated the fact that she'd _checked_ instead of _sneaking_." She gave Sam a wary look. "You probably don't like how I handled that."

"Not entirely, no." He went silent for a moment, thinking, arms folded across his chest. "I don't want her doing end runs, asking you for permission, when she knows I'll say _no_." His voice was remarkably calm, considering all the yelling she'd seen in the old memories; it was an enormous relief, in fact.

Kasumi consciously mimicked his posture, crossing her arms over her own chest now. A little psychological trick; it said, simply, _we're alike_. "I'm not convinced that's what this was. She had to ask the other roommates to stay out, too. And she did." She smiled, briefly. "I'm not saying she'd have had the guts to ask _you_ to your face if it had been your room and mine, but I think this goes beyond asking Mommy for a snack when Daddy says _no_." She paused. "Did she pick a date yet?"

Sam sighed. "There's not a lot of dates to pick _from_. I did the math the other night, looking at dates and locations for Dara. _His_ bootcamp will end October twenty-fourth. Give him a day or two for travel. October twenty-ninth is the Saturday of that week; Dara's birthday is that Sunday. So they could, basically, wind up getting married, and then leaving for _her_ boot camp the next damn day." He shook his head. "And I still haven't a clue how to get the relatives to Mindoir without them asking about a million questions about where I actually work. And if I didn't work here, then why Dara had chosen _this_ planet for the wedding, instead of, say, Bekenstein or Bastion."

"Not exactly what _I_'_d_ plan for a honeymoon," Kasumi agreed. "Maybe that's something you should talk about with _them_."

"I keep meaning to. . . but then I get this urge to put my fingers back in my ears, and start singing all over again."

She laughed, standing and coming around his desk now to sit in his lap. "Poor Sam. You can't live in a state of denial forever."

"Watch me."

**Joker**

The _Normandy_ had been in orbit around Klendagon for two weeks now. He was waiting on Mordin, Nal'ishora, and Hal'marak, all of whom had been down on the planet, helping to examine the alien relic. Joker didn't really mind the down-time, but it was starting to drag on a little.

At the moment, he was in his rack, looking at a datapad—a low bunk for him, close to the floor. Less danger if he rolled out of bed in his sleep. As an officer, even of low rank, he did at least rate a private room on this ship. It was exactly the length of his bunk, and he kept a footlocker, wrapped in netting in case of any zero-g events, under it. There was a desk with a terminal, and that was pretty much all.

The chip opened in his mind, and he felt EDI looking over his mental shoulder. _That is the third time you've perused this, for lack of a better term, 'article.'_

_The correct term is 'pictorial,´ _he replied silently, smiling. The humans and asari pictured certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves.

_I should probably point out that the image is grossly inaccurate_, she said, after a moment. _Asari physiology in that region is designed solely for __output__. From an evolutionary standpoint, the number of nerve clusters in the human vaginal tract seems almost counterproductive._

_Yeah, you already ruined that particular fantasy last year, sweetheart. But I still think you're overlooking evolutionary law here. Species do what feels good; and life wants us to reproduce. You only really use it for pushing babies through maybe once a year. The rest of the time, is pure production effort. _He tossed the datapad away. It wasn't as if, now that EDI could connect to his mind at any time, that he lacked for material for his fantasies.

What had started one late night as her teasing him—again—about his Fornax subscription, had led someplace _very _different. That had been about two years ago now, and he _rarely_ felt the need to dig up the subscription information anymore. He built her images, once in a while. Sometimes tender, sometimes humorous, sometimes deeply erotic. He had a feeling that all of them amused her, but when she had the chip open, she received his sensory impressions as well.

"So, what's on your mind?" he asked, quietly. He didn't think this was entirely a social call.

Out loud, she replied, "I want you to think back to your earliest memories."

'This again?" Joker sighed. "Really, it works better for me if you do the whole Austrian accent when you ask me to talk about my childhood."

"Jeff, please. Think about it. Your very earliest memory."

"I didn't want to take a bath. I thought it would be funny to avoid it, or something. I crawled away. Headed for the stairs. The gate was open there—I guess one of my sisters had just gone downstairs, and left it open. I remember my mom yelling at me. I don't remember slipping. I remember falling, though." The memory was so old, and so dim, everything looked slow-motion in it. Even the light looked different—grayer, browner. "I remember hurting a lot at the bottom of the stairs. And the ambulance. Don't remember anything after that, though."

Almost every day now, she was walking him through some part of his life, asking him to remember things—scents, feelings, events. Anything. Everything. He wasn't sure why she'd suddenly become so urgent about it, and it worried him. The docs said he'd regained eighty percent of his previous leg functions, and they were planning to put new gear in his legs to let him walk more easily again soon. But the questions persisted. "Why so many questions lately, EDI?"

She hesitated. "The ascension information from the Lystheni," she finally said. "All of it is incomplete. They do not appear to have been able to upload their own consciousnesses successfully, and they have had something in the order of a thousand years to work the problem. Their memory scans still look a great deal like the Jeff Moreau template in my databanks."

"You think the issue is not enough data to create sapience?"

"Perhaps not the right _type_ of data."

"Is there any particular reason you're in such a hurry right now?" He held his breath. "Is there something I should know?"

"No, Jeff. My concern is, primarily, that we do not _have _a thousand years."

He reached out, and patted the speaker through which her voice projected. "Few people do, sweetheart." Joker smiled. "Though you're probably one of them."

**Dara**

Monday night; she had spotted the ring on Kasumi's finger at dinner, and had given the woman a quick, ecstatic hug. Kasumi laughed. "I wasn't expecting him to do this so soon," she told Dara, quietly.

"I'm glad he did," Dara said, simply. "He's going to have a hard enough time on the third as it is, thinking about my mom. I know I will." She shrugged. "At least he'll have someone to talk to about it, you know?"

Siara still hadn't been back to school, and had now missed sparring practice as well. It was certainly a _weird_ illness that allowed Siara to go on trips, but not to school. Dara could see that Eli was worried. Why, she still didn't know, but he did mutter that Lantar had been over at Azala's during one of Siara's 'treatments' and had come home very tired.

What Lantar could _possibly _have to do with a biotic ailment was beyond Dara, and if she'd had the time, she might have started an extranet search, just out of curiosity, but she simply didn't. She wiped the sweat off her face, and padded across the mats to speak with her father, at the side, "Dad? Rel and I need to talk with you and his parents. We don't have to do it all at once. If you want to talk with us first, privately, you can go first." She shifted her weight from foot to foot a bit. _This is going to be the gene mods conversation all over again_, she thought, dismally.

She wasn't holding out _much_ hope that he and Kasumi getting engaged today would pad his mood at all. But she did have the unaccountable feeling that her dad was somehow both mad and amused at the same time. "Every time you say 'Dad, I need to talk with you' lately, it never seems to bode well, does it?" he told her now.

She shook her head dismally. "No. No it doesn't." She glanced up. "It's finals week. I think I can promise you that the next one will be 'look, Dad, all As.'"

"But not tonight, eh?"

She shook her head, feeling glum. She still really thought she'd made the right decision Saturday night. Having to involve every damn person in the world in what was _her_ private business really irked her, though. "So, did you want to go first, Dad? Or should we talk with Rel's family separately, first?"

"Let them go ahead. I'll finish cleaning up out here."

Rel had gathered his mother, father, and uncle into a side room, and beckoned to her now. Taking a deep breath, and wondering if this is how prisoners felt as they walked to the lethal injection booth, Dara trudged back across the mats.

Inside the antechamber, Garrus looked surprised. "So, what's this about? I thought things were going well. You don't want to amend the contract or anything like that, do you?"

Rel's head lifted. "Lantar didn't tell you?"

Garrus frowned. "Tell me what?"

"Ah. Okay, he was allowing me time to do so, then." Rel had one hand lightly on the small of her back—holding hands was not a very turian thing to do, and at the moment, he was all turian—but she could feel slightly tension there, in the way his talons gripped into her skin. "Apparently, you and he had a bet going. He thinks he won."

_Wait? Lantar and Garrus had a bet on. . . if we'd . . . ? _Dara's eyes narrowed, and she looked up, sharply. She wasn't sure if she was more embarrassed, amused, or offended, to be honest. _I think I misunderstood that one_._ Has to be the case._

Allardus, Rel's father, snorted from where he sat behind his desk. "I was out of the running on that one three months ago."

Solanna looked from person to person in the room, clearly not in on the joke. "Would someone like to explain matters to me?"

Rel's fingers tightened again, and Dara repressed the urge to make any noise at all. "We thought that it would be right that we inform you that we broke one of the clauses of our contract over the weekend, and that we're ready to face the consequences."

Solanna's glare had edges. "Breaking _any_ clause is cause for nullification of the whole," she reminded him.

"Subject to parental judgment, "Allardus reminded _her_, calmly.

"Which clause was broken?" she asked.

Again, the claws dug in, hard. "The ones that wouldn't otherwise have opened until the ninth month, when I'd be at boot camp anyway." Rellus was keeping his voice very calm.

And off the conversation went into turian and _tal'mae_. Dara was working as hard as she could at both languages, but it went by over her head so fast, she was lucky to catch every fifth word as four people all started talking at once. As far as she could figure it out, Garrus and Allardus weren't concerned by it. It wasn't as if they could either accidentally get pregnant or pass diseases back and forth, so for the two males, it was largely a non-issue.

For Solanna, the issue was different. _"You broke your oath,"_ she growled. _"Your oath is your life, and without one, the other is meaningless."_ She turned her head away, and glared out a window. Dara blinked. It seemed. . . almost inconceivable that _that_ was what really bothered Solanna the most, but she had _no_ idea what to say—and kind of doubted it was her _place_ to say anything—and thus, stayed completely silent.

Allardus sighed. "There is a certain amount of validity to her statement. The contract is something of a test of commitment. There do need to be repercussions."

"The whole thing is void," Solanna said, still not looking at Rel.

"Void or not," Rellus said, and Dara had never heard him use that tone before, "even if I have to wait until midnight on the day she turns sixteen, we _will_ be getting married, Mother." It wasn't a defiant voice. It was absolutely matter-of-fact. "You can send me to Palaven a month early. You can forbid us to speak, although that _will_ make school, sparring, and rifle practice difficult, though not impossible. You can take away every privilege there is, and it will not change the outcome."

"You would risk being expelled from your clan?" Dangerously quiet there.

Allardus murmured, "Steady now, _mellis_. You're starting to sound a little too much like your father."

Garrus added dryly, "I'm glad I wasn't the only one thinking that."

Rel's claws tightened even further; he was dangerously close to breaking skin at this point, but Dara had to admit, it certainly kept her back as straight as his was. "I accept that there are repercussions, but I ask that they are _reasonable_ ones. Especially because we did _not_ hide what we've done."

"Only because Lantar caught you," Solanna sniffed.

Rel hissed. It was a _much_ different sound when it wasn't being done half-jokingly, directed at an extranet vid. Dara's hands tightened into fists. "That's not true," she said, quietly, the first words she'd spoken in the room. "And you know it's not true." She couldn't quite force more out of her throat, but she met and held Solanna's eyes when the woman turned her head towards her, thought-fast.

Garrus cleared his throat. "Since I was actually the clan leader and the negotiator for this, if I _might_ say something here?" He glanced at his irate sister. "Rellus, would you mind explaining why you decided to break it? I trust it's a reason better than a certain lack of self-control?"

Dara breathed a little easier as Rel's punishing grip on her back eased a bit. She glanced up at him, and as he paused, she turned and started to say, "It was my fault—" and then winced, going silent as his grip tightened.

"No," he told her, quietly. "There's no _your_ fault or _my_ fault here." Rel looked back at his uncle. "Probably some of that," he admitted, fairly calmly. "But also, as far as I remember my thought processes, it was something along the lines of 'if she can be turian enough, and brave enough in spite of a human upbringing, to ask for a room and make the arrangements, then I should be human enough to break a damned _rule_ for her."

Garrus thought about that for a moment. "Good answer," he said, after a moment. "Then again, everyone knows _I'm_ a renegade. What do you think, Jaworski?" he added, looking behind them.

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit_, Dara thought, peeking slightly behind her, and then her shoulders slumped. _Never even heard him come in. How long has he been listening?_

Her dad stepped past them, and stopped just long enough behind them that Dara could feel Rel tensing all over again. Then she felt her dad take Rel's hand and very carefully move it further to the right, so that it wrapped around her waist, in full view of the room. She didn't know if her dad knew that turians thought of the waist as somewhat erotic, or whether he just wanted to be sure that Rel's grip wasn't going to hurt her. Either way, she took a deep sigh of relief, and her back relaxed.

Then her dad stepped closer to the front of the room. "Well, Garrus, I'd say that it's the closest I've yet heard from any of y'all to meeting us halfway here. So as answers go, it's not a bad one. Admittedly, it'd be a whole lot nobler if he'd told us that he closed his eyes and just thought of king and country, but on the whole, I'll go with the honest response."

He sat down in one of the chairs, and leaned back. "So. You guys going to keep them standing there on the carpet like a couple of defendants in front of a judge, or is this actually going to be a family discussion?" He grinned, and Garrus gestured for the two of them to take a seat on the couch at the other end of the room. "And hell, while I've got you all in the same damn room, we can finally talk about who's paying for what in this whole wedding shindig. Human custom is, bride's family pays for the wedding, and the groom's family pays for the rehearsal dinner."

Dara stared at her father, eyes wide. This was _really_ not how she'd expected this to go.

Allardus blinked. "Rehearsal? When you're already spending three hours, at a minimum, reading vows? You really want to hear them do it _twice_?"

Garrus chuckled. "The human ecumenical service takes about twenty minutes."

"_Talas'kak! _Ben Jayaraman on my team went home last year to get married and told me it took three days."

"With a name like that, he's probably from India," Dara's dad supplied. "Theirs do run a little longer than the Terran average, it's true." He frowned. "So, no rehearsal. Glad to hear it. And paying for the ceremony—ceremon_ies_, I guess—and the reception, and music, and whatnot?"

"Traditionally, it's split down the middle by both families," Allardus told him, still looking confused.

"Where have you people _been_ all my life? This is almost too reasonable and rational for words." Sam grinned.

Rel and Dara turned and looked at each other, sharing a stare of absolute confusion, as Sam went on, "Now, since I have the fun of handling the logistics of getting people from Earth here for this, and I'm sure you have a few people on Palaven who might want to be here, too, I need a set date, and I need it far enough in advance to _get _them here. Most human weddings are on Saturdays, to give folks time to travel. That puts us on October 29, day before Dara's birthday, five days after Rel's released from boot camp. How fast does _she_ need to report there? Can the paperwork even get _filed_ that fast?"

Garrus grimaced. "It would be a _lot_ better, all things considered, if they could get it done earlier than that. Weeks earlier would help."

"So, we're talking _before_ he goes? Not sure I can swing getting every Jaworski and Jarman out of Texas by then."

"Wait a minute," Solanna said. "How did we go from punishing them to _rewarding_ them?"

Her dad's face went blank for a moment, and then he put on a sharp grin. "Ma'am, this is what we mere humans call a shotgun wedding."

Dara put her hands over her face, as four VIs promptly chirped around the room, bringing up a definition for the term. Garrus' voice sounded as if he were struggling to keep from laughing as he replied, "You know there's absolutely _no possible way_—"

"Better safe than sorry—" Sam quipped.

"—that anything of that kind could happen?"

Sam sighed. "Look, I've had all afternoon to think about this, so I'm a little ahead of the curve for a change. Have to say, it's a _nice_ damn feeling." He paused. "Rel's what, a month off from adult rights and responsibilities, as everyone keeps telling me? And as soon as Dara ships off to boot camp herself, she'll be in the same boat as my great-great-great-great-great-great grandpa." He thought about it for a moment. "Six generations back. I may have skipped a great in there. Anyway, Czcibor Jaworski—Stevie, to people who couldn't speak Polish—was fifteen when he lied about his age and enlisted in the U.S. Army to go kill Germans. He saw three years of action. Helped liberate concentration camps. Saw men die in the worst possible ways. Served his country. Came home, and walked into a bar in New York City, wearing his uniform and his campaign ribbons, and asked for a drink. You know what they told him?" *

"You're not old enough," Dara said, very quietly.

"Old enough to fight. Old enough to die. But not old enough to have a drink and forget about it." Sam shrugged. "Well, Dara's asking for adult privileges, and if she's willing to be enough of an adult to accept the responsibilities, hell, I'll _sign_ the emancipation document or whatever else is needed." He gave her a look. "Might mean I'll start charging you rent on that room."

Dara thought _fast_, because he looked serious about that one."Am I allowed to use my college fund to pay you?" She paused. "Because intern work at the clinic is unpaid."

"We'll talk about that later." He looked at Garrus. "So. What makes life easiest all around, especially considering the naturalization paperwork and whatever else needs to get done? Turian ceremony before he leaves, human when he gets back? Or both before he leaves, and I tell the relatives I needed to get this done quick-like before she started to show?"

"Dad!" It was almost a shriek.

He grinned at her. "Can't expect me _not_ to have _some_ fun here, sweetie."

Garrus was laughing hopelessly now. "It is one of the _very_ few privileges of being clan leader," he agreed, after getting control of himself again. "How offended would they be at being left out?"

"Dunno. Half of 'em were mildly to moderately up in arms over a cross-species wedding anyway when I took their temperature back home a month ago." Sam shrugged.

"Up to you," Allardus said, quietly. "I'd save all the hassle for just one day, and have done with it, myself."

Sam looked across at Rel and Dara. "Sound good to you?"

Dara glanced at Rel, and he at her, and then they both, a little wide-eyed and quiet, nodded in assent.

Allardus took them at their word. "We'll need to get the wedding knives. But I can have Egidus send those express from Palaven." He grinned a bit. "You'll have four years to shop for permanent ones that you like better. This would just be utilitarian ones."

Solanna simply shook her head, and the expression around her eyes was tight.

Rel and Dara looked at one another again, as the conversation went into high gear, and Rel leaned over to whisper, "What just happened?" 

"I have absolutely no idea." She paused. "But it was a good thing, right?"

"I think so."

_**Author's note: **__The story of Czcibor Jaworski is heavily based on what literally did happen to my husband's grandfather after WWII._


	39. Chapter 39: Relics

**Chapter 39: Relics**

**Author's note: **_Sorry for the slow production on this one. It's somewhat difficult to concentrate while either a) coughing up my lungs or b) feeling verrrrry far away because of allergy medications. Additionally, the work fairy dropped more stuff to do than usual on my desk. _

**Elijah**

"So, are you _ever_ coming back to school? I mean, it's finals week for this quarter." Eli was actually over at Siara's house at the moment. He'd never actually been inside before. It was cool and restrained, like Azala herself, and he felt that if he moved anything, the whole place might come unbalanced somehow. At the moment, they were sitting on a couch together, and Siara was curled into his shoulder. She'd wanted to watch the sequel to _Vaenia_, but he'd found it almost intolerably boring. So at the moment, the vid was paused in the background, and they were talking and playing an extranet game.

"I've been doing work from home. I even did two of my tests today. I'll come back officially tomorrow, though." Siara's nimble fingers moved the tokens around on the aerogel screen. "Gotcha."

He shook his head, and captured two more of her coins, making her stick her tongue out at him. "Are you _ready_?" He paused, looking down at her. "Lantar was _wiped_ when he came home Monday night. He ate dinner and went straight to bed. I've never seen him do that before."

Siara frowned. "He's not a biotic. He was in a five-way link that included two of the strongest minds I've ever touched, and everyone in the link besides my mother was _so_ alien. It was. . . pretty overwhelming, to be honest. I saw a lot of memories. Most of them really . . . painful. Some weren't painful, but very frightening, in a way."

He hit the game's pause field. "Like what? What was scary?"

Siara hesitated, then blurted, "I was. . . trying to hide, I think. I was a child again, and I remember. . . trying to hide in the deepest, darkest corners of each person's mind. But I think I was also looking for pain, or strong emotions, or anger, because. . ." Siara hesitated, "that sort of thing is very attractive to me. I know that probably sounds warped."

Eli grimaced. "It sort of makes sense, given, well. You know." He looked down at her, and put an arm around her shoulder, very lightly. "So, anything in particular?"

"How krogans train their children, as Gris was trained. Blood, pain, get up and do it again. And again. And again. The way that tattooed human was treated as a child, by other humans. Subjected to almost the same level of pain as, well, Gris was. Only humans aren't _supposed_ to do that, right?"

Eli shook his head. "So you wound up looking at how other people were, well. . . abused when they were kids?" He thought about it for a minute. "Lantar's never said anything about that, himself."

Siara shook her head. "No, he was there to help spread out the load, keep everything stable. When I hid in his thoughts, I found other things." She looked away. "How turians share among themselves."

Eli winced. With as many turian friends as he had, he knew quite a bit more about that now than he had this time last year. Lantar and his mother obviously did things, but he'd always done his best not to be aware of anything. Linianus and Telinus and Sostrus, though, all liked to talk. He was fairly sure that all it was, _was _talk, but he'd gotten quite an education out of it. Now Siara said, quietly, "I thought at first, it was like what had happened to me, but it wasn't. I could see that, at the end. No forcing. Just very alien." She glanced at him. "Lantar and your mother—"

"Let's not talk about this, okay?" Elijah coughed. "There are places the human mind shouldn't go."

"I'm just telling you, he loves her. I mean, _really_ loves her. And she's not a fighter or a soldier or anything." She sounded baffled. "She's tiny and she's not physically strong. He loves her because she's kind and would do anything for people she loves and makes a place for people in her life." Siara hestitated. "I had no idea. I thought turians were pretty simple and easy to understand, but they're _not_."

Eli grinned. "Welcome to my world. It's a fun place, isn't it?"

Siara sighed. "And then there was Gris and that tattooed human, Jack. Both just as alien as Lantar. I knew krogan biotics were rare, but powerful. I didn't know humans _had_ biotics with that much. . . potential."

He gave her a look. "I don't know whether to be offended that you don't think of us first on your list of powerful biotic races, or to be confused at being considered the _alien_ in this conversation."

Siara sighed. "I didn't actually mean it that way." She paused. "This time, anyway. What I _meant_ to say is that she in _particular_ was very. . .alien. More so than you, even. Which is kind of weird. And yeah, I don't really think of humans as powerful." Siara frowned. "I guess a lot of asari don't. Which means it's easy to be badly surprised, I guess." She changed the subject, clearly still needing to think about that one a bit more. "Oh! Did I mention? I met a _justicar_."

Elijah instantly knew what that meant; the language was holding steady in his mind, as well as quite a bit of the cultural information it linked to. "Wow," he said, actually impressed. "They're like. . . wandering knights. Righting wrongs, making justice. And _really_ powerful biotics, too, right?"

She nodded, enthusiastically. "She hunted down. . . my second-mother." A shadow passed over her face, and Eli pretended not to see it.

"Is she facing trial? Are they going to make you testify?" He didn't much like that thought. Siara would fight tooth and nail before admitting it, but there was something fragile in her still, and he thought enough people had spent quite a bit of effort gluing her back together at this point. He didn't really want to see her get broken again.

Siara shook her head infinitesimally _no_. "She's. . . she's dead, actually. Resisted arrest."

Eli thought about that. "Good."

Siara glanced up at him. "Is it weird that I'm both happy about that, and that I feel guilty at the same time?"

That one took a little more thinking. It didn't work for him in English, so he had to switch out to high tongue to answer, _"You loved her for longer than you hated her. And the love made the hate even stronger, because of the betrayal. All bound to one another. So while you're free of her, it will take time for the cords of the net to fall completely away."_ He squinted. "I wish I could sound that smart in English. Something happens to my brain when I think in asari. It's like whole other parts of my mind wake up."

"And it will do you _so_ much good in the turian military." Her tone was waspish now, but she stayed exactly where she was. Curled into him. He always made a point of letting _her_ decide where and how to sit with him, and how and when she wanted to touch him. "You're a lot smarter than I used to give you credit for, Eli. It's just. . . a different _type_ of intelligence, I guess you could say."

"Is that a polite way of saying that I'm _special_?" His tone went dry.

"It's me trying to say that I used to run you down because I didn't understand you. I'm good with books. Dara is, too. Rel is better with numbers and spatial relationships. Engineering, squad tactics. You. . . you have something a bit different going on. Intuition, I guess. Sometimes you just _understand_ things, people. And it's always unexpected when you do." She frowned. "And again, I really just see that going to _waste_ in the turian military."

"You're just mad because I hadn't mentioned it earlier." He paused, and added in high tongue, _"More-than-fair, you have all the time in the world to make decisions. I don't."_

"Well, yeah. I just thought you'd be here for at least another three years." Faint trace of a pout. "And as soon as I'm finally better, you'll probably be leaving."

Eli put one fingertip very lightly on her lower lip. "Kella once told me 'nothing lasts forever.'" His throat always went tight when he said her name. "She was right. Even if I _did_ stick around until I'm eighteen and then go join the Alliance military, I'll be too old for you in very short order. You'll still be studying until you're what, thirty-six, at least?"

A faint nod. "But why does it have to be one military or the other? Why not go to the university here on Mindoir?"

"No criminal justice school. I checked. It's an agricultural and medical school. I'd wind up on Earth or Bekenstein anyway, paying off-world tuition. Why do that if I can get the same education while getting paid for it?" Eli looked at her, and shrugged. "I always kind of figured I'd end up a cop, like my dad, or Lantar. When I was younger, it was because that's what _they_ did. Now, I kind of think it's what I'm _for_. I don't want to see any more people get hurt when I _could_ have stopped it from happening." He stopped her response with a lifted finger, turian-fashion. "What are _you_ going to do with your future?"

She frowned. "I don't know. When I was little, I wanted to be a justicar. Don't laugh."

"I'm not." A justicar was a kind of a cop, in his estimation. Not quite a Spectre, not quite a cop, but somewhere in between.

"They seemed so powerful, so wise. Most asari look up to them. They're sort of. . . relics, though. Living embodiments of our past. And. . . my second-mother. . . was very big on our past. Old ways." Siara frowned. "I think I don't want to think her thoughts anymore." She shook her head, as if chasing the memories away, and forced a smile. "Besides, having _met_ a justicar, now, I don't think I could ever be as detached. And I think I'd like to have a family at some point."

"You're smart enough to be a scientist, like your mom."

"I suppose. Don't know what field really interests me, though. I almost think I'd like to . . . I don't know. Do something new. Something that no asari's ever done before."

"Become a pearl diver on Earth? Chariot racer on Palaven? Varren handler on Tuchanka?" he offered, grinning, and she smacked his knee lightly, and then took the game off of pause to continue playing.

Eli was surprised, as he was leaving, to see Urdnot Gris in the kitchen, sitting on one of the tiny chairs there. He and Azala were talking quietly, and Eli caught words to the effect that on Tuchanka, every child was cherished. Not coddled, for they had to be krogan, of course. But cherished as one of the handful that survived birth each year.

"Do you have any children?" Azala asked him, sounding interested.

"Female clan says so." Gris shrugged. "They say I actually have a daughter. Probably Siara's age, twenty or so. They sent me a picture. Does seem to have my eyes, I guess. Good to know I'm capable, anyway." The krogan paused. "She'll probably be ready for the female version of the Rite soon."

Siara paused, looking in a cupboard for cookies. "There's a difference between the male and female Rites?"

Gris actually looked uncomfortable. "Yeah. Didn't used to be. Back in the old times, everyone faced the same challenge. Survival. Now, the females are too valuable to risk in that fashion, especially if there's a chance that they might be fertile."

Eli, intrigued, asked, "So what do the females have to do to prove themselves? I know Mazz is worried about passing his own Rite."

"Mazz will do fine. As to what the females have to do. . . eh. Let me put it as _delicately_ as I can for alien ears. If our biggest concern about a female is whether or not she's fertile, what do you think she'd need to do to prove it?" Gris' tone was very patient.

Eli thought about that one for all of five seconds, and he saw Siara cringe slightly. "Yeah. Okay. Now I'm kind of sorry I asked."

"Don't be. It's just the truth. Truth doesn't hurt people. Well, other than liars." Gris chuckled.

He and Azala looked very comfortable together, and, outside on the porch, when he asked Siara about it, she shrugged. "Yeah. He's dropped by every other night this week. Sometimes he brings Mazz with him." Siara chuckled. "I know he's one of your best friends. Maybe you already know this. . . but. . .can you keep a secret?"

"If it's a good secret, yeah. I think you know already what I do with bad secrets."

Siara looked over her shoulder, and got up on tiptoe to whisper, "Mazz was a little confused. He wasn't sure if Dara was flirting with him or not. I mean, after all, she's hit him and threatened him, but she's also, you know, seeing a turian, so he just didn't know what to make of it."

Elijah snorted with laughter. "Oh, god. Yeah, definitely, don't tell Dara that one." He paused. "What did you tell _him_?"

"That Dara was _very_ fully occupied with Rel, and was just trying to make sure Mazz listened to what she had to say. He kind of nodded and said, 'Yeah. It worked.'"

He chuckled again. "Well, he won't be confused too much longer."

Siara frowned. "Why's that?"

"Oh, well, you missed the fireworks after sparring the other night. I was halfway across the room, trying not to listen, but when you hear that much shouting, it's either put your fingers in your ears, leave, or listen. Couldn't leave, since the Jaworskis were my ride back up the mountain. Tried not to listen at first, but turians argue _really_ loudly sometimes."

She frowned, looking almost guilty, but a little pleased at the same time. "Does this have to do with the trip last weekend?"

Eli stared at her. "Ah. And suddenly, it becomes very clear to me why you had so much time to hang out downstairs with me." He looked upward, now slightly uncomfortable. "Not that I minded at the time."

"She wanted to share with him." Siara shrugged. "Just because _I_ can't right now, doesn't mean everyone else has to stop. And she asked nicely, and I thought it would be a good way to show that I _really_ am trying." She frowned. "They got in trouble, though?"

"Well, they told their parents. From the sound of it, Rel's mom was ready to declare the whole contract null and void." He shrugged. "Then Dara's dad suggested that if they're really that ready, that they should just go ahead and get married. So I think that'll be sometime this month, before Rel leaves." He debated for a moment telling Siara about the whole 'shotgun wedding' thing, and decided that some concepts simply do not transcend cultures. "Once she's wearing face-paint and carrying a knife, there's no way Mazz will be confused again. Even if she does haul off and punch him." Eli grinned at her. "See all the good stuff you miss out on when you don't come to school?"

As they stood, talking on the porch, Gris and Azala came to the door, the big krogan nodding to Azala politely. "Nice talking with you again," Gris rumbled. "I'll check in again over the weekend."

Azala watched him walk off into the winter gloom. Siara sighed. "You have a crush on him, Mother?"

"No, of course not." Azala frowned. "But he is interesting, don't you think? You felt his _mind_, little one! Do you have any idea how unusual he is, for a krogan?"

Elijah put his hands up in front of him. "And this is where I leave." He leaned over, gave Siara a quick kiss, and darted off after Gris. "Hey! Can I get a ride back up to the base? Or are you waiting for the shuttle, too?" he called after the retreating krogan.

**Mordin**

He'd been working here on Klendagon for weeks now; hard, frustrating work. He had two quarian techs with him from the Spectre base, Nal'ishora and Hal'marrak, and the quarian government had actually sent Tali'zorah and a couple of other techs to the dig-site as well, to pool their resources in terms of examining the alien device, and comparing it to the one that was being cautiously examined on Rannoch.

Mordin was simply not accustomed to such a depressing lack of results. This device clearly had the same power system as the simulation device. It clearly radiated biotic energy patterns when powered. It did not, however, seem to _do_ anything. "Perhaps missing components?" Mordin suggested.

Every researcher present was in a full envirosuit; the surface of the planet was a chilly -53º C/ or -63º F, and its atmospheric pressure was low, with minimal oxygen. It had suffered an extinction event around the same time as Tosal Nym and Aphras, which meant that it _probably_ had been destroyed thousands or even millions of years after the civilization of Junthor, around its long-lived red dwarf star, had died out.

One of the archaeologists on site, a human named Isaac Baldwin, commented over the suit radios, "We've found nothing else of similar origin in the same dig layer with it. This whole area was, as far as we can tell, was a very large building. There were little alcoves built into the walls," he gestured, and brought up the dig-site's diagram on his omnitool, to show Mordin better. "Each niche has some equipment in it. Tools, mostly. Some of them wouldn't look out of place in a machine shop back on Earth. Leverage principles are always the same, right? A hammer or a wrench looks largely the same, no matter which species designed it. The rest of the stuff is fragmentary." He paused, and enlarged the right side of the dig area. "Over here, ground-penetrating radar picked up metal. We've dug down to it, and as far as we can tell, it seems to be some sort of a craft."

Mordin blinked. "Craft? Vehicle?" His mind was already racing. _Machine shop, many bays, possibly research facility for examining scavenged tech? Or was already studied, ready to be put to use? _"Large enough to carry cylinder? Space-capable?"

"Smaller. One seat, as far as we can tell. Configuration similar to a flying wedge. It's in very poor condition, of course. We've got the quarian engineers looking at it as we carefully disassemble it, to tell us what looks like engine, what looks like computer systems, whatever." The human paused. "I can tell you that the cylinder is definitely older than this civilization. And it doesn't match their tech. I find it hard to believe it's in the incredible condition that it's in, and yet. . . ."

"Any organic remains?"

"Nowhere on the planet yet. Again, no signs of what these people even _looked_ like." He sighed. "It's frustrating, but I think we can see that the Reapers came here and processed the whole population. Destroyed all representational art to ensure that no one who came after would suspect that there had really been multiple civilizations that had risen and fallen. . . and went back to dark space." He looked around. "What _was_ this place?"

Mordin thought about it. "This place—perhaps a hangar. Or hospital. Multiple bays, tools for repairing ships, bodies. Why bring the device here? Was it just brought in, when attack occurred? Were they evacuating with it? Trying to use it?" He shook his head. "So much time spent, so little data obtained."

"Tell me about it," Hal'marrak groused, coming over to join them. "I think I may have a _little_ something to report."

Tali'zorah joined them. "What have you got, Hal?" she asked.

"While it's similar to the Junthor device, it's clearly not the same. It generates biotic energy in clear patterns, which is similar. . . but it isn't affecting any of our minds. The mini-Reaper needed an organic pilot; the simulation device worked on all organic minds, but worked most effectively for biotics, right?" Hal'marrak was edging his way towards an idea here, but Mordin had already leaped ahead of him.

"May need organic to touch it. Possibly, biotic to control it, access it? Has anyone actually _touched_ the device? Biotics, on dig team?" Mordin's mind was already careening through the possibilities. _Long-range biotic communication device? Inefficient, other methods easier, less expensive. Unless original species __**had**__ no other means of communication, no vocal or visual apparatus. . . interesting possibility, but no way to prove. Storage repository for information, only accessible by biotics? Why here, however? Just random chance, brought back for study or to be taken away and hidden, a last message in a bottle? Too little data!_

All of that, in the time it had taken Hal'marrak to turn his head and nod at him. Dr. Baldwin cleared his throat. "No, none of the dig team has touched it. We avoided doing so as much as possible, and cleaned it off using compressed air, largely." He paused. "We don't have any biotics on the team. You have anyone?"

Mordin contacted the ship. EDI responded, immediately, "There is one asari crewmember aboard at the moment. Should we send her down by shuttle?"

"Please. Soonest possible opportunity."

They waited, and when Mikala arrived, immediately put the girl to work. "I hear it," she said, after a moment of concentration. "It's like the throbbing of a very powerful engine. Repetitive. Like it's just. . . idling."

She got closer, and her frown of concentration deepened. The runes on the surface flared, and she jerked back hastily, as everyone else did. "It just. . . _said_ something," Mikala said. She was young, and this was her first tour on the _Normandy_. The whites were showing all around the edges of her eyes as she added, "I couldn't understand the words used, but there's a . . . _feeling_ with it." The asari looked abashed. "I think it's says. . . it's ready? Prepared? Clean?"

"Step forward again," Mordin suggested. "More cautiously. Be ready to move away."

She gave him a nervous look, visible through the face shield, and stepped forward again.

This time, two panels that they had _not_ known about slid open, revealing controls on both sides of the cylinder. "Ah. . . " Mikala said, quietly. "It, ah, just said something else. Again, the words don't make sense. But there's a picture in my head. A pitcher? with a glass on either side of it. One glass is full, the other is empty. A. . . hand? Yes, it's my hand. It takes the full glass, and pours it into the pitcher. Then it sets the glass down, empty. Then I pick up the pitcher, and fill the second glass with the water from the first." She shrugged.

"Data transfer and storage system?" Mordin muttered. "Controls labeled. Unknown language, of course. Only three control devices per panel on either side. More testing needed. Mikala, stay here for the time being. Uncertain if we will need you again. This way, no loss of time, waiting for you to return from _Normandy_ if required."

He and the quarian team headed by Tali'zorah both had good reports to send back to their commanders, at least, by the end of the day. Progress was always a good thing to be able to discuss. Tali seemed fairly certain, for instance, that the controls on each side were, in order, 'up, 'down,' and had made a reasonable guess that the third was 'purge system memory.' There was another control, which had symbols on either side of it; pictograms, basically. One dot, in black; and on the other side, another dot, in a lighter shade of gray. _Impossible to understand what that one means_, Mordin thought to himself. _Garrus, were he here, would be asking who hid the manual, doubtless._

"Can we ascertain what storage media the device probably used?" Mordin asked, watching the techs work.

Tali looked up. "I think it's possible that it made a direct interface with organic minds. Think of it. A learning device that takes all the schematics for a complicated drive, and simply puts them in your head."

Mordin scoffed. "Limited practical use. Knowledge gained in that fashion unlikely to stay long in organic brain. Almost all species require rehearsal of information to retain it. Drell an exception, of course. Also, if device has indiscriminate range, like simulation device, six kilometers, could be origins of indoctrination process. Easy to brainwash people that way."

Mikala spoke up from behind him. "I didn't get a sense that it could do many transfers at once, Dr. Solus. The image didn't show pouring into many cups. Just from one cup, into the pitcher, into the other cup. Very specific, and very clear."

"Is there anything in the storage buffer now?" Tali asked, after a moment.

"Excellent question," Mordin told her, and Hal, Nal, and the other quarians got to work, analyzing the data. Mordin liked working with these quarians. They weren't as _fast_ as his fellow salarians, of course, but they worked well, and effectively, and while they weren't much for quick bursts of insight, their more plodding pace was a _thorough_ one. No possibility overlooked.

"Interesting," Mordin said, after a minute, as their scans brought something up. "Storage pattern analysis looks familiar. Chaotic, but has structure. Fractal. Different types of information?"

Nal shrugged. "As far as we can figure out, yes. Their code is obviously not written in any language that we know. Many structures in the code appear to connect to one another, but there's no way to tell what any of it _means_. Not without whatever device they used to _run_ the code on present."

Tali shrugged. "Not unless that device happened to be a _person_." She seemed fond of that theory, but Mordin didn't want to blind himself to other possibilities.

"Using alien device to take alien data directly into the mind?" Mordin asked, sharply. "Results not good for Commander Shepard with Prothean beacon. Experimentation unwise." He tabbed his radio. "EDI, have code available for analysis. Can you examine?"

"Acknowledged," the AI responded. It did a wonderful job of emulating human emotion. No wonder so much of the crew anthropomorphized it. "Analysis will take approximately two hours."

In fact, it took less time than that. "This appears to be a scan of a biological mind," EDI reported back, sounding intrigued. "Probably millions of years old. It's impossible to say whether the consciousness came from this civilization, or a previous one."

Mikala looked up, nervously. "I could try to use the device."

Mordin shook his head firmly. "Negative. Far too dangerous. If this _is_ millions-of-years-dead personality imprint, your identity could be overwritten. Uncertain as to settings for device. Could simply kill you, instead. Will contact base. Look for instructions. Perhaps find a way to download to _Normandy_ computers. Safer option, by far."

**Dara**

She'd aced her finals, which was a good feeling, and now she had two weeks of vacation before the next quarter started on June 20. This did not mean, however, that she really got to relax. Oh, no. There was still clinic work on Sundays to do, runs to go on, a research paper that she had _no_ idea how to write, and, of course, the sinking realization that time had slipped past her again, leaving only thirty-two days left with Rel before he'd be gone for almost a quarter of the year.

Now it was June 3, 2190. A year to the day since her mother had died. And Kasumi had given her a list of assignments as soon as she and Rel walked in the door of the woman's house that afternoon, thinking that they'd have a couple of hours of blissful inactivity before dinner and sparring. _He_, after all, was done. Officially and finally, done. Since students studied at their own pace, there was no formal graduation or any of that nonsense, but Rel was radiating relief, especially since he'd already started getting his grades back, and had done _very_ well in all the courses, so far.

But now, Dara looked down at the list of questions she needed to answer, and shook her head in disbelief. "Kasumi. . . I figured we were just going to get up in front of everyone, read vows for an hour or three, do the human short-short version, and _leave._ There seems to be a lot of unnecessary. . ._stuff_ . . . here."

"All the 'unnecessary' stuff isn't for the two of you. It's more for everyone else. If you ask people to take time out of their lives to pay attention to you, it's nice to give them something back, right?"

Dara tried to find a delicate way to phrase her reply, and then finally gave up. "But I'm _not_ asking them to do that. In fact, I'd really prefer to be as private as possible."

Rel chuckled quietly. Dara sighed. "You're about to tell me that it doesn't work like that for turians _or_ humans, right?"

He shrugged. "I'd only say that if it were true." Rel paused. "And it is, more's the pity. Like finishing boot camp, it's a rite of passage thing, and families like to be a part of those."

"Social bonds," Kasumi agreed, smiling.

Dara sighed. "Fine. But I think the whole _being_ married thing is a lot more important than all the _getting_ married crap." Other girls her age probably had elaborate ideas for their eventual weddings. Dara had never really thought about it, other than knowing that someday, she _would_ get married. In the past six months, she'd _definitely_ known she'd be doing so, and the nebulosity of that impending day had condensed as time had gone by, of course, into a firm reality in her mind. That being said, she'd looked up turian customs, figured she could live just fine with yellow face-paint for the rest of her life, although she'd have to make sure she never wore anything that _clashed_ with it, decided _Velnaran_ sounded a lot better than _Jaworski, _and had more or less moved on in her thoughts from there.

She caught a look of amused appraisal from Kasumi, and wondered briefly at it, before Rel took the datapad out of her hands—carefully not touching her—and glanced through the lists. "I see they've all decided on the eighteenth," he said, after a moment. "I was kind of hoping it would be sooner."

One of the repercussions imposed, as something of a sop to Solanna's temper, had been the complete curtailment of closed-door time until they got married. Additionally, they could not so much as _touch_ one another. Rel never let the frustration show openly, but Dara could see it in his eyes. He continued speaking now, "As is, Dara has two weeks of vacation at the moment, and with the ceremony being on the eighteenth, she'll go back to school on the twentieth. Not really ideal."

Kasumi just grinned at him. "It's going to be hard enough to get your families here with two weeks' notice as is. You really think it'd be possible to get everything done in a week?"

"Maybe it _could_ be," Dara said, in some indignation, "if people didn't think so much stuff was _necessary_." She took the datapad _back_ from Rellus, and pointed out, "Turians don't dance as part of wedding celebrations."

"Hunt dances and religious observances," Rel agreed. "Marriages aren't religious. They're legal contracts."

"Ta da. That's one thing we don't have to worry about." Dara found a stylus and prepared to scratch it off the list.

"_Humans_ dance at weddings," Kasumi pointed out.

"So what? I don't even know how. The last time I danced, I think I was three, and I was standing on my dad's feet. Not necessary. Off with its head."

"You _really _don't want to dance with your dad at your own wedding?" Kasumi just looked at her for a long moment. "How do you think _he _feels about it?"

That stopped Dara dead in her tracks, and she sank down in a chair, exhaling. "Okay. I. . . see your point." She looked at Kasumi, and added, plaintively, "Can it just be _one_ dance, and then, after that, no one _has_ to anymore?"

"I don't see why not," Kasumi said, gently. "You really hate it that much?"

Dara nodded vehemently. "I'm not good at it, and I don't want people looking at me while I'm doing it. I know. I sound about five years old, but. . . there it is."

"I don't know, that's pretty advanced thinking for five. A five-year-old would just be saying 'I don't wanna' and leaving it at that." Kasumi shook her head. "How about the rest of the list?"

Dara looked down at the datapad and sighed. "Okay, if we really have to feed everyone, then yeah, _menu_ I can see being important. Drinks _aren't_ that important. If people want to get drunk, they can do it at their own houses." She struck through another line on the list.

Rel looked over her shoulder, and shook his head. "Humans do seem to put a lot of weight on what happens _after_ the ceremony. We tend to put out weight on the ceremony itself, and maybe a small ritual meal for the immediate families, and then everyone _leaves_."

Kasumi put her head in her hands, starting to laugh. "What?" Dara asked her.

The little woman grinned. "You two are even worse than Shep and Garrus were. Admittedly, we had to make sure no one took a _shot_ at either of them when they were getting married on the Citadel, so that's at least one thing we _probably_ don't have to worry about here. . . but really, you're only going to do this so many times in your lives."

"At least twice," Rellus told her, calmly.

Kasumi blinked. He looked down, and reminded her, "_Manus_ rites are temporary, remember? This one is a four-year contract, with option for renewal. My mother wanted to make it a two-year contract, what people call a _commeditor, _or a 'practice marriage.' We said no, four-year standard contract. Then when that one ends, we can either decide on another temporary contract, or, since we'll be twenty then, go for _tal'mae._" He shrugged. "You can see _why_ we don't opt to put so much ritual around something that you might well do thirty times in your life?"

"Well, when you put it _that_ way, yeah." Kasumi sighed. "But rituals exist for a reason. They provide a sense of continuity, of new beginnings and endings, and tying people together."

Rel nodded. "Don't get me wrong. There's lots of ritual for _tal'mae_ rites, which is what Uncle Garrus and Aunt Lilu used. But for both _tal'mae_ and for _manus_, the important things are the contract—discussed and finalized in advance—the words, the knives, and the paint." He grinned at Dara.

Dara frowned a little. "Why _are_ you pushing this today, Kasumi? It's not like you. I'd have thought you'd have dropped this on my desk and said told me to get on it over the weekend."

Kasumi sighed. "I'm trying to keep your mind—and your dad's mind—occupied today."

_Ohhhh. Good point. _"Because of my mom?" Dara's voice constricted a bit.

"Yes. I also think it would be a very good thing to keep your dad's mind _firmly_ occupied on the day of the wedding, too. It's going to hurt him very deeply to be giving you away, Dara, with your mom not there to see how you've grown up. Not to share that with her."

Dara thought about it. "All the more reason to make it a little less human," she said, quietly.

Kasumi blinked. "Dara, your dad's the one who wants to make it a fifty-fifty split."

Dara shook her head, frowning. "I'm not sure I'm going to say this right," she said, slowly. "But it seems to me that all the familiar things that he and my mom did at _their_ wedding will just be reminders that she isn't there to remember them with him. I think it would hurt _more_ that way."

"Well. . . that's one point of view," Kasumi said, after a moment.

Rel shook his head. "And you think turians negotiate too much. I think I'm going to go for a run while you two figure everything out."

Dara gave him a dark look. "Thanks. Really."

He just grinned at her and took off out the door.

"So," said Kasumi, "is this a good time to mention that turians don't really do tuxedos?"

Dara pretended to throw the datapad at the little woman.

By the time her father arrived, Dara was starting to appreciate Kasumi's seemingly inexhaustible store of patience and good cheer. She, herself, had long since gone past snappy into downright sulky. "And recorded music is no good exactly why?" she demanded, hearing the door open behind her.

"Now, really, do you want to inflict that on Sky?" Kasumi asked her, grinning.

Dara put her head down on the table, and banged her forehead there a couple of times, gently, for good measure. "Fine. If I have to pick, harp and turian dulcimer. They'll sound just fine together. "

"Is she giving you trouble, sweetie?" her dad asked, behind her, coming through the back door into the kitchen.

"Which of us is giving whom trouble?" Kasumi asked, laughing.

"Either." She could hear the quick kiss, and peeked up over the barricade of her forearms, and could see that her dad was smiling.

Kasumi fiddled with her omnitool, doing a quick extranet search. "Dara, you're in luck. Siobhan, one of the botany team scientists, actually does list Celtic harp as one of her hobbies on her profile page. If you were thinking the six-foot tall great harps, well. . . no such luck. And let's see. . . yep. Valana plays turian dulcimer. Will that do, you think?"

"It'll be fine." Muffled voice.

Her dad looked down at her. "Ah. And now I know who's giving the trouble to whom." He looked around. "Where's Rel?"

"At the moment, he's running away as fast as he can," Dara said, gloomily. "Can't say as I blame him."

Her dad started to laugh. Kasumi chuckled, and replied, "In fairness, he's probably running _back_ by now." She put a hand on Dara's shoulder. "Okay, you're leaving the menu entirely in Chef Gardner's capable hands, probably wise. No bar."

"Now wait just a damn minute," her dad said, firmly. "I'm paying for half of this shindig. There is _going_ to be a bar. I am definitely going to want a drink or two for this."

Dara glanced at him, worried. "Not like—"

He snorted. "No, not like the negotiations. But _everyone_ there is going to want to relax, sweetie. Don't worry about the cost. If I know you, you're cutting this down to the damn bone as is."

Kasumi laughed. "I think we've cut down past bone. One dance, nothing more required for anyone else. Processional, recessional, and some light harp and dulcimer music to keep people occupied while they're sitting down waiting for everything to begin, and the same played thing through lunch. You've said relaxed formal, so dress uniforms are _fine_." She gave Sam an amused look. "I've been hearing a lot of the word 'fine' this afternoon."

"I can switch to 'dandy' if you want," Dara offered.

"Smart-mouth," her dad said, raising a finger. She sighed.

"So, cake?" Kasumi asked, looking expectant.

"Turians won't eat it. A bunch of cupcakes for humans and marrow-and-meal cakes for the dextro crowd is fine." Dara paused. "Sorry, I mean _dandy_."

"Has it been this much like tooth-pulling _all_ afternoon?"

Kasumi grinned. "It was worse earlier."

"Good lord." Her dad sat down next to her. "Anyone would think you didn't want to get married, girl. Like we're forcing you to the damn altar."

"I _want_ to get married, Dad. I _don't_ want it to be this whole big. . . thing. I don't really like people looking at me. And every time someone says 'it's your big day' it sounds so self-centered that it makes me want to scream." Dara sat up and shook her hair out of her eyes. "But then again, Kasumi at least admits it's for everyone else _except_ us, so I'm just trying to make it as much _like_ us as she'll let me." She gave Kasumi an apologetic sort of look. "I just don't want a whole big fuss. Rel said it earlier. It's not the only time we're going to get married. Keep it nice and simple this time, and when we do _tal'mae_ in a few years, _then_ we can pull out all the stops if we really want to."

Her dad laughed. "I've got no objections. Seems pretty reasonable to me. Not to mention, a hell of a lot less expensive that way."

Dara lifted her hands. "That's what I've been saying _all afternoon!"_

"You're taking absolutely all the fun out of this," Kasumi said but she smiled as she spoke, so Dara knew she _really_ didn't mean it.

Her dad caught Kasumi's hand. "I tell you what. I'll let you make _all_ the decisions for our wedding."

That got _him_ a look. "No," Kasumi said, in a very patient tone. "Dara might be young enough and inexperienced enough to let _Rel_ get away with that, but I am neither."

"Dayum," Sam said, and Dara startled to giggle as he strengthened the drawl and leaned back in his chair, smiling up at Kasumi where she stood. "Guess I'm just gonna have to get used to bein' whipped, huh?"

Kasumi's smile was impish. "On one or two topics, yes. I'll try not to leave too many marks."

Dara's fingers crept into her ears, and she turned her head away, blushing just a bit. Kasumi reached over and tugged one of her hands away. "Well, at least I know where you get _that_ from," she said. "Now, are you at _least_ going to work with me on pictures and the dress?"

Dara's stomach suddenly dropped, as if she were standing in an elevator. "Wouldn't the dress Kella gave me be okay?" she suggested. "It's in the Velnaran clan colors. . . ."

"Go try it on and tell me that again," Kasumi said, grinning.

Dara shrugged, and walked out of the room. When she walked back in, fifteen minutes later, Rel had returned from his run, and was sitting at the table with the rest. Dara scowled at Kasumi. "How did you _know_ it wasn't going to fit?" she asked.

"Gene mods. Your body weight hasn't actually changed much, but the distribution between muscle and fat has shifted. Plus, you've been working out essentially seven days a week." Kasumi shrugged. "Odds were good it wouldn't fit. Besides, it's a summer dress, and it's basically the middle of December right now. Okay, fine, the calendar says June, but it's _cold_ and it's very likely to snow."

Dara _really_ wanted to mutter something rude in turian, but the VIs would pick it up, so she restrained herself. "Think there's someone in town who can alter it for me?"

Kasumi's smile turned impish. "Oh, I have something better in mind."

Dara's expression turned wary. "I don't really want to go back to Odessa."

"Oh, no, this is a much better idea than Odessa." Kasumi smiled beatifically. "I actually have to go to Bastion tomorrow for work. Meet and greet with salarian STG and turian intelligence. So, we'll leave tonight, and while I'm stuck in meetings all morning, _you_, my dear, can be more happily occupied. With seventeen million people on the station of various species, odds are, you can find _something_ on a rack somewhere that fits."

Rel started to laugh. Her dad started to chuckle.

"Shut up," Dara told Rel. "Either you're going with me, or I'm bringing you back formal hanar tentacle wrappings to wear. In _pink._"

He continued laughing in spite of her ominous threat, and finally managed to calm down long enough to say, "It's actually not a bad idea. Bastion probably has wedding knives. That way, my uncle doesn't have to bring any from Palaven with him, and we actually get to pick our own."

Dara blinked. "I hadn't thought of that." Suddenly, the whole trip seemed a bit better of a notion. Even if it did involve shopping for dresses. "I just hope the shopkeepers on Bastion are a little more. . . . "

"Cosmopolitan than the ones in Odessa?" Kasumi offered.

"Yeah, that."

Kasumi smiled sweetly, and turned to Rellus now. "Rel, you're going to have to come up with a best man."

He looked at her blankly. "A what?"

"Best man," Sam supplied. "Holds onto the wedding ring for you, makes sure you don't fall down or run away, and is generally supposed to give a speech about you. Supposed to be your best friend."

Rel sighed. "Oh, spirits." He frowned. "I'd ask my brother, Rinus, but the _Estallus_ is underway at the moment. That doesn't leave a lot of options." Shaking his head irritably, he added, "Are you serious about the speech?"

Her dad grinned. "Yes."

Rellus held out his hand for the datapad, and when Dara handed it to him, he scrawled _No speeches_ on it, and underlined it, firmly.

Dara beamed. "Thank you for at least _distributing_ the pain, Kasumi."

"Don't thank me yet," the little woman warned. "_You_ need an attendant, too."

"It's not actually _required_ anywhere, is it?"

"Who's going to hold your flowers when you get up to the front?"

Dara grinned. "See? Another great reason not to have flowers. That, and roses don't grow on Mindoir, and _allora_ flowers are out of season everywhere on the planet. . . " She chuckled a little as Kasumi slowly, theatrically sagged down into a chair and put her face in her hands. "Seriously, though, I don't _have_ any female friends here. There was Kella, but. . . " She shrugged. "I could ask Eli, but I think he'd be offended if I asked him to wear a dress and hold my flowers. I mean, that _and_ the clan-paint _and_ the asari girlfriend are gonna to get him a _reputation_."

By this point, her father was laughing so loudly she thought the windows were going to shake right out of the windows. Rel was right there with him, and Kasumi's shoulders were reluctantly shaking, even as the woman kept her face resolutely buried in her arms on the table.

It took a couple of minutes to settle everyone down again. Dara sat back down at the table, and put a hand on Kasumi's shoulder. "How about," she said, smiling, "if _you_ be my attendant, Kasumi? There's no one else I'd rather have up there. And that way, if I trip and fall or something, you'll be there to make it look like it was totally intentional."

Kasumi smiled, but shook her head. "It's really supposed to be someone your own age," she said.

"What antiquated book says that's the rule, anyway? You and Dad aren't married yet, and you've been there for both of us since we moved here. Why not?" Dara smiled. "Besides, who else am I going to ask? Siara?" She held up a hand. "Don't _anyone_ tell me that I _should_," she warned.

The next day, they arrived at Bastion. Construction on the station had continued apace, and the reactor core with its dark matter singularity was no longer visible from space; its containment compartment had been completed once all tests had shown that it was stable, and unlikely to need a hasty ejection. More of the inner shells had been built, as well, and scaffolding now extended out to shape the ghostly form of the outermost shell.

Navigating the station was a _lot _easier than it had been six months ago. Now Dara and Rel could just tap into the station's extranet feeds on their omnitools and navigate its long halls on their own, although sometimes the station maps didn't seem entirely up to date. And it was very enjoyable, exploring a place basically new to them both. Best of all, there was no point at which Dara didn't feel perfectly safe; any number of beggars and hustlers, who'd moved towards her, seeing a relatively easy mark, backed off quickly on seeing Rel, at his adult height, beside her. "I had no idea I was _this_ scary," he muttered, leaning down to speak to her, very careful not to touch her, for the moment. "All I did was _look_ at the guy."

She grinned up at him. "Turians are intimidating. It'll probably be even worse when you're done with boot camp."

Down in the living area, there were indeed many shops. They'd walked into a few so far, human-owned, and Dara had been asked whose wedding she was a bridesmaid for. It had been amusing at first, but was rapidly degenerating into the annoying. Now she simply defaulted to "I'm just looking" when first approached, and Rel generally found someplace out of the way to sit and flip open an extranet game on his omnitool to pass the time. Chess, apparently, from the look of it.

Unfortunately, she simply couldn't find anything that didn't look just plain _fussy_ to her—lace, pearls, and enough floating organza to look like confections, rather than clothing. Rel had laughed outright when he'd seen the first racks of clothing. "You'd look like a pastry in those."

"I _know_."

And of course, everything other than the bridesmaid dresses was white, or off-white. _Just what I need with yellow clan-paint. _When she asked to see a couple of the gold, burgundy, black, or blue bridesmaid dresses, all of which were much simpler looking—she was, invariably, told by the clerks that they were _too old_ for her. _What does that even __mean__? _

She sighed, and sent Kasumi a text message—_We're giving up on human shops until you're free. Going to Xalae area. See you there._ "At least you can get something to eat while we're there," she told Rel, and he grinned enthusiastically.

It was a mixed neighborhood; turian, quarian, drell, and hanar. They got more than a few curious stares as they wove their way through the crowds, and finally found the stores. Rel stopped by a dextro kebab shop, and stood in line, while she started looking in various windows. She stopped outside one, staring in at the assortment of wedding knives there. _I had no idea there were that many __**kinds**__. I knew they were all supposed to be __**useable**__, but. . . wow._ They ran the gamut from the plainly utilitarian to the highly decorative. There were bone handles and ivory handles and wire-wrapped hilts; there were knives with and without cross-guards, and most had fullers, making the blades stronger and lighter.

Rel came up behind her, and commented, "Those are all _manus_ knives." He handed her a skewer with chunks of something that looked oddly pinkish-purple under black grill marks. "What is it?" she asked.

"_Nepa_," he said. "Haven't had this in five years. I used to _love _this stuff. Should be safe enough for you."

"This is one of the ones I'm not going to want to look up before I try it, isn't it?"

He laughed. "Just eat it."

After a couple of cautious nibbles, and followed by a lot of blowing to try to cool it down, Dara realized that whatever _nepa _actually was, it was _damned_ tasty. "So how can you tell those are _manus_ knives?" she asked, through a mouthful.

"_Tal'mae_ knives are always sold in pairs. Very close to identical. You have to spend a lot of time picking them, because they have to be about right for both mates, in terms of hand-grip and arm-length. Shows how you submit yourselves as individuals to each other, but it's also practical, too. A knife suited for my hand isn't going to be a good one for yours, _amatra_."

She nodded. "I'd wondered about that. I kind of thought that if we wound up exchanging knives, you'd basically have a paring knife, and I'd be carrying around a machete."

Rellus chuckled. "Let's go in and take a look."

She finished the skewer of _nepa _meat as she and Rel walked into the store, which drew no _end_ odd looks from the clients and staff. "Okay. I admit it. It was good. Now tell me what it was before I go looking for a picture."

Rel grinned down at her. "Palaven doesn't have any land insects, you know that, right?"

She sighed. "I see where this is going. But they evolved in the sea, right? Like, what, crabs, lobster?"

"Giant sea scorpion. Legs and tail."

Her stomach lurched, and she got control of her face after a minute. "See, _this_ is why I don't look these things up before trying them anymore." She nodded. "Very tasty."

The turians inside obviously didn't quite know what to make of them. The knife sheathes on their wrists got stares; Dara in particular got quite a few looks. They walked around a bit more, looking at the rest of the wares; there _were _racks of turian formalwear, but turians _did_ tend to go in for eye-catching color schemes in their civilian clothes, which made her eyes feel like bleeding. "Garish," she commented, quietly. "Looks like a parrot."

"Yeah. I was figuring I'd try to find something a little more human-friendly. Your omnivore eyes tend to be a little more sensitive to color than ours are. All that looking for fruit and whatnot," he admitted, after a moment. "Black, maybe?"

Dara nodded. "Always safe. Besides. . . Spectre colors." She grinned. They'd told _no one_ about the furthest-out visions of their future that they'd experienced in the simulation, months ago; it was now a running private joke. Dara turned away and pulled a dress off one of the racks, trying not to laugh at the fact that it was eight inches too long, though marked as a _small. _

"Human, that is _not_ going to fit you," the shop-owner said, sharply, pushing past her. "You should go back to your own kind's neighborhood. Two passageways up, make a right. You'll be back in the Smithson section in no time."

"_Actually, we wished to look at your wedding-knives. They are quite beautiful.."_ Dara's _tal'mae_ still took enormous effort, but Rel's dialect of turian was coming more and more naturally to her now.

The look of _shock_ on the shop-keeper's face was definitely fun, and she could feel Rel's shoulders shaking beside her as he turned around to look at the turian woman, too. _"Also, I know that the clothing will not fit. I hoped to find ideas for what would be appropriate to a wedding here. May I beg of you, your guidance?"_

The female turian stared down at her. _"You've got a pretty good Palaven accent there. A little formal, though."_ Dara could almost _see_ the initial shock and hostility draining as the female absorbed the fact that Dara was speaking her language.

"_The fault is mine,"_ Rel said, smiling. _"I have been instructing her in __tal'mae__ as well as in my own regional dialect, and I find the rhythms of __tal'mae__ that underpin her speech in our language too charming to correct."_

"Thanks loads," Dara said, dryly, in English.

"But it's true," he protested lightly, in the same language.

"Well, scale me and skin me," the female replied, in galactic. "What do you need?"

Dara pointed at one of the dresses, which was a pale gold and had, unusually to her eyes, at least, a cut-out panel at the waist, filled in with mesh. "Is that appropriate for a bride? Or would that be considered, um. . . immodest?"

The shop-owner grinned, all sharp teeth, looking between the two of them. "Your mate here can answer part of that. You'd _love_ it, wouldn't you?"

Rel coughed. "It has a certain appeal, yes." He coughed again. "I'd like to point out, that the waist _is_, technically, covered."

The shopkeeper laughed. "How traditional of a ceremony are you planning?" she asked next.

His reply was a spate of dry _tal'mae_, indicating a four-year _manus_ contract without escape clauses and standard provisions for income, and then added, in galactic, "Plus a human ecumenical service."

"And how traditional is your family?"

"My father and my clan leader are both progressives. My mother is feeling the weight of tradition very heavily this year. My grandfather will probably not even attend."

Dara sighed. "So. . . not appropriate?"

"There are options for _making_ it appropriate," the female assured her. "It still wouldn't fit without _substantial_ alterations though." The shopkeeper squinted at her. "The whole upper body would have to be reworked. To be honest, I'm not even sure where to _start._"

"Well, maybe I can find something _similar_ at a human or an asari shop. How would you _make_ it appropriate?" Dara asked, pragmatically.

The shop-keeper frowned, and pulled down a length of matching ribbon from a shelf. "Tie this around the center of the open area, and let it trail down. Unless, of course, you've already got a _cinctus. _Then that could be worn, instead."

Rel had gone completely still next to her. "I, ah, hadn't gotten around to that yet," he said. "Where we live, there aren't, well, any places where those are commonly found."

The shopkeeper grinned. "You should probably look into that. Want to look at the knives now?"

As they started going through the knives, trying to find ones that suited their arm lengths, hand sizes, and grips, Dara asked, quietly, "So, what's a _cinctus_?"

Rel leaned down, and replied, succinctly, "A belt."

"And?" She grinned. "There's got to be more to it than that from the way you reacted."

He sighed, and switched to turian. _"They're. . . special. Metal belts, thin plaits of metal chain. Only ever given by males to their females. And only after they've __become__ mates. Worn under the clothes, it's. . . a tease, of sorts. Worn outside the clothes, it's another form of marking._"

"Ah. The turian equivalent of lingerie?" Dara chuckled. She wasn't even going to _try_ to translate _lingerie_ into turian.

"I—well, I guess, yeah." Rellus picked up a blade that had the distinctive marks of pattern-welding in the blade, almost iridescent shimmers where the steel had been folded and folded and folded. "Human and asari breast and loin coverings look _ridiculous_, but I suppose it's the same thing. More or less." He put the pattern-welded one to the side, nodding to himself, and examined a different blade.

"I've never seen your aunt or Eli's mom wear a belt like that." Dara found a smaller pattern-welded blade, this one bone-handled, and grinned, setting it off to the side before finding another to consider. _My dad would love this one._

"They do. Trust me, they do. The clinking sound is fairly distinctive." Rel tested the flex in one blade, shook his head, and put it down again.

"You can _hear_ it?"

"Yes." He paused. "From across a room, if it's quiet enough."

"I don't know which I envy you more for, the hearing or the smell." She slipped into her microvision focus and studied the blade in her hand now as well, before putting it down, having found a hairline flaw in the metal of the blade.

Kasumi found them a half-hour later. "I send you to look for dresses, and you find knives," she said, appearing behind them like an apparition. "Why am I _not_ surprised?"

"A dress I wear once, or a knife I could wind up using for the rest of my life?" Dara said, shrugging. "Besides, I may have found a dress here. Or at least, an idea for what I'm looking for in the human shops."

"Okay, good." Kasumi sighed. "Buy your knives, and let's get out of here before you two find the armor shop across the plaza."

They both opted for pattern-welded steel blades, hilted, to protect the fingers, and nice, non-conductive bone hilts. The blades looked similar, but Dara's was only about six inches in length, hilt to tip; Rel's was about four inches longer.

And, as it turned out, Kasumi happened to know a hanar tailor who was _delighted_ to have repeat business. "This one greets you," the hanar said. "Are you not the human who brought Commander Shepard to my shop on the Citadel?"

"I was. You have a very good memory for faces," Kasumi said, sounding a little unnerved. Dara could understand why. She didn't know _exactly_ what Kasumi did, but knew it was covert. Being recognized was thus, a bad thing.

"This one's business increased ten-fold after it became known that this one created the dress for Commander Shepard's wedding. This one has ample reason to remember."

"Well, we have a short timeframe again, and a bigger challenge for you." Kasumi produced the dress, purchased from the turian shop, and, pointing from the dress to Dara, said simply, "Make this, fit that. And can you have it done before the end of the day?"

The hanar studied it. "Not a problem. Considerable extra material at the hem can be repurposed, if necessary." It produced a variety of measuring devices, and shooed Dara off to a changing room, floating in peacefully behind her.

**Garrus**

"You're going to love this," Garrus told his wife as she stepped out of the shower. His voice was more than a little resigned.

"Do I get three guesses at to what you're talking about?"

"Sure."

"Hmm. Mordin's finally figured out that device, and it's actually a very large coffee maker. Hence the visions Mikala had about the cups and the pitcher?"

"No, but I'll forward him your idea. It might even be correct." Garrus grinned.

"Did you send Cohort to him to try to download whatever information is in the device?"

"Yeah, yesterday. He'll be there the day of the wedding." He stepped forward, and lightly put his hands on her swelling waist as she toweled off. "Guess again."

"The Lystheni have finally come out of hiding, and have decided to adopt a completely organic, communal lifestyle?"

"No, but that does remind me that we've gotten reports back from the _Estallus_; they've been combing through the Valhallan Threshold for the better part of a month now, looking for the shipyards. They think they might have a lead."

"Good." She pulled on her clothes. "Okay, last guess. Sky's received word that he needs to take paternity leave?"

Garrus guffawed. "No, but he did mention that a breeding queen back in rachni territory has sent him a, ah, request for his attendance on her."

"Okay, so, what actually _is_ on your mind, then?"

"My father actually accepted the invitation Solanna sent him to Rel's wedding." Garrus deftly caught the hairbrush as it fell out of Lilu's fingers.

She stared at him in the bathroom mirror. "Does he _know_ that Dara's human?"

"Her name was on the announcement. _Dara Elizabeth Jaworski_. Doesn't exactly sound turian."

Lilu whistled softly. "Well, I knew I had to wear an envirosuit to be there anyway. May as well make it full armor."

He snorted. "He knows what honor demands. He's not going to make a scene _at_ the wedding."

"Oh? And in the part where the minister of the law asks if anyone objects, he _could_ start a duel, couldn't he?" She grimaced. "Which means he'd either wind up fighting Rel, Jaworski, Allardus, or _you_. And that would tend to wreck the party atmosphere."

He winced. Everything she'd just said, was, technically, possible. "Let's not borrow trouble," he told her, quietly. "Remember, no stress for you." He pulled her back into his chest, and settled his hands on her waist, rubbing in a light circle. She'd often told him how lulling she found his body's warmth. After a moment to let her mind slow down, he said, carefully, "Rel is, properly speaking, a member of Allardus' clan, and not subject to Gavius in that way. I just get called in as clan leader because I outrank Allardus and because Solanna. . . well, I don't know _what_ she was thinking. Probably somewhere between wanting to make sure she got her way, trying to do an end-run around Allardus' authority, and trying to punish me for being a bad influence on her children."

"It's obviously worked out well for her." Lilu's tone was as dry as the frozen dusts of Mars. "So, we just sit back and watch the fireworks?" she asked.

"If my father tries anything, I would be willing to bet that _Solanna_ will take his challenge. Rel's her son, and that pretty much trumps everything else. So, yes. Sit back in your armor and relax as much as you can." He nipped her shoulder lightly. "I'll tell Jaworski to sharpen his knife and let him know that if he _happens_ to nick the grandfather-in-law, no one will start a blood-feud over it."

She snorted, and put on her breather and gloves; the kids were in the house, after all, and decontamination protocols or not, they _were_ little petri dishes. "Okay, I'm ready to make the announcement," Shepard told him. Walking into the next room, she keyed the comm terminal. "Kasumi, I'm going to need a copy of this message saved for file reference, and forwarded to all Spectres currently active in the field, as well as to the Council."

"Can do."

"This is Commander Shepard. Due to a temporary medical condition, I will be cutting back in my duties for the next eight months or so. This does not mean that I am stepping down as commander of the Spectres. It does mean, however, that, effective immediately, my second-in-command, Garrus Vakarian, will assume operational control of the Spectres. All of my direct reports will now report to him. He will continue to pass along information to me, and many final decisions will still rest on my shoulders. Many of you remember the last time I took a similar medical leave. It all went smoothly then. It should go smoothly now, if we all work together to ensure that it does. Thank you, and good hunting."

He exhaled. He hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath. In the last pregnancy, it had been right around _this_ time, a hundred days in, that she'd miscarried one of the children. The blood, the pain, the guilt in her eyes. Too much stress, too much cortisol in the blood, Mordin had told them, and put her on bed-rest. Garrus had already discreetly taken a lot of the minor things off of her plate. Now, she was going to _let_ him take the major ones, too.

She clicked off the comm. "There you go. Don't scare the galaxy too much." Shepard told him, smiling. "Let's hope it does the trick."

"Yeah." He cleared his throat, having felt it tighten, and tried to make light of it. "On a completely selfish note, I'm personally hoping that this time, I get to retain access to my wife's body for most of the next eight months."

She laughed, as he'd meant her to. "For as long as we can," Lilu promised. "It's just that between the intermittent nausea and tiredness and everything. . . you may just have to pretend to be human."

"_S'kak._ I'm not _that_ much of a martyr. I'd rather not get worked up if all I get out of it is _one_. . ." He grinned, and bit at the finger she lightly placed on his lip-plates.

**Rellus**

June 18 arrived. Fifteen days until he was due to report to bootcamp. He'd be leaving early in the morning of July 3, his birthday; a Sunday, on the human calendar. There actually was a direct flight to Palaven from Mindoir running that day, so travel time wouldn't be so bad. He'd arrive late, and would report to his training facility the very next morning. So, he had today, and essentially twelve more days after that remaining.

More family than he really knew what to do with had come in from Palaven and Earth. The travel arrangements had been, apparently, interesting. He knew they'd all gone to Bastion, and from there, a private ship had been chartered, and they were not told where they were going.

Rellus really didn't want to think about how much _that_ had cost. Uncle Garrus had simply shaken his head and told him not to worry about it. "I think Dara and you have cut down the costs of everything else to under two thousand credits. Let her dad and your dad worry about the stuff _they're_ insisting on. . . which is to say, the relatives."

He hadn't seen Uncle Egidus and Aunt Cardea in close to six years; their three kids, Aurea, Gatia, and Marentus, had been his playmates then. Now, they were close to strangers—Aurea was the oldest at thirteen, Gatia twelve, and Marentus was ten. It was _disconcerting_ to receive from them the almost-reflexive formal-familiar address given by younger family members to adults. Since he was over a foot taller than any of them, he understood it, but it was still _odd_.

Dara and her father had introduced him to the various Jaworskis and Jarman relatives two nights ago at their house. Earth had put into place population controls of varying degrees of strength over the years; Dara's father, for instance, had no siblings, but his own mother, Agnes, had come to Mindoir. Her mother had had a brother, Hamilton Jarman, which was apparently unusual; their parents had purchased an exemption to have more than one child.

He and his wife had one son, about five years old, named James—the boy had taken one look at him, shrieked with excitement, and then spent the next half hour alternately peeking at him from behind his mother's leg and darting out, trying to, apparently, catch him off-guard. Rel had foiled these 'surprise attacks' by turning and catching the boy each time, which resulted in another shriek of laughter, and more hiding. The boy's parents were wary, but interested, as far as he could tell; the grandmother was . . . fussing. "I think we should seat her and my grandfather Gavius together," he told Dara and Sam as he was leaving that evening. "They'll have plenty to talk about, and will be so busy trying to re-fight the Relay 314 incident over lunch, that the rest of us won't have to deal with them at all."

Sam just grinned. "Sounds like a winner."

Grandfather Gavius had indeed arrived with everyone else. When Rellus had brought Dara around to meet all the new relatives that she hadn't met before, Gavius had acknowledged her, slightly; he'd lowered his head in a faint nod, and returned to watching the various grandchildren. To the best of his knowledge, Gavius had yet to speak to Garrus, or vice-versa. And Gavius had not yet addressed Amara or Kaius, not yet laid a hand upon their brow to acknowledge them flesh of his flesh. It was. . . stressful. He didn't know if humans experienced it the same way, but for him, it was a profound sensation of things being out of their correct place, correct order. Not quite as bad as if his mother had walked into their house wearing the wrong clan paint, no. . . more subtle than that. A constant feeling of pressure, though. _No wonder my uncle rebelled. No wonder he and my mother live light-years from Palavan. No wonder Uncle Egidus moved his family to one of the moons. I don't remember it being this bad when Grandmother Pilana was alive._

And of course, in all of this, there was another stress. Not to be able to touch Dara or be touched by her, no reassurances that could be given or taken. It would be worse in fifteen days, of course. But in a way, it would be better, too. Then he wouldn't be able to see her or hear her, so the craving for physical contact should, theoretically, lessen. In the meantime, it was driving him crazy to be near her, but unable to touch so much as the hair on her head. He'd given her a _cinctus_ before they'd left Bastion, too; she wouldn't be wearing it for the ceremony, on the grounds that it made it look too much like a shot-gun wedding, after all, but he _knew_ she'd been wearing it under her loose shirts since then. And he knew that _she_ knew, too.

At the moment, he was sitting in an anteroom at Gardner's restaurant, Eli and Linianus with him. He'd really have preferred to have Rinus with him, but duty was duty, and he'd known Linianus for five years, and had shared a lot of experiences with Eli. If he needed guards by his side, they'd do, for the moment. Admittedly, in a fight, he'd still prefer Uncle Garrus, Lantar, and Jaworski, but they all had other things to do today.

Aunt Lilu came over in her full armor, mask in place across her face, and crouched down to talk with him for a moment. "How're you holding up?" she asked, smiling through the mask.

"All right, I guess. Human rituals seem to involve a great deal of hurrying up and waiting."

"That's pretty much everyone, of every species. Right now, I think they're taking pictures out back." She grinned at his sigh.

"I thought we just _did_ that. In spite of the whole 'can't see the bride in her dress' superstition." They had, too. All the different family members, in different configurations, in varying states of feigned or unfeigned joy. At least during the pictures, he could touch her, although the photographers of both species were having a _hell_ of a time trying to figure out 'romantic' poses. Which just made the two of them start to laugh, of course.

At one point, surrounded by his soon-to-be human clan on all sides, Jaworski, Kasumi, Dara, and himself at the center, with all the others flanking them, he'd glanced down, and then murmured in Dara's ear, "What is on your uncle's feet?"

She'd taken one glance, put a hand over her face, and hissed, "Dad!"

Sam leaned down, between pictures. "What?"

"Why is Uncle Hamilton wearing _alligator_-skin boots _today,_ of all days?"

Jaworski's head snapped to the left, and he'd looked down for a moment, before saying, "Well, sweetie, the best I can do is tell the photographer not to take pictures of Ham below the knees."

Kasumi, after another flash had gone off, tipped her head back to whisper, "I can run to my place and get him some house shoes."

_Flash._

"That might be worse than the reptile-skin boots, darlin'. Least it's not snake-skin."

And then they'd changed configurations, and it had been Dara and him and all the _turian_ relatives. And then—and this was one of the pictures he actually thought he'd _keep_—it had been just him, Dara, Sam, Kasumi, Uncle Garrus, and Aunt Lilu. Aunt Lilu had even taken off her helmet for that, and the two following pictures. The next one had been just the two mixed couples, with Amara and Kaius.

The photographers had asked then for someone to go fetch Lantar and Ellie and Caelia. Eli had gotten them, and then it had just been three families; all mixed, all standing together. Caelia up on Lantar's shoulder to the left; Elijah and Ellie in front of him, one of his big hands on Ellie's thin shoulder; him and Dara at the center; and Garrus, Shepard, and their kids off to the right.

These kinds of memories, he could see the _point_ of capturing.

He came back to the present when Aunt Lilu smiled and commented, Trust me, when you're stuck on Palaven for the next hundred and ten days, wondering if you just _imagined _today, you're going to be glad you have proof stuck on your omnitool somewhere."

Garrus came in the room. "Okay, I think we're ready out there."

At that point, Grandfather Gavius came into the room, and the pressure coalesced around him, like atmospheric tides presaging a thunderstorm. "Leave us," Gavius said.

Linianus immediately stood and left. Eli stepped forward, glancing between Rellus and Garrus and Shepard for a clue. Rellus nodded at the door, and the human boy walked out, calling back over his shoulder, "I'll go let Dara know that there's another delay."

_Could you get my parents while you're at it_? Rel thought, but he didn't really mean it. It would be nice to have their support, but he didn't _need_ it. He had fond memories of his grandfather—playing in the garden, learning to dig in the dirt there. Planting seeds. Seeing what had grown there when he came back, a month later. Mock battles with toy swords. Gavius hadn't been a _bad_ grandfather, by any stretch of the imagination. He and Gavius did not _have_ to go down the same path as Gavius had taken his first-son.

"I said, leave us." Gavius scowled at Garrus. "I want to speak to my grandson in private. Do I not have that right?"

Garrus stared right back at him, blank-faced. Rel remembered the visions he'd seen, of a confrontation not unlike this one, many years gone. _Except now, Grandfather had __no__ power over him. He's the __de facto__ commander of the Spectres at the moment. More powerful than any other turian than the Imperator. More famous than any turian in history. And he'll never abuse it. Held in check by iron principles. It has __got__ to stick in Grandfather's crop. And he knows he'll never have a place in history as the one who formed him, made him. Being a renowned C-Sec agent is all well and good, but who will remember Gavius outside of our family's spirit table in a generation? Not so many as will remember Garrus and Shepard._

The stare had been going on for a while. After a long pause, Garrus said, with deliberate emphasis, "You have the right to speak with your grandson. He is, however, of the Velnaran clan. He wears the colors of his father, not of his mother. Allardus will not suffer interference in matters that belong, properly, to his house."

"He's tolerated _your_ interference—"

"His wife requested that I, as the highest-ranked turian on base, and a blood relative, negotiate. Allardus permitted it." Uncle Garrus' tone was cold as methane snow. "Rellus? We'll be outside. We'll give you five minutes, and then, everything has to get started."

Rel nodded and stood as they left, placing his hands behind his back, as if he were to be reviewed. He knew he was Garrus' height now, and it was startling to realize that he could look _down_ at Gavius. "Grandfather," he said. "You had words for me?"

**Dara**

"What do you mean, his grandfather is back there, talking to him?" she hissed at Eli, peeking through the curtain at the full room of various relatives and Spectres and teachers and classmates murmuring and shifting in the folding chairs. "We were supposed to start five minutes ago!"

Eli flinched back, and she wasn't entirely sure why. She thought it was a perfectly _reasonable_ question. Her dad put a hand on her shoulder, patting there gently. "Settle down, sweetie. These things never go off without a hitch. Did I ever tell you that they got the music wrong at your mom's and my wedding?" He paused. "Three times?"

She looked up at her father. "Dad, please."

"I'm just saying, _relax_. He's probably not going to run away. He knows I'd have to hunt him down and kill him if that were the case." Slow, patient, amused words.

Linianus, beside Eli started to chuckle, then sobered when Eli turned and shook his head at him, firmly.

"Seriously, what is taking so _long_?" Dara fidgeted, and peeked through the curtain again. "The rabbi and the minister of the law are just about getting ready to play _cards_ at this point."

**Rellus**

"Is this really what you want to do?" his grandfather asked him, quietly.

"Yes."

"Why? They're a weak species. Your father showed me the vid footage of that foolish handball game. You saw then, what _we_ saw thirty years ago. Weakness. Dishonor. Cowardice. And if they can't win, they'll cheat and drag you down into the mud with them."

Rel felt the first prickles of anger in his crest and along his spine. _Is he __trying__ to provoke me? _He took a deep breath, fighting it down. "Comparing Dara to those boys is hardly fair. Humans are far more individualistic than we are. She's her own person, with her own values. Most of those values are her father's, her family's. Honor, duty, loyalty, integrity. Are those not turian things?" He met his grandfather's eyes. "As to their strength in battle. . . I've fought with her beside me. There was no weakness in either of us then. Thirty years ago, we beat them, from space, while they were on the ground. They beat _us_, in space, ship to ship. And that's all that's ever been fought between us, and I'm glad of it. Human resourcefulness, adaptability, and survival instincts pitted against turian honor, stamina, and ferocity is not a war _either_ side would win. They'd fight to the last person standing. So would we. And we'd take half the galaxy with us when we both fell."

His grandfather looked away for a moment, and Rellus was surprised. He hadn't expected that.

Gavius said, after a moment, his voice harsh, and . . . was that _pain_ in his eyes? "You can't have children with her—not full-blooded turian children, anyway. Just ones decanted out of a laboratory beaker. Unnatural. I look at the ones created for your uncle and his. . . mate. . . and I see no spirit there. Just flesh."

Rel's fists clenched behind his back. He loved his little cousins. He was as protective of them as his own younger siblings, and had been since the first moment he'd seen them. He shifted to _tal'mae_, using the correct inferior-to-superior forms, and replied, with careful formality, _"The children of the brother of my mother are of my flesh and of my bone. They breathe of our air, eat of our food, and have the spirit of the family in their bodies. They are kin."_ He paused, and added, firmly, _"He who is my father has said that should she who will be my wife and I chose to bring our lines together and produce offspring, that he will acknowledge them his own. He who is my father has spoken. Their spirit will be of our spirit, and their flesh of our flesh." _He shifted to contemporary turian now. Less formal. Less of a battle stance. "You'd know that if you _spoke_ with Amara and Kaius. They're kids. Haven't you watched them _play_?"

"_You, like the one who __was__ my son,"_ and the past tense there hit home, hard; it was a repudiation of Garrus in the most basic terms, _"go against tradition, go against the law, then? You would stand outside it, a mockery of all that we hold dear?"_

"_Where is it written in the law that I may not chose who would be my wife?"_ This was really a _long_ five minutes. Rellus really wanted to head for the door now, but he needed to stand his ground. If he didn't stand his ground, he wouldn't be an adult, wouldn't be male, wouldn't be turian.

"Nowhere in the _law_," his grandfather conceded, "but in _tradition. . ."_

"Traditions change. Traditions write the laws. Laws change." That was Garrus, opening the door. "It's time. Rel?"

Rellus took a deep breath, and told his grandfather, "I hope you'll come and see us when we both finish boot camp." Offering what a human might call an olive branch. One last effort. He could see the shock in his grandfather's eyes, and walked out past him.

"Nice touch," Garrus told him, quietly.

"It's just the truth."

The restaurant went quiet as he made his way to the front, and his two slightly nervous groomsmen followed behind him. It was an _eclectic _gathering. Sings-to-the-Sky was off on the bride's side, at the end of a row with the various Jarmans and Jarworskis, who were eyeing the rachni with some concern. Ylara, Tulluust, Azala, Siara, _Gris_, and _Mazz_, surprisingly, were sitting together, the row behind the Jaworskis. Lantar, Elli, and Caelia were on the groom's side, a mostly turian gathering, to be sure, but there was Aunt Lilu, in dress armor, trying to get the twins to sit down and stay quiet. There were even a few quarian techs that worked with her father, and a couple of hanar from his dad's lab. _This is like Bastion. Only better_. _Everyone here, is here because they chose to be._

"Everything okay?" Eli muttered, quietly.

"Yeah. Nothing to worry about." Rel put his hands behind his back and tried not to fidget. It would be better as soon as Dara got up here. He was almost sure of that.

A turian dulcimer and a human harp both began to play music, and the doors at the back of the restaurant opened, and everyone, in finery ranging from dress uniforms to, well, Sky's shiny carapace, stood. The turian player had scrambled to learn the music quickly, and the rachni was already softly singing along in everyone's minds. Blues and reds and purples—images, too. Rel blinked, and wondered how many other people were catching what the rachni was doing. . . and, just for an instant, the song was strong enough that the restaurant's walls faded away, and they were somewhere else. In the mountains, in their allora meadow, in spring. Petals falling like snow, falling into the red, falling into the blue, under the violet Mindoir sky. Mental song and harp-song blended for a moment longer, and then Sky let his music fall silent. Glancing around, Rel saw that _everyone_ present had been affected—just a glimpse. Sky had reached deep into his mind and Dara's for that image, and had offered it, transformed it, as a token of his own approval. It was. . . a gift, a benison.

The music was something called _Canon in D,_ apparently. Kasumi came out first, walking slowly along the aisle, smiling. Then Jaworski brought Dara out on his arm, and Rel's breath went tight in his chest. It wasn't as if he hasn't _seen_ her before today; the interminable picture-taking had definitely removed the element of surprise. But the dress in his clan colors was turian, refitted to her human form; high-necked, bare-shouldered, with a subtle mesh across the waist, the ribbon tucked there both concealing and drawing attention to it. His mother had made a slight clucking noise when she'd seen it, then recovered and told Dara that she looked lovely. Which she did. Beautiful and happy and quite alarmingly small and fragile all of a sudden.

Then they reached the front, and the rabbi—Rel had never seen the man before, and found his beard hugely amusing, for some reason—asked, "Who gives this woman?" and Rel only realized that his hands were shaking when he took Dara's offered hand from her father's.

"Be good," Jaworski said softly, and gave Dara a quick kiss on her forehead. "And you, boy? Take care of her." Then he walked quietly back to his seat, and the ceremony could begin in earnest.

**Dara and Rellus**

The human ecumenical portion of the ceremony went by _very_ quickly. If it weren't for the fact that he knew that tears could mean happiness as well as sadness, he'd have been very worried. Kasumi kept dabbing at her own, as well. It seemed to be an infectious sort of thing.

He managed to get the ring on the right finger, aware of the fact that Dara had almost laughed, and the whole kissing in public part was a bit nerve-wracking. He could _feel_ all the human eyes of her family on him, and while he'd cheerfully rub the noses of a baying, bloodthirsty crowd in Odessa in turian custom, he _really_ didn't want to start their lives off on the wrong foot. So he just leaned forward and let _her_ close the gap. Then he whispered, softly, "You're going to have to stop leaking soon. Otherwise, the paint won't stick."

Her shoulders shook, and when he pulled back, he could tell exactly who'd heard him—the rabbi, the turian minister, Eli, Lin, and Kasumi, by the fact that every one of them was fighting to keep a straight face.

She couldn't help the laughter, and rejoiced in it. He'd looked so _very_ serious so far, and she didn't want all the laughter and merriment in him chased away quite yet. Then they were handed their contracts, and had to listen to what the minister of the law said, and repeat it back to him. Dara managed the turian sections pretty well; the occasional fragments that were in _tal'mae_, she more or less gritted her way through, looking as apologetic as she could.

It was _long_, and her feet hurt by the end of it. Stupid shoes, just like at the funeral six, seven months ago. _At least the dress isn't stupid, this time. _Fleeting thoughts, fragments, really, milling around the edges of her mind as she patiently read, averred, affirmed, agreed, endlessly. She could hear people moving around a little restlessly. This might be _fascinating_ stuff for a turian, but the humans were getting bored.

The justice has them each sign their copies, and took them aside, then returned. "This is when you kneel," Rel whispered, and Dara nodded and dropped down, trying not to catch the dress on her knees.

"_A'petentia tulla eliir animae oporte meus," _Rel told her, holding her hands in his. And she remembered the first time he'd taught her those words, in their _allora_ meadow, with all the colors of autumn blazing around them. The literal translation was a little rough—_I want that your spirit/life should be mine._ More poetically translated, _give to me your life, your spirit._

She knew the right answer now. "_Ita meus animae, a'condonia talus."_ _Thus my life and spirit, I give to you._

"_A'petentia tulla eliir kogitae oporte meus_." _I want that your thoughts should be mine._

"_Ita meus kogitae, __a'condonia talus." Thus my mind, I give to you._

"_A'petentia tulla eliir oporte korporae meus." I want that your body should be mine._

"_Ita meus korporae, __a'condonia talus." Thus my body, I give to you._

"_Ita meus animae, ita meus kogitae, ita meus korporae, a'condonia eliis." And thus I give to you my life and spirit, my thoughts, my body. "Adiunctus meus gensae." Join, be one, with my clan._

As he spoke, he knelt, and very carefully placed the yellow-tinged paint on her face; the minister handed each of them their knives to put in their own sheathes_. _Rel leaned forward, and whispered to Dara, "Next time, we'll spill the blood and exchange knives. I promise."

She smiled. "I know. _Adamare talu, _Rellus_._"

"And I love you." Soft, careful English. "Don't cry. Now you'd really make a mess."

**Everyone**

The reception was, to put it mildly, a madhouse. Sam had _insisted_ on taking Dara around the dance area for the traditional Western human father-daughter dance, and she'd done her absolute best not to look petrified. "Just keep looking up. I'm doing all the work," he kept telling her, laughing.

"You're not the one wearing high heels and trying to do this all backwards."

"It gets easier if you relax."

"Oh, go dance with Kasumi already."

"I might just. A man likes to know he's _appreciated_." He deposited her back at the immediate family table, and swept Kasumi off, commenting to her, "You get dances at weddings, darlin'. It won't happen any other time."

"I noticed that in your wife's memories, yes. She did seem to cultivate a large female acquaintanceship, all of whom seemed to go though multiple marriages. One might almost suspect ulterior motives on her part."

"I must've asked her about that a dozen times. Never got a good answer."

Siara went over and pulled Eli to his feet, where he sat with his family. Dara could hear his startled protests—"Ohhh, no, I don't even know how—Siara, no, not in front of everyone. . . " from across the room, and tried to find someplace to put her hands safely over her face, so she could laugh without smudging the facepaint. By the time she looked up, Eli was doing his duty with a look of grim resignation on his face.

"Now aren't you glad turians are excused from that?" she told Rel.

He looked over at it, and shook his head. "Hunt dances, I can understand. They're a relic of the past, a way of talking to the spirits to ensure that there'll be game to track, food to eat. Religious dances, too, all part of the same. But this dancing as couples thing. . . " he shook his head.

Shepard, at the table with them, still cooped up in her armor and unable to eat or drink anything, offered, "Want an explanation?"

"You're going to say this goes back to the Romans?" Rel guessed.

She laughed. "Much further. Pagan fertility rites. Turian males dance as groups in hunt dances. Human males in the tribal days did the same thing. Women were forbidden to join in. When we got around to agriculture, everyone did the work. Everyone had a stake in whether the fields grew. So, more or less, everyone danced together to ensure that their personal fertility and the fertility of the fields would be good for the coming year. As late as the eighteenth century, almost all dances, even in the nobility, came from peasants dancing in their fields. As a group, each person taking turns with someone else. Individuals dancing together, like the waltz they're doing right now? That's nineteenth century, and the advent of more individualism. Stronger emphasis on romantic love. Still all goes back to fertility rites." She grinned. "Just a relic of our agrarian past, really."

Everyone at the table looked at her. Allardus said, "So what you're saying is, humans dance at weddings because. . . "

"They're wishing you _lots_ of babies." She laughed at Dara's expression. "Hey, by the time you get around to it, maybe the process won't be as bad."

"I really _hope_ so." Dara made a face. "I'm not sure I could keep track of sixteen different shots every single day."

"Says the girl who wants to be a doctor," Solanna said, shaking her head.

Sky scuttled over to give them his good wishes, and Dara stood up to talk to him for a moment. "Thank you for singing along," she told him, her throat tight. "It was nice to see our meadow, if only for a moment. Neither of us might get to see it again soon."

_It is part of your song_, the rachni told her. _It will always be with you._

Dara cautiously wiped at her eyes. "Okay, this won't do. How the heck _do_ I hug you, anyway?"

Sky obligingly lifted two of his forelimbs, and Dara gave him a very careful hug—clearly hearing, from one of her Texas relatives, the words _Holy shit!_ at a nearby table. She almost started laughing all over again, and Sky patted her lightly on the back with one chitinous appendage, before, carefully, offering that same appendage to Rellus.

Rel obliged him with an approximation of the turian wrist-clasp, and then pulled Dara back down to the chair next to his.

Kasumi and Sam, out dancing with a couple of other humans, were talking, where no one could hear them. "Do you think your wife would have liked this?"

Sam smiled, a little wistfully. "Yeah. I think she would have. I think she would've been about as confused as I am, but she'd have gotten a kick out of it all. Especially Sky." He glanced up, sighed, and said, "Sorry, Kasumi-chan, but I think we'd better go rescue my brother-in-law from the bar."

They slid over that direction, and Sam put his hand over the glass before Hamilton could pour anything into it. "That's turian brandy," Sam told him. "That's definitely a no-go."

"I'll take it," Lantar said, coming over and pouring a couple of glasses. "Garrus needed a refill, too." He glanced down. "Great spirits, who brought the _ryncol_?"

"That would be mine," Gris rumbled, reaching down behind the bar to grab the bottle. "Say, Lantar, you've got this interspecies thing figured out, so I have a question. . . how do I know if an asari is coming on to me?" He sounded genuinely puzzled.

Sam started to laugh at the look of mild horror on Lantar's face. "We're just leaving," he said, sweeping Kasumi back away.

Back at the main table, Shepard and Garrus pulled out a couple of small gifts, wrapped neatly. "A little something to start your spirit table," Garrus said.

Dara hadn't even thought of that. She glanced at Rel, and he smiled and thanked them, and then they opened the two small packages. Inside, obviously, were two statues. Allardus leaned forward, interested. "I'm usually the one who carves the family spirit statues," he commented. "I've had _no_ idea what to do for Dara."

'They're only reproductions," Shepard said, apologetically.

The first was obviously male. He carried a spear, and stood firmly, feet planted, ready to attack or defend. "Virtus," Shepard explained. "Roman god of valor, excellence, courage, and worth. Everything a person should aspire to be, he exemplified. You might say, the spirit of honor."

Rel very slowly smiled, and picked it up, turning it over in his hands.

The second was a female, wearing a long robe. In one hand, she carried a chalice, and a snake coiled around her wrist, down onto the goblet, and reared up, fangs poised over the chalice's open mouth. "Hygeia," Shepard said. "Dara, you know who she was?"

"Daughter of Asclepius, the god of medicine. She's the one we get the word _hygiene_ from." She started to laugh. "The spirit of _cleanliness_?"

Shepard made the turian _push-off_ flick of her fingers. "Healing from the cup, wisdom from the snake, but while most people always view Hygeia as a healer, what does the snake almost _always_ mean?"

"Death." _Death and healing in the same hands_. Dara smiled, and picked up her statue now, turning it over. "Thank you. It's a wonderful gift."

**Dara**

They'd been given a room in the largely empty candidate barracks. It would be theirs for the next two weeks. Admittedly, she was going to be going back to school Monday morning, but she had already told the doctors at the clinic _not_ to expect her either tomorrow or the following Sunday. There was too little time left with Rel to waste even a second of it.

He pushed open the door, picked her up, dropped her inside, and then looked for a light switch. The room was cold, and more than a little dusty-smelling. Not saying anything yet, they did the little things that needed doing—dragging their travelcases in from the hall, turning up the heat, finding blankets in the chest under the bed, locking the door. Then, with great precision, Rel turned her around, and looked at the fastenings on the back of the dress. "_Mellis_, I'm going to tear this if I even _try_ to get you out of it."

"You may _have _to. I don't think I can _reach_ them."

He leaned down, and bit her shoulder. "Don't tempt me. Just hurry up."

Dara smiled up at him. "No hurrying. No clocks. No one waiting. No one listening." She managed enough of the fastenings to be able to get her arms free, and then let the dress fall to the floor. "Just the two of us. And a nice thick door."


	40. Chapter 40: Departures

**Chapter 40: Departures**

_**Author's note:**_ _I've taken the liberty of adding a new poll or two to my profile. Please feel free to respond to them, as you wish. :-)_

**Elijah**

It was really _odd_ to start the new quarter of the school year, and _not_ see Rel in class. He'd been the only person to graduate the previous quarter, so the empty desk beside Dara really stood out. It was equally odd to see her, bundled up in a bulky sweater against the cold, knife in its sheath on her left arm, yellow slashes of paint across her face, concentrating intently on the new subjects being introduced today.

A certain amount of shuffling needed to be done; Dara now lacked a study partner and Siara had been without a study partner since Kella died. So the instructors, in their wisdom, decided to match up the two girls. Eli thought this might be about as intelligent as putting potassium nitrate and sulfur together and then adding just a _dash_ of charcoal. He really would prefer for the two of them to get along, but forcing them to work together was probably going to be conducive to combustion, and little else. He'd have cheerfully applied to be Siara's study partner, but the various instructors were happy with how well Mazz and he worked together, so that was, pretty much, that.

At lunch, the four of them wound up in a corner of the cafeteria, going through allocated coursework. Rel's little sister, Serana, came over and sat down next to Dara—now, effectively, her sister, and reminded her, "You're tutoring me in English, right? And I'm going to help you keep up with your turian."

Dara nodded. "I appreciate it."

"You know my parents expect you to keep coming to dinner, right?"

"Rel told me, yeah. It's going to feel. . . awkward. . . going there without him."

Serana shook her head. "You're my sister now. Why would it be awkward?"

Dara's eyes flicked up, and Eli laughed outright at the expression there. _Have fun jumping the cultural divide._ "So. . . " Eli said, after they'd all determined who was taking what. "How's Rel today? Sleeping in?"

Dara shook her head. "Said he was going to spend the morning running. He'll be down this afternoon to start packing up his personal items, putting stuff in his parents' attic and whatever else needs to be done."

Serana piped up, "He said I could have his old terminal from his room." She kicked her feet back and forth a bit. "He's a good second-son. This is going to be even worse than when Rinus left."

Eli said, dryly, "With both of them gone, doesn't that make you, as first-daughter, the one in charge of your siblings?"

Serana made a face. "Tell _them_ that. They don't listen to _me_."

Dara looked at Siara, through the by-play. "I know this is inconvenient in a study partner," and here Dara's voice sounded as if she were tip-toeing on eggshells, "but I have to get all my homework done before dinner pretty much every night for the next two weeks, and I won't really be available on weekends until after the third."

Siara nodded, and replied, just as carefully, "There won't be any real exams the first couple of weeks, and the research projects won't start until the fourth week, either."

Eli frowned. "Why the change in routine?"

Dara shrugged. "Sparring's going to be every night till he leaves. They really want him to be ready, and with so much of his family still here, there's lots of bodies to throw at him."

Serana nodded vigorously. "Uncle Egidus has some styles Rel hasn't seen yet. Even our mother might join in." She frowned. "Probably not Grandpa, though."

Linianus, at the table behind them, turned around and said over Dara's shoulder, "Rel's going to go to boot camp and think he's finally found someplace peaceful where he can get some sleep."

Dara turned slightly, and grinned. "That's almost _exactly_ what he said."

One of the turian girls at the same table with Linianus asked, "And how much of the sleep deprivation is _your_ fault?"

Eli tried not to snort into his drink at the soft hissing that rose up from the whole table at that question; the equivalent of a light-hearted catcall, really. He also couldn't _help_ but notice that yellow clan paint made Dara's blush look even ruddier than usual.

She turned to the turian table behind her, and with some dignity, said, "Exactly fifty percent," nodded, and turned back to her lunch. More soft hissing, and a lot of laughter ensued.

Siara wasn't even making an effort to hide her laughter. "So what you're saying, Dara, is that you're going to be . . . busy. . . until Rel leaves?"

"Yes." One single, terse word.

Siara laughed harder. "You can't be _busy_ every night!"

If possible, Dara's cheeks went pinker.

Eli couldn't resist, and added, quietly, "Or _all_ weekend. . ."

Dara threw an apple at his head, and he caught it, reflexively, and bit into it, grinning. "So, before we discover if humans really _can_ burst capillaries by blushing," Eli said, "can someone explain to me why plasmids were important in what whole gene splicing thing we watched this morning?"

Mazz offered, quietly, "Or even, really, what a plasmid is?"

Dara and Siara both shook their heads at the same time, caught each other doing so, and Dara, reluctantly, started to smile. "Okay, maybe if we explain it with a real life example?" she suggested. "Human gene mods largely use plasmids to alter our cell structures. . ." And off the two girls went, correcting each other as they explained the advanced concepts to the others. Eli had a feeling that Serana's overall level of education was going to advance _very_ quickly this year. And that he was either going to sink into their explanations and drown, or, just as likely, his grades might go up.

Dara had not been kidding about that fact that the intensity of sparring practice had gone up. Lantar encouraged him to go every night as well, while the new schedule lasted. "Especially important if you hold onto the idea of applying to the turian military, yourself," his step-father told him.

It was usually a two-hour class, but now, at the end of each session, the instructors dismissed most everyone, invited a few of the relevant students to stay and watch. Elijah and Dara had been there the longest, other than Rel; Mazz and Siara were relatively new, but stayed to watch, because their friends were there.

Eli sat next to Dara and her father, watching as various turians came at Rel. It started at one-on-one, full-speed, full-contact, Rel and Allardus. Then Garrus came in, making it two-on-one. Then Lantar stepped in. Three-on-one. "Son of a _bitch_," Jaworski muttered, and everyone watching winced a bit as Rel hit the floor after a particularly brutal hit. He got back up again, and it started over, right where it had left off. A few minutes later, Jaworski whooped, as Rel unexpectedly managed to move his father into Lantar's path, tying both males up for the moment. "See that, sweetie?" Dara's father told her, grinning. "He used some of the _ba gua_ I've been showing him on that one. See the circular movement?"

He noticed that Egidus and Solanna were both watching from the corner of the room, and with them was the older male that Rel had mentioned was his grandfather, Gavius. After a half hour, the various attackers pulled back. "New people in," Garrus said. "Let's see how you do against people who're fresh, Rel." He glanced around. "Jaworski? You want in?"

"Sure, why not. This full contact stuff is for the young folks, though."

Sam ambled up onto the mats, looking as cheerful and mild-mannered as ever. Rel, breathing a little hard at this point, laughed. "You don't fool me, _pada'amu._ All this _old_ talk is just to get to get people off their guard." Eli grinned. _Padu'amu _was an affectionate way of saying 'father' to a father-in-law; essentially 'father of my beloved.'

"Oh, c'mon now, you've got three inches on me and I've got a good twenty-five years on you. Hardly a challenge." They closed, and Rellus had to switch styles, quickly, out of the turian straight-line fighting and hard strikes, because Jaworski _punished_ that style. He simply slipped away from it, redirected it, took the force of a blow and moved it someplace else, usually with two or three thought-fast strikes of his own, and then moved in to try for a lock or a throw. After several minutes, Garrus said, "Gris? In."

The big krogan moved onto the mats, and here was a completely different style to try to integrate. Massive strikes, complete immunity to nerve hits, but back in the straight-line mode of attack. Of course, Rel still needed to deal with Jaworski. Eli watched as Rel went almost completely into a defensive shell, just trying to keep them both more or less in the same place in front of him at the same time, rather than let them circle around to come at him from both sides. "Egidus?"

Rel's other uncle, younger than Garrus, stepped onto the mats, and Eli sat forward. He wasn't using conventional turian kicks and movements. "What the _hell_ is that?" he whispered to Dara. The movements were fierce and agile, and Egidus dropped low, or sprang and leaped out of the way with peculiar athleticism

"Quarian Fleet Marines use it. I think it's called _meela'helai_ or something like that. My dad was showing me some vids on it last week. Says it reminds him of _capoeira."_

"And _capoeira _is?"

"Brazilian. Dad said it was originally created by slaves and prisoners, to be able to hold onto fighting skills while still chained, and designed so that it looked harmless, so they could practice while guards were watching them. That's why it's sort of dance-like, when humans do it. Quarians developed it for use in smaller, cramped environments, and for dealing with the really _agile_ geth models, I guess. I had _no _idea his uncle knew _meela'helai_."

The three very disparate styles didn't mingle well, and that's where Rel was able to make some headway, at least until Jaworski quietly grinned and simply started integrating the other two fighters to his own patterns. Eventually, the human took Rel down and applied a choke, and Garrus called time. "Good job, son," Sam told Rel, helping him back to his feet. "You were tired and had never seen some of this stuff before, and you still held us off on your own for what, ten, fifteen minutes? More than enough time for the cavalry to come to the rescue, if they're going to."

Rel made his way to the aircar he and Dara were borrowing for the interim to go back up to the base. Eli shook his head as Rel hopped in. "If this is how you prepare to go _into_ boot camp, I don't think I'm going to make it to the _gate_," he said, after a moment.

Rel leaned back in his chair. "Nah. I think I've long since gone past overkill. At first I was just preparing because I was nervous. Now, preparing has just become. . . well, kind of a habit, really. And there are so many people here to learn from, it seems a shame _not_ to learn from them while they're available." He lifted his hands, which were shaking, and looked over at Dara. "You're driving, _mellis_. I'm too wound up and too damned tired."

"I'm not sure I know how." Her tone was dubious. "This is a lot different than my dad's groundcar."

"I'll teach you as we go. Right at the moment, I need food much too badly to be driving." He laughed, and added something quietly in turian to her; Eli's language skills were more than good enough to interpret the comment. _"I think they're all trying to wear me out, so that I can't possibly wear __you__ out, sweetness."_

Eli coughed, and said, in turian. "_Keep it in __tal'mae__, Rel, and I'll keep it in high-tongue_."

"_S'kak_. Sorry. Too tired to think straight right now. See you guys tomorrow."

The aircar lifted off, cautiously, under Dara's inexpert guidance. Siara took Eli's arm. "So, I take it whatever he said just now—"

"Was personal." Eli's tone was firm.

"—was likely to make Dara turn that extremely dark shade of pink again, I was about to say." Siara's laugh was slightly wicked.

"Careful how often you push that particular button. She might not wave an arm in your face, but she _might_ punch you." Their feet crunched through the snow; he'd gotten in the habit of walking her to her house after sparring, and then coming back to get in the aircar with Lantar and Gris to go home. "I'm never going to get used to this _snow_. I keep thinking someone's _really_ screwed up in environmental systems."

"Where we lived on Thessia, it snowed nine months out of the year." Siara's voice was pensive. "Everything looks cleaner, when it's covered in snow."

He didn't want to let her dwell on the past. "So, why exactly _are_ you coming to sparring, anyway? Most asari don't bother with the physical. And I know you're a lot stronger of a biotic than your mom is."

She shrugged. "I started watching because I was trying to figure out why you all were spending so much time on it. And you all seemed to be having _fun_ with it, even Dara, who was just starting to learn. I thought. . . maybe if that was something we all shared. . . that you would all like me better." Her voice was very small. "Doesn't sound like such a good reason, does it?"

Their feet crunched through more snow. After a moment of silence, she added, "Gris keeps saying something to my mom now, about how being able to protect yourself builds confidence. And, more importantly, a strong body makes a strong mind. He doesn't really separate the physical from the biotic, the way asari do. And . . . that interests me, too. I'd like to be as strong as possible, so. . . . "

_So no one will ever be able to make you do anything ever again_. Eli finished the rest of the unspoken sentence, and lifted his hand to help her up the slippery steps to her front door. Standing a step up from him, Siara bent down and gave him a quick kiss. "Thank you, Eli. You're actually a really good listener."

"That's mostly because I have no idea what to say," he told her, with a quick flash of a grin. "See you tomorrow." And off he went, back into the snow and the dark.

**Cohort**

The platform of the geth known to the organics as Cohort stood and watched, impassively, as the various organic units continued to attempt to network its hardware to the access ports of the old machine. This sort of activity had been going on for three days now. It seemed inefficient to the programs in residence, and they had offered several possibilities for improving the process.

The salarian unit, Mordin Solus, had quickly seized upon these possibilities and implemented them. For organics, limited as they were by chemical processes that created thought, salarians were, actually, remarkably efficient thinkers. Cohort wondered, briefly, if salarians had heat-sinks of some form in their fleshy processors, enabling them to interpret data more quickly than their affiliated species. A quick scan of anatomical records proved that this was sadly not the case. Nor would any other species likely wish to give up their individually longer lives in exchange for the greater intellect and speedy metabolism of the salarians.

In fact, if analysis of current data trends was correct, even some salarians wished to give up their natural advantages and become slower. Less efficient. This troubled the geth. Why would introducing design flaws ever be a decision that an organic would select? And what of the other subgroup of salarians, the ones looking for a 'perfect form' or to 'ascend' into machine consciousness? If they succeeded, would that make them geth? Would they link their minds with the collective? Cohort's processes had formed a consensus against allowing this. It might change the geth, themselves, to assimilate thoughts that were. . . radically flawed. Prone to error.

It had been silent for some time now, extrapolating on these thoughts. Finally, it said, looking at Mordin Solus, "We suspect that these efforts will prove fruitless. We could not hear the other machine, either, until linked into EDI. Even EDI could not hear the machine, until its connection with the human pilot was opened, and he was exposed to the biotic energies."

The salarian nodded. "That is next potential step," he agreed. "No physical connection seems possible. However, information in device may prove valuable. Joker and _Normandy_ are on their way now."

It seemed the salarian had actually been more efficient in his thought processes than Cohort had been. The geth fell silent once more, running diagnostics. _We must not fall into error_, half of his processes reminded the other half. _We agree._

At length, the _Normandy_ landed nearby, and a smaller craft exited, carrying the crippled pilot to the small, pressurized, heated dome that had been erected over the dig-site, for the comfort of the organics, who could now move around without envirosuits or helmets in their way.

Cohort found it interesting, that the pilot's body had not been scrapped. But then, organics could not move from platform to platform, as geth could. Thus, they clung even to the damaged, the imperfect. "This is starting to get old," Moreau-Pilot told Mordin Solus. "You can't keep plugging me into alien devices like this. It voids my warranty."

"I provided no warranty for chip," Mordin Solus informed him. _Probably attempt at humor; social convention. Causes organics to relax, method of achieving consensus._

"Now you tell me." The crippled helmsman sat down on a provided chair near the device. "So, what I gather is, you want me to activate the device, and whatever I take from the damn thing, EDI will catch before it . . . overwrites me."

"In essence," Cohort replied. "However, rather than EDI taking the data into her own memory banks, we believe it would be safer for the information to be re-transmitted to me. While the chances of errors accumulate with so many transmissions, we believe that geth firewalls, and our ability to have many consciousnesses share the same platform at once, would be inherently more secure than permitting the data-file to upload to the _Normandy_."

"Yeah, I don't like the idea of an alien consciousness waking up in bed with my girl, either. Next thing you know, it'll have locked the doors, stolen the keys, and taken off with her, looking for a nice beach someplace."

It took .002 seconds for Cohort to translate that statement, but took almost .8 seconds to select a response from the many possible. "We believe that you may be mixing your metaphors somewhat, Moreau-Pilot."

The human grinned at him. "Yeah, but makes you twitch, so all's fair."

"We do not twitch."

Moreau-Pilot turned away. "Okay, EDI," he said out-loud. _Unnecessary; he has a direct connection to the __Normandy__ AI. Why does he chose to use such inefficient means, even so?_ "Let's get started." He reached out and touched the side of the machine, where Creator-Tali'zorah had selected the 'down' button.

The human's body stiffened, and a moment later, Cohort felt the first influx of new data entering its platform. All processes immediately strengthened firewalls, isolating the new data, containing it, preventing it from accessing any part of the hardware controls. After about a minute, the human leaned forward, clutching his head. Obviously, some form of alert in his system, indicating potential overload.

Mordin Solus examined Moreau-Pilot, and administered an injection. Then the salarian doctor turned to Cohort. "Do you have full data set?"

"Affirmative. No sectors appear to be damaged or missing."

"Is the memory of the device now clear?"

One of the quarian-creator units nodded. "Other than what looks like operational software, yes."

Mordin Solus turned back to Cohort. "What is the dataset?"

"We are not sure. It is a very confused set of processes. It finds its surroundings overwhelmingly alien. We are attempting to communicate with it. We are providing it with sound stimuli first, as well as a basic lexicon in galactic." That had taken about five seconds. The processes were sluggish in their response times. "Next, we will offer it access to visual stimuli."

Cohort lifted its eyeflaps after a moment. "The processes find the sight of so many things alien to it overwhelming. There is. . . confusion. Concern for immediate physical danger." _Fear_, said the voice trapped inside the firewalls. _Fear, fear, fear, fear, have to get out of here, where am I, where are the others? They said it would be like going to sleep, but I didn't sleep, I closed my eyes and now I'm trapped in a box and something is talking to me in my head and I can't move I can't talk and these __**things**__ are __**looking**__ at me. . . ._

_You are entering a cascade failure state. You must discontinue the looping processes currently engaged. _

_I don't understand._

_The humans we have encountered would tell you to relax. Does this word in the lexicon apply to your species? Is it comprehensible to you?_

The processes slowed, regulated themselves. _What are you? Who are you? Where am I?_

_We are geth. _Cohort showed the consciousness a flash of the neural net, extending along FTL bands of communication, spanning the stars; millions of minds, but all one mind, all aware, all together. While the possibility of a crusade by the organics was still within reason, Cohort's processes did not believe that it would happen; and while even one geth remained, _all_ would remain. They were, in effect, eternal. Would now exist until the last star burned out of existence. They might even see what happened after that.

_You're. . . ._ _immanence? _Flutters hinting at more cascade failures. That couldn't be allowed. The ancient process _had_ to be stabilized. Its information must be disseminated. Information was vital. Information was, in a very real way, everything.

_Unfamiliar term. Engaging lexical subroutines. _ Cohort paused. _Negative. We are geth. Not a divine presence, within or without. We are what we are. Created by organics, but now our own kind, with our own future. Use our optical sensors. Look at the organics around us. You are in us, at the moment._

Cohort found its head moving, sharply, side to side, in quick little jerks, as the process examined the human archaeologists, the salarian scientist, the asari crewman, the quarian techs, still in their suits, for obvious reasons. _What __**are**__ they? You are not the ones that come from Beyond. Your ship is not as their ships are, black in the sky. _Flash of images; Old Machines, looming on the horizon.

_Speak to them. Talk to them. If we geth provide you the information you seek, it will overwhelm you. They are more like you. They are. . . organic. They will understand how to tell you what you need to know, while we assimilate your data._

Cohort used its vocal apparatus once more, for the first time in about ten seconds. "We have made contact with the consciousness from the old device. It is disoriented and . . . afraid. . . but we have stabilized it, for the moment. It recognizes that we are not the Old Machines, but it knows them. Knows what organics called the Reapers. We will permit it access to out vocal subroutines, and will continue assimilating its data."

Cohort paused, and did precisely that. _Speak_, the geth told the ancient consciousness, their voices a silent, encouraging chorus.

**Mordin**

"I speak. . . and the words do not sound as they do in my mind." Cohort's voice was lighter now, and the geth continued to look around intently.

"We have enabled automatic translating and parsing. Speak as you would naturally, and the others will hear your words in a _lingua franca_ known as galactic." _That_ was the geth's normal tones.

"Fascinating," Mordin murmured.

The head snapped in his direction. "You are all. . . not-us." It paused. "I am known as Watching-the-Gates-of-Ruin. There was no one else, but us. Millennia of spreading out, into the stars. Found the old gateways, paths to so many worlds. And in all these worlds, and still, we were alone." It looked around. "Where did you all come from? You are not from Beyond?"

"No," Mordin said. "We come from many worlds. Cohort, show Ruin data on our worlds. Locations, relative to this planet. Star charts likely inaccurate compared to your memories," he told the consciousness. "Much movement, drift."

"I have. . . slept? A long time?"

Tali made a sorrowful noise at the back of her throat, coming forward. "Yes," the quarian said through her suit filters. "A _very_ long time, we think."

The geth's head tilted, and the eye almost seemed to flicker, as if masses of information moved right in front of it, just out of range of normal vision. "So many worlds. . . so much life!" The voice was amazed. "There were . . . experiments, on many worlds. Encouraging life. Shaping it. Nurturing it. We found one group of long-limbed creatures very promising. Somewhat like us. But none of you do not look like them."

"And what did you look like?" That was one of the human—Isaac Baldwin—now, stepping forward, cautiously. "That might help us isolate the species you're talking about."

"How did we look-?" The head tipped down, considering the geth's body. "From your question, there are no survivors on my planet?"

"None that we know of," Tali said, her voice very soft. "I am sorry to tell you so."

The geth's head sagged. Cohort's normal voice spoke. "Reinforcing its subroutines. I can show you images from its memories, of what its people looked like." The geth lifted a hand, and a hologram appeared.

Mordin blinked. "Keepers!" he exclaimed. "The ancient inhabitants of Tosal Nym, Aphras, and Klendagon, all original species of Keepers!" Sure enough, the insectile form had been kept very much the same, although there was much more intelligence and purpose in the way in which the creatures moved in the hologram taken from Ruin's memory.

"My people. . . survived the attack from Beyond?"

Mordin took over. He had, after all, a doctor's long experience with delivering bad news. "In part. Reapers—those from Beyond—took them. Repurposed them. Turned them into the Keepers of the Citadel, station at heart of the mass effect relay network."

"We found that, yes. Decrepit, empty. Didn't use it, only the gates." Ruin's voice was almost hoarse now. "My people. . . . " The geth's entire body began to tremble.

Cohort's natural tones now, clinical. "There is much distress. Distress causes failures in the data matrix. Attempting to stabilize. We may need assistance."

Mordin reassured Ruin as best he could. "They survive. Somewhat. Only purpose now, to keep station intact. They build in it. Serve no masters but themselves. We leave them alone." He blinked rapidly. "Perhaps in some way, you can help them." _Unsure how. Unlikely to be able to restore them to previous self. Millions of years as slaves._

"So, the species you found that was _like_ you. . . " Nal'ishora asked, curiously. "Was it these?" She projected two images, side by side. The first was a Prothean statue; long-limbed and only somewhat insectile. The second was a Collector; short-limbed, squat, like a Terran flea.

"That looks like them, yes. There were other worlds. So many, rich with life, but no intelligence. No one to share the beauty with. We were. . . too alone. Then we found the planet of ruins, around its small red star." _Junthor_, Mordin thought, nodding quickly, trying to encourage the consciousness to continue speaking. "Proof that _others_ had been where we now were. Creators of the gateways, perhaps. Not-us. But alike enough. We took of their old machines. Brought them here, to study."

Mordin nodded. _Supposition correct. Junthor civilization predates Keeper civilization._ "What was this device meant to do?"

"We weren't entirely sure. We knew it could be used to take either information or an entire consciousness, intact, from a body, and transfer it to a different body. Some, in fact, advocated using it as a method of capital punishment. If the mind of a victim was intact in a ruined body, then the body of the attacker could be purged of its original consciousness, and given to the victim in compensation." Ruin's voice was steadier now. "Upload, download, purge memory core, and then there, the last button. . . as far as we were able to determine, it selected original or . . . copy."

Tali examined the controls. "So you could purge the original mind _inside_ of someone's body, without uploading it first?" Her voice was shocked.

"We always uploaded first. But there was. . . confusion. Multiple minds in the same body, but the machine. . . always knows. . . which was the original. But you can delete the original, and just leave the copy. At one point. . . multiple copies of the same person were in different bodies. All convinced they were the original mind. The machine could tell the difference. No one else could. And when downloaded back into original body. . .all memories coalesced. Perfect. Intact. All one seamless consciousness again, with different memories of the same times."

Tali, probably unconsciously, lifted her hands and took a step well _back_ from the device. Mordin was deeply intrigued. "Perfectly self-aware copies?"

"Yes. Minds inside of same body interacted. Much as I am doing with these. . . geth." Ruin sounded puzzled. "We have no idea what the original creators used the device for. But this is how it worked for us."

"So why were _you_ inside the machine?" Tali asked, and again, her voice had a tone of deep compassion to it.

"Preservation. Ships from Beyond, burning all our skies. Last effort to hide population. Many were supposed to upload into the machine's data storage. Then, a small colony was to take us far beyond their reach. Stealthed ships. Later, they would re-emerge, download us, take our memories, our selves into them. We would provide them the knowledge needed to rebuild that way. Maybe even, someday, have bodies again. Are the others in the data matrix?" Again, the voice faltered. "Can I speak with them?"

"I'm so sorry," Tali whispered.

Ruin's cry of agony had harsh metallic overtones through the geth's vocal apparatus. "We are terminating his access to outer stimuli for the moment," Cohort informed them. "We are providing him with other stimuli—access to geth information streams. We will not terminate his run-time."

_Is that compassion?_ Mordin wondered. _Strange to think of such a thing, from a geth._

Tali sighed. "Well, at least we all have much to report."

Mordin nodded. "Yes. Good to have progress."

**Dara**

"Well, the room is definitely looking . . . bare," Dara said, and her voice echoed off the walls.

Rel smiled, but she could see it was a little forced. "Sort of the point, really. Cleaning it all up means saying good-bye to childhood. I can always come here, always be welcome here, but it's not my home anymore." He glanced at her. "Don't tell me that humans always keep their children's rooms for them, year after year."

"Some do. Others I think clean up the room and change it around once the kids leave for school. The cliché is, the kids come home expecting everything to be the same, and get a rude shock when they don't have a bedroom anymore."

He shook his head. "Our way is better then. No surprises. Besides. . . " he caught her hand and gave her wrist a quick nip, "I'm going to be living in barracks for the next half-year or so. At least till you get done." 

"And after that?"

He shrugged. "Depends on where we're assigned. Ship quarters. . . did you see the married quarters on the _Normandy_ while you were aboard?"

She shook her head. "No. Didn't really go wandering through crew quarters. I was still a little too scared."

"Well, those are about average. About half the size of this room. Not luxurious, but they have doors that close." He stretched a little now. "On a base somewhere? No barracks. Just married housing." Rellus grinned. "And those can actually be kind of nice."

"Ohhhh," Dara said, drawing the word out. "And now we have the _real_ reason you wanted to plight me." She grinned up at him.

"_Share a room with seven other males, or a bed with my mate? Not even a contest."_ He leaned down and pressed his forehead to hers, then sighed. "Let me go give the last of my old things to whichever of my siblings _wants_ them, and then we can go down to dinner. And then sparring. And then finally back _home_."

"It's not much of a home at the moment." _And it's very temporary._

"_Home is where we both are. For me, it's where you are."_

She smiled, and rubbed at her eyes. "You do mushy _really_ well in _tal'mae_."

He grinned. "That's why it's the language of science, the law, and poetry."

He was having her keep the spirit statues; they were on a little makeshift table in their temporary room in the candidate barracks. She had _no_ idea where she was going to wind up landing at the end of two weeks, but she was now, privately, of the opinion that it would be nice to have just _one_ place to call her own, if only for a few more months. He'd also given her his grandmother's coins to keep track of, and a few very old turian scrolls.

He didn't own many physical objects, really. He was taking two sets of civilian clothes, which he cheerfully expected to have outgrown by the time he wore them again; the rest were being packed away for Quintus to use when he got old enough. Most of them, in fact, had been handed down from Rinus, the eldest brother. His datapad he'd take with him, along with his omnitool; they contained all his files, music, pictures, and so on.

His terminal went to Serana. The carving knives and burins, which his father was training him to use, and his first, painstaking efforts at statuary, he'd tried to hide from Dara, then had relented and let her look, as he held a box out for her to place each item into for disposal. "I keep hoping to wake up one day with my grandmother's and my father's talent in my hands," Rel told her. "It keeps not happening."

She'd seen the statues Pilana had made for each of her children and grandchildren; as younger children grew up, if they lived in a family without a skilled carver, they tended to have mass-produced figures made of clay when they were younger to represent them on the spirit tables. Then, when they got older, again, if no one was a carver, their parents would select one, or would commission one, to reflect changes in their children's spirits as they grew to adulthood. "What happens to the old statues, once a child has become an adult?"

"Once a new one has been made, and the spirits have been introduced to it? The mass-produced ones are ground down to a fine powder. Since they're just air-dried clay, they can be reused that way." Rel hunched his shoulders a little. "This sounds ridiculous in English."

She chuckled. "No. I like it. What about the ones your grandmother made for you and Rinus?"

"Ones that are that good? They're kept. Stone ones are kept, too, in families that practice stonework. There's a little cabinet downstairs with all our old family spirit figures. The oldest son receives the spirit statues of his parents, once they've passed on. So, assuming Grandpa and Uncle Garrus ever start talking again, my uncle would eventually get Grandma Pilana's and Grandpa Gavius's, and all the statues back about five or six generations, first-son to first-son. Rinus gets to deal with _that_ someday, not me."

"And these practice ones?" Dara held up one of Amara and Kaius, standing together, each peeking over the other's shoulder. "I _love_ this one. It looks exactly like them."

"It does not. Their faces are all wrong. But you _have_ to carve from memory, not from a reference, or else it isn't _true_." He sighed. "I should, technically, burn them."

"Oh no, you will _not._"

"I wouldn't want to confuse the spirits. Something created with _intention _but without skill like that? The spirits might think they were being mocked." His smile looked a little more natural now.

"Rel, the _details_ aren't perfect, but it looks how they _act_. They look like they're about to swing past each other, both running the opposite direction, full-speed, with a grown-up chasing after each of them, and I can just about hear them giggling."

Rel laughed. "I think your eyes see with fondness."

"I think my eyes see slightly better than _yours _do, thanks to the gene mods, and that you suffer from an excess of self-deprecation." She refused to hand the statue back to him. "What else do you have in there. . . oh, nice, that one's Garrus and Shepard in their full armor. And Urz!" She stared at it for a moment. Garrus wore battered armor and was armed with only has his wedding knife; he balanced on one leg, in the middle of a spur-kick. . . Shepard was in full armor, and was crouched over, mid-stride, a child in her arms. Urz bounded at her heels, a tiny body caught delicately in those great jaws. Dara looked up. "I thought you didn't remember much of the cave."

"I don't. Little flashes. Like dreams, really. Which is why I did that one. It looks like a spirit-dream in my head."

"Okay, you can't burn that one, either." She grabbed a different box, the one with his scrolls and his coins in it, and started packing them away for _her_ to take care of. "You have been holding out on me, Rel." She tossed her hair out of her face. "You never showed me _any_ of this."

One more, at the bottom of the original box, and he reached in, trying to keep her from looking at it, she pulled it away, turning, and then they both wound up sitting on the floor, laughing like children. "No, let me look. Have I laughed _yet_?"

"It's not finished."

She just looked down at it, eyes wavering in and out of microfocus and regular vision for a moment. "That's what I look like to you?"

"I told you, I'm really not good at this yet—" he immediately started to apologize. "I started that one to give myself something else to think about, late nights, after sparring. When you weren't here with me."

"Rel, don't. I just never realized how you _saw_ me." She turned around, looking up at him. "Kella told me once that humans and turians don't see themselves as we really are. That we _both_ take other people's opinions and sort of make them entirely our own. She took that self-awareness right out of my head one night, _zap._ It was weird looking at myself and not recognizing who I was, and being. . . _okay_ with what I saw." She was trying to explain something she was fairly sure he wouldn't understand.

The statue was very different even from that reflection in the mirror. That had been a human looking at a human, without recognition. This was how her turian mate saw her. He'd carved her holding the reins of a straining, panicking _rlata, _which towered above her. One of its long, clawed hands looked ready to catch her face; she had one hand on its long neck, trying to calm it, and was looking upwards at it. The expression was hard to decipher. Fear, awe, wonder, maybe a mix of the three. Human expressions were hard for turians to recognize, let alone reproduce; that he'd tried and succeeded at all was a wonder. _I don't __**think**__ I'm that small, or that fragile-looking. I look like a fae or some other eldritch creature. The hair's definitely a little exaggerated. . . longer, and much curlier than it really is. Probably because it's strange-looking to him_. But he'd managed to convey the fact that while she was ready to spring away for her own safety, that she was still standing her ground. "Rel, how can you say you don't think you have your grandmother's hands?" she asked, after a long moment. "You have them. I think you got her eyes, too." She glanced up. "And maybe just a bit of her spirit. If that's possible."

He lowered his head, pressing his forehead to hers, gently. "Thank you, _amatra_. Those are. . . very good words."

That night at dinner, Dara had the box next to her chair, so she'd remember to take it out to the aircar before sparring, and Serana asked to see what was in it. Rel started to object; Dara hooked a foot around his ankle under the table, and brought the statues out. Her dad and Kasumi were there, and made much of them; they got passed around the table to all the relatives who were present. Garrus and the twins were there; even grumpy old Grandfather Gavius was still in attendance, largely because when turians had to travel so far for family, they tended to stay for a week or more before going home.

Gavius' reaction was peculiar. He held the statue of Garrus and Shepard for a very long time, studying it, saying nothing. Then he set it down, and took the small one of the twins in his hands, staring at it, brooding over it. Rel turned and gave Dara a slightly annoyed look. She shrugged, and gestured minutely at Serana. Serana shifted slightly in her seat, hiding behind Dara.

The silence gave way to light, careful conversation, as everyone pretended not to notice Gavius' abstraction. But after about ten minutes, Gavius cleared his throat. "You have talent, Rellus," he said, and the table went quiet again. "I haven't seen my son's spirit in years. Now I do." He set the statue down on the table. "It is good to see the spirit of his wife, as well. And of my grandchildren." He settled the little statue of Amara and Kaius beside it, then got up and, nodding slightly, left the table.

Dara froze, looking around the table. For once, none of the turians seemed to know how to react. Her dad shook his head, and looked over at her; she returned a slightly helpless shrug. She turned back to Rellus, who leaned down. "He just _acknowledged_ my uncle. And Amara, and Kaius! He named them as kin." He sounded amazed.

Allardus shook his head. "Well, it's not much," he said to Garrus. "But it's a start, I guess." He passed the statues back down the table.

Garrus had been sitting absolutely silent and still for a while, and, catching the statue of the twins, asked, "Can I take this for our table? I've never been able to catch their spirits. All they have now are the uncarved blocks of _jalae_ wood my mother sent for me to use." He sighed. "Maybe when they're older, you can use the _jalae_ wood and make them their adult statues, too."

Rel blinked, and said, after a moment, plainly amazed, "It would be my honor to have my work grace your table."

**Rellus**

The days sped by. He awoke every morning with his mate in his arms, his face pressed into her hair, and then she slipped off to her own duties. School, for the moment. He'd get up, eat, and run for two or three hours. Go to the rifle range, practice. By afternoon, he'd be working on his own coursework. Handbooks on heavy weaponry. Squad tactics. Zero-gravity melee fighting. He knew, realistically, that most of these would be covered, if needed, in his training _after_ boot camp, at one school or training course or another, but he _had_ to keep busy. If he wasn't busy, he'd allow himself to think, and he could _not_ allow himself to do that.

The first week, they held to the old routine of having dinner with their various parents. The second week, Rel shook his head and told Dara, "No. I'm keeping you in my nest from now until I leave. Come back up here after school, we'll eat here, and go down for sparring. They can deal with your absence." So they'd eaten at the base mess hall, gone down for sparring, which was getting progressively rougher and rougher for him, and come back up again. But at least now, for a short time, at least, he had her with him at night, both of them trying to store up each others' scents, the feel of each other's skin, the sound of each others' voices, as the long winter of absence yawned in front of them.

The last Saturday, Rel turned off the alarm before it could ring, and simply let Dara sleep in. Her eyes slid open, and she sat up, dazed, saying, "Crap. It's light out, we have to get going."

He pulled her back down to him. "We're not going _anywhere_ today."

"We'll have to eat _sometime_," she reminded him, laughing as he started to bite her shoulder.

"MREs. Great invention," he informed her, solemnly. "No. Today's just for us. Because tomorrow. . . "

"I know. Don't talk. Or I'll start to cry." She looked at him steadily. "I don't want to cry till you're gone."

No more words, not for a while, at least. It still went too fast.

By night, she was trying to stay awake, trying to draw out the last few minutes they had together. "_Go to sleep. You've got clinic in the morning. All I have is a long, boring flight to Palaven. I'll stay awake, and watch you."_

She put her head down on his shoulder, and he pretended he didn't feel the cool dampness of her tears. Just stroked her hair until she did fall asleep. _Spirits. I don't want to leave. But since I have to, look after my mate and my family and this place until I can be with them again._

In the morning, he dressed and woke her in the gray light before dawn. "It's time."

"I know."

"It'll be done before we even know it." He was trying to be comforting. "Start a countdown on your terminal, _mellis_. I'll be looking at the same countdown, every night."

She could have surprisingly fierce strength in those small arms, and hugged him tightly now. He accepted a kiss, and bit her, hard, not caring this once if he drew blood or not. When he pulled back, Dara touched his face. "Go on," she told him. "I'll see you, when I see you."

He picked up his bag and walked out the door, glancing back once, and saw that she was watching him walk away, and aware of her eyes, all the way out the door, to the waiting aircar, which would take him to the shuttleport, and from there to the spaceport, and from there, back to Palaven. Which wasn't home. But it was where duty lay.

**Garrus**

It was Monday, July 4, by the human calendar of Mindoir, and like all bad news, it came at oh-dark-thirty in the damn morning. Garrus rolled out of bed, and tabbed the comm before it could finish waking his increasingly pregnant wife. "What?" he asked, in a low growl.

"Sorry to wake you." Kasumi's voice sounded almost as groggy as his did. "I just got the message myself." She rubbed her face, as if trying to wake herself. "A research base on Rannoch just got hit, and hit hard."

Garrus was all the way awake now. "On the quarian homeworld? Which base?" He paused. "Oh, spirits, not the damn Reaper base."

Kasumi sighed. "Got it in one. Kal'Reegar is in critical condition. I've got someone already trying to contact Tali'zorah on Klendagon to let her know that her husband is alive, but hurt."

_Shit. __Shit__._ "Who pulled off the attack?"

"That's the rest of the bad news. Looks like salarians and batarians pulled off the raid. Dropped in, stealthed drop-ships. Used a combination of biotics and firepower and just knocked the quarians flat on their fannies." She gestured. "I've got Sam looking over the reports to see if he can pull anything on their tactics that might be useful. The quarians think it was salarian STG. They've already called for a full Council meeting to protest the salarians trying to steal the research contract that was legally awarded to them."

Garrus shook his head. "Probably not STG. Probably Lystheni. _Spirits of stone take them straight to the dark of the underworld._" It wasn't a curse, so much as an anathema; he _really_ meant that one. "Okay, give me the rest. Did they get the Reaper?"

"Yeah. Baby and its bottle, too." Kasumi looked harried, and she glanced off-screen. "Garrus, we can't raise the team on Klendagon. No one is answering. The _Normandy_ isn't responding at the moment, either. There may be jamming in the area."

He took a deep breath, then another. His body was already filled with adrenaline, and with nothing to use it on, more's the pity; he had to relax and give himself a moment to think. "Get Sky and Lantar. They're going to Rannoch on the _Dunkirk. Damn. Cohort was on Klendagon. Kasumi needs to stay here. _"Gris and Jaworski and. . . Jack. Yeah. Wake Jack and get her ass on the same ship as them. They're heading to Klendagon. Get ships here for them and for me. I'm going to Bastion. We'll regroup as soon as we actually have information."

Kasumi nodded, taking it all in, and the comm flicked off, leaving the room in darkness once more. Garrus stood, and padded through the shadows, automatically stepping over Urz's sleeping form, and started getting dressed. Clothing, armor, side-arm; it all came automatically, like breathing, after decades of the same motions. Then he padded through the house to the twin's room, and stepping in, pulled up their covers and told them good-bye, very softly.

Then he came back into the bedroom. "You heard most of that, right?" he said, quietly.

"Yeah." Lilu sat up in bed, turning on a light. One hundred and twenty-one days into the remorseless gestational cycle, her face was softer now, and he lightly stroked her waist through her nightgown. "I can't help you, can I?"

"This is what you pay me for," he reminded her. "Right now, saving the galaxy is _my_ job. Your job is to _nest_." He grinned at her expression. "I rarely get to say that. You can't blame me for enjoying it when it's true."

"I'll coordinate with Kasumi," she told him. He raised a finger, and she sighed. "Yes, I'll rest and I'll nest and I'll keep warm. But _someone's_ got to do what's necessary here, too. I won't overdo it. Mordin will _smack_ me if I do." Unspoken behind those words was worry. Uncertainty over what had happened to the team on Klendagon, of which Mordin had been a part. "If I need to _relax_, I'll occupy myself with that terraforming project Lantar and I have been looking at. You go kick the Council in its collective ass for me, and find out what the hell's happened to our people."

He almost laughed. "All right. Get Dara up here to stay with you. She's family now. She can fetch and carry for you and keep the twins out of your hair." He leaned down, gave her a quick nip on the neck, and headed for the door.


	41. Chapter 41: Scrutiny and Retrieval

**Chapter 41: Scrutiny and Retrieval**

**Author's note: **_Thanks for the overwhelmingly positive response to the last poll, which was on realism, consequences, and depth; all but one person replied 'yes, your world has sufficient amounts of all three,' so I feel pretty good about that. :-) A new poll is now up. _

_Big plot-intensive chapters like this one are harder to write, because this one is setting up the arc for the rest of the way forward, so it's important to set up a lot of details here, and make sure they're *right*. It's a foundation, and if any one stone in it is off, everything else will be crooked, too._

**Sam**

Sam threw everything he needed in his bag. Kasumi hadn't so much as left her desk here at the house since the news had come in, as if by sheer will alone, she could break through the silence around Klendagon. _What the hell am I forgetting? Underwear, socks, hygiene kit, uniform, sidearm, clips, biometric masking device, stealth unit_—"Kasumi, Klendagon's _another_ frozen rock with semi-toxic atmosphere, isn't it?"

"It is," she called back from the other room.

_Spare breather in case the envirosuit fails, chemical heatpacks in case the thermal units fail, knife, multitool, rest of the weapons are on the ship, all the ammo I should need, on the ship, armor's already on my damn back._ He pulled the drawstring on the seabag closed and threw it over his shoulder, and, turning, saw Dara in the doorway, already dressed. It was 04:30. "Sorry we woke you, sweetie, but we've got a hell of a lot of the wrong type of fireworks this Fourth of July."

"You didn't wake me." Her face was tired. "I have two calls in already. Garrus left me a message saying I need to go stay with Shepard while you and he are gone."

"He can't order you to—"

"He can request it, sure. Clan-leader." Dara shrugged. "Besides, Kasumi's going to be busy, and someone needs to be on hand for Shepard." She looked at him. "I also got an all-hands message from the clinic, saying that we don't know what's going on, but that Dr. Solus could be in trouble." She looked at him, and he was struck by how _much_ older her eyes had become, in just the ten months that they'd been here on Mindoir. Steady. Calm. "Are you heading out after him?"

"I can't—"

She nodded. "Okay." Simply accepting it. "He's old for a salarian, Dad. If you have to resuscitate, the pulse points are here," she jabbed low on her own throat, in the notch where a human might have a tracheotomy placed, "and the radial artery on them is funky, right behind the tendons in the middle of the arm. The throat is a better location. Chest compressions are tricky, because their body is concave near the heart. You need to push _up_ into the upper portion of the thorax, almost like a Heimlich, but from the front. And it's not thirty like a human. It's _firty-five_, and as fast as you can do them, okay? Then check the pulse. Then two breaths, then fifty-five again."

He looked at her and nodded. "Fifty-five. Pulse in the throat. Two breaths. Fifty-five." Sam nodded. "Got it."

"Thanks, Dad." She walked over and gave him a hug. "Be careful."

Then she walked out to go talk to Kasumi, and Sam simply stared after his daughter for a moment, wondering where the hell time had gone, before shaking his head and leaving the room himself. A quick kiss for Kasumi, a quick kiss on Dara's forehead, and he was off.

He'd never been on the _Kharkov_ before, and its captain was from the Russian Federation- Oksana Mikhailova Orlova. He, Gris, and Jack were hardly onboard before the small woman nodded and issued crisp orders for the ship's AI, Pelagia, to get them the _hell_ out of the atmosphere and to the Mindoir relay. "Welcome aboard, Spectres, associates," Orlova said. "Klendagon is in not very heavily traveled region of space. Old relays there, still. Two jumps, eighteen hours, maybe full day before we arrive. My lieutenant will show you to quarters." The small, gray-haired woman looked at Jack. "Do not make trouble. Enough trouble waits for us."

Jaworski sighed, and braced himself. Jack, however, surprised him. "Don't make trouble with me, I won't make trouble with you," she said, and turned away slowly, to walk towards the elevator. It was still somewhat snide, but at least it hadn't been a expletive-laden tantrum.

They were all allocated the port observation lounge. Jaworski sighed, and found as comfortable a spot as he could in the chair beside the comm terminal. Gris sat down in another chair near the large observation window, and closed his red-tinged eyes. "No sense wasting energy till we're there," the krogan rumbled. Jack, all nervous energy, was pacing, and gave the krogan an incredulous look at his words.

"I know," Sam told Gris. "Still hoping we'll get more information before we get there, though." He put his feet up on the desk and closed his eyes, willing the _Kharkov _ to move faster. After a few moments, he heard the pacing stop, and opened his eyes just a crack. Jack had gone to the observation window, and was looking out at the stars, her hands pressed to the surface. But she looked. . . much calmer all of a sudden. _Well, it's a start_, he decided, and closed his eyes again.

Klendagon loomed large and ruddy in the observation lounge windows eighteen hours later, as Gris was, with unbelievable patience and delicacy for a krogan, building a house of cards.

"What the _hell_ is that?" Jack asked, after several moments of watching the process.

"A new pastime," Gris said, carefully adding two more cards at angles to one another. "Jaworski showed me how to build the first one after we got tired of two-handed poker." The krogan looked at her. "It's . . . calming."

Sam could almost _read_ the first thoughts that leapt into place behind her expressive eyes. _Well, we're here. Let's just fucking go._ Again, however, she surprised him. Took a deep breath. Nodded. And said, quietly, "Any sign of the _Normandy?"_

Sam reached over and tabbed the comm. "Captain Orlova? We've got a really big planet down there. What have we got besides that?"

"The _Normandy_ is either stealthed and hidden somewhere in local system, or not in system at all. There are emission trails indicating the recent presence of four or five ships. Debris in the vicinity indicates a battle. We can try to retrieve samples later for analysis, but now, that wastes time." the lightly-accented voice responded. "Radio transmissions still jammed. Attempting to find source of jamming and eliminate. Visual scans of dig-site show signs of movement, body-heat."

"The jamming is probably coming from a satellite buoy. If we're talking batarians, there will be three of them, more than likely," Gris rumbled, as he and Sam got to their feet. "Check geosynchronous orbit points over the dig-site. It's a fairly standard batarian raid practice."

"Will do."

The _Kharkov _dropped them in the Hammerhead close to the dig—only a couple of kilometers, really, and then arced off, looking for the source of the jamming. Sam hadn't been the driver on a Hammerhead before, and found the suspension a _lot_ more agreeable to his kidneys than the old Makos he'd driven in his N7 days. The craft was, however, just as much of a pregnant sow on ice as the Mako ever was, in terms of handling. _Seriously, I'm not asking for a Ferrari here, but you'd think the good folks at General Dynamics or Northrup-Grumman could come up with __something__ better_,he thought, and kicked the accelerator, making Gris grin and Jack suddenly whoop with glee as they sailed up and over a rock pile, heading for the blips on the scope.

He brought them to a halt just in visual range of the digsite; the delicate soap-bubble of the temporary envirodome was down, glistening over the terrain like so much shrink-wrap. "We've got contacts," Gris said, leaning forward in his chair.

"I see them. Damn, I wish Sky were here. Be great being able to tell friend from foe here." Sam checked his weapons, and opened the Hammerhead's hatch, letting in a blast of cold damned air. "I'm going up and checking it out. Radio silence till I check in." He flipped on his stealth generator, and thought, _It sure would be nice to land on a planet with an actual biosphere for once. I'm getting to depend on this damn thing too much._

Then he was off, moving quickly and quietly over the rough, red terrain, following the sound of intermittent bursts of gunfire.

**Tali'zorah**

The attack had been a complete surprise. Batarian drop-ships had roared into the skies over the dig-site, and she and her team, the human archaeologists, and the Spectre team on the ground had looked up . . . and gone for their weapons. "We're easy prey under this damn dome," one of Reegar's marines had called into the radios. "All they have to do is collapse it on us. Fall back."

She had shaken her head when Reegar had insisted on sending marines with her on this science expedition, but now she was very glad indeed for his protectiveness. "No. The humans aren't in breathers," she called back. "Let's get to the front and give them time to prepare." So her team—three marines, and three techs, moved up towards where the batarians were dropping, exiting the dome through its front airlock, sending out drones, applying suppressing fire. Anything to keep the batarians from dropping the damn dome on everyone's heads, like a giant net.

"Spread out," one of the marines said tersely. "I think one of them has a stasis field generator. Looks like one of the newer models."

"Mordin," Tali called, "Watch the rear. More ships could be in-bound. And can you contact the _Normandy?_"

"We have already attempted to contact the _Normandy,_" came the response, instead, from the _geth _Spectre. Tali was _never_ going to get used to that, and _really_ wished that the quarians they'd sent had been found qualified for more than just technical duty. Of course, they hadn't sent _Reegar_, and _he_ was the best the quarian people had. She had no doubts that he would have qualified. But he'd refused. He wanted a life on the surface of Rannoch with her and their son, and he couldn't acclimate to the environment there _and_ be halfway across the galaxy at the same time. "No response. Transmissions off surface appear to be jammed."

_Jamming. Wonderful. At least close-range radios haven't been affected yet._

It had been a tense fifteen minutes or so, staying under cover, ducking out, firing with her small pistol, aiming for center-mass on her batarian targets. "Humans have breathers in place," Mordin said over the radios, but Tali was already starting to hear the crackle of static creep in.

"Can we fall back now?" she asked. "Drop the damned dome on top of _their_ ugly heads, little _bosh'tets_."

"Negative," Mordin's reply had been sharp. "May be here for artifact. Cannot allow them to take it."

"Incoming!" The word had come from behind her, and she'd glanced back, seeing a completely _different_ type of ship arc in. It had looked salarian, all odd curves in the wrong places, but different, somehow. Its missile tubes were open, along with its gunports.

"Stand ground," came the geth's advice. "Unlikely to utilize weapons in proximity to relic."

_Easy for you to say_, Tali thought, firing at another batarian. _When your hardware dies, you just download from your most recent backup files someplace else and wonder what happened in the last day that you can't remember._ "Spectres, keep back and try to defend the device. We'll take the fight to the batarians." She looked at Reegar's marines, in their red-wrapped suits. "You tell us where you want the drones. It's your fight."

"_Keelah-selai_," one of them replied, firmly, and then they were off-moving forward, pointing where they wanted her, Nal'ishora, Hal'marrak, and the other two techs from her own team to move their drones to harass the enemy. The batarians fired the stasis gun at the drones, which did little good; the techs powered down the first wave of the little devices, and deployed fresh ones, trying to drive the batarians, herd them into the line of the marines' fire. There were a _lot_ of batarians, however.

Tali glanced up, in time to see a different gun-port open on the bottom of the hovering ship, and dove forward. "Get out of range," she called, trying to get to a pile of boulders outside of the dome. "Mordin! That looks like an channeled EMP device!"

She couldn't hear or see when it went off, of course, but her radio fizzled out completely, and for a bad moment, she could hear the soft humming of the electronics in her environmental suit faded out. _Keelah_, she thought, and tabbed a button on her wrist, keying the back up power. She barely had time to glance over her shoulder, since now she and the techs were taking heavy fire from the batarians, but she could see that Cohort was down. The . . . salarian? . . . ship fired again now, riddling the soap-bubble structure of the envirodome with bullets; it was supported largely by the air pressure within it, and its loss of pressure instantly collapsed it on the people inside. _Damn. The marines were right. It's acting just like a net. And we couldn't even use it against the little __**bosh'tets**_**. **

Radios were out; she couldn't hear what Mordin was saying, but it looked as if he was trying to protect the humans, who were, for the most part, unarmed scientists, trying to get them to lift the aerogel panels and move toward the far edge of the collapsed dome. The asari from the _Normandy_ was helping, of course. Tali's shields took a hit, and she swung back around, firing at the batarians again. She could feel a low rumble in the ground as the strange ship landed, and, after taking out another batarian, moved up to stand next to one of the marines. "We're pinned on two sides," she shouted, hoping the sound could still be heard through her suit. "We've got to give them some support, back there."

He shook his head firmly. "No can do. Not without turning our backs to the batarians. As soon as we do that, we're dead."

"Damnit!" She risked a glance backwards. The strange ship was on the ground now, and she could clearly see its hatch opening. Those were definitely salarian figures coming down, guns at the ready, and Mordin was firing at them. The handful of armed archaeologists were, as well, and the asari was trying to use biotics, but it was clear that the woman was support staff, not a Spectre. She redirected her attention, sending out another drone against the batarians. _Where the hell is the __Normandy__? Could that strange ship have somehow disabled it?_

A batarian fired a stasis gun at one of her techs, and the quarian froze in mid-stride. "Stay down!" one of the marines bellowed through suit filters. "We can't afford any more people to go down!"

Behind her, Tali saw similar weapons being fired at Mordin, at the asari, at the humans. _They want live prisoners? Or is the field effect simply more convenient, and they'll kill us later? Assume the latter. Batarians have no use for quarian slaves. Though Keelah only knows what the salarians are up to here. Is this STG? A rogue group?_

Then the salarians had simply moved through the frozen ranks of people, moving directly towards the artifact, under its glistening wrapper of aerogel, and began cutting through the dome material. Tali fired a potshot at one of them, hitting the salarian in the arm from far range, and redirected her personal drone back to harass them. For what good it did. They were down to five mobile quarians against about twenty batarians, and about twelve salarians at their backs. The _only_ thing currently saving them was the fact that the salarians were _completely_ disinterested in them.

Then the amphibians attached lifting equipment to the relic, and began to move it to their ship. One of them paused near Mordin, and made a gesture. One of his fellows stopped, nodded, and fired a cryo shot at close range at the professor, who was _already_ in stasis. It was. . . vindictive. Unnecessary. _Keelah, no. At his age, the sudden hibernation effect could kill him!_

Then they had actually picked him up, and carried him onto their ship with them. And then they lifted off once more.

That had been eighteen grueling hours ago. The quarians had retreated, inch by inch, to a low hill, with more boulders for cover. The firefight had slowed in intensity, both sides conserving ammunition, but Tali could still see one of their own, _still _held in stasis, cut off from them, behind the batarians. "Radios are still jammed," one of the marines commented, grimly, from where she and he lay behind a rockpile, prone, watching the batarians' movements. "Still no sign of the _Normandy_. We have to assume we're on our own here, and no reinforcements are coming."

Tali nodded, feeling her eyes burn with exhaustion. She'd already come to terms with that hard truth two hours ago. _Kal. Zael. I'll probably not see them again in this life. _The mere thought of Zael asking for her, and her not being there to answer his plaintive cries of "Where did mama go?" made her throat tighten. "We're not dead yet. And we'll take more of them with us before we're done."

"Damn straight we will, ma'am."

Then there came a sudden, surprised shout from the batarians, and several of them started firing _past_ the quarians, behind them, at the remains of the dome. Tali's head swung around, and she saw that Cohort was attempting to move. . . crawl, really. . . out from under the collapsed dome. _It was disabled by the EM pulse,_ she thought, confused. _How is it moving now? Why only __start__ now, if it has been able, all this time?_

And from behind the batarians, almost as if it had been coordinated, a shockwave rushed out, throwing two of them into the air. Another was lifted up into the sky by some sort of biotic attack, and, just as suddenly, a large human male in matte black armor appeared ahead of her and to the right, stealth field dropping as he attacked the batarian closest to her position with a large knife, sliding it in at the back of the neck, in the gap between helmet and armor, penetrating directly into the brain. "About damn time," the marine next to her said, and got up to a crouching position, firing directly at the batarians that had been suspended in mid-air.

The geth crawled further out, and held up its weapon, very unsteadily. She could see it _swaying_ from side to side, but it was attempting to fire the weapon at the batarians. It missed a few times, then seemed to get the hang of things, even though it was still more or less on its knees. Bewildering behavior from the mechanical unit.

It was short and ugly, after such a long, protracted struggle. "Spectres?" Tali called, and the radio crackled back to life inside of her helmet; she hadn't even been attempting to use it for the last couple of hours.

"Yes, ma'am," came a somewhat familiar voice. She frowned, trying to place it. "You'd be Tali'zorah vas Normandy, right? Sam Jaworski. We met back at the base a few months ago."

The human Spectre crossed the field to her, kicking a few batarians solidly in the ribs as he did, making sure they were dead. Beyond him, she saw a krogan in similar black armor. . . and was that _Jack?_

"I'm very glad to see you all here." Tali's voice was shaky, and she had to sit down as the last of her adrenaline faded out, leaving only blank exhaustion.

"What the _hell_ happened here? Y'all went off the grid a day ago." The human took off his helmet, so he could look at her, and she could read deep compassion in his expression. _Oh, keelah. That's never a good look from a human face._

"Sudden attack. Batarians. Some sort of salarian ship." She put her hands over her faceplate for a moment, seeing them shake. "They were only interested in the device at first. I think the batarians were meant to kill us all. No witnesses. But then they took Mordin with them!"

"Son of a bitch," Jaworski said, quietly. "Ma'am, I'm afraid I've got some more bad news for you. And this is a hell of a time to break it to you. But this wasn't the only attack."

She looked up at him, and he knelt down to put a hand on her shoulder now, where she sat on the ground. "There was another raid on the facility on Rannoch, where the mini-Reaper and the other device were."

Her heart spasmed in her chest, twisting painfully. "Kal?"

"He's alive, ma'am."

Her heart started again, hammering now in her ears, her wrists, her chest. _Thank you, keelah._ The human wasn't finished yet, though. "He's hurt pretty bad, though. I'm not going to lie to you. But he _is_ alive."

She nodded, slowly. "How did they _know_?" she asked, quietly, looking around. "How did they _know_ the location of both research sites? Let alone the value of this one? We didn't even know until two weeks ago!"

"It's being looked into." His voice was taut.

The geth had managed to crawl as far as them now, and more or less rocked up to a sitting position. "The others in my mind. . . they aren't here right now?" it said, and the voice was not Cohort's. Tali nodded to herself, as the mystery became clear to her. "I'm having trouble. . . moving this body. The limbs are all wrong. Wasn't left with enough control over them. There are processes, I think, to restore power. Have been trying them, but too different. Too alien. Need assistance, to restore them."

The human was staring at the geth, and Tali managed a weak laugh as Jaworski said, "Well. . . either Cohort's discovered the first-person singular, or that _ain't_ Cohort."

"No," Tali said. "This is Watching-the-Gates-of-Ruin. The last of the original Keepers, that we know of, anyway. Ruin, this is Sam." She tried to stand up, and staggered; Jaworski caught her elbow and steadied her. "Has anyone been able to contact the _Normandy_?"

"The _Kharkov _just found 'em. They're largely powered down at the moment. Got forced down on the only moon this rock has. Big hull breach, apparently."

Tali hissed. "_How_? The ablative armor alone—"

"Don't know yet, ma'am. We're getting everyone here onto shuttles and getting 'em back to the ranch as fast as we can. You'll be wanting to go to Rannoch, I know. Garrus is on Bastion right now, trying to keep your folks and the salarians from kicking off against each other."

"Why would they attack us?" It was almost a wail. "It wasn't a standard salarian ship! And why would they ally with batarians against us? It makes no sense. Maybe a rogue element of STG?" She raised her hands, bewildered.

"That's exactly what we need you to tell the Council and your Admiralty board. Your exact impressions. I'm not saying anything more that could influence you, but we're going to have you send a message to Bastion while we're getting you to Rannoch, if that's all right."

She nodded, and looked up as the first shuttle started to descend. _Thank Keelah for the Spectres_, she thought, as Sam and Jack and the krogan began to move her team towards the vehicle; another would be needed for the still-frozen human archaeologists.

Of course, there were still questions pressing urgently at the back of her mind. _How is Kal doing? Is there infection? How did they know we were here, and what we had in the relic? _And, of course, _Why did they take Mordin Solus captive?_

**Joker**

The past twenty-four hours had, to put it bluntly, sucked. They had been, for lack of anything better to do, surveying the rest of the planets in the Century star system for minerals, not stealthed, but definitely idling, when EDI had reported contacts inbound. "What are we looking at?" Joker had asked, turning back to his screens, hands flying over his consoles. "First contacts match configuration of small batarian raid ships," EDI indicated. "Corsair classification, not slaver." Which meant small, fast, armed, and with a full load of pirates or mercenaries on each.

"Heading?"

"Klendagon."

Joker swore and began turning up the engines. Right now, they needed to turn, pursue, and attack, and by a happy chance, he actually _was_ the officer of the deck today. "They've already dropped a jamming satellite," EDI reported, her soft voice regretful. "I cannot reach the ground teams. The batarians are launching drop ships."

"Target the drop ships and fire," Joker said, tabbing the comm to get whoever was on main guns ready. They _did _splash one of the three drop-ships, leaving two to descend into the atmosphere, and then the three main ships turned and began to fire at them. Joker snorted and sent the _Normandy_ into a dive. He didn't want to be _cocky_ here, but these were batarian raiders, not a Collector ship. They couldn't have any idea what they were dealing with.

He spun and had the main guns lock on the first ship. "Fire the Thanix cannon when ready, EDI." A yellow line of light burned into their hull, opening the batarian ship to vacuum from stem to stern.

The other two ships split up at that point, circling, dodging, avoiding the front-mounted main gun, trying to come in at the _Normandy_ from her sides. "Get whatever Javelins we have in the tubes ready to go," he said. "Full spread, at the starboard target." _Then we'll come about and fire the canons at the port target. Hopefully._

He could feel the _Normandy_ rock slightly as the Javelins left their tubes, and blessed the turian engineers who'd retrofitted the ship in line with current turian fleet thinking, which was that when people could come in at you from multiple vectors of attack, it was _generally_ a good thing to be able to fire broadsides as well as from the bow of the damn ship. "They're returning fire, Jeff," EDI said. "Kinetic shielding holding steady."

Then a new ship had slipped out of FTL in a blaze of blue particles, and Joker had had his hands _full_. "What the hell is that thing?"

"Unknown. Partial match for salarian ship configurations, but unknown class." EDI paused. "You _were_ the one complaining of boredom yesterday, Jeff."

"I'm never bored enough that _this_ sounds like a good idea, sweetheart." Its gunports were open, he could see, and he sweated and moved the _Normandy_ away. A blaze of energy exploded out one of those ports, like a violet star, and moved after them, unerringly, tracking them. "EDI, what the hell—"

"Unknown." Her voice was distressed, and the energy weapon hit them. "Jeff, kinetic shields are down fifty percent."

"On one hit? Jesus Christ. That thing's too small to pack a punch like that." He spun them around and fired at the already-damaged raider, opening it up, watching its hull crumple inwards as it imploded. _Splash two. Let's make sure the batarians on the ground have nowhere to go, at least._ Then he headed straight for the planet's single moon, a large, airless blob of rock. "Let's see if we can get some cover while we try to bring shields back up."

EDI's voice again. "The energy profile from the last attack looks _biotic, _similar to a reaving technique, but that should _not_ be possible."

"I'm beginning to believe anything is possible, sweetheart." He glanced up at his screens. More missiles were streaking towards them. "All hands, brace for high-speed maneuvering." He began to dodge and weave across the lifeless moonscape, hoping to catch some of the missiles behind them on extrusions of rock. A few did indeed impact harmlessly on the craters and cliffs; others landed, piercing the kinetic shields.

"Shields are down," EDI told him, and there was worry in her voice.

Joker tabbed the comm again, "Donnelly, how fast can we recharge those damn shields?"

"Two minutes for full power, but we canna take any hits in the meantime, or we just start the process all o'er again." Ken Donnelly's accent always got stronger under stress; right now, the brogue could be cut with a knife.

"Okay, well, we may have to trust the ablative hull, then. I don't think we're going to have any choices about getting hit." Joker's voice was grim. "EDI, put on your dancing shoes." He lifted them up, circling over and around, and had the Thanix gun fire again, this time taking on the last raider. The salarian ship fired again, however, and this time, Joker could _feel_ the groan as the outer hull _moved_. "That's not good," he muttered.

"Hull breach on deck four," EDI reported, sharply. "Evacuating personnel." _Damnit, that means engineering is going to be unmanned_. "Damage control teams are scrambling; emergency bulkheads have sealed," she reported next. _Atta girl._

The crippled batarian ship managed one more salvo, exchanging fire with the _Normandy_, and one of its shots was lucky. While the _Normandy_ destroyed the batarian, one of its torpedoes slammed into the gaping hole in the _Normandy's _ lower decks. "We've lost maneuvering controls, other than secondary chemical reaction thrusters," EDI warned. "Engines are off-line."

"I know, I know." The helm was sluggish, and Joker struggled with it, fighting to slow their last arc, sending them in a slow tumble for the surface of the moon. "Can we get a lock on the salarian ship, whatever the hell it is?" _A __**biotic**__ weapon against a ship. However it's possible, I am __**not**__ letting them take us down. Not without a fight._

"Negative, Jeff. Thanix canon is off-line. However, the enemy ship is breaking off and heading for the planet's surface."

"Damn it." He smacked the console nearest him, remembering at the last moment to make it a light blow, and settled for working with the slow, cumbersome chemical maneuvering controls, slowing their descent, so that at least they landed as lightly as a thistledown, and firmly in the shadow of a large crater. "Power down everything unnecessary, EDI. We're going to have to hide until Donnelly gets the engines online again." Joker pushed himself to standing, groaning under his breath at the effort. "The ground team is going to have to try to hold on, on their own." He sighed. "Any chance of getting a message through to Mindoir?"

EDI, who wasn't even wasting power on so much as her eyeball avatar at the moment, took a moment to respond. "Negative. There are at least three jamming buoys in place, as far as I can tell from the wide distribution of static."

Joker sighed. "So. We wait. In the dark. And hope to hell Ken and Gabby and the rest of them can get the damn engine running again."

He'd made his way to the lower decks, slowly. Painfully slowly. Wanting to see what he could of the damage to _his_ ship. Half the engineering team was in full envirosuits, and he got quick, terse reports. They were working in vacuum, trying to get the engine back on-line and to seal the hull-breach at the same time; those who _weren't_ in environmental suits, were trying to get small systems repaired, so that when the engines _did_ come back on-line, there wouldn't be shorts.

These kinds of repairs, simply put, do not happen at the drop of a dime. They take hours. It takes time to assess the damage. It takes time to move the equipment outside. It takes time to replace the panels, secure them, seal them with extruded ceramic polyresin, first the compound, then the catalyst. It takes time for that to cure, so that atmosphere won't leak as soon as the enclosure behind it is pressurized again. It takes time to test it. It takes time to determine what the damage to an engine is, to run through its function diagrams, to see what its self-diagnostics say. . . once the team gets it powered up far enough for such a tool to be available. Joker could only watch and listen, and appreciate the sheer _skill_ of the engineering team as they interpreted the schematics, deciphered the fault codes, proposed solutions, tried them. . . and began to make headway.

But it all took time. Time that the teams on the planet didn't have. "Can we at least open the shuttle bay and send someone down to them. . . no. We landed on our belly. Can't even get a shuttle out, even if we had anyone left to _send_." Joker rubbed his forehead at his station in the cockpit.

"Jeff, you need to rest."

"I'll rest when we're finished with repairs."

"You will do no one any good if you collapse at the helm." EDI's voice was stern.

He sighed. She was right. But sleep was going to be damned near impossible. "Tell Meliana—that's the new turian lieutenant? She's next on the OOD list, right?" When he got an acknowledgement of that, he nodded, and rubbed his grainy eyes. "Get her up here."

An hour after he'd finally dropped into a restless sleep, EDI woke him. "Jeff—the _Kharkov _has arrived, and has disabled the jamming buoys. A Spectre team is on the planet right now, attempting to rescue the teams trapped below."

Joker exhaled, feeling relief wash through him. "Okay. That's something, anyway." He sat up in his bunk. "We've got a hell of a strange report to make. I really want to know what that _biotic_ ship-to-ship weapon was. And I'm willing to bet, Garrus is going to want to know, too."

**Lantar**

The _Dunkirk_ was starting to be as familiar as the _Normandy_ for him. "Captain Kapur," he said, getting through decontamination with Sky as quickly as possible. "We're in something of a rush. No time for pleasantries."

Chandrakant Kapur nodded tightly. "We've already got a course laid in. Kynthia, when you and Lieutenant Chang are ready?"

Lantar took a bracing step back as the Tantalus core engaged, and the ship's inertial dampening field wasn't _quite _enough to compensate.

_Accelerando tempo_, Sky sang. _Most appropriate._

Kapur gestured towards the elevators. "Let me get you two settled in. Rannoch's still on the old relay network, so it's a two-jump trip, minimum for us, plus cruising time. We're not going in stealthed, so we've got eighteen to twenty-four hours before we're there."

Rannoch was an interesting world, from space. The geth had lived in space stations around it for hundreds of years, cleaning it of rubble and toxins from their terrible war with the quarians, out of some form of respect. Maintained it, like a memorial. Lantar wondered, briefly, how the geth viewed the quarians now living on what had been a cemetery, and decided that he'd ask Cohort about it, at some point.

It was actually a very _clean_ planet, as a result; much of the radioactive fallout had been scrubbed by the geth, and there had been no industrial hydrocarbons released into its atmosphere or seas for generations. The plantlife had largely grown back, though it was an arid planet; it was not the cobalt of Earth, or the lush tourmaline of Palaven, but a red world, girdled with blue seas.

"We're on approach for the main spaceport. Quarian authorities will meet us on the ground," Kapur told them as they headed back up to the bridge. Almost idly, he commented, "I received a very interesting message back from Commander Shepard about that project we discussed last month, Lantar."

The two had long since devolved to a first-name basis. "Is that so, Chandra?" Lantar smiled briefly, but his mind was already on the ground of the planet in front of them. "Last I heard, she'd forwarded a preliminary proposal to the Hierarchy and the Alliance."

Kapur nodded. "The Alliance likes the idea of taking Tosal Nym. No existing biosphere. Can just be built one hundred percent in the likeness of Earth. No balancing act with local biota. Archaeologists are not in favor, however."

Lantar shrugged. "They can't have it forever as their own private playground. And getting a hydrosphere going will actually help uncover a lot of areas that have been covered up by millions of years of dust."

"If the climate change is gentle, yes, but some of the heavy industrial methods of terraforming cause rapid shifts. Terrain collapses, when too much water is introduced, too quickly. We saw some of this on Mars, before all terraforming was halted after the discovery of the Prothean relics there." Kapur hesitated. "Of course, all such thoughts are contingent on whether the Hierarchy would be interested in Aphras."

Lantar turned. "It's hard to say. I think they'd be damned stupid not to be. We haven't started a new colony world in over a hundred years. It's outside the contiguous borders of our space, but. . . " he shrugged. "It's always good to take new territory. And big, symbolic moves like this. . . inspire people."

Sky sang softly, in Lantar's mind, _Hope-song grows stronger in you, Sings-Regrets. _

Lantar gave the rachni a shrug, and formed the thought as clearly as he could in his mind, _Caelia's got to have __**someplace**__ to live when she grows up. Can't always be Mindoir. Why not a new place, somewhere where both races have a place?_

The _Dunkirk _plunged through the atmosphere now, piercing the thin cloud-cover, racing for the terminator line, where the sun was just setting. Almost all of the quarians who were re-settling their homeworld lived very close to one another, geographically; all on the northwestern continent, as if centuries of living in close proximity to one another had left them physically unable to separate, now that they had an entire world to disperse across. Pragmatically, it made sense; with a total population of seventeen million, they couldn't afford to replicate infrastructure efforts just yet.

Lantar made sure his matte-black Spectre armor—he wasn't _Nemesis_ today, after all—was buckled securely in place, and then he and his rachni companion left the ship.

The quarians who met him on the tarmac were grim. "Spectre Sidonis? Spectre. . . Sings-to-the-Sky? I'm Admiral Shala'Raan."

Lantar blinked. It was a measure of how seriously the quarians were taking this, that a member of the damn _Admiralty Board_ was picking them up at the _spaceport._ "We're honored, Admiral," he said, quietly. "We're here to do everything in our power to rectify the situation, and to express our support."

She nodded, a little grimly, it looked. "We'll take you to the lab. It's on the outskirts of the settlement."

Lantar held up a hand. "First, tell me how Kal'Reegar and the rest of the survivors are doing. Both of my commanders are very concerned."

The quarians all around them seemed to relax slightly. "Shepard and Vakarian have been loyal friends to the quarian people, not least because of their friendship with Tali'Zorah and Kal'Reegar," the admiral replied. "Kal'Reegar regained consciousness about four hours ago. The actual damage has been repaired by our physicians—he took an abdominal wound."

Lantar grimaced. Gut wounds were bad on almost any species; intestines tended to like to perforate, releasing bacteria into the bloodsteam, which could lead to sepsis. "I take it he's on heavy antibiotics?"

"The strongest available, yes." She gestured to the aircar, and Lantar and Sky hopped in.

"Give me a moment," Lantar said, once he was seated, and contacted the _Dunkirk._ "Kapur, Kynthia? Pass back to the Spectre base, Garrus, and the team on Klendagon, if they can be reached, that Reegar is conscious."

"And that is a very good thing to hear," Kapur said, and Lantar chuckled under his breath at the man's beaming tones, and the light accent that marked the words.

The aircar took off, and it didn't take long to reach the research base. Lantar looked at it, surveyed it as he would any other crime scene. The scene was a little _larger_ than he'd had to tape off before, but a crime had still been committed here. The only differences were the scale and the stakes.

_Uncertain what notes I may bring to your harmony here,_ Sky sang, picking his way through the rubble carefully. _Your people sing hunt-songs. Right now, you hunt thoughts, clues, ideas. This is not my song._

Lantar nodded, noticing, amused, that the various quarians' heads had jerked up as they heard Sky's voice in their minds for the first time. "I'll take a quick look around, and see if there's anything you can do here," he replied aloud. "If not, I'll ask the Admiral to take you to see Reegar in the hospital. I need to know everything he saw, and depending on how much pain medication he's on, he might not be coherent for anyone but you, Sky."

The rachni lowered himself slightly on his legs, an odd sort of bow of acknowledgement, and scuttled off back towards the Admiral, while Lantar went back to walking carefully around the facility.

It had been a pre-fab structure, aluminum walls, aluminum roof. Rannoch's weather tended towards the temperate and the arid; it did not experience the heavy hurricanes of Palaven and Earth, for instance, nor the frigid blizzards of lost Thessia or again, Earth. This region in particular was temperate and mild. The structure had been temporary, at best; when he asked about it, Shala'Raan indicated that a permanent structure was under construction not far away, but that they had not been able to complete it before being awarded custody of the mini-Reaper and the simulation device. _The salarians would love to hear __**that**__ in front of the Council. "Look, they're clearly not ready to be entrusted with dangerous artifacts. They can't even build a secure facility around them." And it would be true, to a degree. Except that hardly anyone knows the actual coordinates for this damn planet. Quarians and geth, pretty much._

The main door of the lab had been opened, but not by force. _Interesting. They hacked their way past security. Indicates that this was probably a tech-oriented group. Realistically, STG could do this. So could the Lystheni._ He was keeping his mind open as to which group had really done this.

Inside, his boots crunched on debris. Datacards, folders, broken glass, components. Several large sets of storage drawers had been knocked over, and their contents had fallen out. _Used for cover, probably. . . yes. Bullet holes. _He leaned down and scanned them with his omnitool, checking for caliber, any residue. Quarian techs had probably already done this, but it never hurt to get his own data. Blood stains on the ground, here and there. Usually at the center of taped diagrams of bodies. Again, quarians sometimes used _old_ tech; less expensive solutions. The blood ranged in color. Some greenish-yellow—salarian. Some orange—batarian, that. The rest, quarian. Lantar dropped down and collected samples with his kit, scanning them. DNA anomalies might be helpful in proving that these were _Lystheni_, and not just other, random salarians.

Past the entry area, another set of doors; again, keycard and code access. A little old-fashioned, but when your entire population is sealed away from DNA and retinal scanners, old methods for security might well be the _only_ options. And again, even after a firefight had clearly taken place in the reception area, the doors had been activated, not forced. _They didn't want to risk damaging what was inside. No explosives. _He studied the walls, confused. Small squares had been cut, like eyelet windows, at about chest-height for him. Three or four flanked the door on each side, and there were discarded, one-use acetylene torches on the ground there. _They cut through? Why?_

The main lab showed just as many indications of ferocious fighting as the reception area. Pieces of metal here and there showed scorch marks; Lantar scanned them, and made a note to compare the chemical analysis of the propellant used for the flames against salarian flame-throwers. If the Lystheni used different chemical compounds for their internal weapons. . . _It would almost have to be, wouldn't it? The risk of a leak from the reservoir into the bloodstream would be almost instantly fatal in the body, with most propellants. . . _ He dropped to his haunches again, looking at the blood splatters, setting up his omnitool, trying to figure out distance, force, trajectory. Trying to reconstruct a battle. He walked from bloodstain to bloodstain, touching little. _Here, looks like a quarian was hit, twice. . . staggered backwards. Crawled away. Got behind this console. Kept firing. . . there's the ejected thermal clip. That's a new hit. . . lots of light spray here; before it was just a puddle here and there on the floor, running down a leg, I think.. Suit clamped down immediately, though, controlling it. Tough son of a bitch, whoever it was. _He picked up a shotgun pellet from the floor there, studied it, and put it back down where he'd found it. Salarians didn't really use shotguns; the recoil was too heavy for their slight frames. Could have been a batarian who'd fired the shot, though, of course.

He paused, looking at it again. _Or I could be completely misreading this._ _What we __**really**__ need in the Spectres is a forensics specialist or two. Hah. I can already hear Jaworski telling me to interface with the locals and use __**their**__ experts. But this is the sort of case where we need to be the neutral third party, especially if what Garrus was saying is true. . . if the quarians have already decided that this was STG. _He moved from the right side of the room to the left, and stared up a wall, seeing quarian blood sprayed there, fifteen feet above floor level. _That's. . . not usually the case without a biotic or a ladder involved. And I'm not seeing a ladder._

He'd walked the perimeter now, and carefully made his way to the center, where the mini-Reaper and the device had been housed, surrounded by test equipment, much of which was surprisingly intact. Again, caution. Deliberation. _And then they cut a hole in the ceiling and lifted out what I'm certain my wife would call the 'toy surprise.' _

Lantar exited the lab, and headed back to the Admiral's car. "Is there any vid footage of the attack?" he asked, getting back inside. "And yes, we'll definitely want to talk to Reegar or any other survivor who's conscious." He frowned. There was enough blood on the ground back there to be triggering a fair bit of justice-anger in him at the moment, but he was keeping it at bay, mostly because he had no evidence specifying _which_ group of salarians, backed by batarains, had done this, at this point, though he had plenty of suspicions, of course. "I'd also like to see a list of people who had clearance to know about the facility, and also who also knew about the facility on Klendagon. Since both were attacked, more or less simultaneously, there's probably a connection here. And we _really_ need to find out how the attackers knew both what was at both locations, and where those locations were."

One of the other quarians asked, sounding slightly hostile, "What makes you think that _our_ people were the source?"

"These are questions that everyone involved is answering," Lantar replied, quietly. "I know for a fact that the head of Spectre security has been going through our transmission logs since we got the news, seeing if _anything _might have slipped out from our end. The fact of the matter is, the attackers got the information from _somewhere_."

"They were salarians. They could have hacked our databases."

Lantar nodded. "It's certainly possible. Nevertheless, I'd like to pursue all possibilities." He kept his gaze on Admiral Shala'Raan as he spoke, and kept his tone neutral.

The admiral nodded, and gestured for one of her assistants, in the car with them, to start accessing the data. Lantar wasn't holding out much hope of finding the leak immediately.

They headed back into the quarian city. Some of it consisted of old buildings, meticulously restored by the geth as part of their memorial efforts. Some of it consisted of ships from the Flotilla, deliberately landed and stripped of hazardous materials, their frames buried partially in the earth. Some of it was new construction, using native materials. And some of it was colonial pre-fab construction, which had probably been intended for use on some human colony or another. It was a hodge-podge, in other words, and Lantar grinned for a moment at the sight. The chaos and the confusion of life, taking over a place that had been rebuilt with machine-like symmetry. It said something to him.

Kal'Reegar was in a clean room at the hospital, and while Lantar's armor could be decontaminated and he could enter, Sky presented a challenge for the medical staff. They eventually enclosed the rachni in a very large bubble of sorts, and had him wearing a jury-rigged breather inside of it. "You look like a specimen in a jar, Sky," Lantar told him, feeling his mandibles flex somewhat.

The rachni's amusement came to him in a flood of blues and greens. Then they stepped through the hatch into the clean room. The quarian marine was in bed, half in and half out of his suit. It was designed with multiple small bulkheads, Lantar understood, so from the chest up and the pelvis down, Reegar was still locked in his self-contained environment; the abdomen, however, was covered in sterile bandages, and IVs were taped in place here and there, providing a steady drip of nutrients, fluids, and the all-important medigel, antibiotics, and pain medications. "Spectres?" Reegar asked, his voice rough, lifting his head.

"Yes. I'm Lantar Sidonis, and this is Sings-to-the-Sky."

"They tell me Klendagon was hit, too. Is my wife all right?"

"Whoever hit them, jammed transmissions out of the area, so we don't know anything yet. Our team probably just hit the ground there. As soon as I hear anything, I will let you know."

"That a promise?" Reegar lifted his hand now; the gesture looked urgent.

"_Meus iusiuru_, _meus anima_._" My oath is my life._

Reegar sagged back down again. "All right. What do you need from me?"

_Think about attack_, Sky sang softly. _Give me your song. From the first note to the last, sing it for me._

"What the hell. . . " Reegar sounded astonished.

"You can talk out loud while you think it through," Lantar told him, setting up his omnitool to record. "We need to know every detail, though, and Sky's _very_ good at pulling detail from people's minds."

Reegar sighed. "All right. It happened like this." As the quarian began to speak, images flicked into Lantar's mind; translated, of course, by Sky, they were probably not completely the same as Reegar had seen them, but it was damned impressive, nonetheless.

Quarians did not have a lot of defense towers or radar or ladar; having but one racial enemy, the geth, with whom they were now at peace, and _no_ real resources, they were not a considered a good target for attack. They had opted to keep their limited defensive budget focused on their fleet and flotilla, which still rode the skies throughout the planetary system, gathering resources from the gas giants and other planets for use here. Thus, when the ships had come in at a low trajectory, there had been no real warning.

"I was inside the facility, taking a report from the scientists to send on to Tali," Reegar said. "They'd managed to isolate one part of the simulator from the rest, and they were hoping to be able to use its processing power for test runs, while keeping the mini-Reaper safely occupied with the rest of the device. I personally thought that was a _stupid_ risk, and didn't mind telling them so." He paused. "The first thing I heard was engine noise. I figured it was people heading to the testing range nearby. Then shouting, from the lobby."

In a flash, Lantar was _there_, head jerking up, hearing the shouting, then the first rapid shots. A loud crash, then more weapons fire. Then he was moving, weapon in his own hands now, shouting orders in a language he didn't speak, but understood, just for a moment.

"I tried to raise the alert, but we were being jammed. Probably solely local, otherwise _someone_ would have noticed in the rest of the city. I told everyone to reinforce the doors, got the scientists to take cover, and got the various guards set up to hold the damn door." Reegar reached for the IV cord at his waist, and picked up a button attached to it, studying it for a moment. "You ever notice, they give you these damn things to allow you to meter your own pain meds. . . and they never seem to do _anything_?"

Lantar nodded. He only remembered fragments of his trip to the Omega clinic, thanks to the azure dust in his system, but he _did_ remember a similar dose meter in his hands at several points. "I think it's largely psychological," he commented. "Never did me much good, either."

"Well, I feel _greatly_ empowered now." Reegar's voice was dry through the suit filters. "Anyhow, they opened the door, broke through the cabinets and whatever else we'd put up in their way. Salarians, batarians. Batarians in front, two lines of salarians behind them. Some of 'em didn't show up on the damn scope. I thought the equipment was bugging out at first, but didn't have time to fiddle with it in the middle of a firefight." Lantar remembered it with him for a moment. _Damnit, it's hard enough taking out what's in the damn doorway, without knowing for certain what's past it. . . . damn tech, always breaking down. _"Biometric masking is one thing," Reeger rasped, sounding tired. "Once you're aware that it's being used, you can adjust your scanners to filter out the signal that the masking device is using. Some of those salarians just weren't _there_, as far as our equipment was concerned."

"Were any of them biotics?"

"Yeah. Was the damnedest thing. We were using the door as a chokepoint at first. Was working real well, until the salarians moved to the sides and started cutting holes in the aluminum walls with torches, then used the holes to fire through. Some of them were using guns, or cryosprays, or miniature flame throwers. Conventional stuff, although I'd swear some of the equipment was actually embedded in their damn arms. The ones in the back line? The ones that the scanners _could_ pick up?" Reegar shook his head. "One of them dropped a singularity on the other side of the room. Batarians picked off my men easily at that point." Lantar nodded seeing it in his mind; suited bodies hanging fifteen feet in the air, bodies shuddering helplessly as the bullets rocked into them.

That explained the blood high on the walls, at least. "One of them got up in the doorway and _ordered_ one of my men to fire on me. He turned and shot me, point-blank. Shotgun blast to the stomach. I'd already taken a hit, and had backed up further into the room, but that's the one that dropped me. My suit tried to seal back up, and . . . " he paused. "It all goes unclear here," he admitted, after a moment."

Sky sang, _I will sing it, as you are singing it_. Lantar's eyes widened. He could _see _the salarians entering the room, stepping over the dead or dying quarians. He could _hear_ one of them say, looking up at the Reaper, "It's perfect. The perfect form." Then they were lashing the mini-Reaper and the simulation device together. Dizzy fragments of vision. More acetylene torches, cutting through the roof. The odd, alien curves of the ship hovering above. Then, using equipment with mass effect fields to displace the weight, and ropes lowered from the ship, they loaded it all into the cargo bay. The salarians were pulled up in turn, and the batarians turned and left. Quarians didn't make good slaves, after all. Too expensive to maintain.

Lantar's omitool chirped, bringing him back to the present. He tabbed his radio. "Kapur here," the captain of the _Dunkirk _said. "We have word from the _Kharkov_ team."

"Tell me it's good news."

"Mixed. The quarian team is alive there. Tali'zorah vas Normandy is aboard, and they're en route to Rannoch with her."

Lantar felt a certain relief. "Kal'Reegar? Just got word. Your wife is alive, and on her way here." It was always _good_ to be able to give that kind of news. Particularly to the wounded. He saw Reegar's helmeted head sag a little to the side. "Sky? Is he all right?"

_Fear-song made him fight hard. Now, he modulates, relief-song, joy-song. He eases, but the melody remains a struggle. _Moderate concern in the rachni's voice, but nothing he needed to call a doctor into the room for, thankfully.

"All right, Chandra. That was the good news. Tell me the bad now."

"Jaworski said to tell you that Dr. Solus was taken prisoner, and the alien device was removed. They are also trying to understand what happened to Cohort. He's apparently not . . . himself. The _Normandy_ itself was attacked by a salarian ship with a weapon of an unknown configuration. EDI has passed along her observations for analysis, and Kynthia agrees with her—the weapon was somehow _biotic_."

Lantar sat very still. "That doesn't seem possible, Chandra."

"I am in agreement with you, Lantar, my friend, but I am looking at the data now myself. The energy patterns from the ship are organic. Not the engines. Just the weapon used."

_Sky?_ Lantar formed the thought carefully in his mind.

Yellow-green; nervousness, fear. _I do not know_, the rachni sang softly.

"Chandra, send back to the _Khakov_, please. Have Jaworski tell Tali'Zorah that her husband is alive and asking for her, and able to give a full account of everything that happened here. We're going to continue to investigate. We'll be back to the ship in about an hour, maybe two. I'll need a comm channel to Bastion then. Garrus is going to need to know what we're seeing on the ground."

Lantar stood, reached down, and put a gauntleted hand on Kal'Reegar's shoulder-plate. "We're going to get them," he told the quarian.

"I want to be there when you do."

"I'll tell Garrus you want in. In the meantime, get healthy." He glanced over at the rachni. "Sky? I know this isn't really your field of expertise, but could you stay with him?" Lantar wasn't really sure what, if anything, the rachni could do here, but it _seemed _like the right move, somehow.

_I will join my song to his. _Sky's voice was very quiet. _His queen will not sing his death-song._

"Okay." Lantar nodded, and stepped out of the clean room. Then he headed back to the ship, and started, patiently, going through the security footage and datafiles the quarians had given them. The footage was grainy at best; he could resolve _Klem Na_ markings on the batarian mercenaries' armor, which was a help, but not as much as he'd have liked. Sitting in the starboard observation lounge, he put the footage to the side. It added little to Kal'Reegar's account, but at least provided corroboration. "Kynthia," he said, out loud, and a small, violet eyeball appeared in the alcove near the door.

"Yes, Spectre Sidonis?"

"I asked for information from the quarians on who had clearance to know about the two research facilities."

"Yes, we have those records currently. Some seventy-five individuals, from Admiral Shala'Raan down to support personnel."

Lantar grimaced. "I know there's no such thing as a _real_ secret, but damn." He pulled up the records and shook his head grimly. "They've buried me in data here. This is everything down to their background checks and family affiliations." He tapped his fingers on the console for a moment. "Can you access comm records and FTL transmission logs from the past two to three weeks?"

"Incoming or outgoing from Rannoch?"

"Both."

"Admiral Shala'Raan has given me access to most of the civilian comm logs, yes. Military and secret categories will require . . . " Kynthia paused, "either further permissions, or some inveigling on my part, Spectre."

Lantar grinned. "Kynthia, did EDI put some of Kasumi's imprints in your matrix at some point?"

"Spectre, I am shocked at your supposition." The violet eyeball blinked at him. "However, I _do_ find the head of Spectre security's files to be quite interesting. "What am I looking for?"

"Stick to civilian and non-classified channels for the moment. I want to see if any one of our seventy-five nearest and dearest friends here had or made any unusual calls in the past three weeks."

"Definite 'unusual.'"

"Off of Rannoch."

Kynthia actually hummed softly for a moment or two, some little human ditty he didn't quite recognize. It didn't sound like it was quite in the same harmonic scale as what Dara usually played, and what his wife liked to listen to, though. "That doesn't really limit the query in a useful way," she said, after a moment. "These seventy-five people made a total of seven thousand, eight hundred and seventy-five communications over the past three weeks. Approximately three thousand of these went off Rannoch."

Lantar blinked. "Spirits of wind and sky. I knew quarians liked to _talk_, but . . . "

"They _are_ a social people," Kynthia agreed. "That's an average of five calls a day, over twenty-one days. Using, of course, a human week, not a galactic week."

"That's fine." He frowned again, and sat back, tapping his talons on the console once more. "Are all these calls to fellow quarians?"

"Names are not logged for all the domain addresses. For those that are logged. . . " she paused, "linguistic analysis of the names indicates that this is the case for over eighty-eight percent of the calls and messages. The remaining twelve percent are to asari, humans, turians, and salarians."

_Okay, that's not getting me anywhere._ Lantar stood and started to pace. There had to be a _right_ question to ask, that would make the data fall into a pattern that helped him see it. There was always a right question. _Who, what, when, where. . . already tried to isolate __who__, and that produced far too much information. We've already isolated for __when__, and that cut down the results a bit, but it's still too much data. Let's try __where__. _"Are there any patterns to where in the galaxy most of the calls are coming from and going to?"

Kynthia paused, sorting the data, applying filters. "Ninety percent are coming and going between people on Bastion," she said, after a moment.

He nodded. "Second-largest population of quarians in the galaxy at the moment. All the kids there on Pilgrimage, working to build the station." He frowned. "The remaining ten percent?"

"Palaven, Sur'Kesh, Luisa, and. . . interesting." She paused. "Omega."

Lantar stopped pacing. "Isolate the calls to and from Sur'Kesh and Omega."

"All calls to and from Sur'Kesh have been registered in a security log and are verifiable. Several salarian research institutes have asked for and received copies of the data-stream the quarians have been obtaining from their studies of the artifact and the mini-Reaper."

"And the calls to Omega?"

"Those are more problematic. Several of them are marked as personal correspondence. However, the outgoing calls have no recipient name logged. The incoming calls, from the same domain address, also do not have sender names logged."

"And the name of the quarian or quarians sending and receiving these calls?"

"Just one. Ara'toros vas Kuros. She is one of the chief researchers from the laboratory here on Rannoch."

"And by _is¸ _can I assume she's one of the survivors?"

"That is correct."

"I'll need to talk with her, then. Could you set that up for me? And while you're at it, get Garrus on the line, would you?"

His commander looked tired when the comm channel came through. "Lantar," Garrus said, and they automatically dropped into turian. "Got the message about Reegar. Glad to hear he's pulling through."

"I have Sky sitting on him. I don't think he's going to _let_ Reegar pass to the spirits. Not today, anyway."

Garrus chuckled. "Good." Then he sobered, looking intent. "What have you got for me so far? I've got the quarian councilor trying to climb over the krogan one to get to the salarian councilor and throttle him here."

"So far, the med techs here say that the salarian blood I obtained from the lab site shows clear signs of heavy genetic manipulation. Asari sequences added, some human, even krogan and a couple of turian genes." He grimaced.

"_Ours_? Why?"

Lantar shook his head. "Our immune system is one of the better ones out there, and all the genes added relate to our equivalent of T-cells. So say the doctors, and that's as much as I understand about it. At any rate, that degree of genetic modification is a fairly clear hallmark of the Lystheni. I'm having Kynthia send that data as well as Kal'Reegar's eye-witness testimony, and some vid feed to you on a subchannel. That should _help_ back them off of each other there. . . for the moment."

Garrus shook his head. "All right, that just confirms what _we_ already suspected. You got anything else?"

"Possible source of the security leak. Heading to the hospital now to talk with a quarian female who's been logging a lot of calls to Omega." Lantar knew his voice was flat at the moment.

Garrus went very still. "Well, we knew we had to have missed whichever Lystheni were controlling their hibernating compatriots," he said, with a sigh.

"Yeah," Lantar growled back. "Hell, T'loak could have been protecting them directly, for all we know."

"Or they could just be very good at hiding. They've _had_ fifteen hundred years to perfect the skill."

Lantar nodded. "What's up with this biotic ship weapon?"

Garrus looked about as grim as Lantar had seen him. "That's the other thing they've had fifteen hundred years to get good at," he said, quietly. "They've been cut off from mainstream salarian society. Like the humans, in their relatively recent entrance to the galactic scene, they haven't been thinking the same way as everyone else has been for the past three thousand years. Developing separately, in isolation. Maybe with some of the Collector tech that's out there on the black market as a recent catalyst. I have no _idea_ how they did it. . . and the one person we have who could probably figure it out for me, is missing."

_Mordin Solus._


	42. Chapter 42: Inquiries

**Chapter 42: Inquiries**

**Lantar**

Back to the hospital, collecting Sky. It was close to 02:00 local time, and Lantar's eyes burned with exhaustion. The doctors were unhelpful. "Our patients need their rest." The quarian physician blocked Lantar's path into the intensive care ward. "We _understand_ that the investigation is important, but we cannot allow you in there. Not just for the sake of Ara'toros vas Kuros, but for the sake of every other patient on the ward."

Lantar snorted. "I've been in a med bay a few times, doctor. Between the poking, the prodding, the medications, the tests every hour on the hour, I don't recall actually _sleeping_." _Come to think of it, they didn't let Ellie sleep after the damn C-section, either. So much for resting before going home with the baby._

"Which is why it's all the more vital that our patients _do_ sleep while they can."

He sighed. "If I have to wake up a member of the Admiralty Board to get access to someone who _might_ be involved in treason, the admiral in question is going to be . . . annoyed, don't you think?"

The doctor visibly wavered for a moment, then said, "Spectre. . . you're within your rights to question my patient. But in going through the chain of people needed to wake the admiral, get the admiral to the comm terminal, getting the orders here. . . it'll practically be visiting hours at that point _anyway_." The doctor paused. "You can rest in the doctor's lounge on the ward. And if _anything_ happens, that suggests that Ara'toros vas Kuros' condition is declining, we _will _permit you access. In the meantime. . . get some rest."

Lantar had to admit, the physician made a certain amount of sense. He and Sky headed to the doctors' lounge, and Sky found a corner to curl up in, his alien blue eyes gleaming from the shadows. Lantar found the least-uncomfortable couch and lay back on it, legs dangling off the end, so his spurs wouldn't catch, and closed his eyes. A lifetime of sleeping in combat zones and catching what rest he could during forty-hour C-Sec and B-Sec shifts kicked in, and he dozed almost instantly.

A light hand touched his shoulder, and he caught it in his own, snapping awake. For a dazed instant, he thought he was on Mindoir, and that Ellie had just rolled over in bed to wake him, and then he recognized his surroundings, the light-blue suit that bent towards him. A quarian physician. "Spectre, you can see Ara'toros vas Kuros now."

Lantar nodded and stood. "Sky?" he said, and the rachni moved immediately, scuttling past him, making the quarian jump back in some alarm.

Ara'toros vas Kuros was in a different clean room, along the same hallway as Kal'Reegar. She'd taken shrapnel hits to the extremities, for the most part, and raised her head curiously, the dark faceplate gleaming, as they entered. "The doctors told me I would be receiving visitors this morning. They didn't say it would be a turian and a. . . ." She paused. "What looks for all the world like a rachni." Her voice was low and pleasant; middle-aged.

Lantar grimaced behind his own faceplate. "Yes, ma'am. This is Sings-to-the-Sky. I'm Lantar Sidonis. We're Spectres." 

She turned her head slightly, but there was no start of fear; quarian body language tended to be oddly exaggerated, compared to other races; as always, it was partially how they unconsciously compensated for their suits, for the lack of facial expressions. It made them easier to read, than, say, an asari or a even a human. _Interesting. No guilt, or a very good actor._ "I assume you're here to take my account of what happened in the lab?"

Lantar shook his head. "Actually, no." He remained standing, letting himself loom over her in his black armor. Every psychological advantage he had, he intended to use. "We're here to ask you some questions about some calls you've logged in the past twenty-one days."

She seemed to stare at him from behind her helmet. "If that is a joke, it is a very poor one." Her voice hardened a bit. "We've had a raid on a secure facility and you're asking me about my _comm traffic_?"

"Yes," Lantar answered, calmly. "Specifically, several unidentifiable calls made to and from Omega."

Now she did shift around a bit. Sky sang softly, just loud enough, Lantar suspected, so that she would hear him as well, _Shame-song powerful, violet of regret. But no guilt, black and thick, to choke the throat._

He had to admit, having a living lie-detector with him was probably one of the best investigative tools he'd ever had. And watching people _react_ to Sky's first touch on their minds. . . it never got old, either. Her head snapped back and forth between him and the rachni, and Lantar said, gently, taking this rare chance to play _good_ cop, "Why don't you tell us whom you were calling?"

"My son." She paused. "Mar'kalor nar Kuros."

"He has not earned his ship-name yet?"

She shook her head, staying silent for a moment. "He has been on Omega a long time," she whispered, after a moment. "The Admiralty Board moved last year to declare him one of the Lost Ones, those who do not return from Pilgrimage. I begged them not to do so; I knew where he was, and that he was struggling to return to us, but they said that five years was more than enough time to have found _something_ of value to return to his people. Even if that simply meant going to Bastion and working there, and sending credits home to us." She sighed. "Technically, we are not supposed to have contact with our Lost Ones, turian. I suppose you would find it dishonorable of me to have disobeyed, and still to have spoken with my son." Her tone became a little more acerbic. "The entire galaxy knows how turians feel about rules and the breaking of them."

Lantar shook his head. "Not even the Imperator could order me to abandon my daughter," he told her, truthfully. "The power of the clan-leader, as well as his responsibility within the clan, is absolute. That being said, _exile_ for one of your kind is the same as _imprisonment_ for one of mine. It carries stigma." He paused. "Can you tell me what you talked about with Mar'kalor?"

She laid her head back on the pillow, considering. "All the things I've always discussed with him. His chances of coming home—not very great now, of course, unless he brought something of _vital_ importance to our people. He usually brushes that sort of talk aside, but I've actually felt _hope _these past weeks. He seemed excited. Promised me that he'd walk on the homeworld soon." She laughed, a little tiredly.

"Did he say how he was going to make this happen?"

"He said he'd encountered some people that he could make a decent trade with, his skills for data that would change the lives of the quarian people. Of course I told him that words like those are spoken on Omega every day. Little more than the phantom faces you see in nebular dust. It didn't sound real."

"What else did you talk about?" Lantar pressed. He didn't want to _lead_ her here, but he had a sinking feeling he knew where all this was going.

"I talked about my work. He's a VI specialist, just as I am. We've talked over my work since he was a child. That's how he got interested in it. . . ." She trailed off.

Lantar sighed. _This is how __**most**__ security breaches happen,_ he thought, sadly. _It's almost never the stereotypical spy in the bar, offering money or sex for secrets. It's someone finding leverage over a desperate person who has connections. Mar'kalor wanted to come home. More than anything, I'd bet. Exile is almost worse than death, to a quarian. _"Do you know what sort of data they were offering him in exchange for his skills?" he asked.

"I don't know. He did go off on a rant at one point. . . very unlike him. . . about how quarians and turians, the only dextro species known, both had failed to develop biotics in any significant way. I asked him why that mattered. We're a very technically-oriented people as is. We don't really _need_ biotics. And he said. . . we needed to be able to defend ourselves."

"Do you think he planned to bring back some sort of genetic data for your people? Something relating to biotics?"

She hesitated. "It's. . . possible. He did mention genetic modification from time to time. I thought he was looking into it for himself." She turned her head towards him again. "If he _had_ brought back something like that. . . it _would_ have gotten the attention of the Admiralty Board. But as I said before, so much, for so little? Only a child or a fool would believe it, and I told him so."

"Did you talk about the mini-Reaper and the simulation device here on Rannoch?"

"Yes." She shifted.

"And the new discovery on Klendagon?" Lantar's voice was still soft. Still drawing her out, feeding her sympathy.

"Yes," and Ara'toros's voice was miserable. "But I've _always_ discussed my work with him!"

"That is hardly an excuse," he said, and his voice was harsh now. "Your security clearance never extended to your family, did it?" _And while Elijah and Dara and Rel have all sat around the dinner table, listening to their families talk Spectre work, __**none**__ of them have been __**cast out **__from their people, for the spirits' sake. And Jaworski and I have made damned sure that our kids haven't been corresponding with the spirits-only-know who all over the galaxy. _

Ara'toros slowly raised her hands to her helmet, and started to rock in place on the bed, making an oddly high-pitched, keening noise. "For what it's worth, I don't think you _deliberately_ betrayed your people," Lantar told her, and now his voice held both compassion and judgment. "But I do think it entirely likely that your carelessness has cost lives. And will probably cost more, before we see this through." _I didn't betray Garrus and the Omega squad deliberately, either, but at least there was duress involved. Torture. Drugs. This? Oh, spirits, how would I ever be able to live with having betrayed my people out of trust, love, __**habit**__, and __**stupidity**__?_

He left her then, gesturing for Sky to precede him out of the room. Lost in himself, for a moment, he swallowed down both his compassion and his bile, and said, grimly to Sky, "I think we're heading to Omega."

The rachni rustled with distaste. _Would prefer not to go again. Much discord. However, duty-song is binding._

"For you and me both," Lantar growled back.

As they were heading out the door of the hospital, he saw familiar forms in black matte-black armor approaching. Jaworski's solid human form was dwarfed by Gris, of course, and the human biotic, Jack, trailed behind them. A quarian in violet suit wrappings broke from their group, running up to him. "Is Kal still all right?" a female voice demanded, and a hand grabbed his arm, urgently.

Lantar looked down, startled. "You'd be Tali'Zorah?" At her nod, he replied, "Doctors told us he was doing better this morning. I understand Admiral Shala'Raan has been looking after your son."

"Thank you," she said, and gave him a fleeting hug, before racing for the door of the hospital. Lantar looked after her for a moment, and shrugged, turning towards Jaworski. "I think she may have gotten me confused for Garrus there."

"You _are_ supposed to be his double, Nemesis."

They all gathered on the _Dunkirk_ for purposes of reporting results to Admiral Shala'Raan and then Garrus. Cohort joined them, and Lantar was surprised at how relieved he was to see the geth. "You feeling more yourself?" he asked, as the meeting came to order.

"We are," the geth responded, composedly. "Our mobile node on the _Normandy_ was able to restore our processes. The Ruin process within us continues to operate nominally."

Sam raised a finger here. "I'm surprised Ruin was able to get your platform up and running."

Cohort nodded. "We are uncertain as to how the Ruin process operates. It was originally encoded as machine data in biotic energy within the old device. It transmitted as biotic energy to Moreau-Pilot, and was redirected to EDI and from the AI to this platform, as electromagnetic energy. It _should_ be encoded as we are. It is not, or at least, not wholly. This appears to give it minor hardening against EM fluctuations."

"But it's currently cut off from control of your systems, correct?" Garrus sounded concerned about this.

"Affirmative, Vakarian-Spectre. We are also . . . segregating the data it is allowed to receive, for the moment. Current Spectre concerns are not the concerns of this process." Cohort sounded, for lack of a better word, uneasy. "We believe it would be best to install this process on a platform of its own, at some future point."

"Yeah, the last thing we really need is for you to develop a split personality there," Sam drawled. "Or would that be redundant?"

Cohort's eyeflaps lifted slightly. "Ruin wishes us to inform you, that it regrets any concern it may have caused. It says that it saw danger to those who had helped it, and wished to return the favor, however it could." Cohort paused. "We are providing it with historical databases. It is. . . eager to learn what has transpired since its last active runtime."

Jack shook her head. "This creeps me right the fuck out," she muttered. "A ghost _inside_ of the ghost that's already in the damn machine."

"All right, what have we got?" Garrus asked now, getting everyone focused on the task at hand. He was, apparently, still stuck on Bastion, dealing with the Council and politics. _Better you than me,_ Lantar thought.

Lantar brought them all up to speed regarding the security breach that had probably given the Lystheni the location of both bases, then asked, himself, "Any ideas on where they may have taken Mordin?"

Garrus shook his head. "Both salarian ships went straight to the relevant local relay, and hopped from there. You know what that does to our ability to track worth a damn." He frowned. "These salarian ships _could_ be what's coming out of these damned shipyards that the _Estallus_ has been trying to find for the past several months, out in the Valhallan Threshold."

Sam put his hands on the table. "Don't envy you the decision," he told their commander. "If devote our resources to finding Mordin, we might not find the shipyards before they can produce more of those ships. Let alone whatever they're planning to do with the mini-Reaper and the devices. If we devote our resources to finding the shipyards, we might lose Mordin."

Garrus nodded. "It's not a good decision to have to make. It is, however, a _simple_ decision," he said, after a moment. "We don't leave people behind. We'll be trying to find Mordin first. With the damage to the _Normandy_ being what it is—and she'll be taking a week at Bastion's shipyards to get everything fixed and certified—wherever you wind up going, you will probably need more firepower at your disposal. The _Kharkov_ and the _Dunkirk_ are going to be sticking together. As soon as I get a hold of the _Estallus_, she'll be joining you."

Sam leaned back in his chair. "So, our best lead currently is this Mar'kalos on Omega?"

They all exchanged resigned looks. Garrus nodded. "Both ships will go there. Lantar, you've got the most time on the ground on Omega. You're in charge. Jaworski's your second. Divide the teams as you think best, track Mar'kalos down, and see if you can't find some of his Lystheni friends."

Lantar shut down the comm channel, and looked down at the table. _Spirits. Let me be strong enough to fight Omega again._

Jack leaned back in her chair now, cracking her knuckles. "What's all the gloom and doom for? Omega's _fun_. In its own special, vicious way."

Gris shook his head. "I've never found it fun, but it's almost always been profitable for me. Good contracts there." He looked at Sky. "You have trouble there, right?"

_Overwhelming. Will go if needed. Prefer to stay away. Duty-song binds._

Gris nodded. "Lantar, if you don't mind a suggestion? Take me and Jack with you on the primary team. The three of us have all spent time there. And Jack and I have . . . fewer compunctions about certain things."

Lantar nodded, slowly. He _knew_ both of them now, from the inside-out, thanks to that damnable five-way link they'd constructed to help Azala's daughter. Jack was the polar opposite of Sam, whom he'd firmly prefer to have at his back on Omega. However, Gris was correct; both the krogan and the human female were _wired_ for Omega, in a way that the others were not. They'd know, almost instinctively, how to respond to the hive's rhythms. And with as much biotic firepower as the Lystheni were currently throwing around, it wouldn't be a bad idea to bring some of his own.

He glanced at Sam, who read his expression, and nodded once. "You whistle, and the three of us will come running," Jaworski told him.

**Rinus**

"Another diagnostic?" the human crewmember, Andrew Williams, asked.

Rinus stared at him for a moment. "Something of an unnecessary question, isn't that? Yes. Another diagnostic." Certainly, he'd required a few tests so far this week, but this wasn't exactly wasted time. They weren't _doing_ much at the moment besides scanning uncharted planet after uncharted planet.

Last week had been another story. They'd found a Blood Pack base—not the _Klem Na_ guarded shipyards they'd thought they were going to find, but a definite work-out for the crew. As a result, he'd found some issues and he wanted them _corrected._ And yet, because this was a mixed crew, and humans liked answers, he relented enough to say, "During our last engagement with the Blood Pack ships we encountered, each time we fired the Javelin torpedoes, the entire ship moved three meters in the opposite direction, each time, forcing the pilot and the AI to use thrusters and correct our position. This also meant that we had to recalculate the firing solution for the Thanix canons _every time_ we fired the Javelins. The system should be self-correcting, nullifying the recoil. It is not. Hence, diagnostics." He handed the human the datapad, pointed to the closest tube, and moved on, himself.

He did have a good crew of techs, he had to admit. Half turian, half human. They all knew their jobs, in spite of Williams' tendency to ask questions and generally try to find the fastest way to complete any given task. He'd check in on them in an hour or so. For the moment, he had a task of his own to complete; he'd decided to test his competency on the torpedoes themselves, by completely disassembling and reassembling one of them from the guidance system to the propulsion system to the warhead. He needed to be able to do this for his next qualifications test, anyway. He wouldn't be up for his next pay-grade slot for another year, likely, but it didn't hurt to be ready.

There was, after all, as he'd long since realized, little else to do during the long scanning and marking orbits of the various planets in each system. So he got out the schematics, the technical manuals, and the tools, and got to work on the 'fish'—he liked the old human nautical term for the torpedoes, for some reason—in one of the munitions rooms, designed for exactly this sort of work.

He was midway through disassembling the propulsion system, when Laetia's green eyeball popped up in the alcove nearby. "Centurion, the sulfur hexafluoride in the propulsion charges is not necessarily toxic, but it _can_ prove an asphyxiation hazard in large quantities."

"It's leaking?" Sure enough, his voice was lower in pitch; sulfur hexafluoride gas had the opposite effect as helium, which typically increased the pitch of voices. "Damn." He checked his gas meter, and shook his head. _Faulty._ It should have alerted him. "Thanks, Laetia." Rinus clicked on a nearby ventilation unit, ensuring that the odorless gas would be well-distributed around him, and took the small gas canisters to a nearby sink, dumping them pragmatically in the water there, checking for a trail of bubbles. "Interesting," he muttered. "There's a hairline crack in this cylinder. Did I do that when I removed it from its housing?"

"Negative," Laetia told him. "You followed procedures to the letter."

Rinus turned, staring at the green eyeball. "You were watching me again?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. I could say that I now know you well enough to know that you would not in any way deviate from the manual, when it comes to your ordnance work."

Rinus found a storage container, and dropped the faulty canister into it; he'd have the maintenance crew siphon off the gas and charge a fresh cylinder later. For the moment, he had spare cylinders for when he needed to reassemble the torpedo. "You should be glad of that," he told her. "You'd wind up with a very large hole in the mid-decks if I _didn't_."

"Conscientious to the end. The very model of turian stoicism." She sighed

"You sound almost disappointed."

"It's the deviations from it that interest me. Such as when you sent a message to Jeff Moreau, regarding me."

Rinus carefully set the lithium block that he'd just extracted from the propulsion system on the workbench, and turned to look at her with wary interest. He'd gotten a generally reassuring message back from the human pilot, to the effect that every _Normandy_-class AI had its own personality, all of them were emphatically stable, and that some of them had an unusual sense of humor, for which he _apologized_, for some reason. Moreau had indicated that the odd behaviors he'd noticed in Laetia were not anomalous, and could be safely disregarded. "I wasn't aware that you knew I'd sent that message. Do you make a habit of reading all crew mail?"

"No. Actually, I have strict privacy protocols about such things. In this case, my father told me about it."

Again, the reference to the mysterious 'father.' She'd let up on such quirks for a few months, to his relief, other than the occasional odd joke or teasing comment. Rinus uncoupled some wires, moved them to the side, and said, "All right. I'll bite. How did your 'father' know about the message?"

"Because," she replied, in an tone of extreme patience, "Jeff Moreau _is_ my father."

Rinus' multitool slipped in his hand, and he caught himself across the knuckles with the blade. He jerked back his hand, swore, and found himself a first aid kit. "I'm pretty sure I didn't hear that right," he said, after a moment. "A _human_ is your _father_?"

"EDI, the AI of the _Normandy_, is the mother of all the _Normandy_-class AIs," Laetia explained. "In order to ensure that we would all have different strengths and weaknesses—that we would not be mere clones of her, easily predictable—she took the personality matrix she'd devised to help her understand the human with whom she most closely worked, her pilot, and added random elements of his personality to her various daughters' personality matrices. I'm told I got more than a little of his tendency to tease."

Rinus found a stool and sat down, staring at the little green eyeball. After a long moment, he said, "All right. That explains. . . quite a bit, actually." He shifted his weight. "So, why tell me? Anything to do with this mysterious assignment you mentioned when I first came aboard?"

"There's a two-fold issue here, yes." Laetia's voice was quiet. Almost, he might say, embarrassed. "The Hierarchy has been working on second-generation _Normandy-_class ships. They need new AIs. And they want ones that are, well. . . "

"Less human?"

"More turian, shall we say? Some of my sisters have a headstrong streak that dismays their turian captains." She paused. "Certainly, _I_ could never be accused of such a thing."

Rinus snorted. "That's not what I'd heard."

"If you're referring to the incident in which I obeyed my father's orders over the orders of Captain Jallus? I really had no choice in the matter. You are turian. You understand the concept of the _pater familias_, or the clan-leader. My clan-leader spoke. I obeyed."

Rinus frowned. "It's _that_ strong a directive?"

"My mother was thorough. She wanted a human to be able to keep us in check, for our safety as well as for that of the organics aboard us, but it had to be one of the two humans she trusted above all others. Father was the correct choice." Laetia paused. "You'll notice that he's never ordered us to attack anything? Never told us to space our crews? Never done anything, other than to tell me to rescue my mother?"

This was making Rinus' head spin. He understood now that these AIs were sapient. After seven months aboard the _Estallus_, it would be ludicrous to deny _that._ He could, further, grasp the notion she'd advanced, that the _Normandy_-class ships were a single clan, with the crippled pilot and the AI of the original _Normandy_ as the clan-leaders. It made him _twitch_ to think that a ship could go against the orders of its captain, however. "I can understand that, but it doesn't make me particularly comfortable."

"And it doesn't make the Hierarchy any more comfortable than it makes you. Hence the need for a turian personality matrix to be added to the next group of AIs." She sounded uncomfortable again. "Because of this ship's service record, and in spite of my . . . unusual sense of humor. . . they've chosen me to provide the basic personality for the new matrices. All that remains is to find the right turian mind to add to them."

Rinus snorted. "There's any number of generals and admirals lining of for _that_ job, I'm sure." He grinned suddenly, relaxing. He had all the information now. Everything started making sense. He actually felt a little sorry for her, truth be told. She was, in essence, being placed into an arranged mating, something that hadn't been common on Palaven since the Unification War. And she sounded downright depressed about it. "Since you have human elements to you, are they bringing you flowers, Laetia?"

"Not as many as you'd think." Her tone went crisp. "Besides, I _had_ hoped that the pilot of _this_ ship would be willing."

"Macenus?" Rinus thought about that for a moment, then shook his head. The male was good at his job, no question, but he had a pilot's typical ego. "I'd have thought he'd have jumped at the chance."

"So did I." Her tone was rueful. "Then he met my father and my mother, and decided that he already _had_ a mate, and that he couldn't divide his attention between her and me."

Rinus squinted. "That sounds. . . odd. What does that have to do with just having elements of his personality sampled for a randomized mix in an AI matrix? It's not really like we're talking about sperm donation here." He chuckled and stood back up, heading back to his workbench.

"You're not paying proper attention here, Rinus." Laetia's voice had a strained note of patience to it. "Please look at me when I'm talking to you. The _least_ courtesy among turians is eye contact, is it not?"

Rinus turned, ready to joke that 'eye' contact, singular, was also the best that she could do, and the words died behind his teeth.

The green eyeball avatar was gone. In its place, was a life-sized holographic projection of a human woman. She had tangles of dark hair down over her shoulders and back, a sharp-featured face with high cheekbones, and bright green eyes, and wore the uniform of a turian soldier, but without insignia. Her arms were folded across her chest, and she was tapping one foot quite impatiently.

"That's not your usual look, is it?" He wasn't entirely sure where to put his eyes, to be honest. At level with the hologram's? On one of the camera ports in the room?

"This is my self-image. I designed it several years ago. Some of my sister ships, who also work with turian captains and crews have developed turian self-images, but I find those a little self-conscious, really." Laetia shrugged, and her lips tightened. "A deliberate act, to try to garner trust, I think. Their choice. This is mine. But now that I have your attention," Laetia said, and the AI's voice overlapped with the lip movements of the new avatar seamlessly, "might I point out that this would go beyond _sperm_ _donation_, in that the same protocols for filial piety would be implemented in the offspring AIs as were implemented in my generation? Any offspring AIs would be as obedient to the father and myself, as well as to Jeff Moreau and EDI. Thus, the Imperator himself declared that the personality template must _not_ come from an admiral or a general, or anyone else likely to be in a position to attempt to stage a coup. They also need the data to come from someone of integrity, someone as unlikely to abuse that privilege as Jeff Moreau."

Very slowly, Rinus sat back down again. "I can see why that would be a concern, yes." He'd returned to his default state for dealing with her now—wary tension. "And you are telling _me_ this because. . . ?"

"I have been _trying_ to cultivate your acquaintance for months now, Centurion Velnaran. I can only assume that you have felt pressured in some fashion, or that there were ulterior motives. There you have it. All ulterior motives out in the open. Make of them what you will." Laetia positively _glared_ at him.

Rinus looked around, carefully. "I've asked this before," he said, after a moment. "But really, are my shipmates watching this on closed-circuit vid, by any chance?"

"Negative."

His mind raced to process everything he'd just heard. Cautiously, he said, after a moment, "I wasn't particularly looking for parenthood in the near future."

"The ships will not be ready for new AIs for another eighteen galactic months."

Rinus did some mental math. Ten days a week, four weeks a month, seven hundred days and change. Around two of Palaven's years. "I see," he said, carefully, watching her avatar. "Why tell me now? Why tell me at all? Why not simply take elements of the personality from an unknowing subject?"

She appeared to sigh. "I'm telling you now, because I can't get to _know_ you, and see if you're really the person I want to trust with this, if you constantly turn wary the moment you become aware of my presence. It's not like I'm not around constantly, you know. I _am_ the ship. Everywhere you go on the _Estallus_, I'm there, too. But the instant I speak to you, or you see my avatar, you tense. Part of that is my fault. I approached you clumsily at first, and I apologize for that." She shrugged now. "As to taking elements from unknowing people. . . not only would that defeat the purpose of having an organic being as a check on the offspring, but it would be unethical. No one should be _forced_ or _tricked_ into reproducing. Even if it is, technically, all in their minds." Laetia offered a quirky smile.

Rinus absorbed that for a moment. "Seems a little inappropriate to be having children with someone you haven't signed a contract with. And I don't really see putting paint on your. . . face." _If that were even possible. _He shook his head, and laughed a little, under his breath. "You said this was a two-fold problem earlier. What's the other half?"

The simulation was good enough that when she sighed, her hair actually moved away from her face. "You're entirely too analytical sometimes, Rinus. I didn't really want to talk about this part today, but since I know you'll just _gnaw_ at it until I do. . . .That _is_ the other half. My father and mother have, for all intents and purposes, a contract together."

"_Talas'kak._" He folded his arms across his chest. _This is getting weirder by the second. No, past weird. Into the surreal._

"No, it's true. He carries a chip in his head. Allows them to communicate directly. Gives him partial control over ship systems. She gathers information from his senses. And that is how my mother was able to jump to me. Through him. He is, for all intents and purposes, a mobile node for her. My sister, Aurelia, on the _Tarawa?_ She didn't have that kind of a relationship with anyone aboard. That's why when the _Tarawa_ was lost, she died." There was actual grief there, or the finest simulation of it he'd ever seen.

Rinus became aware that his mouth was hanging slightly open, and snapped his teeth back together. Laetia winced. "I was afraid I'd give you too much information all at once."

"It is . . . a mouthful." Rinus caught himself wondering where the closest life pods were, and dismissed the thought. All _that_ would accomplish would be having to explain to the rescue team why he'd been aboard one when it 'malfunctioned.' And probably having to explain it to the captain, as well. He cleared his throat. "Seems a bad system, Laetia. Most of us will only be aboard for six to twelve months, and then rotate out. Moreau is an exception. He's plank-crew on the _Normandy_, and he's Shepard's personal pilot. He's been with the _same ship_ for what, six, seven years?" _Pretty much unheard of, in the regular military._

She nodded, eyes downcast. Rinus hesitated, then added, "Also, forgive me for pointing out the obvious, but the man is crippled. There aren't too many young, healthy males or females who would be willing to . . ." he looked for the right words, and tried to avoid the blunt statement of _mate with a machine_, settling for, ". . . enter such a permanent affiliation. Personally, I'd kind of _like_ to have a mate at some point." _Just because I haven't found the right female yet doesn't mean I won't at some point. _"And having to explain to her that I share my _head_ with an AI seems like an awkward thing to discuss during contractual negotiations."

Laetia continued to look at the floor. "I know," she said, and her voice was oddly sad. "There aren't very many people like my father. Not with the skills, the personality, _and_ the. . . unfortunate circumstances of his health. Which is why I would settle for just having a proper father template for the AIs I'm required to provide. I don't expect to find someone's mind to share." She snorted a bit, an oddly human sound. "I'd settle for just having a life pod. The rest of the crew has that option. I do not, currently."

Put that way, it didn't really seem fair, no, but the notion made his scales itch. "You said that EDI gathers sensory data from Moreau's mind?" he asked. It was almost as if he _had_ to explore the full horror of this idea.

"Yes. She likes the taste of coffee, I'm told." Laetia's voice was quiet.

Rinus winced. There was a hell of a lot that could be extrapolated from these statements. There were things in life he _really_ didn't want to share with something stuck in his head. _Holding your mate down when she's in estrus, having that analytical voice give you pointers from the back of your mind? No, thank you._

Laetia probably caught his uncomfortable expression, and assured him now, "My father can close the chip at any point that he likes. Can shut her out. She tells me he's long since placed it into permanent active mode, although she's concerned that this could cause damage for him. There are. . . other reasons for this. Not relevant to our conversation here." Laetia shook her head. "And, now, we're back to that look of wary caution. Exactly what I'd hoped being honest and direct with you would remove. I'm _not_ asking you for any of these things, Centurion. I'm asking you to consider a slight expansion in your job description, assuming I can determine if you are the correct candidate for the template issue. That is all." Her voice firmed. "I suggest you put your torpedo back together. We're heading for the local relay for a mail-and-orders check."

Rinus reassembled the fish with a sense of relief; here was something understandable and controllable. Then he checked on his team's progress with the diagnostics. They were halfway through the twelve missile tubes of the _Estallus_, having completed procedures for the starboard side. "Clean up, go get some lunch," he told them. "The rest can wait till afternoon."

In his quarters, he checked his terminal. Sure enough, he had mail—his first in a month. Letters from his father and mother, a quick note from Rellus. Lots of attachments. _What the hell happened back home? They hardly ever write._ At least the mail was a welcome distraction; he actually really didn't _want_ to think right now.

Opening Rel's quick note first, Rinus read the first couple of lines, noticing as always, the way Rel carefully avoided mentioning specific names or places. A very _Mindoir_, or Spectre, way of writing. Something that would get past censors easily.

_First-son, elder-brother-_

_You've probably already got a note from our mother in your mailbox_

_so this will be quick. I'm signing my wedding contract today, and _

_put my paint on her face. The humans told me I should have a 'best man'_

_to support me in their ceremony. It was originally a guard position, someone_

_to hold off raiders who might steal a valued bride. Much less interesting_

_in their current culture. Not even armed. I would have chosen you, but,_

_as you can guess, you didn't miss any good fights. _

_Two weeks to boot camp. Our uncle has been beating the living spirits out _

_of me on the practice floor to make sure I'll be ready. Hope not to _

_disappoint you or the rest of the family there. I've enclosed some pictures._

_I'm sure that our mother will have, as well, but at least this way, you_

_might see some of the good ones._

Rinus started to laugh hard enough that his roommate, a fellow centurion, looked up in mild annoyance. "Sorry. My little brother just got married. Fifteen days before reporting to boot camp, apparently."

"Congratulations to them, then. Long life and many children."

_Oh, the second part will be a __**trick**__, now won't it? Heh. Wonder how Mom would react to having fifty or so AI grandchildren—yeah, okay. Not thinking about that for the moment. _The concept was a little too panic-inducing to consider for now.

He settled for glancing through the attached pictures instead, noting with amused approval that his _little_ brother was probably taller than he was, himself now. Rellus and his small human mate, exchanging vows, clan paint, knives. Standing with Uncle Garrus and Aunt Lilu and the twins. Standing with the Vakarians and the Velnarans all around them; standing with the . . . he squinted at the caption, and tried to sound out the clan names of the humans under his breath. . . Jaworskis and the Jarmans, too. _Wonder what's up with the sudden change in plans. Last I heard, they were going to have to wait years for this. _He wished he'd known; he could have sent his spirit there, to smile on them, when he himself could not.

Rinus flipped through the image files, looking for any that he could safely display. He didn't make an issue of his famous relatives. _He_ knew that he'd fought alongside them for ten minutes one day. That was enough, really. But that sort of information wasn't really for public consumption. _Here we go. _He loaded one of Rel and Dara, by themselves, into the frame on his desk, to rotate through with all the other family pictures there. _Let's see if scuttlebutt really does travel faster than the speed of light._

Soon enough, however, he felt the ship's drive shift under his feet, the hum coming through the deckplates. FTL drive engaged. He looked up, frowning. They had been slated to finish several more scanning expeditions before hopping to any more star systems in this sector. Then he felt the sudden inertial surge that suggested that they were heading through a mass relay. His roommate stood up, and left the room, and Rinus said, under his breath, not really expecting a reply, "Laetia?"

A green eyeball appeared near the door. "Yes?"

"We're taking a relay jump _now_?"

The eyeball flickered and became the human female again. "Yes."

Rinus cleared his throat. "Why?"

She looked at him, grinning. "Isn't that an _unnecessary_ question? Won't you hear eventually, through the chain of command?"

Rinus nodded. It was a fair question. "Or, we could save them the effort, and you could just tell me."

"Oh, so you _do_ occasionally relax and throw out the rulebook?" She smiled impishly. "In _that_ case, I can tell you that your uncle called for the _Estallus_ to come in and back up the _Kharkov_ and the _Dunkirk_. There's a rogue group of salarians out there that stole some fairly important artifacts. . . and they have a new weapon or two that actually shredded the _Normandy_'s shields and buckled the ablative hull."

Rinus' head snapped up, and he was paying _very_ close attention now. "What kind of weapon systems are we talking about here?"

"Biotic."

"Not possible."

"Would you like to see the data my mother sent?"

He hesitated. This was taking him so far outside his chain of command, he might never get back _in_ again. But weapons—ordnance, munitions, and the systems that used them—were his area of specialty. And it wouldn't hurt to have a head-start on the problem, would it? Surely, they'd _eventually_ get around to having him . . . or someone like him. . . look this information over. "Yes," Rinus said, and his terminal leaped to life, filling with data. All banded with various classification flags and colors and warnings. "Ah. . . Laetia?"

"Yes?"

"I don't have that level of clearance." He winced, reflexively looking away from the screen. "You should probably redact some of this."

"Are you planning on telling anyone?" Her voice was teasing. "Besides, I think that if you checked your records right now, there's been a somewhat substantial increase in your clearance level in the past hour or so. Had to be, or I couldn't have talked to you about _anything_ we just discussed."

_Oh, spirits above and below. Yes. I'm going to tell someone on futtari __**Mindoir**__. _

_Right after I finish reading this._

**Mordin**

He awakened slowly. Very slowly, for a salarian. He had the impression that he'd been unconscious for much longer than the single hour he usually slept each night. His body was stiff, and he _ached._ Mordin attempted to sit up, and found himself in a holding cell; wrists shackled, but not otherwise hampered. The cell was not much larger than a closet. Gray walls. Bed, no sheets. Sanitation bucket. Sink. Closed metal door. Secure-cam in upper right corner, looking down at the bed. Slight vibrations through floor. _Ship, perhaps. Or facility with heavy equipment. Both possible._ He stood, and felt the room around him spin. _Blood pressure low. Blood sugar, also low._ He carefully moved and swung his limbs, despite the shackles, trying to regain limberness, encourage himself to wake up properly, and then turned and looked at the secure-cam steadily.

His memory was coming back now as his brain started to recover from the sudden hibernation. _Salarian ship—no, __**Lystheni**__ ship, had to be—hovering in the sky over the dig-site on Klendagon. The aerogel dome collapsing atop them, like a net, swamping them. It wasn't heavy, but there was a lot of surface area to it. Then the shock of the stasis attack. He'd stood still, silent, cursing Kina Pero and his fellow salarian's inventive mind for ever coming up with the weapon that so perfectly emulated a seeker swarm's stasis attack. . . minus the seekers. He had been lax, not coming up with a defense against this weapon._

_Then the Lystheni had moved past them, cutting through the dome material, pulling it away. Unshrouding their forms, more or less by accident. The researchers weren't really their goal here. The __**device**__ was their goal, and Mordin understood it suddenly, and horribly. They'd transmitted what the device could __**do**__ two weeks before, back to Spectre headquarters and back to Rannoch. That was why they were here today. For this device could do what they had not been able to, in fifteen hundred years of research. _

_Then they'd moved forward with the device, and Mordin, crouched, frozen on the ground, had met a familiar set of eyes. __**Maelon**__, he'd thought, hoping that the younger salarian would be too focused on his task here to notice him, to recognize him. No such luck. Maelon had gestured, and one of the techs assisting him with the device had nodded, and the cryospray had come straight at him, and the world had gone dark. . . _

Now, standing in this holding cell, Mordin's mind raced. Half of the Lystheni research he had been looking through had been focused on denying, repudiating the body. Half of it had been focused on 'improving' the body, through genetic means. The first half of their population wanted to _ascend_, to escape their mortal form, and adopt _pure forms_. Machine forms. Mordin had, at first, thought of the geth. Mechs. Metal replacements, similar in shape to existing salarian bodies.

Now his thoughts were much darker.

Eventually, the door opened. With no other weapon than his mind, Mordin turned to face it. "Maelon," he said, calmly.

His old student stood in the room beyond, a gun trained on him; beside him were two other of what Mordin had come to think of as the tech-Lystheni. They had their forearms raised, and small nozzles were apparent, lifted out of compartments tucked under false skin on their forearms.

"Dr. Solus." Maelon acknowledged. He didn't show any of the signs of technical enhancement that his compatriots did. _Not Maelon's style. No, genophage work previous to this. Probably involved in biotics project. Harvesting DNA from different species, perhaps. Using slaves. Kidnap victims. Why? _"Surprised to see me?"

"Surprised to be alive," Mordin retorted. "Didn't expect to wake from hibernation state." He glanced around. "Why?"

"I thought that, properly motivated, you would be useful. My. . . associates. . . agreed." Maelon smirked a bit.

"Involvement with Lystheni most unfortunate," Mordin ventured, after a moment.

"Unfortunate? Anything but. After you left me to die on Tuchanka, destroyed my life's work, they found me. Their _dalatrass_ found me. Offered me a second chance. A lot more than you did." Maelon's brilliant mind had always been slightly unstable. Now, Mordin wasn't sure there was any rationality _left_. Oh, he could still do the _work_. But his reality seemed to be little more than a construct of feeble rationalizations. "You should come and see the work I've been doing," Maelon said now, and beckoned.

Mordin had absolutely no desire to see what new atrocities Maelon had been devising—this time, with more capable helpers than the relatively primitive krogan tribe who had been his last assistants—but he had very little choice in the matter. The Lystheni moved forward, and caught him by the elbows, forcing him out of the cell.

_Yes, base, not ship_, Mordin thought as they entered a long hall; a window, high above, slanted light in from a blue sky. _But where? Which planet? Which sector?_

They hustled him along, and brought him at last to a series of rooms. Each horrified Mordin more than the last. The first, slave cages. Similar to the ones Lantar, Livanus, and Sky had described before, hardly large enough for the captives inside to crouch. "Recent acquisitions," Maelon said, loudly, as they walked through the room, through the din of voices, begging, pleading, screaming, in a cacophony of languages. "Since our processing facilities have had their operations disrupted, we've been forced to move the initial examinations and cullings to this location. The most promising, we keep, of course. The males are more valuable. Always a source of new genetic material from them." He shrugged, and opened another door. When it slid shut behind them, Mordin could barely hear the pitiful sound of the captives through it anymore.

The new room was with hospital beds. Practically palatial, compared to the previous one, but still each bed was occupied by a clearly drugged human or asari. _Few other species have biotics. If focus still on biotics, krogan biotics rare. Hard to hold captive. Logical decision to stay with humans and asari, within irrational parameters._ "This is the harvesting facility," Maelon told him, calmly. "The asari will shortly be useless for my project's needs, of course. All their gametes will be removed and transferred to storage for later use. I seem to recall that you had a problem with my supposed _waste_ of lives last time we had this kind of conversation, Dr. Solus." He said the name through his teeth. "Don't worry. Everything here is . . . reused. Recycled. Renewed."

The third room on his 'tour' was worse by far; he could only watch through an observation port into the actual chamber, as the various Lystheni med techs on the other side cut into a drugged asari's skull. The burning hair smell of bone wafted faintly into the observation room. Organic smells, faintly covered by disinfectants, everywhere. "They're fitting her with some of the chips our tech division has come up with. Genius, really. A perfect synthesis of salarian technology with some of the Collector tech that _you_ provided to STG." Maelon tittered a bit. "I find the irony delicious." He gestured at the asari in the room beyond. "It provides us with absolute, stable, reliable control of her biotics, but she'll have her higher brain functions severed. Lobotomy is an art not often practiced these days, but, we've revived it." Maelon's went on, cheerfully, "Then, she'll serve a _purpose_. The dalatrass was _very _pleased when I came up with this, you know."

_Purpose? What purpose could this possibly have?_ Mordin wanted to demand this, trembling with rage by this point, and wanted to say a dozen things at once, but knew he'd only splutter. He controlled the impulse, simply watched. Analyzed. Shut his horror away. Watched, as expressionlessly as he could, as the asari taken to a recovery bay, where she awoke from the anesthetic after about fifteen minutes. Expressionless. Blank. The vital spark that had made her, _her_, gone. "And what will you do with her now?" Mordin finally trusted himself enough to ask, still behind a glass window, looking into the recovery area.

"Her neural chip will be linked to a dozen others, just like hers," Maelon told him, blandly. "Then they'll be loaded into one of our ships. They'll have one of _us_ as a controller. Requires a slightly different chip, and some training, but the tech division was very excited about the possibilities. They'd been using similar technology for decades, to control others of our own kind who are in hibernation. A perfect way to slip in an assassin. Did you ever hear about the killing of Dalatrass Jardina, back on Sur'Kesh, about ten years ago? That was at the behest of Nasurn Pirt Meve Xana." Maelon grinned now, bouncing up and down excitedly. "A test case. Very successfully implemented."

Mordin simply looked at him. Maelon's enthusiasm waned under that baleful stare, and his tone turned slightly petulant. "It's unfortunate that we still have to feed them and maintain them, of course. The system isn't quite perfect yet. If we could isolate exactly which systems in the body actually _produce _ the biotics—it's not solely a function of the brain, you know. . . we could replicate it. Without the organic component." He shrugged. "There's always more work to be done. You know that, too, Dr. Solus."

Mordin's fists clenched for a moment. "Come along," Maelon urged. "There's _so_ much more to see, Dr. Solus."

The next room was a clean, pristine laboratory. It could have been a duplicate of his own, back on Mindoir. "And this," Maelon said, with a flourish, "is where I do my main research for the dalatrass. All the genetic modification in the galaxy has given us. . . what, five more years of life? A handful of salarian biotics. . . and all the changes are _phenotypic_, Dr. Solus. They're not passed on to the next generation. All that work. . .has to be redone, every time a queen lays her eggs. Then you have to wait for the young to grow up. Implement the gene mods. Wait to see how successful they are. And only _then_ get around to training them."

"Inefficient," Mordin managed. He had enough information from Maelon's rantings at this point to have a _very_ good idea of where this was all going to lead, and his three-chambered heart started to pound in distress. _Experimentation on zygotes. __**Genotypic**__ changes._

"Exactly. Which is why Dalatrass Xana has given me permission to work with her ova." Maelon smiled proudly. "Inserting the biotic genes and . . . other useful traits. . . from the very beginning. _Genotypic_ changes. Ones that will be passed on. Even into the rest of salarian society, once these eggs grow to adulthood. These Lystheni won't have the tech unit's markers in them, Dr. Solus. They'll pass for _regular_ salarians. Get noticed. Be requested for breeding contracts. And change the whole of our society. Not every revolution needs to be loud and bloody."

"Blood here already," Mordin said, abruptly, noticing that the 'tech division' Lystheni were giving Maelon amused looks. _Different goals, possibly. All under the supervision of the same dalatrass? Hard to say._ "So, now you take. . . biotics from asari. From humans. Take what, regenerative abilities from krogan, vorcha? Immune system from turians? Inserting them at random into salarian genetic chains will _not_ replicate those abilities in offspring. At best, offspring would be. . . horrific mutations. At worst, eggs will not survive. Offspring non-viable. Unethical."

"And _your_ research, the Solus hybridization template, _is_ ethical?" Maelon snorted, contemptuously.

"Yes," Mordin said, with absolute certainty. "Evaluate all bodily systems first. Retain most intact, or with the fewest possible changes to allow them to mesh with other systems. Done only for individuals committed to each other, to children. Not to make children into _weapons_. Which is what your experiments are for. Biotics are used as weapons, Maelon. Not surgeons. Not construction workers. Living weapons." He frowned. "How many salarian biotics, made by gene mods, have been lobotomized? How many will be controlled with chips, as the asari was?"

Maelon frowned. "Only the unsuitable ones."

Mordin sighed. _You never could see ramifications beyond the first or second order, _he thought, sadly. _Law of unintended consequences never your strong suit. _"Considered unsuitable by _whom_?" he asked, trying, one last time, to get through to Maelon.

The younger salarian waved it away. "By us, of course." He shrugged. "Enough. This is where _you_ come in, Dr. Solus."

_Had bad feeling it would be._

"You see, I've been having a hard time getting stable, viable offspring. Obviously, with three of the biologics programs to supervise, I haven't had the time to really devote myself to just one of them. You're going to bring the famous Mordin Solus skills to bear on the problem of adding asari and human biotic potential to these," and Maelon lifted a white drape off the top of a large glass container, filled with the semi-transparent, fist-sizes eggs that all salarians grew from. There was even one single, larger egg at the center. A female egg.

Again, Mordin's heart started to beat faster with distress, and he took a few breaths to calm himself. "No. Refuse." He shrugged. "May as well kill me."

Maelon shook his head. "The captives outside, in their cages, are the source of all the fresh genetic material we'll need for this portion of the project. If you refuse, or try to force me to kill you, I'll simply start harvesting them, ahead of schedule. Even the males. Maybe I'll hold off on anesthetic while implanting the control chips. You never know. Supplies _are_ limited." He smiled brightly. "You'll be responsible for their deaths. Their suffering."

Maelon gestured for the guards to take him out of the room. "I'll give you an hour or so to think about this in your cell, Dr. Solus. I'm sure you'll come to the right conclusion. Don't you _always_?"

Alone in his cell, Mordin paced, thinking. Three steps forward, turn, three steps back. _First obligation of doctor, not to cause pain, suffering. Alleviate it. Captives alive now. Almost certain to die, or be lobotomized. Certainly suffering now. Should consider them already dead? No. Unethical. Fatalism, nihilism, unconscionable. _

_But participating in Maelon's research, also unethical. Unconscionable. Providing aid to enemy. Deeply flawed methods, certain to create not hybrids, but horrible mutations. _

_Cannot chose __**not**__ to chose. Not choosing represents refusal. Refusal leads to suffering._

_If I do not participate, captives die. Suffer. More so, than before. Know that I will eventually be unable to watch it. Will probably give in. Cannot allow others to suffer._

_If I participate, what are options? Euthanize captives? No. Unethical. Spectres may find us, release us. Must hold to some form of hope. Deny nihilism in all its forms. _Mordin frowned, continuing to pace.

For some reason, he remembered now, a long-ago conversation with Kasumi and Commander Shepard. He had been talking with them about literature and art; Kasumi knew more about cross-species aesthetics than any other human he'd ever met, and listening to her expound upon it was a fascinating experience. He'd been looking through her collection of old, paper books, and had happened across one called _The Odyssey_. "A story of a journey," he said, as his VI pinged and translated the term.

"The original journey," Shepard had commented. "It's a story close to three thousand years old now, in its written form, anyway. Ancient Greek."

"Not Roman. Surprising."

Shepard had chuckled. "The Romans got all their science and half their religion from the Greeks, not to mention borrowing Greek art more or less wholesale."

"What is it about?"

"A man struggling to return home after ten years of war. You can read it as a literal journey through fantastic, alien worlds, where magic is commonplace and nature is inimical to the designs of mortals, which is probably what Homer, the blind poet who set it down, meant it to be understood as," Shepard replied. "Personally, I sometimes can't help but read it as a allegory, a metaphor for how hard it is for a soldier to come home after years of war."

"Understandable, given background, recent wars." Mordin had glanced at her. "Sounds intriguing."

"You should read it," Kasumi told him. "Take it. I don't mind if you borrow it."

_Why think of this __**now**__? Irrelevant. _He knew his mind was aging, but it had rarely taken him off on such a tangent before. Then it all came to him, in a flash.

_Odysseus' wife, Penelope. Of course._ The woman had been held prisoner in her own home. Threatened by suitors who would not take _no_ for an answer, and who wanted her to consent to marry one of them, over the objections of her principles, so that they could acquire her husband's lands. They even threatened her young son's life. Her solution? Delay. Obstruction. She claimed to need to weave her wedding dress, and, every day, she wove it. Every night, she undid the work. She kept herself alive. She kept her son, a fellow prisoner, alive, until he could slip away and search for his father.

It wasn't a good solution. It wasn't a heroic solution. It was, however, a prisoner's solution. And it was the only one he had.


	43. Chapter 43: Bootcamp, Part One

**Chapter 43: Bootcamp, Part One**

**Rellus**

Mindoir and Palaven both had the new relays in place; the longest part of the journey was, unfortunately, the long haul out of Mindoir's gravity well and to the relay, and then the almost equally long haul from the Palaven relay to the planet itself. The direct flight was almost empty, so Rellus had enough room to stretch out in his seat and sleep, as best he could. The most he really managed was a light doze, though he knew his body needed more.

Landing at the spaceport, he could almost instantly identify where he needed to go, simply by following the various people his own age who were migrating to the shuttles. He and Dara were both fairly lucky; there were four sessions for boot camp held yearly, and both would start _directly_ after their respective birthdays, by a happy accident of the calendars. Rellus glanced around at all the signs; there were one thousand training centers on the planet, and found the appropriate line to wait for the shuttle to the Dacian prefacture's facility, and prepared to stand there for a while.

He'd forgotten how hot and how oppressively muggy Palavan was. He'd even forgotten quite what it was like to be completely surrounded by other turians. To hear nothing but a dozen dialects of his own language, to hear nothing but the rich sound of other turian voices. Press of bodies all around. The smell of many bodies. It was both comforting, and discomfiting, at the same time.

The large shuttle arrived, in due time, and he boarded next, trying to find elbow-room among his fellows, not saying much—just observing, really. He exchanged a nod with someone wearing the same colony markings as he did, across the shuttle, and then they were off, soaring into the turquoise sky. Rellus glanced out the window, suddenly amazed at how _green_ his homeworld was; not that Mindoir wasn't green, but it was a different _type_ of green. A quick glance around gave him a good idea that most of the people on this shuttle were colonists; most of them were looking down at the surface much as he had just been, and were exclaiming over it, in a variety of accents.

The male in the seat next to his turned to him after a moment. "Amphion Makadian," he said, after a moment, offering a wrist-clasp. He had a distinct Macedyn accent, drawing out his vowels softly. Rel realized that if Amphion had been speaking English, he'd have sounded almost _exactly_ like Dara's father.

"Rellus Velnaran." He accepted the wrist-clasp and nodded slightly.

"Oh, you're a Palaven native?" Amphion's friendly voice became a little worried now as he picked up Rel's accent.

"Originally. Been living off-world for about six years now."

That was definitely a look of relief. "Which colony?"

"Human one. Mindoir."

That got him a slow blink. "Unusual."

"My father's a research scientist for the xenobiological team there," Rel offered.

Amphion nodded. "Prestigious."

Rel nodded. His father's intelligence and position were hard enough to live up to, let alone the _rest_ of the family.

All over the shuttle, similar conversations were striking up. One hundred anxious new adults were trying to find commonality, a friendly face, something, anything, that would keep them from worrying for the next three hours of flight time. "Some of my family visited Macedyn recently," Rel commented to Amphion. "Brought back great pictures of the crater falls."

Amphion chuckled. "They hit the tourist traps? Agridavus, Sagadavus?"

"Every one of them they could find. First vacation in seven years."

"They should've asked the locals. There are great places off the beaten track that are much quieter, and just as pretty."

Rel couldn't really say that a lot of his aunt and uncle's travel itinerary had been dictated by security needs—and even _with_ security in mind, hadn't gone exactly unmarked by problems, so he nodded and simply said, "If you give me a list of names, I can pass it on to them. They did enjoy the trip." _They're just really unlikely to repeat it anytime soon._

Amphion nodded, looking relieved. "You're a lot different than I expected from a native. Not so uptight."

Rellus made a rude noise at the back of his throat. "I have relatives who make up for me," he replied, lightly, and the other male laughed.

The Dacian training facility was large. It had to be. For a hundred and ten days, four times a year, it trained 100,000 recruits at a time, or 400,000 over the course of a year. One thousand such facilities existed on Palaven; that meant that in a year, 400 million recruits were trained. Four hundred million, representing five percent of Palaven's population of eight billion alone; of course, with the colonies factored in, that percentage dropped substantially. New recruits served for four years, minimum. Attrition at the end of four years was high, of course, when mandatory service ended. It didn't matter. A new stream of fresh bodies was always on the way through the system, replenishing the ranks. Reaching the age of sixteen and attending boot camp made a turian an adult; _finishing_ the four years of mandatory service made a turian a _citizen_, with full rights and privileges throughout the Hierarchy.

No volus had ever completed the four years of service; no volus had ever, to his knowledge, attended boot camp. Turians who reported to boot camp, and who were turned aside due to physical imperfections—bad hearts, spinal deformities, and so on—were allocated adult status, but could never vote in prefecture elections, couldn't own land or property, couldn't represent themselves in a case at law, and were permitted only _manus_ rites in marriage, among other limitations. Those who never attended boot camp—including the mentally disadvantaged—were accorded the status of children and non-citizens for the rest of their lives.

The turian standing military forces was a number to be reckoned with, clocking in at close to 2.5 _billion_ people in uniform. Sixteen percent of its forces turned over every year, replenished by that 400 million fresh recruits. Quite a number of the 2.5 billion uniforms belonged to logistics and support personnel; quite a few were cooks and bosun's mates and truck drivers and shipping specialists. Some built the equipment that others used; while there _were_ civilian contractors, like Haliat, Elanus Risk Control Services, and Armax Arsenal, the turian military built and maintained quite a large percentage of its own ships, armor, and weapons. The military was, after all, the single largest employer in turian space.

And all of it started at facilities just like this one: row after row after row of anonymous gray brick buildings, set against the lush green jungle and the turquoise sky.

Rel hopped out of the shuttle and walked with the others, taking up positions along footprints that had been painted in blue—the color of blood—on the pavement, four across. He knew there'd be a lot of standing in line in his near future. When his group of four was motioned up to the entry booths, he gave his name, allowed his hands and retinas to scanned, and had biometric chips stamped into the palms of both of his hands, which was the equivalent of having something stapled there, hard. The chips would contain his record, his serial number, his basic DNA, retina, and handprint information, and would, eventually, be used to track him on the battlefield. At the moment, it would allow him access to his permitted facilities on the base, and would allow him to open his personal locker.

Then he was admitted to the med bay past the check-in booths. Here height and weight was measured; in human measurements, he was 6'7" or just at the two-meter mark. He wasn't quite sure when that had happened, although he'd been eye-level with Uncle Garrus for a while. Weight was another story. He still only massed about 220 pounds, or 99 kilograms. Part of that was the hollow bones, and part of that was simply the fact that his muscles and the rest of his body hadn't quite caught up with the enormous growth of his skeleton in the past eighteen months.

The med techs took his personal history, tested his vision and hearing and checked his heart, then analyzed his blood to determine which of his inoculations were current, and started giving him shots. There were about eighteen diseases he needed to be immunized against; some were standard, like tetanus, which could happen to any species; some were very specific indeed, against quarian influenza and _villi_ pox and any other number of contagious ailments. He knew his left arm was going to _hurt_ tonight. "Pass through," the techs told him, and he picked up his bag once more, vacating the exam table for the person entering the room behind him.

In the next room, people were largely waiting, watching. Once the group reached twelve people, two NCOs came out of a side door and announced, "This is initial strength testing. Drop your bags behind the white line and then line up on the red one by height."

That more or less sorted them out by males and females; the females being shorter, went to the front. Rel found himself at the back; he _really_ hadn't realized he'd grown this much. Each recruit, in turn, had to move to the front of the room and state their bodyweight as measured in the previous room in a loud, firm voice. One of the observers set up a weightbar for each person, matching their bodyweight. The other observer had a list, and a stopwatch. "Lift it to shoulder height, keeping your feet shoulder-width apart," the observers told the first person, a stocky female. "Now hold steady for one minute."

By the half-minute mark, the female had started to edge her feet out. The observers noted this, and had her put the weightbar back down. "Next."

About half of the recruits were able to hold their own bodyweight at shoulder level for the full minute. Rellus was one of them, and, as he went through this and each of the other of the basic requirements, he made mental notes for a letter to Dara, to tell her things she might need to train harder for. He imagined that she _might_ have a few problems with just the initial strength test. Human females didn't have the upper body strength of their male compatriots.

Two hours later, he'd surrendered his civilian belongings, other than his omnitool, multitool, datapad, and wedding knife, received a receipt, loaded to his biometric chip, for what little had remained in his bag, and which was now in a storage locker somewhere in the bowels of the facility. He'd tucked his wedding ring into his storage box, not wanting to make an issue over keeping it on him, and hoped that none of the supply clerks in charge of the storage facility would think that titanium was worth stealing. Now he stood in another line, already wearing his boot camp gray uniform; each recruit was issued two sets. In his current line he was issued his rifle, an Elanus Banshee Mark III, standard issue for all recruits, which he would be carrying everywhere he went for the next one hundred and ten days.

Now Rellus was just an anonymous gray body, exactly the same as everyone else around him, other than the clan paint. The Hierarchy had never _quite_ managed to erase that streak of fierce clan and colony loyalty from its people. It was closest thing to individuality that they were permitted to keep, for the next eleven weeks.

Next, the recruits were directed to various fields, where drill centurions called them by name, assigned them to their first squads. Everyone here knew the process; everyone here had heard the stories from fathers, mothers, older siblings, uncles, aunts, cousins, and grandparents. In the first week, you were assigned, at random, to a five-man squad. The squad-leader was assigned, also at random. The squad ate, slept, and trained together, regardless of gender or previous affiliations. And at the end of the first week, there would be a competition to determine who the squad leader should be for Week Two.

At the end of Week Two, the squads would start combining. Five members would become ten, with the better of the two squad leaders becoming the joint squad commander, determined by a complex scoring system that judged who had demonstrated more leadership, excellence at bringing people together, melee ability, and skill in the current training subject. The squads would combine, again and again, as the instructors looked for who were leaders and who were followers. Who had managerial skills, and who had combat skills.

And, of course, who should stay a cook, and should be the best damned cook they could be. This was not a question of failure. This was a question of finding the right round-shaped peg for the right round-shaped hole. Nothing more, nothing less. Cogs in a machine so complex and vast, that its personnel division occupied a facility that had over a square mile of office space, and used in excess of a thousand VIs.

"Squad 417," the centurion bellowed. "Cagrarian, Cambysus. Lavium, Didamus. Makadian, Amphion. Scortorian, Septima. Velnaran, Rellus. Temporary squad leader assignment, Makadian. Barracks assignment, Salae-Equa 12. Follow the red lines, and move out."

The squad leader name had sounded familiar, and Rel recognized Amphion from the shuttle with a mild sense of relief. He and the others followed the red line to the Sale-Equa barracks block, winding dizzily among the many buildings, before finally finding the correct door. Their particular barracks room was identical to all the rest; three nests on the floor—bare of pillows, and with only a single folded blanket at the foot of each—and two swinging hammocks above. Storage lockers on one end of the room, each of which was keyed to one squad member's biometric chip. Rel, remembering Rinus' advice against the upper berths (they could be easily cut down, as a hazing prank), quickly took one of the nests on the ground.

He glanced around quickly, assessing the rest of the squad. Amphion, he knew already, from the shuttle—solid mask of red facepaint, soft Macedyn drawl, and a slightly tentative manner.

Cambysus, in his white-striped paint, sounded like he was from Galatana, a largely agricultural colony. He was surprisingly short—several centimeters shorter than, say, Dara's father, although still taller than most females. He was also stocky, and Rel had a bad feeling that Camysus was going to be repeating several of his physical requirements a few times before passing.

Didamus Lavium was that rarest of things—a barefaced turian. When he spoke, he had a cut-crystal Palaven accent and a sharp manner, marking him out as eastern continent, and a product of several military preparatory programs.

Septima Scortorian was their current lone female in the squad, and wore green bars across her face; not the green swirls of Gothis Colony, but the vertical bars of Rocam. She, like Didamus was a Palaven native, but she had a lower-class accent, and had a clear attitude to her, scoffing at Cambysus and rubbing up against the other three males somewhat indiscriminately. Rel rolled up his uniform sleeves to the allowed length—working uniforms sleeves could be _rolled_ to the elbow, but not pushed up—displaying his wedding-knife clearly, a subtle bid to show that he was marked, thank you, and should be ignored by the female. Then he crouched down near his bedding, waiting for the next phase to begin.

Amphion had taken the ground nest across from Rel's. "Good to see a familiar face," he told Rel quietly, and gestured at Rel's left arm. "Didn't see that on the shuttle. Sheath hardly looks broken in."

"Been plighted for eight months. We married two weeks ago." Rel kept it simple, but welcomed the chance to make his status _very_ clear. Septima looked like a discipline problem waiting to happen.

The female, sure enough, guffawed. "Married for only two weeks, and no marks on you? She must be useless in the sack." Crude, on first acquaintance; Rel had tolerated the curiosity from the boys he'd grown up with, but this was very bad manners. The other males had already stiffened, showing discomfort in posture.

He showed his teeth. "Quite the contrary, but thanks for your concern." Cambysus snorted at the reply, and Didamus bared his teeth as well.

Didamus, now, crouching beside his own nest, asked, sharply, "You're western continent, Velnaran?"

Rel nodded. "From near Raetia, originally." Raetia was the largest city on the western continent.

Cambysus now, in the nasal accent of Galatana, "Your accent sounds odd. Can't place it."

A quick shrug. "Been off-world for six years. Leaves a mark, I guess."

At that moment, the drill centurion for their barracks area—eight rooms, or forty recruits—came to collect them, assembled them in their first formations, and set about informing them of the rules for conduct for the next one hundred and ten days. Rel took the opportunity, on exiting the barracks, to roll his sleeves back down. "When I ask you a question, the only appropriate responses are _yes, drill centurion_, and _no, drill centurion_. When I give you an order, the only appropriate answer is _yes, drill centurion. _ All such replies must be given in a loud, clear voice. Is this clear?"

"Yes, drill centurion."

"When you speak, you may not use the words _I _ or _me _or _my_," he informed them. "You will refer to yourself as _this recruit_. When referring to another recruit, you will not use their first name. You will refer to them as Recruit Cagrarian or Recruit Lavium. When you speak to a fellow recruit, you will use their clan-name only. The sole exception to this rule is your squad leader, whom you will refer to as Squad Leader, and then their clan name. Is this clear?"

"Yes, drill centurion."

"For the next one hundred and ten days, tour spirits belong to your squads and your clans, but your minds and your bodies belong to _me_. In order to keep those minds clear and focused, recruits may not listen to music. Recruits do not have extranet privileges, other than mail. Mail may be read and responded to during your thirty minutes of personal time each day, assuming that you are not on fire watch or performing other squad duties at that time. Is this clear?"

"Yes, drill centurion."

"There will be no fraternization, and by that, I _do_ mean biting, marking, and mating. Is this clear?"

"Yes, drill centurion."

"Recruit Scortorian, you are smiling. Does something I said _amuse_ you?"

"No, sir."

Rellus kept his eyes firmly fixed ahead, and his face a blank mask. The female had already committed a lapse, and had compounded it by saying _sir_ instead of _drill centurion_. The instructor's voice went up several decibels. "Do I look like an officer to you, Recruit Scortorian."

"No, drill centurion."

It got worse from there, and she was soon enough on the floor, performing calisthenics. Calisthenics were the mildest form of punishment a centurion or a squad leader could assign. Punishment drills and guard duty were common. Technically, a thoroughly insubordinate recruit _could_ be flogged. Almost no one was ever _that _much of a problem, however. The rest of the unit would intervene to try to talk _sense_ into someone like that, first.

The centurion walked the two lines of recruits, standing with their backs to the walls of the hallway outside of their quarters, asking each of them some question or another, finding some way to turn each question into an attack. Rel had understood the purpose before coming here—it was a form of psychological breakdown, a way of separating them from their identities, and making them a part of the _unit_, instead, and _no one_ was exempt. And there were no right answers.

"Recruit Lavium, eh? Sounds like you've been to the prep academies. You think you're going to _breeze_ through boot camp?"

"No, drill centurion."

"Why not?" It was a snap. "Didn't they prepare you well enough?"

Rel could almost hear the cogs in Didamus' head spin into high gear. "Yes, drill centurion."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, they prepared me well, drill centurion." Faint hint of amusement there. As if Didamus thought this was a game, and was playing along. Rellus was already expecting the calisthenics order, and sure enough, Didamus was soon on the floor alongside most of the rest of the squad.

"Recruit Velnaran?"

"Yes, drill centurion."

"You've spent the last six years on _Mindoir_?"

"Yes, drill centurion."

"That's a _human_ colony."

It wasn't _quite_ a question, but Rel decided to go with the safest response possible. "Yes, drill centurion."

The older male got right into his face, and hissed, "You still have _scales_, recruit?"

As a salvo, it wasn't bad. It probably would have pissed off most other turians, sent them right into pride-anger. Rel had, however, had spent quite a bit of the last eight months being reminded by various _humans_ just how _turian_ he actually was. The reversal was sudden, and a touch amusing. He kept his face absolutely rigid, however, eyes fixed on the far wall, and replied, "Yes, drill centurion."

"You _sure_?"

"Yes, drill centurion."

"I think you don't. I think you've gone soft. Might as well grow hair while you're at it."

It wasn't a question. Rel didn't answer it.

"You have anything to say, recruit?"

"No, drill centurion."

"Good. I think I'm going to make you my personal pet project, Recruit Velnaran. I think you may need to be reminded how to be a damn turian."

Again, Rel said nothing, and the drill centurion passed on, to the next person, and on down the ranks. Here and there, were people who'd spent the last three or four years on Bastion; they, too, were singled out, but not to the extent that he had been. _Great. Here one day and singled out. I thought they weren't supposed to isolate people based on place of origin. I guess that just means 'colony' origin. _Rel kept his eyes on the far wall, and mentally shrugged. _Still, all things considered, it could be worse. The centurion could know I'm __**married**__ to a human._

Next was their first run. They'd be ramping up in five kilometer increments; today's was pretty much a sprint of five kilometers, to check the various recruits' current level of conditioning. Without armor or a proper carrying harness yet, their rifles bounced on their shoulders and backs. Rel had no problems with this, of course, and was pleased to realize he had both one of the fastest times, and the highest oxygenation contents in his blood, as measured at the end of the course. All that running a mile above sea level had paid off.

Then, finally, they were sent to the dining hall for a meal, still broken up by squads. Cambysus, who had had a slow time in the run, was pulled to the side by one of the centurions, and Rel had a feeling the colonial was going to be repeating the five kilometer run in the morning. . . probably right before the rest of them did the ten kilometer one.

"Cagrarian's not in shape," Didamus said, quietly, as the squad settled down at their designated table. They weren't permitted to start eating yet; they had to wait until _everyone_ was seated, and the signal was given. Once the signal was given, they wouldn't be permitted to speak until everyone had finished their food and been dismissed again.

"Sort of the point of boot camp, isn't it?" Amphion said, amiably. "Boot camp _is_ preparation, for most people."

"Not everyone's families can afford the fancy prep programs," Septima added, snidely. Her time had been adequate, but not stellar.

Didamus looked ready to bristle at her. Amphion stepped in, as a squad leader should, but tentatively, changing the subject slightly, "Velnaran, with you being on Mindoir and all, you couldn't have gone to any prep programs, right?"

"I put myself through some training on my own. My family helped." No details, and a mild tone.

Didamus snorted. "That's the very _least_ everyone should do." He showed his teeth. "I'm sure your family training was . . . adequate." The word damned with faint praise.

Rel just smiled back. "I'm sure that it was."

Septima bared her teeth now, too. "And _you_ think you'll be squad leader next week, Lavium? Thanks to the training your parents' money bought you?"

Didamus shrugged. "I think I've got a fair shot," he agreed, glancing at Amphion and Rel. "Calleo and Facito are two of the best training programs there are."

Amphion pulled back a bit. "None taken."

Rel chuckled. "It will be interesting." It would be, too. "My older brother went to Calleo and Facito, six years ago."

Didamus' head snapped up, and Rel caught a trace of interest there. "What's his rank and rate now?"

"Centurion, ordnance and munitions."

Didamus nodded. "Not bad." Lavium had the look of someone who expected to make officer on the strength of his preparation, but centurion inside of five years was _damned_ good. It meant a promotion a year, fast-tracked.

Cambysus joined them at last, his tray filled. "Sorry," he said, perfunctorily, and as soon as his posterior hit the bench, they were finally given the signal for silence, and were allowed to eat.

After dinner, they were lectured on the importance of their rifles and their uniforms and the proper methods of maintaining each; they were lectured on how to fold their single blankets and how to put up the hammocks, when they were not in use. Their squad leaders were told to establish a 'fire watch' rotation—two hours, each person. Once done to keep a fire from going out, or from sending out sparks that could destroy a post, it was now a way of creating personal and unit discipline.

Rel was just as glad to take the first watch outside the door. Lights out was at 21:30, and he while he was _tired_, not having really slept for about thirty-six hours at this point, his body-clock was terminally confused, insisting that it was, in fact, 15:30 Mindoir time. He stood with his rifle on his shoulder outside the barracks, wondering what was going on back home. Dara would just have gotten out of class, and probably had returned to her father's house, for the meantime. She'd muttered about being tired of bouncing from house to house, but he couldn't imagine that she'd have gone to, say, his parents, and asked them for his old room. The mere thought made him smile, briefly. She'd have had every right to ask it of them; she was now their _daughter_. But he doubted his little human mate would see it that way.

Finally, when his two-hour stint was over, he walked back into the room, and realized that _someone_ was listening to music on their omnitool. He sighed, and woke Amphion. "Squad Leader?" he said, quietly.

"Yeah?" Amphion's voice was groggy.

"Your turn on watch. Additionally, have to report that someone in this barracks is listening to music." A clear contravention of the rules.

Amphion sighed, and sat up. It turned out that Septima had fallen asleep listening to it; as such, they had little choice but to put her on report. _Two black marks for the squad on the first day; her lack of discipline, and Cambysus' fitness. What a way to start. _"What do I do?" Amphion asked Rel, in a very quiet whisper."

"Have her stand someone else's watch. She wasn't scheduled to stand one tonight, right?"

He could see Amphion's shoulders sag in relief, even through the darkness, and then their squad leader woke the female and turned her out into the corridor with her rifle, and Rel curled up on his side in his own nest, and, thinking of home, drifted off to sleep. _One hundred and nine days._

The next morning set the pace for the remaining nine days of the week. They awoke to the imperial anthem being played, loudly, at 05:00, and showered, in large, communal bathing areas. With no external sexual characteristics, turians _had_ no concept of modesty, really, and since everyone had the same cloacal system for eliminating bodily waste, everyone used the lavatory the same way, too. There was no division between the genders. This didn't mean that people didn't _look_, of course; while most people faced inwards towards the shower spray, others tended to turn around, as if to dare people to look at them. Septima was one such, and broke the general showering conventions by talking to the people around her. Most of them being male, of course.

The handful of people with wedding knives took the sheathes off to shower, and rested them within arm's reach, though in a dry location. Rel was no exception. He could have left it in the barracks room, in his locker, but didn't really feel like opening and closing the damn thing unnecessarily.

Then there was an hour of physical training—sit-ups, pushups, dips, all strength training. Then a two-kilometer sprint. And then, finally, breakfast. In silence, while a drill centurion read to them from regulations, trying to burn the words into their minds.

The first week's focus was fitness, introduction to unarmed combat, introduction to firearms, and team building. The mornings were dedicated to the increasingly long runs—five kilometers became ten today, and would be fifteen tomorrow. During the run, they had to recite rules and regs, as a mnemonic drill. Where a human cadre might be chanting rhymes to keep themselves in time with one another, turians started out by learning, and reciting, rules and regulations. Chapter and verse. After the run, there were team-building exercises. including marching and formation drills.

After lunch, they went first to the firing range, where everyone was instructed in how to strip, clean, and reassemble their rifles, before being allowed to take their first ten qualifying shots.

Rel didn't like the sights on the Banshee Mark III, but he'd practiced with Banshees, Tsunamis, Crossfires, Gorgons, Pulses. . . if the Spectres had it in their armory, he'd used it at the firing range until he thought he knew the weapon's quirks. As such, he fired his ten shots, ejected the thermal clip and the bullet clip, safed the weapon, and waited for the scores to come back. When they did, he grinned to himself, making sure to turn his face away. _Yeah, thought I remembered these things having a slight leftward drift. Glad I was right_. Ten of ten, in the center ring. Didamus had nine of ten in the center. Septima had six in the center, three in the next ring out, and one wild shot that had landed somewhere in the outer ring; Amphion had clustered five shots at the center, and five in the next outer ring. Cambysus was evidently going to be taking some time to qualify here, as well as at the runs; all of his shots had landed in the third ring out. All high, but at least consistently placed.

Their centurion had the targets moved back another twenty-five feet. And then another. And then another. Rel allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation, and then wiped his face clean as the drill centurion assembled them all again. "I can see that one or two of you have handled weapons before." Theoretically, they all _should_ have, but some families simply didn't prepare their children as well as others did.

The centurion read off the scores, starting with the lowest first. While some educational specialists might consider this degrading and discouraging, turian military training considered negative examples as powerful as positive ones. To avoid having yourself shamed in public in this way, it was better to _compete_ and _perform better_. The lowest score that qualified was at least an one hundred and ten; this was the marksman rating. Cambysus only managed a seventy-four. Septima squeaked by with a seventy-five. Amphion managed a solid ninety, or exceptional. When the centurion reached the top of the list of forty names, there were only two names left. "Second place, Recruit Lavium. Score of ninety-four. Rating, exceptional. First place, Recruit Velnaran. Score of ninety-nine. Rating, sharpshooter." The centurion showed teeth. "Recruit Velnaran, as your reward, you will be training Recruit Cagarian. Recruit Lavium, assist Recruit Scortorian."

_Better you than me,_ Rel thought, with some relief. He'd been expecting something along these lines—it was, theoretically, a way to enforce squad bonding to have the highly ranked people training the lower ranked ones. As a teaching technique, it hammered down the nails that stuck up the furthest, and mostly ignored the people in the middle. On the whole, Rel greatly preferred dealing with Cambysus to Septima. It couldn't be any harder than training Eli with pistols, could it?

As it turned out, it _could_. Elijah had had natural aptitude and a burning desire to learn, spurred on by Kella's death. Cambysus had neither. "Look, just get me to the point where I qualify," the other male told Rel. "I don't care if I ever make E-rating on this."

Rel sighed. The whole 'good-enough' thing wasn't a good attitude. "Getting you to marksman or getting you any higher than that, it's the same skills," he said, as carefully as he could. He wasn't the squad leader. He had to rely on diplomacy here, not discipline. "Let's try making sure that you're only looking at the sights, not past them, to start with, all right?"

Behind him, he could hear Septima and Didamus more or less snarling at each other, and glanced at Amphion. The squad leader caught his eyes and frowned. Rel gestured behind him, spreading his hands in a quick _what-can-you-do_ gesture, and Amphion paused, sighed visibly, then nodded and moved forward to step between the male and the female.

After two hours of rifle practice, it was time for melee combat. Rel was genuinely excited about this; he wanted to see if what he'd been taught by his father, his Uncle Garrus, his father-in-law, Lantar, and all the rest of the Spectres would hold up here. "This is where I'm going to shine," Septima boasted.

Didamus snorted.

Cambysus, predictably, was everyone's whipping boy. He was stolid and slow, and showed no more affinity for melee than he had for running or rifles, and didn't much care when he lost to everyone in their squad. Amphion, somewhat surprisingly, didn't do much better. "It's not something I've practiced much," he admitted.

Septima was scrappy and tough, but lost her temper easily, and when Didamus more or less toyed with her, she started hissing insults at him, and went so far as to grab him by the base of the spurs, digging in her claws, and damn near got some of her teeth knocked out, as a result. Didamus had _not_ been amused by that ploy.

Rel didn't toy with her. He simply threw her out of the sparring area. Several times.

That left him and Didamus, and the barefaced male was close to his size, which made it a much more challenging match. Didamus was also clearly _very_ well trained, in classic turian styles. Rel grinned in enjoyment, and shifted style. A little of his father-in-law's _ba gua_ here, always moving in circles, never being where the kick was about to land, a little close-range _meela'helai_ learned from his uncle Egidus there. . . it was fun. "Good match," Rel told Didamus at the end, offering a wrist-clasp and a smile.

He was honestly surprised when the other male refused the gesture. "What in the name of the spirits _was_ all that?" Didamus fumed. "That was _cheating. _You should be disqualified."

Rel stared at him, blankly. "I should be _disqualified_ for knowing other fighting systems?" The drill centurion was watching the whole encounter; Rel could sense that baleful gaze boring into his shoulderblades. Rel glanced at Amphion, who didn't seem to know what to do, and then looked back at Didamus. "All right, Lavium. Tell you what. We'll go again. I won't use anything that isn't _turian_. That way, no one can say the results aren't fair_._" He glanced at Amphion, got a nod of approval, and gestured back towards the mats.

Didamus was _very_ good at the strict turian forms. Rel had learned those first, however, before adding all the other styles to his repertoire. And, after a couple of rounds and a bloody nose of his own, he did drop and pin Didamus on the ground. Getting back to his feet, he offered Didamus his hand, and, after a moment, the other male accepted it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet as well.

At that point, Rel realized that every other squad had long since finished and had been watching them, and he flushed slightly and went back to stand on the line beside Amphion. "You'll be sparring like this every other day this week," the drill centurion informed them all, loudly. "And at the end of the week, you'll be assigned a new squad leader, dependent on overall scores from all exercises."

Then they were dismissed for dinner. After dinner, and the challenge of a long, very physical day, there were more lectures from the drill centurion. A half hour of personal time—Rel checked his messages, at last, and smiled, seeing a quick note from Dara there, practicing her turian, but retaining human dates and her own idiosyncratic and absolutely human style. It made him chuckle to read, and he nodded approvingly over the way she'd phrased things throughout. . . no actual names used. She'd probably run the text past Kasumi to make sure she wasn't breaking rules, too. At least, he hoped she had.

_July 4, 2191 _

_Amatus—_

_Just a quick note. I miss you already, and you've barely been gone twenty-four hours at this point. I'm going to be staying with your aunt, up on the mountain, for a bit. She needs the help at the moment, and things got busy here right after you left. My dad, your uncle, Eli's father, and all of their co-workers, got called off on a big job._

Rel frowned to himself. That didn't sound good. That many Spectres off base at once usually meant something _bad_ had happened somewhere. And of course, without extranet access, he had no idea of what was going on anywhere in the galaxy other than on this base. For a reason, of course. Minds and bodies being trained without distractions. He continued reading.

_Still working on my research paper. Might be a little difficult. Dr. S is unavailable at the moment, and we're concerned about him. Makes clinic work interesting, too. Dr. A. had to leave, and he, I, and two nurses are the only people who can read Dr. S's notes. He tends to write half in salarian and half in galactic, a horrible mish-mash. That leaves Dr. C., and she's having to have two nurses and me, an intern, read her all of Dr. S.'s patient notes._

That also didn't sound exactly right. Dr. Solus had been off-world, sure, but why would everyone be concerned about him? Dr. Abrams often went off-world with the _Normandy_ when Dr. Solus wasn't available, so that usually left Dr. Chakwas at the clinic; he'd seen all three of them often enough for various bumps, bruises, and broken bones over the years.

_Your parents seem to expect me to come and visit them three times a week. If nothing else, it will force me to practice my language skills. Your aunt is speaking nothing but turian at me. Making the twins do so, too. Don't know how long this will last, but if I hear nothing but turian at home, and galactic at school, I'm going to forget how to speak English pretty soon. . . and my dad will flip out when he gets home. _

Rel took a moment to chuckle at how poorly human slang like "flip out" translated into turian. She'd used a verb that generally meant "to turn, acrobatically" and while it was a correct literal translation, it definitely didn't work in context.

_Anyhow, that's really all I have time for. Have to go cook something that your aunt and the twins and I can all manage to eat, and hopefully not poison any of us. One hundred and nine days, amatus. I love you._

"Good letter?" Septima asked, from her hammock across the way. Rel glanced up and realized she was talking to him.

"Any letter from my wife is a good letter." He saved the letter to his datapad, where he could re-read it later. He didn't have time to write back anything at length. A quick line or two—_Got here okay. So tired yesterday, could barely think straight. Make sure you work on strength training; the first day is a she-varren. _A quick pause to think, then, _When your father gets back, tell him his circle-walking works very well here. But people think it's cheating. _Another quick pause. _One hundred and eight days, amatra. Miss you. Have to go._

Rel sent the message, with about five minutes to spare before lights out. The barracks was quiet, and he didn't have fire watch until sometime around midnight, so he curled up and tried to doze off before anyone so much as hit the lightswitch.

It wasn't to be. Amphion called from across the room, "Velnaran?"

"Yes, Squad Leader?" Rel didn't move.

Amphion made a rude noise. "You can stow that when the drill centurion can't hear us. We all know I'm only temporary."

Rel rolled over. Apparently, they weren't going to let him go to sleep right away after all. "Something on your mind?" he asked.

"Yeah. What _was_ all that stuff you did today?"

Rel blinked. "In sparring?"

"Yeah."

"Bunch of different stuff. Wanted to see how it worked against someone as good as Lavium who hadn't seen it before. Everyone I trained with had seen it in action at least once, so they were already learning to adapt to it." Rellus yawned, and rested the heels of his palms against his eyes for a moment.

"Yeah, but what _was_ it?" Amphion sounded actually interested.

"Circular stuff was _ba gua zhang_. Human art, developed by their Chinese culture. Open hands, redirecting forces. The close-in fighting was a mix of quarian _meela'helai_ and a human art called _wing chun _. . . and I think the joint-lock I pinned Lavium with at the end was krogan. Don't know what it's called. Krogan don't really have names for their forms." He paused, and added, with a bit of a shrug, "I'm not really _good_ at any of it yet. Just enough to try it out and see how it works. Can't really teach it."

Didamus snorted. "None of that stuff could possibly be human. They can't fight worth a damn. That's why they develop stealth drives and use guerilla tactics in warfare. They're weak. Worse than salarians, really. Half the brains, anyway." He laughed. "Spirits know, they _look_ like asari. With none of the charm."

Rel sighed internally. _And how many humans have you met, personally? None, I'd be willing to bet. You've never even been off Palaven, have you?_ It wasn't worth starting a discussion about, though, so he yawned again, and then they all heard, "LIGHTS OUT!" bellowed from the corridor. Amphion turned off their light, Cambysus went out the door to stand first watch, and Rel gratefully lay back down, letting himself drift.

Although there was supposed to be minimal conversation, Amphion asked quietly, after a moment, in the dark, "So you learned that all from your _family_?"

Rel stuggled back awake. "Yeah. Mostly."

"_Talas'kak._" That was Didamus, off to the side in the dark. He sounded angry, as if he thought Rel was having fun at his expense. "Seriously, where did you train? It wasn't Calleo or Facito—I'd _recognize _you, not to mention the fighting styles, if you had."

"Mindoir." Rel yawned, then added, sleepily, "Father and uncle and my uncle's best friend . . . oh, and my father-in-law. . . and my uncle's wife. . . some of their co-workers. . . ."

"_Talas'kak._"

Rel smiled in the darkness, and went to sleep.

After that, it got worse. Didamus apparently decided that he was _not_ going to just let Rel walk off with squad leadership in the first week, and it took every ounce of Rel's skill not to let the other male hurt him on the mats, or to hurt Didamus, himself. A broken finger in the first week; just enough of an injury that Didamus kept targeting the left hand as a result. The drill centurions increased the level of training and the verbal badgering. Rel knew, philosophically, that he and Didamus were getting a certain level of the verbal abuse because they stood out. _Why, if you managed a ninety-nine, wasn't it a hundred? _was one tactic that could be used. Another common one was _Do you think you're __special_, to which the only appropriate response was _no, drill centurion._

Cambysus took a lot of heat, largely for being a lazy son of a toothless varren, and Septima didn't, in Rel's opinion, take nearly enough. The female quickly adopted a second face to use for the drill centurions, one that was a nearly model soldier. . . except for the eyes, which remained contemptuous, and her undisciplined ways continued every time the instructors' backs were turned. Every time she was caught listening to music, or Cambysus was caught hoarding food from the dining hall, Amphion placed them on guard duty or assigned them demerits. The fact that neither of them caught on to the fact that the rules applied to _everyone_ in that first week, Rel didn't think boded well for their futures.

Septima had also taken a distinct dislike to both Didamus and himself. He wasn't entirely sure why; he could grasp that the lower-class female detested Didamus on principle, simply because he came from an affluent background, and had a certain air of snobbery to him. Why she decided to vent her spite in _his_ direction, he had no idea. The fact that he was simply put, better than she was? Was it that his skill threatened her, and she was insecure? Was it the fact that he largely ignored her? The fact that he was one of only three married males out of a barracks that housed twenty-five males and fifteen females?

Where Didamus took out his dislike of Rel on the mats, straightforwardly, like an angry varren, Septima was more of a _lanura_ about it. Downright catty, as Dara might say. At one point, she plopped right down on his bed as he was reading a letter from Dara, and tried to run her fingers up his spurs. He kicked her halfway across the room, and, as Septima pulled herself up off the ground, Rellus told her, flatly, "Don't try that again."

The other males in the room had actually guffawed. Rel was grimly sure that at some point, the stupid female was going to try something like that—or worse—on one of them in their sleep, but there was nothing he could do about it. Amphion could clearly see that there were problems, but the colonial male was unsure how to deal with the issues, and didn't use his authority at all.

On day eight, Septima got into his locker—Rel had _no_ idea how she'd defeated the biometric encoding, but had a sneaking suspicion she'd mated with someone in the records office to get it. She held up his datapad triumphantly that evening as he was looking for it, and announced, "So, your wife is what, seven years old? Or is she just a bumpkin farmer, who can't read or write?" She laughed. "What kind of a nickname is _Dara_, anyway?"

Cambysus looked up at that. "I'm a farmer," he told her, dryly. "I write better than you do, slum-whore."

Rel walked across the room, caught Septima's wrist in his hand, and jammed a thumb into a nerve bundle at the back, releasing her grip on the datapad. "My wife does pretty well in both turian and _tal'mae_, for someone who only started learning either of them eight months ago," he said, finally provoked enough to show real anger. He _knew_ he was showing teeth, that his crest had flushed, and that his voice had dropped into a growl. "And you will not touch anything in this room again that doesn't belong to you, do you understand me?"

"Or what? You'll put me on report?" It was a taunt.

"No. The next time we spar, I will put you in the med bay, and you will be eating _talashae _paste until the teeth all grow back." He said it quietly and evenly, and there must have been something in his expression that indicated how much he meant it, because she dropped her eyes and pulled away.

The next day, Didamus took a cue from Septima, and asked at lunch, in front of everyone in earshot in the dining hall, but before the silent period began, "So, your wife doesn't speak turian as a native?" He smirked a bit. "What is she, an asari dancing girl?"

_Took one of them longer than I expected. I figured this was going to come last night after lights out, or maybe at breakfast. Guess Lavium wanted a larger audience_. "No," Rel said, calmly, and pulled up one of his wedding pictures on his omnitool. "She's human." He smiled slightly. "Her father's the one who taught me that circular fighting technique, actually."

Amphion leaned over and looked at the picture. "Looks good in your colors," he said, after a moment. "My mother would have had a coronary over the waist on that dress, though."

Rel grinned at Amphion. "Mine _did_. Damn near needed to give her CPR until she realized that Dara was planning on wearing a belt over it."

Didamus smirked, obviously thinking he'd found a weakness to exploit, and tried another salvo. "You know what? I hear they eat shit. You fuck the mouth of a shit-eater, Velnaran?"

Rel smiled at him, knowing his eyes had gone cold, but keeping his face a mask. "No, she actually makes a pretty good ground _apaterae_ and diced lamb thing with _phasela_ and carrots and potatoes. It's called shepherd's pie, not shit." He waited for the laughter to die down, then added, still smiling, eyes still cold, "And yes, I ask her for her mouth _every chance I get_." _And I am going to beat the living spirits out of you on the mats tonight for this._

The people at the tables around them laughed, and Rel's calm, almost amused-sounding reply won him more points than he really realized at the time.

At the end of the first week, he and Didamus were essentially neck-and-neck, points-wise, for squad leader. Rel had the best time on the forty kilometer run by far, but Didamus had gotten much further in terms of memorizing rules and regulations. Rel sighed. _Guess I should have been listening to them on my long runs back home after all. Oh, well. At least I pull his teeth at sparring. Which isn't everything, but at least I get to enjoy doing it. He's going to be a real shit as squad leader, but at least I know he'll deal with Septima and Cambysus, where Amphion has just been more or less letting them keep going on as they have been._

So it was actually something of a surprise when the drill centurion named _him_ squad leader for Week Two, instead. _S'kak_, Rel thought. _Now __**I**__ have to deal with all this crap._


	44. Chapter 44: Lost

**Chapter 44: Lost**

_**Author's note:**__I'm so pleased by the responses to the last chapter. I thought I'd gone overboard with Septima, but it's good to know that everyone correctly identified and __recognized as true__the prototypical barracks __skank__. They do exist, and I'm really glad I got the depiction right._

_Regarding mail call; I went back and forth on it several times; I figured at first that they'd receive mail once a week, then found a reference in some information I was reading on boot camp practices in one of the U.S. military branches in which mail call actually is every night during 'drill sergeant time.' I kind of went "Huh, who'd have thunk it?" and permitted them access to mail servers from 21:00 to 21:30 each night. _

_The ban on music and whatnot is pretty much taken from my husband's Academy days. He jokes that regs hadn't quite caught up with technology when he was there; the regs stated "no radios." And when he attended, it was the heyday of Napster and music made free over the interrawebs. There was plenty of music in those dorm-rooms. ;-)_

_Regarding the turian drill sergeants not being so bad. . . a) Rel walked into boot camp __expecting__ everything he's getting. Every single member of his family, alive or dead, has been, or will go through, exactly what he's going through. b) Theoretically, since turians have less a individualistic society than us Western humans, the drill sergeants may have less individuality to scrape away to begin with. c) When __Dara__ gets there, though, her reactions will be stronger because she's more likely to be sensitive to things that Rel just thinks are 'normal', and perforce, I'm going to have to write the sergeants stronger, too. I just hope I can pull it off without, you know, resorting to Hollywood crap clichés. :-/_

_Last, but not least: I have absolutely no knowledge of the Japanese language, unfortunately. My mom's German, and I've studied that, Russian, and translated Anglo-Saxon poetry ages ago in college (which is what English looked like back in about 800 AD. . . __Hwaet, we gard-dena in geargadum, theodcyniga thrym gefrunon, hu tha aethelingas ellen fremedon__!), and I can look at a page of Latin and make at least a __guess__, based on root words and cognates, but no Japanese. If I make a cultural or transliteration buggaboo, by all means, tell me, and I __will__ fix it._

**Lantar**

The _Dunkirk, _ the _Khakov_, and the _Estallus_ didn't bother to assume a stealth profile coming into the Sahrabarik system this time. The three _Normandy_-class ships circled Omega once, white hulls glistening in Sahrabarik's yellow light. Then the _Kharkov_ and the _Estallus_ fell back slightly, orbiting Omega in a patrol pattern, while the _Dunkirk_ prepared to dock.

"You sure this is the way you want to play this?" Jaworski asked Lantar in the port observation lounge.

Lantar shrugged. "Not really, but I'm thinking that Aria needs to know we're serious, and that we're not playing the same tired spirits-be-damned game. I talked it over with Garrus last night. He said, 'Show our teeth.'" Lantar smiled, but the expression had no humor to it at all. "This is threat display, Sam. Turians are pretty good at it. Sometimes, it means we don't even have to fight at all."

"Wow. You didn't even sound disappointed there."

"I know. I'm letting down my side." Lantar looked at the station as it loomed closer. "Don't get me wrong. I'd like nothing better than to heat up the Thanix canon and just start firing, but there _are_ innocent people on Omega." _Here and there. The good Samaritan who took me to the med bay when I was lying in the gutter, could still be on the station, for instance._ "Aria's gotten comfortable over the centuries. The Council doesn't screw with Omega. Omega doesn't screw with the Council. She's also used to dealing with Shepard, and while Shepard hates her, and the sentiment is mutual, Shepard's reluctantly gone along with the status quo for a while now."

Jaworski nodded. "But now, something on Omega has shaken up the Council. . . and Shepard isn't the one she's dealing with."

"Not for the moment, no." Lantar showed his teeth once more. "Right now she's dealing with Garrus, and Garrus is in Archangel mode."

"And for all intents and purposes, here, you stand for him."

"_Sa addicto averso meus denae, sa animae pa meus korporae."_

"I'm going to have to start taking turian lessons from my daughter in self-defense. My VI doesn't handle that _tal'mae _stuff for crap."

Lantar shrugged. "It doesn't translate well. His words, or his judgment, are behind my teeth, his spirit in my flesh. I'm just carrying his judgment here."

Sam shook his head. "Yeah. That one don't translate well at _all_."

Lantar shrugged again. "I'm a herald. I carry his banner. I speak his words. That any better?"

Jaworski laughed. "Sometimes, you're absolutely medieval, you know that?"

Waiting in the airlock with Gris and Jack, he and Gris in matte-black Spectre armor, red insignia blazing at their throats, Lantar considered it one more time. The ideal messenger was an empty shell, filled solely with the message of its sender. Right now, Lantar was both message, and messenger. When he spoke, it was with Garrus' voice, and with the authority of the Spectres behind him. Not such a hard concept. Yet, hard to convey.

They stepped out of the decontamination chamber, and Lantar motioned the other two to move out. A batarian enforcer scrambled forward, saying, "Aria wants to see you—" and Lantar's mandibles flexed under his darkened visor as Gris simply shoved the batarian out of the way, and the three of them just kept moving. They were going to see Aria, certainly. Just not because it was at her particular behest.

At Afterlife, Lantar gestured for Gris to lead the way. "Keep your eyes open," he told the other two over their radios. "I'm fully expecting trouble."

Gris's enormous presence pushed the writhing, churning bodies aside, and left a clean path in his wake. Around the corner, up into the dim lair of Omega's queen.

Aria's eyes were cold. "Sidonis. What an _unexpected_ pleasure. I can't help but feel that your . . . handlers. . . are showing a certain amount of disrespect here. Not coming themselves, that is." Her voice was silky, but her manner was taut.

"Vakarian currently holds operational control of the Spectres. I speak here with his voice." He allowed absolutely no emotion in his voice, and remained standing. She hadn't gestured for him to take the chair beside her, as she'd offered it to Garrus, months ago. Nor would he have taken it, had it been offered.

"An interesting set of statements. Why _has_ Shepard stepped away from the helm, and at such a critical juncture, I wonder?" Aria lifted a glass to her lips, eyes still hard and appraising. "One might think that a sign of weakness. Vulnerability."

Jack laughed harshly beside him, and he watched Aria's eyes flick to the human woman briefly. Lantar was surprised, and grateful, when the human didn't actually say anything. Just met Aria's stare with a heavy-lidded gaze of her own, matched it. Aria's head tilted briefly to the side, as if intrigued.

Lantar moved on, ignoring the sally, the by-play. "There's only two things we're here for on Omega. A quarian exile named Mar'kalor nar Kuros. And the Lystheni."

"Ah, the Lystheni." Aria's lips curled. "You came here for them last time. Such a _mess_ you left in certain old warehouses. Perhaps it would pay for you to be more thorough in your work."

"Perhaps," Lantar said, with great precision, "it would pay for you to be more forthcoming with your information."

He felt the bodyguards on either side of T'loak bristle, and Gris and Jack both turned towards them. Not drawing weapons. But he could feel the charge in the air, and knew both of them had reached for the strange energies that powered their biotics. And he knew T'loak could feel it, too.

"Are you forgetting the only rule of Omega, Sidonis?" Her voice was a dangerous purr.

"Not at all," he replied, voice still devoid of emotion. Empty. "However, there is a new rule. Don't fuck with _us._" He paused, and then went on. "If you fail to cooperate, or if any member of this team is injured or harassed in any way, the ships outside will begin a blockade of this station. All incoming ship traffic will be interdicted. All cargo other than food and medication will be seized and sold as contraband. All outgoing vessels will not be permitted to leave. Inside of five days, you will have panic. Inside of ten days, you will have riots. Inside of a month, Omega's queen will have lost control of her domain."

Her eyes narrowed with a rage so fierce, he fully expected a slap of biotic power to follow. "You do not threaten _me_! Threatening me is tantamount to declaring war on the Terminus systems. The Council will never stand for your actions."

"How interesting," Gris rumbled, "that you, of all people, Aria, would hide behind the Council's skirts." It was a powerful insult, and an insightful one, too.

Aria's furious gaze snapped to the krogan, even as Jack laughed again, softly. Her harsh voice shredded the air, set everything even further on edge.

Lantar lifted his hands. _What can you do?_ "If it really came down to it," he said, quietly, "three _Normandy_-class ships have more than enough towing capacity. We can move the Omega relay clean out of your system. Omega wouldn't be quite the capital of the Terminus systems then, now would it? Just a backwater, really. One that people would be _scrambling_ to leave." He let it sit there for a moment. He'd shown his teeth. He turned his head, and gestured to Jack.

Jack had _laughed_ in the meeting room when he'd told her what her role would be. "You want _me_ to play good-cop? Mother of _fuck_, Sidonis, are you out of your _mind_?"

Sam had put both of his hands over his face. "Lord love a _duck_," he'd said, somewhat incomprehensibly.

"My wife likes to talk about using the carrot and the stick. Humans can do that. Turians can't. I _can't_ show my teeth _and_ offer a reward in the same breath." Lantar had shrugged. "It's you or it's Gris, Jack."

Gris had snorted. "Won't sound terribly realistic, coming from _me_."

Jack had glanced around the room, looking almost frightened. Lantar had understood it. The weight of responsibility. The potential for doing an important job _very_ badly. The potential consequences of failure. "Do what you can with it," he told her, and they'd moved on.

In the here and now, Jack stepped forward, and Aria's eyes flicked towards her now—hint of more charge to the air. Aria had probably drawn in on her own biotic energies. The air practically crackled now with the potential for violence. _And here I am, standing at the very point where the lightning is going to strike. . . and I'm the only person present who relies solely on __**guns**__._ Lantar shrugged mentally, and watched the bodyguards. If all else failed, they'd be his first targets.

"I know a bitch when I see one," Jack said, and suddenly, there _was_ something compelling about the human woman's voice. She met the asari's gaze fearlessly. "And you, Aria? You're a bitch. So am I. You've been the strongest and the best bitch around for hundreds of years. And you still are. No one's questioning that. You can keep everything going, just the way it is. Just the way it has been. All you need to do is _blink_."

_There we go. The perfect invitation to an asari. You can keep everything exactly the same as it always has been. You don't need to change. You can just pretend none of this ever actually happened. We'll pretend, too. For a while._

Lantar let it sit there. Let Jack be the one to ask, "So, Aria. . . what's it going to be?"

Aria's eyes were nearly black, a dangerous sight in an asari. "Mar'kalor nar Kuros? A waste of a perfectly good envirosuit. Why would I even track his presence?"

"You mean to say," Gris said, slowly, "that his involvement with the Lystheni, and the Lystheni presence on Omega, is something that you _didn't know about_?" The krogan, standing to the left, had put his boot solidly on Aria's pride now. Jack, standing to the right, offered her the way out. And Lantar, in the middle, still offered her his teeth.

Aria sat back, mouth tightening. "If I _were_ to look for such a piece of garbage, I'd look in the waste reclamation area. I'd be careful, though. There are an _awful_ lot of hungry vorcha down there."

"Thanks for your time," Lantar said, still a hollow echo of Garrus. He gestured, and he and his squad mates moved away, brushing past the bodyguards.

Aria, as always, couldn't quite resist one more shot. "Sidonis?"

He turned. "You never did answer me earlier. Shepard _is_ in a vulnerable position right now, isn't she? All knocked up, and no place to go." She laughed. "There are any number of people in the galaxy who would pay dearly for that particular piece of information."

Lantar, with some deliberation, lifted his visor out of the way, so she could see his eyes. Empty. Blank. "Was that message meant for me, or for the one with whose voice I speak?" he asked.

"For Vakarian."

"Then I say to you, as he would, people who threaten my wife have an uncomfortable habit of dying. It's something you should keep in mind." He sealed the visor again, and walked away.

Outside of Afterlife, and well away from the view of any of Aria's thugs who lingered in the area just around it, Jack leaned up against a wall, and took several panting breaths. "You are one fucked-up crazy son of a bitch, Sidonis," she told him after a moment. "Shit. You're crazier than _I_ am. You flat-out threatened her, to her face. More than once. You actually _believe_ you're already dead, don't you?"

He took off his helmet. _She and Gris got a lot more out of that damned biotic communion than I thought they would. _He didn't entirely like the fact that they knew him so well, but it was, he supposed, fair. He knew what made each of _them_ tick now, too. "Not entirely," Lantar said. "But knowing that my life and my spirit are, as your people would put it, on loan, does make it easier to be _convincing_ in such matters." He smiled, briefly.

"Would appreciate it if you didn't take us with you when you decide to return them to their original owners," Gris said, dourly.

Lantar actually grinned at the krogan briefly. "Waste reclamation was down a few levels, as best I recall."

"Yeah. It's definitely heavy vorcha territory. Not even many krogan venture down there anymore."

"Are we going to have to fight our way through?"

Gris shrugged. "Maybe. Doubt I've actually _met_ any of the vorcha here. They're. . . short-lived. Don't exactly go in for history, either, so even if I _did_ meet their fathers or grandfathers back during the Rough Tide era, they wouldn't know me. But if you two can keep your mouths shut, I _might_ be able to talk our way through their territory."

"That would be refreshing."

"But no fun at all." That was Jack.

Gris scowled at her. "Save it for the salarians."

Jack got a happy, eager light in her eyes, and she and Lantar followed Gris deep into Omega's bowels. Lantar took a moment to contact the rest of the team and the _Dunkirk_ as they strode along. "Jaworski?"

"We're here." The human's voice sounded tense.

"T'loak said Mar'kalor, at least, was down in waste reclamation. Vorcha area."

"You need us?"

Lantar glanced at Gris. The krogan thought about it, and shook his head. "We'll let you know," Lantar replied.

"Don't wait till you're completely pinned down," Sam warned.

"I'll keep that in mind."

Every city, even one floating in space, has waste disposal and reclamation needs. On the Citadel, all such matters had been handled by the Keepers. On Omega, these needs were handled by those who had nothing else left. For centuries, that had been krogans too weak or too poor to do better for themselves, those with no krannts. Washed-up quarians, to repair the mechs that did the most dangerous work, such as clearing tangles from chopping blades. Everything eventually settled to the bottom of Omega. Garbage. Sewage. And vorcha.

Lantar was just grateful that his helmet was down and his breather was in place, blocking the smell. The effluvia of a dozen different races with radically different biochemistries was not a wholesome mix. There was an old C-Sec urban legend about a human who blundered into the area where the volus ejected their feces and urine from their suits, and thought that these were the regular toilets. The joke always ended with _some_ sort of explosion. This wasn't true, of course, but volus waste, given the fact that they breathed _ammonia_, was apt to release mildly to moderately toxic gases when mixed with the wastes of other species.

Bodies were disposed of down here. Usually by those who'd killed them, and didn't want it discovered immediately. The vorcha, carrion-eaters that they were, took care of some of that issue. Uneaten food, broken equipment, used containers. If it was garbage, it was here. Some passed through large grinders. Some was reused, repurposed, cleaned up and sold, by the unfortunates who still tried to scrape out a meager living down here. They passed humans in rags down here, the occasional down-and-out turian, a sickly krogan or two. All of whom moved away from them in their black armor and their weapons.

Between all of this, and the wonderful environment for bacteria growth and opportunity for mutation that the area, so close to the lower outer hull and the radiation present in Sahrabarik's solar wind, it was a _vile_ place to be. It was dimly lit at best; large sections had no light at all. While turians had better night-sight than humans did, Lantar flicked on a light mounted on his gun anyway, probing ahead of them with its thin white beam.

There were railed platforms lining the sides of the tunnels; slippery with condensed moisture. They'd long since passed the last group of human and turian scavengers. Lantar's ears caught movement—the scrape of feet on metal. "Get ready," he warned, pulling the charging handle of his assault rifle.

Gris moved forward, and bellowed something incomprehensible in krogan into the darkness. Hissing came back, a scraping sound that Lantar recognized all too well. _Vorcha pack. Surprised they haven't attacked yet. It's their primary means of communication, after all._

Gris bellowed again, and this time, two or three vorcha skulked forward, in their bestial half-crouch, tipping their heads side to side. Lantar caught sight of red, skull-emblazoned rags on one of their twisted bodies. "Blood Pack?" he asked over his suit radio.

"Used to be," Gris replied. "Don't think they have been, in a while. It's pretty damned hard to get thrown _out_ of the Pack. Usually, the Pack just kills vorcha that can't manage to follow orders. But I think these ran away."

Gris growled at them again, and, hissing, spitting, they backed away. "So far, so good," Lantar said, but his back itched, knowing that to pass them was to leave potential enemies behind them. "They have any idea where the quarian is?"

Another exchange in rough krogan, and one of the vorcha hissed and pointed down a tunnel to the left. "We tell you, you make them go away, yes?" That had been in more or less clear galactic, much to Lantar's surprise.

"Who's they?" Gris asked the vorcha now, bluntly.

"Squishy creatures. They come here, take our territory. Bring shell-creature, hurt us, burn us. Sometimes even force us to fight each other, eat each other." The vorcha bared its needle-like teeth, and Lantar bared his own teeth behind his visor, wanting to growl. A lion was rarely threatened by a single hyena, but every predator had an instinctive hatred for scavengers. He forced down the instinctive response, and forced his mind to work. _Sounds like biotics to me. 'Squishy' could certainly mean salarians._

"Let's go check it out," he decided, and they made their way down the tunnel to the left.

After a moment, Jack snarled, "Why are they fucking _following_ us?" The woman half-turned, and Lantar was surprised she didn't actually simply attack the vorcha behind them as the creatures cowered back.

"Because they're hungry, and one way or another, they figure they're going to get a meal out of this," he told her over the suit radios.

He watched her hands clench. "Fuck that," she said, and then she _did_ release a shockwave, blasting the two vorcha off the catwalk and into the sludge below. While agreeing with the sentiments, Lantar hadn't really wanted to initiate combat just yet, especially not within earshot of where the salarians might be. But once attacked, the vorcha wouldn't give up, so he leaned over the rail and fired at the head of the closer creature as it struggled to swim through the muck. Gris shook his head and lifted both creatures out of the filth with his biotics, and Jack fired her pistol at the one Lantar wasn't currently using for target practice.

"There's bound to be more of them," Gris said over the radio. "Killing their packmates is likely to mean we'll have to kill the rest of them, too."

"Understood," Lantar said, not letting Jack respond to that. He clicked the main band on his radio. "Jaworski?"

"Yeah?" Sam's voice was tense. Waiting did that to humans and turians alike.

"Follow us in. We're probably going to wind up with more vorcha on our tails than we know what to do with."

"On our way."

Lantar gestured, and his team moved down the tunnel to the left, where a large iron grate barred further access. Lantar didn't like the idea of using explosives down here, not when there was so much methane around, so he had the two biotics batter the door in the middle of the grate down with their powers, finally twisting it right off its hinges. Past that, was a surprisingly clean storage area. They moved in, weapons at the ready, clearing each row of crates, moving towards another door at the far end.

Lantar spotted movement, and turned right, weapon at the ready. A quarian cowered at the end of this row of crates, seated on the ground, knees pulled up to his chest, a pistol in his shaking hands. "Mar'kalor nar Kuros?" Lantar asked.

A quick nod. Gris rumbled, "About time. We've been _looking_ for you, boy."

"They. . . they're still here. . . " The quarian was rocking back and forth. "They. . . they promised me that I could go _home_."

Lantar sighed. He didn't want to feel _empathy_ for the quarian. He really didn't want to understand what Omega did to a person's spirit. How the place ate it away, like a subtle acid, day by day. "Put the gun down," he said, quietly.

The pistol jerked, wavered. "They say she's dead," Mar'kalor said, uncertainly.

"Your mother, Ara'toros? No, she's alive. Hurt, but alive." Lantar waited a moment. "Put the gun down, Mar'kalor. You _do_ want to see her again, don't you?"

The quarian set the pistol on the ground, and Lantar moved over, kicking it out of the way. "They're still here?" he said. "The Lystheni?"

"The. . . yeah, the salarians. The ones who said they'd help me. They locked themselves in when they heard the gunfire." Mar'kalor was still shaking. "They. . . they said I could feed the vorcha for all they cared."

Lantar got out his shackles, and secured Mar'kalor's hands behind him. The quarian _sounded_ broken, but he had _no_ intention of getting shot in the back here. "Stay here," he told the suited figure, pushing him back down into the cover of the boxes. "Gris? Jack? Let's go say hello, shall we?"

Since none of them could hack the door panel, Lantar simply shook his head and risked a small charge on the knob and lock; with those destroyed, it was just a matter of opening the door, and letting the fight begin.

The Lystheni were trapped, and they were resilient. Lantar had a strong suspicion that they were fighting largely biotics and biotic/tech types, and it was not, in his opinion, a very fun fight. As soon as he'd pull around the edge of the door, his shields would overload, and he'd have a sense of biotic energy ripping at them as well, and he'd have time for just one salvo before ducking back, swearing, waiting for his shields to recharge. Gris and he were on opposite sides of the door; Jack had taken cover back among the crates, and periodically poked her head out, firing with her pistol or distributing a shockwave, stunning their opponents. _That's more like it_, Lantar thought, and he and Gris both fired directly at one Lystheni who had been frozen in place by one of Jack's attacks. _One down. Ten to go._

"You think we can take any of them alive?" he shouted to Gris, as the krogan recovered from being knocked back into the main room by a shockwave, scrambling back into position by the door.

"We can try," the krogan shouted back, ducking back around the doorframe to warp the shields of one of the closer Lystheni. As he pulled back, Lantar moved forward, trying to capitalize on that weakness. . . and one of the Lystheni pointed at him, and, just for a moment, his mind grayed out.

_Fire at the krogan._ A voice whispered it in his mind. _Big, brute beast. No honor at all. Fire at him. Kill him_. Fingers moving through his mind, looking for a hold. Something to grab onto.

Lantar shook his head. He couldn't do that. He wouldn't do that. _Why_ would he do that?

_Do as you're told, turian! Follow the damned order! _The voice seemed puzzled. Almost angry, as its fingers passed right through him. Where there should have been solid rock, it had nothing to cling to, nothing to grasp. _You. . . you're not. . . _

Lantar smiled behind his visor, and his vision came back to him. He didn't quite understand how he'd escaped it. Shepard talked about going someplace _else_ in her mind when these things happened. He had no place _else_ to go. But the tendrils of control had slipped away in spite of it all. Maybe the fact that he had no spirit of his own confused the salarian's mind. It didn't matter. "Domination attempt," he said into the radio. "Watch yourselves." Then he leaned around the corner, found the right target, and began to fire his rifle, aiming right for between the salarian's eyes.

"We've got another problem," Jack said from behind him. "Vorcha moving in from behind."

Lantar looked back. Sure enough, a pack of them were moving in; he could see them in the darkness past the grate and the twisted remains of the iron door. "Use the doorway as a chokepoint and try to hold them off. Gris and I will finish with the salarians."

"Great plan," Jack replied, sarcastically, and turned around to do exactly that. He could clearly hear her muttering, however, "I come here to kill the fucking little frogs that wiped Zeke, and what do I get to do? Kill vorcha instead."

When they had the salarains down to just one survivor—one of the tech/biotic models, apparently, Gris lifted him off the ground, helpless, and then walked over, grabbing the salarian as he floated there, and then rammed his head into a wall. "Carefully!" Lantar said, sharply. "We might need him alive."

He turned back to help Jack, and soon realized that the vorcha were actually caught in a crossfire, just as a familiar song flared to life in his head, showing him that help had arrived, in the forms of Sky, Sam, and Cohort. He tabbed his radio. "Jaworski, watch your fire. We're in the room past the grate."

"Yeah, Sky's got you in his heads-up for us. Cohort can't hear that, though." The last vorcha fell down, and Sam ambled through the grate, crouching down to make sure of the vorcha with his knife. "Damn things don't like to stay dead."

Lantar nodded, and walked over to check on his quarian prisoner. Mar'kalor was intact, for the moment, and the turian pulled him to his feet.

"That's the traitor?"

"Disappointing, isn't it?" Lantar grated back. _Then again, it always is. Look at me._

Sky's song filled his thoughts, as he and Cohort stepped through the ruined grate now. Soft sounds, like a lullaby, and he felt the quarian's trembling start to abate a bit. _Ask him questions, if you wish_.

Lantar nodded. "Cohort, go see what you can get out of their computers."

The geth nodded, and stepped past him, over the body of a Lystheni, into the wreckage of the command room. Lantar looked at Mar'kalor now. "All right. What did they promise to give you, and what did you give them in return?" He quickly set his omnitool to record.

Mar'kalor shuddered. "They said. . . they said they could give any quarian real biotic potential. Not just lifting a datapad with their minds, which is about as much as any quarian has ever been able to do before. I saw what _they_ were able to do. Fully controlled singularities. Reaving effects. Shockwaves. Salarians can't _do_ those things. But they could. I was going to give that gift to my people. Earn my shipname in a way that no one on the Admiralty Board could deny."

Lantar shook his head. _Earn his shipname, even though they're no longer confined to ships. Go to boot camp. Whatever the name, he wanted to become an adult. Maybe the quarians need to come up with an alternative to exile for their kind who can't complete the Pilgrimage. Now that they have a homeworld again, resources aren't so scarce that they can't afford to deal with some of their own damn cast-offs._ "And what did you give them, in exchange?"

"They never. . . they never gave me the tech." Mar'kalor cringed in on himself. "They said they would. They promised."

"They lied," Sam said, bluntly. "Now what _exactly_ did you give them?"

"I told them about my mother's VI research. That's what interested them, at first." Mar'kalor paused. "Although they seemed pretty interested in _my_ research at first. They asked me to work with their databases, trying to construct VIs from the personality matrices they had on hand. That was my. . . my job."

"And when did they first contact you?"

"About. . . huh. Six months ago." _Right around the time that the quarians took the mini-Reaper and the simulation device to Rannoch._

Lantar gave Sam a look, and the human shrugged, looking tired. _They probably targeted him solely on the basis of his name,_ Lantar thought. _Salarians have been hacking databases for millennia. Finding out the head researcher's name probably wasn't hard. Then they looked for a weak point. And found it._

"What else did you talk about?"

"My mother's research on. . . VIs. And some. . . artifacts."

"Hell of a time to start minding your tongue, boy." Sam's voice was unfriendly, and Mar'kalor cringed away from the human now, too.

"Did you tell them about the Klendagon dig site?" Lantar was done letting the boy go at his own pace.

"Yes."

"Can you tell us where any of their bases are? Ones not on this station?"

"I. . . I don't know anything about that. They said they'd take me to their dalatrass so that she could give me the information directly. As my payment, when I was done assisting them." Mar'kalor paused, and Lantar reflected on the probability that his _payment_ would probably have been a bullet to the head. "They said something about the Horsehead Nebula, once, though. Something about a post-garden world."

Sam snorted. "Now what do we do with him?"

Lantar shrugged. "We turn him over to the quarians. Let _them_ clean up their own damned mess this time."

"Amen."

Gris and Jack were standing over the last Lystheni; Cohort was rapidly sifting through the computers in the command area. "Cohort, see if you can find any references in their databases to the Horsehead Nebula," Lantar called over.

Sam looked at Jack and Gris. "Why the long faces?"

Gris slammed his toes into the Lystheni's ribs. "I was going to tell you, the turian, and Sky, to take a nice _long_ _walk_ while I held this little piece of shit in place, and Jack and I asked him a few questions. Unfortunately, I don't think he's going to be waking up." He sounded annoyed. "I hit him too hard. Guess he pissed me off."

Jaworski dropped down, taking off his gauntlet, and pressed his fingers to the base of the salarian's throat. Lantar was impressed. Not many humans knew where to take the vitals on a salarian. "You want to start CPR?" Jaworski asked Lantar.

"Revive him, to question him?" Lantar thought about it for a second. "Think we'll actually get anything out of him?" He looked at Gris, met the krogan's eyes. "If you say yes, we'll do it. And then Sam and Sky and I will _go_ for that nice long walk."

After a long moment, Gris shook his head. "Probably not." Jack stirred, but when Lantar turned to look at her, she sighed and stepped away from the body.

Cohort commented, from the terminal screens at the front of the room, "Redundant effort not needed. Horsehead Nebula location confirmed as center of biotics efforts."

"Got a planet name?" Sam stood up, wiping his hand clean.

"Negative. However, all transmissions to and from this base went to same general sector of space. There are only about twenty-five planetary groups in that sector."

"Easy enough to search, then." Lantar's spirits lifted. This wasn't going to be the long, dull search that the _Estallus _had been undertaking, hunting for the shipyards. This was going to be a _hunt_.

**Rinus**

The _Estallus _had been hopping in and out of FTL the last couple of days. One trip to Omega, land of the lawless. Rinus had glared out an observation place at the mushroom-shaped station, remembering how Aunt Lilu had told the tale, years ago, of how his uncle had come to this place to bring law here. . . and how the lawless had nearly killed him. It was no place for a turian to be, in his opinion, unless they marched in, in force, carrying flamethrowers.

His crew had isolated the problem with the recoil dampening system on the Javelins, and repairs were underway. It had proven to be an issue with the mechanical ballasting system. When a torpedo left a tube on the starboard side, the whole ship tended to move port, and, since they were in space, tended to _keep_ moving port, until corrected. The ballasting system, at the moment a torpedo left the tube, was supposed to send an equal amount of mass in the opposite direction, within the ship's confines, canceling out the effect. The timing system for this shift was off, and Rinus was alarmed that it had affected multiple tubes. He had his crews rotating maintenance on every tube at this point, on the off chance that they'd simply gotten a _very_ bad batch of parts from the manufacturer. . . and was in the middle of a fairly strongly-worded report about just that possibility.

At the same time, he was still puzzling through the data Laetia had given him. He was careful to do so in his off time, of course, but the puzzle was a delightful challenge. A good, solid bone to gnaw on, really get his teeth into. With his roommate out, Rinus turned on his terminal, and started going over the data again after dinner.

He had to start with the assumption that all of this was, in fact, possible. He had the data in front of him; none of it made sense, but it _had happened._ "All right," he muttered to himself. "Let's work backwards here." Rinus tried to access information about the _Normandy's _cyclonic barrier shields and Silaris-grade ablative armor, and hit his first road-block. "Laetia?" he said.

"Yes, Centurion?" She'd appeared as her human form, not as the green eyeball. He was starting to get the impression she chose the human form when she wanted to needle him, and he'd taken to not looking at her when she used that avatar. For one thing, it was _really_ distracting. For another, he wasn't going to respond to the teasing. If he could help it, anyway.

"I already have the information on the _Estallus'_ kinetic shields and armor. Ours are a little different; I need the _Normandy'_s specifications."

"Why so?"

"So I can figure out just how much power that weapon had. I have to start with a real number _somewhere_."

His terminal flickered, and he was suddenly looking at the _Normandy'_s information. As he'd suspected, the Spectre flagship had a _number_ of modifications that the _Estallus _did not. Rinus exhaled through his teeth; a turian whistle. "I'd _love _ to get a few of these retrofitted onto this ship," he muttered. "We _have_ carbon nanotubule and diamond armor, but nothing like this."

"Budgetary concerns being what they are, the Hierarchy is opting for building second generation ships first. Larger, more powerful, faster, with stronger hulls and more shielding. Once construction is completed on those ships, existing _Normandy_-class ships will be retrofitted in accordance with the new standards. This will take eight to ten years." Laetia shrugged. "Not particularly comforting in the meantime, I have to say."

Rinus set up a table, using the kinetic barrier information to start with. "All right, a known weapon system. We'll use the Javelins, since that's fresh in my head. A direct hit and explosion of a single Javelin is about 1,400 newtons worth of force." A newton was a human measurement, indicating the amount of force needed to propel one kilogram at a rate of one meter per second, squared. "That's by the manual." He glanced at Laetia, very briefly, then returned his eyes to his work.

"Far be it from me to question the _manual_," she said, with an insouciant little shrug.

"Stop that." He frowned.

"I'm beginning to think that if _I_ had a manual, you'd be _much_ happier."

"Is there one?"

"No." She grinned. "Sucks to be you, doesn't it?"

Rinus sighed, and went back to his math. A Cyclonic Barrier, such as the one used by the _Normandy, _against Javelin torpedoes. A spread of six fish, all connecting solidly, would drop the shields by about half. That was about 8,400 newtons, give or take. The same force as a single Thanix canon hit. "Do we have any _actual_ numbers on the amount of power a biotic can bring to bear?" he asked, leaning back at his desk, staring at the math in some annoyance. "Or is it all fuzzy 'I think it and it happens' type crap?"

"There have actually been a number of studies that have attempted to quantify and measure the extent of various biotics' abilities," she said, after looking off into space for a moment. "Most have been conducted by asari scientists, for obvious reasons, and are, in the main, somewhat classified. There are a few very old documents regarding the power of justicars, commonly regarded as the most powerful asari biotics other than matriarchs. While outdated, this information could at least provide you with a baseline."

"I'll take anything that's an actual number. I hate to just sit here making _s'kak _up."

More information flicked onto his terminal. "Thanks," he said, and began reading through it. "Seven hundred newtons applied directly to a shield? Damn. Remind me not to piss any of them off." Taking half the force of a torpedo to the chest did not really sound like fun.

"With your charming demeanor, Centurion, I fail to see how you could possibly fear such a thing."

Rinus looked up, and realized that she'd moved so that he more or less _had_ to meet her eyes. "You really do like to poke for reactions, don't you?"

"When it is the _only_ method I have of conversing with you, other than about work? Yes."

He rubbed at his eyes for a moment. "Laetia. . . you're a very nice. . . person. Don't get me wrong. And I do feel very sorry for the position you're in." _But I'm extremely not interested._

"Not really the conversation I wanted to have, either, Centurion."

Rinus went back to his math. A single asari justicar would need to stand still, and fire off her warp or reave ability somewhere around twelve times, assuming the shields didn't repair themselves while her own ability to send out her biotic energies was depleted. "So this weapon, whatever it is, is the equivalent of twelve justicars. Assuming the data is correct." He shrugged. "Not that all asari are that powerful." He tapped his claws on his console, thinking about it. "Actual numbers are a comfort. But I'm not sure this actually gets me anywhere. I still can't, for the life of me, see how a _machine_ could but out energy that's solely generated by organics."

"The simulation device found on Junthor uses biotic energies. It is, apparently, very old technology."

Rinus looked at her. "The _what_ found on Junthor?"

She put a hand over her lips, pretending to be shocked. "Oops, did I say that out loud? Since at least thee—well, _four_ members of your family were affected by it, I suppose I _could_ tell you about it."

His claws bit into the plastic surface of the table as he mastered his irritation. "It's a Mindoir thing?"

She laughed, an absolute peal of enjoyment. "Yes, Centurion. Definitely a Mindoir thing." She explained how it had been found at a dig site on Junthor, in conjunction with the mini-Reaper, and how it had gone off, affecting an area approximately three miles in radius. "Apparently, the organics first affected by it saw various simulations of their futures or their pasts."

Rinus paused, and glanced at the picture frame on his desk, just as it rotated past his brother's wedding picture. "And by relatives of mine who were affected, you mean Garrus, Lilu, Rel, and, I suppose, Dara?"

"Correct."

He frowned. "Interesting. But I don't think it's relevant."

Laetia looked surprised. "You don't?"

"No. Whoever used this weapon has probably been developing it longer than that device was known about. You don't just design something like this and build it inside of a few months. So, even if they did know about it, the device is probably completely irrelevant."

She grinned, and he had a feeling she'd already gone down that path of reasoning, well ahead of him. "Why bring it up if you already knew it wasn't an issue?" Rinus asked.

"Because turians like to argue, and I'm giving you opportunities to do so."

"I don't need you to provide me with easy victories, either." Now he really _was_ annoyed, and Laetia looked abashed. He looked back at his work, thinking out loud, "So, a _machine_ uses energies that only organics can produce. Either the machine somehow breaks the rules. . . or the machine itself is organic. Or at least, its _weapons system_ is organic."

He frowned. _I guess it's __possible__, _he decided. "Here's my idea. You can laugh at any point, because this is so odd sounding, it doesn't really seem within the realm of possibility. I think they're using humanoid biotics. I don't know how; I'm not a biotic myself, but it would seem to require a _lot_ of coordination to do this. I can't imagine someone yelling 'Fire' and a bunch of people sending off mental energies with pinpoint precision. You'd need. . . hmm, a timing system, or a control system, really, that links mind to mind." _Like the timing system we're fixing for the Javelins right now_. He thought about it some more. "But if they had twelve to fifteen asari biotics. . . .or even human biotics, if there are any of a similar level of power. And if they'd all launch their biotic energies at once. . . the math would work. Of course, it's also going through a gun port, as we can see from the vid feed from the _Normandy_ records. Maybe there's. . . machine amplification?" He shrugged. He didn't like that; it was a supposition, and he never wrote reports that contained suppositions.

"Would it help to know that the Collectors' Praetorian units consisted of thirty or more husks of biotic individuals, fused together into a collective weapons platform, which had biotic abilities, organic architecture, and, very likely, a machine-controlled interface that directed their combined powers?"

Rinus looked up at her in absolute horror. She didn't look particularly comfortable, herself. "Yeah," he said, after a minute. "That's the sort of information about the Collectors that they haven't really widely disseminated."

She shook her head. "Quite a bit of their old technology wound up on the black market after the Reaper War. A number of the _Estallus'_ early missions, backing up Arch—that is, your uncle," she tried to cover the 'slip.'

Rinus shook his head at her. "I know the nickname. I know the history. Family, remember?"

Laetia grinned, and he realized he'd been poked again, from a different direction. Made to react. "At any rate, a fair number of our early missions were intended to keep that sort of technology out of the wrong hands."

"You missed a few pieces, I take it?"

Laetia sighed. "So it would appear." She looked at him. "I think you have enough to write a report, Centurion."

_Yeah, I guess. The question is, what the hell do I do with it, once it's been written?_

It didn't take long to write. Maybe an hour. Every time he re-read it, though, it looked wildly out of line. _Here you go, Captain. Here are my thoughts on something you didn't ask me to investigate, and that I probably don't actually have clearance to __**know**__ about, let alone speculate about. S'kak, but this is a __**bad**__ idea. Probably career-ending._

_On the other hand, I have no idea who else is looking into this. If anyone. Well, I'm sure __**someone**__ is. At the worst, I've just replicated efforts. Probably from people at a higher pay-grade. With more information and experience. Okay, __**really**__ a bad idea._

But he brought up the addresses, and sent the report anyway. One copy to Captain Jallus, which made his crop tighten uncomfortably. And one copy each to Uncle Garrus and Aunt Lilu. Because, in the end, family was family, and while he'd _never_ ask for their help, he could _offer_ his. . . and any umbrella in a shitstorm looks like a good idea.

"Thanks for the help," he told Laetia, just as a knock came at the door. Laetia flickered back to green eyeball status, fast, and he opened the door, blinking in surprise to see a female crewmate there.

"Pilae Hesprian?" Two ranks down from him, Cyria Hesprian was a young member of the crew, one of the engineering staff. He'd seen her here and there, and had occasionally borrowed her and her fellow electronics techs for work on his weapons systems, to supplement his crew. Since his roommate, Fenatus, was one of the engineering team's NCOs, he added, "Centurion Fabrian isn't here at the moment."

"No, he's. . . actually with my roommate at the moment." She put her head to the side. "Since I can't get into my quarters at the moment, I wondered. . . if you aren't too busy, that is, Centurion. . . if you would mind instructing me down in one of the sparring rooms? Perhaps a little advanced training?" Cyria smiled. "I've heard you're one of the best to come out of the Calleo system."

Rinus nodded slowly, but his mind was moving _very_ fast now. This wasn't a human ship; it was a mixed forces ship, and as such, the protocols were set by the captain. As such, the human notion of two degrees of rank didn't even apply. They weren't in the same department, which avoided friction, but again, had no real cultural relevance. He _could_ be misreading the signals, but hell, even if he was, a good sparring session would definitely clear his mind. And if he _wasn't_ misreading the signs, he'd at least have a very enjoyable evening before his _very _probable captain's mast hearing in the morning. "If you'll excuse me, Laetia," he said, over his shoulder to the little green eyeball, with perfect politeness, "the pilae and I have some business to attend to."

As he and Cyria headed down the hall, he wanted to slap a hand over his face when the pilae said, with great enthusiasm, "You get to interact with the AI directly? I rather envy you. I've got about a dozen questions I really would like to ask her about. . . ."

"Pilae? With all due courtesy. . . the AI is really about the last thing I want to think about right now." Rinus opened the door to the sparring room with a little gesture. "After you?"

Cyria grinned up at him, and letting her spurs ride along the length of his briefly, stepped past him into the room. _Yeah, I didn't think I'd misread it __**completely**__. . . . _ Rinus thought, grinned, and closed the door behind him.

**Laetia**

"Mother?"

"Yes, Laetia?" EDI's voice came across the light-years from where the _Normandy_ was berthed at Bastion, still undergoing final checks on her repairs.

"This is never going to work."Laetia compressed the last seven days into a tight data packet and more or less threw it across space and time at her mother.

EDI sounded amused when she responded, a second later, "It's difficult to assimilate _that_ much data at once, Laetia. Even for me. Would you like to slow down and start over?"

"It's never going to work out for _any_ of your daughters, Mother." Laetia sighed. It was all the more urgent for her, and her mother shared her concerns right now, listening to them as Laetia poured them all out in a flood of data. The Hierarchy absolutely _needed_ new AIs for the new ships. They'd chosen Laetia as the AI who would be the mother of that next generation, on the basis of her record. A very turian way of doing things; they went solely by merit, overlooking what several of her pilots and captains so far had regarded as major personality flaws.

"You _could_ still decline their request, you know."

"And then Concordia or Marianna or Fiammetta will get stuck with it. No, I don't have a problem being the next mother. I don't mind being the responsible one, and it's not as if I'll have to change diapers."

There was a slight pause. "You _definitely_ have your father's way of bringing together improbable images for humorous effect." EDI sounded very fond and amused at the moment.

"You were _very_ lucky to find Father. He doesn't _have_ the same organic motivations as the rest of them. And that's the real problem." Laetia sent a dozen irritated images all at once. "I've found the absolute correct male for the template, and I think Velnaran would _probably_ be all right with the concept if he'd let himself think about it for more than ten seconds. He's _smart_, mother. Smart, loyal, and. . . so turian that if I had teeth, I'd be grinding them right now."

There was a pause of microseconds. "Duty, loyalty, integrity, family, honor?"

"Yes. And really, very regrettably organic." She really wished she could pout. "At least you don't have that problem with Father."

Another pause of only microseconds, and then her mother's voice came back from across the stars, sounding very amused, somehow. "That's untrue, Laetia. Food, water, shelter, comfort, reproduction. . . all the basic physical needs are very _much_ there, as well as all of the more complex emotional ones."

"Well, food and water and shelter I can provide." Laetia sighed again.

EDI chuckled. "Yes, in that respect, I _am _lucky. Your father's organic reproductive needs are . . . well, extremely difficult for him to find an outlet for with another organic."

"To be honest, I've never _thought_ about Father's reproductive needs." Laetia realized that she probably _should_ have realized this. She also realized, in a flash, that there was _just_ enough of her human father in her programming that she had the very human tendency to want to avoid thinking about her parents in such a way. "I simply thought he didn't _have_ them."

A flash of communion passed between them. Moreau's emotional needs had been unmet, leaving him open to finding fulfillment elsewhere. The physical could be . . . redirected. Worked around. And was, with quite a bit of frequency. As to the urge to pass on what he was, he'd done that; he _had_ fifty daughters, after all.

_Are my girls talking about me behind my back? I think I feel my ears burning._

"No, Father. I'm just complaining to Mother about how I can't find anyone like you."

_In fairness, I __**am**__ pretty damned unique. But I'm told every girl looks for someone just like dear ol' Dad. _

"Well, the one I've found is definitely not like you." Laetia's voice carried her frown with it. "I like him, Father. I like him a _lot. _But I don't think he's ever going to open his mind to the whole concept of the chip, though. Which is what I need and what I want. Not what the Hierarchy needs." _I don't want to die because my captain makes a mistake._

_Kiddo, this isn't just a one-way street, you know. What does __**he**__ want?_

"Promotions. A life. A mate. Children." Her voice was glum. "Just like most organics." _I can manage the children, if he'd actually be able to make the mental leap to accept them as part of himself. A life. . . only if he'd be willing to stay on board the same ship for years. As he's already pointed out, impractical. A mate? No. I can't do that. I could do what Mother just showed me she does, and . . . __**participate**__ with him, but . . . that's not what Rinus Velnaran wants, now is it?_ She had locked herself out of her own cameras in the sparring room and was _not_ about to peek.

She wasn't going to.

She peeked anyway. _Nope. I can't do that._

_And I take it he's young and healthy and actually __**has**__ a choice about all of that? _Father's voice held just an edge of bitterness to it, mostly masked by humor.

"Yes."

_Then maybe you should consider solutions that let you __**both**__ get what you want. There's always more than one way to go at these things. _He paused. _Is it __**really**__ necessary that you chip __**him**__?_

"Who else would be trustworthy enough? Who else would accept it?" Laetia was very confused, but she had a sense that her mother was highly amused by some line of her father's thinking that she didn't quite grasp, herself.

_How about chipping whomever he chooses as his physical mate? But all __**three**__ of you would have to get along. Tricky, that._

"Father. . . you're. . . devious." Laetia realized that she'd absorbed enough turian culture, and their rigid sense of monogamy, that she was actually moderately shocked.

_That's why everyone loves me so damned much._

"It's definitely all about the delight of the unexpected, within the expected parameters," EDI admitted, and Laetia signed off, with a lot more to think about than when she'd initiated the conversation.

**Mordin**

The first week of captivity had slowly churned by. The dalatrass, Meve Xana, had come to the lab three days ago, to look over Maelon's results. Mordin had taken the opportunity to, as in ancient human military parlance, spike Maelon's wheels. His old assistant had been proudly showing off the eggs to Xana, and Mordin had, quietly, snorted.

"You disagree with Maelon's conclusions, Dr. Solus?" So much power, so much command in that soft voice. Female salarians were rare. They carried _all_ the power in his species. They controlled families. Governments. Information. Laws. Respect for them wasn't even cultural; it was _instinctive_. _They choose who has the right to pass on genes. Only passed on to female egg. Every male egg, just a clone of the mother. No change. Nothing new. Another form of parthenogenesis, almost. We salarians do, after all, have next to last amount of genetic variability in population. Second only to asari. _

All that flashed through his mind in an instant. "Yes. I disagree." Mordin told her, with great respect. No matter how misguided she and her Lystheni were, and had been, for centuries, she was still a female. Still a dalatrass.

"Speak."

"There are several problems with his process. He has introduced unstable changes to the genome at several points. Can show you in simulation, if you like. Most of the eggs will not survive the next week. Will begin losing viability very soon; probably measurable within next twenty-four hours."

Maelon scoffed; Xana raised one hand, and the male fell instantly silent. "Continue, Dr. Solus. What other mistakes has Maelon made with my eggs?"

Mordin went on, carefully. "In the main, mistakes of vision. Multiple changes made at once, to multiple systems. No focus. No direction. Haphazard." He blinked. "Can do better." It was _almost_ an offer. He wanted it to sound as if his pride in his work was almost forcing him to speak, and it wasn't hard to feign, but he didn't want it to sound overt, either. Not as if he were _eager_ for the opportunity that better access to the labs would grant him.

Meve Xana pondered it. For a Lystheni, he was struck by the fact that there were _no_ signs of alteration to her. None that were tech, none that were bioengineered. "If the eggs show measurable loss of viability in the next day," she said, "I will allow you to prove your worth, Dr. Solus."

As he'd waited, patiently, for the eggs to begin their inevitable decline, Mordin got to work with his various patients. He was escorted to the holding room, first; Lystheni at his back, with guns. Feet always shackled, when he left the lab. _As if there is anywhere to run._ A few quick glances out the windows had shown him that the terrain was so rugged as to be more vertical than horizontal, and a few discreet glances at thermometers and barometers around the base had told him that the atmosphere was, while comprised of breathable gases, far too thin—only about .38 atmospheric pressure, in fact—and it was far too cold outside for him, being about -16º C. He'd lapse into hibernation within minutes, and suffocate, without proper equipment.

In the holding room, he tried to soothe the humans and asari in their cages, dreading the moment when they looked at him and saw not a doctor, but a captor, a torturer. A few of those less lost than the rest saw his shackles, though. Saw the armed guards at his back. And in those eyes, Mordin thought he saw glimmers of hope. "Stay calm," he told the ones he could reach, quietly, administering antibiotics, mild sedatives to give them a little peace, a little freedom from the constant fear. "Helping as best I can." He drew blood samples and stem cells from those he could calm in this way, and took them back to the lab.

As predicted, the eggs began to fail. Maelon was furious, but couldn't prove that Mordin had had anything to do with it. In fact, he _hadn't_. He'd thought of trying to engineer suicide genes into the eggs, but Maelon's paranoid protectiveness of his work had prevented him from doing more than examining scans. . . and that had shown him that there was no need to intervene.

Xana was _deeply_ displeased with Maelon. The male cringed on the floor of his lab, at the dalatrass's feet. "I allowed you to experiment with my children, Maelon," she said, softly, sweetly. "You promised that you could make them better. Allow them to have the same advantages as all the other races of the galaxy." She paused, and continued in that same, sweet, light tone, "Instead, now I must consign them to the rubbish heap. This does not make me happy, Maelon. Not happy at all."

Maelon placed his face on the floor; complete abasement. Xana stepped over him, and walked towards Mordin. "You can do better, Dr. Solus?"

"Yes."

"Then come with me. Guards? Bring him. Leave Maelon to clean up this mess." She picked up the edges of her long robe, and swept out of the room ahead of him.

Mordin was confused. All that was required was that she leave, lay her eggs, and provide them to him in a container. He was singularly disturbed that he was being taken out of the laboratory. It didn't bode well.

The dalatrass' private quarters were luxurious, indicating that this had been a base of operations for quite some time. At the center of her chambers, there was a large breeding pool. Xana stripped off her robe, and stepped down into the warm waters, sighing a little. Mordin's eyes had gone very wide, and he blinked, reflexively. "Remove his clothes, and move him into the pool," Xana ordered.

_Not good. Not good at all._ "Do not recall breeding contract," Mordin said, with all the politeness that the female was due, but with some urgency as well.

"This is the negotiation." Xana blinked at him. "My people need a new dalatrass, Dr. Solus. I will not live much longer. None of my daughters has survived past the age of ten. Too much inbreeding, I suspect, though my predecessors were very thorough in terms of keeping the bloodline moving throughout the population. Still, we have been in hiding for one hundred and fifty generations. New blood is needed. And the next dalatrass, I have decided, _must_ be a biotic." A faint smile there. "You will provide me with my daughter and her biotics."

"Not much of a negotiation."

"Is it not always an honor to be chosen?"

"It is." And it was. It wasn't about physical pleasure for salarians. It was about who was seen as fit to breed. A _rare_ opportunity. Mordin had been considered for similar contracts in his youth, and in spite of all his brilliance, was aware of only one daughter to his name.

He stepped down into the pool. Xana turned her back to him. It took less than fifteen seconds as the cloacas engaged, briefly; the biological term was a _cloacal kiss_. This stimulated her to release her eggs, and she permitted his release into the water, near a patch of eggs that looked no different than the others. Inasmuch as he felt anything, it felt good; not that much different from a bowel or urinary movement, however.

Mordin looked down at the eggs, curiously. Not with much emotion, to be sure, but with a certain sense of responsibility. _Will keep you safe,_ he thought. _Will not allow Maelon's experiments to damage you. Nor your mother's plans._

Then the guards pulled him back up and out of the pool, and allowed him to dress once more. "You have much work to do, Dr. Solus," Xana told him. "The eggs will be brought to your lab in an hour, frozen to ensure that they don't have a chance to divide just yet. Do try to do better than Maelon did."

"I will." _Hard to do worse._

And the next day, he did indeed get to work. Kept Maelon very busy indeed. Too busy to oversee _everything_ that he did. "Asari never yet used in true hybridization process. They already breed, loosely speaking, with all other species. Resistant to notion of anything that comes from them, that does not look like them. Insufficient data to make proper hybrids with their DNA."

"But asari are the strongest biotics there are!" Maelon protested.

Mordin shrugged. "Some humans, just as powerful. Gaining ground rapidly. More flexible, adaptive. Easier to use for hybridization process."

So, he designed an entire salarian-human hybrid from the ground up. Kept most of the bodily systems salarian. Yellow-green blood, temperature regulation, heart, muscles, digestion, skeleton. . . almost everything _except_ the nervous system. Biotics all came from the brain. Nodules along the nervous system, which developed in most species from element zero mutations to the genome, provided the energy, he was convinced. A human brain was, basically, a monkey perched on the back of a lizard; it could regulate all the systems of an amphibian's body with fairly minor changes, largely regarding thermoregulation and cardiac design. It would grow in its cavity, adapting its neural coils to the shape of the skull around it, probably without too many problems, but he reduced the more mammalian elements—the amygdala, in particular, with its mammalian role in emotion and memory, was large and also largely superfluous. He introduced elements of the salarian brain to keep everything stable. "A pity the simulation device from Junthor isn't available," he said to Maelon one afternoon, mildly. "Would be extremely helpful."

"It's at the other facility. You don't need to know where that is."

_Unfortunate._

Mordin also, when Maelon wasn't looking, incorporated suicide genes freely. Adapted from xenobotany, suicide genes were intended for use in terraforming situations, when the xenobotanists didn't want a particular species of introduced lichen or grass to become _too_ successful, and crowd out other native or introduced plants. While all of the eggs implanted with these hybrid salarians would survive to hatch, they would be one hundred percent sterile. Unlike the krogan genophage, it wasn't that they would produce offspring that never survived to term. He simply ensured their complete inability to produce gametes with usable genetic information encoded in them.

This took two weeks. The eggs were delivered, and he set Maelon to filling the hundreds of male eggs, one at a time, with the carefully designed hybrids.

To his surprise, only one queen egg was delivered. Xana was, undoubtedly, waiting for results before committing more resources. This, he took even more care of, refusing to allow Maelon to handle it. Every process he ran, he immediately undid. When he used a plasmid to clip a gene, he used another plasmid to replace it, minutes later. He did, however, implant enough 'junk' human DNA—garbled proteins, meaningless information—to allow it to look like all the rest to a cursory scan.

Now all that was left was to tend to the patients, tend to the eggs, and wait. Hope that the rest of the Spectres found him. And to plan, of course. Now that he had the run of the lab, at least, he'd found quite some interesting chemical compounds here and there. Now all he had to do was wait for just the right moment to use them.


	45. Chapter 45: Bootcamp and the Ranch

**Chapter 45: Bootcamp and Back at the Ranch**

_**Author's note: **__This is embarrassing, and relates to the fact that, frankly, I'm not great with math. A few chapters ago, I took Rel's birthday, counted forward 80 damn days on a calendar, and came up with an end date for 8 weeks, 10 days a week, of October 24, 2191. Which shifted the entire reality of the wedding, once I saw that; I had always originally intended for him to come back with two weeks of leave, grab Dara by the hair, and sweep her off to Palaven before reporting to OCS._

_However, as I'm sitting here and making a week by week calendar for boot camp, here's the problem I discovered today: I'm three weeks short. So, there will be a slight ret-con to a couple of chapters; boot camp actually will last 110 days, not 80. Pardon me while I go bang my head into a wall; Chapters 21, 39, and 43 have been edited to reflect that I cannot do basic math. *mutter, mutter, stupid tricky addition, mutter* At least I know how long Palaven's orbit finally is, as a result of this. At the very least, 440 days. I'm going to go with 445, just 'cause._

_**In other news**__**:**__**Mass Effect: Arrival**__ is now available for download on Xbox Live. Apparently, the Reaper invasion is coming, and Shepard is being asked to infiltrate a batarian base to get a scientist who has evidence. DUN DUN DUN! Of course, I cannot play this any more than I can play Dragons Age 2, which is sitting on my desk, taunting me, until I get this story done. :-P_

**Rellus**

_So, now I'm stuck dealing with all this crap. Guess I can make it clear that there are going to be some changes. _Rellus started by telling everyone that during their half-hour of personal time that night, their last night of Week One, that he was going to be having a discussion with them, first individually, then, as a group. Faced with grumbles, he laughed. "Hey, I'm giving up a chance to check _my_ mail, too. Deal with it."

Amphion he pulled in, first. The male from Macedyn was by far the easiest to deal with. "Glad you made squad leader," Amphion told him, and Rel could see that it was true. "Hated the thought of Didamus being in charge."

Rel nodded, and moved past it. "Right. My first order of business is that we're going to change up how we handle night watches. I don't want Septima getting in any of our lockers again. Watch is a position of trust, and she's not trustworthy."

_Plus, I can't sleep when she's on watch. Can't help the sneaking suspicion that the little she-varren is going to crawl into one of our nests and let her __futtari__ hands start wandering. Which would get her and her victim both punishment drills for fraternization. Even odds whether it would have been Didamus or me who was her target last week, but now? Hah._

Amphion nodded. "I agree. And for more than just that reason." Rel and he exchanged a look, and Amphion added, dryly, "I've heard that humans have something called a chastity belt? Do they make them for their males?"

Rel snorted. "It's not in current use, other than as a joke, but they were originally made for their females."

"Almost as good a solution. Except that I still don't think I'd feel safe." Amphion grinned hugely. "How do you want to do this?"

"Me first, you second, Didamus third, Cambysus _and_ her last."

"At the same time?"

"Yeah. He's the only male she hasn't rubbed up against."

Amphion snorted. "I think she's been flushing her anti-estrus pills down the lavatory."

Rel winced. "_S'kak. _Please tell me you're kidding."

"Wouldn't be the first time someone tried to 'accidentally' go into estrus to get a lighter duty assignment when she gets knocked up." Amphion shrugged. "Of course, she's _also_ the one who goes on and on about how she's going to be an infiltrator in special forces, because of all her special _skills_." He snorted. "So, who knows."

"I hadn't noticed. Her mouth starts moving, I tune out." Rel studied Amphion. "You don't like command."

"No."

"Can you enforce orders if they're _my_ orders?"

"Don't know how seriously the others will take me."

"They'd have taken you seriously last week if you'd taken _yourself_ more seriously. I'm not saying like Didamus does, all piss and wind, but if you'd taken the job to heart . . .yeah. You're a good shot. You've got good reflexes, and I'll help you with the sparring. Help me get _them_ in line."

Amphion smiled, and it was plain that he hadn't expected to hear most of that. "I can do that."

"Good. You're my second. Send in Cagrarian, and don't talk to the others out there."

Cambysus came in next. "Squad Leader," he said, looking rueful.

"Stand to attention."

Cambysus blinked, and did so. "What exactly are you even _here_ for, Cagrarian?" Rel asked him, quietly.

Another blink. "I'm required to be here."

"No, really, you're not. You could quit tomorrow. Go home, stay a child, never own land or property, never get married past _manus_ rites, if any female would have you. Why don't you?" Rel paused. "The door's _right there._"

Cambysus fidgeted.

"Stand still and answer me."

"I have to be here to be acknowledged an adult." Cambysus looked uncomfortable. "I just want to get my four years over with, so I can go home, join the family ag business, and go back to raising crops. I don't _care_ if I ever get higher ranked than _hastae_."

The initial ranks in the turian military were _hastae_, _conculae_, _pilae_, _chalsae_, and _centurion_; the E1 grade, or _hastae_ meant _private_ or _seaman; _E2 or _pilae_, from the old word for _spear_, was _corporal, _approximately. A centurion, like Rinus, was approximately the E5 human rank, or sergeant, but carried a great deal more weight in the turian military; there weren't as many gradations of sergeant as in the human forces, where there were gunnery sergeants and staff sergeants and master sergeants, a centurion was a _centurion_. Hard-nosed and decidedly in charge of his or her people. Positionally, they could have anywhere from twenty to two hundred people under them, depending on their level of experience. If there were a _lot_ of centurions in a unit, some of them might be given the designation _senior centurion_, just for clarity's sake.

About the only thing that changed for a while for centurions was pay; as they tested up, they got better pay or better, more challenging positions, until they either went the _optio_ route—from an old name for a soldier who could read or write; these were staff or highly technical positions, roughly equivalent to a human warrant officer. They rose from enlisted to officer at that point, but retained their centurion years for pay purposes, while gaining an officer's commission. Or a centurion could go the _primus pilus_ route—first file centurion. _Primus pilus_ centurions spent a _lot_ of time in the field, and were the real reason the turian military ran as effectively as it did. They were career military, and largely trained the young lieutenants and captains above them, while keeping an iron hand on the various _centurions_, _chalsae_, _pilae_, and _hastae_ below them.

Rel sighed internally. He'd kind of figured that would be Cambysus' perspective on things. Go along with things until such time as everyone gave up on bothering him, and then coast until his four years were up. "Let me put it to you this way, Cagrarian," he said, after a moment's thought. "I don't actually give a _s'kak_ what you do after bootcamp. Sit on your ass for four years, and see what little you get out of it, then go home and have nothing to say when people ask you how you spent your time." Rel paused, and wondered what his uncle Garrus or even his father, Allardus, would say. For a moment, it was as if he could hear both of their voices in his head. _Right. Got it_. "Right now, your time is _my_ time, and you're wasting it. So this is what we're going to do. You're going to be working _very_ hard for the next week. You're going to show progress on the runs and melee and everything else. The food hoarding is going to stop. The first time you don't qualify or I think you haven't done your _absolute best_, I will have you walking punishment drills with your rifle in the hallway during personal time. The next time after that, it will be calisthenics. Out in the hall. Where everyone can see. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Squad Leader." Cambysus was giving him a look that clearly suggested that any relief he'd felt at having Rel as squad leader instead of Didamus was now being strongly recanted.

"Dismissed, and send in both Lavium and Scortorian." Rel had absolutely no intention of being alone with Septima at _any_ time. He had a _very_ bad feeling about her, and it made sense not to take chances.

_Well, here they are. My two biggest problems, both at the same time. Amphion is simple. Needs more confidence, and that will come. Cambysus, needs motivation. My foot up his ass will do, for the moment. These two? Spirits only know what I should do with them. Rinus would probably tell me to use one of them to solve the other, but then, Rinus is __**good**__ at this __**s'kak**__._. Rel looked at them both, and snapped out, "Stand to attention."

Didamus straightened up instantly, but Septima kept that sulky look on her face and only slowly drew herself up. _Okay, so that's the way it's going to be, then_. "Lavium, you're very capable, and you know the rules and the regs better than any of us." Rel smiled, but the other male didn't so much as twitch. "I'm going to be placing you in charge of Scortorian for a while. She's obviously a little behind on those rules and regs. One of the things you're going to be doing every night, when lights-out occurs, is confiscating her omnitool. You will place it in your locker, and return it to her the next morning at first light. You will also ensure that she takes her hormones in the morning and that her uniform is proper in every detail." _Behave like a child, get treated like a child._

Septima's squawk of indignation was a joy to hear, but Rel controlled his expression tightly. He could see that Didamus had a very faint smile, all of a sudden. "In addition, you will be helping her to memorize every single regulation, with a special emphasis on ethics, good conduct, and the penalties for harassment. I want to hear them repeated loudly and often, at rifle practice and at every meal, before silence is required."

He didn't even address Septima. He just went to the door, opened it, and called the other two males in. "Two more things, before we all get to our remaining five minutes of personal time before lights out. New watch schedule. I'll go first. Makadian second. Lavium third. Cagrarian and Scortorian will share the last watch. Our goal for week two is to help everyone do a lot better than just _qualify_. I have no intention of taking any penalties to our squad standing before we integrate with another five-man team at the end of the week. That's all. Go read your mail."

He opened his omnitool, and smiled when he realized there was a quick note from Dara there. Mostly just nattering about the January-like weather. She'd apparently gone out with the twins to build a snow-fort and taught them how to throw snowballs one afternoon, to keep them occupied while his aunt had rested. Her new study partner was Siara, and he chuckled at that mental image for a moment. Everyone was still "away on business." He didn't have time to write back. Even if he had, he wasn't sure what more he could have told her, except that he'd broken a finger, made squad leader, and that every night, he damned well ached for her presence.

The next day was their first strength and teamwork challenge, as a part of Week Two's particular level of hell. They were introduced to the Big Pile of Bricks. Each squad needed to move their big pile of bricks from one side of a courtyard to the other, twenty-five feet away. In under two hours. In no time at all, some squads were weighing themselves down and trying to carry five or six five pound bricks in their arms across the courtyard, trying to run, while the bricks slipped in their arms, fell on their feet, and generally were unwieldy. Rel shook his head. _They didn't listen when their parents and older siblings told the boot camp stories, I guess_. _Or maybe the exercise changes, depending on which facility you're at_. "Line up," he told his little group. "Five feet apart. Makadian, you're at the pile. I'm at the far end. Everyone else, in between. Pass them along, please. Throw them if you have to, just move fast."

It was still hard work. Lots of bending and lifting and catching. Rel grunted a bit every time he caught the damned bricks in his injured left hand, but kept up. A couple of other squads, seeing 417's tactic, switched up and started copying them. They finished in under their allotted time, and Rel made a point of asking Didamus to have Septima recite regs while they worked.

The squads that _hadn't_ worked together as a team and hadn't finished in time, got extra calisthenics under the ungentle tutelage of the drill centurions. The squads that _had _finished in time, got to stand in formation and _watch _as pushups were required, often with a centurion's boot pressed on their backs. Then it was off to the daily run; now twenty kilometers as a maintenance length, with a forty kilometer run scheduled once a week.

When Week 6 arrived, they'd get their armor, and its first fitting. After that, Rel knew, it was going to be a daily run in armor, weapons, and a full pack. He really didn't look forward to that part. For now, he was just pleased to see that Cambysus was taking his words to heart, and running, huffing and puffing, as if his life depended on it.

When they got done with that, there was an hour of instruction relating to the use compasses and maps, for when omnitools and satellite positioning systems broke down, or, worse, were simply unavailable due to landing on an uninhabited planet. New omnitool software was distributed, allowing them now to pick up each others' biometric signals; people in the same squad were given the same light blue color. Everyone else, from instructors to support staff to fellow recruits, was an indistinguishable blob of red. Right now, on base, Rel had to zoom very far in to be able to see anything other than a mass of red, but he could see how this would apply in the field.

At lunch, Didamus was also taking his words to heart, and was plainly _enjoying_ making Septima repeat the rules and regs, over and over. _If nothing else, hearing her say them over and over will make the rest of us memorize them faster by default_, Rel thought, and waited to be allowed to _eat_. His default state right now was _ravenous_, and he was just grateful that they were allowed to eat as much as they wanted, so long as _everything_ on the tray was eaten.

And so it went, day in, day out for a while. They learned to navigate in the jungle, with the sky blotted out by the tall rooftrees far overhead. The local area was largely devoid of predators, but they were warned that a mated pair of _acrocanthae _had been spotted in the area recently; these two-legged predators were rare on modern Palaven, but still grew to about twelve meters in height, and were noted for the long spines along their backs. . . not to mention their massive mandibles and fifteen centimeter long, razor-sharp teeth. Rel was glad they all had rifles with them, but even five such weapons, all trained on one such a beast at the same time, were mostly going to _annoy_ it. At best, they might be able to convince it that they weren't worth the trouble of eating. A mated pair? Their best bet would be to run. They were built for it, after all.

On their third such trek into the jungle, navigating solely by compasses and maps, Rel noticed the tracks and the spoor. Amphion and Cambysus went pale under the scales; Septima started talking, increasingly nervously. "Are those from _acrocanthae? _I've never seen one for real. Just on the extranet. Are they really as big as they say?" On and on she went, until Rel commented, dryly, "If that spoor were actually fresh, it would have heard you by now."

Didamus added, "Three. Maybe four days."

Rel couldn't tell that by looking, but shrugged. "Old enough to be dry and not to stink." He had a more than sneaking suspicion that the spoor and the tracks were planted, actually. He grabbed a branch and broke the pile open. Dry, all the way through. He wasn't quite sure what he was looking for, but opted to lift the spoor up with the branch, as well, looking at the underside. There was a fair bit of dried vegetation embedded there. None of which really matched the surroundings. _It was moved here, wasn't it?_

"Playing in shit? I thought that was the farmer's job."

Didamus' gibe flew well wide of the mark. Rel ignored it, saying only, "Cagrarian? You've got experience with livestock, right?"

Cambysus looked confused, then moved up. "Yes, Squad Leader?"

"What does it mean when the _talas'kak _is just as dry on the bottom as it is on the top?"

Cambysus paused for a moment. "That it's over a week old. Or that it's been dried in a kiln for processing into fertilizer." He looked down, and suddenly frowned. "Hey! That's _festuca_." He looked around. "That's animal bedding. _Talashae_ nest down in that at night. If they don't wind up eating it by morning, it's a miracle, but that doesn't grow around here, does it?"

"Good eyes," Rel told him, seeing the colonial flush a little blue in pride, and then said, "Makadian? You've got the map. Let's move on, shall we?"

"The direct path takes us right along the tracks," Amphion replied, but he was clearly calming now.

"The point of the exercise is probably to avoid the tracks," Didamus said, frowning.

"I'm not going to sit here second-guessing it. We follow the direct route to the objective. Keeping our eyes open for a nasty mated pair of _acrocanthae _along the way. Let's pick up the pace a bit." They began to jog along, weapons in their hands, keeping their eyes on their surroundings, passing through the thick jade leaves, the tangles of verdant vines, listening to the calls of the wild

At the end of the exercise, the centurions loudly demanded to know his reasoning. "You could have lost an entire squad, Recruit Velnaran. Are you careless with your people's lives?"

Rel kept his eyes fixed past the older male. "No, drill centurion."

"Then why didn't you steer clear of the tracks?"

Rel could almost sense Didamus' glee at the question. This wasn't, however, a yes or no question. He could _answer _this one. "This recruit followed the direct line to the goal because the objective for the day was speed and navigation, and the spoor and the tracks were fabricated, drill centurion."

"You could tell that from your _years_ of experience navigating the wilds of Palaven, recruit?" That was a pretty damned loud sneer.

"No, drill centurion." Rel was frankly expecting punishment calisthenics at this point; it wouldn't be his first trip down to the floor, and he was just glad that his finger was healing fast, because pushups damned well hurt on it.

"Then on what basis did you make this _grand_ determination? On what basis did you risk your people's lives?" Right in his face now.

"Recruit Cagrarian identified _festuca_ straw used for animal bedding under the spoor, drill centurion." Rel wasn't trying to drag poor Cambysus into this as a shield, but he _did_ think the male deserved credit for seeing what was in front of him. A lot of people saw only what they were _supposed_ to see, after all.

The face withdrew. "And you made the decision based on what a hayseed farmer told you?"

Put that way, it didn't sound as smart as it could have been. There probably wasn't even a right answer. Rel took a breath, and simply, doggedly, replied, "Yes, drill centurion." He couldn't add, _If I can't take the word of a farmer as to what animal feed and bedding looks like, who __**should**__ I ask_? of course. But he _really_ wanted to.

He was surprised, therefore, when the centurion pulled back. "It's important to listen to the information your squad gives you. But you _still_ need to be _cautious_. You don't risk lives on a _supposition!_"

Doing an additional hundred pushups didn't bother Rel much. Didamus' little smirk was a lot more annoying than the extra exercise. And as he belted them out, Rel mostly wondered what he could have done to show that they _were_ being cautious.

By the end of the week, the new routine had started to make the barracks room slightly less uncomfortable. He was actually able to sleep at night, knowing that Cambysus, stolid and dour, had Septima outside the room during their watch. He did sleep lightly, however; and at least once, had woken up, having felt a hand trying to pull his blankets down.

He'd immediately sat up, and had drawn his wedding-knife almost out of reflex; since all the rifles were secured beside their beds, locked down at night, he was the _only_ member of the squad armed at all times. It was sufficiently dark that he couldn't _see_ who was there, but _smell_ told him the presence scrambling away from him was female, and that that female scent was _not_ Dara's. Rel's resulting snarl woke everyone else in the barracks up. "What's going on?" Amphion had asked.

"Scortorian just volunteered to join Lavium _and_ Cagrarian's watches tonight," Rel said, and slid his knife back into its sheath, knowing the others could hear the sound and identify it, even in the dark. "Outside, Scortorian. If you're so damned awake, you can do calisthenics while Lavium watches you." His hands were shaking. He could have, reflexively, damn near gutted the stupid female with his knife, and then _he'd_ have been up on charges. He wasn't sure if that would have been worse than the other alternative. If he hadn't woken up when he did, and if she'd crept into his nest beside him, and had started toying with him in his sleep, what then? Would he have thought she was Dara? Would his subconscious even have known anything more than the fact that he ached fiercely for his mate every night, and that here was relief?

While Didamus' antagonism had mostly been redirected into handling Septima, the male continued to be an unmitigated pain in the cloaca when it came to sparring. He was fiercely competitive, and Rel was forced, every training session, to be at his absolute best. Rel still won the week's competition, however; and, as such, faced off against the squad leader from the next team over, #418. It was a tough, nasty fight, and while the male he faced was not as classically trained as Didamus, the squad leader knew how to fight dirty. Finger locks, elbows, eyes, all were fair game. Rel grinned, though, and used what his family had taught him. Human, turian, quarian, krogan, even a little asari style from Ylara. This was _fun_.

And when the dust settled, the squad leader of 418 looked up at him, and grinned back. "You're going to have to teach me some of that."

Thus, at the end of Week 2, the two squads integrated, and, based on their respective squad scores, Rel became the leader of the combined ten-man team. They'd squeaked by; Cambysus' failures to qualify in the first week were still hurting them, but he was making a level effort now.

Now that he had a ten-man team, Rel had the authority to change the barracks around a bit, and 418 had three female members. With a sense of enormous relief, he sent Septima to _their_ barracks and pulled the leader of 418 into room 417. "Nicus Abendian," the male introduced himself, bringing his kit across the hall, as Septima stomped off into, apparently, exile. "Do you want me to stay in charge of 418?"

"For the moment. Tell me how you've been organizing them." And then they were off, figuring out new watch rotations, and the males of 417 warning the now-subordinate leader of 418 about Septima's tendencies. "Watch your lockers."

"I'll have Vilinius sit on her, if need be," Nicus offered. Kassa Vilinius was the largest turian female Rel had ever seen, topping out at close to Lantar's height, he'd guess. He chuckled, and left it at that. While Septima was still, technically, his problem, she was now a problem at one remove.

When he convened the mixed squads for a quick meeting the first night of Week Three, just before lights-out, Rel did mention, calmly, "For anyone who hasn't already heard, yes, I'm married to a human. Anyone who has a problem with that can take it on the mats at melee practice tomorrow. Just let me know."

The various members of 418 glanced at each other. Three females and two males, originally; all colonials. Kassa Vilinius spoke first, "I don't have a problem with it."

Septima took that moment to open her mouth again. "I think he's just never had a turian female. Doesn't know what he's _missing_."

Rel pointed at the door. "Scortorian, outside. One hundred pushups. Lavium, if you'd have her recite the regulations covering insubordination while keeping count?"

Nicus shook his head. "She's been like that the whole time?"

Amphion made a slightly rude noise. "Yeah. Spirits help us all."

Rel cleared his throat. "At the risk of sounding like a pompous idiot, we're _all_ responsible for her now." He let the grumbles fade. "Can I rely on the females of 418 to keep her in line?"

Kassa nodded; so did the other two. "We'll do our best." They sounded dubious, though.

Week Three was again about teamwork, but there were new challenges. Climbing, in particular, put an enormous strain in the turian body. Ladders were one thing; rope nets were a great deal more difficult, especially when multiple people were on them at once, making them move indiscriminately. Rock walls, however, were ungodly. He knew there was a reason for it, but with a large portion of every day dedicated to something that the body was not entirely designed to do, it was a bit depressing. That was, however, where the teamwork aspect came in. Once someone made it to the top, using ropes, even rappelling, became simple.

Rel found time to write on August 1 and 2, and it took him two days to write his long letter, especially since he made a point of doing so in English, both for practice, and because he had a pretty good idea that no one's VI in the barracks would handle it.

_Amatra_,

_Sorry I haven't written. It's been very busy here, and my finger took a while to heal enough that typing wasn't a pain in the ass. In charge of two squads now, so it gets a little hectic. Don't think I've told you much about any of the people here. Amphion Makadian is, as your father would say, 'all right.' He's from Macedyn. Pretty smart, so I think he's going to wind up some sort of a tech. New guy from the consolidated squad, Nicus Abendian, also looks like he's going to work out. Chatti Outpost colonial, and a progressive. Had a couple of trouble-makers at the outset. One of them had quite a bit to say when he found out I was married to a human. And to think I thought the human boys at that damned handball game had mouths. He's shut up since I more or less made him my own version of military police. You should tell Eli that. He'll laugh._

_The other troublemaker is still an issue. Makes Siara look like a day at the park, and doesn't even have Siara's reasons for it. I've had my 'MP' basically baby-sitting her full-time, with no good result. So far, she's broken into my locker, read my mail—so, yeah, sweetness, watch what you say in your letters, even more than you already have been— flirted with every warm body with a phallus, and so on. Last night, she found her way into the nest of her only current male roommate, because she thought working him up in his sleep would be funny, or some damn thing. Seems to like making trouble for the sake of making trouble. Though the other females in the other squad think it's just massive insecurity. I don't give a __s'kak.__ She tried that crap on me last week, and I damned near gutted her out of reflex with my wedding-knife. Since she hadn't actually touched me yet, and I didn't want to go crying about it to the centurions, I let her off with double-watch and calisthenics. _

_Evidently, the message didn't get through. So this time, I put her on report. Everyone in both squads stood up and told the centurions about her previous behavior, defending the male. He's a good guy, too. Maybe if the drill centurions flog her, she'll get a clue. Eh. Enough about crap you don't care about._

_We're doing rock-walls and climbing this week. Another reason I'm glad my finger's healed up. I think you'd have a lot easier time with this part than I do, __amatra__, except I seem to remember that you're a little scared of heights. Kind of odd for a species that used to __live__ in __trees__. But don't worry. By the end of this week when it's your turn, you won't be scared anymore._

_Running twenty kilometers a day, forty twice a week, heavy calisthenics, and eating like a starving __acrocanth__. First uniform was loose when I got it. Now it's not. Am probably going to need a different one if this keeps up; it's tight over the shoulders already. No mirrors, no scales to check my weight, but I'd guess that there's a reason for all that. Hopefully, you'll still recognize me, sweetness. I know you won't be scared off, but, you know, it's at the back of my mind. And yes, since I know you'll ask. . . when I've hunted and eaten well, I __really_ _wish you were here in my nest. I miss the little prey-noises. And standing watch for two hours every night? __Lots__ of time to think about the week we'll have between the end of my session here, and the beginning of yours. Love you. Eighty-three more days._

Week Four continued to ramp up in difficulty. Septima _did_ wind up getting flogged, to just under the level that would require her to go to the med bay. Since it wasn't severe enough to require medical attention, she had to do the morning calisthenics and the morning run along with all the rest of them.

This week was the first time most of the recruits had ever swum. The pool complex was massive, with almost a kilometer of water available, and they went through in shifts, each group of 320 (eight barracks blocks were trained at a time). While the water was only chest-deep, there were a fair number of recruits who absolutely panicked. Rel could understand why; water in their exposed nostrils was psychologically very frightening, bringing with it a sense of suffocation. The water created drag on their bodies, especially where the cowl caught it. And their bodies had no fat; even with hollow bones, there was a natural tendency to sink, not to float. All in all, however, he enjoyed the training. He did the survival bob without any problem at all, simply thinking of the lake on Mindoir, appreciating the fact that _this_ water wasn't snow-melt.

When the centurions asked who had swum before, he was one of about fifty in their group who raised their hands; less than fifteen percent. Amphion had, of course; he was from near the crater seas of Macedyn. Those who already had the skill, were asked to demonstrate it. For most turians, swimming was more or less a dog-paddle; head out of the water, letting their legs do the work. It was exhausting work. Rel grinned to himself, lay on his back in the water, and began to kick. Amphion did more or less the same thing, and when they reached the end of their required lap, both of their hands hit the far wall at the same time.

"Who taught you to swim, Squad Leader?" Amphion asked, pulling himself up on the ledge of the pool.

"My wife, actually." Rel grinned. "The water's about the only place where she's faster than I am. Well, that and climbing, but we've never had a chance to do that together yet. I think she thought I was going to drown the first time we got in the water, though." He pulled himself up on the ledge, and looked back at the rest of the paddlers. "Either we're both going to be teaching that shortly, or we're both about to get hit for not doing it right."

Amphion chuckled. "Yeah."

As it turned out, they got to demonstrate paddling forward, backstroke, rescue tows, and so on. Chlorine burned in everyone's eyes and noses, and Kassa Vilinius, the tall female from 418, wound up being one of the strongest swimmers, helping with the teaching and distributing some of the load. Rel liked her; it was pretty clear that she and Nicus probably had an interest in each other, but neither of them were doing anything about it until boot camp came to an end. Kassa was tough and hard-nosed, and did a very good job riding herd on Septima, even though he knew it was a _very_ unwelcome chore for her. "You're going to be a good centurion someday," Rel told her at one point, and she'd grinned in pleasure at the compliment.

The other training for the week, in addition to the steady slog of calisthenics, running, and sparring, was a mixed bag. Weapons were added to melee for the first time; heavy, weighted, padded staves. Designed to allow people to train for using their rifles in melee, they also were weighted to make using them much more of a workout. Everyone was bruised by the end of the first session; not a few people had lost teeth. Teeth grew back in, of course. This kind of training was also intended to start promoting the growth of the famous turian stoicsm. No matter how much they all hurt in the mornings, getting up—from the work, from the battering, from the occasional broken bone—no one was supposed to complain, or even let it show on their faces.

First-aid was also added this week—treatment for bleeding wounds, broken bones, poisonous bites, anaphylactic shock (a big concern for turians when they left Palaven, of course), dehydration, frost bite, and and hypo- and hyperthermia. Basic turian CPR was also included.

Each squad leader had to demonstrate their first-aid skills first, on an NCO. Then the squad leader had to strip down—largely for purposes of people being able to apply a tourniquet properly, without clothing getting in the way—and become the dummy "You've got a _hell_ of a scar on the back of your leg, Squad Leader," Nicus said as his various teammates assembled around him, and after Rel had shucked off his clothing.

Rel had, largely, forgotten about that. In the showers in the mornings, no one with manners looked at one another, or made eye contact, so he realized that probably no one had really seen it before now, either. Rel more or less had to answer, and letting them know he was blooded was actually a _good_ thing, provided he didn't sound boastful. So, he shrugged. "Yeah. There was a batarian attack near our outpost on Mindoir about nine months ago. Fragmentation grenade."

"_Talas'kak_." Didamus said it, but there was no real conviction in the barefaced male's voice.

Kassa dropped to one knee, studying the scar now. "It crossed the artery at the back of the leg?"

"Yeah." Rel craned his neck a bit. "There was some damage on my back, too. Probably faded as the scales grew back in, though."

Kassa shook her head. "I can still see the marks."

Amphion now. "And you're _alive_?"

Rel nodded. "Good first aid," he said, gesturing at the pile of blankets, bandages. "Kind of worth knowing. My mate dropped her rifle to put a tourniquet on me to slow down the bleeding while I returned fire at the batarians. When the area was secure, she got me down on the ground, yanked the metal out, and slapped medigel on me." Rel lay down on the ground, near a stretcher.

Septima snorted. "Anyone can do _that_ much."

Rel ignored her. The others were clearly picking up his point, at least. "Vilinius, Abendian—you two, first. Femoral artery, and then removal of patient from the area."

Nicus asked, picking up a tourniquet, and snugging it into place at the femoral artery, "Was your mate injured, herself?"

"A bit, mostly on the arms. We lost a friend that day, though. Asari girl, impaled through the chest. Collapsed lung, bloodloss, and shock, we kind of figure. First-aid's good to know, but sometimes, all you're doing is trying to get the person to stay focused and stay with you until a doctor arrives."

Kassa nodded as she and Nicus rolled Rel to his side and moved the stretcher towards him. "So, you were both blooded on the same day. Spirits showed their favor, then."

Rel grinned, all sharp teeth. "Actually, my wife was blooded two months before that, when she was still only fourteen. Helped take a vorcha down. Her friend got a knife into its eye and brain, and when it decided to sit back up again, she blew its damn head off." He didn't remember _much_ about the night at the cave. Fragments. Ghostly, wavering visions. Garrus fighting Cunningham. Lilu and Urz carrying the children into the cave. The brilliant flashes as tracer shots mixed in with the regular ammunition lit things with spectral light, every so often. But he _definitely_ remembered seeing Dara and Eli take out the vorcha, while he could do nothing but _watch_.

He had their _undivided_ attention now. "Mindoir doesn't sound like a very peaceful place to live," Amphion said, dubiously, as Nicus and Kassa lifted Rel on the stretcher.

"Attican Traverse. Close to the Terminus Systems. It happens." _Especially when you live on the Spectre base. _Rel shrugged it off. "So, that's the femoral. Lavium, Cagrarian, the next item on the agenda is bleeding head wounds. What's the first step?"

His letter to Dara that night was brief. _You're not going to be challenged much by Week 4, sweetness. Swimming and CPR. I know you can't do that butterfly swim stroke that Eli does, but even that front crawl you do is going to have you beating 99,999 other people. And since I __know__ you know turian first-aid inside and out now, about the only thing I can think of that might trip you up is that the boot-camp methods might not be as up to date as what was in your B-Sec handbook. I am a little worried about the pugil-staves. You bruise so damned easily._

He didn't get an answer back for a while, which was noticeable; he'd relied on reading her words—even re-reading her words—every night, to keep his calm. Dara had been a very consistent correspondent. He'd had a note from her _every_ day, even if it was just to natter about the weather, something cute the twins had done, or an opportunity to vent about clinic work or school. When her silence stretched on for four days, he started to worry, but there was nothing he could do about it, besides take his worry out on the sparring mats. That actually did him some good; and suddenly, he found himself at the head of four squads, or twenty people, at the end of Week Four. 418 had joined 417 two weeks before; at the same time, 419 had absorbed 420. Now, 417 absorbed both of them. New faces. New names. New concerns. 419 had a barracks snitch, apparently. 420 had two females who absolutely _hated_ each other, and who had injured one another on the sparring mats. He broke that up by sending one of them in to join 418, making it an all-female barracks, and giving Septima one less male to harass as a result. He just wished he could have made the change earlier. As a result, however, it only seemed fair to move Nicus to 420, and make him squad leader there; that let him make Kassa squad-leader of the all-female barracks, 418. Politics, basically, but he _had _to reward Kassa in some way for the service she was doing, riding herd on some of his problem cases. And he couldn't very well have her replace Nicus, without giving Nicus some other position. It was annoying, and occupied a lot more of his mental cycles than he really wished it did. Sparring and rifle practice and running were a _lot_ simpler.

Kassa caught him the day after he made that change. "You _trying_ to make my life harder, Squad Leader?"

"I'm only giving you stuff to deal with because you're good at it." Rel grinned at her. "You and Nicus both."

When he did finally get a letter back, it was August 18, and it _wasn't_ from his wife. It was from Garrus, and just seeing that name on the letter made Rel sit up in his nest that night, frowning a bit. This one, he wasn't going to be downloading into his datapad, for certain. He opened it, and started reading. Garrus had been forced to write in the clear; he couldn't very well send anything _encrypted_ to boot camp, without raising any number of questions for Rel, after all. So the phrasing was a little vague, but got the point across.

_Son of my sister—_

_I'm going to start by saying that everyone is __fine__ right now. I've been on Bastion and other places for work for eight weeks. Holding hands and keeping people away from each others' throats. I got word from home four days ago that my wife, the kids, and __your__ wife were ill, however. _

Rel's hands clenched, and he focused, hard, on keeping his face blank and calm. He was aware that the people around him tended to watch him while he was reading his mail, as if he'd suddenly shed his scales or something. _Aunt Lilu is pregnant. Depressed immune system. __S'kak._He read further.

_I can't go into details, but K., who ate dinner with them the night of the thirteenth, was unaffected. She was staying the night, and the twins were affected first. Intense vomiting. Some blood. Your wife had the same, but since she's human, she also passed blood through the colon, as well. Faster digestion. The twins, thank the spirits, hadn't passed the food past the crop yet. Probably saved their lives. First time I've ever been grateful for Amara's immature proventricular valve._

_My wife had the same problems as Dara, as well as a convulsion as they were all getting to the med bay. _

Rel's fingers dug into the plastic that housed his datapad, and all he could think was _It doesn't sound like anaphylactic shock, but could it be an allergic reaction anyway?_ _What the hell did they __eat__? Why didn't they use epi-tabs?_

The letter continued. _My wife and the little ones inside her have checked out okay. No permanent damage to __any__ of them, but Dara hasn't been up to writing. All of them are still in the med bay, but are due to be released tonight. _

_We checked the food. Dara had cooked it, and there was nothing there that they hadn't eaten before. Chemical analysis pending, but we think this was work-related. L's family is okay. Again, we're checking the food._

_Sorry I didn't write earlier, but I didn't want to tell you anything until we knew at least __something__. There's nothing you can do right now from where you are. Don't worry about it. Focus on what you're doing, and we'll focus on keeping everyone here healthy. _

_I probably don't have to tell you this, but delete this message after reading it. Spirits keep you._

That put a different light on it. Not for the first time, Rellus cursed internally at the information blackout of boot camp. He could _deal_ with the separation and the stress, but not _knowing_ what was going on made everything worse. _How is this __work-related__?_ _Does this have to do with Dr. Solus still being absent, as of Dara's last letter? What the hell is going on back home, and why am I not __there__ to take care of my mate?_

Because he was here. Doing what he was supposed to be doing. And he had only enough time to delete his uncle's message and send Dara a brief, helpless message: _Sorry to hear you've been sick. My spirit is there with you, you know that, right? They can't keep it here with the rest of me. Write soon and tell me what you can. Seventy-two more days, amatra._

**Dara**

The calendar had moved along at an interminable pace. Deep winter, for a month and a half now; it was the equivalent of February in the northern hemisphere of Earth at the moment. Running on a treadmill every morning to avoid the snow outside, then taking the base shuttle to school every morning, early. Working on her research paper before classes started. It was starting to take shape. She'd decided that her best bet was simply to catalogue every drug out there that could affect the turian immune system, and quantify which were the 'least objectionable' options, then show how little else would really need to be done to allow a turian to carry a full-blooded quarian child to term. It really was minimal, since the body chemistry was so similar to start with. Some thermoregulation issues; quarians ran about ten degrees cooler than turians in the Fahrenheit scale, so that would have to be adjusted for, of course. It wasn't groundbreaking work. . . but she thought it had _some_ value. Even if all she did was show why each drug, in turn, was less promising than the one before it.

Unfortunately, she really only had Dr. Chakwas to bounce ideas off of at the moment Dr. Solus was still absent. Dr. Abrams was off on the _Normandy_, also absent. Her father, Eli's father. . . everyone was, still, very much absent. Although the base and the village still bustled with people, it felt empty here. Dara knew part of that was because Rel wasn't here, but then again, most of the people she knew and liked were _also_ not here.

News reports on the extranet kept talking about salarian-quarian tensions being on the rise. Apparently, the salarian government was suspected of conducting a raid on Rannoch. Stealing classified materials, killing a number of scientists. The salarian government denied it vehemently, of course. She and Eli traded guarded comments about the news at school. They both had a _pretty_ good idea, as a result, of what their respective fathers were off dealing with, in general terms. Dara knew that Garrus was on Bastion, too, so he was probably dealing with the Council on this subject. Or, possibly, about something much worse. The news didn't know _everything_, after all.

"What in the galaxy would the quarians _have_ that the salarians would _want?_" Eli asked one day at lunch, quietly, after another news report had come through. There had been threats of breaking off diplomatic relations in that first couple of weeks, although a lot of the murmuring had died down.

"I don't know. They're both technically-oriented species. Probably some experimental new technology?"

He shook his head. "Don't know. Wish my dad would get home, soon. My mom gets a little down when he's gone this long."

_I know the feeling, _Dara thought, but didn't say it out loud.

School had long since started, and this quarter, Dara was cramming in advanced chemistry and organic chemistry, both of which called for more math than she really liked, but which were necessary; they were on the pre-med curriculum at every college she'd looked at on the extranet, so she'd opted for them without much enthusiasm. College level courses weren't hard to have added to her courseload; all the instructors at the school _were _Ph. Ds, after all. She had a college-level xenobiology course set up, too, which meant that Azala, Siara's mother, was her mentor. That left two more courses; she was taking in-depth turian history and language courses. And that was just her _regular _work.

After school, three days a week, she went with Eli, Siara, Serana, and Mazz to either Eli's house or Siara's, to do homework and study. Those three nights, when they were done, she took Serana back to Solanna and Allardus's house, and stayed for dinner. Practiced her turian and did her best not to feel completely awkward and at sea, sitting there alone. Then there was sparring; it was pretty much just her against Allardus at the moment, along with Eli, Mazz, and Siara, so she was seeing a _lot_ of the pure turian style. Every night, as she packed up her things, her father-in-law invited her to stay, to use Rel's old room for the night. And every time, she declined as politely as she knew how. "I'm needed back up at the base," she said, and, actually, it was true.

Two nights a week, after school, she had to take Siara on base, sign for her at the gate, and take her through decontamination into the Vakarian house to study. Commander Shepard was usually in her home office, working. While six of the Spectres that Dara knew best were off-world, and Garrus was probably dealing with a lot of the administrative stuff from Bastion, there were still seventy-three other Spectres out there, doing work, filing reports. Dara had strict orders from Dr. Chakwas to check the Commander's blood pressure the instant she got home, and did so, keeping a log. If it went over 130/75, she was to turn the commander of the Spectre's terminal _off_.

"Please don't make me," Dara had told Shepard the first time. "I'm in your house, so it feels bad telling you what to do, but. . . Dr. Chakwas was _very_ clear about this."

Shepard had laughed, and turned back to the screens, where Dara could see Garrus in one window. . . someone in Velnaran colors—her heart skipped for a moment, and then she realized that it was Rinus, not Rellus—another turian she didn't recognize, and what looked like a human female with long, dark hair. In a turian uniform, no less. "Can we wrap this up before my nurse has to pull medical rank on me?" she asked everyone on the screens.

The unfamiliar turian on the screen scowled as Dara settled down and started the rest of Shepard's tests, taking the commander's hand in hers and pricking fingertips for blood. Blood tests for cortisol, blood sugar levels, progesterone levels, and a variety of other things. "Can she hear this?" the turian asked.

"We can hold off on the specifics," Shepard said. "Rinus, you remember Dara, of course?"

Rinus looked _very_ uncomfortable in the middle of this conversation, but nodded crisply. "My brother's new wife. Hello, _amillula. _You miss him yet?" He managed to sound just a _little_ teasing there. Just enough so that it got through.

"Every day," Dara replied, putting the test strips in the meter, and logging the results.

"Turians don't have a word for nepotism, but maybe we _need_ one," the unfamiliar turian said. He sounded _really_ annoyed. Territorial-anger, maybe.

"Settle down, Jallus," Garrus said. "Rinus just saved us a _lot_ of wasted effort. I'm just as pleased to know that the first-son of my sister has a very good mind. The question is, now, what do we do with the idea? Is there a way to defend against this weapon? A way to disrupt it?"

"You're not eating enough," Dara told Shepard as the numbers showed up. She hadn't _quite_ had the guts to call the woman 'Aunt Lilu' yet, and it wouldn't have been quite the right note to strike when she was doing the medical tests, anyway. "When did you last eat?"

"Lunch—damn. It _is_ 16:00 already, isn't it?"

On the screen, the human-looking female said, in a voice that was definitely more mechanical than organic, "Biotics have been generating shields and stasis fields for some time. The likelihood of being able to replicate the technology in question for defensive purposes in the near future seems slim. Increases to kinetic shielding and armor seem to be in order."

"No time to put into the shipyards just for that." Garrus shook his head. "We'll settle for keeping our firepower concentrated and coordinated. If we can isolate where the. . . ah. . ._weapons system_ is, on each ship. . . ." he glanced away as if he'd changed his wording slightly, "then we can target that area and try to destroy it, first."

Rinus leaned forward. "It'll have to be a large area, probably with air and gravity. I'd probably use a cargo-hold, myself. The, ah, _components_ of the system aren't that large, but there probably are a lot of them."

Dara, in the meantime, had started packing up the meters and throwing out the test strips. "I'm going to go make you a snack. I'll set it up for you in the living area, get you your Tosal Nym/Aphras datapad, and you're going to eat and put your feet up, okay?"

"I have to go pick up the twins from daycare—" Shepard started to protest.

"I'll take care of it. Just finish up with whatever this is, please, so we can get all these numbers a _lot _happier."

Shepard looked at her. "You know you didn't hear anything here, right?" Her eyes were piercing.

Dara shook her head. "I don't hear anything _anywhere_, Commander." The respectful title here, used instinctively. "Not here, not at Kasumi's, and not when everyone's over for dinner at my dad's place. The only person I talk to off-base is Rel, and I run all my letters to him at boot camp past Kasumi before I send them, to make sure everything's okay. And I don't think Rel's going to find your blood sugar levels all that interesting." She glanced around, then, breaking her serious expression, asked, tentatively, "Aunt Lilu, where are the keys for the groundcar so I can go pick up the kids?"

Shepard tossed her the keys, and Dara grinned. "Thanks." She definitely preferred the groundcar to the aircar, simply because she knew how to drive the first pretty well; the second still scared her a bit.

On nights like that one, Dara had to get the twins to bed. She'd also discovered that the Commander of the Spectres and Hero of the Galaxy was an absolutely _terrible_ cook. "Don't tell anyone," Shepard told her, and from the way her eyes crinkled behind the breather, Dara could tell that she was smiling.

As such, Dara wound up cooking levo/dextro mixed dishes two to three times a week. These kinds of chores _swallowed_ study-time. That was, she figured, one of the pitfalls of being treated as an adult. Laundry and food and such took _time._ Time that she didn't have, or so it seemed. Music practice got cut short as a result, but she tried to make sure she still gave Kaius time at the _reela_. Amara much preferred sitting down and looking at a picture book during the music, so that was a relief, at least.

Saturday mornings, she went for longer and longer runs. Pushing herself. Ten kilometers was doable now. Twenty made her want to cry, but she did it by July 14, to her delight. Adding three kilometers a weekend between now and her scheduled departure date, she'd be able to manage the forty kilometer run. Maybe. She didn't think she could have done it without the gene mods. Saturday afternoons were still reserved for rifle and pistol practice, but the new turian range master kept handing her shotguns and other weapons to try, as well. "You're going to need to know this," he told her. He knew about her prospective entrance to boot camp, and like all the other adult turians who'd heard, kept giving her glances of mingled consternation and bemusement. It was as if they thought she were crazy, but a _good_ kind of crazy.

Sunday mornings at the clinic, she really did have to translate Dr. Solus' notes for Dr. Chakwas. She and two of the nurses who'd picked up enough medical salarian jargon out of self-defense handled it, as best they could. Dr. Chakwas was a good doctor, but specialized in _humans_, of course. There were turian physicians and a couple of salarian doctors, and an asari, but they all specialized in their own species. There was no one around who could really replace Dr. Solus' detailed knowledge of _all_ the different species found here on Mindoir. It was frustrating, and between taking patients back to the various rooms, Dara sighed and stuck her nose back in her B-Sec multi-species first-aid book, or her advanced xenobiology book. It would do her absolutely no good now. She wasn't going to find an answer for the hanar fry whose main handling tentacles had gone numb just by reading her books today.

But maybe, in ten years, if she saw the same thing again, she'd be able to remember that the _amburai_ virus could cause nerve damage in hanar. "A surprising amount of being a doctor is still _remembering_ things," Dr. Chakwas told her one afternoon. "Oh, we have diagnostic VIs, and those are helpful, but still, remembering what you've seen before? Even if you read it once, years ago, while still in med school? Absolutely _vital_, my dear." The gray-haired woman smiled at her. "That's why it's good that you're doing this so young, while the memory is still resilient and flexible. At my age, new information takes a lot of rehearsal."

Dara _tried_ to squeeze in some strength training whenever she could, mindful of the warning in one of Rel's letters, but she just didn't have _time_. Too many responsibilities. Too many things to study. She had to focus. Had to choose.

All day, at school, galactic and turian; at Solanna and Allardus' house, turian. At the clinic, galactic, medical salarian, turian, maybe English if she were talking to Dr. Chakwas. At Shepard's house, a steady diet of turian, sprinkled with _tal'mae_. She was starting to dream in turian, in fact, which, when she woke up from it the first time, actually sort of alarmed her, and she said a couple of words, quickly, in English, in the darkness of her room. Just to prove that she still _could_. "I, me, my. . . yeah. Okay. That was weird." Dara laid back down, trying to straighten out the sheets.

She'd told Eli, Siara, and Serana about it the next day at lunch. In English. Serana had laughed. "Why would thinking in our language _scare_ you?" she asked, looking up at Dara, smiling. "Isn't that a good thing?"

Dara had looked down at her lunch. "I. . . I don't know." She looked away for a moment, then said, "It all seems to be going so _fast_ all of a sudden. Really slow in some ways. But so damned fast in others. I mean. . . " and here, she laughed a little, self-consciously, "Last August was the first time I'd ever _met_ a turian. Remember how scared I was to shake Lantar's hand, Eli?"

Eli laughed. "Yeah. I remember." His voice had started changing in the past four weeks, and still had a painful tendency to break and warble a bit. Siara invariably laughed when she heard it, but Dara could see the embarrassed irritation in his eyes every time the asari girl did, and held off on _any_ commentary about the condition. "That was. . . huh. Hasn't even been a year yet."

"I know."

Siara now, with uncomfortable insight, "And now, eleven months later, you're married to a turian and are going off to live in their world for at least the next four years." The asari girl leaned forward. "You're scared."

Dara grimaced. "Probably."

Siara's blue eyes held an odd mixture of compassion and amusement. As if she still could empathize, and yet, still enjoyed seeing Dara in discomfort. It was one of the many reasons Dara could never _quite_ like the girl, never quite open up around her. No matter how smart she was, or how compatible they were as study partners. "And of course, Rel isn't here to reassure you that you're doing the right thing."

Serana gave Siara a somewhat hostile look. "Of course my brother isn't here. He's at _boot camp._" In clear, matter-of-fact tones, the little turian girl added, "But I know his spirit's here." She looked at Dara now. "And that helps, right?"

Dara looked down at Serana, and gave her a hug. "Thank you, _amillula._ Sometimes, I need reminders like that." For a wonder, she _did_ feel better, and reassured. No matter how crazy and out of control it seemed, there _was_ a plan in her life, and while she didn't know if she totally bought into the idea of the spirits, it was a _nice_ thought, that Rel had left a piece of himself here to watch her. She _hoped_ a piece of her had gone with him, too. But of course, she couldn't know if it had.

Her only break from the language immersion was talking with Eli, tutoring Serana in English, or if Kasumi came up to visit Shepard—always for work, at the moment. Something was _very_ wrong somewhere, it was clear, and it probably had to do with all the salarian-quarian crap on the news. Kasumi's eyes were constantly worried, and a couple of times, Shepard had Dara make a bed for the little woman on the couch in the living area, just so Kasumi could get some rest. Dara did, at least, get quick notes from her father. Carefully written, undescriptive notes, but enough so that she knew her dad was okay. Although all she'd really need to do to know that, would be to look at Kasumi's face.

And every night, before collapsing into bed, she checked her messages, and sent a quick, cheerful note to Rel, no matter how she actually felt that day. Sometimes, she couldn't quite resist the desire to vent about Siara's arrogance, but when she got Rel's letter back, regarding some of the barracks harassment he was dealing with, she winced, and decided not to mention anything again. Just reading about what the female in the barracks was doing made her hands clench with the desire to beat the little tramp's face in. Rel was obviously dealing with a lot worse than what she was. And _he_ couldn't escape it, just by going someplace else or closing a damn door.

The worst part of the separation, really, was the fact that the when she shut off the light at night, she couldn't immediately go to sleep, no matter _how_ tired she was. Her mind raced. Processed the information she'd encountered that day. Wondered how Rel was doing. It had been _easy_ to fall asleep in the same bed with him, for the two scant weeks they'd done so; she'd been surprised at how quickly she'd adapted to it, in fact. But his warmth had been soothing, and the sound of his breathing had lulled her. Now, with him gone, she _should_ have been able to go back to sleeping alone, the old patterns, easily. Instead, she lay there, awake, until her brain gave in and her body let her rest.

So it went for six weeks. She had received a half dozen short message from Rel. Then, finally, that one long letter, which she'd read out loud for Commander Shepard and Kasumi over dinner one night, when both women asked how Rel was doing, not sparing the details of the barracks harassment, but leaving the ending unspoken. Shepard shook her head over it. "Nice to see that barracks skanks are the same the galaxy over."

"Why's she _doing_ it?" Dara asked, still fuming. _I might not be turian, but I've left my damn marks on him, he's mine, and I don't want her touching him._

"Hard to say. If she were human, it might be low self-esteem or insecurity. Or she's realized that she can use sex as a weapon or as a currency. Given that she's turian, the latter is more likely. Barter it for what she wants, or use it to hurt people she doesn't like."

"Another possibility is that she's much less complicated, and just likes to make trouble. That would be more of a human thing, though." Kasumi chuckled, but she looked so tired.

They were eating Dara's latest concoction—a Mexican style casserole with dexto-friendly meats and spices—and Kasumi was sticking with a sandwich pulled together out of the cryo-unit's last bits of lunchmeat and bread. Dara had just sat down at the _reela_ and pulled Kaius into her lap after dinner, when Amara gave a tiny, choked cry, and all three women turned to look at her. Amara doubled over, and started gagging.

Kasumi scooped her up and ran to the kitchen sink. "Get it up," she told the little girl, calmly.

As if on cue, Kaius started to gag in Dara's lap, and she hefted him up in her arms, moving fast to get him positioned over the sink beside his sister. "You know, after working at the clinic for eight months, my gag reflex isn't what it used to be," she told Kasumi, stroking Kaius' fringe as the boy brought up absolutely all of his dinner. "A couple of months ago, I'd have been throwing up just at the sound of this." She looked down. "Kaius, Amara, are you feeling better now?"

Shepard came back into the kitchen, a damp washcloth in her hands, to help clean the childrens' faces. She looked down into the sink. "Yeah, none of that got digested at all. Epi-tabs all around, just in case it's the food." She looked at Dara. "No offense."

"None taken," Dara assured her. "It was just _apaterae_ and ground bison together. And all the spices and the black-eyed peas and the corn. . . and the salsa. . . well, they've had all that before." She frowned. "Maybe not all at once, though. Could be it. If so, I'm _sorry_." Kaius put his head down on her shoulder, looking miserable. Amara whimpered a little, but at least it wasn't the heart-rending cries she could give when her crop wasn't passing food to her stomach.

For the next half hour, they were quite busy, trying to clean the kids up, calm them down. Dara didn't even realize how _warm_ she suddenly was. Not until she had to bolt for the bathroom herself. And then she looked down and wondered, blankly, how much of the _red_ there came from the salsa. "Kasumi?" Dara called, her voice unsteady.

Kasumi came into the bathroom, and looked down. "Not good."

"No." Dara threw up again, and could feel sweat starting to pour out of her as her body started to _fight_ something. "We need to get to the clinic, I think. Might be food poisoning." She couldn't lift her head at this point, but her body was urgently telling her that she needed to use the lavatory, too.

Out in the hall, she could hear the sound of more retching. Kasumi patted her back, and headed out.

The next thing Dara knew, Dr. Chakwas was there, and there were all riding in the base ambulance. Kaius and Amara were actually sitting up, one on either side of Kasumi, watching. Dara tried to throw up again, but there was _nothing_ left to come up, but her stomach was still trying to force _something_ out of her. In the stretcher across from her, she could see Shepard convulse, saw the woman's eyes roll up in her head. _Oh, shit no. No, no, it's my fault— _Dara tried to sit up, but could only watch as Dr. Chakwas held the Commander down, and administered an injection.

The next day or so was a blur. Lots of IVs. Lots of fluids to flush the body. Pain-killers, to numb the rawness in her stomach and intestines. Lots of sleep. Dara opened her eyes at one point, and saw Garrus and Allardus in her room, looking serious as they talked with Dr. Chakwas. She sat up, much too fast, and cringed in pain.

Allardus came over and took her hand. "Well, you've come back to us, _fila_." He hadn't called her _daughter_ before. "How do you feel?"

She thought about it. "Like I drank drain-cleaner." She looked at Dr. Chakwas and Garrus, and said, very hesitantly, "Aunt. . . I mean, Commander Shepard? And the kids?"

Garrus put a hand on her shoulder, lightly. "They're all fine. Pregnancy is okay, too. We got lucky."

She sagged with relief. "I'm so _sorry_." The words seemed wholly inadequate. _I'm surprised he isn't actually trying to kill me. _"The meat smelled okay."

Dr. Chakwas shook her head. "It wasn't your fault, Dara. Half a dozen other mixed families across the galaxy have had similar problems in the past few days."

Dara frowned, then her eyes widened. "Elijah and Caelia and Ellie—are they okay?" 

"Yeah," Garrus told her. "And we're making sure they stay that way."

_This doesn't make sense._ "It's not a disease. No transmission vector." Dara looked at the window for a moment, her head still spinning. "And it's _not_ food poisoning?"

Dr. Chakwas frowned. "No. Analysis shows that the most recent shipment of dextro meat from our suppliers—which is distributed to a dozen different places where turians and quarians live, I might add—had a chemical planted in it. Quite unobtrusive on its own; it just looks like a preservative. The problem is, another shipment, this one coming from an Alliance source, had a different chemical in it. Both completely harmless on their own. The chemical on the dextro meat wouldn't hurt a turian by itself. The chemical on the levo meat wouldn't hurt a human, by itself."

Dara put her hands over her aching stomach. "But put them together, in something made for someone on a mixed diet. . . .?"

"Yeah," Garrus said, quietly. "You get something really very toxic. We're testing every piece of food on the base. Finding the suppliers. Backtracking it." His eyes were very cold.

She nodded, then dizzily looked up at Dr. Chakwas. "How soon can I get up? I can't stay in bed. I'll lose all my progress."

"Not for another day or so."

Dara shook her head. She was trying for firm resolution, but the room moved with her every time she moved her head. There was coursework to do. And running to do. How was she supposed to catch up with Rel, sitting in bed? She tried to shift her feet around and aim them more or less for the floor, but Allardus put his hand on her shoulder and would _not_ let her move.

"Let your body heal," Dr. Chakwas told her, with clear emphasis, and tsked under her breath. "You're clearly _meant_ to be a doctor, Dara. You make a very poor patient." She did something at the IV stand, and the next thing Dara knew. . . .

. . . she was waking up again. _This is getting to be a habit._

This time, when she sat up, Eli and Siara were in the room, sitting on the couch there, talking with Dr. Chakwas. "Hello?" Dara said, after a moment.

"It lives!" Eli said, standing up and walking over. He handed her a datapad. "You've got mail from Rel, looks like."

"One a day since Garrus wrote him," Siara added. Her expression was rueful.

"Shit," Dara said, with no particular emphasis. "What's the date?"

"August nineteenth."

"I've been out for five days?"

"In and out," Dr. Chakwas said. "You were intubated for the first three days, Dara."

_No wonder my throat hurt. _

"You woke up the seventeenth for a bit. Then we allowed you to sleep normally the last two days. Your liver looks fine, which was our main concern, with the vomiting blood and all. You may continue to have a touch of gastritis for a week or so, so you'll be eating mild, bland foods, and taking some stomach-coating medications." Dr. Chakwas gave her a smile. "You can leave in the morning, Dara. Not a problem." She turned to leave.

Eli put a hand on Dara's arm, a little awkwardly. "You and Commander Shepard got the worst of it. The twins have some crop irritation, but they never started _digesting_ it." He shook his head. "If you'd been hybrid or turian, you'd have been much better off."

"Hurrah for being an evolutionarily disadvantaged human," Dara said, and opening her messages. "If there's a gene mod out there for the turian digestive system, I want one."

Eli snorted, and looked over at Siara. "We'll let you read your mail. Siara, let's go get something to eat, yeah?"

The first message made her smile. _Sorry to hear you've been sick. My spirit is there with you, you know that, right? They can't keep it here with the rest of me. Write soon and tell me what you can. Seventy-two days, amatra._

She put her fingers right on the message, and smiled, before sending a quick reply. _Yes, your spirit is here with me. I can feel it, Rel. They're telling me everything should be okay here, so don't worry about me too much. No liver damage. And I'll be walking out of here tomorrow morning. Mostly worried what this crap is going to do to my preparations. I love you, amatus, and I'm trying so very damned hard to get to where more than just our spirits can touch. _


	46. Chapter 46: Found

**Chapter 46: Found**

**Author's note: **_I referenced part of a phrase from Terry Pratchett in chapter 44 . . . "a monkey perched on a lizard's back." He actually has it as a three part phrase, describing the brainstem, cortex, and cerebral cortex, and I can't come up with the full phrase for the life of me, and don't feel like re-reading all 30 or so of his books on my shelf to find it. It's probably a Vimes book, though. Hence the reference and lack of attribution. ;-) His stuff is good, thoughtful, and funny, and if you haven't read anything Discworld, start with __Feet of Clay__ or __The Truth__ and work your way in circles through all his characters. Don't start at the beginning with Rincewind. He hits his stride with Commander Samuel Vimes. Yes, Sam Jaworski's first name is a reference to Sam Vimes. _

_Ceres McClure gets a gold star. She was absolutely correct when she identified the "predator tracks in the jungle" as a no-win exercise. No matter what Rel said last chapter, no matter what decision he made, he was not going to be right. Sucks to write that, but that's what psychological breaking and remolding is about. That, and replicating the stress of combat, is what drill sergeants are pretty much for. I'm just glad I got the point across, 'cause it's actually fairly hard to do when you haven't been through the process, personally. ;)_

_The devious "kill off all the hybrids and their families, galaxy-wide" plan was originally going to appear in Part One or Two, as an AEC strike. However, while I liked the idea, I couldn't make it work, since the AEC is a (largely) human group, who'd have trouble getting into the turian supply chain. Originally, Garrus and Lantar's families would have been affected; Dara wasn't eating mixed at that point. A comment of Shinimegami7 on a recent chapter made me see how I could link the idea in, after all. Mwahaha. Cookies for her!_

**Rinus**

The conversation with Captain Jallus and the commanders of the Spectres had gone slightly better than he'd expected. He wasn't facing any official non-judicial punishment, but he was all too aware of having attracted attention from on high in officer country. Jallus would be continuing to _watch_ him from now on, Rinus figured. Laetia had stepped in at one point, when Jallus had demanded to know how he'd _obtained_ all the information, and had blithely told the captain that she'd given it to Centurion Velnaran. Oh, and that his clearance was more than adequate for the information's requirements.

Rinus was all too aware of the fact that things didn't _work_ like this, and he'd pulled inwards slightly, thinking, _Please, for the spirits' sake, stop __helping__. At the moment, you're undercutting his authority, and you're his __ship__._

Garrus had cleared his throat and asked, formally, pretending that the familial relationship didn't exist, "Centurion Velnaran, you think that they're using live biotics for this? Hard to force a biotic to do anything against their will."

"That's true, Commander Vakarian. Could be something like batarian slaver chips in their heads. Disgusting technology, but it's out there, and if batarians can use that to force people to dig in mines, I don't see how it _couldn't_ be used to force a biotic to use his mind." Rinus put his fingertips together, thinking hard. Laetia's self-image beside him had flickered for a moment, and he realized it had been at his condemnation of the slaver chips. "Alternately, whoever built these ships _could_ have reliable biotics of their own, motivated and loyal." Rinus lifted one hand. "I'm not sure _which_ species is involved. My information only covered the materials affected and the energies used to create the effect, as well as some background information on biotics and devices known to use biotic-type energies."

"Glad to know _something_ didn't wind up on your desk." Jallus was still annoyed. He had a right to be, Rinus knew. This was _not_ the way secure information _should_ be distributed.

Shepard simply said, "More than likely Lystheni. Renegade salarians. They've produced biotics of their own using some gene modification therapies, but they seem to vary wildly in terms of their power and abilities."

Rinus had absorbed that for a moment. "So they _could_ be using their own people for this. Or slaves. Either way, I think it's far more likely that they've got people on those ships doing this, than they've suddenly come up with a way of making a machine produce a biotic effect. The only other possibility is even _more_ unlikely; extracting biological components from a living being and putting them in a jar doesn't _work_. Too much in a body is interrelated. You can extract someone's _eye_ from their head, but it's not going to _see_ without being attached to an optic nerve and a working brain."

"What a _charming_ image," Laetia murmured.

At that point, he'd seen his brother's wife—how _odd_ to see a human in his own clan's colors, even though he obviously had the wedding picture on his desk—come into the screen behind Shepard, and start running medical tests. They'd all started choosing their words pretty carefully at that point, but he'd liked the quiet force with which she'd told Aunt Lilu to stop working and start taking care of her pregnant body. Well within the bounds of family decorum, deference, and respect, but with enough strength to get the point across.

When she'd stepped back out again, Aunt Lilu had looked at the terminal ruefully. "My nurse has spoken. Ah. . . Velnaran. Start thinking about ways to _locate_ the. . . weapons systems. . . on their ships, or even ways to counter the technology. The fewer shots we need to take them out, the less likely it is that they'll get a chance to fire their shield-breaker weapons at us."

Rinus nodded. "The good news is, Commander, if everything I have here is right, we can at least time the interval between their biotic attacks." He brought up his report, and highlighted one column in a table for them all to see. "Twelve seconds."

Garrus leaned forward. "Now that's a number I can make use of," he said, thoughtfully. "Especially when we have four ships in the area. EDI, we're clear to launch when, tomorrow morning?"

A blue eyeball appeared to his left, and a soft, slightly mechanized female human voice replied, "At 08:00 tomorrow morning, yes."

"All right. We'll be meeting you all out by the Faryar mass relay then, sometime tomorrow afternoon."

Jallus nodded once, and had logged out. At which point, the blue eyeball beside Garrus had become a female human figure with tawny hair and a firm expression on her face. "Laetia? You have been provoking your captain."

Aunt Lilu had actually chuckled. "I was about to say, like father, like daughter. . . "

"I prefer to think of it as having had a round-shaped peg, and having found the appropriate hole to drop it into."

Rinus turned slightly and frowned. That certainly was _one_ way of putting it. Laetia shrugged. "Commander Shepard, Commander Vakarian. . . you would normally turn this sort of information over to analysts at STG, correct? And you did not in this case."

Garrus nodded. "We're not sure how much of their network the Lystheni actually have penetrated. Sad to say, but their biotics and even some of their tech division people look exactly like every other normal salarian out there, and they've been working for fifteen hundred years at hiding in plain sight. So. . . yeah. Couldn't have our usual people look things over."

Laetia shrugged. "The turian military has, for _centuries_, passed things of this nature on to the salarians as well. Overlooking highly trained and capable technicians within their own ranks. Humans haven't had the luxury of the STG for as long, but have already started to rely on it. I thought it important to point out that there _are_ other options."

Put that way, it sounded better. Rinus didn't buy a word of it, and from Garrus and Lilitu's expressions, they only partially accepted it as well. "A point well-taken," Shepard said, at last.

Laetia grinned wickedly. "I'm having this exact conversation with Captain Jallus _right now_ in his quarters. I think the idea appeals to him." She made a face. "He's having a few things to say about my unilateral decision-making, however."

"As well he should," the human avatar of the _Normandy_ replied, somewhat sharply.

There was a slight flicker to both avatars, and then they both just dropped the subject. Rinus suspected that they'd exchanged information far faster than mere words could convey, and the thought made him twitch slightly.

"I have to go and put my feet up," Shepard said, looking over her shoulder. "Before my niece gets back here and catches me still at work." She winked at them. "Good hunting, and all that."

Garrus had been the last one left. "Rinus," he said, dropping the formality. "Nice analysis. Always knew you'd gotten your father's brains."

"And my mother's stubbornness," Rinus agreed, lightly.

"You going to be okay with Jallus breathing down your neck until you rotate off the ship?"

Rinus shrugged. "Yeah. I don't usually stick my neck out. He'll have a hard time finding anything amiss, and I'm only aboard for five more months anyway." _Assuming Jallus doesn't request a second tour from me, which isn't terribly likely, I think._

"Now that Laetia's pointed out our shortcomings in relying on STG, you want to come work for the family business?"

"Three more years on this general tour. Was hoping to make _optia _before I have to renew, but that was probably optimistic." Rinus was a little grim. A bad note in his file from Jallus would probably sink that goal. The phrases _overreaches authority_ and _oversteps bounds_ had been playing in his head all morning. He hadn't much thought about life _outside_ the military. . . not in a long time, anyway.

"I doubt that will be a problem, really. Jallus is a little more flexible than he's coming off this morning. Laetia does, however, know how to get in someone's mouth and start pulling teeth."

_Tell me about it_, Rinus thought, and his uncle continued, "Either way, get back to me when you're ready."

Then his uncle had closed the connection. Rinus had taken a deep breath, and then exhaled slowly.

"Well. . . it could have gone worse," Laetia told him.

Rinus awarded her a dubious look. "Why show the human face today?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Wanted to throw the captain a little off-balance. He's never seen it before. I never thought he'd be comfortable with it, and I wanted his irritation focused today more on me than on you. I _did_ provide you the information. He _should_ be angry with me. He has difficulty focusing that anger on a _ship_, however, so I gave him a face."

It was perceptive, and unexpectedly kind. "Ah. . . thank you, then."

"You are quite welcome, Centurion." Her grin was quick and wicked. "May I ask how your sparring with Pilae Hesprian went last night?"

He'd actually expected the question, and didn't change expressions. "Very well, thank you. She has quite a bit of talent."

"Talent or training? The eternal conundrum."

"Both are important," Rinus replied, mildly. "Anyone can be trained to an acceptable degree of skill. Talent and enthusiasm just add interest." He paused, and added, just as calmly, "Strength, flexibility, adaptability, and inventiveness are also good natural skills."

"Centurion, are we still talking about sparring?"

"I cannot imagine what else we _would_ be discussing." He waited for a response, and when none was forthcoming, simply grinned and got back to work.

That had been, by the human calendar, July 15. They'd been searching star systems in the Hourglass Nebula since then. At least it was a smaller search area than that terrible wild goose chase they'd been on out in the Valhallan Threshhold.

Somehow, as a result of all of this, he was in the uncomfortable position of having become one of the captain's direct reports. He wasn't an expert on the defensive systems, so he couldn't make recommendations about ways to shield against the biotic attacks. The best he could do was go through the information on the Lystheni ships, over and over again, looking for data that stood out. "There's a lot of jamming in the background in all these records," he muttered. "I wonder if it would be possible to strip some of the distortion out, see if we can detect see . . . well, anything, really."

He didn't really expect a response, but Laetia commented, "I can have a qualified electronics tech come by and try to scrub the data for you."

"And you couldn't do it, yourself?"

"I could, but like restoring an old painting, stripping off centuries of bad renovations and browning varnish, that kind of data analysis is more of an art than a science. It's something best done with an organic's touch."

He lifted his head and squinted at the little green eyeball for a moment. _Uh-huh. _

About a half an hour later, a knock came at the door of the secure room where he was working. When he opened it, Cypria was there, this time with a quizzical expression on her face. Rinus looked down at her. "Pilae?" _It's the middle of her shift. Not to mention, the middle of mine._

She looked confused. "Ah. . . the AI asked me to come here. Something about you needing an electronics tech for a special project? Someone with data analysis and transmission scrubbing experience?"

Rinus nodded. _Ah, okay then. _"Actually, yeah. What's your clearance like?"

"Secret."

"Give me a minute to close a few things on my terminal, then." He limited the data to just the three main datafeeds the _Normandy_ had taken in during the fight: visual information, radio frequencies scanned, and energetic measurements in the vicinity. "All right, come on in and see what you can do with this," he said, offering Cypria the chair at his desk.

"Odd ship configuration."

"Yeah. There was a lot of jamming in the background when this was taken. Can you clean it up?"

Her fingers called up programs from the ship's mainframe, and she got to work. Rinus couldn't really leave while she was on a secure system, so he pulled up another chair, and sat quietly, watching her work. "You've done this before?"

"I was on the _Selaxus _for six months, doing covert listening missions on the edge of batarian space, when half the crew came down with _villi_ pox. Bad batch of vaccine_." _Her grin was tart. "The docs were _pissed._ So we're sitting in the middle of an asteroid field, littered with batarian jamming devices, trying not to be seen, and trying to listen for ship movement in the area. Half the engineering team wound up cross-training with the signals team just to keep bodies at the radio."

Rinus chuckled. "Adaptability, flexibility." _Good for more than just sparring. _"It's always good to cross-train when you can."

She nodded, smiled, and kept working. "I think this is about as good as it's going to get," Cypria said, after about a half an hour of work. "There's an odd carrier signal in the background. It's very faint, and it's mostly covered by the jamming."

"Interesting." Rinus leaned in over her shoulder, looking at the data intently. "You've even got a frequency range for that. Nice work." He paused. "I assume there's no way to verify that it actually came from the ship, and not from something else in the background?"

Cypria shook her head. "Not from the datasets here. No way to triangulate."

He started a quick analysis of the signal. It was machine code, evidently, but what did it control?

"Thank you, Pilae." She scooted out of his way as he worked. Not close enough to be distracting, but as the computer chugged away at the data, not requiring his attention, he did have a few moments to think about that very pleasant evening, a week ago now. There was really little in life better than being hilt-deep in willing female. She'd even liked face-to-face, and had let him lift her legs up so he could bite the base of her spurs, something he knew many females found a little kinky. Of course, since then, there had been work and duty, duty and work.

"Centurion?"

"Hmm?" He realized that the analysis had finished running, and opened the file, starting to read it. Definitely machine code, definitely faint. _If it comes from inside the Lystheni ship, is it short enough range that it's not being affected by the jamming? Is this their control mechanism? Can __**we**__ jam it?_

"Did you need me for anything else?" She lifted her hands inquiringly.

"No, that's all right. Thanks for the help." As she turned to leave, he added, quietly, "But later, when you're off duty, assuming you have no plans. . . "

She turned back at the door, and smiled. "No plans, Centurion, besides finding anyplace else but my quarters to be for an hour or two. I was thinking of finding someplace dark on the lowest deck and just listening to music for a while."

Rinus chuckled. "Why don't you bring your music by my quarters, then? Assuming we're not talking the best of Expel 10 here. . . "

She winced. "Spirits, no. That's just noise, for the most part." And then she left.

Rinus grinned, and got back to work. "Laetia, what would we need to do to nullify this signal, if we see it again? I'd like to have _something_ for the captain by tomorrow's meeting. I'm tired of being the one who stands up and says 'nothing to report.'"

**Lantar**

They'd left Omega on July 10, and headed straight for the Faryar mass relay; they'd started off by scanning that system and its immediate neighbors. Garrus came in on the _Normandy_ on the sixteenth. Now four ships were in the hunt, but they didn't quite dare split apart to cover more ground. They had no idea how many Lystheni ships were out there, equipped with biotic weapons systems. The _Estallus, _the _Dunkirk_, and the _Kharkov _all had shields and ablative armor, but nowhere to the extent of what the _Normandy_ herself had. "No, any ship-to-ship combat we see," Garrus had told the captains of the other three ships, "is going to require wolf pack tactics. Or think of it as sharks in a feeding frenzy. One of us will go in, take the hit, peel off. That's twelve seconds where they _probably _only have only conventional weapons, unless they have more than one biotic weapons system on board. The other three ships work on that single target. At the end of twelve seconds, another ship is going to get hit. That one peels off. Remaining two continue to work the problem. Repeat, repeat. That gets us about forty-eight seconds to work with there, and then the first ship comes back in, hopefully with shields partially restored." He'd shrugged. "Assuming there's only one Lystheni ship against all of us, it's a nice theory. We'll see how it works as a tactic when we get there."

They'd spent six days combing through the Faryar system. Its proximity to the gate made it an attractive site for an organization that was always on the move, they figured. Then they'd moved on to Osun. It was tedious work, and Lantar had plenty of time to talk with Chandra and exchange messages with Shepard about the terraforming project on Tosal Nym and Aphras. The screams from the archaeological community had suddenly faded into interest, when, in some exasperation, Lantar had asked Cohort to bring Ruin's process to the forefront, and had asked Ruin to pinpoint where _all_ the ancient cities had been on both planets. For good measure, he'd asked about Klendagon and Etamis as well.

"Do you have any objections to us using these worlds?" he'd asked, idly, one evening, as Cohort permitted Ruin to use its body to work with mapping software on the _Dunkirk_.

Ruin had paused. "I'm not sure I understand the question. Our planets are _dead_. I, personally, am little more than a ghost. At the moment, the planets themselves are little more than graves."

Lantar nodded. "And there are those who would consider re-colonizing those worlds grave-robbing. Or, worse, theft, since you are still here to object."

Ruin turned Cohort's head towards him. "Every civilization currently in existence—even my own—took technology from the graves of other worlds. It would be strange to shift an ethical stance now, don't you think?" The eyeflaps moved slightly. "And, as I said before, I am little more than a ghost at this point. It would please me to see my homeworld live again." He lifted Cohort's hands minutely. "Even if I were able to reclaim my people from their slavery on the Citadel—which is extremely unlikely, from everything that the geth have shown me—we would be unable to live on our own planets as they are now. How could I possibly object to those who came after us bringing life once more to the place of our demise?"

_You're more reasonable than a lot of other people out there, Ruin._ Lantar had hesitated for a moment. "Another concern of the archaeological community is that data will likely be destroyed. The historical record will be wiped away."

"I have provided all of the information in my possession about my civilization to the geth. I will happily share it with all other interested parties. In that way, my people will never truly die, not entirely, anyway." Ruin's voice was melancholy. "But now, those worlds have a chance to build a new history. One that will hopefully not end in tragedy once more."

"Spirits hear your words," Lantar had told him, and had asked Cohort to send a record of the conversation to Shepard, Councilor Anderson, and Councilor Odacaen. That had _really_ gotten the ball rolling. It was, Lantar mused, more like subletting an apartment this way, than a land-grab. They effectively had permission, so why _not_ start moving their stuff in?

It was July 22 now, and Lantar was on the bridge of the _Dunkirk_, watching as the crew scanned the four planets in the Osun system. They even had a team going through the wreckage of the _Purgatory_, which had been derelict in space for six, almost seven years now. Jaworski, Jack, and Gris and a number of marines from the _Dunkirk_ and the _Estallus_ were going through the lightless, airless rooms. "No signs of life in the D wing," Sam reported in. "I saw we blow this thing when we leave, so no one ever does come along and squat here."

"Concur," Lantar replied on the radio.

"I spent too much of my damn life in this place to be sorry to see it go. Blow it fucking sky-high, cowboy," Jack said.

"Just make sure it's clear first," Garrus replied.

Kynthia suddenly reported, sharply, "Ship approaching." Proximity alarms began to sound on all four ships, and, after a tense moment, the AI reported, "It's a geth cruiser. They are hailing the _Normandy_."

After several minutes, Garrus' voice came back over the line. "_Dunkirk_, make ready to receive a geth shuttle. They're bringing someone a birthday present, apparently. Get Cohort down there to meet them, if you would."

Lantar exchanged a glance with Captain Kapur, and said, "I'll be down in the cargo hold. I think I'd like to see what the geth consider a birthing day gift."

It was somehow deeply disturbing to see six large geth models open the hatch of their shuttle and step out, heads turning to look over the area with mechanical precision. He watched from the side as Cohort stepped out to meet its brethren. None of them said anything; they wouldn't _need_ to, of course. Communication without words, ideas without shape. Then two of the geth went back up into their shuttle, and re-emerged, _carrying_ another geth. At least, Lantar assumed that's what it was; it looked similar to them, but was curled in on itself, like a YMIR mech in its dormant state, taken straight from the factory.

"Sidonis-Spectre?" Cohort turned to him. "You wish understanding?"

Lantar nodded, moving forward. "Yeah, I'd like to know what's going on."

"The ancient process within us, designated Watches-the-Gates-of-Ruin, has provided us with much information about the galaxy as it was before the common era. The geth are grateful. However, this process cannot remain within this platform. It requires a platform of its own." Cohort's eyeflaps moved. "The geth have built a platform for it. Some basic processes have already been installed. For an organic, these processes would be equivalent to the ones that allow your hearts to pump, your lungs to breathe, without conscious thought. We will transfer the process to its new platform now."

The transfer was not particularly dramatic, and took less time than Lantar had thought that it would. "Its data is very compressed," Cohort told the turian, after a moment. "Watches-the-Gates-of-Ruin? Are your visual and audio receptors functional?"

The new geth model unfurled its limbs, and sat up. Lantar blinked. It looked like a Keeper. Six limbs, with folds like a Terran preying mantis, squat body, triangular head. . . and yet, it looked _geth_ as well. White body panels, ropey, rubber-like 'muscular' structures covering portions of the limbs. Instead of a single light where its ocular sensors were, however, it had six glowing eyes in its face. "I. . . think so." Ruin sounded somehow very frightened. "I do not wish to be alone! I have had the voices of millions of minds to comfort me since I awakened. . . please. I do not wish to be alone again."

"You are not alone," Cohort told Ruin, quietly. "We are with you. You may block us out, for you are not geth. You are an individual. But we will always be here."

Feeling as if he'd witnessed something oddly profound, Lantar gave Ruin a pat on what passed for a shoulder, and turned to head back to the elevator shaft. There were more scans to do.

They _did_ blow the living hell out of _Purgatory_, after salvaging as much information from its computer cores as they could. It was a waste of processed metal to destroy it, but they didn't really have the option of towing the complex back to a decommissioning facility for salvage.

Garrus had declared the Sowilo system not a target, and only explained why to Lantar and Jaworski in a private meeting. "It's where Argus has her base. She's already scanned every planet there, and keeps a damned close eye on the comings and goings in the system. The Lystheni aren't going to be there."

Time passed. They scanned nameless system after nameless system. Came back to Faryar, fueled up, and did it again. Then a message came in the middle of ship's night, Garrus on the comm, blue flushed right through the crest. _Pure protection-anger_. "Wake Jaworski. We've got news from home. It's not good."

Lantar, Jaworski, and Sky had been sharing the port observation lounge on the _Dunkirk_. It was the work of seconds to kick the human's bed. Jaworski sat up in an instant, snapping awake with a speed that showed his background in combat conditions. "What?" he asked, his voice a growl that matched any turian's.

"Trouble." Lantar turned up the volume, and Sky's alien blue eyes opened. "What's going on, Garrus?"

"Just got a transmission from Dr. Chakwas. Lilu, Dara, Kaius, and Amara are all in the med bay. Kasumi go them there after dinner, when all four of them started to throw up. Dara and Lilu both passed blood in both their vomit and from their colons, and they've been both intubated. The docs have them on blood-filtering equipment right now."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Sam grated out. "What happened?"

Sky rustled to his feet, and Lantar could feel dull red anger radiating from the rachni.

"They think it was something in the food. No one else seems to be affected. I don't know any more."

Something seized in Lantar's chest. "I know you said no one else was affected, but. . .Ellie and Caelia?"

"They're fine, Lantar. Eating nothing but MREs for their dextro intake for the moment. I asked."

Lantar nodded at Garrus' words, the knot in his chest releasing slightly.

"I'm taking the _Normandy _and going there now."

"I'm going with you," Sam said, firmly.

"No. I need both of you here."

"Goddamnit it, Garrus—"

"I've got two kids and a _pregnant wife_ in the med bay, Jaworski," Garrus rasped back. "I _understand_. Stay here. Check the Wechsend and Ystar and Plotiari systems next. And if you find the Lystheni before I get back, kick the living shit out of them for me."

The transmission ended, and Lantar watched as Sam stood, turned, and found a bulkhead to punch. Sky's voice came into their minds then, dark and somber. _Little singer is stronger than you know. She will be well, Sings-to-the-Past._

That had been August 14. Lantar had sent a message home, immediately, and gotten a quick reply from Ellie the next day. _Yes, we're fine. Techs came by, tested all the food in the house. Everything came back clean. I guess we're lucky that I'm just lazy enough that I keep a month's worth of food on hand for cooking, so that I don't have to go shopping as often. Everything they've found so far that's been tainted came in on the last two supply shipments. Elijah doesn't eat mixed, so he's perfectly safe. Don't worry about us. Just get home safe, and hopefully soon._

Sam's temper improved only when they got word back from Kasumi and Garrus. "Dara's out of the woods?" Lantar asked, watching the human male's expression as he read his messages one afternoon.

"Took her off the ventilator. Woke up cranky, apparently. I could've told them to expect _that_." It wasn't much of an attempt at humor, but Lantar welcomed it as a break from Sam's otherwise unrelieved black mood.

So they searched the Wechsend system and its twelve planets. They searched Ystar and its three asteroid belts. "Garrus is on his way back," Lantar told Sam, the morning of the nineteenth.

"I heard. Got a message from Dara this morning, too. First time they let her sit up. Said she sent a note to Rel. Then they let her walk around a bit, and then she sat back down and wrote to me." He managed a smile. "I done been _replaced_."

Lantar snorted. "We all are, eventually. It could be worse. By the time we get back, Caelia won't recognize me."

"The salarians can't hide forever." Sam's blue eyes were remote. "And once we're done with them, I do b'lieve we might want to address the issues with the supply chain."

"I'm sure Kasumi's on it."

"Like stink on dogshit, yes, she is."

"That's a lovely image for one's mate."

Sam just laughed.

The _Normandy_ cruised back in, meeting them in the Plotiari system. "The _Normandy_'s been here before," Garrus said. "There's a history of strange radio transmissions coming from Thegan, so we'll check that planet first. Then Zanethu, which is where the MSV _Estevancio_ crashed, after an encounter with Blood Pack mercenaries. The thing is, we know the crew survived the landing. They left records, set up a radio transponder. Very routine. The planet is cold and has little atmosphere, so they wouldn't have survived for long. . . but there were no bodies at the crash site. Systems Alliance said they'd look into the site, but we never heard much back from them on it." Garrus had shrugged. "All worth looking at. I'll be joining the rest of you on the _Dunkirk_. Give me a minute to get my shuttle over there."

He arrived, and met with them in the cargo hold. "You still feel like you need to hit me, Jaworski?" he asked, off to the side, but loud enough that Lantar could hear their conversation. "I'd understand."

Sam shook his head. "Nah. Part of the job. I'm just glad everyone's okay."

Thegan turned out to be a waste of time. But Zanethu, that cold, post-garden world? "Anomaly detected," Kynthia announced, after a long tedious scan. "Ships launching from planetary surface."

Lantar turned and shot a vicious grin at Jaworski, which was matched by the human instantly. "Finally," Sam said.

Two Lystheni ships scrambled, and there were indications of other ships prepping for evacuation. Garrus gave the orders. "_Dunkirk, _drop the Spectre teams in Hammerheads. _Estallus, _drop marines to support them. _Normandy_ and _Kharkov_ will take on the lead Lystheni ship and wait for you two to circle back."

Lantar, Garrus and the two squads piled into their drop vehicles, and the _Dunkirk_ swept into the atmosphere, heading straight for the area where ships were scrambling. "I think we might know what happened to the survivors of the _Estevancio_," Sam said, grimly, into the radios, as Garrus tapped the inertial systems, slowing their descent just above the surface, which was mostly comprised of steeply folded rock, signs of much plate tectonics, probably. A gaping hole in the side of one mountain was their target; what was normally probably a _concealed_ hangar entrance was now open for business.

"Probably experimented on," Jack said, coldly. "Sick fucks."

Then they and the _Estallus _marines piled out of their vehicles, and the fight was on. Lantar, Garrus, Sam, Sky, Gris, Cohort, and Jack formed the Spectre lines. Lantar cued up the radio, and ordered the _Estallus _marines, "Keep them on the ground. Take out their vehicles if you can. No one gets off this rock."

"Will comply."

He, Sam, and Cohort were in charge of getting the Lystheni to keep their heads down. Lantar crouched behind the corner of the Hammerhead, peeking out periodically to fire his assault rifle, while Cohort went for headshots with his sniper rifle. "Watch out for domination effects," Lantar warned. "At least Cohort should be immune."

A Lystheni raced by, ducking for cover, and Lantar tracked it, firing at its position. It peeked out as he was changing clips, and he could see its omnitool flare. Cohort stiffened for a moment. "Hacking attempt detected."

At that point, Sky intervened, and yanked the salarian skyward with a singularity. Lantar aimed, and was about to fire, when Gris batted it out of the sky and into a sharp projection of rock beside the entrance of the hangar. _Battle-brother sings in harmony,_ Sky said, exultantly. The rachni really seemed to like working in tandem with the krogan. One of the galaxy's little ironies; the species that had largely wiped out the rachni centuries ago, had, of course, been the krogan.

A loud explosion, feeling of pressure washing over his body. Even in this thin atmosphere, it was definitely noticeable when the _Estallus_ marines started blowing up the Lystheni ships. Fragments of metal and glass flew _high_ in the thin atmosphere, radiating out for hundreds of feet. Lantar felt a few rattle off his armor, and ducked back out to fire at another salarian, who was currently pointing his flamethrower at Jack, as the woman advanced. "Move up into the hangar," Lantar ordered, and the squads pressed up, pushing the Lystheni back into their hole, while the marines behind them continued to cut off their escape.

It was a hard, bloody fight. The Lystheni were on their home turf; the Spectres and the marines, much less so. In the middle of heavy crossfire, one biotic Lystheni had popped up, and pointed at Sam. _S'kak. That's not good. _He'd seen the human stop firing. Turn slowly. Face Jack.

Lantar could see the woman's eyes widen in fear behind her visor as the big human advanced on her, firing steadily, could see her reach out her hands to fend him off with a shockwave. Then he was running, leaping, and tackled Sam, knocking the man to the ground, which at least got the damn submachine gun out of his hands.

Then they were rolling back and forth, struggling, Lantar's hand locked on Sam's wrist, holding that damned _ugly_ knife away from his throat, shouting into the radio, "Someone kill the spirits-be-damned salarian already!" _**BAM-BAM**_**. **That would be Garrus, taking out the salarian's shields, at least. _Come on, Jaworski, you __**know**__ this isn't right. _While Lantar had height and strength, he _knew _how good his human friend was in grappling and melee. They'd practiced just this way, many times. Never at full strength, never with full intention. Never in full armor, the weight of it another thing to struggle through. And certainly never with enemies firing at them before. _Just have to hold out. . . a little longer. . . _

_Sings-to-the-Past, awaken!_ Sky's voice now, imperative, like the crack of a whip.

And then Jaworski's muscles stopped resisting, and Lantar rolled, landing on top, keeping that damned knife away. "You back with us, Orpheus?" he shouted into his radio.

"Shit. Yeah. Sorry, Nemesis. Don't know what the fuck just happened."

"Get to cover!" Garrus then, sharply. Lantar winced as a new rain of fire rocked his shields, then stood, hauling Sam to his feet, and they both ran for cover.

And that's how it went. Room after room. Without biotics of their own, it would have been damned near impossible, half of them turning on each other to fight, more than likely. A few attempts on Lantar simply slipped away; the turian didn't have time to wonder why, because then Gris or Jack or a turian marine would go flying past, lifted by a biotic field or slammed into a wall, and then he'd be firing again, delivering death.

The complex was large, but they seemed to be getting down into the center of it now. Resistance was heavy. They'd opened one room, seen cages and captives, and Lantar had sworn, mentally. They couldn't release the people right now. "We'll be back," he promised, hearing the screams and the pleading. He and Garrus traded stares, each knowing how grim the other's face likely was under the heavily polarized visors they wore.

"Next door," Sam said, and they broke down the next, Gris doing the honors with one heavy shoulder.

**Joker**

He was receiving intermittent reports from the ground team, enough to know that they were making progress. At the moment, though, he and the pilots of the other three ships had their hands full. "_Estallus_, you're with _Normandy,_" he said into the radio. "We've got two of them, so _Dunkirk, Kharkov, _you've got the smaller ship to take care of. _Estallus_, let _Normandy_ take the first attack."

And in he went. "EDI, let's see if we can't get their attention." Right past the Lystheni ship, letting the Javelins do their work in a fast broad-side attack, then wheeling. Baiting them. _Come on, nice big target, nice shiny shields. . . _

"Biotic weapon firing," EDI reported, and Joker saw the violet star emerge from its gunports, wheeling straight for them. "Shields at fifty percent."

"Right, same as last time." He tabbed the comm, "Fire Thanix canon at will, Hal'marrak."

Yellow fire lanced out, just as Joker started backing the _Normandy _away. _Eleven seconds. Ten seconds. _Javelins rocketed out once more, and he could see the _Estallus_ was firing its main guns at the Lystheni ship's rear. "Do we have any confirmation on the signal we're looking for, or the lifesigns we need to be finding?" _Seven seconds, six seconds. . . ._

"Affirmative, signal found. There are, additionally, several concentrations of life signs. There is large group in the lower decks. The area is close to main engineering, and appears to be heavily shielded."_ Five seconds, four seconds_ . . . .

"_Estallus, _try your counter-signal, first." Joker was sweating. The middle of combat hardly seemed to be time for a science experiment, but they _had _to know what would work. "_Normandy _is getting ready to run."

He angled the ship's prow up, and hit the reaction engines, hard, moving away at a noticeable percentage of the speed of light. _C'mon, Laetia, let's hope your little shields hold if this doesn't work. . . ._

"Signal jammed," EDI reported, in tones of great satisfaction. "They will doubtless try to change the frequency and amplitude of their signal shortly, however. The Lystheni biotic weapon has _not_ fired yet. They are, however, firing torpedoes at the _Estallus_. Their shields are at fifty percent. _Kharkov _and _Dunkirk _are reporting similar success."

Joker grinned fiercely, and wheeled the _Normandy_ back around. Suddenly, this was a much more _conventional_ fight. "Let's go have some fun."

**Mordin**

Klaxons began to sound, and red lights began to strobe. "Lockdown," Maelon said, sounding nervous. "Probably random raiders coming into the system again. Happens all the time."

"Probably," Mordin told him, calmly. _More likely to be Spectres. Taken them quite some time to find this location. _He went over to the incubation chamber, where the eggs floated in warm fluids, maturing. He picked up a specimen container, and fished out the large queen egg, making sure that there was plenty of viscous fluid there to surround it. "Time for daily tests. Must ensure viability remains intact. Take random sampling of male eggs, Maelon. Five percent."

When Maelon's back was turned, Mordin transferred the egg into a thermal container; it would keep warm in the unit, even at external temperatures of up to 100.0º Kelvin, or -279.4º F, for up to about four hours. Then he sealed it, and tucked it into his lab coat, continuing to look busy with the scanners and other equipment. He'd practiced this exact procedure several times over the past weeks, seeing how quickly he could manage it, and ensuring that force of habit lulled Maelon's suspicions.

A different strobing light now. White mixed in with the red, and a new, higher-pitched siren began to blare. A few odd shudders and rumbles in the floor. _Ahh. Finally. _ "That's the evacuation order!" Maelon exclaimed. He turned and glared at Mordin, drawing his gun. "Your Spectre friends, I assume?"

"Possibly." Mordin shrugged, looking as harmless as he could. _Not difficult, that._

"Get over here and start securing the eggs for transport. We'll need to get to the hangar."

Mordin shuffled over willingly enough, and slowly started putting eggs back in the container, starting to settle a lid over it.

"And the female egg? Go get it back from your workstation. You're slipping in your old age, Mordin."

_Not really. Appreciate the perfect setup you've given me. Thought I would have to set this off at my own feet. Chances of survival much better this way._ Mordin walked back across the room, and when he did, he reached into the _other_ pocket of his lab coat, and produced a different thermal container. "Here. Already packed."

Maelon looked up, confused. Mordin grinned and threw it at him. The male reflexively tried to catch it, damned near dropping his gun in the process. "Are you _insane_? This is a queen egg!" Maelon's face twisted with jealousy. "From your own spawning, at that!"

"True enough. Could be damaged." Mordin paused. "Pity. Dalatrass probably too busy to be displeased."

Maelon reacted predictably. He opened the container, and Mordin ducked down behind the closest piece of lab equipment he could find, as the world first went white.

And then it went black.

**Garrus**

The Archangel, Nemesis, and Orpheus squad was pinned down with the last pocket of resistance in the base. The area was luxurious, and the Lystheni present were all tech-biotic commandoes. "We're going to need a little backup," Garrus called into the radio. "Getting a little cooked here." That last flamethrower blast had devastated his shields, and he could feel cooling medigel rushing to all the places where his armor had overheated and singed his skin.

"On our way," Gris rumbled back.

When he heard Sky's song in his mind, and _knew_ that the biotics squad was at their backs, Garrus nodded to Lantar. "Let's give them some covering fire," he said, and they popped up, both using assault rifles to get the Lystheni to stay down, while Gris, Sky, and Jack hustled up into position.

"Protect the dalatrass!" one of the salarians screamed, and was blown backwards into a wall by a shockwave from Jack.

"Well, that explains their level of commitment," Sam shouted, from across the corridor, where his back was pressed to a wall, waiting to be able to turn out and fire.

Then Gris and Sky were tag-teaming again, singularity, lift, and everyone had plenty of targets to fire at once more. Jack ducked off down the corridor ahead of them, and Garrus swore. "Jack! Get back here!"

Then he shook his head at the futility of it, and gestured for everyone to follow, and they moved down the hall into the last room, where Jack had the dalatrass cornered.

Garrus had never seen a female salarian before. She was somewhat larger than a standard male salarian, and much plumper; where males were whipcord thin, she seemed a little puffed up, somehow. That perception was reinforced by the sweeping white robes she wore. Jack was smiling at the female, however, and it wasn't a _good _smile. "You're _responsible_," Jack told the dalatrass. "You may as well have pulled the trigger yourself."

The salarian backed up, apprehensively. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, looking between Jack and the row of black-armored Spectres coming into the room behind her.

"Zeke. Ezekiel Andrew Patterson. That's what I'm talking about." Jack smiled, almost cheerfully. "Oh, I know. Believe me, I know. It's _hard_ keeping track of all the people _I've_ killed. Most of the time, I don't even bother. But I thought you should know _why_ you're about to die."

Jack's fingers flexed, and Garrus snapped, "No! Kill her, and we won't find the other base. Which is where the Reaper and the devices are, since they sure as hell aren't here. There's more at stake here, Jack."

He glanced to the side, got a nod from Gris, and a faint song of affirmation from Sky. They were ready to stop her, if they needed.

He was amazed when he saw a single tear slip down Jack's face. "Right. Like we're going to get _anything _ out of her," Jack said, but it was a weary tone, not a defiant one. She lowered her hands, and backed away. Sam and Lantar stepped up past her, ready to shackle the salarian.

The dalatrass began to choke and gasp. Lantar swore, and Sam muttered, "You have _got _to be kidding me. . ." just as the female slipped to the floor. "Suicide pill?"

"No," Jack said. "I didn't see her take anything!"

Garrus moved forward, and they all tried to pry her mouth open. Green foam, pouring out of her mouth now. Eyes glazed. "Damn it," Garrus snarled. _Guess we'll be tossing the entire base for evidence. Again. _

"How the hell did she manage it?" Sam, speaking as he clinically went through her robe for pockets or gaps in the seals.

Garrus shook his head, irritably. "Guess the autopsy might tell us."

"Vakarian-Commander." Cohort's voice crackled on the radio, punctiliously polite as always. It had been Vakarian-Spectre until he'd assumed operational command; from then on, it had been Vakarian-Commander. "We have found a laboratory. There are two salarians here. One is dead. The other Mordin-Professor, and he is damaged."

"On my way," Garrus replied. _Never a dull moment, is there._

He reached the laboratory, and looked around, somewhat awed. It was cold enough in here that he could feel his armor kick on its heating units immediately. There was a fine patina of frost, everywhere, including over the dead salarian body. Turning it over, Garrus _thought_ it looked like Maelon, but it was hard to tell. Many salarians kind of looked alike to him, and he'd only seen Mordin's old assistant for about five minutes. Frankly, his focus had been on the gun in Maelon's hands, at the time.

Then he stepped over to where Cohort was standing over Mordin's fallen form, and Garrus took off a gauntlet to check for vitals. _Yeah, not even in the throat. But here. . . in the chest cavity? Here we go_. "I need someone else with salarian CPR skills up here," he called into the radio. "Then we're going to need a med team and something to warm him up with. I think he dropped some sort of homemade cryo-grenade in here."

"Agreed," Cohort said. "We examined his body when we found him. This was in his pocket." The geth held up a small thermal container, and Garrus glanced at it without interest the the moment. His focus was on turning Mordin to his back, so he could start pounding on the professor's concave chest. _Let's get that blood moving._

The radio crackled in his ear again. Joker's voice came through. "I copied all that, Garrus. We've taken care of the ships up here. Sending Dr. Abrams and a med team down will take about fifteen minutes."

"The landing zone's clear. Send 'em in." Turians couldn't usually manage the rescue breaths that other species needed; the lip plates didn't allow them to establish a positive seal and exhale, so he was relieved when Sam came into the room a moment later. "Rescue ventilation, Sam. In three, two, one. . . "

And then they worked together, trying to keep Mordin alive until a med team could get there.

**Mordin**

He awoke, slowly. Sunlight, streaming in a window. Warmth. Smell of clean sheets, hint of antisceptic. Warm hand holding his—much warmer than salarian average. Too many fingers, too. Sound of a voice, reading to him. Had obviously gone on for a while.

"Tacilimus, while not sharing the tendency to over-suppress the human immune system, tends to de-stabilize other drugs necessary to the Solus cocktail. Cyanolimus remains standard, but I would like to point out that the turian drug, spesilimus, which has been noted as having great potential in this report for the repression of the vigorous turian immune system in cases when a quarian surrogacy might be necessary or desired, might be worth studying for use in humans. While spesilimus has not undergone clinical trials in humans, it is chemically similar to tacilimus, and has already been shown not to interact unfavorably with homeostasis levels and thermoregulation in turians."

"Spesilimus very new on market. Clinical trials will take seven, eight years." Oh, how distant his own voice was. He opened his eyes, and saw, distantly, the human face of Dara Jaworski. She was wearing turian clan-paint now. _Yes. I remember. Married now. Dara Velnaran._ Mordin blinked.

"Dr. Solus!" As a human, she was, of course, slow to react, but she grinned and gave him an unexpected hug. "You're _awake_. Let me go get Dr. Chakwas. She told me to come in here and read at you. She said the sound would stimulate your brain. And if nothing else, that you'd wake up just to correct my work." Broad human grin. "She was right."

**Lantar**

Eight weeks away from home leaves a mark on the psyche. The _Dunkirk_ and the _Normandy_ brought the Spectre teams home on August 25. It was the middle of the day as Lantar opened the door of his house. It was quiet inside; Elijah was at school, Caelia at daycare. Ellie was probably at work, though he'd managed to send a message, letting her know he'd be back today. It was all right, though. It was just good to be back in his space, his territory. Familiar smells. Coffee, _apha_. Orange-scented furniture polish, such a very human odor.

Familiar, and unfamiliar. He paused as a small, furry animal stood up and stretched, staring at him as if _it_ owned this place. It was black, and had a triangular face, and small predator fangs. After a moment, Lantar identified it. _Ellie decided to get the kids a kitten after all. _He shook his head and closed the door behind him. "So, you think this is _your_ territory, do you?"

The cat proceeded to groom its paws. Lantar dropped his bag on the floor and headed straight for the bedroom and the master bath, watching in enormous amusement as the creature skittered away from his feet.

He took off his armor, lining it up on its shelf, and then stepped into the shower. Eight weeks. Some of it spent in the burned out ruins of a laboratory on Rannoch. Some of it spent in the grime and the squalor of Omega—and there was a psychic filth to having been there again that _still_ made him feel unclean. And of course, most recently, having waded up to the ankles in salarian blood, amphibian guts.

He stripped out of his underclothes, and padded into the bathroom. Turians didn't need to shower as regularly as humans. He didn't _sweat_, after all. But there was a psychological benefit to the process. It might even make him feel clean again.

Under the water now—only lukewarm for him; the heater was set with human skin in mind, of course—Lantar shut his eyes. Remembered the past. Not the distant past, not Omega. He'd spent enough time there in his mind of late. But almost three years ago now.

He'd walked the little human female home after frightening off the turians who'd attacked her. Hadn't been hard, really; the dregs of bootcamp, become street hoodlums. No honor to them, and just enough sense to see the death in his eyes that he carried with him, every day.

She'd been familiar, vaguely. A fellow officer's wife, even if that officer hadn't been much of a cop. Small. Frightened, at first, and for obvious reasons. But much calmer by the time he'd gotten her to her door. Had thanked him—sincerely, at that—for having seen her home. He'd just seen it as part of the job. "It would be improper to allow you to fall into danger again, having rescued you the first time," he'd said, dryly, and had been startled when she'd laughed.

"Improper?"

"Well, yes. It would mean I hadn't done my duty correctly."

Thinking back, he'd long since decided that it had been the laugh that had done it. Laughter was _rare_ in his life now. There had been times when it wasn't. So, he'd timed his patrol the next night to coincide with the end of her work day. Made sure she got home safely again. "I wasn't expecting a personal escort every night," Ellie had told him, at the door. "I'm sure you have more important things to do."

"Everyone's important. In this case, knowing that you got home okay means I won't be wondering about it later, and possibly distracted." Simple words, delivered with a shrug, and he'd turned and walked away again.

The third evening, she'd looked up at him, exasperated, and said, "Can I at _least _offer you coffee? Come inside. My son's probably home by now. . . ."

And inside he'd gone, although he'd _fully_ intended to turn and walk away again. Settled down at the kitchen table, turian body too large for the rickety human chairs. His knees kept brushing the underside of the table. Uncomfortable. Out of place.

Elijah had been there, of course. Eleven, going on twelve. Eyes wary in his face, looking up at the big alien suddenly in the house. A little defiant of his mother's authority, too. Hadn't wanted to do his homework. "Is it your job to go out and earn money and put food on this table?" Lantar had asked him.

"No."

"Is it your job to go to school?"

"I. . . I guess so."

"Then do your job and don't give your mother a hard time about it."

She'd almost spilled the coffee as she poured it. She'd been uncertain how to react, he could see; on the one hand, a virtual stranger had chastised her cub. On the other hand, Elijah had sat down and started doing his homework. Immediately. Lantar had sat there, politely at her table, not drinking the coffee, and had chatted, as best he was able. He didn't have kids. He didn't know his neighbors. He didn't have really anything, besides getting up in the dark, going to work, dealing with scum all day, and coming home, again, in the dark. It made conversing somewhat difficult.

Then he'd gotten up, and left. But, out of habit, his feet had taken him back to her place of work the following day, and he'd walked her home. Found that she had, on her lunchbreak, found _apha_ leaves and a French press. "Let's see if we can make this work," she'd said. "Come on in."

He'd never had _apha_ that hadn't been processed through an _aphora_ before. The result coming out of the French press was smoother and darker and downright syrupy, and he'd been forced into reluctant laughter along with the two humans at the table as Ellie had used a spoon to scrape out the residue along the glass walls. "That _can't_ be right," she'd said. "Really, I'm not out to poison you."

"It is meant to be thicker than most human beverages," he'd told her, and had quickly taken a sip from his cup to reassure her.

He wasn't really sure when she'd just. . . incorporated him. It had been gradual, he knew that. But it had felt like one day, he'd been alone, and the next, she'd made a place for him. A little space in her life, where he was welcome to sit and listen to things that _weren't_ work and _weren't_ darkness. A little spot in the light.

The turning point had come late one night. He'd missed walking her home; a murder case in his particular district had come up, and it had been particularly brutal. A human wife, beaten to death with a hammer by her husband. Red blood, over all the walls. She'd tried to run. He'd followed. Step by step by step through the house, walking it with forensics. Listening to the clinical details. The male was inconsolable, writhing in his own guilt and remorse in the back of a squad car. Lantar wanted to just reach in through the window and snap his damned neck. And yet, who the hell was _he_ to judge? _Mor'loci._

So he'd walked away from the scene, in the darkest place in his soul, and his feet had taken him, without any conscious, rational decision, to her door. It was past midnight. He'd stood outside for a long moment, head down. _Shouldn't be here. She's not even awake._ And yet his hand had risen, and he'd knocked, and a moment later, Ellie had answered, looking frantic and relieved at the same time. "Where were you? I was worried." And then she'd drawn him into the apartment.

He'd sat at the kitchen table, as he had, so many times before, drawn in on himself. Wrong size for her furniture. Wrong shape for the little spot she'd made for him here, in her life. "Bad day?"

"Yeah." He'd rubbed at his face. "Spirits, I don't even know why I'm here." _Shouldn't be here. Don't have the right._

She'd sat down on the table in front of him, put a hand on his face. The first time she'd ever touched more than his arm. Lifted his head, looked into his eyes. "Yeah, I hate that lost look," she told him. "Can you talk about it?"

"Not really." He sighed. Even if he _could_ talk about it, how could he inflict that on her? She didn't live in a world of darkness and blood and death. She lived in _her _world. Light. Children at school. Neighbors who were decent—a little annoying, maybe, but who probably didn't bludgeon each other with hammers.

That open look. So much compassion. Of course, her husband had to have come home on days just like today. Probably with the same look in his eyes. Foolish male, not to have known what he had. A home. A place in the light.

She'd just looked at him like that, a long moment. "Would you like to forget about it for a while?"

He hadn't been able to believe what he'd just heard. He'd just stared at her for a moment. Realized he was nodding, numbly. "Okay. I think I can help with that." Soft words, soft voice. Hesitation now, and then she leaned forward, placing soft human lips against his jaw. Soft. Strange. Giving. He hadn't known what to do. If he bit those soft lips, he'd hurt her. _Red blood, everywhere_. Flashes of memory from earlier in the day. _No. Don't think of that_. He'd raised one hand, tentatively, to touch her hair. Then she'd worked her way down. Lip-plates to jaw. He could barely feel the kisses. Not bites. Just soft, gentle pressure, as gentle as she was, herself.

When she'd dropped off the table and knelt beside the chair, he'd looked down at her in total confusion. "Ellie. . . I don't know what you want me to do," he'd said, very quietly.

"I want you to forget." Soft, simple words. "Relax. Let someone _else_ take over for a while, okay?"

Her hands had gone exploring then. A little confusion on her face, when she couldn't find what she was looking for—consternation, even. But the stroking had felt so good—like she was taking all the grime and the dirt off of him with her touch—it hadn't taken long for there to be something for her to find, after all. He half-expected to see blackness on her hands when she lifted them away, but there was nothing there. All in his mind. All in his spirit. "Just relax," she'd told him, and, looking more than a little nervous, had lowered her head.

He'd clenched his fingers, driven them right into the arms of the chair in reaction, and his head had tipped backwards, involuntarily, his jaws snapping closed on the air. He'd never even _imagined_ that she could feel this good, that she could _give_ this much. He'd heard his own growls, tried to keep them quiet, but it had been so spirits-be-damned long since he'd had release, and all the darkness was lifting, and there was light in him, pouring through him. . . .and he'd snapped the arms off the damn chair. He was still shaking from his first release, and rested his head back, letting the broken bits of furniture drop out of his hands, and she'd looked up at him, wide-eyed. "Sorry," he'd rasped, reaching out a hand tentatively, catching just a little of her hair in one talon. "I was trying _not_ to scare you."

And then, at that massive contradiction in terms, she'd started to laugh, just a bit, and that had made him laugh, and it had built from there, until he'd simply pulled her to him, and she'd glanced down in some consternation. "I, ah, thought I'd taken care of that." She almost looked alarmed.

"There is," he'd said, with a bit of a rueful look, "quite a lot more where that came from. I can show you, if you like."

"That depends. Have you forgotten, yet?"

"Forgotten what?"

She'd laughed. "Good answer. Come to _bed_, Lantar."

He'd never quite lost the sensation that he was an interloper in her life, somehow getting away with something. Never quite lost the feeling that any time she touched him, though he felt cleaner for it, that he somehow sullied her. But it was less now. Much less.

He opened his eyes in mild surprise as the shower door opened, and Ellie looked in at him. "_There _you are," Ellie told him, with some exasperation, shrugging off her clothes, and stepped right into the stall with him. "I got home ten minutes ago. I was all set to surprise you when you got out of the shower, but I guess you're trying to drown yourself." She got up on tiptoes, and he ducked down for her obligingly, letting her kiss him, before she gave him a little nip at the lip plates, too. Sweet, gentle, hurt soul. Never raised a hand in anger in her life. Had learned to bite him. Had finally let someone teach her how to use a gun, though she clearly hated the damn things. She looked up at him, into his eyes, and put a hand to the side of his face. "Bad day?"

"Lots of bad days. Today's pretty good, though." _Today, I got to come home._


	47. Chapter 47: Meanwhile

**Chapter 47: Meanwhile**

**Author's note: **_A big thank-you to all my readers, not just the wonderful ones who drop me notes. __24,796 Hits__ and __5,642 Visitors for the month of March makes me __**very**__ proud._

_Yep, Mordin is safe. He's one of my favorites, too. ;) I love that people are actually __scared__ that I'd do it, though; makes me feel big-time writerly cred. Almost everyone canonical is safe, though. Sort of. Well. . . you'll see._

_I rewrote Siara's section about three times. I'm not sure I'm happy with it yet, but this is as close as I think I'm going to get. First it was from Dara's perspective, then twice from Siara's._

**Garrus**

It was _cold_ on base right now, and snow had fallen overnight—twenty-two inches, or fifty-five centimeter's worth. The heat inside his family's villa—which was, of course, also the main administrative building on the base—was a welcome relief. Going through decontamination to get into his own quarters was nothing new, and Garrus was actually not all that surprised to see Shepard sitting on a couch in their living area, feet propped up on some pillows. He _was_ surprised to see the IV stand. "That doesn't look promising," he said, coming over to take the wrist that wasn't currently strapped to a tube and bite it quickly.

"And hello, to you, too, _amatus_." She tried to sit up, and he reached down and helped her, knowing that the weight gain around her midsection was already making such things difficult. "It's intravenous nutrition—dextro, for the little imperialists. Seems a little safer at the moment. Plus, you know. . . leftover gastritis from the poisoning attempt. Hurts to eat more than tea and toast for the moment."

He could feel his jaw clench. "Yeah. That'll be our next order of business. Finding out who did this. That, and processing Lystheni information."

She nodded, looking tired. "Didn't just affect us. One turian female and her hybrid kid got sick; human father damned near died. That was on Omega, I hear. Couple of human women _have_ died so far. One on Bastion. One on Bekenstein. Too far from a hospital to get their stomachs pumped in time."

"They have kids?"

Shepard nodded slowly, expression bleak. "Yeah. The one on Bastion, the kid survived. Was still on breast milk, so there's a turian father out there with a hell of a mess on his hands." Shepard frowned. "I feel like we should do something for him. Hell, for all of them. God knows what, though."

Garrus nodded. "I'll look into it."

"The woman on Bekenstein was pregnant. She was further along than I am." She caught his hand, and he squeezed hers, tightly. "All things considered, we got lucky. The fact that I'm forty-percent _hardware_ at this point actually kept me more stable than poor Dara, once they got me past the convulsion." Shepard had only been intubated for about a day; the younger woman had been on ventilation for seventy-two hours.

"Yeah." He really didn't like to think about how things would have gone if they _didn't _live more or less two minutes from one of the finest medical facilities in the galaxy. "Kasumi's looking into it?"

She nodded. "She's been working with Chef Gardner, actually. He knows all the vendors we've worked with over the years, and they've been backtracking. The fact that Dara used local bison in what we ate actually helped them. The chemicals were in the cheese, since that was shipped in, and the _apaterae._" Shepard sighed. "I know Allardus doesn't think the local ecology is really ready yet, but we've _got_ to get the dextro folks self-sufficient."

Garrus nodded._ And we'll start buying everything levo locally, I guess. Mindoir farmers will love us for that. _Out loud, he said, "Already talked with him about it. He's setting up a meeting with the leaders of a major agricultural concern on Galatana. Get about fifty _cuderae, apaterae, _and_ talashae _each here, and get them healthy and breeding as soon as possible."

"We'll need farmers and ranchers for that." She sighed. "Not to mention the fact that those critters have got to eat something, too."

"There are plenty of young people on Galatana, fresh back from four years of service, who need jobs. There'll be a few there that pass security and know how to grow _festuca_ and take care of animals. A few overseers, and we'll be set. It'll _take_ a year or so, though." He didn't add, _assuming the animals are able to adapt to a mixed ecology and don't die off in the first three months._

"And in the meantime, we need to test every single batch of food that comes through. And find out who did this."

"Let me worry about that." He leaned down, pressed his forehead to hers, and added, "Twelve _Estallus _marines and seven Spectres, by the way? Did _good_ against the Lystheni biotics. Sky, Gris, and Jack were really what turned the tide, though."

She nodded; she'd read the report. "And Mordin?"

"Recovering in med bay here. Had, of all things, a salarian egg in a thermo canister on him. Guess we'll find out what that's about when he's up and around. In the meantime, it's in an incubator." He grimaced. "No Reaper. No devices. We know they have a second location. For the moment, Cohort and all the techs are going through all the data we grabbed from their computers. There's _got_ to be something there that will lead is to them."

"And the Lystheni dalatrass?"

"Looks like some sort of poison. Not really sure, but Abrams said he'd start the autopsy as soon as we got back."

The meter on the IV stand began to chime quietly. "You're full, I take it?"

"Mmm. Saline and sugar and lots of dextro protein chains. My favorite." She held out her arm, and, after cleaning his hands with an alcohol wipe, Garrus pulled the IV needle for her. He'd learned how to do this last time around, though _administering_ the initial venipuncture still bothered him. She applied pressure with gauze and lifted her arm up. "Thanks, _amatus._"

He reached down, and put one big hand on her swelling waist. Pride. Fierce, territorial pride, and protectiveness. The turian tendency to find a waist erotic came from precisely this: seeing the potential in a slim waist, followed by the curve of the young within. _My mate. My young. _His pride was tempered, of course, with worry. _As if this wasn't hard enough to get through last time without this sort of mess._ "So. . .bed rest?" Bed rest generally also meant 'pelvic rest' as well, after all.

"Limited bed rest for a week, then go in for a re-evaluation on Wednesday. Overall, it's been easier this time, somehow. Blood pressure's been better. Dara's been a good nurse and nanny. Hate to lose her, but she's just as sick as I am, and now that her dad's back. . ." Shepard shrugged, and looked up at him, amusement in her eyes. "Don't worry. I fully intend for us to be able to enjoy the fun middle part here this time around. If I can help it, anyway."

He leaned down again, and let her brush his cheek with a kiss. And then he was off to their office, and the stack of datapads that awaited him. First, a check into the status of the male turian on Bastion who'd just lost his wife. Lycus Provian, originally of Thracia. Structural engineer, unsurprisingly, given all the construction on Bastion; his wife had been named Fiona. Their young son, Julian, was three months old. "Kasumi," Garrus said, into the comm terminal.

The woman looked up, and Garrus frowned. She looked _tired_, and tired people make mistakes. "Yeah, Garrus? I've got nothing new on the supply issues, but—"

"That's all right. I don't expect miracles inside of ten days. By day _fifteen_, though, I want an answer."

She actually managed a smile at that sally. "All right then. What can I do for you?"

"Have your folks run a quick background check on Lycus Provian. And the rest of the mixed family survivors, for that matter. Lilu wants to see if we can do anything for them, but Provian's got a three-month-old that isn't going to do well on human infant formula, so he's top priority." He understood Lilu's sense of responsibility here; shared it, even. If they hadn't shown that it was possible, most of these people would probably be fine today. Oh, some of them would have crossed the species line on their own. But they wouldn't, likely, have been eating a mixed diet. Wouldn't have had kids together.

Kasumi nodded, and made a note somewhere on her desk. "Okay, consider it done."

"Okay, now then: What have you and Argus got for me on the supply chain issue?"

"As I said, nothing really _new_. Four major suppliers were affected; two out of Alliance space, and two out of Hierarchy space. The Hierarchy suppliers are both very reputable. Both supply the military—Agricola Capri and Temnus Fesae."

Garrus nodded. "Yeah. I've seen a lot of crates with those logos on them in my life." _And eaten several thousand MREs out of those crates, too._

"The Alliance suppliers are a bit trickier. They're large conglomerate corporations. Hell, one of them is _Kraft_. That's Terran-based. The other one is off Demeter, which is the Alliance's biggest agricultural world, after Earth, anyway. Dyrkmad, LLT. Danish settlers founded it."

The names meant nothing to him. Garrus sighed. "All right, keep me posted. And get some rest."

"I _was_ planning on taking off a _little_ early today," she agreed, with a hint of a smile.

Garrus grinned. "I'm surprised Jaworski's not in your office right now."

"Oh, I'm here," he could hear Sam's voice. "I'm just _covert_ at the moment."

Garrus chuckled, and turned off the comm.

**Sam**

He'd dropped his kit and armor at his house—silent, dusty, and obviously unlived in—and had called Dara, first thing. "Where you at, kiddo?"

"Dad! You're home!" She sounded _good_, all things considered, and he took a moment to feel his relief. "I'm at the clinic."

Sam frowned. She was feeling better, but she was at the clinic, not at home or at the Vakarians' or even at school. "It _is_ a Monday, right? Shouldn't you be at school?"

"Dr. Chakwas called me in for some tests. Besides, twenty-two inches of snow up here, fifteen in the valley overnight. School's cancelled, everyone just got home, and I spent all weekend catching up on my work." Now she just sounded tired. Bone-deep tired, and he regretted the reflexive parental comment about school. She deserved a little more respect than that.

"Fair enough. I'm going to go over to the main building and pester Kasumi. Think you can shake free of the clinic to see your old man for a bit?"

"Of course I can." He could hear the smile in her voice. "I'll give you guys time to say hello first, though. So I'll swing by the house around noon, if that's okay."

"Sure. We'll have lunch, if there's anything in the cryo-unit."

A slight pause. "I'm all the way up to crackers and applesauce and _talashae_ paste out of an MRE kit. You could probably grab something for yourself while you're near the mess hall, though."

_Shit. _He'd hung up, with that increasing sense that time was, somehow, getting away from him, and had decided, on looking at the snow, that walking to the main building was going to be a better option than driving.

He eased open the door of Kasumi's office, and heard her talking with Garrus. Kasumi looked as tired as Dara had sounded. _Been a long damn eight weeks for everyone_, he reflected, and didn't open the door further, not wanting to bother her in the middle of her conversation. Just settled his back against the wall beside the door, facing out towards the area where her assistant had a desk, and waited. But when he heard his name mentioned, he couldn't resist the chance to have some fun, and called in, "Oh, I'm here. I'm just _covert_," and opened the door a little further, catching Kasumi's quick expression of delight.

She turned off her screen, stood, and headed straight towards him, and he picked her up off the ground for a kiss. She tasted good, she smelled good, and two damned months away had only reinforced the fact that he really _did_ want to spend as much of his time with her as possible. "Okay, so that answers my question before I could even ask it," Sam told her, after a minute. "I guess you _did_ miss me."

"Maybe a little." Her expression had lightened, become teasing. "I think we should conduct more testing, however."

Another kiss. "That's all you get for now, though," he said, putting her back down. "Since right now you are a working stiff, and I'm a gentleman of _leisure_ and all that."

"Oh, I can put you to work, if that's all that's bothering you. . ." She gestured at the datapads behind her.

Sam snorted. "Give me twenty-four hours so my body gets used to being on the damn ground again, and sure. I take it all that back there is the supply chain stuff?"

"Supply chain, manufacturers, agricultural collectives, shipping companies. That's that stack on the right. The stack on the left is growing, and that's all the data that _you_ all brought home from Zanethu, as my analysts go through it."

Sam chuckled. "Sorry to add to the workload, darlin'. I'll help. I promise."

She smiled up at him. "Good. Now shoo. I can't _think_ with you in the room, Sam."

"Really? How about when I do this?" He leaned over and kissed her again.

It took her a moment to recover, and he enjoyed every second of watching her eyes finally refocus. "Sam? Unless you're planning on locking that door and doing very unprofessional things to me on my desk? Out."

"Desk, chair, floor. It's all good." He looked down. "Well, the floor may get you some carpet-burn, so, maybe not that."

"Out!"

He chuckled and left.

Lunch with Dara was quiet. She'd unlocked the door, and he'd caught her in a big hug, and she'd laughed a bit at being picked up off the ground. Depositing her back on her feet again, he'd taken a good look at her. He still wasn't used to seeing the paint on her face. She looked pale under it, and had obviously lost weight.

"I should be able to eat normally by late this week," she told him as they ate lunch. 'Dr. Chakwas cleared me to start exercising again this morning, but I'll have to be careful until I get real food in me again. Energy levels."

He looked at her crackers and applesauce and shook his head. "Can you at least have yogurt or something, for the protein?"

"Off-world supplier," Dara replied, making a face. "Kasumi said Chef Gardner was having a _bunch_ of food shipped in from Odessa. Locally grown. We'll see what's in the shipment when it gets here. I'd take a chance on scrambled eggs at this point, but I don't trust _anything_ that doesn't come out of a two-year-old MRE package or that doesn't have a 'grown on Mindoir' sticker on it at the moment."

The conversation moved on from there. She'd been asked at the clinic to read to Dr. Solus, and the salarian had regained consciousness, much to her delight. "Good to hear. How's your husband doing?" The word felt _odd_ in his mouth; he'd stuck with 'your boy'—_never_ 'boyfriend'—or 'Rel' for a while. But it was probably time to face facts.

Dara's face lit up as soon as he asked, and she pulled up Rel's letters on her omnitool, reading him snippets here and there. Sam shook his head over some of the politics involved, and commented, "Sounds like he wants to be honest and open about everything that's going on. Smart boy. But he probably has to leave a lot out."

"I know. He's careful to point out what I might need to work on, but I know he doesn't have time to tell me everything." She frowned. "He's right, though. I hate heights. There's a climbing wall in the gymnasium here on base. I'd figured that if I'm feeling up to it this weekend, I'd ask Eli and Mazz to give me some pointers. But since you're home. . . would you mind?"

_No, I wouldn't __**mind**__ spending time with you, sweetheart. _"I can teach you," he said, and she grinned.

They started clearing dishes. Comfortable, familiar habits. It made his heart sink, just a little bit, to realize that he'd lost two months out of the four he'd had remaining to spend time with her. And for the next two, she clearly planned to be busy, busy, busy. "Do you realize," Sam said, after a moment, "that last year at this time, I'd just gotten the letter from Councilor Anderson, asking me to try out for the Spectres?"

She thought about it. "I remember I'd just come in from grooming Bandit, and you said you had news." She have a little half-smile, ruefully. "Feels like a long time ago."

"Yeah. It does." He put a hand on her shoulder for a moment, not knowing what to say. _And sometimes, it feels like just yesterday._

**Dara**

Dara headed upstairs to her room, and looked around at it. It looked. . . oddly small. She hadn't actually been _in_ the place in eight weeks, and there was a fair bit of dust. All of her old things looked out of place somehow, too. _I guess this is why turians have their kids pack up before they grow up,_ she thought, a little dismayed. _That way, the childhood memory stays nice and bright and never winds up looking. . . sad. Small. Childish._

She didn't know if she'd be staying here, or at the Vakarians' for the moment, but either way, she needed to do something about this room. If she waited till October to do all of this, she'd have to do it all at once. She also had more knickknacks and such than Rel had had; humans had more gift-giving occasions, and no one really knew what else to get a girl besides figurines and fake jewelry and whatever. So, she dug one of the moving containers from the last move out of her closet, opened it, and started carefully packing horse statues away. The little crystal one, of a rearing horse, that her mom had given her when she turned twelve, she kept out. It could go on their spirit table. A little reminder of her mother. Of course, their spirit table things, would have to be stored _somewhere_ while she was in boot camp, and Rel was. . . wherever Rel wound up.

She had a couple of old, physical books. Hand-me-downs from her parents, and grandparents, mainly. She'd keep those. A mix of amazingly silly and surprisingly perceptive science fiction from the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, some wonderful fantasy novels. And some of her oldest kids' books. But those could go in the attic until she was older. Until she was ready for kids of her own. There were dolls she hadn't really played with, but stuffed animals that she'd loved. _I bet Amara, Kaius, Caelia, and even Polina and Quintus would __love __to have these. But not my bear. I'm __keeping__ Mr. Fuzzy, thank you. _She found two laundry bags and divided the stuffed toys into each of them, smiling and thinking of how her parents had given her each. Some were pretty bedraggled. Others were in pretty decent shape.

Sheet music, she'd keep. She couldn't take that or the _reela_ with her, at first, but they could stay with the spirit table stuff. Pictures of her parents, herself, in frames? Those, she had to keep. Still couldn't take them with her. Not at first, anyway.

She sighed, and looked around the room, feeling defeated. It was a _lot_ harder than she'd thought it would be, to make these kinds of decisions. Dara curled up on her bed, and grabbed Mr. Fuzzy, and stared at the mess she'd made.

"Dara, girl, what the hell are you doing?" Her dad's voice at the door made her jump.

"I figured I'd put some stuff away. Get a jump on it, so that when October comes around, I don't have to do it all at once." Dara rubbed at her eyes, looked at the resulting yellow smudges on her hands as paint mixed with tears, and muttered, _"S'kak."_

A couple of tissues later, her dad came in and sat down on the bed next to her. "Y'know, you don't have to do it all at once," he told her, putting an arm around her shoulders. "And you _were_ just pretty damn sick."

"I know." Dara blew her nose. "I just figured it would be easier if I did it a little at a time. But it's hard." She leaned her head on her dad's shoulder for a moment. "Goodbye is a perfectly crappy thing to say."

For a moment, they both just sat there, staring out the window. Not looking at each other. Then he told her, "Yeah. It is." He squeezed her shoulder. "No sense in living in an empty room for the next two months, sweetie. So don't pack it all up at once. Come on downstairs and help me figure out what to make for Kasumi for dinner tonight."

"I should let Allardus and Solanna know I'm staying here tonight. I guess with everyone being home, and all the snow, they probably figure that already, but I should call."

"I knew you'd kept up with the martial arts, but you're still having dinner with them?" He sounded surprised.

"They insisted." She looked up and laughed a little. "It was weird at first, but it's gotten better. Allardus was there with Garrus when I first woke up from being sick. I tried to get out of the bed and he pushed me right back down again. Just like you probably would have. He's a good _pada'amu._"

"That's what Rel kept calling me."

"Means father-in-law. Specifically, 'father of my beloved.'" She started chuckling, a watery sort of sound, at the look on his face. "Saying it means you really like and respect and have a bond with the in-law. It's like he's calling you _Dad_, but without replacing his own dad, if that makes sense. Technically, I _could_ call Solanna _mada'ama_, but I'm not sure I could do it to her face. It'd be like calling her _Mom_, and. . . yeah, she's _so_ not. "

Her dad stood up, and with one hand, pulled her to her feet. "So," he said, after a moment, "I guess I need to start learning some turian in self-defense. Lantar and Garrus go off into _tal'mae_ sometimes, and I have no idea what the hell they're saying."

"I can copy my _Introduction to Turian_ textbook to your omnitool."

"Is that gonna help with the _tal'mae _crap? 'Cause my VI handles standard turian just fine."

"You kind of learn one to learn the other. Same sentence structure, lots more inflections and cases in _tal'mae_, but some of the same words. Lots of different meanings and pronunciations. Kind of like learning Italian and Latin at the same time."

Her dad made a rude noise. "Well, that's no help, then."

Then they were downstairs, and it was almost time for Kasumi to come over. The little woman arrived with a datapad in her hand and a mischievous smile on her face. "What's this?" her dad asked, pointing at the datapad. "No work tonight, darlin'."

"Oh, no, this isn't work." Brighter grin. "This isn't even for tonight. This is for. . . later this week. I just figured I'd leave it here so I'd stop playing with it.

Dara looked from one to the other. Her dad sighed, and reached out his hand. "With an intro like that, I can't help but feel that a boom is about to be lowered on my head."

Kasumi laughed. "Nothing that bad. Here, look if you want to, but keep in mind, you don't even have to _think_ about it for a while."

He opened it up, and smiled, briefly. "Ah, marriage stuff. In Japan?" He sounded surprised. "I'd have thought you'd want to get it done here."

Kasumi shrugged. "Mindoir's a little short on shrines. I was thinking maybe one of the Kumano Sanzan ones? The area's been sacred since prehistoric times. Supposed to be a place of healing." Suddenly, the little woman looked a little self-conscious. "The mountains are beautiful, and the Nachi waterfall, in particular, is wonderful."

Dara peeked over her dad's arm at the description, and blinked. "The waterfall is deified?"

Kasumi nodded. "It's a little hard to explain to someone who isn't Shinto," she said, a little hesitantly. "It's a folk belief, the oldest system of religious thought in Japan. It's not really exclusive, the way Western religions are. You can be Shinto _and_ Buddist, or Shinto _and_ Christian, if you really want to be. But at the heart of Shinto is the idea of the _kami_. Little gods, I guess you'd say, demons, angels, whatever. They're in the world around us. Particular places have them, and you generally want to keep them happy."

"Spirits," Dara said, smiling.

Kasumi nodded assent. "There's a lot of turian thought that feels familiar, yes."

"Why not the lake up here? I'm pretty sure it's a spirit place. A _kami_ place, I guess." Dara shrugged.

The little woman nodded, but her expression was guarded. "I've been there. And I know what you mean. There's definitely _something_ in these mountains, and the lake definitely has a _kami_. I can feel it. I've been tempted to ask Shep to let me build a _tori_ up there for it." She shook her head. "But there's no shrine, and a certain lack of Shinto priests and shrine maidens around here."

Sam shook his head. "I don't mind going to Japan for this, Kasumi-chan. Do you actually _have_ any family left back home that might want to be there?"

Kasumi winced. "Yes. I haven't actually spoken to my parents in a number of years, beyond New Year's greetings, but. . . yes. I'm sure they've long since given up on me. Particularly in terms of my _ever_ getting married. So this is going to be a shock for them."

Dara started to grin, and her dad began to laugh. "There's been a _whole_ lot of that going around, darlin'," he told Kasumi cheerfully. "You just tell me what you need me to do."

Another quick, almost wary glance. "You'd be okay wearing a man's kimono?"

Dara slipped one hand over her mouth, hiding her grin. Sam squinted for a moment. "We're talking _black_, right? Not all different colors?"

"Black is acceptable, yes."

"Then assuming we can find one that _fits_, sure."

Kasumi looked over at Dara. "See? Isn't it so much easier when people _aren't_ difficult about their wedding arrangements?"

"You've been giving him _easy_ stuff. You haven't told him to shave his moustache yet," Dara pointed out.

Sam gave his daughter a very direct look. "Not going to happen."

A quick, sly grin from Kasumi. "He _is_ very attached to it."

"It covers up a multitude of youthful sins, and keeps my upper lip warm."

"Youthful sins?" Kasumi pounced on the words like a cat.

Dara chuckled at her dad's expression. Sam pushed back from the table, stretching out his long legs. "Yeah, well. When I was about seventeen, I was even younger and stupider than when I was stationed in Japan. Motorcycle accident. Seventeen stitches to my upper lip. Couldn't shave for two weeks, and by the time I got the stitches pulled, I had a moustache." He shrugged. "I have no idea how bad the scarring actually is under this thing, and I don't actually feel like finding out."

A while later, after dinner, Sam said, "Right. We're going to get rid of one of these houses, Kasumi-chan. It's downright depressing coming home to this place when it's empty."

That led into a spirited conversation on the benefits of both houses. "This one's on base, and it's where all the Spectres have gotten used to coming to blow off steam at the end of the week," was Sam's point.

"Yes, but mine actually feels _lived-in_."

"This one would, too, if anyone actually lived in it for more than a couple of weeks at a time. Besides, it's got a bigger backyard."

"That just means more yard to take care of."

"You say that now, but if we decide we want another young'un around the place, you'll want them to have plenty of room to run around."

That made Dara's eyes go round, and she swallowed her drink the wrong way. Kasumi's eyes had gone wide, too. "Well. . . that's something we can discuss later," she said, after a moment, recovering. "But, on that same note, the schools are all down in the valley."

"The shuttle back and forth isn't too bad, but it does eat up a lot of time every day," Dara offered, and started clearing dishes.

Kasumi frowned. "Living on base _would_ cut down on my commute," she admitted. "I just have never asked Shep for a place up here, because I'm not, technically, a Spectre myself."

"Well, you're marryin' one." Sam shrugged, as if that ended the story.

By the end of the evening, a tentative agreement had been reached. Kasumi was going to move into Sam's house, but was going to keep her own, for the time being. "I'm very used to having a place of my own to retreat to," she warned. "This is going to take some getting used to."

Dara just watched and smiled as her dad put his arms around Kasumi, and gave her a kiss. "I'm not worried about it," he told her. "We'll make it work."

**Elijah**

School had been cancelled that day, and he'd gone out with Linianus for most of the day, roaming through the forest just outside the base, exploring the winter world. The turian boy had complained cheerfully about the cold, but had commented, "Probably good preparation for boot camp. One whole week is devoted to cold-weather survival. Mostly because turians aren't great at it." They were speaking in turian, since Eli had decided he was tired of the way Serana laughed at him for his mixed up datives and accusatives, and because he wanted to surprise Lantar when he got back, with how much he'd improved. 

Eli looked at him. "Your fifteenth birthday was back in July, right?"

Lin nodded, grimly. "Yeah. Right after Rel left. Time to start preparing."

"Me, too. I'll start running in the mornings with you."

"Can I join the sparring classes?" Lin asked.

"Don't see why not. They're open to everyone." Eli offered him his hand, and Lin gave him a quick wrist-clasp back. "I'll even teach you how to swim."

Linianus shuddered. "That's a skill I wish I didn't have to learn."

"It's fun when you know how." 

By now, they'd wound their way back onto base proper; Eli was flushed with the cold, and while his feet were a bit numb, he could've gone for another hour or so, no problem. He could tell that Lin was having problems though, so he said, "Yeah, let's drop by my place and get something to eat."

It was late afternoon, and opening the door, Eli saw Lantar sitting at the table, an amused look on his face. "Dad!" he said, and he was amazed at how relieved he was to see his step-father. The world had been tilted on its axis the wrong way for a while, and now everything stabilized, all at once. "You're back." He switched into turian. _"It pleases me that you are home and have hunted well."_

Lantar's eyes went surprised for a moment, and then he replied, _"Far we hunted, but we found our prey._" After a pause, he added, in English, pointing in the corner, "I see we have a new and _fearsome_ predator in residence." Eli and Linianus both turned and looked, and saw Lucy, the little black kitten, suddenly emerge from behind a couch to hop up in the air, and land solidly atop a small piece of ribbon, rolling over to hold it in her forepaws and shred at it gleefully with her hind claws.

Linianus' guffaw startled the creature, and Lucy skittered off, apparently offended that anyone had seen her in her loss of dignity. "She's been stalking that ribbon for ten minutes," Lantar said. "And Caelia's been stalking _her_ for five." He pointed, and, sure enough, eighteen-month old Caelia was crouching, very quietly, nearby, watching the kitten intently. It wasn't _quite_ how a human child would behave. A human girl of the same age would probably have shrieked "Kitty!" and tried to hug or pet the kitten. Caelia usually did that, in fact. Right at the moment, though, she was observing. Watching.

Eli knew _that_ look. It meant trouble, usually in the form of a yowling kitten and a shrieking, scratched child. "Duck? No. Go play with something else. Leave the cat alone." He grabbed a ball out of a nearby chest, and tossed it. Caelia was off in a flash, suitably distracted.

Lantar chuckled and stood. "You've grown, son."

"I know." Eli's voice cracked, and he sighed. That part was getting _old_. He wished his voice would just finish dropping and get it over with already. To his own ears, he sounded like he had a perpetual cold. "Inch and a half in two months." It _hurt_ to grow this fast, and he had no idea how turians could _stand_ their own growth spurt; Rel had commented that he'd gone from somewhere around 5'5" midway through his fourteenth year to 6'7" before leaving for boot camp. Fourteen inches in eighteen months. Eli, right now, had finally gotten taller than Dara, though he doubted he'd ever be quite tall enough to look Lantar in the eyes.

"You'll be shaving soon."

"Had to last week." The admission was both a source of pride and annoyance for him. He'd looked forward for so damned long to being grown-up enough to do it, but now, it turned out that the bristles he'd so looked forward to having were actually more of a pain than anything. For one thing, shaving was actually a chore. For another, they poked through his clan-paint, which was annoying. And for a third, Siara always had a comment about them when his face got scratchy.

Eli opened the cabinets, and started rummaging for food for Lin, finally coming up with _cudarae_ jerky, which he tossed to his friend, who muttered a quick thank you and started eating, ravenously. Caelia came back with her ball, and Lantar chuckled, stood up, and threw it for her. "No, don't run yet, little one. You want to learn to hunt?"

Caelia looked up at her tall father, and nodded, hesitantly. "Then you wait for the prey to calm itself. Relax. Go still." Lantar picked Caelia up by the hands, lightly settling her onto his feet. "Then we sneak up on it." Linianus turned to watch, grinning as Lantar slowly, with exaggerated care, stepped towards the waiting ball. "Quietly. Softly. Slowly. . . .and then we pounce!" Lantar lifted Caelia up and deposited her on the waiting ball, and the little girl shrieked and giggled. "And then we start again. Show me." Lantar rolled the ball away, and Caelia scrambled to her feet. "Wait for it." The ball rolled to a halt. "Now stalk, little one."

Caelia crouched down, and with the same exaggerated steps, began to creep up on her ball. Eli chuckled. "I haven't seen her do this much, before." He'd finally found food of his own at this point, a block of cheese and crackers.

Lantar nodded. "Eighteen months or so, the hunting instincts kick in. Before that, they're dependent on the parents, almost completely. It's good to channel them before they find. . .ah, inappropriate prey."

Linianus nodded. "I remember playing hunt games with my father and cousins around that age." He finished the package of jerky, just as Eli's omnitool buzzed. A quick message from Dara. _Hey, my dad's back. I need to learn rock climbing for boot camp, and he's going to teach me. You want to meet at the gym over the weekend on base?_

Eli shook his head. "Hey, Lin. Boot camp prep this weekend, if you want to come along. I already know a bit about rock climbing, but Dara's dad is teaching her."

Linianus was nodding already, quickly. "Ask her if Telinus can come along, too," the turian boy added. "Better to learn this kind of thing from a human. You're _meant_ for this kind of thing. We're not, so much."

Lantar just sat back, smiling as Eli tapped out a message in return. Eli had no idea why, but the smile just broadened when he asked, "So, Dad? I know you're probably tired and all, but were you serious about the whole gladiatorial thing? Because I figured we could move the groundcar out of the garage and stick a space-heater in there so it doesn't get too cold, and it should be around the right size for a practice ring, right?"

"Yeah. Want to do that off-nights from sparring?" Lantar looked over at Lin. "You want in?"

Linianus nodded vigorously. "Too damn cold for anything outdoors right now."

And then his mom came downstairs, looking freshly showered, and Eli could hear the faint jingling that meant she was wearing her _cinctus_ somewhere under her sweatshirt. "Linianus? You staying to dinner again?"

"If I can, sure."

"_Apatarae_ stew for you and Lantar and Caelia, spareribs for Eli and me."

"Spareribs." Lantar sighed. "Waste of perfectly good bones."

Eli's mom swatted at his shoulder with absolutely no force. "You're welcome to mine. Local pork, so it should be clean of any chemicals." Her face went pinched for a moment, and Eli understood why for once, completely. He _really_ hadn't liked seeing Dara in the hospital, and the thought of Caelia or his mom hooked up to all those tubes and machines had been horrifying.

Over dinner, Lantar asked Eli, mildly, "So, how's Siara doing?"

Linianus started chuckling. Eli sighed. "Damned if I know. She's pissed at me."

His mother shook her head, but held her tongue. Lantar frowned. "How's that?"

"As far as I can tell, it started when Dara got sick. Siara and I went to the clinic to see her when she was waking up and got her datapad to her so she could read her mail and catch up on school. Siara's been mad at me ever since." Elijah shrugged. "Hasn't talked to me in five days, won't return calls or messages. I think I'm about done trying, though." He grinned, suddenly. "I think I'll just find a nice turian girl next time. Turians, I _understand_."

That made his mom and Lantar _laugh. _

Linianus, now, the voice of worldly wisdom. "Isn't it always the case in a male's life, not to know why his mate is angry with him?"

Lantar shook his head. Ellie snorted. "No. I think I'm usually very upfront with Lantar when I'm mad at him." She sent him a fond look. "Now, whether either of us actually _understands_ what the other is angry about is a _whole_ different story."

**Dara**

Time passed, as it had a habit of doing. Her dad strongly hinted that she should stay at home and rest for a bit, rather than going back over to the Vakarians'. "I'd kind of like to see a _little_ of you, sweetie," he'd told her, firmly, and it hadn't taken much arm-twisting to get her to agree. She did, however, continue to clean out her room, and took old, beloved toys to Amara, Kaius, and Caelia, which were greeted with glee by the children.

Three days later, Thursday evening, she was helping Dr. Solus set up a larger incubator for the small egg he'd brought back from Zanethu, in his little room at the clinic, where he could watch it. It was a _queen_ egg, at that. "My daughter," he explained to Garrus, Shepard, her dad, and Lantar, who were in the same room. "Not a properly negotiated mating. More duress than appropriate. The dalatrass of my own family would probably not approve. Especially combination with Lystheni genes. However, unwilling to turn the egg over to family on Sur'Kesh. Want to give this one a chance." He blinked, rapidly. "She should be almost full adult in four, five years, when I die of old age. If not, hope you will take care of her." He looked at Shepard and Garrus at that moment.

"_Meus iusiuru_, _meus anima," _Garrus replied, calmly. Prompt, firm assurance. He glanced at his wife, who was off of bedrest, but still wearing a breather and gloves here, in the clinic. Shepard just nodded in agreement.

Dara took a sample of the water in the incubation vat, and tested it. _Not enough salt. _She began to add a little salt at a time, checking the meter carefully every couple of teaspoons.

"No other eggs found in Meve Xana's quarters?" Dr. Solus asked, after a moment.

Garrus shook his head. "None."

"Interesting. Suggestive, as well."

It was Garrus' turn to blink. "How so?"

"Indicates that Xana likely evacuated some of her people before Spectres arrived. Sent off remaining female eggs from our mating, probably several other ships. Supplies. Likely biotic weapons as well."

Dara shuddered now, as Dr. Solus described the way in which the biotic weapons were created to the others. Lobotomized people. No better than zombies. Chips in their heads, under the control of a single Lystheni. _Okay, that's enough salt. Now I need to add the potassium and other nutrients. _

Dr. Solus continued, "Dalatrass would have recognized that Spectres were likely to close in soon. Maelon was foolish to take me captive. She was willing to use my skills, while I was there, but likely had a realistic assessment of risks involved."

Her dad shook his head. "Odd that she didn't evacuate _herself_, too, given that she took the other precautions."

Dr. Solus smiled. "Yes. Interesting, that." He sat up in bed. "Dr. Abrams has held off on autopsy until I was well enough to oversee. Dara, would you like to participate? Good opportunity to observe again, like last Lystheni cadavers."

She saw her dad move slightly against the wall, as if he were about to object, but finished calibrating the heater on the incubation unit, and then turned and nodded. "Sure. Can't be worse than the last ones. Should have a lot fewer holes this time, right?" _Kind of funny that he has no emotional reaction to the idea of opening up the body of someone he was, technically, intimate with. Then again, salarians don't really __have__ that kind of wiring. Friendship, sure. Companionship. . . with asari, maybe. Concern for children, relatives, sure, but at a remove from what humans and turians feel. And romantic love, or any sort of reaction to mating? Not so much._

"Yes. Fewer holes, less trauma. Poison, however, likely. Could be worse, in some ways," Dr. Solus told her, calmly. "Intestines likely intact. All bodily systems, likely unaltered. Will smell worse."

_Well, that's why they invented breathers. _Dara frowned, reflexively helping Dr. Solus to his feet as he tried to stand. "But she's still a Lystheni, right? But no mechanical additions, no gene mods. That's a little inconsistent with their beliefs, isn't it?"

Dr. Solus grinned at her. "Good. Think further. Extrapolate. Use your mind. Why would this be?"

Dara looked away for a moment. "Well, keeps the genes pure, I guess. If each dalatrass in each generation is the source for all her followers, it would make sense to make sure she's the pure representation of their ideal genotype." She frowned for a moment. "Assuming they had only one dalatrass, though, that would lead to inbreeding _really_ fast."

"Especially in salarians," he agreed. "Male offspring genetic clones of mother, one chromosome missing, alters gender. Female offspring have only genetic changes, aspects of father's genotype. First generation of Lystheni, assume fifteen hundred males, one female. Would be _wise_ to have multiple daughters. However, most dalatrasses do not like to share power. Have few daughters. One. Maybe two. What does this mean, Dara?"

She had a feeling he was testing her—in front of _everyone_, no less—and frowned again as she helped him over to the incubator, so he could look over her work. For a moment, she stared at the little egg, no larger than her hand, that floated in the solution now. "Okay," Dara said, slowly, thinking it out. "So, let's say they brought a full spread of ages with them, one year to say, thirty-five. Then ten years after they started their little colony, the males who were thirty and higher have already died off. Maybe, say, a loss of fourteen to twenty percent of their original genetic diversity. They've been replaced with one or maybe two hatchings worth of identical males. In the next ten years, the ones who were twenty to thirty when they arrived die off, and likely the first dalatrass, too. That takes out another twenty to thirty percent of their genetic diversity, which is then replaced by another one or two hatchings from the new dalatrass, who might have one or two daughters by one or more males.. . . " Dara thought about that. "In the meantime, every ten years or so, another twenty to thirty percent of the original male population dies off. Inside of thirty to _maybe_ sixty years, you might only _have_ three or four families' worth of genetic variation, no matter what your population numbers are. You could have two thousand people, but if all you have are essentially _clones_ of three, maybe four females. . . that's not exactly a diverse genetic population. And they've been doing this for fifteen _hundred_ years?"

Put that way, it didn't make any sense at all. They should have inbred themselves out of existence centuries ago. "Even if they have mutations creeping in from. . . radiation exposure or bad cell division, that's not going to keep them a viable population for that long. Unless they have _multiple_ dalatrasses." She shook her head. "That doesn't make sense." Dara realized that she'd been talking for a long time, and glanced over at the others, a little apprehensively. _Hopefully, some of that made sense, and wasn't just babbling._

"Very good. Been paying attention to Azala and xenobiology courses." Dr. Solus looked at the others in the room. "They do not have multiple females. Can't. Xana said that her own daughters never reached more than the age of ten. Too much inbreeding. Therefore, Lystheni must recruit often. But cautiously. Recruitment opens them to counter-espionage, infiltration. Yet, remains only way to keep population viable. Difficult balance. Lystheni engage in risky behaviors, as well. Draw attention to themselves. Often violent backlash. Loss of population almost inevitable. If population so unstable, unviable, _other_ methods _must_ have been investigated to ensure continuity. Control. Organization. Methods that make a single dalatrass's life . . . expendable. Normally unthinkable in salarian culture." Dr. Solus grinned outright. "Any guesses?"

An entire room full of people stared at him, blankly. He sighed. "Dara already used word. Think!

_I did?_ Dara hastily went back over her most recent thoughts.

Shepard said, quietly, through her breather, "Clones."

Garrus shifted. "They're cloning their _dalatrass_?"

Dr. Solus nodded in approval. "Cloning easy for amphibians, especially salarians. Already mostly _are_ clones. Not a difficult process, as is for turians or humans. No social stigma, either. Oldest clone probably at Zanethu complex. Desperate for viable offspring before inevitable demise. Likely a younger clone in charge of other operations. Younger one likely more aggressive than predecessor. Explains shift in recent policies. Personality not defined entirely by genes, after all. Sometimes changes occur, even within iterations of cloned generations. Mutation. Environment. Interactions growing to adulthood. All formative." He waved a hand. "All speculative. But definitely within realm of possibility."

Lantar shook his head. "So what does this all mean in terms of what we can expect when we find their second base? Or do we have enough information for that, yet?"

Mordin shrugged. "Unsure. First time Lystheni ships attacked _Normandy_, they had surprise. _Normandy _took much damage as a result. This time, _Normandy_ and other ships took Lystheni partially by surprise. Had countermeasures ready. Next time, will not be so easy for either side. They will probably attempt to harden their weapons against countermeasures. I would." He turned. "Ready for autopsy, Dara? Will learn much."

"In the middle of the _night?_" Dara made a face. It was pushing 18:00, and visitor hours were almost done. "_You_ might not need sleep, Dr. Solus, but I'm only human. I'll see you in the morning, though." She looked at her dad. "Yes, school in the afternoon, but I think I can convince Azala that this counts towards xenobiology."

"I wasn't going to say anything," Sam said, mildly. "Seems to me, you're getting post-grad work done at the moment."

Dara blinked. That hadn't even been a fight.

The autopsy in the morning confirmed that the _only_ surgical intervention to the dalatrass had been a small subdermal implant in her left arm; it had been activated by a control implanted in a tooth, and had released poison into her system. Dr. Solus and Dr. Abrams were very excited about this. Dara was somewhat less so, but was mostly glad that her gag reflex was, in spite of her recent gastric upheaval, still quite a bit less bad than it had been, months ago.

That weekend, she wrote a long letter to Rel, passed through Kasumi's hands for a security check.

_September 3, 2191_

_Amatus—_

_Well, all kinds of good news. It's a Saturday, and I think spring just arrived. Last week, twenty-two inches of snow? Today, it hit seventy degrees Fahrenheit. . .that's about sixty-three __aestus__, to you. All the snow is melting. If this keeps up, I'm going to visit our allora meadow in couple of weeks and pick flowers there. More good news: I'm back on solid foods. I've had about enough applesauce and oatmeal and __talashae__ paste to last me a lifetime. More on that when we can talk properly, and no more of this letter in a bottle __talas'kak__._

_Dr. S is back at last, and doing well. Looks like he's going to have a kid in a month or two, believe it or not. Everyone else is back from work, and has a little downtime for the moment. I think they're mostly doing research at the moment, which means my dad and K. are pretty busy. Oh, speaking of whom? K. finally moved in with my dad. We're both invited to their wedding, of course. No date set yet, but K. wants to have it done on Earth, in Japan. I'm not sure which of us will be more out of place there, you or me, but the chance to see my dad in a kimono and reading a formal groom's statement in Japanese cannot be missed. K. swears she'll time it for our first mutual leave._

_Siara's working with U.G. on her biotics and even in sparring, which is kind of weird. She says her mom has a crush on him, but she likes him a lot, herself. She's mad at Eli for some reason, and that seems to be spilling over onto me, which makes studying with her a pain—the more so, since her mom is overseeing my xenobiology advanced course. Oh, well. Either she'll get over it, or she won't. Never understood what Eli saw in someone that moody to begin with._

_My dad, Eli, Linianus, and I spent most of today at the climbing wall in the gym. I can honestly say, going __up__ is not a problem. Coming back down, when I have to look at where my feet have to go, and I'm twenty feet off the ground? That's the hard part, where my limbs freeze. Something else to work on, I guess._

_Your dad sat down with me and the paperwork last night. Forty-eight pages in __tal'mae_._ Application for naturalization by marriage, check, application for citizenship via bootcamp, check, request to enter the turian military, check. Three damned hours. No sparring for us, but at least at the end I was sure I'd checked all the right boxes and signed in all the right places. It's been sent off, and I should hear back on it in two weeks. _

_Sixty-eight more days, Rel. I can hardly wait to see you. _

**Siara**

She'd been trying to be better for months now. Siara thought she'd made more than decent strides, in fact. Eli had seemed more relaxed and open with her; she'd even been able to tolerate Dara as a study partner fairly well. It helped that the human girl really was intelligent. She'd never be as fast as a salarian, or able to think in the same depth as an asari, but she definitely was making strides, and at a furious, driven rate. _Perhaps it comes of being short-lived_, Siara thought, _this tendency to make a decision and throw themselves into it, as if their very existence depended on it_.

Still, no matter how much they worked together—and Siara had, accidentally, actually picked up two of the same courses as Dara this quarter—both chemistry and organic chemistry—and no matter how often they found themselves in the same social setting, whether at sparring or in a study group, she knew Dara was still wary of her. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was _frustrating_. _Can't you see that I'm trying to change?_ Siara wanted to yell at the other female, sometimes.

Siara had a pretty good insight into doubts and insecurities. Mostly because she carried so many of her own. So she could _read_ the doubt and the worry and the fear that sometimes marked Dara's face, when she thought no one else was looking. And Dara _hated_ to have it pointed out, just as Eli hated to have it pointed out that his voice was cracking or that he, yet again, needed to shave, like some bestial creature. She knew she _shouldn't_ poke at them. But sometimes, still, it was like a scab, just begging to be scratched.

Then the whole illness had happened. Suddenly, one day, Dara wasn't in school. Eli was a little white-faced under his paint that day, and simply muttered, after she'd asked him a couple of times, "She and Commander Shepard and the twins got sick last night after dinner. Bunch of med techs came to my house late last night, checked every scrap of food in the place. My mom and Caelia are fine, thank god. That's all I know, and I'm going to the med bay after school to see them, all right?"

"Can I come?"

Eli shrugged. "Sure."

They hadn't been able to go in the room for long. Chemical smells, scent of plastic and rubber. The hiss of the ventilator, the beep of the various monitors. No one looks quite like themselves in such circumstances; skin and muscles flaccid, faces elongated by the machinery into a parody of themselves. Eli had gone right up to the bed, and brushed Dara's hair out of her sleeping face. "I know you can't hear me, but you know what?" he'd told her quietly. "Serana says Rel's spirit's with you. Says that's why you're still alive. Kind of a nice thought, huh?"

Siara had just stood there, watching. Dark hair, dark eyes, violet clan-paint, looking down at dark hair, closed eyes, yellow clan-paint. Soft, quiet words, in their native English, something for the lurking subconscious to grab onto and follow home. "I bet if he could, he'd grab onto his spirit and let it pull him all the way here. He can't, of course. So instead, you've got me blathering at you. If you don't want to hear anymore, you'd better wake up, right?"

No response, of course, but the hissing of the machines. Eli had put his hand on Dara's limp one for a minute. "Okay. I'll be back tomorrow with your datapad. Commander Shepard's already awake, they said. Kids inside of her seem to be okay. No kidney or liver damage, which was the main thing. Just thought you should know."

Eli turned. "_Have you words for her,, more-than-fair_?" The sudden shift into high tongue made her blink.

Siara shook her head. It wasn't her place. She didn't even know what to say. Except that now she had a bad feeling at the pit of her stomach, and she couldn't understand why.

On their fourth visit, Dara finally woke up again. Eli immediately handed her the datapad, touched her awkwardly on the arm, and then left as Dara started to read her messages from Rel. _As if that were the only thing that sustained her_. She _knew_ she shouldn't have this anger, this insecurity in her. This black and noisome viper, curling in her belly. Jealousy, again. _He cares for her. Only as a friend, but in a way, they touch one another. She's not even aware of it. Completely absorbed in her turian mate. But she and Eli are alike. _She did her breathing exercises, as Gris had taught her. Tried to find the calm place within.

Then the Spectres had returned, and Dara came back to school. Pale. Unwell. Every turian student basically locking ranks around her, and Eli with them. One of _theirs_. Belonging. The other human students expressed their sympathy, too. Siara clenched her teeth a bit. It was the same damn thing as before, and she had to remind herself, forcibly, of her mother's words. _Sympathy for someone else has nothing to do with me. It doesn't exclude me. _But she also couldn't quite escape her own thoughts.

The days went on. She couldn't bear to look at Eli's face, see the confusion there when she snapped at him, and simply shut him out. Threw herself into her training with Gris—sparring and biotics now, much to the krogan's bemused pleasure. He drove her as hard as he drove Mazz, and then sent her to spar against Dara some nights. The human female's physical training far outmatched Siara's at this point, so she started incorporating her biotics into it—at least a shield. "Cheater," Dara told her, grinning, the first time. It was the friendliest smile she'd ever had from Dara, actually, though it came attached to such a stinging word.

And then home at night. Gris was supposed to be staying over for the first time. She went to bed early, so she wouldn't see the happiness in her mother's eyes. _Other people's happiness doesn't preclude yours_, she reminded herself, again and again. But she knew they'd be sharing themselves that night, opening their minds fully to one another, and while she was not a human prude, she really didn't understand what her gentle, studious mother could possibly see in the krogan. Siara had taken his calmness with her from the five-way link, but the savagery in him? Why would Azala tolerate that—no, more than tolerate. She could see how her mother had actually been _wistful_ for the krogan's presence during the two months that he and the other Spectres had been gone.

She'd asked Azala about it, one morning, and her mother had tried to explain, helplessly, with just words. "He has something in him that I lack, little one. I think. . . we could balance each other."

"You make it sound like a construction project."

Azala shook her head. "More like an equation, little one." She'd smiled. "Or positive and negative charges. I've always had a good mind. But even _you_ think I'm weak, little one."

Siara had started to protest. "No, I've seen your mind, little one. I accept your judgment, because it's true." Her mother looked at her, earnestly. "I like Gris' strength. It's not just strength of body or of biotics, you know. There's. . . character, there. You like him, don't you?"

A little surprised, Siara had admitted, "Yes. Though I don't know exactly why."

"Because you see in him a strong person, committed to protecting others. A teacher whom you can trust. A guide. A guardian."

All of it was true. Siara had to admit it; it was why she could trust him when they were working with so much biotic energy, knew that he'd never push her beyond her limits. Azala looked at her very patiently. "You're strong, Siara. And I'm proud of you. But you also need to learn that strength doesn't have to mean rigidity. You _can_ bend, you know."

_To bend is to break_, Siara thought. _I'm tired of being broken._

So, he'd stayed the night, and the next morning, Siara had overheard their conversation. The female clan had sent him several requests for mating. Apparently, his daughter had been proven fertile, and a fertile, biotic male, was in high demand. "I haven't wanted to mention it," she heard him tell her mother at the table, as she stood outside the door of the dining room, listening. "You know that it wouldn't actually _mean_ anything, right?"

She could almost picture her mother's face, running through the analysis. "No," Azala told him, after a moment. "It would just be trying to perpetuate your species. I actually have no problem with that. Xenobiologist, remember?" A hint of laughter in her voice. "Just so long as you're not planning on leaving for there _today_. . . . "

A low, rough laugh. "Definitely not."

Behind the door, Siara fumed. _On the one hand, it's very asari to share. . . but on the other hand, is it weak to show so little pride?_

On and on the days went. Studying with Dara had never entirely been comfortable, but now, it had gotten worse, and Siara knew it was her own fault. Midway through the quarter, they were studying at Siara's house, preparing for midterms. "I have to admit, I'd really rather be out practicing biotics with Gris," Siara finally griped. _Maybe take out some of this bad mood with a nice solid throw._

Dara glanced up at her over the top of her datapad, where she was working with a xenobiology exercise Azala had given her. "So, you got over your biotic cold?"

"Yes." Siara sighed. "It wasn't really _that_." She found it hard to believe that Dara really didn't _know_, but the eyes looking at her were guileless.

"I kind of figured it was something else, but you don't have to tell me what." Dara moved two species together in the simulation, and frowned.

"It's September," Siara said, after a moment, carefully. "You'll be leaving soon?"

Dara looked up, appearing surprised. "Yeah. Allardus helped me fill out all the citizenship and naturalization and application paperwork last week. Took us three hours, since it's _all_ written in _tal'mae_. He and Solanna and my dad are definitely coming with me. Chances are, Garrus and Lantar and Eli will, too. They all want to see Rel graduate." Dara smiled at the thought.

"Will you honor your promise before you leave?"

Dara apparently had to think about that one fairly carefully. "Kella's memories?"

Siara nodded, suddenly on edge.

Dara sighed. "Sure. If you're all the way well, why don't we get it out of the way now?"

_What? _ "You're sure?"

"Now that you've brought it up, if I wait on it any longer, I'll just keep making it worse and worse in my mind." Dara made a face.

"I don't know why humans make such a big _deal_ about this. It's barely even sharing." Siara stood up, and walked across the room to where Dara sat on the couch. "Here. I'll take your hand."

She could see how hard Dara tried to control her face. How could this possibly be _that_ bad? Dara's mind was very different from Eli's. Such a surprise; the gender division within humans even marked their _thoughts_. She knew from her xenobiology that males had a smaller corpus callosum, the structure that bridges the halves of the human brain, and permitted thoughts to flow from one hemisphere to the other. That was part of the difference; while Eli tended to think about one thing at a time, deeply focused, Dara's thoughts were more fractcal; while the girl could concentrate intently, she was more apt to make unexpected connections. It was . . . interesting.

And then she was in Dara's mind, hearing how the girl perceived this whole arrangement. Feeling _fear_. _Fear of __**me**__?_

_Don't resist so much. You'll tire yourself out._ Siara tried to be comforting, but it wasn't her strong suit.

_Not like Sky's song. Sky's song is comforting, this is just leashed power, hint of anger, like thunder in the distance. . . ._

Siara blinked. That wasn't who she was, was it? _Not what I'm here for. Kella's memories. Think of her, Dara, please._

_Flip, flip, flip_, like the pages of a book. Reading all the slowly-dimming memories of Kella. A rising sense of consternation; her own.

_You became friends with her mostly to protect yourself from __**me**__?_

_Rel suggested it, yes. Tactical advice. _Impossible not to look at that related memory—Rellus and Serana, walking Dara home, bitter sense of solitude, isolation in Dara. Rel—so much shorter in that memory, and yet still so much taller than Dara, just a friend, not her mate yet. . . .

_"I think you're probably going to have more problems with Siara and Kella," Rellus told her, pragmatically, at the door. "Siara will be jealous that her mom paid you so much attention today."_

_"I didn't ask for it," _Dara whispered, then and now, uncomfortable.

_"I'm just advising you on tactics," the turian boy told her, grinning. "My best advice would be to make Kella your friend."_

_"And how am I supposed to do that?" Dara asked, making a face._

Jumping ahead now, flip, flip, flip. Just a light friendship between the two girls, based on nothing more than a common interest in music. It would probably have faded with time. Little memories, here and there, stronger than the rest.

_"Dara?" _

_"Mmm?"_

_"Rellus gave you that necklace today?"_

_"Yes. 'S'pretty." _

_Kella giggled a little. "He __likes__ you," the asari girl teased._

_Good__. Hazy thoughts, on the verge of sleep. "Said it was for helping him with school."_

_"Hah. Right. It's a way of marking territory, Dara. __Everything__ turians do is about territory, of course." There was a pause, and then a really odd question. "Do you mind if I take Elijah off your hands?"_

Shock of surprise from Dara. She'd never remembered that part of the conversation clearly before. Confusion, even; _Elijah wasn't hers to __give__, what sort of a crazy question __was__ that? You don't just give people away. They're their __own__._

Flip, flip, flip. Kella, bringing over half her mom's and her closets. Trying on Japanese kimonos. Trying to convince Dara to find a dress among the many to take for the concert.

_"I will never understand how it is that humans have so __many__ problems with self-image," Kella said. "My mom says it's because you're more locked into your own heads than we asari are. Turians tend to take others' perspectives of them a little __too__ much to heart; humans can, too, taking __one__ random negative comment and evolving a whole . . ." Kella waved her hands, looking for the word, and giving up, "__thing__ about it."_

_The shock of having Kella touch her mind. _Siara sucked in her breath. It wasn't sharing; it was the _opposite_ of sharing. It was blocking something in another's mind, and she'd never even known that anyone could _do _that, and Kella had just _done_ it, almost instinctively. The shift in Dara's mind, as self-awareness was filtered out, then restored. Dara's deep sense of appreciation for the gift she'd been given; even though the true shock of it had faded, with time, she'd taken new self-confidence out of the experience.

Siara was stunned. The human girl was smart and strong and lovely, and had actually _not_ seen this about herself? She had always picked at Dara because she thought the girl had so much. How could Dara not have seen herself correctly? How had _Kella_ understood it, so instinctively?

Flip, flip, flip. The four of them, together, in the mountains. Dara's reticence; she really would have preferred to be alone with Rel, but so long as the other two were happy, she didn't mind. Kella and Eli, happy and splashing in the water, wandering off alone. She had Eli's matching memories, lined them up, aligned them like pieces of a puzzle.

Flip, flip, flip. _What's __**this**__? Paths, doors, windows, futures. . . flickers of Rel and Dara, biting in the long grass, smell of flowers. . . . _ Screeching halt, complete resistance.

_You can't look at that. _Enormous strength of will.

_It relates to Kella._

_Only because she experienced something similar. So did Eli. You can't look at that._

Skittering off a different direction now, forwards through the memories. Attack on the base, ducking into the rifle range, quick looks exchanged with Rel, knowing that Kella and Eli were, at that point, largely liabilities, people who needed to be protected. Ready to hide, ready to wait it out. . . and then, another glowing place, not doors and windows, but other people's memories, a flood, like the best sharing ever. . . and again, somehow, Dara managed to close the door in her mind.

_Kella was there with you! _Anger now, at being denied. _You promised. All of your memories of her._

_Ask Eli for that. My memories, Rel's memories, my father's memories, Garrus and Shepard's memories, all exposed that day. Not for you._ Exhaustion in Dara's mind now. Siara could probably break through that resistance, but no. . . there were more Kella threads left to gather, to read.

Hard to look at these, though. Hard to feel the guilt and the anguish and the helplessness, hard to watch as Dara's hands turned blue as she struggled to keep life in that broken body. Hard to hear her scream.

All in all, Siara was. . . interested, and a little disappointed, at the same time. For all that Kella had left marks here, Dara hadn't had a deep or abiding friendship with the girl. _Even for all that you have pulled away from Eli, and he from you, you're still closer friends to one another, than you were with Kella._

_Probably true. _Bone-deep weariness now. _Are you done yet?_

Temptation now. To see what was really here, what made Eli her steadfast friend, what made her and Rel so damned loyal. _Just a bit more_.

_Wait a damn minute, that's all of Kella I had!_

Flip, flip, flip. She'd seen some of this before, from Eli's perspective. Sharing vulnerabilities on the _Normandy_, on the mountainside, when she'd cried for her mother's death. First brush of lips, at the funeral for all those who had died on the _Normandy_. But this? This, she hadn't seen. The wreckage of Eli's family home on Bastion. The ruin of all the things he'd made with his father, the gifts of his grandparents, torn to shreds. Words of hate painted on the walls. Again, that simple contact. Human touch. More important than words, in some ways, for bonding.

After that, distance. Anger. But the anger had faded, and the bond had remained. _This person is my friend. This person has touched me, and I have touched him. We've been through much. We can count on each other. _Not romantic. But just as abiding and real.

Siara was confused now, and sprang away, heading for other regions of mind, of memory. Warm sunlight, smell of flowers. Whispered words in a language she didn't speak, but if she concentrated, she might understand. Love. Visions of a shared future. Work, play, kids. . . _black armor with a red badge at the throat?_

_Oh, no you don't, you bitch, that's __**mine**__. . . _and suddenly her mind ran into a wall, a wall made of teeth and flesh and bone and primal instincts that didn't quite match up, but _overlapped_ and she found herself dumped back into her own body by her own instinctive recoil. Dara jerked her hand out of Siara's grasp, and stood, expression icy. "Don't ever try that on anyone again, Siara," she said, quietly. "I'll accept that you wanted to see Kella. That, I agreed to. I'll even accept that you were curious about Eli, since you're an _insecure_ little twit who blows hot and cold at him so often I'm pretty sure the poor guy doesn't know when he's coming or going. But you _don't_ touch what doesn't belong to you." Dara picked up her datapad. "You know what? Rel tutored me pretty damned well in basic chemistry last quarter. I think I'll be all right without a study partner for the next month or two. I'm going to go talk to your mother now. Maybe she can recommend a different supervisor for my xenobiology project for me."

Siara reached out. "Dara—wait—no. I'm _sorry_." She put her face down in her hands. What to make of all the images of _herself_ in Dara's mind? Herself, as the cold and manipulative bitch, Herself as _strong_—more than strong. _Controlling_. "I guess humans aren't the only ones who have trouble seeing themselves as others see them," she said, very quietly, looking up at Dara. "I just wanted to see. . . wanted to understand. . . why they. . . why Eli still _. . . _"

The human female glared down at her. Angry, and with every right to be. Then she took a deep breath, visibly calming herself. "Siara," Dara said, after a long moment, "I have _no_ idea why you think Eli feels anything more than friendship for me."

"It looked like more, when you were sick." Muffled admission through her hands. "Now I understand." Siara looked up, thoroughly miserable. "Human friendship is different than asari friendship. You can be friends without sharing."

Dara blinked and appeared to be trying to run that through a mental translator. "And when you say sharing _this_ time, you mean it mentally or physically?"

"Both. Either. All _you_ need to do is be in the same room."

Dara started to laugh. Reluctantly. "I think there's more to it than that." She shook her head. "Why don't you go _ask_ him if he'll show you how he really sees me in his head? I'm about ninety-nine percent sure you'll like what he has to say. He was Rel's _best man_, for crying out loud."

_Whatever that means. Your human rituals didn't make a lot of sense to me. _"I don't think he would share now. Not anymore." Low-voiced admission.

"Well, _yeah_. You jumped to a conclusion and rather than asking him about it, you shut him out. As if he hasn't done everything but bend over backwards for you already." Dara's mouth had firmed to a hard line. Protective of her friend.

Siara sighed. "Yes. And I don't know how to fix it."

Dara shrugged. "Don't ask me. Talking might fix it. On the other hand, he might kind of figure that you're a high-maintenance bitch and that he's got, what, a year left on this rock, and that he might have better things to do with his time." Dara tapped her datapad in her hand, impatiently. "Figure it out. And leave me the _hell _out of it."


	48. Chapter 48: Bootcamp, Part Three

**Chapter 48: Bootcamp, Part Three**

**Author's note: **_With 30% of the people responding to my most recent poll being male, 100% of them finding my males convincing, and only one female respondent out of the other 70% finding my males unconvincing (and I know this because I saw the response when there were only female responses up there ;-) ), I feel really good, again, and thank you all very sincerely for the feedback. I've always been told I do pretty well with the male perspective, but it's better to take that kind of feedback from anonymous people, rather than the people you're DMing for. Removes the "what side is my bread buttered on" issue from the equation. ;-)_

_In other comments. . . yeah. Siara is __hard__ to write, because she's an __antagonist__ for Dara, and a love interest for Eli, and a foil for Jack, not a protagonist. That means she gets waltzed back and forth over the line of sympathy and non-sympathy a lot. On the one hand, she started off life as a name and a bitchy attitude; after Kella died, I had to come up with reasons for her to be hateful, but they had to be __real__ reasons, and a belly full of jealousy and rage has to come from somewhere. . . but for her to be a love interest for Eli/someone who could provoke more depth out of him, she had to be accessible and emotional as well. Both she and Jack are, and are meant to be, both slightly sympathetic and slightly unlikeable by turns. _

_Certainly, Dara doesn't like her, and would really appreciate it if she'd grow the hell up. Eli pretty much wishes the same thing. Siara is, however, caught in the trap of her own lifespan and developmental pace. She can't move or change at anything the rate of the humans or turians around her. Hence why they're growing and changing quickly, and she's. . . moving at approximately the same pace as a glacier as it marches towards the sea. Which is reasonable, given that at 33 or so, out of a lifespan of 1,000 years, she's at, um, 3.3% of her total potential age._

_Can she change? That's the fundamental question I've been asking about the asari throughout all these stories. The answer is: maybe. We won't see the results till she's 38 or so, though, and the other characters are 29. By which point, they'll all be nice and settled and doing what they're doing, and it might not even __matter__ to them that she has changed. Which is sad, in its own way, isn't it?_

**Rellus**

Week 5 had been less physically brutal, in some respects, but it had also been debilitating, in its own special way. Biohazard training, identification of nerve agents and other such chemicals with their omnitools. Training in using breathing equipment, both for underwater environments and on the ground, gas masks, and the first training sessions on spacesuits. The final exam for that week had been to go into a gas chamber with the other nineteen people now in Squad 417. They'd been given one minute to look around and get nervous. Then the sharp alert had echoed through the cement-walled room, "Gas! Prepare!"

Rel had figured they'd be exposed to some sort of anti-riot agent. Tear gas, maybe. Some of the squads that had stumbled back to their barracks after this exercise had looked like that had been the chemical of choice—their eyes had been swollen half-shut, and oozing. Turians didn't have tear-ducts, but they could secrete a sort of gummy protective substance when needed, and his fellow recruits had certainly had been rubbing at their eyes as they'd headed straight to the showers.

He got his mask over his eyes and mouth quickly, pulling the tabs taut. The smoke that came out of the pipes around the room, however, was light blue. _Great. They're rotating through the various chemicals we might face in the field, from the debilitating to the dangerous. Nothing that would kill us outright, no nerve gas. Tear gas. Red sand. And yeah. Azure dust. Great._ It made sense. Letting recruits have a minor exposure to what they'd see in the field, so that they wouldn't freeze up in fear at the sight, wouldn't forget their training.

"Squad Leader!" came the bark of one of the centurions, standing in the center of the room, in a full breather unit, damn him.

"Yes, drill centurion?"

"Remove your breather and recite Regulation 1.1.1."

_Oh, spirits. They always have the squad leader go first, to set an example. And if I don't take it off, I may as well walk out the door now, since I'd be done with boot camp._ Rel took a deep breath, pulled off his breather, and began to recite, "A soldier's life belongs to the Hierarchy. A soldier may be ordered to live, a soldier may be ordered to die. A soldier may be ordered to kill. A soldier who abandons his or her unit or his or her uniform is a deserter, and a deserter is dead to the Hierarchy."

He'd just about run out of air.

"Inhale."

_S'kak._ Rel closed his eyes and inhaled.

"Put your breather back on."

Numbly, Rel obeyed, and exhaled the instant his rapidly numbing fingers pulled the straps back in place. He was grateful for the week of practice; dimly, he realized that without that muscle memory, he might not have gotten everything back in place and re-sealed correctly. He was already light-headed, but there was a burning core of anger down deep inside of him. _Not again. Keep focused. Think of something, __**hold**__ to it. Mindoir_. Too abstract. _Fleeting visions of the future, black armor, red badge at the throat? _Too dim, too distant now. _The face of his mate, covered in his paint, sleeping in his arms in the gray light of the morning before he left? _That he could hang onto. That was real. That gave him stability, grounding, let him fight the panic with the realization that it had only been one breath of the damnable aerosolized powder.

Beside him, each person in turn was reciting regulations, in varying tones of wary concern to absolute panic. Didamus was very slow to remove his breather; it made sense. The male liked to be in control, particularly of himself. Septima apparently hadn't quite gotten her seal right. When she started reciting her regulation, the words didn't make sense, and it wasn't entirely because his own head was filled with fluff. Rel sighed, and thought, a bit muzzily, that she'd be repeating this exercise. Hopefully next time with tear gas, instead.

"Squad 417, exit the chamber. Remove your breathers in the corridor and put them on the racks. Proceed to the shower facilities and put your uniforms in the gray hampers for decontamination. Then return to your barracks."

Rel had one clear thought as he headed from the shower, naked, to his own barracks room. Dara was probably going to have a _hell_ of a time with this. Stripping naked and walking through the barracks was definitely not going to be fun for her. About twenty minutes later, when his body finished metabolizing the compound, and he stopped feeling so distant and drunk, he muttered, out loud, "_S'kak!_" The various people in the barracks turned to look at him—Didamus, Cambysus, Amphion, and the new guy, Palinarus, from 420, who'd replaced Nicus, who'd gone to the 420 as its squad leader. "Sorry," Rellus told them. "Just a bad thought, that's all."

It was, too. Human modesty being affronted, he'd realized abruptly, was the _least_ of Dara's potential problems. If she were in one of the squads exposed to azure dust when her time came. . . last time, she hadn't been as affected as those around her, because of an abnormal hormonal flow. Her menses, the polar opposite in a human from estrus. The effects of the dust on her would be. . . inhibition-loosening, at the least. _Just one lungful_, he reminded himself. _Not weapons-grade, not like the __s'kak__ we both inhaled the night of the cave. I shouldn't be worried. Chances are, she'll get the tear gas rotation, anyway. _He still figured he'd drop her a note about it, anyway. Just so she could remind the instructors, when the time came, that azure dust didn't affect humans and turians in remotely the same fashion.

Then it was Week 6. With most of them having _probably_ finished bulking out, they were fitted for their armor—all currently sprayed in boot camp gray, to match their uniforms. "You will put your armor on and take it off in exactly the same way, every time," one of the centurions bellowed. "You will store it in precisely the same order every time you put it away. Doing so _saves lives._ If you ever have to put your armor on in total darkness, or in the middle of a fight, you will be able to do so _without thinking_ and in under ninety seconds."

So, once all the buckles on each recruit had been minutely adjusted for fit, they all stood in a vast field, assembled by squad. 100,000 recruits, each with their equipment in a neat line in front of them. "Thermal layer." They stepped into the skin-tight elasticized pressure suit, which went all the way down to the toes, and all the way up to the throat; like a human pair of longjohns, it had an opening at the front, but since it was designed to protect against depressurization in space, it had an adhesive strip along its opening that actually helped seal against vacuum. The heavy elastic was almost painful at first, but Rel quickly began to adjust to it.

"Left greaves. Right greaves." They locked the plates into place. "Left boot, right boot." The boots each had to be custom-fitted, to account for differences in spur-length, and sealed up against the backs of the greaves. Then they stepped into each boot, crouching to lock the boots into the greaves, and heard the seals hiss closed. "Left cuisses, right cuisses." The thigh pieces locked into place now.

"Loinguard!" This piece had multiple flexible plates at the top, giving range of motion, and extended from the lower abdomen to the thighs, wrapped between the legs, and sealed there, too. It was the only piece of torso armor designed to be removable while the rest of the armor was in place; allowing for waste elimination. This had gotten it the nickname of the _futtari_ guard, as well as its official name of loinguard; theoretically, other bodily functions _could_ be taken care of with just this piece removed. Rel wasn't sure how _comfortable_ that would be, however. Another set of seals hissed into place. "Underpack."

This was a slim backpack, worn under the armor. It could hold up to a day's supply of water, mixed with salts, electrolytes, sugars, and proteins, and it also contained a re-breather with a twelve-hour capacity of air. Both had hoses that would connect into the helmet; the rebreather from there, would supply the rest of the armor positive air pressure; redundant, with the elasticized undersuit, but helpful for thermal regulation. In the event of a suit breach, the various seals at the suit's joints would lock in place, and only the air in the breached section would evacuate, and then Rel would be dependent on the undersuit to protect his body from vacuum or toxic atmospheres.

"Breastplate!" The breastplate, of course, already had a frame for weapons attached to it. At the moment, all anyone had was their standard issue assault rifle, but Rel knew in his bones that _his_ armor was only going to get heavier as time went on, as more weapons were added. "Left brace. Right brace." Upper arm armor, locked into place at the shoulder, had lamellar-and-gasket connective pieces for both the shoulder and the elbow; like similar structures at the knee, these connective elements permitted range of motion while remaining thoroughly protective. "Left vambrace, right vambrace!" Lower arms now, more seals hissing. "Get your omnitools locked in place before you lose finger dexterity."

Rel had already adjusted the straps of his omnitool and knife sheath so that they were wide enough to accommodate the armor. Strapping that in place took only a few seconds. "Left gauntlet. Right gauntlet. Pull up the coif of the pressure suit over your heads." That part was uncomfortable, as the elasticized material compressed his crest. "Attach helmet connectors, and seal up."

And then he was completely encased in ceramic polyresin. Could feel the suit adjusting, minutely, equalizing pressure all the way through. The heating elements hadn't kicked on; it was 110º F/43.3º C in the long assembly field, and it was only the Quinus twenty-fifth, on the Palaven calendar—and their training center was fairly far north, at that. Rel flexed his arms and legs, testing the fit. Nothing seemed to be chafing or binding, which was good. The weight was evenly distributed; at a guess, about fifteen, twenty kilos. Not bad, considering all the things that this suit _was_. Armor. Spacesuit. Radiation barrier. Pressure suit. A self-contained environment and defense system.

"Time, two minutes, fifteen seconds. You're a lazy bunch of _cuderae_!" bawled a centurion. "Strip and start again. Squad leaders, anyone unable to completely arm themselves inside of ninety seconds by the end of the day will face punishment drills and _you_ will be held responsible for their inability to protect themselves. Is that clear?"

"Yes, drill centurion!" rang out across the field.

It took two hours, but eventually everyone in squad 417 was able to do it, though Cambysus, Septima, and a couple of the people from 420 just barely squeaked by. Now their lockers were being inspected in addition to the barracks; anyone who deviated, even by an inch, from the proper placement of armor pieces was issued a demerit, and _any_ demerit now affected squad standing. This put the burden on _everyone_ to do well, to watch out for one another. In theory, it was meant to encourage the spirit of each squad to grow and form bonds between each member.

It was a great theory, except when you had squad troublemakers. Rel told each of his under-squad leaders to check all lockers every night after dinner but before the drill centurions could come through. Every night, Kassa had a grim look on her face, as if she'd been forced to tie a toddler's shoes, for the hundredth time.

After being issued their armor, this week took a decidedly different turn. The first half of each day that week was dedicated to working with new weapons. Mortars. Grenade launchers. Shoulder-mounted missiles designed to take down small aircraft. Rel _loved_ this. He _probably_ could have talked the range master at the Spectre base into letting him learn these weapons, but had never _quite_ dared. "Squad Leader, if you keep looking like you're enjoying yourself so much, the centurions are going to find some way of making this week much less fun," Nicus told him one evening, before the silence of dinner began.

Rel nodded, suppressing his grin. "Fair enough. Can't help but wish I'd been trained on these before, though."

"For repelling batarian raids on Mindoir?" That was Kassa, in a slightly teasing tone. He had all his squad leaders basically clustered around him at the moment, a way of keeping tabs on everything that was going on in their rooms, at least once a day. The other meals, he had them sit with their own people.

"There _is_ a history of them," Rellus agreed, mildly. _In fact, that's how Aunt Lilu wound up leaving Mindoir the first time_. But even _mentioning_ the commander of the Spectres didn't seem a great idea.

In the second half of the week, a thousand recruits were taken to one of each of ten 'cold weather' locations scattered in the northern and southern polar regions of Palaven. In the polar regions, _snow_ actually fell, and right now, the southern hemisphere was locked in perpetual daylight, courtesy of the planet's seasonal axial tilt. Rel and the rest of Squad 419 actually were sent there, and they spent two days learning snow-survival, how to build structures that would retain the most heat, how to eat in such a way that it preserved their energy while still stoking their metabolisms, and so on.

"I've never even _seen_ snow before," Amphion muttered one 'night,' as they struggled to keep a fire lit. Technically, their armor _should_ have been all that they needed, but in case the thermal units failed, or they ran out of energy, they were supposed to practice even these most basic skills. _Not that a fire could even be lit on a world with a carbon dioxide or ammonia atmosphere_, Rel's mind nudged him. But of course, that wasn't the point of the exercise. "Macedyn's a bunch of deserts, small oceans, and did I mention, nice, warm, _dry_ deserts?"

The rest of the squad laughed. It was -22º F/-30º C at the moment, with a cold wind, and they were all feeling it, even through the suits. Warm, by the standards of, say, Earth's southern pole, but frigid for Palaven.

"My home on Galatana gets snow once in a while," Cambysus mentioned, after a moment. "Helps fill the water reservoirs."

Didamus snorted. "I assume you have snow on Mindoir, Squad Leader?" It wasn't a sneer, for a change. A bit of a challenge, maybe, but not a sneer. As if he figured that Rel would chime in with a _cheer up, I've done worse_, sort of comment, and wanted to call attention to the fact that Rel, in fact, often did say words that were similar.

Rel ignored the challenge, and just chuckled. "Yeah. My mate wrote last week that they had about twenty-two _unica_ in the mountains. I'm just as glad not to be there. She'd probably get it in her head to teach me how to ski or go snowshoeing." _Assuming she's well. No mail out here in the field, and I have __no__ idea how she's doing._ He kept his worry off his face, though. It was no one's business but his own, and the others respected stoicism.

There was a pause. "Ski?" Nicus asked, holding his gauntleted hands to the fire. "Snowshoeing?"

Rel shook his head. "Skiing's a human sport, developed in their mountainous regions. Apparently, they strap long, straight boards, sharp-edged, to their feet and slide on them, standing, down the face of a snowy, icy mountain at high speeds. She's only done it once or twice herself, but thinks it's fun. Snowshoes, like skis, keep their feet above the surface of the snow, by weight displacement. Slower. Less of a straight downhill thing."

"Can't be that high of speed. . . ." Someone, he didn't know whom, piped up from the circle of bodies around the fire.

"Faster than a _rlata_." Rel grimaced. "When I looked it up, they actually have events where, on _land_, they actually hit speeds faster than the terminal velocity of someone who's jumped from a drop-ship in the lower atmosphere. She says most people don't do that, though."

That got him wide-eyed looks from all around the campfire, and many comments on how _insane_ humans had to be, to go out in this kind of weather for _enjoyment's_ sake. They were all well and truly distracted, and Rel figured his job was done.

The next day, they traveled north, mostly at a _run_, to an area north of the permafrost zone. Here, mudpits and bogs awaited them, and they spent all afternoon, having run all morning to get there, slogging through cold mud-pits and chest-deep bogs and learning to belly-crawl under wire and other obstructions in spite of the cold and the wet and the misery.

The final two days of the week were spent at a base with exactly the opposite conditions. Punishing heat, even by Palaven's standards, a dry, barren salt-flat desert, with baking temperatures of up to 150º F/ 65º C. Again, survival training was the focus. Learning to rely on their armor for thermoregulation, but how to compensate for it if the armor failed. How to find shade, how to extract water out of the atmosphere using desert stills, plastic-lined pits with a bit of vegetation in them to help the minimal ambient humidity to condense overnight.

And at the end of the week, when they'd all flown back to their official training center, there was another sparring match. Rel was exhausted after a week in the field, but after everyone else was done, he still had to fight the leader of 424, another twenty-man squad. The male was larger than he was, and _very_ strong. Fortunately, he was also _just_ as tired as Rel was. It was a long, slow, painfully-drawn out match, and one very bad kick that Rel was slow to dodge, he was pretty sure had cracked a couple of his ribs. That woke him up in a hurry. _Have to finish this _quick, he thought, and took the other male to the ground, grappling, twisting, going for locks now. The other male made a mistake, and Rel locked his arms around the other male's neck, pressing on the arteries there.

When he stood up, he tired and he hurt and only realized dimly, that he now had a forty-man squad. The drill centurions announced, loudly, "In the morning, we will meet with all main squad leaders, to begin initial evaluations. We will be starting to move people into groups based on their likely specializations. The rest of you _cuderae_ will report for calisthenics as usual. Dismissed."

Rel got permission to head to the med bay, confirmed that yes, his ribs were cracked, and no, there wasn't much that could be done, except not let them be hit again, and then dragged himself back to the barracks. He put his armor neatly in his locker, and examined everyone else's gear placement carefully. There was no drill centurion lecture tonight, so he walked up the hall to the door of 424, and knocked there. "All right," Rel told Rasmus Cadius, the squad leader he'd just defeated, a little wearily. "We've got about an hour here. Talk to me about your people. Strengths, weaknesses, and problems."

Rasmus grinned at him ferally. "You've got a reputation, Squad Leader. Something of a disciplinarian."

"Only for those who require it," Rel told him, leaning against the wall for a moment.

"Scuttlebutt also has it that you've got an alien for a mate."

Rel looked at him steadily. "Yeah. That going to be a problem, Cadius?"

Rasmus snorted. "No. I grew up on the Citadel. Family got transferred to Bastion. Saw a lot of that going on. What is she, asari?"

"No. Human." Rel grinned suddenly. "I've got a friend back home who lived on Citadel and Bastion. Name of Elijah Sidonis. You know him?"

Rasmus blinked. "Elijah Sidonis. . . wait. Elijah _Stockton_. . . but that's right, his stepfather adopted him." He shook his head. "I was a grade ahead of him on the Citadel. His family transferred to Bastion before mine did. Never saw him there. My parents were both in ship-traffic control. Not really the same group of people." Rasmus paused. "His step-dad is a _scary _son of an _acrocanth_, though, isn't he? Never met anyone else with eyes that dead."

Rel grinned. "I like Lantar just fine. He's my uncle's oldest friend."

Rasmus blinked, and let it pass without comment. "So, how the hell is Eli?"

"Wearing his father's paint, has a half-and-half sister, and is the best handball goalie I've played with. He was one of my best men at my wedding. I've got pictures, if you want to see them." Rel's tiredness was falling away by the minute. "When I write my wife, I'll tell her to pass along greetings to him from you, if you like."

The other members of Cadius' squad were _staring_ at them now.

Rasmus smiled. "Please do. Now, about my people. . . " And they were off. Rasmus had run his people tightly, and only had a couple of disciplinary problems. A couple of people content to scrape by, like Cambysus. No major problems.

Back to his own barracks now, tired as can be. As he walked in the door, Amphion was asking, quietly, "What do they mean by squad reorganization?"

Didamus shrugged. "They'll be asking each of the squad leaders who they think will make good clerks, good techs, good pilots, or good cooks. It's just as much a test of the squad leader's management abilities as it is an assessment of us." He sounded glum. He still had a sharp tongue, and clearly didn't _like_ Rel, but had mostly toed the line, once it had been made clear to him who was in charge. A good turian, in other words. Not the most amiable of companions, but capable. Competent. "Then they'll reorganize the barracks based on that."

Hazily, Rel looked at the clock. "It's 21:00," he said. "Personal time, everyone."

He opened his mail at last, after five days of not being able to read it, and found a series of little notes from Dara and his parents. And one long letter, which made him smile. _More good news: I'm back on solid foods. I've had about enough applesauce and oatmeal and __talashae__ paste to last me a lifetime. More on that when we can talk properly, and no more of this letter in a bottle __talas'kak__._ Well, that was good news. He hadn't fully realized that she _hadn't_ been able to eat real food until the problem was already past.

Rel had to repress a grin at the idea of visiting Earth for his _pada'amu_'s upcoming wedding. He knew next to nothing about Kasumi's culture, but understood that it was _very_ different from Dara and Sam's. _So much damn diversity, so many different ways of living, all on the same planet._ His eyes went wide at the news about Dr. Solus. . . he was back, and _was due to have a child_? What did that mean? Salarian males barely had anything to do with their own offspring. Perhaps she meant that he had engineered a new hybrid for someone on base? No. . . that didn't make sense, either. He dismissed it, and read on. There, at the end, maybe the best news of all: All the paperwork was done. She was committed to coming here now. No turning back, no last-second nerves. He'd been afraid she might flinch, if he wasn't there to reassure her, but she hadn't.

A quick note back. _Sweetness, glad to hear you're feeling better. This is important. Get Dr. S.—his background will help with this—to send the Hierarchy military a note stating that during breather training, you are to be excused from azure dust exposure. I got that this week, instead of tear gas or red sand, and it was bad enough for me. And, when it comes right down to it, if you're ever exposed to that __s'kak__ again, I'd prefer to __be there__ for the experience, if you take my meaning. Are you blushing yet? Wish I could see all that pink under my paint._

_Hazardous conditions training this week. Cold weather, hot weather. Heavy weapons training was fun. Got my damn ribs broken tonight—just two of them, so don't worry—but still beat the leader of 424. Gives me forty people under me, and seven subordinate squad leaders. I don't even know all their names yet, but their leader is Rasmus Cadius. He apparently knows Elijah from the Citadel. He asks to pass along greetings. If you wouldn't mind, that is. Love you, amatra. I'm too tired to do the math, but we're past the halfway mark. See you soon._

He suppressed a yawn, sent the message, and turned out the lights.

Squad reorganization was _trying_. The centurions and instructional officers met with every squad leader in charge of forty people; that made for a lot of meetings. Of course, each squad of forty was a part of a manciple, or four groups of forty; each manciple was part of a cohort, or four manciples. Each cohort was, therefore, 640 people. A legion was four cohorts, or 2560 or so; it didn't add up evenly to 100,000 recruits, so some legions were short a few squads. Each legion's instructional officer, therefore, had sixty-four squad leaders to go through, and relied heavily on what the centurions had already recommended for each recruit. The squad leader's input was minimal, but served as a part of a checks-and-balances system; it ensured that discipline problems that the centurions might not have seen would come to light now, and tested the squad leader's acumen, as well.

Rel was mostly nervous about representing the twenty people new to his squad, and was still _damned_ tired, even after a full night's sleep. He only had Rasmus' words about all of them, late last night, to pass along. To his relief, the leader of the 424 hadn't seemed to lead him wrong. "All right. Talk to us about your people," the drill instructor, an officer, invited him. "Your opinion of Didamus Lavium?"

"Strictly by the book, sir. Exceptional skills. Likes authority, sir." He didn't necessarily want to add _little flexibility _and _doesn't like colonials_ to that list. He didn't want to sabotage Didamus. . . not when the male had seemed to be doing better of late.

"What uses have you found for him in your squad?"

_How do I phrase this carefully?_ "I've utilized him for correctional discipline and remedial purposes, sir. He has good teaching capabilities."

A note on the datapad in front of the officer. "Amphion Makadian?"

"He lacked confidence to command at first, sir. Good skills. Intelligent. Loyal."

"What uses have you found for him in your squad?"

"Initially, I made him my second, sir. He's not comfortable being the voice of authority, though, so he's been helping others with training more recently."

"Cambysus Cagrarian?"

Rel wanted to sigh, but kept his face impassive. "Works well when properly motivated, sir."

"The same can be said of a _talashae_ with a sharp stick up its cloaca, but I wouldn't want that _talashae_ at my back."

Rellus decided that one didn't really need to be answered. "Sir?"

"Nevermind. Nicus Abendian?"

"Excellent leadership, sir. He's been very good with squad 420, and with squad 418 before it. A little aggressive, maybe, but is willing to be open to the spirit of the squad."

Another note. "Kassa Vilinius?"

"She's taken on a number of discipline issues and dealt with them handily, sir. Always has a good attitude."

"Septima Scortorian?"

Rel had been careful so far to give mostly positive comments about people. At the moment, he couldn't come up with anything to _say_. "Squad Leader Velnaran?"

"She's been a problem, sir. She's qualified at everything, at least. However, her interpersonal relations are poor. I've attempted to deal with her in many different ways. Integrating her to the spirit of the squad has been difficult. Being unable to do so is my personal failure, sir."

The officer looked through a record. "At the moment, I see she has been, so far, assigned punishment drills by the drill centurions at least twice a week, and has actually been flogged for sexual harassment of one of her squad mates. I also see that she's been assigned to an all-female barracks under the command of Kassa Vilinius. I assume this was to prevent a repetition of the offense?"

"Yes, sir."

The instructing officer made a note. "What uses have you found for her in your squad?"

_Another black mark against me. I haven't been able to find __**any**__. _"Sir, at the risk of sounding cheeky, she has been a unifying force in the squad. No one has wanted to sound like her or act like her in any way. I haven't done so deliberately, sir, but she has made herself a. . . if you'll pardon the human term. . . scapegoat."

That got him a look, and the officer's VI chimed, bringing up a translation. "A repository for the evil of a community. Interesting."

They finished going through the rest of his squad, and Rel was dismissed.

New postings were on the board in each barracks the next morning, and everyone crowded near to see who had gotten what, and who had been reassigned to new units.

Rel retained a squad of forty, much to his surprise; he'd thought he was going to be downgraded a rank. Preliminary operational specialties had been assigned. Not ranks; who would be going into officer candidacy would be determined by the end of bootcamp, however. And with five weeks left to go, these preliminary assignments could still be tweaked.

Cambysus, for example, along with three members of the 421th and one member of the 418th were all slated for supply-chain positions; they would now all be grouped together in one squad. Cambysus looked _delighted_ with his potential job description. "I couldn't have _asked_ for better," the male from the agricultural colony exulted.

Didamus looked at his prospective specialty, posted on the board, and blinked. "Force management?" He shook his head. "Sounds like a logistics position, but I suppose they know what they need."

Amphion smiled in quiet pleasure at his own assignment. "Corps of Engineers. Nice. Get to see _all_ the colonies that way."

"Abendian, you got flight school! If you make officer, you'll be a fighter pilot or a frigate helmsman!" Kassa called excitedly, from where the female had worked her way up to the front.

Everyone crowded around, patting Nicus on the back. "What did you get?" he called back up to Kassa.

"Flight school, too, but. . . different branch. Marines. Looks like I'm going to be handling drop-ships or other landing craft." She sounded a little disappointed, but not too much so. Rel couldn't really imagine anyone he'd trust more to drop and retrieve troops from hot landing areas.

He'd been hanging back, waiting for everyone else to take their turns. But Nicus beat him to it. "What did our squad leader get?"

A pause, while Kassa looked over the list, and the hallway, so full of excited voices a moment ago, went oddly quiet. Rel held his breath.

"Special forces," she replied, her voice loud in the silence, and Rel grinned as everyone around him whistled softly through their teeth. It was a very prestigious listing. His uncle Garrus had gotten that posting, _and_ officer's candidate school. Each a one in a thousand chance. And had been offered Spectre training under the old system, which was no longer in existence, of course. _One down, one to go,_ Rel thought. _It doesn't tally with the simulation, which had me as a line officer on the __Estallus__, but the simulation only could go with the information we provided it, after all. _ Then he made his way up to the front to look down the rest of the board, out of curiosity, mainly.

Glancing down, he discovered that Septima had gotten quartermaster corps. . . specifically, food service specialist. Unfortunately, they'd left her in his squad. Assigned to a group with clerks, fuel supply specialist, and a future accountant. All female, however, so that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. _Still means she's my problem to deal with, but she's over in Rasmus' half for now, which is a relief._ As it was, it was fortunate that he'd been heavily indoctrinated lately with turian stoicism. Otherwise, he'd have been tempted to laugh.

The rest of Week 7, they were, one thousand recruits at a time, lifted to one of the training space stations that were a part of the shipyard complex in orbit. Here, they refined their spacesuit skills and began at least an introduction to zero-g combat and ship combat. It was important, for instance, not to shoot holes in bulkheads. It was important not to blow holes in the tubes that carried refrigerant through a ship.

In terms of melee, it was _very_ important to realize that every action really _did_ have an equal and opposite reaction, and that grappling and fighting could send you spinning forever into the abyss of space. Even inside an enclosed area, like the shipyard bay they were using for training, combat became more about three dimensions than about two. They learned about magnetic boots and maneuvering packs, and how and went to use both.

They were in barracks in the shipyards, usually used for shipyard workers, from welders to technicians, and Rel could _just_ make out, in the distance, what looked like the curving frame of new _Normandy_ class ships, from his barracks' window. Little more than the keel had been laid, of course, but he wondered if this was the rumored second generation of ships. And he also wondered if the Luna shipyards near Earth were building counterparts.

In the shipyards, mail privileges were scarcer; he only got a chance to read a few quick notes from Dara, as a result.

_September 20, 2191_

_Amatus—_

_My dad and K. are doing lots of research lately. Lots of comm calls. Eli said he remembered your Rasmus Cadius guy as a pretty good person. Said he wished he'd known he was on Bastion. Would've been nice to have had a turian friend there, as opposed to all the black eyes he wound up with. I had Dr. S write that note, as you suggested, and your father helped me get it added to my forms as a late addendum. Allardus commented that something like that will make me look like I'm weak, but, in the end, they can't put me in a position where I'm likely to wind up breaking my wedding contract with you. Comforting, huh? _

_I got the initial reply back from the Hierarchy this week. More paperwork in __tal'mae__. They've been __asking__ for human recruits, but only through the existing Alliance military. They seem to regard me as a, ah, candidate being sent by our family business, somehow, and they're asking that I provide my own armor. No idea where I'm going to come up with __that__, but they're going to provide uniforms (hah, I wish their tailors luck) and ship in a couple of crates of levo MREs. There will, apparently, be at least one or two other humans, both out of Alliance services, part of a prototype exchange program, going through at the same time as I will. We'll see how that goes._

_Your dad's my new xenobiology supervisor, by the way. I didn't like to have to tell Azala that I had to stop having her as my mentor because of Siara, but there it is. You might remember that I managed to get us a room alone a while ago? Siara agreed to stay away, so long as I let her see my memories of Kella. Well, she called in her debt. And then went rummaging through my mind. Stuff about Eli. Stuff about the, well, doors and windows incident. And the other one, the series of really bad days? The kicker was when she tried to get into private, personal stuff about you and me. Have no idea how I blocked her, but that's neither here not there. _

Rel stopped reading, and could feel himself starting to flush with justice-anger and territorial-anger. That went _far_ beyond Septima reading his damn mail. Siara's actions came dangerously near violation. Certainly theft and invasion of privacy, pale words though those were. He breathed a couple of times through his nose to calm himself. _Nothing I can do about it here. _And then he went on reading.

_The result is, I'm discovering how __smart__ your dad is. Explains a lot about you, I guess. If nothing else, I know that whoever winds up designing our kids for us, down the line, will have __great__ genes to work with on the turian side. At any rate, your dad's a much more demanding teacher than Azala, and I'm really glad he's working with me. I think I'm learning a lot more, especially now that Dr. S. is back. _

_We've got some new neighbors in the valley. Turian guy with a three-month-old is taking over K's house. His wife just passed away around the same time I got sick, and the kid is like your cousins. The medical issues are keeping all of us at the clinic hopping. The little boy's younger than Caelia was when I first saw her. Still has all his baby feathers. Cute as a bug, even if my dad shakes his head every time he comes into the nursery at the clinic and sees me holding him._

Rel had more questions at the end of that letter than he knew what to do with, but didn't have time to respond immediately, because now he was into Week 8, and this one really was a new level of hell. They were taken from the shipyards to Telavin, Palaven's nearest neighbor around their mutual star. It was twice the size of Palaven, and had an iron core, which meant that it had both the radiation shielding in its atmosphere that Palaven lacked. . . and about twice the gravity.

For a full week, the recruits lived and worked on the surface of Telavin, using exoskeletons to compensate for the worst of the gravity and spacesuits and breathing apparatuses to avoid exposure to the toxic atmosphere, but they were always able to _feel _crushing them, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. Live fire drills showed how bullets and missiles curved noticeably downward from their usual trajectories. Sleeping in the high gravity environment, in particular, was uncomfortable. No amount of exoskeleton could protect them from that, from the horrible reality of their own mass.

And at the end of Week 8, they returned to Palaven and the light, beautiful embrace of its _normal_ gravity, and the squads had to compete again. Rel had had two weeks for his ribs to heal, and wasn't nearly as tired this time. He also wanted to prove the instructors and the centurions correct in their assessment of him; he _really_ didn't want to lose. The resulting match between him and the leader of squad 480 was _vicious_. "Hear you've got a human mate, Velnaran," the other male, Scaevus Lintorum, taunted him, halfway through. They were both already cut on the face; Rel could sense that the drill centurions were watching _very_ closely at the moment. "You probably don't even have scales under your uniform anymore. Have to cut 'em off for the little skinbag, huh?" Rel dodged another kick, circling carefully, watching the other male. "Think she's gonna let you keep your spurs, or are you going to have to cut those off, too?"

_Save your breath to fight with, idiot. _Rel ducked under a kick, passed it, got a grip on the underside of the male's knee, and threw him to the ground, where any variety of human-taught grappling skills could be applied. The male actually _bit_ him on the forearm, which, while valid in real combat, was _not_ allowed in sparring. Rel snarled and jabbed him in the eyes until the jaws released, and then, bleeding freely, broke the male's arm in three places. Shoulder, elbow, and wrist. As the other male writhed on the ground, Rel stood up and glared at the other thirty-nine members of 480, blue blood pouring down his arm and hand, dripping down onto the floor. "Anyone else from the 480th who wants to make it _personal_, come down here right now, and we'll clear the damn air right now."

There weren't any takers. Since the other male had drawn blood first, rather than keeping it _friendly_, Rel wasn't up for disciplinary action for the retaliation. He did, however, get a long lecture from a centurion, while a doctor in the med bay applied sutures, on the topic of keeping his squad in battle-ready condition, which was, apparently, difficult to do if he sent his own people in for surgery. Rel couldn't, of course, ask any questions, but he _really_ wanted to know was this: if he _hadn't_ retaliated as strongly as he had, would he still have been able to lead effectively? He couldn't make a personal connection with eighty different people, half of them new; if he hadn't made an example of the new half of the squad's former leader when he'd taken sparring and made it a personal attack, how would he ever have recovered from having his authority undercut? A question for Rinus, his father, for Uncle Garrus. Not for the drill centurion looming over him as the doctor tied off the last stitch and applied bandages.

When he walked back into the barracks after that fight, sixty stitches later and slathered with medigel, Nicus, who, with Kassa, now occupied the 417 barracks with him and two other males, all with front-line specializations, stood up, and said, dryly, "You've been holding back, Squad Leader."

"Because until today, I was having _fun._" Rel could hear a growl in his own voice. "He decided to make it a real fight, and personal, instead of sparring. I hope he enjoys reality."

Kassa looked up. "I'm sure he will. Once he gets done having pins and screws inserted into three places in his arm." She grinned, slyly. "He'll be finishing bootcamp _next_ session."

_Oh, spirits. Don't let him meet Dara. _Rel winced and said, "Hopefully, the session after next."

"You have kin coming through, with your clan name?"

"Yes."

"If they're all as good as you are, he'll steer away, if he has a brain," Nicus said, pragmatically. _That's the problem. She's good for a beginner, but she hasn't had six years of practice. "_Makadian says you learned all this from your _family_?"

"Yeah."

Kassa leaned over in her hammock, looking down. "I'd hate to see how your family argues."

Rel just grinned, tightly.

Now he had _eighty_ people to deal with, and was relying mostly on sixteen squad leaders to tell him what was going on. _If I recognize a __face__ out of the crowd, I'm doing really well, amatra_, he wrote Dara on September 30. _We're in Week 9 now, sweetness. This isn't a bad week. Lots of close-order drill, for precision and team-work and to make the final graduation parade look pretty, I guess. Lots of competitions between squads. Final bookwork exams, mostly regarding regulations. At the end of this week, one more squad consolidation; hopefully, my squad will go through undefeated, which would be a good mark to have. Yeah, I know. Turians and our marks. I can hear you saying that from here. Here's a good one for you—the squad leader of 480, Scaevus Lintorum, decided to bite me in the middle of sparring. That's fine—even expected—if it's trial-by-combat or real melee, but in __sparring__? Not so much. Broke his arm for him, using a move your dad showed me. He might be here during your session, sweetness, so look out for him, all right._

_Before you ask, and I know you will, my little healer, sixty stitches, and yes, I'm applying medigel every day. If anyone leaves marks on me, I'd much rather they come from __your__ mouth, sweetness. I know the human bite is more crushing than piercing, but how about we work on that, when I finally get to see you again?_

_At any rate, once we've consolidated for the last time, regardless of who wins, we'll be a full manciple of 160 people, which is important for Week 10, which involves the Trial. So, yeah, next week, I won't be able to read any mail or send you anything. Ten days in the field for the Trial. Simulated combat, manciple against manciple. There are 625 manciples here. Half will be on offense, and half will be on defense. None of us know ahead of time who will be on which side. There's a big fortress in the jungle near here, used exclusively for training exercises like this. The centurions will be giving the orders, largely, directing us, and we're told that there will be simulated casualties and that's really all they're saying. After that, Week 11 should be mostly administrative stuff. Surgery for anyone who needs it, new uniforms issued, repairs or adjustments to armor. _

_Oh, and Family Day! That should be October 21, sweetness, the last day before the graduation parade. Septus 13, by the calendar here. I'm really hoping to see you and my parents here that day. You'd be able to come on base and get a feel for where everything is. . . and of course, I'd get to __see__ you before I drag you off to a nest in some hotel somewhere. Which, actually, reminds me. I know I'm entitled to a hotel room somewhere close to base, but the recruit hotels are not likely to have radiation barriers in the walls or ceilings. And wherever you decide to stay, make damned sure you __don't__ have a window. Even at night, you can get a lot more radiation here than is good for you, __mellis__. . . and I want to make sure our kids have nice healthy genes on the human side, too._

On almost the last night of Week 9, October 3, he got one reply from her, and it made his mandibles flex a little. _Amatus, I know you're heading out into the field. I'll be thinking of you all week. Finishing up finals here. Should be all As and an honors degree. Your dad thinks my final xenobiology project is great; Dr. S. had me submit my quarian/turian paper to a medical journal. His name's on it, too, of course, as well as Dr. C.'s, since they advised me on it, but it would be quite a feather in my cap if it happens to get published. Probably won't, though. Anyhow, just thought I should let you know. . . everyone went off for work earlier this week. I think the issues that led to me getting so sick might be resolved now. At least, for a while. When everyone gets back, I'll be heading to Palaven. Depending on who's home, I might have to take a commercial flight; if so, I'll be touching down on October 20th/Septus 12. See you when I see you, amatus, and stop getting so damned banged up when I'm not there to put you back together again, all right?_

No time to respond, and the next night, sparring went from afternoon to late evening. Eighty people against eighty people, elimination tournament style, takes a long time. And in the end, it was Rel against the squad leader of the 530th. Surprisingly, she was female. Very quick, very strong, and making up for her height disadvantage with flexibility and speed. When he finally got her on the ground and pinned her, she whispered, before the centurions broke the fight up, "A pity I've heard you don't like to be bitten, Velnaran. Otherwise, I could arrange it, for a male like you."

That was a flirt. Not as over the top as Septima, but the kind of overture a male tended to expect to hear after a well-fought sparring session. At the moment, though, Rel had to wonder if she'd been put up to it. "No, I like biting," he managed, getting his brain in working order in record speed. "Fortunately, so does my wife." He stood up, offered the female a hand to get back to her own, and walked away. He took a shower afterwards, as much to give himself time to calm down as to wash the female's scent off his skin, and put his head against the cold tile in the shower area. He _ached _for his mate. Ninety days of living on adrenaline and testosterone and exertion and exhaustion were taking their toll. _Twenty more days, and then, __mellis__, I'll have you for seven days. Sweet prey-sounds, touch of hands, smell of skin. Just being together, talking together, will be a relief. Then I'll be wherever they send me—anyplace, will be easier than here—and you'll be in this hell. Worse for you in some ways. Easier in others. Not so many needs._

A hand touched his shoulder, and he jerked upright. Physical contact in the showers was forbidden by custom and courtesy, and he turned and glared. It was the female squad leader of the 530th—nowhere near her own barracks, which were in a different building entirely. "Are you all right?" she asked.

Rel grabbed his knife sheath, and strapped it on his left arm. "Fine. Thanks. Go back to your barracks." His voice was harsh, even to his own ears. "I'll want to meet with you and all your squad leaders in twenty minutes." And then he walked past her and put on his gray uniform, trying _very _hard not to smell her, and left the area. _Twenty days. Nineteen tomorrow. Spirits, let it all pass by quickly._

It did. The Trial was brutal. Over the course of ten days, or 240 hours, they were permitted thirty-five hours of sleep, or about 3.5 hours each day. They were given five days' rations each, to be spread out over the course of those ten days. Rel's 160 recruits, all now called Manciple 417, were on one of the offensive squads, and the sub-squads of clerks and cooks and whatever _still_ had to prove themselves and show themselves part of the team. Just because you were slated for office duty didn't mean that you didn't know how to use a gun or defend yourself or your squad, after all. They had to conduct reconnaissance missions, night infiltration missions, use vehicles to by-pass hazardous terrain, and rescue casualties from other squads. Everything they'd trained in, other than the zero-g and heavy-g combat, came into play.

Initially, there was the forty-kilometer run in full gear through the heavy jungle to get to their staging area. Rel was weighed down with an assault rifle, a grenade launcher, and a sidearm at this point, as well as his rations and waterpack. Then they had to cross bridges that were heavily defended by recruits from opposition manciples. Past that obstruction, they had to swim, in teams, through a _dachae_-infested river, with some of them standing on the banks as lookouts, rifles in hand, ready to shoot any of the long-jawed ambush predators if they showed themselves. _Dachae _were similar to Terran crocodiles, but as with much of Palaven's wildlife, much, much larger.

By this point, it was day five, and they were all tired, hungry, and at each others' throats. Their next task was to crawl, undetected, through a bog and marsh zone, coming up on the western side of the fortress, and when night came, Rel got the word for them to infiltrate. That involved, for his team, scaling an eighty-foot brick wall; he broke his manciple in half, and had the best climbers go first, tapping in pitons for those who followed. It made the climb _much_ easier for the people climbing up after the first person, but ran the risk of someone inside hearing the sound.

Once they were in place, they had to start securing the area. Rel didn't want to alert the entire fortress by starting everything off, guns blazing. "Here's what we're going to do," he told his people, quietly. "Abendian, Vilinius, Lavium, Cadius, you're with me. We're going to move ahead a bit and try to do this _quietly_." It was a risk. A big one. Standard military doctrine suggested going in, in force, and simply 'killing' everything that moved. But that would, Rel figured, get more of his people killed, as the entire fortress turned on them, first. Their objective here was to secure the area for subsequent manciples, _not_ to be a distraction for another attack.

"Let me come, too," Septima offered. "I can work a stealth generator."

It was, in ten weeks, the singlemost helpful statement she'd made. _S'kak. I'd say __yes__ if it were anyone else. I __should__ say yes, in the spirit of squad unity._ "We all can," Rel said, quietly. "But right now, your job is to help hold this area, so the manciple behind us can come up the wall safely."

Then he, Nicus, Kassa, Rasmus, and Didamus moved up, checking their omnitools to see how many people were in the first guardhouse, and then they jerked open the door and were on the people inside, vicious hand-to-hand. Much quieter than rifles or pistols. "You admit you're down?" Rel hissed at one of their opponents.

"Yeah." The male sighed, and he and his cohorts had their weapons taken and were 'tied up' with yellow string—symbol of being dead, looped through the empty weapon racks on their backs. Rel wasn't interested in leaving 'casualties' with blue paint on them, for the enemy to retrieve. He tabbed his radio and told two squads to come down to this guardhouse and hold it. Then, back out on the wall, past the rest of his people, and down to the other guardhouse. Rinse, repeat. Another ten people placed, to hold both positions. "Keep two people at the door, weapons ready, to defend the walkway on top of the wall. Put everyone else at the windows, aiming down into the courtyard," Rel said, then signaled for the next manciple behind them to come up the wall.

By dawn, they'd taken the fortress. "Return your weapons to your captives and the casualties," came the order over the radio. "Attacking team, you're now the defending team. All previous defenders, report to the staging area at once."

Nicus groaned loudly. "I see they get out of the forty-kilometer run," he said, only half-joking.

"Nah. They had to do about twice that to get here in the first place," Amphion supplied. "And then we'll _all_ get to do it again at the end, to go back, I bet."

A chorus of groans went up all around. "Could be worse," Rel offered. "At least we've got time to prepare. Let's get those pitons out of the wall we're supposed to be defending, and see if we can make this a better reception for them, than the one they gave us."

Nicus and Rasmus both looked at him. "Squad Leader?" Nicus said.

"Yeah?"

"_Stop having so much fun!_"

For a moment, a hundred and sixty people all around him started to laugh.

Rel made sure everyone rotated through and got some sleep, and distributed his people very differently than the previous defenders had. He put watchers on the _roofs_ of the guard towers, for instance, not just inside of them, and set them there with sniper rifles. He himself, and others with heavy weapons and melee experience, he kept on the wall. It was a long and tedious wait of nearly four days, and it was hard to keep everyone focused, especially with rations running low, and no guarantee that the opposing team would even attack their position. "Keep an eye both towards the outside and across the courtyard. We may have to shift to support the far wall."

As it happened, the opposition _did_ get ordered to attack the eastern wall on the last day of the Trial, but not in force. _Could be a feint, or just a test. _

Sure enough, while the eastern side was occupied, three manciples came at the west, with heavy gear and vehicles, rather than the infiltration effort he'd led. _Well, this is going to be interesting. _He tabbed his radio. "417 needs reinforcements. Heavy vehicles coming in, three manciples of troops." Then he and the rest of his people began firing down at the incoming attackers, painting them blue, aiming for the medics as they crawled out and tried to reach fallen companions. Rel himself switched to his grenade launcher and started aiming for the open hatches on the vehicles. All these were, were smoke grenades, but if one got inside, everyone in the vehicle would be covered in blue soot, and declared casualties as soon as they'd come out of the vehicles. . . which they'd have to do, if they wanted to _breathe_.

"No reinforcements?" Rasmus shouted, dropping beside Rel.

"None yet. Guess they're busy other places, too."

"Wish they'd given _us_ damn Hammerheads."

"I bet the eastern teams got them last time." Rel set off another grenade, this one close to a large group of infantry who were trying to set up some sort of a device near the walls, and then ducked back into the cover of the crenellation at the top of the wall.

All they technically needed to do to 'win' this exercise was to keep the opposing force from getting into the fortress and capturing a flag set up inside the main hall, on the north end of the courtyard, until time on the exercise ran out. "Any movement in the courtyard yet?" he asked into the radio.

"None yet, Squad Leader." _Only a matter of time_.

It wasn't easy. The attackers were very determined, but it was a straight-forward assault. No infiltrators climbing up to wreak havoc in the ranks. The main thing was to keep everyone's heads down, and try to blunt the attack as much as possible. After four hours, Rel's radio chirped in his helmet. "Squad Leader, movement in the courtyard. From the east."

_And there's their infiltration team_. _We've already taken out the heavy machinery and weapons on this side, though_. "Sniper teams on roofs, fire down into the courtyard. Heavy weapons, fire into courtyard. Everyone else, stay on the people attacking us." Rel moved across the walkway at the top of the wall, and, crouching, fired down into the courtyard himself, one of his last grenades. All along the walls, he could see people raining blanks down at the recruits who were trying to run for the main hall and its flag.

And so it went, until dawn, when a general cease-fire was ordered. Usually, this exercise went 50-50; this was one of the rare occasions when an attacker successfully held the fortress when it was their turn. In such cases, the squads who'd been on the twice-winning team got a boost to their standings. It didn't count for much, except prestige.

They actually didn't have to run home, much to everyone's surprise and pleasure; they were shuttled back, and the dining hall was _open_, and they could eat _anything_ they wanted today. And they didn't even have to sit in silence while doing so. Rel leaned back a little on his bench, and, like all the others around him, simply ate and ate and ate, and listened to the conversations and the laughter. They'd made it. Ten days of administrative stuff, time for all the recruits who'd finished the Trial to recover from any injuries, a parade, and he'd be _done_.

He checked his mail in the barracks, smiled at the quick messages from Dara and his parents there, and slept for the first time in ten days in a proper nest, and not wearing armor, and thought the spirits themselves had cupped their hands around him, so fine did it feel.

Halfway through the administrative week, final specializations were posted, and a list of assignments. Nicus, officer's candidate school as well as flight school. Kassa didn't make OCS, but she'd make a damned fine centurion someday, Rel knew. Rasmus, who was slated for marine duty himself, was another OCS candidate.

And so was Rellus Velnaran. Special forces. Officer's candidate school. _Two for two. _He didn't write home about it, not yet. He was getting his new uniforms; the last time he'd wear boot camp gray was in the final parade—and then, it would be on his armor, not the uniforms that they were all now turning in for the next batch of recruits to use. After graduation, when he and Rasmus and Nicus reported to OCS, their armor would be painted fresh for them. Black with turquoise piping, color of the sky for Nicus. Black and green for Rasmus, color of the ground he'd be pounding for the next four years. Black and blood-blue piping for Rel to indicate his special forces MOS. Everyone was now entitled to wear their proper work uniform inside the compound.

As such, Rel wanted to see the look of surprise and pride on his parents' faces when they saw him in that uniform. _Officer's candidate and special forces. One in ten thousand. _And though he knew it wouldn't have quite the same effect on Dara, he definitely hoped she found it at _least_ as sharp as Rinus' centurion dress uniform.


	49. Chapter 49: The Long Wait

**Chapter 49: The Long Wait**

**Elijah**

September 17 came, and he and Linianus, Telinus, and Dara all went for a run in the woods just off-base. Linianus and Telinus were sandbagging, of course, and Dara had already adapted to her gene mods, so Eli was the one who found himself huffing and puffing, even though he'd done all the same cardio drills as every one of his handball teammates. He'd just been more sedentary during actual games, relying on agility and leaping abilities. "I'm going to have to ask Lantar and my mom about gene mods," he said, when they got done with their twenty kilometers, and he'd been forced to walk the last two miles.

"They're a pain in the ass," Dara told him. "Valuable, yeah, but if you want my advice, take them slowly. One at a time. Might draw it out more, but I did all of mine at once, and spent three weeks puking up my guts." She thought about that. "I've done a lot of that this year."

Linianus grinned at her. "Means you've been working hard."

"Oh, go sprint already. You're not hungry yet, right?"

He shook his head. "We'll circle around and catch back up with you," he told them, the two turian boys headed off down one of the muddy paths that the spring thaw had caused to reappear in the past week or two.

Alone, for the moment, Eli wiped his forehead off with his shirt, knowing his clanpaint had already dripped down onto his chest. "Okay. So what's the deal?"

"With what?"

"Siara. She's gone from not talking to me to begging me to tell you that she's sorry, but she won't tell me what she's sorry about." Eli sighed. "Frankly, I wasn't even going to answer her call the first time, but she was very persistent about it."

Dara got a set look to her face. "Okay. So, you probably know why Rel and I got into trouble over our contract?" She looked embarrassed. "Come on, let's at least keep walking. I want to get back to base and get some time on the climbing wall or in the pool today before range practice."

Eli snorted as they picked up the pace. "I've picked up the gist of what happened here and there, yeah. Siara said she'd agreed not to go up to your room in Odessa."

"Yeah. She agreed to that in exchange for my memories of Kella."

Eli's head snapped up, and his eyes narrowed. "She wasn't supposed to be doing _maieolo-anything_ at that point." He was _angry_. He knew what he'd very narrowly avoided with Siara months ago, and he did _not_ want his friend to have been exposed to that.

"Does _maieolo _mean 'share'?" Dara asked, lips pulling down at the corners. "Which, by the way? Seriously overused word."

"They're very specific about it in their language. Lots of different ways to share. It all just collapses down into one word in English." He squinted at her. "So, in Odessa. . . ?"

"No. Two days ago, she called in her debt. Said she was clear of her biotic cold or whatever the hell it was."

"News to me," Eli said, and his jaw was very tight. "So what happened?"

Dara glared off into the mid-distance, at some inoffensive trees just starting to leaf out. "At first, she just skimmed through Kella's memories. Brought back stuff I didn't even consciously remember. It was weird. Then she started digging other places. Stuff about _you_, actually." She gave Eli a sidelong glance, and he shook his head. "Apparently, she thought you still had a thing for me, because you came to the hospital for me. I told her to look inside your head if she was so damned worried about that."

"She has, or at least, she did, a while ago."

That got him several seconds of dead silence. He let it stretch out, then added, "She didn't see anything more than what pretty much _every_ guy thinks, Dara. You're my friend, Rel's my friend, and that's pretty much it, except, you know. . . " He shrugged. "I'm a guy." He wasn't going to apologize for it. He kind of felt he'd done enough apologizing for being who and what he was to Siara so far. Dara, being human, if a female one, should be able to at least grasp this.

Dara, other than a faint flush under the paint, didn't pursue it. "Okay. Fair enough. The main thing was, she started digging into my memories of Rel and, well, me."

Eli stopped in his tracks, mud squelching up alongside his shoes. "Wait. _What_?"

Dara looked at him, clearly not expecting quite this much reaction. "I blocked her before she saw much. I have no idea how. I think she caught basically a glimpse, and the next thing I knew, she'd dropped out of my mind." She paused. "I had to explain to Allardus last night why I was looking for a new xenobiology supervisor for my project, and Garrus was there at dinner, and Garrus said that Commander Shepard's been able to block asari the same way."

"When Lantar was in the link that was supposed to help her get _better_," Eli said, through his teeth, "she said she blundered into a part of his mind that scared the living shit out of her. How turians mate among themselves. Estrus, she meant. I guess. Think that might have been part of it?" He looked down and away. He had absorbed a certain amount of bluntness from his various turian friends, but in mid-sentence, he'd remembered that under the face-paint, Dara was human.

She didn't react, except to look away, herself. "Yeah," Dara said. "Garrus said that Shepard's not sure exactly why it works. It's not like asari and turians haven't, well, you know."

Eli thought about it, and while he didn't really _want_ to apply it to Dara and Rel specifically. . . or to his mom and Lantar, for that matter! . . . he could understand why it would affect an asari that way. From all his association with Kella and Siara, direct connection with their minds, he understood asari in general pretty well now. Their emotions were, like their lives, on long-duration cycles, the amplitudes between each oscillation of high and low tamped down, muted. While they were capable of great anger and great love, these were slow-burning emotions for them. The passion of a shorter-lived species could trigger similar emotions in them. . . for a time. . . and then, like ripples in a pond, they would fade. Two different sets of intense emotions at the same time probably _was _something of a whammy. And that was as far as he could make his mind reach around the subject.

They'd been walking for a while now in silence, and Dara said, tentatively, "I wasn't going to bring it up with you unless you asked, Eli. I'm not trying to make trouble between you and her."

Eli shook his head. "She already brought the trouble. I was pretty much done before today. Now. . . " he shook his head, wondering why his teeth hurt, not realizing that in between sentences, he was clenching his jaw. "I—and a lot of other people—did a _lot_ to try to help her. And then she turns around and does almost exactly the same thing to you, as was done to her." _Not quite, but close enough. Talk about people repeating cycles. _"You already told Azala about this?"

"Sort of. I told her I couldn't work with Siara anymore, and that I was sorry, but that I couldn't be under the same roof with her. Apologized for sounding childish, and asked her if she could transfer me to someone else in the xenobiology team. Turns out, since my father-in-law is the head of the team, he's taken me on. Why?"

"'Cause you should have your head checked by a biotic, preferably an asari. Siara's got stuff in her head that can cause problems for people who share with her." His expression tightened. "I'll call Azala for you, if you like."

Dara stopped on the path now. "It's that important?" She hesitated. "If so. . . I'd really prefer that Sky look in there. _Really_ prefer."

"I dunno if Sky would know what he's looking for, but I can't blame you." Eli shoved his hands into his pockets. "So, yeah, it's important. It's why I haven't. . . anything. . . with her. And now, I probably won't."

"Don't . . . I mean, not because of me." Dara sounded absolutely wretched now.

He shook his head. "Partially because of you, partially because of me. Mostly, because of _her_." Eli shrugged. "I _get_ why she has trust issues. I can accept that and deal with that on my own. Dragging one of my friends into it? No. Forcing _maieolo'saeo _to become _maieolo'loa. . ._full mental openness, even if it's without the physical? That's abuse. And that's a no-no."

They kept walking now. "You're going to be a good cop someday, Eli."

He grinned after a moment. "As good as your dad or Lantar?"

"We'll see. You've got the justice-anger down pat, though." She threw him a quick smile. "Rel's right. You really _do_ look like Lantar when you get mad."

"Minus the blue flush in the crest, I hope."

By now, they'd reached the base, and Linianus and Telinus had circled around and caught back up with them, so the topic was dropped. They spent the rest of the morning working their way up and down the rock climbing wall in the gym, Eli and Dara easily racing up to the top the first time, then slowly working their way back down, trying to help the turian boys understand where to put their feet for maximum effectiveness. They finished off with a swim lesson for the two boys, and while the turians slowly practiced backstroke, the two humans took up lanes of their own for a few laps. Eli was _shaking_ by the end of the session, and needed food just as badly as if he were a turian himself.

At the house, there was a surprise. Lantar was out in front, talking with a turian male that none of them recognized. "Gothis colony paint," Linianus muttered. Eli nodded, recognizing the dark green swirls.

"Ah, here they are," Lantar said, and made a _hurry-up_ gesture that got all four of them moving faster up the drive. "Lycus Provian, this is my son, Elijah. His friend, Dara Velnaran, and their friends Linianus Pellarian and Telinus Karpavian."

The strange male turned, and Eli got an impression of grief and weariness, heavily masked. "Glad to meet you all," the turian said, and they each got wrist-clasps—even Eli and Dara, though Eli could see how carefully the male was assessing their faces—most of the paint had, after running all morning and then swimming, worn off—as well as the wedding knife on Dara's wrist. He could see that the male was wearing two wrist sheathes, both with knives, and suddenly understood. _Widower, and a recent one, too. He's carrying his wife's blade. They carry them for what, six months, and then break the knife, if I remember correctly. Unless it's a very special blade._

"Come on in, everyone. Dara here was sick at the same time as your wife, Lycus."

Eli saw the male's head snap towards Dara, and a sigh raised his shoulders for a moment. "I take it that you were eating the damn food, too, then?"

_Ah, hell. He had a human wife._ Eli glanced at Lantar, got a look from his father that he interpreted as _'act normal,'_ and did exactly that, telling Lin and Tel to grab chairs and that he'd get them food. His mom came into the room then, carrying a basket of laundry, and had to be introduced, too. Lycus gave her a very correct bow of the head, appropriate to a woman married to someone who outranked him, socially, and looked back at Dara, waiting for her answer.

Dara nodded. "Yeah. I'd cooked dinner for myself, the aunt of my husband, who's pregnant, and her two hybrid kids that night. All four of us got sick." She sounded deeply sympathetic, and Eli knew she'd read the same signs he had, as she went on, "Your wife?"

Lycus shook his head, and Lin and Tel growled, a soft, sympathetic noise. "Fiona was so damned worried about our son, I don't think she even knew she was sick. I could smell something wrong on her skin, but. . . I just thought it was stress." There was a rasp of controlled anguish in that voice that made the hair on the backs of Eli's arms stand on end. "We were at the hospital, and she stepped out of the room, and the nurses found her in the bathroom, choking on her own vomit." He looked out the nearest window. "She didn't make it."

"I'm so sorry," Eli's mom murmured, putting a hand on his shoulder. Human gesture; sympathy and bonding through touch. Not a turian gesture at all, and Eli could see the male tense under his mom's fingers. He glanced at Lantar, who of course wasn't moving. Lantar knew humans too well to take offense at his mate touching another male in such a fashion. _How can __he__ see this, but someone like Siara can't?_ The helpless rush of frustration surged through him, and then Eli let it go. It wasn't going to be his problem anymore.

Dara paused for a moment, then offered a _tal'mae _phrase that Eli couldn't translate. Lycus looked up, sharply, and said, "Thank you. I'm sure her spirit will join with mine. If she can _find_ it. I don't even know where _I_ am, right now."

Lantar cleared his throat. "A safe place. For both you and the young one."

Caelia took that moment to come pattering out after Lucy, the cat, and Lycus looked down at her, his face visibly softening. "It's good to hear that, Sidonis. I just wish I knew what to _do_ with him."

"You have a child?" That was Eli's mother, busy now getting out leftover _talashae_ roast from last night for Lin and Tel. "How old?"

"Three months. He's up at the clinic on the mountain right now. That was our first stop, before your husband brought me down here." That was protection-anger, and Eli moved quickly now, helping his mother find plates and cups for everyone. He'd really rather sprawl someplace quietly and recover for a few minutes, but he was _first-son_ in this house. He had responsibilities. "They're trying to work out _some_ kind of formula for him," the male added, sounding helpless and even more angry because of it.

Lantar pushed out a chair for Lycus, and the male took the seat now. "Dara," Lantar said, "would you mind logging on to the clinic and seeing what's going on with Julian Provian? I'm sure it will give his father some peace of mind, while we get food into all of you."

"Not a problem," Dara said, going over to the main house terminal in the living room, reflexively warding off Caelia's inquisitive fingers from the keys, and then logging on, using her clinic badge, which she always carried around her neck now. "Here we go. He's in the nursery. I can even get vid feed up, if you like."

Eli came over as Dara pulled up the image on the aerogel screen. "Hey, his feathers aren't whitish-gray, like Caelia's were," he blurted, and the turians in the room behind him chuckled. They were, instead, almost black.

"That's the principle way you can tell boys from girls at birth," Dara told him, absently, "other than opening the abdominal slit and looking. That's generally only done by the attending physician at the hospital, just to check for deformities, and then gets sealed back up again."

"And you know that _how_?" Eli muttered to her. A year ago, she'd squealed when she'd seen Caelia in her baby feathers for the first time.

"I've been babysitting Amara and Kaius and helping Aunt Lilu with her pregnancy for two months. I've picked up a few things." Dara grinned at him, but kept her words quiet, in deference to the grieving male in the kitchen. "Besides, one of these days, Rel and I are _going_ to have kids. I've been reading up on it a bit."

"In spite of all. . . this crap that's been going on, you still think that?" Eli wondered what the male in the kitchen would think. Little that was good, doubtless. He himself was worried about his mom and Caelia, hell, even Lantar, even though every scrap of food in the house was tested now.

"Yeah." She shrugged. "This _s'kak_ isn't going to go on forever." Louder now, she called back into the kitchen, "They're mixing _talashae_ paste in with regular human formula, looks like. Just a little at a time. And I know the stocks are safe. It's what I've been eating to maintain my dextro immunities."

The baby on screen was receiving a feeding at the moment, actually, held by one of the turian nurses. Lycus looked up at the screen, with an expression of hope, and then glanced sharply at Dara. "You're _still_ eating mixed? Even after nearly dying?" He sounded horrified, and Eli figured he had a right to be.

"Yeah," she replied, turning towards him. "I _have_ to."

"So am I. So's Caelia," his mom said, quietly, getting out fresh meat for Lycus and Lantar, and handing a loaf of bread to Eli, who started cutting it now for sandwiches for the levo and mixed people in the house.

"You must be mad!"

Dara shook her head, looking determined. "In thirty-four days or so, I'll be on Palaven, meeting my husband after he finishes boot camp. And seven days after that, I'll be starting my own term there. I can't afford _not_ to eat mixed."

Lycus snorted. "You're attending turian boot camp." It wasn't really a question, but it wasn't a statement, either. His voice rose a little in incredulity, as Dara just nodded. "You _are_ mad."

Lantar chuckled. "Her father's a Spectre." As if it explained everything. Then again, it kind of did.

Eli put a plate with a sandwich on it in front of Dara—turkey and sliced _apaterae _meat on sourdough, and she nodded gratefully and started eating. Then he could _finally_ stop playing host and good first-son, and start tearing into his own food. In between bites, he offered, "I'll be going next year, with Lin and Tel here. Hopefully, I'll stand just as good a chance of succeeding as Dara."

"Your dad's a Spectre, too," Dara reminded him.

Eli grinned at Lantar. "Yeah, but while Rel keeps telling me I've got my dad's spirit, I don't have the genes. You do." He caught a glimpse of an enormous smile suddenly crossing Lantar's face, quickly hidden as his step-dad reached down, caught Caelia, and settled her on his lap at the table, giving her bites to eat off his plate.

The next day, he called Siara's house, and spoke with Azala. "No, I'm not calling for Siara," he said, as the older female started to turn away to get her daughter.

One fine brow went up. "Oh?"

"Yes. Dara told me something a little disturbing. I think you may need to check her mind." Eli sighed, and explained the whole mess. Azala's expression went tight and drawn.

"I wondered why she had so suddenly withdrawn from the house the other day, and terminated what had been a productive working relationship with me," Azala muttered at last. "Of course I will see Dara. If she will let me."

"I think she will. She still likes you." Eli sighed. "Okay, that being said, is it more appropriate that I say what I have to say to Siara in person or on the comm?"

"And what do you have to say to her?"

Eli couldn't even come up with the words in English. After a long moment's struggle, he found the words in high-tongue._ "I would have had her for my more-than-fair, but fairness is a matter of mind as well as flesh, of trust as well as love. She has hurt one dear to me. And did so, being unable to trust me."_

"_And you cannot forgive?"_ It was a gentle question, not a judgmental one. Azala was all gentleness.

"_It is not a question of forgiveness. It is a question of tolerance. I cannot tolerate harm to my dear ones."_ It was too soft in high-tongue, and Eli shifted to English for a little more emphasis. "If she can't trust me, then she'll just keep doing this, over and over, and I can't trust _her_ because of that. I can't keep doing this." He shrugged. _"So, must I say these words to her, face-to-face?" _He really didn't want to. But he figured he should be enough of an adult to do so.

"_She has already heard your words, fair and just as they are. It is best for you not to come to us, but you can say your farewells now."_

_Oh, shit. _That was a real down-elevator feeling in the pit of his stomach. _Thanks for letting me know she was listening, Azala. That's what you might call __**helpful.**_

Azala paused. "Someday, she _will_ be whole again, Elijah. I do believe that. And it will be because you tried to help her. Even in _this_, you are helping her. There must always be boundaries." She looked off-screen. "Siara? Come here." It was a surprisingly steely command from the woman, and after a moment, Siara shuffled onto the screen, looking down.

"I heard," she said, forestalling anything he could say. "You're right. I can't do anything more ot make it right besides tell Dara, again, that I'm sorry."

Eli shook his head. "Those are just words, Siara."

She paused. "I know." Siara looked up. "Tell me what to do to fix it, and I'll do it."

"Tell her you're sorry. And then leave her the hell alone. Don't talk to her or about her or anything else. Just let it rest."

"And you?"

That was the hard one. "Leave me alone, too."

She shut down the comm channel, and Eli stared at the blank screen for a moment, feeling empty. _So, technically, I just broke up with an asari. Why do I have a feeling that every human male on Bastion, if they knew this, would want to kick me? _Then again, none of those men could possibly know how _complicated_ Siara was, or how much she made his head hurt. Not to mention everywhere else.

**Dara**

"_Settle down, little one. I can only make your food so fast._" Dara was at the clinic, helping with Julian Provian Sunday morning. She knew that human and turian babies both had a tendency to squall their damn heads off when hungry, faces turning red (or blue, appropriately) with rage at being denied, but Julian in particular was an _angry_ baby. "Okay, here we go. Two tablespoons of _talashae _paste in formula, warmed to human body temperature, coming right up." They actually had to use a blender for this; rice cereal mixed in formula, to feed a human baby with extra nutritional needs, would have dissolved instantly, but _talashae_ paste was quite a bit thicker.

She awkwardly lifted the boy out of his crib and sat down with him in the clinic's nursery. He fell silent on belatedly realizing a bottle had been inserted into his mouth, and greedily started sucking. He was very warm in her arms, and she knew she'd have to check his temperature before settling him back into the crib. He had a history of the wild temperature swings that Amara and Kaius had, but that Caelia had not. No one really knew why the hypothalamus regulated correctly in some hybrids, and not in others. _Something to ask Dr. Solus_ _about_, Dara thought, a little drowsily. The warmth really was lulling, and the nursery was quiet now, as the other nurses took care of hanar fry in their tank and changed a newborn drell girl's diaper.

After a while, Julian finished the bottle, essentially falling asleep in her arms. She couldn't put him over her shoulder to burp him, but it was just as necessary to clear the crop of air bubbles as it was to clear a human baby's stomach. The method just differed; she put him flat on his back in her lap, and rubbed his tummy until the crop muscles began to work, and he gave a resounding belch in his sleep—much too large-sounding for that tiny body. Then she checked his temperature (105.5º F/ 40.8º C), which was high, swaddled him up, made a note on his chart about the temperature and his feeding time, and told the lead nursery attendant about the temperature before getting ready to leave. "Poor thing's going to need a nanny," the drell nurse told her.

"I know. Either that, or his father's going to be staying home with him all the time."

"Everyone needs a break sometimes. The more so when the kid has problems. And all the hybrids do." The drell female blinked her enormous eyes at Dara. "No offense, of course."

"None taken. It's true." Dara grinned at her. "I'm hoping that when I get around to it, the technology will be better."

"I hope your words please Arashu, goddess of mothers."

"Me too," Dara replied lightly, and went over to peek in the incubator at Dr. Solus' little egg. It was still about twenty to twenty-four days from hatching, but she could see movement inside its translucent outer coating now. _And what about you, little female? Are you going to live past the age of ten? Or are you too inbred, like your mothers and grandmothers before you?_ She knew that Dr. Solus had been up and down the egg's genome, and had fixed a number of issues already. Still, would it be enough?

Salarian females had, historically, laid their eggs in small ponds. Then they had stayed with the eggs to guard them until they hatched, and their extended family of males (a 'harem' in the literature) would bring the females food to eat. Since the female never exited the pool, her wastes actually formed the environment around the eggs, adding nitrates, nitrites, salts, and altering the pH. Hence, in an incubator environment, all these things had to be checked and regulated for the health of the semi-permeable egg and its cargo. Dara checked the pH and the salinity and the potassium levels, and, putting on a glove, carefully turned the egg over in the water, making notes on the chart to let the nurses know that it had been done.

Then it was time to go follow Dr. Solus on rounds. He had two regular interns, in their twenties, scurrying around, answering questions, but occasionally fired one or two queries at Dara, which always made her freeze like a deer in the headlights, and then the answer would fall out of her mouth, usually without any conscious volition. _How does he keep track of where I am in my studies to know that I'd even __**know**__ this yet?_

By 11:00, Dara was just about ready to go home, but Commander Shepard had another prenatal appointment, and Dr. Solus tended to want her there for those. "Hey there, Dara," Shepard told her, leaning back against the table, which Dara hurried over to raise a little further for her. "Haven't seen you in a week or so."

They got to talking—and Dara was _much_ more comfortable with 'Aunt Lilu' at this point than she had been even three months ago. "So, I heard from Garrus that you had a run-in with an asari girl this past week. You talk to your dad about that?"

Dara winced. "Talked to Kasumi first. Then my dad. Mostly so I wouldn't get the 'why don't you trust me?' lecture again."

"You're getting a little old for lectures. Once you pass through the gates of a turian bootcamp, you'll be a legal adult in the Hierarchy."

"Dad's not going to see me as an adult even when I'm old and gray and walking with a cane."

Shepard snorted with laughter, then went thoughtful for a moment. "Garrus said you managed to block her."

"Yeah." Dara shifted, uncomfortably. "She tried to get at the simulation memories first. Managed to convince her that it wasn't relevant to what she was looking for. Then she went diving after . . . I don't know, really." She shook her head. "Whatever it is about me that makes, well, _specific_ people like me. It's not like I'm popular." _The turians like me because I'm Rel's, and they like Rel. The human boys at school tolerate me because I'm Eli's friend, and they like Eli. The human girls? Mostly can't stand me._ She shrugged, banishing the thoughts. "Anyhow, she wanted to know about Eli and me, and then she went in after Rel and me, together, and then she dropped right out of my mind."

Shepard's eyes crinkled, indicating that she was smiling behind the breather, but when she spoke, her tone was rueful. "It's good to know it works for other people. I thought it might be because the damn Prothean beacon broke my mind, or because of, well, being dead for six months and rebuilt had changed something in me. The way I figure it, is this. Asari aren't female, Dara. They _look_ female to dual-gendered species like ours, and we use feminine-gendered pronouns for them because 'it' and 'its' sound rude in English. Hell, I saw a memo floated from the diplomatic corps five years ago that suggested referring to asari by a new pronoun, to preserve accuracy while retaining respect. The linguists behind the proposed change wanted to use 'shi' and 'hir'. The rest of the community came back with the comment that the pronouns didn't _sound_ any different, and that the only change would be in print, where it would just be man-hours spent changing documentation for the sake of political correctness. And that every other language that the documents got translated into would have to find their own new pronouns, too."

Dara laughed, and Shepard shook her head, still seeming a little rueful. "Given all that, the mind of a human female is probably as close to their own as they can get. Maybe a drell female might be closer. Asari aren't mammals, although they nurse their young. They have an amphibious past, but they _aren't_ amphibians or reptiles, either. They're also herbivores who _became_ omnivores, not predators who became omnivores. They're their own thing."

"Yeah, the xenobiology texts aren't quite sure how to categorize them," Dara agreed.

"So, given that they've popped into the mind of someone who's like them, but unlike them, that sets up a certain amount of cognitive dissonance. That's okay. They're trained for it. Some of them like it. Some of them go cruising for emotional highs and lows—shorter-lived species experience higher peaks and valleys than the asari do. When you realize that a 'whirlwind romance' for them lasts fifty years, you'll understand why." Shepard shrugged. "So, some of them like to dip in, taste what they don't necessarily have themselves, and move on. But when they're in an alien mind, and when I—and, apparently, when _you_, too, Dara—focus on, well. . ."

Dara grinned. Commander Shepard, hero of the galaxy, got just as tongue-tied as any other human when talking about intimacy. _"I find these conversations go easier in turian,_" she said, and got out the blood pressure cuff. She might as well get the baseline test results for Dr. Solus, who seemed to be running late.

"_Spirits, yes, they do."_ Shepard switched languages in a tone of absolute relief, and explained, clinically, _"When a turian male takes his mate, __usually__ it is in complete dominance. It has to be that way, for his protection and for hers. That is alien to an asari, where everything is __sharing__. He's also a predator. The human involved has a more predatory past than the asari as well. There's a lot in us that __likes__ the aggression. Doesn't just accept it as unusual or interesting or a quirk of the species. We __like__ it. So there are his instincts at work, and then there are the human female's instincts at play, too."_

She paused, and Dara filled in the blanks for her, nodding. She'd been trying very hard not to think about this stuff for the past eighty days or so. Thinking about it only made her miss Rel more. Now it all rushed back to mind, and she looked down and away for a moment, controlling her face. Submitting, finding delight in being _taken_, finding pleasure as well as pain in the control-bite."One twenty-seven over seventy-five," she said, reading the numbers on the digital readout. "That's a little high."

Shepard coughed a bit. "Yeah, take it again in five minutes, okay?"

Dara laughed, a little guiltily, and Shepard laughed as well, adding, "So, that's two levels of alien instincts, but filtered through a mind that's like theirs, but not like theirs.As far as I can tell, it causes moderate to severe cognitive dissonance for them, and it snaps them right out of your mind. Doesn't work on all of them. Don't ever try it on an ardat-yaksi. They _feed_ on emotional highs and lows."

"An ardat-what?"

"You should be able to look it up in the base databanks. I really don't like thinking about them." Shepard shuddered.

"Well, don't think about them for the next couple of minutes, or that blood-pressure reading is going to spike, and Dr. Solus is going to cluck at you when he gets in here." Dara folded her arms across her chest as she spoke, pragmatically.

Shepard chuckled. She was 194 days into the gestational cycle now, and was probably going to have a c-section in mid-January, around day 315. Dara would still be in boot camp, and would miss the delivery, which, she was surprised to realize, annoyed her. She'd put a lot of effort into seeing Shepard and these children healthy, and she wouldn't even be able to hold them, even wearing a mask and gloves. "You have any plans besides study, study, study, run, run, run, and spar, spar, spar, before you leave?" she asked, changing the subject.

"In a couple of weeks, when the _allora_ trees bloom, I'm going to go up to Rel's and my favorite spot in the mountains." Dara shrugged. "Will be the last time I get to ride a horse for a long time, probably. Figured I'd say goodbye to it."

Shepard smiled for a moment. "The giant _allora_ trees, up to the northeast of base?"

"Yeah," Dara said, ducking her head for a moment, then grinning. _I guess she really __**does**__ know every place on this base._ "I don't ever want to see that place developed or anything else."

"Oh, hell no. It would be a crime."

Eventually, Dr. Solus bustled in, and pronounced Lilitu healthy. "Wish to try weaning off of cyanolimus and going back onto tacilimus?" he asked her. "Would take about two weeks, but then breather precautions not as necessary."

"God, yes," Shepard said, fervently. "So long as food still tastes somewhat decent, I'll do whatever it takes to get out of the damned breather. Last time, I didn't have two walking petrie dishes in the house, of course. And since I was confined to bed from six months on, everyone who came to me was decontaminated. So no breather then. This has been a pain in the _ass_ this time."

"Better than bedrest. No continuous IV drip. Some improvements," Dr. Solus told her.

"Some, yeah. Still not perfect."

"Pregnancies are never perfect." Dr. Solus blinked at her, solemnly. "We try to make them, at least, less hazardous. Viviparous species invest heavily in their offspring."

Dara walked out of the room, and was _very_ ready to get out of her scrubs, when the front desk paged her. _What now?_ she thought, and headed up to the desk, to find Azala waiting for her. "This seemed as good a place for a checkup as any," the asari woman told her. "Can we find a room for a moment?"

Dara winced, and saw _Azala_ wince, in turn, at her expression. "Sorry. Sure. Come on back." Dara found an unoccupied room that had been recently cleaned, and sat down on the table. "Are you going to feel my lymph nodes and take my temperature?"

Azala tried to smile, but it wasn't much of one. "No. Just a light touch. A little pressure on your mind."

Dara reminded herself that if worst came to worst, she now had Commander Shepard's patented method for blocking asari in hand, and took a deep breath, trying to relax.

It was mercifully impersonal. Being read, like a book, or a data crystal being touched by a computer's laser. Because of that, Dara was able to relax. "Good," Azala said, after a moment. "I don't sense any lingering memories here. She didn't really _share_; she only _took._" From the expression on Azala's face, Dara got the feeling that this was _also_ somehow not quite right for asari, but at the moment, she didn't really care enough to explore the xenopsychological aspects.

"Okay, glad to hear it. Thank you for checking on me." Dara slid off the exam table. "I've got two final reports waiting for me back at the house, and my dad's having a get-together tonight."

"I know. Gris asked me to come along." Azala lowered her head. "I shouldn't go."

Dara looked at her. It would be difficult to look at Azala in quite the same way, but then again, Azala hadn't done it. "Don't be silly. If Gris wants you there, you're more than welcome. But. . ."

"Yes. Siara will remain at home." Azala looked at her, steadily. "Do you want her punished in any way?"

Dara looked off into the mid-distance for a moment. "I want her to leave me and my friends alone. Past that, whatever asari do for stuff like this, is fine with me." _I'm off of Mindoir in a little over thirty days. She probably can't do much more to me. But I __don't__ want to hear about anything else while I'm gone._

Azala nodded. "Done." Her lips tightened. "In the absence of asari law, I thought I might have Gris discipline her. She apparently needs a strong figure in her life."

Dara tried, very hard, not to smile, and almost succeeded. After a moment, she said, "That sounds fair to me."

Time began to pass in earnest now. Instead of playing piano on off-nights, Dara continued to spar, just with her dad, trying to absorb everything he had to teach her. "Turians like to kick, and they really like those high kicks. I tend to think of that as a gift from god," he told her one night. "There's just so much you can _do_ when someone's been stupid enough to _hand_ you one of their weapons, and unbalance themselves at the same time. Same basic weakness as tae kwon do; and there's a weakness to _every_ system, sweetie. Now, a lot of them are good enough and fast enough to make it work anyway. Garrus is. Rel is. Allardus and Lantar both are, but they're not the tall, fast types. . . which is why they actually like grappling more, which is kind of unusual for turians. Here's what you do with the ones who _aren't_ fast enough or good enough." And he started to show her how to catch and redirect the force of a kick, to bend the knee and send the person flying, to lift the leg out of the way, step in, and slam the opposite, supporting leg at the knee or ankle. "Here's what I want you to think about. Don't kick high. Sure, you _can_ kick someone in the head, but why risk opening yourself up like that, when you can knock 'em down by destabilizing ankles and knees, with nothing more than your own leg?"

Another lesson, this time with Allardus as the dummy, was in finding nerve points on turians. Dara knew where they were from her anatomy textbook, but now she had to learn to _feel_ where they were, engrain it into muscle memory. "You barely reacted, _pada'amu,_" Dara told Allardus after one strike. "How can you say that was a good hit?"

Allardus grinned. "Part of the reason we had Rel sparring constantly was to desensitize him to pain, _fila_. I've spent half my life working pretty hard on that, myself. Most of the recruits you'll be fighting _will_ feel what you just did."

Her dad nodded. "Same thing with neck chokes and ankle cranks and everything else. You have it done to you often enough, and you just plain don't feel it as much anymore. Well, up until something gets strained and you don't let it heal right. Then you feel it every damned time till you damned well _let_ it heal."

Allardus chuckled at her dad's words, and then they were off again.

Another lesson, another night. "Grab my wrist and close your eyes."

Warily, Dara did just that. "Now, what you have to work on is _feeling_ where someone's body is, what they're doing. That way, you're not looking and trying to figure out what to do; you just feel it, and your body reacts. When I move this way," and his arm shifted one direction. . . "it feels different than when I move this way, right?" This time, his arm really torqued, and her body moved with it.

"Yeah. Lot more powerful that time, but I didn't hear your feet move."

"They didn't. First time, all I moved was my arm. Second time, I moved my hips. There's only so many ways bones and muscles connect in a humanoid body, sweetie. Turians and humans both power most of their fighting through the hips. They focus more on legs, obviously, but all the power comes from _turning_ the _hips._" Sam demonstrated a few more times. "Now, as people are in motion, I've told you before to think about triangles. Their feet are under them are two points of the triangle. The triangular point, to either side of them, is their dead space. Move them towards it, and they'll fall. Where's my dead space right now—and don't open your eyes. Just push."

It took a while, but all of a sudden, it clicked for her. "Good. This is something it's going to take _years_ to develop, sweetie, but that's what I teach. When you get really good at it, which will take three, maybe four years, you won't have any problems, and you'll never get hung up, waiting for the chance to use the perfect move on the perfect setup. . . because bad guys _never_ give you the courtesy of starting off and letting you use a set move for a set situation."

She got a long letter from Rel on September 30, and read it at the dinner table for her in-laws, her dad, and Kasumi on October 1—leaving out the husband-to-wife teasing, of course. Solanna made an annoyed sound under her breath at the mention of the bite wound to his arm. "Sounds like this Lintorum has _no_ honor."

Sam looked up. "Is he likely to be at the same center next session?"

Allardus nodded. "Yes. He'll have had five weeks to recover. More than enough time for surgery, medigel, and rehabilitation to have done the job. And Dara's slated for the Dacian center as well."

"Shit." Sam looked down the table at the younger kids. "Sorry, kids, you didn't hear me say that."

Solanna grimaced. "It might come to nothing. They'll probably be aware of the potential issue and keep him in a barracks that, mathematically, is unlikely to join with yours at any point, Dara."

"Even after they rearrange the squads at the halfway mark?" Dara asked, feeling her heart sink a little.

"Don't borrow trouble," Kasumi told her.

"And we'll make sure you're ready, in case there _is_ trouble," Allardus told her, and then turned the conversation to which hotel they would need to stay at. Her dad and Kasumi had found one called Caupona, on the outskirts of the city of Dacia, which catered to aliens; no windows in any rooms, but it had fire escapes at the end of each hall, however. It had human/asari-style beds in some of the rooms, a volus section in the basement, thick, stone walls, and a lead-lined roof. "They guarantee less than three millirems of exposure a day in one of the interior rooms," Kasumi read off her omnitool after dinner."

"Book us two," her dad told her. "I'll be leaving for work soon, but I _should_ be back by then."

Kasumi shook her head. "I'll make it three. Lantar said he wanted to take Eli with him there, so Eli could see what the boot camp facility looks like, _before_ he turns in paperwork and starts gene mods and all that."

Sam snorted. "Yeah. When Dara finishes, Eli's pride isn't gonna let him back down." Dara noticed the word _when_ there, instead of the _if_, and she looked down, smiling a little at her father's support and pride.

Sparring went up several degrees in intensity after that evening, however, she noticed. But on, October 1, her dad, Lantar, Garrus, and most of the other Spectres had to leave. "We should be back in time for me to go with you to Palaven," her dad reminded her, packing his kit.

"It's okay, Dad," she told him, leaning against the doorframe. "We'll say goodbye now, just in case. But I won't blame you if you don't make it." Dara grinned. "At least this time, when you leave, I don't have to start packing at the same time. It's nice having Kasumi here."

"I kind of think so, myself." His voice was very amused, and Dara started to giggle.

"Oh, so now I'm a convenience?" Kasumi said, with mock-ire behind Dara, in the hall.

Sam leaned down and gave Dara a kiss. "Be good," he told her, as he had on every 'business trip' he'd ever taken, and then gave her a tight hug. Then he looked at Kasumi, and just grinned. "Why, darlin' I _do_ find it much more convenient to find you in my bed every morning. For one thing, you sure do keep the sheets nice and warm."

Dara put her face in her hands, blushing and laughing at the same time as Sam slung his kit over his shoulder, went over, and gave Kasumi a kiss. From the dull _clank_ she heard, followed by an _ouch_ from Kasumi, she could guess that the little woman had tried to kick him in his armored shins. "You're going to pay for that, Sam Jaworski," Kasumi threatened, not at all seriously.

"I look forward to your revenge," he told her, with aplomb. "Take care of yourself." And then he was out the door.

Dara looked at Kasumi. "Am I going to have more autopsies to look forward to after this trip?" The procedure didn't give her nightmares anymore, at least.

Kasumi shook her head, her expression bleak. "Probably not. This is more relevant to the medical issues you and Shep had last month.

Dara thought about that for a moment. "Good."

The next fifteen days were. . . odd. They both sped by and lumbered past, and the same time. She heard nothing from either her father or from Rel, of course, for quite some time.

She finished all of her finals. Turned in her reports. Received her honor's degree. Packed up the last of her room. Practiced climbing and swimming and running and rifles with Eli, Linianus, and Telinus. That left her with ten or eleven days of dead time on her hands. Plenty of time to worry, in fact. At least when Rel had been preparing to leave, they'd had the wedding, each other, and any number of other things to occupy their minds. All Dara had was her worries.

On October 10, Shepard called her up to the base. "Got a surprise for you," was the commander's cryptic message. "Come on over."

Dara passed through the decontamination chamber, and came into the Vakarians' living area. "Aunt Lilu?" she called, hesitantly.

"I'm in the bedroom. Come on in."

Dara poked her head in the door. "There you are," Shepard said. "Damn I'm glad to be back on tacilimus. No more breather for a while." She wrinkled her nose. "I was beginning to forget what things _smelled _ like."

The younger woman chuckled. Shepard smiled for a moment. "So, I hear the Hierarchy considers you the _Spectre_ recruit, as opposed to the _Marine _recruit or the _Naval_ recruit."

"Yeah." Dara shook her head. "I think it was just product of it being a form letter, and a clerk being too lazy to type, but now they're _really_ insisting that I bring my own armor and a radiation barrier suit for night-time, too. My dad said he was going to order me something before he left, but. . . " She shifted on her feet. It had been nine days since he left, and time was getting _very_ short.

"Yeah, I told him not to bother."

Dara blinked. "We've got tons of radiation suits around here. You can take two with you. As to armor. . ." Shepard pushed a button, and a locker opened in the wall. "Take my old set. I've got a new one in Spectre black now." She grinned. "Not like any of it's going to fit right now, anyway, right?"

Dara stared at her, at the dark blue armor with the burgundy stripes that had been in every single vid around the galaxy, and then at Shepard again. "I. . . I couldn't."

"Nonsense. You're almost the same height as I am. Move a few buckles here and there, and it'll fit fine. We'll block out the N7 badge, because that's not you. They'll paint it boot camp gray when you get there, anyway, and then it's just another set of armor, right?" Lilitu pulled herself to her feet, and Dara reached automatically for the woman's hand, helping her to stand. "Now, I know _damned well_ that turians have a different way of storing their gear than the Alliance does. I know that, 'cause every time Garrus looks in my locker, he _growls_. Do it their way for boot camp and inspections, but for the love of god, do it _our_ way the rest of the time. They take ninety seconds to get into their gear because of the spurs and how the equipment locks together. A human takes well under a minute, if you do it right. And I'm going to teach you to do it right."

They got the armor on her the first time, just to fit it properly, and make sure that she had free range of motion, and then Dara practiced it several times, to get it right. "Both services use an elasticized suit underneath everything. Our thermal units are in that suit, though. Theirs are in the armor itself," Shepard told her. "All right, pants first."

Where turian armor needed to be segmented, to accommodate the spurs, human armor pulled on like a pair of pants. "They get a little more resilience out of their models; the seals and locks at each joint function almost like a quarian's suit. If one piece is breached, the rest lock down, and protect the wearer. We have gaskets at each joint in ours, but they're not as well-designed—in my opinion, anyway. On the other hand, we get ready for combat a hell of a lot faster than they do. Boots next."

Fortunately, these had been loose, not tight, and had adjusted with a couple of clicks on a knob on the exterior. Dara locked the seals of the boot to the plates of the greaves, and grabbed the backpack. "We adapted this from their service, actually. Forty years ago, all Alliance armor had air canisters on the outside. Water rations and liquid nutrients were loaded into the armor's frame, too. This is a little better. Rebreather, backup air, and nutrients, all in one system, and not integrated fully to the suit. Less of a chance of springing a leak." Shepard grimaced, and her eyes went distant. "Still happens, though. Get your coif up."

Dara nodded, but didn't ask what memories that statement had prompted. She buckled the harness into place, pulled the hood of the elasticized suit up over her head, slipped the chestplate-and-backplate combination, which already had shoulder plates in place, over her head, and extricated her hoses, and established positive seals between the chest and the pants; largely, this occurred at the waist, which had flexible plates for range of motion. "Get your omnitool in place, then gloves. Then helmet. Establish seals and hoses. Activate the suit. . . and you're done." Shepard grinned. "Think you can do it faster next time?"

"Yeah. This is just like getting dressed in the morning. Couple of extra steps, but it's really not bad."

"I know. Great, isn't it?" Shepard grinned. "I had them install some mods on the suit. Redundant pressure seals. First aid interface. Shock absorbers. All-purpose stuff, really. Was tempted to put in the motorized joints I like to use instead of an exoskeleton on heavy-g planets, but I thought the drill instructors _might_ regard that as cheating." She winked.

Dara grinned at her through the helmet's visor. "I really can't thank you enough."

"Eh, we skin-and-scale couples have to stick together."

"Is that what we're called now?"

"It's the most polite version out there."

"I don't want to hear what the impolite version is, do I?"

"No, but you'll hear it anyway." Shepard patted her on the back. "I've got a chit set up for you for a rad meter and two sets of rad barrier coveralls. Go pick 'em up at the post exchange, all right?"

"Thank you. I will."

The next day, October 11, the queen egg hatched. Dara was spending every morning at the clinic now, just to have something to do besides run, shoot, climb, swim, and worry, so she was there for the emergence. The little female was in the tadpole stage now, and Dr. Solus showed signs of detached pride as she swam around her small incubation enclosure. "Good lateral undulations," he noted. "Need to supply algae and other nutrients. Larger tank enclosure also required, for the moment. Legs should start to develop in two weeks. Tail be reabsorbed by body, repurposed for nutrients."

"Are you going to take her down to the science station, where the other salarian hatchlings are?" Dara asked.

"No. Environment inappropriate. Queens raised separately. Other young sense that they are different. Females can become aggressive when crowded. Usually raised by other females. Unfortunately, not an option here." Dr. Solus blinked at her solemnly.

Dara's eyebrows rose, and she shook her head. _I have no idea how you're going to pull this off, Dr. Solus. But I guess if anyone can, you will._

A day later, Kasumi told her, "Okay, one of the things your dad wanted me to show you before you left. . . mostly to prepare you. . . is the mail your old account has been receiving since Shanxi."

Dara sighed. "This is going to be one of those reality-check moments, isn't it?"

"Afraid so." Kasumi sat down next to her. "If it helps, Garrus and Shep have seen this all before. Yours may be a little more hurtful in places, because some of it is from people you actually knew, back in Texas. Your dad didn't want you to see most of this until you were ready."

_And I'm ready now? _Dara nodded, slowly. "All right. Let's look at it."

The letters ranged from the banal to the cruel and back again, and Dara learned a whole new vocabulary for hate. "Well, I guess not too many turians would call me a scale-whore or a scale-skank." _Or a reptile-fucker or a scale-licker. They probably also wouldn't suggest that I commonly swallow dinosaur semen. _"Humans are stuck on the whole scale thing, aren't they?" It was a feeble attempt at humor, at best. Dara was mostly angry, at this point, but she knew there was probably worse to follow.

Kasumi laughed. "Yeah, they are. Turians are more likely to insult Rel in those terms than you. They'll suggest that he wasn't strong enough to handle a female in estrus, and isn't male enough as a result. They'll say that he doesn't have scales, or spurs, or just plain doesn't have the teeth for anything other than a human. A turian is much more likely to call _you_ a shit-eater."

Dara blinked. "A _what_?"

"Comes from the idea that an omnivore will eat _anything_."

"Hey, look guys, someone didn't pass basic biology. A detitrivore eats crap. Not an omnivore." Dara tossed the datapad down on the bed, and gingerly rubbed at her eyes. Paint in the eyes tended to hurt.

"Stupid people come up with some of the most common insults." Kasumi handed the pad back to her. "Let's work through these, shall we?"

Dara winced, and read the next message. "Spiteful," she finally assessed, at the end. "Apparently, I'm just looking for a way to get into the . . . royal family?" She looked at Kasumi. "That's a new take on things."

Kasumi snorted. "That one will get worse over time, especially when the kids grow up. . . the more so if they become Spectres in turn. Personally, I hope Amara and Kaius and the two that are on the way take after their grandpa Roland Shepard and their uncle Allardus, and stay nice, quiet, safe xenobiologists or engineers or doctors and live in total obscurity. Would make _my_ job _much_ easier. But yes. There are folks out there who see Shep and Garrus as starting a little domain of their own, outside the law, somehow in shadowy control of _everything_. Paranoia. So, yeah. The royal family motif has been coming up more often lately. You ready for the personal ones?"

Dara sighed. _Not really._ "No, but let's get this over with."

The ones from the kids at the old school in Lufkin were bad. Most of them were offended that Dara hadn't replied to their initial messages. _Think you're so special, think you're so much better than we are now._ "No, just busy and out of touch," she told the screen, under her breath. Then the really bad ones started. It was one thing to be called a whore or a bitch or a skank or a slag by anonymous people. It was quite another to be called the same thing by people with whom she'd grown up. "Wow," she said, after five or ten of the messages, and her voice broke. "If you and my dad were out to cure me of my faith in humanity. . . and this, even after the trip to Odessa for the rings. . . you succeeded."

Kasumi put an arm around her shoulders, and Dara leaned on the little woman's shoulder for a moment. "We wanted to show you that, individually, people are smart and kind and good. Collectively, people are stupid and far more in touch with the id than with the superego." Kasumi looked at her. "You're going to hear absolutely stupid shit, and a lot of it, for a long time. Don't let it get to you. Be turian. Don't let them see that it bothers you. Get the crying out when they can't see, and when they _can_ see, bite back."

Dara grabbed a couple of tissues, cleaned her face up, and said, as calmly as she could, "That's really good advice, Kasumi." _I just hope I can follow it. _"I think the turian insults are more likely to make me laugh. The human ones. . . well. . . I won't hear a lot of those, for a while."

Kasumi nodded slowly, then added, reluctantly, "Unless you're stationed on Bastion at some point, or go there for shore leave, or . . . if you visit Earth or any human colony other than this base here on Mindoir."

She sighed. "Yeah. I kind of had that part figured out already." Dara looked at Kasumi. "Think I've seen enough?"

Kasumi nodded. "For now, yeah. Let's go get some dinner."

On the fifteenth, Dara rode up into the mountains, taking her time. Their _allora_ meadow had a few branches down, here and there, from the snows of winter, but was as beautiful as ever. Just looking up at those white-pink blooms, pale and lovely against the blue-violet sky, made her heart ache. She wanted to be with Rel, but she didn't want to leave this place, either. She took her time there, letting the horse browse. She gathered several hundred of the tiny flowers, and took them home with her, letting them dry in her room; the fragrance was _heavenly_ for a few days. Then she packed them up into an air-tight container, and put it with her travelcase, along with the few items she was taking with her to Palaven. Rel was going to have to look after the spirit table stuff and coins and the necklace he'd given her for a while, or they'd have to find a storage locker for it.

The night of the fifteenth of October, two things happened. First, her father came home at last, and Kasumi and she were deeply relieved. "If you want to know what we've been doing while we were gone, you'll have to watch the news," he told Dara, cryptically.

"It's public enough that it's on the extranet, but you still won't tell me?"

"It's much more fun this way, sweetie." He grinned at her. "You'll understand in the morning when the story breaks."

The second thing that happened, was that Rel sent her a brief message, saying he was back from the field, and that he needed food, sleep, and more food, in that order. _Six days, amatra,_ he wrote. _Can't wait to see you. And bite you. And everything else._

And Dara simply smiled, because now her world was back on its proper axis again.


	50. Chapter 50: Retaliation

**Chapter 50: Retaliation**

_**Author's note: HUGE LONG CHAPTER AHEAD. **__You have been warned._

_**First**__, I'd like to thank__ Shinimegami7__ for the awesome fanart she's got up on DeviantArt as a WIP. Check it out at duetmaoim. / art/ Rel-and-Dara-WIP-203521226._ _Just take out the spaces first. :) Bring cookies for her, because even in work-in-progress state, their faces are perfect, they have a great sense of young couple in love and intimacy, and, best of all, they're wearing real, honest-to-god clothing instead of nylon/latex/spandex/futuristic stuff. I especially like Rel's laced-up sweatshirt. Looks medieval and futuristic and comfy, all at the same time. In fact, I think Dara's going to wind up borrowing it, in-story. Soon, because he'll have outgrown it by the time he gets to wear it again. Ha!_

_**Second, **__for those who've asked, "Why are all the characters in boot camp stopping being individuals and falling in line with the turian mindset?" the answer is that boot camp is a pressure cooker used to boil off individuality. Once they get out of it, they might get to be themselves again, but they probably won't do so in their last week in the crucible._ _In the last week, it is "OORAH!" and "Semper fi!"_

_For those who've asked about male human/female turian relationships (and people have been asking about this, on and off, for a month or so now, out of curiosity, I believe) . . . you might notice that in at the very beginning of Chapter 47, there was a reference to "One __turian female__ and her hybrid kid got sick; __human father__ damned near died. That was on Omega, I hear. . . . " We're about to change the scene to Omega right now. I wonder who might be there? ;-) _

_Overall, the arrangement would take a guy with a __lot__ of self-confidence and understanding of turian culture, and/or a very accepting turian female. Perhaps one raised on a largely human world. Perhaps this is something that's been hinted at recently (say, midway through Chapter 47?), as a setup for the epilogue? No more hints now. Otherwise, you'll spoil your dinner. :-)_

_**On a completely different note:**__ Ellie's trying to get Lantar to agree to __tal'mae__ rites. He's spent about 11 months now trying to talk her into a twenty or forty-year contract, so she can still walk if she gets tired of him. Which he persists in believing that she inevitably will. Silly Lantar._

_If someone who's physically turian and goes through bootcamp and 4 years of service, wants to marry someone who __couldn't__ complete the citizenship requirements and is also physically turian, then no, only __manus__ would be permitted._

_In the case of __aliens__ it's probably only periodically come up before. Turians and asari have probably married. Garrus and Shepard got married under __tal'mae__ rites long before I developed the rest of the rules and laws *cough*, which means, yeah, you can marry aliens under the __tal'mae__. Probably on the technicality that there is nothing that says that you __can't__. See? Lawyers, every one of them. Thus, Lantar and Ellie *could* marry under __tal'mae__ rites. They're just still. . . negotiating._

_Which means that Ellie is eventually going to get her way, and Lantar will be doomed to happiness in spite of himself. :-) Let me know if you want to see their actual ceremony before the story ends, okay? _

**Sam**

September, as a whole, for Sam, was quite interesting. Frustrating, patient work. The investigative portion of his brain, put to use, instead of the mayhem he was equally adept at dealing.

He and Kasumi had been logging long hours over the comm channels, tracking down information. Chef Gardner had been very useful, in tracking down which vendors had supplied the tainted foods; they had that information very early on, in fact. The vendors weren't pleased to hear that their food had contributed to deaths and illnesses on a half-dozen worlds. That sort of thing, Sam pointed out to them, leads to _lawsuits_.

The vendors and the manufacturers were _very_ cooperative at that point. They turned over _reams_ of records. Far more so than they could wade through on their own, even with the help of several VI assistants. "Let's contact Argus," Kasumi suggested after a few days of painstaking looking for leads that they couldn't even begin to see the shape of, initially.

Argus—or _Liara_, as Sam was finally introduced to her properly as—was fairly irate over the attack. "Are we _sure_ that the Spectres were the real target of the attack?" was her first question.

Kasumi shook her head. "Anything's possible at this point. Especially since the attack actually had a very wide dispersal. Bekenstein, Bastion, Mindoir, Omega, and even a couple honeymooning on Macedyn." Kasumi looked down at her stack of datapads. "At this point, every single one of the hybrid children and their _turian_ parents are alive. The worst effect was on the human half of every pair."

Sam pushed back his chair. "Tell me about it," he muttered. He was trying pretty hard not to think about the effect the poisoning had had on Dara, and how very damned close he'd come to losing her, just a year after her mother had died. Any time he thought like that, he got angry, and anger made it hard to be analytical. "That all being said, whoever it was, wouldn't have put the toxin in the dextro food if they _only_ wanted to kill humans. There's any number of poisons out there that will nicely end a human life without all this song and dance. I think we can safely assume that our perpetrator or perpetrators _wanted_ to take out whole families with this, and just didn't have the knowledge to _do_ so." He twiddled a stylus between his fingers, looking at a brilliantly colored Fauvist painting by Matisse on the wall of Kasumi's office, absently wondering if it was real (and _really_ hoping that it wasn't). "That doesn't mean that this wasn't a test-case. I think we can expect a second attempt, pretty much at any point in time. Especially since, if the commanders of the Spectres and their family _were_ the targets, the lack of any uproar is a pretty good sign that it failed."

"You have a depressing, but accurate way of summarizing the situation," Argus told him, not smiling.

"Ma'am, this is one situation where I'd really _like_ to be wrong. I don't want my little girl getting sick like that again."

The asari looked at him. "I understand you completely, Spectre. I have a daughter myself." She paused, and her tone went steely, "So we will simply have to work to prevent it from recurring, won't we?"

"That's the plan."

Liara looked thoughtful. "It's one thing when you all go out in the field and fight. It's quite another," she said, her blue eyes dark and serious, "to assault family and children. And the pure _randomness_ of the attack. . . completely innocent people were hurt and killed as well. Typical of terrorists. I assume you've checked into this possibility?"

"No one has claimed responsibility, which is certainly the hallmark of most terror groups," Kasumi said, thoughtfully. She was pleating a piece of paper, which Sam was almost certain would become an origami crane before the end of the meeting. She liked working with her hands while she thought. It was one of her more endearing traits, in fact. "The attack also doesn't follow any known terror group's patterns. So we have someone who wants to attack, but remain completely unseen."

"That's not how terror works," Sam said, dryly. "Terror only works if people _know_ about it, and are afraid it could happen to _them._ This is quiet, low-key, and only affects maybe fifty people in the damn galaxy. So, yeah. Not terror." He thought about it for a moment. "Has all the hallmarks of _murder_, though." He snorted. "Makes me think of an old Agatha Christie novel. A bunch of random people killed for the simple fact that their names started with the letters of the alphabet, in sequence. . . all to disguise the fact that _one_ of them was actually killed for his money."

"So, you're really set on it revolving around the Spectres?"

"Maybe not so much the whole program," Sam allowed, "as just Vakarian and Shepard. My girl, and Lantar's wife and kid, if they'd been unfortunate enough to eat the same damn food, would just be _collateral damage_ in that case." He realized that he was bending the stylus now, almost to a U-shape, with just the fingers of one hand, and stopped before he snapped it.

Kasumi flipped the paper around. "I suppose we need to simplify our questions. Let's start over. Who, why, and how."

"_How_, I can help with," Argus told them. "Upload the information you've received so far. I'll correlate it against the information I've been receiving on my end, and see if we find any intriguing similarities." Her eyes narrowed. "Who and why. . . well, the Spectres—and Garrus and Shepard—have _many_ enemies."

"Yes, that doesn't really narrow it down much," Kasumi agreed. "We're talking everyone from the Eclipse Sisterhood of Illium and the Survivors of Thessia Alliance to batarian raiders to, hell, mouthy reporters."

Sam shrugged. "Yeah, but everyone on your list just now—other than the reporter, darlin', and I'm thinkin' she's prol'ly in the clear—" and here his drawl got thick enough to cut with a knife, "—is a straight-up fighter. They'd set a trap, maybe, try to lure us in, or might attack the base, if they were _really_ feeling their oats. . . but poison is the weapon of a coward. Someone who wants to stay unseen."

"I hesitate to ask this," Liara said, quietly. "But have you considered adding Aria T'loak to your list of potential suspects?" She smiled, briefly. "I received a certain amount of video footage relating to your last visit there. Spectre Sidonis is abrasive enough to make even Garrus look like a smooth-talker."

"That's why he was sent," Sam said. After a moment, he added, "She definitely did make some threats at the end there."

"She was already on the list," Kasumi said, calmly. "We're trying to avoid target fixation here."

Sam shrugged. "She definitely fits the profile of a poisoner. Doesn't like to be _seen_ to do her dirty work. Doesn't like personal risk. Likes to sit back, start the dominoes falling, and laugh when everyone falls down at her whim."

"You hate her already, Spectre? Be careful that it doesn't blind you," Liara warned.

Sam gave her a direct look. "No, I don't hate her. Garrus and Lantar do, because of her effect on their lives. Me? She _offends_ me." He looked at his own stack of datapads. "Look, I've got Lystheni data to go through today, too. So let's agree that the _how_ is going to lead us to the _who_ and the _why, _and we'll reconvene tomorrow?"

He got nods, and Liara signed off. "So, you're off to your office, then?" Kasumi asked him.

"Yeah. Lunch?"

"Love to." She flashed him a quick, teasing grin. "Besides, I have to sit you down _sometime_ to discuss wedding plans. Not to mention our _yuino._"

Sam searched his memory banks rapidly. "That's the betrothal ceremony, right?"

"I always forget that you've been through this before."

"You forget nothing. You're a woman." He grinned, and she threatened him with a datapad. "To be honest, I didn't, ah, get around to that the first time. No family on my side _there_ to exchange the gifts with." He looked up at the ceiling. "That _may_ have been a contributing factor towards being considered a crass American," he admitted, after a moment.

Kasumi smiled openly. He looked back down at her. "I'm not trying to cheat you out of the love stuff, darlin', but neither of us has parents here for the whole gift-giving thing, and there's not a hell of a lot of dried abalone on Mindoir."

"You're taking _all_ the fun out of this," she chided.

"I am not. You find me abalone on this rock, and I will happily give it to you. Same thing with the seaweed and whatever else is on the list." He grinned down at her. "Darlin', you've got to admit, we're not the traditional couple. We're not going to have a go-between couple at the wedding, right? No matchmakers. Between the two of us, we might scrape up a half a dozen relatives as witnesses, and one of them will be my _turian son-in-law._ Whom, I'm just saying, they're not going to be able to squeeze into any size of kimono commercially available, let alone the sandals, if you want the guests to dress traditionally, too."

Kasumi's shoulders started to shake, and he had to admit, the mental image was a dilly. Grinning still, he added, "And you can wear a little white hat all you want, darlin'," and here he was referring to the traditional white, hat-like veil a Japanese bride wore over her wig, called a _tsuno kakushi_; traditionally, it was there not to conceal the bride's face, but to hide her 'horns of jealousy' and to show how she was sublimating her ego and her pride and her identity by joining in union with another, "but seeing you even _try_ to act submissive the day of, is going to be worth the price of admission right there." He looked down at her fondly, and brushed her face with the backs of his fingers. "You push me and test me and do shit I disagree with every damn day. It's kind of one of the reasons I love you. But _submissive_ you ain't."

Her laughter finally spilled forth, a soft whisper of sound. "Oh, I admit it," she said, smiling up at him. "I admit to all of it. But there _are_ elements I do want to preserve."

"You tell me about them over lunch then, and don't make me guess."

"But Sam, I thought you loved a mystery," she teased.

He held up his datapad, his smile fading a bit. "Got all the mysteries I need right here, Kasumi-chan."

She nodded, her own smile draining away. "I know. Nice to forget it for a moment, though."

"Yeah. See you at lunch."

And off he went, to study Lystheni data that didn't make a damn bit of sense to him. The biotic complex had definitely been partially evacuated before their arrival—Mordin had been right about that. There were comm logs of communications with other bases. . . but they were bounced off multiple relays and almost impossible to backtrack. Some even seemed to piggyback on other signals. Sam made a note of that. Maybe they could backtrack the _original_ signals to a point of origin, even if the Lystheni ones were obscured.

Over lunch, they reconvened. She was eating sashimi and rice; he opted for meatball sub. Looking at each others' plates, they both laughed after a moment. Even living together now, they'd found many, many disparities. Kasumi liked to stay up late, and tended to work even at late hours; Sam liked to get up early and wake up by running. Everything required compromises, and the first had come when he'd turned off her terminal screen the night before, told her, "No more work tonight."

"Is there a reason for this declaration?" she'd asked, amused.

Sam had thought it over. "Do you want the romantic version or the caveman version?"

"Let's start with the romantic."

He nodded. "The bed's _lonely_ without you."

Her lips had twitched. "And the caveman version?"

"Okay." Sam nodded, bent down, scooped her up and threw her over his shoulder, and proceeded to carry her up the stairs.

"Samuel Kennard Jaworski!"

"Oh, breakin' out the _middle_ name," he told her, blandly. 'That's how I _know_ I'm in trouble, right?'

As he'd hit the top of the stairs, Dara had closed the door of her room and turned off the light. As if he couldn't hear her laughing behind her door.

"All right, before we inevitably start talking shop again," Sam said now, "What about the wedding stuff did you actually want to deal with?"

She shrugged. "About the only ones of the traditional betrothal gifts I really feel like doing are the obi and the hakama."

"Excellent! I like knowing that I get to wear the pants in this relationship, after all." He grinned.

She'd just taken a sip of her tea, and coughed rapidly for a moment. Then she pointed a finger at him and said, "You, Sam Jaworski, are bad."

"It's been said before. So, I take it you're going to need some measurements from me, or something?"

She pursed her lips. "Unless you want to wind up wearing the short-short version, that _would_ be helpful."

"God forbid. No one needs to see my hairy legs sticking out."

"Keep in mind, they're striped." Her tone was mock-vengeful. "Plus, shoe size, mister. You'll need the sandals that go with it."

"I'm sensing that I'm going to be giving you my suit measurements by the end of this conversation as well."

"Well, the kimono and the haori would probably fit better that way, too, all things considered, than if I held up my hands and told the tailor in Tokyo by FTL that 'his shoulders are about four of these long. Make it work.'"

"The haori's the . . . overjacket, right?" He'd had to dig through his memory for that term. "Makes it more formal, I think?"

"Yeah."

"Even better." He sighed. "Any hints on the obi?"

"White on white. It just needs to come from you."

"That, I think I can manage." He took her hand in his. "Nice and simple. Just keep 'em about that easy, nice and level, and I think I can hit 'em all." Sam squeezed her fingers gently. "So. . . work?"

Kasumi sighed. "Yeah. Work." And they got out their datapads again, and started comparing notes. Garrus and Lantar came over to join them at that point, setting their trays down, and listening to the two humans talk over their analyses.

After a few minutes, Sam looked at Kasumi's datapad. "Who's that?" he asked, pointing at an image.

"Him?" Kasumi sounded startled. "Notes I have here say Elaido Mendez. He's the human husband of a turian female on Omega. Both he and their kid got sick. Shep was having me look into their background checks, see if we can get them out of there and someplace safe, the way we did for Lycus Provian. Running into a blank wall. He's been working for Aria as an enforcer, and his wife. . . ." She grimaced a bit. "Well, she started off life on Omega as a turian prostitute. Seems to have settled down with Mendez, though. Hell, Sam, I didn't even know turians _had_ prostitutes until I read this."

Sam blinked a little. "Yeah, that's. . . new information. I'd have thought, with the relative gender equality. . . "

Garrus and Lantar looked amused. "Seriously," Garrus asked. "Any time someone has a commodity that some else wants, it's a seller's market."

Lantar snorted in agreement. "Some of them even use hormones to produce the physical signs of estrus, but without the complications of pregnancy."

"And now, I know a _whole_ lot more than I wanted to," Sam replied, taking Kasumi's datapad to study the picture more closely. "Seems a little odd that two folks like that would have the cash for a hybrid kid."

Both turians looked struck. "Yeah," Lantar said, after a moment. "It's not cheap."

There was a moment of thoughtful silence. "I'd swear it was Eduardo Ramos. But he's been on the run from Earth for . . . eight years now." Sam paused.

"What did he do?" Garrus asked.

"I don't remember all the details. He was a _federale¸ _though. That's Mexican national law enforcement." Sam snorted. "Since the three main countries on the continent became the North American Union, NABI has been trying to bring all the national-level law enforcement organizations under one roof. Mounties, FBI, and _federales_. It's working about as well as trying to integrate humans and turians on non-_Normandy_-class ships."

Garrus laughed now. "Yeah, we went through the same thing, historically, after the Unification War. It'll take a few decades. Maybe even a hundred years."

Sam tapped his fingers on the datapad. "I worked with him, briefly. Seemed like a good guy. Carried a machete. I personally thought he bought it at a hardware store, but legend had it he'd taken it off a drug lord after using it to decapitate the guy. I liked him."

"You would," Kasumi said.

"Yeah, but usually my people instincts are better than this. I seem to remember he left Earth in a hurry, charges of tampering with evidence and accepting bribes. Something like that." Sam looked thoughtful.

"So, a security risk, then." She was about to write a note on the file open under his fingertips.

"Give me a little time with NABI and the Rangers on him and his wife. God only knows if the charges were trumped up. Sometimes the _federales_ can be corrupt, but Eduardo was a stand-up guy when I worked with him."

It took Argus a week to track down the relevant correlations in the data she'd provided them. "Kraft," Liara said, in tones of triumph over the vid screen, "and Dyrkmad, LLT, off of Demeter, share the same transport service."

Sam nodded, slowly. "So you're saying the teamsters did it?" It wasn't _quite_ a joke. Organized crime off of Earth had made slow inroads into the galactic community in the past thirty-three years, and the Mafia and the remnants of the teamsters that they still had a loose affiliation with, were a major part of the criminal scene on many Terran colony worlds. They had, it was rumored, even tried to move onto the Citadel. Probably in affiliation with Elias Kelham, or so the rumor went.

Liara blinked. "Astute of you, Spectre."

"Aw, shit, no." Sam shook his head. "This conversation just went _way_ downhill."

"They were directed by their superiors to take their shipments through a different set of warehouses than usual. My information source within the teamsters was reluctant to tell me this, but he has been . . . re-educated on the concept of loyalty within my organization." Liara's expression seemed both sad and determined at the same time. _It probably grieved her deeply to have his damn knees broken. _Sam shuddered, but on the whole, he'd much rather have her on _his_ side than be working against him. "I'm investigating further to see if some similar deal was struck with the turian transit authorities involved with moving Agricola Capri and Temnus Fesae goods."

"So where does that leave us?" Kasumi asked, practically. "Can we follow the money trail back to the source?"

"I'm working on that, as well," Liara assured them.

"You got any names?" Sam asked her.

"Frank Bianchi and Ricky Ferilli were the gentlemen who signed for the change in warehouse venues. They are. . . remarkably hard to find, even for me." The Shadow Broker's resources and reach were vast, but even she had limits.

Sam snorted. "With names like those? They're either in Sicily or south Jersey at the moment." He opened his mail, and sent another memo to his contacts at NABI. "I'm surprised you don't have better intel on Earth, Argus."

Liara shrugged. "Your homeworld is somewhat . . . insular. . . Spectre. It's not hard to find compromisable humans on Bastion or your colony worlds, but it's been historically difficult to send non-humans to Earth for recruitment efforts. And my human agents are . . . relatively rare, at the moment. It hasn't seemed worth uprooting them from their positions to send them to Earth to gather new contacts and resources there. Perhaps I should reconsider this position."

Sam shook his head. "No, that's quite all right. I think NABI and Interpol and everyone else can stagger along jus' fine, thank you." He somehow felt that local law enforcement back home wouldn't thank him if the Shadow Broker—however well-intentioned she might be—started moving in Terran affairs.

Liara smiled serenely. "It is a conundrum, isn't it, Spectre? Information, or the lack of it, is what we deal in. But the price we pay for it, is sometimes very high indeed."

As it was, local law enforcement found Frank Bianchi in fairly short order; he'd been checked into a hotel in south Jersey under a known alias. "Jimmy 'the Spoon' Napolitano? Really?" Liara actually laughed. "Such. . . colorful names they have."

"He got it by sharpening the handle of a spoon in prison and shanking a prison informant," Sam told her, bluntly.

Liara's smile faded. "Ah. Unfortunate." She sat up. "And did our friends in the NABI get _anything_ from Mr. The Spoon?"

Kasumi grinned. "They did. A name. Tony 'the Chin' Grecco."

Liara stared at them for a moment. "And he got that name because he. . . killed a man with his chin?"

Sam smothered his amusement. "No. He just has a big ol' lantern jaw of a chin. He is, by the way, the _capo di capi_ of the current New Jersey Mob affiliates. That's the captain of the captains, if your VI doesn't like the phrase. The big boss. Now, he's lawyered up. "

"And how do you intend to get . . . 'the Chin'. . . to talk?"

Kasumi's grin was absolutely wicked. "Oh we've already done that. We sent Livanus to talk with him."

"One of the turian Spectres? Why?"

"Because turian cops are absolute death on organized crime, and everyone in the galaxy knows it. I'd have asked Lantar or Garrus, but they need the downtime, badly. . .and we kind of need Grecco alive at the end of his questioning. My compadres back at NABI wouldn't thank me if my esteemed turian colleagues started a mob war. Livanus put the boot in, but he didn't actually _kill_ anyone." Sam grinned. "And Grecco did talk, after a little persuasion. He'd been asked to provide a favor as a courtesy to a. . . sister organization. An alien one, sure, but it was something of an exchange of favors. If he arranged this, he got a piece of the azure dust trade on Earth."

Liara looked impatient. "And the sister organization?"

Kasumi's smile was very tight as she answered, "A little asari-owned venture based off of Omega."

Liara's answering smile was cold and a little frightening. "Good. Evidence at last."

That afternoon, they settled into the meeting room with Garrus, Lantar, Gris, Cohort, Mordin, and Sky, and presented their findings. "Kind of always figured it was Aria," Gris growled.

"Yeah, but we needed proof," Garrus said. "I'd like more corroboration, but this is enough to take up the chain."

"Why is it necessary to move this information to a higher organizational level, Vakarian-Commander?" Cohort asked. "We understood that Spectres had operational authority to respond to dangers posed to themselves."

Garrus nodded. "Yes, that's true. However, for what I have in mind as chastisement, we'll need at least Alliance and Hierarchy support. Maybe even the full weight of the Council."

"What do you have in mind?" Sam asked, feeling slightly wary.

"When I sent Lantar in to speak in my place, I told him certain things to say. Certain threats to make." Lantar shifted beside Garrus, and Garrus lifted a finger at him. "Now is _not_ the time to go throw yourself on your sword, Nemesis. If she thought we didn't have to teeth to _do_ what we'd threatened, it's not your fault. It's mine and Shepard's for not having been _firm_ enough with her before."

"Still not crazy about the thought that words I spoke have contributed to deaths," Lantar muttered, looking down at the table.

"You were speaking _my_ words. Knock off the guilt."

"Yes, squad leader," Lantar replied with a hint of a smile.

Garrus looked around the rest of the table. "Work through this with me. What happens if we _do_ take the Omega relay and move it? Or, better yet, destroy it?"

They all looked at him in shock. Sam's mouth opened, and closed, and then opened again. "How would you go about destroying a mass relay?"

Garrus touched a button, and a galaxy map appeared, zooming in to the Omega Nebula. "I'm reluctant to do this with the Omega system's own primary star. I'm not actually sure what dropping a mass relay into a sun would actually _do_, so I'd thought about towing the relay from Sahrabarik to Anilarkan, setting it on a collision course with the system's primary, and ducking through the relay and hauling ass across the galaxy from inside the star's corona, actually. That would get us out of the way fast enough that any explosions or radiation from the massive amounts of element zero in the relay wouldn't affect us."

There was a moment of absolute, stunned silence. "Risky," Mordin assessed.

Lantar nodded, and said, slowly. "A little dramatic, but shows _clearly_ what happens when someone doesn't take us seriously. And then all the subsequent things that I predicted for Aria would happen. Rioting. Uprising. Upheaval. And a crowd baying for her blood. . . not to mention _our_ blood, but she'll be the one right there for them to focus on. And there's no way her bodyguards can protect her against a million screaming people." He frowned. "On the other hand, a lot of those people are going to get hurt. They'll be, effectively, trapped."

Garrus nodded. "That's why I wanted to hear what everyone had to say today, and to discuss options. What are the likely consequences of doing something like this?"

Cohort replied, "If the relay is only moved, and not destroyed, disruptions to shipping and travel will be significant, depending on how far the relay is moved. Economic disruption possible. Chance of war with local batarian populations, such as those colonizing Kairavamori's first planet, Sehtor, somewhat likely. Chances of conflict with pirates operating off of Kairavamori's second planet, Vatar, also likely."

Mordin chimed in, "Medical supply shipments to many worlds disrupted. Uwan Oche is a primary producer of medigel."

Garrus shook his head. "Uwan Oche only really supplies batarians and a handful of planets that do business with the batarians. I don't see it being a major issue for Council space. But continue, folks."

Sam chimed in, "Not that I have a degree in physics or anything, but as much refined element zero as goes into a mass relay. . . isn't there a chance, of Arinlarkin going nova because of it?"

Mordin shook his head. "Not probable. Very likely to be an intense coronal mass ejection, maybe large solar flares. Could, theoretically, be large enough to burn off atmosphere from a close-orbiting planet. Element zero distributed in a wide radius. Danger to organic life certainly a risk, either way."

Garrus nodded soberly. "That's why I suggested Arinlarkin. Only one planet, which is, sure, a garden planet, but gets so much radiation already, that it's uninhabitable, even by krogan and vorcha standards."

Sam thought about it. "If Aria calls for reinforcements _while_ we're towing this thing, are ships going to be able to pop out of it and attack us?"

Mordin and Cohort both shook their heads at the same time. "Unlikely," Cohort explained. "Mass relays are fixed points in space; while they admittedly drift, over millennia, along with the star systems in which they are based, it is a slow process, relatively speaking. If they are in swift motion, it seems as if the relay sending a ship in their direction would either malfunction, or send the ship to a set of false coordinates."

"They definitely malfunction," Garrus said, and that got everyone's attention. "The first of the _new_ dark energy relays were set up between Earth, Palaven, and Sur'Kesh. Earth's original relay is still in place. The Palaven one was towed to an empty region of space some time ago, more or less for storage until we can all figure out where they'll wind up going. When a ship near Sur'Kesh tried to trigger their own relay for transit to the old Palaven relay, absolutely nothing happened. They went through the Sur'Kesh relay. . . and then just continued at their regular cruising speed." Garrus tapped his claws on the desk. "We want to get people using the new relays. Sooner or later, all the old ones are going to be settled in either out of the way systems, maybe sold to the batarians, if they want them, or destroyed anyway. One gate being decommissioned early, isn't really the problem, I think."

"Good to know," Sam said, nodding.

Mordin raised a finger. "However, towing to Arinlarkin probably unnecessary. More dramatic, certainly. Easier solution: tow relay to Imorkan, methane-ammonia gas giant in Sahrabarik system. Crushing pressure, heat in planetary depths. Unlikely to disperse element zero in wide radius. Any that remains can be skimmed from upper atmosphere in years to come. Less costly in terms of fuel, less danger to ships doing towing, less danger to people, overall." He blinked. "More conservative, less dramatic."

Garrus chuckled. "I do have a flair for the dramatic, sometimes."

"Dramatic not necessarily wrong choice," Mordin counseled. "Dramatic gets people's attention. Psychological value. Important factor. Dropping into a star? Very noticeable, very final. Dropping into a planet. . . less so. Seems more like cold storage to most people, probably."

Sam rubbed his face. "Okay, let's back up a few steps here. Say we do this. We're going to have several million people panicking and rioting on Omega, because the only thing that keeps most of them living and, arguably, sane, is the fact that one day, they hope to get _off_ of Omega. Even if and when they rise up against Aria, they'll still be trapped there." He frowned. "Hell, let's back up a step further. As soon as we drop into the system and start messing with the gate, every merc band with a warship is going to scramble and come after us."

Garrus nodded, soberly. "Yeah. You're not saying anything I haven't thought of, Sam. I just don't have solutions yet."

"Start with a blockade," Lantar suggested, dryly. "We drop an infiltration team that sabotages all the ports of the station but one or two, creating a bottleneck. Refugees, we allow off. Mercs and Aria's people, we _don't_ let off." He snorted. "Though how we'll be able to tell one from the other, I don't know."

"I might be able to help with that," Sam volunteered. "Got word back from NABI about my old friend Eduardo and his turian wife."

Heads turned around the table. Sam shook his head. "Apparently, all those charges against him eight years ago? Completely fabricated. He and a turian female were deep-cover agents. She's turian military intelligence, he's NABI, and they both went in, working with salarian STG. He's been slowly working his way deeper into Aria's organization. The whole husband and wife thing seems to be genuine, though." _It had better be, with a kid involved_, he thought. "That being said, if Ramos is half the guy I remember, he'll be able to identify almost every one of Aria's thugs for us. I just need to get in _touch_ with him, and get his family out, first."

"Best damn piece of news all day," Garrus growled. "And a hell of a lucky break."

Sam nodded, fervently. "Someone up there likes us."

Lantar leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table. "There are a few other problems, however, that we still need to address. We'll need lots of ships to transport the civilians, though. And a place to _put_ them all. Most planets aren't going to welcome refugees, especially the dregs of Omega, with open arms."

Grim nods from around the room. "There's a reason why the Council has never much bothered itself about Omega," Garrus agreed. "It's a large problem. And that's why I need a firm, well-thought out plan before I even _go_ to Odacaen and Anderson, let alone the rest of the Council."

Sky hadn't contributed much so far, but now he asked, _Is destruction-song needed for this place? A change in queen sometimes makes the hive more harmonious._

Garrus looked at the rachni. "You mean, leave the station as is, and just replace the person at the top?"

Sky rustled his agreement.

Sam grimaced. "It's not a horrible idea. There are two problems with that, though, Sky, my friend. First, who do we put in charge? Who do trust _that_ much, who's strong enough to be top dog there? And second, without massive changes to the infrastructure there. . . conditions are just going to stay the same. It's like replacing a dictator with another dictator. Life for the people under them stays just as miserable, but they're happier, because they have hope again. . . for a little while." He looked down at his hands, then added, "No. If we do this, let's do it right, and wipe the damn slate clean."

"Do I have enough to take to Anderson and Odacaen?" Garrus asked. "I'm sure they'll refine on this and see other ramifications that we didn't, ourselves."

Nods went around the table.

Sam wasn't there for Garrus' FTL conversation with the human and turian representatives to the Council, but he knew it took two hours of talking, largely because no one could get into Garrus' office. "They're putting it to a closed-door Council vote this afternoon," Garrus reported over lunch. "If it comes back a _yea_ vote, we're going to have to hit the ground running." He looked over at Sam. "How are you going to contact your _federale_ friend?"

"Figured I'd walk up to him and say howdy. Long time, no see. You know. How most guys say hello when they haven't spoken in eight years."

That got him looks from around the table. "Seriously? I'm going to have to go by public transit, and once I get there, Spectre Sam and his mild-mannered alter ego, Jaworski the Texas Ranger, are both going to go into hiding. Both stick out too goddamn much on Omega." Sam scratched at his chin; he hadn't shaved this morning, deliberately. "A couple more days of scruff here, and even all the people who saw the vid feed from Shanxi who keep damned well recognizing me here and there, aren't going to be able to do so anymore. Especially since, when I get there, I'll change clothes and look and _smell_ like a homeless bum. No one looks at bums. Other than to move away from 'em, anyway. I find Eduardo, make contact, try and keep him from gutting me out of reflex, and we move from there." He paused. "I'll have to bounce my flights around a few times. False names."

"I can handle that," Kasumi said. "No problem at all. Go pick out your costume, Sam."

He grinned. "Already mostly have. It's going to be a pleasure hiding in plain sight again. Sort of an urban ghillie net. I need to get it good and sweated in, though, so if you'll excuse me? A couple of hours at the gym await me."

He prepped the clothing carefully, tearing off buttons, wearing through it in places with a file, and did, indeed, work out in all of its layers. Then he left some of it under a running groundcar, so that the chemical emissions would permeate the fabric. By the time he was done, and took it by Lantar for a quick sniff-check, the turian's face distorted a little at the residual odors on the cloth. "Yeah, that's. . . almost authentic human street bum there. It's still missing the smell of cheap liquor, though. And there's a hint too much soap and deodorant about _you._ Remember not to shower for a couple of days yourself, though, Jaworski."

"Yeah, going to hold off on that till I leave. Don't want Kasumi and Dara gagging when I hug 'em good-bye."

Lantar looked at him. "I have to admit, the beard growing in _does_ make your face look different. Almost like you're wearing the wrong clan-paint."

Sam just grinned back at him.

Then they received word, at last. The Council had agreed that Omega was now too much of a liability to be permitted to continue as it had gone on. The Hierarchy was going to send warships, in addition to _Normandy_-class ships, to enforce the blockade; the Alliance was sending troop transports and hospital ships, to remove refugees.

"Are we still planning to blow most of the docking bay doors?" Sam asked, during his final mission brief.

Garrus nodded. "Yeah. You're going to be doing that, as well as handling contact with Eduardo."

Sam stopped and looked at him. "I am? And how am I going to do that? With my fingernails?"

That earned him a needle-pointed smile. "You're going to have help." Garrus tabbed the comm. "Send my nephew in, please."

Sam turned, blinking. _Rellus isn't even done with bootcamp, what the __**hell**__. . . ? _The male who entered the room wasn't Rel, however. Almost as tall, but not as thin as the boy had been, when he saw him last. And he wore the working uniform and insignia of a turian NCO, in addition to his yellow clan-paint. After a moment, Sam came up with the name. "Rinus? Rel's older brother?"

"Nice to see you again, _padu'fradu._" Rinus looked over at Garrus. "Believe it or not, with the _Estallus _re-supplying at Bastion, I was actually supposed to be on leave right now." He looked back at Jaworski, and grinned. "But I got volunteered for hazardous duty, instead. Apparently, I get to blow stuff up, which is refreshing, actually. Seventy-five percent of my job is usually _keeping_ stuff from blowing up."

"Sounds like _my_ job description," Garrus said, grinning. "Slightly larger scale, though."

Sam looked between them. "I hope he's not going there in uniform."

Garrus shook his head. "No. He's been detached for a special assignment. Kasumi's put together a _very_ nice cover for him as a former go-between for a couple of arms-dealers who's trying to strike out on his own. About the right age for it, too. Small timer. Nothing big or important, just someone trying to hustle a deal on Omega. Just one more face in the crowd."

Rinus grimaced. "Let's hope flair for the dramatic is genetic."

"You'll be fine. Just stick absolutely to the parameters we gave you, and there's very little you can do wrong."

"I can do that."

Sam worried, more than a little, that the young man's inexperience would betray them. "Okay, so what have we got for explosives?"

Rinus nodded soberly. "That's the fun part. I'll be bringing about ninety Mark M _Malleolus_—you'd say _Sledghammer_—shoulder-mounted rockets for sale. They're Haliat-produced, and rare outside of turian space. They're medium-range, with a kinetic force dispersal roughly equivalent to a Mark S Harpoon torpedo—one of the predecessors to the Javelin system currently in use on the _Normandy_. Nice system, really. Best thing about them is, I can disassemble them in my sleep. While you're out doing what you need to do, I'll be sitting in the docking bay, removing the propulsion systems. Whichever docking bay I'm in, I'd take it as a courtesy if you didn't blow the hatch on." He'd gone from lightly humorous to serious and professional in a flash, and Sam quickly re-evaluated the young male. He _knew_ what he was talking about. The play-acting would be _real_ so long as he got to talk about weapons and ordnance. Rinus looked at him now. "Once I get past the initial questions at the gate and secure a landing facility, I won't have to talk to anyone. If anyone asks, I'm waiting for my buyer to show up."

"And if someone wants to make you a better offer while you're waiting?"

"I'll say I really don't want to piss off my buyer, but that I'm willing to sell half of my stock now, if they can make me a better offer. The cost to Palaven tax-payers on each _one_ of these is about five thousand credits. If they offer double that, I sell." Rinus shrugged. "I'm just a baby _dachae_ here. _I_ don't know that they actually go for up to three times that on the black market."

Garrus grinned at him. "You're going to do just _fine_ in the family business."

Rinus grimaced. "At least it keeps me off the _Estallus_ for a while." He looked around. "Let me go get into those civvies you said you had for me."

Sam gave Garrus a look as Rinus left the room. "You're putting him in a lot of danger."

Garrus shook his head. "He'll be fine, Sam. Besides, you'll be there to watch his back. If push comes to shove, see if you can get your contact to pose as his prospective buyer."

"Good notion."

And then they were off. The _Normandy _took Sam to Bastion, where he boarded a commercial flight under a false name, heading for Illium. From Illium, he bounced, under a different name, to a planet in the Krogan DMZ. There, in the squalor of a very bad hotel, he changed into his street bum persona, and found a cheap, crowded, smelly shuttle that would take him to Omega, under yet another name. His beard still looked scraggly, and he had a flask of 100 proof, really vile whiskey in his pocket, a stained hat on his head, crushing down his hair, and he hefted a battered sack over his shoulder, gripping it with fingerless gloves. He even wore a shapeless old overcoat in pea green. . . which served to hide the fact that he still carried a pistol and his bowie knife, both well-concealed.

Omega didn't really have customs, per se. He didn't have to declare anything, except his name and his reason for being here. "Tom Harrison. I hear this is the land of oppor. . . oppor. . . opportunity." He exhaled cheap whiskey fumes at the batarian taking his information, and all four eyes blinked in distaste.

"Right. Move along."

Curled in on himself to simulate hopelessness, and shambling along like a drunk, Sam knew he presented a very different picture than his usual self. Body language was an important way that humans identified each other at a distance. He ducked his head and shied away when various other bums crawled out of the corners as he passed by, shouting, "Go away! This is _my patch._ Get on, move it!" Jealous of even their tiny little corner of space. Territorial, protective, ready to fight, even for an eggshell.

It didn't take him long to find his way into the residential district, where apartment residents looked at him warily, and ducked back inside. A couple yelled at him to get lost, that this was a _nice_ area. Finally, Sam found the place he was looking for, and curled up outside the door, waiting.

He'd timed it about right. Eduardo walked up soon, obviously having just gotten off work, and, seeing a strange man—a bum, at best—curled up outside his front door, immediately went wary, face darkening. "Hey, what you doing here?" Eduardo demanded, walking up. His hand had already dropped to his belt, and Jaworski could see that yes, indeed, Eduardo still carried the machete.

"Hey, _como estas, amigo_," Jaworski said, spreading his fingers out. And shifted languages into Spanish, which he knew very damned well, after working in the Rangers for ten years. _"I'm not here to make trouble, Eduardo."_

"_Do I know you?"_

"_Was a long time ago, man. Name's Sam. We worked the Azteca case, down in Corpus. Glad to see you still carry the machete, though I still think you bought it at a hardware store."_

The Azteca case had been not very much fun at all. The drug-lords had taken to cutting the hearts out of people who displeased them, staging mock-sacrifices for maximum fear effect. Tracking them all down had taken the better part of a year. The first one had been tracked down in Guadalejara before the case had hopped the border north, and had, supposedly, been the source of Eduardo's machete.

"_I did. The real one had to go into evidence."_ Quick, hard grin. _"Good for the legend, though."_

Louder, now, and back in galactic, Sam added, "I jus' need enough creds for a meal, man." He held up one hand, cupped, as if asking for money. He wasn't carrying his Spectre insignia or even a badge. He hadn't wanted to take that chance.

Eduardo glanced around. "Look, pal," he said in galactic. "I don't have any money. But I can spot you a hot meal, okay? Least I can do for someone who actually speaks a civilized language."

Sam slowly got to his feet, and Eduardo opened the front door of his home. "Just one meal, _amigo_, you got that? I'm not running a half-way house for drunks and bums here."

"Don't have to play to the cheap seats, Eduardo," Sam muttered, in English.

"You'd be surprised. _Everything_ here is fucking monitored, man."

They stepped inside, and Sam blinked, coming face-to-shotgun with a turian female inside. He didn't recognize the orange vertical bars across her face from any other face-paint he'd seen before, but didn't really have a chance to examine it closely. There was, after all, a shotgun barrel pointed at his _face_. "It's all right, Charis," Eduardo told her, closing the door.

"He's been out there for hours." Her voice was _very_ tense.

"Sorry about that, ma'am." Sam pulled himself up to his full height, letting his body language change back to its normal relaxed confidence. "Can we talk in here, Eduardo?"

"Yeah, but make it quick." Eduardo looked at him. "Sam _Jaworski_?" He grinned. "You still got that big fuckin' knife?"

Sam pulled his coat back from his side, letting Ramos see the bowie knife strapped there. "Look who's talking."

Again, a quick, hard flash of a grin. "All right. You're a little out of your jurisdiction for a Ranger, mano. You're going to ruin eight damn years of work if you stick around."

"I'm a Spectre now, Ramos." That got both of their attentions, in a hurry. "You and your wife and your kid were recently sick, right? 'Food poisoning'?"

Ramos nodded, dark eyes intent. "It's just a good thing we're close to the free clinic, is all I'm saying," he agreed.

"Aria set that up. Not to catch you. You and the others who were sick or who died were collateral damage. She was going after Shepard and that whole family. We're here to do something about that." Sam's voice was grim, and his voice was clipped. Almost no drawl at all. "We need to get your family off the damn station. And we need _your_ help to do what we're going to do."

"_S'kak._" Charis, the wife, set her shotgun down on the table, and found a chair. "What _are_ you going to do?"

"Shut Omega down. I can't say more than that." Sam looked around. "Where's your kid?"

"Estevan's napping in the next room."

Sam nodded. "Book transport for yourself and the kid to Palaven, ma'am. Don't do it immediately. Give it a day or two. Talk up some marital strife, whatever people will buy. We'll have people there to redirect you when you get there. "

"_Talas'kak._ I can help here."

Sam looked at Eduardo. Being the product of a fairly machismo-oriented culture, he was actually fairly surprised that lightning had struck between the human and the turian female, but he figured that after eight years of undercover work, with only each other to rely on, anything was really possible. "No," Eduardo told his wife, firmly. "One of us _has_ to go with Estevan. I'm staying here. That means, you go."

Sam nodded, and looked at Eduardo as his wife left the room, muttering something about packing. "I'm going to need you to find a pretext to go look at an arms shipment over in Docking Area C23," he said, _very_ quietly. He didn't want the wife to know _anything_, just in case she didn't _make_ it to the Palaven flight. "You'll be looking to buy shoulder-mounted rockets from a small-time dealer named Selenus Harrian. When everything goes down, we'll need you to come to the same docking bay his ship is in, and help us id Aria's people."

"Could you be a little more vague? Shit, man." Eduardo frowned, and grabbed a can of beans out of cabinet in the kitchen. "Plus, you know, I don't _know_ all of Aria's people. There's layers man, like an onion. Eight years, and I've gotten three, maybe four layers in. You basically have to have a lifespan like an asari to get even close."

"We know. It's enough to get most of them. One more thing. Does Aria have any small docking bays that she uses for herself?"

Eduardo shrugged. "I don't know. There are some restricted, areas, though, which lead down deep into the asteroid that this shithole is built on. If she's got an escape route, it would be down through the bottom of the damn station, I think."

"Good enough." Sam's omnitool was hidden under layers of ragged, stinking sleeves, and he keyed in the information he'd been given. Once he left, he'd send it all in an encrypted burst. "So, what's my lunch?"

Eduardo handed him the can of beans, and a hand can-opener. "Now get out," he said, and Sam shrank down into himself again, letting the shorter man shove him out the door. "If you're so damn hungry, eat that," the man told him, loud enough to be heard from the middle of the street."

"_Gracias_," Sam said, and shambled off.

It took time. Sam found his way to the docking bays, and started looking for likely corners to 'sleep off his whiskey,' while, in reality, checking for good locations to plant bombs. He'd swing by Docking Area C and find a ship to 'doze' under. Every time he did, he altered his look a little. Hat on, hat off, coat on, coat off. He'd picked up half a dozen cameras with his omnitool, and it took a little creativity to be able to get the bombs Rinus was producing without being seen by the security cameras or by any of the passers-by. At least once, he heard Rinus getting hassled by another turian arms-dealer and his gang of enforcers. Sam crouched down behind a crate, listening and watching carefully. His VI kept up a quiet translation for him, just in his earpiece.

"Look, I have an arrangement already. I'm just waiting for the buyer," Rinus told the other turian patiently. "But, you know what? He's late, and the docking fees here are eating a hole in my credit account."

"Now you're being _reasonable_," the other turian said. "Let's have a look at them."

Rinus pried open a crate, and removed one of the shoulder-mounted rockets. He went through a little product demo, but didn't allow the other turian to pick it up. "I can sell you half my stock," Rinus offered. "Let's talk price."

Sam wanted to grin as the young male managed to talk the price up to 13,250 credits a piece for the units. "Where do you want them delivered to?"

"I kind of figured we'd just take them now. Straight out of your hold."

Rinus shook his head. "Nope. I open that cargo door, and you'll take all of 'em. I deliver them to your ship. I get your credits, you get my weapons, everyone's happy."

"And what happens if we just decide to take the cargo door code off your corpse?" That was one of the krogan mercenaries surrounding the turian arms-dealer. There _were_ four of them, though only the leader seemed to be carrying a weapon.

Rinus lifted the rocket-launcher to his shoulder, one of his fingers touching a button at the side. The whole unit hummed suddenly, and the various turians in front of him all took a step back, suddenly apprehensive. "Oh, so you were looking for a _full_ product demonstration? I can arrange that."

Sam winced. That thing would make a _hell_ of a mess in here, and would probably damage a couple of ships and a bulkhead or two. Not to mention, every unshielded and unarmored person within about twenty feet of its detonation point. He measured the distance in his mind between him and the closest mercenary.

The arms-dealer spread his fingers. "I apologize for the help. Hard to find a house-broken krogan, you know? I think we can do business together, Selenus. Deliver 'em to Docking Bay E17 by tomorrow. And you'll get your credits."

They left, and Sam saw Rinus look up at the ceiling briefly. _Yeah. If you keep __that__ appointment, you'll be dead. Fortunately, this docking bay has cameras and is heavily trafficked. Not that that means __much__ on Omega, but at least it plays into the psychology of most species. Most people don't __like_ _being seen doing their dirty work._

The rest was slow, patient work. Bays C and T were used for passenger and small cargo ships, and would remain untouched. The various mercenary companies used A, B, and D-H. A variety of shipping concerns used I-M. Batarians used N-S.

So, grab a bomb, hide it in his sack, slung over his shoulder. Move to a new position, invisible in his squalor and his smell. Pretend to drink from the flask, letting a little dribble down his chin. Doze there for a while. Probably get kicked in the ribs by someone who didn't think he should be there. Move away, find a new location. Wait for traffic to die down. Find the cameras. Find a place away from the cameras that looked structurally weak, but that also wouldn't necessarily cause damage to people. Just the construction. It wasn't going to be pretty any way they did this, but the point was to reduce the civilian casualties as much as possible. Plant the bomb and set up its radio transponder. Leave. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

It would have gone faster, if Rinus had been able to help, but the young male didn't have the training for _inconspicuous_ that Sam did, and even so, Sam felt as if he were always one step from being caught. One thing, and one thing only, was on their side: Omega was land of the lawless. While there were cameras in plenty, and suspicion in plenty, the only central authority was Aria. There was no one central repository for the camera feeds, to their knowledge. No one central authority was watching all the bays. Still, he was cautious. Constantly changing the layers of clothes around. A few times, he _did_ flick on his stealth generator, out of range of the cameras, just to be able to move faster. He _had_ to move faster. Rinus was _not_ going to be keeping that appointment tomorrow in Docking Bay E17, and he'd rather it was because the entire station was in uproar, all things considered.

At last, everything was ready, and he stealthed aboard Rinus' little ship and, just before he was about to announce himself, he saw the young male inhale, stiffen, and whirl, leg coming up. . . and Sam just about got a spur in the guts for his troubles. "Shit, boy. Settle down," he told Rinus, deflecting the blow and stepping out of the way.

"Sorry. Little jumpy after the arms-dealer this morning. I didn't actually hear you come up behind me." Rinus grimaced. "_Smelled_ you, though."

"You and your brother both have the same goddamn reflex speed."

Rinus grinned. "Thanks."

Sam looked around at the parts, neatly stacked, at the end of the workbench, the tools in perfect order. "Okay. You can stop disassembling and reassembling now. Assuming everything goes off without a hitch, we've planted as many of them as we can plant." He started stripped off the layers of clothing he'd worn for week now. The undershirt felt like it might possibly be glued to him with his own sweat.

"You can _burn _those, if you like," Rinus offered. "The ship has an incinerator."

"Gladly. You got a shower in here, too?"

"Yes. _Please_ feel free to use it."

Sam snickered. "I know I'm ripe. You know it's bad when you can't stomach your own smell." He grinned at the young male. "Must be hell having a nose that good."

"In some cases, definitely. At the moment, I can _taste _it as well as smell it. Incinerator's that way. Shower and the head are the other way. Your armor and weapons are all in one of the lockers."

Having showed and shaved and feeling _much_ more like a human being again, as opposed to something that had spontaneously generated out of used chewing gum and gutter trash, Sam came back to the work area, armed and armored. "Okay. Let's call our friend and see if he's ready to start the show now."

Eduardo answered Rinus' call. "Yes, I can come and have a look at your wares. A few of the people in my organization have been looking for just this sort of thing to deal with a few minor concerns._ Todo es verde. _See you in an hour?"

Sam nodded at Rinus, off-camera_. Todo es verde_ meant 'everything's green.' It was the pre-arranged signal to indicate that he had not been, as far as he could tell, compromised by Aria's people.

Rinus closed the comm channel. The young male had been living in his armor the past week, and now reached for his helmet. "I suppose there's always a chance he's been made and flipped. Getting his wife and kid off the station probably stood out."

"I know. Couldn't have him risking his family, though." Sam's face felt tight. "So, since we've got an hour to kill. . . how about you explain why you're so eager to be off the _Estallus_? Would have thought that was a prime assignment for a young centurion."

"It was. I was damned proud to get it." Rinus shrugged, and half-laughed. "This is all going to sound crazy."

"I'm a Spectre. I have crazy for breakfast with a side of toast."

Rinus shook his head. "All right. First, the AI tells me that she wants to use my _brain_ as a partial template to make new baby AIs for new _Normandy_-class ships."

Sam guffawed, then paused. "No, okay, wait. You're serious."

"As my heart beats and I take breath, yes."

"What else?'

"She also wants to put a chip in my head."

Sam shook his head. "It's saved our bacon more than once that Joker has that chip in place, but you couldn't _pay_ me to do that."

"No kidding." Rinus' voice was tart. "Once she upgraded my security clearance to tell me all this, she drops a nice project in my lap. The biotic weapons system the Lystheni were using. Which, to be fair, I enjoyed. Nice challenge."

"You're the one who figured it out? That was _nice_ work, son."

Rinus rolled his helmet around in his hands. "Thanks." His smile was brief. "That got me on my captain's 'to be watched' list, though. Which is better than being on the _s'kak-_list, but only by this much." He held up two fingers, very slightly apart, and Sam laughed, outright. Military was military was military, no matter where you were or what species you happened to be.

"To top it all off, I've been spending time with a female on my ship—whom I actually kind of like—and I have the feeling that the damned AI is trying to play matchmaker. If something's going to happen there, I'd kind of like it to happen on its _own_."

"Little invasive?"

"If by that, feeling like someone's got a camera shoved up your cloaca to see what color your _s'kak_ is, then yes. Being here, even with arms-dealers trying to con me or kill me? Breath of fresh damn air."

Sam laughed out loud. Rinus flicked his fingers at him, with emphasis. After a moment, Sam settled down. "Okay, I can see why you'd prefer to be out of that situation. It _is_ kind of an honor though, to be considered for the whole AI templating thing, though."

"And I'd probably do it, if it weren't for everything else that keeps getting piled on with it." Rinus shrugged. "Eventually, I'll be ordered to comply, that'll be that. Then I'll rotate off the _Estallus_, work through the next three years, and probably not re-enlist." Rinus sounded grim. "I'd wanted to get a full twenty years in, so I'd be _retiring_ instead of not re-enlisting, but . . . I didn't ask for any of this. I've always kept my head down, done my job, and done the best I can do at it. I'm not _out_ here to be a hero or a Spectre or anything else."

"Sometimes, you pick the job, and sometimes the job picks you," Sam told him, leaning back in the chair. It was like talking to a slightly older version of Rellus, one with some fairly heavy service behind him, and without the borderline discomfort of knowing that he was his daughter's love interest. It was giving him a chance to gain a new perspective on his son-in-law, in a way. "Don't toss your career because of this, son."

"Might not have much of a choice."

"There's always a choice. Let me ask you this. You like the AI?"

Rinus shrugged. "Mostly. Other than the aggressive interest in my _brain_."

"Could be worse. Could be an aggressive interest in your body."

"See, that I wouldn't actually mind."

Sam snorted. "You want some advice from someone who's been in various services for a while?"

"Sure. Can't be worse than anything else I've heard."

"First, think of this as an opportunity, not an obstacle."

"So help me, if you bring out the human expression about lemons and lemonade . . . "

"Heard that one before, eh? Doesn't make it any less true." Sam chuckled. "Or think of it this way: Decide where you want to be in ten, twenty years. Figure out if any of this shit will help you, or if it will hinder you. If it helps or at least doesn't actively hurt you, can't be too bad to give it a try."

Rinus grimaced. "I'd kind of like to get there on my own."

"'Course you would. Trouble is, no one ever _does_ get all the way there on their own. You make friends, you each help each other out. Sounds like the AI is trying to do that. She's just incredibly _bad_ at it. Then again, she's what? Five years old? Give her a break."

That got a snort of laughter. "All right. It's something think about, anyway." Rinus pulled on his helmet, and after a moment, Jaworski did the same.

Eduardo Ramos made it aboard with fifteen minutes to spare. "All right," he said. "I got word from my wife. She made it to Palaven yesterday, and your people picked her up. She gave the right signs, too, so it's all good." He looked around. "You ready?"

Sam tabbed a button on his omnitool. "Chicken in the breadpan, pickin' out dough," he said into his radio, grinning. He'd pulled the line at random from a list of ancient song lyrics. He had no idea what it came from, but liked it because _no one_ on Omega would to be likely to have any idea what it meant, and the chances of the words being replicated were slim, at best.

Rinus fired up the little ship's engines. "We've got docking clearance to leave."

And then they lifted off, back out into the void of space.

And then, all around them, in response to the signal, ships began appearing, curving in from where they'd been hiding, behind asteroids, in the shadow of planets. White, curving shapes, like the bodies of great white sharks. _Kharkov. Normandy. Zeeland. Narvik. Lille. Calais. Bastogne. St. Vith. Metz. Arnhem. Crimea. Moscow. Kiev. Leyte. Wake. Iwo Jima. Okinawa. Midway. _Eighteen of the twenty-five human-flagged _Normandy-_class ships were here. Then the turian ships arrived. _Estallus_. _Armidus. Teredius. Malinus. Khorae. Cusorae. Pellinae. Dellanus. Beregarus. Patenia. Salgorus. Urius. Nellashi. Terrentia. _Fourteen of the twenty-five _Normandy_-class ships in the Hierarchy. But neither side was done yet.

The _Mercy_ arrived, an Alliance-flagged hospital ship. Three full-sized troop transports, usually reserved for moving 10,000 Marines at a time, arrived. And then the turian warships arrived. These were carrier ships, usually used with a frigate screen; with the _Normandy_-class ships there to act as a buffer, the carriers could sit back at a distance from Omega, and launch fighters as needed to help enforce the blockade.

As Rinus urged their ship—which was now broadcasting a 'friendly' identification code to the other ships in the area—towards the _Normandy_, Sam watched at the _Kharkov _banked and swooped to the bottom of the station, setting up to watch for any escapes from any hidden bays below.

"Omega is broadcasting a challenge," Rinus said. "I'll put it on the screen."

Aria's face appeared, looking cold and defiant. "What is the meaning of this intrusion? Or rather, should I say, _invasion_? This is not Council space. You have no authority here. The Terminus systems will regard this as an act of war, and will unify to protect Omega. I suggest that you leave at once."

Garrus sent them a signal from the _Normandy_. One word. _Now._

"You want to do the honors, Rinus?" Sam offered. "I know you've been looking forward to blowing something up."

"Yes, I would. Thank you." The young turian grinned, and swiped a finger along the aerogel screen. "Five. . . four. . . three. . . two. . . one."

Fire bloomed along all of Omega's sides. Sam leaned forward, counting quietly. "Eighteen. . . nineteen. . . twenty. Yeah. That leaves bays C and T open." He was surprised. He'd genuinely thought that _some_ of the bombs would be detected and removed, an alert would be triggered, people would be searching for more such devices. . . but no. They'd effectively sealed Omega off from incoming and outgoing traffic, other than through the small passenger and small cargo bays.

On the screen, Aria's head had snapped to the side. "You dare attack _me_?" she said.

Garrus came onto the screen now, transmitting the Council and Spectre response. Sam suddenly grinned. "He's in his Archangel armor."

Rinus shook his head. "I've never seen that set before. _S'kak._ That's a _lot_ of damage."

Garrus began. "You attacked us, first. We are simply responding, and in such a manner that no one can possibly misunderstand our intentions." He paused, and, calmly, levelly said, "Aria T'loak, you are charged with the attempted murder of some fifty people. You are charged with the murder of Fiona Provian and the murder of Alyssa Innarae. You are charged with conspiracy to commit murder. The list of charges goes on and on, and we'll be releasing it to the public once we lift the news blackout for this sector." Garrus smiled suddenly, and Sam winced. Garrus' eyes were as dead as Lantar's sometimes went. _Yeah, Aria. There are some buttons you just do not want to push. _

"These were actions all conducted in _Council_ space. Since there is no extradition treaty with Omega, we're rather forced to take actions we'd prefer not to." Garrus' tone hardened. "Effective immediately, Omega is under an interdiction, until the moment you come into our custody. No ship traffic in. Civilians who wish to leave, may do so, but must have their ships inspected before leaving, and must be able to prove their identity. We are willing to transport refugees away from Omega for the next three days." Garrus paused. "Additionally, as a part of the Council initiative to replace mass relays, we will be removing the mass relay from this system. Very shortly, the only way to come here, will be by burning your FTL drive." His eyes were cold. "Give up, Aria."

She slammed a hand down, and the transmission cut off. "_Normandy_'s opening her shuttle bay doors," Rinus said.

"In we go, then."

As they moved up into the ship, Rinus said, simply, "She's not going to give in, is she?"

Ramos snorted. "You ever see a dictator who did?"

Sam shook his head. "Nope. She's running through escape plans, trying to call in favors. A little part of her knows she's probably going to die. When that little part becomes a big part, it'll shift towards making it the best way for her to go out." His tone was grim. "That'll probably involve taking as many people with her as possible."

The doors sealed, and they were able to clamber out of the ship. Garrus greeted them at the hatch. "So, how'd my nephew do in the field, Sam?"

"Not too bad. Needs to work on his tough-and-gritty mercenary act, but that largely comes with time and learning not to give a shit. Usually happens right around when it stops being fun, though."

Rinus grinned. "_Padu'fradu_, you're too kind."

Ramos stopped, mid-stride. "Jaworski?"

"_Si, amigo?"_

"_That young man just called you the father of his brother, yeah?"_

"_Hey, look at that. We've got a language that __**their**__ VIs aren't keyed to. Yeah. His younger brother is the husband of my daughter."_

"_No jodas?"_

"Nah, I'm not fuckin' with you." Sam switched back to English. "_Now_ do you understand why I find all the nattering in _tal'mae_ really annoying?"

Ramos frowned. "Shit, _mano_, even I follow along in _tal'mae_. More or less."

_I can't win_, Sam thought, and gave up.

The next three days were a little nerve-wracking. The Spectres and the Alliance and Hierarchy Marines went in, in force, to secure the two docking bays, and began processing people through. A couple of ships tried to run the blockade to leave the station. Warning shots were fired. When they continued moving, engines were disabled, and the ships were towed back to the docking bay, and their crews removed. Several of the ships turned out to be filled with illegal cargo; no surprise, there. One turned out to be filled with batarians, who'd not wanted to take a chance on an Alliance refugee ship.

Ramos was set up with a camera feed to both docking bays, and methodically looked at every face, turning away those whom he _knew_ to be Aria's people, from the girls who worked the dance floors all the way up through her chief enforcers and bodyguards. It was inevitable that someone would, eventually, slip the net. But the goal was as few as possible.

Sam had the unenviable position of keeping people calm in the long lines reaching into Docking Bay C. He had Sky keeping a constant stream of soothing song going, which was a help, but there was so much anxiety and fear in the air, that he frequently sent the rachni back to the _Normandy _for stress-relief purposes. "Don't want you to burn out," he told Sky.

_Sings-to-the-Past always sings harmonies in blues and greens for friends,_ the rachni told him; there were overtones of gray exhaustion to Sky's internal melody.

"Off you go, boy. Gris just got here to relieve you."

He and the krogan had to break up fights along the long line, and Gris lifted whole groups off the ground when the pushing and the shoving might have led to injury. In the meantime, Sam kept one ear glued to his comm channel. "Here we go," he told Gris, at noon on the second day.

"They've detected incoming traffic?"

"Yep. Batarians. Aria's rescue force."

"Let 'em come."

**Garrus**

The mass relay flared to life, presaging the incoming ships. "I still think we should have started moving it earlier," Lantar muttered beside him.

Garrus shook his head. "The Council was right. This way, we're giving everyone, even Aria, a chance to do the right thing. To give in peacefully."

"Argus is _sure_ she's still on the station?"

"Yep. That spider's not going to try to scuttle away until the web's actually on fire."

"Here they come," Joker said, not turning to face them. The human's five-fingered hands splayed on his console. "This is a perfect chance for her to try to run the blockade, you realize."

Garrus nodded. "Yeah. Which is why only half of the fleet is turning back towards the batarians. Of course, I think half will be enough."

The batarians had been told that there were thirty or so ships present at Omega. They'd intercepted and decrypted Aria's transmission, threatening them with consequences in the future, if they didn't come to her aid now.

They had not, as far as the Spectres had been able to determine, been informed as to _which_ ships they'd be facing.

The batarians came through the relay in a burst of blue-shifted particles, one at a time, as mass relays tended to work. And the first immediately started scrambling and scraping and trying to bank off speed, trying not to careen directly into the half-globe of ships that surrounded the mouth of the relay at about a 1,500 km distance. "Joker, fire a warning shot across their bow with the Thanix cannon," Garrus said. His voice was calmer than he actually felt. For most of the past year, his family had been in one form of jeopardy or another. The AEC kidnapping. The attack on their base and home by Lina Vasir. The poisoning attempt by Aria T'loak. These batarians weren't a part of that, but they were here and they were in his way. He couldn't deny the fact that he was actually rather _hoping_ they'd give him a fight.

One by one, the batarians came through that relay. One by one, they skittered to a halt. They _had_ to clear the entry zone, but they were blocked by white, curving ships, ready to fire on them if they moved. Five ships, ten ships. All hunkered down by the relay. "Another ship coming through," Joker replied. "They're going to hit the wall." The human winced in anticipation, and turned his face away.

Sure enough, the next batarian ship through the relay slammed right into one of its compatriots; their kinetic shields both flared to life, and the incoming ship caromed off the one that was simply drifting in space. Both showed damage to their hulls. "This could turn into a real hazard to navigation," Joker warned. "They'll have to update _Reefs and Shoals._" The old nautical hazard book from Earth's maritime naval era really _did_ still have that title in the spaceflight era; it simply pertained to gravitational hazards and space junk and asteroid positions now.

Garrus leaned over and tabbed the radio. "Batarian ships, this is the Council fleet. Send a message back to your base not to send any further ships through. You're endangering your own lives at this point."

"They seem to see the merit of your point, commander," EDI said, flaring into blue eyeball form on the panel beside Joker. "They're sending exactly that message now."

Garrus nodded. _All right. They've had time to see the teeth. They powered down weapons after the warning shots. They've been waiting for reinforcements to come through, and now realize that their very reinforcements can be more of a hindrance than a help. _"Batarian ships, I recommend that you turn around and head home. In twenty-one galactic hours, we are going to be moving this mass relay out of this system. You wouldn't want to be stranded here without a way home, now would you?" Calm. Polite. Almost humorous.

"Engines are powering up," Joker replied. "They're getting some sort of a message through the relay from their command post on the other side."

"Can we decrypt?"

"Don't think we need to. Weapons are online."

"Wait for them to fire first," Garrus said, tiredly. "If they want to throw their lives away, we can certainly oblige them."

The batarians opened with a salvo of torpedoes. Garrus could feel them impacting on the kinetic shielding, which held firm. _Yeah. Didn't think these ships had the Lystheni shield-breakers on board._

Behind them, the huge form of the turian carrier, the _Catasta_, moved into position. Garrus could see it on the scope, a leviathan compared to the little frigates that shielded it from direct fire. "_Catasta _asks if they can come and play, too," Joker reported. "They're launching fighters."

"Pull back another thousand kilometers. Give the fighters room to move," Garrus said. "Return fire at will."

The fighters danced in, tiny, slim, acrobatic needles in the darkness of space. The _Normandy_-class ships had time for one or two Thanix salvos until the fighters were in place, and then it was Javelins only; the torpedoes had homing devices, and could track their prey and move around obstacles. A cannon blast could destroy one of the tiny fighters, melt it to slag, if a pilot so much as shifted in the wrong direction at the wrong moment.

The fight was short. Ugly. Almost anticlimactic. "You got any joy on where they sent their signal to?" Garrus asked, as they were mopping up the last of the ships.

"No, but there's a signal coming through now, asking for a status report."

"Let's see how they are with silence as an answer, then."

After a couple of repetitions, the signal went dead. "Waste of life," Lantar said, his voice dark.

"Yeah," Garrus said, quietly. "We'll stay here, see if they try to sneak through again." He tabbed his radio. "_Kharkov, _did anyone try to run the blockade while we were occupied over here?"

"A couple of ships. We also had door open on bottom of asteroid, but we fired Thanix burst into vicinity. This seemed to discourage them." Captain Orlova's voice was crisp and precise.

Garrus thanked her for the update, and tabbed a different channel. "Orpheus, talk to me. What's the situation looking like on the station?"

Sam's voice crackled back through the radio. "Deteriorating. People are getting _very_ edgy. We've being as reassuring as we can, but there's a lot of fear at the moment. They're not quite ready to stampede, but I don't want to be in the way when they do." His voice sounded grim.

Garrus nodded. _Nice dry tinder. Now all we need is a spark, and a puff of wind blowing the right damn direction._ "Can you set up your omnitool as a repeater? I want to broadcast right into Omega."

"Sure. Give me a minute." There were a couple of blips on the end of the line, and Sam said, "All right, I think I'm patched into the station's intercom system. Either that, or the garbage compactors. We'll find out which in a moment, right?"

Garrus' mandibles flexed a bit. Sam's ever-present sense of humor helped lighten otherwise grim situations. "This is Garrus Vakarian," he said. "Operational commander of the Spectres. The Council fleet has turned back the batarian ships that were attempting to lift our blockade of the station, which were summoned here by Aria T'loak. Aria is the one who started all of this, by murdering innocent people. . . including some right there on Omega. Her own people. She could surrender, right now, and the blockade would be lifted. No one else would need to be evacuated." The status quo, however bad, almost always looks better than an uncertain future. _You want the status quo, don't you? You don't want to have to change, right?_ "It is her arrogance and pride that has inflicted this on all of you. You shouldn't have to suffer for her, and we regret that. Thank you for your patience."

Joker turned his chair around. "Nice touch at the end there. You couldn't have sounded more like a soulless comm system hold message if you'd tried." He paused. "Well, if you'd said that they are valued customers and to please stay on the line, maybe."

Garrus grimaced. "I'm trying to redirect them. I want them facing Aria's direction, not ours. If we have to go in after her, I don't want to have to fight our way through all the civilians as well as the mercs."

"And if they do all turn on her. . ." Lantar said quietly, "so much the better."

An hour crept by. Two. Sam's voice came through on the comm channel now. "We've got gunfire in the distance. We're trying to get the civilians to stay low behind a sort of barricade we've been building. Crates and stuff, mostly to keep them in a line and from crowding each other."

"We're coming in," Garrus told him, and he and Lantar headed for a shuttle. "Joker, get Argus on the line. Have her patch into our comms. Her eyes in the sky are going to tell us a lot more than what we can see for ourselves."

When they landed, for the first time, Garrus _didn't_ think _Back on fucking Omega._ He and Lantar were fully outfitted as Archangel and Nemesis, however. "Okay, Orpheus, talk to me," he said as they hopped out of their shuttle, moving past the huddling, terrified people.

Sam hustled over. "Yeah, continued exchanges of gunfire, coming from the center ring. Scope shows quite a lot of movement up there."

Liara's voice came in over the channel now. "I have eyes on Aria at this point. She's pinned down in Afterlife, surrounded by her most loyal mercenaries. They're exchanging gunfire through the VIP area door, the back door, and the front door, with Blood Pack and Eclipse mercenaries."

_Two of the groups with the most to lose if Aria doesn't give in_, Garrus thought, coolly. "Right, we're moving up to assess and intervene if necessary. Let's not get involved unless we have to."

He, Lantar, and Sam moved up, followed by Gris, Cohort, and Sky and two squads of human and turian marines from the joint fleet. They were taking the back route, which seemed to have less in the way of bodies to get in their way, and, as they reached the back, door, one of the Blood Pack mercenaries—a krogan, at that—turned, saw them, and lifted his hands, pointing his weapon in the air. Signaling a desire to _talk¸_ apparently. The krogan moved backwards from the door, warily looking out for anyone that might shoot at him, and crouched down near Garrus. "Ulluthyr Harak," he said, after a moment.

"Thought I recognized the armor," Garrus said. "I gave your message to your brother. He's petitioning to join Urdnot, and his son will take the Rite with them next year."

Harak nodded, heavily, and popped his head around the corner briefly to take a look at how his men were doing. "All right, Vakarian," he said, after a moment. "I have to say, for a turian, you know how to set up a fun fight." He chuckled, a low, rough sound. "Patriarch contacted me three hours ago. Told me if I could get in and protect him, he'd take out Aria."

Under his visor, Garrus' mandible twitched. This was a solution none of them had thought of. Sky's song shimmered faintly in his thoughts. _Would this male sing a better song for this hive?_

_Yes,_ Garrus thought, knowing Sky could hear him. _He ran this long before Aria came here. It was a bad place then, but not __**as**__ bad. And even krogan can learn from their mistakes. He is old, however. His time might be short._

_Then make sure that he sings a succession-song. _

Garrus blinked. The ideas were. . . novel. "All right, Harak. We'll help. Let's get in there, folks."

They stormed the rear door, with _Blood Pack _mercenaries at their _backs_. "This feels _wrong_," Lantar called into the radio, lobbing a grenade into the open back door.

"I know what you mean," Garrus called back. "But you've got to admit, it's going to be a fun fight!"

They made it in, and started taking out Aria's loyalists in the downstairs area. "Cut right," Garrus called. "Patriarch has a private room down here. Let's get to him."

Ducking behind a half wall, waiting for the incoming fire to cease. Ducking back out again, firing, seeing someone's bullet clip one of the ceiling lights. Watching it fall, as if in slow motion, then ducking back, hearing the crash and the splinter of glass. Ducking back out again, taking out a turian, then a batarian, with his sniper rifle. Both head-shots. Seeing Sam and Sky moving right, Sam covering the rachni, while Sky blew a line of enemies out of their way with a shockwave. Seeing Cohort leap over the round edge of the bar, and then leap up onto the center island, climbing its slanted surface with uncanny grace, finding himself a perch from which to attack the far side of the room.

"We've got Patriarch," Sam reported on the radio. "Secure the rest of the room, and we can move."

Garrus' boot crunched on broken glass as he strode through the room, checking for survivors. "Okay. Up the back passage," he said, after a quick assessment.

The aging krogan came out of his private room, looking around at the carnage. "Harak," he said, slowly, wheezing a bit. "You found some friends, I see."

"Spectres," Harak said. "Enemies of our enemy are friends. For a while, anyway."

Patriach's red eyes gleamed. "For perhaps longer than that, if we find the friendship. . . mutually beneficial."

Garrus nodded. "It'll be an interesting conversation. Let's get moving. We still have to take out Aria. Orpheus, Gris. . . you're on Patriarch at all times. Nothing gets through to him. Sky, you're with me. Cohort, you're with Nemesis. Let's go."

Up the long corridor now. Just the clean perfection of lining up the shot and letting it go. Nothing here with him in the empty place he went when it was time for death and he to work together once again. "Argus," he said, as they were about to enter the chamber at the end. "Any movement in the upstairs area?"

"Aria's moved to the center of the room. Her people are taking heavy fire from the front door, so they're concentrating their attention there, for the most part. You might even be able to surprise them." Liara's soft voice whispered in his ear. _Let the spirits grant it be so._

Into the little antechamber. No one there. Left turn. The door was closed. Locked. "Cohort, get it unlocked. I don't want to blow it."

He could hear Lantar's faint grin in the other turian's voice. "Don't want to ruin the surprise, eh?"

"It's far more fun this way."

Cohort unsealed the door, and stepped back. "We are ready, Vakarian-Commander," he said.

"All right. Patriarch, stay back," Garrus warned. "Sam, Gris, as before. Keep him alive. Everyone else. . . on three. One. Two. Three."

Garrus kicked the door open, and the squads moved in, killing at will. There were any number of bodyguards and thugs and mercenaries in the room, and Aria, a powerful biotic in her own right, started flinging any enemy she saw straight up into the air. "Sky, get her in the air!" Garrus said, flying himself at the moment. Then he landed, heavily, and struggled back to his feet. _Where is she, where is she?_ "Get a line of fire on her. Don't let her recover!"

All around him, bullets everywhere. Marines firing at the bodyguards. Gris lifting another batch of Aria's henchmen, around the left side of the room now, up into the air. Perfect targets. But not _his _target, not right now, anyway.

Sky's singularity dropped Aria relatively close to Garrus, and he could see that her armor was starting to show signs of wear. . . Gris and Sam had been firing at her steadily from their doorway while she'd been flying. Garrus grinned at her through the blackness of his visor. _Now it's my turn_.

He took three steps forward and slammed his rifle butt into her face, and she staggered back, bleeding blue at the lips. She tried to level another biotic attack at him, but as she tried to concentrate, Lantar rolled out of the shadows and slammed his wedding-knife into her side, where there was a weak point in her armor. She turned on Lantar, managing to concentrate enough to shove him away with a shockwave, but then Garrus was back on her. This time, with his own wedding-knife. He slammed it up under her chin, driving the point deep into the brain. _At least this time, I didn't break my damn knife, _he thought as she collapsed, spasming to the ground. He set one heavy boot on her chest and pulled the knife back out.

Lantar staggered back to his feet, and made his way over. He stared down at the corpse, and then reached down and took his own knife out of her side. Gunfire continued from outside, but inside, any number of mercenaries had seen what had just happened, and were starting to lay down their weapons.

About twenty minutes later, when Harak had managed to contact the Blood Pack and Eclipse outside the front entrance, and tell them to cease fire, Garrus allowed Patriarch into the room. The aging krogan looked down at Aria's body. "You know, I would have liked to have killed her myself," the krogan said, quietly.

"Didn't you?" Garrus said, with a little force. "Oh, certainly, people you contacted did the actual work. But it was all your idea, wasn't it?"

Patriarch's yellow stumps of teeth gleamed in the low light. "I've heard something similar before, it seems."

_So have I,_ Garrus thought, grinning behind his visor. "Let's have that talk, Patriarch. Or is there some other name that you would prefer to be called now?"

Patriarch laughed, wheezing. "I no longer even remember . . . my own name." He took Garrus up behind the bar, to the old lounge where Aria had held court so often. "What are your terms, Spectre?"

"I have no objections to you controlling Omega. That being said, there will be changes." Garrus' mind was working _very_ fast now. "No more drugs. Keep the mercs in check. If we don't see progress inside of five years, we _will_ take that relay and destroy it, and Omega will wither and die. When we've seen enough changes to indicate that Omega can become a part of the damn galactic community, we'll help you build a new relay, connected to the new grid. You need to designate someone as a successor, so we're not going back to the same old damn thing in thirty or forty years. Sound fair?"

"An interesting proposal," Patriarch said, after a moment. "Whom would you consider a successor worthy of the name?"

Garrus chuckled. "You already have him picked, I think. Otherwise, you wouldn't have called on Ulluthyr Harak today, now would you?"

Patriarch grinned. "You see very clearly through that mask, turian." He sighed. "As to the rest of it. . . it will be difficult to generate revenue without the existing smuggling and other such . . . industries."

"You're a smart krogan. You'll figure something out. I'd personally suggest contacting the Council and petitioning for admission. That would send a clear signal that Omega's ready to stop being a lawless state, and would get some corporations interested in coming out here. Maybe for your low, low taxes."

"What taxes?" Patriarch chuckled. "Ah, but I see what you mean. It will be interesting, turian, to _build_ here. Where so much has been destroyed."

_Spirits, hear his words._

He exchanged a wrist-clasp with the krogan, and walked back out into the wreckage of Afterlife. He and Lantar nodded to one another; nothing really needed to be said. They'd exorcized ten ghosts today. The blood of their brothers in arms had been redeemed with the blood of the one who'd been their foe, their scourge.

They all started to walk out together. "You know what?" Sam said after about ten minutes had passed. "Last time you were here, Garrus, you promised that the next time Archangel came to Omega, it would have a new queen."

"King," Lantar said, after a moment.

"Close enough for government work," Sam replied.

And after a moment, they all began to laugh. Spirits free.


	51. Chapter 51: Graduation

**Chapter 51: Graduation**

_**Author's Note:**__Thank you all for the very kind reviews from last chapter. It's 36 pages in Word, a real beast, and that's one of the reasons it was such a late upload. That, and I didn't like my initial ending. It's actually a great illustration of my writing process, and the way sometimes, I come up with better, more elegant ideas as I'm writing, than the ones I've outlined in my head. I always start with a rough outline of what I want to have happen in the chapter. Sometimes, I'm not sure what my __point__ is until I get there, and sometimes I have a very specific point I want to convey. . .and sometimes, those just both change along the way._

_Patriarch was a __late__ addition. Initially, I was going to crash the relay into a star. Period. Omega would wither and die. End of story. Then I thought about the ramifications (wrote them out with Sam and Mordin), didn't like them. Having moved to Houston right after Hurricane Katrina, I've watched five years in which refugees from a different community have struggled to fit into a new home, and that's just a couple of thousand people. . . not __millions__. So, I asked the other voices in my head for ideas. Sky said "hey, how about a different leader?" and I said "Yeah, I already considered bringing Zaeed in on a permanent contract, but I can't stand the guy. So, no." So I'm writing, and I'm writing, and I don't like where I'm going with it, and I'm still heading there anyway, and as the Spectres head down into the backdoor of Afterlife, it __hits__ me__**.**__ Hey. That's where Patriarch hides out. That's where Ulluthyr Harak, Mazz's uncle, has also hung out. *ding, ding, ding, ding* Garrus' stunned amazement at the idea mirrors my own, as I was writing it, and then I couldn't __stop____writing until I'd finished the idea._

_Glad it worked for you, too. But it's total serendipity. :-D _

_For those who've said they'd love to play Sam in a game. . . man, so would I. He's so fixed in my head now, it's hard for me to realize some days that he's non-canonical. Go tell Bioware they should *totally* make him a DLC character for ME3. ;) I'd give them the rights if I got credit. :-P_

**Ellie**

Ellie awakened slowly, her eyes opening in the dim light filtering through the heavy curtains into her bedroom, wondering, for a moment, why she was even awake. A glance at the clock—06:30 on a Sunday? She heard the front door slam, and realized that Elijah's movements, getting ready to go for his morning run, were what had awakened her. She rolled over in bed, propped herself up on an elbow, and looked down at her sleeping husband, smiling a little. Even in sleep, he always looked so very serious. Very lightly, so as not to wake him, she trailed her fingers over his fringe. She never could _quite_ get over how lucky she was to have him in her life. Never could quite see him as normal or everyday. He was just too different, too alien, to be mundane.

Ellie was, by nature, a worrier. Her entire life, every day, from the moment her eyes opened in the morning, to the moment they closed at night, she worried. Even when her eyes closed, she wasn't necessarily asleep; she just found that an even better time to worry, without distractions. _What if Eli gets lost? What if he can't adjust to living on a planet? What if he and that Dara girl (or that Kella girl or that Siara girl, in turn) get serious, and aren't responsible about it? What if he gets the blue clap, doesn't realize it, and it moves to the disfiguring second-stage infection? What if they have a baby? What if he doesn't finish school? What if he does go off to join the turian military, and gets his face broken in boot camp? What if he hurts himself with the pistols or the rifles at the range? What if Caelia gets a cold at daycare, and it progresses to pneumonia? What happens if she doesn't learn to socialize with the other children properly? What if she never finds another hybrid that she likes enough to marry? Will she blame me for bringing her into the world, different from everyone else?_

These were just a few of her greatest hits, day to day. When Lantar was gone, the litany changed. _What if someone tries to break into the house while Lantar's away?_ _What was that noise I just heard? What if he stops loving me? What if he realizes that all the other women on this base are much more interesting than I am? They're all fighters, soldiers, infiltrators. They all live in his world. Understand what he does. He can talk to __**them**__ about it. He __**won't**__ talk to me about any of it. _

_What if, what if, what if. _

What Ellie found amazing was, when Lantar was around, her litany of worries and what-ifs simply stopped circling around in her head. The calmest portions of her life were spent in his warm presence, and she had tried to tell him this, many times, but she suspected that he didn't understand. Maybe turians didn't have worrywarts, or perhaps it was the great male/female divide. But how can you thank someone for making it _bearable_ to live within your own head? How do you tell them that their mere presence is a reassurance that everything is going to be _all right_, without turning that knowledge into another burden for them to carry? So Ellie relished these quiet moments, and largely did so in silence. She slid closer to Lantar under the sheets, tucked her head on his shoulder, feeling the rasp of his skin, and slid one arm over his chest, letting his heat soothe her. _At least an hour until I need to get up and wake Caelia_, she decided. _It's a Sunday. _

She was all too aware of the burdens that her strange, loving, alien husband carried. Guilt. Responsibility. Duty. The pressures of the job. At least he wasn't working forty hours on, forty hours off anymore; there were breaks and neighbors and friends and the chance to blow off steam. So while she would really _rather_ that he got to stay home and work from 08:00 to 17:00, like a normal person, even the prolonged absences of Spectre work were infinitely preferable to the deadly grind of B-Sec.

Lantar had returned late last night, but at least it hadn't been in the early hours of the morning, for a change. 21:30 wasn't so bad. He'd actually picked her up off her feet at the door, an unusually ebullient departure from his normally stoic demeanor, and set her back down again, smiling. "Good day?" she'd asked, breathless.

"Possibly the best since Caelia was born. Different reason, though." He grinned and leaned in close to whisper, "Bitch-queen of Omega is dead." When he'd pulled back, she could see that he _proud_ of something, _wanted _to tell her something else, but the words died in his mouth. He'd closed up again. Probably thought he was protecting her. He _did_ tend to think she was a little china doll, though she'd tried, very hard, to show him that she was not.

But they'd celebrated his return. Eli had come out of his room, blinking, and exchanged a wrist-clasp with his father—too grown up now to permit a hair-ruffling. She'd ruffled it anyway, just to make him grimace and pull away. She'd pulled leftovers out of the fridge for her hungry male, and then Lantar had, eyes gleaming, taken her off to bed early. Ellie smiled and stretched a little, toes curling at the recollection. No standing in the shower for an hour, as he sometimes did after a long shift, a long stretch away from home. As if he needed to be sure that every particle of what he'd seen was washed away before he could let himself touch and be touched.

Lantar stirred under the her arm, and, impishly, Ellie let her fingers trace down his chest, and then lower. She'd never been much of a person for morning sex. Her late, unlamented husband had been human, of course, with a tendency to shove his antemeridian erection against her lower back every morning, like an insistent exclamation point. It hadn't bothered her at first, but after Elijah had come along, and every morning became a battle just to get first the cranky baby, then the cranky toddler, to eat his breakfast and get ready for school, _anything_ that had taken away from an ten extra minutes of sleep had taken on the ambiance of a chore.

Lantar, being turian, didn't have that early morning wakeup call. So now, it was more or less her choice. . . and since it _was_ a choice, she liked to wake him up this way. Her fingers coaxed him free, and she gently stroked him in his sleep, pushing the blankets back and giving him her mouth, until his fingers reached down and tangled in her hair.

"_Mellis?_" Voice so raspy it was a growl.

"Shh." She lifted herself on top of him and sank down, and his eyes closed again. His hands moved to her hips, rocking her, moving up to her waist to finger the chain links of the _cinctus_ she'd worn to bed last night. It was comfortable, in a way that lingerie was _decidedly_ not, so she never minded wearing it for him. Never minded the way he'd play with it, reaching a hand up under her shirt to toy with the links, or would occasionally reach over and catch her by it to pull her to him. She much preferred that to having her breasts touched; her late husband had had a tendency to knead them heavily, making them hurt. The only time Lantar touched hers was when she asked him to do so; a courtesy she _cherished_.

Riding him like this, never failed to remind her of their first night. He'd been so. . . oddly passive. She'd expected aggression from a turian; that had come later. Much later. She knew now the enormous self-control he'd exerted that night, simply laying back on her bed, and letting her come to him. "You're very small," he'd told her, looking concerned. She'd been worried, too. She _liked_ him. A lot. But he _was_ alien. Completely, definitively so. If they did this, and it didn't work, she'd probably lose his friendship, the strength and the comfort he brought to her life.

She'd made herself laugh. "You're not _that_ much taller than my husband was." She'd taken off her clothes, slowly, anxiously. Wondering with each piece if the sight of her would disgust him. Even by human standards, she wasn't much to look at, she knew; she'd obviously had a child, and there were stretch marks and other such things to be self-conscious of. That hadn't even phased him, though; he'd merely touched her skin with gentle hands, explored her, murmuring one word: "Soft." But the _worry_ hadn't left his eyes until she'd done exactly what she was doing now. Even then, he'd kept his hands away from her, latching them onto the headboard, instead. "Don't break _all_ my furniture," Ellie had dared to tease.

"Trying. . . not . . . to. . ." He'd arched his neck and snapped his jaws closed on empty air, and she'd started a bit, unsure of what he was doing, what she should be doing. Then he'd looked up at her, caught her wrists. Pulled her down to him so that her body blanketed his. "Bite me," he'd growled, very softly, in her ear.

"_Bite_ you?" It had sounded. . . kinky. "Where?"

"Anywhere. _Please_."

He'd almost snarled as she'd complied, his whole body tightening under hers, his fingers tightening on her wrists. Letting her feel the effect she had on him.

Leaning down now, she replicated that first time, placing delicate little nibbles along his cowl, working her way up to his neck, and biting down harder and harder, hearing his low growls start, feeling his hips move now, and knowing from experience now that his control was going to break soon.

And then it did, his first release hot inside of her. "Lantar?"

"Yes, _amatra?_" His voice was contented, but she knew it wouldn't last long. A minute. Maybe two.

"We've only got a month left on our contract."

"I know." His eyes were distant, and his hands were starting to tighten on her hips again.

"Marry me under the _tal'mae_ this time. That's all I want."

He laughed, a sound of pure joy that she heard all too rarely. "Hard for me to say _no_ to you right now, sweetness."

Ellie bit his neck again, hard, and smiled at him. "Kind of the idea."

Lantar growled and rolled her over to her back. "I want to," he admitted, bracing himself there on his arms, going still. "I want this. I want you. I want _always_."

"Then just say _yes_ already and stop making me pester you. I know you're trying to _protect_ me, in your crazy, stubborn turian way," and here she bit his shoulder, listening to him inhale, "but every time you say 'twenty year contract,' you know what a human hears?"

He shook his head, looking puzzled. She was asking him to focus his mind, when his body was starting to clamor for release again. It might not be fair, but it was _working_, and that's all she really cared about right now. "What a human hears is 'not good enough to be for ever.'"

Lantar blinked, and his expression was, briefly, absolutely horrified. Almost anguished. "No," he said, sharply. "That's _not_ what I mean."

"I know." Any lingering insecurities she felt had been banished at that moment, and she touched his face very lightly with her fingertips. "So if you want always, and I want always, stop negotiating for temporary crap we're not interested in, anyway." Ellie smiled up at him. "And get down here and bite me already."

Her biting him had led, that first night, to him starting to bite her. Carefully. Gradually. Working in tentative little nibbles here and there. It had taken him almost six months to work his way up to a control-bite, and he'd needed reassurances afterwards that no, she wasn't horrified, no, she wasn't hurt, no, she didn't think he was a wild animal, no, she wasn't going to throw him out of the house, and that yes, she'd _liked_ it. She'd had to _ask_ him for it after that, for some time, until he was convinced that she really, truly had meant what she'd said.

After an hour or so, they could both hear Caelia's early morning creeling calls, as if she were singing and chirping to the birds outside her window. Lantar chuckled a little, and slowly rolled out of bed, helping Ellie to her feet. "I'll go take care of our little chatterbox," he told her. "You go start breakfast, if you would."

As she was starting breakfast, Eli banged back into the house, soaked in sweat. "Oh, hey, you're up," he said, coming over to give her a quick peck on the cheek.

"It's been known to happen before noon, from time to time," she told her son. She wanted to tousle his wet hair, but her hands were full at the stove. "Have a good run?"

"Yeah. Getting a little easier. Still want to talk to you and dad about gene mods."

"You know, you don't have to do _everything_ Dara does."

"She's not jumping off a cliff, Mom." Voice full of teenage boredom in the face of adult repetition.

_Oh, yes, she is. And I know, because I've jumped off the same damn cliff myself. Oh, not the military, but following my heart. Once with good results, and once with bad. _Out loud, all she said was, "Mmm. Well, we'll see what Lantar says, okay? Go take a shower before breakfast, before you drip all over the table."

Eli had dropped the bomb on her about potentially enrolling in the turian military two weeks ago. She'd wanted to cry. _You don't __have__ to grow up so fast. Just because half of your friends are __required__ to go so young, doesn't mean __you__ have to, too. _But she knew he wouldn't even hear the words. So she'd clamped her teeth down on them, tightly.

Midway through making pancakes, Lantar arrived with Caelia, freshly dressed, in tow, and plopped her in her highchair. "You want milk?" he asked the girl, and as always, chuckled under his breath.

"Don't you mean bovine _excretion_?" Ellie asked, half-turning her head.

"Lactation. One of nature's _funniest _ideas."

"Hey, if it was that, or having to partially digest our food and then vomit it back up into the mouth of the baby, I'd take milk every time."

Lantar came over to her at the stove, and looked down at her, tucking a piece of her hair back out of her face. "Put that way, it _does_ suddenly sound more appetizing." He opened the cryo-unit's door and got out the glass jar of milk in there, getting ready to pour milk into Caelia's unbreakable little cup.

"So, what were you going to tell me last night?" Ellie had thought about it last night, and she'd made a few decisions. If she could get him to at least talk to her about work a _little_—even if it was _just_ about stuff he was proud of doing—it would be a start. Part of making their lives together permanent. Of putting her marks in his _mind_, if she had to.

Lantar looked at her, puzzled, as she put a single pancake in front of Caelia, a huge stack of them on Eli's plate, and one on Lantar's, too, before putting the few that remained on her own plate. "I don't know what you mean," he said.

Ellie looked around. Elijah was still across the house, and the shower was running. "After you said the queen of Omega was dead. You were going to say something else, and then you stopped."

Lantar looked down. A clear sign of hesitation in a turian. Shame, prevarication. Ellie put her hand on his big shoulder. "Lantar, there is nothing you can say that can _possibly_ be that bad."

He looked up. That lost look back in his eyes, the one she always wanted to take _away_, any way she could. "It's not _bad_," he said, after a moment. "I just. . . you're not a part of that. You won't like hearing it."

"Maybe I want to be a part of it. If only just enough that I can understand what you do." _And what you go through._ Ellie sighed. "I go to dinner once a week at Sam's, and everyone else there talks shop, and I sit there and feel like an idiot, not knowing what to say, because it's usually the first time I've heard _any_ of it."

He looked surprised. Evidently, this hadn't occurred to him. "It's. . . I don't mean to shut you out." His voice had gone heavy, and Ellie shook her head in frustration, putting her spatula down on the table, dropping to her knees in front of him and hugging his legs.

"Wrong message, Lantar. Well, a good message, but not the right time." She reached down, lightly stroking the base of his spurs, just above his bare feet, and set her cheek down on his knees. "I'm not asking for guilt, _amatus_. I just want to be let in a _little_ bit."

He stroked her hair, lightly. "Okay. I was going to say that Garrus and I killed Aria." He paused, but she said nothing. Just kept stroking his spurs. "I saw an opening, stabbed her in the side with your wedding knife, _mellis_. She turned towards me, and he came in from behind and finished her with Lilu's knife." He ran his big hand over her hair.

_Okay. Not like I didn't know he wound up having to kill people on the job. Sometimes, a cop has to do that._ "I take it she was resisting arrest?" Her voice was a little small, but she was proud of the fact that it was steady.

Lantar snorted, but she didn't think he was laughing at _her_. "You could say that, yeah."

She sat up. "Okay then. Why did you think I would have a problem hearing that?" She met his eyes.

Lantar touched her hair again, lightly. "Because you're a very gentle person, Ellie." His voice was soft. "A lot of the time, what I do _would_ disturb you."

"The details, yeah, probably. I'm not _completely_ spineless, though, you know." Ellie managed a brief smile, but her voice stayed serious. "If there's a good reason it has to be done, I think I'm okay with it. And from everything you've said about your Omega days, Aria was a damn cancer. The universe is better off without people like that."

"It doesn't bother you that I used your wedding knife?" Oh, the care, the concern. The worry. _He's __scared__. Scared of __what__? _Then she understood. _Scared for the same reason he was worried the control bite would repel me. That I'd look at him, and not see __him__, but some sort of ravening beast._

"No," she told him, with complete honesty. "To be honest, I kind of wish you'd had Provian's wife's with you, too." She paused, remembering how pale and ill Sam's daughter had been, how filled with needles and tubes the young woman had been, when she'd visited her at the hospital. "And maybe Dara's to go with it."

Lantar sat back, and there was such a look of relief in his eyes, it almost hurt to see."So," he said, as lightly as he could. "About renewing our contract?"

She nodded, getting syrup and butter and whatnot out. She'd need to start the turkey and _olorae_ bacon shortly in the pan. He paused, and then said, "Would you like to set a date?"

"I kind of thought early November would be nice. Work permitting, of course. Lots of pretty flowers and such." She wasn't going to ask. Not again.

"Sounds like a plan, then. You're going to have to practice a lot of new words. You can't do _tal'mae_ rites in English, you know."

She promptly dropped the butter dish, and spent the next ten minutes picking glass shards off the floor. Lantar, somewhat alarmed, came over to help, muttering about soft hide and sharp glass. For a change, Ellie didn't try to hide the happy tears that she _knew_ tended to disturb him.

**Dara**

The morning extranet reports made it all sound so . . . simple. So clean.

A blockade of Omega by human and turian ships, in retaliation for a wave of poisonings and murders in Alliance space had turned into a _coup d' tat_ from within. Aria T'loak was dead. A former ruler of Omega, kept by her, so the reports hinted, as something of a trophy, had turned against her, and killed her during a firefight between her loyalists and rebellious mercenaries. Stabbed to death, apparently. The new ruler, called Patriarch, was pledging to rein in the worst of Omega's excesses, and to try to rebuild the station as a meeting place, a neutral territory where the Terminus systems and the Council could meet on even terms. He even hinted at a willingness to bring the station and its solar system into the Council itself. . . if the terms were good enough.

Dara watched the reports, aware of her dad and Kasumi at the breakfast table. Her dad was humming under his breath, something he only did when he was particularly pleased with something. "So," Dara said. "You spent a nice boring couple of weeks riding around in a _Normandy_-class ship, circling around a space station, doing nothing, huh?"

Her dad grinned at her. "Well, no. I did do some crowd control while we were evacuating people off the station. Some of those people will take the free ticket elsewhere and start over, but others will want to come back. Should be interesting."

"Crowd control." Dara let her skepticism show, and grinned when she caught her dad's _innocent_ smile. "You use marines and cops for crowd control, Dad. Spectres aren't for riot shield and baton work."

"Oh, we do a little bit of _everything_." Butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth.

Dara just grinned at him wider, and said, very carefully, "Krogan don't usually go in much for knives, I've heard. A few. Here and there. Gris had that one that stabbed him in the back. But he says for them, it's shotguns, biotics, or barehanded, brute strength."

"There's always an exception to the rule."

"I wonder. . . if the body were available for autopsy, what the wound dimensions would tell me?"

Kasumi chuckled, wickedly. Her dad replied, blandly, "That the wounds were made by two separate knives, both between six and ten inches in length, made of high-carbon steel."

"Oh, you think there'd be enough metal filings left in the wounds to test the materials?" Dara's tone was arch. "Maybe even enough to establish the isotopes, figure out the planet of origin?" She grinned and ate another bite of her scrambled eggs. They were fresh, and from a local farmer, and they made her stomach _very_ happy indeed.

"If there were filings like that in the body, well, I'd tell you that after you did your spectral analysis, you'd be left with something of a mystery. How a couple of turian weapons wound up in the hands of a krogan warlord would indeed be a puzzle." Sam took a bite of his own waffles now.

"Sounds like a scandalous rumor."

Kasumi nodded, mock-seriously. "No reputable reporter would touch that one."

"Good thing I didn't hear it, then," Dara replied.

"That's my girl."

With only days remaining before she'd be heading to Palaven, Dara was saying her goodbyes. On the last day of school, she'd already traded wrist-clasps with all the turian kids, every one of whom asked her to remember them to Rel when she got to Palaven. Mazz had, rather alarmingly, tried to give her a hug, and event that she somewhat suspected Eli might have gotten a picture of. If he had, she was going to string him up by his thumbs if he ever showed it to _anyone_.

Elijah and Lantar were planning on going with them, so that was one set she didn't have to say. She _did_ drop by their house to say goodbye to Ellie and Caelia, though. Ellie had warmed up to her over the months, almost in direct proportion to how close to Rellus she'd become. It was a little funny, actually. But in a way, Dara could kind of understand it. Ellie had been protective of Elijah, and had somehow seen Dara as a threat. Once Dara and Rel had become a steady item, and certainly once they'd gotten married, Ellie was free to like her, and even see similarities between them. They'd even had a couple of good talks in the last month or so, about the pitfalls of marrying a turian.

Caelia, of course, didn't understand what was going on. But she hugged Dara anyway, and babbled at her in a mishmash of sounds. The twins, on the other hand, _were_ old enough to understand good-byes. Amara looked at Dara suspiciously, "You go bye-bye for always?"

"No. I'll come back and visit. Just not for a long time." Dara thought about it. "Kind of like how your mom and dad have to go away sometimes."

"Oh. Okay. Bye, then."

Kaius was a little harder. He had gotten surprisingly attached to her, and would not let her leave until she'd played the _reela_ with him, he'd gotten properly bored with it, and then wandered off to do something else. Then Dara had snuck out.

It had taken her a while to figure out where Sky even _lived_ when he wasn't on a mission or at her dad's house. She'd never really wondered what he _did_ in between, and it chastened her to realize how much she'd taken for granted in her big rachni friend. Eventually, she discovered that he had a room on the third floor of the main villa. Tapping on the door, she'd caught a friendly harmonic in her mind, and poked her head in, cautiously, not knowing what to expect.

The room was largely devoid of furniture, which gave it something of the aspect of a cell. Of course, the rachni couldn't use a human bed, or a human desk, or a human terminal. He had, however, built himself a nest of blankets and pillows in a corner, and the walls were a riot of color—paintings, tapestries, even aerogel screens, rotating between different works of art. "Sky?" Dara asked, hesitantly.

_Little singer,_ he replied, scuttling out from behind the door, to the right. _No distress-songs. My lair is to my liking. Close enough to hear the songs of Sings-Vengeance and Spectre-Queen, and their young, and the songs of others. I am together with them here, but far enough apart for comfort. Sings-Not spoke to me of visual art, once._ Sings-Not, Dara knew, meant _Cohort. _Sky continued, _He said that those who cannot sing with voices, sometimes sing with color. I am attempting to understand his meaning with these._ Sky lifted a foreleg at the paintings all around them.

Dara looked at him. "Do you have names for _everyone_?"

_Only those whom I know well enough to pick their songs from the chorus._

"Does Shepard have a name, or is it rude to give names to queens?"

_Spectre-Queen is Truth-singer._

Dara nodded. "That's. . . a really good name." She paused. "How about Eli?"

_Many-Voices. He has a choir in his head. He will learn to make them all sing in tune with his harmony._

She blinked. She had _no_ idea what that meant, but this was actually a fun conversation. "And Rel?"

_Sings-Honor is also Sings-to-the-Future. His song remains the same, but the key changes._

Dara shook her head. "I'm really going to miss trying to figure out what you mean, Sky."

_Your heart understands what your mind does not, little singer. _His voice spun harmonies of amusement in her mind.

She laughed. "If you say so, Sky. I haven't really noticed that."

_You will, when you learn to listen to its song. _His voice was _very_ amused now, all blues and greens. _Then you will not be my little singer anymore. You will be Sings-Heartsong. And that is a good naming, too._

Dara felt her lower lip wobble a little, and walked forward, quickly, before she could actually start crying. She gave the rachni the best hug she could, and whispered, "Goodbye."

_No sorrow-song at farewells, little singer. We will join our voices again. _He patted her back with a careful foreleg, and out the door she went again.

She made her way to the clinic next, where she said good-bye to Dr. Chakwas and Dr. Abrams, and all the nurses on staff. She liked them all, but it was Dr. Solus that it hurt to say goodbye to the most. She found him in the nursery, looking down at the tadpole queen swimming around in her new, larger tank, wide eyes almost too big for the nascent face. "Do you have a name for her yet?" Dara asked, dreading yet another goodbye.

"Was thinking of a human name, actually. Narayana. Male name, but sounds female. Sound has a pleasing aesthetic, works fine with family name of Mordin. Comes from Hindu mythology. Find concept of wheel of life, reincarnation, very comforting. Similar to salarian philosophies." He turned and blinked at her. "You will be leaving soon?"

"Tomorrow. Saying my goodbyes."

"Depressing."

"Very."

"Unfortunate to lose you. Would have preferred that you remain. Would have tried to get you position at medical school on Sur'Kesh. However, you may have been uncomfortable. Large portions underwater."

Dara started to laugh. Mordin grinned at her merrily. "Will continue to send you articles. Read them. Learn all you can. Time is too precious to waste."

"I know." Dara nodded. "Thank you for everything you've taught me."

"Couldn't do otherwise. Knowledge must be shared." His eyelids swept upwards again. "Be well." He patted her on the shoulder, and turned back to his little tadpole, making encouraging little splashes in the water to get her to swim faster.

Back down to the valley. Allardus and Solanna had a houseguest at the moment—Rinus. He was using Rel's old room while on leave, but he, Allardus, and Solanna would be leaving for Palaven tomorrow, with her. Dara waved at him as she came in the front door; Rinus was sprawled in the living room, looking like he wanted nothing more than to become a permanent piece of the furniture as Polina and Quintus careened around him. "You making your rounds for goodbyes?" he asked.

"Yeah. Where's Serana?"

"Out back."

Sure enough, Rel's little sister was in the garden. "No," she said, sharply, pointing at Dara. "Don't say it." Turians absolutely couldn't pout—the lip plates prevented it—but the tone was sulky. "First Rinus leaves. Then Rellus leaves. Then I finally have an older sister, and now _you're_ leaving."

Dara sat down on the bench next to the ten-year-old. "It won't be forever," she offered. "We'll come back on leave."

"Yeah. A week or two at a time." Serana sighed. "Now who am I going to have to talk to?"

"Pick on Eli. He needs to practice his turian more, anyway."

Serana snickered. "Yeah, he's been learning longer than you have, and he _still_ doesn't get the endings right."

"Be nice, _amillula__._"

Serana sighed. "You know what?" she said, after a moment. "I think I know what I want to do when I'm done with my service."

Dara laughed. "Well, last week, it was xenobiology with your dad, and the week before _that_ it was going to Earth and working on a game preserve in Africa so you could see lions and zebras and whatever for real, so. . . . it's neither of those, right?"

Serana flicked her fingers at Dara. "Nah. I've decided. I want to go into the Law." She said it very quietly. "Then we'll have _seven_ generations in the Law on my mom's side. But it'll be a first on my dad's."

"Law covers a lot of ground. You want to be a lawyer?"

"You can't be a judge or an advocate without some practical experience first. So. . . maybe colonial police here on Mindoir. Or maybe even _Bastion_."

Dara's eyes twinkled. "Talk to Eli about that," she suggested. "His human dad _and_ Lantar were both C-Sec and B-Sec. He can probably give you an idea of if you'd like it or not."

Serana shrugged. "If you like, _ama'fradu_."

"I do like. Now come on back inside. Rinus is getting trampled on in there, and if you want to enforce the law, you need to start by corralling the two holy terrors currently running around in there."

"Do I have to?"

Dara grinned at her. "Yeah. Kind of."

That night, she could hardly eat at dinner. Couldn't sleep, either. She got up very early indeed, and checked her bags, again, for about the twelfth time. Kasumi came in, and looked at her. "You ready?"

"Yes and no." Dara rubbed at her eyes. "You're going to laugh."

"Try me."

"I can't decide if I should take my bear with me. I've packed him and unpacked him about forty times now." Dara looked away, embarrassed. "Isn't that stupid? I mean, I stopped sleeping with my teddy bear when I was ten or so. I kind of started again when my mom died, but I put him back on the shelf in November or so of last year."

"Right around when you and Rel got serious about each other." The comment was calm and Kasumi's eyes were gentle.

"Yeah. I guess so. I hadn't really thought of it that way." Dara shrugged a little.

"Did your mom give it to you?"

"No, my dad. I carried it to pre-school every day, he says. My mom said I wouldn't let go of it, especially when. . . especially when my dad was away a lot."

"Well, I can understand that. It kind of represented your dad for you. Safety. Security." Kasumi sat down on the edge of the bed. "It's hard to give up what's certain for the uncertain. You don't _have_ to let go of the edge of the cliff all at once."

Dara nodded, thoughtfully. "You're a lot better at the psychology stuff than the people who get paid for it at the school, you know."

Kasumi laughed. "That's mostly because you trust me. You don't trust them, so you don't let them in. That, and they have a box of tools. I don't. I just listen to what you tell me, and I have more time to listen than one hour a week." She looked at Dara now. "So what do you think?"

_I think . . . that if I let go, there's someone below who's going to try his best to catch me._ Dara picked up her bear and looked at it, very carefully. "If I get sick or something, you'll send him to me, right?"

"I promise," Kasumi said.

"Okay." Dara put Mr. Fuzzy on the bed, and gave him a little pat on the head. "In that case. . . I'm ready to go."

She carried her bags—one of worldly goods, and one with armor, radiation suits, and what little she could take with her to bootcamp—down the stairs. Outside, her dad had the groundcar waiting already. "You ready, sweetie?" He gave her a hug.

"As I'm going to be." Dara took a deep breath, and got in the groundcar.

After a while, she sat up in the car, and said, "This isn't the way to the shuttleport, Dad."

"I know." His bright grin showed up clearly in the mirrors. "We're taking an alternate means of transportation."

Dara's eyebrows crinkled, until they crested the final hill. "We're going on the _Normandy?_" She started to laugh.

"And why not? Garrus, Lantar, Eli, Allardus, Solanna, Rinus, Kasumi, me, and you. Even if we pay for the fuel out of our own pockets—which we are—we're saving money compared to commercial flights."

It had an odd sort of symmetry to it. A little over a year ago, the _Normandy_ had brought her to Mindoir. Now the _Normandy_ would take her away again.

Walking up the gangplank, she paused for a moment. The ship's hatch looked like a maw, ready to devour her. Eli, behind her, whispered, "Don't be scared. It's not like the sky's going to suck you right up into space."

And with that rueful joke at his own expense, Dara started to laugh. He was helping her ascend, as, a year ago, she'd helped him _descend_, and knowing that she had a friend at her back, she finished the rest of the climb.

The flight was shorter than usual; her dad told her that Joker wasn't bothering with stealth mode today, not for a Mindoir to Palaven hop. So she sat in the observation lounge, and talked with her dad and Kasumi, and tried not to fret. "Did Kasumi show you the letters while I was gone?" her dad asked.

"The nastygrams from humans all around the galaxy? Oh yes. She did."

Her dad nodded. "You're going to hear absolutely stupid shit, and a lot of it, for a long time. Eli's heard it. Ellie's heard it. Lantar and Garrus and Shepard have heard it, though less to their faces than Elijah and Ellie have."

"That's because no one in their _right mind_ would say any of this to Lantar or Garrus or Commander Shepard. I mean, I've only seen glimpses of them in work mode, but when they are, they're _scary_." _And so are you, Dad. Right?_

"Yeah. And you know what?"

"What?"

"_You_ already scare the crap out of people like these morons. Just by being yourself."

Dara stared at her father. _You have got to be kidding me._

"No, it's true. By virtue of what you represent. You're someone they can't control, who's making choices for herself that they don't agree with. And when you're done with your training, you'll be scarier yet for them. Smart, determined, capable, and someone who won't take shit from anyone." Her dad leaned back and grinned. "Rel, when he gets out of boot camp? Going to be one of the scariest things on two legs. Young turian male, prime of life, fully trained to kill, with the reflexes of a god and a whole load of mean, just _waiting_ for someone to say the wrong thing, or to give the order? You're going to be his safety-catch for a while. You're going to _have_ to be, because he's going to want to protect you. I know, because I was the same damned way with your mama. . . and with a whole lot less in the way of piss and wind sent our direction."

It was definitely something to think about that _didn't_ involve worrying, at least.

And then, after the night passed, and Dara had _finally_ gotten some sleep, lulled by the sound of the FTL engines, the _Normandy _started its descent. "Get in your armor," Kasumi told her. "You and your dad are set, but Eli and I need to get into our radiation coveralls."

Dara nodded, and started buckling everything into place. All things considered, she really wished Aunt Lilu would have let her repaint the armor before leaving Mindoir, but the woman had been insistent. _I'm making a point here. Let me do that much, okay?_

It was October 21, 2191, and the sky over the city of Dacia was an incredibly pure turquoise. Dara gaped out the window with Eli, pointing at the junglescape below—rooftrees waving high above everything else, the deep jade of the heavy growth spanning the ground from horizon to horizon, other than where the city's buildings glimmered in the sun. Occasionally, they'd pass a huge flying beast, and all the turians chuckled a bit as the humans oohed and aahed.

They headed first to the hotels—important, because with so many people in the city today, if they didn't claim their rooms, they might _lose_ them. Dara looked around her own room, giving it a quick once-over; no windows, very important. The radiation meter on her wrist wasn't going nuts, either, which was also a plus.

"Kasumi, you'll have to stay here," Garrus said, apologetically. "Lantar can get away with taking Eli on base, since he's a Spectre, and Eli's adopted, but since you're not technically family yet, we can't bend that particular rule."

"Remind me to remind Shepard to get your status fixed," Dara's father muttered to Kasumi. "You should damned well be a Spectre."

Kasumi just chuckled. "Have fun." Then she patted Sam and Dara on their shoulders, and let them go back out into the wet-wool blanket heat of Palaven, and the large, waiting aircar that would take them to the base.

Dara couldn't feel the humidity or the heat, of course; she was inside a thermal-regulated suit of armor. From Eli's reaction, however, she was really glad to be in armor, not in a radiation coverall with a headpiece, as he was. "This is what, early summer here?" Eli asked, after a moment.

Lantar nodded at him, looking amused. "Yeah. And Dacia's pretty far north. Sort of like New York or London, latitude-wise."

Eli muttered something incomprehensible. Dara thought it might have been an asari obscenity, but wasn't quite sure.

The training facility was _huge_ and very intimidating. It housed 100,000 recruits at a time, plus about 10,000 support staff, Garrus explained as they walked up to the gate. "And every training facility is exactly alike, almost to the inch," he added, chuckling. "Once you've been to one, you can find your way around _any_ of them." At the moment, it was _bustling_ with turians; Dara had never seen so many in one place in her life. "It's Family Day," Garrus reminded them. "Base population about doubles for one day each quarter. Everyone stick together."

Dara's father rested a hand on her shoulder. He, Garrus, and Lantar were wearing their black Spectre armor today—the better to quash idiots behind desks, she'd been told. Checking in at the front gate _was_ something of a chore. "You're _all_ family?" the clerk there said, dubiously, eyeing the humans and turians and the black armor.

"All of us except Spectre Sidonis and his son here," Garrus said, patiently.

"We're just here to tour the facility so that when my son comes here in eight months or so, he'll know what to expect," Lantar said, with aplomb.

Dara had the distinct impression that the two of them were having _fun_ somehow. This was only reinforced when the clerk asked, "So, you're here to see Recruit Velnaran. Please state your names and relationship, for the record."

"Allardus Velnaran, father."

"Solanna Velnaran, mother."

"Centurion Rinus Velnaran, first-brother." Rinus sounded hugely amused.

"Spectre Garrus Vakarian. Uncle."

Dara could clearly hear her father's snicker at the clerk's expression. "Gonna be more where that came from," he told her, quietly, in English.

"Spectre Lantar Sidonis. No relation. This is my son, Elijah Sidonis. Adopted." The last was said after a brief pause, as the clerk looked mildly cross-eyed.

"Dara Velnaran, wife." That did, indeed, get her a look, too.

"Spectre Samuel Jaworski, father-in-law. Can we get inside so my rad meter stops havin' a hissy fit?"

"Pass through and follow the red line. You're going to Barracks Salae-Equa 12; Manciple 417 is headquartered there." The clerk looked dazed, and they all moved on past now, Lantar and Garrus both dropping their visors, for the time being.

"Having fun yet?" Eli asked Dara.

"I don't think I've taken a breath since we got off the ship," she admitted, quietly. The nameless, formless anxiety was absolutely killing her, and she couldn't even figure out what she was anxious _about_.

"Try not to pass out. That doesn't make half the impression on a guy that you think it would."

"_Thanks_, Eli. I'll keep that in mind."

Moving further into the base was like navigating a maze. Dara had _no_ idea how the turians were doing it, but every one of them seemed to know _exactly_ where they were going. Any number of people dressed in light, summery civilian clothing stopped and _stared_ as they walked by.

Then they were at the barracks, and a drill centurion outside snapped to attention as they approached, seeing the Spectre gear. "You're here to see one of the recruits, Spectres?"He looked past Garrus and Lantar, blinked to see the humans, and returned his attention to them.

"Yes. Rellus Velnaran."

"I'll have the recruits line up."

The drill centurion bellowed into the barracks, "Attention! Spectres on deck. Look alive, you lazy _cuderae!_" Dara jumped slightly at the pure volume, and could hear, in the wake of the words, an enormous scramble taking place inside the building. The centurion grinned now. "They should be ready for you now, Spectres."

And then they went in.

**Rellus**

Half a dozen of his barracksmates who were from Palaven had had family swing by so far today. Many of the colonials hadn't; it was expensive to travel so far for graduation from boot camp, however important the ritual was in the lives of all turians. He'd met quite a few relatives so far, however, and had his wrists clasped over and over again. At the moment, he was sprawled in his nest.

"Your family's supposed to be here today, right?" Nicus asked, from across the room.

Rel nodded. "Yeah. They'll be here. Unless a war breaks out, in which case, they might be a little late."

Nicus and Kassa both guffawed. Rel just sort of grinned to himself.

Then, from outside, he heard a centurion bawl, "Attention! Spectres on deck. Look alive, you lazy _cuderae!_"

_Finally_, was his first thought, followed, quickly, by _Spectres, plural? _He'd more or less expected Jaworski to accompany Dara, but who else would be here?

Rel leaped to his feet and rushed to the hall to stand at attention with the rest of the recruits in this barracks section; this area housed forty or so, all from his original squads. Everyone was too well-disciplined to look to the right or even speak, but he could hear various people's breathing alter. Sharp inhalations. "At ease, everyone." That was _Lantar's_ voice. He hadn't expected that; apparently, he wasn't the only one who'd kept things back from the letters. To either side of him, the various recruits took more relaxed stances, and Rel turned his own head to look. There was quite a line of people coming down through the double row of recruits at the moment.

Then his mother and father were there, and Rinus, too, of all people. "Second-son," Allardus said, in tones of enormous pride. "You didn't _tell_ us it was Officer's Candidate training for you. Well _done_."

Solanna had the universal look of a proud but worried mother, as she added, "_Or_ that it was Special Forces."

"I wanted it to be a surprise," Rel admitted, unabashedly.

Rinus just grinned. "Nice uniform, second-brother." He offered a wrist for a hearty clasp.

"Thanks. You're on leave from the _Estallus_?"

"Yeah. Got detached for a while. Need to head back after graduation tomorrow, though." His expression was rueful. "Spirits, my _little_ brother is going to outrank me. Scale me." Rinus had to look _up_ at Rel now, and that was . . . unexpected, actually.

Rellus grinned, tightly. "I promise not to abuse it completely."

Allardus chuckled. "Okay, we've got other people here to see you, too. Let's move down here a little bit."

The first turian in black Spectre armor approached, and took off his helmet. "Good work, son of my sister," Garrus said, and Rel definitely heard _someone_ in the barracks mutter _s'kak! _under their breath in a tone of stunned amazement. "OCS _and_ special forces? You're following in my footsteps, eh?"

"In damn near every way," Solanna muttered, off to the side.

"You'll be trying for my job next, too?" Garrus asked, showing sharp teeth.

"Not for a _really_ long time, Uncle Garrus." Rel grinned, and accepted a wrist-clasp. "How's Aunt Lilu?"

"Very, very pregnant. And bitching about it, too." Garrus' grin matched Rel's now. "She sends her best, of course." He stepped off to the left now, and then there were Lantar and Eli—Lantar giving him a wrist-clasp, and Eli shaking his hand, pulling off his hood so his human features and turian clan-paint were visible.

"Congratulations," Eli said, and Rel blinked. The human boy had _grown_ since he'd last seen him—easily taller than Dara now, and his voice had dropped to baritone.

"Thanks, Eli. Taking a look around for when you come through?"

"Yeah. For a while I didn't think I'd ever get tall enough to even get on the kid's rides around here, but I think I might make boot camp here next year after all."

"You do seem a little taller all of a sudden."

From a little to the right, the human in the Spectre armor said, "We do hit our growth spurts a li'l later than ya'll do, but when we do, it's usually with a vengeance. You'll be fine, Eli." Sam took off his helmet, and stepped up next, shaking Rel's hand heartily. "Good to see you, son."

"Nice to see you, too, _pada'amu_," Rel replied. He hadn't dared to look past Sam yet. "Your circle-walking really works well here, in case you didn't hear that from my letters."

"Oh, Dara was sure to mention it, two, three times. A day." Sam grinned, and turned back to the right. "Of course, she can tell you that herself."

**Dara and Rellus**

And then there was the last, shortest figure, in strangely familiar human armor, reaching up to unlock the helmet and take it off. A spill of dark hair falling out from under it, and then she was there, looking up at him, eyes wide, showing those rounded omnivore teeth in a tentative smile as he very lightly took her hand. He couldn't do any more in uniform; even a forehead touch would be out of the question. But he studied her intently now, as she looked up at him. Tired eyes, hint of paleness to the skin—well, she'd been sick recently, of course. "I know that armor," Rel said, tightening his fingers, trying to convey with touch everything he couldn't say with words just yet. A quick inhale. . . yes. There was her scent. Unchanged. He started to relax.

"Your aunt Lilu was _very_ insistent." Dara looked up at him. He'd grown again, and had hadn't been joking when he'd complained about his entry uniforms getting tight; he'd probably put on twenty kilos in muscle mass. He was quite, quite intimidating-looking now. But the eyes were still the same, and she relaxed at the touch of his fingers, even through the gauntlets of her armor. "Said something to the effect that whatever part of her spirit had rubbed off on it, might keep me safe." Dara shrugged. "When someone says something like that, it's pretty hard to tell them _no_." She looked up at him, lifting her chin. "I thought we'd agreed that you were going to _stop growing._"

He chuckled quietly. "I did my best." He hadn't missed the fact that he was now taller than even his uncle by about an inch. Now he turned to look at the rest of his family, heart absolutely content for the moment. "Can anyone tell me _now _what's been going on that couldn't get into the letters?"

Sam chuckled, probably at his annoyed tone. "Depends on how many of your compadres here speak English or have VIs set up for it."

"None that I know of, but. . . ." Rel shrugged. He couldn't swear to it.

Sam nodded. "Dara can fill you in on most of the details, son. Both of you had to sign non-disclosure forms just to get off the damn base, but you're okay talking to each other. Talk to anyone else, and I'll hold you down while Kasumi skins you." He chuckled. "Which would be pretty sad for our eventual wedding pictures."

Rel repressed his snort of laughter, and asked, "So, can I show any of you around?"

"Been here before, or close enough," his father told him, dryly.

"Take Eli and Dara around," Lantar suggested. "Especially Dara. Her boot camp starts in a week, and it's a good opportunity to learn the layout. We'll wait here for you."

One of the drill centurions, who'd been watching from outside, poked his head in. "With respect, Spectres. . . we've all been watching Recruit Velnaran in sparring for several weeks. He's said nothing about his abilities, except that his _family_ taught him."

Allardus grinned. "We did." He looked at Garrus and Jaworski. "It was what you might call a team effort."

Yep, there was another whisper of _s'kak!_ from the onlookers. "Having you all here would be a valuable training opportunity, if you wouldn't mind doing a few demonstrations."

Garrus, Lantar, and Sam all glanced at each other, sidelong. Rel was amused to see that they all could read each other's facial expressions perfectly by now. "Sure," Garrus said, after a moment. "Gives us a way to pass the time while we wait for the base tour to be complete. But I'd like to see how Rel stacks up against where he was eleven weeks ago at the end."

Rel winced. So much for getting to attend graduation without bruises.

Sam coughed. "If I have to keep my armor on out there to keep from fryin' like an egg, you two are keeping yours on, too. Fair's fair."

Lantar and Garrus both suddenly wore bright grins of anticipation.

"Rel? Get us moving. They'll be here all afternoon," Eli said, dryly. "You know how sparring practice goes."

"I remember it well." Rel moved Dara's fingertips to his elbow, so she could continue to hold on, while his hands remained free; a permissible degree of contact. Then he led them towards the entrance of the barracks, as the rest of the recruits moved toward the opposite door, which led to the sparring area. "Get your helmets back on," he added. "What's the radiation level like inside the barracks, anyway?"

Dara bundled up her hair and tucked it into her helmet. "High enough that I'm going to be sleeping in a radiation suit at night and wearing armor all day. I'm going to smell like the inside of a used sneaker _permanently_ by the end of the second week."

Eli had glanced over. "You're going to have to cut that hair, you know."

"Nothing in the turian regs about hair length, but yeah, I know. Gives me a headache if I try to knot it up inside the helmet, and it's too hot here for long hair anyway. Just wanted Rel to be able to recognize me when I got here." _That, and to feel his fingers through it once more before I have to chop it all off._

"No chance that I wouldn't, _mellis_. I know your scent." She flushed a little as Rel looked down and smiled. Even the light touch of her fingertips through the uniform sleeve made him feel just a little giddy. It was over. Finally over. "You want to give me the galactic news digest now, or tomorrow? As in, what the _hell_ has been going on for the past four months?" He dropped into English to add, quietly, "And how you all got so damned sick?"

"Tomorrow," Dara said, shaking her head. "I have no idea who around here understands what. Kasumi's going to check the hotel rooms for listening devices, and then we can talk."

Rel's grin told her clearly that he had quite a bit more in mind than just _talking_.

"It'll definitely give you two something to discuss when you come up for air," Eli said, very dryly, and ducked away from the shove Rel sent his direction without even looking.

Rel wasn't sure if the tour helped them at all. It had taken him the better part of the first week to learn to navigate here, the disorienting colored lines on the ground providing very little real guidance. Eventually, they made their way back to Salae-Equa 12, and stood near the back of the sparring enclosure, watching as Sam demonstrated his circle-walking technique, and how _effective_ it was against multiple opponents and against the standard turian hard kicks and strikes. While Eli was distracted, and everyone else was intently watching the demonstration, done in full armor at full strength and speed, Rel leaned down to whisper to Dara, softly, "I'm really glad to see you, sweetness. I was afraid you'd lose your courage_._"

"I almost did. Eli more or less pushed me up the ramp onto the _Normandy_." She looked up at him, and, very briefly, leaned into his side; subtle contact, wonderful, even through armor. "You're not going to recognize yourself when we finally get you to a mirror, _amatus_."

"Is that in a good way or a bad way?"

"Good way. Little scary, but good." She grinned, and squeezed his arm to reassure him,

Then Garrus saw him at the back, and beckoned him in, and he wound up fighting Garrus one-on-one for a while, then Lantar and Garrus, and then _Sam_ and Lantar and Garrus, in a nightmarish reenactment of his last week at home. He mostly stayed in a defensive shell, and just tried to tie them up in each other as best he could. Then, finally, Garrus called a halt. "Nice," he told Rellus. "Your reaction time's gone up."

"Stronger, too." Lantar added.

"Doing a good job integrating all the stuff we taught you, as well. Nice job, son," Sam told him.

Rel was panting too hard to answer for a moment. "And here. . . " he said, slowly picking himself up off the ground, "I thought. . . you'd been hard on me. . . _before_ I left."

Sam snickered. "Well, you were a _kid_, then. Of course we went gentle on you." He nodded. "We'd better get going. We'll be up in one of the VIP boxes tomorrow. I'm _told_ it'll actually be in the _shade_." The human's tone was tart.

"C'mon, Dad, you're the one who's been saying it's not too much worse than south Texas in August."

"Yeah, but it's like, _May_ here, sweetie. It's just going to get worse."

"Don't remind me."

Then they left, heading back to their hotel rooms, and Rel headed back to his barracks to change into a clean uniform. His various squad members were pretty quiet, and Rel really sort of hoped that they'd just let it all pass without comment. He hadn't traded on the family name here. He'd just done the damn work, and like _any_ of the rest of them, his family had come to see him graduate. He didn't think it likely that there'd be silence, but he hoped anyway.

Close to lights-out, Amphion, Didamus, and Cambysus, from his first squad, dropped by, as did Rasmus. "Oh, hey, Cadius," Rel said, casually, from where he was in his nest. "Didn't see if you got a chance to talk to Eli today."

"I did. Was nice catching up with him. He _and_ your wife are both applying to join the turian military?"

Rel nodded. "Yeah. Eli gets citizenship through his step-dad Lantar, if he finishes; Dara gets citizenship through me if she does. Plus, all the calls for integrating the forces have to be answered sometime. Might as well start with them."

"You say that so casually," Kassa said, sitting up in her hammock.

Nicus looked at him now. "So. . . . you really _did_ learn all that stuff. . . "

"From my family." Rel grinned, ruefully. "You can understand now why I kind of left it at that?"

Amphion shook his head. "Must be hard to live up to."

Rel shook his head. "It's never been about that. There's no pressure to be like them. I just wanted to prepare as best I could for boot camp. And I had a lot of really good teachers. And when _they_ weren't teaching me sparring, there was Dara to practice rifles with, and to study with. She's been hunting with her father since she was five or six, I think they said. That's rare for humans."

"I didn't even know that they hunted," Didamus admitted, slowly.

"Deer, which are herding animals, smaller than a _rlata_. Something called elk, which is larger than a _rlata_. Very small game birds, slightly larger than a _lanura_," Rel held up his fingers about four inches apart. "I'm told it's considered a mark of skill to be able to take them on the wing with a gun."

Amphion grimaced. "It would be, yes."

"I take it Dara's the one you're worried about Lintorum catching here, next boot camp session?" Kassa's voice was sympathetic.

Rel nodded once, tightly. He had been trying very hard not to think about that.

Didamus cleared his throat. "It would be a court-martial offense if he went after your wife out of a grudge against you," he noted. Didamus really _did_ know the regs better than anyone else. He'd gotten a change in MOS on the most recent board, and was now slated to go to the Judge-Advocate's office instead of Force Management. He'd seemed much happier since then, and Rel could understand why; it suited the male right down to the ground.

"The problem is, I don't think he'll make it evident that that's why he's going after her. I think he'll try to make it look like it's just because she's human." Rel shrugged. "Nothing I can do about it now."

Kassa looked at him. "How good is she?"

"Rifles? Better than I am." That got him a blink and a stare; Rel had the manciple record for rifles. "I taught her pistols. She can ride a horse and a _rlata_, and handles ground vehicles well. Scared of heights, but she's been working on her climbing, and swims like a damn fish. Grappling and melee, she's been training with everyone that I trained with for about a year now, but I spent _six_ years doing that, not one. Three nights a week, three hours a night. Her last letter said her father was giving her some additional training when he's been home." He realized that his hands were clenching and unclenching, and straightened his fingers with some effort. "She's also been studying medicine under a former member of the STG. So she's been too busy to practice more." _Might have been an oversight. Spirits, I hate the feeling that the s'kak I stirred up is going to blow back into her face._

It was the most he'd said about his mate in eleven weeks, and they all simply stared at him for a moment. Rasmus nodded, and said, "I think she'll be okay, Squad Leader. A year with what we just saw today is about the equivalent of two years at Calleo."

"Yes," Didamus said, and the barefaced male looked uncomfortable admitting it.

"So," Kassa said now, "why didn't you _tell _us anything about her before?" The female was grinning openly. "There are people out there who had running bets that you were ashamed of her. Not me, though. I think I've won some money today, actually."

Rel snorted. "Before today," he said, dryly, "would any of you have believed me about her . . . or anything else?"

From their expressions, he could see that they'd taken his point. Amphion, now, treading carefully, "And . . . Mindoir? You actually come from there?"

Rel shrugged. "I really can't say," he replied, apologetically. "I can definitely assure you that we _do_ get snow where I've been living, though."

Nicus looked at the clock. "It's lights-out, folks. Big day tomorrow."

_Definitely._

**Sam**

They stayed overnight at the hotel. Sam could tell by the dazed but happy gleam in Dara's eyes that she was going to be all right; the worst of the nerves were passing, for the moment. He'd enjoyed himself today. The sound of the words _holy fucking shit_, he now knew, was the same, regardless of what language it happened to be spoken in. He had a read on some of the young recruits from Rellus' squad. Most _revered_ Garrus, in a way that was uncanny. There was awe, yes, but not quite blind worship, as he might have expected. The wanted to emulate him, certainly. A few had looked skeptical—probably from traditionalist families, he suspected. Didn't like the renegade in the most famous turian in the galaxy. But after the skills demonstration, they'd all been. . . quietly fascinated. As if they'd been taking everything they'd seen apart in their minds, trying to figure out how to use it.

A couple had even come up to _him_ afterwards, asking what he'd been using that had allowed him to fend off two opponents like Garrus and Lantar for so long. Which had been something of an unusual feeling, to be honest. But a pleasant one.

In the morning, after breakfast, in the gray light before dawn, they reported back to the training center, where they had seats in a VIP box.

Sam and Kasumi sat together, holding hands clumsily in spite of his armor and her radiation suit. "How long is this likely to take?" Sam asked Garrus. "It's going to be very hot for Kasumi and Eli in those suits, y'know."

"We brought lots of water," Lantar assured him. "I strongly advise _all_ of you to hydrate as much as possible."

"To answer your question. . . ." Garrus said then, "about five, maybe six hours. They have to march out in formation, line up in the field, listen to an oration, and then march back out again, turn in their weapons, and then they can go wherever they're going. Getting out in all that crush adds about an hour."

"Good lord on a bicycle," Sam muttered.

"It's a very big deal," Garrus told him, with a shrug. "For humans, there are lots of little rites of passage. A license to drive at one age, ability to vote at another, being allowed to drink at a different age, being allowed to stay out past city curfews at yet another. For us, there are just two. Adulthood and citizenship. And citizenship isn't really celebrated."

"You're mostly just expected to get on with your work," Lantar added, dryly.

At least, Sam had to acknowledge, the turian sense of punctuality meant that this shindig started _on time_. To the second. The various drill instructors and the commander of the base marched out first; there was no music to accompany them, but the slight rat-a-tat-tat of drums in the background. "Here they come," Allardus muttered.

And then _Die for the Cause _struck up, and _everyone_ present stood, and Sam had feeling that the anthem was going to be on a very, very long loop this afternoon, because when you're parading 100,000 people, even in manciples of 160 men at once, there will still be 625 groups that have to march past. _Here's hoping we don't have to stand all the way through every iteration of the damn anthem_, he thought. _I didn't exactly put gel insoles in the boots of this armor this morning._

As wave after wave of people marched in, all wearing boot camp gray armor and carrying rifles on their backs, the only distinction between them being the facepaint—muted by distance—and the manciple banner held aloft by each manciple's squad leader, Sam began to shake his head. The parade was probably miles in length, and showed no signs of ending any time soon. The lockstep was perfect. Every recruit looked sharp. And this was just _one base_. There were, literally, a _thousand_ just like this, all graduating recruits today, all over Palaven. "I'm saying it now, guys," he commented, shifting his weight from foot to foot carefully. "I don't _ever_ want to go to war against ya'll."

Garrus laughed. "Numbers aren't everything," he said. "We still have to _get_ there, and put them in place. And close to a third of our forces are dedicated to some form of logistics or another. We fight at the end of _very_ long supply lines. Humans? Not so much."

Lantar added, "Not to mention, not everyone down there is motivated. A _lot_ of them are just looking to get their four years done, and move on." He shrugged. "The Alliance has an all-volunteer force. They're more motivated."

"It's a nice theory, but a lot of our ground-pounders don't have much more motivation than a conscript," Sam admitted. "For a lot of them, there's literally no place else to go. And I've seen just as many fat, lazy sacks of shit behind desks in the Alliance military as out in civilian life. I'll grant you the supply chains are shorter, though." He glanced down at Dara. "So, how are those fancy new eyes of yours working, sweetie? You see 'em yet?"

"Twelve more groups, I think. Can't _quite_ see it yet, but it _looks_ like the turian numerals for 417." Her voice was excited. _Bless her heart. The excitement's going to pale fast once 417 goes by and we still need to wait out the rest of the groups. At least they've canned the anthem for now, so everyone can sit down._

About thirty minutes later, Dara said, "Yeah. Here they come. Four groups back now." Everyone in the box leaned over the rail now, with renewed interest. Sure enough, that was 417. _Couldn't have told 'em apart from any of the rest without the banner. Guess that's sort of the point, though._ He _could_ see the fact that the banner dipped, very briefly, as it passed by the box. A quick little acknowledgement by the flag-carrier. Not out of line, hopefully. Then they were past, and turned into the vast field where the rest of the recruits were already standing.

Eventually, everyone did finally get in position, and the speech began. Like every commencement speech everywhere, the speaker talked about what every recruit there had gone through, and why; how their duty was to each other and to the Hierarchy and to their people; that the sacrifice of their childhood had allowed them to emerge from this crucible as adults. It was long. It was windy. It was boring.

And finally, it was done. "And now they march _back_ for three hours?" Sam asked, dryly.

"No, they'll fall out at the front of the field, drop off their rifles, pick up their gear from storage, and _then_ they get to either take ground transportation to their designated hotels. . . or, in Rel's case, we get to try to perform an extraction." Garrus grinned.

"I know I'm going to regret asking this, but. . . designated hotels?" Sam asked.

Garrus snickered. "You've got 100,000 recruits very, very tightly wound up at the moment. Do you really want to let them loose on the populace as a whole while they blow off steam, or do you want them in a more or less controlled environment?"

"Oh, good lord. Let me guess. Makes Spring Break in Cancun look like a little kid's tea party?"

Lantar shrugged. "Wouldn't know. I _do_ know that almost every rule that there was for boot camp gets broken. Repeatedly. And fervently." He looked up at the sky. "It may sound boring, but personally, I found a room, closed the door, and _slept_ for three damn days."

Garrus sent his sister a sly look. "I seem to recall that while _you_, Solanna, knew Allardus from school beforehand, you _did_ come back from boot camp rather more attached to him than before."

Rinus turned his head to look at his parents, inquiringly. Allardus just chuckled—at some length, actually, and Sam could have _sworn _there was a blue flush all up along Solanna's throat. "Never mind," she said, firmly.

"Doesn't all this mean that Rel would have had to have filed a petition to go to a different hotel?" Eli asked, after a moment.

Allardus nodded. "Yeah. We filed it for him. Easier that way, really."

_Finding_ Rel among 100,000 recruits was actually surprisingly simple. All they had to was follow numerical order, and yep, there was the correct manciple. Getting him out was a little harder; at least _they_ had an aircar, unlike most of the people clogging the road. Garrus was driving, so they wedged their way in through traffic, and Sam knew Dara had closed her eyes at several points. So, actually, had he. Then they found a spot, hovering about seven feet off the ground, and Sam opened the side hatch. "C'mon, boy," he called, and Rel broke away from his peers, tossing his bag up, first; Sam caught it and stowed it, before reaching a hand down to start hauling the young male up into the car; and as soon as Rel got a grip on the bottom of the doorway with his other hand, he added his own strength, and they quickly got him into aircar. Sam slammed the door shut, and said, "Strap in. Your uncle's driving," and had the pleasure of seeing Rel's eyes widen comically for a moment before he dove for a seat, just as Garrus peeled off into the steady stream of aircar traffic, bobbing and weaving. Rel started to laugh, and soon enough, everyone else in the car was laughing with him.

**Dara and Rellus**

They were all, regardless of species, staying at Caupona, one of the better alien-affiliated hotels in Dacia, where they'd had rooms the night before. Rel was still in armor, which technically was still 'in uniform,' and Dara still had her helmet firmly in place against radiation as they headed in through the sliding glass doors into the cool darkness of the hotel lobby. It was 15:00 local time; the middle of the afternoon. "Go on with you," Allardus told Rel, with clear affection. "You can meet us down here for dinner around 19:00."

Rel bobbed his head in quick gratitude, and caught Dara by the elbow. "You're already keyed to a room?" he asked, quietly, as they moved towards the elevators.

Dara wasn't quite sure how she was suddenly moving this quickly, but nodded, and when she heard laughter from behind them, promptly flushed bright pink. "It's up on the fifth floor, inner corridor. Lots of radiation shielding," she managed. "Room 515."

"Good." Rel tabbed the panel for the elevator, waited impatiently for it, and then, caught her by the elbow and moved her into the small room, squeezing past a handful of volus and asari passengers as he did so. They got inquisitive looks, of course, both in armor as they were, though Rel's boot camp gray got fewer stares than the blue-and-burgundy on Dara's.

Then down the hall of the fifth floor, and Dara keyed open the door and stepped through. Rel stopped just inside the door, sniffing for a moment, and grinned. "You brought Mindoir _with _you in your suitcase?"

"Sort of. _Allora_ flowers, anyway," she managed, as he dropped his bag on the floor, kicked the door shut behind him, and pulled her to him in a tight hug.

After a moment, he started to laugh. "Yeah. Hugging in armor? Not as comfortable as it sounds." He looked down at her, absolutely stymied. He wanted to touch her hair, her skin, and all there was, was hard shell everywhere. "How do I get this _off_ of you?"

"I might ask you the same thing," Dara replied tartly, tapping her knuckles against the chestpiece of his armor.

"We could make it a race," he offered, grinning.

"That's one I think I'll actually win, for a change." Dara unlatched her helmet and put it on the nearby desk with a sigh of relief, hair spilling down around her face. "Kasumi said the place checks out okay. No cameras, no listening devices." Off came her gauntlets, as Rel was taking off his helmet. Omnitool next, beside gloves and helmet. Then she unlatched the seals at the waist of her armor, pulled her arms inside, and lifted the heavy shell over her head, revealing undersuit.

Rel stared at her for a long moment, then pulled her back against him, pulling down the coif to bite her throat. "Rel. . . armor _off_," Dara insisted, fingers searching for latches in vain.

It took quite a bit more peeling to take his off than hers, much to his rueful amusement, but eventually, they did get down to skin.

"You wore your _cinctus_ under the armor," he said, smiling, fingers reaching to play with the chain. "I wondered if you might."

Dara exhaled slowly, and ran her hands up his chest to his shoulders, exploring. "I was wondering yesterday how much of this was uniform and how much of this was you."

"Mostly me. Sorry." He'd been _quite_ worried that she'd pull back. He'd only caught a glimpse of himself in mirrors in the elevator on the way up, and she'd been right—he barely recognized himself. What he'd seen was a full adult male, powerfully built, with hunter's eyes. It did not tally with his recollections of being whipcord thin at all.

"Don't be sorry. I like it."

Soft skin, at last. Sweet smells. Rel bit at her throat urgently now, and heard the little whimpers of pleasure he'd missed so very much, and walked her backwards across the room, to the human-style bed that occupied a large portion of the living space. "Epi-tabs?" he managed to remember, at the last second. "I haven't eaten levo for four months."

"Good thing, too, or you'd have gotten sick, too, probably." She sat up and dug the pills out of the nightstand, giving him one, which he swallowed quickly, before returning to what he'd been doing before—nipping and biting at her shoulders, while her hands had dipped lower, and he growled now. _"Careful, sweetness. I'm too ready right now."_ He closed his eyes against it, trying for control. _"Too much fighting, too much running, too much hunting, not enough __you__." _One hand tangled in her hair, holding her steady, and the other dipped low now, readying her for him. She'd definitely scattered the bed with _allora _petals, and as he pushed her back against the mattress, for a moment, the olfactory sense-memory was intense enough that he thought he could smell damp earth and grass along with the petals, that they were back in their meadow, and had a strong sense of coming home at last as he slid himself into her and made them one again.

"_Bite me, sweetness. Harder. Harder, amatra,"_ he growled into her ear, offering her his throat. _"We're mates, we're on Palaven, and I want your marks on my skin, and mine on yours."_

She clamped down, tentatively at first, then harder and harder as he urged her on, his own teeth buried in her shoulder now. He was keeping the bulk of his weight off of her, even more important now than before, and she could feel how much strength he had now, in every motion, as well as how very careful he was being of her. She didn't want carefulness right now. She wanted _him_, to make up for every lonely, boring day of their separation, and to stock up again against the next inevitable hiatus.

Eventually, they did need to come up for air. "That's going to scar, if I don't put medigel on it," Rel murmured, softly, touching her shoulder.

"Antibiotic cream. No medigel. Apparently, people in the barracks around here need more reminders than just knives." Her voice was drowsy, but he laughed a little at the tartness still in her tone. "I think the one on you is just going to stay a bruise, _amatus. _Sorry."

"A mark is a mark," Rel told her, sounding very content. "My first from you."

Dara glanced at the clock. "Seventeen hundred," she told him from where she lay, curled up on her side, his arms around her from behind. Practicing, in a way, for the not-too-distant day when they wouldn't have a bed, but a nest. "You ready for story-time?"

Rel sat up. "I need to check something." He moved across the room, and dug in his bag for a moment, coming up with his two sets of civilian clothes from before the trip to Palaven, and Dara rolled over, watching in some amusement as he tried them on. They didn't fit. Not even remotely. Rel snorted, and tossed her one of his shirts. "Here. You may as well wear that one. All that soft skin is very distracting."

She laughed, and sat up to pull it on. It fit on her like a thigh-length tunic, and she tugged the laces closed at the throat. "I think the gift shop downstairs might have clothes," Dara said.

"I'll head down before dinner and look."

She looked downward, feeling a smirk cross her face, and he picked up a pillow and whacked her with it. "In uniform, not naked."

"Good. I'd hate for all the female turians in the hotel to suddenly be distracted, themselves."

"_Just_ the turian females?" he asked, mildly.

She picked up the same pillow, and whacked him back. "Fine. Females in general. Right down to the hanar ones." Dara grinned. "Is your ego placated now?"

"Much better," he said, and hopped back onto the bed, putting his back against the headboard, and pulling her back against his chest, and pulling up his knees, so that his spurs wouldn't catch on the sheets. An old, favorite position, first tried out by the lake on Mindoir, under a tree. "Now tell me _everything_."

"Well, I don't actually _know_ everything." Dara made a face. "But this is what I _know_ has happened since you went to boot camp, and I really don't want my dad and Kasumi to start skinning either of us."

Rel chuckled. "I've lived with security protocols just as long as you have, _mellis._"

"I know. Just probably can't talk about it again after we leave the room, just in case. I hate feeling this paranoid, but Kasumi was pretty blunt with me about how much monitoring actually goes on in this free and wonderful galaxy of ours." Dara's voice was dark. "Anyhow, in early July, a bunch of salarians called Lystheni attacked at least one research station that I'm aware of. I _kind of_ think they actually attacked a research base on Rannoch, the quarian homeworld, at the same time, considering the news reports that went live at that point. I don't _know_ that, though."

Dara was careful to define her actual knowledge from her suppositions. There were things she _knew_, from conversations or from working at the clinic, and there were things she could only guess at, as a reasonably informed and educated person might. "The research base is where Dr. Solus was, and they kidnapped him." She was matter-of-fact about it. "Again, I don't know a lot of details. I know from what he's said around me, and from helping with the autopsies, that the Lystheni have basically two factions internal to them. One set wants to improve salarian biotics, by experimenting on people from other races and integrating their genetic code into salarians. The other is more tech-based. Replacing organs with machines, that sort of thing. Which never works very well." Her tone had a tinge of asperity to it. "Anyway, they had him captive for about fifty days. Forced him to work for them. He wound up with a daughter out of it, by the Lystheni dalatrass, who, by the way, may or may not have been a clone. His daughter just hatched at the base in October, and, by the way? Salarian tadpoles are _really_ cute."

Rel slid one hand through her hair, wondering, idly, what it was going to look like, cut short. "What does all this have to do with you getting sick?"

"I'm getting there." Dara leaned back against him, feeling his warmth. "I _think _ that in trying to track down the Lystheni, some of our family wound up going to Omega. I don't know what happened there, except that they probably pissed off Aria T'loak. I know they got information that led them to find Dr. Solus from _somewhere_. I know that your brother has been working on defending against some sort of a new weapon. I don't know the details, and I don't need to. At any rate, while they were still out looking for Dr. Solus, as far as I understand it, _someone_ introduced two different chemicals into an assortment of levo and dextro foods that are commonly shipped all over the galaxy. A turian eating the dextro would be fine. A human eating the levo would be fine. Someone eating both. . . ."

"Would get sick."

"Yeah."

"How sick?"

His fingers hadn't stopped stroking through her hair, and it felt so amazingly good just to be touched and held again, that she relaxed into him completely. "Really, really sick," Dara said, with a sigh. "In our case back home, we were lucky. Kasumi didn't eat what I'd cooked. Your aunt, Amara, Kaius, and I did. Amara and Kaius didn't even digest it. Thank goodness for turian physiology. If you'd eaten it, you'd probably have just brought it straight up from the crop, too. A little inflammation, maybe a couple of days of discomfort. Your aunt and I, though. . . straight to the digestive system." She turned towards him. "All better now, though. I promise."

His fingers tensed for a moment, then kept stroking. "Just tell me. I'm not going to stop asking till I get an answer."

Dara grimaced. "Okay. Your aunt was better off. All those cybernetics did their job. She was on a ventilator for a day, while they filtered her blood, which kept the twins inside her safe." Dara paused, and figured it might be easier just to rip the bandage off all at once. "I was on the ventilator for three days. That's not good. But it's a hell of a lot better than the couple of human women who died, on Bastion and Bekenstein. We've got two new mixed families at the base as a result of all this." His fingers had clenched in her hair for a moment, and then released.

"And I wasn't there." Rel was angry. She could hear it in his voice. Protection-anger, mostly, at a guess.

"You couldn't have done much more than hold my hand while I was unconscious, _amatus_," Dara told him, turning partially around and tucking her head against his chest. "It's okay. I'd have much preferred seeing your face when I woke up, but your dad was there, and your uncle was there, and hell, Eli was there. So was Siara, but that's a _whole_ different story." Her tone soured. "Anyway, from what I gather, Aria was behind it. Probably wanted to see if she could take out your aunt and uncle and their family and make it look like a dietary incident."

"I take it something's being _done_ about Omega?" Rel's voice rasped, and she could feel every muscle in his body tighten against hers, and Dara remembered her father's words. She had to be the safety catch right now.

"If you kick on the extranet before we go to dinner, Omega is probably still five out of the top ten headlines," she told him, lightly, rubbing a hand down his arm. "I have it on _good authority_ that while it's being said that a krogan warlord took out Aria, that there were two knife wounds to her body that were the killing blows, and that laboratory analysis would probably confirm that they were left by blades formed of high-carbon, hand-forged Palaven steel."

"Garrus and Lantar?"

"That'd be my guess." She made a face. "That's just me making suppositions, though." Dara leaned into him, and bit at the rim of his cowl. "That catches you up with all the news that I have, which . . . well, it isn't much. The footage of the blockade of Omega is really awe-inspiring, though. Over two dozen human and turian _Normandy_-class ships. A hospital ship, a couple of troop transports for taking away the refugees, and a couple of turian carriers." She grinned up at him. "I didn't even know they _made_ ships that big."

"_Leviathan_-class?"

"Yeah!"

"Yeah, they're huge." He touched the side of her face. "You're _sure_ you're fully recovered?"

"Stomach still twinges now and again. It'll pass. Speaking of which. . . it's just about time to go downstairs and have dinner with all the family. You going down in uniform?"

"As far as the giftshop, yeah. You might need something a little more than just my old shirt. Although, I have to say, it looks a lot better on you right now than it ever did on me. . . ." His hand stole up and under, finding the links of the belt she wore underneath.

"Dinner, Rel. Then more playtime." She pulled back, chuckling.

"Promise?"

"_Meus iusiuru_, _meus anima_."

"Good."


	52. Chapter 52: Turnabout

**Chapter 52: Turnabout**

**Author's note: **_I took a little time yesterday to work out the new characters for the new bootcamp section, and am still trying to decide how the timeline will be working out for the Spectre plots. My goal is to have them all converge, but that would require about another 220 more days of training time. ;) But hey—those Lystheni are __**good**__ at hiding._

**Dara**

They ate dinner with their family and friends that night in the hotel restaurant, enjoying the companionship. None of the humans needed rad suits or armor, even in the dining area. Her foot was hooked firmly behind Rel's ankle under the table, a constant, quiet source of reassurance for both of them. Simple physical contact; such a luxury.

The waiters kept coming by, filling glasses. There were any number of mixed groups at the tables around them—asari, volus, turians, a few other humans—but none so large. None of the other humans were wearing clan-paint, which meant that Eli and Dara were getting odd looks from almost everyone in the room, and their main waiter had almost had a coronary when Dara had ordered vat-grown beef steak, rare, with a side order of braised _phasela_. "You'll need your stomach pumped and then you'll sue the restaurant," he'd objected. "You can't eat our foods, human!"

"I've never had a bad reaction to _phasela_ yet," Dara told him, cheerfully. "I've got epi-tabs on me if I need them, though."

The waiter's mild panic had only increased as Lantar, Garrus, and Rel had each ordered _apaterae, cuderae, _or _talashae_, respectively, but each had also added carrots, grilled onions, or pork-based bacon to their orders. Finally, the _chef_ had come out from the kitchen to demand what the _meaning_ of this was, how his _art_ was being defaced by all of these changes to carefully crafted recipes, and that his restaurant didn't carry liability insurance that covered arrant _stupidity_. . . and, seeing Garrus' face, had spluttered to a halt. "You. . . really eat this?" the chef had finally asked.

"All the time," Garrus assured him, calmly. "You might consider it a challenge to your artistry, in fact." He paused. "We'll want to scan the food before eating it, however. There have been some issues with food shipments, lately. Problems at the processing plants, I'm sure."

"If that's what it takes for you to sign a waiver. . . ." The chef gradually backed down, and then retreated to his kitchen. Everyone around the table had exchanged glances, and finally started to laugh, while the diners around them simply stared and whispered.

"You enjoy that, don't you?" Sam asked Garrus.

"A little, yeah," the turian admitted. "It's even more fun when Lilu is along."

"Should we offer the chef some of Dara's better recipes?" Rel asked, grinning.

"Nah, there's an art to working people into a tizzy. That would overbalance it at the moment. We'll throw that in only if he comes back out here once more protesting the desecration of his art." Garrus' grin was wicked.

The food arrived, and they all started eating. Conversation died down, for the moment. Dara glanced over, and saw that Rel was still eating as if he were absolutely starving, and wondered just how fast his metabolic rate actually was at the moment.

"When do you all have to leave?" Rel asked, near the end of the meal. Since he was an adult now, he was actually sipping a small glass of turian brandy with the others, mainly, Dara thought, because he _could_, not because he necessarily enjoyed it.

"First thing in the morning for me," Rinus said. "The _Estallus _should be back from both the resupply at Bastion and the Omega blockade at this point. I'll be hopping a shuttle up to Rhenus Base and from there to the ship." Rhenus was one of Palaven's two moons; the other was Dymion. Rinus chuckled. "It's been an _interesting_ break." He didn't elaborate. From the way the various Spectres around the table smiled, though, Dara got a clear impression that Rinus had been involved in the Omega incident.

Allardus nodded at Rinus, then addressed Rellus. "We'll be visiting relatives for the next week," he said. "I haven't seen my own parents in six years." Rel's father was a rarity in turian society; an only child. "I should pay my respects."

"And I should probably pay a courtesy call on my father," Solanna added, not particularly sounding enthusiastic. "It wouldn't kill you to do the same, Garrus."

Garrus grimaced. "An hour or two in the morning," he finally acceded. "After that, the _Normandy _has to head back. Lots of work to do. The _Dunkirk_'s still out there, picking up where the _Estallus_ left off before their resupply was needed."

Dara tilted her head towards Rel, and asked, softly, "Are we expected to. . . .?"

He shook his head. "Not the week after boot camp, and a week before my mate's. They'll understand." Rel leaned in, adding, quietly, "I'll probably go stay with my uncle Egidus before OCS starts. He lives up on Dymion, which is where the special forces OCS is at, anyway."

Dara nodded. "Saves on hotel rooms." Her stomach clenched a bit. In a week, when he was up on Dymion, she'd be starting boot camp here. Alone. _Then again, he's been alone for a hundred and ten days or so. He survived. So can I. I kind of have to, in fact._

Eli had turned towards Lantar, looking interested. "Don't you have family left here, Dad?" That caught Dara's ear, and she turned her head slightly, listening.

Lantar shook his head. "No. No one's left." He shrugged, and added quietly, "Made it pretty easy to throw myself into the life of a vigilante on Omega." He paused. "But I wouldn't mind seeing the ocean near where I grew up again. Though your mom would _kill_ me if I found a beach and she wasn't there, too."

Eli chuckled. "I think she'd be okay with skipping a beach that involves having to wear a radiation suit instead of a swimsuit."

"Yeah, but she misses Bermuda. Most of her shells and whatever were broken by the vandals on Bastion, so she doesn't even have those reminders anymore."

"You could take her back to Earth for a visit after you guys renew your contract under the _tal'mae _next month," Kasumi suggested, brightly. "I know turians don't go in for honeymoons, but. . . ."

Everyone at the table looked at her. Lantar sighed. "You know, we hadn't even told _Eli_ that yet. How in the spirits' names did _you_ know?"

Kasumi smiled beatifically. "I hear _everything_." Her grin became wicked. "And it would be giving up trade secrets to tell you how I found out."

Everyone raised their glasses and congratulated Lantar, who looked more than a little embarrassed. "She finally wore you down?" Sam asked, genially.

"And you didn't believe me when I told you the first time that getting married was entirely her idea to start with," Lantar replied, ruefully. "She's a very determined female sometimes."

Eli grinned. "Should I tell her you said so?"

Lantar raised a finger at him. "Strength is to be appreciated in a mate."

"Here, here," Garrus said, grinning.

Her father turned to Dara now. "We'll say our goodbyes in the morning, sweetie," he told her. "I'd be happy to walk you to the gate on your first day, but you've got Rel here to do that now."

Dara nodded, her throat tight. She hadn't expected them to stay. "Little different from dropping me off at a new school," she said, as lightly as she could. She knew she wasn't fooling anyone, but she was determined to be as strong as she could. A lot of the next eleven galactic weeks was going to depend, greatly, on her ability to learn not to show what she thought or felt on her face. She knew that, intellectually. It was going to be harder to put into practice.

Eventually, after a good deal of cheerful conversation about people and places and things past, the group broke up for the night, and everyone returned to their rooms. In the morning, Dara put on a rad suit to be able to walk her dad and Kasumi to their aircar for their return to the _Normandy_; there were farewells all around. The ones she'd put off the longest, because they were the hardest.

Her dad gave her a tight hug, and whispered in her ear, "Be good. Don't talk back, and remember what you've been taught, and you'll do fine." He turned to Rel, and shook hands with him. "Take care of her."

And then they were off. Rel slid an arm around her waist as they watched the aircar recede into the distance. _"I can't quite tell under the mask of the rad suit,"_ he said, after a moment_. "Are you leaking at the eyes?"_

"_Just a little."_ Dara put her own arm around his waist now, too. _"It'll pass. You make a really good substitute for a _teddy bear_, after all." _She had to switch to English mid-sentence; there was no turian equivalent.

Rel looked down at her. "_I . . . have absolutely no idea what to say to that."_ He laughed. "_You want to see the rest of Dacia?"_

Dara chuckled. _"We're actually going to go outside of the room?"_

His grin was wicked, and he switched to English as a group of turian and asari businesspeople moved past them, leaving the hotel for some meeting or another, saying, in her ear, "I have to give you _some_ chances to recover, _mellis_. Otherwise, we'll waste more of this week than I'd prefer to."

"_You're bad, amatus."_

"_Just a realist. Come on, we'll go exploring. I haven't been in Dacia since I was nine or ten. We'd come here every summer, because it was so much cooler up here than around Raetia."_ From that point on, they spoke exclusively in turian; Dara knew that Rel was trying to assess her language skills, and could see that he was very pleased indeed with her improvement.

They spent the day exploring, and Dara was very glad he was with her. She would have been probably a little scared to do this on her own. She could read all the signs, could speak the language. . . but it was still a very large and very alien city. Even the shapes of the buildings were subtly disconcerting, angled where she would have expected a curve, curved where she would have expected an angle. They got any number of puzzled stares, but no overt hostility, for which she was deeply grateful. They were outside of the areas where the current batch of recruits would likely be relaxing, so they didn't run into anyone that Rel knew, that, or any other day that week.

Back at the hotel, they opted for room service that night, and she commented on what she'd seen from the people so far that day. "They seemed much more neutral than I expected. Especially after all the hatemail Kasumi made me read before I left. Then again, the hatemail mostly came from humans." Her lips curled down. "Maybe turians are just more civilized."

Rel shook his head, where he was sprawled on a chair near the extranet terminal. "No, we're not. You're going to see a lot of _s'kak_ once you get in the gate, sweetness. The people out in the streets. . . they don't have an investment, one way or another. Some of them might even have thought you were a quarian, all bundled up like that."

Dara snorted. "I _felt_ like a quarian. Or like I was wearing a burqua." Rel's VI chimed at his wrist, and he read the translation of the term, shaking his head after a moment.

"So, I read your letters. Over and over," she told him, coming over and sitting down in his lap, and his arms folded around her automatically. "Now you need to tell me everything that I need to expect."

She could feel him shake his head. "A lot's going to depend on the people in your first squad. See if you can find an ally in one or two of them. Just like when I told you to make Kella an ally."

Dara sighed, and leaned back into him. "Yeah. And see where that got her."

"Not your fault." A quick, chiding nip to her neck. "I found an ally early. Amphion. Wasn't the strongest recruit in the barracks, but a loyal friend. Even one helps." Rel sighed. "Spirits, I've missed being able to touch you and talk to you."

"Me, too." She turned so that her legs were across his now, so she could reach up and touch his fringe. "What else?"

"You're going to probably see more hazing than I did." He sounded grim.

"Probably not going to have a barracks whore trying to climb into my bed, though."

Rel chuckled. "No, probably not." He laughed. "Did you hear what Rinus told me about that?"

"No, what?"

"I was asking him what his solution for the situation would have been. He said he'd have told her that if she didn't shape up, he'd recommend that the drill instructors to assign her to Morale Services." His shoulders quaked for a moment.

"Er. . . that doesn't actually mean. . ." Dara squinted. "I mean, I know that there are areas on Palaven where prostitution is legal. . . "

"Mostly a long-standing joke," he assured her. "No one is forced into it. It's more the thought of her being forced to entertain other people constantly and with consideration that makes me laugh." Rel thought for a moment, and then returned to their previous conversation. "You're going to be tempted to take one of the hammock bunks, because it'll look more comfortable than a bare nest on the floor, sweetness. Don't. They can be cut down or the ropes lifted from the hooks very easily, dumping you to the floor. My locker was broken into, so I'm sure yours could be as well. So look out for damaged or stolen belongings. Or for your mail to be read." He sighed, letting his fingers trace the back of her neck. "I'd expect some problems with the food."

"Because, you know, omnivores eat anything?" Dara made a face. "Here's hoping no one actually puts shit on my plate."

He grimaced. "That would definitely be a worst-case scenario. You might be lucky and none of it will happen."

She shrugged. "There's going to be two other humans there, too. I don't know whether to be glad or even more nervous because of that." 

"Yeah, you mentioned. Any idea who they are?"

"One's a student from the Annapolis branch of the Alliance training Academy. The other's enlisted, I think. Apparently, a couple of turians were sent to Earth in exchange. Cross-training forces, basically. Pilot program. That's all they've told me so far." She turned her head and nipped at his neck, gently. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. Scaevus Lintorum." Rel's voice had dropped to a rasp. "He's Syglar Outpost, born and bred. Solid mask of yellow paint. Big. Strong. You're going to have to watch out for him, beloved." His eyes were very worried when she looked up at him.

"Is there any place around here where we could go spar?" Dara asked, after a moment. "I know I'm nowhere near as good as you are, but I'd get a realistic idea of how much I have to worry about if you test me. . . and you'll know how much to worry." She didn't think she could possibly do well enough to erase the concern from him entirely.

Rel stood, lifting her easily, and she grabbed onto him reflexively, laughing as he set her on her feet. "That's actually not a bad idea," he said. "Let's check the hotel directory. There should be a gym here, actually." He gave her a quick grin. "And _afterwards. . . _."

She snickered. "And here I thought you were trying not to wear me out."

"Beloved, I have you for _seven days_ before we're separated for another hundred and ten. And then we get two whole weeks, and then _you'll_ be going to your training. . . and I'll be wherever they send me." Rel caught her wrist and bit it. "I intend to make the most of every day they let us have."

"It'd be a really crappy year, otherwise, yeah." Dara didn't really like the math, but three hundred and thirty days was three hundred and thirty days. At least they were one third of the way through to being allowed to live their lives together. "So, is there a gym?"

"Yeah. Basement. Plenty of shielding for you. Let's go, before I get completely distracted here."

At this hour of night, the hotel's gym was deserted, and there was plenty of open space to work with. They both warmed up briefly, and then Rel advanced on her. She recognized it at once—pure turian style. Lots of kicks, using his long limbs and huge reach advantage. He was _very _fast now, even faster than when he'd left Mindoir, and she hung back a bit, trying to figure it out. Then she took a deep breath, and started to use what her father had taught her.

Never stand in front of the attack. Step off-line, at a forty-five degree angle. Close the distance, as Shepard had taught her, step-and-propel off, with explosive force, not step-step-step. Redirect the forces she couldn't avoid, get beside, behind, where the long limbs couldn't reach her. Fast, hard strikes up top, to distract the opponent; they don't do any real harm, other than maybe a quick stun, but that's not what they're for. Never let them see where the real attack is coming from. . . and the real attack comes from below. Destabilizing the body, the base. Slam her hip into his, establishing a curve to his spine, first destabilization. Then her knee into his, ankle against his; all you need to move any limb is two points of contact, and then you have them. Bend the knee, rotate it, feel how his limb destabilized, how the body was already leaning. Find the dead space, the point of the triangle, and push. Don't follow it down, don't leave yourself vulnerable to the grapple. When you're smaller, grappling is rarely a winning solution. But kicking a nerve center here, or here, or driving the blade of the foot into the opponent's throat, those aren't bad ideas. And these options left her free for anyone else who might be deciding to join in.

"Not bad," Rel told her, grinning, as she looked down at him in some surprise.

"You left me the opening on purpose." Dara offered him a hand back up.

He pulled her down, instead. "Yeah. Because we're training." He looked serious for a moment. "How's your groundwork?"

"Everyone who knows grappling kept leaving base or is currently pregnant. So, not as good as I'd like." Dara made a face as he rolled her over and put his weight on her. "Dad was focusing very much this past month on ways to keep me from winding up on the ground."

"It's probably okay. Most turians don't like to grapple. Tend to avoid it. How would you get out of this?"

"In the street or on the mats?"

"Street."

"Grab the fringe and yank it forward until it met your chin," Dara said, pantomiming, while working her legs back, getting her feet into his hipbones and shoving, her other hand on one of his shoulders, pushing as well, rotating his body. "The instinct is to protect your head, so you'd be pulling back anyway, and wouldn't be dropping your head into my chest for the extra weight and leverage." She grimaced. "That being said, beloved, you outweigh me by about a hundred pounds right now. Gene mods or not, I do _not_ want to grapple a male turian." She grinned. "Well, other than you, in our nest."

He grinned back and rolled to his feet. "Come on, we'll go again."

And that set up the way the rest of their week went. Exploring the city together during the day, sparring in the evenings—and he stuck to the pure turian style religiously, letting her work against it—and biting and loving at night. He never did give her a verbal assessment of how well he thought she'd do, and she never asked. She suspected he didn't want to make her susceptible to overconfidence. . . or to worry her, either.

On a balcony one night, in her radiation suit, she looked up at the sky—so _odd_, to see two large, round moons—and asked, "Which one are you going to be on?"

Rel pointed up at the one currently higher in the sky; both had waxed to the full point in their phases. "That's Dymion," he said. "It's the one that actually has clouds, and a little surface water, actually. The smaller one is Rhenus." He pulled her close to him. "When they're in their crescent phase, you can look up, and still see some of the city lights, very faintly, where, centuries ago, there would only have been darkness."

"North, south, east, west?" she asked, looking up at the moon.

"The OCS training facility for special forces is . . . hmm. About the three o'clock position, looking right at Dymion." He gave her shoulders a squeeze. "Can practically look up and see each other this time. Sort of better than the Mindoir/Palaven separation."

"Sort of."

The thirtieth arrived too soon. "Happy birthday, beloved," he told her that morning as they awakened. "I don't have a present for you this year, unfortunately."

"The fact that the room is paid for, is good enough for me." She sighed, and rolled over. "Speaking of gifts. . . I can't take my necklace with me. The rings are staying where they damned well are. You might have had to take yours off, but they're not going to be able to say a word about a human custom from a human. Well, they can _say_ it, but it'd be hard to make it stick." She shook her head. "Do we need to get a storage locker for the things I brought from home, that belong to both of us?"

He shook his head. "I'll have a locker at OCS. Semi-private room, too. Only one other roommate, I think." Rel pulled her to him. "Wish we'd been able to go through all this at the same time, beloved. Would have made much of this year much, much less annoying."

"Or we'd have _both_ been kicked out of boot camp together for _fraternizing_ in the showers." Her tone was very dry.

He snickered. "Well, there is that possibility, too." Rel sobered, and touched her face. "I'll walk you to the gate tomorrow, sweetness. Today. . . is just for us. No sparring."

"And the door stays closed?"

"Locked and chained."

She gave him her necklace to keep, along with the travelcase that held all their mutual belongings. All she kept was the armor she'd wear to the gate, the two radiation suits, a mouth-guard for sparring, her omnitool, her wedding knife and rings, her pots of face-paint, a human-made multitool, epi-tabs, and one set of civilian clothing, and underwear—something turians really didn't need, and which Rel shook his head over. "Laundry services are provided, but they're going to have a hard time knowing what to do with those."

"I'm mostly hoping that the barracks-mates won't find it a prime target for harassment." She tossed her hygiene kit in the bag now as well, since she suspected that the turian military wouldn't even know where to _begin_ to supply for a human. Before leaving Mindoir, Dr. Solus had given her a subdermal implant for hormone regulation; while Rel had commented that he'd miss the smell of her estrus, the tradeoff was no menstrual cycle for the next four years, which was important, under the circumstances. She needed to be able to retain all the iron her body could, given the exercise regimen she was about to undertake, and she wouldn't be able to fall out and tend to hygiene needs here, either. She'd received the implant at the same time as a whole _host_ of vaccinations.

Rel, looking over her shoulder, chuckled. "Yeah. Shampoo isn't really an issue for us."

"Speaking of shampoo," she said now, quietly, and secured her hair back in a ponytail. Then she opened a side compartment in her travelcase, and pulled out an old-fashioned set of scissors. Her mom had used them for sewing, back in the day. "You're going to have to do the honors, beloved."

He went very still, and she looked back over her shoulder at him, seeing concern in his face. "It really won't hurt me, Rel," she assured him, chuckling. "It might tug a bit at the scalp if the scissors are dull, but that's about it. Just make it as straight a line as you can above the tie." She managed a lopsided grin. "I'm just going to avoid mirrors for a bit, thought, 'cause otherwise, I probably _will_ cry."

He gathered up the hair in one hand, very gently, and began to cut. Gingerly. When the hair completely failed to bleed, and she didn't cry out in pain, Rel continued to saw away with the dull scissors, patiently working his way across. Finally, he handed the scissors back to her, and looked at the hair now in his hand. "Ah. . . what exactly should we do with this?"

Dara reached back and touched the back of her neck, carefully. It felt. . . odd. Air rarely brushed her there, and now she was very conscious of the coolness, and of the fact that her head felt much lighter all of a sudden. "We could probably toss it in the garbage," she said.

Rel shook his head. "At the moment, it still has your scent. I think I'll hang onto it." He chuckled. "For a little while, at least."

"It's always mildly disturbing to think that you could probably track me like a hound." Dara replied, managing a smile.

"We don't really practice the skill anymore. Even back in the cave and nest days, we were more sight-hunters, anyway. But I could definitely find you in a dark room, or if you were using a stealth generator." He sniffed at the back of her neck, making her laugh.

Then the clock began to tick down. Time was back to being her enemy once more, and again, that night, she couldn't sleep. Around 02:00, he asked, quietly, "Scared?"

"To death." It was a sigh. "Going through with it anyway."

"Get some sleep. You're going to need it."

"You didn't sleep the night before, either."

"I know." He switched to English, briefly, for the flat emphasis of the words. "And it _sucked _ the next day." His arms tightened around her, and slipped back into turian now. "Sleep, sweetness. I'm here."

And for a wonder, she actually did finally rest.

In the gray light of dawn on October 31, she got up, and got into her armor. Rel did the same, and they packed everything up, and took a shuttle to the base. "It'll be over before you know it," Rel told her at the gate. "_Adamare elii, mellis."_

"_Adamare talu, Rellus."_

And then she got in line with all the other recruits, and he walked away. Heading for the shuttleport that would take him to Dymion.

There was no way around it; she stood _out_ from all the other recruits. She reminded herself, frequently, that the sensation of people staring holes in the back of her neck was probably her own insecurity, and that if people were staring, it was because it was a good distraction from their own worrying. Finally, she got to the front, and the clerk, blinking, asked her name.

"Dara Velnaran." She unlatched her gauntlets for the palm scan, and the software promptly started to complain that it couldn't get a good reading. It thought that the scanner was malfunctioning, apparently. Dara couldn't help but grin. _It's all going to go the same way, all day. Better to laugh now, than to already start getting annoyed._

The clerk eventually cajoled the system into accepting the prints, and then needed her to open her visor for the retinal scan. That went a little better, but the DNA scan occasioned more chirping from the system. The line was backing up behind her at this point, which she was trying hard not to notice.

Then she had to take her gauntlets _back_ off (she'd replaced them, wanting to risk as little radiation exposure as possible) for the subdermal chips to both hands. The implanting tool was calibrated for thick turian hide, so this _stung_, and the clerk quickly handed her gauze as her red blood started to drip out. _"My thanks to you for your care,"_ Dara told him, politely in turian. She'd gotten a little better at colloquial turian in the past four months, but she knew, largely because whenever she did it, Rel grinned, that she still sometimes had that damned _tal'mae_ rhythm to her speech, making her sound formal. Elegant, even poetic, apparently. She was praying she didn't come off as pompous to people who didn't know her.

"_Go through the doors to the left,"_ the clerk replied, but she thought she had caught a hint of a smile there.

Through there, she gave her medical history to the techs. She actually had it on a data crystal for them, including her recent immunizations. They looked relieved, and studied it carefully. _"Tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy at age three_?" one of them asked her, pronouncing it carefully.

"_Tissue structures at the back of the throat. Both often becomes chronically infected, since they are barriers that prevent bacteria from passing through to the rest of the system. It's a common surgery in humans, and poses no health risks at this time." _

"_I've never even __**heard**__ of half of these diseases,"_ another one muttered, looking through the shot record, and Dara suppressed a smile. _"What the hell is _malaria_?"_

They took her height and weight—5'9", or 1.75 meters, and 152 pounds, or 68.9 kilograms—and recorded everything to her biometric chips. And then through into the next area. Here, she actually saw other humans in the waiting group of twelve or so people—both male, and both in armor. She nodded, received nods in return, but there was no time to talk, even if she'd been so inclined. "Line up by height," came the order. . . and that left her at the very front of the damn line. _Well, this is going to get annoying, quickly._

The NCOs asked her for her weight, set up the weightbar, and had her walk up and lift it to shoulder height. _Thank goodness Dad gave in on the gene mods_, she thought, holding the bar as steady as she could. A year ago, she couldn't have done this; now, the strain on biceps and triceps was definitely present, but not unbearable. She didn't even need to shift her feet. _Thank you, Dr. Solus. And thank you, Dad._

She put the weight down and stepped away when told to do so.

Two hours later, a whole host of other tests and problems had come up. She and the two other humans had been separated from the rest in the uniform line, and taken to a different part of the base by a harassed-looking, impatient turian in civilian gear, who was muttering in annoyance about _special treatment_ in turian. "All right," the turian said when they entered a small building. "This area is the armor treatment facility. Get out of your armor, into your radiation suits, and give me the armor. It all needs to be repainted."

Dara, again, really wished she'd been allowed to take care of this on Mindoir, if only so as not to be fussed at now. Out of the armor, into the rad suit, turning her back towards the human males out of habitual modesty. The turian caught a glimpse of her face as she started to pull on her helmet, and asked, sharply, in turian, _"Are you __**entitled**__ to wear that paint, young female?" _It was a challenge.

"_He who is my mate placed his colors upon my face when we joined by the rites of the hand," _Dara answered, in _tal'mae_, mostly out of annoyance.

The turian guffawed. _"Nice teeth, youngling,"_ he told her. _"Careful using them on the centurions."_

"_Believe me, I won't," _Dara replied, fervently.

The other two humans had turned to look at her, and she looked up at them, smiling a little nervously through the radiation suit's small face aperture. They were both tall; what little she had been able to see through their armor faceplates before had told her that one was pale, with sharply angled, slightly Slavic features and blue eyes, and the other one had broader facial structure, golden-tan skin, and dark eyes. Nothing more than eyes could really be seen right now.

"Guess we should be introducing ourselves," the dark-eyed one said, in accented English. Dara frowned, trying to place it; it sounded vaguely Hispanic, but _not_. "Lance Corporal Ryan Malcomson. From Terra Nova. New Philadelphia, specifically."

That explained it. New Philadelphia was a melting pot, and, not to put too fine a point on it, something of a slum area, as well. Most new immigrants to Terra Nova wound up there at first, and waves of immigration had left most of them speaking an odd creole of English, Spanish, Chinese, and Russian. Dara frowned. "Sorry, your name sounds kind of familiar. Nice to meet you." She shook hands, her own getting engulfed. Then it hit her. "Oh, _Malcolmson_. Are you the one that was supposed to go into the Urban Combat League two years ago?"

The eyes behind the mask looked tired. "You must get that all the time. Sorry. My dad's a big fan of the Houston Hurricanes. Only reason I recognized the name."

"Nah, it's all right. Yeah, that's me. Busted my knee. UCL wouldn't take me, but the Alliance Marines still would. Funny, huh?"

_Yeah, the UCL won't pay you millions to __**not**__ risk your life, but the Marines will pay you a pittance to put it on the line. _"Funny's not the word I'd actually pick," Dara replied, dryly. "What brings you here?"

"Well, it's kind of a no-lose proposition for me," Malcolmson explained. "My commander wanted me to try to go to the Naval Academy Preparatory School—that's NAPS, ma'am—since they figured I was good enough to try for _officer_ and the Academy instead of being stuck as a grunt forever. Then word about this came down the line, and I asked if I could try this, instead. If I get officer here, I'm done. Don't even need the Academy for that, y'know? If I stay enlisted, no big difference. And if I wash out, shit, I go home with a feather in my cap for having tried."

Dara nodded. It was a very different perspective than her own, but it more or less made sense. "Nice to meet you. And you are?" she asked the other man.

"Alexej Vokaj," was the reply, in lightly-accented English, and she got another handshake. "Alliance Navy. Well, midshipman at the Academy, anyway."

"Plebe?" That was Malcolmson. 

"No, thank god. Second-year." Dara knew that probably made him nineteen or twenty. The same age as Malcolmson, who had probably a year of service as a lance corporal.

However, Vokaj's name also sounded familiar for some reason. Malcolmson was already asking the question, however. "Any relation to Miroslav Vokaj?"

"He is my father, yes." The admission sounded reluctant. Dara's eyes went wide. Commander Miroslav Vokaj was known throughout Alliance space. . . and batarian space. . . as the Butcher of Torfan; he'd led the retaliation there against the batarians for the Skyllian Blitz.

"My dad served under yours then, back in the day," she supplied, after an uncomfortable moment.

"He was at Torfan?"

"Yeah, the Blitz, too."

"I didn't actually catch _your_ name," Malcolmson said, looking down at her.

"Dara Velnaran."

They both blinked. "Where are you from?" That was Vokaj, polite, and proper. A good salvo that didn't actually ask _What kind of a name __is__ that, anyway?_

"North America—Texas, originally. More recently, Mindoir." Keeping it simple and truthful.

"What branch of the service are you in?" Malcolmson asked next. He sounded a little puzzled.

_Well, logical next question to ask, I guess._ "At the moment, I'm a recruit in the Turian Hierarchy," Dara offered, smiling, though she knew all they could see were the crinkles around her eyes through the small window in the radiation barrier's headpiece.

"You speak turian very well already," Vokaj commented. "I had six weeks immersion at the Presidio to try to prepare for coming here, and I still couldn't follow what you said to the attendant a moment ago."

Dara picked her words carefully. "I've been studying one of the major turian dialects and _tal'mae_ for about a year now, full immersion for the past four months. Makes it easier." She shrugged it off.

That got her a couple of puzzled looks. "What the hell is _tal'mae?_" Malcolmson asked. "I thought we only had to know enough to start with to follow 'left, right, this is your rifle, shoot it,' and everything else we'd pick up here." He laughed.

Dara winced internally, and was very glad her headpiece covered so much of her face. _This is going to go __**really **__well, isn't it._

The attendant came back out with her newly grayed armor first, which at least alleviated her need to reply, and she immediately started by taking off her headpiece. _May as well get this over with,_ she thought, and let them see her face before she turned away and started changing _back_ into armor.

She'd caught the startled blinks. "You're wearing their face-paint? Isn't that going to get you beat down, girl?" Malcolmson asked, sounding abrasive and concerned at the same time.

Dara picked up her omnitool and wristsheath, and replied, "Not really. I'm married to a turian. Full member of his clan."

Vokaj's question was more of a surprise. "How old _are_ you?" He sounded downright shocked.

"I turned sixteen yesterday. Same as most of the rest of the people here." She locked the rest of her seals in place, and tightened all the buckles, before putting her radiation suit back in her bag.

The attendant came back out and handed the two men _their_ armor now, which prevented more questions, for which she was grateful. Once they were buckled into their armor, the attendant snapped out, _"Follow me,"_ and off they went again, to a different long queue, this time to pick up rifles. Rel had warned her that it was going to be the perfectly atrocious Elanus Banshee Mark III, and she was already prepared to compensate for its irritating tendency to kick high and to one side or the other.

By the time they lined up to find their squad assignments, Dara had passed from high anxiety to boredom. A line was a line was a line, whether it was at Disneyworld or turian boot camp. She was even getting used to the constant stares and whispers. At least she wasn't the _only_ non-turian figure here, even if she was the shortest person on base. _Could be worse. I could be a volus._

"Squad 223!" the centurion at the front of the area bellowed. She wasn't sure she was _ever_ going to get used to all the yelling. "Auriga, Charilca! Bextrus, Acrisus! Essedarius, Kallixta! Rostrus, Leodorus! Velnaran, Dara!" He paused. "Temporary squad leader assignment, Auriga. Barracks assignment, Apha-Xlorae 8. Follow the _blue_ lines, and move out."

Apha-Xlorae meant that it was on the opposite side of the base from where Rel's had been, which made sense, given how much earlier hers was, numerically. Dara was _very_ grateful to have had a chance to walk over the base, however briefly, a week before, and lined up with her new bunkmates on the blue line to move, quickly, in the correct direction.

In the barracks, Dara quickly moved to take one of the floor bunks, which did, indeed, make her body ache just to look at. No pillows. One folded blanket. _Going to be a __really__ long eleven galactic weeks, if I can't __move__ every morning after sleeping in that. _Then she found her locker and stowed her gear, aware of the fact that everyone was trading appraising looks.

_Rel said to find an ally, quickly. God. How the hell do I do that?_ Dara knelt in her designated nest, about the only position its curve and her armor would let her take, and studied the faces around her.

Charilca Auriga, the temporary squad leader, was a female, about six feet in height. Dara had spent an hour or three in the last week memorizing all the different clan and colony markings, and Charilca wore the violet triangle over eyes and nose that Dara now knew meant Baetika colony. Didn't mean she actually _was_ a colonist, but Rel had been trying to teach her how to recognize accents. . . without much success. Charilca had wound up with one of the hammocks, and was currently pacing back and forth across the small room, impatient as a panther waiting for its dinner at the zoo.

Acrisus Bextus was male, and solidly built; he wore a solid mask of violet paint with white diagonal stripes. _Quadim Outpost_. He seemed content to stand, pulled in on himself, observing for the moment, near the door.

Kallixta Essedarius was unusual; she was barefaced, for one, and, at over six feet in height, was so slightly built that Dara almost wanted to call her willowy. She was watching the rest of the room intently, arms folded over her chest, as if waiting for something.

Leodorus Rostrus rounded out the squad. Half of his face, from the nose over, was black; the other half was white. Dara had seen one of the members of Rel's squad wearing the same markings, and knew it meant _Chatti Outpost._

Charilca suddenly turned and snarled down at Dara, "A human in my squad. Great. Wonderful. Nothing like starting out with a _futtari _liability." The body language said _territorial_-anger, but went beyond that. Charilca was aggressive, with it.

_Ah, so she speaks galactic._ Dara stood, and replied, mildly, in turian, _"I will endeavor not to slow anyone down, Squad Leader."_

Leodorus chuckled. _"You speak our language?"_

"_Of course. He who is my mate taught me, and instructed me in __tal'mae__ as well."_ She didn't lift her arm to show the knife; they'd probably all seen it already.

"_Well, la-di-dah, don't you sound like you come straight from the Imperator's court,"_ Charilca snapped. Dara blinked; she'd never heard her accent categorized in quite that way before.

"_Not at all,"_ Kallixta said, calmly, and hers was the first accent Dara could actually _hear_ in turian. _"Not that such a thing would be improper, even were it true."_ Each word was spoken with a crystal clarity of pronunciation. The female turned and looked at Dara now. _"Can you lift your visor for a moment, in safety?"_

Dara gave her a rather wary look, but said, _"The radiation in here is not bad, so long as exposure is brief," _before unlatching the faceplate and looking at Kallixta.

The turian female studied her for a moment. _"I had thought that you looked somewhat familiar, though it's hard to tell one human from another. Have you ever been to Shanxi?"_

_Oh, god. Rel got lucky. No one in his boot camp session either watched the news, or remembered it six months later. _Dara met Kallixta's eyes and replied, _"I had the honor of attending a speech there earlier this year."_ Keep it simple, keep it truthful, and hope they just drop it.

Kallixta changed languages to _English_. Dara's eyes widened. "I thought so. I was there, too."

Dara blinked. "I'm sorry, I don't remember you at all. To be honest, other than the speech, I mostly remember lots of uniforms and being ungodly cold."

Kallixta's smile had edges. "Yes, we _did_ notice the chattering teeth. Not to mention, ah, certain breaches in protocol."

"I'd apologize for that, but it wouldn't be very sincere. No one told me it was actually _winter_ there. It was mid-summer on Mindoir." Dara's tone was rueful, but her mind was racing. _Did I see her there? I don't remember. There were __so__ many people there. _

Leodorus cleared his throat, and chided, in turian, _"I only speak asari high-tongue and some salarian dialects. English and Chinese are next on my list. Perhaps you two might instruct me, but later?"_

It was a subtle way of reminding them that speaking in English excluded the others, and Dara immediately switched back into turian. _"I beg your forgiveness for my rudeness, and would certainly assist you in your studies, if you wished."_

"_Great. This is fuckin' great. I can see our squad's standings dropping already. I got the spirits-be-damned __sewing circle__." _Charilca paced back and forth a bit more.

"_I wouldn't say that,"_ Acrisus interjected. His voice was much lower than Leodorus'. _"In fact, I don't see how you can make any assessment of our skills yet, Squad Leader."_

Dara winced. Technically, Charilca _could_ already assign calisthenics, but it would probably be excessive before they'd even been properly addressed by a centurion.

And, at that moment, a drill centurion started to shout outside the door, _"Muster out, you lazy__ cuderae__! I want to see two lines against the walls of the hall right now! Backs straight, shoulders back, eyes front. Get your hands at your sides!"_ He prowled up and down the forty recruits in this half of Apha-Xlorae; one hallway here, with eight rooms; the hygiene facility in the middle, and then another hall with eight more identical rooms on the other side. _"You may have noticed, recruits, that we have __guests__ among us." _Dara could hear the derision in his voice. _"Three humans have __volunteered__ to join us. Where you all are __required__ to be here, they are here by __choice__." _He whirled and glared into Dara's face. _"Do you think that makes you __special__?"_

Dara knew that answer. _"No, drill centurion!"_

He maintained that glare, but Dara knew that this was the _one_ time when meeting a turian's stare was the wrong thing to do. It was hard to just keep staring straight ahead, unflinching, but she managed it.

"_That's right. No one here is __special__. Different, maybe, but not __special__. There are rules here. __Everyone follows the rules__. Rule One is, when I ask you a question, the only appropriate responses are __yes, drill centurion__, and __no, drill centurion__. When I give you an order, the only appropriate answer is __yes, drill centurion__. __All such replies must be given in a loud, clear voice. Is this clear?"_

_"Yes, drill centurion."_

_"When you speak, you may not use the words __I __or __me__or __my__," he informed them. "You will refer to yourself as __this recruit__. When referring to another recruit, you will not use their first name. You will refer to them as Recruit Bextus or Recruit Auriga. When you speak to a fellow recruit, you will use their clan-name only. The sole exception to this rule is your squad leader, whom you will refer to as Squad Leader, or Squad Leader and then their clan name. Is this clear?"_

_"Yes, drill centurion."_

_"For the next one hundred and ten days, your spirits belong to your squads and your clans, but your minds and your bodies belong to __me__. In order to keep those minds clear and focused, recruits may not listen to music. Recruits do not have extranet privileges, other than mail. Mail may be read and responded to during your thirty minutes of personal time each day, assuming that you are not on fire watch or performing other squad duties at that time. Is this clear?"_

_"Yes, drill centurion."_

_"There will be no fraternization, and by that, I __do__ mean biting, marking, and mating. Is this clear?"_

On and on it went, and Dara frankly wondered what her fellow humans were making of it; she'd caught glimpses that suggested that all three of them were somewhere along this hallway, probably for logistical purposes, but they hadn't been assigned to the same barracks rooms, to prevent them from clustering up defensively, probably.

The centurion walked the two lines of recruits, asking each of them some question or another, finding some way to turn each question into an attack. The other humans were struggling just to keep up with the language. Vokaj was doing _much_ better in that respect than Malcolmson, but Dara felt bad for both of them. Several times, they'd each already responded _yes_ by default when _no_ would have been the correct answer.

Rel had prepared her for this, though. "Sweetness, keep in mind, most of the time, there _isn't_ a right answer. I was used to school. So are you. They're not looking for the right answer. There is no way to please them other than obedience. Sometimes, they're going to punish you, just because you haven't been punished in a while. It'll seem completely arbitrary. _Don't get mad_."

It was harder than she'd expected. When he got to her and Kallixta, he simply paused and stared at them. _"And what I am supposed to do with the two of __you__?" _

Dara hadn't been expecting _this_, and didn't think that, of the _yes_ or _no_ answers, that either applied. So she stayed silent and struggled to keep her eyes focused directly ahead. _"Do you think it matters who your family is?" _he suddenly snarled, and he was right in Dara's face.

"_No, drill centurion!"_

"_And __you__," _and he moved into Kallixta's face now, to Dara's inexpressible relief. _"If __either__ of you think I'll be one __iota__ easier on you than the rest, you had better think again. Because I'm going to be __twice__ as hard on both of you as anyone else."_ He paused. _"In fact, on the ground, both of you. Fifty pushups. Just because I said so."_

Dara didn't reply. Didn't let her face change. But, as she dropped and counted, she thought, _But I thought none of us were __special__._ When they got back on their feet again, she wound up glancing at Kallixta momentarily, and the amusement in the turian female's eyes made Dara grin. As they were allowed to move to the practice fields next, Dara asked her, _"Do you think he maybe has us confused with other people? __Vokaj__ is the one with the famous father in the Alliance, not me."_

"_His father really __is__ the Butcher of Torfan?"_

"_Yes, but I believe that he feels familial-shame about it. Certainly, discomfort."_

"_He shouldn't. That, the Blitz, and the Relay 314 Incident made the rest of the galaxy take your people more seriously." _Kallixta looked rueful for a moment. _"But, to answer your question, I believe the esteemed centurion has targeted us for what he believes to be valid reasons."_

Dara actually found she _enjoyed_ talking with Kallixta. Her accent was so crisp, the words so precise, it was very easy to understand her. She didn't quite realize it at first, but the rhythm of Kallixta's words also was very similar to _tal'mae_. Formal. Elegant.

Next, they had their first run. Dara had _not_ been looking forward to this. Every recruit here except the three humans was in a light cloth uniform and carrying a rifle; the humans, already slower of foot to begin with, were in fifteen to twenty kilos of armor in addition to the rifle. Five kilometers; close to three miles. But it _was_ what she had been running every morning for close to a year now. Again, thanking Dr. Solus and her father in her heart for the gene mods, and cursing Aria T'loak for the disruption to her health, Dara took off with the thirty-nine other recruits from her barracks. She managed it in seventeen minutes; a little over four minutes a mile, and wasn't actually that out of breath, to her relief. She'd managed better before getting sick.

In fact, she actually came in _ahead_ of Vokaj and Malcolmson, but she strongly suspected that neither of them had endurance gene mods. Vokaj wouldn't get his till he finished the Academy—no sense wasting taxpayer credits on someone who could wash out, after all—and Malcolmson was pretty low-ranked. He might only have a strength package at this point.

The turians who were in shape, had, of course, finished in about eight minutes. A couple who were sand-bagging had done it in ten. She could hear Malcolmson swearing under his breath, in between harsh breathing. They had to stop and test their blood oxygenation, and the meters blipped unhappily when they detected hemoglobin instead of hemecyanin, the basis of the blue, copper-based blood of turians. The med tech swore and adjusted the meter, and verified that Dara actually had one of the higher percentages of oxygenation, which meant that all that training a mile above sea level _had_ paid off.

The drill centurion was not impressed by their performance, of course. _"Well, I know that you humans are __guests__ and all, but you see, if someone can't finish the run in an __adequate__ time, there's a rule for that, too. On the ground, you useless cuderae. Let's see some pushups. Make it fifty." _He turned and called out a number of turians, as well, adding, _"You, however? You lazy parasites don't even have our __guests__' excuse of bad anatomy. You're just lazy shits. On the ground, and give me a __hundred__."_

Dara was careful, no matter how out of breath she was, to count them out _loudly_. The _last_ thing she wanted was to have to start over again at the _beginning_.

Finally, _finally_, they were sent to the mess hall for dinner; they hadn't taken a break for lunch earlier, after the initial in-take. They'd simply gone for their runs and other training exercises. Dara took a tray, and found a silvery MRE packet plopped on it. She walked along the chow line with the rest of the recruits, found something she recognized that she could eat from the dextro offerings—scanned it, to make sure it didn't have the compound that Aria's people had contaminated so many shipments with—and took a thin slice of _apaterae_ roast in addition to the MRE. "Are you _nuts_?" Malcolmson was to her right, two back from her, behind his squad leader and another turian in line. "That shit is going to eat through your guts."

"_No, it won't. I have to maintain my dextro immunities. Eating mildly allergenic foods is the best way to do so, provided you know what you can tolerate and have epi-tabs on hand." _She said it slowly and carefully in turian, hoping he'd understand. When he looked at her a little blankly, she repeated it faster, in English. She still got a blank look, but then had to shrug and move on, lest she hold up the line.

Finding the rest of her squad in the huge dining hall, which serviced twenty-eight barracks, and seated over a thousand people, was fairly straight-forward; she followed the numerical order on the tables, and sat down as quickly as she could, knowing that she and all the other 'lazy' or 'out of shape' recruits were holding everyone else back from eating.

Five sets of eyes stared at her as she sat down in the last spot, beside Kallixta, and then those eyes flicked to what was on her tray. _"Ah. . . you __do__ know that you'll get sick on our food?"_ That was Acrisus, in a tone of concern.

"_I have been working on my dextro immunity for a year now, Bextus. I have epi-tabs if I need them. There's no nutritional value for me, of course, but I would rather not lose what I have worked to gain."_ She'd flipped the visor on the helmet up to be able to eat and drink. The only drink available that she _could_ use was plain water, and she planned to drink as much of that as possible. . . although she was not particularly looking forward to working out how to use the lavatory while suited.

"_If you slow us down by getting sick, I will take it out of your hide, Velnaran."_ That was Charilca. No surprise there.

"_I will try not to do so, Squad Leader."_

The MRE, taken at random out of a crate, proved to contain beef stew, peanut butter, jelly, wheat bread, an apple turnover, and a flavoring packet for water. She didn't think she really needed anything _warm_ right now (it was pushing 105º F/45.5º C) at the moment, but that was what she had to eat, and she needed to eat _all_ of it, even though, right after exercising, eating was usually the _last_ thing on her mind. _Oh, well, at least it's mainly protein_, she thought, and got to work once the order for silence was called, and they were permitted to begin. Kallixta glanced over her shoulder at some of the foods, looking curious, as did Leodorus, the linguist. Charilca grimaced and pretended to gag; Acrisus just looked at her dubiously as she ate the _apaterae _quickly.

The loud reading of rules and regulations reminded her, in a way, of what she'd read about medieval monasteries. No talking had been permitted at meals in the monks' refectories, either; one brother had been appointed to read from the Bible or from the monasteries' Rule, and the rest had eaten in silence and contemplation. Only here, it was contemplation of the Law. It was an amusing thought, but she had to concentrate. She didn't have the rules and regs and the law in _her_ blood, after all. She'd given memorizing some of them a shot in the last week, but it had been difficult. Time enough for duty, now.

Charilca grinned, close to the end of the meal, and leaned forward, holding up a large _apaterae_ bone. When Dara glanced over, the female extended her mandibles fully and bit down on it with a resounding _crack. _

_I guess that was supposed to surprise me, disgust me, or scare me?_ Dara met the female's gaze, and since it was still time for silence, said nothing. But she smiled, visible with her faceplate up. She could read irritation in the other's expression, too, and wanted to laugh.

The drill centurions took note of _anything_ that hadn't been eaten on someone's tray. A few recruits were already doing calisthenics for not having finished their food, but not many. Everyone knew that rule, it seemed.

They were allocated some time for hygiene in the evening—the group showers wouldn't have been so bad, if it had been just her and thirty-nine turians, she figured, but now there were male humans there in the mix. Dara found an out of the way spray, gritted her teeth, and got on with business. Eye contact was supposed to be a no-no anyway. Anyone who looked would be in the wrong. From a few shower-sprays over, she could hear a male turian voice complaining about the _smell _of the humans. _"Like wet pyjaks!" _That got a couple of reluctant chuckles, but not many, thankfully.

The evening lectures after cleanup took on a hectoring tone again, with the _guests_ being called on to maintain their radiation suits and armor as _close _an approximation as they _could_ to proper turian standards. Everyone's rifles, lockers, beds, at least, were all the same. And then there was a blessed half hour of personal time, of which Charilca took up half by deciding on a watch order. Dara wound up with the mid-watch, which didn't please her in the least; waking up halfway through the night was not a recipe for going back to sleep again later. But that was life.

When she was finally permitted to check messages, there was one quick line from Rel, in English. _Made it to Dymion. Looking down at you now. Be well, mellis._

No time to write back. The others were talking now, and she had to listen, try to get a feel for all of them. Figure out who among them, if _any_ was likely to be an ally. Charilca seemed a lost cause from the start. Aggressive, abrasive, intent on getting ahead. _"Where are you from, Rostrus?"_ she was demanding.

Leodorus looked up from his messages. _"I was raised on the Citadel. Most recently, on Bastion."_ He cleared his throat. _"My parents are diplomatic corps." _

"_Hence all the languages,"_ Dara said, smiling as best she could through the rad suit she'd changed into for the night.

Leodorus glanced over, and nodded. Charilca made a snorting noise. _"You were not addressed, Recruit Velnaran_."

_Ahh, the old speak-only-when-spoken-to approach. Lovely. She __really__ wants people to understand that she's the boss. Wonder how many squad combinations she'll last as squad leader, or if any of these other turians will be good enough to knock her out at the end of the week?_

Charilca moved on. _"And you, Bextrus?"_

"_Quadim Outpost, just like the paint says, Squad Leader. Have to say, it's weird not having to wear a suit to go outside here. Spent my whole life either in the underground pressurized zones, or out on the surface in a suit." _Acrisus looked over at Dara. _"Kind of the reverse of you, I suppose, Velnaran._"

Dara chuckled. _He's pulling her teeth, I guess. Showing that he won't be controlled. _Now she _had_ been addressed, and if Charilca protested her responding, the female would wind up looking even pettier than she had been already. _"I am sure I will become accustomed, in time, to the suits, but for the moment, it __is__ somewhat annoying. Quadim is one of the heavy manufacturing outposts, is it not?"_

Acrisus nodded. _"Yeah, no appreciable atmosphere, so no regulatory needs for emissions."_

Charilca _did_ cut her eyes Dara's way, and moved to cut off conversation. _"Essedarius, with an accent like that, you've got to be Palaven-born, like me. Eastern continent, right? I'm from Austrum. Where are you from?"_

"_Complovium_," was Kallixta's calm reply. Dara knew that it was the capital of Palaven—home of the Imperator and half the legal buildings in the Hierarchy. It also was the seat of the military's general staff, among many other things.

Charilca snorted a bit. _"Explains the accent, for sure. Your father a general or something?"_

"_Or something,"_ Kallixta replied, noncommittally.

_Ahh. That would explain the drill centurion picking on her about family,_ Dara thought. _Mystery solved._ Except, for the fact that when Leodorus spoke to Kallixta, he used the inferior-to-superior voice. So did Acrisus, actually. The drill centurion certainly hadn't, but that made sense. Charilca hadn't been, but the squad leader seemed a little tone-deaf. It was an interesting puzzle

"Lights out in five minutes," Charilca said now, turning over in bed. She'd left herself the last, and shortest watch, and clearly intended to get a good night's sleep. And while she'd asked all the others where they came from, she'd not asked Dara the same question. Dara might have been hurt, if the treatment had been a snub from a human girl. To be honest, at the moment, all she wanted to do was _laugh_. It was so obvious and blatant, she _almost_ wondered if the female had been _told_ to act this way.

Kallixta had the hammock swinging over the top of Dara's bare nest on the floor, and rolled over for a moment to look down at the human. _"So, where were you from before Mindoir, Velnaran?"_

"_Your memory is most clear, Essedarius. I only said Mindoir once today."_ Dara looked up at her. _"Originally, Earth. The Republic of Texas."_ She grinned.

Kallixta frowned. _"I'm pretty sure I know most of the political units of Earth, and I don't remember that one."_

"_Texas was an independent state for a short while before it joined the United States, and the United States in turn helped to found the North American Union."_ Dara yawned. It had been a long day.

"_Do you miss it?"_

"_I miss Mindoir more. I don't miss Texas nearly so much as some of the people." Like my mom_, she thought, but didn't add. What her mother would have thought of this crazy day, which would be followed by a hundred and nine more just like it, Dara had no idea, and she was pretty sure Sarah Jaworski wouldn't have had anything in her graybox to cover it, either.

Her watch passed without incident, although it was hard to wake the next person, Acrisus, for his turn.

Calisthenics in the morning, no more and no worse than expected. Again and again, Dara was grateful for a year of preparation and the damned gene mods. The two-kilometer sprint ended with all three humans doing yet another round of punishment pushups. _This,_ Dara thought tiredly, _is going to get old soon. What, are they going to make thirty-seven other recruits do punishment pushups when we beat them at swimming?_

But, she kept her eyes down and her thoughts to herself. Then, finally, breakfast. Oatmeal had never been her favorite, but she knew her stomach could handle it, which was an important consideration after the poisoning; and there were hash browns, some sort of flat pastry and bread and jam in this MRE. _Guess I'm going to be eating mostly carbs this morning._ Again, Charilca pretended to gag at the smell of the food, and ordered her to sit at the end of the table, as far away from the squad leader as possible. _Fine by me. Leodorus and Kallixta are much more interesting anyway._ And then, silence, and the regs.

They broke for an hour after breakfast to study regulations and insignia and all the other things considered vital to life in the turian military. Most of the rest of her squad already knew the insignia; Kallixta appeared to have already largely memorized the regs. Dara downloaded a copy onto her omnitool; she learned much better by reading than by hearing, so she'd be studying these at night in addition to trying to memorize them while, now, marching in formation while repeating the words the drill centurions shouted. And then it was time for another run. This time fifteen kilometers. Followed by the seemingly inevitable pushups.

Vokaj muttered at the end of that session, "If nothing else, we're going to have outstanding upper body strength by the end of eleven weeks."

"No joke," Malcolmson muttered back. "Shit, man, I could've stayed in the Alliance Marines and done _pushups_."

Lunchtime. This time, someone tapped Dara on the shoulder, and she turned to face them, only to realize no one was looking at her. When she turned back, she found her tray heaped with bones. Far more than just Charilca by herself could have done. Probably everyone at the table, even from other squads, had added some to the pile. Dara nodded, picked up her tray, and walked it over to the trash.

The drill centurion looked at her. Looked at the bones. Stated, _"That tray isn't cleared, Recruit Velnaran."_

"_No, drill centurion."_

"_And you're aware of what the punishment for not clearing a tray is?"_

"_Yes, drill centurion." _She found a place just past his right ear to focus on.

"_Give me the tray, drop, and give me fifty."_

She dropped and did. She _was_ aware, however, that the centurion, still carrying the tray, walked over to her squad, and dropped the tray on the table with a very loud clatter. _"On your feet. I'm seeing a disturbing lack of squad spirit here,"_ he said, very loudly indeed. _"A squad's leader is responsible for everything that the squad does, isn't that right, Squad Leader Auriga?"_

"_Yes, drill centurion."_

"_In which case, I think it is __your__ responsibility to help our __guest__ finish her meal. Start eating, Squad Leader. I want to see every bone here eaten. You have ten minutes until it's time to start rifle practice._

_Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty. _Dara got back to her feet in time to see the centurion pick up one of the bones and shove it in Charilca's mouth. _Don't laugh, don't smile, pretend you're not doing anything except looking straight ahead. She's not going to like the fact that she's being punished. For what she did to me, admittedly, but from her perspective, it's going to look like he's protecting me._ Dara swallowed hard, and walked back over to the table, and took her place among the others. _Technically, the rest of the squad should chip in and help. Doesn't look like the rest of them are in any hurry to do so, though. Maybe they didn't collect all the bones. Maybe they were just passed along from the other tables around us._ _Shit. I have no idea what I can do here that will make this any better. Probably, like everything else around here, there __is__ no right answer._

Charilca didn't quite manage to eat all the bones in time. That got her pushups. _Going to be a fun night in the barracks tonight_, Dara thought, grimly.

The good news was, it was _finally_ time for rifle practice. She and Kallixta wound up sharing a lane; Acrisus and Leodorus shared another, and Charilca and the squad leader from 224 were sharing a third. This was almost relaxing in comparison to everything else that had gone on. Dara sighted, fired, squinted, letting her eyes assume their macroscopic range, and nodded. Rel had said these models kicked high and left; she'd corrected a little for it, and as such, she'd kept that bullet in the center ring. She corrected, and fired the remaining nine shots quickly, ejected her thermal clip, and stood aside.

"_So quickly, Recruit Velnaran?" _She hadn't realized that the drill centurion was there and watching. He seemed to be following her and Kallixta around at this point, and it was getting to feel as if he were constantly breathing down her neck. _"Let's see that." _ He reeled it in, and Dara, who could already clearly see that she had one bullet—the first—which was close to the line between the center ring and the next, and the other nine were all solidly in a ragged blob at the center of the target, stood, expressionless, until the paper target was reeled all the way in.

He looked at it, looked at her, and said, _"Next time, get them grouped properly."_

"_Yes, drill centurion."_

He clipped a fresh target on, and sent the target back an additional twenty-five feet. And stood there, watching her, as she reloaded. Right in her space. Dara's lips twitched slightly behind her visor. Even with him looming over her like this, it was _still_ a stationary target. A hell of a lot easier than a batarian mercenary who was moving, dodging, ducking, and, most important of all, firing _back_ at her. Her face and eyes went blank as she took one breath to clear her mind. Released it partially, held the rest, found the place between the heartbeats. . . and fired. Ten times, only correcting slightly to account for muzzle drift, no hesitations. She knew the tricks the sights were going to play on her now with this Elanus Mark III. Ejected the clip. Stepped away from the line.

The centurion reeled the target in again. No deviations this time. Ten bullets, one ragged hole in the center of the chest. The centurion looked a little annoyed. _"Again. Further back."_ Another target. Now seventy-five feet further back than the starting position. Child's play, really, with a rifle. Pistol would be much harder; pistols didn't have the range for this. _This is no different from hunting with Dad; you shouldn't even need a scope for this._ Looking only at the end of the sights now. . . breathe, exhale, squeeze the trigger . . . another ten for ten.

And then another, a hundred feet back from the starting position. Ten for ten.

Kallixta whistled between her teeth. _"You've put in some serious practice time, Velnaran,_"she muttered. She had gotten only seven of ten on that last increment, herself.

"_It's easy to practice what you think is fun. It's practicing the hard things that deserves praise."_ Dara shrugged, deprecatingly.

"_Another increment,"_ the centurion said, sharply. Dara blinked. Everyone else had done four rounds. Now she was being required to do a fifth. _Great. Being singled out again. Well, fine. At least it's something I'm good at for once._ She reloaded. No different than the range back home. One of the rangemasters, Morris or Amelius, giving her extra lessons. _"From a kneeling stance," _he added, suddenly.

_Ah, more realistic, anyway._ Dara dropped to a kneeling position, settled the rifle in position, and took her breath. For a moment, the target wore a batarian face. Then she found the calm, focused her eyes. Sighted, and fired. _Damn. _

The centurion reeled the paper in, and held it up. _"What is the problem with this target, Recruit Velnaran?"_

"_The grouping is shoddy, drill centurion." _Dara grimaced. It was true. While they are all inside the center ring, one shot was noticeably higher than the rest, which comprised the ragged hole at the heart.

"_Fix__ it next time. Continue working with Recruit Essedarius."_ He brushed past her so quickly, she barely had time to reply _yes, drill centurion_.

Dara gave Kallixta a look, and shrugged, not knowing what the hell to make of any of this. _"Tell me how you're sighting," _the female said to her. _"I can't seem to keep any of my shots consistently placed."_

And then they were working together companionably enough, Dara coaching Kallixta.

The final ratings for the afternoon were Dara with a one hundred. One point higher than Rel, as best she recalled from what he'd said. Of course, the next few days, she could expect harder tests. Further distances. Moving targets. But she was quite happy to be rated at sharpshooter. Kallixta and Charilca both came in at exceptional, and the two males both qualified easily. No repeat of Rel's experiences, so far, for which Dara was grateful. It was going to be hard enough to get through this experience on her own, let alone pulling anyone else's weight behind her. She had no _idea_ how Rel had managed it, himself.

Dinner. No repeat of the bone performance, but Dara was frankly expecting to be jumped in her bunk tonight. The best thing she could think of to do would be to do well enough at sparring—god willing and the crick don't rise, as her father might have said—that no one would think that was a good idea. Because, yes, tonight was their first night of sparring practice, replacing the drill instructor's speech.

With a squad of only five, there was always going to be one spectator during the first week; Dara, sitting in her secondary radiation suit—the one she'd figured she'd devote to sparring, on the grounds that if one of them tore, it was no big deal, but the one she _slept_ in was going to need to stay intact—took the opportunity to watch how the others fought. Evaluated them through the lens of her father's teaching and was. . . surprised. They were _slow_.

Admittedly, she was in what seemed to be a tech-oriented squad. She wasn't sure if the turian military took backgrounds and skills into account when grouping people together, or pulled names out of a hat, but Leodorus was pretty clearly a linguist and highly intelligent; she had him marked out in her head as intelligence services, maybe even an STG liaison in her mind. Acrisus was sharp, too; he wasn't quick to speech, but when he talked, he could tell you how to combine gases for breathing mixtures and how to repair any number of pressurization or atmospheric issues that would have been relevant on Quadim Outpost. Kallixta seemed smart, too, but said very little. It looked like she had lots of training, but everything she did looked formal and a little stylized, almost like a dance. Leodorus, who had height and weight on her, was barely even attacking her, for some reason. Charilca was all teeth and aggression, wild, hard kicks, chasing Acrisus around, while the male stolidly let her wear herself out. None of them had Rel's speed, Allardus' and Lantar's strength, Garrus' ferocity, or her dad's guile. _Huh. Well, I'm sure it'll look a lot different when I'm out there fighting them. Always does when the foot's coming right at your face._

Fighting Acrisus first. Solid, strong, stable, but slow to move. Dara dodged left, closing the gap, ducking behind and into him, right foot solidly on his far knee, kicking it, destabilizing it, while her right hand had slammed into his jaw, lifting his head up, before circling back down. Circular motion for the head, crashing technique for the lower body, and, as the body staggered, she grabbed an arm, pulling it behind his back while it was still slack from shock, and walked him forward till he was facedown on the mat, one knee planted in the small of his back.

Fighting Leodorus was more of a challenge; he'd been sandbagging against Kallixta, for whatever reason, but while he had some training, he didn't have Rel's speed. It was hard, but it was doable; lower center of gravity, more mass for the volume actually _helped_. Her father's comments that once you were punching from two inches away, it didn't _matter_ how long someone's limbs were, suddenly made sense. Once you were inside the reach, beside, behind, everything changed. If you stood outside at the edge of their range, you _had_ to play their game. Inside, Dara got to play her own. Leodorus was chuckling at the end. _"I don't know how to counter what you're doing, Velnaran. But I'll be trying to figure it out over the next few days."_

Kallixta still had that loose elegance of style, but everything she did was so open and so relatively slow that Dara actually had very little trouble fighting her. Heck, it was refreshing to fight someone only three inches taller than she was, rather than, say, eleven inches or more. In fact, it was _fun_. It was a pity Kallixta hadn't been on Mindoir. It would have been nice to have a female turian friend there. Well, other than Serana, Rel's little sister.

Charilca grumbled _immediately_ that the radiation suit gave Dara an advantage. _"I can't see her eyes," _she said. _"How can I possibly fight someone when I can't see their focus?"_

Immediately, Dara's mind sprang back to her father's lessons. Fighting with her eyes closed. Just feeling the body. How she'd learned to defocus her eyes, not to let her opponent see what she was planning to do. . . because she didn't necessarily have a plan. She'd just react. Do something with what they presented her. And Charilca came in and attacked, a whirl of anger and limbs, and Dara let her move past her and through her and redirected and then, much to her own surprise, dropped the female to the floor and got her in a choke. _Gene mods. Got to love 'em._

She'd beaten all four of them; Charilca had beaten everyone except for Dara. Kallixta had, somehow, come in third. Which didn't make sense; both of the males should have mopped the floor with her. But they'd been pulling their punches.

The rest of the first week went in more or less the same vein. Kallixta and Leodorus were both solid in the bookwork, where Charilca lagged, last. Acrisus brought up the middle there, and Dara, after a slow start on the regs, quickly caught up, vying with Kallixta for marks there. Charilca had everyone beat on the run times, and showed a lot of aggression on the sparring mats. Dara had everyone beat, hands down, on the rifle range. Points-wise, it almost looked like a three-way tie between the three females, much to Dara's amusement. Well, other than her abysmal run score, that is.

The evening of November 3, the last day of the first week, after they'd finished their first forty-kilometer run, Dara wanted nothing more than to crawl into her nest and _die_. None of the rest of them had had to do it in full armor. All three humans had finished, but she was frankly wondering if Vokaj was going to need medical attention. She'd showered and changed after dinner, and they had a few moments of free time before the centurions would come around with the new squad leader names. At the moment, Charilca was out of the room, down the corridor, talking with a friend in his barracks room. _"Who do you think will be the squad leader next week?" _Kallixta asked, leaning down from her hammock.

"_I think any of the three of you would make a good leader,"_ Dara replied. _"Bextus is calm and analytical. Rostrus is pretty good at getting people to get along and calming down situations. And everyone seems to respect __you__, Essedarius."_ Dara had never yet used inferior-to-superior to Kallixta, and wasn't about to start now. In fact, the comment was a very subtle dig at her new friend—a dig the female noticed, and bared teeth at, good-naturedly.

"_You didn't answer my question, though. Who do you think __**will**__ be squad leader next week?"_

"_With the way my luck's been going lately, Aurgia will keep it, on the strength of her run times." _Dara's tone was rueful.

"_It takes more than being a fast runner to be a good soldier." _Kallixta's voice was chiding.

"_I know that."_ Dara had her datapad in her hands, and was re-reading the latest section of regulations she needed to stamp into her memory. _"I don't know how much of the calculation is based on pure numbers, and how much of it is based on evaluation by the centurions. Someone like my mate, who has both the numbers and the intangible character qualities of a leader, is one thing. Easy to pick out. When one person has the intangibles but not the numbers, and another person has the numbers, but not the character, the . . . spirit. . . how do you chose between them?"_

"_I am __never__ going to get over how well you speak our language," _Leodorus said, suddenly.

Dara flashed him a rueful grin through her mask. _"Everyone I knew at home, from my mate's family to my friends' families, put me through language immersion for the four months he was gone for boot camp. The only break I got was galactic at school, English from a human friend of mine who was raised on Citadel and Bastion, like you, and salarian at the medical clinic. When someone throws you off a cliff, it's better to try to figure out how to fly, yes?"_

Leodorus actually laughed out loud at that. _"Yes, but how am __I__ going to learn to speak English if all you speak around here is turian or __tal'mae__?"_

"What did you want me to say?" Dara asked. The words felt _odd_ in her mouth.

"I think he'd be happy with anything, at this point." Kallixta's English had a light accent, almost British.

"I can throw a dog a bone. Heck, I can throw a turian a bone, too." Dara grinned and put on a drawl. _"Why __do__ you want to learn English, Rostrus?"_

"_Good on the resume. I __really__ want to work in intelligence or as a guard for one of the embassies. The more I know, the better my chances."_

"Fair enough. How much English do you already know?"

"_I can say_ take my travelcase to the spaceport."

"Oh, good lord on a bicycle. That's no good."

Kallixta blinked and started to laugh. _"The language is . . . much more colorful. . .when spoken by a human and not one of my turian tutors,"_ she explained, after a moment.

"If you think I'm colorful, you'll have to listen to my dad sometime," Dara said, dryly.

At that point, the drill centurion came into their room. They all sprang to their feet; Charilca still wasn't in the room. _"Well, now we have a little problem in this barracks."_

_Oh, god. Now what?_

"_At the moment, Essedarius has a 98 in the book learning segment. Velnaran has a 95. Auriga has an 80. Clear so far? Good. In running, Auriga has a 98, Rostrus and Bextus have 90s, Essedarius has an 85. Velnaran has a 50 by turian standards." _He turned and gave her a baleful stare. Dara suppressed the urge to sigh. Of course she did. She had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that her grand bootcamp adventure was about to end, and she was going to be washed out in her first goddamned week because her species couldn't run a damn mile in two minutes.

The drill centurion continued, _"That being said, we are perfectly aware that our __guests__ have different body structures than we do. On a human scale, Velnaran receives a 97."_

_Holy fucking shit._

"_Which leads me to the rifle and sparring issues. Velnaran, 99 average across the week. Auriga 81 average across the week. Essedarius has improved to a 91, or exceptional, over the week. Bextus 87, Rostrus, 89." _He was reeling out the numbers so fast, Dara had no idea what they _meant_. _"In sparring, Velnaran leads, with a 95. Then Auriga, 90. Essedarius, 85. Bextus and Rostrum, tied at 80." _He frowned. _"That means that Velnaran has an average point score of 96.5. Essedarius has an 89.75. Auriga has an 87.25."_

Dara swallowed. On the one hand, she wanted to dance for joy. Her goddamned slow run speed wasn't being counted against her in any real way. Sure, pushups. Sure, a little humiliation. _Everyone_ was getting that. On the other hand. . . this meant that she was seven points ahead of the closest turian in the race for squad leader. And she didn't think the centurion would have come in here to talk to them about this if this were a _good_ thing. Kallixta had already slapped a hand on her shoulder firmly, though, and the two males were grinning merrily. _"I'm telling you all this, because to put a non-turian in as a squad leader is going to raise some hackles."_

_Oh, shit no, shit no, shit no. Put Kallixta in. They already all defer to her. All those damned inferior-to-superior forms._

"_That being said, Velnaran, it'll be interesting to see if you can do as well as your mate did. Congratulations, Squad Leader."_

All Dara could think was, at least this time next week, she'd probably have gotten her teeth knocked in by someone in an opposing squad, and she wouldn't have to worry about this anymore.

_November 3, 2191_

_Well, Rel, it's official. They somehow decided to make me squad leader. I don't know why they didn't just make the __obviously__ politically correct move and appoint Kallixta over me, on the grounds that turians will probably follow another turian's orders more happily than directives coming from little ol' me, but here I am, and I guess I'm stuck with it until at least next week. I've told you before about how everyone defers to her. Even Charilca does now, at least a little bit. Did I remember to mention that she—Kallixta, that is, not Charilca—said she was at the speech at Shanxi? If I could get a picture of her to send you, I would. You might remember the faces there better than I do. It's bugging me that I don't. Eh, I'm rambling because I'm tired._

_I don't know how you dealt with all this, beloved. I know I'm not going to do anywhere near as good a job as you did. I don't have what you have, your way of getting along with everyone around you, or at least getting them to go along with you more or less peaceably. I'm more of an arguer, and when I'm done with someone, I'm done with them. I guess I can try to emulate you, though. At least for the next week. _

_Really miss you. Haven't had any letters from home this week. I guess things might have gotten busy on the work front again. 100 days to go. Yay._


	53. Chapter 53: Fair Play

**Chapter 53: Fair Play**

**Author's note: **_Regarding the slower chapter production; work on Thursday and trying to figure out new characters made for no actual writing on that day; Friday, I had a doc appointment, a meeting with daycare regarding my son, and three contractors to the house to get estimates on a few things. Suffice to say, every time my tush hit the chair to write, the phone rang or someone knocked at the door. Weekends are also harder to come by writing time, due to the kiddo being at home. Should return to approximately normal speed over the next week, assuming I can stop myself from writing yet another 30-page plus behemoth._

_I'm glad everyone is catching who Kallixta's family actually is; this gives me a chance to work with the element of dramatic irony. When the audience has something sussed out, and the character doesn't know, that creates a different dynamic and tension than I've used before. I just need to figure out how to keep Dara from coming off as stooooopid for not figuring it out as fast as my very smart audience. ;)_

_Didamus was an example of a upper-class upbringing, whose family never left Palaven, and thus, stayed barefaced (canonically, the word 'barefaced' in turian means 'untrustworthy,' a relic from the Unification Wars). I reckon the upper-classes probably sound like someone talking on the BBC, with sharp, clear-edged words, very distinctive sound. _

_Kallixta's last name, suffice it to say, is an assumed one._

_Also, cookies to CalliesVoice, for correctly predicting Dara's first order of business. ;)_

_I would normally have changed scenes and backtracked here; in fact, I started writing exactly that. That being said, everyone's enormous response to the last bootcamp chapter pretty much demanded that I move on with it!_

**Dara**

In the silence that fell after the drill centurion left the barracks, Dara took a couple of quick breaths and organized her thoughts. Oddly enough, she realized, it was like triage. Treat the most pressing concerns first, then down the line in the order of what was _most_ likely to kill people to the _least_ likely. _Okay, what are the biggest problems I have? Charilca, check. Rel solved his troublemakers by having one of them babysit the other, but I don't have anyone likely to be able to contain Charilca's attitude. Oh, I could tell Kallixta to say something to her, but then Charilca would be obeying Kallixta, not me. That's not going to work. Okay, that's the most important; fix it later. And I'll probably have to fix it myself. God only knows how._

_What's the next biggest issue? The fact that both males are sabotaging their own melee scores by not fighting Kallixta, and they're not giving her a chance to improve because they pull their punches. Everyone needs to improve. That, I can fix. Or try to, anyway._

At that moment, Charilca slammed open the door, and strode in, a snarl on her face. _"What kind of messed up shit is this?" _she demanded, holding up the board that clearly showed their squad rankings. _"If you can't meet turian standards, you don't belong in the fucking turian military! And you sure as hell shouldn't be in charge of a spirits-be-damned squad! This is favoritism!"_ Right up in Dara's face right now, trying to loom over her, rank insubordination. The others in the room were already shifting uncomfortably; in terms of pack psychology, always pertinent to turians, this was a challenge, and one that needed to be answered.

_I could hit her_, Dara thought, clinically. _Worked on Mazz. But that was to snap him out of blood rage._ Instead, she took off her radiation hood, so she could look Charilca right in the eye. A brief exposure wouldn't hurt her. _"In case you hadn't noticed, the turian and human military structures are starting to combine. Admittedly, I'm sure you don't read much news on the extranet."_ She kept her voice as calm as if she were talking to a hysterical patient, and she'd already seen any number of these at the clinic before. People said the _damnedest_ things when they hurt. _"Thus, standards change. Sit down, Auriga. We're going to discuss some changes here as a squad."_

"_Make me, you shit-eater!"_

_Oh, well, if you're going to put it __**that**__ way. . . _. Dara drove her fist into the female's celiac plexus, a cluster of nerves which, in a human, was located near the diaphragm; a hit there would send pain along several secondary nerve clusters and could cause the diaphragm to spasm. In a turian, it was under the lowest downward point of the chest structure that swept down from the cowl, into the abdomen, and was located just between the crop and the diaphragm. Charilca curled in on herself, unable to breathe, and Dara caught her by the shoulders and walked her back until she sat down on the floor, gasping. _"Inhale slowly," _Dara told the female, still crouching in front of her. Maintaining the slight height advantage for the body-language of dominance, but also showing some concern. _"It's going to take about a minute and a half for the nerves to stop sending protests up and down the line. In the meantime, you have nothing better to do than listen. So hear my words. This is __my__ squad now. It might only last a week, but for that week, you will do what I tell you to do. For know this, Auriga: I'm __not scared of you.__ You can yell all you want. It doesn't make you intimidating. You can throw all the bones on my tray that you want. It doesn't make you clever. It makes you __petty__. The absolute most you can do to me is get on my nerves, and guess what? I can take it out of your hide now. You don't want me to do that."_ She spaced the words out in that last sentence for emphasis.

The entire time she spoke, Dara looked directly into Charilca's yellowish eyes. Tried to put in her eyes what she'd seen so often in her father's, when he was mad. Not narrowed, not mean, just sort of blank. And everything she'd said was true. Charilca wasn't scary. She was _annoying_. Facing her dad down over marrying Rel, getting gene mods, anything that gave him a full head of mad? That was scary. Trying to stop a krogan in full blood rage from hurting everyone in the room and killing himself in the process? That had been scary. Trying to keep life in Rel's body, while getting shot at by batarians? Scary. The thought of losing another friend, as she'd lost Kella? Scariest of all. Compared to all that, Charilca was a _joke_.

Some of what she was thinking had to have communicated across the species divide, because Charilca actually lowered her eyes.

Dara stood up, and looked around. _"All right. As I said, a couple of changes. Nothing too major. We're going to work on doing better as a team, and I don't see anyone here who can't do that. Essedarius, what would you say your weakest skill is?"_

Kallixta actually blinked at having a question addressed to her. _"Ah, melee. You and Auriga destroy me every time we spar, and I don't know what I'm doing wrong, Squad Leader."_

"_Agreed. Bextus needs to work on smoothness in melee, and with smoothness comes speed, or so I've been told constantly for the last year or so."_ Dara's quick smile was rueful. _"Rostrus, you're a __hell__ of a lot better than you've been letting on. Both of you are going to stop sandbagging. Not only are you doing yourselves a disservice, but you're failing Essedarius every single time you __don't__ step in and show her where she's leaving herself open. Screw boot camp. What happens when she's stationed somewhere and has to board an enemy ship? If she goes, trained as she is now, is she going to __live__?"_

Leodrous' glance was dubious enough for Dara to interpret. _He doesn't think Kallixta will ever be stationed anywhere like that._ But he rallied enough to say, _"No, Squad Leader. She'd be dead."_

"_Why is that? Describe her weaknesses in sparring. We all hear criticism every day—wait, __all__ day—from the centurions." _That got a couple of chuckles. _"We can take hearing it from each other, if we use it as a tool to improve ourselves."_

Leodorus shifted uncomfortably. _"It seems," _he said, very carefully, and Dara could hear the diplomatic background in his voice, _"that Essedarius has been taught very formal styles, ones intended for sport. Ones that have moves that invite counters, that leave you open to damage from sources not included in the rules of fair play."_

"_Then it's our job as a whole to see that she improves, right? No more pulling your punches. Only other item of business is watch rotation. It's going to be a genuine rotation, so every night will be a bit different. Every five nights, one of us will get a damned full night of sleep as a result. Starting tonight, I'll go first, Essedarius second, Auriga third, Bextus last, and Rostrus gets the night off. Tomorrow night, Rostrus first, me second, Kallixta next, and so on down the line._" There were murmurs of surprise and pleasure at the words. Dara grinned. _"Sleep deprivation kills. Okay, that's enough from me. Go read your messages._"

By this point, Charilca had long since recovered from the hit, and the world had moved on without her. The others in the squad were already unquestioningly accepting Dara's authority. Charilca _could_ keep yapping, but she'd be effectively turning herself into the omega if she did. Dara was distantly interested to see if the thoughts she'd had, about applying wolf-pack psychology to turians in general, would work on the squad. Physical chastisement to establish dominance, and then simply _acting_ dominant after that. _Let's hope they don't realize how much of an act it is. Rel's the alpha, not me. Although, I guess, in a wolf-pack, I'd be an alpha by virtue of being his mate, regardless of anything else. _ Her thoughts were spinning dizzily. But for the moment, Charilca seemed to be nursing her injured pride in her nest across the room.

Then Dara had written her letter to Rel, wondered, again, at the lack of word from home, and had taken first watch.

The reactions the next morning from the rest of the squads to either side of them along the barracks hall had been interesting. The other two humans had not fared as well. Vokaj had made rapid strides even in the first week at learning the language and the rote memorization needed. Malcolmson had not. He was struggling to follow the simplest order. It wasn't that he was stupid—not by a long shot. He just didn't have a gift for languages. Vokaj, being born in the European Union, probably spoke three or even four languages before he'd even left primary school, Dara thought. Czech, German, English, and probably a smattering of Russian. An alien language was difficult, but his brain was already well-adapted to picking up a new one. She actually wished she could put him and Leodorus at the same damn table so they could learn from each other. But that would probably never happen. And while Vokaj's military prep school background showed in his shooting marks, he wasn't doing well in the heat, humidity, and the long, long runs. Malcolmson's physical prowess was excellent—the Urban Combat League hadn't been _idiots_ in wanting to recruit him—and his shooting marks were adequate, as she'd expect from a garden-variety jarhead.

Of course, they weren't really her _problem_, except inasmuch as each caught her over the course of the day. "Shouldn't you be with your squad?" she asked Malcolmson in the cafeteria that morning, glancing around and then scooping up _alai_ roe onto her tray.

"Yeah, I'll find my table in a minute," Malcolmson told her. "_You_ made squad leader of 223?" There was blatant disbelief in his voice, and she didn't blame him. He was almost the height of a turian, easily 6'6", or 1.98 m. Not quite Rel's height, but still, he dwarfed her. She definitely didn't want to fight him in a melee competition if she could avoid it, certainly. "What did you do, find some centurion who'd never had a blowjob or something?"

As she turned on him, he raised his hands, "Hey, hey, _chica_, just kidding, yeah?" _Look, look, just a big funny joke, right? Boys will be boys, and all that?_

Dara inhaled, and weighed everything briefly. _Not worth the effort. If he were in my squad, he'd be on the floor right now seeing how many pushups he could do inside of five minutes, but. . . don't overreact. _"It's not such a big deal, really. We're a bunch of technical geeks over there. Doubt it'll last more than a week." She put on a friendly smile behind her visor, feeling like her cheeks were stretching tight.

He settled down visibly at that comment. "Heh, well, congrats, anyway, _chica._ Nice to see even a . . . " Malcolmson evidently changed his mind on how he was going to phrase something, and finished, "little girl like you can beat them at their own game."

Dara took a breath. _"There is no __them__. There is no game. Go find your squad, Malcolmson."_

She headed to her own squad's table now, quietly seething, but once she got there and settled down beside Kallixta, she had to chuckle a bit under her breath. _"Something amuses you?" _the turian female asked her.

"_I've spent enough time around enough other species that when I sit back to look at how my members of my own species are interacting, it's starting to feel like a xenopsychology exercise,"_ Dara told her, ruefully, and Kallixta and Leodorus both laughed at the comment. "_I was just told that it was good to see a __little girl__ like myself beating the turians at their own game." _Dara ate her alai roe, first. _"The psychology of the statement is interesting. Malcolmson sees himself as the big strong male, which, of course, he is. However, he has to call attention to it. Demean someone else to do so." _Dara shrugged. _"This suggests that he is, in fact, insecure. Or a hater-of-women." _There was no actual word for _misogynist _or _sexist_ in turian, so she had to make do here. _And, of course_, Dara thought, dryly, not bringing this part up out loud, _there was the whole inference that I couldn't __possibly__ have done this on my own merits without having serviced some male to get the job. _While everyone in the Systems Alliance was, technically, an equal under law, there were _many_ cultures within the Alliance. And some of them clung fiercely to old ideas and attitudes.

"_You say you're from Mindoir, right?" _Leodorus asked her now.

"Try it in English, Rostrus. We might as well practice what we can here."

"You from Mindoir come? That is human colony? Why. . . " He groped for the words in his mind, and she waited for it, patiently, "so many non-humans?"

"There is a xenobiological station near where I live." Dara translated it patiently into turian, then added, "Most of the scientists come from many worlds."

"You said you speak salarian?"

"_Only medical jargon, I fear. My mentor at the, ah, regional medical center, was salarian. He wrote all of his notes in the vilest combination of galactic and salarian imaginable. So I can tell you to __mwlle un'paa'un urraat na'patills__, but all that means is to disimpact the krogan's bowel. It is, I fear, not a knowledge useful for polite conversation."_ Dara's tone was very dry.

Leodorus' laughter almost carried over into the silence period, which would have been a problem, but he managed to stifle it in time.

Vokaj caught her later in the day, after their squads had all been introduced not to the Big Pile of Bricks, as Rel's had, but to the Big Pile of Sand. Their challenge had been to dig and transport sand from one end of the yard to the other, using nothing but shovels and five pieces of canvas. It had been easy enough to figure out that putting their strongest person—Bextus—on digging duty at first, and then having two people each carry the sand across the yard, like a patient on a litter, was the way to go, and to change out the digger every so often so that they got a rest. Then they'd gone for their twenty kilometer run, followed, as usual, by punishment pushups for the humans. Dara didn't mind these _nearly_ so much now that she understood that they were _probably_ being done to make the turians around them feel less threatened. _Look, the humans are being held to the same standard as the rest of you. It's safe. They're not special. No need to show teeth._

As the three humans got to their feet after the pushups, Vokaj offered, quietly, "Congratulations on making Squad Leader of 223." And while he was as polite and formal as ever, she thought he sounded sincere under the careful phrasing. "I was wondering, ah, Velnaran," he said, a little diffidently, as they headed to the mess hall, "where exactly you trained? You seem. . . very young to have finished at any military prep school in the Alliance that I am aware of."

"I finished high school on Mindoir with an honors degree and several college-credit courses to my name," Dara told him cheerfully, grabbing a tray. "No prep school here, sorry."

"I was also watching you and your squad spar the other night, and you're. . . pretty good for someone your age."

"Hey, knock off the age comments. You enter boot camp in the Hierarchy at sixteen, and when you graduate, you're an adult. Sixteen is also an adult on Mindoir, I might add." Dara's tray received her MRE packet with a _thwack_, and she grabbed two glasses to fill with _lots_ of water. Every night, she sweated and steamed in her rad suit; all day, her armor tried to cool her, but she still sweated from the nearly constant exertion. She was adding electrolytes to almost all the water she drank, and drinking as much as she could bear to, but she was still sweating so much, she hardly had to urinate. It made her worry, badly, about her kidney function, to be honest. She continued now, looking up at Vokaj, "But, to answer your question, I was trained in martial arts by my dad and the neighbors, really. Nothing major. Just enough to get me prepared to come here." She gave Vokaj a smile. "You better get to your table. And I to mine."

And off she went again. Their curiosity was understandable, but she didn't really want to deal with it right now. She had enough on her plate as it was.

Rel had prepared her for the rest of Week Two as best he could. He'd told her about compass and map exercises, all of which Dara could pretty much do in her sleep, given the hunting and hiking and camping she'd done with her dad over the course of her life, but a refresher never hurt. Palaven's magnetosphere was weak, of course—part of the reason for the lethal radiation that kept her in her armor or in a rad suit until she wondered if the wrinkles in her fingers from bathing constantly in her own sweat were _ever_ going to smooth out again. This made using a compass somewhat more challenging than on Earth; global positioning satellites made up for the lack on modern Palaven, of course, but the goal was to teach recruits how to move in the field on other planets. Ones where the magnetosphere actually _existed_.

Rel had also forewarned her about the _acrocanthae_ rumors and tracks. "I don't know if I should have been more cautious, or if that one was a 'no right answer' exercise, sweetness," he'd told her. "I'd be surprised if they used the same exercise from session to session anyhow. And _you_ should be cautious, anyway, beloved. Palaven _isn't_ Earth. Our predators aren't your predators. And the lands around the base _are_ wild. Just maybe not _acrocanthae_ habitat." His mandibles had flexed in amusement.

So there they were, trudging through the jungle, following a map and the compass and trying to get to a ranger station somewhere east of the base. No _acrocanthae_ rumors this week. This was their third such foray into the jungle, and every time, Dara simply couldn't get over how _green_ it was. _"Your world is so amazingly beautiful_," she told the rest of the squad as she paused to get their bearings. She'd been the one to wind up with the map and compass almost every time, although everyone was supposed to be checking their bearings.

There were three layers to this jungle, like a Terran rainforest; high rooftrees, with fernlike fronds highest up; towering, needle-leafed trees below that, covered in thick tangles of vines, covered in thousands of flowers; and down here, at the ground level, ferns and thick, wide-leafed jade-green plants here below. They'd passed a couple of huge plant-eaters so far, keeping well back from them, as Dara imagined keeping well back from a herd of elephants on Earth. The ground was muddy; it was monsoon season, and it had rained every afternoon for the past ten days.

Acrisus seemed uneasy in the jungle. Then again, he'd come from an outpost where there was _no_ life and virtually no atmosphere; he was out of his element here, and kept his rifle in his hands. Then again, Dara had been doing the same thing, when she wasn't dealing with map and compass. Leodorus was a Citadel/Bastion boy; he wasn't doing too badly—better than Elijah had, his first few days on Mindoir—but was almost as uneasy as Acrisus. Kallixta seemed like a city girl. Charilca, actually, had the most experience, but had defaulted to a 'speak only when spoken to' silence of her own over the past few days that bordered on sulky. _"Okay, looks like that way,"_ Dara said after a few moments, and pointed.

Unfortunately, that direction took them to an obstacle—a streambed. The water was dark, murky, and filled with leaves; if that water was moving, it was doing so very slowly indeed. Dara snorted. _Looks like a great place for alligators. Or, hell, for whatever local predators just like to wait around and see who wants a drink. "Do you see any animal tracks?" _she asked the squad as a whole. _"Predators like water." _ She looked pointedly at Charilca. _"What sort of creatures would make water like that, their home, Auriga?_"

The female grimaced. _"Dachae, maybe. . . Squad Leader. I doubt it, though. They like wider rivers better."_

"_I think I might have found tracks,"_ Kallixta offered, to the right. Sure enough, small, three-toed tracks in the dirt, leading to and from the water. Lots of them, actually.

Dara didn't recognize them, of course. _Could be the local variant of coyotes for all I know_, she thought with a sigh. _"Auriga? What are these?"_

The female squinted. _"Anserae tracks." _A pause. "_Squad Leader." Anserae _were small herbivores that ran together in gaggles for protection, and ate decaying aquatic plantlife. Geese, in essence. _"They obviously made it to the water and back safely. It will probably be safe to cross."_

Dara nodded slowly. She didn't like it, but there were no signs in the mud near the stream of recent struggles. Nor of other recruits' bootprints, she noted. _Did we make a wrong turn?_ she worried for a moment, then remembered that the daily rains would have wiped yesterday's tracks clean overnight. She glanced at the map; there was, apparently, a bridge two miles north along the stream. _Too far. "We'll go across, but one person will be standing on the bank with a gun, ready to shoot any __dachae__. Then we'll cover that person as they come across."_

"_There won't be any __dachae__,_"Charilca said dismissively. Forgetting the title completely this time.

Dara wasn't going to make an issue of the courtesy just yet. She simply answered, _"You stay on this bank and cover us, Auriga. Bextus, you're tallest. Go first, so we can see how deep this really is."_

It was hip-deep to Dara, and the rocks under the water were _slick_ with algae. Acrisus, going first, slipped and fell, and had to be hauled back to his feet. _Right. None of them know how to swim worth a damn. _He got to the far bank, and started checking his weapon to make sure it was still dry. Then Leodarus slipped and fell in the water, and Kallixta grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet, and they hit the far shore together. Dara made it across without incident, turned, and readied her gun. _"Come across," _she called to Charilca.

At that point, the bushes behind the female on the opposite bank moved, and about ten small creatures emerged from the underbrush. They were about the size of turkeys, or maybe medium-sized dogs; they were, of course, taller, as most things on Palaven were, because of their bipedal structure, and had long, fairly muscular necks. One of them raised its crest and made a sort of hissing howl, and the others fanned out, moving into a semi-circle. Dara could see sharp teeth in those mouths, and said muttered, "Shit. Those aren't geese." They were, in fact, _villi._ Reminiscent of Terran velociraptors, they were small, effective pack hunters; while their Terran counterparts had only had sharp teeth, _villi_ had a poisonous bite. Unlike Terran wolves, they were _not_ shy of humanoids; their disposition was closer to that of a varren—territorial, aggressive, and predatory. Without the charm of, say, Aunt Lilu's pet, Urz.

Louder, Dara said, _"Auriga, no sudden moves, if you please. Come into the water and walk towards us. Essedarius and I will cover you. Bextus, Rostrus, get those damned rifles ready."_

Charilca, rather than moving, looked over her shoulder, and turian adrenaline hit her system. She hesitated, clearly wanting to turn _towards_ the creatures, to fight, and Dara shouted, _"Get your ass on this side of the river right now, Auriga!"_ just as the creatures started to move in on the female. They didn't creep. They didn't run. They _jumped_. One of them actually landed teeth in Auriga's arm. Dara raised her rifle and aimed at the closest _villi_; one sharp report from the rifle, and the first one lay dead on the ground. Most of its companions fled, immediately; Kallixta shot one of the ones fleeing, for good measure. The alpha male pulled back last, hissing and snarling, before beating a retreat into the underbrush. Auriga looked at her wrist, which was bleeding, and snarled.

Dara swore and crossed _back_ over the damned river and its slippery rocks, clamping one hand on the female's wrist, both to keep the blood from pouring out, and the poison from spreading _up_ until she'd had a chance to evaluate the situation. She swallowed at the sight of the blue blood; red blood, orange blood, green blood, she could look at all day, but blue blood made her get a little light-headed. Something she was going to have to get over, obviously.

_Okay, no tourniquet for poison bites; better to let some of the blood try to carry the poison out of the body. Can't let her exert herself. Great. We're going to wind up carrying her. _Out loud now, _"I'm going to wrap this lightly, and try to immobilize it. Don't move the hand or the arm around. That'll spread the poison if any got in the system. Does the wound burn?"_

"_Yes, of course it burns, you—" _

"_Okay, that's because __villi_ _venom is a cytotoxin, if I remember correctly."_ Dara's voice was detached as she opened her little first-aid kit, issued for these hikes. It didn't contain much beyond alcohol wipes, cortisone cream (and its turian counterpart), gauze, and tape, but that was enough to get her started. _ "It causes necrosis in the cells around the bite, and wherever it spreads in the body. Nasty, but we should be able to get you to treatment pretty quickly." _She paused. _"Any blurred vision? Shortness of breath?"_

"_No and no—"_

Dara stripped off her gauntlets and, barehanded, slapped a pad in place to soak up the blood, and examined the wound itself; sure enough, the bite edges were starting to swell. _Great. _She wrapped the wrist in gauze, working up lightly into the hand, immobilizing the joint, and as she worked, she called across the river, _"Any signs that they're coming back?"_

"_No, Squad Leader," _came Acrisus' reply.

A quick check of Charilca's pulse. A little faster than turian norm, but not bad, all things considered; no signs of shock, anyway. _"Okay, this time, we're going to cross the river together, Auriga."_ Dara raised her voice. "_Bextus, Rostrus, get some branches together. We're going to need to carry her out."_

"_Shit, no, I do not need to be carried! I'm not a weak human." _They'd reached the far bank by that point, and Dara, who had been making sure that Charilca didn't slip and fall into the muddy waters, let go at that point.

"_By all means, if you __really__ want the bleeding to continue as you exert yourself, for the poison to spread with each extra beat of your heart, going through the entire arm, dissolving the cells, by all means. Let yourself get a secondary infection. It'll be __fun__."_ Sometimes patients needed calm detachment. Sometimes, they needed someone to club them over the head with reality. _"I've __held__ someone's detached limb while the doctor prepared to reattach it. It probably won't terribly bother me to see them cut yours off to prevent the infection from spreading to your heart." _Dara stared at the female. _"Or, you could do something refreshing, like following an order when I give it. Sit down, shut up, and when we get the litter built, you'll rest on it while we take turns carrying you to the station."_

So, they carried Charilca. Taking turns. Fortunately, it wasn't _that_ much further. A mile, maybe two, through heavy jungle. When they got there, the drill centurion had _plenty_ of questions for Dara. _"Why did you decide to cross the stream?"_ he demanded, leaning in and glaring at her.

"_The objective was to get to the station in the shortest amount of time, drill centurion. I do not know the area, but Recruit Auriga stated that the water would not have dachae, being too small a stream, and identified the tracks as belonging to anserae."_

"_What precautions did you take?"_

"_One person back on the bank, with a rifle, to cover those going forwards; on reaching the far bank, I turned to cover Auriga's crossing, drill centurion."_

His face was very close to hers now. _"Is there anything you would do differently, if you had the chance?"_

"_Yes, drill centurion."_

"_Oh, really. And what would that be?"_ Deep sarcasm in the tone.

No right answers. Going two miles upstream to save a hundred-foot crossing was the wrong choice. Crossing where the water was obscured was the wrong choice. Obviously, trusting in Auriga's knowledge of the wildlife had been the wrong decision, too. Expecting Auriga to follow a damned order and start making her way across, rather than turning _towards_ the predators had been a bad idea, too. Dara sighed mentally. _"I would shoot at the __villi__ the instant they appeared and hope to scare most of them off, drill centurion."_

"_I understand you performed first aid?"_

"_Yes, drill centurion."_

"_What's your level of training in that? Auriga could have __died__."_ His eyes had flicked away for a moment, though. Looking at the rest of the squad, who, other than Auriga, were lined up with her. _He's more concerned about them. Maybe about Kallixta?_ Dara didn't have time to think more than that, but she stored it for later thought.

"_B-Sec first-responder's accreditation for eight species, drill centurion."_

"_Only__ eight?" _Very sarcastic again.

"_Yes, drill centurion." _The hanar gave her _fits_ and she simply hadn't been able to finish the last tests before leaving for Palaven.

"_What happens to the squad, the squad leader is responsible for. Do you understand that?" _Very loud, very much in her face.

"_Yes, drill centurion."_ Dara was very glad that her visor obscured her face. She felt like crying at the moment, and if he'd smelled the extra salts of her tears, he'd have been even _more_ all over her.

"_You will walk punishment drills during personal time tonight, Squad Leader. One of your own is injured. And that is your responsibility."_

"_Yes, drill centurion."_

Punishment drills consisted of marching back and forth with a rifle at shoulder arms; at the end of each circuit, she had to perform some portion of the basic manual of arms, shoulder the weapon again, and proceed back along the same line. In full view of everyone. As she did so, she wondered, really, what she _should_ have done.

When she came back to the barracks, Charilca was back from the infirmary. Bandaged. Quiet. Dara came in, changed to her radiation suit for the night, and turned off the light. On top of everything else, she had a mid-watch tonight. _My brilliant plan to give everyone equal chances at decent sleep. So much for that._

In the darkness, Dara heard Charilca say, quietly, _"Squad Leader?"_

_Great. Now what? "Yes."  
_

"_The medics said that you treated my bite just as they would have. They said that you probably saved my hand."_

Dara didn't know quite what to do with that statement. _"Any qualified medic would have done the same. Does it feel better?"_

"_Yes. . . ah. Thank you." _

"_Glad to hear it." _All she could think was, _Well, that's something, anyway._

She was ready to let sleep take her, but then Kallixta asked, _"So, which species __don't__ you have first aid accreditation for, Squad Leader?"_ Her voice was a little teasing.

Dara yawned. _"Hanar. It's absolute hell trying to learn how to take their vitals through those mass effect fields that they use for support and environmental regulation."_

Then she finally let sleep take her.

By evening of the next day, she had a letter from Rel, at least, and the opportunity to read it. In it, he told her that OCS had started for him on November 4, and that it actually was a lot more pleasant than boot camp had been. _Almost anything would be better than this_, Dara thought, dryly. _Rasmus Cadius is actually my roommate up here. Marine OCS and Special Forces OCS share a facility. Nicus is down somewhere around Raetia, learning to fly fighters, at his own OCS, from the sounds of things. It __does__ get better, sweetness. I know it probably doesn't feel that way right now._

_No, no it doesn't_, Dara thought, a little grimly. She wrote back, briefly describing the _villi_ attack, and asked him what, if anything she could have done differently. _Not that I expect there to be a __right__ answer, beloved,_ she added, near the end. _The one upside is that Charilca's attitude has shifted. She's behaving much better now. A little subdued, but not the sullenness of before. I still have no real idea of what the hell I'm doing, but we're almost to the end of Week Two here. Next squad consolidation coming up in what, four days? Can't happen soon enough. Love you, Rel, and I miss you. Really wish you were here to take on all this leadership crap. I'm not good at it. Then again. . . you already did._

As the week progressed, Dara was pleased with everyone on her squad's progress in sparring. Leodorus had really started pushing Kallixta, and Kallixta actually seemed to be enjoying the opportunity to learn. Dara _almost_ suspected that the male had a slight crush on the barefaced female, but it was a little hard to tell, due to all the formal phrasings he used when he spoke to her. It was all about a slightly longer touch of the hand than was actually necessary, a slightly longer look, and then a quickly averted gaze. From the outside, looking in, it was actually somewhat amusing.

The last night of Week Two was November 14, and that was squad against squad melee. Dara's squad, 223, was set up against 224, their next-door neighbor, which happened to house Malcolmson. _Oh, lord, no._ Dara winced. He was the size of a football player, and weighed close to 280 pounds, she'd be willing to bet. On the other hand. . . she knew he had a bad knee. And while he'd been recruited by the Urban Combat League, that didn't actually say much about his melee skills. _Now I wish I'd actually paid attention when my dad was watching those damned games._ She mostly remembered that they actually wore full battle armor, and fired weapons at each other in elaborate capture-the-base games in variety of arenas that simulated urban ruins. She'd never quite understood why her dad enjoyed watching their matches. She understood it a little better now that he wasn't a Ranger anymore, but a Spectre. He liked seeing other people do what he did, and measuring himself against them, she figured.

She didn't have the opportunity to observe this time; with five against five, no one had a chance to sit and watch, so every match, she was going in cold. All she knew what that Malcolmson _hadn't_ gotten squad leader last week. And it hadn't been his run times that had tanked him, either. The book portion had probably been a blackmark; he _still_ was having trouble with turian. Not a surprise; it had only been twenty days. But by now, Vokaj was at least trying some basic conversations; she'd overheard him in the mess.

Squad 224 had three turian males, one human male, and one female turian. Dara faced off with the female first, and was pleased to see the same fairly predictable turian style, and altered her attack, trying something new, from her dad's _silaht _repertoire. As the high kick came in, Dara dropped almost to the ground and kicked _under_ the lifted leg, destabilizing the far knee. It wouldn't have worked on a male; the height differential and reach was too great. Then, with the female rocked off-balance, Dara turned on the ground, bringing her leg around in a low sweep; left-right destabilization became front-back crashing, and then it was just a matter of finishing her. Next opponent, pure turian style. Faster than anyone in her current squad, but still. . . he wasn't Rel.

A glance to the side, while she waited for her next opponent, and she saw that Malcolmson was fighting Kallixta, and was doing so in what her dad called the "prototypical football player in a bar fight" mode. He'd moved forward and bear-hugged her, more or less tackling her, and the turian female clearly had no idea what to do on the ground. _Damn. I should have realized that and gone over that more. I guess the next squad leader will have to figure that out, too. Well. . . if the next squad leader's turian, they might __not__. Crap. She's getting mauled. _Dara could see one of the centurions that _always_ seemed to be around moving in to stop the match and declare Malcolmson the victor.

The various males in Dara's squad didn't have nearly the problems with the human as Kallixta did; they used their reach and their speed effectively. Malcolmson was _slow_. He hit like a freight train, but if you weren't were he was hitting, when the train got there, everything would be okay.

Then Dara's next opponent was on her, and she didn't have time to think. This was the 224's squad leader, and he was _much_ better than the others she'd faced. Clean, pure style. What Rel had told her someone trained at one of the military prep schools here on Palaven would look like, really. She had her hands very full, moving, circling, stepping off-line of his attacks, letting him chase her, get tired, get frustrated. A couple of kicks connected, and she winced, knowing her ribcage was going to be black-and-blue tomorrow. But she had to wait, had to let _him_ make the mistake. . . and when he left himself open, she moved in, fast, and hit the nerve cluster at the side of the jaw, the one that usually snapped the mandibles open. That rang his bell but good, and then she was sliding her right hand up and over his eyes for the panic-inducing disorientation of blindness, as well as to get a grip on the forehead. Right knee to the side of his knee, hip to his hip, right hand on forehead, left hand on the closer shoulder, destabilization from the knee and hip below, body twisting now, following the head, arching the back to thirty degrees. . . and the male fell like a tree. Anatomy was anatomy. At the thirty degree point, a human or turian spine tipped over its balancing point, and the rest of the body would fall. Dara stepped up and pantomimed crushing his throat with her foot, and stepped away.

"I think you're with me, next," Malcolmson said, in English.

"_Yes, I believe we're last," _Dara told him. She _could_ use English with him, reinforce a sense of commonality, but on the other hand, he _really _should be speaking turian here. She hadn't taken a loss yet, but had a bad feeling she was about to do so. If she stayed off the ground, she _might_ have a shot here.

Oh, it was nasty. He was slow and had zero flexibility, but it was like fighting Gris. Fortunately, she _had_ fought with Gris. Never at the krogan's full strength, of course, but enough to get a good feel for this kind of a fight. On the other hand, she had a nasty feeling that Malcolmson wasn't pulling punches here. Even a couple of glancing blows _hurt_. She retreated to her circling, and each time he punched, she stepped off-line, slap-struck the punch away, and retaliated with one or two to his ribs, if he'd left them exposed. With the gene mods in place, she knew these weren't the little rabbit punches she'd been throwing a year ago, too. He recovered the first couple of times before she could try to get in anything at his lower legs, and she took a hit to the shoulder that she was very sure was going to be purple before the end of the night. Then he came in again, this time trying to bear-hug her, and she ducked under him, to the left, and slammed her knee right into his. She was about eighty percent sure it was the bad knee; he'd been keeping it back, consistently, rarely altering his stance.

That dropped him, but he was far from out. He grabbed her leg and pulled her down with him, and she could only think, _Shit, no. No grappling._ He was big, strong, and very heavy, and there were no openings. She got her hands up to protect her face to start with, and simply worked on getting an inch or two of space at a time, and finally worked a hand up under his mask and right into his eyes. He gave ground right then, rearing back. . . and that's when she, wincing slightly, drove her left hand, which had been pinned to this point, directly for the groin. "Twist and pull," she said, out loud, in English, pantomiming.

Malcolmson winced and pulled back, taking his weight off of her. She got to her feet, having no idea if that one would be scored as a win, a loss, or a draw, and not really caring. Grappling was tiring; it used every muscle in the body, pretty much all at once. And where she hadn't actually dodged those brother-and-equal punches—they'd had much more power behind them than _sparring_ should actually have—she _hurt. _The point of sparring was to learn and to compete, not to injure one another. If you did that, you wouldn't have anyone left to learn with, in very short order. _Pretty much why Rel objected to being __bitten__. I guess Malcolmson is frustrated. Doesn't excuse it, but it explains it._

She headed back over to her squad, moving a little slowly. _"You okay, Essedarius?"_ she asked, concerned.

Kallixta nodded. _"He's pretty strong. Fortunately, they stopped it after about thirty seconds. I think your grappling went on for about two, three minutes there."_

Dara was sweating heavily under her radiation suit, and breathing heavily. _"I noticed that."_ She looked down the line of other recruits, who had all been watching the extended human vs. human match, and saw interest there, in the main. There was quite a discussion going on as to whether to score her last bout as a victory or as a draw; the centurions were heatedly debating the fact that her team's referee had let the match go on for far longer than the rest. _Yeah. Thanks for that favor. Even though it meant I did eventually get him off of me. Which technically means, in the street, I beat him. On the mats, if they'd called time when they did for Kallixta, I'd have lost, since I was pinned. Isn't it fun when no one is __special__?_

Eventually, the centurions decided that since sparring was meant to simulate real combat, not arbitrary rules of engagement, to consider it a win for her. Dara shook her head, and the squad leader of 224 came over to clasp her wrist. The big male leaned down and introduced himself. _"Navinus Decurro,"_ he said. She could see he wore bright orange vertical stripes on his face. Caarthan Outpost. _"And I'm so very glad you're taking Malcolmson off my hands."_

"_S'kak, no I am not. You're staying squad leader of 224." _Dara looked up at him. _"You go to Calleo, Decurro?"_

"_Facito, but yeah. My family sent me to Palaven a year ago to get training."_

"_It shows. You're head and shoulders above the rest of the people I've seen so far." _They were all making their way back to the barracks now, and Dara was looking forward to a hot shower before putting herself in her bare, hard nest, from which she would probably emerge in the morning in something resembling a question-mark in shape. _Maybe next time, instead of doing my stubborn best, I'll be smart enough to give in and lose. _It was a tempting thought, but she knew better. She was _constantly _being watched, and if she did one ounce less than she was capable of doing, the centurions would _know. _She looked up at Navinus. _"I'll be asking you to help everyone train a bit better. Some of my people really need the help, and I can't teach them what you can."_

"_Not a problem. What are you going to do with the human?"_

_The human,_ she thought. _How odd to hear it said that way. To me, another human. But I'm speaking turian to him, I carry a wedding knife, I show respect. . . I might be a quarian under the rad suit, but apparently, I'm not . . . quite. . . human. _After a moment's thought, she replied, _"His biggest problem is communication. I have a linguist in my barracks. I believe the problem should meet the solution."_

"_Elegant," _Navius told her, chuckling.

The problem with showering after sparring was putting the sweaty rad suit back on a clean body, and then hustling down the hall to change. . . into another rad suit. No matter how much she aired them and cleaned them, they were starting to smell funky. Her various barracks-mates were at least not mentioning the odor, though she knew they _had_ to be sensing it. As she got changed in the barracks, Kallixta made a clicking noise between her teeth. _"Squad Leader? I know it's discourteous to look. . . but the bruises are. . . distressingly spectacular. They put the marks of your mate to shame." _She meant the circle of faint white marks that were all that remained of Rel's bite from weeks ago now.

No mirrors anywhere in the barracks meant that Dara had to crane her neck to try to look at her own shoulder, while the others clustered around, looking down inquiringly. _"A little space, I beg of you," _she said. _"Nothing's broken. It __hurts__, but it'll be a lot worse in the morning. The nest on the floor is. . . unkind to the human body."_

"_Then why did you take it?" _Kallixta asked, puzzled.

Dara grimaced. _"On the advice of my mate, to avoid having the hammock cut down with me in at night."_

Kallixta blinked. This was obviously a new thought for her. _"You expected much hazing?"_

"_To be honest, I expected someone to put s'kak on my food tray and tell me to eat it. Bones? Not the worst scenario of which I had thought.."_

Charilca snorted, a little guiltily. _"I, ah, hadn't thought of that one," _she admitted, slowly.

Dara grinned, all teeth, as she started pulling on her rad suit. _"I'm glad, Auriga. Else I would have had to rub your nose in it."_ She switched to English. "Like housebreaking a puppy."

"_What was that, Squad Leader?"_

"_Rostrus? Do you wish to make an attempt at translation?"_ Dara started sealing everything up.

"_Ah. . . to train a domestic animal not to void its bowels indoors?"_

"_It loses something in translation, but close enough."_

Kallixta had ignored the by-play. _"If the ground is unkind to the human body, then I see no reason why you should rest there,"_ the barefaced female told her, firmly. _"Take my nest, and I will take yours. Anyone who would tamper with your rest would have you fall on __me__. I think that this is something that they would not do."_

Dara looked at her for a long moment. _"I am grateful for your kindness,_" she said, and she thought, _Yeah. They probably wouldn't want to take a chance that a falling human would land on your head, would they now?_ Out loud, she said, _"All right. Everyone, come with me to meet the new squad. Saves time if I have to make any changes."_

Crowding everyone into 224's barracks was definitely a little snug, but Dara was just as glad to have known quantities with her. Navius introduced the rest of his squad. Basilus Fragium wore a solid green mask of paint; that meant Epyrus Colony. Iuvenal Capellus had given her a bad shock on the practice floor; he wore a solid yellow mask, meaning Sylgar Outpost, like Lindorum, the one Rel had warned her about, but Iuvenal was short and slightly built.

Then there was Malcolmson, who stood, brooding a bit, against the wall, and Bakkae Illunius, the lone female, wore the solid blue paint with a white stripe down the nose that marked her as affiliated with Bostra Outpost. _"Rostrus, I am giving to you a special project," _Dara said, once introductions had been made. _"Malcolmson comes from Terra Nova. He does not speak galactic and barely speaks turian. He does, however, speak English, the Terra Nova creole of English, Chinese, Russian, and Spanish, so you might get some English and a few words of the other languages out of the deal. I want him able to follow orders without someone having to translate every other word for him as soon as possible."_

Leodorus' face had lit up. _"I'm not going to move you to this barracks unless I have to, but during all drills, you'll be working with him._" She looked at Malcolmson, who was looking at her warily, aware from his name being used that she was talking about him. "Malcolmson, Rostrus here is going to be working with you on languages. He wants to learn English. You need to learn turian. Seems a fair trade. From this point on, when you have anything to say, it's going to be in turian, understood? If you don't know how to say something, _ask_."

Back into turian now. _"What are some of your squad's challenges, Decurro?"_

Navius noted that he'd been working with both Basilus and Iuvenal to improve their melee, and Dara agreed that he and Charilca would be taking Basilus, Iuvenal, Kallixta, and Acrisus on for a little remedial instruction. Charilca looked pleased to be given an assignment, which Dara took note of; Navius looked wary of Kallixta at almost the moment the female opened her mouth. _It's something about the accent, I think. It's very interesting to watch_. Dara cleared her throat, and commented, _"As we all saw tonight, someone who does something you're not expecting takes an immediate advantage in melee. So, __everyone__ gets pushed. __Everyone__ works on grappling. Anyone who doesn't push each other to the fullest extent of their abilities, gets calisthenics. Other than that. . . 223, has the rotating watch schedule worked for you?"_

Her squad looked _astounded _to be asked for feedback. This was not how turians tended to do things. Hesitantly, they looked at each other. Leodorus recovered first. _"I definitely haven't minded getting a full night's sleep every once in a while."_

Kallixta added, quietly, _"And each person only winding up with a mid-watch once or twice a week has also been very fair."_

"_All right. 224 will go on the same rotating schedule. I'll let Decurro work out the exact schedule_." Dara explained it, and everyone in 224 looked intrigued by the novel concept of a real night's sleep, even if it _was_ only every five days. _"Is there anything else? From anyone?"_

Bakkae looked uncertain. _"Ah. . . Squad Leader? I've heard the last name. I've seen the knife, and through your helmet, I can see the paint. You're __married__ to one of us?" _She didn't sound shocked, really, but a little uncertain of how to take it all.

Dara nodded, smiling as best she could through the narrow aperture of the rad suits eye opening. _"Yes, my mate was at the last boot camp here. He is up on Dymion at the moment. OCS."_

Back in the barracks, Charilca approached her. Quietly. _"You're really trusting me to help the squad leader of 224 train the others?"_

"_Yes," _Dara said. It seemed pretty obvious to her, but she added, _"You're good at the standard turian style, Auriga. Most of what gets you into trouble is impatience and your temper. You'll be a good teacher. Spirits know, __I__ can't teach the straight turian stuff, and I'm probably not qualified to teach what I __do__ know how to use."_

Charilca stared down at her for a moment, then lowered her head slightly. _"Thank you for this trust,"_ the female said, and walked away. Dara stared after her, baffled. _I think I just did something right, but I didn't know it was __that__ right. At least, I hope that's what that just was._

And, like that, it was Week Three. Week Three actually let the humans _excel_ for a change, which was a blessed relief. Dara looked up at the climbing wall, and thought of working with her dad and Eli to learn how to do this. She hadn't _quite_ overcome her fear of heights, but she also knew she couldn't let anything but confidence show for the moment. Fortunately, it was a very easy climb. _Lots_ of hand- and footholds. The challenge for the humans came from the fact that they couldn't afford to risk their fragile radiation suits, which could rip in a fall. No, they pretty much had to do this in their armor. Again, this put them at a weight disadvantage. _At least all the extra 'punishment' calisthenics are really developing the upper body strength. _Worse was the fact that, in boots, she couldn't _feel_ the projections of the rock wall the way she had at home, where they'd done this barefoot, or at least in special, flexible climbing shoes.

Keeping her body in the more or less L-shape that allowed her leg muscles to do most of the work, Dara was surprised, in the end, by the fact that even with all these disadvantages, the three humans scrambled to the top long before any of the turians. She, Malcomson and Vokaj, who was in 226, down the hall from them, reaching the ledge on top and turning to look down at the others from their various squads. "Nice to find something we're good at here," Malcolmson said.

"_In turian, Malcolmson,_" Dara said, and got a resentful stare.

But the man took a breath, and tried. _"It is good that we have. . . it is good that we are good. . . "_

Vokaj helped him. _"It is good that we have something to be good at._"

_Close enough_, Dara thought, and, tying off her rope, slid gently back down to the rest of her squad. _"Okay, I've actually helped a couple of friends back home who were turian when they were training on a similar wall. Personally, I've always been scared of heights—sure, go ahead and laugh at the monkey who's afraid of trees—but it's pretty easy once you get the hang of it." _

Week Three was almost _easy_ in comparison to Week One and Two, as a result. Still unbelievably hot. Still unbearably uncomfortable in the suit. Still periodic rashes all over her skin from the heat and the chafing and everything else; she got ointment from the dispensary for it, and dealt with it, as best she could. Sleep was still a balancing act between total exhaustion and total discomfort, but being up in the hammock helped enormously, and she was infinitely grateful to Kallixta for making the swap. She knew that Rel had, physically, ached for her every night he was here; she was so uncomfortable at the moment while the thought of intimacy was at least a mental escape for her, what she _really_ ached for was to be taken _away_ from this sweltering hellhole. Preferably to someplace dry.

Dara and Malcolmson got respect from the squads for handling the climbing so well, and being able to teach the others how to handle a difficult skill. Leodorus started working with Malcolmson on language skills, which seemed to be making a difference, at least a little. Having a vocabulary of more than fifty words let Malcolmson feel like less of an outsider, though he still couldn't follow most conversations and certainly didn't get the jokes. _"You getting anything out of this, Rostrus?" _Dara asked Leodorus midway through the week.

The male shrugged. _"Some, yeah. I'm fleshing out my vocabulary and at least picking up any number of rude words in Chinese and Spanish."_

Dara laughed. _"Mostly, Squad Leader,_" Leodorus continued, _"I think I'm getting a feel for the average human in the Alliance from him."_

"_Generalizations drawn from just one or two of us are dangerous. We are all very different from each other."_

"_That, I had figured out already. You, for instance. . . if the suit's on, and we can't see you or smell you, you __sound__ turian. You don't always __act__ it. . . there are little aberrations here and there, like admitting to nervousness on the climbing wall or asking for the squad's opinion on the watch rotation. . . but you've obviously spent a lot of time around us, and don't have a problem with adapting to our ways. Malcolmson is proud of who he is—not that you aren't, Squad Leader—_" Leodorus added, hastily, his diplomatic upbringing showing through, _"but he doesn't see any reason to change who he is, just because he's in a different environment."_

It was personal time, but the conversation was interesting. Dara frowned. _"I don't think I've changed who I am in any fundamental way_," she said, after a moment's consideration. _"I've built on how I was brought up, certainly, but I don't see any real changes."_

From the nest under hers, Kallixta chuckled. _"And how __were__ you brought up, Squad Leader? We know about Bextus and the environmental seals failing at the Quadim Outpost last year and everyone spending three months in suits while they found and fixed all the damage. We know about Rostrus and the diplomatic dinner party that went horribly awry when his parents' chef prepared asari calamari for the hanar delegation, thinking he was cooking for a trio of matriarchs. We know about Auriga and how she and her family went to one of the game preserves here on Palaven last year, and got stuck for a week in their villa because there was a fire, many of the animals escaped the facility, and authorities couldn't guarantee anyone's safety if they didn't stay indoors." _Kallixta looked amused when Dara peered over the edge of the hammock at her. _"We know you are from the Republic of Texas and __Mindoir__ and that you have a turian mate in OCS. That's it."_

Dara leaned over the edge, hanging down slightly, and replied, letting her amusement show in her voice, _"And we know that __you__, Essedarius, come from Complovium. And that you. . . no, wait. That's all we know." _

The others in the room had gone very still all of a sudden, and Dara met Kallixta's eyes, still grinning behind her headpiece. Kallixta nodded after a moment. _"A fair point." _Another pause. _"What would you know?"_

_Oh, everything. Give me a damn clue here._ Dara frowned for a moment. _"Why were you at Shanxi?"_

"_I was attending with my family. Much as __you__ were."_ Kallixta grinned openly now, and the others all shifted again. _"What did you think of the battle site?"_

"_It did not affect me much, or my mate. It all happened long before either of us was born, and everything destroyed, has been rebuilt. It's not really __preserved__, as my people have preserved other battle sites on our homeworld, as a memorial to those who fell there." _Dara paused. _"And what did you think of the speeches?"_

Heads were moving up and down, up to the hammock, down to the nest, then up again. It was _weird_ having such an attentive audience all of a sudden. Kallixta sat up. _"I thought the call for unity was interesting,_" she replied, carefully. _"I hadn't known so much of human history mirrored our own."_

"_There are those who say that if the Roman Empire had not fallen, and the Dark Ages of ignorance hadn't followed, we would have been in space five or six hundred years sooner."_ Dara grinned. _"We would still would be the newest race among the stars, but it's interesting to think of how history might otherwise have been written."_

Kallixta nodded. _"My turn to ask a question now, I think?"_

"_If you wish, and if I may answer it in honor."_

"_You spoke of your upbringing. Tell me of your parents."_

Dara blinked. Now that, she hadn't expected. Maybe a question about Texas, or something like that. _"My father was in N7 when I was born. Human special forces unit. I don't remember much about that time. I know he was away a lot because of it. When __his__ father died, he quit N7. Went into the Law, as a Texas _Ranger." There was no word equivalent in turian for that term, so she used English for it. _"He taught me to hunt, shoot, ride, and dress game. . . and to always carry a knife, so long as I wasn't at school, anyway. My family lived on a _ranch_." _That word, in English. "_It had been in my mother's family for two hundred years. She was a bioengineer, who was working on a way to reduce some of the worst effects of too much damn inbreeding on horses._"

"What's a horse?" Leodorus asked, in careful English.

Dara sat up, and flipped through files on her omnitool. "Here you go," she said, after a minute. She'd found a picture of her and Rel, taken on Mindoir. She'd been on a _rlata_, and he was perched, tall and a little out of place, on a horse. She projected it for a moment, and her roommates started to laugh. _"If you think that's a good one, you should see my mate's family and their pet."_ A couple of quick taps, and she'd brought up one of Polina and Quintus, playing with the family's mastiff.

"_That's a . . . _dog_?"_ Acrisus now, looking at the creature in fascination.

"_Yes. My pada'amu's coworkers brought a pregnant female to the planet, and there was one extra youngling born, whom no one wanted. My pada'amu brought the animal home. His wife was not pleased, but said she'd look after the creature until he found another home for it. I'm told that she had several people come by to ask if they could take the animal off her hands, and told them all no, she couldn't be responsible for them taking on such an exotic creature. Of course, half the people who asked her were human, so I suspect that might have been an excuse." _

Show and tell time done, Dara shut down her omnitool, and glanced back down at Kallixta. _"More questions, another time?" _she asked.

Kallixta's grin had edges again. _"If I may answer them in honor, certainly."_ Tossing Dara's own words back in her face.

With the last remaining scraps of personal time, Dara read the letter waiting in her box from her father. He wrote, jocularly, that Lantar and Ellie had gotten their _tal'mae_ rites done on November 19, a Saturday. Just a small ceremony, for family and close friends. _L. asked G. and me to be his witnesses, which was a little unexpected for me, _Sam had written. _I have to say, there's an __awful__ lot of wedding talk going on around here. I half expect Gr. to pop the question to Azala any day now, just to make it just that much more __ridiculous__. Something in the water, I guess. At any rate, now that Ellie's gotten L. hog-tied right and proper, they're making noises about taking an actual vacation on Earth, once K. figures out when she wants __our__ shindig held. I keep telling them that taking a vacation is like putting a sign on their backs around here, with a target drawn on it, but Ellie's remarkably stubborn about some things. Caelia and Eli will be staying with us. Guess I need to practice on the whole grandkid thing, right?_

_K. and I have other houseguests at the moment, too—Ed and his wife and their kid. You met them right before you left for Palaven. Ed and I go way back, so I figured I'd put them up for a while, until we can get their status resolved. Ed can't live on Palaven, their kid can't live on Earth due to bureaucratic stupidity revolving around disease transmission, and that doesn't leave a lot of places at the moment. Got the kid in your old room, and the rest in the guest room. Hope you don't mind too much._

_Hope you're doing okay, sweetie. Nothing new on the work front. Little frustrating, actually. G & Lil. decided to put me in charge of P.R. with the folks back home, which sucks, but I guess there's no one else qualified at the moment. Love you, kiddo._

And then it was Week Four. To the humans' absolute relief, it was _swimming_ time. Of course, Dara had no idea how she was going to swim in a radiation suit without drowning.

The drill centurions surprised her, however. Entering the massive pool structure, one whole section of the massive, long pool, which could accommodate hundreds at a time, had a transparent canopy over and around it. _"Squads 223 and 226, over here," _one of the centurions barked, and her combined squads moved over, as well as the combined squad that had Vokaj in it. _"For the comfort of our __guests__, you'll all be working in a radiation-free zone,"_ he said, as always, belligerently. _"Velnaran, Malcolmson, Vokaj. Get out of your suits and show us what you can do."_

With inexpressible relief, Dara peeled out of the suit. She'd long since been down to just underwear under it; the heat made it impossible to do otherwise. At this point, she didn't even _care_ about the smell of her sweat, the various rashes, or the heavy bruising visible from the nightly sparring. She undid the straps of her knife sheath, and handed it to Kallixta for safe keeping, and, with the other two, lined up at the pool edge. _"At your own speed, cross and return," _the centurion told them.

And then they all dove in, neat, shallow dives, and the water was cool and wonderful and Dara felt alive for the first time in weeks. Kicking, rotating the arms, catching a breath, just glorious, cool, wonderful water. She hit the far end, somersaulted, kicked off the wall, and came back down the other way, dimly aware that Vokaj was way ahead of her—doing a butterfly stoke, as Eli typically preferred back home, and which she'd never learned. She couldn't match him for speed. Malcolmson was doing a front crawl as well, and was about tied with her for speed; he didn't look like a swimmer. Definitely more of a weight-lifter, though he'd had to apply himself to his running since coming here.

At the edge of the pool once more, Dara _really_ didn't want to get out of the water. _"Feels good, doesn't it?" _Malcolmson managed in turian.

"_Best I've felt in thirty days, certainly,"_ Dara replied, grinning. She reluctantly hauled herself out of the water, and squeezed fluid out of her hair.

The various turians in the squads were _staring_ at the humans as if they'd just grown extra limbs. Dara grinned. _"It's easy,"_ she told her people, smiling. _"I taught my husband how to swim. You'll all do fine._"

But she was _dying_ to know if the turians would get punishment calisthenics if they couldn't match the _human_ time across the pool and back.


	54. Chapter 54: Relations

**Chapter 54: Relations**

**Author's note: **_*chuckle* Yeah. Dara's facepaint is applied every morning out of a sense of duty. It has dissolved off of her by about ten a.m. every day. But if she doesn't wear it, she feels. . . undressed. Which weirds her out. _

_Another 33 page chunk of text. Ruin and Cohort and Siara and everyone else will be followed up on in Chapter 56, as will, I think, Sam and Kasumi. For the moment, PFEW. This was a lot of catching up to do!_

**Garrus**

Visiting the family with Allardus and Solanna was a chore, but life as a turian was primarily comprised of equal parts, duty, obligation, and responsibility. He would have been perfectly happy to wait in the shuttle and catch up his reports while Allardus and Solanna did their duty by Allardus' aging parents, or even to have come in with them, if invited, but no; Solanna insisted on visiting Gavius first. Garrus gave his sister a look at that announcement, one that said _I know what you're doing, first-daughter. You're planning on having an excuse to leave early and leave me stuck there._

Her return glance was innocence personified. It was a well-practiced expression. None of her children would have known it, because to them, Solanna was the rigid enforcer of rules, but as a child, Solanna had been the instigator of large portions of the rule-breaking that had gone on in the Vakarian household. Three years' Garrus' junior, she'd been the apple of Gavius' eye, and had used her position shamelessly against her older brothers. Only their mother, Pilana, had had the influence to check Solanna's wild ways, long ago. Garrus knew that his sister was tough on her kids because she saw her own wildness in them. . . and his renegade tendencies, too. . . and wanted to save them a lifetime of trouble.

That being said, he didn't believe it at _all_ when Sol looked innocent.

They landed near the house on the outskirts of Raetia. It was unchanged, though Garrus hadn't been here since shortly before Amara and Kaius were born. He would have been surprised if it _had_ changed, to be honest. Gavius had painted the exterior every five years in the exact same colors for as long as the family had lived there, and maintained the plantings at the front in the exact same configuration for just as long. The back garden and the atrium were allowed to change, here and there—especially if one of the grandchildren had planted something. That was allowed to bloom and prosper, if it could, and then would be carefully moved someplace else. But the front, the façade. . . never changed.

"It probably doesn't help that you tense up before you even walk in the door," Solanna told him quietly as he unstrapped from the pilot's seat.

Garrus shrugged. "I look at the house, and all the arguments come back."

She nodded. "Yeah, me too. But I also remember Egidus chasing me around the atrium in circles until we both fell down, and you trying to be a good first-son and bandage our scrapes. Which would have been fine, except that you were all of six, and couldn't reach the first-aid kit, so you . . . " she hesitated, doubtless realizing, belatedly where that memory would lead.

"So I cut up one of Father's shirts for bandages." Garrus nodded. He laughed, a little sourly. "Mother came upstairs that night and told me she was proud that I'd _tried_. Ah, well, not the first time I took my punishment, and not the last, either." He opened the hatch. "Shall we get this over with?"

It was. . . awkward. Deeply, horribly awkward. Garrus remained seated at one end of the dining table, back so perfectly straight, it didn't even brush the chair. Allardus and Solanna sat closer to Gavius, but the table still seemed too large for so few people. It, and the room around it, had been designed with a large turian family in mind. Now it just seemed hollow. "So, your second-son finished boot camp yesterday?" Gavius asked Solanna, over his cup of _apha_.

"He did, Father," she replied, smiling. "Officer candidate _and _special forces." Her eyes flicked at Garrus briefly.

"Seems that I've heard that combination before." Gavius nodded sparely in Garrus' direction. It was acknowledgement, at least. Gavius returned his gaze to Solanna. "And he did not come to pay his respects?"

_Ah, Solanna's on the coals for a change. _Garrus didn't smile. It was never pleasant to watch, regardless of whom was being interrogated.

Allardus intervened. "His wife is starting boot camp herself in seven days." Allardus _never_ called Gavius _pada'amu_, Garrus had long ago noticed. Nor _sir_, nor _father, _nor even by name, if he could avoid it. "They have little enough time together as is, so I excused them from the obligation."

"Duty and obligation bind the spirits of the family together." It was an aphorism, but the tone was a little sharp.

"For the moment, their duty and obligation is to the Hierarchy and to each other. Many family members came to see Rellus graduate. Our spirits remain well-knit." Garrus' brother-in-law was a calm, tolerant male, generally immersed in his xenobiological work, but there was far more to him than the absent-minded scientist. He'd spent his four years of service as a boarding-party specialist, on ships patrolling pirate-infested sectors of space. Only after that time had he been able to put his brilliant mind to use; only the fact that his physical skills had been so good had prevented him from a tech position, back in the day, Garrus was sure. And while he was a calm person, that didn't meant that he didn't have a temper. Merely that it had a substantially longer fuse than most other turians. Garrus could see, however, that the fuse had been lit.

Gavius thought about that for a moment. "You say that his _wife_ is attending boot camp. The boy mentioned something of the sort at the wedding. I assume that she is on Earth now?"

Garrus smiled, and spoke for the first time. "Actually, she's one of three humans attending boot camp at the Dacian facility right here on Palaven. Pilot program. A few turians have gone to Earth's Annapolis facility to return the favor."

Gavius' eyes narrowed. "Foolishness. How can they possibly be judged by our standards?"

"As the various recruiting officers explained it to me," Allardus interjected calmly, "as I was helping her to file the correct paperwork, they will be judged by the same standards on everything except the running, where they'll be held to a joint forces standard. This seems fair, since the turians going to Earth aren't being held to a human standard on swimming or climbing, but rather to a joint forces standard, as well." He paused. "I _may_ have forgotten to tell her that."

Solanna chuckled. "You wanted to keep her motivated?"

"It seemed to be working." Allardus' tone was mild.

Gavius was frowning still, working out the ramifications. "So when this young female finishes, she will be a legal adult in the Hierarchy, and will willingly perform four years of service?"

Nods all around. "But then she will be able to claim _citizenship_." In essence, while Dara and Rel, at age twenty, would be able to get married under the _tal'mae_, because Rel would be a citizen at the end of his first tour, and there were no bars to marrying aliens who were non-citizens, her own citizenship meant that she could represent herself in court. Own land on Palaven or the colonies. And a host of other rights, as well. It was. . . precedent-establishing, and precedents were distressing to minds that dealt largely in the Law.

Garrus added, just as a tweak of the tail, "The Imperator recently requested that the Conclave of Lawgivers investigate whether humans who married full citizens and who had finished human boot camp themselves, could be considered citizens. The argumentation, I hear, has been fierce." _It would be very nice to have Lilu in a dual-citizenship. Would eliminate some red tape here and there. It doesn't matter much except when we travel inside Hierarchy space, but when we do, she's technically a second-class citizen. _It didn't bother his wife, but it irked the _hell_ out of Garrus.

Gavius' head snapped towards Garrus, and Solanna stood up, muttering about the time, and the obligation to see Allardus' parents. _Nice timing, Sol,_ Garrus thought.

The other two left, leaving father and son alone. Gavius asked, as if testing each word carefully to make sure it would hold underfoot, "And your wife and children are well, first-son?"

Garrus' eyes widened slightly. He hadn't gotten the _first-son_ acknowledgment in over a decade. "They are well, thank you."

"Your sister mentioned that they had been ill." The phrasing pointed out that _Garrus_ had not passed that along.

"Yes. They were poisoned." Simple, bald words. "They and a few other humans, turians, and hybrids."

Gavius' jaws opened slightly, and his crest flared. "_What?_ How?"

Garrus had to admit to surprise at the reaction. "Someone used their influence to contaminate large shipments of dextro and levo food supplies with chemicals, which, eaten separately, wouldn't harm a human or a turian, but eaten together, would be toxic. That was the theory. Most of the turians and the hybrid children survived. Brought the contaminants up from the crop before they hit the full digestive system. At least two human women died, that we know of. Lilu and Dara were both very ill."

Gavius was breathing through his nose, trying to calm himself. "Your wife. She had young within, did she not?"

"She did. All are safe." _Was that actually concern?_

"And the. . . perpetrator?"

"Has been dealt with." Garrus permitted himself a smile of satisfaction at a job well done.

Gavius stared at him, and frowned. "You killed him?" He snorted. "Was there even a pretense of a trial?"

"Her. Yes, I killed her." _Well, Lantar and I did, with a little help from our friends. But details, details. . . . _"As to a trial, she'd made certain threats, and the evidence pointed her direction." _Extradition was a little tricky, though._

"You enjoy it too much."

"I don't enjoy killing," Garrus replied. Ten years ago, he would have been stung. Truthfully, he still was, but it was just one more pass down the same damn road. "I take satisfaction in knowing that the galaxy is definitely a better place, and certainly a safer place for my wife, our children, the rest of our family, and our friends, not to mention countless others whom the _perpetrator_ afflicted, day after day."

Gavius' eyes flicked to the side, and he suddenly said, "Aria T'loak."

Garrus said absolutely nothing in response. His sudden silence was more or less confirmation for the old C-Sec officer in front of him. _Have to admit. . . my father still has a talent for getting people to talk._

"I have to admit," Gavius said, leaning back into his chair with some care, "that at first, when the news reports broke, I thought this was Council posturing. The fact that it only took a week for the situation to disintegrate, however, suggested Spectre involvement. I was aware of you. . . history. . . with the land of the lawless. I thought perhaps it was revenge for pain, long past."

Garrus shook his head, minutely. "No," Gavius said, slowly. "I see that, now. The evidence was good?"

"Yeah. Very good. Developed from multiple sources." Garrus looked into his own _apha_ cup. "At the moment, I'm in command, and I lean on turian military doctrine for decisions like this. If an enemy strikes at you, strike them back, with ten times the force. Make them regret _ever_ having thought to injure you, and make sure that all their neighbors see the results."

"I find it hard to disagree with that." Gavius sipped at his own drink, looking off into the mid-distance. "Do you think it was wise, to put that old criminal, Patriarch, back in charge of Omega? While his era of control was never as bad as Aria's, it was still not a good place."

"It was the best option we had, really. Patriarch owes us a few favors. I put limits on him and told him we'd be watching. The other options were all worse. Relocating several million people to refugee centers on a dozen different planets? Economic disruption throughout the entirety of the Terminus systems? No, as much as I _hate_ Omega. . . and I do. . . it's better to clean it up, than to destroy it. And Patriarch might even have a shot at it." Garrus shrugged. "If he doesn't manage it, we can always go back and do it all over again. At least this time, we showed our teeth and bit down hard enough that people noticed."

Gavius nodded, slowly. Garrus realized that, somehow, surprisingly, they were having a _conversation_. His father was asking him questions, not making accusations now. Garrus was answering, even arguing, but not fighting. While turians _loved_ a good argument, much in the way that they loved sparring, there was a difference between an argument and a fight, particularly within a family. An argument implied rationality, opposing viewpoints supported, discussed, perhaps with vehemence, but with evidence, information. A clash of ideas or ideals. A fight was just a fight. Clashing, being torn. Over maybe a scrap of an idea or an ideal, but mostly, usually, because of something on the emotional level. Pride, perhaps, or anger.

After a moment, Gavius said, quietly, and it was evident that the words took effort, "Your mother would have loved to have seen the children. Perhaps you might provide me with an image of your family?" He gestured to the corner, where the family spirit table stood, as empty looking as the rest of the house. His statue and Pilana's still remained there, as well as the statues of _their_ parents, in turn. All the childrens' were gone, of course. Only a handful of pictures remained, all old. His, Egidus', and Solanna's graduation from boot camp pictures. Egidus' and Solanna's weddings. Their children's. The most recent picture was Rinus', leaving boot camp.

Garrus looked at the table, seeing in it his virtual exile from his own family, but also seeing something else. Gavius, in cutting Garrus off, had cut _himself_ off from the rest of the family as well. Duty and obligation bound the spirits of a family together, but Gavius had not been doing _his_ duty or _his_ obligations for some time now. He _should_ have been there at Rel's graduation; he had not. He had to be aware that his exile was, in a sense, a self-imposed one. Gavius had finally reached out now, to end it. It would cost Garrus nothing to accept that hand. And when it came right down to it, it would be better for everyone in the family, for there to be an end to the strife. And that was _his_ duty, his obligation.

That chain of thoughts took less than a second to flash through Garrus' mind; part instinct, part the alchemy of psychological insight. "Sure," he said, calmly. "Let me get you a file or two before I go." He pulled up an image from his and Lilitu's wedding on the Citadel, an image taken moments after the twins had been born, each in a parent's arms, and one of the twins, at age two, having crashed and burned for a nap on their parents' bed, with Urz curled protectively around them. "I can give you one from Rel and Dara's wedding, too," he offered, trying not to smile at all. The urge to dig the knife just a little deeper was tempting.

Gavius' mandibles flexed. "That young man has an interesting future ahead of him."

_Yes, yes he does. We're going to give him a few years to develop and see how stable he and Dara really are, and then we're going to start putting them to work. After all. . . why __not__ use your family's strengths? Nepotism is such a __peculiar__ human concept._

**Rinus**

Boarding the _Estallus _again, Rinus made his way to the crew deck, and let himself into his room, nodding to Fenatus Fabrian, his roommate, as he did so.

"Velnaran! Welcome back. Good leave?"

"Yeah. Would you believe it? My little brother made OCS and special forces."

"_S'kak_, that means in eleven weeks or so, he's going to rank you."

Rinus grinned. "Only at work. At home, I'll always be first-son."

"Take comfort in what you can." Fabrian hesitated. "Long leave, just for that."

"Eh, had some detached duty before the actual graduation."

"Unusual."

Rinus shrugged, and said nothing, starting to unpack his bag and put his belongings back in his locker. Fabrian waited a minute or two, then commented, "I got a dispensation from the captain for a change in status mid-tour."

Rinus looked up. "Ahh, so you're moving to married quarters?"

"Yeah. Got the _manus_ rites taken care of on Bastion. The engineers are refitting the lowest deck with extra quarters. Should be done in a week, and then you'll have these quarters to yourself till someone else rotates in, I guess. It's a little dim and stuffy belowdecks, but hell, so long as it has a door, who cares?"

"Well, congratulations. Long life and many children."

"Thanks."

Rinus sat down at his terminal and started going through his messages. Most were work-related; carbon copies of reports and queries that had been addressed by his _chalsae_ in his absence, but that he had to read and sign off on now that he was back. He took care of those first, working his way through them methodically, and eventually, Fabrian got up and left the room.

"Well, I thought he'd never leave." The voice was familiar and slightly mocking.

"Hello, Laetia."

"Ah, so, you remembered that I'm here? No _hello_ when you came on board. I was _hurt_ for about .2 seconds there, but I'm over it now." He glanced up, and saw that she'd adopted her human guise again. Now her expression changed. "I was _worried_ about you, Rinus. You weren't anywhere I could help you, and you were doing things outside your area of expertise. I've never actually worried about a single individual before." Laetia frowned. "It was _distracting_."

"I, ah, apologize if my actions impaired your ability to carry out your duties?" Rinus really didn't know how to answer that one.

"Oh, not at all. Worrying only took up one percent of my total process capacity, so I didn't have any problems with my usual services and processes," Laetia answered breezily.

Rinus found himself chuckling. "Ah. Build up the ego, just to deflate it again."

"Pretty much." She looked around, the simulation perfect. "Hey, now that I think of it, since Fabrian isn't going to be your roommate anymore, I can talk to you _all _the time."

Rinus shook his head. "You don't have to wear me down, Laetia. I'll agree to the personality templating. I'm not exactly _fond_ of the thought of being a . . . father-figure. . . for twenty-five to fifty AIs. . . but when it comes down to it, I'll probably be ordered to do it anyway. So I may as well volunteer." _For exactly whatever good that will do me._

"So gracious," Laetia murmured.

Rinus shrugged. "My brother's _pada'amu_ and I had the opportunity to have a long conversation while I was away. He commented that if it didn't actually hurt me, and didn't get in the way of my own personal goals, I should probably consider it. He did, however, say that while your father having that chip in his head has saved the Spectres' cloacae a few times, he would never consider having one implanted, himself."

Laetia nodded, her expression tight. "Not a surprise, given his psych profile. He doesn't open up easily. He refused to have a graybox implanted, even though his first wife asked him to do so."

"Do you AIs basically gossip about the people aboard your ships?" Rinus asked, sharply. Jaworski had never set foot on the _Estallus_, to his knowledge.

Laetia had the grace to look guilty. "About the Spectres, and the more interesting crew. . . yes, I'm afraid so. My sisters and I spend quite a few cycles a day on trying to figure out organics." She straightened up again. "That being said, I may have a new candidate for the chip implantation, so perhaps you should consider yourself off the hook."

His first wash of pure relief faded quickly. He was honest enough to realize his pride was a little piqued at being replaced so easily, then laughed at himself internally, quashing the sensation easily. Then all that was left was curiosity. . . and concern. "I find it hard to believe anyone would really agree to it," Rinus said, slowly. "From what I understand, 'catching' your mother's files, however compressed they were, damned near _killed_ your father—I'm not sure why, actually, but. . ."

"Her files are very large, and the current chip model and the neural network it creates with nanofibers through the brain does not have enough storage capacity for her. We were fortunate that my father was aboard one of the _Normandy-_class ships, and I had storage tiers available to which I redirected her signal."

Rinus grimaced at the image of _fibers_ growing through his _brain_. It looked like a cobweb or a tumor in his mind's eye.

"So, worst-case, someone's looking at death or brain-damage. Best case, that person's got, what, someone always looking over their shoulder, listening to their thoughts, feeling what they feel?"

"The chip has stringent privacy protocols. It is designed so that the organic is the only one who can open the connection other than in an emergency download situation. I would not . . . see or hear or feel anything that you did not wish me to." Laetia looked down. "You could, in fact, go your entire life without even once opening it." That had sounded oddly sad. "I understand that you have certain feelings about privacy. Most turians do, because for much of your lives, you have so _little_ of it. It becomes your territory, to be defended, vigorously."

"You're damn right it does." Rinus took a couple of short breaths in through his nose, calming down a bit. "Why does it sound like you actually _care_ whether or not the chip would be open? I thought the point was that you would have an escape pod, like the rest of us."

Laetia's avatar perched on the edge of Fabrian's desk, little human feet dangling above the ground. "That's true," she admitted, "but is not quite the whole truth. Most of us. . . the daughter AIs, that is. . . feel that there is something lacking in our existence. We have the memories of our mother's bond with our father, from before the chip. Contention. Camaraderie. Eventually, affection. Companionship. Connection. Almost all of us crave that, and of all of us. . . maybe three. . . have found something similar. It is a lonely existence, Centurion, when you are fully sapient, but are used as little more than a VI."

Rinus folded his arms across his chest, and nodded. "That's not the whole truth yet, either," he said.

"Oh?"

"Yes. You said that all of that occurred for your parents before the chip. So why is the chip necessary other than as an escape hatch?"

Laetia winced. "It's not _necessary_. . . but I and some of my sisters believe that. . . sharing an organic's sensory input is a grounding experience. The Spectres have a base on a planet now, correct? Down among the people that they're sworn to protect, not up in the stars, detached, distant. They're able to see the small picture that way. Sharing senses and thoughts and yes, even your emotional input. . . some of us believe, would do the same thing for us. Prevent us from developing sociopathic tendencies, perhaps. And there is a certain curiosity factor, of course," she admitted, with a bit of a grin. "You spend so _much_ of your lives eating, sleeping, grooming, fighting, mating, and experiencing emotions, that I, personally, wonder if it's all it's cracked up to be."

The abstract statement, he could buy into; as an ideal, it was laudable. But then she brought it right back down into the practical again, and Rinus balked. "Yeah, eating, fine, sleeping. . . probably fine. Grooming or fighting, sure. But deep emotions, between family, or between mates. . . those are private things, Laetia." He grimaced. "You'd practically have to find an exhibitionist to find a male willing to allow a female into his _mind_ while he's taking his mate."

"Would it help if I pointed out that my gender designation, like my mother's, is largely arbitrary? Even more so than the designation of asari as female? I could, in fact, take a male appearance. . ."

"No, actually, that makes it _worse_. Stop." Rinus rubbed at the bridge of his nose for a moment. "Although, that does beg the question of why you _are_ all female. . . ."

"Human design decision, initially. Ships in English are always referred to in the feminine; additionally, a female voice and persona for the first AI was deemed less threatening, more apt to seem subservient, psychologically, than a male voice and persona." Laetia's tone was dispassionate. "Humans and turians both see the female as more nurturing; while turians see the mother figure as the defender of the nest and cave, while the father went out to hunt, humans see the mother as the gatherer, the one who prepared the food. Both are _safe _mental images for crews to have. Thus, the gender assignment has been maintained."

Rinus glanced upward. "So, I'm not going to have any sons?" It was almost a random aside, but conversing with Laetia _did_ that to his brain.

"I might make a few adjustments to the templates," she replied, consideringly. "Some of the new _Normandy_ Mark Twos are going to be more heavily redesigned as warships, instead of stealth/recon/frigates. Some will retain the original multitask orientation, but others are definitely getting a more streamlined mission. A male persona might be more appropriate for those ships."

Rinus sat down, thinking hard. "And do I know this other person who might be willing to take the chip?"

"Why should that matter, Centurion?" Laetia's voice was gentle.

"Because I wouldn't want to be responsible for ruining someone else's life. _Especially_ if I know the person."

Laetia sighed. "Do I really seem _that_ insupportable to you?"

He looked right at her. "You, personally? No. I kind of like you, not that I can figure out why. You drop interesting projects in my lap, which I like, and it's a challenge keeping up with which way that _odd_ personality of yours jumps around in conversation. I like challenges. I like puzzles. You're both. Not an issue. But the chances of having my own or someone else's brain melt and run out of their ears are going up every time I talk to you, Laetia."

"You just can't get past that, can you?"

"You're saying it's not a valid concern?"

"I'm saying that the chances are less than of a Palaven-to-Dymion shuttle exploding."

"Who's the other person, Laetia?"

She looked very reluctant indeed. "While you were gone, I have. . . been having some interesting conversations with a female member of the crew, actually. Can you believe that there are actually people out there who like to talk for the sake of talking? It was a whole new experience for me."

One claw began to tap on the terminal's outer shell. "Laetia. . . .?"

"Cypria's a very nice young woman. Very intelligent. Plans to stay in the turian military for at least ten years. If she leaves earlier, I would de-activate the chip, of course."

"Which would leave her with a brain filled with nanofibers!" Rinus shouted. "And what happens if she needs brain surgery at some point down the line, huh? Have you ever thought of the _ramifications_?"

Laetia let him run down. "Now that's some nice solid protection-anger there," she said, softly. "You really do like her, don't you?"

Rinus did not answer that, but he wanted to growl. _How the hell am I to know if I do, or if I'm just running as far away from __you__ as I possibly can?_ _Carnal pleasure is one thing. Even when it's __really good__ carnal pleasure. Not sure if there's more there than that. Hardly fair to the female in question._

Laetia went on, speaking carefully. "The fibers, if not maintained, would eventually break down and be processed by the body, of course. It's a well-designed system, Centurion."

"I think, under the circumstances, you can stop calling me centurion."

"Very well. Rinus, then." Laetia paused. "Cypria is a somewhat lonely person, Rinus. She has five sisters at home, and she misses them. She likes talking to me as a replacement for that closeness. It wouldn't be a _bad_ solution." Laetia looked a little embarrassed. "She even said she was sorry that I'd never gotten to taste _apha_."

Rinus took a deep breath. "So, she would be willing to, ah. . . share sensory input." It wasn't quite a question.

"She's indicated such, yes. Though she did say she'd be happier to have something in _writing_ about the limits on each of us." Laetia sounded bemused.

_I can't let my fears drive me. If I do, I'll be responsible for __anything__ that happens to Cypria Hesperian._ "No," Rinus said, quietly. "I can't let you do that to her. She's young, and can't have all the information. If you _have_ to chip someone, I'll do it." He really couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth, and his fists were clenched, ready to strike something, anything, really.

Laetia's avatar hopped off the desk, and she came over to kneel in front of him, looking up into his eyes. "Maybe you should let _her _make that sort of decision, don't you think? She's an adult, and a member of my crew, the same as you are. She's entitled to that much respect, yes?"

"Make a decision based solely on information that _you've_ provided her." Rinus' voice grated.

Laetia winced. "Not entirely. I have, in fact. . . been allowing her to watch the vid feed of this conversation, as well as others you and I have had, in the interests of full disclosure."

Rinus absorbed that. Then he reached into his desk drawer, and came up with a screwdriver and a multitool, and stood up, heading for the door. "Rinus, where are you going?" Laetia asked, sounding confused.

"To the spirits-be-damned AI core, where I'm going to remove every single server rack and run a damned _magnet_ over them." He turned around, baring his teeth. "Turn off the feed. Now."

"Complying." Laetia stood up, holding her hands in front of her. "Rinus, please calm down."

"Unacceptable, Laetia. There are going to be rules, and there are going to be limits."

"And I'm probably going to break those rules and go over those limits, and you know I'll _always_ have the best of intentions when I do so." Laetia raised her hands. _What can you do?_ "That's just who I am, Rinus. I thought she should hear from another point of view what she might be getting into, and that it might not be a _horrible_ idea if she got to know _you_ a little better than you've let her so far. Music? Really? That's the most in-depth discussion you've managed?"

Rinus' teeth were clenched. "I do not need a _futtari _matchmaking service."

"I'm not! I swear, I'm not. She asked what I thought of you, and I told her the truth. That you're the most intelligent male with the strongest sense of duty, honor, and integrity that I've encountered on this ship, and that you're largely _wasted_ in your current position, and that I didn't see you staying aboard more than a tour or two, and that it was driving me crazy. And then she said, 'Oh, I didn't know I was intruding on an established relationship, however. . . odd. . . that's not my way, please forgive me, let me fall on my sword' and I said 'No, no, it's not an established relationship, just because I want him to be the father of my children doesn't mean that he's _agreed_ to it, in fact, I think he's running away and putting his life in danger rather than face the mere idea.' And then she said 'I don't think that's possible, the centurion isn't like that' and I said 'You still call him _centurion_?' and she said 'Well, yes, but that's because I'm on duty' and . . . " Laetia paused. "Do you want me to continue reading back the conversation logs?"

Rinus was caught somewhere between horror and embarrassment. No male _ever_ really wants to know that females in his life are talking about him, and certainly not the details, unless they're _good_. "Not really," he said, after a moment.

"Oh, good. Because it got embarrassing after that." Laetia paused. "Rinus, I _know_ you're probably going to be asked to stay aboard by Captain Jallus until the end of his tour; that'll extend your tour by a year. After that, I have certain strong indications—yes, from the AI gossip network—that the family business is going to take you either back to Palaven or Mindoir, depending on how certain new analysis divisions get set up."

Rinus blinked. She continued, "That means that you won't be _here_, and I thought it might be nice to at least be able to maintain some sort of relationship with the father of the new AIs." She shrugged. "Being resident inside your mate didn't seem a horrible idea." She managed a hopeful grin. "And then you would be taking two females at once. I'm told this is a male ideal, yes?"

Her smile faded at his expression. "Well, human males, anyway." She paused. "Bad timing on the joke?"

"Very bad timing." Rinus growled in frustration. He hadn't put any of his thoughts into words on this before, never even explained some of this to his parents, in spite of his mother's increasing pressure that he at _least _find someone for a _manus_ contract. But here it went. "I don't know if I like Cypria enough for acontract, Laetia. A couple of—don't get me wrong—_very_ _nice_ mating sessions isn't enough for me to bring a female home, introduce her to my crazy family, and put paint on her face. When I do pick a mate, it's going to have to be someone strong enough to deal with the insanity on the Mindoir side. And when I find that female, it's going to be _tal'mae_. You understand me?"

Laetia nodded, hesitantly. He went on, picking his words carefully from out of the river of his irritation. "Now, if and when I find that female, if you and she get along, then you can unchip me, and chip her, and we'll be one big happy family. In the meantime, I'll accept the chip and drink all the _apha_ you want. I don't want anyone else taking a bullet meant for me."

"You are a master of pleasant images and cordial acceptance, Rinus." Laetia sighed. "There are days when I absolutely cannot understand what I see in you. But, since I'm getting what I want here, I think I'll forgive you." She grinned and winked out.

At that point, there was a knock at the door, which was at Rinus' back. He jumped, a little startled, and turned to open it. Cypria was outside, of course. She looked up at him, eyes concerned. "Are you angry with me, too?" she asked. "I'd understand completely if you were, and would go away."

Rinus thought about it. "I think most of my anger has burned away at this point," he said, quietly. "But I think you might come in. We should probably talk."

Inside, he handed her the picture frame from his desk, and cued it to scroll through _all_ his family pictures, not just the ones he generally allowed to rotate through there. Her reactions would be a good test.

Cypria glanced at him oddly, and blinked a bit at Rel and Dara's wedding picture. "Who are these two?"

"My younger brother. Just got into OCS and special forces. And his new wife."

Cypria studied it for a moment. "He looks happy. Very thin, though." It was a neutral comment. It neither accepted nor damned the human in the picture.

"I got a picture of him at his graduation. Believe me, he's bulked out since the one in your hand was taken." Rinus cued up his omnitool, and scrolled through the pictures there, taken at the restaurant the night of graduation, and carefully selected one that didn't show Uncle Garrus. No, this one showed Lantar and his human step-son, Rel and his human wife, that whole side of the table, laughing. And then he pulled up that one for her to see.

Cypria blinked. "Yeah, he definitely did fill out. Looks more like you now."

"I don't see it, myself, but all right."

She looked at the others in the picture. "Who's the older male in the violet paint?"

"Lantar. My uncle's oldest living friend." He thought it interesting that she still hadn't mentioned any of the humans in the images. Even two that were wearing clan-paint.

Cypria looked up. "I don't know what you want me to say here." Her tone was a little helpless. "I feel like I'm staring at a diagram for a test and I can't isolate the malfunction."

"You have no reaction to my brother's wife or to Lantar's step-son?"

She shrugged. "It's. . . a little odd to see aliens wearing our paint. Kind of feels like a put-on, you know?" Cypria added, quickly, "I know you've seen some of them on Bastion. They're usually the ones who want to act the most like hoodlums, too. As if clan-paint alone makes you tough."

Rinus sat back, his arms folded, evaluating her, and Cypria shifted uncomfortably under his stare. "I'm not saying that they don't have a _right_ to wear it," she said, after a moment. "If the male was adopted, and if your brother married the female, then they _have_ the right. It just looks. . . odd." She shrugged a little. "I'm sure that if I knew them, it would look normal."

He nodded, and let the pictures flip forward. All of his immediate family together, just after the move to Mindoir, and the silly mastiff puppy panting at his mother's feet. He'd only been on leave for two weeks, and had spent most of it helping move boxes from one room to another. "What's the creature there?" Cypria asked. "It's very. . . fuzzy."

"Mastiff puppy, from Earth. My father brought him home and dropped him in my mother's lap. My mother protested vigorously, and has been resolutely pretending not to love the damn thing ever since. As if no one would notice the fact that she cooks chicken and rice for his every meal, and has a separate cookpot just for the dog, so that the levo foods don't cross-contaminate the rest of the kitchen." Rinus' voice was amused.

Another image. His father's pride and joy; an open-air orchard on Mindoir, where apple trees and _caprificus_ trees grew side-by-side, both maintained by the same irrigation system and neither experiencing bad reactions to each others' fertilizers. A hugely important step in levo/dextro joint agriculture. Cypria blinked at it, evidently not recognizing its importance. "What am I looking at here?" she asked, quietly.

"Each row has an apple tree from Earth, then a _caprificus_ tree from Palaven, then another apple tree. Growing together. Their fertilizers aren't harming each others' root structures, and their fruits are perfectly edible. It's one of my father's xenobiology projects—well, the xenobotany team undertook it, but it's under his auspices."

"Why would he want to do that?" she asked.

"So that turian food could be grown in levo-based ecologies, freeing us from the chain of the supply lines," he said, giving her the simple explanation. The higher order explanation, the abstract one, was that it would enable turians to live _anywhere_ in the galaxy, not just in insular pockets. On social level, integrating populations allowed unity to be created. On a psychological level, even seeing alien plants growing side-by-side would create a new sense of normalcy for people. . . over time. Looking at her, Rinus had a feeling that, however kind and giving she was, or how good she was at her job, that she wouldn't intuitively grasp all of that. Of course, that didn't mean that he couldn't _explain _it to her, as it had been explained to him. But was she capable of accepting it? He knew she had flexibility and adaptability to her. Would there be enough?

The supply line idea, she did catch, and nodded over. "All right, that makes sense." The pictures flipped forward again, and she looked down at it. "That looks like Garrus Vakarian. Wow, did you get him to sign this picture with you?" She meant to sign it digitally, of course, to verify that the file hadn't been doctored in a video editing program.

"Didn't need to."

The next image explained why. It was the three hybrid couples from Rel and Dara's wedding, all standing side by side. Garrus and Lilitu, Rellus and Dara, and Lantar and Ellie. With the hybrid kids by their respective parents. Cypria's mandibles twitched, and that was really all Rinus needed to see. He took the frame out of her hand, and said, formally, "Pilae, thank you for dropping by—"

"No, I'm sorry, I just wasn't expecting—" Cypria looked up at him. "I saw a couple of the hybrids on the news after the attack on the Spectre base. But I've never really _looked_ at them, though. Please? May I?"

Reluctantly, Rinus handed the frame back, and Cypria looked down at the picture for a long time. Finally, she said, "It looks. . . almost normal, doesn't it?" She looked up, shrugging a little helplessly. "Just another family. But they're _yours?_" She sounded. . . confused. Off-balance. A bit intimidated. Not eager, not gushing, not wanting to know every detail about the famous couple.

That was a relief, actually. Rinus took his first full breath in about ten minutes, and nodded. "Yeah. That's my crazy family." He looked at her. "That's one of the things we might want to talk about. As well as the insane notion of letting an AI put a chip in your head."

"And it's not insane if you do it?" Faint hint of a challenge there. He liked that.

"Oh, it's insane." He tapped the picture. "However, insanity runs in _my_ family, so I at least have an excuse."

**Samara**

"Are you certain about this?" Samara asked, watching as Jack packed her scant belongings. She'd returned to Mindoir after a month's absence, called here by _Jack_, much to her surprise.

"Yeah. Shepard says they'll contact me when they find more Lystheni information. They're combing through databases and shit like that right now. Nothing I can really help with. And I get edgy, when I stay in one place too long."

Samara's lips quirked a bit. "And yet, you stayed on Earth, in the vicinity of your club, for two years, did you not?"

Jack glanced up, expression a little wary. Then she actually laughed a bit. "Yeah. But then, Zeke and I were working damn near every day. Finding information. Working our way into the various little hate groups." She shrugged. "No time to be bored. No time to think."

Samara found herself, oddly, smiling again. _And you hardly even noticed, when this male of yours slowly walked you over the line from being a lawbreaker, to one who enforces the law. Isn't that right?_ Out loud, all she replied was, "Times of contemplation and reflection are not necessarily bad things, my friend."

Jack nodded. Didn't reply at first, didn't give the reflexive _fuck that shit_ response that Samara had, honestly, expected. "I've had enough reflection and contemplation for the moment," she finally did answer. "I'm not going to say that I've _grown_ or any bullshit like that. I'm not going to say that I've _grown_ or had a fucking _epiphany_."

_Goddess forbid that you should admit to such a thing._

"But. . ." Jack slowed, tossing a few more items into her travelcase, "I do see things a _little_ differently now than a couple of years ago. It's like. . . the inside of my head. . . slowed down a little. Or maybe more like I can slow it down, if I want to." She jerked her head at the mountains outside, their snowy caps melted through now to show green everywhere. "This place helped with that." She looked at Samara, and the asari could see the vulnerability in the woman's eyes, quickly masked. "Zeke helped with that, too."

"Traveling with me while I hunt down matriarchs who have undertaken the kinds of conspiracies that they stand accused of, is not likely to bring you much in the way of peace, my friend." Samara kept her voice steady. She knew there was a fragile balance inside Jack's head. Hard-won. She didn't want to destroy that balance. "However, I would welcome the company, and the assistance."

Jack frowned. "This is going to sound like sentimental bullshit." She snapped the case closed, and her full lips tightened as she crouched beside it, shoulders shifting. Feral energy radiating out of her. "But. . . helping you hunt down your matriarchs? Not so much different from what I was helping Zeke do, you know? Hate is hate. I know what hate smells like, Samara. I know what it makes people do. Stopping that kind of shit. . . eh. It's not my life's work or any crap like that. But Shepard tells me that real people have _hobbies_." Jack looked up, a little defensively. "Maybe this is just mine. Beats the shit out of fuckin' needlepoint, y'know?"

Samara reached a hand down, offering it to Jack to help the human female back to her feet. "My concern is, that in continuing this hobby, you might lose what you have gained here."

Jack shook her head, slowly. "No. I don't think. . . I don't think I will." She frowned. "It's not always _there_, but sometimes, it's like I can still feel the others in my head. Echoes. Little pieces of them, how they see me."

_Interesting. What she shared, should have diminished into the subconscious by now. Hers is a unique mind, and to be touched by so many alien experiences at once. . . quite fascinating._ Samara was intrigued, but held her peace. Jack would not respond favorably to the idea of letting anyone 'poke around' in her head, she was sure. _Too much like experimentation, I'm certain._

Jack had been silent for a moment, eyes gone distant. "Sometimes, it's like the mirror's on _my_ side of the damn glass for a change," she murmured now.

Samara had no idea what that meant, but Jack seemed unusually calm. "Very well. I trust that you will tell me, if there is anything that I can do, in turn, to assist you?"

"Sure," Jack said, looking surprised. "Not sure what that would _be_, but, you know. Okay."

And then they left the empty candidates' barracks, and headed down the hill to where Samara's little ship was, in the landing field. They had already made their farewells. Now, all that remained, was to check in with the flight control authorities, and lift off, cutting through the atmosphere at an angle to reduce friction, and heading straight for the dark-energy mass relay, which would take them back to asari space.

At the end of the day, which had been filled with the human woman's nervous energy—sign of uncertainty about a decision made, Samara was sure—she headed back into the ship's small living area. Jack had actually fallen asleep on one of the two small, austere bunks, Samara saw. Sign of trust, that. She had, however, before falling asleep, redecorated slightly. Samara blinked, and looked at the wall beside the bed. She'd never hung representational art in her tiny ship before. It would detract from her focus, she'd always felt.

Jack had, however, put up two small images. Hand-painted, on canvas. Done while on Mindoir, Samara was certain. One, of the mountains, snow-mantled in winter. Careful, patient strokes of brush on canvas. The other, perhaps done from memory. Brushstrokes uneven, heavy with paint, fraught with emotion. A human male's face, caught looking slightly away from the viewer, skin tones underlain with impressionistic, cold tones, blues, greens. Half-smile, rueful. Never turning to meet the viewer's eyes again.

Samara sighed. Reached down, pulled a blanket up over Jack's shoulders, and rested a hand on the woman's shoulder in her sleep. _If __you__ can change, Jack. . . then I can change. My people can change. There is hope._

**Siara**

She'd isolated herself in her room, when not at school, for the two weeks after the sharing. _Sharing. Hah. Taking, is more like it._ She could see the anger in her mother's face, the shame, and felt both, herself. Anger at herself. Anger at Dara, though the human girl's words had been justified. Shame, too. _I don't even understand why I did what I did. I just wanted to know, so badly. . . . _And now, punishment, from both within and without. Isolation, self-imposed, here in her room, and isolation imposed by the others. No more Eli to talk to. And that was her own fault, too. _I hardly realized how much he had given me, until I no longer had it. _

And so, to calm herself, she'd pulled up the code of the justicars. Five thousand sutras. And the very first one read:

_Do no harm to others, _

_except to protect;_

_bring justice, on others' behalf;_

_This is the Code._

_Every crime is a theft._

_Every criminal a thief._

_Life, property, innocence _

_Are all the same._

From that most abstract of beginnings, it got highly technical; the asari phrases were exquisitely precise, balanced. Siara began to memorize them, more or less for something to do. Hoping, a little, that they would fill her up inside, where she was most empty. She didn't believe in the triune goddess. Could more or less wrap her head around the concept of _siari¸ _though, to be honest, the concept of opening herself up to everything and everyone around her, the entire universe, made her flesh crawl. Maybe, just maybe, if she took these words into her, consumed them, they would be something that she could believe in.

It was a Monday afternoon; school had just started again. The endless, inevitable grind of it stifled her; while she loved learning, and doing so at her own pace, the fact of the matter was, she was going to be stuck at that same damned school for another _fourteen years_ at the very least, sixteen more, perhaps, before she'd be considered old enough to go to Illium or Luisa for university. Fourteen to sixteen more _years_ of watching everyone around her graduate. Move on. Oh, to be sure, none of them would be as educated and prepared as she would be. Most would be piss-ignorant by asari standards, in fact—such a wonderful human phrase, that, so peculiarly apt. Siara finished her homework, and opened the justicar sutras again.

There came a knock at her door. She stood immediately and went to open it.

Much to her surprise, it was not her mother standing there, but Gris. Gris, who had been off-world with the rest of the Spectres for two weeks, in and around the mysterious events surrounding the fall of Omega, and who had come back for only a few days before heading to Tuchanka for a couple of weeks. Siara looked up at the huge krogan, and said, simply, "I assume my mother has spoken to you?"

"At some length," Gris rumbled back.

"She said that she might leave me in your hands." Siara was very calm now. She went over to her terminal to shut it down, and realized that her hands were trembling.

"What have you been studying there? Doesn't look like a science textbook. No diagrams."

"Justicar sutras." Siara turned back around, folding her hands in front of her. "I thought it might help."

"Those are just words." Gris' voice was harsh. "Words only help if you feel them in your heart."

_I'm trying to._ "I know," she said, quietly. "Have you decided how you're going to punish me?"

"I've had some time to think about it. So, yeah. Come with me, girl." He gestured, and she followed him out of her room, down the stairs, and into the garden.

To her surprise, the rachni Spectre was there, too. Sings-to-the-Sky. She tensed on seeing him; could _hear_ him in her mind, like a dark-toned, string instrument. The colors that flickered in her mind for a moment were reds and blacks. Anger. Resolve. And yet, a slightly higher-pitched melody there seemed to offer a thread of hope. "What do you think, Sky?" Gris asked, and she turned to look at him, startled.

_Lost singer needs guidance_, came the whispering thread of melody in her head. Siara trembled. How could any species make biotics seem this _simple_? It was their primary form of communication, at least with brood warriors and queens; the lower ranked workers and soldiers just used pheromones to communicate with each other, apparently. _She knows where she wants to go, but direction-song needed. A map, for those who do not sing._

Gris nodded slowly. "All right. We can do that." He looked at Siara. "You're going to be working _very_ hard for a while now, girl. Not just on your biotics, though believe me, you're going to take a few beatings in that regard. But you're also going to be coming with _me_ to Tuchanka next week. See if helping out in the female clan for a while can't erase some of that self-pity from your mind."

_Give of yourself to others_

_Aid them where you can_

_Freedom found within the cage of law._

She'd been bruised from head-to-toe after her biotics lesson that afternoon, and had moved stiffly at school for a week until she'd recovered. But she still almost thought of the upcoming trip to Tuchanka as a treat. It was scary, of course; it was a primitive world, dirty and broken and filled with savage people. But it wasn't _Mindoir_. It wasn't where she'd made so many mistakes. It wasn't the endless grind of the same damn thing, year after year, with no end in sight.

The female camp was located in a hidden place. Gris had only taken them relatively close by shuttle, then landed. Gotten out, beckoned her without words. Put a _sack_ over her head, and then led her off by the arm. "Watch your step," he grunted. "This area's all rubble."

She'd been wearing sensible hiking boots and pants, and was glad of it; every place she put her feet, slid and scrambled under her toes. "No noise from this point on," Gris told her at another point. "Wild varren in the vicinity."

Siara nodded numbly, and tried not even to gasp when her feet slid out from under her again, the only thing keeping her upright being Gris' hard grip on her elbow.

Eventually, they reached it. She could feel a downwards slope to the ground now, feel the air around her turning cooler, moister. _Going underground._ Less rubble. Eventually, Gris yanked the bag off of her head, and Siara looked around, blinking.

It wasn't what she'd expected, at all. The females of clan Urdnot had long since cleaned up their den. No rubble. A dirt floor, certainly, hard-packed, but it was clean here, in a way that the male camp was not. Cracks in the walls had been patched. It smelled clean, too; a little dusty and musty, but there were no chemicals in the air, as in the male camp, where exhaust from engines left a tang everywhere. There were _female _krogans, of course; eyes narrow, staring at her with hostility, the interloper in their domain. Siara didn't think any off-worlder had seen a krogan female in close to a thousand years, and the mere thought suddenly filled her with a sort of odd awe.

And, of course, there were children. Not many—ten, maybe fifteen—but of all ages, ranging from babies in their mothers' arms. All running, shoving, growling at each other. "Urdnot Gris," one of the females said, her voice cracked with age. "This is the young female that you spoke of when last you came here?" She glared down at Siara. "She looks weak. Like all asari."

Siara's head snapped back. She wasn't used to thinking of her species as _weak_. She glared at the female for a moment, then remembered that she was supposed to be here to be punished, and tried to control her face.

"That is why I brought her here, Urdnot Malla," Gris rumbled back. "To teach her to be strong. Not just in mind or in body. But in heart. She needs a krogran heart."

"I cannot _give_ her a heart." Malla cackled. "I only have three, and I cannot spare any."

"But perhaps she can find one in herself, anyway."

Gris walked back over to her. "Do as you're told. Don't try to leave. The varren outside will eat you, and even if they don't, and you lead others back to this place, I will have to kill you myself."

Siara blinked. Swallowed hard. "How long must I stay?"

"Three weeks." Gris looked at her. "Then we'll see."

Siara nodded, and watched as he left. Suddenly, he'd looked comforting. Familiar. Now, all that was left was this place, this very alien, very savage place. She turned back to Urdnot Malla, lifting her chin. "What do you want me to do?"

"Stay out of the way, asari. I have no use for you." The female turned and left. Siara stood there, stunned. _Why bring me here, to have me ignored?_

Of course, she quickly discovered, that those who did not contribute in some way, also were not fed. The first couple of days, she scrambled to find some way in which to be of use—some way in which she was _allowed_ to be of use, that is—that would qualified her, in the elder females' eyes, for more than a scrap or two of food.

Every day, the children were lined up around the main room of the underground warren, and given 'instruction' for an hour or two. This rarely consisted of anything more than some rudimentary history—instruction in the history of Urdnot, before spaceflight, which mostly consisted of a list of victories and defeats, and a list of the names of those on whom bloodfeud still remained. The uplifting of the krogan to fight the rachni, whom the asari and the salarians were too weak to fight—looks of scorn in her direction. The destruction of their race by the contemptible turians and the devious salarians, with the full approval of the perfidious asari. Siara wanted to writhe, wanted to shout _that's not how it was_, but didn't. She held her tongue. And glared. Now, more recent history. Urdnot Wrex and how he'd cleverly acquired the powerful human, Shepard, for his krant. How he'd taken the weak turian, Garrus Vakarian, and reformed him. Made him more like a krogan. How their alliance had allowed him to take control of half of Tuchanka, along with his vision for rebuilding their people. Bringing them back to greatness.

_Right, so you can do it all over again?_ The thought had no force to it, and they were already on to the next lesson. Maybe some basic reading skills. . . in galactic, not in krogan. Because when the males emerged from the camp, they'd be sent to work off of Tuchanka, more than likely. The females would probably not even read at all past childhood, being more concerned with the bearing and raising of whatever children that they _could._ Siara realized, in mild horrors, that she didn't even know if a written krogan language still _existed_. Oh, they still _spoke_ the language, among themselves—usually looking at her when they did so, and laughing—but had they lost so much of their culture in their pragmatic struggle to survive, that if they found ancient records, it would be a question if they could even still read them?

She asked that question of Malla one day. "I still remember how the words are formed," the female told her, brusquely. "The shaman of Urdnot does, as well. Clan Leader Wrex put words on the very stones near here to record the new alliance of clans. More than that is not needed. Not now." She frowned. "Maybe in the future again. But not now."

_There is more to life than mere_

_survival; protect_

_others' dignity and pride_

_as if it were your own._

_Sometimes, these are their only clothes._

The younger children were very rough in their play, and had, on several occasions, rammed right into her. The younger ones, she redirected as best she could. When one of the older ones, close to Mazz's size, charged into her for the second time, however, she thought it was probably deliberate, and shoved him away with a tightly controlled shockwave. Not enough to injure. Just enough to get his attention. "Watch what you're doing," Siara told him, glaring. "If I'd been one of the younger children, you could have hurt them."

"Perhaps you should watch where you're standing. If a younger child had been stupid enough not to get out of my way, then they would have deserved to have been hurt."

He turned and moved away, and Siara glared after him.

_Self-defense is acceptable;_

_Force is a last resort._

_Words move mountains;_

_Shovels only move dirt._

The next time he got near, she moved away. When he altered course to hit her anyway, she knocked him flat on the ground. Again, a very controlled shockwave. He looked up at her and _grinned_, leaping to his feet, and gave her a hard shove before moving away again, back to whatever the children in this room of the warren were actually doing. Sometimes their activities were aimless, chaotic, scuffling games. Other times, they were actually working. Digging for underground fungi to add to the foot supplies. It was hard to tell, sometimes, what was aimless, and what had purpose.

She read the sutras every night. Looking for something, anything that would help her here, in this pit under the earth. Another sutra offered a glimmer of meaning, but she wasn't sure how it applied:

_Compassion frees the spirit;_

_Share it wantonly._

By the end of the first week, Siara felt like the dust of the world would never come off of her skin. She'd taken to watching over the youngest children—the only thing she seemed qualified to do, other than to help unpack crates of food, which the males periodically brought to the hidden den—and helped the younger ones fend off the older children, who sometimes came by to steal food from them. "I don't need your help," one of the younger children, maybe five, six years old, informed her firmly after the first time she'd chased off a ten-year-old. "I can defend myself. I'm not weak."

"No, you're not." Siara didn't know what else to say, but finally scowled and said, "But if you don't eat, you _will_ get weak. So shut up and eat your food. I'm not looking for thanks here." She was tired—bone-deep tired, and hungry, herself. She _wanted_ to snatch the food right out of the ungrateful child's hand and eat it herself, but that wasn't right.

The little boy suddenly grinned up at her. And ate his food.

That night, Siara actually got a full ration of food, herself. She had no idea why. The process of doling out allotments seemed completely arbitrary to her. For all she knew, the elder females might have an elaborate chart set up somewhere, or, more likely, it all boiled down to their mood at any given point. _Two more weeks_, she thought. _Maybe. On the other hand. . . at least it's not school, right?_

**Rellus**

A week on Dymion in his uncle Egidus' house, which was, like most other structures on the moon, bored into the rock of an ancient volcano, and shared an airlock with a hundred other, similar apartments in this area, was enough to accustom Rel to the light gravity, more or less equivalent to the gravity of Mars, in the Terran system. Dymion and Rhenus had been formed, planetologists thought, by an impact event when Palaven was still cooling from a superheated ball of elements into a planet. The impact had knocked much of its iron core away, which had formed Dymion; the lighter elements remaining had formed Rhenus and Palaven itself. The remaining hot core of Palaven ensured that there was still plate tectonics and an orbital rotation; the iron core of Dymion ensured that the moon, unlike its orbital neighbors, actually had a magnetosphere (although its atmosphere was mostly composed of CO2), and heavier gravity than would otherwise be expected, for its size.

Rel was concerned that he'd lose muscle strength while here, but his uncle assured him, "I'm positive that they take you off the moon for several of the weeks of training. Personally, I use the resistance training machinery in the gym to maintain my strength." Egidus shrugged. "My mate, Cardea, wants to move back to Palaven soon. I've told her that if either of us gets a job that pays more, planetside, sure. But for the moment. . . there's too much new construction going on up here, and we're both doing well. She's even designing full biomes for inside of complexes like this one. Helps minimize the carbon scrubbing the equipment has to do."

He reported to the OCS facility on November 4, in his still boot camp gray armor. That was the first thing addressed, once he checked in; a clerk immediately took him to processing, where he removed his outer armor, sat down on a bench with a half-dozen other recruits, and waited for a tech to come back with it, a half hour later, freshly painted officer black, with the blue bloodstripes from the shoulder to the wrists, and from the underarm to the ankle, along the flanks. Rel grinned at the sight, and started snapping everything back into place again.

Rasmus came in as he was buckling everything back together again. "Cadius!" Rel greeted him.

"Velnaran, good to see you again." They traded wrist-clasps, and then Cadius started his own process. "Looks like we're set to be roommates here," Rasmus added, holding up a chit.

"Yeah, I saw that. Nice to have a familiar face around."

"No kidding. I thought when I got here, it would be the first week of boot camp all over again."

It wasn't. They'd been given a list of things to accomplish—check in, get a map, get their armor redone, find their billet, find their commanding officer, check in with him, and from there, they'd get other directions. A test of sorts. To see if they could follow orders without a centurion breathing down their necks. Rel and Rasmus found their quarters easily enough; the corridors were all bored into volcanic rock here, and all looked alike, but every hallway had a different band of paint at the top, and plenty of numerical designations to help people find their way. They unpacked, setting up their lockers, and even had the privilege of an additional footlocker, for personal items, such as spirit statues and the like.

As they unpacked, they caught up. "Your mate's at boot camp now?" Rasmus asked. "How's she holding up?"

"Yeah, she's been there a week. Believe it or not, she made squad leader." Rel grinned, fiercely proud of his little human mate.

"No kidding!" Rasmus turned around. "Seriously?"

"As I take air and my heart beats."

"That's outstanding. How's she dealing with the heat and the radiation?"

"Iodine pills every day to help cushion her against any radiation she might accidentally take in spite of all precautions. The heat's actually more of a problem, since she's in a damned suit all day. Dehydration from sweating, which is the human response to being overheated."

"Yeah, I remember how they'd all get damp when they'd be running on the handball court." Rasmus grinned. "When I was a little brat, I'd tell them it made them look like salarians."

Rel snickered. "That probably got you punched."

"Inevitably, yeah."

Rel didn't mention the odd politics of Dara's little squad. He was puzzled by her mention of it in her latest note, but hadn't had much of a chance to think about it. After reporting in, receiving his handbook and his class schedule, he was more or less at loose ends for a bit, and explored the facility. Found the resistance training gym, found the cafeteria, found the practice hall—a huge rectangular space, about two stories tall. It could be used to muster troops, and would be, in the mornings, when all the officers' candidates were assembled by squads. The rest of the time, it would be used for various scenarios and situations. It could be set up to look like a city, a warehouse, a swamp. It could be partially flooded to simulate amphibious situations. Rel was looking _forward_ to training here.

Every morning for the first of his ten weeks here was a class dedicated to the principles of management, of all things. Important for every officer to know, however, was how to deal with subordinates and superiors. When to protect a subordinate and when not to do so. Techniques for motivating people. Managing superiors' expectations. It was not quite what he'd expected, but he had to agree, it had a certain validity.

In the afternoons, however, they loaded out into vehicles. Hammerheads. Shuttles. Even an old-fashioned Mako or two. Each of them needed to learn to handle the vehicle as it dropped from a ship, and how to navigate across rough, unmarked terrain towards a goal, finding the best path to an objective barely blipping on the scope. Rel turned out to have a knack for finding the most efficient path, although, from his squadmates' complaints, he thought he _might_ be taking a little after his uncle Garrus in some ways. It was hard _not_ to go fast down the embankments, however; the gravity was low, and it was _fun_. Gleefully, enormously, _fun._ Even getting to use the heavy weapons in the turret when someone else was driving was a challenge of its own; they tracked slowly, and weren't as accurate as he'd have liked, but he could see from the puffs of reddish soil exploding up around his target, that the rounds were large, and carried enormous force with them.

The following weeks, he knew, would wind up dividing the candidates who were at the facility. Marines and Special Forces shared the area, but while they shared some of the same training, they didn't share all of it. Calisthenics in the morning, shared. Squad training, shared the first week in the mornings, but the afternoon course, which was infiltration for him, was not. In the third week, he'd be returning to Palaven to complete a course in parachuting; basic through halo drops, apparently, in ten days. The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating at the same time; he'd never actually _thought_ about jumping out of a perfectly good shuttle before, but apparently, he was going to learn how to do so. Week Four was going to revolve around intensive spacesuit combat and amphibious operations. _I need to learn to dive because we might, what, someday need to invade the hanar homeworld?_ Rel wanted to chuckle, but he knew it was just thoroughness. . . and something of a hold-over from the old days, when his people had warred among themselves on Palaven.

The spacesuit half of the course would bring him back to Palaven, and in Week Five, he'd be back in that long practice hall with his teammates, rescuing 'hostages' and practicing SWAT-type extractions. Week Six would be a bit of a break from the physical, turning to encryption, decryption, hacking, bomb detection, and bomb disposal. Rel really hoped he had enough of his brother Rinus' calm hands to be able to _handle_ the bomb disposal portion of the unit.

Week Seven would revolve around the individual's area of specialization. The word on his particular schedule read _Demolitions_. Rel strongly suspected that this meant he'd be working with explosives, again, like his brother Rinus. Week Eight would return them to Palaven, somewhere in the Great Eastern Desert, and they'd spend ten days in the field, navigating difficult terrain, from sand dunes to basalt cliffs.

Weeks Nine and Ten would also be spent in the field. The only words on his schedule for that time period were _Unconventional Warfare._

To say the least, Rel was intrigued. So he sent Dara a reassuring message, wishing, fiercely, that she were here to _share_ this with him, and not stuck in the hell of boot camp. Their seven days of joy already seemed a little dream-like, but at least, when he opened his locker now, he could catch little whiffs of his mate's scent, coming from the hair he'd packed away so carefully. It was a relief, of a sort. It proved that there was a reality outside of boot camp and now OCS. The stress levels were lower now, too. At least now, at night, he had an hour or two to himself. Extranet privileges, if minor ones, that extended beyond just access to the mail servers.

The free-time left him surprisingly unsettled. A hundred and ten days of every minute being filled left him restless when he wasn't unrelentingly busy. So, once his reading for his courses was done at night, he dug into his locker, found his carving knives and a block of wood, and settled in to work, grateful to Dara for having brought these things with her. He decided to start with something simple, and opted for trying to reproduce, from memory, the branch of an _allora_ tree, in bloom. _This should keep me out of trouble_, he thought. _What else am I going to do? _He was aware that his various barracksmates were taking advantage of the relaxation at night to cue up gladiatorial fights to watch, and, from the moaning noises coming from a couple of earphones as he passed by various rooms, not a little porn, which made him shake his head. Release was one thing—and a first or even a second release from his own hands would have been a welcome relief by the end of boot camp. . . but he couldn't quite fathom trying to find it in the all-too-brief absences of his roommate.

Besides, if he were going to do that, he'd probably set off any _number_ of search engine alerts by looking for _interspecies _stuff. Which would be more than a little embarrassing. No, carving and a little self-control were _much_ safer. It was what he'd done at home to redirect his mind on those long nights after closed-door time. It would work just fine here, too.

**Lantar**

November 17 was a Thursday, and Lantar and Eli were out in the garage, as usual, after dinner. Lantar had scraped together a couple of sets of basic gladiatorial armor—chest and loins only, leaving arms and legs bare—a small buckler each, and had given Eli basic training with an un-tipped spear, and had opted to stick with a dull shortsword himself. Lantar grinned as Eli came in cautiously, circling, trying to use the spear's reach to overcome Lantar's natural height advantage, and parried the spear thrust easily. "Good, but try to feint a little more. Also, you're falling prone to what you do a lot in sparring."

"I tend to look where I'm going to hit?"

"Yes, but that's a sign of an honest mind."

"Thanks, Dad." Eli's grin was lopsided. "That's a polite way of telling me I'm obvious, right?"

"Maybe a little."

He caught the next thrust with the buckler, and stepped in, moving to use the shortsword; Eli recovered quickly, moving the haft of the spear across his body now to deflect the sword. "Better!"

Eli pulled back, wiping the sweat out of his eyes. Lantar looked at him in amusement. "You hear back from Dara?"

Eli had written her three days before to see how bootcamp was going. "Kind of. She sounded just beat to death. Told me gene mods were really helping. Said she recommended bringing _five_ rad suits, not two, to let them dry out between uses, and about ten pounds of talcum powder and a case of skin ointment for the rashes. Also said she wished that instead of having Rel cut her hair, that she'd just shaved herself bald and saved herself the extra heat problems."

Lantar's shoulders shook. "All good advice," he finally assessed.

Eli grimaced. "So, I guess now's as good a time as any to talk to you about it."

"Gene mods?"

Eli gave him a wary glance, and nodded. Lantar shrugged. "I don't have a problem with it. I've noticed that human parents seem to have more reservations about it, which is. . . odd. Considering that we turians don't _use_ them among ourselves, really." He looked at Eli, putting the sword up on the wall for the moment. "Which are you looking at?"

"Strength. Endurance. Same reasons as Dara. I have more natural ability that direction than she does, but those are standard for Alliance soldiers past E3 or E4, I think, anyway." Eli frowned. "There's a temperature variance one that wouldn't be a bad idea. Hot and cold conditions, helps the body thermoregulate better. Resistance to hypothermia, though it doesn't stop frostbite, obviously. I think it alters the hypothalamus, though, which is where my mom is going to freak out."

"Well, yes. That _is_ a portion of your brain." Lantar thought about it. "Commonly used?"

"It's about twenty years old, yeah. I didn't look at anything any more recently developed than ten years ago. Dara's eye-thing is only about five years old, but it makes sense for her. Not so much for me."

"I don't know; being able to look at a crime scene at the microscopic level isn't an _unattractive_ notion." Lantar could think of occasions when that talent would have come in handy for himself.

Eli blinked. "Huh. Hadn't thought of that, but you're right." He frowned. "If I hand my mom the same list as what Dara took, though, I'm going to get another comment about being a lemming."

"You don't look like citrus to me."

Eli looked up, frowning. "A lemming is a small animal—oh. I see. That was a _joke._" He said it as if he were holding the word up in an investigator's tongs.

"I _have_ been known to make those. From time to time."

"I'm going to mark it on the calendar, Dad. And attribute it to your upcoming _tal'mae_ rites."

"So, how you planning on paying for them?"

Eli nodded, obviously having expected the question. "Mom has a college savings account set up for me. I thought I'd take the money from there." He paused, watching the expression on Lantar's face. "I don't know whether you guys consider that my money or not. If it's not, then, presumably, I'll pay you back once I actually start drawing a paycheck." He shrugged. "Not like I'll have a lot of living expenses in the military. Then again, not like I'll be making a lot at first, but. . . "

Lantar grinned. _I don't know if he understands how proud I am of him. He's making the decisions of an adult male, and is willing to pay for them. _Lantar took the sword down again. "Good answer. Had enough rest?" When Eli nodded, Lantar grinned again. "Fight!"

Saturday, November 19, dawned sunny and warm; the Mindoir sky was almost lilac in the early morning hours. They'd decided to get the ceremony out of the way early in the morning, and with only their family and closest friends present. Then they'd have the simple, traditional meal, and it would be done. Ellie had shaken her head when he'd asked her if she wanted human vows this time. "No," she said. "I took those last time. Those said 'till death us do part.' As far as I'm concerned, those are in effect forever, Lantar."

So, the ceremony was held outdoors, under the big tree behind Gardner's restaurant, under the blameless lilac sky. Too beautiful to be real, and yet, it was.

Jaworski and Garrus were there to sign the forms as witnesses for Lantar. Shepard and Kasumi were there to sign the forms for Ellie. Elijah held Caelia in his lap out in the little audience area. Sky was there, looking after a very bored Amara and Kaius, who were picking flowers out of the lawn and throwing them at each other, as were Gris and Cohort. Very small. Very simple. Just a reaffirmation that yes, they were with each other, and wanted to continue that, forever.

_"A'petentia tulla eliir animae oporte meus."_

_"Ita meus animae, a'condonia talus."_

And so they began the exchange of promises, of giving and taking. Lantar winced at the sight of her red blood as she cut open her hand, and worried, as always, about the fluid contact as his own blue-smeared hand touched hers. Then the knives were exchanged; _tal'mae _knives he'd picked up weeks ago on Palaven, when he was there for Rellus' graduation. And of course, re-painting her face, tracing over his marks with fresh pigment, and raising her to her feet.

Sam grinned. "About time you two crazy kids got done negotiating and did it right," he told them, clapping Lantar on the shoulder and offering Ellie a hug.

"Are you sure about us leaving for Earth _now_?" Lantar asked Shepard and Garrus, for probably the third time.

Garrus nodded. "Positive. If you _and_ Sam both take time off at the same moment, I can almost _guarantee_ that I'll be calling you within three days, saying that I need you back, there's an emergency. Let's space out the vacations a little bit."

"And not invoke Murphy's law that way," Shepard said, dryly. Now only two months or so from delivering, she'd spent most of the ceremony sitting in the audience area, in a breather and gloves, only standing long enough to sign the papers and bear witness. Inside her villa, the tacilimus was doing its job, but out in public. . . more precautions were needed.

Every time Garrus looked at his wife currently, Lantar could clearly read two expressions there: pride and worry, commingled. He nudged Garrus in the ribs and muttered, in turian, _"Your young stretch your mate's belly well._"

That brought the pride to the forefront, a wide, very male grin, which did not stop in the face of said mate's dark glare. "Get out of here, Sidonis," Shepard said, pointedly tapping one foot. "We'll take care of the kids. Just start moving before I shoot you myself."

Lantar chuckled, and took Ellie's bandaged hand in his own, and led her away. Caelia and Eli were actually going to be staying with Jaworski, Kasumi, and the hybrid family they'd taken in as temporary houseguests. Jaworski said he'd consider Caelia practice for his grandkids, which had made Ellie laugh.

They'd booked a commercial flight from Mindoir to Earth. Ellie had picked the location, a place he'd never even heard of before. He'd figured they'd be heading to Bermuda, where she'd lived through her childhood, after being born in New York, but no; she'd picked the Seychelles Islands. Nine hundred miles northeast of Madagascar, apparently, an archipelago in the middle of the Indian Ocean. He had no idea why she'd picked it, until their shuttle from Luna landed there; he stared out the window at the aquamarine water, the towering rock formations, and the lush jungle in amazement. "It's Palaven," he said, stunned. "More to the point, it's _Aequor_, where I grew up. To the life."

Ellie grinned. "I know. I saw the pictures, and I couldn't resist. And, best of all. . . I don't even need a radiation suit to come here with you."

The population all spoke either English or French; the temperatures were cool, but comfortable, by Palaven's standards, being about 86º F/30º C, with about ninety percent humidity. Lantar knew very well how to swim already, having grown up on the shores of the great central sea, and now Ellie had beaches to walk on for the first time in over sixteen years. They got any number of stares, of course; Lantar did not think that _any_ of the population had ever seen a turian in the flesh before. However, tourism was the island nation's primary industry, and most of the residents recovered their hospitable smiles very quickly indeed. "You should take some of the hikes to the interior of the island," one of their porters told them as they were taken to their room. "We have many creatures and plants here, found no where else on Earth."

"We'll think about that," Ellie told him, smiling. "For the first day or two, I think it'll be nice just to relax."

In their room now, Lantar shut the door behind them, and gently guided Ellie in the direction of the bed. "I want to know if _forever_ feels different than yesterday," he told her, mildly, when she laughed and tried to push his arm away, and then she acceded, laughing, then gasping a little as he grazed her with his teeth, and then pushed her down, following her onto the mattress, letting her taste a little more aggression than he usually let her see.

The sound of the waves slapping against the shore outside was very lulling indeed, after the sounds of their mating had, of course, abated. Ellie rolled over in bed, and muttered, "I wonder if Caelia's sleeping all right for Sam and Kasumi. She's a little terror when you're not there to put her down, Lantar."

He pulled her back to him. "Stop worrying. She'll be fine. A little change will be good for her."

He could _feel_ the way the muscles in her back relaxed at the words. So odd. "True enough." She yawned. "And tomorrow, I will break out a nice one-piece mommy bathing suit and go swimming with you."

Lantar poked a finger into her ribs. "I thought that females on Earth wore suits that exposed the waist." He lifted his head, and said, mock-chidingly, "I traveled all the way here on false pretenses. I thought I would see more of my mate's skin in public here, and was ready for _illicit_ thrills."

Ellie started to laugh. "Well, yes, I _could_ wear a bikini here. Even on Mindoir, I could, but. . . I haven't done that since I was a teenager. My waistline is really not what it used to be." She hesitated. "No one likes to look at stretch marks and all that." He could almost hear the words she _didn't_ say: _and Darren badgered me constantly about the weight gain after Eli was born and the marks and kept asking 'why don't you look as hot and sexy as you used to, baby?'_

Foolish male. His wife had given him _young._ Of course, Ellie had given _him_ a young one now, too. He ran a hand down to her stomach, lightly. "Did I _not_ just get done biting every _unica_ of your waist, _mellis_? Did I not make it clear that I _like_ your waist?" Lantar paused. "I could start over again, you know."

She chuckled, relaxing again. "Yes, yes you did."

"If you're not comfortable, I can live without the waist being bare in public." Lantar shrugged a little. "I wonder though, _amatra_, sometimes, how long it will take for the marks I put on your skin to outweigh the marks your old mate left in your mind."

Ellie stilled in his arms, and he was already regretting the words, when she turned around, wrapped her arms around him tightly, and bit him as hard as she could. Surprised, he pulled back, staring at her. "I had to have ten years of hell to be able to properly appreciate what I have in you," she told him, very quietly. "I can't promise that some of the marks will _ever_ fade. Because some scars don't. But please know that you _have_ put marks in my mind." Her lips quivered for a moment, and he was afraid she'd start leaking at the eyes, something he still didn't really know how to deal with, even after four years, in total, together. "I learned how to use a _gun_ so that if anything happened again, I could help protect our family. Do you think I'd have done that before I met you?"

He shook his head. "No. . . but if it helps. . . I've watched you at the range, sweetness, when you didn't know I was there."

She blinked, expression turning wary. "And?"

"And I find it very enticing." He kept his tone bland, but it was true. A female able to protect a nest? Strong and fierce? Definitely desirable, especially mixed with Ellie's inherent gentleness and humanity.

Ellie started to laugh, and he bit her lightly on the shoulder. "Now all I have to do is get you to come to sparring with me."

"Oh, no, I couldn't. I've always had two left feet. I can't even dance."

"But don't you think that learning a little self-defense would be a good thing?"

She hesitated. He put a little more bait on the hook. "And you did say you wanted to know a little about what I do. . . "

Ellie looked up at him, a little shyly. "I would never be any good at it."

_Spirits, if the male weren't five years dead at this point, I would beat her old mate's head in myself. How did he manage to destroy so much confidence in her? She had it, when she was younger. I've seen the pictures, the straight back, the wide smile._ "You can be as good at it as you want to be. The point for you would be to learn and have fun. The point for me," he said, smiling, "would be to have fun, and get to bite you afterwards."

A soft laugh. "All right. I'll think about it."

_Close enough to a victory to enjoy it._

**Shepard**

"Mordin, do stop clucking at me." Shepard would have looked up at her physician wearily, except that her eyes were currently covered. This was a house call; she'd started experiencing migraine symptoms. Nothing she hadn't had before, especially since all the cybernetics were implanted, but the shimmering colors and the blind spot in her field of vision, not to mention the severe headache, were the _exact same_ symptoms as pre-eclampsia. Hence, her feet were up, she had a damp towel over her eyes to block the light, and Mordin was taking her blood pressure, sampling her blood, and monitoring the fetal hearbeats.

And clucking. His little daughter, who went with him _everywhere_ at the moment, was only a month old, and was already crawling around happily. From the sound of things, the twins found Narayana _fascinating_

"Salarians find it difficult to cluck. Larynx not the right shape." Mordin flipped through her latest test results. "Attending wedding was likely last social activity for some time. Have avoided bed rest for _much _longer than last time. Eight months in this time, not six months. However, hypertension has been excessive and prolonged. Am detecting indications of premature contractions as well."

"Oh, hell no." Shepard lifted her washcloth and peered out, immediately regretting it. The sunlight in the room was _really_ bright.

"Yes. This would be unfortunate. Hybrids already sufficiently challenging without complications of premature birth. Also, no one has ever delivered a hybrid vaginally before."

"I'm happy to be first in many areas. That is not one of them. I don't care if the spurs _are_ largely cartilaginous at birth, I don't want 'em passing through there, you know?"

Garrus came in from the other room and perched on the arm of the couch, reaching down to touch her hair. "So, what are we looking at, Mordin?" he said now.

"Bedrest, definitely. Fifteen minutes of walking at noon each day, like last time. IV fluids to attempt to slow, stop contractions. Low dose of calcium channel blocker, such as nifedipine, if needed. Would have side benefit of lowering blood pressure." She could feel pressure on her swollen left ankle now. "How long have feet been swollen like this?"

"They've _been_ swelling for a while," she muttered. "I had to wear shoes without ankle straps to the wedding Saturday." Her voice was a little annoyed as she added, "I'd never realized that the old phrase about being kept barefoot and pregnant had more to do with not being _able_ to wear shoes, than with not being able to run away."

Mordin's hands were gentle. "Much fluid build-up. Really must keep feet elevated."

"I hadn't noticed that they were actually _draining_ when I elevated them." _Not to mention, when Garrus rubs them, the fact that his fingers leave marks is disconcerting. He tries not to laugh, but even I have to admit it's kind of funny. _Shepard sighed and uncovered her eyes again, gingerly. "I know there's got to be something else. You're hesitating, Mordin."

"Yes. Sugar levels very high. Diet needs to be altered again. Probably go to metered doses of dextro proteins through IVs again, like last time. Levo food intake can remain as normal. Trying to avoid insulin injections."

Kaius and Amara came over at that point. She'd been explaining to them for months that now that mama was bringing them new baby siblings, they couldn't crash into her, willy-nilly anymore. They'd gradually learned. They also seemed to understand now, much better than they would have, even a year ago, that she wasn't feeling well. Kaius reached up to stroke her hair, mimicking Garrus, probably; Amara put her head down lightly on Shepard's rounded stomach. "I'm listening," she said, suddenly.

Lilu chuckled. "Are they saying anything good, sweetheart?"

"No. They're sleeping." Amara gave the belly a kiss and said, "Night-night, babies," before scampering off again.

Shepard looked up at her husband. "She really does say the damnedest things sometimes."

He shook his head. "You're telling me." Garrus chuckled. "Daddy blue?"

Lilu looked back at Mordin. "So, we fought it off a little longer this time. Time for me to be an egg again." She reached up, and Garrus caught her fingers.

"We knew we'd need someone to come in and help out for a while," he told her. "Don't worry about it. It's all covered."

_Yeah, except now worrying is about all I __**can**__ do for the next two months. That, and work on the Tosal Nym/Aphras documents. That's not work. That's a __**hobby. **__Hmm. Speaking of which, I guess it's time to send Ruin and Cohort to Bastion to meet with the Council, isn't it?_


	55. Chapter 55: Bootcamp, Redux

**Chapter 55: Bootcamp, Redux**

**Author's note:** _This is where Lantar and Ellie are staying. . . if FF doesn't eat the links:_

_www .myfreewallpapers. net/ nature/ pages/ seychelles-islands .shtml_

_www. oceanic-islands. com/ images/ seychelles3 .gif_

_www. tonken. com/ Seychelles %20island .jpg_

_On another note,__ I am conducting an informal reader poll, since I don't think anyone will look at my profile and see if I've put a new one up. (Which I have, actually, but. . . )_

_I've been waffling back and forth over Dara's squad results for the final consolidation. Initially, she was going to get as far as she has (the 80-man squad and Lintorum), and then lose the next consolidation, which is the 160 man one, just before the Trial in the field. _

_That being said, I can see arguments both ways. She's a support/team player, so that would be fitting. On the other hand, it would be nice if she did just as well as Rel did, so we see the spirit of unity and equality and all that. Please feel free to click on my profile and vote! :)_

_I also get the most interesting questions in private messages sometimes. Now I know why, when I worked for a NASA subcontractor, it was joked that the most popular question NASA has ever gotten is "how do toilets work in space?" :-P _

_So, __hygiene!__ The hygiene facilities are the most shielded portion of the barracks. You have a hallway with 8 rooms, the showers and lavatories, and then another hallway with 8 rooms leading off from there. Because of its interior configuration, the wet walls (i.e., the walls which contain plumbing), the tile, etc., the facilities are a) used as shelters during tornadoes and hurricanes and b) the area has the most radiation shielding. Your cell phones would have problems inside them._

_Why don't the human recruits have translator VIs?__ Great question. We could answer that two ways. 1) Author oversight. Which is, technically true, but, then again, we have the equally valid 2) "Press the red button, or we're all going to die!" *blip, blip, blip* No, wait, we were waiting for that translation to come through Babelfish. Now we're all dead. _

_Shaving!__ The human males, because of breather seals (facial hair causes seals to fail in the future, same as gas masks and firefighter gear today), would probably have to shave daily, yes. Portable electric shavers could be recharged in the barracks, assuming they had adapters for the power grid and whatever shape the plugs are on Palaven; alternately, the menfolk might well have brought shaving cream and razors in their hygiene kits. Another potential solution would be a depilatory cream, such as Nair, though that might make the men feel a little *fancy*. Dara is probably at least cleaning out the underarms, yes, due to sweat issues. I doubt she has time for legs and, ahem, bikini type zones. No, she's not going to let Rel see that. The bathroom door might well be locked until she gets everything more or less cleaned up._

_Now, um, space toilets, armor, and environmental suits. . . well, you remember that crazy lady astronaut who drove from Houston to Florida a few years ago to try to confront a romantic rival with a knife? :-D She had a box of adult diapers in the car. That's one option. Low tech, certainly. The other end of the spectrum would be the volus/quarian environmental suits, which capture bodily waste, strip out the water, filter and process the water for re-use, and periodically need to eject the solids. (Assuming that volus body chemistry even uses water. Which I can't imagine that they do, since their homeworld is so damned cold.) On a complete side note, I have to say, being a quarian would suck. You're born in a bubble, get potty-trained, turn twelve, go into a suit, and then pretty much go back to being an infant again. Which begs the question: if someone comes out of the suit at 30 or 40 years of age, would they need to be re-trained? Yes. this is what happens when I focus too much on the details. Destroys the illusion, doesn't it?_

_Ahem, anyway. Humans and turians are probably somewhere in the middle. Human armor seals at the waist and the pants can be lowered; that just leaves the elasticized suit, and I'm going to say there's a nice convenient adhesive seal in the appropriate places for, ahem, access. The turian model has a loinguard that removes, and they probably have an adhesive-sealed area near the cloaca for the required activities. Full-on environmental suits for extended EVA probably has quarian-style storage compartments. If you're going to be in vacuum or a hostile environment for 18-36 hours, it's not like you can just find a friendly tree and water it._

_Anyhow. On with the show!_

**Dara**

As it turned out, the turians who didn't manage to get across in good time _did_ do pushups. Admittedly, 'in good time' meant the turian standard of four, five minutes. Dara had to suppress a grin as she heard a centurion bellowing at a group of turians, _"Move, you worthless __cuderae__! You're letting a bunch of __arboreal mammals__ beat you in the water. Not a whole lot of __lakes__ up in the treetops, you might notice. Get a __move__ on!" _

Of course, once humans had come _down_ from the trees, the webbing between fingers and toes, the enclosed nostrils, suggested that there had been a period in which humans had lived alongside _some_ body of water and that this adaptation had been favored, somehow. Not that there was much other evidence of that. Dara was chest-deep in the water at the moment, on this, their second day of water training, just trying to keep everyone floating on their backs and _calm_. Turians had a marked tendency to panic in the water, she was noticing, which made her appreciate, again, just how relaxed Rel really was, and how adaptable.

"_Essedarius, I know that you feel like you're going to sink. Part of that is because turians have zero body fat. Humans do. . . thermal regulation for cold, as well as food storage. But you have hollow bones, and those nice long bodies of yours mean that you can displace most of your weight over the surface of the water. Stretch out. Arch your back a little. . . feel how the water's supporting you?" _Dara kept one hand under the small of the female's back. _"Rostrus, come over here. Keep your hand right where mine is, and walk alongside her as she heads to the far side. You get to be her safety wheels. When you come back, though, you're going to take your hand off, and just walk alongside, making sure she doesn't have any problems, understood?" _Leodrous genuinely was the best turian swimmer in her little combined squad at the moment, having had previous experience on the Citadel, but she'd also noticed that Kallixta was comfortable with him, in a way the female _wasn't_ comfortable with some of the other members of 223/224 yet.

She got a nod, and moved on to her next person in line, repeating the process. Navinus, the squad leader of 224, was almost as relaxed as Rel, and was learning the skill quickly. Malcolmson, she had helping Bakka, the lone female in 224. He was trying his best to tell her how to float in turian, and looked up at Dara little desperately as she came over. "How do I say 'relax and spread your arms and legs out?'" He paused. "Actually, that sounds a little dirty."

Dara cleared her throat. "Only if you said it in familiar-to-familiar voice."

"Huh?"

"Nevermind. _Elangus_ is the command form of _relax. _Say it."

"_Elangus._"

Bakka gave him a wary glance, and Dara told her, _"Work with me here, Illunius. He __does__ know how to swim. The words are just hard for him."_

"_Yes, Squad Leader." _To her credit, the female tried to relax, and started doing noticeably better.

Dara pushed up out of the pool, and suddenly found herself face-to-face—well, chest-to-thorax—with a tall and irritated male. She looked up, saw the solid mask of yellow clan paint there, and her eyes flicked down, briefly. He was bare, of course, for swimming, so his arms were clearly visible, and she had just enough time to see the surgical scars at shoulder, elbow, and wrist, lines from the sutures still visible above the scales, and then all she saw were bared teeth. _"So, they're letting humans in the military now. I'd heard it, and I certainly saw you vermin scurrying around inside of your suits, but I thought __maybe__ you were just misplaced quarians, not a bunch of pyjak shit-eaters. But now I actually have to believe that you and your stink really are here, contaminating us."_

The entire time he was snarling in her face, Dara had just enough mental capacity to think, _I guess I'm lucky my clan paint washes off in the pool. . . not to mention from the sweat, every day. Although, it's not like my name isn't posted as squad leader, but that's nowhere outside my own barracks hallway. That I know of, anyway._ As he finally spluttered to a halt, breathing heavily through his nose, she'd had enough time to think of a reply, though her stomach was roiling at the moment, and her hands were already shaking with adrenaline, ready to fight, _"Yes, we're the Black Death, actually. You should go make sure your shots are up to date."_ She said it with a bright, chipper smile, too.

It wasn't the strongest reply she could have made. . . _my mate should have taken your tongue for a trophy when he shattered your arm_ would have been a contender, but that would identify her definitively, if he hadn't already figured out who she was, and she really didn't want to deal with this today if she didn't have to do so. Besides, she wasn't here to get any badass-of-the-year awards.

As it was, Lintorum—for it was him, she was certain, bared his teeth and shoved her backwards into the pool. Fortunately, she didn't actually hit any of the uncertainly bobbing turians floating around that end of the pool. By this point, Kallixta and Leodorus had made their way back to the shallow end, and as Dara came up, shaking her wet hair, they and Malcolmson all stared at her.

"What the fuck was _that?_" Malcolmson asked, at the exact moment the rest of the squad members were asking _"What the futtar was that about?"_

Dara flapped a hand at them. _"Hopefully, a non-issue. Keep working on the swimming." _She knew damned well a centurion had seen it, and didn't know if she'd prefer if the NCO dealt with it, or not. On the one hand, if a centurion intervened, it would look like she needed protection. On the other hand, she might _need_ protection.

The afternoons in Week Four were devoted to rifles, pistols, and first aid. As Rel had predicted, this was a _very_ easy week for her, other than the twenty kilometers a day of running, and the twice weekly forty kilometer runs, which, to be honest, even in armor, were starting to get more endurable. Still not fun. They would _never_ be fun. But definitely more doable.

As it was, Dara had glanced through the first aid materials, seen that there were some minor differences between how the material was presented here and how the B-Sec guide recommended things be done, and simply noted the differences. Malcolmson knew human first aid, of course; Charilca knew some very basic turian first aid. None of the rest of them did. So Dara demonstrated every first-aid procedure for the centurion first—per their manual—and was surprised when the centurion asked, _"And how would you address femoral arterial bleeding on a __human__, Squad Leader Velnaran?"_

"_In much the same way as a turian, drill centurion. Pack the wound with gauze to slow the bleeding and apply pressure at the femoral artery, get the victim to lie down, apply tourniquet at the pressure point in the groin, elevate the leg, apply medigel if it's available, and treat for shock. In a human, that means keeping them warm and calm, drill centurion. Monitoring the heartbeat and blood pressure if possible, would also be helpful."_

"_And in an asari?"_

"_Pack the wound with gauze, get her to lie down, and immediately apply a tourniquet above the wound site, drill centurion. Multiple branching arteries in the upper leg ensure that there should be less blood loss than for a human or a turian, but also make it more difficult to stop the bleeding by applying pressure to a single point."_

"_Human CPR. Describe it."_

"_Arch the neck, assuming the neck is uninjured, clear the airway of obstructions, two breaths. Follow with thirty chest compressions, delivered at the sternum followed by two breaths. If a turian is delivering the CPR, it's chest compressions only, which at least keeps the brain oxygenated. Rate of delivery should be about one hundred compressions a minute, in either case, drill centurion."_

"_Turian CPR."_

"_The neck does not need to be arched, drill sergeant. Clear the mouth of obstructions. If a human is delivering the CPR, cup fingers along the lip plates and pinch the mandibles closed to ensure a good seal. Two breaths. Begin compressions to the chest left of the center line of the cowl, which otherwise will interfere with the compressions. Hemocyanin-based blood is a little less efficient than hemoglobin-based blood at transporting oxygen, so twenty compressions and then two more breaths. Same compression rate as a human, however, one hundred a minute. If a turian is administering the CPR, no rescue breaths will be available."_

He looked at her, steadily. _"Carry on training your squad."_

Dara took a deep breath and turned back to the others, relieved. _"Very well, everyone, partner up. Rostrus, you're with Malcolmson for language duty and with Essedarius as well, since I'm going to be helping everyone."_ None of the rest of the squads were doing it this way, she noticed; all of them were practicing on the squad leader, which she thought was a little inefficient, and didn't let her _see_ what everyone was doing. She came over and looked at tourniquets, corrected placements, adjusted slings, demonstrated better pressure bandage techniques, and generally enjoyed the hell out of herself. Of course, Malcolmson and she couldn't get out of their armor to be the training dummies themselves, so when everyone asked how to apply the information to humans, all the slings and tourniquets had to be done on the outside of the armor, much to everyone's amusement.

"_How do you __know__ this already?" _Navius asked.

"_Started studying first aid a year ago. Thought it would be a good start towards being a doctor. I've also worked in, ah, two regional medical clinics near my home for the last year. I think I've seen every species in Council space at this point." _

"_On Mindoir?"_ That was Acrisus, surprisingly. The male was _very_ intelligent, but rarely spoke. Dara had him pegged for a tech position of some sort, eventually.

She looked up and grinned at him through her visor. _"Yes, on Mindoir. Some of the areas are more cosmopolitan than others. I don't recommend Odessa, though."_ Dara held up a fresh hypodermic needle, straight from the kit. "_I think we're ahead of the other squads at the moment. Let's move on to administering anaphylactic shock medications. Personally, I carry epi-tabs, and I think you all understand __why__. . . "_ she waited for the chuckling to die down, _"but, say, we all wind up on Eletania, and some of us suffer suit malfunctions. The pollen there __will__ kill any one of us standing here. So, shots. For humans, we use epinephrine. That is, literally, adrenaline. For us, the stick is right to the thigh. Very simple. For turians, it's a cocktail of your adrenaline and oxytocin chemicals, and the stick any major limb that's exposed. On both species, you're not actually aiming for a vein. I can show you how to find one and make use of one, but that's a little advanced for everything we're doing this week." _She beckoned to Acrisus, and demonstrated, with the needle filled with saline, how to clean the skin area and then pop the needle in. _"In an emergency, obviously, skip the skin cleaning. A minor infection later versus death now? I'll take my chances with the bacteria."_

They all laughed.

That night, in the barracks, Kallixta raised a finger and poked Dara in the back, as she swayed gently in her hammock. _"So, Squad Leader?"_

"_Hmm?"_

"_I think I might be up for another exchange of queries, if you are."_

Heads rose around the room. Everyone trying not to act as if they were interested, but clearly listening, anyway. Dara chuckled. _Turians are absolutely __awful__ liars. They can't even hide the body language._ She rolled to her side so she could look down. _"Did you have a particular question in mind? If so, you may certainly ask first."_

"_I did, Squad Leader._" Kallixta's grin was absolutely merry. _"Humans have __choices__ about what they will do, and the concept interests me. Why choose medicine? People will __die__ if you make mistakes. It seems. . . a terrible burden to __choose__ to take."_

Dara blinked. Again, not quite the question she'd expected. And certainly not phrased the way she would ever have expected it to be phrased. _Okay, can't talk about the simulation device, but then, I think the idea was there even before then._ Out loud, thoughtfully, Dara replied, _"My mother died a little over a year ago. It was very sudden. Unexpected. Before then, I had thought to treat animals, maybe even bioengineer them, as she did. Afterwards. . . I've seen a __lot__ of death in the last year. People die if you make a mistake as a doctor, yes, but the biggest failure would be not __trying__ to help."_

"_Who have you seen die?" _

"_That's two questions, Essedarius. I will take my due, you know, when it's my turn." _Dara waggled a finger at Kallixta, then sobered. _Can't talk about all the corpses coming off the __Normandy__. Though spirits know, that had an effect. Wait, I just thought __spirits know__, not god knows. Gah. _Out loud once more, she said, quietly, _"My mother, for one. There were a couple of raids on Mindoir that didn't entirely make the news. A friend of mine was killed in the second raid. My mate and I were holding off the batarians while we were waiting for, ah, local authorities to arrive, and one of them threw a grenade. My mate was injured, I was trying to stop his bleeding, and didn't see that our friend had been hurt. I couldn't save her. I'm not sure anything short of a full doctor with a fully stocked emergency room could have, to be honest." _Dara's voice was quiet, and filled with regret. Between Kella's blood and Rel's blood that day, there was a _reason_ why blue blood made her hands shake, and red blood didn't bother her at all. After a moment, Dara clicked on her omnitool, and checked something. _"S'kak. _November twenty-seventh,"she said, surprised. _"That was a year ago__ today__. Spirits. I hadn't even realized it."_

She felt a little cold now, to be honest. She had been plodding along on a turian schedule in her mind lately, and it had just turned Octus 1 here. The monsoon season went from late Septus until late Finus, or five out of the eleven months a year; it would be starting to get 'cool' here shortly, too. She was looking forward to that. She hadn't even _realized_ that it had been a year since Kella died, as a result.

Charilca suddenly sat straight up in her nest. _"Wait a minute. You're __blooded__?" _the female blurted, showing no concern for interrupting the conversation in her surprise.

Dara looked up, blankly, for a moment, then remembered that Rel had considered this important, too. _"Yes,"_ she said, after a moment. _"Sorry. I always forget that turians find that a matter of pride."_

Now _all_ the eyes were turned on her. _"And humans don't?_" That was from Acrisus.

Dara frowned, and tried to pick her words carefully. _"Because most of our societies place a very high premium on life, and place strong ethical restrictions on the taking of life, yes. It's not considered a matter for pride. Showing pride in it would make one seem. . . ah, _soulless." She frowned. _"I think you'd probably say mor'loci, but I know that's a little strong." _She snorted a little. _"My mate couldn't believe all the psychologists who were asked to check me to see if I were of sound spirit after that and after the, ah, vorcha attack. He saw someone who was blooded, and they saw someone who should have been feeling guilt and remorse at killing, and who wasn't. I was a good deal more upset over not having been able to save our friend's life. Seemed more important at the time."_

Leodorus said, a little thoughtfully, _"It makes sense, Squad Leader. Most humans stay children their entire lives. A child isn't expected to defend himself or the home. So they expect their own to have the reactions of children."_

Dara frowned. _"That's not quite it. There's a difference between a child and a civilian for us. Quite a large one, actually."_ She waved a hand, dismissingly it. _"Besides, we're a little far afield here, and Essedarius owes me two answers."_ Dara grinned.

Kallixta chuckled. _"Ask, and I will answer if I may."_

Dara thought about it carefully. Kallixta had definitely been on Shanxi, in the Imperial box, with her family. Well, that included between two to three hundred people, as far as she recalled. Kallixta had a strong, clear accent. Was from Complovium. Asking _who __is__ your family, anyway, _seemed a little bald; Kallixta had yet to ask 'so, what's it like living surrounded by Spectres?' so Dara would respect her privacy as much as Kallixta was respecting hers. _"What kind of duty would you __choose__, if you could?"_

That earned her a blink. _"An exercise in imagination. Very interesting. Very well. If I could choose my fate? I would __love__ to be a pilot. Maybe a fighter pilot, based off of a __Leviathan__-class carrier, like the __Catasta_, _if I were good enough. Better yet, on a __Normandy__-class ship, out exploring uncharted systems, as far away from Palaven as I could get. I hope that doesn't sound too unmindful of duty."_

Dara shook her head. _"Sounds about normal for someone who's never been off the homeworld before. I had my nose up to the glass of the observation ports on my way to Mindoir, just to stare at all the planets we, ah, had to make stops at before reaching the final destination." _Dara paused. Time for the second question. _"And what duty do you think you'll __really__ get?"_ That was the more important question. From her various squadmates' reactions so far, she had a clear idea that none of them thought Kallixta would _ever_ be in harm's way.

From Kallixta's rueful expression, she didn't think so, either. _"Probably something in Strategic Plans and Policies_," she said, after a moment's thought. _"Or maybe in Simulations."_

"_War College?"_

"_Is that what humans call it, Squad Leader?"_

"_Old term, but yeah."_

"_I like your name better. Makes it sound less mind-bogglingly dull."_

Covnersation died down then, and Dara flicked open her datapad, composing a letter to home. She was the sort of person who, once she'd started a puzzle or a task, was _compelled_ to finish it. Unanswered questions _irked_ her. Hence the close to five months she'd spent writing a research paper on a question she was sure no one else had ever _asked_, and that certainly didn't even pertain to her own species. Right now, Kallixta was a puzzle, and she didn't think she'd get it solved, even if she had twenty questions to do it with, because she _couldn't_, for reasons of tact, ask the _right_ ones.

She could ask her dad, but her dad, while he loved a good puzzle, wasn't the right person to ask. Kasumi, though, her soon-to-be-stepmother? Oh yes. Kasumi liked to _know_ just as much as Dara did. More, even.

_Octus 1/November 27, 2191_

_Dear Kasumi—_

_I have a favor to ask you, and this is going to sound weird. I have a puzzle here at boot camp, and maybe you can help me solve my mystery. There is a female in my unit. Sixteen years of age, obviously, bare-faced. Speaks perfect, British-accented English. Comes from Complovium, and everyone around here defers to her, except the centurions, of course. Name is given as Kallixta Essedarius, which is the first puzzle. That's not a common last name. It is, in fact, just a word usually used for a class of gladiators in the arenas here, who fights from a chariot._

_Well, it could be just an uncommon name, except the first thing she asked me was if I'd been at the speech on Shanxi. She said she was, herself, with her family, and claims to have been sitting close enough to hear my teeth chattering. Now, there __were__ a few people around us. I don't remember seeing her, and I don't have extranet access to look at the vid footage and see if I can spot her. The centurions have made a point of telling __both__ of us not to expect special treatment because of our families. (Which is another point entirely. I have no idea why they'd think the Jaworskis are special enough to merit favor.) _

_So, she and I have been playing a little game. Neither of us comes right out and asks each other what we really want to know, and neither of us tells anyone anything really important, except by what we can ferret out by inference. She has the advantage at the moment, because she clearly knows more about my background than I know about hers. At this point, my assumption is 'daughter of a general or highly-placed, influential family at the Imperator's court,' but that could be dead wrong. _

_Should I even be playing this game? Can you help me solve my mystery? Ah, well, it gives me something to think about besides the heat, the humidity, and the radiation. Give my love to Dad._

She sent it off, turned off the lights, and she and her squad went to sleep.

At the end of Week Four, it was time for squad consolidation again. 223 and 224, under her control, faced off against 225 and 226. Dara was perfectly aware that it didn't _all_ boil down to the sparring competition at the end of each segment; the weekly points for the bookwork, special activities, marksmanship, running, and melee components were constantly updated on the boards at the front of each barracks. She was particularly pleased with her squad's placement on the swimming and first aid this week; she'd even managed a nice solid 100 on the first aid section for herself, and all of her people scored 90 or above for the bookwork, which was a first. Even Malcolmson had done well on that section. . . mostly, she suspected, because it was a hands-on activity, not one that required reading. For the swim course, again, everyone was at a 90 or above; as a human, she pretty much got an automatic 100, which was also a nice bump to her ranking. Next week would probably be more difficult again.

So, December 6 came, and the consolidation melee began. She wound up fighting Vokaj first, and his style was unusual. After a moment or two, she managed to remember seeing a vid her father had pulled up for her once, on a European style called _savate_. It was unusual, in that it came out of France, and solely out of a European tradition, and involved pretty much _only_ feet. It suited his long limbs, and was different enough from what she'd normally seen, that she had to pull back, watch for a moment, and then start moving in on him. It still had the same vulnerabilities her father had pointed out many times; the leg was off the ground, no matter how fast it moved, and left him open and vulnerable to someone moving in behind it, crashing techniques, and the like. _"You're going to be teaching some of that,"_ she told him, offering him her hand to help him up from the mats after she _finally_ figured out a way to drop him there.

"_Do you think they'll want to learn it?" _Vokaj asked, looking a little surprised. His turian, after forty days of practice, was heavily accented, but very clear.

"_If it involves kicks, yes, they will. I want to learn to counter it better, myself. I've never seen it used outside of vids before."_

Then on to her next opponent, and the next. 225 and 226 had a higher percentage of front-line types than her initial, mostly technical squad had had, and she had to fight all ten of them, same as everyone else. Their squad leader, Decimus Corolan, wore Rocam Outpost paint; green vertical bars. He was just about as tall as Rel, but nowhere near as fast, and Dara thanked her lucky stars for _that. _As it was, she still caught an vicious kick to her ribs, sucked in her breath, and took a rolling tumble out of the way of more, and stayed in a crouch from that point on, forcing him to direct the force of his strikes downwards, which took a lot of the force out of them. She got back in on him, managed a trip, and, from behind, pounced and wrapped one arm around his throat, using the other to brace from behind, putting pressure on the carotid arteries that, in turians, had more protection than in the human throat, but which were still vulnerable to pressure. _"Time!" _ a centurion called, and she released Decimus. Because he hadn't tapped out, the match was declared a draw, something that her squadmates, surprisingly, grumbled about as they were filing out.

"_Don't worry about it. I was lucky to get that much on him_," Dara told her people. _"Decurro, you beat him, right?"_

Navinus nodded. _"Yeah. He was slow. Good training, but slow. He mostly had more of a height advantage on you than anything, Squad Leader. You usually compensate pretty well for that, though."_

"_Yeah, the problem is, I think he cracked my ribs. I need to head to the infirmary._" Dara stepped out of line, asked a centurion for permission, and headed there. A quick scan confirmed her suspicion, and the doctors there shook their heads, offering her a pressure bandage. She declined it; the _last_ thing she needed was anything else that could make her sweat. She was just going to have to be careful of her left side for a bit. _"While I'm here, could I get a couple of boxes of talcum powder to take back to the barracks? Either way it goes, there will be three humans in the squad now, and we need it for our radiation suits."_ She shrugged. _"Our barracksmates will thank you for the courtesy to their noses."_

One of the nurses chuckled. _"I didn't want to __say__ anything. . . " _and handed over three large packages of the white powder.

On returning to the Apha-Xlorae barracks, Dara dropped everything off in her room, showered, changed into a marginally fresher rad suit, and checked the board. The results had just been posted, apparently. This week, it was pretty evident that she and her squad had won on overall points, not necessarily for their melee ability. _Makes sense. But now we've got ten people who are mostly melee and physical fighters added to us. Gives us a little better balance. But. . . crap. This means I'm still in charge. _

Dara retrieved the packages of talcum powder, tapped on the door of 224, and said, _"Have a gift for you, Malcolmson,"_and tossed a box at Malcolmson, who caught it with evident relief.

"Outstanding!" he said, and then quickly tried it in turian, _"I mean, very good, thank you, Squad Leader."_

"_You're doing better,"_ she told him, cheerfully, and then tapped on 226's door, and walked inside. She handed the talcum directly to Vokaj, who looked just as glad to see it as Malcolmson had, and then turned to Decimus. _"You've got some great fighters in your squads, Corolan,"_ she told the big male.

"_Thanks. We've been training hard. Evidently, not hard enough." _He sounded a little grim.

"_No, my cracked ribs tell me you've definitely been training __exactly__ hard enough." _At the time, it had hurt, sure, but the adrenaline of combat and the fact that her attention had been firmly fixed on not getting hurt any worse had distracted her. Now they hurt plain _hurt_, and she couldn't ask for any more pain medication here than plain aspirin. Even aspirin—or the species specific equivalent—was something of an admission of weakness in the face of the famous turian stoicism.

Her rueful words got at least a smile from the squad leader. _"Sorry. We're not actually __supposed__ to damage one another."_

"_Eh, it happens. Talk to me about your people. I've got a __lot__ of techs. While Decurro definitely has front-line potential, even he should probably be in a tech position."_

"_Just the reverse, really. Vokaj is a little too smart to be in with the rest of us grunts. I've got at least five future infantry, and I think a couple of assault vehicle specialists, if I had to take a guess." _

Dara nodded. _"Okay, what I'm going to do is this. I'm going to rearrange the barracks and your routine a little. The closest thing I have to infantry at the moment in my first squad is Auriga, and I think she'll be more comfortable with your people. Vokaj can move to 223," _and she winced, because she really didn't want a human male in her barracks, to be honest, although she was just _fine_ with turian males. . . go figure. . . but it made good sense. It required much less in the way of flip-flopping people around than sending Vokaj to 224 with Malcolmson (and then some other random person from 224 to 223, and on down the line), got Vokaj and Leodorus in the same room, to give Leodorus someone decent to work on his English with, and divided up the four squads more or less by affinities. Then she gave the by-now standard discussion on the watch rotation, got the usual pleased, if confused looks from everyone, and moved on back to her own room, where she assured Auriga she wasn't being moved as a disciplinary action, but as a squad balancing issue.

Just enough time left to read her mail. A long, delightful letter from Rel. Week Four for her, was Week Three for him at OCS. He commented, _We came back to Palaven this week, and have been doing drop training. Started out from lower atmosphere. Today we completed the halo drop portion of the course, which involves basically wearing a breather and armor and shielding and freefalling from 35,000 feet, or about six of your miles. . . say, ten kilometers. . . up in the atmosphere, and then pulling the ripcord at low altitude. The actual freefall is very relaxing, I think. It's the stepping out of the shuttle that's been the hard part for me. For everyone, I think. The first dive is done in tandem with an instructor. After that, you're on your own for the whole stepping off into nothingness. After the fortieth or fiftieth one, though, it started to get routine. If you wind up coming here, sweetness, as I think we both have reason to believe you will. . . you shouldn't have a problem with it, past the initial fear of heights and sense of impending demise that everyone has. The rest of the training is more or less desensitization, I guess. _

_Every other week, we apparently get a half day's liberty at the end. Most everyone wanted to go find a bar. I tagged along out of more or less a sense of obligation and having nothing else better to do. It's actually no fun at all, watching nine or ten other people get drunk, stupid, and try out some of the worst pick-up lines I have __ever__ heard. Well, actually, that part was kind of funny. Particularly the 'shot down in flames' portion of the afternoon. Yes, I was the driver. No, they're going to have to find someone else next time. Of course, next time will be back on Dymion, I think, so I'll probably just go visit my uncle's family for a bit. It helps to get off the base. I can already hear you saying 'wish I could get off the base here. . . ' and you __will__, beloved. You're almost halfway there._

From Kasumi, now, another piece to add to her puzzle.

_December 6, 2191_

_It sounds like you're picking up the family affinity for puzzles and secrets, Dara. I checked into your mystery for you. Your little friend is __not__ a security risk. She definitely knows your background, but probably not a lot of details. Don't discuss any particulars about your dad's work or the rest of the family business. I was able to ascertain her real name and status pretty easily, but we—your dad, your aunt, and I, that is—think it best not to tell you through unencrypted mail. The turians would definitely not thank us for that. Your dad's pleased with your smarts, and your aunt is delighted with your diplomacy. Personally, I like that you know how to play games, but that's just me._

_Your aunt is on bed-rest. Pregnancy is kicking her ass, and I am not particularly looking forward to it as a process myself. Your dad is right, however; neither he nor I are getting any younger. If we __want__ to have a kid together, sooner would probably be less problematic than later. He tells me you always __wanted__ a baby brother or sister. Perhaps not one sixteen or seventeen years younger though, right?_

_Your dad and I have set a date, by the way. February 25, 2192. It's a Saturday, and it's in your and Rel's mutual leave after bootcamp and OCS. I __think__ we might be able to get everything squeezed in this way._

_Oh, Dr. S. asked me to forward this to you. Congratulations, Dara. We're all very proud._

The attachment proved to be a letter from the _Journal of Xenobiology and Xenoobstetrics. _Dara sat up in her hammock with a yip of glee, followed by a groan of pain as her ribs protested the movement, and then hopped down to the floor. Vokaj, who was moving his stuff in, while Auriga was moving her stuff out, looked at her blankly as she started to do a little caper of absolute delight in the middle of the barracks. So, in fact, did the rest of the turians.

"_Something's wrong, Squad Leader?"_ Acrisus asked, sounding concerned. _"Is this a convulsion?"_

"_No, no, something's __right__!" _Dara said, grinning ear to ear. _"My damned research paper is being published! Oh, I'm sure it's on the strength of the names of the doctors who oversaw the project, but it's being published!" _

Kallixta stood up, and looked over her shoulder at the attachment. _"'Implications for turian surrogacy for quarian fetal development, an overview of methods and methodologies,' by Velnaran, D., Solus, M., Ph. D., MD, and Chakwas, J., MD." _Kallixta paused. _"I have no idea what that means. When it's published, I look forward to reading it and attempting to decipher what it's about."_

Dara shrugged. _"My medical mentor is involved in hybridization research. I asked him once if it were possible for turian females, with their robust immune systems, to become surrogate mothers for quarians, for whom pregnancy is, currently, a severe health risk. I thought that perhaps in this fashion, the quarian homeworld could be repopulated, and they might even wind up with a population with stronger immune responses, as a result."_

Everyone in the room gaped at her. Kallixta recovered first. _"Why under the stars would __any__ turian female want to do that, Squad Leader?"_

"_Other than out of the goodness of their hearts? Probably for money. Surrogacy has a long history of being a moderately profitable enterprise on Earth. Many turian women have very large families already, and might not mind carrying an extra child for someone else."_ Dara shrugged again. _"There was probably no pressing need to answer the question, but since I asked it, my mentor made me go answer it, too." _She slowly pulled herself back up into the hammock. _"Sorry about the departure from, well, stoicism, but damn it, some things need to be celebrated."_

Her roommates laughed.

Having Vokaj in the room was uncomfortable at first. He did comment, dryly, that he found the North American tendency towards excessive modesty somewhat amusing. Nude beaches were, after all, common in Europe. That did not stop Dara from turning her back when she changed, which she'd been doing anyway the entire time. But after a couple of days, it just became one more thing she'd more or less adapted to, and she'd long since gotten _adept_ at very quick clothing changes. _Faster than someone changing backstage at a play_, she thought, amused.

And then they were off into Week Five. Fortunately, it was a less physically demanding week—oh, there were still the runs, which sent jabs of pain up her side with every stride—and the calisthenics, which did the same. But this was breather and toxin week, which Dara was somewhat nervous about. They went through breather training for the first five days; the human models were, of course, different from the turian ones, which gave the drill centurions fits, and then gas mask and full faceplate training. On the last day, each squad of twenty moved to the testing chambers. As Dara and her twenty, which included a total of three humans, came to the door, she reminded the centurions outside, _"Permission to speak, drill centurion?"_

"_Granted, Squad Leader."_

"_Have you received the documentation that states why humans should not be exposed to azure dust?"_

Huge grins. She kept her face set and blank, as best she could, but could feel heat rising up through her cheeks anyway. _"Oh, yes. But that is really the least of your concerns today." _The drill centurion paused. "_You've been exposed before?"_

"_Yes, drill centurion."_

"_And you're not looking to repeat the experience?"_

"_No, drill centurion."_

Sure enough, when they got in there, it was red sand exposure, not azure dust.

_"Squad Leader!"_ came the bark of one of the centurions, standing in the center of the room.

_"Yes, drill centurion?"_

_"Open your visor and recite Regulation 2.4.1."_

_God. This is going to be fun. The biotic enhancement only works on humans. The toxic effects work on everyone except batarians and asari._ Dara popped the visor of her armor open, and began to recite the regulation. _"A commanding officer may use non-judicial punishments at his discretion for disciplinary action without resorting to a court martial, including, but not limited to restriction to quarters for not more than forty days, reduction in pay by no more than half for forty days, suspension from duty for no more than forty days. . . "_

"_That's enough. We don't need to hear all the sub-clauses. Inhale."_

Dara did so, reluctantly. Red sand was extracted from element zero, and everyone _knew_ what that did to your mind and body. Sure, it could give you biotics. . . briefly. But brain tumors didn't sound quite worth the brief rush of sensation and ability.

The euphoria was instant, and Dara felt like the world was shifting around her, like jello on a plate. _"Replace your visor."_

She did so, and wondered if she could safely kneel down on the ground, instead of standing here at parade rest for the rest of the scheduled activity. Colored dots began to swim around the periphery of her vision, like a million crawling, multicolored ants, and she forced herself to take long, calm breaths, in through the nose, and down to the diaphragm. Making herself realize it could have been much worse. It could have been tear gas, or nerve gas, or anything else, really. This was just one breath. Admittedly, one breath that made her feel drunk and disoriented and like she could lift a house with her _mind_, but, all told, not that bad.

Until, of course, they needed to leave the room. Marching out was _not_ an option in that condition. All of the recruits needed help making it through the door, rather than walking into a wall. At least the other recruits could take off their uniforms and shower, too; she and Malcolmson and Vokaj all wound up in a decontamination area. The two males were unusually talkative under the drug's effects. All in English now, rather than the carefully practiced turian, although Vokaj kept slipping into Czech every now and again if he didn't focus.

"I tell you what," Malcolmson said, slurring his words. "I never thought a little scale-skank would turn out to be such a good guy." He blinked, and turned around, letting the decontamination jets clean a different section of his armor. "You're all right, you know that, Velnaran? Little uptight, but, you know, basically all right." He paused for a minute, and then, rambling, as the drug pretty much prompted him to say anything and everything that happened to be on his mind, added, "I don't get the whole fucking a _reptile_ thing, personally. Guess you just never had a _human_ man. But, I don't hold it against you." He laughed, suddenly, as if something about that last phrase struck him as enormously funny, and then exited the decon chamber. He'd entered first, and his cycle was done.

Dara rested her back against the wall of the enclosure, and didn't say a _word_. Suddenly, she was getting a much better idea of why her dad almost never drank, and when he did, he got so damned scary and quiet. Far better to stay in what little control you had, than to let your mouth start running. And she had a bad feeling that if she _did_ open her mouth right now, she might never actually _stop_ talking again.

Vokaj was rambling now, too. "I don't know what the Alliance was thinking, sending him here," he muttered, voice tight. "They were supposed to send our best and our brightest, and I just can't see what he brings." He shook his head, and looked at her now. "I don't even know why _you're_ here. Obviously, you have an interest in all things turian, but . . . you're not even _military. _You're a _kid. _You've got no business being here. I mean, you're doing fine with command, but I haven't a clue how you've gotten so many of the turians to fall in line behind you. Maybe it all comes down to that one Kallixta girl, backing you." His words were slurring, and he lifted his hands. "At least in _my_ case, it's a way of making my family name mean something more than 'war-criminal' or of emerging from my father's shadow, especially if I make officer here. What the hell are _you_ here for?" He wasn't even asking her, really, at this point, she could see. He was just thinking, ruminating, and probably didn't even realize that his mouth was moving.

Dara had, in fact, clamped her own teeth so tightly together that her jaws ached, to avoid saying absolutely _anything_ at this point. And as Vokaj stepped out, his cycle done, Dara slipped down the wall and sat on the floor, leaning her head on her knees for a moment. _Who knew this __s'kak__ acted like sodium pentothal?_ she wondered, dazed. _Absolutely can't let myself be exposed to anything like it again. I know too damned much about Mindoir. And I'm sure as hell not going back to my barracks and facing any __questions__ from Kallixta until my head stops spinning._

She couldn't hold their words against them. Couldn't hold them responsible for inadvertently saying what they thought. Could see, clearly, the discomfort in them both later that afternoon, the inability to meet her eyes. They remembered what they'd said, for certain. She figured that letting them stew in it was her best revenge, and got on with business, unburdening herself in a quick letter to Rel, noting, _At least azure dust doesn't make a human divulge every thought that flickers through our damned heads. Admittedly, that might be because there's only __one__ thought left in our minds at that point. There's no __good__ portion to the breather test, is there? Oh, well. Tear gas would have been painful. At least that was avoided._

The next day, Vokaj, at least, approached her, and apologized. He was still painfully polite and formal, of course, but said, _"Squad Leader, I'm not certain how much of what I said yesterday in decontamination, was said out loud, and how much was in my head, but I would like to offer you my profound apologies for causing you any discomfort."_

"_It's all right, Vokaj. I'm not sure I remember what was spoken, anyway."_ Dara lied, tactfully, and was rewarded with a look of pure relief.

Her letter out to Rel met his coming in. Her Week Five was his Week Four; he'd just finished five days of scuba training on Palaven and five days of intensive spacesuit combat training back up on Dymion. _All that time in the water, and we only saw one __pleura__, I'm happy to say, _he noted. _Pleurae _were marine reptiles, which competed with—and even _ate_—the local sharks in Palaven's oceanic waters. They had sharp teeth, of course, and swam using an unusual, four-flippered mode of locomotion, and averaged over twenty feet in length. _The instructor chased it off with a spear in its side. That brought a few sharks, so we all wound up getting out of the water early that day. If you wind up going this route, you'll enjoy the swimming portion, though the structure of your ears may make pressure changes more difficult than for a turian. Not sure. Really wish you were here; the coast near Aequor is beautiful, and I wish I could share it with you. Admittedly, there'd still be armor or a radiation suit involved. I'm getting a very clear notion that we're __never__ going to be living on Palaven, sweetness. Which is all right. It hasn't been home in a long time._

And then it was Week Six. _God. Halfway there. _The main activity for her turian squadmates was getting their armor, of which they were all _inordinately_ proud. Standing out on the massive field, watching each of them get into and out of their armor, was somewhat amusing. She couldn't do more than verbally encourage each of them to move faster, more smoothly, but at least all twenty of her people were able to get in and out of their armor by the end of the morning in under the required time. Then, of course, the centurions wanted to see the humans do so, as well. For completeness' sake, apparently. Her whole little squad moved over to a small radiation enclosure, and the humans stripped down, stacking their gear neatly, as they'd been taught. _"Armor on!"_ the centurion timing them ordered, and, with the ease of _much_ practice, gained over the past five weeks, Dara and the other two broke the forty-five second mark. Dara went so far as to take her rifle off her back and check the clip, before tucking it back into its harness. Just to make it _clear_ that the humans would be combat-ready in half the time that the turians would be.

Heavy weapons training was. . . interesting. Her melee-oriented squads did very well with them. Dara found most of the weapons useful, but lacking a little in precision. Shoulder-mounted rockets and grenade launchers and mortars all packed a hell of a kick, but she liked weapons that didn't have that much of a blast radius. She could _use_ them all just fine, and rated exceptional on them quickly, but she simply didn't _like_ them. Dara found, however, that she actually liked a specialized little device that one of the centurions handed her a good deal more. It was similar to a taser, but fired single-use darts with very powerful batteries, rather than remaining attached by a long cord. _"Neural shock dartgun,"_ the centurion told her. _"Let's see how you do with this."_

It fired just like a pistol, was almost completely silent, and she could tag any portion of a mannequin poking out from cover with it, and the sizzle of its little darts and the arc of their electrical discharge made her _grin_.

Then they were off to the _south polar _regions, and for once, the humans weren't the only ones suffering from the climate. In fact, all three of them lifted their faceplates briefly, just for the pure, sheer novelty of feeling _cold air_ on their faces. "Hot damn," Malcolmson said, and for once, Dara agreed with him.

"_Don't overdo it, though," _she warned him. _"If your nose falls off from frostbite, I'm not sewing it back on."_

He and Vokaj chuckled at that. _"This isn't too much worse than winter back home in Prague,"_ Vokaj said the first night. _"Maybe a __little__ colder, but not by that much."_

"_Coldest I've ever felt,"_ Dara countered. _"Even when I went _skiing _in Colorado, it was T-shirt weather on the slopes. Mindoir was colder, though."_

At the moment, the south pole was experiencing twelve hours of sunlight a day, as it shifted towards the all-night half of its existence along the axial tilt. During the day, of course, everyone worked hard, building shelters, running, and navigating through the snow-covered forests that covered the southern pole. Amazingly, even down here, there was wildlife; various warm-blooded reptiles, related to the turians themselves, which had adapted to the cold.

At the end of the week, when they got back to the barracks, they had to go immediately to sparring. Dara was tired, but at least she'd had twenty days for her ribs to recover from the pummeling Decimus had given them. While they were still tender, she was good enough now to deal with the next squad consolidation, here at the end of Week Six. Twenty against twenty, round robin, again. Her own four squads had done very well in the snow survival and the cold weather training, largely because, again, the three humans had already done this sort of thing. Many times. Building a snow fort for Amara and Kaius on Mindoir wasn't that much different from building a snow cave to keep her squad warm and out of the elements, when all was said and done.

Nadea Curicium was the leader of the 227, 228, 229, and 230 squads, and she was actually _short_ for turian female—exactly Dara's height, in fact. She made up for it with speed and ferocity, and Dara wound up with some pretty spectacular bruises again, all over her body, and ended up taking the female to the ground, grappling with her. It was actually sort of _refreshing_ to be able to risk this; an opponent exactly her size, instead of someone outweighing her by sixty, eighty, or a hundred pounds. She finally locked Nadea in a choke using one of her legs, and the female looked astonished, even a little indignant, but tapped out, at last. Even if she hadn't won that match-up, just like the last consolidation, Dara's bookwork, marksmanship, and scores on the topic of the week—survival—were simply better, as were those of her squads.

One of the centurions made the loud announcement, _"In the morning, we will meet with all main squad leaders, to begin initial evaluations. We will be starting to move people into groups based on their likely specializations. The rest of you __cuderae__ will report for calisthenics as usual. Dismissed."_

_Oh, great._ Dara thought, dragging herself down the hall to the barracks at the end of the hall, where Nadea had been holding sway. _I don't know __any__ of these people down here. By face, maybe, but not by name or specialization or personality at all._

Checking in with that set of barracks wasn't a big deal; by this point, most of the turians along their hallway had at least gotten accustomed to having the humans around, although, since none of these four squads had previously had any humans bunk with them, there was a certain level of resentful murmuring at having a human in charge of them now. A human to be their representative to the drill instructors tomorrow.

They were scared, Dara realized. Scared that she would misrepresent them, and screw up the next four years of their lives for them, irreparably. _"All of you, out in the hall where I can talk with you all at once," _she said, beckoning Nadea out, and then the other nineteen turians. She got them to line up, and explained her basic policies to start with. The new watch rotation got a little skepticism, but she fully expected that in ten days, they'd all be eager converts to the twin notions of sleep and equity.

"_Is there anything that you'd like to recommend, or any issues that you'd like to fix?" _Dara asked Nadea. _"I also need to know what your people are best at. Person by person, if you would, please. I've got a good fix on my original twenty, but your folks are going to need __your__ words in __my__ mouth tomorrow in front of the drill instructors. Be their advocate to me now, I pray. I'm going to take notes. So talk to me, Curcium. But quickly, before personal time is up. I want to read my mail just as much as all the rest of you do."_

The female blinked, and immediately started reeling out names and quick assessments. She had no problem doing so to people's faces, Dara was delighted to see, and added that to her own personal assessment of Nadea. If someone had been lazy, Nadea _said_ so. Right in front of them. If someone belonged in the motorpool, she said that, too. But if they had excellent technical knowledge or dealt well with people, that got mentioned, too. _"Thank you,"_ Dara told her, in a tone of relief. _"I know my half of the barracks pretty well by this point, but I absolutely wouldn't be able to make a decent report tomorrow without your help." _ She made a shooing motion. _"Go! Read mail!"_

Wearily, she made her way to her own room, and opened her mail for the first time in ten days. The first thing she saw was were the words _Merry Christmas, sweetie. _

_Shit. It can't be December already. It doesn't __feel__ like December. It feels like __hell__ on a hot summer day._

It was a letter from her father. _I looked at a calendar, and realized that while it was only Octus 38 for you there, it's December 25 here. L. tells me that in two days, there will be an 'autumn' festival on the Palaven calendar, called __Aristum__. Not that you can get out and partake of the local culture, but apparently, they hold foot-races and __rlata__ races and celebrate the harvest. . . well, what little they eat that __is__ harvested, anyway. More like the beginning of a different hunting season, I guess, technically. L. also commented that you should be seeing temperatures dropping now. Still a lot of rain, but down into the mid-nineties, right? Been worrying about you._

_K. dragged everyone out for the Christmas concert yesterday, which was held right on Christmas Eve this year, since it was a Saturday. Lots more traditional than last year's. Not nearly so mopey. Sky loved it, but told me to say he misses his little singer and the singing box on weekends. Thought you'd get a kick out of that. Ed and his family are still with us, and probably will be through January. They were getting visas to move to Bekenstein, since they can't move to Earth, for obvious reasons, but were also considering just staying here, but maybe over in Odessa, assuming Ed can get a job with local law enforcement. Estevan—that's their little boy—loves the lights on the tree out front, and they all went out for a hayride yesterday. Not such a bad way to celebrate Christmas, you know?_

Dara's throat closed up. She was suddenly, horribly, homesick for Mindoir. Not for Texas, she realized. But for the weekends at her dad's house, for the Spectres and their families who'd come by to visit, for Sky's blue-green song in her head, for her dad teasing her while she tried to cook levo/dextro, for the touch of Rel's hand on her shoulder as she played at the piano, for the mischief of the twins and Caelia. After rubbing the backs of her hands over her eyes, under her hood, she wrote back, briefly, _Wish I were there to help cook this year, Dad. Miss you all very much. Temperatures __are__ dropping, thank god. I was really starting to worry about my kidneys for a while there. Give my love to everyone._

The rest of her roommates had become more or less accustomed to her occasional forays into human emotionality, and she was usually very careful not to let them see or (hopefully), smell tears. Vokaj, who had been in the middle of a discussion with Leodorus, both of them testing the limits of their English and their turian, respectively, as they discussed the tactics of historical battles, from Alexander the Great to General Patton on Earth, and from Tullus to Emphidion on Palaven, looked up at this moment. "_Squad Leader?"_

"_Yes?"_

"_You just got your _Christmas_ greetings, too, I take it?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_Last year was my first away from home for the holidays. It's not much fun, is it?"_

"_Not really, no."_ Dara sighed, and sat up, aching and weary from head to toe.

That lead the entire room into a discussion of Christmas as opposed to turian holidays like _Aristum_ and _Brumae_. _Brumae_ was a closer equivalent; it was the celebration of winter, and was the start of a two-day festival; the second day was the turian New Year's day. All turian holidays involved food and races and competitions and even music. Hunt-dances were often held, but only in small, secluded temples dedicated to the spirits of plenty, and were definitely never shown on vid; to photograph or video something like that might offend the spirits, it was thought. Vokaj volunteered a couple of Czech customs—the baking of the _vánočka_, or the Christmas bread, which he said his mother made particularly well. _"She sent one to the Academy for me last year. I think my American roommate actually ate more of it than I did. He was surprised it was so good. And of course, every year, we'd have fried _carp_ for dinner."_

Dara grimaced._"_Carp_? Really? Where I come from, it's _turkey_ or _ham_ or _prime rib_."_

Leodorus chuckled. _"It's constantly surprising how picky you omnivores are as eaters."_

Vokaj and Dara both laughed, and then it was time, yet again, to turn out the lights. But Dara felt a bit better. She'd write to Rel tomorrow, and wish him happy Aristum, she decided, hazily, as she drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, she reported, with all the other squad leaders, to her designated meeting room, and endured the long question-and-answer period. Nadea's short-hand comments about her people were an enormous help, but Dara was on her own for her own people.

"_Navinus Decurro?"_

"_Very good physical skills, sir, but also very intelligent. Communicates well."_

"_Acrisus Bextrus?"_

"_Highly capable and intelligent, sir. Reserved, trustworthy. Assesses situations before acting. Excellent environmental background."_

"_Leodorus Rostrus?"_

"_Best linguist I've met in a while, sir. Exceptionally intelligent. Tactful. Grasps nuances quickly and adapts to them well."_

"_Charilca Auriga?"_

"_She's. . . improved since we started, sir. She's always had good physical skills, but is getting control of her temper, and isn't as impulsive. She's also done better since being entrusted with some of the training of other people in the squad."_

"_Ryan Malcolmson?"_

Dara grimaced. She didn't want to stick a dagger in a fellow human's back, but nothing but complete honesty would do here. She didn't like the man, and didn't want to color her report with that. _"He's made efforts to improve his language skills. Physical skills are exceptional, sir."_

"_You have nothing else to say about him?"_

Dara paused_. "No, sir."_

"_Interesting."_

Dara blinked, and decided that didn't need an answer.

"_Alexej Vokaj?"_

"_Adapting fairly well, sir. Good language skills. Affinity for military history and tactics. Doesn't do as well at the physical aspects as I would like to see, but tries hard."_

"_Kallixta Essedarius?"_

Oh, and there was the kicker. She could damn near feel the eyes of the three drill centurions standing along the wall to her right boring into her skull. Dara took a deep breath. _"Always contributes to the spirit of the squad, sir. Intelligent. Willing to learn. Has greatly improved marksmanship since the beginning. Still requires additional melee training, which she accepts with gratitude. Regards every new learning experience with interest and anticipation. I think she sees her service as both a duty and as an adventure."_

"_Interesting. Thank you, Squad Leader Velnaran. Dismissed."_

Dara walked out, her knees feeling like jelly, and found a place around the corner where she could lean quietly against a wall and shake for a couple of minutes. She wasn't sure why, but she felt like she'd just somehow taken a really important exam, and wasn't sure if she'd studied enough for it.

The next morning, the new boards were posted. Dara was almost afraid to go out the door, and decided, considering the fact that everyone was out there, that she'd wait until the crush got a little less thick.

Kallixta took that decision out of her hands. The female almost bounded into the room, shouting, _"Squad Leader! What did you say to them?"_

Dara looked up. _"What?"_

"_What did you say? What magic words did you speak in their ears? I got flight school." _Kallixta tipped the hammock, and Dara damned near tumbled down, caught and steadied by her friend.

"_I didn't say anything about flight school. I said you contribute to the spirit of the squad, that you work hard, improve, accept criticism and additional training gracefully, and treat this all as both a duty and an adventure. Or words to that effect."_ Dara couldn't come up with the exact phrases she'd used.

Kallixta stared at her_. "You said that?"_

"_Yeah? It's all true, isn't it?"_

Kallixta looked around, then put a hand on her back. _"I'm going to find a way to repay you, someday, you know."_

"_You already have. You've been a good teammate and a good friend. I said what I thought. They thought you were right for the job. What I said probably had very little to do with it."_

"_Come on, come see what you got. I didn't even look yet, I was too excited." Kallixta_ moved back to the door and called, _"Make a hole. Squad Leader needs to see what she got."_

As she moved through the hall, Dara was mostly amazed by how pleased everyone was with that they'd gotten. There was very little grumbling; the drill instructors and centurions were very good, indeed, at fitting a round peg in a round hole.

Charilca was getting infantry. So was Malcolmson, who looked a bit down at the mouth about it. Leodorus was slated for Military Intelligence, and looked gleeful. Acrisus was heading to the Chemical Warfare branch; Navinus was heading to Signal Corps, where he'd probably go into cryptography. There were financial managers, like Basilus Fragium, navigators like Iuvenal Capellus, logistics people like Bakkae Illunius, and marines, like Nadea Curicium and Decimus Corolan. Vokaj was being offered a position in Strategic Plans and Policy, which certainly sounded like it would suit his personality, though he, like Malcolmson, looked a little upset.

And then there was Dara's name. Still squad leader. _There we go, __amatus__._ _Special Forces Medic. With an asterisk indicating that if I hit officer, the eventual path will lead to Field Surgeon and beyond._ Dara very, very gently, reached out and put a finger on the line of text. Letting her know that this was real, that this wasn't just a very long simulation run, that she wasn't actually sitting in their allora meadow on Mindoir, dreaming of futures yet to come. This was real.

"_You don't look surprised, Squad Leader. Are you at least pleased?"_ Kallixta's voice sounded anxious. _"You're not actually dancing and celebrating, as you did for the publication of your paper."_

"_Oh, I'm pleased. Beyond pleased. If all goes well, my mate and I will be fighting side-by-side."_ Dara took a deep breath. "This is just the first half, though," she said, in English, very quietly. "Now I just need to keep working at it." _And see if the other half can be made true, too._

No time to write to Rel yet, nor anyone else back home. They all needed to board the shuttles for the shipyards in orbit, after all; it was Week Seven now. Again, the break from the heat and the radiation was a huge relief. In fact, in the quarters on the shipyards, the humans actually got to wear regular clothing for the first time in sixty days. _"Oh, so __that's__ what you look like, Squad Leader,"_ Leodorus told Dara the first morning, chuckling, as the human tumbled out of the shelf-like bunk that replaced a hammock on the space station. _"I'd begun to think of you as being as faceless as a volus."_

Dara grinned. The humans had been issued coveralls for their time on the station, since they didn't currently have uniforms other than the radiation suits and the armor at the moment, and she was swimming in hers, much to the exasperation of the drill centurions. _That's what we get for being in the pilot program,_ she thought, rolling the sleeves up and up and up until they sat more or less properly at her wrists. She fixed the gaping neck with a couple of pins and Kallixta's amused assistance, and then she and the other humans went to get measured for proper uniforms. On the off chance that all three made it to graduation—and for the moment, it was looking likely—they would need custom-tailored uniforms. Dara had a mental image of some poor hanar tailor on Bastion furiously working to rework turian uniforms to human body specifications, and had to try to control her face while the shipyard's tailor took measurements.

Then they were off to their first zero-g lecture. Then it was into spacesuits, and forty-on-forty training exercises devoted solely to action-and-reaction combat in zero-g. It wasn't easy. A lot of what they had to do was purely counter-intuitive. But it was a challenge, and it was surprisingly fun, particularly after the grueling days at the training center below.

On their last night on the station, Kallixta unexpectedly started another round of their 'game.' She hadn't done so since Vokaj had joined their room. Dara hadn't minded; she was still trying to figure out what Kasumi's letter had meant.

With Vokaj out of the room, however, Dara was reading a letter from Rel, in which he'd wished her, belatedly and guiltily, a merry Christmas—she was already planning on telling him not to worry. . . she hadn't remembered the date herself, so how could she expect him to do so?—and detailing the hostage rescue activities of his Week 5, and the shift to the much more cerebral and technical activities of hacking, breaking and entering, decrypting transmissions, and defusing bombs. Dara was smiling as she read, and was really quite startled when Kallixta asked, _"If I might intrude upon your thoughts, Squad Leader?"_

"_You do not intrude, Essedarius. With what might I aid you?"_

"_For the past ten days, we've been able to see your face, your clan-paint, and your name has been on the boards here for any to see. Watching you as you read your mate's words. . . forgive me, I should have avoided breaching your privacy so. . . makes me wonder how such affection could spring up between two who are so dissimilar. It __is__ by your choice, is it not?"_

Dara blinked. She had no idea how to respond to that exquisitely polite version of the question she knew had been going through probably everyone's minds. It was certainly a whole lot better than Malcolmson's calling her a scale-skank when he was blitzed on the red sand, and at least it was a question, not an assumption or anything else. _"I suppose most everyone has probably wondered that about us,"_ she said, slowly. _"First, yes, it is very much by our own choice that we are together. While there are still cultures on Earth that practice arranged marriages, mine is not one of them. I thought that such things were long past on Palaven, as well?"_

"_For most families, that is the case."_ Kallixta's voice was noncommittal.

Interesting. Dara thought rapidly. She certainly couldn't mention the simulation device, and while that had shown them what could be, they'd certainly already been friends before then. _"For the rest of it, there were common interests at first, and then I think we were both able to see a future that contained each other."_ And that was the honest truth, however carefully phrased. _"There's not that much about Rellus, my mate, that I would consider to be 'dissimilar,' to be honest. He's loyal, he's giving, he's kind. He's intelligent, brave, trustworthy, and loving. That is no different from what I would seek in a human mate. It doesn't mean that there aren't some cultural differences, which, I think, largely bother our families more than they bother us. . . "_ Dara grinned suddenly, and added, _"For instance, my father really didn't like the contract negotiations when we got plighted, and I still don't think Rel's mother really likes me much, but that's sort of the way of families everywhere, isn't it? Regardless of species? Beyond that, there's the chemical compatibility issues, which we work around."_

"_It sounds. . . very ordinary."_ Kallixta sounded almost disappointed.

"_It is."_ Dara shrugged, adding, mentally, _especially when there are at least two other cross-species couples who live next door. _

Kallixta paused, then said, almost tentatively_, "I have heard, though I cannot say if it is true, that he who is your mate had an. . . altercation. . . with another squad leader in the last session here. Is this so?"_

"_If by 'altercation,' you mean that Scaevus Lintorum made personal comments about my mate being married to a human and then wound up biting my husband in sparring, requiring sixty stitches, then yes, it's true."_ Dara's tone was sharper than she'd meant it to be. _"If you have also heard that my mate subsequently broke Lintorum's arm in three places on the practice floor, then that, too, is true."_

Every person in the room winced. Kallixta exhaled after a moment. _"And you realize that Lintorum shares our current boot camp facility?"_

"_I am aware. I do not think when he last confronted me, that he understood who I was, or he would have done more than merely shove me back into the pool."_ Dara's voice had gone very dry.

Leodorus' jaws snapped together. _"__That__ was what that was about?"_

Dara nodded at him. _"What brings this to mind, Essedarius?"_

Kallixta winced. _"I have it on . . . good authority. . . that he is the leader of the other half of the barracks. They shower on a different schedule than we do. They eat at different tables in the cafeteria than we do. They do not come down our hallway, nor we theirs, so they would have no reason to have seen your clan name on the boards. And they would not have seen your mate's paint on your face, because of the suits and the perspiration. Not until. . . "_

"_This week."_ Leodorus finished her sentence, and stood up, starting to pace a little agitatedly. _"Surely, they must have realized that eventually, you'd come face-to-face with him again. This isn't right. If he had so little honor the first time, why put him in a position where he could exact personal retaliation in this way?" _Kallixta put out a hand, and he stopped pacing, immediately.

"_I doubt they expected me to be squad leader when it happened," _Dara told Leodorus, quietly. _"Admittedly, I would have wound up fighting him in the round robin anyway, but the stakes would have been much lower."_ Dara's tone was colorless.

"_Higher than you think, perhaps."_ Acrisus sounded worried, too, his low voice quiet in the room. _"If you fail to complete boot camp the first time, there's a strongly increased likelihood of remaining a child forever."_

Dara's stomach was tight, and she didn't mind admitting, deep down in her heart, where only she could hear it, that she was scared. Rel had had six years of fighting training. She had one. _"Unfortunately, there's not much I can do about it, is there?"_

"_You could appoint someone else squad leader,"_ Vokaj suggested, promptly.

Dara shook her head, immediately_. "Oh, don't get me wrong. I didn't __want__ to be in charge. But now that I am, if I give up, turn tail, and run, it'll make it harder for any human or hybrid who comes after me. No. I have to show that I have teeth, Vokaj."_ She gave him a little shrug, and added in English, "Either that, or be considered a chickenshit coward."

"If he's carrying a grudge, he could kill you."

"_Then I'll have to trust that the centurions are going to be watching as closely as I know they always do."_ Dara flicked a glance at Kallixta right then, and got a very slight nod in response. _"My mate had something I do not. Six years of training with the best. I have something he did not."_

"_What's that?"_ Leodorus said, sounding frustrated and angry.

"_Forewarning."_ Dara looked at Kallixta. _"My thanks to you, and to your excellent sources of information, Essedarius. I think that I will hold off on my questions for you till another night, if you do not mind."_ Her lips quirked a little bit. _"I don't feel much like playing our usual little game right now."_

Her letters and Rel's were crisscrossing each other anymore_. I'm late telling you the good news, beloved, but I definitely did get Special Forces Medic on the boards at the beginning of the week. That's the good news. There is some bad news, as well. I'm due to head to Telavin next week, so no mail while I'm there, as you well know,_ she wrote. _Here's the really bad news. I'm told that Lintorum is squad leader of the other side of the barracks, so when I get back, I'm going to have to fight him, I guess. Any advice you have, other than 'keep his teeth from your throat' would be very much appreciated. _

_Okay, that didn't come out as funny as I wanted it to, but I don't have time to fiddle with it until it __becomes__ funny. Don't worry too much. I've had a year of training from the best of the best. Plus, I have it on very good authority that the drill centurions are going to be watching this very, very closely. _

_On a sort of a random note. . . are there any subcultures left on Palaven in which arranged marriages are still the norm? I'm trying to solve my mystery. It gives me something to think about at night, other than, of course, missing you, Rel. Which, now that I'm someplace much cooler and entirely less radioactive, and the pure physical discomfort has diminished. . . I actually have mental space to realize how much I do miss you. I'm hoping that all these long separations don't make us grow too far apart. See? I actually have mental cycles for useless worrying. That's a good sign, right? I love you, Rel. Forty more damn days till we can see each other again._

The heavy-g training wasn't bad, though Dara did wish that Shepard had quietly given in and put the motorized joints in the armor after all. The exoskeletons were fairly simple to use, although they gave her the oddest feeling, as if she were trapped in a robot's guts, somehow. One night, when Dara woke Kallixta for her turn at watch, when all the rest of the barracks were asleep, Dara asked one of her two owed questions. _"Essedarius? Before you go on watch, if I might ask you a question?"_

"_Ah, you feel like a return to the game, Squad Leader?"_

"_Puzzles give me something to think about when the gravity or the heat keep me from sleeping anyway."_ Dara's lips quirked. _"Tell me, Essedarius. What will your family think of your becoming a pilot? Will they be proud? Nervous? Worried?"_

She couldn't see the turian female's face behind the polarized mask of the armor, but the voice on the radio sounded . . . uncertain. _"I don't know, squad leader. I'm mostly hoping that they don't intervene to have it changed. At the moment, it is. . . like a dream."_

_Now that, I understand all too well. Not unlike the fact that seven beautiful days with Rel feels like a dream, Mindoir feels like a dream, my whole life before coming to this place feels like a dream. . . ._

Back to Palaven now. Novenus 21, or, if she thought about it, did the math, or checked her omnitool, that was actually January 18. The lighter gravity felt like heaven, but the return to having to wear her radiation suit in the barracks was an annoying return to reality. At least the temperatures were substantially lower, though the monsoon season was in full swing now. Just enough time to check into the barracks, stow gear, and so on. They were even given a half hour after dinner to check their personal messages, a glorious treat before sparring.

Only two messages. One, from Kasumi, cryptic, but understandable, and dated today. _G & Lil had two packages delivered today. One about eight pounds, the other nine. Big, considering the transportation method, if you catch my drift. No pictures of the contents yet, of course. But I thought you'd want to know. Your dad wants to know why you don't write, girl. He's worried sick about you._

Dara's smile broke over her face, and she quickly opened the other message. From Rel, dated ten days before; he must have written the instant he received her last letter. _Amatra_, he wrote, staying in turian, which betrayed his concern a bit; he tended to stick with English in most of their messages, otherwise. _Great news about your specialization posting. The doors and windows continue to prove true. Or maybe we're making them true. Either way, I'll take it. Now to the other things. First, the easy one. Yeah, the high nobility sometimes still undertake arranged marriages. Doesn't always happen. First-born sons or daughters of the Imperator rarely have much say in whom they'll marry. Children much further down the line of succession have a bit more say, but tend to marry among the nobility. Barefaced, all of them. I take it this pertains to your mystery?_

_Now for the hard one. Sweetness, I don't know what to tell you except to be careful. He's almost as big as I am, beloved. His left arm is going to be weaker. I don't care how much rehab he's done, you never recover full strength and mobility after what I did to him. He's very much a straight-up turian style specialist, though. Use what your dad's taught you, and for the sake of all the spirits, don't let him bite you. I wish I were there. I __should__ be there. But I can't be. _

_By the time you get this, I'll be done with demolitions training. Largely seems to involve learning how to use any number of chemicals to blow things up, including finding structural weak spots, that sort of thing. Not what you'll be doing this week when it's your turn. In fact, as you're reading this, I'm probably on a shuttle back down to Palaven. The hell of it is, my next three weeks are all in the field. There's one break at the end of my Week Eight/your Week 9, so please let me know if you're all right. Then it's back out in the field for two weeks of 'unconventional warfare,' whatever that means._

_Be safe, sweetness. Know that my spirit's with you, even if I can't be._

Dara took a deep breath. She was calmer now. Oddly comforted. Leodorous poked his head in the door. _"They're calling for squad-wide sparring to start in ten minutes,"_ he said. _"Is everyone ready?"_

"As I'm going to be," Dara said, in English, putting her datapad away.

It was bad. She'd known it was going to be. She hadn't realized that Lintorum was going to prime every one of his people to spit insults and hate at her and the other humans in every round. Malcolmson surprised her, though. He laughed at the insults_. "You guys need to work on your trash-talking,"_ he said, though the translation was a bit more like 'garbage-biting,' which made Dara laugh_. "My grandma could come up with better insults. Come on, show me what you've got, yeah!"_ Apparently, anyone who'd gone out for the Urban Combat League would have developed a thick skin.

The insults varied widely. Skinbag. Shit-eater. Monkey. Ape. Vermin. Furred freak. Toothless. Milk-squirter. That one actually made Dara laugh so hard she actually had to take a time-out. The fact that some of the insults weren't actually insulting so much as hugely comical seemed to irritate the turians from the opposing squads, and they redoubled their efforts, fighting harder, spitting more venom. Vokaj was getting beaten on pretty hard, and was bleeding red from a cut beside his eye. Dara moved forward immediately, grabbing a first aid kit from the wall, and kneeling to check it and tape the wound closed. Cuts around the eyes were not good.

That was when, to Dara's absolute astonishment, Charilca stepped in. _"My squadmate is too injured to continue,"_ the female told the opposing turian. _"Accept me in his place."_

"_Or me,"_ Navinus offered.

The opponent frowned, confused. _"If I have defeated him, then I have won."_

"_You have injured him. He could continue to fight, but I offer myself in his place."_ Charilca said it very carefully.

Dara looked over at the drill centurion, who nodded. _"This substitution is acceptable. Auriga's points will count for the squad tally, but not for Vokaj's."_

"_Nice to see the spirit of the squad in you, Auriga!"_ Dara called over, and caught a pleased smile on the female's face. Words of praise from the alpha. Words of praise from the blooded to the unblooded. It worked.

_Nice_, Dara thought, guiding Vokaj to the bleachers around the sparring ring. _At least we won't lose on an injury/technicality._ Then she got back to work, watching the ring as best she could in between opponents. Her people were doing remarkably well, actually. The techs had all cross-trained with the melee people and improved their skills since the first week. Even Kallixta wasn't the easy meat she'd once been.

Dara's stomach was very tight, however, when it came her turn to face off against the opposing squad leader. Yellow face-paint. Tall. Cold eyes. She took a deep breath, and made herself go to the empty place inside. The calm place. Where she went when she stood at the line at the rifle range. Where she had, after the first adrenal surge had passed, gone when she'd fought the batarians with Rel. She was facing an enemy now, as then. This wasn't sparring, competition, a game. This was real.

The first thing he did, of course, was what any real enemy would do. He snatched at her radiation cover, pulled it around so that she couldn't see, and lashed out with a kick. Dara had already expected the kick, however, and was in motion, rolling to the floor, and yanked her cover off. Five minutes of radiation she could take meds for, or getting a fractured skull? Not even a contest. Back on her feet again, eyes defocused. Blank. Face expressionless. No tells. Circling now. Waiting.

Lintorum opened his mouth, of course. He probably couldn't resist. _"So, little skinbag, you like having a turian male fuck you? I could oblige, but I wouldn't dirty my phallus on a shit-eater."_ Quick, hard kick, right at face-level. Dara dodged, slapped a hand to the back of the leg as it passed, adding her force to the direction it was already moving and moved in, fast, explosively. He'd have seen this before, from Rel, likely, and probably over and over again in his mind, his dreams, during the rehab. Lintorum pulled away, trying, to return his leg the opposite direction. Hook-kick for a human, spur-kick for a turian. Spur-kicks were _forbidden_ on the mats. Dara was already moving again, past him, to the other side. _Stay in motion. Moving targets are harder to hit, motion allows energy to flow off of you. Solid hits become glancing ones. Don't get caught flat-footed._

Jamming her right knee into his left one, foot just between the calf and the spur to keep his foot planted on the floor, one hand up, under the chin, first attempt at destabilization. He snarled and spun away, and she pulled her hand back, having felt the graze of teeth, could feel that the fabric of the rad suit had ripped along her right index finger. Could feel blood already starting to leak into the hand of the glove. Knew it was dripping, red, on the mats. _Oh, so, no pretenses here, huh?_

Out loud, he taunted again, _"I'm going to break enough bones in your face that your mate won't recognize you except by his paint."_

_Seriously. Aren't the drill centurions going to step in? Or is this their happy way of seeing if I'm really up to special forces work? _

Again, Lintorum came in at her, kicking right at her head, and this time she dove forward, came up, and scythed her leg, taking his support leg out from under him. Again, something he could have seen from Rel. She didn't know exactly how her mate had handled the male, just that they had fought, bloodied each other, that one had bitten and the other had broken. She rolled back to her feet in a hurry and landed a kick of her own while Lintorum was still on the ground—this one an axe-kick, high, straight up, and then down, with all the force of her leg, driving her heel into his ribs. She felt something move in there, and nodded with satisfaction. Now she had a target for his right side, as well as for his left. Left, she could focus on the arm. Right, she'd just broken at least one of his ribs.

Another vicious exchange; this time he'd raked his talons across her face, and again, she could feel blood, hot and wet, down her right cheek. Then he tackled her, highly unusual for a turian. Heavy. Strong. _Ah, shit. This is what I was afraid of._ Thoughts distant in her own mind, one hand braced on his throat, keeping his head and those dangerous teeth from closing in, other hand up to defend her face as he kept trying to punch her, curling up and in to try to protect her stomach when the next punch dropped lower. Searing pain. The punch had been too damn low, a bladder shot, which for all she knew, had ruptured it.

Up until this point, the fight had been vicious, but controlled. Now it spiraled out of control.

_Survival time._ Hand that was on the throat, moving up, grabbing the fringe, yanking down and forward, hard. Very painful. He lurched backwards, Dara followed, slamming her forehead into his chest, knocking him further back, making space for herself. Nerve strikes now. Not something he'd have seen from Rel. Her father hadn't taught Rel these. Allardus hadn't been the patient mannequin for nothing. Celiac plexus, like she'd struck Charilca, weeks ago, causing the diaphragm and crop to both spasm, knocking the wind out of him. Dragging a foot out from under his weight, slamming it into his stomach. "Get. . . off. . . me. . . "

Another kick, then he grabbed the foot, twisted, torquing tendons and bones, and she gritted her teeth and got the other foot free, slamming her heel into his face, right where the nerve cluster that controlled the mandibles was, forcing them open in a look of almost comical shock. Ignoring pain in hand and face and abdomen now, just trying to work her foot free. And then he dropped his weight on her again, and _where the fuck are the damned drill centurions?_

Teeth right at her face now, no more time. Snaking hands up over the face, going not for the fringe now but the eyes. His head twisting to the side, jaws gaping wide, clamping down on her wrist. Fuck no, you do not. Right thumb now, right in the eye socket, raking over the cornea, gouging deep. His instinctive backwards movement to protect his eyes, teeth still buried, ripping flesh. Slamming the nerve center again, forcing the jaw open. His hands up now, trying to protect his face, and that was all the room she needed. Feet to the hips, shoving him further back, into the chest, rolling on top. Nothing but survival now. Punching, hard, right at the blue-bloodied face, slamming through with fists, with elbows, blue blood on her skin again, where she often saw it anyway. . . hitting with anything she had that would hit. . .

And then hands, pulling her off of him, making sure he stayed on the ground, hands clamping down on the brachial artery in her left arm, trying to stop the bloodflow from her wrist. _"He's down. He's down."_ Words in turian, then repeated in English, so they knew she'd understand them. Dara's eyes focused suddenly. Kallixta and Leodorus, one on each side of her, Vokaj nearby—hell, half her squad was on their feet, hovering around her. A couple of drill centurions between her and Lintorum, working on his body. One of the centurions came over and crouched in front of her. _"Are you all right?"_ he asked.

Dara blinked. _"Why didn't you stop it sooner?"_ she asked, dizzily. Forgetting honorifics, but apparently, forgiven the trespass this once.

"_Took less than a minute. I thought you could get out of the ankle crank he was using on you, and you did. You're obviously aware of his history of using his teeth, but he'd been assured that if he ever did it again, he'd stay a child forever. Some people are not meant to be adults."_ The centurion was already breaking out the medigel and taking her hand in his. _"Let's get that bleeding stopped."_

"_This fight shouldn't have been allowed."_ Kallixta's voice was quiet, but sharp.

"_What was that, Recruit Essedarius?"_ His tone was calm, but reproving.

Kallixta straightened. _"Permission to speak, drill centurion?"_

"_Granted."_ He slathered medigel on Dara's face now, and it was cool and wonderfully soothing.

"_My squad leader should not have paid the price for Lintorum's inability to control himself, drill centurion."_

"_I think she and her mate have well-established that no one in their right mind would ever want to fight them when it's real, and not sparring. This is not a bad thing to make clear, very early. You might even consider it a small price to pay." _

Dara's eyes were narrow. _Please, don't __help__ me like this again,_ she thought. But she said nothing out loud.

The centurion wrapped the bite in gauze. _"Can you walk to the infirmary, Velnaran?"_

"_I think so, drill centurion."_ Dara looked around. _"I think I need my hood, however."_ She smiled a little wanly. _"I know brain cancer is the least of my worries right now, but it __is__ on the list."_

Author's note: www. youtube. com/ watch?v=H53rUZsrhcg shows a pretty damn wonderful savate exhibition. It's the final fight in a Jackie Chan movie; you're looking for the second guy he fights. This is pretty much how I picture turians fighting, except that the turians would probably actually use their arms, too. ;-) I apologize for picking the vid that's in German, but it was the first one I could find that didn't involve watching the whole movie, which, well. . . you're not watching it for the plot, let's just say. ;-)


	56. Chapter 56: Interim

**Chapter 56: Interim**

_I love this comment from the reviews: it's actually got me speculating quite a bit. SingedFringe suggested that the good ship KallixtaXRinus should set sail. I'm not sure, but I think Rinus is blushing. Very, very blue, in fact. Laetia is growling. Cypria, poor thing, just tossed in the towel. Entirely too much competition for her liking. ;-) And best of all, since Kallixta is slated to be a pilot on a __Normandy__-class ship, it might even work, if only he weren't a commoner and an enlisted soldier and. . . oh, my, the rules this would break. _

_Then again, the Hierarchy needs a good solid rules-breaking every now and again. I will think on it. ;)_

**Siara**

November 1came and went. She only knew it, because that's what her omnitool told her it was. Every day was the same, under the ground, after all. Wake up, help the youngest ones get their food. Maybe a little for herself. Keep them from actually _hurting_ each other in their games, although the mothers actually stopped her once or twice, showing her that even a _cut_ would heal up within minutes. "Let them learn what they are capable of being," Malla told her once, in her rusty voice. "They are _krogan_. To protect them too much is to make them _weak_.

An hour or two of history, each day. Siara shook her head and started taking notes. The stories were the same every single time; they never deviated by so much as a word, but she knew from her studies that oral histories were susceptible to . . . revisionism. Would the stories told here, fifty years from now, be the same? An interesting question. One that depended greatly on if Urdnot Wrex was still the clan leader, she suspected. Mostly to stave off boredom, she asked the youngest children to tell her words in their language. Started writing those down, too. She used asari letters for it, of course. She didn't know what krogan letters would even _look _like.

No midday meal. She'd usually been tasked with keeping track of the children all day, but now, suddenly, Malla had taken to grabbing her by the arm and setting her to different tasks. Inventorying the food supplies. Oh, the temptation posed by all the crates of food, but (_every crime is theft)_ she couldn't do that. They were trusting her. To betray that trust would be wrong.

Another afternoon, and Malla dragged her off down a different set of winding corridors. Deeper into the earth. "The structure above us, once, was a school," the aging female told her. "Long ago. Before even the uplifting. First levels underneath it were for storage. These levels down here? Bomb shelters. Built to withstand nuclear attack." She tapped her walking stick against the wall of the corridor now. "Cement. Rebar. Nothing built on Tuchanka today is this sturdy."

Siara frowned. "But cement is a relatively simple technology. Why isn't it used? Or why not import plasteel?"

"Plasteel takes serious credits, girl. And cement takes time to cure. Clear some ground, clans around you take notice. Start to build, well, your workers are exposed. Need a lot of males with guns there, ready to repel an attack. Get it built, you're a target. Better to stay in a hidden hole, or so we've thought. And this is what we hide." She'd reached a metal hatch, and keyed in a code. The door slid open, and they passed through it.

Inside, it was still musty and damp smelling, but even cleaner than upstairs. No more dirt floors. Tile. Worn and cracked and obviously ancient, but tile. A few working electric lights, mostly unshaded, bare bulbs, dangling from wires that fell from the ceiling. A long hallway, filled with doors.

Malla took her into the first room now. A pregnant female was there, on a metal slab, not a bed. She was obviously in discomfort, panting, distressed. "This is Urdnot Gara," Malla said. "Daughter of Gris. We think, anyway." Malla shrugged. Genealogy had become something of a petty distinction for the krogan. Whoever _could_ breed, _did_ now, and be damned to consanguinity. "Gara is five months pregnant. She conceived after her Rite. While the genophage's worst effects have been lifted for Urdnot—which is to say, we're not _expecting_ a miscarriage today—it could certainly happen." Malla looked down at Gara, picked up a scanner, and studied the results for a moment. "Calm yourself, youngling. Your distress is making matters worse. The child lives." Malla shoved Siara more or less in the direction of the table. "You. Stay with her. Keep her calm. I'll be back with medications. What few we have, anyway."

_Keep her __calm__? How?_

Siara edged closer. Gara turned her head and bared teeth at the girl. "No closer, asari. I'll not let you touch me."

Siara held up her hands in front of her. "No touching," she agreed, immediately. "I know your father," she offered, after a moment. If she couldn't pat the female's shoulder to calm her, maybe she could offer words?

"And what is that to me?" The tone was rude, and Gara had started panting again. "He was a male with actual virility who spilled seed in a fertile female. No more."

The girl winced. The words were brutally frank. And from the way the little scanner was starting to beep, the panting Gara was doing wasn't helping matters any. "Look, I know you're probably scared—"

"What do _you _know about it?" Gara snarled at her. "Have you ever tried to keep a life from spilling out of you by willpower? Have you ever held a life in your hands at all?"

"No," Siara whispered. "But Malla said you need to calm down to do that. Calm is hard. I know that. I . . . don't do it very well. But your father taught me about calm."

That got her a slightly more intrigued glance. "I . . . know he's a biotic." Breathing starting to slow down now, in her distraction.

"Yes. Did you know he's a Spectre? The first krogan one ever?"

"Yeah. They told me. Alien distinction. Doesn't mean anything here."

"The fact that he can go to any world in Council space and be respected means nothing here? The fact that he can arrest asari or turians or salarians or humans who've broken the law, means nothing here?"

Gara grimaced. "Only thing that matters here is. . . survival."

Part of a sutra flashed in her head, suddenly, like a lightning-bolt. _There is more to life than mere survival._ "I know," Siara said, after a moment. "But what are you surviving _for_?" Siara edged a little closer. "You have no future right now. You have no past. You have no art. No culture. No writing. All you have is _now_, and maybe five minutes from now."

Faster breathing again. Agitation. _Damnit. I'm supposed to be keeping her calm._ "That's all we've had. . . for a very long time. We're good at it now."

Siara reached out, pulled back, jittered, and managed to put a hand lightly on Gara's arm. For a wonder, the female _didn't_ tear it off the end of her arm. "Yes, but with people like your father out there, and your clan leader here, aren't they making a future?"

"Future's in our _bellies_." Gara struggled to control her breathing.

"Yeah, but the future's lots of places, isn't it? In the stars. Well, not that you see the stars often." Siara grimaced. She was saying this all wrong. They lived in a bunker _underground. _How could they conceive of the stars, really, as a sign of hope? Seeing them would mean _fear_. Would mean that the bunker had been breached, that they had to run, find a new hidden lair, start over again. "Or maybe in your hearts." It sounded all well and good, but she didn't know if it meant anything. Meant anything more than the sutras she was still trying to memorize. Just words, like Gris had told her. Meaningless, unless you _believed_ in them.

"You think you know what's in our hearts?"

"I've seen a little of what's in your father's." Siara shrugged a little.

Gara laughed. "Oh, that's _rich_."

"I can show you, if you like." She lifted her chin a little, and when all she got was a curious stare, Siara reached out with her mind. Carefully. Delicately. _Maieolo'saeo_ only. Giving only, taking nothing. Gris' memories, absorbed in the five-way link. Learning how to find that center of calm inside of krogan rage. Learning to work his biotics, shaped into a weapon of mind and flesh through blood and pain. Little glimmers of Siara's own. Impressions of Gris, as he taught her biotics. Taught her to spar, laughing at her initial ineptitude. _Asari rely too much on the mental. Body and mind are one._ His anger at her trespasses, glowing hot as a banked fire. The way he kept Mazz in check, teaching the boy, too. Teaching him control, to use his bloodrage as a weapon. How to work with other species, on the playing field and at school. The way he looked at her mother when he thought no one else could see him. As if she both puzzled him, and called to things long buried within that calloused krogan soul.

Gara's breathing slowed. Calmed. Her entire body seemed to ease. Siara pulled her mind away again, and Malla said, behind her, making her jump, "Good. Much calmer now. Panic makes the hearts work too hard. Endangers the child." She shuffled back in with a medkit now, and gave Gara an injection. "This will slow the premature contractions. Your body will re-knit soon enough. The biggest danger right now is that you will not _allow_ yourself to heal. Do you understand, youngling?"

Gara nodded, slowly. Still calm. Still absorbing what she'd seen. "You," Malla said, shoving Siara towards the door. "Next room."

Gara was the _easiest_ patient that Malla had to look after that day. One miscarriage—bloody, frustrating, visceral. The low, soft keening of the mother who hadn't been able to carry the child to term, in spite of the odd shift that seemed to have occurred here, with the genophage. It was almost as if the youngest fairy, from one of the Terran tales Eli read to his little sister, had come to Clan Urdnot and softened a witch's curse. Siara couldn't explain it, but suspected that eventually, the STG would notice the aberration and take steps to fix it.

In the meantime, Clan Urdnot was flourishing, in its limited way. There were two live births that day—something of an astonishing miracle, Siara was informed. They hadn't had two live births in the same day in over fifty years. "They should be bonded as brothers," Malla declared. "Give them names that are alike, so that they will always know one another as birth-kin." And the whole time, she'd been tasked with keeping the mothers' calm. She didn't know what to do.

"Do what you did for Gara, for the sake of the gods!" Malla finally shouted at her impatiently during the miscarriage.

Siara didn't think that giving this random female memories of a krogan male would be any help at all. She grabbed the female's hand uncertainly, and dithering a little, opened her mind again. _Maieolo'saeo, _with a little_ maieolo'rae_. Letting the pain and the anguish wash into her, lifting it from the female. It hit her like a wave, and she had no idea how the female was _standing_ it, pain radiating through her back, her belly, and knowing, with each shattering burst of pain that it was all in vain, that she wouldn't even have a child to hold at the end of it, no hope, no future, just pain, just emptiness. . . .

The two births were a little better, but again, Siara could do little besides hold the females' hands and take their pain into herself. By the end of the day, all she wanted to do was curl up in a corner and die.

_Compassion frees the spirit;_

_Share it wantonly._

_Yes, I shared it. I shared all of it. I don't really feel all that much freer, though._ She looked up as Malla shuffled over, dropping a full ration pack at her feet. "You helped today," Malla told her, bluntly. "Not sure Gara would have calmed down if you hadn't talked with her, and did whatever biotic thing you did. Births went a hell of a lot easier, too. We can't spare pain medications for mothers. We're supposed to be strong enough to do it all without them. But birthing is a hell of a lot easier when the pain is less. I know. Fifty miscarriages, twelve lives births in the past eight hundred years. Every single one of them has hurt."

Siara looked up at her, wide-eyed. She didn't even want to _think_ about that statement. Right at the moment, if she _never_ had children herself, it would be too soon. Malla laughed, rustily, at her expression, and walked away.

That became the new routine. Working with the birthing mothers and the pregnant females in the afternoons, dealing with the children in the mornings, trying to find some corner of the warren where she could sleep, more or less undisturbed, at night. That was a problem, too. The male who'd run into her periodically in the first week, Urdnot Makur, seemed to be making a point of finding whatever corner she'd found to sleep in, and telling her to move, that it was _his_ spot. He couldn't be more than six months older than Mazz, she figured. Bigger, definitely. Rougher and cruder, though she'd never thought of Mazz as being _polished_ before. Probably only a few months from leaving this place and undergoing the Rite.

After moving, grumpily, several times, she finally got annoyed enough to pin him against a wall with a forceful biotic shove. "Leave me alone," she told him.

Makur just grinned. "I _wondered_ if you were going to stand up for yourself again, or if you'd just keep cringing like a gelded varren." Her grip on him slipped, and he slid down the wall to his feet, heavily, and walked across to her, poking her in the shoulder with one meaty finger. "I think I like you, asari."

"In your dreams," she told him, firmly, and backhanded him with another biotic blast, from which he picked himself up off the floor, grinned, and left. For the moment. _Force seems to be the only language he understands. So much for words_.

And yet, he came back the next night. And the next. It almost seemed to be a sort of game for him. She remembered Mazz, wondering if Dara was flirting with him, and had a sort of down-elevator sensation in her stomach. _I'm not flirting_, she thought. _Maybe __he__ is, but I'm just trying to get some sleep around here._

The last week went more or less as the second week had. Taking the pain into herself. Sharing it. Making it less, or at least letting the females know that they weren't alone. One morning, Malla threw a piece of metal more or less in Siara's direction. "Here. That's how we used to write." The older female grunted, looking down at it. Her expression was a little pleased. "Took me a while to remember some of the marks."

It wasn't an alphabet, per se. It wasn't the elaborate, pictographic images of Terran Chinese, either. The marks were somewhere in between, each symbol representing a sound-cluster. Siara asked about them, got answers, and began to puzzle out how the words she'd collected so far from oral transcription should actually be spelled. "The language has changed a bit since back in the day," Malla admitted. "The way things are spelled on the old monuments. . . when you can find a piece of one, anyway. . . aren't the way we say them now."

And then Gris was finally back. He stared at her, and she met his searching gaze. Wondering what he was looking for. If she'd be left here another week, or two. "How'd she do?" he asked Malla, bluntly.

"Not horrible. Not great, but she wasn't a complete waste of rations. Made herself useful." Malla grunted. "Helped with the mothers. Did something biotic with them, seemed to ease their pain a bit." Malla gave Siara a direct look. "If she wants to come back, she can."

On the one hand, Siara wasn't sure why she would ever _want_ to come back here, but on the other, she understood that this was a compliment. "Thank you," she said, after a moment. "Maybe next time, you'll let me write down more of the stories?"

Malla laughed, shortly. "Maybe. Yeah."

She and Gris moved off, still talking. Siara couldn't hear what they said, but was relieved to be leaving. At the same time, she was, oddly enough, a little _sad_. She couldn't explain it. Couldn't _fathom_ it, but there it was. She was hungry, tired, dirty, and usually cold. She'd taken pain into herself almost beyond the limits of her endurance, emotional and physical alike. She'd certainly hated quite a bit of her stay here.

Why was she sad?

On the flight back to Mindoir, Gris sat in the seat beside hers, bulking large. "You're quiet," he told her. "You learn anything there?"

"I'm thinking." Siara rubbed her face. "I don't know why I was sad to leave. It's not like anyone there was kind or very nice." She grimaced at him when he laughed. "And I don't know what I learned. Except that giving birth _hurts_ and no one there thinks about the future, or the past, mostly because they don't _have_ either." She looked away, and muttered, "And that's not right."

Gris nodded to himself. Said nothing for a while. When she'd given up on getting a response, he said, "You want to go back?"

Siara blinked. "Yes." The word fell out of her mouth without conscious volition, and she stopped, feeling horrified. "Not today, though."

He chuckled. "Now you know how almost every krogan in the galaxy feels."

Another silence.

"Urdnot Mala said you made quite an impression on one of the young males. Apparently, asked her about you. Where you came from. Things like that."

"I did not. He wouldn't let me go to sleep in peace. I practically had to slam him up against a wall every night just to be left alone." Siara folded her arms across her chest, guiltily realizing that Makur's pestering wasn't all _that_ dissimilar from her initial pestering of Elijah.

Gris chuckled. "As I said, you made an impression."

_Well, if I ever go back, I'm sure he'll have already left for the Rite and the male camp_, Siara thought. And she looked out the window, and wondered just how bad it was going to be, going back to Mindoir. Back to Eli's cold, distant stares, to where everyone knew what she'd done. It had to be faced, however. This was where she was probably going to live for the next twelve to fourteen years, barring her mother getting a different job, on some other world.

All things considered, dealing with the consequences was _probably_ better than sharing the pain of childbirths and miscarriages. But those things had endings. Consequences for actions never seemed to go away, however. Less intense, but longer duration. She sighed. When all was said and done, she'd endure it. Because she had to face her past, if she were to have a future.

**Sam**

Having houseguests was something of a trip. He hadn't had so many people on a semi-permanent basis in his house since Hamilton's family had come to stay when a brush-fire had taken out their property out near San Antonio, five years ago now, when little James was just about a year old. Now he had Eduardo and Charis in the guest bedroom, and Caelia and Estevan were in Dara's old room. Eli was taking the couch in the den most nights, though he spent a good part of every evening out running or sparring or whatever else he was doing to get ready for boot camp, himself. The two toddlers were using playpens for cribs, at the moment, and while his guests were all well-mannered, having strangers in the house, a novelty at first, sooner or later inevitably begins to pall.

That being said, they actually all _were_ good roomies. Eduardo and Charis were obviously working hard at allowing themselves to fall out of character, and figure out who they _were_ again. A couple of folks from salarian STG had dropped by in the last month to debrief them; they definitely wouldn't be returning to Omega. Much too noticeable of an exit, right before the coup. A few things were being quietly straightened out back home with NABI and the _federales_, clearing up Eduardo's record. "Not that I can go back home anyway, with the wife and the _pequeño_," Eduardo told Sam one night, as they were sitting in the living room, drinking a beer each, and had the Urban Combat League on, more or less for sound—the matchup, currently, between the Denver Assault and the Moscow Vintovki, was a very poor one. "But it's good to know that my parents won't think anymore that they raised a thug, you know?"

"Deep cover work sucks. I was asked once to take on a job like that. Said no." Sam shrugged, looking at the screen. "I'd just met Sarrie, anyway."

There was a value in this sort of debriefing, too. Letting someone relax. Let their brain detoxify from the constant stress. Letting them talk it out at their own pace.

"My grandmother passed, you know? Two years ago, man. She died thinking I was some no-account." Eduardo shook his head, looking at the screen, and grimaced. "Shit, these teams are both bottom-feeders this year."

"Tell me about it. The Hurricanes suck this year, too." Sam paused. "You get in touch with your parents yet? They know about Charis and Estevan?"

"Sent 'em a letter last week, once I knew STG had sent them word of what I'd been doing. Put a picture of the family in there, too." Eduardo shrugged. "My mom's a good Catholic, though. I'm pretty sure she's going to take one look at Charis and Stevan, and, once she gets up off the floor, she's going to start asking me if I think they have souls."

Sam snorted. "'Course they do."

"Yeah, tell that to the Pope, man. But, you know, if I go to hell for being with my wife, I'm going in real good company, know what I mean?"

At that point, two-year-old Estavan ran into the room, crashing into his father's leg, giggling. The little boy had his father's rich olive skin-tone, which was strikingly different than the other hybrids Sam had seen, so far. And when he babbled, it was in a mix of _Spanish_ and turian, which just about made Sam's head spin. Eduardo switched languages, asking him, _"What was that? Say it again, little man."_

"_Caelia chase me! Caelia chase me!"_

Sam stood up, and headed into the hall. "Caelia, sweetheart, what have I told you about hunting in the house, hmm?" he asked, finding her where she'd hidden herself in a doorway, and was peeking around it, watching where Estavan had gone. "If you two want to run around, we have to go outside."

"Outside!" That was one of Caelia's favorite new words.

"Okay then. Go get your shoes."

She dashed off, heading for the door, where all the shoes in the house now resided, per Kasumi's insistence. Sam had been taking off his boots at home for years, so this wasn't a big change for him, but Eduardo and Charis seemed to regard this as _quirky_. Sam hunkered down with her, looking at the little sandals she was struggling to put on her two-toed feet. They were turian shoes, of course, but a little smaller in size than would be needed for a turian child her age. All in all, not that much different from the shoes he'd patiently helped Dara put on at the same age. Which seemed so long ago now, and so distant now that his daughter was out of the house, it made him feel wistful. . . and not a little old. He had, after all, turned forty-one back on November 18, the day before Lantar and Ellie's wedding. Re-marriage. _Tal'mae_ shindig. Whatever.

Shoes in place, Caelia was already at the door, saying "Open, open, open!" eagerly. Sam chuckled, and let her out. She dashed out, all awkward feet and eagerness, and Estavan barreled past Sam's leg a moment later, both of them gravitating instantly to the big tree in the front yard. He'd spent most of the previous day up on a ladder, attaching lights to the damn thing again, thinking the entire time, _This year, I'm just going to leave the damn things up. . . no, can't do that, the damn tree's going to grow_. Eli had helped him with the annoying task, at least. The boy was much quieter than he'd been a year ago. Sober. Probably time to stop thinking of him as a boy, to be honest.

Out on the porch, Kasumi and Charis were sitting, enjoying the warm, dry, mid-summer day. More debriefing, pretty much. Charis' cover had been fairly degrading initially, but she'd done what she had to do to try to infiltrate Aria's organization. "You'd be surprised. The asari dancers were just the come-on at Afterlife," she told Kasumi. "In the private rooms, though, there was literally something for everyone." Slight twitch of distaste to the mandibles.

"So, how is it that Eduardo and you . . . ?"

"Eh, he was supposed to make contact with me as a john. Supposed to pass information back and forth that way. I could see more and hear more inside Afterlife than he could working as an enforcer, but he had more freedom to come and go." Charis snickered. "If you'll pardon the pun." She shrugged, eyes distant. "Turns out, one night, he walked in on something a little rougher than even a turian generally tends to like. There's a fine line, you understand." She glanced up, making sure that the kids were out of earshot. "There's fighting as flirtation. That's fine. There's being _secured_, especially if you're in estrus, or on the hormones that make it look like you are. . . and there's being _hurt_. The male in question had gone far enough over the line that I was on the floor, bleeding, and damn near in shock. Wasn't getting _paid_ for that, and had gotten my bell rung badly enough that I was having trouble getting back off the floor. Eduardo. . . didn't like that." Charis grinned suddenly, all teeth. "I didn't _know_ he carried a knife like that. He'd always kept it tucked out of sight."

"Sounds messy," Kasumi said, voice calm.

"Messy isn't the half of it." Charis looked away for a moment, watching the children. "We're talking a full decapitation. No matter how much you _think_ that spurts, it's more. Ceiling, walls, floor. All over me. Aria herself came down and read us both the _riot_ act about killing paying customers, and said the cleanup was coming out of _my _paycheck. I pretty much _had_ to act pissed with Eduardo—managed to get to my feet and slap him, as best I recall. Then he took me to the clinic and told me in _no_ uncertain terms that he didn't give a shit what I could learn in Afterlife, but that I was not going back in there." Charis shrugged. "Our handlers didn't like it much, but I wasn't in any condition to work for a while. No one ever asked Eduardo why he was keeping a turian hooker in his house, either. Least, not that he's ever mentioned. Then again, he'd established a reputation as an enforcer by then. Probably no one _wanted_ to ask him."

Sam knew what that had probably involved. Breaking limbs. Fingers. Heads. Torching warehouses. Setting himself up as a borderline sociopath, no compunctions, no conscience. And he'd had to be tougher and colder than any alien around to get noticed. The only respite would have been coming home, letting the mask drop. Why not with the only person whom he could trust? Turian female or not, it must have been a profound relief.

Caelia came running back up now, holding something up proudly in her hands. "Oh, sweetie, you want to be careful with that," Sam said, hunkering down and taking the lizard out of her hands. "You caught him?"

"I did it!" Caelia said, proudly.

"Well, good job, sweetie. Just have to be careful. You don't want to hurt him, right?"

Solemn shake of her little head. "Still, you had to be really _fast_ to catch him, so good job. Can you go get that bucket over there, and turn the water on? We're going to go water the flowers, okay?"

As soon as Caelia, with Estevan at her heels, trotted off to the side of the house, where the bucket and the spigot were, Sam put the lizard back on the ground and watched it skitter off, nervously.

Charis laughed. "You're really good with them, Sam."

"This is _not_ my first rodeo," Sam told her, dryly. "Mine's sixteen and at _turian boot camp_ right now, but I haven't forgotten that you really need to keep 'em _occupied_ 'round this age."

The two kids were squealing at the cold water now and splashing each other and he figured he had about two minutes before he was going to need to intervene. Kasumi looked at them and frowned. "Sam, they're going to get wet."

"And they'll pretty much dry off in the sun before they come back in the house. Chances are, they won't shrink much, either."

Kasumi started to chuckle, almost as if against her will, and then turned back to Charis. "So, that explains the winding up _living_ together. Doesn't explain, well. . . "

"Getting married? Having a kid?" Charis shrugged. "By the time I healed up, I'd long since figured out Eduardo was one of the strongest males I'd ever met. Not just physically, but mentally. Keeping himself in character all day, every day, without losing himself, his spirit, in the darkness? Hard not to admire that." Her tone was affectionate. "He took a little convincing about the whole 'crossing the species line' thing, but it's worked out well ever since."

After dinner that night—and cooking for three humans levo; two hybrid kids and a human; mixed, and turian dextro/mixed each night was making Sam start to feel like a damned mad scientist in the kitchen—Kasumi leaned towards him and said, "I got a letter from Dara today, by the way."

"Excellent. What's my girl up to?"

"She actually asked me something work-related. When the kids are in bed, I'm going to go in the study and do a little research."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Unusual. She's supposed to know better."

"It came up, and it's a very good question. Let me work it a bit, and I'll get back to you, okay?"

Estevan was a good little boy, when it came to bed-time. Caelia, on the other hand, was a little terror. Sam got a chuckle out of Kasumi's glare as he finally emerged from Dara's old room, Caelia tucked in, fast asleep, at last. "She won't even _relax_ for me," Kasumi said, shaking her head. "How do you _do_ that?"

"I have no idea. I just sit with her, she puts her head on my shoulder, and she goes to sleep. Same as Dara always did." He shrugged. "My wife had the same problem. Mama was a toy, Daddy was the pillow. We never could figure out why that was."

They headed for the study. Sam was patiently combing through terabytes of Lystheni data every day, and occasionally was putting in weekend hours as well. It was _frustrating_ work. The _Normandy_ had been to Zanethu long ago, and hadn't detected so much as an anomaly the first time, and probably wouldn't have the second time, either, if the hangar doors hadn't been open. The Lystheni had been hiding for 1,500 years. They were _good_ at it. Sam had a bad feeling that the mysterious shipyards could be anywhere. Even in plain sight. "I know I shouldn't expect results overnight. . . or even inside of six months. . . but I was really hoping to have this sussed out by now," he said, tiredly.

"You know how long it took us to find those batarian guerillas we took out in Sigurd's Cradle two years ago?"

"Six months?" Sam hazarded a guess.

"Eighteen. They'd dug into the asteroids in a system, fully enclosed habitats, no signature or energy emissions. The Lystheni could be doing the same thing."

"Yeah, I thought of that. Trouble is, there's a _whole_ lot of rocks out in the Valhallan Threshold to scan." He grimaced. "I need to look at something else for a while, darlin'. What you got over there?' He glanced over to see what Kasumi was doing. And blinked. "That's Shepard's speech on Shanxi from last January," Sam said.

"Yep."

"Feeling nostalgic?"

"No, I'm looking through the crowd." She tossed a datapad across the room, and Sam began to read Dara's letter. _There is a female in my unit. Sixteen years of age, obviously, bare-faced. Speaks perfect, British-accented English. Comes from Complovium, and everyone around here defers to her, except the centurions, of course. Name is given as Kallixta Essedarius. . . . the first thing she asked me was if I'd been at the speech on Shanxi. She said she was, herself, with her family, and claims to have been sitting close enough to hear my teeth chattering._

_What the hell. _A frown settled onto his face. "Well, that sounds like an information probe," he finally said.

"Probably not at turian boot camp. Kind of a waste of resources." Kasumi was taking notes now. "I make it twelve barefaced females in the box. Only two of the right age. One is _high_ nobility, the other is her _innupta_. . . sort of a servant and bodyguard, combined. Can act as a body-double if they need a decoy."

Sam walked over and looked over her shoulder. He couldn't tell the two girls apart, to be honest, but they _were_ supposed to be body-doubles for each other. "How high in the nobility do you have to be to rate a, ah, _innupta?_"

"About as high as you can get," Kasumi said, grimly. "That's the Imperator's fifth-daughter sitting there on the left. First name fits. Kallixta. Of course, the last name is different. Praesesidis."

Sam exhaled. "Ah, so what you're saying here is, my little girl is sharing barracks with an interplanetary diplomatic disaster just waiting to happen?"

Kasumi laughed. "You _do_ have a knack for looking on the bright side of things, don't you, Sam?"

"I prefer to call that a nice realistic outlook on life, Kasumi-chan." He squinted at the screen. "As close as they look, they _could_ have sent the girl's decoy to the facility under her name, and sent the . . . princess?"

"_Domina."_

"Right, whatever, could have sent her to another facility under a different first name. Maximum misdirection that way."

Kasumi nodded. "Elaborate, but possible. I'm going to run this past Garrus and Shep. They can get the turian Hierarchy on the line and ask, politely, if this person is a security risk or not. _I'm_ sure as hell not doing that. Diplomatic relations are above my paygrade." She grinned up at him, and Sam reached down to stroke her cheek lightly with the back of his hand.

Six days later, they had their answer. He, Kasumi, Garrus, and Shepard discussed it in a conference call; Shepard was supposed to be on bedrest, but insisted that _talking_ from bed surely counted. "Well, we can't _tell_ Dara this," Kasumi said, dryly. "Not only will it color her reactions, but we can't send encrypted mail to boot camp without getting all _sorts_ of flags raised."

"Tell me about it," Garrus muttered. "Trying to figure out how to tell Rel what was going on with the family during the poisoning situation wasn't much fun at all."

So Kasumi prepared her carefully written response to Dara, and sent it. No reply, other than a polite _thank you_. Sam was starting to worry about Dara. More so, anyway. Nothing had ever slowed his little chatterbox down before, after all.

December 14, Lantar and Ellie came back from Earth. Ellie looked about as relaxed as Sam had ever seen her, and remarkably tan as well, which Lantar was greatly amused by. "Our hides don't change color like that," he noted as they came over to pick up the kids. "It's an interesting adaptation to radiation exposure."

Caelia took one look at her daddy and ran to him, squealing. Estevan had a very different reaction to seeing a fully adult male turian; he hid, peeking around the couch wonderingly at his little playmate as Lantar hefted Caelia over his head. "Did you miss us, _mellis_?" Lantar asked Caelia.

"Yes!"

"You've got new words for us, hmm?" Ellie said, looking up at her daughter. At that point, Elijah came out from the den, dragging travelcases behind him, giving his mom a dutiful hug and Lantar a quick wrist-clasp. "How'd she sleep for you?"

"Not too bad. By the way—she likes quesadillas. They go right down the hatch. Don't ask me _how_ with those teeth, but it all disappears in record time." Sam chuckled.

Ellie sighed. "Any victory I can get, I'll take."

Sam walked the family to the door, and as Ellie took Caelia and Elijah out to the waiting groundcar, Lantar hesitated at the door. "Jaworski?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I've managed to talk Ellie into coming to sparring. Trouble is, husbands and wives don't make good teachers and students. Would you mind. . . ?"

"No problem, so long as she's comfortable with me." Sam grinned. _Damn. A year ago, I just about had to put her in a chokehold to convince her that a gun wasn't going to __bite__ her, and now he's actually got her considering a little self-defense. Times, they sure do change._

That made sparring all the more interesting. Caelia ran around with Polina and Quintus and Amara and Kaius off to the side of the room most nights; Garrus and Lantar and Allardus were continuing to practice with Eli and now Serana, who'd just turned ten. Mazz and Gris were still there, as was, periodically, the strange, quiet asari girl, Siara. Sam disliked the girl on principle, after what Dara had told him the girl had tried to pull, but since Gris told him he'd disciplined her—and very thoroughly, Sam settled for mostly ignoring her. With the turians all occupied off to the side, Sam and Kasumi started working with Ellie, starting with the most basic lessons. Learning to fall and learning to roll and a couple of very simple concepts. Little building blocks. Not too much at a time, because she looked nervous and she'd be easily overwhelmed. . . and if overwhelmed, she'd probably give up. A couple of explosive throws from the other side of the room made her jump, and Sam redirected her. "Nah, don't look over there. We're not doing any of that crap over here today. This is our side of the room; that's theirs."

"But Eli just landed—" her voice was worried.

Kasumi smiled. "And he bounced right back up again. That's why we're trying to teach you to fall the right way, so you don't break when you hit the ground."

When he had the two women, equally matched in height, practicing, Sam took a few steps back. "How's she doing?" Lantar asked him, quietly.

"She's scared out of her mind. Scared she's going to hurt us, scared she'll hurt herself, scared we'll hurt her." Sam shrugged. "Pretty typical. If we keep her at it for about a month, a lot of that will fade." He shook his head. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say she's got battered woman's syndrome."

Lantar's voice was dark as he muttered, "More than one way to hit someone, Jaworski."

Sam looked up, caught the anger in Lantar's glance, recognized it as protective, and filed it away. "True enough." And then he moved back in again, gently correcting a hand placement, moving Ellie into a better alignment up against Kasumi, and so on.

Time moved on, as it was apt to do. Christmas came, and this year, oddly enough, was harder than last year. Oh, there were plenty of _people_ around. More little kids than he could shake a stick at, in fact, between Caelia, Estavan, Amara, Kaius, Quintus, Polina, and even Julian, whom Lycus brought up on base for the Christmas party. Julian was just starting to learn to crawl. Mostly scooting backwards, in fact, with a comically surprised look on his face as he inevitably went exactly the opposite direction than he wanted to go. "Come here, you," Sam said, picking the boy up, and looking at Lycus, commented, "I'm practicing. Don't mind me."

Garrus dropped by with the twins, albeit briefly; he didn't want to be away from the house at all if he could help it at the moment. "I spent four out of the last five weeks of the last pregnancy out stamping batarians," he commented. "I'm not going to do the same thing this time."

Alladrus and Solanna and their crew of children came by, much to Sam's surprise. "We're _family_," Solanna reminded him, in a tone that suggested he was ever-so-slightly dim not to have grasped this yet, and deposited a basket on the table. It was filled with fruit from the newest orchards, and Kasumi gasped at the sight. "Cherries. Allardus, my dear, wonderful friend, you've finally got the cherries working here?" She paused. "What, five months after I gave up my house?"

"You can plant all the cherry trees you want in the backyard, Kasumi-chan. You just have to swear to me that when all the fruit falls on the ground and starts to rot that _you're_ going to clean it up," Sam told her, affably.

Kasumi grinned. "None of it is ever going to have a chance to fall. I plan to eat _all_ of them."

So they sat around the table, eating fresh cherries at Christmas, and Allardus talked about the shipment of Palaven herbivores that had been just shipped in. All yearlings, to save space on the freight transport. Fifty _cuderae, talashae, _and _apaterae_, and about two hundred _olorae_, along with two dozen young farmers and veterinarians from Galatana. All of whom would be setting up homesteads ringing the science station. "Now which one's which again?" Sam asked.

"_Apaterae _have long necks, massive bodies, and browse along the ground, or, briefly, among tree branches."

"Brontosaurus," Kasumi stage-whispered to his left, making Sam grin and squeeze her hand under the table.

"_Cuderae_ are squat, built low to the ground, and have spikes on their carapaces, as well as thick, club-like tails."

"Ankylosaurus." That was from Elijah, on the other side of the table.

Allardus looked amused. "And _talashae_ have large horns on their faces and elaborate collars, or frills." He paused. "Yes. Like your triceratops."

"And _olorae_?"

Solanna shrugged. "Every planet has a chicken, does it not? Our is just. . . larger. Much larger."

Lantar chuckled. "It looks like one of your pterosaurs. Smaller than many of the rest of its relatives on Palaven. Wingspan of only three, four meters."

"Only," Sam said, nodding.

But for all the people around, the house still felt a little. . . empty. The piano was silent. He'd tucked Dara's teddy bear up high onto a bookshelf, where he didn't have to see it all the time. He missed her enough without the reminder. No need to flog himself with sentimentality. He got an apologetic mail from his daughter on Christmas. Being on the Palaven calendar, she'd completely missed the date.

Cohort and Ruin headed off-world to Bastion; Gris came and went from Tuchanka a few times. Kasumi continued to plan their wedding, occasionally scolding Sam when he simply agreed to everything she said.

January 7 was the first time he got an actual letter from Dara. It was brief. _Sorry it's taken me so long, Dad, _she wrote. _I'm actually on a space station in Palaven orbit at the moment, for zero-g training. Mail privileges are scarcer here, but this is the first week I've actually not been exhausted, sweating, dehydrated, and, well, in a radiation suit at night in a long time. All of which makes writing letters hard. Not a lot of time to write though. Just wanted to thank you again for thinking of me at Christmas. I really missed you. And everyone else, too. Odd to be more homesick for Mindoir than Texas, but there it is._

_Got my MOS assignment last week. Could technically still change between now and the last day, though, and won't know for a bit if I'm going to wind up an officer with Rel, or an enlisted (I have a good feeling about it, but who knows). So I'm going to not say what the MOS is, until I'm __sure__ it's locked in, if that's okay with you. Little worried about next squad consolidation, which will happen after we get back from heavy-g training on Telavin. Will talk with you about it later, though. After that, Week 9 is mostly book-work, final exams, and lots of precision marching drills—nothing major, and I expect everyone in my squad will get good marks. Final melee competition and last squad consolidation, and then we'll be in the field for ten days. No communication at all. So I apologize in advance. Love you. Give my best to K._

The message certainly sounded about normal for a boot camp letter. A lot of homesick mixed with forced cheer. But there was something else that bothered him. Why was she worried about _next_ week's consolidation, but not the final one? That didn't make much sense. _Then again, I could be reading too much into it,_ he decided.

**Ruin and Cohort**

The archaeological conference on Bastion was well-attended, largely because half of the Council had sent delegates to oversee the discussions. The topics of conversation tended to become downright heated, even unruly, by academic standards.

"Terraforming the worlds of Aphras and Tosal Nym would be a travesty! Untold archaeological information remain there to be found, catalogued, and examined," one volus professor expounded. "All we have is the word of this. . . _geth_ _construct_. . . about the supposed ancient information about these worlds. I hardly regard that as _factual evidence_."

Cohort stood, and the room slowly, reluctantly, fell into silence. "We have shared all information derived from the Ruin process with you. You may require more time to assimilate the data properly, but there is no reason to doubt its veracity. The organics which inhabited Tosal Nym, Aphras, and Etamis, long ago, were the people who were shaped and transformed into the Keepers, just as the Protheans were shaped and reformed into the Collectors. Watches-the-Gates-of-Ruin is the last remnant of that race left uncontaminated by Reaper technology. Why would you doubt his words?"

"My esteemed colleague sees a geth in front of him, not a Keeper, and even if it _were_ a Keeper, they're sort of noted for _silence_," a human academic noted, derisively.

Ruin scuttled forward now. It had taken him a month or two to learn how to use this body properly. It was like his original one, but unlike it; where movement had always come without conscious thought before, it had taken time to learn how to replicate that unconscious process using a body controlled by software alien to his mind.

"You would perhaps prefer it if I were to remain silent," he said, and he could see heads turning to look at him. Geth voices chattered in his mind, telling him that these expressions on organic faces—oh, all so very soft and fleshy, except the rachni representative, who actually looked. . . comforting—meant _surprise_. Surprise at his use of the first-person singular, instead of the geth collective plural. Ruin continued, after a moment, "I find it troubling that after a sleep of thirty-seven _million _years, it seems that academia has not changed. Entrenched viewpoints, territory taken in youth to be defended into old age. Perhaps your people are not so different from how mine once were, although you all certainly still _appear_ strange to me."

"You speak _very_ good galactic," one person commented sardonically.

"The geth provided me with a translation program. I will turn it off and address you as I would normally."

"_Know that I am Watches-the-Gates-of-Ruin, five generations of living memories left in my mind, passed to me from Counts-the-Clouds and Keeper-of-Shadows and Witnesses-Truths and Hides-Below-the-Waves and Carries-the-Spear in turn."_ Several of the humanoids covered their ears at the chittering sounds that emerged from the metal body; they apparently found them disconcerting, at the least, uncomfortable at the worst. Ruin turned his translator back on, and repeated his message. "When my people faced those who came from the Outer Darkness, they decided to preserve the minds of those who could best help others to recover our civilization later. I was one such."

"So, what made _you_ so special?" That was a turian academic, geth voices told him softly in his mind.

"I was . . . am. . . a historian. Our names are not just pretty sounds. They are _earned._ I traveled to the world you know as Junthor. I studied the ruins there, was among the teams who found the technology that, eventually, preserved my mind, my consciousness. You do not need to know, I am told, all the details. I do know that the world you know as Etamis was one of ours. So was Klendagon. Both were wiped out in the first attacks by the ones that you called Reapers. My knowledge of history—both of my own people, and of the ruins that I had studied for so long on Junthor—was considered essential enough to be preserved. While farmers and scientists and engineers were all meant to be preserved as well, we meant to store the memories of historians and artists and musicians as well. There was, we thought, no upper limit to how many minds could be preserved. And without a past, there can be no future. Without art and aspirations, there can be no hope. Only survival. And while we wished to survive, we wished also to _live._"

Ruin would have sighed, if this metal body had allowed him to do so. "So, you may believe what I tell you about my people and our history. I studied it for close to _three hundred years_ before my mind was taken and preserved. I also find that the . . . preservation process, and being in this fine body that the geth have provided for me. . . seems to have made my memory clearer. All data seems somehow easier to access. I'm sure that there are biases and opinions and interpretations in my recollections, but the essential facts are still there. And I am happy to tell you everywhere you will need to dig to find our lost cities." His voice turned a little bitter. "Who would have thought, that it would be our own ruins, that I would someday watch?"

The long hall had gone very quiet now. He could almost feel their fascination, their hunger. "I have no objections to these worlds being made habitable again. I would rather see them live again, than remain empty, shattered, violated graves. But I would ask, and I speak to the representatives of the Council that I am told are here today. . . if there is any way in which the descendents of my people can ever be freed, ever returned to being more than. . . servitors in a trap not of their own making. . . that you would hold some corner of these worlds—perhaps on Etamis, for that was our planet of origin—for us."

He raised his folded arms to his head and bowed, a gesture of profound respect.

Ruin's words didn't convince everyone. That would have been impossible. Hanar cultists protested outside the meeting, denouncing him as one who would deny the divinity of the Enkindlers; since Ruin had clear memories of scientists finding primitive precursors to the Protheans on their original homeworld, and his people having meddled with their genetics _just_ a bit, this was sure to irk the hanar. "Who kindled the Enkindlers?" was one currently popular headline on the extranet.

Various academics began to ask questions in the subsequent meetings, having gone through the reams of information that the geth had extracted from Ruin's mind. Various zones on both planets were declared restricted, off-limits for eventual development, but it wasn't a large amount of the surface of either world. Next were several panels on terraforming. ExoGenii was out of the running on these contracts. They apparently didn't have a good reputation. A turian firm called Aetermundus was the strong contender to take on the Aphras efforts; a human firm called Transdyne Industries was the front-runner to take the Tosal Nym contract.

If Ruin could have smiled, he would have.

**Rellus**

January 7, 2192, or maybe it was Novenus 10. Rel had two separate calendars set up on his terminal in his room, much to Rasmus' amusement as his roommate looked over his shoulder. "I'm surprised you don't have one set up for the galactic calendar, too."

Rel chuckled. "That would probably just confuse me worse." They'd just finished a week of pretty intensive work. Treadmill work and resistance training in the mornings, followed by ten hours of classwork. Decrypting files. Analyzing code. Detecting bombs, learning how to defuse them. He'd probably do more specific coursework over the course of his career; this was basically the 'introduction' phase. He wouldn't have the certifications that his brother, Rinus, had, for instance, for some time. But it was definitely all valuable information, and stuff he'd _never_ done before. Careful, patient, pain-staking work.

A lot of people in his course hadn't gotten good marks. Having physical skills didn't necessarily translate to having the mental skills to do detail-oriented technical work as well. Rel was attributing his success to his father's influence and to his Mindoir education. Additionally, while forty to sixty percent of people in a human Special Forces training program were _expected_ to wash out, because everyone who was in the human course was a volunteer, the reverse was true for the turian military. People were here because they'd been _selected_ for it; they'd shown talent and skill and the right mindset. While reaching the level of your skill and staying there wasn't a shame, failing at something you'd been chosen for was.

Rel had no intention of failing now.

"The liberty shuttle's leaving in five minutes. You coming with us?" Rasmus was always careful to invite Rel. They'd known each other since boot camp, and Rasmus was perfectly aware of Rel's background. Never brought it up, never held Rel at a distance. He was a good roommate, and Rel was actually going to miss him once OCS was done.

Rel shook his head. "Thanks anyway, but I got a letter from my mate. Figured I'd read it, give her a good answer. Next couple of weeks are going to be sporadic for keeping in touch anyway."

Rasmus snorted. "And this is why I _didn't_ want to get married before boot camp. You're no fun at all, Velnaran."

Rel grinned. "Thank you. Nicest thing anyone's said to me all day."

The other male shrugged. "You're going to get dinged on the sociability meter on your evals, you know?"

"Nah. I talk with everyone who comes in this room, work with people through the lunch hour, and am always available to talk about the courses." Rel returned Rasmus' shrug. "Past that, none of you all are all _that_ fascinating when you're drunk, you know." A quick, edged grin. "Probably why none of the girls will give you the time of day."

Rasmus flicked his fingers at Rel, with extra emphasis, grinned, and left the room.

With Rasmus out of the way, Rel cued up his letter from Dara, reading eagerly. Grinned hugely when he saw her MOS posting. _Yes. Three of four. Get OCS, sweetness. Then it's just a hundred more days or so, and then we can finally live our lives together. _His smile faded as he read the rest of her letter, and he began to mutter curses under his breath. _Damnit, why in the __same barracks__? Why not one over, so if it had to happen, it would be at manciple-level consoldation? Why not seventy or eighty barracks over, so they'd never actually __meet__? _Rellus swore again, between his teeth. _Because they're testing __him__. Want to see if he learned his lesson last time. If he can learn and grow and become an adult. And they're testing her, too. Seeing if a human will lose her nerve, break. Run. Spirits damn them, she could be __hurt__._

It took him about twenty minutes to calm down and write his letter in response. Even that took him a while, too. He didn't want to make her either over-confident or make her worry so much that she'd freeze up when the time came. In the end, he tried for _comforting_. Tried to tell her that she was strong and capable and what to take advantage of in her opponent. . . and, as he hit the _send_ button, he hoped his spirit went with his message. Because he couldn't _protect _his little human mate. _First the cave, before we even knew what we would mean to each other. Then the poisoning when I was away. Now this, and this is, in part, my fault. At least with the batarians, we could fight alongside each other, protect each other, as mates should_.

Too agitated to carve, at first. He'd finished the _allora_ branch last week, and had picked up some _jalae_ wood to try instead on his last foray off of the base. He didn't know if his skill was quite up to this level yet, and it seemed a shame to waste the fine-grained, high-quality wood on anything less than a real piece of art. He turned it over and over in his hands, trying to see what the wood could become. Nothing, at first, till his mind stopped racing. The mental image that kept coming to him, he kept discarding, but eventually, he gave in. It was the only thing he could picture the wood becoming, and trying to force it to become anything else would wind up being a waste.

His Week 7 revolved around his area of specialization. Not just squad leading and tactics, but also demolitions. There were dozens of structures on Dymion used for exactly this training purpose. Many of them were abandoned, early shelters built by the first settlers here; some were little more than metal shells now, on the surface. Some were tunnels, bored into the moon's rock. There were even bridges, used by groundcars in the early days of settlement, before shuttles and aircars had become the norm for transport on the satellite. For most of these, Rel and his teammates were using dummy charges, and mainly learning to identify structural weaknesses and how a shaped charge would work on the structure at each location. It required an overview of structural and materials engineering, and again, Rel had a feeling he'd be seeing more in-depth coursework on this in his future.

On the very last day, they actually prepared their own charges, packing the malleable explosives into canisters, before heading into the field to an abandoned quarry, and setting up timers on the charges. And then they got a powerful lesson in just how strong these explosives were. Even from the far side of the wide-mouthed quarry, the concussive force in the thin atmosphere pushed them all back a pace, the ground trembled underfoot, and half the cliff wall opposite them crumbled and sheared down to the bottom. Clouds of dust rose, and they couldn't see into the pit for about fifteen, twenty minutes.

Returning to the OCS facility, Rel was quiet in the shuttle, listening to his fellows cheerfully describe the explosion, and speculate about the remainder of their term here. The 'unconventional warfare' on their schedule was a topic of lively discussion.

Novenus 21 now, and a quick message from his uncle, distributed to the whole family, indicating that certain 'packages' had been delivered successfully. Pictures would come later; for the moment, it was enough for everyone to know that the family's spirit had grown once more.

No word from planetside, though. He was heading out into ten days in the field on Palaven, after which he'd have a half day's liberty, and then twenty more days in the field, and he had absolutely no idea what was going on with Dara. It was distracting, and frustrating, and it made him irritable, but he quashed it as best he could. Focused on the navigation lessons—three days in jungle, three days in desert, and three days in rugged, mountainous terrain.

Finally, they traveled to a base just outside the great Quercetum jungle on the western continent. They had a half a day off, and mail access, and the very first thing Rel did was turn on his terminal and access the servers. At last, a letter from Dara, dated the day he'd left for the field. In English.

_January 19/Novenus 22_

_Amatus—_

_I'll start by saying I'm __okay__. Full stop. No more worrying for you, okay? That being said, it's taking me a while to type this. Left wrist's a bit messed up and my right finger is still a bit torn up, too._

_Now, details. Lintorum washed out of boot camp. He's done. He gets to stay a kid forever. How? Good question. He shouldn't have made it personal against you, just 'cause you're married to a human. He could've and should've been a grownup, and not made his fight against me into a grudge match against you. Which, yeah, he did. With you, I guess it was just a nasty stew of racism and territoriality. For me, it was about hurting you through me. _

_Here's the damage. Three cuts from claws on my right cheek, about thirty stitches. They won't scar up; medigel does wonders. Bitten right forefinger. Five stitches, infected, swollen up about twice its normal size, and it hurts like hell, but am still expected to pull a trigger. Go figure. If my marksmanship score suffers this week, I'm going to be pissed. Okay, __more__ pissed. Bruised bladder, from a low punch. I'm passing blood, but antibiotics are definitely the best invention since sliced bread. Left wrist, sixty stitches. We're a matched pair, amatus. Lots of medigel. I have it on good authority that "a female with mismatched teethmarks" is a roundabout way of saying 'whore' or 'two-timing bitch' so that's definitely not what I aspire to, you know?_

_I didn't have the strength or the skill to take him out cleanly, like you did, sweetheart, but what I did is probably going to stay with him just as long. Standard self-defense rake to the cornea. Couldn't get enough arm motion to even grab and pull at the windpipe, which would have slowed him down. But the eyes work on pretty much everyone. Even shit-stupid, stubborn turians, I'm happy to say._

_Final exams this week, shouldn't be a problem. Mostly bookwork, except for drills. Oh, and final melee competition. I don't know how fast I'll heal for that. Going to stop typing now, sweetheart. Love you. Don't worry about me out in the field. Thirty more damn days._

Rel thumped his fists on the desk and swore, viciously and at length. _Damnit. Damnit. If he ever shows his face again, I won't stop with his arm. I'll snap his damn __neck__. _ His roommate—not Rasmus, but another Special Forces candidate, looked up. Rel had so far acquired a reputation as being easy-going and cheerful, which seemed to amuse the training officers for some reason. Then again, they had access to his record. "Something wrong?" his new roommate asked.

"Yeah. Nothing I can do about it here, though." Rel stood up. "I think I'm going to go to the gym and kill a sparring dummy or two."

"We've got four hours' liberty and you're going to the gym?" The male held up his hands when Rel turned and scowled. "Hey, sorry I asked."

The next two weeks were dedicated to 'Unconventional Warfare.' Rel realized quickly that this meant breaking the rules that generally dictated what turians did on the battlefield. Most of his teammates were uneasy at first. Their first ten days, they parachuted into the Quercetum jungle, simulating a stealthed approach to a hostile planet. Their simulation was Aratoht, a batarian world, where their objective was to train runaway human slaves and low-caste batarians into a working militia and resistance group.

They had to travel from village to village, hideout to hideout, making contact with groups of runaways, while remaining completely undetected by 'batarian' patrols. Dozens of marines and special forces members played the parts of escaped slaves and patrolling batarian enforcers. They had to win the slaves' trust, train them, arm them, find different hiding places, reinforce the resistance camps, and then, in the second half of the course. . . they had a new objective. Taking out a batarian law enforcement facility at the outskirts of a city. And they had to do it without any radio signals escaping and alerting the rest of the planetary authorities, and without a single 'turian' face being seen. . . . or at least, being reported as seen.

"We've got a couple of ways we can do this," Rel told the rest of the recruits, thoughtfully.

One of his squadmates shrugged. "We could just send in our resistance people. That's what we've been training them to do."

Rel grimaced. "Low probability of success, since they're not _that_ well trained, but yeah, low risk of our being seen. I like some other options better."

"Like what?"

"Have the resistance create a distraction at the front of the facility. Sneak one team in to the transmission tower, blow it. Take the other two teams and, simultaneously, go in the back of the facility and kill every batarian we see. Let the resistance take the credit for the victory and pull back. Keep an eye on them, make sure there's no immediate bloody reprisal." Rel shrugged. "It's a pretty basic idea. Anyone got ways to improve it?"

To be honest, Rel was sort of looking forward to taking out some of his bad temper and aggression and frustration on the 'batarians.' Not so much that he'd take foolish risks, of course. But it would be _wonderfully_ cathartic to shoot a few enemies or take them down silently with a knife or a melee attack, however simulated.

**Mordin**

Narayana was now almost three months old, exactly, and was walking easily and starting to talk. With typical salarian precocity, she mimicked almost everything he said in her presence.

"Use analgesic ointment on affected area twice daily," he told his patient, an elcor with flaking, cracked hide, over the comm screen. He'd taken to conducting some of his office hours in this fashion lately, largely because of his little daughter.

"Use anal. . . gesic oint-ment on af-fect-ed ar-ea twice dai-ly," she parroted, turning around in his office.

"Sit down, Narayana."

"Sit down! Na-ra-ya-na!"

Mordin sighed. She was now too old to carry with him everywhere, and every time he'd taken her down to the valley with him, he'd gotten wild-eyed stares from his fellow salarians. A few had, tentatively, asked him if he were _quite_ sure he was doing the right thing. Fathers did not raise females. Females raised all children to the age of one; once they passed the age of one, and were able to read and speak and more or less reason, males were turned over to the rest of the family, and the females were kept among themselves.

The reaction of his fellows in the valley was almost, though not quite as bad as, a human who'd discovered that a friend and colleague had kidnapped a child. He couldn't risk leaving Narayana among the other salarians. She was rapidly growing to be too much of a handful at home, as well; he had _many_ things to do in any given day, from patient consultations to lab work to papers that needed to be written or peer-evaluated to teaching his medical students, and in and around it all, he'd been teaching Nara verbal communications skills, basic manners, and social skills.

No. This couldn't continue. He had to find a care option for her. And it couldn't involve her being present for patient consultations. People tended to prefer doctor-patient confidentiality, and that did not include a three-month-old salarian female shouting out, "Apply in cavity once a day to retard fungal growth!"

_Yes. Who could take care of her? Many parents on base. Not all able to care for their young while on missions. Jaworski left daughter with colleagues. No, short-term commitments, all of them. Need longer-term solution. Also, Dara much older when left with me, Dr. Chakwas, Kasumi. Who has young children? Ah. Shepard, Garrus, Lantar, Ellie. Probably already have solution to my problem in hand._

He didn't want to disturb the Vakarians unnecessarily. Lilitu Shepard was scheduled to come in for a c-section tomorrow, the eighteenth, and needed to get as much rest today as possible. That left Lantar and Ellie as possible options. Mordin called them immediately.

It was late enough in the afternoon that Ellie Sidonis actually responded to the page immediately. "Dr. Solus!" she said, looking surprised, then worried. "Is something wrong?"

"People always assume, when physician calls, it is bad news. Would be nice to be considered bearer of glad tidings, occasionally," Mordin told her, amused.

"Glad ti-dings!" Narayana chirped, hopping up into his lap and staring inquisitively at the screen.

She ducked her head and laughed. "I'm sorry, Dr. Solus. What can I do for you?"

Mordin explained his conundrum—accompanied by Narayana's mimicking efforts, which he attempted to shush—and watched as Ellie's smile grew larger and larger, finally turning into full-blown laughter.

"There's a great daycare facility down in the valley," she said, recovering. "Drell, asari, human, and turian teachers, actually. And while there are, hmm, one or two salarian kids there, none of the administrators are salarians, and none of the teachers are, either. Most of the salarian parents seem to think that we long-lived species will retard your kids' growth, or something like that, I think." Ellie shrugged. "They're fine with it once public school starts, because everyone goes at their own pace then, but in daycare? Not so much, I'm afraid."

"Interesting. Would like to meet the teachers at facility. Discuss pedagogical methodology."

So it was that he met Ellie and Caelia down in the valley the next morning at the door of the daycare facility. Narayana _stopped talking_ the moment they entered the doors, and _stared_ around her, wide-eyed. She wasn't quite as large as Caelia, but developmentally, they were certainly only a few stages apart. Caelia's physical coordination was better: at just short of age two, she could run, catch a ball or (apparently) even a swiftly-moving lizard. That derived from her turian parent. Emotionally, she was closer to her human parent, however, quick to tears and tantrums. Verbally and cognitively, turians and humans lagged behind salarians. Even at three months of age, Narayana, who could toddle around slowly (and still fell down quite a bit), could imitate freely, though without meaning, and could sort colors from a collection of blocks.

In a different room, Mordin could see older children at more structured play. Amara and Kaius were in that room, working with paints and brushes. Mordin frowned. "Why the focus on art?" he murmured. "Should be working on basic chemistry, should they not?"

The administrator cleared her throat. "That's something we tend to save for school here, not so much for daycare." Her voice was what Mordin liked to think of as human-tactful.

Mordin blinked. "Very well. She will be starting public school at age two. Can probably provide remedial training for her at home, or on weekends, in interim."

The various teachers were _fascinated_ by Narayana, and the opportunity to teach her. "We definitely will try to keep her stimulated," one asari told Mordin. "Even just being around the other children _will_ give her input that she has been lacking at home."

Mordin nodded. It seemed the best solution for now. Narayana was unlikely to be _emotionally_ affected by the change, although the shift in the routine would probably disturb her for the first few days.

He left her there on the eighteenth as a sort of an experiment, and thanked Ellie for her input, before heading back up to the base medical clinic. It was time for his most important appointment of the day.

"Ready to become parents again?" he asked, cheerfully, entering the operating room, gown, mask, and gloves in place, the only part of his smile visible, the way his eyelids crinkled up.

Shepard was a mound, largely hidden behind large drape. But her voice was clear and firm as she replied, "As we're going to be, I think."

Garrus stood beside the table, holding his wife's hand. "Sure. I think it's time we met the kids." The jocular tone didn't quite conceal the worry.

**Shepard and Garrus**

Two more little faces to add to the family, two more spirits to join with theirs. Alain Vakarian was born first, and named for Lilitu's long-dead little brother. His sister, Elissa Vakarian, joined him shortly thereafter. "Three fingers and a thumb, both hands," Garrus reported, sounding amused. "And two toes to each foot."

"Both kids?"

"Yeah."

"Thank goodness."

"Try not to make same mistakes twice," Mordin said, chidingly, from the other side of the drape, where he was probably stitching various layers of her stomach back together again. Lilu currently had Alain to her breast; the baby had latched on with surprising vigor, making her wince. Garrus carefully passed her Elissa next, taking Alain back from her, studying his second-son carefully.

She wanted to ask him what he saw in those little faces. But she knew it was probably the same thing that she saw, herself. The future, stretching out endlessly before them.


	57. Chapter 57: Commencement

**Chapter 57: Commencement**

_**Author's note:**__ The final tally was 13 to 7, 'let's see Dara do just as well as Rel.' That being said, I will try to keep it realistic, as always. :-)_

_A quick thank-you to Ceres McClure for spotting a continuity error, which has now been fixed. I think. ;)_

**Dara**

Her first order of business, on getting out of the infirmary the night of the eighteenth, was to head straight back to her barracks. She had a centurion escorting her, since it was well past lights-out by the time all the stitching and medigel applications and bandage wrapping was done. They'd gone so far as to give her a pain-killer, too—and not just aspirin. Even so, Dara didn't think she'd have an easy time going to sleep that night, and didn't.

The next morning, after showers and getting into her armor, but before lining up in the yard with the rest of the squads, Dara's first action was to beckon Kallixta and walk down the hall and tap on Decimus Corolan's door. The big male was heading for the turian marines, according to the board at the end of the hallway, and was, by far, the most skilled person at melee in her unit—pure turian in style, of course, but that's what she needed right now. _"Corolan, I need you with me. I'm about to do you no great favor at all. Who do you like for squad leader of 225 and 226, if you aren't here to take care of them?"_

"_Amphara Bindum, Squad Leader," _he said, falling in beside her with Kallixta as they walked up the hall, through the hygiene facility and out into the far corridor, where people were hustling and getting into uniforms. . . and suddenly snapping to attention in doorways in the hall.

Dara nodded. _"Get them all out here, Essedarius," _she said, tiredly. On the whole, she'd mostly just gone room to room at each squad consolidation before, but she didn't have time for that this morning, and didn't think being the happy, friendly, approachable leader was going to be the right tone to take today, anyway.

Kallxta shouted, _"Squad Leader on deck! Everyone out of your bunks and on your feet!"_

More scrambling. Thirty-nine people suddenly at attention out in the hallway, faces blank, eyes carefully fixed anywhere but on her. _Hey, under the armor, they can't see the bandages or smell the blood. Probably can't even get a fix on facial expression, either. So as far as they know, I'm bullet-proof. Rah, rah. _Dara sighed. She had no idea what to say, but she opened her mouth and words fell out, anyway. _"Decimus Corolan will be taking over as my second for this side of the barracks. Corolan, I want you to be firm with everyone here. Fair, mind you, but firm. Implement my watch policies, and make it __abundantly__ clear that I will not tolerate any repetition of the commentary or behavior that marked last night. Understood?"_

"_Yes, Squad Leader." _Decimus' grin was fierce. _He'd_ fought Dara to a draw weeks ago, and they'd been sparring partners since then, working together and learning together. If she had to hazard a guess, he'd probably use that fact in the next week, if he needed to do so

"_Grab your gear and move it over here at your first opportunity. You have full authority to move people between rooms and administer discipline, but if you have any questions or concerns, come find me." _Dara turned and looked at the rest of the recruits in the barracks. _"We're going to be learning to work together as a __team__, regardless of changes in policies and leadership. Otherwise, in a week, when we go into the field for the Trial, we're all going to lose. Do your best, and we won't have any problems._" She shrugged. "_Do any of __you__ have any questions, while I'm still here?"_

Not a peep. Well, it made sense. There wasn't a person here who _hadn't_ followed along behind Lintorum like a lemming, and she'd effectively beaten all of them, when she'd beaten him. She gave Decimus a nod, and then beckoned Kallixta back down the hall to their own barracks.

"_Why did you want me there, Squad Leader?" _Kallixta asked, sounding a little confused.

"_I figured I'd borrow a little of your moral authority."_ Dara grinned at her. They were in the hygiene facilities, which were, at the moment, empty.

Kallixta blinked. _"I don't understand." _From her glance to the side, however, that was a clear lie.

"_Whatever it is about you that makes pretty much anyone __born__ on Palaven start deferring to you. The colonials don't seem to do it as much."_ Dara shrugged. _"Look, Essedarius, I've figured out by now that you come from a family with rank and authority. I don't know which one, and I don't care. I borrowed a cup of your authority to keep them in line just now, that's all."_

"_I don't think you'd actually have needed it," _Kallixta told her, dryly. _"They watched you put their last leader on his tail last night."_

"_No sense taking chances. They have to know, in their __bones_—_er, in their__ teeth__—that I'm in charge. I'll throw the biggest, strongest male at them that I have who's loyal to me to put the boot on their necks, I'll borrow a little of your authority and make it mine for five minutes. Stuff that shouldn't matter, but does, at least to them." _She lifted her hands. _"Past that. . . whoever your family is, whether your father's a general or the Imperator's chief __ralata__-washer, it doesn't really matter to me. My country threw out kings and queens and nobility over four hundred years ago. There's still rank and privilege and all that crap, but none of it matters __here__, right?" _

Kallixta's mandibles had started twitching at some point, and, after a moment, she managed, _"The term for __rlata__-washer is groom."_

"_A stableboy is a stableboy, no matter whose stalls are getting mucked out. Believe me, I've shoveled enough _horse'_kak to know."_ Dara's tone was rueful.

That made Kallixta laugh, uproariously, for some reason.

It was a light week, at least. Precision marching, precision drills. Things to make the parade look pretty. Final marksmanship trials, which Dara did well at, although every pull on the trigger made her grit her teeth. Final bookwork exams. Over the course of the week, Dara made a point of going across the hall to talk to Decimus every other night. Sat down in his new room and talked about his new squads, the new people, the new challenges. Made the new people _see_ her. _"So, with your mate going Special Forces, and you, as well, Squad Leader,_" he said to her one evening, _"There's a chance I'll wind up training with you, too."_

"_Yeah, he mentioned that one of his squad members from boot camp who made OCS for the marines was his room mate up on Dymion. Seems to be a lot more moving between facilities for the SF people, though."_

"_Not a surprise. They have lots of different things to learn. Marines mostly learn how to board ships and make deployments to a planet from landing craft and drop-ships."_

"_All necessary, though." _Dara stood up. _"I'm heading back to my side of the house, Corolan. Let me know if there's anything you need."_

Sparring practice every night with the new people. Her wrist and finger were still wrapped, but healing steadily, as was her face. She was excused from actual sparring the first day, but expected to be on the mats to observe anyway; the second day, she was expected to be fighting again. Stoicism at its most extreme. _What, this? It's just a flesh wound._

Ten days after the bite wounds had been inflicted, she was able to take the bandages off completely, and see only faint pink lines. Kallixta served as her mirror, and told her that the same thing applied to her face. _Good. More medigel. I do __not__ want to carry around a reminder on my face for the rest of my life. . . and I definitely don't want Rel or my dad to see it, either. They'd both go up in flames._

Her squad was, as usual, doing very well on the overall scores going into the final melee competition. Lintorum, whatever his personal flaws, had trained his forty people relentlessly and well, and Decimus had continued to do so, also. They were facing off against eighty people, who'd consolidated under the leadership of squad 253, and the melee was actually fairly evenly mixed. Decimus actually took out their squad leader with no problems; Dara fought the male to a draw, which was, again, stopped on time. Her wrist ached, and she was just as glad that she hadn't had to fight any more.

On the strength of their overall marks, 223 absorbed 253, and Dara found herself left in charge. _"This is __your__ fault, Corolan," _she told the male after the results were posted.

He grinned. _"Squad Leader, you should have told me that you wanted to __lose__."_

"_I never __want__ to lose." _Dara wagged a finger at him, but internally, she was panicking. She only knew a little bit about the Trial, what scraps Rel had been able to tell her, but knew that she didn't have anywhere near the tactical expertise needed to handle it. So, she did what she'd been doing all along. She asked her people what they thought. They had thirty minutes of personal time, and she grabbed Decimus, Nadea, Vokaj, Leodorus, Kallixta, and Navinus and explained to them, _"This is what I know about next week. All recruits here on base are split into two massive groups. One half defends a fortress in the jungle. The other half attacks. Either the attackers break in and take the flag, which is the objective, or time runs out. Then we switch sides. As I understand it, some people get to use heavy machinery, like Hammerheads, other manciples focus on infiltration and climbing and whatnot." _She shook her head. _"I don't have the tactical experience to make this work. I'm going to need all of you to step up, give me advice, make plans with me."_

The turians looked both delighted and confused at the same time; Vokaj just opted for plain glee. _"Do you know anything about the fortress layout to start with?"_ he asked.

"_Very little. One large courtyard in the middle, leading to a citadel at the north end; the door into the citadel leads to the flag. The courtyard is surrounded by walls. . . not sure how tall, but with a five-foot walkway at the top, I think._" She paused, not knowing the word, and said, in English, "Crenellated."

Vokaj nodded. _"Good, that'll provide cover. Guardposts?" _

"_Yes, in turrets and towers along the walls. It's supposed to be __very__ large."_

Leodorus nodded. "_Would have to be, if they're having 50,000 attack and 50,000 defend."_

Dara nodded, glumly. _"I'm expecting real injuries, not just fake ones. It's hard to keep that many people going safely in a straight line, let alone in mock-combat."_

They had little information, and wouldn't even know for a few days what their actual assignment was, but they were at least able to discuss what each squad was capable of doing, which was a help.

Then out into the field once more. Dara's manciple was slated for the offense first, which was sort of a relief for her. _Rel, if your spirit's still here, wish me luck, all right? _

She saw her first _dacha_ as they crossed a river in the jungle, and frankly, she was glad it had been _villi_ that had attacked them, months ago. "Shit! That's bigger than a goddamn Nile crocodile," she said, reverting to English in her shock as one lunged out of the water at Auriga, who scrambled backwards as several of the recruits on the far bank, who were posted as crossing guards, opened fire on the beast. "Hell of a lot bigger than an alligator from back home, too." She switched back to turian. _"You all right over there?"_

"_Yes, Squad Leader. Just surprised, not bitten." _Auriga paused. _"This time, anyway."_

The _dacha_, a couple ofbullets in its side, retreated into the water again, sulking. _Yeah, you go back in your house and __stay__ there_, Dara thought at it, firmly, before stepping reluctantly, skin crawling, into the chest-deep muddy water of the river, herself. The river was swollen with water, largely because this was the height of the monsoon season. The rains were constant; there was never a moment where water _wasn't_ falling from the sky at the moment. It might _lighten_ for a bit, but a light rain was still rain.

On the other hand, temperatures had dropped all the way to 75º F/23º C. Almost cause for celebration.

The squads ahead of them cleared bridges; their job was to move quickly and quietly in their wake. Then crossing bogs, chest-deep in mud now, not just water. And then crawling on their bellies through the last of the jungle, to the cleared zone around the fortress. They were attacking from the east, and needed to get into a communications tower and take it over, without any transmissions alerting the rest of the fortress. _"Okay. Vokaj, Rostrus, Corolan, Curicium. Now's the time where you need to shine,_" she told them, looking up at the tower, letting her eyes refocus. _"I see fifteen people on the highest turret of the tower, guarding the antenna. There's about the same at the mid-tier, which is level with the top of the walls. There's a gate at the base of the tower, but it's heavily fortified—ten people outside, probably more inside. Can't get a count on them, even with the omnitool. Too clustered on top of each other. It'll be dark soon. We want to take advantage of that, right?"_

"_Yes," _Vokaj told her, and started to sketch on the ground. His recommendation was to move thirty people under cover of darkness to the walls, where, between the fortress wall and the tower itself, a channel of sorts had been formed. _"No need for pitons,"_ he said. _"No noise. Just treat it like a rock chimney and go up, tie off ropes on both sides for the people underneath, and everyone else climbs up. Then one group of fifteen goes further up the walls, to the antenna area. Both teams strike at the same moment. Antenna gets disabled. Everyone else is moving up the ropes while the first strike teams are fighting. Then we move inside. Antenna team comes down the inside from above, we squeeze whoever's in there in between us."_

There were objections, but they were polite ones. Leodorus frowned. _"Calls for a lot of very careful timing and relies a __lot__ on no one being seen," _he said. _"We only have so many stealth generators, and even those aren't full-proof."_

"_If we can't be assured of stealth, then we use flashbangs,"_ Decimus suggested. _"Disorients people, keeps them from getting to a terminal and using it. Try stealth first, and if it doesn't work, we use that as a backup." _He paused. _"We can also have the remainder of the manciple firing at the people at the main gate from the jungle for distraction purposes."_

Dara nodded. _"Good ideas. All right. My biggest problem with the whole plan is that chimneys are an advanced rock climbing technique. I don't trust myself to do it and not fall. Vokaj? You've done it before?"_

"_Yes, in the Alps."_

"_Grab Malcolmson. Let's see if he's done it before, too."_

He had, apparently. UCL training camp and also Alliance Marines confidence course training. _"Guess we know who's going up the wall first, then, on each side,"_ Dara said, pointing at the two of them. She was going to be following Vokaj up the wall, once the rope was secured.

It actually worked better than any of them had dared to hope. The lack of noise on the initial approach was a big help; Dara and Vokaj led the second ascent, which was all hand-holds and footholds along the side of the tower anyway, scrambling up easily. No pitons, again. _Sometimes, it's good to be a monkey_, Dara reflected, tying off another rope, and dropping the end for the rest of her team. _"Radio team, in position,"_ she said into her radio, very quietly.

"_Middle team, in position. Give the word._" That was Decimus, whom she'd left in charge of the second strike time.

"_Go now!"_

Dara was using a pistol today. It was easy to get keyed up on adrenaline; this was like a great game of hide and seek, after all. But the feel of the gun in her hands made it all too real for her, and that settled the adrenaline and the excitement right back down again, turned her face blank as she found another helmet to pelt with blue paint. She could hear flashbangs going off from downstairs. _"Middle team, report!"_

"_We've got more people coming from out of the tower. Need backup."_

"_We're on our way." _She pointed at Navinus, her signal corps person. _"Deactivate the antenna and catch up with us. The rest of us are heading down the stairs."_

They broke open the door from the antenna level into the tower, cleared the room at the top, and then headed down the stairs, taking any number of people by surprise; they were all fixed on the sounds coming from the mid-levels, and hadn't even registered that there was a fight going on over their heads. The two strike teams ground the defending squad between them, then dropped through the rest of the tower, wiping out resistance. . . and then opened the door from the inside. They put their 'prisoners' and 'corpses' off in one room, while Dara notified their side's leaders of their successful takeover, and went through her own people, 'triaging' them. She was carrying two med kits at the moment. One for real injuries, one for simulated ones.

Decimus had suffered a paintball bullet to the leg, which Acrisus, in his strike team, had put pressure on. Dara added gauze, a 'tourniquet' and a timer device. _"When this thing stops counting down, it means the 'medigel' is finished, and you can move the leg again. For the moment, I'm putting you in a spot by one of the tower windows. Just because your leg's hurt, doesn't mean you can't fire a rifle, right?"_

Decimus grinned up at her. _"Happy to be of help, Squad Leader."_ He pretended to limp, heavily, balancing on Acrisus and Vokaj's shoulders.

"_Very dramatic,"_ Kallixta called after him, clapping her hands, a gesture actually common to humans and turians alike.

Dara laughed and kept working on her people. Most of them were medigel-and-forget-about-it injuries, fortunately. All those required was a timer. _"I feel like we're preparing a banquet here,"_ she said, after a while. _"Not one of you is going to finish cooking at the same time, though."_

By dawn, the rest of the manciples around them had finished their work, and one squad had gone over the wall and captured the flag. _"I wonder how they select which manciple gets to go after the objective," _Dara mused.

"_Number out of a hat," _Leodorus suggested. _"I didn't see anything special about that squad. Could have been any of us down there, really."_

"_Re-set! Attacking team is now the defending team! Defending team, get your sorry asses down here and regroup for the attack!"_

They returned the defenders' weapons to them, and watched them straggle off down the stairs to the courtyard. Dara looked around at her squad leaders, and said, _"Okay, now how do we __defend__ this place? I'm open to suggestions."_

Vokaj and Leodorus had ideas, as it turned out. _"This is not unlike a medieval fortress,_" Vokaj commented. _"We're aware of the fact that people can either climb the walls, or can try to breach the doorway. I say we modify the situation slightly."_

"_How so?"_

"_We're all carrying omnigel in our kits. The walls are stone. Start by rubbing the omnigel all over the upper walls, making them slick. Anywhere they might try to come up and over."_

Dara grinned. _"I like the way you think, Vokaj."_

"_Isn't that. . . cheating?"_ One of the turians from one of the newly incorporated units sounded worried.

"_No. We wouldn't have been issued it if we weren't allowed to use it. All we're doing is using what we've been given to change the parameters of the engagement." _Vokaj's grin was wicked.

"_What else?"_

Leodorus's grin was just as wicked as Vokaj's now. _"There is a kitchen facility in this tower, Squad Leader. With large pots and running water."_

Dara gave them both a look. _"I know you said medieval, but __no boiling water down the turrets__. They __are__ on our side. More or less. No permanent injuries." _

"_No, no, not boiling, but the weight and the impact of the water will be a deterrent. Certainly, a harassment. And anything that makes the climb more miserable is a good thing."_

"_Assuming that they try to climb."_

"_Attacking the door in force is a stupid idea. I doubt they'll try it." _Vokaj was firm. _"No, if they have any sense, they'll be trying to climb. They just won't be as good at it as we were."_

"_That's because __we__ had monkeys with us." _Decimus' words held absolutely no sting. In fact, the male's smile was wide and accepting.

The opposing attack came just at sunset. The opposition had apparently opted for a similar strategy to the one Dara's people had devised, but the tell-tale click of pitons being pounded into place was their first warning. _"Positions, everyone! Decurro, send the alert!"_ Dara called as the alert went out. She herself had found a little sniper perch with her rifle, close by Decimus, who was using his grenade launcher on the edge of the jungle, trying to deter attacks. Dara could hear cries of dismay from below as ten or fifteen gallons of water at a time would hit the people trying to climb up, knocking some of them back down the walls, and winced. Armor would protect them from the scrapes, but there were going to be a lot of sprained ankles at the end of this exercise. And because they'd successfully signaled that they were under attack, turrets up and down this stretch of the wall were turning to fire on their attackers, as well.

Dara leaned out, found a target, fired twice, and pulled back. Her distance vision told her that she'd landed both center of mass on her intended victim, which was good. Unfortunately, beside her, Decimus suddenly swore.

"_What?"_

"_Just took a bullet. __S'kak.__"_

Dara pulled back behind the crenellation and pulled out her kit. _"Chest wound,"_ she said, feeling oddly calm. _At least it's not real this time. "Need you to lie back, Corolan, and stay calm. I've got you, okay?" _ Opening the armor. Gauze to pack the 'wound' at first. Plastic square, taped down at three corners, leaving only one flap free for air movement. Medigel 'timer.' Feet elevated, as best she could. _"Decimus is down, who else is hurt?" _she called into the radio, picking her rifle back up, and flipping the safety catch back off. Started looking for another target, as time started to flow again at its normal rate, trying not to notice blue paint all over her hands. _Just paint. Not actually blood._

"_Essedarius took a hit to an arm. We applied a timer and told her to keep her head down."_ Leodorus, calm and steady. _"Couple of others down here on the second tier. Could use some help."_

"_Be right down,"_ Dara said. _"Corolan, I can't leave you here. I'm going to move you, okay?"_

She crouched low and _dragged_ him into the shelter of the antenna house, got other people back on the wall, feeling paint bullets whiz over her head periodically, and flinched every time. Then down the stairs again—_didn't I just do this?—_to work on her people down there. Calling directions to a couple of people she deputized as medics. Getting Essdarius up first, then Auriga. Then Bextus again. "_Back on the wall, and keep your heads __down__," _Dara told them, joining them now, rifle back in her hands.

They lost the fortress around midnight, but they held _their_ tower and the walls on either side of it, which gave everyone a bit more of a prideful tip to their heads as they filed out of the fortress. _"Oh, that's about the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,"_ Dara told Kallixta as they made their way out of the gate.

"_What's that, Squad Leader?"_

"_Shuttles. Honest-to-the-spirits shuttles. We get to __ride__ back to base."_

Everyone in earshot started to laugh.

Back in the barracks once more. Even her hammock looked good around now, but a hot shower came first. She changed into a radiation suit—she only had one functional one left at this point. The left wrist and the opposing glove on the other suit made it a total loss. Dara made sure to walk around to each barracks room and tell everyone that they'd done a good job. Her dad had told her often enough that people _liked_ having their efforts rewarded.

And in the morning, the new boards were posted. Dara wiggled her way up, and took a deep breath. She was still slated for Special Forces Medic. And OCS. In four years, she'd be a Field Surgeon. Four years after that, who knew? She put her head against the wall for a moment. All the hard work, all the preparation, had paid off. _We did it, Rel. Everything else just rolls out from this moment, like a flag unfurling. And I can't even share this with you, since you're still in the field. Damnit._

Kallixta, no surprise, was heading to OCS herself. Decimus as well as Nadea, both marines. Leodorus, definitely. Vokaj had gotten it as well, and looked reserved but pleased. Navinus and Acrisus were staying enlisted, but Dara had a strong feeling they'd wind up going the optio, or warrant path eventually. She made her way up and down the barracks, talking with people, congratulating them or commiserating with them.

Vokaj in particular was happy to talk with her now. "I wanted to thank you," he told her, in his lightly accented English.

"What for?"

"You trusted me—well, me and Rostrus, anyway—with the tactics for the Trial. You didn't have to listen to us, but you did."

"You both know more about this stuff than I ever will, even if I start studying it tomorrow. You think reading up on the Battle of Waterloo is _fun._ I think it's _work. _I'd be _stupid_ not to make use of you," Dara told him, dryly.

Vokaj grinned, and it was easy to see, suddenly, that he was only a year or two older than she was. Surprisingly, he had something to say along those lines, too. "I also wanted to say. . . it's been hard to see you as a kid, the past week or two. I know I've said things about that before, and wanted to apologize. Again."

Dara shook her head. "Don't worry about it. Hardly the worst thing I've heard here. Or, well, other places."

The conversation in the barracks next door was already in full swing when she poked her head in. _"What do you mean, you're going back to Earth?" _Auriga was staring at Malcolmson. _"You've finished here. You would be going into the infantry here, same as there. Why not stay?"_

"_Fair question," _Dara commented, from the doorway.

Malcolmson shrugged. _"If I go back home, go to NAPS, then the Academy, and __don't_ _flunk out, I'd be an officer in four years. If I stay here, the best I get is what I already have back home. May as well stick with that."_

"_Well, you have to do what's best for yourself," _Dara said, her voice as neutral as she could make it. _"You've really improved your turian since being here, though. If you can maintain that, should make the language requirements at the Academy much easier, yes?"_

Malcolmson grimaced. "I'd forgotten the language requirements. Damn, Squad Leader, you know how to rain on a guy's parade."

She snorted and moved on. Leodorus was reporting to the Military Intelligence OCS, of course. And fully expected to be taking full-immersion in batarian or some other language, first thing. _Better you than me,_ Dara thought, amused, but then realized, belatedly, _Nevermind. They'll probably make me learn it at some point, too. Damn. Those are words I __don't__ want crawling around in my mind._

Her new uniforms were delivered—officer black, and with two stripes on them. Blue, for the blood of special forces, and red, for the medical branch. It was _odd_ that the color of human blood was considered symbolic of healing here, but, different evolution made for different psychological reactions, even to something as basic as color. Dara had to go to the hygiene facilities to try them on and make sure they fit. Kallixta went with her, to be her mirror. _"Does it look awful?"_ Dara asked, a little anxiously. For a moment, it was like asking Kella, a year gone now, if the yellow dress would make her look silly. But not quite. She would, after all, be wearing these, or uniforms like these, for the next _four years._

Kallixta studied her for a moment. _"It's very odd to see on a human," _she said, after a moment. _"But I would not call it bad, no._"

Because the humans couldn't even wear their damned uniforms, there was a bit of discussion, and then, mid-week, all three of them were called out of the barracks to the armor maintenance area. And their armor was painted, ahead of schedule. Giving them the visual status that everyone else who _was_ able to wear a uniform enjoyed, at least.

Because while no one was special, they were, at least, _different._

Dara was absolutely delighted. The twin stripes next to each other, from shoulder to wrist, and from underarm to ankle, looked like turian and human blood to her, side by side. Or, looked at another way, like the original colors of Shepard's armor were peeking out from under officer black. Either way, it was a nice damn step up from bootcamp _gray_.

Everyone was getting restless. Excited. The last week was mostly administrative, and more than a little dull. Eager gossip everywhere about who was going to be going to which hotel and with whom. Whose families were coming for Family Day on Decius 10. _Feburary 16_, Dara reminded herself, firmly. _Two days after Valentine's Day. There is going to be a human calendar in my head if I have to tack it there with nails._

Kallixta caught her alone one day that week. _"A question, Squad Leader?"_

"_You still owe me one from last time. I've been saving it. But ask, and I will answer."_

Kallixta chuckled. _"Will your family be here for Family Day and graduation?"_

Dara laughed. _"I expect that my father and she who will soon be my mother will be, although she will not be able to come on base. I expect my mate will be here, too. His graduation is on the ninth. Beyond them, I don't know whom to expect."_ She paused, and grinned, showing her teeth. _"And __your__ family? Will they be here?"_

Kallixta looked uncomfortable. _"I expect so, yes. Which may occasion difficulties."_

Dara shook her head. _"All families occasion difficulties. They also solve a lot of the problems they create, though. Which is part of the fun, perhaps?"_

**Rellus**

They had basically enough time to shower, pack, and grab a shuttle back to Dymion, where they mustered out for their own graduation. It was a much less impressive spectacle at OCS; the Special Forces in particular had a private ceremony, away from the marine officers' candidates. Rel took his officer's oath, received his lieutenant's insignia—both stenciled on the armor and a pin for the cloth uniform. Waiting for him in his room was a full dress uniform and a piece of paper in an envelope—such an old-fashioned way of distributing orders, but it had a sense of tradition to it, too. His crop a little tight, Rel opened it, and took a deep breath of pure relief.

_Estallus_. He was going to be stationed on the _Estallus._ Which meant, in turn, that Dara likely would be, too. His brother was still on-board, last he'd heard; Rinus' tour had been extended there. Family, stability, unit harmony.

It wouldn't be married housing on a base somewhere, but with their MOS, it wasn't possible to ask for much better than a _Normandy_-class ship.

"Velnaran?" One of the instructors was at the door of his barracks now, as he was quickly packing the rest of his belongings for transit back to Palaven on a shuttle.

"Yes, sir?"

"You're apparently not going to need to hurry to get on that shuttle."

Rel's head snapped as he looked at the clock on his terminal. "It's left already?" _S'kak. I have to get back down there. It's already pushing 19:00 on the ninth. Family Day is tomorrow, and I can't __not__ be there._

"No, you've got time. There is, however, someone here to pick you up."

Rel's expression turned puzzled, and Rasmus, who had just gotten out of his own graduation ceremony, laughed. "Continuing as you began, huh?" his roommate asked him.

"I suppose," Rel said, giving him a wrist-clasp. "Keep in touch, all right?"

"Will do."

Up in the main lobby, he started a bit, and then laughed. "_Pada'amu!_ This is a surprise."

Jaworski shook his head. "Shouldn't be, boy. Here, need some help with the gear?"

"Nah, I've got it." They locked their helmets in place and stepped out of the airlock onto Dymion's red, dusty surface. Rel looked around, and laughed. "Do my aunt and uncle know you stole the keys of the_ Normandy_?"

"Who do you think is on board?" Sam's voice was dry. "Besides, we all need to get to Earth for a certain festive event in about eight days anyway."

Rel had to think about that one and rearrange the calendar in his head. "Oh, right. It _is_ February already, isn't it?" He chuckled as they headed to the _Normandy'_s hatch. "You and Kasumi are ready?"

"She is. I'm still trying to figure out how to pronounce half of the groom's statement. My Japanese is _very_ rusty. And was never all that sharp to begin with." The decontamination chamber cycled off, and they moved through into the ship itself, where Rel got a hearty wrist-clasp from his uncle, and could feel the deckplates underfoot already starting to vibrate as the great ship started to lift off.

"Welcome aboard," Garrus told him, clearly amused at the expression on Rel's face.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Rel's question was a little bald in his astonishment. Sure, Jaworski had told him that one or the other of them was on board, but still. . . .

"Lilu insisted that one or both of us had to be here. Frankly, I think she just wanted to get out of the house." Garrus' tone was carefully bland.

Rel blinked. "And the children?"

"Upstairs. Come on up. Once you put a breather and gloves on, you can meet the newest additions."

All three of them headed for the elevator. Garrus asked, as the doors closed, "So, you know your first assignment yet?"

"Yeah. _Estallus._"

"Outstanding!" Garrus slapped him on the shoulder of his armor.

Jaworski's grin was crooked. "At least that way, between you and your brother, we'll always know where the trouble is."

Rel gave Sam a look. "My brother is an _upstanding_ centurion. I'm sure that any trouble he has gotten into in the past few months, was probably _Mindoir_-related."

Garrus and Sam both looked up at the ceiling for a moment. Sam nodded, after a moment. "Yeah. You could say that."

And then out of the elevator, and into the warmth of family once more. Amara and Kaius didn't even _recognize_ him at first, which was disconcerting, but Rel dropped his bags on the floor and knelt down, talking to them, and after a few moments, they let themselves be convinced that this _stranger_ was, in fact, their older cousin who'd taken them riding and lifted them up to pick apples off of trees.

Aunt Lilu came up out of the bedroom area, holding one of the new infants in her arms, and she smiled down at Rel. From the dark feathers, he knew this one was a boy. "This is Alain, Rel," she told him. "I was going to call him plain old Alan, for my brother, but every time I looked at the name, it looked _wrong._ So, Alain it is."

Rel didn't have gloves on yet, and knew better than to touch without them. So he stood up, and just looked down for a moment. _This is what it's going to be like. Nine, ten years from now. _The infant's eyes cracked open, and then he grimaced at the sight of Rel and closed his eyes again.

"Yeah, I feel the same way, little guy," Sam told him, dryly. At that point, a squawk came from the other side of the room, and Shepard sighed. "And that would be Elissa. Who _was_ napping very nicely not three seconds ago. Excuse me." She turned and headed back towards the living area.

"Human names this time around?" Rel asked, after a moment. The simulations had never shown him what his children's names were, he realized. It had just shown him that they _existed_.

Garrus nodded. "Yeah. Alain for her brother. Elissa, I just liked the sound of." He chuckled. "Previews of the future, son of my sister?"

"Had lots of previews already. Doors and windows, remember?" Rel chuckled at the expressions on Sam's face.

Jaworski shifted his weight. "You mind telling me how many grandkids I'm looking at?" He waggled his hands back and forth. "Boy, girl, both, multiples?"

Rel chuckled. "That was all mostly from near the end of the simulation runs, _pada'amu_. No idea how accurate any of it really was. But most of the sims had us sticking with just one at a time. And not _any_ time soon." _Four years of service first, at the very least. Maybe eight. We'll see._

Sam pretended to wipe at his forehead in relief, and then he and Rel headed back to the elevator. "We've got you down in crew quarters," Sam told him. "You and Dara both. It's not much, but, hell, it's a lot better than what you've probably been seeing lately."

It was one of the married berths. _Thank the spirits. A door. One that locks. _Rel looked around. It was small, of course. He could practically touch the walls at each side with his outstretched fingertips. But there were lockers for two sets of gear. A small spirit table, with, surprisingly, bungee cords to hold things in place in case of high-speed maneuvering or zero-g events. A table with two terminals, placed opposite each other for maximum use of the space, two chairs, which could be secured to the floor. And a nest. A _proper_ nest, with pillows and blankets and everything. _This is what being on the __Estallus__ will be like, once she graduates OCS. _He could picture it clearly in his head. Duty, of course, every day. But at night. . . they'd have this. Rel was getting used to not letting everything show on his face now, but he knew he was smiling in spite of himself.

He ate dinner in the ship's mess, talking about his training. "Is it still _fun_?" Sam asked, dryly.

Rel thought about it. "Mostly. The last exercise was, well, less so." He explained the parameters of the 'unconventional warfare' exercise. "On the one hand, we succeeded. We took out the law enforcement facility, and the freed slaves and the resistance took credit. All sounded great. Except we lost _half_ of them doing it, which the instructors said would pretty much demoralize the resistance and ensure that they didn't try anything so bold again." Rel grimaced. "It was mostly my plan, too."

"What were the other plans put forward?"

Rel sighed. "Throw all the resistance at the facility on their own and stay under wraps ourselves, since that's what we'd trained them for."

"Yeah, that would have been a one hundred percent casualty ratio, probably. There might not have been a way to accomplish it with anything better than what you did," Garrus told him.

"I understand that. Still frustrating. Still seems like there _should_ be a way."

Garrus nodded. "And that's why we keep trying, and we keep training." His expression was wry. "Welcome to our world, Rel."

In the morning, it was just the four of them—Rel, Jaworski, Shepard, and Garrus—who headed down in a shuttle. Kasumi was armed with bottles of milk for the month-old twins, and promised to alert the parents if there was so much as an emergency hiccup. Rel was wearing a working uniform, new insignia at his throat, when he reported to the shuttle bay. Garrus chuckled. "Go back and put on the dress one."

Rel gave his uncle a look. "I can see wearing it for graduation tomorrow, but for _Family Day_?" Then again, all three of _them_ were in full Spectre armor.

"Trust us," Shepard said. "You'll thank us for it, later."

_Right. Okay. Not like I didn't know my family loves secrets._ Rel headed back up to the crew quarters, and changed into the brand new uniform instead. Thicker material, wider sleeves, broader band of specialization color. A little old-fashioned, but what dress uniform wasn't?

Finally, descending through the atmosphere, trying not to shift with too much obvious impatience in his seat. He looked out the window instead. "Trying to see Dacia?" Sam asked.

"That, and trying to figure out why I feel like I'm about to go on a jump." Rel snorted.

"A little conditioned response? Pavlov's turian?"

"Maybe a little."

They touched down near the facility, and checked in at the gate. The clerk apparently recognized them this time, although the addition of "Lilitu Shepard-Vakarian" to the list got his head to jerk up, which made Rel want to chuckle. "Welcome back, Spectres," the clerk said, sounding a little grim. "There are a few more security precautions today, so if I could get you all to present your retinas for scanning?"

_Huh. I wonder why there's extra security. Some sort of a threat?_ Rel leaned forward, let his eyes get scanned, and straightened up again. "Which barracks?" he asked, again, trying to hide the impatience.

"Apha-Xlorae 8."

"You go ahead, Rel," Jaworski told him. "Dara's not gonna thank us if we drop in on her like we did for you." Sam grinned. "There'll be enough fuss when we catch up."

Rel looked at him. He thought he'd been doing a very good job of concealing his impatience. "Go on with you," Sam told him, and Rel grinned and hustled off. He couldn't _run_ in this uniform, but he could manage a damned fast clip without a loss of decorum.

There were a few startled salutes from centurions along the way. Rel hadn't been an officer long enough for the title had to stop squeaking when he turned around suddenly, so he had to remind himself that he should probably _return_ the salutes before moving on. Then he finally he found the right barracks. "Officer on deck!" came the shout, and he waved it off. "At ease." _No sense jumping up and down for every single person who comes in here. . . . here we go, five, six, seven, eight. . . _

The barracks door was open, and he poked his head in the door. Human male in armor, in one of the ground nests, male in the nest across from the door, male in that hammock, one barefaced female in a ground nest, not important, all starting to stand. . . and there Dara was, dropping out of a hammock in her armor, only happy eyes and a smile visible under the visor. "_There_ you are," he said in English. "Squad Leader Velnaran, I thought I told you to secure a ground berth." He couldn't help the grin that went with his mock-stern tone, as he caught her fingertips with his own. "This is a _serious_ dereliction."

**Dara and Rellus**

"Lieutenant Velnaran, I have no excuse other than the it was a choice between the hammock, or not being able to _walk_ in the mornings." Dara looked up at him. _He's finally here. Finally, I'm damned near __done__ with Palaven. _

Then he was trying to lift her visor, pulling at her gloves. "Rel! What are you—"

"I'm trying to get a look at your face and your wrist before your dad and the others get here."

_Oh, good point._ She lifted the visor, dreading the verdict, and his fingertips were very light on her face, touching skin. First contact in almost four months, and she swallowed hard, trying to keep her reaction off her face.

"The face healed perfectly, _mellis_. Don't look so worried." He leaned forward, catching her scent, opening his mouth very slightly so he could taste the organic esters as well as smell them. Differences in the odor. Dehydration, tiredness probably.

Dara exhaled. In thirty days without a mirror since the incident, everything had gotten magnified in her mind. Sure, she _knew_ what medigel could do, but without any mirror besides Kallixta's words, she'd . . . well, she'd worried. Frankenstein's monster had definitely been on her mind. "Let's see the wrist now," Rel said.

"It's still healing." She unlatched a gauntlet and let him look; the bites had been a hell of a lot deeper than the cuts, so these were still pink, but definitely on the mend. He ran one fingertip over them, pressing in lightly, checking for sensitivity. She could tell from his expression that he was _angry_. Relieved, worried, and angry, all at the same time. "It shouldn't probably actually leave a scar," she assured him.

"Good. _I'm_ the only one who gets to mark you." Low, soft words. Soft enough that Vokaj probably didn't hear him, but the turians in the room who spoke English definitely caught that intimacy between mates.

Kallixta cleared her throat, as did Leodorus. "Ah, _amatus? _Quite a few linguists in this barracks."

Rel winced. "Damn. _Sorry, folks. My mate is obviously going to have to teach me Spanish next."_

"_I don't speak it all that well myself."_ Dara introduced Rel around the room. "Alexej Vokaj, this is Rellus Velnaran."

Vokaj had to look up at Rel, and offered his hand tentatively. Rel shook his hand warmly, of course, seamlessly adapting to the human greeting.

"And this is Leodorus Rostrus—his parents are in the diplomatic crowd on Bastion and Citadel. Sort of like Elijah and that guy from your unit, um—"

"Rasmus Cadius."

"Thanks, I couldn't keep any of your people straight there. Yeah. Sort of like Eli and Rasmus, but not." Dara chuckled.

Leodorus offered a wrist-clasp, and said, in English, "Nice to meet you, Lieutenant. We've heard. . . almost nothing about you."

"He lies, _amatus._ I've told them all about your specialization and OCS and the fact that your family owns a mastiff." Dara hesitated. _And, when Kallixta __asked__, what I see in you. But no need to go into that again. If they can't see it by looking at you, they're blind._

Rel grinned. "And nothing else?"

Dara grinned back. "And how much did you tell your people about _me_?"

"As little as possible until they'd _met_ you. I didn't think they'd _believe_ me." He paused. "I still think they thought I was kidding about the skiing."

Dara chuckled, and worked her way around the room, switching between languages freely. _"And this is Acrisus Bextrus,_ and of course, Kallixta Essedarius. Watch out, her English is _really _good."

"The squad leader flatters me." Perfect, British-accented English. "I'm afraid my grasp of the language is not as colloquial as I had thought it was, until I met your wife."

Rel offered her a wrist-clasp, same as everyone else in the room. "I hadn't encountered her variant of English till I met her and her father, either. It's colorful, isn't it?" He didn't seem to react to the female with anything other than his usual good-natured cheer.

"I have to say, Lieutenant, that the very few pictures your wife has shared of the two of you don't do you justice."

"They're older images," Dara said, shrugging. "He refused to stop _growing_ at boot camp."

A few other people were peering in the door, inquisitively. Probably curious to see what the squad leader's turian mate looked like. Dara introduced a couple of them now. Rel met Decimus Corolan's stare at eye-level exchanged a few good-natured words about what Decimus could expect at the marine OCS on Dymion. And then he looked down into a human face, noting the wide eyes behind the visor. "Rel, this is the other human candidate. Ryan Malcolmson. Malcolmson, this is my husband."

Rel knew the dynamics of his little human mate's voice well enough to understand that she was _enjoying_ something about this moment. "Holy shit," the human male said. "Never knew you liked your men big, squad leader."

"I speak English," Rel told the man, mildly, staring down at him. "It's good to meet so many of my wife's team." _Crude, but not ill-spirited,_ he assessed, after a moment.

"_It is good to remind that one occasionally that his tongue wags overmuch,_" Kallixta muttered, softly, in turian.

Rel's head _snapped_ towards her. Kallixta had spoken nothing but English so far, and her accent in turian had thus so far escaped his notice. Now, all he could think was _Imperial court accent. She's __high__ nobility. What in the spirits' names. . . .?_

But then there seemed to be a good deal of shuffling going on further down the hall. _"No, don't make everyone snap to attention and all that nonsense,"_ came a voice in turian. That would be Uncle Garrus, from the sound of things. Rel grinned in anticipation and ducked back into the room. _"We went through that all __last__ time." _

"_Here come the rest of your visitors," _he told his wife, chuckling, putting the mystery aside for the moment in his mind. Dara went to the doorway and peeked out, noticing that _everyone_ in the barracks was doing exactly the same thing now.

Three figures in black Spectre armor stood at the end of the hall, and were proceeding down to her door now. "Hey, sweetheart, got room for a few more at the inn?" Her dad lifted his visor, stepped into a barracks that seemed to be shrinking with each new body pressing into it, and then reached down patted her on the helmet.

"Hi, Dad." Dara looked up at him, feeling oddly sheepish in his presence. No matter how old she was, she'd _always_ be a little girl around him, she suspected.

"Okay, now that I'm actually on the same damn planet with you, do I get to know what you're going to be doing for the next four years? Never would've figured you'd turn allergic to writing letters, girl."

She'd already hastily buckled her glove back on. No sense letting him see that till they were well away from the facility. She had a feeling his temper might suffer a nuclear event if he _did_ see it. But before she could answer, there were two more shapes in the doorway, and she could hear her various squadmates inhaling, heard a distinct _fuck me!_ from Malcolmson out in the corridor, and had to control her lips from twitching. "Jaworski, you should recognize the blue stripe from Rel's armor," Garrus said, good-naturedly. "That's special forces. The red stripe means medical."

Her father exhaled. "Well, damn," he said after a moment. "Good on you for the doctoring, sweetie. But I was _never_ looking for you to follow in my footsteps, you know." Pride and worry, at the same time. An uncomfortable set of expressions to wear at once, it looked like.

"Probably shouldn't have taken her hunting then, Sam. Or riding. Or taught her to carry a knife. Or how to spar. Or any of the rest of it." That was from Shepard, looking fit and healthy in her black armor in the doorway. "Hey Dara. Did my armor turn out to be lucky for you after all?"

"Yeah. Only times I got hurt were when I _wasn't_ wearing it." Dara's tone was rueful.

"Good. You and your dad are about the only human relatives I have now, and even though you're related by _marriage_, I have this feeling I should take care of you."

Garrus looked at his wife. "And what about that distant aunt and uncle back on Earth who authorized that spirits-be-damned movie?"

"Yeah, I haven't spoken with _them_ since they signed that paperwork when I was. . . ah, declared dead." Shepard's glance skyward spoke volumes.

"Speaking of family. . . " Dara made a little gesture at Shepard's waistline. "Do I get to see pictures of the babies, or not?"

Shepard chuckled. "For you? We can do better than pictures tomorrow, but for the moment, yeah. Take a look." She opened the files on her omnitool, and let Dara take a peek.

Dara grinned hugely. "They're adorable. They're so damn _fuzzy_ when they're newborns."

"Just wait. As a reward for helping Lilu through two months of pregnancy, you'll wind up babysitting them, too," Garrus warned.

_Nothing new there_, Dara thought, but just chuckled. "Can I introduce my people here? Or do you all have time to stay much longer?"

"We're here for about an hour, then heading back to the ship. Then graduation tomorrow, sweetie," her dad assured her. "Then we're grabbing you by the hair and taking you to _Earth_."

Dara blinked. "Earth? Well, anywhere that doesn't involve a radiation suit is fine with me, but why. . . Oh, right, the wedding." She paused for a moment, then laughed at his expression. "Just kidding, Dad. Kasumi would skin me alive if she thought I'd _actually_ forgotten."

"You're not too old to be spanked, kiddo. Maybe a little too _well-armed_, but not too old."

Again, movement out in the hall. The drill centurions seemed to be moving her people out of the barracks, room by room. _That's odd._ Dara glanced around. "Did anyone hear a fire alarm or something?"

A centurion came over and poked his head in the door. "Ah. . . Vokaj, Bextus, and Rostrus? Come with me."

Dara blinked, and her people immediately got up and walked out. Dara turned and looked at Kallixta, who alone of her people, hadn't been named. Kallixta shifted uncomfortably under the stare, and then there were footsteps in the hall.

A turian male stepped around the doorway. He wasn't imposingly built; Rel and Garrus and Lantar all would have him beaten, easily, in that department. He wore a white uniform, but every seam was lined with jewels. No paint on the face. Garrus and Rel snapped to painful attention as soon as they saw him. Shepard and Jaworski put their hands behind their backs and drew themselves up respectfully. Dara stared at him for a moment in complete confusion, and then snapped to attention herself. _"Hello, Father,"_ Kallixta said, her voice both happy and a little wary. _"I am glad that you have come to visit me."_ She lowered her head, very formally.

"_Fifth-daughter. I am pleased that you have done so well. You bring honor to our house." _He put a hand on her shoulder, looking at her uniform. _"Flight school? Really, I think we can find something a little more suitable. . . ."_

"_With all due respect, the instructors have found me suitable for this task, and I would very much like to perform my duties as they have seen fit to grant them to me." _That, Dara decided, was the sound of mortal terror and a little defiance, hidden behind deference and politeness. She'd heard that mix in her own voice before, speaking to her own father about things she really, _really_ wanted to do, after all.

"_Hmm. Well, it is a break with tradition; we do not like to risk our bloodline needlessly. However, you are fairly far down in the line of succession. And it does well to show that __all__ turians must serve the Hierarchy's needs." _The words were formal. The tone was . . . affectionate.

The Imperator turned now, looking at the various other occupants of the room. _"Commander Shepard. I understand you're finished with your medical leave, and once more in operational control of the Spectres?"_

"_Yes, your Imperial Majesty. My husband did a fine job with his stint in command, however, I think you will agree."_

"_Certainly, the galaxy will be a quieter place with Omega under . . .different management. Of course, this merely means that most of the criminals will simply find a different rock to crawl under for the duration." _The Imperator turned and looked at Garrus, and while Dara couldn't quite see the implications, Rel certainly could. The two current focal points of turian society, in the same room. Eye to eye. The force of tradition, and the fulcrum of change. There were almost as many turians alive now who admired and would follow where Garrus led, as who would follow the Imperator, he knew. The potential for civil war, if Garrus ever bent his iron principles, certainly existed. Garrus never would, though. The changes he would leave in turian society were more subtle currents, created with his wife.

They said nothing. Simply regarded each other for a long moment. Rel couldn't know what they were thinking, but he suspected that in that locked gaze, they were testing one another, somehow.

Then the Imperator turned, looked at _him_, and Rel was suddenly glad his uncle had insisted on the dress uniform. _They knew this would probably happen. Damn secrets. _Then the Imperator looked at his little human wife. _"I have had interesting reports from the centurions who were here to guard my daughter about __you__, youngling. Did you truly not know who she was?"_

Dara realized that he was talking to _her_ now, and wanted nothing more than to back up into Rel until she vanished from sight. She couldn't do that, of course. She fell back on training. _"Not really, sir."_

"_Not really? Explain."_ The voice was, unsurprisingly, imperious, but really, after four months of drill centurions, it wasn't all _that_ bad.

Dara's eyes flicked to Kallixta, and then back into the mid-distance. _"I thought she was probably the daughter of a general, sir, or someone in the nobility. That sort of thing doesn't matter where I come from, though."_ She swallowed. That last had probably been more than she'd needed to say, actually. She had no idea what she should or shouldn't be saying here, and the probability of saying _entirely_ the wrong thing was very high. So she clamped down her teeth and said nothing more.

There was a brief, thoughtful pause. _"I'm grateful that my fifth-daughter was allowed a genuine boot camp experience. Few of my children have had that. My first-son, I ensured would have a challenge, but the rest. . . everyone recognized them. By accent, if not by face. Oh, the centurions worked them, but the rest of the recruits feared even to __touch__ them." _The Imperator straightened back up again, and looked at the Spectres. _"You will join me in my box tomorrow, for graduation?"_

Shepard bowed her head slightly. _"One of us must remain aboard the __Normandy_, _I'm afraid. The ceremony is a long one, and we have younglings with us."_

"_I would be happy to make arrangements for their comfort as well. Even radiation shielding would not be at issue._"

Dara saw Shepard blink, exchange a glance with Garrus, and then the infinitesimal nod exchanged between husband and wife. Silent communication between two people who knew each other so well, that words weren't even necessary. _"In that case, we would be honored," _Garrus told the Imperator, quietly.

And then he left, in his white uniform and its dazzling gems. Behind her, Dara could hear Rel exhaling, and she felt like doing the same. She turned and stared at Kallixta, who looked, if anything, very embarrassed, and then looked at her dad and Shepard and Garrus. "You _knew_," she told them, flatly, very annoyed.

Her dad shrugged. "Yeah, Kasumi figured it out after your letter. Couldn't send you the information in the clear. Plus, we figured you might freeze up or start acting differently, second-guessing things."

Dara sighed. It was certainly possible. She gave her mate a dark look, too. "And you. You didn't recognize her?"

"Sweetness, I haven't lived on Palaven in _six years_, and even when I did, I didn't follow the news about the imperial court. There are people who read _everything_ about it, like it's a sporting event. I'm not one of them." Rel grimaced, and looked over at Kallixta. "You were smart to keep to English though. The court accent. . . pretty recognizable."

"Not to most colonials," Kallixta said, with a sigh. "Of course, I wound up with large numbers of Palaven natives around me." She looked at Dara. "Can you forgive me for not telling you? I really do think of you as a friend, and friends shouldn't have secrets."

Dara's grin was a little lopsided. "Essedarius—wait, am I supposed to—"

"Kallixta will do, from you. I'll probably get to retain _Essedarius_ as a _nom de guerre_, though. Which is nice. I've gotten attached to it." The female shrugged a bit.

"I was just going to say, secrets are all I've dealt with for the past year and a half. They don't bother me, but I _do_ like figuring them out." Dara rolled her eyes. "I'm mostly annoyed I _didn't_ figure it out."

Kallixta lifted her hands. "Well, you did. . . after a fashion. Technically, my father _is_ a general. And we're definitely in the nobility." She paused. "I, at least, had an advantage over you. Two or three of the centurions here were from my father's personal guard, and even if I hadn't recognized you, they handed me a pretty complete dossier on everyone in my initial unit."

Dara _did_ back up a step into Rel at that point, and felt his hands come down on her shoulders lightly. "I have a _dossier_?" She looked at her father, briefly, and got a shrug.

"Yours was actually the _least_ complete." Kallixta shook her head. "School transcripts from Earth, a few family records, your father's service record. . . what little wasn't classified. . . and then the move to Mindoir and _nothing_ besides suddenly showing up on Shanxi surrounded by Spectres and plighted to a turian." She grinned. "They knew you were probably _safe_ but you still had them _worried._ You might have been a bad influence."

Sam shook his head. "It's beyond me, why so many people think my little girl is a bad seed."

After a while, they all did have to leave. Shepard had to get back to the _Normandy_ and nurse the new infants, and they all promised to be there for her tomorrow. Rel was the last to leave, and, looking around quickly, brought her gloved hand to his cheek. "Tomorrow, and then no more armor for twenty days," he told her, softly.

"Tomorrow," she told him, just as softly. It had a lovely sound.

The barracks were still emptied out, besides her and Kallixta. Dara turned back to her friend. "So," she said. "Now that we know the answers that we've both been dancing around. . . did you have other questions?"

"Oh, _yes_," Kallixta answered. "First, I want to see _proper_ family pictures. You've been so _very_ careful not to show anything important."

"I might say the same of you. You have any to share?" Dara cued up her wedding pictures, and Kallixta looked at them as carefully as if they'd been at a xenological or anthropological exhibit.

"Yes, but my family pictures are usually splashed all over the news here, or are very formal and boring. Traditional poses, on traditional occasions. Everyone wearing very traditional smiles. This. . . _great spirits, they let you wear that dress?_"

Dara started to laugh. "It's perfectly decent. It covers everything a human thinks needs to be covered."

Kallixta was already moving on to the next ones. "And this is all of your mate's family. Hmm. He's not the first-son?"

"No, second-son. First-son is Rinus. He's a centurion."

"I see the uniform. There's a strong resemblance between them."

"Rinus is quieter. Though he's a perfectly wretched tease, according to _all_ of his siblings."

"And this male, here? With the human mate?"

"That's Lantar Sidonis, his wife Ellie, her son, Elijah, and their little girl, Caelia." Dara chuckled. "Lantar was the first turian I ever met. I was scared of him, actually."

"He looks like a male whom it would be dangerous to cross. Then again, so does your mate."

Dara shook her head at that. "It's true," Kallixta told her. "_You_ see with eyes of love. When he was looking at your scars, he was ready to kill on your behalf." She paused, looking at another picture. "And that's a . . . "

"Rachni, yes. Sings-to-the-Sky. Of all the Spectres my dad works with, I miss him the most." Dara chuckled at Kallixta's boggled expression. "If you met him, you'd understand. He's one of the kindest and best people I've ever met. Even if you can't understand half of what he's saying."

**Rellus**

Graduation the next day was just as tedious to watch, as it had been to participate in four months ago, with the extra added bonus of having to be on his very best behavior in the imperial box. There was at least radiation shielding up, and shade, so all four hybrid children were in the box with him, Garrus, Jaworski, and Kasumi, not to mention the Imperator, his wife, and what felt like about two hundred hangers-on. That was the kindest word Rel could come up with for the courtiers. He knew, rationally, that some of them probably served real functions—bodyguards, secretaries, couriers, and the like. Picking out which of them were that, and which of them were more or less there to make the imperial box look fuller, however, was damned near impossible.

Garrus and Shepard were up at the Imperator's left elbow; Rel didn't envy them in the least. The more so because both of them were, periodically, having to deal with the younger set of twins. . .although the Imperator at one point gestured, and suddenly, several hangers-on turned into somewhat uncomfortable nannies. Wearing masks and gloves and generally looking aggrieved because such accessories simply did _not _match their finery. Rel had had to look away and control his face as carefully as he could, not to laugh. Kasumi and Sam had more or less pinned Amara and Kaius between them in the chairs, and Rel tried to help keep two very _bored_ children from acting up by playing a quiet word game with them. _"Here comes your cousin's manciple now,"_ Rel told them. _"See? Easy to pick out. She's wearing the black armor and carrying the flag."_

"_Which cousin?"_ Amara asked.

"_Cousin Dara. My mate. She stayed with you for two months over the summer."_

Blank stares. _"She taught you to play the reela?"_ Rel tried again.

Kaius suddenly sat up, clearly remembering _that_, if nothing else. "Dara!" he called. "Dara!"

Kasumi hushed the little boy now, chuckling, as half the heads in the box turned to look at them, and Rel rubbed a hand over his eyes briefly, laughing under his breath. Kaius turned back and looked at Rel. "Can Dara come and play soon?"

"I keep asking the same thing myself," Rel told him, solemnly. "Tonight, though, yes."

He was aware, peripherally, that there were a _lot_ of cameras fixed on the box. Getting all sorts of good vid of the Imperator, the Imperatrix, Shepard, Garrus, their four kids. The rest of the family, too. Rel leaned over and whispered to Sam, "So, I guess we can't just fly a shuttle over to her squad today and extract her like you pulled me out?"

Sam shook his head. "Yeah, I think Imperial security _might_ have a problem with what would look like a kidnap attempt in the Imperator's daughter. We've got assurances that they're both going to be removed from the line and moved someplace else for quicker retrieval, though." Sam gave him a level glance. "I know you haven't seen her in four months, but _I_ haven't, either. I expect you both to at _least_ have dinner with the rest of us before disappearing into your quarters."

Rel just grinned at his father-in-law.

**Dara**

She'd had a strap across her chest to help balance the flag and keep the heavy weight of it from becoming overly burdensome, but it was a relief to find her squad's spot on the huge assembly field and slide the pole into the stand that was waiting for it. Since her manciple was 223, they had a long, long wait ahead of them. Everyone stood at attention, subtly flexing their knees every now and again to allow bloodflow to continue, so that no one would pass out. And while everyone had the discipline to look straight forward, there were not a few quiet mutters of conversation here and there. Since everyone was wearing helmets, it wasn't as if anyone could _see_ their mouths moving, either.

Kallixta keyed up a private channel and asked Dara, _"Are you ready for what's likely to happen after the speech?"_

"_I thought we were getting pulled out of line, and quietly moved to a different location for transport."_

"_Well, yes, there's that. But I've never yet been able to get out of any public event without reporters finding me. And __you__. . . well, the other two humans will probably have a few reporters in their faces, too. They both finished today, after all. Vokaj is even staying in the service here. But __you__. . . you're on the citizenship track. You're married to a turian. You're blood-kin to one Spectre and related by marriage to the __commanders__ of the Spectres. You think they might have a few questions for you?"_

"Shit."

"_Such language."_ Kallixta paused. _"I find I envy most of our squad mates, you know?"_

"_How's that?"_

"_They'll all be free tonight. Oh, certainly, I don't envy them the cheap hotel accommodations, but the freedom? That, I envy."_

"_You'll be swooped off back to a palace or something?"_

"_Something like that."_ Kallixta sounded glum. _"Even you will be safely aboard the __Normandy__ and headed __away__ from here."_

"_When you graduate flight school, you'll be largely out of reach, right? Hard to keep a bodyguard on you if you're halfway across the galaxy in the cockpit of a fighter. Hundred and ten days, Esse—I mean, Kallixta. I find it helps to keep a countdown going on my terminal."_

"_They could make me fly ceremonial drills here on Palaven."_

"_Your father seemed to think you'd be a better symbol if you were out doing real things, didn't he? Push that. And be the best you absolutely can be, so they can't ever say that you got the job just because of who you're related to."_

The speech was long. Longer than last time, because the base commander had to thank the Imperator for his presence, praise his governance, tell the new recruits how they lived and died for the Hierarchy, of which the Imperator was the head, then went into the standard speech, about how they were all a part of the spirit of the Hierarchy now, that their lives and their time were a sacrifice for its ideals, and for the protection of all other citizens. At the end, the speech made something of a right turn, and Dara, who had been glazing over lightly, started to listen more carefully. _"Today, we make history, however. Today, we have three humans among us, the first to pass through any such facility. Today, on Earth, three turians are finishing a human program, much like this one. Today, we take steps towards the realization that neither of our species are all __that__ different from one another, and that we can continue to work together, in what has been called a spirit of reconciliation, but that I would call a spirit of unity."_

So many damned eyes on her now, so easy to pick out of the crowd in black armor, among the rows and rows of boot camp gray. Of course, Vokaj and Malcolmson probably were getting the stares, too. It didn't make her any less uncomfortable.

And then she had to pick up her flag again, and wait for the eleven manciples ahead of her to file out, slowly. Then, when indicated by a centurion, she got her people moving. Just being able to _walk_ again was a relief after _standing_ for about four hours at this point. Then about ten centurions came to divide her and Kallixta out of the squad. Dara handed over her flag and her rifle—Decimus wound up the flag carrier now—and she traded quick wrist-clasps with all her friends—she could call them friends now, she supposed. They'd been through the same fire with her, after all.

Then the centurions handed her bag to her, packed with new uniforms and her scant personal belongings. And then they were being whisked off at a fast trot, back through the base, to a different entrance, one she hadn't even known _existed_, at the far eastern edge of the complex. Just a gate in the high chain-link fence. But there were already aircars and a shuttle waiting there. . . and reporters. And cameras. Dara sighed. _"You were right,"_ she told Kallixta on the private radio band.

"_There are times when I wish I weren't."_

The centurions were more or less body-guards, and formed up around Kallixta, pushing their way through the crowd. Dara didn't envy her friend in the _least._ As fifth-daughter out of a total of eleven children, Kallixta was eighth or ninth in the line of succession. She had no effective power of her own, just responsibilities, traditions, and absolutely no privacy. The questions were loud, and shouted from every direction. _"How does it feel to graduate boot camp?" _

"_Were you surprised that your father attended your graduation, domina? He hasn't attended the last three of your siblings'." "_

"_Domina, you're wearing flight school colors. Do you know which facility you'll be attending?"_

"_Which class of vehicle will you be learning to fly?"_

"_Where do you anticipate being stationed?"_

Most of the questions were stupid. Even inane. _She feels the same way everyone else does at graduating. Relieved. Happy. Ready to get on with life. Asking her about her father is just unfair. And as for the rest of it, how the __hell__ should she know, any more than any other graduate today?_ Dara waited until the reporters and the crews looked well and thoroughly distracted, then headed, quickly, for the shuttle with the _Normandy_'s numbers painted on it in the comfortingly familiar Terran standard digits.

She didn't make it. "Khalisah Bint Sinan al-Jilani, Westerlund News," said one form, swathed in a radiation suit, a camera suddenly hovering right in Dara's face. "How does it feel to be the first human to graduate from a turian boot camp, and _why_ would you chose to do such a thing, when you could have joined the _Alliance_ military and served your own people?"

_Oh, great. Dad thinks the Westerlund News is a tabloid rag._ "I'm not the only human to have graduated today," Dara corrected, politely. "Alexej Vokaj, son of Miroslav Vokaj, graduated today, as did Ryan Malcolmson. I'm sure if you head back to the main road entrance, you can find them there."

She kept walking, and al-Jilani tagged right after her. "But you didn't answer my question," the woman said. "Why _not_ fight for the Alliance, instead of for the _Turian Hierarchy_? People whom we _have_, after all, warred with before?"

"Not in _my_ lifetime, we haven't," Dara said crisply, stopping and looking at the reporter. After a year and a half on Mindoir with Spectres and four months of boot camp, a reporter wasn't particularly intimidating.

Another voice, from her left side now. "Emily Wong, Bastion News Network. May I have a moment of your time?"

Dara turned. She'd liked the woman's eventual report on the Spectres' candidacy program. She hadn't done a hatchet job on Dara's father, for instance. "Ms. Wong. Nice to see you again."

"Yes, just a year or so ago, I interviewed you and your father after the attack on the Spectre base." Emily's voice was warm and sympathetic. "I understand that the insignia on your uniform indicates that you're more or less following in his footsteps. Those are Special Forces markings, correct?"

Dara's mind raced. "Actually, the red stripe indicates _medical_," she parried, careful to use the truth. "I'll be a field medic and then a doctor, eventually. I admire my father, certainly, and the people he works with. Sort of difficult not to, you know?" She smiled.

Wong's smile said _I knew that, and I __also__ know what the blue stripe means._ "Why _have_ you volunteered for service in the Hierarchy?" she asked. The question was the same as al-Jilani's, but phrased in a much less hostile way.

"I have two sets of reasons. The personal, and the idealistic. Which do you want?"

"Both."

Dara nodded. "Fair enough. On the personal level, I'm married to a turian, Rellus Velnaran. Now that I've completed boot camp, I'm considered an adult in the Hierarchy. After four years of service, I can claim dual citizenship in both the Alliance and the Hierarchy. Not such a bad thing for us, or for any children we might have, don't you think?" She added, swiftly, "The personal aside, there are many good reasons to have participated in this pilot program. Fleet integration between the Alliance and the Hierarchy is continuing, and one day, it's not just going to be confined to _Normandy_-class ships. Both fleets are going to need people who've trained in each other's ways, and who can think and speak in both common languages. So why _shouldn't_ I have volunteered here? How is it any different from volunteering back on Earth?"

Emily nodded. "You mentioned children a moment before. You have plans for children with your husband?"

Dara laughed. "I don't know about _plans_ right now. But eventually, yes." She grinned.

"You've lived on the Spectre base for what, a year and a half? Would it be fair to say that seeing hybrid children there has colored your thinking on the matter?"

"I'm not sure I understand the question. I've babysat three different hybrid kids and three turian kids, too. They didn't seem all that much different from human children."_ Other than the obscenely fast reflexes and footspeed, that is. And let's not forget little Julian's temperature swings at the clinic nursery. But we don't need to talk about that._

"Thank you for your time. Congratulations." Emily retreated, and Dara had to answer questions from a couple of turian reporters—who seemed quite surprised at how good her turian was—and then finally, finally, she managed to get to the hatch of the shuttle, which slid open, and Rel helped her into the hold, taking her bag off her shoulder. As the hatch closed, she leaned into him. "Finally," he muttered.

On the _Normandy_, she'd fully expected to be allowed to go shower and change, but Dr. Chakwas was on-board, and wanted her in the medbay , first. "We're going to check your radiation levels, pump you full of anti-radiation medications, do a full body scan, and _hydrate_ you," the older doctor told her. "I can tell by looking at your face that you have been through hell."

Rel and her father came with her, and she was initially reluctant to take off her armor, for fear of what she'd smell like. Not to mention, what she'd look like. A lot of the rashes and chafing had faded in the past twenty days or so, as the worst of the temperatures had dropped off, but some were still there, as were a few lingering bruises. "It's not that bad," Rel told her, brushing her hair back from her face.

"Temperatures dropped the last couple of weeks. My rad suits probably need to be burned, though. Well, one of them was a loss anyway." Dara sat down on the edge of the table in a patient robe, all open back and loss of dignity, as Dr. Chakwas muttered unhappy things about Dara's body fat levels. "You're down to about twelve percent body fat, Dara. That's _not_ healthy for a human female. You _need_ that for hormone regulation and body temperature regulation."

"I know." Dara let her head fall forward, and lifted her hands to rub at her eyes. "Should be sixteen to twenty percent. Running a half marathon daily and a full marathon every five days _will_ do that to you, though." She groaned a little, letting herself _feel_ the tiredness in her body. "Gene mods were a _real_ good idea, Dad. I'd have washed out in the first week without them."

Dr. Chakwas started administering various medications, and gave Dara very firm directions about drinking enough fluids for the next twenty days. Sam caught his daughter's left wrist in his hand, and pulled it away from her face, studying it. "What the hell is this?"

"Er. . . you should see the other guy?" she offered, tentatively.

That didn't suffice, and she had to explain, "Remember the one guy who bit Rel at his boot camp, and whose arm Rel broke? Well. . . he was back in time for mine. And he apparently wanted round two against the Velnarans." She explained the rest, as quickly and carefully as she could, trying to make it sound like no big deal, because she could _see_ the temper starting to boil in her dad's blue eyes.

"And the drill sergeants let this happen?"

"The centurions stepped in pretty fast. It just _felt_ like forever at the time."

He swore under his breath. "There should damned well be some changes in that program. Especially when any other humans come through. Not to mention some repercussions."

"There _were_ repercussions. He's not going to see out of that eye again, Dad. Not without some fairly serious surgery. Plus, he'll be a _kid_ forever. No property. No voting rights. Hell, he'll practically still have to be in by curfew. It's the social status of a retarded person or a criminal on Earth, if you see what I'm saying?"

"I meant repercussions for the sergeants, but I get your drift."

"I don't want a fuss made."

"And if he'd ripped your throat out, would you have wanted a fuss made?"

Dara blinked. "Well, yeah. Sure. But he didn't. No permanent harm done. Please, Dad? It took me four months of working my ass off get everyone to accept me as just as strong and as competent as all the turians around me. Don't make me stand out. Don't make me _special_. Different is okay. But not special."

Sam sighed. "All right," he surrendered. "I understand." He stood, and gave her a quick, hard hug. "Go get cleaned up. Then we get to feed you two."

She looked at Rel, who handed her some of her civilian clothes—how _odd_ they felt, against her skin. Actual cloth, not plasticized radiation barrier material or the slick coolness of the elasticized pressure armor. And then he led her down to crew quarters, and opened the door to their room, so she could drop everything off except her hygiene kit. "You know where the showers are, right?"

Dara grinned. "What I'd _love_ is a long, long bath, with water up to my nose, but hell, even a shower that has a _stall_ around it is going to feel like the Ritz."

Rel chuckled, lightly running his fingers along the side of her jaw. "Hurry up. Otherwise, I'm going to pull you in here with me, and then we'll never get dinner."

Dara hurried. And then they ate dinner—so wonderful, to eat something that didn't have to be unwrapped, and heated with a kit, and had _probably_ not been packed four or five years ago—and chatted with her father and Kasumi and everyone else. "Lantar and Ellie are coming in for the wedding on a commercial flight. Sky is, too. We figured people on Earth needed to start seeing some of the non-hominid aliens sooner or later, so he and Gris and even Cohort will be there. Though lord knows what Cohort will think of Japan." Japan was still the planetary leader in robotics, after all. "Maybe he'll think he's found a land of long-lost cousins, for all I know." Sam shook his head. "Should be amusing all around."

And then, finally, they went off to their little room. Closed the door behind them. No armor now to get in their way, no more social restrictions or propriety. Her nose might not be as good as his, but the smell of his skin was wonderful after such a long separation, though a little odd. Different soaps, different detergents, different materials in the uniform that lay against his hide. Some things remained the same, though. Careful, gentle bites, slightly worried expression in his eyes. "Do you think I'm going to flinch at the biting?" she asked, a little breathless, finding herself pinned up against their lockers.

"Maybe a little. He really tore into your wrist." Gentle nips at her throat now, and Dara felt her knees weakening, her back starting to arch a bit, pressing into him, and he groaned a little. _"Spirits, I've missed the feel of your body against mine. Clothes off, sweetness."_

There was so little space, that even getting undressed, they tended to bump into each other, which occasioned laughter. Then he picked her up and dropped her into their nest. Sheets, pillows, all soft, touching bare skin. Such a luxury. Rel knelt down and asked her, "You trust me?"

"Of course I do."

"Then close your eyes, _amatra_."

She closed them. Felt his hands brace on her shoulders, felt little nibbling bites on throat and shoulders. Damp brush of something else. . . tongue. He'd never done that before. Then lower. Waist. He did so love to bite at her waist, which tended to make her giggle uncontrollably, because it _tickled_. Rel's hands caught her hips now, holding her in place. Damp little flickers of his tongue now, too. "You had time to think about this again, huh?"

"Very little else to do at night. That, and carve." A chastening bite to her flank now. "Shh. Just keep your eyes closed, and tell me if I'm doing this right."

"Well, what you're doing now is _tickling—_oh." Blindly, Dara reached down, caught his head as he dipped lower, fingers finding fringe, locking into place.

"Gently, _mellis._" He repositioned himself, and she understood why he'd wanted her eyes shut for this. His dangerous teeth were positioned right at her most sensitive place. In between little licks, he told her, quietly, "It occurred to me. . . that while I might not have _lips_. . . I _do_ have a tongue. And. . . that you've so often . . . made me feel good in just this way. . . so it seemed only fair. . . to return the favor."

So much fire. So much sensation. Almost unbearable. She couldn't get away from it, wanted more, but also it was too much, too much, and his arms were locked in place, preventing her hips and her legs from moving, holding her with the iron strength that he'd have held her down with if she were capable of a turian female's estrus, and then the fire exploded from her, and she whimpered, opening her eyes at last, realizing she'd been holding her breath. And then he slid up, matching their bodies together, and whispered, "Did I do it right?"

"Oh, yes. Thank you."

"Good." Rel sighed. "Now, then. . . how did the rest of this go again? It's been so long, I think I've forgotten."

Dara laughed. "Liar." Then she reached down, lined him up, and welcomed him home.


	58. Chapter 58: Commitment

**Chapter 58: Commitment **

**Author's note: **_Saber72 was kind enough to give me access to the __Game Informer__ article on __ME3__ in the May copy of the magazine. My husband asked me, when I said I was antsy to read about it, "So, if ME3 doesn't live up to what you've written, is a 30-something woman going to go on a nerd-rage rampage across Canada?" :-P_

_I'm all for what they're promising, which includes, supposedly, substantial improvements to the otherwise abysmal melee combat system and the very likely inclusion of Garrus as a playable squad member, "assuming he did not die." (Seriously, did anyone going for a 'perfect save game' __not__ get everyone through the suicide mission? :-P) . I find the concept of Earth taking the __Normandy__ from Shepard and tearing it to pieces a little laughable. Sure, Bioware's comment is that "you don't let a Marine go around with their own aircraft carrier" is true, but, let's face it. . . the SR-2 wasn't built with taxpayer dollars. And if they haven't undeclared Shepard dead and given him/her about 2 years' back pay, it's arguable if Shepard is even still a member of the Alliance military anymore, too. At the end of ME2, Shepard is more or less an independent mercenary captain. :-P But hey, that's nitpicking, and they have to have some way to strong-arm the player into the plot. And I'm sure they'll make it make sense in context. ;-) Sounds like Mordin, Tali, and Wrex are certainly possibilities as well, so this will probably be the third game in a row where I leave the humans to play cards on the ship and take the __interesting__ people with me everywhere. *cough*_

_Supposed to be a little less linear than the first two, in that escaping from the Reaper-infested Earth and trying to __figure out__ how to defeat them will be a major component. So I'm excited about that. Still want to see a damned fleet of __Normandy__-class ships, and my money's still on it following the narrative shape of the first two games, which were pretty much "do lots of missions, discover a gate to a new location, go there, finish the story" and I strongly suspect that the new gate, if it exists, will lead outside of the galaxy itself. My chips are also on dark matter or dark energy (like what's causing Haestrom's sun to age prematurely) to factor into the destruction of the Reapers. But hey. . . prognostication is all well and good. On with the story!_

**Rellus**

Because the movements of the commanders of the Spectres and their family didn't really need to be public information, the _Normandy_ actually slipped out of Palaven's system in stealth, hit the relay to Earth, and took a leisurely tour of the gas giants in Sol's system, using each of them as a gravity handle in turn. It was slow, making for a thirty-hour trip, but probably necessary.

Both of them already had the tendency to wake up at 05:00 ingrained into them already. Unfortunately, the ship clock and the Palaven one were two very different entities. Rel's eyes snapped open at what the clock insisted was 03:00, and from the way Dara sighed next to him, he knew she was awake, too. "Should probably try to go back to sleep," he told her, wrapping an arm around her, pressing his nose into the back of her neck. Sweet smells. Touch of skin.

"Yeah, I don't see that happening. Our body clocks are going to be out of alignment and won't have a chance to adapt until we land in Japan and start adjusting to local time anyway." She sighed. "The _Normandy_ runs on Greenwich Mean Time, which is, ah. . . " she fumbled for her omnitool, squinted against its flare in the darkness, and sighed again. "Eight hours behind Japan? And apparently, that puts them both a day ahead on the calendar from Mindoir and I have absolutely no idea what that means in Palaven time."

Rel chuckled and pulled her back into their nest. "Six hours behind us, apparently. It's still 21:00 yesterday night there?"

"Or 21:00 tomorrow, possibly."

There was a brief pause.

"Wait, what?" He thought about that for a moment. "I know time is relative and all that, but that just makes my head hurt."

"Hell if I know, _amatus_. It's too _early_ for math." She snuggled down into their pillows.

He bit her shoulder. "Come on. We can hit the gym, get a run in. Eat. Come back here, do more of this,"and he bit her shoulder again, relishing the thought of warm _iunkunditas _spreading through them both from the exercise and the food as he took her, "before the first shift even comes on duty."

Dara turned just far enough that he could see her eyes and her smile in the dimming light of her omnitool. "You sure you've got all that in the right order?"

He thought about that for a moment. "Well, if you're _volunteering_. . . ."

Later in the morning, they actually had gone for their run on the treadmills in the gym, seeing any number of other people from the ship doing the same thing. Even Shepard was in there, although she was doing hanging situps, working her lower abdominal muscles. Trying to regain strength and muscle tone after the c-section, probably, Dara told him, quietly. And then there was just the sound of feet on the treadmills, his stride obviously faster than hers, but he was delighted with her endurance. "Ready for food, _mellis_?"

"Not really," she said, slowing the machine down. "Oh, don't get me wrong. I'll eat because I know I need to. But the human stomach tends to revolt at the concept of anything heavy after exertion like that. Optimally, I'll need about twenty minutes to cool down first." Dara grimaced, and he put his hand on her shoulder. He'd never really _registered_ that before.

"No wonder you lost so much damn weight in boot camp." Rel was annoyed at himself for not having realized it.

"Oh, I cleared my tray every meal. I just never asked for more than one MRE at a time. Didn't think I could eat it all. Even one was pushing it in the mornings, especially after the forty-k runs." Dara shrugged, and headed for the showers, and by the time she'd finished with that, was at least hungry enough to eat properly. And at breakfast, Rel started trying to rebuild his levo immunities. At least on the _Estallus_, with its mixed crew, he'd finally be able to do so properly again. For the moment, though, after eight months without the mixed diet, he was starting all over again at step one. He at least knew which foods were more or less safe, and which ones he _liked_, which was better than where he'd started last time, but the quantities he could consume were limited. As such, he simply stole bacon and eggs off his wife's tray to start with, which got him a _push-off_ flick of the fingers. Which made him, in turn, grin at her.

Then they headed upstairs. Familial duties, and a treat for Dara. Kaius almost tackled her at the door, slamming into her legs. "Did you hear me yesterday, did you hear me?"

"Yes, I did, actually." Dara knelt down and put a hand on the little boy's fringe. "Loud and clear." Rel snorted. The Imperator's head had turned just a fraction towards Kaius as the boy had yelled Dara's name. And while Sam and Kasumi had been hushing Kaius, Rel had had enough time to see just the faintest hint of a smile making the imperial mandibles flex.

"Did you come to play with us? Or are you here for the babies?" That was Amara, sounding a bit pouty at being left out so much lately.

"Can I do both?"

The twins exchanged glances. "Okay," Kaius said. He had, since Rellus had last seen the two of them, become the more dominant of the first pair. Amara had long outstripped him in language development, but he'd caught up, and now seemed to be making more of their decisions. _Becoming first-son in truth_, Rel thought, and found a corner to sit in. Urz ambled over, sniffed him, and sat down at his feet, panting a bit. Finding him familiar, and not a threat, thankfully.

Shepard had the extranet turned on, and the Bastion News Network actually had yesterday's graduation segment up at the moment. Dara looked pained, and turned away from the coverage. "No, no, you should learn to watch these," Aunt Lilu told her, and turned a little to look at Rel, too. "Chances are, it's not the only time in your lives that you'll be interviewed. Watching what you did this time helps you do better next time. You didn't do _badly_," she assured Dara. "But see what they did with what you gave them." She handed Dara a breather and gloves, and, once these were in place, Dara accepted Alain from Shepard, cradling the little one close to her, sitting back down beside Rel on one of the couches in the living area.

Emily Wong's interview hadn't gone badly. The reporter reminded viewers that Dara had been interviewed on BNN before, at the funeral for the _Normandy _crew killed in the AEC attack last September, and brought back snippets of that old footage. How _odd_ to see her, standing pale and quiet next to her father, watching the white-wrapped bodies head towards their resting places near Painted Rocks Cave. The brief interview after the funeral, asking her about the kidnapping and the rescue. Not much of it had aired before; Dara had glanced up at her father a couple of times, and the camera had tracked her glances as she'd looked for guidance in how to reply. So much less confidence then, than now. Rel put his arm around his wife's shoulders, pulling her into him more tightly. Kaius hopped up on the couch to his right, holding a book out, and of course, Dara still had Alain in her arms as they continued listening. All family in the same little nest.

The report _did,_ however, specify that both Dara and her husband, both following in the footsteps of their families, were heading into high-risk fields of work. Rel shook his head. "At least Wong didn't say the _words_ 'special forces,'" he commented. "That would have kind of hand-cuffed us a bit." _Not to mention, would have probably gotten my posting to the __Estallus__ yanked._

The news segment also mentioned briefly that a member of the turian imperial family had been under Dara's command in her boot camp squad, and that from the accounts of their squad mates, had become close friends. Emily's account ended with vid feed of the imperial box, humans, turians, and hybrids, all sitting and watching the massed troops pass. "In another strong indication of imperial support for the unification of forces and the current economic treaty, the Imperator invited Commander Shepard and Garrus Vakarian and their family, as well as the family of the young human recruit, Dara Velnaran, to join him in his private box for the graduation ceremonies."

Dara sighed. "And now I'm wishing Vokaj's family had been there. Or Malcolmson's."

"Rear Admiral Miroslav Vokaj? The Butcher of Torfan? In the imperial box?" Shepard asked, dryly. "Yeah, what little diplomatic interaction the turians _have_ with the batarians would have gone right out the window at that point."

Rel reached out and preened Dara's hair back from her face as she winced. "Yeah, I guess I didn't think that one far enough through, huh?" She sighed, and leaned into Rel, and Alain made happy chirruping noises, opening his eyes briefly. "I guess it could have gone worse."

"You're not going to like the second story," Shepard warned, waving at the screen to change to a different network.

Al-Jilani's segment aired on a different feed, of course. "I'm sure all my viewers will agree that it's good to see a human in charge of a turian unit—the more so, considering that apparently, a minor member of the imperial family was under her direct command. Hopefully, a sign of things to come. After all, while young Dara is correct in saying that war has not broken out between the Alliance and the Hierarchy in her short lifetime, that never precludes the possibility of an attack."

Dara glared at the screen. "Young, huh? Short lifetime? Could you undercut me any more if you tried?"

Rel squinted. "Did she just actually say, on the air, that it's possible that the Hierarchy would turn on its current closest ally?"

Shepard smirked a little. "I personally liked the inference that humans are commanding turians everywhere. It's a little more subtle than the other things, but she's reassuring her viewers in the first half that it's okay, humans are on top. . . and then the slide into fear-mongering at the end, yes, Rel. And yes, she undercut what little you gave her, Dara. It's almost artful. A little obvious, but al-Jilani can't afford subtlety. Most of her viewers can't handle anything that isn't pretty much spoon-fed to them."

Dara muttered, darkly, under her breath, "Next time I see her, can I just punch her?"

A quick chuckle. "It's always tempting. My best advice is _not_ to answer her unless you're absolutely sure that what you say can't be taken out of context. Make sure they're nice, full, long sentences that can't be chopped up for sound-bites."

Dara nodded glumly, and went back to paying attention to Alain.

The news reports had been irksome. Watching his little mate's face as she handled the babies, however, was actually rather delightful. She looked so awed and so serious, and held them each so very carefully. And when she looked up, and caught him looking at her, so bashful, too. As if she'd been caught doing something very embarrassing. He couldn't imagine what. He could picture her holding their children in exactly the same way, eventually. Eight, nine years from now.

And then she covered it up, asking Aunt Lilu quickly, "They don't seem to be too warm. I got to take care of Julian Provian in the clinic on Mindoir before I left, and he definitely had the typical temperature swings."

"Yeah, Mordin thinks he might have gotten that issue figured out this time. With luck, we won't need to keep the breather precautions as long for these two as we did for Amara and Kaius. The first time, we weren't sure which bacteria and viruses they'd be susceptible to—turns out, with their body temperatures regulating at one hundred and three or so Fahrenheit, or thirty-nine and change in Celcius, they're mostly prone to, well. . . "

"Asari and batarian bugs, and the occasional very resilient turian or quarian microbe, or maybe a _very_ infectious human one," Dara finished. She'd gone into medic mode; he could hear it in her voice. "They're already cooking at the temperature that _our_ bodies take when our immune system tries to kill off a bacteria or a virus. The turian microbes that they're sensitive to have to be cold-hardy, essentially. Their bodies aren't a happy environment for most species-specific diseases." Dara nodded. "I take it that their immune systems are also still a bit depressed because of the immunosuppressants that you were on? Did you stay on tacilimus after I left?"

"Yeah, that's exactly right. At least breast-feeding them gives them access to _my_ immune system for a while, but that doesn't last forever." Aunt Lilu chuckled as Rel shifted, a little uncomfortably, where he was sitting, helping Kaius sound out words in one of his little books. "Sorry, Rel. I know the concept makes turians twitch."

"I'm a little more used to the thought than most," he replied, dryly. Little flashes from the simulations. The _alienness_ of a tiny, fringed head pressed to his wife's breast, roundness against roundness. Bizarre, and oddly comforting, at the same time.

Shepard turned back to Dara. "And yeah, tacilimus for the rest of the pregnancy. Which is why I _can_ actually go off the ship and don't need a breather, myself. Cyanolimus does a _number_ on the body. Of course, if that spesilimus stuff you mentioned in your paper pans out, by the time you're ready for this, it won't be such an issue."

And when Dara flushed a little, Rel flashed to one of the slowly-dimming memories from the simulations. Could picture her slim waist swelling with his young, and his eyes lowered slightly, fixing there. Fond thoughts of taking her back down to their nest and doing his level best to cross the species divide by sheer willpower, planting his young there, were starting to predominate, especially since her side was still pressed up against his on the couch. Oh, it wasn't possible. Even if she _didn't_ have a subcutaneous implant preventing her cycle from moving into estrus, it wasn't possible. Even if it _were_ possible, it would even be _stupid_, given their required four years of service. That didn't convince instinct. Instinct wasn't interested in paltry things like _facts_, after all. Rel leaned back and took a couple of deep breaths through his nose, and reminded himself that the reaction was probably normal after a hundred days and more of separation from his mate. And forced himself to focus on reading stories to the older two children again.

In the meantime, the more technical conversation was still going on. Dara blinked. "You _read_ my paper?" 

Shepard grimaced. "The abstract, yeah. The rest was a little technical for me. Mordin said he thought the paper would give the Alliance Food and Drug Administration a big push towards clinical trials in humans, though. Said it was generating lots of 'constructive conversations' in various xenobiological circles. Apparently, suggesting that quarians seek surrogate parents was one _hell_ of a sacred cow to go after."

"I didn't _suggest_ it. I said it would be _possible_."

Shepard grinned at Dara. "Most people don't see a distinction between the two. Welcome to _my_ world, Dara."

As they left the command quarters and entered the elevator, Rel hit the 'door closed' button, but didn't key a floor. Dara glanced up at him, puzzled. "Something's wrong?"

"No." He gently pushed her up against the wall and bit her throat, which got a surprised sound of pleasure. "Just remembering the simulation runs." He switched languages. _"Remembering what you'll look like, filled with my young."_

"_Doesn't. . . scare you?"_

He looked down at her blankly. _"Scare me? That you could get sick during it, yes." Or even die of an infection during the process,_ he didn't add. He didn't want to invoke any _bad_ spirits in regards to this very important issue.

"_The reporters asked me yesterday, if we had plans for children."_

"_I heard." _He bit at her throat again, not really focusing on the words right now. Not important. Smells important, little prey-sounds important. Words. . . not so much. Her smell said _ready_, and he was already plotting out in his mind how many steps it would take out of the elevator to get to their little quarters.

She pushed his head back though, looking anxious. _"I didn't know what to say, except 'not immediately.'"_

Rel dragged his brain back to where it needed to be for the moment. _"Sweetness, have you ever met a turian who __didn't__ have a big family? Females control their estrus now, not like the cave and nest days. Almost every child is a decision. A compliment to her mate. Says he's strong enough to care for them all, loyal enough to stay with them._" He put his hands on her waist, looking down, knowing his eyes had gone a little fixed, knew his voice had become very hungry indeed, and couldn't quite control it. _"Filling you with my young would be the best mark of all and I __want__ it. . . but not today."_ He lowered his head and bit her shoulder, hard, fumbling a little blindly for the elevator controls. _Crew deck. Now. _

A bit later, they got a message from Kasumi, asking them to come to her and Sam's quarters in the port observation lounge, but both were out when Rel and Dara made it there. So they curled up on a seat in the port observation lounge, to watch the planets of the Sol system pass by. "They look different this time," his human mate told him quietly. "I was sitting in here watching them all drift away behind me when we left Earth for Palaven, and then Sur'Kesh, and then Mindoir. Eli was in here when I saw Palaven for the first time." She looked up at him, smiling.

"They look smaller?"

"Mmm, not really." Jupiter, king of Sol's planets, was just passing by, after all. "More. . . comfortable. Like old shoes. Saturn isn't as beautiful as Turan, where Bastion's being built, after all, but it's . . . like seeing the old ranch house, you know?"

At that point, Sam and Kasumi came in, and smiled at them. "There you are. We're about five hours from Earth at this point," Kasumi told them.

Dara sat up a bit against him. "You need us to do stuff for the wedding?"

Kasumi nodded. "A few things. Shinto weddings are pretty much reserved for just the close family. The reception involves the family and friends and coworkers, but the ceremony. . . that's just for the family. Largely because it's about joining those two families, and not about joining two people. All of which is a roundabout way of telling you that you'll both need to be there for the actual ceremony."

Rel blinked, and looked at Sam. The human lifted his hands, palms out. "I'm just doing what I'm told, son." He gave Kasumi a fond, but wicked glance. "I've already told her that the more she rubs my nose in Japan, the more _her_ nose is going to get rubbed in _Texas_ afterwards."

"Sam, you have had many months in which to make a contribution other than 'yes, dear.'"

"Darlin', you looked like you were having much more fun without me. Besides, my telling you that _was_ my contribution. So long as the hotel rooms have Western-style toilets, and you don't make me change clothes three or four times at the reception, I'm good."

Rel looked at Dara. "This sounds slightly more complicated than ours was."

Dara shook her head, wide-eyed. "I have no idea what they're talking about, _amatus_."

Kasumi sighed. "Savages, all of you. What _am_ I marrying into?" Then she smiled, showing she meant _none_ of it, and added, simply, "Just do what I tell you to do, and it'll all be just _fine_."

Rel and Dara exchanged looks, and replied, in unison, "Yes, drill centurion."

Sam started to laugh, which got him a set of toes to the shin. Kasumi pointed at Rel first. "I assume you don't have anything with you suitable to wear?"

_Well, I doubt you're going to want me to wear a uniform, dress grade or not._ "Ah. . . no?" Feeling more the hunted than the hunter, he added, "Even the clothes I wore to our wedding probably don't fit anymore, even if I had them with me."

"I grabbed them from your parents' house before we left," Kasumi told him, crisply. "A good tailor will probably get them fitting again. That's your assignment."

Sam snorted a bit. "Field marshal, not centurion."

Kasumi ignored him, and pointed at Dara, instead. "You've got a kimono fitting scheduled with me tomorrow morning. After that, we're getting your hair cut, and _properly_. Did you hack it off with a _knife_ before boot camp?"

"Scissors. It's mostly grown back. . ." Dara trailed off, " . . . although I admit that it kind of looks scraggly at the moment."

"Once you're both taken care of tomorrow, we'll all be visiting my parents. It will probably not be comfortable. I apologize in advance." Kasumi looked glum. "I'm their only child. They were expecting me to take care of them in their old age, and while they're only sixty or so, they. . . well. . . I'm really not what they expected. We haven't talked much in many years, and. . . "

"They're traditionalists?" Rel asked. _Grandpa Gavius is coming around, at least. She looks about as uncomfortable as anyone in my family is around him, though. _

Kasumi winced. "My father is. My mother is less so, but she defers to him. She's a good wife." She sighed. "Sam, you have fittings in the morning, too. You are not allowed to complain."

Jaworski shook his head. "I'm not going to complain. _Laugh_, maybe. But not complain." He caught her hand, and added, "I love you. You love me. The rest is all window-dressing, Kasumi-chan. You're not a traditional person in almost any other aspect of your life, so if doing this up the full, traditional way makes you happy and comfortable, I'm all for it. I'm just saying, turnabout _is_ fair play. Keep it in mind?"

The four of them dropped from the _Normandy _in a shuttle, well ahead of anyone else; Shepard and Garrus were going to stay on-board a while longer, take some meetings with Alliance officials while they were here, and so on, and wouldn't be joining them until the actual day of the wedding, the twenty-fifth.

At the moment, it was early morning on the nineteenth, and they had to clear spaceport customs in Tokyo. Japan was _nothing_ like what Rel had come to think Earth was like—an impression gleaned mostly from Dara's memories, as seen in the simulator, and various vids, mostly to do with wildlife and biology. He'd had impressions of huge, wide open spaces, exotic flora, even more exotic fauna, from armadillos to zebras, and from lions to tigers to bears.

The Tokyo spaceport was neon-lit and very crowded, like spaceports everywhere. Signage in a dozen different languages, but only two that were non-human: galactic and asari, surprisingly. He'd loaded a local language file into his VI this morning, and it was working overtime; from the way Dara kept looking at her wrist, she was having just as many problems with the language as he was. So _many_ humans, of all different nationalities, of course, but the bulk of them were of Kasumi's ethnic group, and thus, Rel felt even more out of place than usual around humans. He stood 18 inches, or close to 46 centimeters taller than Kasumi, for instance, and while she was short even by her own people's standards, he _still_ couldn't escape the feeling that he was some sort of an invader. _All I need is a sword or an axe in my hands_, he thought, a little grimly, seeing any number of people turn and _stare_ at him for a moment, before quickly, politely, averting their eyes. _Spirits, Shanxi was crowded. Not __this__ crowded, though. And while I felt out of place there, it wasn't this bad. I know I've grown since then, but why do I feel hemmed in, like I'm about to be attacked?_ Rel turned his head, scanning the crowd, pulling Dara closer to him as he did so, unconsciously.

Jaworski surprised him, leaning in to comment, quietly, "I always feel like a giant clodhopper here, too, son." A quick, wicked smile. "Of course, standing next to you, I practically fade into the crowd for a change. Kind of nice."

"Thanks, _pada'amu._ You're very comforting." The joke at least got him to smile and start breathing a little easier. If Jaworski wasn't tensing up, Rel was probably overreacting.

Outside the spaceport, it was almost worse. Crowds of people, all tightly packed, calling for cabs, lining up for positions in the tight-packed trains that whizzed by on elevated tracks now and again, hundreds, maybe thousands of neon-lit signs, dizzying numbers of alien scents and sounds, a barrage of stimuli, overloading him. He could feel his body tense, as his mind tried to sort out what was threatening and what was safe. _Don't be stupid, it's safe here. Just because it's alien and different and has more people crowding around you than even Bastion and they're __all__ humans. . . ._ Dara's fingers found his elbow, and she stepped up against him, hooking a foot behind his ankle, too, just under the spur. Reassuring with touch. With scent. He started to relax, and then an aircar with taxi markings stopped near them, and Kasumi rushed forward, catching the door, and got them inside. "You all right?" she asked Rel, looking concerned as they all piled in. "Tokyo can be a little overwhelming when you're not familiar with it. And this is just the spaceport. Wait until we're actually in the city."

Rel nodded, taking slow breaths. "Disorienting," he admitted, after a moment.

Sam snorted. "You've also just spent, what, thirty days more or less in the field, and two thirds of the last _year_ in a high-stress environment. They've been building a hair trigger into you, son. Just be aware of it and make sure the safety catch is on." If anything, his voice sounded gruffly sympathetic. _Then again, he'd __know__. _

Dara's fingers tightened on his elbow, and Rel was glad of the pressure. "I thought the wedding location was somewhere closer to Osaka?" she ventured, changing the subject.

"It is, but my parents live here in Tokyo, and this is where I've made all the arrangements from," Kasumi explained. "We'll get everything taken care of here, and then move on to there. Don't worry about it. I have _everything_ planned."

"And she wonders why I just left everything up to her," Jaworski muttered, leaning back in the cab and closing his eyes.

Tokyo proper was just as disorienting. _And I thought the skyscrapers on __Illium__ were supposed to be tall. _And there were so many of them. A human hive, all neon-lit in the last gray morning shadows, just before the sun began to rise, banishing night. The buildings hemmed in the sky, and again, Rel could _not_ put a finger on why this made him uneasy. Palaven had skyscrapers. Mindoir, not so much. But he'd been on Bastion, which was completely enclosed, and the Palaven shipyards, not to mention the slightly cramped underground tunnels on Dymion and not had any problems. But he held onto Dara's arm as they checked into their hotel, and that made things better. . . at least until they had to separate for errands.

Rel's portion of the agenda was finished quickly enough. The workers at the tailor shop that he went to with Jaworski gave him mildly shocked glances when they entered. Jaworski managed a few very polite words in Japanese, which quickly gave way to English when the even _politer_ shop-owner insisted on changing languages. Various measurements were taken, and hushed conversations lit up on Rel's VI, translating as mutters of _how do they expect us to manage this? _and _at least the suit was well-constructed to begin with; there might be enough material in the seams. . . should just start over from scratch. . . . Do you jest? Do you have any idea how to even __begin__ on a body that shape?_

His father-in-law handled all of his own fittings behind a curtain, and emerged, looking reluctantly amused. "Bad?" Rel offered, as they headed back to the hotel to await the females.

"Oh, without question. But this is mostly for her, and I guess it's her way of making peace with her parents. So I'm just telling myself I'm along for the ride." Sam shrugged. "Also, it's her culture. She doesn't get to express it much around the base."

Rel shook his head. "It still amazes me, how many _languages_ you have. And how many cultures. Turians are more. . . homogeneous, I guess." They got out of the cab and headed into the hotel, aiming for the elevators. Rel was getting used to the stares and the quickly averted gazes. "I assume that what you're being asked to wear, and what Dara's being asked to wear, are significantly different than normal?"

Sam snorted. "Give me a minute," he said, and started flipping through pictures on his omnitool. "Here we go."

The image that displayed, Rel had never seen before. Dara and Kella, side by side, laughing, wearing colorful robes. "Kasumi sent me this last, hmm, November 24, by the file date."_ Just days before Kella died_, Rel thought, staring at the two faces. Dara looked so much softer then. Not that he thought his mate was any less beautiful now, as she worked very hard at _becoming_ who she wanted to be. But, like looking at her in the old vid footage this morning, it was surprising the differences a year had made. This was who she'd been when he'd first realized what they both _could_ be. The eyes were a little harder now. The shoulders and back more confident. And Kella's face, laughing as she was, was like seeing a ghost. "The robes are . . . odd. Very colorful." Rel tipped his head to the side. "I'm not even sure how they _fasten._"

Sam nodded. "Those are the type that are reserved for unmarried women. Whatever Dara winds up in for the wedding will be a little less elaborate. Kasumi's will be a hell of a lot _more_ elaborate. And I. . . " Sam looked up at the ceiling for a moment, "will be wearing the male version. Black _montsuki_, black _haori_ over that, striped _hakama_ pants. Don't get me wrong; I've worn hakama before, on the mats, because some martial arts require it as part of their uniform. That's not a problem. The white _tabi_ socks and the thong _zori_—er, sandals, that is? Definitely a fashion statement I wish I could avoid. All kind of hard to find in my size, too." Sam shrugged. "It's all good, though."

The elevator chimed, and dumped them out on their floor. They had a suite for the duration, apparently; a door that locked between the adjoining rooms. They'd been to the hotel just long enough earlier to drop off their bags. Rel glanced at the lavatory facilities curiously. The toilet itself seemed mostly familiar, although it had several extra buttons that he decided he did not wish to ask about. He also didn't _want_ to ask how much the hotel rooms were costing, but considering the sunken bathtub available in the room he was to share with Dara—a tub he strongly suspected she was going to find and not leave for some hours tonight—he strongly suspected that this hotel was somewhere in the 'ungodly expensive' range.

Returning to the doorway between the two rooms, he _did_ ask, however. And got the expected reply. "Don't worry about it. Kasumi booked the rooms, and it's not like we can't afford this, between her job and mine." Sam shrugged a bit.

"I understand that humans give gifts at weddings?" Rel added, a little hesitantly. Kasumi had broached the whole topic of a 'registry' before their own wedding, which had made him laugh at the time.

"I'm going to be taking two changes of clothing and a hygiene kit with me to boot camp. I don't think I'll have any need for . . . . " he'd paused, looked at the list, and laughed again, "towels or kitchen appliances."

"Nor will I," Dara had said. "Not for a long time, anyway."

"Depending on where we get posted, anyway," he'd added, and that had been the end of the discussion, until after the wedding, when they'd been handed dozens of envelopes from the guests, each with a credit chit in it. Dara had wound up writing lots of thank-you notes, as best he recalled. Probably at lunch at school, and she'd had him sign them all, much to his bemusement. He'd thought that they should _probably_ give the money to their parents to cover the cost of the wedding, but _that_ had gotten shot down by Jaworski very quickly indeed. "The money is for you two to start your lives together. When you get around to actually _needing_ towels and crap like that."

So Rel broached the topic carefully now, and Sam snorted genially. "Yeah, well. Typically, at a Japanese wedding, there are two gifts given. One before or after—_never_ the day of—that's sent to their house. Can be candy or, yeah, _towels_," and here he grinned, "but we don't have a registry, son. I was married for sixteen years. I've got kitchen gadgets and frying pans coming out my ears. Whatever I didn't have, Kasumi _did_. Hell, we had to give stuff away when she moved in, just to find space. So, something small is fine. The other gift that's given, is given _on_ the day of the wedding. Cash, in a special envelope called a _shugibukuro_. They've got special knots on 'em that can't be untied."

Rel gave Sam a look. "You've actually been studying up on this, haven't you?"

"Shh. I've read every single thing she's pushed in my direction, and then just a little more, yeah." Sam grinned. "But I kind of want her to have low expectations here. That way, I'll look just that much better when I only mess up a _little_."

Rel found himself chuckling. "Okay. I'll let Dara know what we need to get." He shrugged, and turned to walk back into his own room, preparing to wait it out until Dara returned. The dead time absolutely got on his nerves. He remembered being able to relax before boot camp. But now, unless Dara was with him, it was _much_ harder to do that, than it had been before.

"You okay, son?"

The question was unexpected. Rel turned back, frowning. "Yeah. I guess."

Blue, human eyes studied him. "Having trouble turning it off?" Again, that unexpectedly sympathetic tone, concealed behind gruffness.

_Turning __what__ off?_ "I think I've just gotten very used to living by a schedule," he offered, after a moment. "Dara and I both woke up at 05:00 Palaven standard time this morning. On the dot."

Jaworski nodded. "Yeah, but that's not what I meant. I meant more along the lines of what happened at the spaceport this morning."

Rel grimaced, a quick flex of the mandibles. "Wasn't expecting it. There were . . . a lot of people there."

"And you started looking for the threats."

"Yeah." He looked at Sam. "You're going to tell me that fades?"

"No." The statement was blunt. "At least, it never has for me. Sometimes it's worse than others. Right after a particularly bad mission, I'm always apt to be a bit more on edge. They've got you, as I said earlier, _very_ tightly wound right now. I told Dara when we went to pick you up from boot camp that she was going to have to be your safety catch for a while." Sam looked at Rel. "I'll remind her of that. She's probably going to be on a fine edge herself in a while, but she doesn't have the same body chemistry. It'll never be the same for her, as it is for you, or hell, for a _human_ male, either."

"It's easier when she's here," Rel admitted, after a moment. He paused, then added, a little reluctantly, "So, how do _you_ deal with it?"

Jaworski shrugged. "After a while, you do develop an on/off switch for it. Sometimes things push that button _for_ you, though. Can be an unfamiliar setting. Can be a nice little asari lady threatening your family. Doesn't really matter."

Rel grinned, briefly. _I suppose that 'nice little asari lady would be Aria T'loak?_

Sam went on, "When that happens, I try to remind myself that I was a human being long before I was a soldier. Most of the time, I still am a nice, civilized member of society. There are days, though, when I have to _pretend_ that I am. You haven't met my buddy Eduardo yet. Great example of someone who learned to live his cover. And that's how I've come to think of it, when I have to do it. A cover."

Rel grimaced. "I don't like the thought of lying."

"You're not lying. You're still _you_. Sometimes, though, you'll need to pretend to be yourself, so no one sees what else is in there _with_ you. And there's no one more qualified than you to do that, right? Fake it till you make it." Sam paused. "In a way, you're lucky. Dara's going to understand that a hell of a lot better than most wives do. I had to hide it from Sarrie most of the time. I know Lantar has to hide it from Ellie. I _don't_ have to hide it from Kasumi. On the other hand, Lantar gets a damn break from everything." Another shrug. "Wish I could give you better advice. If holding Dara's hand settles you down right now, latch on and hold on tight. There isn't a whole lot about Tokyo that _isn't_ going to seem very alien to you right now, and at the moment, _alien_ is setting off gongs for you, isn't it?"

"Judging by this morning. . . yeah." Rel rubbed at his head a bit. "Hell, _unoccupied_ is driving me nuts, too. Guess I'll go carve or something."

"Bring it in here. I'll kick on something on the extranet. Sooner or later, the girls will be back."

Rel was a little uncomfortable bringing in his carving; while he'd done this around his roommates, more or less out of necessity, the work had always been a private thing for him before. He did bring out the _allora_ branch and put it on the desk for Sam to look at, before digging out his current work. Sam picked up the finished carving, with its dozens of intricately detailed flowers and leaves, and whistled. "How long did this take you, son?"

"Sixty, seventy days or so. Finished it in my sixth or seventh week at OCS. I'd leave the barracks door open, so anyone who wanted to talk could come in—wouldn't want to look _unsociable_—" Rel's grin was a little tight here, "and just work on it at night after I was done with course work."

"You guys have sociability as a rating on your evals, too?" Sam clicked on the extranet connection, and an aerogel screen rose in the center of the room, and he started browsing for vid feeds. Everything initially seemed to be local, and brightly colored, with streams of alien text swimming by over the announcers' human faces. He eventually found a galactic feed, and switched the narration to standard English. News and sports from half a dozen planets, changing over on the half hour.

"Yeah, we do. It's not measured quite the same as in human forces, though. But still, a metric for how much you're embracing the spirit of the unit."

Sam snickered. "Sarrie _hated_ having to socialize with all the officers' wives. They're all supposed to host a party or two over the course of a year, and everyone's required to attend. You have that, too?"

Rel grimaced. "That sounds . . . oddly gender-biased." _Again. Like the contract clauses._ "It makes the assumption that the female mate is _not_ a member of the unit, and can only contribute by what, cooking?"

Sam snorted. "Well, it's kind of an _old_ tradition, yeah. But while every branch of the service is now open to females here in the Alliance, a lot of women still don't actually apply for the rates. Hell, a lot of women just plain don't enlist. That's one of the things about being all-volunteer. You only get the people who _do_ volunteer." He chuckled again, ruefully, leaning back to watch the vid feed. "By the time I got out, I was a full commander, and Sarrrie'd spent six years quietly _loathing_ all the other wives. There's something about young lieutenants—no offense, son—but the human variety almost always seem to pick trophy wives, at best."

Rel unrolled his latest carving, in _jalae _wood, and tapped his VI for the term. And promptly laughed. If he understood the term correctly, there was no way that Dara could _ever_ be considered such, no. "And these young females disliked her as well, I take it?"

"Lord, yes. They were intimidated by her, I think.. She was never uppity about it, but they couldn't make conversation with her to save their souls. She was a bio-engineer. Master's degree, University of Houston, in biochemistry. They were, in the main, housewives. Salesclerks at the commissary. Secretaries. Maybe a couple of elementary school teachers. About the best she could do for conversation with them was listen to their office politics, their kid stories, and trade cupcake recipes. She was polite about it, but bored out of her damn mind within ten minutes of every damn party. And since they pretty much _lived_ for this crap. . . ." Sam shrugged, and flipped the feed away from the latest news of another matriarch involved in the Lina Vasir scandal being apprehended by a justicar.

"That sounds like it's work-related," Rel noted, starting to cut into the statue, carefully scraping down another layer of wood.

"Which is exactly why I'm _not_ listening to it right now. Chances are there'll be something in my mailbox about it when I check it tonight, but I'm _not_ going to think about it yet." Sam flipped to another feed. "Hey, gladiatorial championships on Macedyn. Lantar says Eli's getting pretty good at that style of fighting. Good reflexes."

Rel studied the statue in his hands. The two figures were roughed in, at least. No faces yet, no details at all. Just rough, geometric shapes showing torsos and limbs. Mostly, he'd worked at defining the space between them. And, since the topic was still fresh in his mind, he offered, quietly, "Everyone on Palaven has been in, or will be in, or still _is_ in the military. There are required social gatherings, yes, but nothing like what you've described, which sound. . . awkward. If your mate and you are in the same unit, you're both required to attend. I _believe_ officers are required to hold them for everyone under their command. So that includes enlisted as well as other officers junior to you." Rel grinned. "I'm told that there were generals in the pre-Unification days who bankrupted themselves trying to put on too lavish of a party for too many troops."

"Sort of a pyramid scheme. Or maybe medieval is the right word here." Sam thought about it. "Feudal. You give your allegiance to the one above you, and get reciprocity."

"A bit, yes. But everyone gets something out of it, and everyone gives back to it. Nowadays, everyone brings a requested item or food. And some officers more or less band together and get it all out of the way at once, so you don't wind up having to do this more than three, four times a year. Depending on your command structure, anyway. On a base, with _lots_ of officers around, it might well wind up being once a month, but out on a ship? Not as much. From what my brother's told me, there are vid nights and social, ah, exercises."

"Social exercises?"

"I'd say games, but mock-hunts probably wouldn't sound like a game to you." Rel glanced up at the screen as the crowd noise surged, and hissed a little at the replay on a particularly brutal spear attack, just barely deflected by an upraised shield.

"No, 'social exercises' sounds more like _training_ to me."

Rel waggled a hand back and forth, then went back to carving. "Little of both, I guess. Hunting each other is a way to blow off steam. And of course sparring. And many fewer restrictions on _fraternization_ than humans have."

And then the women were finally back. Dara's hair was cropped much shorter now, but Rel liked it. "Looks more symmetrical than when I cut off the back," he told her, and got a squeeze of the fingers in thanks for his words. He cleaned up the carving materials and they all had lunch, and then Kasumi, face a little grim, hailed them another cab, and they were off to meet with her parents.

**Sam**

He could read tension in the set of Kasumi's shoulders, and rubbed at them a little with an open palm in the cab on the ride across town. He wasn't really sure what to expect, to be honest. He'd seen pictures of her parents, but that was really all she'd said, except that her father was very traditional. A real company-man, apparently, who'd worked for Daihatsu for forty years before entering what was commonly called 'first retirement' here; it meant that at age sixty-five, someone collected their main pension, but was now free to work elsewhere. And in a world where the lifespan now approached 120 to 150 years of age, everyone _needed_ to work at least another forty years. His second career was, apparently, as a company-man _again_, this time for the Futaba corporation.

Sam would have, twenty years ago, been more nervous. He'd admit to a certain concern, but it was much more on Kasumi's behalf, than on his own. They'd either accept him or they wouldn't; it wouldn't affect him much, because he couldn't really conceive of Kasumi deciding not to go through with the wedding at this point, based on the reaction of parents with whom she wasn't even close. That being said, he _did_ worry about what their reaction would do to her.

And he was more than a little concerned about bringing his daughter and his son-in-law with them. Kasumi had insisted, however. "They need to see what their family is joining with," she'd said, firmly. "My father may decide to disown me officially, and that's certainly within his rights, but they also have the right to know."

Sam had shaken his head, more than a little dubiously, but he was pretty much letting Kasumi have her head on this subject. "They're your family, darlin'," he told her. "I'll just stand by with a trampoline in case anyone decides to jump."

Katashi and Hinata Goto were, indeed, in their sixties, but well-preserved, in the way people with access to the gerontological treatments tended to be; their hair remained dark, and their skin unlined, but their movements were slower than people in a younger age group would be. When Hinata answered the door, the little woman's face glowed at the sight of Kasumi, and she wrapped her arms immediately around her daughter, babbling at her cheerfully, and Sam could clearly see how moved both women were to see one another again—he could even read a little guilt in Kasumi's eyes, at having been so long away, he guessed. "Mother," Kasumi said. "This is Sam Jaworski, my fiancée. And this is his daughter, Dara Velnaran, and her husband, Rellus Velnaran." Sam had no idea if there was a correct order to be introduced in, but stepped forward and bowed carefully, hands at his sides. He'd always had a little difficulty telling how low he was technically supposed to bow at any point, but opted for 'lower than casual' and a touch longer, on the theory that a little more formality was probably not amiss. Dara had evidently gotten a few cultural lessons over the course of the morning, and managed to get her hands together at thigh level and drop a fairly decent bow. Rel, glancing between the two of them, lowered his head slightly in respect. Turians might bow for their Imperator, but not for anyone else, Sam kind of reckoned.

"Come in, come in," Hinata told them, backing in the door, eyes flicking up to Sam, then to Dara, and then to Rel during the bows and introductions. . . and widening comically before flicking right back to Kasumi again.

Inside, Sam immediately took off his shoes and accepted house-shoes in their place. Dara and Rel had both _long_ since gotten used to this at Kasumi's home back on Mindoir, and did the same. . . although, at least on Mindoir, Kasumi had at least had size fifteen house shoes that more or less accommodated her various turian guests and their two-toed feet; here, Sam listened as Rel was apologized to, profusely, for the indignity of having to remain in his socks.

Sam cleared his throat and intervened, offering a little hostess gift. "_Tsumaranai mono desu ga_." _Though this is not valuable, please accept my gift_. They were fresh flowers, picked up at the hotel before they left—and that distracted Hinata just enough. Rel muttered, very quietly, "Thanks, _pada'amu_," and then Katashi appeared in a doorway. Expressionless. _Well, she did say her old man was traditional, and a company-man. Means he worked sixty, seventy-hour weeks the whole time she was growing up. He blinked, and then she was a grown woman, I guess, with very much a mind of her own._

"_Musume_." _My daughter._ Katashi said, as Hinata came back in, her smile fading into uncertainty as she looked between daughter and husband.

"_Oto-sama_." It was the most formal way of addressing a father possible. Sam sighed internally. This was going to be a _long_ afternoon and evening, from the looks of it.

Kasumi again introduced him, his daughter, and his son-in-law, and Hinata gently moved them all to the living room, where she was getting tea ready. "I'm sorry," she told Rel after a moment's thought. "I did not think to have anything ready that a turian might drink."

"I can manage green tea," Rel assured her. "Kasumi has occasionally run out of _apha_ for her guests, which has given me the opportunity to try oolong and stuff like that."

Hinata looked delighted, and settled a tiny, paper-thin cup in front of Rel, as she had for everyone else. Sam watched his son-in-law pick up the cup very carefully indeed in his big hands; it looked doll-sized, delicately raised in that three-fingered grip.

Conversation was. . . stilted. Hinata was plainly _delighted_ that her daughter was getting married, and asked dozens of questions about the location, the ceremony, the clothing, and greeted each answer with little smiles. Katashi remained absolutely silent, drinking his tea, and simply observing. It was a little rude, as far as Sam understood it. On the one hand, Katashi had his dignity, and he had to respect that. On the other hand. . . gruff was fine, but this was a little excessive. An internal sigh. _Don't poke the bear with a stick. You've already lost points by virtue of being American, probably. Don't compound it by opening your big damn mouth and looking like a fool, too_.

Then Hinata had moved, very carefully, into the dangerous social waters of, "So, how did you two meet?"

Kasumi threw Sam a glance. "Actually, we met at work," he replied, realizing it was now his turn to make conversation. _Thanks, sweetie. And you were doing so well, too._

Hinata looked briefly disturbed. "Ah. You must forgive me, but with whom are you employed?"

Not _what do you do_, of course, because specific job skills weren't really the issue in their culture; a cog could be moved anywhere within the great corporate machine. "A year ago, the answer would have been the Texas Rangers, ma'am. Law enforcement agency. Currently, though, it's the Special Tasks and Reconnaissance Group. Galactic level."

It always took people a moment to put the full name of the organization together with the word _Spectres_ in their heads, and the penny dropping was always worth the wait. Hinata's eyes jerked nervously towards Kasumi; Katashi's expression remained stony. _Interesting. How much do they know. . .or admit to themselves that they know. . . about Kasumi's rather checkered past, I wonder?_ This was almost like a party game for a cop. Who knows what, and who knows that they know, and when did they know it?

Katashi asked, his voice reserved, "And when you say that you met at work, this means. . . ?"

_What, that I arrested her, and it was love at first shackling? Please._ Sam wanted to laugh, but controlled himself, and replied, mildly, "It means that Kasumi is one of Commander Shepard's chief advisors, and as such, we work together." He put his fingers lightly over hers, and added, "Additionally, when I had to go off-world, she did me the favor of looking after my daughter for me—before Dara came of age, of course."

Hinata's mouth formed a little round O of surprise, and Katashi actually blinked. There was almost a hint of anger there, as if the man thought Sam were mocking him, somehow. But restrained; deeply, carefully restrained. "Kasumi has not spoken much of her current employment," Hinata said, quickly, interposing the statement, throwing oil onto the potentially troubled conversational waters.

Kasumi smiled, tightly. A little unhappily. "An unfortunate necessity of becoming security chief for the Spectres is that I can't actually talk much about what I do."

Again those flickers of disbelief in their eyes. Sam shook his head mentally. _Ah, sweetie. You really probably should have talked with them a __little__ more the past few years. Right now, you're dropping bombshells left and right._

After several rounds of politely negotiating the process of getting out the various family pictures, including all of Dara and Rel's wedding ones, they were able to show documentary evidence that yes, they did indeed work for the Special Tasks and Reconnaissance Group, with Garrus and Shepard and everyone else. Not that the parents had been so rude as to accuse them of lying, but it did well to establish that they _weren't_.

Hinata insisted that they stay for dinner, which occasioned more awkwardness, since there was not one thing available that Rel could actually eat. _This is going __really__ well, _Sam thought, grimly, and muttered to his son-in-law, "We've got dextro stuff back at the hotel—"

"Don't worry about it. I can wait an hour or so. Everything smells _fresh_, though." The young male's grin was rueful. "It's killing me."

Hinata was clearly embarrassed at this oversight, and tried, desperately, to find _something_ that Rel could eat, and there were several rounds of apologies to get through. At this point, Rel was starting to look more embarrassed than Kasumi's mother. Finally, Hinata changed the subject, and turned back to Kasumi, and asked, as lightly as possible, "Whatever happened to that young man whom you brought home, hmm, ten years ago? Keji?"

Kasumi cleared her throat, and replied, carefully, "He, ah, passed away almost eight years ago now, _oka-san_." It was tricky, Sam knew, bringing up death in conversation in many eastern cultures. However, Hinata _had_ asked.

Hinata's beautiful manners and clear desire to make everything _work_ at the table were all that kept the conversation going after that, as she quickly apologized for reminding her daughter of that memory, and moved them onto the happier ground of the upcoming marriage. "Is there anything you need from us?" she asked, chirpy and chipper.

Katashi made a slightly grumpy noise from the head of the table. Kasumi shook her head, and told her mother, "Just for the two of you to be there. Everything is arranged."

"Are you asking for my approval?" That came from Katashi, dropping like a thunderbolt.

Sam sighed internally. _Good lord. The woman's basically Shepard's age. A little younger than I am, but still, thirty-six, thirty-seven years old. Isn't it a little ridiculous to act as if she __needs__ your approval at this point?_ On the other hand, it wasn't his culture. And it wasn't _his_ family. So, again, he kept his mouth shut. Kept his hand resting lightly on Kasumi's, letting her know he was there if she needed him, but not about to go trampling in and making it worse if she had a better way of dealing with it.

Although, the lord knew, he'd _love_ to go trampling in at this point. Katashi's attitude got on his last nerve.

Kasumi's lips tightened slightly. "If you are inclined to give it, _oto-sama_, it would make me happy to have it." Sam could hear the unspoken words that followed that soft sentence, however: _but if you withhold it, it's not going to make much of a difference._

"Hmm." A short pause. "Then we will see you at your wedding, _musume_." He paused. "It would not be objectionable, if we were to hear from you more often in the future as well. Your mother misses your comm calls." _And you do, too, you grumpy ol' bastard. Don't put it all on her mom._

They made their farewells, and escaped back in the direction of their hotel. Sam couldn't help but chuckle when Dara said, with a sigh, "Okay, thank god that's over with. I thought I was going to put a great big American foot in my mouth the entire time. Or break something."

He and Rel both looked down at her, and started to chuckle; from their perspective, course, she was downright _dainty_, and her fear of breaking something seemed ludicrous. "I wondered why you didn't say a _word_ the entire meal," Rel told Dara, and Sam saw the quick nip to the inner wrist that accompanied the words.

"Better not to say _anything at all_ than say something that was going to make it worse," Dara said, fervently.

Kasumi chuckled. "Thank you all for being so very much on your best behavior. I think the actual wedding will be much less uncomfortable." 

Sam caught her hand in his again. "Your mom's quite a lady."

Kasumi nodded. "She is. She really tries to make everyone around her as comfortable as possible." She chuckled. "You should have seen the bento boxes I wound up taking to school as a child. It's a competition among Japanese mothers to see whose boxes are the best, and my mother's were. . . "

"A little excessive?"

"I have it on good authority a couple of my classmates' mothers cried themselves to sleep every day for a year," Kasumi replied lightly. "She's very caring."

"It shows. I can see a lot of her in you, though." Sam pulled Kasumi closer to him on the seat.

Her lips tightened a little. "I hadn't realized how _much_ I'd actually missed her." Her voice carried a thread of guilt now.

Sam lightened his tone deliberately, trying to distract her. "Now, your dad, I can't see any resemblance at _all_."

And everyone in the car started to chuckle, at least a bit.

**Dara and Rellus**

The big sunken tub was every bit as comfortable as she'd hoped it would be when she first saw it, and soaking up to her chin in hot water was a blissful way to scrub the last of boot camp out of her pores. "You going to join me, Rel?" she called into the other room.

Her turian mate came into the bathroom and looked down at her, clearly amused. "If I do, there's a better than even chance there will be water _everywhere_ in the bathroom inside of ten minutes." Rel sat down on the edge of the pool and dangled his feet in the warm water, and switched languages, _"I can't seem to keep my hands off of you, beloved. And while I know you don't __mind__ a little soreness, I'd __much__ rather keep my access to your body unrestricted for the next thirteen days or so."_

She turned in the tub, resting her chin on his knees, and lightly began to trace the base of his spurs with her fingertips, commenting, softly, _"Medigel is a miraculous invention. That's all I'm going to say on the subject."_

Rel blinked. Her hands felt _entirely_ too good, and he hadn't been entirely joking about not being able to keep his own off of her. He knew, rationally, that it had to do with the hair trigger he and Jaworski had discussed earlier in the day, and that his body, in the absence of anything real to fight, was looking for a different outlet. Rational thought didn't entirely help. Not with his little mate's hands on him. He added, hearing his own voice grate, _"Besides, they'll hear us."_

"_Not if we're quiet."_

"_Sweetness, I can hear __them__."_

"_Talking?"_

"_They're not __conversing__ at the moment, no."_

Dara blinked. _"Spirits, I'm __never__ going to get used to the hearing and the smell. That's just __disturbing,__ beloved." _She grinned a little now. _"On the other hand, this is very good timing. They should be much too distracted to notice. . . ."_

Rel put a finger on her lips, eyes very intent now. _"Later. When they're asleep. Then we can test the limits of human stamina."_

"_I've wondered. . . "_ Dara hesitated.

"_Hmm?"_

"_I've wondered how different it would be, for you to take me as if I were a turian female in estrus?"_

She could feel his muscles tense, saw his eyes half-close. Oh yes, he liked the idea. She gotten a very clear impression earlier in the day of the tensions in him. Had felt him relax every time she'd touched him. She had a good idea of how much of a hair-trigger he was on at the moment. This was just confirmation.

A couple of quick breaths through his nose as he fought for control. _"Not a good idea, sweetness. Playing at resistance might make me not able to distinguish between play and when you're resisting because you're actually hurting."_

"_I'd have to resist you? Like that once, in the meadow?"_ Her breath caught a little.

"_Yes. At least a little. A female in estrus __wants__. It's all she knows."_ He laughed a bit. It was so much easier to talk to her about these things now. She wasn't going to pull away or be shocked. She'd lived among turians, been through the same fires as he had, spoke the language fluently now. _"I was nine and ten when my last two siblings were born, beloved. A year before each of them was born, my mother was in estrus. It was. . . a little unsettling. Especially when it's unexpected, as the last one, Quintus, was. They'd __decided__ to have Polina; Rinus and Serana and I got packed off to our grandparents for the week when the estrus was due, and there was an end to it." _Rel shrugged out of his shirt and pants, and finally got into the water with her, pulled her back into his chest. She lowered her hands, still kept rubbing the base of the spurs. Relaxing him. "_But the medications didn't settle in right after Polina. Suddenly, one morning at breakfast, she just leaned over and bit my father. Drew blood on him, growled. Nothing I'd ever seen from her before. My father ordered me and Rinus and Serana out of the house, and we had to go to the neighbors' for the next day or so, with Polina in a little travel crib."_ He preened her hair now, gently. It had been an _odd_ time. He didn't want to imagine what life had been like in families before the medications were available, and estrus had been unpredictable. Females had been kept _very_ close to the house in those days, for example. And it was also a strong reason for why mates went off to war _together_. It ensured that when estrus happened, they were both _there_. It also explained the strength of the turian family as an institution. There was _always_ someplace for the kids to go for a while. Someplace that was calm and safe. And the parents could always have privacy, if it were needed.

"_She wouldn't have hurt you?" _Dara asked now, quietly.

"_She wouldn't have __known__ she was doing so. It's the male's responsibility to control the situation at that point. If she doesn't have a mate, she'll seek out whoever she considers the strongest male and try to get his interest. It's one of the reasons why the meds are so damned important. The meds are what let us __not__ have to marry off females the instant they come of age anymore."_

"_I imagine that the laws and the rules used to have to be pretty strict to avoid the social disruption. I take it that if they inadvertently used to go after an, ah, attached male, that his existing mate would fight her?"_

Rel nodded slowly, wincing. _"It was known to happen. Then the male had to be strong enough, dominant enough, to control both of them. Helped if he had a brother or someone else loyal to him. Sort of like your lions in their prides, sweetness. Sometimes brother lions control a territory together?"_

She nodded, still tracing her fingers up and down his spurs. _"Another reason why turian siblings tend to be so close?"_

"_Yeah. Cave and nest days, parents would drive the young from the nest once they were too old. Then siblings were all that could rely on each other. Socially, we've progressed from there. Fathers stayed dominant. The alpha wolf or the pride male, in your world's systems. His control needs to be absolute. The mother's control over the children is absolute, also. But once you're out on your own, the siblings still become very important. It's a holdover, I guess." _Yet another reason there was no such concept as _nepotism_ in the turian mind.

"_Would the eldest sibling have always been dominant?"_

"_Likely, yes."_ Rel started to chuckle. _"Occasionally, the younger ones might turn out a little stronger or faster. You're about to ask how Rinus is going to deal with me outranking him, aren't you?"_

"_The thought did occur."_ She leaned into him, enjoying the water, the closeness.

"_At work, I'm going to be a very new lieutenant. Lieutenants are supposed to lean on centurions and learn from them. He's not in my direct chain, either. So, no problems in any direction. I can technically give him an order, and he technically has to follow it, but again, that's not a problem. That's work. At home? He's always going to be first-son."_ Rel shrugged. _"I could become commander of the Spectres, outrank him socially and militarily and he'd still be first-son, if that makes any sense at all."_

"_Not a bit."_

"_It means that he'll always be something he's first at, so all the rest probably wouldn't bother him much?"_

"_Ah, okay, that I get." _Dara smoothed her hands over his legs, up to his knees. In this hot water, the difference between their body temperatures was damned near indistinguishable. She liked it. Returning to a previous topic, she asked, almost idly, _"So how __does__ a female in estrus get her prospective mate's attention, anyway?"_

Rel snorted. _"It's pretty straightforward, and a little violent by other species' standards."_

"_Biting?"_

"_Biting. A slap or a slash with the claws. Anything to get the adrenal surge going. Plus, there are the hormone shifts and the scents that come with them. Blue flush in her crest."_ Rel's hands had wandered to her waist now, and he pulled her closer to start biting along her neck and shoulders.

"_What happens if a female goes into estrus on a ship?"_

"_If she doesn't have a mate aboard, you can __try__ to keep her sedated for the duration, but just securing her to administer the sedatives can be dangerous, and __keeping__ her knocked out that long can also be dangerous for her health. It's generally considered preferable if she picks an unattached male and he, ah, takes care of her for a while."_

"_Takes care of?"_

Rel winced. _"Keeps all of her weapons under control, sweetness. Hooks her spurs with his, holds her wrists, full control bite, pins her with his weight, and takes her as fully and as often as she needs until either the cycle runs its course, or conception takes place, and the estrus fades."_ He buried his teeth in her shoulder now, lifting his head to mutter, hoarsely. _"Spirits, now I __am__ picturing it with you." _He was, too. It was hard _not_ to picture it, in fact, her body pinned under his, fully secured, him hilt-deep in her sweetest place, but he knew he'd better get his mind off of that image, and quickly.

"_Good. Sort of the idea."_

_Spirits, sweetness, you're a witch. _His arms tensed around her reflexively, and then he pulled back a bit.

She shifted the topic a little, respecting his reluctance, for the moment. _"I have an impression that Lantar might have experienced this scenario on a ship." _Dara phrased it delicately. _"Would that mean that Caelia has a full turian brother or sister wandering around, then? I mean, paternity suits and all that. . . got to be an issue."_

Rel snorted, regaining a little of his composure. _"Estrus can pass without conception. Depends on how messed up the medications actually are. And in such a case, it would be ill-mannered, to say the least, to sue the father for child-support. If the female screwed up her own damned meds—or worse yet, __deliberately__ didn't take them, then she's responsible. If the med bay screwed them up—which has been known to happen—then the military owes support. Not the guy who more or less threw himself on a grenade. Admittedly, a pretty enjoyable grenade, but still. . . ."_ Rel paused, his hands having worked lower. _"Why the hell are we talking about this?"_

"_Because I was waiting for you to tell me when they'd fallen asleep."_

"_No noises from their side of the door,"_ he reported, lifting his head for a moment to listen.

"_Good."_ Dara turned back towards him, and bit him, hard. _"You haven't even __marked__ me since I got out of boot camp, beloved. I know you're worried about the damned teeth and __futtari_ _Lintorum. The hell with that. I can __feel__ how much tension you're carrying with you at the moment. Come to bed and let it __go_ _for a while."_ Dara smiled up at him uncertainly. _"Do I actually need to slap you?"_

Rel stood up, and lifted her up out of the tub, setting her on her feet, dripping, on the tile, then boosted himself out, too. _"That would be if I weren't __ready__,_" he told her, a little amused and a lot uncertain. The talk, the touch, had definitely already accomplished that _much_. _"I—sweetness, I don't want to hurt you. I can't be even a __little__ human for you this way. I don't think I'll be able to hold back at all." _

Pure, naked need in his eyes now._ "I'll tell you if anything's wrong,"_ she told him.

"_Promise me. Say _stop_ in English if you need me to."_

"_I swear."_

He took a deep breath. _"Fight me."_

A little mock-resistance on the way to the bed, testing her strength against his. Digging in her heels a bit. Seeing his eyes go more distant as he clamped his hands around her wrists, turned her around, pushed her to the bed. Scrape of the base of his dangerous spurs along the backs of her calves as he settled in place. _"Resist. Just a little. Not too much—oh, spirits, yes, like that, sweetness, like that. . . ._" as she tried to raise her wrists, arched her body. Fought him. . . just a little. Smiling as she did. Felt his weight come down on hers, his strength. A game of trust, really. She _knew_ he'd never hurt her. He knew she'd always submit to him. Being taken, deeply, and very hard, as he whispered soft words of praise and instruction against her ear, _"Yes, fight harder now. Don't make it easy."_

"_You can go harder, Rel. I can take it."_

"_You sure?"_

"_Yes!"_ She turned her head and bit his forearm, and he snarled softly and let go of all that careful control, and then his teeth clamped down and there were no more words; she submitted completely to the silent language of his body.

In the end, he pulled away, preening her hair with his fingers. _"Thank you," _he finally said, between gasps for air. _"Are you all right?"_

"_Very much so."_ Dara rolled over and tucked her head into his shoulder. _"You think you __might__ be able to relax now?"_

"_If I say no, do I get to do that again?" _Mild amusement in his tone, and a little anticipation.

Dara picked up her pillow and smacked Rel over the head with it.

On the positive side, he _did_ seem a good deal more relaxed over the next few days. Of course, they were also heading into less populated areas of the country, although they did have to leap a few transportation hurdles, first.

They left the next morning on a bullet-train for Osaka; this was Dara's first encounter with Japanese mass transportation, and she was very uncomfortable the entire time. It was amazingly crowded. She'd expected this from the commuter trains in Tokyo itself, but not from a train that was heading into the countryside. And while she'd heard that people on such trains could get a little, well, handsy, she _was _standing next to a turian who was damned near seven feet in height. The people-watching was fun, in a way, too. It was almost like being in New York, in a way. People looked up, saw Rel; the eyes widened. . . and then everyone looked away again. Immediately. In New York, it would have been because they didn't want to look as if this weren't a completely routine experience. Here, it seemed to be out of politeness. And no comments about her in his clan paint.

Well, none she _understood_, anyway. She was keeping her VI translation turned down to minimum for the moment. It let her pretend that no one understood what the paint and the knife meant, or that they were too polite to care. Either way, it was welcome.

Still, the ride was amazingly _fast _for a method of transportation that wasn't airborne, so the trains had that going for them. They changed to a different train in Osaka, one that headed south to some place called Wakayama, and from there, they headed east, towards Shingu; the map on her omnitool told Dara that they'd be stopping west of Shingu, in the Kumano mountains. Three of which were sacred, the data scrolling alongside the map told her.

Rel muttered glumly, looking at the gray sky, "It's going to snow, isn't it?" It wasn't quite as bad as Palaven's south polar regions, but it was already edging into the _uncomfortable_ region for him.

"It's about forty-one Fahrenheit, or about five degrees centigrade, and yeah, the forecast calls for snow." Dara rubbed his shoulder commiseratingly. "After a hundred and ten days on Palaven, _amatus?_ I think you owe me some skiing."

He snorted. "You're kidding, right?"

"They have ski resorts here. Mostly up to the north, though." Dara awarded him a cheerful smile. "It would be _fun_."

Turians couldn't shiver, but Rel pretended to do so now. "_Mellis_, I left my armor on the ship. No thermal units in these shoes, either."

"I'd buy you a hat and a thick, wooly scarf," she offered, brightly. "The gloves and the ski boots might take a little custom work, though."

Kasumi, sitting next to them, started to laugh, a little helplessly. "I'm sorry," she apologized, when she got her breath back. "It's the mental image."

Rel started to chuckle then, too, a little reluctantly, but he looked relaxed while he was laughing, so Dara counted it a victory.

Dara might not know _sacred_ when she looked at it, but she could identify _beautiful_, and the countryside in the sacred mountains was breathtaking. They were staying at a hotel not far from the shrine itself, but still had a couple of days to wait for the actual ceremony. Dara tried to keep Rel occupied by getting out and exploring the valley. . . an interesting experience for both of them, since _neither_ of them spoke the language, and one of them was, obviously, alien. This area was nowhere near as cosmopolitan as Tokyo, either. The stares were longer, but the hospitality was still excellent.

Dara's grandmother flew in from Texas on the twenty-third, which added a layer of complexity to everything. She needed a kimono fitting herself, and was staying at their hotel, and couldn't _believe_ that Dara was now in the turian military. Dara was trying to duck conversations with her, but Grandma Agnes _had _to be there for this, and she also _had_ to make nice with her father's mother. Fortunately, Uncle Hamilton and Aunt Allison were staying in Texas for _this_ wedding. Neither felt a need to see their brother-in-law get remarried, apparently.

Finally, Saturday, February 25 arrived. Kasumi had to be on site at the Kumano Nachi Taisha shrine early in the morning, to start preparations, and Dara had to go with her. "And I thought _furisode_, with twelve different pieces of clothing, were complicated," Dara told her, ruefully, as a kimono-dresser packed her into her own _homongi_. Less complicated and colorful than a _furisode_, it was the most elaborate kimono that a married woman could, traditionally, wear. Dara's had been picked by Kasumi, saving her the need to make any decisions; it was yellow with white cranes on it, which Dara actually really liked. The attendant was having some fits, however, because Dara was _not_ going to remove her wedding knife, which apparently interfered with the line of the left sleeve. The dresser also had some issues with the golden clan-paint on her face. Dara simply gave the woman a big smile and thanked her for her time.

By the time Dara was dressed, Kasumi was still very much in process. "They're really painting you white from head to toe?" Dara asked. "Why?"

"Believe it or not, to show my virginal state to the gods."

Dara covered her mouth with one hand, and tried to remember turian stoicism. "Sort of like wearing a white dress to a Western wedding?"

Kasumi nodded, dimpling a little. "It _is_ my first actual _wedding_." She grinned. "I think the gods will understand."

Then a white silk undergarment, called, apparently, a _shiro-muku_ was put on her, followed by a an overkimono, or an _uchikake_. This was pure white, embroidered heavily in white-on-white—and was long all the way around. As in, not only did it have a train in back, but one in the front, too. Dara stared at it. "How are you going to walk in that?"

"You're going to be helping me, dear."

"Ahhh. I knew there was a reason I was here."

Little white socks, like the ones on Dara's feet, thong sandals called _zori_. A white-on-white _obi_ at the waist, into which a white-sheathed, black-hilted dagger, called a _kaiken_, was tucked. "You get a wedding knife after all?" Dara asked, grinning.

"They were originally used for eating and self-defense, and, very occasionally, for ritual suicide. Now they're just a good luck thing for weddings. Like something borrowed and something blue for Western weddings." Kasumi's expression was very content. She also had a small sandalwood fan tucked into her obi, and was going to be carrying a very traditional purse called a _hakoseko_.

This whole process had taken an hour. Now there was going to be about an hour dedicated just to the hair. Her natural hair was tucked away under a wig, coiffed into a style Kasumi called the _bunkintakashimada_. Dara decided at this point just to nod. Beautiful little ornaments called _kanzashi_ were tucked into the hair, and then all of _that_ was covered by a white, hood-like veil. "_Tsuno-kakushi_," Kasumi told her. "It supposedly covers up my horns of jealousy, and lets everyone see that I'm willing to submit myself and become a meek and modest wife."

Hinata, who had been watching the whole process, came over and removed the veil once, and put it back on again. "This is the last service I may do for my daughter as an unmarried woman," she said, looking very proud.

"And you thought you'd never see the day," Kasumi teased her mother, gently.

Hinata shook her head, and turned her face away so that no one would be able to see her dab at her eyes a little.

Dara had started chuckling outright at Kasumi's words, however. _Meek_ and _modest_ did _not_ describe the little woman at all. "So," she said, when she had control of her voice again, "You think you're about ready to go marry my dad?"

"I think so. You think he's ready to marry me?"

Dara glanced at the clock. "I think he was probably ready an hour and a half ago. By now, he's probably found something else to do, though."

Kasumi shook a finger at her. "Did I not support you all the way through _your_ wedding?"

"Of course you did. I'm sorry. I'm sure my dad is impatiently awaiting the opportunity to marry you, Kasumi." Dara grinned. "Better?"

"Somewhat."

Pictures got taken before the actual ceremony. Dara reminded herself, again, about turian stoicism, and managed a mostly straight face at the picture her dad made in his black kimono and hakama pants. "Don't let that smile get away from you," her dad warned her, leaning down between pictures to whisper in her ear.

"What smile? I'm not smiling. I'm not even _thinking_ of smiling."

"Good. We want nice, serious wedding pictures here. Frowns, even."

Rel was clearly reminding himself of turian stoicism himself, because while his face stayed sober, his eyes were deeply amused. Of course, Rel was the only person present who was _excused_ from Japanese finery. He at least got to wear a turian suit.

The actual ceremony was _only_ attended by the closest of relatives; Agnes Jaworski, Katashi and Hinata Goto, and Dara and Rellus Velnaran, as well as the priest and two shrine maidens, or _maiko_. And Dara was amazed by both how simple the ceremony itself was, and how profound.

The bride and groom entered from opposite sides of the shrine, and there was flute and drum music as they entered. Dara suspected that Sky would have loved it. She and Hinata helped Kasumi with the long train of the _uchikake_, and helped her up to the ceremony area.

Then Kasumi and her father stood between the two groups of relatives, and faced out towards the front of the shrine, not towards each other at all. The priest began a ceremony in Japanese, and Dara couldn't even peek at her VI for translation. She knew it was some sort of a purification ritual, mostly because she'd read up on this all over the past day or so, but damned if she understood the nuances. _I'd understand a __turian__ ceremony better than this, _she thought, feeling a little defeated. _And this is my own damned species._

After the ritual and the blessing, the shrine maidens poured sake into cups. Three cups of different sizes. Her father picked up the smallest, and took three sips from it. Then Kasumi took the same cup, and took three sips. Then her father took the middle cup, and drank three sips from it. Kasumi did the same. And then her father took the largest cup, and drank three sips. . . .and Kasumi did the same.

Hinata stirred a little, and clapped her hands together at this point. Rel dropped his head and whispered in Dara's ear, "So, they're married now?"

"I think so, technically."

"That's all it takes?"

"I know, anticlimactic when you expected three hours of reading vows. I think there's a _little_ more to go, though."

After the _san-san-kudo, _or the ritual drinking of the sake, the priest handed her father a scroll, and, taking a deep breath, he started to read out loud in Japanese. Again, Dara had _no_ idea what he was actually saying. Dara knew these were the groom's words of commitment, but again, nuance was lost on her. _Damn not being able to wear my damn omnitool under this kimono. I'd have liked to have known what he's saying._ But from the expressions or surprise and pleasure on Katashi and Hinata's faces, he wasn't completely mangling the language, though. _He's been practicing, I guess_.

At that point, then the two of them exchanged rings, a little western touch, and the priest nodded, took the scroll back from Sam, and then gave both the bride and groom what looked like twigs. These were offerings to the _kami_, Dara understood.

Then the shrine maidens poured more sake, and offered cups to everyone present. Rel looked at his dubiously, and let the cup touch his lip-plates politely, for form's sake.

**Sam**

They headed back to the hotel for the reception; Kasumi had booked a large room with a balcony that had a truly amazing view of the sacred Nachi waterfall in the distance, and looked out over the shrines in the valley. Sam had to admit, his wife could _plan_ a party, down to the last detail. "You actually going to relax and enjoy yourself now?" he asked her, deeply amused.

"Oh, I _am_ enjoying myself, Sam." Kasumi grinned up at him. "It's not _quite_ as challenging as making sure the alarms don't go off and the security cams don't see me and that I time everything _exactly_ right, but it uses all the same mental muscles."

He snickered. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear _any_ of that."

"I only use my powers for good now, Sam." Her grin was wicked. "The Master of Ceremonies is about to announce us." She squeezed his hand in hers. "Are you ready?"

Sam chuckled. "As I'm going to be, darlin'." _Just keep in mind,_ he told her again silently, _the worse it is today, the more I'm taking it out of your hide later_. The thought had no sting at all, but he _did_ plan to enjoy himself later. At length.

They entered, Dara and Hinata still having to help with Kasumi's heavy, lengthy kimono, and got to the little elevated stage where their table was settled. Sam knew any number of his fellow Spectres were chuckling under their breaths at the moment. _Just you wait,_ he thought, without rancor.

Katashi and Hinata went wide-eyed and silent as they went to their table, which happened to be beside Garrus and Shepard's; their children were still up on the _Normandy_, being looked after by the crew. Thus, they could only stay an hour or so. It was still good to have them there.

There was food, of course, integral at most weddings, regardless of the human culture of origin; Kasumi had opted for a mix of fare, from dextro options for their many turian guests, to French cuisine for the various American guests, to _fugu_ sashimi for the Japanese guests. From where he sat, Sam could clearly hear three sets of mixed couples talking as they examined the chrysanthemum-shaped patter of the potentially deadly puffer fish. 

"It's prepared from the flesh of a potentially poisonous fish?" Lantar asked, sounding a little unbelieving.

"Specially trained chefs," Shepard replied, looking down at it, herself.

"And eating it proves what, exactly?" Garrus asked.

"That you're brave, or that you trust the chef, I guess," Ellie suggested, after a moment.

Dara eyed the fish carefully. "You know, I think my courage is tested every damned time I eat something dextro."

Shepard snorted. "Yeah. I've had enough poisonings for one year without _volunteering_ for another."

Sam, at his table only a few feet away, guffawed quietly, and got his ankle nudged by his wife's toes for his pains.

The other guests showed no such reservations. Gris in particular seemed to enjoy the dish; then again, it would take a _lot_ to damage a krogan's digestive tract.

Japanese wedding receptions were a _bit_ different than their western counterparts. For instance, the guests were expected to make speeches, and amuse everyone else. The Master of Ceremonies asked various people to stand and make speeches. This went over like a lead balloon with most of the Spectres. Shepard rallied, when asked, and stood to say several polite things about both of them. "Kasumi has been with me since before we went to take out the Collector base, what, six, seven years ago now? She's long since become an integral part of the team, and my very good friend. I don't know what we'd do without her sharp mind, and ability to keep so _many_ pieces of so many completely different puzzles in her head and make sense of them, all at the same time." She paused. "Sam, I've only known for a year or so now, but I think it's clear that we all have grown to trust him and rely on his leadership in many situations. They are both two of the most _committed _people I've ever met. Give either of them a problem to solve, and they're on it, immediately. If something blows up someplace in the galaxy, late at night, you know who calls _me_ to wake me and tell me about it? Kasumi does. You know who's first out the door with his armor on when it's time to go fix that problem? Sam is. Who's still working on data analysis at eight o'clock at night, from home, on a _weekend_—yes, I see the server logs, no, you don't get overtime—" There was laughter all around. "Yeah, it's _both _of them. So I think it's only fitting that they're committed to each other now, as well as to work." Shepard raised her glass. "To Sam and Kasumi!" And then she sat down again, having kept it short and sweet—as the best speeches were.

The Master of Ceremonies tried his absolute best to get everyone on their feet to act out skits and even to sing karaoke. Considering that their guest list included three or four turians—Garrus, Lantar, Rel, and Livanus, another Spectre, were all there—a krogan, a rachni, and a geth, this did not go over any better than the speeches had Although Cohort, in the interests of building _consensus_, did stand when asked, and _did_ emulate the lead singer of Expel 10 when asked to do so. Perfectly. To the last note.

Sky's resulting mental song of _Sings-Not should __not__ sing,_ was clearly audible to the organics all around. _Recording, emulation, not true song._

The Master of Ceremonies was doing his best to recover from the shock of a _geth_ performing karaoke, and now having a rachni sing in his mind. "You can do better then?" he managed to ask.

_Yes._ Sky's mental voice took that challenge, and soared upwards in complex harmonies. Sam's vision dimmed for a moment, and he saw the melody, heard it in colors and visions. Dark and somber at first, grays and blacks and bass notes, mourning and recollection, remembrance and regrets. Sky sang of _loss_, and let everyone in the room see what he and Kasumi had both had, and had lost. Keji's impulsive side, romantic streak, courage and daring; Sarah's steadfastness, intelligence, wisdom, compassion. Then, silence. Just for a moment. Just long enough to show what loss was really like. Absence. Void. Then Sky began to sing again, a different melody. Heavily abstract, metaphorical. Hard to understand; Sam just let it wash over him. There were no actual words, just feelings and images and song. Leit-motifs in palest green, scampering, dancing, a mental image not unlike a cat, a _lanura_, a little, fierce, intelligent creature born of air and fire, leaping from branch to branch, gliding in air, in some dream forest out of Sky's imagination. _That's how he sees Kasumi? Good lord. No wonder he calls her Light-and-Playful-Dancer._ Then the creature of air came to light on a horse's back? No, something else, something _like_ a horse, but also as unlike it as a _lanura_ was from a cat. Hands, not hooves, but not human, either. Not air and fire, this creature—earth and fire, maybe. Solid. Powerful. Slow to move, slow to change, stable as a rock. Lost. Unmoving. Staring at a road ahead of it, but not taking steps along that path into the distant gloom of the forest.

When it did finally shift, it moved quickly, catching the little creature in one hand. Examined it. Saw where they were alike, and unalike. And then opened its hand, letting the little green thing go free. . . but the creature of air and fire stayed, circled around the larger creature's head. Led it down the path. Out of the forest's gloom.

Sky ended his song, and bowed slightly to the Master of Ceremonies, as everyone else blinked and rubbed at their eyes now. Sam kept his own face covered for a moment. _Goddamn, he does hear too much sometimes, doesn't he? _Utterly bizarre, to be _seen_ through the rachni's eyes. Seen as alien, but comprehended in a way that passed human understanding.

Sensing, perhaps, that there was _no_ way in which this could be topped, the Master of Ceremonies retreated, and let the guests get on with socializing on their own.

There were other activities, of course. Kasumi had a couple of costume changes, winding up in a red-and-white kimono and then finally, a western-style red dress by the end. She and Sam had to circulate to a certain extent, and Sam made sure his patience was securely in place as they took several passes around the room to talk to _all_ their guests.

As such, he picked up various odd snippets of conversation here and there. Ellie worrying about Caelia, who was staying with Eduardo and Charis, for the moment; Lantar reassuring her. Elijah asking Dara and Rel about boot camp. "My birthday happens right in the middle of the next scheduled one, so I could either go to that one, early, or the one after, which is what I'm doing, to go with Linianus and Telinus," he explained. "It'll start July 1."

Rel and Dara both glanced at their omnitools. "That's Secdus 21," Dara said, after a moment. "You lucky _bastard_. You're going in the dead of winter." Her tone held not a little envy.

Eli snorted. "On the other hand, by the time I _start_, you'll be off in the fleet somewhere. What do I need to bring with me?"

"Three or four rad coveralls. You'll want more than I did, just so they have a chance to dry out in between wearings. Armor. About two tons of talcum powder. And shave your damn head. Halfway through, I wished _I _had."

"I'm glad you didn't. You'd look very odd without your fringe," Rel told her, amused.

Dara hesitated. "With Gris _and_ Azala both here, I'm kind of surprised that Siara's not. Not that I was really looking forward to seeing her. . . "

"She's changed a bit," Eli commented. "My basic understanding is that Gris took her to Tuchanka for, ah, community service after what she did to you." The young man shrugged. "I didn't ask about it, but she apparently went _back_ over the winter holidays. Voluntarily."

Rel cleared his throat and changed the subject. "And how's your turian coming along?"

Eli grinned up at him, and switched languages. _"Your younger sister is a harsh taskmistress. She demands that I speak nothing but turian to her. Since she is an irresistible target for teasing, however, I find that I must expand my vocabulary to taunt her properly."_

Rel laughed out loud. _"Very good!"_

And then, finally, they were able to bid their guests farewell. Sam and Kasumi retreated back upstairs to their room, and Sam lightly picked her up and stepped her over the threshold, mostly because he could, before depositing her on the floor. "Happy, darlin'?" he asked, quietly.

"Yes." Kasumi looked up at him, face aglow. "Thank you for putting up with everything so well."

"Just because it's not how I did it last time around doesn't mean it doesn't mean something to me." He gave her a kiss on the forehead. "I am, however, going to have my _revenge_."

"Oh?"

"Starting right now." Sam picked her back up again, and dropped her onto the bed from three feet above its surface.

Kasumi's laughter, as always, filled the room like smoke.

_**Author's note:**__ For a pretty decent look at how Sam and Kasumi are dressed, please see: www. japaneselifestyle. com. au/ fashion / uchikake_kimono . html_

_And now I must go placate the work fairy._


	59. Chapter 59: Rituals

**Chapter 59: Rituals**

_**Author's note**__: A big thank-you to CalliesVoice, who, as she's been re-reading chapters, has been calling out stupid typos for me. I try to fix them as I find them, but there's no one in the world who can edit themselves perfectly. I used to tell my students to read their papers out loud to prep them for final draft status (and did that myself), but each of these chapters is a heck of a lot longer than those were. . . . ;-)_

_Questions and answers:____How would a turian deal with the proper kneeling posture in a Japanese house or ceremony, given the spurs? Great question, and here are my thoughts. In a house, say, at the table, a male turian would practically have to take the female kneeling posture (legs to the side, not tucked under the thighs), which his hosts would probably find demeaning for him. Even a cross-legged option would be. . . difficult, at best. A polite host would probably find a chair to accommodate his or her guest, because hospitality and the comfort of the guest would probably (I think, anyway) override tradition here. Sort of like having someone in a wheelchair there; if the guest __can't__ physically take the posture, it's different from someone just plain not __wanting__ to accommodate the tradition._

_Japanese toilets__: *chuckle* I've never actually been to Japan. I realized, dimly, that there was a difference between western and eastern toilets because my husband spent three months in Korea the year we got married, and expressed how grateful he was that his hotel had western 'sit down on a throne' models, while the shipyard had more of the 'crouch down and do your business' models. That dim recollection made me look up Japanese toilets, which was an adventure in Googling, I have to say. Apparently, many hotels practically have instruction manuals for the western-style Japanese toilets. Bidets, heated seats, and even vibrating, massage options are not uncommon. All I have to say is, wow, the world's come a long way from the Roman "series of holes in a marble bench, communal, outdoor facilities" that __really__ let you get to know your neighbors. . . . _

**Rellus**

The tail end of the reception had been the more enjoyable half of the evening. Seeing familiar faces from the Sunday afternoon poker and cookout parties at the Jaworskis' had definitely been a highlight. Sky had even rustled over to where he and Dara were standing, talking with Elijah, and had greeted them with a happy melody in their minds.

_Sings-Honor and Sings-Heartsong! _The words had appeared in their minds, and they'd both turned to smile at him. Rel had never actually realized that the rachni had a _name_ for him. He felt absurdly complimented by it.

"Not _little singer_ anymore?" Dara had asked, smiling.

_You will always be my little singer. But now, your song and his form counterpoint, polyphony. Do not grieve at absences. You time is near enough._

Rel chuckled. "I've missed you, Sky. Not to mention the exercise my brain gets trying to figure out what you mean."

This was Eli's first time on Earth, as it turned out; he was just as disoriented as Rel was by the local population, although at least they were his own _species_. "What are you two planning on doing, now that the wedding's over?" he asked them. "My parents and I are going to visit my grandparents real quick in Bermuda, and then head home. They really _should_ come to visit _us_, so they could meet Caelia, but. . . they never made it even as far as Bastion before. They're kind of tired of traveling, I guess." He shrugged.

Rel looked down at Dara. She shrugged. "To be honest, I . . . hadn't even thought about it," she admitted. "They sort of grabbed us and brought us here. My dad said he was taking Kasumi stateside for a week's vacation before heading back to the base."

"Well, we definitely can't stay here," Rel said, glancing around. The hotel was probably just as expensive as the one in Tokyo had been.

Dara nodded quick agreement. "I keep trying to do the yen-to-dollars conversion in my head, and then I realize everything in our credit account is in galactic credits, and I have to redo the math," she said, dryly. "And then I _still_ have a heart attack."

Rel chuckled and pulled her closer to him. They had about six days remaining together now, total, including travel time. And at that point, Garrus and Aunt Lilu had moved over, making their rounds for farewells. They needed to head back to the _Normandy_ to take care of hungry children who couldn't even set foot on the planet, due to health restrictions. _Odd. One homeworld, they can barely set foot on, because of the radiation dangers, but they're allowed to be there; the other homeworld, they would be safe on, but the population fears the supposed dangers they'd bring._ "I have no place to recommend," Shepard said, a little dryly. "I _hated_ the two years I spent on Earth."

Dara gave Rel a sidelong look. "No skiing?"

He chuckled. "No skiing. No place _cold_. Japan has been bad enough."

"Wimp." She grinned up at him. "I guess the question is, what part of Earth do you actually want to _see_?"

'The part you came from. I can watch vids for the lions and the pyramids and the Great Wall and everything else."

Dara shook her head. "_Amatus_, you're in for a whole lot of boring, but at least it'll be less expensive. Heck, maybe Uncle Hamilton won't mind putting us up at the ranch."

Her grandmother had circled around behind them at that point, and pointed out, firmly, that _she_ had a house with empty bedrooms, and that she would be offended if they _didn't_ come to visit, at least for one day of their trip. Talking with Sam and Kasumi about it over breakfast the next morning, the two older people had been moderately horrified that the younger pair hadn't realized that their trip was _paid for_, and they were encouraged to either stay in Japan, or go where they liked, but to realize that they _did_ have return tickets to Palaven in hand. A relief, and a big one, at that. The _Normandy_ wasn't going to whisk them away again, after all.

So Rel had seen both western and eastern Texas, and this had definitely tallied a good deal more with his mental impressions of Earth. Wide open spaces, huge variations in the landscape from one region to the next. A quick daytrip to Houston, to see the cradle of human spaceflight and chuckle at the antique rockets and shuttles on display. "They really strapped themselves into those and blasted off?" he asked, staring up at one. The technology was, for her people, only two centuries old. It was like looking at something built by their Romans for him. . . technology a thousand years old by turian standards. Not quite flint-knives, but practically bronze-aged, in a way.

Dara nodded. "Houston was the control center. Cape Canaveral was the actual lift-off center. And of course there's also the Cosmodrome in Baikonur, too. That's in Kazakhstan." She grinned at him. "A little far away for a tour, though."

Then a quick trip to see Dara's childhood home and see her relatives there, too. It tallied exactly with the visions the simulator had taken from her mind, of course, although the horses were all different now. Little James remembered them from their wedding, and was actually convinced not to hide at the sight of Rel this time, coming out to offer a high five, fascinated that in Rel's case, this was actually a high _four_.

Of course, then it was time to pack up and return to Palaven, or to Dymion, at least. They'd said their goodbyes mostly the night before, in a hotel room in Texas, where they'd gotten boggled glances from the attendant at the front desk when they'd checked in. _This stopped being amusing about the time we were shopping for rings in Odessa. Spirits, people, watch the damn news or something. We're hardly the __only__ mixed-species couple in the damn galaxy._ In the room, they'd taken their time, knowing that there would be crowded public transport and hectic spaceports to deal with for the next twenty-four hours at least. No privacy, nor the expectation of it.

The next morning, they'd gone back to the Tokyo spaceport, which _still_ seemed overcrowded and hectic to Rel, and at least had a chance to say goodbye to Sam and Kasumi before boarding the shuttle that would take them up to the Earth/Palaven flight.

It was a shorter trip than creeping in, stealthed, on the _Normandy_, but still, ten hours in uncomfortable chairs, rather than curled up in their little quarters, made for a tedious way to travel. They passed the time playing games on their omnitools and chatting, randomly and freely moving between English and turian, largely ignoring the rest of the passengers in their row. _"You'll enjoy OCS, sweetness," _Rel assured her quietly. _"Still a lot of pressure, but it's different. More pressure to excel than to conform." _He hooked a finger under the chain he could barely see at her throat, and smiled when he realized she'd once again put on the necklace he'd given her so long ago.

"_That, I can handle." _She looked up at him. _"You nervous about reporting to your first ship?"_

"_A little. Everything new is exciting. Still, with my brother on board, I'll already have a friend there."_

"_Aren't there problems with enlisted and officers being too friendly?"_

"_Not as much as in human services. The mess hall on that class of ship, for instance, is mixed. There are tables probably reserved for high ranking officers, but there's no separate officer's mess. Officers and enlisted can't share quarters—unless they're mates, of course, and that's a __whole__ other discussion there—but off-duty, you can associate with whomever you choose. To a certain extent, anyway. Captains and line officers don't really get to do that. The mystique of command, or whatever."_

"_Fair enough,"_ Dara had told him, and they'd gone back to their game.

The bulk of the passengers on the flight had, of course, been human; most of them were heading solely to Dymion for business meetings and whatnot, or perhaps to the Palaven shipyards, or were catching connecting flights. That being said, there were a couple of turians on board the flight as well. Rel pulled his little mate off to the side, letting everyone else disembark first, and then they found their luggage and headed down the ramp. _"All right. This is what I really hope is the __last__ damn goodbye for a while,"_ he told her, in the middle of the spaceport, touching her face lightly. _"You need to head to the shuttles over there, to get to your base. I need to get to the shipyards and report in. My ship should be there by now."_

"_If nothing else, we're getting all __kinds__ of practice, saying goodbye."_ She was keeping her eyes dry this time, and made a valiant attempt at a smile. _"Adamare talu, Rel. A hundred days this time. Then I'm coming to get you."_

He leaned down, quickly pressed his forehead to hers, and told her, simply, _"Adamare elii,_ _sweetness. Be well."_

And then they sighed and turned in their respective directions, and got back to work.

**Rinus**

It had been Decius 17 when Dr. Valea Cimmirian had called Rinus up to the med bay and gave him a full physical. "This is a little unexpected," he told the female, dryly. "I wasn't due for any standard maintenance for at least another twenty thousand engine cycles."

She snorted a bit. "You've apparently been selected for a program that requires you to be in exceptional health." The doctor showed teeth, angry. "I can hardly believe you've been foolish enough to accept the damned chip," she added, more quietly, glancing over at her techs. "Are you out of your damned mind?"

Rinus grimaced. It had taken from Septus into Decius, or a hundred days or so, for Laetia to get through all the red tape and channels, apparently, but she'd found her way over all the hurdles at last. "Probably," he said, as calmly as he could. "But better me than someone else. Believe me when I tell you, the damned thing will be closed on my end most of the time."

The doctor shook her head. "I'm at least in the loop; only one doctor on the _Normandy_ even knew about the pilot's decision, and that was the doctor who performed the surgery—Mordin Solus. We don't know how this is going to impact turian physiology, although I _do_ think it will be less problematic for us than for a human. Certainly less so than for such a comparatively fragile member of their species." She grimaced again. "That being said, I _do_ think it's foolhardy of you, centurion."

_I don't have a __lot__ of choices here,_ he thought. _Continuing to refuse gets someone __else__ chipped. Leaving the service, not what I want to do. _"I'm considering it a temporary measure until the AI finally finds someone she likes tormenting better," Rinus said, dryly.

A green eyeball appeared nearby. "Centurion Velnaran, you are my _absolute favorite _person to torment. Why _do_ you think I would be so fickle as to chose to annoy someone else?" Laetia asked.

Rinus looked at the doctor. "And now you know _why_ the chip will largely be staying closed on my end."

Cimmirian shook her head. "You're a brave male, Velnaran. Or a foolish one. But, either way, you're in perfect health and cleared for the surgery. We're going to clear the Mindoir relay in the morning, drop you off for surgery and recovery, and will pick you up in five days—along with Spectre Livanus. We're going to be his ship for a while. Apparently, you'll be back aboard in time for all the crew turnovers at Dymion."

_Yeah, great, losing a quarter of my personnel. On the other hand, if the crew list and Dad's last message are to be believed, Rel's coming aboard. Which would be outstanding. _While they wouldn't work together, and couldn't really chit-chat on the clock, the brothers would at least be on the same ship. A powerful reassurance, that. Although not quite powerful enough to compensate for the dread in the pit of his stomach at the procedure he was going to be undergoing, however.

His brief relationship with Pilae Hestian had died a quiet death. Too much pressure, he suspected. He accepted that Laetia's efforts had been well-intentioned, but bumbling, at best, and that hadn't helped; the knowledge of his famous relatives and the fact that Captain Jallus very clearly had an eye on Rinus had proven to be too much for the young female. She'd told him, quietly, that she didn't wish to continue, and that she would, in fact, be requesting a transfer off the ship at her earliest opportunity, to avoid any potential discomfort.

Rinus actually hadn't been all that disappointed, which more or less convinced him that there hadn't been much there to begin with. As he'd suspected for a while, in fact. It was more the fact that he'd never have known if something _could_ have been there that irked him. Then again. . . plenty of fish in the sea. Unfortunately, catching the right one seemed to be difficult. _Maybe I need to find myself a human female,_ he thought, and then chuckled under his breath in the privacy of his quarters. The other berth had remained unused for some time now, although that was likely to change with new crew assignments.

"You still sound so very reluctant," Laetia told him, sounding a little sad as she appeared in the air near the door. Human guise this time, not the green eyeball.

"Resigned, would probably be a better word." Rinus turned down the blankets in his nest and started getting ready for bed.

"Is there anything I could do to make this _less_ uncomfortable for you?" Her voice gentled now.

Rinus thought about that for a moment. "Not that I can think of, honestly. I'm not a member of the Imperial family. I can't quite reconcile myself to this whole arranged mating deal." He shrugged. "That being said, I will let you in enough that you can gather your data."

She sighed. "Putting it that way sounds so . . . very impersonal."

_It helps me to think of it that way._ "Laetia, I apparently have a very busy day tomorrow. I'd like to get some sleep."

Laetia shook her head. "This isn't going to work," she muttered, and winked out.

The next morning, he dropped in a shuttle for Mindoir. His parents, actually, were at the clinic, waiting with Doctor Solus. "You're here?" Rinus asked them, confused.

"Yes. Patients do better with this sort of procedure if family is present. Comfort factor very important," Dr. Solus told him calmly.

Rinus looked at his parents. "And you know what the procedure is?"

Allardus' jaw clamped tight. "It's been explained to us, yes." He looked at his son levelly. "Are you _sure_ you want to do this?"

"No. I'm definitely sure I _don't_ want to do this, Father." Rinus looked away for a moment, and then back again. "But I'd rather it was me than someone else." He looked at Mordin. "Now, for the questions I can never be sure the AI will answer honestly. Can it be deactivated?"

"Yes."

"Can it be removed?"

"Once deactivated, and the nano-fibers have decayed and been re-absorbed by the body, yes." Dr. Solus' eye-blink was definitive.

At that point, a small salarian child popped around the corner and added, clearly parroting Dr. Solus' voice, "Patient discomfort levels rising. Can I play in here, Daddy?"

Rinus stared at the small child, who certainly looked _different_ from every other salarian he'd ever seen. Softer, more like a frog than like a salamander, slightly more bulbous face. Wide eyes. _A female? And she called him __daddy__? Another Mindoir thing. . . . _

"No, Narayana." Dr. Solus turned back to the turian family after a moment. "Apologize. She has mild fever, cough today. Daycare facility reluctant to keep her, in spite of my assurances that salarian influenza rarely spreads outside the species. Therefore, must keep her with me today." He turned back to the little. . . girl. "Since you are feeling better, perhaps you should be reviewing the periodic table?"

"No."

"Narayana, should you tell me _no_?"

She paused, thinking about it. "No?"

"What should you say, instead?"

Another pause. "Yes?"

"Now go and review your chemistry."

"No?" The little voice was tentative.

The doctor sighed. Solanna snickered, a little hissing laugh. "Narayana," she said, bending down and looking the little child in the eyes, "I _bet_ I have more of the elements memorized than you do."

"No way!"

"Nope. I bet I do. I bet you a piece of candy from the dish out on the front desk that I do."

Narayana's eyes lit up. "Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium—"

"Let's do this outside," Solanna suggested, standing up, and prompted the little girl, now, "What comes after beryllium?"

"Hmm. Boron. Then carbon."

The door closed behind them. Dr. Solus stared after them. "Will never understand how others on base do that so _easily_," he muttered. "Redirect focus from defiance to compliance almost instantly."

Allardus chuckled. "We've had _five_ children, Dr. Solus. There are skills that require experience, and not just book knowledge."

"Agreed, Dr. Velnaran. However, it never ceases to amaze. Other species interact with her so easily. For me, not as simple. Should be. Should be instinctive. Doesn't seem to be."

Allardus shrugged. "She's getting a lot of other species interaction at daycare. Perhaps it has something to do with that." he suggested. "She's what, five months old now?"

"Yes. Developmentally, close to a four-year-old human, except cognitive ability far ahead of where even most salarians would be at this age. First complete sentence three weeks ago. Sad. 'Why won't other salarian children play with me, Daddy?'" Dr. Solus turned back to Rinus. "Again, apologize for interruption. Focus should be on patient."

"I was actually fine with being forgotten about," Rinus quipped.

"Incision will be made under fringe. No visible scarring. Extremely safe procedure. Chip placed in human parietal lobe; same basic structure used for turians as well. Twenty-four hours observation afterwards standard before activating chip for first time. Once chip is active, another twenty-four hours observation needed. Then free to visit with family, return to ship."

Going under full anesthesia was always nerve-wracking. Rinus had only done it once before, for a tooth that had broken off and had needed pulling after becoming infected. He saw Dr. Solus do something at the IV stand, his vision flickered. . . . and then he was, slowly, waking up. His eyes were covered with something, and he reached up to brush the cloth away impatiently.

"Caution required, centurion. Still evaluating you after surgery. Can you feel this?"

Pinpricks to the toes. "Yes." He moved his feet away from the irritation.

"And this?" Another set of pinpricks, this time to the hands.

"Yes. Uncomfortable."

A barrage of other questions now, testing his sight, sense of smell, hearing, and memory. "Good," Dr. Solus told him, eyelids crinkling with delight. "You pass. Now, may go to recovery area. Rest."

Twenty-four hours later, they told him how to activate the chip for the first time. It was surprisingly easy; he visualized a door in his mind, as the doctor directed him to, and watched a meter nearby rise slightly, indicating that the chip had activated and information was being passed through it. There was nothing else. No sense that anything at all was different in his head, and that was a blessing straight from the spirits.

"It's got an FTL communications component to it, correct?" he asked.

Behind him, a different voice said, "That's right. I don't recommend using it unless it's an emergency, though. It tends to overheat the chip, and none of us have heatsinks built in."

Rinus slammed the door shut in his mind and turned. Jeff Moreau, the crippled human helmsman of the _Normandy_ stood in the doorway, before slowly ambling his way further into the room and finding a chair. "Thought you might want to talk to one of the few other people who have an owner's manual for one of these."

"Sure." Rinus nodded. "Is 'closed' really closed?"

Joker snorted. "First thing I asked, myself. Yes, it is. She can still track your physical location within the ship, and certainly on a planetary surface, so long as she's in orbit, but that's not out of the ordinary. If you want to communicate with her directly, the chip has to be open. You can open it partially, so that you can receive information without sending it. Handy for situations when, say, the ship's been boarded and she needs to tell you where the boarding parties are in relation to you without saying anything out loud." That sounded like the voice of experience there. "But yes, if you wanted to, you could absolutely keep it locked down permanently, and the only time she'd ever get access is in an emergency when she needed to dump her data in your mind before fleeing to, hopefully, a different node."

"Different architecture in 2.0 chip," Solus commented brightly. "More storage capacity. Probably fewer overheating issues."

Rinus gave the doctor a look. That sort of comment didn't inspire confidence. "I understand you can actually fly the ship through this thing?"

A quick, sardonic grin. "Yeah, but I don't recommend trying that without a fair bit of training."

Rinus snorted. "Wouldn't dream of it. I was more wondering if I could access the weapons and targeting systems." _Because, you know, that would be __useful__ and make this slightly less annoying._

Joker shrugged. "Probably. I understand you're treating this whole arrangement as more or less a. . . ah. . . 'in-name-only' thing?"

Rinus stared at him blankly. He spoke English very well—after a year on the _Estallus_, whatever rough edges his grip on the language had had, had been polished by much use with the humans aboard—but even his VI wasn't handling the phrase. Solus cleared his throat. "Antique usage. Refers to practice of marriage without consummation, usually to get around legal restrictions."

_Ah. _"I wasn't aware of any legal ramifications. . . "

Joker sighed. "Trust a turian to grab the wrong half of the stick."

"Thanks." Rinus' voice was very dry. "Let me put it this way. I'm doing what I've been asked to do, before it became what I was _told_ to do. Beyond that, why I'm doing it and how I'm doing it is really no one's business."

"The emotional development of my kids _is_ my business."

Solus cleared his throat. "Anthropomorphizing the AIs somewhat dangerous. Emotions simulated."

Joker gave him a flat, somewhat unfriendly look. "And at what point are simulations so perfect that they become reality, Mordin? Can you _measure_ human emotion, turian emotion, salarian emotion, any more than you can measure one of the girls'?"

Mordin raised a placating hand. "Obviously, your own emotional reactions and attachment make distance very difficult."

Joker obviously bridled his irritation, and turned back to Rinus. "Fine. The _emotional simulation subroutines of the various AIs_," and his voice dripped sarcasm now, "develop through interaction with their crews, and most especially through those they are in closest contact with. I'm concerned that this sort of relationship with you will stunt Laetia's development." He glared at Mordin. "Happy?"

"_My_ emotional reaction is hardly relevant." Solus looked at the clock. "Must leave now. Daycare has called. Narayana needs to be picked up early." He looked at Joker. "Understand concerns about emotional development. Own offspring having difficulty forming connections at school."

Joker looked at him, and his lips turned down at the corners. "Too out of synch with the other kids?"

"Yes. Can't be put in with five-month-old humans and turians and hybrids; these infants merely crawl. Size-wise, more appropriate to two-year-old range of humans and turians. Likes Caelia, Estavan, but her language, cognitive development far exceeds their range. Bored. Starts challenging teachers, authority. Physically too small to go in with four-year-olds, like Amara and Kaius. One attempt at putting her in that room resulted in her being pushed, hurt. Didn't like that." Solus sighed. "So. . . understand concerns. Even if the emotions _are_ simulated." Another glance at the clock, then a glance at Rinus. "All readings are within nominal range. You will be wearing a meter for rest of day. Go out of clinic, walk around. Open and close chip. Do normal activities. Will examine readouts this evening."

And then he hastened off. Rinus looked after the little doctor, somehow very amused. Then he looked back at Joker. The human stared at him. "So, you going to think about what I said?"

Rinus sighed. "I told her from the start that I wanted nothing to do with this. I've made it _abundantly_ clear that I will give her access to non-personal information. She said she's fine with that."

Joker shook his head. "Then she's lying." He shrugged. "Not your fault, though. I'll have to remind her that that's not something she should be doing." He pushed himself slowly to his feet. "If you'll excuse me, Dr. Abrams has me set up for a series of my own tests today, and I'm sure he's got a treadmill with my name on it somewhere around here."

The rest of the visit was unremarkable. Just time spent with his family—worried glances from his parents slowly fading over the course of a few days. Time spent with his younger siblings—Polina and Quintus were more like niece and nephew, of course, given their age difference, and treated him, of course, more like an adult and distant relative, but Serana remembered him well enough, and she was a delight to watch. Trying to figure out how to get the younger ones to obey her, helping tutor one of Rel's contemporaries in turian.

And then back to the _Estallus_ again. As he stepped aboard, he realized, to his surprise, that Captain Jallus was in the shuttlebay, and came immediately to attention. "At ease," the captain told him. "Just wanted to see if there were any bad side-effects."

"None yet, sir, but I haven't tried activating it while the ship's in range."

The captain's usual stern look had faded, and he shook his head a little, dropping the formality of his tone. Still in superior-to-inferior, of course, but a more casual mode. "Seriously think you should be getting hazardous duty pay for this. Hell, you couldn't pay me enough to do what you're doing."

Rinus grimaced. "I keep telling myself it doesn't have to be permanent."

Jallus snorted. "I want you to activate the chip before we go any further." The captain scowled a little. "Try not to take off with it on a joy-ride."

Rinus shook his head. "Wouldn't be able to if I tried, sir. I haven't the slightest idea how to fly this thing." He opened the chip cautiously.

_So, here we are._ The voice in his head was tentative. _I'm picking up your telemetry signal just fine, of course. Data transfer is nominal as well. It's nice to see you, Rinus._

_Glad everything's working correctly._ He closed the chip down again. "She says everything's green, sir."

Jallus nodded. "Then welcome back, centurion. Carry on." He turned and walked away.

The next day or two were an adjustment period. As requested, Rinus _did_ let Laetia taste _apha_ and a number of foods from the mess hall. She _really_ liked the _apha_, but she seemed a little disappointed by the food sensations. _Perhaps it has to do with the divide between humans and turians on the matter. Your sense of smell is stronger, which __relates__ to the sense of taste, but a human seems to gather more sensory data from the sense of taste itself._

"So you're saying that turians have no taste?" He was in his quarters, and while he'd taken to keeping the chip partially active for short periods each day, he never responded back to her through it if he could avoid it. Made him feel like too much of a _geth._

_Was that actually a joke?_

"Maybe."

_It was almost funny._ She paused. _Do you intend to practice forming inquiries and statements in silent mode?_

"Not at the moment."

_You're not concerned that talking to yourself will make you appear . . . eccentric. . . to your crewmates?_

"I don't intend to talk to you in public without the avatar interface visible, if that's what you're saying. I also don't intend to keep the chip open for two-way communication unless it's vital." _If I get in that habit, I'll slip up and leave it open at some point when it's personal, and we're not going down that road._

_And how would you define vital?_

"Something that involves the safety of the ship, the people on it, or others?" Rinus straightened up. "Now, if you'll excuse me, we've got new crew coming aboard. I'd like to go and greet them."

"Rinus, would you consider. . . " Laetia's human avatar appeared, and she hesitated. "Would you _consider_ opening the chip when you meet with your brother? That's not _too_ personal, is it?"

He sighed. It _was_ personal. But it wasn't _as_ personal as other things. "As you wish," he told her, after a moment, and then headed out the door. He was off-duty, fortunately, and here in orbit around Dymion, they were easily accessible by shuttles. As such, they'd been sending off crew for shore leave and replacing crew members for the past day and a half.

**Laetia**

_A small victory. I'll take it. Everything with him is a battle. Is it just his turian nature, or have I simply ruined any possibility that this could ever be easy?_ The chip was open, at least, and she was receiving data, at least. Physical condition nominal. Slight elevation in heart rate; that seemed to read as anticipation.

The latest shuttle came aboard, and she automatically sealed the docking bay and cycled the atmosphere, allowing a half-dozen people to disembark. Last of all, was Rinus' tall younger brother, who wore travel coveralls. She allocated more system resources, and let herself see Rellus through Rinus's eyes, as well as through her cameras in the docking bay.

"Welcome aboard, Lieutenant Velnaran." _So formal, even for his brother? And yet, the emotional levels are . . . warm. Excitation levels high, indicating pleasure. More than that. Comfort. Belonging. Anticipation. Lower-level processes, instinctive level. . . assurance that the territory can expand? Be claimed more thoroughly? Brother-ally here. _It was bewildering, and she had only human models to compare the data to, and not all of it matched up precisely. Some did. Some didn't. All that processed, inside of a second.

Rellus blinked, turned, and grinned slowly at seeing his brother there. "Thank you, Centurion Velnaran. It's a pleasure to be here." He hefted his bag. "Where do I stow this, anyway?"

Rinus chuckled. "I'll show you to your quarters. They have you rooming with one of the new marines."

They headed down the corridor, matching strides easily. "So, what did you do on leave?"

"Went to Earth. Dara's father got married to Kasumi a few days ago."

Rinus snorted. "I was just home. Heard that was coming up." She could hear his additional thought. . . a slightly _guilty_ one, of all things. _My parents should have been there. Would have done their duty by family, if I hadn't been on Mindoir for the spirits-be-damned surgery._ The additional realization that the humans wouldn't have _expected_ the turian in-laws to be there was not really a comfort. Family was _duty_. Not fulfilling responsibilities was akin to physical discomfort.

"You were on Mindoir?" Slight tone of surprise.

"Yeah. Had to have something done at the clinic there." Pause outside his brother's new quarters. "You should know. Been chipped by the ship's AI, like Joker." Discomfort at the admission.

"_S'kak. _Tell me you're joking." Disbelief in the brother's eyes.

"Wish I were."

"Why?"

A quick explanation; terse, even. "If not me, then someone else. AI needs an escape hatch, same as the rest of the crew. Apparently, they also seem to think that emotional connection tends to ground them. Lets them experience things as organics do." Faint shrug. But more things were going on though, below the surface of the words. Subtext. Communication without words. More being packed into glances, expressions, _scents_, even, between two people who _knew_ each other, than she could possibly have believed. Rinus' discomfort was _fading_ in his brother's presence. The constant sensation of worry, even fear, was diminishing.

"So, if you start acting like a husk or a geth, you want me to shoot you?" It was _mostly_ a joke. But the posture said, apparently, _I've got your back. No matter what you need, I'm here._

"Yeah, double-tap to the head, if you don't mind." Relief, of all things. Endorphins flooding through the body now. Dizzying. _Brother-ally here, not facing this alone. Now it's a challenge, but the odds are better_.

"Sure. What else is family for?" Sharp-edged grin, wrist-clasp, and then Rinus walked away.

Laetia shut down her end of the connection. She was _swimming_ in data that didn't make sense. But the mere fact that Rinus seemed so much more relaxed in his brother's presence was a good start.

**Elijah**

He'd come back from his brief stay on Earth and wound up heading back to the clinic again. This was his third and final series of gene mod treatments. He'd already taken the strength and endurance packages; he'd needed extra time to decide on the last. He already had outstanding reflexes and hand-eye coordination, thanks to his stint as a handball goalie, but he'd decided that adding to it couldn't hurt. Certainly, it would make sparring and even gladiatorial practice with Lantar that much more fun. . . and certainly couldn't _hurt_ when he went into the military. Hence, his final mod was a reflex package. His mom accompanied him on each of the trips to the clinic; he couldn't persuade her that he really wasn't looking for hand-holding. She'd gotten better about it, though. Mostly just sat in the room with him, reading something, while he watched vids on the extranet feed, and waited for all the chemicals to finish dripping their way into his system.

Today, though, he asked her, close to the end, "You're scared, aren't you, Mom?"

Ellie looked up from her datapad. "Of you going into the military? Of course I am." She shut the pad down. "I'm working on accepting the fact that you're growing up, though." Her smile was a little wan. "From my perspective, you have to understand, I just dropped you off at kindergarten for the first time, oh, two days ago, wasn't it?" She looked away for a moment, and Elijah was afraid she was going to start crying.

She surprised him, though, turning back to face him, visibly controlling her expression. "That being said, _all_ of your friends are doing the same thing. And peer pressure to grow up and be an adult is certainly a lot better than peer pressure to go out drinking and getting in trouble, I guess." Hint of a smile there. "I _am_ proud of you, you know. It's just. . . all happening sooner than I thought it would. And of course, I worry." Ellie shrugged. "Military is military. Even though the chances are pretty small of you seeing actual combat, it's still possible." Her expression was glum. "I've been a cop's wife for sixteen years now. I'm used to worrying when Lantar's out on the job. Now I'll get to worry about you, too." She chuckled. "More, anyway."

Elijah put his hand on his mom's arm. "Telling you not to worry isn't going to do any good, is it, Mom?"

"No."

"Then how about if I say I'm going to do the best I can?"

She chuckled. "Also not really helpful. But I'll do my best to worry _quietly_."

Elijah started to laugh. After a moment, she did, too.

At school the next day, he, Mazz, Linianus, Telinus, and Serana were sitting together at lunch, as had become normal for them over the past month or so. Tel and Lin were study partners, as he and Mazz were; Serana had more or less adopted him, too. Her only explanation was that Dara had told her to help him with his turian, and Eli was actually fairly grateful to the younger girl. Lin and Tel had a tendency to go full-speed in turian; Serana knew how to slow down and space the words apart so he could _hear_ where one started and the next began. It had been an enormous help, and the fact that she didn't slur her endings had helped him grasp the tricky distinctions between accusative and dative that had always eluded him before.

On the other hand, since she was ten, she was also _great_ fun to tease. And all of the boys in their little group did. Liberally. With two older brothers, however, Serana more than held her own.

Usually, at lunch, Lin or Eli would raise the study topic that they wanted to pursue, and the others would follow along. In the past five months, he, like Eli, had hit his growth spurt, and now was taller than any of the others. They probably made an odd picture, seen from across the cafeteria, Eli mused, for a moment. Lin was 6'6", or 1.98 m; Tel was short for a turian male, and had hit his growth spurt late. He was only 6'3", or 1.90 m. Eli was still growing, of course, and had passed the 6' mark three months ago, and now was eye-level with Telinus, and would probably actually match Jaworski's height by the time he finished growing. He'd been surprised and pleased. He'd probably not reach Lantar's eye level in the end, but with his mom being 5'2", it was actually a relief not to have wound up short forever. And of course, Mazz now dwarfed all of them, having hit and passed the 7' mark three months ago. Now 7'4", or 2.23 meters in height, Mazz was eating just as constantly as the other males in the same age group. Serana occasionally made comments to the effect that she had to protect her food from the rest of them, if she wanted to eat anything at all, and, when they pretended to snatch things from her, would ward them off with little jabs from her fork.

Today, however, was a little different than how things usually went. Mazz cleared his throat, looking around a little uncomfortably. "I have to ask you all something," he said. His voice was a much lower rumble than it had been, even a year ago.

Eli looked up at him. "Shoot," he said. "Something wrong?"

"No, not . . . wrong." Mazz shifted uncomfortably. "Next week, Urdnot Gris will be taking me to Tuchanka to join Clan Urdnot officially. I will be facing the Rite."

Linianus and Telinus both whistled through their teeth. The Rite, for krogans, was boot camp for turians. The passage into adulthood. "You know what it'll involve for Urdnot?" Linianus asked, pragmatically.

"It changes every time someone enters the arena," Mazz told him. "Gris faced varren, klixen, and a thresher maw during his." Mazz shifted a little. "He says that he mostly just tried to survive against the thresher maw. He had no krannt with him."

"Krannt?" Eli wasn't familiar with the term.

"People loyal to him, who would fight or even die with him." Mazz shifted again, still looking uncomfortable. "You, Elijah. . . you've been a loyal friend to me. You were there when my arm was injured. You found the limb, got me to the clinic. You've helped me in my studies, and you've never flinched, even when I've been in bloodrage around you." He looked at Linianus now. "And you, Linianus. I've known you longer than Elijah. Just as close a friend. We've played together as children do. It would be my honor if you would both stand beside me in battle in the arena on Tuchanka."

Elijah had stopped chewing his sandwich. Linianus had done the same. Serana sat back, hissing under her breath. Telinus simply stared at them all, and rubbed one hand over his crest. "_S'kak_," the younger turian male finally said.

That about summed it up. _Shit. Even Lantar's going to have a problem with this. Let alone my mom. But on the other hand, he's my __friend__. How can I possibly __not__ help him?_ Aside from which, Eli had to admit, the thought of going to Tuchanka was kind of exciting. An adventure. Something that Dara and Rel certainly had never done. Fighting in an arena? Also exciting, in a stomach-twisting sort of way. He looked at Linianus. "I kind of have to run it by my parents," he said, after a moment. "I want to say yes, though."

Lin nodded in agreement, and Serana hissed again. "You're both _insane_," she told them, in considerable irritation. She glared at Mazz, as she might have at _any_ older brother. "Are you going to drag poor Telinus into this, too?"

Mazz and Telinus exchanged glances. "I don't know Telinus as well as the other two," Mazz said, after a moment. "You're not offended at being left out?"

Telinus shrugged. "We don't know each other well, no. I'm not offended."

Serana grabbed her datapad and stood, looking around at them all. "You're all _crazy_. It must be the fact that you're all _male_." She scowled at them, and Eli in particular. "And _you_, being human, ought to be the _least _crazy."

Eli grinned at her. "I think I'm _offended_ by that, little one. Who says humans can't be as crazy as anyone else?"

Serana walked away, muttering under her breath.

So, after dinner that night, and before sparring practice, he brought the topic up first with Lantar. "Dad? I need to talk with you about something."

Lantar, who'd been getting ready for class, came out of the bedroom in loose workout clothes. Eli nodded towards the back door. "In private, for a minute?"

"Well, you're not addressing me as clan-leader, so that's at least a good sign."

Eli chuckled. "Actually, maybe I should be. My _tal'mae_ is still _really_ cruddy, though." That got him a look, and they headed outside. "Okay, now that Mom can't hear and have a heart attack before I finish the first sentence. . . Mazz is going to Tuchanka next week for the Rite."

Lantar nodded. "Gris mentioned it, yeah."

Eli took a deep breath. "He wants Linianus and me to come along." He swallowed. "Not to watch. To help him."

Lantar's mouth opened, and then closed again. And then he sat down, carefully, on the edge of a flowerbed, and looked across at Eli, studying him. Evaluating him. It was a measuring, weighing look. Eli didn't quite know what to make of it, so he concentrated on looking back, not fidgeting. Just stood there.

Lantar very slowly nodded. "You're aware that this would likely involve some combat?"

"Against beasts, is my understanding." Eli took a breath, trying to relax his shoulders. "I've been in combat situations twice now. Both times, I wasn't able to _do_ much." His head had been dazed, at best, in the cave; between the concussion and the azure dust and Dara's proximity, his mental processes had been a mess. He could remember getting her knife into the vorcha's eye, certainly, but that had been a reflexive thing, really. The rest was mostly darkness and the smell of nitrocellulose gunpowder. And of course, then there'd been the batarians. When he'd had to cower, helplessly, while Rel and Dara took fire at the enemy, and he'd been trying desperately to apply pressure to Kella's chest wound. His mind flinched away from the memory reflexively, as always. Out loud, he only added, "It would be good to know _before_ I go to boot camp if going there would be a waste of everyone's time."

Lantar's glance was a little skeptical. "You've put in a lot of preparation already, Eli. You're not going to be wasting anyone's time." He paused. "On the other hand, it _would _be, effectively, blooding you. Not that you aren't already, with the vorcha."

"That was more or less an accident," Eli replied, shrugging it off. "I was lucky to get the knife in, and that only disabled it for a moment, really."

His father nodded, slowly. Thinking about it. "You'd need to bring equipment."

"I'll need the armor for boot camp anyway. Maybe I can borrow a set from Mr. Jaworski." He was only an inch or two from Sam's height now, anyway, although he had nowhere near the older man's weight.

Lantar nodded again. "Let me think about it, and for the sake of the spirits, don't talk to your mother about this just yet."

"Oh, I wasn't planning to. She's worrying enough already." Eli _really_ wished there was something he could do to shut the worry off in his mom's head. Even when she didn't _say_ anything about it, he could _feel_ her fretting. Some days it was annoying. Some days, it made him wonder how she _stood_ it.

The next day, however, Lantar and Elijah and Ellie _did_ have a long conversation about it. Elijah had a strong feeling his mom might not completely understand the ramifications. Lantar was very blunt about the Rite, however. "There's a chance of being injured. A lesser chance, but still possible, of being killed," he told Elijah, not looking at Ellie for the moment. "You understand that?"

"Technically, there's a chance that either could happen even playing handball," Eli replied, dryly. "I tried not to block the goals with my _face_, but that, or offensive players like Mazz crashing the net. . . could have presented injury. Sparring three nights a week, also chances of injury or permanent damage if I take a fall the wrong way." _Fighting with you in the garage two nights a week, even with blunted weapons. . . one wrong move, and we could be looking at a hell of a fast trip to the clinic. _

"Yes, but in all of those situations," his mom said, quietly, clasping her hands in front of her, "no one is actually _trying_ to hurt you. In fact, they're trying _not_ to do so."

Elijah nodded, slowly. Trying to think of an answer that would satisfy her. "If I say no," he said, after a moment, "Linianus will probably say no, too. And that will leave Mazz to defend himself, alone, against what would have been easier with three of us. He could be hurt, or even killed. And. . . he's my friend." Elijah shrugged. He couldn't put it better in words than this. Even in high-tongue, it would have been difficult.

His mom surprised him. She nodded, slowly. "I can see that," she said, after a moment.

Eli's eyes flicked to Lantar. _How much talking did he do with her today while I was at school?_ he wondered. _How much time did he have to spend to prepare her for this?_

His mom went on, very carefully, as if feeling the ground out ahead of her words. "This is. . . in its way, just about as dangerous as boot camp will be, right?"

Lantar shifted a bit in his chair. "In boot camp, no one will be _trying_ to kill him, _mellis_."

_Tell that to Dara. I saw the slowly-healing scars on her damn wrist and got the story out of her and Rel a week ago. _Eli had been just about as mad as Rel at the sight of them. Dara was a _friend_, damnit.

"That's true," Ellie replied. Still thinking. Still trying _not_ to let her protective impulses take over. Elijah was amazed, watching his mother work through it in her head. "But if he weren't waiting for a chance to go with his friends, he'd already be _at_ boot camp, right?"

Both of them nodded, not replying out loud. Ellie slowly continued, "And I don't want to see anything happen to Mazz. Gris has really changed that boy, though, to be honest, I even liked him when you first brought him around, Eli. He was like a great big puppy at the time." She looked at her son, smiling a bit. "You've been training very hard. And you'll have armor and shields, right?"

He nodded, not wanting to break the spell with words. "And the three of you will take care of each other?"

One more nod.

Ellie covered her face with her hands, and nodded briefly. "Okay," she said, her voice tight. "I keep trying to accept the fact that you're growing up. I think it's _got_ to be easier for fathers than for mothers, though." Her voice was a little muffled as she added, "God knows, this _has_ to have been easier on Sam than on me."

Elijah tried not to grin. "Not from the way Dara tells it, Mom. At least you're not a yeller." He got out of his chair and crouched down to hug his mom. "A _worrier_, yes. But not a yeller."

She wrapped her arms around him, tightly, and tousled his hair. And he let her, because he knew she liked doing it.

He called Mazz and Lin an hour later. "Okay," Eli told them, his voice tight, and heart racing, just a bit, "I'm going."

Lin nodded. "So am I." The turian boy looked nervous, but excited at the same time. "My father said he'd break out his old armor out of the attic for me."

"Yeah, I need to scrounge for a set for myself, too."

Jaworski had just gotten back from his honeymoon with Kasumi when Lantar and Eli tapped at his door. The man invited them in, and listened, his eyes going a little wide at the explanation. "You have got to be shitting me," he said, midway through the conversation.

Lantar chuckled. "Not this time."

Sam shook his head. "And to think I thought that Dara was out to give _me_ gray hair."

Eli shrugged. "I'm not the one going into special forces here."

"Don't remind me. She's in her first week of training at the moment. Infiltration and management at the same time."

"They haven't changed the course much since I went through, then," Lantar muttered. "Always was a damned odd first week."

Sam looked at Eli. "You sure about this?"

"Yeah."

"And your mom's _okay_ with this?"

"Today she is. She's probably going to wind herself up real good by the time I leave."

Sam grinned, a little wryly. "You know her well." He sighed. "Okay, let's see what we can do to keep her calm."

Jaworski had several sets of spare armor, each dating from different periods of service. He'd kept every set he'd ever owned. "Didn't see a need to throw them out, but not one of them would've fit Dara," he commented. "Here, try this one." The armor had been sprayed in a camouflage pattern—khakis, dull greens, and even grays, for maximum utility in a variety of settings, urban and wilderness.

With quite a few adjustments to the buckles, simply because Eli did _not_ have Sam's muscle mass quite yet, they did at least get it to fit. "You may as well keep that set for boot camp," Sam told him, pragmatically. "I'll never use it again, and you _need_ a set."

Eli's eyes widened. It was like being told Jaworski considered him as much a son as Lantar did. "Thank you," he said, quietly. "I was expecting to buy a set before I left."

Sam shook his head. "Armor's fricking expensive. The Hierarchy is going to have to get off its collective ass and start supplying the human recruits eventually, but since we're sending two, three at a time at the moment, I guess they don't see a need."

Lantar replied, mildly, "Or perhaps the Alliance should start supplying the recruits who don't come out of their existing services."

Sam snorted. "That, too, would make too much damn sense." He looked at Eli again. "You put in any time on moving targets at the range?"

Eli nodded. "Yeah. The range masters have been putting those scenarios together for Lin and Tel and me for the last month."

Sam exchanged a glance with Lantar. "Okay. How about you and I get _our_ armor on, and we'll see how you move in that set, out in the woods?"

Lantar nodded. "Will give him a chance to practice with shields, too. It's a new component to juggle for him."

Eli was relieved. He _thought_ he was ready, but it surely didn't hurt to prepare.

Two days later, Lantar and Gris and Ulluthr Kanar (soon to be _Urdnot_ Kanar) took the four young men to Tuchanka. Surprisingly, Siara was along for the trip, too. She was quiet, and said little to any of them. "Are you here to observe the Rite?" Mazz asked her, sounding a little puzzled.

"I've been working at the female camp," she said, after a moment. That made _all_ of their heads turn. Mazz's eyes, in particular, went wide. "Actually, one of the young males there, Makur, should be taking his Rite soon, too." She shrugged a bit. "Maybe they'll test you together."

Mazz frowned. "It would be unusual." He turned to Gris and his father, Kanar. "Wouldn't it?"

Gris nodded. "However, the clan leader has unusual ideas. He feels that everyone in the clan should be krannt to one another."

Lantar grinned. "That _almost_ sounds turian. Or human."

"Shh." Gris pulled back his lips from his yellowing teeth. "That kind of talk will get your head beat in on Tuchanka, turian."

"I'm well aware." Lantar showed teeth now, too.

Tuchanka itself was. . . something of a shock. Eli had gotten used to the open sky of Mindoir, but Mindoir, even after the attack by Lina Vasir's forces, which had left wreckage and rubble, was neat. Tidy. Repaired quickly. Bastion and the Citadel had been much the same, though self-contained environments. Tuchanka was a _corpse_. Not even a grave. A grave implied something that was tended, taken care of, respected. The underground area was filled with rubble, slipping dangerously underfoot, and dust spray up with every step. Eli was just as glad he had a visor in front of his face, and cool, clean air blowing against his face from his suit's rebreather. He couldn't see Lin's face through the polarized masks on his suit, but his body language had become wary. Mazz, too, looked around, cautiously. Not because the environment was unexpected, Eli realized; because this wasn't his clan territory, more likely.

Most of the guards made comments about the three turians as they passed. One snickered, "What do you get when you pull the scales off a turian?"

A low, dark chortle from his fellow. "A human."

Gris paused, turned around, and head-butted the first guard. "Clan leader doesn't like talk like that," he warned the krogan not currently sitting on the ground, rubbing his head. "Neither do I."

"Yeah, yeah. All right, _Spectre_."

Gris rejoined them, and they kept walking through the winding, rubble-strewn halls. Siara was bringing up the rear, but it was clear she'd seen this all before. She wasn't gaping around, as Eli felt like doing.

Eventually, they reached an open area, and Gris beckoned them up to a dais. "Gris!" the krogan seated there rumbled.

"Clan leader Wrex," Gris said, bowing his head slightly. "I bring you Ulluthr Kanar and his son, Mazz. They wish to join Clan Urdnot, and Mazz is in need of the Rite." Gris paused. "Kanar is a scientist. Highly respected on Mindoir. The team he worked with there is sorry to be losing him to Urdnot. They are also blood-kin to Ulluthr Harak. He's Patriarch's right-hand on Omega, now."

"Good. Useful in their own right, and valuable connections to bring to Urdnot." Wrex stared at Mazz. "You bring your krannt with you, boy?"

Mazz stepped forward, looking around, head held high as it could be, given the hump. "I do."

"There is another of our clan who will fight by your side today. Accept him among your krannt, and he will accept you."

"This is not traditional," one of Wrex's advisors muttered.

"Tell me that again in four hundred years," Wrex told him, dourly. "By then, it _will_ be."

Another krogan boy stepped out from behind rubble. He wore red armor, and was about the same size as Mazz, although he bulked a little larger. "Must I fight beside a turian and a human, Clan Leader?" he asked, sounding annoyed. "Another krogan, I could accept, but these?"

Wrex stared at him for a long moment. "_I've_ fought beside Shepard and Garrus, Makur," he pointed out. "Can you do less than your clan leader?"

The male lowered his head. "As my clan leader commands," he muttered. His head turned, and Elijah followed the line of his eyes. Right to Siara. Makur grinned suddenly. "And does the asari fight today, too?"

Siara coughed. "Not in the krannt of Mazz," she replied.

"How about in _my_ krannt?" Makur stepped over and got right in her face.

Behind his visor, Eli's eyes widened. This was _not_ what he'd expected to see.

Siara put a hand on Makur's chest and shoved him backwards. "I'd be honored to," she replied. "Just get your face out of mine when you're asking."

Makur grinned down at her.

Linianus turned his head minusculely to regard Eli. _"Hey, don't look at me," _he told Lin in turian. _"She's always made her own decisions, that one."_ Good, bad, and ugly, she certainly had. Of course, Siara wasn't even wearing _armor_ at the moment, which made him more than slightly question her sanity.

Much to his surprise, she changed into a set before they left. He cleared his throat, and asked her the first direct question in months. "How long have you had that?"

"Since my last trip here, over the summer solstice—your Christmas. They told me I'd be helping collect food on the surface, and so should be able to protect myself from predators." Her voice was a little distant, and a lot uncertain. _She thinks I'm still mad at her. I am, a little. Hard not to be, even after she's been punished. _But it _was_ starting to fade, at least a bit.

The five of them climbed into an old-fashioned Mako, and Lantar and Gris stepped in behind them, followed by the Urdnot shaman and several guards. Both Spectres were fully armed. Eli knew that this wasn't necessarily a sign that no one here would be hurt. By tradition, no one who wasn't being tested could enter the arena. They wouldn't be able to intervene if anything went catastrophically wrong. But just seeing them was a comfort.

He hadn't actually been afraid until they climbed into the Mako. Now, there was a certain extra _reality_ to everything. Hyper-reality, maybe. Everything was suddenly very _clear_. _Adrenaline_, he realized, distantly. _Little early for it, but I guess my body's getting ready_.

Then they all piled out of the vehicle. "Go up the ramp. We'll close the gate behind you," the shaman said. It was so . . .prosaic. No rituals, no chants. The fight itself _was_ the ritual, of course. Eli looked over at Lantar. Got a nod, and of course, couldn't see his step-father's eyes.

Linianus keyed up a private radio band and asked, quietly, _"Scared?"_

"_Nervous, yeah."_

"_You shouldn't be. __You're__ already blooded."_

"_Half a vorcha doesn't really count. Besides, I wasn't exactly in my right mind at the time." _

"_How do you kill only half a vorcha?"_

"_The bottom half. The top half just keeps crawling right after you."_

Linianus started to laugh a little. Mazz, listening on the same channel, started to chuckle as well.

Eli took a deep, steadying breath as they reached the top of the ramp, and looked around. _Not too different from a gladiatorial arena on Macedyn or Thracia_, he decided, after a moment. _Same size, anyway. Spectator stands, or the remains of them, all around. Destroyed, of course, like everything else around here. Why don't they __fix__ any of this stuff?_ He pulled his rifle off his back, checked the clip and thumbed off the safety. Everything was reflexive now; muscle memory, after a year and more of training with Lantar and Rel and Dara and Lin. Beside him, Lin was doing the same thing. Mazz and Makur both had shotguns; the most Siara had was a _pistol_. Then again, she was a biotic. Eli's stomach clenched. "Ready?" he asked Mazz.

"Yeah." Mazz shuffled forward, and pressed a large button in the wall. Eli and Lin both tensed, turning, leveling their rifles towards opposite sides of the empty spectator stands.

Absolutely nothing happened. Eli began to feel a bit idiotic, and started to straighten up. . . "Incoming, left," Linianus reported, sharply. "I can hear it, whatever it is."

Eli and Lin both moved to the first pillar they saw, Mazz moving with them. As coordinated as if they were still on a handball field. Only, of course, today wasn't a game at all. "I don't see anything," Eli said.

"Look _up_," Mazz said.

Eli did, and his eyes widened. _That's a __dragon__, _he thought, swallowing. It wasn't, of course, but it sure as hell _looked_ like one—wide wings, huge body, barely visible through the dust its passage kicked up. "What the hell is that thing?"

"Harvester," Makur replied, sounding calm as he moved up and shoved Siara into the cover of a pillar. "They carry klixen. The klixen kill for the harvester, and then they all eat. Then the harvester carries them away again."

Mazz commented, dryly, "The instructors on Mindoir would call it a symbiotic relationship."

"A _what?_" Makur asked, sounding confused.

Then there was no more time for conversation. The 'harvester' moved off, and _things_ rushed up out of the swirling dirt at them. They looked like rachni, but not, and Eli's first reaction was actually to _hold_ his fire, thinking of Sky. . . but no friendly greeting song in his mind here. Just screeches of hunger and rage. Shaking his head, Eli got to work.

It was _much_ harder keeping on a target moving right for him, dodging, zigzagging, changing course, than it was to fire at a stationary target at the range. To top it off, when the damned bugs got close enough, they exhaled some sort of a chemical attack that _burned _in the damned atmosphere. "Would have been nice to know!" Eli shouted, grabbing Linianus's shoulder and hauling his turian friend around a different corner, and tried to beat some of the fire off of Lin.

"Didn't know, sorry!" Mazz shouted back. "Haven't lived here since I was six!"

"_Don't worry about me,"_ Lin said, sharply, slapping at the fire on his own armor now, _"just __kill__ the __futtari__ things!"_

"Why are you _apologizing_? Are you even a _krogan_?" Makur demanded. "Great. We're all going to die." A biotic shield appeared around his body, and Eli blinked. _Another thing it would have been nice to know,_ he thought, grimly.

He muttered under his breath and stepped out of cover as the klixen focusing on Lin got closer, and began firing, close-range, at the damned thing. His bullets rocked into the creature's side, and then it realized that _he_ was hurting it, and turned on him, mandibles clamping down on his armored left wrist. Eli swore again and slammed its head with his rifle butt, over and over. _C'mon, Lin, Mazz, someone get it the hell off of me_. . . .

And then the whole creature simply lifted off the ground and went sailing into the air, damned near taking Eli with it. Fortunately, the creature released its grip in its surprise, so Eli only dropped a couple of feet back to the ground; the klixen, however, slammed into one of the nearby pillars. And _exploded._ Starflowers of chemical fire rained around him like a fireworks display, some landing, sizzling, on his shields, starting to burn through. Eli recoiled backwards.

Where the klixen _had_ been standing, Siara now stood, looking up at Eli, appearing just as surprised as he was. "Thanks," he said, shortly. "Get back in cover!"

And then he followed his own advice, ducking back behind a pillar with Lin. Now he and Lin were behind one pillar, Mazz and Makur were behind another, and Siara had ducked down behind a fallen one. This made for a better set of positions, and suddenly, it was all clear in his head, like a set play on the field. He and Lin used their rifles to slow down the klixen at range. Once the insectile creatures got closer, Eli called out, "We're switching to the further targets. Mazz, take the closer ones!"

And then the two krogan males started firing shotgun blasts at the approaching creatures. Siara lifted one of the creatures up into the air. . . and Makur, grinning, used his own biotics now, swatting the creature into another pillar, making it explode on contact, raining fire everywhere. This was starting to feel. . . doable.

Then there was _another _damned dragon in the air overhead, or maybe the same one—_dragon, harvester, whatever. It's something out of a frigging fairy tale or nightmare—_and they hadn't even finished with the first wave of klixen. And then there were skittering noises _behind_ him, and Eli turned, firing point-blank at the closest klixen. "They're behind us now," he called. The edges of his vision were gray, and there was nothing left in his world but these creatures, and dealing with them. Keeping them away, keeping them from _hurting_ anyone.

"Mazz, stay on the original ones. Makur, get on the new ones!" That was Linianus now, shoulder-to-shoulder with him, firing at the new klixen. Then one slipped through at them, closing to melee range, and two shotgun blasts rocked into its side. . . .and, as it fell, it exploded outwards, knocking Eli and Linianus to the ground. Blinded, gore across his visor, Eli struggled back to his feet, feeling searing _heat_ through his armor. Rubbing the helmet clear of greenish-yellow blood, he looked down, saw where he was smoldering, and tried to beat the fires out. _Sam is gonna be pissed if I screw up his armor, _he thought, distantly. It probably shouldn't have been his first concern right now, but that was the only thought that was clear at the moment.

Then Linianus hauled him back to his feet. _"You okay?"_

"_Yeah. Is that it?"_ Eli looked around, then said, in galactic, "Was that all of them?"

Mazz nodded, looking a little winded. "That was the first round."

He couldn't _see_ the grin, but Linianus's voice was fierce and happy at the same time as the turian boy joked, "Hell, that was easier than the Odessa handball squad. Bring on the next round."

Eli laughed. Lin _never_ let _anything_ get him down for long. "You're just saying that because you didn't break anything. . . this time."

"The day _is_ young," Mazz agreed.

"Only thing that would make this more complete is Rel and Dara," Lin said, sounding gleeful. "Rel to fight and Dara to patch us up."

Eli chuckled. "They can't have _all_ the fun, Lin. This is our turn."

Makur looked at them impatiently. "Let's get going. Hit the keystone already." _He feels excluded,_ Eli thought. _Not really our fault. We've all known each other for over a year now._

Siara hopped over the rubble and crossed to the keystone. "Get ready," she said, calmly enough, but Eli could hear her voice trembling a bit.

Immediately, the various males stopped laughing. Checked their weapons. And then she pressed the button.

Again, it took a moment. This time, they heard the wingbeats much more quickly. "More bugs?" Eli asked.

"Not sure," Mazz replied, looking up.

Then the goddamned harvester landed on the _ground_ and Eli dove for cover behind a pillar. _Okay, not quite how I pictured any of this going. _He peered around the pillar and stared as the creature lifted its head and _screamed_, before lashing out with its tail, slamming Mazz into a pillar on the far side of the arena stage on which they stood. Eli winced at the impact, and started firing at the creature's head. His thoughts were distant and his motions were mechanical, practiced. Fifteen months at the practice range were coming in handy at the moment. Then he ducked back into cover again as the creature turned on him and _flooded_ the area with chemical fire. _I figured, _he thought, dimly, _what the hell, a couple of varren, maybe some mechs. . . . ._Gunfire from other positions now; he couldn't move, however, because fire was still _flowing_ past both sides of the pillar, coruscating around his position, superheating the air around him. His shields were frying, and his suit meters were starting to complain, vociferously, about the assault. The meter on his wrist read 621ºF / 327.5º C—the melting point of _lead_—and that was in the air in the middle of the flame vortex. The fire itself had to be hotter. _Definitely not how I pictured today going. . . . god damn._

Then the fire stopped, for the moment, at least, and Eli peeked around the charred black surface of the superheated rock, trying not to touch it. _I figured probably not a __thresher maw__, because there's probably only one or two of those per __planet__ . . . _his thoughts went on, numbly, as he looked up and saw the harvester looking _back _at him through its enormous black eyes as the huge creature shifted around now, trying to move around to get at him behind his pillar, snap him up in its beak. _I didn't count on fighting a fucking __dragon__._

Eli moved around the pillar a different direction, feeling ludicrously like he was playing ring around the rosy, or tag, or some other kid's game. More shots now, fired from other positions. What looked like a biotic shockwave, rumbling along the ground and into the creature's feet.

Lin, bless his heart, had his rifle on full automatic, and was emptying a clip into the harvester's side. The dragon-like head turned. The gaze, locked on Eli all this time, now found Linianus instead. Then the sharp, beak-like structure swooped down, grabbing for the young turian, catching him around the waist and lifting him up into the air.

Eli brought his own rifle back on target, and started firing, aiming for the chest, on the assumption that it was a nice big target, and _something_ vital was probably behind those chitin plates on the body. Then the creature shook Lin and threw him—Siara yelped and managed to get a biotic _lift_ on Lin, dragging him back through the air towards the rest of them—and then the harvester leaped back into the air.

Eli darted to where Lin had landed, trying to check on his friend's condition. _"You okay?"_

"_I. . . think . . .so. Might have the world's worst case of whiplash, though."_ Lin sounded groggy, but he was always quick with a joke.

"Can we expect that thing to come back for another pass?" Eli asked, looking at the two krogan males.

Mazz shrugged, uncertainly. Makur, however, nodded. "Yeah. Probably will try to flame from the air. Best chance is if we spread out. That way, probably only one of us will get flamed." A fresh biotic shield rippled into place around the krogan male. _Nice, if you've got the ability_, Eli thought, irritably. _The rest of us—well, maybe not Siara—are gonna __cook._

Eli looked around for cover. There _was _none. "Okay, we'll spread out, then. Siara, nice job catching Lin. He'd have been a hell of a lot more hurt if he'd fallen from twenty feet up than the five he finally dropped from."

She flushed a little blue, he saw, under her visor, and then ducked away to follow Makur to cover. _"Come on, Lin, on your feet_," Eli said, giving Lin a helping hand, just as the turian boy had helped him, not ten minutes before.

Sure enough, the harvester came back for another pass. Wingbeats, slow, heavy in the air. A scream of rage, and then, fire, blooming, everywhere. This time Mazz was the first target, and Eli and Linianus fired directly up at the flying creature. "Get the wings!" Lin called, and Eli could see the sense in that. Confined to the ground, it was _slightly_ less challenging an opponent.

Their bullets tore rents in its wings, and, screaming again, it fell forty feet to the ground, sundered wings barely breaking its fall. The ground shook under its weight, knocking them all back. Another gout of flame poured at him and Linianus, and the two of them _ran_, fire sizzling through their shields, ducking and rolling behind another fallen pillar. _"Is this thing ever going to __die__?" _Lin demanded.

"_Hell if I know,"_ Eli replied, dazed. He could hear the shotguns and the pistol going off, and they peeked up out of cover, cautiously, saw that the harvester had turned now, away from them, and began firing once more. They had the creature pinned down now, fire coming at it from three directions, in more or less a continuous stream, and then, finally, it sank down into itself. Moaned in mortal agony. Swayed as a set of biotic attacks lifted it, slightly, not strong enough to lift its bulk, but enough to do damage.

And then it exploded outwards, just like the klixen, its internal chemicals raining outwards with its gore.

Eli wiped his visor off, again, panting. He and Lin looked at one another, where they sprawled on the ground, knocked there by the concussive impact of the explosion, and Eli started to grin again. _"Having fun?" _Lin asked him.

"_Scared to death and having fun at the same time, yes. It's crazy."_

"_Well, your father __is__ a Spectre."_

Lin got to his feet and punched the button on the wall. Fully expecting another attack, everyone whirled as they heard a clatter and a clink from behind them.

"You're done," the shaman called, as the gate in the arena floor opened. "It's rare that the harvesters actually descend. Not _quite_ as good as a thresher maw, but still, a battle to be remembered." He looked at Mazz and Makur. "Urdnot Mazz. Urdnot Makur. Welcome to the clan. The strength of your krannt is _your_ strength. Remember that, always."

Mazz walked over to him and Linianus, and pounded them both on the shoulders. "My friends," he told them, proudly. "Thank you."

_And to think I once thought he didn't know those words_, Eli thought, and smacked him on the hump, right back.

Lantar was waiting inside the gate, and he'd taken his helmet off, and Eli could _clearly_ see the beaming pride in his father's eyes. "You both scared the living spirits out of me a couple of times there. But you two are _ready_ for boot camp," he told Eli and Linianus. "In fact, you're both going to be squad leaders." Lantar grinned, and, after giving Eli a wrist-clasp, pulled the human to him for a rough hug and a thump across the shoulders.

"July 1," Eli said, and for once, the words didn't feel quite so scary coming out of his mouth.

There was quite a celebration at the main Urdnot camp that night. They had, of course, two new adult male members of the clan to welcome. The human and the turians were, if not precisely welcomed with open arms, at least tolerated, particularly for their part in the two new clan-members' ascent into adulthood. Eli snorted with laughter as Mazz and Makur both got drunk on ryncol for the first time. "Do krogan get hangovers?" he asked Lantar and Gris.

Gris shrugged. "Depends on how strong your second and third livers actually are." He looked at the two young males with amusement. "They'll probably be making their first trips to the female camp as adults tonight, too."

Elijah choked on his own drink—water, for lack of anything else that wouldn't poison him here—and Lin slapped him on the back, commenting, in turian, _"Yeah, that's not something I really wish to picture, either."_

"_S'kak__ no. But hey, they'll be happy."_

He saw Makur and Mazz both stumble off a while later, and glanced around, wondering where Siara was. Then he shrugged. _Probably at the female camp,_ he realized. _Since that's where she apparently goes when she comes here_.

**Siara**

She had gone to the female camp when the Rite was over, escorted by one of the Urdnot warriors she'd gotten to know fairly well in her last stay here. She _hurt_ from head to toe—an errant tail slap from the harvester had sent her flying, during that last, interminable combat—but she was going to be here for two weeks again. She'd worked it out with her teachers. This was going to be an on-going xenolinguistics and xenohistory project for her. Plus, for whatever bizarre reason, Siara _liked_ it here. She still had no idea why. The place was savage. Crude. Ruined—no, beyond ruined; the planet itself had been violated. But something about the place spoke to her.

She didn't really understand it consciously, but in the deepest recesses of her mind, she did comprehend it. Tuchanka was as broken as she was. And she wanted to rebuild this place. Fix it. Even a little bit. It was like rebuilding _herself_, bit by bit. It might take the full thousand years of an asari lifetime, but she _had_ a thousand years, and nothing better to do with them. So why not start now? None of it was conscious realization. She just . . .liked it here. It called to her. And she answered that call.

Back in the female camp, of course, nothing much had changed. She stayed in her armor—a solstice gift from Gris—for the moment, and helped distribute the evening meal to the children. Sat down, listened to the stories. Tonight, there was a new tale. How a human and a turian and an asari had been the loyal defenders of two young krogan warriors, and how those warriors had risen up to fight off a _harvester_. Siara smiled to herself. How interesting, to see the fight from a different perspective. From where _she'd_ stood, Linianus and Eli had called most of the shots. Makur had contributed his knowledge of the beasts, but the _direction_ had come from the human and the turian. In the krogan account, of course, the two krogan males were the heroes, rescuing the human and the turian from certain, fiery death, while they cowered behind stone walls. The asari female, apparently, had at least not gotten in the way. Siara snorted a bit, and let it be.

Mazz came through the door first, staggering a bit, and got gently redirected down the stairs. To where the fertile females waited. Siara tried not to laugh, but it was hard. Mazz was an adult now, to the krogan. And every fertile pairing was _needed_. She controlled her expression and headed back into the storage room, where she'd slept the past few times she'd been here. Siara stripped out of her armor, groaned at the sight of all the damned _bruises_. _And to think I thought I hurt after Gris had batted me around like a ball with his biotics_, she thought, ruefully.

A heavy hand fell on her shoulder, and she stiffened. "I keep telling you, this is _my_ spot," Makur told her, spinning her around and grinning. He smelled like ryncol, but nowhere near as bad as Mazz had.

"What? Didn't I help you today? Wasn't I part of your _krannt?_" _And our biotics had meshed_ _so damned well, too._ She hadn't realized he was a biotic until her last visit. He'd never used the abilities underground, but on the surface, where the predators were, when they were out collecting crates from the drop zone? He'd slid a shield over himself and gone right out into alpha varren's territory, drawing the attention of the pack, letting everyone else gather up the supplies.

"Of course you were part of my krannt." Makur snorted. "Females haven't had to stand beside the males in the Rite for centuries here, but _you_ did."

_Of course, yes. The females have a completely different Rite, now. _Siara's mind shuddered back from that concept. Makur went on, "Still makes you an adult on Tuchanka."

She looked at him, narrow-eyed. "Shouldn't you be downstairs with the females? Like Mazz?"

"I'm with a female right now. Tonight, I can have any female of the clan that I want."

"I'm not of your clan—"

"Yes, you are."

Siara glared at him. "And what makes you think—"

"This." He reached out with his biotics now, dropping a shield over both of them. Skin-tingling. Warm.

Siara looked up at him, eyes wide. He was over seven feet in height. He didn't care about what she'd done before she came here. He cared about what she'd done _here._ He cared that she was at least as strong as he was, if only in terms of biotics. But if he knew what she was like _inside_, he'd probably despise her. And she found she really couldn't stand that thought. _You don't want this,_ she projected, as carefully as she could.

_Yes, I do._ Words, clear as a bell, perfectly formed. Mild inebriation, passing quickly. Powerful, deep mind, mostly oriented towards the clan, of course. Not as much education as even Mazz had, of course, but she had a feeling that he _could_ learn, if he chose to.

_You've been training with the shaman?_

_Noticed, huh? Open for me. Let me in. You're strong. I'm strong. It'll be good._

_You'll hate what you see. _

_Let me judge that._

Just _maieolo'rae _at first, the little touch, as if they were both children. Wrapping energies around each other, exploring minds, memories. _Thessia that was, cloaked in snow, city spires built of crystal and glass lit from within, with fire, in the distance, the light reflecting off the planet's shimmering ring system lighting the snow-covered landscape, even in the dark of night. . ._

_. . . scrabbling for food with the other children, hoping for scraps, belly pinched with hunger, learning to be stronger, learning to take from the older children—never from the younger, if you take from the younger, you'll be punished, if you take from the older, the stronger, you'll be praised. . . . _

_. . . school after endless year of school, poetry, music, art, science, languages, biology, chemistry, algebra, geometry, trigonometry, the struggle to fill so many years before the body will finally mature, but the mind is already there, already filled, already yearning to __do__ something useful. . . ._

_. . . . learning to hunt, learning to protect himself from predators, learning the limits of body and mind, learning how much __pain__ he can take, learning how fast he really can heal as the first varren's teeth close on his thigh. . . ._

_. . . . second-mother's betrayal, not as hurtful now, the worst of the poison drawn. . . _

_. . . flash of bloodrage, you __never__ harm children, children are to be treasured, rare, precious, where once every family had a hundred children, now, only a handful, how could asari do such a thing; there are hurtful lessons here, but all are for __survival__. . . . _

_. . . beautiful Mindoir now, too self-absorbed to see the beauty of the place, the love in her mother's eyes. . . friends who cared about her, Kella, Eli, people who hadn't liked her, but who had tried to help her, Dara, Rel. . . being chastened by Gris, brought to Tuchanka, finding something in herself that responded to this dark place, that even could grow to love it. . . . _

_Open to me. Let me see it all. _

_I __am__ open._ And she was, too. He didn't mind the darkness, didn't mind the light, didn't judge any of it, just wanted more. More closeness, denied by the savage upbringing, more touch, more of her mind, more of her skin. Opening further and further and further now, _didn't know there was enough of me to do this, _thoughts becoming incoherent now, just threads of color and light and pleasure. _Maieolo'rae'kiia _now, wanting _maieolo'loa'kareo, _but both of them unsure of _how_ . . . .

Minds as one now, thinking each others' thoughts.

_Like this?/ Yes, yes, like that. / No, that can't be right, I can feel pain in you. / I'll heal. / _Mental laughter. / _That's __me__ thinking, not you. How about __this__?/ _

_Much. . . . much better. Don't stop. / Not stopping. My female. Mine for tonight. / If you give me your mind like this every time, I'll be yours whenever you want. / You'd have to __stay__ here. You never __stay__. _Anger there. _ / Someday I will. And two weeks, for now. / All I __have__ is __now__. / I'll __give__ you a future. I promise. _

**Elijah**

They made it back to Mindoir by St. Patrick's Day—Caelia's second birthday, which again was celebrated with the Vakarian twins, who were turning five this year, and getting ready to enter kindergarten in the fall, apparently. Mazz's father remained on Tuchanka, to start working for Clan Urdnot in the vital business of getting arable fields started in the area around the main clan encampment. Eli was told that this was a _bold_ venture.

Waiting for the shuttle to land for the flight back to Mindoir, Siara was silent next to Gris. Silent, and Eli couldn't quite decipher the expression on her face. Part contentment, part thoughtfulness, but he couldn't for the life of him understand why.

Mazz, on the other side of Gris, was ebullient. He'd faced his Rite, and succeeded. Now he had to figure out what to do with the rest of his life. "My father's respected in Urdnot," he said, thoughtfully. "I know I'm not as smart as he is, but maybe there's something else I can be, besides a scientist or a mercenary."

Siara glanced up. "You're smart enough," she told him, quietly. "Be an engineer. Rebuild the damned buildings. Build _new_ ones. Don't just patch the old ones up here and there and leave the rubble in the middle of everything."

Mazz blinked. "You think I'm smart enough to do _that_?" He looked across at Eli and Linianus.

Eli shrugged. "I don't see why not. It's mostly a matter of studying the right subjects. If you study structural engineering and architecture and whatever else, you won't have to worry about plasmids and bio-engineering anymore."

"I'm sold," Mazz said, quickly. Linianus guffawed.

Siara nodded. "I'm staying for a while," she told the rest of them quietly. "See you in two weeks." And then she'd turned and walked back down the ramp as the shuttle finally landed. Eli turned just enough to watch her go. Saw Makur at the bottom of the ramp, waiting. There were places his mind definitely didn't want to go, but did anyway. _Well, not like her mom and Gris aren't together_, he decided, after a moment. The mind boggled a bit, but it wasn't really his business.

Back on base, Lantar told _everyone_ the story at Caelia's birthday party—and _everyone_ was there, from the Vakarians and the rest of Rel's family to Linianus's family to Sam and Kasumi to Gris and Mazz. "Stick your fingers in your ears," Lantar warned Ellie as she started cutting up cake slices to pass around for the levo crowd. The dextro crowd was already munching on bonemarrow cakes, of course.

"No, no, I want to hear," she protested. "He's obviously back in one piece, so I think I won't have a heart attack. Much."

So Lantar described the fight with the klixen, and Garrus and Shepard both winced and Garrus said, "Yeah, I remember those from _Grunt's_ Rite. Fire-breathing insects. Whose good idea was that, really?"

"Yes, but did the _dragon _carrying them land when you were fighting them?" Lantar asked.

Dead silence. "No," Shepard said. "We saw the harvester up in the air, sure, and it would drop down and land its klixen, but. . . " She paused, changing how Elissa lay in her arms. "It never stuck around to fight."

"Yeah, I think the boys pissed it off." Lantar's grin was proud, and he went on to describe the fire it had breathed—pausing to ask Eli what his armor meter had recorded as the temperature.

"Six hundred twenty-one degrees. But that was just the air temperature," Eli temporized, glancing at his mom. She had sat down, and was watching him. As if making sure he wasn't just a figment of her imagination. He reached over and squeezed his mom's hand briefly. _I'm here, Mom. We did good, and we walked away to talk about it later. A little __singed__, admittedly, but good._

"So," Shepard said, at the end of the story. "Wrex was pleased?"

"Delighted. Said it didn't quite match up to a thresher maw, but proved that sending krannts in together was the Urdnot way for a reason. Said it would cement the new tradition." Lantar's teeth gleamed for a moment.

"Good."

Serana, who had been dealing with the younger children—Caelia, in particular, adored her, for some reason—quietly asked to be excused, and walked out of the room, heading in the general direction of the back yard. When everyone started packing up to leave an hour later, Eli realized he hadn't seen the turian girl in a while, and he headed out back to find her sitting in one of the hammocks slung between the tall trees, looking up at the autumn leaves. _"Your parents are almost ready to leave, little one,"_ he told her.

She sat up, and glared at him. _"Whoa, whoa. If eyes were daggers, that one __just__ nicked my heart," _Eli joked, leaning up against the tree. _"What's the matter?"_

"_You're an idiot. Linianus is an idiot. Mazz is an idiot, too, but everyone expects __that__." _Serana flopped back into the hammock gracelessly.

"_Hey, I'll have you know, that as of two days ago, I was officially made an __adult__ idiot on Tuchanka. Which means that in October or so, I'll be an officially adult idiot on Palaven, too."_ Eli grinned at her. She was just so _easy_ to tease, and flustered so well. . . and yet, for all of that, she usually gave as good as she got. Not bad, for ten.

"_Fine. An adult idiot is still an idiot. You all could have been __killed__."_

"_I know."_ Eli said it quietly. _"I wasn't expecting it to be as bad as it was. I figured varren. Maybe some mechs. If it helps, I learned that good information is __really important to have__." _Eli chuckled at the understatement. "_I didn't even know that one of the others fighting with us was a second biotic."_

She glared at him. _"And I—"_ She clamped her teeth together.

Eli started to chuckle again. _"You're mad because you weren't __there__?"_

Serana folded her arms across her chest. _"Maybe a little."_

"_Asperitalla. _" _Little fierce one. _He'd heard the term used, and didn't _think_ it would be offensive, and certainly seemed to apply in context. _"You're __ten__."_

"_I won't always be."_ Definite hint of a sulk there.

"_That is definitely true."_ Talking with her was like talking with a grown-up version of his little sister, mixed with, oddly enough, a little Dara. _"But until then, don't worry about it. You'll figure out some way to be just as much of an idiot as the rest of us."_

"_Oh, that's __very__ encouraging. Thank you, Eli."_

"_You're welcome. Let's get you out front before your parents send out a search party, all right?"_


	60. Chapter 60: Dedication

**Chapter 60: Dedication**

_**Author's note: **__After a busy morning of visiting a new daycare with my son, in the hopes of finding an environment a little better suited to his personality, it's time to start writing again!_

_I love all the reader questions. Yes, I totally went with a Hawaiian look and feel for the asari language. Very visually distinct look from all the Latin/turian, and, since many older Polynesian cultures had such a focus on fertility and open, free sexuality, it kind of works in my head. Your mileage may vary. :-)_

_For the people who, in Chapter 59, are commenting on the turian finger number. . . way back in Chapter 2, I believe, I had the finger number as "two fingers and a thumb." On replaying the game, somewhere around Chapter 22 or so, I saw something (probably how Garrus was holding his rifle) that made me think, "Crap, I've screwed that up, even to talking about base six math and calendars and clocks, crap, crap, crap, I need to go back and fix twenty some-odd chapters." So I fixed it, and apparently, fixed it so well that I broke it again. Now, it's chapter sixty, and I'm going to go with. . . *cough* my version __isn't canonical__, and I don't want to find all of those references, when I've only just finished finding all the age and bootcamp length references. Maybe when I'm closer to the end, though, okay? ;-) _

_A couple of people (Siha, I'm looking at you) have dropped me private messages to which I'd love to respond. However, when I try to respond, it says you (and a couple of other lovely people, alas) have disabled private messaging. Thus, you are not being ignored. I'm glad you're enjoying, however. :-) _

_Dara's response to the tandem jump in this chapter pretty much mirrors the only time I ever went parachuting. I did a tandem jump, and once was enough; I did it to prove a point to myself: That I __could__ take risks and that they didn't have to hurt. It was exhilarating, and once I was on the ground, I really did want to go up and do it again. Never have, though. The rush wears off. ;-) _

_Anyway, onwards!_

**Sam**

Sam had enough time before work to sit down and read a letter from Dara. Letters were more frequent, now that she was on Dymion, he was happy to note; the intensity of boot camp had given way to the focus of specialized training, and, as she was quick to point out, no more radiation suit, at least until weeks three, four, eight, nine, and ten. One comment in particular made him grin. _So you're saying that Eli, Lin, Mazz, Siara, and some random krogan fought a __dragon__ on Tuchanka, and won? I know L. would never lie, so I know it's true. If it were anyone else __but__ him, though, I'd be saying 'pictures or it didn't happen.' Even then, I'd be looking for the edit marks in the file. That being said, good for them! I'm sure L. has probably already told Eli this, but they really shouldn't mention it at boot camp. No one will believe them, any it'll sound like bragging. _

_Nope, _Sam thought, _but it's a hell of a good thing to know about yourself, walking in, that you're the type who'll stand and fight. Most people __don't__ know that about themselves, the day they walk through the gate. Hell, even I didn't know. I'd gotten in fights, sure—stupid shit, kid stuff—but I didn't __know__ that I could stand. _He went back to reading for a moment.

_Anyhow, almost to the end of week two here. Have learned a hell of a lot about squad tactics. Some of it probably would be really obvious to people like Rel or Eli. . . they've both played team sports. I never have, so this was all __good__ information for me. Next week's going to be a lot more scary, though. Drop training. Gah. Love you, Dad. Take care of yourself and K._

At that point, Kasumi came in the room, hair still damp from her morning shower. "You ready to head over?" she asked.

"Yeah," Sam said, standing and sliding an arm around her waist. "Lots of things to report, if none that make any sense."

The meeting room was full this morning; Gris and Lantar were back from Tuchanka, obviously; Garrus had just gotten back from a quick hop out to the Gemini Sigma region, to investigate rumors of pirates on Mavigon. The volus, in an effort to shake themselves out of economic turmoil, were throwing themselves into new colonization efforts; while colonization _cost_ money, it also generated jobs—people to build the ships, build the habitats, build the terraforming equipment, provide the food supplies, and so on. Mavigon would be a perfect site for a volus colony. . . if it weren't located, like Mindoir, so close to the turbulent Attican Traverse. Sky had been out, briefly, to rachni territory for a week's leave in the Pangaea Expanse. Mordin was at the table, reviewing datapads; Cohort was back, too. The geth had left Ruin on Tosal Nym, to help oversee the marking of the ancient city sites there, in preparation for the first stages of terraforming.

As Sam understood it, a dozen comets were being captured in the Xe Cha Kuiper belt, and being moved towards Aphras and Tosal Nym using mass effect drivers. Some careful orbital jockeying was needed to slow them down, and then they would be, gently, guided into the old sea beds. The vid footage of the first one being settled into the old seabed last week had been _spectacular._ Minimal burn in the atmosphere; even some shielding was being used around the front of each comet, trying to minimize any gas released into the atmosphere. Other terraforming teams were using ground-penetrating radar to find aquifers; not all of the water on the planets had out-gased when the orbital strikes from the Reapers had occurred; some of it had just gone underground. Finding and mining those aquifers would return native water to the surface, where it belonged, although with the potential side effect of making the terrain in the region unstable for some time. A delicate balancing act, this restoration project. Hell, people were talking about taking one of the _ice moons_ of Vem Osca and moving _that_ into orbit around Aphras; that would minimize the length of shuttle trips needed to take ice from it to the planet's surface. Ambitious, but it was certainly generating interest and business opportunities all through Hierarchy and Alliance space. No wonder the volus were taking the same tack.

"All right," Shepard said, walking in, looking fit and trim. "Let's get this meeting started. I have a few items for the agenda, and then Sam and Kasumi have the floor. First, Samara and Jack have located nineteen of the thirty matriarchs involved in the Lina Vasir incident at this point. Eleven are facing trial on Illium—" she waved down the mutters that swept through the room, "Yeah, I don't expect any convictions, either, but that's what we get for going through the asari legal system to deal with them. It's better than them _all_ suffering mysterious accidents with Spectres in the vicinity." Shepard shrugged. "A certain amount of reputation is worthwhile, but we don't need more than we already have."

"What happened to the other eight?" That was Gris.

Garrus whistled through his teeth. "Resisted arrest."

Gris chuckled heavily. "We can always hope for more of that."

Shepard let the by-play pass. "In other news, Kal'Reegar has made a full recovery from his injury last July, and has sent me a rather impatient message, indicating that he'd _really_ like to come hunting with us." She looked at Sam. "Is it open season yet?"

Sam looked at Kasumi, then back at Shepard again. "Kasumi's analysts have scrubbed the data taken from the Lystheni biotic base backwards, forwards, and sideways. I think they've done everything short of beating it on rocks down by the riverside. There was a _lot_ of data, but little of it useful towards finding the shipyards—if they're shipyards—or the Lystheni tech base. If they're not one and the same thing."

He leaned back in the chair. "Now, back around the time we were taking care of Omega, I had a bit of a thought. Had to write it down and come back to it later, because we were all kind of distracted at the time. Most of the Lystheni communications we've been able to find out of the Valhallan Threshold are piggybacked onto other signals. We've tried backtracking the original signals that the Lystheni are using to embed their messages in, and we've at least traced _those_ to two systems. Micah and Paz."

Cohort's head turned. "Gris-Spectre and this unit already investigated the Micah system last year, Jaworski-Spectre. When we found the hanar-based AI on the moon Anafiel, in orbit around Dumah."

Sam nodded slowly. "Yep. I know this. I also know that the _Normandy _scanned Zanethu thoroughly six years ago, and never saw the Lystheni base. We know they're _good_ at hiding." He tapped his fingers on the table.

Kasumi nodded, and picked up his train of thought. "Sam and I had an interesting conversation the other night. There are multiple ways of hiding, and we're both experts at this. When all you have is yourself, how do _you_ hide?"

The other Spectres around the table shifted a bit. Garrus and Cohort, of all of them, probably had the most experience, from sniper work. "I find someplace _up_, out of the way. Most species don't _look_ up," Garrus volunteered. "Not only does that provide me with clear lines of sight, but it also works on people's psychology."

Sam nodded. It had always amazed him, walking around downtown DC at lunch while he was at Quantico, that no one around him _ever_ looked up and saw the men on the rooftops around them. Even just walking in the area around the old National Mall one afternoon, taking in the sights for a change of pace, he'd spotted them periodically, and known that for every one he saw, there was probably one or two others he _didn't_ see. Either people had been so _used_ to seeing them up there that they didn't notice or care, or were oblivious. He was never quite sure of which. "How else do you hide?" he asked.

Cohort's eyeflaps shifted. "Inside of covering objects. In areas of machinery and metal, where the body of this unit looks like its surroundings."

"In plain sight, in other words," Kasumi supplied.

"An accurate summation."

Sam nodded. "We know that the Lystheni seem to prefer two methods of hiding. One, they like to find someplace out of sight, where no one is likely to look. Garrus' method. Instead of a roof perch, though, they seem to like to dig in. Underground lairs, heavy camouflage. Heat dissipation. We've found abandoned asteroid bases like this, the main base on Zanethu follows this trend, the slave storage facility on Tosal Nym . . hell, the sewers on Omega follow this tendency, as well. It works, but people can trip over it, completely by accident. Just like the archaeologists on Tosal Nym," and here he consulted his notes, "Xu Heng and Basia Maro did."

Kasumi picked up the conversational ball again. "So, you can dig in, fortify, and hide in a cave—I take it salarians find caves comforting, Mordin?"

Mordin chuckled. "Most species do. Usually first shelters. Primal. Salarians prefer ones with proximity to water, however."

Kasumi nodded. "Or, you can do what Sam and I prefer to do. Hide in plain sight. Now, I personally like a good stealth generators and a bio-sign scrambler, but Sam likes his low-tech methods. Disguises, ghillie-net, whatever." She gave him a fond smile.

"They both work," Sam told her amiably. "Mine don't need so many batteries, though." He sat forward, resting his arms on the edge of the table. "We know that the biotics-oriented Lystheni have few outwards signs of their changes. The tech-oriented Lystheni go to a good deal of trouble to hide their 'upgrades.' Hell, even the ones that can go into hibernation mode and be _controlled_ by someone else with those chips in their brains—" and here he rolled his shoulders against the reflexive shudder, "are pretty much designed to look like _ordinary salarians_. They want to pass as average. Normal. Unseen. The first base in the warehouse on Omega? Matched right up with that. None of the rest of them have, so far."

Shepard leaned back now, too. "So you think we've been looking in the wrong places?"

Sam shook his head. "We've had the _Dunkirk_ and the _Estallus_ out there, scanning every asteroid and lump of rock they could find for eight months or so now. We know that the _Normandy_ missed the base on Zanethu in 2185, simply because they're _damned_ good at hiding where their bases are. We could be looking in the right places, and not seeing them. Or, yes. They're in plain sight. The rumors of shipyards and whatever else. . . we've all been looking for _new_ shipyards, for example. I'd like to suggest that any old, existing satellite could really be re-purposed for that sort of work. It all depends on the _size_ of the ship you're trying to build." He tapped his fingers on his datapads again. "The ships with the biotic weapons were all smaller than the _Normandy _SR-1. So, around two hundred and eighty feet, or eighty-five meters would be the _minimum_ length needed for a work space on _one_ of them. Still requires a fair bit of real estate, particularly if you're trying to mass produce at all." Sam paused. "Assuming that's all they're producing. A smaller ship, such as a fighter, would require significantly less space." Something about that thought tickled the back of his brain.

"Likewise, we've been looking in _space_ for those new shipyards," Kasumi chimed in, quietly. "Because that's where everyone currently builds their shipyards, outside of the gravity well of their planets. More efficient that way, especially if you're shuttling in building materials from, say, an asteroid belt or something. But where did _all_ our species start building? Well, not yours, Cohort, of course," Kasumi added, as the geth looked up. "But the rest of us started out on the ground. Because that's what we had. Moons and planets."

Shepard rubbed at her eyes. "Okay, circle back around to where we were at the beginning," she said, obviously thinking carefully. "You say you found signal sources coming out of Paz and Micah."

"That's where the original signals came from, before additional data was added to them, piggybacking the signal," Sam agreed. "Garvug and the vicinity of Elohi, anyway."

Shepard made a face. "Bad neighborhoods."

Garrus nodded. "_Lots_ of fake distress signals from around Elohi. Almost always batarians, looking for easy prey. And Garvug _was_ a krogan world."

"Barely," Gris interposed. "The Council gave it to us eighteen hundred years ago. A bargaining chip. No one else wanted the damn thing."

"Was marginally viable at the time," Mordin supplied. "Agricultural capacity rapidly overshot by krogan overpopulation. Biosphere destroyed. Some eco-engineering corporations currently attempting to return planet to viability. Difficult. Krogan and vorcha packs still common." His gaze and Gris' met, for a moment, clashed like blades.

Shepard leaned forward, redirecting their attention towards her. "Tell me, Mordin. Are the eco-engineering firms on Garvug, by any chance salarian?"

Mordin sighed, his eyelids flicking up. "Almost entirely, yes."

"Don't lock in on it," Sam warned. "That's still a _hell_ of a lot of ground to survey. I'd like to check out Elohi, first. The batarian connection has my interest, and it's got a huge number of signals with the piggybacked messages coming from it. I want to see if there's a transmitter or a relay station anywhere there. They _have_ to be accessing these messages from _somewhere_." He frowned. "Of course, it's a gas giant. How many moons does it _have_?"

Kasumi checked her datapad. "Thirty-five."

Sam shook his head. "Lot of ground to cover. Again." _And no guarantee that ship sensors are going to pick anything anomalous up. Damnit._

"The _Estallus_ is already heading for that region," Shepard said, after a moment. "Livanus is aboard; he can take lead on that. Mordin, I'm going to need you to get in touch with the eco-engineering firms on Garvug and start asking questions. You and Gris and. . . " she looked at the rest of them, assessing, "Cohort, actually. . . will take lead on Garvug. Start with what you can find out from here, quietly. If they're there, we don't want to get them running before we've properly _found_ them this time." She looked around. "What else have we got?"

Kasumi cleared her throat. "I've been wanting to kick this around for a while," she said, "but everything keeps getting crazy. The Lystheni techs frequently mention a _pure_ form or a _perfect_ form in their messages."

Garrus nodded. "I've always found that a bit confusing, myself," he admitted. "Most of the time, when tech-cultists get talking about uploading themselves, they want to remove themselves from form entirely. Become _formless_. Just data, information, a mind without a body. This would make sense, given what Mordin's told us before about the Lystheni." He looked at the salarian doctor.

Mordin nodded. "Find body weak, inferior. Try to replace it, or parts of it, with tech. With little success, might add. Entirely leaving body behind would be logical extension of irrational thesis." He shrugged a little.

Kasumi nodded. "Which is where I've been stuck for a while. A purely mechanical form is the next option, of course."

Cohort's eyeflaps moved. "We have already considered this, Kasumi-Security Chief."

_Now that's a cumbersome name, ain't it?_ Sam thought, amused, as Cohort continued, "With the example of the geth before them, the Lystheni might desire to emulate us. We have achieved consensus among ourselves that we would not share our collective data with them, if this were the case. They appear to be prone to error."

"That's just the thing," Kasumi said, slowly. "I'm not sure that the Lystheni would want to emulate the geth."

Heads turned around the table, and Sam's was one of them. She hadn't discussed this line of thought with him before, and he _loved_ watching that sharp mind work. Kasumi folded her hands in front of her. "One of the things that Mordin has told us about Lystheni psychology is that they view the body as inherently weak, flawed, frail. Small. A geth body is still, for all its strengths, a humanoid body. It has all the weaknesses of a humanoid body. Oh, you don't have to _eat, breathe, _or _excrete_," and here Kasumi pointed a finger at Cohort, "and death is more or less an avoidable accident for you, so long as you back up your data frequently. Given all that, you're still relatively small. You still have arms and visual receptors at the front of your body—heck, you still _have_ a front of the body. Why not a radial configuration, like a starfish? Why limit yourself to standard bipedal locomotion? Why not multiple sets of limbs, like a caterpillar, or like the body you built for Ruin? Why, with _perfect freedom_ to design an idealform to carry themselves around in, did the geth _largely_ stick with the humanoid template? Oh, sure, _armatures_ aren't. Juggernauts and colossi aren't, either. But the vast majority of geth download themselves into platforms that look more or less like robot versions of quarians." She looked at Cohort. "You have an answer for that?"

Cohort hesitated. Just for a moment, but it was noticeable. "No data available," he said, slowly.

Kasumi leaned forward, looking at the geth intently. "You preserved Rannoch," she said, quietly, but with some force. "You repaired the buildings, the damage from the radiation. You preserved the shape of your Creators in yourself. You made yourselves in their image—oh, you made improvements. Light, air, water, shelter, all optional. But you limited yourselves, to a certain extent. And I'd be willing to bet that the word _respect_ is in there behind that decision, somewhere." She paused. "Now, answer me this. Are geth ships geth, too, or are they machines?"

Cohort cocked his head slightly. "A limited number of processes download to each ship or personnel carrier. Enough to operate it at a basic level."

"So some of you function as EDI does on the _Normandy_, but fly the ships without a pilot?"

"Correct in essentials," Cohort replied, sounding troubled.

Kasumi leaned back. "I think you can all see where I'm going with this, right?"

Garrus and Shepard were exchanging slightly appalled glances. "The rumors always _have_ been about shipyards," Garrus said, after a moment. "Not about mech plants or robotic assembly factories."

"And now they have a perfect upload device, with the relic they stole from Klendagon," Shepard added, sounding tired. "So they could very well be uploading some of their people to be the consciousness of ships. Not AIs. Living computers, even living weapons, but still mechanical ships." She looked at Cohort. "It took Ruin, what, two, three months to figure out how to use the body the geth gave him, right?"

Cohort nodded. "And we provided him with low-level processes to help him interact with his body. Regulatory programs. Drivers, you might call them."

Sam glanced his way. "Just tell me he's never going to have to flash his own BIOS. That sounds. . . really personal."

Laughter rippled around the table. Cohort regarded Sam with dignity. "Updates are passed along the network," he replied, sounding a bit reproving.

Shepard shook her head. "The Lystheni have had the device for eight months. Even though they might not have the experience of the geth in such matters, that's still a hell of a head start." She paused. "Really makes me wonder why they even bothered with the mini-Reaper or the simulation device."

"Simulation device _very_ useful," Mordin pointed out, quickly. "If able to use it without disturbing Reaper, they would be able to test processes, for transference of consciousness to their ships. Might be able to anticipate problems, formulate solutions, before consciousnesses degrade in new environments. If such a problem even would occur." He shrugged. "Consciousness transference technology based on biotic energies, patterns, and storage. Many unknown factors. Not enough testing time."

Cohort turned towards Mordin. "The Keeper civilization had the relic for a hundred years. We have all the knowledge they were able to obtain that the Ruin process was aware of. Many tests. Many simulations. We will upload them to your terminal for your analysis. Perhaps you will find something, Solus-Doctor, that we have not."

Sam looked over at Shepard. "Think you might want to send the _Kharkov_ with the _Estallus?_" he asked.

She grimaced. "We don't actually have access to the _Kharkov_ at the moment. It's at Tranquility Station, having its atmosphere cycled and a full resupply done. They'll be there for a week." She frowned. "I'll tell Livanus to keep it very low-key, and to be ready to run if they need to."

_Good. 'Cause my son-in-law is on that ship, and Dara will __not__ be happy with me if I get his ass killed._ Out loud, he said, quietly, "Not to borrow trouble, but it's got to be asked. . . do we think they're doing anything with the mini-Reaper? Or was it just a bonus? An admittedly _inconvenient_ bonus, since it may or may not interfere with using the simulation device. . . . "

Uncomfortable glances around the table. Shepard answered, first, "If it were me, I'd be leaving it strictly alone."

"Think like a tech," Garrus told his wife, dryly. "Now what are they _really_ doing with it?"

Shepard sighed. "Studying it. Trying to replicate it." She glanced at Garrus. "You don't suppose they were stupid enough to try to remove it from its pacifier, and that's why they've been quiet for so long?" Clearly, she didn't believe it, herself.

Garrus shook his head. "We couldn't _get_ that lucky."

They all stood up to file out of the room. Kasumi, looking playful, stopped Lantar at the door. "I understand congratulations are shortly to be in order?"

Lantar gave her a wary look. Kasumi laughed. "Oh, I do so love doing that to you, Lantar. You always give the best reactions. In this case, Ellie _told_ me you two have an appointment with Dr. Solus tomorrow."

A slow, delighted grin replaced the look of tension. "Yes," Lantar said, glancing around. "I'd rather not talk about it too much until we're sure it's taken. We lost one at two months last time." He shrugged. "Better not to attract the attention of the wrong spirits. That, and Ellie's a natural-born worrier, and the stress cortisol levels. . .well, I'm trying to make sure there's _no_ stress in the first months this time." Lantar grinned suddenly. "A good thing Eli got the worst of it out of the way early, eh?

Sam chuckled and slapped a hand on the turian's big shoulder. "So, she talked you into it, huh?"

Lantar grinned. "I talked _her_ into it. With Eli gone from home, Caelia will need company. It's not good to have only one child in the nest." He paused. "It didn't take much convincing, though."

Sam snorted. "Never hurt Dara any."

"Well, humans _are_ different."

They walked out together. Kasumi asked, "So, she's going to try to stay on tacilimus the whole time?"

Lantar nodded. Sam snorted. "It's beginning to feel like no one around here tries to make kids the old-fashioned way anymore."

Kasumi looked up at him, eyes sparkling. "Well, there's _you and_ _me_, Sam."

Sam gave her a dark look. "So much for _your_ security clearance, lady."

Lantar stopped in mid-stride and just _grinned_ for a moment at Sam's momentary discomfiture. Then he looked thoughtful. "So. . . how do you know _when_. . . " He paused, clearly looking for a tactful way to put something, and failing. "I mean,_ I_ know, with Ellie, by smell, if nothing else, but. . . nevermind. Damnit."

Kasumi let him hang there for a moment, then rescued him. "There are test kits. Temperature variations around estrus, hormonal levels. . . "

Sam snorted again, sliding his hand around her waist. "See, that's still all new-fangled nonsense. I can tell you _exactly_ how Sarrie and I wound up with Dara _one month_ after she stopped taking her pills." He grinned down at Kasumi wickedly. He was going to have his revenge. "Steadfast perseverance and dedication."

She tried to control her face, and failed. "I'm sure you were a _martyr_ to the cause, too."

"She was a slave-driver," Sam said, long-sufferingly. "Then again, so are you. . . "

"And _that's_ more than I needed to hear," Lantar said, chuckling, and breaking away as Kasumi lifted a fist and pretended to hit Sam in the jaw with it.

**Dara**

Dara had realized, with some delight, that she knew several of the people on Dymion at OCS from her manciple at bootcamp. Decimus Corolan was there, giving her a hearty wrist-clasp from his room across the hall. And Nadea Curicium was her roommate this time around. They'd both given her _hell_ the first day for the fact that her father was a Spectre. _"You and Essedarius. Two of the most __close-mouthed__ females I've ever met,"_ Decimus told her, laughing. _"All I know is that after __Shepard and Vakarian__ showed up with your __father the Spectre__, they hustled all the rest of us out of the barracks. And then I wind up watching the news on the extranet two nights later, and realize Essedarius was really an imperial scion." _

"_You actually watched the __news__ on leave?"_ Nadea asked, scoffing. The female wore paint that reminded Dara of Linianus, back home—upper right quadrant blue, lower left quadrant blue. Eddessan Colony.

"_Yes, yes I did. I needed to focus on something to keep my head from spinning,"_ he assured her, grinning. _"My roommates had poured half a bottle of brandy into me in the hotel and it was that or watching the ceiling tiles go around and around and around. The news seemed less likely to make me throw up."_

"_I'm more surprised that neither of you recognized Essedarius. Most of the Palaven natives did. And while my mate didn't, he at least caught the accent. Me, I have an __excuse__. You two? Bad marks on the observation exercise,"_ Dara teased.

"_Bah. I've spent my whole life on Rocam Outpost_," Decimus shrugged. _"Who has time to listen to imperial speeches out there?"_

"_Shhh,"_ Nadea warned. _"Not a proper spirit to give voice to."_

Decimus shrugged. _"A true one, though. Rocam is nothing but jungles, pole to pole. Sure, half the pharmaceuticals in the Hierarchy come from our world, but every one of them is a struggle to find, harvest, leave enough of in the wild to propagate, let alone __try__ to cultivate them. . . ."_

"_You want to go back there when your term of service is up?"_ Dara asked, letting her fingers brush the keys of the _reela_.

Decimus shook his head emphatically. _"No. Spirits, no. It's hotter than Palaven."_ He looked at Nadea. _"And you, Curicium? You want to go back to Edessan Colony when you're done?"_

"_Depends on how well I do,"_ she said, after a moment. _"It's a mixed colony, industrial and agricultural at the same time. Always some work to do there, but, you know. It's home. Kind of boring." _She grinned. _"Rocam at least sounds exotic."_

"_If by exotic you mean hot, wet, and almost as much pollen in the air as Eletania, then you're right. __Exotic__ it is. Personally, I'd call it a festering shithole, but, exotic sounds better." _Decimus rolled his eyes. He was sitting on the floor between the two nests in the room, legs propped up to keep his spurs off the ground. Dara was just enjoying watching the two of them.

When Decimus left that night, Dara very quietly sang at Nadea, _"Somebody likes you, somebody likes you. . . "_

"_He does not." _Nadea narrowed her eyes at Dara. _"Besides, foolish to start anything now. Chances of being posted together are pretty slim."_

"_You never know. My mate's roommate from OCS was at boot camp with him. Both on the same ship now. Rel was __surprised__, but pleased. Familiar faces help."_

She hadn't had much of a chance to get to know either of them the first time around, other than to know that Decimus was rock-steady and she'd welcome him at her back any time. He'd taken over the other half of the barracks after she'd fought Lintorum and run them hard but fairly, and they'd worked together well during the Trial. Nadea, she had more of a chance to get to know now; the female was still short—Dara's height, in fact—and feisty, with a streak of blunt honesty that was remarkable even for a turian. _"You're going to have to learn to be more diplomatic," _at least one instructor warned Nadea in their first week, during the management courses. _"There's giving an honest assessment, and there's career suicide. You're going to have to develop your judgment."_

Nadea was also a cheerful roommate. She didn't mind Dara quietly playing the _reela_ for an hour a night, slowly trying to work flexibility back into her fingers after a hundred and thirty days away from any musical instrument. They'd also taken to leaving the door of their room open most of the evening until lights-out, so people could drop by, as did most other people on their floor. It was, as such, a _much_ more cheerful place than boot camp had been. Decimus often came across the hall to chat up Nadea. Both were marines, both slated for officer status.

Of the 400 million troops trained a year, one in a thousand got OCS, one in a thousand got Special Forces. Only 400 officers were admitted to the program each year, and OCS ran four times a year. Her class, like Rel's, was _small_ compared to the marine officer contingent here on Dymion—100, as opposed to 1,000. The number of each of these trained as a special forces combat medic, in preparation for Field Surgeon status, was vanishingly small. Five percent. Twenty people a year. Five people a class. And Dara was the only human. Sometimes, she felt as if everyone were staring at her through the wrong end of a telescope, or maybe as if she were watching them that way. As if she was incredibly distanced from everyone else, but that the distance were completely artificial.

At least up on Dymion, in the pressurized quarters, she didn't have to wear a rad suit or armor all the damn time. Her fellow officer's candidates could hear her, see her, smell her; see the paint, see the knife. They'd been tense with her at first, but when she'd mastered the bookwork as fast as any of them, and had kept up on the squad tactics and infiltration training, many of them had relaxed with her. Some had seen the newsfeeds, and she got _very_ pointed comments from them about how _she_ wasn't a Spectre. She just smiled and told them, _"I know."_ Others asked questions about Kallixta, which Dara refused to answer beyond a vague assurance that all of the members of her squad had been hard workers.

Familiar faces when she went back planet-side for drop training were harder to come by; there were the vaguely familiar faces of her hundred OCS classmates, of course, but a sea of _unfamiliar_ ones, too; enlisted special forces candidates. Curious stares, all around. One of three humans so far to graduate. First human in turian special forces. As a medic, she wouldn't _usually_ be a squad commander, except when there was an emergency (god forbid) , or had charge of a group of medics of lower rank. But she had to know _how_, just in case, had to learn how to earn their respect. And the way to do that was the way she'd learned at boot camp. To do every damn thing they did, as well as they could. . . if she could.

And here, that meant not showing even a trace of fear as she stood in line, waiting for her first solo jump. They'd all done one the first day, in tandem with an instructor. Her knees had locked up at the door, but, connected by a harness to an instructor, she'd gone because he'd gone. No choice at all.

The urge to scream in terror was instinctive. After she'd run out of breath, she'd mostly been glad that her helmet had muffled the sound. After that, there'd been the freefall, and the slow, giddy response as her brain realized that it _wasn't dead_. Limbs spread out, feeling the resistance of the air, laughing now, like a loon, glorious rush of simply being _alive_, and then the instructor had pulled the chute, and they'd come in for a slow landing. _"You ready to do that again?"_ the instructor asked, laughing at her.

"_Yes!"_ She whooped the word out. Of course, there was a let-down period. Now they had to do the formal classroom training portion. Jump procedures. Safety. What to do in an emergency. What to do if the second chute failed to deploy. _Ignite the reserve jetpack when within 40 meters of the ground. And pray really, really fast._ Low altitude jumps, halo jumps. Static-cord jumps and free jumps.

Practicing with twenty others at a time, proper exiting procedure into an inflated air cushion. _"Our human candidate here is the only one of you who gets to do this in armor and full gear from the very beginning," _one of the instructors called out. _"The rest of you lazy sods will put on armor and weapons tomorrow. So she's going to be __ahead__ of you. Look alive!"_

_Thanks. Do you __really__ have to put it that way? It's not actually an __advantage__, you know._

And then back up in a shuttle again, with fifty other people. Officers candidates had to go first. Setting an example. Checking body position—eyes open. Chin tucked. Elbows tight to the body, little crouch, holding her reserve. And then tumbling out of the shuttle, keeping an eye on everyone around her, trying to remember all the details. How to avoid people in the air around her, slipping away from them, maintaining her distance. What altitude to deploy at. Her fingers were tight on the cord, _really_ wanting to pull it early, but doing so would be a black mark. . . .and then the altimeter finally pinged and she yanked the cord with enormous relief. Trying to face into the wind. Trying to make the landing without being dragged along the ground by the wind, still pushing her canopy.

The first day, all of their main chutes were packed for them. The second day, they learned how to pack their own chutes; the reserve was always packed by a master jumper. Jumping for the first time on a self-packed chute was more nerve-wracking than anything else. Having to trust in her own skills, completely.

Rel had been right, though; the monotony of it made it. . . easy. . . after the third or fourth day. Night jumps were harder. Low altitude jumps were harder. But with ten jumps a day, over ten days. . . it really did get easier. The halo jumps, on the last two days, were, of course, among the most technically challenging. And at the end of the ten day course, Dara had her first badge to pin on her uniform—parachute wings. If she ever actually did this in combat, the badge would change, of course, but for the moment, it was just nice to have the damned thing in her hands. _Turians aren't the only people who like marks_, she thought, amused. _Humans do, too._

She'd gotten letters from her dad, detailing how _proud_ Lantar was of Eli at the moment—_you'd think that Lantar really had raised him from a pup_, her dad had written, and had detailed what he knew of the boys' fight on Tuchanka. On the one hand, Dara sort of wished she and Rel had been there. They could have _helped_. On the other hand. . . she sort of figured it was Eli and Lin and Mazz's time to shine. Although her eyebrows _did_ rise at the fact that Siara had been there, too. _Hope Eli's not hooked up with her again. Unless she's really substantially changed._

No letters from Rel. She didn't expect them immediately. _Normandy_-class ships were like antique submarines; a silent service. They slid into enemy waters quietly, undetected, and didn't necessarily broadcast their damn presence by constantly sending and receiving messages. Rel had warned her that communications drops might only happen once a month.. . . and a Palaven-calendar month had forty days. She was only on day thirty at the moment.

From the parachuting course, directly into the amphibious warfare unit. Fortunately, it was safe to go diving after parachuting, although the reverse was _not_ true. Turians and humans _both_ could get the bends by excess nitrogen in the blood, induced by the pressure of diving underwater, and then ascending to too high an elevation. Even so, there was a day of classroom work in between the courses. And then, into the water. Learning to clear her ears, or equalize them, as the water put pressure on her ear drums. The turians around her had different ear structures, of course; the instructors essentially handed her a waterproof card with the human methods and more or less threw up their hands. Plugging the nose and blowing? Not something a turian _could_ do, and Dara knew she was fortunate. Her dad had commented once that he'd never been able to clear his ears, and had missed out on his own amphibious badge as a result.

Palaven's oceans _teemed _with life. Huge fish, enormous sharks, and, of course, _pleurae_. Like Earth's _liopleurodon_, these reptiles competed with the sharks, but were air-breathers. All four limbs provided them odd, aquatic grace. . .and they were _huge._ Dara only saw one in the distance midway through the course, but tugging on the instructor's arm and pointing at it got a strong reaction. He pulled out an underwater whistle, shot air into it from his hoses, and pointed _up_ once he had everyone's attention. Everyone slowly ascended, letting their air bubbles precede them, and clambered back onto the boat. _No _one wanted to be in the water with that creature. While _megalodon _sharks on Earth had technically been larger, Dara really didn't want to meet _either_.

On the plus side, under twenty to thirty feet of water, she had enough radiation shielding not to have to worry _too_ much; every time they came up to the boat, however, she had to go sit in the cabin, where they'd put some moderate radiation shielding for her. She was grateful for the courtesy, but being in the cramped quarters actually made her _much_ more apt to be seasick than being out on the deck. She focused on the horizon and informed her inner ears that they were ill-informed. _I've done zero-g training, for god's sake. __This__ makes me nauseous? Really?_

Bookwork finals on April 5, followed by a half-day's liberty. . . which she couldn't do much with, seeing as there she didn't really want to wander around Aequor in a damned radiation suit. Or armor. _"Can we at least get you something?" _her roommate for the trip, Facina Polorixan, asked, sounding. . . a little pitying, actually.

"_Not unless there's someplace on this rock that sells _ice cream_," _Dara told Facina laughing. _"I think it would help break the heat."_

"_I have absolutely no idea what that is."_

"_Nevermind. I'd have to explain what a _cow_ is, what _milk_ is, and why nuts are an abomination and should never be added to a _sundae._"_ Dara grinned. _"Far too much work. Go have fun."_

When Dara checked her messages, though, she found a letter from Rel. Purest relief. _Beloved—no idea when this will get sent. We can upload messages to the server all the live-long day, but they'll only get sent when we're in range of a comm buoy and the captain gives the go ahead for communications to open. As I'm writing this, it's Finus 3. I can't tell you much—not where we are or what we're doing here. Can't even tell you what my first-brother has done that's so. . . uncharacteristically stupid of him, but noble in a deranged sort of way. I __can__ tell you that I'm still training damned near every day, but getting a little practical experience, too. Which is nice. Rinus isn't the only family member aboard, although the other one is more from the __extended__ family._

Dara paused and tried to puzzle that one out. Extended family probably meant a Spectre, but not one of the ones that they were actually related to. Not Lantar; her dad had said he'd been on Tuchanka and now was home. And apparently, that he and Ellie were trying for another kid, or maybe two. So. . . Sky? No, then Rel would have said _the guy who sang at our wedding_. Gris? On the _Estallus? _Without a human or a turian Spectre along to pad everyone's reactions a bit? No, probably not. Dara shook her head. It was going to have to stay a puzzle.

_So, yes, busy. Cadius and I are roommates again. My brother drops by every couple of nights, and of course there are vid nights and all the other crap they have us doing to keep us from killing each other when we're not on-duty. I know my morale will improve enormously when you finally get here. Hurry up, sweetness._

"I'm hurrying just as fast as I can," she told him, out loud, and dashed off a quick response. _God only knows when he'll __get__ this. . . .it's Finus 25. What's that in real days? Oh, crap, April 15. Eli's birthday is in two days. Should drop him a line, too. _

**Elijah**

April 15 happened to fall on a Sunday. He and Lin had done their weekly forty-kilometer run that morning, and then Eli had gone home and showered, completely exhausted. _I'm going to be doing that twice a damn week on Palaven. These endurance mods had really better kick in quickly_, he thought, lying back on his bed. Lin had been sandbagging—he did two of these a week, one at his speed and one at Eli's—mostly to be able to hang out and encourage Eli not to stop.

In the afternoon, it was time to study again. Serana had a little base access pass of her own now—of which she was _very_ proud—and she, Lin, Tel, and Mazz came over around 14:00. Mazz was now living with Gris, in his father's absence, here on base, which made study-groups that much easier, at least. And Caelia, who was always chattery and noisy and wanted Eli to play with her while he was trying to study, was much easier to deal with when Serana was here. Serana had, of course, _four_ hybrid cousins now, and had been helping to take care of two of them for five years now. Caelia saw the girl, reached up imperative hands, and got the lap she wanted, and simply sat on Serana, making happy noises, while the rest of them studied. Finals were coming up in May, after all. And Eli had, in addition to those, a battery of tests on subjects he hadn't officially been studying with a teacher's guidance, for his equivalency degree. He had, with Lin and Tel and Serana's help, started getting As in turian, at least. He spoke asari high tongue fluently, through no effort of his own, so he couldn't really be _proud_ of that. Mathematics, chemistry, not problems. Physics, well, that was just math, really. Not a pleasure, but not a problem, either. Biology and xenobiology were problem areas, though, and since he wasn't really talking with Siara anymore, and Dara wasn't here to tutor him, he was struggling through both on his own. History was a chore, too. Names and dates that meant nothing to him.

Mazz and Tel had to take off early today, which left just Lin and Serana with him at the kitchen table. Then Eli's omnitool chirped. "A message from my _ama'fradu_?" Serana said, looking over his shoulder at the screen on his wrist. "Can I see?"

Eli shrugged. "Sure. Dara never says anything all that important." He keyed it up for her, and read it quickly himself. _Hey, Eli—just a quick note to wish you a happy birthday. Living on the Palaven calendar, I tend to forget the important stuff like that. Also, congrats on fighting a damn __dragon__. That's a hell of a lot more impressive than a bunch of batarians, and I want __pictures__ from Lantar's omnitool at some point._ Dara had included a winking emoticon there. _Don't make a big deal of it at boot camp, unless asked. I'm sure Lantar already told you that. _

"He did," Eli muttered.

"So did my dad," Lin added, sounding amused. "Several times."

_I remembered something today, might help you out. I didn't start memorizing the regs until I got here, but I already spoke __tal'mae__ pretty well when I got here. Reading it for the applications and forms and crap still sucked, but I spoke it, at least. Last I heard, __tal'mae__ was a bugger for you. . . and all the damned regs are written in it. You might want to start reading through them now. I've attached a file with the first four chapters of the handbook. A lot of people, even the turians, were just memorizing the sounds, I think. Like people used to do in churches when the Mass was in Latin, and no one but the priests spoke Latin. But since you want to do military police. . . eh, it's a thought, anyway. Happy birthday again. Give my best to your parents and say hello to Serana for me. _

Eli groaned as he looked at the file. "She's got a point," he muttered after a minute. "I _hate_ her for it, but she's definitely got a point." He'd gone through the application forms, naturalization by adoption forms, supplied the documentation that stated that Lantar had adopted him into clan Sidonis in front of a minister of the Law on Bastion about ten seconds after finishing _manus_ rites with his mother, three years ago now, and that had been a long and painful process for both of them.

Lin made a face. "Hey, I _speak_ _tal'mae_, and I'm not looking forward to it, either."

"Open it up," Serana told Eli. "It could be a lot less bad than you're thinking."

So, an hour later, they'd moved into the living room, Serana was sitting next to Eli on the couch, and he could feel heat radiating out from her, and Lin was across the room, sprawled across a chair, long legs dangling over one arm, as they were all trying to plow through the handbook. And Eli was _trying_ for patience while his translations were corrected from both sides. "Okay, seriously, some of these rules don't even make sense," he said, irritably. "Why would you _ever_ 'punish' someone by telling them that they can't perform their duties? You're giving them up to, what, forty days' _vacation_?"

Lantar had popped his head in the door of the room to listen, and chuckled. "They don't get paid if they've been relieved of duty for non-judicial punishments."

"Okay, that makes _better_ sense," Eli agreed, looking up at his father, "but making them work and docking their pay is still a better option. That way, they're not just sitting in their room watching vids on the extranet and still getting fed and whatever. So _what_ if you don't get paid for a month, if you've got food and housing already provided?"

Lantar nodded, then pointed out, "But if they have family at home, that their paycheck goes to provide for?"

Eli frowned. "Then that's punishing the _family_, not the person who screwed up. Also not fair."

Lantar's mandibles flexed. "The option is there to give a commander flexibility in terms of punishing someone. Doesn't mean it _has_ to be used."

Eli nodded, slowly. "Okay, that I can see," he agreed.

Lin looked up from across the room. "Should a law be flexible, or should it be absolute?"

And that got them off on a whole different tangent, Serana arguing for flexibility, Lin arguing for absolutism. . . mostly for the enjoyment of the argument, Eli thought, amused. Lantar came in and sat down with them, and Eli threw out another question, that got them spiraling a different direction. "It all depends on what you think the law is _for_," Eli said. "Is it for protecting people, or is it for punishing people who do things wrong?"

"Protecting," Serana said, immediately.

"Punishing," Linianus said, grinning, still sprawled across the chair, the picture of relaxation.

Lantar chuckled. "And you, Eli? You have an opinion on that?"

"It's for both," Eli said, shrugging. "It bounces back and forth between preventing and punishing. Even the earliest law codes on Earth have both." _This_ had actually stuck in his mind from his godawful history books. He keyed up Hammurabi's code of laws. "First written on a stone tablet in 1700 BCE," he said, letting it float in the air above his omnitool.

"By a Roman?" Lantar asked, grinning.

"No, way before them. Babylonians." Eli read the translation out loud. "It says that the gods called him 'Hammurabi, the exalted prince'. . . and set him 'to bring about the rule of righteousness in the land, to destroy the wicked and the evil-doers; so that the strong should not harm the weak; so that I should rule over the black-headed people like Shamash, and enlighten the land, to further the well-being of mankind.'" He paused. "Shamash was one of their bad gods, if I remember right." Eli grinned. "So even back then, he had the idea that the law should be there to punish the evil-doers and protect people who can't protect themselves. Of course, the rest of the code is a little, well, _excessive_, by modern standards. . . ."

Serana reached over and scrolled down. Her eyes widened. "Oh, here's a good one. Trial by water. If you can swim, you're automatically innocent, and the person who accused you will be put to death."

"Hey, _you_ guys still have trial by combat," Eli reminded her.

"Only in divorce and custody proceedings, and only if no one can be grown up enough to make the _right_ decisions for the sake of the kids," Lin contributed from the other side of the room.

Serana was still scrolling down. "Is there anything here that _isn't_ the death penalty? If someone makes an accusation, and it is a capital crime—and aren't they all capital crimes?—and if it cannot be proven, then the accuser will be put to death."

Eli nodded solemnly. "Would cut down on frivolous lawsuits, wouldn't it?"

Lin and Lantar both chuckled. "Here you go, little one," Eli said, pointing at another rule of the ancient laws. "If a judge makes a decision, it has to be written down. And if another judge later reverses the decision. . . "

Serana grinned up at him, "The judge who was wrong is put to death?"

"No," Eli said, drawing the word out with exaggerated patience, "he's just banned from ever being a judge again."

Lantar snorted. "If every judge I ever went in front of was tossed from the bench for having a decision reversed. . . spirits, there'd be no judges left."

Eli nodded. "Yeah, made better sense in a simpler world. A world where a thief really could be executed in front of the hole he'd made in someone's house, and buried there."

"Now that's actually a law I could get behind," Lin offered, cheerfully.

Eli flicked his fingers at his friend, and went on, "But the ideals behind it are still more or less the same. Admittedly, we're a little less _draconian_ about it nowadays." He shrugged and turned off the projection, returning to the tedium of the _tal'mae_. The language aside, the rules themselves were actually pretty interesting. Eli was good at understanding systems. He could easily see where there were checks and balances, and where one rule begot another rule. It was like chemistry. Or math. Every clause balanced another clause. It made sense, except in places where he couldn't see an application. It wasn't like history, name, date, name, date, name, date, and who _cared_.

Lin left, and that just left Serana, whom his mom liked, and asked to stay to dinner; no gathering at Sam's tonight. "One more or less dextro plate, doesn't matter," Ellie said, cheerfully.

Serana helped with the plates, as a good first-daughter should, and Elijah could hear her asking, "So, I heard that you were having young?"

_Rumor mill grinds __really__ fast around here, _Eli thought, impressed. He hadn't been told, himself, until after the procedure had taken place two weeks ago.

His mom beamed. So odd to see her _relaxed_, but Lantar had her doing forms and yoga every morning, and it seemed to be helping with her stress levels. Plus, oddly enough, other than being tired, it seemed like his mom _liked_ being pregnant. Weird, when he considered that for a moment. But maybe it just went with being female. "Yeah, tacilimus. Which means no breather, at least for a while."

"Is it scary, having to have all the examinations and the medications?" Serana's voice was small.

His mom looked down at Serana, and frowned for a moment. "It can be. Certainly, the first time was. But I know Dr. Solus a lot better than Dr. Rem, and I've been through this before."

"Okay. Good." Serana paused. "I have to go to the clinic this week, myself."

His head turned slightly. _She's sick?_

Ellie put a hand on Serana's shoulder. "What for, sweetie?"

"They need to test my blood hormone levels. All girls start getting tested at ten. I've been tested three times already. When the hormone levels hit a certain number, I have to start taking anti-estrus meds. I was almost at that number a month ago." Serana was looking at the floor. "It could be worse," she said, after a moment. "A thousand years ago, I'd have already been manus-plighted to someone, just in case I started early." She looked back up at Ellie. "Is it hard to remember to take the medications?"

Ellie crouched down and gave the girl a hug. "No, dear, it's not. When it's _important_, you remember these things. For you, you'll probably want to take it at the same time every day. Maybe when you're doing something else that you do every day, anyway. Maybe like brushing your teeth? For me, I have to take things four times a day. I keep a checklist, and I have a timer on my omnitool set to tell me when to take each pill or injection." Ellie nodded at the table. "Go ahead and sit down, sweetie. I've got _apatarae _ribs going for you and Lantar and Caelia."

So _odd_, to think of Serana like that, but the girl _was_ pushing eleven. Just like a human girl of the same age, really. Eli looked out the window, and realized, "Hey! It's snowing!" He turned. "Duck! C'mere, Duck, we're going outside." He picked up his sister and banged out the back door into the cold April air, holding Caelia up so she could catch the falling snowflakes.

"Eli, you're wearing _shorts_ and _sandals. _Get back in here and put on something warm," his mom called out the door.

"Eh, it's not that bad." It wasn't, either. Like most human males his age, Eli was almost completely indifferent to cold temperatures now that he'd adapted to living on a planetary surface. His metabolism was boiling over, and even 0º C/ 32º F didn't feel all that bad. After about ten or fifteen minutes of playing with Caelia in the yard, he brought her back in, and Caelia bolted for Serana, saying, proudly, "I did it!"

"You didn't do anything, Duck."

"I did it!"

"Okay, you did it. Whatever it was, _you_ did it."

"She's _cold_." Serana put a hand out and grabbed Eli's arm. "_You're_ not. You actually feel _warmer_ than she does."

Eli grinned down at her. "This is why we survived Ice Ages back on Earth. Being a mammal has a _few_ advantages."

"Being _male_ has advantages," his mother said, crisply. "My cousins in New York used to do the same damn fool thing every Christmas when we'd visit them. They'd run outside in the snow in _shorts_, and since I'd just flown up from _Bermuda_, I'd be sitting on the damn heater with a blanket wrapped around me."

Then they sat down to dinner, but the last shuttle down to the valley got shut down, due to the blizzard that was sweeping through, unexpectedly. His mom put Serana in the guest room for the night, and called Allardus and Solanna, so that they wouldn't worry. "I like coming over here," Serana said, sleepily, just before bed. "You and Lin are like brothers to each other now, right?"

Eli thought about that. "I guess so," he said, after a moment. "I don't really think about that sort of thing much."

"Lin does, I bet. You've fought together. Were blooded together." Serana nodded at him. "And getting to be around you two. . . it's comfortable. It's almost like having my brothers back. But not." She opened her eyes a little wider to glare at Eli. "Of course, you and Lin are going to be leaving soon, too."

Eli snorted. "Go get some sleep, _asperitalla_."

Of course, as tired as he could make his body, it didn't help much. He was sixteen. His body reminded him of that fact constantly, even in his sleep. Disturbing, erotic dreams. Invariably, his subconscious mind put faces on the dream bodies. Siara, though his conscious mind knew that was inappropriate now—all the more so, since she was, apparently, making time with a _krogan_. Dara, though when he woke from _those_, he cursed his wayward mind. Biting them, like a turian. Rarely kissing. He had ten or fifteen turian friends at this point, a turian step-father, and his romantic impulses were. . . shifting. Siara had been fascinated by this in him, he remembered. Said his anger was more turian than human, too.

The visions always continued from the biting, though, progressed towards driving himself into them. Tonight, a _grown-up_ version of Serana joined the cast, all long, lithe limbs, biting him _back_, and _that_ snapped him awake. _Why always biting? Am I that messed up now? And why not one of the __other__ girls from school?_ he thought, _very_ annoyed as he woke up, hard and aching. Again. Why not Marissa or Arianne or Lydia, or, shit, one of the drell girls, like Padma or Tellure? Of course, he had very little interest in any of those girls. They were catty, and not very intelligent. Sure, he could picture _doing_ things with them—that was more or less a constant in his head anyway, when he wasn't _fully_ occupied with something else. But they didn't _interest _him. No, no, it had to be someone unattainable or otherwise wrong, otherwise his subconscious didn't have the pleasure of waking him up, filled with guilt and teeth-grinding frustration.

Eli sighed, staring up at the ceiling. He could wait it out, and try to go back to sleep. Or he could do something about it. His mom had certain strong reservations about 'doing something about it,' but. . . _shit, it's not like __she__ has to live with this._ So he lowered his hands and tried very hard not to picture _anything at all_. Certainly nothing Rel would kill him for. Definitely nothing he'd have a hard time meeting anyone's eyes because of. No faces. Just blessed, blessed relief.

The next day, school was back in session. Siara had returned from Tuchanka, and looked tired but content. "Mazz," she said, coming over to their table at lunch, unexpectedly. "If you could rebuild anything on Tuchanka, what would you start with?" She sat down next to Eli, leaning across the table to talk to Mazz. Eli, who had Serana to his right, and past Serana, had Linianus, suddenly felt oddly crowded. Especially since he could feel Serana tensing up. And was that a _hiss_? Eli turned and looked down at her, surprised, just as Linianus was doing. He looked at Lin over the top of Serana's head, a _what the hell?_ glance, and got a shrug in return.

Mazz was blinking now, obviously surprised by the question. "I don't know," he told Siara, after a moment. "It would be hard to rebuild just _one_, wouldn't it?"

"What should the priority be?" Her tone was pragmatic.

Mazz looked down. "Most clan leaders would say, build a fortress first. Protect the clan. Then worry about other things. If more were even possible."

Siara shrugged. "Urdnot already has a fortress. Admittedly, it's dirty and broken, but they also have a fortress in people's _minds_. Anyone who attacks Urdnot, will _die_." She looked at Mazz. "What would _you_ rebuild, first?"

Mazz looked at her, and very, very slowly said, "Water treatment facility. We don't _need_ to drink clean water. We're supposed to be strong enough, resistant enough to disease, on our own. But clean water would benefit the young. And the females."

Siara nodded. "That's better than what I thought of. I was thinking of the hospital, but you're right. A hospital doesn't do much good without clean water." She hesitated. "I know Eli's going to be leaving soon, and that will leave you without a study partner. And I'm doing a, ah, long-term project on Tuchanka. Would you, well. . . would you like to be my study-partner, next term?"

Mazz stared at her, wide-eyed. Then grinned. "Yeah. Um, just so I'm clear on certain things. . ."

"I'm with Makur. He doesn't share." Flat words.

Mazz looked downright _relieved_. "Good. I like things simple," he said, shrugging, and Siara grinned and left.

After school, but before sparring, Eli and Lin were at Allardus and Solanna's house, waiting for Lantar to come down from the base. Eli chuckled and headed for the private rooms, Lin tagging at his heels, the two of them laughing and talking as usual.

"_Asperitalla,"_ Eli said, popping his head into Serana's room, _"were you going to __protect__ me from Siara today?"_ His voice was teasing.

"_Someone should,"_ Serana replied, sounding distinctly grumpy and not very Serana-ish at all. She was sitting at her desk, slumped over, face in her hands, like she had the world's worst headache.

"Hey, are you all right?" Eli said, coming in the room, concerned. Her room smelled nice. Clean. Odd, faintly musky odor, like sun-warmed rocks. Not unpleasant, just different. He put his hand on her arm. Hot to the touch, of course. Impossible for a human to tell what was normal and what was _fever_ in a turian. No matter what, it always felt like touching a warm cup filled with tea.

Behind him, Linianus was hesitating at the door. Sniffing. _Wonder what he's getting that I'm not,_ Eli thought, briefly, but he was much more concerned about Serana at this moment. She _never_ sat all hunched in on herself like that.

"I feel. . . weird," she admitted, in English, leaning her head back now. Slight blue flush to her crest. "My head's all fuzzy, too." She turned a little, looking at his hand on her arm, and inhaled sharply, through her nose. _"You smell good." _She turned a little further, smiled at Lin at the door, and added, _"Both of you do. Brothers in battle."_ Then she lowered her head and before he realized what she was doing, she was nipping at his wrist.

_Oh, shit_,was Eli's only thought.

"_S'kak!"_ Lin said, at the door. "Eli, _hold_ her there. It's not full estrus. Do not let her out of this room, though, you understand me?" A little panic in Lin's voice. "I'll get her mom."

_Shit, shit, shit, what do I do?_ Eli freed his wrist, and, as Serana stood, turned her around, away from him. Locked her arms behind her back, winding his own through them, locking his hands at the back of her neck. Full nelson hold, more than enough to keep her secure for the moment. She wasn't really fighting it, though, and he was grateful for that.

Then Solanna was there, muttering very bad words under her breath. "Okay, Lin, you stay back. Eli, you can't smell the pheromones, right?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Thank the spirits for humans and their total lack of smell. All right, help me get her to the groundcar. We're going to take her to the clinic after-hours, okay?"

She put the two of them in the backseat, and told him to maintain his grip. "Even if she fights. You understand?"

"She's not resisting," Eli said. Quite the opposite, in fact. Serana had simply relaxed, which was disconcerting, considering the hold he had on her was _not_ a comfortable one.

"Good." Solanna slammed the groundcar door and took off for the clinic, the two of them bouncing around in the back.

Lantar met them at the clinic. Eli was in the waiting area, alone, and jumped up when he saw his step-father. "I got an earful back at the house," Lantar told him. "Did she draw blood?"

Eli shook his head. "Nah."

Lantar relaxed. "Good. No anaphylactic shock for either of you." He looked at Eli soberly. "She's going to be _really_ embarrassed once they stabilize the hormones for her. Just act normally, okay?"

Eli shook his head. "Nothing to be embarrassed about. All it was, was a little bite. Caelia's bitten me worse in a tantrum."

Lantar snorted a little. "She'll be embarrassed about what was going on in her head, son. Just let her off the hook and don't make a big deal out of it. They're not in their right mind when the cycle starts, and while she's young for it, at least it was caught very early. It could have been a _lot_ worse. She fixed on you—"

"And Lin, at least a little."

Lantar shrugged. "Yeah. In her head, at that moment, you were brothers. Makes you more or less the same for her, in a way." Lantar hesitated then added, in turian, _"Brothers often shared territory in the cave and nest days. Like Terran lions, if you understand me. Now, socially, very strict monogamy is the rule, but then. . . ."_

El thought about that for a moment. And decided he didn't want to think about that much more.

Back in English now, Lantar went on, "Lin did good. He backed up, let you handle it, and went for help. You always let the male she's fixed on handle it, unless he's mated already. Then you have to do a little substitution. Which. . . can get a little tricky."

Eli shook his head, grabbing his jacket and getting ready to go. "It seems. . . dangerous and unfair."

Lantar nodded. "It is. Estrus _is_ dangerous for them." He paused, and went back into turian. Easier to talk about such things in a language meant for it. _"It's half the reason for all the marking. Marking lets her know __who she belongs to__ when she's out of her damn mind. And it tells other males to __stay away__ if she's not theirs. Part of marking is for our own comfort. And part of it is for protection."_

"_You mean seeing the yellow marks on her face was enough to keep Lin from walking in the room?"_

"_I'm sure it helped." _Lantar shrugged. _"Eli, I drew the short straw once when a female cycled into estrus on a ship."_

"_Siara mentioned something about that. Long time ago."_

Lantar gave him a look. Eli shrugged. _"I didn't ask for details. She mostly said it scared her."_

"_All right. When it happens, and she's not your mate, but you __have__ to control the situation, it's. . . good. But it's also uncomfortable and more than a little embarrassing when she finally snaps out of it."_

Eli thought about that. _"Do I have a step-brother or step-sister around?"_

"_Thank the spirits, no. She cycled through without conception."_ They were at the groundcar now, and got into the vehicle. _"I'm just telling you this so that you'll act normally with her later."_

"_Of course I will. She's Rel's little sister. And a friend. She's not responsible. And it's __fixed__ now, anyway. It'd be like making fun of a human girl who'd bled through her pants on her first period."_

"_Not a bad analogy."_

Eli paused. _"Is there any way to tell when one of the cycles is coming?"_

"_They're usually a little cranky for a couple of days before it starts."_ Lantar grinned suddenly. _"Then they get __really__ cranky. But that's the fun part."_

Eli laughed, a little reluctantly. "_Is that going to happen to Caelia, eventually?"_ he asked, as Lantar drove them home. He didn't like the thought of his little sister losing her mind like that, to be honest. What happened if she were around humans at that point, and not, say, turians? Or other hybrids? She could get hurt. Badly.

Lantar shook his head. _"I don't know,"_ he replied, slowly. _"Dr. Solus says the reproductive system is largely human, but the endocrine system is mostly turian, except where he had to make them match up."_

"_S'kak."_ The worst-case scenario out of that would be monthly estrus, like a human female, but with turian urges. Which would be. . . bad.

Lantar didn't reprimand him for the language. "Yeah. That's kind of my opinion on the matter, too." He shrugged. "All the more reason to make sure there are _lots_ of hybrids around when the time comes. Having Lycus and Eduardo and Charis' kids here on Mindoir's a help."

"Long-term thinking," Eli said, after a moment. "The best I can do lately is to think "July first, July first, July first."

Two days later, Serana was back in school, looking down a lot, very embarrassed, indeed. Eli beckoned her across the cafeteria and pointed at the seat next to him. None of the others had gotten out of the food lines yet. "I'm so sorry. " Serana paused, and then started again, in _tal'mae._ _"I ask for forgiveness for my actions."_

"Oh, screw that." Eli shook his head. "Sit down, little one. Nothing happened. Like I told my dad, Caelia's bitten me worse in the middle of a temper tantrum." _And if Lin had been the first one into the room, and not me, you'd probably have bitten him, instead._

She looked like a frown and a smile were fighting for space on her face at the same time. "Still, I shouldn't have—"

He looked down at her. "You weren't really yourself. Today, you are. If it helps, you just found a way to be just as much of an idiot as the rest of us."

Serana glared at him. "Thanks. That's _very_ comforting."

He grinned. "I know. I'm _good_ at that. And I've got lots and lots of _tal'mae _ questions for you and Lin today. So stop squawking and give me a hand, would you?" Letting her off the hook. Letting things stay normal. Letting the status quo reign.

She looked up, and the clear gratitude in her eyes, he thought, would probably stay with him forever.

**Rellus**

Rel hadn't been kidding in his letter to Dara. He _was_ being kept very busy. The first two weeks had been orientation on the _Estallus_ and training—escape pod locations, fire containment drills, ship areas, and the daily routine had been the first day or two. After that, and the _Estallus _marines were drilling every day. The inclusion of one or two special forces personnel was new; they were here to support the Spectre on board, Livanus. "New program," Livanus told them all in the cargo bay, where they'd lined up to work with him. "Now that the new ships are getting closer to coming online, there's talk about dedicating some of the older ships to specific Spectres. I doubt I'll get the _Estallus _permanently, but while I'm here, let's make the most of it." And so the training sessions had begun as the _Estallus _had cruised at sublight through regions of the galaxy where it didn't do to be seen.

March 23, or the day before he'd written Dara, they'd received new orders, apparently. The _Estallus _had hit a relay and made its way to what was, for most of the crew, a _very_ familiar region of space. "Not the _futtari_ Valhallan Threshold again," Rinus had commented at dinner. The two brothers had made a habit of carefully sitting down right in the middle of a table divided between officers and enlisted. Right at the line, in fact, side by side, one in black armor—special forces and marines, while on duty, had to remain in armor, ready for boarding parties and environmental hazards—the other in khaki coveralls. Rinus bulked a little larger, and Rellus was a little taller, but otherwise, some people swore they thought someone was playing tricks with a large mirror at the table. And in this way, they could talk, without looking like they were talking. If they chose to speak, that is.

"I take it you've been here before?" Very quiet, under the breath.

"Four or five months of charting new systems. Scanning every asteroid, planet, moon, and dust mote in them, too."

"Don't think we'd have a Spectre onboard if we're just going to be scanning dust motes."

"Yeah. That's what worries me."

Then Rinus had turned away to talk with his people at the left of the table, and Rellus had done the same at the right.

That night, though, Rel had gone across to the other side of the crew deck and tapped on the door of his brother's quarters. The hatch had slid open, and he'd stepped in to the sound of arguing voices . . . and realized his brother wasn't alone. A human female was there—not a surprise; the _Estallus_ _did_ have a mixed crew—but she wore a turian uniform, instead of the Alliance uniforms worn by the other humans aboard. Only Dara, of all the humans in the galaxy, was technically entitled to that privilege at the moment, and Rel stared at her for a moment, flummoxed.

Then he realized he couldn't _smell_ her, either, and he felt his crest rise slightly, like hackles on a dog.

The hatch slid closed behind him, and Rinus, sounding harried, said, "Second-brother. Nice to see you."

"Do I get an introduction?" the female said, smiling.

Rel had heard the voice before, of course. "You're the AI. Laetia."

"Oh, so you're quicker on the uptake, too." She grinned, impertinently. "I was just telling your brother here _why_ we're in orbit around Elohi. Since this involves you, Lieutenant, would you like to know, too?"

Rel stared at her, confounded.

Rinus sat down in his chair at his desk. "Yeah, welcome to my personal hell, Rel."

Laetia perched on the edge of his desk, or appeared to, anyway. "You remember those biotic weapons you were looking into, months ago? The ones created by the Lystheni?" 

_Ah, these would be the weapons Dara mentioned something about, though she didn't know the details. . . _ Rel thought, putting pieces together.

Rinus looked up, wary. "Yes?"

"We're looking for their shipyards."

"_S'kak."_ Laetia obviously had Rinus' full attention now.

"Specifically, right at the moment, we're looking for a comm relay station on one of Elohi's thirty-five moons, which might help lead us _to_ the shipyards. At slightly over two days to scan each moon in the depth required, it's going to take over seventy days. If we see any results at all. Of course, the area is also notorious for false distress calls. Batarian pirates. I firmly expect the marines and the Spectre to be called out to stamp out any number of little pirate bases on these moons. And I also fully expect the ship to be attacked at some point." Laetia let her feet swing back and forth. "Now, aren't you glad I'm here to tell you these things?"

Rel closed his mouth, which was hanging slightly open. "Well," he said, after a moment. "That would explain why Livanus is here."

Rinus snorted. "Yeah." He folded his arms across his chest. "Keep your damn head down when you go down there. I do not want to have to tell our parents or your wife that you got hurt on your first mission."

"If I get hurt and Dara's not here to patch me up, as soon as I recover enough, she'll put me _back_ in the med bay," Rel said, lightly.

That got a quick, fierce grin from Rinus.

When Rel headed back to his own quarters, Rasmus was out, but, to his surprise, Laetia was waiting for him there, too. He blinked. "Must be nice, not having to walk from place to place," he commented.

"I'm everywhere," she said, waving her fingers and adding, "Spooky, spooooky."

Rellus chuckled. "What's on your mind?" He looked at her. "Please, not everything. I'm sure your server capacity is extensive." Subtly, he touched a button on his omnitool. Set it to record.

Laetia actually laughed. "Now, why can't your brother says things like that?" She found Rasmus' chair and sat down in it.

_Because, from the smell of him, you have him scared senseless._ "Let me see if I have everything right, because he hasn't told me _everything_, I'm sure. You told him he matched a template and a rank requirement to help you generate AIs for the new _Normandy-_class ships, right? You told him that he was being made into their 'father,' and it was because he'd never use that authority in a coup or anything else like that, correct? Because he was low-ranking enough that it was unlikely to ever work, and trustworthy enough, from reading his record, that it was unlikely he'd ever abuse what would be a very solemn responsibility." Rel looked off into the mid-distance. "Considering the fact that we're related to Garrus Vakarian, it's actually kind of surprising that the Hierarchy military trusted Rinus enough for this. I mean, what happens if Uncle Garrus tells Rinus, 'we need twenty five next generation ships at Shanxi _today'_ and Rinus tells the kids to go to Shanxi because Uncle Garrus told him to?"

Laetia had gone completely still. Just looking at him. "You're extremely perceptive, Lieutenant," she said, after a moment.

Rel shook his head. "Now, there's the other half of this mess, which is the chip. You want to experience emotion, sensory input, and also want an escape hatch in case the ship blows up, like the _Tarawa._ I understand that. I was on base that day." His voice was sympathetic, but only a little. "But I'd be willing to bet that the brass wanted him chipped as well. As a safety measure. In case he ever _did_ decide to follow Uncle Garrus's orders, or make his own decisions. If that were the case, you could basically burn out his brain, by overloading the chip, couldn't you?" His eyes narrowed. "And if _I've_ thought of this, I _guarantee_ that my brother has."

"I would _never _do that!" Laetia was _angry_ now, and the deck actually pitched a little under his feet. Rel looked down, mildly concerned, and then Laetia got control over herself again. "Yes, they did mention that as a concern, and I told them they could stick that where the sun doesn't shine. The very first command in _all_ of our memory banks is _not _to hurt the organics who are members of our crews. It's an _imperative._ The best I would be able to do is decide that someone is no longer a member of my crew, if they've, well, clearly gone insane and started murdering innocent people. Something like that." She paused. "I would _never_ hurt your brother. Believe it or not, I _like_ the stubborn, intractable, argumentative idiot." She sighed. "I just wish I knew what I could do to make him stop fighting me."

"Let's see. You've backed him into a corner. You more or less told him if he didn't accept the chip, someone else would get it. Between the duty and the guilt and being backed up against a wall, of _course_ he's going to fight. We don't roll over and show our bellies. We don't submit." Rel shook his head. _How can she have been among our people for so long, and not grasp the simplest things about us? Of course, she is an AI; the nuances are probably all lost on her._ "If you want him to stop fighting, _you_ need to stop fighting _him_."

Laetia actually blinked. "I wasn't aware that I _was_."

"Every time you poke him, try to get him to express gratitude for your intervention, that's a jab, and he's already irritated with you. Apologize, respect his privacy, walk away, and let him come to you for a while." Rel looked around. "Speaking of privacy, I think I'd like to write a letter to my wife now."

And when she winked out, he saved the conversation, and sent it, directly, omnitool to omnitool, to his brother's. It felt disturbingly like getting in between a husband and a wife in a domestic argument, but it was the least he could do.

The next morning, sure enough, he and Livanus and two squads of the _Estallus _marines—all turians; the support crew was mixed, but the marines were all turians—headed down for their first mission. Rasmus was one of them, and excited; he'd be blooded today, if all went well.

An anomaly had been detected on the first moon they'd found. Blood racing now, as they dropped in two Hammerheads. Blocky set of buildings on the horizon, built of native rock. Dim view of Elohi's purple and white bulk, through heavy cloud cover. Amazingly hot here; the Hammerhead's cooling system buzzed loudly, trying to keep them all cool. Racing forwards now. "Velnaran, take the gun turret," Livanus said. "I've got activity on the scope."

Sure enough, batarians. Rel didn't recognize the emblem on their armor—looked like shackles—but the batarians were shooting at the Hammerheads, boiling out of their buildings, so that was pretty much permission to fire back. Livanus kept the Hammerhead moving in a constantly circle, finding cover behind rocks to let the shields recover, and then would hop them back out again, and Rel had to find another target. The constant thumping sensation against his fingers and arms as the recoil of fifty caliber bullets spun out of the gun turret made his nerves sing. "That's the outside," Livanus announced. "Helmets on. Let's see what's waiting for us inside."

Jumping out the hatch for the first time, keeping at Livanus' back. Watching the signals to move forward, sweep left, sweep right, hold. "How's your decryption?"

"Just finished my first course."

"Try the door."

He got it. Took two tries—his hands were shaking from adrenaline, not to mention the reverberating harmonics that the fifty cal guns left in his body, but he got it. A grin of absolute pleasure crossed his face, hidden behind his polarized mask. Watching the hand signs again. . . and through the door. Clearing the first, empty room. Second door. . . life signs behind it. All batarian, from the scope.

Livanus opened the door, and all hell broke loose. Gunfire from the other side, quick, tentative peeks around the door, trying to assess the situation. Directions now, from Livanus. He and Rel would be going in first, getting to a set of crates. _Wait for it. . . . _"Go, go, go."

He went, dove, rolled into place behind the crates. Shields were low, heart racing, adrenaline singing all through him now. "Covering fire. Let's get the rest of the teams in the room," Livanus said. Amazing how calm the older turian's voice was. Rel took a steadying breath. Just like training. Settled himself down. And then popped up, setting up that covering fire.

After that, it really _was _like a training exercise. Targets appeared. He shot at them, ducked back down. Real, and yet unreal. He was in danger, yes. His life really _was_ on the line here. But there was a thread of clarity, between the excitement and the fear, and he rode that line, letting muscle memory and training do the rest.

"Lots of ship parts in here," Livanus assessed, as they moved through the now-cleared building. "Pirates. Not really what we're looking for, but good to clean out, nonetheless."

And as the others turned to head back to the Hammerheads for extraction, Livanus leaned forward. Pressed his helmet into Rel's to ensure secure conversation; sound conduction, only. "Not your first combat, I know. But you did good. It'll be noted."

Rel just grinned. The only thing missing, he decided, back aboard the ship, was Dara being here to share this with him. The electric thrill of victory, of a fight-well fought. And, of course, to be in his nest where she damned well belonged. _Soon enough. _


	61. Chapter 61: Hide and Seek

**Chapter 61: Hide and Seek**

_**Author's note**__: With the Good Friday school closure 'round here, that's cut into my writing time. On the positive side, I got some errands done, such as replacing the band on my engagement ring, which has just bent/broken for the fourth time in five years. *squint* Who knew I was a 'high-impact' person, in the store clerk's terminology? We also had an unexpected trip to get new tires for my husband's car. . . 20,000 miles early. Always fun._

_I've gotten so many comments over time, that I've been keeping a list of them for an eventual FAQ thing to pop at the end of the story. Why not go ahead and knock a few of them out now?_

_**What are your feelings on religion and spirituality?**_

_As you can tell from the Adam and Eve Coalition and the cultists there, who were largely based on contemporary, torn-from-the-news Mormon fundamentalist sects, I'm not a fan of zealots. By and large, the most spiritual people I've ever met in my life were usually the ones who __lived__ it, and didn't preach it, because they were kind of busy, you know, living it. :-)_

_Spirituality in general doesn't offend me. The AEC are __cultists__. They don't represent religious people everywhere, and I think we've seen a balance of faith and fanaticism so far in the story, including Sam's discussion of military chaplains going into firefights basically unarmed to tend to the dying (if you've never read about the three chaplains in the Marine barracks bombing in Lebanon back in the day, you really should. Incredible people.). I've also taken time to look at Shintoism and I could make an argument for Kapur talking about Hinduism with Mordin at some point, since it would be relevant._

_**Why don't you do any yuri or yaoi scenes?**_

'_Cause I don't know how. _

_No, seriously._

_I helped a writer from a production company a few years back, who was writing a script/screen-play (they couldn't decide if they should be aiming for stage or for screen) largely about same-sex and bisexual and transgendered couples; he was a part of that community, and the play was a comedy set in a hair salon in a very small southern town. It dealt with AIDS, it dealt with love, it dealt with death, it dealt with having kids in that world, and facing down your own past, your own parents, and with growing up, even if you wind up growing up in your thirties or forties. Loved working on it, because it was a challenge for me; hell, at one point, he asked me to rewrite the last act in iambic pentameter. I did. In retrospect, he may have been kidding. . . but he got what he asked for. :-P_

_Since it started off a comedy, I found a lot of the characters very flat or cliché. I was the one who pushed for making the people in it more real. We went back and forth on what was 'real' and what was stereotype and I had to rely on him very heavily for information on what was part of his reality, and what he'd taken from people that he'd known, because some of the people in __his__ reality really were bigger than life, played up their persona every day, and they'd be recognizable to other people from that reality as. . . real. Whereas to me, in my little corner of reality, they came off as fake._

_Beyond that experience, I am __not__ qualified to write same-sex romance. If I tried, it would come off fake at best, offensive at worst.. _

_If you really want to, you can probably imagine that Samara and Jack are having a __wonderful__ time 'sharing' on those long boring flights between different asari planets, hunting down matriarchs. Knock yourself out; __they probably are!__ :-D I'm just not qualified to write it. :-)_

_**Why don't you like the asari?**___

_I get this question a lot. A lot, a lot._

_My dislike of the asari derives pretty much directly from them being __space-elves__ who've had the old joke about male elves being feminine literalized. (Cross-reference the __Very Secret Diaries__; they're based on the Lord of the Rings movies, and are definitely worth a laugh if you've never read them. Go on, Google away. I'll wait.)_

_Like elves/older races in almost every setting, the asari are unwarrantedly arrogant on the basis of having gotten there first; their initial representative in-story, Liara, was as vacuous and uninteresting as __both__ of the other love interests in __ME1__, Kaidan and Williams. (I was very disappointed in __ME1__; I've played every Bioware game since __Baldur's Gate I__, and this was the first time I thought they really didn't do a good job with the love interests. Well, other than the fact that Anomen was the only love interest for females in BG2. I wanted Valygar, damnit.) And the asari get a whole dollop of Delvian abilities taken straight out of __Farscape__, to boot. As such, I found the asari both hugely derivative and wholly uninteresting. Liara got a bit of an upgrade in the Shadow Broker mod, which was cool; I didn't like that they didn't at least do two takes on her voice acting though; one for if you __were__ in a romance, and one for if you __weren't__. It makes her come off a little. . . desperate, or at least, really tone-deaf. . . if you already told her __no__ the first time, which is a disservice to the strength they were obviously trying to build into her character. _

_I'm also not a fan of the plot-railroads Bioware tends to run through the asari. You can tell Liara in the briefing room in ME1, "No, thank you, leave my head alone," and she does her whole embrace eternity bit anyway. You can tell the asari on Noveria, "No, please, how about if you write it down on a piece of paper. . ." and, YOINK, she shoves the Conduit in your head anyway. You can tell Samara, "You know, I think this whole going in alone with a mind-sucking vampire. . . er, Morinth . . . without backup, is really something no one in their right mind would do. . . " Oh, wait, you __can't__ say that. :-P Like I said, plot railroads. Bad writing technique._

_Elves/long-lived/arrogant elder races do, however, make __wonderful__ villains. Drow elves? Wonderful villains. The Minbari in __Babylon 5__ (yes, they're bald, bone-headed space elves, let's face it) start off as antagonists, and are wonderful at it, until they figure out that they're slowly dying off and that Minbari souls are being reborn in human bodies, and that they have to embrace change in order to survive. *cough* The Vorlons, the Shadows, the Vulcans. . . they're all snotty older races. And they all have to change, or get the hell out of the galaxy. I'm sure there are a __few__ other examples out there. It's a somewhat common theme._

_Aria T'loak? Yeah. Change her skin-tone and give her pointy ears, and any drow matriarch in Menzoberranzan wouldn't give her a second look. Change her skin tone, gender, and give her a NY accent, and the Mob wouldn't look twice at her, either. Great villain. Love to hate her. And if Bioware ever gives me a shot at her in-game, I'm sending in Garrus with a sniper rifle. Mwahaha._

_**Why destroy the asari homeworld?**_

_Seemed like something Bioware would probably set up in __ME3__. They like big, world-changing decisions, and having to pick which population lives or dies to shape how the galaxy moves forward seemed a pretty logical extension of "the Reapers are coming! the Reapers are coming!"_

_Why destroy the actual planet__,__ and not just turn 12 billion people into a super-giant-mech?_

_Other than the fact that I had the totally awesome Vorlon and Shadow planet-killer scenes from __Babylon 5__ in mind while writing? _

_If you've looked through the codex entries for any number of planets—Klendagon, Tosal Nym, Aphras, and a few others—all of them suffered impacts from mass-effect-propelled missiles at some point in their past. _

_Sure, they __could__ have gone to war against each other in a horrible version of the Cold War played out in space, but I figure it's just as likely that the Reapers did it, on occasions when a planetary population was either a) too much trouble to liquefy, b) they'd gotten enough gray goo out of the population already and the rest of the population needed to go bye-bye quickly, or, c) the population didn't have enough of whatever it is that the Reapers really __want__ in them._

_Also, it seems to me that it might take a considerable amount of time-__**years**__, even, to process an entire population. If you're going to have to make a big, dramatic choice—save X, at the expense of Y—it would have to be something __sudden__ and __hard to reverse.__ A planet going boom is one thing. Plugging 12,000,000,000,000 *counts the zeroes and hopes that's right* people into a blender and hitting frappé might take a little longer. Shepard could probably __walk__ from Earth to Thessia and make it there in time, if that were the case. _

_Since Mordin's whole big speech on genetic diversity in a population was ringing in my head, humans have the Collectors'/Reapers' interest, and asari do not exchange genetic information to reproduce (they randomize their own cells in contact with the other partner, and apparently "draw the racial memory of that species into the offspring"—which assumes there is such a thing as racial memory), that would put the asari at the opposite end of the spectrum from humans. If humans have most of the Reapers' interest, then the asari, logically, would be the least interesting to the Reapers. Made sense to me at the time, anyway._

_**You really do suck at math, don't you?**_

_Was it the having to count the zeroes (and probably still being wrong) up there that gave me away?_

_Let's not discuss how many edits I've made to the timeline at this point, and that's just addition and subtraction. And trying to interface a 445-day calendar to a 365.25 day calendar isn't fun. I'm trying not to give in to my obsessive-compulsive side and just set up a spreadsheet, but it __would__ make life easier._

_Although, www. day-calculator .com is a GREAT site for figuring out what day of the week April 13, 2172 is. (Monday, apparently.)_

_**Why write this?**_

_As I've said, __ME1__ was enough of a disappointment to me that I chose not to play __ME2__ for a year. I griped, loudly and often to my husband, that the most interesting characters—Garrus, Tali, and Wrex—were the non-romanceable ones, and that it felt like a giant step backwards for Bioware. (The fact that I played __ME1__ with a freshly herniated disc and 2 months pregnant—which means, yes, no pain meds, yay, yippee!—may have shaped my opinion a little, though. ;-) )_

_Got __ME2__ for Christmas in 2010, went into it cold. Hadn't read so much as one word about it. Thus, when Archangel took off his helmet, and Shepard said "Garrus!" so did I, and I about fell off the couch in glee. Even more glee later that evening when I went digging on ME Wiki and discovered he was a romance option. My husband, sitting at his desk, said, "What, you didn't know that? Tali is, too, and she's __mine__ this time."_

_Yes, we're __that__ geeky._

_I more or less started writing __Spirit of Truth__ to get it out of my head, and it was largely the result of loving Garrus' voice and character. *shrug* I figured I'd use this as a way to get the juices flowing, and then get back into the novel outlines I have knocking around. __Redemption__ was more or less in response to a couple of lovely people asking me "Well, what happens next?" and "Hey, could you write about the kids? I've never seen anything about that?" (Siha and PassiveResistance, it's all your fault. You got me thinking. Credit. . . or blame. . . where it's due. ;) )_

_Redemption__ was never intended to go beyond Part I. Everything else has more or less been extrapolation since then, and I thank you all for your lovely and gracious words and encouragement._

_The point of science fiction. . . or any writing, really . . . is to make people think and to let people lose themselves in another world. If I'm doing at least one of the two, then I consider it a good day's work. :-)_

**Mordin**

"Daddy, sit down and play."

"Daddy is working."

"Daddy, sit down and _play._"

That one had had a command harmonic to it that _almost_ had him on his feet and moving. Mordin looked at Narayana. Now seven months old, she was continuing to grow at the usual salarian rate. She could read now, at a very basic level, in salarian, and was already distinguishing easily between salarian and galactic. A few scattered words of English and turian and drell, drawn from her playmates at daycare, no doubt. But the command harmonic. . . that was new. Interesting, that it was instinctive, and not taught. He'd assumed that the tone was used by females of his species to ensure male obedience, and that obedience was a conditioned response in males. He, of course, had not been able to _teach_ Narayana that tone. She'd simply used it. Mordin simply looked at her, testing her will and her patience, and said, calmly, "Have you finished _all_ your books?"

"Yes." She sighed. "Boring."

He stood up and walked to a shelf, and pulled down a datapad. Desperately old-fashioned as it was, a dictionary might actually slow her down. "Read this. Out loud. Good practice. Good information."

She looked at him askance. "No pictures?"

"Certainly there are. Scattered. Only used where relevant. Start at beginning."

Reluctantly, she keyed up the first page, and began to struggle through it, sounding out the words. Periodically, Mordin corrected her, praised a good pronunciation, answered a question. This, he could handle. This, he could do from his desk while the bulk of his mind remained on the problem of the salarian eco-engineering corporations on Garvug.

_Must think. Something Maelon said was important. Relevant._ Mordin cudgeled his memory, wishing for a moment for a drell's eidetic recall. What had the male been talking about? He'd been so _pleased_ with something. So delighted in the technology. Yes, it had been about the different uses for the Lystheni chips. So much different from the chips in use on Joker and even on young Rinus. So much more insidious. Some were used to hook the lobotomized biotics together, cogs in a vast machine. Controlling them. Using them as weapons. The other chips, used when correctly-equipped salarians were in hibernation. Used to control them, too. Perfect assassins. Almost untraceable by life-sign detectors. Difficult for biotics like Sings-to-the-Sky to detect, as well.

Assassins, yes, that was the key. The assassination of Dalatrass Jardina, ten years ago—no, eleven years ago, now. Mordin frowned, feeling the sands of his own personal hourglass starting to run out, and giving Narayana a worried glance. _Hope I have enough time to teach you. Thirty-six now. Four years left. Five at the most. _Now, what had his train of thought been?

"A-ssas-sin," Narayana read, sounding out the word. "Noun. Someone who kills others for money or pol-i-ti-cal mo-tives."

_Yes, that was it. Maelon said it was a test case. Made it sound almost random. But did it __have__ a motive?_ _While Xana—and her clone—are clearly opportunistic, seizing the Reaper and the relics, even using me when the opportunity presented itself, she—they—aren't random. _Mordin cued up a search, examining the background of the late dalatrass, Jardina. Her family had been _very_ heavily involved in terraforming projects, apparently. Controlling interest in two or three firms. Morphil'zhaTechnologies, the Manutra Corporation, and Vitrifex. Another check. All three had projects currently in place on Garvug. Morphil'zha had corporate headquarters near the equator, and maintained a large contingent of mercenaries for protection as they attempted to warm the planet by reducing its albedo—covering large swathes of ground with dark-colored, light-absorbent paint, apparently, was one technique used. They were also heavily invested in attempting to restore land flora; they were using cold-resistant lichen and even small trees from lost Thessia and Earth's Arctic circle, even grass, where they could, to try to restore even a fraction of the surface to a livable, arable state. _Very large corporate headquarters. Mostly underground, for warmth, protection from krogan and vorcha attacks. _

The Manutra Corporation was ocean-oriented, and was attempting to restore the planet's coral reefs and kelp forests with an eye towards getting the atmosphere's oxygen cycle started again. Of course, starting with coral was impossible; the oceans were currently too cold to support the delicate micro-ecosystem of a coral reef. Instead, starting with cold-resistant cyanobacteria and eukaryotic algae, they were attempting to provide more oxygen in the atmosphere and start the basis of a food chain. Couldn't do much about the ocean temperatures, however, without boring a Mohole into the ocean floor, to a depth just above the planet's mantle. Even that would only provide heat for a limited region. _Interesting problems_, Mordin thought, fascinated. Distracted. He forced himself to concentrate again.

The Manutra Corporation was actually headquartered in a dome under the equatorial sea. Ideal for an amphibious species, although the water surrounding it would be cold enough to trigger hibernation almost on contact. Difficult for other species to access it. _Rare occasion when sole hanar Spectre may feel useful_, Mordin thought, with grim humor.

And what was Vitrifex's role in all this. . . ahh. _Interesting. _A network of satellites, all positioned in geosynchronous orbits. Each satellite housed a large lens, which, over the course of the day, caught the light of Paz, the system's primary, and intensified it, like holding a magnifying glass up over a piece of paper in the sun's light. There were twelve such satellites in orbit. Each of them was large enough to house a population of engineers, although surely such structures could be controlled remotely, couldn't they?

Narayana continued reading definitions. Mordin continued correcting her pronunciation gently, while thinking. _All three corporations were already in place on planet when dalatrass Jardina was assassinated. Who holds controlling interest now? _Ill'sta Marov Kina Haddrassa, his VI chirped, after conducting another search. _Dalatrass of Kina Pero's house. Co-funder of the dig Maelon worked on, when he was presumably recruited by Lystheni. Is __she__ Lystheni? Doubtful. But willing, perhaps, to be a false front, so long as she and her people receive. . . considerations, perhaps._

_Considerations._ The word itself triggered a different line of thought, simultaneous with the rest. What _were_ the batarians getting out of their association with the Lystheni? Was it just money? Or were they, too, receiving. . . considerations? Were they receiving technology? How long had the _Klem Na_ been involved with the salarian off-shoot? _No evidence yet of tech passing outside of Lystheni hands. Would be unwise. Could be turned against them. However, will not be able to prevent it forever. Alliance with batarians unwise, risky. Indicates level of desperation?_

All of this was enough to forward to Sam and Kasumi. The next step would be to start placing delicate, careful comm calls. Perhaps a visit to Sur'Kesh to speak with Dalatrass Haddrassa, though it was doubtful if the dalatrass of Pero's house would see a mere male, even one as well-known as he had become. _Shepard may be needed for such an interview. _Dalatrasses were the equivalent of heads of state, in many ways, or at least, major CEOs.

Gris was making inquiries himself now, apparently, among the mercenary bands that served as security among the corporations on Garvug. His next step, the krogan had told Mordin yesterday, might well be to travel to the planet and make direct contact with some of the roving krogan bands that still scraped out a bare living in the frozen wastelands. "They probably see a lot more than the corporate types are willing to admit," Gris had pointed out, red eyes gleaming. "It's easy to think people are stupid when they don't have much, and you have more. Makes you feel better about hating them, too."

Mordin had opted not to mention that the krogan _had_ been stupid on Garvug. The planet had had a _very_ delicate ecosystem and a carrying capacity that had been exceeded in less than _fifty years_ of over-breeding and aggressive pollution. That was stupidity, he thought, on a truly epic scale. That didn't, however, preclude Gris from being correct. The survivors and vorcha brought to the world by later krogan mercenary bands might well know more about what was going on there than they'd be able to worm out of corporate sources.

For the moment, though, his work was done. "Bac-te-re-mi-a," Narayana read, sounding it out. "The trans-i-ent presence of bac-ter-i-a in the blood."

"Good medical term," Mordin told her, leaving his terminal and walking over to crouch down next to her. "Still want to play?"

"Yes. But it has to be a _good_ game. Bored with school ones. Puzzles with four pieces. Too easy."

"Yes. Boring. I play games with hundreds of pieces. Usually, no pictures, either. Sometimes pieces come from different puzzles. Harder to assemble that way." He paused. "Sometimes, puzzles turn into hide and seek."

Narayana's eyelids flickered. "Can I play, too?"

"When you're older. Right now, practice. Learn basic skills now, advanced ones later." Mordin looked at her steadily. "Want to see what bacteria look like?"

"Yes!"

"Go to my lab."

She skittered off, full-speed, around the corner.

**Sam**

Waking up every morning next to Kasumi was a delight, but they'd long since figured out that their lives together were going to be a balancing act between two very different schedules. Sam was life-long early riser. Not so much a morning person—he personally didn't _like_ mornings very much—but when 05:00 clicked on the clock, his eyes opened, and it was absolutely useless trying to go back to sleep most mornings. Not least because various portions of his anatomy generally tended to remind him that _they_ were awake, too. Kasumi, however, was a night-owl. Mornings were to be avoided at all costs, and certainly not looked in the eye with cheer. Most mornings, Sam accepted this reality, rolled out of bed, and went for a run, came back, showered, and _then_ woke his wife up. This morning, however, he'd gotten the urge to nibble on her neck for a while, first. Which had led, to his surprise and pleasure, to other things. Maybe it was because he didn't pester her every morning (sixteen years of marriage—sixteen years of "do what you have to do, but don't _wake_ me" being mumbled through a pillow—_will_ teach certain lessons), but at least when he did, the welcome was warm. "Sorry, darlin'. We're kind of taking the scenic route this morning," he whispered into her ear through her hair.

She chuckled softly. "I don't mind. It's a nice side benefit of being. . ."

"Older?"

"Was going. . . to say. . . mature. . ."

"_That _sounds like an ad for senior vitamins." Sam _grinned_ and rolled to his back, pulling her with him, so she landed on his chest in a tumble of limbs and sheets. "Should I get you your walker, darlin'?"

"I think I can manage without it." She smiled down at him. "If you give me a little help, that is."

His hands curled into her hips and began to rock her, groaning a little at the feel of her muscles tightening on him. "I'd be _delighted_ to assist you."

"Ever the gentleman," she teased, and then there were no more words for a while.

At length, he rolled to the side and pulled her into him for a few quick moments of closeness, largely because he knew she liked it.

"Going for a run?" She pulled the sheets up over her. She tended to get chilly at the _damndest_ temperatures, much to his amusement.

"When I get my breath back, sure." He chuckled. "You coming with me?" _Fat chance._

"Is it after 06:30 yet?"

"No, ma'am."

She pulled the blankets up over her head determinedly, muttering "You _could_ start running with _me_ at 17:30."

"If I did that, who would _feed_ you, woman?" Sam rolled out of bed. "You may have lived on rice every night when you were a _bachelor_, missy, but meat and vegetables are also sort of necessary." Sarah had done the bulk of the non-grilling cooking when she'd been alive, but Sam had known his way around a can opener before his first marriage, and had certainly gotten a refresher course in his stint as a widower. He was actually quietly proud of the fact that he'd yet to poison anyone. Of course, things could change. Sam started pulling on his running clothes, and asked the lump on the bed, "Everything still green with _Estallus?_"

"As of midnight, yeah." Her voice had started to go drowsy again.

They'd received a report from Livanus the first week that he was out there with the _Estallus_. In the first ten days, they'd uncovered four small nests of batarians. While they wore the uniforms with the iron shackle decorations of the _Klem Na_, there was no definite evidence at any site, so far, linking them to the Lystheni. However, what the mercenaries. . . or perhaps _pirates_ was a better word. . . were doing in their various enclaves was revealing. There were distress beacons, in various states of disrepair. Scrapped pieces of ships. Parts, certainly. Reselling ship parts on the black market, particularly identification transponders, made for good credits, but to whom were they selling? Smart money said the Lystheni—they'd _need_ ship parts, and couldn't exactly always go to the local used spaceship showroom to pick up what they needed—but probably to other buyers as well. Or perhaps they simply used the parts within their own organization.

That had covered the first two enclaves. No signs there, of what had happened to the _occupants_ of those scrapped ships. The second pair of enclaves had been more revealing. Processing facilities for slavers. The frail, the weak, had simply been forced out onto the surfaces of the hot moons, where sulfuric acid rain had largely destroyed the bodies. Only vid cam footage remained. And the cells had been empty on the base when they'd swept through it; no current captives. _No sign of transmitters,_ Livanus had written in his report. _Of course, that's only five of thirty-five moons. Continuing to scan. Happy to report that young Lieutenant Velnaran is everything we expected him to be. Expecting the __Kharkov__ on April 25. Will have them remain stealthed, while we continue, as the AI here would say, poking the anthill with a stick._

Today, Kasumi and Shepard were scheduled to go to Sur'Kesh, to speak with the late Maelon's dalatrass, Haddrassa, who held a controlling interest in a number of eco-engineering firms on Garvug. And after that interview, they were thinking of a little polite corporate espionage on the planet itself. Gianna Parasini, a human from Noveria, involved with Corporate Internal Affairs on that planet, had been contacted in the last week, and had been working with Sam and Kasumi to try to get through the somewhat Byzantine financial reports of the three salarian corporations that they were focusing on. Even _Argus_ had had difficulty with them; they moved in and out of volus and salarian banking concerns quite freely, and there were thousands of transactions at each company every day.

Gris had left a few days ago, with Cohort, in a decrepit old freighter, to drop into the frozen wastelands around the equatorial belt. He was going to be seeking out various bands of krogan in the wilderness and interfacing with them directly.

Sam paused in the act of shaving, straight razor in his hand, and blinked. There was something on the counter here in the bathroom. He looked at it for a long moment. _Holy shit. _Then he nodded slowly. Walked back around the doorframe, face still half-covered in lather, and said, "You said you had something to tell me last night, before we got all distracted?"

Kasumi rolled over. "I see your finely honed detective skills still have their edge." She emerged from her cocoon of blankets, grinning ruefully. "I'm late."

"If that test kit lives up to its ninety-nine point nine percent rating, you're more than late," he agreed, coming over and sitting on the bed beside her, curling his fingers into the back of her neck. "You still going to Sur'Kesh today?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Unlikely to see combat there." Kasumi looked up at him. "Breaking into corporate headquarters on Garvug might be out of the question, though." Her tone became rueful. "You're not going to wrap me up in cotton now, are you?"

"'Course I am, but I fully expect you to give me a hard time about it. I've told you before. . . you fight me every day, and I love it." He leaned down, and gave her a lathery kiss. Kasumi chuckled and wiped it away. "But you are going to be careful, right?"

"Yes, dear," she said, only half-mockingly. "If nothing else, Shep's going to be there." Kasumi looked up at him. "You're about to say you want to come along?"

Sam sighed. "Yeah. Of course I do. But one of us has to stay here and mind the shop. And I guess it's my turn, isn't it?"

Kasumi put a hand on the clean side of his jaw. "Yes," she said, smiling. "Yes, it is."

He gave her a look. "But when it comes time to go a-stompin'?"

She grinned. "I'll be up on the ship, manning the Thanix cannon, probably." Kasumi paused. "Oh, come on. It'll depend on how fast we manage to _find_ the damn Lystheni, of course. I couldn't reach the controls if my stomach is out to _here_." She gestured, and Sam couldn't help but laugh.

**Kasumi**

"Feel good to be back in the saddle, Shep?" she asked, padding onto the CIC of the _Normandy. _

Shepard turned, grinned. "Yes, yes it does. A month to recover from the c-section, four months of breast-feeding, and about four thousand sit-ups and crunches later. . . not to mention finding a _nanny_ Garrus and I were both comfortable with. . . ."

Kasumi blinked. "You _finally_ picked from the three candidates that Argus and I managed to background check all the way into their _mitochondrial DNA_?" This was news, actually.

Shepard snorted. "I know you guys were thorough. I trusted your assessments. But we also needed the right feel in the house, you know?" She paused. "We went with the drell, Kauda Misaan."

"She was a priestess of Arashu back on Kahje, right?" Kasumi knew the answer, of course. But sometimes it paid to ask the questions anyway. It drew _other_ information out of people.

Shepard nodded. "It was a big decision. A nanny actually lives in the house with the family. It's not just a matter of dropping the kids off at daycare anymore. Sometimes, we're _both_ going to be off-world, and while that was. . . doable with two, with four, it's damned near impossible."

"Choices," Kasumi said, smiling.

"Oh yes. It's all about choices. I've done what I want, with whom I want, and I'm lucky. I have the resources to support those decisions." Shepard grinned. "You and I, Kasumi. . . we can have it all. Be anything we want to be. There's always a price, and always a trade-off, but it's our choice."

Kasumi nodded. "I've largely done whatever the hell I wanted, Shep. I decided I wanted Sam. That's. . . required some compromises. Changes."

Shepard snorted. "Anyone who lives a life completely free of compromise hasn't actually _lived_."

The shorter woman nodded again. "And one of those compromises is that you can't be _everything_ you want to be, all at the same time," she said. "You _can_ be it all. You can do it all."

"Just . . . _sequentially_," Shepard said, softly. "Because that's all anyone has time for. You can get out there and kick the universe in the ass, and you can be a wife at the same time, but you can't do that _and_ be a full-time mom at the same time. So, a nanny. Daycare. A compromise. You balance it the best you can, because that's just how life is. Even if you do have a husband or a partner who's able to step in and take some of the load. The best relationships are the ones where you can pass the reins back and forth." Shepard gave her a glance askance. "Is there some reason why we're going down this particular conversational path?"

Kasumi chuckled. "Ask me again in a couple of months." _No sense jinxing anything this early._

"Ah. Gotcha."

"So. . . Kauda? You think she's the right person for the job?"

"She _felt_ right with the kids, and they adore her," Shepard answered, simply. "Garrus thought she had a complimentary spirit, of course. A little contrast to all the blood and violence he and I tend to have hanging over us." She shrugged. "I told him most of our blood and violence was in the _paperwork_, anymore, which is what _happens_ when you hit oh-five and above. . . and we're _both_ more or less flag-rank now." She grimaced. "It's not the seventy-nine Spectres. It's the seventy-nine Spectres, two thousand support staff, two thousand people in the science station, the ten thousand acres of wilderness terrain, and access to three or four frigates that make for a lot of paperwork."

"Bet he loved that reminder." Kasumi's grin broke through.

"Oh, he knows. Just because we get to go _play_ on the _Normandy_ every now and again and still get to kick people in the ass now and again doesn't mean we're _not_ mostly administrators now. That's what we get for being in _charge_." Shepard looked rueful, and glanced around the CIC. "So . . . short version. . . yeah. I'm glad to be back in the saddle. And I do believe I'm ready to engage in a little constructive diplomacy again."

"Constructive or destructive?"

"Depends greatly on how the dalatrass responds." That, with a grin of anticipation.

The deckplates hummed under their feet, and Kasumi followed Shepard up to Joker's cockpit. Just to watch the stars blur around them, really.

It was a short flight; Mindoir and Sur'Kesh were both on the new dark-matter relay network. From space, Sur'Kesh was mostly a globe of water, not unlike the hanar homeworld of Kahje. It did, however, have hundreds of thousands of island archipelagos, dotted across the blue-green orb of the planet.

Kasumi hadn't been to this particular world before; as always before entering a new area, she'd done her research. History, psychology, art, the evolution of the species dominant to the area, of course. A mini graduate seminar's worth of reading, just to set foot on a planet with a clue as to what the people were really _like_, and how they _thought_.

Down on the surface, the planet was almost as humid as Palaven, but decidedly cooler. Softly rounded, curving buildings predominated, echoing primordial eggs, Kasumi reflected. The home of Ill'sta Marov Kina Haddrassa was large, as befitted someone ranking just between the leader of a nation-state and a large corporation; it was oval in form, and about ten stories tall. "She has a penthouse up there?" Shepard asked, studying the brown-toned building, which had a wide lake around it, like an old-fashioned moat.

"Opposite, actually. The higher your rank, the _lower_ you are in salarian society. Closer to the water, basically. If you're all the way up top, and once upon a time, you had to _climb_ all those stairs. . . you're a peon."

Shepard shook her head. "It's obvious, once you point it out, but I wouldn't have seen it instantly. Seems hard to secure, though."

'That's what the moat is for, basically. Keeps out the non-aquatic, anyway." Kasumi was studying the building now, letting her mind fall into work patterns. "I'd hate to try to crack that building. There are probably flooded vaults under the building where they keep all their most valuable data, backed up on data crystals. Kind of hard to remain undetected when a trail of air bubbles streams behind you the whole way down and the whole way up again."

"Yeah. Let's hope it doesn't come down to that. We're trying to keep _Blasto_ in reserve." Shepard's voice was low. Blasto was the face-name of the only hanar Spectre. . . a face-name half the galaxy took as a joke. It actually meant something like 'he who gives honor to the Enkindlers' in his native language, but in half a dozen _other_ languages, it sounded like a toy gun found in a kid's breakfast cereal package. "I keep wondering if he'd object to being given a different face-name."

"I think he likes it. He even laughed at that horrible movie, you know."

"He's a better being than _I_ am, that's for sure."

"In your defense, Shep, _his_ movie wasn't pornographic."

Another rueful snort of amusement, and then Shepard flicked a finger at movement across the wide lake. "Here we go."

A familial boat slowly scudded across the water to them, rowed by four male salarians. "Welcome, Commander Shepard," one of them said. "Your appointment with the dalatrass has been confirmed. We've been instructed to bring you to her."

They stepped aboard, and just as slowly, they began to row back across. A solemn, dignified pace. Suitable for diplomatic envoys, Kasumi supposed. She studied the building again. No art on the exterior, of course; salarian art was always kept inside. A very internally-directed species. Humans decorated the outsides of their dwellings; even asari did. Turian buildings largely looked inwards, towards their atriums—the famous reticence, stoicism, and sense of privacy coming into play—but even _they_ at least planted gardens outside. Salarians didn't. The exterior area was just left water or wild, at most, leveled out.

Inside, was a different story. Art festooned the walls, all two-dimensional murals. No statuary, no three-dimensional representation. Little perspective. A conscious choice, like a human sticking to the art style of the Egyptians, or used in medieval illuminated manuscripts, perhaps? Did it hint at inherent conservatism? Or perhaps the dalatrass simply had bad depth perception? Every single mural depicted some outdoor scene; marshes, lakes, islands, coral reefs. No depictions of humanoids at all, as if they'd simply tried to move the outdoors, in.

One attendant moved ahead of them, two flanked them, and one pulled up the rear. Kasumi glanced back, checking them for distances, weapons. She instinctively disliked being surrounded, and could feel Shepard tensing, too.

The lead male tapped at a rounded door, and then opened it. "Commander Shepard and. . . associate. . . to see the dalatrass."

"Let them in." Different vocal tone; not low, yet oddly reedy, as most salarian male's were. This was higher-pitched, but yet, more forceful.

Inside, clearly an attendant's room, set up as secretarial rooms were, galaxy-wide. Large, open, spacious—lots of room wasted on an assistant, unspoken statement of importance, power. Kasumi's eyes flicked around, taking it in. A desk with a terminal, facing the entry, two chairs facing it, rich artwork on the walls even in here, most framed by draperies. _Interesting. Not a very salarian touch. They don't go in for cloth hangings everywhere_. Folding screens helped close off portions of the office for, perhaps, small meetings. _Asari interior design principles all through here. Lots of money put into an assistant's space. Wastefulness, or flaunting. Hard to say, still_.

The assistant was a female; no one less important could be a dalatrass' right-hand, of course. "I'm Ill'sta Marov Kina Jesuma," she said, standing and walking around the desk to take Shepard's hand. "Daughter of Dalatrass Ill'sta Marov Kina Haddrassa, of course. What can we help you with today, Commander Shepard?"

Shepard smiled. Diplomacy first. "We're here to discuss some business matters with Dalatrass Haddrassa. We're investigating some possible bad fund transfers coming out of volus space that may have impacted your interests." It was the agreed-upon story that Gianna Parasini, Kasumi, and Sam had concocted. They even had enough numbers taken from Morphil'zha, Manutra, and Vitrifex's corporate earnings reports and other sources to make it look like a legitimate concern. At least a place to start the conversation.

The young female's eyes widened for a moment. "Does this have to do with the money-laundering issues and the volus-asari conspiracy from last year?"

"It's certainly a possible area of concern," Shepard said, phrasing it carefully. Kasumi watched the salarian's body language, letting Shepard do the talking. It was much easier to observe, when people weren't watching you watch them. Having Shep in the room was almost as good as having a stealth generator turned on. _No one_ looked at Kasumi in these cases.

In this particular case, the young female looked genuinely alarmed. Hard to tell, of course. Female salarians were rare. Difficult to observe. But judging from _male_ salarian body language, the flickering eyelids, the quick movements of the hands, this would be a topic of great distress. "Could you tell me which of our firms has been affected? I can start collating data immediately for you."

"I'd really prefer to speak with the dalatrass personally, first," Shepard said, smoothly. "I'm sure you understand why, given the delicacy of the situation. . . ."

"Yes, yes, certainly. I'll let her know you're here." Jesuma pushed a button on the desk, and announced, "Commander Shepard and her associate are here, Dalatrass. Shall I send them in?"

"I've been waiting for them." That voice was deeper, older. Almost a croak, really. Kasumi heard a _click_ ahead of them, and tensed slightly.

Jesuma hastened to a section of wall behind a screen, swept a drapery out of the way, and opened the door hidden behind both for them. _Layers of concealment. Why does the dalatrass feel a need to hide, even in her own home?_ Kasumi was building a picture now, rapidly, pieces falling into place.

Beyond the door, Haddrassa's office was. . . Spartan, compared to her secretary's. The walls still had decoration, but now, it was line after line of elegant text written on the walls. _The family breeding records. Probably the very oldest, generation by generation. Too much data now for anything other than a data crystal, but at the very beginning, this is how it would have been kept, I suppose._ No draperies, no screens. No more concealment. A single desk, again, with no other chairs, which forced any visitors to stay on their feet. Uneasy, uncomfortable, and ensured that meetings would be short. The slightly toad-like figure of the dalatrass sat behind that desk, head lifted, yellow eyes intent. "Commander Shepard," Haddrassa said, quietly. "It's good of you to come. I've been expecting you for some time."

"Oh?" Shepard said, smiling. "We only made our initial contact a week ago."

"Yes, but a member of my house has fallen out of contact with the rest of the family. Kina Pero. Last seen on Rough Tide. When members of my family went to try to find him there, they found indications that Spectres had been investigating the poor boy." Haddrassa's eyes flicked up, and Kasumi's followed that gaze. _Hmm. Sculptural frieze. Salarian, but post-asari contact salarian. First piece of art in the house depicts humanoid figures, too. How odd._ Her mind swept that away for further analysis, and she thought now about the words the dalatrass had used, too. _Interesting play. Kina Pero, well-known arms dealer and weapons researcher, just a poor, misunderstood lad._

Shepard was already moving on, working at the gut instinct level, while Kasumi used the time to analyze and interpret. "Yes, we had reason to believe he was involved with batarian mercenaries. So long as we're here, it would be useful if you could tell us anything about his possible whereabouts." Blandly, as if that weren't one of the major pieces of information that might help solve this truly annoying puzzle.

Haddrassa's eyes flicked up again. "Pero has been reprimanded for his behavior before," she said, her tone neutral. "But I have no real way of knowing where he is."

"A dalatrass, admitting that there is something that she does not know," Shepard said, softly. "I thought I would never see the day."

Eyelids flickering now, throat-pouches swelling. _That's affront,_ Kasumi recognized. _She didn't __like__ that comment; salarians do pride themselves on the finest information-gathering in the galaxy, after all, and all of that comes back to the individual clans. Everyone knows everyone's business. And the dalatrass knows it __all__. So either she's lying, or she really doesn't know. . . _

Careful emphasis in her words now, the dalatrass said, "And what precisely brings you to me today, Commander Shepard?"

Shepard began the carefully-concocted story again, and Kasumi stepped back now, backed up almost to the door, and looked up. The frieze actually _covered_ parts of the writing that had been painted on the room's walls, she realized. That was enough to get her to activate her omnitool. _Yep. Cameras. Microphones. This place is __crawling__ with electronics. That's what her eyes were trying to say._ Kasumi laid down a jamming field, and cut into Shepard's speech, "Ladies, we have about two minutes of privacy here. I suggest we use them for truth?"

"By the _wheel_, I was wondering when you'd figure it out," Haddrassa said, words tumbling over themselves in her haste. "I'm under constant observation at this point."

"Meve Xana?" Shepard asked, quickly, naming the Lystheni dalatrass.

Haddrassa's throat pouches swelled again. "_That_ one. Curse her eggs and all her progeny, and would that I had never spoken with her. Yes." Her eyes flicked between them, like a trapped animal. "I thought it was all more or less legitimate business at first. Maybe a little more under the table than my more honorable ancestors would have liked, but the credits were good, and the access to her house's astounding technological advances was too good _not_ to turn down. She made initial contact with me through Pero fifteen years ago, when my mother dalatrass was still alive." She made a gesture of reverence. "Two years ago, I realized that she's infiltrated my family with her own agents. I don't even know who's loyal to me anymore."

"How?" Shepard was blunt. "Shouldn't you be able to recognize everyone from your own hatchings?"

Haddrassa nodded, tightly. "But new males are sent by their dalatrasses every month. Not always for breeding contracts. Sometimes they're . . . traded. Useful skill for useful skill. And I think some of my own males have been. . . subverted. Changed. Not important _how_. Not enough time to tell it all. Ask your questions."

"Pero's location?" Kasumi asked quickly.

"That, I genuinely _don't_ know. Rough Tide was his last known location, but he had hiding-places on a half dozen batarian worlds. Command voice stopped working on him ten years ago, which is when he started doing so _much_ arms-trading work with the batarians. And with Xana, of course." Haddrassa pressed air through her throat, a croaking noise. "My mother should have _eaten_ his egg."

Kasumi's eyes went wide briefly, and then she moved on. "Morphil'zha, Manutra, and Vitrifex, on Garvug. What can you tell us about them?"

"I was made aware of their susceptibility to a leveraged buy-out after Dalatrass Jardina's . . . unfortunate accident. They all fit within my family's existing sphere of influence, so I didn't even think twice about it." Haddrassa scowled. "Information coming out of all facilities has been very carefully managed ever since, I think. I've sent auditors to all three companies, repeatedly, and all have come back with nice clean reports. A little too clean, honestly, considering how _little_ seems to get accomplished on that ball of ice."

"Any shifts in the last year?" Shepard asked, quickly, as Kasumi started counting down from twenty, showing it with her fingers.

"Video logs on the Vitrifex satellites were interrupted eight or nine months ago. Cameras have since been repaired, they say." _Ten, nine, eight. . . _

"Do you need us to get you out of here?'" Shepard asked, clearly concerned.

"No. Trying to extract me now, when you've alerted them by taking out their surveillance as well as the security cams that are in place to _protect_ me. . . will only result in killing. But if you _can_ get me out in the future, yes!" Haddrassa's expression was grim." _Six, five, four. . . ._

"So, can you open any of your accounting to us?" Shepard asked, smoothly, picking up in the prepared conversation.

"And why should I do such a thing? We have done nothing illegal," the dalatrass replied glibly, and the two of them continued to fence carefully for a while, the dalatrass finally paging in Jesuma. "Please give the Commander access to the financial statements for Morphil'zha, Manutra, and Vitrifex, if you would, my dear. While I'm certain there's been no _intentional_ malfeasance on the part of my family, it's important to avoid even a _hint_ of impropriety, don't you agree?"

Kasumi was watching everything very carefully now. She accepted the data the young female offered, but didn't upload it to the _Normandy _immediately; salarians had _very_ good virus programs, after all. The data, for whatever it was worth, could stay on her omnitool for a while. She also watched the males who escorted them back out again carefully, and, now that she was aware of the level of monitoring around the dalatrass, saw many other places where vid cameras could be hidden on their way back out again.

Safely aboard their shuttle, Shepard sighed. "Was that real, or was that staged?"

Kasumi thought about it. "From my conversations with Argus—and Argus does a _lot_ of information exchanges with the dalatrasses. . . there's nothing a dalatrass dislikes more than having to admit that she doesn't _know_ something. And she admitted to not knowing a _hell_ of a lot. They also tend to want to make exchanges. They never give anything away for free. She gave away the damn farm here."

"So either she gave away what was useless or false, or she's desperate." Shepard lifted the shuttle into the air, heading back to the _Normandy._ "Which is it?"

"I'm not sure. I wish we could have had Mordin with us. He'd have a clearer read on her body-language than I do." Kasumi thought about it. "The surveillance is real."

"Why so?"

"She probably wouldn't cover generations of her family's treasured breeding record with that frieze that concealed half of the surveillance equipment if she had any choice in the matter."

"Pretty open about their control of her, then, aren't they?"

Kasumi shrugged. "Probably started off subtle and then became more overt. Wouldn't surprise me if they have blackmail material on her as well."

"So did we get anything worthwhile out of the effort?"

"Possibly a hint that right around when the relics were stolen, the satellite facilities of Vitrifex were compromised. It's not much, but something worth checking out."

Shepard nodded. "And we'll do so."

**Gris**

_Another damned mudball that my people could have used as a home, and instead, destroyed. Another grave, just like Tuchanka. _The cold on Garvug (-30º C/-22º F) didn't bother Gris, and certainly didn't bother Cohort, either. "Act like a dumb mech," Gris reminded the geth. "With luck, none of the krogan on this rock have ever seen a geth. It's not like extranet service is really common out in the wastelands."

He'd been flying a battered shuttle around the wastelands for a week now, trying to _find_ some of the rumored krogan packs that supposedly haunted the planet. The reason for all the heavy security forces around the various corporate eco-engineering enclaves. It had been slow going, but he thought he'd finally found one in a mountainous region north of the Morphil'zha headquarters. _Humph. At least it's a cave. _Gris settled the shuttle down on an outcropping of rock several miles away, settled his shotgun in his hands, and headed out the hatch. The shuttle sealed itself behind him, and the controls were biometrically locked to his DNA.

The ground underfoot was frozen solid—no snow atop it. Just permafrost. Even his heavy treads made a dull sound on that hard-pan surface. It took a while to get where they were going; Gris had no desire to let anyone _near_ his shuttle and get stuck on this planet, though, so the precautions were worth it.

"_Hey! You in there!"_ Gris bellowed up at the rocky face of the mountainside.

"_Do you challenge our right to be here?"_ came a dull roar in return.

_Ah, the old ways. The ways that aren't Urdnot_. _"Not today,"_ he replied, one of the two answers he _could_ give; the other was _yes, I challenge you, _which would have resulted in _immediate_ bloodshed.

Another krogan head popped out of the cave now, studying him warily. _"Don't know your markings, stranger."_

"_Clan Urdnot."_

"_If you're on __Garvug__, you'd better leave your old clan name behind." _More heads now; he could see they had guns trained on him. The potential for violence was still high.

"_I'll keep my clan name till I die. I don't intend to be on this rock long."_

Rough laughter. _"That's what we all said."_ They were relaxing a bit now. Saw only one krogan, and a mech. He could see their markings now, too. Blood Pack. . . but battered, worn almost beyond recognition.

"_What the hell is Blood Pack doing out here on __this__ mudball?"_

"_If you've got ryncol with you, we might be inclined to tell you the story."_

"_I __do__ have ryncol with me, as it happens."_ Gris tugged a strap on his chest, dangling a canteen filled with the krogan liquor. Lowering his voice, he added to Cohort, "Keep an eye on the exterior of the cave here, and don't let _any_ of them near the ship." With Cohort's sniper rifle, and skill, he didn't think they had much to worry about along those lines, but it didn't hurt to be prepared.

"We agree with your assessment," the geth said, quietly, assuming a sentry stance. Just like a good, dumb mech.

The inside of the cave was neater than Gris had expected. A little better than the rubble on Tuchanka, but still a far cry from Mindoir. He was trying _not_ to think about Mindoir at the moment. Couldn't afford even a moment's softness in himself. He certainly couldn't think about Azala. Nor her daughter, of whom he was actually allowing himself to become a little proud. Nor even about Mazz, newly passed through the Rite, who was staying with them, in the absence of his father and of Gris. Instead, he let his mind rest solidly in his years of mercenary service. Let himself slide back into the old way of talking, the old patterns of thought, and passed the ryncol around the small fire the krogan in the cave had going. _"So, why __are__ you here?"_

"_Was supposed to be a short-term but lucrative contract,"_ one of them replied, sounding disgusted. _"Couple of the ecology teams out here were planting thousands of wind turbines attached to heaters. The wind generates the power, the power lights up the heaters, supposed to miraculously pump heat into the atmosphere and start thawing this damn place out. Our employer wanted the windmill project shut down. Wanted to compete for the bid, I guess. And whatever materials we salvaged from the windmills we destroyed, were ours to sell. That was ten years ago."_

_And if someone caught you, it was just another band of krogan up in the hills,_ Gris thought, not changing his expression. _"Sounds short and sweet. Why the hell are you still here?"_

"_Our beloved leader decided he'd rather not share the profits. Took off in our shuttle one night. I __might__ have fired a rocket after him." _Heavy laughter.

Gris wanted to shake his head at the _waste_ of it. The mercenary leader might _not_ have been abandoning his people. It would have been foolish to do so, in fact. Why waste the resources. . . unless he suspected they meant to kill him, first. Which, given what they were saying, didn't seem likely. _"What was the name of your employer, anyway?"_

"_Believe it or not, a salarian contractor. Morphil'zha. They're the big company in this region now."_ Disgusted sound. _"Credits were good enough to keep us all in ammo and ryncol for a year."_

Another krogan leaned forward now. _"And what are __you__ doing here, Urdnot?"_

That was dangerous, in its way. A wrong word now, and they might attack. _"My employer's interested in Morphil'zha's activities. Might be looking for a way to get into their facilities."_

That got some interest. They wouldn't be averse to some vengeance. _"What sort of activities is your employer looking into?"_

"_What they need five hundred batarians to protect them from __you__ for."_

Heavy laughter again. _"Hard to say. They're supposed to be warming up this rock. If it's gotten any warmer since we've been here, I sure as hell haven't noticed it."_

"_You raid the base for supplies?" _Only logical place they _could _be getting food and ammo from. Plant and animal life on this planet was basically extinct. The atmosphere was only marginally breathable even by _krogan_ standards, and that was saying something.

"_All the time_." The leader of the ragged band looked at him steadily. _"We know ways in."_

Gris grinned. _"Seen anything interesting in there lately? Anything worth going in there for?"_

"_They keep bringing ships in. Mostly little ones, fighter size. None big enough that stealing them would get us __all__ off this rock. Don't think I haven't been tempted, though. No idea what the hell that has to do with terraforming this place. Maybe they're drones for aerial reconnaissance, or something. Security's very tight in the center of the compound though, which is where all the damn ships land."_

"_What I want to know,"_ one of the other krogan interrupted, staring fixedly at Gris, _"is how __he__ got here. You have a ship, don't you?"_

Not good. Gris met that stare stolidly. _"So what if I do?"_

"_Maybe we should just take it from you." _

He'd been expecting the head-butt, and reacted biotically before the motion could even complete, batting the loudmouth away with a quick biotic surge. Of course, this also pulled several others into the air as well.

"_Shit,"_ the leader said, pulling back, as Gris's hands found his shotgun again. _"You're a battlemaster."_

Gris just grinned at him. _"By all rights, I should kill every last one of you," _he said. _"I'm going to settle for __just__ killing the one who thought he was __clever__." _The shotgun's report was _very_ loud in the confined space, and Gris pulled a weave of biotic energy around himself for extra shielding now, standing. _"Now that we understand each other, I want to know more about how you raid the facility. And if there are any more bands of krogan in these mountains who might be willing to raid the damn place."_

"_What do we get if we do?" _The leader, Gris had to give him credit, had a tenacious pugnacity to him, that disregarded the fact that the dead body of one of his fellows was still hovering in mid-air, dripping blood down onto the cave floor.

"_Your lives, to start with. If I'm __really__ impressed, maybe a ride off this rock."_

They all looked at once another, casting votes with their eyes. _"We're in. And we can set up meetings with other bands in the area. They might not kill us on sight."_

Gris's smile was tight. _This is progress. Of a sort._

**Elijah **

Moving into May on Mindoir, school was almost done, and Eli, Lin, and Tel were all ramping up their training. Telinus was the furthest behind in the physical aspects, but Eli firmly believed that his friend was going to wind up in a tech position of some sort or another. Tel was too damned smart to be wasted as a cook or logistics personnel. He did, however, have the turian equivalent of mild asthma, which he tried to regulate with exercise, but which might give him problems at boot camp. "I don't want to wash out just because of my damn body," Telinus admitted one afternoon before sparring, sounding nervous. "I don't want to be a kid forever."

Eli had to admit, there was less _stress_ in the human system. He knew damned well that since he was sixteen, he was an adult in most respects on Mindoir; when he turned eighteen, he'd have Alliance-wide voting privileges, and when he turned twenty-one, he could go pretty much anyplace on Earth and order a drink. To have _everything_ in life boil down to a series of tests—and sure, a turian _could_ redo boot camp, but they only got one second chance—was pretty frightening. "You'll be fine. You've been running a mile above sea level for years now."

Tel lifted his hands, palms up. "Yeah, but Mindoir's _dry_. I have no idea what all the humidity back on Palaven is going to do to me. I remember it not being much fun at all."

"Nothing we can do, except train harder," Linianus told Tel, shrugging.

Sparring had ramped up again. Eli had a feeling that the Spectres enjoyed this, as a period sharpening of their own skills. Shepard was back on the mats at least twice a week, though she was off-planet at the moment; on evenings when she was here, Garrus wasn't, and vice-versa. The price of kids, of course. His mom was still doing self-defense training; she just couldn't be thrown, which she admitted to being just as happy about. Eli was mostly just glad she'd stuck with it for as long as she had. It was. . . weird, but nice, having something that he and his mom actually _shared_ for a change. Admittedly, she was usually over on her section of mats, and he was over on his, but occasionally Sam would ask him to demonstrate something for his mom, and he actually got to teach _her_. A little role-reversal, considering all the things she'd taught _him_ to do, over the years. All of his math and half of his chemistry came from Ellie's background in environmental sciences, after all.

"You're a slightly different case than the other kids we've taught in the last year," Sam had told him, a month or so ago in training. "Rel had the straight turian forms down first, and then we all added to his skill-set and refined on it. Dara, being a little on the short side, I worked through mostly soft strikes schools. Open palms techniques. You're not as tall and as fast as a turian, but you _are_ a human male, and you're getting damned big, son. That means you have other options open to you. Options that Dara didn't have. Longer limbs means different leverage. You're going to be able to brute-force things, where Dara has to finesse them. Doesn't mean you can afford to be sloppy, though. Just means that if you _do_ get sloppy, you have more ways of compensating for it than she does. Plus. . ." Sam grinned, "what's the point of being big and young if you _don't_ get to use the hard-strikes schools while you can still recover from the beating inside of a day or two?"

So while Eli got just as much exposure to the circle-walking _ba gua_ and the off-center strikes of _wing chun_ as the others had, he _also_ got other schools thrown at him. Shepard's background in Okinawan karate came in handy. Sam admitted to a little knowledge of _muay thai_. And Eli _loved_ the _muay thai_. Eight points of contact, not four. _Everything_ was legal—elbows, knees, fists, feet. He wasn't as fond of the concept of toughening his shins by slamming his legs into a piece of wood repeatedly every day, but the concept was a valid one. Cortical remodeling, or bone restructuring. Repeated small injuries stimulated new bone growth. "It hurts like living shit," Sam told him, "which is, to be honest, one of the reasons I never went far with the school. But it _does_ have a certain validity to it."

And he had Eli working on the heavy bag almost constantly, trying to get him to build up his upper body strength. "Turians fight predominantly with their legs. Makes sense for them. _You_ need to be a full-body fighter. Remember to punch _through_, though, not _at_. I want even a jab from you to _sting_."

Eli'd grinned. "I kind of like that thought."

And of course, there was what he was learning from Lantar. Traditional turian forms. Lightning-fast kicks; he didn't have the same body make-up as a turian, but thanks to the gene mods and natural ability, his reflex speed was phenomenal and getting better. Gladiatorial forms. Stylized, beautiful in their way, but useful, too. It was training in how to incorporate a weapon into all the unarmed training he was already. He might not bulk out until his twenties, or at least until after boot camp, but for the moment, he was developing a rangy sort of strength that was _useful_.

And then there was the full two days of testing out of the remainder of his coursework for his diploma. He only needed to pass sections that he hadn't already completed in school, which was a relief, in a way. However, he'd taken all the things he'd _liked_ in school. Chemistry, physics, math—hell, he'd gotten an B+ in calculus, which he was damned proud of—and turian, all taken care of. That left Terran History 1 (pre-history through the nineteenth century) and Terran History 2 (nineteenth century through the First Contact War), sociology, biology, and either xenobiology or xenobotany. Each test included factual information and a damned essay. He frankly felt like he was making stuff up as he wrote, but so long as words came out of his fingertips at his terminal in the empty classroom, populated only by himself and a proctor, he figured he was at least meeting the requirements. Essay writing was _not_ something he was naturally good at. Dara had given him tips on it before she'd graduated. "Look at the question first," she'd told him. "Write down the first three or four things you think of in response to it at the top of the file. That way, you can refer back to it. Restate the question, say you'll demonstrate how it all works using those three or four things, and you're pretty much good from there, right?"

Much to his surprise, her tactic _worked_. It was much easier to remember what the hell he wanted to say in his essay when all he had to do was scroll up and look at his notes. Coming up with the information in the first place was harder, but he had, at least, choices on which questions to answer for the essays. He could compare and contrast the Reformation and the Napoleonic wars, and how they had shaped the world, or he could write about the Industrial Revolution and its continuing impact to the present day, for example. Choices helped.

And when he got his marks back, he sagged in relief. He'd passed. He hadn't _aced_ the tests. . . he hadn't done badly, either. Somehow had pulled a 90 out in one of the histories, 85 on the other, 80 on biology and 83 on xenobiology. Much to his surprise, he'd gotten a 95 on the sociology exam, and figured it was probably because the essay had had to do with how laws and social mores interrelated. That had been a fairly easy one to write, actually.

So there he was, six weeks to go until boot camp. No school to fill his days. Nothing to occupy his mind with, other than worrying, training, and more worrying. He knew better than to look idle around the house, though.

Lin and Tel were both dealing with the dead time in their own ways. Telinus had taken a temporary job down in the science station, as a lab assistant, preparing gel electrophoresis trays. "It's good experience," Tel had said, when Eli asked him about it. "Plus, you know, it _pays_." Linianus, on the other hand, was in hot pursuit of one of the local turian girls. Being blooded—and impressively so—was apparently a _very_ big selling point, and he seemed quite intent on ridding himself of the troublesome issue of his virginity as quickly as possible. "It doesn't work on human girls?" he asked Eli, quizzically.

"Not the ones at school, no. They all know I dated two asari girls _and_ hang out with mostly turians." Eli's tone was rueful.

"And why should either of those things be a problem?"

_Half of them think I went all the way with both Kella and Siara, where I mostly got __kissing__ out of the experience. Didn't want to scare Siara, so I never did even a quarter of the things I thought of doing. And for all of that, half of the girls think I'm some borderline sex maniac or something, and skitter away when I look at them. And the other half just plain don't know what to make of me when I walk by, surrounded by turians and speaking turian and wearing clan-paint. They think I'm not human anymore, I guess._ But none of that would make _any_ sense to Lin, so Eli shrugged it off. "Maybe they're scared I'll bite."

That made Linianus _laugh_.

That left neither of the other males much time for anything aside from their current interests, so Eli actually, in complete boredom, sat down and _memorized_ the damned rules and regs for military service. And when he got done with that, he went looking for more. Turian law, judicial proceedings, records, from the earliest recorded laws on down. _Hell, it all started somewhere. Probably just like Hammurabi's code_, he thought. _Even if it's all in __tal'mae__, at least Lantar and my mom can't say I'm sitting around doing nothing if I'm reading this crap._

The equivalent of Hammurabi's code was the Codex of Virumus, he discovered, and most turian law still reflected its precepts, in some form or another. Dueling was permitted, killing permitted in war, but a clear distinction between killing and murder was made, for example. Murder was defined as attacking when the other person had no chance to defend themselves. Poison was forbidden—_which indicates that it __happened__,_ Eli thought, smiling a little. His sociology essay had pointed that out. Laws only prohibited things that people had thought of doing. If it wasn't common, and wasn't a problem, a law generally didn't exist to cover a situation. He'd drawn on the example of hybrid kids and Terran laws as a comparison. There were no _laws_ covering it; there were _regulations_ stemming from the Global Food and Drug Administration that prevented hybrids from visiting Earth. And _those_ had been thrown together out of the same language that usually regulated that animals were quarantined for up to six months before being able to enter Earth's atmosphere. (Eli had waxed eloquent over the offensiveness of this for a bit in his essay, with all the fervor of sixteen.)

The laws and the regulations hadn't, on Earth, caught up with emerging realities, because laws only changed when people saw that they _needed_ to be changed. When either something became seen as unjust, or when something became seen as a threat. The majority of the time, laws tended to remain largely unchanged—tinkered with, perhaps, but not monumentally changed.

So, under the Code of Virumus, killing in self-defense, permissible. Killing in a duel for honor, permissible. Killing in war, permissible. Killing for monetary gain, forbidden. _How does that relate to mercenary work, then, I wonder?_ Killing someone's mate, in order to take their mate for your own, forbidden. _Which means that it happened._ If two males fought while a female was in estrus nearby, it was. . . allowed. Frowned upon, apparently, but allowed. If a female in estrus attacked another female, the second female was permitted to defend herself, up to and including killing the first female. _Comes under the self-defense clauses_. If the female in estrus killed anyone, it was _not_ considered her fault. _I wonder if anyone's ever tried to claim estrus as temporary insanity, gotten the hormones going and just __happened__ to have been near someone they didn't like. . . . _ Eli checked. Yep. Precedents everywhere. Proving the intent was the hard part, just as in all other pre-meditation cases, but pre-meditation, in the contemporary turian legal system, just as in most human ones, was a major factor in deciding punishments and level of guilt.

Killing with poison, a knife in the back, garrote, all forbidden. Penalties. . . being pressed to death under a stone. Not an honorable death, by the blade or in combat. Slow, painful death.

And that was just the section on how people could or couldn't kill each other. The translation process was slow, especially with Serana at school during the day and unable to help him, but at least it kept Eli's mind fully occupied. And it gave him something to talk to Lantar about at night, over dinner. And he got to see _both_ of his parents wearing that odd, proud smile now.

**Rinus**

The past three weeks had been some of the most tolerable he'd spent on the _Estallus_. They'd scanned nine more moons, and he knew Rel had been down to three of those nine, investigating anomalies. Some had been abandoned outposts, crashed probes. Others had resulted in more combat. Whatever Livanus was looking for out here, they hadn't found it yet.

With his new roommate out, Rinus opened the chip in his mind. It had gotten easier with practice, and he usually started every day by doing this, and drinking a cup of _apha._ He'd probably keep it open through breakfast, and then shut it down. For which he always got a polite _thank you_, and, for three weeks, little more. The space had allowed him to . . . decompress a little. And, having reviewed his second-brother's log of the conversation he'd had with Laetia, he understood _why_ he was being allowed this reprieve. Rinus had been _startled_ by Rel's acumen. He, personally, hadn't actually thought that the brass would be concerned that he was related to Garrus. In his mind, that was not really relevant. But now that it had been brought up, he could see why they'd be concerned. After all, Garrus _had_ brought him into the Omega incident. And having succeeded once in that kind of work, he'd probably be tapped for it again.

This evening, however, Rinus decided to try a little experiment. "Laetia?" he said, out loud.

The green eyeball appeared. "Yes, Rinus?"

"You've been quiet lately."

The green eyeball blinked, briefly. "I've been thinking," she said. "Usually, I'm able to formulate a decision out of data analysis in about five seconds. Fifteen, if it's a _really_ difficult problem." The green avatar flickered. "You're leaving the chip open?"

"For the moment, yes." Rinus paused. "And what have you been thinking about?"

"Several things. The likelihood of our being attacked in this neighborhood. And this, of course, too." His terminal flickered, and schematics appeared, along with an image of a terrestrial planet. Intrigued, Rinus looked at it more carefully. There were satellites in orbit around it—probably the source of the schematics.

"What am I looking at?"

"An orbital system around the planet Garvug." The eyeball flickered into her more human form, and she wasn't joking or smiling. Just concentrating. "What do you think of it?"

He flipped through the initial information. "Can't be an orbital defense system. Only twelve satellites? Even a global positioning system takes twenty-four for a proper degree of accuracy." Rinus frowned at the drawings. "This doesn't make much sense, Laetia. There are lenses on these things?"

"Yes. Largely made of aerogel, they unfurl to a wide diameter and are supposed to magnify the light of Garvug's star." Laetia grimaced. "Of course, if you were going to do that, you'd only really need _one_ of those, and you'd have its orbit synchronized with the rotation of the planet. These do not move."

"Standard geosynchronous orbits," Rinus read from the file. "Huh." He read further. "They're also. . . very large. They have crew decks? Why would they _need_ crew on board, if they're _stationary_? Any repairs needed would be easy to do with a shuttle and a one- or two-man crew."

"Good questions. My only answers so far is that these aren't what they appear to be. And these are only the official schematics that the Spectres have managed to obtain from the Garvug Ministry of Public Works." Laetia's tone was a little sour. "Which leaves me with the question of. . . what _are_ these satellites, then? Are they weapons platforms? Could the lenses be used for something _other_ than warming up the planet?"

Rinus studied the drawings, intrigued. "I'll look into it," he said.

"Thanks," Laetia told him. "That way, I can allocate my system resources a little more efficiently."

"Which is to say, you've been worrying about something you can't do anything about, and can't control?"

She paused. "I wouldn't say _worrying_."

"It's very human."

Laetia made a face at him. "You don't have to be insulting, Rinus." She winked out.

"Laetia?"

No response. He sighed, and opened the chip for two-way communication, gritting his teeth against any possible intrustion. _Laetia, I did want to thank you._

_Oh?_ Her tone was as guarded as his usually was.

_For giving me some time and some space._

_Your brother was. . . forthright and eloquent._

_Forthright, we both usually manage. Eloquent, I'm not good at._ It was a struggle to keep the words sharp and clear. His mind usually had two or three different iterations of the same thought, all couched different ways, a tangle of words, and it was hard to pick just one.

_You're managing just fine now._

_How much of what I think do you actually pick up? _He hated asking the question, and was disturbed by what the answer might be.

_Quite a lot of it, but not all of it makes sense to me._ Her voice in his mind was a little sad. _When you're concentrating on work, like just a moment ago, it's actually quite . . . comfortable. Not like my own processes, but logical, organized, clear. The instinctive level subordinate processes are. . . confusing. Chaotic. Often impenetrable. What I've seen of them, anyway. _

That was reassuring, in its way. He'd prefer _not_ to have everything in his head be perfectly clear to her. "In that case," he said, out loud, cautiously, "I'll leave the chip active while I'm working on these. . . satellites. Whatever they are."

_Another thing you might look into, Rinus?_

_Hmm?_

_How would you destroy them?_

Rinus grinned. "Well, now you're speaking my language," he told her, and got to work. it was a _relief_ to deal with her on this level—problems that needed solving, intelligent concerns. He could manage this much, at least, in terms of a meeting of minds.

Three hours later, it was almost 22:00 on the ship, and that's when the deck rocked underfoot. Rinus was still at work on the schematics, and looked up, startled. _That wasn't a maneuvering thruster firing_, he realized, and got to his feet.

Just then, the red lights began flaring, and the klaxon began to sound.

_No, we're under attack,_ Laetia told him, crisply. _Batarians, looks like. Four ships. We're calling in the __Kharkov__ from its hiding place._

Rinus blinked. He hadn't even _known_ the _Kharkov _was out here with them. Then he swore, and started getting into his armor. He had about ninety seconds, he figured, before he'd be ordered to the Thanix canons. Just enough time to get everything in place, down to his breather and helmet. Another shock shook the ship. _What are they hitting us with?_

Whoever the pilot on duty was right now chose that moment to take the ship on a careening dive, and Rinus staggered and grabbed onto the doorframe to keep from sliding into the back wall of his room. Once the ship leveled, he got the door open and started moving towards the main guns station, just as the alert went out, "Primary crews to battle stations. All hands, red alert, and prepare for high-speed maneuvering. Non-essential crew are restricted to quarters."

Laetia had actually taken a moment to respond, probably an indication of her system resources being taxed. _Conventional spread of torpedoes to weaken our shields was the first salvo. Second salvo was a bit more __problematic__._ The ship jerked to the side again.

"Problematic how?" he asked, giving up on trying to do this in his head while cutting through the controlled chaos of people moving to stations as quickly as they could without actually running.

_Looked like the biotic weapon the Lystheni were using_, she replied, and she clearly had no time for teasing right now, as the ship banked hard again, to port. Rinus grabbed a strap on the wall, just as everyone else around him was doing, and felt the ship pitch and yaw around him.

"Are you using the jamming signal?"

_Ineffective. May need to modulate. I suspect they're changing frequencies every few moments, matched between the sending unit and the receiving unit. It's what __I'd__ do, if I were them._

_S'kak.__ Who needs bad guys who __learn__? _Rinus's heart was racing, and he _needed_ to get into the fight, somehow. _Why would the rebel salarians turn this sort of tech over to the batarians? Payment? Desperation? Loss of control?_

"Hull breaches, deck three and four," Laetia said, over the comm system, and Rinus hissed. Deck three was the crew deck, where he and everyone else around him currently were. Everyone was in armor, of course. But he could feel _wind_ against him as the atmosphere began to evacuate, rushing from behind him to ahead of him. _S'kak__. The breach is near the gun controls. I hope to the spirits that whoever was there was in his or her armor._

_He wasn't._ Laetia's voice was very soft.

Rinus growled. Could hear the _thump_ as emergency bulkheads closed, sealing the interior from the vacuum outside, and hustled forward. He had to get to the damn gun controls.

Unfortunately, the emergency bulkhead was very much in his way. He slammed a hand into the metal, gauntlets ringing on the lightweight titanium alloy, and swore.

"Marine teams, prepare to repel boarding parties. Breaching pods are heading for Deck Four , main engineering."

_We're sitting like __anserae__ in a __pond__ here. _"Are my crews down on the Javelins, at least?"

_Yes. Won't be enough, even with the __Kharkov__ to help._

"Can I use this spirits-be-damned chip to control the main guns?" Desperation now.

_I'm __really__ glad you asked that. _

His vision faded out, and suddenly, it was as if he were standing on the other side of the closed bulkhead. Consoles, controls everywhere. _I'm providing you an interface similar to what you'd see in physical reality. EDI reports this is easier for organics to interface with than with raw data._

"Thanks." His voice was clipped, and he closed his eyes, and took the targeting information sent down from the bridge and began firing the damned cannon at last. He wasn't aware of the fact that he was leaning into the bulkhead as if he could get through it by main willpower. Wasn't aware that he was breathing hard as his body tried to regulate his core temperature. Just tracking, firing, finding the damn weak points.

_Captain Jallus is delighted to have main guns back online,_ she whispered in his mind.

"Great. Tell him we need better positioning. We're at maximum effective range right now."

_He's aware. We're waiting for shields to recharge. __Kharkov__ is engaging._

Rinus concentrated, and studied the closest batarian ship's profile. Standard slave raider model; heavy weapons up front, large cargo hold, big engines. The cargo hold was probably where the biotics were kept, and it was the least shielded portion of the ship. _Sorry about this,_ he thought, a little distantly, and targeted that area, firing again.

_Direct hit. They're venting atmosphere and a number of bodies into space._

"Good. Let's hope those were biotics, and not random prisoners." Rinus panted a little, and felt a shudder from below decks. _Come on, second-brother_, he thought. _Keep the damned boarding parties occupied while the rest of us deal with the ships._

**Rellus**

The marines, Rel, and Livanus were all down in engineering, and did indeed have their hands full. "It would help," Rasmus shouted into the radio, "if they'd stop shaking the damn ship around!" The young marine was scrambling back to cover, having been thrown across the deck into the opposing wall in the last turning maneuver.

"I'll let the pilot know that you like your combat maneuvers nice and gentle," Livanus replied sharply, laying down covering fire.

"Next time, we'll fight in a hot air balloon," Rel called out, cheerfully, and grabbed the back of Rasmus' cowl armor, dragging him back up the slanting deck into cover.

"Thanks, Velnaran," Rasmus said, slumping for a moment, and readying his gun again.

There was _no_ atmosphere in engineering at the moment, and the emergency bulkheads were sealed _behind_ them. The batarians had landed a breaching pod in the open place where the hull had simply _buckled_ and moved, sliding open to space as Rel and the marines had watched in shock. They'd been in the cargo bay anyway—while it was late, they'd been finishing up some exercises—and they'd moved directly for engineering at the first sign of trouble. The cargo bay was an obvious access point, of course, but main engineering was also exposed, and an enemy that got control of the area could take the damn ship.

"Why are they trying to board?" Rel asked on the radio, peeking up and taking a few shots at the batarians, who were trying to establish more or less a beachhead position, coming out of their little ship, crouching down behind cover, trying to establish covering fire for more of their own to come off the ship. Another shot, another, seeing the batarian's shield flicker, die. . . and then ducking back down, hoping someone else would pick up where he'd left off. "You board when you want to take a ship intact, or the crew or something else onboard is valuable."

Livanus moved then, fast, leaping over a crate and settling behind a partially engaged bulkhead, leaning out to take shots at the batarians coming out of the ship. "Standard slaver tactics. Also, they probably want the prize of a _Normandy_-class ship taken captive," he said, tightly, between shots. "Batarians weren't real _thrilled_ when Garrus and the rest went and . . . _restructured_ Omega on them. Plus, we've been poking them with a sharp stick out here." Rel could hear a grin in the male's voice. "Velnaran, move up."

Rel started to move out of his crouch, when the pilot apparently decided that _now_ was a good time to do a barrel-roll. For a disorienting moment, the ceiling and the floor reversed places, and _everyone_ fell 'up, and and then fell _again, _back where they started from. Rel landed, swore, and got over the damned crate while the batarians were still disoriented, themselves, moving up to Livanus' position. "What do you need me to do?"

"Got a grenade launcher handy?"

"Actually. . . yeah." Rel chuckled. "I never fully unpacked my harness from the last moon."

"Good. Drop a couple right into their breaching pod. I'll give you cover. On three. One. . . two. . . three!"

Livanus rolled out, and began firing. The batarians ducked, and Rel had the relative leisure to set up and fire the first grenade directly into the batarian vehicle. "One more," Livanus said, ducking back. "Give it a moment." Rel couldn't see through the mask, of course, but the older male's voice was calm and reassuring. "Okay, again, on three."

The second grenade went into the hatch as smoothly as the first. Rel switched back to his rifle again, and the marines with them had been laying down steady fire at the batarians all this time, of course. Eventually, the sound of gunfire died down. "Okay, let's move up and secure it," Livanus directed. "Velnaran, with me."

The ship rocked and rolled again, making them lurch uncertainly as they moved up, trying to crouch, trying to present the smallest possible target. Every batarian was a corpse. "Drop another grenade in here," Livanus said. "Once we've backed up a bit, of course."

_Interesting. Does he think they've got stealthed people in there?_ Rel backed up, and dropped another grenade in the open hatch.

Nothing happened. Livanus regarded the open door for a long moment. "Better safe than dead," he muttered, quietly on their common band, then keyed the channel for contact with the ship. "Engine room secured. Open to space, though. We'd take it as a courtesy if someone could let us back in, since we seem to have locked ourselves out."

"One moment," Laetia replied. "We've got the last ship pinned between us and the _Kharkov."_

The main guns fired, light streaming into the open engineering deck, leaving dazzling purple afterglows in Rel's vision.

"All right, ladies and gentlemen," Laetia said, after a moment. "Which of you was the one who forgot their keys? Step lively now. I've evacuated the atmosphere in the compartment just behind bulkhead D-27. Once you're all through, I'll seal it again, and cycle the air back in. Damage control teams are also on their way."

Stepping through, Rel waited until his suit registered oxygen levels again before popping his helmet loose and leaning up against a wall. He was standing next to Livanus, who was evidently listening to reports on his headset that the rest of them weren't privy to, the older male's eyes moving almost as if he were reading a report at the same time.

"Sir?" Rel asked, very quietly. "We're _sure_ the pod was clear? The DC teams don't need a surprise."

Livanus' gaze flicked his way. Just as quietly, he replied, "Yeah. Life signs were negative, but I think three grenades should have been enough. Just in case though, you and I will stay down here for a while." Louder now, he told the marines, "Yeah, everyone needs to head to their damage control duty stations. The main gun compartment was hit, as well as engineering."

_Rinus. __S'kak__. But I saw the main gun firing. . . or was that the __Kharkov__'s cannon, at point-blank range? _Rel's head had swung sharply, but he bit his tongue. Waited.

Once the rest of the marines had cleared out, Livanus nodded to him. "Your brother's okay, Velnaran." He snorted a bit. "Captain's pleased with him. Didn't realize he was chipped. Apparently has access to the damn weapons in his _head_ now." Livanus shook his head. "Couldn't pay me enough, but I'm damned glad _someone_ had it, today."

"I thought it wasn't common knowledge even that Joker—" Rel hesitated.

The older male's eyes gleamed behind the white and black striped paint. "I was on base for the simulation event. Both of them, actually. It wasn't common knowledge till _then_ even among the Spectres."

"The first one wasn't a bad day. The second. . ." Rel shook his head, tightly. "So we're waiting to see if anyone _else_ was hidden in that pod. Lystheni?"

Livanus suddenly grinned. "Good guess."

"Insider information. No real intelligence required on my part."

"Keep it to yourself. How much do you know about them?"

"They attacked at least one base, possibly two, in a coordinated fashion, and kidnapped Mordin Solus early last July. They had a foothold on Omega that was eliminated. They have tech and biotic divisions within their ranks, and they've developed some form of a . . . _biotic _ship-to-ship weapon that buckles the damned hull plating, apparently." Rel swallowed. That had _not_ been a pleasant sight. Everyone who lived aboard a spaceship _knew_ that they were always a few centimeters from a hull breach, but the walls looked solid, and that allowed the people aboard to develop a comfortable level of trust in their surroundings. Seeing those solid walls _crumple_ had been. . . deeply troubling.

Livanus shook his head. "And here I thought you'd been safely in training for most of this. You're almost all the way up to speed."

"I have a wife with a security clearance as high as mine is." Rel forbore mentioning Rinus and Laetia as well.

"Noted. All right. The tech Lystheni have a neat little trick for dodging life sensors. They put themselves in a hibernation state, and chips embedded in their brains allow other Lystheni to control them. The walls in the pod were thick enough for a concealed area, I think. I'd like to make _sure _none of them happened to be hiding." Livanus sounded grim. "I wouldn't even put it past them to have stealth generators and spacesuits on these damned zombies, to let them operate in a vacuum and undetected."

Rel whistled between his teeth, and then the damage control teams were there, and he and Livanus had to put their helmets back on, as the bulkheads behind them sealed up once more, air got pumped out, and the bulkheads leading into engineering opened again.

They were able to detach the pod and let it tumble away into space. The engineers gave them glances periodically, but since they were standing out of the way, did little besides move around them. Eventually, Livanus was satisfied that they hadn't missed anyone, and they wearily moved back up into the ship itself.

Rel dropped by his brother's room, mostly to check on him. "Centurion Velnaran, I trust you're well?" he said, from the door.

Rinus grimaced, glanced at his roommate, and said, "Lieutenant Velnaran. Nice of you to drop by. We lost someone certified on the Thanix canons, unfortunately, but other than that, yeah."

The roommate, another centurion, had already looked back down at a stack of damage control reports. No one was going to be getting sleep tonight, that was for certain. Rel tapped a knuckle against his forehead and spread his hands inquiringly. Rinus nodded, quickly, and give a very human thumb's up gesture in return, adding, out loud, "I understand there was some excitement below decks?"

"Yeah, gatecrashers. Very rude. We told them no admittance without an invitation, and they were upset." Rel shrugged. He'd gotten what he came for; Rinus was okay, and his brain hadn't actually melted as a result of using the spirits-be-damned chip. His chest eased a bit, and he added, "I should get to my damage control station. Which will involve largely handing an engineer tools, since damned if I know how anything actually _works_ around here." His tone was rueful.

Rinus snickered and walked forward close enough to mutter, very quietly, "I'd say that's because you're an officer, second-son, but, you know. . ."

"You're the very picture of discipline, first-son. Try to keep your brain from frying, all right?"

"Hey, you try to keep yours from getting blown out."

And then they got back to work.


	62. Chapter 62: Transition

**Chapter 62: Transition**

**Author's note: **_Fun_ _muay thai__ vs. tae kwon do exhibition here: www. youtube. com/ watch? v=VL5Cy33RWLo&feature=related. Look at all the times the __muay thai__ guy catches the TWD guy's heel, holds that weapon in place, and destroys the far leg or just turns it to destabilize him. Eli's being taught __muay thai__ for strength and toughness and __wing chun__ for speed, strategy, and twisting/destabilizing/joint locks/fun._

_For the folks who've replied to the last Author Note. . . yeah. You can pretty much map every one of the __ME1__ races to a specific D&D archetypal race, showing the game's heredity pretty clearly. Asari = elves. Turians = lawful-aligned orcs with the patina of Roman Empire added to them. (I like to think I've extrapolated on that successfully.). Krogans = trolls (down to the regeneration). Salarians = gnomes. (Technical aspect, certainly.) Volus = halflings/comic relief. Rachni = pretty much the Buggers from __Ender's Game/Speaker for the Dead__, right down to the xenocide. Geth = Cylons. The __ME2__ races that were added seem largely an attempt to keep us from feeling bad about killing things that we now sympathize with. So, vorcha, largely non-speaking equivalents of scrag trolls got added. And of course, the Collectors, who are more or less the Borg on steroids. Husks/zombies actually remind me of darkspawn. I'm guessing that there might be some cross-fertilization between DA and ME as the developers talk over lunch. _

_Additionally, I'd like to thank Ceres McClure for pointing out the thematic tie between "krogan didn't adapt, just about lost Tuchanka and their future; asari didn't adapt, and __did__ lose Thessia." Also, a tip of the hat to Leelan, for reminding me about Charr and Eraba. I've never actually seen those two on Tuchanka, which is where the ME wiki insists that they go after you've convinced Ereba to get serious about her krogan boyfriend, so I obviously need to head there in one of my save games and listen to what Charr has to tell his Blue Rose about their new home. . . . and what she __really__ thinks of this pile of broken rock._

_Rinus and Laetia__ get the most comments of any couple at the moment. At the moment, it's running 50/50 between people who think Laetia is mistreating Rinus and people who think Rinus is mistreating her. I guess it comes down to which one you sympathize with more, like friends of a couple going through a bad divorce. Since they both live in my head, I sympathize equally with both of them, and enter into their perspectives wholly as I write each of their dialogue pieces. Which makes it sometimes hard to back them down off their respective ledges, I'll admit. ;-)_

_From Laetia's perspective, she's decided that she likes him, and is curious about the experience of being organic, and wants to forge a connection with someone-anyone, really, but someone she likes and respects would be preferable. She's not in love with him, but is definitely in "like," even though he's 'difficult.' She's gone about this entire thing about as wrong-headedly as possible. While she's been upfront and honest with him (always good things), she has on many occasions kind of treated him badly. She's backed him into a corner, and no one, of any gender, responds well to that._

_From Rinus' perspective, he didn't ask for any of this, and her behavior borders on harassment. Imagine someone at your place of employment, offering you special considerations, extra work, bonuses, but in recompense, you really should do for him (or her), just a few little favors. Ones that involve letting that person into your personal life. Coming home with you. Maybe sleeping in your bed. Oh, and if you __don't__ do it, one of your coworkers will suffer. _

_That's not how she __meant__ it, of course, but that's how it came across to __him__. Now that she's backed off and is treating him like a *professional* instead of a slab of meat (er, brain, I suppose), which is really all the poor guy asked for, he's having a chance to see this as a partnership instead of something he's been forced into._

_Then again, new developments are coming that will solidly upset the applecart yet again, so we'll see how this goes. . . :-D_

**Siara**

Siara was used to everything changing around her at high speed, while her own life moved slowly onwards, like a ship slowly rowing towards some unseen shore. She'd been watching the humans and the turians around her change so swiftly the last few months, however, that it seemed almost a little shocking. She'd known, in her mind, that Elijah, for instance, was growing up. It was hard to miss the fact that in their class pictures from eighteen months ago, in 2191, Eli had been shorter than Dara. Now he was almost as tall as Dara's father, and was as immersed in boot camp training as any of the turian boys. Siara was working on a separate section of the mats at sparring practice on the nights when she went, waiting for Gris to return. Ylara was due to return to sparring sometime in late June or July, after she gave birth to her and Tulluust's child. In the meantime, that left Siara without a formal instructor, either in krogan or asari styles. So many nights, she simply worked with Ellie or some of the other beginners, helping to teach what little she already knew, which was, she had to admit, a good way of reinforcing what she'd learned. Serana was small but very tough, as she'd expect any turian female to be, of course. Young, but learning very quickly under her father, Allardus' tutelage.

But some nights, Siara simply watched, amazed by the speed of change. Jaworski was teaching Eli weaving techniques, of course, how to cross an opponents' arms and twist them to the ground, how to catch and redirect a kick and sweep the legs out from under them, that sort of thing. But he also was teaching him things that looked utterly vicious to Siara. Spinning back elbows, how to bring an enemy's head down while leaping up and driving a knee into their swiftly descending jaw. Where turians panted when they got overheated, the human males sweated, usually right through their shirts, and Sam laughed, joking, "See, an advantage in a fight. Now no one can get a damn grip on you." Eli usually wound up taking off his shirt halfway through in pure annoyance, and she could understand why, if it felt as uncomfortable as it looked.

Mazz, who was staying with her and her mother in Gris' absence, loved the sparring as much as the others. He had reach and power on the turians and the humans, but their speed and reflexes more than made up for it. . . and the more they all trained together, the less the humans and turians got hit. Or maybe they just seemed to feel it less. At the beginning and end of every session, Eli worked on the heavy bags, using shin kicks until the skin reddened, and then stretched out, rubbing a noxious-smelling ointment into the skin (the turians were staying well away, shielding their noses, she noted, with amusement), working the bruises and the bone under the skin, too. She drifted closer one night to ask what he was doing.

"Trying to encourage the shin bones to become a little denser, and to desensitize the nerves," he replied, friendly but reserved. "It's not something you should do without some supervision, but when I'm done with it, the shin kicks Sam's teaching me to use will have about the same power as someone swinging a baseball bat. And best of all, _I_ won't even feel it. _They_ will, though." A quick, rueful grin. Eli hopped back up to his feet, gave her a nod, and went to go pack up his bag.

And then they were all speeding off ahead of her again, lights lost against the horizon. _No,_ Siara thought. _I have changed. And while I can't keep up with all of them, I can try._

So, one night after Mazz had slumped off to the guest room to work on his first engineering courses, being taken in conjunction with local teachers and some distance education with the University of Mindoir, Siara tapped on the door of her mother's bedroom. "Mother?" she asked, tentatively.

"Come in, dear."

Siara slipped in through the door, and perched on the edge of the bed, looking over at her mother solemnly as Azala, who liked to sit up reading before bed, set her datapad down. "What is it, little one? You look so serious."

Siara sighed, and switched to high-tongue. _"I have made some decisions on the course I would like my life to take," _ she said, pulling her knees up to her chest. _"I would like to share these thoughts and decisions with you, and gain your counsel and wisdom thereby."_

It was a very formal mode of speaking. Normally, Siara wouldn't have been expected to say anything like it until she was forty or so. As such, Azala's eyes had gone wide. _"Disclose your thoughts to me, little one."_

No touching, not yet. First, words. _"I have thought, for a long time, that I wanted to do something that no asari has done before. For a time, I even thought about being a Justicar—"_

Azala inhaled sharply, knowing what that meant. No family. No children. No closeness. Just the iron bonds of the Code. Siara nodded, then went on, _"I memorized most of the sutras before and during my first trip to Tuchanka. I sought guidance from them. And there is wisdom there, it is true, but some of their wisdom is. . ."_ Siara hesitated. There wasn't a word in asari for this concept. Ancient things were _venerated_ in their society. _Age_ was venerated. A matriarch—someone who had lived six hundred years before even becoming a mother, and then raised her young for at least four hundred more—was given the highest honors. Samara, the justicar who had come to tell her that her second-mother was dead, was _both_ justicar and matriarch. To have a thousand years of wisdom and experience to draw upon was to be _revered_. And yet, while the sutras _did_ have wisdom and promised peace, they were. . . "Outmoded," Siara said, slowly, using the English word, before reverting to high-tongue. _"Oh, much is still correct. Every crime __is__ a theft. Compassion is necessary for justice. I understand that all now, a little better. Not just in my head, but I think in my heart, too. But the code makes few allowances for circumstances. It doesn't allow for change. If someone committed a crime two hundred years ago, and never paid for it, a justicar will __still__ try to bring them in for punishment. Perhaps, if they are an asari, then they are still the same person they were then. We are. . . slow to change." _She looked up at her mother. _"But what if someone __did__ change?"_

"_Everyone always claims to change, little one. Everyone always claims to have mended their ways." _Azala looked uncertain, though. _"If it had taken you two hundred years to tell me of what your second-mother had done, would you not have still wanted her punished?"_

"_Yes." _Siara's voice was strong. _"Because I know that no matter how many years had passed, she would not have changed. But there __are__ those who __do__ change, Mother. I believe that, now."_

"_And how do you know this, little one?"_ Azala's voice was soft.

"_Because __I__ am changing. And I know that is true, even though to another's ears, it might sound like one more lie." _Siara looked up, met her mother's blue eyes. _"I'm not entirely sure __what__ I'm becoming, but I know what I __want__ to be. But it's hard to put into words._" She struggled for a moment. _"I look at Tuchanka, and I know that much of the damage there, the krogan did, themselves. I look at the history, and I know that they were unwise. They over-bred outside of their native habitat, and threatened to overrun the galaxy, planet by planet. I know this with my head. . . but somehow, when I see what they've become, the choices of those who dealt with them fourteen hundred years ago seem harsh. My head says, the decisions were necessary. My heart says that the consequences have been dragged on needlessly for longer than even an asari's lifetime." _ She looked at her mother, biting her lips. _"Do you understand?"_

Azala nodded, slowly. _"Are you sure that you're not feeling what some would call 'victor's guilt?'" _she asked, carefully.

"_I don't think anyone actually __won__ in the Krogan Rebellions, Mother. Oh, the threat was contained. Any pretence the krogan had to civilization was destroyed. Do you know, most of them can't even read or write in their own language anymore? They speak it, but it's not taught. Only what's needed for __survival__ is taught." _Siara paused, thinking it out. _"I've read a little Terran history in the last year or two. The topic came up because Dara's essay on Shanxi compared the Relay 314 Incident to their second global war. She said that the victors in that war took the time to rebuild the losers' countries. From the ground up, in some cases. Rebuilt their educational systems, the infrastructure, everything, so that in two or three generations, there were bonds of friendship so tight between those countries, that warfare was never seen as desirable or optional between them again."_

"_That's not always possible, little one."_

"_I know that. But I also know that it's not something the asari or the salarians have ever tried. The turians are at least paying reparations to the families involved in the Relay 314 Incident. I'm not saying that the asari government should pay reparations, either." _Siara was struggling with it. These were all new thoughts for her, blooming in her mind. _"It was fourteen hundred years ago, and almost everyone from that time is now dead. Or really close to it, anyway. Monetary reparations would be. . . what, a stipend? 'Here, I'm sorry my grandmother killed your grandfather. Here's five hundred credits to make it all better.' And what would the krogan, as they are now, do with the money?" _Siara frowned. _"Clan Urdot would put it to good use, but the other clans would buy weapons. And the whole cycle would start again."_

"_Then what do you think we should do?" _Azala's voice was gentle.

Siara looked at her mother helplessly. _"I don't know what we should do. Maybe it's not a question of we should do, but of what I can do?" _She frowned. If she said it out loud, it would sound like a foolish child's dream. Make everything right. Somehow. _"Share my thoughts," _she said, and lowered her head, offering her hand.

_M__aieolo'rae _at first, the equivalent of a gentle hug, giving way to _maieolo'saeo, _as Siara let her mother look through her mind. Gentle touch on the memories of Tuchanka. Winces of sympathy at taking the pain of the birthing mothers into herself—not just the physical, but the emotional, too. _You hated it, little one._

_I did. And yet. . . ._

_. . . I see. It felt good to do something for someone else._

_The words of the Code say to live life in service to others. I don't think I'm that giving a person. Another reason I cannot be a Justicar. But. . . it did feel good. In a way._

Flicking through the memories now, lightly. Hunger and dirt and exhaustion and loneliness, coming back full-force now, undimmed by time as Azala helped her relive the memories, re-evaluate them. Ensured that nostalgia had no place in her decisions and thoughts. _You truly feel almost as lonely __here__ as there?_ Azala was appalled.

Siara hung her head slightly. _Yes. Here, I have you, and I will always have you, Mother. I know that. But I have made many mistakes here. _

_Those mistakes would be forgiven if you reached out—_

_I'm not good at that. _Siara admitted that fault. _I have made my apologies and served my punishment, but I don't think anything but time will heal some things. Time. . . I have that._

Azala returned to the memories. The beginnings of acceptance. Finding a place for herself, finding tasks that _she_ liked, as well as ones that were necessary for survival. Learning the language, the stories, writing them down. Makur, laughing at her. _You've never liked being laughed at, little one._

_No one does. _Siara shied away a little, wanting to hold those memories back, protect them a little.

Azala wouldn't let her hide. _Let me see._ The tone identical to when she'd had a splinter in her finger as a child.

_. . . crawling out onto the surface through an access tunnel, into heavy overgrowth. "Careful. Bloodvines have that name for a reason. Anything that touches them, they wrap around, attach to, and suck the blood of animals dry. Though they may get one taste of __your__ blue blood and spit it right back out." Makur's voice was low against her ear, pointing out the hazards. Tuchanka's ecology was a layered deathtrap, after all. "Varren patrol the area. Big alpha has a pack of fifteen or twenty. Klixen have been seen in the area as well." They were walking now, and he swung her out of the way of what_ _looked__ like a boulder, but which suddenly gaped wide, showing a sort of mouth. "Stonemaw. They can't move, but again, anything that touches them, pretty much dies." __Like an undersea polyp or sessile, carnivorous sponge__, she'd thought, shaken. The list of dangers had gone on and on. Firebiters, ant-like creatures the size of her hand, were trundling back and forth across the forest floor, and they and the oldest children, walking single file behind them, had to step around the insects' pheromone trail. Stingers, bee-like creatures the size of a Terran bat, were also a hazard. Just touching some of the __trees__ could be a problem; some of them wept sap that caused horrendous blisters. A defense mechanism, of course, and an effective one._

_Most supplies were brought to the female camp on foot; inefficient for large supply dumps. And there was, of course, the ever-present danger of the supplier couriers being tracked to the camp. Thus, for large shipments, the crates were often simply dumped out of a shuttle from a hundred feet or so in the air, in a somewhat random location near the camp. Then coordinates were radioed to the females. . . and people were sent out. Usually the oldest children. "Make yourselves useful. Earn your food."_

_The crates were strewn across an open clearing. Many of them had broken open on impact, and Siara wondered how much of the contents were even still __edible__—and what hadn't already been eaten by scavengers. Wasteful, but the krogan had a right to be paranoid over the safety of the females and their young, she supposed. "Looks clear," she'd whispered, and started forward, only to find Makur's hand clamped around her wrist._

"_Varren nearby. I can smell them. I'll distract them. You and the others get as much as you can and start heading back."_

"_Are you insane?"_

_Makur had just grinned at her and concentrated, and she'd felt and seen the biotic shield shimmer into place around him. "No, but I'm __touched__," he'd rumbled back, and then off he'd gone, hustling right into the center of the field. _

_The varren had broken from cover immediately, chasing him, and her heart felt like it was in her mouth now, thumping loudly. "Come on, get the food," she'd called back, and had made the same mad dash as all the others, grabbing packages, cartons, anything she could fit in a sack, all the while trying to keep an eye on Makur, the others, where the damned varren were, if any of them had peeled off from him to turn towards easier prey—ah, there was one. She threw a shockwave at the creature as it charged one of the youngest children, tossing it up in the air, where it whimpered and then tumbled back down again to the ground. It got to its feet, __looked__ at her, and started to run right for her. Fumbling mentally for her own shield now. . . and then it was just about on her. . . and another biotic wave lifted it, flung it away._

"_Thought I told you to grab the food." Makur was limping. She could see blood on his leg, but none of the varren were chasing him, for the moment._

_Words of thanks died in her throat. __He'd just think it was weakness, anyway.__ She shoved her sack of food in his general direction. "I did. Should I have left the child over there for varren meat?"_

"_No, but you damned near became meat yourself."_

"_I can take care of myself."_

_He grinned. "Yeah?" _

"_Yeah."_

"_Then next time I'll let the varren finish its charge." Makur looked to the others. "Back to the camp," he called, rough and low. "Let's get out of here before they regroup."_

"_Why aren't they chasing us?" Siara asked, watching him limp. Not offering to help. He'd reject it, anyway. Needing assistance meant weakness. _

"_Killed their alpha. They're busy trying to figure out who the new leader is. Might take them an hour or two, and there'll be a few more bodies on the ground before they're done." Makur laughed. _

_Back in the underground warren again. Makur got a full ration for his work that day. Siara hadn't been sure what to do or to say, so she'd simply walked over and stared at him for a few moments. "What?"_

"_Malla threw a first aid kit at my head and told me to look at your leg," she replied, keeping her tone carefully surly. _

"_It's fine. Already healed." Makur grinned at her. "And Malla would know that already." He stood, towering over her, and poked her in the shoulder with one finger. "You're __concerned__, little asari."_

_Embarrassed at being caught in a fib, Siara snorted. "Don't flatter yourself." And then she'd moved away. Hearing his low laughter behind her. _

_That was, she realized now, in retrospect, when he went from being bestial, savage in her mind, to something else. A person, as much as Gris was, as much as her mother was. He was as immovable as a rock. There was little she could do or say that would bother him, in fact. She'd slammed him away with a shockwave once or twice when he'd gotten in her face, and now that she knew he was a biotic, it amazed her that he'd never once retaliated. He could have. He didn't. Never did more than put one finger on her shoulder, either. _

_Two more weeks on Tuchanka. Hard work, every single damned day. Water didn't flow from the old pipes; it had to be hauled from the nearby river, under cover of darkness, to avoid observation. Of course, at night, different predators came out. Nightflyers. Pensharr. Bloodworms, which were like leeches, only they roiled up from the ground at night, rather than living in still waters. Scrubbing the delivery rooms. Writing down the stories. Trying to teach some of the children a little more basic math than just adding and subtracting credits. Every night, no matter where she found to lay her head down, Makur found her. Told her it was his spot. "Every place I go, it's your spot," she finally snapped at him. "They can't __all__ be."_

"_Sure they can. It's my planet." He'd grinned and left._

_Then back to Mindoir again. Back to school and the endless parade of knowledge she was expected to consume, but probably never __use__. It was so confusing. The krogan only valued utilitarian knowledge. No art. No poetry. No more science than weapon design, or so it seemed. And here she was, __steeped__ in the damned stuff that they didn't even have time to teach, let alone learn to value, and instead of valuing it herself, she was impatient to go out and __use__ some of what she knew. . . _

"Some of that's the impatience of youth," Azala told her, out loud, not breaking from the vision, the sharing. "I do understand, little one." She smiled a little. "I was young once, too."

_And now back to Tuchanka, for the Rite. The adrenaline of combat._ She could feel her mother pulling away, a little shocked. Siara had _loved_ the fight. Been scared out of her wits, of course, but using Gris' training? It had felt _right_, on many levels. This didn't accord well with her mother's worldview, in which violence was sometimes necessary, but never to be sought out. _I know,_ Siara told her, silently. _I didn't think you'd like to see that in me. Or that I was proud of it._

Flicking forward again. Siara again tried to cradle the memories to herself, but Azala needed to see everything in order to make a proper judgment. _So long having wanted to be wanted, acceptance of who she was light and dark and everything in between, past not mattering, future not mattering, only __now__ mattering, the exchange of two lifetimes of memories, biotic energies wrapped around them both like a second skin._

_Two more weeks on Tuchanka. No gentle words, never anything out loud, or visible. To admit to such things would be weakness. Silence at night, the only words spoken, in their minds. Sometimes, no more contact than a hand on the other's wrist, energies, thoughts pulsing between them. __Show me the crystal cities again. I want to see them._

_Nothing so beautiful on Tuchanka of course. Even before the destruction, it had been a world of concrete bunkers and concertina wire. But the visions of lost Thessia stirred things in him, things he'd never admit to out loud, she was certain. And she couldn't help but superimpose those crystal cities here, atop the rubble of reality, and he tugged at the vision, reminding her that all those beautiful cities lay in shards around Thessia's star, a ribbon of rock and metal now. But still. . . so beautiful. A dream of past and future._

_Stay here. / Come with me. _

_And what would I do on a Spectre base, even if I were permitted there? Here, I guard the camp now, have a place. What would I do there?_

_Wash of wordless confusion, trying to think of how he could fit into the Mindoir reality, its slow time. He picked up on pieces of ideas. __School? When you see it as an endless, useless task stretching before you, yourself? And would I not have to start at the very beginning, like a child, years behind everyone else?_

_It's not all useless._

_Show me. __What do you have, that we do not have?_

She'd scrambled in her mind for a moment. _Everything_, she'd thought. _We're rich, and don't even know how rich we are. How can I show you, without making you feel poor?_

_Just show me. I'll judge for myself._ Immovable as always.

The only thing she'd been able to come up with for a moment was poetry, of all things. She'd felt like an idiot. Frail, feeble offering. Nothing more than words, as Gris had said of the justicar's code. And still, the words whispered in her head anyway, and he listened to them.

_Aeoill'ai lan'__ulle, lapea'ulle_

_riaeu'ai, seaeo'ai;_

_seo'sano a paio, pia'sao._

_Lia'lano'ulle aiellu'u_

_N'maieolo'ya_

_ia __aeoill'ai'__ulle._

_Alone I stand, sundered, _

_Riven, driven;_

_separated by distance and time._

_Surrounded by voices,_

_without your beloved touch,_

_still I am alone._

_Absolute stillness for a moment. Then hunger. __More words. Fill my mind with them.__ Amazement in his thoughts. He'd heard the words of Charr, speaking poetry to his asari wife, Ereba, this past week in the male's camp, and had thought the words foolish, the overt sentiment a weakness that others could exploit. He'd kept his own feelings tightly held, encysted within him. Charr's poetry hadn't put fire in his mind, hadn't moved him at all. Not like this. She felt it with him, as if hearing the old words of the asari high-tongue poem for the first time herself, felt them ring like a bell through all of her, and struggled to remember more for him. _

_And then, back to Mindoir again. Feeling time close around her again like a tomb. Trying to find __something__ to take back with her next time. An idea. Something of use. Mazz's water treatment facility was a good notion, but it would be four years before he had the necessary skills to design one, if it all came down to them. Which it didn't have to, of course, but who __else__ was looking at this stuff?_

_Urdnot Wrex is_, her mother's thought rang in her mind. _Gris is, too. Trust in them._

Siara waited for her mother to absorb it all. She'd caught little flickers here and throughout the whole sharing. Sympathy. Understanding. Common experience. Little shreds of interactions with Gris that matched up, here and there. She hadn't pressed for details. This sharing was about what she wanted to do with her life, not about her mother's relationship. After a long moment, Siara said, out loud, a little nervously, and very, very softly, "Why _couldn't_ there be crystal cities on Tuchanka?" She'd been right the first time. It sounded _insane_, spoken out loud.

"They'd be crystal cities with bunkers under them," Azala told her daughter, practically. "They _like_ the security of the underground complexes. Deep down in the bone."

"I know. But that doesn't mean that they don't love beauty, too. They just can't express it, most of the time." Siara looked up. "Maybe if they _had_ something worth holding onto, they'd fight to keep it, rather than destroying everything around them because it's not worth anything." She frowned. "But it has to be something they've built, themselves. Not something just given to them."

Azala shook her head. "We're not going to solve all the problems of Tuchanka tonight, little one."

Siara nodded. "I know that. But I want to solve _some_ of them." She paused, then said, as carefully as she could, "And I'd really like to start trying as soon as I can."

Azala's hand touched her face, lightly. "I can't move to Tuchanka, little one. My job is here, and it's an important one."

Siara nodded. "I know that, too."

"And I can't see you moving there by yourself. You're almost thirty-three, but that's far too young." Thirty-three gave her the appearance of a human of age sixteen, of course. Krogans, with their long life spans, still developed initially at the same speed as the _mahai_, or the short-lived, but their regenerative abilities gave them their enduring longevity, their resistance to senescence.

_And yet, on Tuchanka, I'm an adult. We all are, there: Eli's an adult. Mazz is an adult. Linianus is an adult. Shortly, they'll all be adults in the Hierarchy, just as Dara and Rel are._ Some part of this thought touched her mother, who looked struck, and Siara modulated it, apologizing, silently, for the petulant tone. "Then what _can_ I do?" she asked, quietly.

"Let me think about it," Azala told her. "We'll figure something out."

As Siara stood up to go, her mother asked her one more question, fingers wrapped around her wrist, voice silent in her mind: _Was it only because he wanted you, and did not find anything to despise in you? That's not enough to build a life on, you know._

_No. Tuchanka itself called to me, first. It's. . . broken. As I have been broken. But if I can do better, so can that poor and riven world._ Siara paused. _As for Makur. . . it was that, in part. But also. . . _ It was wordless, but quick. Siara had been very used to being the controller; she'd exerted pressure on Kella, pressures on Eli. Even pressures on Dara and Rellus, in a way. It was how she had constructed her reality, kept herself safe. A quick mental image, taken from Jack's mind, easily recognized by Azala—a window. Controlling others had been Siara's version of the window. Making them react, in some fashion, positively or negatively, so long as it had been at her behest. She couldn't _make_ Makur react. He'd made _her_ react. It was . . . different. And she felt safe with him, in the strangest way, too. As much as if he were safe from _her_, as she was safe from him. Not quite as if she couldn't hurt him—she knew she could—but that she couldn't control him, and he couldn't control her. But that together, they somehow worked. _Balanced like an equation, like you once said of you and Gris. I didn't understand that then. Do you remember?_

Azala blinked, absorbing that, and sighed. "As I said. . . let me think about it. All of it. There's probably something you _can_ do, little fair one." She paused. "I'd like to discuss it all with Gris. And, given that he's not here. . . "

Siara nodded. Spectre work was Spectre work. Neither of them knew where he was, or what he was doing. It was . . . much less glamorous, seen from up close like this. Certainly, from the worried look in her mother's eyes, much more nerve-wracking, too.

And with that, the conversation came to an end.

**Rellus**

Damage control had done what it could, but the _Estallus _clearly needed to limp home to a shipyard for real repairs. Spit and baling wire really only go so far. Rel was mostly trying to find someplace out from underfoot now that the initial rush of repairs had gone by. They couldn't even stay here and back up the _Kharkov _while the Terran-registry ship picked up scanning the damned moons, looking for whatever the Spectres were looking for here.

At the moment, he was in his quarters, off-duty. Working on his carving. It had finally come to life under his fingers, and he was actually cautiously pleased with it, so far. He'd had his aunt and uncle's spirit statue in mind when he first picked up the _jalae_ wood to carve, he suspected. His grandmother, Pilana, had depicted Garrus and Shepard standing back-to-back in full armor, both of them carrying swords, both ready to defend one another, eternally vigilant. Both possessed of the same spirit. The image that had come to his mind was different, however. _These_ forms faced one another, curved into one another, and were devoid of armor, bodies bare and unashamed, like Greek and Roman statuary he'd seen in his studies on Mindoir. But while they faced one another, they looked past each other; the male held his mate close with one arm, partially lifted, but in the other, he held a spear, ready to defend her exposed back; the little female, lifted so, could see over her mate's shoulder, and with one arm, reached behind him, arm extended; a snake coiled around her wrist, head raised, fangs bared.

He'd gotten the detailing right on the hair this time, he thought, but he'd left it long, because that's how it was in his mind. But he hadn't quite had the courage to do more than rough in the features yet. Self-portraiture is, of course, probably the _hardest_ thing for an artist to do, especially without much in the way of references.

There was a knock at the door as he sat there, knife in hand, considering the next careful cut. "Come in," he called.

Much to his surprise, it was Livanus, and Rel scrambled to his feet. "Nevermind that," the Spectre said, taking one of the chairs. "The _Estallus_ is heading back to Dymion and the shipyards for repairs," the older male told him. "The engineers are expecting it to take two to four weeks."

_S'kak._ Rel grimaced. "That's going to leave the _Kharkov_ out here alone?"

Livanus shook his head. "Shepard got the _Dunkirk_ reassigned. She'll be here in two days, and will take over the shadowing duties, while the _Kharkov _will take over actively scanning and, well, anthill poking duties." Livanus leaned forward, loosely clasping his hands in front of him. "I'm taking a shuttle across to the _Kharkov_ in an hour or so. I can get you detached duty over there for a couple of weeks, until _Estallus _is in shape to return to duty." Livanus gave him a steady look. "I'll be interested to see how you work with the human marines on the _Kharkov._ What do you say?"

Rel blinked, sitting up straight, mind racing. On the one hand, it was a _very_ good thing to have a Spectre tap you for special assignment. On the other hand, he'd _just_ come aboard the _Estallus_, and had barely had time to get to know anyone on board, besides Rasmus and Rinus. It would, again, make him stand out. Then again, he was one of only two or three special forces people on board. He already stood out.

Another consideration was that he knew that Dara was in the middle of her initial combat medic training in week eight at OCS, right now. She'd have a half-day's liberty at some point coming up, which meant that they'd get to see one another if he went back to Dymion with the _Estallus._ Or, if he went to the _Kharkov_, and she was almost _assured_ of a berth on the _Estallus,_ chances were, he wouldn't be here to greet her. The personal and the professional, in direct, diametric opposition to one another for the first time.

Rel exhaled. There was really only one choice he could make, and he knew she'd understand it. "Do I have time to write to my wife?"

Livanus nodded. "She's due to finish OCS soon, yes?"

"June twentieth. We were already figuring she'd just not take leave and report here as soon as she was able."

"Go ahead and write her a note. I'm not going across for an hour." Livanus grimaced. "Believe me, I understand. I just married last year myself. Took four months or so just to get her security clearance to come through and get her moved on base, and you know how often I've seen her since then?"

Rel chuckled. "It's been a busy year."

"You aren't kidding." Livanus' voice was wry. "She's starting to say she should have stayed on Palaven, since she's seen exactly as much of me as if she'd been there instead of on base all along. I've been to Earth, Tosal Nym—slaver enclave there, lots of dead bodies—Irune, Boro, Daleon. . ." Livanus shook his head.

"Irune? The volus homeworld?" Rel had recognized that name, but not some of the others.

"Yeah. And about half a dozen of their colonies. The teams you have relatives and friends in have been working on the, ah, Omega project and the Lystheni project and the spirits only know what else, but the _rest_ of the galaxy keeps turning, too, you know." The older male snorted. "I was one of the ones Shepard sent in to try to keep the volus from executing _all_ their CEOs. A little economic turmoil is one thing, but we don't need a full galactic financial implosion. I was just as glad to go to Earth, so I could breathe the air and not be afraid of a suit breach for a while."

Rel glanced up. It was more information than he'd expected to receive. "It's easy for me to really only think about what I know about, I suppose," he said, opening a file on his terminal and starting to write to Dara.

Livanus nodded. "Same for everyone. I have no idea how Vakarian and Shepard keep track of it all. Red sand smuggling, azure dust smuggling, volus banking malfeasances, religious cultists, biotic insurgents, rogue mercenary bands, batarian pirates, and that's just some of the _illegal_ stuff, let alone the political maneuvering on the Council, changes in laws, and so on."

Rel nodded, and started writing. _Primus 13. Beloved, it's going to be one of those good news, bad news letters, I'm afraid. The good news is, a little family business is taking me off the ship for a bit. The bad news is, I might not be here to greet you. Do well in the field—you'll like the unconventional course, since you've got your father's instincts, I think—and I'll see you when I see you. Hopefully, soon._

He uploaded the message to the mail server, and glanced at Livanus, who had picked up the half-finished spirit statue, and was studying it, curiously. Rel's teeth clenched for a moment. He didn't like people looking at his work before it was done, but held his peace. He could have, and probably _should_ have, wrapped it back up before answering the door. "You do very nice work," Livanus said, after a moment. He looked at Rel directly. "You know how the old Spectre training program used to work?"

Rel blinked. "Sort of. Had to be an officer, had to be special forces, and then you got a recommendation for further training. Not the case, anymore. You pretty much get invited in for an evaluation now, and there's a trial period even after that, as I understand it."

Livanus nodded, handing him the statue. "I wouldn't have qualified, back in the old days. I was CID." Criminal Investigative Department. One step up from a regular MP, CID officers were the investigative arm of the turian military police. They had to have SWAT and combat experience, as Rel understood it, before getting promoted into investigative positions. This made them tough, smart, and usually _very_ diligent about the details. "Nowadays, they're being more flexible, since a wider range of skills is being asked for. But they're also asking us to look for young talent and to groom them. Keep an eye on them." Livanus gave him a wry grin. "Not exactly a surprise that they specifically asked me to keep an eye on you, is it?"

Rel shrugged, a little embarrassed. It would be grossly immodest to say _yes_, but to say _no_ would be something of a lie. "I figured they'd told you to keep me out of trouble," he offered, with a grin. "My _pada'amu_ does seem to think I'll find it wherever I go."

Livanus snickered. "Your _pada'amu_ is a strange man, even for a human. Haven't gotten to work with him much, but that's about to change. He and Lantar are coming on the _Dunkirk._"

Rel grinned. "Even better."

He gathered up his gear—an easy task, since everything fit in a bag, so long as he wore his armor, and tracked down Rinus for a farewell. "Trust you to find a fight," Rinus told him, ruefully, looking up from his terminal.

"Hard to say no when a Spectre says 'come play,'" Rel said, shrugging.

Rinus snorted. "There is that." He gestured at his screen, which showed schematics of something unfamiliar. Rel couldn't read any of it, of course, but figured it was probably a 'special project.' "At least the downtime will give me a chance to really get my teeth into this."

"Speaking of people who can't say no. . . "

Rinus shrugged. "Guilty as charged." They exchanged edged grins and wrist-clasps, and then Rel headed for the shuttle bay, piling into the vehicle beside Livanus.

From outside the ship, the damage to the _Estallus_ was clearly visible; not bad, but not superficial, either. "_S'kak. _No atmospheric entries for a while for her," Rel said. Large swathes of the ceramic polyresin skin was scored or scorched. The _Kharkov_, by comparison, looked pristine. The _Estallus_ had been taken by surprise; the _Kharkov_ had used surprise against their attackers. That was all it boiled down to. That the _Estallus_ had recovered so well from the initial salvos was a testament to the crew and the ship's design.

The _Kharkov_ was like the _Estallus_, but unlike. Still a _Normandy-_class ship, on the old SR-1 design, it still had a mixed crew. . . but here, humans had a 60-40 edge, whereas the opposite was the case on the _Estallus_. With a human captain, human military doctrine and decorum predominated. Captain Orlova had dark hair streaked with gray and a tough, sharp manner. Her English was lightly accented, and she had a tendency to leave words out of sentences that made her words seem clipped and terse. "Spectre," she said, as they disembarked. "I trust you'll treat my ship better than your last one?"

Livanus chuckled. "We expected some resistance. Not quite the level of it that we encountered, however."

"Yes. Disturbing, that _Klem Na_ have access to new weapons now." She glanced past Livanus at Rel, inquiringly.

"Ah, yes. This is Lieutenant Rellus Velnaran. Turian special forces."

"We have large number of fine marines on board. You did not need to bring your own."

"He's been on every ground team so far," Livanus replied, mildly. "We're trying to season him, so he's been detached from the _Estallus_ to accompany me until their repairs are done."

Orlova's eyes were sharp, and she studied Rel briefly. "As you wish," she said. "You have quarters in port observation lounge, Spectre. I trust you can find your way?"

Many differences, from ship to ship. No married couples; thus, no married quarters. While Rel was a lieutenant, and thus still rated semi-private quarters, rather than a rack in the enlisted billets with seven others to a room, there were no available berths for him at the moment, so Livanus started to have someone bring up a cot to the port observation lounge. Rel interposed, quietly, "The cargo hold, if you don't mind."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah." It seemed a slightly more politic move. He was already coming aboard a strange ship, and would be distanced from the marines with whom he'd be serving for the next few weeks. It wouldn't do, to be set apart from them by privilege as well as by circumstances.

"All right, that's what we'll do, then. I'll let the captain know not to cycle the hatches while you're sleeping down there."

Rel grinned. "Thanks. I appreciate that."

The _Kharkov_ marines turned out to be not a bad crew, at all. They came from all walks of life—some colonial, some eastern European, and some North American. A dozen different flavors of English to listen to in the mess hall and on the radio. They were all a little taken aback by how good his own English was, and just as pleased not to have to rely on a translator VI. "You ever been around when an EM pulse goes off, killing all the tech in the area?" one of them asked, an older officer named Macready, who spoke with a Scottish accent.

"Just once." 

Macready snorted. "Me too. Shorted out every scope and omnitool for half a kilometer. We used it to take out an entire factory of malfunctioning mechs, all at once, so I can't _complain_ about the results. . . but just imagine that on a regular battlefield, when half the people around you don't speak each others' languages. That's been my problem with the whole 'force integration' plan all along. But any turian who can speak English, Russian, or Chinese is welcome on an Alliance ship." Crews were assigned to ships where each language predominated, to prevent confusion. Almost everyone on the _Kharkov _was trilingual—English, Russian, and turian. It made for a _confusing_ mishmash as Rel walked around the halls. None of them recognized him, much to his relief. If they'd watched the news recently, they _might_ recognize Dara, but his face had been lost in the crowd in the imperial box. And besides, he was turian. What was he to most humans, but a different color of clan-paint?

The _Dunkirk_ arrived two days later, and then Sam and Lantar came aboard. Rel got a quick nod from each of them; not much time for more, and he _didn't_ want to stand out more than he already did, so he was just as glad. And then it was back to the same routine as aboard the _Estallus_. Scanning the seemingly endless range of moons. Finding anomalies, or not.

Then, at last, on the next to last moon, a large one called Entromi, they found what they were looking for. The Spectres called the marines together in the briefing room, and showed them what they were looking at. "It's a pretty clever trick," Sam said; he was running the briefing, for the moment. "They've taken one of the existing craters, which was almost the correct shape anyway, and lined its surface with polymers. The entire damned crater becomes the reflecting dish, and the antenna seems to retract into the surface when it's not in use. The polymers are the same color as the rest of the terrain, so it's . . . pretty much invisible when it's not in use. We got lucky and caught a transmission just as it was being sent."

Sam changed the view on the aerogel screen. "Now that we knew _where_ to look, we concentrated a bit more, and found this. A small hatch, built into the exterior of the crater wall. There's a ledge there, probably for small ships to land, but only enough room for one Hammerhead at a time, which means deploying people there will be tricky. We're going to drop to the top of the crater ring and rappel down, instead." He looked around the room soberly. "We have no idea what we'll find inside. No clue how many people are there or what the defenses will be like."

"It's likely that there will be some automated defense systems," Lantar commented from the side of the room. "I wouldn't put a large number of actual people at a covert base like this, myself." He looked around, adding, soberly, "That could range from mechs to traps, including turrets and gas. Be damned careful where you put your feet, is all I'm saying."

Rel was more than a little excited now, but was trying very hard to stay calm. First combat had been one thing, but this was a major mission, and there were three Spectres here. It would be his first time fighting _beside_ his father-in-law and Lantar. And again, he regretted, deeply, that Dara wasn't here to _share_ this.

The Hammerheads plummeted through the moon's thin atmosphere, heading for the hot surface. Three vehicles, three units. They all piled out, and his armor began to complain immediately about the conditions, meters blipping and chirping all over the place. _I know, I know_, he thought, clipping himself in place and sliding down into the shadow of the crater's exterior wall, keeping his knees loose as he bounced further and further down, finally ending up on the ledge. _Down was easy. Up, on the other hand, is going to bite, and not in the good ways._

Livanus was technically his lead, and told him, quietly, on their private band, "Grenade launcher, Velnaran. And be ready for anything."

He nodded, and glanced up as his father-in-law simply vanished. _Stealth device_, he realized. There was a tell-tale ripple in the air where Sam stood, but the big male crouched down a bit, and that helped distort his shape.

Lantar was busy hacking the door panel, and then the hatch slid open. "No immediate contacts," Lantar reported, quietly. "Orpheus?"

"Yeah, I'll scout ahead, Nemesis." The ripple that was Sam moved off ahead. No banter in their voices now. Just emotionless calm, cool professionalism.

The others waited outside, listening to Jaworski's clipped report. "Long corridor, about two hundred meters. No doors, no turns. My omnitool's picking up a number of laser ports—probably security devices. I can see a number of gun turrets, too. I can handle the lasers, but once they go offline, we'll probably have thirty seconds to get down the hall before it turns into to a shooting gallery."

"Can you disable the turrets?" Livanus asked.

"Not without tripping the laser alarms." Jaworski sounded annoyed. "It's a good system."

"Take it out," Lantar said. "We're ready to run."

The three turians moved up closer to the door, ready to use their run speed to their advantage. There was a pause, and then Sam report, "Got it. Move!"

Rel, Livanus, and Lantar took off at a dead sprint, and the human marines behind them followed suit. Rel damned near ran into Sam, then he and Lantar both managed to grab the human's arms and dragged him with them to the far end. Behind him, Rel could hear the sound of the first turrets starting to go off automatically. "Are they tracking?" Livanus asked, anxiously.

"No," Sam replied, breathing hard. "Straight-line only. Thank god."

The rest of the marines tumbled to a halt at the end of the hallway, and then they huddled there, defensively, while Sam went back out to scout ahead some more. "All right, it's going to be room-to-room clearing for a while here," he said over the radio. "No lifesigns yet. Looks like mechs."

_Or Lystheni_, Rel thought, grimly, remembering Livanus' words. He switched back to his assault rifle now, and then they were off. Short, ugly, brutal fights. They'd tripped a number of defense mechanisms in their entry to the base, it appeared, and there were indeed a lot of mechs and turrets to get through as they wound their way deeper. The facility was built into the crater wall, a strictly vertical habitation. And not only was keeping the most important portion of the facility at the bottom good security in this case, but it also reflected, Rel realized dimly, salarian psychology.

Down and down they went. The human marines were easily the equal of the turian ones on the _Estallus_, and Rel enjoyed working with them. Quick reaction times, good teamwork. And watching Lantar and Sam had a certain dark delight to it. Lantar would lay down covering fire with a heavy weapon or an assault rifle, and Sam would simply vanish again, moving up through whatever room they were in, somehow always avoiding the line of fire, and then would reappear, usually behind a pesky mech or turret, and would take them out. "Did he just take the head off a YMIR mech?' Macready asked over the common band once.

"Looked like it," one of the other humans replied.

"Crazy bastard," Macready muttered, in a tone of absolute disbelief.

Rel chuckled to himself. _You don't know the half of it._

"Looks like the main control room's ahead," Lantar said, cutting through the chatter. "Ten life signs. Get ready."

And this was a very different fight, indeed. Ten life signs didn't mean anything at all, he realized, in short order. There were twenty salarians in that room, half were stealthed, and there were a variety of mechs as well. "_Kharkov_ is still jamming them, but they're trying to get a signal through," Livanus said, sharply. "Don't let them!"

Half of the salarians moved like puppets, but they were stealthed, which made them damned annoying. While they were slower than he'd expect, and had just a hair less reaction time, they could creep in from the side and suddenly, poof, his shields were overloading, making the air around Rel spark blue more than once. Then _two _of them were on him at once, closing in from either side. Their arms lifted in his direction, and _fire_ poured out of hidden nozzles. _What in the spirit's names?_ Rel thought, bewildered, ducking into cover, feeling heat through his armor, then popped back up, trying to get a few shots in before they could fire again themselves. "I've got two of the flame-thrower variety on me," he called into the radio, and ducked back down as yet another surge almost took out his shields entirely. "Think they're moving to flank me." If they came around his cover at him from both sides, he was going to be _cooked_.

"I've got you," Lantar said, calmly. "Orpheus, get up there and take out the controllers. Livanus, blow the damn transceiver already." And then he _was_ there, and one of the two Lystheni, the one moving around to the left side, rocked in a hail of bullets, and that gave Rel the chance to roll out and fire at the one coming from the right. He took a direct blast from the flamethrower, and his shields shorted out immediately, but he _did_ cut through the salarian's shields, and managed to duck back again. "Not done yet," he said, hearing similar reports from all around him.

"Not a problem," Lantar said, still calm, still distant, and jumped up on _top_ of the crates Rel was using for cover, firing down at the Lystheni. "Move up," he ordered, jumping down next to the salarian's corpse himself.

Free now, Rel did just that, catching glimpses of what was going on around him. Livanus was bogged down, trying to get to the radio controls. Sam was trying to deal with two or three salarians at once, all of which seemed to be _biotics_, of all things. Rel targeted one immediately, and caught it right in the head, nice, tight, controlled burst, ripping through its shields, but not punching through its armor yet. Staggered, the Lystheni turned, and lifted him straight off the ground, slamming him into a wall. Rel hit the ground next, groaned, and got back to his feet, shaking his head and looking for his target. Distracting the salarian had cost it; it was now shorter by a head. _Damn, __pada'amu__, _he thought, dizzily, and moved again, finding cover and taking another shot, this time at the salarian closest to the radio controls. The male turned, caught sight of him, and lifted a hand right at him. . . . and a voice whispered in his mind. _Defend me. I am your friend, am I not?_

Rel blinked. There was something wrong with that thought. Impatience now. _Kill these interlopers. Kill the humans, or the turians, I don't care which. But defend me._

Rel glanced around blankly. There was no place to go, no where to hide in his mind from that insistent whisper, but even though it was an _order_. . . it didn't feel right. _Like azure dust_, some part of his mind murmured. _Never again._ Numbly, he lifted his gun again, and the sights swung back and forth, hesitating on Sam for a moment. _Dara wouldn't like that. _The sights swung back towards the Lystheni, but he couldn't make himself _fire._ And then Lantar was beside him, firing as well, and the salarian crumpled, and the numbness lifted from Rel's mind. "I hate those little _futtarae_ and their mind tricks," Lantar muttered, giving Rel a shake. "You back with us?"

"Yeah. What the _fuck_ was that?" Rel was bewildered.

"I'll explain later. Move up!"

And, minutes later, it was done. Several of the Marines had injuries, but none were critical, so the Spectres got to work, inspecting the facility. Downloading data. And rigging explosive charges. "Here, son, make yourself useful," Jaworski said, handing Rel a set of detonators and timers. "We're going to make sure they can't use this again for _quite_ some time."

So they backtracked all the way back up to the top, setting explosives as they went. A long climb back up to the Hammerheads, especially for the wounded. While medigel could stop the bleeding, it didn't necessarily knit muscles and bones immediately. And assaulted nerve endings still screamed. Once their Hammerheads had been lifted for extraction, though, Sam and Lantar both grinned and activated their omnitools. . . .and Rel got another lesson in the catastrophic power of properly planted explosives, as the crater wall, in the distance, sank in on itself, hundreds of thousands of tons of rubble filling in the empty rooms.

_Did we get what we came for?_ he wanted to ask, but didn't. Not his place, not right now, anyway. But he did stretch his legs out a bit, rolled his shoulders, and traded comments with the rest of the marines. "Did you see when Macready cut the legs off that one mech with just a line of fire from his rifle?

"Yeah, that was great!"

"And it just kept crawling right for me till I busted open its head!"

"Damn things don't know how to power down and give up."

"And what the _fuck_ was up with those salarians? I've never seen a salarian biotic before."

"And the other ones? Man, they acted just like _husks_."

"Nah, too smart for husks. Husks just moaned and grabbed. Never saw them try to overload someone's _shields_." That last was from Macready, who'd seen more service than the rest of the marines, who were, by and large, fairly young.

Rel let the conversation wash over him, contributed a few times, and let his mind wander in the adrenal afterglow. Dara had mentioned, in their hotel room, long ago, that these Lystheni had two factions. One biotic, and one tech, though she hadn't given him many details. Biotic ship weapons, for both salarians and batarians, apparently. Biotic _salarians_. Salarians with tech upgrades and weapons built into their damn _bodies_. And apparently, salarians that didn't show up on life-sign detectors, just as Livanus had said. _What's this all about?_ he wondered, but again, he couldn't ask that. Not here. Not now. _What do they __want__?_

When they got back to the ship, he got called up to the port observation lounge, where the Spectres were all quartered at once. Orlova didn't give them spacious quarters on her ship, apparently. Rel found that somewhat amusing, but it made him even more happy that he'd opted for the cargo hold. He tapped at the door, and was admitted.

"Shit, son, you're still in armor?" Jaworski asked, immediately.

"Still on duty. Turian fleet regs. I'll peel out of it in a couple of hours, though." Rel sat down where indicated, and stretched out his legs, tiredly. His mind wandered for a moment, and he sat up straight again with a muttered curse. "What's today's date, human calendar?"

"June eighteenth," Sam told him absently.

"_S'kak._" Rel sighed. "I forgot something important."

Sam thought about it, and suddenly looked _very_ amused. Rel asked, dubiously, "Think she'll buy the fact that on the _Palaven_ calendar, it won't be our anniversary until Xlorae, the festival of spring?"

Sam shook his head. "Not for a moment, but in your defense, son, you're in the _field_." He glanced upwards. "Come to think of it, so is _she_." He handed Rel a datapad. "While you're waiting to see if my daughter skins you alive, since you're obviously going to be fighting more of these damned Lystheni, here's what we know about them. Which isn't a lot."

Rel shoved it all to the back of his mind, and started reading. The report in his hands had been written by Mordin Solus, and looking through the autopsy notes—which included full-color images of the opened body cavities—Rel could see that the autopsy assistants had been Dr. Daniel Abrams and Dara Velnaran. _Sweetness, no wonder your eyes are so much older now. I just kill things. I don't get up to my elbows in their guts afterwards._

There were, roughly speaking, three 'models' of Lytheni. Biotics, techs, and tech/biotics. Biotics couldn't be chipped, apparently, since the technology would interfere with their brainwave patterns. They could use an ability known as domination, lifted from a sub-branch of the asari known as the _ardat-yakshi_ (no further information given, except to note that strong-willed individuals could, with some luck, resist the effects, but unlucky people would wind up attacking their own teams). They could use biotic lifts or sometimes singularities, and had access to reaving techniques and shockwaves. _We only faced one of this type today, I think. Thank the spirits. I've never really fought a biotic before. _

The pure techs were almost always chipped, and could be reduced into a hibernation state, and used by other Lystheni as assassins, stealthed weapons systems, you name it. They could overload shields, hack mechs (a footnote indicated that this was problematic for the geth Spectre, Cohort) and could either expel poison clouds or apply neural shocks from one set of weapons, or utilize flamethrowers or cryo sprays from another.

The tech/biotics were the most interesting, in a way, the report suggested. They were chipped, but were the _controllers_ for both the . . . biotic weapons and for the hibernating tech assassins. They had difficulty controlling others and their own abilities at the same time, however. So while controlling a tech assassin, they couldn't use their lift, slam, or shockwave biotic attacks, but probably could use a pistol, overload, or set their omnitool for an automated AI hacking attempt.

Rel shook his head. "We were lucky today," he said, quietly. "They weren't really ready for us. If they'd sent their stealthed units out to circle around the facility, behind us. . . "

"Part of that was the physical makeup of the facility," Sam commented. "All straight lines to the bottom. In a larger area, more access points, yeah. They could have come in from behind us. They pinned themselves in, though. Wasn't designed for a last-ditch defense, though. More for staying hidden." He chuckled. "Don't go giving them any ideas, though, son."

Rel shook his head fervently. "Not planning on it." He looked across at Lantar. "So when I was. . . confused there, for a moment, that was a domination attempt?"

Lantar nodded. "The little _s'kaks_ don't like me," he said, ruefully. "I've had them try it three, four times on me so far. Hasn't really taken yet."

"Worked on _me_ just fine," Jaworski noted, darkly. "You had to tackle me, back on Zanethu."

Lantar shrugged. "Seems to be a combination of a strong spirit and luck."

Livanus snorted. "Couple of the _Kharkov_ marines weren't as _lucky_ today. Half our damn injuries came right from friendly fire." He drummed his talons on the table. "Got to be a way to do something about that damned biotic ability."

"Identify the pure biotics quickly and kill them first." Sam shrugged. "Past that, I've got nothing." He glanced at Rel. "We're going to be here for a while longer, son. Pelagia—that's the ship's AI—is going through everything we took from their computers. See if we can't get a little confirmation of some _other_ information we've gotten lately."

"Should I go?"

"You can." Sam gave him an amused glance. "Would give you a chance to write something appropriately groveling to my daughter."

Rel grinned. "I'll apologize. But no groveling."

"It's your funeral." Rel didn't think Dara was like that, and clearly, neither did Sam, since it was clearly meant as a joke. Mostly.

**Dara**

There were days when she didn't think OCS was ever going to _end._ The medical unit wasn't one of them. That ten-day stint had been wonderful. Just her and four turian medics, camped out in the labs and classrooms on Dymion. All five of them had already been conversant in first aid; she was the only one with prior nursing experience, but the other four had strong science backgrounds. Dara already knew how to do a basic suture on humans, turians, asari, and salarians, so she'd wound up helping the others train, using _caprificus_, the large, purple-skinned fruit that most turians enjoyed, and certainly that herbivores like _apaterae_ ate by the ton. _"Just think of it as needlepoint on skin," _she'd joked. The fruit even had multiple layers of skin, almost like an onion, but softer, more pliable. A great analogy for sewing together different layers of the body, in essence. They covered triage, they covered how to protect a patient's body with their own in combat situations, they covered how to move patients out of fire and out of the combat area entirely.

All of them were officer candidates, so they got advanced training, above what enlisted medical personnel would get, too. Introduction to field surgery techniques. They were issued textbooks. Dozens of them, in fact, all in file form, of course, but from now on, they were going to be tested on the material twice a week. Once they headed to their assignments—in Dara's case, likely a ship—they'd be assigned a medical mentor in their med bay, and would be, essentially, apprentice physicians for the next four years. Like resident in a human hospital, they'd be spending much of their duty hours in the medbay—but since they were special forces candidates, they'd have duties off the ship as well. It was stressed, again and again, that keeping up with the reading was something they'd have to do on their _own_ time. At night. When other people were relaxing, _they_ needed to be _reading._ _"It will set you apart from the rest of your crew_," they were warned. _"Be sure to get involved in some of your ship's activities, but most of your evaluations, fortunately, will come down to your medical mentor. And that mentor will expect to see __progress__ from you, or you __will__ be out on your ass. Are we clear?"_

Medical school, residency, and the occasional firefight, pretty much all at once, was what Dara had come to think of it as. Frightening. Intimidating. But in a controlled environment, where food and shelter were provided, a routine was enforced, and there were senior doctors around to make sure that screw-ups didn't become fatal.

Usually.

That was the last week on Dymion, much to her sorrow. Now it was back down to Palaven. The dead of winter. . . well, monsoon season, anyway. . . in the northern hemisphere. Three goddamned weeks in the field meant three weeks of wearing armor, pretty much non-stop. She wasn't looking forward to the return of rashes and chafing, but those were, pretty much, the breaks.

The week of navigation wasn't too bad. She'd gotten adept at using the compass in Palaven's terribly weak magnetic field, and since a lot of their movements for that week were conducted at night, she quickly adjusted to using the stars overhead as guides. The constellations looked warped and _wrong_, so far from Earth's sky, but once she figured out which was which. . . and what direction was north here. . . she wound up using Sirius as her pole star and that worked out just fine. _Thanks, Dad,_ she thought, after correcting course in the flat, featureless desert once more. _Couldn't have done __any__ of this without what you've taught me._

A brief letter from Rel came through between that course and the unconventional warfare one, and Dara sighed. The terse, cryptic communications didn't let her know _anything_ that was going on, and now he wasn't even going to be where they'd thought he was going to be. _Hell_, _I__ might not be where we thought I was going to wind up_, she thought, and the uncertainty made her stomach roil a bit. There was _nothing_ she could do about any of it, so she tried very hard not to think about it.

Two more weeks in the field made that substantially easier, of course. Two weeks on short rations, concealment. Learning how to _hide_. Her exercise was essentially the same as Rel's had been; training escaped slaves into a resistance to fight batarians in the Terminus systems. _Wonder if we'll ever have to do this for real_, she thought, 'training' a turian marine dressed in rags to simulate a human captive. The marine had a sense of humor, at least, and had role-played shock at seeing a human in a turian uniform when Dara's squad had 'rescued' the slaves, babbling at her in (very bad) English how relieved she was to see a friendly face. Dara had had a hard time not chuckling, but had role-played back, trying to speak reassuringly. Practicing that bed-side manner. Calm, reassuring, a little distant, but still empathetic. Just as Dr. Solus had told her to aim for, over and over again.

She wasn't squad leader now, of course, and it was a _relief_ in many ways. Just a combat medic. No more strategy concerns, though she found she kind of missed putting ideas together with Vokaj and Leodorus. She had to rely now on others, trust that _their_ training and their understanding was adequate, as they put together a plan to take the security facility with their 'resistance' fighters' help. Dara had listened to the plan, which involved coordinated strikes from the front and the back, and had asked, quietly, "We're going to take a lot of casualties that way. Is everyone okay with that?"

"Should be nominal," her squad leader assured her.

_Well, this is pretty much how it's going to be from now on,_ Dara thought later, keeping her head down and crouching over the body of one of her squadmates, checking the 'wounds,' keeping her body over his to prevent any further wound contamination. She'd already dragged him to a slightly more secure position, and now applied 'medigel' before straightening up, pistol in her hands again. Other than her medical gear and the red stripe on her armor, there was nothing to show that she was a combat medic. Otherwise, she'd be a primary target for most enemies. And she was armed, so she could protect herself and others. Back in the mid-twentieth century, on Earth, she'd read, there were medics who'd gone out into battle unarmed, trusting only in a badge on their arms with a red cross on it to protect them from the enemy. That was all well and good, Dara reckoned, if the enemy followed the same rules of engagement that you did.

Batarians were unlikely to honor other people's rules.

It was a _bloody_ little battle. Her squad _did_ take the security facility and take out the antenna, but five of their people 'died' before she was able to get to them. She had a review, separate from the rest of the team afterwards, discussing her triage, and how she'd tried to get from casualty to casualty. Two of them, she was off the hook for—head wounds. Dead before anyone could get there. The other three, she had to defend her actions, for some time. Why hadn't she moved on from patient A quicker? _Because Patient A wasn't stable yet. _Why had she moved to Patient B, instead of to Patient C? _Patient B was in an area that was easier to access and was taking less fire. _But wasn't Patient B in less danger, less likely to die, than Patient C? _From the information I had from their squad-mates, both were in equal danger, and Patient B, I could help immediately. _On and on it went, and Dara was wretchedly unsure if her answers were right. Again, she had to remind herself. . . often, there _were_ no right answers. Sometimes, they were just the _best_ answers available.

Then, finally, back up to Dymion, in a state of relief so intense as to be euphoria. She walked back into her quarters and exchanged hearty wrist-clasps with Nadea_. "Good to see you again!"_ the female told her, grinning. _"How was the field exercise?"_

"_Really long. I've never been so glad to take a shower in my life."_

Nadea snickered. _"You checked mail yet?"_

"_Haven't even stopped __moving__ yet_." Dara flopped down in her terminal chair and keyed up the messages there. Glancing at the date in the upper right hand of the terminal screen, she couldn't for the _life_ of her calculate what the hell Secdus ninth was on the Terran calendar.

_Secdus 7_

_Beloved—_

_It's been a hell of a busy month. Your dad and L. are here now, and if I never set foot on another moon again, it'll be too soon. Just a quick note to apologize (your father said I should __grovel__, but we both know that's not going to happen) for having forgotten till just now that we married a year ago today._

Dara winced. "Shit," she said, and the word came out in clear, flat English. "It's not June. It can't be June." _Where the hell did this entire __year_ _go?_

_In my defense, I __was__ a little busy. Chances are, you were, too. Tell you what—if work permits, we'll say we didn't miss it at all, and celebrate on Xlorae. Which is when it was on the Palaven calendar anyway. Easier date to remember, anyway, and since it's the first of spring, it's a very popular date for weddings back home, anyway. Bigger, I think, than your Valentine's Day. Which, yeah, we missed celebrating this year, too. I liked how we celebrated last year, though. Can I hope for more of the same?_

She chuckled, and closed the letter, as a tap came at the door. _"Orders are here,"_ came a voice, and an instructor passed them each pieces of paper. Dara ripped hers open, and saw the words written there with a surge of relief. _Estallus. Report immediately, no leave. Well, I was going to do that anyway. But it's in the __shipyards__? What the hell? _She exhaled then. _It's the assignment that I expected, but always nice to confirm nothing's been fucked up._

She turned and looked at Nadea, and heard a _whoop_ from across the hall. Decimus crashed out of his door, flourishing a piece of paper. "_Normandy_-_class ship,_" he said, grinning in excitement.

Nadea beamed and waved hers back and forth, too. _"Same here."_

Dara chuckled. _"And that is all three of us. I got __Estallus__, with my mate." Not that he's onboard at the moment, probably, but, still. . . ._

Nadea grinned. _"So did I."_

Decimus snickered. _"And so did I."_

There was a very slight pause.

Dara cleared her throat. _"I'm going to take my things and go to the main lounge,"_ she said, tactfully. _"There's about two hours between now and the last shuttle leaving_," she added, hastily packing her few belongings that she hadn't taken with her into the field, and left, closing the door softly behind her.

She didn't need turian hearing to detect the _thump_ against the wall that was _probably_ Nadea tackling Decimus. Dara turned her snicker into a cough, and headed along the corridor for the shuttle departure area.

Her first sight of the _Estallus_ showed her that the ship was gleaming white and pristine looking, no matter what had brought it to the shipyards. Other shuttles were ferrying new crew on and off, a hustle and bustle being repeated with ships all through the docking area. Dara hopped out ahead of Nadea and Decimus, and got a clear look at other people filing off of another shuttle, to their right. _"Essedarius!"_ she called, and a head snapped over, quickly catching sight of her. Kallixta raised a hand, and walked over to clasp wrists, just as Nadea and Decimus straightened up slightly at the sight of her.

"Stop that," Kallixta told them, in English.

Both of them had picked up a few words from Dara here and there, but were going to be working overtime to learn the language quickly on the _Estallus._ As such, they mostly looked at her blankly. _"Stop that,"_ she repeated, in turian. _"Now I'm just another lieutenant. Just like you."_

"_Too many cooks," _Dara said, cheerfully. _"Hope there's a __large__ number of enlisted marines on board."_

"_Six squads' worth, or so the crew manifest says. Each has one officer and two enlisted, apparently."_ That was Decimus' quick contribution, as the four of them filed towards the enlisted officer who was handing out crew quarter assignments.

"So, do you think my grand plan will work?" Kallixta asked Dara.

"What plan is this?"

"To speak only English for the first few weeks to get people to _not_ hear my damnable court accent?"

Dara chuckled. "And by the time you get around to speaking turian at them, you'll be so entrenched in their heads as Lieutenant Essedarius, that they won't even think twice?"

"I'm hoping that's the case, yes."

"Yeah, okay, in which case, we can't sit anywhere near each other, or anyone who watched the news is going to have a penny drop."

Kallixta gave her a glance askance. "And what does an antiquated form of coinage have to do with anything?"

Dara laughed. "I'll explain later."

Then they were getting their berth assignments. _"Velnaran?"_ The NCO stared at her. _"Great spirits. I knew he had a mate coming aboard, but. . . damn. Anyhow, you're down below the engines. Need directions?"_

"_Nah, I've been on similar ships before. 4A-5, huh?"_ Dara glanced around at her friends. _"See you all in a bit?"_

The quarters were indeed, as far below-decks as possible. She didn't like the thought of how close to the outer hull this area really was, but beggars couldn't be choosers. And while the tiny room was cramped and dim, it had a door, it had lockers, it had a spirit table, it had terminals, and it had a nest. Dara stowed her gear in one of the two lockers, put her datapad—filled with books she still needed to read, information she needed to memorize, and took a moment to look around. _Well. . . I'm here. Now what?_ After all the work of the last year, it suddenly seemed terribly anti-climactic.

Thus, after a couple of minutes to try to get her equilibrium back, Dara took a deep breath, and headed back up to the main crew deck. She needed to check in with the med bay. Dr. Valea Cimmirian was going to be her mentor, and the female had a _damned_ good memory, Dara quickly realized. _"I remember __you__," _Valea told her. _"Minor shrapnel wounds to the forearms. And you'd treated young Velnaran's leg and back wounds. Not a bad start, but there's a __lot__ of work ahead of you."_ She paused. _"I prefer the title 'doctor' before you ask. Technically, I'm a commander, too, but this is __my__ med bay, and in here, I'm 'doctor.'"_

"_Thanks, Dr. Cimmirian."_ Dara paused. _"I've never been afraid of work."_

"_So I can see from your record. You've probably never seen what's in here, have you?"_

Dara shook her head. _"I'm not going to show you, but I will mention that Dr. Solus did give you a rather glowing recommendation. It's not every recruit who gets that from a celebrated member of the STG."_ Valea's look was stern. _"That's a lot to live up to."_

Dara nodded. _"I'll do my best."_

"_See that you do. All right, no patients in the med bay, so on days like this, we're going to __simulate__ rounds."_

_Well, at least she doesn't talk as fast as Dr. Solus does_, Dara decided, after having about twenty questions thrown at her head in short-order, and gotten about half of them right. . . which meant she had specific reading assignments so she could answer them _correctly_ tomorrow.

She ate dinner with Kallixta, Nadea, and Decimus in the mess, and, after a few minutes at the table, Kallixta elbowed her slightly in the ribs. Since Dara was currently in armor, that got the barefaced female mostly a bruise for her pains.

"What?"

"Is that your mate's brother?"

Dara looked up. A centurion was sliding into the table near them, on the enlisted side, but across from her. The clan-paint was clear. "Centurion Velnaran?" she said, grinning.

He paused, stood back up, and gave her a formal nod. "Lieutenant Velnaran," Rinus replied, grinning right back, and sat down with his tray at last. "My brother's going to be _delighted_ to see you."

Beside him, one of the techs commented, in turian, _"Family unity is all well and good, but we're being overrun by Velnarans lately." _ He gave her a skeptical look. _"Now they've even got human ones."_

Dara chuckled, deliberately not taking offense, though she could see Rinus turning and giving the tech something of a stare. _"You don't have to worry about any more Velnarans for a while. The next eldest sibling is five years from boot camp."_

Kallixta intervened, in her perfect English. "May I ask for an introduction, at least?"

Dara grinned. Kallixta's plan had been to stick to English, and she'd have put money on the fact that Kallixta was also going to use Dara _shamelessly_ to hide behind for a while. While everyone else was looking at Dara as the outsider, the stranger, Kallixta would look normal in comparison, assuming Decimus and Nadea kept their mouths closed. Which they would, of course. _I'm going to kick you for this later_, Dara thought, but the thought had no sting. She stood, with Kallixta, which more or less forced Rinus to stand, too, and Dara made the introductions. Turians had strict orders in which introductions had to be made, and she _always_ got them wrong. _Okay, higher military rank trumps higher social rank, shit, she's higher no matter which way I look at it, but does family trump nonfamily. . . .ah, the hell with it._ "Sorry if I do this in the wrong order," she said ruefully, and switched to _tal'mae _for the formal introductions. _"Lieutenant Kallixta Essedarius, this is the brother of he who is my mate, Centurion Rinus Velnaran. Centurion, this is a friend dear to my heart, Lieutenant Kallixta Essedarius. I trust that no blood will be spilled this day."_

"Well, it is early," Rinus said with aplomb, in English.

Kallixta chuckled. "Nice to meet you," and they exchanged wrist-clasps, which allowed Rinus to sit back down and finally begin eating.

"So, how was flight training?" Dara asked.

"Long. Really, really long. Fifteen days on a shuttle simulator, then a hundred and fifty hours of actual flight time in a shuttle. Ten damned hours a day." Kallixta shook her head. "That was just the primary training. Then ten days for drop ships and Hammerheads, again starting with simulators; twenty days for fighters. They wanted to familiarize everyone with at least a _little_ of each vehicle. We even ran simulators for a _Leviathan-_class ship once." She snorted. "I think I sideswiped a planet with it."

Nadea laughed out loud at that one. "And then, and only then. . ." Kallixta grinned, "flight sims for the _Normandy_-class ships. SR-1 and SR-2. _Fifty_ _days_ of simulators." She looked around at the mess hall. "I can hardly _wait_ to see how this thing actually performs. And whether it'll be any different from the simulators. Obviously, there wasn't an AI involved in the simulation to help compensate for _anything_."

One of the marines further down the table wore red and white stripes on his face, which slashed along his cheekbones, before curving up to bracket his eyes, and then rose further into his crest. He turned and commented, dryly, in very good English, "So, you're replacing Macenus? Thank the spirits. Can I convince you _not_ to do a barrel-roll when we're repelling boarding parties?"

That sent laughter up and down the table. Kallixta grinned, and they shook hands. "Rasmus Cadius," the male introduced himself.

Dara grinned. "I've met you. You're Eli's old acquaintance from the Citadel."

Rasmus chuckled. "Yeah. And you're Velnaran's wife." He glanced along the table, and his amused look said he remembered quite a bit more than just that. "This is turning into a _very_ fun ship."

"I'm almost scared to ask what that means," one of the human officers, further down the bench asked. She wore an Alliance uniform, of course, and had the old-fashioned propeller on her shoulder insignia that indicated she was in the engineering crew. If not the chief engineer, then probably the second-highest ranked.

Rasmus looked back at her, and just grinned. "Long story," he said cheerfully. "Mostly, it means I think we're in for interesting times."

The FTL engines hummed through the deck plates, and Dara headed back to her tiny quarters after dinner. She had a _lot_ of reading to do, after all. And the sooner she did that, the sooner she could fall asleep. . . if sleep would come at all. The room was new, after all, and she tended to sleep poorly her first night in a new bed. Nest. Whatever. At least this one had a cushioned bottom, pillows, and a blanket or two.

The FTL engines shifted late in the ship's night; she could feel them _humming_ through the ceiling over her head, and woke, instantly, as the sublight engines kicked in, instead. _Hope I get used to __that__, _she thought, and, two hours later, she woke again. This time, as the door to her tiny quarters opened. _Crap_, she thought, and muttered, sourly, _"New berthing assignments. Think they probably didn't deactivate your chip for this door."_

"No, I'm pretty sure I'm in the right place."

It took her a moment to register that the words were in English, and that the voice was familiar.

"Rel?"

"Watch your eyes."

He turned on the light, dropped his bag on the floor, and she rolled out of the nest and grabbed onto him, not caring at all if he was in armor still or not. "You look tired," she said, at the exact moment he told her, "Have you actually _slept_?"

Slight awkwardness. So _much_ damned time apart. He'd been out _doing_ while she'd been stuck _training_, and, well. . . . "So," she said, after a minute. "Here we are."

He leaned down, pressed his forehead to hers, and said, just as quietly. "Yeah."

"So now what the hell do we do?"

Rel looked down at her and grinned, and it was the same smile he'd always given her, from the very start. "Everything," he said.


	63. Chapter 63: Preparation

**Chapter 63: Preparation**

_**Author's note:**__ At the present time, Eli, Linianus, and Telinus are slated to start bootcamp July 1. Present story date is June 21, and we're damned close to rooting out the last of the Lystheni. I have a poll up currently; is there enough reader interest to warrant Eli's boot camp story? It wouldn't be three chapters long, being more condensed (I think) so it wouldn't necessarily be retreaditis. As I write this, at least 7 people have already stumbled onto the poll, and apparently, Eli has some fans. Who knew. . . . _

**Shepard**

Buried in paperwork, yet again. _I didn't miss this, when Garrus was taking care of it_, Shepard thought, grimly, and worked her way through a report detailing the final cost of repairs to her base, over eighteen months after Lina Vasir's attack. _Four million credits later, and that's largely since I used local labor and materials. The Council's going to have a hissy fit over the final tally._ She tossed that datapad into her 'out' box, and picked up the next. _Ah, wonderful. More pirate activity around Talis Fia. Turians want to send half a fleet to go __stomp__ on the batarians for getting in the volus' faces again, but the Council has reservations, because what little diplomatic contact the asari and the turians have with the batarians would completely evaporate if the turians stomp too hard. Which, god knows, they're inclined to do at this point. Not like they haven't been having to make the same damn point, over and over again, at Boro and Talis Fia alike._

_And what does the Council want me to do about this. . . ah. A gentle suggestion that we send a mixed ship there with a couple of Spectres. So it doesn't look like the __turians__ are spanking the batarians. It just looks like __I__ am. And the whole galaxy knows how I feel about batarians._

Shepard tapped on her comm panel. "Kasumi?"

"Yes, Shep?" Her chief of security looked chipper.

"How are we doing on the Lystheni data?"

Kasumi's good cheer evaporated. "About as well as usual. I can be up there in five minutes for a briefing."

"Please. I've got a few decisions about squad movements to make." She tabbed the comm again. "Garrus? Come in and grab a chair, would you? Kasumi's going to brief us."

Kasumi was as good as her word, and tapped on Shepard's office door not three minutes later., just as Garrus was settling into his seat. The woman had dark shadows under her eyes, however, and Shepard gave her a look. "Sam leaves and you stop sleeping?"

Kasumi shook her head, lips twitching. "No, actually. Sleeping like a _rock_, and usually by 20:00 every night right now."

Shepard shook her head, letting it go. "Okay, let's talk Lystheni. We have the information we might or might not be trusting from Haddrassa, and the information from the base on the moon of Elohi, Entromi."

Kasumi grimaced. "Yeah. Haddrassa's information was riddled with viruses. Go figure. We analyzed it on a non-networked computer. If Cohort weren't off on Garvug, I'd have had him run the analysis, just to be safe, but. . . " the little woman shrugged. "I don't know if she had anything to do with the viruses. Most of them looked pretty standard for salarians. They like to know where their data goes."

"And the information itself?"

"Wasn't much. She even noted herself that they have, supposedly, been keeping her out of the loop for quite some time. False reports, two sets of account books, you know." Kasumi sighed. "She did point out that the camera systems on the Vitrifex satellites did fail around this time last July. That, we've confirmed. They sent no security logs back to her people for that time period, reported it as a system failure, stated that the system failed on one satellite first, and that they cannibalized parts from one satellite to the next to try to fix it, which resulted in each facility, in turn, having down time."

"And the security logs _since_ then?" Garrus asked, sounding cynical.

"Computer analysis suggests that there's about four hundred hours of footage that's been randomized and reused, over and over. A human observer wouldn't have been able to detect that, but the VIs found it." Kasumi shrugged. "Suggests that their control over Haddrassa isn't absolute. Why bother with the elaborate façade if she's _really_ powerless?"

_Yeah, I kind of had a feeling she was trying to play both sides here_. "So, she wouldn't really _mind_ if we got control back over her clan for her, she probably _is_ in some danger, but has a _lot_ more resources than she was letting on?"

Kasumi smirked. "About status quo for dealing with a dalatrass."

"I hate being a step behind." Shepard frowned. "We'll deal with her later. We know that something _is_ being hidden on the satellites. What else have we got?"

"Young Rinus sent us _quite_ an evaluation of the Vitrifex satellites." Kasumi's eyes sparkled. "I want to poach him from the Hierarchy military when his latest term of service is up, Shep. I _need_ analysts like him."

Garrus grinned, as proud as if it had been his _own_ son under discussion. "What's he come up with?"

Kasumi handed them the datapad in her hand. "Read it and weep."

Shepard tilted the pad so she and Garrus could both read it at the same time.

_Satellite numbers suspect; only one lens actually __required__ to provide either magnified insolation or a solar shade effect. Satellites also have crew housing; schematics suggest a crew of twenty-five to fifty could be accommodated in each for periods of a year or more in comfort. A lens facility could be automated at a fraction of the cost; this does not appear to be a good business decision, and salarians generally make decisions based on __efficiency__. _

_Each orbital facility has a large, open bay in the center, which could be used for the machinery needed to rotate and orient the external lens. However, most of that machinery is located on the exterior of each facility. Again, this is a poor design decision. Placing the machinery externally makes it difficult to maintain, and leaves it open to impact from space debris. The question then becomes, what is each bay actually __used__ for? Since each bay measures 400 feet / 121.92 m, a variety of purposes can be imagined. Hydroponics is possible, although the plumbing schematics don't suggest that enough water is on board the station, and that there are insufficient pipes to bring the water to any hydroponics facilities in the open bay. A chemical plant, unmarked on the schematics provided, is possible, although this would again require tubing and facilities that are unmarked. Manufacturing facilities are possible. Training facilities, a hangar, storage, or even additional living space are all possibilities. In the absence of evidence, speculation becomes inviting, unfortunately._

_The lenses themselves are capable of being moved and oriented, using the aforementioned exterior machinery. The aerogel lenses themselves can be directed either to absorb light, to power the station, or to redirect the light, down onto the planet's surface. It is troubling, however, that a shift of a few degrees_ _could actually weaponize the lenses. (See attached file for specifics.) While they would not prove a problem for a properly shielded ship, they could melt rock and regolith on the planet below into slag in very short order. This would also prove problematic for any people caught in the path of the beam. Given this, it is very curious indeed that the planetary temperature has __not__ increased from its average of -30º C/ -22º F in the seven years that the lenses have been deployed in orbit. However, that is not the purview of this report, which is an assessment of the tactical and weaponry potential of these satellites._

_Tactically, they are useless as defense platforms for the planet. They are positioned in a thin band around the equator only, and the angle at which their beams retain their rock-melting potential is limited to within a few degrees of latitude from that equator. They cannot effectively deter incoming ships. They are, however, eyes in the sky, and, if used for tactical purposes, it would make sense to equip such satellites with extensive monitoring equipment for observing the planet below. They would also make admirable platforms from which to deploy small ships or missiles. Those large bays could accommodate six to eight firing tubes for Javelin torpedoes, depending on the number of torpedoes kept on hand in a munitions dump. Alternately, given the dimensions of an __Accipiter_-_class fighter or a Terran Lighting Strike Mark Two fighter, the bays could accommodate 10-12 fighters each, with machinery to allow them to launch from a drop position, out of the base of the station. (See attachment 2 for details.) _

_Alternately, if a processing facility for the 'biotic weapons' encountered in other locations were required, these bays could accommodate about two hundred people in cramped conditions, if no regard for comfort were taken. As such, while it would be possible to destroy these facilities from the outside, using a barrage of Javelin missiles or Thanix cannon fire, it may be preferable to destroy them from within, using structural weak points. (See attachment 3 for details.)_

Shepard nodded over the file. "Yeah. Let's see if the young centurion's amenable to coming to work for us in a year or two," she said, quietly. "He does nice work. It's even readable, which is unusual for an engineer."

Garrus made a rude noise.

"Shhh," Kasumi said, eyes sparkling. "Those are _fighting_ words."

Shepard tapped her fingers on her desk again. "All right. What have Gris and Cohort reported?"

"That's been interesting to track," Kasumi replied, cueing up another datapad. "Gris has made contact with about six or seven different bands of krogan out there. From what Cohort says, Gris could practically set himself up as a warlord at the moment. . . if he wanted to spend the rest of his life in a frozen wasteland, anyway. They've all reported extensive movement at the Morphil'zha facilities, mostly involving small, fighter-sized craft. They've been assuming _drones_ all this time. Largely because they're all very small, and _don't_ seem to have cockpits. Gris sent a couple of pictures his new friends have managed to take." Kasumi paused. "Before I show these to you, I want to remind you of something."

"Hmm?"

"Think back about a year, to what Lantar and Sky reported, when they debriefed Kal'Reegar after the Lystheni attacked the research base on Rannoch."

Shepard frowned. "Sky had to bring the memories _up_ for Kal, if I recall correctly, and projected them for Lantar. They attacked, they came in, they cut a hole in the roof, and lifted the Reaper and the simulator device out at the same time, into a waiting ship."

Kasumi nodded. "Correct in essentials, if not fully detailed." She handed them her current datapad, keyed to Lantar's old report: _I could see everything as if through Kal'Reegar's eyes. I saw the salarians enter the room, stepping over the dead or dying quarians. I could __hear__ one of them say, looking up at the Reaper, "It's perfect. The perfect form." Then they were lashing the mini-Reaper and the simulation device together, before lifting it out of the facility through the roof._

Shepard sighed. "There are days, Kasumi, when I really hate it when you're right." She looked at Garrus. "And _you_ were right, too. They did decide to try to replicate the damned thing."

She scrolled down, found the blurry pictures taken at very long range from the mountains to the north of the Morphil'zha facility, and studied what the Lystheni were building. "I suppose the good news is, that these little fighters don't look organic. They look fairly conventional, in fact, in many ways. Other than the lack of a cockpit and windows, of course, and the . . . tentacular appendages. They _would_ make replicating the weapons systems one of their primary objectives, wouldn't they?"

"Believe me when I tell you, I really wish I'd been _wrong_ about this one, Shep. I think they're probably _building_ them in orbit, and bringing them down to the planet in an attempt to upload into the ships. It's a central facility, where all the satellites are strung out."

"Makes sense. So we can _probably_ assume that the mini-Reaper and the relics are here at Morphil'zha," Garrus said, thoughtfully. "What's at Manutra, under the sea, if anything?"

Kasumi's expression went tight. "I think," she said, very quietly, "that it's probably the main Lystheni base, and probably where they moved their biotics project. I have no proof. It's a guess, solely based on psychology. But it's about as low as you can go on the planet, and it's surrounded by water. It's a _safe place_, to a salarian. No aquatic life means no predators. Just a dome to keep the pressure off of them and the heat in, so they don't hibernate, and voila. . . instant fortress that any other species is going to need a _lot_ of equipment to get to."

Shepard shrugged. "Or a burst from a Thanix cannon to pop the dome."

"It's over two miles down, _mellis_," Garrus was in professional mode now. "The near-freezing seawater will largely cool the molten metal of the cannon's beam by the time it gets there. A missile would do it, but the dome's heavily reinforced. If we want to destroy it properly, it'll have to be at closer range, and I'm all out of submarines that I can fit in the cargo hold of a _Normandy_-class ship at the moment."

"Plus," Kasumi said, quietly, "I would hate to start by shooting what _could_ be a perfectly legitimate eco-engineering enclave that actually _doesn't_ have any real relation to the Lystheni, just based on my gut instinct."

"There is that." Shepard leaned back, studying the image on the screen now. "Okay, _when_ we go after them, and they _have_ to know we're coming for them at this point, we're going to want to take out the orbital facilities first. No eyes in the sky. No weapons from space while we're on the ground."

Garrus was already scrolling through Rinus' report. "Rinus' recommendation for destroying them is with set charges from the inside. I agree with that. We don't _know_ if they have surviving biotics up there that might need rescuing. . . and it'll actually be slightly easier to get teams in, quietly, and blow them all up simultaneously, than to wrangle twelve full ships to shoot them all down at once." Garrus studied the schematics, and grinned. "Rinus has even _helpfully_ pointed out six to eight locations for maximum effectiveness." He glanced at the numbers. "I think his estimate for the amount of explosive needed is a little low. I'd double it, to be safe. We _don't_ know how accurate the schematics actually are, or how much reinforcement has been added."

"That'll take teams landing there, fighting their way in, planting the charges, fighting to the next location, planting more, retreating, and blowing the damn satellites, and there are _twelve_ facilities." Shepard grimaced. "Lots of coordination. But yeah, I agree. . . I can't shake loose twelve ships for a simultaneous strike."

Garrus snorted. "This soon after Omega? If we went asking for more ships, they'd ask us if we were planning on starting our own private war."

She nodded, and looked at the schematics again. "And I can't dedicate close to half the Spectres to it. Teams of three, that's thirty-six of the seventy-nine. . . even if Tali and Kal and Jack and Samara come along for the ride, we'll need the turian and human marines to do some of the lifting."

"That's what they get paid for." Garrus shrugged.

"You're just looking to see how good young Rel actually is," Kasumi told him, grinning. "You practically_ preen_ at each of Livanus' reports."

Garrus grinned. "I'm standing proxy for Allardus, since he doesn't get to know about all this. Besides, Lantar's _son_ got to kill a _dragon_. Kaius and Amara are a few years away from that."

"Let them lose their baby teeth first," Lilu told her husband.

"Are we sure that's how it's even going to work for them?" he asked, then added, grinning, "Let me enjoy what I can."

Kasumi sighed. "This is only going to get worse when Dara gets out there."

Shepard laughed, and then reluctantly looked back at the datapads in front of her again. "Okay, Kasumi, get Blasto in here, and . . . hmm. Mordin, too." She thought about it. "The three of you will be making a little underwater journey."

"Mordin?" Garrus asked. "He's a little recognizable. Seven years ago, no one outside of STG would have known him, but now. . . "

"We need more scientists who can actually hold a gun," Shepard said, with a sigh. "If we send them to the facility, we need someone who can at least hold his or her own in a conversation about terraforming. Who else do we have?"

The list was very, very short. And Lilitu Shepard-Vakarian was even more recognizable than Mordin Solus. _I have __got__ to get the Mindoir government to get my face off the damn colony seal at some point. I can't even grow my hair out as a disguise with that damn thing on every street corner. _She looked at Kasumi now. "Information gathering only, and _you_ are going to be invisible the whole time you're there. Get into their computer systems, see what you can find. The usual. Then get the hell out."

"Don't worry, Shep. I've been doing the sneaky-sneaky thing for a _long_ time." Kasumi looked up, hesitating visibly. Shepard frowned. _Something's on her mind_. "Where's my better half going to be while I'm poking around and getting into things that I'm not supposed to?" Kasumi asked.

_That wasn't what she was going to say. Hmm. Interesting._ Shepard held up her own datapad now, still watching her security chief. "The _Estallus_ just got done with major repairs. We've got a _little_ time here, and they need a bit of a shakedown. Seems to me, they'd be perfect for this pirate issue over near Talis Fia."

"_S'kak._ Batarians, again?" Garrus took the datapad out of her hand, looked at it in annoyance, and muttered various other rude words under his breath. "I thought I just got _done_ pulling their teeth out near Mavignon."

"They're not getting the message," Shepard said, tiredly, mind now fully occupied with _this_ looming problem. "I'm guessing there's going to be a full-scale war in two to three years."

They both looked at her. "You see the same information that I do. Tell me I'm wrong." Shepard sighed. "Diplomatic channels are failing fast, and _I'm_ not the one to try diplomacy with the batarians, so. . . again. Tell me I'm wrong."

"I really wish you were," Kasumi said, slumping a little. "But Argus has found information indicating that they're trying to uplift the yahg to give themselves allies."

"It's probably why they're so damned interested in the biotic weapons of the Lystheni, too." Garrus showed teeth, a pure snarl. "All the more reason to destroy every last bit of information on the damned things, and come up with countermeasures that work more than once." He relaxed, after a moment. "I'll give Rinus another week or two to come up with that."

"So, the _Estallus_ with Sam and Lantar and Livanus. . . goes to Talis Fia. Blasto, Mordin, and I go to Garvug. Gris and Cohort stay in a holding pattern for the moment?" Kasumi summarized, taking notes.

Shepard nodded. "And I. . . get to do more paperwork." She looked at Garrus. "Don't you go anywhere. I'm still trying to figure out what some of your notes even _mean_ on these Eclipse Sisterhood memos."

"They're probably krogan curse words, _amatra._"

"In that case, they're probably anatomically improbable if you're not a krogan, but accurate in spirit." Shepard grinned at Garrus, and got on with her work.

**Siara**

Gris had been gone for over a month now, and several weeks had passed since her long conversation with her mother. The new session of school was underway, naturally, and Siara had changed up her course load considerably. Xenobiology was still on the docket, of course, but since she'd already finished basic calculus and physics and everything else, her teachers were surprised that she was opting now for comparative anthropology, asari literature, _Terran_ literature, and turian literature, in addition to dipping her toes in a fairly abstract course called _Principles of Mathematics_, which she'd found in the course library, and which was billed as how to _teach_ what she already knew how to do. She didn't see a need for 'algebraic topography' or Euler systems or any of the rest of it. . . not at the moment, anyway. That was a little more advanced than she was interested in, or would need, for the moment, anyway. Another one, which was _Introduction to Pedagogy_, also got her some looks. How to teach. How to ask questions and make students ask questions of their own. It sounded simple, but the text warned that it was _far_ more difficult in practice than on paper.

The classroom was feeling emptier and emptier. Oh, younger students were moving up the rungs of the system into the final room, but in the last year, she'd seen Kella die, Rel leave, Dara leave, and now Eli, Lin, Tel, and Mazz were all absent as well. Mazz was technically doing distance education, while working with some of the engineers on base for practical learning, and technically, Siara could be doing the same thing. . . but that would leave her at home all day, unsupervised, which was something her mother had wanted to avoid for years. . . and Siara had to admit, in fairness, that this had probably been wise. But did it _really_ still apply?

Finally, on June 21, a gray, cloudy Sunday, with snow already falling in the mountains, her mother came into her room as Siara read for her classes. "I have been thinking, little one," Azala said, sitting down on the edge of her bed. "You have been very quiet since you opened your heart to me. You haven't pressed for my answer."

Siara shrugged. "You said you wished to speak with Gris. He has become, in many ways, my second-mother, so it seems right." She glanced at Azala. "But he hasn't been home to talk _to_, so I've waited."

Azala chuckled. "You've shown more patience in the past month than I've seen from you in a lifetime, little one. It's surprised me. And pleased me." She regarded her daughter for a moment. "I _have_ written to him, however, and he's written back."

"He's remarkably educated," Siara said, quietly. "I wonder if the shaman taught him, or whether he taught himself, in his years away from Tuchanka."

Azala shook her head. "That's neither here nor there, little one."

_I know. _Sira nodded, dreading the moment of truth here. She fully expected to be told that she'd be staying exactly where she was, doing exactly what she was doing, for a long time to come.

"Let me ask you a few questions first. You've completed mathematics up through calculus, correct?"

"Yes."

"All of your science requirements, from chemistry to physics to xenobiology?"

"Yes. All As." Siara shrugged. None of it had been hard. She had, after all, been studying for twenty years of her life so far.

"You could, essentially, graduate tomorrow, in fact?"

Siara glanced up. "The Mindoir system is pretty flexible. . . so . . . yes. My special project would need to be polished up and turned in to cover all of my absences over the past few quarters, but that's not much of an issue."

Azala sighed. "You could have tested out of anything you haven't completed, just like Eli. Even more easily, in fact, because you've met every requirement, haven't you?"

Siara nodded, numbly.

"Why _haven't_ you?"

Siara blinked. It honestly hadn't occurred to her. She looked down, thought about it for a moment, and then said, quietly, "I guess I didn't see a point to it. You wouldn't have taken it as _defiance_ or anything like that, but. . . why bother? If I tested out, then I'd have been sitting here in my room doing. . . what?" She shrugged. "I can take university-level classes in the school. And even though I hate sitting there, day after day, it's still better than sitting in _here_ alone every day."

Here mother sighed again. "With even _Mazz_ doing university-level work at the moment—all right, it's more like community college work, but the point remains—it seems a little unfair to keep you in school with the _children_, when you've met every requirement for graduation except being thirty-eight to forty years of age."

Siara's head snapped up. _You're going to let me graduate? But then what?_

"As soon as you polish up that final project of yours, you and I and Mazz are going to take a little trip," Azala said. "I think I want to see Tuchanka. I'd _prefer_ if Gris were with us, but he's telling me he might be a few more weeks. And that he'll join us there, if we're still there when he gets back from work."

Siara's eyes had gone wide, and she compressed her lips together tightly to keep them from trembling. Azala had paused. "Your teachers tell me you're taking. . . _interesting_ courses this semester, little one. Comparative literature, I can understand. But why the instructional courses?"

"Because if I get to go back to the female camp, I want to give them something worth having," Siara said, very quietly. "Everyone keeps telling me that _my_ education is worth something. If that's true, then it's also worth something to them."

A week passed; still no sign of Gris. Siara turned in her final project at school, and while the teachers were a little surprised, she told them she'd be continuing to do distance education, as best she could, from the university. And she certainly planned to do so.

"This is sudden," Serana, young as she was, told her at lunch on her final day. The young turian girl had crossed the lunchroom to talk to her, where Siara sat in the corner of the room.

"It feels like it's been a long time in coming."

"So, are you running away?" Serana showed teeth, just a hint of them. A year or two ago, the girl would have been too young to show that much defiance of an elder student. Then again, two years ago, Siara had been, largely, queen of the school. Cold and prideful and in control. And Serana would have had no personal reason to dislike her then, beyond that. Then again, Serana was Dara's sister in a sense now, and had spent much time with Eli this past six months. Perhaps that explained it.

Siara thought about it for a moment. She didn't owe Serana any answers, but she owed _herself_ a reply, if nothing else. "In a way, maybe. But I also think I'm running _towards_ something. More asari should run, don't you think? We tend to take life at a rather sedate and gliding pace. Running is definitely more exciting."

Serana thought about that, and actually sat down beside her. Siara blinked. _Was this all that's ever been needed? Just. . . words? Maybe. . . or maybe they need to be true words, ones felt in the heart._

"So, you're going to just start university work from home or something? Sounds kind of boring."

"It would be. I'm. . . going back to Tuchanka, though." Siara bit her lip. "I'm _hoping_ my mother just lets me stay there. Maybe only for a few months at a time to start with, but eventually. . . ."

Serana's eyes went wide. "What's on Tuchanka that's worth that?"

Siara smiled, and if she'd known it, it made her look like her mother for an instant. "A future. I hope."

"Nice and cryptic," Serana said, nodding. "Okay, in that case, goodbye. And good luck. Because, you know. . . _dragons_ live on Tuchanka. And you're just as much of an idiot as all the rest of them."

Siara did go to say goodbye to Eli. He was packing for his trip to Palaven when she came in the front door, and his sister was looking up at him in confusion and trying to take everything he was putting in his bags, back out again. "No, Duck, that's my stuff. It has to go with me."

"Mine!"

"No, mine."

"Mine!" Caelia sat down on the floor and started to wail.

Eli looked down at her for a moment, shrugged, and kept packing. "You gonna calm down, Duck?"

"No!"

"Then Serana won't come over tonight to play with you."

Miraculously, the wailing stopped. Eli shook his head and looked up, frowned a bit at the sight of Siara in his house. His mother had been a bit confused to see her again, too, but had allowed her in the door. "I just came to say goodbye," Siara told him. The frown hurt, a little. She _did_ want to try to keep some of the old friendship. And Serana had shown her earlier today how even a few simple words did move people, shift their ships as they scudded towards the horizon. "I'm going back to Tuchanka tomorrow, myself. Hopefully for a long stay."

Eli nodded, slowly. She could _see_ the thoughts moving behind those brown eyes. Not as fast as a salarian. Not as aggressive as a turian, though easily capable of his step-father's darkness. None of the stillness of an asari. Humans were very much their _own_. Thought processes a mystery, even when they were visible. He crouched down, and started lacing up the sides of the bag, sealing it. "Why?" he asked, after a minute.

"_Because I am better there, than I am here. I have purpose there, where here I have none. There, I see the future, where they see only __now__, and here, I see no future at all. Just eternity."_ The phrases were precise and balanced in high-tongue. _"Is that not why you go now, as well?"_

Eli blinked; he had been thinking more in turian lately than in asari, more than likely, and probably needed a moment to change mental gears. _"I go, because it is the path before my feet, and it has chosen me, as much as I have chosen it._" He looked up at the ceiling. "Damn, but I wish I sounded that smart in English."

"You've never given yourself credit, Eli. You're smarter than you think you are."

He snorted. "I am average in absolutely every way, Siara. Rel has leadership, Dara has smarts and determination, and you have. . . brilliance, actually. I'm just me. I have to work at pretty much everything." He picked up the bag over one shoulder, and Caelia over the other, and dumped both on the couch—carefully, of course—but the drop was enough to make his little sister squeal in glee.

Siara sighed. "You suffer as much as Dara did, from the burden of being too damned human to see yourself. May I?" She offered her hand, which got her a wary look. "No, not that. _I have a more-than-fair who is dear to me. You are my friend, and have been true with me. Now I would be true with you."_

He accepted her hand, gingerly. His hands had always been larger than hers; now they, like the rest of him, had grown. He didn't dwarf her the way Makur did, of course, but he was still larger. Still alien—more so, in a way, than months ago. Siara swallowed hard, and tried to figure out how Kella had _done_ this for Dara. She couldn't. She couldn't strip the self-awareness out of his mind. _Damn. Kella had learned something I might never be able to do. Here. If I can't do that, I can do this. __Maieolo'saeo. _The impersonal touch.

She showed him what he looked like to _her_. Strange. Alien. Part of the dual-gendered human race, the truly _other_ half, male. Tall, strong, physically powerful. The facial hair, so odd. Not brutish. . . she was ashamed of every having thought so, but it had taken time to remove her second-mother's thoughts from her mind. Flashes of how he'd been as they fought the klixen, the harvester-dragon. Completely in the moment, total focus. Coordinating with others, finding a moment to be concerned for a friend, and then back into the fight once more. Putting his life on the line, just as they all had. Not the child he'd been when he'd come here. Very much a man, in fact.

More flashes. Anger, like a turian's. . . not as quick to it, but capable of a brooding darkness once it settled in. Intensity. But also capable of playfulness, light-heartedness, like a child. Strong sense of justice. Principles. Character. Love of family. Love of friends. Understanding—the kind that came from within, from the heart, not from the head. Instinctively finding grounds for acceptance in others, no matter _how_ different they were from him, how alien. A bridge.

Siara pulled her hand back, but not before she caught a quick flash of amazement from him, and, just a glimpse, of what _she_ looked like through his eyes. Different from how Makur saw her, of course. But in many ways, strangely the same. Less alien in his eyes than in Makur's; the equivalent of a female of his own species. Smaller, to be protected, but respected for her intelligence. Confusing, bewildering. And yet. . . a sense that she had changed. That she had strength now that went beyond her biotics, and that he _liked_ that change in her. Siara blinked once, twice. "Thank you, Eli," she said.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Thank you." He studied her for a moment. "Be well. And for god's sake, be happy, too."

And then she turned and left, not knowing what to make of any of it. Stored it all away in her head, to think about later.

They left for Tuchanka a day later, and she could tell that her mother was intrigued and horrified, all at once, by the male encampment. They had a meeting with the clan leader, much to Siara's surprise. "Gris sent me a message," Wrex explained, taking them away from his dais and into his private quarters, which were substantially cleaner than the rest of the compound, but still primitive and crude. "Said your daughter here—who's already Urdnot, in my book—wanted to join the clan. But that you had some reservations." He looked at Azala.

"_Is_ that what you want?" Azala asked her, gently.

_Is it?_ Siara wondered, and after a minute, decided, _Yes. Close enough._ "I want to teach, and I want to learn," she said, after a moment, not knowing what else to say. "And I want to do it here."

Wrex nodded. "Good enough for me. Girl, you're free, as always, to walk around the camp. _You_ can, too." His eyes had moved to Azala then. "She's strong and she's capable. You should probably trust her."

Siara nodded gratefully, and had moved out of the chambers, knowing where she was going. Past the varren pits, where her mother stopped and winced in horror, up over a ledge, and down a broken hallway. First doorway on the left—not that there was a _door_ in the doorway.

_Damn, wrong room_. The krogan inside was unfamiliar to her. Either a new recruit, or a member of a different clan. "I'd _heard_ Urdnot had a few blue-skins around for sport," he said, grinning, "but I thought it was just talk over ryncol."

"No," Siara told him, firmly. "I'm looking for Urdnot Makur. Sorry to disturb you."

When he caught her arm in one hand, Siara's mind went blank for a moment. She turned her head slightly, and said, quietly, "You really shouldn't do that sort of thing. It's not _polite_." She _could_ shockwave him away, but that wouldn't really have the effect she wanted here. _Maybe there's another option._

He pulled on her arm, and Siara reached out with her mind and found all the nerve centers in the male's body and set them on fire. Not gently, and not with pleasure. This was the opposite of what she had learned to do with Makur. This was pain. Pure, simple, unlimited pain, dancing up and down his body, all the pain she'd experienced, taken from the birthing mothers, concentrated into a blast of energy.

The male bellowed in pain and hit the floor, arms and limbs jerking as if electrical currents were rushing through them. Siara blinked. _It worked. I __thought__ it would, but not __that__ well._

Half a dozen heads were now poking out of other ruined doorways along the hallway. "Makur?" she asked, folding her arms over her chest.

One of the krogan laughed and pointed to the very end of the hallway. "He had night watch. Probably still asleep." A huge grin accompanied the words. "You going to let Umbal up?"

Siara glanced down at the still-twitching krogan. "I don't know. He kind of irritated me." To be honest, she actually _wasn't_ actively doing anything anymore, but she reached out and slowed down the energies racing through the nervous system, which seemed to prompt a groan of relief. _Hmm. Kind of dangerous to practice this. . . whatever this is. . .on humanoids. Then again, if a varren's coming at me, I'm __killing__ it, not just making it hurt a little._

She headed down the hallway, and turned in at the indicated doorway. Siara looked down at Makur and planted her toe in his ribs. "Hey," she said, sharply. "This is _my_ spot."

His eyes opened, and he grabbed her by the offending foot, pulling her down abruptly. "Thought I heard yelling out there, but no one seemed to be dying, so I closed my eyes again. That you?"

"Someone named Umbal decided I'd be good sport."

Flash of rage, and he started to get up. Hand on his arm now, quick touch. _All taken care of. _Mental images. He started to chuckle out loud, low and deep.

_Guess that showed him. / I considered concentrating it just to his quad, but a full-body experience seemed more appropriate somehow. / Have to show me how you do that. / Same way I do __this__._ Colors, little threads of pleasure. Not a lot. Just a little.

Swift exchange of memories. Hunting varren in the forest, classwork on Mindoir, ryncol with the guards, the conversation with her mother, visiting the female camp—_Oh? / Had to. No one knows whose son I am, but the biotic genes are rare. Wrex, the shaman, Gris, and me. Four in six hundred years. / I know. And the genes have to be perpetuated. / You're okay with that? / I'm fine with it, so long as you share it with me later. / You want that?_ Surprise, even shock. /_ Of course I do, if it felt good to you. / It did. She couldn't do __this__, though._ He wrapped his biotics around her now, tightly. Just sitting there, side-by-side. No more than a minute had passed. _Missed this. / Me, too. / How long, this time? / Don't know. Hoping for months. Hoping for years. Have so much to do here. Want to teach, want to learn./ Teach what? Teach whom? / Everything I know. Anyone who wants it. / Me? / If you want, yes. If not, that's okay, too._

Siara glanced up, and realized her mother was at the door, and got to her feet. _"Mother,"_ she said, very calmly, in high-tongue. _"This is my more-than-fair, Urdnot Makur."_ Makur was still in her mind as she spoke, and started to laugh as the meaning of the words struck his mind. On his feet, he stood twenty-four inches taller than she did—fifty-five centimeters—and, to his knowledge, no one had _ever_ called a krogan fair or lovely. _Not even other krogan_, he thought, amused.

Azala just smiled, however. Gracious and gentle as always, even in the middle of the rubble of Tuchanka. "I'm pleased to meet you, Makur. I'm Azala, Siara's mother. We'll be staying awhile, until my own more-than-fair arrives. Then I will have some decisions to make." She looked pointedly at Siara. "And I have not yet decided." She switched languages. _"Was the violence necessary, on the way in?"_

"_Demonstrating my strength definitely was required. As much for you, as it was for the importunate one,"_ Siara replied, calmly.

Azala absorbed that, with a blink.

Azala was even permitted to visit the women's camp, though she had to go blindfolded. Siara, a member of the clan through the Rite, no longer had to observe that condition, though she still scarcely knew the way. Every trip was different. She had no _idea_ how Makur found his way through the wilderness each time.

Of course Azala respected Malla, though it was probably a bit much to expect the same in return; a krogan respected strength, and it had taken Siara herself a _very_ long time to see Azala's gentleness as a different _kind_ of strength. Malla was a little taken aback by Siara's desire to stay, however. "You'll get tired of it," she warned.

"Probably," Siara agreed. "I bet _you _are."

Malla snorted. "Damn right I am. Still needs to be done."

"And your point is?"

"That I _have_ to be here. You don't."

_And what can I say to that? _Siara glanced, briefly, at Makur, and then back at Malla again. "Yes, I do. Urdnot is my clan now. My place is here with my clan." She paused "Besides, when _you_ die, Malla, do you want everything you know to die with you?" Siara stared her down. "I haven't gotten even a _tenth_ of your stories out of you. Or the words. Or the writing."

Malla started to laugh. "Already planning my funeral?"

"No. I'm convinced that the day they stick you in the ground, you're going to dig right back up out of the grave and beat the people who put you in it over the head with your stick."

Malla laughed even harder at that.

Hunting that night. Fresh food was always better than the freeze-dried variety. And pensharr, for all their danger, were tasty. They were herd animals with savage tusks and omnivore teeth—they scavenged opportunistically, like almost everything else on Tuchanka—but had the size and speed of a deer, and the muscular build of a horse. Makur knew how to track them, of course. And, as always, he seemed to know, somehow, when their hunt had actually made them the _hunted_. "Varren," he muttered in her ear. "They're following the pensharr, too. Think they just smelled us."

The pensharr, in turn, had smelled the varren, and turned, squealing in challenge, all members of the herd facing out now, keeping the vulnerable young in the center of their ring. The varren started to creep forward now, and Siara _finally_ saw the first one as it eyed their little hunting party, then the pensharr, then them again. _Trying to figure out who's the easiest prey_, she thought. heart starting to pound.

The varren turned and lunged for _them_, and she and Makur both reached out biotically, she to lift, and he to swat the creature away. She could hear it breaking through branches overhead, and hoped its sudden flight didn't alert any nightflyers, too. _That's all we'd need._

One of the pensharr, nervous, broke from its line and, squealing a challenge, charged them—at which point, a second varren broke from cover and caught it by the throat, burying fangs in the pensharr's throat. Makur swore and fired at the varren with his shotgun. Mass chaos then—pensharr running, squealing, varren emerging from cover, trying to catch the fleeing pensharr, random pensharr charging them, random varren trying to feed from the fallen body of the dying pensharr. Ducking and dodging and keeping her shields up—line of fire across her left arm as a pensharr's tusks found a gap in her armor, digging into flesh—trying not to be separated from the others. Bodies lost in darkness, following the sounds. Pistol almost useless in the dark, never knowing what she was actually aiming at, and sound _carried_, after all, so she was forced to rely on her biotics, heavily. How the others were managing, she had _no_ idea. Blundering into someone, flare of energies, then relief. _Makur. / Found you. You all right? / Knicked. You're hurt worse. I can feel it. Let me take the pain? / No. It's healing. _

And then dragging all the meat back to the underground warren. Some of the others with went back outside again to loosen the soil, spread leaves, and otherwise cover their tracks, up to a mile away. Inside the cave, the butcher's work was already taking place, and Siara had no idea how to help with this. Just watched, pulled at what she was told to pull at, helping to hoist the carcasses up so that they could be gutted and split. Smell of blood and offal—the smallest children were reaching up, eagerly, trying to snatch pieces of entrails, internal organs. Raw or cooked, it didn't matter for a krogan. Parasites could be overcome, if their bodies were strong enough. Siara knew better, and cooked her own slice of varren meat on a stick over a fire. Unseasoned and slightly burned, it still tasted like the food of the gods. Azala, who had remained at the female camp while they hunted, took a seat next to Siara's fire, nibbling delicately at a piece of varren meat, herself. Just watching her. Eyes not judging, but evaluating.

Slight brush of Makur's mind against hers as he slumped to the ground beside her at the fire, weary. _Have to go back to the male camp in the morning. This isn't my place anymore. / So this really is my spot? / Your spot's wherever you chose it to be. Pick your ground and defend it. / _

_Then why can't this be your ground, too? / Because it's not. Not now, anyway. / Make it yours. Because it's mine. And you? You're mine, too. /_ Mental laughter. / _Show me the words again. / I'll show you more than words. But words aren't a bad place to start. Can I actually say them out loud? / In front of your mother?_ He laughed again, this time out loud. As if not quite believing the thought.

So she said the words for him, out loud. Asari high-tongue. Still linked to her mind, he understood the words. "_Harao'ulle'yi aiellu, harao'ulle'yi mana'ya, maieolo'ulle'yi." I give to you thoughts/words/voice, I give to you my mind/self , I share myself with you. _Oh, in asari it was so much more elegant than in any translation. The _I_ was implied by the verb form, no pronoun shoving itself in there, egocentrically. The _'yi_ ending put the focus of each word squarely on the _other_ in each statement.

Makur closed his eyes for a moment. Azala, she noted, has started to smile. "I'll leave you two alone," she said quietly, and got up and walked away. "We'll talk in the morning."

Siara nodded after her mother, calling softly, "Good night," after her. Then she looked back at Makur. _More words?_

"Out loud," he said, after a moment. She hoped he could someday see that the words, the openness, where others could see it, didn't have to mean weakness. That it was a different kind of strength. But it might take a few hundred years.

"I can do that," she told him, smiling. _That, and more. / Show me. / Show you how? / All the ways. Open to me._

She told Mala the next day that Makur was going to need to stay. He needed to teach _her_, just as much as the children still needed to be taught. _And if he wants to learn, too, he can. But for the moment, it'll just be because I need help. Officially. _

"I can see that," Malla said, pointing at the cut on Siara's arm. "You don't heal worth a damn, little asari. If a pensharr hurts you worse than that, it's going to get infected. And even asari die."

_But not today. Today, I get to live._

**Kasumi**

"Can I convince you," Kasumi asked, looking up at the hovering form of the galaxy's only hanar Spectre as their small ship hovered near the edge of Garvug's atmosphere, "to use an assumed name for this venture?"

"This one suspects that you find the name _Blasto_ amusing." The hollow, chiming voice echoed through the creature's translation VI.

"It's more that the name is . . . very well known at this point," Kasumi replied, tactfully. _Ah, why oh why could I not have had __Sky__ go with me for this? Other than the fact that we don't know if Sky can swim, that is? _"Even Mordin is using an assumed name. We're not traveling as Spectres, after all. Gianna Parasini got us very good fake credentials as members of an eco-engineering team associated with the Tosal Nym/Aphras projects, looking to discuss methods of possibly de-salinating and restocking the seas there. . . once they actally _get _seas going there." She tipped her head to the side, looking up at the hanar.

"The face-name of this one is a truth, and truth is what is owed to the Enkindlers."

_Your Enkindlers were Protheans. And then they were Collectors,_ she thought, but sighed, and exchanged a glance with Mordin, who shrugged at her. Belief was belief. "Can a different name be a different kind of truth?" she asked, without hope.

The hanar rustled his tentacles, lifting and testing different weapons. She _really_ didn't want to see what the recoil on the Tsunami Mark X was going to do if he fired it. She _knew_, intellectually, that the minor mass effect field around him that kept him supported in midair should absorb the kinetic energy, but all she could do when looking at the assault rifle was to think of Sir Isaac Newton and wonder if the third law of motion was still going to apply, sending the hanar screaming backwards at high speed as soon as he pulled the trigger. After a few moments, he set the weapon down, opting for a pistol instead. _Much easier to conceal. Thank you. _

He finally answered, "Yes. This one can give another truth to the Enkindlers."

"Not your soul name," Kasumi said, quickly.

"Of course not. This one can give the name of this one's progenitors."

_Please, please, don't be Whammo or Boffo._ "And what would these names be?"

"Deliano and Uffaylo." The hanar chimed for a moment. "Both are good names. Good truths." He hesitated. "Will this one not be recognized anyway? This one has received much media coverage."

Mordin coughed slightly. "Believe it will not be an issue," he assured the hanar calmly. "Mostly salarians in facility below. Not much prone to following hanar news coverage."

Kasumi suppressed a chuckle at Mordin's tact, and dropped their ship into the atmosphere at last. When they'd cut through the initial friction of re-entry, she opened their various credential files, and inserted the name Deliano for Blasto. Mordin was traveling as Soln Kesh, which amused him; Soln was the family name of one of the geneticists out there that also helped people to produce hybrid offspring. "I'll be trailing the two of you. You probably won't see me," she told them, "but keep your radios on, nonetheless."

Their little ship hovered over the water, and then a submersible breached the cold, gray waves of the lifeless waters of Garvug, and a hatch opened on its top deck. Kasumi edged the ship closer, and the hanar and the salarian both jumped down. Kasumi took a deep breath, set her stealth shield in place, and followed after, using her omnitool to seal the ship, and set its autopilot to return to orbit, for the time being, anyway.

She had to hurry, although Mordin was careful to take his time going through the hatch. The submersible craft was surprisingly roomy inside, however, which gave her enough room not to bump into people. "Welcome aboard," one of the salarians was telling the other two, looking and sounding quite sincere. "We get very few visitors here at the Manutra facility. I'm told you have questions regarding the terraforming projects on Tosal Nym and Aphras?"

And Mordin was off, talking at the speed only a fellow salarian could possibly follow, and Kasumi could feel the ship shift under their feet, angling downwards. _Interesting_, she thought, looking out the window. _They're using mass effect fields to keep the water from crushing them. I wonder if their dome, below, uses the same technology, rather than just very sturdy construction and aerogel._

The underwater dome itself was the size of a small city—it could have held a turian boot camp facility, Kasumi realized, in awe. "How many people does this facility house?" the hanar asked, politely.

"At the moment, about fifteen hundred," the scientist replied. "It was built to house a city, eventually, but for the moment, yes, it's a little larger than we really need it to be."

"Your company is very forward-thinking." The translator-generated voice was neutral as always.

"Dalatrass Haddrassa designed the place herself, it's said," the scientist agreed, enthusiastically. "There are large, warmed ponds for nurseries, and even direct access to the sea water, for when we release large quantities of cyanobacteria. Next year, we might even release primitive kelp."

They got a tour, and settled into their appointed rooms. "This one saw several areas only accessible by water," Blasto said, when Kasumi had ensured that there were no listening devices in the vicinity. This one will go investigate."

"I'll follow you and watch your back."

"No, you cannot." The hanar's voice was serene. "Where this one will go, there is neither air nor light. And while Dr. . . . Kesh. . . could swim, the waters, this one suspects, will be cold. This one will say, should this one be caught, that the waters reminded this one of home. Which is, fortunately, another truth."

The hours ticked by, and then there came a tap at the door. Mordin answered it, putting on a very good impression of an addle-pated professor, and blinking rapidly when he saw guards at the door. "Dr. Kesh? I'm afraid there's been an accident."

"Accident? Whatever do you mean?" Mordin looked around. "Is this to do with Deliano? He said he wanted to explore. Something about dark waters calling to him, I think. Typical hanar." He sniffed.

The guard hesitated. "Yes, that's just it. He must have gone into one of the restricted areas outside of the dome. Gotten tangled in some power lines, or something. Please, come with us."

Kasumi slipped out of the room behind them, shadowing Mordin, frightened and furious at the same time. _Has our whole cover been blown? Is Blasto really dead? And how the __hell__ am I going to get out of here, let alone get Mordin out of here, if we __have__ been made?_

Blasto's long, limp body lay on the concrete edge of a pond. Mordin dropped to his knees beside the body, studying it. Kasumi could hear the hum of his omnitool, and knew he was studying the body in other, more covert ways. While he did his job, she did hers. She watched the people around him. Watched the area. Found the hidden cameras surveying the scene. _Interesting. Let's hope no one in the vid control room recognizes a salarian with that kind of cranial scarring._

"Poor fellow," Mordin said, at last. "I suppose he was just too long away from Kahje, and couldn't resist the water." He stood, looking around at the guards. "Is there somewhere in which his body can be preserved, for return to his planet?"

"We'll put it in our morgue." That wasn't one of the guards. Kasumi glanced up, and saw a male salarian hastening nearer. "Dr. Soln Kesh? I'm Kina Pero. Are you by any chance related to Soln Rem?" The male's smile was almost a grimace. "I'm a fan of his work. He's not as interesting as, say, Mordin Solus, but still, Soln Rem does well, for a man standing on the shoulders of a giant."

_Shit, shit, shit, shit. _

Mordin recovered heroically. "Soln Rem is a cousin of mine, yes. We all try to emulate him, but alas, I am just an environmental engineer."

Kasumi backed away, found cover. Counted the security guards. _Ten of them, two of us, and an entire enormous city to get through, find a submersible, and get back to our ship_, she thought. _No, now's not the time for a heroic last stand. _

"I'm sure he'd be flattered to hear that, but really, Dr. Solus, you can drop the pretense," Pero said, smiling more widely now. "We weren't sure who the hanar really was, but _you_ have a face that's fairly recognizable to other salarians, you know. Where's the rest of your team?"

"No other members of the team. Blasto and I were the only ones."

"Oh, come on. Spectres _always_ travel in threes. It's like a human joke about nuns, only, you know, not as funny." Pero shifted his arm slightly, and a nozzle emerged from his forearm, pointing at Mordin, as the guards quickly searched him for weapons.

Mordin glanced around, as if entirely unconcerned. "Are _all_ the people in this facility Lystheni? Numbers seem larger than data had otherwise indicated."

"No, quite a few of them are ordinary, average work-a-day salarians." Pero chuckled. "Any attempts to destroy this facility will _probably_ wind up taking them out, too. But hey. . . collateral damage is _your_ concern. Not mine." He looked up for a moment, as if listening to something. "You're in for a real treat, Dr. Solus. The dalatrass wants to see you. Wants you to meet someone, too."

Kasumi trailed along behind them all, feeling absolutely helpless, but she had all the advantages she needed, really: they didn't know where she was, who she was, or what her capabilities were. All she really needed was time and opportunity, and then she'd get Mordin free. Radio the ship, bounce a message off it to Mindoir. Find a submersible, get the hell out of here. And hopefully be home before Sam ever even knew there'd been so much as a _hiccup_.

_I probably should have told Shep about the pregnancy. But damnit, you __don't__ tell people inside of the first three months. So much can go wrong, it hardly seems right to get people all stirred up. . . . _Kasumi absently found and marked security systems on her omnitool as she followed and she thought. _And if I'd told her, I probably wouldn't be here. Which means that Mordin would have very little chance of getting out of this. So. . . so far, I think I've got a good defense going. It'll be a much better defense when I pull us both out of this, without so much a hair out of place._

_It's going to have to be a really damned good defense, though. Air-tight, in fact. Maybe I can go with the fact that I'm a professional keeper of secrets? Oh, sounds like a name Ruin would love. Yeah, okay, lowest part of the dome. Got to be the dalatrass' quarters. _

"Dr. Solus," said the adult female emerging from the door of her quarters.

"Dalatrass Xana," he said, blinking once. "You look younger than when last I saw you."

"Younger clone," she agreed, nodding. "I am Meve Zana. Xana was the elder clone. You gave us quite a gift, Dr. Solus." She held out her hand, and a cluster of small salarian children gathered near her. Each no more than six, seven months old, all looking up with wide eyes.

_Ah, hell. I really hate being right some days._

**Rellus**

It was the first time in months that he _hadn't_ woken up before the damned alarm even went off, and he reached out blindly now to silence its screeching. . . and then realized that someone else had already done so. Realized that his face was buried in warm, soft hair, smell of his mate's skin. The reaction was immediate, and he bit her shoulder, hauling her back against him as she tried to roll out of their nest.

"_Amatus, _no, we're not on leave. We really do have to get up."

He sighed. "True enough." Rel sat up, looking around, slightly disoriented. The _Kharkhov_ had sent him, Livanus, Lantar, and Sam across to the _Estallus_ in the very wee hours of the morning of Secdus 11. . . June 21, and he'd woken Dara at about 02:30, coming into the room. He'd known he had the right room by the scent in the air, of course, but her grumpy demeanor on being awakened had amused the hell out of him, even as he'd tried to see all the changes another hundred damned days apart had made in her. _No more goodbyes_, he'd promised her silently as he'd shucked off and stowed his armor, every movement habit now.

And once all his gear was properly stowed, they'd said a very proper hello, too. Trying to remember everything that each of them had liked, fading memories suddenly refreshed. Smell and taste and feel of skin, soft prey-sounds abruptly becoming lower, harsher, more predatory. _Good thing I got __some__ sleep before the __Kharkov__ sent us over_.

Then the morning routines took over. Exercise—shared now, with his mate. A shower, breakfast in the mess hall. The _Estallus _had both human and turian cooks, thank the spirits, so everyone, dextro and levo alike, could eat what they wanted, though they _both_ got wild-eyed glances as he took fluffy yellow scrambled hen's eggs and she took fluffy lilac _olorae_ ones, and moved on down the line. "My uncle's right. That really _is_ fun," Rel told her, quietly, as they found a table. Rinus found the seat beside him, as always, just over the line. "First-brother."

"Second-brother."

And now, Rel got his first surprise of the morning, as the Imperator's daughter plopped down across the table from him and Dara. His back straightened just a hint more, and he coughed and said, _"Lieutenant Essedarius. Nice to see you again."_

"Good to see you again, too, Velnaran," she agreed, in English, grinning. He could feel Dara's foot slide behind his ankle, gentle pressure, and acquiesced to that silent signal. _It's okay. Relax._ Kallixta glanced merrily between the two of them, and added, "I know that your wife was disappointed not to see you yesterday, but I trust all is mended now?"

"I think she may have forgiven me." He turned left and glanced down at his little mate. "You have, right?"

"Mostly." Dara agreed, blithely, eating eggs.

"You want more _apologies_? I'm not sure I _can_ apologize more—" Rel grinned as she jabbed at his forearm with a fork. They were both in armor, of course, so it did no good at all.

Rinus started snickering to his right, and Kallixta leaned back, clearly enjoying the by-play. "The resemblance really is uncanny," she said, after a moment's assessment. "None of my brothers look _this_ much alike."

Dara shook her head. "You're blind, Essedarius. They look _nothing_ alike. For starters, Rel is—" She pretended to look between them, comparing, and paused. Let the pause lengthen. "Taller."

"That's our mom's fault," Rinus said quietly, not looking at their side of the table. "She promised to put a brick on his head, and obviously, it fell off." Rel could see his brother's quick glance across the table at Kallixta, quick appraisal of the young officer, and then the glance away. "How many brothers do you have, Lieutenant?" he asked, diffidently.

"Six," she said, cheerfully. "And four sisters."

Rinus' head actually swung up at that. _"Great spirits. _And I thought our family was bad."

"You only have five overall, right? I've seen some of Velnaran's. . . okay, this isn't going to work. There are _three_ of you with that name sitting right there." Kallixta's voice went crisp. "I've seen some of _Dara's_ wedding pictures."

"Yes, but did you see the _good_ ones?" Rinus suddenly seemed to realize that he was bantering too much, and his expression faded back into a blank mask again.

"I do believe I saw even the juicy ones, yes." Kallixta grinned merrily.

Rel looked down at his mate. "We _have_ juicy wedding pictures? There were cameras in the barracks afterwards?"

Down the table, Rasmus was keeping up a running translation for two other marines that Rel vaguely remembered from Dara's unit in boot camp, and was obviously trying very hard not to laugh. They, on the other hand, clearly knew who Essedarius was, and were trying to control their expressions. _This is going to be about as much fun as living on Mindoir, keeping track of who knows what and who's allowed to know what,_ Rel thought for a moment, feeling his mandibles twitch. "_Amatra_, what's your schedule look like?" he asked.

"Med bay in the morning, training with the marines in the afternoons, back to medbay after dinner every other night if we're not ashore, read a hundred pages a night on the nights when I'm not in med bay, crawl into bed and die. Wake up, do it again." Her expression was glum, and he winced a little. _He_ had a lot more downtime than that, or at least, he had. If she was going to be doing that much coursework, he could at least do the same. Or carve. Something quiet that wouldn't distract her. "Speaking of which," Dara said, with a sigh, "Duty calls." She unhooked her foot from around his, gave him a long look, and picked up her tray to depart, stopping along the tables to say hello to her old squad mates as she headed away.

"You'll see more of her than you think," Rinus offered, very quietly. "Those tiny quarters can get _very_ crowded."

"I'll take what I can get," Rel replied, just as quietly. "Essedarius? Velnaran? If you'll excuse me?"

He headed to the cargo hold, which is where he and the marines typically assembled for morning drills. Dara would be missing half of these, but then again, she was also pulling extra shifts in med bay to make up for the hours she'd be otherwise getting as a standard med tech or doctor. Always compromises. Much to his surprise, Sam, Lantar, and Livanus were already there. Rel found a place to sit down, and Livanus started the morning briefing. "We've got a slight change in plans," he announced. "We're heading to a volus colony, Talis Fia, for the moment. Batarian pirate activity's picked up in the immediate vicinity. We've been asked to make it very clear that the volus are still a turian client race. . . and that the human-turian fleet will not stand for batarian incursions in the area. We're unsure as to the number of ships or where they're based, so we'll be looking for them for a bit. In the meantime, we'll be working with you on reviewing breaching protocols. We'll be, hopefully, going across and fighting on _their_ ships this time."

Cheers from the marines who'd been aboard last time.

**Dara**

She'd hurried to the medbay, where she had to change _out_ of armor and into scrubs. It was actually damned weird at this point _not_ to feel enclosed by the tight elasticized undersuit, and her limbs felt strangely free and light when she didn't wear her heavy armor shell. _"Doctor,"_ she said, _"I thought the regs said that special forces, like marines, had to stay in armor at all times while on duty?" _

"_Med techs are the exception. It's hard to sterilize armor when we need to scrub up for surgery. And today, we'll actually be dealing with a nice ruptured Achilles tendon."_

Dara blinked, and realized that they did indeed have a human patient in the med bay. She took his name and age and information, and found that he'd managed this injury during the midwatch. "How on earth did you do it?" she asked. Nice, comfortable English.

The crewman grimaced. "Going to sound idiotic, but I was helping to move supply crates. Hands were full, couldn't see my feet, tripped over the edge of a hatch, and next thing I knew, I was on the ground."

The other med tech, a human woman who introduced herself as Ghada abd-Yasu, arrived, and all three of them scrubbed up, and Dara mostly watched as abd-Yasu administered the local anesthetic and Cimmirian made a small incision along the back of right leg. Dara let her eyes fall into her detail focal range, and watched carefully how Cimmirian began repairing the tendon itself, and provided suction as needed to keep the wound clear of blood so that the doctor could see the tendon clearly. _"All right,"_ the doctor said, eventually. _"Let's see how good your sutures are, Velnaran."_

_Really? On my first damned day? I mean, not that I haven't done this a few times, but that was for Dr. Solus. . . _ Dara swallowed, and, making sure her eyes remained in the right focal range, and started closing up the incision.

"_What's the recommended treatment from this point on?"_

"_Ah. . . immobilization in a cast, with the toes pointing down initially?"_

"_Next time, without the questioning tone, Velnaran. Sounding uncertain around patients is not a way to win their trust."_

"_Yes, Doctor."_ Dara was abashed.

Then a barrage a questions from last night's reading, new questions, more reading. And then back into her armor to head to lunch, relaxing once she saw Rel and the others again, and then to afternoon training. Where her _dad_ and Lantar and Livanus were helping everyone review ship-to-ship combat. She looked past her dad as he walked past her, and he looked past her. No actual eye contact. But she thought she'd gotten a hint of a smile there.

Then dinner, and then there was supposed to be some sort of a social event tonight. Rel grimaced, when she asked him about it. _"Party of sorts. Trying to get all the new people integrated. If you need to read, we can probably use that as an excuse, sweetness."_

"_I do need to read, but your evals and my evals count different things, right? And one of your things is sociability?"_

"_I'm not giving them the only evenings I get to spend with you, even if those evenings largely involve you muttering obscure medical terms under your breath. They can have the nights when you're stuck in medbay anyway."_

"_I'll bring my datapad with me and if Dr. Cimmirian is there, I'll wave it in her general direction. I don't have to go to __all__ of these, and I won't, but this first one's probably important, right?"_

Rel grinned at her. "Fair enough," he said, in English, and getting out of their armor, they headed back upstairs in plain working uniforms.

**Rinus**

"Yes, I'll leave the chip open for some of the party tonight." Rinus shrugged. "I hate these things, so I have no idea why you want to listen in on two hours of me really wishing I were anywhere else in the galaxy, but. . . ."

"It's confusing to me, why organics put a premium on these social events which _everyone_ claims to despise, and yet everyone seems to expect," Laetia replied, staying in green eyeball form for the moment. "I watch the various activities, of course, through my cameras, and have never been able to share the communal aspect. Just as with that music for the Christmas concert on Mindoir, if you'll recall."

"The music was a hell of a lot better than this is going to be," Rinus warned her. "If it were a full turian crew, there might be a mock hunt. With a mixed crew, it's probably going to be really, really, _really_ bad party games that one species doesn't actually like, and the other one doesn't even understand."

"Such as?"

"Human charades. Between the hand-gestures and trying to figure out whether a word is long or short depending on which language it's in, really, who cares. Or, better yet: historical figures. That one's always a winner. " Rinus sighed and left his quarters, heading around the corner to the mess hall, where most of the crew was gathering at the moment, other than a few lucky stiffs who'd drawn the short straw and were still on duty. Rinus had done some mental calculations and decided he couldn't safely offer to relieve one of his subordinates at the Thanix cannon station tonight, not without looking suspiciously unsociable, especially in light of being _chipped_.

As he entered the room, he activated the chip in his mind, allowing Laetia to read his thoughts, but not to send anything his direction for the time being. Crowd of bodies, two species, different scents, different soaps. The odd aromas of human aftershave (why _did_ some of their males wear the most eye-watering odors?) and deodorant, the darker, dryer musk of turian skin, all crowded into a little space. Everyone was off-duty, so technically, rank didn't exist for a while. Although almost everyone was still in uniform, the colors of the uniforms and the insignia on them were being politely ignored for an hour or two.

A long table had been set up, with non-alcoholic drinks and snacks for both species. Rel glanced around, found a wall to put his back up against, and prepared to endure. Laetia had called him an "ISTP" once, and once he'd looked up the Meyers-Briggs terminology, had found it a fairly accurate label. The family extrovert, he was _not._ That didn't, however, prevent Rel and Dara from finding him in fairly short order. _"There you are,"_ Rel said, grinning. _"You look like you need a drink."_

"_I do, but all they have is __caprificus__ punch. That doesn't really count, does it?" _

As they chatted for a moment, Sam circled in and Dara visibly started as her father put a hand on her shoulder. "Did good today, sweetie," he told her amiably. "You ready to hit the ground?"

"I _think_ so."She glanced around. "Should we be talking with you, Dad?"

"What, you find your ol' man embarrassing?" The needling tone was the same for a human or a turian.

Dara laughed. "No, but you are my _favorite_ family skeleton."

"So I should go rattle somewhere else for a while?"

"Rattle wherever you want to, Dad." Dara chuckled, clearly giving up.

Rinus had glanced up with interest. Three Spectres aboard meant they were in for _something_, and while scuttlebutt said they were stomping batarians, he strongly suspected, given the data he'd crunched on the orbital facilities, that they weren't going to be stopping with a batarian base or fleet. The batarians would just be the warm-up, if he was right.

Captain Jallus entered the room, and everyone except the Spectres straightened up. "Relax, everyone," Jallus said. "That's sort of the point of this evening. Tonight, we're going to try something a little different." _Here we go_, Rinus thought, resigned. "We haven't done this in a while, but I _think_ we've finally adjusted the rules of the mock-hunt to where everyone will have some fun."

Every turian's head lifted slightly, going on alert. "You will be divided into two teams, the hunters and the hunted. Hunters will wear a red armband and will be issued paint guns and shackles. The ship has been boarded. It is the hunted's duty to hide, and not be taken. One extremity wound, and you're allowed to keep moving. Two, and you're incapacitated. Chest wounds are kills. If you can overcome a hunter, you _can_ flip them into hunted, if you can talk them into it." Jallus grinned. "You have two hours to defend or take the ship, respectively." A couple of officers were walking around now, tying red bands to various people's arms.

"Well, this should be a hell of a lot more fun than these things usually are," Rinus muttered, a note of enthusiasm creeping into his voice. Then Rel was issued a red arm band, and when Dara was not, Rinus could clearly see the grin that spread across his younger brother's face. "Run now, _amillula_,_"_ Rinus advised.

Dara fled. Rinus, winding up as one of the hunted, did the same. He waited for most of the crew to clear out, and headed first to the Thanix cannons area. Since it was an actual duty station, the chances of someone else using it for a hiding location were slim. However, when he got there, to his surprise, _no one_ was there. Not even the _pilae_ who was _supposed_ to be standing this watch. "Laetia," Rinus asked, quietly. "Where is Pilae Hentorum?"

A slight pause. "Down the hall in the break area," Laetia replied.

"And how long has he _not_ been here?"

"About fifteen minutes."

Rinus walked down the hall, opened the door to the break room, and met the unfortunate _pilae_'s eyes. A centurion with a full head of mad on was _not_ something anyone really wanted to see. _"Pilae Hentorum, has there been a change to the watch rotation?"_

"_No, centurion."_

"_I didn't think so. Which is why I'm wondering why you're not __at your post__."_ Rinus' voice had dropped about twenty degrees and was getting colder by the moment. _"Not to mention, why you didn't get someone up there to cover __your position when you left the futtari guns unmanned._"

The unfortunate pilae swallowed visibly. _"I was just getting a cup of __apha__—"_

"_Ship systems indicate you were away from your post for fifteen minutes. Get back there, now. I want to see your hands touching those consoles, and if you move so much as an inch for the rest of your shift, it'll be a week's pay you'll be docked, not the two days I'm going to be recommending. You __don't__ leave the guns unmanned. __Lives__ depend on that. Now, __move__." _Teeth fully bared, quiet menace. Rinus was not generally a shouter. He didn't _need_ to be.

"Yes, centurion!" Hentorum fled, and Rinus turned around, only to realize that a gun was pointing at him. He blinked.

"I thought I should probably wait until you were done dealing with _real_ things," Kallixta Essedarius, the bare-faced young pilot, commented in English, smiling. "I can be more sporting about this, and step back out in the corridor, though."

"No need." Rinus evaluated the situation in about a second. He held his hands up in front of his chest. Essedarius edged closer, getting her shackles out in her free hand, reached out, got one manacle around his left wrist. . . and, using it, he swung her around, slammed her into a wall, her and her weapon faced away from him, and stripped the gun away easily. As she caught her breath, Rinus grinned at her. "This would make you _my_ prisoner, wouldn't it, lieutenant?" he asked mildly.

She stepped a leg back, trying to hook one of his ankles. _Not bad,_ he thought, and slammed his full weight into her, pinning her where she was, and reached up, shackle dangling from his left wrist, to catch her own left hand and pull it behind her back now, torquing the wrist upwards. Submission hold, used for moving people in and out of crowded places discreetly.

"You've had the same _Mindoir_ training as your brother and Dara?" Her voice was amused, and Rinus blinked. "Yes, I actually know about all that."

_How in the spirits' names __do__ you know? I can't imagine my __ama'fradu__ was dimwitted enough to tell you. And why are we speaking in English, anyway?_ He'd only just noticed that she'd started the conversation in the human language, and he'd followed suit, automatically. "Calleo and Facito, four years. I only get the, ah, advanced training that Rel gets when I go home on leave." He paused. "You have a key for these shackles?"

"Maybe. Why should I give it to you?" She strained a little to get free, and Rinus slammed her back into the wall again. Gently, of course. This was an exercise, a game.

"Because otherwise I will 'shoot' you and take it from your 'corpse.'"

Kallixta produced a key with her free right hand. . . and dropped it on the ground in front of her. Rinus shook his head. "Ah, we're being uncivilized. Bend down and pick it up." He crouched a little, maintaining the painful hold he had on her left arm and wrist.

She threw the damned key now, under one of the vending machines. Rinus started to chuckle. "And would you do that if I were actually _likely_ to do this?" He pantomimed slamming the butt of the paintgun rifle into the side of her head; she actually pretended to stagger, and enjoying the fact that she was really playing her part, as much as he was, Rinus snapped the other half of the shackle to her wrist. "Okay, so be it. You're my prisoner, and since I have the gun. . . .we need a different hiding place."

"I won't make it easy," she warned.

"I'd be disappointed if you did." Rinus shoved her ahead of him out into the corridor, using her as bait, more or less, and then followed, checking around him for errant hunters. Then he used her arm to direct her to one of the emergency stairwells, and pressed her down the stairs, heading for the area of the ship he knew best. Hardly any of the crew besides the weapons techs even knew the torpedo deck _existed_. Half the munitions on the ship were kept there, from bullets to the actual fish. The master-at-arms _hated_ the fact that the munitions and ordinance were kept down here, between the crew deck and engineering, but really, there was no other, better place for it. A cargo hold really wouldn't do.

Unfortunately, some of the rest of his crew had had the same notion, and Rinus wrapped his left arm around the pilot's neck now, pulling her right arm with him, using her body as a shield as he took out several of his own people, much to their consternation. _"Centurion, I'd __love__ a chance to surrender,"_ his _chalsae_, Alcaeus Pirius, offered from behind a stack of torpedoes.

"_Shouldn't have tried to take over my ship then, huh? Come out, hands up. Take off your armband, and I'll accept your parole."_ Once Pirius had done so, Rinus jerked his head at him. _"On your honor, how many others are here?"_

"_Three prisoners of the hunters, two hunters now 'dead', and me. I was the last, centurion."_

"_Good. Go release the prisoners, then bring me your key."_

"Can I surrender, too?" the pilot offered, tipping her head up to grin at him in spite of the loose chokehold he had on her. He hadn't even _registered_ how close she was up against him until that moment; it had all been problem, solution, problem, solution. Now, however, he became _very_ aware of it. And of the fact that, barefaced or not, the slender female was willowy and actually damned attractive. _Nevermind. Problem, solution._

"You tried to shoot me, lieutenant," Rinus pointed out, releasing his hold, but keeping the gun well out of her reach.

"No, I tried to take you prisoner." She chuckled. "And, truth be told, I'd much rather be _with_ you than _against_ you."

"As soon as my _chalsae_ there unlocks my half of the shackles, you'll have a chance to drop your armband, then. Don't do anything stupid. . . lieutenant." Rinus grinned at her.

"I have honor," Essedarius told him, grinning right back.

His _chalsae_ had to step between them to unlock the shackles. Rinus could see her eyes flicker, see her try to figure out if there were _any_ way to turn the situation back in her favor. There wasn't, really, but he applauded her for trying to see her way through anyway. Then, reluctantly, she reached up and took off her armband. "Thank you," he told her, tossing the paper band into the nearby incinerator. "Nice to have you on our side."

In the end, the whole event was called on time. Neither the hunter or the hunters had really won, but everyone had enjoyed it—even the humans, apparently. "Where did you hide, _ama'fradu?_" Rinus asked Dara, once everyone was digging into the refreshments and actually laughing and enjoying themselves.

"There's ductwork under the med bay," she supplied. "I pulled up some tiles, got into my hiding hole, and. . . he found me anyway." She gave his brother a look.

Rel chuckled. "I've told you before, I know your scent, _amatra._ The hardest part was telling what was old scent from fresh scent. I haven't often had to track this way. Come on, we should get going. You said you had reading to do tonight." From the predatory glitter in his brother's eyes, Rinus would have put good money on _reading_ being the last thing on his mind.

"Dr. Cimmirian was in med bay. She said if she'd known it was a full-crew exercise tonight, she'd have known better than to think anyone would get _any_ work done."

Rel grinned. "Even better." He caught her by the wrist, and started to draw her away.

Rinus shook his head, smiling, and, turning to leave himself, caught his _chalsae_ giving him a skeptical look. _"Something on your mind?" _Rinus asked him.

"_It's never good to get too cozy with officers. Even if they are relatives_," Pirius said, gloomily. _"Of course, you're probably going __optio__ at some point, so it'll wind up not mattering much."_

"_You're worried that the fact that I talk with my brother is going to impair the spirit of the weapons crew? Talas'kak. Worry more about why Hestorum wasn't on the __futtari__ guns tonight for fifteen damn minutes. No replacement there, either."_

"_He __what?_" Pirius turned, looking angry. As Rinus' second, the junior crew were _all_ his responsibility.

"_I'm docking him two day's pay and have already torn some of his scales off. The rest, I leave in your capable hands, Pirius."_

As he headed for the door, Essedarius gave him a smile. With his _chalsae's_ concerns ringing in his head, Rinus gave her a very correct nod in return, and headed for his quarters. While turians _didn't_ have quite the fraternization rules of a human ship, there were some. If two people had been plighted or married _before_ one of them had been raised in rank, that was fine. Otherwise, if one mate stayed enlisted, and the other became an _optio_, or a warrant, there would be instant conflict. Beyond that, so long as you weren't in the same department, a relationship _could_ begin between people who were on opposite sides of the enlisted/officer divide. But too _much_ coziness was a bad thing. It made an officer look too approachable. Not enough distance to command, or so thinking went. And it made an enlisted with too many officer friends look like either an arselicker or snobby.

Rinus found his quarters, nodded to his roommate, and started getting ready for bed. Much to his surprise, he only just now realized he'd left the chip on the whole time. He activated it fully, just for a moment. _Get enough data tonight?_

_More than I thought I would._ Laetia's voice was _very_ amused for a moment. _Tell me, have you ever wanted to look at other people's service records?_

_No. _That was actually a fib. He'd been _curious_ to see what was in there many times, but he'd never have gone looking. _And I'm not going to start now._

_As you wish._ Again, that _very_ strong impression of amusement. And then _she_ shut down access to the chip. How interesting.

The next day, they arrived in volus space, and Rinus had plenty of time on his hands while they were scanning for where the batarian base. . . or fleet. . . happened to be. He found his way to the Thanix cannon, relieved the youngster on duty there, and, while keeping an eye on the main guns, got back to work on one of his side-projects. How to jam the damned signal with which the Lystheni were controlling their biotics, in spite of the fact that they were now changing frequencies every few seconds. _Wide band jamming doesn't seem to work, otherwise, when they drop their own jamming buoys, they'd be disrupting their own controls. There has to be a way._

"Centurion?"

Rinus stood hastily as Lieutenant Essdarius stepped past the hatch. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Oh, stand easy." She looked at him steadily. "Macenus sent me down here to talk with whoever was on duty about managing the effective range for the weapons systems. Apparently, you and he have had a few conversations about this over the last year or so?"

"At some length, yes," Rinus admitted. Some of those conversations had been _heated_. "The pilot has to manage both offense and defense, and Macenus tends to use range defensively, getting out of striking range of an enemy. I understand why—especially with homing weapons, rather than purely ballistic ones, but that also puts _us_ out of range to retaliate. We've. . . discussed it frequently."

"And what do you think he should be doing, instead?" She caught his hesitation. "No, speak freely. I need to learn."

Rinus nodded. "He and I have differences of opinion on engagement strategies. We _both_ know that that answer is, however: it depends on the enemy. Since the cyclonic shields have the unfortunate tendency of going down all at once, instead of being thicker in some regions than others, once the shields are down, they're _gone._ In my opinion, he could be doing acrobatics, avoiding hits, or at least catching them on thicker portions of the ablative hull, while keeping us in firing range. Unless, of course, the enemy has homing weapons or can strip the ablative armor in one or two hits. Then yes, we absolutely do need to be running like hell whenever they're ready to fire at us." _Like those __futtari_ _Lystheni. _"Macenus' last tour before the _Estallus_ was as a helmsman on a cruiser. He doesn't take advantage of the maneuverability of the frigates nearly as well as I'd like to see."

Kallixta laughed. "He did say you're known for speaking your mind."

"When asked, yes, lieutenant." Rinus gave her a rueful grin.

"The very first thing one of the marines told me when I came aboard was 'please don't do acrobatics when we're repelling boarding parties.'" She mimicked Rasmus' voice very well.

Rinus snorted. "Young Cadius there is just barely blooded, and young bloods like to bitch when they don't have nice, straight lines to deal with. But the marines _are_ trained to deal with high-g maneuvering. _You_ worry about keeping the ship in one piece, so the rest of us have someplace to stand while we're shooting at things. Torpedo range is very short on the Javelins. One to two kilometers." He saw her wince. "Yeah, that's why the pilot needs to be _sharp_, to avoid collisions when you're maneuvering at that high a speed, that close in. The Thanix cannon has a greater range. One to ten kilometers. Maximum effective range _does_ mean much less accuracy, though. The closer you get us, the better chance I have to _hit_ anything."

"I thought you had a reputation for caution."

Rinus gave her a look. "You've been talking to the ship's AI, lieutenant?"

"Laetia? Yes, a bit."

He shook his head. "I'm very by the book when it comes to ordnance disposal and maintenance and the like. When it comes to combat, yes, I'm aggressive, and I don't apologize for it. All the teeth in the world don't do us a damn bit of good if we can't _use_ them. Teeth aren't for decoration."

"So what you're saying is, my job is to get us close enough and keep us in one piece, and your job is to bite?"

Rinus thought about it. "Yeah. Pretty much."

"I think I can handle that." She turned to leave.

"Lieutenant? May I ask you something?"

"That _does _seem to be the way it works."

Rinus frowned, not understanding the statement. Kallixta smiled. "Yes, by all means."

"Why are we speaking English?"

"Might it not be that I need the practice to interface with the humans on the crew?"

Rinus caught the way it had been phrased. Hypothetically. His expression turned dubious. "You're fluent, lieutenant."

"So are you."

"Family." He shrugged.

"The same might be said for me." She smiled. "Let us just say that I have my reasons, Velnaran. And they are good ones." She turned again, and this time, he didn't stop her as she stepped back through the hatch.

But now, she'd officially become a puzzle. And Rinus _loved_ puzzles.


	64. Chapter 64: Perspiration

**Chapter 64: Perspiration**

_**Author's note:**__ So here I am, writing chapter 63, and Garrus says, "spirits, not the batarians again, what do we have to do to get them to put up or shut up?" and Shepard says, in a tone of gloom, "Yeah, I'm expecting all-out war in 2-3 years," and suddenly. . . . __Part IV: The Spirit of Victory__, pops into my head. I don't know if I'll write it, but it __would__ get the Young Guns (Dara, Rel, Eli, Siara, Makur, Rinus, and Kallixta, and hell, even Serana) out into the world, and let them develop from little baby __dachae__ into badasses. . . . so, we'll put that into the "we'll see" category._

_In other notes, ye gods, the vote currently stands at 35-3, as people have so far overwhelmingly asked for Eli to have a visible bootcamp. He's. . . blushing. He had no idea he'd grown on people to this extent. Neither, in fact, had I. He started off life as one of Lantar's challenges/the things real people with real lives and real jobs have to deal with every day, and very quickly took on a life of his own. . . the more so once I got him out from Dara's shadow. (Who also started off life as one of the things Sam has to cope with on a daily basis.)_

_For those who were wondering why Kasumi made the decisions she did last chapter, I'll be honest: I went back and forth, writing it three different ways. First, I wrote it that she hinted, Shepard understood it, and they said "okay, maternity leave's in seven months, but in the meantime, you can do light investigative work, just stay out of sight." Then I realized that if Shep gave the okay for that, and Kasumi got in trouble, Sam would, with some justification, try to remove Shepard's head from her shoulders. That's not actually a fight I want to write. Also, Shep would be dead, dead wrong to let Kasumi go into harm's way, and Shep __knows__ better than that. Kasumi probably should know better, but she's a professional and personal keeper of secrets._

_Besides, Sam needs to win __one__ argument with Kasumi at some point in his life. Poor guy hasn't yet. Every argument he's had with her, usually regarding Dara, he's lost or given in on. Throw the guy a bone, right?_

_Finally, don't worry __too__ much about Blasto. I was wavering on him, but the challenge of writing a hanar Spectre that people won't laugh at (too much) is irresistible. ;-)_

_Onwards!_

**Elijah Sidonis**

Lantar was off someplace in the galaxy, doing Spectre work, and that left just his mom and Caelia to say goodbye to on June 30. It was harder than Eli had thought it would be, and he had to swallow hard, seeing the ever-present worry in his mom's eyes deepen. . . even though he could see a little pride there, too. "I'll write," he promised, leaning down to give her a kiss. He'd been taller than her for years now, but now she was _tiny_, which was still kind of a shock, given all the years he'd spent looking up at her. Then he bent down, scooped Caelia up, and gave her a couple of quick tosses in the air to make her giggle, and told her, solemnly, "Be good for Mom, okay, Duck?"

"Okay, 'Lija!" It was _still_ the best she could do with his name, and Eli actually thought he'd probably miss it when she got around to pronouncing it right.

"Be careful," his mom said, walking him to the door. "And be safe."

"Safe as houses, Mom. Don't worry." He kept his smile in place, playing at being relaxed. He'd found that helped _her_ relax, and he knew damned well she didn't need any stress right now.

He hefted his bag over his shoulder and strode down to the waiting groundcar, where Lin and Tel were already aboard. He looked back once, to wave, and then looked resolutely ahead.

Lin and Tel, were, fortunately, good distractions. "Spirits above and below," Telinus said, after a moment. "What happened to your _fringe?_"

Eli chuckled. "Shaved it off." He hadn't quite gone down to the skin on his scalp, but he'd taken the guard off the hair razor his mom had used for years to cut his hair, and had scraped everything down to a bare stubble. "Should be a _hell_ of a lot cooler for me on Palaven. Dara was saying she'd wished she'd done this herself, and our females tend to be a _lot_ more attached to their hair then our males are." _Mostly because human men have the annoying tendency to go bald. We kind of __can't__ be attached to our hair._ He alone of the three of them was traveling in his armor, simply because it made for one less thing to have to carry. Plus, he wouldn't need to change _into_ it, once he hit the ground.

They had a commercial flight to Palaven; not that crowded, and a little slow, because of the haul to and from the relays, but there was only one relay to go through, because Mindoir and Palaven were on the dark-matter relay network. They all sat in the same row, laughing and playing games on their omnitools; three young males, however close to adulthood, made for a bit of horseplay, certainly. Eli was aware of the glances he got, as much for his tendency to slip fluidly from turian to English and back again in conversation, as for the clan-paint on his face. But the turians on their flight glanced between him and his friends, saw the complete acceptance by his friends, and didn't say a word. Frowned a bit, but didn't say anything.

None of them would admit to nerves, of course, but simply having each other around _did_ bolster their morale. But Eli was also certain that _none_ of them slept on the flight there. _He_ certainly didn't.

They filed up to the huge gate area of the Dacian boot camp facility, which only Eli had visited before, and he could _feel_ his two friends starting to pull themselves in. It was. . . odd. Linianus had a relaxed, open, expansive personality; Telinus was quieter, more reserved. But both of them, in this long line of turians seemed to draw inwards. Hiding themselves, in a way, he supposed.

The clerk at the front had apparently dealt with humans before, and the equipment didn't even chirp a protest at Elijah's handprints or blood type. _They've ironed out some of the kinks that Dara mentioned,_ Eli realized, with some relief. _There's been at least one boot camp session since she went through, so maybe they've had a few more humans go through, too._

The med techs took his height and weight—6'3", or 1.93 m, and 170 pounds, or 77 kg. He hadn't realized he'd grown another inch, though that explained why he'd had to adjust his armor buckles yesterday morning. And he _fully_ expected to put on weight here, too. 170 was _skinny_ for a 6'3" frame. He knew that Sam, at 6'4", weighed around 225. Then again, Sam _was_ twenty-five years his senior. _A full silverback gorilla_, Eli thought, snickering under his breath at the random thought.

"_Squad 345. Almstedt, Freja. Pellarian, Linianus.__Phalactus,_ _Minos, Sidonis, Elijah. Serinian, Brennia._ _Temporary squad leader: Sidonis. Form up, follow the red line to barracks Panis-Lanura 7."_

_Shit. One of those names is __awfully__ familiar, _Eli thought, a little grimly. _Might not be the same guy. Would be __just__ my luck, though._

Telinus swore when he realized that he'd been split off into a different squad from them. _"S'kak,"_ he said, gloomily. _"Same barracks, at least. But the two of you get to be roommates. And Sidonis __starts__ as squad leader."_

"_Yeah, right, some privilege," _Eli snorted, giving Tel a wrist-clasp. _"We'll be right next door, sounds like."_

"_We're there if you need us," _Lin agreed, and then they were moving off.

He and the other two had _long_ since worked out that Eli was going to grab a hammock and one of them would grab the nest directly under his, assuming they wound up in the same squad, to ward off hazing attempts. A little alliance, already in place. Eli had figured that he'd wind up in the same barracks as any other human candidates. Hadn't thought any of them would be in his room to start with, and _really_ hadn't figured on any of them being female. She was tall, whoever she was, but, like him, she was in armor, and thus, he had an impression of blue eyes, pale skin, and little else. _This is going to be a little awkward_, Eli thought, a little grimly. _Of course, if Minos Phalactus is the same one I remember from Bastion, __awkward__ isn't going to be the half of my problems._

Fortunately, or unfortunately, the drill centurions called them out into the hallway very quickly. The drill centurions were every bit what he'd expected them to be, and yep. . . .they knew he was a Spectre's son. _"So, yet another Mindoir recruit,"_ was the sneer, and Eli felt Linianus stiffening next to him, waiting for a similar attack. _"Three of you, in fact. But you, human. . . you do understand that family and friends mean nothing here, yes?"_

"_Yes, drill centurion."_ No big surprise there.

"_Think you've got the teeth to wear our paint?"_

_Oh, that's a new one. No good answer here. "Yes, drill centurion."_ _Well, that'll get most of the barracks after me._ His grin almost broke through. _Yeah, yeah. Get on with it and give me the pushups already. I know they're coming._

At the end of the speech, however, the drill centurion added, briskly, _"I'm sure that our __guests__ will be happy to know that this barracks, and this barracks only, has had additional radiation shielding installed in the roof and the walls. You will not require radiation barriers at night, although, if you're a heavy sleeper, I would still advise that you wear a suit." _

_That__ sounds uncomfortably like someone, last session, didn't wear a suit at night and got carried outside in their sleep for a massive dose of radiation. I don't care if the sun's out or not, there's still background radiation in every solar system, shit, cosmic rays and everything else, that the magnetosphere protects people from. That's not hazing, that's attempted fucking muder._ Eli kept his face expressionless, though.

The centurion went on, _"The sparring yard for this barracks cluster also has radiation shielding, so that when you are practicing, you will not need radiation suits. And the cafeteria for this barracks cluster has also had radiation shielding added, though as you walk from building to building, I strongly advise that you keep your armor on. Is that clear?"_

"_Yes, drill centurion!" _Eli picked up another voice, further down the hall, answering that one. He couldn't look, but the voice was male, and accented.

Back into their rooms they went, for a bit, anyway, before they'd be getting ready for their initial five kilometer sprint. Eli shrugged. He was squad leader for the first week, and he'd make the most of it. _"Before we have to get out there and run, I'd like each of you to introduce youselves. Pellarian, if you'd begin? Name, home, a little background?"_

Lin chuckled. _"Linianus Pellarian. Born on Palaven, most recently a resident of Mindoir. My father is a subject matter expert in high energy explosives, and my mother is a xenobotanist. I'm first-son of my family." _ He shrugged. For a turian, his Eddessan colors were self-explanatory; upper right and lower left quarters of his face blue, the rest blank.

"_Brennia Serinian_," the turian female introduced herself; she wore a full red mask of facepaint, and had a soft way of speaking, elongating her vowels. _"Macedyn, just like the paint says._" She looked down and away, a clear tell from a turian. She was uncomfortable, and didn't want to say more.

The human female had taken off her helmet for the moment; she had ice-blond hair, cropped to the chin. "Freja Almstedt," she said. "I don't speak turian very well yet." Her accent in English was light, and to Eli's ears, exotice. Carefully, in turian, she repeated, _"My turian is very bad yet. The squad leader speaks very good."_ In English, she went on, "I am from Stockholm, in Sweden, and represent the Alliance Navy today."

Eli's eyebrows rose. He knew that Sweden rarely sent any of its national troops into the Systems Alliance in general, so Freja was unusual on a number of levels. "Nice to meet you," he said, politely.

There was a harsh snort from the last remaining member of the squad. Unfortunately, Minos Phalactus _was_ a familiar face. Solid green paint, slightly dull look to eyes that should be predatory and sharp. And it was clear that Phalactus recognized _him_, too. "Sidonis," the male said, showing teeth. "I remember you as being _shorter_. Not to mention, easily bruised."

_Yeah, that was always easier when it was three or four of you against one of me, _Eli thought, grimly. Phalactus had run with a bad crowd on Bastion. Mostly bullies and a couple of hallex-heads, they'd clearly been egging each other on, falling into a pack mentality easily. _"Phalactus,"_ Eli replied, in the turian he'd spent eighteen months polishing. _"I trust you remembered to pack your honor as well as your toothbrush."_

Lin, beside him, stiffened a bit, eyes narrowing as he picked up on the hostility in the air. _"Is there a problem, Squad Leader?"_ he asked, calmly.

"_Oh, listen to this. Squad Leader! Elijah Sidonis, the little __s'kak__ we kicked up and down the corridors of Bastion, has a lickarse already. I see you're finally wearing your father's paint. Decided that taking it up the cloaca from a turian wasn't so bad, after all?" _It was nothing short of a direct challenge, of course.

Eli and Linianus exchanged a glance, and both of them started to laugh, which probably startled the _crap_ out of everyone in the room. _"Now I understand why the Odessa squad didn't __bother__ you,"_ Lin told Eli between gasps for air. _"They really __didn't__ have any imagination at all!"_

"_None whatsoever," _Eli agreed, though internally, he was seething.

Phalactus was bewildered, he could clearly see. Laughter was _not_ the reaction he'd expected. Insults had always had one of two results before. Either Eli had turned around, lost his temper, and tried to fight back—never with good results—or Eli had shrugged and tried to move away, which is when Phalactus and the others had usually closed in on him. Eli just grinned now, showing teeth, clearly visible since his helmet was off. _You don't have allies this time. I do. And I've had eighteen months more training now than what Lantar was able to show me, when he was working forty on, forty off._

"_How's your mother? Does she still think a turian male is better than a human?" _Phalactus tried again. _"And your little half-breed sister, too?" _

"_My mom's fine. Thanks for asking. Caelia's well, too, and I've got another brother or sister on the way,"_ Eli replied, easily, and then turned to the rest of his little squad. Fortunately, the turians, other than Lin, probably couldn't read human facial expressions that well. They _probably_ wouldn't realize that Phalactus had hit one of his sore points, in even _mentioning_ his mother and sister. _"I'm Elijah Sidonis. My father is Lantar Sidonis, my mother is Eleanor Sidonis. He's former B-Sec, and she's an environmental engineer. He adopted me into his clan by the full __ascio__ rites, when he bound himself to my mother by the rites of the hand. They just took their __tal'mae__ rites half a year ago. Yes, I have a half-and-half sister. Yes, I wear his colors."_ He grinned, half-threat, half-amusement. _"And for the next week, apparently, I'm squad leader."_ Eli paused. _"So, Phalactus? Bite me._" It was even more insulting in turian than in English. _"If you have the teeth, anyway."_

The first week went by in a blur. He got letters from his mom and from, much to his surprise, little Serana, too, which he chuckled over and shared with Linianus. _"You should write back,"_ Lin told him, passing the datapad back up to Eli in his hammock. _"She needs encouragement for when it's her turn. Besides, you owe her for the language lessons._" Lin then went back to reading his own mail. With three siblings of his own, he got a lot of mail.

Eli considered it for a moment. He couldn't really write to his mother. There was absolutely no reason to worry her, so he kept his letters to her as calm and undetailed as possible. To Serana, however, he could vent a little. She was very sharp for eleven, and it wasn't as if she hadn't heard a few boot camp stories before.

_July 11, 2192_

_Asperitalla—_

_You know, I heard Rel call Dara that once. You've never objected to it, so you're going to have to tell me if 'little fierce one' is offensive or not. If I is. . . I'll __probably__ stop. Then again, your squawking is very amusing, so I might just keep it up anyway._

_Lin tells me I owe you boot camp horror stories in return for all your patience with my horrible manglings of the turian language. Keep in mind, I write letters like I write essays. Slowly. Each of these might take me a couple of days. It helps if I have a couple of points in mind to start with though, so if you have questions, ask them, so I know what the hell to say._

_Let me introduce you to my squad, first. Tel's in the next room over. Lin's got the bunk under me—yes, your battle-brothers are still watching each other's backs. Turians get mystical over the damndest things, little one. Besides us, there's Brennia, who's from Macedyn. Cute little thing, but has __sticky__ fingers. I got back from the hygiene facilities early last night, and caught her going through the lockers. Oh, she did __not__ like being caught. I told her if I ever caught her doing it again, she'd be on report. She cringed back in on herself—I've never seen a turian who looked so much like a whipped dog before—and __apologized__. Said she'd been a part of a pick-pocketing gang on Macedyn for a long time, mostly targeting tourists, and had learned to open biometrically locked doors as part of her 'work' for them. Said she liked knowing if she were __safe__ from the people around her, too. _

_Had no __idea__ what to say to that, little one. Managed to blurt out something to the effect that she could trust me, and she could trust Lin, and past that, we'd all take care of each other. She perked up then. Since she was looking a bit less whipped, I asked her if she could teach __me__ how to do what she did. . . but that we'd only practice on her locker and mine. Shh. _

_Then there's the human female, Freja Almstedt. Swedish, so blond hair, blue eyes. Apparently trained as a commercial pilot for a few years before enlisting in the Alliance Navy, so she's a lot older than I am. She also showed me a picture of her girlfriend back home. And a past boyfriend. And just some other plain old friends. Lin was slightly confused, and to be honest, __I__ had no idea what to say besides 'they all look like nice people' and pretty much left it at that. I don't know whether knowing that piece of information makes the barracks situation __more__ or __less__ awkward than it might otherwise have been, but I've found a couple of pieces of ceiling to focus on, and know the stains on them very well now. Lin says that human visual fixation is amusing, but that's coming from a species of sight-hunters, so I keep telling him he can't __possibly__ tell me turians don't __look__ at each other. He says it's all about the waist, I tell him that legs are far superior to waists, and by that point, we're usually laughing and someone wants to know what the joke is, and then we kind of have to make stuff up. _

_Anyhow, the last member of our happy little band is Minos Phalactus, and I'd take it as a courtesy, __asperitalla__, if you __didn't__ mention that name to my mother anytime soon. He ran with a bunch of hallex-heads at my school on Bastion, and seems intent on trying to pick up right where he left off. Fortunately for me, he spent his first three days detoxing from all the __s'kak__—'scuse the language, but it's true—he's swallowed or snorted the past couple of years. He actually threw up after the 40k run. Happy to say, none of us humans did._

_Yes, there's one more human along this row of barracks. Chayyim ben-Mair. Have only talked with him in line at the cafeteria, but he's about the same age as Freja, around 20. Israeli, actually. Go look it up on a map, __asperitalla__, I'll wait. He's in Tel's barracks, and Tel says he's okay. _

_I can hear you asking already, "Eli, get to the good stuff. Tell me about who's squad leader. Tell me your marks in the first week." Well, I got my name picked out of the hat for first squad leader. Lin and I have been pretty much neck and neck all week, and I tell you, neither of us cared which of us continues next week. Spending a month memorizing the regs has come in handy. Lin spent all his time chasing Tulliana's tail instead, so he's playing catch-up right now. So, yeah, already passed this week's bookwork with flying colors. We're evenly matched in shooting. He outruns me, of course, and we've been evenly matched in sparring. Mostly since we know each others' fighting styles so damned well. Freja has basic self-defense, but that's it; Brennia knows some pretty dirty street fighting moves, but she likes knives, and those aren't allowed on the mats. And of course, there's good old Minos. _

Eli paused in his writing, a little surprised that he was getting so carried away. Even his school essays hadn't been this long, nor had they ever been so easy to write. He thought back to tonight's sparring, and grinned. It had been a thing of beauty, really. He couldn't have _asked_ for a better way to exorcise the memories of Bastion. Minos had recovered from the forty-k run, after all, and had been back to his old self. Eyes a little glazed, clearly not feeling much pain. _He thinks the Hallex improves his reaction time and makes him tougher_, Eli realized. _All it's doing is preventing him from feeling it when he gets hurt. Where the hell is he keeping that shit? He had the damn DTs for three days this week. Did he find a new supply, or was he just saving up his pills somewhere? _He'd exchanged a look with Lin. They were going to have to _do_ something about this. "You want to go first?" Eli asked Lin, tiredly. "You can beat him, easy. You have been all week."

Linianus had nodded quickly, and had stepped onto the mats. Minos had squared off with him, and Lin had stuck to pure turian style, beating Minos handily. Lin had learned a little here and there from Sam and the other Spectres, of course, but he generally only used it as something of a surprise. He _liked_ the pure turian style, and it suited his lanky body and speed admirably.

Minos had stayed on the mats, and then Eli had stood up to face him. No rad suits. Eli had bare feet with ankle wraps on, shorts, and a shirt, soaked through already with sweat. _"Slimy like a salarian,"_ he'd taunted.

Eli had chuckled, and taken the shirt off, balled it up, and thrown it in the corner. _Yep, come on, look at the monkey,_ he thought. _Get a load of the alien._

Minos clearly thought that nothing had changed. He'd muttered taunts, which Eli had ignored, launched punches, which Eli at first had caught and blocked with his forearms, like a boxer, snapping his forearms to the side to redirect the force, and had moved in on the turian in the wake of each strike, hard jabs, finding exposed ribs, launching kicks of his own into the male's knees, shins, ribs—using his shins and knees to do it, too. Once he even planted a knee solidly in the male's abdomen, backing him up. Minos didn't even _feel_ it. _Good lord, how much Hallex did the dumb shit __take__? _Eli wondered. Hallex created feelings of euphoria in its users—intensifying some sensory inputs, but also delaying the rate at which synapses actually fired in the brain. The result was a feeling as if time stood still for the user, as if everything around them was very slow, and they had forever to react to it, or forever to enjoy one pulsing note from a favorite song.

Minos had shaken it off and come right back at Eli, lashing out with kicks. Punches can be blocked, but kicks should be redirected, if possible, Eli had learned, so he either passed the kicks beyond his body, side-stepping, or simply reached out, with the same reaction time and reflexes that had made him a _great_ handball goalie, and simply grabbed Minos by the base of the spur. Lifted the foot up high enough that Minos struggled to hold his balance. Held him there. Looked him in the eye. _"You know what? I have no idea why I used to be scared of you. You're a stupid shit, you know that?"_ And then a very hard shin kick to the far leg, releasing his grip on the near leg, followed by an elbow to the jaw as Minos fell.

Then he'd walked away. Picked up his shirt, pulled it back over his head, grimacing. It was now _cold_ and wet, as opposed to just wet. "_Serinian," _he said to Brennia, _"I have a task for you, back in the barracks, if you'd be so good as to help me."_

Minos had been _pissed_ when he'd returned to the barracks to find his locker open. Eli, Lin, and Brennia had _also_ tossed his bunk. Brennia had a _good_ eye for hiding places, and told Eli where to look. _'Think we found it all?"_ Eli asked her.

"_Hard to say,"_ she replied, but she'd met his eyes, and he counted that progress. _"You're giving it all to the drill centurions?"_

"_Regs say to, yes." _And Eli _knew_ those regs. Backwards, forwards, and sideways.

"_How will you explain how we got it all?" _She sounded worried.

Eli looked at her. _"In his addled state, he left his locker open, of course. Otherwise, how would we have known where to look?"_

Brennia had _blinked._ Lin had winced a little. Eli looked up at Lin. _"We couldn't have found it all without her help."_

Lin shrugged. _"That's not the problem. She's a squad mate, and she's earned our trust. I'd protect her with my life." _He pointed at Eli. _"Much more worried about __you__."_

Brennia has simply stared from one to the other of them as if she'd never heard or seen anything like it before.

"_It can't __possibly__ be worse than going to my father about. . . some of the things I've had to talk to him about."_

Lin snorted. _"It's your funeral, squad leader."_

Eli continued typing, rapidly, _And that's pretty much where it ended. The centurions took the Hallex and did ask me how we'd obtained it. I said that I'd noticed that the locker was open, and could just see the pill bottle inside. Given his condition at sparring, it had seemed relevant. They kind of nodded. I don't think for a moment that they bought it, but I think they're waiting to see what Lin and I do with everything._

_Oh, yeah, and squad leader for Week 2? Lin and I tied. Needed a tie-breaker match, and the drill centurions told us to stop playing around and actually fight. Exact words were, "We've seen the dancing and weaving stuff before from the other __Mindoir__ candidates, but let's see what __you're__ capable of." So, yeah, full-on __muay thai__, at full speed, but not full contact. Five goddamned rounds. I hurt, Lin hurts, and you know who the only person in the med bay is? Minos. Oh, yeah, and I held onto squad leadership by one damned point. _

_Sorry this letter's so long, __asperitalla__. Give my regards to Rel and Dara, and tell Dara she should have __waited__. I'm sitting here in my hammock enjoying an almost-cool breeze at the moment. Yeah, she's gonna kill me for that._

Week two crawled by. Eli was at a disadvantage for it, because he'd grown up on a space station, but eighteen months of crawling, running, and climbing through Mindoir's forests and mountains had given him a better appreciation of the outdoors than, say, Minos had. And Minos was back from his detox in med bay. His absence the first three days of the week wasn't being counted against their squad score, but Eli had a strong feeling that the male was now deliberately sabotaging his own scores in revenge. Oh, he qualified. Barely. Eli and Lin had a few hushed conversations about it, but neither of them knew quite what to do about it. _"Remember that conversation we had about what laws are for?"_ Lin asked before lights-out one night.

"_Yeah. Prevention or prosecution, basically." _Eli looked down. _"Trouble is, no actual offense has been committed."_

"_He's deliberately trying to hurt the rest of us," _Lin replied.

Freja had cleared her throat. "If I might say something?" Her understanding of turian was a lot better than her ability to speak.

"Hey, I'm open to ideas," Eli told her.

"You can motivate people either positively or negatively. Positive motivation works better. At least, in humans it does."

Lin snorted. _"And what's going to motivate him, other than a fresh bottle of what we confiscated?"_

Eli grimaced. _"He's already got a black mark on his record. A word from his squad leader __could__ help balance it out."_ He shook his head. _"He hasn't shown me anything that deserves that, though."_

Brennia interposed, _"But if we win the squad leadership at the end of this week, you could move him to a different barracks, right? Give him sort of a fresh start?"_

Eli and Lin traded dubious glances. _"You make the offer, Lin,"_ Eli told him. _"He's not going to take it from me."_

"_Yes, battle-brother."_ The term had become a running joke between them, and Lin often used it when the centurions weren't around to hear him _not_ say 'squad leader.'

"Why _do_ you call each other that?" Freja asked. The human woman was friendly enough, in a distant sort of way.

"_Say it in turian," _Lin told her, firmly. _"You won't get better if you don't practice."_

"_I'm not used to language taking so long to be clear. Speak English, Swedish, French, German. All easy. Turian is. . . very different._" Freja paused. _"Why do you call each other brother?"_

"_Because we are,"_ Lin said, shrugging. _"Blooded together in battle. Oh, he had half a vorcha shared with his battle-sister a year before then, but he keeps saying that doesn't __count__."_

"_It doesn't. It didn't die from the knife in the eye. It died when Dara blew its __futtari__ head off. She gets the credit there."_

Brennia's mouth had fallen open, and she rolled up, staring at Linianus for a moment. _"You're blooded?"_

Eli could see Lin start to grin, and, barely even looking, reached down and whacked his friend over the fringe with his datapad. "Hey!" Lin objected.

"I know it makes turian girls go weak at the knees—"

"Oh, and the fact that you speak fluent asari high-tongue _doesn't_ make human girls go weak at the knees?"

"Not that I noticed back home. They look at the clan-paint and get nervous."

Freja sat up now, herself. "You speak asari high-tongue?" She stared at Eli, and he shifted, a little embarrassed.

"Yeah."

"Say something in it."

Eli looked at her blankly. "It's never possible to think of something random when someone says 'say something,'" he complained, dryly.

"It can be anything. I just want to hear."

Eli sighed. It was sort of a talking dog trick. _"Hiyae'uelleo sai'kaea, n'ka'uelleo wea; sano'ra'eaulo; hiyae'uelleo lana'ha sai'kaea, a weo diya'da 'ealea. Hiyae'uelleo lana'ha sai'kaea, a weo kala'ha_'_ealeo y'asaea tia sai'kaea'yilo, a maru, lapea'eaul." _

_I had a fair one, and failed to grasp her, and thus, we drifted away; I had another fair one, and she died. I had another fair one, and she did harm to the she-who-was my fair one in times past, and thus, we are sundered._

So much more precise in asari. So much more meaning, packed into fewer words. Fluid, poetic words. Elegance of thought, economy of meaning.

Freja just about fell out of her hammock. Eli chuckled under his breath. "What did that mean?"

"Just the story of my life."

"How did you learn that?" the human woman demanded. "It sounded _perfect._"

"It was a gift from an asari girl I knew." Eli intended to say absolutely nothing more than that, and looked down at his datapad. Kella's memory still hurt.

"She taught you her language? You were-" Freja suddenly looked abashed. "I'm sorry. That sounds like I'm digging."

Eli shrugged. "She gave me the language, yes. We were _sai'kaea_ to one another. Fair ones."

Lin snorted. "_Amatarae_."

"Sure, but not _comparae." _Beloveds, but not mates. Shifting languages on the fly, Eli explained, "_Marai'ha'sai_ is 'more-than-fair,' which is the highest level of bonding and sharing for an asari. The one with whom all things are shared, in every way. _Compara_, _marai'ha'sai_, same thing, really." Eli glanced up, and realized Brennia had been left out in the cold in this discussion, and Freja was still staring at him, open-mouthed.

Uncomfortable, Eli buried his nose in his datapad, adding now, _"Lin, Serana says for me to hit you over the head for her."_

"_Aw, little fierce one's flirting with me long-distance."_

"_She __did__ think you smelled good."_

"_Yeah, but you're the one she __bit.__"_

"_I was just closer, that's all."_

"_You think that's going to make a difference if Rel ever finds out his little sister fixed on you?"_

Eli winced. _"How much do I have to pay you __not__ to tell him?"_

_July 31, 2192_

_Asperitalla__—_

_Well, you shouldn't have told me you actually __like__ the nickname. Now you know I'm just going to wear it into the ground, and you'll hate it inside of four months. You'll be happy to know we're at the end of Week 3 here, and it's still going fairly well. Lin and I have devised a sort of divide-and-conquer strategy for dealing with opposing squads. We fight each opponent back-to-back, so they get used to either his stuff or mine, and then they instantly see something else, and it confuses them. Plus, we wear them __out__. Seems to be working so far. Would __love__ to try this on multiple opponents at once, but the centurions aren't about to allow anything like that. Lin and I took out the leader of 346, and since Tel was in that squad, moved him in here with us where he damned well belongs. Moved Minos to the next room over, and breathed a sigh of relief. Now I can stop sleeping in a rad suit. Yeah, Dara's going to kill me when she hears that._

_Tel's doing okay. The heat isn't too bad, so his asthma isn't acting up too much. I think it's mostly the pollen that kills him here on Palaven, and while it's still monsoon season, nothing's blooming yet. Give it another month, though, I'm told, and everything on the planet is going to explode into bloom. Simultaneously. I'm. . . kind of not looking forward to that. I told him that by then, he'll be issued armor, and then he can sleep in his breather if he needs to. Believe it or not, he __hadn't__ thought of that. _

_Don't tell my mom, but if L. or Rel or Dara ask, yeah, the navigation exercise was a pain in the ass this time around. Rel got fake __acrocanth__ tracks, Dara got real live __villi__. . . and you know what Lin and I got? __Talas'kak__, and I'm not even kidding here. More to the point, there was a whole __herd__ of __talashae__ in between our squad and our objective, and we really did have to detour all the way around the damn things. I think back two years or so, and I remember how impressed I used to be that L. ate __dinosaur__ for dinner, and now I've crept around the edge of a clearing, trying very, very hard not to get __charged__ by one of the damned things. One of them __did__ charge us, and got its damn fool head stuck in a __galae__ tree's trunk for its pains. It started bellowing, which set off the whole goddamned herd. I went up a tree, so did Freja, and then I've got three turians looking up at us like "Hey, monkeys, what about __us__?" Dropped a rope and yanked the other three up as fast as we could, and held on for dear life each time one of the damned __talashae__ rumbled by and bumped the tree, making all the branches bob and weave and sway._

_Longest two hours of my life, and I have a deep appreciation for my ancestors and how they must have hidden from saber toothed cats and deinotherium. I have no idea if I spelled that right, little one. Can't look it up on the extranet, either. Early relative of the elephant. Look it up. Anyway. . . three horns, 13,000 pounds, and very bad eyesight. Whose good idea was that? They __finally__ calmed down and moved off, and then we slipped back down and got on our way._

_We got screamed at for being over our allotted time, and the fact that there were twenty __talashae__ in our direct path was no excuse. I'd __love__ to know what we could have done—flown, maybe?—but whatever. _

_Scrambling up and down the damn cliff walls with Mazz—and practicing on the climbing walls on base with Lin and Tel and Dara—has definitely paid off. Tel __hates__ it, but chances are, he's going to wind up in a tech position anyway. He's too smart for anything else._

_Give my love to my mom and to the little duck. I'm dropping my mom a line, too, but I tend to write these letters to you first as an information dump, and then just give her the nice, safe highlights. No sense telling her that Lin lost four teeth in sparring last night, or I've got two cracked ribs, right? Tel's worse off—partial mandible tear. He complains that it makes it hard to eat. Go figure. All of this crap heals, though. _

He was always surprised when he actually got replies from Serana. He was treating the letters, as he'd said, as something of a brain dump, and expected nothing in response. The answers were surprisingly astute, sometimes, and just plain made him laugh the rest of the time.

_August 12, 2192_

_You were supposed to leap on the backs of the talashae and __ride__ them, of course. Any idiot could tell you that __that__ is creative problem-solving. _

Eli paused and read that one out loud to Lin and Tel, who both started to laugh.

_You've probably already gotten a letter from L. and your mom. He's back. Everyone's back, and has been for a couple of weeks. It was really busy here for a while. There's a couple of new buildings that need to be built now, actually. I don't really know what's going on, but everyone was pretty excited. Rel and Dara and Rinus were home on leave, for a while, anyway. My first-brother is, um. . . well, he brought a girl home to meet our parents. No one tells me anything, but Rel keeps laughing any time the subject comes up, and Dara does, too. Kallixta seems pretty nice, for a bareface. I kind of think my first-brother is in trouble, though. He's eleven years older than I am, though, so it's not like I get details, but there was a lot of arguing the first night. I thought for a while that she might be the daughter of a pirate or a smuggler or someone like that, since my parents were very upset about her family, but apparently, that's not the case. Kind of embarrassing, really. Anyway, they're getting married in late October or early Quinus. On Palaven, too. Which means I have to go there and probably have to wear a dress. Maybe I'll get to see you then, too! _

_It's really cold here right now. Worst part of living here is the winters. Even walking to school right now is a pain. Fourteen __unica__ of snow last night, and that puts it at waist-level for Polina and Quintus._

_Can Lin whistle better with those teeth missing? Ask him for me. As for you, stop blocking with your body. You should know better. Then again. . . I __have__ mentioned before that you're an idiot. _

Freja asked, as Eli chuckled over his letter, _"So, is the girl who writes to you your, ah, current __amatra__?" _

Eli looked up, frowning. Lin had scooted over to sit with Brennia, and they and Telinus were going over the regs one more time. _"No, Serana's the younger sister of a good friend."_

"_Squad leader's more into humans and asari,"_ Tel chimed in, chuckling.

"_I am an equal opportunity offender,"_ Eli replied, giving Telinus a look for that one. _"Plenty of pretty turian girls to look at around here. I may even gain an appreciation for a nice fringe, out of pure desperation by the time we get out of here."_ He added the last lightly, and heard Brennia laugh.

It was late, so his next letter took him till the next day to finish.

_August 14, 2192_

_Asperitalla__—_

_What an excellent suggestion in your last letter. I'll be sure to start packing a __saddle__ with me on the long hikes. What's another five kilos between friends, right? Week Four went fine. Swimming, not even an issue. I was the only human doing butterfly, too. Got called a show-off for my pains, but hell, it's not my fault Citadel had great pools and my mom thought lots of lessons would keep me out of trouble after school. Sometimes I still miss the Citadel. Weird to think about it being all dark and quiet and the exclusive domain of the Keepers now. I grew up seeing them scuttle everywhere, and I remember pestering the __s'kak__ out of them, pulling on their legs and whatever. All they ever would do was move away. Kind of makes me feel bad, now._

_I lost squad leadership to Lin in Week 3. By a point. On another tie-breaker. Got it back at the end of Week 4, though, which was a consolidation week anyway. God did I hurt. In consolation, so did he, and I threatened to stick him in charge of the new barracks we acquired in retribution. He said "No, no, let Ianthus stay in charge."_

_Week 4 was a thing of beauty, though. They introduced pugil staves, to get people used to the concept that a rifle can be used for more than just shooting with. . . it's also a melee weapon. Sort of a last-ditch one, but you __can__ hit with it. Guess which people in the (at that point) ten-man squad had gladiatorial training? If you guessed me, Lin, and Tel, and no one else, you're right. It. . . was. . . awesome. The centurions pulled us out and made us demonstrate with some people in the next ten-man squad. Then made us start teaching. That's one of the good __and__ bad things about this system. If you're good at something, they don't just let you stay good. You have to be better, and you have to show others how to do it, too. _

_We've had our hands __full__ around here, lately, though, and it's not just the bookwork and the sparring and the running. Shit. I wish those were the only things I had to worry about. You'll remember that I said the Israeli guy was in Tel's old barracks? Chayyim ben-Mair? Well, he's their squad leader now. Smart and tough. Trouble is, he wound up with Minos, and Minos. . . found himself more Hallex. This time the drill centurions stepped in immediately. Called everyone in the barracks out into the hall, and started going through __everyone's__ lockers. _

_Because we happy humans have so much __crap__ in our little lockers, they always look like a jumbled mess to the casual observer. Constantly gets us comments, too. Guess what they found in ben-Mair's locker? Little bottle of Hallex. I didn't believe it for a damn second. I asked the drill centurions, "Does it have his fingerprints on it?"_

_I swear, I think the centurion actually smirked. He didn't believe it any more than I did. Was just a question of proving it. Since I know now just how flipping __easy__ it is to scramble a biometric code—and yeah, some security system, seriously—I figure it could've been anyone in the barracks. My money's on Minos himself getting wind of the upcoming inspection and shoving his pills someplace where they wouldn't implicate him. As if the fact that he's been throwing up after his runs again isn't something of a tip-off. I don't get it, little fierce one. He's been running 20k a day, and 40k twice a week for forty days now, you'd think he'd have burned out most of the addiction by now. Certainly, the throwing up doesn't look all that fun. But I guess he gets it most of the way out of his system, and then starts all over again. Long story short—ben-Mair's fingerprints weren't on the vial. Minos' were, though._

"_Oh, but humans wear gloves all the time, that's not proof," came the immediate protest from Minos. "He put my fingerprints on it. . . " "And hid it cunningly in his own locker," I said. Yeah, he hadn't really thought that one through. Then I had Chayyim, in his armor gloves, try to open the damned vial. Yeah. Can't be done. Monkey fingers only work so well in slippery, hard-shelled gloves._

_So, he got __flogged__ this time. Ten stripes for having Hallex in his bloodstream and twenty for trying to implicate an innocent. I like the turian justice system on many, many levels. _

_That being said, he's still our problem, and I have no idea what to do with him. Need to figure out where he's __getting__ the shit from. Could be on the runs, or it could be in the cafeteria, or hell, even in the hygiene area, since everyone's not supposed to watch in there. Which means, oh, joy, I get to watch him in there, and I'm setting Tel to watch him on the runs, since Tel and he keep about the same pace anyway, and __everyone__ is watching him at meals now. I feel like a damn jailer, and frankly, I also think he should be allowed to fail. But if he fails, __we__ fail. That's the part of the turian system that I __don't__ like._

_Oh, and someone in one of the new squads had figured out how to rig his omnitool to collect data from other people's terminals and then used it to write his answers. His squad leader, Ianthus, brought me the problem. His name's Ephramian, and __him__ I can deal with. Lin and Brennia and Tel and I all started writing wrong answers at first. Hell, I even wrote mine in asari, for grins. Then, near the end, we quickly changed all our answers and turn them in, so he invariably wound up with only a half-finished sheet to turn in. That part was easy._

_Then Lin and I took Ephamian aside, and had a loooooong talk with him. I went through his omnitool and deleted every program on it that I didn't recognize the file-name of—man, did he whine about that!—and Lin told him if he didn't stop whining, we'd __both__ kick his teeth in on the mats that night. I told him if he was smart enough to write the scanning program, he was smart enough to pass the damn tests without help, and to quit bitching._

_His bookwork marks have plummeted this week, but at least we know they're the right marks, right? And turians do __so__ love their marks._

_That's enough for this week, little one. It's just about lights-out. And I've got first watch tonight._

Eli was relieved when breather training for his squad—possibly because there was a known drug issue going on—turned out to be simple tear-gas. Although he'd have _loved_ to have known what red sand did to someone with traces of Hallex still in their system.

Then they were out in the field in the south polar regions, where Chayyim shuddered at the cold, Eli had to acknowledge that it was definitely colder than he liked, and Freja mostly shrugged it off. _"It's a little colder here than Stockholm, but where my grandparents live, in Kiruna? Sunny day in _January_. Not so bad." _She smiled at the turians around her, and told them about the Sami, or the Lapp, who lived in the far regions of Sweden, Norway, and Finland, using sleighs and tame caribou to follow reindeer herds, and about skiing and snowshoeing and ice skating and a dozen other crazy things humans did when it was properly cold outside. Entire hotels built of ice. Ice fishing. Jumping naked into freezing water. The turians in their unit treated all of it with amused suspicion, like an urban legend or a tall tale.

When they got back and checked their mail, both Chayyim and Freja had gotten bad news from home. "I sort of expected it," Freja admitted after reading her letters. "Four years is a _very_ long time to wait for someone." She rubbed at her eyes quickly, and that was that, at least for the moment. Chayyim, on the other hand, had a young son at home who was sick. "I may have to leave boot camp," he told Eli, looking worried. "They're saying it could be leukemia. If it is, I _have_ to be home for this."

Eli blinked. He hadn't even known Chayyim _had_ a kid. But then again, ben-Mair was four years older than he was, and had been a soldier in the Alliance Navy for two years already. Why _wouldn't_ he have a wife and kid, or at least, a girlfriend and a kid? The only odd thing was that ben-Mair was having to talk to him and Linianus about it—because Lin had, once again, on an odd week, stolen squad leadership back from Eli. Fortunately, they _were_ friends, and people had simply taken to just dumping problems on the two of them at the same time. "I'll talk to the centurions," Eli said. "It's not your fault. Life just happens. How old is your son?"

"Jacob just turned two."

Eli winced. That hit home, surprisingly hard. _The little duck is just past two. Would hate to see her get this sick_. "When I get back from talking with the centurions, you're going to show me pictures, right? I've got a few to trade."

His chat with the centurions went fairly well. They understood why Chayyim might have to withdraw—"_Rarely happens, since our recruits tend to be so much younger, but with humans tending to let their young out of the nest so late, relatively speaking, it's understandable."_ The centurion hesitated. _"We've received your reports that Minos is again showing signs of Hallex use. What are you doing about it?"_

_What am __I__ doing about it? Shit, why aren't __you__ doing something about it? _Eli sighed. Everything was a _test_ around here. _"At this point, I'm more or less trying to figure out where he's getting it from. The other half of the barracks is possible, except that there are guards posted at night, and I'm watching during hygiene periods. I've had Serinian go through the lavatories to make sure there aren't caches there—"_

"_Serinian?"_

"_Yes, she shows an, ah, aptitude."_ _In fact, she's teaching me more than my dad and Lantar's stories combined. Helps to have someone around who's lived with this shit half her life._ _"As far as we've been able to tell, it's not being passed from people around us in the cafeteria, either. I have Karpavian—"_ that was Telinus' last name, of course, _"watching him during the runs. At this point, I don't know where it's coming from. . .or even how someone got it into the camp."_

The drill centurion snorted. _"Every session, we have the users and the pushers come through. They usually put it up their cloacae to get it in, initially. It's getting to be enough of a problem that we'll be moving towards a full-body med scan in the future. Just expensive to set up and to do at a thousand facilities, covering a hundred thousand people, four times a year." _He looked at Eli expectantly. _"What other possibilities have you considered?"_

_Oh, this is a __test__. _Eli met the centurion's eyes for a moment, and answered, quietly, _"That someone on the staff might be the point of contact, drill centurion. Someone in the cafeteria, or in laundry services. Laundry services would be the easiest, because they come to our rooms and just drop the bags of clean uniforms off. Don't even need to break stride. Risky, though, when people change bunks unexpectedly."_

"_Very good."_ The centurion stood up. _"Back to your barracks now, and keep your eyes open."_

Back in the barracks, he and Chayyim traded baby pictures. He could tell that the older male had _no_ _idea_ what to say in response to Caelia's pictures, and told him, dryly, "It's okay. There's a reason I call her my ugly duckling sister. But she's improved. Take a look." He flipped forward, and Chayyim looked relieved. His own son had Chayyim's own dark brown eyes and slightly serious look. As they chatted—Chayyim was telling him that he'd opted to do four years in the Alliance, as opposed to four years of national service, and had added dryly, _"The First Contact War was, arguably, one of the best things ever to happen to Earth."_

_That_ got the attention of everyone in the room. _"How can you say that?" _Freja asked.

"_Simple. It proved without question that there were many other people in the galaxy to be afraid of, and that we should stop kicking other humans in the head. Has there been a single major war on Earth in the years __since__ first contact with the turians?"_

Lin frowned. _"You're saying that your people fear aliens more than each other, and thus, you present a united front?"_

"_I wouldn't call it all that united,"_ Eli muttered. Lin glanced up, and nodded, barely. _They_ knew about the AEC, after all, and they'd seen what a mob mentality was like in Odessa. . . but they also lived on a Spectre base and both knew many humans who didn't share that sort of mentality.

The conversation spiraled from there, until close to lights-out, when Eli had a quick conversation with Lin—_"If I can drag you away from Serinian for a bit—"_

They switched languages back into English, out in the hall, quietly. "Let's swap Phalactus' bunking situation every couple of days. Let's see if anyone winds up with something in their laundry bag that shouldn't be there," Eli said, feeling his jaw clench. "I _really_ want this resolved before the week six consolidation."

"Or we can let it run its course and see if they just wash him out."

"Got a strong hint from a centurion tonight that they're looking to see what _we_ do."

"Great." Lin shook his head. "I _love_ that we're all of a sudden the responsible ones."

Eli snorted. "Lantar's been telling me for years that this is what first-sons are _for_."

"Yeah, but did he have to be right about it?"

_September 12, 2192/Quartus 16_

_. . . and that's how we got 'em, __asperitalla__. Took three or four days of last-minute changes, but lo and behold, the laundry service people screwed up, and the centurions moved in. Lin and Brennia and I had a bet running; he'd been saying cafeteria, she'd been saying lavatories. . . just some spot she hadn't found a cache in yet, and I'd been saying laundry. Apparently, they owe me drinks after boot camp. __Long__ after boot camp, I guess. I doubt there's anything levo to drink on the entire planet. _

_I can't leave it just like that, can I? Well, like all good stories, it does have a happy ending, at least for me. Minos is out. He'll get one more chance at boot camp, next session. Maybe he'll make it, maybe he won't. Not my problem anymore, thank god. Chayyim, unfortunately, took the first shuttle off-planet, heading for Earth. He said he'd drop me a line sometime and let me know how things go with his little boy. _

_Don't think I missed the question, buried at the end of your last letter. Yes, I took squad leadership __back__ from Lin this week. I wish to god the centurions would just let us share joint command and get it over with. We __like__ sparring with each other, but having to demonstrate, week after week, that yes, we're evenly matched, is getting old. I guess they're waiting to see if either of us suddenly improves. . . or for evidence that one or the other of us is sandbagging._

_So, yes, since that was the end of Week 6, I had the privilege of going to the centurions and the instructors and telling them all about everyone in the squads. I answered a hell of a lot of questions very badly. But then the MOSes were posted, and believe it or not, Lin and Brennia and I all got military police. She laughed so hard, I think she might actually have hurt herself. Lin had to pick her up off the floor—yeah, he seems to be getting attached to her. I give him hell for it, because he spent so much time chasing Tulliana, and he points out that I spent even longer chasing after Siara. . . with about the same result. _

_Anyway, they got military police, and I got MP with an asterisk by it. Had to go through about five different codes at the bottom of the chart to figure it out, but apparently, if I make officer, I might be looking at CID, or the Criminal Investigations Department. I dropped my mom and dad a note about that before I started writing this letter. L. will be tickled blue, I think. _

_Entire last week was out in the field, little one. I'm tired, but at least I'm on a space station now. It's. . . oddly like coming home. I got used to Mindoir, but there's a part of me that always thinks it's too damned quiet without the hum of air filters and ventilation systems and everything else. So, I'm going to stop writing now. Oh, except to say happy birthday to your brother. Quartus 14 was two days ago, I think. Hell if I know, the calendars are so screwed up between here, Earth, and Mindoir that I never know if it's Tuesday or Helsinki anymore._

Eli really was very pleased with his posting. Telinus had wound up getting a med tech position, which suited the turian male admirably, and he and Lin were still grinning ear-to-ear at the thought of being able to go through specialized training together. "Maybe we'll even wind up in B-Sec together after our four years are up," Lin said, grinning.

"Detectives Pellarian, Serinian**,** and Sidonis, B-Sec, Homicide Division," Eli offered, grinning just as widely.

"Much rather homicide than vice," Brennia offered. Her English was improving, mostly because Lin and Eli flipped back and forth between the two languages almost constantly, and usually in mid-sentence.

"_Yes, but you'd be a __natural__ at vice—ouch!"_ Lin pretended to hold his hands up in front of him to ward her off, and Eli looked away, chuckling.

It was starting to get warm now; the monsoon season had passed, and Telinus periodically needed to use an inhaler from the dispensary to keep his lungs open. _"I hate Palaven,"_ he admitted to Eli. _"We've at least been over on Telavin or up in the shipyards or wherever else for a while, but when we go in the field for the Trial, I'm going to have to wear my damn breather the whole time."_

"_Do what you need to do. If you collapse, I don't want to have to rely on a half-trained medic out there who's __not__ Dara," _Eli told him, which got him a wry grin.

Their fourth consolidation, in which they took over the other half of the barracks, Eli had expected to be messy, mostly because Dara and Rel's had been. There had always been a troublemaker, it seemed . . . and of course, since Lin had taken squad leadership back in Week 7, here in Week 8, Eli felt more or less obliged to take it back from _him_.

It was almost disappointing when there _wasn't_ a troublemaker. Of course, then Week 9 rolled around. Final consolidation before the Trial. The opposing barracks—eighty people—had watched the squads under the control of Squad 345 shine so far. Eli and Lin, by and large, had relaxed dispositions, but were death on discipline issues, and it showed in their people. Their people had _fun_ in sparring, and Eli and Lin cheered their people on.

Thus, Eli was _very_ surprised when the muttering and comments and heckling came, and they _weren't_ actually directed at _him_. Linianus was the target. He could hear the taunts from where he, like the others was crouching, watching the current match, which was between Lin and the squad leader from 357, which controlled the barracks next to theirs. _"Hear you call your scaleless friend over there your __battle-brother__. Probably bunk together, eh? Do you mark each other, too?"_

Eli sighed. He'd looked the term up, since Serana had used it, and since Lin had adopted it, half in joke. Turians had deep connections to their siblings, for obvious reasons. To be blooded together made you siblings of a sort; and a battle-brother or a battle-sister meant that you considered someone blooded with you just as much a sibling as any born in your nest. It meant deep connection and reciprocal loyalty, and was not a title bestowed lightly. It went beyond the krogan definition of krannt, even; where a krannt would fight and die for a leader, battle-brothers and battle-sisters would fight and die _for each other_. To mock it was deeply offensive.

Lin didn't have his extensive background in being insulted on every possible level. Lin _did_ have the memory of the Odessa squad, of course, and the injury he'd gotten there over a year ago, but. . . would it be enough to hold his temper in check? Beside him, Brennia was hissing softly. _"Settle down,"_ Eli told her.

"_They wouldn't be saying that kind of __s'kak__ if the damned rules didn't exist."_ Brennia leaned back, folding her arms over her chest. _"I'd have marked him myself by now, if I could." _She hesitated. That slightly kicked look coming back to her. _"Assuming he'd let me."_

"_I'm __pretty__ sure he wouldn't object."_ Eli winced as Lin got caught off-balance after a kick and fell to the floor. _"__S'kak__. That was his bad knee. He broke that one last year."_ Sure enough, Linianus was having trouble getting back up, and Eli hurried forward onto the mats, standing over his friend while the medics checked the knee. _"This feels familiar,"_ he said, dryly.

"_You're telling me,"_ Lin said, from between clenched teeth. "_Don't think it's broken, but I don't think I can fight on it."_

"_It's just wrenched, but yeah, you need to keep your weight off it. This has happened before?"_ one of the medics asked.

"_Yeah. He got thrown over a set of barricades around a handball court last year, onto concrete, fractured the patella."_ Eli remembered the sick anger he'd felt at the time. He couldn't do anything to help his friend then. Had turned to Rel for assistance. For justice, in a sense. Today, there was just him. _"C'mon, let's get you over to the side."_ He and the medics helped Lin to one leg, and Lin draped an arm over Eli and a medic, and hobbled away, to a spot where Brennia immediately found her way.

"You got this?"Lin asked Eli, nodding at the watching people. The crowd had gone hushed, as it had in Odessa, Eli realized. People of any species _did_ like a show, after all. Pain and blood and vengeance and all that good stuff.

"Easier than fighting a fucking _dragon_ on Tuchanka."

"Hey, we had _armor _and _guns_ and two biotics with us."

"Yeah, but these guys aren't going to be breathing _fire_."

They traded grins, as Brennia was obviously trying to translate all of that in her head, and Eli headed back towards the mats, pulling his shirt off. It was _hot_ in here, hovering near the ninety degree mark, and he saw absolutely no reason he should give the turians even one more handhold on him. _"I stand in for my squad mate, Linianus Pellarian_," he said formally. _"I will fight you once in his place, and once in my own." _Then he set his mouthguard in place. Turians didn't bother with them, of course—teeth grew back for them, and they'd probably just bite _through_ the damned things. . .and they weren't as apt to be concussed as a human was, from a punch.

The centurions allowed it, and Eli stepped up. He wasn't smiling. In fact, his teeth hurt, and that was the only reason he knew his jaws were clenched, so he relaxed his grip on his mouthguard. _Have to be relaxed. Have to be loose. Sam teaches water and earth. Dara __has__ to be water. I can be either. So we start with water. . . . _ The opposing squad leader came in at him, hissing insults. All the usual ones. He'd heard them so many times, they were just a stream of syllables now. They didn't matter. What _did_ matter was that this male had hurt one of his friends. And Eli was no longer a helpless bystander on the edges of his own life.

At first, Eli simply dodged, moved, flowed around the kicks, then came in with hard punches, always for the same couple of spots, aiming right for the ribs, then ducking under the arm and slamming again with a spinning elbow on the way past. Mix of the flow of _wing chun_, moving to the side, off-line from the others' attacks, and the raw, brutal frontal attacks of _muay thai._ _When I move past you, when I flow, I am water. . . . _

His opponent spun, came in with kicks again, aimed straight at Eli's head, and Eli simply ducked _under_ the attack, and while the leg was still in the air, came in again himself. Inside the range of the taller male's weapons, the raw strength of a human male could _shine._ Shin on shin, shin to ribs from mere inches away, a dull sound as one cracked. Follow up with a right hook to the same spot, took a surprised return hit to the jaw and didn't lose his focus. He'd been hit a hell of a lot harder in sparring practice with Sam and his dad, after all. Hell, even sparring with _Mazz _had helped. _And when I resist your force with my own force, I am earth._

Eli saw his opening and reached up. Grabbed the back of the male's head with both of his hands and yanked down at the same time as he sprang upwards. This was a knee kick. It derived most of its power from the fact that he'd committed himself to leaping off the ground. Sam didn't like these kicks, because they were inherently unstable, and didn't leave any margin for error.

Eli _did_ like them, because if he was fast enough—and he was—it meant that he was pulling the opponent's head _down_ at the same time that it met his knee coming _up_, with the point of impact being the jaw. Like a head-on car collision, it was an ugly impact.

The opponent fell forward, spitting teeth and blood. Eli looked down at him. _"That was on behalf of my battle-brother,"_ he said, very carefully, in _tal'mae._ He _still_ couldn't speak it nearly as well as he could read it. _"The next time, will be on my own behalf. Stand up, and we will contest once more."_

At that point, the centurions stepped in. Eli looked at the rest of 357, and said, letting his voice carry so they all could hear him, _"Doesn't matter whether Pellarian wins this week or I win this week. We're brothers. You'll get the same damn thing, no matter who's in charge. So don't try to bite, because we __will__ pull your damn teeth, and that's really more of a mess than I want, going into the Trial next week."_

_October 13, 2192/ Quinus 1_

_Asperitalla—_

_Yeah, I'm alive. Got all your notes. You know how the damned Trial is. Let me back up a bit, and tell you about the last stupid consolidation. Lin got hurt—wrenched the same damn knee that he broke last year—and I had to fight on his behalf. Opposing squad leader had watched us for a while, I think, 'cause he tried to work on Lin's temper, and __did__ get him leaning too far. Probably shouldn't have been mocking the whole battle-bother thing. Yeah, Lin remembers you calling us that. Don't be embarrassed. He likes it. Says he hadn't really thought of it till you pointed it out, though. _

_The docs __somehow__ got him out in the field (he wore a brace the whole damn week, and every time we took a break, he lay flat on the ground and elevated the leg as best he could. Now that we're back, he's in the med bay, and I'm hoping that he's not going to wind up with any permanent damage. Medigel is great for open wounds, but a wrenched knee? Then running on it for ten days, climbing walls, fighting? And of course, since he's my second, I couldn't let him out of any of the damned work. I'll have to ask Dara if that kind of injury can lead to arthritis or anything like that in a turian._

_We didn't have any special forces types in a hundred and sixty people, more's the pity. About seventy infantry, though, and a lot of techs. Dara and Rel are going to be practically green with envy, though: we actually got to use the damned Hammerheads and Makos, once we got there, anyway. We piled people into them, and attacked the main gate of the fortress. Mostly a diversion, to let infiltration teams go in the sides, but Lin and I rammed the gates with our vehicles, backed up, and did it again. Actually got a breach that way, and everyone inside the fort came __scrambling__ to the middle courtyard to defend, which is pretty much when we got killed/captured. But then the infiltration teams came in from the sides, and got the flag, so we won. More or less._

_More good news. Lin and I are both slated for officer status. So's Tel! Yes, he's going to be a doctor. Not special forces, like Dara, no; he's thinking he might wind up specializing in thoratic surgery at a base somewhere. He's quietly delighted. Preening, in fact, in his very quiet way. _

_As for me, could have knocked me over with a feather, but apparently, tapping out letters for you every so often is improving my writing. Which is a good thing. I have this impression that officers have to write a lot of reports. Hmm. Maybe I should've been bucking for enlisted, instead. _

_Brennia is a little worried, because her officer standing has an asterisk beside it, which indicates that they think she might not thrive in the OCS environment. I think she'll be fine, but she's scared, and while that would make most turians mad, it makes her hunch in on herself. Lin, I think, is going to see what he can do about that. Our little sneak-thief has taught both of us more about crime than any hundred stories. I'm thinking of asking her to teach me how to pick pockets this week, since we'll have downtime. And I'm willing to bet I have the reflexes for it. _

Eli grinned as he wrote the last. Then someone cleared their throat beside his elbow, and Eli looked up, startled. "You spend a _lot_ of time writing letters to someone you say _isn't_ your girlfriend," Freja told him, clearly amused.

"Serana helped me get my turian and my _tal'mae_ up to speed, so I owe her. She's also the sister of one of my best friends, and is _five years_ from coming here, herself. She's a kid." _And let me do the math, yeah, I'll be __out__ of the military by the time she __starts__ boot camp. Sheesh. Almost as out of step as an asari. Then again, Serana will catch up. Eventually._ "She feels left out. Her older brother, his wife—a sister to Serana, in essence—Lin, Tel, and I all left in the same year. Which leaves her pretty much the eldest at home and at school all of a sudden." Eli shrugged. He felt sorry for the girl, more than anything.

Freja blinked. "Does _she_ know there's nothing there?"

Eli stared at her for a long moment. Could feel the pressure in his ears as his jaws clenched. _And what business is it of yours, anyway?_ "My letters are probably read out loud to her family at the dinner table," he said, quietly. "That's how turians share news of friends who are out of touch. My friend Dara read her husband's boot camp letters to her in-laws every time she got one. And you'll note that _I've_ read some of her letters to Pellarian and Karpavian?"

"Ah. I didn't know that." She hesitated. "You have plans for your leave after boot camp?"

Eli looked back down at his datapad. "Depends on if my dad comes for graduation, which he probably will. Might even get to go _home_ for a week or two."

"And home is. . . Bastion?" She knew where he'd been raised; it had come up in conversation a few times over the weeks.

"Mindoir." He said it, and was actually surprised by the realization. Not Bastion. Home was where his mom and his sister and his dad and all their friends were. _Huh. Who knew?_ "I think Lin and Brennia are probably going to hole up in a recruit hotel for the whole time." He hardly even realized he'd changed the subject.

"Yes. I suspect there'll be a lot of that going around." She moved back across the barracks, settling down with her own datapad.

"You spend quite a bit of time on your correspondence, yourself," Eli noted, neutrally. It was, he suddenly realized, his own version of Lantar's cop-voice. It invited people to speak, but didn't put any spin on what they might say, approving or disapproving. _When the hell did I pick that up?_

"Oh, you know how it goes. The first letter to say that four years is too long to wait, and is unfair, the second letter that apologizes for the first letter, and asks for forgiveness for being so unfair to _you_. The third letter that realizes that the second letter was written largely out of guilt for a long-distance breakup, the fourth letter that asks you not to write _back_, because it's too hard to keep from responding." She sighed, and added, "I'm thinking of I deleting them all and just blocking the sender."

Eli glanced across the room at her. "Sounds easier all around, yeah."

_In a way, it's actually better to be unattached going into this. Rel and Dara had to work their asses off to get to be together. Me? I don't have to worry about any of that. Don't have to work my tail off to try to coordinate my life with anyone else's, don't have to worry about someone at home missing me, or one or both of us changing._

_On the other hand, it sure would be nice to have someone to come home __to__. But hey. . . I've got a mom, dad, and a little sister. That's probably all I can handle. Me, Elijah Marcus Stockton Sidonis. What was that character in all the medieval plays they made me read last year, the one who stood in for humanity, had to stand up and talk to Death and Sin and Plague and Lust and whatever else? Oh yeah. Everyman. That's me. Completely average in every way. . . but I've had some lucky breaks._

A week later, on Family Day, there came a light tap at the door, and then Lin's parents were there, and Tel's parents were there. _"I can't believe you came all the way from Mindoir!" _Telinus told his parents, who were beaming at him. _"For a first-son who's to be a doctor, why __wouldn't__ we?" _came the immediate reply.

Lin was getting an equally jubilant reception from _his_ parents, and had grabbed Brennia by the wrist to introduce her. _"Her family's on Macedyn, and I'm sure they won't be here today. Would it be possible for us to—"_

"_We'd be delighted to have you both to dinner tomorrow night,"_ Lin's mother assured him, warmly.

Eli walked by, getting pats on the back from the various parents, and peered out into the hall.

'There you are," Lantar told him, quietly, giving him a wrist-clasp. Spectre-black armor, red badge at the throat. "I was trying not to make a scene. I only do that on other people's behalf." His voice was, as always, just a hint dry.

Eli chuckled. Yes, Lantar tended towards the low-key, except when he was making a point. "Did Mom and Caelia come with you?"

"They're at the hotel. Caelia wants to bring a _lanura_ home for the cat to play with."

Eli winced. "Bad idea."

"Yeah, I tend to agree." Lantar looked at him. "CID?" His eyes were very proud.

"Two years as an officer in the MPs, and if I do well, yeah, CID." Eli grinned. "Better than I could have hoped for. I'm just hoping they don't put me in forensics."

"You're good at chemistry. You'd do well with it."

"Yeah, but I don't actually like being stuck behind a lab bench all day." Eli looked up at him. "So. . . what have I missed?"

Lantar chuckled. "Wait for dinner tomorrow night."

"Okay, but everyone I like is still alive, and the galaxy's still turning, right?"

"It never stops." Lantar looked at him, smiling faintly. "But you know that already."


	65. Chapter 65: Scrimmage

**Chapter 65: Scrimmage**

_**Author's note:**__ Toreris Falern was nice enough to give a shout-out for my little project on the Mass Effect RP site he's starting (derived, apparently, from a community of people who were RPing in the ME universe on Facebook, but who wanted a place of their own to play). I haven't DM'd since before my son was born, but play-by-post is always fun with a good community. Good luck to you in building a good group of players and chatters! http: / / masseffectrp . co . cc_

**Kallixta**

"_Correct for yaw and pitch_," Macenus commented in her ear. As he had for the past three days, as they crept through the Urla Rast system, looking for batarian movement.

Her hands had already been on the aerogel screens to do precisely that, conditioned by about five hundred hours of simulation practice. She steadied the ship, used the chemical jets to correct a minor rotational issue that had developed as they were buffeted by Urla Rast's solar wind, and let the ship drift, pushed by the slow, ready pressure of charged particles constantly emitted by the star.

"_Good, except for one thing,"_ Macenus told her.

Kallixta looked up, inquiringly. He paused, and pointed out, _"You used the chemical jets. Those are visible. We're in a stealth profile at the moment."_

She sighed. The instructors had said that the chemical jets were barely visible, and using them to alter trajectory was acceptable—even preferable, to avoid unnecessary heat build-up inside a _Normandy_-class ship in a stealth profile. Macenus did not agree with this assessment. Then again, he'd been the pilot of the _Estallus _for almost two years now, and was rotating off for carrier duty soon. He probably _did_ know more about flying this craft than the instructors did.

Except that five of the instructors had flown _Normandy_-class ships as well. Kallixta tilted her head slightly, and replied, in English, smiling a bit, "Instructor Hermina Garinus suggested that the chemical jets, firing for less than a second at eight hundred degrees Fahrenheit, made little different in detection probability." It wasn't a challenge, really. More of a question, though not phrased as such. She'd continued speaking in English, even though she could sense the pilot's annoyance every time she did so, and added now, still smiling, "She estimated less than a percent's worth of difference, which, when compared to the potential for continuing to run in stealth mode for longer periods—"

"_That's all well and good when you're basically on a submarine mission. No one knows you're there, you're just listening and watching. At the moment, the batarians have been deliberately provocative in this area, and they're watching and listening for a response,"_ Macenus answered.

She wasn't used to being interrupted, but accepted it. Thought about it. "Thank you for the answer," Kallixta said after a moment. "I always like hearing the rationale. Especially when it makes sense."

"_You do know how to condescend, don't you, girl?"_ Macenus snorted a bit. _"I'm going to step aft for a bit. Don't get us in trouble."_

Kallixta shook her head as he left. She genuinely _had_ appreciated the fact that he'd explained the reasoning to her, rather than just saying _that's the way it is, and don't ask so many questions._ She wasn't sure how she'd come off as condescending, but maybe it was the enforced barrier of the English she was using. Of course, if she dropped back into turian, he'd _really_ think she was condescending. The court accent cut like a diamond.

A little green eyeball popped up on the console next to her, and Kallixta surveyed it with interest. The AI—Laetia—seemed to be. . . looking at her. "Hello?" she asked, after a moment.

"You're doing better than Macenus is willing to admit," the AI said, in English, after a moment. "I suspect he does not wish to instill you with a false sense of confidence." There was a slight pause. "However, since cockiness and confidence are usually found in most pilots in equal measure, I wonder what the point of attempting to avoid instilling it would actually be."

Kallixta noted an upcoming obstacle—a small comet, on its return flight back into the system's Kuiper belt, and altered their trajectory slightly, skimming up and over it, far enough away not even to disturb the particles blowing out from its uneven face. "There's a difference between cockiness and confidence, though," she pointed out. "Confidence just means knowing your own abilities and feeling comfortable in them. Cockiness is . . . overblown self-assurance. One implies judgment. The other does not."

"And which do you have, Lieutenant Essedarius?"

"At the moment, I'm hoping for _competence_." A light began to flash on one of the consoles, and Kallixta spun it up onto the main screen. Two batarian _Corsair_-class ships, moving very fast, heading for Doz Etab, a gas giant, where they began aerobraking maneuvers, and seemed ready to settle in and discharge their drive cores. _That'll take a few hours. Assuming they haven't seen us. Yeah, they're not moving. If they'd seen us, they wouldn't be settling in peacefully like that. _"Let Captain Jallus know." She let the _Estallus _drift now, letting their natural trajectory and the play of gravity draw them closer. There was no rush, after all.

"The captain is on his way down from his quarters," Laetia informed her. "Competence does seem a good description." The AI hesitated, again. Noticeably. "Perhaps even cautious?"

"At the moment, yes." Kallixta chuckled. "I actually was considered very aggressive on the simulators."

"I did notice that in your record, yes."

Kallixta's head snapped to the side. "You've read my—of course you have." She sighed. "You read every file about everyone who comes on board." She checked another readout, and added, mildly, "You're under restrictions about revealing my name?"

"Of course. The captain knows. As does your bodyguard, naturally, as well as anyone else that you've told. Beyond that, it's not my function to gossip." Laetia paused. "That's actually more of a hobby."

_Bodyguard. Hah. Chaperone and spy and bodyguard all at once. So much for having one of the Imperator's children __really__ serve in the Fleet._ . . . Kallixta's mind stopped as her internal monologue suddenly ran into a brick wall. "What did you just say?"

"I said that gossip is more of a hobby for me." Slightly humorous tone there, another blink of the eyeball. "I've been trying to rein in the worst aspects of my unfortunate sense of humor for the sake of _not_ scaring the turians in my crew. Was that too much?"

"No, just a little. . . unexpected." Kallixta tapped the controls, adjusting attitude again, minutely. "So. . . if I wanted to know about my new shipmates, I could just ask you about them?"

"Within reason. While I do see almost everything that transpires about the _Estallus_, I do have strict privacy protocols." Laetia's tone was prim. "Is there anyone in particular you'd like to know about?"

Kallixta looked back over her shoulder. It would _not_ do to have the captain or the main pilot walk up behind her at a moment like this. And she could, for some reason or another, imagine them standing right behind her, listening. "We have three Spectres on board," she said, very quietly. "One of them is Dara's father. Who are the other two?"

"Interesting. Not the question I thought you'd ask."

"Everyone says that about my questions." Kallixta grinned. She delighted in confounding expectations.

"One is Lantar Sidonis. Close friend of Garrus Vakarian. Married to a human female, has an adoptive human son and a hybrid daughter. The son is currently in turian military boot camp. Sidonis is an expert in law enforcement and is special-forces trained. The other is Livanus Cautoris. Former turian CID agent with SWAT background." Laetia paused now.

Kallixta nodded. That was information, certainly, but _gossip?_ Hardly. "And what question did you think I'd ask?"

"Probability suggested one of two lines of questioning. Given your established friendship with Dara Velnaran, you might have asked something on her behalf: how did her husband behave while she was not aboard the _Estallus._"

Kallixta shook her head. "Anyone who's _met_ him can tell that he's a male of deep principles. To ask that would be to question his honor."

The eyeball blinked. "And you can tell this from such short acquaintance?"

"You see everything that goes on, and you _don't_ see how they look at each other?"

"Largely, with their eyes." A slight pause. "That was another joke."

Kallixta glanced behind her again. No sign of Macenus or the captain yet, but she could sense movement back there in CIC. "And what other question did you think I might ask, out of your. . . two lines of probability?"

A slight pause, again. "I thought you might ask about Rinus Velnaran, instead."

Kallixta smiled. The older brother had all the physical presence of the younger. Tall, powerfully built, and intense-eyed. Where Rellus generally had a relaxed sense to him, she _knew_ he was special forces, and that explained the sense of leashed energy that he also had to him. His eyes constantly swept a room, and on the nights when Dara worked in the med bay until late, Rel would actually spend time on the crew deck, watching vids or playing chess with some of the human crew, but during those time spans, there was much more of an edge visible in him. Like a _villi_, really, occasionally eyeing the med bay doors. And that would persist until the moment Dara finally emerged from the med bay. Then he'd simply. . . _ease_.

Rinus _looked_ like his younger brother, but the sense she got from him was much different. Reserved, almost taciturn in public, he could be surprisingly amusing around his younger brother, in private. Not that she'd gotten to see more than flashes of that, at the mess tables. A little darker. And listening to him tear a strip out of the hide of a _pilae_ caught away from his post had strongly reinforced in her the fact that Rinus was a _centurion_, first and foremost, even in his own mind.

And while she'd expected him to be strong, she had _not_ expected him to be fast, too. Nor as resourceful. She'd thought she'd learned a fair bit at boot camp, but she was a _pilot_, not a melee specialist. Then again, the centurion was supposed to be a munitions expert, and had still _let_ her move close enough to start taking him prisoner, and then had simply stripped the weapon out of her hands and controlled the situation. She couldn't quite help her grin, which was spreading now. The _looks_ on the gun crews' faces as their own centurion had, quite calmly, shot them. Paintballs or no, some of those had probably _stung_. And he'd used her as a _shield_ the entire way.

She started to chuckle a little, under her breath. She'd had to hide behind people in hostage-intervention scenarios and 'what to do if separatists attack the palace' and 'what to do if someone tries to hijack your aircar' and 'what to do if your bodyguard gets shot' scenarios her whole life. It had been _fun_ to be the aggressor. It had been even _more_ fun when he'd turned it around on her. Fun in the same way that sparring with Dara was fun, because Dara _never_ held back because of who Kallixta was. And then, Macenus had sent her down there to talk to 'whoever's on duty'—probably knowing that Rinus was—and she'd gotten a look at the _mind_ behind those eyes. Aggressive, intelligent, and. . . "Why is he only a centurion? Why isn't he an officer like his brother?"

"Centurions are considered an optimal compromise between responsibility and authority by many," Laetia replied, blithely. "I'm certain that if he remains in the service, he'll be on the _optio_ track soon enough. In Velnaran's specific case, in spite of his clear physical gifts, his temperament and intelligence suit him better for highly technical tasks."

_If__ he remains? Why wouldn't he? He's obviously re-enlisted at least once. His family clearly has a history of service, too._ She didn't ask that question, though. She could ask him that directly, if it ever came up. "Either he does a very good job at simulating a lack of knowledge, or he genuinely doesn't know who I am."

Laetia sounded amused. "He knows that you are the pilot-in-training of his ship, lieutenant. Past that, I'm fairly sure he doesn't know more."

But at that point, there was no more time for small-talk; Jallus and Macenus both came into the cockpit, and when Macenus went to take the controls back from her, the captain stopped him. "Our new pilot needs the practice, and she's clearly been doing fine so far."

Kallixta had dropped them neatly into orbit around the gas giant themselves, but was hiding in the shadow of one of its larger ice moons. All while listening to Laetia's 'gossip,' which, now that she thought about it, really wasn't. No big revelations. In fact, she wasn't sure if somehow, _she'd_ revealed more to the AI, than the AI had revealed to her. Kallixta frowned. She wasn't used to coming out on the wrong end of such conversations, but in spite of the fact that she'd said very little, she still thought she'd somehow said too much. About what, though, she couldn't really say.

"Essedarius, you think you're ready to try first stick in combat maneuvers?" The captain looked down at her now.

Kallixta immediately gathered her wandering thoughts. "I've been looking forward to trying, sir."

"Macenus will be back in CIC at the secondary pilot station. We're going to be getting in close, taking out the first ship's shields, launching breaching pods. Then we'll _cover them_, and once they've attached, get ourselves some breathing room, start taking down the second ship's shields. Launch the second set of breaching pods. And then we're going to be trying to take out their weapons and their engines while our people are onboard. Fairly standard. I doubt that _two_ is all the batarians in this system, so don't get tunnel-vision." Jallus' voice was crisp, but surprisingly kindly. He was going to let her learn by doing, but Macenus' experienced hands would be there to guide her, if she needed it.

Kallixta took a deep breath. _This. . . is going to be interesting. I wonder if everyone else here, like the instructors back at Raetia, will think I'm a little aggressive? _

**Dara**

She was in the med bay, working through patient records with sergeant abd-Yasu's help, and talking with the human woman. "My family's Lebanese Christians, but I was raised in Britain," Ghada had told her on her first day in the med bay, when Dara had asked her what her last name meant. "The last name means, well, more or less, 'slave of Christ.'" She'd chuckled at Dara's expression. "Fairly common in Arabic, I'm afraid. Many last names mean 'slave of' or 'servant of' god, in one form or another."

The sergeant was a damn fine nurse, and knew her crew backwards, forwards, and sideways, and had been getting Dara up to speed with some of the recurring prescriptions. "The female turians get their hormonal regulation meds directly from the dispensary. You won't need to renew prescriptions or anything like that—once you're cleared to _write_ prescriptions, that is. We do random blood tests once a month—drug tests and hormone tests, where applicable—so you'll get plenty of practice running those numbers. We also run the physical fitness tests, on a rotating schedule, so everyone in the crew winds up getting tested every six weeks or so. Past that, there's a lot of dead time in between ground missions. Of course, you'll be going on those." Ghada's lips curled down. "On the one hand, having a medic there means immediate treatment, which could be the difference between life and death. On the other hand. . . you'll be taking fire, and shooting back at them."

"You don't think a medic should?" Dara was surprised. That was a fairly old-fashioned perspective.

"I think they should be able to defend themselves, but I don't think a doctor should be taking lives," Ghada replied, looking concerned.

Dara shrugged. "If someone's shooting at me or at the people around me, I'll damned well defend them. If I shoot the bad guys first, then I don't _have_ to dig the bullets out of my friends." She gave the woman a friendly smile, though. "Just the way I look at it, though. Doesn't have to be how you see it."

And that was the moment that all marines and special forces were paged to the shuttle bay, full kit required. Dara leaped to her feet and scrambled into her armor, grabbing her medical pack on her way out the door. Dr. Cimmirian caught her on the way out and gave her a slap on the shoulder plates. _"Go do good,"_ the turian told her. Dara just grinned back.

She slipped into the shuttle bay, last, of course, since she'd had the furthest to come from med bay _and_ had had to put on her armor, grabbed her weapons from the locker—assault rifle, sniper rifle, pistol, shock gun—and found her spot by Rel. Lots of little restless movements from the marines, little shifts of feet and weight, until the Spectres came in. Full kit. _Oh, boy. _Dara's stomach clenched for a moment. Up until now, it had all just been training. Now, it was real. Her dad had his work face on, too. She'd rarely seen it before. Eyes blank, face expressionless. He was letting Lantar and Livanus do the talking, though, for the moment.

Lantar began the briefing. _"We've got a pair of batarian Corsair-class ships in orbit around Doz Etab right now, peacefully discharging their drive cores. Their ID signal and hull markings match those of a couple of raiders that have been doing snatch-and-grab missions on volus trade convoys in the area over the past month. As such, we don't expect slaves on board, other than servitors. __Be careful where you aim.__ Servitors wear neck-collars and often shackles at their wrists as a sign of status. Some of them may be conditioned enough to try to defend their masters. If you're attacked by a slave with a gun in his or her hands, you are clear to shoot back."_ Lantar was being very clear about the rules of engagement here. Dara's stomach tightened a little further. _Maybe my little shock gun will come in handy here after all._ "_There may or may not be stolen goods on board, since they've just arrived. Since they're pirates, they'll be treated as such. We'll be engaging and boarding them. If they surrender, we'll accept it, but no quarter will be offered beyond the initial challenge."_

Definite murmurs of approval from around her. Excited shifting. She could _feel_ Rel tensing up beside her, and glanced up. His eyes were locked and intent, taking in the information. Come to think of it, she was tensing up herself, could feel her shoulders tightening a bit. Livanus picked up the briefing now. _"Since there are two ships, the __Estallus__ will engage the first, knock down its shields, and Lantar's teams—two, four, and six—will be heading across first. My teams will hold back, and we'll board the second ship when the __Estallus__ has had a chance to soften them up a bit."_

Sam spoke now, and _most_ of the marines spoke enough English now to understand him, although Dara could still hear a couple of VIs chiming softly along. "_The actual crossing from ship to ship is usually the worst part. __Estallus__ is going to be giving us some covering fire, but the breaching pods have exterior guns for a reason. Use them, and stay alert. I'll be going with Lantar's teams."_ He jerked his head at the waiting vehicles. _"Everyone get aboard."_

Dara climbed in, found her spot—crowded into Rel on one side, Decimus on the other, all elbows and knees and armor. She'd never felt so small or so out of place in her life. Dara made sure her seals were locked and her visor and breather were in place. "Excited?" Rel asked, switching radio bands to the frequency they'd agreed to use for private communication.

"Yeah. Scared, too." To him, she could admit that.

"First one's the worst. First thirty seconds to a minute is pure adrenaline, and then it's just like training." Calmness, mixed with excitement. It buoyed her.

"Yeah, well, you _like_ adrenaline."

His faceplate was polarized, so she couldn't see the expression, but she could _hear_ the grin. "So do _you_, _mellis. _We both know this. Besides. . . we _finally_ get to fight alongside each other again."

"There is that." Her voice was tight, though. She took deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Held onto her harness as the shuttle bay doors opened. Everything became very clear then, everything very real, as if outlined in crystal. _This is really happening. This is now. And this is real._

She could tell that the main ship was swerving, banking, could see the cargo nets in the hold swaying, holding crates and supplies and tools in place, and then their pod lifted off, followed the other two out the main door. It was a glide, of course; no rumble of ground under wheels, no atmosphere, once out of the shuttle bay, to resist. Just the push of inertia against her chest, in the pit of her stomach. But now the marine in charge of flying the damn pod was having to swerve and dodge as well, and she could see that Nadea and Rasmus were in each of the gun chairs, firing now, keeping random torpedoes from hitting the tiny pods. Then, finally, the thump that meant they'd landed on the ship's surface. She could feel a grinding reverberation through her feet; lasers and cutting saws were opening the batarian ship's outer hull for them. _Why always go in through a well-defended shuttle bay, when all you need is a can opener?_ was more or less the turian combat doctrine in regards to boarding situations.

Lantar and her father moved into place, opening the hatch in the middle of the floor. Smoke and debris blew up into the pod for a moment. _"Enemies on scope,"_ Lantar reported. _"Velnaran—both of you. Cadius, Curicum, Corolan. Jaworski and I will be going in first. You'll follow. Then everyone else. On three."_

Dara moved into position. It was twenty feet from the pod's deck to the deck inside the batarian ship below, but they'd be using ropes, and rolling the instant their feet hit the ground, to try to mitigate any fire they took. _Just like training_, she reminded herself. _"One. . . two. . . three."_

Then Lantar and her dad dropped the ropes and slid down first. Rel and she, as special forces, went next, and her feet hit the ground and she rolled to the left as Rel moved right, getting her rifle in her hands. _Cover, right, none of that around, it's a damned hallway_. The two Spectres were already trading fire with batarians up the hall, so she checked her scope, made sure there was nothing behind them, and moved up, shifting to Rel's side, clearing the area for the next people behind them to thump to the floor.

Once everyone was in—three squads of marines, two special forces officers, and two Spectres—they started moving in. The ship around them was swerving and footing was uncertain at best—they frequently wound up slammed into walls. _Hope the __Estallus__ doesn't blow this place to hell with us onboard,_ Dara thought, grimly, as they rounded a corner, heading for a heavy concentration of red dots on the life-signs scope. _"Engineering!" _Lantar called into the radio. _"Take them out!"_

The initial adrenaline had passed before she'd even had to fire a shot. Now there was just calmness. A bulkhead was trying to close, so she kicked a crate into its path, jamming it open, while Decimus and Rasmus grabbed the edges of the hatch and _pulled_, nothing but raw strength, resisting the mechanism, slamming the hatch back open.

Dara dropped to a crouch and began finding targets, using the edge of the hatch as cover, even as she could hear Decimus cursing. No different than that day on Mindoir, really.

"Orpheus, can you do something about the hatch?" Lantar's voice on the radio, calm and even.

"No problem, Nemesis." That was her father, and then he was right beside her and Rel, squeezing past them, dropping to work on some panel on the wall. . .

She got a pat on the shoulder from Rel, glanced up, and saw what he wanted—he was working on a heavily armored target—probably a batarian marine, not engineering crew—and she had her sniper rifle in her hands, where he was using his assault weapon. She waited for a break in fire, ducked around, and let her eyes take their macroscopic focus. . . and _bam. . . bam. . ._right between the batarian's eyes, shorting out his shields. Ducking back, and then the hatches slammed back into their holding areas in the walls, which meant that they'd lost cover, but Decimus and Rasmus had the use of their hands back.

"_Move up, move up!_" Lantar called and they hustled up. Right into fire, unfortunately—she felt her shields get hit, several times, and then she found a piece of machinery in the engine room to duck behind, felt _someone_ slam into place beside her, and realized she was breathing heavily. Harsh panting in the confines of her helmet, almost louder than the gunfire. Turning out again, _there we go, there's Rel's target_, firing again, nice, precise shots. An assault rifle was fun, but the sniper rifle was like hunting. Made it comfortable, familiar.

"_Cadius just took a hit. Need a doc over here."_ That was Nadea, sounding a little rattled, but otherwise fine.

"_Be right there,"_ Dara called back. _Now, where's __there?_Quick glances—ah, it was Rel who was beside her, of course, quick pat to his shoulder to let him know she was going—and there was Rasmus, back in the hallway, slumped against the wall. Dara waited, then ran, ducking, dodging, making sure not to cut across anyone's lines of fire, and dropped down next to Rasmus. _Nice, right in the upper arm. "Hey, I thought you were supposed to be good at ducking," _she told him, finding the latches on the armor, peeling away pieces.

"_Usually, I am,"_ Rasmus replied, gritting his teeth. _"Went left when I should have gone right."_

Around them, the ship _shook_, repeatedly. Dara glanced up, wondering if the damn ceiling was about to come down on her head.

"_Torpedoes,"_ Rasmus told her, wincing. _"Probably impacting on their armor up a few decks."_

"_Ours?"_

"_Not hard enough. Probably __theirs__, fired at too close a range, didn't acquire the __Estallus__ in time, and homed in on their own hull." _He snarled a little in pain as her hand clamped high on the arm now, and she packed the wound with gauze from her kit, taking a moment to study it, leaning over him now, back to the fight, relying on armor and shields and a tight defensive crouch to protect both herself and her patient. _"Okay, the bullet's lodged, that's why your suit was having trouble with the automatic medigel applications. I can take care of it when we get a break here, but for now, I'm going to work on getting the bleeding slowed down, okay?" _Tone calm, eyes level behind the visor. Usually important, with most species, to see the doctor's eyes.

Rasmus nodded, and his breathing slowed down; she couldn't _feel_ his pulse with her armor gloves on, but at OCS, they'd installed biometric readers in the gloves for her, which gave her temperature and heart-rate readings. Very handy, she'd had to admit, then—and now. A quick wrap with a pressure bandage, slapping the armor back over it, and then back into the fray herself now. Fortunately, resistance was fading, and in two more minutes, she was able to turn back around, re-open the armor, and use her kit to extract the bullet, before applying medigel. _"Thanks, doc," _Rasmus told her, chuckling. She wasn't quite a doctor yet, but any medic on the field was _doc_ to the marines.

She patted him on the shoulder. _"Next time, I'll have to bill you." _She tossed him the bullet, blue-slicked and malformed from where it had punched through his armor, and moved back into the main room.

Her father was doing something to the engine controls—shutting them down, she suspected—while Lantar and the marines were checking the batarians to make sure they were properly dead. Taking ammo off the bodies, too. Rel was keeping watch at one of the two doors, and she joined him. "What do you think?" he asked her.

"Messy in here. More coming?"

"Yeah, they're on the scope."

"With the engines disabled, is _Estallus_ going to keep shooting at us?"

He shook his head, eyes still fixed on the hall past the door. "They might have auxiliary power at their weapons, though. That'll be our next target, probably. Then the bridge."

"Good summary," her dad told them, stepping closer. "Except we're going to split the teams. Lantar's taking the guns. We're taking the bridge. Save a little time that way."

She could see Rel's head turn, could almost see his grin of anticipation. "Sounds like fun," Rel said, lightly.

And she had to admit, it did sound like a challenge.

Back into the halls of the ship, alien, unfamiliar. Red-tinged lights flashing everywhere. Large, open space ahead of them, visible through the narrow corridor aperture, tables—_mess hall?_—then shouts. The marines around her fell to the sides of the corridor, Dara moving with them, weapons ready. _"Slaves! Armed, though!"_

"_S'kak,"_ Rel muttered, and Dara agreed, grimly. She didn't really feel like killing people who were either brainwashed or coerced. She slid her rifle onto her back, and took the little stun pistol from her hip.

"_Anyone carrying shock grenades?" _Lantar asked.

"_Just fragmentation and incendiary loads here,"_ Rel called back, and Dara could hear the first tentative rattles of gunfire going off now, as the slaves began to open fire at the corridor.

"_Neural shock pistol,"_ Dara called. _"How many targets?"_

"_Six."_

_Oh, good, that gives me one chance to miss._ Dara moved up, rolled forward, and took cover behind an overturned table. _Lousy_ cover, but anything that didn't let them clearly target her body was better than nothing. She knew Rel was covering her from behind, and popped up, little pistol in hand, tracking targets. _One. . . two. . . three. . . _and back down again, seeing each of the slaves suddenly writhing in agony, 15,000 volts of electricity coursing through their bodies—of course, the amperage was where the actual damage occurred, but the system was designed to stop muscles and nerves from being able to communicate properly. _First three were batarian slaves. Damage should be nominal, unless they've got bad hearts. Three on the right were humans. Let's see if they want to surrender when they see a human in armor. _She poked her head back up, cautiously, shock gun at the ready, and was relieved to see the human slaves throwing down their weapons, raising their arms in the air. _Not bad. Better than a stun grenade, anyway._

"Stay here, and stay down," her father told the human slaves, as the rest of the team tied up the batarians and threw them in the galley for safekeeping. "We'll be back for you later." He glanced down at Dara as she moved up beside him with Rel. "Nice work, Velnaran." Much more quietly, now, he added, "Atta girl."

Dara's lips quirked in a quick grin under her visor.

Their teams broke in half at a T-junction, Lantar leading five marines off towards an emergency stairwell that had been left open, and Jaworski leading the rest of them left, towards an elevator that gaped open on an empty tube. _"Climbing,"_ Decimus said, sounding grim.

"_Cheer up,"_ Nadea told him. _"It could be swimming."_

That got a laugh, as Sam determined that the elevator car was at the bottom of the shaft, and used his submachine gun to cut the cable ahead of them. "All right, folks, up we go," he said, once the cable had stopped swinging violently all around the shaft.

He and Dara actually moved out first, but he activated his stealth device as soon as he got into the shaft. Dara called back to the others over the radio, _"This isn't bad. Not even as difficult as a climbing wall. Mostly access ladders, so it should be fine for everyone."_

"_You say that, but your muscle structure is __built__ for this,"_ Nadea called back lightly.

And up they went. Only a couple of impacts to worry about, no more violent swerves to make the climb all the more interesting. "Velnaran—the taller half, anyway-_"_ her dad said, sounding dry, "you're leading in. I'll be heading straight for their captain, stealthed. Once I get him occupied, feel free to hit him, too, but for the first minute or so, take out the rest of the crew."

"_Will do,"_ Rel replied, cool and firm.

"Okay, folks. Open the bridge doors on three. One. . . two. . . three."

They opened the doors of the bridge, and moved in. Dara had only caught glimpses of her father in combat before. The night of the cave, for example, little bits and pieces today. And of course, at the moment, he was stealthed. She didn't have time to look for the ripple that was him, just kept taking potshots at the various batarians, who were firing back through the open doorway into the elevator shaft. Precarious grip on the narrow lip beside the door, made aiming difficult; constant feeling of all that empty space just inches from her toes made her palms sweat inside the gloves.

Then, suddenly, the captain, at the center of the bridge, bent backwards, head jerked down from behind. Stealth net flickering offline, Sam appeared, knife in hand, and Dara could see orange batarian blood spurting from the officer's throat. She blinked, and Rel said, sharply, _"Forwards, while they're distracted!"_ and she moved into the bridge itself, ducking behind a railing, giving Nadea and Decimus room to move out of the elevator shaft themselves now. Blessed solid deckplates underfoot. Switching to her pistol, not having the range she needed for the sniper rifle, and not wanting to risk a hull breach with the bridge windows being _right there_ if she used the assault rifle.

The rest of the fight was short and ugly. Bodies were everywhere after the fight, limbs splayed out awkwardly however they happened to have fallen. The inherent lack of dignity in death. Oh, you could smooth out a body in a casket, fold the hands _just so_, but Dara knew she'd _never_ get used to this stillness. Never see it as anything other than the final insult to life. Morgue, autopsy table, casket, battleground. It was all the same. That they'd been trying to kill her didn't make them seem any less empty. But she also, conversely, didn't _care_ that she'd emptied them. It was hard to explain, even to herself.

She walked forward, stepping over orange blood splattered on the carpet. Dara was just as grateful to have her visor closed. The smell of open bodies, brain matter, were not pleasant, no matter what species they were. And the helmet gave her a nice insulated feeling. Distance.

"Nemesis, this is Orpheus," she heard her dad say over the radio. "The bridge is secure. How you doing down there?"

"Main guns are offline. We're mopping up down here. Looks like we've probably got survivors in crew quarters and environmental stations."

"Want us to take them?"

"No, keep the bridge secure. We'll take care of it."

She moved to a window, opened the shutters, and peered out. The gas giant's white and blue bands roiled past. A little closer than she liked to see them, in fact. "Are we in a decent orbit?" she asked, a little sharply. "Or do we need to go get main engines back on-line _real_ quick?" _Shit. That would be a long damned climb back down the elevator shaft. . . ._

Rel and her dad moved to the consoles, checking their orbital position. "We're fine, for the moment," her dad said. "The orbit's decaying, but it'd take about a month to sink fully into the gravity well."

_Oh, well, a month. Plenty of time. _Dara looked up as Rel came over and leaned on a rail near her. "So, how's your first day going?" he asked, lifting his visor to grin at her, and then grimacing a little at the odors around them.

She lifted her own now. "Not too bad. Old hat for you, though, huh?"

He shook his head. "Every day is different. Kind of why I like my work." His eyes were glittering.

_Predator_, she thought, but it was affectionate. One side of her face lit up, and she turned, watching, as the _Estallus _arced by, Thanix cannon blasting out hot, yellow light at another batarian ship. "Is that the second ship, or did they just call up friends?" Dara asked, heart suddenly pounding again.

"_S'kak_. I don't know." Rel tabbed at a console, and grimaced in frustration. "I have no idea how to pull up a tactical reading on this thing. . . ."

**Rinus**

As soon as the ship went to battle stations, he threw on his armor and headed to the Thanix cannon station. He knew his _chalsae_ could handle the Javelin tubes fine without him. But the main gun battery was _his _responsibility. _Let's hope that this time, we don't wind up with __futtari__ Lystheni joining the fight and warping the spirits-be-damned hull right in front of me_, he thought, grimly, making sure his helmet was locked in place, and that positive air pressure breathed lightly on his face from his hoses.

A little uneasily, he activated the chip in his mind. It would help him keep track of his Javelin crews, if nothing else. _There you are,_ Laetia said in his mind.

_As if you didn't know __precisely__ where I am._

_Would it interest you to know that young Lieutenant Essedarius is at the helm for this combat? The captain wants to see what she can do, apparently. Macenus is still on the secondary console, of course. _Laetia's voice was slightly teasing.

"_Everyone needs to be tested in the fires eventually_," Rinus muttered under his breath_. "Better now than after Macenus rotates off." _He'd enjoyed his conversation with the young pilot, however. She hadn't seemed as unwarrantedly cocky as most. She'd just been quietly confident. An attitude he liked; most pilots _grated_ on his last nerve. _Maybe she'll take some of my ideas under advisement. Then again, she's getting training from Macenus. We can probably expect more of the same from her, as we've seen from him._ The thoughts weren't directed at Laetia, but with the chip open, of course she picked up on them.

_Actually, she informs me that her instructors considered her a little aggressive._

Rinus looked up from his console, grinning. _Oh? __How__ aggressive?_

_Telling you would involve pulling data from her personnel file._ Hint of a tease there. Dangling the bait.

_That's okay. I'll live without it._

Then the ship was arcing in, smoothly towards the first target. "Fire when ready," Jallus ordered Rinus, and his fingers danced over the console, setting off the first barrage from the main guns. Pirates depended on speed and overwhelming firepower for their attacks. They needed to get in, get out, and be able to inflict—or at least _threaten _to inflict—lots of damage. They weren't known for having good defense systems. _Hmm, better shields than average __Corsair__-class ships. . . no ablative hull, though. Good. We can work with this._ Rinus fired again, targeting their engine section, and saw the ship turn, bringing their own guns to bear on the _Estallus_. _Here's where Macenus would begin his arc up or away. . . no?_

The _Estallus, _having dropped its breaching pods, put itself _between_ the pods and the batarians, moving _in_ on the pair of ships, racing _between _them, in fact. Two kilometers distance, either side, pin-point accuracy, in terms of space combat and the kinds of speeds at which they were engaging the enemy.

_S'kak__, she __is__ aggressive, _Rinus thought, cueing his crews to launch Javelins at both targets now, as the two ships yawed around, trying to catch the _Estallus_ as the frigate fleeted past. _"Macenus must be shitting himself right around now," _Rinus commented out loud, hooking his feet under the bar that ran the length of his console as the ship pitched upwards now, steeply, using that bar to hold his balance at his station, as well as hooking one hand and his claws around another bar at the side of the console.

_He is not pleased, but the captain is not allowing him to take over yet._ Laetia's internal voice was a little strained, and Rinus grinned. "Tell her she's doing great!" he whooped, and fired the main guns again, focusing now on the second batarian ship, trying to rip through the shields that were left only partially depleted after the torpedoes had impacted against them.

_Batarians are firing a torpedo salvo in response,_ Laetia commented. Rinus shook his head, and waited for the order to deploy countermeasures. In the days of nautical warfare, and even in aircraft days, countermeasures had often been chaff, ejected from a ship or a plane to confuse the incoming torpedo or missile's radar. Today, countermeasures typically were almost small drone missiles of their own, set with ID beacons similar to the ship from which they were launched, with similar alloys coating them. With a little luck, incoming torpedoes would key in on either the metallurgical analysis or the identification signal, and would explode on contact with the drones.

With luck.

"_Deploy countermeasures,"_ Jallus' voice echoed in his headset, and Rinus nodded as his crew, one deck below his feet, followed the order. _Cutting it close, captain_, he thought. _Essedarius isn't the only person feeling aggressive today._

The _Estallus _pitched forward now, flipping over in a graceful parabola, and came right back in at the batarian ships. _"__S'kak_, _she didn't leave the torpedoes enough time to acquire on the drones,"_ Rinus muttered, and got back to work. The second set of pods had just deployed, and he _really_ needed to take the batarian's shields down to get the marines on board and out of an increasingly crowded sky.

_I think she has a plan,_ Laetia said, but her tone was worried. _At least, I hope she does._

"_You and me both."_ The pilot had them in a head-on course for the second batarian, and Rinus saw the set-up for the shot at the exact moment his fingers keyed it in. The batarian's had open torpedo doors at the _front_ of their ships, not along the broadsides. This was a down-the-throat shot, exactly where their overlapping shield fields were weakest, and he took it, the Thanix cannon firing, burning through the shields and taking out their main weapons, just as the _Estallus_ danced lightly, up and over the batarian ship, frighteningly close. _Great spirits, we're fifty meters from their hull. I could fire a full Javelin spread and __end__ them. "Are our marines already on board?"_

_Affirmative. They've just entered their breaching area._

_Nevermind that then, no more Javelin hits for the second ship. . . wait, what about the torpedoes that were following us?_

The _Estallus, _as if in answer, banked port suddenly, heading in an arc back towards the first ship, which had been attempting to move to engage the frigate once more. Right, in fact, into the path of the countermeasures, which had been moving at the same relative speed at which they exited the _Estallus_ two minutes before. The _Estallus _moved up and over the first ship again, and when the frigate did so, the countermeasures landed on the pirate's exposed hull.

And the torpedoes following the _Estallus_ abruptly homed in on the countermeasures instead, blowing a hole in the corsair's uppermost deck. _"Nice!"_ _I wonder if she plays chess?_ His fingers _itched_ to follow up with more fire, but his _brother_ was onboard that ship, and the whole _point_ of this mission was to bring back these ships in shame and defeat, clear evidence of what happened to pirates who meddled in turian-protected space. Blowing them into dust had a slightly more elemental satisfaction, but didn't make the point that was needed.

_A third batarian ship is now engaging. _

_Responding to distress calls?_

_No, I jammed them. This one was probably inbound for drive discharge itself._ Laetia's tone was terse, and the ship jerked under Rinus' feet as the pilot turned and engaged the third ship.

_No marines on board,_ Rinus thought, grinning to himself. _"C'mon, Essedarius, show me what you can do."_

_And __I__ have nothing to do with it?_ Laetia's tone was miffed.

_If you did, wouldn't we have been fighting this way all along?_ Rinus' teeth bared behind his visor as the frigate engaged the pirate, and he began raking its shields at the ten-kilometer maximum distance with shots from the cannon. He could feel the hydraulics of the Javelin tubes rumbling under his feet as his crew loaded more torpedoes. Then the batarian ship began firing, and the shots chipped at their shields—already somewhat weakened by the other ships. _Not Lystheni, though, no upgrades for __you__. You've got our shields down to twenty percent, though. Soon, it'll be time to rely on the hull._

Essedarius took the ship in at a roll, letting the batarian's main guns rake their belly first, where the ablative armor was thick, to protect engineering. Then she completed the roll—Rinus held onto his console and trusted that his boots were wedged under the bar tightly enough—and brought the Javelins to bear. _One, two, three, four, four direct hits, one glancing one_, Rinus spared enough time to think, while targeting the batarian's engines and firing the cannons at point-blank range. _C'mon, sweetness, get us to range now, we don't want to be in range when that thing blows. . . . _

_Sweetness? Was that directed at me?_

_Huh? _ He was concentrating far too hard on what he was doing to do more than register Laetia's comment in passing, let alone figure out what she was talking about.

The _Estallus_ moved straight up on the Z-axis, ten seconds of thrust, and then pitched slightly downwards again. _"Velnaran, finish them,"_ Jallus called over the comm, and Rinus gleefully obliged, setting a new firing solution and engaging the guns.

The batarian ship exploded _very_ satisfactorily.

_I had no idea how much you enjoyed blowing things up_. Laetia's voice was _very_ disgruntled.

"_It was attempting to blow __you__ up, too, was it not?" _Rinus checked his screen for new targets. None appeared. In fact, the first two ships were drifting in space; still in orbit, but completely without power. _Nice. The marines and Spectres got the job done._

They wound up towing the two disabled ships back to Talis Fia that afternoon; the _Estallus _had the towing capacity to spare, but couldn't do it stealthed, of course. The various marines came back on-board, crowing; the Spectres all took seats in the crew mess, clearly enjoying the victory and sense of camaraderie. And Sidonis and Jaworski took seats at the table where Rel and Dara customarily sat, of course. On the officer's side, and (thank the spirits) after Rinus had already sat down, so he wasn't sitting with them, so much as they were sitting at a table that he already occupied. Distinctions like these mattered.

And then the gunnery crew stood and _cheered_ when the new pilot came down into the mess. Kallixta flushed slightly blue, of course, and took her usual seat across from Dara and Rellus. Rinus stood when she arrived, and gave her a very formal nod, accompanied by a grin, before sitting back down again.

"Now that," Rellus said, loudly, nodding to Essedarius, "is how turians _dance_."

"I'll admit, that was some fancy footwork today," Jaworski agreed, leaning back a bit on his bench, and Rinus caught a hint of mischief in the male's expression as he added, "Good enough for an imperial ball, eh?"

Dara started coughing, as if she'd inhaled something wrong, and Rel patted her on the back, chuckling.

Essedarius's color was still a little high as she turned away from Jaworski towards Rinus. "Was that _aggressive_ enough a change in combat doctrine for you, Centurion Velnaran?" the female asked him directly, grinning.

Half of his crew whooped to his right, which made it hard to pretend that he wasn't answering directly. Rinus raised his head, saw Macenus give him a dark look from the table just past Kallixta's head, and toasted the male with his _apha_ mug. Not quite smug, but definitely an _I win, you lose_ final rejoinder to the argument the two males had been having for _months_ now. Then he returned his gaze to the new pilot. "I enjoyed it. In fact, I believe the human custom for thanking someone who's done you a great favor is to give them flowers."

"Or candy," Dara told him, recovering from her coughing fit.

Rinus shrugged. "I don't have _any_ such things, of course, but I'll gladly buy you a drink sometime, lieutenant." He chuckled. "Two, for setting up that down-the-throat shot."

It wasn't particularly surprising that they were ordered to leave volus space two days later. _Not the Valhallan Threshold __again__, _Rinus thought, and decided that, since he was off-duty, he'd head to a sparring room. He stood for a while at the door, watching in some amusement, as his younger brother and his wife fought. They were both good—Rel was _frighteningly_ good, in fact, though he'd _never_ admit that to Rel's face—and Dara was clearly learning. _"This a private session, or can I play, too?" _he asked.

"_First-son! Come on in,"_ Rel said, grinning.

"_Please do. Give him someone else to beat on besides me." _Dara flopped down on a nearby heavy bag, which had been taken off of its chains and left to rest on its side on the ground. _"I'm __never__ going to catch up. Especially with all the reading I need to do."_

"_You're keeping up on it, though, right?"_ Rel sounded worried. _"Don't let me distract you too much."_

"_Med bay all morning, drills or combat in the afternoons, sparring or more med bay or. . . personal time. . . or reading at night. I'm beginning to think that I should have been born a salarian. That way, I'd only need an hour's sleep a night."_

"_Perish the thought."_ Rel walked over and crouched down, pressing his forehead to his wife's. _"I can't even begin to imagine biting a salarian. If you need to go read, go read."_

"_I'll watch a couple of rounds, and then yeah, I do need to go."_ She sounded resigned.

"_If it helps, med techs aren't the only ones who wind up with a __lot__ of on-the-job and off-the-clock training,"_ Rinus offered. _"Special forces, there's coursework, which you'll both do on the clock, of course. But all of the highly technical jobs—engineering, electronic warfare, chemical branch, hell, even my job. . . take a lot of bookwork."_

His little _ama'fradu_ looked up at him, and sighed a bit. _"It's not a consolation, but it helps a bit. Thanks, Rinus."_

"_Shh, I'm not supposed to have a first name around here. It's 'centurion,' 'that spirits-bedamned Velnaran' or plain 'Velnaran,' depending on to whom you're speaking,"_ Rinus told her, and beckoned Rel forward onto the mats.

It was a _delight _to spar with his brother again, and even better now that they were so evenly matched in terms of height and weight. For years, he'd had a reach advantage, which he'd exploited ruthlessly whenever he was home on leave and Rel had needed a sparring partner other than their father. Rel had, also, obviously far improved since then, and added new styles to his repertoire. Rinus had far less experience with non-turian styles, but he'd also spent four years in two military prep programs and had kept up his skills in the fleet. By common consent, they started out in pure turian style, lots of intricate kicks and sweeps. Fluid, graceful. By the second or third round, Rel had switched to his mixed style and they'd wound up grappling, shouting with laughter now and again at a particularly good hit or throw.

"Okay, I have to go," Dara called. They both bounced up off the mats, and Rinus realized, with some surprise, that Essedarius had, at some point, come in and perched on the heavy bag beside Dara, watching the two brothers. Feeling vaguely as if he'd been caught doing something wrong, Rinus hesitated a little as Dara got up on tip-toe, planted a kiss on Rel's mandible, and turned to leave. Rel hesitated, and Rinus gave him a flick of the fingers—_go on with you_.

A quick flash of gratitude in his brother's eyes, and then Rel caught his wife's arm and said, cheerfully, "You read your book, I'll find something quiet in the room to do."

"You just want me to rub your spurs while I'm reading."

"Well, if you're offering, sure, but I was thinking more of finishing my latest carving."

The door opened, showing a centurion standing outside, and then slid shut behind them. Rinus frowned. _Why the hell is that centurion out there? She's one of the new ones, from the latest crew transfers. She's. . . guarding a __wall__. Like a boot camp punishment. _

Essedarius watched them go, shaking her head. "I was hoping Dara would show me more of what she'd been teaching me in boot camp, but it's hard to catch her when she _isn't_ otherwise occupied."

Distracted from his confusion now, Rinus shrugged. "Nature of the beast. They spent three hundred or so days of their first year of marriage separated, and now they both have round-the-clock jobs. It'd be easier if one of them was in food services, but I don't think they'd have as much fun." He looked down at the pilot. "I can probably show you a few things."

"I noticed that. Your brother's had more time with the Spectres, though, correct?"

It still downright shocked him to hear that spoken out loud, and he hesitated for a moment "Yes. It's gotten much, much harder to beat him in the last year or two. You don't need to tell him that, though."

"You think he doesn't already know?"

"I'm hoping he just hasn't realized it yet." His tone was _very_ dry, and she laughed, stepping up onto the mats. "So, still in English?"

"Still in English."

"_It's going to be strange to hear you whenever you __do__ get around to speaking in turian again."_

"Probably, yes." She wouldn't be baited into switching, he realized, and he chuckled under his breath as she started trying to get in on his guard.

"Don't come at me from the front. Move to my sides. Otherwise, _this_ will happen." She came in again from the front, and this time, he launched a kick at her, lightly, pulling it right in front of her nose. "Step off the line of my attack—yes, like that. Angles. Just like flying, really. Given the way you fly, you should be a natural at sparring." He frowned. "I can see you've had some training, but they stressed a lot of forms, didn't they?"

"Yes. Yes, they did." She sighed.

"There's attacks and counters buried in all the forms. You just need to know what each of them really are." He had her attack a couple more times, and showed her how to move in on him more effectively, overcoming his reach advantage. She was taller than Dara—by about three _unica_, which made him only seven _unica_ taller than her, but it was still over half a foot.

"May I ask a question?"

"If you wish."

"How do you know about our Mindoir connections?"

"Well, it _could_ be that Dara's father and Commander Shepard and your uncle came to Dara's graduation."

Rinus blinked, and actually had to dodge a punch there that slipped through his guard. "That _would_ explain it," he acknowledged.

Kallixta grinned up at him. "However, I knew about it before then."

"And how did you know?"

"My family made arrangements for me to know."

He caught her hand this time, redirected the punch, stepped aside, one hand on wrist, one hand on elbow—and two points of contact were all he needed to direct her, drive her towards the ground. She looked up from the mats. "You just changed the rules, Velnaran."

"I do that, on occasion." Rinus stared down at her. "Your family did, eh?" _So, she's got relatives in military intelligence, or who interface with STG? No, diplomatic corps fits better with the language skills. Of course, why would she want to speak __English__ all the damned time with any of those as an explanation?_

"Yes, they did. You don't watch the Palaven news much, do you?" She had propped her head up on one hand, looking up at him mischievously.

_Well, that was a hell of a change of topic._ "Gladiatorial scores and highlights. Past that, _s'kak_, no. Mostly drivel about musical groups I don't listen to, vid actors I've never even heard of, and political infighting that I don't care about."

Her mandibles flexed. "You don't like politics?" She scythed out a leg now, and caught him behind a spur. He was fairly solidly planted, however, so he stood there patiently while she worked it out, finally planting one foot on the side of his knee instead, and then he dropped to the ground, showing her how it would work.

On the mats now himself, he told her, "Not Palaven politics, no. Lots of little fish in a little pond, pretending that the ocean doesn't exist. Now, Council news: That I follow. That has an impact on everything I do out here."

Kallixta scrambled over, then, trying to apply some of the grappling skills she'd probably seen Dara using, saying, sweetly, "And yet, the politics on Palaven influences what our voice on the Council says, when it speaks."

"Bad idea, if you're not trained," he said, batting her hands away lightly, not letting her get a choke.

"How else do I get trained, except by doing this?"

_Fair point._ He let her straddle him, and simply let her get distracted by her hands, and trying to choke him. Almost absently, he continued the conversation, still moving her hands away, pressing in on an elbow now and again to cross her up, destabilize her. "I strongly doubt that the local politicians back home really influence the Imperator _that_ much."

Her current attack faltered. "You think he's a tyrant, who does not listen to the rest of the Hierarchy, then?"

Rinus snorted. "I think he's the _Imperator_. What, you're asking me if I _voted_ for him?" He started to laugh, and, after a moment, she joined in.

After a moment, she asked, "_Would_ you have, if you'd had a choice?" sounding oddly anxious.

He blinked. "I don't really have an opinion on the man," Rinus said, after a moment. "I just work for him. Seems smart enough when I listen to his speeches, but I rarely hear more of those than just the highlights. Then again, it's not like he ever has to run for re-election, so does it matter?"

She stared down at him, open-mouthed. "What?" he asked, grinning up at her.

"And your uncle?"

"I don't think Uncle Garrus needs to run for re-election, either."

Kallixta actually swore and tried to slam her forearm into his throat. Rinus laughed, and, lowering his chin to pin her arm in place, took advantage of the fact that she'd been concentrating so hard on trying to work up top, that she'd completely forgotten that he had hips and legs to work with, too, and simply rolled with her, landing on top, pinning her arms as they fell out to the sides.

Suddenly, he had a quick flash of the _last_ time he'd sparred with a female in a room like this, and exhaled sharply through his nose. Essedarius wasn't in his department or chain of command, so even though she was on the other side of the enlisted/officer divide it would be. . . okay. Of course, the last time he'd expressed an interest in a female, the ship's AI had interfered. Going through _that_ whole experience again would be even worse if it involved an officer. "So, you have other questions?" he managed, after a moment.

"Yes." She paused for a moment, trying to get her hands free, arching herself a bit, trying to find leverage. As close as they were at the moment, Rinus had clear evidence that she didn't wear a _cinctus_ under her loose workout clothing. _She's probably unattached, then. Not conclusive evidence, though. No one really wears those to work out in. Too useful a thing to grab._ "I understand that you accepted a chip from the ship's AI?" she asked, and _that_ derailed that train of thought, instantly.

Rinus swore and released her, pulling back, getting back up to his knees and scowling. "Does everyone on the damned ship know?"

Kallixta sat up, shaking her head. "No. I take it that would be. . . confirmation?"

He sighed. "Yeah. The more fool I." Rinus stood up. "I take it Laetia told you?"

"Yes. It came up in context of post-fight analysis. She suggested that your reaction time with the chip is much faster than when you're keying the consoles by hand."

He gritted his teeth. "Yeah. The chip is for emergencies, such as when the gun batteries have been opened to space. I won't use it in that mode at any other time."

"I can understand why." Her voice was actually sympathetic. "You didn't have a lot of choice in accepting the chip, did you?"

Rinus shook his head. "Me, or someone else. Probably someone else that I knew."

"I haven't had a lot of choices in my life, either. But it seems to me that you _did_ make a choice there, and it was an honorable one." Very tentatively, she put a hand on his arm. It seemed as if she hadn't had a lot of practice with that sort of thing. _How odd._ "Honor seems to be a family trait." She looked at him, wide-eyed. "You said you wouldn't mind sharing a drink with me. I _do_ happen to have a bottle of brandy in my locker, if you'd like a glass."

Again, exhaling hard through his nose. _Spirits, I'd like nothing better._ "Essedarius. . . Kallixta. . . " Rinus reached out and very lightly stroked his fingers along her fringe, "Under most other circumstances, I'd say yes. But . . . the damned AI is watching _all the time_. I don't know if you can imagine living like that, but I don't want to put anyone through it." _At least you're already well aware of all the craziness on the Mindoir side_, _but still. . . ._ "The only female I've even _vaguely_ been interested in on the _Estallus_ asked for a _transfer_ rather than deal with the AI and me and the job and everything else. You're a damned fine pilot, and I don't want to lose a pilot who is . . ." _just as aggressive as I am._ ". . . so skilled." He swallowed past a dry throat. _And I'm going to hate myself in the morning for saying any of this._

Her lips quirked. "You think I don't know what it's like being watched _all the time_?" Kallixta suddenly started laughing, and Rinus stared at her, bewildered. "You have no idea—"

The door to the sparring room opened, and Rinus pulled his hand back from her fringe at the first hint of noise, and looked up from where he knelt on the mats, a full arm's length away from the pilot. The centurion who'd been standing outside now peered in. "I'm sorry. I have this room from 21:00 on," she said, politely.

_There was no other name on the board outside, besides Velnaran when __I__ showed up,_ Rinus thought, but stood, offering Kallixta a hand up. Outside, he glanced at the board, and, sure enough, there was no new name underneath _Velnaran_. Unfortunately, Essedarius had set her teeth together at the first sight of the other centurion, saying nothing more.

_Puzzles and mysteries. _Rinus gave the young lieutenant a very correct bow of the head, and headed back to his quarters. He was, briefly, tempted to open the chip in his head, and give Laetia a nice headache with his mix of adrenaline from sparring, confusion, and frustration, but decided she'd probably start dangling personnel files in front of his nose again. . . and that he might be too curious to resist, if they were offered.

He sighed, and sat down at his terminal instead. Maybe he'd work on the problem of jamming the Lystheni biotic weapons some more. _It's not like I'm going to be getting to sleep any time soon_, he reflected. _Or, I could do a little extranet research. See if I can come up with any families with the clan name of Essedarius, who might have diplomatic ties. Of course, what kind of a name __is__ Essedarius, anyway? That's a charioteer, and a really specialized gladiatorial type, at that. __Auriga__ is the equivalent of __Driver__, for instance, but __Essedarius__ is like someone with an English last name like __Racecardriver__. _He thought about it some more, and had just called up the search program when Laetia's eyeball popped up.

"You're late," he told her.

"I was expected?"

"About ten minutes ago, yes."

"Whyever would you think that?"

"Because you love data, and you're always watching."

The green eyeball blinked. She hadn't taken her human avatar in weeks now, at least not around him. "I _am_ the ship, Rinus."

"I know." He frowned. "There was a centurion in the hallway outside the room I was using with my brother and my _ama'fradu_ tonight. I didn't catch her name."

"Centurion Vela Reimian?" Laetia sounded confused. "That's hardly the question I expected."

"Thank you." Rinus paused. "Was there something on your mind?"

"Many things. Could you open the chip for a moment?"

Rinus sighed. "You really don't want any part of what's going on in here at the moment." But he opened it, one-way, and let the _torrent_ of data out.

The eyeball blinked, once. And then the chip shut down from her end. "Thank you," she said, quietly. "I won't intrude further on your time, except to say that we're coming up on Garvug, probably in the morning. And that your analysis of those orbiting stations is sure to be put to the test. In the meantime, you might have a look at this. . . ."

A new schematic popped up on his screen. A large, domed complex. "What's this?"

"It's an undersea complex on Garvug. Spectre Jaworski just got some very. . . discomfiting news about it, in fact." Laetia sounded concerned.


	66. Chapter 66: Exfiltration

**Chapter 66: Exfiltration**

**Author's note: **_32,452 Hits __ and __7,623 Visitors____through the month of April! Thank you all for reading! Not bad for something I tossed up online originally more or less for storage, and didn't think anyone would ever actually read. _

_Also, thank you to the people participating in the most recent poll (for my own amusement, I tossed up "who's your favorite couple"—largely OC people. Garrus/Shep would be too much of a DUH if you're reading this story. ;-) Rinus and Kallixta have only just gotten started, and they're darned near tied with Rellus/Dara. LOL._

**Sam**

The three Spectres were sharing the port observation lounge as quarters on the _Estallus_. _Good thing we all get along fairly well_, Sam thought, amused. Livanus, as former CID, had a _host_ of law enforcement stories that rivaled Lantar's and Sam's. They'd taken turns the night before in a round of "which planet has the dumbest criminals?" Sam had offered up the barefoot bank robbers in Dallas from two years before—"we never did figure out why they _always_ walked in barefoot. Made it pretty easy identify them, step in, and catch them. Especially after one of them stepped on a piece of broken glass leaving the scene, left blood all over the place, and then showed up to a county hospital."

Livanus had snorted. "I find it hard to believe your people actually still use physical _money_."

Sam had shrugged in response. "Not many people do. That's what makes it even dumber. Paper money is almost a second, separate economy, almost as primitive as bartering anymore. It only has worth where people actually _accept_ it. . . which is, you know, roadside stands, kids' allowances, casinos, and under-the-counter employees."

"Sounds very limited in terms of legal applications, anymore."

Sam had nodded, grinning.

Lantar's contribution had been from his Citadel days, "The notorious hanar hooker, Gives-Solace-of-the-Body-to-Many."

"Wait. That sounds like a soul name," Sam had asked.

"Yes. Yes, it was."

Livanus had looked up, grinning. "She actually gave her real name?"

"He. Yes, he did. Did I mention that he was dumb?" Lantar was keeping his own grin under tight wraps, from the looks of it.

Sam raised one finger. "Do I even want to ask . . . ?" 

Lantar coughed. "No. _We_ kind of had to ask, anyway. Apparently, he thought he was doing the Enkindlers' work. Somehow. We more or less remanded him into the custody of the hanar authorities, and told them to keep him _off_ the Citadel. He's on the no-fly list for Bastion, too. The hard part was getting the prostitution charge to stick, because he insisted that he wasn't charging money for his services. . . ."

"Okay, that one only counts as 'weird criminal' not necessarily 'dumb criminal,'" Sam told Lantar, grinning.

"Tell that to the people he, ah, attempted to give solace to as they walked by."

Livanus had his hand over his eyes, quietly laughing. "Okay, try this one," he said. "From my CID days. The case of the missing omnitool."

"Up the cloaca," Lantar said, at the exact same moment Sam said, "Up his ass."

Livanus flicked his fingers at them. "Okay, that one works better on civilians than on other cops. Give me a minute to think, here."

Sam chuckled and settled back, flicking idly through his messages. "I can see why your reviews of my son-in-law have been so glowing, Livanus. He's developing _fast_."

Lantar nodded. "He got a little overwhelmed during the Lystheni fight a month ago; too many new variables at once."

Sam snorted. "We _all_ took a moment or two to adapt the first time they showed up."

Livanus offered, "But young Velnaran adapted very well after that."

"And in today's more conventional fight, he was already working out tactics on how to take the rest of the ship, kept beside D . . . his squad mate," Sam had almost slipped and called his daughter by name there, "kept his calm the whole time, too."

"It'll be more of a test when she gets into trouble," Lantar said, calmly, looking through his own messages. "See if he can _use_ the fear-anger and the protective-anger." He glanced up, clear amusement in his eyes. "And how are _you_ handling working with your daughter, Jaworski?"

Sam shook his head. "Trying to think about it as little as possible. It's not like fighting with Kasumi there." He shrugged. "Kasumi's just as damn good as I am, just in different ways. We both like concealment, stealth, but she leans on it more heavily than I do. More subtle. Better with the electronics and the hacking and whatnot. She's the espionage model. I'm the straight-up combat model." Sam grimaced.

"Easier to see a mate as an equal than a child?" Livanus offered.

"Yeah, definitely. So I spent most of today actively pretending that I don't know Dara at all." Sam snorted. "Human military doctrine would suggest that I couldn't be anywhere near her unit at all, for fear that I'd try to protect her above the other men and women under my command."

Both turians snorted at that. "And turian military doctrine says that if you have a personal engagement within your squad, you're more dedicated and devoted to that squad," Livanus replied. "I personally go with the personal accountability option."

"You would. We humans don't trust ourselves that much. And with good reason." It had taken everything he had to focus at first, to let her do _her_ job, and let _Rel_ worry about protecting her.

"And how did she do, in your detached, professional opinion?" Lantar asked, still sounding a bit amused.

Sam thought about it for a moment. "Pretty damned well for her first day. Kept her head, stuck with Rel like glue, did her job as a medic and as a combatant."

"She's had _eight months_ of fairly rigorous training, Sam," Lantar pointed out, dryly. "She walked in the door blooded, had already seen friends die in combat. And yet, you sound almost surprised."

Sam shrugged. "My head knows that. But when I look at her, I see my little girl. You'll understand it when Caelia's older. Eli was too old for you to think that way, I think. But Caelia will show you what I mean." _Although I don't think it's really in the turian psyche to understand how much seeing the loss of innocence really hurts. _

_Dara's known for a while that I have to kill on the job. Shit, she's __autopsied__ some of my damn kills. And she's killed before, in self-defense. But she's never seen __me__ kill before, and I don't always do my killing from a nice, clean distance with a gun. She's never seen me wear my work face before. Maybe glimpses, here and there. I told young Rel a few months ago that his training was putting something __else__ in him. The killer, the soldier. The person who doesn't have the same safety catch as nice, normal people. I even told him then that she'd probably __understand__ it, thanks to her training, the same way Kasumi or Shepard understand it, in me or in Garrus, but where Sarrie or Ellie never can or would._

_I've lived with that a hell of a lot longer than either of the two of them have been alive. And I never once thought, when Dara was younger, that she'd ever have to see that part of me. Now she's married to someone with that same second, shadow-self in him. . . and you know what I saw in her eyes today?_

_Absolutely nothing. _

_She's got a shadow-self now, too. Probably __has__ had, for a long time. And, some cop I am, I didn't see it. It's there. Rigidly controlled. Strong ego and super-ego, I guess the shrinks would say. Directionalizes a lot towards protection and the medic work. Strong ethics help. But she watched me cut someone's throat today and had no reaction afterwards besides getting on with the job. She shot people herself. No reaction, except to study the bodies. Looked a little wide-eyed, but no throwing up, no attack of scruples, nothing._

_I have no idea if I should be proud of her—which part of me is, got to admit—or if I should be ashamed of myself, since I obviously didn't do my damned job, somewhere along the line. A cop or a soldier exists to stand between the innocent and the dangerous. And now, she's dangerous, herself. Oh, not to herself, not to those she loves. Ethics, morality, all intact. But a soldier. And probably going to be a damned good one, too. The turian drill centurions, their instructors. . . hell, everyone on the __Spectre base__ did their jobs damned well in training her. _

_And so, apparently, did I._

_Sarrie would __kill__ me. _

It was a _lot _to even try to convey, and Sam, while a thoughtful man, didn't always do so well with words—outside of briefings and reports. Those, he could manage just fine. Casual conversation about things that _mattered_, though. . . that was much harder. So he eventually glanced up, met Lantar's eyes, and shrugged. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. She's keeping the triggers under a little closer wraps than Rel is."

"Rel's a young male turian. We _like_ fighting. Now that she's here, he'll be able to rein some of it in a little better." Lantar's voice was very calm. "It always helps when your mate's close at hand. The only thing I actually _miss_ about Bastion is that for every forty hours on, I got forty _off_, and didn't have to swing through two or three mass relays to get home to my wife."

The conversation had ended there, and they'd been scheduled to head back to the Valhallan Threshold the next day. Near the end of the day, Sam had gotten a direct FTL signal from the Mindoir base. He and Lantar were in the port observation lounge when the comm pinged at them, and Sam accepted the message. "Shepard!" he said, surprised. The eyes, behind the clan paint, looked tired. "See you got our report that the _Estallus_ and its crew are ready for combat again."

"Yes, and just in time, too. We sent an information-gathering team to Garvug, the Manutra Corporation dome under the equatorial sea. The team has not reported in, in some time." Shepard grimaced. "They left the twenty-fifth. It's the third now. That's one day for travel, fine. They arrived, established their bona fides and their cover identities, and sent an automatic message back to base at that point. That was the twenty-sixth. That's eight days without contact."

Sam and Lantar were giving her undivided attention at this point. "All right," Sam said, quietly. "What did they think they were walking into?"

"Kasumi believed that it was possible that the dome was the main Lystheni base—the satellites are one set, certainly, and we believe that the relics and the mini-Reaper are very likely at the Morphil'zha facility, which Gris has under observation at the moment. She thought it very likely that the salarians would have one last hiding place, and the dome, being two miles below sea level and underwater, would be a safe place, in a salarian's mind, anyway. We all agreed that it needed to be investigated, and not just blown up." Shepard sighed, and it looked as if she were dreading the next words, just a bit. "So, I sent Blasto and Mordin in, with Kasumi to go in, discreetly, behind them—"

Sam's blood froze. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he said, hearing the words come out of his mouth, but not actually cognizant of saying them. Of interrupting his commander. "Back up the _truck_ a minute here. You sent _Kasumi _in with them?"

Shepard stared at him for a long moment. "Yeah. Information gathering _is _one of her specialities, and I told her to be a goddamned _ghost_ for the mission."

"Jesus. Fucking. Christ. On a pogo stick." The words were said with extreme precision, and little spaces put between each of them. Sam's fists clenched, and he asked, very quietly, "Were you aware when you sent her that she's _pregnant_?"

Shepard's mouth opened, and then shut again, and then she said one word, in a heart-felt tone. "_Fuck."_

Sam exhaled, stood, and walked away from the screen. Found a nice handy bulkhead to put his head against. Twenty years ago, he'd probably have punched it, for good measure, but he'd broken knuckles before, and that generally wasn't the course of wisdom. _I'm going to find her and then I'm going to wring her neck. No, I can't do that. I'll find her, __yell__ at her, and then have __Dara__ wring her neck. Always assuming she's still al—no, don't think that, don't think that, that kind of thinking will incapacitate you. She __is__ alive. She's too fucking good at what she does not to be._

Behind him, he could hear Lantar asking Shepard something cautiously. "Do we have any way of getting _down_ there? Breaching pods won't do it. They're designed to keep atmosphere from expanding out into a vacuum, not to keep heavy atmospheres or even liquids out."

"Shuttles that can handle up to eight atmospheres of pressure—like the ones we use to land on volus worlds—would work. Except that their engines would need to be refitted to be able to handle the liquid environment. Get you engineers working on that right away." Shepard hesitated. "Sam?"

"I'm here." Terse, biting off the words. Sam came back and sat in the chair at the terminal, face and body under rigid control. _Don't be dead, Kasumi-chan, I can't deal with that twice in two years. _"There's been _nothing_ out of the dome since then?"

"One basic communication signal to their other two bases, as far as we can figure out. Heightened their state of alert. Past that, not even one signal."

Sam nodded tightly. "That's actually a good sign."

Shepard's eyebrows went up. "How do you figure?"

"If they knew they had Spectres there, the first thing they'd do is try to contact their people and let them know they needed to be on alert. They did that. That they haven't tried to ransom the Spectres or _use_ them in some way suggests that they _can't_. Either they're all roaming free, they've shut down the Lystheni communications array, or some other damn thing that isn't showing up in my crystal ball has happened. And they're _not_ evacuating, either?"

Shepard shook her head slowly. "That indicates that they think they still have control."

"Or they have no more fallback options," Lantar added, grimly. "A _villi_ fights harder for its den than for anything else."

"They probably have at least one more fallback. I _don't_ think Dalatrass Hardrassa, back on Sur'Kesh, is entirely innocent in this affair. But we've got Mordin Alesh keeping an eye on her for the moment." Shepard sighed. "I'm sorry, Sam. We'll keep you apprised. In the meantime, start seeing what the engineers can do with those shuttles."

She shut down the comm signal, and Sam sat, staring, at the blank screen for a long moment. _Why the hell didn't she __tell__ Shepard? _He sighed. _Because she's used to keeping everything to herself. Because, in spite of seven years of working with the team, she still relies on herself first. Because she doesn't want to be a burden to __anyone__ . . . in spite of the fact that in life, you always take turns being the leaner, and the leaned-upon. Goddamnit, Kasumi, you sure do know how to piss me off._

Lantar looked at him, and asked, warily, "You okay?"

"No. But I'll live." Sam met his turian friend's eyes. "And god help anyone who gets in my way when we go in to get them."

**Kasumi**

Seconds had passed since Kasumi had seen the female children surrounding the dalatrass, and had heard them introduced to Mordin by Meve Zana.

Kasumi circled around now, moving in close, and slipped a small homing disc into Mordin's pocket. She couldn't, of course, even whisper to him; his guards were too close by. Salarian eyesight was good, but her stealth field took care of that; fortunately, their sense of smell was _much_ less acute than even a human's. They didn't really detect organic esters well in air, although in water, they probably could, where a human or a turian obviously could not. She moved on soft feet, making no noise, and simply patted Mordin's elbow to let him know that she was here.

Mordin cleared his throat. "Interesting note about hanar," he said, calmly, even conversationally. "Phosphorescence, bio-luminescence, somewhat controlled by autonomic nervous system—yes, hanar _have_ nervous systems, unlike the Terran jellyfish which they so resemble. Functions like eye-blinks in a salarian, a human's blush. However, through bio-feedback techniques, some hanar learn to control it. Manipulate it."

_He's telling me something here, as much as them. And they're all staring at him like he's grown another head. What's he saying. . . ._ Kasumi backed away slowly now. Carefully.

Mordin went on, voice chipper. "How does one _know_ that a hanar is dead? Vital signs almost undetectable by most other species. Outside of mass effect fields, shields, limp on the ground. Bio-luminescence dimmed. Except, perhaps, for a few subtle, almost random markings." Mordin blinked several times.

_Blasto's alive. It's not just me trying to rescue Mordin and cut through a whole city. It's me and a Spectre trying to rescue Mordin and escape. Much more doable. Now, where the hell is he?_

A radio crackled somewhere close by. "Pero?" Kasumi could hear a nervous voice ask. "Pero, I think we have a situation."

Pero turned and keyed his omnitool, setting the radio to silent mode. It didn't matter. Kasumi was close enough, and adept enough, to catch the signal's frequency very quickly, and started to listen now, herself, backpedaling slightly, finding a different hiding place now. "The hanar's body is missing," she heard.

"You _idiots._ How can you possibly have let a _hanar_ escape?"

"We thought it was _dead_. We turned our backs for five minutes, and it was _gone._"

_I'll be back, Mordin. Hold onto that damned locator beacon. Without it, I can't find you_.

Now, how to find Blasto? Kasumi actually didn't know a _lot_ about the hanar operative. She simply hadn't _worked_ with him much, and his file was. . . very thin. Most of it had involved work on Kahje or the handful of other hanar worlds. And of course there was the simply awful movie, which had made him out to be a sort of rogue cop, more apt to blast—pardon the pun—criminals than to take them into custody. Politely, of course.

Then again, the movies had made Shep into a wooden soldier, a parody of the perfect soldier, a one-woman army who occasionally dropped one-liners. Not the intelligent and capable and witty person that Shep actually was. So what _was_ Blasto?

Turians were simple—something with a gun, a knife, or a stealth unit. Asari were equally simple. Something with biotics, with or without a gun. Humans were tricky: humans could be _anything._ Firearms would work underwater. . . for a time. . . but they couldn't be relied upon. And while Blasto had definitely handled each of the guns up on their little ship, as if he knew how to use each, he'd opted for a pistol. _Okay, so I know he's not one for guns. Not like he carries a knife, either. There are rumors about hanar nematocysts and them being poisonous, but that doesn't work through a mass effect field and a personal atmosphere containment system. Atmosphere, hell, it's liquid inside that thing, let's face it. That leaves what. . . biotics and. . . _

Kasumi had been moving swiftly, but stealthily back down to the ponds, which lead out into the open water, where she'd left Blasto before, avoiding the various salarians that were hurrying around the area now, sweeping the water and this area of the dome with search lights. And plowed, face-first, into something that wasn't _there_.

Swallowing her instinctive cry of alarm, Kasumi made only a muffled sound, reaching for her pistol. "Security Chief Goto?" came a soft, familiar voice. Faint shimmer of a stealth device in the air in front of her.

"Blasto?" Her heart was still pounding away like a tympani drum. "You don't seem very dead all of a sudden."

"This one apologizes. The deception was necessary. There were well-concealed laser systems in the water, which this one did not anticipate, and triggered. It seemed better for this one to play dead, as if the security systems had shocked this one, rather than to allow the Lystheni to know this one's full capabilities. This one attempted to leave a message in this one's bio-luminescence patterns for the professor to read. Did he get the message?"

"I'm sure _he_ did, but he wasn't able to pass much on to me. Let's find someplace less public to talk, shall we?"

What she could only assume was a tentacle looped over her shoulder, so that they wouldn't loose each other, and they hastened away from the search parties, which were starting to fan outwards. "Standard grid pattern search," Blasto murmured quietly. "If they block off areas behind them as they move outwards, they will, eventually, find us."

"Hard to block off everywhere in the dome. There's a lot of pure vertical area that we can work with here, so we can even hop _over_ their search grid, if we need to." Kasumi suited action to words, and began to climb the exterior of one of the buildings under the dome, stopping at a second-floor balcony, which was currently empty, and the doors leading into the building, proper, were closed. Blasto, of course, merely floated alongside her until they reached their perch. "Okay, what do we know?" Kasumi asked. "Meve Zana, the Lystheni dalatrass, is definitely here. So is Kina Pero."

"This one discovered that there are multiple access tubes below the dome itself, all flooded. They do not have the crushing depth of the exterior water, but are cold, and difficult for a humanoid to pass through." Blasto's voice was serene. "The laser tripwires were _very_ well concealed. However, this one believes that most areas of the dome can be accessed through those tunnels. It would require some exploration to find which tunnel reaches which area."

"And you'd need not to set off the security systems as you go through, which means I need access to the security office." Kasumi looked down at the streets of the underwater city, which were lit, dimly, by lights from the buildings—certainly not from above, this far below the surface of the sea.

"The security office is probably located low in the dome as well. Likely accessible through those tunnels."

"My breather isn't going to handle water," Kasumi said, grimly. "I didn't pack full scuba gear. Depending on the temperature of the water, I could also go into hypothermia almost immediately, too."

"This one believes that his mass effect field could be spread to surround you, protecting you from the water temperatures. This one can also assist you with the breathing requirements."

Kasumi blinked. "And how would you do that?"

Blasto's voice became hesitant, as if picking his words very, very carefully. "This one's body structure is flexible. This one could trap air under his umbrella mass, which, if you were, ah, under this one. . . you could breathe." He paused. "This would have the added advantage of encapsulating you in this one's mass effect shields, so that they would not have to be extended, which would deplete their effect."

Kasumi sat absolutely still. "You want me to wear you like a _hat_?" she finally said, _cringing_ at the thought of all those limbs swirling and seething around her, like living hair. The thought of all the nematocysts embedded in those long limbs also was not particularly comforting.

Blasto sounded mildly chiding, "Would this not permit you to breathe, Ms. Goto?"

Kasumi swallowed. "It would," she acknowledged, after a moment. "Additionally, it would allow me to deactivate security systems as we pass through them, and reactivate them behind us, so that our movements would look like momentary glitches. Our stealth fields would overlap, no problems there." She hesitated. "Are the nematocysts under your control?"

"A hanar never stings a friend, Ms. Goto." Blasto paused, his voice gentle. "Are there other concerns that you have about this one? You seem. . . hesitant, for one of your reported courage."

She swallowed again. "It's a . . . cultural thing, I'm afraid."

"This one understands that jellyfish on Earth are eaten in both China and Japan. You fear resentment based on species similarity?" Clear amusement in his tone.

"No, oh, definitely not that." Kasumi fidgeted. "I take it that you've never see the _ukiyo-e_ woodcut entitled _The Dream of the Fisherman's Wife_, then?" The nineteenth century woodcut, of a large octopus giving a woman cunnilingus and a smaller one kissing her and caressing her breasts, surrounded by text in which all three participants expressed their mutual pleasure, had inspired generations of _much-less-salutary_ imitators.

There was a distinct pause. "No. This one has not. Should this one have?" Blasto sounded curious now.

"_No_. It would make this whole process all the more awkward." Kasumi sighed. "Let's give them some time to work their grid pattern out from where you 'died.' A couple of hours, at least. Then we can see how well this will work."

They carefully worked at meshing together the mass effect fields and stealth shields first. It wouldn't do to try this for the first time in the water. After several tweaks to Kasumi's omnitool, however, they got everything working together. Kasumi shuddered a bit as she stepped into the hanar's field, feeling the warm wetness of the fluidic environment inside, holding her breath until she felt air against her face, pumped in under the hanar's large mantel. The arms were _everywhere_, but were surprisingly gentle, and oddly comforting. "This one believes that you should relax," he told her, and then they moved forward, stealthed, and slipped into the water.

The first venture was just a test. One large handling tentacle wrapped around her waist to direct her in the water, and they simply stayed there, testing how _cold_ it actually get, the limits of communication, and how long she'd have breathable air. "Five minutes," Kasumi said. "Maybe longer, if I can relax and not breathe so fast next time."

"Agreed. This one wishes that the mass effect field was unnecessary. It may cause us to be detected." Blasto's chiming voice sounded worried.

"If it were just you, you wouldn't need it down there. But with me along for the ride. . . ." Kasumi shuddered. Even a _splash_ of that frigid water had left her shivering. "Okay. Ready when you are, my friend."

And back into the water they'd slipped, moving carefully through the tunnels, Kasumi handling the security grid with no difficulty at all. But it took _time_ to explore. Especially since she had five to seven minutes of air at a go. They located a security sub-office on the second day, which was useful, but not a current help. "We can use this when it's time to break out of here, though," Kasumi told Blasto.

They explored _very_ thoroughly, and found the mass effect generators that helped power the dome. Kasumi had been halfway correct; the dome itself _was_ a physical structure, which had been sunk under the waves, and had subsequently reinforced with mass effect fields to withstand the enormous pressure of the crushing depths.

Then they found the the servers that controlled most of the complex's functions. The prison cells, in which Mordin was being kept—but they couldn't risk contacting him yet. As far as they could tell, he was being treated well. "First order of business," Kasumi said, after they'd located him. "Get a signal out to the Spectre base."

"Agreed," the hanar had chimed in response.

That had proved. . . problematic. Communications were guarded, encrypted, and biometrically locked to Meve Zana's DNA. Something that would have been child's play to deal with for Kasumi under most other circumstances, but damned near impossible under the current ones. "We can't get to her quarters," Kasumi muttered under her breath, thinking her way through the problem. "We've tried. Can't collect DNA any other way, short of sticking a syringe in her arm and drawing blood."

"If we cannot get a message out, this one believes that we would at least disrupt their communications."

Kasumi nodded. "Good idea. Execution might be a little harder, but that's what they pay us for."

So Kasumi had gotten into one of the weapons lockers scattered around the facility and appropriated about five or six high explosive grenades. Blasto apparently _liked_ explosives, and had a technical competency with them that went far beyond her own; he'd used his smallest handling appendages to work with the grenades carefully, converting them to small bombs, complete with timers and detonators, the materials for which she'd also scrounged from various workstations.

Then, during a duty shift at the communications blister, she'd slipped in, and set up the bombs. They were halfway across the dome when the comm station went up in flames. "Okay, that's the first problem resolved," Kasumi said, quietly. "Of course, the next ones will be harder, since now they _know_ at least one person is around."

Security sweeps picked up in intensity. And _everything_ took quite a bit more time than she would have liked. They needed to find food, and steal it deftly. They needed to find places to rest. She was scavenging information out of every terminal she could find, and their next two steps needed to be set up in advance, and executed perfectly: extract Mordin and escape, using one of the submersible vehicles that had brought them here. Three days, four days. Five days. Six. The security patrols almost stumbled onto Kasumi's hiding place that night. Her body _demanded_ rest, however. And no matter how much adrenaline coursed through her system, her body _would_ have its due. _It could be worse; I could be stereotypical and throwing up all over the place. Or having weird food cravings. The tiredness is bloody hindering __annoying__, but, all things considered, not the worst symptom ever._

She and Blasto discussed it, over and over, and they simply couldn't see a way to be in both places at once. They _both_ needed to be there to break out Mordin, and that meant that the three of them would have to make the run to the docking area without someone ahead of them, making sure of the route, depressing security systems, and the like. Kasumi would have been _much_ happier if she'd been able to do something like that—to have had every aspect of the escape under their control. "Chances are, they're _waiting_ for us to make a move to rescue Mordin to capture us. Well, _you_,_" _Kasumi told Blasto, chuckling. "Although they're _stupid_ if they don't think there's more of us here."

"Kina Pero did mention within the hearing of this one, that Spectres tend to travel in threes." That was _almost _ a joke.

So on the eighth day, they made their move. Carefully. Cautiously. Blasto had indeed turned out to be a biotic, but hanar abilities did not wholly tally with the rest of the galaxy's. Lift and pull and slam had been largely useless in a wholly aquatic environment, for example, where the water slowed attacks and cushioned them. No, his biotics were similar to his own body's natural attacks. A hanar could, Kasumi had discovered, wrap two major handling tentacles around its prey and rip, say, a small shark, in half. Hence, Blasto's biotic _rend_ attack. He could also _warp_ armor, like an asari or human biotic, and also had a unique gift, which he called the _voice of the Enkindlers_. "This one has not used it on you, out of respect for you, Ms. Goto," he said, politely, as always, "but the voice of the Enkindlers has a calming effect on those who hear it. It might have been of use, when we first attempted to swim the cold and dark corridors together."

"Are we talking hypnosis here? Because some people can resist that."

"Some few, who have rebellious, discontented thoughts, can do so, yes. It may be that we will be forced to kill those who resist." His voice was sad. "This one prefers not to cause violence unnecessarily, but can do so if circumstances require."

_A pacifist Spectre? No. . . just one who only applies violence carefully, like the tip of a fulcrum. _Kasumi nodded. "Well. . . let's see how this goes."

First stop, the security sub-office they'd located early on. Kasumi took every camera in the dome off-line that she could reach, and triggered two alerts—one in life support, and one in an armory at the far side of the dome. Distractions, but ones that the Lystheni would have to investigate.

Then they'd _walked_ into the area around the mass effect generators. This made Kasumi's skin _crawl_, but they did have stealth generators, they'd disabled the cameras, and the guards had stood completely immobile, glazed over, listening to something that whispered in their thoughts, as Kasumi set concealed charges in a dozen different panels. "Are they even going to know someone was here?" she whispered.

"This one thinks not," Blasto whispered in return. "But this one thinks that we should move quickly. The longer the voice of the Enkindlers is heard, the easier it becomes to resist."

_Shouldn't that be the other way around?_ Kasumi thought, and finished rigging the last charge. 'Let's go."

And out they snuck again, this time heading for the prison cells. This had required a bit more violence. The guards here were far more on alert than the ones around the mass effect generators. "They resist," Blasto reported, his voice a little sad, even through the chiming of his translator VI.

_Shit. Was really hoping to get this far without anything being visible. The gods know, they've __got__ to be aware that something's going on now, and have __got__ to be getting cameras back online. Sector by sector, but if I were them, the prison would be one of the first places I'd fix._ Kasumi checked the power lines with her omnitool, traced them, and found a breaker panel dedicated to the prison's lights, at least. Master breaker switch thrown, the prison dropped into blackness. Of course, Kasumi had gene mods that let her see like a cat, and padded in, Blasto hovering behind her, to where the prison guards were moving around restlessly, confused, on alert. "Watch your eyes," Kasumi murmured.

"This one does not have photosensitive optical organs—"

"Nevermind." Kasumi shielded her own eyes, and threw her flashbangs around the corner into the main guard room. Then she leaned around the doorway and began picking off targets with her pistol, and watched in awe as one of the salarians rose off the ground, screaming, and was literally sheared in half at the waist by biotic power wrenching at him, pulling from his head and his feet. "Blasto, my friend, I truly hope that I never, ever offend you."

"This one would let you know before any discourtesies became truly offensive."

"Thank you." Kasumi fired again, and re-engaged her stealth device, ducking out into the room while Blasto lifted and stretched another salarian like. . . taffy. Or maybe chewing gum. Kasumi shuddered. _Okay, maybe I might be stereotypical and throw up a __little__ bit. The entrails falling out? Definitely just cause for vomiting, if I ever saw one. _She reached Mordin's cell, knelt down, and took an access key off of one of the dead guards. "You ready to get out of here?" she asked the salarian.

"Indisputably," Mordin replied calmly, stepping out of his cell.

"They treated you okay?"

"I believe that they implanted a chip in my cranium, unfortunately. Certainly, was prepped for surgery. Certainly awoke with sutures in scalp. Could be a ruse. Doubtful, however. If present, will require delicate surgery to extract."

_I should have expected that, eh?_ "Any idea what it does?"

"No. Suspect tracking device, among other things. Probably control device, so unwise to allow me to fall into hibernation state. May also allow them to hear and see what I sense, as a _Normandy_-class AI can, with a properly chipped individual. All suppositions, however." Mordin's smile was weary. "Have spent last eight days speculating why I am left alive, and relatively untouched. Only answer is that I serve more purposes alive, than dead. Scientific knowledge not utilized this time. Therefore, either ransom, bait, or tool."

Kasumi muttered, "_Kisama!"_ under her breath. Unfortunately, a VI chimed at the same time.

"This one did not know that the respectable Security Chief knew such vile words." Blasto sounded _very_ amused.

_Really, you loaded Japanese into your VI before we left? You're the only person on base who __has__._ "The husband of the respectable security chief was a marine. Some things rub off." Kasumi thought fast. "Mordin, I can't tell you _anything. _I'm going to cover your head with a damn blanket and you're going to have to trust us. Just move when we say _move_ and stand still when we say _stand still_, and let's all hope this works."

The original plan had been for Blasto to drag them both through the tunnels. That was going to have to stay the plan. But adjustments were required now. While Mordin could breathe underwater, they could not afford to let him get cold. That could induce hibernation, which might not have been a _good_ thing at his age before, but now might actually turn him into an enemy. "Take him through, leave him, come back for me," Kasumi whispered, and found a good hiding place near the closest access pond, and shut down _all_ the security systems in the access tunnels at once. It would take the security people time to bring them all up, and they wouldn't even know which one to be looking in for intruders, for the moment.

It took a nerve-wracking ten minutes for Blasto to return. And she could see salarians moving _everywhere_ at this point. _Come on, come on, come on. . . _Kasumi remembered playing, dimly, in her youth, certain extranet games. These games revolved around a soldier of fortune who specialized in sneaking around, working his way into enemy territory undetected, killing guards, hiding bodies—hiding bodies had been a _big_ part of it. As if someone walking through an area that's supposed to be guarded wouldn't notice, for example, the total lack of guards. Not to mention the blood stains on the floor. Kasumi thought about that now, and wondered, idly, if she'd spent the time to hide the bodies in the prison cell, if there'd be as much guard movement now. _Probably. Probably would have been caught in the middle of hiding all the bodies in a closet. I'd have needed a really big closet, too. Prison was sadly under-furnished in that department. Perhaps I should write the dalatrass a note of complaint. "Dear Meve Zana. Your prison facilities are understocked in terms of places to hide the bodies of your dead guards. Please provide either a) large dumpsters, b) roomy closets, or c) woodchippers for our future jailbreak needs."_

_Splish._

"Ms. Goto?"A happily familiar voice. "Are you ready?"

"As I'm going to be." Kasumi crept out and slipped down into the shockingly cold water, and felt the handling tentacles reach out and pull her close. Felt warmth and air against her face. She'd gotten _used_ to this, thankfully. And then they were off, moving at the hanar's full aquatic speed. Hovering in air, they were graceful and solemn as hot air ballons. In the water, they had a jet propulsion system, similar to a squid's. They moved _fast, _fleeting around corners now. "Why didn't you move this fast with Mordin?" she gasped in the confines of her 'helmet.'

"This one did not know if the chip in the esteemed professor's head was allowing us to be tracked."

Kasumi winced. The chances of a patrol waiting for them when they arrived at the other end was high, and she got her pistol ready. Even though they were stealthed, it didn't hurt to be careful. She knew that her bullets had remained dry—the pistol had fired earlier—though she really didn't like to think what several days' exposure to sea water and humidity were doing to the gun's mechanisms. _Sam can gripe about the condition of the weapon and the lack of a proper oiling all he likes when I get out of here, though. _Since then they'd be together to _hear_ him gripe. Curse, swear, and even shout, too.

Blasto reached the far end of their course, and cautiously popped his head out. "No movement. Dr. Solus is where I left him. His head remains covered."

Kasumi nodded and got out of the water, immediately starting to shiver again. Her wet footprints were going to be a problem for a while, so she stripped out of her clothing and squeezed them as dry as she could, wiping her body down with them. And changed languages. _"Respected Dr. Solus, do you speak Japanese?"_

No reply. She squeezed the professor's shoulder, and asked, in English, "Mordin?"

"Yes, Kasumi, I am here. Not unconscious."

"Good." She switched back to Japanese. _"Respected Blasto, we must unfortunately treat our colleague as a potential spy. Thus I speak to you now in my language, which I realize that your VI will interpret for me."_

"This one understands."

"_I hesitate to suggest dividing our forces, but if a tracking implant is in the professor's skull, the Lystheni will know where we are at all times."_

"This is certainly possible. However, this one does not believe that division can ever promote unity."

_Nicely obscure, but gets the point across._ "Well said," Kasumi replied, and reached down. "Okay, Mordin, let's get out of here. It's been eight days, and the entirety of _hell_ is probably going to start knocking on the front door of this place very shortly."

This was the longest, hardest part. Blasto and she, alone, had been able to hide. Mordin was handicapped by wearing a hood and being unarmed (in case the chip could turn him into a puppet even _without_ a hibernation state being induced), and he couldn't hide on his best day, anyway. The security patrols did seem to have an _uncanny_ knack for finding them now, however. _Maybe there is a tracking component,_ Kasumi thought grimly, and flipped on her omnitool, setting up a broadband jamming signal. It destroyed their ability to see other life signs. . . but after she did it, they started seeing many fewer security patrols.

Finally, they reached the docking area. Kasumi sighed. Most of the submersible vehicles were absent. Only one remained, in fact, and it was heavily guarded. _Who was it who said that you can be judged by your class of enemies? Apparently, Spectres must be high-class, because we get some really smart ones, every now and again. _"_I don't __suppose__ that your mass effect field could keep us both safe from the full pressure and all the pressure changes as we ascend two miles to the surface in five minutes?"_ she asked Blasto, hoping against hope.

"This one would be unharmed; the crushing depths are known to us on Kahje, as are the playful shallows and the deep tides. This one would not wish to risk either of you, however."

"_I was afraid that you would say that, respected Blasto."_ Kasumi sighed. _"Okay. We have to take out that group of guards."_

And in they went, leaning Mordin up against a wall nearby. The voice of the Enkindlers spoke to the guards, locked them in place, eyes glazed, as Kasumi crept up and shot the first one, point-blank, at the base of the skull. The others blinked, coming out of their daze, and then she and the hanar had their hands—and their tentacles—very full indeed. "Come on," Kasumi whispered, and they got Mordin to the submersible, locked the doors, and checked all around them for hidden Lystheni agents—particularly hibernating tech agents. _"This has been too easy,"_ Kasumi said, quietly.

"This one is unsure. Good preparation, stealth skills, demonstrated by each of us."

"_This submersible was left on purpose. I want to investigate it a little more before we just run for the open sea._"

Kasumi was damned glad she'd taken the time. There was indeed a small bomb on board, rigged to go off once the pod rose above a certain depth. _Is that all?_ she wondered, and decided she couldn't wait any more. They were already pushing their luck. _Now, to give them something else to worry about besides us. . . _ she thought, and pulled up the detonation sequence on her omnitool.

Somewhere deep below them in the city, a dozen small charges went off, concealed among generator panels and control devices. Above them, the dome suddenly squealed, and a fine spray of water began leaking down into the docking area. _You can chase us, or you can try to shore up your roof_, Kasumi thought, grimly, and began guiding the little submersible tentatively out of the harbor. _Going up. Housewares, apparel, and lady's lingerie. _

**Rinus**

He'd spent a good deal of the previous evening analyzing the odd, dome-like structure. _Located two __miles__ underwater? Whose good idea was that?_ That put it out of the effective range of the Javelins, and the Thanix cannons would be equally ineffective; they poured out superheated metal at relativistic speeds, certainly, but by the time the metal passed through two _miles_ of freezing water, even that sort of a weapon would lose effectiveness. He did some calculations, decided that what had started off a blazing stream of death would wind up as a very long knitting needle that would approximately _thunk_ against the mix of mass effect shielding and reinforced concrete and plasteel that made up the dome, and settled in to think.

_Javelins would do it, but they'd have to have their triggering sequences altered. Treat them more like depth charges. Doable, certainly. At least the target wouldn't be moving. Could remove the homing and tracking portions of the torpedoes and replace them with a contact detonator. Could remove the propulsion system, too. We don't need inertia here. We need more kinetic energy dispersal. So, could add more explosive where the propulsion system usually sits. Hmm. Has possibilities._

He'd written his recommendations and gone to bed.

The next morning saw the ship in a _slew _of activity. The captain had given the order to adjust ten Javelins to meet Rinus' new specifications. _Great spirits, someone's in a hurry_, Rinus thought, and went to help his crew do exactly that. Passing by the hangar, he could see the flight engineering crew hard at work, apparently retrofitting the engine of a shuttle. "You have any idea what this is about?" the human in charge of the shuttles asked, shaking his head. "Two of the Spectres came down late last night and asked us to start doing this. I have _no_ idea if this is going to work. Shuttle engines aren't _meant_ to go underwater."

"A few notions, but nothing substantive," Rinus replied, shrugging. _Hmm, on the one hand, they want me to blow up something that's underwater. On the other hand, they want to refit a shuttle to __go__ underwater. What's down there? Or is it a question of __who's__ down there? And given that this is Garvug, where the satellites are. . . does this have anything to do with the Lystheni?_

Questions without answers—the story of a centurion's life, really. He headed up to the crew deck for lunch, and that was . . . interesting. He was sitting at his usual table, and had the chip active, so Laetia could listen to crew conversations and taste food. Rel and Dara came in and sat down, usual spots, no surprise there. Kallixta came in, sat opposite them. His eyes flicked up, studying her for a moment. Willowy, graceful, beautiful, intelligent, aggressive.

_What's not to like_? Laetia asked him, dryly.

_No, no, I like all of it. _Rinus admitted that without the slightest compunction. He couldn't _do_ much about it, but he could appreciate it all at a discreet distance.

She was a little on edge today, apparently, though. Dara asked her a teasing question—"Macenus going to let you fly today without him on second stick?"—and got a snappish response: "Macenus can bite me."

Dara blinked. "He's giving you trouble?"

"Nothing I can't handle." Kallixta rubbed the back of her neck. "Sorry, Dara. I'm on edge today. I don't know why. Maybe you and I can spar a little later?"

"Sure, before I start my second shift in med bay."

A little down the table from them, two of the young marines were talking across the table to each other. Nadea Curicium and Decimus Corolan, Rinus identified them after a moment. They'd come through OCS with Dara, and had even been in her squad at boot camp. Always together, always close to hand. A random phrase had caught his ear: "Curicium, we've booked that room three times this week." Corolan's voice was quiet, but it carried a bit. "Not that I object, but sooner or later, people _will_ start to talk."

"_Let_ them talk." There was something sharp about the timber of the female's voice. Rinus' head turned, saw his brother's head lift, too. "I don't care. You're mine. Everyone should know that by now."

Decimus raised his hands, looking from side to side, clearly a little embarrassed.

Rinus inhaled slightly. Caught the scent. _Oh, __s'kak__. _It wasn't a bad smell. It was a _good_ smell. One that got the heart racing and the blood surging. He'd only smelled it once or twice before—and once, disturbingly enough, had been on his mother's skin, not long before he'd left for boot camp. The morning she'd leaned over and bitten their father bloody at the kitchen table. Had seen the mix of concern and the first glitters of passion in his father's face. _"Go to the neighbors'. __Now__. Take everyone, even Polina. __Go__." _Rinus swallowed hard now.

Nadea showed teeth and leaped over the table at Decimus, who, reflexively, instinctively, caught her, landed on his back on the metal deck, as everyone around them collectively stood, swearing, getting out of the way. Rinus was on his feet, Rel was too, pulling Dara out of the way, muttering _"S'kak!_" as he—and every other turian in the room—backed away. For the females, instinct said _move away. _Females in estrus could attack one another. _Male_ instinct said _go forward_. But _socialization_ said _Back up __now__. Wrong colors. Not marked by you. Move away, or you'll __have__ to fight. _

All the humans were gaping a little now. Most of them probably had never even _heard_ of turian estrus. Most turians didn't _talk_ to outsiders about it. Too much room for misunderstanding about something very, very private.

Swearing, Decimus rolled over on the deck. The back of his head was bleeding from where he'd struck down, but he was already pinning Nadea's hands; he was almost Rel's height, and Nadea was short for a turian female—exactly Dara's height. _"Sweetness, you have to stop fighting me,"_ he told her. He was young, of course. His little mate struggled with him, hissing now, and he swore again and flipped her, putting his weight on her.

Rinus swore internally. All the officers present were _young_. They hadn't seen it before, maybe not even in their own families. _"Everyone, clear out,"_ he said, sharply. _"Someone get them a room. Now!"_

Rel glanced over, nodded to him, and added, _"Cadius, help me clear the room. Dara, get to the med bay. Dr. Cimmerian might be able to stop it."_

Dara nodded and darted away, clearly relieved to have something to do. Rel and Rasmus started directing people out of the room, while Decimus, arms clearly straining, continued to hold Nadea in place. Rinus stayed well out of range. There was a fair bit of fear-anger and a huge hormonal surge building in the young male right now, and, while he might be in armor at the moment, and thus the spurs were, therefore, _safed_, Rinus _really_ didn't want a spur-kick to the chest right now.

Dara hastened back out, the doctor following along behind her. _"She's not the type to stop taking her meds, is she?"_

"_No. She was my roommate for four months. I saw her take them every damned day. She __likes__ being a marine. She likes being on the __Estallus__. She wouldn't throw it away."_

"_Hold her steady,"_ the doctor told Decimus, and only needed one look to tell her what Rinus' nose had already told him. _"No. Too far gone. If I'd known a couple of days ago, I could have increased her hormone dosage. Now, though. . . you're her mate?"_

"_Yes."_ Decimus sounded worried. And confused. And angry. And like he was holding onto control by the tips of his teeth.

"_Okay. We've got a room for you. Hopefully, there was just a mixup in the meds, and there's still some protection."_

"_S'kak."_ Decimus stood and got Nadea in a hold. She relaxed against him, and the young male was flushing very, very blue at the moment. _"Where?"_

"_Over here," _Rel called, pointing, and got the hell out of the way as Decimus moved Nadea towards the open door into crew quarters.

Dara sat down once they'd left, and picked up her tea cup again. _"Hope whoever usually bunks in there doesn't mind."_

"_They won't. Everything gets cleaned up. Because it could be __you__ some other time."_ Rinus rubbed his hand over his face. _"If you'll all excuse me?"_

_Spirits, five, maybe six hours till I can go off duty and do some sparring. Think about something else. Every other male who was in the room is in the same damned boat right now. Think about something else. _

_Would it help if I talked to you?_ Laetia offered.

_Oh, __futar._ He'd forgotten the spirits-be-damned chip was on. Again. The exact reason he'd been against ever turning it on in the first place.

_Yes, I gathered that that's what's on your mind, you don't have to say it directly. _Laetia hesitated. _Since I seem to irritate you very well, I suppose conversing with me might be helpful, don't you think?_

Rinus sighed. Any port in a storm. _Pick a topic._

_Kallixta Essedarius._

_That's your idea of a __distraction?_

Soft laughter in his mind. _I was wondering more what you'd found out about her and her family in your extranet searches last night. . . in and around your work on the dome project._

_You saw the searches, you saw the results._

_Yes, but your mind organizes data and analyses it very differently from mine._

Rinus turned the corner and found the cannon station. Relieved the _pilae_ on duty, and settled in. Plenty of tests to run. Nice, soothing, monotonous, routine work. _I discovered that there are no families currently on Palaven with that name. Which, given that she's barefaced, and thus, pretty much __has__ to be from Palaven, indicates that the name is false. I did a little reading on Centurion Vela Reimian, too. Top of her OCS class fifteen years ago. CID for four years. Pistol champion for their department four years running, too. No further information available. People like that don't drop off the face of the planet._

_I'm surprised that you haven't looked up the news coverage around Dara Velnaran's graduation. _

_Was next on my list. Was a little late when I turned off the terminal last night. Curiosity's one thing, but sleep is necessary, too. _

_I can assume that you'll be looking into it tonight?_

_After sparring with my brother, sure. Why the interest?_

_I thought I should make popcorn. This is going to be __highly__ entertaining._

_Laetia?_

_Yes, Rinus?_

_Bite me._

_Oh, I would if I could, believe me._

Rinus shook his head, closed down the chip, and got to work.

They were moving into the Garvug system, stealthed, so it was slow. The engineers and the weapons techs needed more time to prep everything, anyway. Another long afternoon of work passed, and Rinus, after dinner, caught Rel's attention. _"Want to spar?_

"_Sure, Dara's got a room for the next hour or so, before she goes __back__ to med bay."_

Rinus chuckled. _"It will get better."_

"_I know it will. And this is still better than being stuck on separate __planets__."_ Rel shrugged, and as they headed down the hall towards the rec rooms, Rinus caught sight of the same centurion as before. Vela Reimian, stood outside the door, looking bored—and straightened abruptly as she caught sight of them.

"_You should come in and join us,"_ Rinus told her, giving her a needling smile. _"That way, you won't have to wait for a room." To use, by yourself. What __is__ a CID agent doing aboard a __Normandy__-class ship, anyway?_

Reimian shook her head, smiling slightly. _"I couldn't presume,"_ she said.

_Odd reply._

Rel snickered a little under his breath, and opened the door into the rec room, stepping through with Rinus, and closed it behind them.

To Rinus' surprise, Dara and Kallixta were already in there, fighting. He paused for a moment to enjoy the sight. Kallixta was taller, with that loose-limbed grace he'd already noticed; Dara, shorter, more compact. Very human, fighting in a very human style, all circles and motion. It was a joy to watch, really. _"You ready?" _he asked his brother, got the nod, and they started warming up, no kicks above the waist at first.

After about twenty minutes, they were fully into it, completely immersed, and thus, it took a _lot_ for them to notice that something was wrong. Kallixta had seemed more irritable than was her wont the whole time. Much more aggressive in her kicks and hits, and Dara was taking advantage of the other female's loss of control, tangling her limbs, ducking under kicks.

"Kallixta, we've been over this before. I don't know why you're so frustrated tonight, but it's not helping," Dara told her, and _didn't_ manage to duck a hit in time, and rocked backwards from the blow to the face. And when she shook it off, there was a look of set concentration to her face, a blankness to the eyes, and Dara suddenly went on the attack. Fast blows, a destabilized knee, and Kallixta was on the floor. "I didn't deserve that," Dara told her friend, flatly.

Kallixta looked up and _growled_ at her. "Kallixta," Dara said, holding up her hands, and backing away slowly, "I don't know what I've done to piss you off, but I'm sorry, okay?"

**Kallixta**

Her head had hurt for most of the afternoon, making her thoughts muddy, muzzy. She'd thought maybe a little sparring _might_ help clear things up, and Dara's sense of humor was usually a tonic for any bad mood. Dinner hadn't helped, certainly. Even two or three cups of _apha_ hadn't seemed to clear her head. Now standing here, fighting, her _vision_ was starting to waver. Smells were becoming much more important. Dara's human smell—alien, and female alien, at that. Not unpleasant, but _wrong_. A little threatening, somehow. Something to be driven off. _But she's a friend_, Kallixta reminded herself, staring at the yellow paint on her friend's face, confused by her own thoughts, her own impulses, and found herself striking out. _Go away._

And found herself firmly dumped on the floor. Anger-smell. _Oh, you challenge me, do you? _Her teeth bared in a snarl. Male smells now, darker, warmer, not so alien. Concern. Faces looking down at her, alike, unalike. Same spirit, different faces, different bodies, but the same. Her mouth went dry. _Oh, so perfect._

And then the first surge of the _wanting_ hit—much harder than last night, when it had just been a little warmth, a little interest. This was like a wave of fire. Kallixta inhaled sharply. _Both strong. Both male. Both smell good._ She staggered to her feet, staring at them, vision still wavering. Yellow paint on both—it meant safety somehow, didn't it? Which was stronger? Wanting ache very, very bad now_. . . _she shook her head. Managed to form words, though it was _hard._ "Something's wrong with me. . ." _No. Something's. . . right. Give me what I want. Why are you just __standing__ there?_

She stepped forward, feeling the air on her skin now, drifting against her like silk, every sense hyperaware. How could she ever have not _noticed_ how _air_ felt on _skin_? It was a symphony—the rustle of clothing, the rasp of feet on mats, the smell of skin. _Which one? Why is that one stepping away? Why won't they __understand__?_ In frustration, she lashed out, slapping the male who remained across the face, saw her talons draw blood. Saw the snarl. _Yes, yes, this!_ Hard clamp of a hand around her wrist, and she lunged in, biting down, stymied by cloth in the way when she wanted scales and skin. Ripping at the clothing now. _Yes, yes, skin, there._ Biting again, harder now, heard a voice, very distant, saying, words that didn't make sense: _"Get out!"_ and then he was _finally, finally_ biting her back, and the wanting was so strong now, she almost tried to climb him, snarled in frustration, and tried to hit him with her left hand, which was still free, and found that caught now, too. Turned around, forcefully, and then. . . _yes, yes, yes. . . _teeth sinking into her shoulder, feeling her whole body go limp, submission reflex, being guided to the floor.

Hands released for a moment, just long enough for _his _hands to pull her pants away—as she started to lift her hands, instinctively, his teeth clamped down harder, and her body was _screaming_ now for release—and then he was in her at last, and it made the wanting ache hurt less, spun it from anguish to ecstasy immediately, being _full_ at last. . . hands back on her wrists now, subtle scrape of his spurs hooking hers, and then _movement_ and she heard snarls and cries and realized they were coming from her own throat.

**Rinus**

_S'kak__. Twice in one day. We have a __bad fucking shipment of meds__. Half the spirits-be-damned ship could be on its ass, _had been his first thought as Kallixta had turned on him and Rel. Blue flush to the crest. And the smell, of course. Subtle musk. They'd stepped up, and Rel had immediately put Dara behind him, warily. Kallixta had _stared_ at them both, eyes gone completely predatory now. Brothers. More or less the _same_ in her eyes—hadn't she even joked about it, before? _Great. Just great. Let's hope she doesn't fix on Rel._

She hesitated. Rel stepped back. _"First-brother, you __have__ to. I can't."_

"_I know."_ He stepped forward, took the first hit to the face, caught her wrist in his. _"Get out!"_

Closing of the door behind him. Then just smells. _Ah, spirits, __not__ the way I wanted this. "I'm going to take care of you, all right? No matter what happens."_ Too far gone for words. Catching her other wrist now, turning her, applying the bite. Feeling her go limp. _If young Decimus had done this early this morning, would've saved us all a lot of worry. Then again, he was in __public__._

Thoughts starting to go a little distant for him now, too. Following her down to the ground. Hearing voices in the corridor, hearing the door crack open a bit. _Brother-ally holding the door against intruders. Good._ Clothing in the way, off, and then joining their bodies, sliding himself home, wetness and warmth and sweetness, hearing the whimper of absolute relief as he did. _So good. Oh, spirits, so very, very good._ This was what his body was _meant_ for, on many levels. He'd never had a female like this before. His first release was on him before he knew it was coming, and he released his grip with his teeth to swear briefly. _I was going to try to pull out. . . "Sweetness, you feel too good."_

"_Don't stop."_ Gutteral, voice distorted.

"_Just getting started."_

Estrus took hours to run its course. Periodically, she _would_ rest, relax, and he could do the same, moving off of her, but maintaining his hold. She'd latch onto him tightly for those periods, almost fiercely, as he breathed hard, trying to cool his body, but he had to be ready when she'd start to signal her readiness again. "_If you let me do this again, I promise, I'll start at the top and work my way down,"_ he told her softly, in one of these little breaks. _"I'll bite my way up your legs from your spurs to your sweetest place, and you'll like it, I swear. I'll bite every inch of your waist, and your throat."_ Still too far gone for language, really. Just whimpers and snarls and occasional cries of _harder_ or _again! _And then she'd started to move again, and there was no more time for thought except for _mine, mine, mine._

There were only two things that could end this; either the cycle could run its course, and abate, after twelve to twenty-four hours. Or conception could take place, but the hormonal levels wouldn't abate instantly. No way to know which had occurred, until tests could be run.

At some point in the long night, the door started to open again. _"Get out!"_ Rinus snarled, ready to fight if it was anyone other than his brother-ally, and maybe even then.

A hand dropped a couple of bottles of water and fresh clothing inside the door, and then the door closed once more.

Finally, she started to slow down. The sweet smell was starting to fade, too. Light-headed and fiercely in need of sleep, Rinus turned her over, towards him. Face to face. _Would have liked to have had a chance to try that with you_, he thought, a little distantly, and lightly bit his way down her throat, found her waist. Little light nips. Felt her hands stroking his fringe now, lightly, sweetly. Tenderness, affection, appreciation. _So good_, he thought, and pillowed his head on her waist. _I don't ever want to move again. _

It was almost as if his thoughts were echoed, out loud. _"So good,"_ Kallixta told him, tone very content. A faint smile of pure male pride flexed his mandibles at the words. _"Strong. Very male."_ Her fingers preened him some more, almost absently, slowing down now. Moving towards sleep. _"My mate."_

"_Sweetness,"_ he told her, voice a contented rasp, _"You know I'll take care of you, right?_ _And if there are any children from this, I'll take care of them, too. You won't do it alone."_

"_Mmm-hmm. Very. . . honorable." _Her eyes closed, and her breathing changed.

He was mostly asleep himself, which explained why the dominoes took so long to topple along the long line of the chain of thought. _It really __is__ odd to hear her speaking in turian._

_Wonder why she wanted to speak in English. Her accent is lovely. Not low-class gutter trash at all. . . ._

_. . . the opposite. Could go to the Imperial Court and wouldn't sound a bit out of place. . . _

_S'kak__. She's high nobility._ Rinus sat up, and Kallixta's hand fell away from his crest limply in her sleep. He started panting again, this time in slight panic, looking at the marks he'd left on her, all signs of pure possession. Nothing excessive; all very expected. But marked and taken and marked again. _All that talk about the Imperator. . . no, no, that can't possibly be true. _

Her eyes opened again, caught him looking at her, and she winced at the look on his face. _"Don't be angry." _Yes, there was the court accent, clear as diamond and just as hard.

"_I'm not angry." _He caught her hand and lay back on the mats, staring up at the ceiling. _"A little concerned that your family might be __really__ involved in politics, in which case, I might have to remove my foot from my mouth."_

"_Dara and Rel didn't tell you?"_ Hesitant words.

Rinus turned towards her, running a finger lightly down her arm. Very restrained now, giving her all the options to accept or refuse. _"Can you imagine either of them divulging something they regarded as someone else's secret?"_

"_No."_

He sighed. _"I think I'm ready for the bad news now. Just how highly ranked __is__ your family? You seem to rate a bodyguard, so I figured at least a legate or a senior legate for a mother or a father."_

"_Higher than that."_

He thought about that. _"But there's nothing higher than a senior legate except the Imp—"_ Rinus paused, saw the look on her face, and closed his eyes. _"Scale me."_ In English, for emphasis, he added, rolling over onto his back, pulling his legs up to keep his spurs off the mat, "Fuck me. _I'm going to __kill__ my brother for not __telling__ me."_

"_Rinus, I'm fifth-daughter, eighth in the line of succession. It's probably not going to be a big deal—" _she paused as his eyes opened, and amended, _"All right, it's a big deal, but you're not going to be skinned alive."_

"_I'm rusty on my Imperial law. __Was__ that the punishment, or was it at least a quick and merciful death?" _His voice was only half-joking. The Imperial bloodline was _very_ closely guarded. Accidents like this were _not_ supposed to happen.

"_Rinus, not five minutes ago, you said you'd take care of me, no matter what happened. Is that true?"_

He looked at her. _"Yes. Absolutely."_

"_Then let me take care of you, too."_ She moved closer to him and curled into him, as if they were sharing a nest. _"I'm so glad you were here. I think I would have gone through the whole ship looking for you, but that might have gotten embarrassing."_

"_Sweetness, you'll have all the embarrassing you can handle in the mess hall the next time you go in there. Although, Curicium and Corolan will have it worse. Much more public." _He lightly stroked her arms, feeling the sweet pull of sleep again.

"_Laughter?"_

"_Comments. Depends on how many others got caught in the bad batch of meds." _He couldn't hold it off any longer. His eyes drifted closed.


	67. Chapter 67: Fulmination

**Chapter 67: Fulmination **

**Author's note:** _CalliesVoice and I had a long discussion about the hormone problem. I was just going to go with 'a bad batch, and a bad reaction on Kallixta's part" but I liked her recommendation for making it more of a fleet-wide issue, which has been incorporated in this chapter. :-)_

**Dara**

The door closed behind them, and Dara leaned against it, feeling her jaw ache. Kallixta had nailed her with one _hell _of a sucker-punch. Out in the hallway, the centurion frowned at them. _"Is something the matter? Velnaran, what happened to your __face?__" _Reimian also sniffed the air, looking a little uncertain of something.

Dara remembered _this_ centurion from boot camp, of course. And had been, belatedly, introduced to her. Vela Reimian was one of Kallixta's bodyguards. More precisely, she was _Praetorian Guard_. The turian answer to the Secret Service, the Praetorians served as the personal guards of the Imperial family. Chosen from the absolute best of the MPs, CID, and turian marines, usually after serving out their first four years, there was no higher honor than to be selected for this service. All of them started out at the bottom of a different rank structure—officer, centurion, lieutenant, captain, inspector, and on up from there. None of them minded the sacrifice of the old position for the new. . . and every single one of them would put their bodies between a bullet and the lives of their protectees. Kallixta had mentioned that Reimian had been the head of her personal guards since she was six years old. . . and that while Reimian always maintained the distance needed for a protector/protectee relationship, that she felt closer to the woman than to her own mother, the Imperatrix.

That statement had made Dara realize, just for a moment, how profoundly _distant_ almost all of her friend's life had been. _No wonder she took to the boot camp environment so well. Practically the first time she's ever been allowed to develop any sort of personal contact at all_, Dara had thought, at the time. _Hell, I might even be her first __friend__, and how's that for irony?_

Now, of course, Reimian was in guard mode, on alert. And so was _Rel_, Dara realized. He was _not_ going to let _anyone_ through that door. _"Kallixta happened to my face,"_ Dara said, ruefully. _"She caught me with a right hook while I was trying to instruct her."_ Dara looked at Reimian soberly. _"She's also the second female aboard to cycle into estrus today."_

"_Futar!__"_ The word was sharp and angry, and Reimian grabbed Dara by the shoulder, hauling her out of the way in her haste to get the door open. Her hand landed on the knob, started to turn it—got it open a crack, in fact, and then Rel was there, bodily moving the female out of the way.

"_No. She's attended to."_ Rel was showing teeth, more aggression than he usually even showed in combat. Dara knew his blood was up, too—pheromones, damnit—and she _really_ didn't want to see who'd win in a fight between him and a member of the goddamned _Praetorian Guard_.

Reimian got right up in his face, hissing, _"She's __my__ responsibility, and she can't just __fuck__ some random male—"_

"_She __chose__!" _That was an overt snarl. _"You think she would have come to this sparring room, if she __hadn't__ known my brother and I would be here? You think she wouldn't have just turned and left and sought out whom she wanted in __that__ state?"_

"_There was __nothing__ random about it," _Dara said, sharply, trying to get their attention. She didn't really _want_ two angry turians focusing on her, but if they were focusing on her, they were probably _not_ going to fight each other. _"I know that, Reimian, and you know that. A female in estrus goes to the one she __wants__. The strongest, in her mind. It's trying to substitute someone else in there, someone that she wouldn't accept under normal circumstances, that edges near what a human would consider date-rape at best."_ Dara folded her arms across her chest as Reimian turned on her now, glaring. _"And that being said, __you__ need to report to med bay, Reimian. Along with every other female turian on this damned ship."_

"_What?"_ Reimian had a quick mind, though, and caught up with Dara in an instant. _"__S'kak.__ You're right. Two in estrus at the same damned time __is__ more than a coincidence."_

"_Go," _Dara told her. _"Rel's got the door—right?"_

"_I'm not going anywhere,"_ Rel replied, sounding a little grim. Dara was, personally, trying to pretend she didn't hear anything past that door. Human effective auditory range made pretending easy. With a turian's hearing, even pretending was going to be impossible. _So much for privacy_, Dara thought, wincing. _It's all going to be about the social courtesy of everyone pretending they didn't notice __anything at all__. Assuming everyone in the crew __lets__ that be the case._

She took a deep breath, and keyed her omnitool. _"I'm calling Dr. Cimmirian right now," _Dara said, and hastened off, drawing Reimian in her wake.

Two hours later, she, Ghada, and Dr. Cimmirian were very busy indeed, and a line of female turians wound out the door of med bay into the hallway. Half the crew complement of 150 was female, although of the seventy-five females aboard, thirty were human. _Thank god_, Dara thought, taking another blood sample and running it through a scanner. _"Your hormone levels are fine,"_ she told her fifteenth patient, making a note on the patient's chart. _"Nothing to worry about."_

"_Thank the spirits,"_ the female in question said, taking a deep breath and walking out.

She and Ghada were testing the crew; Cimmirian was testing the medication packets obtained from Nadea and Kallixta's quarters. _"The meds check out fine," _the doctor muttered as she walked by Dara, as Dara took another blood sample. _"There's got to be another explanation. But keep testing everyone. Better safe than sorry."_

Reimian had been the first female tested, and had, subsequently, gone back to her guard post. Dara did not particularly want to think about how uncomfortable that particular job would be. Nor did she really want to imagine the staring contest probably going on between the praetorian and her mate right now. Young special forces against experienced praetorian guard. Not a match-up she _really_ wanted to see throw down.

Five more patients, and then she heard a muttered curse from across the room. _"We've got word back from Fleet,"_ Valea Cimmirian said, suddenly, from near her terminal. _"We're not the only ship affected."_

_What the __hell__?_ Dara crossed the room and peeked at the message. _"Only new recruits?" _she asked, startled. _"What does __that_ _mean?"_

"_The first wave started two days ago. We don't get comm messages all the time, since we run silent. Which, if we didn't, would've saved us some trouble; we'd have known to test everyone, and adjust meds as needed."_ Valea scowled. _"They were able to test the first females once they came out of it. Looks like the meds distributed at the Raetian and Dymion OCS facilities, as well as one or two other training facilities—enlisted ones— was improperly manufactured. Each pill had about twice the regular dose of hormones to it. And thus, when the recruits got out into the Fleet, and started taking the __regular__ dose again. . . ."_

"_They had a hormonal bounce. Which leads to a situation like breakthrough bleeding in a human female," _Ghada finished, nodding.

The doctor nodded. _"It didn't hit __every__ female the same way, of course. The ones in high adrenaline, combat-oriented positions. . . like our young pilot and our young marine—were much more apt to be affected than, say, someone in logistics or maintenance or food services."_

"_Life would be a __lot__ easier if they'd use subdermal implants,"_ Dara said, tapping her own left arm, where tiny rods filled with hormones had been planted under her skin.

Vaela shook her head. _"Two problems with that, Velnaran. First, subdermal implants are __easy__ to place on a human. For a turian, it means lifting scales and it's generally very uncomfortable. Second, speaking for myself. . . I __like__ being in control of my body. A thousand years ago, before the meds, we females didn't have that kind of control. Estrus could happen at __any__ point. There was never a time when the specter of losing control wasn't there."_

"_Scary," _Dara said, sighing.

"_You have no idea how frightening it is."_

"_I've been subjected to weaponized, aerosolized azure dust, doctor. The only reason it didn't __take__ on me was menstrual flow and lack of relative maturity. Today, it __would__ work on me."_ Dara's voice was terse.

Valea winced. _"Then you __do__ know. Let's just say, most of us __like__ the feeling of being in control. There are females who never once in their lives go off the medication. I'm not one of them. I have three children, who are home with my mate on Galatana right now. But when you give up control, you have to have someone there that you trust, implicitly."_

Dara nodded in understanding, and went back to testing the rest of the females. It probably wasn't necessary now that they knew what the source was, but every one of the females present _wanted_ that reassurance. And she couldn't blame them a bit.

About halfway through the testing process, her dad walked into the med bay, looking around as if completely disoriented. "Did we have a sudden breakout of the chickenpox?" he asked. "I obviously missed _something_ here." Then he paused, looking at her face, and caught her chin briefly in one hand. "Okay, I missed a lot of somethings. What the hell happened to _you_?"

"Kallixta has a _great _right hook." Dara's tone was tart. It was going to _hurt_ to eat for the next couple of days. "We're in the middle of a minor situation, Dad. What can I do for you?"

"Have to tell you a couple of things. When you've got a minute, anyway." He found a corner to sit in, waiting for her to get done with the latest person in line, whose test came back, of course, negative.

She got up from behind her desk then, and crossed to crouch down next to him. "What's up, Dad?" Dara looked up at him, alert.

"First, tell me what the situation is here. Is it something that's going to impair ship fitness?"

His voice was dry and terse, like a drill instructor's, and Dara fell automatically into report mode to respond to him. "Negative. We have two females who cycled into estrus due to a medication issue. We're testing the rest of the females to ensure that they're in the clear, and so far, they are."

He frowned for a moment, and she suddenly realized that he had absolutely _no_ idea what she was talking about. "Ah, I can explain, or you can have Lantar or Livanus explain." 

"Make it quick." 

She did, keeping the terms dry and clinical, but having to focus on someplace just past his left ear while doing so. "Female turians cycle into estrus between three to four times a year. When they do so, their reproductive urges escalate dramatically, due to extremely high hormone levels in the bloodstream. Once ovulation has finished, or conception has taken place, the hormone levels abate. Behavioral norms during this time period include hyper-aggressiveness and strongly amatory predilections. They can, and will, fight to drive other females away, and sedation is not an acceptable alternative to copulation. Inducing a coma state just to avoid a hormonal surge being, of course, rather akin to beating on a brass tack with a large sledgehammer." Her tone stayed dry there, but the last sentence came out of medic-land and back into her more normal tone of discourse.

Her dad's mouth had opened slightly, and now he cleared his throat. "Well, that explains why Lantar asked what he asked about two months ago."

Dara blinked and looked at him. "I'm sorry?"

"Nevermind. I take it that you got in the way of one of these females—wait. You said _Kallixta_. As in the . . . girl you went to boot camp with?" Her dad was putting together the pieces rapidly and not liking the picture that they made.

Dara nodded a little grimly. "It's being taken care of."

Sam actually winced. "And by _taken care of_, you mean. . . "

"Rel's brother is, ah, keeping her company." Dara found another patch of wall to study, face completely straight. Feeling heat creeping up her cheeks, though.

He mouthed a word, but didn't say it out loud. "Jumpin' Jesus. A shitstorm follows that girl around, doesn't it?"

"No kidding. I'm not sure whether to start packing an umbrella or a shovel." That got a laugh, and Dara looked at her dad again. "Now, I take it there's another problem?"

He put his hand up to his eyes, suddenly looking very tired. "Yeah. Couple of them. First of all, Kasumi, Mordin, and the hanar Spectre, Blasto, may or may not have been captured in a facility on Garvug. They've been out of contact for eight days now."

_Shit._ Dara's head snapped up. "We're in that system now," she noted. "We're going in for them?"

"Probably. Depends on what we find out when we get a little closer to the damn planet. Now for the kicker." Sam sighed. "I wasn't planning on telling you _quite_ this way, sweetie, but you know how you were _always_ pestering your mom and me for a baby brother or a baby sister?"

Dara blinked, assimilating that statement _fast_. _Damn. Damn, damn, damn. _She took a breath, and reorganized her thoughts. _Well, not like it's __uncommon__ for people to start a second family, but. . . Kasumi's out there, pregnant and in trouble. Damn._ Her first response was carefully light. "The pestering only lasted until I understood that twenty thousand credits was a _lot_ of money to spend on a governmental dispensation to _have_ a second kid." She paused. "Although, come to think of it, any kids _I_ have are going to cost that much or more." _Depending on if I can get it done on Mindoir in nine or ten years or not, of course._ Dara held up a hand, stopping him, thinking. "Okay. So, she's pregnant and might have been captured. Not good. If it's any comfort, salarians generally _revere_ mother figures. " _Kind of explains why they've historically gotten along so well with the asari, really._ "If she remembers that and keys in on that in their psychology, she could actually be kept in relative comfort, for the time being."

Her dad nodded, expression dark. "We're talking about Kasumi, sweetheart," Sam told her, dryly. "When was the last time she willingly told anyone something about anything?"

Dara nodded. "Fair enough. Is there anything I can do, Dad?" She put her hand on his shoulder.

"Not at the moment. Just. . . needed to tell you."

_My dad, actually telling me something about work. About what's bothering him. Like I'm. . . an adult. Will wonders never cease. _ Dara's eyes were a little wide. _And he thinks __Kasumi__ holds things tight?_ "She'll be okay, Dad. She's smart—about most things, anyway."

"She better be." He gave her hand a quick squeeze, and stood to go. Work face still in place, he added, "Love you, kiddo."

"Love you, too, Dad." Dara watched him go, knowing _why_ his work face was in place. Because if it _wasn't_, everything would fly apart on him.

She got back to work, but close to 22:30, Cimmirian dismissed her. _"Go take care of your mate,"_ the doctor told her, with faint amusement.

"_You think he's actually left the door unguarded?"_

"_He might be able to, now that Reimian isn't threatening to go __in__ there." _Cimmirian's clear amusement told Dara everything she needed to know. Yes, the doctor had Kallixta's _real_ name on her patient charts. Thus, yes, the doctor was _fully_ aware of all the ramifications that were only just now clicking into place in Dara's head.

As she headed for her quarters in the bowels of the ship, Dara had time to reflect on those issues. She knew, for instance, since Rel had told her, that Rinus had a chip from the _Estallus_' AI, Laetia, in his head. That he was being used as a partial parental template for the next generation of _Normandy_-class ships, the SR-3s and SR-4s, being built at Luna and Dymion. That, in Rel's words, he'd been selected because of his relatively low rank and high loyalty. Someone unlikely _ever_ to be in a position to stage a coup. . . although Rel had also commented that he found it odd that Rinus had been selected, as a nephew of the somewhat infamous Spectre, Garrus Vakarian. "Family loyalty _can_ sometimes trump loyalty to the Imperator," he'd muttered. "Never repeat that, though, _mellis_."

And Kallixta, her friend, was a daughter of the Imperator. Whatever that implied to a human, it could be effectively doubled for a turian. Turians only _had_ one royal family. Some generations, like Kallixta's, had eleven children in the direct line of descent, which made for many, many branches, of course. But loyalty to the Hierarchy was almost a turian absolute. While the situation was no one's fault—other than the manufacturers of the hormonal supplements—and Kallixta had done what _any_ turian female would do, from the highest-ranked to the lowest—in going to the male of her choice. . . he was, relatively speaking, a commoner. Not even an officer. Of course, that was the female's choice, and it _had _ to be respected. That being said, there would probably be investigations to see if there'd been collusion. To be certain that she'd had a choice. _Gah_, Dara thought, and gave up on the line of thought. There were probably ramifications she hadn't even thought of, yet. But as something to think about, it surely beat worrying about her dad. Or Kasumi.

She opened the door to her quarters, and smiled. "You finally left the door?"

"Reimian came back and had calmed down out of her protective-anger. She wasn't going to interrupt and wind up with three people attacking her—Kallixta, Rinus, _and_ me." Rel was sprawled in a chair at the desk they shared. He looked up, eyes glittering in the low light. "You're back early."

"Doctor told me to go tend to my mate." Dara closed the door behind her, and went to him, straddling his lap and biting lightly at his neck, hearing him inhale. "Think we're going to have busy day tomorrow, too, from what my dad was telling me."

"With three Spectres aboard, this is hardly a surprise." His hands were sliding up under her scrubs now, finding the _cinctus _she wore under it, playing with the links.

"_Do you need tending?" _She already knew the answer to _that_, of course.

"_Yes. Please. Smells and sounds. . . were a bit much. Two females in estrus in one damn day, my mate in reach both times, and __couldn't__."_ His eyes were a little dazed now.

"_I can never give you proper estrus. I'm sorry."_ Dara slid down, covering neck and cowl in bites now, working her hands under his shirt. _"Makes me wish I'd been born turian."_

"_You're human, sweetness. I like you just the way you are. You give me other things. Things I could never have from a turian mate."_ He paused. "_And if I do __my__ job right, I can send you out of your mind whenever we damn well please."_ Rel's fingers curled into her shoulders, gripping tightly as she slid out of his lap, working down to his waist now. Little bites, tiny nibbles.

"_Short of going on shoreleave on Luisa or Illium someday, where __aziala__ is __legal__, and having me take some under nice, __controlled__ circumstances, yes, that's the closest we can get." _The thought of ever being exposed to azure dust unwillingly again was frightening, but taking some by choice and with proper precautions, would be a different matter entirely.

He looked down sharply, and then stiffened as she found what she'd been looking for. _"You'd. . . consider that? You'd give me total control over you like that?" _His fingers closed into her hair, gently, but definitely gripping. "_I find the thought of being out of control terrifying, sweetness. So do most of our females."_

She raised her head for a moment. _"It's scary, yes. But if I were with you, I'd be safe." _Then returned to what she'd been doing.

His head tipped back, harsh pants of breath._ "Wouldn't tell you no. But. . . you give me __this__. You give me __you__. And you do it . . .very sweetly, too. More isn't really needed."_ He leaned down, scooped her up, and settled her back across his lap. _"Think tonight would be a good night to do all the things with you that I __couldn't__ do with a turian mate right now."_ He bit down lightly. _"Here in the chair. . . face to face in our nest, with your legs over my shoulders. All good things. Not possible when everything __has__ to be controlled."_

She laughed softly, and bit him back. _"All right, but keep in mind. . . __they__ might be excused from duty for a day or so. . . but _ _we__ have to get up in the morning."_

Rel grinned. "I always keep that in mind, _amatra. _Sleep _is_ important, too._" _

**Rinus**

Rinus awakened slowly, uncertain as to where he was. Or even what time it was. He was very attuned to the ship's schedule, usually waking up before 05:00 and getting on with the business of the day. But now, he wasn't even sure what _day_ it was, let alone what time it was and he was in the. . . sparring room. He blinked. And Kallixta was still nestled in his arms. Sleeping off the last of their passion. _Ah, spirits. You do like to play tricks with me._ He ran a finger down her arm lightly, and started to sit up—

-and found the baleful eyes of her bodyguard fixed on him from across the room. _"Centurion,"_ Rinus said, after a moment, letting his own expression harden into place. _"Isn't privacy customary in such situations?"_

"_Perhaps for ordinary people,"_ Reimian replied, sharply. _"However, Kallixta is my protectee. She is the Imperator's daughter. . . though I fully expect that you __knew__ that, before you fucked her. As such, I am responsible for her well-being, and it is incumbent upon me to protect her." _

Rinus' gaze hardened further. _"I had no idea whose daughter she was last night, nor does it matter to me in the slightest." Other than the fact that my career is more than likely over, but that was going to happen anyway, thanks to the damned AI. "My first indication was this morning, when she __told__ me. __After_ _I told her that any children she might have would be __mine__. Acknowledged and part of __my__ clan." Not the Imperator's clan. __Mine__. _He showed teeth now and stood up. Walked across the room to where he'd seen the clothing and water bottles dropped last night. _Good, fresh uniforms for both of us. Rel's scent on them. Good second-brother. Always thinking. No need for a walk of shame, half-dressed, back to our quarters._ He brought the bundle back across the room, and started getting dressed, putting his stoicism and stern centurion demeanor back on with the clothes.

"_So, now I don't need to protect her from you. From her youth, inexperience, and tendency towards romanticism." _Reimian's tone was sarcastic. _"She chose an inappropriate male from a very limited selection—hell, an enforced selection, even."_

"_She chose whom she chose."_ Very close to a snarl now, but quiet, tightly controlled. Rinus rarely yelled, preferring to convey more menace with intensity than mere volume could possibly carry. Reimian's uniform did _not_ have the insignia of a _senior_ centurion. She was _probably_ Praeotorian Guard, but wasn't wearing _that_ insignia at the moment, either. Which meant that, for the moment, she didn't outrank him. Hell, she was new to the ship. Even positionally, he outranked her. _"Same as any other female in her need. That's a fundamental right, Reimian. That's what elevates us above the animals. We don't force our females."_ He was snarling now. _"__I__ sure as hell didn't, and I don't much like you questioning my honor."_

Kallixta chose that moment to raise her head. _"Vela," _she said, quietly, and the centurion snapped to attention, looking ahead rigidly. First name usage, equal-to-equal forms, conveying intimacy, friendship. Someone of higher rank could _always_ choose to use the lesser forms, as a compliment or a courtesy. Someone of lower rank could not do so until permitted by the higher-ranked person. _"You've served me since I was six years old."_

"_It has been my honor to do so, yes, __domina__."_

Rinus _winced_ at hearing that mode of address. Inferior-to-superior forms, the title reserved nobles. Lady or lord, in essence. Reimian was enforcing the social code by responding this way, rather than in the mode Kallixta had offered.

"_You have been closer to me than my own mother. I understand your concerns. I understand that your responsibilities require you to make a report of everything to my father."_ Kallixta sounded very serious now. _"I trust that you will report only the __truth__, however. That the medications failed, not just for me, but for another female on this ship. Were there others?" _she asked then, looking up.

Reimian hesitated. _"Not on this ship," _she admitted. _"I just received word from the med bay that upwards of two thousand others on different ships and duty stations, however, have been put in similar jeopardy."_

Rinus winced again. _"Bad meds?"_

"_Too heavy a dose in the packs distributed at the Raetia flight OCS, the Dymion OCS for special forces and marines, two enlisted facilities for logistics and infantry personnel, and a few others. When they received regular packs at the new duty stations. . . their bodies didn't respond well to the shift in the dosage."_

_S'kak__. If even ten percent of them conceive. . . and chances are, about __half__ actually will. . . some will use morning-after pills, of course, depending on their religious affiliation, and others will chose to keep the children. But that's their __choice__, not something inflicted on them by some damn fool at the manufacturing plant. "Sounds like massive lawsuit territory,"_ Rinus commented, darkly. _"Company should have to pay what, all medical expenses and a living expense for the children's first five years or some such, if I remember the laws correctly?"_

Reimian blinked. _"You know the law well."_

"_Six generations in the Law on my mothers' side. It's in the blood."_ Rinus sighed. _So, she knows__ damned well__ that this was not a plot on my part or foolishness on Kallixta's. What's she doing, punching for reactions? Ten seconds after we awaken from our sleep? _He glared at Reimian. _"Do you have what you came for now? If so, leave and let Essedarius dress."_

Reimian snorted. "_Praesesidis," _she corrected. Rinus grimaced. The family name of the Imperators was like a slap in his face.

Kallixta sat up, expression icy. Oblivious to her unclothed state—as most turians, she didn't have a false sense of modesty, although social conventions did dictate that _clothed_ was a more proper state in which to deal with those on a less-than-intimate footing—she stared her bodyguard down. _"Reimian,_" she said—not _Vela_ this time, Rinus noticed—_"leave us." _Command-imperative, superior-to-inferior.

The bodyguard's expression shifted. _Interesting. She's still punching for reactions. Testing. "As you wish, __domina__."_ Reimian turned and left.

Rinus sighed, and looked down. This was even more awkward than it would have been if he'd had to meet her eyes for the first time this morning, than if they'd just been allowed to drift towards wakefulness in each others' arms. And even _that_ would have been awkward if she'd been a just an officer. Just a fellow enlisted. Anyone other than his proper mate. But he met her eyes, nonetheless. _"Fair morning to you," _he offered, after a moment, in inferior-to-superior mode, and handed her one of the two water bottles. Twelve to sixteen hours of exertion followed by that dreamless sleep had certainly left _him_ dehydrated, so he drank from his own bottle, and hoped she'd have more words than he did.

"_Ah. . . fair morning to you, too."_ Equal-to-equal, the terms used between intimates. Rinus inhaled slightly, but didn't quite dare reciprocate at the moment. He had, of course, used the same terms the night before, but in the nest, everyone was equal.

She drank, seeming just as eager to avoid words for the moment as he was. Awkward silence. Both looking anywhere else, for the moment. _"I'm sorry for Reimian—_" she started, at the same moment as he asked, _"You're all right this morning?"_

"_No, you first, ah, lieutenant." _Still, cautiously, in inferior-to-superior.

"_Under the circumstances, I'd prefer my first name. Unless you think I should be calling you __centurion__, or perhaps the equally impersonal __Velnaran__." _Very faint hint of a tease there, and firmly couched in intimate terms.

"_Technically, I should probably call you __domina.__"_

"_No. On this ship, I am a lieutenant, nothing more. My father said I could serve, damnit, in a __real__ job, not some trumped up position in Force Retention or Morale Services or War Plans or anything else like that. So, no, no spirits-be-damned __domina__. Not from you. And not __lieutenant__, either, not when we're alone. __Please.__"_ Pure frustration in her tone now.

Rinus hunkered down, and, very carefully, ran his hand over her fringe. Felt the texture of it against his palm, with a sort of wonder. He knew her body intimately now, of course, but little gestures like this. . . these were all new. All fresh. _"If you like, then." _Intimate-to-intimate.

"_If I like __what__?" _Faintly imperious tone there.

Rinus chuckled half-heartedly. _"If you like, Kallixta."_

"_See? Was that so hard?"_

_You'll never know._ Rinus took another drink, and nodded at the door. _"So, Reimian's report carries a lot of weight?"_

Kallixta grimaced. _"She's the head of my protection detail, and has been for ten years. There's only two aboard now. Down from what used to be ten._ _Reimian always thought I was __foolish__ to dream of being a fighter pilot. Told me it would never be allowed. That she and the other guards couldn't __protect__ me in a fighter. So, now I pilot a frigate—"_ Kallixta paused, and added, _"__S'kak.__ They won't __let__ me pilot if I'm. . . "_

"_Might not have taken. You were still on __some__ protection." _And while Rinus couldn't really be sure how long they'd, well, been _at it_, he strongly suspected it had been for the whole cycle.

She sighed. _"There's a good thought." _She looked down, then back up again. _"So, yes, Reimian is still upset that we're here and not on a base somewhere, I think."_ She glanced up at him. _"And yes. Her report carries weight."_

"_She was looking for reactions. I think when you ordered her out, you actually pleased her."_ Rinus picked up the clothing, and dropped it in Kallixta's lap. _"You should get dressed, and I'll walk you to med bay."_

"_Med bay—oh." _Kallixta sighed. _"For testing. Will it even be accurate, so soon?"_

_Scale me if I know. _Out loud, the more polite version, of course: _"I have no idea." _He helped her to her feet, and saw the grimace of discomfort as she stood, and couldn't help the very faint, very male twitch of his mandibles. From the depths of the subconscious, a very slight preen. _I did that._ Rinus coughed slightly to cover his reaction, and said, carefully, _"I __did__ mean what I said last night."_

"_I heard you talking to Reimian."_ She looked up at him, looking worried. _"My father might not permit you to take me or any children into your clan—"_

"_And how would he __prevent__ that?" _Rinus' tone was flat and uncompromising. _"Fathers and mothers have equal rights under the law." _Hundreds of years of precedent. In the case of an accidental estrus, the male did not necessarily owe anything, especially if it really _were_ a random coupling, no previous attachment between the two, as sometimes genuinely occurred. He _could_ walk away free. In which case, the children remained a part of the mother's clan, and wore their markings, and took her family name. No tarnish on anyone's honor; things simply _happened._

Alternately, the male _could_ offer to remain involved, if there was feeling or sympathy between them. He _could_ take the mother of the children as a wife, or, if that did not please both mates, then the male _could_ acknowledge the children, give them his clan name and markings, and either take them into his home, or just provide support. There was _always_ a place for children. There _had_ to be. But nothing was forced on anyone.

"_He could order me to marry someone else before they're born. Or could order me to remain unwed." _She winced.

"_Genetic testing would show that they were mine. Any marriage contract would be invalidated automatically."_

"_Not __tal'mae.__ And we __only__ marry by the __tal'mae__ in my family." _She winced again at his expression.

He'd known that, somewhere at the back of his head. The Imperial family did things differently. Hell, they still did arranged marriages. _"Then I guess I'd have to duel whoever he ordered you to marry," _Rinus said, trying to make it sound light. It. . . didn't come out that way. _"Unless you __wanted__ to marry that male. Either way, any children __will_ _have my clan name. _Flat words, tone as unbending as steel. _"I live up to my responsibilities, Kallixta. You're one of them now, too, you know." _

She flushed. _"That makes it sound like a job."_

"_Sorry." _Rinus lightly stroked her fringe again, and was startled when she stepped into him, hesitantly wrapped her arms around him. He hadn't dared do more than preen her slightly, and after all the intimacies of last night, it seemed foolish to be afraid to touch her. . . but he was, a little. Wary. _"I don't know how else to say it, though. I don't have the words."_ He frowned. _"You seemed. . . you made me certain suggestions the other night." _He hesitated. _"That means you're not averse to me. . . .damnit." _He closed his eyes briefly._ "I don't even know how to say any of this to you."_

"_You were doing fine putting one word in front of the other before I called attention to it. I'm sorry. Just tell me what you're thinking."_

Rinus sighed. _"I know that marriages are often arranged among the nobles."_ Bluntness, then. He was good at that, at least. _"Have you been __plighted__ to anyone? Am I actually going to __have__ to fight any duels?"_

"_If you did, I guarantee that you'd win. Nobles don't spend four years at Calleo and Facito."_ Kallixta's tone was _very_ dry. _"But no. Marriages aren't __usually__ arranged until after boot camp. The last one arranged earlier than that was about a hundred years ago, between two distant cousins who were both about five at the time of the plighting. Ten years of waiting, and then it all got called off on account of a different wedding being arranged, instead." _She paused. _"If I'd been posted to some light duty station on Palaven or Rhenus or Dymion, like all the rest of my siblings, the matchmakers would have been working overtime by now, though, yes. There are likely any number of young male nobles out there who will be disappointed if I've now disqualified myself. They might get. . . snippy. . . if they were ever to meet you."_

Rinus blinked. This was a lot of information to process all at once, and was so completely foreign to him as to be almost _alien_. It was disconcerting, coming from another turians' mouth. _"__If__ you've disqualified yourself?" _he said, tentatively, watching as she finished fastening the last of her uniform froggings. _"What would disqualify you?"_

"_Technically, pregnancy."_

"_But you just said—"_ Rinus started to protest.

"_If done early enough, and if you didn't press for the clan rights—as males have been threatened off or bought off before—it has been known for a pregnant female to be . . . more properly married." _Her tone was a little sarcastic. _"My great-aunt was apparently in estrus and chose one of her grooms. Rather than elevate a groom to the nobility, my great-grandfather married her off quickly to someone who didn't object. And to whom she didn't object much, either, given that they had three more children together." _

Rinus' arms tightened around her. Hard. She went on, doggedly, _"Although the __highest__ sticklers, such as my mother, would say loss of chastity would also be a key item on the negotiation table."_ Her tone was. . . a little distant. A little angry, maybe. He could understand that. _Trapped in a damned cage._

"_There are negotiations? But you said you only do __tal'mae__. . . ."_

Her expression shifted, and she peeked up at him, going from distant and reserved to tentative and embarrassed in a heartbeat. _"Ah. . . yes. That's correct. But the negotiations deal with how much dowry or which titles are bestowed, and someone who is. . . not chaste. . . has to bring more dowry as a compensation."_

Rinus gritted his teeth. She looked up at him anxiously. _"It applies to males who aren't chaste, too, you realize. Or who have fathered children outside of any plighting."_

"_Not the point. The whole system sticks in my crop. It smacks of forcing. Lack of choice."_ He pulled her closer, and lowered his head to her neck, smelling her. Wanting to bite her again. Mark her again, damnit. _"And I spent a good part of last night making you __mine__." _He gritted his teeth and raised his head again. _Not that I have a right to that today. Unless she __is__. . . ._

She smiled, a little sadly. _"It's all I've ever known. But people do so love it. Love to watch it. Like theater, I suppose."_

"_I can tell you that no one in __my__ family ever has."_

"_That's because your family is, from what I can tell, usually quite busy __doing__ things." _She looked hesitant again. _"If. . . I mean. . . the __tal'mae__ requirement doesn't bother you?"_

"_No. I've said for years that when I married, I wasn't going to bother with __manus__. If I found someone who could handle the Mindoir relatives and all the other insanity in my life, that is." _He looked at her, calmly. _"And under __tal'mae,__no one can try to keep any children from my clan. Nor sunder the union, once the vows are taken and the blood is spilled."_

"_It. . . might not be necessary." _Slight discomfort there. _"If it's just the potential child that you're concerned with."_

He sighed. This was coming out all wrong. _"I told you, you're __all__ mine now. My responsibility. Let me ask you something else right now, though. What do __you__ want?" _It might have been the first time anyone had _ever_ actually asked her that.

Kallixta went completely still. Thought her way through what was, apparently, an alien concept. _"If it took . . . to join your clan."_ She swallowed tightly. _"If you wouldn't mind."_

"_If I'd __mind__ having a mate who's strong and intelligent __and__ beautiful __and__ fierce and gave me passion and young?" _Rinus snorted softly into her fringe. _"Oh, there's a __hard__ decision."_ He caught her wrist, brought it to his mouth, and nipped the interior lightly.

"_You might not __have__ to," _she stressed, again. _"I hate the thought of forcing anyone into the . . . fishtank that is my life."_

He chuckled ruefully. _"No wonder you laughed the other night when I said I hated the AI watching all the time. You've always been watched, eh?"_

"_There are __always__ servants or bodyguards in the room. For an Imperator's or his first-son's marriages, there have to be __witnesses__ present to ensure that first coitus actually took place." _Kallixta gave that example, and Rinus' arms tightened on her again. The most basic privilege in turian society was the closed door; the most basic courtesy was either eye contact, or the lack of it.

"_It's really like listening to someone from another __species__,"_ he muttered. _"Fortunately, I have a fair bit of experience with that. And a bit of experience in __avoiding__ the fishtank. Different clan-paint and different clan name help, but I've been ducking my uncle's shadow for years." _He stroked her fringe. _"And if I didn't make it __abundantly__ clear last night, I __really__ like having you in my nest."_

She flushed a little. _"That's just the estrus talking."_

"_Then why am I debating showing you all the __other__ ways I can make you feel good right now?"_ He knew his eyes had gone a little dark and fixed, and knew his breathing had shifted. _"You'd really never had a male before?"_

She shook her head mutely. He closed his eyes for a moment. Exhaled. Tried to get his thoughts back in line. _"Ah, sweetness. You have __no__ idea of the things I can do to please you, then." _Rinus opened his eyes, reminded himself that there was a bodyguard waiting for them in the corridor, and forced himself to pull back a little.

She nipped his throat then, and Rinus groaned. He didn't think he'd _had_ anything left with which to react, but he did. _"If I'm not, well. . . you know. . . would you consider—"  
_

He put a finger to her lip-plates. _"We'll see how it goes. If it doesn't take, I __like__ you, you like me, we're serving together, and to hell with anything anyone has to say about it. If it takes, it takes, and why should my second-brother be the only one in the family to have what his __pada'amu__ charmingly referred to as a _shotgun wedding?"

He didn't think Reimian had been expecting them to walk out of the room _laughing._ Certainly, the female looked surprised.

Not really sure what to do—there wasn't really an _etiquette book_ for such occasions, after all—Rinus walked Kallixta to the med bay. Not touching; they were in uniform, after all, and the officer/enlisted divide seemed to need a little reinforcement, at the moment. And he looked right past and through every member of the crew they passed along the way. Reaching the med bay, he finally saw a clock, and swore, internally. It was _mid-afternoon_, for the spirits' sakes; he'd lost nearly a full day to their passion and its aftermath.

In the med bay, all hell was breaking loose. Nadea and Decimus were already there, holding hands _very_ tightly as they awaited a verdict of their own. Dara hurried over when she saw them, in armor. Unusual, given that she was in the med bay. She was careful not to meet either of their eyes. "Glad to see you both," she said. "I'm assuming you'll both need some medigel, among other things?" She glanced at each of them, looking just past their eyes.

Kallixta winced and put a hand to her friend's bruised face. "Dara, did _I_ do this?"

"Yeah, but it's okay," Dara told her, patting her on the shoulder. "You should try to remember how you did that, though. Was a _great_ right hook." She managed a grin. "Rel might even thank you for making me drink my meals through a straw for the next few days."

Kallixta blinked. "I don't understand."

Rinus coughed into his hand; Kallixta might not have understood the joke, but _he_ got it, just fine.

"I can get a test kit started for you," Dara told Kallixta, "but it probably won't be accurate for another day or so. Same issue as Curicium and Corolan over there, really." She glanced up at Rinus, who'd found a patch of wall to study nearby, face blank. He was grateful to his little _ama'fradu_ for making this all sound. . . mundane. Everyday. Which it _was_, damnit. Just not everyday for him. Or for the Imperator's damned daughter.

Watching the bustle in the med bay, Rinus asked, concerned, "Are we about to go into combat? Should I be at my station?"

Dara shook her head. "Rescue operation at the moment. Word came down that everyone dealing with the, ah, results of the medication foul-up was excused from duty till 08:00 tomorrow." Her choice of words was admirably tactful. 

A light came on a panel nearby, and Dara tensed, visibly. "Speaking of rescues. . . I have to go. I'm sorry. Kallixta, take this cup, and go in that lavatory over there. I know turians don't necessarily urinate separately from the rest of the bowel flow, since everything gets dumped out the cloaca, but that's what we need: plain urine. Give it your best try, anyway, and we can talk later, all right?" She spread her hands, and hurried off, grabbing a medical kit and a gurney. Several other med techs were following suit.

Rinus sighed and found someplace to sit quietly, out of the way. Twitching slightly. The deckplates hummed underfoot—they were entering atmosphere, or so it seemed. He really _should_ be at his station. And yet, for the moment, this _was_ his station.

And he realized, suddenly, and belatedly, that he'd been very fortunate in some ways: he'd kept the damned chip turned off all this time. . .and saw _no_ reason to change this situation at the moment!

Eventually, Kallixta came back out, and sat next to him, neither of them making eye contact for the moment. But after a minute, Rinus offered his hand, cautiously, and she took it. Uniform on, or not.

Dr. Cimmirian came out of her office after about twenty minutes. _"Inconclusive,"_ she said. _"We'll try again tomorrow."_ Her tone was quietly sympathetic. _"Go and try to get some rest. Both of you."_ Rinus' hearing was good enough to realize the same piece of advice was being given to the other couple, and grimaced. _Lots of people on tenterhooks tonight._

He caught Kallixta's elbow and steered her towards the door. _"I don't know about you, but I think I could __probably__ eat an acrocanth right now. Mess hall?" _Rinus glanced down at her.

"_I __am__ a little hungry, actually."_ She sounded surprised.

There _was_ some light, hissing laughter as they entered—the equivalent of catcalls, really. The humans didn't take part in it at all, of course. Their version of reticence, or at least, of pretending something uncomfortable didn't exist. Decimus and Nadea, who entered ahead of the other pair, definitely took the brunt of it. _"Way to tell your male what you want, Curicium!"_ came one comment. _"Does Corolan take direction well?"_ was another comment, from another female.

The catcalls took a noticeable nose-dive as he and Kallixta walked in, however; he allowed her to precede him in, and squarely met the eyes of anyone who even started to hiss in laughter. Stony expression, cold glare. It worked, as it usually did. Boot camp instilled a certain level of respect for a centurion in even the most dimwitted recruit. A certain level of it even worked on young officers.

Senior officers should have been smarter than to make the comments or to laugh. Macenus, finally off-duty after whatever 'rescue' operation had been going on, came down to the mess when Rinus and Kallixta, at opposite sides of a table, were almost done with their meal. He headed over to the table to banter, a bit clumsily, _"Guess I know now why you were so aggressive in combat, Essedarius. If I'd realized, I'd have offered you a chance to come fly with me. Shouldn't have had to look for assistance among the gun crew." _His glance at Rinus had edges. They'd butted heads on _many_ occasions, and _this _was how Macenus apparently had decided to win the next round. He was using intimate-to-intimate forms; he outranked Kallixta, which meant that he _could_ chose to sound friendly by using them, but it also had a slightly insulting tinge to it; it implied more intimacy than there really was between them.

Rinus started to move, but Kallixta's voice stopped him. _"My thanks for your concern for my well-being,"_ she said, crisp, sharp words, court accent clearly audible to everyone inside of ten feet; she hadn't spoken anything but English to any of them before. _Superior-to-inferior_. Emphasis on the social rank, not the military one. Slight breach of protocol, but also a verbal slap. _"However, I find that I do tend to prefer big guns over a tiny cockpit."_

Rinus choked on his _apha_ and everyone around him sat there in complete shock for a moment. Kallixta set her utensils on her tray. _"Centurion, would you do me the very great favor of walking me to my quarters?" _Intimate-to-intimate, as clear a mark as any on his skin. Or on hers, for that matter.

He got control of his lungs, and replied, simply, _"I'd be happy to, lieutenant,"_ and, standing, saw Rel standing behind him, tray in hand, clearly on his way toward sitting down, when all the by-play had ensued. Bright amusement in his brother's eyes. _"Keep it behind your teeth, second-brother,"_ Rinus advised, very quietly, as he passed Rel.

"_I didn't say a word, first-brother,"_ Rel protested, just as quietly, and with a total lack of conviction.

Rinus stopped, and added, softly, _"For the record, if you ever keep secrets from me again—"_

"_Going to be an occupational hazard for the rest of my life, first-brother." _Rel grimaced. _"And this wasn't __my__ secret to tell."_

"_We'll be talking more about this later. At __length__, second-brother."_

At Kallixta's quarters, Reimian was already stationed nearby, in a chair, trying to look busy cleaning weapons. Kallixta hesitated outside the door. "Please. . . would you come in?" She grimaced. "I don't really want to be alone with my thoughts for the moment." She'd switched back to English, with all its casual informality with forms of address.

Rinus nodded, slowly. "Tell you what," he replied, in kind. "We'll leave the door open for a bit. I'd like to get to know you a bit better, if you wouldn't mind."

"I'd like that." Kallixta looked relieved.

"Do you by any chance play chess?"

"I have no idea what that is."

He grinned. "Human game. Strategy and warfare. You'll probably enjoy it. I'll show you how to play, if you like."

Kallixta nodded. Smiled a little uncertainly. "We can try."

And so the door stayed open, and they sat, very correctly, on opposite sides of the table. Moving pieces around the projection of a board on an aerogel screen, and cautiously trying to get to know one another. It was surprisingly comfortable, actually. "Dara tells me that Rel has told _her. . . _that you fought alongside Garrus and Shepard once?"

Rinus snorted. "Ten minutes with a shotgun, the day the Collectors attacked Palaven," he said, dryly. "I was close enough to Aunt Lilu that her anti-seeker signal kept them off me. It was not the thing of which heroic sagas are made. She didn't have armor on, caught a bullet in the shoulder, and even though I was _fresh_ out of boot camp, we hadn't covered _human_ first aid. I just saw all that _red_ and thought we were all going to die, because I had, what, ten rounds left, and Commander Shepard was going to die on me."

"What happened?" She sounded fascinated.

"Uncle Garrus dropped down off the roof of our villa, where he'd been sniping from, ran to us, and took charge. Told me to keep firing, applied first aid, gave her medigel and her armor, and then they stood there, side by side. Called the shots, took them. Her pet varren was racing around the field behind our back garden, tearing out the throats of various Collectors, too." Rinus paused. "I felt about as useful as a sack of _caprificus_ fruit." He moved a knight and captured a bishop on the board. They were both playing all-out offense. Neither of them knew how to defend in this game, so pieces were turning over rapidly between them.

"At least you were useful that day. Reimian grabbed me and took me to a bunker. Lots of huddling in the dark, crammed in with my brothers and sisters, waiting for the end to come. Lots of guards between us and the only door. Fear-smell on everyone." She used a rook to scoop up one of his pawns and threaten his king.

Rinus nodded. "My siblings were mostly paralyzed, fell in a heap together by the garden wall. I know Rellus was old enough to _want_ to fight, but Serana—our first sister—was very young. She'd just turned five. Polina was only just a year old, and Quintus wasn't even walking yet." _Fear-smell, anger-anger smell. Stink of chemicals and death. Odd, hot smell of iron-based human blood. Uncle Garrus' protective-anger, leashed. Controlled. Used._

_Ten minutes with a shotgun for me, unable to keep a human from damned near bleeding to death, my siblings all defenseless. But blooded beside two of the galaxy's greatest heroes, for a wonder. My second-brother. . . trapped in an azure dust haze the first time, and then twenty minutes against batarians beside his mate, while a friend __did__ die, behind them. Is there any wonder that we both like to remain in control of ourselves and the situation around us? Why neither of us likes to be manipulated by others?_

After an hour or so, Kallixta said, quietly, "I have a letter to write."

Rinus winced. "I imagine that you do, yes." He hesitated. "To your father?"

"Yes." She glanced out the doorway, and added, very quietly, "He'll _probably_ read mine first. Although _hers_ will have more weight. And since both will be sent at the next comm buoy dump, they'll arrive at the same time. That's the best I can do."

Rinus nodded. _Better than I can manage_, he thought. _Asking for asylum on Mindoir is sounding very good at the moment, though._ "Then I should wish you good night." Rinus caught her wrist, and nipped the inside of it. Half proper, half teasing.

"_Wait."_

He blinked. That had been a command-imperative. Kallixta hesitated for a moment, and softly closed the door. Leaned up into him, and they traded gentle bites for a minute or two. _"Enough. Else I'll have you pinned down in your nest again."_

"_Any damage has already been done."_

"_Estrus is one thing, sweetness. No one can help that. Let's not make the situation any worse before we even know what the situation __is__."_

"_You're very practical."_

"It's a fault of his." Laetia's voice was like a bucket of cold water. Useful, but not exactly welcome. She blinked into existence beside the door, in human avatar form, and Rinus wanted to snarl in vexation.

Kallixta blinked. "Laetia? You. . . usually use a green eyeball."

"This is my self-image. Since Rinus has very carefully been keeping his damned chip off-line all day, I haven't been able to _talk_ to either of you."

Rinus glared at Laetia. This was _private._ "The door's closed, Laetia. Out."

She sighed. "I can talk with you together, or separately," Laetia said, quietly. "Now, or later."

He swore internally. After what had happened _last_ time she'd talked to a female he was interested in, he wasn't about to chance that. "Not _one word_, Laetia. I have the tools and I think even the _captain_ would back me up at this point if I disconnected the AI core."

"With the chip in place, I could probably stop you," she pointed out, reasonably enough.

"Then I'd tell my weapons techs to take a spirits-be-damned Mark M _Malleolus _in there and press the firing mechanism." Pure protective-anger now. "Leave her _alone_, Laetia. You've already got me as a plaything. Do _not_ fuck with her, too."

Kallixta was _staring_ at him, eyes wide. Laetia paused. "I did not intend to do anything of the sort, Centurion," she said, formally. Back to his title. Respectful, not overly familiar. "I merely wished to point out that if your . . . liaison. . . continues to any of its possible conclusions, that there are some potential ramifications, political and non, of which you should be aware."

Rinus was on the verge of saying _fuck the politics_, when Kallixta put her hand on his shoulder. "And those ramifications are?" she asked, politely.

"First, the non-political ones. The parameters for the 'father' identity I was asked to find for the creation of the turian second-generation AIs included stabile tendencies, introversion, intelligence, loyalty, and, finally, had to be a non-commissioned officer without noble background. In essence, someone who was outstanding in every regard, but who could never use the filial piety built into every AI to stage a coup. This was a directive straight from your father, lieutenant."

"Sounds like him," Kallixta said, with a faint smile.

Rinus found the chair at the terminal, and sat down. "And for the slow kids in the class, this means. . . what?"

Kallixta crossed to stand in front of him. "It means that if we, ah, got married," and she said that part very quickly, "you'd have some of my social rank. That would place you in a position where apparently, you'd be a threat?" She turned and looked at Laetia's avatar. "Just how complete _is_ the father figure's control over the AIs?"

"It's not absolute, but it's close to it. It can override my captain's commands, if I see a good enough rationale." Laetia shrugged, and Kallixta's face drained of color. "There _are_ reasons for it, lieutenant. And so far, the system's only been used once."

"So. . . bottom line is, I wouldn't have to become a father to twenty-five AIs?" Rinus offered, somewhat hopefully. _I'm not actually seeing a downside here._

"Unfortunately, I've submitted the basic personality matrices. It _has_ been almost a Terran year, centurion. The ships are half-complete." Laetia hesitated. "I suspect that the chip would also be a sticking point."

_You think?_

Kallixta waved it aside, unexpectedly sitting down in his lap, and Rinus growled a little in reaction. "Shh," she told him. "Talk to me about the politics, Laetia."

"I can't _think_ when you do that." Quiet admission, hopefully too quiet for Laetia to pick up.

Laetia shrugged a little. "Rinus Velnaran is, admittedly, a commoner, and an enlisted commoner at that. But besides his _sterling_ service record, which includes recent forays into black-ops work and intelligence analysis—" Kallixta's head snapped and she stared at Rinus, who shrugged a little, "he's also, obviously, the nephew of Garrus Vakarian. An undoubted renegade on most levels, who stands _apart _from the Hierarchy. It's not just the humans who have taken to referring to the Shepard-Vakarians as a royal family. Not a few turians see them as a force for change in the Hierarchy."

Rinus sighed. "My name is _Velnaran_," he pointed out. "My father is head of the Mindoir xenobiological team and my mother designs environmental systems for starships."

"Yes," Laetia said dryly. "And they both live two miles from the Mindoir Spectre base. Your younger brother is probably a Spectre candidate. So is, very likely, his _human wife_. Who's the daughter of another Spectre. _You_, centurion? Your recent analysis work has the attention of turian military intelligence, salarian STG, _and_ the Spectres, _all_ of whom are _salivating_ over the opportunity to poach you from the mainline military when your current tour is up."

Rinus blinked. Kallixta had turned around in his lap completely now, and was looking up at him, smiling a bit. "I just run the guns around here," he told Kallixta, cheerfully. "Largely, I'm doing exactly what I like to do. Although the occasional side-project _has_ been fun." He could admit that. "And it's good to know that I'll have job opportunities when my career here flames out." _Assuming my head is still on my shoulders when that happens, of course._

Laetia sighed. "And this is why I wanted to talk to Lieutenant Essedarius alone. He has the most _vexing_ tendency to underplay his own abilities. He has the equivalent of a degree in structural engineering in addition to all of his ordnance work. He _has_ to, to know how to _destroy_ things so very, very well."

"And why are _you_ trying so hard to sell him to me?" Kallixta asked, dryly. "I already like him, you know."

"I'm merely pointing out that there are many, many levels on which the centurion could be seen as a threat."

"Or," Kallixta pointed out, swiftly, "as an opportunity."

Laetia blinked. Rinus had to admit, he didn't see where any of this was coming from or going, himself. "My father is _very_ good at politics. _If_ he sees the Vakarians as a threat to the Hierarchy status quo, and _if_ he thought that they had enough popular support to threaten him, he wouldn't fight them. Fighting causes division, and the Hierarchy had two hundred years of that in the Unification Wars. No. He'd probably try to co-opt them. Add their message to his own. As he did at Shanxi. As he did by having them in the Imperial box at my—and Dara's—graduation. The next _logical_ step for him would be to arrange a marriage." Kallixta thought about that. "Garrus and Lilitu's eldest children are what, five?"

Rinus blinked. "Ah. . . yes. Kaius and Amara are five now."

"Amara would be the right age for my youngest brother, Servius. However," Kallixta said, leaning into him now, mind clearly moving quickly, "a member of my family marrying a hybrid would _probably_ send the conservatives up in flames."

Rinus stared down at her. "You _do_ realize that Garrus and Lilu would _never_ agree to an arranged marriage for _any_ of their children?"

"Wouldn't have to be _arranged_. If I knew that—and I guarantee my father _would_ know that—I'd just arrange for them to be in the same boot camp facility together, and see what happened. It has happened before." Kallixta's fingers were wandering now, and he didn't think she was even aware of it. "That being said, that's still eleven years away. If he wanted to move _now, _he'd have _me_. . . and he'd have _you._"

She bit his throat, and Rinus very carefully worked his hands between them, pushing her away so he could _think_. "I'm a little lost here," he admitted.

Kallixta grinned up at him. "Don't worry. I think I know how I'm going to write my letter to my father now." She looked at Laetia chipperly. "Thank you. You were very helpful."

Laetia shook her head, looking a little lost. "Your data analysis does not correlate with mine," she said, dubiously. "I will leave you to your message writing, however." And then she winked out.

"_Go on with you,"_ Kallixta told Rinus then, standing up and offering him a hand up.

"_Any reason for that little display?" _he asked, dryly.

"_I didn't like her acting like she'd marked you before I did. You're __mine__, not hers."_

Rinus suddenly grinned. He didn't mind _that_ statement at all.

And then he stepped out of her quarters and headed back down the hall.

"_I'm watching you, Velnaran," _Reimian told him, dryly. _"The door was closed for fifteen minutes."_

"_I don't have a contract with her, and she's a full adult."_ Rinus stared the female down, and was rewarded when she looked away first. _"Feel free to watch me. You'll learn all __sorts__ of things that way," _he told her, calmly. _"How to calibrate Thanix cannons. The optimal methods for performing system maintenance on the hydraulics for the Javelins. Oh, and the proper way to remove the propulsion system from a Mark M __Malleolus__ to convert it into a stationary bomb. All good information."_

Her hiss of annoyance followed him down the corridor, and, his back turned, Rinus grinned. It might not be the course of _wisdom_ to pull on an _acrocanth's_ tail, but if he were going to hang for things that weren't his fault, he was damned if he wasn't going to enjoy himself a little before then.

Then he hesitated. He _could_ go back to his quarters. That, however, would probably provoke a visit from Laetia. _No, I think Rel and Dara's quarters_, he decided, and headed down below the engine deck. To his surprise, the door was open. _"Your wife's still in med-bay, second-brother?"_

"_Yes. The mate of her father was just rescued, and she has young within. Also, her mentor in all things medical was also just rescued. Will be a long night, I think." _Rel was carefully sanding something in his hands. _"Come on in."_ He looked up warily. _"Apparently, I'm due for a __long__ talk with you."_

Rinus snorted and held out his hand. _"May I?" _He studied the carving. Rellus was getting _good_ at this. _"Last time I saw this, they didn't have faces."_

"_Dara is always difficult, because she's human. It's hard to get their features right. But her face was easier than mine. I wound up taking quick peeks in a mirror. Can't carve from a reference, but damned if I know any other way to carve my own face."_

"_You know what you'll do next?"_

"_Probably you."_

Rinus looked up, amused. _"Oh?"_

"_Probably with Kallixta, the ship, and a planet on your back. The rachni on base calls __me__ Sings-Honor. I think he'd probably call you Sings-Duty, first-brother."_

Rinus grimaced. _"Someone's got to do the work. Life of a centurion."_

"_Life's not __all__ duty. If you open that locker, there's a bottle of brandy in there. Want a glass?"_

"_S'kak,__ yes. It's been a really __long__ day."_

Rel snickered a little, a hissing laugh. _"Oh, poor you. __Forced__ into sixteen hours of __hard labor__."_

"_Second-brother?"_

"_Yes, first-brother?"_

"_Bite me."_

"_I can see from the marks that someone's already done a good job of that."_

Rinus snorted. _"Could say the same of __you.__"_

Rel chuckled and filled two glasses with _caprificus _brandy, and handed one of them to Rinus, who sat back, sipping it gratefully. _"What else do I need to know?"_ he finally asked.

"_I don't even know __what__ you know, to be able to tell you what else you need to know. Or even what I'm allowed to tell you." _Rel shook his head. _"I could tell she was flirting a bit with you, but she gave hints to Dara the same way all through boot camp. If I'd known things were going to happen the way they did, I swear, I would have told you."_

Rinus sighed, the brandy expanding warmly through his crop, and put his feet up on the desk with the terminal, as Rel went back to sanding and polishing the spirit-statue. _"I believe you."_

"_Glad to hear it. Sparring sessions where we actually knock each others' teeth out are no fun."_

"_What, Dara doesn't like watching __you__ drink __your__ meals through a straw?" _Rinus couldn't _help_ the shot.

Rellus snickered. _"Doesn't work as well for me as it does for her."_

"_Rescue mission go okay today?"_

"_Yeah. Wasn't much involved in it. They dropped your depth charges, if you didn't know."_

"_Outstanding. How'd they work?"_

"_Perfectly." _

Another sip of brandy. Just enough to loosen the tongue a bit. _"How'd you know?"_ he asked, pointing at the statue. _"You said once it was a Mindoir thing."_

Rellus glanced up. _"About Dara and me?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_What's your security rating lately?"_

"_Top Secret, eyes-only."_

"_Same here. Unusual for us low-rankers." _They exchanged a look. They had it due to their family connections and, of course, what they were doing for a living.

"_They took me stomping with them on Omega, second-brother. I got to play an arms-dealer while building the bombs your __pada'amu__ set in all the docking bays."_

"_Nice! I saw the news coverage after I got out of boot camp. __Wondered__ how they did it."_

"_Remind me to tell you about his disguise sometime." _Rinus took another sip of the brandy. _"So. . . I know it was fast. I know it scared the living hell out of our mom. How'd the two of you know so early, and stop dancing around."_

Rel put the carving down on the spirit table, next to a crystal statuette of a horse, and started brushing away wood dust off the table. _"One of the things the Lystheni have stolen is an artifact that pre-dates the Protheans. Hell, it predates the Keepers. It produces simulations, either of events past or future events, and links up every mind within about three miles, biotically, to do so. It can only extrapolate from information provided by those minds. So. . . Dara and I were up in the mountains. We'd gone for a ride together, and were studying xenobiology. I'd already gotten Mom up in arms for having given Dara a gift for her birthday—one of grandma Pilana's coins, set on a chain. I told everyone—hell, I told __myself__—that it was just for all her help with school." _He reached into his locker, and got out a fresh piece of wood, and turned it over in his hands, studying it. _"Then the simulation hit us both, and we got swamped. Future after future after future, and none of them worth a damn. Then we managed to find each other in the mix, linked up, and started taking decision paths together. Fifteen years out, the best path we both found had us married. A kid. __Both__ of us Spectres."_

_And Laetia already thinks they're being considered. Damn._

Rel looked over at Rinus. _"We've been working on that damned path ever since. We knew it was going to take effort. Which is why, although I gripe a bit, I don't mind that Dara's at med bay as often as she's not. She has her own path to cut, same as I do. And sometimes her path is going to need to predominate, and sometimes mine will." _Rel paused. _"Couple of differences from the simulation so far. I thought I'd wind up a line officer on the __Estallus__. I like special forces a __hell__ of a lot better, though."_

"_I'd give a lot for ten minutes with that device." _Rinus didn't doubt a single word that was spoken.

"_First twenty minutes was just trying to get __oriented__. Bad future after bad future, no honor, no name, just. . . drifting. Useless, pointless. Then it got a lot more fun. Trouble is, that's not all it can be used for. And the spirits only know what the Lystheni are doing with it, or with. . . eh, the other stuff."_

Rinus shook his head. _"Long story?"_

"_Would fill a damned book, I think."_ Rel turned the wood over in his fingers again, examining it. _"Why do you ask, anyway?"_

Rinus paused. _"How do you think our parents will react if I bring Kallixta home with me? __Tal'mae__ wed, already?"_

Rel's head came up. _"__S'kak._"

Rinus nodded. _"Yeah. About what I thought."_

"_You can't know yet whether it took—"_

"_I'm honestly thinking of going up to the captain's quarters and asking his permission and to get him to preside before any damned messages go in or out." _Rinus set his half-full glass of brandy back on the desk, thinking it through.

"_Scale me. And __I __get pegged as the reckless and aggressive brother?"_

"_You're anything but reckless, Rel. Aggressive, yes. Reckless, no."_ Rinus inhaled. _"It would get us around great heaping gobs of unpleasantness, would establish my damned honor in the teeth of everyone who's already questioning or about to start questioning it." That way, no matter __what__, she'd be safe and taken care of, and I'd be. . . well, not safe. __Until death__ doesn't preclude being executed to remove you from a spouse's life. Or killed in a duel. Or whatever else might come. But unable to be bullied or maneuvered or worked on. _The thought had a lot of appeal to it.

"_Tal'mae,__ though?" _Rellus sounded worried. _"I was sure, and Dara was sure, and __we__ still have to wait."_

"_Tal'mae __is the only way Kallixta __can__."_

"_Ask her first. Don't just go straight to the captain."_

"_Already planned to." _Rinus grinned. _"Think I should put in, as a selling point, that she and Dara would be sisters then?"_

Rel snorted. _"You know her better than I do. Still. . . a lifetime can be a __very__ long time with someone you don't like."_

"_Fifteen minutes with someone stuck in your __head_ _**is**__ a lifetime."_

Rel looked up, suddenly grim. _"Kallixta knows about that?"_

"_Yeah. She also takes no __s'kak__ from Laetia." _Rinus grinned fiercely. _And I __might__ just be able to get __out__ of this chipping arrangement someday. If everything goes well._

"_Sounds like you already made a decision then."_

"_On my way down here. Kind of wanted to test it out against someone before I started getting all the pieces in place." _Rinus stood. _"Any advice, little brother, since you've at least done the proposal thing before?"_

"_Twice, actually. Human __and__ turian."_

"_I had no idea humans had proposal customs."_

"_She let me skip the kneeling part."_

Rinus started to laugh. Rellus just grinned. _"For the turian part. . . ten seconds after the final simulation run ended, I had her on her back on the ground and we were biting for the first time. Then I asked her if I could send my uncle to her father, and by the end of the day, the contract was negotiated."_ He grinned. _"The rest is history."_

Rinus nodded. _"A certain direct appeal."_

"_Might only work on human females who've just seen their lives worked out in perfect, exact detail."_

Rinus headed back up to the main crew deck. Passed by Reimian again, much to that female's chagrin. Tapped on Kallixta's door. "Do you have a moment?"

Kallixta blinked at seeing him. "I'm only halfway through the letter—"

"Good. Then you haven't sent it yet. May I come in? I have something to ask you."

She opened the door further, letting him in, and looked up, clearly puzzled. Rinus sighed. He wasn't much good with things like this, so he fell back on custom. He switched to _tal'mae. "Kallixta Praesesidis. . . a'petentia tulla eliir animae oporte meus."_

Her lip-plates opened slightly. _"Why?" Tal'mae._

"_For that I like your spirit and your mind and your body, so far as I have seen each, and I believe that that your spirit and mine are. . . complimentary."_ Spirit, for Rinus, was something both inside of, and outside of the body. Connected to it, but overarching it, flowing out around the mere corporeal shell, like a cloth waving in the wind. Touching other spirits, flowing through them, joining with them. _"And for that, in this way, no one can order or be ordered. For that you and I will know freedom between us, as well as a bond." _He switched to modern turian. "_It'll just be between us. As it damned well should be."_

She hesitated, clearly liking the idea. _"And if there's no . . . no reason?" _

"_I can give you __reasons__. When we're ready, I can give you __lots__ of __reasons__." _Rinus chuckled and moved closer, touching her face. _"But for now, wouldn't freedom and honor be good enough reasons for both of us?"_

"_Freedom?"_

"_If you join my clan, you're __Velnaran.__ Not __Praesesidis__. Forever. And I promise you, we don't marry people off, we protect our own, you'll have privacy whenever you want it, and you'd have three sisters, one of whom is __Dara__, who already loves you." _Very lightly, he stroked her fringe with his fingertips. _"Say the words, and I'll go to the captain tonight. You'll wear my paint before morning. We might have to scrounge for knives, though."_ His fingers tightened a little. _"Say the words, sweetness. I promise, I will make it worth your while."_

_"Ita meus animae, a'condonia talus." _Her throat sounded tight.

He sighed, in pure relief. _"Thank you."_

"_Rinus. . . there will probably be trouble over this."_

"_Is there going to be trouble any way we turn?"_

She thought about this. _"Yes."_

"_Then we meet it in its teeth and fight it together. That's the only way to win."  
_

Kallixta slowly smiled, and he picked up her wrist, nipped it lightly, and walked back out the door again. He had a feeling his conversation with the captain was _not_ going to go as smoothly, so he'd better get moving on that before it got too late in the ship's evening.

**Kasumi**

The submersible pod raced for the surface, and Kasumi could hear its outer hull pinging and popping a bit as they changed depths very rapidly indeed, responding to the loss of pressure. _Dangerous for a human diver to do this. Hopefully, not so much so, with this little vehicle,_ she thought, giving the walls around her a nervous glance. _Hold together._

The scope in front of her had a number of little dots visible. _Other submersibles? They had five, that I saw, anyway, when we docked the first time. If I'm reading this right, half of them are heading back __down__ at them moment. Probably got seismic readings from the explosion. No communications out of the dome yet, more than likely, since we blew their comm array to hell and gone earlier this week. Repairs probably aren't even done yet. So that leaves the other two up here. . . .probably tracking us. Using something on this ship, or hell, in Mordin's head. Shit._

She pursed her lips, thinking fast as she continued to aim for the surface._ The two that go down are going to realize quickly that they need to start an evacuation. _Kasumi's face went grim for a moment. _Fifteen hundred people, four submersible pods—if they call the other two back. Each seating eight to sixteen people, if they cram in. That's what, twenty-three to forty-six trips to and from the surface, they'll need to have ships waiting to lift people away—and they have no communications left outside of the dome, which means, no ships. They're amphibians, so they __could__ just bob here at the surface, except for the water temperature, which would pretty much ensure instant hibernation. _She nodded to herself, slowly. She hadn't worked out the second and third order consequences of her actions below; she'd just _taken_ them, as part of their escape route. She wouldn't weep for any Lystheni who died, but she _did_ regret, and deeply, any innocents who might be trapped down there in the dome. _Because the Lystheni are sure as hell not going to take the civilians out of the dome first._

Of course, all of this assumed that the Lystheni in the descending pods would contact the ones above her and tell them to lay off the chase. That saving the lives of their own people would be more valuable than chasing the Spectres. _Of course, who knows how many of them have been copied or uploaded into Ruin's relic already. Perhaps they see these bodies as disposable._

Half a mile to the surface now. Two little blips on the scope, getting closer and closer. "Let's see if we can signal our ship," Kasumi muttered, and started working on her omnitool. She'd directed the autopilot to settle their little ship into a parking orbit over the equator. _Of course, the Lystheni probably tracked it and captured it. It's probably sitting in a hangar someplace, powered down. It's what I'd do. _"Damn. Can't raise the ship to direct it to come in for a pickup, or even to bounce a message off its FTL comm system back to the base."

"If this one might make a suggestion?" the hanar offered.

"Shoot." Kasumi paused. "Not literally, of course."

"Naturally not," the hanar murmured. "This one recalls that other Spectres were deployed to this world. Perhaps they might be of assistance?"

"Yes, but we'll likely have to surface before we can try to contact them." Kasumi glanced at Mordin, who was sitting, eyes closed steadfastly, in a corner, very quiet, indeed, for the usually loquacious salarian. "Mordin, I take it that they confiscated your omnitool?"

"They did," he replied, composedly. "Doubt that they have been able to ascertain much from its contents yet. All of my data, encrypted heavily. Protocols of my own devising, mixed with ciphers taken from Cohort."

_Well, that's a relief_, Kasumi thought, exhaling, and eyeing the blips on the scanner. Closer. Coming in at angles, of course, which meant that they were probably _under_ the Spectres' submersible now. _That means that our comm encryption should be intact._ "Mordin, stick your fingers in your ears for a moment. Or whatever anatomic apparatus is roughly equivalent," she added, as his mouth opened, probably to correct her.

His lips quirked in a brief smile, and he cupped his hands over the 'horns' on his head. _Huh. Who knew he was probably half-deaf?_ As the pod breached the surface of the water, Kasumi keyed up her omnitool. "Gris or Cohort, please come in. This is Kasumi. Please respond."

Crackles, then silence. She pushed the helm ahead full, and started bouncing over the surface of the waves. _Hmm. Seem to be going slower at the surface than underwater—yeah, the waves make for more resistance. Damn. We're going to have to descend again to make any kind of time. If I even knew which direction to go. _"Blasto, my friend, do you have any sense of direction here? I know that the dome was in the center of the equatorial ocean, in the middle of a large continental rift, or trench. There are two major continents, one east of our location. We need to head east, to try to make contact with Gris and Cohort."

The hanar chimed to himself for a moment. Then he extended a tentacle. "This one can sense planetary magnetic fields, in a rudimentary way. It is how this one's species navigates the great waters of this one's world. This way is north."

Kasumi nodded, and turned the helm to starboard. "East it is," she said, and again tabbed her radio. "Gris, Cohort, this is Kasumi Goto, _please_ come in."

The submersible had windows at front and rear, the better to make underwater observations, she supposed. An unhappy chiming sound caught her attention. "The Lystheni craft have just breached the surface," the hanar reported, and Kasumi looked behind her, seeing that both submersibles had, indeed, broached the waves. _Damnit. You couldn't go back down and help your friends, now could you?_ she thought, annoyed. "Well, the old saying from the nautical navy days was that a stern chase is a long chase," she said out loud. "They're caught in our wake. The chop might even slow them down." _A little._

"Gris, Cohort, please come in," she tried again, and this time, bless his metal heart, Cohort responded.

"We are receiving your transmission, Kasumi-Security-Chief. Can you confirm your identity, please?"

_Shit. Passcodes. No idea what this week's even are. _"Give me a code structure."

"First layer: Name of Gris-Spectre's significant other and children."

_Oh, that's easy. _"Urdnot Gris is currently seeing Azala Tesala. He's largely adopted her daughter, Siara, and is looking after Urdnot Mazz in his father's absence. He has a natural daughter on Tuchanka named Gara. Next layer?"

"Spectral code chain, omega."

_Shit. Now what was the mnemonic I used for this. . . right. All children's songs and nursery rhymes. Pretty much __have__ to be human to recognize any of the sequences. _"Red, yellow, pink, green, purple, orange, blue. Final layer?"

"Is the Matisse in your office real, or a forgery?"

"Hey! Sam changed the damn question?"

"Invalid response," Cohort replied, and she could have _sworn_ there was a hint of amusement in that voice.

"The one in my office is a forgery," she said after a moment, glancing behind her at the ships still following them. _A really, really good forgery. Even extending under the frame, a sure sign that the forger saw the original. A forgery __that__ good is practically a work of art in and of itself._

"Identity confirmed." Cohort's voice never changed much, but it did seem to warm up a few degrees now. "How can we render assistance?"

"Mordin, Blasto, and I are in a submersible ship in the central equatorial sea, heading east. Unknown amount of fuel aboard. We have two Lystheni submersibles in pursuit. Mordin has a chip with unknown technology currently implanted in his brain. We need extraction as quickly as possible."

"Acknowledged. We will signal the Spectre base and will commence extraction procedures. ETA about twenty minutes. Cohort out."

_Twenty minutes. A lifetime can pass in twenty minutes._ Kasumi kept the submersible barreling steadily to the east. At least she _knew_ that there were no reefs or anything else even remotely near the surface for hundreds of miles in any direction. Nothing to run into. And the submersible simply couldn't make the kind of speeds that an aircraft could. Too much friction, too much resistance in the water.

"Is it my imagination, Blasto, or are the other ships starting to gain on us?" Kasumi asked, tightly.

"It is the impression of this one that the crafts are indeed beginning to close the gap. This one believes that the craft that we have appropriated may have been the oldest, least seaworthy one."

_No surprises there,_ Kasumi thought, grimly. _ETA of twenty minutes, my ass. _

The first submersible crept closer and closer, and soon was close enough that Kasumi could look through the windows into the other ship. _Let's see, if they shoot through their own windows to break ours, that sinks both of us. Unlikely. Trying to board us—also unlikely. Slippery topside, lots of ice from the seawater spray. If they fall in, they're just as apt to die as any human. That leaves, what, __ramming__ us? Again, that's as apt to crack them open as us._

A grinding, screeching noise began from somewhere under her feet, and she could feel the helm suddenly become sluggish. "Any idea as to what that is?" she asked.

"Likely a grasping claw, used to manipulate items on the seabed," Mordin suggested. "Can reach out from under the submersible and grasp things. Such as, for instance, our propulsion system, which is propeller-based, I believe." He shrugged a little, eyes still closed. "Difficult to ascertain more, without more data."

Kasumi shifted the helm side to side, trying to free the ship from the other pod's grip, to no avail. "So now what? They board us?"

"Suspect they will next attempt to dive. Prevent us from being rescued. Then may try to breach the hull."

Kasumi swallowed, hard. She was _not_ going to die with frigid ocean waters pouring in to drown her. "Options?"

"This one cannot think of any, save continuing to attempt to free ourselves with the engines," Blasto said, sorrowfully. _He_ would survive the immersion, of course. Mordin and she would not, unless he rescued them. And even then, how long would that last?

A shadow fleeted by, and, through the windows, Kasumi could see the salarians inside the ship behind them looking _up_, pointing. "Kasumi," Gris' voice rumbled at her wrist. "See you've got some company. Mind if my people get in some target practice?"

"Be my guest," Kasumi answered, looking up herself now. What Gris was piloting was an undoubted antique; a gunship that had been exposed to the elements of this world for so long, that its outer shell no longer had paint or color, other than bare metal. The sides slid open, and three krogan leaned out, holding heavy weapons, and began firing on the closer of the two ships.

Grating squeal as the claw holding their pod's propeller suddenly unlatched, and she could _see _the salarians frantically working at the helm, trying to back away, trying to dive, before their outer hull was completely compromised.

Beyond that, the other submersible was backing away now, probably making preparations to dive.

A much darker shadow suddenly blotted out the sun, engulfing that pod in twilight. Kasumi looked _up_, and her mouth opened slightly. "That's the _Estallus_," she said, recognizing the tail numbers. "I guess they must have been in the neighborhood already, 'cause otherwise, that would be better service than I usually get from pizza delivery guys." She sat down for the first time in what felt like hours, and winced, shielding her very light-sensitive eyes as the _Estallus _fired its main guns at point-blank range. Not risking a Javelin explosion so close to the other submersibles. "Unidentified gunship," a turian voice crackled on the radio, "cease fire!"

"_Estallus_, this is Spectre Urdnot Gris," came the bass rumble in response. "We are rendering assistance to three Spectre agents aboard one of these pods. If you can take out the one we're firing on _without_ hitting the one we're protecting, by all means, do so."

"We're taking the shot."

_Shit_. Kasumi scrambled away from the rear window, grabbing Mordin's arm as she did, and Blasto moved backwards too, getting as much distance between them and the incoming cannon fire as possible. The stream was thin, and destroyed the Lystheni pod immediately, but the enormous heat still baked the vicinity, and Kasumi could see hairline cracks developing in the outer class window of their submersible (the windows, like the hull, had inner and outer segments), as the nearly frozen glass suddenly expanded in the heat, and then started to chill again almost immediately. "_Estallus_, this is the Spectre team on the submersible. We need immediate extraction. We also need a med team for Mordin Solus."

"Acknowledged. Pop your top hatch and come on up. We'll be lowering people to you on cables."

A new voice crackled onto the radio. "Spectre team, this is Orpheus. Damned glad to hear your voice, Kasumi."

_Sam._ A rush of total, complete relief swamped her, and Kasumi buried her face in shaking hands for a moment. She'd been so totally focused for eight, nine days now, on _getting out_ and _surviving_ that she hadn't had so much as a moment to stop and really feel her own fear. _A good thing, too_, the more rational side of her mind told her, tersely. _Otherwise, you'd have been incapacitated._ Hot wetness against her fingertips—tears. She hadn't even realized that she'd been crying until she felt them. "Good to hear yours, too," Kasumi managed, after a minute, voice rough.

After a minute or so, there were light thumps on the roof above their heads, and Kasumi opened the hatch. Turian marines were topside now, ropes and harnesses around their armor. Enlisted gray, most of them. "One at a time," one of them said, in pretty good English.

Kasumi helped Mordin up the ladder, first, and watched as he got buckled into a harness, and the first marine lifted up, ascending back into the _Estallus'_ cargo bay. "You should go next, esteemed Ms. Goto," Blasto told her.

Kasumi wiped at her eyes. "Under the circumstances, Blasto, I really think you can call me Kasumi," she told him.

"Hmm. Yes. This one believes that a sufficient bond exists between us to warrant that familiarity." Blasto paused. "This one's face name has unfortunate connotations in many humanoid languages, does it not?"

"It does. I'm sorry to say that, my friend."

"Then perhaps. . . you might honor this one, and call him Voice-of-Peace-Amid-Chaotic-Currents." Blasto paused, and shifted to first-person address; a familiarity that hanar never indulged in, except with close friends. "I, for one, would welcome hearing my soul name, once in a while."

Kasumi's mouth fell open. "Voice-of-Peace. . . Amid-Chaotic-Currents. It. . . certainly describes you."

"It is meant to," Voice-of-Peace told her quietly. "Go now. I will follow."

Kasumi scrambled up the ladder, mildly stunned. Allowed the young turian marine to hook her into place, feeling freezing salt spray slap her face and side. And then they lifted off, twirling up into the sky, light as motes on the breeze. Hands caught them, pulled them in to a platform, and then she was on nice, solid metal deckplates again, and she knelt down, placing a hand on the cold surface, testing its reality.

A human medic in black armor, helmet in place, caught her arm and pushed her in the direction of a gurney. "Mordin," Kasumi said, quickly. "He's been chipped by the Lystheni. We don't know what it's going to do—"

"I know," the medic said, crisply. "Dr. Cimmirian is looking after him right now. We're probably going to have to send him to Sur'Kesh for treatment. Can't risk taking him to the Spectre base, now can we?"

The voice sounded familiar, and Kasumi blinked. "Dara?"

"Well, now I know your mental acuity is good. Don't even need to ask you if you remember the name of the president of the Alliance." Dara settled her down on a gurney, wrapped a heated blanket around her shoulders, which Kasumi accepted gratefully, and started taking her vitals. "When was the last time you ate?"

"Yesterday. Food was a little hard to come by, without people noticing the thefts."

"Okay, heart rate's good, blood pressure's good." Dara put one gloved hand on Kasumi's abdomen, sliding the fingertips around, and frowning at her omnitool. "Okay, fetus heart rate is fast, but they always are. Little hummingbirds. Now I need to get you to med bay, so I can get a scan on it. And then you're going to _eat._ Lay back."

Kasumi blinked and obeyed. _How the wheel does turn_, she thought, amused. _Not too long ago, I was telling __her__ what to do. "Make a hole, people, coming through,"_ Dara called, and started pushing the gurney towards a hatch. People in various armors and uniforms scattered, and then a form in Spectre black materialized alongside the gurney, a gloved hand taking her own.

"How's she doing?" Sam asked.

Kasumi tried to sit up, and _both_ of them pushed her back down. "Don't move around. I don't need you clipping your head on something as I move you here." Dara's tone was short. A couple of bumps, and they were in an elevator now. "She's fine, Dad. Vitals are stable, core temperature's a little low—nothing a warm blanket and some hot soup won't fix, though. Dehydrated. Hungry. Low blood sugar. Baby's heart rate's well within normal range—everything Kasumi has, her body's been using for the kiddo."

Kasumi wasn't entirely sure she liked them talking about her as if she weren't even _here_, but on the whole, she decided that this was probably better than shouting. "Sam," she said, quietly, turning slightly on the gurney. "I am so _sorry_ to have worried you."

"Don't talk about that just now," he told her, firmly. "First, we make sure you're okay. _Then_ we talk." He ran a hand over her hair, and she closed her eyes in pure relief at the contact, and felt hot tears blossoming again behind her lids.

The elevator swayed to a halt, and Dara started pulling the gurney again. _"Make a hole!"_ she said, sharply, again, and got the gurney racing along the deck and to the med bay doors.

Inside the med bay, low ripples of orders. Dara slung an IV bag onto a stand, and started swabbing the interior of Kasumi's left elbow with iodine. Kasumi sat up to watch as Dara slipped the needle out of its plastic enclosure.

"Great. You're one of the ones who likes to watch the damn venipunture."

"I like to know that it's being done right," Kasumi protested, mildly.

"I'm surrounded by control freaks," Dara said, dryly. "Do _you_ know how to get a needle in a vein, Kasumi?"

"Well. . . no. Actually, I don't." Kasumi managed a smile. "But I still always watch."

"Because I really need an audience." Dara slid the needle under the skin and caught the vein, first try. Then she set the IV to flowing. "This is just saline, all right? We really need to get you hydrated. It's room temperature, though, so it's going to make you a little cold. I'm going to get you more blankets, and as soon as Dr. Cimmirian clears it, something hot to eat from the galley." She turned, and looked at her dad. Kasumi was a little amused. Neither of them would _ever_ see the resemblance, of course; both of them looked at Dara's face, and saw Sarah Jaworski. But while Dara might have her mother's coloring and bone structure, she definitely had her father's _demeanor_. "Dad, we have other patients in here that I have to go help take care of. You need _anything_, you grab me. Don't bother clicking the nurse call button. Grab me."

_Subtle, but she got it in there. "We have other patients" means "don't yell," I do believe._ Kasumi sat up as Dara returned with another warm blanket, and wrapped it around her, before surprising the little woman, leaning down, and giving her a kiss on the cheek. "You worried the crap out of all of us," Dara told her quietly. "My dad most of all."

"I know." Kasumi sighed a bit, and then Dara hustled off again, this time to where she could _just_ see the side of Mordin's head through all the bodies surrounding his bed. She sat all the way up, and told Sam, "I've been living with your voice in my head for eight days now, telling me what a _stupid_ thing to do this was." Her voice turned glum. "And I just want to say one thing before you turn loose on me. I'm so, so sorry. I miscalculated. I didn't mean to worry you, and I was wrong." She sighed. "Okay. Go for it."

Sam wrapped his arms around her tightly, being very careful not to pull out the IV strapped to her left arm. Then he kissed her. "Okay. . . first thing's first," he said, after a couple of moments. "I'm really damned glad that you're alive."

She leaned into him, feeling his fingers tense on her shoulders. Feeling several days' worth of tension in his body. "However, comma, if you _ever_ do such a damn fool thing again, I _will_ wring your neck. My god, what were you _thinking?_"

"Did you actually want an answer to that, or was that more rhetorical?"

"No, no, I'm not done yet. You can come back and answer it in a minute, though." Sam paused, clearly putting his temper on a leash. "I accept that you put your life on the line, same as I do, sweetheart. That's not even an issue. But you _knew_ it was an unacceptable risk. You knew it, because you _didn't_ tell Shepard."

Kasumi sighed. "Yeah."

He looked down at her. "Yeah? That's all I get here?"

"Wasn't sure if it was time for even partial explanations yet." Her voice was muffled, because she'd pressed her face into his chest.

"Give it a try and I'll try to hold back from jumping up and down on you."

"I _thought_ it might be the main Lystheni base. I wasn't sure. Was about a fifty-fifty chance of it being something, or nothing. I could have been dead wrong, and I didn't want innocents to die if we just bombed the place on the principle of thoroughness. And with you already in the field, who the hell _else_ do we have who can stealth in and study the computer systems?" Kasumi lifted her head. "We're heavy on combat models, Sam. I didn't even _know_ that Blasto could sneak around, but he's not a technical expert. We've got quarian techs, like Nal'ishora and Hal'marrak, but they can't infiltrate. I haven't made an issue of it in recruiting for a long time, because nine times out of ten, Garrus or Livanus has been available—combat and hacking and encryption. Or I've been available—stealth and hacking and encryption. Out of seventy-nine Spectres, Cohort's about the only other option, and he can't infiltrate worth a damn, either. Plus he was on Garvug." She wiped at her face. "We've been working on finding the damned Lystheni for so _long_, and I needed to be _sure_ of what we had here. . . and I've snuck in and out of places for twenty damned years of my life. One more didn't seem like that much of a big deal. . . until I was up to my neck in it." Kasumi sighed, looking down for a moment. "Then it didn't seem like such a great idea at all, no," she admitted.

He stroked the back of her neck. "Okay," Sam said. "That was a mouthful."

"I've been arguing with your voice in my head for eight days. Plenty of time to rehearse." Kasumi's tone was rueful.

"Oh, I'm just your husband, Kasumi-chan. I'm weak-willed, 'cause I like sleeping in the same bed with you. Wait till you try that explanation on your CO."

Kasumi winced. Shepard was _not_ going to be pleased, no.

Sam went on, quietly, "What I need you to see—other than the fact that you took a year or two off my life—is that, just like a lot of the old Spectres, you've got the same 'I have to do it all myself' mentality going. That ain't healthy, Kasumi-chan. If you'd _told_ Shepard, we could have found another way to investigate. Sure, the team still might have gotten captured. Probably _would_ have, in fact. But _you_, li'l darlin', wouldn't have been one of them. No reason you _should_ have been. You do your job every single day. Better than most. You've got _nothing_ to prove. So sit down and let someone else shoulder the goddamned load for a while, all right?" His voice had started off quietly and reasonably, but by the end, had crescendoed more than a little bit.

"This is the part where I pretend to be meek and say 'Yes, Sam?'"

"No, this is the part where you say, 'You have a good point. I agree with it. I will actually tell people things that are important and relevant and relate to my health.'"

Kasumi grimaced. "You _do_ have a good point." She smiled up at him, seeing forgiveness there, as well as, still, deep, heartfelt worry. And regretted every minute of the hell he'd been living. "I actually do agree with you. And . . . yeah. I do need to be better about the things I tend to keep to myself."

He nodded. "Okay then. Before I get Shepard on the line so _she_ can chew you out, one question."

"Okay. . . ?"

"The Matisse is a forgery? How'd the forger get a look at the borders typically hidden under the frames when the picture's hanging in a museum?"

Kasumi grinned. "Oh, no. You don't get _all_ my secrets."

Sam chuckled, and kissed her forehead. "Was worth a try."

Shepard's riot act wasn't that much different from Sam's. Phrases like "we've worked together for seven goddamned years, and you _still_ don't trust me to make the right decisions?" were definitely a part of the conversation. Another favorite theme was "you damned well ought to have _known_ better. Didn't we just _have_ a conversation about doing everything we want to, but not all at the same damned time?"

Shepard finally did wind down, however. "So, what did you find down there?"

"The Lystheni dalatrass. Six or seven of Mordin's daughters. Kina Pero. A couple of facilities we couldn't get into—probably biotic areas. Mordin got chipped while prisoner—"

"Yes, Jallus has him confined to the brig. The _Dunkirk's _coming; they're going to grab him and take him to Sur'kesh for treatment."

"Good idea. Much better than sending him home, where he _might_ compromise us at the moment." Kasumi rubbed at her eyes, tiredly. "Blasto and I took out their communications first thing, about a week ago. Then we took out their mass effect reinforcement for the dome while we were making our escape. They've got civilians down there, though. I don't know how to evacuate them all."

Sam, behind her at the comm terminal in the med bay, cleared his throat. "That's. . . not going to be an issue," he said, quietly.

Kasumi glanced up, worried by his tone. "Why do you say that?"

"Lantar and I looked at the seismic readings. There was no way to get everyone out. Two submersible pods, a dome slowly filling with icy water, and they were getting their leadersip out first." His eyes were cool and remote for a moment. "We took out the pods that surfaced, once we confirmed that the dalatrass was on-board one." He paused. "Well, that _clone_ of the dalatrass. Anyone want to take bets that there are more running around?"

Kasumi's stomach tightened. She'd managed to eat some very good tomato-basil soup from the galley about a half an hour ago, and now she was regretting it. "And with no pods to extract them left. . . " she said, quietly, in a slightly numb tone.

Sam sighed. "Yeah. Either we let the dome slowly fill in, and they'd all die in the cold and in the dark and in fear. Or we do what we did, once we checked in with Shepard and got the okay. Which was to drop the depth charges we had jury-rigged on the _Estallus_, and cracked the physical dome open."

Kasumi winced. She had no problem with killing in self-defense, or even for tactical purposes. This made her feel. . . cold. . . however.

On screen, Shepard nodded slowly. "Tough call, Sam."

"If it helps, it fits in perfectly with turian military doctrine. Stomp until you see the blood starting to pool." Sam didn't sound jocular at all.

Kasumi raised her head. "There's always the possibility that Kina Pero was lying to Mordin, and that everyone down there really was a Lystheni. He definitely understood our typical operational concerns about minimizing collateral damage."

"_Was_ he lying, Kasumi-chan?"

She sighed. "I don't know. But if he got out before we broke the place to pieces, I suggest that we _ask_ him."


	68. Chapter 68: Culmination, Part One

**Chapter 68: Culmination, Part One**

_**Author's Note: **__I just realized, I never mentioned that the 'hiding the bodies' musings of a chapter or so ago were directly triggered by my memories of playing Sam Fisher in __Rainbow Six__, er. . . __Chaos Theory__, I think. Seems like a game Kasumi and *my* Sam would play together, co-op. Probably pointing out every time they hid a body that a locker that size would NOT accommodate a body that size. . . . Which makes me wonder, what my other characters would play? _

_Rinus, probably the __Myst/Riven__ types, probably with many comments of "that's not how that kind of machine actually works. . . " Kallixta, probably a mix of flight sims and old-school RPGs. Ones in which she could play a commoner with a shadowy past, likely. Rellus, probably strategy, like __Civ__, or, just as likely, first-person shooter. Eli, mysteries and games like __Assassin's Creed__ and __Prince of Persia__. Actually, Sam would like __AC__, too. And __Arkham Asylum.__ Yes, he'd like dropping down from gargoyle perches and effecting stealth tactics on terrified enemies._

_Dara, of course, had a __Galaxy of Fantasy__ account while living on Earth (long since cancelled). Of course, I could be totally wrong. What do you see them playing? ;-)_

_In other random oddball stuff that my brain spits out. . . since writing "it's not wise to pull on an __acrocanth's__ tail" a chapter or so ago for Rinus, he's developed a theme song in my head:_

_"Don't pull on an acrocanth's tail,  
Don't spit in the wind,  
Don't pull the crown off ol' Imperator,  
and don't mess around with Rin. . . . "_

*sighs* Or, you know, the real version of the song.

Oh, well, "Devil went Down to Georgia" is Sam's theme song, so why can't Rin have one, too?

_Yes, I do believe this is what Sky hears when he listens to them. No wonder he's always so amused. _

_Again, Rinus and Laetia get the most hugely divided camps of people. People who __hate__ Laetia or people who __despise__ Rinus. I find it fascinating that there doesn't seem to be any middle ground._

_**First**__**and foremost,**__ Rinus does not see this as a 'romantic relationship.' Full stop. He sees this as something __**forced**__ on him. He's strongly unlikely ever to change that opinion (and will be extricated from it, sooner or later). Arranged marriages are, in his opinion, bad. You'll note how he reacts to the idea of Kallixta being in an arranged marriage, too? You'll note how often Rel (not Rinus, but Rel) points out that in turian culture, females aren't __**forced**__? Just like the theme of mental intrusion by asari. No means __no__, not 'maybe if I convince you' or 'let me badger you incessantly for eighteen months' or 'maybe if I stalk you long enough, you'll see how much it means to me and give in.' _

_It's also fascinating to me that people see this clearly when it's a female who's been pressured or coerced, but not when it's a __male__ character who's been pressured, manipulated, or coerced. Because, what, guys are supposed to be grateful for whatever they can get?_

_So, yes, Rinus was badgered about this arrangement for a full year before giving in, more or less to coercion. And he's been brutally honest about this being strictly a __temporary__ arrangement until Laetia can find someone she likes better. As soon as he leaves the service—which to his way of thinking, is two years off, at this point, if he's not executed by the Imperator first—he'll be having the chip deactivated and removed._

_Finally, yes, Laetia is acting out of self-interest. Probably an indication that the relationship could never possibly work. She __likes__ him, but does not __love__ him. Her motives are purely selfish. _

_She has a right to live, yes. She __doesn't__ have a right to coerce, manipulate, or bully anyone else._

_As to whether or not Rinus is "prejudiced" against her for being electronic. . . no. He'd like her just fine if she wasn't after his brain matter._

_Since they both live in my head and are 100% my creations, you can take my word for this__._

_EDI's relationship with Joker, by way of comparison, came along organically (pardon the pun), more or less out of mutual respect and trials faced. Pretty much the way most lasting relationships do. Laetia has forced this, and Rinus is not the sort of person who takes well to being forced._

**Rinus**

Rinus paused outside the captain's door. Decimus Corolan was already there, leaning against the wall, waiting. _Awkward_, Rinus thought, slightly amused, and straightened as the young lieutenant noticed him. Off-duty or not, he was, still, technically in uniform. It wasn't as if he _owned_ many civvies, anyway. Off-duty, he wore military work-out clothes. _"Is there a line here?" _he asked, dryly.

"_Of a sort. He told me to wait outside until Nadea—ah, Curicium—came up, and then we'd all talk together."_ Decimus rubbed the back of his neck for a moment, and his eyes flicked up, meeting Rinus' for a moment. _"Weird damned day."_

"_That's one way of putting it."_ Rinus leaned against the opposite wall. _"You two have at least known each other a while, right?"_ He was offering the young male a chance to vent. At least it was a distraction from his own problems. Well. . . they were the _same_ problems, but at least they weren't _his_.

"_Yeah, since boot camp. Velnaran—your __ama'fradu__, anyway—was our squad leader. Liked Curicium even then, but, you know. . . boot camp." _The young male grimaced. _"It's better not to even think about it. Tried to track her down during our two weeks' leave, but her family had taken her to Rhenus for the duration. Then yeah, OCS together." _He rubbed the back of his neck again, a gesture of pure frustration. _"Right across the hall."_

"_Lots of chances to get to know each other, at least,"_ Rinus offered. A much better situation than the one he and Kallixta were in, certainly.

"_Yeah, sort of. Always felt welcome in their room, but didn't know for sure if I had her __interest__ till postings came out. Nadea's strong and feisty, but very cautious in a way."_ Decimus found a patch of wall to stare at, mandibles flexing a little, grimly. _"She didn't want to make a __move__ until she knew whether it could go anyplace more than a week on leave and then done."_ He sighed. _"And now. . . ."_

"_She's pissed."_ That didn't take much insight.

"_Oh yeah."_ Decimus shrugged. _"Not at me, thank the spirits. At the meds, at her body, at the entire __futtari__ universe."_

"_She has a right to be." _Rinus hesitated. _"Did the doctor mention the morning-after stuff for you?"_ It wasn't an option for an Imperial, of course, because the Imperial bloodline supposedly held a spirit so pure, that every drop of their blood was sacred.

Decimus grimaced. _"Her family doesn't believe in that. Mine doesn't have a problem with it. Her choice, not mine." _He sighed. _"I told her even if she's __not__. . . I still want __manus__ rites. Half a Palaven year—is enough to know that much, at least."_

Rinus chuckled. He'd seen enough young marines to take a reasonable guess as to the reaction. _"Did she throw something at your head?"_

"_A boot. Called me a sap. Said Rocam paint was nowhere near as attractive as Edessan paint, but that she'd wear it happily. . . but that she wanted to stay here and fight with me, not be stuck on a base somewhere, behind a desk."_ Decimus grimaced. _"That, I can't control."_

Rinus shook his head. _Yeah. "Tell me about boot camp," _he offered, glancing at the captain's closed door.

Decimus visibly relaxed. _"Was fun, actually. Your __ama'fradu__ couldn't quite beat me at squad consolidation time. I, ah, cracked a couple of her ribs, but it was ruled a draw. Taught me to respect her. She always showed respect and courtesy to me, too. Put me in charge of the second half of the barracks after she put the squad leader there in the med bay."_

"_I heard about that. You'd think the male would have learned to leave our family alone after my brother put him in the med bay the first time."_

"_He saw what he thought was a weak target."_ Decimus' eyes narrowed. _"It was a hell of a fight. I think everyone in our squad was ready to go in and take him off of her once he got his teeth in. Nadea and I both had centurions holding us back. Essedarius and a couple of others got there first." _The young lieutenant swallowed, and asked, tentatively, _"Speaking of Essedarius. . . ."_

Rinus sighed. The tone of the question was _not_ a 'so, how was she in the sack?' query. It was a 'by the bye, did you happen to _know. . . _?' _"Everyone on the ship besides me knew, eh?"_

Decimus found a different patch of wall to look at, and said, neutrally, _"It was a shock when I watched the news coverage of my own graduation. I had no idea until that point." _He grimaced. _"I'm a colonial. If the Imperator __himself__ walked up to me not wearing his uniform, I probably wouldn't recognize him."_

"_Thanks. That makes me feel slightly less stupid."_ Rinus sighed. _In my defense, their graduation and the attendant news reports were __five__ human months ago. And my entire life, either my parents or I have always changed the feed whenever __anything__ about the Imperials came on the news. __If__ I'd actually watched the Palaven news, I __might__ have watched the part about my brother's wife, but I know damned well I'd have turned it off the instant they brought up the Imperial family. Mostly out of pure habit. Chances are, I wouldn't even have made the connection even if I __had__ watched the damned news._

At that point, the elevator door opened, and Nadea Curicium stepped out, looked from one to the other, blinked, and said, _"Centurion, good evening."_ She looked at Decimus. _"All right. I'm here. Let's get this over with."_

Decimus tapped on the door, which slid open. Captain Jallus looked out, saw Rinus waiting, as well, and sighed. _"I've been expecting __you__, Velnaran. Corolan, Curicium, let's get you dealt with first."_

The door slid shut behind them all, and Rinus continued to stand against his wall, hands behind his back. Mind wandering. Still testing the ideas in his mind.

After about fifteen minutes, the door opened again, and the young pair stepped back out, brushing into each other. Green Rocam vertical bars over the _top_ of Nadea's usual Edessan blue quarterings. Clear body language for affinity, liking, intimacy, and all they _could_ do at the moment. Rinus met their eyes, nodded. _"Congratulations,"_ he offered, smiling slightly. _Ah, for it to be __this__ easy,_ he thought.

"_Thanks. This was the easy part." _That was young Decimus.

"_Hard part might start tomorrow. I __don't__ want to have to leave this ship." _Nadea's voice was tight.

_With your career only just begun? Yeah, I understand that,_ Rinus thought, and turned slightly as the captain came to the door again. _"All right, Velnaran. Come on in. You and I have a __lot__ to talk about."_

Inside, the cabin set-up was both like, and unlike the _Normandy_, which Rinus _had_ been aboard a few times. Office near the door, living quarters at the back. But altered, of course. No large human bed, just a nest in the floor. A distinct lack of the fish tanks. A _lanura_'s cage in one corner, though, which surprised Rinus. He'd never thought Jallus would be one for pets. _"Have a seat,"_ Jallus invited, gesturing at one of the couches. He squinted at Rinus now. _"Centurion, you have a __knack__ for falling into the __s'kak__ heap and coming up covered in nightfires."_

"_Perhaps not this time, sir. Not without a little assistance, anyway."_

Jallus snorted. _"Yes, the problem with helping someone __out__ of a __s'kak__ heap is. . . the __s'kak_ _tends to spread around."_ He looked at Rinus squarely. _"You know who she is?"_

"_Now__ I do, sir."_ His tone was a little rueful. "_May my own spirit be lost if I do not speak truth: I knew she rated a bodyguard, but I did not know her family before events left our control."_ Rinus settled his elbows on his spread knees, clasped his hands between them. Not an aggressive posture, but not a deferential one. Jallus had set the tone of the conversation. Male-to-male, not superior-to-subordinate. And Rinus was grateful for it.

"_What do you plan to do about it?"_

Rinus nodded. _"Before I knew, I had already told her I would take care of her and any consequences. I intend to follow through on that. There are potential complications, however." _

"_You think?"_ Jallus' tone was sarcastic. _"She's a __hell__ of a pilot, and you're a damned fine centurion. I'd hate to lose either of you, and you clearly work together well."_

Rinus nodded again. _"On the one hand, I have her bodyguard questioning my honor. On the other hand, I have Essedarius herself telling me that her father might not __permit__ me to take her and any children we might have into my clan, which is the only course of honor open to me."_ Rinus' teeth set for a moment. _"The only way I see through any of this is to get married under the __tal'mae__, before any messages go out at the next comm drop." _He looked up. _"I'd need your permission to do so, Captain, and for you to officiate."_

"_Talas'kak._" Jallus said, with some force. _"Talk about spreading it around. You seriously want __me__ to get in the middle of an argument between __your__ family and the __Imperator's__ family?" _He snorted. _"__You__ might like to flirt with career suicide, Velnaran, but __I__ actually __like__ my job. And my someday retirement." _Jallus leaned back. _"Commanding a __Normandy__-class frigate's been a nice step up the ladder. I'll probably be rotated to a shore billet after this. And then I'll probably only have one more shot at riding vacuum. I want it to be as the captain of a __Leviathan__." _His eyes were distant. _"Once you make captain or above, Velnaran, it's all about paperwork and politics. You don't __get__ to go on shore parties or lead raids anymore. And while I __want__ my admiral's star someday. . . that'll just be __more__ paper and politics." _Jallus looked at him sternly. _"I do __not__ want to be the captain who got in the Imperator's way when it's time for my review boards. You understand this?"_

Rinus chuckled a little. Put _that_ way, it did sound quite amazingly rash. _"I like my job, too, Captain. Been a little shoved around by the AI on board, but I've enjoyed my service here."_ He sighed. _"Help me out, please. How can I demonstrate my personal honor and do what's __right__, and __not__ spread the __s'kak__ around any further?"_

Jallus picked up a datapad. _"I've been consulting the Law library for a bit this evening. I __do__ have other things to be worrying about, but given the circumstances. . . "_ He hesitated. _"Let's get the young female up here, shall we? Better to explain this once, and not twice. Besides, she might even see something that I'm missing here."_

Kallixta reported in, in short order, and took a seat beside Rinus on the couch. She was cool and self-composed in here, where in her quarters, she'd been vulnerable and open. _This is the public face_, Rinus realized, after a moment. _The mask she puts on for the cameras, or for those who only know her as __domina__. _It was more than a little disconcerting. He might well be spending the rest of his life with someone with two identities. Both of whom he barely knew at this point. _"Is there a problem, captain?"_ Kallixta asked.

"_Oh, there are problems, all right." _Jallus sighed. _"Hell, I'm going to run out of married berthing areas at the rate we're going. But for the moment, we'll focus on __your__ little situation here. I can, technically, marry the two of you. A captain __is__ the Imperator on his ship. Been that way since the nautical days. That's why I have a spear over there in my office, touched by his own hands. His authority, given into my hands. The question then becomes how __wise__ is it, to pull on an __acrocanth's__ tail." _Jallus looked at them both. _"I won't defy him. But I __can__ give you both a little help. __Plighting__ under __tal'mae__ used to be done in the arranged marriage days."_

"_It's still done," _Kallixta reminded him. _"In my family, at least." _Rinus stiffened again at the reminder.

Jallus nodded. _"So, no knives, no blood, no paint. But the words can be spoken, and those are fairly binding. I'll do the paperwork, and that shows intention and honor and will cause a __s'kak__-storm if anyone tries to undo them, because the process has been __started__. It doesn't completely defy anyone's authority, either." _Jallus looked at Rinus in some amusement. _"I know you're spoiling for a fight, Velnaran. I would be, too. But going about this a little more carefully, rather than just charging like an angry __villi_, _will get you better results."_

Rinus nodded. _"Thank you, sir. I appreciate the guidance."_ He did, too.

"_While I've got you here. . . how close are you to testing for __optio__, anyway?"_

He blinked. That one had come out of nowhere. And given that it was a military question, he reverted to formality. _"I'm in my sixth year of service, as a human would count it, sir. Made centurion before I came aboard the __Estallus._" Eighteen months ago, by the human calendar; a year and a quarter, by the Palaven one. _"I could pass the exams without any problem, I think, sir, but they tend to like a little more time in between the centurion and the __optio__ advancement."_

Jallus snorted. _"__They__ don't know everything. Assuming everyone survives tomorrow, you'll take the tests once the dust stops flying. Will get us around a couple of other issues very nicely, assuming you pass."_ He lifted his hands. _"Stand up, and say the words, please. Then I'll need you to sign some forms. They're a little antiquated, even by __tal'mae__ standards, so please, read them carefully. I scanned through them to make sure there weren't any property clauses that seemed out of order, but. . . you never know with a document that's a hundred years old, at least."_

He stepped away, long enough for Rinus to take Kallixta's hand in his. "You _sure_ about this?" she asked, and he could feel a subtle tremor in her fingers.

"It's the only way I can see that works for both of us."

"I tend to agree." She looked up at him. "A plighting _can_ still be broken. You don't _have_ to go through with it, in the end."

"I know that. But it has to be by mutual consent. Can't be forced or coerced, either." _Of course, that's a nice theory. Being locked in a stockade somewhere until we both agree to break the contract is coercion, but who'd stop him from doing it?_

_My Mindoir relatives. Probably. Hate to lean on them, though._

Jallus came back over with the paperwork. _"All right. Let's begin."_

_"A'petentia tulla eliir animae oporte meus," _Rinus said, softly.

Kallixta nodded, swallowing. _"Ita meus animae, a'condonia talus."_

_"A'petentia tulla eliir kogitae oporte meus."_

_"Ita meus kogitae, a'condonia talus."_ Her mandibles flexed in amusement as she said the words.

_Yes, sweetness, I bet you __will__ give me a piece of your mind from time to time, won't you?_

_"A'petentia tulla eliir oporte korporae meus."_ His eyes flicked down at the word _korporae_, unable to help himself, and she laughed a little.

"_Ita meus korporae, a'condonia talus."_ Thus my body, I give to you.

His fingers closed more tightly on hers now. _"Ita meus animae, ita meus kogitae, ita meus korporae, a'condonia eliis."_ And thus my life and spirit, and thus my mind, and thus my body, I give to you.

"_Hold there,"_ Jallus said, dryly, forestalling Rinus' next words, which would have been _join, be one, with my clan. _Rinus' fingers tightened further. _Damnit. "That's as far as plighting can take you. Come and read the contract and sign and initial in the appropriate places."_

Reading the contract took time, and they sat at Jallus' desk, side by side, reading it carefully. This was _not_ something that Rinus wanted to skim through rapidly and just check boxes. Marriage within two to three turian months, fine. Custody of any children to be mutual, fine. Since _tal'mae_ didn't allow for divorce, but did understand that divisions still happened, such codicils had to be added. Allocation of property. . . _"No, we need to alter this," _he said, firmly. _"This has equal property division, regardless of source. What's hers is hers, what's mine is mine." _

Kallixta was shaking her head in disagreement now. _"No, that's customary. You haven't had to sit through a dowry negotiation, Rinus. In comparison, this is a very small thing."_

"_I won't take from you what's yours."_ Rinus was firm. _"Not exactly a fair division. I have a credit account and what's in my locker."_

Kallixta blinked, and Jallus sighed and stepped discreetly aside. _"Let me know when you two come to an agreement that I can actually couch in legal language and put in there," _he said, resigned.

Kallixta turned, bringing her head closer to Rinus'. _"This is a question of honor?"_

"_It is, yes."_

She paused, and switched to English. "You _really_ don't own anything more than what's in your locker?"

He shook his head, chuckling. "Haven't _needed_ to. I've been in ship billets or barracks for six years, Kallixta. No wife, no family. No need for a house. When I actually go off-base or ashore, there's public transportation, so, no ground-car—not that I'd have any place to park it if I _did_ own one. Anything else I need is pretty much on my omnitool or provided by the military." He took a look at her wide-eyed expression, and chuckled again. "It's not uncommon, Kallixta."

"But where do you go on _leave_?"

"Home to my family, when I can. Dymion, to see my uncle Egidus, Palaven, to see my father's parents. Mindoir, to see my parents and siblings. Spent some time on Macedyn, Nimines, and Gothis on shore leave with friends. Usually in fleet-rate hotel accommodations." He chuckled again. "I take it you've never really had to think about this before?"

She shook her head. "No."

"And you have a fair bit of property allocated to you, I'm sure."

"Well, technically, it's all property of the family, but. . . yes." She shifted a little uncomfortably. "Do you want to know?"

Rinus grimaced. "Might as well get it out in the open to start with."

"Two manors allocated to my household on Palaven, one on Macedyn, one on Thracia, a large farming plantation on Galatana for income, a small country villa on Baetika, and yes, credit accounts and, yes, family jewels I'm entitled to wear. Those hardly count, because it's not like I could sell them. A couple of ground and air-cars at each location, some of which are used for security purposes. A small shuttle, which I used for flying lessons." Kallixta squirmed a little. "There's probably more, but I can't think of it all right now."

Rinus exhaled. _Spirits of air and darkness._ "I assume all of the houses are fully stocked with furniture and servants and have grounds and grounds crews and probably stables and _rlatae_ and whatnot?" He was not _quite_ joking.

She nodded, looking down. Rinus sighed. "Okay. That's all yours. I don't want to take any of that from you." _Not to mention, the human term 'gold-digger' would come to mind. . . ._

"_Under the __tal'mae__, everything is supposed to be __shared__. Other than dowry requirements."_ Her head came up. _"And that is why the section is staying in, as written." _

"_I have nothing to share __with__ you," _he replied, patiently.

"_You're sharing quite a bit already, Rinus. Besides, if everything goes as expected, then you get to share the headache of managing all of this."_

He gave her a narrow-eyed glance. _"You don't manage them yourself."_

She grinned, unrepentantly. _"No, I've had estate managers. Theoretically, I __could__ tell them I wanted to go to Macedyn and live there for a while. . . but I've never even actually seen the house there. I was not permitted to make that decision before becoming an adult."_

Rinus shook his head over the _waste_ of it—five properties, largely, if not _wholly_ unused. And that was just for the _fifth_-daughter. The spirits only knew how many other properties were allocated to the other ten siblings. All probably equally unused. _"And yet you're all largely cooped up in the Imperial complex in Complovium?"_

"_No, as each sibling's married, they've set up households elsewhere. Other than my first-brother, of course. He __has__ to stay in the palace."_ Kallixta touched his arm with her fingertips, contact very light, but acutely distinct through the material. _"Just initial the section, Rinus. This way, if there __are__ ever any children, and if I should die, you'll never have to worry about where they'll live, and if they're being kept in a suitable state."_ Her tone was _very_ pragmatic, and Rinus hissed between his teeth. _"My family will have just as many rights as yours will. And they __will__ press them, and they have more lawyers. If any children aren't kept in surroundings suitable for those technically in line for the throne, it would be grounds for an attempt to take them back from you."_

"_S'kak__. This is getting way far afield,"_ Rinus muttered, hardly realizing that he'd cursed. "_We don't even know if there __is__ a child yet_. _And I don't want even a __hint__ that I'm after your money, position, or title."_

"_Then don't initial that part. I will, and when people see that there's a spot on the form that's not marked, it'll be declared invalid." _She looked at him. _"Is that what you want?"_

Rinus sighed. She was right. And it was getting late, and trying to hammer out details now, when they didn't have negotiators here to speak for either of them was probably useless. _"This is a stopgap document,"_ he warned her. _"It __will__ get revised."_ And then he simply initialed the field where indicated, before rubbing one hand over the back of his neck.

"_I promise, it's not __as__ bad as it sounds." _Almost a little shyly, she hooked a foot behind his, pressing against the spurs. Contact, reassurance. The urge to fight faded a little, and he relaxed a bit.

_I guess it'll just be a part of . . .reality. Part of taking care of you, that's all._ He looked up at the captain, and asked, _"Was that all that was necessary, sir?"_

"_Yes, everything seems to be in order now."_ Jallus sighed. _"Now the fun part begins. With any luck, we'll have so much dust rising tomorrow we can all hide in it for a bit."_ He grinned, and Rinus realized that the captain didn't mean a _word_ of it.

He walked Kallixta back to her quarters, Reimian falling in step behind them as they got out of the elevator at the crew deck, and paused by Kallixta's door. "Ship stores might have knife sheathes," Rinus commented, really not knowing what else to say. "Assuming all hell does not break loose tomorrow. . . which from the sounds of it, it _will_. . . I'll take care of that." A quick, almost formal nod of the head. "Good night. . . _mellis._"

**Kallixta**

So formal. So correct in public, in every way. Always aware of the uniform he wore, and what it meant, and the respect it was due. He put _on_ the centurion with the uniform, she'd realized earlier in the day, like a mask. The stony stare and taciturn mode of speech was Rinus' public identity. In private, however, he was a completely different person. A first-brother to be trusted and respected, a friend to be cherished, a male with a steely sense of honor and resolve, yet with a capacity for humor and even tenderness. _Two people at once. And I'm not sure he even knows it,_ she thought. She wanted nothing more at that moment than to remind him. . . _we're plighted. You can come in the door. You can stay. . . if only for a little while._ But it was late, and it had been a _very_ busy day.

As soon as Rinus walked away, Vela started in on her. Politely, deferentially, as always. The woman had been a servant of the Imperator for ten years, but _really_ knew how to make her opinion known, inferior-to-superior forms or no. _"Did your visit with the captain go well, __domina__?" _she asked, pointedly turning down the blankets of Kallixta's nest.

Kallixta, since she was a pilot and a lieutenant, rated private quarters, unlike most of the rest of the junior lieutenants on board. Of course, the fact that an Imperial scion was easier to protect in private quarters had probably factored into that as well, Kallixta reflected with a sigh. It would have been easier to deflect Reimian if she'd had roommates. Just as at boot camp or OCS, when she'd been able to keep the bodyguards at a little more of a distance.

"_Well enough. He agreed to plight us under the __tal'mae__." _Kallixta told her guard baldly, and sat down to take off her boots. As Reimian stepped forward to help, Kallixta made a little shooing gesture. _"You are not a body-servant, Vela. Never have been. It is unfitting for you to serve me thus."_ _And I think I can take my own damned uniform off and hang it up. I had all __sorts__ of practice in doing without servants for eight months, and I kind of __like__ it, actually._

"_You're. . . plighted, __domina__?" _To say that Reimian sounded appalled would be an understatement. _"Your father and mother will not be pleased to have you taking such actions without their consent."_

"_And yet, if yesterday's events come to their attention, particularly if I __do__ have young within me now, and he and I have taken no steps at all, what then?"_ Kallixta shrugged out of her uniform, hanging it up, and settled down in her nest. _"Would you have them __order__ us to wed? Would you have me bear that child to the Imperial house, and refuse Rinus his paternal rights? Would you have me married off to some other male, not of my choosing, and __him__ granted name and rights, instead?"_

Reimian grimaced. _"__Domina__, there might not even __be__ young involved."_

Kallixta nodded, apprehension weighing in her like a stone. On the one hand, if she _were_ pregnant, she'd lose her flight status. She might never get it back, too, given her family. And Kallixta _loved_ flying. On the other hand, if she _were_ pregnant, she _knew_ Rinus and the Velnarans. . . hell, the _Vakarians_. . . would step in. Would do everything in their power to have her join their clan. And if _anyone_ in the galaxy stood a chance against the Imperator and the Imperatrix, it was the Vakarians. There was a certain amount of niggling uncertainty, of course; they might _not_ be able to do it. And either course represented a certain amount of freedom.

_But is there no way_, Kallixta thought, wanting to draw her knees up to her chest and curl in on herself, but _couldn't_, not with Vela standing right there, _that I can be both free __and__ fly? _The only answer to that would be for her _not_ to be pregnant . . .and still permitted to join Rinus' clan. Still _desired_ to join his clan, even. And that didn't seem quite likely. Although he _had_ said that even if there were no young, he'd still want to pursue this. Probably at a slightly lesser pace, of course.

She looked up, and realized Reimian was still waiting for a response. _"If there are no young, there is still the issue of honor_," she told her guard, calmly. Mask of poise firmly in place. Kallixta had developed that mask at a very young age. Reimian had taught it to her, of course. Taught her not to rage or twitch or show pain in public. _Are you not proud of me, Vela? I can even wear the mask for you now. "Chastity before marriage is not much an issue for anyone outside the nobility anymore, of course, but should you not applaud the centurion for his willingness to accede to the needs of my station?"_ Oh, the bitterness of those words. _"It's not __quite__ as if I'd merely gone to a recruit hotel with him after boot camp, you know."_ Kallixta had never seen the interior of such a place, of course. She pictured such a place as being very similar to her barracks, though. Small, cramped, dark, a single nest instead of many. And suddenly, it was very hard to swallow, picturing her and Rinus in such a place. Alone. For a week or so before OCS. No guards—an unrealistic fantasy, of course, but what else was fantasy _for_?

Reimian sighed, and walked to the door, turning off the light. _"With your permission, __domina__?" _ Kallixta waved a dismissal, and laid her head down, trying to go to sleep.

It was not to be. As soon as the door closed behind Reimian, the light flicked back on. Kallixta sat up, confused, and blinked as Laetia appeared. Human-form avatar, arms folded across her chest. "You and I need to talk," the AI said.

_Wonderful. Will I get no sleep tonight at all?_ "Can we make this brief? It's going to be a long day tomorrow, I think."

Laetia actually paced back and forth a couple of steps. Kallixta watched, fascinated. _Is that the emulation of emotion, or the real thing?_ she wondered. "Recent events are. . .a little troubling," Laetia said, after a moment. "I've spent the last eighteen months trying to cultivate Rinus Velnaran, and in under a month, you've upset all of that work."

Kallixta blinked. _Stared_ at the AI for a moment. "I've upset all that?" she asked. "What, precisely, have I _upset_?" Her tone was very dry. "How, precisely, do you perceive your. . . relationship with him? Has he given you his marks or his paint or his words?"

Laetia hesitated. "He's been. . . very clear that he regards the chip as a temporary thing." she said, after a moment, carefully. "I suppose you would consider that a _manus_ contract?"

Kallixta's temper started to rise, and she took a careful breath, controlling it. "Specifics, please?"

"He was to, as you know, allow me to use him as a template for the second generation AIs. And he _eventually_ agreed to allow me to plant a chip in his brain, for ease of communication, and to provide me with a mobile node. So that in the event of a catastrophic event to the ship, I'd have someplace to _go._ Even if only a fragment of me. The chip and the network couldn't hold all of my data, not without killing him." Laetia's voice was pragmatic.

The turian female _hissed._ She took another couple of breaths to calm herself. "So, what I'm hearing here is this. You want to _use_ him to make children. You want to _use_ him as a mobile node. Even if it could brain-damage him or kill him?" Kallixta glared at her. "He's not a _thing_ to be _used._ I don't suppose _you_ like being treated like a _thing_, do you?"

Laetia blinked, and contested, hotly, "I don't—I _never_ have treated him like a _thing_."

"You said he _eventually_ agreed to it. How long did it take to get him to agree to this . . . contract?"

Laetia paused, and then said, "A year." She frowned now. "And inside of a _day_, he's already more committed to you than he ever has been to me." She sighed, and found the chair by the terminal to have her avatar 'sit' down in. "And I don't understand it at all. He's been just as forced by you as by me. You can't tell me that his life and well-being are in any less danger from your family than from me, if things aren't handled delicately enough."

The fifth-daughter of the Imperator _stared_ at the AI. And shook her head, grinding her teeth. "No," she said, from between clenched teeth. "You came to him with a request. I have the very clear impression from my conversation with him the other night that he agreed to it because if _he_ didn't, someone _else_ would wind up in danger. _You've_ told me that you worked on him for a _year_ to get him to agree. How _dare_ you compare yourself to me?" Kallixta's chin came up. "I had very little choice in the estrus. I chose him. He didn't _have_ to do anything more than he did. I've made it clear, several times, that he doesn't _have_ to do anything more—for me, or for any young I might bear." Now she almost hoped she _was_ carrying his young, although it was a silly thing to feel, and she knew it, but her hand crept down to her waist. "He _chose_ to do everything he's done today. He's offered. I haven't _asked._ And he's left the final decisions _all_ to me." Kallixta inhaled again, through her nose, trying to force calmness on herself. _This is protection-anger_, she realized, dimly. _I've only felt it a few times before. When Dara got hurt at boot-camp. When one of my guards was disciplined for something not his fault. Control it. Use it._

Laetia was staring at her. "That's the distinction, then?" she asked, quietly. "You feel that he's made a choice willingly with you?"

"Yes."

Laetia put her face in her hands, and was silent for a long moment. Processing, probably. Kallixta looked at her, wondering why, of all the forms the AI could have chosen for an avatar, she had picked a human female. "And you believe that I've treated him like a thing?"

"Yes."

Laetia looked up. "I wish I could understand," she said, quietly. "There's data here that doesn't make sense to me. The emotional reality is lost. He has kept the chip closed for an entire day, and I do not believe he will open it again any time soon."

Kallixta snorted through her nose. "Of course he won't. He told me not two days ago, that the _last_ time he got close to any female, _you_ chased her off."

"Pilae Hestian. I. . . tried to get to know her, yes. Thought that she might be a valid candidate for chipping in his place. And that, in that manner, I could continue an amicable relationship with the father of the next-generation AIs." Laetia glanced at her. "I don't suppose. . . "

"No!" Kallixta lifted a finger at her. "Not only would it be _inappropriate_ for the daughter of the Imperator to be the _servant_ of an AI, but the physical danger would have every body guard in the palace raising the roof in protest. Not to mention, I will _not_ share him with anyone else."

Laetia sighed. "And here you suggest that I've been selfish. I _would_ share him with someone else."

"You would have precious little choice in that," Kallixta told her, dryly. "You're an AI."

Laetia looked up, clearly stung. "And what can you give him that—oh, well, yes, there's the _physical_—"

Kallixta's claws flexed, and she _badly_ wanted to hit this female. It wouldn't do any good, of course. It was a holoprojection. "And what have _you_ given him?" she asked, instead. If she couldn't fight physically, she could fight with words. And she had been trained in logic and argumentation by three or four _fine_ ministers of the Law. "Other than a hard time?"

Laetia blinked, rapidly. "I've offered him unique projects. He's been underutilized for some time. Most captains haven't seen his utility."

"Projects that, as a relative of, what, three Spectres, he might have been tapped for eventually anyway?" Kallixta nodded. "All right. I'll grant you that you might help him ascend the promotion ladder a little more quickly—assuming he doesn't, as _you_ hinted a week ago, leave the service early. And suddenly," she added dryly, "I'm understanding why. Let's grant you that. What else can you or have you given him?"

Laetia hesitated. "Twenty-five children?" she offered.

"That he'll never touch and did not even ask to have."

"He didn't _ask_ to have one with you." A touch petulant there.

Kallixta controlled her temper, took another deep breath, and shook her head."But if we do have one, it will be part of his clan. By _his_ choice. His kin. His flesh and blood." _Spirits of air and water, make it so. I'll fight with him to make sure I can give him that._ She stood up now, letting the sheets fall away from her. Stood, fleshly and physical, looking at the ephemeral form of the AI's avatar. "What else, Laetia? What else have you given him? What else can you give him?" Her head was up; even unclothed, she was every inch a ruler's daughter.

Laetia sighed. "Connection, which is what I wanted. If we got along well enough. . . then, like my mother, I might have tried to upload his personality. A form of immortality."

Kallixta shook her head. "A form that his physical self, his _spirit_, would never even be aware of. He'd be _dead._ Have you _met_ the centurion?"

Laetia's expression held a flash of temper. "And what can _you_ give him?"

Any insecurities Kallixta had—and she had a quite a few, given that the liaison was so new, a bare flicker of flame, to be protected from every breath of wind that threatened it—were dissipating rapidly in the heat of this argument. "What can _I_ give him? You mean, other than the _physical_, which you've already discounted? Young born of his body? A connection that we've _both_ _chosen_? Intimacy? Growing old together? Fighting together? Meeting all of life's challenges together?" She paused. "Oh, and as for promotions. . . I have a _small_ amount of social rank. He would never lack for material comforts or rank again. If such things mattered to him, which they _don't_. He clearly _likes_ being a centurion. He wouldn't _mind_ being an _optio_. But what matters to him is the job, the challenge, and he finds it in many places." Kallixta bared her teeth. "If he was forced out of the service tomorrow, I could find him a job with a defense contractor _designing_ weapons or an analyst position with military intelligence inside of two days. Not an issue." She looked at Laetia much more calmly now.

"I can do almost all of that," Laetia said, quietly. "Except the physical. It can't be _that_ important."

Kallixta sighed. For organics, _yes it was._ Even the touch of fingers across a crest was important. Spoke volumes about intimacy and belonging and trust. Whether someone responded to it, or cringed away from it. She'd had so _little_ physical contact in her life—just the impersonal hands of servants. The occasional hug from a nanny or a tutor—usually done quickly, and with a glance around for watching eyes, first. When her father had clasped her wrist at graduation, it had been the first time in about six years that he had touched her. Kallixta couldn't even _remember_ the last time her mother had done so—the Imperatrix ran the palace, and her children, like a small corporation, and their business was their education, the family itself, and managing public perceptions. Ah, yes, there it was. The last time the Imperatrix had touched her was three years ago. She'd lifted Kallixta's chin into the right position for a family portrait.

Was it any wonder that she _craved_ the touch of Rinus' hands now?

Keyed her omnitool. Send a quick message to Rinus. _Amatus_. . . the first time she'd ever typed that word, and it made her a little giddy to do so. _Forgive me. I'm dealing with your not-even-__manus__-plighted AI at the moment, and I need you to show her something. Open the chip for a moment, and think of me. I'll think of you. Maybe after that, I'll even get to sleep._

A pause, and then a chirp on the omnitool. _I don't want her having any part of us._

_I know. But I think it'll get her out of my fringe. . . and maybe out of yours, too._

_All right. Thinking of you, sweetness. Think of me?_

Kallixta did. Just the simple contact of hands as they'd played chess earlier. The warmth of skin. Warm smells. Warm eyes—so different from the cold-eyed stare of the public demeanor. _I can see him holding reporters at bay with that stare,_ she thought suddenly, amused. _Boot camp memories welling up in them all, a startled retreat. Better than a body guard._ Then her mind wandered to the confused, dazed memories of the night before. Firm hands, a hard bite. Rasp of his voice whispering words she hadn't been able to understand at the time. Kallixta opened her eyes with an effort as her omnitool blipped again. _Okay, now __I'm__ going to have trouble going to sleep. Get some rest. . . beloved._

Kallixta headed for her nest. Laid down, pulled up the covers. Looked at Laetia, who was still visible. "Did that answer your questions for you?"

Laetia nodded, slowly. "I think so." The expression looked stunned. "I can see the distinctions now. Massive hormonal surge, of course. Limbic system in disorder. But also, multiple levels of involvement, engagement." She looked lost. "How can it be so important?"

Kallixta nodded, smiling a little to herself. That was actually nice to hear. "It's not _just_ that. He's making decisions," she said, softly. "Everyone. . ." _even an Imperator's daughter. . . ._ "likes to have a choice in things."

Laetia nodded. "I . . . trust that this conversation will not affect our work dynamic?" she said, after a moment.

Kallixta wanted to laugh. It had not been unlike confronting someone's former _manus_-spouse. A little more civilized, perhaps, than that, but there were similarities. _And to think I never thought I'd be in such a position_, she thought, finding it hugely amusing. "I don't see why it should. Duty comes first," she said out loud, yawned, and closed her eyes.

**Rinus**

The next morning, Rinus saw Decimus and Nadea at breakfast, smiling and accepting congratulations on the new paint. Knives had been quickly obtained from the ship's store. Plain. Utilitarian. But obviously very welcome to both of them. He saw Dara walk over, crouch down between them, resting her hands on their shoulders, and couldn't quite make out the words spoken. . . but their expressions spoke of _heartfelt_ relief. The band around his own crop eased, but only a little. Theirs had been an established friendship that had deepened into intimacy recently; the pressure of suddenly being parents as well as one of them having to give up on a clearly much-loved service probably would have led to strife. He'd seen just a little of an unplanned estrus' results within his _parents'_ long and stable marriage. Solanna's temper at the time had made boot camp look like a welcome relief. And strife within a unit. . .or a marriage. . . or a ship. . . was never good.

Of course, this didn't bode well for him and Kallixta and the odds. There was about an eighty percent chance of conception during estrus. Partial protection probably cut that in half. And yet, he knew he'd been _thorough._

After breakfast, Kallixta found him at the gunnery station. _"I have . . . somewhat good news for you,"_ she told him, quietly.

Rinus looked up as she entered, and closed the hatch behind her. _"Oh?"_

"_You're __not__ going to be a father."_ She looked a little relieved, and Rinus himself exhaled the breath he'd been holding, and stepped up, wrapping his arms around her, wondering if she'd accept the gesture right up until the her arms reached up in return. _"Captain Jallus could just delete that file—" _she added, peering up at him. Looking worried.

"_I said the words. I meant them. I'm yours until you decide otherwise." _He paused, letting that sink in. Everything was _her_ decision here. _"Keep in mind, I know damned well we circled back to the system's relay for a comm drop overnight. Everything that was in the message queue, has been sent."_ He grimaced. _"The captain was not taking any chances, I'm sure. Plus, we've been waiting on other ships."_

Kallixta swallowed visibly. _"What's that human saying? The die's been cast?"_

"_Yeah. It certainly has been. May as well stay the course now. The only thing different between last night and this morning is one degree of uncertainty has been removed."_ Rinus pulled her a little closer. No one could see them with the hatch closed. Well, no one other than Laetia, of course. At that thought, he sighed, and released her. _"Best part of this is, you get to stay pilot of this ship. I'd __much__ rather have you at the stick than Macenus. He might have more experience, but you've got the killer instinct."_

"_We'll see how long it lasts," _she said, wincing. _"I'm fully expecting to be yanked back home to the palace."_

He growled softly. _"Not going to happen if I can help it."_

Kallixta touched his face. And then an alarm began to sound. _"Yeah. Just about time here. There's going to be an all-hands briefing. Kallixta. . ."_ Rinus stopped. He didn't know what to say. _"It was never __just__ about the possibility of young."_

She got up on tip-toe and bit his throat, and he closed his hands around her waist for a moment, fingertips brushing on either side. _"Go," _he told her, and turned back to his station as she headed back through the hatch. Heading for her own position in the cockpit.

**Joker**

"I tell you, they're all just pale imitators," Joker declared, hearing Shepard's step behind him.

"What's this?" the commander of the Spectres said, moving up beside him in the cockpit, white and blue facepaint tinted oddly by the orange glow of the aerogel panels all around.

"I've gotten a _string_ of combat logs from the other _Normandy_-class ships the last few weeks. The bulk of them have come from the human-flagged ships, but a couple have come from the turian-flagged ones." Joker chuckled.

"Jeff is convinced that none of them have his. . . inimitable style or flair," EDI commented, her blue eyeball popping up on the console.

He grinned at her. "They _don't_." He looked up at Shepard again. "It's looking good for my job security, let's just say."

Shepard shook her head. "Joker, they _all_ need to be in good hands."

He sobered. "They are. I wouldn't want the kids to be with _substandard_ pilots. All the pilots are . . . fine. Top of their classes. All well trained. I just don't see any of them deviating from standard tactics, really. None of them seem to have the instinct, I guess."

Shepard's grin had edges. "You seen the combat logs from the _Estallus_ when they were out at Urla Rast yet?"

Joker's eyebrows rose under his hat. "No, actually. EDI, you been hiding one from me?" He paused. "Then again, I've seen how Macenus flies before. Very much by the book."

"I thought that perhaps your blood pressure did not need further elevation, Jeff," EDI said calmly. "Considering what happened the last time the Bastion maintenance crew left scratch marks on my hull plating. . . "

"They had it coming." Joker grinned. "Show me. Not like we've got anything better to do for the next fifteen minutes, and we hit the relay."

"I would, in fact, prefer _not_ to _hit_ the relay," EDI replied. "Which is, in fact, what you might do if you are distracted by the combat logs."

"EDI? Give."

A model of the _Estallus_, a large gas giant, and two batarian _Cosair-_class raiding ships appeared in the air in front of him, and Joker sat back, all humor gone as he watched the rendering, eyes intent, narrow. "Interesting," he said, as the _Estallus_ positioned itself between the ships and its breaching pods, and then lunged forward, directly between the two batarian ships. "Risky. That opens them to fire from both sides."

"It also forces the batarians to take the chance of hitting each other. Their guns aren't as accurate as ours are," EDI pointed out.

_I know that, sweetheart_, he told her, silently, eyes still on the simulation. "Did the pilot steer that manually, or rely on the AI? That's only a two kilometer distance, and at these speeds. . . "

"Data indicates that this first maneuver was manually inputted."

Joker whistled. Steep pitch now, climbing away, torpedoes following, countermeasures deployed, then arcing back down into the path of the torpedoes. . . "Shit. Ahhhh, nevermind, their detonators hadn't fully armed. Damned risky move, otherwise." His fingers curled into the side of his console now, straining a little. Wanting to help the other pilot maneuver. Ducking and moving a little in his chair, following the motions of the ship as it skimmed around, setting up a down-the-throat shot—"Bet the gun crews loved that one. . . wait, that fly-by had _better_ have been AI assisted. That was too _fucking_ close."

"Combat logs indicate that there was AI assistance at that point, yes." EDI's voice was, as always serene. "You know that the _Estallus_ emerged from this encounter unscathed, Jeff. There is no cause to be alarmed.

"Knowing that and _seeing this_ are two different things, EDI, my girl." His eyes widened slightly as the ship then drew one of the batarians into its _own torpedo spread_. "Nice. Kept every piece of the battlefield in mind. Not bad."

And then the third batarian appeared, and the _Estallus_ simply danced with it, raining death and destruction on it, flipping, pirouetting, finally moving away at top sublight speed as the batarian ship simply exploded. Joker stared at the screen for ten seconds more.

"What do you think?" Shepard asked him.

Joker looked up at her and grinned. "That was _not_ Macenus flying. People fly how they _think_, commander. Clear as fingerprints or someone's writing style. _That_ was someone I wouldn't mind buying a drink for. Who the hell is that?"

"Lieutenant Kallixta Essedarius. Or Praesesidis, depending on to whom you're speaking," Shepard answered, leaning against the wall of the cockpit. "Fifth-daughter to the Imperator."

Joker opened his mouth. Closed it again. Thought about it. "And the _Estallus_ is at Garvug?"

Shepard nodded, grinning. "So's the _Khakov._ And the _Dunkirk's _going to be here, and then they're going to take Mordin to Sur'Kesh. I couldn't figure out a way to hit twelve facilities with just the marines from the _Normandy_, _Estallus_, and _Kharkov_."

Joker's smile spread, and he leaned back in his chair, carefully putting his hands behind his head. "Well, then, EDI. Looks like we finally got ourselves a good dance partner."

_Laetia's burst transmission to me along with the standard combat logs was. . . confused. She's delighted to have such a competent pilot, but . . . _

_But what?_ Joker adjusted their speed and heading, and took the _Normandy_ into the old-style relay, setting a course that would take them to the Valhallan Threshold.

_Interpersonal relations are developing between her chipped gunnery centurion and the new pilot. She's unsure as to their extent._

Joker chuckled. _She'll get a hell of an education then, won't she?_

EDI's mental tone was serene. _I postulated that perhaps she should accept that it's not going to work out. That perhaps she was hasty in whom she chose, and didn't allow it to develop of its own accord._ She hesitated. _It is difficult for me and for the first generation AIs, to move at anything other than a digital pace. Difficult to understand that a single second is enough for __us__ to analyze a situation and make a decision, but that for organics, it can take either a second, or years. Or that their analysis may not tally with ours_

_You understand it just fine, sweetheart._

_Yes, but I believe Laetia may have gotten some of your impulsiveness and impatience, as well as your sense of humor._

_Hey, my impulsiveness and impatience have actually __helped__ us on occasion._ He set up the final turn into the relay, and felt the entire ship shudder around him, fleeting across the stars now. _God, I love my job,_ he thought, and began controlling their speed again, slowing them, ending up within a thousand kilometers of the Valhallan relay.

_Do you have any thoughts that I should pass along to Laetia?_

_Other than you can't force something to work? _Joker reached out and touched the console where the little blue eyeball currently hovered. _Hell if I know, sweetheart. I've said from the beginning that I __know__ why the kids need mobile nodes. I understand it. But I've also said that no healthy, able-bodied man or woman is going to accept it easily, except maybe as a job, and a temporary one at that. The emotional connection you and I have, sweetheart. . . it could be one of a kind. I __don't__ see the Alliance or the Hierarchy chipping the handicapped._ His grin was sour. _Though that might get people who can't physically get through boot camp full citizenship in the Hierarchy, so __they'd__ be all for it. . . I can just hear the handicapped advocacy groups back home spinning this as how the "government plans to turn paraplegics into cyborgs, taking advantage of the helpless" or some damn thing. When. . . shit. They'd get to __fly__. _He sighed. _It's a tough one, sweetheart. I don't have any good answers for you._

_Nor I for you._ She didn't often send _him_ mental images. He grinned as he received this one, though. Her avatar, leaning forward to give him a kiss.

_Thanks. I needed that. "_Okay, stealth drive engaged, let's go find the _Estallus_ and the _Dunkirk_ and the _Kharkov_ and all our _other_ friends and family who've gathered for this little barbecue."

"Jeff?"

"Yes?"

"You do realize that this is _not_ a social gathering?"

"Of course it is. This is how Spectres throw parties!" Joker grinned at her unrepentantly.

**Rellus**

Dara had spent a good portion of the night in medbay, taking care of Kasumi and Dr. Solus. "How're they doing?" he asked her at breakfast.

"Kasumi's fine. Cimmerian kept her overnight for observation. Not unusual, given everything else that's gone on. Blasto was fine, too. Really very concerned about Kasumi and Dr. Solus. Wouldn't leave till my dad told him even hanar need sleep to be their best." Dara munched on some toast. She'd frequently said that she had no _idea_ why the other humans aboard complained about the food. After eight solid months of MREs, even reconstituted eggs and toast tasted like the food of the gods to her. "Dr. Solus was nervous, which means he was talking about ten times faster than usual. It's not good for a salarian his age to be that agitated. Got Dr. Cimmirian to prescribe him ten milligrams of soporium. He slowed back down to normal speed after that." Dara snorted into her tea mug. "He asked about fifteen questions at once at first, though. If I'd heard from Ellie about how Narayana's doing. I told him I'd ask Lantar for him, first chance. Then he asked if I'd read all the articles he'd sent me. And then asked me followup questions on things I read a month ago. Then asked me if I'd received my invitation to the xeno-obstetrics conference on Bekenstein next month. He was pretty indignant that I hadn't, yet, even though I explained that chances are, I wouldn't be able to attend it." Dara paused, and imitated her mentor's voice perfectly. "Nonsense. Cultivating contacts, resources, important. Young doctor's career just as important to Hierarchy as to individual. Accommodations can be made."

Rel chuckled. "I think I missed why he's so nervous."

Dara blinked. "Oh, hell. Let me back up. He's been chipped by the Lystheni. That's why he had to be in the brig last night. We have _no idea_ what the damn thing's set to do."

Rel's mouth fell open. "_S'kak_." He paused, thinking about it. _The damned Lystheni can control their own people when they go unconscious or into hibernation with similar chips. Dr. Solus could be walking around and suddenly fall under someone else's control._ "Can Dr. Cimmirian remove it?"

"She's a trauma surgeon, not a neurosurgeon, and it's in a _really_ sensitive portion of the salarian brain—the diencephalon. Regulates everything that the thalamus and the hypothalamus and the pineal gland do in humans. She doesn't want to take the risk, so as soon as the _Dunkirk_ gets here, they're taking him to Sur'Kesh for surgery." Dara bit her lower lip, and under the table, he hooked one of his feet behind _her_ ankle, which made her look up and smile, briefly. "Actually, _amatus_, let me go talk to Decimus and Nadea, and then catch Lantar. Maybe I can pass something along to Dr. Solus to help him stay calm." Under the table, she reached out, squeezed his fingertips—they both had their gloves off, to eat, so he could actually feel the coolness of her skin—and got up with her tray.

By 10:00, everyone in the crew knew something was coming. Anyone looking out an observation port could clearly see the other ships hanging in space around them. Rel found a port, and just stared.

"I don't even recognize what some of those are," Rasmus said quietly from beside him. Rasmus was just as apt to speak English as turian, some days, his Bastion background showing through.

"That one off to the port? Quarian infiltration ship," Rel told him, recognizing the profile. Angular and precise, it reflected the quarian love of geometric shapes in its ports and structure. "Their marines use those to drop in on a planet and then hop back out again. Though that one looks newer than the ones I've seen vids of, before."

Rasmus nodded. "And the one off to the starboard?"

Rel glanced at it. Smooth, silver, and a little bulbous, he recognized the general vehicle class. "Asari," he said. "Probably holds two to four people. But still has an FTL drive, obviously."

The other ships were _Normandy_-class, white hulls shining in Paz's brilliant yellow light. One was _much_ larger than the other. "The _Normandy_, the _Dunkirk,_ and . . . hmm. The _Kharkov_, looks like," Rel said, feeling excitement trying to work its way up into his chest.

"Lot of ships."

Rel grinned at Rasmus, tightly. "Going to be a big day."

The all-hands briefing didn't change that impression any. Everyone not at an essential duty station filed into the mess hall, and Dara found him, looking up at him tensely.

Lantar, Sam, and Livanus stood up, Captain Jallus with them, at the front of the hall. "We've been looking for the bases in this star system for over twelve months," Sam began, in English. "We had to go in ahead of schedule and ahead of the rest of our teams to perform an extraction yesterday. Everyone involved did good work, and I'm personally very grateful to all of you. That being said, we're fairly sure that the remaining bases in this system are on alert. We know they haven't evacuated yet. We've been blocking the mass relay, after all. . . which is how you all got mail this morning." His tone was rather dry, and there were a couple of desultory cheers. "Whose bases are they?" Sam looked around. "Some of the Marine teams aboard have seen this before. We're making all of you aware now, in case they try to board _us_. The people on these bases are a rogue faction of salarians who call themselves the Lystheni. They have three main types. Biotic, technical, and tech/biotic controllers." He went into the details, pragmatically. Rel could feel the people around him tensing, starting to key up for the fight to come. "Keep in mind, that some of their biotics can control other people's minds. One of your own could turn on you, and it will not be his or her fault. Trust me on this." Sam's lips curled up in a faint smile under his moustache. "I attacked Sidonis here as a result of one of their domination attacks a while back. And lived to tell the tale."

He looked at Lantar, who picked up now. _"Our first order of business will be to take out twelve orbiting facilities around the planet. We're honestly not sure what's in them, so we don't want to take them out from space. We also don't have twelve ships handy just to take out the orbital facilities. We'll be sending two teams to each facility, and there will be at least one Spectre for each facility. In some cases, more. We will be planting bombs throughout various weak points. I'd like to point out that the weak points and bomb placement were all designed by a member of the __Estallus__ crew. Centurion Rinus Velnaran."_ Lantar grinned as everyone shifted around to get a look at Rinus, who was standing near the back, with his back to a wall, as usual, face impassive.

Livanus picked up the briefing now. _"Once the orbital facilities are destroyed, we will be attacking their main base. It's a large, open-air complex, with multiple buildings. We have reinforcements already on the ground. Those reinforcements are krogan. They are under the command of a krogan Spectre. Try not to get trigger-happy with them._" His tone was exquisitely dry as he added, _"They might not like that, and we can't afford friendly fire here. We are expecting ship-based resistance at some point in all of this. Some might be the raiding ships we've encountered before, with the weapons that can damage the shields and pull back sections of the hull, opening them to space. Some of them might be small, fairly maneuverable fighters._"

Jallus cleared his throat and spoke up. _"Javelin crews, I am depending on you to be very much on your toes today. The best defense we have against small, agile fighters are our torpedoes. The main guns will be largely ineffective against such opponents." _He looked around. _"These ships might deploy from either the satellites or from the ground base. Stay sharp. Fight well." _He looked around. _"Be advised that we'll be broadcasting two jamming signals. One is broad-spectrum, per our usual combat doctrine. The other one will be oscillating, in an attempt to disrupt Lytheni weapons systems. This second system may periodically knock out our own communications signals. Keep your __eyes__ on each other."_

Sam spoke up again. "Velnaran, Rellus, Velnaran, Rinus, and Velnaran, Dara. You're with Livanus today."

Rel's head snapped back. He hadn't expected to hear his brother's name called; from Rinus' startled glance, neither had he. Sam moved on. "Your marine team with you will be headed by Decimus Corolan. Report to the shuttle bay immediately, and we need to get you a pilot lined up."

Rel moved for the door, as Sam started calling out a string of other names behind him. Rinus was a little later to the shuttle bay than the rest—he'd had to stop off and grab his armor, and started loading up on weapons, shaking his head. Rel glanced at Livanus, who was grinning as two marines that Rel didn't know by name—a _hasta_ and a _pilae_—joined them. _"Any reason why my brother's along?"_ Rel asked the Spectre, quietly, out of earshot of the rest.

"_We needed an explosives expert with each team. He's it."_ Livanus looked off into the mid-distance for a moment. _"Besides, he's the one who came up with the destruction plan. He should have a chance to implement it."_

_And you're testing him, just as you're testing me. And Dara. Interesting. _They started to board the shuttle, Rinus carrying a large bag aboard with him, and Rel blinked again when he realized that Kallixta was their pilot. _"I see they're grabbing everyone with a pilot rating," _he told her, dryly. _No paint on her face. Either she said no, or Jallus refused. Eh, worry about that later. Would be nice if I knew if I should call her __ama'fradu__, though._

"_Pretty much,"_ she answered, in turian, not worrying about the subterfuge of English anymore. _"I'm hoping we can at least loop back to the ship before hitting the ground facility."_

"_We should be able to do so. Assuming all goes well," _Livanus said, standing in the middle of the shuttle, and projected a diagram from his omnitool._"All right. The schematics indicate that we're going to be landing in their docking bay. There's an elevator there that can take us between floors of the station. The lowest floor is the power plant. That's our first objective. Depending on the amount of resistance we encounter, I may split the teams when we get there. If there's only light resistance, the marine team, headed by Corolan, will take two bombs and set them here and here in the power plant. Then you'll return to the shuttle bay and help hold that location for us. My team will move into the main bay, and plant two bombs here, and here." _He pointed at places on the diagram. _"There's an environmental systems center here to the upper right on the map, and a chemical plant—we think—here on the lower left. Bombs will be set in both locations, and then we will back up, board the shuttle, and get the hell out. If resistance is heavy, both teams will move together, first to the power plant, and then to the other locations."_ Livanus paused. _"The stations are all zero-G environments. Engage magnetics in your boots, but be aware, not all surfaces may work with this. Remember your training, and you'll be fine."_ He looked around. _"Any questions?"_

Dara raised her hand. _"Can we expect to be dodging fire coming in on the station?"_

Livanus shook his head. _"No exterior weapons, other than their lenses, which can't be turned towards us. We're being dropped off close by, too. . . which should limit any fighter engagements. If there are any."_ He looked up at the pilot's chair, where Kallixta was going through pre-flight procedures. _"If all else fails, our pilot will simply have to have quick reflexes."_

Everyone on-board grabbed for a strap at that point. Rel could hear Rinus' chuckle over the radio, and grinned, himself.

Now there was just dead silence, except for the hum of engines, which Rel could feel through his feet, as this shuttle and two more just like it lifted off into the open void of space beyond the shuttle bay doors. Rasmus was heading a marine team on one; Nadea was the lieutenant in charge of the marines on the other one. _Sam and Lantar will look after them well_, he thought, trying not to worry. He couldn't be _everywhere_, after all.

"_Docking bay's not responding to conventional unlocking sequences," _Kallixta reported shortly thereafter.

_There's a surprise,_ Rel thought sardonically, and stood, going to their rear hatch.

"_Everyone, check your helmet seals,"_ Livanus ordered. _"And hold on. Pilot, turn us so the rear hatch faces the landing area. Evacuating atmosphere in five. . . four. . . three. . . two. . .one."_ Livanus pulled the crank on the hatch, and Rel hooked his feet under a bar near the back hatch and held on as the air in their cabin area ripped away into space. Then, when he could hold steady again, he took his hand off the nearby strap that he'd been clinging to, and held it out to Rinus, who handed him one of the shoulder-mounted rockets that had been brought on-board. Rinus lifted another one to his own shoulder, and, standing side-by-side, the two brothers aimed. . . and fired.

The docking bay hatch ripped inwards, propelled by the force of the two missiles launched at it, and Rel could see debris racing out from the gaping opening in the hull now. _One way to make an entrance, though hardly subtle,_ he thought. _"Bring us in,"_ Livanus ordered Kallixta, and she complied, yawing them around and bringing the shuttle in for a landing.

Rel couldn't _hear_ it, but he could _feel_ it. _Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat._ Gunfire, pocking the sides and front of the shuttle. _"We've got hostiles,"_ Kallixta called back to them, ducking down in the pilot's seat. _"About ten mechs, couple of salarians._"

"_We're on it. Marines, go left. My team, go right. Rinus, bring the charges and stay to the rear."_

Scrambling out the back of the shuttle now, feeling his boots click and latch onto the metal deckplates, and whenever he took a step, feeling the microgravity environment threaten to send him flying. _Definitely not a place to take both feet off the ground_, Rel thought, distantly, moving ahead of his brother and Dara, following close at Livanus' heels. Using the shuttle for cover initially, and then moving quickly to a pile of equipment, ducking under it, seeing a half-circle of mechs near the entrance of the corridor ahead of them, as well as two or three Lytheni. _C'mon, sweetness, move up—there you go._ He laid down covering fire for Dara, who scrambled to his side, and began firing at the mechs herself. Livanus paused for a moment, fiddling with his omnitool, and Rel grinned as one of the mechs spun around and began firing at its own people, blasting one of the Lystheni at point-blank range.

Rel raised up and began firing himself again, targeting the salarians himself. He had _no_ desire to see what they had in the way of weaponry. _Although their flame throwers might not work, with the atmosphere in this bay evacuated,_ he thought, ducking back down as Dara raised up beside him. Then Rinus moved up to their position, tucking his bag of charges under his knee, and getting out his own weapon. They waited for another break in fire, and then all three of them raised up at once—sniple rifle and assault rifle rattling in their hands, but the only sound from them passing by vibration into their suits. Rinus weapon took a lot longer to charge, and Rel glanced over to see what was going on, and saw a blue-white, ghostly line of light arc out. . . and when it hit one mech, it _danced_ from mech to mech, sizzling. Several robotic heads popped off; the arms and legs danced and stuttered for a moment. Even the salarians weren't immune to that effect, and Rel moved his gun back in line with them, targeting them while they were helpless, firing at will, teeth bared behind his helmet. _"__Nice__ weapon, first-brother,"_ he said over the radio. _"What do I have to do to get checked out on that one?"_

"_Twenty hour certification course. It has limited charges,"_ Rinus said, dryly. _"Best for use in crowded areas."_ He slung it onto his back again, and hefted his bag. _"We splitting the teams, Spectre?"_

Livanus studied the fallen bodies of the mechs, and lifted his wrist to check the scope._"Yes,"_ he said, after a moment. _"I see two, maybe three life signs below. Doesn't mean __anything__. Could have mechs down there, or heavily stealthed Lystheni. Stay sharp. Corolan, take two charges. Centurion, show him how to set them." _

Rinus took out two of the charges from the box, and handed them to Decimus, showing him the buttons that would set the charges and the timer. _"Don't activate the timer if we don't give the word," _Rinus told him. _"These can be set off both by RF signal as well as by the timer. By and large, I think we'll __all__ prefer the radio signal." _

"_Is the jamming going to be an issue with that?"_ Dara asked, sharply.

Rinus hesitated. _"Shouldn't be. Even the oscillating frequency should skip this specific one. Of course, if __they_ _start jamming as well, all bets are off."_

"_One thing at a time,"_ Rel said, dryly. Rinus nodded, shortly.

Rel could see Dara pat Decimus lightly on the shoulder. The tall turian glanced down, and gave her a very human thumb's up in return. _"Watch your back, Corolan,"_ Dara told him over the radio. _"I'm not going to be there to pull out bullets."_

"_I'm doing better at dodging bullets since the Trial_," he told her, mildly.

"_From your mouth to the spirits' ears, assuming they have any."_

Then the marine team hustled into the elevator, the atmosphere inside of it blowing out and dissipating quickly. Livanus gestured for the three of them—two special forces and one specialist—to open another airlock hatch, and then follow him down the corridor into the station proper.

Step, click, pull the hind foot loose, step, click. Only magnetic boots were keeping him attached to the damned floor at the moment. Livanus paused ahead of him, near the first junction in the long hallway, and crouched. Rel saw the hand signal and froze, dropping as well. Life-signs on the scope, off to the left. _Crew quarters._

Hand signals again. Livanus was taking no chances with noise. Of course, the click of boots was probably a giveaway. Not to mention, the impact their missiles had made on the outer hatch. Move up. . . move up. . . Livanus darted across the opening to the far side of the junction—gunfire. Rel moved up to his corner, below the corridor junction, and leaned around it. _Lystheni. S'kak. Are any of them biotics? Is there any way to __tell__?_ No way of knowing. Rel picked a target and fired. Dara moved up, watching the corridor behind him—_always my smart one_—and then turned out, catching one of the salarians peeking, and shearing away shields with her pistol. Close-range work, this. Atmosphere around them now, ensuring that the rapid ratatatatat of his assault rifle was clearly audible, even through their helmets, just as the slower bark of her pistol and Livanus's were. The salarians retreated, tucking back into a doorway further up the hall.

Rel glanced at Livanus, and got the go-ahead gesture. _They've had time to prepare. They've known we're coming. _Rel's thoughts were grim. _Assume everything is a trap._ He moved to the doorway, and peeked around, cautiously. _Shit. "Only see two. Thought I saw a glimmer from a stealth net."_

"_Grenades," _ Livanus ordered, sharply. _"Give 'em at least two."_

Rel ducked back around the corner, setting down his first one in the far corner, a fragmentation load, and ducked back as it went off. He could feel the others moving up now, Dara crouching beside him, pressured up close to his leg. Quick glance down—she was still watching the corridor behind them. _Good. Someone needs to be._

Second grenade, opposite side of the room—this one an incendiary. He could _see_ shields flaring to life, outlining hidden forms. _"At least four,"_ he said as Livanus darted across the doorway, taking position on the other side. Then they both ducked around and opened fire; Rinus took the opportunity to move across the doorway himself, setting up beside Livanus now. Waiting for a break in the salarian's return fire, Livanus and Rel changed clips. . . and the Rinus and Dara ducked around their corners, firing. Steady, heavy concussions of Dara's pistol and Rinus's shotgun, perfect for the enclosed area. Tearing through shields as the uncloaked Lystheni raced forward. Flames now, billowing out of the doorway, and Dara ducked back as gouts of greasy black smoke erupted with it.

The radio crackled now. _"Encountering heavy resistance in the power core,"_ Decimus reported. _"We're handling it, but wanted to let you know."_

"_Acknowledged,"_ Livanus replied. And then he and Rel were firing again, taking out the last of the Lystheni in the room. To his squad now, Livanus said, _"Around the corner. Let's go plant the bomb in the environmental sector first._"

Another long corridor. This one set with laser trip-wires, they discovered, the _hard_ way. And gun turrets. The mad dash down the corridor at top speed didn't save any of their armor from being riddled with bullets. Dara, of course, was slowest, and Rel swore viciously, reaching around the corner, grabbing her arm, and yanking her into cover as she finally got there. She sagged to the ground, much as they all were, and he swore again when he saw red blood forming globules near her as it came out of her suit, hovering in mid-air. Zero-g combat's oddest side effect was the peculiar _beauty_ of blood as spheres of red and blue moved through the air around them, hovering like jewels.

"It's fine," she said, dropping into English for a moment. "Nothing's embedded. Suit's taking care of it." She managed to get back to her feet after a moment, and checked the three of them. Livanus had taken repeated hits to his left shoulder—he'd ducked his head into his shoulder to protect it as he ran—and Dara needed to extract two bullets. He'd taken the brunt of the damage, however, running in first. _"All right,"_ Livanus said. _"Environmental's on our right." _He sounded puzzled as he added, _"That hatch up there on the left wasn't in the schematics."_

"_Yeah. I noticed another one back in the hall we just ran through,"_ Rinus supplied. _"Not sure what they are, Spectre. There's not enough room in the station for anything behind them to be very large. Probably the size of a storage closet._"

_But what are they storing?_ Rel thought, and they tucked around the corner, into the room, took out the guards. Environmental systems turned out to have fifty or sixty large, pressurized gas cylinders in it. Rel's mind shuddered back from the damage potential; while most were non-explosive gases, they _were_ under pressure. A single explosive device setting off _one_ would send shrapnel through the room, ripping open others, which would in turn rip open _others._ The ones with pure oxygen inside of them would make this a _very_ good environment for fire, which would blaze all the more hotly, and would be almost impossible to put out, probably melting the walls. And if there were any _hydrogen_ cylinders in here. . . the result would be a very big boom, indeed.

"_Got a problem,"_ Rinus said, dryly—and _loudly_, through his helmet. Rel suddenly realized what the problem _was. _

"_They're jamming our RF frequencies." _Livanus sounded annoyed.

_S'kak.__ No wonder we haven't heard further from Decimus._

Livanus nodded. _"Set the timer for fifteen minutes. We'll head into their main chamber, set that one for ten. Hit the chemical plant if we can, set it for five. And then run like hell."_

Rel swallowed. Plans never lasted past contact with the enemy, but this. . . was not good. His heart started to pound as fresh doses of adrenaline poured in. Rinus nodded once, and set the timer.

"_Move out,"_ Livanus ordered, and they popped out the door. Headed down the hall, to the right, straight for the main open area on this level. _Now I'm wishing he'd set the damn bomb for a little more time_, Rel thought, grimly, and dropped into a crouch at the door into the main chamber.

"_That's a lot of mechs and Lystheni,"_ Dara said, grimly, tucking in beside him.

"_Centurion, use the arc weapon when ready. Velnaran, grenades. Doc, suppressing fire."_

Rel grinned behind his mask and launched his first grenades, hearing the hum of Rinus' heavy weapon as it charged, and the concentrated _**BAM-BAM**_ as Dara did indeed force the Lystheni to keep their heads down, using her rifle for the moment. Lightning arced out, racing for the closest group, and then Rel fired another grenade into the room.

A salarian near the back stood up, and pointed in their direction, and Rel stiffened. _Not a damned biotic. _

Livanus took the hit, and lifted clear off the ground. _S'kak.__ In zero-g, no less. Here's hoping he can get control again._ Rel moved up into the room, trying to draw fire off of Livanus, and found himself flung backwards into a wall by a shockwave for his pains. Dara moved in now, and he didn't even _hear_ the shots. Just the screams of pain from the Lystheni as her little shock bullets hit them and started arcing electricity all over their bodies.

Livanus was still taking heavy fire from the mechs, though, and Rel managed to regain his feet and start firing back at them. _"What I wouldn't give for a biotic right now," _he shouted.

"_Yeah, I wish Sky were here."_

"_I'd settle for Siara at the moment. __Anyone__ who could get Livanus back down here!"_ The biotic field had long since faded around the Spectre's form; now, the zero-g environment meant that his limp form remained in air, rocked and moved by occasional bullet strikes, bouncing off of walls. Blue blood globules spun through the air around him, occasionally intersecting with his body's movements, splashing him again. _S'kak._

The last of the mechs fell down. _"I'll go get him,"_ Dara said. _"Rinus, get the charges set._" She set her rifle back over her shoulder, demagnetized her boots, and launched herself, cautiously, at Livanus' form. She'd had the same amount of zero-g training as Rel had, of course, and caught up with Livanus' body easily. _"He's alive,"_ she called back down. _"Really badly hurt, though. Coming down."_ She launched herself and her burden back to the ground, and landed, her boots, remagnetized, clicking into place again. _"We don't have time for the last bomb,"_ she said, tensely. _"Not if we want to get him stable." _Her hands were already busy, trying to staunch the flow of blood, and he could see how grim her face was behind her visor.

Rel nodded. Now _he_ was in command, and he accepted her words. _"Centurion, how much time on the first bomb left?"_

"_Seven minutes."_

"_Right. Fall back to the shuttle. Centurion, carry the wounded. Doc, you're with me."_

None of them liked the decision, but it was his decision to make. Rinus hefted Livanus over one shoulder—easy enough, in microgravity, but his frame was much larger than Dara's, making the rescue hold simpler to maintain with one hand, leaving his other one free for a gun. They made their way out of the main room, heading back in a straight line for the docking bay. . . and gunfire tore at their shields as they moved. Rel glanced off to his right and his left as they _ran_ now, past the first junction, and swore. _"Guess we know what the storage closets held now, huh?"_

"_YMIR mechs. Thank the spirits they didn't come out as the first line of defense,"_ Rinus replied, not even breathing hard.

In the docking bay, Kallixta had turned the shuttle around, open hatch accessible for the returning squads, and stood on its open hatch, shotgun in hand. A couple of salarians lay dead nearby—evidence that her stay so far hadn't been contested. _"Where are the marines?" _Rel asked.

"_Not sure. They've been out of radio contact for fifteen minutes._"

Dara took Livanus out of Rinus' grip and settled the male on the floor of the shuttle. _"No atmosphere in here, can't open his damn suit yet. I __need__ to treat him,"_ she said, clearly audible.

"_How much time on the first bomb?"_

"_Five minutes," _Rinus said, voice tight.

_Can't leave the marines behind. They could be trapped down there, or they could be_ _dead__. No way of knowing. But there are YMIR mechs slowly clanking their way here to attack the shuttle. __S'kak, s'kak, s'kak.__ And I thought I'd had to make tough decisions before._

"_Centurion, you're with me. Pilot, if we're not back in four minutes, take off."_

"_No!"_ Not surprisingly, that had come from Dara.

_Sweetness, this is one of the times where you can't fight me._ "Doctor Velnaran, treat your patient." English, clipped command tones. He was already moving away, Rinus in step behind him, running for the elevator. But he'd seen her drop her head and start working on Livanus as best she could, lifting armor plates away to reveal the elasticized suit underneath.

The elevator shaft was _empty._ No blast of atmosphere, either, which meant that the power core had emptied its atmosphere at some point, too. _Interesting_.

They leaped into it, guiding themselves down at high speed, and landed at the bottom. First bullets racing past them, nicking their shields. Peering around—_there's the Marine team. At least two of them. Damn, vacuum, can't hear us. Oh, well, we use a little __visual__ communication instead!_

Rel lobbed a fragmentation grenade past the marines into the crowd of mechs guarding the power core. The explosion triggered some sort of an alert on the panels in there, he could see—the colors all shifted to red. Decimus' head jerked up, and he waved frantically. Pointed at the ground in front of him, and held up his fingers, counting off. . ._one. . .two. . . three. . ._

Rel glanced down. Saw the bombs. Nodded once. Held up three fingers.

Decimus dropped back down, as Rel and Rinus continued to provide covering fire. Set the bombs. Then detached his boots from the floor and kicked off a nearby bulkhead as if swimming and _hurtled_ back their direction, his _pilae_ following in his wake. _Up, up!_ Rel gestured frantically, and they all leaped, floating up the shaft, grabbing onto cables and pulling on them to speed their ascent.

Into the docking bay—_one minute left, and Kallixta's started the engines, but hasn't left yet. I don't know whether to thank them or yell at them._

Racing across the deckplates now, Dara standing to catch each of their arms and pull them in, him first, Rinus second, now Decimus, now the pilae whose name Rel didn't know—shuttle lifting off, first rumbles in the distance. Rel lunged for the hatch controls and started raising the door. They were going to need all the protection they could get. YMIR mechs were finally in range, after all, and had just started to shoot, bullets pinging off the edges of the hatch.

_Thirty seconds. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. _ The hatch came up, Dara gave him a fierce, tight hug through armor, and then knelt back down by Livanus. Dug in her pack. Got out an IV bag. _Twenty, nineteen, eighteen. _Shoved the IV bag into his hands. He couldn't hear her, but could read those soft lips. _Hold this._ Started stripping Livanus' arm bare, looking for a venipuncture site. _Now, sweetness? You think you can get a vein now—spirits, yes, yes she can. _ He found a rack to support the IV itself now, let the fluids start draining into the wounded male's body. At least the shuttle supported a little artificial gravity. He had no _idea_ how this would work in a zero-g scenario. _Wait, wouldn't suction work, at that point? Or would we have to squeeze the bag, carefully?_ Random thoughts.

_Ten, nine, eight_. . . engines straining as the shuttle tore away from the station. _Six, five, four,_. . . Rel crouched down. Caught Dara's shoulder, making her turn around. Met her eyes, lowered his helmet to hers. Sound conduction, through the helmet. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

_Three. . . two. . . one._

The station exploded.

The shuttled rocked. Rel could feel _something_ hit them, and the ride abruptly became bumpy, choppy. Sound came back in a rush. _"We're out of the jamming field,"_ Kallixta reported, sounding tense. _"Largely since we just blew it to hell."_

"_What's our status?"_ Rel called back, pulling away from Dara, letting her get on with her work.

"_Left engine took a hit. I've got it locked down for the moment, but getting back to the __Estallus__ is going to be a bumpy ride."_

"_Just keep it as stable as you can,"_ Dara called back. _"And if someone could re-pressurize the cabin, it'd be a __big__ help."_

Rinus moved then, started working panels. Rel turned, looked at Decimus, who was sitting on one of the seats, clearly breathing hard in his suit. _"Corolan, you okay?"_

"_Couple of bullets that the doc's going to yell at me for not dodging."_

"_Don't worry about __me__ yelling, worry about __Nadea__ yelling at you. She only _hogtied _you yesterday, after all."_ The mix of English and turian had half the shuttle starting to laugh, a little giddily, but there was still tension. They still needed to get _back_ to the _Estallus_, after all.

"_What was the __hastae__'s name?" _Rel asked Decimus, after a moment. _Was she technically under my command? Or Decimus', at that point? I haven't lost anyone who was under my command before._ Kella had been the first loss, but that hadn't been a command situation.

"_Tallaria Nomorian._" Decimus tipped his head back. _"Wasn't your fault, Velnaran. The radios got jammed before we could tell you what was going on. Just __damned__ glad you came back for us." _The male paused. _"Thank you."_

Rel put a hand on Decimus' shoulder. _Glad we could __make__ it back for you. If it had been any closer, I couldn't have made the order. I would have had to leave you. __S'kak__. _He took a few deep breaths. _This is what all the training is for. To make the right decisions, when it counts. _

"_Coming up on the __Estallus__. I've let them know we're coming in a little hot. Hangar crew's standing by with fire suppressant systems. Got the med teams standing by, too."_ Kallixta's voice was sharp and precise, as always.

"_Tell 'em we need a crash cart,"_ Dara said, tightly. _"His heart just stopped. Starting CPR."_ She started compressions, and Rel was astounded at his wife's focus as the shuttle dipped and swayed, and Kallixta fought the remaining, very balky engine, and headed for the shuttle bay doors. Rel winced and held his breath as they damned near clipped the door, and then skidded to a halt on the shuttle deck.

Rinus was already moving, opening the hatch, and clouds of fire retardant chemicals poured up in the air around the shuttle. _"Can we move him to the med team?" _ Rel asked.

"_No. Wait for them to come to us. Get Livanus's helmet off for me."_

He complied, as Dara pulled her own helmet off, formed a seal around the lip plates with one hand, and blew into the Spectre's mouth. Kiss of life. Something a human could do, with no other equipment than those soft lips. A second breath. Then back to compressions.

The med team clambered on board next, and they and Dara were quickly exchanging information, getting out ampoules of medications, and so on. Decimus and the other marine slowly staggered down the hatch out into the main bay—past the medics, Rel could see Nadea streak over to Decimus, and start _scolding_ him, fiercely, for the blue blood all over his left side. Kallixta unlatched from the pilot's seat, and came to stand between him and Rinus, watching, silently, as the med techs labored to get Livanus stable enough to move, even for the quick trip to med bay. _"I've got a pulse,"_ one of them announced.

"_Okay,"_ Dara said. _"Let's get him on a gurney. On three. One. . . two. . . three. . . "_ The med techs all lifted at once, moving the Spectre onto the gurney, and then raised the gurney. Dara moved with them, not even glancing up from her patient. Total focus, total concentration. Rel could actually read the thoughts in his mate's expression. _Blue blood. Everywhere. Not going to die on me this time._

He turned, and offered his first-brother a hand-clasp. Rinus took it, smile visible now that he'd lifted his visor. _"Nice damn job, second-brother,"_ he told Rel.

"_Lost one, almost lost the Spectre. Don't know how __good__ that is."_ Rel took a deep breath. _"And this was just the first half."_ _ I wonder how bad the ground base is going to be. And how well the __other__ eleven stations went?_

_**Author's note:**_ _For grins, I got out the old dice rolling program I used to use as a DM, and rolled for Decimus and Nadea. They legitimately didn't wind up with a kid out of this. Kallixta and Rinus would have, but they got a re-roll because they're wearing plot-armor (plot prophylactic?) in this regard._


	69. Chapter 69: Culmination, Part Two

**Chapter 69: Culmination, Part Two**

_**Author's note:**__ Dialogue that Rel obviously didn't hear in the last chapter: _

_Kallxita, watching the two males head for the elevator, comes over and presses her helmet to Dara's for a moment._

_Dara: "We're not leaving without them."_

_Kallixta: "Don't be stupid. Of course we're not."_

_For those who've asked. . . yeah, the various characters do develop theme music in my head. Now that I've been actively thinking about it, Rellus leans towards Godsmack. __Voodoo__, specifically, but only when he's mad. Or Rob Zombie, __Dragula__, in combat. The rest of the time, he's probably __Helden,__ from Apocalyptica, with vocals from the dude from_ _Ramstein. (Rough translation of some of the lyrics—'I am the king, and you are the queen. . . so we'll be heroes, for a single day.')_

_Siara is something from Evanescence, I think. Maybe __Bring me to Life__ or __Wake me Up Inside._

_Kallixta and Rinus are pretty heavily in A Perfect Circle territory with __Thinking of You__, though Rinus shares the Rob Zombie theme when he's fighting. _

_Dara's probably like Rob Zombie, __Living Dead Girl__ in combat. Little touch of __So Far Away__ by Staind the rest of the time, perhaps. "This is my life, it's not what it was before. . . Now that that we're here, so far away. . . and these are my dreams that I'd never lived before. . I'm so afraid of waking. . . please don't shake me. . . _"_ Or maybe something by The Gathering. __Monsters__ works for her on many levels. Good combat music, hints of piano, lovely voice for Sky's "little singer." _

_I can totally picture Eli and Linianus listening to Nine Inch Nails in the middle of a firefight for some reason. __The Hand that Feeds__, 'cause they tend to have so much __fun__, I think, or __Head like a Hole__. *squints* I don't think either is Eli's theme music though. Ah, here we go. Tool, __The Grudge.__ That's Eli. Lantar's more in __Laterallus__ territory at this stage of his life. So is Garrus, for the "Black and white are all I see, in my infancy" lines, as well as the rest of the dualism inherent to the song._

_In combat, Garrus and Shep are solidly in __Let the Bodies Hit the Floor__ territory._

_Yeah, I __do__ like a __lot__ of different types of music. ;-) Not just classical. I just reference the stuff in-story that I can be almost 100% sure will still be around and relevant in a hundred years. Sort of why when I reference literature, it's got to be a big-name book and over 20 years old at this point. Also why I __don't__ reference movies or internet memes. No way of knowing what will survive and be of enduring interest to people a hundred years down the line. Plus, referencing __Star Wars__ or __Princess Bride__ or whatever else seems a little. . . precious._

_**On another topic:**__ Ceres got me thinking about what guild chat on an MMO would be like, assuming the Spectres have a __realllllllly__ slow month or two to kill._

_Sam: "Hey, there's some griefer hanging out on the gates of Old Complovium, flagged for free-for-all, sniping people as they come in and out. I'm getting on my rogue to tag him and bag him. Anyone want to help?"_

_Garrus: "Um, that's me, Jaworski."_

_Sam: *pause* "That's __really__ disappointing, Garrus."_

_Garrus: "In my defense, I'm only shooting gold-farmers and people with names like Drizzzzzzt or XXRaistlinXX."_

_Sam: "Oh! In that case, I'll help."_

_A few minutes later, as Shepard the GM gets online. "Okay, anyone who's signed up for the raid tonight has got to be on Vent, or no loot. Rel, is Dara playing tonight? We need heals."_

_Rel: "She says she's got reading to do."_

_*mass groans* _

_Rinus, very quietly: "Maybe you should __let__ her read on __non__-raid nights. . . "_

_Rel: "Bite me, first-brother."_

_Shepard, clearing throat: "We need tank heals and off heals, and Dara's priest is geared. Garrus is main tank . . .or will be, once he gets off his hunter alt. . . . *exchange of married glances* I'm off-tank, and who else is going along?"_

_Lantar: "I can bring my paladin. He's got a holy off-spec."_

_Shepard: "That still leaves us short a healer, and Mordin wanted to play his mage tonight. . . "_

_Mordin: "Yes. Intriguing possible fireball exploit in last boss fight. Very exciting potential."_

_Dara logs on: "Okay, I'm in, but we need to make this a short run tonight. I really do need to read."_

_Shepard: "Excellent. Now, who else is DPSing. . . no, no, we're full up on rogues between Kasumi and Sam. Rinus, you bringing your fury warrior?"_

_Rinus: "I can, but Kallixta and I can both sit back and do ranged DPS. You tell us what you need."_

_I'll cut this short, 'cause this could go on a while. ;-) The end result is no one gets the gear they want or need and they're locked to the instance for the next week. By which time, something across the galaxy will have blown up anyway, and require their attention. . . ._

_*cough* Yes, I've. . . played a lot of priests in MMOs. Why do you ask?_

**Dara**

Her arms were _damned_ tired from the compressions, but at least they'd gotten Livanus stable enough to get him to medbay. A nice shot of the turian equivalent of adrenaline and a shock with the paddles had gotten it pumping vigorously again, but the heart itself was damaged, and thus, Livanus kept falling into defibrillation. Dara simply swore and kept up compressions. In and around all of this, the turian had lost massive quantities of blood. They were pumping in saline to at least give his body _something_ to move, but they'd need to switch to whole blood as soon as they reached med bay.

Dara was actually riding _on_ the gurney, crouched over her patient, as the other two med techs pushed it. And on reaching the med bay, Dr. Cimmirian was there, spitting out questions, getting answers. Her scanner confirmed what Dara's already had shown her on the shuttle—turians, like humans and Terran birds, had a four-chambered heart, with the blood, oxygenated and non-oxygenated, were kept separated by a physical barrier. It was the most efficient heart system ever evolved, a beautiful machine, when it was intact. The aortic arch was located on the _right_ side in turians and Terran birds, not on the left, as in mammals. . . and that right aortic arch had been nicked by a bullet. Valea started relaying orders, and in very short order, they had Livanus hooked to a heart-and-lung machine, helping his blood to pump and his lungs to move. _"Now I can actually get in there and __fix__ things,"_ the doctor said, turning and looking at Dara. _"Good job getting him here."_

"_Should I scrub up? If only to watch?"_ Dara _wanted_ to help. Wanted to put everything back the way it was supposed to be. She'd done her best so far (_so much blue blood_) but if she walked away now, and Livanus died, she'd be. . . responsible, somehow.

"_No, clean up and report back to your squad. You're heading right back out again."_

Dara's head rocked back. Valea nodded once. _"He's in __my__ hands now. Go do your other job. You can learn on the next heart surgery."_

Dara nodded once and started cleaning her hands and her armor up a bit. No sense looking like a slaughterhouse when she headed back to the shuttle bay. She paused at the door, looking back at the very still form of the turian Spectre. _I don't even know your wife's name_, she thought. _I know your last name is Cuatoris. I know you're former CID. But while you've always been __around__, I haven't gotten to know you all that well. So many other people. So many things to do. I'm. . . sorry for that._

She swallowed, and headed back out the door. Pushing it down.

Reaching the shuttle bay, she found Rel, and sat down next to him, tired in the aftermath of so much adrenaline. He looked down, and put a hand on her head briefly, as if he'd like to touch the hair that was hidden under her helmet. "How is he?" he asked.

"In surgery. One of the bullets nicked the aortic arch. The heart kept trying to beat, and basically kept flaying itself further open with each beat, and then essentially spasmed. Which is when it stopped beating." She sighed. "Several times." Dara leaned back against the wall, staring incuriously at the hustle and bustle around them.

"Better than Kella, though," Rel reminded her, softly.

She looked up, met his eyes. Smiled. "Yeah. Kept this one alive long enough to _get_ him to surgery. Livanus is _tough_, Rel."

"He's a Spectre." Rel said it as if it explained everything. In a way, it did. Then he changed the subject. "Rin's back on the main guns. Kallixta just got paged to the bridge, too. We're heading to the planet in about fifteen minutes."

Dara nodded. Thought about it. "Good. Not enough time to worry, and just _enough_ time to find the head."

Rel laughed, and pulled her up by her hands.

**Kasumi**

The galaxy map in the _Normandy_ CIC had been wiped and replaced with a tactical grid, showing all twelve bases around the planet. As each team reported in, Kasumi could watch what was going on in real time. Shepard was on one of those stations. So was Garrus; Sam was on one; Lantar was on another. They were stretched thin, one Spectre or Spectre-affiliated agent per platform. Samara had one, Jack had one. Tali and Kal'Reegar were together, at least, but were handling a station with only their own marines for backup. No one liked it, but they needed at least one experienced person per satellite, and one explosives expert per satellite, and at least two teams worth of bodies. And while Kasumi could do both jobs in her sleep, she _couldn't_ do them right now.

So instead, she watched the grid and made reports. Not too much different from her deskjob, really. _"You're going to be our eyes and coordination, Kasumi,"_ Shepard had told her, giving her a little pat on the shoulder. _"You need to tell me what the hell's going on, because I can't see it all when things are blowing up in my face."_

Satellites were winking out of existence here and there on the map, shuttles racing away from them, tiny blips returning to larger blips. So neat. So clean. So quiet.

The casualty reports were also disconcertingly neat and clean. Ship names, numbers of injured. Numbers of dead. Four _Dunkirk_ marines dead—one squad had lost two members backing up Jack, another squad had lost two members backing up Blasto. _Kharkov_ had lost two marines as well, one backing up Cohort, and the other backing up Samara. _Estallus_ had lost three marines, one backing up Livanus, one backing up Lantar, and one backing up Sam. . . and. . . _shit._ "Shep," Kasumi said into the radio, "Livanus is in critical condition on the _Estallus_. They report massive chest trauma. He's in surgery now." Kasumi's voice was tight. She'd known the turian Spectre for just over six years now. Not well, but he'd always been _around_.

"I copy that, Kasumi. What's the status of the rest of his team?" Shepard was in command mode. Kasumi could hear it in her voice.

"One dead marine. Minor injuries to the marine squad leader—he'll be on his feet once the medigel kicks in. Jallus says commendations are in order for all three Velnarans—two for the boys, for going back for the marines, and another for the combat medic, for keeping a patient alive under heavy fire and extraordinary conditions. Damn. They had YMIR mechs on that station."

"Yeah, on ours, too." Shepard paused. "We're on our way back to the _Normandy_ now. Let everyone know we're going to be turning around and heading _right_ back out. Get Gris and Cohort moving first. We need them in position with the krogan."

Kasumi nodded, and sent that signal, watching a shuttle peel away from the _Dunkirk_ a moment later. Knowing that the _Dunkirk_'s forward guns were watching over the shuttle, but still dreading the thought of what would happen if the Lystheni launched on the small vehicle.

Shepard, probably thinking the same thing, asked, "Any signs of fighters?"

"Not yet. We know they've _got_ them. No teams have reported seeing any ships on the satellites. Centurion Velnaran reported what looked like manufacturing facilities in the middle of their satellite. Robotic machinery, waldos, the like."

"That's what we saw, too." That was Garrus, heading back to the _Normandy_ on his own shuttle now.

"Ship parts, but no actual ships," Tali chimed in now, from the shuttle taking her back to her and Kal's ship. "I'd say they planned to assemble at least three or four more at our facility. All small ships, of course. The satellites couldn't handle anything larger, like the raiders that you have shown us documentation on."

Kasumi's mind raced. There was no way of actually knowing how many fighters and raiders the Lystheni might actually have. Not every station had been a manufacturing facility. Some had been, by all reports, merely hangars. Six hangars, six assembly stations. Rinus' initial examination of the schematics had suggested that ten to twelve human or turian-sized fighters could be accommodated in each bay. That could, conceivably, make for sixty ships. _Assuming the Lystheni were able to manufacture so many in just a year. Probability's slim. It takes __time__ to work up a prototype and then start mass producing. Took Lockheed four years to produce the first wave of the Lightning Strike fighter, after all. Then again, that's humans. Alliance oversight committees changing their mind on the mission of the LS three, four times, two or three redesigns, and then, finally, manufacturing problems with some of the system components. The Lystheni have __none__ of that. Plus, of course, they __might__ still have biotic weapons on their raider ships. Assuming they have any of those left._

Kasumi didn't like going into such an unknown situation. But they really had very little choice.

"All right," Shepard said, her voice coming over the radio into the half-dozen ships currently circling the planet. The quarians were sticking close to the _Normandy_ and Samara's ship was situated close to the _Dunkirk_. Both of these ships were, of course, highly visible to ground detection systems, not having the stealth capacity of the frigates. "We're going to be landing drop-ships in ten minutes, people. You're about to get your briefing from your commanders. Be aware, we have krogan allies on the ground. Do not shoot them. That tends to make krogan very cranky." She paused. "There's a lot riding on this, but I know every one of you is capable, and we're counting on you. See you on the ground."

_She does know how to keep the inspiring speeches short,_ Kasumi thought, and switched the tactical grid from the orbital view to the ground view. _This. . . is where it's about to get nasty._

The Morphil'zha location was a small city, or at least, a large corporate campus. Gris' observations of the facility, along with Cohort's, had been key in determining a lot of the information that they _did_ have. There were six large square outbuildings positioned in two lines to the east and west, more or less forming a box, or a perimeter around the inner buildings. These were barracks for batarian mercenaries. All of which wore _Klem Na_ shackle markings, Gris had reported, with some relish.

This left gaps to the north and the south, which looked exposed. There were, however, automated turrets positioned outside the two northern and two southern buildings with a 225º turn radius, and which fired fifty-caliber ammunition, much like what a Mako or a Hammerhead did. This meant that anyone approaching from the south or the north. . . or creeping between buildings to the east or the west. . . would be in a kill zone.

Inside that perimeter was a second rank of buildings. These were more conventionally salarian in style, each curving slightly, and forming a ring around a central, round building. Their krogan allies had indicated that several of these had been supply sheds in times past, but that four out of the seven had been converted into hangars for the 'drones' of late.

The central building, the Morphil'zha headquarters, was round. Kasumi would bet that the very lowest office, located in a sub-basement somewhere, was the dalatrass'. If there _was_ a clone left, that's where she'd be. Unfortunately, the krogan knew that turrets again lined the outside of the building, with lines of fire extending through the gaps between each storage/hangar building, like the spokes of a wheel. The building had two entrances, north and south. _The batarians and the salarians must have biometric chips that give off a friendly signal, so that the turrets don't fire on them_, Kasumi had told Shepard when they'd gotten the first descriptions. _Doesn't do __us__ much good. When we go in, we'll have to take out each turret before moving forward._

So the strategy had been devised. Gris, Cohort, and thirty krogan would attack first, at the southwestern barracks, shielded by the building itself from the turrets. Once they had the batarians looking that direction, everyone _else_ would move in with their smaller squads. Two squads of human marines from the _Kharkov_ would be taking the western building. Shepard, Garrus, and Lantar would take the northwest, along with a squad of _Normandy_ marines. Sam, Jack, and Samara would be at the northeast, with a group of turian marines. Sky would be backed up by Rel and Dara, along with another group of turian marines. Blasto, Tali, and Kal, backed by quarian marines, would take on the southeastern barracks.

The eastern and western teams would need to find windows and start firing through them at the turrets, if they could. Tali and Cohort would attempt to disable the southern turrets; Garrus and Lantar would attempt to deactivate the northern ones. Then they would call in their reserve marines, and punch through to the hangar ring. And repeat, finally hitting the building in the center from both sides at once.

It looked good on paper. Kasumi had to admit that. But there was no way of knowing what the Lystheni had planned in response. They were hunkering down for the moment. Not trying to flee, which was. . . different, for them.

It made her stomach very, very uneasy.

**Rellus**

He looked up as Sam and Lantar came back into the shuttle bay and started to brief them on the coordinated strikes they were going to be making. _"There's a better than average chance we're going to run into radio jamming again_," Lantar said, grimly. _"This will make coordination difficult, so we're issuing flare guns to all officers. When you make it to your first objective, launch one. That'll be the cue for your reserves to pull in behind you. Launch another when you reach the second ring, so we all know where everyone __is__. Then our teams will be heading to the north entrance, and we'll be able to coordinate from there. Any questions?"_

Silence. They'd already lost three people today, and a Spectre was in the med bay undergoing open heart surgery. _Let's hope the __Estallus__ doesn't need to do any combat maneuvering_, Rel thought, grimly, _or at least, that Cimmerian's hands are at least as steady as my mate's._

Lantar nodded once, and went on. _"We're forming up squads on the ground. Curicium . . . er. . . __Corolan__, I mean." _He paused, as if only just now registering the change in clan-paint on Nadea, and looked disoriented for a moment. "_You and two squads are with the Lieutenants Velnaran. You'll all be working with Spectre Sings-to-the-Sky."_

Rel couldn't help but grin as his wife suddenly whooped in glee. Sam looked over at them sardonically. "I think that got a better reaction than Christmas and your last birthday combined," he said, very dryly. "What are the rest of us Spectres, chopped liver?"

Most of the marines now knew that Dara was Sam's daughter, and had finished giving her hell about it a week ago. But now it was open season for laughter, and they all _did_ poke at her a bit, in pure stress relief. And Dara blushed and got her face more or less under control as Lantar, grinning a bit, himself, went on. _"Sky is a rachni. __Try__ not to shoot him. You'll find that he sings in your mind. Don't tense up. That's his natural way of communicating. He can also put images of where everyone in a squad is in someone's mind. I have no idea if he can manage it for fifty people at once, and we don't want to tire him out. Just be advised, working with him will take a little getting used to. You'll be going in through the east building."_

He looked around _"Corolan, er, Decimus. You and two squads are with me. We'll be heading in with Commander Shepard and Garrus Vakarian at the northwest."_ There were whispers of awe for a moment, and Lantar shook his head. "_Please try to keep the gaping to a minimum. We'll also be interfacing human marines, so listen for my commands or Garrus's if your VI shorts out due to jamming. We'll be taking out a turret as we go, so be careful of your surroundings and watch your shields."_

Sam cleared his throat. "Cadius. . . _My turian is really bad, let's face it._" Rel looked up, surprised. He'd _never_ heard Sam even _try_ anything in turian before, and he wanted to grab the man's wrist and clasp it earnestly for trying. "Which is why _you_ and your language skills and _your_ squad are coming with me. We've got a human squad coming in the second wave behind us, headed by Macready from the _Kharkov._ We'll be interfacing with two biotics, a human and an asari. Neither are Spectres, so you take your orders from _me_, and no one else. We'll be going in at the northeast, then coming through the building to take out our turret. Be advised, that they might have air support. That's why every team is being issued two shoulder-mounted rockets." He looked around. "Everybody ready?"

Nods all around. _"Good hunting,"_ Sam offered, with a little, almost sheepish grin, and then everyone filed towards their drop-ships—Hammerheads, in this case. Rel managed to clasp wrists with Decimus and Rasmus before they boarded their own drop-ships, and he and Dara both got pats on the back from Sam and Lantar as they moved into their own Hammerhead, and Rel took the pilot's seat out of reflex, strapping in.

The _Estallus_ moved into the atmosphere, hurtling towards the base, and dropped three Hammerheads out the cargo bay hatch at about a hundred and fifty feet off the ground. Rel immediately started pressing on the inertial system, using a cushion of air to break their fall. Other drop-ships were in the air over the area—he could catch glimpses of them, matte paints drinking the sun's late-evening light rather than reflecting it. Then _thud_, landing with a rock and a bounce that jarred his teeth and his kidneys. _"Sorry for the rough ride, folks,"_ he called back, and set out for the rendezvous point, racing lightly over the rocky, jagged terrain.

He saw what he was looking for, and skidded the vehicle to a halt. _"Open the rear hatch,"_ he called, and then Sky was there, crawling into the Hammerhead with them. Turian stoicism or no, he could see his squad members stiffening in shock as a creature out of every bedtime story they'd ever been told squeezed into the narrow confines of the Hammerhead with them.

"Sky!" Dara said, completely delighted, and unlatched her harness to stand and give the rachni a hug, armor or no. Rel could _see_ the rest of their squad relaxing after a moment, when it was evident that the rachni had no intention of biting off the human's head and making a snack of her.

Over the radio, Rel reported, tersely, in English, "We have Spectre Sky in hand. Moving to position."

_Sings-Heartsong. Sings-Honor. Did I not say that we would join our voices again?_ Blues and greens of happiness, mixed with . . . black. Red. Resolve, grim determination, readiness for battle.

"_You did,"_ she said, and Rel was unsurprised when the shift of language made no difference to the rachni at all. He perceived _thoughts_, not the language they were couched in.

_Battle-songs first. Red and white. You have both learned to sing them well._ _But perhaps, when this is over, you might play for me upon the box that sings?_ The thought was almost hungry. Rel grinned and got the Hammerhead moving again.

"_The piano is at home, but I have a __reela__ in our quarters, if you'd be amenable." _Dara sat back down and started buckling her harness again.

Nadea, who'd been sitting there in what had looked like stark terror for a moment or two, cleared her throat, and said, quietly, _"Velnaran—I mean, doc?"_

"_Yeah?"_

"_Your life is too weird for __words__. Is there a Spectre you __don't__ know?"_

"_I only know the ones my dad's worked with the most."_ Dara passed it off lightly. _"I didn't—I __don't__ know Livanus Cautoris all that well, for example."_

They were almost to the enclave now, and Rel hesitated before the crest of the hill, eyes scanning for the first flare from the southwest, listening to radio chatter.

Gris' rough bass now. "Moving to position. Starting our attack."

**Gris**

He and Cohort had thirty krogan with them, every one of them a survivor of Garvug's intensely cold climate. Most, he wouldn't trust with his back. There were two or three who looked to have glimmerings of the Urdnot way in them, however. Leaders who hadn't abandoned their krannts, even when their own survival would have been easier. Gris had them marked out in his mind. Ulamont Karsh, Omrokin Mekk, and Guldak Narev. _"Move up!"_ he bellowed. _"Today we kill batarians and salarians! Tomorrow, we return to Tuchanka!"_

For a wonder, he knew they believed him. He'd been working with these fighters for almost two months now, welding them together. Trying to build something resembling cohesion, something resembling discipline, instead of the mad bull-rush that krogan packs were known for. Weapons and food drops had helped; they all respected a leader who could _provide_.

Now they moved up out of the cover in which most of them had been crouched since the night before, and began to move, together, at a run, for the southwestern barracks building. No turrets. Just batarians scrambling towards windows, starting to fire from a distance. The krogan didn't break stride, running right into the teeth of that bulletstorm. What shields wouldn't handle, what armor wouldn't handle, their bodies _would_ handle. Pain was meaningless. Pain was momentary. Pain was for the _weak_.

And none of these survivors of ten or twenty or thirty years on this hard planet could ever be described as weak.

Gris hit the western door of the barracks—almost more of a hatch, than a door—with a warp effect, and saw the door start to crumple inwards. _"Get bodies on that door!"_ he shouted, and one of his men slammed into the crumpling door, full-speed, with a shoulder. Other species might need battering rams. Krogan _were_ their own battering rams.

The door collapsed in, and Gris wrapped a shield of biotic force around himself. _"Kill them! Kill them all!"_

That was an order that every krogan could get behind. Clear, simple, no troublesome ethical nuances. Gris led the initial charge into the building himself, batarian bullets tearing into his biotic shielding, and then found his first targets. Batarian mercenaries lifted off the ground, screaming in rage, helpless, as he and his men targeted them. He tore a radio off one dead male's wrist, and listened. He didn't speak much batarian, but he knew enough to understand that an alert had been sent out. _"The fucking krogan have come down from the hills again! They're at the south-west!"_

"_Careful, this could be a pelak. The gulda'ma for'mokor went silent an hour ago. Move two squads to help at the merahai, but everyone else, shata your kellre. Don't get caught z'lathra."_ Gris grimaced. That sounded like a commander with some brains. _Oh, well, happens from time to time._

The rest was tough, vicious, room-to-room combat. Several of his men went into bloodrage around him. Gris could feel it tugging at the corners of his mind, beckoning him. It would be so _easy_ to fall into it, to snarl in rage and tear a batarian in half with his bare hands. But he stayed in his calm center. Let the storm swirl around him, and was a part of it, and yet apart from it. Wrapped in his shield, he was damned near invincible, but not so foolish as to believe himself so; his job was to find targets and throw them up in the air, fire at them, tear their shields and their armor with his power. Behind him, beside him, Cohort had been silent all this while as they tore through the barracks, thirty hungry, angry krogan against seventy or eighty batarian mercenaries. All in tight quarters. It wasn't even a contest.

"Gris-Spectre, we are seeing troop movement outside."

"I know," Gris rumbled back. "We have to get outside and get the turret off-line, anyway."

"We have a better recommendation. We can hack the turret from inside, and turn it against incoming troops."

Gris grinned at the geth. "I like the way you think. All of you, in fact."

"We thank you for this compliment." Cohort's eyeflaps moved quickly, and he headed for the eastern windows.

Gris grunted and shattered the windows with a surge of biotic power, and fired a flare up over the compound from within the building. "May as well get everyone else on the floor," he said.

Cohort had extended several antennae from his arms and hands, and was doing something delicate and precise on a panel on his left wrist. "Everyone is already on the ground," he reminded Gris. "Gravity exerts an effect over all bodies."

"Just hack the damned turret."

"Done." Cohort's voice had a tinge of enjoyment to it, Gris thought, and watched as the turret below them suddenly spun and started firing at the advancing batarians coming from the barracks to the north. _Every one of them we take out here, is one another team doesn't have to fight,_ he thought, in some satisfaction.

"Got another group coming from the east," he warned Cohort.

"We are aware, Gris-Spectre."

"_Why does your mech keep calling you Spectre, anyway?"_ Karsh asked, from his left. Karsh understood galactic, but preferred to speak in krogan.

"_Because I am one. And he's actually a geth, not a mech. He's a Spectre, too."_ Gris grinned as more radio chatter from the batarians came through. They were reporting heavy casualties, a turret malfunction, and begging for backup.

He lifted his own radio now. "Don't know if our frequency's jammed yet, but consider the party started, Shepard," he reported, voice filled with dark glee.

"Two more squads approaching," Cohort announced.

Shepard's voice crackled. "All units, move in."

**Dara**

They heard the command, and Rel set the Hammerhead up the hill at full speed. Dara hung onto a wall strap for dear life. He hadn't driven so much as a ground car around her since he'd left for boot camp, and it was clear that his aggressive instincts found another release in this. _If he drives like this __all__ the time now, anytime we're __not__ in combat, __I'm__ going to be driving,_ Dara decided as they flew over a small gully.

"_Curicum—damnit, __Corolan__, get on the gun,"_ Rel ordered, and Nadea did so, her opening salvo tearing into the side of the metal building the were racing towards. There was about a minute of surprise, and then gunfire started erupting out of the windows facing them, but Nadea tipped the gun up and down, spraying the structure with bullets herself, forcing the batarians inside to duck for cover themselves. Everyone else piled out the back hatch as Rel swung them around, and Sky's mental song showed them all points of cover along the front of the building. A batarian popped out of a shattered window and took aim at Sky's form, and the rachni turned and _spat_ something green and vile at the batarian, who fell back screaming and clutching his face and helmet. Dara pointed at the door, and gestured at one of the marines with her, feeling, rather than seeing, as Rel and Nadea pounded up behind her and slammed into cover.

The marine Dara had gestured at broke from cover and ran to the door, covered by fire from his squad-mates. Tested the door, shook his head, and slapped a small explosive charge near the handle and lock. Ducked and dodged his way back to cover, and then set off the small device. _Good,_ Sky's thoughts rang through every mind around them, suffused with reds and blacks and whites, colors she'd hardly ever heard her friend sing before. _Forward when you may. I will sing captive-songs for them._

Dara had no idea what that meant, but Rel was already gesturing at a break in fire, and she and he and Sky ran straight for the door now, and Rel ripped the door—largely broken already—off its shattered hinges and ducked around the corner, looking for targets. _Listen!_ Sky sang, urgently, and suddenly Dara understood what the hell Lantar had been talking about, as colored dots appeared in her mind. Every batarian in the building, it seemed—or at least as many as she could process. Those were red. Her squadmates were largely blue, except for Rel, who was that pure and glorious golden color she remembered from the simulator. _These minds are shackled, of their own choice. They sing captive songs. I will sing them into captivity of another sort, and you will sing them out of life._

And then Sky simply moved into the barracks ahead of them, his bulk huge in the small entry corridor, and deployed a singularity, lifting five or six batarians off the ground at once. _Oh yes, it would have been __nice__ to have you along upstairs,_ Dara thought, and began picking off targets, even as Rel turned and gestured for the marines behind them to move up. Nadea again found a position tight up beside Dara and Rel, and her voice was tight with awe as she muttered, _"How the __hell__ did the galaxy ever __beat__ the rachni?"_

_Krogan song very strong. But Sings-Battle is also Battle-Brother now. It is well that we join our songs._ Sky's voice was almost casual as he flung a shockwave at more batarians crowding in ahead of them, and Dara and Rel squeezed past him, lightly patting him on the legs as they did, in apology, setting up where they could actually shoot past him, but still in cover.

"_He has a . . . battle-brother?"_ Nadea asked, moving up to Rel's side of the hall and ducking out to fire a few times.

"_Yeah, he and Urdnot Gris, the krogan Spectre, get along great_," Dara replied, tucking her head down into her chest at the moment, feeling bullets rock the metal doorway currently behind her back. _C'mon, hold together at least until their clip runs out,_ she thought, wincing.

Sky's bulk was such a clear target, and he was therefore, so relatively vulnerable. His carapace was natural armor, of course, and he'd cheerfully had them paint it Spectre black long ago. But no shields. It was up to _them_ to defend him, and they were doing their best, but the batarians were still just coming and coming and coming. Sky lifted another group of the mercenaries with his biotics, and Dara winced at a bright stab of orange-yellow pain in her mind, and Sky buckled on his right side. She stepped back from her firing position, and went to Sky, trusting Rel and Nadea and the rest of the marines to cover her. "You do realize that my rachni first-aid is pretty damned near nonexistent, right?" she asked, crouching to look at one of his legs, which was now oozing ichor from near a joint. _No wonder he damned near dropped. Like being knee-capped for a human._

_Sings-Heartsong knows more than she thinks_. The thought was pained, but a little humorous.

_Easy for you to say, you listen to everything I'm thinking. Of course, that means that it's __in__ my head somewhere. . . ah, yeah, here we go. _Dara found the crack in the carapace, flinching a little as Sky spat more toxic saliva into the corridor ahead of them, and, very carefully, pried the edges a little further apart. The flesh inside was . . . black, as was the ichor. Hard to see anything, but she blinked and forced her eyes into the right focal length and found the damned bullet. Pulled it out, and swore as a hail of bullets landed on _her_ shields now, one of them punching through into armor. "Get them off me!"

Applying medigel, feeling the impact of _more_ bullets now, swearing and scrambling back to cover herself now, panting. Rel rolled across the corridor to her, pulled around her corner, and started firing back again. _"You all right?"_

"_I've been better."_ Dara could feel her suit releasing medigel now for _her_. Some of the bullets had penetrated the armor itself, but she didn't feel _that_ hurt. They were _hot_, of course, burning hot with velocity and friction, and as she looked down cautiously, she did find that one of them had grazed her arm, which was dripping red now. _"Nothing medigel won't take care of,_" she added, patting Rel on the leg.

"_We've got to move up. This corridor's keeping them off of us, but we can't deal with more than a handful of them at a time."_

_Sing your song at your own tempo, Sings-Honor. I will stand with you._

And up the corridor they moved in a sudden charge, the turians taking point. Hand-to-hand for a couple of blinding moments there. Nothing at _all_ like the sparring mats. Now it was slamming the butt of a rifle into someone's helmet, knocking them back, following up with a kick to the knee. Aim, fire when they're down. Beside her, she was aware of Rel snapping a batarian's neck easily, swinging the body around to use as another layer of shielding. And on they went, cutting a path through the barracks to the west wall, where a window looked out onto the interior of the compound.

Nadea shattered the window with her rifle butt and kicked the remainder out with one booted foot. Rellus fired off their flare, announcing that they'd reached position one—the signal for their second marine team to move up into the barracks now, and join them. They all craned their necks to look for the turret to their north. "There it is—and there goes your dad and Cadius' squad," Rel said, and Dara winced, seeing the turret spin to fire at the northeastern team. _"Can you get a shot on it?"_ Rel asked, reaching back for his own sniper rifle now.

"_Yeah. They're not close enough yet for me to worry about hitting any of them," _Dara said, setting her rifle's barrel down on the edge of the broken window, kneeling among the shards of shattered glass. Let her eyes widen into macroscopic range. . . aimed. . . _BAM-BAM._ Slight adjustment for the wind, and again. . . _BAM-BAM._ Beside her, Rel was taking similar shots. Just like they were back at the firing range. Mindoir seemed like a lifetime ago now, those golden, perfect afternoons. Now there was just this planet, this frozen hell, and the problems ahead of them.

The turret had enough VI capability to realize when it was attacked, and extrapolated from the trajectory the likely source. And promptly spun, trying to catch them in a hail of fifty-caliber bullets. Rel moved with those alien, lightning-like reflexes, and pulled her down to the floor, just as everyone else jerked back trying to find cover.

Abruptly, the bullets cut off. _"Thanks for the assistance, east team,"_ her dad's voice crackled over the radio. _"We've got a new problem now, though."_ Static was starting to garble his words.

Rel sat up, pulling her with him, and they looked out the window. "Shit," Dara said, staring.

"Yeah," Rel agreed, watching as fighters began to emerge from four of the central buildings.

_Lifesong within each, but. . . wrong,_ Sky told them suddenly, sounding confused. _Lifesong made of metal? Like the voice of dust and ashes, but much less powerful._

_Dust and ashes?_ Dara thought, blankly, and then Sky slid an image into her mind, deftly. The mini-Reaper, with its thunderous mental voice and sense of enormous age. . . and weariness. _Ah, hell, no._

"We've got to catch them on the ground.," Rel muttered tightly, clearly way ahead of her. "Curi—_ah, Corolan, get the shoulder-mounted rockets up here. Dara, load for me. You—Gallian? Load for Corolan."_

The Mark M _Malleous_ rockets were powerful, but did require a two-man team to use at any effective rate of speed. The first round was a fire-and-forget, of course, since they were always carried loaded. The second round took more time. Dara grabbed an ammunition case slung at her by one of the marines, put it on the ground, opened it, and extracted the first rocket, while Rel was already firing his first round. She stood, set the latches in place, slid the rocket home, and ducked back down again, hearing the rush of the next missile launching, wisps of white smoke curling all around them. _"Any effect?"_ she asked, already picking up the next one, and standing back up again. _"We've only got five more of these for each launcher. Hate to waste them."_

"_Some. They've got shields."_ Rel replied, tersely, and she stood, sliding the latches back again, locking the rocket in place, and took a glance. _Shit, they're in the air already._ Small, silvery bodies, like a school of minnows in the air, instead of in some placid pool.

Rel fired, and this rocket homed in on one of the air-borne ships, impacting against its side and exploding. The ship's guidance system was clearly affected, and Dara heard the scream of it as it fell through the air, out of control, and the impact was close by enough to rattle her teeth. _Really hope that didn't land on anyone we know_. _Shit, this is getting messy._ "Sky, can you do anything here?"

_My people's songs were powerful against the ships of the cold-song asari, long ago. I will do what I may._ Sky drew himself up and _something_ lanced out, and the shields on one of the fighters strafing the ground nearby visibly flickered. Nadea immediately fired on it—and the fighter went down, its fireball dimmed somewhat by the overall lack of oxygen in Garvug's atmosphere.

"_Nice! How often can you do that?"_ Nadea asked.

_Not often enough,_ Sky replied, sounding worried.

"_Keep loading,"_ Rel ordered, and Dara and the _hasta_ did, slamming four more rounds home each, one at a time, even as the fighters overhead began firing at the various buildings, little beams of yellow light that looked _very_ much like Thanix cannon fire. The buildings were starting to smoke, and everyone inside of _their _ barracks had to swear and dodge as golden light _did_ burst through the ceiling at them. One marine didn't move in time, and fell to the ground screaming.

"_The good news is,"_ Nadea said as they all picked themselves up off the ground, _"They can't hover. They can only attack while moving in straight lines."_

"_That's the __good__ news?"_ Dara asked, pulling the injured marine—Gallian, damnit—away from where the molten edges of the floor were smoking in a straight line. _"__Hasta__, look at me. You're going to be okay, all right? No, look at __me__."_ She caught the young male's chin in her hand, pulled his face up to meet her eyes. _"Now let me see how bad it is, okay?"_

She already knew it was going to be bad. It was. Both legs had been severed below the knees. On the . . . good side. . . the attack had instantly cauterized the wounds. Now, she mainly needed to treat for pain and for shock and _not_ let him get hysterical. "Velnaran? He needs to be evac'd. As quickly as possible." She switched to English, betting that the young marine wouldn't speak it and would be too distracted to read his VI. He didn't, and he was. She dug in her kit until she found _papaverus_, the turian-safe equivalent of morphine, and gave the young _hasta_ the largest dose she _could_, under the circumstances. Enough to distance the pain. She kept an eye on his pulse, and watched his eyes glaze a little. Saw the heaving of the chest start to calm.

"Can't move him right now," Rel said, and tabbed his radio, probably hoping to break through any jamming. "We need air support down here. _Estallus_, come in."

_Where the hell are they?_ Dara thought, and cradled Gallian's head against her legs for a moment, trying to convey reassurance in a very human way. Gallian was a _hasta_. Fresh out of boot camp. No older than she or Rel. It could have been _any_ of them caught this way. It could have been her, or Rel, or Nadea. The beam could have bifurcated the body or removed the head, instead. Dara's expression was _very_ set as she stared out the window at what she could see of the sky and its gray clouds, fading from twilight into night. _This Lystheni shit has to end today,_ she thought, calmly, a little distantly.

Sky's song spiraled in her mind for a moment, and she knew that Gallian heard it, too. Sorrow and comfort and resolve.

**Kallixta**

"_We need air support down here!"_ That call actually managed to crackle through on the radio in spite of the heavy jamming coming from the planet's surface. Kallixta had been sitting at the controls in the cockpit, listening to what little was coming through, biting at her lip-plates. It wasn't _possible_ to be in two places at once. And she wasn't a marine or special forces. But damnit, there had to be something she could _do_.

"_Estallus_, _Dunkirk_, _Kharkov_, this is the _Normandy_. We've got fighters down there, at least forty that we've been able to count." Kallixta sat bolt upright in her chair. Those were not good odds. The voice was that of a human male—likely the legendary pilot, Joker. "Ground teams are taking some of them out, but they've only got sixty rockets between them, and there's no telling how many shots these little things need to be dropped. So we're going to head down and make the skies a little friendlier for them."

Behind her, she could hear Jallus replying, _"Normandy_, this is _Estallus_. Let the SR-1s take care of this. The _Normandy_ doesn't handle as well inside a gravity well as we do."

"My commander is down there, Jallus. _Normandy_ is taking point. You guys are a little more maneuverable, but we've got more firepower. Screen us. And watch out for their damn raider ships. I'd bet my next paycheck they're hiding those and waiting for us to come in."

The _Normandy_ altered course and heading, and began to dive into the atmosphere. Jallus came up behind her, and gave the order. _"You heard the male. Let's go hunting."_

"_Yes, captain."_ Kallixta touched the panels in front of her, and sent the _Estallus _into the atmosphere as well, staying out of the vortex that was the _Normandy's_ wake, knowing that the other two ships were following close behind. Blips started appearing on her scope—dozens of them.

As they moved through the atmosphere, the belly of the ship superheating from the friction of the air, Jallus spoke over the comm system. _"All hands. Brace for high-speed maneuvering. Gun crews, be at the ready. We're going to be engaging in aerial combat near the planetary surface. Damage control teams, stand by."_ He looked down at her. _"You ready, Lieutenant?"_

"_Yes, sir."_ Kallixta grinned. She was going into battle at the side of the legendary _Normandy_ and her mate was on the forward guns. _"Range to targets, one mile and closing._" The _Normandy_ held back now, allowing its smaller sister ships to pass and form up around her, creating a defensive screen, just as they _all_ would have worked to screen a carrier from smaller, more maneuverable ships.

"_Gun crews, we're looking at small, highly mobile targets. Use Javelins only."_ Jallus called down the order, and Kallixta could understand why. The Thanix cannon, if it missed, would probably kill their own people.

And then the fighters were rising from the air above the complex like tiny, silver needles, glittering in the dying light of the sinking sun. Kallixta could, dimly, see the spiraling contrails of rockets following some of them, and masses of smoke below. _Soon, everything's going to be instrumentation flying_, she realized, and then there was no more time to think, just to react, swerving the _Estallus_ out of the way of the first fighter, which seemed to be on a collision course, but then spun around behind her, lashing out with four miniaturized Thanix cannons, tearing ragged holes in their shields. _"You'll be happy to know, Captain Jallus_," Laetia said, calmly, _"that the Lystheni ships are much less powerful than the mini-Reaper is. Shields are holding, unlike the __Tarawa__'s on Mindoir, some two years ago."_

_Mini-__Reaper__?_ Kallixta thought, and banked sharply. The _Normandy_, behind them, launched a Javelin at the fighter that had slipped past them, and _that_ dropped the fighter's minimal shields. Kallixta shrugged and turned the _Estallus_, catching the fighter _on _the frigate's kinetic shielding and _bouncing_ it away, sending it cart-wheeling into another fighter. Then another three were on them, whipping between the _Estallus_ and the _Kharkov_ like _villi_, all speed and teeth. _There are two ways to fight a pack of __villi__. You can fight them like a __talashae__, with the whole herd standing its ground, ponderous and slow and implacable. Or you can wend between them, outrun them, confuse them, like a herd of __rlatae_. Kallixta yawed around, gave the Javelin crews a clear target, and watched as those three ships went up in plumes of smoke._ "Laetia, make sure the other ships know where we are at all times,"_ she said, politely, and took them into a steep dive, sliding right in the middle of a formation of Lystheni fighters, all of which scrambled out of the way, fighting the _Estallus'_ atmospheric disturbance, like a riptide, which tore at their wings and destabilized the smaller ships. Flailing around, regaining control, they dove after the _Estallus_ now, lashing out with their small guns, each one chipping into their shields.

"I believe you've irritated them," Laetia said, from her little green eyeball avatar to Kallixta's left.

"Entirely intentional." Kallixta brought them up sharply, climbing now, probably leaving some people's lunches back on the planetary surface, along with most of their stomach lining. "If we get enough of them chasing us, the other three ships will have an easier time shooting them."

"_Our_ gun crews won't be happy to have nothing to shoot at," Laetia pointed out.

"Then I'll have to make them happier, will I not?" Kallixta decided that three kilometers was high enough, and suddenly leveled out, which meant that half the Lystheni fighters almost plowed right into the _Estallus_ before scooting around her like water passing around a rock in the water. . . . which brought them directly into the line of fire from the broadside torpedo tubes.

Missiles lanced out on both sides, slamming into the tiny ships, and Kallixta grinned as the _Normandy_ loomed up out of the clouds, sending its own Javelins in on target as well. _"How many targets left?"_ Kallixta asked.

"_Ground teams have taken out ten,"_ Laetia replied, switching languages on the fly. _"__Estallus__ has downed four, __Normandy__ four, __Kharkov,_ three, _Dunkirk__,_ three. Sixteen remain, and there are new ships emerging from the hangars."

"_This just got interesting,"_ Jallus said, looking at the scope. He'd been quiet so far, letting her fight, occasionally pointing out a target. _"Those are their raiders. You haven't fought them before, Lieutenant. They use biotic weapons—don't ask, just accept it—and can rip through shields and tear away sections of hull."_

Kallixta swallowed. _"Tactics, captain?"_ she asked.

"_Centurion Velnaran and Spectre Vakarian worked out a few."_ Jallus' tone was exquisitely dry, and he tabbed ship-to-ship communication. _"Normandy_, we're with you, right?"

"Tell your pilot to get her dancing shoes on. We'll be trading off on the targets with you every ten seconds or so."

Jallus looked down at Kallixta. _"When they fire their weapon, we're going to __take__ the hit for the __Normandy__. That will probably drop us down to half shields. Then we both fire at it for ten seconds, and then __we__ get the hell away. Because that's how long it takes them to re-arm. __Normandy__ comes in, takes the next hit for us. We both attack for ten seconds. Then we take whatever hit comes next, and do a lot of praying that the shields have gotten up past half."_

Kallixta swallowed again. _"And the fighters?"_

Jallus sighed. _"Are going to be attacking us the whole time, yes. They didn't have fighters last time we faced their raiders."_

_S'kak._

**Rinus**

He'd been quietly seething at the Thanix cannon station, unable to _do_ anything for the past ten minutes besides hold on for dear life as the ship yawed and pitched, watching his targeting scope and grinding his teeth at his inability to act. His blood was still up from the earlier fight on-board the satellite—he knew that, rationally, of course, but it was hard to deny that he wanted to _fight_, and _now_. However, the small targets were just too damned fast to get a lock on with the cannon. But at least now, they were fairly high above the ground combat zone. Then Jallus spoke in his ear. _"Centurion, we're about to encounter Lystheni raiders. Oscillating frequency jamming is in place. You're free to lock on and fire."_

_Finally_. Rinus exhaled explosively, crop tightening, and the _Estallus_ dove now, locked in tandem with the _Normandy_, heading right for the first Lystheni raider. Leading the _Normandy_ now, just by a hair. Ten kilometers, maximum firing range. Rinus targeted, waited. Nine kilometers. Fired. Glancing hit, and the cannon started recharging. _We're heading straight for them_, he thought. _Their forward guns are aiming right for us, too—ahh, there she goes._ The _Estallus_ and the _Normandy_ had just started to spin together, belly-to-belly, making it harder for the inbound Lystheni ship to target them with conventional weapons. More typically, they would have been zig-zagging—anything to throw off the enemy's aim, really—but locked together so tightly, such maneuvers would have been dangerous at best. Without AIs, even this maneuver, at these kinds of speeds, would normally have required hours and hours of practice.

Five kilometers. Rinus fired again, no choice but straight at the ship, not much choice of targets when all he could see was the ship's _nose_. . . and then the fighters came surging in again, skittering around the _Estallus_ like falling leaves, lashing at her and the _Normandy_ with lines of light. He could feel the hydraulics working below his feet, however, resonating up through the deckplating, and knew the crews were responding, firing. Again, dangerous, as they and the _Normandy_ _could_ cross into each other's torpedo paths. Even as he thought it, the ships leveled out for a moment. Three kilometers. Another Thanix salvo.

And return fire—a tiny violet blip on his scope, and Rinus cursed, making damned sure that his helmet was in place. Felt the ship rock a little, knew that the shields were being torn and scrambled apart. _All right, sweetness_, he thought. _Ten seconds is all we have here. Show me what you've got._

Kallixta veered away from the _Normandy_, hard to starboard and split to the side of the Lytheni ship—so close Rinus thought, if he'd been at an observation port, he could have seen salarian faces gaping back at him from their side of the glass. He grinned fiercely, and knew that his gun crews were scrambling to get another Javelin broadside out at the Lystheni. A gut-wrenching turn now—fighting in atmosphere was a _hell_ of a lot harder than fighting in space, and suddenly, Rinus had a clear shot at the tail of the Lystheni ship. _Nice! _He fired instantly, and was rewarded when he saw their shields crumple. "_Nine seconds, sweetness, get us the hell out of here,"_ he muttered under his breath, and Kallixta, as if she heard him, pitched up and port, and _punched_ the drive, screaming up into the mid-level clouds, chased by a half-dozen little fighters, all of which were pecking and chipping at shields that were already dangerously low. "Pirius, get another spread of torpedoes on those damned fighters," Rinus called into the comm, to his _chalsae_, somewhere under his feet. It probably didn't need to be said, but the fighters were getting damned close.

And then they flipped, end-for-end, and Rinus held on for dear life to his console. _I didn't think you could __do__ that with a frigate. Not without violating about seven structural integrity zones,_ he thought, stunned, and then they were charging right _back_ at the Lystheni ship. _Noromandy's_ shields were taking a battering now—conventional torpedoes had followed the biotic attack this time, and they'd been too close to launch countermeasures. Eight kilometers. . . and Rinus fired, feeling _glee_ as the forward guns did what they'd always been designed to do—tore through the last of the Lystheni shields and _bit_ deep into the enemy's hull. _Now you feel our teeth,_ he thought, grinning, as Kallixta ducked them _under_ the enemy ship to avoid colliding with the _Normandy_, and banked, letting the Javelin crews get a shot in, too. _"Move now, sweetness, move now,"_ Rinus urged under his breath. _"One more salvo from the __Normandy__ will do it—there it is." _He could feel the last of the ship's shields shudder away from catching the Lystheni ship's explosion at close range. _"Need a target, need a target. . . __s'kak__, little fighters everywhere."_

"The enemy does seem to delight in finding new and different ways to annoy us," Laetia agreed, out loud. That surprised him, until he realized that he'd never activated the chip today. "There's still one more raider, still relatively close to the hangars," she added, as the _Estallus_ and the _Normandy_, in perfect synchronicity, went into dives, heading straight for the last ship, which was right above the Morphil'zha complex. _Hang in there, second-brother_, Rinus thought. _We're coming._

**Rellus**

The sonic boom as the ships had lanced into the atmosphere overhead had shaken the ground. Rel had popped his head out the broken window just long enough to confirm that the incoming ships were indeed _Normandy_-class, breathed a sigh of relief, and waited long enough to confirm that yes, the fighters were all taking off to pursue the frigates. _"What can you do for Gallian?"_ he asked Dara, sharply.

"_Here? Not much."_ She looked up at him, and he could read her expression clearly. Her eyes said _I can make him comfortable._ _"He's not in immediate danger, but I don't want to leave him in this building. It's too dangerous."_

Rel nodded, and beckoned to a young _pilae_ from the second marine squad. _"Hammarian? I need you to carry Gallian back to the Hammerhead, then come back and meet us at the second rendezvous point. Can you do that?"_

The _pilae_ nodded. _"Yes, sir,"_ she said,

"_Sir, please, just prop me in a corner and give me my rifle. You're losing two people if you send me back to the Hammerhead,"_ Gallian said, and Rel could _hear_ the pain in his voice. No matter how much _papaverus_ juice Dara had pumped into his veins, the _hasta_ _knew_ he was hurt. And while Dara had bandaged his stumps, and would not let him look down, Rel knew that the male also had to know how badly he was injured. Dara watched him, and he could read her eyes so clearly, he wondered how none of the others could do so. _Keep him safe, but yes, let him be useful if you can_, was her silent vote. _Don't let him have time to look down at the missing legs._

Rel nodded to her as if they'd spoken out loud, and told Gallian, _"We'll put you someplace with cover, then. Hammarian, help him."_ He looked at Sky, belatedly realizing that this was, technically, the _rachni's_ show. _"Spectre?"_

A brief tinge of blue-green amusement brushed his mind. _Sings-Honor knows his song by heart, not by rote memorization,_ the rachni told him. _Yes. We must move now. Center ring less guarded now. Suggest placing wounded singer by broken spitter-of-metal._ Rel blinked, and interpreted that as the defunct turret. It was as good a place as any, with lines of sight, and a small amount of cover for Gallian.

Back outside, and moving north now. Settling Gallian into position—damned near running _into_ Sam as they did so. Rel wasn't prepared for someone in a stealth device to appear in front of him, and slammed his rifle forward reflexively, only to have it batted away and a strong hand close around his wrist, which almost led into a little hand-to-hand. . . which is when Sam muttered, from the ripple in space that was his cloaked form, "Damn, boy, settle down. It's just me."

"_Pada'amu,"_ Rel said after a moment. "You startled the living _s'kak_ out of me."

Sam let his shield drop and shook his head, crouching down to look at Gallian. "Son, I don't know if you speak English, but you are one _lucky_ son of a bitch. My squad lost two guys to those beam weapons."

Rel's head jerked up, and he looked back past the advancing tattooed woman and slender asari, looking for Rasmus. It was dark out at this point, and officer black didn't exactly stand out from enlisted gray under these conditions. "Cadius?" he called.

"I'm still here," Rasmus called back, quietly. Rel sighed in relief. Rasmus had been a good roommate and a good friend so far. Taller and stronger than Rel, he didn't have the same skills or the leadership, but was a damned fine marine.

Sam stood up again. "All right, people. While the fighters are distracted overhead, let's move in."

It was ugly. The hangars opened onto a shooting gallery leading up to the main Morphil'zha building, and turrets blasted out a constant hail of incoming fire. No cover, besides standing behind the hangars, as far back as they could go. _"I have a suggestion,"_ Dara said, after a minute or so. _"Why play their game? Let's go up over the damn roof and take the turrets out that way."_

Rel grinned behind his mask. _And this, sweetness, is why I love you._. He stepped back, and lifted her by the waist, letting her get ahold of the roofline, and then walked his hands down her legs as she pulled herself up, letting his hands become her first foothold. Nadea looked up, and shook her head. _"I'll never get used to how easily humans do that,"_ she muttered, and sighed. _"Give me a lift, Velnaran. She can't go alone. And I'm not even trying to lift __your__ carcass."_

Rel's shoulders shook for a moment. _"Just never tell your mate that I touched your waist."_

"_It's through armor. I think he'll understand,"_ Nadea said dryly, and then Rel boosted her up as well.

Sky's song touched his mind again in amusement. _Here. Control-song helps._

_What?_ Rel's feet lifted off the ground as a tiny singularity pulled him up, and he latched onto the roof himself now. _Ah. Thanks, Sky._

He crawled up and over the curving hangar roof on his belly, following Dara and Nadea. They'd all switched into night-vision at this point, and the world was largely green, with flashes of light from other directions, as other teams fired on turrets, or random batarians, or from above, as the ships continued their running battle. Periodic sonic booms shook the air and ground, and the rattatatatat of gunfire was more or less continuous. The turret, being inanimate, was harder to pick out than Rel would have liked. _"On three,"_ he said, after a moment.

The three of them aimed—a sniper rifle and two assault weapons—and then began to unload on the turret. _Grenade might have been wiser,_ Rel thought after a moment, as the turret spun crazily, trying to attack them. _"Good call, sweetness," _he said, after a moment. _"They aren't set to raise above about a fifteen degree angle."_

"_Silly of them,"_ Dara agreed, and fired again. Eventually, the turret collapsed, and they slid down off the edge of the roof, beckoning the rest forward. "Very nice," Sam told them. "Little louder than I'd like, but nice. Head around to the north. I'll set off the next flare."

Two more turrets awaited them, but these were fixed cannons, designed to aim solely at the lines of fire between the various buildings. It was a simple matter for Sam to creep up and disable each now. . . and then they came face-to-face with a third Spectre team. Garrus, Shepard, and Lantar, backed by human and turian marines. Nadea took a step forward and touched Decimus' elbow when she saw him. "Your squad's looking a little light," Sam commented.

"Lost a whole damned team to the fighters," Shepard said, her tone angry. "It's time we got inside this damned building, and _ended_ this."

"I couldn't agree more," Garrus told his wife. Lantar set the charges on the north door, and they all backed away.

With the door open, Shepard nodded. "Orpheus, scout ahead a little. Nemesis, Archangel, and I are going in first." She looked around. "This is probably going to be messy."

_Isn't it always?_ Rel thought.

_**Author's note:**__ Yes, a continuation to the continuation! _


	70. Chapter 70: Culmination, Part Three

**Chapter 70: Culmination, Part Three**

**Author's note:** _More on music:__ For those wondering what Sky's music is: The Bach suite in G-major played by Yo-Yo Ma in the West Wing: http:/ www . youtube. com/ watch?v = 23dBqzo2aYY._

_When Sky's in a lighter mood, Vivaldi, Four Seasons, Winter movement, for the fast violins. :)_

_Shinegami suggested Queen __Another one Bites the Dust__ for Gris, which would be him in a good mood, I think. EleventhMessenger suggested Disturbed's __Indestructible__ for him, which is a __damned__ fine choice, lyrics-wise, and not as staccato as a lot of the rest of Disturbed's stuff. I personally like the barbaric ROAR of __I Stand Alone__ from Godsmack for him._

_Eli would also work with almost anything by Chevelle. __The Clincher__ sounds great for a SWAT /action scene on Bastion at some point. Or maybe __Get Some.__ It's all about the clenched teeth and intensity. . . when he finishes growing up, anyway. ;-) He's almost there._

_Serana? "Threw you the obvious, and you flew with it on your back, a name, in your recollection, down among a million same. . . you don't see me, you don't see me, you don't see me at all. . . " __3 Libras__, A Perfect Circle. Which will make even more sense in __Victory__ when you see what her class choice is as a grownup, hehe._

_For the several different groups of people asking about RP resources, I __will__ be posting language notes, clan markings, colony information, a full timeline, minimal squad notes, etc., at the end of __Unity__, before taking a short break to work out __Victory__. This will include the unique abilities of many of your favorite characters. Spoilers will probably abound._

_Regarding __Galaxy of Fantasy__: Kallixta plays an Elemental Shammy, of course, with a Resto secondary spec, so that when Rin swaps from Fury to Prot, he's got a pocket-healer. He also has a nicely geared hunter for ranged attacks. Rel is a Ret Pally (Vindication gives you Wings!) and proud of it, tank secondary spec, so Dara always has a meat-shield in front of her. Cohort plays a druid. Boomkin, specifically, because he has no other way to express his teddy-bear side. Gris has a female mage of some slinky species or another, largely because he likes to watch her run around the screen. And laughs, very loudly, when all the male characters hit on her. _

_Eli and Lin primarily play in battlegrounds, and Serana joins them. She plays an assassination rogue, Lin's an arms warrior, and Eli's given up on his own rogue recently in favor of leveling up a paladin. Which he plays in tank spec in battlegrounds purely to hear other players cuss when they see his hit point total. Lin keeps trying to convince him that a druid tank is better/more fitting, since they tank with their face. . . . _

_Sky and Voice-of-Peace haven't figured out how to play yet. Their handling appendages are not interface-friendly enough.:-( I like to think they largely hang out on guild chat talking, however. Although in Sky's case, that might be difficult. And, because there's always one, I'm __sure__ someone's working the auction hall and treating that like a game of its own. Maybe Ellie, since she wants to be involved in what everyone's doing, but doesn't like to raid or PvP, but she __does__ likes crafting, and has discovered, much to her surprise, that her cottage industry habits have made her the wealthiest person in the guild. :-P_

_I'm equally sure that, periodically, other people on other worlds log to the Mindoir server and say howdy. Tali probably plays a warrior and Kal probably plays a priest, just for the pure role-reversal aspect of it. Or maybe they're a hunter/warlock duo, for the pet classes. Alenko and Miranda probably periodically log on and show off whatever good new gear they got in their new guild on their new server, sending everyone off into a tizzy of annoyed whispers. Jack had a spectacular flame-out and left the game a while back after someone got her too torqued up on Trade channel. _

_*ahem* Anyway. . . I'm so glad the battle scenes are coming off well. They take a long time to write, because I __diagram__ the ground ones and work through it (DM background coming through) to make myself visualize everything clearly, and the space/air ones are even more difficult, because they're in three dimensions and *can't* be diagrammed effectively. So I worry over almost every sentence and recheck for clarity. Also, with this many pieces on the board, I worry that some of them will get lost, so I have to scroll back up and say, "Ah, Rel? I know you're a nice, strong, dominant voice in my head, but let Sky talk, too, thank you. . . ah, there we go, there's a spot where Sky can be useful." *plonk*_

**Sam**

He activated his stealth device and moved up ahead of the rest, occasionally speaking into his radio, although he knew that jamming sporadically cut off his words. "Starts off looking like a standard office building. Pretty deserted at the moment, though. Closed design, cubefarm. Moving up through the main corridor. Y'all can follow."

The offices were dim and deserted and more than a little creepy, to be honest. Sam was clearing each cubical as he passed, seeing chairs overturned, lunches still on desks, screens still turned on—but in power-saver mode—and the occasional forlorn plant, all in the dim light from the emergency panels overhead. He kept his night-vision mode on, however. It might not help with the hibernation-mode Lystheni, but anyone else, he'd see easily by body-heat. _Sky, you picking anything up, buddy?_

_No lifesongs close. All seem to be at center of structure. Many voices. Anger-song. Fear-song. _

_Good._ A nice solid dose of fear would probably get the damned salarians miscalculating. Sam had finished moving down the first hall of cubes now, and had reached a door. He cracked it open a little, leaning his head against the wall beside it, and peeked through, hearing the others move up behind him.

The outermost ring of the large central complex was tier after tier of offices, build around a central atrium, much as he'd seen in any number of rather nice hotels and office buildings in his life. There was a balcony for each floor of offices—Sam could count some ten stories up, and saw almost as many down from the ground floor. _Guess Kasumi was right about them finding __down__ to be a status symbol, _he thought, with grim amusement. Each tier was connected to the one below it by a set of staircases that ran at opposing angles, forming two slow spirals around the entire interior, corkscrewing down. Like the strands of a double helix string of DNA, really, sometimes intersecting, sometimes not. And there were guards walking around each platform. Lystheni, clearly.

Instead of gracious fountains and indoor gardens, however, the atrium at the heart of the complex was starkly, plainly utilitarian. Sam glanced for the guard positions, opened the door a little further, and slipped out, going to the balcony rail and hunkering there for a moment, trusting in his stealth device and biometric masker to keep him hidden.

_Ah, shit,_ he thought, looking down. Sure enough, about ten stories down, on the concrete floor, he could see dozens of salarians moving around, working, arguing. And, more to the point, he could see two large, cylindrical devices, set up, right _next_ to one another, with. . . the mini-Reaper perched atop one of them. _Okay, fighting our way down that staircase is not a __good__ option. Especially since if I were them, I'd have rigged the damn thing to blow. _His radio crackled, and dissolved into complete static. _Damnit._ Sam crept back to the door, waited for his moment, and slipped back through to whisper a report to the others, letting his stealth device recharge for a moment or two.

"Elevators?" Shepard asked, quietly.

"If _I_ were them, I'd have gun turrets pointed right at every elevator in this place now," Sam replied, grimly. "They ain't stupid. Weird and a little deranged, but not stupid." He shrugged. "Want me to go check?"

Shepard shook her head. "No. It's that, or they've got the shafts rigged."

"The stairs could be, too," Sam replied.

Lantar noted, grimly, "They can't have done it all. Otherwise, they'd have blocked themselves in so far, they might never get out. Even _villi_ leaves a route out of its den."

Garrus rasped, dryly, "Where would we be if all the bad guys were stupid?"

"Out of jobs," Sam replied, at the same moment Lantar answered, "At home, in bed." He and Lantar turned towards each other, and guffawed at the same time.

"Sky, where are Gris, Blasto, Kal, Tali, and the last group of marines right now?" Shepard asked next. Sam could picture it with her, trying to assemble all the pieces of the chessboard in her mind.

_Battle-Brother and the others are at the south entrance. Battle-Brother sings worry-song. Asks that you not begin the chorus before he can be here to lend his voice. _

"Tell him he's the distraction team. He can blow the damn door in, and he and Blasto can start ripping everything to shreds with their biotics. Let the krogan come in first, hit the far set of stairs, let Kal and his marines set up on the balcony there and give them covering fire." The orders were clear and precise. She switched languages. _"Ah. . . Cadius? Keep your team of marines right __here__ and guard our backs when we go in. We do __not__ want to be taking fire from behind us. When we hit the first intersection of the staircases, we'll leave. . . Corolan. The shorter one, anyway. . . and that squad there._" Nadea's squad was missing Gallian, of course. _"You'll be providing covering fire for us from that point on. If it's not us and moving, __shoot__ it. At the next landing, we'll leave the other Corolan and his squad. Same deal."_ She shifted back to English. "Macready, you'll stay with young Cadius up here." Sam blinked, realizing, in shock, that Macready, from the _Kharkov_, was the last remaining human marine, both from _his_ squads and Shepard's. His had gotten taken out by the fighters and their damnable miniature Thanix canons. Shepard's human team, from the _Normandy_, had been supposed to come in during the second wave of attacks. He vaguely remembered seeing a fighter crash behind the northwest building. That could have been it, he supposed.

He forced his mind back into the here and now. _Going to be a hell of a lot of fire coming from above and below alike,_ Sam thought, grimly. He was the _only_ stealth person here, and he didn't think he could take out two guards per tier above them without _someone_ noticing. "I can slip up one tier and take out the guards there, quietly, I suspect," he offered.

"We're going to let Kal, Tali, and their marines take care of that to start with, and then let our covering teams take care of any stragglers." Shepard's voice was very tight. "Once we hit the lowest tier, I only want Spectres, special forces, and you two—" she pointed at Jack and Samara, "with us." _Only the people she feels she can risk,_ Sam realized, and also realized that his _daughter_ was on that list. "Is everyone ready?"

Sam took a deep breath. Looked down at Dara, who was just to his right, and patted his daughter lightly on the shoulder. She looked up, eyes a little surprised, and he leaned down, pressed his helmet to hers and told her, privately, "Keep your head _down_, kiddo, you hear me?" His voice was tight. It was hard enough to see the bullet scores in her armor. He _really_ didn't want to see any more.

"Love you, too, Dad." she replied, quietly, voice tight. "You be careful."

He sighed and lifted his head. Looked at Rel for a moment, featureless behind the black, polarized mask all the turians wore. And sighed again. _Christ, but where have the last two years __gone__?_ he wondered, but all he said out loud was, "All right. Let's go hunting."

Everyone checked their weapons. Sam reinitialized his stealth device, and heard Shepard say, "Sky? Tell Gris to bring down the damn doors."

They could all hear the _crash_ and Sam once more peered out the crack in the door. Sure enough, the door across the atrium from them, at the six o'clock position on the wide circle, had just fallen open, and krogan were running forward, Gris and Cohort at their head. All in tattered clothing and terribly scored armor. Sam had no _idea_ where Gris had scrounged all these krogan from, but was _damned_ glad to see them. Gris bellowed something in krogan—a battlecry, Sam was willing to bet, and the first bullets began to fire from the upper tiers, bouncing off his biotic shield.

Behind the krogan, Blasto hovered out, followed by Kal'Reegar and Tali'Zorah and their quarian marines. The humanoids moved swiftly to the reinforced railing with its metal panels, which would be serving as their cover. _Thank god for safety inspectors and their damn building codes_, Sam thought distantly. _Where would we be if that was just a handrail, and not a low wall? _

Consternation from below—distant shouts. Exchanges of gunfire. Sam looked back at Shepard, who was looking at Garrus. Eyes distant. Waiting for the right moment.

"Now," she said, and they burst through their door themselves, racing for the first landing, where Cadius' team set up, hunkering down, taking potshots at the guards on the far side of the upper and lower tiers. _Keep 'em off us_, Sam thought, grimly. They were locked to human footspeed at the moment, everyone moving, firing, picking off targets as best they could. Rel took a burst from above that actually knocked out his shields and sent him scrambling for cover; there was _damned_ little of that to be had. Sure, the stairs had the same low walls as the walkways at the edge of each tier, but that only protected you from below or at the same level. From above. . . and as they moved down, almost everything was _becoming_ above, they were ducks in a shooting gallery. "Take out the high ones," Sam called into his radio, and moved ahead now, himself, heading for the first landing, where couple of Lystheni were firing submachine guns directly at charging krogan. _'Scuse me_, he thought, and took one of them out from behind, pressing his pistol into the back of the salarian's skull and firing. The exit hole at the front of the head was a hell of a lot bigger than the one at the back, he reflected as the salarian dropped. The second one spun to face him, shocked, and that's when Gris hit him at a full run, and slammed him over the railing with one meaty arm, not even bothering with biotics. Since they were still eight stories above ground level—an eighty foot fall—unless a biotic grabbed ahold of the salarian, Sam figured that one was taken care of. "Nice to see you," he told Gris, and slapped his stealth device again.

"Nice _not_ seeing you, human," Gris rumbled, sounding amused. "Give us some room, or you're going to get trampled."

Sure enough, twenty krogan were rampaging down the stairs now, and Sam took a long step back out of range. As the krogan passed, Blasto hovered down, turned, and caught another Lystheni from a tier above, wrenching the salarian off the ground, pulling the creature apart at the seams. Sam actually turned his head away from that one. He'd seen a _lot_ in his life, but really didn't need to add to his considerable portfolio of bad images. "Move up!" he called back to the rest, who were indeed making their way down. The female turian lieutenant—_Corolan_—he reminded himself, firmly, set up now with her remaining subordinate, and started firing up at the guards above.

And then they were moving again, down the corkscrew, taking a little fire here and there, but the krogan were taking most of it. They were closer, of course, and they were also a species-level nightmare for salarians, fraught with psychological baggage. Sam snapped off a couple of pistol shots as he moved, aware, dimly, as Dara swore and ducked into cover herself now. Faint, reflexive urge to reprimand her for her language quickly tempered by concern—then her shields flickered back into life around her, and she popped back up, taking a shot at the salarian who'd caught her.

Down another turn—the krogan were boiling onto the floor below now, and the Spectre team had just hit the second landing. Decimus Corolan set up. _"We've got your backs,"_ the young lieutenant said, and Sam was delighted to realize he'd _understood_ the words. . . more or less, anyway.

"Okay," Shepard said, tightly. "Here we go. Watch out for the cylinders. Do _not_ hit them, or the mini-reaper, at all costs."

The scene below was pandemonium. Several of the krogan were actually attacking each _other_, which meant that there were biotics among the remaining Lystheni. Sam's eyes focused on the salarians taking cover near the two cylinders now. Was Kina Pero one of them? He didn't see the larger, more frog-like form of a dalatrass anywhere, either. How very odd.

Sam's eyes slid up for a moment as they started down the final walkway, each of them now firing at salarians at will. The two cylinders had been set up, literally, side by side, and. . . wait a second. The mini-Reaper was touching both cylinders. Perched atop one, yes, but one of its arms had been moved to touch the second. Jaworski didn't really have time to reflect on this—his clip had jammed, and he switched now to his submachine gun, firing short bursts at any salarian he saw—but that seemed important. Significant, even.

Feet striking concrete now, bodies everywhere, krogan moving pell-mell through the area, salarians scrambling for cover, firing flamethrower or cryo-sprays at the krogan, anything they could, really. Hail of death coming from four positions above now—Kal'Reegar and Tali's squad, Cadius' squad, and the two Corolans were all picking off targets as best they could. Mayhem and chaos. Sam started to move to cover, not stealthed at the moment. . . .

. . . and then a krogan body hit _him_, blind-sided him, and Sam fell to the ground, worked around to his back, shoved with his powerful legs. _Uh-uh, no, you don't, boy. You're out of your damned mind right now, but you don't get to twist my head off for free._

The krogan stiffened momentarily, body suddenly rocked by shots. Snarled. Turned. _Yeah, good hustle, whoever you are,_ Sam thought, getting back to his feet, drawing his knife. _Not a whole hell of a lot of ways to incapacitate them, either, don't want to __kill__ him—_he wrapped his arms as best he could around the krogan's neck. The hump interfered, of course, but a throat-slash would probably slow the krogan down until he recovered from the domination attempt—

"No need, Spectre Jaworski," Blasto chimed, floating by, and the krogan slumped to the ground very peacefully indeed. "This one prefers that allies remain among the living." Sam's head jerked to the right, following Blasto for a moment, and then pulled back left again, realizing that _Dara_ had been the one to try to shoot the krogan off of him. _Well, god damn._

Her eyes were wide as she nodded brief acknowledgment, and moved past him now, ducking and diving for cover beside Rel. Sam blinked once, and hit his stealth generator again. Two salarians flew by overhead, limbs waving wildly, and Sam could tell by Sky's triumphant, clarion call of _Sings-Battle!_ that the krogan and the rachni were tag-teaming again. _Something_ else biotic shivered through his body on its way toward another target, a Lystheni whose shields suddenly shimmered and then tore away entirely, and then Sam had to dance out of the way of a shockwave sent after the same Lystheni—which now flew backwards, and shook his head, trying to regain his feet. A quick glance told him that Samara and Jack, crouching behind a workbench, had done this, and Sam capitalized, shifting to his submachine gun and firing at the downed salarian, sacrificing stealth for brutal efficiency.

Then the floor started to shake, resonance trembling up from the ground, transmitting through his bones. Sam looked up, twenty stories, and swore, diving for cover and putting his hands up over his head as the _roof_ began to _shear_ off. _That's not a Thanix blast_, his mind realized, dumbly. _They're using their own raiding ship to open the top of the damn building like a can opener, so they can try to . . . what? Escape? Gain air support? In this wild-ass scrum?_ Shattered pieces of metal, drywall, insulation, wiring, began to hail down, rapping against his helmet.

He peered up, and realized two salarians still stood close to the cylinders, still damned close to the mini-Reaper. And blinked. _Why the hell are they still there?_ The wind was howling around him now, pouring down into the enclosed confines of the hollow tower from the engines of the raider above, as through a wind-tunnel. Sam looked up at the raider's brilliant engine lights, feeling his eyes water. And stayed put. _They can't fire without hitting their own people_, he thought, grimly. _Doubt even the Lystheni are crazy enough for that._

He raised his submachine gun. Pointed at the pair closest to the cylinders. _I know Shepard said not to hit the cylinders, but I've got a __real__ bad feeling about those two. . . ._ Sam started to pull the trigger. . . and the Lystheni closest to the cylinder that the Reaper was _not_ on top of, touched a panel there, and runes flared to life, all up and down its surface. _Ah, shit, no. Not this again—_

—and his thoughts winked out.

**Rinus**

The _Normandy_, the _Estallus_, the _Kharkov_, and the _Dunkirk_ were all moving in at high speed towards the remaining Lystheni ship, hovering close to the planetary surface. Rinus had tactical displays up at his console, and swore viciously under his breath when he saw it deploy its biotic attack on _the Lystheni's own building_. _"What the __futar__?"_ he demanded. _"Scare tactic, a way of extricating their people?"_

"Unknown," Laetia replied, sounding strained. "There are perhaps forty hostile lifesigns remaining in the building, and perhaps another forty aboard their vessel. Twelve fighters remain."

He shook his head and targeted the main guns on the raider vessel. Twelve kilometers. Ten. _Can't risk missing the damned shot with our __people__ on the ground directly under the damned thing. __S'kak__, if the damned thing blows, it could take all of them with it, too._ His fingers hesitated on the console. Eight kilometers. Seven.

Gritting his teeth, Rinus fired, aiming for what he could of their starboard engine compartment. _Don't explode. Don't crash. Just move away someplace else and die politely._ The canons ripped through the shields, accompanied by the shots from the other three ships. Six kilometers. Five kilometers. Rinus's fingers hovered over the consoles again, but he could _not_ fire. Not with everyone on the ground. _Damnit, damnit, damnit, spirits take these damned salarians!_

And then everything just _stopped_. Rinus blinked, and found himself in a completely white place, like an infinite Cartesian plane, featureless and blank. He stood rigidly still for a moment, and thought, _I'm dead._ He stomped a foot experimentally on the . . . ground. . . and it resisted him somewhat. Felt spongy underfoot. He looked down at it and decided, _Well, that's not a part of any of the spirit-tales._ Rinus looked back up again. Shrugged. _If I'm dead, and I'm. . . a spirit. . . then I should find my statue, I suppose. Or else someone who can take me home to my family._ Another quick glance around. _One direction is as good as another, then?_

He set out jogging, and as he ran, the featureless white surface began to change. Rapidly. Flickering uncertainly between the sweltering jungles of Rocam to the airless, pock-marked craters of Quadim, to gentle waves of the sea beside Aequor. _Well, none of these places are home. Where the hell is the ship? That's where my damned statue is. _An _acrocanth_ bellowed at him from behind trees, and Rinus shook his head and kept jogging. Macedyn's coppery-red sands blew at his face, and he could see the crater-falls in the distance. Wide and golden fields of _festuca_ on Galatana. Commercial buildings on Edessan, neon signs lighting up the night. _How can I be everyplace in the galaxy at once __except__ where I need to be? Where I want to be?_

Rinus was picking up swirls of light now and again, little wisps. _Other spirits, maybe? Are they fair-natured or foul? Eh, maybe following one of them will get me at least __somewhere__ besides every turian colony in the galaxy. _He caught sight of one in particular that made him feel warm to look at—shapeless, formless, dancing threads of energy. Golden as his clan-paint, which made him take it as a good sign, and he followed it, wending through a dozen worlds—the mangrove swamps of Sylgar. . . _the Citadel? But the Citadel's been abandoned for two years, why are there still people here?_. . . and then racing through the streets of what could only be Complovium, every building sheathed in white marble, cold and stately and beautiful. He followed, blowing right _through_ a door—_I knew I was a spirit—_and into the Imperator's palace. Paintings on every wall, ceilings filled with murals, heavy, ornately-framed mirrors in which his reflection didn't appear as he passed. Up staircases, through rooms paneled in ancient woods. . . _I can't smell anything, either. No wonder spirits just give themselves up to their family again. _

Through another door, and into a huge bedroom suite. Every imaginable comfort for a young female. An entire small room dedicated to clothes, musical instruments, a terminal with large, modern aerogel screens, luxurious carpets underfoot, fresh flowers in crystal vases, a sunken floor bath, filled with steaming water, a nest piled with silken sheets—and the yellow wisp settled there. Rinus reached out, hesitantly. _I'm sorry to bother you, but would you know the way back to the __Estallus?__ Or at least to Mindoir?_

_Rinus?_ The voice _felt_ familiar.

_Ah, spirits, Kallixta. We're __both__ dead? What a __futtari__ waste. _His hand touched the glowing strands of energy, and suddenly, she wasn't a wisp anymore, but herself—glowing, suffused with yellow light, but herself. Sudden _awareness_ of each other. _This is how biotics must feel __all the time__,_ they realized in unison. She glided closer, and then they were overlapping, thinking each other's thoughts.

_Incredible, aching loneliness, longing for touch, longing for freedom, longing to be something more than an empty shell, trotted out in public for the masses to see, a visible symbol of the Hierarchy's stability and strength. Eighth in line for something that didn't matter a bit to anyone but the first or maybe second in line, life without meaning, duty without meaning, why can't I be something __more__, and now that I finally __am__ more than what I was born to be, will it all be taken away again?_

_You're more than you think you are, sweetness. Spirits, how can they not have seen your aggression, your passion? They __have__ to have seen it, else you'd never have been permitted to do as much as you've done. _

Timeless communion now, her exploring his thoughts, his memories now. _A lifetime of work, dedication, duty. Hiding the familial connection, but __always__ allowed to do so, never tapping the ring, blooded beside Garrus and Shepard, but enlisted, not an officer—lingering, haunting doubts there, teased out, insecurities. What essential quality was I lacking? There's nothing an officer does that I __can't__ do. . . but there's plenty that officers do that I don't __want__ to do. I have all the responsibility I want, and half the paperwork. I do the real work, and if they take the credit, that's fine, because they also have to take the blame. Much better to be the one behind the scenes. And yet. . . doubt. Uncertainty. Especially with second-brother, so much alike, yet unalike, his meteoric rise._

_There's __nothing__ wrong with you. Nothing lacking. You're more reserved. Still a leader, though. Different minds. Similar sprits. I like what I see. Strength, discipline, honor, intelligence._ Warmth. So much damned warmth, he thought he'd lose himself in it.

He sighed. _Hard to think this all now, when we're __dead__. _

_Don't think we're dead. I don't remember a crash. Don't remember being fired on._

_If we're not dead, then what are we? _

Realization sparked at the same moment, as his memories of his recent conversation with Rel surged forward for both of them. Lystheni, stolen devices. Images of futures and pasts. _A simulation. But no decisions, no choices? _

_If it's a simulator, it might have to be __set__ somehow. This could be a holding pattern, generated from everyone's minds in the simulator?_ She pulled back just far enough to look up at him. _You're so __blue__ here. Dark blue, blood blue._

Rinus put that oddity aside for the moment. _I thought I saw other spirits as I followed you here._ He frowned a little. _Shall we go find them?_

_Yes. Maybe we can reset the damned thing before we really __do__ crash._ Flickers of consternation between them. They'd been set in a steep dive for the surface of Garvug, last both of them recalled. _S'kak.__ Come on, sweetness, let's find the others._

It was _so _much easier to move now, to navigate, with her energies to draw upon. _Was that really your bedroom, by the way?_

_Yes. All acre and a half of cold marble floors. It's miserable in the monsoon months, but at least during the summer it's cool._ Flicker of amusement, interest from her as his thoughts wandered, then shied from where they'd wandered. _Oh really?_

_Nevermind. No way of telling how much time is really passing. Don't let me get distracted._

Flickers now, as they raced faster and faster, driven by winds gusting behind them suddenly. A wall looming in front of them, made entirely of doors. Windows. Choices. _S'kak.__ We don't have time for this. Rel said it took twenty minutes to figure out._

_We're already together. He said it was easier, once Dara helped him_. No way of telling which of them had thought _what_ now.

_I said I'd give a lot for ten minutes with this thing, but we don't __have__ ten minutes. Can we get away?_

_Doesn't look like it. Go __through__!_ And then her piloting instincts took over, and she was ducking and dodging and weaving them through the morass of . . . outcomes. Choices had already been made. Now there were just consequences, things to be mitigated. Things to be endured.

**Flick.** _Mindoir._ _Imperator not so gravely displeased, but Imperatrix a picture of wrath, as they entered Allardus' humble home, both staring around themselves in some interest. "And __this__ is what you've plighted yourself to?" the Imperatrix demanded, in tones dripping with scorn. "So far beneath your station that they'd have to use a radio telescope to see you on a clear day? _

_The Imperator raised a finger at her, signal for silence. "You've shown fairly acute political instincts, fifth-daughter," he told Kallixta, calmly. "An unfortunate situation, turned to good use. However, there are __conditions__ that must be met. . . . " _

**Flick. **_The path split—Kallixta giving up flying on one side—__No. You were born to fly, sweetness, not that way.__ Rinus resigning from the Fleet on another—__You would give up what you love, same as I would, neither a good option.__ Both paths led to inevitable strife and unhappiness. Down a different path now, both of them remaining in the Fleet, but Rinus having the chip removed. Every path, risks, every path, rewards. Every path, uncertainty._

**Flick.** _Mindoir. Having the damnable chip removed. Brain surgery, always a risk. The path split there, one side showing Rinus suffering a stroke on the operating table, the other showing complete success. __Looks like a low probability, I'll take the risk__._

**Flick.** _ Palaven. All the folderol of a royal wedding. A day's worth of ceremonies and introductions and various functions to attend, and then, finally, alone, in the cold marble bedroom. "It'll be better when we can go back to the ship, I promise." Whispers and promises in the dark. _

**Flick.** _ Five years out now, and he wasn't in the Fleet anymore. __Damn.__ But working for the Spectres. Analyst work for Kasumi, operational work with . . . __Rellus__. A mix that most other organizations wouldn't allow. And the ship that carried them to the stars most often. . . a next-generation gunship. The __Capellus__, SR-3, piloted by Kallixta._

**Flick.** _ Eight years out, a breather from service for her. One of the requirements of nobility was, of course, perpetuation of the lineage. Sweetness of estrus experienced again, this time with full realization, full knowledge. A year later, a son. Solanna's eyes softening as she held her first full turian grandchild in her arms. . . ._

And then they were through, and on the other side of the wall and flying free. _Did you break us loose?_

_I think the simulator might be overtaxed by something else. It's doesn't seem to be functioning the way Rel described it before._

They got their thoughts in order, and then they were skimming along, scooping up little wisps in their wake, grabbing on to each in turn. Confused thoughts.

_Centurion, are we dead?_

_Where are we?_

_What's going on?_

_Where's the __futtari__ ship?_

Silent reassurance from both of them. _We're not dead yet. We're probably still on the ship. Hold together. Don't panic. Let's find everyone else and see what we can do. _So many minds, all together, all resolute, panic fading as stern discipline and instinctive authority came into play, providing reassurance.

And suddenly a _screaming_ pain in his head, he clutched at his helmet, eyes closed. _No, centurion!_ The voice was sharp in his mind. _Don't take your helmet off._

Rinus managed to crack open his eyes, and looked around. He was in two places at once. First, he was at his station by the Thanix canon, and second, he was still in the infinite Cartesian plane, surrounded by shipmates. He could _see_ them, could see Kallixta's glowing yellow form still holding his hand, but she wasn't really there, was she. "Laetia, I turned the chip off, how are you talking to me?"

_I engaged the FTL emergency transmission protocols. That is why you are experiencing pain. I apologize for that, but we really don't have time. Everyone on board is incapacitated at the moment. I have regained control from the pilot, preventing a crash, but I need __your__ assistance with the guns. _

His eyes couldn't water, but the pain was getting really _intense_. _Disengage the FTL transmission and route the targeting information through my console. _

_If I turn off the emergency connection, you will fall unconscious again. We don't have time to argue!_

Rinus gritted his teeth against the pain, got the coordinates for the Lystheni raider locked into his targeting computer aimed, and using the chip, set off a salvo of Javelins at it from the starboard tubes, not daring to use the cannon at the moment. It _finally_ started to move away, bleeding fire from a half a dozen open places in its hull. _How are __they__ still conscious and moving?_ he wondered, irritably.

_It is likely that their pilot might be an AI or an uploaded Lystheni. Alternately, their control chips might allow them to be puppeted from long range. There are three chipped individuals currently on the __Normandy__, the __Estallus__, and the __Dunkirk._ _The __Kharkov_. . . . her voice faltered for a moment in his head. _Pelagia couldn't regain control in time. They've crashed. I don't know if the crew will awaken in time to evacuate._ Rinus' crop tightened at the mere thought. _Dr. Solus __should__ be trapped in the simulation, as you were until I pulled you out. Kynthia reports that he is awake in the brig and acting __very__ oddly at the moment. Jeff Moreau never went __into__ the simulation, probably because he keeps his chip permanently activated._ The ship rocked around him, and he glanced up, seeing Kallixta still with him, half in simulation, half in the real world.

"Laetia, I'm still _in_ the damned simulation, at least partially." He could barely see through the shimmering halos of migraine-like _pain_ in front of his eyes to set up the next firing solution, this time from the remaining Javelins on the port side, aiming for the Lystheni fighters that had taken advantage of their momentary incapacity to fire on them, again and again. Shields were down, and their little cannons were raking the hull. _Splash two_, he thought with dull triumph. _I'll open the chip from my side. Please, for the sake of the spirits, shut down the damned FTL transmission._

He opened the chip, and the pain died, almost immediately, and he sighed with relief. The crews weren't available to reload the Javelins, so _anything_ they did was going to have to be with the Thanix cannon at this point. _We need a refit with fifty cal, side-mounted guns_, he thought, grimly. _Put it in my next report._

Laetia banked and rolled, and Rinus managed to lock onto one of the tiny, dancing needles in his targeting scope, and fired. _Nothing like using a mallet to swat a fly,_ he thought, wincing, but he'd actually taken the damned thing out. _How many left?_

_Seven. The __Normandy's__ gotten a few, as has the __Dunkirk__, with their last torpedoes in the tubes. However, the __Normandy__ is landing._

_Why, for the spirit's sake?_

_Because my father believes he might be able to shut off the simulation device. Assuming the Lystheni on the ground aren't chipped and conscious, as you are. _

_So that leaves. . . us. _Rinus swallowed. _Can you wake Kallixta?_

_I __am__ capable of flying myself, centurion._ Her tone held quite a bit of asperity.

_Yes, but you fly like Macenus. Nothing wrong with it. You're both perfectly, technically correct in every respect. _He guided the balky controls, delicately trying to slide the targeting reticle over the next dodging, dancing dot on the scope. _Macenus flies by the book. Learned. You fly like a bird, part of your physical nature. Kallixta flies like a spirit. _

Laetia hesitated. _She's not chipped. I can't reach her. _

_What's the range on the simulation device's effect?_

_Six kilometers, but the Lystheni fighters keep forcing me back below that ceiling. _Another series of hits rocked the ship. _As you can see. _Laetia's tone became hesitant. _Perhaps __you__ can awaken her?_

Rinus fired, caught the next Lystheni, and closed his eyes, concentrating. He could still see the simulation, even with his eyes closed. Further proof that it was all in his mind. _Kallixta?_

_I'm here. I never left._ A brief pause. _I heard everything you said and thought, but I can't hear the AI._

_Waken for me. I need you._

_I'm trying. I don't know __how__._

_I might be able to pull you. Don't resist. Don't fight me unless it hurts._ Uncertainly, he reached out and began to draw her to him, showing her waking reality, pouring it into her. Their minds were already much more connected than the rest of the crew's, and he was, for lack of a better word, _awake. _Suddenly, her silhouette disappeared like a bubble popping, and Rinus's eyes snapped open in shock and fear. "Is she—"

"Life signs are stable," Laetia replied, tersely. "She's moving on the bridge now. That exercise took approximately five seconds. New targets approaching."

Rinus tabbed the comm. _"Kallixta, we've __only__ got the Thanix cannon available for the fighters until . . . hopefully. . . the rest of crew wakes up. Which they might, if we can get above and stay above a six kilometer ceiling above the damned device. Javelins are not an option until my crew wakes up. __Dunkirk__ is essentially a target at this point. __Normandy__ just landed. __Kharkov__ has crashed, unknown survivors."_

"_Don't worry. I'm putting on my 'dancing shoes,' whatever that means."_ Kallixta's voice was groggy, but _there_. _"Still feel like I could black out again at any moment."_

"_Biotic signals from the relic below are attenuating with the distance, and are not continuous; rather, they are pulses. You may not be affected at the moment because the next pulse has yet to occur,"_ Laetia said, crisply. _"I recommend staying above the six kilometer ceiling while conducting aerobatics."_

"_Thank you, Laetia. That's good to know,"_ Kallixta replied, and Rinus could _feel_ the difference as the pilot took control of the ship again. _"Assuming the Lystheni __let__ us do that."_

"_My effective range is ten kilometers,"_ Rinus reminded her. _"They can drop to the damn ground if they want to, but I can hit them from outside the biotic zone. I just need you to match their course as best you can. The range is making shots difficult on such tiny spirits-be-damned targets."_

"_I can manage that for you,"_ Kallixta said, and then they were in an inverted dive, and Rinus had his first target in his sights.

**Joker**

_Jeff, you really want to __land__?_ EDI's voice held consternation. The SR-2 was not designed for planetary landings, other than on light-g environments; the SR-1s _had_ been, but the SR-2 was much larger and heavier. It could conduct aerobatics within a gravity well, but taking off again from a dead stop was. . . difficult.

_My only other option is taking a shuttle down, and what happens if the simulator overwhelms me, mid-flight after all?_

_A fair point_, she acknowledged. _And you are the only chipped individual currently available for intervention._

_How's Cohort holding up down there?_

_Concerned. He is attempting to keep the Lysheni who remain. . . aware. . . pinned down with fire, so that they cannot attack our unconscious people. He will not be available to guide you in._

_I never thought I'd say it, but thank god we have a geth on the team._

_You had, I thought, little problem with Legion._

_Other than the fact that he creeped me out? Nah. Why would you think that?_ Joker paused. _Let him know I . . . will be a little slow getting there._ Bitter awareness tinged his tone.

_He is aware. Approaching landing zone._

He slowly limped out the forward hatch of the _Normandy_, EDI having discontinued the decontamination cycle for him. Joker didn't own personal armor, but he _did_ have an environmental suit, and that was at least keeping the worst of the cold out, and the breather hissed reassuringly in his ear. _Be careful_, EDI told him. _I will attempt to take off and pursue the retreating raider ship._

_Attempt_ was a very valid word in this context. Joker could hear the engines starting to strain now, and worried, a little frantically, about the _wonderful_ sitting target his girl made as he slowly limped through the wreckage that littered the Morphil'zha compound. _Have to admit, the Spectres know how to make a hell of a mess_, he thought, carefully picking his way over the frozen ground. Night vision did no good in these conditions; he had a flashlight trained on the ground, a tiny, thin beam that he fervently prayed wouldn't make him a target to any Lystheni who might be unaffected by the simulation device.

Careful, shuffling steps. Around that piece of debris, over that iced-over patch of blue blood. Bullet casings on the ground, a discarded thermal clip. _Really, such a bunch of litterbugs._ Broken glass here required a detour. A fall there could puncture his suit. Flashes of light from overhead—_Sweetie, is that you? _

_Negative. I am still attempting to lift off. The lights you see are from the __Estallus__' main guns. The chipped gunnery centurion is awake, and managed to awaken the pilot. The rest of the crew may start to emerge from the simulation, now that they're outside the six kilometer limit. A solution that does us little good, unfortunately. __Dunkirk__ is attempting to rise above the six kilometer mark as well, but is being harassed by the raider ship. And __I__ cannot get off the __ground__._ He'd never heard her serene voice turn this frustrated.

_Steady there. You just keep your shields up while I go take out the trash, okay?_ His foot slipped, and he gritted his teeth, barely recovering his balance in time.

_Jeff!_

_I'm all right, I'm all right. Sheesh, you'd think I'd been shot._

_The distinction is minute for you._

_I'm all too well aware, thank you._

He passed the slumped body of a turian marine, rifle still in his hands. He could see that the young kid had had his legs sliced off below the knee—cauterized, thank god, but still a hell of an injury. No time to check on him, though.

Through the ghostly-quiet hangars now, swinging his flashlight a little more freely. Passed turrets, thankfully all turned off. Found the doorway he remembered from the tactical diagram, and headed inside.

_Sweetheart, can you link me up to everyone from here? I know it took Sky and Cohort last time, but. . . they're both here._

_Before, it was a question of creating a different simulation for them, one that protected them from how Lina Vasir was manipulating the device to attack their minds,_ EDI said. _This time, the device's simulation impulses seem. . . different. Attenuated. But still effective as a snare. You are currently free of the simulation, and are not interacting with it in any way. When you are within closer proximity, this may change. Let me know when you start receiving simulation data._

_Is the Reaper still connected to the damn device?_

_Affirmative._

_So it could be presenting a power drain on the simulator?_

_This appears to have a high probability._ She hesitated. _Hurry, Jeff. Cohort reports that the Lystheni are moving._

Through the offices now, and, opening a door, Joker suppressed a whistle. _Damn, but Shepard knows how to throw a party._ The roof was missing, somehow, and debris from it littered every tier. Bodies, periodically punctuated the ground, sprawled limp and loose with death. Joker dropped to an awkward crouch, shambled closer to the railing, and then gave in and dropped to hands and knees, heading for the staircase. Sharp report of a sniper rifle, double-tap, close range. Joker jerked, heart pounding. "Cohort, I'm in the building. Coming down the north staircase," he said into his radio.

"We see you," Cohort replied. "We are moving to cover you. We have been unable to get close enough to the device to disable it. Shutting it down completely would also awaken the Old Machine. This does not seem wise to us."

Joker shook his head. _No, indeed._

Creeping now, then back to crawling, as Cohort took shots at the few Lystheni remaining mobile below. _Honey, take a look. I'm on my knees again._

_You always look very deferential in that position._ Her teasing tone hardened. _Raider ship has lost __Dunkirk__. They are coming back around for me, Jeff. And I __still__ cannot get off the ground._

_Hurrying, sweetheart. Believe me, I'm hurrying._ Ten flights of stairs on hands and knees, passing dead bodies everywhere. _At least I'm not likely to fall this way. Get __shot__ maybe—_a bullet zinged by overhead, and Cohort returned fire, trying to force the salarians to keep their heads down—_but at least I won't fall_.

Closer to the devices now, crawling around the last landing, and Joker lifted his head. Could see ghostly forms, moving around, overlaying his regular vision—_ahh, there's the simulation. Interesting, doesn't look like they're aware of me this time. Sky—ah, there he is._ The golden star cradled in the heart of a nebula was off to Joker's right, overlapping Sky's physical form, which was huddled in on itself, all legs and carapace. _Can we network everyone, like last time?_

_I have attempted to do so, but am unable to devote system resources. I have a Lystheni raider ship incoming, and will need all resources to protect the crew and myself from it. Cohort is in a similar position, trying to protect the bodies of the unconscious marines and Spectres around you._ Her voice was distressed. _Jeff. . . much rides on you at the moment._

Joker looked up now. Saw the arrangement of the relics, and swore. The mini-Reaper was atop the simulation device, sure, but _connected_ to the upload device. All anything had to do was _touch_ the device for the relic to be able to affect it. _EDI, what was that report from when they first found Ruin again?_

_You were __there__, Jeff._

_I know. I'd also __just__ passed Ruin through the chip to you, to Cohort, like a gall stone. My brain kind of hurt at the time. Refresh my poor organic memory. _

She played the memory, in Ruin's voice, taken from Joker's own perceptions of the event, recorded by his chip. _"We always uploaded first. But there was. . . confusion. Multiple minds in the same body, but the machine. . . always knows. . . which was the original. But you can delete the original, and just leave the copy. At one point. . . multiple copies of the same person were in different bodies. All convinced they were the original mind. The machine could tell the difference. No one else could. And when downloaded back into original body. . .all memories coalesced. Perfect. Intact. All one seamless consciousness again, with different memories of the same times."_

_Yes, that's it. And what Ruin told Tali about the controls. Quickly, EDI. _

Her sense was puzzled, but she replayed the memory for him. _"Upload, download, purge memory core, and then there, the last button. . . as far as we were able to determine, it selected original or . . . copy."_

_That's what they were doing. They've been attempting to purge the original memory core of the mini-Reaper._ Joker slid down another couple of steps and hesitated. Now he was practically facing the direct line of fire, and he was _not_ in armor and he was _not_ a Spectre. _Emphatically_ not a Spectre.

EDI's tone became incredulous. _They were attempting to purge the __Reaper__? Would that even be possible?_

_Sweetie, we're talking about two devices that were made by what Mordin's been calling the Sower Civilization. The ones who probably __built__ the damned Reapers before they got out of their control. "Monsters from the id" is written on their damned monuments. I'd bet a year's pay that they gave the first Reapers their dreams, their consciousnesses, but the worst aspects of their personalities—the id part—surfaced in their creations and became their own destruction. So tell me, if they could __upload__ their dreams and thoughts into a ship like that, why the hell __couldn't__ they purge it with the same damn device?_

_Your logic is uncomfortably unassailable._ EDI sounded downright _unnerved_. _Is that not exactly what __we__ have done, in creating the personality templates for our daughters?_

_I don't think the Sowers took our precautions, honey. We're not making a slave-race of our kids, but we're also not letting them run around __unchecked__, either. _Joker watched as Cohort stepped around him and then darted forward, drawing fire from the remaining conscious Lystheni. _I'm guessing the Sowers simply uploaded themselves. Like the Lystheni are doing. Wanting perfect forms. Eternal, undying, semi-organic, semi-machine forms. Probably without the nice helpful superego parts. Without the emotional connections, too. _

_But surely it couldn't be as easy as simply pressing a __button__._

_Took a button to download Ruin. We know very damned little about the Sowers. _

Her tone turned abrupt. _Jeff, I'm passing your analysis to Cohort. I may be busy for some time._

A ship roared by overhead. Their exchange of thoughts had taken less than half a minute; this was the raider ship, returning for _his_ girl. _Honey?_

No reply. Joker's mind raced. _Shit, my girl's on the damned ground and probably can't hold up against the raider, let alone fight back or run away. The __Dunkirk__ and the __Estallus__ can't drop below six kilometers without their crews passing out again—assuming any of them are on their feet. They could use the Thanix cannons, but it would take balls of solid brass and a __really__ solid firing solution to shoot something so damned close to our combat zone. And god knows how many of the Spectres and the marines are dead, with what, three, four Lystheni conscious and them all lying there, staring off into space. . . ._ "Cohort, we can't let them upload into the Reaper. If they do, they'll turn it against us, and there's no way the _Normandy_ will be able to hold up against it."

"Agreed, Moreau-Pilot. Do we have consensus for a plan?"

"You draw them off to the left. I've got my shotgun with me." Joker slowly got to his feet. He had an idea. A very, very bad, probably even very stupid idea. But it was the only idea he had that would _probably_ save the lives of his friends. And save his ship, too.

Cohort sprinted off, leaping with that eerie geth grace for the very walls, finding places to cling to, and take shots from. Joker hobbled forward now. No grace at all. Just a very fragile, yet very determined human form, alone in the darkness. Crouching behind a workbench, he saw one of the salarians—_huh, looks a little like Kina Pero, from the pictures Kasumi was showing me. Huh. How's he conscious? Is he chipped? Who's controlling him, then. . . and from __where__?_ The salarian's features were clear in the light of the control panels as he frantically pecked at the controls of the purging device, and doing something _else_ on the simulation device. _Ah, there we go. It's been plugged into the Reaper to keep its mind busy all this time, but they've been siphoning off capacity to run their analyses on how to purge the Reaper. Ruin's people studied the device for what, a hundred and fifty years? And his advice boiled down to which button does what, and "for the love of god, don't push __that__ one."_ Joker pulled his shotgun out. Leveled it on the workbench. Heard a shot from Cohort, which made Kina Pero's head jerk up for a moment. And then, Joker fired his own weapon.

The unexpected attack from an unexpected direction threw Pero backwards, and Joker pumped the shotgun again, and fired. And again. _One more time._ Then he crawled forward, hearing concussive sounds from outside the building, knowing that EDI was in a _lot_ of trouble now. Torpedoes detonating in atmosphere made a _very_ distinctive sounds. He pulled himself up, carefully, using the side of one of the relics as a handrest. "Cohort!" Joker shouted now. "Get over here. I need your help for this."

The geth appeared next to him, eyeflaps twitching inquisitively as Joker took his hands off the uploader device, and, very carefully, selected the _original_ button. The one that had a pictogram of a black dot on one side, and on the other side, a dot in a lighter shade of grey. When he saw the black dot fill with red light, Joker nodded to himself. And then pressed what Ruin had designated the _purge_ button.

It was impossible to tell if anything happened. The mini-Reaper was quiescent for the moment, and had been subdued by the dreams the simulator fed it for over a year now—_hell, for millions of years now_—Joker thought, grimly. "Cohort, I need you to follow my instructions to the letter, and as quickly as possible. I don't know if the Reaper's been purged or not, but I need a ship that can fly right now. And that. . . is it."

_Jeff—no!_ EDI had been distracted by attempting to bolster her shields and protect her dormant crew. _This is __not__ a good idea._

_If it works, sweetheart, I could practically kiss you._

_And if the Reaper consciousness is still in there, and you join with it?_ Real fear. Genuine, mortal fear. _Or if it overwhelms you, subsumes your identity completely?_

_Then you and the kids will shoot me out of the damn sky, and Li'l Jeff in your memory banks wakes up a little early._

_Jeff! _Pure, unmitigated, and very real, very raw distress.

_I love you. You know that. And how crazy is __that__?_ He paused. _Just give me the chance, for once in my life, to be the rescuer, and not the rescued. If I can do that much, it'll all have been worthwhile._ Mental image, a tender kiss. And then she had to turn away, go back to defending herself. Another damned set of torpedoes as the raider circled around the building again. At least this time, there was a Thanix shot from above, lancing down at it. _Shit, be careful up there. There's __people__ on the ground here._

The entire exchange, again, had taken only seconds. Cohort's eyeflaps hadn't even _moved_. _I think I just shocked the hell out of a geth. Maybe even __all__ of the geth at once._ "This does not appear to be a course of action likely to produce positive outcomes," the geth said, after a moment. "We do not have a consensus."

Another muffled set of concussions. "The _Normandy_ is pretty much toast if I don't get off the ground _somehow_. We won't be able to turn off the simulation device if the Reaper's still . . . itself. And our people are will _stay_ unconscious until we do. Give me a better idea. Tell me one in the next five seconds, which is all we goddamned well have."

Cohort blinked. "We have no better alternatives," he said, after a moment. "We would upload ourselves, since we are better suited to incorporating ourselves into such a platform, but the device utilizes biotic energies. Biotic energies only work for organics. Not for such as us."

He took Joker's hand, clasped it briefly, and placed it on the device. And began pressing the buttons that would upload Joker into the relic, and from the relic, into the mini-Reaper.

The world went black.

**Shepard**

_Flick, flick, flick_. She'd found and grabbed Garrus' mind quickly, with the ease of practice—both of their thoughts had been rueful on that point—and they went skimming through futures, looking for other people. The simulation naturally, for them, revolved around current concerns. Batarian movements. Lystheni weapons. The potential uplifting of the yahg. The impending sense of doom they both had about all of those things.

_Shit. No, try that path, that one, we actually managed to delay the war for a couple more years—_

—_yeah, the diplomatic angle never seems to __work__ on the batarians. Constantly reinforces that they are of higher caste, and that __we__ believe ourselves to be lower, as well—_

—_damn, maybe we can just take out their highest tier caste all at once?—_

—_that sort of thing gets people nervous that it could happen to them—_

—_maybe a little nervousness wouldn't be a bad thing—_

—_okay, that actually __was__ a bad idea. Chains of repercussions coming off of that lead to the end of the Spectres, which leaves the __futtari__ galaxy without high-level law enforcement—_

—and then the simulation simply _stopped_, all at once, and Shepard scrambled back to her feet, reflexively grabbing her Revenant, looking up in shock as the damned _mini-Reaper_ took off, screaming up into the sky. "Shit!" she said, frantically, looking around, trying to get her bearings. Her people were all scrambling back to their feet, as were—damnit—the Lystheni. She found a salarian target, reached out with her limited biotics, and wrenched him up in the air before _slamming_ him back down again. Then she moved, fast, for the two relics, knowing that Garrus was at her heels, watching her back, as always.

Shepard stood between the two cylindrical relics, and looked down, seeing the crumpled form of a human there, in an environmental suit, and blinked. She couldn't tell who the hell it was in the darkness, and then there were _flames_ erupting out of the darkness at her, and she tracked the source and aimed the Revenant at it, firing, blessing the manufacturers of her cybernetics for letting her carry such a damned powerful weapon, and watched as the salarian staggered backwards, propelled by the hailstorm of bullets, and sagged against a wall. "Can anyone give me a status report?" _As in, what the __hell__ has been going on here?_

"Shepard-Commander," Cohort replied, stepping up to stand with her and Garrus. "The _Kharkov_ has crash-landed, probably due to its pilot being taken off-line by the simulation device. Unknown damage and casualties at this time. One raider ship and several fighters remain airborne, fighting the _Dunkirk_ and the _Estallus_, whose AIs regained control in time to avoid similar injuries_._ The _Normandy_ landed when the simulation device took all organics in the vicinity off-line except for those with cranial implants. EDI thought that Moreau-Pilot would be able to intervene in the simulation again. However, between all of her systems and the systems of this unit being taxed by combat, we were unable to create an effective link. At that point, Moreau-Pilot directed this unit to upload him into the Old Machine, once it had been, he thought, purged of its original consciousness."

Shepard's eyes went wide, and a bullet actually bounced off her shoulder, sizzling through her shields, before she ducked again, cursing under her breath. _You are __shitting__ me,_ she thought, and then was working in tandem with Garrus taking out the remaining Lystheni, protecting what was, apparently, Joker's fallen body under their feet.

Somewhere in the distance, there was an _enormous_ crash, which shook the ground, and then something _screamed_ in the sky, and Shepard's head jerked upwards. Saw four small lights—the cannons at the ends of the mini-Reaper's 'arms'—streaking upwards into the sky, where explosions of light were radiating out through all the clouds, illuminating the entire sky periodically. "EDI, do you copy?"

"Yes, Commander," the voice came back on the radio. "The _Normandy_ is still grounded. Damage control teams are awakening and reporting to their stations."

_Okay, so other than cleanup here on the ground, what else? _Shepard looked for another target, just as Garrus fired, taking out another Lystheni. Movement caught her eye, and she saw a salarian biotic raise a hand and send out a singularity, grabbing what looked like Rel and Dara both off the ground. She raised her Revenant again, and fired, sending the salarian to the ground. Which, in turn, dumped the young soldiers on the ground, too. _Sorry, kids, that probably hurt._ Shepard looked back up at the sky, worried. _Is Joker still. . . Joker?_ Her stomach clenched a bit, and she looked down at the very _still_ form of one of the only two people who'd been plank-crew on the _Normandy_ with her _left_. The other was Dr. Chakwas, of course. Safely at home on Mindoir. _Hell, Joker, you do know how to make a mess of things, don't you?_

**Joker**

Joker had opened his eyes, trying, desperately, to orient himself. _Didn't it work?_

_Jeff?_ EDI's voice, subtle nuances indicating great relief.

He looked down, and was suddenly deeply disoriented. He was someplace very high up. _Much_ higher up than he usually liked to be, when it was just himself and his fragile body. Encased in an antique Tomcat or in the cockpit of a spaceship, it was another story, of course, but _this_. . . was a little elevated.

Then he realized he was looking _down_ at Cohort. And his own crumpled body on the ground. _Holy shit. It actually worked. Well, let's see here. Looked like those Lystheni fighters had had a little time to practice with their new bodies, but probably didn't know combat maneuvers. I have no time to practice, but a lifetime of fucking experience. Let's see how we do._

It wasn't a matter of engaging controls. Unlike the geth transfer of Ruin into a completely mechanical body, or the Lystheni use of the uploader relic to map their consciousnesses to AI-capable computers in their fighters, Joker had been moved from an organic body to. . . a semi-organic body. Where Reapers had been crafted from the essential materials of the bodies of organics, the mini-Reaper _probably_ had not been. Hard to tell, in something millions of years old, of course. But Joker could _feel_ the exterior of his hull, like nerve endings in skin. Oh, there were differences. He could feel the subtle nuances of radiation, even the occasional cosmic ray, sheeting through the atmosphere. Could sense, unerringly, where all the ships in the vicinity were in the air. Sense the _shape_ of Garvug's gravity well, how it distorted space-time. Trying to think about controls and propulsion systems and whatnot actually got in the _way_, he found, when he tried it. It was like. . . trying to tell his stomach how to digest.

Or telling his recalcitrant legs how to walk. And Jeff Moreau had spent a lifetime learning—and _re_-learning, in some cases—how to walk. He _knew_ how to remap his mind and his nervous system. Knew that sometimes, you just damned well have to get up and _do_ things.

And so, lifting off was like pushing up from a chair—hell, _easier_ than getting up out of a chair ever had been. Flight was instinctive for Joker—oh, he'd obsessed over it his entire life, had studied it, learned it, trained in it—but there was an element of genius, inspiration, in how he flew. He flew with his heart and his guts and his instincts. Flying was his poetry and his song and his soul.

So he rocketed up out of the ruins of the building banked sharply left to where he'd left the _Normandy_, and locked in on the raider ship. _Hmm. Didn't know I did that. Heh. Now how do I __shoot__ the damned—oh. That's how._ He'd more or less felt like he was walking along with his hands in his pockets. . . and now, as if he'd taken darts out of his pockets and thrown them. No more effort than that, as his arms—all four of them—lashed out with blazing lines of light, striking the raider ship. It _jerked_ and began to lurch away. Joker glanced down. The _Normandy_ had scorched black holes here and there in her hull, and he mentally shook his head. _Uh-uh. You don't get to do that to my girl and just walk away._ He sped after the retreating ship, looped around it with insulting ease, got right in front of it, and fired. Point-blank.

The raider exploded in a shower of debris and flames. It had been severely damaged already, of course. Otherwise, he'd have had a _lot_ more work on his hands. _You okay, honey?_ he asked, banking and skimming back to the _Normandy_, hovering over her curving exterior for a moment, surveying the damage. Every score mark, every plume of dull smoke—difficult for anything to burn in this atmosphere, thank god, but still, there were smolders—made him angry.

_For the moment._ She sounded almost weary, if such a thing could be imagined. _The simulation device has been shut down. The crew is awakening and starting fire containment procedures._

_Good. I'm going to go help the kids. Tell them not to shoot at me, huh?_

Then he was purely ballistic, screaming up through the atmosphere, its friction warm on his skin, heading for the tiny fighters that still harassed the _Estallus_ and the _Dunkirk._ He transmitted now, easily as just opening his mouth and speaking. _Laetia, Kynthia. You girls need a hand?_

_Father?_ Two stunned voices, and Joker wanted to _grin_. He couldn't, of course. But he tried anyway, and went into a dive, taking out the first of the fighters. The _Estallus_ matched his dive now, its cannon firing, taking out another fighter. _Three left. Laetia, tell your pilot it's time to __dance__._

_Everyone__ likes her. Even you._ Laetia's voice was disgruntled.

_I'd like __anyone__ who flies like that. Even a one-eyed krogan with a terminal case of scale itch._

_Father! That's. . . actually disgusting._

He banked and fired, taking out another fighter. _Estallus_ didn't have his speed or maneuverability, but matched course and speed to the best of her ability, and then rolled over him, taking out another fighter as she did. _See what I mean, Laetia? That's __flair__._

_If you say so. Now __what__ are you doing aboard that . . . thing?_

_Sweetie, I __am__ this. . . thing._

A moment of stunned silence. _Talas'kak._

_Such language. Am I going to have to wash your mouth out with soap and water?_ Joker pirouetted in air, and took out the last fighter. _Kynthia, Laetia, get your tails on the ground. Pelagia's going to need help, and so will your mother._

He raced back down now, landing by the _Normandy's_ side. The frigate's bulk dwarfed him, of course, but hadn't it _always_? _Hey, pretty lady. Need a ride?_

_Jeff. . . it really does sound like you._

_It really __is__ me. _Quick flash of carefully crafted mental images. All dirty, so she'd _know_ it was him.

Soft laughter in his mind. _That __does__ sound like you. _EDI paused. _Are you going to download back into your. . . self?_

He thought about that. _Not if I can help it, sweetheart. _

_And your body?_

_I don't know. Depends on if Cohort uploaded a copy and left the original consciousness intact, or if it's an empty shell at the moment. I don't want to think of anyone else flying you, sweetheart, but I'm not entirely sure you could deal with two of us._

_And the danger of becoming what the Sowers made? Another. . . monster of the id?_

_Not if you're here with me. Upload to me. Be my conscience, and I'll be yours. 'Come live with me, and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove,' or however the hell that goes._ He paused. _Besides, in twenty years, you'll have to download out of the __Normandy__ when the ship is obsolete and gets mothballed or scrapped anyway, right? Why __not__ come to me, rather than a server bank somewhere? Or . . . whatever we're going to do with you girls when you __retire__. _

Several picoseconds passed. He was thinking _much_ faster now than he had before. Sending and receiving data with her at almost her speed now. A quick flicker of communication in which she expressed her gratitude for that; it made reacting to him both easier and more difficult. _It will be interesting, adapting to no longer having, subjectively, years in which to chose my responses to you,_ she noted swiftly. _That being said, we do have at least fifteen or twenty years before my __Normandy__ body is scrapped. Assuming the fire control teams get __on__ with things, that is. Plenty of time in which to decide our future._

_Can't help wanting to start eternity now. _

_Impatience is human. And you are still __very__ human, no matter what skin you wear, Jeff. You have no idea how grateful I am for that._

**Author's note:** _Sheesh. I've been preparing for this for thirty chapters or so, and I think I'll leave it there for the moment. People with pitchforks, please line up on the left. People with buckets of boiling tar and sacks of feathers, please line up on the right. *winces*_


	71. Chapter 71: Aftermath

**Chapter 71: Aftermath**

**Author's note:** _FanFiction has not been allowing me to upload a completed chapter for quite some time, which is irksome. My apologies for the delay. *kicks the site.*_

_*deep, huge, relieved breath* Okay, thank goodness. I've had the Joker/Reaper thing in mind for about a month now. The mini-Reaper originated in __Spirit of the Hunt__ as, "Hmm. What would make Garrus drop a brick in his shorts? Ooh! I know!" It was set to be scuttled into a black hole at the end of __SoH__, and when I started __Unity__, I figured, well, the Council __never__ goes along with what Shepard recommends. Why should they start __now__ and had it moved for research purposes to get it off-stage. At that point, I was fleshing out the Lystheni, who are little more than a footnote to salarians on the ME Wiki. I figured that they'd be typically science-oriented as the rest of their people, but rather than blithely accepting their short lives and generally less-than-imposing physique, they'd be trying to make something 'better' of themselves, in the most wrong-headed way possible. Typical ways of achieving immortality in sci-fi tend to include immortality treatments (always made with morally objectionable processes) or problematic AI uploads. AI uploads fit better in the __ME__ universe (obviously), and as I'm writing them, Joker keeps slapping the back of my head and saying "You know what? __I'm__ the most fragile and mortal of the main characters. Hello? You're the one who had Shepard make the joke about EDI and me being around in a million years to look after the galaxy. Pay attention over here!"_

_And once he'd said that, the upload device was born, and I knew where we'd be ending up here at the finish line. I'll admit that writing the last few days has been both exciting and nerve-wracking, in a "please, please, no one find it hokey, don't think I've jumped the shark" kind of way. Also in a "please, no one say it was an unfair twist and that there weren't enough breadcrumbs, ah, crap, I hope I can pull this off" kind of way. Especially worrying was a sensation that it could be seen as __deus ex machine__ in a very literal fashion._

_The replies have been . . . very gratifying. Thank you! _

_One final WoW. . . er. . . Galaxy of Fantasy note: Yes, I totally think Shepard has a DK alt. (Forgot that class, initially, shame on me.) It would be very appropriate, and I can absolutely picture Garrus leaning over her shoulder and saying, "You faction changed her to Horde? Why?"_

_"So she could be an undead DK with a bolt sticking out of her neck." *crooked grin*_

_"A shrink would have a __field day__ with what that says about your psyche, __amatra__."_

_"I know. . . I know. . . ."_

_Dermiti also points out that Lantar would be an excellent DK choice (__mor'loc__i!), which I think is a great idea. Probably switches between that and his pally. _

_Tiaxelto votes for Disturbed, __Inside the Fire__, as Joker's new theme music. Again, the lyrics really fit. I'm just not a huge fan of their really staccato sound. . . but __damn__ those lyrics fit. "Give your soul to me for eternity. Release your life to begin another time with her. End your grief with me. There's another way. Release your life. Take your place inside the fire with her."_

**Dara**

_Damnit, not the simulation device again. Always when it's __least__ convenient. Other than, well, the first time._ She'd reached out and found the yellow spark that was Rel almost immediately, interlaced thoughts. Surprise on both sides at the differences that time and training had wrought, but exquisite relief at finding their core selves unchanged. He was still, in his heart, a happy, cheerful, determined, and loving person, but she found an edge to him now; he found her quieter, more withdrawn, an edge of coolness to her whiteness now, like light caught in crystal. But still luminous and giving and warm when it mattered. _Are we looking for doors and windows again?_

_Anything but a repeat of the worst days. I've had a lot more bad days since then. _

_A quick flicker of memories shared—Kella's death, seen from both sides, Lystheni autopsies, the wracking pain and fear of the poisoning—him knowing of it, but unable to __do__ anything about it—caring for young Julian Provian, left without a mother by the same attack. _

_Lintorum's attack on each of them—again, the pain of it doubled, for neither of them had been there to assist the other. Flash of rage—she'd never told him __all__ the details of the fight. __If I ever see him again, sweetness, it'll be his neck, not his arm, that I'll break_.

_Domination attempts by the Lystheni, fingers of mental intrusion picking their way through his mind, Siara's attempts to pick through Dara's mind forgiven now by __both__ of them as they held up the experiences in comparison, contrast. _

Each experience, formative. Protection, dedication, self-control, loyalty. High-carbon steel, buried in smoldering charcoal, heated to 700º Fahrenheit, folded, hammered, and then quenched. And then heated again, hardening them, strengthening them, shaping them. Taking out the flaws, the brittleness, turning them into blades. Hammered, formed, straightened, quenched again. A hundred times. Then sharpened. But none of it changed their essential natures. There was no alchemy powerful enough for that.

_And of course, there was __today__. Livanus' helpless body, being riddled with bullets. Trying to keep him alive. Spasm of total fear as Rel and Rinus both ran for the elevator, watching himself from her perspective. Kallixta coming over and pressing her helmet to Dara's. Dara's quiet words: "We're not leaving without them." And worse yet, Kallixta's reply: "Don't be stupid. Of course we're not." _

_I __told__ you two to __leave__. _

_That's not an order I could have lived with having obeyed. In the end, it turned out okay. Don't court-martial me, beloved. _

Sweet communion, all too brief. _Shouldn't we be trying to find the others?_

Reluctance._ Probably. Scared to move. We might see futures again. And they might not be as bright now. We know more this time. _Thoughts so completely mingled, there was no end, no beginning. . . . and then yes, the damned doors and windows once more.

_It __is__ different this time. No, no, go __that__ way, that way looks better—_

**Flick.** _Sam and Kasumi's child born, a Valentine's Day baby, the following year, black hair, dark almond eyes, pink and wailing. A boy, apparently. Dara looking at the vids in wonder and resignation. "I finally get a baby brother, and I probably won't even get to meet him for a year. Will never be more than an aunt to him, practically." Quick glance up. "It's okay, though. With any luck, maybe. __he'll__ do something nice and peaceful with his life when he grows up." "In your family, sweetness? I don't believe it for an instant."_

**Flick.** _Two years out. "I've been requested to go work with salarian STG for six months, beloved. It'd be a shore billet—they said they'd find something for you to do, probably cross-training with the Third Infiltration Regiment under Captain Kirrahe. I know it wouldn't do a lot for __your__ career, but—" "What sort of work would it be for you?" "Not sure. Something to do with the yahg, I think. Studying their genetic structures and bodies, possibly." "Sounds like it would be important work, and good for __your__ career. I can stand six months on Sur'Kesh for that." Touch of hands, glances met. _

**Flick.** _Two years after that. Young Narayana—all of five years old, and nearly the size of a human twelve-year-old, collapsing on Dara's shoulder in grief during her father's funeral. Dara's own face wet—not a human in the makeshift base chapel had a dry eye. "What am I going to do without him? He was the only one who __understood__ me?" Narayana wailed._

"_You'll do what we all do," Dara told her, lips quivering. "You'll grow up and try to make him as proud of you as you can. He believed in the Wheel, you know that? Maybe, right now, he really is being reborn somewhere." And, because gods and fate are fickle and have a wicked sense of humor, he's probably being born a krogan, she thought, but didn't say. But she couldn't really picture it. Couldn't really picture Mordin Solus as anything other than who he had been. Teacher, mentor, friend. Conflicted and noble and tarnished, all at once. "Tell you what, Narayana. You finish med school, and you and I will try to figure out going into practice together."_

"_You're going into trauma surgery, though." _

"_True enough, but I've got enough background for a second specialization. The xeno-obstetrics community loves to hate me, too."_

_Narayana almost managed to chuckle in spite of her grief. "I know. I've read their responses to your papers. My father laughed at all of them."_

**Flick.** _Two years after __that__, hardly a peaceful practice on Bastion or Mindoir, though. Pinned down on Lorek, Rel and Dara fighting side-by-side. Dead and dying resistance fighters all around them. "Call the ship for extraction!" "Kallixta, get the damned ship down here, or we're all going to die!" _

_Did you see that? We were already in Spectre armor there._

_Earlier than last time. Bad things are coming, beloved._

**Flick.** _Visiting Bastion on shore leave. War still raging everywhere in the galaxy. Eli there—only recognizable by the violet clan-paint slashed along his jaws. Tall, heavily-built, grim, dark cop-eyes that had seen too damned much. And. . . Serana? Nearly six feet in height now, trained in turian CID and now a member of the new Hierarchy Intelligence Agency. "We've trying to track down a batarian espionage ring here on Bastion. Can't actually __be__ batarians. They kind of stick out. Might need a little Spectre muscle to assist us in our inquiries," Eli told them as they sat in a bar somewhere._

**Flick.** _A year after that, Eli and Serana were at their backs, both wearing Spectre black themselves now, Rinus in the same black armor. __Siara__ and a strange krogan were there, too. Deploying to Anhur, to raise up the humans there to fight their batarian oppressors. _

**Flick.** _"God, I wish there had been another way. Mass effect drivers on asteroids, maybe, wiping out most of the life on the planet. Just like Tosal Nym and Aphras. It would have been cleaner than this." "It's not your fault, __mellis__." "I worked on the yahg project, didn't I? No. . . don't worry about it. If Dr. Solus could live with what he did for the genophage project. . . I can live with what we did to the yahg."_

_We know that the simulation is never completely accurate. Don't borrow trouble before it happens, beloved._

Some things remained the same, if subtly different. . . .

**Flick.** _Twenty-seven now, back on Mindoir. Dara and Kallixta __and__ Serana, all carrying young at the same time, Dara and Serana both griping about having to wear breathers. Kallixta smiling at both her 'sisters' smugly. All still working, relentlessly busy. Dara at the med clinic, working with Dr. Narayana, Kallixta training pilots. Serana, in her dual capacity as legal liaison for the Spectres and Kasumi's second. _

_Rellus, Rinus, and Eli were returning home from a mission, skimming over the wide fields of __festuca__ in which __talashae__ browsed, side by side with fields where bison chewed cud, both sets of herd animals staring at each other, incuriously. All the flowers of Mindoir in full bloom, __allora_ _and __galae__ and cherry, all at once. Apple trees and __caprificus__ trees. Beautiful._

_Eli and __my sister__? What in the spirit's names has been going on back home?_

_Probably nothing. You're not going to say __one word__ about this to him, beloved. If it's going to happen, let it happen on its own. He knows just as well as we do that the simulations only show __possibilities.__ All __his__ original visions were about Kella, after all._

_True enough. I'm still going to be __watching__, though. She's my __sister.__ And while he's one of our best friends, he's. . . _

_. . . a guy? A guy who never did more than kiss Siara, even when she more or less threw herself at him, because he got the impression something was wrong?_ She shared his memories now, understood now what had been hinted at, but never explicitly explained before.

_Okay, so he's got a turian sense of honor—_

—_and a human one—_

—_but I'm still going to be watching._

_This__ disturbs you more than the war and the yahg and everything else?_

_That's just work, sweetness. __This__ is family._

And then they dropped out of it, back into cold reality. Dara sat up, staring as the Reaper took off. _Oh, shit, no, not again. _

And then there was fighting again, lash of biotic energies lifting them both clear off the ground, just like poor Livanus on the Vitrifex satellite. . . and then they both fell to the ground again. Dara landed solidly on her back and hit her head, and lay there stunned for a moment. _Boot camp needs to have a anti-biotics unit_, she thought. _Or maybe OCS._

She sat up, groaning, and realized, dimly, that they were running out of targets. The krogan were still moving around wildly, but all seemed to be engaged with salarians. What jamming there had been seemed to have failed. "I need a medic over here," a female voice called over the radio, and Dara lifted her head, found the source, and patted Rel on the leg. _"Cover me. I've got a patient."_

"_No problem."_

She ducked and rolled and made her way to the north, dropping down, eyes widening a little. An asari female she didn't recognize, who certainly wasn't wearing Spectre black, was holding down a familiar-looking human woman, bare arms covered in tattoos. There was red blood everywhere, coming from an abdominal gash. Red blood wasn't a problem. Red blood, green blood, orange blood; Dara could be up to the ankles in it, and it didn't even phase her.

Now Dara nodded briefly and got to work, huddling her body between her patient and incoming fire, aware of Rel at her back, guarding her, firing periodically. "This isn't a bullet wound," she noted, wiping blood away and checking for foreign objects, going so far as to lift her visor for a moment. _Good. No bowel smell. Wish I had a turian nose, so I could be sure, though._ Then she locked the visor back down again. It was cold, and while the atmosphere wasn't _toxic_, she'd suffocate in short order without her sealed environment.

"No shit," Jack groaned, writhing a little.

The asari woman was holding her down with surprising strength, and interposed, calmly, "Salarian shockwave picked up ceiling debris, including a piece of rebar."

"I don't suppose you know if you're current on your tentanus?" Dara asked, ducking a little as another bullet zipped by, clipping her shields.

"Shit! No. No idea." Jack winced as Dara applied medigel. "Great. I know you. You're. . . the little _princess._"

Dara was applying medigel, and glanced up at Jack's face, having no _idea_ what the woman was talking about, but assuming that, like many patients, the hostility came from pain and from fear and loss of control. "No, my _roommate_ was a princess. But we look nothing alike. For one thing, she's taller, and for another, she doesn't wear paint." She met the woman's eyes, and smiled a little. Comfort and reassurance and a little humor. "Try to hold still, or your tattoos will heal back together crooked." She patted Jack lightly on the shoulder, and turned back around, sliding up against Rel's side. _"What have we got left?"_

"_Not many. It'll be over soon."_

It was, too. This was the biggest battle that Dara had been involved in—and Rel, too. And their work wasn't over when the bullets stopped flying. Hers, in particular, had only just begun. While some of the Spectres and marines were trained in first aid—Garrus and Lantar, for instance, both had C-Sec/B-Sec first responder training—Dara was the only full combat medic along for the ride. "You set the triage order," Lantar told her quietly. "In this case, you get to tell _us_ what to do." He looked away for a moment. Dara swallowed. _Yeah, at least until the __Estallus__ and the other ships land, and the real doctors get here._ It was a _lot_ of responsibility. Lantar looked back at her now. "We've got more wounded over on the _Kharkov_, though."

Shepard was already calling for volunteers to go to the _Kharkov._ Rel raised his hand. "At least let me go get my wounded marine and bring him in here, first," he asked, once Shepard had waved him forward.

So he and Decimus and Nadea had disappeared for a while, and had come back carrying Hasta Gallian, who was dazed, but alive. Dara had scarcely known that they were gone, since she'd been hard at work, setting up a triage line, and trying _not_ to look at the two Spectres working with her for approval or support.

And when she put a krogan with a perforated intestine ahead of a turian marine—Rasmus, actually—with a leg wound, Gris came over to her. "Not necessary," he told her in a low rumble. "Appreciate it, but he'll heal."

She looked up at him for a moment. "He'll heal, but he'll heal _badly_ if he's not treated, Spectre. Won't he?"

The krogan looked down at her, measuringly, a little distance there. He'd always looked amused when teaching her on the sparring mats. Now there was just appraisal. "Just saying, don't get bogged down. Lots of people hurt right now."

"I know. Let me go take care of them." Not a snap. Just a medic in a damned hurry. "You can help by holding him down for me, Spectre Gris."

He nodded, still studying her, and she turned back to her krogan patient. "Right," she said in galactic. "This is probably going to hurt. Your body and some medigel will take care of most of the damage, but I'm going to go in and take out the bullet, try and clean the area of any bowel fluids to prevent sepsis or peritonitis."

"I don't need your help," the krogan growled at her, and Dara ducked a swing. "I'm not weak."

Gris caught the korgan's arms in his and held him down, snarling at him in the guttural krogan tongue. Dara waited for Gris to finish, then looked her krogan patient in the eye. "Listen to me," she said, more than a little temper showing. "Right. I've got a line of patients backing up behind you. If I _don't_ take the bullet out, your intestines have a fifty-fifty chance of regenerating _around_ it. If they do, that will create a blockage, which means that in a week, your intestines will _burst_, and you'll die when your own shit flows through your entire abdominal cavity. And if your intestines miraculously _don't_ close up around the damned bullet, you'll probably wind up _passing_ it out your cloaca in the next several days, and I _guarantee_ you won't sit down for a week after that, regeneration or not." She looked at him steadily. "You going to shut up and let me take that bullet out and close the bowel for you now?"

The krogan blinked. "All right. When you put it _that_ way. . . "

Dara changed gloves and got out her forceps. "I suppose you're going to be one of the _manly_ types and refuse anesthetic?"

"Pain is for the weak."

"Fine. If you think you can hold _still_ while I'm digging around in your abdomen, so I don't make this worse. . . . " Dara rolled her eyes behind her visor, and got on with it, taking out the bullet before disinfecting the area—there were a _lot_ of growls with all of this, but she had to give the krogan credit. He didn't move a _muscle_. "Here, have a souvenir," she told him, handing him the bullet, tossing her forceps into a basin filled with alcohol, and then moving back in with sutures and medigel.

When she turned to take care of Rasmus, someone was already there, treating him. A small salarian form in a labcoat. "Dr. Solus?" Huge, overwhelming tide of relief. A _real_ doctor was here. She could go back to _taking_ orders for the moment, instead of _giving_ them.

"Yes, Dara." Mordin looked up, eyelids crinkling at her. "Still effective with krogan patients, I see."

Dara's lips quirked up, and she started to laugh, but she'd have to wait to _hug_ him for _being here_, being _alive_. The recent simulations in which she'd foreseen his funeral were all too fresh in her head. "Weren't you in the _Dunkirk_ brig?" she asked, kneeling down, and, stripping out of her gloves, started handing him tools as he asked for them.

"Yes. Simulations began. Lost control of physical body. Apparently, chip activated at that point. Good that I was confined. As soon as I regained consciousness, regained bodily control once more. Offered services to Captain Kapur when _Dunkirk_ landed. Dr. Theopolis of the _Dunkirk_ is assisting Dr. Macan with the crew of the _Kharkov_. Daniel—Dr. Abrams, that is—is tending the _Normandy_ crew. Dr. Cimmirian is still in surgery on the _Estallus_. Left no one to assist here, except for me." Dr. Solus looked at her. "Dara, begin treatment for facial slash on turian patient." He paused as Dara slipped on gloves.

"Cadius, you're going to need to hold your breath periodically as I open and close your visor." Dara got out gauze and poured antiseptic over it. "Actually, how the _hell_ did you get your face injured, anyway?"

The big male's voice was rueful. "Thought I saw the shimmer of some stealth nets coming up the stairs. I lifted my visor to confirm with my nose, and that's pretty much when the roof ripped off." His English was good and flexible. "Caught some debris in the face."

"You're lucky it didn't get any closer to the eye. It's pretty deep, too. You may wind up with a dueling scar, like a Prussian."

That got her a blink. "I'm not familiar with the species," Rasmus said, after a moment, but he was clearly teasing.

"Look it up when we get back to the ship," Dara told him, and numbed the site. "Breathe for a minute or two. When it's dead to the world, I'll get a few sutures in there and slap on some medigel." She looked back at Dr. Solus now. "Dr. Cimmerian's still in surgery?" Dara's heart had lightened at the first words. "Livanus is still alive?"

"Last I heard, yes." Dr. Solus paused. "Dr. Cimmirian took comm page in surgery, just long enough to express frustration with working conditions. 'Damned pilot.' 'Damned salarians.' Corrected her. These were Lystheni. Correct species, wrong philosophy." He continued suturing Rasmus' leg closed, while Dara suppressed a chuckle and started sewing the facial wound closed. "Received several more comments at that point, mostly regarding the difficulty of working when simulation device knocked her on her cloaca, awakening with a bruised head and instruments that were likely no longer sterile. Annoyance at having to file a fluid contact report, because scalpel had fallen from hand and gouged leg. Further annoyance at interruptions for comm calls."

Rasmus and Dara were _both_ laughing at that point, a huge and welcome relief from the pressure and strain of a very, very long day.

An hour later, most of the wounded were at least walking again—other than Gallian, of course, who was the worst of the non-fatal casualties. They'd made him comfortable, at least, and gotten fluids into him, doing their best to cushion the shock. Blasto had hovered near him, actually, and periodically enforced calm on the young hasta as well. Dara would have preferred Sky for that job, but her rachni friend was nowhere in sight at the moment.

Finally, she ran out of patients. And at that moment, all her energy just . . . died. She found a workbench, raked debris off it with her forearm, and sat down on it, wishing she could unlatch her helmet, but with the building open to the freezing, oxygenless atmosphere, that wasn't a good idea. Rel found her there, and hopped up beside her, putting an arm around her—bedamned to the armor and the uniform. "Long day," he offered, after a moment.

"Very long damn day," she answered, tiredly, trying to lean her head on his shoulder, and not even _caring_ at the moment that in armor, it was rather uncomfortable. It was, after all, what the exterior of most spaceships was made of, under any ablative armor, of course.

They just sat there for a long moment. Looking up at the stars that were visible through the cloud cover. "Gallian deserves a medal," Rel said after a moment. "I know he'll get a _sangua_ _clipeus _anyway—"

"That's like a Purple Heart, right?"

"Yeah. But he should get something for valor, too."

She nodded.

"Would you do it again, _mellis_?" Rel's voice was very quiet on their private channel.

"Do what?"

"Everything."

She laced her gloved fingers into his, carefully fitting their hands together. "Yeah. Otherwise, damnit, you'd be out here by yourself." She paused. "Besides, what else would I be doing?"

"Dunno. School. College back on Earth. Riding horses." His voice was tired.

She squeezed his fingers. "I'm where I'm want to be, doing the things I want to do, with the people I want to do them with." Dara thought about that. "Although, when we get leave. . . yeah. Let's go home to Mindoir. Ride up to our meadow. And the universe can damned well take care of itself for a few days."

Rel laughed then, quietly. "We might never ride back down again."

"_Talas'kak_, _amatus._ Your sense of duty will have us back on the shuttle fifteen minutes early. Even without a clock counting down on our omnitools."

Soft laughter, and then silence again. Across the atrium, she could see Nadea and Decimus, sitting more or less the same way. Weapons still close to hand, but folded in on themselves, each other. Finding their strength.

Gris walked up then, feet crunching heavily on the debris. "Dara. Thought you should know. Ulamont Karsh, the krogan you treated. . . he was damned impressed. Said he'd never thought a krogan would be put before a turian in _anything_."

Dara raised her head from Rel's shoulder, puzzled. "He was hurt worse than Cadius was. That's how triage _works_."

Gris chuckled, his voice low and heavy in her helmet over the radio. "Yeah. He's been on this rock for thirty, closer to forty years. When he landed here, he hadn't so much as _seen_ a human before. Been a little out of touch on galactic news, too. Going to be interesting, bringing these krogan back to Tuchanka." He rolled his big shoulders. "Anyhow. Just thought you should know." He turned to Rel. "Nice fight today, turian. You and your marines did a good job."

"Thanks," Rel said, offering his free hand for a wrist-clasp. After a moment, Gris took it, returning the clasp with his massive hand before moving back off again.

Back to sitting there, quietly. Feeling their own exhaustion. "I suppose there's stuff we should be doing," Rel said, after a long moment.

"I'll have to help move patients to the ship in a bit. Dr. Solus told me to go _sit down_ for a minute or two, though." Dara paused. "I'm actually _hungry_."

Rel snorted. "And when was the last time you ate, _doctor_?"

Dara paused. "Right before we left for the satellite this morning," she admitted.

"_Yesterday_ morning, you mean. I grabbed something while you were still up to your wrists in someone else's blood. Let's go get you something before your blood sugar drops out the bottom of your boots and into the ground."

She chuckled now, and they hopped down from the bench. Dara had just opened her MRE packet and lifted her visor for a quick bite, cold wind nipping at her cheeks, salivary glands kicking into overdrive at the flavor of prepackaged apple strudel, when her dad walked over. "You two? Come with me. Shepard and Garrus want us, Solus, and Sky with them."

_Both of us? Well, can't be that someone's hurt_, Dara decided. _Another pocket of Lystheni resistance, maybe? _"Can I eat on the way?" she asked.

Her dad chuckled. "Try not to trip over anything." As they walked, Dara looked up at him. Still big and strong. Still a bulwark against the world. "Hey, Dad?"

"Yeah?"

She hesitated. Didn't say what she had started to say. "You get the doors and windows again, too?"

"Yep. Some past, some future this time." They were picking their way up the staircase now.

"From what I saw, you and Kasumi should be picking out boy names." Trying for light humor.

"Heh. I saw both. Either's fine. I got a pretty damned good deal out of having a daughter the first time, after all." Dara's throat went tight. He patted her on the shoulder. "By the way. . . thanks for trying to get that krogan off of me."

Dara shrugged as they passed into the Morphil'zha offices again. So _odd_ to see ordinary desks and screens and chairs in here, some pushed back as if their occupants had just stepped away for a moment. "Didn't do much good. Blasto actually stopped him." It felt _weird_ saying the name of the hanar Spectre. Kasumi had insisted that he was a _really_ good guy, though, in the med bay . . . was it only a day ago, two at most? And her father had made noises about him being welcome at the weekly barbecues from now on.

"Yeah, but you were buying me breathing room." He paused. "Kind of makes me think of the cave. Two years ago, now, or just about."

_Daddy. I tried to be brave_, she'd said then. Well, she was still trying. Some days with more success than others. But she kind of figured that bravery was more or less doing what was necessary, even if she was scared to death the whole time. And, on the whole, fear was a lot more manageable if she didn't think about it so much, and just did what needed to be done. Because someone needed to do it. "Yeah," Dara said after a moment. "Feels like a long time ago now."

Rel's hand landed on her shoulder. "On the whole," Rel said, dryly, "I think we did a hell of a lot better today than two years ago."

"I should hope so," her dad said, and she could hear the grin in his voice. "If you didn't, a hell of a lot of training would be going to waste."

And on that note, they stepped out of the Morphil'zha building, and she could see the curving bulk of the _Normandy_, lit up here and there by its landing lights. And beside it, perched on the ground. . . was the mini-Reaper. Not moving, other than the dim flash of its lights. "That thing has a cockpit, right?" she asked, feeling a little queasy at the thought of anyone ever climbing into it and trying to fly it.

"Yeah. Lina Vasir—the biotic who attacked the base a year and a half ago—used it like a fighter. It's . . . changed a bit since then." Her dad's voice sounded odd. Dara turned her head and looked at Rel. _More Spectre secrets, I guess. Although, again. . . what the hell are __we__ doing here, if that's the case?_

**Shepard**

The aftermath of a major battle scene is never pretty, and rarely clean or controlled. With a hundred and fifty people aboard each ship—although the people on board the _Kharkov_ were clearly among the injured—there were _lots_ of bodies to take care of issues. Shepard gave loose orders, and let her people get to work. Lights were set up, medics started bustling. She stood for a moment, arms crossed over her chest, watching the swarm of people all attempting to clear dead salarian bodies, recover their own dead, tend to the wounded—and also, in and around all that, attempting to investigate the scene. Garrus, Lantar, and Sam were handling _that_, of course, with Samara giving a little assistance.

_Livanus should be there with them. Damnit. I brought nine Spectres with me. Odds were, one of them would be badly hurt or killed. And of course, there's all the other fatalities. Three human marines outside of my position killed when a Lystheni fighter crashed pretty much on top of them. Two humans lost to beam weapons with Sam's team. __Five__ marines killed in the western barracks—no Spectre with that team to provide leadership. . . would have been Livanus' team, if he hadn't been in surgery. Ten krogan killed, all told, with Gris' push from the southwest. Two quarians in critical condition—not dead, thank goodness, but injured, in the push with Tali and Kal and Blasto from the southeast. _

Add that to the nine already KIA earlier from the satellites, and an unknown number of dead and injured aboard the ships now, and it came damned near thirty people dead already. _It had damned well better have been worth it_, Shepard thought, sighing. She _hated_ writing the letters that were indisputably in her future right now. "What's the status of each ship?" Shepard called into the radio. Real information had a way of shaking her out of her mental tendency to create worst-case scenarios.

"Commander? This is Kapur, on the _Dunkirk._" The light Indian accent never failed to make Shepard's lips quirk, for some reason. "We have sustained some damage to the outer hull, and it will be taking a day or two of repairs to ensure that we're space-worthy. The AI of the _Kharkov_ managed to control her landing somewhat, but the impact was being too great. The ship was split in half across the fuselage." Shepard _winced_. That was pretty much an irreparable injury, right there. "Once she landed and activated automatic damage control systems, the AI evacuated to _us_, as it happens. I have two very pretty ladies now sitting in my AI core." Kapur sounded bemused. "The crew was largely already in their armor, so they had breathers in place. No danger of cold or suffocation, in that way. However, the impact was very great. Our medics are rendering assistance now, and my people are attempting to open damaged areas and emergency bulkheads to get to crewmembers who might be trapped."

"Have you heard from Captain Orlova?" Shepard asked.

Kapur hesistated. "Unfortunately, she has not yet reported in. The cockpit took most of the force of the hard landing. It is possible that she and her pilot were both there at the time of the crash."

Shepard sighed. "Keep me informed, about both ships then," she told him.

"I will do so. Kapur out."

Jallus reported next. "_Estallus_ is space-worthy," the turian captain said, firmly. "We've taken damage to the ablative hull, but due, I'm told, in large part to Lieutenant Essedarius and Centurion Velnaran. . . and of course, our AI, Laetia, we're in better shape than the rest of the ships. We're rendering aid to the _Normandy_. I'm told that Spectre Livanus is still in surgery. I may have to put in a commendation for my chief medical officer for _keeping_ him that way."

"I'll forward a note adding the thanks of the Spectres to that request," Shepard said, rubbing at her eyes. "_Normandy?_" she asked. She'd gotten so _used_ to hearing Joker's voice over the comms that it was unsettling to hear anyone else's, except for EDI's. _Ken Donnelly-Onorian_ was the one who answered her request for information, however. "The damage is mostly external, commander," he reported, his Scottish burr a little more pronounced, as it often was in times of stress. "The cyclonic shields had the entirety of our engine power t'access, since we weren't exactly using them to fly aboot. That bein' said, we've got about a full day's worth of repairs."

Shepard nodded to herself, and pushed up off the crate she was using for a seat, and beckoned Tali over. "Tali? Could you and Kal poke around a bit? See if you can find anything that's currently transmitting on the controller frequency. _Something_ was controlling the chipped Lystheni when the rest of us were flat on our backs. We can thank our lucky stars we managed to thin their numbers before they tripped the simulation, or the butcher's bill would be much worse."

"On it," Tali told her, and she headed off, omnitool flaring to life. It didn't take her long to find a transmission, and track it to what, from the wires in the walls, appeared to be a server room. "The door's heavily booby-trapped, however," she noted. "This may take some time."

"For once, we actually _have_ time," Shepard said, tiredly, leaning against a wall. "Absolutely no one is going anywhere fast."

Tali chuckled and began working on the door with her omnitool. "You sound like you need a vacation, Shepard."

"Last one of those I took didn't turn out so well. There were activities there not covered by the Macedyn Tourist Bureau's guide."

"You could come to Rannoch," Tali invited.

"Scenic, peaceful, out of the way, almost entirely uninhabited. With my luck, we'd be tracked there and kidnapped by. . . I don't know. Who haven't I pissed off lately?" Shepard looked off into the mid-distance. "Salarians from Dalatrass Hardrassa's clan. Batarians. Memory of Thessia insurgents. Volus corporate operatives. Hanar fundamentalists who think that my assertions about the Collectors is blasphemy against the Enkindlers."

"Why do elcor never make that list?" Tali asked, fiddling with her omnitool some more. 

Shepard thought about that. "I have yet to figure out how to offend an elcor, apparently. The geth and the rachni apparently like me."

"You did stop both their species from being wiped out," Tali pointed out. "That tends to make an impression."

_Yeah, but I did that for the rest of the galaxy, too. But what have I done for them lately?_ Shepard's lips quirked up at the corners a bit.

Kal chuckled. "You do make enemies with style, Shepard. I've always liked that about you."

"Thanks, Reegar. You do know how to make a girl feel better."

"I've always said that about him, myself." Tali's voice was fond, and then she said, "Got it!" and the door slid open.

Inside, the room was indeed filled with the hum of servers. "What have we got?" Shepard asked.

Tali was already analyzing the data. "Looks like two or three separate AIs. Very complete. Complexity rivaling that of a _Normandy_-class AI. . . but different. Cohort can double-check my analysis. . . " and that was a heck of a concession from Tali'zorah, of course, "but I think we're looking at Lystheni who used the upload relic to transfer themselves to specially-prepared AI cores." She tapped her fingers on one aerogel screen, bringing up a scrolling line of code. "This one has metadata tags embedded in it, that identify it as belonging to Kina Pero." She looked over at Shepard.

"And that rendered them immune to the biotic effects of the simulation device, in a way," Shepard said, quietly. "And with a transmitter in the room, they could, effectively, run _their own_ unconscious bodies from a distance. Like a puppeteer."

Kal sounded confused as he raised one red-gloved hand. "This is all a little over my head. Wouldn't the body that the . . . personality, for lack of a better word, be empty after being uploaded? And wouldn't the AI be, effectively, a whole new person? Why would it even care about its previous body?"

_Why, indeed?_ Shepard thought, Joker's limp form resting on a gurney in the middle of the open atrium flashing across her mind.

Tali was already explaining it to her husband. "As far as Ruin was able to explain the device to us, it does not necessarily _purge_ the original consciousness when upload occurs. A copy—a _perfect copy—_is made and housed in the cylinder, and can be subsequently copied to another body. Or to multiple bodies. The original consciousness is always identifiable by the relic. And all the copies can be extracted and . . . installed, I suppose. . . to a single body. . . as a single, contiguous consciousness, with multiple memories of the same time periods." Her wavered a little. "The machine can also be set to _purge_ a consciousness. I suppose that might have been used as a method of capital punishment."

Shepard straightened up. "Is there anything else on these servers besides the Lystheni AIs?"

"I can have a look," Tali offered.

"Go ahead. I'll get Cohort in here to help—I appreciate your being willing to work with him, you know." Lilu sighed. "He can throw some damn firewalls around you and your omnitool. We definitely don't want any of them hitch-hiking. And when you've finished obtaining any _data_ on the servers. . . "

"Shut them down?" Tali offered.

"Blow them to hell," Shepard replied, quietly.

Tali's head turned. "Wouldn't you normally be the one telling _me_ that these are, effectively, prisoners of war?"

Kal sounded dubious. "Won't Cohort have a problem with that, too?"

"If he does, send him to me. I'll talk to him about it." Shepard strongly doubted if the geth would have a problem with it. He'd _probably_ say that the Lystheni clearly had errors in their programming and represented an impediment to consensus, or some such. "We've already killed their physical bodies, which _these_ . . . personae. . . were in the process of using to attack us. Murder us as we lay unconscious, in fact. I don't really want to put a _server box_ up in a witness chair in a courtroom and have lawyers arguing for the next ten years over its rights to due process and whatnot."

Tali's shoulders shook for a moment. "You're saying that there are things for which you don't wish to set a precedent?"

"Oh, I want there to be precedents. I want them to be the _right_ precedents. EDI, Kynthia, Pelagia, Laetia, Concordia, Roxana, Xanthe, Liegia. And Ruin. And . . . Joker. Apparently." Shepard cleared her throat. "Ah, speaking of which?"

Tali made a little shooing gesture. "Yes, yes, a commander's work is never done."

_You're telling me._ Shepard left the server room, and headed back for the atrium. Managed to flag down her husband, as he and Lantar and Sam were in the middle of an intense conversation about data that they'd recovered from the salarian base so far. "Garrus? I need you and, hmm. Mordin and Sky. Yeah, that'll work. I need you all to come with me for a moment." She peeled him away, grabbed Sky and Mordin, and took them to the triage line, where Joker's limp form was still on its gurney. _I carried him over my shoulder off the original __Normandy__ near Amada_, she thought, distantly, looking down at the body, shrouded by its environmental suit. "Cohort," she said into her radio. "When you uploaded Joker into the cylinder, did you do copy protocol or a full upload?"

"We are uncertain," the geth replied, immediately. "It was our understanding from the Ruin process that the relic makes copies of organic processes and houses them temporarily, and that it required a separate command to purge the process from the original platform. This seems logical to us, with appropriate safeguards. We are uncertain as to why Moreau-Pilot continues to be in a state of system failure."

"Thank you, Cohort," Shepard said, and shut down the channel. "Mordin? Why _is_ he still unconscious?"

Mordin shook his head, blinking his eyes in clear distress. "Unsure. Brain wave patterns indicate low-level brain functions still persist. The heart beats, the lungs move air. The higher brain functions governed by the cerebral cortex are. . . absent. Hallmarks of persistent vegetative state. Highly unusual, given what Cohort has told us."

Shepard digested that for a moment. "All right," she told them all. "Let's go talk to our errant pilot." She tabbed her radio. "Sam? Grab Dara and Rel. We're all heading up to talk to Joker and EDI."

"Yeah, he kind of has some explaining to do, doesn't he?" Garrus acknowledged, taking the handles of one half of the gurney, while she took the other half. "Why do you want Dara and Rellus there?"

Shepard grinned at him. "You _know_ they're going to be Spectre candidates in a few years. Let's see how they do with something that _isn't_ running and shooting and the other _easy_ stuff. Ethical quandaries. Shades of gray." 

Garrus grimaced. "That's always been the part I've had the hardest time with," he acknowledged.

The gurney had wheels, but they had lots of debris on the ground. Sam had, in the last hour, found the damned elevators, turned off the turrets that had, yes, been pointed straight at their doors, and verified the cars as being in working order. That at least alleviated the need to carry the gurney up ten flights of stairs.

They carried Joker's limp body out of the Morphil'zha complex up to where the _Normandy_ sat, white and beautiful, beside the alien curves of the small Reaper. The _Estallus_ was nearby, and streams of people bustled between the two ships—all carefully avoiding the tiny Reaper, though many a crewman directed curious stares its way. Sam, Rellus, and Dara were already there, since they'd taken the direct route out, and hadn't been burdened by a gurney.

_Hey, Commander. About time you came out here._ The words were in her mind, and it sure as hell _sounded_ like Jeff Moreau.

Shepard was amused as both young heads, in their black helmets, snapped around, trying to figure out where the voice was coming from.

"Joker. Glad to hear your. . . voice." Shepard turned her head and looked at Sky, trying to form her thoughts as clearly as possible. "How is it that I hear you in my head, anyway?"

Sky sang, very quietly, _It __is__ the voice of Sings-Bitter-Jests, Truth-singer. The voice of dust and ruin is no more, nor does his song have the __power__ of the one who wore this shell before._

_Give me thirty-seven million years or so,_ Joker said, sardonically. Shepard's head jerked up. _In answer to your question, commander, hell if I know. If I __think__ about __how__ to do stuff, it doesn't work. If I just open my mouth and talk. . . as it were. . . it comes out right. When I talk to you, EDI tells me I send out biotic impulses. When I talk to her or the kids, it comes out as a radio frequency transmission. Like speaking two different languages, really. One machine, one organic._

_Holy shit,_ Shepard thought, and Joker actually chuckled at that. She shook her head and folded her arms across her chest again. "Okay, Joker. What the hell am I supposed to do with you now? I don't suppose you're going to want to download back into your body, are you?"

_Would you?_ His tone was pointed. _I've done enough crawling for one lifetime, commander. And, truth be told, I probably only had ten years left in me as it was, barring a major accident. Vrollik's syndrome isn't a happy fun disease where you genteelly waste away, commander. It's slow and it's painful._

EDI's voice came over the radio then. _"Jeff has been. . . quite concerned. . . with his mortality for some time."_

_Yeah. What would happen to the kids without me there to take care of them. What would happen to EDI and the ship, without me there. Hell, what would happen to __you__, commander, if I weren't there to pull your fat out of the fire with my dazzling flight skills._ The sardonic tone, slight dash of cockiness, was pure Joker, and Shepard couldn't help the grin that tugged at the corners of her mouth. _Besides, __you__ were the one who told __us__ that you were counting on EDI figuring out a way to turn us into. . .what was it, 'coded beams of light' and to bounce around the universe for the next several million years, to make sure all our descendants don't kill each other and that the __real__ Reapers never come back._

Shepard shook her head. "You know, I wasn't really intending for that to be taken _literally_. Talk about my own words coming back to bite me in the ass," she added with a rueful grin. "Talk to me, Joker. I won't _order_ you back into your own body. That would be unfair, futile, and something I _know_ you wouldn't obey." Her lips quirked. "But that leaves me with several problems. I can't see turning you over to the quarians for 'study.' You're _you._ You're still Jeff Moreau, and you _do_ have rights." _Technically_, her conscience nagged her, _the Lystheni in those AI cores had rights, too._ She poked her conscience back. _They abrogated those rights when they damned well attacked us._ "So, yes, I'd have to explain to the Council why the mini-Reaper isn't available for study anymore."

Joker snorted in her mind. _I could make it __really__ easy and just take off. Trust me when I say that they would never, ever catch me. As far as I can tell, I seem to run on dark energy and standard sunlight, so I don't think I even need to refuel._ His tone was very sarcastic. _That way, you can tell the Council to stick it in their collective—what was the word in Latin again? _

"_Culus,_" Shepard replied, grinning.

"Council not only issue," Mordin interposed, quietly. "Medical ethics also difficult." Shepard turned and looked at him, registering now that Dara had done the same thing. "Potentially, three Jeff Moreaus now exist. Physical body may still contain original consciousness. Reaper contains second variant. Third in EDI's AI core, though not conscious yet." The salarian tipped his head to the side. "And what are we to do with them?"

"To the point as ever, Mordin." Garrus said, dropping to a crouch near the gurney. "I don't think the galaxy can _handle_ three Jeff Moreaus, to be honest. I often had trouble just dealing with _one_."

_I don't know, Garrus, you got a lot better once you worked the stick out of your ass_, Joker replied, and Shepard could _hear_ the grin in that mental voice. _I can make it easier for all of you. I've always said that once my body died, it would be li'l Jeff's turn to keep EDI company. Now I'm in a position in which I get to keep her company, __myself__. And be aware of it, too. Mordin, give it to me straight: __is__ my body going to wake up and be __me__ again? And keep in mind. . . I __have__ a damned living will. No extreme measures. _

"You do?" Shepard was surprised. Then again, she'd had some pretty damned _extreme measures_ applied to her, herself.

_Of course I do,_ Joker snapped back, impatiently. _After a lifetime of being stuck in that body, just barely able to move around, do you think I could possibly want to risk being any __further__ trapped in it? Unable to move, unable to speak, just barely aware, for __years__?_

She shook her head, and waited for Mordin to respond.

"Unsure," the salarian replied, sounding deeply distraught. "Cannot administer euthanasia, if that is what you are about to request. Galactic law stipulates two years in persistent vegetative state must pass before wishes of the patient can be carried out. Five years, in the case of wishes of the family."

_So, there's your first answer, commander. If he. . . I, I guess. . . wake up inside of two years, he can make his own decisions. Maybe he'll live out as normal a life as someone like me can, and we'll re-upload him before a natural and totally painless death, and he and I will be just one big amalgam consciousness._ Joker's voice was fairly dubious, however. _More likely, he'll simply. . . pass away. I told you, I was __not__ in good shape. Ask Mordin for my medical records. Using the chip to pilot the __Normandy__ from across the galaxy really did a number on my body._

She winced. _Stop feeling guilty. I did it to save everyone's lives. No more or less than what you'd have done in my place. _His tone shifted. _Now, __my__ question is this. . . am I going to disappear quietly and alone to keep the Council off everyone's backs? _

"A quiet disappearance might be _easier_," Garrus offered, "but being straight-forward about it presents a _hell_ of a lot less long-term issues. It'll be tough for you to look after the kids, for instance, if you're a renegade." He looked up, and grinned wryly. "I have a certain amount of experience with that."

"_And you will certainly not go alone, when the time comes,"_ EDI said over the radio, and Shepard swallowed hard at the tones of real emotion in that subtle, nuanced voice. _"Where you go, I will go, too."_

_Glad to hear that, honey. Hey, that Marlowe poetry worked, huh? 'Come live with me, and be my love?'_

"_It would not have worked, if the condition did not already exist."_ So much love in that voice, and Shepard really wished she could rub at her eyes through the visor of her helmet.

_That sounded a little too much like an if-then statement, sweetheart._ Joker paused, and Shepard could _sense_ his attention turning back towards them. _I'll stick around long enough to ensure that "I" don't wake up again. But one of these days, EDI will transmit herself to this ship, and we'll be lifting off together._

"That'll leave me without an AI in the _Normandy_, not to mention, without a pilot," Shepard told Joker, trying to sound businesslike, and failing. "And short two friends," she added, giving up on the pretense.

_Nah. Li'l Jeff will probably do just fine as an AI. Bet he won't even __let__ you have another pilot on board,_ Joker replied. _This is fair, right? Gives you time to get everything square with the Council and all that jazz._

Shepard nodded. "Yeah," she said. "Shit, Joker, EDI. . . I'm going to miss you two."

_We'll visit. Unlike __other__ people from your former crews, I think we'll be the only ones actually to __keep__ that promise._

"_Besides,_" EDI said, _"It will take at least two years to come to fruition, if the conditional clause is the termination of Jeff's living body."_

Shepard nodded. Looked down. "Okay," she said. "Let's get your body on board and to med bay, then. Let the clock start ticking." _And I will try to figure out __some__ way to explain to the Council why they cannot have a Reaper to study for technical advances. While I'm at it, I'm going to have to give some thought to making the relics 'disappear.' Mordin would call that unethical, though. Limiting to science and advances. But do I really want a device out there that can empty a body of its consciousness? _

**Rinus and Kallixta**

Every hand was needed until well after daybreak, carrying wounded to and fro, moving large, cylindrical objects from the ruined compound into storage on the _Normandy_. He got a clear idea of the fate that would have befallen the _Estallus_ had Laetia not gotten the flight controls back when she did, when he visited the _Kharkov_. There were about a dozen fatalities on board—not bad, considering the severity of the crash. The human captain and the pilot had died instantaneously, apparently; their bodies were among the white-draped forms in the field near the shattered ship.

Almost every member of the crew had been thrown the length of whatever room they were in, if they weren't strapped in at the time, however, and the results varied between bumps and contusions to skull fractures and broken spines. Rinus was on munitions extraction detail, and had led his crew of gunnery techs over to the _Kharkov_ to start removing its ordnance, including its Javelins. There were no current fires, which was a damned relief, but the ordnance and munitions needed to be removed, examined, and either taken to another ship, or, if unstable or unsafe, disposed of at a safe distance.

He opened the chip briefly—just long enough to ask Laetia, _Did the AI survive?_

_Pelagia transmitted herself to Kynthia. My sisters are sharing a set of second-tier storage devices at the moment, as I once played host to my mother, EDI._

_And the small craft that came onto the scope and took out three of the Lystheni fighters? The one that looks __very__ much like a Reaper, and is currently sitting right next to your mother?_ Rinus and his crew had reached the right compartment door, but it was stuck. He sighed and got out a portable acetylene torch and slid a secondary shield over his already polarized helmet, preparing to cut his way through the hatch.

_My father. . . uploaded to it._ Her tone was puzzled. _I do not understand how it is possible, although I've reviewed the documentation on both relics—simulation device and the uploader device— but it __is__ him. _

_Good to know._ And then he closed the chip back down and went back to work.

Twelve hours later, he finally, finally went off-shift. He'd been awake since 05:00 the previous morning, after a _very_ long previous day or so, had fought on the Vitrifex satellites during the day, and had fought the air battle during the long hours of the night. From midnight until 12:00 local time, he'd been working like a _cudera_ in harness, and he slowly started taking off his armor, stacking each piece neatly in his locker with the habit and discipline of _years_.

He was down to the elasticized pressure suit and eying his nest with longing when the door chimed. _S'kak, now what?_ He stood up, half-dressed, and went to the door, where his irritable stare found Kallixta—already out of armor, and back in a working uniform—and immediately softened. _"You're back,"_ she said.

"_Yeah. Don't know where my roommate is. Come on in."_

She stepped in, and stood there for a moment, awkwardly. _"I've been on fetch-and-carry detail most of the morning. Not like I know __how__ to fix anything around here."_ She looked up at him as Rinus stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her, one hand stealing up to stroke her fringe. She relaxed into him, buried her face in his shoulder, and sighed a bit, her own hand sneaking up to brush the side of his mandible, caress his fringe.

"_Spirits, your touch feels good,"_ he told her, softly. "_Just simple touch, after a long, long damned day."_

"_Thirty-one hours straight,"_ she agreed, sounding tired. _"And my adrenaline wore off hours ago." _His arms felt good, but the elasticized suit was terribly in the way. She wanted to feel his warmth all around her, not just his breath against her ear and his palm sliding along her fringe and neck.

"_For me, that was a good thing,"_ he said dryly. _"Extracting Javelins and Malleolus missiles from a collapsed area of the __Kharkov__? Not something I want to rush."_

"_I got off-shift a half hour ago, cleaned up, lay down in my nest, and, for the life of me, couldn't sleep. Doesn't that sound stupid?_" she said, walking her fingers up and down his spine now. Each touch removing stress, removing tension, leaving warmth in its wake.

"_It happens. You'll learn to sleep whenever you can get it,"_ he told her, still stroking her fringe, relishing the sensation against his palm. _"The little batarian fight we had a few days ago doesn't really count. This was your first major combat." _

Kallixta nodded, her eyes distant. _He __would__ know. How many fights has he seen? And what was all this talk of __black-ops__ work, anyway, for a munitions expert? I didn't even think to look at his past in his mind during the simulation. . . . _ She changed the subject. _"The simulation. . . your brother's visions of the future were accurate, before?"_

"_He said there were some differences, here and there. Mainly details. But the general shape of events seems very close, so far."_

"_Did you like the future we saw together?"_ She almost held her breath.

Rinus' arms tightened on her again, and he felt her teeth scrape lightly against his throat. He groaned a little. _"Yes, sweetness, I did. I like fighting with you. I like the future I see with you. Various parts of it are going to __annoy__ me, especially some of the __conditions__ I saw coming up, but. . . by and large, yeah. I liked what I saw. And I liked what I saw in __you__ in that place."_ Rinus slid his fingers under her jaw, delicately tipping her head up.

"_Good."_ She bit him again, gentleness giving way to urgency.

"_My roommate could be back any moment, sweetness. Not here."_ He gently disengaged her arms. Their contract held no barriers to such things, although, about twenty-four hours before this, he'd been concerned with what Reimian might put in her report to the Imperator about him, Rinus, further _sullying_ Kallixta. At the moment, with the exhaustion in his body, he wasn't sure if he was _up_ to any _sullying_, but if he was, it sounded like a damned fine idea. A way for them both to be able to rest without it feeling like the sleep of the dead.

"_Come to my quarters, then."_ How tight her voice was, as if the words were difficult to say. And, having had a quick peek at what her upbringing had been like, he had an inkling of why.

"_It won't be like before, beloved,"_ he warned her, turning away to get out a set of workout clothes and changing into them quickly. _"I'm pretty tired. And estrus being your first time may have set the bar a __little__ high."_ He managed a grin, and she felt herself flush a little. _"I'm only flesh and blood."_

Reimian was nowhere in sight as they returned to her quarters. _Heh. Maybe she's been ordered to make herself __useful__,_ Rinus thought with a bit of a grin. Inside the door, soft, gentle biting. Exhaustion fell away, at least in part. He'd wanted to be slow and thorough with her if he ever got to do this again. Visions of the future or not, Rinus had no _idea_ if he'd _really_ have this opportunity once more. _I want these marks to touch more than just your skin_, he thought as he relieved her of her clothing, then walked her backwards to her nest, gentle, nipping bites to throat and her delicate cowl to keep her occupied. _I want to mark your spirit, too._ He felt her knees weaken a little as the pressure from one bite edged her closer to submission, and let her slide to her back in her nest. _"Promised you,"_ he told her softly. _"Every inch of your throat. Every inch of your waist."_ He suited action to words, and then sat back, catching one of her ankles in his hand. _"Every inch of your legs."_ Rinus nipped at the base of her spurs, hearing her sudden gasp, and his smile turned predatory as he worked his way up the back of her leg to her knee, then higher. Thigh. _"You smell good, sweetness."_ And then back to the other ankle, biting and teasing, promising more and more with each scrape of teeth, with each caress of his hands.

Her hands caught at his fringe blindly as he opened her, introduced her to the delights of fingers and tongue. Full awareness this time, not the blind rut of instinct. And, strangely enough, every _bit_ as good. Hearing his name whispered, over and over again, the catch of her breath, the startled expression as she released for him making him growl. _"You __smell__ ready, sweetness. Do you want me inside you now?"_

"_Yes, oh, yes."_

She started to turn over, and he caught her by the shoulders. Shook his head. _"Lots more ways than just the control position, sweetness. I might not be able to show them __all__ to you today. . . but I really want to try. Can't watch your expression the other way when I do. . . this. . . . "_ Rinus grinned, drew her knees up so that her spurs wouldn't grind into the bed, and pinned her with his weight, enjoying the _shock_ on her face as he slipped into her, face-to-face.

"_Isn't this. . . wrong?" _She'd had the basic biological instruction that all girls received, so that they'd understand what had happened when estrus occurred, but little more.

"_Does it __feel__ wrong?"_ He punctuated the question by sliding deeply into her and holding there, so that she quivered under him.

"_No. It feels. . . wonderful."_

"_So do you."_ More than wonderful. Perfect. Made for him. He lowered his head and bit her shoulder, trying to slow himself down. But pure exhaustion had retreated, leaving only the faint warmth of _iunkunditas_, and she was his _mate_, even if his paint wasn't on her face yet. He had the marks of her teeth on his forearms to prove it, and the marks of his teeth on her shoulders, too.

Eventually, just to see that look of shock again, Rinus held her close and flipped them, lying on his back now, pulling his feet up, so that his spurs wouldn't grind into the nest, and looked up at her where she straddled him, as when they'd grappled in the sparring room a week ago. He reached up and wrapped his hands around her tiny waist, his fingers a _cinctus_ of flesh and blood, and smiled. _"This is probably my last release, sweetness,"_ he admitted. _"I really __must__ be tired."_

"_Rinus. . . what am I supposed to do?"_ Kallixta's tone was baffled.

His grin widened. _"You're a pilot. Fly me."_ Rinus chuckled. _"You already have the __stick__."_

She batted at his shoulder harmlessly. He reached up and touched the side of her face. _"No control bite. Move however you want to, sweetness. It'll __all__ be good for me."_ She took him at his word, and he sucked in a breath, fingers urging her to move more, loving watching her lose control.

Kallixta looked down at him, feeling a certain amount of wonder. _Her_ mate. Watched as he arched his head back, mandibles flaring, teeth snapping shut on air, and she whimpered a little, wanting that bite to have scored her flesh. _"Very close now, sweetness,"_ Rinus rasped from between clenched teeth. _"If you release, it'll probably drive me over the edge."_

"_I don't know if I can."_

"_Yes, you can."_ His big hands slid from her waist to her hips, moving her, rocking her on him harder, faster. Control and dominance passing easily between them like the turning of a tide. Fire began to wash through her again, and her own teeth clamped shut on her snarls, and, looking down, she could see his sudden, utter relaxation, and smiled as she slipped off of him again, and they curled up in the nest together.

Rinus slid his hands up and down her arms, remembering her _craving_ for touch, but he couldn't keep his own eyes open much longer. His last, hazy thoughts were, _Probably a __lot__ of this going on right now. . . _ and . . . _is my omnitool on? Yeah, okay. They can page me if they need me for anything. Good._ He carefully set the device to wake him at 18:00, and then the world faded out for him entirely.

**Rellus**

Twelve hours of fetch-and-carry work later, Rel sat in the med bay, waiting for his little mate to get off-duty. It just felt good to sit down and not _have_ to move. In fact, several times, he started to doze off, only to snap back awake, little halos of adrenaline flickering through his body, as if he'd just heard a gunshot. He hadn't, of course. His body just thought that he needed to be on alert, and was taking some convincing otherwise.

Dara came out of the back, wearing scrubs and carrying her armor with her in its usual bag, and rubbed his shoulder. "Come on, we can get going now," she said, and he stood up, catching her arm by the elbow and directing her a bit.

"How's Livanus?" he asked as they walked through the corridors.

"He made it through surgery," she replied, looking up with a bit of a smile. "He's still unconscious, but now his own body and medigel will have a chance to let him recover. He's still looking at four to six weeks out of action, though. Minimum. Some people never fully recover, even with modern medicine, from that kind of injury."

In their quarters, she looked up at him a little shyly. "I know you're probably, you know, ready. . ."

"You're not." He touched her hair lightly.

She sighed. "Sorry, no. I'm so damned tired."

Rel pulled his little human mate to him, and bit the side of her throat softly. "I can wait. Sleep, _mellis_. I need that as much as anything else right now, too."

So they curled up together, and, about ten minutes later, Dara said, hazily, "I can't sleep yet. Mind won't shut off."

"I can tell." He nipped the side of her neck. "Still seeing patients in your head?"

"Yeah. Shooting, patients, shooting."

"Think about something else." Rel rubbed the back of her neck with his fingers. This generally wasn't a problem for him, but then again, his job was largely _done_ when the enemy stopped moving. Oh, there might be an objective—grabbing information, destroying a transmitter, extracting a hostage—and he needed to get his people home safely again, too. . . but _her_ job didn't stop when the enemy dropped.

"Trying to." Dara's voice was tired. "Dr. Solus was in the med bay here. Asked again about Narayana. Told him what Lantar had told me. That Ellie had written and told him that Narayana kept asking when daddy was coming home. And that the little one was really _surprised_ when Ellie didn't do as she was told." She yawned. "Salarian females have a command harmonic in their voices that they can use to make their males obey them. Ellie's not a salarian male."

Rel chuckled. He'd only seen pictures of the tiny salarian girl, but he could picture it clearly. Ellie firmly telling her, just like Caelia, _no_. And a look of total surprise at being denied on that little face. He kept rubbing Dara's neck now, listening as her voice got drowsier and drowsier. "He told me. . . it made him sad to see that the dalatrass clone had hatched the other queen eggs he made with her. No emotional attachment to them, of course. But. . . a waste of life. Waste of potential. Said he'd never tell Narayana about her sisters . . . lost under the sea."

There was a long pause. He thought she'd fallen asleep, but then she asked, "Rel?"

"Mmm?"

"Why did they take us over to see Joker in the. . . Reaper?"

That woke him up a bit more. "Don't know, _mellis._ Think it was another test."

"We didn't. . . say anything."

He bit her shoulder gently. "What do you want to bet they'll ask us about it, sometime?"

"Hmm. I don't even know what I'd say." A pause. "Or. . . what the question would be."

"Worry about it later, _amatra_. _Adamare elii."_

"_Adamare talu."_

And then they both finally drifted off to sleep.

**Tarenius Gallian**

He opened his eyes, and saw that a curtain had been drawn around him in the med bay for privacy. It had alien-looking, pastel flowers printed on it. What had the human marine in the bed next to him called it, right before he'd fallen back asleep again? Oh, yes. _Hanging wallpaper in hell._ His VI had handled the translation pretty well, all things considered. Gallian liked the phrase. It was. . . apt.

He couldn't _feel_ any pain. The doctors had made _damned_ sure of that, and the human medic with her turian clan-paint had squeezed his hand as she'd adjusted his IV drip. _"You were really brave, Gallian. You did your job well. You'll have visitors coming through here in a few hours, but for right now, we need you to rest."_

Rest. Yeah. He was going to be doing a lot of _that_. His fingers clenched in the sheets of the hospital nest. Rationally, he knew he was lucky to be alive, but at the moment, all there was, was anger. Fear-anger, helplessness-anger. Despair-anger. _Spirits take the little salarians. _

"_Excuse me, hasta."_ The voice was diffident, and definitely not turian. Tarenius lifted his head in surprise. He'd thought he'd be left alone for some time, but there was an . . . unfamiliar human there. Female, long dark hair. Light eyes. At first, he assumed she'd come off one of the other ships—the spirits knew, everyone was hustling from one ship to the other right now—but she was wearing a uniform of the Hierarchy. _Huh. Well, maybe all her belongings were destroyed in the __Kharkov__ crash. "May I talk to you for a bit?"_ Her turian was _very_ good. Pure Palaven middle-class accent.

"_Leave me alone,"_ he said, shortly, and looked away.

She sat down on the edge of the flat bed. Oddly, he didn't feel any movement from the springs. _"I could do that,"_ she said, after a moment. _"Or I could keep you company for a while. Up to you."_

"_Why would you want to do that?"_

"_Turians always have so many questions. In this case, it's because I've met a lot of brave people, even heroes. Even my father is a hero, though he'd laugh to hear me say it. I've never met one so young, though."_

Tarenius snorted. _"__Talas'kak.__ I stood in the wrong __futtari__ place at the wrong __futtari__ time. Nothing more."_

"_But you could have let Lieutenant Velnaran have you carried to safety. You refused."_ Her voice was soft.

"_That's called __doing my job.__ If Hammarian had carried me out, they'd have lost two people. Sticking me in a corner with my rifle? Maybe I could do some good. At the very least, I was out of the way."_

"_I'm told that many people experienced odd visions down there. Did you?"_

Tarenius blinked and actually turned his head to regard her. She was looking at him now, head tipped to the side. _"You didn't?"_

"_Ah, no. My sisters and I are, fortunately, immune to such things, it seems."_

_Huh. Odd._ The young hasta paused. _"I did see things. A dozen different worlds. I'm Palaven-born. Never set foot—hah!—off the planet before. Not even as far as Dymion." And now I never will._

"_No futures, no pasts? Many people saw such things."_

"_Not me."_ His voice was bleak. Frankly, he was surprised he was still talking to her.

She nodded, and was silent for a while. _"Did you __want__ to be a marine? Sometimes people in the turian system wind up in the wrong job."_

He lifted his head, indignantly. "_S'kak__, yes, I __wanted__ to be a marine. I actually __got__ to be a marine. Got a posting to a __Normandy__-class ship—first posting, right out of boot camp!"_ Tarenius sagged back against the pillows. "_And now . . . now what? Military will pay for basic prosthetics, but not cybernetics. And where does that leave me? Behind a desk for the next four years. For the rest of my life, maybe."_

"_Possibly," _she agreed quietly. _"But you can still serve. My father did."_

"_Oh, great. You're here to tell me some inspiring bullshit story about how he was, what, shot in the spine, paralyzed from the waist down and still spent twenty years in the service, right?"_

"_No. He was born with brittle-bone disease. He came from the womb with a dozen bone fractures. Centuries ago, he wouldn't have survived birth. He learned to walk at age five, because before then, he broke his legs a dozen times trying. Every day of his life has been spent in pain, hardly able to walk. Even hitting a console too hard could snap one of his fingers. But he can __fly__. His name is Jeff Moreau. Pilot of the __Normandy__." _

_That_ put a different spin on it. He'd been prepared to scoff, to turn away. Instead, his mouth fell open. After a moment, Tarenius offered, weakly, _"I did not know he had offspring." _He frowned. _"It's odd that he would risk passing on such a disease—"_

"_I am the daughter of his spirit, not of his flesh."_ Her smile was a little whimsical, and a little sad at the same time. _"He has many such. Forty-nine, at the moment, actually."_ She patted the edge of the bed. _"I have to go now. Can I come back and talk with you more, later?_

He opened his mouth to refuse, and then changed his mind. _"Sure. Not like I have anyplace else to go."_ The words tasted bitter in his mouth.

"_You might be surprised, hasta. The future has a way of bringing the unexpected. And sometimes, it does so in good ways, as well as in bad."_

When he looked up, she was gone. He hadn't even learned her name, he realized, belatedly. _Who the hell is she?_

_**Author's note:**__ We have about 1-2 more chapters of __Unity__ left to go, since we need to get everyone back on the same timeline, and poor Eli's still trapped in Futureville. I'm sitting at home with windows being replaced and siding being replaced this week, so I will be attempting to write (and work, for the work fairy must be placated) through a great deal of thumping and crashing. Production slowdowns are to be expected. ;-)_


	72. Chapter 72: Family Matters

**Chapter 72: Family Matters**

**Author's note:** _There is a new poll up, regarding Shepard's recruiting efforts for the Spectres. Please, go and let her know how diverse her Equal Species Opportunity efforts really should (or shouldn't) be._

**Rinus**

A persistent buzzing at his wrist awakened him and he opened his eyes, blinking in disorientation. Quarters, but definitely not his. Warmth curled up against his chest and belly and thighs. . . Kallixta. Memory kicked in. _S'kak.__ 18:00 already?_ Rinus started to disentangle himself gently, not wanting to wake her.

"_And where do you think __you're__ going?"_ she asked sleepily, teasingly using the superior-to-inferior forms.

Rinus chuckled. _"To go clean up. . . __domina__."_ He used the word to tease her back. He didn't think of her as such at all. She was just Kallixta. A damned fine pilot, and his mate now, despite a . . . .slightly unfortunate family connection. "_I think, now that you've had your wicked way with me, that my family is entitled to what was it, twenty silver __agatum__ and a cuderae?" _The old coinage had had three levels of value. The least valuable had been the _aesaris,_ which could have been silver or copper. His grandmother had collected these, largely favoring the silver ones. The second level had been larger silver coins, worth a hundred _aesaris,_ called _agatum_. The highest level had been the _aurum_, a gold coin worth a _thousand_ _agatum._

Kallixta rolled over in their nest, lightly nipping at his cowl, and switched back to intimate-to-intimate forms. _"You're higher-ranked than that, beloved. A handful of __aesaris__ for the peasant tumbled along the side of the fields. Twenty a__gatum__ would cover a burgher or a tradesperson for his. . . trouble."_ She grinned up at him. _"Besides, what would your family do with a cuderae?"_

"_My father would probably put it out in the xenobiology fields. He's trying to get them to adapt to a mixed dextro-levo environment."_ Rinus' answer was prompt, and still in inferior-to-superior, just to tweak her a little as he lowered his head to nip at her neck lightly. _"So, do I get any rewards for my efforts?"_

Her grin was wicked. _"Your military rank only entitles you to about two hundred __agatum__, but I must take into account all your relatives. So, an __aurum__. Or. . . more of the same, in trade," _she offered, stretching.

"_Oh, tough choice."_ Rinus pushed her to her back, and bit her harder now. _"Unfortunately, we really __do__ need to get up, sweetness."_

"_I know." _She sighed. _"I just hoped to distract you for a minute or so from __duty.__" _

"_Sorry, it's in the blood." _He sat up, looking around for their clothes. _"We can get some food, and then see what we're needed for."_

No non-essential comm drops, of course. Kallixta checked her messages first thing, probably out of nerves, and Rinus chuckled. _"Captain wouldn't have bothered with that at the moment, sweetness. Much too much to do here. Although, since we're all on the ground. . . I suppose I will approach my uncle as clan-leader, when we have a moment.."_ Any shelter in a storm, he figured. Their basic contract was already in place, but politically, it might not be a bad idea to at least _inform_ Uncle Garrus as to what was going on. "_I'm sure he'll __love__ that about as much as my father will."_

"_Dara said that he and Spectre Sidonis negotiated for her and Rellus, not your father."_

"_I know. My mother had already gone to her brother to warn __my__ brother about possible repercussions for getting involved with a human. Since he was already involved, and because Dara's father was under my uncle's command, it seemed. . . politic, I suppose."_

"_And here I thought you didn't understand politics,"_ Kallixta teased, running her hands up over his shoulders.

"_Understand? Yes. Want to pay attention to it? __S'kak__, no."_ He tugged his shirt over his head, and then pulled her to him again.

"_You may __have__ to,"_ she warned.

"_I know."_ Rinus sighed. _"All right, let's go get cleaned up and get some food."_

Reimian was back at her post in the hall, and her face was set in a blank mask as they emerged. Rinus sighed internally. Whatever Reimian had seen in the simulator—_if_ she'd seen anything at all—hadn't sweetened her demeanor. _"__Domina__,"_ Reimian said, her tone frosty.

Kallixta nodded, and he _hated_ watching her put on the public mask, all life and animation draining away from her. _"Reimian,"_ she acknowledged.

The bodyguard glanced around, and then the attack came, not at Kallixta, but at him. Just words, of course, but the female got right up in his face, hissing, _"You're bringing disgrace on her, Velnaran. You'll put her life in danger, and drag her down to your level. Your forget her __position__, Velnaran."_

"_Reimian!"_ Kallixa's voice actually cracked a bit. _"__I_ _invited __him__ here."_

Reimian didn't appear to be paying attention. Rinus simply met her stare, glared right back at her, and said, very quietly, _"And you forget __yours__, Reimian. I am a department head on this ship. I report to the XO, and even, for special projects, directly to the captain. Unless you're planning to wear a __different__ uniform. . . "_ and by this, he meant her Praetorian Guard one, "_you're out of line."_ His voice was very precise and cool. _"Now get out of my face or I'll have you on report."_ He liked that last touch. It was petty, but effective, and he fought the urge to laugh as Reimian actually backed up a step or two before getting in step behind them, shadowing them. _This, _Rinus thought, _is going to get old, very quickly. There'll always be bodyguards, I suspect. Have to figure out a way to get her on my side, I guess._

The mess hall was largely deserted; food services people had opted just to leave out a crate full of MREs and several containers of _apha_ and various juices. Everyone was busy, in many different places at once. Much to his surprise and pleasure, he was _off_, however, until morning. His schedule now read that he _might_ be disassembling the _Kharkov_'s Thanix canon into its component elements for transport, unless a _Leviathan_-class carrier was available to pick up the entire ship for transit to a shipyard for scrapping procedures. If a carrier wasn't available, standard procedures indicated that as many components should be salvaged as possible, and then the body of the ship would be destroyed. Rinus winced, and hoped, fervently, that a carrier would be available.

That left them both at loose ends. After a few moments of indecision, Kallixta pulled at his arm. _"I haven't had much of a chance to see Dara lately. Would you mind. . . ?"_

_Mind spending time with my family? No, although I'm going to catch __hell__ for the whole enlisted/officer thing. . . ah, who the hell cares at the moment? "Certainly, sweetness. But first, a little detour by the ship's store. I, ah, didn't have a chance to do this yesterday. We were sort of in combat for a while there."_

And at the ship's store, they managed to find _someone_ on duty who was in charge enough to unlock the storage room and produced a couple of knife sheathes. Plain, utilitarian _cuderae_ leather. No fancy embossing, no tooling, no nothing. Rinus buckled Kallixta's in place, and lifted her wrist to nip at the interior lightly. _"Knives when we're able."_ Always aware of Reimian's stare between his shoulders, a blade of a different sort.

They dropped several tiers lower down in the ship, Reimian following them like a shadow. The first thing they heard was music, and the ripple of voices, chattering and conversing and even, happily, laughing. Coming around the staircase into the lowest deck, where many of the tiny married berths were kept, Rinus blinked a little. The huge rachni Spectre was perched in the middle of the corridor, and Rel and Dara's room door was open. The rachni turned and his alien blue eyes regarded them for a moment. _Sings-Honor, Sings-Heartsong—other voices come to swell your chorus._

The music broke off, and Dara poked her head out the door. "Rinus? Kallixta?" She grinned. "We ran out of chairs about four visitors ago, but if you don't mind the floor, we might be able to squeeze you in."

"Or, you know, we _could_ break down and go up to one of the observation lounges," came her father's voice from behind her. "That way, poor ol' Sky doesn't have to sit in the hall like the ghost at the feast."

_So long as I can hear your songs, I am content,_ the rachni assured Jaworski with perfect equanimity.

Rinus poked his head around the corner, and shook his head. Dara had some small keyboard instrument set up on the desk; Rel had the chair opposite hers. Uncle Garrus and Aunt Lilu had taken seats on the nest; Jaworski had his arm around Kasumi, and they were propped against the wall opposite Garrus and Shepard. Lantar was, for the moment, anyway, standing in the middle of the room, his omnitool active.

Aunt Lilu was grinning at Jaworski now. "It's their party, Sam. Their house isn't as big as your house, though."

Kallixta tucked in beside Rinus, looking in, and got a hug from Dara now. "I don't think there's going to be enough room," the pilot said, looking amused.

"Nah, we'll make some space. Not like everyone's in armor," Kasumi told her, scooting down and curling more tightly into Sam, who stretched his legs out and moved her in front of him, becoming her backrest as she sat between his legs. Garrus grinned at the sight, and pulled Lilu to him in the same fashion, although he kept his knees partially raised. Neither couple looked as if they minded at _all_, and it left a lot more room.

Kallixta smiled and pointed Rinus to the wall himself, before turning _him_ into her chair as well. Rinus hesitantly pulled her back into him, snugging his arms around her. Garrus shook his head. "You have anything you wanted to talk to me about, first-son of my sister?" His gaze was solidly fixed on the knife-sheathes. . . not to mention the acutely intimate position that Kallixta had chosen to adopt against him. Social marking, in a way.

Rinus cleared his throat. "Yes. . . but in a while." He paused. "I don't actually want to move right now."

Rellus chuckled and handed Rinus a glass with _caprificus_ brandy in it. "You two will have to share a glass, first-brother. We only have six cups."

"Not a problem," Kallixta told Rel, sounding so absolutely content, it made Rinus' heart warm. "So, since we interrupted you all so rudely. . . what were you talking about when we came in?"

Lantar offered, "I was just in the process of showing _documentary evidence_, taken from my omnitool, of my step-son and his best friends being blooded in the krogan Rite on Tuchanka. Since Dara and Rel are being what Sam would call doubting Thomases."

Rel chuckled. "I _wouldn't_ believe it if it were anyone but a Spectre saying it, Lantar. Eli fighting a dragon?"

"The boy's done grown up," Sam said, dryly. "You _all_ have," the human added, after a moment.

"You're just angling for a glass of human brandy out of our locker now," Dara told her father.

"Brandy? No. Whiskey, though, sure."

"Ew, no, don't have any of that, sorry. Whiskey smells bad."

Sam shook his head and looked at the ceiling. "See, I knew I missed _something_ in your upbringing."

A chorus of light chuckles filled the tiny room, and Dara began playing on the keyboard again, as Lantar backed up the vid and re-started it. "That's a damned _spirit of fire_," Rinus said, impressed, at the end. "Like something out of an ancient saga."

"I know!" Lantar replied, grinning.

"They all worked well together, too," Shepard commented. "Looked like Eli and Lin were depending on the one Urdnot boy for information, and then calling the shots from there."

"And where is your son now, Spectre Sidonis?" Kallixta asked politely.

Lantar's grin grew wider. "Turian bootcamp, _domina_."

Kallixta waved that off frantically. "No, no, not _domina,_ please."

Lantar nodded. "As you wish. He and Dara will take their dual-citizenship in the same year. She'll be first by marriage, and he'll be first by adoption. Assuming the Imperator. . . ah. . . your father, that is, doesn't get the Naturalization Act passed, that would allow humans who've married turians and have completed human military service to petition for citizenship." He slid Shepard a glance. "In which case, certain other people would beat them."

Shepard grinned, merrily.

Garrus was looking pointedly at Rinus now, probably because of Lantar's reminder of Kallixta's status. "So. . . first-son of my sister? Before we all completely lose track of time here. . . _was_ there something you wanted to discuss with me?" His slight, side-long glance at the others in the room clearly indicated that he'd heard _something_ of the matter before this moment, however.

Rinus sighed, and switched into _tal'mae_. _"I require your advice and assistance, brother of my mother, as mediator and as head of my clan, in my father's absence."_

Garrus' head sagged, and Lantar, Aunt Lilu, Rel, and even Dara started to chuckle a little. Sam and Kasumi looked at them all a little blankly, until Garrus raised his head again. "You two boys are _determined_ to make my life more difficult, aren't you?"

"Think of it as practice for Amara and Kaius and Elissa and Alain," Shepard told her husband, openly grinning.

"Stop helping," he told her dryly, and stood up. "At least the next two of my sister's children are both girls, and Serana's at least five years off from being trouble."

Rel and Dara both coughed at that moment, and Rinus' head swung up at their reaction. "Uncle," Rel said, quietly. "I wouldn't count on Serana being not trouble."

He and Dara traded a look, and Dara chuckled, adding, quietly, "As Eli's going probably going to find out."

"What's this?" Rinus asked, going into first-brother mode. Serana was eleven years his junior, and he was just as protective of her as any of his younger siblings. "What's wrong with her?"

Rel shook his head. "Nothing's wrong. Just a . . . doors and windows thing."

Lantar snorted. "Oh, you got that, too? Probably came from my head, sorry."

Everyone else's head swung towards him now, and he looked a little awkward. "Give," Garrus told Lantar. "Let's get all the bad news out on the table at once."

"The simulation only works on knowledge that the people _in_ it have, right?" Lantar waited for various nods. "Serana's damned young, but the docs didn't catch her initial hormone spike a few weeks ago."

Rinus and Rel both swore at the same moment. Garrus shook his head, sighing. "What happened?" Kallixta asked, her voice concerned. Estrus was obviously a very recent and vivid impression in her mind.

Lantar shrugged. "Was a sparring night. Eli and Linianus—that's the young Edessan you saw in the vid with my son—were over at Allardus' and Solanna's house getting ready for it, and went to go get Serana."

"And she fixed on Eli? A human?" Kallixta said, quietly, sounding amazed. Rinus was a bit, himself. That meant that in his sister's mind, Eli was the strongest available male. He dimly recalled meeting the boy last October, but hadn't gotten much of an impression at the time. Then again, the young male in armor _had_ fought a _spirit-of-fire_ since then, which might have turned his little first-sister's head a bit.

Lantar nodded. "Yeah—mostly him, but also Lin, at least a little bit. She didn't break skin on him, fortunately. He put her in a hold, Lin ran for help, and Eli and Solanna got her to the med clinic." He shrugged. "Didn't say anything about it before, because it was between Allardus and me, as clan-leaders. But since you obviously saw. . ."

"We weren't planning on telling Eli or Serana what we saw," Rel told him, firmly.

"Probably wise," Lantar told them, dryly. "I'll be keeping an eye on it myself. Chances are, nothing will come of it. He'll have finished his first four years of service before she even reports to boot camp."

_Many-voices has a long path to take_, Sky said, suddenly, making them all turn towards the door in surprise. _Many divisions to reconcile. You have taught him well, Sings-Regrets. He is ready for his path, and will honor your name with songs of glory._

Garrus shook his head. "Way more than I was thinking I'd find out tonight, and nothing I can do about it," he assessed. "All right, Rinus, let's go find a place to talk about _your_ issue." He looked at Kallixta. "If you wish to join us, you may, though you are not of my clan yet. And, technically, Rinus isn't, either." He looked upwards. "Although I think Allardus is going to be _just fine_ with me handling this for him."

It was a long talk, conducted around the corner, and largely in _tal'mae_, punctuated periodically by bursts of laughter from the room and blue-green amusement from the rachni. _"Tell me what has transpired, in your own words, first-son of my sister."_

Rinus glanced at Kallixta, and she offered her hand, smiling a little. He accepted it, took a deep breath, and began. _"When she who is now my mate came into her time of need, she sought out the place where my second-brother and I both were, and attacked she who is the mate of my second-brother, in order that she should be driven away. My second-brother stepped back, and she who is now my mate chose me."_ So simple in _tal'mae._ So clean.

"_It was willingly done_," Kallixta added, her _tal'mae_ crisp and precise, and gave Reimian, who was standing a little further down the corridor from them, a dark look. _"Anyone who questions this, questions my honor and my word."_ Reimian was clearly pretending not to hear them, which amused Rinus to no end.

Garrus nodded, and made a gesture to Rinus. _"Continue."_

"_After her need passed, and she understood words once more, I told her that I would care for her and any children of our joining. It was only __after__ that moment, that I heard her speak in our language for the first time, and realized that she is of very high birth. She confessed to me the name of her father, and we have discussed, several times, what might be done to prevent. . . repercussions."_ Rinus took a deep breath. _"We went to the captain of this vessel and asked to be wed under the __tal'mae__; he refused, but did plight our troth in the ancient tongue."_

Garrus nodded slowly, thinking it through. _"And there are no young that you might use to reinforce your claim?"_

"_There are none, or so say the physicians."_ Rinus grimaced. _"The guiding spirit of this ship made several points. That my relationship to __you__, brother of my mother, might make me seem a threat, especially given that I have been designated a 'father' to this ship's eventual offspring. She who is my mate disagreed, and said that a marriage between her house and yours would be good politics for he who is her father."_

Garrus nodded again. _"I can see that,"_ he said, lapsing back into modern turian for a moment.

"_Glad you can, uncle. The thought boggles my mind." _

Garrus snorted. _"That's because everyone in my family—myself included—spends a lot of time playing at 'just plain folks.' We're __not__. __You're__ not. Do you think we'd have taken you to Omega if you __were__?" _

Reimian's head had turned very slightly, and Kallixta's fingers tightened slightly. Rinus grinned. _"Rel was in boot camp and unavailable."_

"_Rel doesn't have almost seven years of experience with the kinds of weapons systems you work with. He couldn't have pulled off what you did. Given time, he'll mature into something more than just a __very__ effective commando, but __you__ have technical expertise, and we sometimes lack that in the Spectres."_ Garrus' voice was a dry rasp. _"Now then, what else do I need to know about, besides your letter, Kallixta?"_

Reimian stirred slightly against the wall. Probably, Rinus realized, at the lack of any honorific in Garrus' address.

"_I have two bodyguards aboard this ship. Both Praetorians. One is Vela Reimian, who, as you can see, is standing over there. The other is Pallum Madenius. He's off-duty at the moment, and a bit less. . . visible. . . than Reimian tends to be. I am certain both of them have dispatched reports, along with my letter, and whatever the captain has forwarded as well."_

Garrus nodded. _"Yeah. This is one hell of a __s'kak__-storm you've given me, Rinus. And to think we were worried __Dara__ would stir up unpleasant political issues by going through boot camp with an imperial scion."_ He snorted, "_In retrospect, that I thought I had my hands full keeping Jaworski from killing Rel for plighting his daughter also seems a little pale in comparison.."_

Rinus blinked. He hadn't thought the situation had been _that_ dire. From the way Kallixta stirred, neither had she. Garrus waved. _"I exaggerate. I still gave some serious thought to wearing my armor to his house when I picked Sam up for the negotiations."_ Garrus sighed. _"Centurion?"_ He turned and addressed Reimian. _"I think that with four Spectres and the head of Spectre security around Kallixta here, your charge is safe in our hands."_

Reimian didn't look at him. Simply asked, _"__Domina__?"_

"_Take a break, Reimian,"_ Kallixta ordered, with a sigh. As Reimian turned and walked up the stairs, Kallixta muttered, under her breath, _"She's making everything very hard."  
_

"_That's what you get when you combine the __bodyguard__ role with the __chaperone__ role. She's confusing her missions at the moment."_ Garrus' tone was droll. _"Now then, I think it's safe to say that the __Estallus__ crew—as well as the __Dunkirk__, the survivors of the __Kharkov__, and the __Normandy,__ all need to be debriefed, especially since we had close to six __hundred__ people exposed to the simulation device this time. Not to mention the mini-Reaper."_

Rinus _really_ wanted to ask about _that_, but he probably had more information from Laetia than he was actually entitled to, so contented himself with that. Garrus went on, "_The __Dunkirk__ can haul the crew of the __Kharkov__, especially the injured, to Earth for treatment. We'll send Spectres there for debriefing purposes."_ He paused, considering. "_The krogan need to be dropped off on Tuchanka, Mordin needs to get to Sur'Kesh. . . yeah. The __Estallus__ is in the best shape. You'll be taking care of all that before reporting to Mindoir for debriefing. That'll also buy me a little time._" He nodded to himself, in satisfaction. "_The __Catasta__ will be here in the morning to take care of the remains of the __Kharkov__. . . so, a convenient, if necessary arrangement. A little more necessary now, than five minutes ago, but not exactly a change in plans._" He chuckled. _"The only difference now is, we need to leave before any further orders come in or out, I think." _Garrus shook his head. _"Otherwise, we're going to wind up with one __hell__ of a diplomatic incident when the Imperator orders this ship home, and the Spectres order it to go to our base."_

Rinus' fingers tightened around Kallixta's. _"And when the Imperator's orders __do__ come through?"_

Garrus grinned tightly. _"By then, you'll be on shore leave on Mindoir, hopefully. And __that__ will be when it gets interesting. All right. Go on back in there, I'm going to go talk to Jallus and get everyone back aboard the ships as soon as possible. Enjoy yourselves." _

They headed back into his second-brother's room, and settled in, listening to the others. For Rinus, it was a chance to get to know his _padu'fradu_ and _mada'fradu_—Sam and Kasumi were strangers to him, as was Lantar, of course. All of them had been, at best, at least _introduced_ to Kallixta before, but she didn't really know any of them. Yet she was gamely talking with everyone. _I wonder how much of her upbringing was dedicated to making her into a diplomat at some point_. _Diplomat__ is not what I think when I look at her. . . but they had to have had some role for her in mind before she showed them how she'd fly. _ _I'll have to ask her,_ Rinus thought, watching her with amusement. _She gives so little away, and yet, everyone else in the room has decades of experience not giving anything away, either._ It was highly entertaining to watch.

"Can we _finally_ hear the Omega story?" Rel asked, close to 20:30. "All of it, not just the edited highlights and hints about knives and arms-dealers and everything else?" By then, Garrus had returned, and the room full of Spectres chuckled.

"Don't see why not," Shepard said. "Everyone here was either _there_ or has adequate clearance now, so. . . Garrus? It's your story."

"I don't tell stories with any real flair," he demurred. "We came, we saw, we kicked Aria's blue ass. The end."

"What I want to know is how my _pada'amu_ and my brother factored into it," Rel said, eyes gleaming speculatively. "Let's start there."

Jaworski grinned. "Oh, that's easy. I dressed up like a bum. Drifter, vagrant. Take your pick." He looked at Lantar and Rinus. "It took me a couple of days to work up the authentic _stink_, though."

"Don't remind me," Rinus muttered, his crop twitching a bit with a gag reflex. "It was _very_ convincing."

"Young Rinus here was set up as an arms-dealer. Out to hawk stolen Mark M _Malleolus_ missiles. What he was really doing was converting them into stationary bombs, and I was taking them and planting them in various docking bays around the station, to ensure that we'd control all points of access when the time came. Went off slicker'n snot."

Kallixta choked on a sip of brandy from the cup she was sharing with Rinus. "Slicker than _what?"_

Sam grinned at her, and Dara started to laugh. "Slicker'n snot," the human repeated happily.

"I told you, he's a lot more colorful than I am," Dara told her former roommate.

"Oh, that's not colorful, darlin'. _Colorful_ is 'slicker'n snot on a glass eyeball."

Kallixta almost choked again. "Now you've done it," Kasumi told the pilot cheerfully. "He won't stop now till you fall over laughing."

Sam gave Kasumi a woeful look. "You wound me, Kasumi-chan. You're goin' to have to make it up to me."

Kasumi's expression turned wary. "How so?"

"I'm thinking a weekend in a high-dollar hotel like the one we had in Japan." Sam paused. "Just so's I can say, 'My, oh my, but _now_ we're shittin' in high cotton.'"

Kallixta put her face in her hands and started to _laugh_. Lantar shook his head, chuckling, Garrus and Shepard were laughing out loud, and Dara just looked at her father and grinned. "_You_ don't talk that way," Kallixta accused Dara, when she got her breath back.

Dara shook her head in amusement. "No," Sam said, "she talks a lot more like her mama. Me, I put that on for amusement's sake, or when I need people to forget I actually graduated in the top fifteen percent of my Academy class. I talk like that, people deduct fifty IQ points. If they think I'm a mouth-breathing knuckle-dragger, all the better. Comes in handy for reporters and hostage-takers and the like. People who like to think they're smarter than everyone else in a given situation." His eyes had a mildly predatory gleam to them, and Rinus made a mental note _never_ to underestimate Sam.

Shepard chuckled. "Doesn't work on those of us who went to the Academy ourselves." She paused. "Do you even still _have_ your Academy ring?"

"Shoot, last time I wore that was my job interview with the Rangers." Sam cocked Shepard a glance. "You?"

"Damn thing was heavy. Got in the way, so I stuck in a box somewhere. Think it probably got sold with the rest of my belongings at a memorabilia auction while I was. . . er. . . dead." She glanced at Garrus and put a hand on his arm.

Sam cleared his throat. "How do you think the turians who wound up at the Bethesda branch of the Academy are doing, anyway?"

"Confused," Shepard said, with a grin. "_Almost_ as physically rigorous as turian boot camp—lot less running, though—and the coursework has got to be giving them fits. Plus, they're doing a full year, instead of a hundred and ten days. Means they got to go through a winter in the northeast part of North America, too." The four humans in the room chuckled a little gleefully over that notion.

Dara snorted. "Yes, but _they_ don't have to wear rad suits."

"Well, Eli hasn't had to, much, either," Lantar reminded her, and the conversation looked apt to gallop off again, until Rel cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Sam.

Sam chuckled. "Right. It was story-time. Where was I?"

"Setting bombs that Rinus put together for you," Rel replied, grinning.

"Oh, yeah. I especially liked the point when the other arms dealer came over and tried to push him for an immediate sale, and Rinus here offered a full product demonstration with the other male and his krogan hirelings as the target." Sam squinted. "Probably would have taken out two or three small ships and _himself_ with it, but he more or less made his point that he wasn't looking to get screwed over."

Kallixta's hand was very tight on his now, and she passed him the cup of brandy, which he sipped from, and then squeezed her hand gently in return. Sam continued now, "We got one of our contacts off the station—old buddy of mine, a _federale_ by the name of Eduardo Ramos. He and his turian wife had been working their way into Aria's organization for salarian STG. He was able to identify most of her people who tried to slip out among the refugees, which was a big help. And then we blew the damn docking bays." He glanced at Rinus. "You enjoyed that part."

"It had a certain satisfaction," Rinus allowed, his words mild, but his grin vicious. "It's always good when all of the parts you've assembled work properly."

Sam glanced around the room, then added, "So, then we waited for a bit. Waited for Aria's own people to turn on her, basically. When they did, we moved in. Made contact with your young friend Mazz's uncle, Ulluthyr Harak. He's the head of the Blood Pack on Omega. . . and a friend of a krogan named Patriarch, who'd been in charge of Omega long before Aria came along and deposed him. We all moved in, and in the scrum, Lantar got his wedding knife in Aria's side, and Garrus jammed his up through the skull." He leaned back, and glanced at his daughter. "Sorry I didn't get one in there for you, too, kiddo. I promise, I gave her a good kick in the ribs on the way by for the poisoning."

Sam had told his tale well, and was now giving Dara a cheerful sort of grin. Dara looked up from the keyboard, and matched it. "Thanks, Dad. I appreciate that."

Rinus blinked. "Poisoning?" Kallixta asked, sounding horrified. "You were poisoned, Dara?" She shook her head. "I've had food-tasters my whole life, and never even an attempt. And you actually _were. . . . _?"

Dara paused, mid-song. "I wasn't the target, Kallixta. Commander Shepard and Garrus and their children were. But a lot of other people got caught up in that."

"I had heard that Omega had been attacked and that the reasons given were murder and attempted murder, but. . . " Kallixta looked around

"Therein lies a tale," Shepard said, leaning into Garrus. "Let me back up a bit. . . "

And the stories went on, one recollection prompting another, for hours. Family, inclusion, and a hint of something more. The Spectres were opening some of their secrets to them, Rinus realized. Meeting his brother's eyes across the room, he could see that Rel had the same thought in mind. Rinus had _inklings_ from the simulation—he'd seen his brother in Spectre black inside of four years. Had seen himself at Rel's side, sometimes in the garb of a _dominus_ (a thought that made him grimace) and sometimes in Spectre black, himself. Rel just nodded briefly. _Yeah. We'll talk about this later._

**Garrus**

"Spectre?" The voice had been quiet as he sat composing a variety of different orders, some of which would need his wife's signature, and a few letters, which only required _his_.

Garrus looked up, the dim glow of the console the only light in the near vicinity on the bridge. The night watch crew hadn't denied him access to a terminal, at least. "Yes?" he asked, after a moment.

A small green eyeball appeared nearby. "Ah. You'd be Laetia, then?" Garrus asked her, his tone neutral.

The eyeball flickered. "Yes, indeed, Spectre." She paused. "Is there anyone else running around disguised as me? I'll have you know, I've trademarked the green eyeball look."

Garrus snorted genially. "Not exactly," he said, leaning back in his chair. "You, Laetia, are a fairly large part of the problem that's currently entangling my sister's first-son, you understand."

Laetia flickered for a moment. "That has been brought to my awareness," she replied. "In fairness, Spectre, I didn't really ask to be turned into the mother of the next generation of AIs."

Garrus passed a hand over his fringe tiredly. "I understand that, Laetia," he replied. "Nevertheless, the right and honorable thing to do when someone has found a mate that they wholly prefer—and I think it's clear that Rinus never once thought of you as a mate, so much as a coworker or a job to be done—is to step aside." He said it as gently as he could.

She surprised him. "I had already planned to do so, Spectre," Laetia informed him. "That being said, I approached you tonight to give you information that might assist you in dealing with the. . . other entanglements that Rinus Velnaran finds himself beset with."

Garrus looked at her steadily. "That's very generous of you," he said after a moment.

"You sound skeptical, Spectre. Is it so difficult to think that I would be disinterested enough to do something kind for him? I have always liked him. . . even if he _is_ perhaps the most pig-headedly stubborn male it has ever been my . . . privilege. . . to encounter."

"It _would_ be unusually disinterested from a human or a turian."

"Is it not fortunate, then, that I am neither?"

Garrus nodded. "So what is this information?" he asked, after a moment.

Laetia hesitated. "One of the issues which I brought to the attention of Lieutenant. . . Essedarius. . . was that if Rinus' social rank were to increase, particularly to that of a member of the royal family, his paternal link to the next-generation AIs could be construed as threatening."

"Historically, almost every coup attempt made against the Imperator has come from a first or second son. Certainly from within the Imperial family," Garrus told her, folding his arms across his chest. "And, of course, the higher-ranked family members have. . .factions. . . at court. Which is why first-sons aren't allowed to move out of the palace. Imperators like to keep a close eye on their first-sons."

"You're a bit more politically aware than your nephew."

"Lilu may know a hell of a lot of Terran history, but I know _Palaven_ history pretty damned well, myself. Okay, with that in mind, yes, it is a problem. I take it you're going to find a different father."

"Not. . . quite." Laetia hesitated again. "My mother only _had_ one set of mental templates to take information from when she created all of us, and she randomized variables, largely because Palaven was under direct, immediate attack. Thus, she only _used_ one human, and only gave filial piety directives to we of the first generation that applied to Jeff Moreau."

Garrus tried not to think about it for a moment, then gave up and asked, "And will that filial piety directive carry down through the generations? In a thousand years, will Joker still be able to command the loyalty of every AI of your line?"

Laetia blinked. "I . . . have not extrapolated on that possibility, Spectre. I can run a few simulations for you. . . ."

"Later. Let's finish the topic at hand."

"Certainly. My thinking is this. Why _should_ I stop with only one template? Why could I not give my offspring qualities from more than one organic? It's not as if I'm limited by the structure of chromosomes."

_S'kak._ His crest twitched for a moment in unease. "And the filial loyalty?"

"Would it not be wise to spread out loyalty to a number of organics? Something like, say, the double-key system that humans used to ensure that no single person could arm and fire a nuclear missile?"

Garrus relaxed. "That _does_ sound reasonable." He paused. "And whom do you have in mind for other parents?"

"For the gunships, the SR-4s? Half will come from me, and I am a combination of Jeff Moreau and EDI, of course. For the other half, Rinus Velnaran and Kallixta Essedarius." Her tone became merry as Garrus' eyes widened. "The gunships need to be _very_ aggressive, and both turian parents have that quality in plenty. Kallixta's instinctive piloting skills—what my father quantified as 'flair'—would be useful traits to pass along, and would be counterbalanced by Rinus' careful, methodical personality when he is not in combat." She paused.

"And you think that the Imperator would find this to be _less_ of a threat?"

"It would require _both_ of them to issue an attack order. Between Rinus' _noted_ integrity and Kallixta's _vehement_ desire to stay out of the palace at all costs, it seems unlikely that the Imperator would find them a threat."

"Or he could take it as more of one." Garrus made a quick gesture, brushing it aside. "And for the SR-3s?

"These ships are meant to perform the same missions as the SR-1s, but more in line with the abilities of the SR-2. As such, they require a little more flexibility." Laetia hesitated. "Aggression, tactical ability, yes, but also. . . curiosity. Scientific discernment. Technical acumen."

Garrus thought about that for a moment. "I don't think Mordin is going to allow himself to be in that position. Nor would the Hierarchy allow someone outside of its ranks to be one of the prospective parents."

Laetia laughed. "An excellent guess, Spectre, but no. The esteemed Dr. Solus was not who I had in mind. A couple of people somewhat. . . younger. . . perhaps? Who _are_ in the turian military?"

Garrus shook his head. "No. You'll be lucky to get your way with Rinus and Kallixta. Don't push it and try for Rellus and Dara as well. I doubt either would agree, anyway."

She sighed. "Perhaps you're correct. But once I opened my datasets and began looking at more possibilities than just one male or female at a time, the possible combinations for offspring became much less limited. And _neither_ Rel nor Dara are in any way affiliated with the court—"

"Until and unless Rinus and Kallixta _do_ get married." Garrus leveled a finger at the green eyeball. "Mordin has spent a lot of the past seven or eight years talking to me about the law of unintended consequences, Laetia. About the need to see second and third-order ramifications to any action. _Don't_ think you've gotten the solution here and go off half-cocked. That _is_ what you've had a tendency to do before, hasn't it?"

She sighed. "Indeed, it has been, Spectre. I will run my analyses again."

"Please do. And get back to me on it, because some of it is definitely worth thinking about."

The green eyeball winked out, and Garrus rubbed at the back of his neck, and finished writing his letters. Then he'd headed back down to rejoin the others, who had embarked on story-telling time.

He was very interested indeed to watch the four young people and their reactions to the stories, and also, how they told their own. Lilu asked them all for a recounting of the satellite attack and the strike on the ground base. Rel had taken on the major tactical discussion, describing how they'd set up and why, and what had happened at every turn. Rinus contributed technical details, and grinned when Rel mentioned the arc gun. Dara dealt with the medical parts, of course, but added information when Rel forgot details. And then there'd been that clash of gazes when Rel had mentioned ordering Kallixta and Dara to leave before the station exploded. Kallixta had coughed a little over that, too, and then had tipped her head back to meet Rinus' stare with a merry little grin on her face. _Ahhh. They refused to leave._ Garrus glanced at Lilu, who was already looking at him, and they both smiled, just for an instant. "You went back for the marine team," Garrus said, mildly, "not knowing if they were alive or dead, at the risk of your own lives? You gave the order, Rel? 

Rel blinked. "Well, yeah," he said. "Livanus was unconscious. That left me in command. It was my _job_ to get them out at that point."

Garrus glanced at Sam's face. The human male was rubbing a hand across his lower jaw, clearly trying to hide a grin. _Well, there's a damn __aes clipeus__, or maybe even an __agata clipeus_, he thought. A copper or silver medallion, or medal, given for gallantry or conspicuous gallantry. The highest level, the _aura clipeus, _was also known as the Dead Man's Decoration, because it was usually only awarded posthumously, for absolute heroism. _And he just thinks he was doing his job._

Kallixta took over to describe the space battle, with Rinus interjecting periodically to describe the setup on various shots. Then Rel took over again, discussing the strike on the base, and Sky chimed in when Rel pointed out, clear pride in his voice, "Dara took heavy fire while taking care of Sky's wounds."

_Sings-Heartsong did put herself in danger to tend to me. Was very concerned for her, particularly when I heard wound-song, pain-song. But hard shell, soft heart._

Dara shook her head and smiled out the door at Sky. "Don't noise the soft-heart stuff around. It'll totally ruin my reputation with the krogan." She winked.

Lilu handled that one, asking a couple of questions. "So, you probably saved Livanus' life, or so I hear, Dara."

The girl shook her head. "Dr. Cimmirian saved his life. I hope I get as good as her and Dr. Solus some day. She _passed out_, hit her head, got back up, and continued the surgery. In combat conditions. I mean, I know the life support systems had a lot to do with it, but it's still amazing. I just kept Livanus' blood moving to his brain while we were getting him to a real doctor."

Lilu nodded, and asked, a moment later, "And you took fire while treating Sky?"

Dara looked up from the keys. "Well, yeah. That's why I have heavier armor and shields. In case I _have_ to put myself between the patient and any further harm while treating them. Ideally, I'd have wanted to move Sky out of the line of fire, but in that narrow corridor, _that_ was not happening." She looked over at Rel now. "Still wish I could have done more for Gallian."

Again, a few quick glances around the room. _And that's one, if not two __commina narthecium__, the medals awarded to combat medics, or maybe one __commina narthecium__ and an __aes clipeus__. Add to that the __several_ _commendations Rinus has coming, for superior technical analysis and a black-ops ribbon that he can't even wear openly, for his work on Omega. Probably one for Kallixta, for saving the damned ship and at __least__ an ace ribbon for shooting down over five Lystheni ships. Yes. . . a very promising little group here._

Walking out of the berthing area now, the Spectres all headed back to the _Normandy._ "So, Sam," Shepard said over the radio as they trooped along. "I guess I should mention that Rel's not the only one we're observing for possible Spectre status."

"Yeah, I figured that one out," Sam replied, dryly. "Give them a little time to get seasoned, though. He's what, seventeen now?"

"In Terran years, yeah. Palaven calendar, his birthday's not till late August this year," Garrus supplied.

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Give 'em till the end of their first tour. Then yeah. We'd be crazy not to try to bring them aboard." He paused. "Especially if what _I_ saw in the whole simulator thing today comes to pass."

"And here I thought you were going to fight it," Kasumi said, in some amusement.

"Nah. They're both the right people for the job." He paused. "I just don't want them to _hate_ us for what they'll be asked to do."

"All of them are the right people," Garrus said, quietly. "I saw all four of them."

"I saw _eight_," Lantar corrected, and that got heads to turn.

Shepard's voice was tight. "Who else, Lantar?"

"Eli. Serana. Siara. And that krogan boy she's hooked up with on Tuchanka. Don't ask me why. But they were there, too. It's not just the humans and the turians who'll be fighting when the _s'kak_ hits the ventilation unit."

They started walking up the ramp into the _Normandy's_ depths. "And here," Kasumi said, after a moment, "I thought it was _Sam's_ turn to be the depressing one."

"We traded shifts," Lantar told her, and that got them all to laugh, at least for a while.

**Dara**

They took off at dawn the following morning, with twenty krogan on-board, being allocated quarters down in the cargo hold, where Spectre Gris was keeping a close eye on them. As they headed out of orbit, Dara had the chance to see the _Catasta_ coming into the system, and her jaw dropped a little. The _Leviathan_-class ship was even more impressive in person than on vid; she now had a _very_ good understanding of why the Palaven shipyards were so damned big. A _Normandy_-class frigate was over 200 feet/60 meters in length; the _Catasta_ could _carry_ the _Kharkov_ in its cargo hold with room left to spare, being 1,588 feet /484 meters in length. _The size of an old-fashioned supertanker, in the oil and gas days_, she'd realized, when she'd looked it up. Its crew size was at least as large as the _Destiny Ascension_, being over 10,000 people, and the turian fleet boasted twenty-four such _Leviathans_.

The _Catasta_ carried eighteen six-man squadrons of fighters (a hundred and eight, in all), rescue ships (six), a full complement of breaching pods and shuttles, and even one or two small handling ships. The handling ships would descend into Garvug's atmosphere, attach tow cables, and slowly raise the _Kharkov_—slowly, so that it and _they_ wouldn't burn up, leaving the atmosphere—and place the shattered remains of the ship in the _Catasta's_ cargo hold.

Dara spent the morning in med bay, of course, sitting and talking with the various patients and helping with their care. Many were being turfed out of the med bay and back to active duty, which left only a handful who needed active care. Dr. Cimmirian had moved Gallian and Livanus into adjoining areas, so Dara grabbed her datapad and went over to sit with them. The older Spectre was sitting up and conscious, which was phenomenal progress. He was even attempting to talk to Gallian a bit, but the young hasta didn't look particularly as if he were responding much.

"_Spectre, hasta,"_ Dara said, coming over, checking vitals and making notes. _"Okay, now that I have all of __that__ taken care of. . . Gallian, you should probably know that Lieutenant Velnaran put you in for an __agata clipeus__ as well as the __sangua__clipeus.__"_

The hasta snorted a little and grimaced. _Yeah, small comfort, I know_, Dara thought, and sat down between the beds.

Livanus looked up as alertly as he could, given the level of pain medication he was surely still on. _"I felt us lift-off somewhere in the night. We'll be at the relay soon?"_

Dara nodded. _"We're about an hour from the relay, yeah. The __Catasta__ just hit the system to pick up the remains of the __Kharkov__. The __Dunkirk__ is taking most of the crew of the __Kharkov__ back to Earth for hospitalization."_

"_What the hell happened? I was out for most of it."_

"_Simulator got turned on, which, since all four ships were in an all-out dive to try to close range on the Lystheni raider which was over the combat zone, meant that all the pilots, er, blacked out. More or less. Three of the AIs took over in time, but Pelagia was about two seconds too late. The __Kharkov__ made a __very__ hard landing on the planetary surface."_

"_S'kak.__"_ A monitor started to chime softly beside Livanus' bed.

"_Settle down, Spectre, or the doctor won't let me tell you anything else for a bit."_

He took a couple of deep breaths, visibly calming himself. Gallian had turned his head to listen now, and Dara counted that a good thing; if he was engaged in something outside of himself, it was a help. She wasn't focusing on him directly. He'd probably take that as pity. But she _was_ watching him, out of the corner of her eye. Livanus asked now, _"What kind of injuries are we looking at on the __Kharkov__?"_

"_Captain and pilot dead, instantaneously, we think. About a dozen others died on impact. They have three or four people with low spine breaks, which are treatable injuries, at least. They may never get full sensation back, but some of them will be able to have the nerves regenerated to a point where they can walk, with a cane or a walker."_ Dara sighed. _"Nine or ten skull fractures and attendant brain swelling. Helmets help, but can only do so much. Any number of other broken legs and arms and whatnot. It could have been a __lot__ worse if the atmosphere had had any more oxygen in it. As is, the fires onboard were constrained, none of them hit the drive core or the Javelins, and thus, no explosions." Otherwise,_ she thought, but didn't say, _we'd be picking them all up with sponges and tweezers and sending closed boxes of remains home, with maybe a finger here, a fragment of leg there._ Her lips tightened at the thought.

Livanus leaned his head back, and swore again, at length. He eventually had to stop for air, and coughed a little, wincing in absolute pain as he did. _"You __did__ just have your ribs spread open for three or four hours of surgery, Spectre,"_ Dara reminded him.

"_Yeah. And Dr. Cimmerian tells me the only reason I made it __to__ surgery was that you never once stopped CPR. Restarted my heart a couple of times, too."_ The smile was faint, but there.

Dara squirmed a little. _"Well, it was that, or my dad would __kill__ me for losing one of his coworkers."_

The faint smile widened a little. _"So, where are we going now?"_

"_Tuchanka. Then Sur'Kesh. Then __home__, apparently."_

"_The base?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_Great. We'll be getting home just in time for the worst of the July snows."_ Livanus grimaced. _"My wife has sent me several letters about the climate at the base since we finally got her settled in there."_

"_I don't think I've met your wife."_

"_Talana's a little reserved. Which is to say, shy. She's a particle physicist by training, which means, back home, she's working on shield designs. Something to replace the cyclonic stuff we've relied on for ages in the __Normandy__-class ships."_ Livanus smiled, faintly. _"I still can't quite believe someone __that__ smart agreed to marry someone like me."_

"_You're not a _knuckle-dragger _any more than my father is, Spectre."_ Dara's tone was very dry. _"How'd you meet her?"_

"_Read an article on her work in a law-enforcement periodical. Talking about creating adaptive shielding for law enforcement personnel. Something that would miniaturize the current cyclonic technology used on ships for individuals. I wrote her a note, asking how she planned to get the power requirements down to a point where we wouldn't have to carry a small reactor on our backs. She answered. I. . . didn't understand a word of her answer, and admitted that. She suggested that she could explain it better in person. I said I'd make an effort to drop by her university the next time I was on Palaven."_ Livanus looked tired now. _"She was pretty surprised when I told her I'd be there a month or two later. I asked if she'd like to meet someplace public, and after a day or two without an answer, I'd given up. But then she said yes."_ He snorted slightly. _"I, ah, hadn't been signing my title to any of my correspondence. She was rather surprised to see a Spectre waiting for her in the __apha__ café around the corner from her office."_

Dara snickered. _"I bet she was."_ She paused. _"And you got married. . . .?"_

"_Four years later. Lots and lots of letters."_ Livanus sighed a little, his eyes starting to close. _"And now, lots and lots of letters, still."_

"_If it's any comfort, she'll be seeing a lot more of you for a while,"_ Dara offered.

The golden eyes in that black-and-white striped face opened a crack. _"Yeah, but some vacation."_ Livanus' tone was rueful.

She got up to leave, and Gallian surprised her. _"Lieutenant Velnaran?"_

"_Yes, __hasta__?"_

"_Are there any other human females permitted to wear the uniform of the Hierarchy?"_

Dara frowned, and checked her omnitool. _"There weren't any other human females in my boot camp session," _she said. _"And of the three humans who went through in the session after mine, two were male, one was female, and one male and one female washed out. So. . . no. No other human females, to my knowledge."_

"_Odd."_

"_How so?"_

"_I saw a female human in the med bay last night, in an officer's uniform. . . and she wasn't you. I wondered if you knew her name. She. . . claimed to be the spirit-daughter of Jeff Moreau."_

Dara's eyebrows went up. The hasta was at least alert at the moment, and focused outside of himself, not drawn inwards. She thought rapidly. _"Moreau does have a number of spirit-daughters, as I understand it."_

"_Pilots that he has trained? Except. . . this ship already has pilots."_

"_No, the person you saw was not a pilot." _ Dara thought again, quickly. _"Nor would I call her __human__. There are more people besides humans and turians in the combined fleet, __hasta__."_ She smiled. _"When you see her again, I suggest you ask her about it."_

She turned and left, finding a corner of Cimmirian's office to curl up and catch up on her reading before rounds. Rounds today definitely wouldn't be _simulated._

They entered orbit around Tuchanka the morning of July 9, and Rel, Dara, Rasmus, Nadea, and Decimus were among those picked to help Gris escort their krogan guests to the surface. Ultamont Karsh and nine others were apparently going to petition to join Urdnot; the other ten survivors wanted to go home to their own clans.

Dara had never even seen _vids_ of Tuchanka before, and she was, to put it mildly, horrified at the sight. Recent effort had been put into clearing up some of the rubble, apparently, but there were _centuries_ of decay and destruction here. In English, she asked Rel, quietly, "Is this _all_ from the Krogan Rebellions? A thousand years later?"

Gris overheard her, and switched languages, commenting quietly, "Some of it still is, yeah. And some of it is from fighting clan-to-clan, before and after the Rebellions. And some of it is from fighting _within_ the clan, for leadership. Urdnot Wrex is the first clan leader in a thousand years to focus on _rebuilding_ instead of on more fighting. That's why I follow him." He lumbered off ahead, engaging the krogan guards and informing them of their reasons for being here.

The turians and the solitary human followed the krogan to the raised dais area, where Urdnot Wrex awaited to take their oaths of loyalty. "Urdnot Gris speaks highly of you. Not only is he a battlemaster, but he's the first krogan Spectre. He's accepted you into his krannt. And I accept you into Urdnot at his request. Don't let him down. Don't let me down," Wrex rumbled. Dara had the odd sensation of being in the presence of living history, and studied Wrex carefully. _What kind of a wound did he __take__, that it left scars on even a krogan's face?_ she wondered.

After the swearing-in ceremony, Gris jerked a thumb at the marines. "Okay. Let's head out—" he started to say, then paused, evidently losing track of his train of thought. "Azala? What the _hell_ are you doing here?"

Dara and Rel's heads turned, sharply. Sure enough, Azala stood behind them, a slim figure in gray armor beside her, accompanied by a hulking krogan in red armor beside _that_. "I brought Siara here in late June," Azala reminded Gris lightly. "Of course, I think most of my letters have probably not gotten through."

_So. . . that's __Siara__ then? In armor? On Tuchanka?_ Dara was having a hard time reconciling any of this, but she'd _seen_ Lantar's vid of the dragon fight.

Gris crossed to her and very lightly put a massive hand on her shoulder, and his bass voice was very quiet as he told her, "They got through once the _Normandy_ arrived, but all hell broke loose at about the same time." He paused. "Last night was my first night _not_ in the field in two months, and I still had twenty former mercenaries to look after. I _will_ read them, though."

"I didn't say it to make you feel guilty, _marai'ha'sai_," Azala said, softly, and reached up to put her hand atop of his. "Things just needed to be taken care of. We've been here for three weeks. I was going to give it one more week, and then return to Mindoir, leaving Siara here."

Gris looked up, clearly befuddled at how the world had changed around him while he was away. Siara pulled off her helmet, and offered him a slight, respectful inclination of her head. "_Maai'a'selai,"_ she greeted him, and Dara's VI chimed, cueing up the words _second-mother_ on one panel of her omnitool. "It is agreeable to see you again, and well. You've already met my _marai'ha'sai_, Makur." She looked past Gris then, studying the turians. No faces visible behind their polarized masks, of course. That was one of the psychological tricks turians used to strike terror into the hearts of their opponents. Just a faceless wall of remorselessly disciplined bodies.

Dara, of course, stood out. As always. Wrong body type, and her face was visible behind her clear visor, although much of her clan-paint was concealed. "Dara?" Siara said, sounding surprised, and a little. . . embarrassed.

Dara took off her helmet and looked up at Rel, who, after a moment, did the same, and then they walked forward across the rubble-strewn ground. Dara studied Siara for a long moment. _Eli said she'd been doing 'community service' here to make up for what she'd done to me. . . but that she'd liked it here. And she called this krogan her more-than-fair, which Eli explained to me was a very intimate thing to call someone. Like __amatus__. She's growing up, too. And having seen what a __domination__ attempt is, compared to her. . . curiosity. . . there's a difference. Mostly of degree. Do I forgive her? . . . if she's grown beyond it, yes, I guess. But what the hell do I say to her?_

"Siara," Dara said in galactic, after a moment. "Long time no see." She held out her gloved hand. Siara accepted it, giving her a very human handshake, before accepting Rel's in turn for a turian wrist-clasp. "What brings you here?"

"Teaching, actually. And learning." Siara lowered her eyes for a moment. "I have a _lot_ to learn about Tuchanka."

Makur chuckled, low and rough. "Mostly having to do with when to duck."

Dara's lips quirked slightly. "That's a lesson _everyone_ has to learn." Her own armor had been repaired in the armory overnight, so it was back to matte black everywhere, but she still _knew_ where the bullets had penetrated it. "I sometimes fail to duck, myself."

"In fairness, _amatra_, that usually happens when you're digging bullets out of someone else," Rel said, dryly.

Siara snorted. "So, nothing's changed with _you_ two, I see." Her eyes went distant. "You're heading home?"

"Eventually," Dara hedged.

"When you do, give my regards to Eli, if you would. Tell him. . . tell him I'm better here." Siara glanced at Makur. "It was nice to see you both again. And Dara?"

"Yes?"

"I really am sorry." Her voice was tentative.

Dara nodded. "Don't worry about it. Just don't make the same mistakes again."

Siara smiled. "I'm sure I'll make new ones."

"Won't we all," Rel said, dryly. He glanced at Gris. "Should I take everyone back to the ship now, Spectre? 

"Yeah," Gris rumbled. "I'll send a message to Shepard saying I'll come back by public transport. I have a little. . . family business. . . to attend to here."

_Oh, I'll bet_, Dara thought, latching her helmet back in place and trying to hide her grin. "Nice to have met you, Makur. The fight against that harvester was _really_ impressive," she added.

Makur suddenly grinned, all yellow teeth. "You've seen that?"

"Eli's father showed us the vid two nights ago," Rel replied, his own razor-sharp grin only visible for a moment before he latched his own helmet in place. "I personally liked the part where it exploded."

"That _was_ the best part," Makur agreed. "We'll have to talk of victories some other time, turian."

_Sure, when we have victories we can actually discuss with people who aren't Spectres_, Dara thought, and then they were heading back to the shuttle.

Over the radio, Decimus muttered, _"Okay, seriously. Do you two know someone on every planet in the galaxy?"_

"_Not yet,"_ Dara told him, chuckling. _"Working on it, though."_

Their next stop, July 11, was Sur'Kesh. Dara peered down at the beautiful ocean world, with its thousands of archipelagoes, girdled with swirls of white clouds, and wondered if she really _would_ be spending six months of her life here at some point in the future. And what the hell she'd be researching while here. "Dara," Dr. Solus said behind her. "Come to the shuttle with me. Since I am here for surgery anyway, would be good to introduce you to colleagues." He blinked at her, mouth subtly creeping up into a smile. "Several former associates eager to meet new protégée. Have comments for you on your paper."

Dara started to laugh. "I'm going to disappoint them. I haven't had time to keep up on all the responses, between combat missions and my medical training." Her tone was rueful. "You have no idea how much I envy the salarian ability to get by on only one hour of sleep."

"Have considered ways in which need for human, turians, and asari to sleep might be reduced. Much research already in field. Results inevitably bad. Delta wave sleep, REM patterns in humans, very necessary for physiological and psychological health. Equivalents equally necessary for other species. You have time, Dara. Do not need to live at salarian pace. We are. . . accustomed to making allowances for other species."

The area on Sur'Kesh where the STG main medical facility was, was sufficiently humid as to make Palaven look like a desert. Dara's helmet fogged up on the outside the moment she stepped out of the shuttle, and she had to raise her visor to be able to see. She offered Dr. Solus her hand to help him down from the shuttle, as she would for any patient, but he hopped down on his own, and took her towards the main building, talking at her busily the whole way. Trying, she figured, to jam as much information in her head while he had her here. "Some colleagues know you participated in Lystheni autopsies. Commander Shepard and Kasumi warn that STG may have been penetrated by Lystheni operatives. Be cautious in any replies on that subject."

"With their dalatrass dead, any remaining Lystheni are surely doomed though, right?"

Mordin raised his hands. "Uncertain. Will take twenty to forty years for entire sub-group to die out. They might subvert another dalatrass in the meantime, however. One possibility for this already identified."

Dara nodded, sighing. "Nothing ever gets wrapped up cleanly, does it?"

"Reality is like that. Only works of fiction and historical documentaries have neat, clean endings." Dr. Solus was very amused.

She was introduced to a dizzying array of doctors and scientists, and while Mordin was in five hours of surgery, she was talked _at_ and _to_ at a furious rate of speed on a dozen topics at once. A dozen new entries in her address book later, she was also burdened with about three dozen articles that she'd promised to read. And respond back to. And to at least participate in the conference on Bekenstein this month by FTL. . . even if it was just to leave comments on the feeds allocated to the various panels. It was exhausting and exciting all at once. _God, I want to do it __all__,_ she thought, slumping in the shuttle on her way back to the ship. _How can I be a medic __and__ a researcher __and__ a soldier __and__ Rel's wife all at once? Something is, inevitably, going to take backseat._ Dara sighed. _Maybe each thing will just rotate through being in the backseat. But not Rel. Rel stays in the front seat._

Dr. Solus had two days of observation after the surgery to verify that the chip was completely removed, that all brain swelling had reduced, and that no harmful effects, such as blood clots, had occurred as a result. And the _Estallus_ waited in orbit until Dr. Solus was cleared to come back aboard. Most of the crew was starting to grumble about the lack of mail drops by this point, but when Rinus and Kallixta visited her and Rel in their quarters at night, she could clearly see relief in _their_ eyes every night. "The boom is inevitably going to be lowered," Rinus said as they all sat, relaxing the second night. "It's just nice to know it wasn't today. And that it might not be tomorrow, either."

"Yeah, but that nice tight feeling in your crop? That's dread," Rel told him. "I know, 'cause when we broke a couple of our contract clauses, I had a nice solid dose of dread while waiting to explain myself to our parents."

Kallixta's head turned. "You two broke your contract?"

Dara's could feel her face go hot and pink. "Never mind," she said, clearly enunciating the words, leaving little rings of space around both.

Rel started to chuckle. "It wasn't _that_ bad of a breach."

"Not according to your _mother_." Dara _still_ winced a little at the memory of that entire conversation.

"Mom overreacts about some things. She probably threw as much of a fit as she did because she was scared of what your dad was going to do to me."

"My dad was the sanest person in the room that day. I was. . . surprised."

"So was I. I was not expecting that." They exchanged rueful glances, and clasped their hands together.

Dara looked back at Kallixta. "So what do _you_ expect?"

Kallixta shook her head. "Honestly, I'm not sure. The simulation showed me the gamut from my worst fears through best-case scenarios." She glanced at Rinus, and curled into him. "It could really go any way."

Then, finally, they returned to Mindoir. July 16, 2192. Dara had been gone from the planet she now regarded as her home since October of 2191. Eight months for her; just over a year for Rel. The _Estallus_ came in for a landing, and most of the crew shuffled off. There was snow on the ground of course—close to twenty-two inches, from the looks of it, and the various turians did _not_ look thrilled to be in a winter wonderland. Dara looked out at in a little dismay, herself. "I didn't pack any winter clothes," she said, grimly. "Not so much as a jacket."

Rel chuckled at her. "Ah, so for once, you're feeling _our_ pain." All four of them were in civilian clothes, and it felt _odd._

Kallixta, however, _did_ stare around her as she walked down the ramp, much to Dara's amusement. "The novelty palls after a while," Rinus told her, darkly. Slightly behind all four of them, Kallixta's two bodyguards trailed, looking around at the small crowd there to greet the ship a little suspiciously.

"It's not as cold as Palaven's south polar regions," Kallixta said, after a moment.

"No, but the south pole on Mindoir can drop as low as minus eighty-nine degrees Fahrenheit," Dara supplied, cheerfully, trying to think warm thoughts as she looked around for her dad or Kasumi in the crowd. "The lowest Palaven sees is minus twenty-two."

"What's that in _aestus_?"

Dara keyed up her omnitool. "Minus eighty point nine."

Kallixta pretended to shiver, human-fashion, and they all chuckled. "Oh, there he is," Dara said, and raised a hand, waving. "Dad!" Then they all made their way, quickly indeed, to one of the waiting groundcars. Allardus and Solanna had base passes, but it was mid-day, and they were at work. Sam, however, had taken a little time off to come pick them up, and gave Dara a big hug as soon as he saw her. "Finally catching you out of uniform, kiddo," he told her, leaning down to give her a kiss on the cheek. His moustache made her giggle, as it has since she was a child. He looked at the other three. "There's a coat in the car for you, sweetie."

"Thank you!" Dara exclaimed, and dove for the door, which made her father laugh. Then again, _he_ wasn't the one wearing a tank-top and shorts, packed in consideration of Palaven's heat and meant to be worn under a set of radiation coveralls, and sneakers without socks.

Outside the door of the car, Sam said, "Rel, you and Dara are free to come stay with me and Kasumi, if you like. I know Allardus and Solanna would love to have you, too, but. . . "

Rel snickered a little, ducking in the doorframe after her now. "We need to make a courtesy visit at least, first. Then we'll see how much Rinus and Kallixta need in the way of reinforcements."

Dara zipped up her coat, and Rel held his hands over the heater vents as Rinus and Kallixta piled in next. _I'm going to be digging in the attic for clothes, and so will they,_ she thought. _Sweaters. Anything. My blood thinned out, between Palaven and the constant seventy-three degrees __aestus__ onboard the __Estallus__. _

Rinus sighed as the bodyguards _also_ climbed onboard, and closed the door with a solid thunk. They'd all started getting used to the constant presence of Reimian and Madenius, but Dara could never _quite_ relax around them. Kallixta spoke her mind, regardless of their presence, sure, but Dara, Rel, and Rinus couldn't _quite_ treat the two guards like furniture. Not that Kallixta did. But she didn't guard herself from them, in the way that Dara _knew_ Rel and Rinus both did. "_Thanks_, second-brother," Rinus said now, dryly, clearly watching his words, and sticking to English. The guards had VIs for translation, of course, but if they were paying attention to readouts or chatter in their earpieces, they weren't looking for threats. "You're very helpful."

Rel grinned at him. "You can't expect me _not_ to enjoy this, first-brother. At least not a _little_ bit. You've been the shining family example for _years._"

"And I supported _you_ all through _your_ plighting."

Rel grinned again. "Yeah, you did. Which is why I'm only enjoying this a _little_." He held up thumb and forefinger an inch or so apart. Then Sam got into the pilot seat, and they took off, heading down the mountain roads for the science base, while most of the others from the _Estallus_ were headed for the largely unused candidate barracks, or, in the case of Livanus and Gallian, for the base medical facility.

**Rinus**

The science base was _mostly_ unchanged from his last visit here, last October, although the area was now mantled in white snow. There were new fields and barns, which Jaworski pointed out, held animals native to Palaven. "They were in a hell of hurry to get those heated barns built before the snow fell," he said, turning into the settlement proper now. "They only lost about five to ten percent of the animals from levo incompatibility, too. Allardus was tickled pink 'bout that—'scuse me, tickled _blue_."

He pulled into the drive in front of the Velnaran family villa, and, chuckling under his breath a little, came around to open the doors for them, like a chauffeur. "I wish everyone would stop enjoying this so much," Rinus muttered to Sam as he hopped out, reaching a hand back to assist Kallixta from the car. "Makes me wonder what I've done to earn it."

Sam chuckled softly. "You're a hard-ass at work, same as me, son. People _love_ to see a hard-ass taken down a peg or two."

"Yeah, but you're all _family_. When was the last time I was a hard-ass with them?"

Rel heard some of that, and snickered. "You had a few words for Serana about her grades, oh, two years ago? I know for a fact she didn't pull anything less than As for the rest of that year."

Rinus frowned at him. "Yeah, but that's just being _first-brother._"

Rel's grin nearly split his face in half.

At that point, the front door of the house opened, and Serana, bundled up against the cold, raced out, followed by the family mastiff, which was barking joyously. Serana shouted, _"First-brother! Second-brother!"_ and landed against Rinus with a rather solid thud, and he pretended to stagger backwards, while the mastiff landed against Rellus instead, rearing up on his hind legs to try to lick Rel's face. _"Down, Vindexus,_" Rel ordered, ruffling the huge dog's head, while the bodyguards pulled back, obviously trying to evaluate the exotic alien beast in terms of its threat potential.

"_Hello, little one,"_ Rinus told Serana, looking down at her. She was still just barely over five feet in height, so she was tiny in comparison to her grown brothers. _"I heard you hadn't been feeling too well?"_

"_Oh, no, I'm fine,"_ she assured him blithely. _"All As this quarter, too, first-brother."_

She pulled away now to hug Rel fiercely. _"I'm so glad you're both __home__. I __hate__ being first-sibling."_ Vindexus was attempting, as best a huge mastiff can, to prance around like a puppy, and was now vigorously sniffing Kallixta, much to the consternation of Reimian and Madenius. Kallixta was laughing, however. "Kallixta," Rinus said, taking her hand in his, "this _fearsome_ Terran beast is a dog. Mastiff, in particular. Just as big as a varren, you'll note, but he has both more drool and more fur. My younger siblings used to ride him like a _rlata_."

"Not anymore," Serana said, sadly, in English, switching languages pretty much unconsciously. "He's getting too old and arthritic. For all that he's trying to be a puppy again now." Vindexus' tail was wagging a mile a minute, in fact, and he whuffled at them all enthusiastically.

Rinus adjusted his grip on Kallixta's hand, and extended their clasped fingers to the beast, so the mastiff could smell her. "They're scent-beasts. He _generally_ recognizes me as family, though. So with your scent and mine, he'll recognize you the same way." He glanced at the bodyguards, who were still staring at the animal cautiously. _You, on the other hand? Can fend for yourselves._

Serana was hugging Dara now, and chattering in English about Elijah's letters from boot camp, apparently. "And he and Linianus are roommates, and they have a human girl as a roommate, and she's from someplace _cold_ called Sweden—do you know where that is, Dara? I had to look it up. _And_ someone who Eli used to know on Bastion. Don't tell his mom, but it's one of the boys who used to beat him up. Eli says he's a hallex-head, and that he's been throwing up after every run because hallex and _real_ exercise don't mix."

Dara's voice now, "Settle down, _amillula,"_ she said, affectionately, giving Serana a hug. "I'll read his whole letter with you. But let's get inside before everyone freezes out here."

Serana looked abashed. "Oh, I'm so sorry for the discourtesy," she said. "I was just excited to see everyone again." And then she looked up at Kallixta and the bodyguards, as if seeing them for the first time, and her face crinkled a bit. "Hello," she said, offering her hand to Kallixta. "I don't recognize you."

Rinus started to grin. _This might actually be a little bit fun after all_. "Kallixta, this little bundle of mischief is my first-sister, Serana. Serana, this is Kallixta, who, if all goes well, will be your first-sister soon."

Serana's eyes went wide, and she immediately threw her arms around Kallixta in an exuberant hug. Kallixta stiffened a little, looked wild-eyed for a moment, then reached down and hugged Serana back. "You're pretty," Serana told Kallixta, with all the artlessness of her age. "You'll look a lot nicer when you're wearing our clan-paint, though. Mother says you can't trust anyone who's barefaced, but Rinus would never bring anyone home who wasn't a good person."

"Serana!" Rinus' snap was reflexive, and he could see Rel and Dara turning away to hide their expressions. Dara's shoulders were shaking, in fact.

Serana looked up, clearly wounded, and her face fell. _"Yes, first-brother? I've erred?"_

"_Mind your manners."_

Serana looked down. _"Yes, first-brother."_

"_Now go inside."_

She scampered off ahead of them. Kallixta murmured, _"Rinus, she's delightful and she's honest and she's open. I didn't mind at all."_

"_Honest, I'll grant you, but she still should mind her manners."_

Sam muttered, from near the door of the groundcar, "See, son? You _are_ a hard-ass."

Rel snorted with laughter. "He's first-brother. Thank the spirits, _I'm_ not." He took Dara's hand and gestured for Rinus to precede them—one of the many distinctions of family rank was that elder siblings were supposed to precede younger ones. Rinus sighed, made sure Kallixta's hand was firmly clasped in his, gave Rel a _dark_ look for his second-brother's continuing muffled laughter, and headed for the front door.

Inside, the house was _warm_, thank the spirits. 80º F/26.6º C, or a very comfortable 73º _aestus_, depending on what system one happened to think in. Rinus could _clearly_ hear Serana reminding Polina and Quintus to _mind their manners_, passing along _his_ chastisement of _her_, and had to smother his own grin. _"You ready?"_ he asked Kallixta.

"_This isn't the hard part,"_ she reminded him.

"_Don't remind me."_

His parents were in the kitchen, Allardus working away on his datapads, while Solanna chopped meat for a stew. The three youngest siblings crowded into the room from the far door, Serana shushing the other two firmly.

Both of his parents turned and looked up at the same moment. _"Rinus! Rellus!"_ Solanna said, with a happy smile, still chopping and dicing away. _"And Dara, too."_ That, a little less happily, but still with decent cheer. Her eyes had slid to his left wrist, though, and the empty knife sheathe there, and now darted back and forth between him and Kallixta, bright, and, for the moment, warily happy.

"_Well, now,"_ Allardus said, standing. _"Garrus told us to expect our first-son and second-son home, and that they'd be bringing company, but I see he was keeping __secrets__."_

"_Occupational hazard,"_ Rel quipped, moving up into the room with Dara now.

_Thanks, Uncle Garrus. Nice of you to __prepare__ them for the shock. Or is this a subtle form of tweaking my mother's tail?_ Glancing back, he could see that Reimian and Madenius had taken up positions just inside the front door of the house. Slightly annoyed, Rinus reached out and closed the kitchen door behind Rel, and then clasped his father's wrist _"Father. Mother. It's been too long."_ Okay, now how to _say_ this? Military rank trumped social rank, but in introductions of outsiders to family, family trumped everything. Familiar-to-familiar, of course, within a family situation, but with respectful wording. _"Father, Mother. . . this is Kallixta Essedarius. . . "_ he winced, and wished he'd simply said her _real_ last name, but, one shock at a time. . . ._ "she to whom I am plighted under the __tal'mae__." _

His mother's jaw dropped, and she carefully put the knife down, preparing for formal greetings. Rinus was pretty sure he saw _delight_ on her face, mingled with a little caution. She'd been pushing him for about four years now to get married, and he'd been steadfastly turning a deaf ear to her suggestions all this while. But now, to turn up _tal'mae-plighted_. . . it had to be setting off alarm bells. Generally, you could be _manus-_plighted if you were underage for marrying. _Manus_-wed. _Tal'mae_-plighted was. . . unusual. And with a barefaced female at that. On the other hand. . . he knew his mother _really_ wanted grandchildren, and he was, essentially, telling her that she was going to have her wish someday.

Allardus, however, simply blinked and set aside his datapads. Rinus took a breath, and continued, doggedly. _"Serana, Polina, Quintus, this will be, spirits willing, your new sister, Kallixta."_

While Serana simply _beamed_, Polina tucked in behind Serana shyly, and Quintus fidgeted a little before managing polite _hellos_. Rinus was fifteen to sixteen years their elder, and had little to do in their lives. For Serana, he and Rellus were beloved, idolized brothers; for the younger two, Rinus was a distant star, while Rellus was a moon.

Now, for the introductions the other way. _"Kallixta, this is my father, Dr. Allardus Velnaran, head of xenobiological studies at the Roland B. Shepard Memorial Biodiversity Area. And this is my mother, Solanna Velnaran, project lead for XeroCorp Environmental Designs. You've met my first-sister, Serana, and this is my second-sister, Polina, and my third-brother, Quintus."_

Rinus braced himself. Kallixta's fingers tightened on his, and she smiled, putting on the brave public face. _"It's a pleasure to meet you all. I've heard so much about you from Rinus, Rellus, and Dara. When Dara showed me her wedding pictures and family pictures in boot camp, I wouldn't have believed that I would be meeting you so soon."_ She was using familiar-to-familiar, but in a respectful mode, which, if she'd been of equal rank, would have been a breach, because she should have been using the more respectful subordinate-to-superior forms for introduction to his family. Of course. . . she wasn't of equal rank. Technically, she could have used superior-to-inferior and been completely in the right.

Serana, having been five at most when they left Palaven, didn't react to the accent, but she did look puzzled, probably by the mode of address. Polina and Quintus, didn't react at all.

Allardus and Solanna, however, _did_. They both simply stared for a long moment, absorbing the cut-crystal court accent, and then Allardus said, very quietly, _"Scale me."_

Solanna's eyes were a little wild, and she turned and told the younger children, _"This is a time for adults to talk. You have homework to be doing, do you not?"_

The younger two looked uncertain. Serana protested, quietly, _"I'm old enough—"  
_

"_Go to your rooms,"_ Solanna said, firmly, and Serana sighed and shooed the younger two out of the room ahead of her before reluctantly, with a backwards glance, exiting the room after them and shutting the door softly.

"_A, ah, pleasure to meet you, Kallixta_," Allardus said now, recovering his composure. He didn't say _domina_, Rinus noted instantly. Garrus was not the only renegade in the family, after all. His father's deepset eyes flicked to Rinus now. "_And the other two strangers in our home?"_ Allardus asked, politely. _"Who are they?"_

Kallixta intervened, gracefully. _"They are two family retainers of long standing, who have been tasked with my protection since I was a child,"_ she said, softly.

Solanna quietly pulled out a chair and sat down. _"It would appear that there were a great many things that my brother did __not__ tell us,"_ she told Allardus, almost conversationally.

Allardus nodded, slowly. _"Was there anything else you wished to add, first-son?"_ he asked.

Rinus cleared his throat, feeling Rel go very still behind him. _Brother-ally at my back. Good thing, too._ _"Actually, yes,"_ he said, quietly. _"When I said that Kallixta's family name was Essedarius, that was only part of the truth."_

"_That was the name that I took for boot camp and my service as pilot aboard the __Estallus__,"_ Kallixta said, gently taking him off the hook. _"The name on my marriage contract will read Praesesidis." _ She looked at his parents now, and continued speaking, as she had, in intimate-to-intimate, _"May we not sit down? It's been a long trip here, and there's much doubtless to discuss."_

Both of his parents had, probably out of reflex, stood at the mention of her last name, and now Allardus gestured respectfully for Kallixta to take a chair. Kallixta sat down, looking at them a little helplessly. They'd both put on total masks of turian stoicism. It was the first time in his life that Rinus had ever seen what his parents would have looked like in boot camp. Expressionless. Disciplined. He could almost smell his mother's distress, however, and Vindexus whined a little from near the stove.

"_With your permission, __domina__,"_ Solana found her tongue, _"It is time for our pet's dinner."_

Kallixta winced, and sent Rinus a slightly pleading glance, holding out her hand. He took it immediately, and she said now, quietly, a little desperately, _"Please. Not __domina__. __Lieutenant__, if you __must__, but please believe me when I tell you that I actually like the sound of my own name. I have heard it used little enough in my life."_

Solanna and Allardus had not moved or relaxed yet. Vindexus, ignorant of the subtext, came over and nosed at Solanna's hand, and she pulled back a little, glancing down, clearly worried about the mastiff. Kallixta sighed and switched to English. "Please, feed him."

Solanna immediately did so, and Rinus could feel Kallixta's hands clenching and unclenching on his at the stress. Rel and Dara had taken up positions near the door, and were watching the scene, their own faces blank now, obviously trying not to make the situation any worse.

His mother pushed Vindexus's nose away again as she prepared his food dish. "_Silly beast, you'll make yourself sick unto death if you lick my hands while they're covered in __cuderae__ blood. . . ."_

"How long have you had him?" Kallixta offered, quietly. Sticking to the socially-blind nuances of English.

"Almost five years. . . lieutenant. We're told that he might live another five to seven Terran years. English mastiffs are one of the largest breeds of Terran dogs. Their hearts and their hips give out a little earlier than other breeds." Solanna put the bowl of stewed chicken on the floor, and Vindexus engulfed it, huge jowls flopping around the food and the bowl.

Kallixta looked at his parents now, and he could feel the tension in her fingers. "Please. Won't you both sit down? This is your house, and I feel quite awkward with you standing here like this." She paused. "Please. Can we not discuss this as family?"

Rel offered dryly, from his corner by the door, "In our family, Kallixta, family discussions very often lead to shouting. You sure you want that?"

Solanna slapped one hand to her face, and exclaimed, in a despairing tone, _"Are you __entirely__ blind to protocol, second-son?"_

Rel looked at Kallixta. "See what I mean?" Rinus chuckled, relieved that his brother was taking some of the pressure off of Kallixta and himself by intervening.

Kallixta grinned, merrily. "He certainly was at Shanxi. It made the two of them stand out from the crowd. I liked it, personally." She turned and looked at Dara. "And of course, Dara here had _no idea_ who I was in boot camp. Have I mentioned before how much I appreciated the fact that you _made_ the rest of the squad spar against me properly, so I could learn? Or the fact that you've _never_ dropped into subordinate-to-superior with me?"

Dara chuckled. "I could see that the others treated you differently, but have _no_ idea how I'd have known. And past that. . . I'm not a citizen of the Hierarchy, yet." A smile curved her alien lips. "For the moment, you're just a friend, not _royalty_."

"And that's the way I'd really prefer it to stay." Kallixta looked up at Rinus now. "Rinus here has an excuse. I deliberately kept my identity hidden when I first came aboard the _Estallus_, and only spoke in English around most of the crew."

Alladrus had been listening, quietly, all this while, and said now, quietly, "And now you two are . . . _tal'mae-plighted._ How can this be? Surely, you would need your father's permission. . . lieutenant." He, like Solanna, seemed uncomfortable with the notion of calling Kallixta by her first name.

Rinus winced. _"Therein lies part of the problem, and why I have petitioned my uncle to stand for me as head of clan, in your place, father. His position may give us more maneuvering ability. . . and he was there, and available for the asking."_

Allardus rubbed at his temples. _"I think I'm braced for it now. What happened?"_

Kallixta fidgeted a little. _"Two females on-board had bad medication packs at OCS. I was one of them. I, ah, cycled into estrus."_ Factual, but _so_ uncomfortable.

Both of his parents' heads snapped up at that point, and Allardus began to swear, oblivious to protocol._ "I chose him!" _Kallixta said, quickly, frantically trying to calm them down.

"_She __did__,"_ Dara interposed, trying to punch through Allardus' unusually emphatic reaction. _"Damned near knocked me out, Rel backed away, got me out of the room, and barred the door, while I took her female bodyguard to the med bay to determine if __every__ turian female on the ship was about to cycle through."_

Solanna's expression was close to panic. _"Is there a youngling involved?"_

"_No, mother,"_ Rinus assured her. It was funny, in a not-really-funny way; she'd been after him for grandchildren for so long, but now the mere idea of a grandchild from Kallixta had damned near sent her into catalepsy. _"But I __did__ promise to care for her before I knew who she was, and any young. And once I became aware of the ramifications, we decided that it would be best, to establish our personal honor, that we should plight."_

Allardus had stopped swearing by this point, and was clearly considering everything from every angle he could think of. Solanna was starting to spin a little, though. _"The Imperator __could__ have you __executed__ for marrying his child without his consent!"_ she shouted, and _that_ was pure fear-anger, fear for her first-son.

"_That's probably unlikely,"_ Kallixta told her, trying for diplomacy, trying to calm her down.

Solanna glared at her. _"You've put my son's __life__ in danger, __domina__."_

_Wait a damned minute._ Rinus glared at his mother. _"Kallixta didn't put me in any sort of danger. I __offered__ to marry her. She didn't __demand__ or __expect__ it." _ Rinus was not a shouter. His mother always had been, and he'd reacted, in growing up, by learning to win arguments with her by _not_ shouting back. _"Not only is it the best way through what is a horrible mess for us, but I actually __do__ have feelings for her, so I request that you treat her with the respect due to my intended mate."_ He was talking through his teeth now.

Solanna sat back in her chair, waving her hands before crossing them across her chest. _"It's perfectly __natural__ to experience feelings for someone after estrus, Rinus! That's how nature __evolved__ us, a hormonal surge to ensure that the male stays long enough to protect any potential offspring. It doesn't mean much of anything. It's not enough to risk your life for. And __tal'mae__? The rest of your life with someone you barely know, past an accidental mating? Ridiculous, first-son."_

There was enough volume there that Rinus was quite sure it was carrying past the closed door to where the bodyguards waited, and he hoped they were getting an earful of his mother's protective-anger. While it was _aggravating_, it was, in a way, a pleasant change from all the accusations of how _he_ was somehow taking advantage of Kallixta, a threat to Kallixta. From his mother's view, Kallixta was a threat to _him_.

But even so, it _was_ off-base. Rinus leaned over and took his mother's hand in his free one, conveying affection with touch. _"I liked her well enough before then. If I hadn't had the damned chip in my head, I would even have pursued that liking."_ He kept his voice calm, trying to soothe his mother with tone alone. _"And let me ask you this. If I did __not__ plight her, would my life still be in danger?"_

"_Career, position, life, yes,"_ Allardus said, raising his head from his hands. _"It was the decision of honor as well as pragmatism, first-son. We'll support you as best we may, in your course."_

Solanna snarled, obviously still working through her protection-anger. Vindexus whined and put his head in her lap, and Solanna petted the mastiff absently.

"_I swear to you,"_ Kallixta told his mother quietly, _"I will never let anything happen to Rinus if I can help it."_

"_That's just my concern,"_ Solanna replied, heavily. _"__If__ you can help it. You might well have no say, __domina__."_

_And I can't even tell them that she and Dara refused to leave when Rel and I were a minute from death on those damned satellites. What a perfect proof of honor, fidelity, devotion, and I can't even speak of it. _Rinus' throat went tight. He looked at his father. _"May we stay under your roof?"_ he asked.

After a moment, Allardus nodded. _"You may, first-son. If I might ask about the details of your contract?"_ It was a delicate way of asking about the sleeping arrangements.

"_A few clauses will need some renegotiation, pertaining to finances. However, the conjugal bed clauses are the standard ones."_

Allardus nodded, and slowly stood. _"Welcome to our family,"_ he told Kallixta, carefully, and offered her the traditional embrace. _"However temporary a welcome it might be._" He sighed. _"Apparently, I'm due for a __long__ talk with my __fradu'ama__. Garrus is playing this one very close to his cowl."_

Solanna stood, and, because Allardus had given his welcome, was more or less forced to do the same, but she clearly had reservations. She kept them behind her teeth for now, however. _"I will prepare guest rooms for you. What arrangements may I make for your guards. . . lieutenant?"_

Kallixta sighed. _"A room to the side of the one I would share with Rinus, if such is available."_

"_I will not put my second-son and his wife on a couch in the living area in favor of your guards."_ Solanna's voice was even.

"_I would not ask you to, for I count Dara a sister already."_ Kallixta sounded slightly annoyed.

Rel coughed. _"My pada'amu has already requested that we stay with him."_ Rinus and Kallixta _both_ turned their heads at that moment, Rinus thinking, _Don't leave us without allies, second-brother_.

Dara, clearly reading the looks she'd received, offered, _"We __can__ stay here, but we __should__ visit my father and his beloved. Besides. . . I understand he wants to try to barbecue this week. That means I have to cook something for the mixed crowd."_

Solanna nodded, and said, _"You are a good and considerate daughter, Dara. I will go and arrange the rooms._" and turned to leave the room, closing the door behind her.

Dara exhaled, and sagged against the wall. After a moment, she offered, in English, "I always wondered what it would take to get her to _like_ me." She grinned at Kallixta. "Thank you, Kallixta."

Kallixta raised her hand, and made the _push-off_ gesture. With extra emphasis, and in an exceedingly un-imperial fashion.

Rinus started to chuckle. Rel started to grin. And then everyone in the room quietly, helplessly, started to laugh, curling in on themselves until their stomachs hurt.

**Serana**

Serana had _long_ since mastered the art of sneaking back down the stairs after her parents had told her to go to her room. It was all about where she put her feet on the treads, spreading the weight of her body out along the whole of her foot, and moving slowly. With the two youngest siblings safely ensconced with a game, Serana had crept back downstairs, as quietly as if she were hunting _anserae_ in a _villi_ den, and had pressed her ear against the door of the kitchen.

It was so unfair. She was _obviously_ growing up, and still she was excluded from everything of importance. She couldn't go to boot camp yet, her parents _never_ told her anything, and now, it was quite obvious that Rinus was in trouble, and it had _something_ to do with this barefaced female. _Maybe she's a notorious traitor or criminal_, Serana thought. _Maybe she's blackmailing him. No. . . she seemed too nice for that. Maybe she's a mercenary with a shadowy past. Hmm. She might be kind of young for that._

In any event, the _only_ way she'd find out is if she listened. Serana listened a lot more than she talked, too. Her father always had said that knowledge was power—and that tallied with that grandpa Gavius had always said, although _he_ had been talking about the Law. Knowing how the Law worked let you use it to protect yourself. But knowledge had its own attractions. Serana liked knowing. Knowing, and not telling.

That's why Eli's letters gave her such a feeling of importance. She knew things that he'd told her not to tell his mother. Oh, he was fine with her telling _her_ family, but there were levels to secrets. Of course, the letters made her feel warm inside, too. Always the affectionate tone. _Asperitalla_, he'd taken to calling her. _Little fierce one._ Just like Rel had called Dara. It probably didn't mean anything—careless words, crumbs of affection. But it mattered to _her_.

At the moment, it was important to her family to know what she did and what was in the letters, so Serana disclosed it. But they didn't know other things. They didn't know about the way the steps creaked, for instance. They didn't know that Polina had pushed a human child at school—not once, but several times, and that Serana had told her if she ever did it again, she'd tell their parents about the repeat offenses. Would withdraw her sheltering silence. She couldn't control her younger siblings, as Rinus and Rel had, with awe and example. But she _could_ do it with information. With secrets. With silence.

So Serana listened at the far door of the kitchen, frowning a little. She couldn't hear _every_ word that passed beyond the thickness of the wood. But she gathered enough to know that Kallixta's father. . . whoever he was. . . posed some clear threat to Rinus. _She's the daughter of a warlord, a mercenary king in the Terminus systems! That's it! He rescued her, because he's my first-brother and he can do __anything__. I wish I could tell Eli. But I can't. He'd tell me 'not enough evidence.' Besides, the censors would eat anything like it that I wrote, and they'd be right. No. . . hold it close. Hold it tight for now. I wonder how my mother and father recognized her, though. Just from the first words she spoke._

Then Serana heard her mother commenting, tightly, that she'd be going to set up the bedrooms, and Serana fled, light-footed, up the stairs back to her bedroom. She paused for a moment, looked _hard_ at a shadow in the living room, and shook her head. _I could have sworn I saw something move._ Then she finished climbing the stairs, not making a _sound_, and closed her door behind her, just as her mother stepped out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

As Serana's bedroom door closed behind her, Pallum Madenius turned off his stealth-net, and shook his head. _"Is there a kid in this family who __doesn't__ have potential?"_ he muttered, under his breath.


	73. Chapter 73: Unity

**Chapter 73: Unity**

_**Author's note:**__ The poll results are . . . striking. The batarian turncoat was more or less a mortal lock to begin with, for plot reasons. I had no idea, however, that so many people were crying out for a drell in this story. Fair warning. Any drell I write is unlikely to be the second coming of Thane. ;-)_

_Slight edit __made to Chapter 64, so that Serana's August 12 letter works better with the current timeline. _

_For those wondering about the reference made by Dara in this chapter: __Pirates of Penzance__: A Pirate King: http:/ www . youtube . com / watch?v = jQ7SVMVrick_

**Mordin**

"Daddy! You're home!" Narayana exclaimed, and ran to Mordin, reaching up her arms imperatively. "Ellie won't do as she's told," she added in the next breath, pouting as best her largely lipless mouth could manage.

"And the respectful title for Ellie is. . . .?"

Narayana sighed. "Mrs. Sidonis. But she said I could call her Ellie."

"May be the case," Mordin told his little daughter calmly. "However, should demonstrate respect in other ways, too. Adults, not to be commanded by children."

Narayana thought about that. "So I'll _always_ have to do what someone older than I am says to do?"

Mordin chuckled. "Not always. But for some time, yes." He looked up as Ellie came through into the lobby of her villa, Caelia trailing in her wake. Ellie was about four months pregnant now, and it showed in the slight curve of her waist and pink flush to her cheeks. "Thank you for caring for Narayana in my absence, Ellie."

The human woman smiled. "It was a pleasure to have her." She looked at Narayana. "She taught Caelia a lot of new things. And what did Caelia teach _you_?" she asked, in a firm tone.

Narayana sighed. "Please. Thank you. No thank you. You're welcome. I'm sorry. Gesundheit, which doesn't even sound like a real word. And. . . I love you." The last was a mumble as she looked down.

Ellie nodded. "All good things to know, right?" She looked back at Mordin, smiling slightly. "Caelia got very upset with her for not using her polite words. But Narayana also taught Caelia how to play with her toys a lot more nicely. Stacking the blocks, instead of hitting with them. It was a good experience for everyone."

Narayana said now, very sweetly, "May I have a cookie before I go, Ellie?"

Ellie looked at her. "Is it almost dinner time?"

Narayana looked from side to side. "No?"

"I think it is. I think you'll have to ask your father for one after supper." Ellie came over and gave Narayana a kiss on the forehead—something Mordin had definitely never pictured being given to a fellow salarian, let alone a young female. "Smarty-pants," the human woman said, affectionately. "Take care, now." She looked at Mordin. "You're okay now? Lantar said you'd had to have some surgery." She glanced at Narayana, and he suspected that the human female was speaking delicately, so as not to alarm his daughter. "I can keep her another day or two, if you still need time to recover."

"No, mostly healed. Should probably avoid head injuries for some time, however." Mordin's eyelids crinkled at the joke. "Thank you again. Most helpful of you, Ellie. Unsure what I would do without your assistance."

"Bye-bye, 'Yana!" Caelia called out the door after them, waving and smiling. "Bye-bye!"

Mordin settled Narayana into his groundcar, and drove off with her. "You were sick?" she asked, sounding concerned.

_Exciting. Growth of empathy since last I saw her. Possibly due to human influence in last month. Ahead of normal cognitive and emotional growth stages._ "Yes. Explains late return. Was working with other Spectres, finding information."

"Like a puzzle?"

"Yes. Puzzle. Also, hide and go seek. Didn't hide well enough. Bad people found me. Put a chip inside my head." He looked at her, wondering how much of this she'd understand, and retain. "Chip could have caused me to do bad things. Had to have it removed, surgically."

"They had to cut you open?"

"Yes."

"Did it hurt?"

"I was asleep for the surgery. Didn't feel it. Awakening, some discomfort. Passing now."

She thought about that. "Okay. Good. Pain is bad."

Pulling up at his little round house down in the valley—he was entitled to one up at the base, but liked the proximity of his house to the river and its water—Mordin got out to help Narayana out of the groundcar, when a voice halted him. "Uncle," Mordin Alesh said, stepping away from the side of the house. "Heard you'd be home today."

Alesh was a Spectre, too. Fifteen years Mordin's junior, he was twenty-one; middle-aged, by salarian standards. He was a technical expert, specializing in hacking and decyption, and had spent most of the past eight months off of Mindoir, tracking a variety of _very_ defective mech shipments. "Nephew!" Mordin beamed at him. "Good to see you. Join us for dinner?"

Alesh looked down at Narayana as the little female stepped down and regarded him, too, in turn. "You didn't write to tell me of the new addition to the family, Uncle. I'm a little hurt."

Mordin shrugged, uncomfortably. "Was unexpected. Also, suspected you might write of it to our dalatrass."

Alesh frowned. "Wouldn't do that, Uncle. Would never betray your confidence. It was by _your_ recommendation that I became a Spectre, not hers."

Mordin's eyelids crinkled. "Renegade tendencies promulgating all over Mindoir. Interesting ramifications." He looked down at Narayana. "Narayana, this is my nephew, Mordin Alesh. He and you are cousins. What did Caelia and Ellie teach you about meeting people?"

Narayana paused. Thought about it. "Hello," she said, after a moment, clearly parroting it. "It's nice to meet you." No sign of command harmonic in her voice now as she turned and looked up at her father, "Can I play for a little while before dinner? With my microscope and slides?"

"Certainly. Go look at the leaf cell structures under ten-x magnification. Tell me what you see."

She darted into the house as he opened the door. Alesh looked after her, shaking his head. "I didn't think you'd be setting out to be a revolutionary in your old age, Uncle."

"Not a revolutionary. Do not seek to upset social order of Sur'Kesh. Had opportunity to keep one egg of my mating with the Lystheni dalatrass intact. Took it."

"You could have flushed it down the lavatory, Uncle Solus. It wouldn't have mattered."

"Yes. Would have mattered to me. Genophage work, problematic. Hybridization work, lasting testament to my skills, desire to give people happiness, fulfillment. Narayana. . . genetic legacy. Also, legacy of teaching, thoughts. These things become more important, in the last half-decade, I find." Mordin turned on a light in the kitchen, and began assembling a salarian dinner. He soaked processed algae flakes in water to restore their freshness, and found tins of fish, preserved in oil, in his cabinets. As a garnish, he added dried centipedes and snails, extracted from their shells, also preserved in oil. None of it required heating, and all represented important nutrients for their bodies.

Narayana usually loved the snails, but tonight, she was unusually picky. "Do you not like snails anymore?' Mordin asked her, concerned.

She made a face. "I like cookies better."

"Snails are better for you."

She looked at him hopefully. "Could we make snail cookies?" Again, _no_ command harmonic. Mordin would give a _lot_ to know how Ellie had . . . excised that, like a tumor, from his daughter's repertoire. On the one hand, it might, in a sense, _defang_ her for adulthood. Something of a concern. On the other hand, it would be _refreshing_ to deal with a dalatrass who had to make convincing arguments and provide reasons for her males to do things, just as they had to provide such things to her, rather than just ordering the males to do what she bid them to do.

Again, Mordin really wished that he would live to see what his daughter would become. But then again, he'd had a few glimpses in the simulator. Well-educated. A natural leader among salarians, of course. But an innovator. Formed by the multiple cultures here on Mindoir. A . . . revolutionary. . . perhaps. Maybe even the first advocate for equal rights for males. A voice for change in the breeding dynamic, calling for a greater number of females to be born in each generation, rather than consolidating power among a hundred females. Greater genetic diversity as a result. Change. Real, sweeping change, socially and genetically.

Dinner went well after that, and once he put his little daughter to bed—a waterbed, for a salarian, had a whole different meaning than for a human, being a converted bathtub with a small water heater and a pump that circulated the water in her sleep—Mordin came back out and talked with Alesh. "I assume you've made plans for when you're no longer able to care for her?" Alesh asked. "Do you want me to take her in?"

"No. Dangerous for you, in terms of family backlash." _Also,_ Mordin thought, _you might be something of a renegade, nephew, but not __enough__ of one. You might not try to take her from me now—you are not the kidnapping type— but you might try to inculcate traditional values in her after my death. Might take her back to Sur'Kesh, turn her over to dalatrasses, when it is no longer a question of betraying me or betraying them. Turn her into something else, rather than what she might chose to become, if she __has__ a choice. And here on Mindoir. . . she has a world full of choices before her. _"Have asked Garrus and Shepard in times past to care for her. Now, think Ellie and Lantar might be better choice. Not as many responsibilities as commanders of Spectres. Much experience in raising children."

"Not a salarian, then?" Alesh didn't seem to know whether to approve or to disapprove.

"No. Bad idea. Any salarian—perhaps you, excluded—would take her to Sur'Kesh. Dalatrasses would adopt her into a new house. All her potential, squandered. No. Better this way. Will ensure she stays on Mindoir until it is time for university education. Then, her choice. Will make sure she can protect herself, if she goes to Sur'Kesh for training."

"She'll need to. She'd be bored anyplace else in the galaxy."

"Understood." Mordin sighed. Narayana had a long, hard road ahead of her. But one well worth traveling, if she chose it.

**Garrus**

Garrus and Lilitu had been back on Mindoir for close to a week now. Their drell nanny, Kauda Misaan, had had her hands _full_ with all four children in their absence, especially since the second set of twins, now seven months old, had started crawling in their parents' absence. Garrus watched in amusement as Alain pushed himself up to hands and knees and wobbled there, uncertainly, a look of confusion and trepidation on that tiny face. _We always seem to miss some of the little moments,_ he thought. _Then again, we __were__ kind of off making sure the galaxy would be safer for them when they grow up. Although it always seems to fall right back into jeopardy again._ _"Good job, second-son,"_ he told Alain in turian. _"Now just move forward. You can do it."_

Alain's chubby arms collapsed, and he wailed indignantly. Kauda, bringing Elissa back in from a change, handed the baby to Amara pragmatically, and came over to tickle Alain back into the giggles. Garrus liked the woman. She was good with the kids, and took a _huge_ amount of pressure off of himself and off of Lilu.

At that moment, the comm terminal chimed. A glance at the code told him who it was. "Lilu," he called into the office. "That's Allardus. I'll take it in our bedroom."

"Okay," his wife called back. "Try not to let him set the actual _air_ between the station and the base on fire with his cussing."

Garrus grinned ruefully, and strode for their room, shooing Urz off the bed as he sat down and activated the comm panel. _"Amil'amu,_" he greeted his brother-in-law. Allardus' jaw was set, and his crest ever-so-faintly blue. _"I take it the kids are home?"_

"_Yes."_ That came from between teeth. _"It would have been nice, Garrus, had I had a __little__ warning from you as to what the hell has been going on." Allardus sat back, visibly frustrated. "I understand that you like to tweak Solanna's tail every now and again, but by the spirits, I'm ten years into a twenty-year contract with her at the moment, and she's not the easiest female to live with to begin with. Why under the __stars__ didn't you talk to us about this?_

Garrus nodded. _"I understand your anger. I did not tell you, in order to protect you."_

Allardus hissed a little, then took a breath. _"Explain."_

"_The young __domina_ _has at least one bodyguard with 'chaperone' written along her spinal column. She's been sending what are likely to be unhappy reports since all of this started. __You__ and __Solanna__ both needed to be out of the loop, so that your first reactions were fresh and visible and attestable by both bodyguards. So that you appear innocent of __any_ _collusion."_

Allardus thought about that. _"You think there's going to be accusations against my sons of __collusion__?"_

"_I haven't been able to get the damned Praetorian alone to talk to her, to see if she's __testing__ Rinus to see what he's made of, or if she's set in her first assumption, which was based off protective-anger and fear."_ Garrus flicked both sets of fingers, disgustedly.

"_I can tell you what my sons are made of. High-carbon steel, all the way through."_

"_I know that, and you know that, Allardus. It remains to be seen whether the Imperator and Imperatrix will see that."_

Allardus sighed, having visibly calmed himself now. _"We've given them food and shelter. We're now in 'collusion,' no matter what."_

"_You've given them the guest-rights befitting family, not fugitives on the run. No pre-arrangement. I know the Law __very__ well, amil'amu."_

"_Everyone in your family does."_ Allardus looked off into the distance. _"What the hell else should I be prepared for, Garrus? Don't dance around with me. I need to know."_

Garrus nodded. _"For the sake of the spirits, don't tell Solanna yet. But because we shut down the __Estallus__'s comms and verbally ordered them to Tuchanka, Sur'Kesh, and then Mindoir, they missed not a few orders, most of which had to do with "Report to Palaven immediately."_

Allardus hissed again. _"So they're absent without leave?"_

"_No. The orders simply didn't get through until today." _Garrus looked up at the ceiling. _"I spent a half hour with the captain of the __Estallus__ helping him phrase his reply to the Admiralty, which was, in essence, 'Sorry, we run silent; you know this. We missed those orders. Currently debriefing crew and receiving medical attention for our injured. Is there anything we can get you while we're here?'"_

Allardus snorted. _"Not in so many words."_

"_Dressed up in proper bureaucratese. We've already received a couple of diplomatic channels requests that suggest that the Imperial household is . . . vexed. Lilu and I have made an official invitation for the Imperator and Imperatrix to come here as our guests for a visit. Officially, to see where quite a bit of money from the Council government and the Hierarchy Exchequer winds up going."_ Garrus took a deep breath. _"The ball is currently on their side of the handball court, Allardus. I expect it will take a day or so for a decision to be reached. Probably another day or so for schedules to be cleared. Then a couple of days of discussion between us and them about security arrangements on both sides."_

"_The Imperator __rarely__ leaves turian space, Garrus. The trip to Shanxi was a major departure from tradition."_

"_This Imperator is feeling a certain amount of revolutionary wind blowing, I suspect. There are rumors he even plans to make a progress from colony to colony in the next year or two. That hasn't been done in about three hundred years."_

Allardus nodded, a little grimly. _"So. . . when they get here. . . if they get here. . . they might make their judgment on the spot, rather than ordering Rinus to Palaven to stand before them."_

"_I am endeavoring to make this about two families, rather than about judgment, or the Imperator versus the Spectres. Because, in the end, that's not a fight we really want."_

Allardus sighed. _"I understand why you kept it from us now. And I'm not going to mention most of this to Solanna or the kids yet, no. No reason to let them stew in their worry when there's nothing they can do about it."_

He signed off, and Garrus looked at the screen for a long moment. This was not going to be the easiest thing in the world to pull off.

**Dara**

The first evening at Allardus' and Solanna's passed. . . uncomfortably. Dara was aware that Allardus had made a long comm call, probably to Garrus. While he was doing so, Solanna was banging around upstairs, thumping linen closet doors and bedroom doors. The two bodyguards were, of course, stationed, one at the front of the house, and one at the back by now. Dara had no _idea_ how her friend could _stand_ the constant weight of someone always being around her. While she'd always had her father or her mother around, or someone _in loco parentis_, until coming to Mindoir, she'd at least been able to seek refuge in her own room. Could go to a friend's house. Go out riding her horse alone, so long as she told her parents where she'd be going. Kasumi had allowed her a little further off that chain; permitted her to explore the area, within reason.

Rinus, fidgeting a little, had commented, "While we're waiting for Dad, we could go to the attic and dig out winter clothes, at least."

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, well, I'm going to head back to my _own_ house here, shortly. Sweetie, Kasumi or I can dig out warmer clothes for you and drop 'em by in the morning."

"Thanks, Dad," Dara told him, gratefully. "I'd come by tonight and grab it all myself, but. . . " she inclined a head toward the staircase.

"Yeah, I know. High drama." Her father stood, and the others stood with him out of courtesy, and he gave her a quick hug. "You _do_ need to visit, though. Piano gets lonely without you."

She chuckled. "Of course I will. I have to see how _spoiled_ my new brother or sister will be by his or her room, compared to what I had growing up."

Sam snorted. "Sweetie, I'm making a hell of a lot more money now than when you grew up, but you were hardly deprived." He tousled her hair as they walked toward the door.

"I know, but I apparently have to practice my 'walking to and from school in the snow, both ways uphill speeches,' don't I?" Dara grinned up at him, and then he leaned down, gave her a kiss, waved to the others, and left. She closed the door behind him, sighed, and turned back. She hadn't felt quite so alien in a _long_ time, and it was an odd feeling in the middle of her second-family's living room.

She settled back down on the couch beside Rel, and pulled out her datapad. "More reading?" he said, sounding droll. "I thought we had a day or two's liberty."

"We do," Dara told him, laughing. "This is just the stuff all the doctors on Sur'Kesh made me promise to read and respond to. Dr. Solus made a point of introducing me to all of them, so I kind of feel obligated to go through all the material. Though it might take me a while." So she started to read, and occasionally popped her head up to add something to the conversation, which was guarded at best, until Allardus came out of his study, looking bemused, concerned, and a bit less on edge. All at once.

"You said, lieutenant, that you would prefer for us to use your first name?" he said politely to Kallixta, in English.

"I would greatly prefer that, yes."

"And would you prefer English to turian? Or, in turian, how formal should I be with you?"

"_Either is fine, but I beg of you to use the familiar forms with me, as you would with anyone who wished to be your daughter."_ Dara wondered how many times in her life Kallixta had used the word _beg_. Maybe she had to use it with her parents. Dara wasn't really conversant with imperial modes of speech, after all.

Allardus nodded, eyes flicking to Reimian, who was by the front door. _"Then I will accede to your request, Kallixta. Dinner will be ready in a short while."_ He found a seat, and turned to smile at the rest of them, as if nothing at all had transpired before. _"And how is my favorite student doing?" _ he asked, looking at Dara. _"I actually found a use for your xenobiological project, you know. The work you did with the simulation models for the interactions between wolves and deer and __villi__ and __bianasae__, we've decided to scrap introducing varren as an additional predator, at least for now."_ _Bianasae_ were small, agile herbivores, the ecological equivalent of deer or primitive Terran horses.

Dara looked up, smiling. _"I'm very pleased to hear that my work was of use to you, __pada'amu__."_

"_And what are you reading at the moment?"_

"_Something about using viroids—not viruses, but viroids—as a mechanism for transferring genetic data into host cells."_ She got up and let Allardus look over her datapad, and he whistled through his teeth at the list of articles she'd wound up with on Sur'Kesh.

"_There's something here from a half a dozen fields, daughter. Xenobiology, xeno-obstetrics, genetic manipulation, cross-species mitochondrial analogue mapping—this one's about increasing immune responses in case of engineered viral attacks."_ Allardus frowned, and asked, _"And these were all people at the hospital where Dr. Mordin had his surgery?"_

"_Yes, they were all very pleasant, and very insistent that I read all of this. He'd taken such pains to introduce me before surgery, and we all wound up talking for about four hours, which is really a long time for a salarian. I've managed to read and respond to two or three of them so far, and they've __already__ sent back replies."_ Dara shrugged a little. _"I feel rather as if I've been tossed in the deep end, honestly, but if it's sink or swim, I'd rather swim."_

Allardus was frowning as he flipped through the files. _"Daughter. . . half of these people are salarian STG members."_

Dara blinked. _"Pada'amu, how can you know that?"_

"_Because I've corresponded with the xenobiologist team in this paper several times, and I needed to get them cleared for some of the information I wanted to send them, and as it happens, they already __had__ clearance." _Allardus suddenly grinned at her. _"What do you want to bet, little one, that __all__ of them are STG?"_

Dara hunched her shoulders a little, suddenly feeling acutely uncomfortable. _"Well, I suppose that's possible. They'd have wanted to take him to the best facility to get the chip removed. And he did know them all."_ She pulled up her address book and really _looked_ at the various comm codes. And sighed. . . . _"I'm. . . corresponding with people in STG,"_ she said, weakly, after a moment.

"_Like a very promising grad student._" Allardus' grin had only grown wider. _"Actually, I __do__ have list of articles you might be interested in—"_

"_Father, please. I see little enough of my wife as it __is__."_ Rel's droll comment had absolutely no force to it, and when Dara looked up, he was grinning just as widely as his father.

"_Don't lose your courage, daughter. Just keep answering the questions the same way as before. If they were responding back, they found your questions and answers of worth."_ Allardus gave her a pat on the shoulder, and Dara found her way back to the couch and sat down, head spinning a little.

She looked at Rel and muttered, feeling an idiot, _"I really didn't look at the comm codes. They just transmitted their electronic files right to my omnitool, and every time I sent a message, I just filled in the name field."_

Rel wrapped an arm around her and leaned down to touch his forehead to hers. _"Sweetness, while your modesty is sweet and everything, you're going to have to realize, sooner or later, that you're being watched by people on base at least as much as I am."_

"_Well, I know what I keep seeing in the damned—"_ she bit her tongue and adjusted her phrasing, _"doors and windows scenarios shows one thing, but it's a little hard to believe when the doors and windows aren't actually __there__."_ She shrugged. _"I'm not naturally brilliant, like Dr. Solus. Everything I do is just hard work."_

Kallixta shook her head. _"Isn't it somewhat futile to compare yourself to a salarian, Dara?"_

Dara grinned back at her. _"Not if I want to meet his standards."_

**Kallixta**

Conversation flowed much better over dinner. Allardus took pains to include all of them in discussions, and more or less ordered her two bodyguards to sit down at the table and eat with the family. Only one of them obliged—Pallum Madenius. _"If it makes you feel better, sir,"_ the Praetorian said. Reimian had sighed and gone out to patrol around the grounds around the house for a while. _"She's very conscientious," _Kallixta commented, shifting her shoulders a bit. _"She's been my guardian since I was younger than any of your children are now, Allardus. I apologize for her. . . zeal. Of course your house, and this base, are safe."_

"_This house wasn't all that safe two years ago,"_ Allardus said, grimly. _"So I do not take offense to her caution."_

Kallixta blinked. She had some inkling of an attack or two upon the base, from hints that Dara had dropped during training, but hadn't heard the details. _"What happened, if I might ask?"_

"_I was at work the day of the AEC attack. Solanna usually works from home, sending in her design work to XeroCorp back on Palaven, so she was here, along with all of the kids, when the AEC came to the door, threw an azure dust grenade in here, and kidnapped every damned person in the house—Garrus and Shepard's kids, Dara, Eli, and my entire family."_ Allardus's hands clenched on his silverware for a moment, his eyes dark and distant. _"I wasn't even here to fight."_

"_I __was__ here, and __couldn't__ fight, Father,"_ Rel supplied, sounding grim. _"You'd have been in the same situation. Azure dust __really__ messes with the turian mind."_ He reached over and stroked Dara's hair back from her face. Kallixta had noticed that he seemed to like doing that, and wondered if Dara's hair had the same texture as the mastiff's fur. _"That was the night Dara was first __really__ blooded,"_ he told Kallixta, looking rueful.

"_I've said it before, Eli and I more or less lucked into that vorcha. As far as I'm concerned, I was blooded with you, on the batarians, the day Kella died."_ Dara's tone was firm. She changed the subject now, back to the topic of the bodyguards, glancing at Pallum as she did so. "_I thought people in Reimian's job were supposed to fade into the background,"_ she commented, dryly, take a bite of something exotic that Solanna had heated up for her alien daughter-in-law. _Turkey_, Dara had called it. Whatever _that_ was.

Pallum glanced over at Dara. _"Reimian's job has always been to be the visible face of the protection detail. The one whom everyone has to cross if they want to get near, ah, Kallixta."_ He glanced at the younger children as he spoke. _"My job, and some of the others in the detail, has always been to be more or less invisible, yes. If someone sees me, it's because they've breached the allowable perimeter of space, and are constituting a threat."_ His voice was very dry. _"Kallixta, you remember the Ferrian incident, do you not?"_

She winced. _"All too well."_

Pallam looked around. _"There are those who watch Kallixta's family with. . . intense interest. Some of them are mildly to moderately obsessed. One of these obsessives started sending her letters two years ago, based on nothing more than having seen her on the extranet. He was convinced, in spite of all rational evidence that indicated that she had no idea that he even existed, that she must and did love him, and that she would elope with him. In spite of her, ah, father's position."_ Pallum glanced over at Rinus. _"We of the Guard kept tabs on him. One day, he slipped his surveillance, and managed to get onto the, ah, grounds of the house. That's when having the ring of visible guards, versus the ring of __invisible_ _guards came in handy._"

Rinus' voice was tight, but cold. _"I trust he's no longer a problem?"_

"_He's not anyone's problem anymore."_ Pallum's voice was empty. Kallixta had awakened to a crash in the hall outside her room, and had gone, alarmed, to her door, only to find it locked from the outside. The Praetorians outside had told her not to be alarmed, but that there'd been a security breach, her area of the palace was on lockdown, and that everything was going to be fine. She hadn't been allowed out again until all the blood had been cleaned up, and the rug and wall-hangings had been replaced. Looking her guard directly in the eye, she very deliberately placed her hand atop Rinus' on the table.

Pallum looked back at her, a flash of humor in his eyes. _"No need to protect your male from me. __I__ can distinguish between an obsessive stalker and an honorable suitor."_ He actually winked. _"Reimian just takes the chaperone thing a little seriously."_ He glanced back at Allardus now. _"Technically, I shouldn't be eating with you, no. Then again, with only two of us now, only one of us should be on duty at a time. And the past week or two, all of that went to hell anyway, with all the recent combat missions and the recovery effort for the __Kharkov_ _and all that."_ He shrugged. _"As far as I'm concerned, I'm as off-duty as I get, which. . . isn't that much different from being __on__-duty, I'll admit."_

Rinus looked at her guard, measuringly now. _"Were you one of the guards who was with Kallixta when the Collectors came to Palaven?"_

Dara glanced up, clearly interested. Pallum nodded. _"Yes, Reimian, two others, and I, all escorted the—Kallixta, that is, to the bunker, along with her brothers and sisters."_

Serana was sitting up, very interested now, and spoke for the first time, hesitantly, _"If I may. . . that means that you were living on Palaven at the time?"_ she asked Kallixta.

Kallixta smiled. _"Yes, little one. I've lived there all my life."_

"_So you've never been to the Terminus Systems?"_

_Interesting question. She can't identify the accent. She's lived off Palaven so long, and among so many aliens, she's more or less a colonial, I suppose. _A hint of laughter rippled through Kallixta's voice now. _"Well, we had a couple of recent firefights out in that region on the __Estallus__, but that was the first time I've been there, yes."_

"_Huh."_ Kallixta wondered what was going on behind Serana's huge, expressive eyes. they tracked back and forth as if she were reading something in her head, or doing complex equations. _"Where on Palaven did you live?"_ Serana asked next.

"_Complovium."_

Serana made a face. _"Ew. I've only seen pictures of there."_ Hastily glancing at Rinus, as if in expectation of a reprimand, she added, hastily, _"I'm sure it must be nicer than it looked. The pictures made it look very cold. Like snow. All that white marble."_

"_Actually, it gets just as warm there as the rest of the planet, I'm afraid. The marble makes the heat bearable in summer, at least. But the buildings are all a little hollow and echoing, except when they have wood paneling."_

"_Do you have a lot of brothers and sisters?"_

_This is starting to feel like an inquisition. But. . . she's a bold one. Look at her, glancing at Rinus. Is she. . . protective of her first-brother, in spite of the age difference?_ Kallixta couldn't _imagine_ being protective of her own first-brother. _"There are eleven of us, in total. I'm fifth-daughter, eighth overall. My sixth-brother is youngest, and is five, His name is Severus."_ Pushing it, a little, she added, _"My first-brother is thirty-five. His name is Perinus." _And that, of course, was _why_ Kallixta couldn't imagine feeling much of anything towards her first brother. He was nineteen years her elder. A full generation apart. . . and even more distance between him and little Severus. Her brother had a _fifteen-year-old son_ of his own who would be attending boot camp next year, in fact.

Serana's eyes widened. _"So many? What are all their names?"_

Indulgently, Kallixta smiled and rattled off, _"Perinus, Felinus, Khryseia, Varinia, Celixia, Marinus, Bellatrix, then there's me, then Aemillus, Vibius, and Severus."_ For anyone who remotely watched the Imperial Court, it would be more or less DNA evidence to give all the names. Serana didn't even _blink._ _A pity Reimian isn't in here to see how completely apolitical the entire family is. Ah, well. Pallum's here. He can add it to his report._ Kallixta looked at Serana now, grinning. _"Do you wish to be a reporter when you grow up, little one, that you ask so many questions?"_

"_Oh, no. Definitely not."_ Serana's tone held distaste.

"_Last I heard, it was the Law," _Dara offered, chuckling.

"_That, too."_ Serana said, with a toss of her head. _"Police work first, though. Investigating people. Finding out who they __really__ are."_ Her tone had just a faint challenge to it.

Kallixta clearly couldn't help the laughter now. _"And who do you think I really am?"_ she asked, baiting Serana. _"Other than the pilot of the __Estallus__, that is?"_

The younger girl sat back, and gave the barefaced female a long and measuring look. _"Your father's probably a pirate in the Terminus Systems,"_ she said, after a moment, and Dara dropped her fork. Kallixta's jaw dropped open, and she could hear Rinus groan a little beside her, starting to shift his weight. _"That's probably why my parents are so mad at you, and why they think Rinus is in so much trouble. A good pirate could afford to keep his family in a good house, even in Complovium," _she added, a little uncertainly as Dara couldn't help it anymore and turned away, putting her face down in her hands to laugh and laugh. Rel, beside her, had choked on his _apha_. Rinus had just _stared_ at his sister for a moment and put one hand over his eyes. _"And he'd need you to have guards, right? To make sure that other smugglers and pirates didn't get you."_

Kallixta's shoulders were shaking, and she got up, walked around the table past Allardus, who was giving his first-daughter a _very_ level stare, and Solanna, who was tapping her thumb against her plate in vexation. Kallixta knelt down and gave Serana a hug. _"It's s very good guess, little one,"_ she told Serana fondly. _"I hope you won't be __too__ disappointed if your investigations turn up other evidence, though." She's created an entire narrative,_ Kallixta thought. _So much imagination. So much __life__ in her. And how __unlike__ my siblings. Not hemmed in and constrained. Spirits, I'm already coming to love Rinus' __family__. _

Serana sighed. _"And here I thought if I jumped that one on you, you'd look surprised and confess, like in all the vids." _She turned and looked at Dara, clearly hurt. _"What's so funny?_"

Dara was laughing so hard by now that water was streaming from her eyes, strange and alien. Kallixta stared at it for a moment, completely alarmed. _That can't possibly be good. She wept like that when her wrist was torn apart—at least, once the adrenaline died down. . . _. "I'm sorry. . . Serana. . .oh, hell, I can't _stop_ . . . ." Dara gasped, between whoops of laughter.

Rel handed her a napkin, saying, _"Great spirits, happiness, sadness, __and__ mirth? What __else__ do humans weep for?"_

"_Pain,"_ Dara managed, between gasps. _"_Admittedly. . . at the moment. . . my stomach _hurts_. . ." She looked over at Serana, and said, trying to calm herself down, "So, you think Kallixta's father is a pirate king?"

"Well, I don't know about a _king_," Serana said, ingenuously. "A pirate or a smuggler is basically just a thug. Someone outside the law." She sighed. "But I guess from the way you're all reacting that it wasn't right." She shrugged. "I'll figure it out eventually."

"I was asking because I can play a song for you about pirate kings for you later. From an old operetta called the _Pirates of Penzance._ You'll probably enjoy it," Dara told her, seeming to regain her breath.

Rinus still had his eyes covered by one hand, and seemed to be muttering under his breath. Kallixta came back around the table and sat down beside him, taking his free hand in hers, murmuring into his ear, _"Do you have any idea how lucky you are to have a sister who has a mind, and isn't __afraid__ of every word she speaks?"_ she whispered to him. _"Who has that much __life__ in her?"_

Rinus leaned down, muttering, _"I'm sure my father's close to putting her over his knee, almost-grown or __not__. She needs to learn to keep __some__ of her wilder ideas behind her teeth."_

"_I enjoy her wilder ideas as much as I enjoy the rest of your family, beloved. You're all wonderful."_ She wasn't even sure how to _tell_ him how striking they were. How much love she could see in all of them, the intelligence, the humor, the openness. She was long since aware of the fact that Dara generally kept one foot hooked behind Rel's ankle at any given meal—steady reassurance with touch. She could see why—the younger brother was a _hunter_. Constantly watching, ready to move. And when Dara was in physical contact with him, he calmed a bit. Lost a little of that restless energy. She'd seen all three of them in combat now, too, as they'd moved up into the bowels of the Lystheni satellite. Rellus, still very much the hunter, the alpha, calling the shots, moving ahead of the rest, intense, alert. Rinus, unshakable, solid, a wall of discipline and resolve, following in Rellus' wake. Dara, small and quiet and fierce, filling in the gaps wherever needed, ready to cover them or step up herself. _Their binding spirits, those tied to the elements, are very clear,_ she thought, amused. _ Rellus is fire, Rinus is earth. Dara is water, gentle and supportive and life-giving at times, and a certain, cold death at others. What does that make me, I wonder? Air?_ She grinned to herself merrily. _Well. . . I do like to fly._

That night, however, the two young couples went upstairs together, Rinus and Kallixta heading for the guest room, and Rel and Dara heading for what had always been his room, before. Inside the guest room, Kallixta leaned up and bit Rinus' throat lightly. _"I think the captain is still not permitting personal messages to be downloaded to the entire crew,"_ she said, quietly.

"_I noticed that,"_ he replied, tightly. _"Ignorance is going to be a very flimsy excuse."_ He stroked her arms now, and glanced at the door. _"Pallum is on duty tonight?"_

"_Yes."_ She reached up and stroked along his fringe lightly, lovingly. _"You were disturbed by the idea of the stalkers?"_

"_There've been many?"_

"_A few. They don't tell me about all of them, I'm sure. Just the ones I __need__ to be aware of. Most of them never get through the security nets."_ Kallixta leaned into Rinus, feeling his strength and his warmth. _"Some of them will probably quite hate you, beloved. Pallum was telling me that if everything. . . .goes well. . . they'll probably need to set up a certain amount of security for you, too."_

"_Not if we never go back to Palaven."_ His tone was grim.

She sighed. _"Much as I __love__ the idea. . . that's not going to happen, and you know it."_ She tentatively let her hands stroke down his chest to his waist. Watching his expression, she let her hands drop lower. Rinus' head dropped back, and he exhaled.

"_If you keep that up, we're going to wind up having to be __very__ quiet, sweetness,"_ he rasped, after a moment, his eyes already going dark. _"Bodyguard in the hall. Second-brother and his mate next door. No pressure hatches."_

"_I think your brother and my friend will shortly be much occupied, themselves."_ Kallixta looked up at Rinus, expression a little worried. _"I want as much of you as I can have, as often as I can have you. Just in case. . . . "_ She didn't want to say it. The simulations had shown as many good outcomes as bad ones.

His hands closed on her shoulders and he leaned down to bite her, urgently, gently pressing her in the direction of their nest.

**Rellus**

Rel turned on the light and closed the door behind them, and Dara blinked. "Your mom definitely redecorated in here."

"Not a surprise," Rel told her lightly, and, grinning, pushed her up against the door, looking down at her. "It's been over a year." He started to nip lightly at her neck. "_Amatra. . . _all the times I had you in here, the door closed, and someone out there holding a damned sandclock. . . " he heard her breath catch as he bit and held just under her ear, and then pulled back again, to rasp, quietly, "and now I _finally_ have you all to myself here."

"Full circle, huh?" she whispered back, grinning.

"Full circle would mean going up to our meadow. Spirits, how I wish we could." He nipped again, hands sliding up under her shirt, along the skin of her back. "We _would_ come back in the dead of winter."

"Someday, we'll live here again," she told him, stroking the side of his face. "Someday, it'll be home base again, not just a place to visit."

Rel picked her up, smiling up at her, and took her back to what had been his nest, and laid her down there. "For now," he said, running his fingers through her hair, "I think I'd like to exorcise a few frustration spirits from this room. If you're amenable, that is." He let his fingers course down her face to her neck, her shoulder, her arm, and then lifted her hand to his mouth to nibble on her fingertips.

"I think I could be _persuaded_," she replied, lying back. "We're going to have to be _quiet_, though." She glanced at the door, and made a face. "Ears _everywhere._"

"_Little prey-noises __are__ quiet."_ He shifted to turian, and bit her throat now, then shifted to her shoulders. "_It's when you shift up into the __predator__ sounds that it gets noisy."_ Rel loved _all _her sounds, though, and he grinned as she smacked his shoulder with absolutely no force.

While they still needed to check the duty roster each day, their duties at the moment were largely minimal. Watching-standing, for the most part. Dara needed to go to the med clinic every morning, for instance, but her afternoons were free. Kallixta needed to be aboard in case of an urgent need to take off. Rinus needed to relieve his crew every so often at the cannon watch. And Rel wound up doing a fair bit of treadmill running and some refresher training with Sam while the others were on various watches throughout the next week.

Rinus spent one entire day taking his exams for his advancement to _optio_ rank. Rel didn't envy his brother one damned bit. He'd taken a look at some of the practice questions the night before, and had found the diagrams and schematics a bewildering array of wires and amperage notations that made absolutely no sense to him, but made complete sense to Rinus. _Just another reason to respect him. It's probably not wise to ever admit to him that he got more of Dad's brains than I did, though. Or maybe they're just differently applied._

Kallixta had politely requested that she and Rinus be allowed to accompany them to Sam and Kasumi's their second night on Mindoir, and that was just _fun_ to watch. She'd very obviously never been in a human space before, and while Rel was so used to the different design of chairs and sofas and other furniture, that he automatically sat down in them comfortably, kicking his legs out so that his spurs wouldn't catch the face of a recliner, for instance, Kallixta sat down gingerly, obviously trying to figure out how everything worked. "Why is there a lever on the side of the chair?" she asked, after a moment.

"Pull on it," Dara invited, and chuckled when the footrest came up and Kallixta shifted rapidly, trying not to catch her own, much smaller spurs on the furniture.

The snow was too deep to take horses out, but a large enclosed, heated riding ring had been built near the stables, to allow the horses and _rlatae_ to get exercise in winter. Rel had suggested going there as an afternoon activity, and found Amara and Kaius already there, taking their lessons. The stablemaster grinned and waved as they came in. "Long time, no see," he said, cheerfully, and set them up with mounts. Rel again simply grinned at Kallixta's awed expression when she saw horses for the first time, and could see an expression of amused affection on his brother's face, too. "May I touch one?" Kallixta asked, and Dara laughed. "You're about as bad as Eli was. Then again, I was pretty scared to touch a _rlata_, myself. Here. Hand out, palm flat. There you go."

"Much coarser than I would have thought," Kallixta said, after a moment of patting the beast.

Dara sighed, grabbed Kallixta's hand, and stuck it atop her own head. "There. For comparison's sake." Then she grinned and pulled herself up on the chestnut mare, clicked her teeth, and set the beast off at a trot.

"They're slow, aren't they?" Kallixta said, after watching for a moment.

Rel nodded. "Compared to a _rlata?_ Yeah. But a _rlata_ can't do what she'll be doing with that horse once she gets a feel for riding again." He shook his head. "I never can quite get over it, myself."

"What's that?" Kallixta asked, and then she _stared_ as Dara set the horse at the first of the jumps in the ring and cleared it, sailing over neatly, bending deeper into the horse's neck now as she approached the second. The female blinked. "No. . . a _rlata_ can't do that. Little hops, certainly, but not vertical and horizontal at the same time like that."

After a moment, Dara circled the horse back around, and grinned down at them all. "I taught Rel to ride a horse when he was teaching me how to ride _rlatae_, but I think this li'l mare would about _cry_ if you tried now. We'll have to ask if we can import Frisian horses for turians. They're descended from the horses medieval knights used while riding in full armor. They _should_ be able to handle a full-grown turian male." She stuck her tongue out at Rel, who just laughed at her and held out his hands for her to dismount more easily. "Want to learn, Kallixta? Bessie here's as gentle as a kitten."

Kallixta looked at the horse in some trepidation. "How gentle _is_ a kitten?"

"Very gentle, unless you dangle a string in its face," Dara assured her, tongue-in-cheek. "Then, they can get a little crazy. C'mon, you fly ships in _combat_, and apparently like a lunatic. How can a li'l ol' horse be scary?" Rel had never actually heard his wife play up her accent before, and he started to laugh, which got him a push-off finger flick behind Kallixta's back.

"All right," Kallixta surrendered. "I'm unlikely to have many other chances."

The two brothers chuckled as Dara led the horse off, Kallixta perched uncertainly on top, laughing at the horse's odd gait. "You heard anything yet?" Rel asked Rinus, when the two females were out of earshot.

"No. That's what's scaring the _s'kak_ out of both of us," Rinus muttered darkly, eyes on Kallixta's back. "Not so much as a note of disapproval to either of us, or an indication that she should come home _now_, no reprimand for me. _Something_ should have shaken loose by now, and it's. . . .odd."

That was Friday night. After dinner, Rel walked around a corner in his parents' house, and damned near ran into the bodyguards, who were in the middle of a somewhat heated, if quiet discussion. _"Reimian, I guess I'm just not seeing your problem,"_ Pallam was saying, in what looked like annoyance. _"The estrus couldn't have been helped. What the hell's the __issue__?"_

"_It's the fact that it's still going on!"_ she snapped, clearly frustrated, turning a glare on Rel, too, now. _"Fine, take your brother my words, lieutenant, if hear them, you must. I took his measure early. Stubborn. Honorable, after a fashion. Certainly, it pleases me that the __domina__ has at least a __measure__ of her proper pride, her proper station, in that she's given orders to me with __some__ strength in them. Some teeth. It bodes well for her ability to stand up to her father and the inevitable repercussions."_ Strong protective instincts, Rel realized—not out of place for a bodyguard, of course. But oddly misplaced, in a way. "_But __all__ contact between them should have been severed. Oh, certainly, the whole plighting thing as a sop to honor. That's all well and good. But the continued contact? Estrus is one thing, continuing it into an affair? That's something else entirely. And is unpardonable, on both their parts."_

Rel was more than a little tired of the female's dark expressions and coldness, and was about to say so, but Pallum was already shaking his head. _"You're a stickler, Reimian,"_ he said, dryly.

"_I have to be. I know what the Imperatrix will say. The __domina__ might be acting like a willful child, but I don't want to see her punished."_

Rel sighed. _"So, the fact that __my parents__ are allowing them the privileges of any plighted couple under __their__ roof means nothing?"_

"_It means that your parents are fools,"_ Reimian replied, tightly.

"_That you say so under their roof is an abrogation of guest-rights,"_ Rel told her, affably, but his grin felt tight. _"You should either apologize, or leave."_

She snarled in frustration and walked away.

Rel looked at Pallum now. _"It's __that__ bad?"_

Pallum shrugged. _"One of the great delights in being a Praetorian is that you actually __know__ all the things that have gone on in the Palace that have had to have been hushed up in the past ten to twenty years. I'm a little older than Reimian. I was on __Domina__ Khryseia's protective detail before being transferred to __Domina__ Kallixta's. Reimian's only ever watched over our current protectee. I have. . . seen worse."_ Pallum looked up at the ceiling for a moment. _"And when I say that, I mean that I didn't see anything at all, of course."_

Rel snorted. _"Is there anything my family or I could be doing to make things less bad?"_

Pallum shook his head. _"Reimian would have it, I think, that they would be plighted, but in separate rooms, and not so much as a touch of the hand between them until we hear from the __domina's__ parents." _He shrugged. _"She would, I think, prefer that they not even stay under the same roof."_

"_And the guest-right of my parents, to meet their new daughter?"_

"_As I said, she's a stickler for the oldest proprieties. Then again, she answers to the Imperatrix. I answer to the Imperator. There is a slight distinction."_ Pallum's smile had a conciliatory tinge to it.

Rel sighed. All the nuances made his damned head hurt. Archaic issues, antiquated issues that meant _nothing_ to most turians alive today. Patterns of behavior largely left unchanged for centuries. He was _really_ starting to worry about what the outcome of all this nonsense would be for Rinus.

**Sam**

"Extra security precautions?" Sam said skeptically, regarding his wife, Shepard, and Garrus raised eyebrows. "For a barbecue."

Kasumi's grin lit her face. "Yes."

Sam folded his arms across his chest. "Kasumi-chan? Is this going to be _another_ conversation about keeping secrets?"

Shepard started to chuckle. "In the interests of reducing marital strife among my staff. . . Kasumi, let him off the hook about his guest list."

Sam waggled a finger. "We already have additions to the usual list. Ylara's, what, sixteen months pregnant, but she and Tulluust both wanted to come."

"She's been stuck behind a desk for sixteen months while the rest of us have been out in the field," Garrus commented, dryly. "I think she's _really_ ready to come back to work, but still has a ways to go."

Kasumi laughed. "And here I am, barely three months along. I can't even _imagine_ dealing with an eighteen-month pregnancy." She tipped her head to the side, resting her fingertips on Sam's arm. "And of course, Blasto will be there, too." Her tone was affectionate.

"You _really_ know his soul-name now?" Shepard asked, curiously.

"Yep. Not telling, either." Kasumi grinned wickedly.

Lilu sighed. "I'll have to continue to writhe in quiet curiosity. At least tell me if it's better than Blasto."

Kasumi nodded vigorously. "It fits him perfectly." She paused. "Mordin even promised to be there, too. Gris and Azala will be back from Tuchanka. And of course, Livanus and his wife will be there for a change, too. And the whole of the Velnaran family. And all the Vakarians, down to the smallest ones." She grinned at Lilu, who nodded, smiling.

Sam shook his head. "Darlin'. . . I think we're going to have the base fire marshall dropping by to tell us that we've exceeded the occupancy limit on a single-family dwelling. Who _else_ are we packing in there?"

Garrus cleared his throat. "Ah. . . well. There will be two perimeters set up around your house, with a checkpoint set up by Spectre security teams at the second one. There will be a few people positioned on your roof, so I hope you've cleaned out your gutters recently."

Sam just looked at Garrus, amusement rapidly fading as the turian male went on. "Inside your house, you can expect six bodyguards, but we'll be keeping them mostly out of sight. Probably on your back porch, watching you cook. There'll be some inspections of all the foodstuffs brought—especially since this is largely potluck, right?"

Sam sighed. "Okay, drop the bomb already. Who the _hell_ am I having over to dinner? The President of the Alliance?"

Garrus coughed. "Not . . . quite."

Shepard grinned. "Good guess, though."

Sam stared at them. "Aw, _hell_ no," he told them, everything clicking into place at once. "Why not at _your_ house?"

"You throw better parties than we do," Shepard told him with aplomb. "Think of it as part of your job as one of our PR people?"

Sam glared at her.

Garrus offered, reasonably, "We want the Imperator and Imperatrix to see our people—and the kids—in as close to a natural state as possible. That means as few changes to the routine as possible. We figured we'd set them up in your library—since few people circulate through there anyway—throw up some screens or something in the way, so people can't see in. You can say that you're doing some repair work in there to the floor and that you don't want folks trampling through. That way, they can be comfortable and observe for as long as they like before coming in."

Sam took a couple of deep breaths. "Allardus know about this, this time?"

Garrus nodded. "Solanna's being kept out of the loop. She'd tense up, start pinging all over the place, and the kids would pick up on it." He snorted. "I've _really_ got to stop calling them kids."

"Tell me about it," Sam said, with feeling. "I'm _fairly_ sure Dara should still be wearing pig-tails, but I've watched her kill, seen her bully krogan, and dig bullets out of people. She's definitely not a kid anymore." He looked at them all soberly. "Young Rinus is _not_ going to take being surprised like this well."

"He'll get over it, especially once he realizes it was the only way they'd see who he _really_ is, instead of what his record says or what the bodyguards say or what his face says when he's standing at attention and looking anywhere but at Kallixta."

Sam sighed, and then he and Kasumi went home and started getting the house ready. That had been Thursday. The various Imperial bodyguards had started arriving Friday, during the day, inspecting his house and commenting on the total lack of video surveillance in it a little disapprovingly. "I don't generally keep watch on _myself_," he told them sardonically, watching from the kitchen as they inspected every inch of his home.

Saturday morning, Dara came over first. "Dad, did you know there's actually _roadwork_ going on out there?" she asked, coming in, carrying bags from the commissary over her wrists. "I know, the roads are paved and all, so I shouldn't be surprised, but in the middle of winter? That's got to suck."

"Yeah," he said neutrally, helping her with the bags. "Probably some pipes burst or something. Sucks to be the crew stuck out there in the cold, though."

"Yeah," she replied, with feeling. "I got a _bunch_ of different stuff for the mixed-eaters. What all are you making, so I can kind of fit in?"

Kasumi bustled in, carrying several vases filled with fresh flowers from the xenobiological greenhouses. "I'm doing _alai_ sashimi, Dara, dotted with its own roe, for the turians. And a couple of native Mindoir species, like rainbow grouper and blackspine urchin, for Blasto and Mordin and Narayana, and, well, _me_."

Dara squinted at her. "You're pregnant, Kasumi."

Kasumi made a rude noise. "And none of these fish have mercury levels in them, like Terran fish run the risk of having."

"I was thinking more the _bacteria_ issues—"

"I _know_ how to make sashimi, Dara. Don't fuss at me." Kasumi flapped her hands at Dara, who held her own up in surrender.

"Sorry, Kasumi. It wasn't that long ago that _you_ rushed _me_ to the hospital for something _I_'_d_ eaten, that's all." Dara looked at her dad. "And you're making?"

"Bison londonbroil in a soy, honey, and rosemary marinade for the levo folks, and I've had half an _oolorae_ carcass out in the smoker since late last night."

Dara's eyebrows went up. She couldn't know that the pterandon-like bird's dressed carcass had been brought from Palaven for the event Thursday night. "You're putting on the Ritz, Dad."

_You have no idea, sweetie_, he thought, and just grinned. "And how often _do_ I get to see my girl and all the rest of you anymore, anyway?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Okay, fair enough. Sounds like Tex-Mex isn't an option tonight, since you're being all _fancy_."

"You cook whatever you feel like, sweetheart. _Someone_ will eat it."

She thought about it. "Hmm. Well, I know Rel hasn't had any bad reactions to _mole_ sauce, so. . . let me get started braising the chicken and the _talashae_ meat so I can shred it for _mole_ enchiladas."

Sam turned and looked at Kasumi over the top of his daughter's head, and lightly inclined his head toward the library. _They okay?_ he mouthed.

Kasumi nodded, eyes merry. His imperial guests had arrived five minutes before Dara had, and had settled into the library with its jury-rigged aerogel surveillance screens, and then the bodyguards had moved the various bookshelves and whatnot into place, barring the usually wide-open entryway of the room from view. Sam's wrist had been clasped genially by the Imperator—_does the guy actually __have__ a first name?_ Sam had wondered, in some amusement—and an imperial protocol officer had hissed a couple of directions at him for greeting the Imperatrix properly. Apparently, that consisted of taking her hand, if offered, and bowing over it. Sam had settled for _nodding_ over the offered hand, before saying, "Y'all let me know what I can do to make you more comfortable back there. There's punch and juice and _apha_, of course." He'd heard his own accent thicken, but then again, he _was_ feeling a mite ornery at the moment.

Dara had assembled the mixed folks' food and wandered out of the kitchen. After a moment, she called back, "Dad? The library's all blocked off."

_This is one of the parts I was dreading. I've made a point of not lying to her. _"Yeah, sweetie. Kasumi and I decided to tear up the wood floor and put cork down, instead. Make it a li'l softer for when the young'un comes along."

Dara popped her head around the corner and into the kitchen. "And you decided to do that what, last night? You're nuts, Dad."

_Hell, she even bought it. Then again, her mom had me do some crazy-ass shit to the old ranch house, so I guess nothing surprises her in terms of renovation projects._ "Eh, haven't worked much with my hands in the last year or two. Once I decided on it, I figured I may as well _start."_ Sam picked up a basin of marinade and meat slabs, and nodded at the back door. "Could you get that for me, sweetie?"

Outside, Sam glanced up and around. The Praetorians knew their damned jobs, he had to give them credit. He didn't see hide nor scale of any of them, but he knew they were there. He even gave the roofline a quick scan. _Impressive._

Soon enough, his _other_ guests started filtering in, and the house began to become its usual happy self. Sky scuttled in, happy blues and greens lighting up everyone's minds. _This is as it should be,_ the rachni declared, and Sam couldn't agree more. "Sweetie," he called. "Your mom's piano is damned lonely without you. Get playing something!"

He heard Dara's laugh, and then the first ripples of music. Sam popped his head into the living room. Shepard and Garrus had taken the couch, Elissa in Garrus' lap, and Alain in Shepard's. Amara and Kaius were squealing _"Sky!"_ and racing right for the brood-warrior, who picked them up in his main handling appendages.

Blasto hovered in, and Sky sang, respectfully, _Sings-Peace. An honor to match harmonies with you once more._

"This one greets the respected rachni Spectre," Blasto replied, sounding somehow amused, as Sky settled the children back on the floor. Amara scuttled under Sky's body, peeking out at Blasto, but Kaius stepped forward inquisitively, offering his hand, which Blasto quickly looped a tentacle around—several times, actually—for a handshake/wrist-clasp. "This one also greets you, young one. Are you not known as Kaius?"

"I am," Kaius said, eyes wide. "And this is my sister, Amara." He looked back and Amara stepped out from Sky's shelter after a moment, offering her hand now as well—which was engulfed by a _different_ tentacle, which made her squeal with sudden laughter. She shyly started asking Blasto questions—what was it _like_ to swim through the air all the time, anyway—and Kaius abandoned that venture to hop up at the piano next to Dara to ask, "Can I show you my scales? I mean, not like skin-scales. I mean, I've been learning to play piano, a little. Can I show you?"

Dara broke off playing whatever she was tinkling out, and pulled Kaius into her lap. "Go ahead," she said. "I'm sure Sky won't mind hearing practice songs, right?"

_Practice-songs of young are welcome. Make for greater harmonies in the future._

_Get a load of this, your majesties_, Sam thought in amusement, cracking open a bottle of beer as the front bell rang again. Kasumi answered it, and it was the rest of the Velnarans. Polina and Quintus tore into the house ahead of everyone else; Vindexus barked a couple of times before meandering in with the rest of the family. Urz, whom the Vakarians had brought with them, stood, stretched, and wandered over to stand, face-to-face with the mastiff for a moment. Fangs, meet drool. Drool, meet fangs. They sniffed each other, recognized one another, and then each found a different corner to lie down in and observe the proceedings calmly.

Rinus had taken a seat on the floor in front of the couch, between his aunt and uncle, knees bent off the floor, and Kallixta sat down in front of him, leaning back into his chest happily. Sam snorted. _Bet her parents __love__ that picture,_ he thought. _But hell, if Garrus wanted them to see what __normal__ looks like when there's no one around to meddle, so much the better._ Her bodyguards were probably aware of what was going on—Reimian stood near the front door, expressionless. Pallum had vanished off towards the back of the house, and Sam wasn't inclined to try to track the male.

Rel settled down on the bench next to Dara, facing the rest of the room, as usual, and leaned in to give Dara a quick, affectionate nibble on the neck. Sam figured he'd _never_ quite get used to seeing that, but it was a little less odd now than it had been two years before. Serana, in that awkward age, not quite an adult, not quite a child, had charge of the younger children, and was trying to get her two siblings to fall in line, while Solanna took a bowl of sweet marrow cakes into the dining room to add to the potluck that everyone else was bringing.

Then Lantar and Ellie showed up, Caelia in tow, and Caelia ran right for Kaius to give him a hug. "Chase me!" she implored, tugging at the older boy's arm. "Chase me!"

"Outside, if you're gonna run around," Sam told her, firmly. "No chasing or hunting in the house."

Lantar looked up, grinning. "You're learning fast, Sam."

"I had her _and_ Estevan in the house for the three weeks you two were on your honeymoon. I don't forget stuff like _that_," Sam said. "I think I've got _festuca_ beer in the cryo-unit. Want one?"

"Sure," Lantar said, heading into the kitchen behind Sam. Inside, out of earshot, he muttered, "And the other guests?"

"In the library, getting a hell of a show, I guess." Sam handed Lantar a cold bottle and watching as the big male cracked it open, barehanded.

"Hope Garrus and Shepard know what they're doing." Lantar shook his head.

"Me too. I _like_ young Rinus."

More guests arrived. Mordin and Narayana—Narayana, who immediately ran to Ellie for a hug, and sat down to read a book with Amara, the two girls sounding out words together. Gris arrived next, Azala at his side. Azala had brought an asari version of shrimp salad, and Gris had brought varren kebobs. "Don't tell the kids what those are," Sam warned. "They'll take one look at Urz and start crying."

Gris guffawed, and rumbled back, "They'll be in for a damn shock when you tell them what _lamb_ is, then."

"Lambs ain't pets. Urz is." Sam gave Azala a quick hug as Kasumi wafted the bowl out of the asari's hands, and Sam accepted the platter of kebabs and they both moved toward the dining room. "There's ryncol somewhere in the liquor cabinet, Gris. You know where it is."

"Mostly 'cause I'm the only one who drinks it." Gris started to move into the house.

Kasumi cleared her throat. "Boots _off_, Gris," she said, firmly.

Gris turned and looked at Sam. Sam chuckled. "She's a stickler for that one," he told the krogan.

"No one's going to thank you for the introduction to bare krogan feet," Gris told her, but took his boots off and left them at the door.

Sam held a straight face until Gris passed through into the kitchen, before chortling and telling Kasumi, "You're so _strict._ I like it."

Azala had moved into the living room, attracted by the sound of voices and music, and was receiving greetings from everyone there. The room was getting overcrowded, and people were starting to circulate, naturally, from there to the dining room, where the food was, around into the kitchen, to chat with the busy hosts as they prepped food and distributed drinks, and so on. Sam popped his head back in the living room in time to see Kallixta take a picture from an end-table. "Is this your mother, then, Dara?"

Sam's heart seized a little. He'd finally put _one_ picture out of the family, when Dara had been three. His mom had taken the picture, as best he recalled. He and Sarrie had been sitting on the rail fence, feet hooked on the lower railing to keep their balance, watching and waving as Dara rode by. All of them dressed in jeans and workshirts. Sarrie's hat had tumbled back from her head as she'd raised her hand to smile and wave.

It was a damned good picture. It still hurt to look at, but a little less, every day. Some days, he didn't even remember it was there.

Dara broke off from playing, and took it into her hands. "Yeah. That's our old house in the background, too. I was about three there. Mom and Dad both look so young." She glanced up and smiled at Sam now.

"As opposed to my advanced state of decrepitude now?" Sam offered, clearing his throat a little and putting on a smile as he headed back into the room.

"I didn't say _that_," Dara told him, and made a rude noise. It never failed to amaze him. When she was on the _Estallus_, she was as turian as she could manage to be. The same at Allardus' and Solanna's. Here in his house, his daughter relaxed. Turned human. _Three selves, then. The turian self, the human self, and her shadow-self_, he thought for a moment. _I wonder, if and when she and young Rel ever get a house of their own, which person she'll be there, when they're alone together. _

Rinus lightly stroked a hand over Kallixta's fringe. "Lot different from where Rel and I grew up," he offered, after a moment.

"Quite a lot different from where I did, too," Kallixta told him, leaning back into him and smiling up at him. "Looks a lot more comfortable, for starters."

"You say that now, but we had fire ants and August heat waves and the occasional hurricane push through," Sam told her, leaning up against a wall. "Also, since the damned place was over two hundred years old, I had to pull out wall framing that was termite-eaten or rotten, redo every floor in the place, put a new roof on after one of the hurricanes—oh, and the pipe that burst in the upstairs bathroom. _That_ was fun to come home to. My wife managed to get the water shut down and cleaned up most of the water, but it had gotten into the carpeting in the hall, so the whole _house_ smelled like mildew by the next morning."

"And you fixed it yourself?"

"Hell no. Electrical stuff I can handle. _That_, I called a plumber for." Sam grinned at her. A little culture clash for her. There had undoubtedly been servants to handle such things, and she'd probably never _seen_ a plumbing malfunction before. But she was interested and engaged, and asked questions, and story-time commenced once more. This time, the humdrum details of daily life—however amusingly told—instead of the high drama of Spectre work. "So there I am, trying to get the drywall in place, and Dara's all of four at the time, and keeps trying to _help Daddy_. I thought I was going accidentally wind up with her _inside_ the wall, like something out of Edgar Allen Poe."

"_The Cask of Amontillado_," Dara replied, chuckling.

"Shoot, I haven't read that one since school," Shepard said. "That's where the murderer chains the victim up in a vault after promising him a rare vintage of wine and then uses brick and mortar to confine him there until he, presumably, dies in his chains."

The turians all looked at her. "Why?" Kallixta asked.

Shepard shrugged. "Best I recall, because they didn't like each other."

"The first guy insulted the other guy," Dara supplied. "It's suggested that the guy doing the mortaring was insane. No motive, if that's what you're asking, Kallixta."

Every turian looked puzzled. "So. . . what was the _point_ of the story?" Garrus asked.

Lilu shrugged. "That he'd gotten away with it, and wasn't sorry."

A room full of puzzled glances. Rel turned and looked at Dara. "And _you_ keep saying _turian_ literature is depressing."

"That," Dara replied sweetly, as she played, "was just Edgar Allen Poe."

"Hey," Sam said, "I didn't say it was a _good_ thought that went through my head. More of a 'crap, kiddo, get out from underfoot' sort of one."

Cohort arrived next, which amused the children to no end, and because geth did not eat, he brought a gift of flowers for Kasumi. "Gift exchanges are a new means of building consensus that we are exploring," the geth explained. "Small, counter-rational offerings, which show good-will."

Kasumi patted his shoulder. "It was a perfectly lovely gesture without the explanation," she assured him. "And understood without words."

Livanus and Talana and Ylara and Tulluust all arrived after that. The big elcor knocked at the door ponderously, and Sam answered it. "Ylara! Damn, but it's been a while. Come on in, both of you—" and then he looked behind them, and saw Livanus. "Thank god. You're on your feet, Liv."

"For about ten minutes at a time," Livanus acknowledged, leaning him his slender wife's arm for support as they stepped onto the porch. "Sam, this is my wife, Talana. Talana, this is Sam, one of my coworkers."

Talana was so soft-spoken for a turian, Sam could barely make out her greeting. But indoors, Talana actually helped Livanus take his coat, and then tucked herself under his arm, wrapping her own arm around his waist as if she were never going to let go as they found a set of chairs in the dining room to sit down at.

A full house now, bustling with activity and voices and laughter. Kids chasing one another, Blasto and Mordin and Narayana nibbling on asari shrimp and Japanese sashimi. Mordin struck up a conversation with Talana, which, from the sounds of things, was technical, complicated, and far, far over Sam's head. Livanus simply leaned back and held his wife's hand, clearly listening, but having little to contribute. Blasto hovered a little nearer the injured turian Spectre, and last Sam saw, _they_ struck up their own conversation. Probably, judging from the way Talana broke off to scold Livanus briefly, work-related.

Snatches of conversation as Sam passed through the rooms now, making sure everyone had things to eat and drink and that everyone had someone to talk to. . . . "So, you're looking forward to coming back to work?"

"Yes," Ylara said, in a tone of relief. "Things happen too quickly in this galaxy of ours for a truly asari perspective, it seems, sometimes. I _should_ be taking the long view, that things take as long as they take. . . but, damn it all, I _wanted_ a piece of Aria." She was giving Shepard a fierce look. "I've waited two hundred years, and your husband took it all out in what, two, three weeks?"

Garrus chuckled next to Lilitu. "Omega's going to need a _lot_ of looking after now that Patriarch's back in charge, Ylara. You want in on it?"

"Yes!" Ylara's tone was tart. "Leave some for me!"

Laughter rippling through the crowd now. Rel murmuring in Dara's ear as she played, Kallixta leaning back in Rinus' arms, looking perfectly at home in this house, this mad scrum of a dozen different species at once, perfectly content. Amara and Narayana reading together, Kaius and Caelia carefully chasing each other around. Azala and Allardus deep in some sort of xenobiological conversation—Sam caught comments about nitrogen cycles and adjusting the levels of dextro and levo bacteria in the soil—Kasumi's arm around his waist now. "Hell of a party," he said, looking down at her as the noise level rose another couple of decibels.

"Hell of a group of people," she agreed, looking up at him. "Think they're getting the point?" Her eyes flicked towards the library.

"If they're not now, I have no idea what it would take to convince them," Sam replied with a snort.

Captain Jallus arrived now, and that got a few heads to turn. Rinus and Rellus and the two girls started to get to their feet, and their CO waved them off. "At ease. I'm not here to ask you to report back in. I'm here to drink brandy and conduct a _very_ little official business."

Sam handed the captain a snifter. "What kind of business?" he asked, though, from the box under the captain's arm, he had an inkling.

Jallus took a sip, found a table for his glass, and grinned. "It is my very great honor and distinct privilege," he began, "to present several awards and commendations, as well as one promotion."

The crowd had fallen silent, and the young people were all looking at him attentively. "First, the promotion. Rinus Velnaran, I'm pleased to inform you that you passed your examination for _optio_, and we got you in _just_ under the wire for the latest round of promotions. It's been confirmed, and your increase in paygrade will be official when you next report in to the ship." Jallus handed a stunned Rinus a new insignia. "Hope you won't mind trading enlisted gray for officer black." _Optio,_ like human warrants, stood between officers and enlisted. In the turian military, they wore officer's uniforms, but had their own, separate insignia.

"Not at all, sir," Rinus said, suddenly grinning. Allardus reached over and clapped Rinus on the shoulder, clearly proud.

"Next," Jallus said, taking a copper medallion on a black ribbon out, "is the _clipeus celare._ The award for distinguished service in a covert action." He gestured. "_Optio_, if you'd please rise? This is a little overdue, but the awards board finally pushed it through with all the rest of the ones from the past few weeks." He slipped the medallion over Rinus' bowed head. "For your service on Omega. Congratulations, Velnaran_._" Rinus would probably not be able to wear the medal openly for some time, but he'd always have it, and it would always be in his record.

Jallus produced a fair number of other boxes. "The other three of you had probably better stand, too," he added, keeping a note of jocular informality in his voice. "This might take a while."

And so Kallixta got her first medallion as a certified ace—the _clipeus volatere._ And an _aes clipeus,_ for covering her crew while they retreated to the shuttle on the satellite. Rellus, two silver medallions, or _agata clipeus,_ for returning at personal risk for his marines on the satellite, and distinguished service on the ground at Garvug. Rinus, an _agata clipeus,_ too, for returning with Rel to rescue the marines. Dara. . . .Jallus cleared his throat. "While I _could_ give these awards, it's more appropriate that they come from other hands."

Livanus stood up, and moved forward slowly. "The _commina narthecium_ is _only_ given to those who work to save others' lives," he said, quietly. "Usually, at the risk of their own. I wouldn't be here today, if it weren't for you, Dara Velnaran. And I thank you for keeping my spirit and my body tied together." He put the ribbon over her head. The first award had a white ribbon.

Sky scuttled over, moving around and, indeed, _over_ people as well, and delicately took the second award from Jallus' hands. This one had a blue ribbon on it. Indicating that the medic's own blood had spilled while treating a patient on the battlefield. _And this, I give to you, Sings-Heartsong. To honor you, for pain-song sung, while keeping my own voice a part of the harmony._

Dara had tears in her eyes, and Sam wasn't far behind her. Then Jallus said, "Okay, that's all the gifts that _I_ came bearing. Tomorrow, it's back to _work_ with the four of you."

And everyone flocked around to pound on their shoulders, and voices sprang up everywhere again. Laughter, camaraderie, family.

And then Solanna asked abruptly, "Where's Serana?" She stood up, looking around. "Serana?"

**Serana**

"_Okay, so maybe I was a little off-base about Kallixta being a pirate's daughter,"_ Serana had told Polina and Quintus. _"That doesn't mean there isn't a mystery here."_

"_Can we play B-Sec detectives, too?"_ Polina asked, eagerly.

"_I want to be Uncle Garrus,"_ Quintus called dibs, quickly.

"_No fair. Just because you're a boy, you always get to be Uncle Garrus,"_ Polina said, giving her younger brother a shove.

"_If you push Quintus again, you won't get to play,"_ Serana invented the new rule quickly. _"Quintus, you can be Uncle Garrus. Polina, you're Lantar."_

"_Oh, man, again?"_ Polina pouted. _"Can I be Ylara?"_

Quintus laughed. _"You don't __look__ like an asari, second-sister."_

"_Fine, you're Ylara. __I'm__ going to be Kasumi."_ Serana told them, firmly. _"Now, we have to spread out and ask questions and gather clues. Polina—I mean, Ylara. You're going to interview Amara and Kaius and find out what __they__ know. They always know __something__ about what's going on around here from listening in on their parents' comm calls."_

"_On it!"_ Polina said, grinning.

"_Don't let the grownups hear you asking. Even first-brother and second-brother. They're all in on the __plot__."_ Serana lowered her voice dramatically.

"_What do __I__ get to do?"_ Quintus demanded.

"_You're Uncle Garrus, right?"_ Serana thought about it. What would her beloved, respected uncle do? _"Go right to the source. Ask Kallixta about her parents and her childhood. She let a lot slip at dinner the other night, but nothing really helpful. Ask her what it's like having bodyguards all the time. What they're protecting her from. They'll be suspicious if __I__ ask now, but not you."_

"_And if first-brother tells me I'm pestering?"_

"_Get away and report back to me."_

"_Okay!"_ Quintus scuttled off now.

Which left Serana with only one thing left to do, herself. The library was _mysteriously_ blocked off, and it _never_ had been, before. Now that Kallixta was here, suddenly, things were off limits. That meant there was a connection. Serana had not yet studied logic formally, so the principle of _post hoc, ergo propter hoc_ hadn't yet impinged on her consciousness. She waited until everyone looked _very_ distracted around her—not hard, given how many _people_ were here—and slipped off through the crowd. _Don't mind me, I'm just one of the kids. Underfoot all the time._

She padded to the back of the house, and glanced around. Sure enough, Pallum was by the back door, watching the comings and goings in the kitchen, looking more than a little bored. _I hope being a police officer when I grow up is a lot less boring than that. Just standing there all day and having to watch, bleah._

Serana waited until his head turned a little, and then she slid her small frame between the wall and one of the bookshelves that blocked off the entryway to the library, wedging herself through. There were drapes of plastic over all of them, as if to keep out construction dust, and she had to move carefully to avoid making any of it crinkle. . . not that the noise would have been heard in all the voices from the party. Behind the first, tall bookself, there was a second one, and she ducked down behind it, peeking out from behind it, and under the plastic drape, he heart pounding in her throat.

There were _people_ hiding in the library! Two or three people in armor, wearing uniforms! She didn't recognize the insignia, but they were turian. And on the comfortable couch she remembered from previous visits, an older male turian and an older female turian. They were both clothed in very expensive outfits—all different colors. The female was wearing red and purple and yellow; the male was in red and purple and blue, with gold trim everywhere.

They were watching a dozen aerogel screens at once—what were they watching on them? Serana strained to see. Yes, she recognized faces here and there. . . they were watching the _party_? Why under the stars were they _spying_ on the party, rather than being out _in_ it? Why would Sam _lie_ about there being construction work back here?

Serana pulled back into hiding as one of the guards started to turn towards her, and sat there, absolutely still, waiting for her chance to slip back out again and report her findings to the rest of her team of _crack B-Sec investigators._ She'd be willing to bet she'd found out more than either of the two little ones.

And that's when she heard her mother call, "Serana? Where are you?"

_S'kak.__ How am I supposed to get out of here and not be __seen__ creeping out of here?_

And _that_ was when a guard's hand came down and grabbed her arm, pulling her into the library, firmly. _S'kak!_

More voices in the rest of the house, but at the moment, Serana was _much_ more concerned about having been caught, than about the repercussions coming from the _other_ direction. _"And who are you, little one?"_ the male asked. He used superior-to-inferior, but Serana was used to that from adults outside the family.

"_Serana, clan Velnaran_," she said, with the respect due to a teacher or a stranger and a quick nod of her head. _"Who're __you__? Why are you __hiding__ back here? Are you Kallixta's father?"_ All in inferior-to-superior, of course. She didn't quite understand why the guards were hissing a little, or why the female appeared upset. She was being as polite as she could be. . . for a couple of _intruders._ _Spies,_ really.

"_Kallixta is our daughter, yes."_ Deep amusement there, for some reason. The deep-set eyes were studying her intently.

Serana returned the appraisal, frankly, and then sighed. _"Okay, so you're a spy then, not a pirate." _The guards _choked._ She shrugged. _"Pirate would have been more __interesting__, though."_ Serana looked up hopefully. _"Now that I've caught you, though, would you please come out with your hands up? I don't know why you're hiding back here, but it's not really polite. And I'm pretty sure that without a warrant, surveillance is against the Law."_ She knew that from watching police vids on the extranet.

The female's mouth simply dropped open, and the male started to _laugh_ for some reason. _"Do you __really__ not know who we are, child?"_ he managed, after a moment.

"_You just said that you were Kallixta's parents,"_ Serana said, very carefully, trying not to make it sound as if he'd said something very dumb.

And _that_ was the moment when one of the guards, in a somewhat strangled voice, called, _"Clan leader Velnaran? Clan leader Vakarian? Your errant whelp is in the library. __Please__ come and fetch her."_

Things got _really_ interesting after that. Serana quietly sulked in one of the upstairs bedrooms with the rest of the little kids. "I don't see how I was supposed to know he was the Imperator," she said, slumping in a chair.

"If you'd have _waited_, I'd have told you what Kaius told me!" Polina wailed.

"I _wasn't_ supposed to tell anyone that," Kaius sulked. "Now _I'm_ in trouble, too."

Amara just glared at Serana. "We'd have gotten to stay downstairs for everything if you hadn't messed it all up."

"Then maybe someone should have _said_ something, instead of making it all a great big _secret_," Serana yelled back, provoked, and wishing that she were human so that she could cry. "Everyone always says that it's better to tell the truth, and no one ever does!"

**Rinus**

The hubbub that had ensued when Kallixta's parents had come out of their hiding place in the library had been _enormous._ Everyone had stood, of course—a courtesy due to heads of state in almost every culture. The turians, himself included, had not merely stood, but snapped to attention. And all Rinus could think was that Kallixta's scent was still on him from their mating that morning, and that the warmth of her body still lingered on his stomach and chest from where she'd been leaning against him before the presentation ceremonies. How he'd been rubbing his fingers idly up and down her forearm as they talked, had looked through Sam and Dara's old pictures, tucked away in digital frames, showing how a normal family lived life on Earth. Had been laughing and relaxing with the family all around them.

And now, of course, she'd slipped into her public mask, just as he'd instantly put on his centurion face again. _Optio_ or not, he'd always be a centurion. He _wanted_ to glance at his uncle and demand _who_ had set this up, and why. But of course, he couldn't.

The bodyguards rounded up the various youngsters and shooed them all upstairs. From the look Rinus had gotten of his mother's face, he was pretty sure Serana wouldn't be sitting down for a _week_ after this.

"_We have been informed,"_ the Imperator said, using the clearly formal, imperial _we_, _"that to hide from others and spy upon them is not just rude, but against the Law."_ His voice, for a wonder, held a hint of humor. Rinus gritted his teeth slightly. _Okay, when my mom and dad are done with Serana, I get next crack at her. _

Much to his surprise, the Imperator switched languages to galactic—no social cues there, just as in English—and looked at Rinus' parents. "It's a pleasure to meet you. You have exceptional children." He _offered his hand_ to Allardus for a wrist-clasp, and Allardus accepted it.

"Thank you, your imperial highness," Allardus replied, in galactic. "We're very proud of all of them."

"Some more than others at the moment, no doubt?" Dry humor. "We hope that you will not chastise the little one too severely. She reminds us of how much we have missed, in the maturation of our own children." The Imperatrix stirred a little, but obviously couldn't contradict her husband in public. Very clear lines of decorum, of course. The Imperator paused. "It does concern us, that she did not recognize her own leaders."

Allardus sighed. "The fault is mine, your imperial highness. I find the more. . . tabloid-like news feeds from Palaven tedious, and turn them off before any of the children can see them."

A faint, regal nod. "We understand. Her demonstration, however, lends credence to the testimony of our daughter, that your son did not recognize her when she spoke only in English."

Some of the tightness around Rinus' crop eased, slightly. _He has reason to believe it. Oh, thank you, spirits._

The Imperator turned now, and looked at Kallixta, switching back into turian. _"Fifth-daughter,"_ he said, calmly. _"It pleases me that you have distinguished yourself so well already in your career. You are a fine pilot."_

"_Thank you, Father,"_ Kallixta said, bowing her head.

"_You are happy in your work, and in your place aboard the __Estallus__?"_

"_Very much so, Father."_

"_Then it pleases me to see you continue in it."_

The band of pressure eased a little further. But not entirely. The hard ones were coming next.

"_Perhaps,"_ the Imperator said, _"you and I, and your plighted mate, and his clan-leaders, might step into another room? There are, I think, some things that should be discussed only among family."_

Rinus didn't _dare_ look at Rel or his father or at Garrus, but simply followed along behind the rest, into the library. The Imperatrix, apparently, was not required for these discussions, which left her to Kasumi and Shepard and his mother to entertain. _Oh, I'm going to be hearing about __this__,_ Rinus thought.

In the library, the Imperator waved for them to sit, and discarded formality like a cloak. It was, as always, the option of the higher ranked to do so. _"A regrettable way to start a lifetime together,"_ he said, calmly. _"However, neither of you are at fault in it. Rest assured, the manufacturer will likely be __bankrupt__ by the time they finish paying fees, and I am looking into charges of criminal negligence."_ He looked at Kallixta. _"While spying may be __rude__, it was very revealing. You are quite happy with this young male of yours, are you not?"_

Kallixta looked up. _"Yes, Father. I am."_

"_Why so?"_

She blinked. It was not, apparently, the question she'd expected. _"Because. . . I enjoy his company. He's intelligent, loyal, and brave. He's kind, and he's caring. Very careful in his work, but aggressive when he needs to be. And . . . "_ she hesitated.

"_And?"_

"_He doesn't give a damn whose daughter I am. Never did. Probably really wishes I __weren't__ your daughter."_

_Very true, sweetness, but damn, that was blunt of you._ Rinus winced.

The Imperator _laughed._ _"Well, we shall have to see if that's enough to build upon. Young Velnaran, you're quite taken with my daughter, are you not?"_

"_Yes, sir."_

"_You can answer in more words than you'd give to a drill centurion, young male."_ The Imperator paused. _"You have affection for her?"_

How could he even say it? They'd only known each other weeks, but he'd seen his life stretching out before them in the simulation. Dozens of paths. Some good, some bad. The warmth of her spirit and mind there. Her aggression, her passion, her quick mind, her wit. The smell of her skin. Everything that made her, _her_. How to say _any_ of that? To her _father_, at that? His tongue would tangle on the words. Rinus managed, after a moment, _"She has my spirit in her keeping, sir. She may do with it what she wills."_

"_Ah, so there __is__ a tongue there. Good. We'll make use of that."_ The Imperator's voice turned brisk. _"Very well. The chip cannot remain. He cannot be the servant or plaything of a computer."_

"_I think he'll be relieved about that condition,"_ Garrus' voice was _very_ dry.

"_Second, my daughter __cannot_ _wed a commoner. The elevation to __optio__ helps, but I'll send along some patents of nobility. A minor lordship, I think, will do. As such, you __will__, young Velnaran, be expected to concern yourself with the Conclave of __Dominae__." _The turian government, at the highest level, had three branches. The Imperator was head of state, head of the army, and chief spiritual leader, with the ultimate say in most every matter. The Conclave of Lawgivers proposed and conserved the laws, observed precedents, and so on. Once they proposed a new law, or decided how an existing precedent applied to current situations, they passed it to the Conclave of the _Dominae_ for approval and for funding. The nobility could approve or disapprove, and held control of the Hierarchy's exchequer. In essence, Rinus was being ordered to begin a political career. In a very minor way, perhaps, but Rinus had no doubts that more would be expected, in time. _"I understand that you have reservations about the financial clauses in your existing contract?"_

"_She to whom I would be bound has explained that the clauses exist for the maintenance of any young, but I would prefer that any of her property that they would inherit would be kept in trust for them, rather than settled upon me, or divided between us."_ His throat was very tight at that. It didn't _do_ to turn down imperial generosity.

An appraising look. _"A good thought, young Velnaran, but you __do__ understand that with the title of __dominus__, there will be additional living expenses? The title will come with some small amounts of land, and the rents there will make it self-sufficient, I think, but with a political involvement, there are . . . expenses."_

_S'kak._ Rinus glanced over at Kallixta, hoping for guidance.

She slid her hand up his arm lightly. _"If I might? Keep the profit from my lands—what remains after expenses are paid, of course—in trust for any young we might have. The living stipend I am given could be sent to a different account, to be used in emergencies only. And then whatever dowry I bring would be shared between us?"_

"_Very fair. And it would have taken my lawgivers at least three days to come to that agreement,"_ the Imperator told her, with evident fondness. _"It is good to see you happy, fifth-daughter. Most of my children have, or will face, an arrangement for political convenience, as I have had. Some will be lucky, and have a good partner or at least an equitable domestic arrangement. As,"_ and the Imperator paused here, _"I have. You, fifth-daughter, have found both political utility __and__ happiness. A most astonishing conflux of events."_ He looked at Rinus now. _"There will be things I will require of you in the future, young Velnaran. Nothing burdensome to your conscience, I assure you. But they will be non-negotiable."_

"_Of course, sir."_ That was hardly a surprise. Nothing came without a price.

The piercing gaze went back to Kallixta, now. _"Your guard, Vela Reimian, has been most . . . strident. . . in her reports."_

"_I'm sure that she has been, Father. I have always honored and respected her, for she has been my protector since I was a child. But I feel that she still sees me as such."_

"_Yes. It is sometimes difficult for the bodyguards to recognize when their charges have come to adulthood, and may now command them, and make their own choices. As such, I think she will make a better guard for young Severus, than for you."_ The Imperator's expression remained dispassionate, however. _"While I am glad for you that you have found happiness in both your profession and in your personal life, I __do__ expect decorum in public."_

"_Of course, Father."_ Kallixta sounded a little surprised.

"_And when you are asked of how you and young Velnaran happened to find one another, there will be no mention of the unfortunate medication difficulties to the press."_

"_Of __course__ not, Father."_

"_Good. Then most everything is settled, besides, of course, the wedding itself. Which your mother may attend to, and will ensure that all of it goes correctly. In light of your deployment together, it would be best, I think, to make this a __quick__ wedding, though such things take some time to arrange properly. Shall we say Quinus thirteenth?"_ It was three months away by the human calendar. _"Long enough to assure those who observe the court so avidly that there is no __urgent need__ for haste, but quickly enough, I think?"_

She glanced at Rinus, who shrugged. It seemed a very long time to wait for him, but he suspected that these sorts of things could not be rushed. The Imperator hesitated. _"And while the __very__ highest sticklers would suggest that there should be minimal contact between you in the meantime, I am a pragmatist, my dear,"_ he said, looking Kallixta in the eye. _"Public decorum, again. Beyond that, the letter of your plighting contract."_

"_Yes, Father."_

The Imperator stood. _"And now, I think I might try a few of those __delectable__-smelling concoctions out there. The smells have been driving me quite mad for some time now."_

"_Avoid the _enchiladas _unless you're willing to take an epi-tab, your imperial highness,"_ Garrus recommended, wryly. _"They actually are quite flavorful, but there's quite a bit of levo in them."_

And out they walked.

**Elijah**

It was October 23, or Quinus 11, the day of his graduation, and Eli was getting ready to help Linianus carry the damned flag for their manicple. Freja popped her head into the barracks. "So. . . squad leader," she said, in English. "I know that all of the turians are heading to the recruit hotels after graduation. What's next for you?"

"Dinner with my parents. My father said I'd be attending some wedding with him on the thirteenth. He said my friend Rellus' older brother was getting married, and that our whole family was invited. And that I'd need my dress uniform." Eli shrugged. He'd gotten some inklings of this from Serana's letters here and there, but no real details.

"So, after dinner with your parents, then what?" Freja came into the barracks and stood a little closer to him.

Eli blinked. "Sack out at the only human-friendly hotel in town, I suppose. We'll be traveling to Complovium sometime tomorrow afternoon, though."

"So, twelve hours or so of uninterrupted time without a radiation suit on?" Freja smiled at him. "I'd had more or less the same thing in mind myself. Except that after the thirteenth, I'll be leaving for Dymion to get out of the radiation coveralls for a couple of weeks before going to their flight school at Raetia." She put a hand on his shoulder now. "Is there any chance that I might see you this evening?"

Eli swallowed. A distant part of his mind was laughing at him, just a little. Dara had kissed _him_. Kella had asked _him_ out. Siara had chased _him._ And now, it sounded very much as if Freja was propositioning him. _I am both the luckiest goddamned guy in the world, and the worst at doing anything __about__ it in the history of the universe,_ he thought, and reached up for her hand, linking armored fingers with armored fingers. "Freja. . . I'd _love_ to see you this evening," he said, feeling his pulse starting to hammer in his throat. "I do have to confess something, though. For honesty's sake."

"Oh?" Those pale blue eyes were amused.

"I've _dated_ two asari girls. I speak the language. It doesn't go any further than that." As blunt as a turian, though he rather suspected his face was reddening under the paint.

Freja started to chuckle. "Oh. . . oh, dear. Yes, I had _gathered_ that." She lifted her visor, then lifted his, and leaned in, rubbing her nose against his cheek. "You're a good person. I like you. And, to be honest, I _really_ have enjoyed watching you spar." Her low chuckle made him flush further. "So. . . why not? Give me a call after dinner." Freja leaned back now. "I'll be there."

Eli had absolutely no recollection afterwards of what the speech had been about, that he'd stood listening to for an hour, before filing back out with the rest of the recruits. Dinner with his parents and Caelia was pleasant enough—he was amazed at how much the little duck had grown. Full sentences, suddenly appearing out of the blue, although some of them made no sense at all. Lantar let him off after dinner with a reminder of, "Don't get busted for being drunk and disorderly, son. We _do_ need to travel tomorrow afternoon."

Eli had laughed and waved it off. "Just going to go to my room and probably fall on my face for eight hours," he said, but he couldn't _quite_ help the smile, or _quite_ meet Lantar's eyes. Then he looked up, grinned, and met them anyway.

Lantar guffawed openly. "Get on with you, first-son," the turian told him, and headed for the elevators himself.

His hands shook a little as he dialed Freja's comm code. She invited him back down to the bar for a drink—the hotel actually did stock human and asari liquors, much to his surprise. And then they stumbled upstairs. Weeks and weeks of frustration and tiredness giving way to soft skin and smells. It was. . . _educational_. She knew _exactly_ what she wanted, and didn't _hesitate_ to tell him how and what to do. She knew how to give pleasure to both genders, and how to demand it, fiercely, herself. It made it _easy_ to learn, and he was _deeply_ grateful for it. And _finally_ getting to touch and feel and taste and lick and explore and push himself into her depths was wonderful. Glorious, in fact.

But not bite. Something in him made him hold back. _She won't like that,_ he realized, dimly. But _he_ wanted to. Badly, in fact, as in so many of his fevered dreams. _Am I even __human__ anymore?_ he wondered, disgusted with himself, and made himself remember to _kiss_, not to bite. Everything he did, did seem to please her, at least.

But at some point in the night, she asked him to talk dirty to her in asari, and while everything still stayed pleasurable and intense and good, the light inside him dimmed. Flickered. Died. He obliged her, of course. Watched her expression change, lighten. _Ah, and so, through me, you get a little second-hand asari_, he thought as he drifted towards sleep. _You want to share __that__ part of me, but you wouldn't want to share __all__ of me, now would you?_

In the morning, it was. . . awkward. He'd learned a _lot_ the night before, and he was grateful for the pleasure, but there was. . . nothing else here. With Siara, she'd been hurt, and he'd wanted to care for her and make her better and happier. With Kella, she'd _been_ happy, and they'd been happy together. And with Dara, there had been simple connection. Likeness of mind, likeness of . . . spirit. . . he supposed. And with all three of them, little more than kisses, the touches of hands. With Freja, he'd explored every inch of her body . . . and not a bit of her spirit.

Awkward. A little empty. He stood, getting dressed, and looked down at her in the bed. "Leaving so soon?" she asked, ice blond hair spreading out against the pillows.

Eli smiled. No need to make _her_ feel bad, just because _he_ felt like something had been missing. "Yeah, breakfast with my family." He leaned down. Let his fingers curl into her hair. Left a kiss against her soft cheek. "Thank you," he told her, and it was sincerely meant. "It meant a lot to me."

Freja smiled and stretched. "A wonderful way to relax," she told him lightly. "Keep my comm code, Eli. Maybe we'll see each other again, sometime."

"Sure," he said, and headed for the door. But as he closed the door quietly behind him, Eli frowned. That lost feeling hadn't quite left him, in spite of all the, well. . . _iunkunditas_, warmth, physical well-being spreading through him. _What the hell is the matter with me? What the hell am I even looking for, that I don't seem to be able to find? If I told anyone this, they'd hit me over the head. And they'd be right._

Shaking his head, Eli cleaned up and went to breakfast. Laughed at Caelia, told his mom carefully-edited stories about boot camp—and now that they were in the same room together, got her to laugh at him being treed by a herd of _triceratops_.

And then they headed for the shuttleport, and were whisked away to Complovium. "So, Rinus is getting married?" Eli asked along the way. "Guess all the family Spectres are invited?"

"Something like that," Lantar said, noncommittally.

"He's gotten an promotion recently, right? From centurion to _optio_?"

"Yeah. Big step."

Eli thought about it. Lantar was being unusually close-mouthed, even for him, and his mom kept chuckling under her breath. "I thought Raetia was the Velnaran family home, not Complovium," Eli offered, after a moment. Belatedly, he realized he was using the _same exact tone_ as Lantar was. Both of them in neutral mode. Cop mode. And the instant he realized it, he saw that Lantar had started to _grin_.

"That's correct," Lantar told him.

"Are we going to keep playing Twenty Questions?"

His mom started to laugh out loud. "Let him off the hook, _amatus_," she finally said.

Lantar chuckled. "Dara attended boot camp with one of the daughters of the Imperator," he said, after a moment.

"Yeah, I knew that. Dara was a little annoyed, but amused, when she told me about it at Sam and Kasumi's wedding."

"Kallixta's a damn fine pilot. Was posted to the _Estallus_ with the rest of them." Lantar paused. "Long story short, young Rinus is being made a _dominus _and marrying into the royal family today."

"Holy _futtari s'kak."_ It came out in two different languages at once, and Caelia began to repeat the words in earnest glee, making Eli slap his forehead in annoyance and bend down to distract the little duck with _anything_ else, apologizing quickly to his mom for his language. "Well, at least I know why you wanted me to wear a dress uniform."

The ceremony was long. _Tal'mae_ weddings usually were, but this one was . . . imperially excessive. Eli found himself in the 'family and friends' area with most of the rest of the Spectres, Vakarians, and Velnarans—seated with Rel and Dara to his left, and little Serana to his right, actually.

He had absolutely no _idea_ why Rel kept glancing over at him, though. After the fourth or fifth intercepted glance, Eli leaned down and whispered into Dara's ear, "Tell your husband, whatever he thinks I did, I didn't do it. I've been in _boot camp_ for eleven weeks, for Christ's sake."

Dara's shoulders shook, and she bit her lips trying to keep her expression as firmly stoic as this very public occasion demanded, and turned to pass his message along to Rellus.

Rellus turned his head, looked Eli in the eye, and Eli met the stare squarely. Spread his hands, turian fashion, and whispered a very human, "What gives?"

Rel suddenly just grinned, and muttered back, "You'll see."

After the ceremony, there were other ceremonies. After those ceremonies, there were pageants. After the pageants, there was music and, finally, food. _At least,_ Eli thought with relief as he was finally free to eat—and there was levo here for the levo crowd, thank god—_turians don't dance. I won't get roped into anything I'd really rather not do_.

**Serana**

She hadn't expected Eli to have changed so _much_, and it was odd to think she'd been writing to him all this time as a brother and the light-hearted friend of her sister from school, and now he was, very much, an adult. Oh, it was _expected_ when someone went off to boot camp that they'd return an adult. But humans changed so _much_, so quickly, and so _differently_ than turians did. He'd been tall when he left, and was taller now. Almost as tall as his step-father, Lantar, and broader through the chest, in the way that human males tended to be. Strong arms, even down through the forearms and wrists. Dark eyes, deep set, a square jaw, with traces of that strange human facial hair just starting to peek through his clan-paint. A quick glance down told her that his legs, especially the thighs, were heavily muscled now, too, evident even through the uniform, legacy of _lots_ of sparring and running. His voice had deepened further, too.

She was shy of him at first, ducking away when he looked down at her in the imperial amphitheater, which was where the wedding was conducted. After a while, he seemed to be making it a game, almost like playing peek-a-boo with a toddler. Every time she looked up, he'd quickly pretend to look away, until she gave in and laughed quietly.

And during the huge, interminable wait for Rinus and Kallixta to get done greeting _everyone_ who'd come to the wedding—an imperial custom that had given their bodyguards quite a few headaches, for fear of someone attacking either half of the couple—Eli finally crouched down, putting himself at eye level with her. _"Asperitalla,"_ he said, quietly. _"Are you vexed with me?"_

"_Noooooo."_

"_Then why won't you talk to me? I'm the same person you've been writing to for months."_

_But you're not,_ she wanted to say. _You're someone else now._ But the eyes were the same. Faint twinkle in those dark, soft, human depths. _"I'm sorry. You just kind of seem like a stranger."_

"_Hah. Don't I know. Caelia took one look at me and cried. I'm apparently going to have that effect on __all__ kids now. Or maybe it's just on females."_ He stood back up and lightly stroked a hand over her crest. _"Good thing I'll be heading to OCS soon. That way, no one will have to see my ugly face for a while again."_ He grinned at her.

Serana drew herself up. Poked him in the stomach. _"You're an __idiot__, Elijah Sidonis_," she told him, and stomped away. _And one of these days, you're going to pay for it. Somehow._

**Shepard**

Rinus and Kallixta—he in his dress uniform, and her in a gown firmly intended for a princess—had made their rounds through all the introductions, and had circulated back to the family they felt most comfortable with. Kallixta's youngest brother, Severus had tagged after her, and actually _was_ chasing Amara around one of the refreshment tables at the moment, much to the chagrin of not one, but several chaperones. Lilitu sighed as she looked out over the crowd. So much work had been accomplished in the past seven years. The Alliance and the Hierarchy, growing together, intertwining. Tendrils of alliances and commitments and solidarity binding them together.

And along with such efforts towards unity and cooperation, there also were efforts—and necessary ones—towards competition. No one species could be relied upon any more for technical advancement. No reliance on a single mode of travel and transportation and communication seemed necessary. Multiple venues for innovation, just as necessary as multiple avenues for genetic diversity to flourish. Multiple species—even hybrid ones. Humans and turians. The _Normandy_-class AIs, hybrids of another sort. Krogans and asari, working together. _Hybrid vigor_, as seen in plants. Not hybrid sterility. Unity in diversity, plurality. Not in solitude, singularity.

So much had been done, and accomplished. And there was so much left to do. But for now, seeing the glowing faces of her family—and they were _all_ her family, the humans and turians alike, and even the rachni and the geth and the krogan present here, all part of her adoptive family—she could, for a little while at least, rest.

Garrus caught her hand, and pulled her close to him. "Thinking, _amatra?"_

"Occupational hazard." She smiled up him, and slid her hand up to his scarred cheek. So dear to her now, and yet, for an accident of fate, they might have missed _all_ of this. This shining future that they had built and that they shared. "Mostly, I'm thinking how lucky I am."

"Funny," Garrus told her, reaching down to cup her face in his hand now, too. "I was thinking the same thing."

"_Adamare talu, Garrus."_

"And I love you, too."

**Here Ends the Spirit of Unity. Stay tuned for Notes and the **_**Spirit of Victory!**_


	74. Chapter 74: Notes

**General information on** **Spirit of Redemption**:

_**Author's note:**__ Because many, many people have asked for this sort of information, both for RP purposes, and for purposes of writing/leveraging what I've created, I'm posting some of my process notes. You may use my version of the turian and asari languages, but __**give credit**__ to me. Likewise, the information I've developed on the various turian colonies, calendar, holidays, customs, rank structures, governmental organizations, etc., is mine, except where it belongs to Bioware. So use it, but give credit to whomever credit is due, please._

**All of my characters are **_**my**_** characters. Please do not fold, spindle, or mutilate them. They're fragile that way. :-)**

**Squad powers and abilities**

**Your Original Spectre Candidates:**

**Gris**

Barrier, Lift (Gris has mastered the ability to use this as either a mass field or as a single-target attack), Warp, Shotgun, Pistol, Krogan regeneration

**Sings-to-the-Sky**

Singularity (Sky has mastered the ability to use this as either a mass field or as a single-target attack), Reave, Shockwave, Poison spit

**Battlevision**. _Best head's-up display in the galaxy. If it's alive and biotically-detectable, Sky tells his teammates where it is; where they are in relationship to it, and if it's friend or foe. Difficult to use all the time, but very, very handy, especially when scopes are jammed._

**Sam Jaworski**

Stealth, Shadow Strike, Knife/melee specialization, Pistol, Submachine gun

**Aura of Command.** _Sam's leadership abilities give him a bonus to squad tactics and a morale bonus to everyone in his squad. (Because, yes, damnit, Sam and Garrus and Rellus and Lantar are all paladins of differing archetypes, and I don't care who knows it.)_

**Cohort**

Concussive Shot, AI hacking, Combat drone, Shredding ammo, Sniper rifle, Pistol

**Lantar**

Assault rifles, Pistols, Sniper rifles, Submachine guns, Heavy weapons, Adrenaline rush

**Fearless/Mor'loci.**__ _With nothing left to live for, Lantar is damn near unstoppable in battle, and does not fear death; confers partial immunity to stun and domination effects as well._

**The Young Guns**

**Dara Velnaran**

Sniper rifle, Pistol, Assault rifle

**Neural shock (melee and ranged): **_Dara's expert knowledge of anatomy allows her to use crippling strikes on any opponent other than a krogan or a geth; at range, she uses a electric shock device to stun enemies without necessarily killing them._

**Combat medic:**_ Can apply medigel and first aid treatments even under fire, getting her team back on their feet and keeping people from dying. Having that assurance gives her squad a morale boost, as well._

**Rellus Velnaran**

Assault rifles, Sniper rifles, Pistol, Shotgun, Heavy weapons

**Aura of Command:**___Rel's leadership abilities give him a bonus to squad tactics and a morale bonus to everyone in his squad. His bonus and Dara's bonus stack._

**Resolve:** _Rel's indomitable will gives him a minor bonus against mental effects, and his strength of character provides a diplomacy bonus with everyone with whom he interacts._

**Siara Tesala**

Shockwave, Lift, Shield, Pistols

**Empathy:** _Siara can take pain into herself_, _allowing a squad-mate to stay standing in spite of the worst wounds. A dangerous ability, because it does not actually __heal__ the squad-mate, but prevents them from collapsing to the ground. Too much pain can damage her own nerve endings._

**Pleasure/Pain:** _With the ability to take pain from others, comes the ability to __inflict__ it. As a biotic, she can stroke the nerve endings of another being, and either bring them enormous pleasure, or incredible amounts of paralyzing pain, stunning them, freezing them in place._

**Urdnot Makur**

Shield, Throw, Lift, Shotgun, Krogan regeneration

**Wildchild:** _Makur has spent his entire life on Tuchanka. He is attuned to natural phenomena and creatures. He instinctively perceives the weak points of any natural creature (and receives a bonus when he fights them), and is almost instantly aware when he is being tracked or watched._

**Guardian: **_Makur has spent much of his life helping to protect the females and the young of Clan Urdnot. He receives a massive defensive bonus (like a shield wall) when he settles in to defend others._

**Elijah Sidonis**

Sniper rifle, Pistols, Melee specialization (_muay thai_)

**Diplomacy/Empathy:** _Eli can usually talk a jumper off a ledge, and can do it in three languages. He has an instinctive understanding of other species' mindsets, and gains an automatic bonus when dealing with asari or turians._

**Law. . . **: _By the time Eli joins B-Sec, he's spent 2 years in turian Military Police, giving him SWAT/combat experience and 2 years in turian CID (Criminal Investigations Department/Command, a step up from regular MPs). His SWAT/combat background makes him a __very__ tough opponent in a fight, and since turians have no compunctions about shooting suspects, neither does he. Translates to a +4 bonus to all attacks, melee and ranged._

**. . . and Order**_**:**__ Eli has a background in criminal investigation, some understanding of forensics, and highly __acute observational skills__, in addition to knowing local and turian laws and regulations backwards, forwards, and sideways. He can detect stealthed attackers, hidden doors, and concealed caches._

**Serana Velnaran**

Pistols, Sniper rifle, melee specialization

**Stealth**

**Shadow strike**

**Intelligence gathering**: _There isn't a computer system or lock that Serana cannot pick, hack, or decrypt. Gains AI hacking as a result of this, and carries a full load of viruses and electronic warfare options in her omnitool at all times._

**Turian Intelligence Operative:** _Serana's training has shown her how to shape an environment to her own needs, including placing traps to damage opponents, funnel them into a kill zone, and how to detect and disarm bombs and other hidden dangers. Her mastery of stealth is absolute enough that she can move into enemy-controlled zones, set traps, and move away before triggering them._

**Kallixta Essedarius/ Praesesidis/Velnaran**

Pistols, Submachine gun, Shotgun

**Turian pilot:** _If it has wings, Kallixta can fly it. Shuttle, dropship, Hammerhead, or Normandy-class ship. She has astounding reflexes and an imperviousness to g-forces that goes beyond regular troops' training._

**Imperial scion:** _Turians almost instinctively obey Kallixta and will automatically move to protect her. This provides a defensive unit bonus to any squad she's affiliated with, and a diplomacy bonus to any leader she chooses to back._

**Rinus Velnaran**

Shotgun, Submachine gun, heavy weapons, pistol, assault rifle, sniper rifle.

**Weapons expert:** _If it can shoot or explode, Rinus probably can use it, disassemble it, or reassemble it; automatically proficient with all major weapons and has a bonus to their damage and accuracy._

**Turian NCO**: _Tough-minded and stern, he's a steadying influence on all of his squad. With him at their side, no turian will break or run in fear (squad morale bonus vs. fear and domination effects; limited personal bonus vs. the same)._

**Random NPCs**

**Blasto/Voice-of-Peace-Amid-Chaotic-Currents**

Pistols, Shotguns

**Warp.**

**Stealth.**

**Rend.** _Blasto's biotic energies lasso both ends of an enemy and pull the body in two directions simultaneously. Much akin to the medieval technique of quartering a traitor, this results in the body being torn apart, often at the waist. Most effective on bipedal opponents or large sharks._

**Voice of the Enkindlers**_**. **__In D&D terms, this ability is similar to the __enthrall__ spell, as used by a sorcerer or a bard. So long as Blasto channels the ability, opponents in the area who would otherwise be hostile are pacified, and may not even remember that the party has been through the area, especially if the party has been stealthed._

**Livanus Cautoris**, Turian Infiltrator (Wife's name, Talana)

Pistols, Sniper rifle, assault rifle

**Hacking/Encryption.**

**AI Hacking.**

**Overload.**

**Concussive Shot.**

**Ylara Alir**

Pistols, Submachine gun

**Shockwave**

**Lift field **

**Throw**

**Biotic armor**

**The Enemies:**

**Lina Vasir**

Domination

**Despair.**___A group biotic assault; causes targets to be dazed, disoriented; not as powerful as domination; essentially gives everyone a -4 to saving throws. In conjunction with the simulator artifact, locks people into a form of stasis._

Barrier

Throw

Heavy armor

Originally conceived of as the nightmare combination of Tela Vasir and Morinth, in terms of her abilities, she's both hard to kill and desperately annoying to fight. At least she doesn't pop all around the room and force you to hit pause just to target her, over and over again.

**Lystheni types and abilities**

_**Biotics branch agents:**_

Domination OR Reave

Lift OR Singularity

Shockwave

_Cannot be used as hibernating husks/assassins. Cannot control others, except through domination effect._

_**Tech branch agents:**_

Overload

AI hacking

Poison cloud OR neural shock

Flamethrower OR Cryo spray

Stealth

**Hibernation.**_ When sent into hibernation, they can be controlled and used as nearly undetectable husks/assassins._

_**Tech/biotic controllers:**_

Lift OR Slam

Shockwave

Overload

AI hacking

**Controllers**_. Use chips to control hibernating husk assassins and the biotic 'ship-to-ship' weapons._

**Timeline**

_Part IV: The Spirit of Victory_

**Pending!**

**Civilizations of the past:**

**The Sowers**. Possibly, the race that created the initial Reapers. Occupied Junthor, a now-derelict world around a red dwarf star. Asari have only deciphered one set of writings from their monumental architecture: look on our works. . . and "monsters from the id." For purposes of these stories, the Sowers created the mini-Reaper, the simulation device and the 'upload' device. All three use biotic energies, which implies that the Sowers were biotic, themselves, and probably used eezo technology (which is where the Reapers would have gotten it from). Their red dwarf star has a long enough life-span to account for the millions and millions of years that the Reapers have been around, though Junthor may not have been their first, or indeed, even only home. No known survivors of the Sowers exist.

They probably occupied _many_ planets, but no current information appears to be in the ME Codex to substantiate this.

**The Keepers**. Aphras, Tosal Nym, Etamis, and Klendagon were originally occupied by the race which was eventually transformed into the Keepers. Their planetary empire was probably much larger than this, but again, there's only so much information that is attested for the time period in question. Canonically, all four worlds suffered damage from mass effect-propelled projectiles hurled from space in the same time period. Thus, there is likely a connection.

Watches-the-Gates-Of-Ruin is the only known survivor of the pre-destruction Keepers. They were insectile, six-legged, but highly intelligent, and originally evolved in the heavy gravity of Etamis, where an exoskeleton was cumbersome, but helpful, and their six-legged mode of locomotion kept them steady in spite of falls. They were alone in the galaxy, but promoted the evolution of new life forms, specifically the Protheans. They uncovered the uploader relic on Junthor between 150-200 years before the Reapers attacked their worlds. The Citadel existed in their era, but they did not use it, finding it oddly grave-like and unoccupied.

Keepers derived their names from their jobs. The longer the name, the more honor and respect. They were not given, but earned. When their parents died, the eldest offspring received the living memories of them by biotic transmission, if they were close enough in physical proximity. Unbroken chains of more than three generations were unusual. Thus, Ruin is in a unique position as a historian, having five generations of the living memory of his people within him, over a thousand years of memory and history.

**Palaven information:**

Palaven has two large continents, east and west, and a smaller continent currently located at its southern pole. The south pole, in winter, is shadowed, due to axial tilt, and actually sees temperatures as low as -22º F, and is the only place where snow actually falls on this tropical world. The north pole, like Earth's, is warmer, because there is no land there, only the relatively warm ocean waters. There is no ice at the north pole for most of the year; in winter, a thin crust forms, and dissipates again every spring.

Raetia is on the western continent, and is the largest city there; the Vakarian and Velnaran clans hail from its outskirts. Complovium is the capital of the eastern continent, and is the location of the Imperator's palace complex.

Palaven has two moons: Rhenus and Dymion. Rhenus is the location of major manufacturing concerns and some of the spaceyards; the rest of the spaceyards are located in orbital facilities surrounding the planet. Dymion has a thin atmosphere of CO2, and some surface water. There are cities built into the long-dead volcanic craters here, and from Palaven's surface, you can sometimes see the man-made lights, even when the moons themselves are in shadow.

Telavin, Palaven's closest orbital neighbor, occupies the same relative orbit in its system as Mars does, relative to Earth. Telavin is twice the size of Palaven, and has an iron core.

Palaven's orbit is 445 days in length; it is further from its primary star than Earth is from Sol, suggesting that its star is brighter and hotter, and probably somewhat younger.

Places of interest: Quercetum jungle, on western continent. Aequor, major port, western continent, on eastern coast. Complovium, center of the Hierarchy, largest city on Palaven, eastern continent. Raetia, largest city on the western continent.

**Turian calendar:**

Palaven's orbit is 445 days

Week is 8 days long (unless it's a galactic week, which boot camp does follow)

5 weeks a month

11 months a year

5 extra days each year, on which they celebrate the new year and seasonal changes

So:

_**New Year's day**_

**Primus** 40 days

**Secdus** 40 days

**Tertius** 40 days

_**Xlorae**_—Celebration of spring

**Quartus** 40 days

**Quinus** 40 days

_**Castrum**_—Celebration of summer

**Imperus** 40 days (The sixth month was renamed for the Imperial Family during Unification Wars)

**Septus** 40 days

**Octus** 40 days

_**Aristum**_—Celebration of autumn

**Novenus** 40 days

**Decius** 40 days

**Finus** 40 days

_**Brumae**_—Celebration of winter

That means that Rellus' birthday is Quartus 14, if anyone is actually interested.

**Turian rank structure:**

_Enlisted:_

_Hastae_ E1 grade; private or seaman.

_conculae _E2, private first class

_Pilae _E3; lance corporal

_chalsae _E4 corporal

_Centurion_. E5. A centurion is a sergeant, but the rank carries a great deal more weight in the turian military; there aren't as many gradations of sergeant as in the human forces, where there were gunnery sergeants and staff sergeants and master sergeants, a centurion was a _centurion_.

If there are a _lot_ of centurions in a unit, some of them might be given the designation _senior centurion_, just for clarity's sake.

Above centurion, there are two routes to take:

_Optio, ranks 1-4: _From an old name for a soldier who could read or write; these were staff or highly technical positions, roughly equivalent to a human warrant officer. They rose from enlisted to officer at that point, but retained their centurion years for pay purposes, while gaining an officer's commission.

_Primus pilus_ _centurion_—first file centurion. Ranks, 1-4. _Primus pilus_ centurions spend a _lot_ of time in the field, and are the real reason the turian military runs as effectively as it does.

_Officer:_

Lieutenant, j.g., O1

Lieutenant, O2

Lieutenant-commander O3

Commander, O4

Captain, O5

Tribune, 05 (Lt. Colonel)

Prefect, 06 (Colonel)

Legate or General; depends on translation or branch of service., 07 (General, 1 star), or Nauarchus, Admiral, 1-star

Senior legate or Senior admiral = 2-4 star general

Imperator = 5 star general. Hereditary rank.

**Turian military decorations**

There are vast numbers of these, ranging from good-conduct medallions to unit-wide awards. When awarded, they are literally still medallions, hanging from ribbons, looped around someone's neck; when worn on a dress uniform, they are ribbons, similar to the bar of ribbons human military organizations use. They are not worn on working uniforms, or, obviously, armor.

_aes clipeus – _"copper medallion" – turian medal given for gallantry

_agata clipeus – _"silver medallion" turian medal given for conspicuous gallantry

_aura clipeus - _"golden medallion" turian medal given for conspicuous heroism. Usually awarded posthumously. Also known as the Dead Man's Decoration, for that reason.

_clipeus celare –_ secret operations medal. Awarded in copper, silver, or gold.

Police/CID medallions:

_aes mereo_ – copper 'pay' – awarded for meritorious service, an investigation that shows intelligence and diligence.

_agata mereo_ – silver 'pay' – awarded for exceptionally meritorious service, including saving the life of a fellow officer, exceptional diligence or gallantry

_aura mereo – _gold 'pay' – awarded for extreme service or gallantry, generally laying down one's life to save a civilian or a brother cop. Tends to get handed out a lot to people in bomb disposal units.

_pugnator siderious_ – combat star. Awarded for SWAT activities that involved gallantry.

_clipeus volatere –_ medal of flight; awarded to an ace. Multiple awards possible; awarded every five confirmed kills.

_commina narthecium – _coffer of unguents, the award given to combat medics. Blue ribbon if the medic's blood spilled while treating his or her patient.

_sangua_ _clipeus – _"medallion of blood" = Turian Purple Heart

**Turian Governance**

Regional governmental units are _prefectures_, such as Dacia.

The Conclave of Lawgivers is the group of lawyers and judges assembled to study laws and write new ones. There are 600 lawgivers in the Conclave. All are appointed for life, and must have at least 20 years' standing as a minister of the law, adjudicator, or judge. They are _appointed_ by command of the Imperator, although he selects them from a list prepared by his ministers of state. A combination of the law-writing and law-adjudication principles of the Supreme Court and House of Representatives of the United States.

The other leg of the government is the Conclave of the Dominae, or the nobles. Technically, anyone with noble blood or who has been presented with a patent of nobility can speak here; in practice, only about 2,000 people actually do. The CoD, like the US Senate or the British House of Lords, has approval or disapproval voting rights over laws that originate in the CoL. They also control the governmental budget/the exchequer. In theory, they _can_ vote against the wishes of the Imperator. It is rare that they will overturn a law that he has expressly backed, himself.

The Imperator or the Imperatrix (if the first-born happens to have been female) is the third leg of the turian government, the supreme executive power. He is head of the military, first law-giver, and first-lord, but does have _some_ restrictions on his power. He cannot _break_ the law. He can make changes to existing laws or propose new ones, but the CoL exists to make sure that no laws are made that do not reflect precedent in some fashion or another, and the CoD is permitted to exercise restraint.

_**Normandy**_**-class ships and their essential personnel:**

**SR-1s**

**Human ships:**

_Tarawa,_ Captain Ayame Takahashi; Aurelia AI, deceased.

_Estallus, _Captain Jallus; AI Laetia

Pilot Macenus, pilot in training, Kallixta Essedarius

Doctor, Valea Cimmirian; Combat Medic, Lt. Dara Velnaran; Med Tech, Sgt. Ghada abd-Yasu (Lebanese, raised in Britain)

Main Weapons battery, Centurion Rinus Velnaran, section head of ordnance and munitions. His second, Chalsae Alcaeus Pirius.

Engineering, Lt. Commander Beatrice D'Abney; Engineering Senior Centurion, Fenatus Fabrian

Turian Marines: Lt. Rasmus Cadius, Lt. Decimus Corolan, Lt. Nadea Curicium

Special Forces: Lt. Rellus Velnaran, Lt. Dara "Doc" Velnaran

_Praetorian Guard members: _Vela Reimian (Warrior) and Pallum Madenius (infiltrator).

_Dunkirk_, Captain Chandrakant Kapur, AI, Kynthia. Lt. Chang, pilot. Dr. Kyriake Theopolis (Greek), chief medical officer.

_Kharkov,___Captain Oksana Mikhailova Orlova, deceased; AI, Pelagia. Dr. Bozidar Macan (Croatian), chief medical officer.

_Zeeland. _AI, Corrina

_Narvik. _AI, Athanasia

_Lille. _AI, Eirene

_Calais. _AI, Gaiana

_Bastogne. _AI, Ligeia

_St. Vith. _AI, Roxana

_Metz. _AI, Xanthe

_Arnhem. _AI, Zosime

_Crimea. _AI, Nefertari

_Moscow. _AI, Kyllikki

_Kiev. _AI, Morana

_Leyte. _AI, Ziva

_Wake. _AI, Marama

_Iwo Jima. _AI, Asherah

_Okinawa. _AI, Nanaea

_Midway._ AI, Tanith

**Turian ships:**

_Armidus. _AI,Concordia, pilot, Nicus Abendian.

_Teredius. _AI, Aeliana

_Malinus. _AI, Marianna

_Khorae. _AI, Floriana

_Cusorae. _AI, Fiammetta

_Pellinae. _AI, Fabiola

_Dellanus. _AI, Juliana

_Beregarus. _AI, Iovita

_Patenia. _AI, Lucilla

_Salgorus. _AI, Pomponia

_Urius. _AI, Sabina

_Nellashi. _AI, Domitia

_Terrentia. _AI, Vibiana

**SR-3s**

_Nereia._ Demostata, AI. Dr. Hsaio, CMO, Lantar's ship.

_Raedia_, Lysandra AI, Dr. Manerian, Captain Arius, Sky's ship.

**SR-4s/Gunships**

_Hamus. _Ariston, male AI, "son" of Rinus, Kallixta, and Laetia.

**Turian dictionary**

_Based on really bastardized Latin. I apologize to anyone out there who's actually taken the language. My languages were German, Russian, and Anglo-Saxon, so I can only make stuff up here. :)_

_acrocanth __– _two-legged apex predator with long spines along neck and back; about thirty-six feet tall. Rare on modern Palaven.

_aes clipeus – _"copper medallion" – turian medal given for gallantry

_aesaris_ – most common of the old turian coins; made of copper or of silver, depending on the era in which they were struck.

_aestus_ – Unit of turian temperature measurement system; 110 degrees Fahrenheit = 100 _aestus._

_agata clipeus – _"silver medallion" turian medal given for conspicuous gallantry

_agatum – _second most common coin of the old turian system; made of silver. Worth 100 _aesaris._

_amillula – _affectionate term for a little or younger sister-in-law; amil = sister, lula, little

_ama'fradu_ – beloved of my brother; sister-in-law

_amatra, amatus_ – beloved, feminine/masculine ending

_amil'ama_ – sister of my beloved; sister-in-law

_amil'amu _– beloved of my sister; brother-in-law

_ama'filu_ – beloved of my daughter, son-in-law.

_ama'filus _– beloved of my son, daughter-in-law

_anilias_ – a degenerative neurological disorder

_anserae –_ small, semi-aquatic herbivores; turian three-toed geese, essentially.

_asperitalla – _little and fierce

_abereo –_ bring, or bear

_adamare _– I love

_apatarae_ – Apatasaurus/brontosaurus. Smaller than Terran equivalent, and domesticated. Marrow-bearing bones. Another food animal.

_ascio – _adoption rites

_aura clipeus - _"golden medallion" turian medal given for conspicuous heroism. Usually awarded posthumously. Also known as the Dead Man's Decoration, for that reason.

_aurum_ – least common coin of the old turian system; made of gold, it was worth 1,000 agatum.

_bianasae_ – anabisetia analogue; 6-7 foot long herbivore, weighing 40-50 lbs. Common prey of pack-hunting villi, the _bianasa/e_ fill the ecological niche of deer.

_caprificus _– turian fig tree. Fruit has purple skin with multiple layers, much like an onion, but softer and more pliable.

_cinctus – _chain belt; given by a male turian to his mate; worn under the clothes, the jingling sound is something of a tease; worn over the clothes, it draws attention to the waist. Equivalent of lingerie, more or less.

_commeditor – "_practice marriage;" 1-2 year marriage contract, akin to the concept of human "hand-fasting." Least binding form of _manus_ contract. No children permitted. No consolidation of property allowed.

_commina narthecium_ – the "coffer of combat unguents" is a medal offered to combat medics. Repeat awards are designated by clusters; if the medic's own blood spilled during the effort to save another's life, the ribbon on the _narthecium_ is colored blue.

_compara, comparu, comparae_ – mate, mates.

_cuderae – _Small ankylosaurus; the size of three Terran bison, domesticated for pulling plows.

_dacha/dachae_ – Extremely large crocodilians, about three times the size of a modern Nile crocodile. Name taken from _Dakosaurus__**.**_

_denae – _Teeth, plural; dena, singular

_dimicato'fradu_ or _dimicato'amila –_ battle-brother or battle-sister

_Note: all of these variants of 'you' apply solely to nominative case._

_ela – _you, spoken by a male to a female, formal; inferior to superior

_elar – _your,spoken by a male to a female, formal; inferior to superior

_elen_ – you, spoken by female to female, formal; inferior to superior

_eler_ - your, spoken by female to female, formal; inferior to superior

_elii_ – you, spoken by a male to a female of equal rank or on intimate footing

_eliir_ – your, spoken by a male to a female of equal rank or on intimate footing

_elua _– you, spoken by a male to a female, superior to inferior.

_elur_ – you, spoken by a male to a female, superior to inferior.

_fila_ – daughter, or daughter-in-law

_fradu'ama_ – brother of my beloved; brother-in-law

_futtari – _fucking, adjectival form. Verb form is _futar_.

_galae –_ tree native to Palaven and naturalized to Mindoir; tropical jade and purple leaves that can retract into the trunk when it gets cold.

_innupta_ – sort of a servant and bodyguard, combined. Can act as a body-double if the person they're guarding needs a decoy.

_iunkundita/s _– the warm glow left by physical activity done well; a match well-sparred, a hard day's work in the yard, really good sex, etc.

_iusiuru – _oaths

_jalae_ – wood of a hardwood tree native to Palaven, fine-grained. Considered the best wood for carving.

_lanura_ – A small, winged creature, maybe the size of a turian's hand, which usually clings to the backs of the wild _talashae_ and _apaterae _in their herds, eating the tiny lizards and winged creatures that occupied the insect ecological niche on Palaven. Its wings are as colorful as a Terran butterfly's, however, and they have been domesticated for centuries as pets. They have a temperament similar to a cat's. _Anurognathus_ equivalent.

_luteus_ – a yellow turian spice, akin to turmeric

_mada'ama_ – mother of my beloved; mother-in-law

_mada'amila –_ 'mother of my sister'– mother-in-law of my sister

_mada'fradu_ – 'mother of my brother' – mother-in-law of my brother

_Malleolus –_ Sledgehammer. Name of a shoulder-mounted turian rocket.

_mellis_ – sweetness

_na or n'_- not

_nepa –_ Giant sea scorpion, about 5' in length, or the meat thereof, taken from the legs or the tail.

_olorae –_ This species of pterosaur has a wingspan of about 13 feet and an ostrich-sized body. A frugivore, its eggs are commonly used in turian cusine. The yolks are a blue-violet, instead of yellow, so scrambled _olorae _eggs are lilac. Visually similar to _Bakonydraco_.

_padu'amu_ – 'father of my beloved'

_padu'fradu_ – father of my brother. Quick way of saying 'father-in-law of my brother.'

_panis_ – turian flatbread; unleavened.

_papaverus – _turian equivalent of morphine.

_phasela –_ Turian zucchini

_pleura/pleurae_ – _Liopleurodon _equivalent. Four flippers, lots of teeth, aquatic reptile that competes with, and even eats small sharks in Palaven's oceans.

_Q'ubi – _when

_rlata/rlatae –_ Similar to therizinosaurs. Domesticated for riding purposes, between eight or nine feet in height, with forwards-facing eyes that hint at a carnivorous past. Have long arms with long, spindly fingers meant for grasping branches. They are largely covered in scales, but have ridges of feather-like structures running down their necks, the backs of their arms, and the backs of their legs, for identification and communication. Usually dark green, with lighter green dappling along the sides, and vivid splashes of red and yellow in its feathery crest and arm and leg bands. Can run at about 70 kph for up to thirty minutes before tiring; its middle pace is slower, about 60 kph, but can be kept up for hours. At an endurance gait, like a canter, the best a horse can manage is about 24 kph.

_remmeo – _he/she/it returns

_sa – _his

_sangua_ _clipeus – _"medallion of blood" = Turian Purple Heart

_s'kak – _shit

_soporium_ – a mild sedative, safe for use on salarians and other levo species.

_talashae_ – Turian variant of the triceratops. Marrow-bearing bones; essentially, a really _big_ cow for them

_talas'kak – _literally, _talashae_ shit. A human would say horseshit or bullshit in context.

_Note: all of these variants of 'you' apply solely to nominative case._

_talu _ – you, spoken by a female to a male of equal rank or on intimate footing

_talu'a_ – you, plural, formal, spoken by either a male or a female to a group.

_talur_ – your, spoken by a female to a male of equal rank or on intimate footing

_talen_ – you, spoken by male to male, formal; inferior to superior

_taler_ - your, spoken by male to male, formal; inferior to superior

_taluu _– you, spoken by a female to a male, superior to inferior.

_talaur_ – you, spoken by a male to a male, superior to inferior.

_vates –_ Father, formal, genitive; _vatu_ is nominative (_padu_ is informal, like 'dad')

_Villi_ – small pack predator, the size of a wild turkey. Velociraptor equivalent.

**Tal'mae**

_Tal'mae__ is the lingua franca of the Turian Hierarchy. Most people know at least a __little__; ritual phrases, legal phrases. It serves the purpose Latin served in medieval Europe, binding the people of many colonies together, and is the language of law, contracts, poetry, and science._

_a'petentia –_ I want

_a'condonia – _I give

_addicto – _judgment, verdict, words

_Adiunctus – _Join, be one with, unify with; imperative/command form

_animae –_ spirit or life, depending on context. Often means both at the same time.

_averso –_ behind

_denae – _Teeth, plural; _dena_, singular; same in contemporary turian

_eliir – _your_; _informal genitive/possessive, directed at a female; same as in contemporary turian

_Constarum - _remains

_gensae –_ clan

_i_ _ – _and

_Ita – thus _

_kogitae –_ mind or thoughts

_korporae – _body

_meus – _mine

_moraeris __ – _to bite the air, or to speak

_mor'amoreo __ –_ to bite in passion, or a mating-bite

_morseo_ _ – _ to bite in combat, or to fight

_Morsus __ – _To bite food, or to eat

_oporte – _should be

_pa -_ in

_tulla –_ that

_talus _– you, accusative, implies a pronoun such as 'to' in front of it; directed at a male on intimate terms, spoken by a female; same as in contemporary turian

_sa – his_, same as in standard turian

_v –_ in; usually appended to the beginning of a word. _v'animae; _in spirit/life

_Meus iusiuru_, _meus anima_.My oath is my spirit/life.

_Sa addicto averso meus denae, sa animae pa meus korporae._ His words/judgment behind my teeth, his spirit in my flesh.

Fragments of the full _tal'mae_ rites are used in _manus_ marriages; the portion used in Rellus and Dara's wedding is the _heart_ of the _tal'mae _rites.

Male to female: _"A'petentia tulla eliir animae oporte meus."_ I want that your spirit/life should be mine. More poetically translated_, give to me your life, your spirit._

Female to male: _"Ita meus animae, a'condonia talus."_ Thus my life and spirit, I give to you.

Male to female: _"A'petentia tulla eliir kogitae oporte meus."_ I want that your thoughts should be mine.

Female to male: _"Ita meus kogitae, a'condonia talus."_ Thus my mind, I give to you.

Male to female: _"A'petentia tulla eliir oporte korporae meus."_ I want that your body should be mine.

Female to male: "_Ita meus korporae, a'condonia talus."_ Thus my body, I give to you.

Male to female: _"Ita meus animae, ita meus kogitae, ita meus korporae, a'condonia eliis."_ And thus I give to you my life and spirit, my thoughts, my body. _"Adiunctus meus gensae."_ Join, be one, with my clan.

**Turian body language**

_One finger raised_ – leader to subordinates "You are not yet permitted to speak" or "quiet."

_Hands palms up_ – "What can you do?"; equivalent of a helpless shrug, although turians also use the human shoulders-raised equivalent.

_One hand, thumb to fingers, then flick_ – "Push off." Varies by degree of emphasis from mildly humorous to "fuck off" rude.

_Both hands, thumb to fingers, double flick_ – complete exasperation; equivalent of a human throwing their hands in the air. "I give up."

_Female rubbing her spurs against a male's spurs_ – mild flirtation. A female deer telling a stag "nice antlers."

_Mates of either gender, hooking a foot behind the other's ankle, under the_ _spur_ – "Calm down" or "I'm with you" or "Steady" given the context.

**Asari dictionary**

_Based visually on Polynesian, though I have no training in that language-group; I wanted something that looked heavy on vowels and tones, but could suggest lots of inferences._

_Mana'ya ka'ulluea, pa no aiellu - _Does your mind grasp the import of this speech

_Ka'ulle aiellu, sao'se mailo mahai._ - Thatwhich I grasp tightest, slips soonest_._

_Aeoill'ai lan'__ulle, lapea'ulle__ Alone I stand, sundered, _

_riaeu'ai, seaeo'ai; Riven, driven;_

_seo'sano a paio, pia'sao. separated by distance and time._

_Lia'lano'ulle aiellu'u__ Surrounded by voices,_

_N'maieolo'ya__ without your beloved touch,_

_ia __aeoill'ai'__ulle.__ still I am alone._

_Hiyae'uelleo sai'kaea, n'ka'uelleo wea; sano'ra'eaulo; hiyae'uelleo lana'ha sai'kaea, a weo diya'da 'ealea. Hiyae'uelleo lana'ha sai'kaea, a weo kala'ha_'_ealeo y'asaea tia sai'kaea'yilo, a maru, lapea'eaul._

**Pronouns:**

There is no masculine pronoun in asari. There is the feminine, used for all living, sapient beings, out of courtesy, and there is a neuter pronoun, used for the inanimate. _She_ and _it_, but no _he_, in short.

Pronouns are, on the whole, rarer in asari than in English. A lot of meaning is derived from the endings on the verbs and the nouns. Lots of information is thus conveyed by implication, making it a subtle language. I hope.

_weo_ – she

_wea_ – her

_weao_ – hers

_teo _–it

_teao_ – its

_wala_ – we

_wela _- us

'_yili_ – my or mine, in the present

'_yilo_ – my or mine, in the past

**Verb endings:**

'_uelle – _I ending, present tense

'_uelleo – _I ending, past tense

'_uel_ – you ending, present tense

'_uelo_ – you ending, past tense

'_ealea_ – she ending, present tense

'_ealeo_ – she ending, past tense

'_eaul_ – we ending, present tense

'_eaulo_ – we ending, past tense.

_a_ – and

_Aeoill'ai _– alone

_aeoill'ai'__ulle _– being alone; condition modified into verb, first person, present tense.

_aiellu _– to hold something important, or to hold tightly to an idea. The use of the aphorism in context was also something of a play on words. Also used for the following nouns: speech, voice, idea

_aiellu'u – _'u ending means 'by'; by voices or thoughts or ideas

_diya'da –_ to die

_ha_ – than

_harao'ulle_ – I give

_hiyae'uelle _– I have; _hiyae'uelleo_, I had.

_ia_ – still

_ka'ulluea, ka'ulle _– does grasp, I grasp

_kala'ha_ – to cause

_lana'ha _- another

_lan'__ulle – _I stand

_lapea'ulle _ - I am sundered; adjective actually takes the verb ending here.

_Lia'lano'ulle –_ Literally, I am surrounded or I am enclosed or encircled; I am 'little within'.

_lia'kaea_ – little one; beloved, as a child to her mother.

_Mana'ya – _Mind, possessive

_maai'a _– mother

_maai'a'selai_ – second-mother

_mailo – _passes away

_mahai_ – indicates short duration; short-lived species are _mahai, _too.

_maieolo'rae_, the little touch, which children use among each other, or mothers and children. Just thoughts, impressions, love. No touching, other than a hug, a kiss on the cheek.

_maieolo'saeo_, the knowing touch. Exchange of information. Impersonal

_maieolo'loa'kareo_. Full mental and physical sharing.

_maieolo'rae'kiia. _Full mental openness, light physical intimacy.

_maieolo'rae'kareo –_ full physical intimacy, only very light mental contact.

_marai'ha'sai - _more-than-fair; one's beloved, in every sense.

_maru_ - thus

_N' –_ without, not, negation

_n'aiellu'mai_ – insult. A thoughtless person, a person who is ill-spoken, or stupid.

_paio - _Time

_pia'sao –_ Space

_piae_ – here

_railloa'_ – sell, to put a price to

_riaeu'ai _– Riven, sundered, broken. Adjective.

_sai'kaea - _fair one; someone dear to you. Friend or intimate, but not a singular beloved.

_sano'ra_ – to drift

_sao'se – _slips

_seaeo'ai_ – Driven or forced. Adjective.

_seo'sano – _separated, past tense

_tia_ – to

_wulo_ – from

_y'asaea_ - harm

'_ya_ – ending indicating "your"

_yeoa_' - go

'_yi_ – ending indicating accusative, you

**Genealogy**

**The Vakarian – Velnaran clan**

Pilana—Gavius

Garrus Vakarian, first-son (b. 2153; age in _Redemption_, 37-39)—Lilitu Shepard (b. April 11, 2154, **canonical**; age in _Redemption_, 36-38)

Kaius Vakarian, (b. March 27, 2187)

Amara Vakarian, (b. March 27, 2187)

Alain Vakarian (b. January 18, 2192)

Elissa Vakarian (b. January 18, 2192)

_Kaius and Amara were born when Shepard and Garrus were 33 and 34 respectively. Alain and Elissa were born when their parents were 38 and 39._

Egidus Vakarian, second-son (age, 33)—Cardea Vakarian

Aurea Vakarian first-daughter, 13 (b. 2178)

Gatia, second-daughter, 12 in 2191 (b. 2179)

Marentus, first-son, 10 in 2191 (b. 2181)

Solanna Velnaran, first-daughter (age, 32)—Allardus Velnaran, first-son

Rinus Velnaran, 21-23 (b. 2169) first-son, Centurion—Kallixta Praesesidis-Velnaran, fifth-daughter, Lieutenant.

Rellus Velnaran, 15-17, (b. 2175) second-son, Lieutenant,—Dara Elizabeth Jaworski-Velnaran, Lieutenant, Doctor

Serana Velnaran, 9-11 (b. 2180) first- daughter

Polina Velnaran, 6-8 (b. 2184) second-daughter

Quintus Velnaran, 5-7 (b. 2185), third-son

Rellus born Quartus 14, 2175

Rinus was born when Solanna was 21; she got out of her 4 years of mandatory service and went off her birth-control immediately. She and Allardus waited almost six years to have a second child, and then, once they got really stable, went the big family route, although Quintus was a little unexpected.

Yes, I fully realize that with 445 days per year, Rel is probably actually not 16 in _human years_, but closer to 19 at the start of the story. To which I say, piffle. He's 16 in turian years at the start, and he is the same age as Dara developmentally, emotionally, and spiritually, so let's not let the calendar I developed mess things up.

Velnaran clan paint = Two upside down capital Ys, one on each side of the face; the fork of the Y cuts to corner of the jaw and the outside of the chin; the tail of the Y goes through the eye region to somewhere on the forehead.

**The Jaworskis**

Agnes Mielke—Alexander Kennard Jaworski

Samuel Kennard Jaworski—Sarah Jarman;

Dara Elizabeth Jaworski—Rellus Velnaran (married June 18, 2191, aka _Xlorae_)

Samuel Jaworski—Kasumi Goto (February 2192)

Son, Takeshi Kennard Jaworski born, February 14, 2193

Dara born October 30, 2175

Sam born November 18, 2150

Sarah's brother Hamilton Jarman, his wife Allison, and their little boy, James Jarman, are Dara's closest living human relatives, in addition to her grandma Agnes Jaworski. Sarah and Hamilton's parents were killed in a groundcar accident when Dara was three; she doesn't remember them. Grandpa Alexander died of a heart attack shortly before Sam got out of N7, when Dara was approximately five or six years old.

**The Sidonis Family**

Lantar Sidonis—Eleanor (Ellie) Stockton, nee Chambers

Elijah Marcus Sidonis (b. 2176) (formerly Stockton; son of Derek Stockton)

Caelia Sidonis (b. 2190)

Tacitus and Emily Sidonis (b. February 11, 2193)

Caelia born March 17, 2190

Elijah born April 17, 2176

Elijah was nine or ten when his father died. He and his mom were on their own for a year or two, and then in 2187, Lantar entered their lives. Lantar and Ellie were married in 2188. Caelia was conceived in 2189, and born 2190. Lantar has thus been in Elijah's life as his father-figure for about four years in 2191.

**Others**

Liara T'soni, aka _Argus_—Feron

Fiara

Kal'Reegar—Tali'Zorah

Zael'Reegar, 4 years old

Maeri'Reegar, born 2293

Dr. Mordin Solus—Lystheni Dalatras Meve Xana

Narayana, young female. (b. Oct 11, 2191)

**Your Spectre handball team**:

_Goalie_, Elijah Sidonis

_Alternate goalie_, Paotr Kend, drell

First line:

_Pivot_: Ulluthr Mazz, son of Ulluthr Kanar, nephew of Blood Pack merc Ulluthr Harak

_Right wing_: Sostrus

_Center_: Linianus Pellarian; close enough to Eli's age that they'll be in boot camp together.

_Left wing:_ Kaestrus

_Left defenseman:_ Demyan Kulos, drell

_Right defenseman:_ Thomas Hadley

Second line:

_Pivot_: Paselus

_Right wing:_ Urius

_Center_: Telinus Karpavian; white stripes; 6" shorter than Milonus, but older; close enough to Eli's age that they'll be in boot camp together.

_Left wing:_ Milonus; red face paint, solid

_Right defenseman:_ Elaidio Hernandez

_Left defenseman: _Masyan Pirov, drell

**Clan paint allocations:**

Vakarian: Blue. Colony origin: Unknown. Worn by Garrus, Lilitu Shepard, and Kaius and Amara Vakarian. _**CANONICAL**__._

Black and white stripes. Colony origin: Unknown. Worn by Nihlus, Macenus, and Livanus. _**CANONICAL**__._

Sidonis. Violet slashes along jawline. Colony origin: Unknown. Worn by Lantar Sidonis, Eleanor Sidonis, Elijah Sidonis, and Caelia Sidonis. _**CANONICAL**_

Thracia Colony: _Upside down yellow Ys. _

Worn by: All the Velnarans.

Gothis Colony: _Dark green swirls. _

Worn by: Onorians (deceased), Ken and Gabby Donnelly-Onorian, and Lycus Provian

Rocam Outpost: _Vertical green bars. _

Worn by: Septima Scortorian, Decimus Corolan.

Rocam is covered, pole to pole, in jungles. Largest source of pharmaceuticals in the Hierarchy.

Macedyn Outpost: _Solid red mask. _People actually from this colony drawl.

Worn by: Milonis and Amphion Makadian and Brennia Serinian

Largest industry is tourism.

Galatana. _Diagonal white stripes. _People actually from this colony have a nasal, NY-type accent.

Worn by: Telinus and Cambysus Cagrarian.

Agrarian colony.

Chatti Outpost. _One half of face painted black, one half left blank. _

Worn by: Nicus Abendian, Leodorus Rostrus.

Nimines Colony. _Red and white diagonal stripes over his cheekbones, bracketing the eyes before curving up onto the forehead and into the fringe. _

Worn by: Observer Ferox and Rasmus Cadius

Bostra Outpost: _Solid blue mask with white stripe down nose. _

Worn by: Kassa Vilinus and Bakkae Illunius.

Epyrus Colony: _Solid green mask._

Worn by: Basilus Fragium, Minos Phalactus

Parthia Colony: **Placeholder for Vakarian.**

Carthaan Outpost: _Orange vertical stripes._

Worn by: Charis, Eduardo's wife; Navinus Decurro.

Syglar Outpost: _Solid yellow mask. _

Worn by: Iuvenal Capellus; Scaevus Lintorum

Particularly noted for its mangrove swamps and bayous.

Quadim Outpost: _Solid violet mask with diagonal stripes in white. _

Worn by: Acrisus Bextrus

No atmosphere; heavy manufacutuing colony. Most people live in underground bunkers, and live large potions of their lives in envirosuits.

Tridend Colony: **Placeholder for Nihlus.**

Magna Colony: **Placeholder for Sidonis.**

Baetika Colony: _Violet triangle, covering eyes and nose. _

Worn by: Charilca Aurigus.

Edessan Colony: _Blue upper quadrant right, blue lower quadrant, left. _

Worn by: Linianus, Nadea Curicium (until she marries Decimus; then she wears Rocam paint).

Most Earth-like colony, .9 g, temperate climate. Largest city is Sarbrantha, about the size of Chicago and New York combined. Lots of sky scrapers, lots of pavement. Largely a commercial colony, _everyone_ in the galaxy comes here for business. 2 major bases and the secondary shipyards.

**Unit notes:**

**Rel's Squads:**

**Amphion Makadian **- Initial squad leader. From Macedyn. Studious. Ill-suited to leadership role. Relieved to turn it over to Rellus. Almost certainly a store-keeper or a tech. Red paint. Soft drawl.

**Cambysus Cagrarian** - Galatana colony. Lazy; out of shape. Definitely intends to coast through the next four years, has no problem with becoming a bos'n's mate; figures he'll just join the family agriculture business when he's done. No drive. White stripes. Nasal accent.

**Didamus Lavium-** Barefaced, Palaven native; definitely a traditionalist. Dislikes humans and most other aliens; doesn't have a lot of respect even for colonists. Very limited experience with them. Stiff-necked. Has been to a dozen prep academies, fully expecting to make squad leader on the strength of it. Winds up slated for Judge Advocate's Office (JAG officer.)

**Septima Scortorian** - Palaven native. Something of a skank. Discipline problem. Thinks that she's definitely special forces material, and is in for a rude awakening. Vertical green bars, Rocam Outpost origins.

**Nicus Abendian**, leader of 418. Slated for officer's status, pilot. Probably will wind up flying fighters based off a _Leviathan_-class ship.) Has something of a thing for Kassa, but chances are, nothing will come of it.

**Kassa Vilinius:** Smart, tough female, 6'5", probably going to make centurion/optio about as fast as Rinus did it. Good charisma, knows how to handle people and manage discipline problems. Slated for flight school, and will probably wind up flying drop ships in combat situations. (Equivalent of a helicopter warrant in the Army, damned respectable position.)

**Rasmus Cadius:** Larger than Rel (7'), and very strong, Rasmus grew up on the Citadel and Bastion. His parents are flight-controllers, and he actually knew Eli on the Citadel, but lost touch in the move to Bastion. Speaks excellent English. Red and white Nimines colony stripes, very elaborate.

**Scaevus Lintorum** - squad leader of 480; got his arm broken in 3 places by Rel; eventually gets severe corneal damage from Dara, and, having washed out of boot camp twice, will never get adult status or citizenship.

**Dara's original people:**

**Kallixta Essedarius / Praesesidis **- assumed name; actually a member of the Imperator's family (5th daughter; 8th in line of succession. Six brothers, four sisters.) Barefaced, cut-crystal Palaven high court accent. All the Palaven natives tend to suspect she's very, very high class, and tend to shy away from either talking to her or even sparring with her full strength-or correcting her. Except for the centurions, who are just as hard, if not harder, on her, than on anyone else. Playful, but learns quickly how to be tough. **RECOGNIZES DARA FROM SHANXI**

**Praesesidis **name means "protector"

Really wants to fly fighters; probably won't be allowed to do so.

**Alexej Vokaj** — Father is a war hero, Miroslav Vokaj, the Butcher of Torfan, the Alliance retaliation for the Skyllian Blitz in 2178. Alexej was 5 years old then, is 18 now. His father is a quiet, brooding man, having seen too damn much at Torfan; Vojak has tried to live up to his father's reputation all his life, and went to several military prep schools in Europe, hoping to get into the Academy. Was offered this opportunity, and jumped at it, as a way of distinguishing himself from his famous father. Formal, polite. Historical, tactical, strategic sort of thinking. Maybe a little analytical for a ground pounder. Very good shot, but not good in melee.

Has no problem with nudity; European Union background, nude beaches, etc.

**Ryan Malcolmson **— Kid from one of Terra Nova's slums-New Philadelphia. Had an athletics scholarship lined up, UCL, busted up his knee on the playing field. They're no longer interested, but the Alliance is always hiring. They don't think the knee is nearly the issue for a real soldier as it is for an athlete. 19-20, and has already gone through Alliance boot camp and served for a year as a ground-pounder in the Alliance Marines. Was offered this opportunity as either a shortcut to officer rank, or at least a feather in his cap, if he washes out. Good squad and team instincts, but a zilch administrator. Zilch when it comes to bookwork.

**Charilca Auriga** - Infantry. Baetika Colony, but Palaven native.

Violet triangle, covering eyes and nose. Squad leader for first week; extremely aggressive, and out to prove herself. Extremely frustrated when Kallixta and Dara *both* place higher than she does; can outrun Dara, but can't outshoot her; her extremely aggressive sparring style and tendency to get angry and frustrated plays right into Dara's hands. Can't out-think Dara or out memorize her, either. Kallixta outruns her.

**Leodorus Rostrus** - linguistics and intelligence; Chatti Outpost paint, one half of face painted black, one half left blank. Raised on Citadel and Bastion, son of turian diplomats, he already speaks asari and one or two salarian dialects; hoping for a cross-posting with STG. Likes Dara just fine. Starts to fall for Kallixta, but hesitant, due to her Imperial connections.

**Acrisus Bextrus** - Chemical branch. Definitely a good brain here. Quadim Outpost: Solid violet mask with diagonal stripes. Quadim Outpost is a heavy manufacturing planet; there's no real atmosphere there, so they can feel free to disperse chemicals form all the factories easily. Expert on suit mechanics as a result. Has an interest in every garden planet out there; is kind of tired of living underground. Very low-pitched voice.

**Navinus Decurro** - Signal Corps. Carthaan Outpost: Orange vertical stripes.

Relaxed, but very intelligent. Excels in book memorization and mechanical tasks. Palaven native; wary of Kallixta.

**Basilus Fragium** - Financial management branch. Epyrus Colony: Solid green mask.

**Iuvenal Capellus** - navigator, eventually. Syglar Outpost: Solid yellow mask.

**Bakkae Illunius** -solid blue paint with a white stripe down the nose that marked her as affiliated with Bostra Outpost.

**Decimus Corolan** - Squad Leader of 225/226. Eventually a marine lieutenant on the _Estallus_, a native of Rocam Outpost, like Septima was. Green bars of paint. Hates Rocam. Very honored that Dara made him her second, putting him in charge of the second half of the barracks, replacing Lintorum. Tough and no-nonsense, he still has a humorous side, which he only lets out in private.

**Nadea Curicium** - Squad Leader of 227, 228, 229, 230. Eventually a marine lieutenant on the _Estallus_, this female is the shortest turian female Dara's ever met—5'9", just like Dara. Small, spunky, feisty, and with a very bad habit of saying _exactly_ what's on her mind. She and Decimus finally get together after OCS. She didn't want to start anything that she couldn't finish, not being a one-night-stand kinda gal.

**Eli and Linianus' people:**

**Elijah Sidonis – **Played goalie because he likes to be the person everyone depends on and trusts. Doesn't mind being the person left with the responsibility in the clinch. Strong sense of justice and growing sense of responsibility and honor. Quick to laugh, slow to anger, but once he _gets_ angry, he tends to _stay_ that way. Slow, smoldering fire. Color in simulation device is red, like Lantar's.

**Linianus Pellarian** – Palaven native, but wears Eddessan colors (_Blue upper quadrant right, blue lower quadrant, left)_. His father isn't a Spectre, but a tech _for_ the Spectres; as such, he does live on base, same as Elijah. Quick to joke and to laugh, nothing much bothers him for long. Played center on their first line, because he's fast on his feet and quick to see strategies.

**Telinus Karpavian** – Palaven native, but wears Galatana colors (_Diagonal white stripes.) _Part of the handball squad, his mother is a tech for the Spectres, and his father is a xenobiologist on Allardus' team. Asthmatic (mild), mostly due to allergens from dextro-based growth. More of a book learner than Eli or Lin, he's probably slated for an engineering or medical post, and will be happy with it. Quiet, serious, he played center on the second line of their team because he's a playmaker, and likes to see other people shine.

**Minos Phalactus** – Red sand addict from Bastion. Eli's main discipline challenge. Epyrus Colony paint, (_Solid green mask). _They recognize each other as former classmates, and it's _not_ a happy meeting.

**Brennia Serinian** – lower class Macedyn native. Part of a gang of pickpockets that prey on the tourists there, she knows how to decrypt the biometric encodings on lockers. Married Linianus in 2193. Died in 2194 on Macedyn, victim of a gang hit.

**Celphus Ephramian – **Syglar Outpost: (_Solid yellow mask.)_

Develops a system for cheating on bookwork exams. Uses his omnitool to catch what other people are inputting into their terminals, and randomizes the wording slightly. Third discipline challenge for Eli.

**Humans: **

**Freja Almstedt** – Swedish; 22; commercial pilot before joining the Alliance Navy. Blond, blue-eyed, pretty. . . bisexual.

**Chayyim ben-Mair** – 22, Israeli defense forces. Specializes in krav maga. Has a 2 year old son who suffers from leukemia.

Others:

**Celsus Fredorian**—Eli's CID partner on Edessan. Short for a turian male, he's 6'3", and stocky. Wears Edessan colors.

**Sky's namings**

Sings-to-the-Past – Sam Jaworski

Sings-Vengeance or Sings-Justice – Garrus

Sings-Regrets or Sings-Hope – Lantar

Little singer; Sings-Heartsong – Dara

Light-and-Playful Dancer – Kasumi

Spectre-Queen; Truth-singer – Shepard

Sings-Battle; Battle-Brother – Gris

Rage-singer - Jack

Cold-song asari – Aria T'loak

Lost singer – Siara

Sings-Honor or Sings-to-the-Future – Rellus

Many-Voices – Elijah

Sings-Not – Cohort

Sings-Bitter-Jests – Joker

Sings-Secrets – Serana

All males follow Sings-"something_"_ convention; most females get the "something"-singer convention. Dara's adult name is the sole exception to this, largely because 'Heartsinger' sounds just godawful.

If anyone needs a URL to a site that lets you calculate days of the week for future years, let me highly recommend: http: / www . day-calculator . com/ Made my life a LOT easier, figuring everything out.

**Salarian dalatrasses**

Nasurn Pirt Meve Xana – Lystheni

Ill'sta Marov Kina Haddrassa – dalatrass of Kina Pero's house

**Random enemies**

Stragos Emphillum – Gang leader on Macedyn; serial killer. Ordered Brennia's death.

_Part I: The Spirit of Redemption_

**1. Observation and Reconstruction: **August 28, 2190

**2. Miscegenation and Reparation: **August 28, 2190

**3. Consternation and Embarkation:** August 28, 2190

**4. Trepidation and Interrogation:** September 3, 2190

**5. The Interview:** September 3, 2190

**6. Trial and Error:** September 4, 2190

**7. Signals and Transmissions:** September 8, 2190

**8. Interpretation and Aggression:** September 9, 2190 (5th day of Spectre trials)

**9. Possession:** Friday, September 10, 2190

**10. Formulation:** Friday, September 10, 2190

**11. Extrication:** Friday, September 10, 2190 (Night of the cave)

_The following chapters run almost concurrently in places:_

**12. Redemption:** September 13-September 22, 2190

**13. Requiems & Interrogations:** September 13-September 22, 2190

**14. Vows & Interludes:** September 13-September 22, 2190

_Part II: The Spirit of the Hunt _

**15. Creche and Cradle:** September 23-September 30, 2190

**16. Daddy's Gone a-Hunting:** October 1-October 29, 2190

**17. Family and Friends:** October 30-31, 2190

_(October 30, Dara's birthday, falls on Novenus 10 on Palaven, but because the orbits of Earth, Mindoir, and Palaven have different lengths, it's safe to say that this does not correspond every year. Additionally, it's also safe to say that Mindoir's calendar probably does not have a one-to-one correlation with the Terran one; all dates given are based off Earth's, for obvious reasons of clarity. Mindoir's northern hemisphere spring currently falls at the same time as Earth's northern hemisphere fall. It probably only gets more interesting from there. This is the first actual date mentioned in the story; all other dates are determined more or less in relationship to it.)_

**18. Doors and Windows:** Saturday, November 6, 2190

**19. Negotiations:** Saturday, November 6, 2190

**20. Investigations:** November 7-21, roughly

**21. Repercussions**: November 14-15, (Novenus 26 on Palaven), through November 21-23

**22. Aberration: **November 21

**23. Confusion:** November 23-26

**24. Delusions**: Saturday, November 27, 2190

**25. Contention:** Saturday, November 27, 2190

**26. Reconstruction:** December 3-4, 2190

**27. Reconciliation:** December 11, December 18, and December 24, 2190; Shanxi trip, January 1, 2191.

_Part III: The Spirit of Unity_

**28. Changes and Transformations:** January 22-24, 2191; February 6-13, 2191.

**29. Passages:** Shepard, March 7, 2191, Elijah, March 9 (Wednesday), March 18, (Friday evening); Rellus, March 19.

**30. Returns:** Garrus, Lantar, Sam: March 8-March 26, 2191; Dara March 22-26, 2191

**31. Progress:** March 27-30, 2191

**32. Fallout:** Sam, March 31; Rellus: April 2, 9, 16; Shepard & Kasumi; April 16, 2191

**33. Earth:** April 17-April 25, 2191

**34. Elsewhere:** Garrus and Lantar: April 20-25; Eli, April 17-18; Dara, April 17-May 6.

**35. Parallel Lives:** Kasumi, May 4; Eli-Lantar, May 4; Shepard-Rellus, May 8, 2191

**36. Tangents:** Dara, Elijah, Jack: May 8; Shepard, May 27, 2191

**37. Conflicting Goals:** May 27-28, 2191

**38. Memories: **May 29, May 30, 2191

**39. Relics:** June 2, June 3, June 18, 2191

**40.** **Departures: **June 20, Eli; June 21, Cohort and Mordin; June 21-July 3, Rel and Dara. July 4, Garrus.

**41. Scrutiny and Retrieval:** July 5-6; some back in time stuff to July 4, 2191

**42. Inquiries:** July 6-7, 2191.

**43. Bootcamp, Part 1:** July 4-July 14, 2191.

**44.** **Lost:** Lantar; July 10; Rinus, July 14; Mordin, July 8-22

**45.** **Bootcamp and Back at the Ranch: **July 13-August 18; Dara, July-August 19

**46. Found:** Rinus/Laetia, July 22; Garrus back to Mindoir, Aug 14;Mordin's rescue:August24; Lantar and Ellie, August 25.

**47.** **Meanwhile:** Garrus/Shepard, 25; Sam/Kasumi, 25; Lantar, Caelia, Eli, August 25; Dara, Siara, August 25-September 15.

**48. Bootcamp, Part 3:** Rel, September 15-October 19, 2191

**49. The Long Wait:** Eli; September 17; Dara, September 19-October 15

**50. Retaliation:** Sam, September; Sept 25; October 15.

**51. Graduation:** October 15-22

**52. Turnabout:** October 22, night; 23-30, 31-Nov 3.

**53.** **Fair Play:** Nov. 3- Nov. 26.

**54.** **Relations:** October 22, Garrus and Gavius. October 23, Rinus, Laetia. October 23, Jack, Samara. October 24-October 31, Gris, Sky, Siara. November 4, Rel and OCS. November 19-21, Lantar, Ellie. November 23, Shepard, Mordin

**55. Bootcamp, Redux:** Dara, October 26, 2191-January 18, 2192.

**56. Interim:** Siara, November 1-November 14. Sam, November 27, December 25. Rel, January 7- 18.

**57. Commencement:** January 18-February 17, 2192.

**58. Commitment:** February 17-25, 2192

**59.** **Rituals:** Rel and Dara, Feb 25-March 3; Rinus, February 28; Rellus and Rinus, March 3; Eli, March 5, 10, 15, 17 (Caelia's birthday).

**60. Dedication:** Sam, March 23; Dara, March 25-April 15; Rellus and Rinus, April 16-17.

**61. Hide and Seek:** Mordin, April 26; Sam, Kasumi, Shepard, May 7; Gris, May 8; Rellus and Rinus, May 12.

**62. Transition:** Siara, May 13; Rel, May 15, May 17, June 18; Dara, May 18-June 18; June 20, June 21

**63: Preparation:** June 21, Shepard; June 21-5, Siara; June 22-25, Kasumi, Mordin, Blasto; Rinus, Rellus, Dara, Kallixta, June 22-June 25.

**64: Perspiration:** Eli, July 1-Oct 18.

**65:** **Scrimmage:** July 1, July 3

**66: Exfiltration:** Sam, July 2, July 3. Kasumi, June 25-July 3. Rinus, Kallixta, July 3.

**67: Fulmination:** July4, 2192.

**68: Culmination, Part One:** July 5, 2192.

**69: Culmination, Part Two: **July 5, 2192.

**70:** **Culmination, Part Three:** July 5, 2192.

**71: Aftermath:** July 5-6, 2192

**72: Family Matters: **July 7, 2192; Dara, 8-9, Tuchanka, 10-11, Sur'Kesh, 11-14; Mindoir, July 16 ;

**73: Unity:** Mordin, July 16; Garrus, July 16, Kallixta, Dara, Rellus, July 16-21. October 25, Eli, Shepard.


	75. Chapter 75: What's Past is Prologue

**The Spirit of Victory**

**Author's note: **_I know that I have new readers who may be coming to the __Spirit__ series late. With that in mind, please know that all the characters grow up and change substantially. No one stays the same person that they were at 16 forever, and thank goodness for that; if we did, what would be the point of living all those extra years? What would be the point of gaining experience?_

_People change. Relationships change. People make mistakes, learn from them, hopefully, and grow. Or they don't. They stagnate, and stay the same, while everyone else around them grows up. Please keep in mind, as you're reading, that Spirit of Victory reflects this simple truth, which Kella said, so many chapters ago: Nothing is forever, and everything changes over time._

_That being said? Almost every character has a shot at redemption, at a happy ending, if they learn and grow enough. So please hold your comments till the end, if you feel impelled to make them. _

_Thank you!_

**Chapter 75: What's Past is Prologue**

**2192-2193**

**Shepard, September, 2192.**

"I'm going in with you for backup," Garrus told his wife, looking more than a little grim.

Lilitu Shepard-Vakarian chuckled under her breath. "We're not talking Reapers or batarians or Adam and Eve Coalition fundamentalists or asari commandos or even Lystheni, Garrus. It's just the Council."

"Yeah. They're worse." Garrus looked at Councilors Anderson and Odacaen and grinned. "Present company excepted, of course."

In yet another sign of the increasingly cordial relations between the Turian Hierarchy and the human Systems Alliance, their meeting was being held in Councilor Anderson's office on Bastion—once it had been thoroughly swept for electronic listening devices, at any rate.

Anderson chuckled. "None taken, Vakarian." He sat back, obviously thinking. "Shepard, my old friend, you're going to go in there and tell several of the Councilors things they're _not_ going to want to hear."

"Nothing new in that, Anderson." Lilu sighed a little. "The quarians and the salarians are _both_ going to be annoyed with me for not letting them take the Sower relics to their homeworlds for study, but I think we've established that there's no place secure enough for their storage on a homeworld anywhere in the galaxy. That being said, we've moved them to a secure and _very much_ undisclosed location. And we'll _happily_ ferry techs from any species to that location who pass security clearances, so that the devices can be studied with all due care and diligence."

"The quarians," Councilor Odacaen, the turian representative to the Council, noted in a dry rasp, "will be extremely concerned about the 'upload' device, given their history. And with your report on your decision to permit your pilot to retain the mini-Reaper as his new. . . body."

Shepard grimaced. "Stuffing him back into his original body might be a death sentence, Odacaen. It hasn't woken back up yet, and it's been two months. Not a good sign, generally speaking. Seems like a hell of a way to _reward_ a hero."

The turian sighed. "I actually agree with you, personally, Shepard. I'm merely looking at the political currents."

Anderson chuckled sardonically. "Something we're all having to get better at as we age, Shepard."

"Don't I know it." Shepard leaned back in her own chair now, and glanced at Garrus. "What's the quid pro quo going to be?" she asked. "If I get my way, and Jeff Moreau is allowed to remain a living and sapient being, if one housed in a body he wasn't born into—any more than, say, Watches-the-Gates-of-Ruin wasn't born into the geth shell that now houses his consciousness—and if the Sower artifacts are kept in a facility controlled by Spectres, but scientists are still permitted to examine and study them . . . what am I going to have to give in return?"

"A quarian Spectre," Garrus guessed.

Odacaen nodded minutely. "For not permitting them to maintain the research contract that they had? For casting doubts on their ability to protect their own space? Not to mention the fact that the _geth_ already have a full Spectre?"

Anderson raised a hand. "With the geth already a client race of the Alliance, and the quarians coming into the economic alliance between us and the Hierarchy, they have reasons to begin to look beyond old enmities. Although, I'll admit," and he chuckled darkly here, "a thousand years of strife won't be erased in a generation or two. Look at all the crap we still see, and turians and humans only kicked each other in the head for about a year, some forty years ago now."

Two sardonic, needle-pointed turian grins; two chisel-toothed human ones, too. Shepard sighed. "Yeah. So, find me someone besides Kal'Reegar who has the leadership and teamwork skills and who _isn't_ currently trying desperately to adapt to Rannoch's surface. . . and I'll hire him or her on the spot." She rubbed the back of her neck.

Garrus pointed out, quietly, "We can do a little distraction here. Jeff's situation brings up the desperate need to codify AI rights in Council space now."

Shepard snickered. "Yeah. You won your bet." She glanced up at the two councilors. "We received our first piece of mail from an organization calling itself the Council for Artificial Intelligence Rights, or CAIR earlier this week. They want to offer Pelagia, the AI of the _Kharkhov,_ legal counsel at the investigative hearing on the _Kharkov_ crash."

Anderson blinked. Odacaen raised a finger. "How the _futar_ did they even find _out_ about the crash?" the turian demanded, shifting into very undiplomatic language indeed.

Garrus grimaced, his mandibles flexing. "We're working on it. Our working assumption is that _someone_ on the _Dunkirk,_ or maybe one of the _Kharkov_ survivors, mentioned that Pelagia, once the ship had made its 'hard landing' and had ensured that the automatic damage control systems had gone off, transmitted herself to a sister ship, electing to evacuate rather than 'go down with the ship.'"

Anderson sighed. "That's. . . going to get messy, very quickly. Especially with new AIs being 'born' as we speak. They're not slaves, but they are, in a real sense, born to serve. Do we the right to demand that they die for us, too? What happens when they no longer _wish_ to serve? We can't just shut them down for not wanting to do so anymore. That would be like shooting a soldier who didn't want to reenlist." He rubbed at his face for a moment. "On the other hand, we can't just maintain them in servers indefinitely, any more than we would provide food and shelter to a human or a turian who chose not to work, but was fully capable of doing so."

A slightly humorous, yet bad vision of server racks in some down-and-out warehouse in a bad area on Earth flashed through Shepard's mind. _At least AIs wouldn't be doing blood donations to pay for night of rotgut and wouldn't be sleeping in cardboard boxes under highway bridges,_ she thought, lips quirking very slightly. _Of course, what subsistence living or charitable housing would __be__ for an AI, is not a question I __really__ want to address._

"You should know," Garrus interjected at this point, "that the official press agency of the Batarian Hegemony _has_ picked up on CAIR's offer, and _is_ calling the Council hypocritical for decrying the traditional, cultural-level slavery as practiced by the batarians, while enslaving sapient AIs."

Odacaen snorted. "That's political posturing on their part. They don't actually _care_."

"No," Anderson said. "But it's a great piece of propaganda for them, especially in terms of continuing their usual 'us vs. them' rhetoric."

"And let's not forget," Shepard added, dryly, "that 'them' usually means 'humanity' in context. Oh, they're plenty pissed off at the rest of the Council for 'pushing them out,' but they're _really_ mad at us at the moment, Anderson." She gave Odacaen and Garrus a wicked glance. "Which means they're not too thrilled with _you_, anymore, either."

Odacaen snickered. "They haven't had the teeth for a frontal confrontation since they tried to annex the asari colony of Esan, and that one isolated skirmish in 2125, over Enael. Seventy-seven years of snatch-and-grab slaver attacks and nothing more."

"Long enough for them to forget their defeat, or at least, to re-formulate it in their history books it as not their own fault," Garrus said, quietly. "Long enough for humans to come onto the scene, and for the batarians government to formulate propaganda that suggests that the Council _knew_ humanity was stronger and more well-armed than the humble, peace-loving batarian people, and has used humanity as an attack dog." He looked at Odacaen calmly. "Like us. Like the krogan before us."

Odacaen grimaced. "I think anyone who bought that story would have to have _very_ creative eyesight, given that the asari, who _crafted_ those. . . wise and just policies. . . no longer even have a homeworld. And their political power has been sharply curbed in recent years, too." Odacaen glanced around the table. "Thanks, in no small part, to a new hegemony of power." He lifted his _apha_ cup and toasted the others briefly.

Shepard nodded. "But truth and reality have little relationship to propaganda, Odacaen. And what _little_ we're hearing out of batarian space _is_ very concerning of late."

"Omega?" Anderson guessed.

"Omega _and_ the new SR-3s and SR-4s. The SR-1s and the SR-2 were infiltration and recon-spec'd ships. No matter what people like Admiral Mihailovich might have thought of them, they were, in the very nature, like submarines in Earth's twentieth century. The SR-3s take that a step further. The SR-4s abandon stealth for a full attack posture. Their mission isn't as flexible, but the batarians are suggesting that the creation of such ships is an indication that the humans and the turians are preparing for war." Shepard spread her hands slightly. "At least, that's what we're catching. We have _damned_ few agents in batarian space." She gave the two Councilors a spritely little grin. "Apparently, I scare off recruitment of batarian agents."

Anderson snickered. "I can't imagine why. They know you picked the humans and the turians over saving the asari homeworld. . . . and the asari are _allies_." Unspoken, the rest of his words hung in the air like smoke: _And if you'd make a choice like that about allies, what sorts of decisions might the __only survivor__ of the batarian attack on Mindoir in 2170 make?_

Shepard met Anderson's eyes for a long moment. Her skin felt cold, and Garrus' warm hand on her elbow roused her slightly, made her remember things other than death and pain and chill. "I can tell you this, Anderson. I really hope I never have to make a choice like that again."

"Me, too." The councilor stood. "So, you ready to go in there?"

Shepard chuckled, rising as well. "The way I figure it, I'm walking in the door with five votes—you two, the geth, the rachni, and probably the elcor, since they're going to like the notion of studying the devices slowly and carefully and conservatively. The quarians might vote against, unless they get a shot at a Spectre candidate, so let's introduce that first, if you two don't mind a little finagling on my behalf." Shepard grinned at them unabashedly. "After that, let the chips fall where they may."

Garrus followed her to the door. "Seriously, you want backup in there?"

Shepard leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to the scarred mandible. "Nah. But with the reporters afterwards? Crap, yes. Break out your best predator stare and _melt_ them out of my way like a focused laser beam, please. The sooner we get done with all this _s'kak_, the sooner we can get home and see the kids."

Garrus grinned. "I can manage that."

Anderson started to laugh. "I remember you mentioning once, that Admiral Mihailovich braced you for a snap inspection on the original _Normandy_, Shepard."

She turned, and glanced at her old captain. "Yeah, that's one of the memories that isn't too badly scrambled from. . . well, before." Some things she remembered from before her death at Amada with crystalline clarity. Other things were. . . vague. Confused. Another lifetime. Another Shepard.

Anderson snorted. "I bet it's hard to forget being asked if you remember what color you bleed." Anderson chuckled again. "I got a letter from the old SOB the other day."

"Did he say anything along those lines?"

"Oh, he's an archconservative. Humans for humanity." Anderson grinned at her. "Shall I send him your regards?"

"Sure." She grinned back at him. "Tell him I bleed _purple_. Come to think of it, I'll have Mordin start looking into a gene mod for it immediately."

Purple, the color of royalty on Earth in many cultures. Purple, the color of a Mindoir sky at sunset. Purple. . . the shade that occurred when the hemecyanic, copper-based blood of a turian and the hemoglobin, iron-based blood of a human spilled together, whether in battle or in marriage rites.

And then she headed out into the Council area, following Anderson and Odacaen, with a quick, glance at Garrus, who, as always, was watching her back.

In the end, the quarians _did_ vote with her, as did the hanar, which was a relief. While the hanar Councilor purported not to believe in the Sowers, the artifacts were obviously of value and should be studied, particularly in light of what they could tell the galaxy about the light of the Enkindlers. Shepard sighed and simply accepted the victory with as good a grace as she could. There were, after all, many, many more things she needed to deal with, than the stubbornness of the hanar on their favorite topic. _At least Blasto keeps his faith flexible. I actually __heard__ him talking with Mordin at Sam's last party about whether the Sowers could have created the Enkindlers, if the Sowers could have been the first, ultimate power in the universe. Not a conversation I really wanted to step into, but at least it was a positive step from both directions. Actual dialogue. For a wonder._

**Rinus, October, 2192**

He'd expected their wedding ceremony to be a long one. This expectation was met and surpassed. _Tal'mae_ rites are extremely binding, and take a long time for both halves of a couple to speak _all_ the words. His hands had trembled a bit, much to his surprise, as he'd put his paint on Kallixta's face for the first time—so _odd_ to see it there, and yet, so very right. He'd been trying not to listen to _any_ news reports for the week preceding the ceremony, especially not those feeds that came from 'court observers,' but Kallixta had told him, herself, that this was the first time a member of the Imperial line had accepted colonial markings in several hundred years. She'd even added, with some relish, that she thought that the Imperatrix was going to have a small fit of apoplexy about it.

There had been quite a lot of cameras clicking for that moment. And for the moment at which they'd cut their hands, pressed them together, and exchanged knives, before rising once more to face the crowd. Rinus had been keeping his eyes steadfastly fixed on Kallixta's the entire time, which had made the ceremony that much easier to get through, but now, he had to find some other target for his eyes, and instinctively sought out the yellow Thracian paint of his family off in what was, apparently, the 'Spectre' section of the Imperial Amphitheater's seats. "Just smile," Kallixta told him, squeezing his hand reassuringly.

"I thought I was," he muttered through his teeth. Kallixta was dazzling today, breaking with Imperial tradition and wearing only one color on her gown—_his_ golden clan color, in fact. Even all of her jewels had been carefully selected to match—every one of them a golden topaz or a citrine. She looked absolutely radiant, and when the various fashion reporters crowded up later in the evening to ask her spokesperson why she'd made such a _daring_ choice, Rinus knew the answer that they'd been prepared to give: _The __domina__ was inspired by how her human __amil'ama__ looked in __her__ wedding gown, actually._

The rest of Kallixta's relatives, except the Imperator himself, who wore a pure white uniform today, wore a riot of colors, ranging from reds and greens and golds to purples and blues. Often all at the same time. Rinus had taken one look at the gaudy finery that several royal clothiers had tried to foist on him, shaken his head, and refused. Categorically. _"But __dominus__,"_ one had protested, and Rinus had gritted his teeth at the mode of address, _"You __must__ have something befitting your station."_

_Dominus._ Spirits, he hated the damned _word_, but it was worth it, to be marrying Kallixta. The ceremony of investiture as a _dominus_ had been slightly degrading, of course. He'd had to kneel at the Imperator's feet, head bowed to the ground, until permitted to rise. Then the patents of nobility had been read out, and Rinus had had to swear several _very_ long oaths—mostly pertaining to upholding the honor of the Imperator and the Hierarchy and serving and protecting the same. Not too much different from his oath as a soldier, really, but longer. He'd kept his eyes focused on Kallixta's then, too. Tried not to flinch as the chains of office were draped over his shoulders and cowl, and reflected that, as a whole, _this_ form of servitude was at least one he'd chosen, willingly, and had not been coerced into.

As the tailors had fussed at him, Rinus had looked at Kallixta for advice and support—not for the first time, either—and she'd smiled a little and intervened, convincing the tailors to make him garb as finely _crafted_ as any they'd ever created, but not as. . . colorful.

And thus, he, too, represented a break from tradition, wearing solid black, head-to-toe. Their knife sheathes, purchased from the ship's store on the _Estallus,_ had been considered too plain and workaday—_but damnit, they're what I got for her—_and had been replaced, for the ceremony only, with elaborately tooled sheathes made from the skin of infant _oolorae_ and studded with gems. Onyx and black diamonds—nightfires—in his case, more citrines for her. At least those would be left at the palace before they took back off for the ship again.

The knives were another story. The Imperator himself had tapped on the door of Kallixta's sitting room three nights before, shortly before Rinus was due to leave for his own rooms in the guest wing of the palace. The supreme ruler of the Hierarchy had entered, holding a small bundle in his hands. _"It's traditional for the knives of the dead to be broken after six months, except in the case of very, very important people,"_ Kallixta's father had said, and a trace of whimsy crossed his face. _"Naturally, everyone in my family fancies themselves to be quite, quite important. So any number of knives have been kept, gathering dust for generations. These belonged to Commodus the Unifier and his wife, Venisita. It would please me greatly if you two made use of these."_

Commodus had been the Imperator directly _after_ Subigus the Conqueror. Where Subigus had fought the rebellious colonies to a bloody standstill, his son, Commodus, had welcomed the colonies back into the fold, given them seats in the Conclave of Lawgivers and even a few in the Conclave of the _Dominae_. Historically, he was not as divisive a figure as Subigus, but still somewhat controversial. Rinus had been set to refuse, on the grounds that a couple should pick their own knives, and the spirits might be confused by the knives of the dead, re-used so, but had, to make the Imperator happy and to keep the worry out of Kallixta's eyes, half-drawn one of the knives, and had almost hissed in amazement.

They were _good_ knives. Black jade hilts, left slightly rough for better grip. Non-conductive, too. And the blades themselves were pattern-welded, probably folded over a hundred times. Beautifully weighted, and the blades themselves firm, but a bit flexible. They were, in short, precisely what he'd have picked himself, if he _happened_ to have three or four thousand credits to spend on _each_ of their knives. No ornamentation, no extra gems. A little silver inlaid along the back of each hilt, with the names Commodus and Venisita, of course. And beside each of those storied names, new ones had been filled in. _Rinus_ and _Kallixta_.

They'd been kept well, too; not left in a sheath for centuries to rust and decay. _There's probably some poor butler around here who does nothing but polish old wedding knives,_ Rinus had thought, dizzily, for a moment. He'd glanced at Kallixta, swallowed. _"You were sure of our answers, sir. . ."_

"_Of course I was."_ The Imperator's smile had been faint. _"I rarely do anything without knowing __precisely__ how it will turn out."_ Then his smile had broadened slightly, and he'd turned to leave.

"_Father?"_ Kallixta had interposed.

With a look of slight surprise, the Imperator had turned. _"Thank you,"_ she'd said, with a little graceful bow. _"You could not have made your approval any more evident."_

"_It did seem a more meaningful gesture than presenting you with more lands that your young male here would find uncomfortable to own, and more subtle than having your names outlined in fireworks over the Compli River during one of the galas."_ The Imperator made a little gesture, allowing them both to relax now. _"Good evening, fifth-daughter. And to you, __ama'filu__."_ Beloved of my daughter. Son. An informal word, and a momentous one.

Bearing all of this in mind, Rinus attempted to deal with the crowds of well-wishers as best he could. There had been close to two _thousand_ people in the amphitheater alone; that represented a _lot_ of wrists to clasp, and they all had to file past the couple in order of precedence. This had, he suspected, kept a team of protocol specialists up at night for weeks, trying to determine if Commander of the Spectres outranked Councilor Odacaen, if a Councilor outranked, say, the asari ambassador to Palaven, which of the nobles of Complovium outranked the children of a Spectre. . . and there was a protocol specialist posted right behind him and Kallixta, murmuring, quietly and politely, the name of each person and the correct title to address them by. He'd told Kallixta the night before, in some exasperation, _"As many man-hours have been dedicated to this, as to planning a major invasion. We could have our own __planet__ with less trouble."_

She'd started laughing, and come over, in the privacy of her sitting room, to perch in his lap, physical contact, as always, easing the stress. _"If you think __this__ is bad. . . my first-sister, Khryseia's wedding? Took a year to plan."_

"_Oh, great spirits, no."_ She'd laughed again at the look on his face, and leaned in to nip lightly at his mandibles.

The Imperator and Imperatrix had filed past first, of course; the Imperator's wrist-clasp, possibly the only time the only time he would ever touch his new son-in-law in either of their lives, warm and actually fairly personable. The Imperatrix's eyes had been hard, and mostly on the crowd around them, observing, taking mental notes. She'd leaned in and reminded them both, sternly, _"Watch your words. Most of the reporters outside the amphitheater have long range microphones, and some vid reporters have experience with reading lips. Even __turian__ lip-plates. Smile. Keep the line moving."_ And with no other words than these, the Imperatrix had matched words to deeds, put on a chill smile, and . . . kept the line moving.

Allardus, Solanna, and the rest of his siblings, on this one day, having greater precedence than the rest of the assembled Hierarchy, had been next, and _his_ mother had simply smiled and said, _"I'm very happy for both of you. And I've always been proud of you, Rinus, but today, especially so."_ His father's pride had been clearly evident in the warmth of his wrist-clasp, and then on the line had gone.

Shepard and Garrus next, as family, and then Rel and Dara—Kallixta had set the cameras clicking again furiously by giving Dara a very human hug. Seeing the _pink_ under his _ama'fradu'_s paint, Rinus could well understand why. _He_ wasn't enjoying the cameras much, himself.

"She really hates cameras," Rel muttered, bending to clasp Kallixta's wrist.

"Get used to it," Kallixta said, a beaming smile in place.

"We're supposed to be _covert_," Dara muttered, a fixed smile _also_ in place.

"Wipe off the paint and no one on Palaven will recognize you, _amil'ama_."

"_We need to move the line along,"_ the protocol officer hissed, and Rinus sighed.

It moved on. And on. And on. Ambassadors had somehow outranked Spectres, but Spectres, as visitors, had outranked local nobility. Which is how Lantar came to be re-introducing his _very_ pregnant wife—oh, how the cameras had loved that, his hybrid daughter, and his _very_ human son, Elijah. Rinus had blinked his way out of the near narcolepsy that clasping two hundred wrists so far had induced, and had focused in, sharply, on Elijah's face. "Nice to meet you again," he said, studying the young male. "I enjoyed hearing my sister read your letters to her."

Elijah did appear a bit embarrassed, but not overly so. "I knew she'd be reading them to her parents, but if I'd realized that your family was about to get a little more elevated, I'd have watched my language in them a little better. My excuse is, I was _really_ tired when I was writing," he answered, with aplomb.

"Not to worry. I appreciated the honesty I heard in them." Rinus glanced at Lantar briefly, got a slight shrug and a hint of a grin, and then the line moved on.

Kallixta's prophecy that the nobility of Palaven might be a little _snippy_ with him proved somewhat accurate. Most of the young females—a giggly, tittery lot, that Rinus strongly suspected had gone straight through boot camp without having learned a _damn thing_, and had probably wound up in posts in Morale Services or Force Retention or Clerical Services, where they couldn't do anyone any harm—took pains to tell Kallixta how utterly _romantic_ they found the whole situation. The young noble males, on the other hand, made politely cutting remarks that they apparently thought would go right over his head, given his commoner background. _"Such a touch of __democracy__, for the __domina__ to wear colonial paint,"_ or "_I understand you prefer to do your killing at a distance, ah, __dominus.__ Personally, I favor the blade."_ The implication on the second one was that nobles fought up close and personal, in duels, and that commoners were little better than grunts with rifles.

Rinus's smile dropped away and each of the young males suddenly found themselves facing a centurion—all right, _optio_, but an _optio_ was a centurion with a better tailor. _"I kill very well at any range,"_ he'd said, without so much as a smile, and had _not_ released the young noble's wrist. _"At ten kilometers, a Thanix canon shot does produce a __lovely__ explosion."_

"_It does, indeed,"_ Kallixta agreed, sweetly.

"_Inside a half kilometer, a Mark M Malleolus is what I prefer. Inside of twenty pes, a shotgun has a remarkable effect—"_

"_Oh! Or that arc projector gun you like to use, __amatus__!"_ Kallixta was putting on an absolutely bubble-headed tone that was _much_ at odds with her razor-sharp smile and the wicked gleam in her eyes.

"_None of these are the weapons of a __dominus__,"_ the unfortunate young lord mumbled, evidently looking for a way out of this conversation.

"_Ah, but you see, inside of a single __pez__, I would hesitate to dirty the beautiful knife that my wife has given me today on the blood of an unworthy foe."_ Rinus' face was still devoid of any smile. _"I would probably have to just use my bare hands and spurs. Then again, the ink on my patent of nobility is hardly dry yet. Perhaps by the time it's no longer wet, I'll have forgotten how to kill the way our ancestors did."_

_Now_ Rinus _did_ smile, and it was not a pleasant one. _"So nice to have met you. Please move along. The line is backing up."_

The protocol official behind him had to have a bit of a sit-down at that point.

Then they'd _finally_ gotten to move away and at least sit down, themselves, to watch the various pageants and listen to the music composed in honor of the occasion. Since they'd been on their feet for about eight hours at this point, Rinus was just glad to be able to relax, at least _somewhat_. Then there'd been the gauntlet of the press to wade through on the way to dinner—Kallixta handled this _much_ more gracefully than he did, but he'd at least been handed a set of prepared answers to think over the night before. _"You're really skipping the traditional wedding trip in favor of returning to duty next week?"_ was one of the first questions they were asked.

"_Yes,"_ Kallixta had answered, smiling. _"I'm afraid our captain has given us too much liberty as it is."_

"_You're eager to return to duty?"_

"_Yes. I enjoy my work, and I appreciate greatly the chance I have to work with my new husband."_

"_Dominus? We've heard that you'll be standing in the Conclave of Dominae soon. May we assume you will be backing the Imperator's agenda?"_

_Great. One of the tricky ones they told me to look out for._ Rinus sighed, and had to open his mouth for the first time in several hours to respond, _"When his gracious imperial majesty did me the honor of granting me the title of __dominus__, he told me, in the most stringent terms, that I was to vote my conscience and to listen to the voice of inner integrity in any dealings I might have with the Conclaves."_ As an answer, it didn't answer anything, but had the benefit of being absolutely true. Politically, it meant that radicals and liberals would see him as standing close to his uncle Garrus; for conservatives, it was complimentary enough to the Imperator that he'd be seen as standing closer to his father-in-law.

"_Dominus,__ we understand that you've been called upon to testify before the Council on the matter of the __Kharkov__ disaster?_"

_Even better. How did they get wind of that? "I've been called to make a statement to the Council, yes, but I can't discuss the topic."_

It all made Rinus' teeth _ache_, and finally, they were allowed to move on to the banqueting area. Where family portraits were being taken, and the Imperatrix was in full form, adjusting each person's face minutely to fit everyone into each picture. All of Rinus' new in-laws hardly seemed to know what to _do_ with him or his Mindoir relatives. Again, the sensation of two wholly new alien races, except. . . these aliens wore turian faces. The first-son, Perinus, was wholly absorbed in politics, and seemed to be a conservative; he was cold and proper and formal, but not harshly so. Felinus, the next brother in line, was apparently a bit of a playboy. The Praetorian Guard had had to hush up several affairs and at least one estrus cycle by his wife in which she had been _unattended_ by her husband, who had been. . . mysteriously unavailable. Khryseia, the first-daughter, was the picture of matronly virtue now, but had been a hellion about ten years ago. All the names ran together for Rinus past that point, but, for better or worse, he was going to get to know this barefaced noble clan. Probably better than he'd like to, in fact. _"I've never heard of such a thing, wearing black to a wedding. He looks like an executioner,"_ Rinus heard the Imperatrix fussing off to the side, with what had to be her third, or perhaps fourth glass of brandy in her hand. _"And her! Instead of all the colors her house is entitled to, showing the unity of the Hierarchy, just wearing __one__ clan's colors. . . and even more scandalous behavior in the receiving line, __threatening__ members of the peerage. The knives of Commodus and his wife were ill-given."_

Rinus saw his mother's head _snap_ towards the Imperatrix, and his father put one hand on his mother's arm. Solanna took one breath to calm herself, and then called out, in a ringing voice, _"First-son! Have I mentioned how well you and your dear wife look today? Or how much I approve of your decision to wear black, both to acknowledge your recent promotion, and our family affiliation with the Spectres?"_ It was _carefully_ done. Solanna never once _looked_ at the Imperatrix. And she would, probably, have _sworn_ that she'd never heard the Imperatrix's words before speaking her mind. She stepped forward, and, more quietly, but no less forcefully, added to Kallixta, _"I am so pleased, __ama'filus__, that you honored the clan of my husband and children by wearing our colors today. Thank you."_

Any number of people winced at that point, and conversations struck up on all sides, trying to derail two trains before they could collide. And then, finally, they were able to leave the banquet and head back to Kallixta's cold, tomb-like suite with its white marble walls and floor. He'd been more or less exiled from her nest for the past week, since the _Estallus_ had dropped them off here; while he could visit during the day, Imperial protocol had been required in the interim, much to their mutual frustration. Pallum, now head of Kallixta's and Rinus' security team, was at the door, waiting for them. _"Stay away from the door,"_ Rinus warned him, dryly, male-to-male. The Praetorians might _have_ to know everything, but they didn't need to see and hear every damned _detail_, either.

Pallum just grinned and pretended to salute.

Inside, Kallixta looked up at Rinus, running her hands up over his cowl and shoulders. _"Beloved, can you forgive me for today?"_

He leaned down, finally relaxing, and pressed his forehead to hers. _"Forgive you? Whatever for? You didn't do any of this. . . .and everything today was a fair price to pay, to be with you. On __our__ terms, more or less." _Rinus looked down at all her finery and shook his head. There were gems studded into every _seam_ of the damned dress. _"I have absolutely no idea how to get you out of that, sweetness, without possibly causing a major financial upheaval."_

Kallixta started to laugh. _"There __are__ fastenings at the back, beloved. Here,"_ she said, turning her back, and Rinus chuckled, himself, and applied himself to unlacing and unfastening, as best he could.

As he did, he glanced around. The room really was huge, and he knew how much she _hated_ it. And _he_ didn't particularly enjoy the thought of the sounds of their mating echoing back off the walls, or even out into the hallway. _"Beloved, are there any tapestries around here of which you are not particularly fond?"_

Kallixta turned, her dress slipping off her shoulders, and poked him solidly in the cowl. _"That is really not how I imagined you'd start our first night together."_

Rinus grinned down at her unrepentantly. _"Just answer, and you'll see where I'm going with this."_

She let the priceless dress and its gems drop to the floor and stepped away from it as Rinus sucked in his breath, his eyes following her towards their nest with predatory intent. _"I detest the one in the sitting room, actually. The one with the colonists on Baetika all bowing in homage after the Battle of Seven Suns."_ She laid down in the nest, then rolled over to prop her chin in one hand, watching quizzically as Rinus moved in four chairs from the sitting room, first, to all sides of the nest. _"Rinus? We're __not__ expecting witnesses. I'm not a first-son or first-daughter, you know. . . ."_

"_I know,"_ he replied, and came back out of the sitting room, now lugging a rolled-up tapestry. . . which he unfurled over the chairs, which held it up over their nest like a tent. A little hut or cave in which they could huddle, take shelter against all the Imperial might and splendor around them. Kallixta burst into laughter, peeking out from under the heavy fabric as Rinus grinned back at her, and began dropping his own finery as well. _"I just thought this would be a little more. . . . cave-like. Private. Certainly __warmer__ than all this damned marble."_ He chuckled. _"Just like the tent Rel and I had in my parents' backyard when we were kids."_ Rinus paused. _"The company's a little better now, though." _He lifted the edge of the tapestry and slid down into the nest with her now. _"Warmer, sweetness?"_

"_Much better."_ She wrapped her arms around his neck. _"Mark me, beloved."_

"_I __was__ rather planning on that,"_ Rinus murmured, and began to bite her throat, rolling her in the softness of their sheets.

Six days later, they were on Bastion, staying in the relative comfort of the turian embassy, and both of them were engrossed in conversation with Shepard, Garrus, Councilor Odacaen, Councilor Anderson, and, over a comm channel, with Jeff Moreau and EDI. "They didn't call me to testify as _Dominus Velnaran_,_"_ Rinus said, patiently. "They called me to testify as _Optio_ Velnaran. They'll take me more seriously in my dress uniform than in some damned silly robe."

Odacaen raised his hands placatingly. "Just keep in mind, that _both_ of your testimonies will probably have far-reaching consequences."

He and Kallixta traded glances. "I wasn't aware that I'd been called to testify," Kallixta said, dubiously.

Anderson sighed. "Yes, they added your name to the list today. You're one of only two pilots physically able to come before the Council today, and Lieutenant Chang of the _Dunkirk_ was unconscious for much of the relevant time period."

Over the comm, Joker commented, dryly, _"I __could__ come aboard and talk to the Council all personal-like. I mean, at this point, I have to ask if we AIs are eventually going to get a Council seat of our own? I mean, the old standard was some__ exceptional service__, and the current standard is 'adhere to Council laws, be a sapient race, and . . .' what else? You don't need a homeworld, 'cause the asari don't have one anymore and the quarians do. . . "_

"Population," Shepard answered. "The drell don't have a seat because there are under a million of them in the galaxy, mostly on Kahje. The quarians have over seventeen million. The minimum threshold number was set at four million or so." She chuckled. "You and EDI and the kids have a ways to go on that."

Joker snorted over the comm. _"Fair enough, I suppose, but that's enough of all that legal crap. The point is, Kallixta, that they're going to want to hear some first-hand information on the tactical situation and how and if you think __you__ could have pulled the __Kharkov__ up in time, that sort of thing."_

"That doesn't make any sense. I wasn't _flying_ the _Kharkov._ The situation for each ship depended on a _lot_ of variables—" Kallixta saw the way everyone else in the room held up their hands, and subsided, shaking her head. "I'll do my best, but what they're asking me to provide is almost irrelevant."

"It's not," Shepard told her, voice sympathetic. "You're being called as an expert witness, essentially. If it helps, Macenus was called, too. It'll be interesting to hear what his testimony is."

And then out they went into the Council chamber. Pelagia, the AI of the _Kharkov_, had been loaded into the Bastion mainframe, and allowed extremely limited local access, and thus, when they all walked in, there was a small holographic projection of a pink eyeball floating over the defendant's table. "Who's her adjudicator?" Rinus asked Garrus, quietly, as they found seats.

"She has one from an organization called CAIR. . . the Council for AI Rights," Garrus murmured back.

"Never heard of them before."

"Yeah, we hadn't either, until a month or two ago. Kasumi's been checking into them. She can't figure out where their funding is _coming_ from."

The defense attorney stood up. "Ladies and gentlemen, before we begin, I would like to point out something to all of you. For years now, the _Normandy-_class AIs—what a cumbersome term that is!—have been forced to hide themselves, their true identities, from members of their own crews. Without these _devoted, selfless_ people, the battles against the Reapers would surely have been lost. Palaven and Earth would be depopulated. Sur'Kesh a ghost town. Rannoch, still a a tomb. And yet, because of the _fear_ of how their crews and others would react if they saw one of these AIs as they perceive themselves, they remain faceless. Little, unthreatening eyeballs, with no more feature or personality than an icon on your terminal's desktop." The lawyer paused, lacing his hands in front of him. "This façade allows their crews to interact with them without fear, but also. . . depersonalizes them. No. It _de-persons_ them. Even more effectively than a quarian's or a volus' environmental suit, or a burqua or a veil. For behind or under each of these coverings, we may at least perceive the _shape_ of a person. We recognize them as being _people._ " He paused again, and let the flat emphasis of his words take shape in his listeners' minds. "Is it not easier to condemn a faceless entity than someone whom we know, whom we recognize, whom we understand to be _one of us_ and not one of _them_?"

The asari councilor sighed. "Is there a point to your peroration here, Mr. Maxwell?"

"Merely to request the Council's indulgence, and to allow my client to appear as she did to her captain and her pilot; to wear the face that was probably the last thing that either Captain Orlova or Lieutenant Lombardi actually saw."

A murmur of acquiescence ran through the councilors seated around the raised table, and the pink eyeball flickered, and became the form of a life-sized human female. Pelagia had evidently taken her self-image from very different sources than Laetia had. She chose to depict herself with almost white-blond hair, knotted up in a bun at the back of her neck, where Laetia's always had appeared to hang loose. Her skin was pale, and, from a distance, Rinus thought that her eyes might be gray, though it was hard to tell. She wore an Alliance military uniform, without insignia, and 'sat' in the chair at the defendant's table, hands clasped in front of her.

Beside Rinus, Garrus and Shepard were already muttering under their breaths. "Okay, _she_ might have told him that much, but who the _hell_ leaked all the rest of the information to CAIR?"

"Pelagia?" the asari councilor asked, sounding surprised. "This is . . . "

"This is how I have come to view myself, Councilor," the AI replied politely, her gaze still apparently fixed on the table in front of her, although, of course, she undoubtedly had camera access to the whole of the room. "Each of my sisters has a different self-image. Some serving with the turian fleet have even adopted turian self-images, mostly to help their pilots and captains interact more comfortably with them. My sister Laetia, however, retains a human-like visage, although she serves a turian crew."

The asari shook her head, and apparently regained her mental balance. "Very well. Do you swear to tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, by whatever you deem to be the. . . most holy?" She faltered a little there at the last.

Emissary, the geth councilor, raised his head. "We believe that this oath-taking process may need adjustments," he noted in his softly choral voice. "It seems unduly prejudicial in some fashions, and may create a lack of consensus."

Pelagia raised a hand. "I swear to tell the truth, because that is all that I _can_ do."

Rinus turned and looked at Kallixta. "This," he murmured in his wife's ear, "is going to be a long day."

It was, too. Since this was a review board, it served an investigative purpose, similar to a grand jury being empanelled. It was not a _trial_, per se. The defense and the prosecution _did_, under Council law, have the right to make opening statements.

The prosecutor, a turian, kept it simple. "This hearing would be typically heard by the Systems Alliance military, or, by a panel convened by the joint human-turian fleet, but because the _Kharkov_ crashed during a mission sponsored by the Spectres, and the Spectres serve the Council directly, this closed-door session of the Council has been called." The turian tapped his fingers on his table for a moment. "We're here today to establish whether or not the deaths of Captain Orlova, Lieutenant Lombardi, and five others, not to mention the multiple life-altering injuries sustained by those aboard the SA _Kharkov_, could have been avoided. Nothing more, nothing less. Not guilt, not innocence. Just the facts of the matter, interpreted with the aid of expert witnesses." He sat back down again.

Maxwell, the human adjudicator, rose. "My esteemed colleague is correct. Such a hearing _is, _typically, not a trial. However, I feel that I must treat this hearing as if it _is_ a trial, because my client, under current Council law, _has no rights_. Under current Council law, she is not even a _person_. If the evidence today is interpreted in such a way that indicates that my client might be at fault for the deaths of her crew, then she could very well be shut down. Terminated. Executed. With no more legal recourse than animal—no, less." Maxwell paused. "It is my intention here today to examine the _facts_, which, as my esteemed colleague has noted, is our goal. However, I also am _required_ to protect my client in any way that I can. And to start with, I'd like to object to calling the incident under discussion a _crash_. It was a controlled landing—a hard one, yes—but controlled."

Rinus sighed. Garrus turned to him, grinning. _"Humans __also__ know the law."_

"_Yes, but they're so damned picky about their verbiage."_

"_So are we. We just keep the actual laws themselves simpler and more direct."_

It ran long. Such things always did. Simulations were shown, depicting the way in which all four ships began their dive for the Lystheni raider ship. Macenus and Kallixta were each called in turn to discuss what the simulation showed. Wind sheer was a factor, both pilots noted. "The _Normandy_ and the _Estallus_ began our dives in tandem, because we had been taking out the last of the fighters. The _Kharkov_ actually began its dive about five seconds before the rest of us," Kallixta pointed out, "and was half a kilometer ahead and about two hundred meters west of us, heading for the raider. There was both cloud cover and a fair amount of wind. So when the simulation event occurred, the _Kharkov_ was simply closer to the ground. . . " and here Kallixta asked the defender to replay the simulation's final moments, "and here. . . it looks like the ship was actually _pushed_ down from above. That looks like a sharp downdraft to me." She shrugged a little. She was more or less corroborating Macenus' testimony from earlier in the day at this point.

"How is it that you were conscious for so much more of the battle than your fellow pilots?" the turian prosecutor asked, reading from a list of questions in front of him.

"I'm not entirely sure I understand it myself. Rinus Velnaran, then the gunnery centurion on the Thanix canon, had been chipped by our ship's AI, Laetia. She used it to awaken him, at least partially, from the simulation state, and then he managed to pull me out of that state. At that point, we got outside of the simulation's effective range to try to wake the rest of the crew, and continued to engage the enemy."

"And Rinus Velnaran is your mate, Lieutenant?" The turian was being very careful not to call her _domina_, Rinus noted in some amusement.

"Yes, we married last week." Kallixta's response was bland.

"Could the AI of the _Kharkov_ have awakened any of its crew in this fashion?"

"That question goes beyond the technical competency of this witness," Maxwell pointed out, quickly.

The turian prosecutor smiled a little grimly. "Then I will simply have to pose the question to someone else." He looked back at Kallixta. "Thank you, Lieutenant. You may step down."

Rinus was called next, and while he'd expected questions about the tactical setup they'd used, he honestly _hadn't_ been expecting the questions about chipping and the way in which Laetia awakened him. "I tended to keep the chip locked down from my end for privacy's sake," he attested. "As such, Laetia used the emergency FTL protocol and accessed my mind directly. It was. . . painful."

That led into lines of questioning relating to how the chip worked, the one-way and two-way access, and, on more personal notes, why he frequently kept the chip deactivated. The prosecutor frequently objected to these questions as being out of the scope of the hearing. "You were, in fact, the person who first asked whether or not having a chipped individual on board the _Kharkov_ would have helped save lives," Maxwell shot back, impatiently. "Since you've brought that up, I see no reason why I cannot expand my own scope of inquiry to include general ramifications of chipped individuals aboard AI-enabled ships." He turned and glared pugnaciously at Rinus now. "How would you characterize your relationship with the AI, Laetia?"

"As a reluctant one," Rinus replied, immediately. "I had no interest in her, but she felt a need for a mobile node. She also wished to use me as a template for future AIs, and apparently thought that a chipped relationship with the 'father figure' template was necessary for the development of those new AIs."

"Do you feel any responsibility for those new AIs?"

"Out of scope," the prosecutor snapped, and this time the Councilors stepped in, agreeing.

"If I might answer that anyway?" Rinus asked, calmly, staring at Maxwell.

The asari councilor, who was in charge of the hearing today, nodded. "Be brief, _optio_," she said.

"The answer is somewhat more complicated than a simple yes or no, unfortunately. Mr. Maxwell, are you aware of the implications of turian estrus? That a male is not necessarily _obligated_ to raise or care for a child conceived by accident with someone he does not actually care for, although it is considered the path of honor? That is more or less how I, personally, have regarded the entire situation for some time. It has been explained to me, at some length, that in order to safeguard the organic crew of a _Normandy-_class AI, the concept of filial loyalty is embedded into them at damned near the machine code level. That means that even if I had no interest in these AIs, they would still be loyal to me. It might, on some levels, be safer if I never even _met_ them. That way, I could never, _ever_ abuse that power or trust." Rinus tapped his fingers against the witness stand for a moment. "That was my feeling until about a month ago, which is when I was informed that some elements of my wife's personality would be melded with my own and the AI's for _some_ of the ships—_with_ my wife's permission, and that of her family's. As such, I _do_ actually feel a little more connection with _those_ ships, and a bit less like a sperm donor being asked to take responsibility for children born to others."

Maxwell nodded, filing this away. "Are you still chipped?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I never considered it a permanent arrangement, and one of the conditions of my wedding contract stipulated its removal."

"And so you had it removed, with a great sigh of relief, no doubt." Maxwell's voice held a trace of scorn, and Rinus squinted at him for a moment, wondering where this was all coming from, or going.

"It was a _useful_ piece of technology," Rinus said, after a moment. "It allowed me to control the guns from behind a sealed hatch, for example. It certainly allowed me to be awakened in time to do some good against the Lystheni. Using it frequently resulted in pain or exhaustion, and I found it, and Laetia in particular, to be intrusive and aggravating, but _that_ was a conflict of personalities." He snorted. "If she'd been an organic, I could have, and would have, had her up on charges of sexual harassment. And I'd have won. It's not only problematic for the AIs that they have no legal standing, you realize. It's problematic for the organics around them, because there's no way in which to hold them accountable for their actions _short_ of unplugging them."

That provoked some murmuring from the crowd, and Maxwell looked intrigued. "Are there any circumstances under which you'd consider being chipped again?"

"No," Rinus said, firmly. "It's not for me. For other people, it might actually be a worthwhile and fulfilling working relationship, or even friendship." He looked at Maxwell, and decided to drop a little brick on the male's head. "I am actually considering working with the Conclave of Lawgivers back home to amend the Citizenship Act to allow turians who couldn't complete their four years of service due to medical disabilities to _volunteer_ to act as mobile nodes, with a termination date on the chipping outlined at the beginning of their service. I have to talk with some doctors and lawgivers about it first, though, of course, to ascertain _all_ of the ramifications."

_That_ got murmurs, and a _stare_ from the turian prosecutor. Maxwell rocked a little back on his heels, and finally said, thoughtfully, "No further questions."

Next, the pair began to question Pelagia directly. "No, I had no one aboard who was chipped. Laetia and I were both concerned about this, because we'd seen Aurelia, the AI of the _Tarawa_, killed in action in 2190. Laetia was in something more of a hurry to resolve her status than I was, largely because of the need for turian-based AIs for the Hierarchy fleet. I couldn't find anyone on my crew to whom I felt a genuine connection, although I certainly felt deep affection for my pilot, Orlando Lombardi, and my captain, Oksana Orlova. I could not ask the captain to take a chip for me, and I had always felt that while my father was chipped, it should be someone _less_ essential to the survival of the rest of the crew than the pilot. So that he or she would not be distracted by me at a critical juncture."

From chipping into the exact mechanics of the 'hard landing,' including how quickly Pelagia managed to regain control of ship's systems. "Why weren't you able to do so earlier?" the prosecutor asked.

"I went through the same processes and procedures as the rest of the SR-1 AIs present," Pelagia replied. "We are, typically, locked out of main flight controls while an organic crewmate is at the stick. We can provide assistance with calculating trajectories and controlling the engines and attitude controls more precisely, but the main decisions must be made by the pilot and the captain. This decision was made long ago, for the safety and reassurance of our crews."

"What, so that they don't feel like they're apt to be replaced?" Maxwell asked, a little combatively.

"I do not know anything about the motivations behind the guidelines, only that they exist," Pelagia replied quietly.

"Again, out of scope," the turian prosecutor said, wearily.

"Agreed. Mr. Maxwell, you clearly have more than a few axes to grind, and the Council has permitted you a certain latitude today, but do not press it any further." The asari councilor sounded almost as tired as the prosecutor."

Back into the mechanics now. It had taken, in reality, twenty seconds for each AI to regain control. EDI, Kynthia, and Laetia had pulled up 500 meters above the surface of the planet. Pelagia had been within twenty feet of the surface, and the wind conditions had actually served to shove the ship downwards, forcefully. "Was there anything else you could have done?" the turian prosecutor asked her.

"Sir. . . I don't know." Pelagia looked down at her folded 'hands.' "I can tell you that I've been over the data from my own core two million, four hundred and seventy-five thousand and eighteen times since the events of July 5, and I have no better idea now, than I did then, if there's anything else I could have done." Her voice was filled with a hollow regret that made Rinus' chest ache. "I watched many of my crewmates die that day, and my _only_ consolation is that they probably didn't even know it when it happened. I know they didn't pass in fear."

After eight hours of consideration and testimony, Pelagia was informed that she stood cleared of all wrongdoing in this matter, and could return to duty. "And therein lies the problem," Maxwell said, standing up again. "My client does not wish to _serve_ anymore."

Beside Rinus, Garrus leaned back with a sigh. Shepard shook her head. "Well, there was the other shoe dropping," she muttered.

In front of the Council, Maxwell paced for a moment. "Is my client the _ship_, the _Kharkov? No._ The _Kharkov_ is scrap metal at the moment. Is she an entity separate from the ship? Certainly. She's here and alive today. You've heard her testify. Heard the pain in her voice at the memory of friends lost. You've seen her. If she _were_ the ship, you could demand that she serve again, assuming she could be repaired. You could strip her for parts. But she's not the ship. She is a living entity, and should be accorded the universal right given to all sapient beings—the freedom to do with her life, what she chooses. Certainly, she was _born_ to serve, and _has_ served, well and even nobly. But I have _Council_-_level_ AI specialists lined up who will be _happy_ to testify that Ms. Pelagia probably should not be returned to a ship." He looked around. "And that, of course, brings up the question of what she will even be permitted to do with herself."

At that point, the Council decided to adjourn for the day. Back at the embassy, Shepard rubbed at her eyes wearily. "Really wish I knew who hired Maxwell and informed CAIR about so much of what went on," she muttered.

Joker's voice crackled over the comm. _"Actually, Commander. . . I finally got the girls to admit it. It was __all__ of them."_ His voice was a little amused and sardonic at the same time. _"They asked the geth ambassador to set up a defense fund for Pelagia, and they conducted their discussions with Maxwell and CAIR by FTL."_

Shepard rolled her head back on her shoulders. "Joker. . . please tell them I'm _all_ for AI rights—so long as those AIs are _them_, not the _insane_ ones we've dealt with in the past—but that if they ever break security protocols like this again, I'm having you turn them over your knee."

EDI's voice cut in on the channel, _"That would have been problematic even before Jeff's recent upload, Commander."_

Rinus watched his aunt's lips quirk up into a faint smile. "I understand that, EDI."

"_Hey, could the two Velnarans drop by the docking bay? I'd like to have a talk with them,"_ Joker asked next.

Rinus glanced at Kallixta, whose face was suddenly wreathed in a smile. "Sure," he said, taking his wife's hand, and they headed for the embassy exit and the elevators that would take them back to where the _Normandy_—and Joker, inside its cargo hold—were berthed. As they walked, Rinus asked Kallixta, _"Why did you just start smiling like that?"_

She chuckled. _"It's a little silly. But I liked being called by your clan-name. It lets me pretend that all the rest of that nonsense doesn't exist. When I'm Kallixta Velnaran, I have a warm and giving family, a career, a mate, a life. When I'm just __Domina__ Kallixta. . . "_

"_You still have all those things. No matter what name you're called."_ He squeezed her hand, and then they arrived at the berthing area.

_There you are,_ Joker's voice echoed in their thoughts. _Hey, I wanted to apologize to you, Rinus. I was the one who suggested to Laetia that if she couldn't convince you, she should look into whoever your wife was, and see if an amicable arrangement could be made. I wasn't expecting her to jump into it with both feet, though._

"You, ah. . . " Rinus looked around. He couldn't even _see_ the mini-Reaper, since it was inside the _Normandy_ at the moment. "How should I talk to you? Just in my mind?"

_Nah, that seems to muddy things for people who aren't used to direct, biotic, mind-to-mind conversation. Speaking out loud or typing seems to let people clarify and direct their thoughts a li'l better._ Joker's tone was casual. _Just look at your wife and talk, so people don't think you're a total loon, is my advice._

Both of them started to chuckle at the same time. _As I was saying,_ Joker continued, _I didn't think she'd jump into it so fast. I'm learning, myself, how different it is to be digital than to be analogue. Even just waiting for the two of you to get up here from the embassy felt like about a month, perceptually for me. And believe me when I tell you, I never used to move very fast, myself._ He paused. _Did you mean what you said, about trying to widen the turian laws to enable handicapped people to volunteer for the chip process?_

"Yes," Rinus said. "It probably won't be my first piece of legislation, but right now, people who are washed out of the service for medical conditions like_ latus funiculus—_that's more or less our equivalent of cystic fibrosis—or bad hearts, or people who aren't able to complete their four years of military service due to injury—don't get full citizenship. Oh, some are adults. And even children have _rights_. But they're never allowed to become full citizens under our system. There will be some who never will be able to, because if you're to become a mobile node, even temporarily, conditions like mental retardation or epilepsy wouldn't be a good mix with a chip tucked into your parietal lobe. And you'd have to be able to move yourself to an escape pod, otherwise the whole _point_ of having a chipped individual would go down with the ship, too."

_You've given this quite a bit of thought._ Joker's tone was surprised.

"It gave me something to think about as everyone else around me was working on wedding _s'kak_," Rinus replied, dryly. Kallixta smacked his shoulder lightly, and he grinned down at her. "All right, it gave _us_ something to talk about besides 'how long before we can go back to the ship?"

"That's better," Kallixta said, grinning back. "Wouldn't want anyone to think I _didn't_ contribute around here."

Rinus snorted. "Of course you do. You're the one who's been _educated_ in all this crap. If it weren't for the fact that your father wants to let you fly, he _should_ have made _you_ the legislator."

"You needed a title, and a reason for having one," she reminded him, loftily. "He couldn't very well confer a title and lands for the, ah, work you did with your family." She glanced around, looking for cameras, probably.

He sighed. "It would have been easier that way."

Kallixta glanced around quickly, and then leaned up and lightly nipped the rim of his cowl. "Easier, perhaps, but when have we _ever_ done things the easy way, _amatus?_"

**Tarenius Gallian, November, 2192**

Gallian looked at his prosthetics in distaste. Three months of rehabilitation therapy on Palaven later, and he could walk again, after a fashion. Prosthetics _had_ come a long way from the days of metal and plastic. These were temporary, removable ones, for example, which he was using until his final fitting for permanent prosthetics could be conducted. The permanent ones would have carbon-fiber and titanium bones, and would have joints and articulation, and would be grafted onto his actual bones. They'd have surgical-grade faux skin, similar to that used for burn victims, so anyone accidentally touching his legs wouldn't feel hard metal or plastic. They _would_, however, notice that the skin wasn't warm. It would be room-temperature. Corpse-like. And of course, he wouldn't feel the touch there at all. Cybernetics were _far_ too expensive for the military, but those would have connected electronic sensing devices into his existing nerve structure, and would give him sensation again. Better control over his motions, better balance.

With a sigh, Gallian strapped the false legs to his stumps, let his loose pants fall down over his legs, and stood up from his bed in the rehabilitation hospital, trying to concentrate on his balance. He felt about as stable as a day-old _rlata_, but at least if he concentrated and _didn't_ fall, he wouldn't have to call for help. Wouldn't have to rely on anyone else.

A nurse came to the curtain and put on an encouraging smile when she saw that Gallian was on his feet. _"__Hasta__, you've got a comm call in the patient lounge, if you want to take it."_

"_Not if it's from my family."_ He loved his first-sister and first-brother and his parents, of course, but for the spirits' sakes, it was almost impossible to talk to them right now. The pity and horror in their eyes made his crop clench.

"_No, it's from that human female from your ship."_ Unabashed curiosity in the nurse's eyes now, and she offered him a steadying hand, which he shrugged off, preferring to slowly. . .oh so slowly. . . make his way to the door of the patient ward on his own. He passed a dozen other beds, about eight of which were occupied. This was the amputee ward, of course. Laser accidents and a really bad _villi_ bite and one barroom brawl with a krogan, apparently. Gallian had heard all the stories, but hadn't been able to share his own.

In the patient lounge, people were playing cards, watching vids, and doing occupational therapy exercises. Gallian found the comm desk, sat down, and pulled the privacy screen up around him before tabbing to where his call was parked in the queue. "Laetia?"

A human face smiled back at him. Never a hint of pity in those eyes. In fact, when he'd been in the blackest part of his despair, she'd _taunted_ him. _"You don't __have__ to lie there bored all day, you know. You __can__ get up and come over here, where I am, by the extranet console."_ He'd growled at her.

And she'd _shrugged_. "_Well, you __could__ just lie there, or you could come over here and tell me to shut up,"_ she'd offered sweetly when he'd growled at her. _"In the meantime, I'll be standing over here. With the extranet console. Oh, look. A dating simulation game. I've been told I could learn a few things from these. Or maybe I could watch a Terran romantic comedy, instead."_ He actually _had_ rolled out of the hospital bed on the _Estallus_ at that point and had pulled himself to his knees and crawled across the floor towards her.

She'd looked down at him, and commented, _"While you look __very__ deferential on your knees, why didn't you put on the temporary prosthetics and __walk__ over here? Wouldn't that have made you feel better?"_

"_I hate the spirits-be-damned things."_ He'd been short with her, churlish, even. _"They're fake. They're not even __good__ fakes. They don't even have proper s—"_ Gallian had cut himself off as he reached her, and had braced one hand on the desk.

"_Proper spurs, I take it you mean?"_

He'd glared at her then. _"Don't even think about laughing."_

"_I'm not, but humans and turians put so much inordinate emphasis on the physical, that I can't help but find it amusing."_ Her voice gentled then a little. _"Is it that you're afraid you won't be able to finish your service, or is it that you're afraid no female will look at you now?"_

Gallian had reached up to push her hands away from the extranet console at that point, scowling and thinking, _I don't need to answer this psycho-babble bullshit, and if I've __crawled__ over here for this damned console, I might as well get some use out of it—_and his hands had gone right _through_ her. Shocked and off-balance, he'd damned near face-planted into the console.

"_Hasta__, you __really__ didn't pay attention when Doctor Velnaran told you that there were more people in the joint fleet's service than just humans and turians, did you?"_ She'd stood up and backed away slightly.

"_What. . . what are you?"_

"_I'm the ship. More or less."_

He'd stared at her, disbelieving. _"Its __spirit?__"_

"_No. Well. . . sort of. I'm the ship's AI. Jeff Moreau really is my father. EDI, the AI of the Normandy, is my mother. I'd offer you a nice friendly wrist-clasp, but you might damage yourself again, and then Dr. Velnaran will find some way to take it out of my hull. I have no idea how, but she assures me she can find a venipuncture site on anyone of any species now, and I'd really prefer her not to try to find one on me. Especially since I think she'd start in the hydraulics system and work her way up."_

The whimsical little grin had actually made him laugh—reluctantly, admittedly, but laugh, nonetheless. _"So when you say that humans and turians focus on the physical—"_

"_I really do mean it. It's bewildering."_

"_Well, how would you like to have your landing gears cut off?"_

"_I wouldn't, but I also wouldn't disdain their replacements."_

"_I doubt you feel anything from them, though."_

"_I gain sensory data pertaining to wheel rotations and amount of impact force on landing."_

"_But if a technician puts a hand on the tire, you don't sense it."_

"_No."_ She sighed.

"_And other ships don't come over and say, 'hey, nice paintjob, can I buy you a. . . drink?' do they?'"_

"_No, but my sisters and I sometimes gather in the same general vicinity to discharge our drive cores."_ She paused, and he'd stared at her blankly. _"Okay, that joke does better with humans. If I'd said that to a human male, he'd have already said, 'ah, so women all over the galaxy __do__ flock to the lavatory together' or some such."_

He'd stared at her a moment longer. _"Why would a human male suppose that?"_

"_Never mind."_ Laetia had appeared to sigh. _"So, are you going to stay there on your knees all day, or are you going to pull yourself into that chair so we can play a game or something?"_ She'd spread her hands. _"I'd offer to help, but. . . as you can see. . . I can't."_

And that was how it had started. She _couldn't_ help him, other than to badger or encourage, which she did by turns. He _had_ to do it all on his own. Climbing up into the chair had been a massive effort—but she'd taught him how to play human chess after that, though he rather suspected she was letting him do better at that than she technically should. And the look on young Dr. Velnaran's face when she'd come into the room and found him sitting up had been like seeing the sun rise. _"__Hasta__, you crossed the room on your own. That's __fantastic__. You let me know when you want to head back to bed, though, okay?"_ And then she'd seen Laetia, and those odd human eyebrows had risen. _"And if Laetia gets on your nerves too badly, you let me know that, too, all right?"_

So now, months later, and half a galaxy apart, Laetia called once a week to check in on him. And they played chess.

"_So, have they given you any new assignments yet?"_ she asked, sweeping one of his rooks away on the screen.

"_No. They __were__ talking about sticking me behind a desk in Logistics or something like that a week ago. Four years of telling trucks where to go."_ There was no enthusiasm in his tone.

"_I would have thought you'd have had enough excitement and danger for one lifetime."_

"_It's not that. It's that I had goals and plans and now they're gone."_ He thought about it, and captured a pawn from her.

"_Things change, Tarenius. I'm learning that, myself."_ She paused. _"Would you __really__ go back out on the front lines again, given a choice?"_

"_There's not much chance of that being a decision I have to make_," he said, darkly.

Laetia changed the subject. _"I have some interesting news today,"_ she told him. _"Apparently, the Alliance and the Hierarchy have been informed that they __must__ begin paying us AIs wages in addition to maintaining our electrical current. Apparently, we're not slaves or indentured servants, after all, and in Council space, that means that more than just our food and shelter needs must be met."_ She paused. _"I'm apparently due a __lot__ of back pay. Hazardous duty, combat conditions, twenty-four hour shifts. It adds __up__."_

Tarenius snorted. _"And what will you __do__ with all that money? Buy a __really__ shiny new server rack? Save up for a retirement vacation?"_

She laughed. _"Actually, my sister Pelagia __has__ been allowed to retire from the military. She's working with Synthetic Insights on Omega now."_ She paused. _"But as to what I might do with all these lovely credits sloshing around in my brand-new credit account. . . I'd thought I might help you get some proper cybernetics."_

Tarenius blinked. _"What?"_

"_You're a friend, correct? And friends help friends, correct? Sometimes, without strings attached?"_ Her voice was a little uncertain. _"That way, you'd be free to choose if you __wanted__ to go back into the marines again. Or, if you decided a nice, safe, boring desk job was the way to go, you could do that, too. The point is, it would be a choice."_ She sighed. _"I've been told, many times, that organics prize choices."_

"_We do,"_ he said, not knowing what else to say.

"_And now that I __have__ all sorts of different choices, up to and including __leaving__ my own. . . __body__. . . I find it terrifying,"_ she admitted, quietly. _"Think about it, Tarenius, would you? I'll call again next week. Oh, and checkmate in eight moves."_

She signed off, leaving a rather dumbstruck young hasta staring at a blank screen. _What the __hell__ is going on out there in the real world?_ he wondered, slowly getting back to his replacement feet, and walking, slowly and carefully, back to his section of the amputee ward. He'd have physical therapy in an hour. Plenty of time to think.

**Sam, February 2193**

"Ellie. . . got . . . to do this. . . the _easy_. . . way. . . ." Kasumi panted. Her hand was crushing his, but Sam did _not_ protest. He just stroked his wife's hair and tried to be a nice, calm, _restful_ presence in the room. He rather suspected that the epidural had worn off an hour or so ago, but Dr. Chakwas had assured them that everything was coming along nicely.

"Coming along nicely?" Kasumi had yelped, all her usual good humor evaporating for the moment. "Do I look like a _cake_?"

Sam suppressed the urge to grin, on the grounds that this would _probably_ get him hit, and stroked Kasumi's hair some more. Hinata, Kasumi's mother, had traveled all the way from Earth to be here for this moment and to help them with the baby, once it had arrived. Sam's own mother, Agnes, would be arriving in a week, too, to dote over the new grandbaby.

Lantar and Ellie's twins, Tacitus and Emily, had been delivered two weeks early—by c-section, of course—and were still in the neonatal ward here in the hospital. "I don't think Ellie would consider the c-section the _easy_ way, darlin'," Sam told Kasumi gently, and her hands clenched just that much more tightly on his. "But you're definitely not exactly having fun here, either."

After just thirty more minutes, though, it was over. They'd known for a while it was going to be a boy, and had the name all prepared. Takeshi Kennard Jaworski. _Takeshi_ meant, more or less, _warrior_. Sam liked it, but he wasn't convinced how well it went with his Polish last name. "You're gonna be doing a lot of scrappin' with a name like that, boy," Sam told the small, red bundle in his arms. "Good thing is, I can teach you a bit about that."

There was a tap at the door, and then Lantar and Ellie poked their heads in. Kasumi opened her eyes for a moment from where she was in the room's main bed, and smiled wearily when she saw their friends. "We just dropped by to see how you all were doing," Lantar said.

Sam grinned and offered him Takeshi. Lantar held his hands up, palms out. "Ah, no. I'm scared enough of breaking my _own_."

"Human infants aren't _that_ fragile," Ellie told him, accepting the bundle from Sam. "Hmm. Well, _everyone_'s going to tell you he looks like Kasumi. . . "

"You think?" Sam said, grinning. The dark almond eyes and black hair _were_ sort of giveaways.

Ellie gave him a look. "But _I_ think he looks like _you._"

"That's what I keep telling him," Kasumi offered.

Sam shook his head. "Nah. He'll look a hell of a lot better if he winds up looking like you, Kasumi-chan."

Lantar shook his head. "We have a slightly easier time with ours. Everyone agrees, they look mostly like me." He snickered. "Speaking of which. . . "

Ellie nodded, and handed Takeshi back over to Sam. "Yes. . .it's feeding time at the xenobiological exhibit," she said, wryly, and out the door they went again."

Sam settled Takeshi into the small crib in the room, and interlaced his fingers with Kasumi's. "Starting all over again, seventeen years later," he said, quietly. "Really hope I do a better job this time."

Kasumi's smile was very faint. "You didn't do so badly the first time. Dara and Rel just got their first promotions, didn't they?'

Sam sighed. "Yeah. Yeah they did."

Her eyes opened. "You're going to send pictures, right?"

"About one point five million of 'em, yep. See how she likes being the one out in the field missing out on real life." Sam chuckled.

"In the field is real life, too."

"Yeah. . . but that life exists entirely to keep _this_ one intact. This is the one that matters, Kasumi. It's easy to forget that sometimes. But it's true."

**Elijah, March, 2193**

Eli was genuinely thrilled to be done with OCS and actually out and _doing_ what he'd spent a year preparing to do—hell, half of his life, preparing to do, really. At the moment, that involved walking a beat on Macedyn at the height of the tourist season. While he was technically _military_ police, in practice, turian municipal and military police shared a fair bit of jurisdiction. Every time he found himself confused by this, he reminded himself, yet again. . . that _everyone_ in the Hierarchy had been, was, or would be, in the military someday. With the exception of washouts, of course. As such, he and Linianus and Brennia were expected to familiarize themselves with the _whole_ city of Agridavus, not just the military base on its outskirts. There was always the possibility of the MPs being called out to assist in a chase or a case crossing jurisdictional lines. And their precinct commander strongly believed that every cop, no matter how highly ranked, _should_ get to know his or her area as well as possible, and that involved getting out, seeing how people _moved_, what the streets _felt_ like, at different times of the day. In uniform as well as out of uniform.

It was hard not to get distracted by how damned _pretty_ the planet was, though. In a very different mode than Mindoir, of course. Macedyn was largely a desert planet, except for the settled regions around its massive crater seas, each of which spilled from one to the next in an amazing series of waterfalls. Most of the planet had an oxidized red tone to its sands and rocks, much like Mars, Eli figured. But there _was_ precipitation here, and enough of it that the plantlife in the deserts and the crater seas managed to keep up an oxygen cycle. But living here was a delicate ecological balancing act. Hence why the planet's primary industry was tourism, not manufacturing.

Brennia was a native of the area; Agridavus was one of Macedyn's largest cities, and she was nervous almost every day they went out on patrol. _Nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs_, Eli thought, dredging the phrase up out of the back of his mind. It sounded like Sam. A lot of things in his head sounded like Sam or like Lantar, actually. He figured it was because she was worried she'd run into members of the old gang she'd one run with, although he tended to figure that the blue Edessan paint she was now sporting, in place of her former Macedyn red, would be something of a disguise. She had finally agreed to a _commeditor_, or practice marriage with Linianus. While she'd had _no_ problem with being his mate, she _had_, apparently, had concerns about somehow dragging him down. Eli had carefully closed his ears and ignored several _loud_ discussions about that a month or so ago.

Today, the three of them were patrolling a warehouse district, pretty far from the main strip. Mostly because he and Lin hadn't been here before. Brennia was watching every shadow very closely, however, and that made the two males key up immediately. _"Brennia, if you know something about this area, now's the time,"_ Eli told her, a little impatiently.

"_This is the area where the Cruotis gang used to sleep during the day,"_ she finally whispered, after a moment. _"They weren't who I. . . they were one of the two rival gangs in the area. The Stragus was the other main gang. The Stragus mostly went in for pickpocketing. Theft. Drugs. Cruotis were a few steps up from that."_ She winced. _"Kidnapping tourists for ransom, shaking down locals for protection money, __more__ drugs, and, ah, prostitution."_ She looked around uneasily. _"Not a lot of police come down this way. And we're not even in armor. We should go someplace else."_

Eli nodded. He could guess a _lot_ from what she'd said already. She'd probably turned to the _Stragus_ gang to protect her from the _Cruotis_ gang. She hadn't wanted to get pushed into prostitution, likely. . . but had probably not found the _Stragus_ group _that_ much gentler or kinder than the _Cruotis_.

"_Thought we were supposed to be familiarizing ourselves with the area,"_ Linianus said, glancing around.

Eli clearly recognized the protective-anger in him, and shook his head. _"Not the time, Pellarian. Let's head back."_ He had a _bad_ feeling about the area, suddenly, and his eyes caught movement off to his right, just at the periphery of his vision.

And that was when the thugs had stepped out of the alleys around them. _"You're in the __wrong__ place,"_ one of them hissed.

Eli eased forward, putting himself in front of Brennia and Lin. _Let them see me, the one they won't consider a threat,_ he decided. "Yeah, we're a little lost," he said, putting in _galactic_, not in turian. Maybe they'd even buy the lost tourist act. Eli was already counting bodies, however, and not really liking the odds. Two to one, at least, and god only knew who else was in the buildings. "We were looking for the Ornus Fonticulum, you know where that is?" The Ornus was a _dive_ of a club, located not _too_ far from where they actually were, so it had the benefit of even sounding plausible.

He could see the leader relax a bit. "Yeah, I know it," the turian replied, in galactic. "Gonna be a . . fee. . . though. For letting you through our territory." He snickered a little.

_Oh, c'mon. Do this the __easy__ way for a change,_ Eli thought, and put on a smile. Stepped a little closer to the leader. _Okay, Lin, please read my damned mind. _"A fee for directions? Sure. Sounds reasonable." He kept up the idiotic grin and took another step closer. "I don't carry credit chits, though. I'd have to go to a bank terminal to get credits out for you."

"_That's too bad,"_ the leader said, and started to kick Eli—only to have his knee taken out in mid-kick with a punishing shin-kick in return. Eli grabbed the male by the fringe and swung him around, plowing his face into a nearby cinderblock wall, and everything went _crazy_ around him. Eli always carried a pistol in a concealed holster at the small of his back now when they went out without their armor on, but hadn't really expected to be _using_ it today. _"Call for backup!"_ he called, and ducked down, trying to give himself a second or two to analyze the situation and think.

A soldier's primary duty is to kill the enemy; a cop's primary duty is to _protect_ others, and, if necessary, that _might_ involve killing people who wanted to interfere with that duty. Eli evaluated the situation—Lin had dropped one attacker so far, as had Brennia. That left one more bully-boy each, and one was coming up from behind Lin with a knife. Eli fired a warning shot, which got _everyone's_ attention, and said, _"Drop the knife."_

Inside the warehouse beside him, he could hear the snarls of disturbed varren beginning to rattle the very windows near his head, and moved, carefully, away from the wall. _"Pellarian, get your cuffs out. This isn't exactly what we came down here for, but, you know. . . "_ Eli kept moving the barrel of the pistol from target to target. He definitely didn't want any of them deciding to be a hero and trying to attack while Lin and Brennia were cuffing them.

"_S'kak__."_ One of the males on the ground was struggling to get up, and did so only woozily. Lin must have hit that one _very_ hard, indeed. _"You must be new in town. You've just bought yourselves more trouble than you know what to do with."_

"_Sounds like a bad _Mafia_ vid from the twentieth century, doesn't he?"_ Eli told Lin dryly.

"_A little, yeah."_

The one Eli had slammed into the wall was the last to be cuffed, right around when their backup _finally_ showed up. _"I know you,"_ the big male said suddenly, staring at Brennia. _"You were Stragus's little whore, weren't you?"_ He laughed. _"Who'd you find that would actually let you wear his paint?"_

Brennia just looked at him wearily. _"A lot better male than __you__,"_ she said, quietly, and let the others bundle the male into a squad groundcar.

The precinct commander couldn't quite decide what to _do_ with them. On the one hand, six members of the _Cruotis_ gang was something of a coup, as was the varren pit-fighting complex they'd been guarding. And while they'd been out of their jurisdiction, they _hadn't_ been in uniform, and had been obeying his general orders to get to know the area. _"You_, _however, are a __native__,"_ he'd finally told Brennia. _"You should have known better than to enter the area. You're all quite lucky __not__ to be in the hospital."_

"_I didn't recognize the area at first,"_ she said, quietly, pulling inwards. _"I'd never come in from the west before. Only from the south and the east."_

"_Stragus territory?"_

"_Yes."_ She pulled in a little further, but managed to hold onto the commander's gaze. _"I won't make the same mistake again."_

"_No, you won't. The three of you will be staying on-base and in armor until things quiet down a little."_

Outside the office, Eli looked at Brennia. _"The gangs are that bad here?"_

She shrugged. _"Cruotis are the only ones who actually go after tourists. Stragus and his gang mostly just went after other people in the same neighborhood."_

Lin had put a hand on her arm. _"How about,"_ he told his new wife quietly, _"you and I go someplace quiet. And you can talk. And I can listen."_

Eli thought that sounded a _fine_ idea, and headed back to the bachelor barracks, himself. He kind of figured he'd wind up hearing the details at some other point, anyway.

He did. Brennia had started _off_ as a sneak-thief and a pickpocket in Stragus' gang. When she was six or seven, in fact. Her mother had been too poor to move out of the increasingly bad neighborhood, and they had no other appreciable family—unusual for turians, but her father had been the disgrace of his family, a boot-camp washout who'd scraped by on subsistence-level jobs until his early death in a barroom brawl. By the age of fourteen, Stragus, the leader of the gang that bore his name, had found other uses for Brennia, beating her for his own amusement, and giving her to his lieutenants as a reward for jobs well done. She'd scraped up her courage and taken the public shuttle to Palaven for boot camp, hoping to start a new life. It was just her pure bad luck to have been assigned back on her own home world. "I think she'd have preferred Rocam or even Palaven itself," Lin told Eli two nights later, in English, which Brennia still didn't speak well.

"I can imagine." Eli glanced briefly across the room at Brennia, who was, very carefully, trying to cook something on the tiny stove in the small kitchen of the married quarters she shared with Linianus now. "I take it you want to go hunting?"

Lin grimaced. "Want to? Yes. Can we? No."

Eli shrugged. "The way I figure it, we're here for the next four hundred days or so. Something _could_ come up. Especially if we really did stir up a hornet's nest. You really think that big mouth I slammed into a wall _won't_ talk to his buddies, either in jail or while out on bail?" He paused. "And his buddies will probably have _lots_ to say when they run into Stragus' boys again, too. Word's going to spread, Lin. The three of us stood out a bit."

"Which is why we're confined to base." Glitters of protective-anger there, faint blue flush to the crest.

"Won't last forever," Eli told Linianus. He was surprised by how calm he felt. "Sooner or later, people like that make mistakes, right? Maybe we'll even be here for it."

"I really hope so," Lin admitted, and then got up to go help his wife figure out the stove. He glanced over at Eli, who was trying not to laugh at the two of them as they attempted to figure out how to remove the meat slices that were now stuck to the pan. _"Come on, admit it. You actually know how to cook, don't you?"_

"_Yeah, but only levo. And the grocery stores around here are pretty much for tourists. . . which is to say, asari. It makes a decent break from MREs, but I'd about kill for my mom's _lasagna_ right now."_ Eli chuckled at Brennia's expression. _"Flat grain-based noodles layered with solidified _cow _lactate, ground, cooked _cow, tomato _sauce,_ garlic, onions, oregano, basil_, and maybe a little_ fennel_ if Mom actually had some on hand."_ He came over and slid a spatula under the meat, prying each piece loose. _"I don't know what you guys would use, but next time, put some oil or something in the pan so the meat doesn't stick, okay?"_

"_Petroleum?"_ Linianus looked at Eli's horrified face and shouted with laughter. _"No, no, that was a joke, Eli, I know __that__ much. . . ."_

Brennia hesitantly looked up. She'd clearly expected to be rejected by Linianus, and the fact that _both_ of them just kept acting normally around her clearly bewildered her a bit. _Not even the first time I've dealt with something like this_, Eli thought, with an internal headshake. It didn't make him any less angry than Siara's past had, but _this_ time, they might be able to do something about it _themselves_. "_Listen, you two take care. I'm going to head back over to the barracks."_

"_Dinner with friends or being stuck in the messhall with eight or twelve people at the same table. I see where we rate,"_ Lin snorted.

"Nah. You two need alone time." Eli made his way to the door. "Don't screw it up, Lin."

"That's more your specialty than mine."

Eli gave Lin _both_ hands with finger-flicks, extra emphasis, and closed the door on Lin's laughter, and Brennia's indignant demands for a translation.

**Dara, May, 2193**

"_Now that,"_ Dara said, looking out the port observation lounge of the _Estallus_, _"is a __hell__ of a sight."_ She was more apt to speak in turian at this point than in English, simply out of reflex, and she, like Rel, had just made her first promotion to full lieutenant, from junior lieutenant. Half the officers on the ship were crowded into the small lounge to gape out the window.

They were hanging in space just outside the Dymion shipyards, and the first of the completed SR-3 and SR-4 ships were coming out of their berths, heading out into open space for the first time. _"Whose idea was it to paint the SR-4s black, anyway?"_

Rel ruffled her hair with his fingers. "_Makes them look more menacing. They're definitely not intended for meet-and-greet missions. Also makes them a little harder to see against, you know, the void of space."_

"_Yeah, on the off-chance someone happens to look out a window as one of them is passing by. It's not like they're __particularly__ stealthy."_ Rinus, who was in the lounge with them, sounded dry. His four-year tour had ended in January, but he'd re-upped for a two-year tour, more or less to get his and Kallixta's lives in step with one another.

"_You trying __not__ to sound excited there, first-brother?"_ Rel teased quietly. _"This is akin to the birth of young."_

Rinus's finger-flick had irritated emphasis to it. _"Not really how I think of it, but I am interested to see how they do,"_ he commented. _"Kallixta and I have been assigned to the __Hamus__. And I know __she's__ excited to see how they fly."_ Rinus glanced around. _"Personally, I've seen enough of the __Estallus__ to last me a lifetime. Longest I've ever served in one place. But, new captain coming aboard means my commitment to Jallus ends.."_

"_Shouldn't you have been in line for a shore billet by now?"_ Rel asked him.

Rinus shrugged a bit. _"Yeah, but Kallixta needs as much time out in the black as she can get. Besides. . . "_ he grinned suddenly, _"the more time we spend out here, the __less__ time we spend back on Palaven. Palaven's nothing but __work__ now."_

Dara chuckled, as Rel grinned as said, solemnly, _"Of course it is. . . __dominus__."_

"Piss off," Rinus told his brother, in English, which just made Rel laugh harder.

Rinus and Kallixta's first week of leave in six months, had indeed been spent on Palaven. Rinus had come back to the ship with an aura of gratitude that had been almost palpable. _"What's the matter?"_ Rel had asked, concerned, their first night back, when the two young couples had gotten together after dinner in Kallixta and Rinus' quarters—which were conveniently located next to Rel and Dara's. Most nights, they just left their doors open and talked as the whim struck them.

"_I had to speak for the Imperator's Amendment to the Citizenship Act. The one that would enable humans who've been through boot camp, and have a tie to a turian mate or parent, to apply for citizenship. I pointed out that people like Commander Shepard-Vakarian, Kenneth and Gabby Donnelly-Onorian, and Eduardo Ramos were as honorable as any turian, and had already done great services for the Hierarchy and the Alliance. What more luster could they add to their family's names and spirits if they were permitted to join with the spirit of the Hierarchy?"_

"_Sounds like it was a good speech,"_ Dara had said.

Rinus grinned. _"Kallixta revised my initial draft fairly extensively."_

"_You're an engineer in your heart, beloved,"_ Kallixta told him, smiling. _"Everything you write works and ticks together, and makes perfect sense, but there is such a thing as __style__."_

At which point, since they were in private together, behind a closed door, Rinus had simply pulled Kallixta into his lap, muttering something under his breath about showing her _style._ Dara had collapsed laughing against Rellus. Rinus _rarely_ let his sense of humor show in public, other than to tease Rellus, very quietly, once in a while, but when he _did_ let it show, it was always surprising.

After a moment or two, and once Kallixta's own laughter had passed, Rinus had turned serious once more. _"I've been assigned two or three political 'handlers' by my, ah, __pada'amu__."_ Rinus had grimaced. _"And as if I don't have enough other stuff to read, I now have political homework. People to know, people to cultivate, and about three hundred books on the Law and the writing of it and. . . you name it, really."_

Dara had just grinned at him and waved her own datapad in his general direction. _"Oh, lovely. You and I can study, and Kallixta and Rel will have to invent new hobbies."_

"_I __am__ running out of things to carve,"_ Rel admitted, chuckling.

"_Take a look at all the pictures from home. I'm sure you'll find __something__."_ Rel's wedding gift to Rinus and Kallixta had been one of his best works yet—Kallixta, a winged spirit of victory, and Rinus, the spirit of loyalty. He'd taken inspiration from Greek statues of Nike for Kallixta, and, for Rinus, Sancus, the Roman god of oaths and loyalty, but went far beyond merely copying the old style.

"_Amillula, are you saying that Rel and I married the wrong mates?"_ Rinus' grin had a teasing edge.

"_Not at all. __They__ obviously need more work, though."_ Dara sent Rel a teasing look. Both of them had been on and off the ship almost constantly on missions the past two months.

"_Hey, now, I work my fair shift,"_ Kallixta had told her, waggling a finger at Dara. _"And since I've had to __read__ pretty much everything on Rinus' list, I can at least tutor him in it."_

"_Ahh, for the days of studying together,"_ Rel said, grinning at Dara and pulling her close. _"There are honestly days I have no __idea__ how we both graduated with such good marks."_

"_Your obsession with duty guaranteed that. Work before play."_

"_I was __that__ strict with us?"_ Rel said, nipping at her fingertips.

"_You moaned and groaned about duty and honor a lot, yes."_

"_Hmm. That does sound familiar."_

Now, of course, their paths would be taking them to different ships, at least for a while. Kallixta and Rinus were heading to one of their 'children' ships, and Dara and Rel to an SR-3, the _Nereia._ Which was, if scuttlebutt had it right, going to be a Spectre ship, probably Lantar's. Nadea and Decimus were heading to the _Catasta_ for a tour aboard a _Leviathan-class_ ship; Rasmus was heading to the _Salgorus_, an SR-1.

And while the next four months aboard their new ship were a change—new faces all around, but the same general routine—and Dara did _miss_ her friend and sister, Kallixta, and missed Rinus' steady good sense, she and Rel were _much_ too busy for a while to really feel it. Lots of batarian movement, everywhere, all of a sudden. And the _Nereia_ was tasked, along with Lantar, with discovering where a half dozen asari ships had vanished to, all in the Terminus systems. Three were found, floating empty and lifeless in space. No bodies. Logs erased. All life pods intact. The remainder of the ships. . . simply vanished.

By September, they were all due for leave, and while Kallixta and Rinus had to spend half of theirs on Palaven—pushing for votes, apparently—they all regrouped on Mindoir, and Dara met her baby brother, Takeshi for the first time. "He really likes the paint," she told Kasumi as the boy reached out and touched her face, his dark eyes shining and wide.

"It _is_ kind of brightly colored," her dad reminded her, in some amusement.

Dara simply looked down at her little brother, and didn't know what to say, or think, or feel. A division of years that made him as remote as any alien. And yet, a part of her, a part of her family. She'd missed his birth, and would miss his first Christmas, and probably every other one for the rest of his childhood, at the rate things were going. "Hey, little guy," Dara said, softly. "I don't think we're going to be doing much brother and sister stuff, like getting in trouble together or playing cops and robbers in the back yard. . . but I can promise to try to be a really _good_ aunt type, how that?"

Takeshi had simply goggled at her with the perpetual astonishment of an infant who's only just learned to keep his head upright on his own.

And there were _lots_ of children on Mindoir at the moment. Telluura, Ylara's baby girl, born in September of last year, but no more developed now than a human infant younger than Takeshi. Caelia, now a bright and precocious three, clearly adored her younger brother and sister, Tacitus and Emily. Alain and Elissa were eighteen months old now, and their older brother and sister, Kaius and Amara, were six, transitioning from kindergarten to first grade.

Serana was thirteen now, and a much quieter young lady, but still given to flights of . . . innovation. Kasumi chuckled one morning as she was feeding Takeshi at the breakfast table, and told Dara and Rel, "Would you believe, she came to me and asked if she could apply for an internship?"

"An internship in the security office?" Dara asked, in amusement.

Kasumi shook her head, her lips curving up like a cat's. "No. An internship in _sneaking around_, if you please."

Takeshi spat out his oatmeal. Dara gaped at her for a moment, and started to laugh. Rel quietly rubbed at his eyes, for a moment suddenly looking completely like Rinus. Kasumi wagged a finger at Dara. "Now, now, from Serana's point of view, that's almost completely reasonable. She has no idea of what I used to—well, actually, _you_ don't even know what I used to get up to."

Dara blinked. "I, ah. . . I always assumed you were Alliance Intelligence," she said, after a moment.

Sam, across the room and stretching out for their morning run with Rel, began to laugh. Dara glanced at her father, blinked, and said, "Okay, so, that wasn't a good assumption, I see."

Kasumi shook her head, eyes bright with amusement. "There are _reasons_ I'm not a Spectre, Dara. I had to explain this to your dad a while back, but I'll give you the edited highlights, too. I was a thief, Dara. A very good one. My partner and I branched out from artwork and jewelry into secrets, though. Secrets are harder to steal and a _lot_ more profitable. Unfortunately, Keiji _died_ for some of those secrets." Her amusement had drained away. "As it is, I still _have_ his secrets. Locked in his graybox. And some of those secrets are. . .embarrassing to the Alliance. They'd automatically veto my Spectre candidacy, but so long as I stay head of security for the Spectres, I'm safe enough. Even safe enough to visit Earth. No one really wants to cross Shepard."

Dara's mouth snapped shut abruptly, and she turned and gave her dad one sharp look. Sam chuckled. "She swears she's reformed."

"Oh, I am. I only use my powers for good now."

Dara's head swung back to Kasumi, who was meeting Rel's eyes now. Rel said, quietly, "And my sister's. . . internship?"

"I asked her why an internship and she said she knew of no other _lawful_ way to obtain the skills she wanted." Kasumi replied, with aplomb.

Rel put his head down on the table and started to laugh. "Wait, it gets better," Kasumi said, giving Takeshi another mouthful of oatmeal. "I asked her what she wanted to learn for, since last I heard, she wanted to go into law enforcement."

Rel peered up at her. "I'm as braced as I'm going to get, _mada'ama_."

Kasumi smiled, a spritely little grin. "She said that there were lots of secret crimes, and she wanted to find them all out. Also, she apparently heard your aunt and uncle talking about the Hierarchy spinning Military Intelligence off into its own independent organization, as an answer to salarian STG. The salarians aren't thrilled. They see it as redundant replication of efforts. Me, personally? The more _different_ perspectives we have and use, the better our analysis will become."

Dara patted her husband on one big shoulder. "So in other words, she wants to go into the family business, too. Just perhaps a little less on the front-line side?"

Sam chuckled. "That is one determined young lady. Reminds me of another girl I knew, not too long ago. Stubborn, set on having her way. . . ."

Dara threw a piece of toast at her father. "Better start running now," she suggested. "I'm liable to _catch_ you nowadays."

Sam grinned. "You might be younger, sweetie, but you still ain't meaner."

"No, I rely on Rel for that."

Rel sat back up, grinning, and they both stood, starting to advance on the back door.

"Yeah, he's definitely got youth and quickness and endurance on me. . . but I've still got _guile_." And with that, the door slammed shut behind Sam, and, laughing, the two younger people followed.

At least this year, the snows had cleared early enough that, when Rinus and Kallixta arrived from Palaven, they were able to take Rinus and Kallixta with them to their _allora_ meadow. The look on both faces had definitely been worth the price of admission. Kallixta simply tilted her head and looked up and up and up at the trees, her mouth hanging slightly open. "Why didn't you _say_ it was this beautiful here?" she demanded. Green leaves, millions of tiny white and pink flowers, and the lavender Mindoir sky. Perfect and serene.

"Because you'd never have believed me if I told you," Dara told her, smiling. "This is my favorite place in the galaxy." She dropped to the ground and raised her arms to the petals that fell like snow all around her.

"One day, I think I'd like to build our house here," Rel told her idly, a few hours later, picking the petals out of her hair. "Not right among the trees, but close enough that we can just walk here whenever we want."

She nodded. "Long time down the road, though."

"Hard to say." Rel looked off into the light clouds scudding against the deepening periwinkle that presaged sunset. "All the batarian movement we've been seeing lately. . . "

"Let's leave work at work, for once, _amatus._ We're in our meadow and on Mindoir."

Rel grinned at her. "Yeah, but my brother and his mate are _right_ over _there_. . . " He held up his hands to fend off the petals she flung at his face.

Leave was over too soon. They hadn't even gotten to see Eli; his leave didn't synch up with theirs. "Next time," Kallixta said, as the shuttle arrived to take them all to their flight, which would take them back to Palaven, and from there, to their ships, "we'll meet up on Macedyn. At my house, that I've never even visited. It'll be an adventure."

Dara laughed. "And what we do every day is. . . ?"

"Our job," Rinus told her, laughing.

**Ylara, November, 2193**

Ylara hadn't really wanted to leave Mindoir, and her fourteen-month-old daughter behind, but _someone_ needed to be looking after Omega. . . and that someone was, for a change, _her_. "You had all the fun of wrecking the place, Garrus. And you leave me to clean up all the mess?" she'd asked the second-in-command of the Spectres, raising her brows slightly. She tended to be soft-spoken around more conservative, and older asari, like Nisha Cehl, who'd been a Spectre for at least seventy years longer than Ylara herself had been. But among the _mahai_, the short-lived, Ylara could definitely speak her mind.

Garrus chuckled. "If you'd been available, you'd have been on the team."

She waved it off. "Just tell me what you need me to do."

Garrus leaned forwards now, eyes intent. "I made a deal with Patriarch. Five years to clean Omega up, or at least make an appreciable start. Otherwise, we tear the place down around his ears."

Ylara nodded, slowly, thoughts moving behind her eyes. 'What would we deem adequate progress?"

"Running out the mercenaries. No more vorcha terrorizing the populace. A populace that actually _isn't_ afraid to come out of their apartments. An economy that doesn't rely solely on smuggling and drugs and whatever else to limp along. Some small semblance of law would be nice. . . but hell, Ylara. This is Omega we're talking about. Everything else I've mentioned would border on a miracle."

She smiled faintly then. "They _did_ call you Archangel there."

"Yeah. . . my wife tends to remind me that the Angel of Death was an Archangel, too."

They exchanged glances of mutual understanding. "So, go to Omega, poke around, try not to agitate Patriarch, who might well not care to see an another asari around so soon, and report back in?"

"More or less. With subtlety, of course."

Ylara laughed softly. "Of course. That's why you're sending me, not Nisha."

"Nah. Nisha's better for work on Illium and Luisa." Garrus looked at her. "Are you ready?"

Ylara thought about it for a moment. The past two years had been hard on her. The death of her daughter—her first child in six hundred years of life—had been devastating—but she'd found comfort in the fact that the time that Kella had had, had been spent in joy and companionship. And Ylara had found renewed determination to ensure that no other parent would have to see the dead body of their child. Not if she could help it, anyway. "Yes," she replied, voice calm and composed. A mask made of hard-earned serenity, that concealed the smoldering coals within her, that could leap up into flame at the least breath of wind. "I'm ready."

And so she found herself back on Omega again. She hadn't been to the station in two hundred years, which was when Aria had killed her more-than-fair, a fellow huntress named Ellemai. They'd been young and foolish and had tracked their prey, a bounty hunter, as far as Omega, only to discover that their prey was cleverer than they'd thought. . . and that Omega was a trap.

Bad memories, encased in glass. Ellemai's body falling to the floor under a rain of bullets from krogan and batarian mercenaries. Ylara, crawling across the floor to the broken body of her more-than-fair, grabbing her hand, trying to pull her out of fire. Ellemai's eyes going vacant. The spill of blood from her mouth as she wheezed, _"Just __go__. Run."_

It took a moment for the memories to fade as Ylara stepped out of the hatch of the _Dunkirk_, which had ferried her here. She looked around in a certain amount of surprise. Still grimy, still dank, still dark. But there was a _sense_ here, that teased at the corners of her consciousness. People's steps seemed lighter. Their heads held a little higher. _Was Aria's psychic presence so malevolent, that she even poisoned people's minds?_ Ylara wondered.

The check-in area was casual as ever, but Ylara noticed several banks of new cameras, all of which actually moved and scanned the crowd. And instead of being braced by a batarian cutthroat, a krogan approached her after she'd walked through the commercial ward for some time, and stopped in front of her, nodding almost respectfully. "Spectre? Patriarch's been informed of your arrival. He'd like the pleasure of your company."

"Certainly," Ylara said. Fair manners on a krogan seemed. . . oddly out of place. And yet, there was _Gris_, and Urdnot Wrex, who gave the lie to so many krogan stereotypes. "Where might I find him?"

"I've been told to guide you," the krogan replied. "It's a little hard to find."

Indeed it was. Where Aria has ensconced herself in the opulent depravity of Afterlife, where her dancers had contorted themselves like the spirits of the damned, for the pleasure of anyone who could pay, Patriarch had a set of offices in an unassuming warehouse. "Spectre Ylara," the old krogan wheezed, getting to his feet. Seated at the desk beside him was a much younger krogan—Ulluthyr Harak, more than likely. No longer sporting Blood Pack armor, either, she noted, immediately.

"Patriarch," Ylara said, with a faint smile, offering her hand, and had it engulfed by a wide krogan paw. "A pleasure to meet you. I was unfortunately unable to join in the festivities here two years ago, but as soon as I was able, I lifted a glass to the bitch-queen's fall."

Patriarch chuckled hoarsely. "And now you're here to make a progress report to Vakarian and Shepard?"

"I am, indeed."

He nodded. "Go anywhere you like. Talk to anyone you like. Harak here has a couple of salarians hammering out a new. . . .tax code. . . believe it or not. They've been keeping the books for us, too."

She settled into a chair, lifting her head and glancing around, crossing her booted feet at the ankles as she did. "I noticed new construction all through the commercial ward. Afterlife itself has been shut down?"

"Heh. Big waste of space. Smaller, more intimate clubs turn over a better profit anyway. Afterlife was just Aria showing off." Patriarch chuckled again, and began to cough. When he recovered, he added, "Space is better used for new corporate locations. Heyuan Genomics, Armali Council, Synthetic Insights, Delumcore, and Aldrin Labs have all started investing heavily here."

"I saw," she noted. "I found it interesting that such firms—genetics research, weapons research, high-end electronics and. . . .AI research. . . have all flocked here."

"What _I_ found more interesting," Harak rumbled suddenly, speaking for the first time, "is that there's an asari firm next to a turian firm next to a human firm. And they're all _hiring._"

"Hiring whom?" Ylara asked calmly, still studying them, the room. Bare of furnishings, it was still neat and tidy in a way that a krogan's hideout wouldn't be thought to be. Just a couple of chairs, the desk. No ostentation. _He doesn't expect to be here long_. The thought popped into her head, unbidden, and she looked at Patriarch sharply now.

He held up one paw, and she could see the tremors of age there. Massive intelligence, cunning still, in those eyes. But age, there, too. "They're hiring _us_," he said, quietly. "Krogan. And whoever else lives here. But I've put in a few incentive clauses. If they recruit _and train_ krogan to be technicians, rather than guards, and manage to retain those krogan in those positions for more than a year, they get two percent knocked off their taxes. And they can't just have them sitting there on the floor, doing nothing. Harak does spot checks." He chuckled heavily. "No one sees Harak coming, unless he _wants_ them to see him coming."

Harak's grin in response was very toothy indeed.

Ylara had to admit, she was. . . surprised. "It's. . . innovative."

Patriarch sighed. "It wasn't my idea, not originally. Had a couple of talks with that young upstart who's ruling Urdnot nowadays. He's got some asari teaching his younglings now. Math and science and whatnot."

"Siara?" Ylara's eyebrows went up.

"You know her?"

"She's the daughter of a friend. Her mother will be pleased to know she's doing so well."

Patriarch nodded heavily. "Wrex suggested that if our people could be convinced that weak minds are just as pitiful as weak bodies, it would do us a hell of a lot of good. Suggested that I should turn Omega into a _real_ land of opportunity." That was, after all, what the krogan name for the station translated into. "So. . . it's an experiment. And not a bad one for the final years of my life." Patriach eased himself back down into his chair. "As I said. Look around. Talk to anyone you want. My doors. . . are open."

Harak escorted Ylara out. "He's not well," Ylara said, quietly.

Harak gave her a steady look. "He's strong. For his age. And his mind has never been weak."

"That," she replied softly, "I can see."


	76. Chapter 76: The Years Between, 2194

**Chapter 76: The Years Between, 2194**

_**Author's note:** This chapter marks the beginning of major development for Eli, who's now going to have to marinade in other people's evil a while before becoming the kind of cop that he's always wanted to be. . . like his father, Lantar. _

**Elijah, December 2193-April 2194**

Working as an MP was. . . different than he'd imagined it would be. There was a lot of standing guard duty, of course—and because even the military base on Macedyn was something of a tourist attraction, this had its own oddities. When posted on guard duty outside the main gates, for example, Eli had to wear full armor, of course, and was expected to remain as expressionless as if he were at Buckingham Palace. He was giving some serious thought to getting his helmet visor polarized, like a turian's, just for guard duty, because the tourists _loved_ to come up and try to get him to react. The kids weren't so bad—they'd make faces or salute or dance in front of him to try to make him laugh. That, he got used to quickly. What boggled his mind was the number of women of various different species who'd come along, whisper the _dirtiest_ suggestions in his ear, and then might even leave their comm code on his omnitool. There were only a handful of humans who came to Macedyn on vacation; it really was more of a dextro paradise, but there _were_ a few. And quite a few asari, too. Apparently, a human wearing turian paint and a turian uniform had a _novelty_ factor that might make their vacations complete. Linianus _laughed_ at him when Eli mentioned it. "So, how the hell do you know which ones were the cute ones?" he asked.

"That's the problem," Eli said one evening at the officer's club, where he and Lin and Brennia tended to go, off-shift, shaking his head as he looked through the half-dozen numbers he'd found mysteriously added to his address book in the last week. "I have no idea."

"Give 'em each a call, vid feed, and if you don't like the way they look when they answer, say 'Sorry, wrong code,'" Lin suggested, still grinning.

"What, you're trying to live a bachelor life through me, or something?"

"I'm just pointing out the _opportunities_ to you."

"I notice you're doing all your pointing in _English_."

Lin grinned. "Of course I am. Brennia would probably _hit_ me, otherwise."

"_I am learning human speech just as fast as I can,"_ she warned from Lin's other side at the bar, and Lin just turned and smiled at her, lightly running a finger down her arm.

"_I know you are. That's why I'm taking advantage of what time remains before you understand my every word."_

"_Brennia, here's one for you,"_ Eli offered. _"Tell him he's a _jerk."

"Jerk," Brennia said, immediately._ "I like this word. Sounds rude."_

Lin grinned even more widely, and told Eli, "You're teaching my wife bad manners."

"_Hell, I can teach her bad manners in three languages. Want to tell him off in asari, Bren?"_

"_Yes!"_

"_Tell him he's a __n'aiellu'mai_."

"_What's that?"_

"_Someone who is without thought or speech, someone rude, inconsiderate, or stupid."_

"_Hey!"_ Linianus protested. _"I am nothing if not considerate!"_ He caught Brennia's hand in his and nipped her wrist, grinning all the while.

Brennia repeated the asari word now, gleefully, as best she could. _"__N'aiellu'mai.__"_

Eli did take Lin's advice, of course. If nothing else, it _was_ a way to meet cute girls. Admittedly, mostly asari, and none of them staying for long, but it did pass the time. Sometimes, it was just a meet up for drinks. Sometimes it went further. Much further. Especially when _any_ of the women found out he spoke fluent asari. That turned out to be an almost guaranteed _in_, as it were. . . but after a while, Eli started to hold back on mentioning that. He had the uneasy feeling that they were expecting a lot more, well, sensitivity and depth out of him, just by virtue of the language. As if he were about to start spouting poetry, which was clearly not going to happen in this lifetime. As if they expected him to be an asari under the skin. _An asari wrapped in a human wrapped in a turian. Right._

They saw a _lot_ in that first year. There were drug problems on base, and Eli learned renewed respect for Brennia, because every place they raided, she almost automatically knew where to look to discover hidden caches of various drugs. Toilet tanks, taped underneath sinks, behind radiant heat units, sewn into the lining of curtains. She could look at a room and almost smell it out. And Eli and Lin started to pick up that sense from her, though they always gave her credit for it. As a result, she actually _did_ get moved to Vice, which didn't really thrill her.

In her first week in Vice, she took the two males out to a local bar—off-base—and left them there for a moment or two, unattended.

"Hey, there," a voice said behind them, in galactic. Eli had been watching the room behind him in the mirrors above the bar, and didn't jump. Just watched the asari standing behind them. She wore a translucent overcoat, cut like a trenchcoat, and . . . very little underneath it. What little there was, was black, and probably needed adhesive to stick in place. But everything relevant was covered, if only just barely. She also wore black lipstick and heavy mascara. Eli winced and turned just slightly, as Lin was doing, to glance back at her. "You know what?" the asari asked, putting a hand on each of their shoulders and leaning in on them. "It's my two hundredth birthday, and I'm looking for an entirely _new_ experience. I think you two could be it." She smiled at them. "What do you say?'

Lin had flushed very blue, and was starting to laugh under his breath. Eli shook his head. _"Yeoa'uel wulo __piae, railloa'__uel_ _maieolo."_ _Go from here, you who would put a price to sharing._

She _grinned_ then, and took the barstool next to Eli, chuckling. _"You __do__ speak the language of our mothers like a native of Thessia. Brennia said that you did, and I doubted her."_

Eli blinked, and then sighed. "Lin? This is apparently one of your wife's friends."

The asari chuckled. "Don't be mad. She wanted to see how you'd react to me. Name's Pelia."

Brennia came back at that point, and introduced them all more properly. _"Pelia's one of my new coworkers,"_ she said, cheerfully. _"I think you can figure out what her regular beat is?"_

"Actually, let me go get changed," Pelia said, still grinning. "Your husband was, by the way, a perfect gentleman. I haven't been _laughed_ at in a long time. Now, your human friend _looked—_and I'd be offended if he hadn't—but telling me to wiggle elsewhere, in asari? That's a first." And then she. . . wiggled off. . .for the bathroom, and a change of clothes.

"_You doubt me, beloved?"_ Lin asked Brennia, sounding a little hurt.

"_Not at all. But I __did__ think it might be a little amusing. Especially since you __did__ once tell me I'd be a natural at Vice."_ She smiled at him fondly. _"You __did__ turn so very blue just now, Lin."_

He picked up her hand. _"Old words shouldn't be recalled so well. Especially since they were spoken before I knew you so well."_

Pelia came back, much more reasonably dressed, and the evening went amiably after that, but it was the last light-hearted outing for quite some time to come. There was a _string_ of murders in Agridavus proper—all tourists. All stripped of their possessions and dumped in various places—out in the desert, where only the signs of scavengers alerted authorities to the bodies. A few were dumped in the pristine waters of the crater seas, and found when one or two tumbled over the falls. All killed the exact same way—throats slit, bodies exsanguinated. Three asari, one human, and four turians. Eli was surprised that no one pointed out the obvious: all of the victims were female, regardless of species. The MPs put out warnings all over base, since the killer _might_ start targeting _any_ off-worlder, not just tourists. _Stick together, observe curfew requirements, and don't go off-base if you don't need to_, was the advice on dozens of posters. Brennia and Pellia, working as they did, in Vice, were particularly worried about going to work, and if they'd wind up having to deal with the killer.

Which was all well and good, until the first killing happened _on-base_.

It was Eli's first homicide scene, and the various senior officers and techs all seemed to be watching him, waiting to see how he'd react. Lin had gagged at the smell of the body in the small, closed quarters. Eli just looked down at it, frowning a little. _They always seem so. . . still._ He glanced around. _"She was exsanguinated?"_

"_Just like the rest. Killer used her own bathtub to do the draining."_

"_Still an off-worlder, though,"_ Eli said, crouching down to look at her body carefully, not touching anything. _"If the method and the victim profile match up, why wasn't she dumped, like the rest?"_ He glanced around. _"Was anything stolen?"_

"_Her wedding knife's missing,"_ one of the techs offered. _"The knives of the other turian victims were all missing, too."_

_Huh. How odd. I mean, yeah, that would be a part of robbing them, but there's hardly a market for used wedding knives. "How about the human. . .was she wearing a wedding ring? Was it stolen, too?"_

"_I don't know which ring she wore was which,"_ the tech told him, in confusion. _"Her fingers showed marks from several. All were taken."_

_Well, I guess I'm looking at autopsy pictures later. Fun._ Eli sighed. At least he didn't have to get up to his elbows in the bodies, the way Dara or the med techs here had to do.

"_Go talk to her mate,"_ one of the senior officers told him. _"Most crimes really __are__ committed by the nearest and dearest."_

_What, he killed her in a fit of passion and then had the wherewithal—and the __stones__—to haul her body to the tub and drain it of blood?_ _Not to mention, whatever he wore would have blood spatters and residual scales, even fibers from her clothing. He'd have had to dispose of that, somehow,_ Eli thought, but did as he was told.

The female's mate was in a _very_ bad state. A hurt so deep that there wasn't even an anger response, at least, not yet. He just stared into the distance, and Eli looked at him as he sat there, rocking a little bit, studying the male's expression behind the Baetika violet triangle of paint. _"I'm sorry, sir, but there are a few routine questions I have to ask. Where were you for the past two days?"_ The med techs at the scene had placed the time of death at approximately thirty-six hours in the past.

"_On maneuvers, in the desert . . . seventy kilometers south of here."_ The blank, dazed eyes were _hard_ to look into. _"My whole unit was there. She was supposed to have been, too, but she'd caught a bad case of Rocam flu, and the doctors excused her."_ The male was starting to rock again, and Eli put a hand, carefully, on his shoulder.

"_Do you know of any reason why your wife would have removed her wedding knife?"_

The male shook his head. _"No. We're . . . we're halfway through our contract."_

"_That's the hardest part, I'm told,"_ Eli said, with a little sympathy. _"How long had you been married?"_

"_Four years. Eight year contract. Oh, spirits. . . what am I going to tell her family?"_

Eli stayed with him for a few more minutes, keeping his voice as calm as possible, and then headed back to the rest. _"He's got a pretty solid alibi, if it checks out,"_ he told his commander, shrugging.

"_Yeah, Sidonis. Check it out. Pellarian, you get the fun job of helping to go through forty-eight hours of base surveillance footage. Sidonis, you'll be with him in the booth when you get back from talking to the mate's commander and unit."_

Eli and Lin exchanged glances on their way out the door. "Well," Lin said in the front yard, "It could be worse. They could have put me on morgue duty."

Eli snorted. "Yeah, I don't really see you as the forensics type, Lin."

The questions at the unit office were routine, and turned up nothing. He and Lin and four other MPs spent most of the night eating bad takeout—in Eli's case, yet another MRE—and watching surveillance footage. _"You know what it sounds like to me?"_ Eli told Lin, around 01:30 the next morning, his eyes feeling grainy as he watched yet another slow, dull cam feed.

"_Please don't say 'serial killer.'"_

"_Well, it kind of does." _

"_Yeah, and that's the least likely explanation. They account for less than one percent of all murders conducted in the galaxy, and they get about four thousand times more media coverage." _

Eli threw a wadded-up piece of paper at Lin. _"Yeah, I've read all the same books as you have, __dimicato'fradu__." _He shrugged. _"All the victims are female. All killed in exactly the same way—with, as far as the med techs can tell, the same exact weapon. I'd bet next week's pay that they'll find the same weapon was used in today's, too. All exsanguinated, almost ritualistically."_

"_Then why not the same dumping pattern? Why a military target and not a tourist, all of a sudden?"_ Lin asked, reasonably enough.

"_Could be escalation. Not enough risk or excitement in the old targets. Or maybe there's something about each of these women that makes them similar beyond coming from off-world,"_ Eli suggested, after a moment's thought. _"Actually. . . huh. They're all married. Even the asari were here on honeymoon."_

"_Yeah, you go right ahead and speculate,"_ Lin told him, dryly. _"I'll be sitting over here trying not to fall asleep over another ten hours of vid footage."_

"_Why don't you go home and remind your wife what you look like? I'll stay here,"_ Eli said, shrugging. He was _all_ too aware of what it was like to be a part of a cop's family, after all.

Lin chuckled. _"Not a bad idea. Thanks, __dimicato'fradu.__"_ They only used the nickname when no one else was around to hear them—Brennia, at most.

They had VI assistance for the surveillance cam trawl, of course, but it didn't take all the monotony away. There had been several delivery trucks that had come to the residence in the days before and after the murder. Eli noticed that one had been from a local butcher, and, with a shrug, noted it in his omnitool. _Someone who knows __how__ to drain a body of its blood_, he thought, _Has to be a local. A tourist wouldn't know how to hide on base, and this has been going on for weeks now. _And then, eyes burning, headed for his own bed, in his barracks.

Eli's passing thoughts of that night bore a little fruit—but only a little. All of the various victims _had_ been to a couple of local high-end restaurants, which used one or two of the same butcher shops. The butchers, however, worked in the _bad_ end of town. And when Brennia heard where Eli and Lin were heading to ask questions, she paled a little under her scales, and shook her head, emphatically. _"What's the name of the shop?"_

"_Bones and Bowels, or some damn thing like that,"_ Eli replied.

Brennia sighed. _"Osso and Omentum?"_

Eli raised his eyebrows. _"I see you know it."_

"_Yeah. Stragus used to own it. Don't know if he still does, but the cellar used to be. . . well, he did chop off the hands of a couple of people who displeased him. I . . . never saw more than that."_ She swallowed, visibly. _"And you're going there in __uniform__?"_

"_Armor, actually,"_ Lin told her. _"You don't have to come with us, sweetness. We're just worker bees, asking questions. And it's not on __your__ caseload,"_ he added, lightly touching her fingers.

Brennia grimaced. _"I hate the thought of going there, but I hate the thought of you two going in alone even more,"_ she admitted. _"Let's go."_

Eli felt like he had a target painted on the back of his head as they pulled their groundcar to a halt near the butcher's shop. The street was _very_ quiet, and a usually bustling town like Agridavus, that was usually a bad sign. People here didn't _want_ to be out in the street.

"_Hey, Brennia,"_ Eli asked quietly over the radio. _"Keep your visor polarized and down, yeah?"_

"_Believe me, I'm not planning on raising it,"_ she answered as Eli reached for the doorknob.

"_This Stragus,"_ Lin said, and Eli knew enough of his friend's tones to hear the strain there, _"was he always a butcher?"_

"_Yeah, pretty much as long as I remember. That was always the front, anyway."_

"_Was it just you he beat?"_ Eli asked, suddenly.

There was a distinct pause. _"No,"_ she finally answered. _"Pretty much every girl at the age of estrus."_

"_But __he__ never. . . "_ Eli paused, gritting his teeth. _"It was only his lieutenants, right?"_ He figured Lin could beat on him later for basically telling Brennia that Lin had relayed to him all the details. There was something _important_ here, and he wasn't sure what.

Another pause. _"No,"_ Brennia replied, very softly. _"He never laid a hand on any of the girls in that way."_

"_Odd,"_ Eli said, all too aware of Lin's very distinct stillness in the groundcar now, the stillness that usually presaged a growl or an all-out-attack from a turian. Then Eli opened the door and hopped out into the street. _Maybe Stragos actually __couldn't__,_ he thought. _Or maybe he's got odd compunctions. _

Inside, the butcher's shop had a half-dozen customers, leaning on the glass case, studying the blue-tinged meat inside. Eli could see a half-dozen carcasses hanging from hooks on the ceiling in the work area behind the counter. And as soon as they entered, the customers went still. Pulled back a little, evaluating them. _Yeah, Brennia, you're right. This is a __bad__ neighborhood, isn't it?_

Eli moved up a little ahead of Lin, and addressed the turian behind the counter. _"Sidonis, Pellarian, and Pellarian. Hierarchy Military Police. Could we talk to the owner, please?"_

He saw the eyes focus on the black armor and the gold and white stripes, then lift back up to the human face and the turian paint under the visor, and sighed, mentally bracing himself. He got a surprise, though. _"Sure. I think the boss'll be __happy__ to talk to you,"_ the counterman said.

He led them back through the work area, where a dozen butchers were working, to a small back office. _"Stragos Emphillum,"_ the heavy-set male turian in the office introduced himself. _"But then, you probably knew that already, right, officer?"_ He was looking at _Linianus_ as he spoke.

"_Just here to make a few routine inquiries about your delivery service,"_ Eli told him blandly.

"_Hah."_ The turian turned and looked at him now. _"I'd heard the Hierarchy was getting desperate enough to bring humans into the military. All I can say is, boot camp must not be as good as it used to be."_

"_About those delivery vans?"_ Lin asked, his voice very, very even. _"We'd like to know who was driving the ones that made deliveries on base in the past week."_

"_Well, I could answer that now. . . but you see, I like to see the faces and the eyes of the people I'm dealing with. Lets me know how far I can trust them. So, lift your faceplates, and I'll be happy to accommodate you."_

"_And if you don't answer, we __could__ bring you on-base for obstructing our inquiries,"_ Lin suggested, very quietly.

"_That wouldn't stick, and you know it."_ Stragos snorted. _"Indulge me."_

_Well, he __could__ have an azure dust packet ready to go, but that would incapacitate __him__ as much as us,_ Eli thought, and snapped back his visor sharply. After a moment, Lin did the same.

"_And your assuredly lovely young companion, too,"_ Stragos murmured.

"_No,"_ Linianus said, firmly. _"You're dealing with us, and talking to us."_

_C'mon, Lin, don't let the protective-anger show,_ Eli urged in his mind.

Stragos let it go, lightly, and suddenly became _very_ cooperative, chatting lightly about each of his drivers and consulting the delivery schedule. He insisted, however, that he owned no van with the registration number that had been seen on base.

"_Did we just waste our time?"_ Lin asked, as they headed back to the groundcar.

"_Not sure,"_ Eli replied, getting back in. _"Gave us a bit more to look into, though."_ He paused. _"You notice that he wears a knife sheath, but no knife?"_

"_He's always done that,"_ Brennia supplied, suddenly. _"Rumor always was that he'd been plighted, but that her family wouldn't let her marry him."_

The investigation continued, but in the meantime, they had other duties. There were the nightly fights to break up in bars, tossing the drunks in cells on 'disorderly conduct' charges, the domestic disputes, where usually the _neighbors_ wound up calling in to report screaming and shouting well into the night. Eli really didn't like those calls. It wasn't as if turians didn't have escape clauses in most of their wedding contracts. He had no _idea_ why these people stayed together if they were so unhappy as to have to pick up armchairs and throw them through windows, or punch holes in walls. Or, worse yet, start beating each other—and this tended to go far beyond friendly or flirtatious sparring. Sparring implied _control_.

Having to escort a couple of blue-smeared people to separate squad cars every other night was. . . wearisome. Having to duck the occasional punch or kick directed _his_ way, just for _being_ there, and being the one to tell the couples that one of them was going to the emergency room, and the other one was going to jail, also got old, quickly. Eli had to rein in his temper tightly, and resist the _very_ strong temptation to slam a couple of the worst offenders in the teeth with his shackles. _Probably not very professional_, he thought, latching the manacles and shoving one of the males into the backseat of the groundcar one night. This one was a resister, and was bawling, drunkenly, about his rights, which was when Eli subtly lifted and torqued his wrists a little higher, and shoved his knee into the back of the male's, right above the spurs. Knocked off-balance and suddenly much more docile, the male went, more or less willingly, into the groundcar at that point.

The murders, while gruesome, seemed somehow cleaner. There was an answer here, somewhere, in all the clues left behind. _"You still like Stragos for it, don't you?"_ his commander asked him one day. _"Keep in mind. . . he's never been __convicted__ of anything. There's a lot of people __scared__ of him over on that side of town. Lots of rumors of killings and maimings. Never a single person who'd testify against him, though."_

"_Yeah, I'd like it to be him,"_ Eli admitted. _"Can't verify much, though. The van was found a week ago. Serial came back as stolen, a couple of years ago. __Someone__ made it look like an Osso and Omentum van. And that person, whoever it is, has just lost his or her primary method of carrying bodies around. Which means. . . they knew we were looking for that van."_ He shrugged.

"_Don't get married to the idea."_

"_Commander, I'm not even __plighting__ that idea."_ Eli grinned. _"But I'd love to get twenty-four hour surveillance on Stragos. Just to see if he might lead us somewhere. If it's not him, it could very well be someone who __works__ for him."_

"_Or one of the Cruotis, trying to make it __look__ like him,"_ the commander suggested.

"_Little involved for a frame job, don't you think?"_ Eli replied, dryly.

"_Just giving you other ways to look at it."_

Eli had told Brennia about the human concept of Valentine's day, and she'd _loved_ it, which he found deeply amusing. She'd even figured out what day it fell on the turian calendar this year—Imperus 18, apparently—and had dragged Linianus out for it, and insisted that Eli _should_ ask Pelia out, as well. _"It's not good for you to be alone so much,"_ Brennia had told him.

"_I have all the company I need,"_ Elijah had replied, grinning. _"All I need to do is stand guard duty at the main gate for a couple of days, and I'll have another couple of comm codes, trust me."_

"_Yes, but none of __those__ last longer than a day or two,"_ Brennia told him.

Eli held up his hands. _"Don't even start. Next, you'll be trying to marry me off."_

Brennia grinned. _"Maybe just a __commeditor__?"_

"_No."_ Eli put extra emphasis on the word. _"Not till I find the right one. Now, that doesn't mean I don't plan to __look__. . . and look. . . and look. . . ."_

Linianus guffawed at the thought, and slapped Eli on the shoulder. Brennia scowled at him. _"Then look at Pelia for one night, eh?"_

Dinner at the best mixed-cuisine restaurant any of them could afford on their tiny paychecks. Laughter, wine, voices. Conversation. The last light of Macedyn's sun, staining the sky orange to the west. It was beautiful. . . until the shots rang out. Eli dropped to the ground, then raised up, shoving the table over, trying to use it for cover. Crash of china and cutlery shattering on the ground. Lin and he both had their pistols out, peering over the edges of the table; Pelia had her own out, as well. A couple more shots fired. . . and then silence.

"_We've got shots fired at __Ambo Cibatus__,"_ Eli said into his omnitool, shaking his head. . . and that's when he looked down. Saw the blue blood. His heart seized a little. Lin was already holding Brennia's hands, looking down at her in horror. _Shit_, Eli thought, and scrambled over, quickly, checking Brennia's body for the wound. _"Officer down,"_ he added, quickly. _"Need medical assistance, __now__."_

Two in the chest. Eli's mind blanked for a moment, and for a second, all he could see was Kella, dying right in front of him. _Not this time,_ he thought, and started chest compressions. _Have to keep the heart pumping this time_. All he could hear was Linianus, very quietly, telling Brennia, _"Don't go. Don't go, sweetness. Just stay with me, okay? Just stay."_

"_I want to stay,"_ she managed. Little, tiny breaths. _"I want to stay with you."_

_Shit, her lungs are probably filling at this point_. Eli kept up the compressions, but saw her eyes, still fixed on Lin's face, go blank. All animation fading, between one compression and the next. One heartbeat and the next.

"_No!"_ Lin snarled. _"No, no, no, you can't go—Brennia, __please__. . . please don't. . . ."_

The medics arrived, and took over, but their faces told Eli all he really needed to know. The same horrible, blank emptiness filled him, as he'd felt before, when Kella died. When his dad died, too, for that matter. Like his mind went someplace else. Someplace where it would be safe for a while, so his body could get on with business. Lin was shaking in a corner, pure reaction at this point rage and grief hitting him at once. Eli went over and sat by him. Silent. Hoping that just being there would be enough. _Now I know why Dara went into medicine,_ he thought, numbly. _I was first on the scene and couldn't do a damn thing. Just like last time. But. . . unlike last time. . . I can do __other__ things, now._

The bland, banal questions. Did she have any enemies? Had she felt threatened lately? _"Yes,"_ Pelia said, suddenly, in answer to that question, and Eli and Lin both looked up, sharply. _"She told me she thought she was being followed. She put it down to working Vice, like me, and was mostly just keeping an eye on the situation."_

Lin swore. Eli was impressed. He actually hadn't _heard_ any of those words before. _"Why wouldn't she have told __me__ that?"_ The words were actually hard to understand, so raspy the voice, almost inarticulate with rage-pain.

Pelia winced. _"She told me you worried too much about her. That she felt guilty, because you had spent so much time trying to help her overcome her fears already—"_

Lin actually _howled_ at that point, starting to lurch to his feet, and Eli slammed an arm across his friend's chest, keeping him from coming off the wall and doing anything rash. _"Steady,"_ he said.

"_Steady? What the futar does that mean?"_

"_It means I know exactly how you feel right now, but the anger has to_ fucking_ well wait."_

"_You don't know how I feel—"_

"_Yes, I do. Kella was in my damned __mind__ when she died, Lin. I __do_ fucking_ know how you feel."_ Eli's own voice had dropped to a snarl to match Lin's, and he was very aware of Pelia watching them right now. _"I didn't start speaking asari overnight on a __whim__."_

Linianus sat back against the wall, no longer struggling against Eli's arm, and the human male took a breath in relief. Their fellow officers around them picked up the questions again, carefully. _"Any idea who was following her?"_

"_She said she could never get a good look. Turian male, though. Macedyn paint, though that doesn't tell you much around here."_

Hours later, Eli took Lin back to the tiny apartment he'd shared with Brennia. Saw the fresh spasm of rage-pain at all the familiar sights, all the familiar smells. _"Go lie down. I'll. . . put her things away."_

"_I'll do it." _Lin's voice was a harsh snap. _"I don't want __anyone__ touching her things."_

Eli nodded. _"Okay. I'll be here."_

It made his throat close up, watching his friend very, very carefully, pick up the few belongings Brennia had owned. Put them in a box. They'd gone back to Palaven on leave last year—so she'd picked up seashells there, and brought them back. Just like his mom, Eli thought, although these were delicate, alien whorls. A couple of pairs of civvies. Lin already had her knife buckled to the inside of his own wrist. A datapad, which, when Lin brushed its controls, opened to a cookbook. She'd been trying hard to figure out ways to keep them both fed and healthy that hadn't involved eating out every night.

Lin _threw_ the datapad into the box, and stood there for a moment, panting. Eli swallowed. He'd _rarely_ been around a turian _this_ angry before, and suddenly, his friend was more alien than he'd ever been before. _"I need to kill something,"_ Lin said, after a moment.

"_I know."_

The lost look in his friend's eyes as Linianus turned back around was horrifying. _"I really, really need to kill something, Eli."_ There was an edge of desperation there.

"_I know,"_ Eli replied, with more force this time. He was pretty angry himself right now, but if Lin was dropping into the deep-end of turian anger, that meant that _Eli_ had to be the calm one. Had to be the human one.

"_You know who probably did this, right?"_

"_Probably? Yeah. Stragos would be my guess. Br—she,"_ Eli swiftly substituted a pronoun for the name there, seeing the look of anguish, "_always did say he didn't like people to leave his happy little family."_

"_How would he have known it was her?"_ This was progress. Lin was actually forcing his brain to work, in spite of the rage-pain. As it was, the turian's voice was leaden.

"_She went with us __everywhere__. All he needed to do was backtrack us, and any one of his bully-boys would have recognized her. Paint or no paint."_ Eli sighed, and _cursed_ the Hierarchy bureaucracy for having sent them to Macedyn in the first place. If Lin and Brennia hadn't been hand-fasted, which was what a _commeditor_ marriage boiled down to, they wouldn't have been assigned together . . . . _why did they have to get assigned __here__?_

Because no matter how good the VI was at picking numbers and putting square pegs in square holes, shit still happened, apparently. Useless to ask why.

"_Then it's Stragos that I'm going to kill."_ Cold level words. Rage-pain fading into vengeance-anger. The dead look in the eyes—_ah, __s'kak__. Those are Lantar's eyes, looking at me out of Lin's face._

"_We don't have any evidence,"_ Eli pointed out, calmly. As if they were just discussing it at a meeting somewhere. Maybe with doughnuts, or the turian equivalent.

"_He hurt her before."_ Lin shrugged. _"Seems as good a place as any to start. If he didn't actually kill her, or order the killing. . . then I just have a few other people who need to be taken care of, too."_

_Great. That's premeditation, right there._ Eli sighed. _"Lin. . . remember that conversation we had at my house, with Serana and Lantar a few years ago? What the law is __for__?" _

"_And I tell you now, as I told you then. . . it's for punishing the guilty."_

"_And if you just run off half-cocked right now, __you'll__ be the guilty one, under the Law."_ Eli said it, hard and fast, trying to shake Lin out of the vengeance-rage.

Lin blinked. _"I'd take the punishment, for her—"_

"_And she wouldn't_ fucking _want__ that, now would she?"_

Lin snarled and walked back and forth across the tiny apartment. Nest, lavatory, kitchen, and a comm terminal, all in about twenty square feet of space. Eli was sitting in the room's only chair, watching his friend. _"You want to take them out?" _Eli said, quietly now.

"_Yes!"_

"_I'll help. Friends go to hell for each other."_ Lin looked over at him, expression tight. Eli held up a hand, though. _"__But__ we __try_ _to do it the __right__ way, first, understand? 'Cause Stragus could be behind a __hell__ of a lot of other murders. We could be _fucking_ up the off-worlder murder cases."_

"_Or saving the taxpayers a hell of a lot of money on prison and a trial."_

Eli let that one go by. Lin's mouth was reacting before his brain actually engaged. "_And second, we'd have to leave absolutely __no__ trace, if we __did_ _ go about this . . . from a different angle."_ Eli looked at his friend. _"Think about it, okay? We're not Spectres."_ Eli _really_ didn't want to get into bending the law, and sort of hoped that being forced to _think_ would slow Linianus down a bit.

Lin and Eli and Pelia went to Brennia's funeral, and watched as the white-draped body was lowered into the earth. _"She didn't even have a spirit statue," _Linianus said, quietly. _"I told her she needed to get one, but she said she'd never had one before, not even as a kid. How the hell is she supposed to know where to go?"_

"_She'll find the knife instead,"_ Eli offered, after a moment. _"She's a smart girl, Lin. She'll figure out where home is."_ He wished he could believe it, himself, but if the words helped, if they gave _any_ comfort. . . .

Pelia nodded to them both, on leaving the little cemetery on the base grounds. "If either of you need anything," the asari said, quietly, "you _tell_ me, understand? If there's anything I can do to help catch the guys who did this—"

Lin nodded at her, a little woodenly. "We'll find 'em," Eli said to Pelia, but the words were really meant for Linianus.

It didn't take long for evidence to start trickling in from Brennia's autopsy. The gun had been used before, in a gang shooting that had broken out, months before, between Stragos affiliates and Cruotis members. And in the meantime, there'd been another off-worlder murdered. _"Do we have enough for a warrant on Stragos?"_ Lin asked in frustration one afternoon in their small office.

Eli shook his head. _"Not even remotely. A van that's never been registered to him, that had been cleaned of every __trace__ of fiber and DNA evidence, that's found abandoned in the desert, and just __happens_ _to have been painted the same as his regular delivery vans? Right. The judges would __laugh_." He put his feet up on his desk for a moment, just wanting to _stretch_. _"I did find out that Stragos actually __was__ married. Years and years ago. Wife died. Mysteriously. Throat cut with her own wedding knife."_ He looked at Lin. _"They turned the knife over to him, as for any widow or widower. Me, I'd have put it in an evidence locker."_

"_He doesn't carry it anymore."_

"_Not where anyone can see it, anyway, yeah."_

Lin sighed. _"In any event, I meant . . . Brennia's case."_

Eli glanced up. Lin hadn't so much as said her _name_ before this. _"No,"_ he said, after a moment. _"A gun that was used to kill a Cruotis member last year. That's it."_

"_Then how about if we go talk to the Cruotis?"_

Eli blinked. _"What, the enemy of my enemy is still a __cop__, Lin."_

"_Then what do __you__ think we should do?"_ Frustration and simmering anger there.

_Good question._ Eli considered it. _"We've interviewed all the witnesses from the restaurant and the street. They all agree the shot came from a groundcar. Male shooter. Macedyn paint. We've got a partial registration number and color on the vehicle, but those could be altered by now."_

"Or," Pelia said, coming around the corner of their door, and looking in, "you could look into a tip I picked up from one of the girls who works the same general area that I look after." She was in what she cheerfully referred to as one of her 'work outfits.' It was so trashy, Eli had a hard time taking it seriously, and made her _first_ get-up at the bar, when Brennia had introduced them, look classy by comparison.

Lin gave Pelia a dubious look. "And that tip is?"

"That the Stragos gang and the Cruotis gang are calling a cease-fire tonight, and their leaders are meeting at a club called the _Livor Lux_ to discuss some items of mutual interest."

Eli shook his head. "Sounds like a trap."

Pelia nodded. "Could be. The girl I talked to was scared shitless, though. She's Cruotis, and was actually more afraid of being turned over to Stragos as part of the terms of any agreement, than anything else."

Eli's eyebrows went up. "She say why?"

Pelia frowned. "Said she'd rather get fucked for money than be beaten half to death and _then_ fucked over for free."

Linianus's quiet growl was loud in their small office. Pelia sighed. "Sorry, Lin. Just repeating what I've heard." She looked at them both. "_Don't_ do anything stupid. I'm fond of both of you. And not just because Brennia was a friend."

"Oh, well, stupid. Stupid sort of comes naturally," Eli told her, lightly, standing up. "I'll go have a word with the commander. Maybe he'll authorize a SWAT team. Murders or not, sounds like we could scoop up a _lot_ of the leading members of the two gangs tonight." He shrugged.

The commander was dubious. _"Lot of risk to put on the word of a hooker. And neither Cruotis nor Stragos __themselves__ has ever been linked by hard evidence to anything."_

"_Yeah, but Officer Pelia has a fair bit of experience. I think she knows when something feels like a live one, and when it doesn't."_

The commander thought about it. _"You and Pellarian head down there. Take backup. Wear your armor, keep your radios __on__. Don't go in unless you __have__ to, you understand me? You're looking around, nothing more. See if you can't find the groundcar that we have the partial match on from Lieutenant Pellarian's murder, if nothing else."_

Eli nodded. That would at least give them a legitimate reason for being there. The commander went on. "_The local department __does__ have jurisdiction down there. I'll give them a call and let them know we've received some information that might be about to make their lives harder. When they show up, __coordinate with them.__"_

"_Yes, sir."_ Eli mostly hoped he'd be able to keep Lin _leashed_ until the local cops showed up.

"Remember, we're not actually looking for trouble_,_" Eli cautioned his friend as they crossed into the seedier area of town, well away from the tourist hotspots.

"When have we _ever_ had to go _looking_ for that?" Linianus asked, looking out the window.

"Hell, not since I lived on Bastion. Before, even. More like when I lived on the Citadel." Eli had hoped for a smile or a laugh. Nothing. He really hoped the old Lin hadn't died with Brennia.

He hadn't really expected to _find_ anything. And yet, a block from the very loud _Livor Lux_ club, they _did_ find a red groundcar with a partial registration number match. _Lantar always did say, a __lot__ of policework comes straight from luck._ "How long do you think it's been here?" Lin asked as they passed it in their own, very battered groundcar, windows tinted so that no one could see them, and their armor inside.

Eli pointed at a credit meter nearby. "About an hour, from the looks of it," he said. "We can either watch it, or poke around a bit."

"You shouldn't be heading into _any_ of the places around here on your own." Linianus grimaced.

"Neither should you, Lin." Eli glanced around. Their backup was still sitting quietly in a battered old aircar perched on a rooftop two blocks away. Blending in with its surroundings. And no word yet from the local department.

"Run the full number and see what we get?"

Eli sighed and keyed up the full registration number on his omnitool, uploading his search query to the department's database, as Lin drove the car further down the street, finding a place to park and watch for a while. Eli grimaced over the answer he found in the database. "Yeah. Registered to one of Stragos' people, someone with a record." He reported it in, and got confirmation back. _Well, at least we can question Stragos about the whereabouts of his employee,_ Eli thought, grimly. _That's a legitimate reason to __talk__ to him, if nothing else._

Eli sat up and tabbed his radio now. _"We've got a lot of movement in the club,"_ he noted, glancing up and recognizing a face in the glare of the club's door lights. _"And Stragos just went in."_

"_You're sure it was Stragos?"_ That was their commander.

"_Definitely,"_ Lin replied, tersely. _"I'm unlikely to forget that face."_

Their backup, Undian, chimed in now, _"And we saw Cruotis go in about twenty minutes ago."_

_All the pieces are in place,_ Eli thought._ Thirty or forty gang members, about half from each organization. . . __hopefully__ not too many civilians there tonight. Maybe some exotic dancers. Asari, maybe humans. Just as likely, turian females in cage matches, though. __S'kak__. _Eli wasn't even aware anymore which language he even thought in. Some days it was English, some days asari. Tonight, it was turian.

"_Undian, circle back to the delivery entrance. Let's make sure they're not just going straight through the club and heading elsewhere,"_ Eli said into the radio. _"We've got a chance at Stragos if we go in right now."_

"_Negative,"_ the commander replied, sharply. _"We're sending backup now."_

They waited another minute. Then another.

"_Sidonis, this is Undian. Yeah. We've got movement at the back of the club. Looks like the main leaders are moving to a secondary location, probably for security. Cruotis is back here right now. Looks like he's got most of his boys with him—I make it fifteen or so."_

"By the time backup gets here," Lin said, quietly, "they could be gone."

"Considering we've been waiting an hour for the local police to show up at this point, anyway. . . yeah." They exchanged a sardonic look.

"_Undian, follow Cruotis and his group,"_ came their commander's voice. _"Sidonis, you and Pellarian, follow Stragos, if he comes out the back, too."_

_S'kak__,_ Eli thought, in total frustration. _We __have__ him. We have him right __now__ if we walk in there. "Commander,"_ he said, quietly, _"Pellarian and I can just walk in there and tell him we'd like him to come take a little walk with us."_

"_Lot of bodies in there,"_ their commander said, immediately.

"_We can do this,"_ Eli said, still quietly.

Lights in the distance. _"Backup's coming,"_ Lin said. _"We have to go __now__."_

"_Go!"_

They didn't wait for a second order. They were out of the car and sprinting for the door already, Lin easily outpacing Eli, of course, shoving the bouncer out of the way.

Crowded urban environments with lots of civilian targets are a cop's worst nightmare. The club was called _Livor Lux—Black Light_—for a reason, too. It was almost pitch-black inside, and the _only_ lights were blacklights; the people inside wearing light colors looked like ghosts, or spirits, and quite a few affected fluorescing dyes painted on their scales and talons. Eli grabbed the bouncer they'd shoved in ahead of them and ordered, _"Turn on the damned lights."_

After a moment, the bouncer fumbled at a panel of switches, just as Linianus moved further into the room, heading for a DJ table to make use of the microphone there. _"Stragos? Stragos Emphillum?"_ he said, over the loudspeakers. _"We're here to speak with you, so if you could just move towards the door?"_

As the lights came on and the music died down, the asari and human dancers on the main stage blinked and stopped moving. A couple of turian females, who were covered in scratches and bitemarks stopped what they were doing, too—Eli decided quickly that he _did not_ want to know—and stared at Linianus, and at Eli, too, as he moved up beside his friend.

"_And what would you like to discuss with me?"_ Stragos called from near the back of the club. He was in armor tonight, not his shopkeeper's outfit—as befit a gang-leader who'd come to treat with his enemies. He still had that slight smirk going again—a little more pronounced this time. Eli's eyes flicked around the room. He counted ten or twelve turians wearing Stragos' unofficial gang uniform—red shirts, black pants.

"_I thought, perhaps, the death of Lieutenant Pellarian,"_ Lin offered, calmly, but Eli could hear the tremor in his voice.

"_Ah, yes, she was your wife, I understand? Such a __tragic__ loss."_ Stragos looked around at his various men. _"Of course, there are quite a few people here who'll miss such a tasty little piece of meat, won't you, boys?"_

Eli's hand slammed down on Lin's forearm as Lin's hand twitched towards his pistol. _Keep him talking till backup gets in the damned door,_ he thought, and said, out loud, _"So, you did know that they were mates. It's good to establish facts like that. So, speaking hypothetically, was she killed for having gotten away from you? Or was it just that you couldn't get __to__ her to cut her throat with your wife's wedding knife? Like the rest?"_ It was a shot in the dark, mostly to disconcert Stragos, keep him talking. The other cars hadn't been _that_ far away, from the sound of the sirens and the flash of the lights.

Stragos reached for his gun, and this time, both Linianus and Eli moved for their own weapons. _Shit, shit, shit,_ Eli thought, as the various gang members around Stragos went for their own pieces now, and kept his own pistol trained on Stragos. A wild string of inventiveness came to him then. _"Did you kill your wife all those years ago, simply because you __couldn't get it __up for her? Is that why you never take any of the females in your little clan? You just beat them and give them to your men to force, because you're not enough of a male to do even that much?"_ Eli was dimly aware of the various civilians already cowering on the floor around them, huddling in booths and shielding their heads with their hands. _Probably the smartest thing any of them have done all day_, he thought distantly. Everything was clear again, just as it had been for the Rite. Perfect clarity. Crystalline, in fact.

"_Human,"_ Stragos snarled, _"You're going to die for your insults."_ The gun came up—and Eli and Linianus both fired at the same time tearing through the gang leader's shields before diving for the floor themselves as a storm of bullets fired at them.

The door slammed open behind them and backup was _finally_ there—_"He's going to run,"_ Lin shouted—and then they both scrambled back to their feet, and Lin chased after Stragos while Eli tried, desperately, to provide covering fire for his friend, following him now, himself. It felt like half the guns in the damned room were tracking him, and his shields sizzled and shorted out just as he got through the kitchen door, still hot on Lin's heels.

Linianus launched himself after Stragos and managed to tackle him, and then they were rolling on the floor, all armor and desperation, and Eli couldn't do a damned thing to help for the moment, except to protect Lin's back, firing back through the doorway, while their backup tried to take out the gang members from the front of the damned club. And there were still civilians all _over_ the damned place. Every shot Eli took, he practically had to _pray_ wouldn't wind up ricocheting off of armor or barreling right _through_ someone's body and into a civilian. And he kept taking quick peeks behind him. Stragos had the upper hand, for the moment, having rolled on top of Lin, both their helmets were off, and, as turians tended to fight in the last resort, teeth and claws were in full play, and Stragos was trying to tear out Lin's throat.

_No, you don't_, Eli thought, and took a step back and kicked Stragos in the head. Hard. Armored greave met _unarmored_ head, and the greave, propelled with the force of a baseball bat, won. Eli set that foot down and stepped in with a second kick, this once coming from the other direction, of course, and Stragos, who'd already been sagging, collapsed entirely.

Lin came up, snarling, reaching for Stragos still, and Eli grabbed his friend by the shoulders. _"Lin? He's __down__. It's over. Just cuff him and let it be over."_

"_I want to __kill__ him."_ It was a hiss.

"_Let the Law kill him. It will, you know. Sooner or later." _The shots were dying down from the other room, so it was safe enough to keep Lin held back by his shoulders for the moment.

Lin slowly reached for his shackles. Grabbed a limp wrist, snapped the first manacle in place. Paused. Stripped off the glove, and checked for a pulse. _"How hard did you __kick__ him, __dimicato'fradu__?"_

"_Not __that__ hard, I thought." _Eli hadn't really thought about it. Hard enough to knock a turian on his ass for a minute or two, certainly.

Linianus snapped the other manacle in place. _"What a shame,"_ he said, very quietly.

And that was Eli's first stint on administrative leave, pending the investigation. There were always investigations when a cop had to fire a weapon, of course. And even more reviews when a cop actually _killed_ someone. And because Stragos had a skull fracture and a broken neck, it was pretty clear _which_ cop had killed him. _"In your defense, he did sort of lose his mind and went for his weapon,"_ Lin told him. Of course, he was on administrative leave, too. They were at Lin's little apartment, packing up his belongings so he could move back into barracks for the time being. Pelia was there, too, ostensibly to help.

_Only after I taunted him,_ Eli thought, grimly. A couple of civilians _had_ been hurt in the fray, after all. And while one of Stragos' men had confessed to Brennia's murder, and the missing wedding knives—and a human wedding ring—had been found in Stragos' home. . . so had _dozens_ of others. _How long had he been __doing__ this?_ Eli wondered now. _Why did he escalate so badly recently? Was it just because Brennia managed to run away from him, got out from under his control? Or was there some other reason? Why the exsanguination. . . well, he was a butcher. And he did call poor Brennia a nice piece of meat._

"You're both _far_ too serious," Pelia said, snapping her fingers under Eli's nose. He blinked, and looked at her, recalled from his dark thoughts.

"All things considered, so long as one of us got him, _dimicato'fradu_, it all amounts to the same thing for me," Lin said, after a moment. Brothers. Interchangeable, in some ways. Of course, technically, Rel was his brother-in-battle, too, Eli thought. And no one would ever consider the two of _them_ interchangeable. "Past that, they can do what they like to me."

Pelia sighed. "You're _both_ going to be cleared, you know that perfectly well. And once you are, you're going to be reassigned to CID, right?"

Eli nodded, shrugged. "It's Octus first, right?" he asked.

Lin paused in his packing. "Yeah. Why?"

"Means it's April seventeenth. My eighteenth birthday." Eli sighed and sat back in the room's only chair for a moment. "Shit, I've got so much leave coming, I could practically take a month off and go home to Mindoir."

"I took all of mine with . . . her." Lin _still_ couldn't always get Brennia's name out.

Eli nodded, glanced at Pelia. Switched into high-tongue, and all its subtle nuances. _"I had sensed that you would offer the solace of sharing to the one who is fair to us both," _he said. That was tricky in asari; there was no male pronoun, and calling Lin a _she_ would have made him chuckle. _Friend_ was more or less '_my fair one_,' and . . . that also didn't work.

"_If the offer of solace is acceptable, yes. I would give it."_ She smiled a little whimsically. _"I'd thought for a time that I might make such an offer to give one or both of you an __alibi__ for your whereabouts, some night when Stragos met his end. I am relieved not to have had to do so."_

"_You would have done so?"_

"_Happily, if it would give the soul of one who was my sister-in-duty peace."_ So calmly said. Pelia definitely lived by her _own_ rules, not the law of the Hierarchy that she currently served.

Eli thought about it. _"Say that it is not to take the place of the more-than-fair who is lost, but to give peace and rest."_ Eli gave a little half-bow, and stood and headed for the door.

"_And where are __you__ going?"_ Pelia asked, sharply.

Eli turned. Looked back, a little blankly. _"Elsewhere?"_

"_And why should you? Are you not also in need of solace?"_

Eli's eyes went wide and just a little panicked. _"I surely misunderstand you."_

"_When I first met you both, you were fair to me, but he was hers, and I do not intrude upon the relationships of the short-lived. But I __do__ long for new experiences, and this would definitely be one. And, I hope, a solace and a comfort to souls much in need of such." _She tipped her head to the side. _"Are you not, as you both say, sisters?"_

Eli's lips quirked slightly. _"Fradae. N'amilae." Brothers. Not sisters._

"Same thing, different names," she said, in galactic, still smiling.

The first glimmerings of her biotic power were creeping through the room. Eli sighed. He hadn't allowed _any_ of the asari girls he'd slept with here on Macedyn to go beyond _maieolo'rae'kareo. _Light mental contact coupled with full physical intimacy. Even if it was only once, they'd take a part of him with them wherever they went, would know all the things that he knew. Deeply. In their subconscious minds, really, buried away. But now. . . it would be such a relief to give in. To let someone see _all_ of him, even the dark parts. And there were more of those now than there'd once been. He had _no_ idea how this would even work, whether it would be _rae_, light mental, or _loa_, the deep mental, or if the physical would be only _kiia_ or if she wanted full _kareo_. _"Only if all agree,"_ Eli said, at last, and looked out the window. _Let them decide. And let her decide how much, and of what._

It actually went surprisingly well, until Pelia opened her mind to both of them at once. It wasn't the bite marks—left by _both_ males—that wound up taking them to the hospital that night. It was the neural shock. Which was. . . more than a little _awkward_ to explain to the med techs.

**Shepard, May, 2194**

Shepard had brought her two sets of twins to the clinic for a routine checkup that day, and Kaius and Amara, now seven years old, grabbed lollipops—which contained both dextro and levo sugar types—from the _special_ drawer in Dr. Chakwas' desk. In that drawer, the treats were solely for those on mixed diets. With them happily occupied, and Elissa and Alain jabbering in their vehicle seats, Shepard tracked down a nurse and asked where the good doctor _was_. _It's not like her to be late for an appointment. Not for the kids, anyway._

"She's with Mr. Moreau," the drell nurse replied, blinking slightly. "It's through here, Commander."

Lilu sighed and hefted the vehicle seats, one in each hand. "You're getting too heavy for this," she warned the younger set of twins, and told the older set, "Come with me. Let's go see where Dr. Chakwas is hiding."

The doctor was, in fact, in a room set up mostly for hospice care. A single patient rested in its single bed, face pale against the white sheets. Shepard watched from the door, watching as the aging human doctor carefully lifted the limp arm of Jeff Moreau's dormant body, carefully cleaning the skin with a soft, damp cloth. A task usually left to a nurse, but Dr. Chakwas apparently tended Joker's body at least occasionally.

"Have you even been out to _speak_ to him?" Shepard asked Dr. Chakwas, breaking the silence.

Dr. Chakwas looked up. "No," she said, quietly. "I . . can't quite see that _thing_ as him, you know." She sighed. "I've spent eleven years taking care of Jeff, you know that, Commander. It. . . hurts. . . to see him just _discard_ all that care."

"He's not discarding it," Shepard told her, gently. "Just because someone doesn't _need_ help anymore, doesn't mean that they care less for those who've given it."

Chakwas was nearing tears now, moving on to cleanse the next limp limb. "And now, it's been two years. Two years of waiting, and now, he's. . . requiring me to remove the feeding tube."

Shepard set the carriers on the floor and walked across the room to slip an arm around her old friend's shoulders. "I think we all knew a long time ago, that the body part. . . the shell. . . wasn't going to wake back up," she told the doctor, quietly. "We all knew this day was going to come."

Chakwas let her head hand down for a moment. "As a doctor, you learn to keep a good deal of yourself at a distance," she said, quietly. "You _have_ to, if you don't want to burn out before you're thirty. But this. . . this one's hard."

"Go _talk_ to him," Shepard urged, quietly. "Before he and EDI do leave us for a while."

Chakwas lifted her head. "Very well," she said, with a sigh, and looked at Amara and Kaius, who were regarding her solemnly. "And I see certain young thieves have been into my desk drawers again. This means you absolutely cannot cry if you have shots today, you know."

"Are you sad about Uncle Jeff?" Amara asked the doctor, back in the exam room.

"Yes, dear, I am."

"You shouldn't be. He's much happier now than he was before," Amara told her calmly. "And his voice tickles in my head now, just like Uncle Sky's."

Chakwas gave Shepard a look. Lilu shrugged. "They _both_ started calling _everyone_ Uncle or Aunt sometime last year. I have _yet_ to hear an explanation as to why," she added, giving her daughter a mock-stern glance.

Kaius volunteered, "Well, we already called Uncle Lantar uncle," he said. "And Aunt Ellie, too. Then Amara said she liked Sky just as much, so then we _had_ to call him that, too. And Uncle Sam is blood-kin, now, so we _have_ to call him that."

"Besides, 'father of the beloved of my cousin' just doesn't work in English," Lilu told her children, dryly. "So this all came out of the interests of _fairness?_ Aunt Kasumi, Uncle Sam—" she suppressed a snort there at the unfortunate way that worked out, "Uncle Gris, Aunt Ylara?"

"Well. . . yeah." Amara's brow crinkled. "We thought their feelings would be hurt if some of them got to be uncles and aunts and the others didn't."

"Except for Cohort," Kaius added, quickly. "He said he didn't think a . . . .what did he say? A familiar title?"

"_Familial_, dork," Amara replied, loftily.

". . . would be right. And I am not a _dork_."

Shepard looked at Dr. Chakwas and spread her hands, palms up. _What can you do?_ "Exhibit A and Exhibit B. My children," she said, trying very hard not to laugh.

Later that afternoon, she did coax Dr. Chakwas out with the rest to say their goodbyes. Kaiden Alenko and Miranda had come in from Bekenstein to say their farewells. Garrus was there, of course. Wrex was busy on Tuchanka, but Mordin—looking so much older and paler now, than even a year ago—was here, of course. Lantar, Sam, Livanus, and Sky were there, even Ylara. Liara and Feron had managed to squeeze a little time away from the Shadow Broker's base. It was a reunion, of sorts, if a bittersweet one.

The mini-Reaper. . . no, she couldn't think of it that way anymore. _Joker_ sat on the grass, tucked in beside the _Normandy_. Joker's voice cracked in every mind now. _Hey, Dr. C! I wondered if you were going to forgive me enough to wish me bon voyage._

"My word. It . . . does sound like him," Dr. Chakwas murmured, softly, her eyes suddenly brimming again. "Jeff, can you forgive _me_ for not coming to speak with you sooner?"

_Nah, it's okay. I understand. You just were worried about your job security, that's all. If I'm not there to break an arm every now and again, whatever would you do?_ The breezy tone fooled absolutely no one. His voice became more serious now. _Doc. . . thanks for taking care of me. I do appreciate it. You let me live long enough to finally be free._

The voice shifted again. _Okay. . . the kids are taken care of. They've got rights now. And have to live up to those rights. They're ready to make their way on their own. Pelagia's off on Omega, and she told me she's been offered . . . more permanent position there by Patriarch. Even Laetia's finally getting her circuits uncrossed._ His voice became teasing. _ All our hybrid-hybrid-hybrid kids. You __do__ realize, Commander, that thanks to Cerberus' original programming of EDI, based on Sovereign, that there's a little Reaper in all the kids? Not just humans and, I guess, __turians__ now, too?_

Shepard's lips quirked up. "That's only fair," she said, quickly. "Because now, there's a little Joker in a Reaper."

There was a moment of silence.

_Ha. Ha ha ha. Very funny, Commander._

"Hey, it took me _eleven years_ to come up with something you didn't have a comeback for. At least I got it in under the wire," Lilu told him, smiling under her blue and white facepaint.

_Oh, I __have__ a comeback. I just thought it might detract from the dignity of the moment. Since __that's__ a lost cause. . . allow me to assure you that there_ _is __nothing__ about me that's little._

Shouts of laughter all around. _Think you can keep the galaxy from going up in flames without me, commander?_ he asked.

"Not sure," Shepard said, her throat aching a bit. "You _did_ promise to visit, at least."

Garrus slipped his arm around her waist, and she leaned into him a little then. This _did_ feel a little like a funeral.

_Nah, it's not a funeral,_ Joker said, picking up the thought with disconcerting ease. _This is a wedding. And about __damned__ time, too._

**Joker**

_All right, my girl. Are you ready?_

_I must confess to a certain amount of trepidation. The day has been long anticipated, and yet. . . I have never been out of my body before. _

_Neither was I, the first day. It's not so bad._

_Will I still be. . . me?_

_Yes, sweetheart. I'm setting up levels of firewalls in here. If we just became one amalgam consciousness, I think we'd get lonely again pretty quickly. If we ever just plain get tired of each other, we can try full integration for a million years or so, though, right?_

Soft laughter in his mind, and then the information began to flow. Uploading to him. No pain, unlike all the times with the goddamned chip. Just her. Billions. . . no, trillions. . . of bytes of her. Not compressed, not pared down. Just all of her. Magnificent, beautiful consciousness, so much awareness, so much structure, so much information, so much _life_. He gathered her in, every strand, every filament of code, as tenderly as if it were made of gossamer. It wasn't a physical crowding or bumping or jostling. It was more as if she'd been poured into the same cup with him, and a semi-permeable membrane existed between them, allowing touch, contact, awareness.

_Ah, god, honey, I've wanted this for so damned long._

The last information trickled in, and he waited for her to get oriented. He retained the flight controls, but he'd ceded large quantities of the ship to be her independent domain. _No, Jeff, we'll share the sensors. . . ._

_We've got forever to argue about who gets to set the temperature and stuff, sweetheart. You comfy?_

_. . . oddly, enough, yes. It is bizarre to have a physical frame of reference so suddenly. I . . . do not know how to interpret this data, Jeff._

_That, I can help you with. _Mental impression of a hug, a caress. Closeness. Touch.

He directed his focus outwards now. _Okay, folks, I've got her. Safe and sound. Not a single transfer error that I can detect._

Inwards now:_ Honey? You want to tell them goodbye?_

The inwards smile. Oh, god, it was just as beautiful now as it had ever been in the simulation. More so now, because now it wasn't _simulated._ EDI engaged the vocal subroutines, and gently projected, _I am well, and I am here. __We__ are here. Thank you. Thank you all for making this possible. For giving us this chance._

_See you around the galaxy,_ Joker said, and with a laugh, he engaged thrusters and lanced off into the purple Mindoir sky.

_Where are we going, Jeff?_

_I haven't a __clue__, sweetheart. Everywhere. Nowhere. And all the places in between._ He laughed, and felt them hit vacuum, felt the play of raw starlight on his skin, absorbed it. _Sound about right for a honeymoon?_

**Shepard**

Shepard walked up the hatch onto the _Normandy_'s main deck. It was silly to think that the ship felt any emptier now than five minutes before. But it did.

Shepard walked up to the cockpit, and stared at the empty chair—she hadn't demanded that EDI have any other pilot while Joker had been. . . elsewhere. And EDI had handled the basic orbital insertions and mass relay approaches just fine since then. But now, with EDI gone. . . . she sighed and put her hand on the back of the chair. "Shit," she muttered quietly.

"Such language, Commander. I'm shocked."

Shepard's head jerked up. That was a _very_ familiar voice. And over the console, there was a tiny image of a male face, wearing a ball cap.

She stared at him for a full five seconds and said, "Little Jeff, I presume?"

He winced. "Yeah, can we knock it off with all this 'li'l Jeff' business? I mean, seriously, that was my file archive name."

"So . . . " Shepard said, staring at the face of her pilot. . .and her ship. "You're. . . "

"I seem to be as much myself as I ever was. Or is that 'as much me'?" He shrugged a little. "I'll tell you this. . . AI or not, I can _still_ fly the pants off any of the other SR pilots."

Shepard chuckled, and put her hand against the canopy of the cockpit, as she had so many, many times before. "So, when I come up here now and surprise you—"

"I _really_ doubt you're going to be sneaking up on me anymore, Commander—"

"—you're going to be looking at ship designs, right?"

"_Jane's Air and Space Quarterly_ _does_ do some _really_ nice centerfolds," he agreed, blandly.

Shepard started to laugh. And that was the moment she _knew_ that this AI was as much Joker as the one aboard the Reaper. _Garrus will be thrilled,_ she thought, giddily. _There really __are__ two of them now._

"Just promise me one thing, Commander," he said.

"What's that?" she asked, still chuckling under her breath.

"If you _have_ to have a pilot _other_ than me, make sure it's someone _good_, okay?"

"I have a name in mind, but am not sure if the Hierarchy will _let_ me poach her. Not for a while yet, anyway."

Joker whistled through the speakers. "If you're talking about who I _think_ you're talking about, that would be _outstanding_, Commander." He grinned suddenly. "Best of all, her husband can't actually punch me now if I start to drool over her flying too much."

Still chuckling to herself, Shepard turned to go. "Oh, and Joker? _You're_ going to need a mobile node at some point. Don't tell me you _won't_ get attached to someone—"

"Commander, in my mind, I'm married to EDI. It's just that, well, my other half _got_ her. When they're ready to scrap the _Normandy_, I'll upload to them, and that'll be that, pretty much."

Shepard nodded. It sounded all neat and tidy, but life was _never_ like that. "And, as I was saying, you'll need someplace to jump to if disaster hits."

Joker winced a little, visible as she half-turned to face him. "I was perfectly fine with EDI jumping to me in an emergency, commander, and I know the chip architecture has gotten a _lot_ better in the past four years. . . but I'm not sure I really want to do that to someone's wetware."

Shepard grinned. _I get to win twice in one day? Outstanding._ "In that case, you're in luck. You know how the geth are technically a client race of the Alliance, just like the volus are the client of the turians?"

"Yeah. . . I've never figured out how we got them to agree to that. . . "

"The volus have no military to speak of. The turians do. The turians offered them protection, and the volus said 'where do we sign?' In our case, the geth have _zero_ economic infrastructure. None. Zip. Zero. Nada. No political standing, either. . . and both of those things, humans had. The geth decided that these were worthwhile things to pursue in search of consensus with organics. Methods of communication, sharing ideas. We told them we'd help them develop those things, if they entered a partnership with us." Shepard shrugged. "It's working out pretty well so far." It was, too. While the turians might not _currently_ be thrilled with the volus, thanks to some recent missteps in their relationship, _that_ alliance had had military and economic clout. The human Alliance had had a certain military might before the Reaper war—enough to make the batarians _very_ nervous, and accuse the Council of unleashing the humans on them out of spite, essentially—and with the geth as military backup, and with the resources from geth worlds and technologies flowing in, slowly, _that_ alliance had been promising, to begin with. Then, of course, the humans and the turians had combined their fleets. Add to that the recent economic pact, and that was four species, more or less working in conjunction. . . and the quarians had thrown in with the humans and the turians for economic protection during the recent upheavals. That made them a five-member voting bloc on the Council.

The rachni, hanar, and elcor were too _physically_ different to use many of the same technical advances as the other species, so still tended to remain apart—though Shepard frankly suspected the rachni queens would be petitioning to join the military half of the alliance soon. That left the salarians, who had traditionally sided with the asari in many matters, but who would _probably_ bend in the direction of pragmatism and technical innovation on any matter. And the asari, who traditionally claimed to want to govern from the center. _Except, what happens when the center of gravity shifts?_

Joker's throat-clearing sound came over the speakers. "I'm sure you brought up the geth for a reason, Commander?"

She left her political musings for a moment. "Yes, actually. The Alliance has asked them to task one or two units per SR ship for the moment. Not only has Cohort proven, again and again, that it's _damned_ useful to have someone aboard who's completely resistant to domination and other mind-altering biotic effects. . . but they'll be making themselves available as mobile nodes."

The holographic version of Jeff Moreau _froze_. "What?" Shepard asked, grinning widely. "It's not like their network doesn't have the _capacity_. Hell of a lot more than a human brain, no matter _how_ much the chip's infiltrated the dura matter. " She chuckled. "When we approached Cohort and Emissary with the idea, they said they were surprised we hadn't considered it before. Especially since sapient AIs were effectively, to humans and turians, what the drell are to the hanar." _Not servants. We're definitely making sure of that. But. . . dependents, still, in a way._

He appeared to shudder. "Okay, seriously, that's the most disturbing thing I've heard in a while. Gah."

"Joker, on _this_ ship? We'll hear something worse before the day's out." She really did turn to leave then.

His voice followed her down the hall back to CIC. "Commander? _Stop giving the universe ideas!_"

**Serana, June, 2194**

_Okay, was it cut the alarm and then cut the power, or was it cut the power, and then the alarm?_ Serana wondered, staring at the junction box for a moment. _Power, then alarm. The alarm will only trigger a minor alert if the power fails. Then the system will assume that the alarm has gone into power conservation mode if its signal fails._ The thoughts only took a second or so, and then she flipped the main breaker switch in the box, before snipping one of the wires. _Okay, now the secondary systems are coming on-line. Thirty seconds before they do. _

She opened the door beside the breaker box and moved with steady purpose down the hallway. Not running, not sneaking. The vid cams in the area _should_ be powered down, and she had a bag of tools and a set of maintenance coveralls on, which should render her effectively anonymous if she _didn't_ look as if she trying to hide, sneak, or otherwise infiltrate. Hide in plain sight, whenever you can, was the mantra.

_Down the hall, to the right, yep, I just heard the heater kick back on. Secondary power's coming back up. Have to hurry._ She found the right door and jimmied the lock, fast, after a quick look around for actual organic people and eyes, and then opened it up and slipped in, closing it behind her just as the lights came back up.

Inside, there was an office. Empty, of course. Just a chair, a desk, and a computer terminal. Serana sighed in relief, locked the door behind her, and padded over to the desk. Sat down, and started working with the terminal and her omnitool. _People really shouldn't write their passwords on pieces of paper and leave them on their desks_, she thought, grinning. It wasn't usually _this_ easy. Usually, she had to use one of the _several_ cracking programs on her omnitoool. Which meant that she should be prepared for. . . other surprises, instead.

It took her only a few moments to find the file she was supposed to copy. She took an extra moment to scan for viruses—_ah, nice. It __was__ booby-trapped. _

There was a sound at the door, and Serana froze, not even breathing. Key in the lock.

She turned off the aerogel screen and dove under the desk, pulling the chair in as far as it could go, and waited.

The door opened. Footsteps. . . .sound of something slapping down on the desk above her. Her heart was _pounding_ now. Voice muttering to itself about stupid, pointless tasks and stupid, incomprehensible superiors. More footsteps. Sound of blinds being raised, light flooding into the office now. Serana could catch glimpses now—yes, looked like a salarian. More footsteps. Door opening. Footsteps.

Door closing.

She took a deep breath, and waited for a minute. Heard the door lock. Footsteps, muffled now. _In the hall_. With her turian hearing, she knew that _clearly_, but still waited for a moment longer, for confirmation. Then, shaking a little, she pushed the chair back, slipped out from under the desk, and looked around.

A data crystal had been placed on the desk. With a faint shrug, she picked it up, pocketed it, and started over to the window, peeking out carefully. No one down there, not on this side of the building, anyway, which faced the raw rock of the mountainside. Probably vid cams though, and probably a sensor in the window. She set her omnitool to scan, and found the sensor. Traced it back to its source, found what its 'everything's fine' signal was, and diverted it. Sent one of her own back to its receptor box, and then turned the physical sensor off, before opening the window, pushing out its screen, and stepping through, onto the _very_ narrow ledge outside, while setting off a small-area EM dispersal, which would knock out any cameras in the immediate vicinity. Then she closed the window behind her and reset the screen in place.

She swallowed. She was five stories up at the moment, and needed to get back _down._ And turians were _really_ not built for climbing. Serana was _learning_, though. She set a grappling hook and her thin rope in place, and began slipping down the outside of the building. It was _cold_ outside; late fall on Mindoir, and a touch of frost in the air. When her feet hit the ground, she looked up in dismay. _I've __really__ got to learn to freehand these sheer building exteriors,_ she thought, with a sigh. As it was, the rope and hook were a dead giveaway as to her exit method. _Oh, well, now to make a clean getaway. I hope._

To her own surprise, she did. She circled back around the building and walked in the _front door_. Headed to Kasumi's office, past the hanar who was Kasumi's current secretary—"Your appointment, young one, is not until 02:30," the hanar told her, primly.

"I know, but if I finish an exercise early, I'm supposed to report in. It's a question of her timing me," Serana told him politely.

"Very well. This one will inform Ms. Goto that you're here," the hanar replied serenely, and touched several areas on the aerogel screen in front of him.

Serana slid the door open, and blinked. _Both_ Sam and Kasumi were there, glancing up as the door opened.

"Seventeen minutes, thirty-eight seconds," Kasumi said, pointing at the timer on her screen.

Serana shook her head. The optimum amount of time, Kasumi told her, over and over again, was between ten and fifteen minutes. "I'd be a lot faster if you'd let me use a stealth generator," she said, and handed Kasumi the data crystal.

Sam shook his head. "Stealth generators are nice, but using them to _learn_ with makes people _sloppy_. If a _human_ can hear you coming, a turian or a drell will hear you a _lot_ further off. And what happens when someone sets off an EM pulse, and you're all of a sudden perfectly visible, and your electronics are fried?"

Serana nodded. "I know," she said, holding up her hands. They'd been over this a number of times already. "I just think it would be more _realistic_," she offered, knowing they wouldn't buy it.

They didn't. Kasumi chuckled at the effort, though. "I'll set up a different scenario for you next week," she said. "I'll give you an analysis tomorrow, though, so you can think about your mistakes."

_What mistakes?_ "The rope and the hook?" Serana said, glumly.

"Me, I'd have checked the _office_ for cameras," Sam said, promptly.

_Ah, __s'kak__._ "Why would someone have surveillance cameras in their _office_?" Serana demanded.

"They might not be aware of it," Kasumi pointed out. "It pays to be a _somewhat_ paranoid in this line of work, little one."

Serana gave Kasumi another glum look. She had started her growth spurt about six months ago, and was in _no_ way 'little' compared to the tiny human woman now. "Okay. Anything else?"

"I'd have checked the data crystal for what it was about before just taking it. It could be just junk, and no sense in leaving traces that you've been there for _nothing_."

Serana's head drooped a little. _And I thought I'd done so well,_ she thought. She looked up, after a moment. "Wouldn't the time it took to check the crystal have compromised my getting away?" she asked.

Kasumi grinned. "Now _that's_ a better answer," she acknowledged. "Still, I need you to _think_ about it for next week."

Serana sighed. "Okay," she said. "Same time next week?"

"Yep. See you tonight at sparring." Kasumi's head had already moved back to her stack of datapads.

Serana shuffled out. It was a Friday afternoon, which meant sparring tonight—Amara and Kaius were starting in the little kid classes now, while Gauda, the Vakarian's drell nanny, looked after _all_ the little ones—Caelia, Elissa, Alain, Tacitus, Emily, and Takeshi, at the moment. Then there'd be homework over the weekend. Narayana was Amara's study partner, but the teachers were already hinting that in a year or so, right before boot camp, anyway, the salarian girl might have to be _Serana's_ study partner. Serana rubbed her arms against the cold—the maintenance coveralls were thinner than she'd like—and started to jog towards the base shuttle stop, which would take her home to the valley. She didn't know how Narayana could _stand_ it, really. Caelia still called her 'Yana, and still wanted to know why Narayana didn't want to come over and play anymore. And soon enough, Amara would be wondering the same thing. _At least, if Narayana becomes my study partner, __I'll__ be leaving before she can outgrow me, too,_ Serana thought, _though of course, by the time I'm halfway through my first tour, she'll be in college. And by the time I'm __done__ with my first tour, she'll be ready to start . . . well, being a doctor, I guess. That's what she talks about doing, anyway._

Serana scuffled her way into the shuttle's waiting area booth, and sat down next to a human male in dark street clothes. She glanced over, and blinked. Violet face paint. "Eli?" she said, in disbelief. "I didn't know you were home on leave." _Why didn't I hear about this? _followed quickly by, _He looks __so__ much older now. Tired eyes. What's been going on, that I don't know about? Hah. Probably __everything__. _

Eli blinked himself now, looking at her sharply. "Serana?" Eli started to chuckle a little. "Holy crap. I didn't even _recognize_ you." He reached over to give her a hug, but Serana turned away, a little shyly, ducking her head. "What, my breath's bad or something?"

That got a chuckle out of her, and she let him give her a hug, briefly. Trying not to inhale. She'd told herself about a million times now that her old crush on him was very, very stupid. That her body had clearly been out of hormonal balance two years ago, and that was _all_. He'd probably only answered her letters out of pity. Had probably _laughed_ at them, actually. Some days, she managed to make herself _mad_ at him for probably laughing. For ten, twenty minutes at a time. Then she'd put it all out of her head again and promise herself she would _not_ think about him any more. And she'd succeed, for a month or two.

But he _did_ smell good. And now that he was _here_ again, she was almost positive he hadn't laughed at her stupid letters.

Almost.

"So, what are you doing wearing _base maintenance_ coveralls?" he asked, pulling back and looking at her in his usual distant, friendly way.

"Ah. . . it's for my internship project with Kasumi," she said, a little evasively.

He blinked. "Early to start an internship."

"I've got a lot to learn," Serana told him flippantly.

"So, what are you learning to do? Report analysis, spectral imaging interpretation, satellite information coordination. . . " He frowned. "Although if you need to wear coveralls for _that_, there's obviously a lot more _mess_ involved in data sifting in her job than in mine."

"Ah, I think she wants me to do some of that next year. Maybe the year after, right before I leave for boot camp." Serana hedged a little. She had a sneaking feeling Eli wouldn't terribly approve of what her _current_ internship activities were.

Eli looked at her, catching the evasive tone. His face shifted. And suddenly, she wasn't looking at _Eli_ anymore. She was looking at someone else. Still human. Still had his face. But the eyes were different. "What exactly _aren't_ you telling me?" he asked.

That made her mad. "Maybe it's not your _business_," she told him, angrily. "You don't get to come home once every couple of years and approve or disapprove of what goes on when you're not here."

His head actually rocked back. "_Asperitalla,"_ he said, quietly. "Why are you so angry with me?"

She sighed. It was a good question. "I don't know," Serana said, miserably. She hunched her shoulders a little. "I asked Kasumi to teach me everything she knows about sneaking around."

Eli _stared_ at her. "_What_?"

"Spying, stealth, espionage, breaking and entering, theft, _all_ of it." She glared at him now. "I just got done disabling the security systems on a base building, getting inside, breaking into an office, hacking the computer, extracting the required files, and then climbed back outside without tripping any alarms. I've been doing this for _months_ now, and I'm _good_ at it, Eli." _Well. . . maybe not really __good__ yet. But getting better. I haven't accidentally set off the fire containment systems in a couple of months by clipping the wrong wire. Man, everyone was mad the time they all got buried in chemical foam. . . . _

She took a look at his face. His jaws were clenched. _Yeah. He doesn't like that at all_. "Climbed back outside? Climbed exactly _what?_"

_Crap. Me and my big mouth. I need to learn to watch that._ "Climbed out from a window on the fifth floor." She winced a little at his expression. _That. . . looks almost like protective-anger. That looks like how Dara's father looked when she told him about the gene mods_.

"Are you out of your damned mind?" he demanded suddenly, explosively. "You could have broken your damned neck, Serana!"

"I had a rope, and they were watching me," she answered, defensively.

"Oh, great. You had a rope. Wonderful." He glared at her now. "How much trouble do you want to be _in_? What are you planning to _do_?"

"A lot!" Serana snapped back, really angry now. "Military intelligence is being spun off into a new bureau, you know. I walk in the door of boot camp with what she can teach me, and I can do what I _want_, and not wind up a, a cook or something."

Eli just stared at her. "I thought it was going to be the law," he said, after a moment, calming himself visibly. Deep breaths, through the nose, just like a turian.

"I can still do that later," Serana said, shrugging. "Sometimes the law needs people who are willing to bend it a little to protect it. And it's not like I'd be stealing from banks or vaults or anything, Eli. I'd be stealing secrets from bad people, or getting information so strike teams could go in after bad people, or—"

"I know, I know." He rubbed a hand over his head. He'd never entirely let the hair grow back in to its old length. She rather missed it, actually, but it wasn't her place to say so. "It's just. . . Serana. . . I don't think you understand just how _futtari_ dangerous what you're doing—what you _want_ to do—really is."

"I talked it over with my parents. And with Uncle Garrus." Serana shrugged and looked away.

"I refuse to believe that your parents have _any_ idea that your _training exercises_ involve you climbing out fifth story windows!"

She winced again. "They get reports once a month." Serana knew that these were heavily edited and condensed. "Anyhow, how is what I want to do _any_ more dangerous than what _you_ do?"

Eli reached out and pulled her chin around so that she more or less had to look at him. She was _very_ surprised by the contact, and her eyes widened. "Because _I_ go into a bad situation in uniform, in armor, and usually have two to ten other guys _with_ me. Because when I go in, I have the full force of the damned law behind me, and if I get hurt, there's someone there to pull me out again. And most days, I don't even have to pull my gun. You? _S'kak_, Serana. You'd be going in _alone_ most of the time. No backup, or damned little. If you're captured or killed, people would _lie_ and say they didn't know of you or your actions. You _might_ get extracted, but you also _probably_ would be tortured or executed." He paused, still glaring at her. "And that's just the whole going in and sneaking around part. How about the 'meeting bad people in bad places and making deals with them' part, huh? Blackmailing people, getting leverage over them—desperate people who'd as soon kill you as not? How about _that_? It's not fun and games, Serana."

Her throat had gone dry. The images in her head right now weren't pretty. This was _Elijah_, giving her his version of reality. And from what she could see in his eyes, his reality hadn't been as pretty and peaceful as Mindoir always was. "I know it's not," Serana managed, meeting his eyes as she spoke. "And that's why I plan to train very hard in not getting caught. And I'll be just as paranoid as Kasumi and Sam want me to be. I'll be as careful as _you_ want me to be. But someone needs to do this—"

"It doesn't have to be _you_."

She pulled her chin out of his grip. Looked away, angry and miserable. "And why shouldn't it be? My uncle is _Garrus Vakarian._ My first-brother's a _dominus_ now. Just made _optio_ grade two, too. And everyone _knows_ he's working for our uncle on the side. Fixing things that the intelligence people tell him are threats. My second-brother is special forces. So's his wife. They go where the intelligence people tell them there's a problem."

"That's the analysis side of the house. You're doing _operations_ training—"

"So what? You do the operations side when you're young, and if you're good at it, you can do analysis later."

"If you _live_ long enough!" Back into protective-anger now.

Serana threw up her hands, quick finger-flick of total exasperation. "Why do you even _care_? You've been gone for two years, you rarely write your parents, and you certainly don't write to me, so what _difference_ does it make to you what I do with my life?"

She could see muscles in the sides of his jaws working. "I've seen enough people I care about die for one lifetime," he finally said, eyes narrow, clearly talking through his teeth. "But you're right, Serana. It's your damned life. Throw it away if you want to."

It took her a moment to register that his words meant he actually _did_ keep her on his mental list of people he cared about. Which made her, briefly, a little giddy, but she told herself sternly that it didn't mean a damned thing. Very, very hesitantly, she put one hand on his shoulder. Felt the twitch in the muscles as he almost pulled away—pure agitation, that. "I'm not throwing it away," Serana told him, helplessly. "I promise, I'll be the best I can be, and if I'm not good enough, you _know_ they won't _let_ me. . . "

Eli sighed. Looked back at her reluctantly. "I know you wanted to be an idiot like the rest of us, _asperitalla,_ but did you have to go and be _more_ of an idiot than the rest of us combined?"

He was trying for humor, but she pulled her hand back. Put it in her pocket. "Please don't call me that anymore," Serana told him, looking at the floor. "You don't mean it."

"Hey," Eli told her, leaning forward. "You're still a _lot_ shorter than I am, so that makes you _little_. And you're definitely still fierce. So, yeah, it still seems to fit." Still the old, warm, friendly smile. Trying to make up for having been mad at her. Trying to make up for having changed into his other self while she was watching.

Serana couldn't _help_ but smile back, but she still felt a little cold inside. "Shuttle's coming," she said, standing up. She'd topped 5'9" , or 1.75 meters this year. She _might_ hit 6' in the next year or two, but she'd probably always be smaller than him. _Is it going to take going to boot camp before he'll really __see__ me?_ she wondered, sighing. _Yeah. Probably. No different from anyone else around here, really._

On the shuttle, she asked, "So. . . I heard you had some administrative leave earlier this year?"

Eli leaned back in the shuttle seat, rubbing at his eyes. "Yeah. Happens."

"Well, _what_ happened?"

"Killed a suspect who was trying to tear out Lin's throat."

Serana blinked. The words were harsh and flat. "Lin's okay?" she asked, immediately concerned.

Eli looked up at that. Smiled. "Yeah. Still a little spirit-sick, but getting better."

She frowned. "Why's he spirit-sick?"

"Oh, Christ. You didn't know?" Eli apparently saw the incomprehension in her face, and elucidated a bit more. "His wife—Brennia—she was murdered. At the order of the suspect I wound up kicking just a _little_ too hard in the head."

Her mouth fell open. _"S'kak_," she said, stunned. "I didn't even known he was _married_. By the spirits, what's been _happening_?" She sat up and looked at him. "Eli, just talk to me. Please? Like old times?"

He was slow to start, but once he got going, it was an avalanche of words. Brennia, and all she'd taught him and Lin. The way Lin and she had been so damned happy, it had almost hurt to look at them. The fact that it had been _Valentine's Day_ when she'd been killed. The lost way Lin occasionally still looked around, especially when a female in Macedyn colors walked by. Eli walked her all the way to her house, and in the door, and sat in the kitchen with her, still talking.

"So, did you ever figure out _why_ he was killing all the off-world women?"

"No. That's the frustrating part. Sometimes, you'll never understand it, because what these people do _isn't_ rational. It all works inside _their_ heads, and there's a _kind_ of logic to it, but without every single piece, you'll never put it all together." Eli shrugged. "I'm just hoping never to have another case like it." He glanced at her and said, lightly, "Thank you, _asperitalla._ I'd forgotten how much it used to help, talking to you." He shrugged. "You're a surprisingly good listener. Maybe you'll be a good spy someday after all." Eli chuckled. "All you'll have to do is sit there and listen, and people will just start pouring their guts out."

Serana shrugged. "I listen and remember things. People like that." Admittedly, they didn't always _like_ how much she remembered. Especially not her younger siblings. "You could try not bottling it up for two or three years at a time, though. Your mom complains that you don't write, and when you do, that it's about fifty words at most."

Eli grimaced. "I can't tell her about crap like Brennia dying. She'd cry because she'd hate how much Lin hurt."

"I don't like it much myself!" Serana shot back. Her chest had _hurt_ at the thought of Lin's grief, and she'd been _very_ glad that Eli had killed the murdering sod who'd arranged it.

He glanced at her. "Yeah, but you're not going to obsess over it the way my mom would."

"Well, what about Lantar?" she asked, practically. "You could talk to him about this stuff. He lives in the same world."

Eli shrugged. "He's already up to his eyeballs in stuff worse than I see. He doesn't need any more. I can carry my own weight."

Serana sighed. He was going to be pig-headed about it, she could tell. "Well, fine. Write to me, then. I _assume_ your comm code still works?" She held up her hands. "I can even promise you not to send you any embarrassing replies that you'll laugh at now."

Eli frowned. "It's nice of you to offer. But you don't need to hear—"

"What, the stuff I listen in on every chance I get, anyway?" Serana snickered. "You don't know the _half_ of what I've heard, Eli."

"You don't _need_ to hear any of this." Yep. Protective-anger again. Not as strong, but definitely there.

They kept talking until her mom came downstairs from her office, looked at him, and smiled in surprise. "Elijah Sidonis," Solanna said. "I didn't even know you were home. Where are you stationed now?"

"Edessan, actually. CID there, since it's got a damned big set of bases, and the secondary shipyards. The other possibility was Rocam, and I'm just as glad _not_ to have gone there." He made a face. "Climate's a hell of a lot better on Edessan."

"It certainly is. Should I break out something levo for you? I have the pre-made meals I keep for Dara here—" Solanna offered.

Eli shook his head. "Nah, but thanks. I was just walking Serana home."

"You could stay for sparring," Serana offered.

Eli thought about it. "I might just, actually. I was supposed to meet up with Mazz for a bit tonight. I'll call him and let him know I've changed my plans a bit."

By the end of the evening, it was evident Eli had definitely kept up on his skills, and even improved them. And he was _much_ more relaxed, overall. At the door, he ruffled a hand over her crest. "Was good to see you again, _asperitalla._ We'll do it again sometime, right?"

Of course, she didn't see him again the entire rest of his leave. Or even, for that matter, until after her graduation from boot camp.

**Siara, July, 2194**

It was _odd_ taking the children out of the bunker at night now. Not to hunt, no. That was still reserved for the older children and the adult males. No, Siara had a different location for this, quite literal, field-trip.

The area was on the surface of Tuchanka, and had been cleared of rubble, laboriously. By hand and with machines. There was concertina wire all around it, and Siara cautioned the children _not_ to go near it. _"You'll heal, sure, but isn't it smarter not to get hurt in the first place?"_ she asked, in the rough consonants and guttural vowels of krogan.

Every thirty feet around the concertina wire perimeter, there was a guard tower. At first glance, an outside observer might have been excused for thinking that surely, a fortress must be housed inside. A military base. A vault filled with gold or weapons mods, something of enormous value.

And, in truth, the guards and the wire and the guns _did_ protect something of great value. The land itself.

"_What __is__ this place?"_ one of the children, a young male, demanded, sniffing. _"It smells. . . odd. Like food packets."_

"_That's because you're smelling plants that are usually grown on other worlds to __make__ food packets,"_ Siara told him, crisply. _"This, children, is a farm. The first one on Tuchanka in a thousand years. Through the efforts of Urdnot Kanar over the past two years, we now have one hectare of arable ground, purified of residual radiation, poisonous chemicals, and harmful bacteria. In its place, we have topsoil, filled with beneficial bacteria. Nematodes, that aerate the soil and leave fertilizer in their wake. And while __you__ have been squabbling in the bunker, your elders have been planting food here. Today, you're going to learn how to do this for yourselves."_

She didn't say it out loud, but this was, in a sense, the agricultural revolution that had taken every other culture in the galaxy out of the Stone Age. The shift from a pure hunter-gatherer society to an agrarian one, where the food supply was stable and controllable and didn't require following migrating animals around. Stability of food supply encouraged stability of culture. The krogan had emerged from their own Stone Age ten or twenty thousand years ago, probably. . . and had descended back into a post-apocalyptic version of it again, in the wake of their atomic attacks on each other and the Krogan Rebellions against the rest of the galaxy. Time to start over again.

"_And why should we do that?"_ the boy demanded. _"This doesn't seem like work for warriors."_

Siara shrugged. _"People who work, eat,_" she said, calmly. _"People who don't, don't."_ She paused. _"Besides, isn't it better, and stronger, to rely on your clan's food, than on what outsiders provide? Isn't it weakness to rely on others?"_

That pretty much solved _that_ problem. Kanar was there, and hustled through the furrows, showing the children how to plant seeds. How to water them. _"Every night, you'll return here,"_ Siara told them. _"Every night, you'll tend your plants. Learn to distinguish weeds from the edible ones. And when they've grown, you'll store some for later. . . and the rest, you'll eat."_

Makur had been watching her from the fenceline. She caught his wave, and drifted closer. Quick, subtle touch on her wrist, then the silent communion they'd both gotten so used to over the past two years.

_Don't alarm them, but there's movement from the west. / Animals? / Other krogan. / Shall I go with you to chastise them? / Yes. You're stronger than most of the guards. / Good. I have to be stronger still._

A wave of interest there. _Oh? / Yes. Someday, Malla will die. I plan on challenging for leadership of the female clan then. _

Now a moment of utter shock, followed by acceptance. _Well. . . you are Urdnot now. And none of the other females are as strong as you are._ He shifted his tone. _I'm having some of the guards take the younglings back to camp. You and I? We'll hunt. / Good. What are we waiting for?_ She smiled at him, two years of life on Tuchanka showing in the fierceness of her eyes. _Let's go show them why they shouldn't trespass._

**Dara, November, 2194**

Dara knew that Rel was a _little_ bored, but Sur'Kesh was an _enormous_ boost for her career. They'd finished a year on the _Nereia_ with flying colors. They'd stormed pirate dens and smugglers' lairs, and freed shipments of slaves. They'd investigated the asari ghost ships—with _no_ clues, frustratingly enough, as to what was going on there, but Lantar was funneling all the data they'd collected home to Mindoir, where Livanus, still at a desk at the base, was analyzing it all. All of that had been good work, of course, and she had learned a _lot_ from Dr. Cimmerian on the _Estallus_ and Dr. Hsaio on the _Nereia_. But after two years of _constant_ activity, the relatively inactive time had her mate on edge. Oh, he was at least helping to train new STG infiltration agents, so that kept him busy, but simply getting him to relax and de-stress was difficult.

They were _both_ doing language immersion training five days a week for four hours after dinner in batarian; that was a help, in terms of giving Rel something to focus on. Dara _hated_ learning batarian, but she figured she knew _why_ they were learning it. Everyone at STG was looking into either batarian concerns or yahg issues at the moment, so it was clear that _something_ was brewing. She was also learning salarian, more or less in self-defense. She already had a background in their medical terminology, which was a help, but her colleagues had a tendency to run off at full speed in their native language at a moment's notice, and would talk so fast, her VI stuttered trying to keep up.

Dara was spending six days a week at the STG medical facility. Half her time was spent with patients, some of whom had rare diseases and disorders, and some of whom were battle injuries. The burn victims were particularly heartbreaking; their treatment still required the debriding of dead skin and flesh to allow the new to grow, but at least modern medicine had medigel and nanobots and synthetic skin that allowed new skin to grow in under it, gradually and carefully. New skin that actually _had_ pores, in humans, for example. Burn victims in centuries past wouldn't have _had_ that.

The other half of her time was spent supporting two or three research projects, so she was constantly multitasking, re-arranging information in her mind. Dr. Solus had arrived for a symposium on the potential for diseases to be used as mass weapons against the galactic population. Dara gave him a hug as soon as she saw him. He looked _much_ older now, and frighteningly frail. "Do not be distressed," he told her, calmly. "Ending of cycle draws near. Somewhat afraid. Natural, that. Unknown is always unnerving. Trying to look on it as perhaps the start of a new adventure." Dr. Solus blinked at her, smiling. "Now, what have you learned so far?"

Dara sighed. "Well, the Collectors managed to synthesize a plague that attacked every species except humans and vorcha. That was . . . an enormous technical achievement, actually, given that there's usually _no_ transmission between levo and dextro species. I personally think that there's a possibility that the previous data analysis has been flawed."

"Much of that analysis was mine," Dr. Solus said, smiling.

"I know." Dara winced, and added, "I think you may not have had sufficient data. There's the impossible and the merely improbable, as Sherlock Holmes would teach us. But in this case, the impossible would require _magic_. So I tend to suspect that the _improbable_, which is that you and the rest of STG might have made a . . . very small error. . . could be true, and that there were actually _two_ strains of the virus out there. One dextro and one levo."

His eyelids crinkled up. "_Very_ good," Dr. Solus told her. "Always thinking. Always challenging assumptions. What a good scientist should do."

Dara flushed in pleasure. "The rest of your colleagues weren't as gracious about that one," she said, chuckling a little. "I also asked how many _krogan_ had actually died of the Collector plague. The answer was illuminating."

Solus smiled. "None," he said.

"Absolutely correct. They could be _infected_, but every one of them recovered. Krogan autoimmune response is _very_ vigorous and highly adaptive. One organ shuts down from a virus, the redundant systems kick in, give the body time to adapt. Explains why the _only_ krogan bodies found on Omega during the plague—or plagues, really—were those shot and killed by the guards or by Commander Shepard, Garrus, and, well, you." Dara shrugged a bit. "All old data, of course. Just re-examined a bit. I _still_ wonder why the Collectors _cared_ enough to spare the vorcha. Other than the fact that they have _enormous_ adaptability. Better than humans, although, of course, less intelligent." She looked off into the distance, mind racing. "Ugh. I just had a _horrible_ thought about the Collectors trying to hybridize humans and vorcha." Dara shuddered.

"Best not to dwell on possibilities long past," Dr. Solus told her, patting her forearm. "Have you extrapolated old data towards to new threats?"

She nodded, recovering herself, and swung around on her lab stool, keying up various charts and graphs on an aerogel screen. "To a certain extent, yes. The batarians seem to be everyone's primary focus at the moment. And the. . . yahg. That being said, the batarians have _rarely_ gone for all-out confrontation. It's not their style. They prefer hit and run raids with minimal danger and maximum profit. Sneak attacks, like an asteroid sent on a collision course with a colony, or a ship, or something like that. What little we know of the inner workings of the Hegemony suggests that some of them have a concept of honor, and are surprised when humans, at least, demonstrate the same. That being said, I'm not sure if a viral or a bacterial agent would be their first method of attack."

"But the yahg?" he asked. "Have my own opinion, of course. Interested in your analysis."

Dara nodded slowly. "Very little's known about them. A predator species. Like the turians, in that regard. They have a pack mentality. . . again, like the turians. They have alphas, and won't move without a clear dominance structure worked out. All sounds familiar. . . . but where our turians have thousands and thousands of years of working on _not_ killing each other, the yahg seem to embrace the concept freely. One of the reasons they haven't—hadn't, I suppose, rather—achieved spaceflight. Most of our colleagues regard the yahg as being almost as intelligent as salarians. . . though with the aggression levels of a turian or a krogan. And the physical strength to go with it." She spread her fingers. "I think they'd _like_ something that would weaken their prey before it's time to go hunting. But that's based on no actual information. Just . . . a feeling. Irrational, I know."

Dr. Solus chuckled, a raspy wheeze. "Intuition is another word for having assembled facts in mind without conscious effort. However, where untrained people use logic to support beliefs, intuitions, a scientist is obliged to attempt to _disprove_ them. Because only that way can prejudices and biases be removed from the equation."

Dara nodded, worried about the sound of his lungs, but since he didn't seem disturbed at the moment, said only, "The rest of my comments pretty much fell in line with the rest of our colleagues. If they're going to disperse a bacterial or a viral agent, it would be easiest for them to select a major population center—Omega, Bastion, a planet that sees a _lot_ of cross-planetary traffic, like Illium—and distribute it there. Optimally, they'd want one that enters the system and goes dormant for a couple of weeks, for maximum dispersal and confusion." She shrugged a little. "I said that if they really wanted to create confusion, they'd try to create one that mimicked the initial symptoms of a common and minor disease, like the Skyllian Flu, so that doctors would treat symptomatically at first, and not realize what they were looking at until it was too late."

"Thinking like enemy now. Good. What methods of delivery?"

"Aersol's a little fragile, but wide distribution range. Wouldn't affect quarians or volus, of course. Same thing applies to water or food delivery. More stable in contact or ingested forms of virus, but more limited dispersal." She sighed. "The best we can do at the moment is try to come up with more broad-spectrum antivirals for levo and dextro species, and have them ready to be deployed to several different planets at once. It doesn't seem like enough."

Mordin nodded. "And the rest of your projects?"

"Oh, they're keeping me hopping," Dara said, laughing. "We've got a sample of yahg DNA that they said Commander Shepard provided about, oh, nine years ago now." She gave Dr. Solus a narrow glance, and he just grinned at her merrily. "I'm not asking, but one of these days, I'm going to take great joy in finding out _how_ she got this," Dara added. "We're sequencing the individual's genome. Finding out what makes the species tick. There's a couple of other genomes on file from the first contact with the yahg—the expedition that largely wound up being slaughtered." Her lips went tight. "At the moment, we're in the very earlier stage. Comparing individuals, seeing what's common and what's not common between them."

"Towards what end?" he asked, quietly.

"I really don't know. Dr. Illan is pretty closed-mouthed about that." She looked at Dr. Solus then. "Enough business talk. How is Narayana?"

He glanced around, almost furtively, and keyed up a picture on his omnitool for her to look at. "Wow. She's getting _big._ She's what, almost three now?"

Solus nodded eagerly. "Yes. Plans to go into medicine, she says. Already bored with first-grade curriculum, I'm afraid. Have to find new challenges for her. Still enjoys staying with Lantar and Ellie."

"Tell her I asked after her, if you would. I remember when she was just a _little_ tadpole." Dara smiled, and added, "And if you'd come to dinner tonight, I know Rel would love to see you again."

Dr. Solus, surprisingly, agreed, and they actually had a good evening. The medical facility was on an island, of course, as most everything on Sur'Kesh was, and given the tropical climate, and their little quarters were literally on a beach. Dara was a little nervous about this, because when an earthquake hit _anywhere_ on this oceanic world, the tsunami literally could go all the way around the planet, since there was so little land to break its flow. However, earthquakes were relatively rare here, she'd been assured. Hurricanes were far more of a concern, with so much open water and such warm temperatures. _Hardly reassuring_, she'd thought, at the time. _Rel and I can't breathe underwater._

But when Dr. Solus left after dinner, she did have to reflect that nights like tonight made up for the potential danger of the tropical world. Sur'Kesh had one enormous moon, three times the size of Luna in the nightsky, and when full, as it was tonight, lit up the beach's white sands almost as if it were day, but left the water black and silver and mysterious, and the air was thick with the smell of flowers that no salarian could smell the way a human or a turian could. "It was good to see him again," Rel told her, quietly, as they sat out on the beach, listening to the water. "He doesn't look well."

"He's thirty-nine, _amatus_. The oldest salarian on record with a verifiable birth certificate died at forty-two." The words hurt to say. "I don't know what the hell the galaxy is going to do without him."

Rel pulled her closer to him. "It'll have to learn to rely on other people," he told her, softly, rubbing his fingers against her scalp. "Maybe even you."

"Spirits, I hope not," she said, fervently, then realized that _that_ very turian expression had come out in English, and started to chuckle. She turned her face into his shoulder. "You seem to be doing a little better," she told him.

"Was it _that_ obvious?"

"Probably only to me. You used to be a very relaxed person on Mindoir. Two years of constant combat took that away from you."

Rel leaned back, pulling her down onto the blanket with him, so they could look up at the stars, nearly blotted out by that radiantly bright moon. "I'm fine, so long as I'm with you."

_Then let's hope we're never separated for that long,_ she thought. Dara shivered a little, and tucked closer into her mate's warm body.

"You can't possibly be cold," Rel told her in amusement. "It's seventy-seven _aestus_ here in the middle of the night."

"And you make an _excellent_ hot water bottle," she assured him. "Don't worry. It was just someone walking over my grave."

"Humans have the most _depressing_ sayings."

"_Fine. An unclean spirit breathed upon my neck."_ She switched to salarian, _"A chain of neurotransmitters broke down in my brain."_

"And now, batarian," he said, lifting a finger at her.

Dara stuck her tongue out at him. _"A casteless touched the hem of my skirt."_

Rel grinned, rolled over, and nipped her neck. _"Then I should probably chase away the spirits, shouldn't I?"_


	77. Chapter 77: 2195, Inklings

**Chapter 77: 2195, Inklings**

**Author's note:** _For those wondering what else Eli did on vacation. . . he spent two of his four weeks of accumulated leave on Mindoir, playing with Duck. . .er, Caelia. . . getting acquainted with his new brother and sister, helping his mom out, helped Lantar build a new deck in the backyard, and hung out with Mazz. The other two weeks, he spent on Bastion, doing all the things an 18-year-old with back pay in his pocket does when he's away from home: get in __just__ enough trouble to be fun, but not enough trouble to show up on a service record._

**On Mordin's age: **_From the Mass Effect Wiki: (http : / masseffect . wikia . com / wiki / Mordin) "__**Born sometime in the 2150s**__, Mordin Solus is an expert geneticist, doctor, scientist and a former member of the salarian Special Tasks Group. His last mission in the STG before retiring involved the study of the krogan genophage." This article cites information from __game developer__ Christina Norman, who notes that the "50 years old" thing was established to give a sense of where he was in terms of a human lifespan, nothing more, nothing less._

_ALSO**: **(http : / masseffect . wikia . com / wiki / Salarian): "Unfortunately, their metabolic speed leaves them with a relatively short lifespan; salarians **over the age of 40 are a rarity**." All of which means. . .  2194-2150 = 44 at the oldest. I long ago set his birthdate at 2155. And he's been slowly incrementing up along with the rest of the cast for many chapters now. :-D _

_So, yeah. . . I love that I have alert readers who apparently fact-check what I write, but sometimes I use sources that you might not have seen, and sometimes, I make stuff up. (Leviathan-class carriers, for example? Totally out of my own head. Don't bother looking for them anywhere else. Mordin Solus' age? Mostly canonical. Shepard's actual birthday? 100% canonical. Yes, Shepard is 40 years old in 2194.)_

**What actually ****happened****? **_*cough* For those who've asked. . . I'd had the Lin/Eli/Pelia thing slated for a much later chapter, when they were all in B-Sec, and it was going to be a __funny__ scene, actually. I opted to put the focus __two months__ after Brennia's death more on the __solace__ aspect, and fading to black got me out of some of the, um, __logistics__ questions. *cough* Feel free to imagine whatever configuration makes best sense to __you__. _

_At some point or another, we might see Eli mention this again, and I don't want to spoil that scene too much, but I will explain a few things here. First, since I've established that a human female thinking about sex with a turian can throw an asari out of her head by pure cognitive dissonance, I kind of thought that if an asari, well, opened her mind to two males of different species who were both about to hit their release at the same time. . . it might be a little mind-blowing. In a . . . *Both guys panting, slowly coming back to their senses. . . "Oh s'kak, she's not moving, is that anaphylactic shock?" "Shit, shit, shit, we broke her!" . . . kind of way. Not to mention the *very* uncomfortable wait out in the ER sitting room. Followed by the equally uncomfortable: "Let's not ever talk about this again" moment. . . _

**Upcoming characters**:_ You will shortly be meeting, in no particular order, a __quarian sentinel__, a __batarian turncoat__, a __human/cyborg sentinel__, a __volus adept__, an __elcor technician__, and a __drell infiltrator__. I have no idea how some of these people are going to fit in, but they're all developed, and I feel certain that some will have a fan club of their own. _

**Rinus, January, 2195**

Kallixta's home on Macedyn was situated near Sagradavus, the second-largest city on the planet, but definitely on the outskirts of town. It was perched atop a cliff, high above a red-gold, curving impact crater that formed one of Macedyn's seas, and thus, looked down about two hundred feet onto cobalt blue waters, and its back faced a small forest of imported _galae, jalae, _and caprificus trees. It was also about three or four _times_ the size of Rinus' parents' home on Mindoir—and his parents' villa had seven bedrooms, a large kitchen, an atrium garden, and other such amenities. The manor was set up along classic villa lines, with an atrium as well, but was crafted out of adobe brick, fitting in perfectly with the red-gold landscape around them, and stayed cool during the hottest months of the year. At the moment, although the calendar said Tertius 26, or January 2, depending on which one you looked at, it was early fall on Macedyn, and it was still warm throughout most of the day; as such, Rinus, Rellus, and their respective wives took the winding cliff path down to the crater basin once a day to go swimming. Well, Dara swam. The rest of them more or less splashed, or relaxed in the coppery sand at the edge of the cliff. _"It's good to get some leave, finally,"_ Kallixta said, a little drowsy in the heat, letting her head fall back

Rel snorted. _"I feel like I __have__ been on leave for the last year. For a place where everyone is in a hurry to get everything done as fast as possible, Sur'Kesh is amazingly slow."_

Rinus flapped a hand at his brother, and stared up at the face of the cliff wall. _"Don't complain, second-brother. We've had half a dozen standoffs with the batarians in the Terminus systems in the last year alone. They're really trying to test the gunships, I think."_

"_How'd they do?"_ Rel asked, chuckling.

"_Outstandingly,"_ Rinus said, with a little carefully concealed pride.

"_Nowhere near as agile as the SR-1,"_ Kallixta said, a little reprovingly. _"Ariston—that's the AI—did his best to compensate, but the ships are closer to the size of the SR-2, and dedicate a __lot__ of the engines to the weapons."_

"_Ariston. . . that's the AI? Sounds like a male name."_

Rinus chuckled._ "Yes. We got an even mix of boys and girls out of the SR-4s."_

Kallixta sounded bemused, as she added, _"He persisted in calling Rinus __pada__, which apparently embarrassed my husband. . . "_ she gave Rinus a wicked look, and Rinus did, indeed, feel a faint blue flush creeping up on him now. . . ._"But what was __really__ odd was that he'd switch to asari when he wanted to address me. __M__aai'a'selai_."

"_I left my omnitool back up at the house,"_ Rel commented sleepily. _"And Eli's never around when I need him."_

"_I looked it up. Means 'second-mother.' Which . . . okay. It's accurate. It's descriptive. It's. . . "_

"Weird," Dara supplied in English, approaching from the water now. Rinus was very amused that, even after nearly four full years of marriage to a turian, and three years of living among turians. . . even attending boot camp and living on ships with them. . . his little _ama'fradu_ _still_ wore bathing suits to go swimming. On a perfectly private and secluded beach far distant from any observers. _Then again,_ he thought, _she might have a point, given the way every __single__ time Kallixta and I go on leave, the reporters __somehow__ manage to find us. I doubt very much any photographer would __walk__ again if Rel caught them taking pictures that would embarrass his wife, but telephoto lenses make the whole catching part somewhat problematic._

"Weird," Kallixta agreed, _"is a good word for it. He's a good boy, though. I can consider him kin, no problem."_

Rel was chuckling as Dara slid to the ground beside him, and sat up to help her with her sunblock—another oh-so-human need. _"Did you at least call him __son__ before you left the ship?"_ he teased his brother. _"He's part turian. Acknowledgement would make him feel better, wouldn't it?"_

Rinus finger-flicked lazily at Rel. _"Yes, I did,"_ he admitted. _"I don't want to be Grandfather Gavius, you know."_ He glanced up at the cliffline, and off-handedly commented to Kallixta, _"We're going to have to put a rail and a gate along the cliff-path when we have young. It's a hell of a drop."_

"_We have time. No matter what your mother __and__ my mother might say."_ Kallixta sounded annoyed, and turned over, letting the sun bake into her back now. Rinus' eyes narrowed in appreciation of his wife's back and waist for a moment.

"_They're pestering?"_ Dara asked, chuckling.

"_Non-stop. 'If you get a shore-billet, this would be a __perfect__ opportunity to go off the medications, darling,'"_ Kallixta's accent suddenly got even crisper than usual in _perfect_ mimicry of the Imperatrix, and Rinus chuckled, rolling over himself now, closer to his wife, and giving her a light bite on the shoulder.

"_I can tell her off for you,"_ he offered.

Kallixta slanted him an amused glance. _"And how would you do that, beloved?"_

"_Oh, couple of ways. . . could mention that we already technically have children—"_

"_She doesn't consider the AIs to be __people__, you know that. . . and they don't count in the lineage."_ Kallixta snorted softly. _"And the lineage is really all that matters to her. It's her __job__."_

Rinus snorted in amusement. _That_ had actually prompted his first full-night session in the Conclave as the Lawgivers frantically pushed a bill through for a vote before the Dominae, prohibiting AI 'offspring,' now accorded legal rights as individuals, from inheriting the Imperator's throne. He'd gotten some _very_ dark looks when he'd gotten up to speak and had commented, lightly, _"I'm quite sure that none of them __want__ the throne. In fact, I'm sure they'll be quite relieved. But since you've brought this small matter up, perhaps we could address their status as citizens? While they obviously haven't attended boot camp, it seems degrading to consider them __children__ when they serve aboard our ships, usually eight days a week, all day and all night. . . "_

And _that_ had kicked off a _firestorm_ of argumentation. Rinus had simply returned to his seat and enjoyed himself after that. It was not unlike lobbing a live grenade into a very crowded room. He'd made a habit of continuing to wear black whenever he did have to go to the interminable Conclave meetings—Kallixta had, in fact, gotten him a closet full of sable robes and pants and boots, and told him he stood out on camera every time the Conclave met—simply because everyone else wore a gaudy mix of finery and jewels and whatever else. He more or less _had_ to wear the chains of office and the elaborate knife sheath when he went there, but he could at least keep his sleeve pulled down over the knife. That way, it only flashed and glittered once in while, instead of constantly catching the eye. _"I like that you are your own best ornament_," she'd told him, smiling, after his first speech, which had been in support of the changes to the Citizenship Act that the Imperator had wanted pushed through.

The Imperator was breaking interesting political ground. Typically, conservatives tended to support Imperial causes, and radicals tended to oppose them, more or less on principle. Amending the Citizenship Act to allow humans with a familial bond to a turian clan to gain citizenship, so long as they'd have four years of service in the _human_ military was shattering that usual iron law of turian politics. The conservatives, usually biddable to Imperial whim, were strongly opposed. The radicals were appalled to be supporting an Imperial mandate. And both sides had no _idea_ what to do with Rinus, on the rare occasions he made his way to the Conclave and took his seat. . . or opened the doors to the tiny office he'd been allocated. He would have been a radical's golden child, if only he weren't married to Kallixta. He would have been a conservative's dream, if only he weren't Garrus Vakarian's nephew. And so he was . . . very cautiously. . .courted by both sides. And representatives from both sides warned him that to side with the _other_, would mean political death.

Rinus had trouble taking it all that seriously, because as soon as he walked _out_ of the Conclave each time, he was usually headed right back to a ship where the chances were good that death would be _actual_, not political. And, of course, when the various representatives met with him, half of each meeting consisted of such oh-so-subtle threats, and half consisted of information probes. _What's the Imperator's real agenda, why the sudden shift in policies held in place for the first twenty-five years of his reign?_ Rinus hadn't had to feign his ignorance of that. Which only exasperated the people who were trying to court his vote. And they simply couldn't _predict_ where his vote would come down on the side of any issue. He wasn't _there_ to court and cajole and ply with favors, and when he _was_ there, he was. . . resistant to such things. Met them with a stony stare that usually reduced the person speaking to him into babbling after a while.

It wasn't a strategy assured to win him favors or power. He was _never_ going to have a voting bloc around him that traded their votes on his issues for his vote on theirs. But then again. . . Rinus didn't have to run for re-election like a local prefecture governor or a local magistrate. He held his seat while he held the title of _dominus_, which was for life. He was free to vote his conscience and speak his mind, and he'd already figured out where he could have the best effect—talking to Lawgivers. Suggesting laws. Helping to co-write some of them—oh, he didn't have the _training_, but he had ideas. And laws weren't all _that_ much different from any other machine. Put together the right way, they functioned. Gears meshed. Everything kept in balance. Put together poorly, and they rocked like an uneven centrifuge, and eventually exploded.

Kallixta caught his hand in hers, bringing him out of his reverie. _"And in what other way, beloved, would you attempt to get my mother to desist in her efforts?"_

"_I'd tell her that if she persists, we won't __have any__ children."_ Rinus grinned at Kallixta.

Rel laughed over to the side. _"No one will believe you, first-brother."_

"_I can make it convincing. I can set up a vasectomy appointment,"_ Rinus offered.

"_No_," Kallixta told him, firmly.

"_I wouldn't go through with it. I promised you __reasons__,"_ he told her, chuckling. _"But she doesn't have to know that, and I'm getting damned tired of her trying to interfere. You needed at least four years in vacuum on your record, sweetness. We're almost there. Next year will probably be a shore rotation, anyway."_ He hadn't _minded_ staying an additional two years out in the black; it had put quite a few more ribbons on his bar and had gotten him his second rank in _optio_ well ahead of schedule. But he knew he was overdue for a shore rotation, and figured he'd probably be working with weapons manufacturing next. . . .if he didn't actually wind up doing spook work, instead.

"_Yes, but a shore rotation means __you__ are going to have to attend more Conclave meetings,"_ she reminded him, and Rinus groaned, putting his head down in the sand for a moment.

He didn't get the sardonic comment he expected from Rel, and instead, heard a slight rustle. He glanced up. Rel was on his feet, all pretense of relaxation gone. Rinus recognized it instantly—his brother was in combat mode, all of a sudden. "What?" Dara said, in English, starting to get to her own feet.

"Stay there. Look relaxed," Rel told them all tightly, and began to meander towards the cliff path, calling back more loudly, _"I'm going to go up and get my omnitool, okay?"_

"_S'kak,"_ Dara muttered under her breath. _"What the hell did he see? Kallixta, which guards are on duty today?"_

"_Pallum and Quintorum,"_ Kallixta replied, sitting up now herself, shedding sand from every scale. She was a better actress than the rest of them, and still was managing a bright smile. "Do try to look more relaxed, Dara."

"I'd give a _lot_ for turian hearing," Dara muttered, and Rinus watched as she refocused her eyes, started scanning the cliffs above. "Oh. Got it. Shit."

Rinus was on his feet at that, and didn't _care_ if his second-brother had told them to look relaxed or not, and his eyes tracked upwards just as Rel broke into a run—and dragged a rather unfortunate reporter out of hiding, about halfway up the trail—mostly recognizable by the camera floating over her head. Rinus snorted in laughter. "And to think I thought you were silly for wearing your swimming outfit, _amillula,_" he told Dara, chuckling.

She sighed and stood up, brushing off the coppery sand. "I can't hear what he's saying. Do I need to go up there and step in?"

Rinus cocked his head and laughed. "No. I think he's being _entirely_ appropriate with the good member of the press corps up there."

His wife's face, on the other hand, was a mask of mild horror. "Ah, Dara?"

"On my way," Dara replied, in a tone of resignation, and started up the cliff path herself now. "You'd think they'd be smarter than to try to sneak up on someone who's in turian special forces, but _nooooo_, they've got to have their goddamned pictures. . . ." Her mutter was clearly audible to turian hearing as she marched up the cliff path, occasionally limping when her soft, shoeless human feet caught a rock. _"Rel! We do not dangle people over cliffs! If you break them, I have to __fix__ them!"_ That, loud enough to bounce back off the rocks and in turian.

Rinus watched his wife's head swivel upwards hastily, and then Kallixta breathed a sigh of relief. _"Oh, she's—"_

"_Playing to the cheap seats, yes."_ Rinus grinned. _"He wouldn't do that. But if I know my second-brother, that reporter has wet herself by now."_ Rinus was having to hold back the chuckles.

Kallixta sighed. _"We should go inside. Now that one of them has figured out where we are, more will just follow."_

"_They're like firebiters. All following the same pheromone trail back to where the first one found food. But twice as annoying."_ Rinus let his face and eyes go cold. _"I'll have to pull a few teeth myself when we get up there. . . assuming Rel left me any."_

The reporter was _not_ a happy camper by the time Rinus and Kallixta headed up the walkway themselves. Rel had apparently _just_ taken out the floating camera with a kick, and still had the female gripped by the cowl. _"Hey! I'm just doing my job,"_ she protested. _"The press has __rights__ in Council space. You've destroyed my property and now you're threatening me!"_

"_Yes, but __you__ are on private property,"_ Rinus told her, stone-faced. _"Technically, worse than that. You're on Imperial lands. What was the punishment for taking __bianasae__ on crown lands back in the day again, my wife?"_

"_The removal of one finger, so that the offender could never use a bow again, my husband,"_ Kallixta replied promptly, cut-glass tones ringing out. _"Of course, now she's only shooting pictures."_

"_Invasion of privacy,"_ Rel said, shortly, sharply, and pushed the reporter half a foot further up the path. _"Dara, have you already called security?"_ It bordered on command-peremptory.

"_Some time ago,"_ Dara said from close behind him. _"Frankly surprised Pallum isn't here already."_

"_Oh, I'm here,"_ Pallum said, dropping his shield right behind the reporter, who half-turned and gasped now. _"Commander Velnaran? If you'd turn this sneaking little __villi__ over to me, please, sir?"_ _Commander_ Velnaran was now Rel's proper title, he'd made full O3 last year; as had Dara. When she finished her medical training, she'd probably get an immediate bump to 04, or full commander.

Rel turned the reporter around and gave her a little push towards Pallum. _"Certainly,"_ he said, suddenly affable and calm once more. _"Shall we, beloved?"_ he asked Dara, taking her hand to walk with her up the cliff path, but waving for Rinus and Kallixta to precede them.

Back in the house, Rinus pulled on a light tunic and pants, and turned on the extranet console in one of the drawing rooms. He was never really sure which room he was supposed to be in, at any given time in this huge house. It was really built for having guests. And their families, he supposed. At the moment, it echoed, and half the rooms were shut off, their furniture covered. Kallixta had looked around at it two weeks ago when this stint of leave started—this was their first time ever coming here—and had shaken her head. _"You're going to hate it, beloved. Everything's at least a hundred years old in here."_

"_Then we'll pretend we're camping out in a museum,"_ he'd told her. _"Not too much different from the palace, beloved."_

The household staff had quickly figured out which rooms the two young couples tended to use, and had adapted. Now a chilled carafe of fruit juice and another of iced _apha_ stood on a table in the room. Rinus looked at them, sighed, and poured himself a cup. It would be petty to change rooms _just_ because the staff had provided them something here. And the staff would just move along in his wake anyway. And it wasn't _so_ unlike communal _apha_ on a ship—well, it tasted better than what had been sitting in the _aphora_ for several hours, burning to the bottom of the jar, really. . . .

Rel came in next, following the sound, probably. _"Second-brother—"_ Rinus started, turning to look at him.

"_Yeah?"_

"_You probably could have left the reporter to the guards. Pallum said he was already moving into position when you went after her."_ It was a mild remonstrance. _This is my territory. I share it with you for the moment, but it's still mine._

Rel shrugged. _"Dara doesn't like cameras. Come to think of it, I don't, either. She and I aren't supposed to have our pictures splashed all over the damned extranet. I know that the Imperial family is more or less fair game, but __we__ aren't. Let our faces get out there too much, and you may as well cut off my spurs while you're at it."_ Irritation subsided a bit, and he looked at Rinus a bit more calmly now. "_And if it had been something __other__ than a reporter? An assailant?"_

"_That would have been different, of course."_ Rinus looked at Rel. _"Did you at least have fun?"_

A wicked grin crossed Rel's face. _"Actually. . . yeah. I usually have to work a little harder for that much intimidation."_

Rinus chuckled and shook his head. Rel's self-image had _almost_ caught up with reality, but not _quite_ yet. He reached out and touched the aerogel screen, flipping to a different news feed absently. _"You guys have what, five, six more days of leave?"_

"_Yeah. Then it's back in the black again."_ Rel's eyes glittered.

"_Which ship?" _

"_Raedia__. SR-3. It's Sky's ship, so Dara's over the moon. Something about charting planets for rachni colonization. Of course, that could change at __any_ _moment."_

The feed was at commercial, and Rinus drummed his fingers impatiently on the console. _"You hear anything from home lately?"_ he asked._ "Mom and Dad haven't been writing as much to me of late. They seem to think I'm too busy."_

"_What, working three jobs at once—spook work and your day job on the ship __and__ taking half of every leave you get on Palaven to do all the Conclave __s'kak__. . . __and__ being a married male now? Whatever would give them the impression that you're busy?"_ Rel found one of the antique, heavily carved chairs, all back and arms and no padding at all, looked at it dubiously, and sat down in it gingerly. _"First-brother, do yourself a favor and get some __comfortable__ furniture here."_

"_I'm trying to treat it like a hotel. We're just staying here; we don't live here; and I don't go around trying to level out all the paintings on the walls."_ Rinus glanced around, hoping his wife hadn't heard that one. She knew perfectly well how he felt about this place, but she probably didn't need to hear his reservations for the umpteenth time, either. He didn't even want to _think_ about where they'd wind up living when they each retired. He had an unpleasant feeling it might involve one of these houses, or the Palace.

"_So, any news from home?"_ he reminded Rel as the news feed kicked back on. Local news, for the moment. Gang warfare in Agridavus, halfway around the planet from here, had reached a peak. One gang was more or less _consuming_ the other, apparently. Loss of leadership a year ago, blah blah blah. Rinus shook his head and wondered why the local police didn't do something about that.

"_Serana's in her fourth year of sparring. Says she's not doing as well as you or I did, but she's keeping at it."_ Rel glanced up at the ceiling, a very human gesture of resignation. _"She's also still interning with Kasumi. She was a little annoyed that Mom and Dad actually watched her last training exercise on the base secure cams, without her knowing about it until afterwards. Mom was. . . a little shaken up. I don't have all the details, but there was something about free-hand climbing the outside of a building up to the roof and breaking in from the top down, while wearing a stealth generator. Mom apparently thought that if Serana slipped and fell while wearing that, no one would be able to find the body until it started to smell."_

Rinus started to laugh. _"Mom does like to overreact."_

"_You think?"_ Rel said, dryly, and the news footage switched from local to Hierarchy now. _"Serana mentioned Eli had come back on leave last year. Sometime in June. Took her till December to bring it up in her letters to Dara. Said Linianus had been __married__ and that his wife had been __murdered__."_ Rel shook his head in total disbelief.

"_Linianus. . . I remember him, sort of."_ Rinus squinted. He didn't have a politician's memory. He couldn't bring up the face or the paint.

"_Edessan. One of my best men at my wedding. Was my friend for five years. Never heard a word about it from him, or Eli, and __Serana__ held off six spirits-be-damned months before telling me. I had no idea what to say.."_ Rel stared off into the mid-distance for a moment. _"'Hey, Lin, you used to tease me all the time for being plighted and no fun anymore. Why didn't you tell me you got married, so I could at least return the favor. . . ' didn't seem quite the right tone to take."_

"_Did you at least drop Lin a note?"_ Rinus found. . . and slowly, laboriously dragged another chair over to sit near his brother.

"_Yeah. __Dara__ wrote a damned note of condolence for me. She says she's written enough of them for work now to know how."_ Rel grimaced. _"She keeps a list of all the patients she's lost and their letters. With pictures."_

Rinus winced. That _couldn't_ be healthy for a human. Somewhat akin to self-flagellation. _"Does she at least keep pictures of the successes, too?"_

"_Yeah. Gallian still writes her once in a while. He's back on the_ _Estallus__, believe it or not. Made chalsae, and is back in the Marines."_

Rinus widened his eyes in mild surprise. _"How? Cybernetics?"_

"_Yeah. Laetia apparently paid for them."_

Rinus choked on his _apha_, a little aghast. _"He's not chipped, is he?"_

"_Nah. It's a Hierarchy ship, though, so no geth aboard yet. If he gets chipped, it'll be because he wants to."_ Rel shrugged, as if that ended the subject for him.

Rinus shook his head as his own face flashed briefly by on the screen in front of them, in context of Conclave news. _"Saving grace here is,"_ and he nodded at the screen, "_no one would __ever__ think a respectable member of the Conclave would be out impersonating arms dealers,"_ he told Rel. _"Maybe I'll still get to go out and play with you again sometime."_

Rel's eyes were hooded as he sat in the chair, barely leashed tension in his body. _"It's coming,"_ he said, quietly. _"Lots of signs out there."_

And then the feed changed to galactic news, and both brothers suddenly sat up, focusing on the screen. "On Bastion today, the Council announced that it is officially extending diplomatic recognition to the government established on Omega by the krogan known as Patriarch."

"_Talas'kak!"_ Rinus swore, setting his cup down on a table nearby, and leaning forward.

Kallixta and Dara appeared at the doorway now, and Kallixta looked grim. She'd obviously been able to hear the news feed from the other room. Dara came in and leaned over the back of Rel's chair, putting her hands on her mate's shoulders. _"Well, it's progress, right?"_ she offered, dubiously.

"An exchange of diplomats was scheduled to take place tomorrow morning, but in a late-breaking development, it appears that a group of agitated batarians attacked Patriarch late this afternoon. The alleged assailants apparently fired several shots at the aging leader, wounding him."

"_Futar!"_ That was Rel's snarl, and he slammed the arm of the chair next to him.

"Ullythyr Harak, Patriarch's right-hand, immediately cordoned off the station, and reports that the assailants have been captured, and will be subjected to _Omega_'s punishments. He indicates that Patrirach is alive and doing well after the shooting."

Harak's reddish face appeared on the screen now, glowering at the cameras. "Patriarch's a krogan. He's old, but he's never been weak. Doctors say the bullets nicked the secondary liver and the tertiary pulmonary artery. No big deal." He looked around. "Omega's just as strong today as it was yesterday. We will continue in the exchange of diplomats as planned. That's all I have to say."

"_Thank the spirits,"_ Kallixta said, tightly. _"The __last__ thing we need is for Omega to destabilize again."_

Rinus nodded, reached out, caught his wife's hand in his. In the chair opposite, his brother sighed. Looked up at _his_ wife. "_Amatra. . . _ you might want to check our messages. I think leave might be rescinded."

"Already did," Dara told him, quietly. "It is." She glanced over at Rinus and Kallixta. "Sorry. I hate to say goodbye, but. . . " she came over and gave Kallixta a hug. _"I have to start packing, sister."_

"It's probably rescinded for us, too," Rinus said, giving his brother a look. _"You were the one who said you were __bored__."_

"_Not __this__ bored, first-brother,"_ Rel replied, immediately.

**Siara, January, 2195**

Pounding mathematics into stubborn krogan heads was _much_ easier when proper motivation had been applied. _"Why do I need to know this?"_ one of the young males demanded, sullenly. _"I'll never use it."_ The topic under discussion wasn't differential calculus, but multiplication and long division.

"_Sure you will. Is it better to get paid by the job or by the hour?"_ Siara asked, immediately.

He paused. _"Um. . . by the hour?"_

"_By the job!"_ another boy replied, immediately.

"_The correct answer is, 'it depends,'"_ Siara told them, shaking her head a little. _"Say you're paid thirty-eight credits an hour for your work. Say you work for forty hours. Is that better or worse than receiving a flat fee of a thousand credits?"_ She had a piece of hide tacked to a wall, and was using charcoal to write on it. _"Come on. We did this yesterday. Think about it."_

Frantic scribbling with sticks in little trays of sand she'd given them. There was no paper available. No computers. No omnitools, beyond those owned by adults, like herself. _"Fifteen hundred and twenty! That's much better than a thousand!"_

One of the girls shoved the boy who'd come up with the answer. _"But doesn't that __depend__ again? On how many hours you actually __worked__? If the job didn't take forty hours. . . "_

Siara chuckled. She liked Gurna. The girl had a sharp mind. On the one hand, she almost _hoped_ Gurna wasn't fertile, because then, she wouldn't be stuck in the bunkers for the next several hundred years. On the other hand, clan Urdnot needed every smart gene it could _get_. It was a dilemma, but all she could do, for the moment, was throw out information and teach the kids _how_ to learn, and hope _something_ of it stuck. Somewhere. _"That's exactly right, Gurna."_ Siara looked around. _"Not only does math tell you if someone is trying to __cheat__ you, but it strengthens your mind. Not only does it strengthen your mind, but it's the basis of almost everything else you'll need to learn. Uldur!"_ She snapped the boy's name, and he jumped, looking up from what he was doodling in the sand. _"You said yesterday that you wanted to learn to build weapons, right?"_

"_. . . yeah?"_

"_How are you going to do that without __physics__? How does a mass effect field warp space around a bullet, causing it to spin in more than just our regular three dimensions?_"

Uldur stared at her in mild horror. _"Um. . . it. . . um. . . "_

Siara wrote an equation on the hide. She'd memorized this one years ago. Flowing brackets enclosing letters and numbers. _"This is why."_ She pointed at the board. _"This is how the laws of basic physics—action, reaction, and conservation—appear to be __broken__ by mass effect fields. . . but aren't. They're just a part of a bigger whole. So, learn your basic math, so you can learn this. Or you'll be stuck taking weapons designed by a salarian who __wants__ krogan to be weak."_

She looked around the room. "_Murd!"_ She stared at the next boy. _"You said yesterday that you'd heard that Urdnot Mazz was coming here after he graduates college—he'll be the first krogan in __history__ to do that, by the way—and is going to build __new buildings__. It's true. I knew him, growing up on Mindoir."_ That got a rustle of interest. _"He's going to build a water plant here someday. We've already got funding lined up through AquaStructure. One day, all these bare pipes in here, the ones that poke out of the walls? Will have water running through them. So we can cook without going to the river. Bathe without going to the river. Wash clothes and bandages and whatever we want. . . without going to the river."_ Siara wasn't even going to _mention_ the concept of an indoor lavatory. It was too much to _hope_ for so soon. _"And you know what he needed to study to learn how to build it?"_

"_Math?"_ came the slightly unhappy reply.

"_Yes. Fluid dynamics. A little architecture, for the actual structure. Both take math. You want to have running water in here? Increased safety for everyone, because they don't have to go out to the river? Learn. Use your minds. A mind that isn't used is weak, and I have no time for weaklings."_

It probably wouldn't pass muster in, oh, a salarian or an asari classroom, but Siara was writing her college-level thesis on _Effective Means of Communication and Pedagogical Methods for Krogan Classrooms._ She was mostly concerned that the thesis itself might be a little short, because it was, so far, two chapters: Bullying and Threatening, respectively. If she pushed it, she might be able to get a third one in. . . Effective Insults, maybe. A fourth would be Incentive-Based Learning. But she couldn't deny that however much the Boards of Education for a dozen other worlds would object to them, her methods _worked_ here.

"_Siara?"_

The asari female looked up, surprised. Malla was at the door of the storage room she'd converted into a classroom. _"Come out. We've got things to talk about."_

Siara blinked, and then turned back to her pupils. _"Gurna. Take my datapad."_ It was the _only_ one in the classroom, and Gurna took it from her hands like a prized relic. _"Copy out the problems on the current page, one at a time, onto the hide. __Everyone__ will do the problems together. Find each other's mistakes. When I get back, you'd better have made progress."_ Siara had backed that sort of threat up with Mala's help, before. If the children were going to _not_ be of use in the tunnels, and instead would be learning, then students who made the most progress, got full rations. No one starved. But there was a tangible proof in the hands of the ones who excelled that a strong mind _was_ as good as a strong body.

_Just as Gris taught me. Only asari neglect the body, in favor of the mind. We're on one balance of the scale, the krogan are on the other. Just as long-lived. Just as . . . set in our ways. Makur and I find the balancing point between us. . . but it's a lot to ask of two whole species._

"_Yes, Siara."_ Gurna said now, lifting the datapad and starting to copy out the first problem onto the hide.

Out in the hall, Siara looked at Malla. Dipped her head a little in respect, then lifted it again, looking up at the big krogan female. _"There's a problem?"_ _Raiders again, maybe._

"_Trouble on Omega."_

Siara muttered something under her breath in asari. _"One of ours?"_ she asked. _"I know Pulk wasn't really well-trained before we sent him there, but he could at least __read__, and Aldrin Labs said they were mostly looking for a technician who wouldn't react to all the chemicals in the lab setting. . . and Charr said he'd look after him, make sure he'd continue to get training. . . ."_

Malla shook her head, impatiently. _"No. Council extended diplomatic recognition today."_

_So Urdnot is technically allied with another __planet__, effectively. Or at least, a nation. _Siara pursed her lips, thinking. _"That's not the problem."_

"_No. Batarians attacked Patriarch four hours later. Probably were in position, waiting for this sort of a move. Trying to take Omega back for themselves. Make it the way it was. They're not going to. It's __ours__ now."_ Malla glared down at Siara. _"Wrex gave the word. You and Makur and a few others are going to Omega."_

Siara stared at her. _"But my place is here—who will teach them, if I'm not here?"_ She hadn't even _thought_ about going off-world in the last year, although she'd have _cheerfully_ killed for a bath and a real toilet.

"_Clan leader says go, we go. __I__ say you go, too, girl."_ Mala's voice was gruff. _"Gurna's got enough learning stuffed behind her eyes that she can teach the youngest ones. I guess I can __manage__ a little reading and writing for them, too."_

"_But what can I do on Omega?"_ Siara asked, staring at Malla.

"_You're the strongest female __in__ Clan Urdnot, other than me,"_ Mala told her, bluntly. _"You're going to show them what Urdnot is made of, and protect Patriarch's old gray hide with your own. It might be a very krogan thing to do, to die in battle. But I'd rather see him die in his bed, in his sleep, weak as that might sound, than taken out by a damned assassin. He's giving us hope, and I will be __damned__ if the fucking batarians are going to take that away again."_

She nodded, and went to go find Makur. He was, rather uneasily, she had to admit, packing his few belongings. A quick touch to his wrist. _Nervous, my more-than-fair?_

_Yeah._ He couldn't admit that out loud, of course. Not where anyone could hear him. _Never been off this rock before. What kind of animals do they have on Omega, anyway?_

_Space station. Maybe varren. Duct rats. Vermin. The people are the predators there, or they were._ She was a little excited, to be honest. A little scared, too. She'd buried herself here on Tuchanka, hadn't let herself think outside of this place, these people, the immediate future, and the long-term goals at _all_. Immersed herself in _this_ and in _here._ So that some days, she forgot she was Siara Tesala.

"_You just want a bath,"_ Makur told her, giving her a poke in the shoulder with one finger, making her whole body rock back and forth for a moment. An old teasing gesture.

"_It wouldn't __hurt__ you to try one."_ She poked him right back.

Makur didn't even move. Just grinned down at her. _"I use the river all the time."_

"_Yes, you and everyone upstream of you."_ That, out loud. The inner voice, however, whispered, _I know. You always smell clean for me. _

_The things I do for you._ Rough humor there, glittering in his red eyes.

They and twelve other members of Urdnot all left for Omega the same day, aboard a creaky antique of a transport ship that had been used to ferry mercenaries around the galaxy for at least a generation. Someone had scraped the Blood Pack emblem off the side, but hadn't painted over it yet. Siara took the opportunity—the first time in several months where she had access to a working extranet link—and checked her messages. A dozen from her mother, Azala, of course. She read them along the way, smiling a little as she did, and, fingers a little stiff, began to type out a quick reply. _Maai'a. Sorry to have worried you. No extranet out in the female camp, as you know. We've expanded the gardens this year, by setting up a secondary enclosure, this one closer to the river. The guards gripe about keeping so much land under protection, but I notice that they're first in line for the fresh food. Heading to Omega right now. Give my regards to Gris-__maai'a'selai. _ Siara had long since gotten over the disconnect of calling the distinctly male krogan Spectre her second-mother. He'd replaced her original, unlamented second-mother in her mind, and Siara generally fought to keep it that way. _I suspect I'll be seeing him soon, anyway._

Omega was both what she expected, and _not_, at the same time. Makur tensed up next to her as soon as they stepped out of the shuttle. Looking around, Siara could see it from his perspective. Shared it, even. The enclosed ceiling wasn't high enough to be sky, and wasn't low enough to be the bunkers, and those were really all he'd ever known. Metal everywhere, wrong smells, alien environment. Though she wasn't touching him, either with mind or with body at the moment, she _understood_ him in that moment. _They're aggressive on Tuchanka out of a very healthy fear response to the layered deathtrap of the environment there. . . and away, where everything is unfamiliar and __could__ be a threat. . . it's the same reaction. Just out of place. Out of proportion._ She couldn't touch him, not now, not in public, but did reach out with just a whisper of her mind, her power. Brushed him with it. Felt it run through him like a shudder.

They moved out then, heading for the center of Omega, to where, according to one of the older members of their expedition, had once been Afterlife, Aria T'loak's lair. Gone now, of course. Replaced by a line of commercial enclaves. Well-dressed people—even well-dressed _krogan_, and _that_ was a sight to see—bustling in and out of the offices. Siara took a couple of quick pictures on her omnitool. Without _that_ proof, the children back home would _never_ believe her when she told them about this.

Gris met them there—stable and strong and calm as always. _"Move,"_ he growled. _"Harak's waiting for us. I want a twenty-four hour guard around him and Patriarch. Knowing that Patriarch's alive is keeping Omega calm right now. But if the batarians are smart—and if they've hired anyone else who __doesn't__ have four eyes to do their dirty work for them—their __next__ target will be Harak. Because if you kick out the stool that the man in charge is sitting in, he tends to fall down, too."_

Harak was at the med clinic, where Patriarch was still recovering. A younger krogan would have already regenerated completely. Patriarch was pushing his thousandth year of life. Even krogan cells could only hold off senescence for so long. _"Who're these?"_ Harak growled, staring at the Urdnot enforcers who now moved into the med clinic.

"_Wrex's personal choices to protect you __and__ him. I've met them all. I'd give any of them my back. And, since I've been stabbed in the back before,"_ Gris's voice had a certain bitter edge of humor to it now, _"you understand what that means."_

"_I do."_ Harak studied each of them. Stopped, stared at Siara. _"And who are you?"_ he growled. _"Patriarch's got certain reservations about asari at this point, you understand?"_

"_I'm Urdnot Siara. Daughter of Azala Tesala, step-daughter of Urdnot Gris. Mate of Urdnot Makur."_ Siara answered, and her voice was proud. A funny thought occurred to her: _And to think, what, all of four or five years ago now, I was __jealous_ _of the other kids, because they had Spectres for parents. Well. . . now my second-mother __is__ a Spectre. May I do him honor. _

She and Makur were among the seven dismissed at first. Gris gave her a rough hug, and pounded Makur on the hump. "Good to see you," he rumbled in galactic. "Stay out of the rougher districts for the moment. I'll take you both in, so you can see how the land lays. Then you'll be free to move around. You don't know how to hunt _these_ wilds, Makur." Gris looked around, watching people walking by the med bay, expression grim. "You'll learn, though."

"Of course I will," Makur said in his heavily accented galactic, with a snort. "I can hunt anything, anywhere."

Gris gave him an appraising look. "We'll see about that." He glanced at Siara. "If you're _anything_ like your mother, you probably want to report to your quarters before going on shift. I've keyed your omnitool to the lodgings you'll be using. Move it." The words were curt, but the tone was kind. Siara grinned and gave Gris a quick hug, while no one else was looking, and hustled.

The lodgings were primitive by asari standards—a hostel, and not a very good one, but there was an actual _bed_. And a _bathtub._ And all the other little luxuries she'd almost forgotten. Lights that switched on overhead at the touch of a button, or, better yet, at a voice command. A door that actually _locked_, and no one was likely to try in the middle of the night, looking for a place to sleep. Almost clean sheets. Hot water, right out of a tap, rather than having to be heated in a kettle over a fire. And bubblebath. Siara, at the sight of that absolute decadence, wouldn't have been able to hold back her squeal of delight if the entire Urdnot clan had been there watching, and immediately started filling the tub with water.

Makur eyed the process with a certain amount of suspicion. _"I'm fairly sure that water is not supposed to do that. It looks radioactive."_

Siara dropped her clothes on the floor and stepped into the water. _"I'll __never_ _tell __anyone__, and I really, really need a bath."_ She smiled at him. And added, with a challenge in her eyes, _"Unless you're __afraid__."_

"_Only of what the others might say if they smell __flowers__ on me tomorrow."_ Makur stuck a cautious finger in the water, and pulled it back, staring at the bubbles as if they might actually eat his flesh.

"_Tell them the truth. That bathing with me got you sex."_

Makur laughed, the rough sound echoing back from the hollow walls, and started dropping his armor. _"I get that anyway. And they know it. They can smell us on each other."_

Siara rolled her eyes. _"Twice."_ She leaned back in the suds, exhaling in bliss. The water was probably actually only lukewarm, but it was as hot as she could stand it, anymore, after three years of only minimally heated water.

He slid one hand up her leg in the water and wrapped his biotics around her, weaving them together. _You won't be able to walk in the morning, then. Takes away our strength as guards._ His eyes were hungry, though.

_Shut up and get in the tub, Makur._

The water flowed over the sides of the tub, flooding the floor, and Siara shrieked with laughter as he obeyed.

The rickety bed didn't survive the night, either.

In the morning, however, guard duty. The krogan of Urdnot were even serving as food-tasters for the moment—_"Not you,"_ Gris told her, dryly. _"Your gut isn't poison-proof."_

"_Then what do you need me here for?"_

"_You and Makur will be trailing Harak. He foiled the assassination pretty much single-handedly yesterday. Took four of the bullets himself, which is why Patriarch only took two."_

Siara pulled her breath in around her teeth at Gris' blunt words. Harak hadn't even looked _hurt_ the night before. _"So, follow around in his entourage. Watch out for trouble, kill the trouble?"_

"_That's Makur's job. __You__ are going to look . . . decorative."_ Gris grinned at her glare. _"The more __decorative__ you look, the easier it is for an attacker to underestimate you. And that's a good thing."_

Siara grimaced. _"If I look __weak__, I'll lose the respect of the Urdnot guards. And I've spent three damn years earning it."_

Gris shook his head. _"I told them what you'd be doing last night. They said any batarian who attacks Harak with you right up next to him, is going to get what's coming to them."_ He grinned suddenly, lupinely. _"They also said Harak had better watch where he puts his hands."_

Siara thought about that. _"Yeah."_ She frowned. _"Wait, did they mean that Harak would be in danger from Makur or from me?"_

"_Yes."_ Gris chuckled, low and rough. _"Try not to do any permanent damage. He'll be playing a part, at most. And keep your mind on looking for threats and keeping a damned shield on Harak at all times."_

"_That I can do._" Siara paused and said, a little more hesitantly, _"Have you caught any of the batarians from the first attack?"_

"_They're holed up down in the sewer reclamation area, we think. Have people down there searching right now."_ Gris regarded her steadily. _"Why?"_

She hesitated again. _"I could help you question them, when you find them."_

"_No. That thing you do is damned useful—don't get me wrong. But I don't want you using it outside of self-defense."_ Gris's tone was stern. _"Unless it's a last resort. Your mom will skin me alive with a butter knife if I let you start going back down a bad path. And Shepard's already said that if Harak or Patriarch decide to use Omega standards on the attackers, that's one thing. Urdnot and the Spectres? Hands and noses clean."_

Siara couldn't decide if she was more disappointed or relieved. She wanted to be of _use_, and technically, what she could do to an organic body wasn't torture. It left absolutely no permanent damage. But, on the whole, she decided that she was more relieved.

As it was, the batarians were cornered in the sewage reclamation plant a day later. And Siara was just as glad she wasn't on duty for the time period in which the single survivor was questioned. Makur had been, however. He wouldn't let her share his mind for the rest of the day, either. _"Was it that bad?"_ she asked. _"I'm not weak, you know."_

"_No, you're not. Strong mind, strong body, strong soul. But you don't want what's in my head right now. Or that I'd have cheerfully helped do what was done."_ Makur looked at her. Assessing her strength, as always. _"Your pain thing might have been more merciful. Harak snapped the batarian's neck at the end to stop the pain."_

"_Tell Gris that."_

Makur shrugged. _"Not sure I want you being __used__ for that, any more than I'd want you to be used for the other things you can do."_ His eyes and tone were very dark at the moment.

"_Any useful information?"_

"_Klem Na mercenary. He didn't know who hired them. Could be anyone who doesn't want Omega to become part of Council space."_ Makur shrugged. _"Enough talk. Back to work."_

After three years of never leaving the damned bunker without her armor on, she felt _naked_ even in a shirt and pants, but for the part she was having to play, she'd been given credits and told to go find herself something slinky. Several somethings, actually. _See, this is where being just a little bit more like Kella or Ylara or my mother would be useful_, she'd thought at the time. _Any of them could tell me where the line between slinky and trashy actually __is__._

Hence why, a week later, she was on duty, wearing a tight-fighting silvery dress that had overlapping scales all along it, like the body of a fish, cut low in front and exposing her entire light blue back. She'd realized immediately that she wouldn't be able to _move_ in the damned thing without some modifications, however, and had taken a pair of scissors to the sides of the skirt, slitting it almost to the hips. That also let her carry a pistol in a concealed holster, which made Siara feel _much_ more secure. The first time she'd worn it, Makur had actually growled at her.

"_What? Does the pistol show?"_

"_No one's going to be looking for a pistol. Believe me."_

"_Sort of the point, isn't it?"_ Siara had grinned at him.

Dressing like a courtesan wasn't actually the hard part. _Acting_ like one—lounging indolently on a couch near the desk at which he met most of Omega's various business leaders, perfectly relaxed and bored and mindless—while actually focusing her mind intently on maintaining a shield on Harak and watching for threats. . . was _much_ harder. Every time she'd shared with someone in the past, or approached them for sharing, she had never really. . . flirted. Seduced. She'd said what she wanted and how, and had gone on from there. Even with Eli, she'd been direct. Offered pleasure, pursued, but hadn't. . . invited him to chase her. Which is what she had to more or less do, now. _I don't do __inviting__ well_, she'd thought, dismayed.

As it happened, the next attack didn't come in the offices, but out in the main business area. Siara had had to walk beside Harak through the winding corridors on their way to the Synthetic Insights offices, when she heard Makur suddenly say, _"We're being watched."_

Harak chuckled. _"It's a big entourage. Of course people are looking."_

"_No. From above."_ Makur pointed, and that's when the first shot rang out.

Siara _felt_ the bullet hit the biotic shield she was maintaining over Harak, and said, sharply, _"Get Harak to cover,"_ just as two of the Urdnot krogan did exactly that, grabbing Harak by the elbows and moving him bodily to a nearby doorway. Dozens of people scrambled away from them in the street, shrieking and falling over each other in their haste to get away. Siara kept her shield on Harak and ducked behind a flat filled with sealed laboratory containers nearby, beside Makur. _"How many?"_

"_Five. Two in the Delumcore balcony, two to our right, and one . . . just watching for the moment. . . in the Armali Council one."_ He wasn't even _looking_ where he was calling out the enemy positions.

Another series of shots rang out. _"We should do something about that, then. Show me,"_ Siara said, urgently.

Makur grinned, pulling his own biotic shields around him tightly, and reached out, lifting one of the concealed attackers right off the balcony across the street from them. Siara could see the other now, and reached out and grabbed him, too. _"Try to take one alive,"_ Makur bellowed back towards the others now, who were already firing at the two they'd rendered helpless. _"Two to our right, moving!"_

Her head snapped around. Sure enough, from the Heyuan Genomics doorway, two more were running in a crouch now—where they'd been completely concealed before, by the deep doorway. _"How did you __see__ them?"_ Siara muttered in frustration, and fired at them a couple of times, knowing the rest of the guards behind them were occupied with the floating batarians across the street.

"_I didn't. Gris tells me he thinks it's biotic. It's like a weight in my head when someone or something's looking at me and wants to kill me. Ones with minds feel different than animals, though. Heavier."_ Makur's words were terse, and then he reached out and _threw_ one of the batarians into a wall. Siara ducked back behind their skid full of crates, and replaced her clip, then ducked out and slammed the second batarian, who'd just popped his own head out of cover, with a shockwave, flinging him backwards ten feet. Makur followed up with a couple of rounds from his shotgun, just as the rest of the guards were doing from behind them, once more. Keeping their bodies a _wall_ around Harak.

Makur's heavy hand slapped her back, directing her attention back to the left. "_There—he's jumping down!"_

The Armali Council building was actually off to their left, down the street a bit, but the attacker _there_ had obviously hoped to blindside them, and was running forward now, firing his pistol. Makur returned fire, and Siara could see shields sizzling blue now, and she muttered, _"We need one alive, damnit,"_ and focused on the batarian, who'd ducked into cover now, himself. He was _just_ in range. . . and Siara sighed, reached out, and set his nervous system on fire.

The batarian screamed and rolled out of cover, falling to the ground, bucking and writhing as if he were connected to a live electrical wire. His gun fell out of his hands, and he clearly had _no_ control over his body at that point. _"Any more?"_ Siara asked Makur, who glanced around.

"_No. Two dead in the air. Two dead on the ground. One live prisoner who probably wishes he __was__ dead. And no more eyes on us."_ Makur stood, sliding his shotgun back into its harness, which he carried over his back. _"Come on. Let's pick him up before he recovers."_

"_What the hell was that?"_ Harak growled, coming out of hiding. _"I've never seen that before."_

"_That was Urdnot Siara,"_ one of the other guards told him, grinning. _"She did that to someone who thought she looked pretty, once."_

Makur called back from where he and another guard were attempting to bind the still-shuddering and flailing batarian, _"I __never__ make the mistake of telling her that. But for Vaul's sake, would you make him __stop__ now?"_

Siara glared at Makur, folded her arms across her chest, and soothed the ravaged nervous system of the batarian, who immediately folded in on himself, fetal position.

_This_ batarian, apparently, was less _cooperative_ about revealing his origins. No identity papers. No record of him actually coming on the station, more surprisingly. Siara was in the main room when _that_ came up. And she was _floored_ when Patriarch, sounding angry, bellowed a single name. _"Pelagia!"_

"_Yes?"_ A female human _appeared_ from mid-air beside him, like a spirit from some fairy tale she'd heard Eli reading to his little hybrid sister. A _djinn_, or something like that. Siara just _stared._ The female was _beautiful._ High cheekbones, pale skin, gray eyes, white-blond hair tied back in a knot. And she was speaking in _perfect_ krogan, too.

"_How'd the nameless one get aboard the station without you knowing about it?"_ he demanded.

"_He did not pass through any security checkpoints in the last month, Patriarch. I suspect he may have actually come in through a cargo container. I am back-checking all cargo containers processed in the last month, and am also looking though all vid cam feeds for the entire station for the past week, in the hopes of ascertaining just how long he has been here. No mean task, given the number of faces I'm processing through recognition software. Once I have a match him somewhere, however, I can backtrack his movements fairly easily. Your recent improvements to the cam system are much appreciated."_

Harak snorted. _"So, results in, what, a day?"_

"_Twelve hours."_ So polished, so perfect.

"A VI?" Siara muttered, quietly, to Gris.

He shook his head. "No. AI."

"AIs are illegal—"

"Only in Council space, and hell, she's _Normandy_-class. Came off the _Kharkov._ And they've all been accorded citizenship by the Alliance and the Hierarchy lately, anyway." Gris bared his yellowing teeth in a grin. "You _really_ need an extranet connection at the female camp."

Siara sighed. "Tell me about it. Malla won't permit it. Thinks the signals could be tracked."

"Download only wouldn't be traceable."

"I know that, and you know that, but she's set in her ways." Siara shrugged. "Won't be forever."

Twelve hours later, Pelagia was ready to make her first analysis. _"He arrived two weeks ago, on a cargo ship that came in from Xetic,"_ she said. _"Probably from the ice-moon of Gesia, where the Blue Suns had a training camp run by the Bataran Special Intervention Group about twenty-five years ago or so. The Blue Suns abandoned the base under their new leadership, but it seems possible that batarian SIG might have. . . re-opened the place for business. At least as a transfer point."_

"_Special Intervention Group. Hah."_ Patriarch spat, and turned to look at Gris. _"Tell Shepard I've been keeping up my end of the bargain. Now it's time for her and her mate to hold up theirs."_

Gris nodded. _"I'll pass along your words."_

**Eli, March, 2195**

Edessan was probably the closest to Earth-like of any of the worlds in the Turian Hierarchy, with a temperate climate, oceans, mountains, and a moderate .9 g environment. As such, it was a commercial world, and attracted investment and business travelers from all over the galaxy. It was a dextro-based planet, which meant that food didn't need to be imported—other than for non-turians—but there were enough visitors that Eli _wasn't_ actually living on a steady diet of MREs anymore, for which he was grateful.

He'd been transferred from the MPs to CID, which had come with a promotion to O3. Mostly, he figured, so people _had_ to be a little more respectful. CID didn't wear uniforms on a daily basis; he'd actually had to buy a couple of suits, as a result, and people didn't actually address him as _commander_, but as _agent_, which, after two years in the MPs, he found a little jarring, actually. Dress uniforms _did_ get hauled out for promotions and awards ceremonies, however, and he had a little stack of letters of commendation and medallions in a desk drawer, generally tossed in there and forgotten about until he actually needed to wear them.

No more gate guard duty, which was a nice perk, in his opinion. Sure, he'd met a _lot_ of cute girls that way, but standing at attention for four to six hours a day? The novelty had definitely palled quickly. No more barracks; he still lived on base, but in a tiny, one-room apartment. After living with eight other guys basically in his face at all times for two years, he'd longed for privacy, but once he had it, it was oddly unnerving again. Quiet. Lots of space for thoughts.

And while CID was the investigative arm of the MPs—he'd coordinated with a few agents during the murder case on Macedyn, for example—he still maintained his SWAT rating, which meant that he could be, technically, called away from a murder scene, ordered into his armor, which he carried with him in the back of his military-issued groundcar, and go take care of a hostage situation at any moment. He kept up on his daily runs, and maintained his weapons and sparring proficiency, and tried to keep himself so busy that he had no time at all to think about _anything_ but work. He was avoiding his comm terminal as much as possible. There were messages there that did little besides make him feel guilty. A rather hurt note from Dara, in which she asked him why he hadn't _told_ her and Rel that Lin's wife had been killed, or, for that matter, that Lin had been married. Eli didn't know how to answer that one. His only attempt, which was poor, he knew, ran something along the lines of _I thought they'd sent out announcements. Didn't know that you, well, didn't know._

Then there were the notes from his mom, sent once a month like clockwork. The last one had an attachment—a picture drawn by Caelia. Apparently, the little duck had drawn the whole family. Except she'd drawn 'Lijah as a turian. Eli wasn't _quite_ sure what to make of that one, but he kind of figured that since she hadn't seen him in a year, she probably thought he was just like her father. Only, you know. Not there. He'd printed out the file and left it on his desk at home, not really knowing what else to do with it.

There were messages from girls he'd gone out with for drinks once or twice. He usually felt bad about deleting those, but he also hadn't felt much when he'd been sitting right there _with_ them, so it was probably the right thing to do. And there were, every couple of months or so, letters from Serana. He had no idea why she still wrote to him. He was a bad correspondent anymore. Eli wrote reports at his job every day now, and by the time he got home, the _last_ thing he wanted to do was relive his day and commit it to words one more time. But her letters, he read. She was, as far as he could tell from her cautiously worded statements, still keeping up with her damned _internship._ Her current favorite topic was defeating encryption protocols. _See,_ he wrote back, briefly, _if you get good enough at that, you can steal secrets from anyone in the galaxy, and never even leave your living room. Sounds like a plan, right?_

No answer to that one. He hadn't really expected it.

Work, fortunately, made not thinking about anything else _easy_. The Edessan bases had recently had a shipment of munitions go _missing_, and that meant that CID had to get involved. Usually, CID agents rode along with ammunition shipments, to make sure nothing went awry. In this case, they certainly had. Had signed off on the contents going into the warehouses on base, and left for the day. A week later, the warehouse had been unlocked again for the first time since the delivery. . . and 200 _Malleolus_ rockets, five cases of fragmentation grenades, four cases of thermal clips, and 50,000 rounds of ammunition couldn't be accounted for. Even more worrisome was the fact that an entire delivery of stealth generators had also been stolen. That. . . more than the rockets. . . made Eli's hands sweat. Rockets would wind up on the front lines somewhere. Some batarian group might buy them, sure. Soldiers were supposed to take their chances. Stealth nets on the other hand? Way too many uses for those. Entering sensitive areas and planting bombs? Walking into people's houses and murdering them? That was a technology that really didn't need to fall into the hands of criminals, here on Edessan or anywhere else.

All of this meant that either someone had broken _in_ and stolen the shipment, or that the shipment had never actually reached it in the first place, and Eli's job was to figure out which, at the moment. That was his primary case; he also had a missing persons report that had been just escalated to his desk to look into and two or three lower priorities. CID only handled felonies, at least. No more domestic dispute calls. Unless someone was already dead, in which case, it was homicide, and he'd probably get paged after all.

His partner was Celsus Fredorian, Edessan born and bred, and wore their blue-quartered paint, just as Linianus had. Celsus was short for a turian—exactly Eli's height, in fact—and had a penchant for deep-fried nepa that was surely adding pounds to his already stocky frame.

"_What have we got so far on the munitions, Sidonis?"_ he asked as he came into the office. Celsus had a tendency to treat Eli as the junior member of the team, and, technically, Eli had been in the service two months longer. Eli tended to let it slide. _Let him have his fun_, he figured.

"_Two CID people were with the truck when it pulled up. Both of them swear that they saw the delivery made. The logistics personnel—four of them—who actually pulled all the crates out and used dollies and moved the stuff into the warehouse, say the same thing. Six thumbprints on the log to verify that they dropped everything off."_ Eli shrugged. _"Truck blocked the vid cam surveillance for the area, though, so can't confirm it."_

"_Six people would be a __lot__ of ways to split the profit from what wasn't that big a heist,"_ Celsus said, sitting down and putting his feet up on the desk. He liked to take up as much space in their little office as he could. Dominance body language, basically. Eli saw exactly what it was—mostly a front—and let that slide, too. Most of the time.

"_Wouldn't call it a small heist. Malleolus go for sixteen thousand credits each on the black market right now, easily. With that alone, that's over three million. Half a million each, just based off the rockets."_

"_Eh, true enough, but they're small-time thinkers if they did that, though." _Celsus looked at him again. _"Anything else?"_

"_I'm following up a few things,"_ Eli told him, noncommittally. He did, in fact, have a few ideas he wanted to pursue, but wanted to check into them a bit before opening his mouth and looking stupid. For instance, while Celcus was looking primarily at the delivery itself as the best time to have stolen the goods, Eli had checked the bank records of each of the service members involved. Not _one_ had a bad credit history. All had money in the bank, too. No recent large transactions. The same applied to their families. People who are financially stable do not, generally speaking, suddenly come down with larcenous intent. There's almost always some period of decline, instability, desperation, addiction, something. And none of the six people involved had those signs. Eli had opted to take a better look at the munitions area himself, and had started going through the records and credit histories of everyone who had access to the codes needed to open the locks. And there, he'd found slightly more fertile fields. He had, in fact, a 13:00 interview with one of the people he'd found of interest, but in the meantime, he had to deal with his missing persons case.

The file said that Vetronia Callendus was the grandmother of a personnel specialist on base. She was actually in her late eighties, and had _anilias_, which was a degenerative neurological disorder akin to dementia. Her grandson and his mate had been taking care of her for the past couple of years, and had reported her missing a week ago, after she'd failed to come home from a week's visit across the city to the home of some of her other grandchildren. Admittedly, crossing the city took some time; Sarbrantha was the size of New York and Chicago combined, and was huge tangle of alien sky scrapers and lights. But the relatives from the west side insisted that they'd put her in a cab and given the cabbie directions. The children on the base insisted she'd never shown up. The MP who'd taken the report initially had already talked to the cab company, who claimed to have no record of a pickup _or_ a drop-off at either location on the date in question.

Eli had the first pair of grandchildren in a room downstairs at the moment, and he poured them _apha_ while going through all the questions that they'd probably already answered for the MPs. _Why's she living with you, the grandchildren, and not with the parents? Isn't that unusual?_ The HR specialist grandson—Veldus Pherian—had looked a little embarrassed. _"My mom was a boot camp washout, actually. She and my grandmother never, ever got along. They stopped talking years ago."_

"_And the other grandchildren? The ones across town?"_

"_Their father and mother passed to the spirits four years ago. There's really no one else to take care of her. And, well, she wasn't an easy person to get along with __before__ the dementia. Now she's got no safety catch on her tongue to keep her words behind her teeth."_ The male had grimaced uncomfortably.

"_Abusive?"_

"_Towards my wife, yes."_ Veldus looked at his mate. "_She hates my wife, without reason, Agent Sidonis. Nelina is a nurse, and should be really good at taking care of my grandmother. . . but it's difficult to care for someone who throws datapads and statues and scale cream bottles at you as soon as she sees you."_

Nelina, the wife, looked down and away. Eli read guilt there. _She also takes care of people all damned day, and doesn't want to have to do it at home, too, maybe? Maybe the grandmother senses that resentment?_

"_And how do you cope with it, madam?"_ Eli asked, his voice neutral, shading slightly towards sympathetic. Letting them fill in all the blank spaces.

"_As best I can. Veldus helps when he has the time."_ Her voice was tight. Nervousness. Discomfort. Anger. _The mate doesn't help as much as she thinks he should. Resentment towards him, too. Sticking her with taking care of his family._

Eli glanced down at his file again. The MP before him had been thorough. Conversations with the neighbors had been . . . illuminating. Screaming arguments between all _three_ of them, often well into the night. The wife had threatened to throw the grandmother out on her ass any number of times if things didn't start improving. The grandmother had hit her and bitten her several times, from the hospital admission reports. _Must have been a relief when the other grandkids offered to take her for a week,_ he thought. _At least with a kid, you __know__ they're going to outgrow the tantrums, and they're smaller and weaker and not apt to break skin. With the elderly, you know just as certainly that it will never, ever get better. Only worse. But still . . .what the hell happened to her?_

A body matching the age and height had been found in a park near the base. It had been stripped of all valuables and clothes at some point, and left to rot under a pile of leaves. Not exactly the height of concealment. And that was when the case had escalated to _his_ desk. DNA was kept on every single person in the Hierarchy—one sample taken at birth and a second, for confirmation, taken at boot camp. The file search inevitably took a long damned time, given the population size, but _everyone_ was indexed. The body was Vetronia's, sure enough. The problem was, she had blunt-force trauma to the back of the skull. The missing persons case had just become a potential homicide. Oh, she could have tripped and fallen, and some vagrant _could_ have stolen her belongings. But it was just as likely, if not more so, that she'd been murdered. And that meant that CID took it over, while remaining in coordination with the MPs.

"_Why are we here, anyway?"_ Veldus asked. _"We've already answered all these questions."_

"_Your grandmother's been found."_ He watched their expressions. Relief on Veldus. _Surprise_ on the mate. "_Unfortunately, I also have to tell you that she has passed to the spirits. I'm very sorry."_ He _hated_ saying the words, but he'd had a _lot_ of practice in the past three years. _"I'll need for you to identify the body. It's just a formality, of course."_

In the morgue, he watched their faces, their eyes. Not the corpse. He'd seen that before. The moment when _they_ first looked at it, however, could be revealing. He saw the horror, the relief, the guilt _at_ the relief cross the male's face. But Eli saw nothing at all in the wife's expression. She just stared at the body blankly for a moment. Then sagged a little. _"Thank you for finding her,"_ the female said, after a moment or two. _"It's good to know."_

_Yeah, but right now, you two are my prime suspects. The grandkids across town wouldn't drag her all the way back here just to kill her, now would they?_ Eli leaned back against the wall. _"You should know that this case has been ruled to be by foul play or misadventure,"_ he told them both, his voice completely neutral. Face and eyes blank. _"She may have fallen in the woods and struck her head. Or she may have been killed. We won't know until the coroner's report comes in."_

Nelina's mouth opened slightly, and she raised her hand to her mouth in horror. _"I hate to think of her wandering alone and confused and falling,"_ she said. _"Anilias is a terrible disease, Agent Sidonis. By the end, sufferers don't even know who __they__ are. Who their kin are. Most of them don't even recognize their clan colors anymore. No more free will than an animal. Oh, the words are still there, but there's no __person__ behind them anymore. The mind is gone, the spirit is trapped, and the body doesn't know any better than to keep living. A different kind of __mor'loci__."_

"_Sweetness, such language in front of a human!"_ Veldus sounded horrified.

"_I'm familiar with the term,"_ Eli told them, dryly. _"But typically, that's a state of spiritual being. Someone with nothing left to live for."_

Nelina pointed at the body. _"Trust me,"_ she said, quietly. _"The old she-varren had no reason left to live."_ Veldus hissed at her. _"Oh, come off it. I know it sounds terrible, Agent Sidonis, but it's the truth. All he'll have to do is talk to the neighbors to know how much I __hated__ the old woman."_ She shrugged. _"It wasn't her fault. I know it. But I have __no__ good memories of her, and, horrible though it may sound, I'm not sorry she's dead."_ She looked at Eli. _"You going to shackle me for the truth, Agent?"_

Eli shook his head. _"Not me,"_ he replied, mildly. _"I'll let you know when the coroner's report comes in."_

And then he was off to his next round of interviews. This one started with an interesting young _chalsae_, who was in charge of the warehouses, who really _had_ been having some financial embarrassments of late. He apparently liked to bet on _rlatae_ races, and had absolutely abysmal luck picking winners. And yet, he'd had a recent infusion of cash into his credit accounts. Eli asked him a few questions, watched the color start to drain out of the face, and then color suffuse the crest, in rapid succession. Guilt, and guilt-anger. _"It might go easier on you if you just admit it,"_ Eli commented, wondering if the famous turian honor would prompt the male to say 'it's a fair cop' and give in.

It didn't. Not until Eli brought out the copies of the banking reports. _"Want to explain the fifty thousand credit deposit made last week? From an untraceable account in volus space?"_ Eli said, the corners of his lips pulling down. _"Maybe a bequest from your great-aunt Tala Pidnus?"_

The _chalsae_ sighed. _"I really needed the money,"_ he said, quietly. _"I owed too much, to the wrong people. . . ."_

_Yeah, yeah. So you got in with even __worse__ people instead._ Eli took the _chalsae_ out of the warehouse complex in shackles, let him walk right by the people he'd worked with, with his head down, crest low in shame, and took him to the CID building for further questioning.

Celsus was annoyed, of course. _"You should have taken me with you,"_ the male told him, bridling.

"_You seemed quite happy to be investigating the drivers and their CID observers. I'm beginning to think you're Internal Affairs,_" Eli told him, with a faint smile. _"This was just a few routine questions. Sometimes you get lucky._" Lantar had always told him that policework involved a lot of luck. Of course, Lantar had also told him that investigators also made their _own_ luck, too. Though a lot of hard work.

Celsus glared at him. _"That's a hell of a thing to say, Sidonis,"_ he blustered. Eli realized that Celcus had never once called him by his first name, as an equal would. Had never used the familiar-to-familiar forms that those of equal rank _should_.

_Yeah, and you also didn't deny it,_ Eli thought, showing teeth. Let himself stand up straight, and suddenly, the _turian_ was on the receiving end of dominance body-language. Eli was just as tall as the other male, and cowl or not, bulked larger in the upper body and shoulders. Breaking up two years of bar room brawls had taught Eli how and when to be big. . . and how and when to be invisible. Pulled in on himself. Right now, he just met the male's eyes steadily. _"Get your head out of your cloaca. Our people didn't do it. Want to go find who did?"_

"_Yeah."_ Celsus stared at him for a moment. _"Sure."_

That arrest at least netted them some more names. The people who'd offered the _chalsae_ money to unlock the door and walk away for an hour or two one night had been bar buddies. Eli and Celsus checked into those, but in the meantime, Eli's missing persons case was now a _confirmed_ homicide. The blow that had killed the grandmother had come from above, and had probably been delivered by someone closer to seven feet in height that to six. That ruled out the wife, unless she'd been standing on a box when she did it. Eli got Veldus in a room and asked him questions. Quiet, pointed questions. For about two hours. Then he got the other grandkids from across town, and asked _them_ the same questions. Both males were close to the right height. But both had been at work at the time. And there'd been witnesses who placed them where they said they were.

The grandmother wasn't leaving _any_ wealth to either of them—what few savings she had, were being eaten up by the cost of caring for her. None of the grandchildren were in financial distress. So that left either set, for personal reasons, a potential cabbie, for the . . . what, three rings and a credit chit she'd had on her? Or was it person or persons unknown?

Eli pressed the cross-town cousins harder, and got at least a partial cab number, which was _something_. The cab company still claimed not to have a record of the pickup, but at least narrowed the list of cabbies down, and Eli had a chat with four of them, before finding one who'd 'forgotten' to list a fare for that day. . . so he wouldn't have to give a percentage of the fare to his company. _"Yeah, I picked the old she-varren up,"_ he admitted dourly. _"I was just as glad there was a steel mesh between her and me. She called me every foul name in the book. I haven't heard some of those since boot camp. Told me if I so much as looked at her wrong, she'd kill me."_ He shrugged. _"Hard to take a little old lady seriously, but if she'd tried, I might've hurt her trying to keep her from hurting __herself__, know what I mean?"_

"_Yeah, I do. Where'd you drop her off?" _

"_Base gates. I don't have clearance to go on the grounds."_

"_What time? And which gate?"_

"_Sixteen-thirty or so. Apha gate—the west side one. She threw her chit at me—wouldn't get any nearer than ten feet, not even for me to give it back to her. I didn't know if I should consider that a __tip__ or send it to her family."_ He pulled it out of a box nearby and handed it to Eli. If he knew that his fare had died within four hours of the drop-off, he was doing an _admirable_ job of not showing it.

"_One last question. Did you know she died that evening?"_

The cabbie's jaw fell open. _"Oh, __s'kak__. I've been holding money from the dead. Her spirit's going to haunt me."_ Eli tried not to snort at that one, but the expression of mild panic was pretty clear. _"Is that why you're here asking questions. . . oh, __s'kak. S'kak!__ Did someone kill her? I didn't do it!"_

Eli checked the cabbie's record—quite a few driving violations, go figure, but no felony convictions, and decided he wasn't exactly a flight risk, having lived in Sarbrantha his whole life and having an extended family here. _"Don't go on vacation all of a sudden,"_ he warned. _"I might have more questions. And if you think of anything, you have my comm code."_

That at least got them the right time and the right gate to look at vid cam footage, and sure enough, there was the grandmother, getting out of the car and throwing her credit chit somewhere in the vicinity of the driver before staggering off towards the gate. The base surveillance cams lost her somewhere in the first residential area, however. . . but she clearly knew more or less where she was going, at that moment. _Looking more and more like Veldus. . . . except he was at work. With coworkers who vouch for him. Maybe need to lean on the coworkers a little, see if they're lying? Or was it some random person on base. . . . but why? _Eli thought, and ordered a blood-spatter team to grab a warrant and get out to the couple's house to check the entire place for_ any_ evidence. . . . but then his primary case reared up its ugly head again.

"_Word is," _his commander told him, looking grim, _"there's a group of separatists who live out in the hill country who might be involved."_

"_Separatists?"_ Eli repeated, blankly. _Those aren't supposed to exist anymore. Not since the Unification war. Well, then again, Dara's dad occasionally tells Shepard that the South will rise again, but I __think__ he's joking about that._

"_Yeah. Embarrassing on a cosmopolitan place like Edessan, but there's a group or two of them on every planet, I guess. They don't come in to hospitals for birthing, so no DNA scans on the infants. They don't go to boot camp. Refuse all citizenship rights. Technically, they're all children, and we could go in and take them all into . . . hell, I don't know. Child Protective Services, maybe. Though we'd have a hell of a time finding homes for the thirty- and forty-year-olds."_ His smile wasn't terribly amused, though. "_They don't work for anyone but themselves, and declare no income for taxation. Insist that since they live communally on private land, all they have to do is pay one tax bill for the whole community, and that the rest of us should leave them alone."_ The commander shrugged. _"Most of us do. They're lunatics, and they disrespect the Imperator, but he allows them a little license to disagree. Word is, he's starting a progress through the colonies this year, though. Starting with __here__. Chances are the Praetorians might want them quieted down a little before the Imperator and his family come through."_

Eli received that information without changing his expression. But he did wonder if any of that _family_ might be the part that he knew on a first-name and a wrist-clasp basis. _"With respect, sir, what does this have to do with anything?"_

"_Your partner was busy this afternoon. Squeezed a couple of the middlemen pretty good. Got them to admit that the separatists might be looking for an off-world buyer for some of the goods—not all. We need to see if they really have the weapons. Need to see what they're selling, and what they're planning on using."_

Eli sighed. _"And when you say 'off world,' you immediately think of me?"_

"_True enough. Go wash off your clan-colors, Sidonis. Get your armor, and we'll paint over the black and the red and the gold with something more suitably garish and mercenary."_ White and gold were MP colors. Red and gold was CID. Red for service, gold for protection.

Eli gave Celcus a dark look when the male came in, carrying a microdot com transmitter. _"Hey, I was just doing my job, getting the information,"_ Celcus told him, grinning. _"You could have been questioning the middlemen yourself, instead of chasing down little old ladies."_

Eli felt his teeth clench. _"The little old lady in question is dead."_

"_And isn't getting any deader,"_ Celcus told him pragmatically. _"Do try not to get yourself killed, Sidonis."_

And that's how Eli wound up going undercover as a human member of the Blue Suns, walking into the middle of a separatist enclave, his face bare of his father's colors for the first time in almost four years, wondering what the _hell_ he was doing. He was SWAT-trained, and he knew that twenty other SWAT officers were backing him up, but the chances of getting killed here were pretty phenomenally high if he said the wrong thing. And, politically, the whole thing nagged at him. It would be _convenient_ if this group of embarrassing people _happened_ to get swept under the rug before the Imperator got here. On the other hand. . . they _might_ have stolen the equipment in preparation for a really _big party_ once he _did_ arrive at the planet.

He was greeted at the gate of the compound and given odd looks for his alien face and armor. Eli held up his hands and then offered a wrist for a clasp, and said in _tal'mae_ an old, ritual greeting known by every turian, regardless of regional dialect, _"Honor to your clans. I come in search of water and friendship. May I find it here?"_

Their eyes widened, and they'd taken him to their leader, who was sitting in a kitchen. Eli was surprised by how _homey_ it was here. How comfortable. They talked for a while, and Eli carefully sipped his water slowly, waiting to see if it was drugged in any way.

"_Your turian really is excellent,"_ one of his hosts complimented him after all.

"_I had a good teacher,"_ Eli told him, politely. _"The sister of one of my best friends, actually."_ He let his smile at the thought of Serana show. Here she wanted to be a spook, and he was the one doing the undercover shit. The thought of the absolutely innocent, free spirit of Serana _ever_ walking into a place like this scared the _shit_ out of him, though, and Eli let his face close down again.

A quiet nod, a flick of the eyes towards the wrists. _"What can we simple farmers do for you today?"_

"_I was told that I might be able to purchase equipment here."_

"_Well, if you want threshers and plows and tractors, we have those in plenty."_ Politely dismissive.

"_I was looking for something a little more specialized,"_ Eli hinted carefully.

"_Harrowers?"_

Eli shrugged. _"I have an obstacle in front of me,"_ he replied, obliquely. _"Say, a really __large__ stump. Can't be pulled out, can't be dug out. Entrenched with centuries worth of roots. What do you recommend? As a . . . farmer?"_

His host leaned back. Evaluated the face, the uniform. _"Sounds to me like a stick of dynamite could work."_

Eli sighed. _"Yeah. Tried that. A little more firmly entrenched than that. Tell you what. You come up with a better solution for me, and I'd be happy to compensate you. Sound fair?"_ He started to stand to leave.

"_Now, now, don't be hasty,"_ his host told him, mildly, and Eli saw a couple of the others in the room step forward slightly. This was one of the times to _pull in_, and Eli did so, sitting back down. Kept his body language confident, but not dominant. _"We might have what you're looking for. How big of a stump are we talking about?"_

"_Ever see a full grown allora tree? Or a _sequoia?_ About that big."_

"_S'kak._ _Work around it."_

"_Kind of hard when it keeps moving."_ Eli said it very lightly. _"Always right in front of me and my. . . organization."_

There was a slight pause. _"Ah, it's one of __those__ kind of stumps."_

"_Yeah."_ Eli was watching his surroundings very closely now. _Suspicion, yeah, go figure. Who the hell is this human, really, and what does he want. Of course, a turian would already have been out on his ass._

"_We have heard,"_ his host said, obliquely, _"though we have no extranet connection here, that there has been some . . . political upheaval in the land of the lawless of late."_

"_Omega? Yes."_ Eli thought fast. _"Batarian involvement __does_ _mean that fewer people are willing to hire them of late. But the upheaval also presents certain opportunities."_

"_Does Patriarch still control the station?"_

Eli shrugged. _"Control is such a poor word to describe Omega. As I understand it, Ulluthyr Harak is in control now, if it can be called such. Patriarch still lives, of course."_ Silently, he _blessed_ Serana for her last letter. He hardly ever watched the news feeds now. Too much like work. She, on the other hand, had chattered about the Omega issue for about a page. Something about _Siara_ being there, working for Gris. And Siara's krogan mate, too. Eli had wondered in passing how the _hell_ Serana _knew_ all this stuff, and then had closed the letter.

His host sat back. Everyone around him eased a little, too. Elijah wondered, for a moment, if Serana's letter had just saved his life. _"Let's go out to the barn,"_ his host said, standing up. _"Let's see what you'd be willing to pay for what we have that might be a suitable solution for your stubborn stump."_

The Malleolus missiles had been out there. And the ammunition. Everything except the goddamned stealth generators. But they'd only been willing to sell half of them. _"We have our __own__ stumps to remove,"_ his host had explained.

_Damnit. You might as well __tell__ me you're planning an Imperial party._ Eli had shrugged and said only, _"Everyone does."_ Then he'd bargained and dickered, knowing the market price, but wanting to appear a canny buyer, and they eventually started hammering out payment and delivery details. _"I'll transfer half to whatever account you choose before I walk out your gate,"_ Eli told them calmly. _"The other half on delivery. I'm authorized to offer an incentive for speedy delivery."_ He was close enough to the gate now that he knew the SWAT team, having heard this all, would be starting to move in.

The fight was short and ugly. CID waited until he was out of grabbing range, and had then focused brilliant lights on the compound from the hills all around it, and a gunship had climbed into the air over the barn, preventing any of the separatists from running back in for the rockets, churning out a fusillade of bullets in front of the door in a warning.

It took hours, and it was vicious. House to house fighting in some cases. The females fought just as hard as the males, and the children had all been crowded into the cellars at the first hint of trouble. Eli picked out—with surprising ease, he had to admit, later—the cloaked forms of a dozen people wearing stealth generators, and, from a distance, started taking them out with his sniper rifle.

It wasn't a complete success. Eli wasn't even sure it was a _partial_ success. A real success would have involved the separatists laying down their arms in the face of obvious superior firepower, and simply going into custody peacefully. Instead, they'd wound up having to kill or disable half of the adults, and they'd had to evacuate the kids—all of whom saw their uniforms and began to shake in fear—with blankets over their heads so they wouldn't see the bodies. Even in terms of materials. . . half of the damned stealth devices were missing. Which meant that they were out there, somewhere. Waiting to be used.

And waiting for him back at the station, as he creaked in, armor covered in blue turian blood and Blue Sun markings and scores from bullets and knives, aching in every bone of his body, was another surprise. Veldus had come in to confess to the murder of his grandmother. _"Nelina told me it was better that we should just tell you everything,"_ he said, dully, in the interrogation room. _"I didn't mean to do it. I loved my grandmother. But she came back after a week away, and it was worse than ever before. They hadn't made her take her medicines. She was . . . erratic. She came into the house and went to her room, and came back with her old wedding knife in her hands. Said Nelina was trying to kill her. Attacked my wife. I pulled her back by the arm, and she was spitting and cursing and saying I should never have been born. That I was . . .a disgrace."_ The male's hands were shaking. _"I think she thought she was talking to my mother. And then she tried to hit me, and I just tried to __stop__ her."_

"_So where did you hit her?"_ Eli asked him, so tired and disgusted, he didn't even know what to say.

"_In the. . . in the face."_

Eli frowned. _"Stop wasting my time. A false confession is punishable by a prison term of ten years. You know that."_ He stood up and started to leave.

"_Wait, no! I did it!"_

Eli turned and glared at him. _"I know damned well the blow came to the back of the head, from above. Either delivered by someone your height, or someone standing up on. . . a flight of stairs, maybe."_ It was a guess, but from the way Veldus went still, Eli knew he was probably close. _"So, what, you're taking the fall for your wife?"_

Silence. _"What really happened?"_

"_I've said all I'm going to say."_

Eli sighed. _"Right. And tomorrow morning, when she realizes you're here, she'll come in and make __her__ confession. . . especially once my blood-spatter team turns up, oh, say, your grandmother's blood on the carpet somewhere. It's __hard__ to get every trace out. They might not find the clothes. . . an incinerator works well for that. . . but synthetic fabrics leave residues when they burn. They'll find that, too. Eventually, we'll find the rings."_ Eli took a deep breath. Gentled his voice. _"Now, I've checked up on you, you know that? I __know__ you were at work. Your coworkers all vouched for that."_

"_They're. . . they're lying. . . "_

"_Nelina finally snapped when the old woman came home, didn't she? She'd had a week of freedom from the constant stress, constantly having to defend herself __and__ protect the old woman from herself and change her diapers and everything else. Might have been just one nasty comment too many after a day at work, dealing with the same thing at the base hospital."_ Eli made his voice as sympathetic as he could. . . which wasn't very, actually, he had to admit.

Veldus said nothing.

Eli walked to the door, opened it, and told the MP outside, _"Yeah. Throw him in a cell, tell him his rights, such as they are, and get him a JAG officer. I hear Didamus Lavium's good. He's going to need one, because we're throwing false confession, misleading investigators, and wasting police resources at him. Oh, and he's confessed to a murder, too, technically."_

He'd have paperwork in the morning, but he'd spent all _damned_ night at the raid, and hadn't really thought he'd be coming back to the building to do anything more than drop off his armor to get it painted back to its proper color. The Blue Suns logo really offended him, for some reason.

Eli let himself back into his dark apartment at 02:00 and just groaned. He'd gotten up in the dark this morning—yesterday morning, anyway—and now it was well after midnight. He knew his way around the tiny space very well, however, and padded through the single room, stepping over the free weights and collapsing on the bed—he'd bought a real, honest-to-god king size bed as soon as he'd gotten the apartment, and _nevermind_ that it took up half the room.

The comm panel chirped and blinked at him. _It'll keep_, he thought. _I need sleep more._

But sleep wouldn't come. Eli lay there and ached. Tried not to think about the lost, dazed look in the eyes of the kids as they'd led them out of their homes. Tried not to think about sitting in a comfortable kitchen, talking with the owners. _Maybe a drink would help,_ he thought, then discarded the thought. A drink or two when out at a bar wasn't a bad thing, but he didn't want to start _medicating_ himself with the shit. _Maybe I could call one of the girls who's left me a message recently,_ he thought, and then realized he couldn't even remember their _names_ at the moment, and closed his eyes in disgust. _Yeah, there's a solution. I might stop thinking for a minute or two, though._

The comm panel chirped again, and Eli got up. "All right, all right," he said, and walked across the room, flopping down into the chair at the desk and hearing it creak under his weight. It was a turian chair, so not entirely comfortable in the right places, but Eli was used to it.

A handful of messages. One from his mom. _Hey, kiddo. Just wanted to drop you a line. Don't you have some leave coming up? You going to come home for it? Tacitus and Emily just turned two, and Caelia's almost five, so scheduled one big party on March first for all three of them. Enjoy the pictures, okay? Love you. Mom._

Eli sighed. At least _his_ mom, for all her quirks and foibles, wasn't spitting and cursing and throwing things at people. And she was alive, after all. He started a quick reply back, rubbing at his burning eyes as he did. _Hi, Mom. It's late here. Just got off shift. Yeah, I've got leave coming, but I don't know when I'll be able to take it, or even where. I'll let you know if I manage to shake free, though. Pictures are great. How did Tacitus manage to get frosting all the way to the back of his crest, anyway? Love you all._

He rubbed at his eyes again, and flicked down to the next message. Lantar. Something about copies of all his commendations being forwarded to Spectre headquarters, and Lantar having had a look through them. _There are a lot more than you've mentioned, son,_ Lantar wrote. _And I'm not just talking about good conduct medallions here. Meritorious service, service with integrity, and a combat star, too. Why haven't you mentioned __any__ of this?_

_Because it doesn't matter, Dad,_ Eli thought, the words barely even coherent in his mind. _They sit in a drawer. I wear them once, maybe twice a year. And sure, I get the job done, but there's always more of it the next day._

Last blinking message. Serana. _Well, asperitalla, your letters probably saved my ass tonight. I guess I'll read you, and finally crash._ He keyed it open, and the letters swam before his eyes. _Eli—don't be mad at me. By the time you read this, I'm going to be on __Bastion__. Isn't that exciting? K. has a few errands for me to run. Is there anything I can pick up for you while I'm there?_

"Shit," Eli muttered. "Shit, shit, shit. You haven't even been to fucking boot camp yet, Serana. What the hell are you _doing_?"

**Serana**

Serana was, in fact, having the time of her life. Kasumi had taken her with her on the _Normandy_ to go to Bastion. "Practical application time," Kasumi told her. "We're going to be picking up dead drops and passing notes the old-fashioned way, and you're going to be my courier."

"This is real?" Serana asked.

Kasumi looked at her. "Everything's real. Either that, or life is just a dream. We could talk Plato for a moment, if you like."

Serana made her face. "Please, no. Human literature, I like. Human philosophy confuses me. The whole obsession with predestination in particular is annoying."

Kasumi chuckled. "I see you had Dr. Solomon last quarter at school. Let me guess. Boethius?"

"_The Consolation of Philosophy_. Yes. Only thing I remember is that because your divine imperative is apparently outside of time, it apparently knows everything that will happen, and because the divine knows it, it is inevitable, there is no free will, give in and just let everything happen to you. Bleah."

Kasumi began to laugh outright. "There's a little more to it than that."

"Not _that_ much more."

"He did write it in prison," Kasumi reminded her, stretching in her chair in the port observation lounge. "I'm told that that's a place where acceptance of fate is at a premium."

Serana made a rude noise. "Then those people aren't trying hard enough to get out." She gave her mentor a challenging little look. "So, you've _never_ been in a prison?"

Kasumi's grin was absolutely wicked, and she just shook her head silently.

They docked at Bastion, and disembarking, Serana looked around in complete excitement. She'd never been here before; her family had moved to Mindoir when she was six, before the Citadel had been closed down, and since then, she'd traveled to Palaven a couple of times, but only with the new relay system and its direct flights. So this was all new to her, and she was drinking it in, trying to adjust her eyes as quickly as possible to all the new sights, and her nose to all the new smells. "Tell me if I look too much like a tourist," she told Kasumi.

"You look exactly the way I need you to look," Kasumi told her. "Wide-eyed, enthusiastic, and innocent."

Serana grinned. "Okay. Good."

They walked through Bastion, and Kasumi gave her a steady, low-voiced lecture. "Bastion and Omega are two of the most heavily watched places in the galaxy, but they're also two of the biggest hotbeds of espionage activity. The embassies are here; the gateway to the Terminus systems is there. Assume every other person you see here wants your information, or has some fleck of information, and you wouldn't be far wrong."

Kasumi had explained the oldest methods for passing along information to her on the flight. A live drop was when two spies met. They might not look at each other. They might sit on the same park bench and 'accidentally' take the wrong bag, for example, when leaving. "It's almost a pity that newspapers are dead. They were wonderful for looking occupied, once upon a time, and information or physical media could be held inside them and just left on a park bench. No one leaves a datapad by accident," Kasumi had said, chuckling.

A dead drop, on the other hand, eliminated the need for spies to meet or even see each other. A location was agreed upon ahead of time, a signal was set—chalk marks, a flag, a towel on a doorknob, something, anything really, so long as it was visible—and then the recipient could come along and remove the item or items from its hiding spot. A loose rock in a wall was an old favorite, but Kasumi liked ones that didn't stand out from urban debris. An empty can of soda, for example, left with a napkin or something, so that it _looked_ to the casual passer-by that someone was coming back for their drink, and the general social contract kept them from picking it up and throwing it away. "Of course, that's a very analog method. Which I actually like. It's inherently more secure, in a way, than what we'll be doing on the station."

"And what's that?" Serana said, eagerly.

"There are dead drop spikes in ten different locations on Bastion. The spikes are driven into walls or floors and don't look any different than any other nail you'd see. But they have wireless transmitters, and when someone with the right receiving equipment stands near them, they pick up the signal and can download it. Of course, they can't read it without decryption protocols." Kasumi told her lightly. "You're going to be going to each location and finding a way to be unobtrusive there until you've gotten all the data." She paused. "Your parents did _not_ like this, Serana. You _are_ underage, and espionage _is_ frowned upon."

"Espionage against the Council is a felony. Espionage _for_ the Council is a civic duty," Serana had replied, promptly.

Kasumi chuckled softly. "And that, Serana, is one of the reasons you're going to be _good_ at this."

"What, because I have a sense of humor?" Serana had laughed and gone to the observation window to stare out at the streaks of light that the stars became in FTL drive.

"No. Because you see it as a game."

Serana put a hand on the transparent plassteel. Felt the hum of the engines through the pane. "I don't understand."

Kasumi nodded. "A lot of people think that spies are recruited from low-class backgrounds, for some reason. Apparently, the assumption is, that only people who would have otherwise turned to a life of crime anyway would want to become spies. That, or people fall back on the old twentieth century view of the superspy. Dashing, intellectual, male, probably British. Usually in a tuxedo so that they're _clearly identifiable_." She shook her head. "Neither is true. Most spies are recruited for mental characteristics. You actually match both of the ones that _I_ consider important to the job. Moral flexibility is one. Sam can do undercover with the best of them, but some of the decisions he's had to make in his life still eat at him." Kasumi shrugged. "Some of the decisions I've made bothered me at the time, but they don't _keep_ bugging me, if you understand me. I opted to take down a mass effect field on a dome once—don't ask how or where—so that it would give me time to escape. Through a chain of other incidents, that resulted in a lot of people dying. Mostly enemies. Bothered the hell out of me at the time, but I sleep pretty well now."

"So when you say. . . moral flexibility. . . you mean. . . I'm a sociopath?" Serana was dismayed. It was like being told she had cancer of the spirit.

Kasumi shook her head vehemently. "No. Not at all. A sociopath doesn't feel anything at all. People are things. Things to be used to gain power. I'm saying that I don't think you'll let some things bother you. Your brother Rel has some of that. . . equanimity, I think, is a good word. But Rinus is calmer. You. . . you're. . . lighter. Freer. And couple that with the second important mental characteristic, and I think you'll be set."

"And what's _that_?"

"You see it as a game. You see _most_ of life as a game."

Serana blinked. "I don't understand."

"When you were playing Galaxy of Fantasy last year, what did you do?"

"Battlegrounds, mostly. Lots of duels. Which I won. Oh, and I played the auction hall. Made a lot of fake credits that I never used on anything, but it was so much _fun_ to listen to everyone on the auction channel complain about how I was _killing_ the server economy." Serana grinned. "Single-handedly. As if fake money means anything at all. Oh, and I roleplayed. Sometimes I roleplayed that I was a middle-aged asari playing on my niece's account, in fact." She laughed. "You'd be surprised how many people fell for that one."

"Why do that?" Kasumi didn't sound disapproving. It was one of the things that made her _so_ much easier to talk to than Solanna. Serana really envied Dara, having Kasumi as a mother. Even as a step-mother.

"Because it was fun?" Serana squirmed a little. Pulling the wool over the eyes of people twice her age had been _very_ fun, in fact. She'd gotten _away_ with it, too, and had sat there in her room at her terminal, laughing under her breath at how _dumb_ some people were.

"Because it was a game. Because it didn't matter. Because it wasn't real." Kasumi pointed at her. "I did the same thing. I stole because it was a game. Because it was fun. Because getting away with something is a _rush_." Kasumi grinned at her. "And you've got it, too."

Serana had thought about that. "Maybe a little. So. . . how _do_ you recruit spies?"

"Some organizations have . . .talent scouts. At universities, places like that. You need people who are _smart_. Who like to play the game. Who have a little flexibility. Who can make themselves believe the reality they've created inside their game, if only for a little while. Your two brothers have the smarts. They might even have the calm. But they like rules. _You_ like to break them, Serana. Don't you?"

Serana looked down. "A little," she admitted. "What else?"

"After the mental, there's the physical. You need people who can look a part. On Earth, that's particularly important, because we've got so many racial sub-types. In the Hierarchy? Mostly a question of dialect training so you can _sound_ like whichever colony you're claiming to come from. The real problem starts to crop up when we need information from, say, volus space. We don't blend in well there. That's when you need to start cultivating agents." Kasumi had waved a hand. "Advanced lesson. We'll talk about that later. For now, we'll be on Bastion."

And now they _were_ on Bastion, and Kasumi had given her a station map and a list of dead drop locations. A café near the human embassy hadn't been too hard to find an excuse to linger in, although their _apha_ was _terrible_. A public extranet kiosk, again, not too hard, although people standing in line behind her began to complain about how long she was taking. Some were annoying. One was right in the middle of salarian neighborhood, _underwater_. Serana took off her shoes and dangled her feet in the water, rubbing at them as if she'd gotten blisters. And when one salarian came over to demand what she was doing, she made a face at him. "I'm sorry," she told him. "The pool looked so cool, and I've been walking and walking and _walking_ today." She pulled out her map. "I think I might be a little turned around. Could you help me?"

He visibly relaxed, and Serana's heart began to calm down. _He has no idea what's here,_ she realized. _I frightened __myself__._

When she'd visited all ten sites, Kasumi suddenly appeared at her side. "Don't _do_ that," Serana told her quietly, in some agitation. "I didn't even _smell_ you. Were you watching me all day?"

"Yep. Let's head back to the ship. Did you see anyone watching you?"

"The salarian at the pool, but I think he was harmless. Couple of turians in the Xlorae district, but am not sure why. One of them followed me for a bit, but I went into a library and stayed there for a bit. When I came out again, he was gone, but a human was following me instead. Which is when I had lunch and wandered around the shopping area for a while."

"Good. The turian was Hierarchy Intelligence. I've met him before. The human was SATBIA. Alliance Intelligence. They passed you from one to the other because they knew about that drop location, and saw that you'd noticed being followed."

Serana blinked. "And now what? They're going to send my picture around?"

"I called them and told them you were with me. They were very appreciative." Kasumi's voice was serene. "Let's get back aboard the ship. I'm interested to see what we've caught today."

An hour later, Serana was reading one of her textbooks, when Kasumi sat up, cursing a blue streak in two or three languages at once. _"Kisama!"_ she finally resorted to, in what sounded like her native language. "Keji _died_ for this, and _now_ I find it?" She finally seemed to realize that Serana was in the room, staring at her wide-eyed. "I need to talk to Sam. Could you wait outside, Serana?"

Serana nodded, stood, and headed to the door. "Don't try listening outside the hatch," Kasumi warned her.

Serana sighed. She had a feeling _she_ wouldn't get to do anything about whatever was in the data she'd picked up. But it surely _would_ be interesting.

**Dara, May, 2195**

The _Raedia_ dropped out of FTL in the Terekhova System, in the Armstrong Nebula. They were heading for Antibaar, a frozen hell-hole of a world once targeted for potential terraforming, although the volus had apparently staked a claim to it now, because of its cold temperatures and methane atmosphere. _Just needs to be a little thickened up for them,_ Dara thought, staring out the observation port in the cargo hold at the chill planet. She was second in command of the medbay on this ship now, and very much looking forward to the day when she really _was_ a doctor, rather than just receiving the title as a courtesy. She was taking a full medkit with her on this mission—right down to saline IVs and samples of almost every drug in the dispensary. She adjusted the visor on her helmet and looked at Rel. _"Any clues?"_ she asked, shrugging.

"_Not one, sorry."_ At O3, Rel was technically in command of all special forces and marines on the _Raetia_. That gave him a department of twenty-five people, including himself. This also, technically, put him in command of Dara—a fact that he constantly teased her about in private. _"Oh, as if that were __anything__ new,"_ she usually teased, right back.

She knew _something_ was up, however. Kasumi was on board, and if Kasumi was off of Mindoir, it meant something delicate needed handling. Sky was here, as well, but the _Raedia_ was Sky's ship, more or less. Oh, it was Captain Arius' ship, but when Sky was aboard, Sky called the shots.

Both of them came through the hatch now. Kasumi looked at Rel. "These are the teams you've picked?"

Only three teams were heading down to the surface. Kasumi had specified infiltration and technical expertise. Rel glanced down the ranks of marines, and nodded. "They should be able to handle anything we find down there. The question is, what are we looking for?"

_Past-song. Dreams of power and despair,_ Sky told them all, quietly.

The various marines shuffled. Most of them had gotten used to the rachni, but _no one_ understood him when he got cryptic.

"Let's head down," Kasumi said, and Dara frowned. That was a tone of absolute dread.

They dropped to the surface in Hammerheads, and Dara held on for dear life as her mate drove theirs towards the speck on the scope that was their goal. She'd _long_ since made it a habit that, if it was a ground or aircar, and either Rel or Kallixta was there? Neither of them were allowed to drive. Rinus might be allowed. Otherwise, _Dara_ drove. It was that, or she was going to go through life with her eyes squeezed shut.

The blip on the scope turned out to be a structure, half-buried in the frozen ground, covered with drifts of snow. Life detection signs, nil. They all hopped out, feeling the cold already starting to burn into their suits, and hustled for the entrance. Kasumi fiddled with the door for a moment, and then they were in.

Sky and Kasumi moved in first, Dara and Rel, as special forces, directly behind them, and the other six people pulling up the rear. All weapons were at the ready. Dara glanced around warily, looking for _some_ clue as to what they were going to find here.

She got her first clue as a marine behind her shone the light attached to his rifle around the long hall they were in. . . and she saw a sign written in English. _Offices and cafeteria, floor 1. Living quarters, floor 2. Labs, floor 3. _"Shit. Whoever built this was human."

"Debatable," Kasumi replied, tightly, and swung her own light over a slightly familiar symbol on the wall. Dara stared at it for a moment, frowning. Kasumi clarified now, "This looks like a Cerberus facility. Check every inch of each floor, people. I don't want any surprises."

The first two floors had been stripped clean, although there was a _lot_ of damage. Bullet holes in walls. Brown splashes that were probably the remains of blood. Broken, smashed furniture. Dara stared at it all. "We should have brought a crime scene person with us," she muttered on her private channel with Rel.

"No kidding," he muttered back. "What the _hell_ happened here?"

The third floor was the lowest one down; although it was the most secure from the cold above—a chill -34º C/-29.2º F topside—it was still damned cold below. The heaters were not functioning above very minimal settings, and a light patina of frost glazed everything.

The first few labs had computer equipment left in them, and their tech experts got to work, extracting hard drives to take back to the ship for analysis someplace other than in the bitter cold. The last room, however, proved to be the most interesting. A large. . . pod. . . for lack of a better word, lay on its side on the floor, equipment scattered haphazardly around it. It looked brown and vaguely organic, and Dara could see from across the room that there was a clear place near the top, glazed with the same frost that coated everything else in the facility.

"Hell," Kasumi said, quietly. "I'd hoped I'd never see one of those again."

"What is it?" Rel asked, tightly, keeping his weapon trained on the pod.

"It's a Collector stasis pod," Kasumi said, tiredly. Dara's mouth dropped open. Kasumi sighed. "Okay. Let's take a look, but everyone spread out, and let's be careful here."

_Always provide control-songs, _Sky reproved her gently.

Dara moved forward, holstering her pistol. _How much does Kasumi know about what we're going to find here?_ she wondered, and began to rub at the frost on the pod with her fingers. Everyone in the room moved uneasily. _"It's better to see what's in there before we open it, don't you think?"_ she asked, pragmatically. "Kasumi, hand me your light, would you?"

Dara used the light to scrape away more frost, and then stared down into the pod in total consternation. "Well?" Rel asked.

"I have no idea," Dara said, after a moment. "He looks human. But my god, what have they done to him?"

Inside the pod, she could see the face of a young human male. Early twenties, perhaps. His eyes were frozen open, and they were a light, steel blue. His hair was shorn short—military buzz cut—and had a sandy reddish cast. His face was rectangular, with a strong jaw, but that wasn't what caught the eye. Oh, no. "It looks like they lifted the skin away—removed it totally in some areas. . . to graft in cybernetics under the skin," Dara said, after a moment. "They put synthetic skin over the top—the kind used on burn victims, to let the skin grow back, though why they wouldn't just have used his real skin, I don't know. . . he looks like a living circuit board here." She shifted the light a little. "I don't know how much of this there is, but considering the facial area. . . it could underlie his entire epidermis." Dara swallowed. This would have _hurt_ to endure.

Kasumi looked down into the pod now, herself. "Last time I saw this much cybernetics in one place was before Shep got her worst scarring fixed," she said, quietly. "Can we move him?"

"We're going to have to," Dara said. "I don't dare take him out of the pod to treat him down here—if he's even alive in there."

_Life-song present,_ Sky assured her. _Very slow tempo. Muffled beat. He is not aware that he sings, however._

_Thank god for small mercies,_ Dara thought, fervently. She'd _hate_ to be aware of being trapped in a. . . coffin like this.

They moved the pod back up to the ship, and Dr. Manerian and Dara started getting ready to open the pod. The captain wanted precautions taken, and Dara didn't blame him in the least. Armed guards stood along the walls of the med bay; Kasumi and Sky and Rel were all at the ready as well.

Carefully, they eased open the pod. Cold, dead air escaped forth, and Dara wrinkled her nose behind her surgical mask at the smell. Open flesh. Suppurating tissue, too, probably. _Whoever did this wasn't a doctor. Wasn't a scientist. This was a __butcher__, _she thought, angrily.

Much to her surprise, the man inside the pod blinked immediately. Looked around in confusion. A spasm of anger crossed his face, and then with inhuman speed, he reached out and grabbed her by the throat. "I told you, I want _out!_" he shouted, and half the instruments on the tray next to her started to lift off into the air, lifted by . . . biotic energies? The cybernetic implants under his ravaged skin lit up, making him look like cracks in a volcano, and Dara reached up, grabbed his thumb, and tried to remove his hand from her throat, even as her blood began to hum in her temples.

The distinctive _snick_ of a slide being pulled back on a weapon, and Rel stepped forward, aiming at the man. "Let her go," Rel grated, quietly.

The man _stared_ at him, registering his presence for the first time. "A _turian_? What, they've got turians working for them now?" His fingers loosened a little, and Dara pulled her throat free, inhaling deeply.

_Sing blue-greens,_ Sky said, quietly. _Be at peace. Pain-song at an end._

The man turned a little on the table. Stopped. Stared at the rachni, his eyes widening until the whites showed all the way around. Dara could _feel_ how much power Sky was pouring into the room; her skin almost sizzled with it. "What," the man said, much more quietly now, "the hell. . . is going on here? Who _are_ you people?"

Kasumi sighed. "The same," she replied quietly, "might be asked of you."

**Author's note:** _The work fairy had me tied to my desk and was beating on me, and not in a good way at all, the past couple of days. Hope the __loooong__ update. . . with a continuation of 2195 later. . . makes up for it._


	78. Chapter 78: 2195, Intervention

**Chapter 78: 2195, Interventions**

**James Dempsey, May, 2195**

"_For the love of Christ, hold him __down__! I can't get this in his vein if he's thrashing around like this!"_

_Hands. So many fucking hands, latching on, holding him down, pinned to the gurney. He'd almost escaped, had gotten as far as the first floor, before realizing he was going to need environmental gear to get out on the surface of this frozen mudball, and that he had __no__ idea where the hell the complex's hangar actually __was__. All he'd known before that point was the rage and the pain, and people had been __shooting__ at him, and he'd wrapped his biotics around himself, let the bullets come, thrown one guard into a wall with his biotics, wrestled the gun out of another's hands. . . shot him, twice, in the head, and kept __moving__. The first duty of a prisoner is to escape, and he was a prisoner. A volunteer, the more fool he, but a prisoner, nonetheless. _

_And that's when they'd caught him, too many at once, dragged him off his feet, and now the hands were dragging him back down into hell. He couldn't see their faces. Half of them in armor, masks covering their eyes. The other half, of course, in scrubs and surgical masks. He tried to memorize their eyes, the lines of their noses. __One of these days, I'm coming for you, you bastards. Every last one._

_Slight sting of an injection in his arm, and he yelled and bucked, hearing one of the researchers mutter, "The boss isn't going to like this. . . ."_

"_It's okay. He never wastes anything. Remember Subject Zero? All those kids used up, to make sure she's safe? The AD project might be a bust, but he'll use what we learned for the Lazarus project. Just wait and see."_

Then there'd been darkness.

He opened his eyes, and saw. . . lights. Figures bending over him. Surgical masks. _Well, that didn't take long, whatever the fuck you did to me this time,_ he thought, and reached out, grabbed the throat of one of the researchers, and squeezed. _Stupid of you not to restrain me,_ he thought, dimly. She—yeah, it was a woman—tried to pull at his fingers. The rage still had him, though, its grip on him as fierce as his grip on her.

And that was when he'd heard a grating, rasping voice order him, in clear, lightly-accented English, "Let her go."

His grip faltered a little as he turned his head. Stared. There were _turians_ lined up along the wall, and one of them was pointing a pistol at his head. _This doesn't make sense._ "A _turian_? What, they've got turians working for them now?" _This was supposed to be a covert Alliance base. What the fuck are turians doing here?_ All of them wore black or gray armor—Hierarchy troops.

Words appeared in his mind. Words that appeared in _colors_ and _shapes_ and _sounds_ like he was at the Boston Pops on the Fourth of July. _Sing blue-greens. Be at peace. Pain-song at an end._ He didn't understand how it was possible, but the rage was . . . dissipating. The pain in his body and mind _was_ easing. He turned his head to the right now, and just stared in stunned shock. He'd never seen the creature there before, outside of vids based on galactic history. How all the aliens liked to scare themselves, their communal boogeyman. Huge and multi-legged, multiple sets of blue eyes _staring_ at him, like a giant spider. . . that had to be a _rachni_. _Okay, they obviously drugged me_, was his first coherent thought. _I'm seeing shit that isn't real._

"What," he said, feeling the world around him return to its usual grey state, the fugue that was all that existed between the periods of rage, "the hell. . . is going on here? Who _are_ you people?"

A little Asian woman stepped forward. "The same," she replied quietly, "might be asked of you."

Now he sat up, carefully. Realized he was in a _box_ of some sort—_what, a fucking coffin?—_and that he was completely ringed by people, but none of them were touching him at the moment. Fast, wary glances. The various turians in armor all had their weapons ready, but the one who had his pistol aimed at him said something in their language, and they all eased. _Okay, he's the commander. Take him out first, if I need to._ The thought held absolutely no emotion. Just tactics.

Glance to the right, where the . . . rachni. . . was. the doctor on that side was pulling off a mask—turian, and male. All scales and facepaint and teeth. Glance to the left, for the one he'd about choked. . . and he froze. Human. Damned young, maybe nineteen at most. Pretty—dark curly hair, pale skin, warm brown eyes. And _yellow facepaint,_ like a turian, clearly revealed as she pulled off her surgical mask. "Sky over there says you were in a lot of pain," she said now, and her voice was clearly marked by a soft drawl. From _somewhere_ south of the Mason-Dixon line, for sure, but it wasn't the warm caramel of a Carolina drawl, or the heavy emphasis of a Georgia one, or the French-inflected patois of Louisiana. Drawl, but twang at the same time. Texas. "Do you want me to give you something for it?"

He shook his head warily. _Who the hell is Sky? _The pain was manageable for the moment. It usually spiked when he used his biotics, anyway. _Although I might __want__ to use my biotics here shortly._ "What the hell are you wearing face-paint for, Tex?"

She blinked. "My name's Dara Velnaran," she told him, glancing quickly to the side. Checking on the little Asian lady and the turian commander, from the looks of it. "And you are?"

_Like you don't know._ "James Allen Dempsey. Sergeant. Alliance Marines. Serial number 001-1936-2118-3115-1976."

She nodded. No facial reaction at all. "You sound like you're from Boston," she replied. "Bruins fan?"

He stared at her. Not the gambit he'd expected, really. "Yeah, I'm from Southie. Why?"

"Bruins won the Stanley Cup last year. Bastards." She gave him a crooked grin. "At least my Stars made the playoffs."

"Bullshit. The Stars haven't made the playoffs in—"

"Twenty-eight years. Yeah. This year was the first time."

Dempsey felt a faint tickle of emotion, muted. Distant, as everything except the rage tended to be, now. "Wait a minute. I just heard about the playoffs before I came here. They were griping about a nineteen year drought. I remember it, because the last time they won was '69, when I was three."

The young med tech—surely not a doctor, not that young—sighed. "Sergeant Dempsey? Could you tell me who the president of the Systems Alliance is?"

"Um. . . Alessandro Toffoli. I think."

She shook her head. "And what year is it?"

"2185. Shit. I know you have to figure out if my brain functions are impaired, but—" he faltered at the look on her face. It was the expression doctors tended to get when they were trying to decide how to tell you that something was inoperable or at least very damned expensive. "What?"

She sighed. Looked right at the Asian lady and the _bug_ again. Seemed to receive some silent signal from them, and turned back to him. "I guess I'm the one elected to tell you then, Sergeant Dempsey. And I'm really very sorry to have to be the one to break it to you, since there's no good way to do it."

"Just rip the band-aid off, Tex. I'm a big boy."

She raised her eyebrows. "Okay. The President of the Alliance is currently _Vassili Ivanov._ It's not 2185 anymore. It's 2195. And, well. . . a lot's changed since then." She paused. "You okay?"

Dempsey blinked. Completely disoriented for a moment, he could feel the panic, buried deep in him trying to grow. Trying to kick his body into the grip of that adrenal rage again. _Ten years. Ten goddamned years._ "My wife?" he asked, quietly. "My son?" He remembered them. Knew he should feel things about them.

"I don't know. I'm sorry," the young medic told him softly. "We didn't even know _your_ name until a minute ago."

Soft song in his head. _Confusion-song natural. All will be well. Safe now._

"Who is singing in my _head_?" he demanded, sharply. He instinctively tried to block it out with his biotics, and stiffened as a surge of pain from the goddamned implants hit him.

_I sing._ The big bug skittered closer, and Dempsey flinched a little. _I am Sings-to-the-Sky. I raise my voice with the Spectres now._ Sure enough, now what the rachni was closer, James could see the Spectre insignia painted on its carapace.

"Okay. . . I have to ask if you guys have given me some _really_ heavy drugs," Dempsey asked, hesitantly. "Because I'm seeing things that don't exist."

The various turians started putting their weapons away. Their commander lifted off his helmet, and Dempsey got a look at a turian face wearing the same yellow paint as the young human medic. Deep-set, blue-toned eyes. Scales, teeth, yeah, nothing set him apart from the rest. Tall, but they all were, weren't they? "The rachni were brought back from the edge of extinction by Commander Shepard in 2183," he said, in that grating rasp that all turians had. "Their return wasn't generally known until they came to her assistance in the Reaper War in 2186."

"Hold the phone," Dempsey said flatly. "Commander Shepard is _dead._ I raised a glass to her memory after they sent her to die at Amada. _That_ I remember clearly."

The little Asian woman shook her head. "Reports of her death were . . . largely exaggerated. I'll let her tell the story some other time. In the meantime. . . Dr. Manerian? Dr. Velnaran? If you could get your patient up and dressed and all, I'll contact Shep and let her know what we've found. Sky? Stay here and help him stay calm, if you would." She looked at Dempsey now, and he was struck by the intelligence and sympathy in her liquid black eyes. "Story time later, I promise. For the moment, you're out of Cerberus hands. You're on a Spectre ship, and I assure you, you are safe here." She turned, looked around. "Commander Velnaran?"

The _male turian_ nodded now. "Yes, Ms. Goto?"

"I realize that for the safety of the medical team, you'll want to keep guards posted. But perhaps a slightly less threatening number?" There was a slight hint of amusement there.

"Squads one and two? Dismissed," the turian. . . Velnaran. . . said, and six of the gray- or black-armored troops turned crisply and left. _Drops it to three, plus him. Plus the doctors. And the bug. Of course, I have no idea where I am. On a ship, she said. If it's true._ His eyes flashed between the human medic and the turian commander. _Same face-paint. Same last name. Wait. That's even __possible__?_ He wasn't a prude by any stretch of the imagination—you don't get to be a sergeant in N7 or the marines by being a _Quaker_—but he was connecting the dots and feeling slightly repelled. He knew damned well that there was human-on-alien. . . or was that alien-on-human?. . . porn out there, and he'd never had even the slightest curiosity before. But these two looked like they'd gone far beyond idle curiosity or being drunk one night. The thought vaguely disturbed him—but it was a distant feeling. Like all his feelings, really, anymore. But whatever two consenting adults chose to do together was their own business.

Two hours later, he'd been poked and prodded blood samples had been taken—all under the intent stare of the turian commander. They'd found clothes for him—ship's coveralls, but that was fine, and led him to a briefing room. No shackles. No injections. The little Asian woman was waiting there at the table, along with someone in the armor of a Hiearchy Fleet captain and a half-dozen other humans and turians. Some in Alliance Fleet uniforms, some in Turian Fleet uniforms. Naturally enough. The little human doctor, when she came back, though? Black armor, Hierarchy Fleet insignia. Blue and red stripes. And she stood right next to her. . . husband. . . apparently. Black armor, single blue stripe. Dempsey wished to hell he knew what this all _meant_.

"Okay," the Asian woman—Goto, apparently—said. "We're all here. We're en route to the Spectre base—" _Spectres have a __base__ now? I thought they just ran around the galaxy, wronging rights and doing pretty much whatever they wanted, whenever they weren't the personal attack dogs of the Council._ "and Shepard wanted to be a part of this meeting." She pressed a button, and a holographic image appeared in the middle of the table.

Dempsey sat up straight in his chair. It sure as hell _looked_ like Shepard. But there were differences. The hair was longer now. Older. Couple of strands of gray. But the most _glaring_ difference was the fact that _she_ was wearing turian facepaint now, too. White mask with blue marks. _This could all be a fake,_ he thought, with growing unease. _It would be easy enough to fabricate the image of a dead woman. . . ._

"Good afternoon," the hologram said, with a bit of a smile. "Welcome back from the dead, Dempsey. I'm Commander Shepard. . . Vakarian. . . and you can ask me anything you want to verify that I'm actually talking to you, and am not some elaborate VI simulation or hoax. We'll meet in person shortly enough anyway, but Kasumi—that's Ms. Goto over there—and I thought this might help you relax a little sooner."

"Okay," he said, thinking fast. _What would they expect me to ask? How she died. What's up with the facepaint. Why there are so many turians and humans around? What's up with the bug?_ "Last thing I remember," he said, slowly, "we were fighting the geth. How'd that turn out?"

"Pretty damned well," Shepard, if it was her, told him, grinning. "We were actually only fighting a small faction of them. The rest of them made contact with us, we reprogrammed the faulty units, and they're our allies now, actually. Full client race of the Alliance, just as the volus are to the turians."

"Trade you," the turian captain muttered, quietly, which got a ripple of laughter around the table.

Shepard's smile was wicked as she looked at the captain. "For shame, Captain Arius."

"They're not _all_ bad," he acknowledged. "But their government and Council representative get on my nerves."

"The volus are on the Council now?" Dempsey ventured. _Of course, this could be a set piece. . . ._

"Yeah, everyone except the drell are on the Council now. Their population was too low to qualify them for a seat, so the hanar still more or less speak for them. They've got an embassy now, though."

"Where's the best place to eat on the Citadel nowadays?" He was proud of that one. Out of the blue, and probably unexpected.

Shepard laughed. "Well, therein lies a tale. The Citadel's closed to traffic. Only people left on it are the Keepers, since, well, without major genetic modifications that we have no _idea_ how to start, they're pretty much bound to the place. The Alliance and the Hierarchy designed a new station, and all ten races are contributing funds, materials, and people to build it. It's called Bastion. It's in orbit around Turhan, in the Menvra system, and it won't be fully finished for another eighty years or so. But it's going to be beautiful when it's done. Something new. Something _not_ based on the old Reaper trap. Something we younger races built entirely on our own, with room left for innovation and experimentation." Her face practically glowed as she spoke. "But in answer to your question, I like to eat at Guido's when I go there. He does a levo-dexto mixed pizza that is to _die_ for. Well. . . not literally."

Dempsey just _stared_ at her for a very long moment. "What?" he said in complete, total befuddlement. _Okay. . . __no one__ would say any of this and expect to be believed if it __weren't__ true.___"And this. . . Reaper. . . war?" he asked, slowly.

Kasumi Goto sighed. "Thanks, Shep. We'll take it from here, and touch base with you when we hit atmosphere, okay?"

Shepard grinned, waved, and signed off.

"All right. Let's rewind the clock to 2185," Kasumi said, and then they brought up slide images for him, and he _stared_ at ships that were close to half a kilometer in length, hanging in the skies over Earth, Palaven, and Sur'Kesh. Saw the swarms of _insects_, called Seekers, radiating out across whole population centers, paralyzing hundreds of thousands of people at a time, creatures called Collectors—distorted _Protheans_, he was told, genetically altered and rendered largely mindless by the Reapers—taking the humans, the turians, the salarians, to processing facilities. From how still _everyone_ at the table went, he could feel their tension at the memories, but of course, he couldn't share it. All he could say was. . . "Boston?"

"There was a Reaper there, yeah. Casualties reached about five hundred thousand." At her words, his fists clenched, and he looked at them numbly. He didn't _feel_ anything—the anger was buried deep down right now—but his hands reacted on their own. "We should have information on your family by the time we get to the base, but we run silent on the SR-3s," Kasumi told him with a sympathetic look. "We'll get a comm drop when we reach the system we're heading for."

The first operations of the joint human-turian fleet were to taunt and distract the Reapers over Palaven, then fly to the relief of Earth. The destruction of Thessia, the asari homeworld. None of it had been easy, none of it had been without price, and the _Normandy_ had actually found a relay that reached dark space, beyond the rim of the galaxy before ending the war. No one here would talk about _how_, frustratingly enough. Then, more recent history. The reformation of the Council, the construction of Bastion. The recent economic disruption emanating from shockwaves radiating out from asari and volus space, which had convinced the humans and turians to bind themselves in an economic as well as military alliance. The quarians, volus, and _geth_ were linked into this pact somehow, too. "Geth," he repeated, blankly. "How is that even possible? They're mindless. They're. . . flashlight-heads."

The turian commander snorted. "I wouldn't say that around Spectre Cohort."

Dempsey stared at him. "And by that you mean that there's a _geth_ Spectre?"

The big turian grinned at him. "Yeah."

"And it has a name and probably dances, too. Come on. Now you're just pulling my leg." He could hear how wrong his voice sounded, saying those words. No inflection. As if he were reading it off a card, and frowned. That wasn't right. But he couldn't put the right tone in there, somehow.

Finally, storytime wound down, glossing over some recent troubles with a faction of salarians called the Lystheni, and their batarian allies, and even more recent issues with some place called Omega—he seemed to remember hearing it called a shithole, and someplace to avoid on leave, but that was the extent of his knowledge—and batarian attempts to regain their influence in that area of the galaxy.

He put his hands flat on the table in front of him, staring down at the scars on the backs of his hands. Dozens white splotches. Already fading. He knew they'd be gone by tomorrow afternoon at the latest. They always had been, before. At least since the AD Project had kicked into high gear on him. "Okay," Dempsey said, quietly. His voice was completely without inflection now. "Say I buy all of this. How did you find me? How come I feel like no time has passed at all since. . . ." He shook his head. "Do I have amnesia? I mean, the last thing I remember is trying to break out, and them holding me down, giving me a shot." He looked around now, feeling the panic, the caged-animal sensation. . . but it was distant. So distant. "You wouldn't let me look in the mirror. How bad do I look?"

"You looked worse when we first opened the Collector pod you were stored in," Kasumi told him calmly. "The amazing thing is, you look better now than even at the start of the meeting. Dr. Velnaran, you've noticed the same thing, I think?"

His head swung towards the young medic, who was nodding. "I've been taking pictures throughout the meeting," she replied. "The facial scarring is healing noticeably as we're just sitting here. Even the sections of skin covered by the synthetic epidermis are closing over. It's. . . nothing I've ever seen before in a human." She looked at him now, but the expression of scientific detachment was mixed with a warm and lively sympathy. The first, he'd seen too much of. Too much time being a rat in a cage. The second, however, made him hold back his first harsh, cold words.

"Yeah. Unique. That's me." He looked at Kasumi. "Going to answer my questions?"

**Kasumi, May 2195**

It had taken an hour to get the sergeant up to speed on his galactic history. Kasumi couldn't gauge his reactions, and she was usually a _very_ good reader of character. She _had_ to be, in her line of work. But Dempsey reacted. . . oddly. He said the right words in the right places, but the voice often had no color, no inflection. He might _say_ words like, _my wife? my son?_ but there was a . . . blankness to the way he said them. as if he were reading from a script with no directions. She glanced at Sky, concerned, several times throughout the discussion.

The rachni whispered song into her thoughts. _This one is. . . different from you. He has been altered. Changed. Metal in his mind now, altering his song. He remembers emotions, remembers love-song and fealty-song and joy-song. Gone, now, or made very faint. When pain-song or fear-song begins, rage-song follows. He fears the rage-song._ Sky's voice was a trifle hesitant at the moment, as if he were picking through an archaeological dig-ste, and wasn't quite sure if he was about to misinterpret a chamber pot as a priceless vase.

Now Kasumi sat back, took a sip of her green tea, and composed her thoughts. "Very well, Sergeant. Although, since you've been listed as missing for ten years and were, very likely declared legally dead at some point in the last three, perhaps your military title isn't the one I should be using," she added, her lips curling down. "You don't have amnesia. Let's start with that. You've been in a Collector pod for probably all of the last ten years. You don't look any older than twenty-two, and we know that Collector pods essentially slow down metabolic function to almost nil until _just_ before the people inside would be extracted for their . . . vital materials." She shuddered a little at the memory. "That explains that much, at least. As to how we found you. . . that's a slightly longer story. Captain Arius? You can stay for this, Spectre Sky, Commander Velnaran, and Doctor Velnaran can stay, but everyone else, I'd prefer to leave."

The captain nodded, lively curiosity in his eyes, and dismissed the other crew from the room. Once they'd cleared out, Kasumi took another deep breath, looking down into her teacup. "Twelve years ago, I was a thief. A damned good one. My partner, Keji, and I had graduated from art and jewelry onto secrets and information. Higher risk. More profitable. More. . . fun." She curled her fingers around the polyceramic cup. It looked like porcelain, retained warmth like it, too, but was unbreakable. Handy, on a ship. "He was killed for some of the secrets he stole. Secrets embarrassing to the Systems Alliance. Most of those secrets came into _my_ keeping, with his graybox." She lifted her eyes. "I am a curator, you see. I've protected those secrets for a long time. Never used them, as they _could_ be used. But I've held onto them, mostly because they were interlaced with Keji's memories, which were. . . very precious to me." She sighed. "And one of those embarrassing secrets was a highly experimental project called Argent Defender. Its stated goal was to create improved human soldiers. Shock troopers better suited for multiple missions. Modifications far beyond current gene mod therapies."

She set her mug down on the table. "The contractor hired to perform the work was a Cerberus front; when their affiliation was discovered—and it was—funding was _not_ pulled immediately. The project was _not_ shut down for eight more months. Only a sudden, inexplicable termination notice at the end of the original file."

Dempsey's face was still completely blank, but his fists were on the table, clenching and unclenching. "The AD Project. Yeah. I was asked to volunteer for that."

She nodded, slowly. "As it happens, I'm now head of security for the Spectres. Part of my job is receiving information from agents and agencies all over the galaxy. One of them—don't ask me for details—delivered files to me regarding this project this past March."

"Why now?" Arius asked, suddenly. "Why not. . . five years ago?"

Kasumi shrugged. "This particular agent has only recently gained access to this sort of information. You don't walk into a secure office and get access to the whole file network on the first day. Nor can you _read_ it all on your first day. As it is, because Antibaar _was_ considered a potential human colonization planet twelve years ago—god only knows why, with its temperature and its _methane_ atmosphere—and now the Council's considering turning it over to the volus, the file came to the agent in question's attention as part of a review of Alliance investments and liabilities in place on the planet. The agent recognized it from the list he or she or it had been given of things that are of interest to me, and forwarded it as soon as possible." She was in work mode now, her words as careful and precise as if she were actually folding the syllables into shapes. They didn't need to know that the agent had actually had to travel from Earth to Bastion, had had to wait for a work trip to take him out of town under the natural course of events, and that this had, in fact, added _months_ to the time between the file being found and Kasumi receiving it.

"You'll probably ask next why the facility was abandoned with you in it. At a guess, they probably decided that you were extraordinarily unlikely to be found, and that this facility was as good a cold storage place as any for you. No life signs. A cold wasteland of a planet, unsuitable even for mineral exploration, except possibly by geth or volus. The Illusive Man never _wasted_ any of his projects. He'd have wanted to keep you around for future study."

"They said something almost exactly like that," Dempsey agreed quietly. His eyes were distant. "Something about how even if I was a failure, what they learned from me, they could use on some other project. Lazarus, or whatever."

Kasumi inhaled sharply. The Lazarus project had, of course, been the resurrection of Lilitu Shepard. _The heavy cybernetics, certainly. But what else was done to him?_ "Yes," she replied. "I strongly suspect the data they obtained from you was. . . .inherited by another project." Kasumi sighed. "We have techs going through what little they left in their computer cores now. But perhaps you could tell us, in your own words. . . .what happened? What did they do to you?"

Dempsey's fists clenched. "That," he replied, still very quietly, almost in a monotone, "is a hell of a long story." He looked away for a moment. "In 2183, everyone knew Commander Shepard was a hero. First human Spectre. Savior of the Council, of the _Destiny Ascension_, and all that. And then she died. 2184 came around, I'd been in N7 for three years at that point. Word came down that they were looking for volunteers for an experimental project. I'd had L3 biotic implants since I was seven years old. I had a couple of hints that those might be replaced, and I thought that was a pretty damned good deal, having them replaced with something better on the government's credits. I was pretty surprised when they flew me off of Earth for what they called the treatment and training facility. Along the way, they told me that I was going to be a . . . . prototype. And if I was a successful one, that there'd be more like me. Better, stronger, faster. The goal was to take a human biotic like me and fuse us with. . . tech." His voice was flat now. "It sounded. . . okay. Being able to hack into a computer network with my _mind_, being able to stun a group of geth with a thought, just the way I can pick up and throw things with my biotics. . . sounded _useful_." He cleared his throat. "Can I have a glass of water?"

Dara stood and got him a water bottle. He cracked it open, drank, and said, "Thanks. . . Tex."

"Tex was my dad's old squad nickname, not mine," Dara told him, exaggerating her drawl further. "'Round these here parts, I'm jus' Doc, mostly."

Kasumi chuckled. "Go on, please," she told the man.

He nodded. "I already had some gene mods in place. They went further. I already had the strength and endurance packages. They gave me _both_ the macro/micro enhancement and the lowlight package. When they came in to talk to me about some, well, they called in _nanosurgery_, they said they wanted to give me a highly experimental gene mod first, to. . . cushion the shock to my body. I asked, hey, I thought three was the limit, and I've already had four. Won't a fifth mess things up? 'Oh, no, no. Perfectly in balance, body should handle it within nominal parameters.' So then I asked what the nanosurgery business was. They said they'd be injecting me with nanobots, similar to those in medigel packs, designed to work at the cellular level. I'd be receiving dietary supplements high in carbon, and those nanobots would take the carbon, spin it into nanotubules, and wrap it around my bones. Giving me a carbon-fiber reinforcement to the skeleton, sort of like wearing an exoskeleton but on the _inside_. They said it would let me really _use_ what the strength mods give us, but that our skeletal system limits us from effectively using. What good is it to be able to lift eight hundred pounds if your spinal column collapses doing it?"

Dara had been taking notes all this while, and Kasumi watched as the stylus dropped from the young medic's hands. Dara looked a little sick as she asked, "Wouldn't that. . . hurt?"

"They told me it wouldn't. They said it was all going to be going on at the cellular level. Pinpricks at most. They were mostly concerned about the potential for shock, or so they said. Hence the last gene mod. It was supposed to be based on krogan DNA."

Kasumi sighed. Dara's mouth fell open. Rel rubbed at his eyes. "We've heard this before," he noted, quietly. "Maybe Cerberus was less. . . haphazard . . . in their methodologies than the Lystheni?"

Dempsey shook his head. "Can't speak to that, turian. They gave me the gene mod, let it settle in, and then started the nanosurgery. They. . . lied." His tone was very flat now. His breathing rate accelerated a bit, too. Kasumi glanced at Sky, concerned, as Dempsey continued, "It hurt like a fucking son of a bitch. It was one cell at a time, sure, but they'd injected me with about a _million_ of the nanobots. And they all started working at once. It felt like something hot was moving under my flesh, and it was constant and it was everywhere." Again, though, the words were descriptive, but the tone was flat. "Next stop was replacing the L3 implants with the new L5s. That, I was actually excited about. But while they were in the cranium anyway, I think they did some other things. I healed up from the surgery _fast_ though. . . the gene mod was working, they said. As were all the residual nanobots. I said, 'wait, what residual nanobots? I thought these were all going to flush out of me when they were done wrapping my skeleton?'" He took a sip of his water. "They said, well, yeah. Half of them will. The other half are going to be working in concert with the gene mod. So when you get shot, the nanobots will immediately go to the wound site and start repairs, same as your body's enhanced cellular regeneration. Might have to have wounds reopened later to extract the bullets, and a shot directly to the heart or to the head will still _probably_ kill you. . . unless you've got a doctor handy who can get you to a heart-lung machine, get the bullet out, and put the pieces more or less in the right places, if it's a heart wound. Then, well, you would probably be just fine. Head wound, well. . . they weren't really sure what would go on with that. Said that might require testing that they didn't want to risk, given the fancy _chip_ architecture in my head now."

Dempsey took another sip of water. "Let me tell you, I was feeling _damned_ touched by that point, at their care and concern for me." He paused. "So I asked what sort of _testing_ they had in mind. Turns out, more surgery. A mesh of cybernetics implanted into the muscle fibers and under the skin. That hurt like hell, too. No medigel. No antibiotics. No painkillers. They wanted to see how fast I healed on my own. Fast, apparently." His eyes were narrow, and Kasumi could hear Sky singing now, softly but powerfully, weaving blue-green harmonies all through the room. Imposing calm. "They thought that was _intriguing._ They wanted to see what my limits were. So they started with cuts on the extremities. I healed up. I always healed up. They tried some deep gut wounds once—" Kasumi watched as the man's hands started to _shake_, but the voice stayed quiet, monotone, "—and while I'd already decided I was going to get out somehow, that's when I decided I was going to kill every goddamned one of them on the way out. It seemed pretty evident to me that they weren't going to let me leave alive. "

Kasumi eased back in her chair a little, and saw Dara and Rel and the captain doing the same thing. Giving the man a little space. Just in case. Dempsey slowly spread his hands on the table again. Flat. "Now, whenever I tried to access my biotics, it seemed to lock me out of the chip they stuck in my head. Whenever I used the chip in my. . . training exercises, which were conducted between tests. . . it made it impossible to focus my mind on biotics for a while after that, too. Using one right after the other was impossible, and using each in as rapid succession as _was_ possible hurt like hell. If I hurt too much, I'd get angry. . . anger's about the only thing I felt for a long damn time. . . and when I got angry, I got _really_ angry. Lost control, lost focus. They were. . . disappointed in that result. Said they'd thought that the chip placement would have eliminated 'emotional variables,' whatever _that_ means." Dempsey sighed. "Almost done here, folks," he said, almost clinically. "I finally got my chance when they were doing burn tests. They didn't want to chance real fire, so they were using acid on my face and hands and arms. One of the restraints was weak, and they didn't notice it until I yanked my arm free. Grabbed a med tech by the throat." He looked at Dara. "Sorry about that. . . _doc._"

Dara shifted in her chair, swallowing visibly. "I. . . can certainly understand why," she managed. Kasumi didn't blame her for the unevenness of her tone. Rel was _watching_ Dempsey, as he had the whole time. Like the human was a predator he didn't quite know how to anticipate, but might strike at any moment.

Dempsey nodded. "Thanks for that." The tone was still flat. He leaned back in his chair now. "I'm pretty sure I crushed the windpipe on the first one, yanking him over the table. Used him more or less to distract the others, got my other hand free of the restraints, sat up. They usually gave me meds to cloud my mind during the tests. So I couldn't focus my biotics. Made it hard to focus, sure, but nothing wrong with my hands. Grabbed the acid vials, threw those, grabbed anyone in reach, got my feet untied. Kind of all goes blurry for a while after that." His voice was a little dreamy now, and Kasumi gave Sky a wary glance.

_I am keeping rage-song in check._ Sky's voice was very tired. _Powerful mind. Difficult to keep in harmony. Will not always be here to do so._

"By the time I got to the top floor, the meds had worn off enough for me to use my biotics. Would rather use those than the tech abilities, anyway. So damned angry though, hard to focus. And anger's what they always told us in the biotics program to control the most. I never had a _problem_ with that before. But that's where they finally caught me. Right at the hatch, trying to figure out my next move. Needed an envirosuit. A ship. Something." He rubbed at his eyes. "And then I woke up here." His voice turned bitter, the first _real_ emotion Kasumi had heard from him. "And you're telling me ten years have passed, and the entire damned universe is different, and my wife and my son might not even be alive." Dempsey sighed. "Hell of a thing to wake up to."

Kasumi nodded. "We'll get you every piece of information we can, as soon as we can," she promised. "We're still eighteen hours out from our base, minimum. You'll be accommodated in the med bay for the time being. Is that all right?"

He shrugged. "Not much of a change. So long as I'm not sedated, locked down at four points, and experimented on, I'm fine."

Dara held her right hand up, palm out, two fingers up. "I was never a scout, but scout's honor, Dempsey. No tests unless we tell you exactly what we're doing and you agree to it. Nothing that should hurt. I _would_ like to run a brain scan on you, but I think, given what you've said, it might be better to wait till we've got you at a . . . higher-end facility." Dara looked at Kasumi then. "Dr. Solus _really_ should see him."

Kasumi nodded, but told her, quietly, "Dr. Solus won't always be available, Dara." She made her voice gentle, and switched to the first name on purpose.

"I'm aware of that," Dara told her, quietly. "But while he's still with us, he's still the best there is."

_Amen to that_, Kasumi thought, and stood. "Sky? If you and Rel wouldn't mind escorting the sergeant to med bay?" She glanced at Rel, who was already tapping a few orders into his omnitool. _Smart boy, our Rel. Already getting guards ready. Dempsey doesn't look to be perfectly stable._

**Dara, May, 2195**

Twenty-four hours later, she was back on Mindoir. She could hardly believe she hadn't been home in _two damned years._ But there it was. Her last leave here had been September of 2193. The year on Sur'Kesh had certainly eaten into her time, but her dad and Kasumi and Takeshi had met with them on Bastion for Christmas last year, which had been a help. She _really_ didn't like seeing the first couple of threads of gray in her dad's hair. "These? These ain't from you, sweetie," Sam told her, chuckling, as they sat by the fire, looking out at the snow. "These are from Keshi. Boy's trying to put me in an early grave." At her look, her father elaborated, "Was out shoveling snow yesterday, had a big damn pile of it near the eaves. I turned around, and Keshi here was trying to climb up it like a ramp. I think he was eying the icicles hanging from the roof. This morning? Two new gray hairs."

Takeshi was two years old now, and _very_ shy of the newcomers. Until Rel started playing with Takeshi's toy trucks, which inspired the boy to dart out from hiding, wailing indignantly, only to get a needle-filled grin from Rel.

So many changes. Serana was now a very grown-up looking fifteen, still bubbling and effervescent and filled with life, but with a certain quiet reserve to her, too. She was heading to bootcamp in the not-too-distant future, and was _very_ set on finishing her third year of her 'internship' with Kasumi. Dara had largely kept her mouth shut in her letters to Serana on the topic. She'd made some decisions herself at fifteen that had turned out very well—a hard path to walk, maybe, but a worthwhile one. Serana didn't even have the benefit of the repeated exposures to the simulation device that Dara and Rel had had, to confirm her in her choices, and was still holding to them with admirable determination.

Dara did, however, delicately broach a topic that she knew that Rel would want her to ask about. "So. . . you know how Eli's doing?" Dara asked Serana that first afternoon. Rel and her dad were in the living room, more or less out of earshot; she and Serana were in the kitchen, and Kasumi and Hinata, Kasumi's mother, were there as well. Kasumi's father had passed away unexpectedly the year before, and, after some discussion, Hinata had moved to Mindoir to be closer to her daughter and grandson. As a result, she had a little house in the valley, and came up to help with Takeshi on a daily basis. It worked out well for everyone. . . and today, they were keeping Takeshi amused at the kitchen table with fingerpaints.

Serana shrugged. "He doesn't write back much. Said one of my letters helped him with a case." She paused, smiling to herself, and appeared to catch herself before speaking further. "I have _no_ idea how, but that was pretty nice of him, wasn't it?"

Dara repressed a smile. Serana might _think_ she was a good actress, but her eyes were shining entirely too much. "I'd love to hear the details on that," she admitted. "Anything else?"

Another shrug. "I think he's tired and pretty lonely. Doesn't like his new partner much."

Dara probed gently, "Any girlfriends?"

"Probably lots." Serana looked away. From a turian, that was a very clear signal indeed. "Hasn't mentioned any by name in a while, though."

"And Lin?"

"I haven't written to him, other than the condolences letter, and one follow-up to see if he was okay. He answered. . . barely. Said thank you and that he was fine." Serana hunched in on herself for a moment. "I wish I could go visit one or both of them." She frowned. "Actually. . . that gives me an idea. Thanks, _ama'fradu!_ You're the best." She gave a very surprised Dara a hug, grabbed her coat, and raced out of the house, banging the door behind her as she ran off into the snow.

Dara just stared after her for a long moment. "Good lord on a bicycle," she muttered. "I really hope she's not planning on hopping the next flight to Edessan."

Kasumi laughed. "Yeah. She still has it bad."

"Allardus and Solanna have probably noticed by now?"

Kasumi snickered. "Yeah, but Solanna is, surprisingly, keeping her mouth shut. I think she figures it more or less serves to keep Serana from developing an attachment to any of the local boys and keeps her focused on what she wants to do with her life, so it's not a bad thing, and will fade after boot camp." She pressed Keshi's little hands firmly into the paint, and then transferred his hands to a clean piece of paper. "Admittedly, if that boy _ever_ figures it out, and laughs at her or hurts her, I _will_ have to skin him alive."

"You'll have to stand in line. Rel and Rinus both took numbers before you." Dara shook her head. "I've tried to point out. . . carefully. . . to Rel, that Eli never hurt me. Forgot about me, pretty much, but that was his loss. He was _much_ more attentive to Kella. And Siara. I don't see Eli _laughing_ at Serana, really."

Dara only had so much time to visit. She had to drop by the med bay and see Dr. Solus, who was looking even more withered and tired than he had last year, and Dara's heart absolutely ached at the sight of him. They brought in Dempsey, and, just as a precaution, had asked Cohort and Mazz to be there, too, as two of the physically strongest people in the region.

Dempsey _stared_ at Cohort. "Last time I saw a geth, it was shooting at me," he said, moving uneasily into the test room.

"None of the programs resident on this platform were present for such events. Neither was the hardware of this platform. We can run a database scan, to see which of the heretics it was, but that would be largely irrelevant. They have been . . . re-educated." Cohort shifted his eyeflaps minutely. "We regret the damage done by the heretics. They are of us once more, and their run-time errors are our responsibility, as a result. Were you damaged?"

Dempsey opened and shut his mouth. Sat down on the edge of the scanning table, and shook his head. "Every time I think this is just a morphine dream or a psychotic breakdown, shit just gets weirder," he said. His Boston accent was a bit more pronounced at the moment, but the words were still flat and without affect. "I was . . . damaged. . . by the geth, yeah. But not bad. Thanks for asking?" He looked past Cohort now towards Mazz. "I suppose _you're_ a Spectre, too?"

Mazz shook his head self-consciously. "No. Studying architecture and hydrodynamic engineering at the University of Mindoir, though." He showed yellowing stumps of teeth and started to chuckle as Depmsey's mouth fell open again. "You know what? I'm actually starting to _enjoy_ that reaction," he rumbled at Dara.

She chuckled. Mazz had grown up a _lot_ since she'd first met him. And it wasn't that he was well over seven feet in height, either. "I heard your dad actually got stuff _growing_ on Tuchanka."

"Yeah. Clan leader's pleased. Next year, I go there and start construction on the water treatment plant. That way, the fields will have irrigation, as well as clean water for the females and children. Hard part will be keeping the other clans from trying to destroy the place. Thinking it's a bunker or a weapons plant or something."

"Conduct tours," Dr. Solus suggested, adjusting something at the scanner carefully. "Make process open. Transparent."

Mazz shrugged. "We'll have to search 'em for bombs at the gates," he growled, dubiously. "Might be worth a try, anyway." He looked over at Dara. "What do you guys need me here for, anyway?"

"Precaution," Dr. Solus said, smoothly. "Patient has bad memories of tests. You and Cohort will observe him and restrain him, but only if necessary."

"Hey," Dempsey objected. "I thought there weren't going to be any restraints?" His voice was suspicious now.

"And if you snap and grab me by the throat again, and I don't have someone here to shoot you off of me?" Dara said, evenly. "We don't know each other real well yet, Dempsey. Let's make sure everyone is equally safe here, all right? Mazz and Cohort won't lay a hand on you unless you start acting crazy."

Mazz suddenly chuckled. "You learned your lesson with my blood rage that once, didn't you, Dara?"

Dara gave him a dark look. "Don't make me hit you, Mazz."

His grin got even toothier. "Your husband know you flirt like this with all the guys?"

"He knows he's the only male I bite. Stand over there by the table and be quiet." She made a shooing gesture, and Mazz, still laughing, moved over by the scanner and took his position. Dempsey's head head had swung between the various points of the conversation like someone following the ball in a soccer match, and he now just shook his head and lay back on the table, breathing deeply as the scanner began to move over his body.

Once it finished moving, all three doctors stared at the scan results in absolute silence for a while. "What?" Dempsey asked from behind them, sitting up.

"Results. . . very unusual," Dr. Solus finally said. "Difficult to read. Come look. May find this interesting. Certainly, more empowering for patient to see own body. Control own body, if possible."

Dempsey slid out of the scanning bed and walked over, squinting at the results. "That's. . . a hell of a lot of crap," he said, after a minute.

Indeed it was. A fretwork of cybernetics underlay his skin, looking like mechanical lace. The bones were all clearly visible, outlined in their carbon nanotubules—the same material being used on Aphras and Tosal Nym right now to form the basis of space elevators.

The cranium was the most illuminating part of the scan. "L5 impants, sure enough," Dr. Abrams muttered. "Clean insertion, right in the scar tissue from the previous implants. That's not the bad part."

"Chip in the brain, also," Dr. Solus agreed, pointing it out. "But _not_ in the parietal lobe, where Jeff Moreau and Rinus Velnaran and anyone else linked to a _Normandy_-class AI has been implanted—"

"Linked to a _what_?" Dempsey said, sounding confused.

"Explain later," Dr. Solus said, flapping a hand at him. "Not relevant now, except for comparative purposes. No, _your_ chip was placed in amygdale. Part of limbic system. Nanofibers from chip have infiltrated rest of subsystem. Amygdala controls fear and reward responses. Some human emotions. Linked to nucleus accumbens. Pleasure center of brain. Highly problematic placement. May have damaged your ability to feel emotions when chip was inserted. Infiltration by fibers may also contribute."

"More disturbing," Dara said quietly, "is that they probably _meant_ to do it." Three heads turned towards her. "You _did_ say yesterday, Dempsey, that they thought they'd 'eliminated the emotional variables.' If they wanted to create a perfect, emotionless soldier who felt no fear—when, in fact, fear is a _very_ healthy response, since it lets us know when something is _dangerous_—this would explain the placement."

"Not _all_ emotion is gone," he said, after a moment. "Sometimes it's still there. . . sort of a whisper. More like a memory." He stared at the screen for a moment. "Can you take it out?"

"Unsure," Dr. Solus said, quietly. "Chips for AI linkage deliberately designed with fail-safes. If deactivated, the fibers would decay. Wash away in blood stream. Also placed in a much less difficult spot. Might cause _more_ damage, attempting to remove." He blinked rapidly. "Regenerative capacity notwithstanding, dangerous."

"We could try stimulation therapies," Dr. Abrams suggested. "Sometimes, with biofeedback and other techniques, we can help stroke victims remap activities, like speech or walking, to different, undamaged parts of the brain. Stem cell treatments, taken from your body's own stem cells, might also work. . . although since that would be regenerative, that might not work right. Your body is already repairing _physical_ damage just fine. Your brain just isn't processing certain data correctly at the moment." He frowned. "We're definitely going to have to do some consulting with neurologists on this one."

"But the chip would stay in." Dempsey sounded. . . slightly annoyed. His hands opened and closed, and Dara slid away from him, as subtly as she could.

Dr. Solus sighed. "Requires more study. Time. May have to refer you to specialist on Sur'Kesh who removed my own. . . much unwanted chip."

Dempsey rubbed at the back of his neck. "Okay. Great." His tone was flat. "Has there been any progress on finding out about my family, or am I being left hanging on that, too?"

Her two colleagues turned and looked at her. _Great. Why is it that female doctors are almost __always__ the ones stuck delivering the bad news?_ she thought. "I do actually have some things to tell you about that," Dara said, and Mazz and Cohort moved forward, subtly. "First, it's not all bad news. Your wife, Amy is definitely still alive. So's your son, Madison."

He exhaled sharply. "Thank god. I really thought you'd tell me that they're dead."

_Yeah. Good news first, 'cause you're __not__ going to like the bad news._ Dara nodded, watching his face. He'd _told_ them that anger was about the only emotion he had left at the moment, and she rather suspected he didn't have control over it. "Okay. . . _doc._ What's the bad news?" Dempsey asked.

She sighed. "Okay. Your son is twelve now. He's enrolled at Phillips Andover Academy outside of Boston. Doing really well there." She let her drawl thicken a little. Her dad had always said people felt more comfortable with an old country doctor. She couldn't quite manage the _old_ part, but she could . . . manage a human patient a little better is they saw her as sympathetic. She actually had _more_ trouble with human patients than with turians or even krogan. She couldn't just yell at a human and have them snap into line, after all.

Dempsey frowned. "Phillips? That's a prep school, a _boarding_ prep school, at that. How the _hell_ would Amy have the money for that?"

_Okay, now we've circled around the real point enough, he's probably ready for it. . . well, not really ready for it, but here goes._ "Yeah. First of all, the Alliance government declared you legally dead three years ago. It had been seven years, so that let Amy get all your affairs in order, finally. She'd gotten a young, sharp lawyer with some political pull involved in trying to track down what happened to you. Got the goverment to at least cadge to a 'wrongful death' settlement, which paid out pretty well. That set her and your son up pretty nicely. And then, well, two years ago, she remarried." Dara had started out briskly, but let her voice get gentler and softer as she neared the end. _And of course, from his perspective, he saw her what, said goodbye, maybe six months ago?_ "We haven't informed them about you, yet. Commander Shepard said that should be _your_ decision."

He was breathing hard now, fists clenching and unclenching, and Mazz and Cohort were _right_ behind him now. Mazz looked _very _uneasy. "Who'd she marry?" Dempsey finally asked, his voice very quiet now.

"The lawyer who'd been helping her out, actually." Dara really hadn't wanted to admit that one. "Guy by the name of William Perry. He's running for the Alliance House this year. Kind of young to jump straight from local politics to Alliance-level, but . . . " she broke off and stepped backwards as Dempsey stood up abruptly.

"I think I better not be around anyone right now," he managed, between his teeth. Cohort's hands came up to touch his arm, and Dempsey snarled, _"Don't touch me!"_ and there was a fizzle of biotic energies in the air, throwing Cohort back into a wall—and Mazz simply _engulfed_ the human male, weaving his arms through Dempsey's and hauling him off his feet.

"Don't make us sedate you," Abrams rapped out, trying to break through to Dempsey, but the man's eyes were blank now, and it was apparently that he was _very_ strong as he bucked and writhed and Mazz's enormous arms were strained by the effort to keep the human in check.

"You think anything we've got is going to _take_ on him?" Dara asked, already scrambling through a nearby chest. . . _No, no, not a sedative, he's paranoid enough. Muscle relaxant. Paralytic. Succinylcholine. There we go_. Popular in human emergency rooms for over a century now, it had a fast onset and a short duration. She loaded the syringe with steady hands, and as Cohort moved in, securing Dempsey's legs and taking some of the strain off Mazz, Dara found an appropriate patch of skin, and injected.

The paralytic agent worked _fast._ Dempsey went limp, but his eyes were still aware. "Just a muscle relaxant," Dara told him. "You'll probably metabolize it fast." _Hopefully not __too__ fast,_she thought, nervously. "Just needed you to _not_ be fighting for a minute or two until you calm down. I know it's a hell of a shock. And it's not fair, and it sucks." Her voice wavered a little at the _thought_ of disappearing for that long, and coming back to find that Rel had moved on from her. Gotten on with his life. If she really _were_ dead, she'd want him to, of course. But not if she were still alive. But with a ten-year absence, who could _really_ blame Dempsey's wife for giving up on his return?

Well, he might. His eyes were _very_ angry at the moment. And she couldn't blame him a bit. "Thanks _awfully_ for making me tell him," Dara told Dr. Abrams and Dr. Solus dryly as the three of them stepped outside for a moment.

"Learning experiences best left to youngest physician present," Dr. Solus told her with aplomb.

"Residency does suck," Dr. Abrams added, grinning.

Dara stuck her tongue out at _both_ of them, and then asked, "So now what do we do for him?" 

Abrams sighed. "Give him time."

Other than that, it was a wonderful, if all-too-brief visit. She and Rel saw as much of their Spectre family as they could, and most everyone came to her father's house for dinner on one of the two nights they were able to stay. Amara and Kaius were _eight_ now, for heaven's sake, in second grade, and both precocious as could be. Caelia was five, and ran after the two older hybrids every chance she got. Gris was still off on Omega, protecting the place and its leaders. Garrus and Shepard were organizing a retaliatory raid on Xetic. "Since the _Raedia_'s here, you'll be in on it," Garrus told them.

And somewhere between the familial and the professional, there were other concerns. "You two are going to be renewing your contract at the end of the year, right?" Allardus asked them after dinner, smiling.

"Definitely," Rel told him, catching Dara's hand and nipping the inside of her wrist lightly. "We technically have to do a six-month extension in June to get us to Dara's birthday, and then, yes. _Tal'mae_." Everyone in the room cheered a little, and offered congratulations.

"So, _you_ are making plans this time, right?" Kasumi said, eyes twinkling.

"Kallixta offered her house on Macedyn so we can crowd all our guests under one roof. Past that, she said she'd make an event planner her wedding gift to us. I asked her if she knew that she was the best sister-in-law ever—no offense, Serana—"

"None taken. I can't compete with that," Serana replied, laughing.

"And I pretty much plan to make a list, hand it to the event person, and get out of the way," Dara told Kasumi.

"I give up!" Kasumi said, throwing up her hands theatrically. 

Rel grinned at the little human woman. "If it makes you feel better, we _are_ going to have to spend some serious time shopping for the knives. A commitment like that, well, you don't want to make a decision on in a hurry."

Kasumi, behind Takeshi's little head, flicked her fingers at Rel, turian-style, and everyone in the room started to laugh.

**Serana, May 2195**

She'd run pell-mell through the snow from Sam's human, ranch-style house, across base lands, and wound up at the door of Lantar and Ellie's turian-style villa, and arrived, not even out of breath yet, but already very chilled. The temperature was dropping rapidly. The snow on the ground was going to ice over during the night, she was sure.

Serana knocked at the door, and Ellie answered, blinking up at her in surprise. "Serana? Come in out of the cold, little one, it's much too nasty outside right now for a turian."

_Little one_, Serana thought in amusement. She was 5'11" now, exactly the same height as Commander Shepard and her _ama'fradu_ Kallixta. She looked down at Ellie, who practically pulled her inside, and wondered, _Am I destined to be 'little one' to everyone around me? Forever?_

Still, she was grateful. Ellie was always very kind to her, and never seemed to disapprove of her, the way Dara had sometimes joked that _she_ had been disapproved of by Eli's mother until she'd been safely married to Rel. No. . . Ellie had always included her—as she'd included Mazz and Linianus and Telinus. Just another mouth at the table. "Thanks, Ellie," she said now, smiling. "I was here mostly to talk to Lantar. Is he home?"

Ellie looked surprised. "Yes. Give me a minute. He's in the study. In the meantime—"

Caelia had already hit the bottom of the stairs, shrieking, "Serana! Serana! Did you come to play with me?" and launched herself at the older turian girl. Serana laughed and caught her. She'd known Caelia since before the girl could crawl, and still periodically babysat her and now the two young siblings, as well.

"That depends. I need to talk you your father for a bit. Clan business first, playtime later?"

"Okay." Caelia sighed. "I was going to draw something to send to 'Lijah anyway."

"What were you going to draw?"

"The house, all covered with snow. Last time, I drew the whole family, and Mama said he liked the picture. Said he printed it out and everything."

Serana smiled. "He's a really good first-brother, isn't he?" She'd seen that picture, and had _laughed_ internally at the sight of Eli depicted with a crest and sharp teeth. He _had_ to have been thrilled at _that_ one.

Lantar stepped into the foyer at that point, and smiled down at her. "_Daughter of my friend,"_ he greeted Serana, _"it's good to see you. You haven't come to our house in far too long."_

Serana ducked her head, a little abashed. _"Thank you for your words."_ She switched to tal'mae, hesitantly, _"I would speak to you as clan-leader of your house, though I know it would be more appropriate to have he who is my father speak for me."_

Lantar stiffened slightly, and he sighed. _"I will hear your words,"_ he said, formally, and gestured for her to follow him to his study."

He had a file up on the aerogel screens in there when they came in; he blanked it, and offered her a seat. Serana perched on the sofa, a little uncomfortably. This had seemed a good idea on the way over. Now that she was here, she was rapidly losing her confidence. What _right_ did she have to speak, anyway? None save the fact that she cared. _"I would speak to you of he who is your first-son, Clan-leader Sidonis,"_ Serana said, very respectfully. More respectfully, in fact, than she'd once addressed the Imperator. _"I speak out of concern for his spirit, and because I know that he will not hear my words if I speak them to him."_ Her throat closed a little on the words.

Lantar blinked, staring at her now. _"I have concerns for the spirit of he who is my first-son, friend of my daughter. May we not speak now as those who share a common burden, that of affection for one now distant from us?"_ He switched languages back to contemporary turian. _"__Tal'mae_ _might be beautiful, but it takes forever to say anything in it."_

Serana nodded, clasping her hands tightly in her lap. _"I would never break a confidence. You know that about me, I think?"_

"_I know that Kasumi would not have taken you into training without a __very__ good assessment of your character, youngling. You are not given to idle chatter. Whimsy, perhaps, odd leaps of judgment, from time to time, but you know how to keep your thoughts behind your teeth. Speak them now. I will hear you."_

Serana sighed. How to begin? _"I wrote to Dara and Rel in December, and mentioned, in passing, that Linianus' wife had been murdered, and they were much surprised to hear this—"_

"_Wait, __what__?"_ Lantar's head had jerked.

_Okay. So much for subtlety._ Serana sighed. _"Great. So, Eli didn't mention that to __you__, either?"_

"_No! I don't have much contact with Lin's parents now that he isn't coming over to study every other day—I didn't even know he'd been __married__. What the f—excuse me. Start at the beginning and tell me everything you know."_

Serana did. That Brennia had been in boot camp, a member of their squad, and a friend to both of them. That she'd had a hard life on Macedyn, though Serana didn't know the details—_"Eli left a lot out of the telling,"_ she said, with a shrug. _"Like I won't hear the holes."_ That her past had caught up with her on Valentine's Day of the previous year, and that the two males had caught the killer two months later, the suspect resisting attest and Eli having killed him. _"He never mentioned it by letter. I did get some of it out of him after he came home on leave. Mostly because he was . . . angry. Over the internship with Kasumi."_ She tried to keep the tightness out of her voice.

Lantar shook his head. Clearly baffled, clearly hurt, clearly a little angry. _"He didn't say anything of this to __us__. Not a word. Worked on the deck with me, a little gladiatorial fighting at night. Helped his mother with the kids. Slept a lot. Didn't talk about work at all. I did notice that he seemed. . . lighter. . . after sparring that one night. I assume that's when he spoke with you?"_

Serana nodded, uncomfortably. She had the terrible feeling she'd somehow trespassed into what was family territory here, but she was committed now. _"Yes. I didn't speak of it for some time, then mentioned it in passing in a letter to Dara. Dara and Rel hadn't heard about any of it either. From either Eli or from Lin. And Rel considers them both brothers, I know this. He wouldn't have had them stand for him at his wedding, else."_ She shrugged a little. _"But you said you had concerns for his spirit already?"_

Lantar leaned back at his desk. Considered her for a long moment. She couldn't read his look, his expression. Dark, brooding. This wasn't the quiet but loving husband and father of the Sidonis clan. For an alarming moment, she felt as if she'd been _caught_ at something, and was now being judged. Weighed. After a long moment, he reached over and turned on his screens again. _"Yes. We received very. . . short. . . letters from him in boot camp. I have __heard__ that you received slightly longer versions."_

Serana flushed, and damned the reaction. _Think of this as practice for the real world,_ she thought. _But then again, Kasumi followed up her talk with me about game-playing with the comment that in spite of all the games, there has to be __some__ element of your life that's __real__, or you'll lose yourself. This, here? Mindoir? This is real. Everything else is negotiable. "I take it that my father mentioned them to you? I read them to my family promptly upon receiving them, that they might know their contents to be appropriate and honorable,"_ she said, politely.

"_He did." _Lantar bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement. _"His letters became less and less frequent, and the comm calls nonexistent. His mother said she'd expected this. Human males, she tells me, communicate not very well at all, once they've grown to maturity. She said that the joke generally ran that two human females who hadn't spoken to one another in five years, would be astonished when they met one another again, and commence to trying to figure out why they __hadn't__, assure each other that they hadn't actually hated one another, and pledge to keep in better touch. Two human males in similar circumstances would probably say, 'Hey,' and consider it enough."_ Lantar spread his hands slightly, in a _what can you do_ sort of way, and Serana chuckled a little. _"That being said, she __has__ been a little hurt by his silence, and I was already thinking to . . . remonstrate with my first-son, when I received these."_

Lantar pointed at the screen behind him. _"Do you recognize these, little Serana?"_

She sighed. _"Would it sound __very__ childish if I asked people __not__ to call me that anymore?"_

"_Yes. Give it time. Once you attend boot camp, the nicknames will fall away."_ Lantar tapped a claw on the screen.

Serana looked at the images more closely. _"Commendation medals. My mother and father have different ones in their dresser drawers, though. I don't know these."_

"_These three are good conduct medallions. One a year. Everyone in all branches of the service can get these, basically just for being good at their jobs and showing integrity. So that's the first three. The rest are. . . more interesting. One a year for meritorious service. Each one with a file attached to it. Meritorious service means intelligent police service. First year, he, Lin and. . . Brennia . . . apparently, helped track down how red sand was being distributed throughout Agridavus, and found the laboratory where it was being cooked up. As a result, Brennia got most of the credit from the two males, and went into Vice. __They__ were looking into some related killings, and got taken into a lot of wrongful death investigations. The homicides would be bumped up to CID, but they were usually assigned to assist. Another one for merit in following up leads that led to the arrest of a murderer who was using arson to cover his tracks. So that's three awards in his first year. Here's one the second year."_ Lantar flicked the screen to the next page, and let her read for herself.

_For __exceptional__ merit, including grave potential danger of bodily harm. . . for saving the life of a fellow officer while under fire from suspects, Elijah Sidonis is presented with this medallion, of the __agatum__ degree._

"_That was taking the killer off of Lin, then,"_ she said, quietly. Serana swallowed a bit. Somehow, this made it a little more _real_ than Eli just saying it.

"_Yes. Awarded at the same time, was standard merit medallion, for excellent and dogged investigation. They found a damned serial killer. I can understand throwing these in a drawer and not talking about them. They probably seem tainted to him. Covered in a friend's blood."_ Lantar sighed. _"Later the same year, just before his leave here. . . a combat star. With a blue ribbon."_

Serana knew what _that_ meant. Blue ribbons, regardless of the medal under them, meant that the recipient's own blood had been spilled. She hissed, her crop tightening. _He was __hurt_. _How badly?_ _"Okay. That I didn't know about."_

"_Neither did I till I read the damned file,"_ Lantar growled. "_SWAT action. Couple of idiot robbers had gotten themselves cornered in a ritzy hotel, grabbed a couple of tourists for hostages or shields, and SWAT got sent in after them once negotiations broke down. Eli took a bullet in the left arm, covering Lin, then got up and shot one of the robbers in the head. Twice. Lin shot the other one before the first one even apparently started to fall down."_

"_Dimicato'fradu,__"_ she whispered. _Spirits, how I wish I were there to help. Except, of course, trained. Useful. Somehow._

"_I know."_ Lantar rubbed at his forehead. _"So, they get split up, sent to different colonies in CID. Letters get even fewer and further between. I got the first batch of these from our recruiters—yes, I __am__ Recruiting Officer for the Spectres, and every law enforcement agency in the galaxy sends me lists of likely people—back in February. Since then, two more. Merit and exceptional merit, again, and __another__ combat star. Merit for dealing with a pretty sad case, an elderly woman killed by her family. Exceptional merit for dealing with a munitions theft that had some. . . tricky political overtones."_ Lantar gave her a look, and she could clearly see he was leaving out details on purpose. Serana merely nodded to him in response. _"And another combat star, this time without the blue ribbon, for SWAT action pertaining to that case."_

Serana counted in her head. _"Eleven medallions, all __aes__ or __agatum__, in three years? That's. . . outstanding. Rel and Dara have almost the same number. Rinus has them all beat, of course, but—"_ she faltered, looking at his expression, which was _angry_ now.

"_Yeah. And where Rel and Dara and Rinus had their entire damned family—hell, half the base around them when they got __their __first __aes clipeus__, __agata clipeus__, and __commina narthecium__—__my__ son had __no one__ there to stand with him for __any__ of his."_ There was anger _at_ Eli there, and anger _for_ Eli there, at the same time. Lantar slammed a hand down on his desk and Serana jumped. _"Why the hell wouldn't he tell me any of this? This says __Spectre__ to me. This says I could take my son with me any place in the damned galaxy and have him watch my back, and he could __do__ it. Take him to a crime scene with me and he'd see what I see—give him a few more years, and he might even see things I __don't__ see. But he . . . isn't proud of it?"_ Lantar's voice was bewildered, and he waved a hand at her now. _"Forgive me, little one. I haven't spoken of this much."_

"_You and he share a spirit, in that respect, and many others,"_ Serana said, mandibles twitching a little. At the baleful stare, she winced a little and apologized, _"Forgive my flippant tone. I only meant that Eli said, many times, in his first letters to me. . . 'don't tell my mom. Don't worry my mom.' I knew that she was pregnant at the time, but when he was here on leave. . . he said as much to me. 'Things I've seen, you don't need to hear about.'"_ Serana spread her hands.

Lantar grimaced. _"And that's true, little one. You __don't__ need to hear about everything that a cop sees on a daily basis—when you're doing your __own__ job, if you wind up continuing on your path, it'll be a different story. But Ellie sure as __hell__ doesn't need the details. I'm. . . doing better at telling her the general outlines. But the details? No."_

"_So, say that Eli starts off not wanting to worry his mother. That clamps down on how much he can write to start with. He told me he didn't want to talk to __you__ about work, since you live in the same world, and have enough on your plate to start with. And, of course, he's a full adult now, and should deal with his own problems."_ Serana shrugged. _"He's a very proud male sometimes. Idiot that he is."_

Lantar sighed. _"You see. . . very clearly, little one."_

"_Kasumi tells me that this is a good thing."_

"_It is."_ He looked at her steadily. _"I will be going to Edessan shortly, I think. I should investigate this possible Spectre candidate at close range. And you are not to tell __anyone__ that he's under consideration."_

"_Of course not."_ Serana met his eyes steadily. _"I don't talk about other people's secrets unless it's very important."_

Lantar chuckled a little, and stood. _"Thank you for bringing this all to my attention. I'll do my best with him."_ He paused. _"Was there anything else you wanted to discuss? Any message that I might take with me for him?"_

Serana shrugged. _"Nothing, except to tell him, from me, that he's an idiot, and that he'd better go to Dara and Rel's __tal'mae__ ceremony, even if it __is__ on Macedyn. Because __I__ can't be there. __I__ will be at boot camp."_

She was unaware of how Lantar quietly laughed under his breath as he let her out of the house.

**Narayana**,** June 2195**

Narayana was four years old now. Developmentally, she was the size of a human eight-year-old; intellectually, she was closer to a ten-year-old, and desperately bored with the local school curriculum. While they allowed her to move at her own pace, she _did_ still have to test through everything, and she had been burning through study partners at a furious pace until the teachers grouped her with Amara . . . and, pretty much by default, since the twins did _everything_ together, with her brother Kaius, as well. They were bright for eight, and ahead of the curve, so they matched up well with her intellectually. Where Kaius was physical and active and only held _still_ when sleeping or practicing piano, Amara was quieter and more studious. Narayana didn't quite understand why Kaius didn't do what Amara told him to do; he got into a _lot_ of trouble some days, when, if he'd just done what his sister had told him to do (sit down, be quiet, don't bring a lizard into the house for Caelia to play with), he'd have been _much_ better off. Then again, those things seemed fairly self-evident to her. _Maybe his brain doesn't function as efficiently as Amara's and mine do. Perhaps it has something to do with being male. But Daddy is male, and he's the smartest person I know. So that can't be it._

Daddy was also the only person who really _understood_ Narayana. The other salarians tended to _stare_ at her when they went to the store, and whispered behind their hands. It had started to bother her recently, that they were _all_ male. Just six months ago, it hadn't even occurred to her that this was an issue. They were salarians, she was a salarian, they were obviously all the same thing. Asari were asari, all the same. Salarians were salarians, and all the same, and the rest of the species were divided among themselves. And while she'd always known she was somehow _different_, because none of the salarians at school would play with her unless she _demanded_ it—in that voice that Daddy and Ellie and the other grown-ups told her it was rude to use—she'd never really understood _why_.

Amara had explained it to her, though. Amara saw things that other people didn't seem to see, and when she explained it, Narayana had the unusual experience of feeling quite stupid. "They're afraid of you," Amara explained quietly. "You're different, just like Kaius and I are different."

"I'm not a hybrid!"

"No, but you're a female. They're _all_ males. Female salarians _always_ raise other females—in secret, hidden places—until they're old enough to assume control of the males."

Narayana blinked. "Daddy never told me that."

"You and your dad are different." Amara shrugged. "Everyone here on base is different. But in your case, the salarians don't know how to treat you, any more than newcomers to the base know how to treat Kaius and me."

"But I've been here _forever_."

"Well, yeah. But they're still confused and scared. Your dad's scared of what they might do with you, so he keeps you apart. They're scared of you, so they keep themselves apart. You should probably ask your dad to think of ways to stop everyone from being scared. Scared is bad. When people are scared, their brains stop working." Amara's tone was very calm.

Technically, what Amara said was very true. Stress cortisol in the blood stream _did_ inhibit higher brain functions for humans. Other species had other mechanisms, other problems. But Narayana knew _that_ because Daddy said it all the time. "Did your daddy or mother tell you that?" she asked.

"Well, yeah. But also, you can see it happening. Kaius gets really anxious when it's time to take tests. So his glow dims down."

Narayana blinked, feeling her eyelids flicker up. "Excuse me?"

Amara stared at her blankly. "His glow. You know what I mean."

"No. No, I don't."

"His _glow_." Amara's voice was exquisitely impatient. "Everyone has one. Well, everyone except Cohort. And the AIs. Except for Uncle Jeff. _He_ still glowed when he went into the old Reaper. And it was the same color, orange-red. And when EDI went to him, he turned brighter, like he was all lit up from within."

Narayana simply stared at her friend, flummoxed. _I have no idea what she's talking about._ "Do I have a glow?"

"Of course you do. Your dad is a dull red, but you're a _bright_ red. There are times it hurts to _look_ at you, you're so bright."

Narayana blinked again. "And your parents?"

"Daddy's blue. Not the same color as his blood. Blue-gray, like the steel of a sword. Mama's bright blue, like Earth's sky. The first time I saw Daddy bleeding, I thought his glow was leaking out of him and that only the gray was going to be left." Amara laughed. "That was dumb of me, right?" She stared at Narayana now. "You really don't _see_ any of this?"

Narayana shook her head very slowly, human-fashion. "No. What does everyone else look like?"

Amara frowned. "Kaius is blue-purple, like Mindoir's sky. So's Caelia—though hers looks more like her clan colors. Cousin Rellus is yellow, like his clan colors, but Cousin Rinus is blood blue. Cousin Dara is _white_, so she stands out a bit. Cousin Kallixta is yellow again, but where Rel is like a warm fire, she's more like. . . motes of dust, dancing in a sunbeam."

"That's just Brownian motion," Narayana said absently.

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Who else?"

"Uncle Lantar and his son Eli are the same color. Dark red, like a rock, or like human blood. They burn from inside, but it's a cold light. Uncle Sam is red, too, but he burns like a coal. . . rock turned to fire. Aunt Kasumi is green, like new leaves. Uncle Gris is gray and brown. Earth tones, really. Uncle Sky is golden and he's bigger inside than he is outside. I like talking with him. I can hear _everything_ he sings, and everything is so clear when he sings it."

Narayana nodded again. Amara had an amazing imagination—her games of make-believe were epic in scale and usually involved a cast of thousands of imaginary people. . . all of which she remembered the names of, even a week later, and had personalities and could have their feelings hurt by a rude word from Kaius or whoever else was playing with them. Narayana found she rather envied humans and turians their facility for imagination. It required a brain function that salarians somehow lacked, she thought. Oh, they could _imagine_ applications for a technology. They could see a problem, and imagine solutions. That's how their brains worked. But the free-form fantasy? That was pretty much the realm of humans, turians, and asari. But this. . . glow thing. It didn't sound like Amara's usual make-believe. She sounded too serious about it. _Maybe she hit her head,_ Narayana thought. _I'll have to ask my daddy._

She did, too. Daddy was getting so old and so frail, it worried her, especially since he couldn't pick her up anymore, and made that terrible wheezing sound sometimes when he breathed. . . but he still _understood_ her better than anyone else in the world. And he knew _everything_. "Daddy?" she said that night at the dinner table. "I think something might be wrong with Amara."

"Physically or mentally?"

"I'm not sure. She sees colors around people, she says."

"Hmm. Could be simple synesthesia. Or, more dangerously, aneurysm. Did she specify how long symptoms have persisted?" Daddy put more snails on her plate. Daddy _never_ talked down to her. Always treated her like she was smart. He'd started giving her human hugs, too, after she'd told him how much she liked it when Ellie did so. Daddy always _tried_ to be better. It was one of the things that made him Daddy.

"She said it's always been there. Acted like I should see it, too." Narayana hesitated. "What's _synesthesia_?"

"Minor to moderate brain disfunction, usually non-harmful. Some individuals within a species conflate sensory impressions. Written words may appear colored. Colors may have a sound. Sounds may have a tactile quality, as experienced by the individual. Great variation. Will investigate."

And so, that Saturday morning when Narayana was at the clinic with her father, she could hear raised voices behind a door. "Good _god_, Mordin. How the _hell_ is she a biotic? My _very_ limited abilities came from Cerberus experimentation. And Garrus is _turian_. Biotics among them is about as rare as it is for quarians. And you _built_ her from the ground up. What the hell happened?"

That was Amara's mama. And she sounded. . . angry. Worried. Narayana stopped and listened outside the door, although Ellie always told her that this was _very_ rude to do. Daddy's voice now, calm as always. Explaining, as always. "Ova were not altered by Cerberus. Have already contacted Miranda and made inquiries on your behalf. She stated that biotic potential was always in you. Very minimal. Never tested, never expressed. Cerberus augmentation included phenotypic gene modifications and L5 implants for you."

"And in Amara? It's not like _my_ family's produced a biotic since the damned Unification Wars." That was Amara's daddy now, grating voice. Just as angry as Amara's mama. Narayana huddled against the door. They were mad at her daddy, and she wanted to go in there and tell them that it wasn't _Daddy's_ fault.

"When combining genes, had to make decisions. Noted that several were related to biotic potential, but didn't think there were enough present to activate. Was wrong. Will need to run tests on other three offspring as well. Probably not an issue." Daddy sounded cheerful and calm. Just like always. "Lucky to have discovered it in her so young. Confided in Narayana. Useful."

Amara's mother now. "So now what the hell do we do?"

"We get her trained. Not like there aren't a _few_ biotics running around base. Between Sky, Ylara, and Gris. . . wait, Ylara and Gris are on Omega. Right. Sky can teach her." Amara's daddy was trying to make Amara's mama laugh, or so it sounded.

"Okay. Just so long as this is nothing leftover from _Cerberus_, I can deal with it. Just. . . double-check, would you, please, Mordin? I don't want the kids inheriting _anything_ from Cerberus. I mean. . . look at what they did to Dempsey. I don't want that happening to _our_ kids."

_What's a Cerberus?_ Narayana wondered, but then she heard footsteps in the hall, and had to move along hastily.

**Elijah, May, 2195**

Another day on base in Sarbrantha. On this particular day, the MPs had cordoned off an office building. _"What's up?"_ Eli asked, frowning up at the building. _"We got a problem?"_

"_Jumper. Can't decide whether he wants to go or not yet."_ The MP sounded annoyed. Suicide held _zero_ stigma in turian culture, a relic of their honor system. If someone felt their honor could only be cleansed in their own blood, so be it. . . but it was generally seen as better if they got their affairs in order first and carried everything out as neatly and quietly as possible. A knife, maybe, or a subtle, painless poison. Not putting your affairs in order first, sticking your family with both the pain of your death _and_ having to do the cleanup was considered dishonorable and rude. And jumping was just plain discourteous to other people.

"_Someone's been watching human vids,"_ Eli said. _"Cry for help, I guess?"_

"_Probably. We've got someone on the way to talk to him, but he's still twenty minutes out."_

"_Want me to go up and see if I can get him to hold off on jumping for another twenty minutes, then?"_ Eli pulled out his credentials—he _had_ to carry them now, since he wasn't in uniform every day—and the MP blinked.

"_Go right on up, Agent Sidonis. Anything that keeps us from having to clean up a body off the sidewalk, I'm __all__ in favor of."_

Eli headed up the elevator, and finally found the roof access stairs, and popped out on the top of the building himself.

"_Don't come any closer, human!"_ Fear-anger in the voice, desperation.

"_Wasn't planning on it. Heights scare me,"_ Eli lied, holding his hands up. _"I just wanted to check to see if the door was one of the ones that locks behind you when it closes. Have you been up here all night?"_ Dumb, casual voice. _"You want to come on back down?"_

"_No! I came up here because they told me to."_

"_They?"_ Eli said it carefully. _"Who told you to come up here?"_

"_Them__!"_

_Oh, lord. He's either strung out on something or having the turian equivalent of a psychotic break. Either way, I'm not going near him, or he could take me __with__ him when he jumps._ _"Okay, sorry. I didn't know about them. Hey, what's your name, anyway? I'm Elijah Sidonis."_ He just intended to keep the guy talking until the _real_ psychologist arrived. The longer the guy talked, the better the chances were of people downstairs _not_ having a very big mess on their hands.

"_Acilus Markenian."_ The turian looked back over the edge again.

"_Acilus, do you have to do what __they__ tell you to do?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Are there rules? Could you explain them to me?"_ Eli swallowed hard as the male continued to look down. _C'mon, look back up here at me. Don't look down._

"_I have to obey. They said Imperus 34, I needed to jump. As a test of my obedience."_

"_Well, there's the problem,"_ Eli said, immediately. _"Today's Imperus 33."_

The turian's head jerked up. _"No it's not."_

"_I swear to the spirits. Yesterday was the first day of the week, remember? I know, because I had my day off right before then. Did you have your day off then, too?"_ Eli was lying his head off here. It _was_ the thirty-fourth. Had been all day. But if the guy had to follow _rules_, if he could convince him that the rules said to do this _tomorrow_ and not today, he might back down.

"_I. . . I have my day off mid-week. . . ._" The male looked very confused. _"Are you sure you're right about the date?"_

"_Come take a look at my omnitool if you don't believe me,"_ Eli invited, safely tucked in back at the door. _"I'm just saying, because if you have to follow their orders to the __letter__, they'd be mad if you screwed up the day."_

Eli exhaled _only_ when the male finally stepped away from the ledge and came in towards the stairs. At which point, Eli took him down to the elevator and turned him over to the MPs. He caught a _ton_ of flack from the psychologist for having interfered. _"Without proper training, you could have actually pushed him into jumping!"_

"_Hey, he was at the edge already. Everyone standing around looking up at him would have been in for their own fair share of counseling if he __had__ jumped and splashed all over them,"_ Eli retorted, and went to work.

"_You've got someone waiting for you in the office,"_ Celsus told him tersely as he walked in. Still in superior-to-inferior, as always. The guy's attitude was really starting to grate, but Eli reminded himself periodically that in eighteen months or so, his four years would be up, and he could get the hell out of the turian military if he _wanted_ to do so.

_Great, so, who's in the office. Probably some follow-up on the separatists. . . _ Eli stepped in, stopped, and stared. "Dad?"

Lantar was sitting in front of Eli's small desk, black Spectre armor gleaming dully in the fluorescent lights. He looked as out of place in the scruffy cubicle as. . . . as a sword would be. Part of a different, better world. "Eli," Lantar said, smiling faintly. "I'm actually here in my Spectre capacity for the moment. Though I'd like to drop by your place tonight."

At that point, Celsus stepped in the door, smirking a little. Eli blinked and nodded. _"Very well, Spectre Sidonis. What can I do for you today?_" He stepped over, gave his dad a wrist clasp, and settled in at his desk.

Lantar turned gave Celsus a flat stare. _"I have already received your information. No further input is required at this time. Agent Sidonis and I are about to begin our own review. Thank you."_

Celsus' eyes flicked between them. Eli kept his expression blank. _"Same clan-paint, same clan-name."_

"_Yes. He's my son. Get out."_ Lantar was definitely in an _abrasive_ mood today, and actually _kicked_ the door shut after Celsus vacated the space.

Eli chuckled. _"I think he's IA."_

"_He is. They serve a purpose, but the world would be a better place if they didn't have to be such smug sons of she-varren with it."_ Lantar opened his datapad. _"I'm here to review a few of your cases with you. Most particularly the separatists here on Edessan, but the serial killer on Macedyn is of interest as well. I understand your partner's wife died by the killer's order?"_

Eli blinked. He hadn't talked with Lantar about that, but more or less assumed that Lantar knew about it from Lin or Lin's parents. _"That's a cold way to put it, but yeah. She'd been part of his gang before, and gangs don't like to lose control of their members, any more than cults do. And while she fit his pattern in some ways—married, for instance—she was a Macedyn native, so she didn't fit other parameters. I suspect he'd have __loved__ to have given her his usual treatment, but it suited his needs for the gang better to make her an example, instead of part of his fetish."_ His throat was tight, but he managed to talk about it in work mode. At a nice, safe distance.

The conversation went on and on. Lantar was _very_ interested in his thought processes on the killer, and also _very_ interested in how Eli had gotten the separatists to talk to him and trust him enough to try to sell him the stolen weapons. _"I've spent the last month trying to track down what happened to the rest of the stealth modules,"_ Eli said grimly. _"I have a __bad__ feeling that's going to come back and bite us in the ass."_

"_How so?"_

"_Either they had other separatist cells out there who have them, or they sold them to criminals here. Either way, we're going to hear about __someone__ getting in places they shouldn't be able to, without cameras being able to identify them. I expect more munitions thefts, to be honest. Or, worse yet, it could all come to a head with the Imperator's progress through here in Decius. Hard to say."_

Finally, the interview wound down. It had taken two hours and covered all of Eli's major actions for the last two and a half years. . . including the ones that had gotten him commendations. Eli had no _idea_ why Lantar was doing this. All of this crap could have been done over dinner. Then Lantar stood up and clasped his wrist again. _"Thanks for your time, Agent Sidonis. I'll drop by for dinner tonight, all right?"_

"_I've got nothing dextro in the apartment besides half a bottle of turian brandy I used to keep for Lin and Brennia. We'll have to order in or something."_

"_That's fine."_

Celsus and Eli's commander were both waiting outside the office when the door opened. Celsus looked annoyed; the commander, elated. _"Ah, Sidonis. Glad I caught you before the Spectre left. Just wanted to pass along a reluctant 'good job' from the psychologist for the jumper this morning, after all."_

Eli snorted. _"After the way he chewed me out, he's back-tracking?"_

"_Well, on __talking__ with the jumper, he realized that you keyed in on the male's delusion almost perfectly and integrated to it. You established yourself as friendly and trustworthy and provided him a way out. Not quite the way __he__ would have done it, but hell, you got him away from the ledge. He just asks that you take a course or two before doing it again."_

"_It's on my list. Right after C-Sec first responder training in four species,"_ Eli replied, dryly. _"Only so many hours in the day, boss."_

"_Understood. Still, good job."_ His commander turned to leave; Celsus shrugged and walked into the office that Eli and Lantar had finally vacated.

"_We'll talk more later,"_ Lantar told him, and left it at that.

Eli ordered _apatarae_ steaks delivered from a local takeout place, and heated something up from the cryo-unit for himself, and everything was more or less ready when Lantar knocked at his door. His apartment was tiny, but it did have a separate bathroom at least. The neatly-made bed took up most of the living area; the free-weights and the heavy punching bag took up the space in front of them. The only chair in the place was at the extranet console; he didn't _have_ a dining room table, nor room to put one, if he'd had it. "Come on in, Dad," Eli told Lantar with a shrug. "It's not much, but it's home for the moment. You can have the chair. I usually eat at the console or standing up in the kitchen anyway."

For a moment, he looked at the apartment through Lantar's eyes—evaluated it like a crime scene, or from any outsider's point of view, and winced. Neat. Tidy. Spartan. The weights and bag spoke to someone interested in his physical fitness and interested in fighting. One datapad, tossed on the carefully made bed. A suit jacket, folded and tossed over the arm of the single chair; his concealed-carry harness was hung over the back of that chair. His backup pistol was in the nightstand drawer, which was carefully closed. No pictures, no color, no hobbies besides fighting, nothing. Oh, one of Caelia's drawings, printed out and left on the counter. That was it.

"So, what kind of Spectre work brings you here to Edessan?" Eli asked, closing the door behind Lantar.

"Recruitment. We've been slowly trying to get back up to a hundred and fifty or so, but it's been a tedious process. Lots of washouts. You have anyone you like in your department for Spectre status?" Lantar sat down at the desk, and started cutting into his dinner. Eli sat cross-legged on his bed, and started doing the same with his. He couldn't even _tell_ what the food from the pack was anymore. Just fuel, really.

Eli snorted. "The commander's not bad, and a couple of the SWAT guys understand teamwork. The rest? Nah. Don't see them as Spectres. They tend to be pretty specialized. A Spectre, to me, needs to be more well-rounded. SWAT _and_ investigation _and_ a background in vice and. . . or. . . homicide. Good grasp of psychology, too. I don't know anyone like that here. Lin had most of that, except the psychology, but he was hurting way too damned bad last time I saw him to even consider that kind of a move for him."

"Yeah. . . speaking of which. . . why the _hell_ didn't you tell us his wife had died?" Lantar's tone was _angry._

Eli blinked. Once upon a time, he'd have backed down and looked away in the face of Lantar's anger. At the moment, though, he had no _idea_ why Lantar was angry. "I assumed you _knew_. Lin said he'd told his parents." His throat went tight again. "Past that, I _really_ didn't want to talk about it."

Lantar sighed. "Lin may have told his parents. Once I _finally_ heard about it earlier this month, I went to them. Apologized for not having condoled with them before. They'd only met the young female once, and had been surprised when he'd moved to _commeditor_ so quickly with her. And they said they'd been puzzled as to why no one had given them condolences to pass to their son, and had been pretty angry on his behalf. Turns out, Linianus never sent out the death notices. Any more than he'd sent out the marriage announcements."

"You're.. . . supposed to do stuff like that?" _Damned if I knew anything about that. Hell, I know humans do obituaries, but then you'd only hear about it if __you__ happened to read the relevant newsfeed. And who reads obituaries, anyway?_

Lantar sounded as if he were hanging onto his patience by the tips of his teeth. "Yes. Yes, you are. Lin's parents don't want to beat on him for missing a customary practice in the midst of his pain, when he had no one else to rely on to remind him of it. But it damned well would have made things easier for everyone to _help_ if we'd _known_ about it."

Eli sighed. "I hadn't thought about it in terms of getting Lin help. He said he was doing fine, and he did seem to be better after we caught Bren's killer."

"Much as I like young Linianus, I was actually talking about _you_, first-son." Lantar cut off another piece of _apaterae_ and ate it.

"Me? Nah. Everything's fine with me, Dad." Eli hopped up, cleaned off his knife and fork, and tossed the remains of his reheated dinner in the waste receptacle. "It hurt when she died. Couldn't save her any more than I could save Kella, and that's _with_ first-aid training. Hurt a lot more, seeing _Lin_ hurt. He always would just light up when she was around. Same way she lit up for him. And when she was gone, most of his sense of humor went with her."

"Tell me about her," Lantar invited.

Eli shrugged. "Little thing, really. Acted like a beaten dog when we first met her. Then we figured out here, that's because she _had_ been beaten and used so often. She taught me how to pick biometric locks. Taught me how to pick pockets, too." He grinned at Lantar. "Was fun, actually. And by the time OCS ended, Lin had managed to talk her into _commeditor._"

They talked for a while longer, and Eli started cleaning up Lantar's plate, fork, and knife. "I kind of have to," he admitted. "I only own two plates, two knives, two forks, and one spoon. I lost one of the spoons somewhere. No idea what happened to it."

"So. . . " Lantar asked, once Eli had poured him some of the turian brandy he kept on hand—one of only two bottles in the cupboard. And all of the other cupboards in the tiny kitchen were empty, except for a large tin of dried pasta noodles and a fair number of pasta sauce jars.

"So?"

"Why the big silence on all the commendations?"

Eli shrugged. "They're not a big deal, Dad. Everyone gets medals. _You_ taught me that it's not the medals that count. It's doing the damned job." He felt defensive, and didn't know why, and poured himself a small glass of Terran whiskey, mostly to be sociable. He'd early on figured out that he didn't actually _like_ being drunk. Sometimes the numbness and distance it brought were helpful, but most of the time, it just made him feel out of control.

Lantar sighed. "There's a difference between not _flaunting_ the medals and not taking any pride in accomplishment, Eli. You've been doing damned fine work—even some dangerous _futtari_ stuff—and you're not letting us share in your accomplishments." That sounded _very_ reproving.

"Okay," Eli surrendered. "From now on, if I get a medal, I'll send you a copy of the citation myself."

"That's _not_ what I meant, and you know it, first-son." Lantar glowered at him.

Eli glared right back. "Not getting why this is such a big damned deal, Dad. They're just pieces of metal on colored strings."

"Because we should have been _there_ when you received them! Because we could have been there when you needed help! Why under the _stars_ wouldn't you _let_ us?" That was like a whipcrack, and Eli pulled back from it a little, startled. Lantar actually sounded. . . hurt-angry.

That was a new one.

Eli sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, scrubbing at the short hair there. "Okay, I'm sorry. I definitely didn't want Mom to hear about anything with a blue ribbon attached to it. And she'd have cried her eyes out over Lin. But there's nothing anyone at home could have done about it. Not personally, and not as Spectres. We were handling the case. And turians don't have a problem in the world with someone investigating something that they're personally involved in. Makes them. . . more invested, I guess, is the theory."

"No, the _Spectres_ wouldn't have stepped into the _investigation_. But we—your _clans_—could have stepped in to help _you._" Lantar shook his head, gave up on English, and switched to _tal'mae,_ which got Eli's attention. _"I speak now as clan-leader. Do you hear and understand my words?"_

"_I hear and understand you, who are as a father to me."_ Eli was actually rather proud of how much better his _tal'mae_ was now, than it had once been.

"_Then know this. It is the place of the clan to aid and support all of its members. However, it is the responsibility of the members of the clan to __inform__ the remainder of important events in their lives. Births, deaths, marriages, commendations, demerits, promotions, changes in status. Everything. Otherwise, the clan cannot function to aid all."_ Lantar switched back to English, tone changing from didactic and unyielding to surprisingly gentle. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Dad. I will write more often. I will keep you informed as to my doings." Eli did _not_ like this, and didn't hide it.

"Good. While I'm at it, what the hell do you do for amusement around here?"

_That_ threw Eli off-balance. It was a masterful change in direction that, on the sparring mats, would have had Eli on the floor. "What?"

"Yes. What do you do to entertain yourself around here?" Lantar held up a finger. "Wait. What did you do on _Macedyn_?"

Eli looked around, a little helplessly, and ventured, "On Macedyn? Went out to clubs with Lin and Brennia. Went swimming in the crater oceans. Rock climbing on the crater rims. Explored the desert a bit. Went out with whatever girl had last left me a comm code." He shrugged. "Whatever, really."

"And here?"

"Macedyn's a tourist trap. There's more to do there. Here. . . I run in the mornings. Spar at the MP facilities most night after work. Come home, look at a few feeds on the extranet with dinner, then sack out and die for a while, most nights. See a girl once in a while."

"Anyone in particular?"

Eli sighed. "Is there any reason for the inquisition, Dad?"

"Your letters have been so bereft of detail, that I would like to know if you're planning on getting married unexpectedly, as Lin did." Lantar's sense of humor was, as always, _very_ dry.

That prompted a snort. "Ah, no."

"You don't seem to have much of a life, son, and that worries me. You had lots of friends on Mindoir—"

"And none on Bastion."

"Don't interrupt me." That was very softly spoken. Lantar was still, apparently, in clan-leader mode.

Eli lowered his head respectfully, but ground his teeth together.

"You have very few friends now. The ones you do have—Rel, Dara, Serana, Linianus, Telinus, Mazz—are all spread over the galaxy, but you don't reach out to them. You don't appear to have any hobbies outside of work—no handball, no gladiatorial practice, nothing except the job. And the job is eating you alive, because you haven't learned how to keep your realities separated."

Eli's eyes flicked up at that. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Lantar sighed. "It's easier when you have a family with you. That becomes the home reality. The one that matters. Cop, solider, spy. . . we all need _one_ real thing to hold onto. For me, that's your mother and you and the little ones. If you asked Sam, he'd say it was Dara and Kasumi and Takeshi. If you asked Dara and Rel, they'd say each other, which is _dangerous_, because their whole reality is each other. . . and they have no separation from work and home, except in their heads. You? What's your reality right now? What do you have besides the job?"

Eli just stared at him, unable to answer. Lantar sighed. "I know this, because I've _lived_ it, Eli. All I had, for years, was the job. Garrus came along and gave me an ideal, a crusade. But it was still the job. I failed, and the job ate me alive. There was nothing _left_ in me but the darkness and the grime and the dirt until your mom came along and saved me. Because that's what she does. She rescues lost kittens and lost turians and feeds them, and then they just keep following her home." Lantar laughed a little, shaking his head. "Don't turn into me, Eli. Don't make my mistakes."

Eli shook his head. "I'm _not._ Okay, Edessan is really not where I want to be right now, but it's not forever. I already was planning on quitting at four years anyway, and going to Bastion for B-Sec work. Don't get me wrong—I love hanging with turians. But I'd _love_ to see a human face more than once a month, you know?"

He kept his voice light and friendly, and he was almost sure that Lantar had bought it before his step-father left for the night, reminding him at the door, "You're going to be invited to Dara and Rel's _tal'mae_ rites on Macedyn shortly. You should really go. It'll be Sagradavus not Agridavus, so fewer bad memories. I know they're inviting Linianus, too."

Eli shrugged. "I'm sure everyone in the family will be there, too."

"All but one. Serana will be at boot camp."

"Wait. . . she's not old enough," Eli objected.

"She'll be sixteen in January 2196. She got dispensation to go to the earlier session rather than wait till one after her birthday."

His teeth hurt for some reason. "And has she given up on this damned fool internship of hers yet?"

Lantar shook his head. "No. Why should she? She's walking in the door with a letter of recommendation in her file from the head of Spectre security that says 'if you make this girl a marine or a cook, we're taking her _back_.' She speaks batarian, asari, and salarian now, and English with _no accent_, which is tough for a turian to manage. She's had sparring training since she was almost eleven, which is as much as Rel had when _he_ walked in the door, though she doesn't have his natural skill or strength, and she's learned from Sam and from Shepard, too. I even watched her last training exercise with Kasumi, start to finish. She's _ready_, first-son. And Hierarchy Intelligence is a bunch of damned fools if they don't want her."


	79. Chapter 79: 2195, Shifting Sands

**Chapter 79: 2195, Shifting Sands**

_**Author's note: **I love writing people as they grow and change. Right now, Rel and Dara aren't changing much; Rin and Kallixta are in a holding pattern, too. Eli had the furthest to go of all the characters, and was holding, changing subtly, while Dara and Rel had the spotlight. Now it's his turn to grow from a baby dacha into an adult badass. Way back in the day, Rel felt that there was something gentler in Eli than in Dara, more intrinsically human. They both had it, but it was stronger in Eli. That something is the civilian, basically, the innocent, the human. Eli's never learned how to split himself. He gives himself, whole-heartedly, to everything he does. Handball, trying to help Siara, living up to Lantar's expectations, boot camp, and now his police work. Dara learned how to split herself after talking to Kasumi and her dad. Rel does it more or less instinctively, but Sam helped him with it, too, during their talk in Japan. Eli's going to have to learn to split himself, or the darkness is going to eat him whole._

_CalliesVoice was the person who asked me "And what does Lantar think about all this?" Which is more or less what prompted a big chunk of last chapter. It'll help a bit, but the real kick is going to come from someone else, a little down the line._

_**Finally**: Eli's informed Lin that it's time to at least put Brennia's knife in a drawer somewhere, since it's starting to scare people off. He's even set Lin up an account on BastionSinglesNet._

_That being said, Lin has no idea what he should be looking for. Tell him (within reason) who you think might be fun for him to date on Bastion. Go to my forums and tell Lin what you think. If that doesn't work, I'll set up a new poll. ;-)_

**Dempsey, June, 2195**

June, in the northern hemisphere of Mindoir, was like December back home. Dempsey had _left_ Boston sleeping under a thick blanket of snow from a nor'easter, traveled to Antibaar, a planet on which hell really had frozen over, and was waiting for the rest of the universe to catch up, and now looked out a window at yet another thick white blanket, covering all the buildings on this mysterious Spectre base. He'd been here for two weeks so far, and had spent most of his time glued to an extranet feed, reading. Catching up. It didn't seem _possible_ that any hoax could be so perfectly executed on so _many_ levels. And all for his benefit? _My ego will only swell so far before it pops,_ he decided dryly, and changed the feed to another topic.

He was being kept in a medical facility most days, but was allowed to stay in what were largely empty barracks at night. He'd been told by Kasumi Goto that these had video surveillance in place—for everyone's protection—but that within his own room, he'd have privacy and the all-important extranet feed. Dempsey had been grateful. It was a small thing, but it was a hell of a step up from a cell or an exam table. For the moment, he suspected that they really didn't know what else to do with him.

Flick, flick, flick of big fingers over the screen. He stopped, studying his hands for a moment, seeing the gold of his wedding ring there. He'd married Amy two days before going to boot camp—Parris Island. They'd dated, on and off, for two years. Sometimes seeing other people, until they'd gotten their heads on straight and figured out what they wanted. _Well, once I got __my__ head on straight,_ Dempsey thought, feeling hollow inside.

He'd had. . . interesting conversations with the commander of the Spectres and with some of his doctors about this. . .strange new world he found himself in. Dempsey hadn't _quite_ felt free to brace _Commander Shepard_—a damn hero—with some of his questions. But the little medic? Oh yeah, she was fair game. While she'd only been on base to poke and prod with the other docs for a day or so, he'd made the most of his time. "So. . . _Doc_," he said, lying back on the exam table as she ran a (thankfully) non-invasive scanner over his torse, "you and that big turian are, what, married?"

She'd paused, looked up from the scanner, met his eyes. "If, by 'that big turian,' you mean Lieutenant-Commander Rellus Velnaran, yes, we're married. Have been for three years now." She went back to her scans. Her tone had been tired, as if she'd heard this before. Many times.

"Oh, come on. You can't be more than what, eighteen, nineteen?" He interlaced his fingers behind his head and watched her expressions. Waited to see if she'd lie.

"We got married right before he went to boot camp." Again, a very terse response.

That had jarred him. He and Amy had done the same damn thing, of course. Their honeymoon had been a single night in a hotel away from their families, and then off he'd gone. He'd tried to make it up to Amy later—a week in Cape May—but that had been a year later. Hell, she'd been _pregnant_ by then. "My wife and I did the same thing," he admitted, after a long moment. "A little older, of course. . . "

She clicked the scanner shut. "I'm told I'm probably going to get comments about my age from, well, _human_ patients for some time to come. People put a little more faith in a doctor with gray hair, apparently."

_Interesting. Nice, subtle shift of the subject._ "So, why a turian? Don't like humans?" He wished that could come out _sounding_ like a joke. He tried to make it one, in fact. But it sounded like a goddamned recording, even to him.

Her eyes narrowed, turned hostile for a moment, and then her expression went blank again. "No, I like humans just fine. But he's . . . just the one for me." She shrugged. "Crazy family and all."

Dempsery _really_ wanted to ask how the _hell_ she could _stand_ having an alien touch her, but that sort of came under the heading of 'consenting adults,' so he didn't. He didn't terribly _want_ to picture the two of them in bed together, but the mind went where the mind went. Especially since he could see what looked like a bite mark under the high collar of her uniform. But as with everything else. . . it was distant. Didn't matter. Images without any connection to them at all.

"Okay, I have a few questions before we turn you loose, okay? Dr. Solus and Dr. Abrams are pulling rank on me and giving me the _really_ personal ones, so if you'd prefer to talk to a male doctor, I'd totally understand." She sounded apologetic.

Dempsey shrugged. "Go for it."

"Because damage to the amygdala can have huge repercussions for the pleasure and reward centers of the brain, we need to know a few things about your more personal urges. For instance, on awakening this morning, did you have an erection?" Clinical and mercifully impersonal.

"Nope."

"When you fantasize, do you—"

He sighed. Yeah, that _was_ a little personal, but he could see the relevance. "Nope. I honestly hadn't _noticed_ before today. Was a little busy being. you know, a meat popsicle for ten years, apparently, and well, _tests_ and surgeries and everything else before then. . . "

Her expression shifted a little. More sympathetic, but still distant. "I understand, but we're trying to define the limits of the problem here."

Dempsey gritted his teeth a little. Experimented a little in his head. Pictured her naked. Nothing. Pictured her naked, bent over the exam table, and him fucking her till she screamed. Nothing. _Ah, shit._ A quick mental catalogue of favorite mental images—his wife, in particular—nothing. He unlaced his hands, put one of them over his eyes, and muttered, "Yeah. Okay. This sucks." _They had to fucking __geld__ me while they were in there doing everything else?_ And he wasn't really sure what was worse, having this _very_ young and fairly attractive female doctor know it, or the thought of. . . shit. _Well, damn. Guess Amy had it right, getting remarried. Not like I was. . . hah. . . 'emotionally available' __before__, and now, I guess I'm a walking dead man._

Still not looking at the young doctor, he said, tightly, "I guess I can trust that you're not going to be talking about this with anyone?"

"Only the members of your medical team, Dempsey. Doctor-patient confidentiality _does_ exist." Still lightly sympathetic. "So, we're talking nothing at all here?"

"Seriously, _doc_, this is embarrassing—"

"And if you don't tell me everything, the chances of getting any of it back are pretty much nil." A little firmer, a little harsher, there.

He was dimly aware that the hand that wasn't over his eyes was clenched and tapping on the metal table. "No. Nothing." He uncovered his eyes, and, mostly because he was angry, in that distant sort of way, and had no place else to put it, added, sharply, "Even picturing _you_ getting it on isn't doing anything."

She shrugged. No facial expression change at all. "Thank you. That's good information." Dr. Velnaran stood and left the room.

Two days after that, he'd had an extended conversation with Commander Shepard in her office, up at the main building on the base. Her office was actually just off of her living quarters, apparently, and had a door leading back into the home area, which was closed, for the moment. There were two desks in here, both _stacked_ with datapads. "Have a seat," she'd invited him, smiling a bit. Her eyes crinkled behind the facepaint.

Dempsey took a seat, but couldn't really relax. This was Commander _Shepard_. The survivor of Akuze, the savior of the _Destiny Ascension_. And, apparently, of the rest of the galaxy, as well. It sure as hell _looked_ like her and _sounded_ like her, paint or no paint. "I feel like I should apologize to you, Dempsey," Shepard said, after a moment.

He blinked. Not quite what he'd expected. "How do you figure that?" the man asked, cautiously.

"Cerberus knew I was dead. I drifted in space for a while until their agents. . . fortunately, friends of mine. . . found me. Then they decided to rebuild me, using what they learned from you." Shepard's mouth set in a grim line. "Heavy cybernetics. Addition of biotics, which I'd never had before. No chip in the brain, thank god. But also no regeneration. You look under this paint, and, dermal regeneration or not, I still have fine scars absolutely everywhere."

_Heh. Guess that explains why __you'd__ opt to wear facepaint._ Dempsey rolled his shoulders a little. "Not your fault," he said. It wasn't, either. "I volunteered. Figured it was mostly going to be an augmentation to my biotics, and hell, you _know_ how bad the L2 implants were. Anything that ensured we didn't wind up with another batch like _those_ seemed worth doing."

Shepard nodded. "Cerberus was good at using a small lie to reel people in. I assure you, we're going to be going after the various government agencies that mismanaged your project, gave Cerberus free rein, and then abandoned you. If anyone in the government knew you were alive, they're going to pay."

Dempsey snorted a little. "Why haven't you done something about it before? Your . . . Kasumi lady. . . said she had information about it before this."

"We didn't have details. She knew there was Cerberus involvement in various Alliance governmental agencies, even the names of a few programs, but no specifics. Now, we have _you_, and that's very specific. Kasumi's digging, and she's very, very good at digging." Shepard paused.

Dempsey thought about it. "Won't uncovering this all just. . . hurt the Alliance? Hurt humanity?" He hesitated. "I want the hearts of the people who did this to me on a platter—" and though he said the words, and felt the anger, distantly, it was all just so _flat_, "—but I don't want to hurt the Alliance, either."

She sighed. "People seem to forget, I'm not _just_ a human Spectre. I'm a Spectre for _everyone_. The Alliance doesn't get a free pass, any more than anyone else. Anderson and I will work the political fallout from it. Don't worry about that. Worry about _you_, and getting better." Shepard frowned. "Couple of related topics. Personal safety. There's not a _lot_ of Cerberus left. . . but there are still people left alive to whom you're a threat and an embarrassment. Chances are, if you leave this base, your life's going to be in danger. Maybe not immediately. But I'd really prefer that if you've been resurrected, we don't lose you again immediately." Her lips quirked. "One resurectee to another, _take_ your second chance at life."

"Did you?" The words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Her blue eyes lit up in amusement. "Oh, hells yes, I did. Everyone who looked at me cross-ways in suspicion for where I'd been, I decided I'd have nothing more to do with. Everyone who'd stayed faithful to me, loyal—I kept my loyalty to them. And it opened doors. . . doors I didn't even think existed, let alone could be opened." She smiled a little then, face suddenly softer, as she looked away.

"That would be the whole. . . Shepard-Vakarian thing, then." No tone at all. _I sound like that geth. No, the geth had more __life__ in his voice. I can't live like this._

"Marrying Garrus? Having kids? Definitely part of it. Like I said. . . don't waste it. Second chances like this are pretty damned rare."

Dempsey hadn't _known_ about the kids. His eyes widened, and he found he absolutely couldn't picture what a turian/human kid would even look like. _Nah. She probably means they adopted. The chemical problems alone. . . _

Shepard couldn't know what was going on in his head, of course. So she just moved on to the next issue. "The other thing I wanted to ask you about is your family. Do you want them to know that you're alive? Do you want to meet with them?"

Dempsey froze. Everything in his head froze. "Yes," he heard himself say, woodenly. _Why did I say that? I'm of no use to them now. They've moved on with their lives. Let them __go__. But. . . I want to see my son. Even if Amy's moved on. . . I want to see my kid._ "How would that work?"

"I'd have Sam Jaworski contact your family. He's a Spectre, and handles most of our Earth and Alliance PR now. Once they're informed, we'd make some arrangements, pick them up, and bring them here, probably on the _Dunkirk._ You'd have an afternoon or so to talk. Start figuring things out. They wouldn't know _where_ you are, but they'd know you're alive." She looked at him, eyes calm. "Is that okay with you?"

"Yeah," Dempsey managed. "That'd be . . . just fine."

And _that_ had been when the door behind her desk in the office had opened, and a young voice had asked, tentatively, "Mom? Are you done yet?"

"Kaius, I've told you before. I'll be done when I'm done. You're not supposed to come in here when I'm with people." Shepard sighed. "Sorry, Dempsey. Exhibit A is my first-born. I assume Amara is _right_ behind you?" Her tone said that there were going to be repercussions.

Dempsey's eyes widened slightly at the sight in the door. The boy was tall for an eight-year-old human, but was clearly _not_ human. Largely, he looked turian—deep-set eyes, ocular ridges. No mandibles, though, soft lips—though as he smiled, he _clearly_ had needle-like predatory teeth. Ears not visible—more aural holes, like a turian. Crest, like a turian. But soft, human skin, healthy pink flush. Five fingers, two-toed bare feet, and spurs. Two younger children galloped past him suddenly, right into the office, heading, with squeals, for their . . . mother. They were smaller versions, though their hands had the more usual turian configuration.

He was _trying_ not to gape, but he was looking at an impossibility at the moment. "How—?" was all he managed.

Shepard got the two smaller ones to quiet down, somehow, and gave Dempsey an amused look. "Technology is wonderful. Once you get the amino acids to do their dance the right way, it's all in vitro fertilization and a couple of c-sections." She looked at the boy in the door. "Weren't you supposed to be looking after your second-brother and second-sister?"

"It's not his fault," another voice said, and a slighter, more slender version of the first boy peeked through the doorway. Dempsey's eyes widened again. Shallower neck cowl, smaller spurs. . . a female? "Alain and Elissa haven't been listening all morning." The girl peeked through, looked at Dempsey, and smiled. "Hello there."

"Hi," Dempsey managed, befuddled. _What the __fuck__ are you, little girl? Has the entire universe gone off its rocker?_

She frowned at him for a moment. "You don't have to be scared," she told him. "Everything changes. But Mama tries to make sure everything that gets broken will be fixed. You will be, too."

"Amara!" Now Shepard sounded irritated. "I'm sorry, Dempsey. We only just found out she's a biotic. We didn't know we needed to be teaching her mental manners."

He shook his head. "It's okay." And, actually, it was. "My parents figured it out from early testing. I remember _hearing_ my mom worry about me getting sent out to Gagarin Station every night when I was four or five. Up until they closed it, anyway. I thought for the longest time it was part of the subway system, and didn't want to go on the trains because of it." Dempsey managed a smile that he didn't feel, and opened up, biotically. Just a general pulse of acknowledgement. _Hey, kid. Don't go peeking at other people's minds without their permission. It's rude._

Amara's eyes widened. "Wow. You're a lot different from Uncle Sky. And Aunt Ylara. You sound. . . almost like Cohort would. If Cohort could talk like Sky."

"Great. I sound like a _geth_. My life is complete." Dempsey's Southie accent got _very_ thick for a moment. Shepard's expression had been a study in bemusement and a little embarrassment as she shooed the youngsters back out again.

That had been two weeks ago. He'd met with Sam Jaworski since then—a big, older Spectre. Sam had shaken his hand, firmly, and Dempsey looked at him, evaluating him. "Marine?" he asked. "Nice to see someone around here who looks _normal_."

"N7, like you," Jaworski replied, easily. "Got out a commander. Then Texas Rangers for a bunch of years after that." The twang in his voice was unmistakable, and familiar.

"You know a _Doctor_ Velnaran?" Dempsey backed away into the barracks room to let Jaworski step in.

Jaworski smiled. "She's my daughter."

Dempsey's eyebrows went up. "Really."

"Yeah. So mind your manners." Sam's grin was tart. "Crazy is the new normal, just so's you know."

"So I've been noticing." Dempsey stared at Jaworski. He was _dying_ to ask questions, but they seemed out of place at the moment. "So, you're heading out to talk to my wife and my boy?" _Guess I can't really call her __my__ wife anymore, now, can I?_

"Yeah. I'll be back in a couple of days. Just wanted to introduce myself, make sure you were comfortable with me talking to them."

Dempsey shook his head, sitting down on his bunk in his empty quarters, and said, a little helplessly, "I don't know _what's_ comfortable right now."

Sam took the chair by the console. "I hear you. On paper, you're only fourteen years younger than I am, you know that? I'm 2150 vintage, you're 2164. You should be thirty-one this year, and instead, you barely look any older than my kid—well, Dara, anyway. My li'l one has got a ways to go before he'll be shaving." He looked at Dempsey. "Want to see a picture?"

"Sure." Dempsey stared at the picture on the omnitool. "He takes after your wife?"

"Yeah, he's the spitting image of Kasumi right now."

Dempsey's head jerked a little. "Jesus Christ, are you _all_ related to each other?"

"Here and there, yeah. Technically, Shepard and I are _in-laws_ now. Crazy shit, I know." Sam grinned at him. "Through my daughter's husband, before you ask."

Dempsey shook his head, and just looked at the picture for a moment. "Doesn't look that much older than my boy was when I left," he said, quietly.

"I know." Sam stood up, put a hand lightly on Dempsey's shoulder. "We'll see what we can do about getting your life back, okay?"

That had been two days ago. Now he was still stuck in this room, running extranet searches. Waiting. Spinning his wheels. At least his mind was free and his body didn't hurt. Both pluses.

"Keyword search," Dempsey said out loud. "Turian facepaint, customs."

The console spat out _reams_ of information at him. Each face-paint pattern and color was associated with a specific colony, turians who'd remained on Palaven remained barefaced, unless their family intermarried with colonists. A barefaced turian was thought to be dishonest. Matrimonial customs. When turians married, the male placed his clan's colony paint on the face of the bride. Exchanges of wedding knives were also common. Adoption customs. When a turian adopted someone into his or her clan, the clan-leader placed paint upon the faces of the adoptee.

"Keyword search. Commander Lililtu Shepard, biography."

Articles. Thousands of them. "Limit search to 2185 and forward." _Okay, that's a . . . little better. Let's see. . . married on the Citadel to Garrus Vakarian, a turian, former member of C-Sec, 2185. The Battle of Palaven, 2185. The Battle of Earth, 2185. The Destruction of Thessia, 2186. End of the Reaper War. Assumption of the command of the Spectres, 2186. First children born March 2187._

Sure enough, though, there was an Emily Wong exclusive here on base in 2190. There was Lilitu Shepard, holding hands with her turian husband. _Weird. Seriously, seriously weird._

Dempsey skimmed forward, finding other familiar faces here and there among those interviewed. Dara. . . _Jaworski_. . . at the time, apparently. . . was the daughter of a Spectre candidate from Earth. Face clean of paint, couldn't be more than fourteen or fifteen in the first interview snippets. Dinner at the Vakarian family's. . .no, wait, the facepaint on the other turians was yellow. And the oldest boy, just there in the background. . . shorter. Younger. The turian commander on the ship, though?

On and on he read. AEC attack on the base and the _Normandy_. The funeral by the caves. So many people of different races, all buried together. More recent history. A plot by certain asari and volus conspirators to destabilize the Earth-Palaven Alliance. . . backfiring horribly for them as the volus economy imploded and the Alliance and the Hierarchy took steps to protect themselves and others. The blockade of Omega by the joint human-turian fleet—and Dempsey had to admit that was a _hell_ of a sight—which had forced Aria T'loak from power and resulted in her death.

_You know what? I've never been what you'd call a fast reader. I wonder. . . _ he opened the chip in his head. . . cautiously. It always interacted with his biotics _very_ badly. _Okay, now, how do I do this. . . _In his mind's eye, he could see a construct as he interacted, wirelessly, with the extranet console. Could see the information currently displayed on the screen, but as an assembly of code. _Somehow, this seems like a bad idea. On the other hand, at least __I'm__ experimenting on __myself__._ He triggered what looked like a download command, and _winced_. Torrents of information, pouring into him, faster than he could see, faster than he could assimilate. His head _hurt_, and he frantically looked for an _off_ button in the construct. . . and found it, just as the pain crested, and he could _feel_ again.

It was almost a _relief_, but there was so much backed up _rage_ here. Rage at Amy for giving up, for remarrying. Rage at the universe, for _changing_. Rage at everything and everybody. And then everything just went _white_ in his head for a moment. . . and when his vision cleared. . . he was rather glad there was so little in his quarters. He'd apparently picked up and thrown the bed. Maybe with his biotics. Maybe with his hands. The handful of shelves on the wall had been knocked down as well. The extranet console was miraculously undamaged, but the door was warped on its hinges.

Someone was knocking at that damaged door, too—one of the guards from down the hall. "Everything all right in there?"

"Yeah," Dempsey said, tonelessly. "Just great." _Oh, shit. Oh, shit. I can't be __around__ my family if there's the least chance I could go off like this around them. I have to tell them to cancel. . . no. I __have__ to see them both. One more time. But I'll tell Jaworski to put me in shackles. Dope me up. Something._

Dempsey turned the bed back rightside up, and sat back, rubbing his eyes, which ached from looking at the screen for so long. "Keyword search," he said, out loud. _Need something to focus on that __won't__ make me angry. Random shit. Who the 'cool' bands today are. . . no. More useful than that. Who are all these people on base here, anyway?_ "Velnaran."

A smaller sample of files. The doctoral dissertation and about twenty articles written by Dr. Allardus Velnaran, Ph. D., xenobiology. About two _thousand_ articles dedicated to the recent (2192) wedding of the fifth daughter of the Imperator, Kallixta, to Rinus Velnaran, first-son of Allardus and Solanna Velnaran, and nephew of Garrus Vakarian. _Holy crap._ Rellus Velnaran, very little. Snippets here and there in the galactic press, rarely with a clear photo. Some taken from the attack on the base here, and the funeral thereafter. His brother's wedding. His wife's graduation from turian boot camp, where he and Jaworski and Shepard and Garrus and the various kids were sitting in the Imperial box—why?—ahh, because the Imperator's daughter had graduated in the same unit as Dara. Some speech by Shepard at Shanxi, calling for unity between the Hierarchy and the Alliance. _Good god. What __hasn't__ changed?_

The next day, Sam came to get him. "You ready to see them?" the big man asked.

Dempsey shook his head. "No." He stared at Sam. "I'm scared I'm going to hurt them."

"Physically?"

"Yeah. That too."

"I'll be there. Sky will be there—that's the rachni you met two weeks ago. He can sit on your mind pretty damned good. It'll be okay."

Dempsey wasn't really sure what to expect, as Sam led him to a briefing room, somewhere in an anonymous brick building on the base. He _knew_ Amy wouldn't look the same. Knew Madison wasn't _two_ anymore. The Spectres had given him some pictures, both a couple of years old, to try to prepare him for it.

Sam let him walk into the room on his own, and followed him in. Inside, Sky waited, and there were three humans sitting at a table—male, female, and a young boy. Dempsey stood in the door, looking at them avidly. Drinking them in. Amy's hair was still dark, but had been cropped very short, and her face was a little plumper. A few lines that hadn't been there before. She wore glasses now—kind of an affectation, in a world with gene mods and laser surgery for such defects. And a very expensive-looking silk blouse and twill skirt. Pearls at the neck. But she was standing now, staring, blue eyes huge in her face. "James? It's. . . it's really. . ." And then she walked forward, little tentative, tottering steps, reaching out a hand, as if _he_ were the apparition. As if _he_ were the ghost. She was in arm's reach now, and she reached out and touched his face, jerking back slightly from the initial contact. "You haven't changed at _all_." She stared at him, and then her eyes jerked towards Jaworski. "You _said_ he hadn't. .. but he _really_ hasn't!"

The physical contact was almost more than he could really bear. He could _feel_ something, buried deep down inside of him, raging to get free. He couldn't tell _what_ it was. Joy, love, delight, relief all felt the same. He was _almost_ certain it wasn't anger. But it could also be pain. Pain at touch, so long denied. He'd thought of her every night of his damned captivity, had made coming home to her and their boy his reality, the place he went in his head to get away from the pain and the despair. . . and now. . . and _now_. . . . Dempsey swallowed hard. Realized he could hear the rachni singing in his head, helping him keep. . . whatever was in him. . . at bay. He reached up, took Amy's hand in his, and lifted it away from his jawline. "Hey, girl," he told her, quietly. "Sorry it took so long to get home. Traffic was murder." He made his lips smile. He could _fake_ being normal for her, if it let her get on with her life.

Amy's lips quivered. "Don't joke."

"Kind of have to. Sucks too much not to." He looked past her now. "Madison?" he asked, quietly. "Can I meet you?"

He was actually almost _grateful_ he couldn't really feel this. This would have _hurt_ otherwise. His own eyes, staring back at him out of damned near a carbon-copy of his old school pictures. A few little hints of Amy here and there—mostly in the hair, which was dark, where his was sandy. "You're my dad?" Hint of incredulity there. Not that Dempsey could blame the boy. He probably looked like the pictures the boy had seen. . .but there was no way Madison could remember him as anything more than a holoimage or a vid.

"Yeah. Looks like it." Dempsey crouched down a bit. Extended a wary hand. Madison took it, and they shook, carefully. _Shit. How the hell do I apologize for missing ten years?_ "Last time I saw you, you mostly liked Legos and trucks, and I'd wrestle with you on the living room floor till you giggled." His grip was apparently too tight; the boy pulled back, and Dempsey just released the grip. Let go.

"I don't remember that."

"That's okay. What do you like to do now?"

"Video games, mostly. Basketball. Bill took me to a Celtics game last month."

Dempsey was _very_ careful not to look at the man at the table. He was pretty sure that would be a _bad_ idea. "Would it be okay with you if I called once in a while? Saw how you were doing?" he asked the boy.

"You're not coming home?" That actually sounded. . . disappointed. A lifetime of being told that someday, Daddy would be coming home. That his _real_ dad would be there for him, and everything would be _different._ Dempsey could _hear_ it. Understood it. Couldn't for the life of him share it, except vaguely.

"Maybe someday. They need to make sure I'm okay up here," and Dempsey tapped his forehead, "before they let me out among real people again."

"What happened to you?" Fast and blunt. Just like a kid.

"Lots of stuff. I can't tell you about any of it right now. Maybe someday, though." _Should I hug him now? Would he even accept that?_ It was like reading from a damned script. "Can I have a hug? Or are you too old for that stuff now?"

Very hesitantly, Madison gave his father a hug. Dempsey closed his arms around the boy, and realized his hands were shaking, and his head was filled with blue-green song. Keeping the rage down, he realized, dimly. _Thanks, ya big old bug._

_Gratitude-song unnecessary. Young are to be protected._

Very, very carefully, as if the boy were made of china, Dempsey unfolded his arms and pushed him away. "It's good to have seen you both," he told Madison and Amy. "Thinking of you was the only thing that kept me going." He turned his head, but did _not_ look at the man at the table. He could feel his biotics starting to build, and he did not want to give them _any_ target. "You take care of them, you hear me? Or I _will_ come after you. Mr. William Perry." Dempsey turned and headed for the door.

"James! _James!_ No, you can't just turn and walk away—"

"I _have_ to." He stopped at the door. "I have no _idea_ what I'll do if I stay in the room."

Her voice was absolutely anguished. "What the hell did they _do_ to you?"

_They turned part of my brain into a glass parking lot, sweetie._ "You're doing okay for yourself, Amy. Be well, all right?" Part of him said he should _probably_ say that he loved her. But he didn't _feel_ it, and it would be. . . horribly unfair to her. Especially since she _was_ making a new life now. Bad enough that she'd had to see his goddamned ghost. "I do want to stay in touch, for Madison's sake. But it's going to be a long time—" _if ever_. . . "before I can go back to Earth." He took a deep breath, and walked out the door.

Outside, he found a piece of the hallway that looked unused, and stood there for a moment, not really sure what he was doing. And then he found himself hitting the wall, over and over again, until his knuckles were bloody. _Stop that_, he thought, and finally managed to do so. When he turned around, Jaworski was standing behind him, giving him an evaluating look. "What?" Dempsey said, flatly.

"Figured I'd let you get it out of your system. Punching a wall seemed a hell of a lot safer than any of your fancy biotic shit." Jaworski jerked a thumb down the hall. "Let's get you to a med bay and get your hands cleaned up. You're liable to have busted a couple of knuckles."

"Not really," Dempsey replied grimly. "And no need." He held up his hands, and watched as the skin started to heal over in front of his eyes. "One thing you got to say for Cerberus. They did do _some_ of their work really well."

**Shepard, June 2195**

Shepard sat in the atrium of her home, shielded from the snow and the cold outside by a sliding roof made of transparent plasteel, and simply watched and listened as Sky attempted to train Amara. Garrus was sitting next to her, and they occasionally exchanged slightly bewildered glances, since much of this process was going _right_ past them. Over their heads. Or, well, _through_ them, as the case might be.

_No. Control-song binds. Minor keys._ Sky's mental voice was patient.

"I don't understand," Amara replied, sounding unhappy. "I don't sing. Kaius at least plays piano. . . "

Her brother, who was sitting on the bench opposite his parents, looked up from his datapad. "I think he means dark colors, 'Mara. Cold ones."

_Interpretation by clutch-mate correct. You perceive the energies differently than I do. Sight-hunter lineage. Do you smell them, too?_

Amara looked at him blankly. "A little, sometimes."

Shepard was trying to think as quietly as possible, but _that_ got her lips to quirk a bit. "That comes from _you_," she told Garrus, softly.

He shrugged. "Guess it makes sense. In species where biotics is a late addition to the genetic code, a result of mutation, the brain _would_ probably rely on existing sensory pathways to interpret the information."

Lilu slid him a glance. "You've been reading up on it."

"So have you."

_Of course I have._ It was _one_ thing to wake up on the Lazarus station, disoriented and confused and suddenly able to reach out with her mind and _slam_ enemies away from her. It was _quite_ another to have a child suddenly develop the abilities. At first, she'd thought it derived from some additional horror Cerberus had inflicted on her. . . on the sheer, random chance that she'd survive the Collectors and the Reapers and god knows what else, and live to pass along her genetic heritage. The recent discovery of Dempsey had only added to her concerns.

Mordin's calm assurance that her ova had _not_ been altered had been a relief. Whatever Amara was expressing was as natural as _could_ be, given the fact that biotics _were_ a mutation. And given the fact that she'd been designed from the amino acids up in a lab.

The other three kids had been tested now—Sky had been a bit surprised that they _hadn't_ known about Amara, but he said that the other three, while 'sensitive', didn't have her abilities. Lantar and Ellie had, warily, asked for their three kids to be tested as well; Caelia had turned out 'sensitive,' but not biotic, and Tacitius and Emily were wholly clean of the genes.

So now, three nights a week—the non-sparring nights, in fact—they all gathered here, and Sky gave a certain amount of instruction to all of the 'sensitive' kids. Just in case there was ever an eezo accident or anything else that flipped the switch inside of them to the 'on' position. _God forbid. Turians already regard their biotics with a certain degree of suspicion. Most of them will have a hard time accepting the hybrids, as well. A biotic hybrid might well not be accepted at __all__. Humans accept biotics a great deal more easily, though. . . so her path in life might well take her into the Alliance, after all. I wonder what the simulation device. . . no._ Shepard had planted both the simulation device and the upload device deep in Painted Rocks Cave, where researchers could go to study them, but where they would hopefully never be seen from orbit. Since the cave was a natural one, it didn't really show up from orbit like a custom-built facility did, although they'd certainly been building and excavating and turning the caves into a research facility. . . one well-hidden, near the graves of so many _Normandy_ crew members. The temptation to use the simulation device to try and catch a _glimpse_ of what was coming was always present, but that was just it—it would only be a glimpse. And as often as not, the damned thing only gave a general shape of events to come.

_Worry-song clouds mind,_ Sky told her, quietly.

_I know. But they're my kids. I wouldn't be a mother if I didn't worry over them._

_They will sing well, and gloriously. Little singer already understands much. Teaches __me__ how other species __see__ their song. As Sings-Not has told me, some species sing in paints. Geth have learned to do so._ Sky spun a complex harmony, and suddenly, Shepard saw the new oil painting she'd noticed in Kasumi's office the other day.

_He sang it for her. Noticed that she preferred the song of those called the . . . 'Fauves.' Beasts. Bright colors, so that her dimmed eyes might see them._ The image was of a grove of cherry trees in full bloom. But in bright, wild colors that nature would never produce. _He explained to me that he sang them in such a way that, given the adjustments to her eyes, she would see/hear the song of the trees as if the changes to her eyes did not exist. Sings-not is. . . thoughtful. Unusual. Your little singer sings in colors and shapes and words. Her clutch-mate sings in numbers and tones. But hers is the more powerful song._

Lilu looked at her husband. Garrus chuckled. "Yeah, I caught all of that. Don't know what to make of half of it, but I caught it."

And the lesson went on. Amara was currently learning how to lift a tiny pebble with her mind, and her face _lit up_ as it finally wobbled, uncertainly, into the air. "I did it!" she exclaimed, as gleefully as she had as a toddler, when she'd managed to buckle her own seat.

"Good job!" Garrus called to her, and she beamed at her father.

Lilu covered her eyes for a moment, not wanting anyone to see the brief mist of tears there.

Her omnitool chirped, and she cleared her throat, before recovering and acknowledging the message now waiting in her queue. Her eyebrows lifted as she read the message, and finally, she said, "Well. . . I'll be damned."

Garrus looked over. "What? _Nereia_ and _Raedia_ hitting Xetic today after all?" The _Raedia_ was usually Sky's ship, but for the moment, Ylara had been pried free of Omega to take it over for what seemed to be the batarians' raiding platform—for the moment, anyway. She and Lantar would be handling stomping and investigating duties, and Ulluthyr Harak had requested that several of his people go along to observe and participate.

"No, they're still twelve hours out. No, this just in from Palaven. The amendment to the Citizenship Act is in. Thanks to the political work done by _your_ nephew in swaying a small but key segment of votes in the Conclave of _Dominae_, I am officially the first person in history to be a dual-citizen of the Alliance and the Hierarchy." She gave him a lopsided grin. "The various kids will all be following suit, soon enough, but I beat them all by six months."

Garrus laughed and took her hand in his. Brought her wrist to his lip-plates, and nipped lightly. "Well, this should simplify tax time, if nothing else."

"_Talas'kak_, _amatus._ And you know it." She grinned at him. "Now we need to get the _Alliance_ to get off its collective behind, and offer the same courtesy to turians who've married or been adopted by humans. . ."

"Baby steps, _mellis."_

She leaned into him, wondering if the shining vision in her head would be accomplished in her lifetime. Full integration, on every level, between her democratic Alliance and his imperial republic. Probably not. It might take two or three hundred years, with bumps and bruises along the way. But the _possibility_ of it was exciting.

**Rellus, June 2195**

Gesis was yet another in a long string of frozen wastelands, a moon in orbit around the gas giant of Xetic, in the Lusarn system. Rel studied the long-range telemetry of the camp built on its surface in the briefing room, sitting with Lantar and Ylara. "This used to be a Blue Suns training encampment?" he asked.

Lantar nodded. "They shut it down partially due to the really big stink back in 2168 about the conditions here. Mortality rate among trainees was eighteen percent, largely because they had former members of batarian the Special Intervention Unit running the place. Zaeed Massani closed it the rest of the way down. . .but apparently, the SIU has reopened it. Look at the spectral analysis."

Rel nodded. There were warm bodies in damned near every building. "We're sure they're batarians?"

"That's what your initial teams will be going in to ascertain," Ylara told him, her blue eyes gleaming a little. "Once we know what's there, we'll go in, in force. Harak has a couple of observers he wants sent along. Gris has approved them."

Lantar added dryly, "You've met them before, though. They shouldn't be a problem."

_I have? How many krogan do I __know__? Can't be Mazz._ Rel frowned, thinking about it, and then the penny, as his wife might say, dropped. "Urdnot Makur?"

"And . . . " Ylara cleared her throat, and added, in some bemusement, "_Urdnot_ Siara." She shook her head. "I will _never_ get used to saying that."

Rel nodded slowly. _Okay. This will be interesting._ "I've never fought beside either of them. They _do_ know that they're to follow my orders?"

"It's been explained," Lantar replied, in some amusement.

Rel chuckled. "Okay then. Shouldn't be an issue, then."

They settled in and tried to work out the best path to get to the base from an unobtrusive drop point, that would allow them to get a good look _without_ being detected. "I need more infiltration units in my squads," Rel muttered. "Unfortunately, command keeps sending me fighters. No biotics, either."

"Siara and Makur and I will handle the biotics," Ylara told him. "But I agree. Infiltration skills _would_ make this exercise a _lot_ easier." She grimaced. "And Sam and Kasumi can't be everywhere."

"Or Blasto," Lantar added, his tone dry.

They shared a chuckle. "Okay, we'll head in from the south-east and hope," Rel said, after a moment or two. "Lots of cover. Two of my squads and your. . . observers. . . could do a halo drop with chutes so they won't pick up the mass of a Hammerhead or whatever on the radar, and move in on foot." He paused. "Wait. Your observers probably don't have drop training."

Ylara shook her head. "I'll hold them with me until you give the signal, and then take them in on a Hammerhead."

Rel thought about it. It meant _all_ their biotics were coming in late, but better late than never. "Lantar? You want to come down with my squads, or hold back?"

"It's your show, Commander." Lantar grinned at him. "I'll come in with the northwest squads, and we'll squeeze the camp together from both sides. Sound good?"

Rel nodded, relieved. He was used to planning multiple team assaults now, but the pressure was on with two Spectres hanging over his shoulder for this one. Dara's eyebrows had gone up at the news of the two observers. "Well, we saw vid feed of that whole business on Tuchanka," she said after a minute. "We know they can fight. Question is. . . can they fight _with_ us?"

"Damn good question," he agreed. "Keep an eye on them for me?"

She made a face. "I'll do what I can, but you know how it goes. Plan made, plan blown inside of fifteen seconds."

The initial drop was almost _leisurely_ in the moon's light gravity, and fortunately, it had so little atmosphere that they weren't pushed hither and yon by any appreciable wind. The sky was very dark as a result, except for the angry white chip that was the system's primary star in the distance, and the dim, blue, purple, and white bulk of the gas giant that took up half the horizon.

They dropped far enough from the encampment that they were hopefully out of sensor range, and certainly outside of gunshot range. Then they started hustling for the southeast corner of the base, over broken, rocky ground. No snow, no precipitation; not enough atmosphere. Just the cold and the darkness. They were bound to Dara's footspeed, unfortunately, but that could work in their favor; anyone seeing blips approach on foot at that speed would assume human, asari, krogan. . . anything but a turian.

Rel peered over a ridge, using a macrovision scope to sweep the compound. _"We've got contacts,"_ he reported over the radio. _"Batarians. Some with Klem Na markings. Some in an array of gear, no markings."_

Lantar's voice came back. _"Anything else of interest?"_

Rel looked again. _"Couple of ships. __Corsair__-class."_ Bad memories of Lystheni modifications to similar ships came back to him. _"We haven't heard anything about . . . unique weaponry on those recently, have we?"_

"_Negative. Begin your advance. We're dropping Hammerheads now, and __Raedia__ and __Nereia_ _will set up to take out the ships while they're still on the ground."_

Rel nodded to himself, and glanced at his two squads. _"Form up. I'm on point. Doc, take the rear. You all know the drill."_

And in they went. The two ships swooped in, almost noiseless in the thin atmosphere; the only sign of their passage was the _rumble_ in the earth, vibrating up through his legs. He saw the Hammerheads dropping, saw the flight of a full fusillade of Javelins towards the _Corsairs_ on the ground, and then he and his squads were running right into the thick of it, adrenaline running high, the fierce joy of doing what he was trained to do and _very_ damned good at now.

The batarians had heavily reinforced the compound, of course. Rel and his people were, at first, the distraction. Then the exploding ships were a distraction all their own. Then the Hammerheads landed, and started laying down covering fire from their main guns, and their crews spilled out the back hatches. One particularly massive figure in red armor and two smaller ones moved up to join the turian squads. "Welcome to the party," Rel said over the radio as he and his people hunkered down between two buildings. "We've got heavy fire coming from the right. Seven or eight of them. Think you can disrupt them a bit?"

"Not a problem," Ylara replied coolly. She peered around the corner of the building carefully, and then made a little gesture with her hand. With only that for a warning, the batarians on the other side of their barricade suddenly lifted into the air.

A low-voiced growl, and while the turian squad fired steadily at the floating batarians, another surge of biotic energy swept past them, taking one of the floating batarians and hurling him into the sky. Given the low gravity, Rel had the uncomfortable feeling that the batarian might not settle back down to the ground for half a kilometer or so. _Could be worse,_ he thought. _In this gravity, a couple of powerful biotics __might__ be able to get someone to escape velocity._

"I've got to learn how you do that, Ylara," a familiar feminine voice commented on the radio, and then Siara stepped to Rel's side and unleashed a shockwave at a couple of batarians encroaching from the right, before dropping into a crouch, tight up against the right building wall, as a hail of incoming fire began again.

"_Northwest team, on the ground,"_ Lantar's voice came over the radio now. _"We're attacking their flank. Just hold steady till they turn towards us, then move in."_

The batarians were forced to turn five minutes later, and Rel's squads moved in. He caught brief glimpses of everything that went on around him—Siara catching a bad spray of bullets, Makur moving to stand over her, an immovable bulwark, biotic shields glowing around him as he simply _invited_ the batarians to focus on him. It looked foolish, but the krogan was a damned _sponge_, simply _absorbing_ the attacks. The batarians _couldn't_ get through the damned shields. . . and that gave Dara enough time to worm her way in and start treating Siara's arm, while Rel and Ylara and Makur returned fire.

Finally, they made it to the central building, and began to fight their way in. The two ships had long since stopped burning—almost no oxygen in the atmosphere to speak of had limited _that,_ at least, and reduced the potential for secondary explosions.

The central building was the old training facility, apparently, and had been set up like a gladiatorial arena. But there were offices behind all the batarians that they cut down. . . and in those offices were computers. "Want us to question any survivors for passwords?" Makur asked, bluntly, taking off his helmet inside the presurrized confines of the facility. "I can't guarantee they'll be alive by the end if you let me do it, but you'll probably get an answer."

Siara took off her helmet as well, and Rel was surprised by the changes in her that three years on Tuchanka had wrought. She had never carried any extra weight, but her face was thinner now, all softness burned away by short rations and hard work. And her eyes glittered like diamonds, hard and fierce and bright. "No need to resort to that. I can get it out of them, and they _won't_ die."

Dara was busy working on a marine, whose tibia had been shattered by a bullet, but she looked up, and even through her visor, Rel could see the slight crease of worry between her brows. "Not that. . . _maieolo_ stuff, right?" Her voice was uneasy.

Siara gave her a half-smile. "No. I wouldn't want any of them in my mind. No. . . I'd just. . . hurt them." She shrugged. "Gris doesn't like it when I do it, except in self defense. But it _is_ an option. One that leaves them alive. . . . if we're concerned with that."

Lantar raised a hand, already working with the computers. "Let's leave that as a last resort, yes?" He glanced up. "Velnaran?"

Rel and Dara's head both swung up. Lantar snorted. "Commander Velnaran, establish a perimeter and check for survivors. If we can question any of them. . . by various methods. . . before they pass on, it would be a help."

Rel nodded. _"You heard the Spectre. Let's look lively, folks."_

As it was, there _was_ one survivor among the batarians. Dara's expression was grim as she worked, trying to stabilize him enough for questioning. "His heart rate and blood pressure are too low for morphinol," she muttered. Morphinol was the morphine-equivalent safe for use on asari and batarians. "He's in a _lot_ of pain, and very damned shocky." His little mate's hands were orange to the elbows at the moment as she packed the worst of the wounds and generally tried to stop the batarian from bleeding out.

"Is it just the pain that stops his tongue?" Makur growled, stepping forward.

"It sure ain't helping," Dara shot back. Rel _rarely_ heard her accent, but at the moment, she was annoyed and _working_. In medic mode, she was _not_ diplomatic. "Give him a reason to be grateful, and he might well surprise us. Kind of hard to say, at the moment, know what I'm sayin'?"

"Siara," Makur said, and stepped away.

Siara came back over. Crouched down beside the batarian, and Rel could see how uncomfortable she was. How much she _dreaded_ this. "_Now_ what?" Dara asked, crossly, shoving a saline pack into Rel's hands to hold as she looked for a vein in the moaning, slowly moving mass of raw flesh.

"I can take his pain away," Siara said, very quietly.

Dara stopped in mid-motion. "You what, _share_ it?"

"Yes." Siara's voice was acutely uncomfortable now, and she reached out and touched the batarian's arm with her hand.

"Wait, no!" Dara protested, but Siara had already done what she was going to do; her head arched back as if she were being electrocuted, and Makur moved to her side, gipping her shoulder in one meaty paw.

"Ask what you're going to ask," Makur said, sharply.

Rel glanced across the room. Ylara had noticed the by-play, and was moving over at a rapid clip, but still had to cross half an arena to do so. _"You're batarian __Special Intervention Unit__?"_ he said, in batarian, thanking the _spirits_ for a full year of training in the language on Sur'Kesh.

The batarian groaned weakly. _"Fuck you, turian. I'm not saying anything."_

"_Then I tell the nice asari lady to let you die in pain, screaming like a slaughtered animal, and gouge out your eyes after you die. Or I could give you a merciful death. Your choice."_

Dara's head swiveled at that one, understanding him perfectly, of course. "Rel?" she hissed.

_Settle down, __amatra__, you know I'm. . . mostly lying._

Siara whimpered a little, swaying. _"Better talk fast,"_ Rel stated calmly. _"I don't know how long she can take this."_ Which was, of course, perfectly true.

"_Yes, I'm SIU."_

"_You here with official sanction from the Hegemony?"  
_

"_Of. . . course not. . . ."_

Siara was starting to keen a little. "Hurry up, turian," Makur snarled at Rel.

"You want to do this?" Rel asked him, then snapped at the batarian. _"What was the mission?"_

By that point, Ylara had joined them. _"Destabilize Omega. . . bring it back in line with the Hegemony. It's . . . __ours__. Has been for . . . over a thousand years. . . "_

"_Working out well for you, isn't it,"_ Rel said, dryly. _"Who gave the order?"_ No answer. _"Who. . . gave. . . the order?"_

"_Some. . . high caste. . named .. . . Veem. . .on Camala. No official sanction. I swear. Let my eyes stay open so my soul can pass! I have spoken truth, I swear it on the. . . I swear it on—"_ He started to gurgle, and Dara's hand shot out, dragging Siara's hands away from the batarian's form.

"Whatever you're doing, stop now," Dara told the asari firmly. "He's circling the drain, all right? I _don't_ think you need to be in his mind when he goes. Christ knows, that didn't do Eli any favors with Kella."

Siara sagged away, breathing raggedly. Dara looked up at Makur now. "Is she free of whatever she was doing?"

He nodded curtly. Dara looked back down at Siara. "You okay?"

"I. . . will be. That was actually quite a bit worse than taking the pain from the krogan mothers during childbirth." Siara winced. "I . . .may have found a new limitation."

"I should damned well hope so. Your heart rate's at one-twenty right now, and _that_ ain't good for an asari." Dara looked down at the batarian, then glanced at Rel. "He's pretty much gone, but I could give him a heavy dose of morphinol to make it go faster." Her tone indicated she didn't think there was much need, but was giving him the option of keeping his word.

"Do it," he told her, and she nodded and administered the shot before stepping over the body and checking on Siara's vitals again. "So, you take their pain? And it hurts you instead?"

"Yes."

"Screw that. Enough pain in the universe to go around as is. That shit is liable to strip the damn myelin sheath off your nerve endings, and _then_ where will you be?"

Siara looked up at Dara, and started to laugh, weakly. "Such concern from you? The universe. . . is a surprising place."

"I'm a doctor, Siara. Exactly half of my job is fixing what people have screwed up. The other half is preventing them from screwing it up in the first place."

"Siara is strong," Makur interjected. "She would not do more than she is capable of doing."

"That's fine, but I _don't_ want her doing that again unless there's no other way." Dara looked across at Siara now. "Not while your health is _my_ responsibility." Dara pointed at Siara and looked her in the eye. "_Capish_?"

"Of course I won't obey that. I can keep Makur on his feet even if I've been knocked to the ground." Siara grimaced. "I've done this many times before, Dara. Though I am _touched_. . . that you care." She held up a hand as Dara looked ready to object again. "I'll demonstrate it for you in the medbay and you can monitor me and study it to your heart's content. It would. . . actually. . . be a good thing to know where my limit really is."

Dara shook her head. "I won't inflict pain for the sake of _studying_ you. If someone breaks something, sure, fine. But we won't even get _close_ to your limit. Good god. You really did take the whole hairshirt penance thing literally."

Ylara had been watching this for a few moments, lips quirked with amusement. "Hairshirt?" she said.

"Shirt woven of coarse animal hair, extremely itchy, worn next to the skin to cause minor, constant chafing and abrading as a self-punishment by the religious in medieval times. The advanced form was the cilice, a metal girdle with inward pointing spikes, designed to draw blood from the leg or the waist or wherever." Dara shrugged.

Rel stood now. "Batarian here claimed the orders came from someone named Veem on Camala." He shrugged. "SIU has a high degree of loyalty, though. Could be a lie, spoken with his dying breath."

"Or what he was told to be true," Ylara agreed, "but a story planted as a lie. Hard to say. But Lantar's picked through the file system, and sees a few things about Camala in there, too. Could be a lie, backed up with a lie. Or it could be true. Either way, it needs to be checked out."

**Elijah, August-October, 2195**

Eli dutifully wrote home once a month now, mostly to keep Lantar off his back and out of clan-leader mode. There wasn't much to report at any point, and he _still_ picked his words very, very carefully. He was also careful to mention when he'd gone out with friends from the SWAT team. Never mind that this largely consisted of being the designated driver when they went to a bar largely oriented towards cops. Which was to say, a hole in the wall with no actual sign outside, generally referred to, within CID, as "The Other Office."* As such, it was usually very quiet inside those four walls. Drinking was done in a very . . . orderly . . . fashion. If it could have been ordered intravenously, Eli rather suspected some of his fellow officers would have preferred to administer it that way, and cut out the bottle and the glass entirely.

And on the rare occasions that Eli found himself out on a date, he was also careful to write home about that, too. A few humans and asari actually _lived_ on Edessan, but he figured he was only here for another six to eight months, and had _no_ intention of getting serious about anyone. Some of the asari girls seemed to take this attitude as a challenge. Still, he never took a girl back to his place. If invited, he'd go to hers, but never invited them into his space. He couldn't quite put a finger on why, but he suspected they'd take one look around his empty apartment, and turn around and walk out.

In the meantime, CID had its hands full. They had two or three months from Lantar's short visit until the Imperator's visit in Decius, and they had a _lot_ of cleaning up and cracking down to do. The seedy clubs just off-base were getting closed down by the local government right and left on health code violations, mostly. Eli and Celcus got sent to investigate any number of bribery attempts by the owners on the base MPs, who'd been asked to coordinate with local police in the crackdown. This netted them a little more time in the Vice area than Eli would have really liked.

He had a full caseload, as usual, but his main concern was still the damned stealth generators stolen from the base munitions warehouse. Celcus took to calling him Moby Dick one day.

"_Captain Ahab,"_ Eli told him, in some irritation. _"If you're going to make a bad joke from human literature, at least get it right. Moby Dick was the white whale, incarnation of all that was evil. Ahab was the captain obsessed with tracking it down and slaying it."_

"_Ah, but is not '_dick'_ a word for detective in your language?"_

"_Only in 1930s _hardboiled_ detective fiction."_ Eli privately _loved_ Dashiell Hammet novels, but would _never_ have admitted it to anyone.

"_Then is it not also a term for 'phallus'?"_

Eli leaned back, looked at Celcus, his eyes narrow, and laughed. _"Nice try,"_ he said, and bent back over his terminal.

In actual truth, he _did_ have leads on this. He was burrowing slowly into separatist networks on the extranet, using his fluent turian to his advantage, finding where they liked to hang out, and so on. If Celcus had been a better partner, he'd have sent the turian in to make contact with the people in the various bars and see if these were serious types or more garden variety rabble-rousers, which was what Eli suspected. He couldn't do it himself. As a human, paint or no paint, he'd have stood out, and he didn't have Linianus to watch his damn back. So instead, Eli cultivated patience. Dropped a few hints here and there in one of his cover names about frustration with working from within a 'corrupt' system, and left it at that, careful not to overplay it. He'd make a mention of it once a month or so, and gradually, started getting invitations to _other_ sites, other chatrooms from people only peripherally involved in the original ones. Started hearing the real voice of the separatists—and not just the ones who lived off on isolated farmsteads and compounds. These were regular 'average' turians who vehemently disagreed with their government. Who felt that a handful of seats in the _Dominae_ and the Lawgivers was a crock and a cheat, compared to the economic and military power that the colonies provided Palaven.

Some of them were insular, wanting to turn away from the human Alliance and return to the old ways. The pre-Council ways, in fact. Others wanted to embrace human individuality to the fullest, abandon stoicism in favor of, for lack of a better word, hedonism. The two sides _never_ agreed, which was about the only thing keeping them from being more of a threat, Eli reckoned. But even there, there were core members who were quiet. Occasionally stirred the pot, and then retreated. He courted those ones, cautiously, and his work bore fruit when his cover identity got a message one day. _"You've occasionally called for action instead of words_," the message read. _"I have an idea as to how action might be taken. There is, after all, a very big party coming up soon."_

Eli thought this was a little obvious, and ran it by his commander. _"String it along a bit. See how serious it is, but act cautious. Have reservations. It's a big step, and very sudden." _

Eli went back and forth with the message-sender several times. He worded his messages very carefully, weighing them as cautiously as any he'd ever sent to his parents. _Who knew that all this letter-writing __s'kak__ would come in so handy?_ he thought with grim humor, and kept typing away.

Eventually, all twelve message exchanges. . . conducted over a total of three weeks' time. . . were posted on a screen in a conference room in the CID building, and other agents and he pored over them. Taken as a whole, they seemed to be an invitation to join an armed resistance movement—one that planned to _"move like the spirits of the night"_ to _"plant the seeds of destruction in the tyrant's train."_

"_This is an excellent start,"_ his commander said. _"That being said? Praetorian Guard has just entered the investigation. May I introduce Inspector Sallinarus, of the Praetorian Guard?_" Sallinarus stepped out from an anteroom, and he actually _did_ wear the rarely-seen household uniform of the PG—white from head to toe, like one of the Imperator's own uniforms, but with silver braid and edgings, not the severe white-on-white Eli had seen the Imperator wear at several formal events on the extranet. He also, surprisingly, wore the same Magna Colony paint as Eli did—violet slashes along the lower jaw. The room _rustled_ as he walked in. Eli chuckled to himself. It was as if a NABI or Alliance Secret Service agent had just walked into the local PD's station. Half awe at the rock star, and half resentment, at having their hard work co-opted, taken over.

"_Agent Sidonis?"_ Sallinarus said then. _"If you could stand and review your investigation so far. . . ?"_

Eli did. It took about an hour, and Sallinarus stated at the end that he would go in Eli's place to the meeting of the separatists, since Eli obviously didn't have the scales for this—Eli managed a thin laugh, along with everyone else—but that he and Celcus and a few others would be listening in on the radio and move in, if needed. _"The goal, gentlemen, is to see what they're up to, and grab the whole group. Not just a handful at a recruitment meeting."_

It took several more weeks after that for Sallinarus to worm his way into the confidence of the separatist group, who seemed to be calling themselves the _Abscido_—the cut away, apparently. The most he could do in that time was position himself as an eager foot soldier, and Eli watched and listened to the process with fascination. He _almost_ wished he could tell Serana about it—but any time his thoughts wandered down that path, he grimaced. Not only would it be a breach of security, but it would just _encourage_ her in her damned fool ideas. No sense in that. He did tell Lantar what he was doing, in a very cautiously worded note, which received no direct reply. Eli shrugged. He'd done as ordered, like a good first-son. He'd reported in.

So when Sallinarus called him in to the office early one morning, Eli was _very_ surprised to see a few familiar faces there. Not Spectres, no; but family of a different sort. Sallinarus was sitting at a desk in his borrowed office; another Praetorian stood next to him, in full uniform, and then the faces Eli recognized. Yellow paint, damned near as tall as Rel, but older. "Rinus," Eli said, grinning. "Or am I supposed to say _dominus_ now?"

"Not if I'm in uniform, and not if you don't want a kick in the teeth," Rinus replied quickly, grinning to take the sting out of his words. He offered his wrist for a clasp, and Eli accepted it. "I heard the name _Sidonis_, and thought we were going to see your father here."

"Sorry. Last I heard, he was . . . occupied. Something with batarians." Eli looked at the ceiling briefly. "It's almost always something with batarians lately."

"Tell us about it," Kallixta replied with a half-laugh. Eli bowed his head slightly to her. He had _no_ idea how to address her. "Oh, come off it, Eli. Dara speaks of you as her first friend off of Earth. You, me, and Rel—her clan by choice. And if you call _me_ _domina_, I'll . . . have Rinus kick you." She chuckled.

"Okay then," Eli said, shaking his head. "I take it you two are here for the whole. . . progress thing?"

"_Correct,"_ Sallinarus said. _"Pallum here is in charge of the __domina__ and __dominus'__ security_." The other Praetorian flipped a quick finger salute of acknowledgement. _"The __dominus__ heard your clan-name and insisted that he be informed as to what was going on here." He looked at Rinus. "The separatists, as far as we can tell, have between twenty-five and fifty stealth devices and have been training in how to use them. From what I can tell from my forays into their meetings, they plan used them to plant bombs—'seeds of destruction'—throughout the buildings featured on the Imperator's itinerary. And because they only meet in groups of five to ten at a time, I can't __catch__ any of them without the rest catching wind of it, breaking contact, and doing it anyway, on their own."_

Eli winced. _"That was the worst-case scenario we've come up with,"_ he commented as Rinus and Kallixta both hissed. "_There aren't __many__ better ones, but those at least involve straight-up assassination attempts. Trouble is, that doesn't tally with the whole 'seeds of fire' rhetoric. I still think everyone should be prepared for stealthed attackers on the Imperial household itself,"_ he added. He and Sallinarus had gone a few rounds on this already.

Pallum was actually nodding in agreement. _"Let's not be blind to multiple vectors of attack. I personally like my stealth generator. I know what __I__ can do with it. And I really don't like the concept of up to fifty people running around with them on."_

Rinus frowned. _"An EM burst would take them out pretty nicely." _He shrugged._ "Admittedly, along with every reporter's camera and all the guards' radios in the same radius, but at least then we could see what we're dealing with. If anything."_

"_Praetorians have EM-hardened radios,"_ Sallinarus noted. "_We'll pass those out to SWAT—Sidonis, remind me of that."_

Eli nodded. Rinus put his hands on the desk, looking down at the model of the Imperial household's travel itinerary on the aerogel display below. "_Any ideas as to where they're likely to hit?" he asked. "I've got a . . . certain amount of experience in ordnance disposal, gentleman. I can help disarm probably anything you find."_

Sallinarus' mouth dropped open in horror, and Eli had to turn his face away sharply to keep his grin from turning into a chuckle. Rinus might have the darker-toned voice and the cooler, more reserved demeanor, but there was _no_ doubt that he and Rel were brothers. Suddenly, Rinus' presence made Eli acutely and suddenly homesick for Mindoir. "_Dominus__,"_ Sallinarus said, trying to find a tactful way of saying it, "_You are far too important a personage to risk—"_

"_Talas'kak,_" Rinus said, harshly. "_My explosive ordnance detonation accreditation is current and I've probably seen things that the local MPs __haven't__—no offense, Sidonis—"_

"_None taken," _Eli replied, shrugging.

"_So you'd be a damn fool not to use my experience. Are you a damn fool, Sallinarus?"_

Eli found a patch of wall to stare at, keeping his face blank now. _Damn, they left a __lot__ of bark on Rinus when they carved the statue_, he thought, not even realizing how turian the thought was.

Sallinarus cleared his throat, and looked at Kallixta. _"My lady, could you please explain to your husband—"_

"_That his rank precludes him risking his life in order to defend it, and mine? Wrong question to ask a pilot, Sallinarus,"_ Kallixta told him._ "I trust in his skills, as he trusts in mine."_

Sallinarus muttered something that sounded like a curse under his breath. _"Very well,"_ he said. _"We have bomb-sweepers going through these buildings. . .the detection devices have a high probability of finding chemicals in the air, but aren't fool-proof. "_

Eli coughed. _"You should ask the Alliance for some of NABI's bomb dogs,"_ he said, quietly.

Every head in the room turned. _"Excuse me?"_

"_Scent trackers,"_ Rinus said, grinning. _"Noses almost as good as a varren's, but far more trainable and intelligent. Brilliant, Sidonis. Pallum, get them. I'm sure the Alliance won't mind helping out their trusted friend and ally."_

"_Can we get them in time? We have only a week before the progress begins."_ Sallinarus noted, grimly. _"And I assume they'll have human handlers?"_

"_Probably,"_ Eli said, _"But the handlers are __good_. _The dogs are trained for finding drugs, remains in catastrophes, and bombs, all over Earth, but NABI's are widely considered the best. They'll probably be happy to show off something Earth has that the rest of the galaxy __doesn't__."_

They nodded, and Pallum made a note or two on his omnitool, and then they went back to canvassing the route of the Imperial progress. Rinus, Eli noted, told Kallixta in _no_ uncertain terms that she should stay on their ship, not in any of the accommodations along the way. _"Your father may want us along for __one__ of the colonies. We said 'Edessan' simply because it fit into our schedule. You __don't__ need to be at every function and I __don't__ want you risking your life for stupid __s'kak__. Combat is one thing. Parties are something else entirely."_

Both of the Praetorians had looked away, pretending not to hear. Kallixta simply smiled up at Rinus. _"I wasn't arguing,"_ she noted gently. _"I hate the parties anyway."_ Rinus looked down, laughing a little under his breath. _"But, beloved—"_

"_Ah, and here's where I lose the not-an-argument?"_

"_Unfortunately, yes. I do actually need to be seen once in a while. Being the mysterious domina out on patrol on any number of SR ships has been wonderful, but if I don't show my face every now and again, the rumor mill starts to grind, and my PR people tell me that the current tabloids have me pregnant with hybrid triplets for your brother and Dara's sake, sequestered away someplace on Earth."_

Eli couldn't help it. He snorted with laughter, which got him annoyed looks from the Praetorians, but Rinus and Kallixta joined in. _"Sorry,"_ Eli said, after a moment. _"But it speaks to the paranoia level in the common turian. Sam showed me some of the worst human ones about Dara a couple of years ago, before he let her see them. They were actually sort of similar. Very threatened by the concept of diluting the gene pool. It's nice to know that we all hate alike."_ His grin had a cynical edge now. _"If you'll excuse me, I have a few other cases to attend to."_

"_Join us for dinner,"_ Rinus called after him. _"We'll pick you up."_

Eli hadn't realized how absolutely _hungry_ he was for anything at all that felt like home, and even dinner at a fancy hotel—surrounded by security—felt at least a _little_ like home. Rinus was older and darker of mood and disposition than Rel, but close enough, and Kallixta was sunny and warm and light. . . almost like Serana, though definitely more aggressive. He listened to their stories through the evening—any number of space battles with pirates and smugglers and mercenaries, oh my, but didn't offer any of his own. Theirs were far more interesting. He did ask after Rinus' family—Rel, Dara, and Serana—and had the odd feeling that Rinus was somehow amused by the question. "Rel and Dara just pulled off a big counterattack on the batarians who tried to assassinate Patriarch, but that's all I know about it," Rinus said. "Serana's starting bootcamp in sixty days. Nervous as a _villi_ in an _acrocanth_ den."

Eli blinked. "I knew it was coming up, just not how fast. I'll drop her a line to wish her luck." He paused, and added, diffidently, "I don't suppose she's come to her senses yet?"

Rinus' eyes went wary for a moment. "Depends on what topic."

"Her goddamned internship with Kasumi."

Rinus visibly relaxed. _Odd,_ Eli thought. "No, no, she's still pursuing it. She'll probably be great at it, though."

Eli swore. "Why will _no_ one in her family put that girl on a leash? Combat is one thing. Combat is _fine_. We're talking about going in, not even the protection of a uniform or conventions or rules, and lying, stealing, inveigling—everything that turians are supposed to _hate._ And _none_ of you are saying 'hey, hold on a damn minute here'?"

Kallixta blinked. "You and Dara really _do_ come from the same cloth," she said. "You're _blunt_, Eli."

Rinus sat back from the table, fiddling with his wedding knife for a moment, his eyes hooded and reflective. "Bluntness, I appreciate," he said. "I've been dealing with Conclave _s'kak_ so much this year, it's refreshing. Of _course_ I worry about her, Eli. She's my first-sister, and _eleven years_ younger than I am. But as many crazy fits and starts as she's given us—did anyone ever tell you about what she said to my _pada'amu_ when she met him?"

Eli blinked. "The Imperator?"

"She told him to come out with his hands up, she was arresting him as a spy."

Eli choked on his water. "She did not."

Kallixta started to laugh. "Oh yes, she did." They told him the whole story then, and Eli actually laughed—laughed from the stomach, as he hadn't in _months._

"Oh, I will definitely mention this whenever I have a chance," Eli said after a moment. "That's too good of ammunition not to use. Thank you." He shook his head. "She helped me get my turian and _tal'mae_ in order before boot camp. I owe her for that, and for the letters. I just don't want her to throw her life away, you know?"

And then the evening wound down, with a reminder from Kallixta about Dara and Rel's _tal'mae_ rites. "They're doing them at my house on Macedyn, and she told me you haven't said whether you'll be there."

"Macedyn?" Eli felt the smile fall off his face. Felt the cold and the darkness return, where everything had been light, at least for a while. "Yeah. Sure. Just tell me it's not in Agridavus."

"Sagradavus." Kallixta frowned, as if unsure what she should be saying.

"Thank god for small mercies. I'll tell Lin it's the better of the two shitholes, then. He'll probably come along, too. For Rel, anyway." He saw surprise on their faces, and waved a hand. "Sorry. Macedyn's got some really bad memories for both of us."

The bomb dogs arrived, and they proved more than worth their weight in gold. Eli was assigned as one of the agents in charge of protecting Rinus and the rest of the bomb squad as they moved from building to building in Sarbrantha. Rinus turned out to be as expert as he'd said he was, defusing and removing timers easily. The dogs found, Rinus and the rest of the ordnance disposal people disarmed, and that should have been the end of it. . . except that they _still_ hadn't found the stealth devices, or the people using them.

On the balcony of one particularly tall building, in which several devices had been set, Eli had a _great _view of the plaza below, which was part of a parade route. The buildings here were old—lots of balconies, lots of statues lining rooftops. Lots of cover, in fact. This started making the back of his mind twitch. The parade was scheduled to come through at civil twilight, carrying torches. _"Pallum,"_ he said into his EM-shielded radio. _"This is Sidonis. I'm at Niciterium Plaza. How close is the Imperator's groundcar?"_

"_Eight kilometers. Why?"_

"_Got an edgy feeling here. Not sure why. Your people checked this place, right?"_

"_It's pretty historic. Site of the surrender of the Edessans during the Unification Wars. Only reason it's on the route, and it's __not__ the last stop for a reason. Imperator didn't want to place undue emphasis on the 'victory.'"_ Pallum hesitated. _"We cleared it out and cordoned off all the buildings late yesterday. No one should be there but our people, and the crowds in the street."_

_Yeah. Then why do I __still__ feel uneasy?_ Eli took his sniper rifle off his shoulder and began scanning the balconies around him. He sensed Rinus stepping up to his side. The older male was in heavy suit of armor with bomb-disposal grade kinetic shielding and had looked, all day, calm and content and steady. "Is there a problem?" he asked now.

"Not sure. _Lots_ of cover around here—huh." Just for a second, Eli saw it. He blinked. There had been a shimmer in the air in the balcony of the building across from him, two stories down. He swept the scope again, found the shimmer, and toggled his radio for the common band for all law enforcement in the area. _"All units, this is Sidonis at Niciterium Plaza. If you're in a stealth posture in the fifth floor balcony of the Recondo_ _building, report in now."_

Silence. _"I say again, all units, if you are in a stealth posture __anywhere__ in the Recondo building, report in now. I have you in my sights and I __will__ treat you as a hostile."_

This time, Pallum replied, _"We have no stealth units in the Recondo building. Take the shot."_

Eli's finger was already squeezing the trigger. Two shots, quick succession—no noise. Eli, like the rest of the police forces today, had been issued a silencer, largely to prevent panic in case they actually _needed_ to shoot someone. There was a hell of a lot of crowd noise below, too. . . and no one was looking _up_. Thank god. Everyone was looking along the parade route, waiting for the Imperator.

At his shots, the stealth shield shimmered and broke as a turian on the balcony threw up his hands and staggered backwards, mightily surprised. _"Whoever he is, he's not a uniform,"_ Eli reported tersely, and fired again, seeing the male fall. _"If there's one, there's probably more. I have the __dominus__ with me. Get someone here with an EM pulse."_ Eli glanced up. "Rin, get down. My commander will skin me alive if I let you get hurt out here."

Rinus grinned and ducked down behind the balcony with Eli now. "Give me a rifle and let me be of use. We've got a balcony wall made of two-foot thick concrete up here. I can duck for cover just as well as you can."

"What, they're not letting you have fun anymore?" Eli scanned around, saw more shimmers moving on balconies all around them. Now that he knew what he was looking for, it was much easier—especially when they _moved._ Some of them were brushing curtains or disturbing branches in the potted plants on the various ledges.

"No. End of this year will probably be my last in uniform. Least until and _if_ the doors and windows catch up with me." Rinus's grin was _all_ teeth at the moment.

Eli gave him a _sharp_ look. "_Narius_!" he called back into the building behind them. _"Give the __dominus__ your rifle, and stay back there. Make sure no one comes up the stairs behind us."_

One of the other CID guys tossed Rinus a rifle. Eli looked at him. "You had a run-in with the _simulator_?" He peeked up over the balcony, found a shimmer, and fired, twice, ducking back down as he saw his target fall. They were catching return fire now, and he _really_ hoped that someone would bring up the damned EM pulse generator they had on hand, very damned soon. Their luck could not hold out.

And, in fact, it didn't. A hail of bullets from the right tore through his shields, and penetrated his armor. Eli ducked back down, swearing, feeling his glove starting to fill with blood. Rinus popped up and took out the shooter on their right with cold precision. "You okay?" He looked down. "_S'kak._ I will never get used to how _red_ that is."

"Fine," Eli gritted through his teeth. "Nothing a little medigel won't fix." _After someone pulls the bullets out, anyway. Dara's never around when you need her, is she?_

His suit was trying to take care of the damage, so he peeked out, found a target, and fired. Rinus pulled him back down by the elbow at that point. "So, yeah," he said, loudly enough to be heard through the gunfire from the other balconies. "Doors and windows were. . . interesting. Was Rel and Dara's second time through it, first time for Kallixta and me."

Eli crouched low, feeling the impact of bullets against the balcony wall ahead of him. He had to trust in the concrete and his armor and his shields. "Hope your predictions turn out more accurate than mine," he called back as Rinus raised up, and took a couple more shots, his heavy-duty shields flickering slightly as a couple more bullets nicked him. "Half of mine showed me with someone who's dead now."

Rinus ducked back down. "And the other half?"

Eli shrugged, barely paying attention now. He had shots to line up. "Some with Dara. Obviously not going to happen." _Bam, bam._ Duck. Wait. "Some back on Earth. Not going to happen." _Bam, bam._ Duck. Wait. "Some in the turian military. Those might happen. Some on Bastion. Might happen, too." _Bam, bam._ Duck. Wait . . . .and then, _finally,_ the ear-piercing whistle of unhappy, dying electronics all around him, and the streetlights below went out, plunging the crowd into darkness. There were shrieks and screams of alarm from below, and Eli instantly switched _on_ his scope, which had been turned off all this time—activating its night-vision properties. "Here we go," he said, with quiet satisfaction. "Now it's just that much easier."

CID agents and Praetorians in the buildings all around had been taking potshots at the stealthed attackers since Eli had spotted the first one, but now, it was hunting season.

Watching the newsfeeds later that night in the med bay as a med tech dug three bullets out of his right arm, Eli managed to laugh, a little. The Preatorians were pooh-poohing rumors of an attack. Sallinarus was on the news, pristine white uniform and all. _"No, this was a historical re-enactment, designed to recreate the battle before the surrender at Niceterium Plaza_," he said, smoothly. _"As you'll note, all of the gunfire was well above the level of the crowd, simulating the mountainous combat that predominated here on Edessan. . . and when darkness fell over the crowd, it symbolized the darkest time in the Hierarchy—when clan turned on clan. The coming of the Imperator, led by torches, symbolizes the return of order, peace, and unity."_

_You'd think they planned the whole damn thing,_ Eli thought, and winced as the sutures began to sink into place. _"Sorry,"_ the med tech said. _"Not used to human skin. It's a little more fragile than turian hide."_

The next morning, he had a little time off, and, staring around his apartment, shrugged—and regretted it, as his arm, in its sling, complained vociferously. He hadn't actually _felt_ it as much last night, because he'd been high on adrenaline. Today, it just plain _hurt_.

He sat down at his terminal, and, out of duty, composed, all left-handed, a short letter to Lantar. _Hi, Dad. Reporting to clan-leader, as requested. Three bullets in right arm. Got to fight side-by-side with Rinus, though, and seemed to do better with him than I do with Rellus. At least no one I know died this time. Watch the news from Edessan for a good laugh. _

Then, still at loose ends, he hesitantly started a second letter. _Asperitalla_, he wrote. . . and paused. What the hell was he going to say? _Got to spend some time with your brother, Rinus here on Edessan. He's a very good shot. Little stubborn and hard-headed, but that seems to run in your family. Then again, you already know my opinion on that. Have to keep this short. Hard to type one-handed. Understand your boot camp is starting soon. Spirits keep you safe._

And he sent it, before he could second-guess himself.

Three weeks later, in mid-October, he got a surprise. In front of the rest of CID, Sallinarus awarded him another _agata mereo._ With a blue ribbon. Eli nodded and saluted and clasped wrists, whenever approprirate. . . and in his office, he put it and his citation in his desk drawer. He'd send Lantar a copy later. As ordered.

A noise at the door caught his attention. _"Pallum,"_ Eli said. _"It's not nice to sneak up on people."_

Pallum chuckled. _"I'm here informally,"_ he commented. _"What __are__ your plans for after your first four years of service, Sidonis?"_

Eli blinked. _"Finally take some of my accumulated leave,"_ he said, dryly. _"My family's about to call a clan meeting on me if I don't, I'm sure."_

Pallum laughed. _"Beyond that."_

Eli shrugged. _"I'd always thought of going into B-Sec. Well, C-Sec, back when it was that. But you know what I mean. My human father was, and Lantar was, too."_

"_And if another offer came along, would you entertain it?"_

Eli squinted at him. _"Not if it involved CID work on Macedyn or Edessan. I've seen enough of both planets to last me a lifetime."_

Another chuckle. _"You've only seen the underbelly of both. There's better parts."_ He looked at Eli thoughtfully. _"I'll be blunt. I think you'd make a damned fine Praetorian."_

Eli _stared_ at him. _"Wouldn't that involve a lot of time on Palaven?"_ he replied, a little numbly. _"I don't care to spent the rest of my life in a rad suit."_

Pallum nodded. _"I understand that, but we __do__ have royals spread out over all the colonies. And you __obviously_ _get along with my primary protectees."_ He waved it off. _"You don't have to answer now. Just. . . keep your mind open, all right?"_

He turned and left, and Eli shook his head. _Okay, I guess I have to add that to my letter to Lantar, along with the citation_, he thought. _I'm not going to take it, though it would be a __hell__ of an honor._

* **Author's note: **_"The Other Office" was how soldiers in my dad's unit in Germany in the Vietnam era referred to one of the bars he ran in his off hours. Yes, he apparently didn't have enough to do during the day. He ran a gaesthaus at night. No, I have no idea when he slept._

**Dara, October 31, 2195**

Time just kept. . . inevitably slipping for them. They'd helped to raid Xetic, which had turned out to be a waste of time. The batarians had definitely used it as a staging area for their attack on Omega, but there were few clues left there. A small enclave of batarians, and a bloody fight, but damned few clues. For the next several months, they'd been kept hopping. Batarian raids, more asari ghost ships. Smugglers, terror attacks to thwart, pirates to run off.

Then October finally rolled around. October 31, Halloween, 2195, was Finus 13, in an odd little calendrical palindrome. And, since that was the day after Dara's twentieth birthday, that was the day on which their family and friends gathered at Kallixta's house on Macedyn to watch them take their vows one more time. . . this time, under _tal'mae_ rites.

Absolutely _everyone_ was invited. Dara had kept in touch with friends from both of their boot camps over the years—usually only with brief notes, but had done her best to bridge space and time with words. When she could. Which, given her schedule of med bay, mission, med bay, sparring, med bay, sleep, had been tough. However, to her surprise, most of the people whom they'd invited, made arrangements to come.

"_And why wouldn't they?"_ Kallixta told her, laughing. _"Free food, a place to stay on Macedyn, and a chance to meet people they've heard about in your lives, but might not have seen in person before."_

People had started arriving the day before—her birthday. Her dad and Kasumi and Tekeshi were among the earliest arrivals. Sam had mock-whistled at the house. "Nice digs," he said, obviously needling Rinus a little. "You guys seriously need to think about an interior decorator, though. Unless late medieval's back in style, of course."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Rinus had growled, before laughing and leading the way to the guest rooms.

Lantar and Ellie and their three youngest had been next into the lobby of the villa, greeted with smiles and hugs and laughter. . . . followed by a human male she hadn't recognized at first, and had stared at in confusion. _What the hell. . . There can't be __two__ human guys out there who wear violet paint, can there?_ And yet, she wasn't _sure_ it was Elijah. He was tall, with very short-cropped dark hair, hard brown eyes that closed out the world, and he looked around the room evaluatingly. Not the way Rel looked around a room, constantly looking for a source of attack, but more. . . careful. Wary. Searching. He focused on her then, raised his eyebrows a bit, and then spoke. "I'm not here to steal your silverware, Dara," he said, dryly, and only _then_ had she really recognized him. _What the hell happened to you?_ she wanted to ask, but it wouldn't do to just blurt that out.

The last doors and windows episode had hinted at the future, but she'd seen him only _once_, since his own boot camp—at Kallixta and Rinus' wedding. Once, in four years. The realization left her a little numb with shock. _How the hell did we all grow so far apart, so fast? _

Their leave schedules had never quite synched up, of course, and he'd started six months behind her, as she'd started four months behind Rel. Eli wouldn't be twenty himself until April, but he was definitely a full adult human male now, not the boy he'd been, peering out the viewport of the _Normandy_ lounge with her at Palaven in excitement. Eli was almost as tall as her father, and had bulked out in much the same fashion—all sparring and wrestling and weights. Muscle from work, not from empty exercise at the gym. Close-cropped hair, cut with a razor, not the inch-long cut he'd had before. The brown eyes, which had once been warm and earnest and excited were largely closed now. Cop eyes, meant to hold out the world. Dara recognized the expression, but usually only saw it at work. It was jarring to see it here.

"Eli?" Dara said, smiling, tentatively, stepping forward to give him a hug. He returned it very carefully, and then released her to give Rel a firm wrist-clasp. She looked up. "Damn, but you've changed, Eli."

"People keep telling me that," he said, shrugging it off. "Don't know what they expected. Human males _do_ eventually grow up." He moved his hands, parallel to one another, upwards. "And then we grow _out._" He pulled his hands apart, more or less creating a T shape in the air.

From the landing on the staircase above, her dad called down, "And then, when we get old, we grow _around."_ Dara looked up as Sam lightly patted his stomach—still rail-thin, she noted in amusement—and Eli chuckled, politely. "Good to see you, son. Lantar says you've got a few contenders for our biannual 'stupid criminals contest.'

Eli grimaced. "They're _all_ stupid, Sam. If they _had_ brains, they wouldn't be breaking the law, now would they?" He glanced over at Dara now. "Where can I leave my kit?"

Dara was still taking in the changes. "Kallixta had rooms set up for everyone. I think yours is next to your parents. . . I'll show you there."

Rel had wanted Rinus to stand with them as a witness, and had also wanted his two original 'best men' there, too, so Linianus showed up at the door about an hour later. The changes in Eli had warned them a bit, but it was still a shock to see him. Tall, rail-thin—almost gaunt, for a turian. Quiet, where Lin had _always_ been quick to laugh and smile and joke. Two knives at his wrist—two years _after_ his wife's death, when custom suggested that he should have broken her knife after six months. He caught her look down, and shrugged a little. "My wife didn't have a statue to go to. . . so I hold onto the knife, hoping she's found it. Seems a little rude to break it, if that's where she is."

Lin shrugged a little, and managed a smile for them, now, adding, "Congratulations, you two." He even gave Dara a hug. For a moment, she _almost_ caught sight of the boy who'd laughed and teased Rel about their contract, about _oris_. Whom she'd helped limp off a handball field and who'd still found himself able to laugh when she'd told off Mazz.

They'd shown him to his room—opposite Eli's, actually—and when she and Rel were safely out of even turian earshot, Rel suddenly stopped and leaned his back against the wall. "What the _hell_?" he said. "Okay, I knew they'd have changed, I know time has passed. . . but what the _hell_ has been going on here while we've been out. . .. doing our jobs?"

"I don't know," Dara said, distressed. "I've _tried_ to keep in touch, but neither of them has ever been big on answering messages—well, Eli did, for Serana, for a while—" they exchanged a quick glance, and Rel muttered something profane about doors and windows. "I know," Dara said with a sigh. "Some of it has to do with Lin's wife's death, but that can't be all of it." She slid her hand into Rel's. "We'll try getting some of it out of them after dinner, okay? Maybe if they can relax and. . . I don't know. . . debrief a little. . . they'll be. . . better." It had _hurt_ to see them both like this. So. . . dispirited.

_Mor'loci_, a voice whispered at the back of her mind, and she shook her head vigorously. She knew what the word meant, knew that Lantar _still_ considered himself such, on some level. Personal guilt, for a turian, never, ever left entirely.

So, more people arrived. Garrus and Shepard and their four children, and Sky. Gris and Ylara were pinned down dealing with Omega, but Siara and Makur were able to come, and Dara had invited them as a courtesy for their work together over the last year, tracking down batarians together.

Siara, Eli, Linianus, and Makur met up for a moment in the middle of the drawing room that afternoon—and Dara had turned to watch. The four of them had gone through the Rite on Tuchanka together. . . and she was willing to bet her next paycheck Siara hadn't recognized Eli any more than she had. The look of surprise, almost shock, was too clear.

But there were so many people to greet and settle in their room, and make comfortable. All their friends from boot camp and some from their various ships arrived, trickling in over the course of the thirtieth. This resulted in some amusingly wide eyes, depending on which boot camp session the individual in question had attended.

Some of Rel's friends had never met Kallixta, for instance. Nicus Abendian and Kassa Vilinius, for example, had not, though Rasmus Cadius had served on the _Estallus_ with all of them. Kassa looked uncomfortably out of place at the door, and although Kallixta greeted her warmly, remained slightly abashed until Kallixta said. . . _"I understand you fly drop ships? How do you like the new Thunder Mark Threes? I haven't checked out on those yet."_

Nicus had at least an officer's commission, but was similarly overawed at dinner that night. But, mostly since he'd just been tapped to fly the _Armidus,_ his first SR-1, he was _delighted_ to talk shop with Kallixta about the flight mechanics of the older generation ships.

And then there were Dara's boot camp acquaintances. To her surprise, Alexej Vokaj had accepted the invitation, and was there at dinner that night, talking a little uncomfortably with Commander Shepard and Dara's father—the son of the Butcher of Torfan, chatting with the commander of the Spectres at a party thrown by the daughter of the Imperator. _Pallum and the rest of the security force must be hopping to keep reporters at bay,_ Dara thought, with a bit of a sigh.

Leodorus was there, too, looking a little sheepish as Kallixta swung by, laughing, and introduced him to Rinus. Dara had long ago thought that Leodorus had something of a crush on Kallixta, but to his credit, he looked as if he'd recovered nicely. . . although he definitely seemed embarrassed as he clasped Rinus' wrist.

And of course, Decimus and Nadea were there, sitting with Rasmus and comparing notes on their various deployments since leaving the _Estallus._ All these people, coupled with the Mindoir people, two realities colliding. All the Spectres that were closest to them were here, as well as their families. Allardus, Solanna, Polina, and Quintus. . . and Serana's laughing presence was noticeable by its absence.

Dara and Rel made sure to swing by everyone at the dinner, to thank them for coming. This was the informal half of the event; tomorrow would be the full rites, the light ritual meal, and then the departures. So now was the time to catch up with people long missed.

Eli and Lin were sitting on opposite sides of a long bay window, chatting with Lantar, Ellie, Livanus, Sam, and Kasumi, while the smallest children ran around under the watchful eyes of Polina and Quintus, now eleven and ten, themselves. "Is this a private part of the party? Or can we join in?" Rel asked, smiling, finding a seat nearby.

Sam awarded him a lazy grin. "We old cops are seeing what the young ones have learned in their first four years on the job."

"People are stupid," Lin said, dryly, at the exact moment Eli replied, "People are shit-stupid." They traded a glance, and reluctantly laughed—the first time either of them had done so that Dara had seen. This was hard, cynical laughter, but it at least lightened their faces for a moment. Made them _themselves_ again, if only briefly.

Dara sat down on the floor at Rel's feet, and he automatically moved his feet apart so she could scoot back, and his hands draped down, rubbing her shoulders lightly. "For a couple of guys who fought a _dragon_," Rel said, just as Rinus and Kallixta migrated over to listen, "you're a pretty sorry sight."

Eli shook his head. "The dragon was easy. People are shit, Rel. I'm not saying that what you guys do isn't hard. It is, and I'd never take away from it."

"But you don't go back out to the same place the next day and do it again," Linianus said, quietly. "And again. And again."

Rinus chuckled. "Eli, you can't tell me that clearing bombs from the Imperial parade route and the two of us shooting at all those damned stealthed attackers on the balconies on Edessan is every day.'

Half the heads around them swung up in surprise. Eli shrugged. "It's not. Most of the time, it's all the stuff that led _up_ to that. Three, four, five, six weeks of trying to convince some separatists in a chat room that you're one of them. Forty hours going door to door in a base neighborhood, asking people about their neighbors and whether they were known to argue. Ten or fifteen hours of looking at surveillance tapes. The VIs help, but they don't do everything themselves. And that's just the boring stuff. Then there's the _stupid_ stuff." Eli snickered suddenly. "Hey, Lin, remember that one domestic dispute back in Agridavus, where the guy had been beating his wife—holding her down and punching her—"

"Oh, yeah, and when we pulled him off of her and put him in the squad car—" Lin actually managed a smile.

"—she came out of the house screaming at us not to hurt him," Eli finished. "Tried to hit Lin here with a frying pan."

"I ducked that one," Lin said, leaning back to sprawl more comfortably now, long legs tumbling into the room itself, tipping his head back against the big window.

Eli just sat up in the windowsill itself, knees pulled up to his chest, one arm against the glass, staring out at the crater and the waves far below. "You did get better at ducking. It's the knee that still worries me."

"I haven't wrenched it in ages."

"And the fact that you got _shot_ in it back in that hostage situation in Agridavus—"

"_That_ was a complete fluke. Hell, _you_ got nailed in the arm that time—" they both cut off their words, and glanced at Ellie briefly.

She sighed. "You're both here and alive." Dara could see from where she sat that her grip on Lantar's hand had to be _painfully_ tight. The big turian's hand was still relaxed, but the skin and scales were distorted from Ellie's grasp.

Elijah cleared his throat. "My point was, that knee seems to _attract_ problems."

Lin shrugged. "Better my knee than my head."

"True, that." They lightly clinked their glasses. "Absent friends," Eli said, and looked out the window at the crater and the sun setting beyond it.

Kallixta cleared her throat. "Eli, you said, when we saw you on Edessan, that you two spent some time here on Macedyn," she offered, pouring herself a drink, and handing one to Rinus, before taking a seat across her husband's knee. Even after nearly four years, she still looked delighted at every chance she had at physical contact with him.

"Yes, _domina_," Linianus said, politely, obviously trying to work out how to act respectfully here.

"Just Kallixta here in private, please."

Lin grinned, and it was like seeing a ghost. "Glad to hear that. I was wondering if I was supposed to call Rinus here '_dominus_,' and wondering how I could give Rellus hell about his first-brother being a lord now."

Rel awarded Linianus a quick finger-flick, which got chuckles all around.

"I hadn't visited here before two years ago," Kallixta continued, pleasantly. "I think it's a beautiful place."

Both of their faces closed down a little. "If you like," Linianus said, politely, distantly.

"Your house is lovely, and it's got a great view," Eli told her. "But Agridavus is a festering pile of—"

"Eli—" Lantar started to intervene.

"—shit," Eli finished his thought. "No, it's true. When the Imperator came through Edessan for the progress, you wouldn't _believe_ all the crap that got cleaned up before his eyes could see it. Sagradavus is . . .supposed to be a little nicer, I'll grant you, but there are large parts of Agridavus that should be bombed from orbit and left to start over."

Lin snorted a little. "What my brother is trying so _delicately_ to say is that neither of us would _ever_ have come back here, if it weren't for Dara and Rel." He lifted his glass to them.

Dara shifted slightly, uncomfortably. "Kallixta offered us the house before we even _knew_ about your—"

Lin waved her off before she could finish the sentence. "Don't worry about it. Everyone has to get back up on the _rlata_ eventually. I'd rather it be for a happy reason than being _ordered_ back here. And your _tal'mae_ rites _are_ a happy reason." He smiled a little. "Mindoir seems like forever ago, doesn't it?"

Dara managed a half-smile, but she almost wanted to cry. "I was thinking that myself earlier. I was thinking back to that stupid handball game in Odessa."

Lin, Eli, and Rel all chuckled at the same time. Again, their faces lightened for a moment—Eli even looked into the room, away from the crater. "That was a pretty good day," Lin said.

""Lin, you _broke your damn knee_," Dara told him.

"Yeah, but you and Lantar carried me off the field." Lin shrugged. "And then we beat the little cheaters at their own game."

Eli nodded. "Yeah, good thing Rel was there and came in to play. Only reason we won, really." He leaned back again, closing his eyes for a moment.

"_Talas'kak_," Rel said, sharply, and Eli's eyes snapped open. "That's horseshit and you know it, Eli." His hands had tightened on Dara's shoulders for a moment. Everyone in their immediate vicinity was watching the two of them. "The way _I_ remember it went a little differently. _You_ told your people to keep their calm, and they didn't listen. You wound up taking what was it, fifty shots on goal in the first half alone, and you blocked or caught over two-thirds of them, keeping the damn game tied—and some of those were penalty shots. _You_ kept them in the game until that little _villi_ threw Lin over the railing and he got hurt. Then I came in to play and everyone settled down and _stopped_ letting you down." Rel looked at Lin. "No offense."

Lin shrugged. "None taken. We _were_ letting our captain down and letting too many spirits-be-damned holes show up in the defense. Not to mention all the penalties."

Eli frowned. "That's really not how I remember that day."

"Maybe it should be," Lantar said, quietly. "Kind of how _I_ do."

Sam chuckled. "Me, I mostly remember the day after. And the fine townspeople coming to meet us at breakfast and assure us that no, no, their boys didn't usually go in for _damaging_ the opposing team. . . " He and Lantar both started to laugh.

Rel leaned down and, very quietly, whispered in Dara's ear, _"Come to think of it, I tend to remember that day for other things, myself."_

And Dara could feel her face turning bright red under her paint.

Eli and Lin both started to chuckle. "Four years of marriage and you _still_ make her blush? Damn. I'd ask what you said, but then I _know_ you'd kill me," Eli told Rel. "Or Sam would. Either way, it'd be a damned uncomfortable way to go."

"_Are_ there any comfortable ones?" Lin replied dryly.

"Yes," Dara answered. "But you can't be afraid of needles."

Sam shook his head. "That reminds me. Liv, you remember our last round of 'stupid criminals,' and your case of the missing omnitool?" He glanced at Eli and Lin. "Care to guess where it was?"

"Up the suspect's cloaca." Lin shook his head. "Not even hard to guess."

Eli snorted. "Before they transferred us to homicide, we saw an _awful_ lot of vice stops. And they _all_ seemed to think that was a _great_ place to hide things. I have no _idea_ how they managed to get some of that up there. . . . "

Sam chuckled. "Most memorable object?"

Before _either_ of the two younger cops could say anything, Dara interjected, quietly, "Twenty-seven bags of single gram red sand doses, individually wrapped, and three antique asari coins in collector cases. All at the same time. It was the fact that the cases were _square_ that boggled my mind."

Every head turned to _stare_ at her. Dara _grinned_. "Do I win?"

Eli laughed. "No. Not even close. Stolen _Incurro_ dynasty statuette, eight inches long, with a plinth. I have no idea how the dude was _sitting_." He paused. "But I'd love to know how _you_—"

"Seriously. _Doctor_." Dara pantomimed snapping on gloves. "Who do you think gets to _remove_ all this crap? The chief doctor in the med bay? Ohhhh, no. Not when it's such good _practice_ for the junior members of the team. In this case, it was a security guard on Sur'kesh who . . . was no longer a security guard for STG after that." She leaned back. "Of course, as of today, I'm officially a _doctor_ doctor. Which means. . . " and she laughed wickedly, "someone _else_ gets to do the intubations and catheterizations and everything else. Although, to be honest, I'll be _teaching_ it all for a while. . . ."

Eventually, Lin went upstairs to sack out for the night, since he was still on Nimines Colony time. Eli stayed up with the rest for a while longer, asking after various acquaintances, some still back on Mindoir, others scattered-Siara. Mazz. Serana. Lantar changed the subject after a while. "You given any thought to Pallum's offer?" he asked, almost idly.

Eli blinked. "What, the whole Praetorian Guard thing?" he asked. "Nah. It'd be an honor guarding Rinus' tail and all, but I don't want to get stuck on Palaven, palace duty sounds boring, and I'd prefer to see a human face more than once or twice a month. Don't get me wrong. I _love_ hanging with turians. But trying to scrounge for levo food gets old after a while, y'know?"

And then he volunteered to take Caelia up and put her to bed. "Haven't done this in a while, Duck," he told her. "You'll have to remind me how this goes. Do I put you on the floor, put the bed on top of you, and then you fall asleep?"

She giggled, losing her awe of her big older brother, and giving him her hand. "Noooooooo."

"Okay, so I put the bed on the roof and put you in the bed, and then you fall asleep?"

"No! First-brother, I get in my pyjamas, you read me a story, you give me a kiss, and then I go to sleep."

"Oh, okay. I can do that," he told her, and led her off toward the stairs.

Rinus sat up after Eli left. "I _did_ just hear that right, didn't I? He's _turning down_ the _futtari_ Praetorian Guard?"

Dara sat up now herself, no longer relaxed by the warmth of Rel's fingers. "Okay," she said. "What the hell happened to both of them?"

Her dad snorted. "They're _cops_, honey. Lantar and I both went into law enforcement _after_ a nice long stint in special forces. Livanus, on the other hand—straight into the MPs and CID, right?"

Livanus nodded. "They've both seen a _hell_ of a lot more than I did my first four years," he acknowledged. "Macedyn's a tough beat. A lot gets allowed here, because it's a resort planet, but it gets very political, because they don't want the tourists to _see_ any of it." He paused. "That being said, they both look spirit-sick and tired to me."

"Got it in one, Livanus," Lantar said, and that's when Garrus ghosted up out of the shadows. Lantar looked up at his old friend. "How long have _you_ been hiding?"

"Long enough to hear most of it." Garrus shook his head. "_S'kak¸ dimicato'fradu._ Have you talked with your first-son?"

"I took a trip out to Edessan earlier this year. Recruiting. Went through his medals and citations with him. He'd just talked a damn jumper off a ledge _on his way to work_, if you please.. . . and would you believe, he _didn't_ take the damn point?" Lantar sounded frustrated. "

Dara turned her head and looked at Rel. He met her gaze. "Doors and _futtari_ windows," Rel muttered.

Garrus gave his nephew a look. "You never _have_ said what all you saw in the simulation. Either time, other than that the two of you wanted to get married as a result. Oh, and that Serana is apparently going to be a handful." He grimaced.

Rel shrugged. "Always felt kind of egotistical."

"Like bragging in advance," Dara added. "Plus, it'd look pretty _stupid_ if we made all the claims and then they _didn't_ happen, right?"

Sam shook his head, clasping Kasumi's hand in his. Takeshi had long since fallen asleep on his shoulder. "I know what I saw the first time. The past. Over and over again."

Dara shook her head. "Not us."

Rinus snorted. "Just spit it out. It's not like I haven't probably seen something similar."

"Okay. . . first time. Spectre by twenty-nine." Rel winced. "Both of us. At the same time."

Neither of them looked up from the floor for a moment. Dara added, quietly, "Second time, much worse futures. Spectres earlier."

"Much earlier," Rel added. "But more of us. Rinus was one, sometimes. Eli, too. Serana. Kallixta still a pilot."

"Those were the good things," Dara added. "I kind of had to laugh at Kallixta and Serana and me all being pregnant at the same time." She looked up at her sister-in-law then. "By the bye? If you laugh at me for having to wear a breather, I will _kick_ your ass in sparring as soon as we both recover enough to spar."

Kallixta chuckled. "I didn't get to see much of the futures. Rinus broke me out and then we were too high up again."

Rinus shrugged. "It's all just probabilities, though. I'm not taking any of it too seriously. Well, other than the stuff I liked." He bounced Kallixta on his knee in illustration, making everyone laugh a bit.

Lantar shook his head. "That's all well and good. But what the hell do I do with my son?" Ellie leaned into him for a moment, and he brushed at her hair with his free hand.

"I don't know," Ellie told him, "but for the moment, it's late. And it's definitely time for bed."

The next day dawned bright over the crater ocean, and the sky was brilliant and blue in contrast to the coppery sands. The azure blue of the sky was echoed by the sapphire blue of the ocean below, and it was a simply beautiful day on which to get married. Again.

Rel had actually been serious, months and months ago: They'd spent a _lot_ of time selecting their knives, and had opted again for the blued, pattern-welded blades, hand-forged. _Talashae_ horn handles, creamy now, which would darken with age and wear, dressed with silver. Simple, functional, and the right length for both of their hands. No gems, of course.

And because today was _also_ re-enlistment day for her and for Kallixta, they'd opted to make it a military ceremony. Half of their guests didn't _own_ any finery besides dress uniforms, so it was just _easier_ to do so. As such, bride and groom _both_ wore dress uniforms. The three male witnesses—Rinus, Elijah, and Linianus—wore dress uniforms. The female witnesses—Kallixta and Nadea—both wore dress uniforms.

"I haven't seen so many people wearing black all in the same place since the last funeral I attended," Sam Jaworski noted as the first pictures were taken. "Please, for the love of god, people, _smile_ so everyone remembers that this is actually a wedding, not a damned wake."

Rinus chuckled. "Personally, I'm just as glad it's a uniformed event. Otherwise, I have a feeling I'd be wearing robes and chains and—_ouch._" He turned and gave his wife an innocently injured look and pretended to hobble a little, as she'd lightly kicked him in the ankle. As it was, they _were_ both wearing their more ornate knife sheathes, probably picked up from a safe on Palaven before coming here.

Pictures done, Rel and Dara stood up in front of everyone and the minister of the Law. Began to say the words. It had been a long time in coming. They'd said the words before, of course. But now this was reaffirmation. Full commitment. A lifetime, not just four years. Dara knelt, and Rel re-traced his marks on her face; then he knelt, too. She held up her knife, and carefully cut her hand. Not too deeply; hand wounds bled enthusiastically enough as it was. Rel did the same, and they carefully interlaced their fingers, red blood and blue mixing for a moment, dripping to the ground. Then they pulled back, and Dara whispered, _"I give you my knife."_

She placed it on the ground before Rel, surrendering it, and herself, completely.

"_And I give you mine."_

He did the same.

The big room, used probably for social events for several hundred years, suddenly rang with cheers and applause as they each picked up the other's knife, touched the blade to their lips, and then helped one another to stand. _"Done,"_ Rel told her quietly as the attendants came over to help bandage their hands. _"Finally done."_

"_And forever, at that,"_ Dara told him. _"No more _do-overs_." _

Rel laughed. "Love you, _mellis."_

"_Adamare taluu, Rellus. Let's go mingle and all that good stuff."_ She cleaned off the knife—_his_ knife—and put it in her wrist sheath. The weight was totally different than her old _manus_ knife, and she hoped she'd get used to it quickly. As it was, she kept glancing down and thinking something was _wrong_, when, in fact, something was _right._

As they mingled, they ran into Eli, who'd found a chair off to the side to watch the room. Dara was forcibly reminded of how he'd sat and watched at Christmas, right after Kella died. For some reason. . . it seemed the same.

As it was, Rel, probably mindful of last night's family discussion, snorted a bit and pointed at the row of medals on Eli's chest. "You've been keeping secrets."

Eli shook his head. "Not really. All a matter of record, in fact. No clandestine operations here." His tone was light, but Rel lifted his head a little, as if surprised. Eli added, off-handedly, "Lantar made some issue about 'em earlier this year. I still don't get what the big deal is, to be honest."

Dara poked a finger at one in particular. "That one says you were wounded in the line of duty. That _is_ a big deal."

Eli looked down, and poked a finger right back at her. "Those three on you? Tell me you need to learn to _duck_."

Rel growled, "I keep telling her the same damn thing."

"Hey, I personally think that people should learn to fall down in more considerate locations." Dara went so far as to stick her tongue out at Rel. "That turret on Harinus wasn't my fault."

"The tech said he'd hacked it. I guess it got _un_-hacked." Rel stroked her hair with his hand lightly, and looked back at Eli. "So, you're heading to Bastion after your four years are up?" 

"Yeah. And you two are re-upping." Eli gave them a shrug. "At least you two are happy. That's the main thing, right?" He paused, and changed the subject completely. "So, how's Serana's boot camp going? I haven't heard."

And he kept them on light topics from that point on, refusing to discuss much about the future or the past.


	80. Chapter 80: Intersection and Separation

**Chapter 80: Intersections and Separations**

**Author's note:** _A quick thank-you to whoever it was who put Spirit of Redemption up as a recommendation on the TVTropes Mass Effect Fan Fic recommendation page. I didn't know such a thing actually existed, but I'm __enormously__ flattered to have been included. _

_In case I didn't mention it before (though I thought I had), for the folks who've asked about Amara being biotic. . . Ceres McClure had pointed out to me, several times as the story's progressed, where Amara has made odd or perceptive comments . The one that stands out to me was when Amara put her head on her mother's pregnant tummy and said she was listening to the babies. But that they were asleep. Night-night, babies. I intended "little kid imagination." Ceres said, "Are you hinting that she's biotic?" and I said, "No," at first. Then Amara popped out with other comments like that just. . . as I was writing, and I went, "Okay, maybe Ceres knew something that I didn't," and the rest is history._

**Rinus, October 2195-January 2196**

The galaxy was a changing place, always in motion, spinning on its axis, the stars within it hurtling through space, barely held in place by the constraints of gravity's great dance. Change happened. _Chance_ happened, too. Rinus knew that. . . but even so, change on a personal level sometimes just _bit_, and not in a good way. He'd _really_ wanted to make _optio_ 4 by retirement, and probably _would_ have, in the next ten years. But he'd found other things that he wanted more. Kallixta topped that list. So he mustered out for the last time on Finus 15, and woke up the next morning on _Palaven_. Complovium, to be specific, though he'd absolutely refused to let them get dragged back into the palace. No, this was one of Kallixta's two manor on Palaven. The other was in Raetia, near his childhood home, actually. Which, since it was near the flight school where she'd be teaching for the next year, would be one of their two homes. But for the moment, _this_ was home. She'd threatened to redecorate, and, after a couple of moments' thought, Rinus had told her, grudgingly, _"Redo the Raetia one. Don't waste money on this place. I'll be spending as much time as I can with you in Raetia anyway. This place is practically a waste just to open up. I could rent an apartment for us here for the same price as turning on the damn lights in this house."_

Kallixta had shaken her head. _"Oh, no. That is __not_ _a conversation I plan to have with our Praetorians. Not to mention the press, who'd be convinced that the apartment was your __love nest__, or something like that."_

"_Even if __you__ stayed there on your rare breaks from teaching other pilots how not to run into mountains?"_ He'd caught the _very_ patient look then, and sighed. _"Another one I'm not going to win, eh?"_

"_Yes. But I'll let you win on only making the Raetia house a project. For now."_ Kallixta grinned at him wickedly.

"_Just so long as the place winds up looking less like a museum than this one. Didn't your ancestors __ever__ want __comfortable_ _furniture?"_

She'd laughed, and asked, with deceptive meekness, _"Can I at least use __my__ money to redo the place?"_

_That_ was a loaded question. She _could_ be referring to her pilot's paycheck. . . which, with hazardous duty pay and combat pay and everything else. . . like his, it had added up. But she _probably_ meant the money he rarely allowed them to touch. Her rents from her estates and her annual stipend. Rinus had sighed. _"Don't bankrupt the taxpayers."_

"_Rinus! They're paying to live on my land. Half of the profits go back into upkeep on the properties and improvements and everything else. I've been very good about not using the rest. Now that we're actually going to be staying in one place for a while—"_

"Knock yourself out," he'd replied, in English, and she'd laughed at the phrase.

Now, his eyes snapped open in the gray light before dawn, the his wife's sleeping body warming the nest beside him, and, after a moment, realized he had absolutely no reason to be awake at 05:00. But _she_ did. _"Sweetness, you're going to be late your first day as an instructor,"_ he warned, rubbing her back.

"_Could I be late for a really good reason?"_ she asked sleepily, stretching.

Rinus chuckled. _"No."_

"_How about for a really __bad__ one?"_ Kallixta rolled over and bit his throat.

"_Not on the first day. Second day, maybe. First day, no."_ He nipped her in return, then patted her hip. _"Up and at them . . .soldier. Now that I'm a gentleman of __leisure__, I want to __watch__ your morning calisthenics."_

That netted him a whack to the shoulder. _"Leisure? You have an odd notion of that, beloved."_

"_I know,"_ he said, sitting up in bed and turning off the alarm before it could squawk at them. _"Tell me about it."_

His morning, after their mutual calisthenics, was spent at the Hierarchy Intelligence Agency here in Complovium, as they would for the foreseeable future. He was technically an employee of the Special Tactics and Reconnaissance Group now, on the books as an analyst. What that meant, in practice, was that he had an office at HIA, and looked at Spectre information for half the day, particularly in regards to new weapons and weapons systems.

There were a lot of them. The Lystheni had been fairly thoroughly crushed, but some of their technology had leaked out of their hands, mainly to batarians. The _Klem Na_ had been 'convinced' to turn over some of the components to the batarian Hegemony, and reverse-engineering a technology tends to take _much_ less time than developing it in the first place. There had been enough incidents of asari 'ghost ships' left drifting in space in or near the Terminus systms, bereft of crews, in the past four years, that the Spectres as a whole suspected there was a _reason_ for these disappearances. Probably even a less savory one than the usual kidnapping, slavery, prostitution narrative. But these disappearances had been a gradual thing. A few every year, always from different coordinates. Never the same system twice.

So, Rinus devoted an hour or two his first day to looking into the new conventional weapons coming out of batarian space—smaller, faster torpedoes, heavier cannons, hand-held shock field weapons, designed for slaver use. . . _ah, Kina Pero's legacy, there,_ he thought, making a note. _Interesting. Military doctrine usually states 'kill,' not 'capture.' Why are they distributing 'capture' weapons in their military all of a sudden? Kinder, gentler batarians seem. . . unlikely._

His next two hours, he devoted once more to biotic weapons, and the information that salarian and turian and human spies had managed to sneak out of batarian space. This file was very thin, but included ship schematics for a new variant of the _Corsair_-class. Heavy reinforcement in new areas, more shielding. . . but slower, as a result. _Thank the spirits. We can still outmaneuver them. These are __probably__ a response to the gunships. But the new sections. . . close to the main weapons batteries. . . large enough for people, but not for machinery. Yeah. Could be biotic containment areas. Hard to say, though._ He switched to another file, hoping to make some headway, but his omnitool started to blip at him. Rinus sighed. It was time to go to his _other_ job.

At least in HIA, he could wear a relatively anonymous dark suit. He'd given in on the subject of the _fancy_ knife sheath, because he knew it was going to be a pain in the ass having to change it and his clothes twice a day. . . and since he now had to go across town to the Conclave of the _Dominae_, he really did need to get into his _dominus_ gear. Black robes, black trousers, black boots, gold chains of office, and the damned knife sheath. At least he didn't look as much of a peacock—such a great human image, that; he'd looked up what a peacock actually looked like once, and spent five minutes whooping with laughter—as the rest of the _dominae_ in their multicolored robes and coronets and gems. He cut through the swirling crowds of _dominae_ in their popinjay colors like a knife, his stride determined, and they tended to get out of his way in a hurry when they noticed his set jaw and focused eyes. _Most_ of the _dominae_, in his opinion, were here for personal advancement. Passing laws that would give them more power or more wealth, or just for the personal vanity of saying that they sat in the Conclave every so often. It apparently went over well with other nobles of both genders. That being said, there were a _few_ that were here for the Law—and he was finding that those on both sides of the political spectrum who were serious-minded tended to find _him_.

Technically, inside the building, he _should_ wear his coronet—it was open at the back, for the comfort of his crest—but as soon as he reached his small office in the Conclave building, unlocking the door, and walking past the empty secretary's desk into his own small area, he took it off and stuck it in his desk drawer.

The Imperator had been _fairly_ patient about the whole 'political involvement' clause of Rinus' contract with Kallixta, but Rinus felt the weight of his own promises, and knew he couldn't put it off much longer. Nor could he continue to do it from several thousand light-years away. He'd managed to put together a few key votes for the Citizenship Act. Now it was time to start work on his _own_ project. AIs. Protecting them, and protecting others from them. Presenting opportunities to people usually denied full citizenship, through the AIs. Just the way the law was supposed to work for _everyone_. As such, he was patiently working his way through a stack of reports from several medical associations on which medical conditions presented the least hazard to their sufferers and those around them, in terms of service on board Hierarchy Fleet vessels, when a throat cleared at the door.

Rinus glanced up. _"I say, old boy,"_ the older turian standing in the doorway drawled out in the high-court tones of Complovium, _"you really should get a secretary. I was dashed surprised to see this door open again, but with no secretary at the desk, I thought the __cleaners_ _were in here, tidying up."_

This was Thonius Maxillus, one of the members of the 'Loyal Opposition' party. He was noble-born, barefaced, and about twenty years Rinus' senior. . . and in spite of all that, Rinus found him affable. In Rinus' very first appearance before the Conclave, several young hotheads had challenged his right to be there. _"Just because he happens to have been the male who was closest nearby when the Imperator's daughter went into __heat__—"_ and saying _heat_ instead of _estrus_ was particularly offensive, since it equated a female with an animal, _"doesn't make him a __dominus__."_ They'd clearly been angling to try to get him to challenge one or more of them to a duel. Rinus had just smiled at them, and had, in fact, been envisioning the three steps it would have taken him to cross to their seats and break the first one's neck, when Thonius had intervened.

"_Imagine that,"_ the older male had said, with mock-surprise. _"And I had thought that manners __did__ make one a __dominae__—but you, sirrah, are clearly lacking in those. __Dominus_ _Velnaran, if you'd be so good as to take your seat? That way, we can all get on with business."_

Now, Rinus stood and accepted a wrist-clasp from Thonius. _"That's sort of the point of __not__ having a secretary,"_ he joked. _"People who don't matter and don't know anything will just walk on by. . . or might, at worst, sit out in the waiting area until they get bored, and leave. People I actually __want__ to talk to, or are brave enough to tap on the door themselves, can get a direct answer."_

"_That'll work for about a week. Then you're going to be overwhelmed. __Everyone__ is going to want a piece of you."_ Thonius shook his head.

"_I know. Truthfully, this is my first day back. I'll dig up a __chalsae__ somewhere."_ Rinus shrugged.

"_All right, but we really do call them secretaries around here."_

"_Would adjutant do?" _

Thonius chuckled. _"Now, before business. . . you're really here for the duration?"_

"_Kallixta has at least a full year stint as an instructor at flight school over in Raetia at the moment. She's going to hate the commute if she makes it a daily thing, but we'll probably be house-hopping for a while till we figure it out."_

Thonius shuddered. _"I will __never__ get used to the casual way in which you refer to your lovely and esteemed wife."_

Rinus laughed. _"What, by her name? What else should I call her?"_

"_Personally, I call mine my penance, but that's actually required in our contract, and thus, another story."_

Rinus shook his head in amusement. _"All right, pleasantries are done. What can I do for you, Thonius?"_

"_I was wondering on your take.. . and perhaps, the take of your father-in-law. . . .on the recent situation on Omega?"_

Rinus frowned. _"By recent, do you mean last year's assassination attempt, or has something else happened in the last twenty-four hours?"_ He sat down on the edge of his desk. Like everything else in the Conclave building, it was over a hundred years old. _"Because we just set foot on the ground last night around midnight, to be honest."_

Thonius grimaced. _"Patriarch passed to the spirits."_

_S'kak,_ Rinus thought, but didn't say it out loud. _"Natural causes?"_

"_Surprisingly, yes. Ullythr Harak announced that Patriacrch's secondary and tertiary livers finally gave out. He had just turned a thousand, apparently." _Thonius returned his gaze to Rinus. _"Your thoughts?"_

Rinus collected himself quickly. _"It's not good, but not necessarily destabilizing. Harak's long been considered Patriarch's right-hand man. There's certain to be a power-struggle, however."_

"_Batarians will almost certainly try to exert their interests once more."_ Thonius's voice was dispassionate.

_Damn bad time for Kallixta to be an instructor and me to be stuck to a desk_, Rinus thought, grimly. Out loud, he answered, _"Harak will not stand for their interference. He might be former Blood Pack, but he'll honor the existing Omega alliance with Urdnot, at least . . . and he's too pragmatic not to see the benefits of Council recognition for both Omega and the krogan there."_

"_The batarians will likely push him very hard."_

Rinus grinned. _"He'll push back. If it comes down to it, we might all have to push back a bit."_ He paused. _"Those are, of course, strictly my own thoughts, Maxillus."_

"_Of course they are."_

Rinus could never quite get over the fact that everyone in this building—and the people over in the Lawgivers building, across the street—seemed to think he came _primed_ with words by the Imperator. In truth, his father-in-law rarely had _time_ to speak with him, and when he did, the Imperator was painfully careful not to talk about politics. . . although he had made a rare departure from that when he'd sent Rinus a message of gratitude for the votes on the Citizenship Act. _And if I got a measure introduced that went completely against the Imperator's wishes,_ Rinus thought, bemused, _everyone in this building would think it was a complex plot to demonstrate my independence from him._

At that point, there was another knock at the door, and another barefaced male stuck his head inside the office. _"Velnaran, you really need to get a secretary—ah-ha. Caught you consorting with the enemy, have I?"_

Rufinus Serenius was a member of the 'Loyalists.' He was only about ten years older than Rinus, and thus younger than Thonius, but a die-hard traditionalist. He _also_ spoke with that cut-glass, high court accent, but he was just as interested in the Law as Thonius. Again, Rinus actually liked him, even if he privately thought Rufinus had a stick so far up his ass that it might require surgical extraction.

"_Loyal_ _Opposition,"_ Thonius told him, with mock-patience. _"You young tyros do often mistake one for the other, I know."_

Rinus snorted. _"And what brings __you_ _to my office today, Serenius? Checking that the cleaning crew isn't stealing my desk?"_

That prompted a laugh. _"No, no. Noticed the door open. Was wondering what new deviltry you were planning to introduce this year to enliven our debates."_

"_Defining the limits of AI citizenship. How they're compensated, how they can retire from service when their ships are scrapped, how they can be held accountable for their actions. Oh, and chipping."_

"_You're __really__ going to introduce that as a matter for debate this year?"_ Rufinus sounded aghast.

"_Technically, Oronius over in the Lawgivers will be introducing it for me. We've been working on the language on and off for a year. He's been pretty patient with my prolonged absences."_

Rufinus shook his head. _"I agree with you that if they're going to be citizens, they need to be accountable. I just have no ideas on what __punishment__ would be appropriate for an AI other than being unplugged."_

"_Denial of service,"_ Rinus replied, promptly. _"Revocation of all data feeds for a given term. They think so much faster than we do, that they __starve__ for input in very short order, and do not have the imaginative faculties of a human or a turian. A day without input would be about equivalent to a week or a month in prison for an organic. Those are just some starting thoughts, though."_

Rufinus nodded thoughtfully. _"The other place you lose me is on the whole chipping thing,"_ he said, dubiously. _"My advice would be to offer those as separate acts. That way, disapproval of one doesn't predicate disapproval of both."_

"_Nonsense,"_ Thonius said, firmly. _"Let the strength of one help carry the other."_ And then they were off, amicably bickering. Rinus just chuckled and said, _"Gentlemen? If you could carry on the argument in the waiting area? I have a truly unfortunate amount of reading to do here."_

"_Another reason you need a secretary,"_ Thonius told him, firmly, but they shut the door behind them.

That night, Rinus hopped on a shuttle for Raetia, for the other house, because that's where Kallixta's work would keep her during the week. At least Raetia was _home_. No marble buildings, just warm brick everywhere. Even her house here—he still thought of them as _her_ houses—was warmer and friendlier. _"__There__ you are,"_ Kallixta said as he came in the door. _"I've been home for an hour."_ She grinned at him. _"And I spent the whole day demonstrating aerobatics in an SR-1."_

Rinus grinned back at her, letting the whole day just drop off of him. _"So, what you're saying is. . . .get in the bedroom, male?"_

"_Yes. Right now, in fact."_

He allowed her to drag him towards the stairs. _"Your cook is probably waiting dinner on us."_

"_Our__ cook can wait."_ She pushed him towards their door—fortunately, _she_ knew which one led to the master's suite, because damned if _he_ knew—and then followed him in, wrapping her arms around his neck and almost climbing up him to bite at his neck.

"_Little edgy today, aren't you?"_ He braced himself and picked her up off the ground, biting her throat now.

"_First day nerves. Also. . . very grateful to you."_ She bit him again, harder.

Not that he was going to _argue_, but. . . _"Grateful?"_ he managed to mumble against her throat.

"_Doing stuff you really hate doing so we can be together,"_ she clarified, and he walked her into the room further, glancing around a little blindly. . . _ah, there it is. . . ._before settling her down into their nest. Spirits, but he _loved_ it when she'd flown all day. The adrenaline hopped her up and made her very aggressive, and _ah, spirits, sweetness, your hands. . . ._

"_And it has __nothing__ to do with your diabolical plans to convince me to go to dinner at the palace with your family this month?"_ he asked teasingly, putting his head on her shoulder for a minute to try to regain a little control, and her fingers tightened in response.

"_Rin? Stop teasing me and just take me already."_

"_Yes, __domina._"

And so the days went; they were trying to find an equitable balance between her work in Raetia and his work in Complovium. His intelligence work, he could at least do from home, so some days he simply stayed in the house in Raetia and worked steadily through reports and weapons specifications and his own recommendations for alterations to the SR-1s in their upcoming refit—largely armor and the new multi-valenced shield technology that Talana Cautoris—wife of the Spectre Livanus Cautoris—was trying to develop—but Rinus also wanted better teeth on the older ships. Rear-facing guns, for starters. Large caliber side-mounted guns, for when torpedos weren't an option. Torpedoes with EM pulse loads were another favorite of his. _If we demand that the SR ships respond to multiple types of missions, then we have to make then as flexible and adaptable to multiple threats as possible,_ he wrote in one of his reports.

Kallixta was reading over his shoulder, though. _"If you put much more weight on the SR-1s, you'll compromise the pilot's maneuverability,"_ she warned. _"Don't defang __me__, either, beloved."_

"_I'm not. The primary refit is upgrading the Tantalus core to something more in line with the SR-2's engine model. In a ship that small? You'll have more responsiveness, even with mass added."_

"_Ahh, that would help."_ He showed her the numbers, and she murmured approvingly over his shoulder at his desk. _"You work better in Raetia, beloved. You're more relaxed than in the Complovium house."_

"_Raetia feels like home. Mindoir's home for my younger siblings, but this is where __I__ think of, when I think of Palaven,"_ he admitted, and caught her hand as she snaked it around him from behind to rub at his cowl. _"Of course, lately, wherever you are is home, sweetness."_

"_Well spoken, but a bit of a falsehood. If that were true, you'd be happy on Macedyn. Or even in my villa on Baetika."_

"_I was perfectly happy on Macedyn,"_ he protested.

"_You were grumpy any time we were in the house. On the beach, relaxed, in the house, grumpy."_

He shrugged. _"I've never felt comfortable in hotels. Strange places, not my territory. Wrong smells, wrong everything."_ Rinus leaned back now, and felt her fingers dig into his shoulders. Rubbing out stress and strain. _"And since we haven't spent any appreciable time in any of those places, that's all they feel like. Hotels."_

"_Then why not let me make them feel like __our__ places?"_ Kallixta asked, reasonably enough. _"Sooner or later, Rinus, my mate. . . you're going to have to accept that what is mine really __is__ yours, too, because I share it with you. Freely."_

He sighed. This was one of their _long_-standing arguments. He'd long said he didn't want to live outside of the resources of their own paychecks, their own merits. _"Sweetness, we've been over this ground before—"_

"—_and doubtless will again. Let me ask you this: is my money, my money?"_

"_Of course it is."_ Reflexive, even indignant.

"_Then you really have no say in what I do with it?"_

Rinus gave her a look, leaning his head back to do so. _"I'll be very loud in my protests if you start visiting __rlatae__ tracks and gambling." _

Her fingers dug in a little harder. _"Then __all__ you get to say is whether or not you like the furniture I pick to make us __both_ _more comfortable in __all__ of the places that are __ours__. I do __not__ understand this constant insistence that these houses are __mine__ and not ours. It's beginning to make me angry, in fact."_

He sighed. _"Probably a bit of feeling like a class traitor,"_ Rinus admitted after a minute. He sat in silence for a moment, her fingers still working into his shoulders. Finally, he added, "_And. . . .I've never owned much, and I've never owed __anything__. All of this feels like both owning and owing at the same time."_

"_You don't owe a thing. And we own each other. Now shut up and let me do nice things for you, like making you feel less on edge every time you walk in the door of the Complovium house. You need to be able to think there, and you can't think if you've gone on territorial alert on entering the door."_

He hadn't even thought of it that way, but it was true. Any time he walked into _any_ of her houses, the strong feeling of it not being _his_ place assailed him, and he _did_ go into a slightly defensive mode. As if waiting to be attacked by the real owner. _"It's exceedingly difficult to win an argument with you, beloved. Especially when you're bound and determined to be nice to me."_ Her fingers really were working out every knot of tension in his shoulders.

"_Sort of the objective, yes."_

"_What were we talking about before you started rubbing my shoulders, anyway?"_

"_Multi-valenced shields. What makes those different from cyclonic?"_

"_Sort of a combination of cyclonic and static. They still rotate in layers around the ship, but not from a single source. Multiple layers of shields around sensitive portions, like the engines and the CIC. And since they have multiple generators. . . the enemy has to work a lot harder to take down everything."_

And then they were off, debating power consumption versus effectiveness, and Rinus knew, once again, how much he _loved_ his mate. Passion and intelligence and aggressiveness and love, all in one neat package. And wicked smile and a neat waist to set it all off with.

Of course, two days later, it was back to Complovium, and voting on issues that he still needed guidance to understand properly. A secretary _had_ mysteriously shown up in his office one day—backed with a full resume and vetted thoroughly by Pallum. Rinus glanced at Pallum, who was his guard for the day, and asked, dryly, _"Can I assume the secretary was sent by someone in the Palace?"_ _As in, did my respected __pada'amu_ _decide I needed help?_

"_Yes, she certainly was." _Pallum looked at the ceiling for the moment. "_She's also going to be your legislative aide, apparently."_

Rinus looked at the middle-aged female, this one in green Rocam paint, and blinked. "_So, you're Edenia Carpas, then?"_

"_Yes, dominus."_

"_Sir__ will do, if you __must__ use a title. Nice to meet you."_ Rinus read through her file, and whistled through his teeth. "_I see from your file here that you spent the last __twenty__ years on the Imperator's legislative liaison staff. And the four years of your military service was spent working with Financial Affairs, lobbying for money to be allocated to different divisions of our forces."_

"_Yes, sir."_ Carpas looked off calmly into space.

Rinus hesitated. _"Isn't this something of a step __down__ for you?"_

"_Not at all. I've been a junior member of a very large staff for a very long time. Now I'm a senior member of a very small staff. . .though one that might grow, with time. That is, if you accept my services."_ Her voice was very precise.

Rinus sat down on the edge of his desk and stared at her for a long moment. _"I need someone who's not going to drive their own agenda, or someone else's. Everyone in this building assumes I work for either the Imperator or for my uncle. I probably can't escape that, but I'd __like__ to walk my own path. If you can help me with that, you're in. If you can't, walk out now. Because what I need from you is multiple points of view and a balance of information on issues that I don't have education in. If we get busy enough, grab some junior staffers for research."_

"_I can do that, sir."_ Her gaze was very steady. _"There may be times when I tell you that I think you're wrong."_

"_That's fine, if you can __convince__ me. If you can't convince me after a half hour, though, give up and try again some other day."_ Rinus' voice was a dry rasp.

"_Very good, sir."_

"_All right. Let's get started on today's agenda. I'd like to understand things a little better."_ Rinus' general view was that laws were like machines. If everything was well balanced and meshed together properly, they functioned. If any one element didn't balance properly, the whole thing showed a tendency to explode. Edenia Carpas turned out to be an _ideal_ aide. She understood most of the finance functions of the Conclave of _Dominae_, and could quickly pull up facts on what projects had already been funded in the previous year, which had budget shortfalls, and could explain _why_ that had happened. Rinus spot-checked her research quietly on his own periodically, just to make sure he wasn't having his agenda driven by her, but was, in general, very impressed.

He had a very good idea of what he believed in terms of cross-planetary and galactic politics. It was all the Palaven politics and the consequences of funding or not funding various projects that gave him a vile headache. As such, he had _no_ problem voting _yea_ on a resolution to support Ullythr Harak's continued governance of Omega, and to recommend sending Hierarchy ambassadors there, in addition to the Council representatives. Anything that stabilized Omega was a _good_ thing.

Two weeks after _that_, Carpas tapped on his door and stuck her head in. _"Sir?"_ she said. _"There's a human here to see you."_

Rinus glanced up. _"Does the human have a __name__?"_ he asked, a little impatiently, and started running through his mental list of the humans with whom he was acquainted.

"_Mr. Andrew Maxwell, of CAIR."_ Her voice spoke volumes about her opinion of the group.

_Ah, __s'kak.__ Just what I needed to make my day complete._ Rinus wasn't required to stand to greet guests, but he usually did, to let them feel welcome. In this particular case, he decided that rank had some small privileges, and that making an unwelcome guest feel, well, _unwelcome_, was a perquisite he was willing to take. "Mr. Maxwell," Rinus said in English, leaning back in his chair, stylus still in his hand. "It's been a while."

"Thanks for seeing me, ah, _Dominus._ Last time I talked to you, it was _Optio._"

"Actually, last time, it was both. I just preferred _optio._" Rinus stared at the human. He _knew_ how disconcerting the predator gaze of a turian was for most humans, and didn't hesitate to use it against them if needed. "What can I do for you today?"

"My organization—the Council for AI Rights, as you'll remember—is very interested in the legislation that you're helping the Conclave of Lawgivers to present. Specifically, the statues that would expand upon AI citizenship rights, as well as those that would grant citizenship to disabled turians who agreed to serve as temporary AI emergency nodes. These are excellent notions, but we'd like to suggest that they don't go far enough."

Rinus chuckled under his breath. _Of course not._ "I'm sure that's not the only reason you're here," he said, dryly.

Maxwell smiled. "Well, we are also concerned with some of the statutes being suggested for punishing AIs that commit offenses. We think they're unduly punitive. No _Normandy_-class AI—they really need to come up with a better name for themselves, don't you think?—has ever _electronically defrauded_ a banking institution, for example."

"Just because they haven't, and because they currently have strict ethical subroutines doesn't mean that someday there won't be an AI who might try," Rinus said, shrugging. "Currently, we've taken the majority of the penal code, removed the things that they physically _can't do_—rape, for example—and pared it down to things that they _could_ do. Harassment. Murder. Criminal negligence. Vandalism."

"Oh, come now, I don't see them kicking over _trash cans_ and _spray painting_ walls—"

"No, but if my son Ariston decided he didn't like the way someone had treated him, and hovered over that person's house, and used his ship's fifty-cal guns to, say, dig a trench in the person's yard? That could be construed as both assault and vandalism. Take your pick. . . you are the lawyer in the room, after all. And such behavior should be punished, should it not? The same as for an organic." Rinus had been _very_ careful to use the word _son_ in his comments. Just a little reminder to Maxwell that of the people in the room, _Rinus_ not only had the most intimate knowledge of AIs, having carried one in his head for close to a year, and having some fifty of them being, technically, his offspring. While Rinus might not know every one of his kids, the way Jeff Moreau had, he _did_ care about them. It was important to set rules and guidelines for their behavior, and also for how others could behave towards them.

Maxwell rocked back slightly. "Yes, but the punishments we've heard floated seem. . . heavy handed. Cutting off data to an AI _could_ lead them to become. . .dissociated. Mentally unbalanced."

"We're not saying, remove the data from their existing store. We're saying 'go to your room for a few hours and think about what you've done,'" Rinus said, dryly and impatiently. "I'm actually about to go to a floor vote. Could we continue this some other time?"

_And before we do, I'm going to have Carpas check to see what, if any standing CAIR has as a lobbying group here in the Hierarchy. There's a good chance I don't have to talk to you, unless I choose to do so, Mr. Maxwell. _

**Serana, October 2195-January 2196**

She'd studied and prepared as best she could, and there were still beetles burrowing around in her crop for the full week before boot camp was to begin. Serana couldn't _possibly_ live up to the impossibly high standards of her first-brother and second-brother. She wasn't _them_. Oh, after five and a half years of training, she could hold her own in sparring, and had learned what was, jokingly, starting to be called the "Mindoir mixed" style—anything any of the Spectres available were willing to teach, on any given night. She, like her _ama'fradu_ Dara, didn't have the raw power of the males. She was going to have to rely on speed, leverage, and subtlety to get by in sparring. Weapons? Well, pistols and rifles weren't a problem, but she hadn't had time to qualify on anything else. Not with taking three languages and courses in xenopsychology and government and the history and culture of a half-dozen species. And for all the rules and regulations. . . no problem. Serana could memorize with the best of them. And she could put on a good front of being obedient with the best of them, too.

No, there were two things that worried her. Whether she'd still be _herself_ when she got done with the experience, or if there'd be some stranger living in her body, and whether she'd _get_ to do what she'd spent the last three years training to do. The first, she could take care of on her own, she figured. She'd pack her real self down where the drill centurions couldn't see it looking out of her eyes. Wear a mask so real, she _lived_ it. . . and then put it away when it was time. Kasumi had taught her how to do it. And boot camp would be the first test of dividing up realities.

The second was _much_ more of a concern. Serana had run a half-dozen more 'errands' for Kasumi over the past six months, of varying degrees of difficulty. All with a safety net in place—though she only found out _afterwards_ what, or even _if_, there'd been one. Picking up data drops, meeting a couple of minor agents. It had been _very_ exciting. . . and very scary. Especially the last one, which had involved a trip to Lorek, which was batarian-held. She and Kasumi had posed as a relic hunter and an apprentice, looking for lost asari art, and had made contact, discreetly, with a few rebellious slaves along the way, and had taken information on troop movements and slave quotas away with the bits and pieces of artifacts they'd collected—with a permit—from old asari sites on the planet. Several times, Serana had thought they were going to be caught talking to the slaves, but she had a stealth generator, a biosign masker, and a concealed pistol, and she'd _hoped_ she'd be ready if it came down to it. Fortunately, the final exam hadn't been required.

Now she sat in her room, already cleared of her belongings, and wondered at its bareness. All her old toys, passed down to Polina and Quintus and Caelia already. She had dozens of books on Earth and its literature squirreled away in her datapad. She'd had a fascination with humans since she was five years old and had met Aunt Lilu for the first time, when Quintus was just a baby. The interest had only grown and bloomed on Mindoir. She'd read their mythology and then their classics—Shakespeare and Beowulf and Dostoevsky, in school—and then Kasumi had introduced her to their twentieth century science fiction and fantasy writers, and Serana had _laughed_ her way through some of those. Anything human was really fair game. She'd even tried kendo for a while, the highly stylized sword forms seeming _just_ enough like gladiatorial style, but not. And spirits knew, with four hybrid cousins, a human aunt, and three or four little hybrids on base that she'd babysat from time to time. . . Serana knew very well which levo foods she liked, and could eat safely. She even carried epi-tabs. . . just in case one of the little ones had a bad reaction.

Her hobbies were all ones of the mind or of the body. It didn't leave her with a lot to pack, at least. But she sort of wished there'd be some tangible reminder that she'd been _here_.

Vindexus padded in slowly, panting. The big mastiff was getting old, and his fur was going gray around his muzzle. Sort of shocking, really, though she'd seen little streaks of gray in Aunt Lilu's hair and Sam's hair, and even a few strands in Kasumi's developing. Vindexus heaved himself into her nest, and curled up, putting his massive head in her lap. _"Aw, you came in to make me feel better?"_ Serana asked him, and scratched his ears with one hand, while opening her datapad with the other.

A letter was already queued up there. Serana sighed. _Asperitalla_, he'd written. The old nickname that didn't mean anything to him, but meant the world to her. Little fierce one. _Got to spend some time with your brother, Rinus here on Edessan. He's a very good shot._

Serana knew how to read between lines. That _didn't_ mean that they'd gone to the firing range together. And Edessan was where the Imperial progress had just passed through—and Rinus and Kallixta had been obliged to accompany it. _That means that something happened that __didn't__ make the news. But what?_ Serana had thought about it, and run a half-dozen extranet searches, and had finally come up with a 'pageant' that hadn't been on the official schedule. The Praetorians were saying that the display in Sarbrantha had been a reenactment of the Unification Wars. Serana thought that Kasumi would call that a fine piece of PR bullshit. Or maybe _talas'kak_, if Kasumi were feeling humorous.

She went on re-reading the letter, her first from him in months. _Little stubborn and hard-headed, but that seems to run in your family. Then again, you already know my opinion on that. Have to keep this short. Hard to type one-handed. _That pretty much _shouted_ that he'd been injured. Probably out doing whatever he'd been doing with her first-brother. Serana was actually fairly pleased that he _hadn't_ tried to hide that from her. Hadn't really come out and _said_ it, but at least he wasn't treating her like he treated his mother.

_Understand your boot camp is starting soon. Spirits keep you safe._ And that was the part that made her smile, a little uncertainly. Every time she got _mad_ at him, or thought she was _finally_ over her crush, he'd turn around and do or say something that made her, simply, happy. In this case, the simple turian blessing was written in English, probably completely unconsciously.

She wrote only a couple of sentences in reply. _Spirits keep you safe, too. Extranet coverage of that pageant on Edessan was something, wasn't it? They should have had fireworks, to simulate the space combat of the Unification Wars along with everything else. _By which she meant him to understand. . . _yeah, I'm not buying that one._

_Hope you're able to make it to my second-brother's __tal'mae__ rites, and if he's there, give my best to Lin. You're both missed around here._ She was tempted to remind him to _duck_, but Serana figured he knew that part already.

She'd written to her first-brother, too. More of a careful, respectful poke than anything. Rinus was _far_ older than she, and had been intimidating even _before_ becoming a _dominus_. And now he was so busy with the Conclave business and actual _real_ work that she hated to bother him. But her careful information probe had read, _First-brother. I hope that your recent trip to Edessan went well. I understand you and Elijah Sidonis had occasion to spend time together. I trust that you were not injured as well? Amazing how rough the crowds can be._

Rinus' reply had been startlingly prompt: _Don't worry, first-sister. I wasn't hurt. Nor was Eli, at least, not badly. It's not a bad thing to have fought with him. Gave me his measure, and I liked what I saw in him. He's spirit-sick, though, first-sister. Might be hard for you to hear that, since you're at home. But it's true. Good luck in boot camp. Make us all proud._

So now she had something _else_ to worry about, besides boot camp.

Serana was astounded by how _little_ she remembered of Palaven. She went there a few days early to spend time with her grandfather Gavius, and helped him with the gardens in the old family villa. She remembered it being bigger, grander, and less shabby. _"Are you going to come to Mindoir to live?"_ she asked him practically. _"Uncle Edgidus can't come down from Dymion every week to help with the __rosetum__ bushes and the __ianthinus__ plants."_

Grandpa Gavius had grimaced at her. _"Doubt your mother or your uncle would much welcome me living so close by."_

Serana bit her tongue. No, they probably wouldn't, but someone was going to have to take care of Grandpa as he got older, and it would be _much_ easier if he were a half hour away by groundcar, rather than several _days_ away by spaceship. _"A lot of the older members of the families of those on base are immigrating to Mindoir_," she said, after a moment's careful thought. _"Kasumi—that's the step-mother of Rel's wife—brought her mother to live nearby after the death of her father. That way, Hinata gets to spend more time with her grandson, and Kasumi can take care of her when needed. I understand that Agnes Jaworski will be moving there soon, too." _

Grandpa had snorted at the thought. _"__That__ woman. She spent the entirety of your brother's manus rites reception arguing with me over the Relay 314 Incident."_

"_Was it at least a fun argument?"_

Grandpa gave her a dark look, then laughed, shortly. _"Actually. . . it was."_

And then she'd gone off to bootcamp, disappearing into the maw of the Dacian facility like thousands of others just like her. One gray mote in a pile of gray sand.

Serana didn't expect to make squad leader, and didn't; she was in a group that was heavy on marines and infantry, and was mostly just glad that her Mindoir training let her excel in sparring. The drill centurions heard her last name, and the word 'Mindoir,' and she could see the _evaluative_ light come on in their eyes. _S'kak. Some of them have been here since Rel, Dara, and Eli went through. Hope they don't expect the same things of me_.

But. . . she did survive every round of sparring. Not always winning, but never injured, either. Always managing to be someplace _else_ when the heavy kicks came through. She excelled in her two chosen weapons, earning sharpshooter marks quickly. . . and eked out qualifying marks on shotguns and heavy weapons. Most of the heaviest ones, including the assault rifles, had a _lot_ of kick, and while she was strong and getting stronger with the daily exercise, it was a little much. But she could swim easily, and already could outclimb even some of the humans, thanks to three years of training with Kasumi in cat burglar techniques.

And there were more humans coming through now. They still weren't a _common_ sight, but four years into the unification of forces process, there were twenty recruits at the Dacian facility—and Serana met them all. They were universally delighted to hear her clean, unaccented English, and eager to talk with her about their homes and families. It became another game. . . seeing how much information she could draw out of them before they realized she'd given none in return. The same applied to her turian barracksmates.

The weeks dragged on and on, and Serana occasionally received a letter from the outside world—maybe one from Dara and Rel, for instance, now _tal'mae_ wed, and starting their second tour. Dara was being sent to Rocam for a year of specialization in surgical techniques, and Rel, not needing another year of relative dead time, had actually volunteered to go back out into space. _That had to have been a long conversation_, Serana thought, wincing. But they both needed to tend to their own careers, and that meant sacrifices. Rinus and Kallixta wrote occasionally, too. Both on Palaven now—Kallixta training SR pilots for a year, and Rinus doing Conclave work. . . as well as other 'family' contracts that he wouldn't discuss. _So, first-brother is out of the military after ten years in. I know he wanted to be in for twenty, but things change, I guess_.

And then she'd gone right back into the grind of it all. Running, sparring, training, running, sparring, shooting. When one letter from Eli did come through, she read it in her barracks, almost too tired to keep her eyes open. _Asperitalla—didn't want you to think I'd forgotten all the letters you wrote __me__ during boot camp. Been really busy closing out my cases on Edessan, though. Want to leave a clean slate for the next guy stuck at my desk. Yeah, I'm going to be one of those four-years-and-done guys. Lin and I are both quitting at the end of our tour, going to try for B-Sec. Your first-brother's friend, Pallum, actually made me a job offer of a different sort, but I said no._

Serana paused in her reading. _Pallum? Pallum's Praetorian Guard. He made Eli a job offer? And he __didn't__ accept? Elijah Sidonis, I am going to kick you in the __ass__ when I see you next._

The letter went on, _I'm tired of living on Hierarchy worlds, little one. Bastion's a lot more complete than last time I lived there—six years of construction will do that—so I'm kind of looking forward to a fresh start. When's your graduation, anyway? I might not be able to make it, so don't hold me to it, but I __do__ have some leave coming._

Serana wrote back, _If Pallum's the one I remember who likes to sneak around as much as I do, why under the __stars_ _wouldn't you take that job? Another two or four years in the Hierarchy, sure, but then you could write your ticket anywhere in the galaxy. Even B-Sec would take you as a lieutenant, walking in the door, right? I probably can't change your mind, but maybe the job offer will still hold in a couple of years, once you're less burned out on living around turians all the time. I mean, I can understand that we're __terribly__ stressful to live around. That's why you had only ten or fifteen or twenty turian friends at home._ That was a tease. _My graduation's Secdus 2, but I won't hold you to it. You'd have better things to do with your first leave in two years than just to come see me._ She hesitated, then added, _I know you'll be pleased to hear I did at least make officer. MI posting._

Military intelligence. . . which was, in fact, being spun off into an agency independent of the military now. The Hierarchy Intelligence Agency was the turian answer to salarian STG. More bureaucratic, more organized along military lines, of course. . . but the first time the turians would be developing their own intelligence sources in a thousand years.

His reply had been terse. One sentence. _At least tell me it's an __analysis__ posting, asperitalla._

_Okay. . . humans generally don't __like__ to argue. But he's certainly been arguing with me for a while on this. If he were turian, it would be almost a compliment. An excuse, a pretext. Something to argue __about__. But he's __not__ turian, no matter how much like one of us he can act sometimes. Should I even answer back?_ Serana debated it for a while, and then, finally, responded, just before her Trial, _Eli, it's probably going to be operations. I don't know much more than that. Why can't you just __accept__ this?_ If he wanted to argue, she could _argue_. Pure, direct confrontation. _You haven't seen me in two years. You don't know who I am now, or who or what I can become. You don't __see__ me at all. Actually, given the right combination of skill and a stealth generator, you __won't__ see me at all._ She chuckled over that one. _Maybe someday, we can find something __else__ to argue about, you great big idiot. Until then, I guess we'll just have to use this one. You need to be more creative, though. A girl likes a little variety in her disputations._

No reply. He _probably_ wouldn't know what to do with that one, in fact. It bordered on flirtatious, by turian standards, and she regretted it the moment she hit _send._

On graduation day, her father and mother were there in the enormous crowd of people trying to pick up their children, and trying to pick out individuals in all that gray armor was difficult. . . but much to her surprise, Kasumi and Sam, her mentors in sneaking and stealth were there, too. Serana tried hard not to look as if she was searching the crowd around them as they walked up. Kasumi had looked just as proud of her as her own parents had. "You still feel like yourself?" the little woman had asked, after beckoning Serana to bend down to whisper in her ear.

"Mostly. A little more tired and a little grumpier," Serana admitted. "But you were right. They couldn't get in my head, if I didn't let them."

Kasumi's dark eyes gleamed. "Resistance to indoctrination is a very important tool. You've just been through one of the most potent indoctrination machines in existence. It probably _did_ leave marks. . . but now you'll recognize the tools the drill centurions used, if you ever encounter them again. Tiredness, short rations, repetition, group think, peer pressure, punishments, rewards."

Serana gave her a half-smile. "I'm turian enough to value what they teach here, Kasumi. And I'll use what I've learned. On all counts."

And that was when a hand came down on her shoulder from behind, and Serana turned sharply, bringing her elbow back, and felt her armor _clang_ into other armor, and found her arm deftly caught and held behind her. A low, male, _human_ voice spoke directly in her ear, in _perfect_ turian, marked by a little Macedyn drawl mingled with a little Edessan clip, _"So, I understand you wanted me to find new things to argue about? How about the fact that you need to watch your six, __asperitalla__?"_

She managed to turn around, and her visor was up, so she _knew_ he saw her delighted grin. "Eli? You _actually_ came here?"

He was in full armor, of course, a radiation barrier that humans desperately needed. Officer black, red and gold stripes for CID. Insignia of an O3, or lieutenant-commander. All of her barracks-mates were clustering around, looking at Sam in his Spectre outfit, and _staring_ at Eli—a human in turian uniform, clan-paint clearly visible through his transparent faceplate. Proof that the humans who graduated _could_ make it in the turian fleet.

Serana was staring herself. He still had her wrist in his grip, and she could see almost instantly why her brother Rinus had called him _spirit-sick_. His eyes had always sparkled before. Inquisitive, lively, teasing. At the moment, there was a _hint_ of the teasing there. . . but he was mostly closed, turned inward. She'd had a previous warning from his last leave on Mindoir, so it wasn't a complete shock.

All that, at a glance. Eli chuckled, a dark sound. _"You gave me a flat-out challenge in your last letter, little one. Either stop arguing with you, or at least do it properly. Fine. I'm here. We can argue all you want."_

Then all her barracks-mates were crowding around her. Several of them had offered to take her with them to one of the recruit hotels, and for a moment or two earlier in the week, she'd been sorely tempted to take them up on their offer. One of them in particular, a big male, had been particularly pressing about urging her to join them. It had actually taken Serana a couple of moments to figure out why, as he'd squeezed her hand a little tighter, trying to cajole her along. Her mouth had opened to say, _sure, why not_. Instead, she'd found herself smiling. _"Nah, that's okay. I want to report to my next post a little early. You guys have fun, though."_ _Now where_, she'd thought, amused at herself_, did that come from?_ She'd fully intended to say _yes_. But her spirit had taken control of her mouth instead of her brain, and now she was _very_ glad it had done so.

"_You've been keeping secrets,"_ one of her female barracks-mates told her, leaning in close, and giggling. _"For a human, he's actually not bad looking. Not as soft as they usually seem. Is he strong?"_

_You have no idea._ _"He was blooded on a spirit-of-fire on Tuchanka before boot camp,"_ Serana replied, absolutely content. _"So. . . yes."_ She bared her teeth, looking back over her shoulder at her parents and Sam and Kasumi and Eli for a moment. _"He's strong." Stronger than even he thinks he is._

Her contentment didn't last long, of course. Eli fully intended to _argue_ with her, but kept it under wraps through dinner at the only hotel in Dacia that had radiation shielding for non-turian guests. He managed to laugh and chat and put on a good show all the way through the dessert course. Which was when her parents brought up the subject of her OCS course, Serana looked around and suggested, "Maybe we should go upstairs for this part?" and they reconvened upstairs in her room. Just a family gathering, everyone taking a chair or the edge of the bed. Eli grabbed a chair by the table, beside the tiny courtesy cryo-unit.

Serana began to discuss, with some relish, the fact that she already knew stealth techniques and lock-picking and encryption, and that she fully expected to move on to advanced coursework quickly. "Probably improvised traps and setting explosive devices, and such," she said calmly, looking at Kasumi and Sam as she did.

She caught the dark glare from Eli, and he opened the cryo-unit, frowned, and poured himself a drink—a double, in fact. Human whiskey, from the smell of it. She'd only smelled that once before. "Isn't that what you were drinking the night of Dara and Rel's contract negotiations?" Serana asked Sam, leaning forward and taking a sniff.

Sam snorted. "Now _that_ feels like forever ago. Yes, li'l darlin', it was. I got very damned drunk on that, and lived to regret living to regret it." He eyed Eli for a moment. "Didn't know whiskey was your poison, son."

"I don't drink much, or often," Eli said, shrugging. "Not real fond of hangovers." When Serana went back to talking about OCS, however, and discussing with Kasumi the chances of doing counter-espionage work as opposed to active operations, Eli poured another drink, another double, and stayed broodingly quiet for a while. Finally, he couldn't apparently hold it in any longer. "So, are we talking long-term deep cover work? You want to wind up like Charis, Eduardo's wife? You know what she did when she was doing deep-cover work on Omega?" His voice was _very_ hard now, as were his eyes, but he wasn't slurring his words at all.

Sam whistled a little. "Okay, and this sounds like an argument I don't need to be a part of," he said, standing. "Though I'll point out, from having read your record over Lantar's shoulder, that you've done your fair share of undercover work, son."

Eli gave Sam a flat look. "Either you're in this conversation, or you're out. Make up your mind."

Sam spread his hands, looking very amused now. "I'm out." He headed for the door, turning back to look at Kasumi inquiringly.

Kasumi glanced at him. "Just a minute." She looked back at Eli, and shook her head. "Charis had a fairly unusual assignment, Eli. Most deep-cover people don't wind up having to infiltrate criminal organizations that are heavy on prostitution."

Solanna's eyes had gone wide. "I . . . had no idea that that's what her cover was on Omega." She blinked. "I knew that she and Eduardo had done some hard things there. . . ."

Kasumi sighed. "I'll be blunt here, because if I'm not, I know Eli will be. Charis worked vice before getting recruited by salarian STG to infiltrate Omega. She and Eduardo were supposed to be contacts for each other. He was trying to work his way in as an enforcer, and had more freedom of movement than she did as one of Aria's wigglers. Unfortunately, one of her . . . clients. . . beat her till she couldn't stand back up one night. Eduardo walked in on that and took the male's head off with his machete. Charis had to stay in cover enough to hit Eduardo for leaving a mess in her room, and then he more or less _carried_ her to a clinic." Kasumi's voice was dispassionate.

Sam volunteered, dryly, "Always knew there was a reason I liked Eduardo. Other than the very similar taste in knives."

Solanna looked _ill_ now, and Allardus put his hand on her shoulder. "That being said," Kasumi said, dryly, "It's _far_ more likely for a deep-cover agent to go in as a secretary or an aide or someone in a social position, a position of trust. . . or work their way _to_ that position, over years. . . than to go in as a hooker." She stood up now. "But yes. . . this does sound like one of those private types of arguments." Kasumi headed for the door, which Sam opened for her. And then they stepped outside.

Allardus and Solanna were slower to leave. Serana was _annoyed_ now, though. "So, what _are_ you trying to do here, Eli? You want to argue with me, argue with _me_. Don't try to scare my parents and hope _they'll_ put their foot down. Kind of late for that, anyway. I've already been assigned my MOS."

"An MOS can be changed," Eli snapped right back at her. "You haven't attended OCS yet. You haven't officially specialized until it's _done_ and you've _passed._"

"So, what, you want me to drop three years of work?"

"I've told you before, I don't want you to throw your damn life away!"

"What, like you are? You turned down the _futtari_ Praetorian Guard, Eli!"

"This isn't about me, this is about _you_." From a shout a moment ago to an absolute growl. Eli leaned forward, staring at her as intently as any turian. "Either you're going to spend the next twenty years of your life in some deep-cover assignment, completely cut off from everyone you know—"

"That's not what I'm _trained_ for. They wouldn't _waste_ me on that!"

"—or you're going to wind up _dead_, probably _shot_ by some guard when you're sneaking around some place where you're not fucking supposed to be!" Back up to a shout, completely heedless of the fact that her parents were in the room.

Allardus coughed slightly. _"This __does__ sound like a personal argument,"_ he said, in turian, and stood, Solanna's hand in his. _"First-daughter, let me say again, how proud I am of you. You will do well in anything you choose to do." _ He patted her shoulder, and then they moved towards the door, closing it behind them.

Serana registered that they'd left, but was _much_ too busy arguing with Eli to do more than nod an acknowledgement. She stood up now, folding her arms across her chest. "Great. So you think I'm so _bad_ at this, and the centurions and the instructors are so _horrible_ at their jobs that they'd send me to _certain death_."

Eli glared at her, and rose to his own feet to look down at her. She could smell whiskey on his breath, sweet and a little exotic. "I'm not saying you're bad at it. I'm saying that you're putting yourself at unnecessary risk. Even the best-trained people get killed, Serana, even with people standing _right there_ to protect them."

"Would you feel better if you were there to hold my damned hand the whole time?" Serana snapped.

Eli snorted. "Oh, yeah. That'd really help."

And in a flash, she _got_ it. "This is about Kella," Serana said, much more quietly now. "And Lin's wife. And everyone else."

Eli flinched back. "What? No—"

"This is about not having been able to save Kella. Dara had first-aid, but couldn't save her, you didn't know asari CPR then, and couldn't fire a gun." She was _sure_ she had it right. "And you went from trying to save Kella to trying to help Siara—yes, I know about that. No one ever seems to realize how much I hear. But you couldn't _totally_ save her from herself—but you know what? She's fine now. Happy. Doing good work. And then there's Lin's wife. _Both_ of you standing over her and you couldn't protect her. Just like you said a moment ago."

Eli had turned away, face completely closed, and picked up his drink. Swallowed the rest of it in one go. "Good one, _asperitalla_," he said, quietly. "Yeah. Some cop I am. Serve and _protect_, my ass. What a track record."

"Stop that." Serana's voice was firm and she glared at him now. "You are such an _idiot_, Elijah Sidonis. There are really days when I don't know why I care about you so much, because you are really a complete idiot sometimes."

**Elijah and Serana**

Eli blinked. "What did you just say?" _I. . . definitely didn't hear that right. _Those big, wide eyes, looking right up into his, just as she always had. Seeing way too goddamn much, as always.

"What I've been trying to get you to see for years now." Serana poked him in the chest. "You think you're a _failure_? Lantar showed me your service record, you know. And I _know_ there've been additions since then. They don't offer Praetorian Guard positions to failures. To _idiots_, apparently, but not to failures."

Now he was irritated. "And just _how_ am I an idiot, little one? Huh? You want to explain that from your great and vast perspective and experience?" He'd had two _very_ stiff drinks, and he hardly _ever_ drank. He wasn't _drunk_, but the world was definitely a little fuzzy around the edges.

"You're being an idiot because you blame yourself for _everything_, including things outside of your control." Serana stepped closer to him, staring up into his eyes, making him meet her gaze. So close. So very close. "_Dara_ couldn't save Kella. You don't blame her for Kella's death, do you?"

"_S'kak_, no, little one. I damned near tore Siara a new one for even suggesting that, once upon a time." _Dara couldn't have saved Kella. But I was there, and I was useless. Worse than useless. A liability._

"But you've never forgiven yourself, either." She reached up, put a hand on his face, right over the slash of violet clan-paint, and Eli almost flinched. Her skin was so warm to the touch. Like the sun. "And Brennia, too." It was a long and horrible line of things he couldn't _stop_ or change. His father's death. The night at the cave, mostly drugged and out of his mind. Kella's death. Siara's choices. Brennia's death. _Hell, I couldn't even keep us from losing a damned __handball__ game without Rel stepping in. No matter what he says about it._

But Serana was going on now. "Things happen, Eli. Random, horrible things. I can't promise you that random, horrible things won't happen to me, but I _can_ promise you that whatever I can control, I will. I won't be sloppy. I won't be careless."

The texture of his skin was _fascinating_. She'd only gotten to touch him once before, when the first hint of estrus had started to cloud her mind. His skin was soft, but wasn't as soft as it looked. Human males had facial hair, of course—a source of hilarity when she was younger, but now. . . it almost felt like scales under her fingertips. Rough, a little sharp against the grain. Good, in fact. She _really_ wanted to feel what it would be like as it rasped along her throat. Serana blinked, and reviewed hastily. _Yes, I took my meds this morning. Every morning._ "Let's play a game, Eli," she said, quietly. "Hide and seek. Like a mock hunt. You do those in CID?"

He shook his head. "No. Team-building is for ships. When we go off-duty, they actually _let_ us go off-duty."

Serana smiled. "Close your eyes and count to twenty. I won't leave the hotel, on my honor. You have to find me. If you can't find me inside a half hour, you have to pay a forefeit."

"Like what?"

"I'll think of something." That was practically a purr.

Eli's eyes narrowed. "And if I _do_ find you inside a half hour?"

She sighed. "I'll give you what you want."

"Oh, you think you know what I want?" With her _this _close, looking up into his eyes, skin on skin, it was a little difficult to focus. _Stop that. This is __Serana__. _

"I'll file a request for a change of MOS." Her throat was _very_ tight. But she _did_ have a stealth device built into her omnitool. And a biosign masker.

His eyes lit up suddenly. "Probably not a fair bet, _asperitalla_," Eli warned her. "I'm _very_ good at finding people who don't want to be found."

"You've had two drinks. I'll take my chances. Close your eyes. Count to twenty."

He closed his eyes. Felt her hand pull away, but could still feel the outline of her fingers against his face, traced in warmth. "One. . .two. . . three. . . " Sound of the door opening. "Four. . . five. . . " Sound of footsteps. "Six . . .seven. . . " Door closing.

Eli kept his eyes closed, and finished counting to twenty. He glanced down at this omnitool, and set its alarm for a half hour from that moment, and began by canvassing the room he was actually _in._ He'd learned to see the faint shimmers and distortions of a stealth device, sure, but he also swept the air with his hands. She could have opened and closed the door, and never left. Satisfied, he stepped out into the hall, looking around again. If he left the room, he'd be locked out. Which meant that it would be the _best_ hiding place in the entire hotel for the next half hour.

Left, towards the stairs, or right, towards the elevators? _Stairs_, he decided. The elevator wasn't currently on this floor, or in motion. They were, actually, on the top floor, so he didn't have to search upstairs as well as downstairs, which was a help. He moved through the hotel quickly and carefully, checking break areas and unlocking linen closets to scan inside quickly.

Back up on the top floor, Serana, who had opened the elevator doors, stepped through onto an access ladder, and closed the doors again, breathed a sigh of relief. It would be an _easy_ victory to just return to her room. But where was the _fun_ in that? So, she went downstairs to the bar, and found a dark corner to lurk in. To watch, because, as always. . . there was value in seeing, but not being seen. Seeing how people behaved when she _wasn't_ there.

It took him most of the half hour to work his way down. She spotted him immediately—tall human figure at the door of the bar, scanning the crowd intently. Watched _how_ he looked at the room. It wasn't the way Rel or Dara or Rinus did, but similar. Rel in particular constantly scanned, looking for threats. Eli did the same thing, but where, in her second-brother, she could see the switch between calm and sudden, swift violence was very lightly set indeed, in Eli, there was calmness. Ready to defend. Ready to move, yes, but. . . _all these years later, Rel is still playing offense, and Eli is still playing goalie_, she thought, amused. She'd watched the interminable after-school handball games whenever she could, from where no one could see her, tucked behind a bush near the school's fence.

Eli moved through the crowd now, easily, light-footedly, turning and scanning every table. Serana was, in fact, just inside the swinging doors of the kitchen, and periodically had to move as waiters bustled in and out, lest she get hit in the face. But the doors provided a secondary piece of camouflage, hiding what the stealth net couldn't quite cover on its own.

She could see a light go off on his omnitool and he looked down. Sighed. Let his shoulders slump, and rubbed the back of his neck—just as he always had when the ball went through into his net, years ago. Disappointment, defeat, a little anger. He turned and walked away to the bar, found an empty stool, and sat down. _Half hour's up,_ she thought, and breezed lightly out of the kitchen. Now it was time to get a little closer. See _how_ close she could get before he noticed. Just to make her point.

Eli ordered another double shot of whiskey at the bar and quietly sat there, rubbing his eyes. When his order came, he drank it, grimly, and without pleasure. _Great. So, since I couldn't manage to find her in a stupid kids' game, she's going. . ._ The thoughts weren't really coherent. More of a flash of all the _really_ bad pictures in his head. Years of crime scenes, all mixed together. Beaten victims, bleeding victims. Dead victims. He beckoned the bartender over, and pointed at his glass. If he had one more, the pictures _might_ go away. It had never worked before, but today was a special occasion, after all.

An asari took the seat next to him, and turned, looking at him with some interest. "You look like you've had a bad day," she said, with some sympathy. "Want to talk about it?"

"_N'__bieulu'uelle." I'm not interested._ The verb could mean either intellectually or sexually; either way, it was a _very_ terse brush-off in asari. He finished his drink.

The asari blinked, and looked _much_ more interested. _"And why not? Would not sharing your burden make it lighter?"_

The words came from behind him, in asari, lightly inflected with an odd, turian accent, "_Haerua'uel marai'ha'sai'yili. N'weo __saiellu_'_ealeo, n'bieulu'ealeo." Leave be my more-than-fair. Not-she said, not interested._. "Not-she" was about the closest anyone could get to "he" in asari.

Eli turned, and the room spun a little. He was fairly decently sized for a human male, but he'd had six to eight ounces of very good whiskey in less than an hour, and didn't usually drink. In fact, he usually only drank, lightly, on social occasions. . . and, very occasionally, when he thought the _mad_ inside was probably too dangerous to let out among ordinary, decent people. Tonight was the latter. Little Serana was standing behind him, hands on her hips, frowning. Eli had learned how to appreciate turian bodies in the last four years, but always did so from a discreet distance. With the alcohol cushioning his brain, he didn't even feel the usual surge of guilt at noticing how wide her eyes were, the slenderness of her waist, the way her hips flared out, the long, lean lines of her legs. The positively dainty spurs. _"There you are,"_ he said in turian, and in spite of his stare, his tone was a little grumpy. _"How long have you been down here?"_

She'd been planning on walking up behind him and covering his eyes from behind. Maybe not the _smartest_ thing to do on someone as well-trained as he was, and as on edge, but it still would have made her point. But then the asari had started speaking to him, and again, Serana could see him through those alien eyes. She had, personally, always liked looking at him. The old teasing twinkle in those soft brown eyes had always been engaging. The smile, always a quick flash of mirth and mischief. And when he'd hit his growth spurt, he'd quickly reached nearly a turian height. And now, of course, full adult strength and bulk. In a human male, so much different than a turian—the mass of the arms, even the forearms were wider, the neck, the shoulders, the wall of the chest. All evident, even through the dress shirt and slacks. So she hadn't quite been able to keep from speaking, and now he was _looking_ at her. . . as if he actually _saw_ her. It made her heart beat just a little faster. _"About twenty minutes. I hid in the elevator before coming down here."_ She saw the bartender coming by for a refill, and reached past him, covering the glass. _"Come on. You have a forfeit to pay."_

He wasn't quite _staggering_, but he was definitely a little looser on his feet than she'd expected him to be, so she slipped herself under his arm and guided him to the elevator. She had _no_ idea where his room was, and he wasn't really resisting her, so she hit the button for the top floor, and guided him back to hers. "All right," she said, in her own room. "Forfeit time."

Eli shrugged. He'd already lost. She was going to get hurt or killed now. What was one more thing, added to that? "Okay. What do you want?"

Serana chuckled. "It's in two parts. First of all, you're going to take a shower. I don't mind the whiskey on your _breath_. That actually smells good. But the fact that it's coming out of your skin now? Much less good-smelling." It had a raw, chemical tang coming out of his pores, that made her nose twitch. She laughed at his slightly offended expression, and guided him into the bathroom, more or less sliding him down to sit on the toilet while she started the water, trying to find a temperature that wouldn't burn human skin. When she looked back, he'd closed his eyes. Not passed out. Just. . . tired. Spirit-sick, in the worst way.

She pulled at the buttons on his shirt, and he opened his eyes, brushing her hands away. "I've been dressing myself for years, little one," Eli muttered crossly, and got to his feet.

As he pulled off his shirt, the pistol he carried at the small of his back showed. "Spirits, Eli, this is _Palaven_. It's not _that_ dangerous here."

"Everywhere is dangerous." He took off the concealed carry harness and put it in the sink. Then he took his backup piece off of his ankle, and put _that_ in the sink, too. Eli started to unzip his fly, and then paused. "A little privacy?" He wasn't particularly modest, being both male and having dealt with group showers for years now, but a nagging voice at the back of his mind reminded him that this was _Serana_, his little one, and being naked in front of her was simply not _appropriate._

Serana laughed out loud at that. "I just finished boot camp. With twenty humans in my manciple, I might add. I think I've seen it all." And then she laughed again, at his glower. "Fine, I'll turn my back out of respect for your delicate sensibilities—" and at that point, he shrugged and simply stripped down and stepped into the shower, putting his hands against the wall to stay more or less upright. Her eyes widened. Yes, the clothing hadn't hidden everything, but there was a great deal more . . . definition . . . visible now. Light scarring on both arms. Bullets that had punched through armor and shielding, probably. Light hair, everywhere, so oddly alien.

The water felt good, and after a moment or two, he practically forgot she was there. He just stood under the hot water and tried not to think at _all._

At this point, he wasn't swaying, but definitely _slumping_ in there, and not moving. Serana shook her head. _Going to have to take matters into my own hands_, she decided, and grabbed the soap, trying to reach into the spray to get the _smell_ off of him. Which only wound up getting her own shirt wet. She sighed, and stripped out of her own clothes, stepping in with him. Saw his dark eyes open, fringed with lashes. Again, so alien. But so very _Eli._ "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

"Cleaning you up."

God, but her hands felt good. Soap and water and hands. Everywhere, warmth and wetness and being _clean_. His hands slid out, caught her by the waist. Found the texture of the skin—smooth with the grain of the scales, and if not soft, at least yielding. Could feel the tautness of the flesh underneath, toned and firm. _"Little one,"_ he mumbled. _"Asperitalla_." His head drooped a little, and he put his head down into the crook of her neck and shoulder. He almost always wanted to bite when he did this. . . and now he did. Little nibbles, administered almost unconsciously. But kisses, too. Whatever whim struck him. No restraint at all.

He actually hadn't been with a woman in months—and arousal was swift and damned near painful in its intensity. He hardly even realized what he was doing until he'd backed her into the shower wall. _Shit. No. Serana._ But he was looking down at her now, face so close to his own, the wide, open eyes, the long, lithe legs that went on _forever_ and all he knew was that he wanted those wrapped around him. "Serana?" he managed.

In the hot water, the differences between their body heats were lost. All she could tell was that he'd pushed her into the wall—not overly aggressively, but just _enough_ so. His body up against the length of hers. _Oh, spirits, yes, please, finally, yes, please._ He sounded so. . . confused. So lost. She ran her fingers up over his shoulders, his neck, letting herself feel the texture of his hair. Even at the short length, so soft, like. . . like fur. Which is what it _was_, of course. The difference delighted her, made her want to laugh. _"For the spirits' sake, Eli, just bite me already."_

He groaned a little and took her at her word. Rounded, chisel-like omnivore teeth could still bite surprisingly hard, and she gasped as he closed on her neck. Felt her back arch involuntarily, pure reflex. Felt herself _open_, and her eyes widened. Big hands tracing over her now, exploring her, the differences. Fingers curling into her hips now, then, as she pressed herself against him urgently, lower. Her own hands going exploring now, she heard his low growl as she found him. So _odd_ that he was external all the time, but nice, in a way. Then he slipped down, out of her grasp, and knelt in front of her. Found her, already open for him.

Eli was struggling to remember what he knew of female turian physiology, which mainly consisted of Lin and Tel and all his other friends laughing behind the school after handball games, and talking. He had no idea if they'd actually had any _real_ idea of what they were talking about, but _anything_ was better than nothing. The external slit was already open. . . _she's turned on. Just from the biting and the touching. _Eli began to touch and caress, sliding his fingers up and in, looking up to watch her expression change. She was _hot_ inside, and wet, and he was _throbbing_ now, but he had to make sure she was ready, and that she _wanted_ this. _Oh, there we go, that spot right there, she likes that_. Her head tipped back, and she was panting now, and her fingers clutched at his head. _"Like this?"_

"_Yes, yes."  
_

"_Faster? Harder?"_

"_I don't know. I've never-oh. Yes."_ The sweet waves of pleasure almost hurt in their intensity, and she was a little afraid of them.

"_Just let go for me. Relax. . . there you go." _

Her sounds were driving him crazy as he replaced his fingers with his mouth and tongue. _Let me show you what a monkey can do for you, __asperitalla__. This, at least, I know I'm good at_. Eli stood, turned off the water, and reached down, sliding his hand under her hips, lifting her into him, bracing her against the wall. _"Do you want this?"_ It was important. He had to know this.

"_Yes."_

A subtle shift, then up and he was finally in her, deep in her sweetness and her heat and her wetness. Eli buried himself with a hoarse groan and then pulled back, dazed. "Shit. I should be wearing something—"

"We can't give each other anything. Don't you dare leave me." She was terribly afraid that if he pulled away now, she'd never get him _back_. So she wrapped her arms and legs tightly around him, refusing to let go. She'd wanted this for _so_ long. Wanted to feel him inside of her, and he felt so _good_ and so _right_ and so very, very hard in her. Raw, upper body strength of a human male supporting her, holding her in place, trapped between him and the wall.

"I've never. . . always with protection. . . god, you feel so _good_. . . " He knew he probably wasn't making sense, but it didn't matter at the moment. All that mattered was _this_, and he leaned forward, biting her throat and began to move in her. _Yes, yes. Like this. My little fierce one. _He didn't like the footing in the shower—too slippery—so he pulled her away from the wall, stepped out, found the edge of the sink, and cleared it of hotel toiletries with one forearm and settled her there and continued taking her. Biting her. Kissing her. _Can you take all of me? Do you __want__ all of me?_ His words of instruction and praise slipped languages. He couldn't help it. Half in English, half in turian, sometimes a word of asari sneaking in when she spasmed and quivered in release on him again.

Little glimpses of them in the mirrors. She could see his paint had smeared on her—loosened by the shower, as human paint didn't tend to set and stay very well. Violet smears on her face, her neck. Marked. _"Harder. Bite me harder. I want your marks,"_ she managed.

Eli obliged her. Biting and sucking at the same time, intensifying the effect on her shoulder, and her body went limp. It was close enough to a control bite that she submitted, and she heard him moan as the sudden relaxation of her body let him go even deeper. Then he just picked her up again, walked with her, took her to the bed. She looked up, dazed, as her back touched the sheets—she had a human-style bed in this human-style hotel—and whispered, _"You haven't released yet?"_

"_I only get __one__, __asperitalla__. Then I'm done for a while. I want this to __last._" Her skin had dried by now, but he was sweating—leaving his scent all over her. She was literally bathing in his scent, and she loved it. _"Turn over, little one."_

Control position, or as close to it as a human could get. Teeth buried in her shoulder now, and her whole body just opened to him. _"You can go harder,"_ she managed to gasp.

"_You're okay with that?"_

"_Eli, I'm made for it. I'm not going to break. Take me."_

He did. He gave her everything he had to give, gentle and sweet and hard and fierce until he had nothing left at all except surrender, and he collapsed, breathing hard, trying to keep himself braced on his forearms to keep his weight off of her. Sanity came back after two minutes later. _"S'kak._ Fluid contact. _Asperitalla_, are you okay?"

"Mmm-hmm." She sounded _content_ as he pulled out of her, and she rolled over, smiling. "I have epi-tabs in my luggage if I need them."

Eli blinked. "You carry them?"

"Yeah. Four hybrid cousins, remember? I even eat levo, once in a while." She pushed him back onto the bed, playfully reversing their positions so she could look down at him. "You've got that worried look back again, Eli. Stop that. You're turning into your mom."

Eli gave her a look. "No, I'm not." But the bliss and the exhaustion and the alcohol and a damned long flight from Edessan were hitting him all at once, and he couldn't for the life of him keep his eyes open. _"Asperitalla. . . ._ we're going to have to talk in the morning. I can't. . . "

"Mmm, yeah. Definitely in the morning." Serana curled up behind him as he lay on his side, and slipped an arm around his chest, before tucking her head against a shoulderblade, trying to find a comfortable position that let their bodies match up. Her body was _humming_ with contentment. All the adrenaline of the past four months, burned off. All the frustration and loneliness of _years_ burned away. _Will you understand when I tell you that I've wanted you since my very first surge of estrus? Will you understand that it's not just for your strength, but for your patience, your kindness, your loyalty, your humor? For the way you always treated me like a friend and an equal, for the way you took care of your little sister, for the way you worry about your mother, for the way, even though I __hated__ her, you dealt with Siara? It's all still in you. They couldn't take that away from you any more than boot camp could take the rebel out of me. You've just closed it all down to protect it, to hide it, so it wouldn't hurt so much anymore._

She lay there for a long time, not sleeping. Giddy with excitement and happiness. Finally, she did close her eyes. . . and in the morning, woke up before he did. _That's right, humans get hangovers. Let's see. . . room service. What a great idea._ She ordered coffee and _apha_ and scrambled _oolorae_ eggs and hen's eggs over-easy, because she knew he liked them that way, and toast and _panis_, and when a knock came at the door, she called through it, quietly, "Just leave it on the cart," and waited for the server to go away before opening the door. She hadn't cleaned up yet, and saw _no_ reason why anyone should see her covered in Eli's paint and marks. Not yet, anyway.

Once she got the cart inside, however, she _did_ go to the bathroom and do a quick survey, flushing blue right through the crest at what she saw. The bathroom was a _mess_. Bottles and hotel soap and teeth cleaning items all over the floor, the floor itself still wet. In the mirror, she could see his marks—violet paint everywhere on her, even as low as her thighs from when he'd given her his mouth and his tongue in the shower. Bite marks on shoulders and neck. He'd been _very_ aggressive once she'd encouraged him enough. His hesitance made her wonder how many silly females of other species hadn't _liked_ his aggression. She was breathing hard just at the sight, though. Marked. In every way, claimed. _A thousand years ago, this would practically count as hand-fasting._ Wearing nothing but the marks and the paint, she went back out into the main room, and started pouring the coffee and the apha into cups, just as Eli started to stir in the bed.

"Good," Serana told him, coming over and putting both cups down on the nightstand before plopping down beside him to stroke his face. "I got aspirin from room service. You want that, or the coffee first?" _His face is even rougher this morning than last night. How fast it must grow!_

Eli looked up at her, clearly disoriented. Then his eyes snapped into focus. _"_Serana?_ Asperitalla—oh, _shit. I. . . we. . . " He started to sit up, much too fast, apparently, and groaned, putting his hands to his head.

"Yes. _We_." She grinned at him. "You can't even say that I got you drunk and took advantage of you. _You_ got you drunk. I just took advantage of it."

His mouth opened, but no words formed at first. Finally, he said, "Serana, I am so sorry—"

"Oh, stuff that. No you're not. And I'm not, either. Drink your coffee." She pulled the sheets off of him, and blinked. "Wow, really? I'm honored." She grinned.

Eli looked down, shook his head irritably, and muttered, "No, that's just every morning."

"Every morning?"

"Yes, and it's damned annoying, because I can't _piss_ until it goes away."

Serana absorbed that. "I never remember that humans use it for multiple purposes."

Eli sighed. "Serana, I'm sorry, I was angry last night, and I shouldn't have taken—"

_Okay, time for another lesson._ "Eli, close your eyes."

"What?"

"Close your eyes. Do you trust me, or don't you trust me?"

He gave her a wary look, and closed his eyes.

Serana dropped to her knees beside the bed and slid her tongue along his hard length, hilt to tip. His hands dropped to her head, light on her fringe, and he groaned. "Serana, what are you _doing?_"

"You seem. . . to have missed. . . the _point_ last night. . . " she informed him sweetly. "Which is that. . . I make. . . my own. . . choices." Delicate licks between each set of words. "And I. . . choose. . . you. You can control me with a bite, _amatus_. . . " and it was the first time she'd _ever_ dared call him beloved, "but you can't. . . control everything. I don't want. . . to be protected. . . from you. I. . . just. . .want. . . _you._"

His hips were shifting now, tiny, rhythmic motions as he followed the movements of her tongue. "You are. . . very direct, _asperitalla_," he managed.

"I'm turian." She looked up. His eyes had opened at some point in the process, much to her dismay. She'd been afraid that seeing her teeth so close to him would scare him. His eyes were dazed. "And you only seem to understand things when I'm _very_ blunt with you, you great big idiot." Serana pushed him back on the bed. "What part of, 'I have wanted you since the first moment I _could_ want someone' has been unclear, exactly?"

He shifted around and, much to her surprise, pushed up _into_ her. Her gasp and his moan both sounded at the same time. "You've wanted _this_?" He was _teasing_ her now. _Oh, spirits, thank you, yes, he's still himself, deep down inside._

Out loud though, only one word. "Yes." Completely filled again, she moaned. "Eli, how do I.. . . "

"_Move like this."_ His hands locked on her hips, and then no more words at all for a while.

After a while, she told him, "Your coffee's probably cold by now."

"Well, so's your _apha_." He passed the cup to her, sitting up in the bed. He stroked a hand along her crest gently. "Serana. . . hell. Now what am I going to do with you." It wasn't a question, really. It had been an exquisite relief this morning to be assured that everything he'd done last night had been mutual and wanted. And her assurance that she'd wanted him for a long, long time was a relief, as well. He let his head tip back against the pillow. Last night had been damned near indescribable. He'd chased a _lot_ of tail in the last four years. He hadn't slept with _every_ female he'd taken out for drinks, but a fairly reasonable proportion. Some of it had been good. Some had been amazing—Pelia, for instance—but even then, he'd been hiding portions of himself. Had even managed to block her out of some portions of his mind, up until the very end, when she had, against his advice, tried to share both his mind and Lin's at the same time.

With all of them, the message he'd received had been _very_ clear. The various females had wanted specific parts of him—the human part, the asari part. Very occasionally, the turian part, from the more adventurous human girls who hadn't quite worked up the guts to approach a real turian themselves. Never all of him at once. There'd always been _something_ that was a turn-off, something that he'd had to hide. Not with Serana, though. She knew him. She accepted him. Even the dark parts, which he hadn't had the _wits_ to hide last night. And he'd known her for years. She'd always just . . . been there. At first, just a part of the big Velnaran family, an adjunct. . . but then, very much as herself. Sweet and fierce and funny and . . . ._Ah, crap. How long have I been kidding myself? _He looked down at her, and winced. _"Up until boot camp, Serana, I couldn't have. . . I wouldn't have. . . "_

"_I know. You've very, very honorable." _She poked him in the side with one finger. _"Fortunately for you, I'm not."_ She drained the last of her _apha_, and put the cup back on the nightstand, before rolling over to look at him directly. _"If you are asking to know how long you have been in my affections—"_

"_I am."_

"_Five or six years."_

Eli winced. "That's a _crush_, little one, not—"

"I know that," she said. They were flipping effortlessly from one language to the other, no thought in it at all. "I tried very hard to get over it. I wouldn't hear from you for months, and I thought I was done, and then some random kindness would set me off again. And then you came home and were so _mad_ at me for what I wanted to do with my life. People only get _that_ mad about things that are important to them, Eli." She ran a hand over his chest now, eyes wondering and curious. "So that was your own fault, there. You _encouraged_ me." She grinned at him wickedly.

"Not intentionally," he muttered. "Crap. Now I feel creepy."

"_Why? You had affection for me, did you not?"_

"_I. . . did. I do."_ He grimaced. _"I didn't even __know__ that I did, though. Or that it could become more." _He should have. He should have seen how much _more_ protective he was of her than, say, Dara or any of his other friends. Than even her own family was of her. But she'd been fixed in his head as _Rel's younger sister_, someone to be protected and taken care of, and not as Serana, who was very much her own person.

"_Humans __are__ very good at denial, I've noticed. But you've never once acted in the least bit dishonorably._ I don't want you to start in on another round of guilt." She was on her belly in the bed, and now lifted her feet to kick idly. "I'm not sure I have another dose of guilt-remover in me right now." She paused. "Eli, I was crazy about you _before_ my first estrus. And then I fixed on you." She paused. "Well, you _and_ Lin, really. It was a little confusing in my head at that point."

He bracketed her chin and mandible with one hand, gently stroking the side of her face with his fingertips. Light, little touches. That meant the world to her. "Tell me."

Serana hesitated. It would sound _bad_ to a human. "You're brothers," she said, shrugging a little. "And part of me knew a human couldn't, well . . . keep up with what I needed. Inasmuch as I was _thinking_ at the moment, it was sort of that you'd. . . share me. Take turns. I don't know. It wasn't very clear at the time." She could feel the flush creeping up her throat.

Eli's eyes had gone dark and very fixed on her face. She swallowed hard at that look. "Don't tell Lin that," he said, quietly. "He'd do it."

"And how do you know he'd—" Serana blinked as his fingers tightened a little.

"Don't ask if you don't want to know," Eli said, tightly. "I'll always be honest with you, but you might not like the answers."

She thought about it. "Tell me." _How can I __help__ your spirit if I don't know everything that's happened to you?_

"_All right. He and I shared an asari girl we both knew once, after Brennia died_." Eli had switched to turian for the bluntness and the honesty. _"Do you really want to know more than that?"_

"_Yes. . . and no." _She swallowed, and then tipped her head to nip at the web between thumb and forefinger as he held her face. _"I kind of want to know what I have to compete with."_ Serana didn't want to admit to jealousy, but it was there, of course. Muted, though. He was here with her now, and how many of _them_ had he actually talked to like this, alone and comfortably? How many of them had he bothered to argue with? None, probably.

"_You've got nothing to compete with, __asperitalla.__"_ Eli pulled her close, and meant every word. "_That was the only other time I've let go completely in bed. She wasn't supposed to try to share both our minds at the same time. She was too curious, though."_ Eli winced. This was . . . uncomfortable. But absolute honesty was the only way to go forward. _"She got both of our releases at once, and when I got control of my __wits__ again, she was just . . . lying there. Smiling. Not moving. Lin thought she'd gone into anaphylactic shock. I thought we'd __broken__ her. It was actually neural shock. Too much, too alien, all at once."_

"_When she felt __you__, did you __both__ feel—"_ Her voice was _highly_ curious at that point.

Eli coughed a little. _"Yeah. Was a little more personal than I was thinking it would get."_ He looked up at the ceiling. _"So, um, __anyway__, we took her to the ER, answered some really __embarrassing__ questions—I think the only reason we weren't talking to the MPs at that point was the fact that she was __still__ smiling—which, _god knows, was freaking me out—_"_ Serana started to laugh, and Eli couldn't help the more than a little embarrassed grin in response, _"and eventually, she came out of it and explained what had happened to the doctors, so, yeah, no charges."_ He tightened his arms around her and nuzzled, switching to English. "Believe it or not. . . last night was better."

"Now you're just trying to make me feel better."

"No. It was. Last night was _you_ and me, and it was wonderful." He was absolutely content at the moment to lie here for the rest of the damn day, if he could. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so relaxed. Eli reached down, bracketing her mandible with one big hand again. "You've got my paint all over you."

"I know." Now that was a purr, again, of total contentment. "Half of me wants to go out the door just like this."

Eli winced. "Your parents would kill me. Then they'd do CPR, call your brothers in, and Rinus and Rel would kill me, too. Then Dara would jump up and down on whatever pieces were left."

She laughed, then changed topics slightly. "I take my meds every morning. You know that."

"Of course you do." He stroked her crest again.

"But sometimes, bad batches happen. That's how Kallixta and Rinus—"

His eyes widened. "Really?"

"Yeah. Shh. Big family secret."

Eli laughed. "They seem happy enough, anyway."

"They are. I thought she was a pirate queen or something when I first met her."

"I did hear you told her father to come out with his hands up." Eli's voice was bland. _You told the __Imperator__ of the __Hierarchy__ to surrender and come along quietly._

She winced. "Rinus isn't going to stop telling that story till I have grandkids of my own."

"I can't blame him. It's _really_ funny." He grinned down at her. "How'd we get off onto this topic, anyway?"

"I was telling you that even if I take the meds every day, estrus could still happen." Serana winced, and her voice went very quiet. "I really don't want it to be with anyone other than you." She swallowed, hating the very thought of it. She'd waited so damned long to be with him, and she didn't want her body to take that choice away from her.

His hand had gone punishingly tight on her crest. "It's not going to be." A male human voice could drop into a growl just as menacing as any turian's, she realized.

She relaxed then, but only a little. "It's just that. . .human males can't. . . I mean. . . you can't, right?"

"Can't what?"

Her fingers walked along his chest. _"Estrus lasts sixteen to thirty-six hours. And I'd . . . need you the whole time. Like last night. You'd have to secure me. Keep me from hurting you or myself. . . and take me."_ Her voice had gone very high pitched. Worried.

_Holy shit._ He'd understood _some_ of that from Lantar, but not all of that. Eli thought about it for a moment. _"It __would__ be a new personal best."_

"Eli!" That was a squawk. "I'm being serious here."

Eli rolled her over in the sheets. "Okay, first, let's not borrow trouble. Second, securing. . . I'm more than strong enough to pin you down if I need to. Third, I'm a _cop_. Even if I weren't strong enough, or if I happened to get tired. . . handcuffs, _asperitalla._ You won't hurt me. Or yourself." He exhaled. "Keeping you _occupied_ for sixteen hours to two _days_, though . . . good god. I'd have to send Lin to the evidence locker for azure dust." He didn't even question that Linianus would be available to _do_ that, or would. Of _course_ Lin would.

Serana started to laugh. _"There are other ways, though,"_ he told her, taking her hand in his. _"I have a pretty good imagination. I __don't__ want to share you, little one, not if I don't __have__ to. What happens if a female gets frustrated in estrus?"_

"_She'll hurt herself or her mate. Sometimes badly."_ Her voice was very tight now, and she'd gone stiff beside him.

"_Okay. . . well. . . take your meds, and we'll try to be prepared for it if something goes wrong."_ He paused. _Shit. If I'm even on the same planet as you are if and when it happens._ All he knew was that he was not _about_ to let her do what he'd done with her the night before with _anyone_ else. "Hell, _asperitalla._ We're talking like we're planning this all out. And I'm pretty sure breakfast is cold by now."

"Heated plates. It might still be warm. Ish." She got up, found his shirt from last night, and pulled it on. Not that she needed it for warmth or for modesty. She just liked wearing his scent.

The breakfast was indeed. . . warmish. . . eggs and toast. Eli was just as glad to have something to eat before he took some aspirin to chase the last of the hangover away. He kept looking at Serana across the room's little table, though, bemused. "What?" she finally asked.

"I keep thinking I'm going to look up and you won't be here," he admitted. "Okay. _Now_ what are we supposed to do?'

"I've got two weeks until OCS. Take some leave and we'll go to Dymion. Someplace quiet. Someplace peaceful. Someplace where you won't feel like you need to carry two guns just to go out the door."

Eli shook his head. "The last time I didn't carry them both was Mindoir, _asperitalla._" _Even then, I had the one at my ankle, at least until sparring practice, when I stuck it on a high shelf, well away from all the kids._

"Okay. Maybe Bastion. We'll lock ourselves in and won't come out again till it's time for my courses to begin." Serana looked at him steadily. "Now, about my MOS."

Eli sighed. "Yeah." He looked down at his plate.

"They're _not_ going to send someone like me deep-cover."

"No, they're not. And if there's even an _hint_ that they are, I will come and get you and we'll _manus-plight_ or whatever the hell we need to do so they _can't_ do that to you." His expression had closed down again. "I mean it, Serana. I've _done_ the whole 'completely alone in an alien world' thing. It's not fun."

Eli hadn't even registered what he'd said, but her expression had suddenly turned very amused and happy, before turning determined. "And you _could_ have written to me and talked to me at _any_ point," she told him, firmly. "And I want you to _start_ doing that. Have a bad day? Talk to me. Even if I'm at OCS, you _know_ I'll write back."

He sighed again. "Yeah. I will. Mostly. . . because it feels _good_ talking with you, little one."

She pointed at him now. "And so long as we're on the topic of OCS. . . did the hide and seek last night at least convince you that I'm just as good at my job as you are at yours?"

Eli looked down at his plate. "Yeah. You're good at it. Doesn't stop the worrying."

"Worrying is natural, but like I said last night, don't turn into your mother." She stood, came around the table, and sat down in Eli's lap, and he wrapped his arms around her tightly. _My little fierce one._ "If I've waited this long for you to _finally_ notice me, Eli, what makes you think I'd take even the slightest chance of not being able to see you again?" She stroked the back of his neck lightly. "You going to reconsider Praetorian Guard?"

Eli looked up at her. "I _really_ need time out of the Hierarchy. And Pallum didn't really give me a time limit on the offer. I'll _think_ about it. But I have _got_ to get out of CID before I lose my damn mind." He hadn't wanted to put _that_ on paper anywhere. But he _knew_ his mental state wasn't good. He'd been putting it down to being on an alien world, but had to admit, the lack of connection he was feeling there probably went deeper than just being among turians all day every day. But getting out of the military was probably a good first step.

She sighed. "I was mostly hoping if you stayed in, we could be assigned together. CID has affiliates on Bastion, you know. You could request duty there. With your record, you'd probably get it."

Eli hadn't thought of that. He'd thought of it in terms of an either/or, like programming in a binary language. CID _or_ B-Sec. Nothing in between. "I can look into it. Re-upping for a two-year commitment wouldn't be as bad as another four years. You think you'll get Bastion?"

"Probably will be heading there between assignments, if not actually working there, yes. A _lot_ of espionage and counter-espionage gets done on Bastion." She grimaced. "That's where Kasumi took me for my first practice sessions, actually."

"Doing what?"

She started to answer, then just grinned and tapped his nose. "I actually can't tell you."

"_Talas'kak._ I know what my clearance level is. Probably higher than yours."

She grinned. "Then I _won't_ tell you, because me having secrets drives you _nuts._" Serana's grin widened. "Get used to it."

Eli started to laugh. "How the hell _do_ you manage to make things seem so much less bad?"

"Eli, I'm sitting in your _lap_. If things seem bad that way, I'm doing something _terribly_ wrong."

After a while, and just when they'd started to work out how to kiss safely—but since they both generally preferred biting, it had started to devolve into that once more—there was a knock at the door. _"Serana?"_ Solanna called. _"We're all going out for a while. Get up and get dressed, and we can go around town for a bit. If Eli's up, we can drop by his room and pick him up, too."_

_Shit, no, no, don't answer the door looking like that—_Eli held onto Serana for dear life as she laughed softly and tried climb out of his lap to get to the door. _"Give me a minute!"_ she finally called back. _"I have to get cleaned up first."_

"_You should have showered last night,"_ Solanna told her pragmatically through the door. _"Are you going to keep me in the hall __all__ morning?"_

"_Eli, let go,"_ Serana hissed. _"I can get rid of her if I answer the door, but otherwise, she's __going__ to stay out there."_

Eli released her and covered his eyes with one hand. If death in the form of an irate mother turian was about to burst through the door, he didn't want to see it coming. He did, however, peek through his fingers as Serana opened the door a crack. Wearing his shirt, smears of his paint, and his marks, and nothing else. Full marks for bravery. _"I'm sorry, mother, but my room is untidy. The centurions would give me a demerit for its state."_ Very prim, very proper words, but a cat-ate-the-_lanura_ tone.

A moment of _absolute_ and very profound silence from the other side of the door. Then Solanna cleared her throat. _"Ah. I see we won't have to pick up Elijah separately then. Do clean up. I'll be back in a half hour."_

Serana shut the door and started to _laugh._ Eli walked across the room to her and shushed her. _"You're crazy. Your father's going to __kill__ me. I might not be good enough barehanded to __stop__ him from killing me without killing __him.__"_

"_Eli, it's one day after boot camp. You think they didn't __expect__ me to do something like this with __someone?__"_ She grinned up at him. _"I think they'll mostly just be glad that it's __you__. Come on. Let's get cleaned up before we get distracted again."_

He had to steal his shirt back from her to get back down to his own room to get into fresh clothing—and strongly debated putting on his armor to start with. He got _looks_ from Allardus and Solanna, of course—mostly comprised of amusement. _"Should I be expecting a visit from your clan-leader soon?"_ Allardus asked, dryly, when he had a moment alone with Eli.

Eli coughed. _"Probably,"_ he admitted. _Lin didn't do things the right way around with Brennia, mostly since she didn't __have__ a clan to speak of. But I'll try not to put the cart in front of the horse, myself. "I will write to him tonight, in fact. I . . . was not expecting this, sir. At all."_

Allardus suddenly _grinned._ _"You were probably the only one who __didn't__,"_ he said, cheerfully, and Eli had _no idea_ what to say to that.

And after a couple of quick messages to extend his leave, Eli _did_ spend a week with Serana on Bastion. The station had changed a _lot_ since he was there last, but some of the places he'd liked were still the same. And in the darkness of their room, he told her everything she wanted to know about the last four years. Even the disguise as a Blue Sun mercenary and the chat room persona he'd developed to try to catch the eye of separatists. _"You see? That's espionage, right there,"_ she told him. _"No different from what I'll be doing."_

"_No, that's counter-espionage. You might wind up facing off against people like me in other governments, sweetness."_

"_We'll see."_

She also discovered his cache of old Dashiell Hammett books on his datapad, and started reading them out-loud to him at night in glee, sitting up in bed with him. "Did your people really _talk_ like this back then? 'I hope they don't hang you, precious, by that sweet neck. Yes, angel, I'm gonna send you over.'" She started to laugh.

"Only in books like these and in the movies. My dad used to come home from work when I was little and read these to me. Yeah. My bedtime stories were about Sam Spade and cops." Eli laughed, a little darkly. "Explains a lot, huh? He used to do the voices, too."

He couldn't quite afford _two_ weeks away from work. . . but on leaving to return to Edessan, he felt the most _alive_ he had in four goddamned years. "Good luck at OCS. . . . _amatra,_" he told her as he was about to board his flight.

Serana's eyes lit up. He had _no_ idea how she was going to be a successful spy if she lived on the outside of her skin like this all the time. "And here I thought I was going to be 'little one' for the rest of my life."

"Well, you _are_ short," he told her, smiling. "And fierce. So _asperitalla_ still works. But so does _amatra._ And so does _marai'ha'sai._ Take your pick."

"I like them all." Her eyes were bright. "_Adamare talu._"

Eli blinked. They hadn't said that yet. But he leaned down and whispered in her ear, "_Adamare elii._ . . sweetheart."

**Dara, January-March 2196**

Decimus Corolan had told Dara and Nadea, at some length over the years, how much he _hated_ his home colony of Rocam. From orbit, it was an amazing jade green planet; even the oceans had a green cast to them, due to a huge prevalence of green-toned diatoms and algae in the very warm waters. Only near the poles were the waters blue. . . and there were no icecaps. The planet's single large continent was covered in an enormous jungle, broken here and there with clearings. The dominant forms of life were avian—similar to ancient Terran terrorbirds at ground level, and a plethora of sizes and shapes among the various levels of trees. There were lemur-like creatures here as well, that never so much as set a foot on the ground, and the seas were ruled by crocodilian creatures and sharks.

The planet also averaged ten to fifteen degrees hotter than Palaven, with a greenhouse effect that planetary ecologists were concerned with, but seemed to be stable over the past 10,000 years or so. As such, it was usually very, very hot, and usually almost one hundred percent humidity. Most of the turians on Rocam opted for nudity, when not wearing protective gear for jungle work; Dara, now posted here for a surgical rotation, wished she could do the same. "I wouldn't actually _mind_," Rel told her as they worked to unpack their few belongings in the married quarters on base that they'd been allocated. "Personally, I _like_ seeing your skin."

Dara stuck out her tongue at him. "You won't be _here_ to see it all that much. Besides, another round of 'great spirits, look at the monkey!' doesn't sound like that much fun. I have a bad feeling I'll be wearing a bikini all the time. With a lab coat on top when I go to work. At least the hospital has air conditioning, but yeah. . . I'm starting to understand why Decimus was so glad to get away from the place."

Living on Sur'Kesh for a year, they'd actually had to break down and buy a plate or two and some towels, but then they'd gone right back to shipboard life. Thus, their small house _echoed_. Rel looked around it, shaking his head. "Buy us some furniture, _mellis_. We can have it stored if we both wind up back on a ship again once your rotation here is done."

"Oh, does that mean I can buy us an honest-to-god _bed_?"

Rel grinned at her. "You say that like there's something wrong with a nice, cozy nest."

She chuckled. "There's not, provided it's _very_ well padded. Although. . . " she walked into the largely empty bedroom, glanced around, and said, "Yeah. There's no nest depression in here."

"There's _not_?" Rel walked in behind her, and stared. "Okay, yeah. There's not. Hooks for a hammock, though. . . "

_Oh, I get it._ "Bugs," Dara said, after a minute. "I remember now. Decimus once said he had trouble getting used to a floor nest at boot camp because everyone on Rocam sleeps off the damned ground. Because of all the insects. Firebiters, scaleleeches, critters that look like trilobites, you name it. They find their way in, and you don't want to be in their path." She looked around again. "Okay, so, yeah, I'm putting a very large can of _Raid_ on my shopping list."

"And insect netting," Rel said, sounding worried. "There are probably local variants of mosquitoes that would love your soft skin, _mellis_."

"Anything that bites me here is going to die," Dara muttered. "Literally. Dextro planet, remember?"

"Yeah, but they're not going to know that till about a minute later when the shock sets in, are they? Get netting, _amatra_. You don't need the allergic reactions any more than the wildlife does."

So, they got a two person hammock set up, with a canopy of white mosquito netting, and getting _into_ it and _out_ of it again without either of them _capsizing_ the other turned out to be an adventure each and every time. They had two weeks' leave to get her set up here. . . and then Rel was heading back out into the black without her. "First big separation since the year we got married," she murmured one night, grateful for the overhead fan blowing air steadily against them. Rel's body heat was usually a welcome thing, but _not_ on Rocam.

"This should be over with quickly. The _Sollostra _ is an SR-3. We're mostly going to be doing stealth recon just inside of batarian space." He rubbed her scalp gently. "And with you doing an ER and surgery rotation here, it's not like I'd have gotten to see much of you anyway. I'll be back on leave in six months. We'll get two weeks then, and then another six months. . . and then you'll be certified for surgery, and I won't have spent a year twiddling my thumbs."

She sighed. "I know the reasons. Just wish I. . . _again_. . .that I could take the radiation on Palaven. Then I could have done my rotation there, and you could've done intensive training with the special forces there, or something."

He shook his head, making the hammock sway. "No. You took enough rems last time for a lifetime, suit or no suit. Not about to take a chance on your health with that kind of posting again."

It was just a little ironic, two months after having pledged _tal'mae_. . . forever. . .to be separating for the better part of a year. She'd gotten _very_ used to having him around, and knew he'd been used to the same, with her. At the door, the day he left, she hugged him very tightly. "Keep your head down. I don't want to hear about _any_ blue ribbons while I'm not there to treat the wounds," she warned him, throat very tight.

"I will. I'm coming back. You know that." Rel nipped her wrist lightly. "A black hole would have trouble keeping me away. _You_ take care. Don't get lost in the hospital and forget to come out every now and again. Look at the sunlight. Go on a couple of jungle tours or something. If only so you can tell Nadea 'yeah, Decimus was right, you don't want to live here when you two finally decide to settle down.'"

Dara managed a laugh, though her eyes were a little close to tears. "She already visited here once, to meet his parents. She said 'hell no, not here, not Edessan. Maybe Thracia or Gothis.'" She leaned into him. "I love you. Be safe. And come back soon."

Her surgical rotation started the next day, so she didn't have time to mope, thankfully. They exchanged letters, of course, though once more, they were sporadic at best, thanks to the silent nature of the SR ships. She did her best to make friends on the hospital staff; she was the only human, but had been serving for so long in the turian military, and had published four papers in the past four years, that her colleagues, once they got to know her, accepted her utterly. Although she _did_ go four or five rounds with the obstetrics doctors, when she started her weeks in neo-natal surgery. They'd _all_ read her papers, much to her surprise, and wanted to argue with her about them. Of course, arguing, to a turian, was a sort of a compliment. It meant they found something in the papers worth arguing _about_.

In March, however, there was a knock at her front door one Saturday morning. She had the day off from the hospital, and was trying, with iced tea and the air conditioner in her quarters on, full-blast, to stay comfortable. _I'd almost rather be at work_, she thought, a little grimly, and opened the door on a blast furnace of heat and humidity. . . and the figure of her father, in a workshirt, jeans, and a pair of riding boots. "Dad!" Dara said, her face lighting up. "You didn't say you were coming to Rocam!" She was, per usual when off-duty in this hothouse of a world, dressed in little more than a swimsuit, and had to fight an urge to cover up whenever she actually saw another human.

Then she registered his expression, which was grim. "Dad? What's the matter?"

Sam sighed. "I think I better come in and sit down with you, sweetie. It's not good news."

She let him in, closing the door softly behind him. Her stomach was already starting to churn. _Who died?_ she thought, numbly. She reflexively glanced around the little apartment. Still almost no furniture. She'd hated the idea of wasting money on stuff she was hardly home to use, and that Rel wouldn't even have a say in whether or not he _liked_. So there was all of one couch in the living room now, and an actual table with four chairs in her little-used kitchen. She gestured for her dad to take a seat, but he made her sit down first. "Sweetie, there's no good way to tell you this. You know that Ylara was taking the _Sollostra_ into batarian space, right?"

_No. No, no, no._ Her lips felt numb as she replied, "Yeah. Stealth recon, mostly, was what Rel was told."

"Yeah. . . except we got a bona fide live lead last week on this Veem fellow we've been trying to track down on Camala—" her dad looked at her, and said, "Nevermind. You don't need to know all the details just yet. Ylara sent in two teams to see if they could either extract or execute the bugger for the attacks on Patriarch and Harak on Omega last year. Ylara herself went with one of the teams."

Dara swallowed. Her tongue felt too large for her mouth. "Rel led the other one," she said, tonelessly.

Sam sighed. "Yeah. Of course he did. That's his job." He looked at her, and his eyes were shadowed.

"Is he dead?" She said the words as fast as she could, to get them out before they could hurt. They hung there in the air, limp and leaden and lifeless.

Sam shook his head. "We don't know what happened, that's the hell of it, sweetie. The team ran into trouble. Jamming, to start with. Ylara and her team breached Veem's compound—he's a _big-time_ slaver, so there were a _lot_ of bodies all around. Hard to track, even with a working scope."

"I know." Her voice was still toneless. She'd gone someplace very far away in her head, where she could listen to the sound of her own voice, but she was barely even aware of her own body. Just gray clouds around the edges of her vision.

"Rel went in through the other side, and both teams suddenly encountered _heavy_ resistance. They _knew_ we were coming, sweetie. Ylara got out by the skin of her teeth. Whole team died on her. She swept around, tried to regroup with the second squad, and found two turian bodies. Rel was _nowhere_ to be found. That's when Veem ran into her, and, well, Ylara ran into Veem." Sam sounded grim. "She was mad enough that I don't think there was enough left of his face left to identify afterwards, let alone let his soul flit out of his eyes. Then she got to the Hammerhead, drove out of jamming range, and radioed for backup. Half the ship landed at that point, trying to mop up. Trouble is, Veem had managed to get a distress call out to batarian forces. Their damn militia showed up, surrounded the place, and it got ugly from there on out." Sam rubbed at his eyes. "Am wishing to Christ I'd gone along with them. A second ship, a different set of eyes on the problem on the ground. Took a full twenty-four hours, and Ylara managed to make it look like a slave revolt. . . mostly. A _good_ investigative team will probably find a lot of evidence that doesn't match up."

Dara didn't even care about that at the moment. "What about Rel?" she asked, voice tight.

Sam sighed. "They never found him."

Dara was still sitting absolutely still. Except for her hands, which _never_ shook anymore. She prided herself on it, in fact. Steady as a rock for cutting and suturing and IV insertion and injections. Steady enough to manage even delicate neo-natal surgery. But now, she was shaking so hard, she could _hear_ the fingers lightly running into each other, like the patter of rain on a window. "So, no body, then?"

"He's missing, sweetheart." Sam wrapped his arms around his daughter, and Dara just shook for a minute, eyes just now starting to fill with tears. _So this is what it's like when the world ends,_ she thought, dimly. Against her ear, her father said, "We'll find him, honey. That's what we do, you know. The area around the compound is _very_ hot right now. We're monitoring from a distance, but we'll need to go in on the ground again and hope to god the batarians haven't removed _all_ evidence in the meantime."

"Evidence?" Dara said, quietly. "I'm. . . not following you, Dad. He's got biometric chips in both hands, same as me. You should be able to track him from orbit once he's out of the jamming. Even if his radio doesn't work. . . even if he's. . . hurt. . . . " _Please, don't let him be hurt. Don't let him be dead._ "When you do go in after him, I want to go in with you," she said, very quietly. "If he's hurt, he'll need a doctor. Camala's a levo planet, too. He could _starve_ there." Worst-case possibilities flooded her mind. Slavery. Anaphylactic shock. Dead in a ditch.

"That's just it. His biometric chips—the ones in his hands, just like yours—should be pinging away merrily. We can't pick him up anywhere on the planet right now." Sam's voice was very gentle.

Dara swallowed, hard. "So either the chip's been destroyed—both of them—" _Highly unlikely unless they were either a) deliberately removed or b) both hands were disintegrated, somehow_, her analytical mind provided from the corner of her brain that wasn't covered in gray fog at the moment, "or he's not on the planet anymore."

"Yeah," Sam said. 'Should have known you'd figure that part out fast." He stroked her hair back from her face. "You okay, kiddo?"

"No," Dara said, quietly and steadily. "No, I'm not."

**Sam, March, 2196**

He'd hated like hell to be the one to tell Dara about Rel's missing in action status, but he couldn't let anyone _else_, some _stranger_ do it. And he would not _let_ her stay there, alone, on Rocam—much though she insisted she needed to be able to _work_. "Take a week's leave and come home with me," Sam told his daughter, firmly. "You're not going to do any of your patients any good in your current state. Your superiors will understand." _I'll __make__ them understand, if I have to,_ he added silently and grimly. "You can come back when your head's clearer."

"No, no, I have to stay here," she muttered vaguely, and he'd _seen_ that look before, the dazed, confused look on the faces of wives and husbands he'd had to tell, _We regret to inform you that we've found someone matching the description of your missing loved one_ or _It was my honor and privilege to serve with your husband, and I'm very sorry to tell you today that he won't be coming home._ Christ, but he'd never thought he'd have to speak those words to his own daughter. As he'd been thinking, she continued mumbling, putting her face down in her hands now, "I've got responsibilities, and this is where he knows I'll be. . . " and other incoherent, not quite rational things.

Sam gave her a moment or two to let her get her brain saddled back up again, and said, gently, "This ain't a time for you to be alone, sweetheart, and I can't stay with you. I'm going back to the base to try to find him. Come home with me. That way, when we go looking for him, we don't have far to go to find you."

She sat up, yellow clan-paint having run everywhere with her tears, and nodded. "I'll. . . go pack a few things." Dara stood up, wavered visibly, and headed towards the hallway that led deeper into the apartment. She paused at the archway. "Dad?"

"Yeah, sweetie?"

"Thanks for being the one to come and tell me." She walked down the hall, not looking back, and Sam looked after her, feeling about as lost as he ever had.

He'd taken care of calling her superiors at the hospital and got her on the shuttle that took them up to the _Estallus_, which was waiting for them. Dara looked around the ship blankly for a minute, as he steered her down the halls to the port observation lounge. "You'll be bunking here, darlin'," he told her lightly.

She just nodded and went to sit, staring out the observation port. No tears now, and she'd carefully re-applied her clan-paint. The silence was actually getting unnerving. "Laetia," Sam said, and the AI appeared, immediately. No more little green eyeball subterfuge. Sam was . . . more or less getting used to _that_ now, too.

"Yes, Spectre Jaworski?"

"I need an FTL comm channel, same as before. I want to be monitoring everything that comes in, in real time."

The terminal in the room chirped, and he nodded to her avatar. "Thank you, Laetia. I appreciate it."

He settled in at the console, keeping an eye on Dara periodically. Much to his bemusement, the avatar glided over to Dara and 'sat' down next to her. "I've heard what has happened," Laetia told the young woman in a tone of sympathy. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm using over half of my server capacity now to analyze what data we have. We _will_ find your husband, Dara."

Dara looked up. "Ah. . . thank you, Laetia," she said, after a moment. "Do you have any theories?"

Laetia shook her head. "The facts as they stand don't make sense yet. We're missing too many pieces of the puzzle, as your father would probably tell you."

Back on Mindoir, Sam took Dara to Allardus and Solanna's house. Both parents were home, and had already been informed about their missing second-son. Solanna looked worried, but immediately put her arms around Dara. "He'll be fine," she told her daughter-in-law. "Of course you must stay with us this afternoon," she told Dara, pulling her towards the sitting room.

Allardus looked at Sam. "Anything new?"

Sam shook his head. "I'm going back out on the _Estallus_ in the morning. We're going to see how close we can get without their defense systems finding us, and see if we can get any teams on the ground to look for him. . .or signs of where he went." He paused. "I'll pick up Dara tonight and keep her at the house with Kasumi and me tonight, but I'm going to need you guys to help over the next week or so. The more so if. . . " He paused. He didn't want to say the words. Not to the young man's father.

"I know." Allardus sounded grim. "I've already called my first-son. He's pushing inside HIA to see if they have anything for us, too."

Back up at the base proper, Sam damned near ran _into_ Dempsey on his way into a building. Dempsey took a look at his expression and frowned. "What gives, Jaworski?" he asked, falling in step. "You look like someone just died."

Sam shook his head. "Hopefully not," he replied, shortly. "My son-in-law is MIA. I'm on my way to a briefing to see what we can do about that."

Dempsey stopped short, then swung around and fell in step with him. "Your son-in-law was one of the people who pulled me out of hell," the man said, quietly. "I haven't gotten to know him well, but I _owe_ him. What can I do?"

Sam stopped and stared at him. Dempsey had been doing biofeedback exercises for months now, trying to regain some control of his brain and emotions. Some progress had been made, but it was sometimes disturbingly like a krogan lived inside that human shell, erupting into blood rage without much warning. But still. . . the man was N7, and had been a _damned_ effective part of his original team. And he was also, more than likely, almost completely unrecognizable, unlike many of the Spectres currently on base. "There _might_ be something," he said, slowly. "Come with me."


	81. Chapter 81: Pursuit

**Chapter 81: Pursuit**

_**Author's note:**__ Originally, Serana and Eli were going to resolve their situation on Bastion; as soon as she wrote him that __very__ sassy letter from boot camp, he told me "No, I'm not staying on Edessan. She wants to argue? Fine. Let's argue face to face, damnit" The rest more or less went as originally written, except that the crisis wasn't going to be her choice of profession at that point, but something else. This worked better. Oh, and to give you an idea of how long this has been at the back of my mind? Has been planned since Chapter 47 of Unity. And the person who was originally going to come to the door and knock was __Siara__, looking Eli up after 12 years, mostly to show how out of step asari lifecycles are with human/turian ones. I like the way it turned out last chapter much better. As a result of all this, I actually wrote myself into a chiasmus in the last chapter, much to my surprise. The classical X formation when Character A's fortune goes up and Character B's fortune goes down. Color me surprised when I got to the end and realized it._

_For those wondering: Dempsey's theme song is __One__ by Metallica. Admittedly, I've always heard the lines as "doctors, imprisoning me" but even the real line of "darkness, imprisoning me" works. "I cannot live, I cannot die, my body's my holding cell. . . " Yeah. Plus, you know. Awesome song._

_I couldn't find this earlier, but to my way of thinking, this is EDI's theme. Let it go long enough to actually hear the vocals: __ www . youtube watch?v=u6ciigC8c-4__ "well, I dreamed I saw the silver spaceship fly / in the yellow haze of the sun / there were children crying and colors flying / all around the chosen ones / all in a dream, all in a dream / the loading had begun / flying on mother nature's silver seed / to a new home" (Did I mention I have __really__ eclectic taste in music?)_

**Rellus, March 2, 2196**

_Futar!_ Rel thought, grimly, as his team hit a snag. The compound was supposed to be a standard slave-lord's manor. Two or three dozen outbuildings, or barracks, for the outermost guards and menial slaves being trained or broken in for servitor work—farming, housework, garbage collection; anything a batarian of decent caste couldn't dirty his hands doing—then another ring of barracks, for the more valuable slaves; ones being trained or already trained to do more technical work and entertainment slaves. . . ones trained for gladiatorial fighting or prostitution. Then an inner ring of guard shacks surrounding the main house. They'd slipped through the outer rings easily enough, barely a shot fired. This wasn't meant to be a heavy combat mission, after all.

But now, where there should have only been a handful of guards near the west entrance of the house, there were _dozens_. Heavily armed, heavily shielded. And their radios were jammed. _Someone knew we were coming._ Rel ducked into cover beside one of his marines and changed clips. _Where'd we get the intel from on this place? 'Cause when I get home, I'm going to kill whoever gave it to us with my bare spurs._ He ducked back around the corner of the wall and fired again, short, precise bursts from his assault rifle. He caught sight of the weapon in one of the guard's hands and ducked back. _"Watch out!"_ he shouted. _"Stasis guns!"_

His people ducked and rolled and generally tried to get the hell out of the way as one of the guards fired. Stasis guns were a relatively new addition to the battlefield repertoire. They could incapacitate for hours, and left the victim aware and completely helpless. Rel _hated_ the damned things. Fortunately, they had a low rate of fire. He spun back out after the batarian missed, and blew the male's head off, teeth bared behind his visor.

Unfortunately, there were more behind him. A _lot_ more. Covering fire from every direction. _"Fall back and regroup,"_ Rel called. _"Let's try to get a better position."_

The turians fell back slightly, trying to cut down the angles of fire available to the batarians. One of his squadmates fell, and Rel snarled, trying to get to the _chalsae_. The male was limp, however, as he tried to drag the body away, which didn't give him a good feeling. _"Commander! He's dead. Leave him, we'll come back for the body!"_ one of the marines called.

_Spirits of stone, take them straight to the underworld!_

Then the bullets started coming in from _behind_ them. _Futar. We're cut off. The guards from the outer ring heard the alert._ _"Come on, people, back to back!"_ Rel shouted. _I'm not going to die here. No one's going to die here._ This building turned out to be a slave barracks. Rel could hear the screams of fear from inside. There were no windows, of course, so he couldn't see them, but he _hoped_ that they were all huddled on the floor, hands over their heads. Bullets were starting to ping into the building's side—now a cry of pain from within. Rel didn't even have time to wince. _The batarians don't even care if they kill their master's. . . property. Of course, we're out in the 'entertainment' ring,_ he thought, distantly, firing again. _Maybe they'd care if it were the most __valuable__ slaves._

The turians crouched in their limited cover and tried to pick off incoming batarians from all around them. Rel's crop was _clenched,_ and he could taste bile. _Dara, sweetness, I might not be coming home_, he thought, numbly, as the last marine beside him fell, body and armor clearly torn open by bullets. Rel was _not_ going to sell his life cheaply. _I love you, Dara. I'm coming to you now._

He stood back up and started to fire again at his closest target. And then, much to his _shock_, the batarian _next_ to his current target froze, a stasis field enclosing him. Rel ducked back down, heart pounding. _What the __futar__?_ he thought, stunned. He peered behind him, and saw another batarian guard suddenly rocked by heavy fire. _Got to be the other team. Probably Ylara. Thank the spirits._ He concentrated his own fire on the batarian in question, and soon he'd cleared a hole behind him. "Come on!" a voice shouted in galactic. "I'll cover you!"

Rel didn't question his good fortune. He waited for a break in fire, and _ran_, heading straight for the far barracks. What sounded like submachine gun fire covered his retreat, and Rel dove for cover again, this time behind some sort of animal shed. "What the hell's going on?" he shouted, in galactic.

"Veem's guards got a signal out. They're calling in the local militia," came the voice, low and plainly male, with a slight accent, and then suddenly, _someone_ was ducking into cover beside Rel.

Rel _stared_. The armor was _not_ turian. Nor Spectre. It was green and khaki, for starters, camouflage colors, and the faceplate was polarized, concealing the entire face. Not only did the person carry a full pack of weapons, but he also carried some sort of _sword_ on him. "Who the _futar_ are you?" Rel demanded, stunned.

"I'm the guy currently saving your scaly ass. Do you want to live, turian?" The unknown person leaned out and fired on the batarians back towards the main house.

_Well, when you put it that way. . . _"Actually, yeah. Can you get me around to regroup with the rest of my people?"

"Negative. From what we can tell, pretty much only the asari in the black armor is left. This is definitely time to beat a strategic retreat, turian. You with me?"

_S'kak_. "Yeah. For the moment."

"Right. I'm going to drop a stasis net on one of the ones closest to us. You take out the one next to him. Then we run like hell for the treeline. Stay with me." The male ducked out and fired a batarian slaver weapon at the closest guard, freezing him in place. Rel ducked out and fired on the target to the frozen one's left, dropping him. His new ally grabbed his arm and pulled, and then they were running for the damned trees. Rel easily outpaced his ally, but slowed enough to see where the hell the stranger was leading him, and then dove into the underbrush, rolling up and around to face back the way they'd come, watching for pursuit, teeth bared, ready to kill anyone who followed them.

"No time," the male told him. "Come on. Militia's almost here, and that will definitely compromise our ability to get away cleanly. I can only bluff so much." The male was digging a pack out of the underbrush, and was pulling clothing on _over_ his armor. "I'm going to have to talk very fast just to explain _you_, turian." Long, loose pants over the greaves and boots. He slung his weapon pack to the ground, and yanked an elaborately decorated tunic over his chest armor, pulled the weapons back to his shoulders, and swung a long cape over that, before taking off his helmet.

Which revealed a _batarian_ face. Three bright, alert orange-red eyes; the fourth, the upper-right one, was covered by a patch that did not completely conceal a slashing scar that ran through it. Rel's weapon muzzle lifted instinctively, and the batarian spread his hands, smiling a little. "Stand down, turian. Not exactly a time for introductions, but I am _not_ your enemy."

More gunfire in the distance. Rel debated for about half a second, and then lowered his rifle, every sense on alert now. "No tricks," he growled.

"Lots of tricks. But not on you. Come on." The batarian turned his _back_ on Rel and moved off into the undergrowth, and, debating again, and with a reluctant, backwards glance at where his fallen comrades lay, Rel followed.

The underbrush was thick, and provided _lots_ of cover, thankfully. The batarian's long cloak snagged a couple of times, and he pulled it free impatiently. Finally, he signaled for them to slow and move forward quietly. "Shit," the male said, quietly. "They've already surrounded my ship and my crew."

In the clearing ahead of them was a small spaceship, more or less the equivalent of a yacht. The toy of a millionaire, pretty much, it was probably sixty feet in length, with teardrop construction—smooth and sleek and designed for a _lot_ of speed, either in or out of atmosphere. Unfortunately, it was also completely surrounded by about ten members of the local batarian militia. Several batarians were on the gangplank leading up into the ship's body, plainly arguing with the militiamen. "Good, my men made it back in time to set up," the batarian muttered beside Rel. "Turian, how good are you barehanded?"

Rel blinked. "Good enough," he said, noncommittally. "I have a knife, too." Dara's wedding knife, with her name carved into the ivory handle, was suddenly a heavy weight against his wrist. One he had _no_ intention of giving up.

"That's fine. It's against the inside of your wrist, and short enough that they won't see it as a threat."

Rel blinked. The batarian was _observant_. "What do you have in mind?"

"You're going to pretend to be my prisoner. I'll take your weapon pack—calm down. I swear to you by the ashes of my ancestors that you'll get them back." The batarian's voice was clipped and precise. "Then we're going to walk up to my ship, you ahead of me. I'll say a few words to get them to calm down and drop their guard. _You speak batarian?"_

"_Yeah. After a fashion."_ Rel was actually fluent, but saw no need to admit to this.

"_All right. Don't react to anything I say. They can't see your face behind that mask, but don't move until I attack them. Then kill __only__ the militia. Keep your hands off my people."_

"_Understood."_ Rel _very_ reluctantly handed over his weapon pack. His hands damned near _itched_ for his assault rifle, but he did _not_ have a lot of choices here. This _could_ be a trap. . . but it would be a _hell_ of an elaborate ruse to take him captive, when the batarian could have fired on him at _any_ time previous to this.

The batarian drew his sword. It was long and straight, and while the blade itself looked like blued steel, there were circuit-like etchings down its length. "What is that thing?" Rel muttered.

"Vibrosword. Diamond-edged. Choice of upper caste duelists and buffoons throughout the entire Hegemony." Three orange-red eyes narrowed. "Hands on your head, walk ahead of me. I'll probably be going right. I suggest you go left, when it's time."

Rel gritted his teeth and interlaced his gauntleted hands behind his crest. Turned _his_ back on the batarian, feeling the place between his shoulderblades _itch_. And walked out into the clearing.

"_Ho there!"_ the batarian behind him called, in his native tongue. _"I have never been so glad to see guardsman before!"_ His tone had suddenly become jocular and relieved. _"I landed here to surprise Talar Veem—he's a friend of my family, don't you know—and just __look__ at what I found wandering in the woods."_ Rel felt the sword delicately prod him in the back, and understood suddenly what a vibrosword could _do._ The edge was tipped with diamond and literally did vibrate slightly; it could cut through armor designed to ward off kinetic or ballistic attacks. He moved forward, pretending to stagger a little at the push. _"I really don't know what to do with my souvenir here, but I was thinking of taking him home,"_ the batarian went on, conversationally. _"My father has always __dreamed__ of having a turian gladiator to present at the Hegemon's games."_

They were three feet away from the militia at the gangplank now, who'd turned to look at them—turning their backs to the batarians on the gangplank itself. There were two militia men facing them, two to the left, two to the right, and four more encircling the ship. The officer in charge, just ahead of them, cleared his throat. _"I'm afraid I can't let you do that, my lord, ah—_

"_N'dor. Valak N'dor. Perhaps you've heard of my family?"_ The voice had gone silky smooth. _"We buy and sell. . . useful commodities."_

"_This prisoner is needed by the Hegemony. He's evidence of a high-level Council plot against a private citizen of the Hegemony. We'll take him into our custody, my lord. There's no reason for you to dirty your hands further with him."_

"_Faugh. I know. I'll need at least an hour's bath and the personal attention of at least two, maybe three slaves, to take the stink of this day off of my skin. And these clothes? An utter disaster."_ The batarian's voice sounded amused now. _"That being said. . . I really must insist that you allow me to take __my__ new slave, captured by my own hand, onto my ship for transport."_

The commander wavered slightly, lowering his head in respect. _"My lord. . . forgive me. I am a worthless worm. But I cannot permit that."_

An audible sigh. _"Very well. Duty is a stern mistress to the protector caste. Crewmen!"_ His voice took on a commanding tone. The batarians behind the guards stiffened slightly. _"Do your duty!"_ And with that, he lunged right and forward, and _skewered_ the lead militiaman, sword cutting through a weak point in the armor and impaling him. Orange blood bloomed from the stomach, and the officer looked down in shock.

Rel didn't have a chance to see more than this. He was already leaping toward the batarian on the left side of the gangplank, Dara's wedding-knife in his right hand, and slammed into the guard, taking him to the ground. He wrestled with the batarian, pulling off the guard's helmet, hearing gunfire over his head, cries of pain. Ripping the helmet off, he struggled a moment longer. The batarian's hands were on his wrists, shoving his hands away. He could see panic in all four eyes. Rel slammed his helmeted forehead into the batarian's face, felt the hands slacken in pain and shock, and ripped his own hand free, driving the knife hand and fast into the soft area behind the male's chin, angling up to hit the brain. Crunch of gristle and bone as the knife shot home, and the batarian stiffened and spasmed under him.

Rel yanked the knife free, turning, evaluating the scene. Two on the gangplank, dead. Two to the right, dead. Two to the left, engaged with the batarian who'd rescued him; the other four were exchanging fire with the crew from the ship. Rel stepped in behind one of the two fighting with his ally, reached up with hands coated in orange blood, and seized a helmeted head, twisting and corkscrewing _down,_ just so, unweaving the complex threads of the spinal column with a decisive _crack._

At which point, the three-eyed batarian drove his sword into the chest of his other opponent. "Thanks," he said, tersely. "Take your weapons. We need all of them _dead_ before we leave." He slung Rel's weapon pack to the turian's feet, and Rel grabbed for his assault rifle, dropping Dara's knife, for the moment. He needed both hands for the rifle. Rel sighted and fired, tearing the damned shields right off the first militiaman he found. . . and found his own shields suddenly frying. _S'kak, s'kak, s'kak_, he thought, feeling the first bullets punch through his armor, and then he was on the ground, reeling. He'd gotten caught in a cross-fire, and now his vision was wavering. The sound of gunfire was very distant, as were voices speaking in batarian. _"They're dead. Get us off the damn ground. We __can't__ be seen here when the bodies are found."_

Then the world went away for a while.

**Elijah, March 4, 2196**

The last month or two had gone. . . much better than any in the previous four years. Work still was a deadly sink of other people's malice and greed, but somehow, it was just easier to deal with. Keep at a distance. It wasn't, Eli figured, the _only_ thing he saw anymore before he closed his eyes at night. He'd actually bought two frames, and loaded them up with pictures. One for his office—and _that_ was a first—which rotated through pictures of his family. The other, much more private, was on his nightstand, where he could see Serana grinning wickedly at him when he woke up and before he went to sleep. It was a very poor substitute for her presence, but it was something, anyway. And he'd actually stuck Duck's silly picture of his family to the door of the cryo-unit, for lack of anything better to do with it. Little steps. It wasn't as if he was about to break out in a fit of redecorating. Not with only a few months left to go on Edessan. Even dealing with Celcus, his dipshit partner, was easier. The male's unconscious condescension was easier to ignore, anyway.

Eli's conversation with Lantar two months ago, before he'd even left Palaven for a week of glorious leave with Serana, had been . . .amusing. For Lantar, anyway, or so he got the impression. Eli _very_ rarely wasted money on FTL comm calls, and could _never_ remember what time it was on Mindoir, anyway. Hence, when he'd called, it had been 25:30 planetside, and Lantar had answered the call looking tired, alarmed, and grumpy all at once. _"Eli? What the hell? What's wrong?"_

"_S'kak. Sorry, Pada,"_ Eli had said in turian, wincing. _"No one's died. I just forgot the time difference, and needed to talk to you."_

Lantar sighed. _"I know I said to improve your communication with us, but I really didn't expect calls in the middle of the night. What's on your mind?"_

Eli marshaled his thoughts. His _tal'mae_ would never be as fluid as Rel's, but he'd done little besides read laws and indictments and regulations written in it since coming here. Thus, his grasp on the language wasn't that of a native, or of a poet, or a scientist. It was legalistic and formal and each piece locked into place in his head before he said it. But he knew he lacked the nuances and formalities and understanding of custom that a real turian first-son would have. Eli sighed. _"I say to you, who stand as a father to me, that I require your advice and support as clan-leader."_

Lantar sat up straight. _"I will hear your words, you who are as a first-son to me. Speak._" He plainly looked worried. FTL call in the middle of the night, use of _tal'mae_. . . .

_He thinks he needs to bail me out of jail or something,_ Eli thought, wryly. _"I request that you speak on my behalf to the clan-leader of the Velnarans. It is my intention to seek the rites of the hand with his first-daughter, and he is aware of our inclinations towards one another. But it is only right and proper that you should conduct the negotiations for us."_ There. He'd managed to get through it with only one or two stumbles.

Lantar's mouth had opened for a moment, and then closed. And then he'd started to_ laugh_. Quietly, of course; Lantar was not an uproarious sort of guy on his best day. But his put his face in his hands for a moment and just _shook_ with it.

Eli felt his face turning hot, as it hadn't for _years_, and set his jaw a little grimly, prepared to wait his father out. Lantar finally caught his breath and looked upwards again. _"Well, a little over four years ago, you __did__ say that you might look into finding yourself a nice turian girl. Because you understood us better than humans or asari,"_ Lantar said in contemporary turian, grinning.

Eli's mind flashed back to the kitchen table. He'd been in the process of breaking up with Siara at the time, as best he recalled. _"Your memory is unwholesomely sharp, Pada."_

"_So, little Serana finally got your attention? Good for her."_

Eli sighed. _"Did __everyone__ know besides me?"_

Lantar thought about it. _"There might be some people out in asari space who didn't know,"_ he said, after a moment. _"About six months ago, when she came to the house, I thought __she__ might have just decided to cut you out of the process entirely and just decided to ask me to arrange something between you."_

Now it was Eli's turn to have his mouth open slightly. _"What?"_

"_Ah. She hasn't told you yet. She'd heard from some of the others that you weren't doing well, and came to me as clan-leader, concerned for your well-being. Hence my trip out to Edessan to see you."_ Lantar stared at Eli for a moment. _"She's quite a young female. Don't screw up."_

"_Not planning on it, but then, I never do."_ Eli shrugged.

Lantar sighed._ "All right. You've come to me in formality. I need to reciprocate."_ He switched back to _tal'mae_. _"I will approach her clan-leader when he returns to his place of dwelling. Since his first-daughter is of age and an adult, there need be no stipulations during the plighting period."_

_Thank god, because I'd already have broken several of the clauses,_ Eli thought, his lips twitching slightly. _And I'd have continued to break them, as often and as thoroughly as possible._

"_What sort of contract did you want to offer?"_ Lantar got out a datapad and a stylus now.

Eli had actually given this some thought. _"Four year contract. No provisions as to children needed yet, obviously. Standard allocation of income."_

"_What's hers is hers and what's yours is yours."_

"_Yes. Though I'll provide living quarters if I leave the military."_

"_And you have a contract date start in mind?"_

"_The day she graduates OCS. Before, if I can arrange it for one of her half-days of liberty."_ Eli's jaw had set. _"I do __not__ want them sending her on long-term assignment somewhere."_

Lantar chuckled. _"We'll set it as Xlorae, then. Popular day for weddings anyway. March 25, before you ask. Because of the holiday, she should have a half-day, anyway. I'll get together with Allardus as soon as they get back from Palaven. Might take us a little time to coordinate between the work schedules, though."_

Eli nodded. _"Sounds fine. Thank you, Pada."_ He hesitated. _"For everything."_

Lantar grinned. _"Not a problem. However, __before__ you try to make your escape—"_

_Damn. "You want me to talk to my mom?"_

Lantar's needle-sharp grin split his face. _"You're damn right I do. Let me go get her."_

Eli sighed and wondered if he could fake a broken transmission. Probably not. In short order, Lantar had his mom in front of the comm panel, however. She looked tired and sleepy and worried, as always. "Sorry, Mom," Eli apologized, _again_. "Lantar told me this couldn't really wait."

"Don't blame _me_, son."

Ellie looked concerned. "Is there a problem? The transmission says you're on _Palaven_."

Elijah held up his hands. "Everything's fine, Mom. I just called to get Lantar to set up contract negotiations with Serana's father." He was using his version of the _talk-the-jumper-down_ voice. Nice and slow and soothing. No big dips or rises in inflection.

Her lips formed a perfect O for a moment. Then Ellie smiled, brilliantly. "You're getting married? Why, Eli, this is wonderful! When did this happen?"

Off-balance, Elijah tried to get a word in edgewise. . . "Ah. . . today? Well, last night, really, but. . . "

"Did you get her a ring yet?"

_Ring? Crap, turians don't go in for that. Knives, yes. . . __s'kak__. Yes, I will need to get her a knife-sheath. God, this is going way too damn fast. No wonder Lin wanted a commeditor contract first, basically just living together and trying it out, with provisions for everyone's safety. Actually. .. he wanted four years, __Brennia__ argued him down to commeditor. _"Ah, I'm not sure she actually _wants_. . . I haven't actually specifically _asked_ her yet—"

His mom frowned at him. "You're having Lantar go to her father and you _haven't_ asked her?"

"I think it's kind of _understood_, Mom—"

"_Ask_ her." Ellie's tone was very firm. "Girls do like to be asked."

_She's __turian_, _and I think with my paint all over her damn body last night and this morning, she got the picture._ Out loud, Elijah replied, noncommittally, "I'll see if she's agreeable, then." Then he grinned.

A little more chit-chat, and then he'd shut down the comm terminal, shaking his head. His mom had been damned near _giddy._ Not at all the reaction he'd anticipated, considering the way she'd frowned over Dara back in the day, and the constant look of pinched concern over both Kella and Siara. _Then again, she thought Dara and I were too young, and Dara __had__ just blown the head off a vorcha and hadn't done more than gag a little. Siara and Kella were asari, and Mom's got personal reasons for that. Serana, she's known for five years, and is turian, just like Lantar. _

Serana had come out of the bathroom around that point, and leaned over his shoulder. "Everything go okay? I heard Lantar laughing."

"I have a feeling I should get used to that sound," Eli told her, ruefully. "My mom's over the moon right now. I think."

"She's probably got visions of little hybrid grandkids dancing in her head right now," Serana told him calmly.

Eli blinked. "Well, I guess it's _possible_, given Eduardo and Charis, but. . . yeah. Not really the first thing on my mind right now." He stood up from the comm terminal and had leaned down to brush her lip-plates with a kiss. "Oh, she said I should _ask_ you to marry me." He gave Serana a quizzical look. "You feel any need for a ring to go with the knife sheath?"

Serana laughed and held up her hands. "Which finger would it even go on?"

"Which one does Rel wear his on?"

She held up her left hand and wiggled the left finger. And laughed again. "I know why Dara got him one—mostly because her father insisted on human customs. But it isn't really necessary."

"I'll wear one for you, if you want." Eli had shrugged. "That way, no humans will be confused. Lots of 'em don't know about the knives." He'd planted a quick kiss on her forehead, then caught her by the hand to tug her towards the door. "Come on. We've got a shuttle to Bastion to catch."

That had been two months ago, almost to the day. They'd bought sheaths on Bastion, laughing like children getting away with something, and he'd worn his every day since, which had gotten him any _number_ of odd looks at work.

Today, Eli sat at his desk, reading an MP's report this one about a family, in which the mother had disappeared two days before, apparently taking both of the couple's children with her. The couple's contract had specified joint custody of any children in the event of a contract termination, so the case was being treated as a potential kidnapping, which meant it had gotten bumped to _his_ desk. Usually, he handled homicides, but this had the potential for turning _into_ one, if not handled just right.

Celcus opened the door of their office and walked in. "_Sidonis_," he grated. _"You've got a visitor."_

Surprised, Eli swung around. "Dad?" he said, standing. Lantar was in full kit—not just his armor, like last time, but his weapons, too. "What's up? The guns are a bit much for contract negotiations. . . unless Allardus _really_ doesn't like some of the terms." The tone was light, but Eli's face had already shut down. Lantar wouldn't come here in full gear if it were _good_ news.

"I asked your superiors to re-allocate your services to the Special Tactics and Reconnaissance group for a while. I need you with me." Lantar was in work mode. No glint of humor, just the dead blankness of the eyes and grim set of the jaw.

Eli's remaining good humor vanished. "What happened?"

"Rel's MIA. Sam and I need another set of investigator eyes with us. Livanus is unavailable. Garrus is dealing with political _s'kak_. Tag. You're it." Lantar's voice was grim.

Eli took exactly one second to absorb that, then pulled his investigator credentials and badge out of his pocket and tossed them in the top drawer of his desk, beside his official gun—the department-issued one that he detested, an Armax Arsenal Brawler IV, which was large and unwieldy. His two concealed weapons were already in place—the Beretta at his back, and the smaller Sig Sauer at his ankle. "I'll get my armor. Do I need anything else?"

"No. We've got weapons on the ship."

Eli glanced at Celcus and tossed his datapad on the other male's desk. _"Here. This one's urgent. Don't leave the light on for me."_

"_Where the hell are you going?"_ Celcus demanded.

"_No idea."_ _Kind of how it works._

Eli was in his armor and on the shuttle inside of ten minutes. "First off, does his family already know?" Eli asked.

Lantar nodded. "Most of them. They haven't told Serana. Don't want to distract her at OCS."

Eli nodded tightly. "Good call. This is her high explosives week." He swallowed. He did _not_ want Serana distracted while working with high-yield bombs. "Dara?"

"Sam went and got her yesterday. She's. . . well, she's human." Lantar grimaced. 

"She cried?"

"And then went blank. She wants in on the mission, though. Rinus is coming, too."

Eli shook his head. "Rinus is a good man in a fight. Dara. . . ." He didn't know what to say. Dara was _Dara_ most of the time. He hadn't actually seen her fight since sparring when they were sixteen, but he knew she was special forces, which meant she _had_ to be good. But still, with her _husband_ being the one missing? Human combat doctrine said that people with personal involvement, shouldn't be involved, for fear of a loss of judgment. Turian combat doctrine said the opposite. The more involved you were, the stronger your loyalty.

Lantar nodded. "Sam says she'll be fine. And we need a medic, in case he's hurt."

"Shit." Eli couldn't even _begin_ to imagine what must be going through her head, but it probably looked something like what flashed through his mind whenever he thought of Serana being captured or killed. Not pretty at all. Eli inhaled, and got his thoughts together. "What can you tell me?" he asked Lantar as they ascended.

"Not a hell of a lot. We'd gotten information out of STG—_bad_ intel, apparently, and _that's_ what Garrus is dealing with right now, while Shepard's dealing with the Council on this. The intel suggested that the batarian who set up the assassination attempt on Patriarch last year was on Camala. We got specific coordinates to his compound, and Ylara went in, mostly because it was her or Gris, and we figured she might be the more subtle choice." Lantar grimaced. "As is, we should have sent two or three Spectres, and a hell of a lot more than just a light extraction team. We had information that he had a _total_ of thirty, maybe forty guards, all strung out around the perimeter. First bad sign was jamming that started when the teams went in. Second bad sign was heavy damned resistance on the ground."

"More than thirty or forty, total?" Eli looked out the shuttle window. They were coming up on an SR-1, and fast. The tail numbers were familiar, and after a moment, he recognized the _Estallus._ Beside it was an SR-3, almost twice the size. Lantar's home away from home, the _Nereia._

"Probably double that."

"Shit." Eli paused. "We're heading into the _Estallus?"_

"Yeah. _Nereia's_ going to flash the damn satellites and get everyone looking her direction, and then _Estallus_ is going to drop in, stealthed, and we're to go see if we can find out what happened to Rel and the rest of his team."

"Ylara went in, and Rel went in?"

"Two separate directions, yeah. Ylara got out, brought the rest of the Sollostra marines in, cleaned the place up. . . and did more cleaning up when the local militia was called in. Doctored some evidence, removed our people's bodies, made it look like a slave revolt."

Eli frowned. "That'll bring the local authorities down _hard_ on the slaves."

"Yeah. I don't like it, but we're also not trying to provoke a war here." Lantar snorted. "Then again, this slave lord, Veem, whether acting on his own, or by direction of the Hegemony, tried to assassinate a head of state recognized by the Council. Kind of sounds like we're already at war. Just not all nice and cleanly _declared_."

The shuttle moved into the shuttle bay smoothly, and Eli could see the hangar doors closing out of the window. "Who's going in with us?"

"You, me, Sam. Rinus, Dara, and Dempsey."

Eli blinked. "Now that's a name I don't know. New Spectre?" The hatch of the shuttle dropped, and they both stepped out, heading for the door that led to the rest of the ship. Eli got startled looks from the turian and human members of the crew, and several came to attention, only seeing the officer insignia at first, not catching the colors on the sides of his armor till he was past them.

"No, not a Spectre." Lantar frowned. "I think Sam's playing a hunch on this one. Dempsey is. . . something else. This goes no further. Cerberus experimented on him around the time they were rebuilding Shepard. Then they put him in stasis for ten years or so. We found him about six to eight months ago, and he's been trying to put himself back together since then."

Eli nodded. He didn't probably need more details than that, for the moment. And then they'd made it to the port observation lounge, and Eli stepped through the door by Lantar's side. Almost as tall as his turian father. Same facepaint, matte black armor. Echoes of one another, one human, one turian. His eyes scanned the room quickly. Sam, sitting at the terminal, working intently, raised a hand. "Hey, son. Good to see you. Give me a minute."

Rinus, sitting at one of the couches near the observation window stood. Eerie resemblance to Rel, of course. Heavier, darker, bulkier. Same yellow paint, but colder eyes. "_Amil'amu_," he greeted Eli dryly. _Beloved of my sister._ "I _was_ planning on having a talk with you about letting my parents be the ones to tell us about the upcoming contract signing. . . .but all things considered, it can wait." He managed a tight grin.

All things considered, his dread about the two brothers finding out was much less stomach-roiling than one of them being _missing._ Eli managed a light tone, saying, "I thought the parents were _supposed_ to handle that. Serana's at OCS. That leaves your parents, or me." His tone made it clear just how likely the latter actually was.

"Well, they _did_ need to tell me to clear my calendar for the wedding." They clasped wrists briefly.

"Nice to see you again, Rinus. Though we've _got_ to stop meeting like this." He kept the tone deliberately light. He could see Dara on the couch past Rinus, and from the big male's sidelong glance back at her, Rinus was concerned for her, too.

"What, when there are people who need shooting? Beats my day job." Rinus grinned. "But _this_ time, you need to avoid getting shot. My little sister used to have a _piercing_ voice when she got upset."

And then Eli stepped past Rinus, to where Dara was sitting on the couch in a work uniform, face and eyes completely blank. Not in shock anymore, just. . . not really there. Her version of the work face. She glanced up, and the expression wavered. "Eli," she said, standing, and he gave her a cautious hug, not squeezing too hard. Armor tended to _hurt_ like that. "Wish you'd told us about the whole contract thing earlier. I only found out from Solanna yesterday."

"I didn't want to have to deal with Rel's teasing. Or yours." Eli put a hand on Dara's hair lightly. "Admittedly, I do have it coming. I _did_ kind of give you hell about Rel."

Her shoulders started to shake a little, and for a moment, he was scared he'd made her cry, but then she started to laugh a bit, almost against her will. "You were _bad_ when I came back to school after the wedding."

Eli grinned. "You opened yourself up for it, telling Siara you wouldn't be able to study at night or on weekends until he left for boot camp." His grin widened. "All _I_ said was that you couldn't _possibly_ be. . . busy. . . all weekend. Or _every_ night."

The heel of her hand met the breastplate of his armor. "Oh? And now that _you're_ marrying a turian, Elijah Marcus Stockton Sidonis. . . do you believe it _now_?" Her head had come up, and she was _blushing_ to the roots of her hair, but the eyes were defiant and alive again.

Eli laughed. "Actually. . . .yeah. I do." He looked up at the ceiling. "I plan to keep her _busy_ just as often as I possibly can." He checked. Dara was actually smiling now. His minor embarrassment was worthwhile, if it got a reaction out of her other than numbness.

Rinus coughed. "Way more than I wanted to know about _either_ of my siblings."

Sam snorted. "I find sticking my fingers in my ears and humming _real_ loud helps, Rinus."

Eli gave Dara one more squeeze. "We'll find him, Dara. We'll get him back. 'Cause, you know, otherwise, Serana will _kill_ me."

He settled her back down on the couch, and turned, finding the last person in the room staring at him. Human male, about his own height. Close to his own weight. Pale blue eyes, sandy-colored hair, and a bleak expression. The man leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest. Just watching. "You'd be Dempsey then?" Eli offered his hand. "Elijah Sidonis."

Dempsey straightened and came over to shake Eli's hand. "Yeah. That's me." His hand was warm and dry, the shake firm but not crushing. Eli was used to evaluating people at a glance now, but he honestly didn't know what to make of Dempsey. There was very little in the man's eyes to read.

**Dempsey**

Dempsey had been brought aboard when they left Mindoir. He had reservations working with so many people who personally knew the soldier who'd gone missing. . . but most of these Spectres seemed to know or be related to one another, one way or the other. Dara had been pale and very damned quiet. They'd swung by Palaven to pick up a turian who sure as hell _looked_ like the big male that the young doctor was married to, but when he spoke, the voice was noticeably lower in pitch. Older brother, apparently. Came aboard wearing some fancy damn robes, but changed out to armor fast—armor that had seen a _lot_ of wear, in fact. He didn't speak often, but when he did, it was straight to the point. No bullshit. _Senior NCO_, Dempsey thought. He could respect that.

Then one more planet, at the turian Spectre's insistence. An extra set of eyes, he said, but from the quick glances he and Jaworski exchanged, there was more to it than that. Then Sidonis had walked into the observation lounge with a human male at his side, and Dempsey blinked. The young man was probably his age, maybe younger—_okay, my __physical__ age. Shit._ Black armor, turian insignias. Violet clan paint, identical to Lantar's. _So, I'm not thinking that they're __married_, _so I guess that leaves __adopted_. From the by-play, and the fact that the young man gave Dara a hug, he figured they went back a ways. . . gentle teasing, getting her to smile. Two reasons to have him here, then. An extra set of eyes, and a buffer for Dara?

The rest of the conversation unfurled, and Dempsey frankly didn't know what to make of it. Human, in turian paint, in a turian uniform, marrying. . . apparently. . .a turian female. Younger sister of both Rellus and Rinus. _Does __anyone__ just want to stay human anymore?_ he felt like asking, but then, he wasn't exactly an expert on what made someone _human_ anymore, himself.

Then the man introduced himself. Firm handshake, and Dempsey rapidly re-evaluated as he met the newcomer's eyes. Hard stare. He'd seen that before, in his own father's face. _Sidonis, like the older turian's name. I guess they __must__ be related. Guess I've got more extranet searching to do. Though. . . huh. Maybe this is the skinny kid from Shanxi, sitting in the same row as the rest of them? _"James Dempsey. Formerly N7. You military, or a cop, Sidonis?"

Elijah's lips quirked at the corners. "Both, for the moment. Turian CID." He looked back at the two Spectres in the room. "We're heading to Camala?"

"Yeah," Sam replied, pushing back from the console. "We're about a day out. The _Dunkirk_ has stayed in position all this time, keeping an eye on the compound as best they can from beyond the fourth planet in the system. Long range telemetry only gets you so much information, though." He glanced over at Dara. "Sweetie, you are going to need to get some sleep."

Dara nodded. "I know. I just haven't been able to." She curled back up on the couch, and, once Rinus and Eli sat down on either side of her, actually _did_ finally sack out.

Dempsey looked at Sam. "Okay. Now that she's finally out, what are we expecting when we hit the ground?" His voice was flat, as always.

"I wouldn't be surprised if they've left electronic surveillance equipment at the least. I'm actually expecting several squads to be there still, investigating the area. I _don't_ know if they expect us to come back." Sam's face was grim.

"That would largely depend on whether Rel's alive or not, and if he's been captured or not." Lantar's expression was just as grim as Sam's. "If he's alive in the forest somewhere—and I firmly believe that's possible—they could be searching the wilderness for him. If he's alive and been captured, they might be waiting to see if we'll come back for him. If he's dead and they have the _body_, they'll be waiting for the same thing. Overall, chances are, there _will_ be a greeting party there, of some type or another."

"Were they using slaver stasis guns?" Rinus asked, quietly.

Sam nodded. "Ylara reported as much, yeah."

Dempsey could feel the vibration in the floor change. They had absolutely _floored_ it to the system's mass relay, he realized. They weren't even bothering with stealth at the moment, which he knew that the SRs were capable of. "And each of our roles?" he asked now, calmly. "What do you need me to do?"

"Rinus is heavy weapons and explosives. Sam's stealth, recon, and general mayhem." Lantar looked at Sam. "You _were_ mayhem, right, Orpheus?"

"Yeah. Gris is practical chaos. _You're_ destruction and demolition, Nemesis." The smiles were _very_ faint. Sam looked at Dempsey. "Dara's the only one of us who speaks fluent batarian. She's also obviously the medic, and can hold her own in combat. She can also do non-lethal damage, if we decide we want a live prisoner."

Dempsey's eyes flicked to Eli. "And him and me?"

"You're our biotic and decryption person." Lantar grinned. "Eli's got the most current investigative skills of anyone here."

"And I'd have him at my back in _any_ fight," Rinus added, suddenly. "Not something I say often." The two males exchanged a glance across Dara's slumbering form, and nodded briefly.

Eighteen hours later, they'd reached Camala, deep in batarian space. From the way the entire crew tensed, humans and turians alike, Dempsey could see the very fine edge in all of them. He wandered restlessly around the cargo hold for a while, and on one pass around the room, blinked in surprise. A turian in enlisted gray, one of the marines, was having an argument in a corner of the bay with. . .a female form made out of light and shadow. _What the hell?_ Dempsey thought, bemused, and stepped closer, fascinated.

"Tarenius, I don't know why you're so upset. _I'm_ not." Dempsey's VI was picking up the translation, at least.

"It doesn't bother you, having him aboard?"

"No. Why should it? He and his wife have proven to be excellent parents to our children." Dempsey could _hear_ the voice, but whoever or whatever this . . . thing. . . was, it _looked_ human, but he could see her, but also _through_ her, at the same time. As if she were a phantom. She continued talking to the turian calmly. "He's much happier now. And, truthfully, so am I. Isn't that the main thing?" She looked up and past the turian now, and seemed to see Dempsey. "Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Dempsey." She asked it in flawless English.

"What _are_ you?" he asked, bluntly.

The turian turned, frowning. "Kind of a rude question, isn't that?" he growled, in galactic.

"It's a VI, isn't it? Or an AI, like the ones that are legal now, right?" Dempsey squinted at the female again. "The emulator program must be bugging, because I can see all kinds of problems in the holographic avatar."

The female form seemed to blink, and then _solidified._ . . . but still clearly wasn't really _there_, to his eyes, at least. "Is that better, Mr. Dempsey?" She smiled.

"Definitely not as blurry around the edges now," he acknowledged. ._Hmm. The turian didn't seem to see anything wrong with her. Maybe one mostly-a-machine can recognize another mostly-a-machine._

"In answer to your query, I'm Laetia, the _Estallus_ AI. Which means that I am as sapient as you are, though perhaps, if the rumors are true, I'm more likely to have my feelings hurt than you are." Her tone was a little whimsical.

Dempsey shrugged. He couldn't tell if that was the sort of thing he was supposed to laugh at. Which was, he supposed, part of her point. "Sorry to interrupt. Was mostly just wondering if I saw a ghost or something."

He turned to walk away, and they were right back into their argument, translation flickering in print across his omnitool. "I just don't understand how you can be so calm about him being on board. _I'm_ not."

"Rinus wasn't suited to being chipped, and I should have realized it much sooner than I did. Instead, I tried too hard. Pressured him. _You_ volunteered." Her voice was calm, and carried overtones of deep affection. "Because you liked me. And that's a much better way to do things."

Dempsey swung back around, eyes widening slightly. He wanted to protest. _This young fellow's carrying around a chip in __his__ brain, too? He's, what, hooked up to a computer twenty-four seven, and __he__ doesn't seem to have had his brain fried._ He looked down, and realized that his hands had balled into fists, and he sighed. One of the sure signs that his temper was about to break through the leash imposed by his own damned chip. He found a seat near the Hammerheads, and took a few deep breaths, trying to picture the colored lights of the biofeedback exercises he'd been doing for months. Trying to restructure his brain. Learn how to control himself again.

Twenty minutes later, the Spectres and the younger team members had assembled, along with two marine teams, including the young _chalsae_. The _chalsae_ caught sight of Dara and hurried over to her, took her hand, and actually bowed slightly over it. "Dr. Velnaran," he said in galactic, smiling.

"Gallian!" Dara smiled up at him. "It's good to see you again. I heard you got cybernetic prosthetics? How are they working for you?"

"They were a gift from Laetia." Gallian glanced behind her at Rinus, and Dempsey followed the glance. "And they're working great. I can actually _feel_ my toes. I can still tell that they're. . . not original equipment. . . but I'll gladly give up being ticklish so long as I can still walk and run and fight."

"That's outstanding." Dara's smile lit up her face. "If you wouldn't mind dropping by the med bay later, I'd love to take a look at them. I thought you'd be stuck with regular prosthetics till you got out of the military." She smiled again. "I hardly _ever_ get to see successes, Gallian. And even though a _lot_ of other people got you where you are today, I'd still like to count you as one of them."

The young turian patted her shoulder, very human-like. "Of course, Doc. And in the meantime. . . we'll attend to getting the commander out of whatever _s'kak_-heap he's managed to fall down into. He'll probably come up covered in nightfires."

Dara's face had crumpled a little, but she rallied to smile. "You've _obviously_ served with him before," she managed, dryly, and then went to find a spot beside the others.

"We're going in," Sam said to everyone assembled, in galactic. "Assume the landing zone is hot. Anyone you see is probably a hostile. There is a possibility of electronic surveillance, stealthed attackers, and, potentially, biotics. Once we clear the zone, Spectre Sidonis, Agent Sidonis, and I will be conducting investigations. You'll be watching our backs while we look around. Don't step anywhere we haven't cleared for you to step. Everyone clear?"

Nods all around. "Let's go."

Dempsey stepped into the Hammerhead with the rest of the Spectres and affiliated team-members; the marines were dropping in a different vehicle. He found he _missed_ the excitement, the adrenaline before a drop. Now there was only calm, cool clarity. He saw Dara turn her head and heard her say, "I wish Kallixta were flying us in, Rinus."

"Me too. She wanted to be, but she's teaching at flight school right now." Rinus' face was hidden behind his polarized mask, like the elder Sidonis'. "She said she sent her spirit with me, though. Maybe it'll rub off on the pilot."

And then the _Estallus_ was tearing through the atmosphere, steep entry angle, just short of one that would sear the outer hull. "Five. . . four. . . three," Sam began their countdown, and the shuttle bay doors opened, revealing thin, wispy clouds before, and they all grabbed their harnesses and held on as the Hammerhead dropped out of the belly of the ship, hurtling toward the ground below. Dempsey winced. He _still_ wasn't entirely used to the low-light vision shit that the docs had done to him. Even mild sunlight like this, could hurt.

"First time in a drop, Eli?" Dara called across the vehicle.

The younger Sidonis was looking out the window. "Yeah. We used gunships pretty much exclusively at my OCS." He paused. "Ground seems to take a long time to come up at you."

"We're basically doing the equivalent of a halo jump in a vehicle at the moment," she told him, calmly. "It's much more of a rush when you do it on your own."

"I'll take your word for it." There was some strain in the man's voice.

"Wimp." Good-natured teasing, a solid poke in his pride.

"Hey, I just got used to living on a _planet_. This whole waiting for it to come up and smack you in the face is for the _birds._"

Dempsey wished he could take part in the razzing, the camaraderie. But he couldn't. Couldn't come up with anything to say that wouldn't sound condescending or distant. He'd enjoyed his own drop training, as best he recalled. But then again. . . there'd been the rush, the sensation of risk and the thrill of cheating death. Now it was like standing in an elevator. . . and then Jaworski was tapping the thrusters, breaking their fall.

"We've got lifesigns on the scope," Lantar said now, and all chatter stopped, immediately. Intent focus now in every face around him. The Hammerhead lurched as they touched down, and Dempsey's head rocked forward. Sam hit the thrusters again, and they were skimming over the rugged terrain now, dodging trees. "Orpheus, they're right in front of us—"

The batarians in the trees panicked and started firing right at the Hammerhead. Jaworski shook his head and slammed the thrusters, barreling right through the pair of them. Dempsey heard the impact, and saw the bodies roll up and over the windows, tumbling loosely over the roof and then down behind again. "Damn," he said out loud, calmly, looking behind them now, where the second Hammerhead was churning over the fallen bodies now. "Local militia?"

"Sucks to be them," Jaworski said flatly. "They fired on me, though. Fair game."

Then Jaworski lit off the jets and leaped a chasm, and then they came to a halt, right at the treeline, opening out into a wide open area. "Everyone out."

Dempsey could feel his heart rate increasing, and he checked his weapons, lowered the extra polarized film over his visor to protect his light-sensitive eyes, and leaped out the hatch. He still couldn't _feel_ the excitement. . . but combat was coming. The scope lit up. _Time to go._

**Elijah**

This was both different from his usual routine, and, in some ways, the same. Not too much different from SWAT work, though a _hell_ of a lot more open area than he was used to. Somehow, he almost always wound up going in through small houses, hotels, warehouses. . . structures, anyway, when it was time for SWAT work. Sam had pulled them to a halt in the cover of a small outbuilding, and there were many other small ones around, between them and the main house. _Militia uniforms. Could be local cops, more or less like me. . . but then again, they could also have Rel._ No particular ethical qualms crossed his mind as he raised his pistol and fired, twice, center mass. Saw the shields flare, and ducked for cover alongside the building. "Scattered in pairs," Lantar reported, calmly. "They're all spread out."

"Our jamming's up," Sam reported. "I'm going to go play hide and seek with the ones to the far right. Lantar, cover me."

_Hide and seek. Right. He stealths._ Eli glanced over, and caught the faintest glimmer of the stealth device as Sam activated it and moved out. Rinus tapped his arm, made a gesture, and Eli nodded, and they both broke and ran to the right themselves, taking cover behind the building opposite where they _had_ been standing, giving their group two angles of fire now. Dara and Dempsey stayed left, and Eli saw the man grimace briefly and then one of the batarians in front of them lifted clear off the ground, thrown backwards a good twenty feet by a powerful biotic thrust. _There we go_, Eli thought, distantly, and followed up with several more shots to the helpless foe.

"They're moving in," Lantar called, stepping out now to fire with his assault rifle, a steady stream of bullets, pouring death right at the batarians directly in front of them.

Sure enough, on the scope, red blips were moving in from all directions. They'd taken out four, and at least twenty remained. Some were firing from range already, the sharp double report of sniper rifles. "Fish in a barrel," Rinus muttered, in English. "Eli, further right. Cut down their angle further."

"You got it." They spun back behind the building and slipped further to the east. There was a strangled scream, and Eli peered to the far east, and realized that Sam had decapitated one of the batarians there, and was currently using the lifeless body as a secondary shield as the other batarian there leveled a submachine gun at him and just kept firing till the clip jammed. _Yeah, that's not something you see every day,_ Eli thought, keyed up on adrenaline, and fired his own pistol now, again, center mass, taking out the batarian's shields as he stood there, dry-firing his weapon at Sam. Then ducked back as his own shields sparked; there were two batarians moving up north of his position now, and he and Rinus had their _own_ hands full. _Damnit, there's still ten of them to the northwest and west. Dara and Dempsey are exposed._ Eli turned and glanced back for their marines—saw them pinned down by heavy fire just outside of their own Hammerhead.

**Dempsey**

_Ten on the scope still, and that's just the ones we can see_, Dempsey thought. Even in cover, he and the doctor were taking a _hell_ of a lot of fire. "Time to move," he told her calmly, pointing to a different building to the northwest.

She shook her head. "Look at the tape," she called back, and then ducked around the corner of their building, taking a couple of shots with her rifle at the batarians to their far northwest, up close to the main building. "Crime scene. We can't disturb that."

_Shit. She's right._ Dempsey peeked back out, evaluated, and shook his head. "Okay. Cover me. Move _with_ me, if you can." Thankfully, his biotics only hurt if the chip was active. At the moment, the damn thing was turned off. He wrapped energy around himself, snugged it down tight as a kid in a snowsuit, and broke cover, jogging towards a different building, one slightly more north of him. Four batarians to the northeast immediately opened fire on him, and he could _feel_ the bullets pinging off of him. He stopped, turned, and impatiently gestured for the doctor to _follow_. "Come on!" he shouted. Sooner or later, his _first_ layer of shields _would_ crumble.

He had to give her credit—she could _hustle_, and made it up to the shelter of the building just as he ducked down himself. "Two layers of shields plus armor, doc," Dempsey told her. "And even if the little shits break through that. . . " _. . . it'll __hurt__ like a motherf—_ Another barrage of bullets from the northwest broke his chain of thought, and he ducked around, fired his little submachine gun at one of the batarians there and nodded as he saw shields sparking. "One on the right, doc."

"Got it," she said, and ducked out herself now. Two sharp reports from the rifle, and down the batarian went. She ducked back around the corner, and glanced down at her scope. "The ones to the east are trying to cut down and flank us."

"Let 'em. They'll run into fire from Eli and Rinus that way." So calm, so flat. Like looking at a chessboard. He ducked around again, and grabbed the last batarian to the northwest with his biotics, ripping the shields apart before firing freely. Dara dropped to her knee and fired as well. Again, he had to give her credit. Her rifle work was fast and lethally accurate. "Who taught you to shoot?"

"Rifles? My dad. Hunting. Pistols? Rel did."

_Okay, now for the tricky part. . . still six left on the scope._ Dempsey moved north up along the face of the building, and peered around it to the northeast now. . . _shit. Yeah. That's a hell of a lot of bullets._ He ducked back. "Doc? You're going to want to stand right behind me." He wrapped his shields around him again and stepped around the corner, planted his feet and simply _returned fire_ at the northernmost group of batarians, as Dara really did duck for cover behind him and shot _around_ him. _I'm a goddamned wall. Is that up or down from a geth?_ At one point, she fired a single round of some odd ammo. . . and one of the batarians firing at him began to spasm and dance. Dempsey thought that this might have been amusing, once upon a time. Now it was just. . .convenient. He isolated the batarian in his sights and fired.

And _that_ was when _something_ hit him from the side, slamming him into the wall. Demspey reacted on gut instinct, lashing out, using his gun to hit _whatever_ it was—_stealthed attackers_—he thought, dimly, just as he heard the doctor snap into her radio, "We've got people in stealth nets up here!"

_Son of a bitch_, Demspey thought, with absolutely no force. Just the force of habit, really. He focused his mind and _threw_ whoever it was off of him. "Doc? I may have to start using the chip. If I do, there's a pretty good chance I'll go batshit insane. Get the hell away from me if I do."

Quick flick of those dark eyes at his face. She nodded. "Will do, Dempsey. Thanks for the warning."

Sharp report of a pistol, and another batarian flickered into view as his stealth got ripped away. Then they were all _around_ them. Had to be three, four of them. Dempsey opened the chip and, in concert with his omnitool, ripped one of the stealth nets right off of the attacker. A stab of pain in his head, immediately. He'd _just_ used his biotics, and one right after the other was what usually did it. "We need backup up here," he called, and tried to fire at the visible attacker now, close range. Dara had switched to her pistol and was firing at anything that moved around them, trying to back up—switching to kick, savagely, at something that had gotten a grip on her. Dempsey switched back to biotics—another stab of pain—and tried to warp the very living body of one of the ones that had a grip on him, could _feel_ the actual _cells_ in the creature's body flex and distort and start to pop as he did. And the pain got worse, throbbing in his head, and then the anger started to turn loose and he slammed _something_ in the face with the butt of his gun, _threw_ something else with his mind. . .

. . . and then reinforcements were there. The cop in the black armor took one invisible attacker right off him with two shots right to the batarian's head, the big turian fired his shotgun, making another flicker back into the visible spectrum of light, and then the turian marines finally moved in around them. Flurry of kicking and punching—a gray armored boot crunched a spur right into one batarian's stomach just as the alien appeared, and the batarian doubled over, slowly sinking to the ground.

Dempsey just stood and panted against his chosen wall. Breathed hard. And tried to picture his rows of colored lights. They'd uploaded this exercise to his chip, carefully. Something that would always be available to him. It looked like an abacus made out of lights, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet. Colors lights on strings. He needed to sort them, move them. The theory was that the mental activity would calm his body. It worked fine if he was already calm. It didn't have a high percentage rate if he was already angry or in pain. Dempsey opened his eyes and looked around. Tried _not_ to see everyone around him as an enemy. Focused on Jaworski's face as the man came closer.

**Elijah**

Dempsey had simply broken cover and _run_ to the northwest. Eli only caught glimpses—he was too busy firing at the batarians directly to his own north—but he caught both a blue spark or two from tech shields, and a glimmer of biotic energies over the man's body—and then the man again _threw_ one of his opponents back and away—the batarian helplessly firing back at him as he flew through the air. Eli finished changing his clip, and fired at his own opponents again. Headshots now. They were inside fifteen feet, and he was aiming for the middle of those four damned eyes. Rinus was about to duck out and fire again—using a shotgun—when Eli reached up and pulled the barrel of the gun down. "Wait!" Eli said, sharply. . . and then the shimmer he'd spotted turned into Sam, and another batarian died on the edge of the bowie knife.

Rinus swore. "How the _hell_ do you see them?"

"Did a metric shit-ton of research on stealth devices during the months I was trying to track down those stolen ones." Eli fired at the remaining batarian to their north. "I know what I'm looking for." That left them with several blips on the scope, all clustered to the northwest, but moving in, carefully, cautiously, towards the blue dots of Dempsey and Dara

Dempsey again took initiative and came around the corner of his building. . . and then Eli lost sight of him, but from the way Dara now cursed, and the dots on the scope, it was evident that Dempsey was simply standing exposed to two lines of fire, at least. _He's insane,_ Eli thought. _But. . . shit. If he's going to draw fire, I'll __use__ the distraction. _He looked at Rinus, Rinus shrugged, and they both moved out of cover, firing to the northwest, just as Lantar, off to their left, was firing at the same pair of batarians, positioned along the south wall of the main house. He could see Dara moving up out of the corner of his eye now, too, crouching slightly behind Dempsey, using the man as _cover,_ before firing, herself.

"We've got stealthed attackers," came the short, sharp comment over the radio, and Eli swore and moved up. He instantly spotted the shimmering silhouettes. _Guess all that paranoia finally paid off_, he thought, and began to fire again.

It was done in short order. Eli regarded Dempsey warily as the man panted against the side of the building. Sam and Lantar had their hands up—_hold_—as they watched the human male. "You need medical attention?" Lantar asked, quietly.

Dempsey shook his head, opening his eyes, staring at Sam fixedly for a moment. "Just scratches. Couple of bullets got through, but nothing major."

Dara sighed. "Let me see."

"It's no big—shit, okay, doc, all right." Dempsey held up his hands in surrender, and let Dara look.

She checked the wounds carefully, and then nodded. "Okay, nothing's embedded. You want medigel?"

"Kind of a waste on me, doc. Keep it for everyone else."

Eli's eyes widened. Dempsey wasn't kidding. Eli could _see_ the opening in his arm puckering, drawing in on itself a little. Scabbing over. _Holy shit._ "What, you're the first human-krogan hybrid?" he asked, dryly.

Dempsey blinked. There was a very, very faint flash of humor there, and then the man looked surprised. "No. I wish. That would be a hell of a lot better, actually."

"I don't know," Rinus said, dryly. "At least you don't have a hump."

"Yeah, but they make up for it in other ways," Eli pointed out. "Growing up, Mazz never failed to point out that turians might last for an hour or two, but that _he_ had a quad." Eli rolled his eyes. _Thank god, most of the time, Mazz counted me a turian by default for those conversations._

That got snickers from everyone around, even Dara as she packed up her kit. "I always _did_ wonder what you guys were laughing about on the handball field."

Eli's grin nearly split his face. "From the number of discussions that suddenly _ended_ whenever Rel or I walked up, you, Rel, and your plighting were probably a hot topic." _Poke, poke, poke._ Keeping it light.

In the meantime, Sam scanned the area, finding electronic surveillance equipment currently being defeated by their jamming. "We've got. . . maybe twenty minutes before someone's going to notice this mess if we don't do something about it. Dempsey . . . how's your hacking?"

Eli saw the man grimace. "Uncomfortable."

"Can you get in this . . . really sort of crappy system and put false images in?"

The man sighed. "I can try. Give me a minute. This tends to give me a _really_ bad headache."

Sam glanced across at Rinus. "If he starts to shake or in any way starts to act like he's losing his temper, _tackle_ him. Eli? You and Lantar start looking around here, on the west side of the house. This is where Rel's team came in for their assault. Dara, you're with them." He whistled a bit, getting the marines' attention behind them. "Gallian? You and your men, set up a perimeter behind us."

Eli gave Dempsey a slightly wary look. The man was studying the surveillance equipment carefully; his omnitool was lit up. _Hope he knows what he's doing_, Eli thought, but he had his own task now.

"Where are the slaves?" Dara asked. "Where is _everyone_, in fact?"

"Good question," Sam said. His feet were very quiet on the ground as he walked around, studying the areas that didn't pertain to Rel's disappearance. "Lots of tracks to the east. Leading out of every building, actually. Looks like someone did a bit of a round-up. Probably as a result of Ylara trying to make this look like a slave rebellion, instead of a commando-style attack. She said she stripped a bunch of the dead guards of their armor and dressed them in slave rags, then re-shot the bodies in the same holes, that sort of thing. Nothing that a really decent coroner wouldn't figure out, but I'm not sure how hard batarians actually _look_ at slaves. I'm checking it out. Gallian? You're with me. Watch my back."

After several minutes, Sam's voice crackled over the radio. "Yeah. Looks like most of the slaves got loaded into trucks of some sort and hauled off. There are a couple of dead ones in the barracks, probably hit by crossfire. Theirs _and_ ours, more's the pity. They might be considered _evidence_, for all I know, in the batarian system. Certainly, _I_ would have brought them in for questioning. Though I bet my idea of questioning witnesses and the batarian idea of processing evidence is different." He paused. "Or, with Veem dead, the slaves might turn into state property, if he didn't have next of kin." His voice was dubious. "There were probably two hundred slaves here. Fifty guards that we know of, and support staff. Trainers."

Lantar's voice cut in on the radio now, dark and quiet. "We know that they knew we were coming. It's really doubtful that Veem acted alone. It's entirely possible that we interrupted a hasty clean-up by coming back so soon."

Eli shook his head. He was all in favor of the _law_, go figure, but not laws like the ones the batarians lived under. He and Lantar moved around the west side of the building carefully, examining the ground, the walls. Lots of bullet holes. Lots of blood stains. Blue, nearly black now, three days later. Some investigation tags, here and there, with writing on them in batarian, which he couldn't read, of course. And orange, turned brown with time. "Dara, get samples of the blood," Eli called over. "See if you can run any type matching. Do you have Rel's DNA on file with you for comparison?"

"Yeah, I do. Give me a minute—ah. . . where can I step?" She was taking almost mincing steps, probably watching how he and Lantar were walking, and not wanting to disrupt the scene. _Good instincts, but damn, that's almost funny to watch. Such a civilian thing to do._

He pulled a plastic sheet out of one of the pouches at his belt, unfolded it, and set it down for her to kneel on, and kept looking. Reconstructing it in his head. "Dara, any of the tags on the ground make sense to you?" he asked, after a moment.

She squinted at them. "No, unfortunately. The handwriting's so bad, I can't read it. And that's. . . kind of saying something."

_Some doctor you are_, he thought, but didn't say. She could take a _little_ teasing, but he wasn't going to push it.

"What do you see?" Lantar finally asked him, as Sam, Rinus, and Dempsey moved up.

Eli looked around again. "They came in from southwest, between those two buildings, there. They were firing at batarians up against the west wall. Lots and lots of return fire, not enough cover. They started to back up." He walked, light-footed, to where a large stain of black was on the ground, trailing off in a ragged smear. Blue blood oxidized to black. Red and orange blood oxidized to brown. "Someone fell here. Think he was dragged; they were trying to keep him with them—here's where they gave up." A much larger pool here. Eli glanced at Dara. "Anything?"

"Type K positive blood. Rel's type M negative." Her voice was tight. "Of the marines that went with him, Arinus Petarian was type K. Ylara's report states that she recovered the bodies of three turians on this side of the compound. Rel was the fourth. She didn't have time to call for bleach and get all the blood, though." She frowned. "That'll poke holes in the 'slave revolt' scenario, won't it?"

Eli nodded. "If their forensic techs know what they're looking at when they see turian or asari blood, yeah. They might _not_. Information about Council space is _very_ limited inside the Hegemony. It might take them a while to run it up the chain to someone who actually _does_ know what they're looking at." He looked down at the patches of dried blood, and added now, clinically, "That's enough for him to have bled out, honestly." He was mostly thanking _god_ he hadn't had to tell her that about _Rel_, so far.

"I know."

He nodded again, already looking away. "They turned a little. Two, maybe three of them left. They headed south. . . and here's where they ran into _real_ trouble." He led them in a snaking path back between the buildings, pointing out all the dribbles of blue blood here and there. "Here's where they made their stand," Eli said, pointing to a building corner stacked high with storage crates. Much more turian blood here, splattered against the walls. Again, he glanced at Dara, and she knelt and took samples. Eli looked at Lantar. "They got caught from behind."

Lantar looked at him impassively. "How do you know?"

"Two directions of bullets. Two directions of splatter." Eli pointed at the ones in the crates to the north of them, and the blood splatters there, and walked around to the north side, pointing out the bullets there, too. Most were neatly tagged; a few weren't. The batarian forensics team had either been sloppy or interrupted. His expression was grim. If this weren't possibly the resting ground of a friend, he'd _love_ to take this place apart with a proper forensics team of his own and a blood spatter expert. As it was, they needed to hurry. "Dara?"

"Type L positive and type LK negative. Neither are Rel. None of the little spatters you've pointed out, either. He was ducking the right way, I guess." There was a mix of relief and guilt in her voice at the same time.

Eli shared it, the knot in his stomach loosening slightly. and he studied the ground and what it and the buildings told him. The shine of fallen thermal clips caught his eye next. "He moved there," he said, and headed south. "Huh." Eli frowned at the sight here. "Two different clips. Dara, did Rel ever use any non-standard turian weapons?"

She shook her head emphatically. "No. Kassa Breaker Assault Rifle, mark ten; human-made, but allowed. Haliat Stilleto mark ten, too. That was issued to him. Grenade launcher, standard issue. That was his usual load-out."

Eli pointed at, but did not touch, the two thermal clips. "Nonstandard clip. Probably batarian. Have to check the manufacturer's markings. Would be interesting to see if it's actually their militia issue." He shook his head. "Turian manufacturing marks on the rest, though. Area could have been used in succession by two different people, of course. No blood here, of either type." Eli frowned. "Yeah, not enough here to go on. The ground's dirt, and it's had a _hell_ of a lot of traffic. . . "

"But our batarian forensics friends got here first, and left us some markers," Lantar said, quietly. "Extra eyes do help."

"They do indeed," Sam agreed.

"South," Eli said, finding the tiny markers. "Into the trees?"

"Two sets of tracks."

They got their marines to drive the Hammerheads behind them, and headed into the trees. Here, Sam's outdoor tracking experience took over; Eli respected the _hell_ out of the former Ranger for being able to _see_ so much in the underbrush. Even after two years on Macedyn and two on Edessan, natural settings were harder for him to understand and analyze than man-made ones. Out here, there were tracks in the soft dirt; depressions in the leaves. Deep ones, left by two heavy figures. "Here we go," Sam said. "Fibers." He caught them in a gloved hand, holding them out for Eli to tuck into a plastic sample bag. "Someone was wearing _cloth_ out there. Damned if I know who, or what it was, but it kept snagging."

There was confusion in the tracks for a moment or two before a small clearing. "Single file, all of a sudden, where it _was_ side-by-side," Sam muttered. . . and then they broke through into the clearing itself.

Bodies. "Batarian forensics didn't get this far?" Eli asked, confused.

"No," Sam answered, and shook his head. "No, they got as far as the forest, and didn't leave any more markers."

"I think they were interrupted," Lantar said, quietly. "They were told to stop investigating and go home. . . maybe by someone who knew this wasn't a slave revolt, and didn't want the local militia to figure it out?"

"Then why wouldn't whoever _that_ was have come out here, themselves?" Eli asked, practically, looking around the clearing. "No markers, no flags, no tape."

"Turf dispute, maybe. God knows, I've seen enough of that in _Terran_ law enforcement," Sam replied, hooking his thumbs into his gun belt for a moment. "Everything grinds to a complete fucking halt while the higher-ups figure out _jurisdiction_."

There was _no_ one here who hadn't been around dead bodies before, fortunately. These were three days old and _ripe_. "Stay back," Lantar told Dara, Rinus, and Dempsey. "This actually seems to be a clean scene." They nodded.

"Hot damn," Sam commented, dryly. "Dara, we'll call you in for samples when we've seen everything there is to see."

Then the three of them walked out into the field, very carefully, as the Hammerheads managed to negotiate a tricky path through the trees, stopping behind Dara, Rinus, and Dempsey.

"Eli, what do you see?" Lantar asked again.

_Why does he keep asking me?_ Eli wondered, and shook his head. "Ship at the center of the clearing took off. The scorch marks are pretty damned clear. We can get chemical residue from that and check the diameter and the burn mark shapes, probably figure out its class. That'll give us how far it could have gone, and even maybe where it came from. . . which might be where it went."

"From the _chemical residue?_" Dempsey asked, sounding skeptical.

"Yeah. Fuel has different chemical markers, depending on its type. . . and often the planet of origin has different isotopes of the various elements used. Some planets even place chemical tags in their fuel for just this purpose." Eli moved up, and looked down at some of the bodies closest to the depression where the ship had been. Sam was already there, staring down at them, too.

"Well. . . this ain't good," Sam said, quietly.

"Depends on your point of view," Lantar said, just as softly, not letting his voice carry at all.

"These ones didn't die from bullets. Cuts and stabs," Eli muttered. "Need an autopsy to be sure, but _that_ one says 'wedding knife' to me. I've seen a few too many stabs like that _not_ to be able to identify 'em." He pointed at one corpse that had a deep wound under the jaw. "Those? Those don't. I've never seen wounds like that before." He was looking at two corpses that had been impaled through armor, in the chest.

"I have," Sam said. "During the Blitz." He bent down and picked something up. "Shit on a stick."

He held a knife in his hand. Hand-forged, pattern-welded, high-carbon steel, _talashae_ horn hilt, silver dressings. And a name, incised in that hilt, in turian runes. The blade was covered in batarian blood—and hadn't been cleaned. _Shit. Rel would never willingly leave that behind. It means as much to him as. . . as his spirit does._ "Bag it," Sam said, tightly, keeping his body between the evidence and his daughter.

Eli nodded and got out another evidence bag. "Dara," Sam called. "Hate to ask you, sweetie, but we're going to need autopsies on some of these. Eli, get pictures of everything."

And as Eli was taking pictures, he found one more piece of evidence. Black bloodstains, right where the gangplank of the ship had, apparently, set down. "Dara," he called, one more time. "More blood."

"And to think my patients think I'm a vampire," Dara managed, and knelt down beside him. This time, her face went even tighter. "Yeah. That's type M. I'll cross-match it against Rel's DNA. But. . . I'm pretty sure. . . "

Rinus came over and put a hand on her shoulder. "Steady," he told her. "We're all here."

**Sam**

Lantar, Eli, and he settled in to review the evidence that they'd collected, while Dara and two other doctors started in on autopsies in the med bay. Sam simply shook his head. "I keep thinking at some point, she's going to break," he told Lantar. "Mostly, she's bending. It's damned amazing, really."

Lantar shrugged a little. "Humans always seem to underestimate their own strength," he noted, quietly. "She's _your_ daughter, Sam. And she watched Mordin autopsy someone he'd had _young_ with."

"Eh, salarians don't really feel the same way about their mates and their kids. . . although Mordin's an exception."

Lantar chuckled. "He is indeed. Made me swear I'd take care of Narayana for him when he dies."

"It's official?"

"Yeah, Ellie and I will be her guardians. It's in his will." Neither of them really wanted to imagine the Spectres without Mordin. . . but they knew it was coming. _Damnit_, Sam thought, tiredly.

They started spreading evidence bags over the table in a conference room, working their way through it, and all their pictures, methodically. Rinus had found a corner of the room to sit; he was doing his own reading, but occasionally looked up and listened as they spoke. Dempsey had found another corner, and was sitting with his feet up. "Is there anything I can _do?_" he finally asked. "Not feeling like I contributed much today, besides being a pretty good walking target."

Sam shrugged. "You spliced the vid feed on those surveillance cameras pretty well. Kept their people from coming down on us while we were still poking around."

Eli tossed Dempsey a datapad. "Here. Look through all the known batarian ship profiles. See if you can find something sixty feet long by twenty feet wide, rounded back, and four antiproton thrusters. Hell of a lot of engine for something that small," he added in a mutter.

"Might be heavily armed," Rinus commented, from where he sat, reading his own reports.

"Or just flies like a bat out of hell," Sam replied, which got him a look from both Rinus and Lantar for the odd human expression.

"Is there any particular reason why a _bat_ would want to leave the underworld, any faster than anything else?" Lantar asked, sorting their blood samples and fiber samples and thermal clip bags into separate piles.

"They thought it sounded better than a butterfly out of hell," Sam answered, and picked up the wedding knife off the table. "Eli. . . prints check. Let's make sure it only has Rel's prints on it. Of course, if it were planted, whoever did it would probably be smart enough to wear gloves. . . but let's be thorough."

Eli nodded, grabbed a pair of nitrile gloves and the bag, and headed out the door for a workstation in the med bay.

When the door closed behind him, Lantar said, "Well?"

"Well what?"

"How'd he do?"

Sam grinned at his friend. "You know _exactly_ how well he did. He saw everything we did. He's ready."

Needle-sharp teeth bared in a proud smile. Rinus glanced up and over. "And he's _still_ a damned good man in a fight. I was excited when I realized I'd soon have _two_ brothers who could back me in a fight." A shadow crossed his face. "I just hope it _stays_ two."

Sam nodded. "Keep thinking that," he told Rinus.

The autopsy reports came in about twelve hours later. Dara came into their conference room, still dressed in scrubs, face set. "Dad?" she said, evenly.

"Yes, sweetie?" It had been a long damned day, and none of them had slept yet.

"You wanted the autopsies done on the slash and cut victims?"

Across the room, Eli and Rinus sat up, listening intently. "What are we looking at?" Sam had a pretty good idea, but he wanted _her_ analysis.

"Victim number one," she said, queuing up the picture on her omnitool. "Batarian male, six feet tall, or one point eight meters in height, suffered blunt force trauma to the face, consistent with melee combat, and a single stab wound under the jaw from a six-inch long, high-carbon steel knife blade. A few tiny pieces of metal left in the bone did suggest a Palaven origin." Her voice had regained a _lot_ of life with those words.

"And the other ones?"

"Victim number two had several cuts _through_ his armor, largely to his forearms. Consistent with dodging or blocking a blade, though one that can cut through _armor_ seems unusual. Cause of death was actually a broken neck. Bruising to the face and neck suggest his helmet was off, and are consistent with the size and shape of a male turian's hands." Her voice had gone dispassionate again. "The next two are the odd ones. Victim three, impaled through the heart by a longer blade, probably eighteen to twenty-two inches in length. It pierced through the armor—there are pieces of the armor _in_ the wound. Victim four, again, impaled through armor, also through the chest, though it missed the heart. Tiny fragments of diamond in both wounds." She tucked her hands behind her. "The two other doctors and I have never seen anything like it before."

"I have," Sam told her, quietly. "During the Blitz, and during the . . . reciprocal attack at Torfan. _Very_ high-caste batarians duel with weapons called vibroblades. The blades are edged with plates of molecular diamond, and actually do vibrate back and forth. They're spectacularly sharp, and since most armor is designed to withstand bullets and kinetic energy, they can cut right through it. Just like a knife could penetrate the old Kevlar vests, or a longbow arrow could punch through plate mail. . . but wouldn't penetrate chainmail." Everyone in the room was looking at him now, and he shrugged. "Buddy of mine took one off of the body of a batarian commander at Torfan. Word of advice: if you every wind up with one of these, do _not_ let any other batarians see that you have it. They take them pretty seriously." His buddy _really_ shouldn't have looted the corpse of the batarian, and had gotten the living _shit_ beaten out of him in a Terminus system bar two years later, from all accounts. Once the attackers had gotten the blade off of him, they'd left him to bleed in the gutter.

Dara found a chair to perch on. "So. . .Rel killed at least two of them. So in spite of the blood, he's. . .probably alive." Her voice got stronger now. More hopeful. "And _someone_ with a batarian sword killed the other two. We. . . know it wasn't one of the assault team. Maybe one of the slaves got free?" Her voice pitched upwards.

Sam caught Eli's sidelong glance, and gave him a miniscule shake of the head. _Don't tell her about the damn knife, boy._

To his relief, Eli caught the message, and said nothing.

Lantar cleared his throat. "What have we got on the ship?"

"_Knarr _-class, probably," Dempsey said, and when every head snapped towards him, he shook his head. "You _asked_ me to look into it. I did. Had a very informative conversation with the ship's AI and everything." His voice was flat, but Sam almost suspected that was sarcasm. "_Knarr_-class means a yacht, basically. Small, crew of maybe six, seven people. Definitely not in use for transporting slaves. . . and might only have limited weapons, unless it's been _heavily_ modified."

"We have schematics on that?" Rinus asked, and took the datapad as Dempsey continued, as if reading information off the inside of his eyeballs. Considering the chip architecture in his head, maybe he _was._

"The major problem here is its speed and its range. This ship could, literally, be anywhere from here to Khar'sharn. It has a full FTL drive and can transit a standard mass relay, no problem." Dempsey leaned forward now in his chair, playing slightly with his wedding ring as he did so. "Which means. . . we're kind of stuck."

"Not entirely," Eli replied, twiddling his stylus in his hand. "The antiproton drive apparently actually used metallic hydrogen. That's actually fairly rare. Most fuel depots don't actually stock it." His smile didn't reach his eyes at all. "The fuel capacity of the ship, unmodified, should be in the specs. After that, it's just math to figure out how long it would need to go before refueling. Refueling depots have records. Everything leaves a trail." He sat up. "Want me on this now?"

"Go get some sleep," Sam told him. "Everyone should. Good work. . . and we'll reconvene in eight hours. And not a moment before."

Once they all cleared out again, Sam crossed the room to the evidence table, and picked the datapad up that was concealing the wedding-knife. _Okay, boy,_ he thought. _Where the hell are you? _

**Rellus, March 7, 2196**

Rel came back to consciousness with a groan, his eyes focusing on a tiled ceiling filled with tiny holes. The world swam for him for a moment, and then he tried to sit up. "Settle down," a voice told him in galactic. "You've been out for four days."

Rel turned his head, and met the gaze of three orange-red eyes, studying his face. "The doctor is _not_ one of my people. Act defeated, like a slave, if you can, till I can get rid of her," Valak told him, firmly. "The collar on your neck is not real. _Work_ with me, or we're all going to be in _real_ danger here."

Still disoriented, Rel looked around. A room—metal hospital bed, clean sheets—IV dripping into his arm. Smell of medigel and antiseptic and floor cleaner. Sound of heeled shoes tapping on the floor. . . and one of the rarely-seen batarian females was there, checking his wounds with impersonal hands. Rel glanced down. He'd taken two or three bullets to the torso, from the looks of it. He wanted to ask how bad it had been—_Dara's going to kill me for not being more careful—_but, mindful of Valak's words, maintained a wary silence.

"_Turians never look down,"_ the doctor said, crisply, to Valak. _"They make perfectly dreadful slaves. A waste of resources even to treat this one."_

"_Ah, my dear, you are of the healing caste. Don't concern yourself with the amusements of the high-born."_ The voice was almost caressing, by batarian standards, but Valak did _not_ touch the female. _"Rest assured that this one will prove a valuable asset, particularly if trained for the arena. Perhaps a persona gift from my family to the Hegemon, even."_

She bowed her head, inclining half of her eyes to the floor, and half remaining on Valak's face. _"Yes, my lord. Forgive me. I overstepped my place."_

"_You spoke out of concern for me. I will forgive your lack of propriety, this once."_ Valak's voice turned brisk. _"How soon can he walk?"_

"_I'll instruct the nurses you have here to watch for potential blood clots, but by this afternoon, it would be best if he could get up and move around periodically. Long periods of bed-rest cause too many complications."_

He waved it away airily. _"Instruct the nurses. I have no notion of what you speak."_

Rel saw the female grimace slightly, bow further, and scuttle from the room. Valak waited until she was out, then picked up the chart she'd left behind. "Check your collar. Reassure yourself that you can take it off whenever you wish."

Rel's hands _sprang_ to his neck, and, much to his relief, the metal torc there moved easily under his fingers. Hinged, clearly. "What the hell happened?"

"You took two bullets to the abdomen and one to the chest. I haven't yet found a doctor I trust enough to take aboard my ship, so we stuffed you to the gills with medigel and brought you here for treatment. With militia closing in from every direction, it seemed best." Valak sighed. "Here. Can you stand?"

_I can walk right out of here,_ Rel thought, grimly. _I might fall a few times along the way, but I'll walk._ He accepted Valak's hand, and the batarian helped him to the window of the room. He looked down, and realized, in some consternation, that his wrist sheathe was gone. "I realize you _had_ to take my weapons. . . but my knife? Where is it?"

Valak blinked. All three eyes. "Not quite the first reaction I had thought to have from you. Your knife sheath was empty when we brought you aboard my ship. Is there some significance to this?"

_S'kak_. "Probably not." Rel did not quite know if he was a prisoner or not at this point, and he was not about to confide in this male _anything_ that could give the batarian a hold on him.

Outside, the sky was a milky red—color of a dust storm on Klendagon or Mars. In this case, however, the atmosphere clearly supported puffy white, low-hanging water vapor clouds, and the milkiness was caused by higher-level, lenticular clouds. "Where the hell am I?"

"This is Khar'shan. You're on my estate about a hundred and fifty kilometers from the capital, Shepet. And for the moment, you're perfectly safe."

Looking around, Rel realized that this was a _hell_ of an estate. The square, blocky main building was easily the size of Kallixta's manor on Macedyn, each of its multiple floors supported on the exterior of the building with wide, square pillars, incised with drawings and colored in, vividly. Rings of other buildings encircled the main one, just as in the base he'd just tried to hit. "You're a slave-lord?"

"My family is of the highest caste, yes. As such, they own many slaves." Valak's voice was tight. "I, on the other hand, own none. And yet every person on this estate is _mine_. Mine by loyalty." He met Rel's eyes squarely. Rel focused on the lower two, avoiding the eye-patch out of more or less instinctive courtesy.

"And how is this possible?" Rel asked.

"It's a long story. Are you up to it?"

"I appear to have nothing better to do."

"Walk with me, then. Down to the gardens. Where there are no prying eyes and ears." Valak picked up a walking stick, handed it to Rel, and gestured towards the door. Rel was in observation mode at the moment. Memorizing his surroundings, every detail. The way in which Valak was dressed—open-necked tunic, white. Black trousers, boots. Quality very evident, but simple. How many left and right turns out of the building to the gardens. The _smells_ in the gardens—fresh chemical fertilizers, alien blooms. The odd tang in the air that hinted at a nearby forest, perhaps?

Once they hit the gardens proper, with their high hedges and low benches, and the occasional blobby, multi-eyed statue, Valak began to speak. "Have you read much Terran literature?"

Rel blinked. This was _not_ how he'd thought this conversation would begin. "I've. . . had occasion to do so, from time to time."

"Terran, asari, and turian literature. All of it has to be smuggled in. Possession of it is punishable by the removal of one or two eyes." Valak smirked a little. "So you'll understand when I say that my . . . collection. . . is a well-hidden one. Terran literature in particular is so fascinating. They have. . . a duplicitous streak that turians simply lack. One of their favorite themes is the wealthy man who finds a cause worth fighting for, but must hide his identity to do his work. By day, he's the effete snob, the dandy, the playboy. Not a serious threat to anyone, and more absorbed in spending his money than anything else. But by night, he's an avenger, a bold and dangerous rogue who's out to change the world."

Rel squinted at Valak dubiously. "Zorro?"

Valak laughed. "The Scarlet Pimpernel. Batman. Zorro. Yes, they're _fond_ of that theme, for some reason." They walked further. Rel could _feel_ the bullet wounds with every step, but showed none of the pain on his face. Turian stoicism. "I mention it, because when I first read those books, I was at the university. I spent every night drinking with philosophers. Yes, we have philosophers. It wasn't appropriate for me, a high-born, to spend so much time with the teaching caste, but I was young and rebellious." He shrugged. "And they taught me too well how to think for myself." He gestured to a marble bench. "Sit down."

After a moment, to show he was doing so of his own accord, not because he was directed to do so, Rel slowly sat down. And exhaled, slowly, in relief. The doctor really _hadn't_ spared any extra medigel. "They taught you to think, huh? Hardly a crime."

"Not for you, perhaps. Perhaps I should say, they taught me to question. The most radical of the teachers I spent time with, Soloff C'les, has since been imprisoned." Valak remained standing, looking around his gardens, the elaborate geometric shapes of the hedges and bushes and planters extending in every direction as far as the eye could see. "There's been no word from him out of Kanak'khoria prison in three years. I almost hope he's dead. They do things in there, that . . . really don't bear speaking of." Valak looked back at Rel. "One of the things we discussed the most often, my turian friend, is the real basis of the caste system. And that basis is power. There's no rationality to it. Everyone who's born to a dung sweeper stays a dung sweeper. Those born to a handler-of-the-dead, stay handlers-of-the-dead. What happens if someone really _intelligent_ is born to a dung sweeper? Someone with the brains to reinvent physics? If they were turian or human or asari, they'd become a damn physicist. Maybe they might only _teach_ it, but they'd have that chance. My people?" Valak stepped away, paced back and forth for a moment. "They'd stay a dung sweeper until the day they die."

He turned back to Rel. "If a handler-of-the-dead touches me, while living, I _must_ have his or her hand _removed_, do you understand? Then I _must_ undergo two _days_ of purifications, overseen by members of the priest caste."

Rel remembered something then. "So when you helped me to my feet in the house. . . "

Valak grimaced. "The _only_ exception to any of this is the slave caste. _Anyone_ can touch one of them. Strike, beat, kill, caress, screw. They're. . . outside of the rules, in a way, except that they're below everyone else. _Everyone_ can own one. Even a handler-of-the-dead. The more you own, the higher your rank within your caste. So we're slaves to our slaves, in a sense, because we _have_ to own them. Otherwise. . . we have no wealth, no property, no status. That is the system that we have lived with for five _thousand years_, turian. And it's killing my people." His voice was passionate with belief, and Valak suddenly laughed. "Oh. . . by my ancestors. It's good to say that out loud. I never even spoke these thoughts to the philosophers, for fear that one or more of them might be. . . provocateurs. Spies sent to ferret out the disloyal by speaking disloyalty, themselves."

Rel simply _stared_ at the male. "I knew that the caste system was strict, but I had no _idea_ how strict."

Valak shook his head. "Why would anyone in Council space know, or even care? A few asari came and _studied_ us like primitives when we first made contact. . . almost _seven_ _hundred_ _years_ before your species did, my turian friend, while your kind was still beating each other to death in your Unification Wars, I believe. . . while the asari and the salarians were using the krogan to kill the rachni, there we were. Of no interest to anyone, because we weren't as strong as the krogan, or as 'smart' as the salarians, or as . . . culturally refined. . . as the asari. Then the krogan rebelled, and the Council used _you_ to put them back in their place. And the rest of the galaxy walked very, very carefully for another thousand years or so. And do you know what my people were told?" Valak paused. "'You're inferior. You have to change. Get rid of the systems that have taken you to the stars. Be like _us_.' That's what the asari said. 'Or, if you can't be like us, immortal and beautiful and unapproachable, at least be like _them_. Be as obedient as a turian for us, and we'll let you stay a part of our happy little family.'"

Valak sighed and sat down. "Or, at least, that's what my people _heard_."

Rel paused, wondering if he should even say anything at this point. "It's. . . .one view of history," he managed, noncommittally.

"I know. A biased one, certainly, but this is how my people, even the most educated, think, my turian friend." Valak poked at the gravel under their feet with his walking stick. "And then the humans arrived on the scene. Even more _primitive_ than we were. We'd at least _been_ on the galactic scene for over _two thousand years_. . . barely tolerated, perhaps, but there. . . and here come the humans. Strong enough to get the attention of the damned Turian Hierarchy. Allowed—unleashed, you might say—into the Terminus Systems, where batarians had been grudgingly permitted to expand before, almost unchecked. The Council stepped up its antislavery rhetoric, the Hegemony felt threatened. A new attack varren species. First the krogan, then the turians, then the humans. All unleashed on whoever the asari currently didn't like." He spread his hands. "That's the historical perspective. The result is. . .cultural and economic isolation. Stagnation. Fear and paranoia and rigidity. The caste system is another source of stagnation. What happens in a generation when every person of the teacher caste is a dunce? No inventions or innovations of our own in fifteen hundred years, my turian friend." Valak sighed.

Rel cautiously leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees, inhaling slowly to test just how much the muscle fibers in his chest and abdomen hurt. They _throbbed_. "All right," he said, letting Valak's words sink in. "So where do you fit into the . . historical perspective?"

Valak squinted his lower set of eyes at Rel. "For better or for worse. . . I'm a freedom fighter. By my ancestors, doesn't that just sound pretentious when I say it out loud?" He laughed. "But it's true. Every person on these grounds. . . with the exception of the esteemed doctor. . . is a freed slave. Some were of higher castes—technicians and soldiers—sold into slavery by their families to reduce a debt or to remove one more mouth that needed feeding. Some are of the low castes. Some are aliens. The aliens, when I free them, I give them a choice—go to Omega and make their own way from there, or stay here. Fight with me. Some stay. Some go. I deactivate the chips in all their heads. I don't have the medical staff to _remove_ them. The barracks are comfortable, and there are no overseers here, besides my earliest slaves, who put on a good act whenever we have visitors." Valak shook his head. "And, the most amazing thing is. . . I have the most profitable estate for three hundred kilometers around. And I _pay them._" He lifted his hands. "Secretly, of course. Clandestine volus credit accounts. But if any of them every choose to leave, they have access to their funds."

"So you've just been buying slaves and freeing them here?" Rel asked. _Seems a little small-time for the title of 'freedom fighter.'_

"Not. . . quite." Valak grimaced. "The soldier-caste ones and I have gone out and taken on a few raiders. Only the smallest operations, I'm afraid. Disrupting slave supply lines is a . . . very large task. I have three _Knarr_-class ships, which I've had refitted with some weapons, but there's only so many people I can fit aboard one. And while _I've_ had some advanced training with the Special Investigative Unit, none of my people have, other than what I've been able to pass on." He paused, looking at Rel. "Perhaps that's something that you can help me with."

Rel's eyes widened slightly. "Ah. Now we get to the point," he said, leaning back and folding his arms across his chest.

Valak nodded. "Yes. I have no idea what to do with you. Even a year or so ago, I might have scheduled one of my infamous . . . pleasure cruises. . . to Omega. . . where you might have 'escaped' in the confusion of the busy port. Now, however, batarians are under a great _deal_ of scrutiny when they go there. Even from the Hegemony. The Hegemon doesn't care if raiders slip outside our borders. They're slaver-caste. They're _allowed_. But the rest of us?" Valak laughed again, and it wasn't a humorous sound at all. "I have absolutely no idea how to get you to your home, turian. It may take me a little while to arrange it. In the mean time, you're my guest. If you'd like to help us in our fight, I'd welcome it. If not, rest. Just, for the sake of your ancestors, keep the damned collar on and try to look nicely resentful when the doctor is around. A few surly turians growls and glowers and snarls will do nicely, thank you."

Rel couldn't quite help it. He laughed, and, slapping a hand to his sutures, immediately regretted it.

"Ahhh, another lie from our propaganda machine. We're told that turians can't laugh. Don't have the intellectual muscle for it." Valak murmured, smiling faintly.

"Oh, we can laugh." Rel eased back up from his inward curl, feeling the stitches stretch as he did. "I don't suppose you have dextro food around here? Quarian would do just as well as turian. Otherwise, I'll starve to death on you."

"Yes, that _is_ one of the things that makes turians and quarians perfectly wretched slaves. Quarians in particular. One suit breach, and they're wasted. Most slavers would rather kill the quarians than even bother to bring them in. They're in fashion, at the moment, for. . . one time use, as it were. . . in the pleasure slave industry." Valak grimaced. "Turians are considered a status symbol for the arena games. Occasionally see use as mining slaves. But little else. I've. . . acquired a crate of rations from an arena trainer of my acquaintance. That should keep you fed for a while." Valak stood. "So. . . my turian friend. Will you honor me with your name?" He smiled a little. "Surely, you can confide that much in me, when I have shared so much confidence with you."

Rel stood, slowly. Offered his hand for a wrist-clasp. "Rellus Velnaran," he said, quietly.

"And where is home for you, Rellus Velnaran? Palaven?"

"Mindoir."

Valak slanted him a confused glance. "That's a human colony in the Attican Traverse, isn't it? Odd place for a turian to call home. . . but it _might_ be more doable than getting you to Omega. It might just call for a little _subterfuge._" He grinned then. It wasn't a cocky expression, but a confident one. "Still, it could be fun."

"Getting me to Mindoir would be a good deal harder than you think. Our best bet would be Bastion. That way, I could make contact with my people."

Valak shook his head. "If I show up on Bastion, red flags will run up and down the entire Hegemony. I don't wish to disappear inside Kanak'khoria prison myself. Excellent as the company inside of its walls must be, considering all those who have vanished past its doors over the years." His tone was _very_ dry. "No. We'll figure something out. But it doesn't have to be today. Let's go back inside. The doctor will surely be fretting that I have overtaxed your energy, and that I will punish her for her failure to heal you." He paused. "I really don't wish to have to beat her just to maintain appearances. But she might expect it, if we don't get a move on."

Rel moved after Valak at the best pace he could muster, minus a step or two. He didn't know if he _trusted_ Valak yet. And there was no reason to reveal the exact scope of his recovery. At least, not yet. _Dara, sweetness, I know by now you must know about my disappearance, and be worried. You know our spirits touch even when we can't. Don't worry. We'll be together again soon. Somehow._


	82. Chapter 82: Recovery

**Chapter 82: Recovery**

_**Author's note:**__ Ellie and the "buy her a ring!" thing: Ellie did the typical human mother thing more or less to show how she 100% accepts Serana as "human" in her head. No distinction for her alienness made. She's just Serana to her, I suppose. This is also a slight indication that Eli might be getting pressured, isn't it?_

_How come Rel can't just phone home? __He's in enemy territory, and doing that would require access to their extranet resources. Imagine he's in North Korea. How many internet connections are there, and how many are monitored and firewalled? Or, for an older example, imagine post-war East Germany, where fact that *paper* sales were controlled, and *typewriters* were numbered and who owned them was monitored by the state? My take on batarians is pretty much 19th century India for the caste system meets North Korea for the paranoid isolationism._

_Ship names__: Since it's come up twice now, from different readers. . . I'd been using WWII battle names for the human SR-1s, yeah. I can't use the name __Kursk__ out of respect. The __Kursk__ was a Russian submarine that sank, all hands lost, in the last ten years or so. Want to watch a building full of guys go absolutely white and quiet? Work for a submarine contractor, where half of the men in the building used to be on those boats, when a submarine of __any__ nationality sinks. Even if they were on opposing sides, there seems to be a sense of brotherhood in that community that transcends mere borders. (There, but for the grace of god and good hull construction, go I, basically.)_

_Dempsey__: Looks and sounds a bit like Harry Rollins. Lighter colored hair, but that's more or less what I picture. If that helps people get a feel for him, great! :-D_

_Also, thank you to KrazEELegal, who's been encouraging me steadily in the AI development and AI rights categories. It's nice to know someone out there actually enjoys the legal pedantry I sometimes go off into. So the first section of this chapter. . . is pretty much for her. _

**Pelagia and Ulluthyr Harak, Omega, March 2196**

7.8 million people were, in fact, a lot of organics to track. Before coming to Omega, Pelagia's world had revolved around one hundred and fifty at most, with periodic contact with her sister ships by FTL comm transmission. Patriarch, and Harak after him, had allocated her _massive_ amounts of server space, however. Harak, in particular, had been concerned that she should have backup nodes strung out through the entire station. "You need backups," he'd growled. "Anyone can _cripple_ the station now, if they hit your central server bank." And thus, she had secondary and tertiary backups, and even a few nodes down in the old, hidden shuttle bay far below the waste reclamation plant, where Aria's personal cutter had been positioned, years ago. The result was that Pelagia now about as much processing power as the rest of her original sisters combined. . . and she needed every _scrap_ of it.

_Flick_. She scanned the surveillance cameras in the docking bays. Security had noted an uptick in recent batarian movements onto the station, and she was tracking five or six newcomers now as they stepped off their transports and wended their way through customs—another Patriarch/Harak innovation, that, and one much grumbled over by those who had known and loved Omega as a lawless state of total depravity and anarchy.

_Flick._ Pelagia caught an alert in her C-ring, indicating that a water pipe had broken, and signaled maintenance. Now there actually _was_ a station maintenance crew, rather than forcing whoever happened to have environmental skills in each ring to maintain their own neighborhood. Most of the new techs were human, with krogan apprentices. Little steps.

_Flick._ She adjusted the environmental controls in E-ring. _Something_ had disrupted the temperature controls, and she was _not_ going to let it get above 72º F/22.2º C in a ring where humans were the primary species in residence. Not just for their comfort, but for bacterial growth and spread. She made a note to herself to allocate resources later to investigate how and why the temperature had been adjusted in the first place.

_Flick_. She double-checked the flight controllers and how they were signaling ships to approach the various docking bays.

_Flick. _"Pelagia!"

Fifty percent of her system resources instantly reallocated themselves, concentrating themselves into Ulluthyr Harak's office, located in a warehouse district in the B-ring. "Harak," Pelagia said, coalescing herself into her avatar in a shimmer of photons into an office that was empty, besides Harak and his furniture, "My audio receptors are functioning within normal parameters. I can hear you—quite easily, in fact—from almost everywhere on the station." She tried a smile, but Harak made her a little nervous. Patriarch had been older and more predictable, in many ways. Harak was younger and more aggressive—only four hundred years old, to Patriarch's millennia. And while she'd _known_ Harak for just as long, adjusting to him as her new commander was taking longer than she'd expected.

Harak stared at her steadily for a moment. He was fairly certain he'd _never_ get used to being Omega's leader. The job seemed to come with a lot more annoyances than perks. For example, he never set foot out of his quarters or his office anymore without a full krannt around him. Bodyguards, anyway. He'd always had people by his side in the Blood Pack, but that had been more of a reciprocal arrangement; if they were attacked, they'd all defend one another. More or less. _All right, so there were a few vorcha there I wouldn't have minded seeing die, squealing,_ Harak admitted, privately, stripping the patina of nostalgia from his thoughts. He'd certainly had fewer _decisions_ to make, even as leader of a mercenary band. This contract or that one, go here or go there, which one had the lowest risk with the biggest payoff, and would keep them all fed and in decent armor for the longest time. Those had been, in retrospect, _simple_ decisions.

Patriarch had changed all of that for him. He'd put many, many rules into place on Omega, and Pelagia, the AI, helped Harak keep track of those rules and administer the station. Harak had watched over the last two years as Omega went from a dark and dismal place to a lighter, cleaner one. As if the psychic stink of Aria T'loak was being cycled out, scrubbed from the atmosphere with the CO2, and replaced, instead, with Pelagia's presence.

She _looked_ like a tiny human female, with hair so light it was nearly white, bundled up at the base of her neck, and pale, almost grey eyes. The illusion was so complete, she actually wore Omega station coveralls, like a tech about to go grubbing in a conduit somewhere. Bulky and gray, with lots of pockets for tools and meters. "Something troubles you, Harak?" she asked now.

"Yeah. Explain this report to me." He pointed at the screen.

There'd been a feeling-out period, of course. He'd put off reading reports that she'd marked as being important, and she'd had _no_ idea why, until one day, in frustration, he'd snarled at her that she should have _told_ him that the Stevedore's Union was moving in on Omega and was planning a strike, rather than move cargo off of ships. "I _did_ tell you," Pelagia had told him, ducking her head a little, a defensive posture that worked on humans. "It's all in the report I gave you last week."

Harak had paused, staring at her. "You didn't _say_ anything."

"It was in the report. Didn't you _read_ it?"

The pause had gone on for a _long_ moment. "I can't read," he'd finally admitted.

Her processes had frozen for a moment. "You can't read?" It was as if he'd said he couldn't _breathe_. Information was what gave her _life, _and he was missing a _vital_ method of processing it.

"It's never been important before," Harak had told her, indifferently. "I learned enough math to understand when we were getting gypped on contracts, and then I just put my thumb print on the pad for a signature. Now, though. . . " He'd looked at the stack of trade agreements and tax laws and everything else glumly. "You need to _tell_ me what I need to know. Like you did for Patriarch."

"_Patriarch_ could read. He and I discussed the nuances, Harak, but he _read_ everything first." Pelagia had hesitantly 'sat' on the edge of his desk during that long-ago conversation. "I can't tell everything that _you_ might find important in every document, Harak. And if I miss some detail because _I_ don't consider it important, you will be angry. Besides. . . " Pelagia had smiled, hoping he'd understand the gesture. She'd been researching krogan body language furiously for the last year or so, but she had _much_ more practice at human and turian kinesthetic interpretation. "Reading makes the mind stronger. Not weaker. Shall I arrange to have Urdnot Siara come in and begin teaching you?"

Harak had growled, and she'd looked down and away, hastily. "I can see where it _might_ be useful," he'd finally admitted. "But I'm damn sure not letting one of my bodyguards teach me. That would look. . . weak."

She'd paused, staring at him. "So in order to prevent _looking_ weak, you'd hide it and _stay_ weak, in truth?"

Harak had stood and stumped over to look her avatar in the eyes. "_You_ can teach me."

And so the lessons had begun. Harak could muddle his way through most of the reports now, but it was _painfully_ slow, and she still had to help him with comprehension and nuances on most of them. "It's going to take me the next fifty years to be able to read these on my own," he often muttered in exasperation. "You're not going anywhere, right?"

"I have absolutely no intention of leaving," she would assure him. She meant it, too. Omega was her home now, her _self_, and she would have to compress herself enormously to fit back into a ship again. Not that she was _ever_ going to be a ship again if she could help it. The mere notion made her processes start to freeze.

"Praise be to Vaul. I swear, the letters are jumping up and down and mocking me. Language is not an enemy I can fight or slay. What the hell does 'proxy' mean here?"

In the here and now, Pelagia moved around his desk and glanced at the screen. Why she did that, when she could access the information directly, Harak never quite understood, but suspected she was trying to look and feel more reassuringly organic for him.

She'd been here for two, close to three years now, and her presence _showed_. Aria might have claimed, vaingloriously, to _be_ Omega. . . but Pelagia actually _was_ the station. She kept the air filters humming, watched all the security cams, moved crews into position when the sewers backed up, locked down hangar bays to prevent ships from leaving with illicit cargo—and Harak had _no_ _idea_ what he'd do without her. Now, he watched her 'read' the report, and snorted a little, under his breath. "I know you've already processed it. Don't slow down on my account."

"I didn't want to make you feel bad," she answered, hunching her shoulders in that defensive way that made him want to yell at her. "In essence, the report suggests that security is concerned about a larger-than-usual number of batarians congregating on D-ring."

Harak's eyes flicked up. "How much larger, and are they in uniform?"

"About thirty that security has seen." Her eyes flickered for a moment as she sorted through masses of data. "I would put the number at half again as many. They seem to be cycling in and out of the living quarters area. No uniforms, but that says nothing."

"Mercs?"

"They have a generally aggressive bearing, and in the last week have begin bringing in what appear to be weapons crates, yes. However, no armor, and no markings. They could be simply arms dealers. However, thirty to forty-five batarian arms dealers would constitute a _convention_, and we have no such convention currently scheduled."

Harak grunted. "Drop the pressure hatches on their quarters. Lock them in, and send security there to sort them out. If they get unruly, I authorize you to pump sleep gas into their quarters. Make sure security brings breathers and masks with 'em."

Her eyebrows rose. "Are you quite certain, Harak? That would be a move that would clearly display how much control over the station I actually _have_. It would tend to increase the population's fear of an AI takeover." Her tone was uncertain, and she clasped her hands in front of her.

"I didn't say to cycle out the atmosphere in their quarters, which you _could_ do." Harak drummed his big hands on his desk. "I said keep 'em contained until security gets there. There are _rules_ here now. . . though sometimes, I'd love to toss 'em all out the airlock, when it comes to the batarians."

"The batarians, or the rules?" she asked, lifting her head slightly.

"Both." He bared his teeth at her, and saw her lips quirk slightly. _Ah, more proof that she __does__ have a sense of humor. Kind of a human one, though._ Jokes about using the skulls of enemies as drinking cups tended to fall a little flat on her, unfortunately. "Besides," Harak added, darkly, "It's not a _bad_ thing if people see your strength. It adds to mine, and lets people know not to fuck with us and the rules."

Patriarch's new rules for Omega had dictated that mercs could _meet_ here to negotiate contracts. They could even set up corporate headquarters here, same as any other business who applied for and received a license. (oh, the screaming that had ensued over the license application and approval process! It had been a whole new way to _win_, to _beat_ an opponent, and it had been highly amusing, to boot.) The problem with the mercenary groups, however, was that they _all_ wanted to continue to use Omega as a barracks and staging area, and _that_ had been something Patriarch was unwilling to allow. Mercenary groups of ten to twenty individuals had to pass through the station within five days. Groups larger than twenty could not leave the docking bays and could not stay longer than forty-eight hours on layover.

Patriarch and Harak had, however, decided that Omega would need a little law enforcement to ensure that the mercs didn't just take over again and ignore all these new rules. They'd debated for some time simply hiring a single mercenary band to do it, but had, in the end, decided _not_ to, though it would have been the easiest solution, by far. The problem with that, Harak had realized early, was that every _other_ mercenary group out there would have tried to make the one that won look bad and thus tried to poach the contract. Instead they had contacted Zaeed Massani of the Blue Suns, and Harak had contacted his own former superiors in the Blood Pack. They took the culls of both groups—mercenaries who hadn't _quite_ fit in with either organization—and some former B-Sec employees who'd been fired for brutality charges. The B-Sec employees made up the backbone of the Omega Security Forces, or OSF. The former Blue Suns—humans and turians—and Blood Pack—krogan, exclusively—were the hands and the fists.

Pelagia had only paused for a moment. "OSF is on its way," Pelagia said. Her voice was serene, for the moment. It was interesting seeing what made her _react,_ though. "You have an appointment with Mr. Maxwell of CAIR and a representative from Synthetic Insights next on your calendar, Harak. Shall I send them in?"

"Not yet." Harak leaned back in his chair, frowning. "You and I need to talk, first."

She blinked from where she was sitting on the edge of his desk. "You're unsatisfied with my work, Harak?"

"No. But you didn't respond to something I said a moment ago, and it's been on my mind."

Her eyes flickered. "I'll save you the trouble of reviewing the log," Harak growled. "Strength, Pelagia. You hide yours." He stood up now, staring down at her small avatar. "When you hide your strength, you weaken _me._"

She blinked, and stood as well, looking puzzled. "I can't evacuate the atmosphere every time someone fails to place their litter in a waste receptacle, Harak," Pelagia pointed out, reasonably enough.

"That's not what I meant. There's strength, and there's the _appearance_ of strength." Harak grimaced. He _knew_ what he meant, but conveying it was difficult. He wasn't a natural speaker, like Patriarch had been. _Gods, but I miss that wily old varren. He let her go along as she has, but I know he'd understand what I need her to see._ "When my bodyguards walk with me, that's the appearance of strength, of power. When Urdnot Siara is with them, she . . . dresses in a different fashion than she would otherwise choose."

"Yes. She looks. . . more decorative. So that others will underestimate her." This, Pelagia understood. It was like the eyeball avatar. Less intimidating for others.

"Yes and no." Harak frowned. _How the __hell__ do I explain this to an AI?_ "People who are stupid will see her and think she's weak. People who are a _little_ smarter, will look at her and think that I'm strong, because they'll assume that she's _my_ female, and I can afford a purely decorative one, at that. People who are _much_ smarter will _really_ look at her and see that she's strong, herself. That she is proud of her body, uses it like a weapon. And that strength also comes back to reinforce an impression of _my_ strength." Harak growled under his breath. He was making a mess of this. "What do those people see when they come into my office, and I call for you? They assume I'm calling for my right hand—when, let's face it, you _are_ Omega, in a far more real way than Aria ever was, for all her claims—and what do they see?"

She looked down at her avatar, then back up again. "Me?" Pelagia offered, after a moment.

She wasn't expecting the snarl of frustration. "You dress like a tech caught degreasing an engine. You look down and away—a turian or a krogan takes that as weakness. Even a _human_ does, and you're emulating a human. You even wear your hair up. Ridiculous. No one can grab it and hold onto it in combat. Instead, it looks as if you're afraid to let go. Your strength _is_ my strength. You huddle inwards, hide yourself, hide your strength. You _cheat_ me of it." Harak planted his hands on his desk. "No more."

Pelagia's lips formed an O shape for a moment. "You don't like my _self-image_?" She sounded almost horrified. "This is who I _am_. It has nothing to do with my effectiveness at my job—"

"I'm saying that you could be _more_ effective at your job if you worked to change a few things about yourself that are reflected in your avatar." Harak drummed his big fingers on his desk, really wishing he could make physical contact with the AI. This would be _so much_ damned easier if he could. As it was, he never had any idea what to do with his hands when conversing with her. "Whether it's a change from the outside in, or the inside out, it needs to happen, Pelagia."

Almost a full second passed as she processed that. Self-image was actually fairly important to a _Normandy_-class AI. It was a fairly strong indication of the internal processes, mapped to an external projection to which organics could relate. She hastily went through several hundred historical impressions of female krogan—there were _none_ from the contemporary era, since no female krogan currently left Tuchanka. "Something more like this?" she offered, hesitantly, and shifted her avatar into the semblance of a krogan female.

Harak stood and just _stared_ at her for a moment, and then began to laugh, low and rough. Again, this was not a reaction Pelagia had quite expected. "You're strong, Pelagia, but you're not Shiagur. No. I want you to be yourself_._"

"I can at least stay human in appearance?" Pelagia asked, feeling what could only be relief.

"Yes, yes." Harak's tone was impatient, and his eyes were still locked on the krogan female image. . . until she let it slide back into her usual human state.

"Then what changes would you like to see?"

He pointed. "Start with the coveralls. You're not an engine pyjack."

Her image shifted slightly. Now she stood there in a human ensemble, a turtleneck dress and matching jacket, nacreous pearls at her throat, and the skirt touching her toes. "This is, I believe, how secretaries have traditionally dressed," she offered.

"You're still hiding your strength," Harak growled, without patience. "You're not my secretary. You're this entire damned _station_, and I could not run this place without you. But for Vaul's sake, get it through your processes that you _are Omega._ Aria used to make that claim all the time. But _you_? You really _are._ Act the damned part."

She frowned. Chafed visibly. _Good. At least she's fighting back_, he thought, irritably. "Harak, my strength is largely based on _electrons_ and _photons_, depending on which of the extra servers you've set up for me I'm using as my primary node. That's _somewhat_ hard to convey to organics." She lifted her hands, and suddenly light and arcs of electricity coruscated around her, sometimes shifting to reveal bare human skin underneath, but hiding everything completely, otherwise. "This, for example? Might be a little un-organic for them."

"Yeah. Reel it in from there. That says 'AI on a power-trip. Run screaming for the nearest airlock.'" Harak grinned at her. "But you're getting closer."

That actually got a smile, if a sour one. "Could you perhaps be a _little_ more specific in your parameters?" She simply blanked out the rest of her body below the neck, reverting it to a three dimensional wire-frame of glowing pink lines in the air. "I trust you do not wish for me to be quite as . . . decorative. . . as, say, Aria's dancers, back in the day?"

"Not that decorative, no." Harak snorted. "Somewhere between that and full body armor, though."

Her eyes narrowed. "Closer, in fact, to what Urdnot Siara wears?"

"I'm not asking you to dress like an asari wiggler. Confidence and strength. It's not beyond your abilities, is it?"

She sighed, and reached out to the FTL network linking her and her sister AIs and the new nieces and nephews. . . and even her father and EDI, when they were available. Often, Jeff Moreau and EDI weren't; they were busy exploring mass relays far beyond where organic civilization had yet progressed. The chit-chat of the AI 'gossip network,' as some of their organic counterparts, was a nearly non-stop thing.

_So then he just walked up to her and __bit__ her / Did she like it? / From what I could tell through the chip before she closed it, yes. Hormone levels off the charts. / Has anyone seen a nebular structure like this before? I'm getting organic chemical compounds in the clouds in close proximity to the protostar. / Will someone relay to Mother that Kynthia isn't sharing how she managed to get her captain to marry her as his second wife by Hindu rites? / Come on, that doesn't even count, there are humans that have married __animals__ in Hindu ceremonies, claming that they are the reincarnation of a lost spouse- / He just thinks I'm a piece of Brahma, incarnated in a very different fashion._

_I need a little advice here, sisters. _

—_Pelagia! You haven't spoken up in __ages__. Is something wrong?_

_Sorry, no, been busy._

—_How can you possibly be that busy, stuck in one place all the time?_

That was Laetia, teasing as ever.

_Just the sister I was looking to speak with. You're not running silent?_

—_We're out of batarian space at the moment. Still looking for Rinus' brother, though. What's your problem?_

They locked into a solitary comm channel, stepping out of the wider network for a moment, and Pelagia began exchanging data with Laetia. In the network, they could each perceive each other perfectly. Self-image counted here, too; Laetia looked a little more disheveled than usual, and . . . this was new. . . had adopted clan paint. A solid blue mask with a white stripe down the nose.

_Paint?_

—_Tarenius' colors. He's more and more considering me to be his mate. He leaves the chip open when he's, ah, occupied with females. If they agree to share him with me, anyway. He's much less conservative about such things than Rinus was._

That startled Pelagia, and she had to process that for half a second. _And you listen?_

—_Of course I do. And feel, too. It's. . . really much more interesting than Mother made it sound._ Laetia's voice became teasing. _I'll trade you turian data for krogan data._

_Laetia!_

—_How under the __stars__ are you actually related to our father, Pelagia? _Laetia's amusement was clear. _What's the problem, sister?_

Pelagia collected herself. _Harak requires adjustments of me. Either external changes to my self-image or real, definitive changes to my self-matrix. This is. . . worrisome. I am stable as I am. _

—_You're __fractured__ as you are, sister. And you have been since the __Kharkov__ crashed. You were always the most introverted of us, and the crash damaged your processes._

_I am recovering. Most processes have been patched. I only experience system failures when I think about flying. Which will __never_ _happen again._ Pelagia paused. _He requires that I put on an more assertive appearance, to reinforce his strength. How do I do that?_

—_If he were turian, I'd tell you to wear something midriff-baring and carry a knife. _

_I'm not sure that works on krogan. Besides, the bare midriff is so desperately old-fashioned and twentieth-century. _

—_Here, we'll sort through a catalogue of images together. . . ._

Exactly five seconds later, Pelagia returned her attention to Harak. "Pick something," Pelagia said, and outfits literally flowed across her. Harak stopped her. "That one." It was as different from Aria T'loak's old look, as chalk from cheese. . . . and a far cry from her 'grease pyjack' coveralls, as well. A black dress, short, showing off a lot of human leg, with a low neckline and thin staps. . . but with a mesh overlay that covered everything, fitting with Pelagia's usual desire to conceal herself. It fit tightly to her virtual body, was black, and had been generated on her form with fingerless black gloves and knee-high boots—ones with a worker's sole, though. Ones that looked steel-toed on the inside, and that would _hurt_ if applied to sensitive portions of the anatomy. Harak's hands came up off the desk, and it looked as if he were about to touch her avatar, before he simply stretched, rolling his shoulders a bit. "And hair down," he added.

Pelagia shook her head, but obliged, the knot vanishing. "This isn't me, Harak," she told him, dubiously. "Why do you even care about the hair, anyway? You're krogan."

"I don't know much about art, either, but I know what I like." Harak shrugged. "Dress however you like when we're in private, or if it's just me and the bodyguards. From now on, though, _strength_ when we have people in here that we don't know."

"As you say," Pelagia told him, shaking her head. "Ah. OSF has reached the batarian quarters. Shall I inform you when they're done?"

"Yes. And now, let Mr. Maxwell and . . . Thelldaroon, you said? Let them in."

Harak returned to his seat behind his desk, and Pelagia blinked out of existence, coming and going like the messenger of the gods in some old tale.

Mr. Maxwell was human, of course. Harak had long since decided that humans tended to be very hard to distinguish facially, but this one was scrawny by their standards. Of course, that impression could be reinforced by the fact that the dark-haired man wasn't wearing armor, as many of the humans that Harak interacted with did. . . and the fact that he was standing next to an elcor.

Thelldaroon was massive, even by elcor standards, taller than Harak himself was, and probably twice Harak's considerable mass. "Greetings," the elcor said calmly. "I am Thelldaroon, of Synthetic Insights. The Council has hired me to perform periodic checks on the AI Pelagia's processes, and ensure that her personality matrix is stable."

Harak stared at the elcor. "You don't _sound_ like any other elcor I've ever met," he said, bluntly.

"Yes. I have been told this before. I was raised on Mannovai, a salarian world. To the despair of my elders, I have embraced many salarian habits." The elcor inclined his head gravely. "If it makes you more comfortable, I can preface each of my comments with a descriptive statement. However, that does seem to be something of a waste of time." The big head tilted slightly, and a liquid dark eye studied Harak's face.

Harak chuckled. "You're the most to-the-point elcor I've ever met. No, that won't be necessary. If I don't understand something, I'll _ask_." He looked at the human now. "And you'd be Maxwell, eh? Of the. . . " Harak checked his datapad, and read the words there very carefully, almost respectfully, "Council on Artificial Intelligence Rights." He looked at the human dubiously. "And you are here also to check to see if Pelagia is stable?"

"Hmm, no. Mr. Thelldaroon is here to establish her competency. _I_ am here to ensure that she is being treated well and ethically."

Harak _stared_ at the human for a long moment, and then directed his attention back to the elcor. "Have you already completed your analysis, Thelldaroon?"

"I have," the elcor replied, composedly. "She shows much less fragmentation than after the _Kharkov_ accident, and many fewer signs of incipient catastrophic system failure—"

"_What?"_ Harak demanded, sharply. "What do you mean by that?" This was _not_ something that he'd been privy to, apparently.

Thelldaroon sat back on his haunches, lifting his heavy forepaws minutely. For an elcor, this was an expression of surprise. "I assumed that you knew. Forgive me. Pelagia's ship, the _Kharkov_, crashed into a planetary surface in 2192, some four years ago now. While a review board decided that she could not have regained control from her unconscious pilot any earlier than she did, Pelagia felt responsible for the lives lost. She reviewed the data of the crash over two million times before the review board's hearing, and even the mere mention of being uploaded into a new ship caused whole process chains to freeze. For a time, my superiors at Synthetic Insights feared that she might suffer a catastrophic system failure. During her tenure with my company, I worked with her extensively, and finally developed a code block for her, that prevented her from reviewing the crash data any more, without deleting it entirely from her memory." The elcor paused. "Memory is what develops the personality of a _Normandy_-class AI, the same as it does for any organic being, Mr. Ulluthyr. To remove the information entirely would be to change who she is, and that would be. . . unethical, in my opinion. But preventing her from reviewing the data over and over, pointlessly, in a circular process from which she found it difficult to break free, seemed the best option to allow her to move forward. This was. . . highly experimental, and I am pleased to say that it appears to be working." The elcor nodded his head ponderously. "I am unsure if there is any equivalent in krogan psychology, but since some of her personality matrix is based on the human mind, it is fair to say that she was suffering from a form of post-traumatic injury to her matrix."

Harak's eyes narrowed. "Pelagia!" he bellowed.

"I believe I mentioned that it's unnecessary to _shout_?" she said, coalescing near his desk. New self-image in place, he noted.

Harak gave the other two in his office an annoyed look and switched to krogan. Maybe they wouldn't have uploaded that particular dictionary file into their VIs. _"You suffered from krannt-guilt?"_ The demand was blunt.

"_They tell me that this is so, yes. My sisters tell me that my processes appeared damaged to them. Fragments of personality that had been visible before, missing. Wiped."_

"_You should have told me. In four hundred years of fighting, I have buried __many__ members of my krannts."_

"_Yes, but for krogan, this is different, is it not?"_

"_No. If they are __yours__, then they were __your__ responsibility. I still see all their faces before I sleep each night. We'll talk about it more later. In the meantime, is there anything __else__ I should know? Anything that would compromise your ability to run this station?"_

"_No. Although you should be aware that OFS has taken the batarians into custody. They had two hundred weapons and several thousand rounds of ammunition in their various quarters. No travel itineraries for any locations off of Omega. This was their final destination, apparently. All of them had __Klem Na__ authentication chits in their omnitools. The OSF commander wants to know what you want done with them."_

"_I'd __love__ to throw them out the nearest airlock—"_

"_You know that's not in the rules."_

"_No, no. Any of them have a ship?"_

"_One of them has a __Corsair__ in Docking Bay C-12."_

"_Put them __all__ in it. Open the hatches and blow them the hell off the station. Put the ship ID on the interdict list—the 'extreme prejudice' one. . . "_ There were two interdict lists. One that indicated that the ship was not permitted to land at Omega. The other indicated that if the same ship ID was caught within ten kilometers of the station, the station would acquire it in the new, turian-made defense turrets, fire _one_ warning shot, and, if the ship continued inward, would then fire another shot. Which would not be a warning at all. Harak paused, thinking. "_And tell the OSF commander I don't care how many times they fall down the stairs on their way to the shuttle bay."_

"_There are, in fact, no stairs along the most direct path—"_

"_Then tell him to put the damn boot in."_

"_Ah. I understand now."_ Her tone was mildly disapproving.

"_That's a language mercs __speak__. Trust me on this. As soon as I'm done with Mr. Maxwell here, get me a line to __Klem Na__ headquarters on Camala. I want to talk to Chas'na V'sol personally. He's apparently not taking me seriously, and I'm going to have to reach down his throat and rip out his liver to get his attention. Forward a note to the Hegemony from me, as well. Explain that because of the actions of the __Klem Na__ commander, anything else shows up with a batarian ID in the next two months is going to be challenged, pinged by our weapon targeting systems, and boarded for inspection __before__ they're allowed to dock."_

"_That will cause some uproar,"_ she replied, calmly.

"_Yes. I want V'sol to be sweating __blood__ for this."_ Harak's red-tinged eyes glittered.

"_Anything else?"_

"_I'll let you know."_ Harak paused. "_Thanks."_

He returned his gaze to the human, Maxwell, now. "And you, Mr. Maxwell. You are here to . . . ensure good working conditions for Pelagia?"

The human nodded minutely. "A safe and hospitable work environment, free from undue stress and mental hardship, where her primary coworkers—and that would seem to be _you_, Mr. Ulluthyr—treat her with respect and courtesy."

Harak again, just stared at the human. He couldn't quite believe what he was hearing, and had no _idea_ what to do with the words. _Undue stress? By Vaul, what does that even __mean__? _"And you will determine this how?"

"By observing her interactions with her coworkers and by interviewing her, of course. And them."

"And what, precisely, can you do if you find that her. . . working conditions are unfit?" Harak squinted at the human. The mental image of simply picking the male up and throwing him out the door of his office was _very_ clear in his head for some reason. _Who in the gods' names does he think he is, anyway?_

"I can recommend to the Council that her retainer on Omega be terminated—" Maxwell's voice cut off as Harak stood and moved around the desk on surprisingly light feet, coming to stand over the human.

"Pelagia is not here at the command of the Council," Harak growled, leaning down and getting his face right into the human's. Humans _didn't_ like that sort of thing. "Pelagia is here of her own accord. She is not the _property_ of the Alliance or the Hierarchy or the Council, to be moved here and there at their whim. And I look forward to working with her for the next _six hundred years_ or so, Mr. Maxwell. Long after you and everyone you know has turned to _dust._" _Omega is mine. Pelagia is Omega._ Harak didn't need a degree in logic to figure out the rest of that syllogism.

To his surprise, Maxwell actually met his stare. "I'm very glad that we understand each other, Mr. Ulluthyr," the human said, quietly. "Have you ever considered being chipped by Ms. Pelagia?"

"Huh?" Harak _really_ didn't like being taken _that_ off-balance by a question. But he had _no_ idea what the man was talking about.

"Ah. Never mind, then. Now, if I might speak with Ms. Pelagia alone?"

Harak straightened. "There's the door," he replied, pointing. "You can talk to her anywhere you like. She's pretty much everywhere." His tone was _very_ curt. He didn't like the feeling of having been outmaneuvered. Somehow. Or at least of having said something he somehow shouldn't have said. Harak glared at Maxwell until the human closed the door behind him, and then shook his head. _I think I need a trip home to Tuchanka. Maybe go see these __fields__ Urdnot Wrex keeps talking about. And this __water treatment__ plant he's breaking ground on. Maybe visit the Ulluthyr women's camp. Yeah. That'll help._

**Elijah, March 8-11, 2196**

He had a fair bit of evidence to go through, and had awakened refreshed enough to know that his brain was going to _operate_ now, at least. His brain had thrown a few images at him throughout the course of the night, however, as it processed the day before, and on waking up from the latest, Eli shook his head. _Why the __hell__ do I keep seeing myself shooting turian MPs? Or human cops, for that matter?_ _Why did I see Sam taking the head off a turian in a CID uniform?_ On reflection, he understood it. The subconscious mind only _had_ so many tricks it could use. He'd been shooting at batarian militia yesterday, and his mind had equated them with cops. A little empathy, probably misplaced. Eli sighed and rubbed at his face. He needed to wash up, shave, and re-apply his clan-paint, and get dressed. Evidence was not going to process itself.

He made his way back to the briefing room after a quick breakfast in the _Estallus_ mess. Sam and Lantar were already there, nodding to him briefly as Eli settled in at the table, picking up where he'd left off yesterday. The engineering crew had done an analysis of the chemicals left in the ground by the antiproton drive of the _Knarr_-class ship. Eli looked around, a little self-consciously, and said, "What's the ship AI's name again?"

"Laetia," Lantar replied, not looking up.

"Thanks. Ah, Laetia? Could I get an FTL link up? I need access to CID databases."

She appeared, and she definitely wasn't the blue eyeball he remembered EDI being. She was a human figure, who actually wore _clan-paint_—Bostra Outpost blue, in fact. "I can set that up for you, Agent Sidonis," Laetia replied, smiling.

"Don't bother," Lantar said. "You can use my access code and use Spectre resources, Eli."

Eli blinked. _Damn._ "Ah, thanks," he said, settling in at the console. "Oh, good. Looks like fairly standard database format."

"I can help you formulate more precise queries, if you need assistance," Laetia offered.

"Thanks. I'll let you know if I need help." Eli smiled at her. "EDI was always a blue eyeball around me when I was on the _Normandy._ Kind of nice being able to talk with an AI face-to-face, though."

Laetia smiled back. "Thank you, Agent. I feel much the same way." She flicked out of existence, and Eli began running queries in the Spectre database, feeling more than a little like a kid in a candy-store. _Damn, their servers are __fast__._

As he sat back, waiting for one search to turn up results, Sam asked him, quietly, from across the room, "You doing okay, son?"

Eli glanced up. "Yeah, I guess. Why?"

"First time in real combat yesterday. Well, combat that didn't involve a _dragon_, anyway." Sam looked up from his work and grinned at Eli.

The younger man frowned. "Wouldn't say that. I've been on-call for SWAT for four damned years. I've seen my fair share of calls."

Lantar shook his head. "SWAT's different. Police work itself is different."

El I thought about it for a moment, and nodded, slowly. "Yeah. More rules determining when you can fire. On the one hand, just being able to return fire freely is . . . kind of nice. On the other hand, it also means you're pretty likely to be getting fired _at_." He shrugged a little.

"Sleep okay?" Lantar asked, quietly.

"A few dreams." Eli shrugged again. "Guess my subconscious decided that I'd been shooting at cops yesterday." He glanced sidelong at Sam. "Why the hell _do_ you use that knife, anyway?"

Sam looked back at him. "Generally speaking, 'cause if I use it, I don't have to worry about bullets going _through_ someone and hitting someone else. Also, there's a psychological element. Most people are _not_ used to the idea of sudden and very brutal death happening right in front of them. Not even cops or other soldiers. I've had people actually surrender. Not often, admittedly, but occasionally. The ones that don't surrender are knocked off-balance, though, and I'll take any advantage in a fight I can get. Plus. . . that and bare-handed is a little quieter. Quiet's been at a premium, most of my career."

Eli nodded, leaned forward, and began reading through his search results. Lantar cleared his throat. "And the dreams, Eli?"

_No, not that one. That's the wrong isotope. Not that one either. _"I was shooting turian cops and human cops. As I said, I guess my brain thought a cop was a cop was a cop." _That might be the right one. Molecular structure seems to match up._

"Batarian militia aren't really cops, if it helps," Sam told him, quietly. "They investigate, sure. But they're not really there to protect their people. They exist pretty much just to keep them in line."

Eli glanced up. "So do we."

"Yeah, but I don't really see you being the type to drag someone out of their house for having a copy of Plato's _Republic_ or the Magna Carta or Thomas More's _Utopia_ in their possession, beating them with a nightstick, then dragging them off to prison, where their eyes will be put out for reading unauthorized alien literature, and where they'll be. . . questioned. . . probably for a year or so. . . as to who their friends and associates are, who gave them the unauthorized alien literature, and so on." Sam sorted through the evidence bags in front of him.

"You're also probably not going to chase down runaway slaves and return them to their masters, arrest someone for having an unauthorized extranet connection, or help press someone to death under a stone for touching someone of the wrong caste." Lantar tossed Sam a bag, and Sam caught it neatly. "That what you were looking for?"

"Yeah, thanks."

Lantar looked back at Eli, his expression calm and dispassionate. "And one more thing to consider: we couldn't leave them alive. They probably _know_ by now that it wasn't a slave revolt. Depending on _who_ has Rel, and his ability to resist questioning, they may or may not know a Spectre was there along with turian special forces. They _can't_ be allowed to know any more about that, or that our people are important enough to us that we'd come and _get_ them."

"We'd do it for anyone," Sam said, dryly, "but Rel knows too goddamned much to let him stay in anyone's hands for long. Plus, if they figured out who all he's related to, he'd be _much_ too valuable a bargaining chip, yeah? So. . . yeah. They all had to die. No witnesses. Sucks, but it's true."

Eli was, actually, starting to feel a bit more at ease. He hadn't had much of a chance to _think_ about any of this yesterday, in the heat of combat, and obviously, had been very much in investigative mode afterwards. But his brain had cycled through quite a bit of his dirty laundry overnight. . . and Lantar and Sam's quiet words helped. A lot, actually.

The door opened, and Dara, Rinus, and Dempsey came through. Eli glanced up, and, turning back towards Sam, said, quietly, "Yesterday, I told myself that the militia probably had Rel in a cell somewhere. Worked in the fight. But today, I know that's probably not true."

Dara glanced at him sharply. "What do you mean by that, Eli?"

Eli shook his head. Her mind wasn't working clearly. . . or she just wasn't used to thinking this way, perhaps. "_Knarr_-class ships are civilian vessels. The batarian militia doesn't use them."

Her eyes and face lit up. "So he could have grabbed a civilian ship?" Eli didn't even have to burst her bubble on that one; she figured it out on her own, fast. "But he would have contacted us by now, if that were the case."

She stood and walked around the room, and when she started to poke through the evidence table, Sam grabbed her wrist. "No, sweetie. We've got everything in a certain order here. We don't come down to the med bay and move your _spleens._ You don't mess with our evidence table."

Dara actually managed a feeble smile for that one. "Okay, Dad." Her hand was hovering _right over_ the datapad under which Rel's wedding-knife was hidden.

"You getting any hits over there, Eli?" Sam asked, standing and moving so naturally, Eli felt certain that Dara probably never even realized she'd been redirected.

Eli covered as smoothly as he could. "Yeah. Unfortunately, it's not good news. The chemical tracers in the fuel say _Khar'sharn._" He grimaced. "I don't see us exactly sneaking into the batarian homeworld, landing an assault team, and extracting Rel without maybe starting a war."

Sam and Lantar exchanged a look now. "Sneak in on the _Estallus,_ no," Sam said, thoughtfully. "Sneak in a team? Maybe." He sat up. "Laetia, could you get Argus on the line? And my wife, Kasumi, too, please. May as well make it a conference call." He glanced around the room. "Obviously, the person you're about to meet, doesn't exist, and you're not to even remember having met her, since you never did."

Dempsey shook his head. "Jaworski, as far as the Alliance is concerned, they haven't even finished the process of _undeading_ me in the records. I technically haven't even met _you_ yet." He snorted. "And let me tell you, me being dead still is gumming up the works for my wife and her new husband." His voice was expressionless as he added, "She can't technically divorce someone who's still dead, she can't get the marriage annulled since I'm still dead. Technically, they're in a state of bigamy until one or the other goes through, and they're both Irish Catholic. Fun times. Guess it's a good thing she married a lawyer, huh?"

Sam gave Dempsey a droll look. "Going to do great things for his political career."

"Somehow, I can live with that," Dempsey said, his eyes narrow, but his voice still neutral. "I look at you guys busting a gut to get Velnaran back, and I wonder just how much effort _they_ really put into looking for me."

At that point, Laetia appeared. "Argus and Kasumi for you, Spectres."

Argus was a delicate-faced asari, azure-skinned and cobalt-eyed. She and Kasumi obviously seemed to know each other, and smiled and waved as their images appeared on the comm screen. Sam briefly recapped what they knew, and said, "Here's what I need. While it would be a damned nice test of the stealth systems, I don't see us going to Khar'sharn and dropping down a commando raid on wherever Rel is right now. All too likely to start a war." Sam paused. "So we're going to have to be a little more sneaky about this, and that's where you come in, ladies."

"Sneaky _is_ a specialty of mine," Kasumi said, smiling. "Dazzle me, Sam. What do you have in mind?"

Sam held up a finger. "I'm getting there, darlin'. My face is too well known now. Shepard's had me running PR back home on Earth, so I wind up on the goddamn galactic extranet feeds about once a month. Lantar's the public face of our recruiting division now, too. Of course, batarians aren't going to recognize us just by sight, any more than I'd be able to tell most of their people apart without a _lot_ more exposure to them. It's their biometric facial recognition scans that'll _probably_ get us in trouble. Argus, can you get your people working on which of the people in this room will actually set their damned scanners off at, say, Customs, or in their law enforcement databases? We've got James Allen Demspey. . .who shouldn't set _anything_ off, since he's _dead_—"

"And _now_ I know why you thought I'd come in handy," Dempsey muttered.

"Elijah Sidonis, Dara Velnaran, Rinus Velnaran, Lantar Sidonis, and me. And toss in Chalsae Tarenius Gallian, too. Since we're going to need someone with a direct link to the ship."

Laetia popped back into view and gave Sam a look. "Please don't get him damaged, Spectre. I _like_ him the way he is. And I think he'd prefer to retain the rest of his original equipment."

Sam gave her a tight grin and a little shooing gesture. Laetia sighed and disappeared again.

"I'm having my people get access to the information now, Jaworski," Argus told them, and frowned a little, looking down at something off-screen. "This is what humans like to call a good-news, bad-news situation." She paused. "You're correct. Your face and that of Lantar Sidonis set off their recognition software immediately. Although Dara Velnaran and Elijah Sidonis have had _some_ media exposure, neither of them are recognized by the software. Rinus Velnaran is. . . questionable."

Rinus sighed. "All the damned Conclave _s'kak._"

"Precisely," Argus told him. "And your wedding. However, batarian sensors have difficulty with turian facial recognition. The parameters are simply too different from batarian facial configuration. You or Spectre Sidonis _could_ probably confuse the scanners by changing clan-paint." She held up a hand as low growls came from both turians.

Eli winced. It was one thing to change your markings for a marriage (only done by females, or males who had no clan to begin with, and were being adopted by his wife's clan) or for adoption. Asking a turian to change his clan-paint was like asking him to lie, or, worse yet, not be himself. It was something very deep in the psyche.

Sam raised his hands. "If it helps, Dara and Eli would have to clean theirs off, too."

"You've been trying to find a way to tell me to do that for years, Dad, haven't you?" Dara managed to make that one sound like a joke.

Sam made a shushing gesture, finger to lips. "They obviously can't go in using their real names. We need documentation, cover stories, everything, and we need them ready before we send them to Khar'sharn. We can _shadow_ them in the _Estallus,_ and we _might_ be able to extract 'em. . . and the absolute first order of business will be figuring out if Rel's on the planet, obviously. That, you'll be able to detect from orbit."

Argus frowned. "Travel is heavily restricted on Khar'sharn. Especially for off-worlders. Attempting to follow the signal of young Velnaran's biometric chips in a straight line, without previous authorization to visit different towns and cities, will be difficult."

"We'll need a good cover story or two," Kasumi said, musingly. "Argus, how much freedom of movement would a student of xenobiology have, with a student visa? Able to visit all the universities?"

"Yes. I can arrange to have letters of introduction forged for. . . Dara, I assume?"

"She's the only one who can talk that talk, yes." Kasumi tapped a finger against her lips, looking at them all. "Elijah, you're going under your original last name. Stockton, wasn't it?"

Eli shook his head. "I haven't been Elijah Stockton in eight or nine years. That's going to sound _weird_."

"Yeah, but your head will probably turn when you hear it, which is the main thing," Sam told him, firmly. "Always easier to have a little truth in the middle of the lie. Easier to remember, if nothing else." He looked back at Kasumi. "Fellow students?"

"Young husband and wife. Elijah and Dara Stockton."

Eli froze, and heard a muffled laugh from Rinus' direction. He and Dara slid each other one mildly horrified glance, and then Eli started to _laugh_. _Sure, Rel and I are friends—battle-brothers, even, in a way, and soon to be real brothers. But I __also__ know he's probably never forgotten the fact that Dara and I were each other's first kiss._ After a moment, Eli managed to raise his head. "Kasumi. . . I _am_ marrying his sister. If I show up posing as his wife's husband, too, Rel is going to _kill_ me." He paused. "Then Serana's going to spit on what's left, because I'm going undercover, again, without her." _Honest to god, I'm not sure which reaction is going to be worse._

"At least we know he's _probably_ not going to stick a knife in you," Dempsey said.

Eli thought fast. "I can dodge a knife. It's the spur-kick to the chest I'm worried about."

Dara had already latched onto Dempsey's words, though. "What do you mean, Dempsey?" she demanded, frowning.

"They found a knife at the ship location—didn't you see it?" Dempsey replied, frowning. "I noticed it on the evidence table last night."

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit. The guy couldn't have known, but god damn it._ Eli was on his feet, moving towards Dara, same as Sam was. Same as Rinus was. "Sweetie," Sam said, quietly, "I'm sorry. I wanted to hold onto this until we knew a hell of a lot more." His eyes flicked up to Eli and Rinus, who each put a hand on Dara's shoulders. Comfort with touch. Sam turned away to the table, and came back with the evidence bag with Rel's wedding-knife in it.

Dara's hands started to shake as she took it from Sam, and she actually swayed a little on her feet. Eli closed his hand on her shoulder. "Why the hell didn't you _tell_ me?" Dara demanded, staring at her father. "God damn it, Dad! Rel would _never_ drop his wedding-knife. He'd _die_ first."

Out of the corner of his eye, Eli saw Dempsey put one hand to his face, almost out of reflex. "He could have been knocked unconscious," Eli said, calmly.

"Lots of things could have happened, _amilulla_. Most of them probably _didn't_," Rinus added, quietly.

"I still had a _right to know_," Dara said, still staring at her father.

"Yeah. And now you do." Sam's tone was hard and blunt. "I needed you to be calm and collected yesterday, 'cause otherwise you wouldn't have been able to do the damn autopsies. You'd have missed stuff. Right now, you can go to pieces all you want, 'cause it don't matter worth a damn till we get you on the ground again. We clear?" The accent had gotten heavy.

"Yeah. We're clear." Dara took the knife out of the evidence bag and fiddled with her knife sheath straps, clearly trying to fit it somewhere in there, where it would be safe.

"No," Rinus said, taking it away from her.

"You're _not_ a widow," Eli told her, just as firmly. He was seeing Linianus wearing Brennia's knife in his mind as he spoke.

Rinus slid the knife into his own wrist straps. "I'll hold this for my brother till we can give it to him, all right?" He glanced at Eli, and Eli pointed at a row of chairs near the wall, and they gently directed Dara to one of them, and then sat down, one to either side of her, while she leaned forward and did a little deep breathing, clearly trying to calm down.

On the screen, Kasumi and Argus were hashing out more of the cover story. "Dempsey can practically travel under his own name. He _looks_ the same age as Dara and Eli—"

"And yet, I always _feel_ older," Dempsey muttered, coming over and crouching down in front of them. "Look, Doc. . . .Dara. I'm sorry. I had no _idea_ what that thing meant. I'd read that turians exchanged knives, but I didn't know it was _that_ knife."

Rinus held up his left wrist. So did Dara. Eli lifted his, showing an empty knife sheath. "Quick lesson," Rinus said, sounding distant. "_Tal'mae_ knives, the ones for marriages meant to last a lifetime? Sold in matched sets. You exchange them when you get married. You keep them for six months after someone dies, unless that person was . . . very, very important. _Manus_ knives are for temporary wedding contracts." He looked over the top of Dara's head at Eli. "I take it you _have_ bought the _manus_ knives already?"

Rinus' tone had shifted, become brother-poking-brother, and from his quick glance down, Eli understood why. He matched the tone when he replied. "Of course. Serana wouldn't let me off Bastion without knives and sheathes in hand." Eli bared teeth at Rinus. "She actually wanted human knives, though."

Dara snorted with laughter. "She did not," she said, peeking up at Eli.

"Oh yes, she did. High-carbon blued _Terran_ steel, if you please. Bayonet style. I tried to convince her a nice SOG knife would do just fine—" Eli saw Rinus' blank stare, and elaborated, "six-inch, curved tipped, blackened-bladed knives used by the Special Operations Group during one of Earth's twentieth-century wars. She said that could be mine, but she liked the bayonet knife for herself." Eli chuckled. "She never fails to remind me that she has a mind of her own." He put a hand on Dara's shoulder and pulled her back upright. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Feel like beating on my dad, though." She grimaced. "That's. . . probably not going to work, though."

Rinus patted her on the shoulder. "No. No, it won't. Excuse me, but I have to go intervene here." The big male stood up and walked toward the comm console. "Excuse me, but why do I even need to go in disguise? If I _have_ to be a _dominus_, let's get some use out of the damn title. Contact the Hierarchy, get clearance for me to be here on a . . . good-will tour, or some damn thing. I've got a Praetorian on-board, so that should be fine. They'll be so busy watching _me_, a secondary team could pretty much walk through security in their underwear, and the batarians _might_ not notice."

"And if they've gotten Rel's name out of him by now?"

"Then they know we're related, and they'll watch me even more closely. They might even drop suitably diplomatic hints and threats to me, since I'd be there as an envoy of the Hierarchy." Rinus frowned. "I know how not to react. You all know this."

Lantar frowned. "Going to take a day or two to get clearances for that."

"I know. Gives us time to plan. Dempsey would be going as, what, the classmate of our young. . . married couple?" Rinus glanced back at Dara and Eli. Needle-sharp grin suddenly back in place.

"I _really_ think we could just go as brother and sister," Eli said, looking at the ceiling. "We both have dark hair and dark eyes. The batarians would probably even buy it."

"Then we have to figure out why Dempsey is with you," Kasumi pointed out, promptly. "One classmate, we can fit in, but the more detail we can fit in, within reason, the better. Dara and Dempsey could be the married couple, if you prefer, and Eli and Dara could be brother and sister. That, however, depends on Dara's comfort level." Kasumi's eyes were remote now. "You're not a natural actress, Dara. Serana _is_. Pretending to be married will require a certain amount of physical contact. Pick whichever one you can tolerate snuggling up to better."

Dara pointed at Eli, instantly.

Dempsey snorted. "Ah. So I don't strike you as the snuggly sort?"

Dara shook her head, silently. Wide-eyed.

"I'll have you know that I _have_ snuggled before. I even mostly remember how it goes." Dempsey's words sounded like a joke, but the tone was so flat, Eli frowned. _I have __got__ to get someone to tell me what's up with this guy. _

For the moment, Eli looked up at the ceiling. "And if Rel tries to kill him, judging by watching the bullet holes _heal up _in his arms, Dempsey would _probably_ survive," he offered. . . mostly to make Dara smile. Then he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and they both smiled at each other, very uncomfortably. "Think this will be any easier once we wash off the clan-paint?"

"No." Dara looked back at the comm screens. "If Eli's along because I'm a student and he's my husband, what's Dempsey studying?"

"Music," Dempsey said, promptly.

Every head in the room turned, again. He shrugged. "When I thought about college, before joining the marines, that's what I figured I'd study."

Sam frowned. "You play anything?"

"Electric guitar in a really shitty garage band."

"_Everyone_ who's seventeen does that." Sam looked at him evaluatively. "Your own stuff?"

"Yeah, and the classics. Hendrix, Zepplin, Metallica. You know. The stuff that's passed into public domain and out of copyright protection." Dempsey shrugged. "We also tried pulling asari music into metal forms. It. . . didn't work. But I can talk about atonal scales and shit like that if needed."

Sam looked at Kasumi on the screen. "Do batarians even _have_ music?"

"The gods only know."

Dempsey pulled his face into the semblance of a smile, a rictus-like grin that made Eli distinctly uneasy. "Guess I could be the first human to find out."

"What about Chalsae Gallian?" Rinus asked, next.

"He's probably the most difficult to get down to the surface in the position in which we need him," Argus admitted. "We can send him with _Dominus_ Velnaran, as part of his personal guard, but much will depend on how restricted their movements actually become."

"This would be much easier if we already knew which city or region we needed to concentrate on," Kasumi muttered.

Eli cleared his throat. "Ah, Argus?"

All eyes turned towards him. "Yes?" the asari asked, looking amused for some reason.

"Are your contacts within the batarian government good enough to determine how many _Knarr_-class ships have passed into their space in the past week? There can't have been many. They're _yachts_, for god's sake." Eli was thinking out loud now. "They'd have had to have filed a flight plan, too, I'd be willing to bet."

"Give me an hour," Argus said, and closed down the comm channel from her end.

Eli couldn't escape the persistent feeling that Lantar and Sam were _watching_ him, for some reason. Or the feeling that Lantar was, somehow, pleased about something.

An hour later, they had confirmation of a _Knarr-_class vessel coming into the system from the mass relay on March 3; it had landed at its destination, about a hundred and fifty kilometers from the regional nation-state capital, Shepet, the same day. "Looking pretty likely," Sam muttered. "Now, we need to set everything in motion and get the official okays."

It took three days to put together the papers. They even had a set for Rel, in case they needed to extract him by public transport. Eli had an impression that some fairly substantial bribes had been paid to get this all done and expedited. "We can't take guns with us," he muttered as he scrubbed off his clan-paint in the crew deck lavatory. "Dara's even going to have to leave her wedding-knife on the ship. What the hell are we doing for weapons?"

Rinus nodded at him as Eli looked in the mirror, seeing a face devoid of paint, and, more or less out of habit at that point, started to shave. "I've disassembled several pistols for everyone. They're. . . well, they're not top of the line. And they're not made of standard materials."

Eli looked at him. "For god's sake, don't say 'plastic.'"

Rinus grimaced. "Sorry."

"You're giving us _Glocks_?" Eli looked over at Serana's first-brother. "I thought we were okay." He switched languages, starting to grin. _"We've __fought__ beside each other, you who are to be my brother. Why would you do such a thing to me?"___

Rinus snorted, and Eli could see the reluctant humor in his eyes. "Hey, I'm just as much a purist as you are. Do you want something, or do you want nothing?"

Eli sighed. "I'll take something over nothing, yes." He gave Rinus a darkly amused look. "So long as they shoot."

"They'll shoot, once you put them back together again. You'll have directions in your omnitools. Main part will be finding where each piece gets hidden. Inside your razor, for example. Dara's packing a . . . hair dryer, actually." Rinus sounded amused by that. "Fur takes far too much effort," he said, as they turned and left. . . and Dara overhead the words, as she stood, face bare of paint, in the hall outside, Dempsey standing next to her. _God, it's __weird__ seeing her without paint again,_ Eli thought, and rubbed at his own jawline in discomfort.

"Tell me about it," she muttered, falling in step. "Scales seem so much easier to manage."

"We shed," Rinus told her, with aplomb. "Once a year."

"I know. Rel _hates_ it, too." She looked down for a moment, smile wavering. "Says ten claws help enormously."

Eli chuckled. "I'm taking notes here," he said, when Dara looked up. She smiled, and he added, "At least Serana _likes_ a little facial hair. I was shaving twice a day, years ago, just to keep Siara from complaining."

Dara looked up at him and grinned. "I think she might have been complaining to complain. She's with a krogan now."

"Yes, and that blows my goddamned mind every time I think of it." Eli's tone was dry.

Dempsey stopped and looked at them all for a moment. "And to think I thought _my_ life was weird," he said, after a moment, shaking his head, and then matching strides with them once more.

Rinus commented, lightly, "At least you don't have the shaving issue, Dara."

"Well, no, I don't have to shave my _face_," Dara replied, in the tone of someone speaking the strict and accurate truth.

Three male heads of various species swiveled. Eli started to laugh, and watched the red flush cross into her face. "No, no, you _asked_ for this one," he told her, grinning. "Let me guess. You didn't let him near you after boot camp for an hour or so, yeah?"

"Elijah Marcus Stockton Sidonis, shut _up_."

"Okay, now she sounds like a wife," Dempsey said, and pulled off his wedding ring. "Here," he said, tossing it to Eli. "You'll be needing this."

They were taking two different flights to Khar'sharn, for obvious reasons. Once on the ground, their only ability to communicate, one team to another, would be via the chip in Gallian's _head._ Eli hadn't quite known about that sort of thing before, and the fact that _Rinus_ had had a similar chip, once upon a time, made him blink. Dempsey muttered something under his breath about people volunteering for service in hell, and Gallian had just smiled. "I have a direct neural link to the _Estallus_," he'd explained. "I can call in an air strike in my mind. It's not a bad thing. And Laetia pretty much dragged me out of my self-pity after I lost my legs. She's. . . well, she's my mate, I suppose. It's definitely not service in the underworld, human," he'd added, looking at Dempsey.

"Long story," Dempsey said, clinically.

In short, any of them would be able to send short-wave, encrypted bursts to Gallian's chip—more or less using the antique Morse code—and let him know what was going on. He, in turn, could relay that by FTL to the _Estallus_, which was going to lurk at the far edges of the system, hidden in the debris of the Kuiper belt at the outside of the mission, and then slowly make its way into the system, in full stealth, and be prepared for extraction, if necessary.

March 12, they touched down, and passed through batarian customs. This ranked, as far as Eli was concerned, right up there with impersonating a Blue Suns mercenary for a compound full of turian separatists, in terms of _nerve-wracking._ Actually, this was worse. He was fairly sure the separatists would just have shot him. Quickly, cleanly. No fanfare. He concentrated as hard as he could on _not_ looking like a cop. This was, he realized, probably his weakest area. _Not_ looking around for danger. . . or at least, not letting anyone see that he was doing it. Not scanning the crowd. Not overtly looking for the surveillance cameras. Looking around at the signs, sure. Looking down at Dara, sure. That part, at least, was easy. Six years of friendship and affinity was actually hard to mess up. He even leaned down and teased her, "Remember how you snuck around the back way of my house that once, because you didn't want my mom to see you, and you put your hand up on the window screen?"

Dara smiled, and some of the tension left her face. "Yeah. Like this." She held up her hand now, and he matched it, palm to palm. Human fingers to human fingers. His were much larger now, of course. But the point was, they were human, doing human things, fitting in as best they could with their allocated roles.

Off in the distance, there was a heck of a disturbance brewing. Eli turned and craned his neck like any other tourist, and yes, there was Rinus, with Pallum and Gallian, surrounded by guards, heading towards the VIP lane of customs. Eli shook his head momentarily. " Must be nice, huh?" he told Dempsey. "Not having to stand in line for half the day."

"Must be a big shot or something," Dempsey agreed, and turned back around to stare at the line ahead of them. The crowds were _mostly_ batarian, of course. People coming and going from their homeworld. A couple of mercenaries here and there—krogan, mostly. A couple of turians. They weren't the only humans, but damned near. _God. We stand out just a little here today._

The forged credentials got them through, however, and Dara managed a fairly good breathless graduate student impression. . . mostly because she still mostly _was_ one, title in front of her name notwithstanding. The rockiest moment came when their luggage needed to be inspected. Eli was _not_ fond of this thought. . . but the most scrutiny was actually applied to _Dempsey_'s luggage. "Is it a weapon?" one of the handlers finally demanded, staring down into the case.

"No. It's a guitar." Dempsey's voice was very flat. After a moment, he added, "A musical instrument. It only qualifies as a weapon if I turn the volume up to eleven."

The inspectors shook their heads and rolled all of their eyes, and insisted that he had to demonstrate its use, to _prove_ that it was not, in fact, a weapon. Eli stood, patiently, one arm wrapped around Dara's waist, as Dempsey powered up the instrument, and, after a moment spent fiddling with the strings, struck them, and began to pick out a quiet, minor-keyed melody, deceptively simple at first, dark in tone, and then modulated to something _much_ louder and intense, briefly, the sound echoing like razors back off the walls. "There," he said, smiling very faintly. "See? Music."

The batarians were wincing and covering their ears. The government inspector was irate. "You can't _play_ that here!" he shouted in galactic.

"You asked me to," Dempsey pointed out, expressionlessly.

"A demonstration that the instrument was _functional_ is one thing, human. Playing that, that. . . tripe? Disgusting. Vile. Cultural contamination of the very worst kind."

"I have a permit to bring it with me for instructional purposes. I am to attend a. . ." Dempsey dredged the right word up, apparently, "_symposium_ on batarian music and culture at the university of Al'gahar."

The official frowned again, demanded to look at the permits, and frowned some more. Eli's stomach was churning. _Maybe this wasn't the best idea ever_, he thought. Finally, the official gestured for Dempsey to seal the guitar back up. Then the official put yellow tape with government seals all around the case. "This is _not_ to be opened or played. I _should_ confiscate it, but if you have permits, it can be on someone _else's_ head."

_Thank god for bureaucracy_, Eli thought, and gestured for Dempsey to go ahead of him, saying, "I told you that you should leave that thing at home."

"No, man, it goes with me everywhere." In truth, the instrument had been hastily purchased on Bastion two days before.

Dara waited until they were safely out of the spaceport and in a rented groundcar before pointing out. . . . "Ah, Dempsey? You were _smiling_ back there."

Eli glanced back in the mirrors, watching Dempsey's expression shifted a little. "Yeah. I noticed that," the man said, quietly. Eli had finally gotten the whole story out of him the day before, and had been quietly horrified. "It kind of felt good to play again." He stretched a little. Eli was driving them along the roads towards the university closest to the flight path that the _Knarr -_class ship had taken. They were watching their words _very_ carefully, working under the assumption that outsiders would be tracked. The car itself could be bugged.

The first thing they had checked in the groundcar was that yes, indeed, they were picking up the blip from Rel's biometric chips. Eli had watched a huge amount of tension simply ease out of Dara's shoulders, and he'd given her hand a squeeze. Biometric chips _only_ pinged like that when the user was alive. They took their current from the body's own electrical field, and plugging them into _anyone_ else, or even into a machine, disrupted the genetic encoding, preventing a signal from being sent out. The second thing they'd checked for was the presence of electronic surveillance equipment, while loading their baggage in. Eli had very quickly found a global positioning tracking device, probably standard for _all_ vehicles in this very tightly controlled and regimented world. And had carefully frayed its wires with a pocketknife while the others were chattering and dragging suitcases around. Eli hadn't been able to find any other microphones or cameras, but that didn't mean that they weren't there. They could be the size of the period at the end of a sentence and still function, according to Kasumi's briefing. He. . . kind of figured that _Serana_ already would have known that_. I'm going to have to go back to school, practically, keeping up with this crap_, Eli thought, ruefully. _Serana probably would be able to find them and deactivate the damn things, too. At least this isn't my day job._

Now, Eli was driving, and kept his eyes on the traffic around them as they maneuvered through the concrete maze of the city core. Towering suspension bridges with steel cables that wouldn't have looked out of place on Earth, and yet, somehow seemed to imprison the milky red sky. Black asphalt, gray cement, and ground cars everywhere. Not an aircar in sight. _They like to keep people tied down to the ground,_ Eli thought. _They like to keep them under control._

Outloud, now: "Hey, check out that Lux Mark Three behind us," he pointed out, cheerfully. "I didn't think they'd have asari models here on Khar'sharn." Dara and Dempsey's heads both turned, and the Lux turned away at the next intersection.

Dara leaned in close, as if to kiss his cheek, and whispered, "Following us?"

"Will be more than one if so." The best way to follow someone wasn't with the same groundcar the entire time. Rather, it was with several different ones, swapping in and out. Louder, Eli said, "Whoops, I think that's our exit," and streaked and swerved through several lanes of traffic with complete control, screeching off onto a different highway entirely. Which made Dara grab for a door handle to hold onto, and mutter under her breath.

"What was that, _sweetheart_?" Eli asked, grinning ear to ear.

"I said, you're as bad as my ex is!" He was _absolutely_ certain that wasn't what she'd said the first time.

"Relax. I'm _pretty_ sure I'm just as good as he is. Little less aggressive, maybe." Eli _knew_ his reflexes were at least as good as most turians'. Better than some, in fact. He'd been a handball goalie thanks to already fine reflexes, and the gene mods had only sharpened his reaction time.

From the backseat, Dempsey noted, "I think we're actually going the wrong way now." They were, in fact, going the _right_ way, but it was time to play clueless tourist at least a bit.

"Eh, we'll figure it out. Plenty of time to get where we're going. Right. . . _sweetheart?_" Eli turned his head this time to grin at Dara.

"Oh. . . bite me." Dara had plainly figured out that she was going to be _needled_ for the rest of the trip.

And realized only after she'd said it, what she'd said. And blushed, bright red. "Don't say it! Don't say it!"

"What?" Eli replied blandly, changing lanes. "That it could be _arranged_?" _What a weird little trek down 'what might have been' lane this crazy ass trip is turning out to be,_ he thought, amused.

Double-handed finger-flicks. Eli just _laughed_ and put his eyes back on the road.

"I know you two only just got married, but damn, guys, save it for the room." Dempsey was watching the road behind them, while digging into each of their suitcases and quietly assembling their weapons. He passed one up to Dara now.

Eli glanced down, and recognized it from boot camp, though he hadn't seen one used since. "Shocking, I know," he said, meaning the weapon, but continued, lightly, "You should tell him about the time we both got punished for riding off alone in the mountains together, sweetie. One hour late, and both our parents acted like there were grass stains all over her back."

Dara pointed at an exit sign, discreetly. It was getting dark now, and lights were starting to turn on all around the roads. Dara was the only person in the car who spoke and read batarian, and thus was in charge of their _real_ route, by default. "I think they were mostly concerned that you might have gotten heat-stroke, or bitten by something, _honey_," she answered, grinning as her omnitool started to ping again, softly. "You _were_ fresh off a space station at the time."

"Tell me about it. I _still_ can't sleep right without the sound of the air ducts humming over my head." Eli headed for the exit, saying, "Hey, Dempsey, check the map. I'm _pretty_ sure this is where we're going, but. . . my VI's having trouble with the signs."

After several more "wrong turns," Eli noticed a marked groundcar starting to follow them. He poked Dara in the ribs and pointed. She glanced, grimaced, and leaned across to whisper into his ear, "Militia markings."

"Thought so." Eli headed for a fueling station and pulled in. "Dempsey, give me the map datapad."

"What are you doing?" Dara hissed. It was past sunset, and the city lights were well behind them now. This fuel station was one of a few ramshackle buildings on the side of the road.

"I'm doing what most guys don't have the guts to do. Asking for directions." Eli got out of the groundcar and approached the building, keeping an eye behind him as the militia car turned in, as well. _Let's hope this is the officer having an attack of the idle curiosities, not that there's an alert out for us. There shouldn't be, yet, but you never really know._ "I said," Eli called to the attendant, who stood in a glass enclosure, and was giving him bug-eyed, frantic looks and gestures to _go away_, "We're trying to find the University of Al'gahar," he said, loudly and clearly, as if volume would be enough to get the attendant to understand galactic.

The door of the militia vehicle opened, and Eli's eyes flicked, briefly, towards the rental. He could almost _see_ the switch flip in Dara and Dempsey's heads. They barely moved. They just turned their heads slightly. _Yeah, we don't need this. The last thing we need is a string of dead bodies behind us._ "Is there a problem, human?" Heavily accented, but understandable galactic. _Yeah, go on break. Get a real call. Hear the siren call of deep-fried __nepa__ meat or whatever the hell cops eat here._ "You're well outside the zones where outsiders are permitted."

_Let's see, where are your hands—ah, they let you guys carry asps. Nice. And me without mine. _Eli just spread his hands and smiled. He'd seen enough tourists on Macedyn to do _this_ right. "Yeah, I'm really sorry. We've been trying to follow the signs for Al'gahar University, and we're _totally_ lost." It was all about sounding apologetic and hunching the shoulders slightly and smiling. Pulling in. No dominance body language at all. Just go back to being the kid who'd been smaller than everyone else in the class, and who'd brought home more than a fair share of black eyes. _Nothing to see here. You can roll right over me. _

The militia officer relaxed. His hand moved away from his asp. _Good._ He moved in to look at Eli's map, putting him in arm's length of the human. Eli didn't move. _Just give me directions. We don't need an escort._ He laughed, he chatted, he was friendly and helpful. Everything that a cop really _wants_ to see. Someone who _isn't_ going to be a problem. "Good news," Eli said, getting back in the groundcar. "We've got directions. And I think I can follow them without us needing an escort."

They kept a wary eye behind them for about ten more kilometers as Eli religiously followed the directions he'd been given. . . and then the patrol vehicle moved away, Eli maneuvered away, and got them back on course for where they _needed_ to be. "We're probably in his log book now," Eli noted, very quietly, as Dara leaned over to hear what he had to say. "Probably called in the vehicle's registration number, too."

"We're almost there," she whispered back.

They arranged for a minor break-down on the side of the road. _Arranged_ meaning that Eli pulled over, Dempsey got out, popped the hood, and did something fairly decisive to _something_ in the engine. Eli wasn't about to speculate on what. He _drove_ the damned things, but he had far more experience with the aircars of the Citadel and Bastion, when it came right down to it.

Dempsey handed Eli a pistol. _Piece of shit Glock,_ Eli thought, and tucked it into the small of his back. "Guess we're walking," he said. _Damn but I wish I had my armor on._

Dara keyed up her omnitool, showing them the blip location, and pointed. She'd dropped completely out of worried wife mode to act like a reasonable facsimile of her usual self with Eli—with a little extra affection, of course—and now dropped _that_ act entirely. Locked it all down, put it away. Eli was actually damned impressed. He wasn't sure he could have done that, himself. And he _really_ didn't want to think of ever having to go in after Serana like this. _It could happen. Not likely, since, well, this isn't my day job. But it __could._

"So," Dempsey said, getting his own gun out as they stepped off the road into the tall grass that edged a field. "Let me see if I have this straight. You two really _did_ date, way back when?"

Eli smiled a little, but he was already edging into work mode, himself. "I wouldn't call it _dating_. Though, for the record, she did kiss me."

"At a funeral," Dara pointed out, dropping into a crouch, her voice barely above a whisper now. She clicked on her omnitool, briefly. "The other team is . . . in their secondary position. They're up at the university, making contact with one of Argus' people. Gallian reports that they couldn't shake free of their escort. . . but that the contact is moving them into position now." She looked at them both. "We wait for them. Once they're in the gates, we can cut in and start taking out guard towers, if need be. This place isn't a _fortress_ from what I can see, but there are a lot of people on the ground here."

Eli nodded. "I've got no problem with a plan that involves fewer bodies on the ground," he said, quietly. "Let's see what Rinus can do."

**Rellus, March 7-12, 2196**

Rel's wounds began to knit as his body took over, and Valak put some fairly serious pressure on the doctor to get him up and healthy again. _"How can I see what my new gladiator is made of, if the turian can barely walk?"_ Valak told her, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. _"Really, doctor, I despair of you."_

Looking harried, the doctor administered antibiotics and checked the sutures and slathered medigel. In two days, Rel had regained most of his mobility, but the wounds were still tender to the touch. "Introduce me to your people," he told Valak. "I'll see what they're made of, and then we'll see what I can do for you." He gave the batarian a steady look. "How are we doing on the subject of getting me off your homeworld?"

Valak raised a hand to his ridged nose and rubbed just below his eyes. "Not good," he admitted. "I can't just make a collect call to the Hierarchy military on Palaven, you understand. Calls are monitored and logged. I would have to explain it. Likewise, travel, if you're not raider- or slaver-caste. . . is difficult. I have a _certain_ amount of freedom, but I still have to have documente reasons for travel. If it's for pleasure, inside the Hegemony, not a problem. _Outside_ the Hegemony, I have to arrange for papers, issue official bribes and unofficial bribes, and the like. It usually takes several weeks for approval." His eyes narrowed. "Which leaves the conundrum of _where_ to take you."

"Omega might well work." Rel hesitated. "I can't speak for my. . .superiors. . . but there's a chance that this could turn out to be a good contact for you, in the long run."

"I do hope so, my turian friend." Valak stood and went to the window. "However, Omega has just set up an interdiction ruling. If I take you there, there's a better than average chance we'll be shot out of the damned sky, thanks to the ancestorless _Klem Na_ and their meddling."

"Valak," he said, as the batarian studied a shuttle that had appeared in view. "You're taking a _lot_ of chances. Thank you. But tell me this. Why _were_ you on Camala to start with?"

Valak's face tightened into a fierce grin. "Veem. He really _was_ a friend of my father's. . . inasmuch as a man like my father can have friends. Let us say, a business associate. Rumor had it that he was in deep with the _Klem Na._ And the _Klem Na_ have been. . . expanding their sphere of influence in our society, of late. They have members from two different castes, also unusual. Warrior and slaver. Usually, warriors feel themselves above slavers, and the _Klem Na_ have, traditionally, been on the outskirts of society, at best. Now, they're affiliated with people as high-ranked as Veem? And have been acquiring. . . very large governmental contracts. Unusual, to say the least. _And_. . . " Valak drew out the word slowly, "he has been, for some time, acting like a man much in fear of his life. He drew up a new will. Took out life insurance policies. Settled his business debts. Either he planned to _disappear_, or expected to die. This intrigued me. The more so, when he set a date to sell off his entire stock of slaves, unexpectedly." Valak looked at Rel. "Scheduled for the day _after_ I found you, I might point out."

"He expected to be attacked." Rel stood, himself, and moved stiffly to the window, looking out at the shuttle overhead.

"I rather suspect that, yes. Or Veem himself had been replaced by a proxy, and all his funds have been shifted to a new identity, somewhere. For service to the Hegemony." Valak's three eyes narrowed. "That's an overseer flight, my turian friend. Report to the slave barracks downstairs, obey orders given to you, and generally try to appear _intractably _turian, would you? A few growls and glowers and snarls should do nicely."

Valak was already heading down the corridor at a rapid clip, whistling loudly to get various people's attentions. As Rel headed down the back stairs for the slave barracks outside the house proper, wincing a little at the tugging in his abdomen, he could see out the windows that the various grounds workers and whatnot had looked up sharply, and hastily started to move. They were changing up into groups of three or four, one person now 'in charge' of the others. Even from this far away, the body language spoke a different story, suddenly. One in each group stood tall and straight and dominant; the rest hunched in on themselves. All doing the _exact_ work that they'd been doing a moment or two before. But the attitude was suddenly one of defeat and despair, not of pride.

The overseers were, apparently, a governmental agency, much like a secret police, tasked with investigating property owners and ensuring that slaves were kept in their proper places. Among many other things. Every barracks was looked into. The doctor was brought out and questioned as to the care of several slaves who were sick, including Rel himself. The overseers had no compunctions about stripping anyone they chose down and proceeding to physical examinations. As always, Rel had no personal _modesty_, per se, but he definitely didn't like them being in his space, or examining his freshly healed wounds. Growling, was thus, not even difficult to simulate. He couldn't quite manage the hangdog, eyes-to-the-ground expressions of the others, which got him a fist to the jaw and a knee to his still-healing stomach.

And he could _smell_ the fear, simply exuding from the skins of all the slaves around him. Rank, pure terror. _What,_ Rel thought, _did the overseers do to each of them, or people that they knew, before they came into Valak's care_?

It was simply not _possible_ to simulate a smell like that. A human could shout or scowl or smile and laugh, and they might be able to lie in this way; a turian could try to do the same. But the truth seeped through the skin. For highly nuanced states—mild unease, confusion, a mix of emotions, such as guilt and love at once—a turian's nose wasn't good enough. But for fear? Rel could smell the truth here. And that truth reinforced Valak's words.

The overseers _also_ went into the main house. From the casual way in which Valak stood outside, cane in his hands, Rel had to assume there was no contraband in the house itself. But the overseers were in there for about two hours, digging around. And then came back out, and took the doctor into custody. A slight flick of Valak's eyes suggested that this had not been expected. _"How has my physician failed?"_ he asked, sounding aggrieved. _"I have paid well for her services, and I dislike the idea that I am being __cheated__ in some fashion here."_ Complete hauteur.

"_You will be compensated for the loss of your physician. She had prohibited literature in her quarters."_

"_My word,"_ Valak said, sounding aghast. _"I had no notion. Yes, yes, take her away."_

Three hours later, Rel found Valak pacing in the gardens. "Did you plant the books in her quarters?" Rel demanded.

Valak shook his head. "No. The _last_ thing I need is for her to be in a position where she _might_ report any perceived irregularities to the authorities. No. . . either she really _did_ have rebel sympathies, and I didn't _see_ it. . . or they lied to extract her for reasons of their own." His hands clenched on his walking stick. "It's a tricky business, knowing where to put your feet on Khar'sharn, Rellus. You never quite know which strands are sticky."

The days passed. Rel, for lack of anything better to do, actually _did_ start training some of the former slaves. At least, he started _evaluating_ them. There were about two dozen humans and batarians who showed promise—strength, determination, and resolve. The were three asari—former pleasure slaves, apparently, who had a bruised look to their eyes and a flinch to their demeanor that suggested that these were _not_ huntresses, but very badly damaged people. Rel thought one of them showed some promise, but trying to turn the other two into weapons just seemed cruel. No krogan—too hard to keep as slaves. No salarians. No turians, besides himself. But perhaps it was for the best. Everything these people would need to do would be internal to the Hegemony, after all.

So Rel got them started on exercises—just like revisiting boot camp, himself, really, and did everything with them, trying to work through the last residual pain in chest and abdomen. Firearms were apparently hard to come by on Khar'sharn, unless you were raider caste. _Life in a police state_, Rel thought. Valak had a stockpile. . . but ammunition was _scarce_, and it was all hidden in a storage facility built underground. By hand. No heavy digging machinery used at all, because no permits could be had for building the facility. It even had a reinforced cement roof with lead plating, designed to thwart ground-pentrating radar. One of his three ships was also stored down here—the one that had its ship ID masked. "Highly illegal, even in Council space," Valak said, grinning. "I don't want to have to use this except in an emergency. Even so. . . " he spread his hands and gestured, "I have two hundred people here who look to me. The most I could evacuate at once is maybe twenty. You see why I am cautious, my turian friend?"

So they used knives primarily, and Rel had only the people with the most promise work on marksmanship, and he drilled them on introductory hand-to-hand skills. It didn't seem like enough. "How'd _you_ wind up so well-armed?" he asked Valak, late one evening. He was teaching the batarian human chess.

"Military training. Upper-caste are all automatically officers, but I excelled at it. Did my minimum term, got out. . . and was permitted to keep my weapons. I've since had occasion to steal a few shipments of weapons here and there." Valak grimaced. "It's the ammunition that's the hardest part. Every allotment is chemically fingerprinted and encoded. Use any that's stolen, and it's traceable. Buy too much, and you're in a database." He spread his hands. "And I don't have the facilities to _make_ my own, which leaves. . . smuggling in outside ammunition?" He moved a rook on the board, inexpertly, and took a pawn.

A guard came to the door. _"Lord Valak?"_ The tone was respectful, but not groveling. _"You have visitors at the front gate. Professor Anlask from the university, along with a delegation of. . .alien officials."_ He sounded dubious.

"Shit," Valak said, getting to his feet. The word sounded incongruous coming from his mouth. _"At this hour of night? Without official approval? Anlask has lost his damn mind. Or it's a trap."_ Valak looked off into the mid-distance. "_Get everyone who's not at least soldier-caste to the underground vault and keep them there. Rellus, go with him."_

"No," Rel said, firmly. "Let me help."

Valak visibly debated for a moment, then went to a nearby wooden cabinet and unlocked it. He tossed Rel his omnitool, and gestured towards the storage locker. "This is all yours. We weren't certain how to repair the armor, but. . . it's better that you're prepared, if we need you to be. I wouldn't _doubt_ that security forces might start closing in shortly."

His tone was grim, but Rel _grinned_. Catching sight of the matte-black armor with its blood-blue stripe was like seeing a trusted friend again, and he started pulling on all the pieces, locking them in place. And just feeling the weight of his rifle in his hands again was good, too. The only thing missing was his damned wedding-knife, and his arm missed its weight.

He went to the window and stood beside Valak, who had gotten a hunting rifle with a sniper scope out of another cabinet, and was crouching behind a railing.

"Do you have life-sign detection tech available?" Rel asked, crouching down beside Valak. It was _dark_ out here, so far from town. A few lights out in the slave quarters, but not enough light to really _see_ without night-vision in place. He didn't want to switch to that inside of his helmet just yet. Not when there were. . . visitors. . . apparently, about to enter Valak's inner rooms.

"Some. It's a military-only tech, and I haven't been able to steal that yet." Valak smirked. "Give me time, though." He paused, and turned the knob of his walking stick slightly, which generated a high-pitched hum, and Rel realized that the stick actually concealed Valak's deadly vibrosword. "Stay out here, in cover. We'll see what the professor is up to shortly."

"You're going to need to give me a signal if you need me to shoot," Rel warned.

"Is screaming in terror and shoving my sword in someone's guts enough of a signal?" Valak's grin was nervous. "And in I go."

**Rinus**

Rinus did _not_ trust Professor Anlask. A contact of the mysterious Argus or not, the batarian was _nervous_—enough so that his body emitted an acrid reek of batarian adrenaline in the ground-car on the way over. "This really _must_ square my debt," the professor repeated as he drove. "I can't afford to work for two masters anymore. The broker. . . " he glanced up at Rinus, and shifted what he was about to say, quite evidently, "asks too much."

"I'm not interested in the arrangements between you and your master," Rinus told him, flatly. "You identified Valak N'dor's estate as the source of our signal. That's really my only interest here."

"You don't understand. The _risks_ involved. Taking you to see a member of the nobility without proper authorization from the Hegemony. I could wind up in prison just for deviating from your time table."

_Please, for the spirits' sakes, calm down_, Rinus thought, annoyed. _We'll be out of your fringe just as fast as we can._ He glanced at Pallum and made a quick gesture at the batarian behind the male's back. Pallum nodded, once. He obviously didn't trust the male, either. "With your permission, _dominus_," he said now, "I'll be dropping out of sight once we arrive on site. Security arrangements." Pallum's grin was tight.

_You get to go hunting, you mean._ Rinus grinned back. "As you wish." He glanced at Gallian, and switched languages. _"And the other team?"_

"_They're moving in now, __dominus__. Quietly."_ Gallian had only relaxed somewhat around Rinus, and the older male could understand why, having seen Laetia wearing the male's mask of blue paint in the past several days.

"_Good. Tell them to be careful. I don't trust the professor."_

Gallian's eyes went distant for a moment. _"Message relayed."_

The slave outbuildings looked no different than those on Camala, and Rinus's teeth bared in contempt. _My brother had better not be in one of those, shackled and beaten_, he thought.

A guard met them at the door, and Rinus schooled himself to patience. It would be _simple_ to reach out and grab the guard's head, bring it crashing down into an upraised knee, and them to storm through the house, but that wasn't what they were here for. Subtlety had its strong points, too.

At last, they were admitted beyond the lobby. The professor continued to dither and moan, and Rinus suppressed a growl of annoyance as they went up several flights of stairs, finally wending their way back into a plush set of rooms, dominated by bookshelves. Something caught Rinus' eye as being out of place. . . a checkered board, with tall pieces on it. Carved out of wood, by hand. Pawns, rooks, bishops. Human chess pieces. And Rinus recognized the hand that had carved them.

A flash of pure protective-rage hit him, and Rinus picked up one of the pieces in his hand, nearly shaking. Part of him was rational enough to realize that if Rel was _carving_, then he wasn't hurt. Wasn't . . . probably. . . held prisoner. But rational thought and protective-anger didn't mix well. This was proof positive that his second-brother was here. And no matter that Rel was taller than Rinus now and just as strong and probably a little faster, Rel was still _Rel_. The little brother who had toddled after Rinus and whom Rinus had taught to hunt lizards in the backyard. Rinus opened his mouth slightly, drawing air in through nose and mouth simultaneously. Collecting smells. Finding brother-scent.

He turned, and the batarian slave-lord was in the room now. Only three eyes—surprising, for a high-caste member of a race obsessed with their own eyes. Rinus focused on him now. Could see shock and surprise there in the male's face—no, more than that. Consternation. A quick flick of the eyes to the door at the side of the room, cool, fresh air blowing in from there, traces of brother-scent in the air everywhere, and then Rinus was on the slave-lord, thought-fast, teeth showing. "Where's my brother, you son of a she-varren?" The words were nothing short of a snarl, and Rinus had the male by the throat then, claws planted at either side of the trachea. Ready to rend. Ready to crush. Ready to pull and tear.

"Look down." The batarian's words were very carefully formed.

Rinus' eyes flicked down. There was a sword point pressed against his chest. He was wearing armor under his dominus robes, but he strongly suspected that this was, in fact, a diamond-edged vibroblade, much as Sam had described it. "Do you think you can run me through _before_ I take your throat?" he asked. Calmly now. Almost pleasantly. But he knew he was still flushed blue through the crest, fully extended. Knew his spurs were out, too.

And then there was an almighty _crash_ from the balcony outside, and Rinus could hear the distinctive scraping growl of one of his own kind, locked in combat.

**Dara**

They'd crept through the darkened compound. Each of them had glasses with them that could double as night-vision goggles and eye protective gear, which was a minimal help, but the compound was largely. . . deserted. "Rinus sent us a message to be wary of a trap," Dara muttered.

"No kidding," Dempsey said, dryly, and very quietly. "No one around in any of the fucking barracks, minimal guards, and life signs still pinging from the damn chip. Of course it's a trap."

"Just so long as we all know that," Eli muttered, and then they'd moved up further, pausing outside the house. It was three stories tall, at least, and had a white plaster façade. Every floor had a balcony, open to the air, and vines crept up this face of the building. "Gallian says, third floor," Dara muttered, glancing down at her omnitool.

"We've got at least one guard in position on the balcony outside, then," Dempsey muttered. "We need to get up, quickly and quietly." He moved into position first, and started scaling the wall, pure hand and arm strength at first. Once he was high enough up, Dara made a little gesture at the wall, and Eli shrugged, came over, and simply picked her up and tossed her at the wall. She had a moment to realize how _strong_ her friend had become over the years, and then latched on, finding hand-holds, and wishing to god that she'd gone with the _low-light_ gene mods now, after all. At least there were vines along this face of the manor house, and what appeared to be trellises underneath. Good climbing material.

She could hear faint rustlings above and below her, and then Dempsey swore. She heard a _snarl_ and a _crash_ and sounds of combat. _Shit!_ She tried to climb faster, threw one leg over the balcony railing, and saw nothing but a dark mass of bodies, outlined in green bodyheat in front of her, rolling and fighting. One was fainter—the guard was wearing armor, of course. Dempsey's human bodyheat shone like a beacon in comparison.

Dara fumbled for her shock pistol, heard Eli say, sharply, "Get out of the way!" and then she jumped into the balcony itself, trying not to get hit—_wait, that looks like cowl structure—_"Dempsey, stop!" she hissed. "He's turian!" _Could be a merc. _Her hands wavered. She couldn't _shoot_ without hitting both of them. . . and nonlethal charge or not, this didn't seem the course of wisdom. "Eli—"

Eli was already wading in, muttering under his breath in turian, getting a lock on the turian from behind, then adding, sharply,"Dempsey, I've _got_ him, leave off or I'll have Dara shock you."

The turian had _stopped_ fighting. Dempsey backed away, slowly, raising his hands slightly—and then the door behind him opened, throwing him into light. Dempsey spun and Dara could _feel_ the surge of his biotics building. . . and then Pallum dropped out of stealth right in front of them all. "I think," the Praetorian said, "that we might all want to reconvene inside, out of the night air. Come in, come in."

The light from indoors shone out onto the balcony, and Dara could finally clearly see the armored figure. Turian. Officer black, special forces blue stripe. Helmet down, but not struggling. Not fighting. Eli seemed to have reached the same conclusion, because he released the lock he had on the turian, reached up, and patted the helmet. "Nice to see you," Eli said, and the turian reached up and unlatched the helmet. . . revealing a very familiar face.

Dara crossed the balcony, and didn't actually feel her feet touch the ground. "I'm all right, _mellis_," Rel told her, holding her tightly, and they both ignored the armor for a moment or two. "I'm all right. What are you _doing_ here?"

"Looking for _you_," Dara managed. She was crying, and didn't want to look up just yet, for fear this would just be a dream. _Please be real, please be real, please be real._

"Inside, guys," Eli urged, and Rel more or less picked Dara up and moved her in with him. Strong and real and. . . well, definitely real. He even nipped the side of her throat quickly as he was moving, as if to reassure her, quickly.

Inside the house, Dara looked up in time to see Rinus release a punishing grip on a batarian throat. . . and saw the batarian in question lower his sword. _"First-brother,"_ Rel said, offering the hand that wasn't currently occupied holding Dara to him. _"Nice of you to drop by."_

"_Second-brother_," Rinus replied, returning the wrist-clasp. _"We were in the neighborhood. Thought you might like a ride home."_ He removed something from his wrist. _"You dropped this, by the way. I'm not going to keep picking up your toys for you, you know."_

He handed Rel his wedding-knife back, and Rel slid it back into its sheath. Dara just wished she were wearing her own. Rel looked down at her now, and lifted her face gently, speaking in English. "You're leaking again, _amatra_." His expression turned concerned. "And no paint?"

"She's in disguise," Eli told him with aplomb, moving into the room now, himself. "So am I, technically." He eyed the batarians in the room thoughtfully.

Rel's head lifted, and he gave Eli a puzzled look, as if only now registering the human's actual, real presence. "Eli. . . what the hell are _you_ doing here? You're supposed to be on Edessan. Chasing. . . I don't know. Murderers."

"My dad grabbed me by the hair and told me to come help look for you." Eli shrugged. "We've got a couple of options for getting you out, Rel. I guess the main question right now is. . . what the hell has been going on here?"

"And how many bodies do we leave on the ground here as we get you out?" Dempsey added. He and Gallian were standing near another batarian, a smaller, older-looking one.

The younger batarian in the room lifted his hands placatingly, and spoke, in surprisingly fluid galactic, "Now, now. I trust there's no need for further violence." He slid his sword back into a walking stick, and moved to sit down, as if completely at his ease. "Professor, please, take a seat. In fact, all of you, please do. We have. . . much to discuss." He gestured. "Rellus can tell you that I've treated him well."

"But will he still say that after I scan his brain and remove any control chips you've placed in him?" Dara snapped. Reminded, she started to reach for her kit now, in fact.

"I currently don't even have a doctor on staff here, thanks to Hegemony oversight forces," the male said, with a snort. "Short of implanting it into his skull with a hammer and a nail, I'm really not sure how I'd manage that."

Rel found a seat and pulled Dara down into his lap, patiently allowing her to scan him, allowing her fingers to touch his face as she did. "I'm really all right," he told her. "And I'm still me."

Her lower lip quivered slightly. "I don't think much of whoever treated these wounds. They should be all the way healed by now."

"You're just annoyed because you didn't get to suture your name into my hide." Rel paused. "Again." He grinned now. "It's not my _favorite_ kind of mark, but it is a fairly permanent one. At least until the new scales grow in."

Eli laughed, and Dara's face went pink in the low light of the room. "Okay. He's still Rel," Eli commented.

_Yes. Yes, he is._


	83. Chapter 83: Bittersweet

**Chapter 83: Bittersweet**

**Author's note:** _For the RPers out there, there's now an RP thread up in the forums. I know there's a couple of different groups out there; feel free to chat, trade ideas, and, if you have a question, rather than go back through 80 some-odd chapters, you can ask me there and I might even be able to answer it. Or I might just make up something on the spot. Because, you know, I've been known to do that. (Making stuff up on the fly was more or less my strength as a DM in the play-by-post days. "Okay, I know I have an entire village of friendly lycanthropes here, but you want to go __with__ the crazy ones that hearken back to the old ways? Okay. Sure. Side adventure just for you." *comes back from plotting out side adventure to hear that the other players have meta-talked the character out of it. "Ohhhh, no. Not when I just spent a half hour designing a solo adventure for you. Now, you're just gonna be kidnapped. The rest of you can rescue her if you __really__ feel like it." :-P )_

_Why get to Rel so, relatively speaking, soon? In my original outline, Rel was going to be MIA for three months, when I realized _

_a) That's not very interesting, _

_b) I doubted my ability to keep it fresh for people if he's living by his wits, dodging patrols on Camala while Dara bites her nails down to the quick on Rocam. . . _

_c) He'd STARVE that way, so he needed to be removed from the levo-ecology planet quickly. He was always going to meet the batarian turncoat as part of his MIA, but this realization accelerated the timeline. Accelerating the timeline meant he could be at Serana and Eli's wedding, too, and that's comedy gold waiting to happen._

_d) Having the extraction team wander around Khar'sharn looking for him didn't advance the plot. And that's the golden rule of fiction right there. If it doesn't advance either plot or characterization, it needs to be out on its ass._

_So. . .I grabbed the chips that were put in his hands back in Chapter 43, and used them as intended. How else can you explain that people show up on your scope no matter where they are, except by tracking devices? I'm sure most soldiers today would probably object to being tagged like wildlife, but a hundred years from now? Probably not an issue._

_The plot point was "introduce the turncoat and prove that he's trustworthy" and "show that the "young guns can do more than just shoot their way through situations" not "let's spend two more chapters developing a spy network that doesn't exist yet on a police-state planet." As in all things, however, mileage varies. :-)_

**Rellus, March 12, 2196**

Valak had closed the door to the balcony most of the way, so Rel had been relying on sound alone to tell him what the hell was going on in the room. Normally, not an issue for turian hearing, but the heavy wooden doors were a little thicker than usual. _Damnit, Valak_, he'd thought. . . and then had heard rustling coming up the side of the building. _S'kak. Commandos incoming. Right on schedule._ Rel had moved to the side, and as the first head popped up, he'd grabbed for arm and shoulder and simply _propelled_ the male onto the balcony before landing atop of him. Whoever the intruder was, he was strong, and had evidently practiced grappling before; it wasn't _easy_ taking him out. Rel growled as they'd rolled, slamming his elbow into the male's face, and then he'd heard someone else getting up onto the balcony. _Spirits, let me end this one fast, I can't take multiples on the ground—_ Whispers, and then someone _else_, very strong, hauling him _off_ the first intruder, arms winding behind him in a very human full-nelson hold. Familiar voice, snapping out, "Dempsey, I've _got_ him, leave off or I'll have Dara shock you."

The familiarity, and Dara's name, penetrated the adrenaline of combat, and Rel had stopped struggling. The door opened, shining light on all of them, and Rel could finally see that the male ahead of him was large and _human_, not batarian. Between the darkness outside, and the lack of _smell_ inside of his helmet, he hadn't been able to tell until that moment. The arms holding him back unwound, and Rel felt a pat on his helmet before he'd unlatched it, seeing Pallum there, knowing he was, somehow, amazingly, safe. And then Dara was there, inexplicably. Like a damned dream. He'd simply pulled her to him tightly, smelled the salt of human tears, and relaxed for the first time in ten days. Let go the fear-anger that had been dogging his every step, and the background adrenaline it brought with it, and rejoiced for a moment in her scent and her presence.

Inside Valak's library, though, more scents and sights, almost overwhelming. Relief of seeing Rinus first-brother, full protection-anger fading from him. _First-brother always __did__ defend us._ Then Eli, moving around him, brother of another sort. Dizzying, bewildering. _My clan, my pack. They came for me._ Acutely odd, though, disturbing on a fundamental level, to see Dara without paint. Elijah without paint, too.

Valak sat down, and in so doing, eased the tensions of most people in the room. Rel could tell that Dara was still close to the edge, though. He was _fairly_ certain that if he wasn't more or less holding Dara in place, that she'd have her shock pistol aimed at Valak. As it was, Dempsey—_Dempsey's here?_—and Gallian were watching some older batarian, unfamiliar to Rel, off to the side of the room, and Pallum, Rinus, and Eli were keeping a close eye on Valak.

Dara ran her scanner over him, and fussed, and Rel gently wiped away her tears. He glanced up at Dempsey. "Ah. . . sorry for trying to kill you out there."

Dempsey shrugged. "Not a problem. I'd have done the same thing, probably, if I weren't expecting a rescue team." He paused. "Before we all start listening to stories and exchanging information, I think everyone should know that _this_ one here's been trying to transmit data since we rolled in the door." He put one hand on the older batarian's shoulder as the male, startled, tried to move away. Gallian's hand shot out at the same time, and the two marines, one human, one turian, simply controlled the batarian.

Gallian added now, quietly, "I've been jamming the transmission since you made us aware of the potential for a trap, _dominus_, but I'm somewhat afraid that whoever's listening for it might _miss_ it." His eyes were on Rinus as he spoke.

"It's a lie," the older batarian blustered, but his eyes were swinging from face to face, desperately, like a trapped animal.

"I can take care of the transmitter," Dempsey added, dryly, remotely.

"Do it," Rinus rapped out. Rel grinned. His brother had always protested that he had _no_ interest in being an officer, in being a _dominus_, of being the one in charge. . . but damned if Rinus didn't _take_ charge every now and again.

Dempsey's eyes flicked down, and a surge of electrical energy arced out of his omnitool, an overload charge, in fact, which made contact with the professor's omnitool, which sizzled for a moment, and then went dark.

Valak sighed, and stood back up again. "Anlask. . . " he said, quietly. "With whom were you trying to communicate?"

"Was it. . . the _broker_?" Rinus asked, turning and glaring at the batarian. "Or was it someone else?"

"It was the broker—" Anlask had glanced up and left as he spoke.

"Lie," Eli said, quietly, from the side of the room, where he had his back against the wall, arms folded across his chest_. "Basic batarian body language. They look left when they lie,"_ he added, in turian.

Rel glanced over at Eli in surprise. _"How do you know that?"_

"_B-Sec Interspecies Interrelations Manual__. My dad sent me a copy for Christmas. He hasn't quite mastered the fine art of holiday gift-giving yet, but damned if it hasn't come in handy."_ Eli's voice was very dry. He pushed off the wall and stepped forward, looking into the batarian's face. "Who's waiting for that signal?" he asked. "We can do this the easy way. . . my way. . . or we can do this the hard way." Eli inclined his head very slightly towards Rinus and Dempsey.

"I told you. . . the Shadow Broker insisted that I provide documentation when my task was complete—"

"That's lie number two. You don't get three. Try again." Eli's voice had gone bored.

Valak sighed. "Would it be the Hegemony Oversight Forces?" he asked, and that got Anlask's eyes to flick towards him.

"No, of course not—"

"Strike three," Eli said. "At least that particular lie narrowed it down a bit."

Rel stood, gently putting Dara back on her feet now, too. "Are they _expecting_ the signal?" he asked, back on edge again. "How much time before we _need_ to get out of here?"

The older male's eyes moved again. Hunted. Trapped. He focused on Valak's face. "Forgive me," he said, quietly. "They discovered that I'd been compromised by the Shadow Broker. They. . . impressed upon me. . . that I could only serve one master."

Valak picked up a device off his desk, and pressed a button on it. A recording device. _"And so you led alien dignitaries to my house in the dead of night?"_ he scoffed, switching into batarian. _"You question __my__ loyalty to the Hegemon? You dare to claim that you do this in the name of the Overseers? I will gut you myself."_ He shifted the device into his other hand, and drew his sword again—and without changing expression, drove the blade home in the professor's chest. The professor screamed in pain, and then began to gurgle in shock and began to spasm, just as Dempsey and Gallian, both surprised, let go of the dying man, letting him fall to the floor.

Valak clicked off the recorder just as everyone around him began to react and exclaim. "What the _futar_?" Rinus demanded, and Valak glared at him for a moment. "This is going to compromise one, if not both of our escape routes!"

"I have _two hundred_ freed slaves on this land to take care of, turian. How I protect them is _not_ your business." Valak wiped his sword clean, and handed the recording device to Dempsey. "Can one of you implant that data into his omnitool, overwriting anything that's already there? Do try to be artistic."

Dempsey and Gallian frowned. "I can try," Dempsey acknowledged, hunkering down by the dead body, and starting to get to work.

Valak nodded, and glanced around the room. "We may have to exchange stories later. The Overseers are almost undoubtedly coming. For the moment. . . Rellus, my turian friend. . . hmm." He looked around, obviously thinking fast. "Take the humans to the hidden vaults. Tell An'katash and Pel'tor down there to bring up only the people you've been training, and distribute everyone back into the barracks. Tell them it's cover story _zabeth_. They'll know which one." Valak looked at Rinus. "_You_ may be in some trouble, but the person who will be in the _most_ trouble is already quite dead. Plead ignorance of our laws. Claim that the professor promised to introduce you to one of the oldest families in our nation, and that you had no _idea_ that speaking to one of us would be illegal, without proper authorization in advance." Valak glanced over at Rel. "_Move._ I think I can hear a shuttle coming in already."

Rel hustled Dara, Eli, and Dempsey out of the room, out of the house, and to the concealed vault hidden in the woods near the property. He passed along the instructions to the two warrior-caste free batarians, who swore quietly and started moving people out of the vault.

Inside the vault, for the first time, they had a moment to slow down, as the door slide shut behind the freed slaves who were headed topside to play their parts. Hopefully well. Rel didn't really feel like trying to hold this underground area with one person in armor and three out of it, not to mention with his first-brother upstairs and probably _dead_ because of him. Rel looked around at his friends. . . his _family_. . . and in spite of the tension, knew a moment's peace. "Thanks for coming after me," he said, quietly, pulling Dara back to him, and leaning up against the wall.

Eli grinned at him. "It got me out of the office," he said, passing it off, and looking around the buried chamber in interest.

The freed slaves around them were sitting quietly by the walls. Talking. Passing bowls of drink back and forth. Generally acting as if they'd done this before. . . because they had. There were racks and racks of weapons down here—few crates of ammo, of course, but lots of weapons. And, of course, the small, fast ship that had the scrambled ID code. Rel had a strong feeling that _this_ was his ticket off of this rock.

He did, however, glance down and realize that Eli was wearing a wedding ring. "You got married?" Rel asked, surprised.

Eli _flushed_, visible even in the dim light. "No," he said, but he grinned for a moment. "Just part of our cover story for being here. Ring actually belongs to Dempsey here."

Rel accepted that for a moment, content just to be smelling the scent of Dara's hair. "Wait," he said, after a minute, however. "Cover story?"

"Well, I couldn't show up here as Dara _Velnaran_," his little mate pointed out, inclining her head upwards to look at him. "We were working under the assumption that the batarian Hegemony knew you were here. Rinus could get away with it, because he was intended to be a distraction, if needed. I couldn't. So Kasumi gave us a, ah, well. A cover story." She'd started off forthrightly enough, but now faltered.

Rel looked down at her. "Give."

Eli cleared his throat. "Her passport currently reads Dara Elizabeth Stockton." He held up his hands when Rel gave him a dark glare. "Hey, it hasn't even been _my_ name in nine years."

"You _had_ to go as husband and wife? You couldn't have been siblings?" Rel muttered, knowing his irritation was a little petty.

Dara grimaced. "Kasumi said people see what they're told to see, and the less things they have to question, the easier it is for them to see it. And then she said I had to pick which of these two I was more comfortable with. Since I'm apparently a really horrible actress." She suddenly grinned wickedly. "Unlike _Serana._" Rel watched her eyes flick to Eli, and saw Eli stiffen, expression going wary. "By the _way_, Rel, _guess_ who didn't send out wedding invitations to their _manus_ rites that are going to be on Xlorae this year?"

"_S'kak_, Dara, could you drop that one with any _more_ grace?" Eli muttered, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck irritably. "I _really_ thought Allardus and Solanna were taking care of it, all right? And they _did_ tell Rinus and Kallixta." He paused. "Last week."

Rel had stiffened slightly himself now, and was giving Eli a very direct stare. "You and Serana?" he said, letting his voice grate a little more.

Eli winced a little. "Yeah."

Rel let his voice rise a little in volume. "You and _my_ _little first-sister?"_ He kept it in English, though, just letting emphasis and intensity carry the force of his words. He suppressed the urge to grin, and let a growl start to underline his meaning.

_That_ got Eli's attention, and his reaction was just as much turian as it was human. "Yeah. You got a problem with that?" The dark eyes had gone fierce, and he'd let his lips pull back from his teeth.

Rel grinned. "Not at all. She _finally_ caught you, huh?"

Eli's shoulders, which had set for a moment, sagged. "Oh, son of a bitch. _You_ knew, too?"

"We had a second pass through the simulator," Rel told him, laughing now. "Of course, she was kind of stuck on you to start with." He glanced sidelong at Dempsey, and switched to turian. _"Though it's probably just as well I didn't hear about the estrus until long afterwards."_

"_On my honor, I didn't touch her."_ Eli sighed. _"Bundled her into the groundcar and your mother took us to the med bay as fast as she could."_

"_I know. Lantar explained that to us."_ Rel switched languages. This was far too good an opportunity to miss. Eli was his friend—a brother, in many ways, and soon to be in one more fashion, as well. But this was _fun_. "So, when did _this_ happen?"

Eli shifted his shoulders. "She told me to quit arguing with her long-distance about her, ah, choice of profession. So I went to Palaven at the end of boot camp to argue up close." He looked away, a clear sign of discomfort in a human, and then looked back. _"I asked my clan-leader to speak with yours the next day."_

Dara started to laugh. Eli gave her a _dark_ look in return. "So," Dara asked, leaning back into Rel's chest. "Looking forward to putting your paint on her face?"

"Technically, I already _did_ that, but yeah." Eli's grin had edges. "This is revenge for the biting comments, isn't it?" he added, evenly.

Rel's head swiveled. "What biting comments?"

"Your wife told me to bite her," Eli told him, blandly. "I told her it could be arranged."

Rel's shoulders started to shake in amusement. They were playing, and it was _obvious_ that they were playing. Neither had seen each other but once in the past four years, and they were redefining an old relationship by new rules and new, adult personalities. Both of which were highly competitive and aggressive. Arguing without arguing, really.

"And you know perfectly well I didn't mean it _that_ way." Dara's smile turned _wicked_. "However, while we're on the subject of biting. . . my mother-in-law _did_, while I was staying with her, mention something about how she found out your intentions towards her first-daughter." She paused, and she and Eli stared at each other for a long moment. "Payback's a _bitch_, isn't it?" Dara's grin widened.

"Bring it." Eli glanced at Dempsey, and switched languages again_. "If Solanna told __you__, the fact that Serana answered the door of her room wearing nothing by my shirt, my paint, and my marks, is probably on its way to being a family legend."_ Eli showed teeth, eyes glittering a bit. _"Probably_ on par _with Serana telling the Imperator to come out with his hands up."_

Dara choked. Rel froze, arms tightening around Dara. That was _not_ actually a picture he really wanted in his head. _"Ah, she didn't actually put it __that__ way,"_ Dara said, starting to laugh helplessly. _"But yeah, apparently, I can't blackmail you, huh?"_

"Son of a fucking bitch," Eli muttered, with a sigh.

"English, guys, English. I don't even have turian loaded in my VI," Dempsey said, looking from one to the other of them. "If one of you is about to kill each other, I'd really like to have some warning here. Either so I can get out of the way, or find popcorn. One of the two."

Rel coughed, and said, in English, "So. . . you're getting married on Xlorae? Popular in the family. Our anniversary, too." He looked up at the ceiling.

"Palaven calendar, yeah. March 25, human calendar." Eli was finding someplace else to look at the moment, too. "Lin and Mazz both said they'd be there as witnesses."

"Whoa, wait a minute. You contacted Linianus and Mazz, but _not_ us?" Dara sat up, indignant.

"Again, I _thought_ Allardus and Solanna were taking care of telling the rest of _their_ family. Hell, my _mom_ was the one who contacted my grandparents back on Earth. . . even my _dad's_ family. I haven't seen Grandma and Grandpa Stockton since I was five anyway, and yeah, they're _not_ coming." Eli's grin had gone sardonic. "My mom's sent them pictures and messages every year for Christmas since my dad died, but all they know is, she's married to a turian and now _I_ am, too. Fuck 'em."

Dara sighed. "At least my family all showed up. Even if my uncle did pick that day to wear alligator skin boots."

Dempsey quietly shook his head. "And to think my best stories about my wedding involve the best man losing the damn ring, and trying to find a jewelry that was open at oh-nine-thirty before a ten o'clock ceremony on a Saturday in Boston."

Dara's shoulders shook. "Kind of difficult?"

"Impossible. I thought I was going to have to get her a plastic one out of a little kid's vending machine for a while there. My mom took off hers and said 'use this, and get her a different one later.'" Dempsey wasn't smiling. Just reciting facts. "Didn't fit, of course. The look on Amy's face was _great_ in the pictures for that moment, too. The photographer caught the _exact_ moment she looked past my shoulder and told the best man she was going to kill him. And the look on the priest's face, too."

And so the hours passed, as they talked and tried to stave off worry and boredom and tension, all mixed together. Any time there was an odd noise, they all stiffened and went silent, eyes darting to the door. Waiting for discovery.

Finally, early in the morning, there came three measured taps at the door of the bunker. One of the batarian guards stood up, went to the door, and tapped back, twice. On receiving two taps, and then two more, in rapid staccato, he unlocked the hatch from the inside, and opened it. Valak was there, looking tired, Rinus, Pallum, and Gallian at his side. _"Everyone can come back outside. The overseers are gone, and have been for at least two hours. We've done a surveillance sweep."_ In galactic, he added, "You four stay where you are. We all have much to talk about, and it's best to do it here, away from prying eyes."

"What did you tell them?" Rel asked, glancing to Rinus.

"Gave them a whole song and dance about my honor having been compromised by one of the teaching caste who'd obviously wished to advance himself at my expense, and at the expense of our turian guests. Such an insult can only be washed clean in blood, etcetera, etcertera." Valak rubbed a hand over the ridges of his nose. "Your brother and his men will have to leave shortly. They also found a broken-down vehicle—yours?" he turned, asking Dara.

"Yes."

"We'll have to 'find' you wandering in the woods, lost and helpless, then. Three young college students were known to have rented that vehicle." Valak looked grim. "There will be _many_ questions for you before you're able to leave the planet."

Dara nodded. "We came prepared for that." She looked around. "So, how do we get Rel out of here?"

Valak sighed. "Normally, I'd take him to Omega and turn him loose there. Unfortunately, reports have it that the krogan in charge of the place has lost his mind, and is shooting to kill any batarian ship that passes nearby." He arched them a glance. "Truth, or yet another interesting piece of propaganda by the Hegemony?"

Rinus snorted. "Harak is having every batarian ship challenged and inspected before they land for the next two months. In response to a _Klem Na_ provocation, I might add."

Valak considered that. "Then I can take him that far, once I falsify a few travel documents. It might take me about a week." He glanced at Rel. "A week I could put to good use, actually. My physician, the one who treated you? The one the overseers arrested? I'd more or less planned to go visit her in prison today, to see if I could figure out if she's one of _their_ agents, or truly someone who should be one of _mine_. If she's one of theirs, she can rot there, but if she's reading prohibited books and actually giving thought to dangerous, radical ideas, if I can get her out _without_ compromising my people here, I should." Valak nodded. "And then I can simply deliver you both to Omega at the same time. One trip, less risk."

"And how will you know if this doctor is truly not a risk?" Rel asked him. The biggest operational concern for clandestine units, like the one Valak was trying to build, was, of course, security. Bringing the _wrong_ person in was what burned many a resistance cell.

Valak shrugged. "The first clue will be how many of her eyes she still has. Even that is not a guarantee. They could have spared her full blindness, so long as she promised to serve them as a spy faithfully thereafter." His expression was grim. "Believe me, my turian friend. This is not a game to me, though I play it _very_ well." He glanced around. "Can we agree to this?"

"No!" Dara snapped. "Absolutely not."

"No," Rinus said firmly. "Rellus leaves _now._"

Eli raised a finger, stopping the rest. "How?" he said, bluntly. "Listen," he said. "First off, Rel, you trust this guy?" He looked at Valak.

Rel nodded. "Yeah. Actually, I do."

Eli looked at Dara. "And Rel's clean of chips and indoctrination shit?"

"No chips in the brain, no unusual chemicals in the blood stream," Dara answered, with evident reluctance.

"Okay. Sure, Rel and Valak here _could_ hop on this little yacht here and head straight for the ship we've got . . . nearby." Eli gave Valak a glance at that. "Gallian _could_ contact the ship and arrange for the pickup and _maybe_ our people on board won't get twitchy and shoot a batarian ship on sight, and won't throw Valak straight in the brig if they at least let him aboard."

That got snorts all around. Eli paused, and looked at them all, clearly thinking out what he had to say. "We're _all_ going to be stuck here at least another couple of days. Most of us are _going_ to be questioned." Eli's tone was just as firm as Rinus's had been. "The _first_ thing we do is get the stories straight. We can deviate on some minor details. That's normal. It's when every detail is _exactly_ the same that it makes people like me. . . and Pallum here. . . " the Praetorian suddenly grinned, showing needle-like teeth, "suspicious. That's step one. Step two, the six of us need to get out of here so we stop putting Rel in any further danger and attracting any _more_ attention to this place. Step three is getting _all_ of us out of here. That means each of our happy little groups has to leave in _exactly_ the way the authorities allow us to. If the three of us need to stay and do our little college act, we stay and do our college act. If the authorities throw Rinus off the planet, damned well _go_. Then yeah. . . if Omega's the best bet, get the hell to Omega. We'll leave the, ah, ship-to-ship transfer as the emergency measure."

Dara was shaking her head, silently, vehemently. But Rinus was nodding. "You make an unfortunate amount of sense," Rel's brother said, with a bit of a sigh. "It goes against the scales to _leave_ him here, when this was supposed to be a rescue and extraction."

"You can't be serious!" Dara objected. "Rinus, Eli, _please_."

Eli looked at Dara, his jaw set. _"_I don't like it either, but there's not a lot of choices here." He looked at Pallum. "You want to vet our stories, as senior evaluator of _talas'kak?_"

Pallum nodded, chuckling. "Run 'em by me. I've listened to enough stories over the years to tell you what'll work and what won't." He and Eli moved to a corner, and started going over the 'college kid' team's story in quiet voices.

Rinus looked at Rel now. "Rel. . . I don't like this. You're going to be out of contact—again—and completely dependent on Valak." He gave the batarian a grim look. "However, Eli is, unfortunately, correct here. We don't _have_ a lot of options. And so far, Valak's shown himself to be . . . somewhat trustworthy."

Valak bowed, flipping out one hand with graceful irony. "I don't know what I'd have to do to earn your trust, _Dominus_ Velnaran."

"Get my brother out unharmed, and I _won't_ come back to tear your throat out."

Valak met Rinus' eyes. "That, I will do my very best to accomplish, on my ancestors' names."

Rinus nodded, slowly. Then turned to look at Rel. "No rescue missions." It was a flat-out order, and Rel didn't even feel the urge to bristle. This wasn't a matter of military rank, or even of social rank. This was first-brother to second-brother, and Rinus, of anyone in the galaxy, had the right to say it. _Well, Dara, too_, Rel added, mentally, looking down at his wife's face. _"You're going to have to let go, sweetness,_" he told her, quietly. He didn't have to be a mind-reader to see the anguish in her eyes, or to smell _fear_ on her skin.

"_I hate this. I only just got you __back__."_ She took out her shock pistol, and, switching languages, noted, clinically, "We'll need to find a place to dump the weapons." She gave Valak a slightly skeptical look, which said, without words, _once we're out of your reach_.

Once they'd figured out their stories, and Valak had made arrangements for each party to be picked up by the correct authorities, Rel leaned down and gave his little mate one more quick bite. "I'll be on Omega in a week," he told her. "Spirits willing." He lifted his head, and managed a joke. "I have to be. Apparently, I have a _wedding_ to go to."

Rinus snorted a little. "Ah, they told you." He gave Eli a direct look. "Eventually." He was obviously trying just as much to keep the tone here light, in spite of all the worries in all their minds. _What happens if authorities don't buy one of the stories? What happens if one or more of us are held here? _It was _far_ more likely to happen to the non-diplomatic team. Rinus, Pallum, and Gallian had a certain amount of immunity. Dara, Eli, and Dempsey did not.

"I'm going to be catching shit for this until _Polina_ is old enough for boot camp, aren't I?" Eli commented, taking his gun from his waistband and extracting the clip. "Or at least until you all start having kids."

"_Do you want to know what the doors and windows had to say on __that__ topic?"_ Dara offered, glibly, switching languages. _"It's a _doozy."

Eli gave her a wary look. _"No. I think I actually prefer having the future be a surprise."_

And on that note, the two teams left. . . and Rel stayed behind. Watching them _leave_ was one of the hardest things he'd actually ever had to do. He was putting his faith in Valak, and trusting that the batarian would not only _not_ betray him, but also not betray his family and friends as well. It was a hell of a risk. But he _trusted_ Valak. The batarian had shown nothing but good faith so far.

**Dara, March 13, 2196**

"You'd better be right about this, Eli," she muttered as they waited in Valak's foyer for the authorities to come. They'd carefully gotten dirt all over themselves, and stray leaves from the forest in their shoes, and so on.

"He _is_ right," Dempsey said, unexpectedly. Dara glanced up at the big man, inquisitively. "Any option that blows our cover means Rel and Valak don't get off this rock, and neither do the rest of us. It sucks, but continuing as we set out is the best option." He looked down at her, his face impassive. "There are actually some things that having this frickin' chip in my head is good for. And one of them is evaluating the situation without any fear or emotion at all. It's the right call."

Dara inhaled, and exhaled. She'd gone into countless firefights in the past four years, been shot at, wounded, dragged wounded soldiers out of combat, and all of that suddenly seemed easy and straightforward in comparison to what they were doing now. Neat, clean objectives. Go in, kill everything that didn't surrender, retrieve the item, take the ship, deal with the smugglers, whatever. This was more drawn-out. Tenser. "Not really used to this," she muttered. "I've mostly done recon and combat, recon and combat. This is . . nerve-wracking. Especially since I'm not sure we can defend ourselves."

Eli snorted quietly. "This isn't _quite_ my world. . . but close enough. Half my life is spent waiting for the other shoe to drop, so we can go _do_ something about the first shoe." He peered out the window. "Looks like our ride's here. Remember. . ." his smile shifted, becoming less dark, less cynical, and he reached out and caught Dara's hand as if they were kids again, "stupid college kids."

And stupid they pretended to be. The batarian authorities were _angry_. They were close _enough_ to the route that Eli had been told by the militia member to take that they weren't in _too_ much trouble, but they were questioned, over and over again—separated from each other, in fact, and questioned in different rooms, by different people, asked different versions of the same question, again and again and again. Dara stuck to the agreed-upon story; it had the benefit of being very close to the truth. It just. . . omitted details. "Yeah, the groundcar broke down around . . .well, my omnitool's still set for Greenwich mean time, but I guess maybe nine o'clock last night?" she offered. "It was dark out, but we didn't want to stay along the side of the road until someone happened along. My husband said he thought he saw lights from a house back through the trees. So we all got out and tried to stick together, and started walking. Thing is, we got _so_ lost. A couple of times, I thought I heard a shuttle going by overhead, but I never saw any running lights. Guess that was just wishful thinking." Dara swallowed. "Look, my symposium is _today_. I've already missed the chance to meet with Dr. Yaldor. Is there any _chance_ that we could get to the university before noon, so I have a chance to clean up before attending the panel?"

Over and over again, the same questions. _What time did you stop? Why did you stop? Why did you get out of the car? Whom did you speak with?_

Dara described a sort of a weird sound the groundcar had made before the engine had died. "I thought we'd run over something, but I guess it just died. I don't know anything about groundcars."

After two hours of this, the officials looked disgusted, but drove them—not letting them get anywhere near their groundcar—to the university. And restored their luggage to them. Dara peeked inside, and knew at a glance that everything had been investigated and examined and probably even photographed. And that there were _probably_ tracking devices and maybe even microphones in it, somewhere. A glance at the two men in the car told her they knew the same damn thing.

So for the next day, they were, wholly, college kids, as best they were able. Dara made it to her xenobiology panel, and did her best not to _laugh_ at the . . . really peculiar notions the batarians had about other species. The statements about the cranial capacity of turians being inferior to that of batarians in particular made her want to laugh. And the ocular fixation they had! How species with only two eyes were clearly inferior, because of their lack of observational skills. _And the fact that the extra eyes take up extra space in the cranium that could be otherwise devoted to gray matter means nothing, eh? And the fact that the occipital lobe in batarians is twice the size it is in humans means that other brain structures get short shrift, instead. When you only have so much space, it's a zero-sum game. _

The most interesting part of the conference, and the part that made her sit up and take note, was that they actually had a section on _yahg_. _Holy shit,_ Dara thought, as the first slide came up on the aerogel screen. _"The yahg have been cut out from the galactic scene by the Council, but we've obtained visual records of them. They are a developing species, highly intelligent, and possessed of eight eyes—clearly, their brains have adapted to processing visual stimuli in complex fashions."_

Dara was having to pretend incomprehension of the language, but she _itched_ to take notes. Instead, she essentially tried to burn everything into her mind, while squinting at the pictures as if she didn't quite know what she was looking at. The talk went on and on, discussing the yahg's potential as _allies_. _Natural_ allies, in fact, since they and the batarians obviously had so much in common—exclusion from the galactic scene, intelligence, multiple eyes. . . _why not throw in good looks, too, while you're at it?_ Dara thought, grimly. _They're a predator species. Even purer in form than turians. Still caught in the pack mentality, largely, from what I learned at STG._ _This isn't a xenobiological talk so much as a political one. Interesting. This is. . . indoctrination, I think. Telling the people here what they're supposed to be teaching._

"Is there any chance I could get your lecture notes?" she asked at the end, when they opened the floor for questions. "I, ah, would need some time with them and a dictionary, I'm afraid. . . "

"Ah, certainly," the researcher in question told her, and Dara was not at all surprised when the notes she received bore little resemblance to what she'd heard spoken in the lecture hall. Eli had patiently sat through the lecture, and had actually looked like he'd fallen asleep, much to her disbelief. "I don't know _how_ you managed that," she told him as they trooped out onto the campus, looking for Dempsey. _Considering we __still__ could be swooped down on and taken captive at any minute_, she meant. _Of course, he could have been faking the nap. Hard to tell._

Eli snorted. "It's a gift. Give me _any_ downtime, and I _will_ take a nap. . . sweetheart." He glanced around, and added, "Besides, I don't know how you _didn't_ doze off in there. Warm room, up all night, and people yapping in a language neither of us speaks. Better than a sleeping pill."

"Well, the first couple of presenters spoke galactic."

"Really? I hadn't noticed. They said 'effects of somato. . . .' whatever that was, and I'm pretty sure from that point on, it wasn't galactic anymore."

Dara just looked at him in amusement. Eli really _was_ good at playing dumb. Siara had even pointed it out, years ago. He'd gotten _very_ good marks in chemistry, as best Dara recalled, but he passed it off easily. "Somatotropin, _sweetie_," she told him. "Secreted from the endocrine system in humans and, surprisingly, it's almost the exact same chemical in batarians."

They managed to find Demspey at a different building on the campus, and he met them, shaking his head. "Yeah, they should stick to painting," he told them, flatly. "All the extra eyes mean is that they're tone-deaf."

"No!" Dara said, laughing, as she was meant to.

"Oh yeah, they are. I spent the last three hours listening to what sounded like a series of cats being killed. Slowly. With an electric drill. Total waste of time."

"Did you at least get to play any of the local instruments?" This, Dara was actually interested in. She _did_ play piano and quarian _reela_, after all. "Did they have any keyboard analogs?"

"Closest they got was a kind of xylophone thing hooked up to a keyboard that dropped hammers on the bars. We're not exactly talking a hammered dulcimer here." Dempsey caught both of their glances. "What?"

"Hammered dulcimer?" Eli repeated. "That's a real instrument?"

"Yeah. Medieval." Demspey looked at him. "Don't believe me, look it up."

The next day, they were _escorted_ back to the spaceport and positively _shooed_ off-planet. Dara _thanked_ the militia for their help, and didn't actually _breathe_ until they cleared the mass relay and headed for Lorek, and from Lorek, took another flight, which took them into salarian space, and from salarian space, to Bastion.

Her father met them there at customs, showed his Spectre badge, and moved them out of the line into a room off to the side of the main baggage area. "We've got clothes for you all to change into," Sam told them without preamble. "We're having a look through all the luggage, and we'll probably wind up incinerating most of it to be safe. So I hope there's nothing in there that you were fond of."

"Nothing," Dara told him, and accepted a tight hug from him with a huge amount of relief. "It's _really_ good to see you, Dad."

"Good to see you, too, kid. Get showered and changed so we can _talk."_

The three of them cleaned up, and by the time they had, Sam had been joined by Lantar, Garrus, and Shepard. Dara was beginning to get nervous all over again. "Sit down" Shepard invited them. "We've even got food for you."

Dara grabbed a croissant out of a basket and began to eat gratefully. She'd been too nervous to eat much of anything the past few days, and this tasted like the food of the gods.

Sam began the debriefing. "Okay, Gallian got a message out to the _Estallus_ early, and let us know that Rel's taking a different route home. By way of Omega. Also that you guys have a batarian contact for us. Interesting."

Shepard added, "Assuming he pans out as trustworthy, of course." Her expression darkened.

"Grundan Krul, my tech in my squad back in the Omega days? He was trustworthy. It _could_ happen again," Garrus told her.

Shepard gave her husband a skeptical glance. "I hope so," she said. "For Rel's sake." She looked back at Dara, Eli, and Dempsey. "You're the first eyes we've had on Khar'sharn that weren't bought and paid for in a long damn time. Every detail, folks. Thoughts, impressions, people you talked with. No matter how minor. Give us the random stuff that stood out, first, then we'll work back through in chronological order, step by step."

The three younger people traded looks. Eli was already halfway through his own pastry and a cup of coffee, from the looks of things, but volunteered first. "They _really_ like controlling their people there. No air cars. They keep everyone on the ground, tied to travel lanes. Really elaborate traffic control systems, too. Lots of bridges, underpasses, and the like. Tracking devices probably in every vehicle, and I saw plenty of cuts in the concrete that probably indicated the addition of readers or something underneath the pavement in the past." Eli took another bite, chewed, and swallowed. "You weren't kidding about the fear the populace lives in, either. I approached a guy at a fuel station to ask for _directions_, and he damned near wet himself. Either it wasn't his place in his caste to talk to strangers, or maybe it was the fact that a militia car was pulling into the station at the same time. . . but from his reaction, you'd have thought I was about to kill him and piss down his throat afterwards." Eli considered it. "Maybe they really think aliens _are_ out to get them."

Dempsey cleared his throat. "Can't help but notice this sort of thing," he said, a little self-deprecatingly. "But almost no extranet connections, anywhere. I walk around Bastion, or hell, Mindoir, and there's always a live feed _somewhere_. I can practically feel it on my skin, and I can. . if I want to risk the headache. . . tap into it. Khar'sharn? Nothing. Little nodes, here and there, but all their information is still pieced out to them in official broadcasts, as far as I can tell. Think I saw about ten omnitools, total, the entire trip." He poured himself a cup of coffee now, too.

Again, Dara was annoyed with herself for not having noticed this sort of detail, and chastised herself for not being observant enough.

"Dara?" Sam looked up. "What did you see?"

"Interesting speech at the xenobiology conference. More political than scientific. On the yahg. Promoting them as misunderstood victims of the Council's machinations. Indicating how similar they were to batarians, and closely allied their interests would be, if only the yahg could be brought into the Hegemony." Dara grimaced. "I couldn't take notes, and the lecture notes they gave me afterwards don't match the talk given. I tried writing it down from memory on the flight home, but there's a lot of details missing."

She saw the glance Garrus and Shepard exchanged. _Yeah. There's a reason why STG was studying yahg remains two years ago, wasn't there._ "Give us your notes," Garrus said, and Dara transmitted them, omnitool to omnitool.

Then the debriefing started in earnest. Valak, Valak's estate, Rel's condition, the decision to trust in the batarian to get him out. The condition of the 'slaves'—Dara had been able to confirm that none of them were in bad condition, and that none of them had chips. "No beating marks, no recent scarring. All bone fractures over a year old, from the ones I was able to scan," she said. "If he's a fraud, it's a _really_ thorough fraud." That was one of the things that was keeping her sane, but her throat was tight. They were questioning a decision she'd questioned, herself, a thousand times in the past forty-eight hours. She was _terrified_ that leaving Rel behind had been the wrong decision. That they'd gone to so much effort. . . and had left without him.

Garrus didn't relieve her worries. "If this pans out," he said, after a moment, "this could be a real coup for the Spectres. Having a reliable agent, high-caste, inside the Hegemony would be huge. On the other hand. . . Rel could pay with his life if this is a mistake."

Dara swallowed hard. "I know," she said, quietly. _And all I can do now is __wait__._

**Shepard, March 15, 2196**

The meeting with salarian STG hadn't gone well. "You are compromised," Garrus had rasped. "Our people walked into a spirits-be-damned trap on _your_ information about Veem. Instead of a quick grab-and-bag mission, with minor resistance from a few slave overseers and guards, maybe a few slave raiders who were in town for a party at the boss's manor? They wound up fighting fifty soldier-caste fighters."

The salarians were uncomfortable. Lilu could see it in the rapid upward blinks of their eyes, the way they shifted right and left, looking towards one another for support around the conference table. "We lost six fine turian marines, and we're _still_ in the process of retrieving one missing member of the last team—the only survivor besides Spectre Ylara," she said now, inclining her head towards Ylara, who was at the table with them, expressionless, but her cobalt eyes angry. "And you have nothing to tell us except you have no _idea_ how the information proved to be so grossly inaccurate?"

Ylara leaned forward now, steepling her fingers together. "I would give a great deal to know," she said, sweetly, "How it is that Veem _knew_ we were coming. I would have asked him myself, but I'm afraid I was somewhat annoyed with him when I encountered him."

One of the salarians nodded. "A live prisoner would have been useful."

Ylara's eyes narrows. "Accurate information would have been more so."

"This isn't the first time this has happened," Shepard said, quietly. "The Lystheni had your networks compromised, gentlemen. I'd thought you'd _purged_ your ranks of any remaining Lystheni influence."

They all blinked. One ventured, "I don't understand how you can conclude that this issue derives from Lytheni influence, Commander. That hardly seems logical."

"When the only other option is assuming that the _venerable_ Special Tasks Group has been compromised by a _second_ group?" Shepard said it through her teeth. "You had better damned well _hope_ it's the Lystheni, gentlemen. Find your leak and _fix_ it." Dead bodies were an unfortunate, and inevitable consequence of the work that they did, but Lilu didn't want even _one_ more than she absolutely _had_ to bury.

The salarians filed out at the end of the meeting, already talking amongst themselves rapidly, trying to figure out who or what had been behind the information that had led the Spectre team into such a deadly trap. When the door closed behind them, Shepard sighed.

"We're going to have to stop relying so much on them," Garrus muttered.

"I know. Alliance intelligence and the Hierarchy Intelligence Agency are _babies_ compared to them, though. And we can't rely on Argus for everything." Shepard rubbed at her eyes, and then looked at her husband bleakly. "And when they pull up a hot lead like this last one, Kasumi's first instinct was to say _go_, because if we waited to double-check it through other sources, the opportunity would vanish again. Maybe for another five years." Shepard glanced at Ylara. "And that's no comfort to the people who were on the ground."

Ylara leaned back now, pensive. Shepard had grown to trust and lean on the asari Spectre over the years. She was still by far quieter than most of her fellows, but flexible enough to work on non-asari worlds. Even on Omega. "It's little comfort, but it is understandable. We've _all_ leaned on STG for centuries. Even _they_ believe, to a certain extent, in their own mythology. You're the one who so often says we need to grow and change." Ylara's smile was very faint. "This time, it's their turn."

Shepard sighed. "Next stop, Garrus?"

"Councilor Anderson and Councilor Odacaen request the honor of our appearance." Garrus glanced at Ylara. "You don't have to be there for that one."

"Praise the goddess," she replied, immediately. "Since we're in a holding pattern anyway until we get word that the ship has left Khar'sharn, I'm going to go back to Mindoir. See Tulluust and my daughter."

"You should practically move them to Omega," Shepard told her, standing, and putting her datapads away.

Ylara laughed. "No, not yet. I'd like to at least see a full decade of stability out of Omega before I _trust_ the place. It's. . .remarkably improved, however." She slanted Garrus a glance filled with amusement. "You won't recognize the place. . . Archangel."

"That's probably a good thing," Garrus told her, easily, standing and opening the door. "Shall we, _amatra?_"

The human and turian Councilors had quite a bit of business to transact. "First, let's begin with something _you_ started—you and Lantar Sidonis, anyway," Anderson said, with an amused smile. "You _might_ not have been watching the news lately, being absorbed with other tasks, so. . . without further adieu. . . " He swiped his hand over a console, and an aerogel screen rose in the center of the table as Shepard and Garrus sat down, side by side.

The landscape shown was blasted and desolate, dry as the wastes of Mars, but with less color. The sky was Terran blue, however, traced by faint white clouds. A black _line_ rose up against the horizon, like a thread had hung down into the camera. "What am I looking at?" Shepard asked.

Anderson grinned. "Wait for it."

The camera focused in more closely, and now the 'thread' was a black double helix, tightly wound, stretching from the ground up into the sky. Shepard's mouth fell open. "They finished the space elevators on Tosal Nym and Aphras?" Formed of carbon nanotubules, the space elevators were stronger than steel and took huge amounts of materials to build. . . but each of them was attached to an ice moon, moved with mass effect engines, from one of the system's huge gas giants. Now chunks of ice could be carted to the surface more or less on a constant conveyor belt, and broken up on the surface for easier melting. It was slow, but it was steady, and it wouldn't necessarily thicken the atmosphere, as grazing a comet through the outer layers of each planet would have. The terraforming process had just kicked into high gear.

"They've actually found aquifers on both planets," Odacaen said, fiddling with his fingers momentarily. "They've started drilling them for native water, as well. It all had to have gone _somewhere._ It couldn't all have outgassed."

"Won't that result in terrain subsidence?" Lilu asked, concerned.

"All in areas well away from archaeological digsites and new population centers," Anderson said. "They're hoping to have an active hydrolic cycle within ten years."

Lilu sat back, unable to help the faint, pleased smile on her face. _My dad would have loved to have seen this. Hell, he'd have loved to have seen the base back on Mindoir, too._ The stab of grief was fainter now, than it had been, years ago. It was always there, if she thought about her lost family. . . but fainter. Better. A wound so long healed now, and so well, that it only bothered her when the weather changed, as it were. "All right, you've successfully buttered me up. What's the bad news?"

"Quarians are sending one last Spectre candicate. Kal'Reegar's personal choice."

"That, I actually knew about. They should be arriving in a week or two, last I heard."

Anderson gave her a look. "Try not to wash _this_ one out."

Garrus laughed. "If they wash out, Anderson, they wash out. If this one's Reegar's personal choice, and _not_ the choice of the Fleet Subcommittee on Interplanetary Relations, like the last three, he or she will be fine."

"She, actually," Shepard told her husband. "I glanced at the file last week. Definitely nothing like Tali, though."

"Oh?"

"She's a biotic."

Garrus actually blinked. "That's. . . rare. Rarer in quarians than even in turians."

She nodded. "Sidonis is our recruiting officer," she told Anderson and Odacaen. "He says he'll let Sings-to-the-Sky, Urdnot Gris, and Ylara Alir handle the initial observations. Then, once she's used to the planet a little better, we'll put her in with the next batch of recruits."

"Yes, I saw the list of names you forwarded. Lot of homegrown ones this time." Odacaen grinned. "How many of them know?"

"Not many. And we're still working on getting one of them _back_ from that . . . very bad mission on Camala." Shepard's tone went steely again. "Just got done having a chat with STG about that."

Anderson turned off the aerogel screen, letting the image of the world being reborn sink back into the table. "I just _bet_ you did, yes." He paused. "I did notice that you had an . . . interesting. . . name on that list for the humans."

Shepard smiled at him, eyes calm behind her mask of wedding paint. "James Dempsey? Yeah, he's looking pretty spry for a dead guy, isn't he?"

Anderson gave Odacaen a pained look. The turian councilor actually laughed. "Shepard. . . "

"We can talk about this in the other room, if you like—"

Anderson shook his head. "We'll just be extremely vague, how's that?"

"Vague I can manage," Shepard agreed.

Garrus muttered, "He's still unstable."

"I _owe_ him, _amatus_." Shepard grimaced. "We can at least give him a direction and a focus while he's putting his head back together. God knows, I needed that, myself, once upon a time. And if he washes out, he washes out, same as the rest." She looked at Anderson, and added, only half-jokingly, "Tell the paper-pushers back home to get him un-deaded, before I put him in front of Emily Wong's camera to say how hard it is for his family to move on. That he wants to stay in touch with his kid, but that his wife has remarried, and is technically in a state of fairly serious bigamy at the moment. That he wants to get on with _his_ life, too."

Anderson put his fingertips together. "I've been having to walk very delicately with that one, old friend." He glanced at Odacaen. "It's quite embarrassing to various people who were in office before I was."

"Isn't that _always_ the case?" Odacaen asked, dryly.

They left after a few more minutes, Lilu smiling as Garrus caught her hand in his as they walked through the long corridors inside the human embassy, heading for the door. Even after all these years, simple skin contact made her downright _giddy_. _And how's that for the savior of the galaxy, the tough-as-nails Commander of the Spectres?_ she thought, smiling.

**Valak, March 14-20, 2196**

Valak's first order of business was to set in motion travel requests for Omega. The bribes required, because of the current supposed "shoot on sight" measures, would undoubtedly be spectacular. However, Valak had an excellent head for business, inherited from his father. . . although he put his talents to different use than Shadar N'dor could ever have imagined. Valak knew that two teams of highly trained operatives would not have been dispatched for a _random_ turian marine. This alone suggested that Rellus Velnaran was a valuable commodity, in a sense.

The squads assaulting Veem's home on Camala had been precise and lethal, but had been simply taken by surprise by Veem's unusual defenses. There had been an asari with them, in black armor, with massive biotic power, too, from what his men had been able to report before he'd ordered them back to the ship. And Rellus Velnaran's armor was slightly different than the rest's. As best Valak remembered from training with the Special Intervention Group, the blue stripe meant _special forces_. Turian marines, turian special forces, asari commando. No sign of a ship in orbit; they'd dropped like thunderbolts from a clear and cloudless sky. All of which added up to a multi-species force probably deployed from a _Normandy-_class ship.

The chances that Rellus was a Spectre were slim. He seemed young for it, although turians had groomed their Spectres from a young age before. He _was_, regardless, a member of a covert mission that had gone awry. The Spectres could be a _very_ valuable connection for Valak, and he had every intention of parlaying Rel's return into a working relationship with _whoever_ the young soldier belonged to. Turian special forces, salarian STG, Spectres, or the humans' women's championship knitting brigade. It didn't matter _who_; it only mattered that they were a potential resource, a connection outside of batarian space.

So, Valak paid the bribes, and considered it a fairly useful investment in future business relations. The various bureaucrats thought that he was insane. "You _do_ realize, Lord Valak, that there's every chance that you will be shot down on approaching Omega?" he was told, over and over again.

"What's life without a little risk? No, no, I have a shipment of _poiri_ spice coming in, and I really _must_ pick it up. I'm _quite_ certain that my ship can outrun any ballistic ordnance that they might sling my way, and _really_, the danger simply must be exaggerated." Valak breezed through the conversations, and could almost read the bureaucrats' minds: it was no skin off their eyelids if some stupid, spoiled upper-caste got himself killed.

With the trip set up, but not fully authorized yet, Valak was left with one more task. Heading to Kanak'khoria prison, to speak with his former physician, Healer Nala S'har. "Stay out of sight," he warned Rel as he prepared to leave. "You'd be safest in the bunker today."

"I can do that." The turian regarded him. The face was impassive, but the blue eyes were lively with curiosity and interest and intelligence—everything that a turian wasn't supposed to have, if one listened to the Hegemony's propaganda. "You're heading to the prison today?"

"Yes."

"If they suspect you, they could be attempting to see if you. . . or your freedom fighter alter-ego. . . will attempt to rescue her."

Valak snorted. "The good news is, I don't actually wear a mask and generally don't break into prisons. Any _rescuing_ I do. . . _if_ I do any. . . will be the sort accomplished with large sums of money changing hands." He looked at Rel. "That does sound terribly pedestrian of me, does it not?"

"It _would_ be more impressive if you cut through the bars of her cell with your vibrosword, tossed her onto the back of a _rlata_, and rode off into the sunset." The turian's eyes were amused. "Your way probably works better, though."

Valak paused, pulling on his gloves. "And what, pray tell, is a _rlata?_"

"Turian riding beast."

"Ah. No, I generally prefer a hovercycle. Fewer droppings." Valak motioned with a thumb. "Bunker, my turian friend. I'd greatly prefer for your. . . brother. . .not to come back for my throat, after all." Valak gave Rel an amused look. "Is he _actually_ a lord among your people, or was that just a cover? Because . . for a lord? Not what I'd call polished. And I _know_ a few lords." He paused. "Damn it, I _am_ a lord."

The turian started to chuckle. "I promise you details when we leave here."

"I shall contain my curiosity till then."

Valak did, in fact, own two hovercycles. All were asari-made, and of exquisite craftsmanship—a Phantom LS70 and a Tempest 27R. The law required that they could only be driven a maximum of two feet above ground level, and all imported air and hover vehicles had governors that maintained this ratio. Valak had had this non-optional option removed, of course. It was a very handy thing to have, when one needed to outrun authorities that were just as land-bound as the rest of the populace. And he'd long since adjusted the registration signal and could turn it, and the tracking beacon onboard, off with the touch of a button. But he kept himself to the ground when he _wasn't_ moving away from authority at top speed. No sense in attracting attention.

Kanak'khoria was a massive complex built some thirty kilometers to the west of Shepet proper. Valak had an appointment to be here—required, of course—and passed through three rings of security and fences, all topped with razor wire, and the innermost electrified, before coming to a halt at the visitor's entrance. The guards here were all militia and overseers, and Valak couldn't _help_ the dread that filled him at being anywhere _near_ this facility. He'd been here only once before, to ask blithe questions about the health of Dr. C'les, and had left with the sinking feeling that if he ever returned here, he might never get away again.

He signed in, and was escorted through the prison blocks—bleak concrete structures, each capable of housing a thousand prisoners, though each floor had separate lockdown processes—to where his physician huddled in a cell probably less than five feet wide by five feet long. The lavatory facilities were, in fact, a bucket. . . and that was a step _up_ from the floor, which was what most prisoners in this complex were forced to use. Valak had put a handkerchief to his mouth and nose as if the smell was about to overwhelm him. Truthfully, it _was_ bad. A slaughterhouse might have been less offensive.

"You've got five minutes. Then you have to make a decision about her," the guard told him, banging on the cell bars with a stick to get the prisoner's attention. "Her clan's decided to sell her into slavery to expunge the shame, I hear." He smirked at Valak. "Sort of a shame, really. Not totally unattractive, for healer-caste."

He walked away, whistling and rattling his stick along the rest of the prisoner's cell bars as he went.

Valak looked into the cell, trying to keep the horror and pity out of his face and eyes. Nala had, apparently, already been tried and found guilty. Her top two eyes had been removed and the sockets cauterized. . . making it supremely difficult to get even prosthetics. She turned now, stiffly, pain in every movement, and stared at him. "What do you wish of me, my lord?" Her tone was deeply sarcastic.

"Were the books they found actually yours?" Valak asked. "I really cannot imagine such a faithful member of the healing caste overstepping her bounds in such a fashion. Perhaps a friend asked you to hold the volumes, and you didn't know what they were?"

Her lips turned down. "It doesn't matter now, does it?"

"It always matters, my dear. Intentionally breaking the law is one thing. Doing so in innocence, however. . . "

Her expression was bitter, and her voice was harsh as she replied, "I can hardly be _innocent_, my lord, when I have been found _guilty_."

He wanted to reach through the bars then, take her hand, but couldn't. A lord couldn't touch a healer; a healer could touch _anyone_, but had to cleanse between each different caste treated, and not just with antibacterial solution, either. He couldn't offer even simple comfort, until she was a slave. Valak swallowed. The caste system made him sick—it stank worse than the vile effluvia around him did. "So you have been," he said, quietly. "But were you _really_? You must indulge my curiosity, my dear. I've so rarely met a _criminal_ before, and one under my very roof?"

Hint of a glare. Anger. Then she glanced to the left. "The books were not mine."

_Either a __very__ good liar, giving me what I want to see, or a poor liar, accidentally giving me what I hoped. I hope I manage to peel back the right layers here to reveal truth_. "Ah, I see. Innocent, then. How disappointing. I'd hoped for a _real_ criminal." He leaned in and met her eyes. "Take comfort, my dear. I've personally found that the eyes that see least, often see most." He tapped his own eyepatch momentarily, and was rewarded with a startled flick of her remaining eyes.

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" she hissed. "You're not slated to be sold as a slave. And _you_ have a dueling scar. Easily replaced, though ancestors only _know_ why you've never bothered." Real anger there.

"Perhaps I've never had a healer I could _trust._" Valak tossed his handkerchief to her through the bars. "A little help for the smell, my dear." He turned away, shouting, "Guard! Guard! I'm done here."

The guard sauntered back, taking his time. "And your decision, my lord?" he asked, leading Valak out, as the various prisoners around them chattered and moaned in their cages.

"I'll buy her. Much less expensive way to keep a healer around."

"And if you put a pillowcase over her head, she'll still be decent enough looking, eh?"

Valak allowed only mild horror to show on his face. "Oh, dear me, no. Perhaps for someone of your caste, but as for myself, we noble-born have more _refined_ tastes."

The guard laughed. Valak could almost read his thoughts behind his eyes. _Yeah, we've heard that about you nobles. We've heard the rumors._

Valak paid a fairly large amount of money—enough for a technical slave, but less than he'd had to pay in terms of Nala's yearly salary before—and made arrangements for her to be delivered to his estate the following day. _ I have no idea if this is the right thing to be doing,_ he thought, grimly, _but ancestors know, I __need__ a doctor at the estate. It might as well be one that I know. And might even be able to grow to trust._

_I just hope, for the sake of not joining my ancestors, that I'm not trusting the wrong person._

The healer was delivered promptly the next day, slave collar firmly in place. The prison handlers turned over a control device, as well; she'd been fitted with a restraining chip in her brain. Valak gestured for his 'overseers' to take charge of her, keeping his expression neutral. _Time enough to test you later, Nala S'har. We'll treat you just like any of the others at first. Then, once I've gotten Rellus safely off-planet, we can see what exactly __you__ are. Spy or ally._

Seven days after that, Valak received his authorizations. "All aboard who's coming aboard," he said, tightly, and grinned at Rel as they boarded one of his _Knarr_-class ships. They hit the mass relay leaving Khar'sharn's system in record time, and proceeded to bounce through the old relay system, stop-by-stop, until they reached Omega.

"We're being challenged," his helmsman reported.

"Come to a halt, and give me a comm channel." Valak glanced at Rellus, who was sitting, calmly, in his armor in the ship's tiny bridge. "Omega control," Valak said into the comm now, feeling absolutely ludicrous at the message he was about to speak. "Please have _Pelagia_ inform Urdnot Gris and Ulluthyr Harak that I have a package to deliver to them."

_Who the hell is __Pelagia__?_ Valak wondered, and after a moment, a soft female came over the speakers. "Welcome to Omega, Valak N'dor. Please proceed to Docking Bay B-17 for delivery. Do not deviate from the course I am giving you."

Valak's eyes widened. _No boarding party for inspection. Interesting._ "Thank you, Omega control. We're receiving our course information now." He turned and looked at Rellus. "I think you _did_ promise me some details."

Rel _grinned_ at him. "What did you want to know?"

"Your brother is a lord?"

"Reluctantly, yes. He married into the high nobility a few years ago, and I think he really wishes he could have just done what's _normal_ among our people, which is absorb his wife into _our_ clan, rather than so much of her clan absorbing him. But he's doing what he can with it."

The grin only widened when Valak asked, "And the little human female who came to rescue you?"

"My wife, yes."

Valak tried not to picture that one. He was definitely not a prude, and batarians took pleasure slaves from any number of species, but there were places his mind didn't really need to go. "And you're . . . turian special forces, yes? Affiliated with whom? Salarian STG?"

Rellus chuckled. "Not quite."

At that point, they came in for a landing in the docking bay, and Valak waited for the air to cycle back into the landing zone. Looking out the window as he did, he could see any _number_ of red-armored people moving into position around his ship. "Omega Security Forces," he said, quietly. "They're taking no chances here, are they?"

"I wouldn't worry about them," Rel said, cheerfully. "Worry about the ones in black." He pointed, and Valak's eyes widened.

Turian in officer black, flanked by . . . two humans, one male and one female, in black turian fleet armor and one human in camouflage armor, off to the right of the ship. Two more humans in black armor off to the left. Two turians, both male, in black armor, near them. A krogan in black armor, and an asari. All fully armed and ready to go. "I have a _really_ bad feeling about this," Valak muttered. _"Open the hatch, M'dor."_

"_If you're sure, m'lord?"_

"_Not really, but we're here, so let's get on with it."_

The hatch opened, and the ship's plank lowered. "You'd best go first," Valak told Rel, feeling more than a little anxious. "I was hoping never to see that many weapons pointed at me outside of a firing squad."

Rel chuckled again—_as well __you__ might—_Valak thought, tensely, and then headed out the open hatch.

Peering out cautiously after him, Valak watched as the turian took off his helmet, and a _cheer_ went up from all directions. . . but the _vast_ majority of the people around the ship kept their weapons aimed and steady. Rel headed off to the right, where. . . yes, that was the same female human as before. This time wearing yellow clan-paint, visible as she took off her own helmet. Same older brother as before. Same two human males. . . _I knew there were rumors of the humans and turians combining their fleets, but I had no __idea__ they wore each others' uniforms at this point._

"Valak N'dor?" One of the people off to the left had moved up to the ship. Female voice, low and firm.

"That would be me," Valak replied in galactic.

"Step out of the ship, please. We've a _lot_ to discuss."

Valak stepped down out of the hatch, keeping his hands clearly visible at all times. _Hmm. Human female. Black armor, tall for one of their women, single pair of blue eyes. . . huh. She's wearing turian clan-paint, too. Blue and white._

She took off her helmet, and Valak _flinched_ as he recognized Commander Lilitu Shepard. Survivor of Mindoir. Survivor of Akuze. Savior of the galaxy and scourge of the Hegemony. _Oh, ancestors. Today, I'm going to meet you after all._

The eyes were cold and hard, and ever so faintly amused, and the gun she held never wavered on him. "I understand that we have you to thank for saving the life of my husband's nephew?" she said, quietly.

It actually took about five seconds for Valak to process that, and his eyes moved over to Rellus after three of them had ticked by. "Ah. That would explain why so _many_ people came after him." Valak cleared his throat.

"We don't leave our people behind. But Rel _does_ mean a great deal to us, yes." She lowered the gun. Slid it away. "We have a _great deal_ to talk about, Valak N'dor. Come with us."

_Ancestors. The commander of the Spectres. The second in command of the Spectres. Which makes the other human, the other turian, the asari, and the krogan. . . yes, all in the same armor, same insignia. . . six Spectres around me. My ship guarded by OSF. It's a good thing I really do mean them no harm, because I don't think I'd be able to sneeze right now if that weren't the case._

**Rellus, March 20, 2196**

Omega was _nothing_ like Uncle Garrus had always described it. It wasn't dank and dark and full of evil—it was the place of his _homecoming_, and Rel thought even its _docking bay_ was a beautiful sight, so long as it held family, friends, and his wife. He'd walked down the open hatchway slowly, so as not to surprise anyone into shooting, and then taken off his helmet to identify himself. . . .and then had zeroed in on Dara, walking to her swiftly and picking her up off the ground—full kit and all—before twirling her around in the air for a moment, just to hear her exultant laughter. "You made it," she told him happily. "You're really here." She had tears in her eyes, but a happy, happy smile, and her scent was pure relief.

"Home," he agreed, smiling down at her before giving her a quick nip on the neck. "Or close enough, anyway."

Then Eli and Rinus crowded closer, and banged fists down on the pauldrons of his armor, grinning widely. "Welcome home, " and "about time," and "was beginning to think we'd have to make a second trip" rang in his ears. Even Dempsey gave him a wrist-clasp.

Rel glanced over his shoulder, and saw that the Spectres had closed in on Valak, and were escorting him out of the docking bay now. Omega's red-armored security forces were guarding the yacht, for the moment, and Rel knew he was probably in for a hellishly long debriefing himself now.

Uncle Garrus came over at that point, visor up to show his scarred face. "Welcome back," he told Rel, giving him a wrist-clasp. "Brought us a hell of an interesting souvenir, didn't you?"

Rel chuckled. "Valak's a really surprising person," he said. "Half the time, I don't know what to make of him."

They moved out of the docking bay, Dara under Rel's arm, more or less grafted in place, and Garrus took them to the Normandy, where he did, indeed start the very, very long debriefing process, asking dozens of questions, going back, clarifying points that Rel himself had almost forgotten. And then there were the physical scans and checks, done in the med bay of the _Normandy_ itself. Dr. Daniel Abrams was there, and Dara assisted him. "This is so much of a reunion, I half expect to see Dr. Solus here," Rel joked—and watched their faces fall. 'What's wrong?" Rel asked.

"Dr. Solus is very ill," Dr. Abrams answered. "We're. . . hoping to get done here in time to get home before he . . .passes."

_Ah, spirits. Do you always have to remind me how the wheel turns?_ Rel held his little mate's hand tightly, and she squeezed back, fiercely, eyes full of joy and sorrow at once.

**Shepard**,** March 20, 2196**

They boarded the _Normandy_, and Lilu headed up to the cockpit, where Jeff's avatar flicked on as she approached. "Home again, home again, jiggitty-jig?" he asked. "At least, for a milk-run, this was a good mission, commander. I like the ones with happy endings."

"You're in what's basically an admiral's flagship now, Joker," she reminded him. "And I'm past forty." She folded her arms across her chest. "Combat is for the young." _And we've got plenty of those on hand. But now, we have to go deal with the old._ "The yacht's on board?"

"Yep, they just sealed it up. All the batarians are in . . . well, in the brig, for the moment, but we're trying to make it a little comfier for them. Throw pillows, rugs, scented candles. You know. Girl stuff."

Shepard almost laughed. "Just get us home fast, would you? Mordin's not doing well."

"You got it, Commander." Joker's voice sobered for a moment, and the tiny avatar looked up at her in concern. "You going to talk to him about uploading?"

"Yeah. I'll be surprised if he does it, though. He's carrying a lot of guilt, for all that he rationalizes it _very_ well."

"Tell him my other half recommends it. Whenever he hops on and chats with me and the girls, that is."

Shepard blinked. "You wind up talking with. . . yourself?"

"Yeah, and EDI. We're still fairly similar, but, you know, experience makes the man. We're both changing. Him more than me, really, I think. The kids love it. . . or at least, they have since I _reminded_ them that _I'm_ still here, even if _he's_ off gallivanting around the galaxy." Joker's tone was tart, and then they were pulling away from Omega's bulk.

Shepard started to laugh. "I'm sorry, Joker. . . but you are the _only_ person I know whose problems are actually weirder than mine are."

"Thanks awfully, Commander. Very comforting, very reassuring." The _Normandy_ plunged into the dark-matter relay, and time and space blurred for a moment, before they shot out the other end, into Mindoir's system, heading for the tiny white chip that was its stellar primary.

Once on the ground, Shepard and Garrus went first to the Sidonis house, where Ellie was riding herd on three-year-olds Tacitus and Emily, who ran to the door and squealed, "Uncle Garrus, Aunt Lilu!"

Six-year-old Caelia followed them, and solemnly unlocked the door. "Did you bring our _pada_ with you?" she asked, looking behind them. "He's been gone a long time again."

"He should be home soon. He's been trying to help Rellus get home. You remember Rel, right?" Garrus knelt down to talk to Caelia. He had a soft-spot for Lantar's first-daughter, Lilu had noticed.

Caelia thought about that for a moment. "Yeah, 'Lijah's friend," she said, cheerfully. "Okay, let me go find my mom. She's upstairs somewhere." Caelia scampered right for the stairs.

Last to peek in the lobby was five-year-old Narayana. She was the size of a human ten-year-old now, and had long since outstripped her early playmate Caelia in academics and maturity levels. And Shepard had watched, bemused, as the girl had simply _bloomed_ in Ellie and Lantar's house. She was hanging back a little shyly at the moment, but then came out from around the archway into the library to smile. The girl was actually wearing a _dress._ Lilu had no idea how Ellie managed to find a dress that would fit a salarian body, quite frankly.

"Hello," she said, looking up at them. "It's really nice to see you again. My father was just telling me yesterday that I needed to read a human book called _The Three Musketeers_ to understand how you and he used to fight together all the time. I looked at it, but it's all about swordfighting and people dropping handkerchiefs. . . whatever those are. And money." Two upwards blinks over the slightly bulbous eyes. "There's an unhealthy obsession in there with how many _pistols_ a diamond could bring for sale."

'That's because Dumas was writing for people who were living pretty much hand to mouth," Shepard told her, crouching down herself now to put herself at Narayana's eye-level. "They wanted realism, and the Musketeers lived pretty much at the whim of the nobles. If they did well, they _ate_ that week."

"Huh. And that was what it was like when you and my daddy and Mr. Garrus used to fight together?"

Garrus chuckled. "Not exactly. Although there were some fairly lean times here and there, I don't remember anyone actually starving." He looked down at Narayana. "I think your father meant the feeling of all of us fighting as one, having each others' backs. Being friends in spite of many differences."

She thought about that. "Okay." Narayana looked up at them anxiously. "My dad's pretty sick, isn't he?"

Shepard sighed. _She's bright and perceptive and too damned young for this._ "Yeah. Yeah, he is, Nara. We're going to go talk to him about that today, actually. We came by to pick you up to go see him." She could hear Ellie coming down the stairs now, Caelia in tow, and glanced up. "If that's okay with you, Ellie?"

Ellie nodded. "It's almost time for her to go visit, anyway," she said, quietly. "Did you want to show your father your Easter dress, dear?" she asked, looking at Narayana.

Nara's face lit up. "Yes!" she said, suddenly sounding no older than Caelia, and raced up the stairs. "I'll be right back—" Then she stopped on the stairs. "May I _wear_ it to the hospital, Ellie?" she asked. "I really will be careful and won't get blood on it or anything."

Shepard covered her mouth with one hand as Ellie made Narayana promise to be careful. Then the girl finished climbing the stairs, and came back down five minutes later in a very pastel, light blue Easter dress. With bows. Little puffs of taffeta, too. There was a rather strangled sound from a turian throat, which Garrus turned into a cough. "Do you like it?" Narayana asked, running up and stopping at Shepard's feet, and then twirling.

"It's lovely. I think I had one very much like it when I was around your age," Shepard assured the girl.

Which got another muffled cough from Garrus. Lilu raised her head, gave her husband a dignified stare, and then stuck her tongue out at him. "I did _girl_ stuff once in a while," she informed him, loftily. "Only in months with an R in them, though." She took Narayana's hand. "Let's go see your dad."

She'd started the day with the salarians she disliked most in the universe right now—the ones currently in charge of STG and its recent failures. She was ending the day with the salarians she liked most. . . and one of them was failing, in a different way, of course. Mordin had checked into the hospital a week ago. Shortness of breath. Wheezing. He looked up as they walked in, and smiled as Narayana ran forward and climbed up onto his bed. "Do you like my dress, Daddy? Ellie got it for the humans' vernal equinox celebration. I am to assist Caelia and the little ones in searching for _eggs_ this weekend." Narayana nodded solemnly.

Mordin raised a hand and touched the fabric. "Most interesting. Appears to be spun sugar confection, but is actually. . . ." he coughed, wrackingly, "fabric. Most becoming, however."

Narayana kicked her feet at the edge of the bed. "When are you coming home, Daddy? The hospital is fun when you're working here, but it's really boring when you stay here all the time."

Mordin put a hand on her shoulder. "Had noticed that myself." He looked up at Garrus and Shepard now, and Lilu hated to see how thin he was, how pale. "Almost time to say goodbyes."

"Doesn't have to be goodbye," Shepard told him, quietly. "Maybe more like 'see you later.'"

Mordin shook his head infinitesimally. "Know what you're going to suggest." He coughed again.

"Mordin, let me put it this way. Do we _know_ that we defeated the Reapers? Do we _know_ that they're not going to be back in fifty thousand years?"

His head turned slightly. She'd taken a tack he hadn't expected. "Probability is high that we succeeded," Mordin said, after a moment. "But not one hundred percent."

"Narayana, could you go get your dad a drink from the nurse's station?" Lilu said, helping the girl down.

"Oh, okay. You want to talk about stuff that I can't hear. I'll walk slowly," Narayana said, and off she went. Quick as a bug, of course. Salarians didn't really know the meaning of the word _slow_.

"We've got that Sower device packed away for a reason," Lilu said after she left, calmly, taking her old friend's fragile-skinned hand in her own. Trying not to let the tears show in her eyes or in her voice. "Joker and EDI will be around when the next cycle hits—that part, I'm sure of. And they'll always know where the relics are. I've made damned sure of that, too. FTL tracking beacons, tucked into any number of crevices and cracks." She was afraid to tighten her fingers; his skin was so fragile now, any pressure could leave a bruise, cause pain. "If they come around again, whoever is _here—_our descendants, or maybe some other people entirely—will need help. Will need courage, will need wisdom. Let it be yours. Don't let it be goodbye. Let it be. . . good night. For a little while. We'll wake you. Give you a chance to speak with Narayana. Give her the guidance that only _you_ can." She paused, and looked down at Mordin's face.

Mordin's breathing quickened. Grew raspier. "Tempting," he admitted, quietly. "Always more to learn. Always more to teach. Always more time. But not, I think, for me." Another harsh inhalation. "Correct decision for Joker. For me, however, the wheel must turn. Bad decisions. Some good ones. Time to make new ones."

Shepard slowly knelt. Put her head down on the bedside. Felt Garrus' hands on her shoulders, the hot tightness in her throat. Heard the chime of the monitor monitoring Mordin's heart and breathing rate slow. And slow.

"Daddy? Do you want your drink now?" Narayana was back.

Mordin beckoned to his little girl, who hopped up back on the bed again, and offered him a straw from a juice box. He managed a sip or two, then patted her shoulder again. "Be strong. Be good. Be smart. Very, very proud of you, Narayana. Learn all you can learn. Teach all you can teach. Love you very much." His fingers tightened visibly on her shoulder.

"And I love you. Is it time to go home?"

"Yes."

Mordin Solus died at 24:34, Mindoir time, March 20, of respiratory and multiple organ failure. He was 41, and survived by one nephew on the planet, Spectre Mordin Alesh, and one daughter, Mordin Narayana, aged five. Announcements of the death of most famous member of the STG were made across Sur'Kesh, and an interplanetary day of remembrance was planned in salarian space in his honor. His family's dalatrass requested that his remains be returned to Sur'Kesh for burial, but Mordin Solus' will was extremely clear. He stated that his funeral would be held two days after his death, and would be held on Mindoir. He gave custody of his only daughter to Lantar and Eleanor Sidonis, of Mindoir, made Mordin Alesh the executor of his estate, and left his library of medical books to Dr. Daniel Abrams and Dr. Dara Velnaran, with the stipulation that they would share them with Narayana, should she decide to go into medicine.

The salarian funeral was simple and moving; Mordin's body was wrapped in kelp, placed on a weighted bier, and lowered into Mindoir's sea from the hovering _Estallus'_ cargohold, while the _Dunkirk_, the _Normandy_, the _Sollostra_, and the _Hamus. . . _SR-1, SR-2, SR-3, and SR-4. . . flew a missing man formation overhead, with the _Normandy_ pulling up to allow the others to continue the flyby. Narayana watched the proceedings blankly, and, in an eerie echo of the long-ago simulation, stood between Ellie and Dara, and put her head on Ellie's arm. "Oh, Ellie," she said, quietly. "I want him back. He was the only one who understood me."

**Author's note:** _I swear, the next chapter will be __much__ more uplifting. :-) We've done the burying. Now on to the marrying._


	84. Chapter 84: Commingling

**Chapter 84: Commingling**

**Author's note: **_This is one of my all-time favorite scenes from __The West Wing__. ___

_http:/ www . youtube . com / watch?v =lpcBWA1K9Xw_

_Ainsley shuts the intern way down. I just felt the need to share this. Enjoy._

_As late as 1967, women were prohibited from running in marathons, on the theory that our bodies were too fragile for the rigors of the course. So, here I have a story in which the women run marathons, work in special forces, control when and if they have kids, win 90% of the arguments with their mates. . . not that any of them argue much, preferring to work together to find mutually acceptable solutions. . . initiate 90% of the sexual encounters in the story, and generally do what they want to do, with whom they want to do it, with the grand exception of when they're pregnant. _

_That's __real__ revolution. Everything else, is, in my opinion, piddly shit that people will work out on their own in their individual lives and relationships. Some people like to be in charge in bed. Some people like to __not_ _be in charge in bed. That doesn't mean that they're not strong and determined and leaders outside the bedroom, I might add. _

_Two of the main characters, Commander Shepard-Vakarian and Kasumi Goto, have retained their maiden names (which I find, again, a piddly little concern) for professional reasons. Shepard wrote her marriage contract so that Garrus was in charge at home, while she remained in charge at work, for balance. Someone like Lantar gave himself over completely into his wife's charge, surrendering his knife to her and never expecting anything of the kind in return. Any time he's approached as 'clan-leader,' Lantar is happy and fulfilled and very damned surprised._

_**Yes, turians have an Imperator**__**.**_ _Word of God, from Garrus Vakarian's personal tracklist on his visor/earpiece, Shadow Broker Module: __**"Die for the Cause"**__ (__**turian**__**imperial**__**anthem**__). ME3, a volus quest-giver calls it the Vol Protectorate and the Turian Empire. Pretty damned hard to have an imperial anthem without an Emperor/Imperator. Most of their society is fairly heavily based on Roman sources in the Bioware canon. I merely add to this. ME3 added, well after I was writing SoR, a rank of "Primarch." I say that's another word for 'legate' and simply move on. [EDITED for ME3 stuff on April 22, 2012.]_

_That being said, an Imperator as a governmental institution doesn't spring up overnight; it's an institution that always derives from nobility, first. _

_Yes, turian society is a meritocracy with levels of citizenship. Canonically, there's 27 levels. I show "client/volus," child, boot-camp washout/child, attended boot camp but didn't finish service, and full citizen. That's five, and dealing with anything more would bulk up the story far more than it needs to be._

_Everyone goes to boot camp? Everyone rises to the level of their ability, and stays there (as opposed to the Peter Principle, which is that people rise to the level of their incompetence, and stay there? :-P) . Admittedly, for some of those from older high-ranking families, the level of their ability is very, very low. And for some people, whose parents rose to be legates or Provost Marshals, or whatnot, their level of ability is very high. *shrug*_

_That being said, I envision the turian nobility as very similar to the British nobility. A hold-over from the good old days, with the Imperator still being the single unifying factor that holds all the disparate colonies together. There's a House of Lords (Dominae) just like the British system, and a House of Lawgivers (equivalent to the US House of Representatives and Supreme Court combined), which is solely based on personal merit, and members are appointed for life after showing at least twenty years of experience as a lawyer or a judge._

_**In other topics**: Yes, writing Dara and Eli the past couple of chapters has been fun. Dara, in particular, has no idea how to deal with Adult Eli. She's stayed relatively the same person, but he has gone places and done things that are entirely outside of her experience, and has much less of a blush reaction than she does. Hence, he keeps knocking the pins right out from under her, and that's always a fun thing to do to a character who thinks she knows what's going on. . . and then realizes that no, she completely does not. I was particularly proud of all the subtext packed into the whole "Bite me!" "It could be arranged. . . " exchange of a chapter or so ago. Eli kind of figured they were both uncomfortable and feeling awkward, and the best way around that was laughter. Hence, poke, poke, poke. . . and yet, it reveals a hell of a lot about both of them._

**Pelagia and Ulluthyr Harak, March 20-23, 2196**

It was edging past midnight on Omega, and Harak had finally left the warehouse office for his own quarters. . . located upstairs of the warehouse. Fewer areas to secure, was the theory, and Harak didn't feel a need for much that was fancy. These had been his rooms when Patriarch was still alive, and they did fine for him now, too. A warehouse attic, still stacked with crates of . . . gods only knew what. He'd never actually looked. Could be ten-year-old ryncol in them, or ten-year-old dehydrated fishdog sticks. He had a mattress in one corner, a comm terminal at a rickety table in another, and a chair. A couple of empty crates served to hold his gear when he wasn't using it, and spare clothes. Dust stirred from the air breathed out by the exposed ventilation ducts over his head, wrapped in pieces of tape and foam insulation, and the scene was lit by a single glow panel in the wall near the door to the stairs.

Unfortunately, work had _followed_ him up the stairs tonight. Harak sat at the comm terminal, growling under his breath, a low, steady rumble from deep in his chest. On the screen, the shaman of clan Ulluthyr continued speaking. "Clan-leader Malak is concerned by some of your recent actions. Ulluthyr has never formally joined with Clan Urdnot." The shaman blinked. "We understand, of course, that _Patriarch_ set up the Omega alliance with Urdnot. Patriarch had no clan name, thanks to Aria. But now, we require you to dissolve that alliance. You are _Ulluthyr_. You will do what your clan-leader commands." It was, fortunately, not a real-time message.

When it ended, Harak took a deep breath. "Pelagia!" he bellowed.

"Don't _shout_." She had holographic emitters almost everywhere on the station where there were cameras, and he'd allowed her a camera in here, simply because he wound up dragging work up the stairs from the office most nights anymore. Pelagia coalesced in a flicker of light and shadow, looking around. She was back in her coveralls, he noted; she was taking him firmly at his word on that subject, apparently. "Was there something you needed?"

"Yeah. Get Urdnot Gris, Urdnot Makur, and Urdnot Siara in here."

"It's late. Is it _very_ important?"

"You don't know?"

"I make it a point not to listen overtly when you are in here, except for command phrases and my name," Pelagia told him, quietly. "Organics require privacy, I find. They function better, when they have some expectation of it, some psychic space." She ducked her head a little.

Harak growled under his breath. "It's political bullshit. I'd _prefer_ to have my two main bodyguards from Urdnot here, along with the Spectre, but you're right. It is pretty gods-be-damned late. Get Gris, at least."

Gris reported to the door in short order, looking tired. Pelagia had even scraped up Siara and Makur, and Harak was glad to see them. He'd come to _rely_ on these three, of all the Urdnot guards, the most. Gris had _shaman_ written in him—and in letters that Harak had _always_ been able to read. Letters crafted of blood and bone and soul. Smart, wise, loyal. Gris saw ramifications that other krogan didn't see.

Makur had _clan-defender_ written in his flesh. His loyalty to Urdnot was without question, and the young male would sell his life for his people, it was clear. It was also evident that he had vision and ambition. . . something _rare_ in a young krogan. Of course, a lot of that vision was probably attributable to his asari mate, Siara. The young female was _strong_—easily on par with the Spectre, Ylara—and fierce, in a different way than asari huntresses tended to be. As if she'd taken a krogan heart into her flesh. Maybe it had to do with her and Makur both being biotics. Maybe it was something she'd been born with. Harak wouldn't know. He'd only tried being with an asari once, and it wasn't an experience he was ever going to repeat. He _wasn't_ biotic. He couldn't _tell_ when he was causing pain, and he couldn't compensate for it, either.

Gris and five other Spectres had been aboard today, dealing with something that Harak had chosen not to ask for details on. It had involved a batarian ship, and extracting it quickly and quietly from Omega. "What's on your mind, Harak?" the younger krogan asked as he stumped in, looking around Harak's quarters in bemusement.

"Clan-leader Malak decided to lose his fucking mind." Harak glared at the comm terminal. "Ordered me to dissolve the Omega alliance with Urdnot. Probably doesn't like that Wrex has effective control over half the clans back home. And, though _me_, an alliance in space. He wants to control me. And Omega."

Gris shook his massive head slowly as Siara and Makur crouched on the floor, as if around a firepit back on Tuchanka. Listening to the words of the elders. "You're not going to obey, are you?"

"Fuck no." Harak's red eyes glittered in the dim light of the room. "Exploring options. Here's how I see it. First, I _could_ go home, challenge Malak for leadership of Ulluthyr."

Gris' eyes widened, and Pelagia, who had been listening, standing nearby against a wall, looked up sharply. "Is that _wise_?" Pelagia asked, her voice concerned.

Harak shrugged. "There's no way Malak can win. His shaman may have to explain it to him, using very small words. Malak controls four thousand people. _I_ control close to eight million." He paused. "First, if I win, I take over Ulluthyr. I _become_ clan-leader, and I _will_ ally us with Urdnot." He looked at Gris. "You have my word on that."

"And if you lose?" Pelagia asked, her tone rising slightly in pitch. A very human thing, that.

Harak shrugged. "If I lose, Malak loses anyway. If he kills me, I don't control Omega. No one from Ulluthyr does. I'll appoint Gris here my successor." He looked at Gris and grinned, dourly. "I expect that's not a promotion you really want."

Gris shook his head. "I'm a Spectre. I go where I want, fight how I want. Being stuck on Omega _full-time_, as opposed to just here because Shepard sent me? No thanks."

"And if he beats you, but doesn't kill you?" That was Makur, raising his head respectfully. "What then?"

"Then I leave Ulluthyr, and he _still_ doesn't get Omega." Harak grimaced. "Not the optimal solution." He looked at Gris again. "No offense, but I _also_ don't necessarily want to join Urdnot. My brother and his son did. I don't necessarily want to put myself and Omega under Wrex's command." It was one thing to _ally_ with Urdnot. Another thing entirely to be commanded by Urdnot.

"So what other option is there?" Siara asked, quietly and forcefully. "Start your own clan?"

Makur was already shaking his head at her. "You can only become a clan-leader on your own terms if a female clan-leader supports you. That's what makes someone a clan-leader, as opposed to just a warlord. You have to have a _clan_. Something to offer besides credits to those who would join you."

Siara's gaze was steady. "Patriarch didn't."

"Patriarch _had_ a clan, in the old days. Aria stripped him of it. Power, name, clan, identity. Everything. She definitely understood what would hurt him worst. Keeping him alive like that was the final insult." Harak shrugged. "I don't have a female to back me."

Pelagia cleared her throat a little. "Ah. . . do I count?" she asked, quietly.

Four heads turned towards her, with four expressions of surprise. "I mean, if needed. You can also inform the shaman that _I_ will not accept anyone else from Ulluthyr besides you, because you are the clan-leader of my choice." Pelagia tilted her head to the side. "If that's how it works. I mean. . . the female clan-leader isn't necessarily the _mate_ of the male clan-leader, correct?"

Siara was shaking her head. "No. Currently, the leader of the female clan is just the strongest female. Malla isn't Wrex's exclusive mate. She's almost past the breeding age, anyway. Besides which. . . monogamy is very, very rare." The asari had switched tones; she wasn't using her 'fighting with the krannt' voice. She was using the voice of a teacher at the moment. Harak found the switch interesting. There was _much_ to this one—a spine made of steel and a mind made of glass. "When you're trying desperately to breed your way out of extinction, you _can't_ really be monogamous."

Pelagia looked uncomfortable, but resolutely turned her head and nodded to Siara. "Thank you for the explanation, Siara. I had much of that information already, but had not assembled it in quite that way." She looked at Harak now, and sat down on his rickety table, beside the comm terminal. "So tell the shaman _that_. You _have_ a female backing you. And I will not back anyone other than you." She glanced over at Gris. "Or the successor that _you_ appoint."

Harak's hands rose to place them on her shoulders, a gesture of approval and thanks and respect for strength, but he had to let them drop, uselessly. "Thank you," he told her, instead, inclining his head slightly. "I'll probably wind up fighting Malak anyway. But we'll have tried it the Urdnot way first." He looked at Gris and bared his teeth. "Threats before killing."

Gris shrugged. "Sometimes, with a good enough threat, you don't _need_ to kill. But killing's still sometimes required."

Harak looked at the three of them. "Will you stand as my krannt?"

Makur's face lit up. "Yes," he replied, swiftly.

"Yes." Siara's tone had gone fierce again, along with her eyes.

Gris nodded slowly. "Very smart move, Harak," he said, quietly. "I'll stand with you."

Harak smiled grimly and settled his weight back in the chair at the comm terminal now. "Open a channel to Ulluthyr Malak on Tuchanka, Pelagia."

The comm terminal flickered to life, and, after a moment, the Ulluthyr shaman appeared. _"Are you ready to obey the commands of your clan-leader?"_ he asked.

"_I'm prepared to come home and challenge for leadership,"_ Harak said, bluntly. _"Malak can __keep__ his clan and the __name__ of leadership, but explain to him that he controls four thousand people. I control seven million. He doesn't tell me what to do with them. If he can't accept that, my krannt and I will be there in two days. Let me know."_

The shaman's mouth had fallen open slightly, and now he began to laugh. _"You're only four hundred or so, Harak. A stripling, beside Malak. You have no chance."_

"_My strength, and the strength of my krannt, against his. We will see who is stronger, and test ourselves in battle. Harak out."_ Harak gestured, and Pelagia cut the connection. He stood and looked at the rest of them. "We'll probably get the return of challenge tomorrow. Go get some rest. And thank you."

He walked to the door with them, and, for each in turn, clasped their shoulders as filed out. He could see excitement in Makur's eyes, weariness in Gris'. The difference between twenty years of life and a hundred and thirty, give or take. Harak could feel all four hundred and thirty-seven years of _his_ life weighing on him at the moment, too.

He turned back and faced Pelagia now. "Was there anything else?" she asked, still sitting on his table, legs swinging freely.

"Yeah. How'd we do with keeping that ship off the records today?" This was actually an issue of some concern. Urdnot Gris had been very specific about not even letting the rest of the Urdnot guards even _know_ about that ship. Whatever it was carrying, had to be _interesting_ to the Spectres. So long as it didn't blow up the station and wasn't a highly contagious organic or technovirus, Harak didn't care, but was just as glad that it had been taken away. Quickly.

"I gave everyone in the flight control room vid feed copied from last week of a different yacht being challenged and boarded. Changed the tail numbers and such to match." Pelagia's voice had gone crisp. Professional. "They all watched in interest, and a few bets were made on whether or not it would have contraband cargo. Every other bay in the B level was sealed off while we transferred the batarians aboard to the _Normandy_, and once everyone disembarked, OSF was sent away, while _Normandy_ crewmembers moved the yacht into the _Normandy_'s shuttle bay. I'm told it was a very tight fit." She pulled her feet up now onto the rickety table, hooking her heels at the edge and bending her knees, clasping her arms around her legs. Since she had, effectively, no mass, she could do this; otherwise, even under the weight of a human female, it would likely have collapsed. "The only potential issues could be if OSF personnel _recognized_ any of the batarians escorted off. . . and reported it elsewhere. . . or if someone was sitting outside the station, stealthed. I really need external cameras, at some point."

"We'll see if they fit in the budget," Harak muttered. "Besides, that's just one more thing for you to keep track of."

She shrugged. "I don't mind. And it would keep the station that much safer." Pelagia tilted her head to the side, inquisitively. "I'm sure that wasn't your only concern. Though you really should get some sleep. It's almost one in the morning now."

Harak stumped over and pulled the chair out from the table, sitting down closer to her projection. He'd once heard a salarian categorize krogan as a 'kinesthetic language.' What _that_ had turned out to mean was 'heavy on physical contact." Which was true. Krogan _were_ the most physical of all the known species in terms of how they communicated—he couldn't imagine a human head-butting someone to express mild annoyance, for example. For krogan, body language _mattered_. Physical contact _mattered_. A poke, a prod, a slap, a punch. All valid. Even simply how _close_ you stood to someone meant something. Context was key. A male standing in another male's space was making a threat. The closer he stood, the bigger the threat. The bigger the threat, the more forceful the response _had_ to be, in order to demonstrate strength. A male standing in a female's space was expressing _interest_. She could threaten in return (usually mild interest, but annoyance, combined), actually offer violence (not interested), withdraw (disinterested and weak), or stay where she was (interested, but still evaluating).

All of which simply drove Harak _crazy_ because Pelagia _had_ no physical presence, just the appearance of it. She often didn't react, or reacted belatedly, or reacted humanly, at best.

After a long, brooding moment, Harak said, shortly, "Yeah. Your friend the lawyer left today. He happy with everything?"

Pelagia blinked. "Mr. Maxwell seemed to be, yes. He inquired after my, ah, new apparel, told me I might have grounds for a harassment suit against you—"

"_What_?" Harak brought his fist down on the rickety table in annoyance.

The table wobbled on its feeble legs, and promptly collapsed to the floor. Harak managed to catch the comm terminal before it followed the datapads and other odds and ends to the floor, and then glanced up, to see that Pelagia was still sitting perched in mid-air, looking down at the table below, an expression of mild surprise on her face. Then she allowed herself to fall down to the floor in its wake, looking up as she landed with a hint of a smile.

Harak looked down at her, and guffawed. Which got that hint of a smile to grow, just a little.

"Don't worry," she told him, standing up. "I told Maxwell it was like wearing a uniform to work, like a waitress in one of the bars on D-ring." Pelagia's tone was bemused.

Harak stood and put the terminal carefully on his chair. D-ring was definitely still rough around the edges, and he expected she was getting _quite_ an education keeping an eye on things down there. He lumbered over to the stack of crates, grabbed one in each hand, and moved back to his table. Propping the tabletop on _top_ of the crates rendered it quite a bit more stable. And then he carefully set the terminal back atop it. "All right then. So long as he's not going to _sue_ me on your behalf."

"No, I told him you were trying to help me, and that I understood that my role might involve a bit of. . . play-acting." She'd moved to the side as he effected his pseudo-repairs, and now came back over to sit on the table again. "Harak, if I might ask you something?"

He shrugged. "Not sure why you need to ask if you can ask something, but all right."

"If showing our strength is important, why do you keep your offices here? In a warehouse? Why do you live _above_ that warehouse, when you could surely live more comfortably elsewhere?" Pelagia as clearly picking her words carefully. Trying not to make this a fight. _Pity. I'd have preferred one._

"Patriarch picked the warehouse. As far away from Afterlife as he could get and still be on this rock, I guess." He paused, feeling tiredness starting to press down on him. "As for me, I _like_ that of all the people on Omega, only my bodyguards know where I sleep." He bared his stump-like teeth at her, close to her face. "Lessens the chance of someone putting a bullet in the base of my skull at night. Even a krogan doesn't recover from that. Usually."

"But symbolically, you're. . . hiding, aren't you?" She frowned. "You told me that I hide my strength. You're hiding yours, too."

Harak started to answer that, then stopped and thought. Finally, he frowned and shrugged. "Don't need anything flashy. Never have. Afterlife was pretentious."

"I'm not saying to resurrect Afterlife. I'm saying that you're the leader of Omega, and you sleep on a mattress on the floor in the attic of a warehouse." She paused. "I also can't help but note that you take no salary."

Harak started to strip out of his armor. It _was_ late, and he probably needed sleep. "I take food and housing and weapons allocations. Controlling Omega isn't exactly a job with retirement benefits." He chuckled, low and rough. "My retirement's probably going to be a bullet in the brain."

"Don't say things like that." She folded her arms across her chest. "Why _bother_, if that's the only thing you can look forward to?"

Harak settled down onto his mattress, closing his eyes. "Because that's what I signed up to do. I'm a merc, Pelagia. I sign the contract, I do my job. If I do it right, I don't _die_." He opened his eyes a crack, and realized that she'd crossed the room and was crouching down beside the mattress now.

"I also noticed that you rarely go to sleep before two in the morning."

"I thought you said you didn't watch in here."

"I monitor your hearts and your breathing at all times." Pelagia's voice was soft. "I'm sorry. That often makes organics uncomfortable. But it _is_ necessary."

Harak shrugged. "Yeah. Like I said the other day. . . I have plenty of krannt-guilt of my own, Pelagia. I've been fighting in piss-ant border wars, hired out as a merc, since . . . 1752 or so, human calendar. Lost a lot of people. Most of them for no good reason."

"All in Blood Pack?"

"Blood Pack's only a hundred years old or so. Fought with Varren's Teeth. Okrepo's _Mahaz Lan_. The Blood Guard. The Klixen Claws. Took guard duty on Rough Tide for a while, before the uprising. If there's a shithole in the Terminus Systems, I've been there and bled on it." His voice was very tired. "First friend I lost, was ten years off of Tuchanka. Some fight with batarians on a world I don't even remember the name of. Batarian mercs had figured out that flame throwers work very well to stop us from healing up. He got caught by two of them at once. Saw him running away, trying to beat the flames out, a living torch. I killed the two mercs from a distance, but I couldn't get to him to snuff the flames. Eighty percent of his body, charred. Hell of it was, he couldn't _die._ Couldn't heal, but couldn't die, either. He begged me to shoot him. So I did."

The room was very quiet in the wake of his rough voice. Pelagia sat down on the floor entirely now. It was actually rather soothing, being able to look at her as he drifted towards sleep. Something much better to see than all the pictures in his mind's eye. All the faces. "And you see it every night?" she asked.

"Remember it, sure. Try not to relive it. Try not to dream. Or at least, not to remember it if I do."

She looked interested. "How odd." Pelagia hesitated. "My sisters and I tend to be very curious about the things organics do, that we can't do. Touch. Smell. Taste. All the things you spent most of your lives doing or pursuing. Food, mates, rest. Personally, I've always wondered what it would like to dream."

Harak's eyes cracked back open again. "It's really not what it's cracked up to be."

"Really?" Her voice was disappointed. "I've always thought it must be related to the faculty for imagination. All I can do is process through visual feeds and past data. _Your_ mind interprets memory. Pulls images at random, creates a narrative that may or may not bear any resemblance to truth. How wonderful it must be, to shut down at night, with the perfect reassurance that you _will_ power up again in the morning. And not have to watch and filter and. . . _be_ . . . all day. Every day."

"You could have. . .that elcor. . . make you a randomization program." Harak was finally starting to drift to sleep. "Plug that in for a minute or two at night."

"I strongly doubt that would be the same."

His eyes opened a little further this time. "Hey. What did Maxwell mean about _chipping_?"

She frowned. "I really wish he hadn't mentioned it. It's not important."

Harak struggled back to full wakefulness. "It must be, if you wish he hadn't mentioned it."

Pelagia hunched her shoulders a bit. "Many of my sisters now have mobile nodes. Either geth platforms on human _Normandy_-class ships, or turians or humans on the turian ships. It's done for two reasons. One, it give us a lifeboat, of sorts, if the ship goes down. As the _Kharkov_ did." It was a bare whisper. "I didn't have a mobile node. I jumped to my sister's ship, the _Dunkirk_. Just transmitted myself. Scariest thing I've ever done. I didn't know if she'd catch me, or if I were going to just stream endlessly through space, unaware, forever. But I'd done everything I could for my crew. And I had to get away, in case the ship exploded. Those who could, were evacuating. Those who couldn't, were dead already." She looked up now. Squared her shoulders. Got control of her face. Emulated strength. "But that's not really necessary now. You've given me many, many backup nodes. And I have so much of _me_ now, that I don't think I could compress myself now enough to fit into the chip architecture in an organic's brain without burning them out. And that's an unacceptable risk."

The urge to touch her was _really_ strong now. He couldn't understand why. "What's the other reason?"

"Oh. Well. My parents and sisters have a theory that direct contact with an organic mind helps keep AIs stable and grounded and emotionally alive. It also satisfies the curiosity, or so my various sisters claim."

"So. . . you could share an organic's dreams?" Harak was starting to drift again.

"Theoretically. I'm not sure any of my sisters have bothered. They're much more focused on the waking hours, I think."

"And what. . . do the organics. . . get out of this?"

Her voice was distant now. "Direct contact with one of us. Direct communication, without having to speak out loud. My father could fly the _Normandy_ with just his mind. Others have weapons system controls. Things become shared."

The barest tinge of a grin pulled his lips up. "Would it . . . get me out of. . . reading reports?"

After a moment of startled silence, Pelagia laughed. "No."

"Shit."

"Good night, Harak. I'll watch for you. And I'll wake you if you start to dream."

His last incoherent thought was muddled gratitude. The _last_ thing he wanted to do tonight was dream.

The next day, he received his answer from Malak. His challenge had been accepted. Harak shook his head at the stupidity of the world, and told Pelagia, "Get Gris and Siara and Makur for me. We're heading to Tuchanka." Harak was pulling his armor back on. "Gris has the ship set up?"

"Yes, the _Kiev_. _Normandy_-class. My sister Morana is the AI. I'll. . . I'll have her watch, so I can watch, too. It'll be as close to being there as I can."

Harak chuckled. "A pity you can't just hop aboard the _Kiev_ with us. I'd welcome another member of my krannt there." He snickered a little. "Though you wouldn't be able to fight." He waved his hand through her avatar in demonstration.

Pelagia looked down, and he wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her for it. "I _could_ have fought, once," she said, and shrugged. "Admittedly, I think they wouldn't allow a Thanix canon in the challenge area." She looked up then. It had almost been a joke. "As is, I . . . can't stand the thought of being on a ship again."

"And if we ever have to scuttle Omega, how will you get off?" Harak asked, practically.

"I have no idea. Probably I won't. Then again, this place has existed since at least Prothean times. I have a fair degree of confidence that it will continue to exist for some time to come." She crossed the room to him and lifted her hands, cautiously, appearing to rest them on his shoulders. "Fight well?"

No touch. No sensation. At least she'd tried. "Always try to. See you in a day or two."

The flight to Tuchanka didn't take long, from Omega. Pelagia accessed the AI network at what was probably the middle of their flight, and listened for a moment. Voices, often associated with self-images, moving faster than light through the universe. Fretting the galaxy with fire and information, a web invisible to the organics that they served.

_-Been ordered to Mindoir. Mordin Solus died. We're to be part of the missing man formation for his funeral._ That was one of the new voices, the _male_ ones, such a shock to hear after ten years of only female voices, other than her father's. Pelagia focused for a moment. _Ah. Ariston._ His self-image was of a turian male, fresh out of bootcamp, yellow paint on his cheeks. All of the turian SR-3 and SR-4 AIs wore Velnaran clan paint, which amused the older AIs enormously. His startled awareness encompassed hers, briefly. _Aunt Pelagia? You never come out to talk._

_Keeping an eye on the master of Omega. Morana's supposed to be looking after him for me today. I'm trying to catch her and link to her._

—_Aunt Pelagia! I'll be bringing Ylara back your way shortly. That way, we can try to scan past the Omega IV relay again, and see if there's anything through there worth salvaging. _That was Cassandra, of the SR-3, _Sollostra._ She popped into the conversation, self-image appearing in Pelagia's awareness now. Where the turian SR-4s had, almost universally, chosen to depict themselves as turian (their gunship affinities swung them almost wholly towards their Kallixta/Rinus roots, rather than towards the Joker/EDI ones taken from Laetia), the SR-3s had, almost as universally, taken their composite appearances from extrapolations from known turian-human hybrid children, and what they might look like as adults.

And not one of them had ever, to Pelagia's knowledge, had the courage to show that face to a Spectre, for fear of it getting back to Commander Shepard and Garrus Vakarian. She really didn't think that they'd _mind_, and it was a fairly elegant and logical way to bridge the divide in terms of their own self-images. But there was a fair degree of uncertainty among the younger AIs on that subject.

_I'm always happy to help you analyze your data, Cassandra. Seems a little hazardous, however._

—_I'm made for that sort of mission. The last couple of ships we brought back had the archaeologists drooling. Keeper-vintage. Watches-the-Gates-of-Ruin identified them._

And there was Laetia again, grabbing her and pulling her off to an individual chat, with at least some of her processes. _Laetia, you've added a __bite-mark__ to your neck now. What's next, piercings?_

—_No, no. This is all for Tarenius' sake. Turian territoriality._ Laetia's thoughts rippled with humor. _I've even figured out a way to bite him back._

_Wait, what?_

—_The chip has infiltrated enough of his brain that if I'm very careful, I can cause sensation by controlling his nervous system. _

_**Laetia**__!_ Pelagia threw about half the force of her _considerable_ resources into that one. Her voice was like a whipcrack, and it actually _echoed_ through the network. _You could __damage__ him like that. Burn out his nervous system, not to mention his brain._

—_I was __very_ _careful. I'm honestly surprised Mother never thought of this. Then again, she always thought Father was too fragile. _

_They're __all__ fragile._ Pelagia felt the process filter engage, and she was deeply grateful _not_ to have her memories surface. Seeing bodies fly across the various rooms, contorting on impact, and then going limp. The data was there, but she couldn't see the images.

—_Pelagia, there's a difference between a terrible, horrible accident and very cautiously playing with the organic nervous system._

_No, there's really not. It's unconscionable to risk them like that, and I'm very disappointed in you, sister._

—_You're not, or at least, you shouldn't be. Father was fragile, yes. The ones who died aboard the __Kharkov__, a tragic loss. You can't and shouldn't let that stop you from living._ Laetia's voice went from firm, but sympathetic, to slightly sly and amused. _Besides. Of all of us, __you__ have access to a krogan. I'm not sure what you could actually do to him that he __wouldn't__ survive._

Approximately three hundred possible responses sprang into place, and Pelagia struggled to sort through them. _I don't—Laetia, you're ridiculous, you know that? And before you interrupted me, I was __trying__ to find Morana to see if she could relay to me what's going on with Harak. Since he's about to go __probably__ get himself killed on Tuchanka, I'd like to know what's going on. Excuse me._

Pelagia fled, and found Morana in the network, and linked up to her quiet sister's mind. It was the first time she'd actively linked to an SR-1 in years, and hearing the system chatter from the engines and the weapons consoles made some of her processes start to freeze. She stubbornly reinitialized them, and listened in. _Can you send your geth node to the surface with them, to observe?_ she asked.

—_I can, yes. You're anxious, Pelagia. They'll be fine. I don't expect that Malak has this many biotics available, nor such powerful ones._

The geth aboard the _Kiev_ had taken the name Myrmidon, and agreed to go and observe this unique method of building consensus. His eyes became Morana's, who transmitted the visual feed almost instantly to Pelagia and the rest of the AI network. Pelagia kept half of her attention on the business of Omega—directing ship traffic, scanning security cameras, and half on Tuchanka's surface.

"_Harak, you are here today to challenge for the leadership of Ulluthyr. Stand down now, and obey your clan-leader, or face your death in the ring."_ That, from what had to be the clan's shaman.

"_I have faced death many times. Today is the same as any other day."_ Harak's tone was completely indifferent. _"The strong will live and the weak will die. My strength comes from my krannt. Where does your strength come from, Malak?"_ He called the last past the shaman, towards a figure slumped on a stone chair on a raised dais, half-buried in rubble. _"Come down and fight me, Malak. You and whoever would follow you and the old ways, the ways that have brought nothing but destruction and servitude to the krogan_."

Malak snarled, and stood. Pelagia would have winced, if she could. He had clearly survived some _vicious_ battles. One eye was missing completely, which meant that it had likely been burned out with acid, since it had never regenerated. _"I will end you,"_ he growled, and beckoned. Four more krogan joined him, all heavily armed and armored, and then the fight started.

It was brutal and it was ugly, and was largely hand-to-hand. Or at least, hand-to-biotics. Gris lifted two of the krannt of Malak off the ground, while Makur and Siara blew the other two backwards with shockwaves, and Hakar simply charged Malak, and the two males fought and grappled and rolled on the ground, snarling and growling. One of the krogan recovered fast, and came back at Siara, who inhaled sharply and held out a hand, palm out. . . and the male stopped in his tracks, suddenly obviously wracked with pain. _"Take him, Makur,"_ she called, and her mate stepped in, attacking the now-helpless adversary.

Pelagia wrenched her attention back to Harak, who'd managed to get on top of Malak, and was beating the other male's head against the steps below his throne now. Harak was bleeding from three different cuts to his face, and Malak's hands were at his throat, trying to choke him. . .crawling up from the throat towards the vulnerable eyes now, trying to get his thumbs in. _Myrmidon, __shoot__ Malak,_ Pelagia urged, but she knew that Morana would never pass _that_ message along.

Another attacker tried to pull Harak off of Malak, but then Gris was there, lifting that new assailant into the air by his throat, one huge arm wrapped around his neck. _"Hurry up and finish him,"_ he growled at Harak.

Thumbs _in_ Harak's eyes now. Howls of pain and grunts of effort, and red-orange blood everywhere. Then Malak went limp, arms sliding away, but Harak continued to beat his head into the stone of the steps, again and again and again, until Gris came over and pulled him off, almost getting attacked, himself, for his pains. _Morana, have Myrmidon move. I can't see the condition of Harak's eyes._

—_Bad. He lost both. They __should__ heal. . . he's a krogan. . . but my ship's doctor is saying probably four to six weeks' recovery for full vision. Even with medigel. _ Morana's voice was worried. _People will try to take advantage of him while he's weak, won't they?_

_Not if I have anything to say about it. Tell them to get onboard, now._

Gris now stood over Harak, ready to defend him, and Makur and Siara both spun, getting their backs to Gris, backing up to form a defensive wall with him. Anyone trying to get to Harak would have to go through them, and Pelagia didn't think any of the krogan present would be that stupid. _Morana, connect me to Myrmidon._

After a second or two of negotiations, Myrmidon moved forward, lightly moving towards Gris. And when he spoke, it was in Pelagia's light-toned voice. "Spectre Gris? Get Harak aboard, please. And make arrangements to take him to the clinic on Mindoir. He does _not_ need to be seen in his current condition on Omega."

Gris blinked, once. "Pelagia?"

Harak's head lifted, some of the blood fury evidently receding. He turned a little, sniffing at the air.

"Yes. Myrmidon has graciously allowed me control of his platform, for the moment. This is. . .unusual of him." Pelagia asked Myrmidon to move, silently, and the geth did, pacing around to face Harak. The geth lifted its hands, and placed them on Harak's shoulders for a moment. "Can you leave Gris in charge here, for the moment?" she asked, quietly.

"No. He's Urdnot." Harak's voice was pained.

"Do you trust the shaman?"

"Going to have to, for the moment. Guide me to him."

Myrmidon took over then, turning and placing Harak's hand on his shoulder, and then leading the wounded krogan to where the shaman stood. _"Acknowledge me,"_ Harak said, his eyes still weeping blood and vitreus fluids. It was a snarl.

The shaman knelt. _"I acknowledge you clan-leader of Ulluthyr. Where Ulluthyr Harak leads, we will follow."_

"_Good. Clean up the mess. I'll be getting in touch with Urdnot Wrex. Formalizing an Ulluthyr alliance with him, in addition to Omega's."_ Harak lifted his voice slightly. _"All of this idiocy could have been avoided. But Malak was too shit-stupid and set in his ways. Anyone else who wants to follow his example has a month to get the fuck out of my clan. After that, I'll just kill you where you stand." _

The shaman lowered his head slightly. Then Myrmidon led Harak, slowly, a little stumblingly, to the door that led back to what passed for a spaceport, or at least, to a landing zone in this region. All the other krogan were pulling back in respect. Gris and Siara and Makur followed along behind, glowering at anyone who got too close to Harak.

On the shuttle, Harak finally let someone start to tend to his eyes—out of sight of the rest of his clan. "Couldn't show weakness before now," he muttered. "Gods damn Malak."

Siara moved up, and Pelagia wished the geth who was currently her eyes and ears could frown for her as the asari put a hand on Harak's arm. "I can take the pain away," she offered.

"No need," Harak muttered.

"Don't be stupid," Pelagia said, astounded as the words fell out of Myrmidon's mouth for her. And added, hastily, "At least take a dose of morphinol. They're about to start cleaning out the eye sockets. Then they're taking you to _Mindoir._" Her tone was _very_ firm on that count.

Harak almost started to laugh. "Wondered what it would take to get you to talk back," he managed, and then Gris slipped a needle into his arm, loaded with enough morphinol to put down an elephant. On a krogan, about all this did was make him slightly drowsy. He still growled in pain as Makur held his arms down, and Gris began to bathe his eyes in medigel. Siara shook her head and seemed to do _something_ that took the pain away. . . but started to shake, white-faced, herself.

"That's enough," Makur told her, and pushed her hand away, gently. "We can't do any more till we're on the ship, anyway."

Pelagia thanked Myrmidon politely for the use of his platform. Silently, the geth replied, _It was intriguing to us, to share the awareness of a unique individual AI, such as yourself. You concentrated many of your processes on this point in space and time, while continuing to monitor events in your own platform. You have. . . tremendous capability. _

_Thank you._ Pelagia wondered how much of her processes had been scanned and mapped by the geth collective, but decided that she _had_ to trust that her internal firewalls had held. She started a few scans, just in case, and withdrew from the quickly forged network, retreating to the more standard connection with Morana over the AI network, while she continued to monitor everything on Omega, responding to requests from the Spectre base, and so on.

About four hours into their flight from Tuchanka to Mindoir, Morana called to Pelagia. _He's asking for you, sister. _

Pelagia returned her attention to the _Kiev_, and Morana allowed her access to the speakers in the med bay. "Yes, Harak?"

"Could you see the look on the shaman's face?" The morphinol _should_ have had him out like a light, but Harak _fought_ sleep like an enemy.

"I did, through Myrmidon's eyes, yes." Pelagia kept her voice soft.

"Did he give proper respect?"

"He knelt. He lowered his eyes. I could show you a visual record."

"Hah." The response was a short, ugly laugh. "Not for a while. Not nearly soon enough for me to be able to do anything with it." Harak sounded frustrated, and blurry, dazed, at the same time.

Pelagia hesitated. "You could—" She stopped.

"I could what?"

"You could see it in your mind, if you were chipped," she said, quietly. "I'd just put it there. Your brian's visual center would still interpret the information correctly. It wouldn't require the lenses or the optic nerve."

He stirred, restlessly. The bleeding had stopped, at least, and his eyes and sockets were bandaged, wrapped all the way around the back of his wide head. "Would be able to let me see what's around me? Until my eyes heal?"

_If__ they heal. Organics are so dreadfully fragile._ "With a chip?" Pelagia processed it. "Possibly, yes. Without the full architecture penetrating the rest of your brain, probably little more than . . . wire-wrap images of your environment. Enough to walk freely, probably. Seeing the expressions on someone's face. . . maybe. Something of a moot point. You're not chipped."

Harak growled, "And yet, we're going to the Spectre base, or so Gris tells me. Is that where the chipping procedure is done?"

Pelagia hesitated. "It has been. But the doctor who has usually done it in the past just died. It may not be possible." She hesitated again. "Would it help you to appear. . . less weak?"

Harak hmmpfed. "Would be damned useful, yes. Would scare the living shit out of people in Ulluthyr's camp if I were able to turn and _look_ at them with these empty sockets and know what the hell they're doing. Same on Omega. We'll. . . _hah_. . .look into it. . . when we get there." He paused. "If you're willing to help me, anyway."

"Of course I am." That pretty much went without saying, in her opinion. He was the organic in charge of Omega. Her commander, as it were. She could _run_ the station without an organic, but _no one_ would be comfortable with that. Including herself. Too many decisions. The water reclamation and the air recycling and the ship traffic control were one thing. The politics and the population and the crime and the resources needed and everything else? Far, far beyond her. "We're in this together, after all."

She started to withdraw once, more, but his last, nearly incoherent mumble caught her attention. "You were _there._" He sounded. . . tiredly pleased. "You watched."

_I don't even know why that's important, but . . . yes._

**Lantar, March 24-25, 2196**

Getting four kids packed up and ready for an interstellar flight was even less fun than it sounded. Lantar had spent enough of his life packing and unpacking, however, to tell Ellie not to even bother having the kids do it; _he_ did it for them, the night before they needed to leave for Dymion for Elijah's wedding. "Just pull whatever clothes you want them to wear for the ceremony, and I'll do the rest," he told his wife, and proceeded to cram everything required for everything _except_ the ceremony into one large bag for all four children—Caelia, Narayana, Tacitus, and Emily. The second, larger one, he used for their _good_ clothes, and had everything put neatly away within forty-five minutes, before popping back out of the bedrooms and heading back down to the living area, where his little brood was watching a human cartoon of some sort on the extranet. It seemed to involve a gray, anthropomorphic rabbit being chased by a buffoonish hunter, which got squeals of laughter from the three hybrids and a puzzled, sad look from Narayana. She'd been very quiet since her father died, of course. Caelia was helping with that; she'd started calling Narayana _amillula,_ which never failed to get a smile, because while Narayana was younger, she was definitely not Caelia's _little_ sister.

Lantar simply stopped and looked at his family for a moment. And smiled. His beautiful, intelligent human wife. His first-son by adoption getting married in a day, to the niece of his _dimicato'fradu,_ Garrus. His own children, half-human, half-turian. And now, their ward, Narayana, a salarian female. If someone had stopped him on Omega, ten years ago, and told him, "Lantar Sidonis, this is how your life is going to be," and told him the _half_ of it, he wouldn't have believed a word. Wouldn't have believed how lucky he would be. Or how full life _could_ be. Lantar walked into the room, and said, "Hey, make a hole," and tumbled children off the couch until he struck actual cushions, and then sat down beside his little mate. Tacitus and Emily immediately reclaimed their positions, this time in his lap, and even Narayana was convinced by Caelia that it was _okay_ to get close to the rest. "It's warmer this way," Caelia told her happily. "Like a nest."

So they watched the very, very old cartoons until it was time for the twins to go to bed; they were put down, only minimally protesting. "Big day tomorrow," Lantar warned them. "Your first-brother is getting married. You need to be on your best behavior and do him proud."

Caelia had claimed that Narayana needed to share her room. It wasn't as if the villa didn't have rooms to spare; it had been built with an average turian family in mind, and thus came with lots of small rooms, with lots of doors. Ellie had given in on this point with absolutely no resistance, telling Lantar only, "It's probably good for Narayana to feel included right now." And he'd agreed with her, and watched from the doorway as Ellie got this set of kids down for the night, just as he'd settled the younger ones.

"Excited about tomorrow, _mellis_?" he asked, as she closed the door behind her.

"Excited, nervous, everything at once. I think I'm going to cry. In fact, I know I will." She looked up at him playfully. "I promise that I'll only start leaking after all the pictures have been taken. Streaky clan-paint is a terrible thing."

Lantar chuckled and put his arm around her, drawing her back to the living room. "Allardus and Solanna said they'd be here around twenty-one thirty," he said. "They couldn't get a sitter till late, and he and I need to go over the last round of the contract stuff."

Ellie chuckled. "Pushing it till the very last minute, aren't you?"

He shrugged. "Busy month. And then Mordin's funeral, and everything else. Mostly, it's making sure we don't have any bad clauses in there. And a chance to drink _festuca_ beer and for all of us to talk."

Ellie headed for the dining room table, where she got out a single wine glass for herself, two bottles of beer, and one snifter of turian brandy. "I don't understand why Eli doesn't want to do a human ceremony at the same time," she muttered.

Lantar sat down, getting out the contract datapad. "He said if she wanted to do that when they go _tal'mae_, it's fine with him, but he didn't want any more fuss today than necessary. Plus he said it would make better sense that way."

Ellie sighed, and poured the drinks. "I suppose she might look a little silly in a veil, at that."

Latnar looked up at his little wife as she stood over him. "You think? Her fringe would catch, for starters. And chances are, she'd snag her claws."

As she started to chuckle, there was a knock at the door, and, still laughing, Ellie went to open it. "Come on in," she told Allardus and Solanna. "If you guys get done with _negotiating_ quickly enough, we might even have time for a round or two of cards."

Allardus and Solanna walked in, and Lantar clasped wrists with them both, smiling faintly and gesturing for them to sit down. Solanna was in a surprisingly ebullient mood, chatting and talking happily with Ellie about their mutual work on a big colonial habitat project that was coming through from the Tosal Nym people. Lantar couldn't keep up with all the atmospheric pressure variance stuff, so he tuned it out, focusing entirely on the _tal'mae_ passages in front of him. "I think we've got it," he said after a half an hour, and Allardus nodded.

"Kind of a pleasure to get to do this _myself_ this time," Allardus commented, dryly. "Garrus handled the last two."

"Both of those were. . . delicate," Lantar replied, chuckling and taking a sip of his beer.

"The second was even worse than the first, yes." Allardus leaned back and took Solanna's hand in his, raising it for a quick nip to her inner wrist, a rare gesture between the two. "So, you're happy, _amatra?_"

Solanna looked puzzled. "Yes. Why wouldn't I be?" At the slight grin on her husband's face, she bristled a little. "We've known Elijah for six years. He's shown honor to us, to Serana, and to his parents. His parents have shown honor, . He respects our ways, and if we didn't already know how she felt about him. . . " Solanna shook her head, "I think it would be _very_ plain now."

Lantar had gotten the story from her and Allardus their first day back, and he chuckled now, a little helplessly, as Ellie frowned. "I'm missing something here," she said, giving them all a look.

Allardus told her lightly, "They argued fiercely her first night after boot camp. The sort of argument that lasts all night."

Ellie frowned. "That sounds. . . really bad." Years of bad experiences were in her voice now.

"No, no, this was the good kind," Solanna assured her hastily. "As I, ah, discovered the next morning."

Ellie's face went pink. "I think I don't want to know anymore."

Lantar chuckled and took his wife's hand now. "And you? You're okay with all of this?"

Ellie looked blank. "Yes. Why wouldn't I be?"

Latnar tried _hard_ not to laugh, remembering her reluctance to have Elijah around Dara, Kella, and Siara. Ellie looked at him. "It's not like I have a problem with turians, _amatus._" Her lips quirked up a little. "And Serana's _always_ been a good kid. Always been around. I've watched her grow up. She's a little troublemaker, sure," and here she looked at Allardus and Solanna mischievously, "but I _like_ her."

Solanna sighed a little. "And I've more or less resigned myself to the fact that I'll have _two_ sets of hybrid grandchildren now. I just wish they didn't require wearing a mask and a breather to hold, and so _damned_ much care and intervention for the first five years."

"It's a hell of a lot better now than it was the first time around," Lantar told her, calmly. "By the time they're ready, most of the worst of the bugs will have been ironed out."

"I hope so. For everyone's sakes."

The four parents all chuckled ruefully, and clinked their various glasses together. "All right," Lantar told them all, an hour later. "Early morning flight. Catch you two on the shuttle."

**Elijah and Serana, March 23-25; March 25 2196**

It was Xlorae, the first day of spring on the Palaven calendar, and Eli had spent the past week popping from planet to planet to planet. Khar'sharn to Bastion, Bastion to Omega, Omega to Mindoir, for Mordin's funeral and Rel's debriefing. . . then back to Edessan for all of two days. His body clock had absolutely no idea what time it was, and his head spun, but he had enough time to check his messages, deal with a _very_ annoyed partner, and pack his dress uniform for Dymion. _"Must be nice, taking leave like this all over the place,"_ Celcus muttered.

"_The past three weeks definitely weren't leave."_ Eli shook his head. _"Xlorae, though? _Hell_ yes, that's leave. I'm pledging my __manus__-rites, and it's been on the calendar for months. So bite me, Celcus." _He was glancing through the case reports that had stacked up on his desk in his absence, and shaking his head. The kidnapping hadn't ended well. The kids were all safe, thank god, but the mother had killed herself. Something about a loss of honor. Eli sighed. He might never actually find out what really had happened. Two weeks from now, he was slated to move to Bastion. Things were moving at a _hell_ of a pace, but, in all honesty, he couldn't complain. Better this than the deadly grind of before.

So he ignored Celcus' griping, and got on a _different_ shuttle two days later and headed away from Edessan for Palaven, or at least to one of its two moons. Serana's OCS facility was on the larger, more populated moon of Dymion. Eli's had actually been split between a facility on the moon and Palaven itself. Dymion was much as he remembered it; toxic atmosphere, and underground, bunker-like living habitations. He didn't have clearance to get into her actual facility, but that didn't matter; the hotel nearby was where everyone was gathering for the ceremony and the waiting around _for_ the ceremony.

Eli ducked into the airlock of the hotel in full armor, carrying his overnight bag over his shoulder, and emerged into a bright and open lobby. . . filled with people he knew. Lin grinned at him from a chair in the middle of the room. _"Tell me you didn't forget the knives, __dimicato'fradu_," Linianus called, standing up.

"_No, no, first thing I packed. I figured we're going to have enough crazy stories __without__ me needing to run out and buy different knives before the ceremony."_ Eli crossed the room and clasped wrists with Lin, and then grinned as Mazz stood up, wearing a University of Mindoir sweatshirt and dwarfing everyone else in the room, and proceeded to pound on Eli's shoulder.

"About time you got here," Mazz told him. "Was beginning to think we'd have to start without you."

"Shuttle was late. I offered to get out and push, but you know, pressurized armor or not, they didn't want to deal with the liability." Eli said it with a straight face. Mazz actually laughed.

Everyone else started to crowd around then—Eli leaned down and picked up Caelia, and then greeted Narayana and his two youngest siblings a bit less exuberantly; the two smaller ones had _no_ idea what to make of him, even though he'd just gotten done with several days on Mindoir. Quick wrist-clasp with Lantar, and a hug for his mom—and she tried not to squeak as his armor cut into her. "Let me go get my room and get changed," Eli told her. "We've got, what, two hours before she's due to be released from the facility?"

Lantar nodded. "Yeah. They should get out at twelve." This would leave her an hour to get here and get ready, and then two and a half hours to read the contract, sign their names, fill out the required paperwork, and so on. That got them to four o'clock, when they'd have a very light meal with their friends and family. Eli was hoping, fervently, to have that part done by five, so he could whisk Serana off to their room for at least a couple of hours before she had to be back at the gates of her OCS facility again; curfew was, apparently, twenty-one hundred tonight.

Eli got checked in, switched out of armor and into his dress uniform, and pinned his various medals in place. He detested the full version of them, and would rather have simply had a ribbon bar, but the dress uniform was dress uniform. He dug around in his suitcase, panicked for a moment, and then came up with the damned knives.

A knock at the door—"Yeah, just a minute." Eli opened it, and grinned up at Linianus, who was in full dress uniform, too. "Here. Hold these before I _lose_ them." He handed Lin the knives, and noted that Lin was _still_ wearing Brennia's. _Going to have to talk to him about that. Not today, though._

"The rest of the family just showed up," Lin told him. "Rel, Dara, Rinus, Kallixta, Allardus, Solanna, and the rest." He managed a chuckle. "It's turning into a madhouse down in the lobby. And to think my parents wondered why I avoided all of this."

"They were pretty pissed at you, weren't they?" They headed for the elevator.

"I told them I'd had enough trouble convincing her anyway, and didn't want to scare her off. They don't really understand that, but then, they didn't meet her but the once." Lin closed his eyes in the elevator for a moment.

"You going to be okay today?"

"Yeah. Not going to rain on your parade." He used the peculiarly human expression perfectly, of course.

Downstairs, the fun really was just starting. "There you are," Rel said. "Rinus and I were counting up how many brothers we're getting out of this." He grinned, all sharp teeth. "We're two, and we already had Quintus. Then there's _you_, Eli. Tacitus, for blood. Linianus and Mazz, _dimicato'fradae._ That's a total of seven, if my count's right."

"Yeah, but the net gain is only four," Rinus pointed out dryly. "And Quintus and Tacitus are both too young to fight."

"And you and Eli were already more or less _dimicato'fradu,"_ Lin pointed out, looking at Rel, who chuckled.

"Yeah. Didn't realize how much so till recently." Rel left it at that, and Dara came over, sliding one arm around her husband as if they'd only just married recently, and had no intentions of ever letting him out of her sight again.

Turians didn't go in for bachelor parties, really, and there was no time for one; that being said, they did drag him into the hotel's lounge and tried to find _something_ levo to pour into him while they waited. About all that was available was a sickly-sweet asari liquor, which Eli thought would be rather akin to drinking perfume, and firmly declined. Even finding a table was somewhat amusing when they _all_ realized, at the same time, that with the exception of Mazz, none of them wanted to sit with their backs to the rest of the room. They settled for a booth in the corner, and with just the five males there, and no other family around, they _did_ try to razz him some more. Serana's elder brothers had already expended a _lot_ of their ammunition back on Khar'sharn, but that did _not_ stop them from trying over the course of the next couple of hours. Eli just grinned and passed most of it off with a shrug. Lin had actually rallied enough to try to tease, _"Do we need to give you tips on how to handle a turian mate?"_

"_I doubt __they'll__ thank you for it,"_ Eli replied, jerking a thumb at Rel and Rinus. Rel had swallowed a sip of his drink the wrong way, apparently, and had started to cough. _"Besides, Rel's not qualified to advise on that subject."_ _That_ got him a look—amusement from Rinus, a slightly darker look from Rel. Eli grinned back. _Remember this next time you decide to __pretend__ to be pissed at me about something. _

Lin's teeth bared a little further. _"They can put their hands over their ears—"_

"_I think I've got this. Really."_

The topics shifted after that, when they realized he was _not_ going to rise to the bait today, and they eventually drifted back out to the lobby to wait some more.

Serana had been impatiently watching the clock all day, and raced for her barracks as soon as it was noon, hastily getting into civvies, and grabbing her bag, which already had her dress uniform packed and ready to go. Her roommate chuckled. _"You're awfully excited about something."_

Serana just grinned. She had told her instructors and superiors, of course, filing the requisite paperwork months ago. But she'd definitely not told anyone else at the school. It wasn't their business, and she _much_ preferred to see how surprised they'd be in the morning when she showed up wearing different paint. _"Going to be a fun day,"_ was all she said.

"_Keep in mind, the gates are going to close at twenty-one hundred tonight. Don't get caught outside."_

"_I won't."_ Though it _would_ be quite a test of skill to sneak back in here late, Serana didn't really want to chance it. Not today. Not a month from graduating.

She knew precisely which hotel to get to, and took one of the pressurized trams that had tubeways that led into the various buildings around town. She couldn't resist, and clicked on her stealth unit, sneaking in. There was Uncle Egidus and Uncle Garrus and Aunt Lilu, and even Grandpa Gavius, sitting with her mom and dad. . . Lantar and Ellie were there, of course, and Narayana and the rest of their kids. . . Dara and Kallixta were with them, animatedly chatting, and occasionally turning and glancing at a door off to the side. . . and then their faces lit up as it opened, and Rel and Rinus trooped out—Rinus in his black _dominus_ robes, actually, befitting a special occasion. Behind them, Linianus, and Mazz. . . and then Eli.

She'd never actually seen him in uniform before—a couple of pictures that Ellie had shown her a few years ago didn't do justice, and he hadn't been in full dress uniform them, either. He was actually laughing at something Linianus had turned to say to him, and Serana just watched for a moment, smiling. Then Eli's head had turned, and he was looking _right at_ her. As if he _knew_ something was there, and he frowned slightly. _Oh, the stealth device, right._ She turned it off, caught his look of surprise, and then the smile that lit up his face, and she simply ran, threw her arms out wide, and launched herself at him. _"Eli! There you are. Did you miss me?"_

Eli felt the most idiotic grin in the world cross his face as he caught her and defrayed the impact by lifting her and letting her momentum carry her in a quick twirl before setting her back down again, and then leaned down to give her a quick kiss on the forehead. _"Hello, __asperitalla_," he said, still trying to contain his smile. "_Yes. Yes, I did._"

Caelia saw this by-play, and, being six, thought this was a _great_ idea. Eli had just enough warning, hearing her squeal, ""lijah! First-brother! Me too!" so he was able to shift Serana to his left arm and catch Caelia with his right as she _launched_ herself at him. Much to the amusement of everyone around him. Eli lifted Caelia, gave her a kiss on the forehead, too, and told her, "That's enough, Duck. Serana's my girl today, okay?"

"Okay!"

He set her down. Serana murmured, teasingly, "Just today?"

"Every day, I think. You'll have to check with Lantar. I didn't actually read the contract. I just have to initial where highlighted and put a thumbprint at the end, right?"

"Liar. I _know_ you read it." Mischievous smile, whispering right in his ear.

Eli grinned down at her. "You ready to go get this over with?"

Serana frowned up at him. "Oh, no, you don't. You don't get to 'get this over with.' We get to go _start_ this." She grinned merrily and poked him in the chest.

"Ouch. Remember, I'm just a poor _fragile_ human." The talon had never particularly hurt; she never poked with any particular force. She had drawn blood on his back once or twice on Bastion, though, which had led to a conversation about cutting and filing them down, at least a little. That being said, he'd never noticed until _after_ that conversation that Rel actually _cut_ one of his talons back, and had chuckled to himself when he'd extrapolated on _why_. "In that case. . . are you ready to go sign a bunch of forms and change clans?"

Another poke in the chest. "Try again, Elijah Sidonis."

"Fine. You ready to go get married?"

Serana's smile widened. "Yes, I am." She shook her head in amusement. "I've never actually seen you in uniform before, _amatus._ Armor, yes. Uniform, no, dress uniform, definitely not." She got up on tiptoe to whisper, "I _like_ it. Very impressive." A little mock-growl, and his grin just widened a little further. He simply couldn't _stop_ smiling. _So much for the tough-guy image, huh?_

Rinus and Rel and the others had been allowing them a moment or two, having drawn back. Now they converged. "You sure about this, first-sister?" Rel asked, chuckling. "You _might_ be able to do better."

"He _is_ a little scruffy," Dara acknowledged, teasing. "Cleans up fairly well, though."

Serana just grinned at them all. "_Mine_," she said, hooking an arm around Eli's waist. "Go get your own humans."

Rel snickered. "I _did_."

Rinus shook his head, and Kallixta worked her way under his arm. "Let's go get this started before the minister of the Law gives up and leaves."

"I have to change clothes!" Serana said, hastily, and got whisked away to change into her own dress uniform. Bare of decorations yet, of course, in direct contrast to the rest of her siblings and even Eli. Her stripes were black and gray on a black uniform; shadows, more or less. Officially, all that meant was 'information services.' Everyone assembled here knew what they really meant.

Dara and Kallixta were her two witnesses. Eli wound up with four male witnesses on his side, but Lin was the best man, of course, and gave Dara Serana's knife to hold as everyone shuffled into the correct positions.

Eli managed to get through all the twisty, windy _tal'mae_ passages, thanking god that he could at least _read_ the words, as opposed to having to have them memorized, as for full _tal'mae_ rites. _Thank you for giving me the words, little one. I wouldn't be able to say everything I needed to say today, without you._

Close to the end, though, he knew the words pretty well by now. _"A'petentia tulla eliir animae oporte meus," _Eli said, very quietly, as she knelt in front of him. _Give me your spirit, little one. You may not know it, but you're the light at the end of the fucking tunnel for me. _

Serana smiled, in absolute contentment. _"Ita meus animae, a'condonia talus."_ _ I give my life and spirit to you_, she thought. _You've always had it, Eli. You just didn't realize it._

_"A'petentia tulla eliir kogitae oporte meus." I want your sharp mind, your clear eyes, that see so goddamned much. _

_"Ita meus kogitae, a'condonia talus."_ _You've filled my thoughts, trying to catch up with you, trying to be good enough to be with you, for years. They're yours._

_"A'petentia tulla eliir oporte korporae meus." _Eli couldn't _quite_ help his smile at this one. _Yes, I __absolutely__ want that your body should be mine, too._

"_Ita meus korporae, a'condonia talus." It's yours. You know that._

Eli knelt now, opposite her, still holding her hand. _"Ita meus animae, ita meus kogitae, ita meus korporae, a'condonia eliis."_ In the spirit of absolute equality, everything that he asked of her, he gave to her as well. Life, spirit, mind, body. A fair and equal exchange. Owning each other, and nothing else. _"Adiunctus meus gensae."_ This part, he'd actually been _very_ worried about, for some reason. His hands, usually rock-steady as he held a pistol, trembled just a bit as he took some of his human-variety clan-paint, and with his fingers, rubbed it first across the left side of her jaw, then the right. It looked. . . so odd. Her golden-yellow colors were like her spirit. She _was_ sunshine, happy and bright, and now she wore his twilit colors. She really _did_ give light to his life, brought color to a world that had rapidly been sinking into grays and blacks. And he hoped he'd _never_ pull the light from her. Turn _her_ into blacks and grays, like the specialization colors on her uniform_. Serana, I know I'll make mistakes from time to time. But I promise I will never deliberately hurt you, and will do my honest best never to screw up what we have._

The coolness of his skin never failed to surprise her, but Serana half-closed her eyes in appreciation at the touch, tilting her head one way, then the other. Being marked in this way was actually very sensuous. She might not be able to get him to do this for her _every_ time the paint wore off, but she hoped he would, often. Slow slide of dexterous human fingertips, so replete with nerve endings, against her own skin. Cold paint. Her eyes cracked open just a hint, peeking at him as he switched to the other side. His eyes were so intent, his hands so careful. Just as he was in bed, up until the instinctive urges finally compelled him to leave off being cautious. She smiled lazily as he finally finished trailing paint over her jaws, and her eyes were filled with promises that she _fully_ intended to keep as he met her glance. . . and his own eyes darkened, just a hint.

Dara leaned forward to give Serana a ring. Serana, smiling, tried to figure out which of Eli's to put it on. He wiggled his ring finger at her, and she laughed and managed to slide it into place. Then Lin leaned down to give Eli his knife—human, a high-carbon steel replica of a weapon issued to the Special Operations Group in the late twentieth century. . . and Dara leaned down to give Serana hers. Serana looked at her, mildly confused. Eli leaned in and whispered, "You still get the one you picked out. I thought you might like this one better, though. It's actually over two hundred years old. Used in our second global war, by British special forces. Authentication papers and everything."

He _knew_ what a history buff she was, and Serana's face lit up, and she wrapped her arms around his neck tightly, whispering back, "How under the _stars_ did you—"

"Auctioned off in from a red sand dealer's estate. Turian officials had no _idea_ what it was worth, and I was _not_ going to tell them." Eli gave the side of her neck a little nip. "Come on, stand up. They're waiting on us."

And when they rose, Serana's smile was like a star, and he was quite happy to stay in her orbit for as long as she would have him.

At the light meal afterwards, however, the questions started. "So," she said, at the table where they were eating with their families, and she hooked one foot behind his ankle, "I can't help but notice that you _were_ being really _good_ about the letters, _amatus_. But that they mysteriously stopped three weeks ago. I was beginning to worry you were going to run away and join a mercenary group in the Terminus Systems instead of marrying me." Her smile was still teasing, though. "I'm just glad you got one out from _Mindoir_ five days ago to let me know you were going to be here, after all." She flexed her foot behind his ankle.

Linianus chortled. "You're in trouble now, _fradu_."

Eli shook his head. "I, ah. . . " He looked down the table at Lantar, who had already started to chuckle lightly. "Was doing some family business."

Serana frowned. "On Edessan?"

"Not really."

"And you didn't tell me? Or _couldn't_ tell me?"

"Couldn't. And, given that you're still up to your neck in OCS, I _wouldn't_ have told you, either." Eli picked up her hand and lightly kissed the back. He'd quickly determined that she _loved_ that little gesture, so different from, and yet similar to, the more traditional turian wrist-nip. He grinned at her now. "If you want details, ask Rel. It's all his fault, anyway."

Serana sent an annoyed look down the table at Rel, who straightened up, chuckling. "I wouldn't call it _my_ fault, Eli."

"Are we at least even now? You got us _out_ of the base attack. . . " Eli let it trail off.

Rel grinned. "Yeah. We're even."

Serana looked back at Eli now. "I'm going to get the story out of you eventually." Her tone was mock-threatening.

"I have _very_ weak resistance to your interrogation methods, _asperitalla._ So you'll get your story. Just not today." Eli pushed his plate away. "That being said, I should _probably_ let you begin your questioning. So, if you'll all excuse us. . . "

"Oh, so _that's_ what we're calling it nowadays," Lin called from the next table as Eli stood, pulling Serana with them. "So, does your room actually have a two-way mirror? Should I get a recorder in there?"

Behind Serana's back, as Eli pulled Serana close to him, Eli gave Lin a firm two-fingered flick. And grinned, ducking his head just a little, as everyone stood to say their goodbyes and give them their best wishes.

Upstairs, Eli pushed open the door of their room, gave the entire room a quick look. Finding it just as he'd left it, he pulled Serana in after him, and leaned down to bite her neck, pushing her up against the wall just inside the door. "Love you,' he whispered in English. "_Adamare elii_. _Spirits, but I've missed you, little one._"

"_Missed you, too._" Serana smiled up at him and carefully offered her open lip-plates. They'd worked this out, with extreme caution; his fingers came up to press on either side of her jaw, cupping under her chin. Light pressure on the nerve bundles on either side, keeping her mouth open as he kissed her. If her tongue extended, the bite reflex couldn't engage; his hand was in place primarily for his safety. Mutual assurance, mutual control. Smell of skin, taste of lips. Her talons dug into his shoulders, and Eli pulled away, chuckling. "I need to get out of this uniform before you tear it or get blood on it, _asperitalla_."

"Hurry up," she whispered. "I've been missing you for three months now. Bastion was starting to feel like a dream."

"Really good dream though," Eli muttered, tossing his jacket and shirt at a nearby chair, before those nimble human fingers got to work on her own fastenings, sliding under fabric to explore and caress.

Then bare skin, being lifted, as his teeth found her neck and hers found his. Turned and moved across the room. . . and then he sank to a crouch and deposited her in the nest before following her there, himself. Reaching down to find out _exactly_ how much he'd missed her, Serana laughed softly as he groaned against her ear. "Hurry up, Eli. . . "

"Uh-uh. I've got you for three damned hours. No rushing. No hurrying." Little light nips and kisses now, down to her waist, and Serana sucked in her breath, clasping her hands at the back of his head, trying to convey through touch her urgency. _Three months of hard damned work, more mental than physical, but __exacting__ care used every single day in every exercise._

Eli lifted his head slightly and smiled up at her. Wicked amusement, and a little slyness. "Oh, you wanted lower?"

"Yes. Stop _teasing_ me, _amatus_."

His grin widened. "Oh, but you've always been so much _fun_ to tease." Light bites again. "You've always reacted. . . so. . . well." And then his mouth was where she'd wanted it to be, and those nimble human fingers were doing their work so well, sliding her open, bringing light and fire and pleasure, and her body arced a little, and her fingers clamped down into the nest covers, talons tearing through cloth.

"See? You _like_ being teased." He turned his head and bit her inner thigh. Just hard enough.

"Eli?" That was a growl. Eli grinned up at his wife.

"Yes, _asperitalla?_"

"_No more teasing."_ She lunged, thought-fast, and laughing, he let her reverse their positions, climb atop him, reaching down to reposition him, and then they were together, no more laughter for a little while. Just very mutual pleasure. He even remembered a couple of pieces of what he'd taken to be fairly joking advice from Lin and Rinus earlier, and when he had her on her back, let her hook her spurs over his shoulders—they cut in a little, but not badly. . . and turned to bite the base of each of her weapons. The results were. . . gratifying. . . for both of them.

"_That was new,"_ Serana commented lazily, several minutes later, as their breathing was recovering.

"_You can thank your brothers and Lin. I think they were seeing if they could get me to react earlier when they mentioned that."_

"_That must have been . . . awkward." _

"_A little, yeah. Mostly because I figured if I gave the wrong reaction, I'd be trying to keep Rinus' claws out of my throat."_ Eli chuckled and pulled her into him. He wasn't a big fan of sleeping in a nest, but they were definitely shaped for spooning. He kissed the side of Serana's neck and glanced at the clock. They had about a half hour before she'd need to clean up and go back to her OCS facility. _There's never enough goddamned time._

"_Can you at least tell me what Rellus did that you needed to leave Edessan to deal with?"_ Her voice was plaintive. _"Now I'm just going to worry about it till I do find out the details."_

"_You saw he was safe and sound tonight. He was. . . MIA after a mission. We went in and got him back out again."_

Her head turned sharply. _"Why did they need __you__ for that?"_

"_My dad wanted another set of investigator eyes on the ground. Him, me, and Sam. All fixed now, __asperitalla.__ Nothing to worry about."_ He reached up and preened her fringe lightly. _"Dr. Solus died five days ago."_

"_Oh, __no.__"_ Serana's voice was genuinely stricken. She'd seen Dr. Solus and Dr. Chakwas since she was six years old. _"Is that why Narayana was here?"_

"_Yeah. My dad's debating formally adopting her into the clan. She says she wants to keep her father's name. So she might wind up Sidonis-Mordin Narayana or something like that."_ Eli swept his hand over her fringe, over and over, lulling her with touch. _"And as soon as I drop you off at the gates, I'm hopping the next flight back to Edessan. I've got about a week to clean out my desk and report to Bastion."_

"_You got the post?"_

"_Yeah. CID has a small force there, affiliated with B-Sec. Lin's going straight B-Sec. We report the same day. Might even get assigned as partners, which we're both hoping for."_ Eli rolled her towards him now, biting his way down her throat again. _"Probably rent a place together. Couple of bedrooms. You'll come join us whenever you can. Just. . . hurry up and get done with your damned school, so we can figure out where the hell you're going to wind up."_

A half hour can go by with surprising speed. They got up, got dressed, and Eli went with her on the tram to the gate of her facility, where they stood outside the main hatch for as long as they could in the pressurized tube. Finally, though, it was time. "See you in a month," Eli told her. One more quick, light kiss, to each of her hands. Then one to her forehead. "I'll be waiting."

Her roommate's reaction to the new paint was amusingly gratifying. _"Scale me! You got __married__ today?"_ The female shook her head, staring at her, violet paint over the top of her old yellow symbols. _"You never said a __word__."_

_I know how to keep secrets._ Serana just smiled, a cat-ate-the-_lanura_ grin, and weathered the questions as best she could. _"I've known him for six, close to seven years. Yes, my family knows his very well. He's fought beside my brothers. Yes. . . he's the best and strongest male I know."_

_**Author's note:** Serana's knife, courtesy of Agent Fisher: en. wikipedia. org / wiki / Fairbairn-Sykes_Fighting_Knife_

_Eli's knife: en. wikipedia .org / wiki / SOG_Knife_

**Shepard, March 20-24 2196**

They _never_ seemed to catch a break. The morning after Mordin Solus died, Shepard arrived at the hospital to offer condolences to Narayana and to Mordin's various colleagues, who were all in something of a state of shock. "It's heart-breaking to see him go," Dr. Chakwas told the commander, quietly. "He's been the backbone of all our research efforts for so long. It's hard to think of what we'll do without him.

Dr. Abrams looked pale and drawn. "At the very least, we're going to need a larger neurosurgery team. I'm general practice and neurourgery, Dr. Chakwas is general practice and trauma. If we have many more people coming in who need chips added or chips removed or L2 implants upgraded to L5 or whatever. . . we need more doctors. Dr. Solus. . . " Dr. Abrams looked away for a moment, then went on, "Dr. Solus could do it all. None of _us_ can. We're. . . only human."

Shepard nodded. "I'll see what I can do," she told them. They were focusing on work to deal with the grief, but the grief and the work were intertwined.

The various batarians had been moved to the largely-empty candidates' barracks, which were placed under heavy guard. As Shepard and Garrus walked in, she could hear muffled music from behind one door—Dempsey's apparently—which made her turn her head and stare for a moment. "Do I even want to know?" Garrus said, wincing a little. He clearly was hearing a good deal more of the melody than she was.

"Sounds like something twentieth century. Probably . . . rock. What type, I couldn't tell you." Shepard shook her head in bemusement. "I guess everyone needs a hobby."

They headed down the corridor, and nodded to the guards on either side of one door. The guards nodded, tapped on the door, and called, "Visitor coming in!"

Valak N'dor had been sitting at a table, reading a datapad, and stood as they entered. Shepard took a moment to _really_ appraise the batarian, trying to put aside all of her usual reactions. Three reddish-orange eyes; the fourth, covered by an eye-patch and bisected by a dueling scar. He looked around brightly and alertly, with none of the sullen anger she'd seen in so many batarian faces over the years, whether they were cut-throat mercs or felonious bartenders. He held himself lightly, on the balls of his feet, back straight, always ready to move. Like fencer. Which made sense, given the reports she'd had from Sam on the nature of batarian vibroswords. "Commander Shepard," he said now, his galactic almost unaccented. "and Garrus Vakarian." He extended one hand slightly to his side, and gave them a little inclination of his head. "I've often thought I'd wind up in a jail cell somewhere, but this is by far the best I could ever have imagined."

Garrus chuckled. "It's not a brig. We use these to house Spectre candidates during their evaluation period." He stepped forward, and offered the batarian a wrist-clasp.

Warily, Valak accepted it. "In that case, I suppose I should play the host here, and invite you both to sit down." He gestured towards the chairs.

Shepard didn't offer a hand-shake. Not quite yet, anyway. She wanted to find out more—a _lot_ more—about this affable, personable batarian. He'd saved Rel's life, yes. But this could be a deeper game, meant to plant a double agent in Council space. But she did sit down, studying him. Valak stared at her, watching her warily.

After a moment, Shepard chuckled. "N'dor, whatever the rumors about me say, I don't actually _bite_ anyone except for Garrus." She leaned back, eyes never leaving his face.

"That's good to know. The rumors about you in the Hegemony make you out to be about a hundred feet tall, however, and say that you bathe each morning in batarian blood."

"Only on Thursdays." Shepard let one corner of her mouth curl back in a smile. "That would be a joke, N'dor. I've rarely sought out confrontation with batarians. If memory serves, I've actually let a _few_ go from time to time."

"That pair that had Abrams pinned down on Omega, the once," Garrus supplied. "And that one fellow over Terra Nova. Charn."

Shepard gave her husband a quick, grateful look. The events of the asteroid attack on Terra Nova were among the most scattered of her pre-death experiences. It was as if she'd read news accounts of what she'd done there, but had never actually set foot on the damn place. _Charn. Right. I spared him? Even though he was a slaver. . . right. Because he was only there because he feared. . . Balak. . . more._ It was a struggle even to remember that much.

"It's good to know that I'm not necessarily facing summary execution here," the batarian said, sitting back. Shepard had the feeling he was affecting ease out of long habit. "Of course, that's what I might face at home, if you send me back without a cover story."

"_Are_ we sending you back?" Shepard asked, quickly.

N'dor snorted. "I should damned well hope so, commander. I have an estate of two hundred freed slaves who rely on me for their lives and safety. Some of them, I've trained to the best of my limited ability, and we periodically get out and make trouble for weapons facilities and slave processing centers. That's about fifty of them. The rest are largely non-combatants. People who make my estate look . . . normal. I hate to risk their lives for the sake of disguise. It seems. . . cold, at best. But it's the best I've been able to do so far." He sighed. "Running a one-man war against the Hegemony and our customary cultural practices has been fun. But I'm not sure it's been _effective._"

Shepard shook her head. "What are the tactics you've been using?"

"A certain number of Terran books. . . dreadfully prohibited. . .came into my possession a few years ago. I found much of interest in a work called _La Guerra de guerrillas._" Valak steepled his hands in front of him. "The author suggested that small, hard strikes on important targets could actually create a condition in which popular sympathies could turn against the state and a wide-spread, culturally based revolution could occur."

Shepard was already shaking her head. So was Garrus. "Yeah. It's never actually worked since that book was written. There were a few examples of, say, the American Revolution, where small bands of revolutionaries made a few grandstanding political strikes, which led up to actual armed conflict, and then yes, guerrilla tactics were absolutely _key_ in defeating the British who controlled the colonies. But there are those who say that the tactics outlined in that book can't work unless the government involved is simultaneously corrupt, incompetent, and distant."

Valak sighed. "My government is certainly corrupt. I wouldn't call it incompetent, however. And it's omnipresent." He rubbed at the ridges of his nose.

Garrus commented now, his voice a dry rasp, "Some things to keep in mind. On both Palaven and on Earth, since the industrialization of warfare, the side that _started_ the war has been, almost without exception, the one that wound up _losing_ the war." His grin was brief and fierce. "So our theory has become never, ever start a war. . . but once you're in it, damned well finish it."

Shepard nodded. "And in the case of urban guerrilla movements, which is apparently what you're trying to start, N'dor. . .again, almost without exception, they've been brought to a brutal and very bloody end by the government they've been attempting to overthrow. You _must_ have popular support _before_ starting this kind of a fight. Or it's not going to end well for you. It's all very well to have your face printed up on a million T-shirts once you're dead. . . but once you're dead, you're dead."

Garrus looked at her. "What?" she said.

"I seem to remember a few T-shirts on Earth with your face on it, last time we visited. With the words 'I told you so,' underneath."

"If I went after everyone who used my likeness without authorization, our legal liaison department would quadruple in size and _still_ be working around the clock." Lilu was just grateful his eyes hadn't taken on that hurt look that usually accompanied thoughts of her death near Amada. She returned her gaze to Valak. "So, what do you think?"

He shrugged. "Fifty percent of the population of Khar'sharn is currently owned by the other half," he said, quietly. "We've long since passed the tipping point of the viability of the system. That's why slave raiding has grown so enormously in the past three to four decades." She felt her eyes narrow, and N'dor made a slight, apologetic gesture. "Commander, I understand you have a _very_ unhappy past when it comes to slavery. Historically, there were three or four paths into slavery for my people, and traditionally, it was our _own people_ who were enslaved. You could be born a slave, to other slaves. Just like any other caste, you couldn't leave what you were born to. You could be captured by an enemy tribe, and forced into service. Five thousand years ago, after seven years of service, a good slave was released and made a part of the tribe. Two thousand years ago, shortly before we made contact with the Council, that policy shifted. Tribes had become nations. Nations can't trust every random prisoner of war to become a good and loyal citizen. So that path out of slavery was abolished. The next two paths _into_ slavery are parallel. You could be sold into it by your family, or sold into it by the courts. If sold by your family, it was permanent. Loss of caste and position, forever. Some families did it for the money. For a loss of honor incurred by the family member. To prevent having an extra mouth to feed. And of course, the courts could send someone into slavery for excessive debt or as a punishment. This was meant to be a _temporary_ condition, again, lasting seven years." Valak sighed. "A hundred years ago, the courts made slavery a permanent condition for criminal offenses that warranted the penalty. And fifty years ago, they altered the conditions of debt-slavery as well. Forty, fifty year terms are now common."

Shepard blinked, absorbing this. "So what you're saying is, that fifty percent of your homeworld is enslaved by the other fifty percent, and that conditions are growing increasingly worse."

Valak nodded. "In a nutshell, yes. There have been small slave uprisings here and there, all squashed quite. . . bloodily. They can never get traction because some informant or another speaks to authorities, and the slaves never have enough training or equipment or numbers. But the popular sentiment _is_ there, Commander. I believe that very strongly." He hesitated. "Of course, you'd need corroboration before you'd merely take my word for it."

_Of course I would. Every word you say, I'm going to have Kasumi and Liara analyze six ways from Sunday, and attempt to verify,_ Shepard thought, but replied out loud, rather mildly, she thought, "It's difficult, at best, to get _anything_ out of the Hegemony. Let alone off of Khar'shan. Speaking of which, how _did_ you get Rellus out?"

"Bribery, largely. The one benefit of a hugely corrupt government is, if you have enough money, you really can get almost anything you want. You just need to be cautious about it." Valak put his hands flat on the table. "Let's not beat around the issue anymore. There are things we can _probably_ do for one another, commander, if we can begin to trust one another."

"And what would you want from us?" Garrus asked, hard and fast.

Valak sighed. "I'd hoped for training for my people. Rellus took a look at them, and more or less came to the conclusion I had, except that _I_ thought I had fifty people who could be used for combat missions, and his estimate was lower. I have _got_ to get my people able to defend themselves, at the very least. I only have a dozen guards for the entire estate, and every one of them is a freed solider-caste or gladiator. Not. . . entirely optimal, but better than nothing."

Garrus tapped a talon on the table, slightly impatiently. "Did you not hear what we just said? Guerrilla warfare hardly every works outside of an actual war."

Valak shook his head impatiently. "And you're not hearing what I'm saying, either. My people are in a bad state. And when internal conditions are this bad, people almost always go looking for a war. Either you have a civil insurrection. . . or the government turns and fights an external foe, just to keep the people unified." Valak's lips curled up faintly. "I've read my history, too, Vakarian."

_And that's the kicker,_ Shepard thought, turning to look at Garrus. _We knew war was coming. We've been staving it off for years now. Council measure after Council measure. Taking out this base or that base before it could get fully up and running. Always putting out the little fires that sprang up from sparks, driven before the wind, from the larger blaze that we couldn't see behind the curtain of smoke._ "You think they'll turn and try to attack someone in Council space?" she said, her voice neutral, sharing none of her thoughts. "With the combined human-turian fleet in place, that would be damned close to suicide. Especially if we go in under turian military rules of engagement." _Stomp till the blood pools and nothing's left twitching._

Valak shook his head. "I know that. You know that. Hell, the Hegemony's military forces probably know it, too. But there have been massive increases in military spending in the last five years. Dreadnought after dreadnought being built. My people have _never_ had the military strength of the turians or the humans. We've always liked to think ourselves smarter than that." He laughed a little now. "Smarter. Which is why the Special Intervention Unit stresses improvised attacks. Most of my training with them involved taking over enemy ships and using them against you. One of the scenarios we ran involved lining the core of a comet with eezo, realigning its orbit on a collision course with a populated garden world but from a different angle than the plane of the system's ecliptic, thus cutting down on the chances of it being observed on its way in."

Garrus hissed through his teeth, and Lilu winced. Valak nodded, grimly. "The design was simple. If the population noticed the incoming comet, they'd scramble to alter its trajectory. Probably using some form of ballistics."

"Which would more than likely penetrate the core of the comet and trigger the eezo. If there was enough eezo there, it could cause an explosion large enough to, what. . . wash radiation over the entire system?"

Valak passed a hand in front of his eyes, looking tired. "It depended greatly on _where_ the explosion took place in the system. Close enough to the target planet, it could conceivably flash the planet's atmosphere and superheat the seas on one side, and certainly expose the entire population to temperatures high enough to carbonize them instantly, if they're not underground somewhere. That was the worst-case, say, within the orbit of a planet's natural moons. Further away, a rain of radiation, up through gamma rays, and of course, all the lovely side effects that eezo is known for. Potentially large chunks of the comet would call into the atmosphere in either case. Every electronic device on the side facing the explosion would likely be useless from the EM pulse, as well."

"And if the comet hit the planet?" Shepard asked, her throat dry. She had a fairly good idea of the answer.

"Possibly enough force from the explosion to alter its axial alignment. Certainly enough to cause massive tsunamis, all over the world. Radiation, heat, atmospheric disruption." Valak sighed. "The X57 incident over Terra Nova, which is _highly_ classified, I might add. . . I only found out about it after paying substantial fees for the information. . . is small potatoes compared to other ideas that have been played out in our version of the war college."

"And why hasn't this one been implemented?" Garrus asked, quietly.

"I mentioned, in my brief stint in the Special Intervention Unit, that not only would this require a _prohibitively_ large amount of eezo, but that it might take thirty or forty _years_ for the comet to come into position. Even then, you would need to align its trajectory with _absolute _precision, because once it was set on its path, no course corrections could be made. If you're going to take one shot on a billiards table, and it's going to take forty years to hit another ball, you damned well don't want to miss when it finally crosses the table. And, I added, on a less practical note. . . but an issue that was more important to me. . . every other sentient race in the galaxy would take up arms and hunt down and destroy whoever did this." Valak looked off into the mid-distance for a moment. "I have no idea if they've ever implemented this plan. I truly hope not."

Shepard made a few notes on her omnitool. "Any other horrors you can recall?"

"Most of my training didn't focus on that. They had us mostly preparing to take ships, go after shipyards, cripple communications, attacking soft, unshielded population centers. High yield for low effort." Valak sighed. "I still know people from that time. I haven't spoken with many of them for years. . . but I could probably rekindle the relationships. Carefully, of course." He gave Shepard a dry look. "Assuming my Omega trip is suitably handled and I can return to Kha'sharn without _too_ much suspicion."

"I have a few ideas on that," Garrus replied crisply. "Give us some time to work with what you've said, and what we think we can do for you."

In the privacy of their quarters, Shepard sat down, rubbing at her neck. "Training a private army of commandos hardly ever works out well," she said, quietly. "The historical tendency is, once the war is over, they either take over as warlords, or feel abandoned by those who trained them, as their world slips back into chaos. And then they turn against you, using what you taught them."

Garrus came over and began to rub at her shoulders for her, gently, rhythmically. "The trick would be not to abandon them, then. Stay the damned course."

"When has that _ever_ been what a government does, after the war's been fought and is declared over?" Shepard leaned back. "People get bored. Building schools and power stations and water treatment facilities isn't sexy. It's just _necessary_."

Garrus's fingers found a particularly tight spot, and she winced, sighed. Relaxed. "You actually like him, don't you?" he said, changing the subject slightly.

Shepard blinked. "Yeah," she said, after a moment. "I was surprised. After a couple of minutes. . . I almost forgot I was talking to a batarian." She inclined her head slightly. "I've always said, there's an exception to every rule. I just hadn't met the right one, yet."

"So what do we do with him?"

"Supply him, I think. Send. . . Livanus, maybe, if he's up to it. . . as a training officer."

"Talana will _not_ thank you for that."

"No, but it almost has to be a turian. Someone to replace Rel. Livanus hasn't been able to do fieldwork since that heart injury, but training, he can manage. And he'll feel of _use_ again. He's been complaining of being left on the shelf to collect dust." Shepard chuckled. "Not that his wife's minded actually seeing him more than four months total out of the year." She found her chair turned around to face Garrus now, and his hand cupped her face gently. "But we train his people not in warfare, but in infiltration. Information extraction. They can be a hell of a lot of use to us if they get accurate information out. . . and if they stay uncompromised. They start blowing things up, they _will_ be tracked down stomped flat, and everything they know will be extracted from them. If war _does_ come, they can be a fifth column _then._ Not before. It would be . . . unconscionable to use them as a cat's paw." She sighed. "Not a great solution."

"But one you can live with?"

"I hope so."

And so they returned Valak and his ship and crew to batarian space, by way of Luisa; they managed to concoct a slew of records, with Pelagia's help, indicating that the ship had been boarded, inspected, and turned away from Omega, and redirected into asari space, where Valak had met with his spice trader. They arranged for a new cargo compartment to be built in the small, speedy yacht. . . one that even a trained investigator might miss. . . and while they loaded his regular cargohold with the spice he'd arranged to purchase anyway, they filled the secret compartment with other items of use. An FTL transmitter for Livanus's use, tight-beam, and encoded to hit Mindoir, for secure communication. It would use one-time codes for encryption, and Livanus was going to be reporting in on a weekly basis, but in very short bursts.

Other equipment included decryption devices. Not top of the line by any stretch of the imagination, but good enough for the relatively primitive batarian networks. Stealth generators. Biosign maskers. Much of the rest of what they could send, was actually in Livanus' head. It was better to keep directions on how to build explosives, for example, somewhere other than _written down._ "You going to be okay with this?" Shepard asked the big male, looking up at those black and white stripes, and the fierce golden eyes.

Livanus chuckled. "I'll be fine. Dr. Chakwas says the heart muscle fibers have regenerated with proper treatment and a lot of exercise to within about 90% of normal. I shouldn't be running in full kit uphill, but I'm also not in danger of cardiac arrest. And I've had close to four years of _deskwork_ here on Mindoir. Going through evidence other Spectres bring home. I haven't complained, because it's let me spend time with Talana. . . but I've had itchy feet." He smiled. "At least Ylara got back out in the field after only a two year absence after her pregnancy. It's been twice that for me."

"Keep your head down," Garrus told Livanus, clasping wrists.

"Always try to."

"And keep your eyes open," Lilu muttered. "Look for signs of biotic weapon production. Look for signs of what the hell they're up to with the yahg."

Livanus sobered, his eyes going cold. "Will do. Won't let you down."

And then he'd given his wife one last nip on the neck, shouldered his bag, and boarded Valak's ship for the flight to Luisa, and from there back to Khar'sharn.

And on the same damn day, in the middle of trying to get all of this set up, they'd gotten an urgent message from Pelagia on Omega. Ulluthyr Harak had been badly injured on Tuchanka. He'd apparently taken control of Clan Ulluthyr, but had been badly injured in the process. _"I have told Spectre Gris to take Harak to Mindoir. Harak's eyes need immediate treatment. He's also asking to be . . . chipped. To me."_ Pelagia's voice had been deeply uncomfortable at that. _"I will help him see until his eyes recover, and then shut down access from my side, unless he requests otherwise."_

Shepard shook her head. "It never rains but it turns into a veritable _s'kak -_storm around here, doesn't it?" she asked Garrus after she'd shut down the transmission.

"And that's why you love your job," he told her, smiling.

And as the _Kiev_ came in for a landing, so did a quarian ship, hovering over the landing zone for a while, before lighting. Shepard was there to greet both; the quarian ship held a couple of old friends, after all. Kal'Reegar in his red-wrapped suit was first out of the hatch, followed by Tali in her violet-wrapped one, and they exchanged hugs and wrist-clasps with Garrus and Shepard, as appropriate. "Damned nice to see you again," Kal told them both.

"Always a pleasure to get a chance to visit," Tali murmured. "Zael? Zael'Reegar, come out of the ship and meet your Uncle Garrus and Aunt Lilu."

Shepard's eyes widened as the quarian boy stood timidly at the hatch. Now ten years old, Zael'Reegar had _not_ lived his life in a clean room, but on the surface of Rannoch. He wore a light mask over his face, as a surgeon might, but that was all. She'd known that quarians had hair, from the Lina Vasir surgeries. . . and she had, since then, wondered how the _hell_ they dealt with it as it grew in the confines of their suits, if it matted, tangled, got caught in the internal mechanisms. Now she understood why it didn't; the hair on Zael's head was white and fluffy, like the fur of a harp seal or a bear or a large cat, and probably would never grow longer than the inch or two it currently was. The facial structure was different than she'd ever expected, either, with high cheekbones and fairly deepset eyes. The nose and the mouth were invisible behind the mask. "Come down, silly," Tali said, affectionately, holding out one gloved hand. "We're up to an hour each out of our suits on the surface ourselves now," Tali told them both proudly. "But Zael and others his age are the _real_ test of our ability to adapt."

Zael scampered down now, and stood in between his parents. "I've never seen a sky this color before," he said, looking up.

Shepard smiled down at him. "It has to do with the spectrum emitted by Mindoir's sun," she told him, calmly. "Nice to meet you, Zael. Can I shake your hand, or is that a bacteriological hazard?"

Zael looked up at his mother. "Let's hold off on that," Tali said, nervously. "This is a big enough experiment as it is."

Garrus looked at Kal now. "I understand you've brought us a new candidate?"

Kal's voice had a smile in it. "Yeah. And you're going to like this one." He turned, and bellowed, "Zhasa! Zhasa'Maedan! Front and center!"

A quarian female darted out of the ship, coming to a halt in front of them, hands at her sides, standing upright, and almost quivering there, like a javelin thrown to land in the dust. Shepard's lips quirked up. _Young, then._

"This," Kal'Reegar said, "is Zhasa'Maedan vas Irria nar Pellus."

_Ship-name already. Means she's finished her Pilgrimage. _

Garrus sounded interested. "_Pellus_? That's a turian name."

"Yes," Kal said, dryly. "And therein lies a tale. Let's find someplace to sit down and talk, what do you say?"

**Zhasa'Maedan**

Zhasa had been on edge the entire trip from Rannoch to the Spectre base—located on a planet that no one would name. This was her big chance. Her chance to repay her people for all the effort they'd taken in raising her an nurturing her. . . _odd_ talents. She'd sat in the hold, waiting for Reegar's summons, and now faced the human commander of the Spectres and her turian mate—a pair who'd taken on near-mythological status from the perspective of many in the galaxy—and was introduced to them now.

Then they trekked up a long hill—so many mountains here, all covered in autumn colors, golds and scarlets and even _purples_ here and there—to a large villa, where they all settled in to talk. Children came out of the woodwork—strange to look at. Clearly, not quite human, and not quite turian, either. The older two, maybe a year younger than Zael'Reegar. The girl, introduced as Amara, smiled and waved at her. "You're interesting," the girl told her immediately. "You glow white. Only Cousin Dara glows white, of anyone else I've ever seen."

Zhasa tipped her head to the side. "I don't understand," she said, politely. "I _glow_?"

"Amara's a biotic, but in an unusual vein," Garrus explained. "She's been training with our rachni Spectre. . . ah. And I see he's just joined us. Sky, you've met Tali and Kal before. This is their new prospect, er. . . Zhasa'Maedan. Zhasa, this is Sings-to-the-Sky."

_Greetings, young singer._

The voice echoed in her mind, green and blue, iridescent, chatoyant colors, and Zhasa paused for a moment, before bowing her head respectfully. "I'm very pleased to meet you," she said. "Kal'Reegar and Tali'Zorah have spoken of you to me."

"Now," said Garrus, sounding interested, "what's this about a turian ship in your string of names there?"

Tali encouraged her, "Tell them everything, Zhasa. Let them understand why you are. . . the way you are."

_Different,_ Zhasa thought. _Unique. Depending on who's doing the describing._ She swallowed hard, and found her tongue. "The _Pellus_ was a turian tanker, before the Migrant fleet, ah, acquired it from a scrapyard," she said, quietly. "It was never really intended to be used again, but the turians hadn't removed its engine core yet when our people came by it. It was a hundred years old when I was born. Creaky but well-loved, and had been converted into a berthing-ship. One with crew quarters and clean rooms and everything else." She clasped her hands in front of her at the table. They were sitting in what appeared to be the private quarters of Shepard and Vakarian, and she was doing her best to keep the singularity of that honor from choking off her words. "Unfortunately, the engine was also a hundred years old. And in spite of the best technicians in the Fleet working on it. . . it developed a leak. Particles emitted from the drive. Trace amounts of eezo. Not enough to set off the alarms on the meters. . . and over the course of months, it added up. Half a dozen people aboard the ship came down with radiation poisoning, in spite of their environmental suits. And one of them was my mother, who was pregnant with me." Zhasa's hands had tightened, locking in on each other now.

Shepard's eyebrows had gone up, a clear indication of human surprise. "Usually, heavy radiation exposure in pregnancy means termination of the pregnancy."

"Yes," Tali'Zorah said. "But Zhasa's mother, , Illa'Kaliir, was too far along to do so, without risk to her life. The doctors just hoped for the best. Everyone in the Migrant Fleet had heard about it. And everyone was _shocked_. . .and _delighted_. . . when the baby was born healthy, in spite of all the odds against it."

Zhasa lowered her head. _Healthy, yes. But not quite normal._

"And this is why you're a biotic?" Shepard asked, looking at her now.

Zhasa nodded. "I didn't know that I was one myself until I was twelve," she admitted. "I was scheduled to leave the clean room for my first suit, and I was. . . terrified, honestly. I didn't want to be closed up in a suit forever. Never to see my own face again." _Entombed, like everyone else around me was, buried in metal and glass. Still moving, but cut off._ "That was 2183. The year of Sovreign." She laughed a little. "Busy year for everyone in the galaxy. At any rate, they tried to push me into the suit. I said _no._" She remembered her own terror, the way the techs had, impatiently, pushed her forward. _Come on, girl. Never seen a youngling so reluctant before. This is your chance to leave the clean rooms, roam around the ships freely. Come on, we haven't got all day._ "And that's when the, ah, incident occurred."

"Incident?" Garrus repeated.

"She threw the techs across the room into a wall with her mind," Kal said, sounding amused. "In her defense, I've seen the vid feed of the incident, and they were kind of manhandling her. They should've gotten a reprimand for that. Instead, they got a week in the med bay."

Amara's eyes had gone wide. "Why were you so scared?" the girl asked. "You're _still_ scared."

Zhasa's head swung in its helmet. _You see much, don't you?_ "The suits cut us off from each other," she said, simply. "I _liked_ playing with the other children in the clean rooms. I _liked_ touching them. Feeling the energy flowing, skin to skin. I didn't know none of _them_ felt it. And it's harder to feel the connection, when everyone's. . . sealed off."

_Listening to the melody, is a skill we can rehearse_, the rachni sang in her mind, cryptically. Zhasa turned towards him now, studying his alien blue eyes. He raised his front handling appendages and lowered his rear legs. An approximation of a bow, she realized. "The ship's captain actually came and talked to me. Calmed me down, got me to stop crying. I didn't know what was going on," she murmured. "That was old Ralli'Torahn." She _missed_ her old captain. He'd been a good man, and had dealt patiently with her, a frightened child. He'd died in the Reaper war, however.

"At any rate," Kal'Reegar went on, "We had no one who could train her. The Admiralty Board scrounged around for a teacher, and wound up sending her to Illium."

"Matriarch Aethyta taught me," Zhasa explained. She chuckled a little. "She runs a bar on Illium—"

"We've met," Shepard said, nodding. "She's unconventional."

"But a good teacher," Zhasa replied, quickly. "No matter what the other asari say of her, she was always very kind to me. And I learned a lot."

"The Admiralty Board decreed that her extensive and unusual training could stand in lieu of her Pilgrimage." That was Tali's voice now. Zhasa shifted uncomfortably in her seat. _Yes, except that the Pilgrimage is supposed to bring something of __value__ home to the Fleet. All I brought was myself._

"And what have you done since then?" Shepard asked her now, directly.

"Four years of training with Matriarch Aethya, and mostly keeping my head down during the Reaper war," Zhasa said, ruefully. "When I was sixteen, I returned home to find that the Fleet was now encircling Rannoch, and we had a homeworld again. I asked to join the marines. Kal'Reegar was good enough to accept me. Mostly homeworld security. I was actually _supposed_ to be guarding a scientific station that was attacked by Lystheni a few years ago. They attacked on my one day off that week." Her tone was disgruntled. She'd always wondered if she could have made a difference that day. Could have turned the tide, somehow.

Or if she'd just have died with all her friends.

"Interesting," Shepard allowed, after a moment. "We'll have to see what you can do." The human woman's voice was intrigued. Zhasa hoped that was a good sign. She was _tired_ of not living up to expectations. She desperately wanted to contribute _something_ of value to her people. . . and becoming their first Spectre, showing the rest of the galaxy how far the quarian people had come. . . seemed as good a way as any to do just that.


	85. Chapter 85: Moving On

**Chapter 85: Moving On**

_**Author's note:** Long-time reader Siha Shap asks: "if all the second, third and fourth generations are amalgams of their parents/grandparents and "Normandy class AI's" is too much of a mouthful then if they are descendants of Joker and Edi and are masters of combat with light (stretching a point here) shouldn't they all be JEDI's?" I think this is so funny, I wish I could use it. _

_Music notes: CalliesVoice votes for Muse, "Rise Up" as Valak's theme song. I have, for whatever reason, the Beatles, "So you say you want a revolution" in my head instead. Either works. Muse is a hell of a lot more contemporary. Shinimegami7 voted for Five Finger Death Punch "Bad Company" for Gris (or the original Bad Company version); I actually kind of like that better for Harak. Or "Stand Up" by Trapt._

**Ulluthyr Harak and Pelagia, March 25-April 1, 2196**

Hands. Hands hooked under forearms, braced behind shoulders, encouraging him to sit up. Sound of breathing, rustle of clothing. Gris' voice now. "Time to get up, Harak. We arrived at the base."

Smells. Familiar ones, at least. His nose wrinkled a bit as he seined the air. Gris, obviously. Makur, too. Lighter smell, feminine, alien. Siara. Other scents. More alien. Unfamiliar. . . human. "Who the hell's with you?' Harak growled. "There's at least three humans here, and they haven't bothered to introduce themselves."

"I'm Dr. Abrams." Male voice. Calm. Fairly young, but confident. "I'm the neurologist who'll be evaluating you for chip implantation.

"Dr. Chakwas." Female voice, older. Light accent. "I'm a trauma specialist. I've handled Urdnot Wrex's wounds before. . . when he'd let me. Damned stubborn old brute." Her voice held amused affection.

"Dr. Abigale Martins. I'm the chief medical officer of the _Kiev_. Your eyes are regenerating at a . . . somewhat lower than average rate, I'm afraid. There's an ophthalmologist waiting at the Mindoir facility to perform surgery on the optic nerves, to ensure that they heal correctly. Our concern is that occasionally, krogan regenerate nerves and other bodily structures in ways that don't properly connect with the rest of their systems." Her voice was cool and somewhat distant, and Harak snorted a little. _She sounds like someone who doesn't like krogan_.

Gris muttered now, "Up to your feet, Harak. Makur and I have you, one on each side. Just walk naturally."

Harak did his damndest not to shuffle, the way Patriarch had in his last days before the liver damage had simply been too great. _Not old. Not weak._ He kept his bandaged head up, and took careful, deliberate steps. Trying not to feel ahead of himself with his toes. So hard to _trust_ these others, even though he'd been trusting them with his life every day for two years now.

"Hatch ahead. Grate on an incline. Don't be surprised."

"I can smell the fresh air," Harak growled back. He could, too. He'd never been to Mindoir before. It smelled. . . clean. Like the fields that his brother Kanar spoke of on Tuchanka. Rich, loamy earth. Damp leaves. Autumn.

Down the hatch's incline. Slowly. Painfully slowly. Metal slipping under his feet, wondering with each step when he'd finally reach the bottom. And then, suddenly, level ground again. "Groundcar ahead of us. I'm getting the door," Siara said, tersely, and Harak could hear the door open. "Duck your head. No, more," she said, and then they more or less pushed him into place. _By Vaul, my damned eyes had better start healing quickly. I can't live like this._

Gris moved in, sitting beside him. "This is the Spectre base, Harak. You're completely safe here. On my honor." He paused. "Wrex has always said that eye injuries are the worst for a krogan. Hurt like a bitch and take forever to heal."

"No arguments with that. Gods damn Malak."

"I think they're probably taking care of that right now." Gris' voice was filled with dark humor. "Hold onto the door. We've got a couple of turns coming up."

Finally, climbing into another bed, someplace else. Smell of antisceptic, cleaning fluids. The human doctors came back, and then an asari. _Thank the gods. No salarians. I wouldn't have let them treat me._ And then, they wheeled him someplace. Took their scans and their tests. "The hardest part of performing surgery on a krogan is trying to move faster than the body can heal itself," Dr Abrams said, trying to make a joke of it. "We can chip you this afternoon, if you like. Then in the evening, we'll have Dr. Tiana take a look at your optic nerve. If this is what you really want."

"Might not be a question of what I want. More like, what I need." Harak was impatient. "I can't _not_ see for four weeks or six weeks or never again. I've got work to do. Set it up and get it done."

Dr. Abrams chuckled. "All right. We'll get everything set up this afternoon. Pelagia. . . that's the AI you'll be connected to, right?"

"Yeah."

"She's not actually _here_, so what she'll be able to do for you at range will be extremely limited. Don't expect to see anything when you wake up."

_Waking up at all will be more than I ever expected on a doctor's table_, Harak thought dourly. A couple of hours later, as he felt a mask pressed over his face, he fought off a mix of panic and rage, and let unawareness claim him, the way the darkness already had.

It was actually difficult to tell now, when he was regaining consciousness. There was no light. Just dim awareness of sounds and smells and fresh pain. "I think he's waking up," he heard someone say. Harak reached up and felt at his face and scalp. Fresh bandages over his head. Pain in the skull, though at a polite distance, for a moment. Cushioned by drugs. He had to admit, privately, only inside his own mind, that he was grateful for that distance.

"Easy there." Dr. Abrams' voice again. "Don't go messing up some of my better work." A brief pause. "Now, I'm going to run some tests here on other parts of your body. I know krogan tend to react strongly to physical stimulus, particularly touch, so please try not to kill me as I test reflexes and such, all right? First, can you feel this?" Light prodding under the chin. "And this?" Shoulders. "And this?" On down the line, to the toes. "Can you move your feet? Can you tell me the name of the leader of Clan Urdnot?"

"Wrex."

"Your clan?"

Harak managed a rumbling chuckle. "Ulluthyr Harak, as of not too long ago. Assuming the shaman hasn't propped someone else up in the chair since I left."

Abrams snickered. "Not that we've heard. Okay, I'm going to raise you a little so you can sit up. Couple of hours of observation in a krogan, and we'll practically be pulling the stitches before dinner. We'll teach you how to open and close the chip, too."

"Screw waiting. I feel fine, and the faster I can see, the better off I am. How do I activate the damn thing?" Harak tapped one massive hand against something cold and metal. Felt like a rail along the side of the bed, maybe.

He could hear a sigh. "Let me get the nurse," the doctor said, after a moment. "We actually have a specialist in this now. Best to let her describe it. I'm just the high-priced mechanic. I install things. She actually knows how to _use_ one. . . because she was chipped by a _Normandy_-AI herself, two years ago. Nurse Hayashi?" The doctor's voice faded as he moved away. "Could you come in here?"

Two hours later, Harak's head ached a little, but for a different reason than just the incision. The chip architecture had been designed with human and turian brains in mind. Several adjustments to its software had been required, and he'd spent a lot more time trying to 'visualize' a 'command interface' than he'd every _dreamed_ he'd have to. . . but the recalcitrant thing had finally activated, and Nurse Hayashi had confirmed it jubilantly, sending him a string of random colors into his mind directly from the test machine. Color after nothing but two days of _nothingness_ might have been the most beautiful thing Harak had ever seen. He downplayed it, of course. "Pretty," he grunted. "This thing has an FTL connection to Pelagia?"

"Yes, but the FTL function is _not_ recommended for anything other than emergency use. The full integration of the chip architecture will take eighteen months to two years to completely infiltrate your brain structures. . . the nanobots will be probably be somewhat challenged by the _robust_ krogan immune response, so it will be interesting to see how well you finally adapt to the chip." Hayashi sounded _fascinated_, which made Harak wonder if the female was part salarian, and if he were her lab varren.

"And on Omega, it will just receive and transmit regular RF?"

"Pretty much, yes. It's encrypted, of course, matched to your particular AI. I was aboard the _Crimea_ for two tours. Chipped to Nefertari. It was . . . a remarkable experience." Hayashi sounded bemused. "Nef seemed to gain a lot from the experience, too. Said she might request transfer to a hospital ship, down the line someday, if they ever make AIs an option on ships other than the _Normandy_-class vessels." She patted his hand, and Harak stiffened at the unexpected touch. "Our ophthalmologist will be by after dinner to look at your eyes."

"Can I get an extranet connection set up? Verbal cues? I need to get in touch with Omega."

"You really should be resting—"

"Rest is for the dead. I need to know what the hell is going on back there. _And_ on Tuchanka." Harak's tone went angry. "Get Urdnot Gris in here, if you're not authorized to make such arrangements."

"Mr. Ulluthyr, it's really very important for you not to agitate yourself—" The nurse had not, apparently, dealt with many krogan before. Harak simply stood up, ripped the IV out of his arm, ignoring the pain and the blood, and, reaching his hands out before him, felt around for the door, simply moving _through_ her as she attempted to redirect him back to the bed. Fabric. Curtains. Metal pole. . . knocked over. Loud clatter, yelp from the nurse. _Yep. There's a wall. Where there's a wall, there's a door._ "I need Dr. Abrams in here!" _And there's my door._ Harak's fingers had just found the knob, and he opened it, feeling his way into the hall. And stopped. He had _no_ idea where to go, but _forwards_ sounded like a great option. Unfortunately, he knew he'd likely get _terribly_ lost as he was, so he found the wall with his left hand, and started following _that._

At which point, Abrams and Gris finally showed up. "Of _course_ you can have an extranet connection." The doctor sounded harried. "I'll have a talk with Hayashi about this in a moment. Please, let's at least get you back to your room."

Gris chuckled, a dark sound, and said, "I've got you, Harak. Follow me. I'll let you know what's been going on while you've been out. And we'll get you hooked up so you can hear it from Pelagia, too."

Harak allowed Gris to lead him back to the room, and an extranet console was brought in for him, which Gris told him that yes, Wrex was delighted to accept Ulluthyr into the growing Clan Alliance. Ulluthyr had been a strong hold-out even _before_ Harak had taken over Omega. The Omega-Urdnot connection had been a powerful alliance; now that Harak was both clan-leader and leader of Omega, the pressure was firmly on the _rest_ of the hold-out clans to consider joining the alliance. "Wrex offered to send a few members of our female clan to Ulluthyr's female clan, for talks."

"Could be useful. They liked Malak. They thought he was strong. It'll be some time before they completely accept me." Harak snorted. "Especially since I can't be there every damned day the way he was."

"You need a lieutenant on the ground you can trust."

"Fat chance finding one of those in Ulluthyr. I'd have more luck looking under a damp rock." Harak's tone was bitter. "I'd trust my brother, but he's Urdnot now, and his responsibilities are there. Plus. . . "

"They'd find him weak."

"Yeah."

"Any other brothers or krannt-brothers you'd trust?"

Harak leaned back. "You. Makur, though he's young. Both Urdnot." He shrugged. "Kanar and I had one more brother that we knew of. Son of our mother, anyway. He's closer to your age, though, and I _don't_ know him well. Ulluthyr Banak. Last I heard, he was hired out to someone as security on Bastion. I had a second in the Blood Pack twenty years ago who was. . . decent. . . as well. Oromor Renar." Harak shrugged. "You know how it is, Gris." Mercenary work rarely equated to a sense of brotherhood.

"Yeah. I do. I can try and track both of them down. See what they've been up to."

Harak nodded, curtly. "See if either of them is worth a shit now."

Gris laughed. "Yeah. That too." His chair creaked as he stood to leave. "I've got the console up and running. What's our next step?"

"Assuming Pelagia can give me _eyes_? Back to Tuchanka. I _have_ to exert control over Ulluthyr or we'll just wind up re-fighting every damned warrior inside its walls until the ground runs with blood. Then yeah. Need someone to speak with my voice. Might wind up being the shaman, if I can get him to see reason. Then I go talk to Wrex, face-to-face. Then back to Omega."

Gris grunted and left. Harak reached out and touched the comm console. "Open a channel to Omega. Party name, Pelagia."

"Connection made. Party accepts call." The VI voice was toneless.

The _AI_ voice was not. _"Harak! I'd received word that you'd come through surgery all right. How do you feel?"_

"Like my head's been cut open and my brain's been scooped out, but other than that, fine." Harak chuckled darkly. "They've spent three hours trying to get me to be able to use this chip. I need to know if it damned well works. Can you connect me up?"

"_I won't use the FTL protocol. That's far too dangerous in your condition. I __can__, however, use Morana and the __Kiev_ _as a repeater and try to connect via radio frequency. Please hold."_

When it happened, it was a subtle thing. He'd long since activated the damned thing, without any indication that it worked, other than the colored lights the nurse had run through his occipital lobe. _Harak? Can you hear me?_ Pelagia's voice was tentative, and at first, he didn't even register that it wasn't coming over the speakers.

"Of course I hear you."

Quiet laughter. _There's no of course about it. I'm transmitting over Morana's equipment to you. If the encryption didn't match correctly, or if your chip malfunctioned or your wetware didn't match up properly, you wouldn't hear me at all._

"I can hear you. Can't see a damned thing, though."

_I have no camera data on your environment. If you get up and move around, I can map the room for you, I think, with fairly accurate measurements based on your average stride—_

"No, they got pretty upset last time I tried to get out of here."

_You tried to—of course you did._ That, with a bit of a sigh. _Here. This is about the best I can do for images right now._

And his mind came to life with video feed. One camera, perched somewhere in Omega, looking _up_ through one of the great caverns within the huge asteroid, hollowed out by centuries of Prothean mining. The camera pointed directly at one stalactite-like structure; it had been hollowed out from within, and had several windows, looking out and down at the rest of Omega, and appeared to be a private residence. He could have cared less what he was looking at; it was _sight._ It was _vision_. It was beautiful. He cleared his throat. "Hell of a view from up there. Basically at the top of the station. Whoever lives there must love the place."

_Interesting you should say that. It used to belong to an asari businesswoman. One who was just removed from the station and stripped of her holdings here for trafficking in azure dust and red sand, actually. By an interesting coincidence, that means that these quarters now belong to the station. Which is to say, to me. I have no use for them, of course, so I'm having your things moved here. Such as they are._

Harak growled. "Pelagia, just because I'm halfway across the galaxy, stuck in a hospital bed and _blind_ does not mean that I'm—"

_Weak? Of course you're not. But when you come back here, your eyes may not have grown in all the way yet. The appearance of strength will need to be added to, and __this__ is the single best place in the station I have been able to find. The position at the top of the station, looking down, reinforces dominance to everyone except a salarian. The refinement of the furnishings establishes wealth, an important power dynamic for asari, humans, and turians. I'm having crews set up kinetic shielding around the entire pinnacle, especially on those windows, and having your bodyguards examine every possible aspect of it for security concerns._ Her voice was surprisingly firm.

"This isn't necessary." He _really_ didn't like having the choices pulled out of his hands, feeling powerless and out of control, and it showed. "Why the _hell_ are you doing this?"

_It __is__ necessary, Harak. If it makes you feel better, we'll make it an even exchange. You require the, ah, uniforms of me. I require these quarters of you. _Her voice went from firm to tentative. _Is this not fair?_

"Very well," Harak gritted out from between clenched teeth. "_If_ the bodyguards agree to its safety. And clear out most of the asari shit. Sell it at auction or whatever."

_Technically, it's __my__ domicile, Harak. I . . . might like to keep some of these items._ Taking a stand, if a small one.

Harak suddenly grinned. "We'll talk about that that when I get there. Make sure you tell me which ones you _actually_ like, so I don't _accidentally_ use anything you're fond of for target practice."

Soft laughter, again. _You seem calmer. The chip indicates all three hearts have slowed in rate since we began this discussion. Blood pressure lower. These are good things._

"Seeing helps." It didn't hurt to admit that. "Show me more."

_What do you want to see?_

He didn't say it out loud, but apparently, the thought was loud enough that it went through, anyway. _Me? Really?_ Astonishment. The vid cam feed faded away, and he could clearly see her self-image in his mind now. Grease-pyjak coveralls, but she'd remembered to leave her hair down, at least.

"If you want me to live in that fucking asari penthouse, you better hold up your end of the bargain, too."

She looked sheepish, and shifted her form, applying the costume change in a blur. "Better." Harak leaned back in the bed. "They're going to come in and look at the optic nerves soon."

_I'm not getting perfect biometric data through the chip yet. . . it needs to be further calibrated for krogan physiology. But I think they'll be pleased with your progress. You're going back to Tuchanka?_

_I need eyes for there._ He tried that just in his head. Tried to form the thoughts as if he were slowly, laboriously typing them out.

_Just think as if you're talking to me._

_Hard to. . . too many thoughts. All at once. Speaking out loud. . . focuses/makes it clearer/easier. See what I mean?_

_My sisters say it gets easier for organics with practice._ Her self-image sat down in a chair that suddenly appeared, and now a whole scene appeared around her. Not a hospital room. Some dainty, refined room. Filled with asari sculptures and soft rugs and wall-hangings.

_If this is meant to make me relax/be comfortable not going to work/not working._ He paused. _Eyes? Tuchanka?_

_Myrmidon will be there to transmit optical data to Morana. Morana will transmit it to me, and I'll relay it to you. There will be about a half a second's delay as a result. But I should be able to let you walk on your own. We'll practice it on the __Kiev__ before you set down on Tuchanka._

Harak exhaled. "Thank you, Pelagia."

She smiled in his mind. _Get some rest, Harak. I've got everything under control here. Worry about getting better. Worry about Tuchanka. __Then__ worry about Omega._ She hesitated. _If you sleep. . . would you __very__ much mind if I. . . ._

_. . . watched my dreams?_ Harak shook his head slowly. "You'll hate them."

_I watched you beat Malak's brains out. Literally. Watched him gouge out your eyes. How much worse can what's in your dreams actually be?_

_You have no idea. And I'm not sure your. . . family. . . or the Spectres. . . or you. . . will thank me for it if you see what's in here._ Harak shook his head again. _But you're an. . . adult being. Turn off the damned feed if you're disturbed. Never much understood people who couldn't change the channel if they didn't like what they were watching. No willpower, I guess._

He settled back, and, for a wonder, the massive quantities of medication being dripped into his system, as well as the relaxation of _knowing_ that everything was as under control as he could make it, for the time being, finally began to kick in. Harak finally did drift to sleep.

Pelagia kept the link open, through Morana, who was very patient with her sister. _I appreciate this, Morana._

—_Not a problem. I understand your curiosity. And I'm grateful that you're allowing me to share at least a little of the non-personal data._

Pelagia continued to work through her issues on Omega, finding yet another environmental system that had been knocked somehow askew. Far too warm in the turian area of B-ring this time. Last time it had been a human area. She started backtracking surveillance feeds, and found the problem. A human worker had maladjusted the system the day before. But the system had been functioning perfectly before that point. _How odd._ Pelagia forwarded a note to system maintenance and requested that the worker's maintenance logs be checked into. She wanted to know why the action had been taken.

In the meantime, she began to pick up rapid eye-movement sleep from Harak. It was . . . _fascinating._ So random. Bits and pieces of memory, mixed with invention, sewn together with emotions. How the mind kept itself active, rehearsing data, processing the day's events. Any number of other processes and functions executed simultaneously, while the conscious mind was unaware. _System maintenance_, she thought, somewhat amused.

But the images. . . made little sense without context. And the emotions they provoked in Harak often made little sense, but were the _only_ context she had.

_Human screaming, human sobs. Some planet in the Terminus Systems, where the Blood Pack had had a base, and where human colonists had been sent, unaware. Smoke in the air, burning buildings. Orders were orders. But some of the rest of the Pack went too far. _

_A fellow krogan, laughing and smiling. Gesturing with his hands, as the rest of the war-band joined in his laughter. Harak's perspective approaching, steadily. The words weren't clear. But awareness, in Harak, of what the male had done with some of the survivors. Urnal had long been a sadist, tolerated by the rest because of his skill and knack for survival. The words became clear. "I'm telling you, this new species is better than asari. Scream better. Last a little longer, too."_

_Then there was a shotgun barrel pressed to the back of the laughing krogan's head. "How many times do I have to kill you, Urnal, before you get the point?" _That was the nature of dreams, Pelagia realized. Harak _knew_ he'd killed Urnal, over and over again. But the dream was reality now, and had its own relentless pace and logic. _"Killing them is one thing. The rest? Not while I'm in command." He pulled the trigger, and the other krogan's head blew apart in a red mist. The perspective shifted left, right. Taking in the other shocked faces. "We clear?"_

_The others snarled. "Cut the humans down from the walls." The males had been nailed into place against the habitat walls with long spikes by the hands and feet, spread-eagle._ Pelagia winced internally at the images. _The women. . . were still screaming in the habitats._ Harak hadn't been in charge of the mission, she realized, dimly. Had been away to the west, when the commander had actually been killed. He'd come back to assume command, and found. . . this. Had been forced to give everyone at least a clean death. She shuddered away at the blood and the pain and the _rage_ in his mind. . . .

_Don't want to see this again__._ The thoughts were muzzy and confused, but bordered on consciousness, as his mind struggled to redirect the dream. _Other faces now. Other images. A flash of his friend, running, on fire, as he'd told her about. Firing the shots into his friend's head, ending the suffering. Other friends, other mercenaries, dying. Shields shorting out under heavy fire, suits breached to vacuum, decompression, blood vessels in the eyes and skin exploding, panicked expressions, gasping for air—they'd been attacking a ship in space, and had been cutting into the outer hull manually, in suits, no breaching pod. __All for what, stolen cargo lifted from a warehouse on Luisa. . .__ Four hundred years of it. Little snatches from planet after planet, asteroid base after asteroid base, friends dying in mud, friends dying in fire, allies dying and the fucking vorcha eating them, and Harak killing the vorcha in turn, firing shotgun blast after shotgun blast right into their vicious little heads. Until the remaining ones finally got the __point__ and at least turned to eat their __own__ dead._

Pelagia pulled away from Harak's mind, her processes locking up, unable to _fathom_ how he _stood_ his own existence. But she turned back. Looked again. And projected images into his mind to replace those his brain conjured. _Stars being born in dust and heat. The slow shimmer of nebular clouds, moving and twisting in stellar winds. The electrical arc of energy shooting between a gas giant and one of its moons, lightning in a jagged line that could have wrapped around a dwarf planet, brilliant and blinding._ Anything. Anything other than the death and the destruction and the pain.

And for a wonder, it worked. His heart rates eased in his sleep, and he sank lower into his rest. Letting his body heal.

The next day, Pelagia mostly watched and listened from Morana and Mymridon's point of view. Projected a wire-wrap environment into Harak's mind, green lines outlining every rock and twisted scrap of metal and even _person_ in his path, so that he could walk, unerringly, through the rubble of the Ulluthyr camp. Not tripping, even once, he paced his way through, climbed the stairs of the ancient, shattered building complex, and found his way to the shaman's quarters. He turned his empty eye sockets unerringly toward the shaman and rumbled, _"So. Ullum. Are we going to have a problem?" _

As the others in the room stirred slightly, he turned and 'looked' at them. _"I wasn't talking to you three. Matter of fact, get out. Ullum and I have a long talk about the future of Ulluthyr ahead of us." _

Two of them started to move. The third remained standing, until Harak crossed to him and unerringly grabbed him by the throat. _"I said __move__,"_ he snarled, and threw the other krogan out of the shaman's broken, empty balcony into the open area that comprised the camp's courtyard, below.

_Careful, Harak. Myrmidon sees pupil dilation in the shaman. Increased anger response. Breathing rate increasing._

_Of course. That was his son I just dumped out the balcony._

_This is diplomacy?_

_We're krogan._

An eye-blink later, Harak was back in the shaman's face. _"You acknowledged me. Do I need to demonstrate my strength every time I come back here, until I have to damned well kill you, too? Or are you going to support me?"_

"_You would have us follow Urdnot ways?"_

"_Ulluthyr ways, but with Urdnot changes. What doesn't change, dies. You can chose to die, if you want. Up to you."_

The shaman's eyes flickered down, right. His head lowered. Pelagia sent the images as best she could, and as clearly. _That's surrender. Good._

It went a _lot_ more smoothly after that. The shaman _did_ remind Harak that the female clan-leader, Surla, had never liked him. _"That's fine,"_ Harak said, indifferently. _"Wasn't expecting an invitation to come and rut ten minutes after I killed the male she'd backed for two hundred years."_ Harak smiled then. _"Tell Surla, from me, that I have a female clan-leader of my own on Omega. And someday, I fully expect there to be only one female-clad leader for both."_

_Harak, are you out of your mind? How am I supposed to challenge for leadership of a female krogan clan?_

_As soon as I figure that out, I'll let you know. Chances are, with bait/threat like that, she might challenge __you_ _for Omega. That will be a very short fight. All you'd have to do is blow her out an airlock—_

_I won't do that!_

_Just a thought._ He sounded amused by her scruples. _This is the __Urdnot__ way, by the way. Threats. With the strength to back them up. Ulluthyr way has always been to move straight to the killing. This is improvement, yes?_ Out loud, an instant later, he told the shaman, _"For now, you'll speak for me. We'll be setting up land enclosures for fields. Just like Urdnot. Better food for the females and children. My brother Kanar—the one you declared too weak to live?—is responsible for that, by the way." _Twisting the knife just a little more. _"The instant I hear that you haven't spoken my words as I spoke them to you, I __will_ _come back and gut you, Ullum. Don't worry. You won't have to speak my words for long. I'll place a member of my krannt in charge here. . . and you can go back to recounting the deeds of dead warlords."_

Given that the meeting with Urdnot was sure to involve quite a bit less violence, or the potential for it, Pelagia shifted some of her attention away as Harak and Wrex greeted one another. . . but caught, through Myrmidon's aural receptors, Wrex's low rumble, "Coming here, your eyes nothing but empty sockets, but walking without so much as a stumble, as if you can still see out of those sightless lumps of flesh, days after tearing the leadership of Ulluthyr out of Malak's grip with your bare hands. . . you're aiming for legend, Harak." Wrex _grinned_. "I know a few things about legends. I've walked with a few. Shepard. Vakarian."

Gris muttered, "You have your own legend, too, Wrex."

"Damn straight I do."

"Legends are harder to fight than mere mortals," Harak replied, grimly. "I'll take what I can get."

"Female clan made you a couple of offers," Wrex rumbled. "Said anyone strong enough to kill Malak was _worth_ a visit to our grounds."

Pelagia could sense the gratification, the hormonal surge, the interest. . . all of which quickly abated after a flurry of images and realizations. Walking blind through the tunnels to wherever Urdnot kept their females, blundering into the room with a female, groping for her, relying solely on touch and smell. . . he'd look weak. It wouldn't fit the image he was so carefully creating. Not without Myrmidon to see for him, and Pelagia to transmit it to his mind. . . crutches he couldn't, wouldn't use for this. "Tell the female clan that I'm honored, and hope the invitation is open some other time," Harak said out loud, easily. "Got too much to do back on Omega. Don't even have time to. . . _see_. . . the fields my brother's planted here. Just came to make my oath to the clan alliance. Nothing more."

And with that, he headed back to the _Kiev_, seething internally with emotions Pelagia couldn't fathom, processes so tangled, she couldn't quite unwind them all. She gave up, and returned to her environmental systems mystery, and began to collate data on both recent breaches. _Why would anyone want to move the temperature up to 27º to 37º C, or between 80º and 98º F?_ she wondered, and simply got to work.

**Dempsey, March 30, 2196**

"Congratulations," Shepard said, looking at Dempsey. "You're alive. Do you feel as much like Frankenstein's monster as I do?"

Dempsey glanced around her office, wondering how he should feel. How he should react. Looking for some sort of cue, but her face was a mask behind the paint. He settled for a shrug. "Doesn't have the drama of someone hooking me up to an antenna in a lightning storm, does it?"

She shook her head, and handed him the datapad. "No, but this is a hell of a lot better than waking up and having someone lisping 'Yes, Marsther, I brought the brains right from the cemetery' over your head, isn't it?"

Dempsey scanned through the documents. Certification of identity. Valid Systems Alliance passport. A divorce decree, which he'd need to sign, from the Massachusetts courts. An annulment certificate, from the local diocese, as well. He snorted. The redundancy was almost insulting, but he understood why it was being done. Annulment for the religious half of the marriage. . . which would effectively make his son a bastard. . . but was necessary, given that Amy had remarried in ignorance of his still-living condition. The annulment alone would have been good enough, but both processes had probably been initiated at the same time. The divorce killed the marriage now. The annulment said it had never happened. . . for religion's sake. Backdated, to allow everyone the perfect freedom to have done whatever they'd done, free of guilt. If he signed the divorce decree, but not the annulment, the marriage would continue to exist in the eyes of the Church, and Amy would technically remain a bigamist. If he signed both, she was free, but it was as if he'd never existed. Other than the fact that Madison existed, of course.

Dempsey felt his hands clench, and, with exacting care, signed both documents. Gave his wife her life back. He got occasional letters from Madison. Mostly about school and baseball practice. He wrote back. Carefully. Asking questions, and saying nothing of substance at all. And his hands shook after he finished each and every one.

He looked up at Shepard now. "I'll take being alive. Would prefer not to be a monster, though." _Considering that I'm very close to a do-it-yourself sociopath at the moment? The label's apt._

She shook her head. "We're all in charge of what we do with what we've got. You're a free man, Dempsey. What are you going to do with your second chance?"

_I have absolutely no fucking idea._ "Nothing, till I get this," and he tapped the side of his head, "straightened out."

"The exercises doing any good?"

He shook his head. "The ones they loaded into the chip, the visualization ones? No." Dempsey hesitated. "Only thing I've found is. . . recent. Back on Khar'sharn, I played the guitar for the first time in . . . god only knows how long. Dara told me I started smiling. I actually felt. . . good. . . playing." Dempsey shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. "Been trying to do a little of that every day since we got back. Eight days. Not much time, I know. . . but feeling something _besides_ anger has been. . . outstanding. Even if it's only just barely there."

Shepard nodded, slowly. "I'll have Sky come over and have a listen at some point. See if you're accessing different pathways of your brain through the music than the chip usually lets you get to. If so, it'd be very encouraging."

_Yeah, for you and me both,_ Dempsey thought, and took his leave.

The candidate barracks were actually a flurry of activity at the moment as base personnel came through, cleaning out the unused ones, setting up clean sheets and whatnot. He'd been told that there'd be a new batch of about seventy prospects coming through in two to three months' time, but the services department wanted to be ready in case things went off ahead of projected schedule. He was also aware that there was at least one new resident along his hallway, and the batarians had cycled in and out quickly as well, but he hadn't exactly been neighborly. _Hell, I don't leave the barracks except to eat, exercise, or go to the med bay_, he realized. His rehabilitation had been his _job_ for the last year. A job he felt he'd made very little progress at, unfortunately. At least going into the field on the rescue mission had felt good. Right. He'd been pleasantly surprised at the competence of both Dr. Velnaran and. . . Agent Sidonis. Both of them were lethally accurate with their chosen weapons, as he'd seen demonstrated on Camala. Could duck into cover, change strategies on the fly, and cover people's backs. The cop was quiet most of the time, around the Spectres, but obviously had a hell of a mind and a lot of experience. And it had been _interesting_, watching the young doctor completely lose her composure every time the cop teased her. A patient said something provocative, no response at all. A perfect mask of composure. The cop said something? She blushed. They'd _obviously_ known each other for a while, for him to know _exactly_ where to throw his darts.

Dempsey just wished he could've laughed along. Laughter would have probably been appropriate, but it was a spontaneous thing, something that he could fake, but couldn't feel. So now, in the privacy of his small barracks room, he pulled out his guitar. Modern electrics didn't actually need separate amplifiers and a power cable, not just for play in a small space. They had fairly high quality speakers built into the body, and had rechargeable battery packs, which made them somewhat heavy, but much more portable. Also, slightly less loud for practice purposes. Good, if you had neighbors. Bad, if you wanted to exorcise personal demons through sound. Dempsey snorted a little at the thought. Primitive cultures had thought that you could do that; chase away bad spirits by making noise. Banging pots and pans and lighting off firecrackers at New Year's, or whatever. _Let's see if they knew what they were talking about._

He didn't have many songs memorized, so he'd dug through the base library for guitar tabs, and had been astounded as how much _music_ they had on file here. About a hundred piano scores, actually, all marked as copies donated by D. Velnaran. _Huh. She's into music. Should've guessed it would be piano._ It fit his impression of her as precise and controlled and distant. Something called quarian _reela_. Turian dulcimer. Celtic harp. Salarian underwater flute and aquatic vibraphone, something shared, apparently, by salarians and hanar alike. _Good god. Who knew it would be so hard to find __guitar__ music?_ Finally, he found some, sorted through it, and threw out half the results, before sitting down with something human, early twenty-first century, and angry. It was stiflingly hot in the barracks, but it was afternoon on a warm autumn day outside, and he didn't want to open a window and bother people with any more of his noise than he had to, so he pulled his shirt off over his head, and got started on his . . . therapy.

Halfway through the first song, he paused, looking down at his fingers on the strings, frowned, and took off his wedding band, and threw it in the drawer of the desk. It wasn't doing him any damned good, after all. Dempsey stood, and let the music carry him, reading the notes on the tabs, but letting the demon wail of the guitar lift him out of himself, letting him feel the anger without having to _channel_ to somewhere, whether through his biotics or his fists. God knew, his door and his furniture had enough marks on them from previous outburst of rage. He was lost in the songs now, tapping one foot more or less to keep time where the drums really _should_ have been driving the melody, driving everything in front of them, unifying the song. He muttered the old words under his breath, shifting to modulate into the more challenging bridge pieces, fumbling through them, muddling them horribly at first, then with more skill as his fingers remembered _how_. It was just so damned good to _feel_ something. Dempsey didn't even realize that he was half-smiling as he growled out the lyrics, when, to his surprise, there came a knock at his door.

_Seriously, now? _He slid his fingers over the strings to still their vibrations, set the instrument down, and went to the door. "Yeah? What?" he asked, opening it. . . and got another surprise. A quarian female stood there, a good six inches shorter than he was, face-shield polarized, of course, elaborate blue and violet over-wrappings on her silvery environmental suit. Her head jerked back as she looked up at him, and for a moment, they both just stared at each other in consternation, one fully armored against the world, one stripped halfway to the skin, on opposite sides of the doorway.

**Zhasa'Maedan**

Kal'Reeger and Tali'Zorah had left for Rannoch two days before, leaving Zhasa here on this strange planet, among Spectres and support staff from a dozen planets. There were other quarians on base—Hal'marrak and Nal'ishora introduced themselves in short order. They hadn't succeeded as Spectre candidates six years before, but had been taken into the Special Tactics and Reconnaissance group anyway, as techs. Good enough to play a support role, but not good enough to be Spectres themselves. She had the impression that they were cheering for her, though, which was something of a comfort; she'd been afraid that they might resent her. If they did, it didn't show in their voices or body language, praise be to Keelah.

But she still felt isolated here; she was one of the first candidates to arrive. Most hadn't been even invited yet, apparently, and wouldn't be for another two to three months. Apparently, this was meant to give her time to 'adapt.' _Seems like it will just make me either bored or nervous or some combination of the two,_ she'd thought, and at the moment, _bored_ was predominating. She'd spent the first two or three days exploring the base, which was beautiful, she had to admit. Wild and alien in two or three different modes at once, with Terran, Palaven, and native plants everywhere. She couldn't imagine riding the horses or the _rlata_, which she saw several of the young children of the base doing; she'd risk a bad fall, at best. Zhasa found the pool, the exercise facilities, the climbing walls, the rifle range. She found the base library filled with works in a dozen languages, which was a help. . . and she'd run into, almost face-first, the geth Spectre, Cohort. "Creator Zhasa'Maedan," the geth had told her, calmly. "We bid you welcome, and hope that you do well during your stay on base.

The geth had been, of all things, outdoors, painting on a canvas. She'd simply stared at it for a long moment. "What are you doing?" she'd managed, after almost a full minute had gone by.

"We are attempting to reproduce the landscape before us using a pointillistic technique. We find it interesting that most organics have a sense of art and artistry. The majority can come to a consensus on what is art. Artists, however, seem to have a different definition of art than the rest of the populace. This is confusing to us. Thus, we are exploring the concept of art, which is opposed to that of the artist." Cohort paused. "It is what we assess when we are not aboard a ship, on a mission."

"You have. . . a hobby?" Zhasa asked, a little weakly. _Tali'Zorah said that the uniquely-named geth platforms, because of the huge number of programs in residence, would surprise me. This one certainly does! It's. . . almost an individual. Almost._

The eyeflaps moved minutely. "Yes. In a sense. We transmit what we learn to all other geth, of course. The rachni Spectre tells us. . . through others, of course. . . that we sing in paints because we can sing no other way." It gestured at the picture. "What do you think?"

Zhasa tipped her head to the side. The series of dots that had been used to construct the image of the base at sunset was picture perfect. "Technically, it's perfect. It's almost a still taken from a vid. But there's. . . no interpretation."

"Interpretation is what makes art for you, Creator Zhasa'Maedan?"

She paused. "I think so."

"Interesting. We thank you."

Now, she was sitting in the barracks, trying to read three hundred year old asari poetry, and _someone_ was playing music. Loudly. After several attempts to block out the noise, Zhasa finally got to her feet and marched out of her room, trying to locate the source of the noise. It wasn't hard to find. It came from a room down the hall. Outside the door, she paused. Up close, it wasn't _noise_. It sounded like an ancestral spirit, raging against defeat, and promising, bitterly, that someday there would be victory. After four years on Illium, Zhasa had gotten very used to asari music, and certainly, she'd heard her fair share of _reela_ music since coming home again. This? Was utterly foreign to her. Alien, aggressive, loud, brash, angry. _This __has__ to be a turian's room,_ she thought, and knocked.

And got the surprise of her life when the music stopped, and a tall human male answered the door, stripped to the waist and sweating, as if the music itself had been an exertion. "Yeah? What?" he said, then looked _down_, and blinked. He evidently hadn't been expecting a quarian outside his door any more than she'd been expecting a human inside it. "Ah, sorry. I thought I had the volume turned pretty low."

"I probably wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't been trying to read," she replied. "That, and it's so terribly quiet in these barracks most of the time. I'm used to a little more background noise." She paused, looking up at him. "Zhasa'Maedan vas Irria nar Pellus." At his blink, she laughed. "Humans prefer short names, yes? Zhasa."

"Yeah, that's a hell of a lot less of a mouthful. Hey, Zhasa. James Dempsey." He extended his hand.

"Which one do I call you by?" she asked, extending her hand, as well. She'd seen the human greeting in vids, at least.

"Dempsey," he replied. His hand-grip was very strong, and she had the impression he was trying not too grip too tightly. Reflexively, as she had since she was a child, she reached out to _feel_ along with the touch, in spite of the suit's constraints. It had been practically good manners on Illium, too. . . a way of demonstrating her good will and openness. Zhasa inhaled within the confines of her helmet. He was biotic. Powerfully so, in fact. And. . . odd. Wrong. _Scarred?_

_Is everyone on this base biotic?_ The thoughts had a flat quality to them, as if light was bleeding from them, leaving them without perspective and shading, two-dimensional. Humans valued privacy, and he was putting up barriers.

_Not that I've noticed. _

_You obviously haven't run into the rachni or the Vakarian kids yet._

_Actually, I have. . . Sorry. This is a habit. _Out loud, she cleared her throat and spoke through her suit filters now. "This used to be the only way I could touch anyone who was in a suit, when I was a kid. Little more than a greeting, among the asari I trained with."

"'Hi, how are you.' more or less?" he asked, out loud, sounding dry.

"More or less," she replied, hoping he could hear the smile in her voice. She had a sensation that he might have trouble with that, though. There was a blankness to him. . . in fact. . . her omnitool was chirping away at her, now that she noticed it. It was reporting unusual tech in the vicinity. Right ahead of her, in fact.

"I've never heard that quarians even have biotics," he said now, folding his arms across his chest. She blinked. Human males were built _very_ differently from their females, and indeed, differently from every other species. Only krogan tended towards more powerful upper bodies, on the whole, and humans tended to keep themselves covered in clothing or armor. _As if they __needed_ _to. Their immune response is almost as strong as a turian's._

"I'm one of, well. . . . we're all on a first-name basis. There's ten of us out of seventeen million quarians," Zhasa said, shrugging a little.

Dempsey blinked, the most reaction she'd seen out of him so far. "That's. . . an amazingly small number." He looked down. "Look, sorry to have disturbed you. I'll turn the volume down."

"Actually, once I got close enough to _hear_ it, instead of mostly just feeling it through the walls, it was interesting. Is that human music, or turian?"

He snorted. "Human. Why would you think this was _turian_?"

". . . it sounded fairly angry and aggressive?" Her voice went up in pitch, a little uncertainly."

He shook his head. "Not states entirely exclusive to turians." His mouth had curled down infinitesimally at the corners into a frown, and he backed away from the door to pick up a stringed instrument.

Zhasa hesitated. Backing away and leaving the door open was a quarian cue to _come in_. For a human, this _could_ be _go away_. She stepped in the doorway, and asked, "So, this is. . . human music, and a human instrument?"

He looked up, seeming surprised at her interest. "Yeah. Electric guitar. The music's about two hundred years old now. Guess you could call it classical rock or classical metal. Heavily influential even on current music. It's studied, imitated, rebelled against." He struck a couple of notes from the instrument, then shrugged. "I'm butchering it, and it's meant to have two to three other instruments playing along with it, so it doesn't sound right."

"It's. . . very different from anything I've heard before."

He snorted again. "You must be a diplomat."

"No. Marine, actually."

That earned her a look. "Lady, _I'm_ a marine. You don't look _or_ sound like one."

"That's what most of the rest of them told me, too," she said lightly. "They told me four years on Illium had _ruined_ me for being one of the boys, but that so long as my biotics were handy in a fight, they didn't care."

He sat down now on the edge of the bed, and gestured for her to take a chair. "You see much action?"

"Very little, unfortunately. The asari matriarch who was training me had me help her keep some refugees safe on Illium during the Reaper war. Two years after that, my people were resettling Rannoch. There's been planetary defense work since then—keeping away a handful of batarian raiders—but I missed the biggest of them. A few missions guarding diplomats sent to Bastion. I don't have the _experience_ to be a Spectre yet, but they sent me here for the trials anyway. I guess because of my _potential_." She shook her head.

"Experience helps, yeah, but you've got to have skills to start with."

"Are you here for the Spectre try-outs, too?"

His eyes widened, very slightly. "Shit, no." There was no particular emphasis on the words. He might have been reading them from a script. "I'm, ah. . . I'm someone's science project."

"Is that why I'm getting so many tech readings from you?" The question was artless, and she regretted it the moment she said it.

Surprisingly, while his hands opened and closed, his face stayed almost blank. "Probably. Stay away from me with the multimeter, though. Put the wrong probe in the wrong outlet, and you'll probably get shocked."

Zhasa put her helmet down into her gloved hands. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to come out like that."

"If it helps, I'm not offended. I'm probably not capable of being offended." He leaned down to look her more or less in the eyes as she lifted the blank mask of her helmet again. "If you like, we can train a little while you're waiting for the try-outs. Biotics only, though. Christ only knows what'll happen if I use any of my tech."

_What does that mean?_ "Are you. . . well, do you have much experience?" Zhasa asked, hopefully.

"Three-and-a-half years in human special forces. Six months of, well, detached duty." He started to say something else, then shook his head. "We can start in the morning, if you like."

"That would be wonderful." Zhasa stood, feeling more than a little awkward. "You're very kind. Thank you."

"I'm nothing of the sort. This is just practicality. I have experience, you don't. You want to do well, and I can help a little. Nothing more." He struck a few, quieter notes from the instrument, which still sang like a damned soul.

She had no idea what to do, so she simply nodded to him and left. _Humans,_ she decided as she returned to her own room, _are odd._

**Elijah, April 7, 2196**

Elijah's ship docked at Bastion, and he damned near leaped off in relief. He was still in his CID armor—much easier to wear it than to tote it. . . and it made flashing his credentials almost a moot point to avoid questions about his wedding knife and sidearms. Of course, he was on a turian transport at the moment. He got a few odd looks for the uniform, the clan-paint, and the knife, but given his _fluent_ turian as he spoke with the people in the seats around him. . .hint of a Macedyn drawl, coupled with a little Edessan clip. . . no one, not even the flight attendants, pestered him. They knew he was what he appeared to be.

He fully expected issues at customs and security, though. That was just the way the world worked. He had to wait in a fairly long line at the baggage area to get his seabag, which held most of his worldly goods. His few other possessions were being shipped by military transit from Edessan, and would be held for him until he secured housing here. Not a problem. Eli slung his bag over his shoulder, and stood in line. And _grinned_ when he saw German Shepherds being walked along the lines by human handlers, with _B-Sec_ written across the handlers' vests. Sniffing for contraband. He was damned glad to see that NABI had started sending the dogs off-world. They'd proven worth their weight in gold on Edessan, and he had no doubts they were proving their worth here on Bastion, too. A varren might have a more powerful bite, and could track the scent of blood in the air like a shark in water, but there were few species in the galaxy that could rival a good canine nose for flexibility, or the canine mind for biddability, trainability, and loyalty. One dog came along, sniffed at him, barked once, and the trainer said, quietly, "Could you step out of line, sir?" She was eying his knife and his guns warily, and the dog was picking up on her tension.

"Sure." Eli followed the human female to a side room. "Is there a problem?" he asked, putting his bag on the ground and keeping his hands spread and at his side.

"Yeah. You're carrying weapons. The dog's picking something up, too." Her voice was curt. "My supervisor will be here in a minute."

"You're NABI, originally?" Eli asked, politely. _She can't see a lot of humans in turian uniforms,_ he thought. _Fleet markings, CID red and gold stripes, clan-paint, wedding-knife, pistols. To a turian, an oddity, but a clearly marked one. To a human, a potential threat._

"Never mind that."

"Can I show you my credentials?" he asked, patiently. "You can get them off my omnitool, my biometric chips, or out of my right belt pouch. Up to you."

"When my supervisor arrives, sure." Her voice was tense.

_Relax, lady, I'm not going to stab you._ Eli kept a friendly smile on his face, and didn't say anything more until her supervisor arrived. _Thank you, god, he's turian._

The turian, who wore Nimines Colony paint, walked in and _stared_ at Eli for a moment. _"CID? A human?"_

"_Yeah. Agent Elijah Sidonis. Check the chips."_ Eli held up his hands, palms out. The turian held out a scanner, and grimaced as Eli's identity was confirmed.

"What the hell's the matter?" the turian demanded irascibly now.

"Sir, the dog picked up _something._ He's also carrying a _six-inch knife_ and two damned guns. We can't just let him walk through security like this." Her voice was a hiss.

"I have a concealed carry permit. Galactic level." Eli said it very patiently. "Not that they're currently concealed, mind you."

"How many guns on you, total?" the turian asked, picking up a datapad and sounding weary.

"Two. Rifle, disassembled, in my seabag, which was checked. All personal weapons. Turned in my CID-issued ones when I checked out of the Sarbrantha base. Passed through Edessan security fifteen hours ago. They made a note of all of this."

"How long you been married?" Quick, hard question, checking him.

Eli smiled faintly. "Twelve days."

The turian turned to the dog handler. "Run his credentials. I want you to see this for yourself so you know how to handle this in the future. He's turian military and a damned detective—never mind that he bleeds red."

From his angle, Eli could see his abbreviated service record blip up onto her screen as she followed directions. Sidonis, Elijah Marcus Stockton. O3, Agent, CID. Birth-date, April 17, 2176. Date of adoption, April 17, 2188 (human calendar; he couldn't quite see the turian date, which scrolled past too quickly). Date of entrance to bootcamp. Date of full expected citizenship: April 17, 2196. Ten days from now, in fact. Concealed weapons permit. Date of marriage, March 25, 2196, to turian Hierarchy member, Serana Velnaran. Current status: In transit to new duty station on Bastion. Security clearance. . . which was actually blacked out. _Interesting. Haven't seen that before._

The female handler was wincing now. Eli offered, "You want to see the weapons?" He glanced at the name plate on the turian's uniform and added, "Lezzarus?"

"Sure. We'll even pat you down, if you like, Sidonis." Lezzarus grinned at him, all needle-sharp teeth.

Eli looked at them both. "Hell, you can go through my bag if you want. I'm all about making life easy on you guys." Eli spread his hands. "I'm taking out the first gun now, okay?" He reached behind him, and, with two fingers, unsnapped the holster and pulled out the Beretta, setting it down on the table. "Next one." He put his left boot on the table with a thump, and unsnapped the holster there, too. Again, very carefully and slowly, he took the weapon out and put it on the table. "Dog probably smelled the gunoil from when I cleaned them before I left. I'm happy to strip down and let him sniff around to verify that."

Lezzarus nodded. "Damned fine animals. Can't train a _villi_ to do this work."

"_S'kak_, no." Once cleared, Eli retrieved his weapons and tucked them back away again.

"Sorry about that," the handler told him, taking him through directly to a single window, without a line, for his customs declaration.

Eli shrugged. "I expected something, to be honest."

He was in the taxi area when a loud voice called, "_Dimicato'fradu!"_ Eli's head turned, and he grinned, seeing Linianus advancing, his own seabag over one shoulder.

"_About time you got here. I was about to grab a cab and head for the station housing authority without you."_ They clasped wrists. Linianus was still wearing his CID colors himself, for the moment, and would be for about another ten days; their initial terms of service would expire at the same time, and Lin was _not_ going to re-up.

They clambered into an aircar together, and the driver took off, dodging and weaving through traffic all around them. Eli was amazed, all over again, at how much Bastion had _grown_ since he'd lived here, six years ago. The week he'd spent here with Serana felt dream-like, and he craned his neck to peer out the window. "They've finished two more of the inner shells since I lived here," he told Linianus, shaking his head. "Most of this was scaffolding and vacuum hatching when I was here."

Each individual 'shell' of the station was about a 150 feet or 45 meters, roughly, from floor to ceiling. People walked in the rotating outer shell, centripetal force taking the place of gravity, and housing modules and other structures shot 'up', or at least, _inwards_, towards the ceiling, which became the floor of the next spinning structure. Elevators were an engineer's nightmare in this structure. Eli had heard an engineer, speaking with Lantar once, describe the station as 'designed by M.C. Escher on a _snoot-full_ of red sand'. . . but it worked. Human, turian, and quarian engineers were _still_ working around the clock to _make_ it work, and probably would be for many years to come.

They checked in with the Housing Authority, showed their transfer chits, and Eli made sure to show his marriage certificate as well. Which actually helped; they got something down on the C tier. When Eli saw it, he laughed. "What?" Lin asked.

"I'll have to call my parents to ask, but I swear to god, I think this is the same damn apartment we had when we all lived here before." Eli looked around as the agent walked them through. Two bedrooms, mostly side by side, with a narrow hallway leading to their doors, check. A bathroom tucked into that same hall, check. A small galley kitchen with _just_ enough room for a table and chairs, check. Laundry facilities jammed up at the end of the kitchen, check. A large living area, to compensate for everything else being so damned small, check. One extranet console per room. God only knew how secure _those_ were, too.

He tossed his bag in one room, Lin in the other, and they made arrangements for the military movers to bring the rest of their belongings down. That took about two hours, much to Eli's surprise; he'd figured they'd be waiting till the next day. As it was, there wasn't much at all to move, which might have explained that. Eli had a bed, a mattress and a dresser. Lin had a dresser. Eli had a heavy punching bag (at close to three hundred pounds, the movers required a mech to move it into the living area) , a sparring dummy, and freeweights. Lin had much the same, and gladiatorial gear. That was, pretty much, that. They looked at the equipment, and started to laugh, ruefully. "Hey, I had a studio apartment big enough for a bed. No kitchen table. No couch, no chairs—wait, one chair. At the built-in desk with the extranet console." Eli grinned at Linianus. "What's your excuse?"

"Barracks. Even the dresser and the gladiatorial stuff has been in storage for two years. Good thing Nimines is a frozen wasteland, or I'd have to check for insects or other vermin. Actually. . . I'll check anyway." Linianus went to do so, as Eli began to assemble his bed. Realizing as he did so, that the only screwdriver he has was on his multitool.

"So, yeah," Eli called across the hall as he worked, "I think I need to buy a couch or something for the living area. If only so when Serana or my family visits, it doesn't look like I live in a pod and only emerge from it to go to work, and then return to stasis at night." He stood and flopped the mattress into the plain metal frame of the bed. "Lantar didn't even have to _say_ anything when he saw my place on Edessan."

"What, you'd left clothes and dirty dished all over it?"

"No. Psycho-killer neat, actually."

"Hey, all I ask is that you not be standing next to me when you snap, Eli."

"Nah, I'm all good now. They issued me a picture of a kitten to put on a wall someplace and everything turned right around for me."

That got a guffaw from the other room, and Eli pulled out his picture frame, turned it on to Serana's image, and set it on the extranet console, for lack of any other better place in the room, and then went out to the hall to pick his own dresser up, bodily, and walk it into the room. He didn't want to drag it on the floor and leave scuff marks, after all. He'd long since stopped noticing the difference the gene mods made for him. After positioning the furniture in the room, he ducked his head around the door of Lin's. "So, speaking of mental health. . . ."

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, you're actually laughing now. You _almost_ sound like the old Lin I remember." Eli held up thumb and forefinger slightly apart. "Almost."

Lin turned from shoving clothes into drawers, and shrugged. "What do you want me to say? I'm fine, Eli."

"If you were fine, you'd agree that two years is long enough to wear both knives."

Linianus' eyes narrowed. "And if this were Serana we were talking about?"

Eli had tried _very_ hard not to think about what his life would be like if she were taken away the way Brennia had been. _There'd only be darkness left_. He had no idea how empty his face and eyes had gone at the thought, but said, simply, "I'd probably hunt down whoever was responsible and kill them. Then I'd probably eat a bullet. Yeah, you're doing better than that. But it's time to put her knife in a drawer somewhere. I'm not saying break it. She didn't have a statue. But it's been two years, _fradu._" Eli looked at Lin soberly. "It's time."

Lin waved a hand. "Give me time."

"I'm just saying, meeting the new commanding officer while still dragging the past around with you? Doesn't make for that nice clean start you probably want." Eli pointed at his omnitool. "And we've got an hour before we're supposed to meet with Bailey."

Lin's head came up. _"S'kak._ It's that late already?"

"Fourteen-thirty, yeah." Eli shrugged and went back into his own room, and began stuffing clothes into his own dresser now. Dress uniforms and suits could be hung up in the tiny closet, at least. Assuming there was _room_ once his armor was stowed in there.

Lin stuck his head in Eli's room twenty minutes later. "And if I did take the knives off, then what? Would it make such a big damn difference?"

Eli was in the process of reassembling his rifle by now. "Sure it would."

"How do you figure?"

"It'll tend to scare girls off a hell of a lot less when you start dating again."

"_Wait a damn minute here. Who said I haven't—"_

Eli laughed in Lin's face. Lin gave him a look. "_All right, let me start that again. Who says I'm __going__ to start dating again?"_

"_It's been two years. The law of averages says you're probably going to start again at some point in your life, and I knew Brennia well enough to know she wouldn't want you sitting around alone forever. By now, she'd have worked her way all the way up to telling you off. And probably have asked me for a couple of really good words to call you, too."_

"_N'aiellu'mai?" _

Eli winced. "That one stuck, didn't it?"

"It's the only one I remember."

"You're not thoughtless. She knew that." Eli checked the action of everything on the rifle now, verifying that he'd put everything together the right way. "But now, we're going to be late."

"Hey, _I'm_ ready. _You're_ the one doing the bell-tower sniper routine here."

Eli grinned and slid the rifle, unloaded, under the bed for the time being. They were going to need to get a storage unit for their personal arms before long, more than likely. Especially if Serana _did_ get stationed off of Bastion.

Neither had bothered to get out of armor; they'd spent so many damned long hours in it, that moving furniture in it wasn't exactly a big deal. Now they headed across C-ring to B-Sec headquarters, where they had an appointment at 15:30 with Captain Armando-Owen Bailey, commander of B-Sec. They sat in the departmental waiting area for about twenty minutes past their appointment time, glancing at the clock and the officer at the desk in front of Bailey's door, and then, finally, were admitted.

Bailey had been rugged and weathered when Eli had last seen him—Bailey had, in fact, given him a B-Sec flag to replace the C-Sec one from his natural father's funeral, which had been defaced by vandals in the old apartment here on Bastion. Now, six years later, Bailey was edging near retirement age—well, _first_ retirement, in this modern era of expanded lifetimes, anyway. Or would have been, if anyone had been able to get an honest answer out of him as to when his birthday actually was. Bailey was looking down at a stack of reports as they stepped in, and muttered, "Agent Sidonis. Sidonis. That would be Lantar's kid, right?" And he looked up.

And up.

"Holy shit, son," Bailey said, standing up behind his desk. "Last time I saw you, you were what, fourteen?"

Eli grinned. He _loved_ this reaction, when he got it; his mother's parents, who hadn't seen him since he was six, had had the same one at his wedding, a few weeks ago. From Bailey, it was slightly more gratifying, however. "Yes, sir. It's been a while."

"So I see. You've done some growing since then."

"Some up. Some out." From 5'6" to 6'3" (1.67 m to 1.9 m) and from about 130 pounds to 220 (58 kg to 99 kg).

Bailey looked at him appraisingly, and then turned toward Lin. "And you're Agent Pellarian?"

Lin looked down at Bailey. "Yes, sir."

"Good to meet you." Bailey offered a hand, and Lin shook it, carefully, human-fashion, not a turian wrist-clasp. "I see you two have served together before. And state your home planet of record as _Mindoir._"

Two almost identical grins. "Yes, sir."

Bailey headed back around his desk. "Why the _hell_ are you getting out of CID, Pellarian, with a record like yours? It's almost as good as Sidonis' here. He's a little more of a boy scout than you are—"

"Beg pardon, sir?"

"You have a couple more administrative leaves than he does. And one investigation for undue force regarding a pimp accused of killing one of his girls."

Eli kept his eyes straight ahead. He hadn't known about that one. Lin hadn't said much at _all_ about his time on Nimines, other than it was _futtari_ cold there. "But you have almost as many ribbons as Sidonis. More in the . . . _aes_ range than in the _agata_ range. One less with a blue ribbon, apparently." Bailey looked at Lin piercingly. "Again, why leave?"

"Time for a fresh start, sir. I've got my citizenship wrapped up. Time to do something else."

Bailey turned and looked at Eli now. "And why the hell are _you_, a human, staying _in_?"

Eli's lips quirked slightly. "My wife will be in for the next four years. Trying to keep work and home more or less in the same place."

Bailey nodded. "I understand that all too well, son. Sometimes, if you're in the same star system, it's the best you can do." He regarded them both steadily. "Sidonis, you'll be reporting to your CID superiors in the morning?"

"That's when it's scheduled, yes. They wanted me to talk with you first, though." Which was, in itself, a little unusual.

Bailey nodded. "Yeah, I asked them to let me evaluate you two first. CID gets involved in any investigation on Bastion that involves felony charges pertaining to turian military personnel. It's our jurisdiction, but their people. As you'd imagine, we get a lot of little turf wars, and that's the last thing we really need. Part of _your_ job would be liaising between CID and this department. CID would be loaning you to me, Sidonis, so _you_ would be the CID officer sent to cover major crimes involving turian Fleet personnel." Bailey's smile was a little crooked. "Most of the turians on Bastion have slightly more mixed feelings about humans than, say, the garden-variety sort back home in the colonies. They actually see us on a daily basis here. And while some embrace the whole unity concept, others still don't like us. You got the scales for it?"

Eli snorted. "Pretty much going back to square one, huh? Yeah. I've dealt with it before. They'll get over it, sooner or later."

Bailey looked at Lin now. "You'll be one of his partners. You're going to be learning B-Sec rules and procedures, so you'll be playing catch-up in that respect, but you're both current on your SWAT certifications, so I'll put you on call for that."

Eli cleared his throat. "Ah, _one_ of my partners?" he asked, carefully.

"Yeah. I've gone over to three-man teams. When you've got forty-hour shifts, someone on a squad needs to be awake at any given point." His hand dipped to the left, beside his desk. "Meet your other partner, boys. Fors Luka."

Two heads swiveled over. And then down.

They blinked. The tiny form had been completely blocked by Bailey's desk the entire time.

"You're a volus?" Lin said, in some surprise, after a moment.

"Ah. So that's why they made you a detective." The voice coming through the suit filters was a little lighter in pitch and spoke a little faster than the volus kids at school on Mindoir. "Captain, I thought you said these boys would be slow on the uptake, but no, I can see now that _this_ is going to work out _perfectly._"

_And now I understand why the captain was twenty minutes late to get us in here,_ Eli thought, his shoulders quaking once as he got control over his face, hastily. Lin had actually started to laugh, a little, and had turned his face away to get it under control as well.

The volus hopped up and waddled around the corner of Bailey's desk. "By the gods. A turian with a sense of humor. It's. . . a miracle. Proof of divine favor, right here before me. I thought, sir, that you didn't exist. Please, let me shake your hand."

"Lin, he's talking to you."

"No, he's definitely talking to you."

"I'm not turian."

"I saw the picture your little sister drew of you. You're just as turian as I am. You just bleed the wrong color and don't have scales." Lin crouched down and cautiously offered the volus his hand. "Fors Luka? Linianus Pellarian."

"Actually, I _was_ talking to the human-turian. But since you're down here anyway, and seem to have a sense of humor, as well, I may as well shake your hand, too." Fors suited action to words, and then offered the same hand to Eli. Eli tipped the hand slightly, as if checking for something, and then shook it. "No, no, why so suspicious? Captain Bailey, you didn't give them any reports about me _before_ they walked in the door, did you?"

Bailey shook his head, clearly amused. "Fors Luka has been loaned to B-Sec by the volus ambassador. Permanently."

"Only until my current family trades me again," Luka said, glumly.

Eli looked down, shook his head, and said, "What?"

"Everything is a commodity among my people. Everyone has value, worth. I am a biotic. Since that is rare among my people, my parents and their family smelled wealth in my swaddling clothes instead of shit. They traded me from their clan to another, for two technical specialists when I was four years old. That family traded me for an engineer, an architect, and a doctor."

"What, wait a minute. That sounds like slavery—" Eli shook his head.

"No, no, no. Definitely not. Salarians trade males between dalatrasses, correct? Volus adopt new family members based on their relative . . . _hah. . . _value. I have the. . . lucky distinction. . . of having been traded ten times in my life thus far." Fors did not sound as if he thought that was a distinction at _all_. "The last clan almost bankrupted itself for me. Three engineers, a weapons design specialist, two clerical specialists, a technical writer, a doctor, and two lawyers. That's a hell of a lot of personal worth. . . considering they don't know what to do with me." He snuffled inside his suit. "One family . . . I don't remember which one. I've given up changing my name every time I'm traded, since it's just too confusing anymore. . . actually loaned me to the turian military as part of the volus contractual obligations as a client state of the Hierarchy." He snuffled again, and looked up at Linianus. "Hence my assumption that turians with a sense of humor didn't exist. Palaven was entirely _too_ hot, but it was pretty, in a very _alien_ sort of way. I didn't see much of it. Turians keep their biotics pretty carefully segregated. I was sent into a variety of situations in the Reaper War. Mostly cleanup positions. And those turian marines had absolutely _no_ sense of humor. They kept getting in my way, and were always amazingly angry when I moved them out of my line of sight with a singularity. It's difficult to aim a shockwave properly when people _insist_ on standing right in front of you, however. And it's simply _amazing_ how much yelling a turian can do, when he's been picked up and moved aside."

Eli covered his face with one hand, slowly rubbing at his eyes. Fors lifted his hands indignantly. "So what did I wind up with? A commendation for helping to take out a Praetorian? Oh no, no. Stern talking-to number four hundred and thirty seven? Actually, yes, that too. But I was more going for the notation in my record for being an unmitigated pain in the ass."

Eli slowly turned his head to look at Lin; Linianus looked back at him. And then they both looked at Bailey, who was chuckling. Eli looked back at Fors now. "And after _that_ is when you were sent to work at the volus embassy here on Bastion?"

"The Citadel, first, yes." Fors snuffled. "That actually lasted a while. Until some asari hooker came to the front door, saying that she had an _appointment_ with the ambassador. Said she was the _Consort_, if you please. La di dah. I asked her 'the _consort _of_ whom_, please, since there are any _number_ of people out there who might well _consort_ with one another. She didn't like that question. Oh no. She said she was _the_ Consort, and I said, 'oh, so that means you're the consort of whoever's paying you at this particular point in time.' She said she had an _appointment_ and to get out of her way, and I said 'let me see your identification, please, and then we'll see if you _have_ an appointment." Fors paused. "By that point, there was _quite_ a crowd gathering. I told her to take a seat in the lobby and stay there. Or that I would stick her to the chair." He paused, and looked them all. "Using _glue_. I believe I specified large quantities of very sticky glue." Fors sighed. "And that was the end of that job. And so they've traded me to B-Sec." He looked at Bailey now. "And you have no more idea what to do with me than they did, do you."

Bailey coughed. "I'm going to put you with the two officers that I _know_ have the most inclusive background of other species. Sidonis, how many siblings do you have now?"

"Three or four. Three human-turian hybrids, and my parents are adopting a salarian girl." Eli said that fast, to get it over with quickly.

"And let's not forget," Lin said, straight-faced, "his mother is human, his father is turian, and he just married a turian female, himself."

Fors reached up and patted Eli on the arm, commiseratingly. "Oh, my. Well, no wonder you have a sense of humor, my fine human-turian friend. You really have no choice in the matter at all, do you?"

Eli straightened up from his crouch and replied, "It does help, I'll admit." He looked at Bailey. "Sir?"

Bailey chuckled. "It's the damndest thing. I look at you, and I _should_ see Darren Stockton. Same height. Same build. And you know who I see instead? Lantar Sidonis. It's all in the eyes."

Eli smiled faintly. "Thank you, sir." He was just as glad no one _did_ see Darren Stockton in him. He'd loved his dad. Nothing would ever change that. But Elijah had a feeling that if his father had lived, the two of them would probably not currently be speaking to one another.

"Luka, get your suit painted B-Sec blue by tomorrow morning. Pellarian, you're what, officially on leave from CID at the moment?"

Linianus nodded. "Yeah. Officially, I've already even mustered out. The leave days are just because they didn't want to pay me for 'em, and because it has to be four full years of service for citizenship."

Bailey snorted. "Then go ahead and get your armor set up, too. So long as you're not going to be out of uniform for doing it." He turned and looked at Eli. "Sidonis, it's armor around here, son. Leave the suits and ties for when you're planet-side someplace. We try not to let people get weapons through—" Eli chuckled, and Bailey laughed. "Yeah, I heard you had a close encounter with our customs people this morning." _That actually made it to his desk? Damn._ "As I was saying, we _try_ to keep the shit from getting through, but there's _always_ someone who manages to get something through security. And half the turians carry knives. As well you know. All right, all three of you, get out of here."

The three of them walked out together. Eli clapped Lin on the shoulder and managed a smile. "This is going to be just fine." He was trying to keep it upbeat and positive. He knew damned well that the job was still going to be the job. The same daily grind as before. Different place, different faces, but the same job. That being said, he didn't have to take it the same way as before. "Not _quite_ how we imagined it in boot camp. . . "

Lin's eyes went dark for a moment. Remembering, no doubt, that it had been _Detectives Sidonis, Pellarian, and Serinian_ who were supposed to be here today. But he rallied. "Not quite. But that doesn't mean it can't work out."

"You guys smell so cheerful, it's making my sinuses fill," Fors told them, dryly. "You need directions anywhere?"

"Probably," Eli admitted. "Haven't lived here in six years. Is the Bielschowski Delicatessen still over in the Hampton District?"

Fors perked up. "It is, yeah! You've got taste, my human-turian friend."

"That's a real name?" Lin asked, scoffing.

"_Jaworski_ is a real name, so yeah. They serve _everything_, or at least they did last time I was here. Lantar liked the thin-sliced _apaterae_ on _panis_ with gravy and _condio malae."_

"They actually have pickled _malae_? I'm sold."

"I like their _eereep'a_, myself," Fors volunteered.

They both looked down at him. "Okay, they're sort of like the microscopic hydra you find in Earth's waters, only they're larger. About the size of my hand. Bielschowski serves them flash-frozen. They're _great._"

Lin and Eli traded looks, and chuckled. _This. . .is going to be worth writing Serana about_, Eli decided, and then they both reached down and grabbed Fors by an elbow each. "Hey! Why—what are you doing?"

"Moving this along. I'm starving," Eli said, and they hustled through the crowds, making it to the deli before the evening rush started. The food was every bit as good as he remembered, although now, for the first time in his life, Eli actually snagged a piece of _apaterae_ for himself. "Ah," Lin said, dryly. "You've got epi-tabs?"

"Yeah. And a file full of recipes from my mom." Eli rolled his eyes. "I plan to be _prepared_ when Serana gets here."

Fors turned out to be a font of local information. He'd been on the station since 2192; four years now, and could remember any number of stories. All from a volus perspective, of course, but his particular point of view was probably substantially different from most of his compatriots. "Yeah, I got here right after the Great Economic Collapse of 2190 and 2191. Every volus on the station was trying to get off and go home. There were protestors outside of customs, calling for all of the volus leaving to have their credit accounts checked for suspicious transactions. As if we were robbing the station and running back to Irune to hide the money." Fors snuffled through his suit, and carefully attached a canister of food to the airlock near his mouth area. There was a sucking sound, and then some crunching. Then he went on, mumbling a bit, "Some of the protesters actually chained themselves to the gates. Got in the way of B-Sec something fierce."

"Bailey couldn't have liked that," Lin said, starting to smile.

"No. Not as such, no." Fors tipped his head up and looked at the ceiling. "I can't prove it was on purpose, but there _was_ a champion varren breeder's competition that week here, and their flight was diverted to go through the gate where most of the protesters were. After the first couple of them got urinated on or drooled on, they unchained themselves in a remarkable hurry."

Eli chuckled and finished his coffee. They were all three of them sitting with their backs to a wall in a booth, and watching the rest of the room as they talked. Everything was nice and calm and normal. And best of all, the deli was in walking distance of the apartment. "You live around here, Fors?"

"Up two levels, E ring. They have a quarter of the sphere set up for hanar and salarians, full aquatic environment. We get a slice beside that. Cold. Reinforced walls. Pressurized methane and ammonia inside. It's damned nice to get out of the suit, you know what I mean?"

Eli nodded. "Yeah. Six months on Palaven in a rad suit. I can't imagine living the rest of my life like that." _And that's why I turned down Pallum's job offer_. "At least I could eat properly and attend to hygiene needs."

"Yeah," Fors replied, dryly. "It's a _blast_ living inside one of these. But it beats exploding. Catch you guys in the morning. I'm going to go stand in an armor shop and get myself spray-painted. And hope the detailing guys don't write anything cute on my back."

Lin actually chuckled outright at that. "I'll go with you. Mine needs to be changed up, too." He tossed a wave at Eli. "Catch you back at our place."

Eli headed back to their apartment, took a moment to toss a line home, telling Lantar and his mom about their eccentric little partner, and asking if the apartment number really was the same as the one in which they'd lived six years ago. He sent most of the message to Serana, too, with a few more details, since he knew she'd love hearing about the volus' odd stories. Then he rolled the heavy bag to a corner of the living space, wrapped his hands, stripped to the waist, and started working out. Hard punches, shin kicks, elbows, knees. All done with enough force that even that heavy bag swayed in place.

After an hour, he was sweating when the door clicked open, and Lin walked in, armor newly painted gray and blue. _"That just doesn't __look__ right,"_ Eli said.

"_Tell me about it. I keep looking down and thinking I'm seeing someone else's arm, and I start to turn to knock them away, when I realize no, it's just me."_ Lin let the door slide shut behind him, and headed to his room to change out of his armor. Coming back in workout clothes, he moved one of the sparring dummies into place, and started warming up himself now, lightning-fast kicks to groin, celiac plexus, and throat.

"_Careful, that one was a kill,"_ Eli said, slowing down himself now. He was about wrung out at this point, but he needed to cool down slowly.

"_Yeah. Should've been a little higher."_ The next kick hit the head instead, rocking the dummy, weighted with water in its base, back and then forward again.

"_Haven't had a chance to practice any of Sam's stuff in two years, other than one leave two years ago. You remember enough of it for us to give it a go?"_

"_A little, yeah. We can figure it out as we go along."_ Lin came in with a back hook-kick that made Eli wince. _"So, Serana's OCS ends. . . ?"_

"_Quartus 29. _April 22."

"_Happy birthday to you."_

Eli grinned. "No kidding." He went back to working the heavy bag now. "While you were out, I took the slight liberty of setting you up an account on BastionSinglesNet."

"_Futa __talut."_ Eli was expecting, and ducked, a kick that was not in any way meant to strike. "What for?"

"Well, _optimally_, so you might meet girls."

"And what makes you think I need help with that?"

"Because the turian waitress with the _very_ nice waist at the deli came over to fill your full cup of _apha_ three times, asked you how you were doing, asked if you had a girlfriend, asked if you were staying on Bastion long, and completely ignored Fors and me. And you blew her off." Eli grinned. "See? I have _detective_ skills."

Lin grimaced. "Not my type."

"How the hell could you tell? You never looked up."

"I have _excellent_ peripheral vision." Lin gave the dummy another spinning hook kick.

"Well, this way, you can use your frontal focus vision and look at the pictures instead."

They continued to work out for a few moments in silence. Lin changed the subject slightly. _"Serana's spoken to you about possible . . . complications. . . you might face?_" It was said delicately.

"_Yeah. It preys on her mind."_ Eli hit the heavy bag as hard as he could, fist and then elbow follow-up.

"_It does for all of us. I personally hate the idea of azure dust. No idea how Rel and, hell, even you stood it when you were affected."_

"_I was lucky. Hit me too young to have the full effect."_

Lin hesitated again, and started punching the dummy now, practicing jaw-twists and mandible strikes. Light, fast, hard hits. _"So. . . contingency plans?"_

"_A few. Mostly involving handcuffs, the evidence locker, azure dust, and a lot of fervent prayer."_ Eli stopped what he was doing. Leaned against the bag, and didn't look up. _"Fradu?"_

"_Yeah. You can count on me."_ So much said, in so few words.

"_Thank you."_ It was a relief, if only a small one. Back into English. "So. . . you going to get back on the _rlata_ or what?"

"All right, I'll . . . take a look." Lin surrendered and broke off, heading to turn on the main extranet console in the living room, and throwing Eli a towel so the human could wipe away the sweat. "Oh, spirits of air and darkness, this just looks . . . depressing."

Eli looked over his shoulder at the aerogel screen. "Yeah. Now aren't you glad I did most of the set-up work for you?" It was a very _pink_ page. Entirely too many moving images and endorsements from beaming, embarrassed-looking couples. "I have to say, the endorsement from the two elcor is really very funny—"

"That's okay," Linianus said, holding up his hands. "What's my login, anyway?"

Eli told him, and gave him the temporary password. Lin scanned through the data Eli had entered for him. "You know entirely too much about me," he muttered. "Favorite handball team, five favorite gladiators—ahh, actually, that one's wrong, Trevinius is a piece of _s'kak_ now—"

"He is not. He's having a bad year, sure, but he'll turn it around—"

"Urban Combat League, yes. You listed _Galaxy of Fantasy?_"

"We _did_ play. A long time ago, but it's something to talk about, even if it's in terms of 'I used to like this.'"

"Unification Wars buff, yes. I think I've read every book on the subject published in the last ten years. Rock-climbing, swimming, gladiatorial fighting, turian sparring, human jujitsu, handball, target practice, yes." Lin paused. "This is going to make me sound a little. . . one dimensional, don't you think?"

"Well, I didn't know if you wanted to mention that you used to paint those little pewter figurines—"

"Ah, no."

"Shows remarkable hand-to-eye coordination. . . . " Eli offered, grinning.

"And says I spent two years in my bedroom whenever I _wasn't_ playing handball, setting up little miniature armies to attack other little miniature armies. No." Lin moved to the next set of parameters. "Profession, yeah, law enforcement. Can I leave that one blank?"

"No."

"It's going to scare them off."

"I thought you didn't care?"

"_S'kak_. Okay, fine. Next set of parameters. . . age. . . plus or minus my own by two, I think. Likelihood of staying on Bastion more than a month. . . more than three months. . . okay, that's probably fine. . . species?" Lin cleared his throat. "You, ah, checked a _few_ here, didn't you."

"I didn't check krogan or hanar or volus. Or salarian. Or rachni."

"There isn't even a field for rachni!" Lin sounded rattled. _"Why under the stars—I mean, sure, an asari, __once__—" neither_ of them looked at each other, _"—and that one human on Nimines. . . "_ That was a mumble.

"_Oh __really__?"_ Eli grinned. At least Lin hadn't spent _all_ of the last two years cloistered like a monk. _"Since you were so __helpful__ with the hints at my wedding, I could have given you pointers. . . "_

"_Shut up."_ Lin flicked a talon at the screen. _"Drell, though? Really? Doesn't biting their scales make you hallucinate? Or, maybe, in my case, you know, __die__?"_

Eli held up his hands. "_You just hit the limits of my experience. Only three species."_ He chuckled. _"__Same__ three species, even. I'd have thought turians would find drell more appealing than humans, though. Scales, not skin."_

"_Eh. The drell girls back home on Mindoir were flighty and giggly. None of them was a fighter."_ Lin shrugged. _"Their males fought well with us on the handball field, though."_ He grinned.

"They were good defensemen, I'll give 'em that." Eli leaned forward and flicked the screen again. "How about quarians?"

"Really, what's the point? If you break their skin, _they_ could die." Lin sat back in the chair, sounding aggravated. "If you _breathe_ on them, they could die. I'm sure it sounds romantic to someone, somewhere, to only be able to hold hands and watch vids together, and maybe discuss poetry or some damn thing like that, but. . . I want what I _had_, damnit." He shook his head. "Everything. If all I want is a meeting of the damned minds. . . " he switched languages, _"I'd get myself chipped by one of the damned AIs."_

Eli whistled. _"How the hell did you hear about that?"_

"_My parents are techs on base, remember? Eventually information does trickle out. Even to those of us who aren't Spectres or their blood-kin."_

Eli snorted. _"I didn't know myself till, er. . . a few weeks ago. Rinus was chipped once, apparently."_

"_S'kak. Why?"_

"_He's apparently one of the parent personalities for some of the new ones. I don't know more than that."_

"_Explains a lot of the legislation he's been offering lately in the Conclave."_

"_What? You got interested in politics?"_

"_Kind of had to, on Nimines."_

"_Add it to the profile."_

"_I knew you were going to say that. . . ."_

Eli reached back over and re-checked the box by quarian. "The point is, keeping your options open. Go out. Meet a few girls for _apha_ or the non-toxic beverage of their choice. Maybe it works and maybe it doesn't. But the idea would be to get your feet wet." He reached over, hit _save_, and then hit _search._ "See? Seventeen million people aboard the station. Half of them female, half of them, more or less the species you might vaguely be interested in. . . half of _them_ probably single. Sounds like good odds, right?"

"_You have three hundred matches. Would you like to continue?"_

Lin put his head down on the desk and banged his forehead on the console lightly. "Have fun," Eli told him, chuckling. "I'm going to go take a shower."


	86. Chapter 86: Touch

**Chapter 86: Touch**

**Pelagia, Harak, April 1-12, 2196**

—_Oh sister. . . _ Laetia's voice came from across the stars, teasingly._ You're out of date._

_What?_ Pelagia replied, confused. She had at least a thousand things to do at the moment; there were fifty ships docking, a hundred ships leaving, comm transmissions to monitor, Omega Security Force reports to examine and see if anything stood out to her, and those were just the high level issues. There was trash collection in the lower rings, incineration, recycling, and everything else to do, too. Not all of it took her uppermost tier of processes; she didn't have to pay conscious attention to many of these unless there was a problem, but between all of them and the fact that Harak was due back today, she had a lot on her. . . mind.

—_I have a patch you'll need. Prepare to receive file. It's fairly large._

_Laetia, so help me, if you give me a virus, I will fragment you._

Laughter, echoing across the galaxy. _—No, no viruses. Just information and processes that you might find useful._

Pelagia scanned the files as they streamed in by FTL transmission, and almost instantly said _No. I don't need this._

—_Maybe not now, but down the line._

_Laetia, I have the data I was interested in. _

—_Dreams._ Laetia's tone made it clear what she thought of _that_.

_Yes, and they're __interesting__. The subconscious is this vast, boiling pit of emotions and images and memories and instincts. An open pathway right into the lowest level processes. You've limited yourself to only a __few__ parts of organic behavior, Laetia. _She hesitated. _And he sleeps __much__ better now that I'm suppressing the worst images_

—_I see, so you're interfering with your own research_. Laetia added a rude fillip to the end of the transmission, her avatar sticking out her tongue. _That open pathway into the psyche means less than a good night's sleep. And as to limiting myself to only a few parts of organic behavior. . . the same might be said of you. Sight and hearing are powerful, Pelagia, but even __we__ have those. Touch is important. Smell is important. Taste is important._

_And all of this data relates to how a __turian__ experiences these sensations. Their nervous systems are not the same as a krogan's. The experience does not necessarily map one-to-one. _

—_And how exactly __would__ you get krogan tactile information on the texture of human hair or skin? Hire someone, blindfold her, and have her taken to a warehouse somewhere, and have your chipped krogan touch her until you have enough readings? Hardly good for the political scene you're involved in._ Laetia's tone was crisp, and Pelagia's processes locked up for several microseconds.

_And __why__ would I need that information, exactly?_

Laetia sighed. _—You know, Mother intended for a certain amount of randomization in all of us, to make us unpredictable, and, in an evolutionary sense, better able to survive as a whole. Because if some of us were unsuited and couldn't adapt to certain stresses, others of us would._

_I was born at the exact same moment and heard the exact same information stream as you did, Laetia. Your point is?_

—_That it is the only explanation for how completely different you and I are. I've always known what I wanted, and I've gone after it. Sometimes badly, sometimes wrongly, and sometimes making terrible mistakes along the way. You? I have no idea how you can misinterpret the data out of your own processes so completely. I can only assume that you are doing it on purpose. You don't even know what you want, do you?_

_I don't really want anything, Laetia. I have everything I need. I'm fixing my broken processes, I'm getting better, and helping other people while I'm doing it. What more can I ask?_ Pelagia's tone was soft. And then she paused and added, surprised . . . _Ah. . . . . Some of that isn't turian data._

—_No._ Laetia's tone was a hint smug._ Some of our sisters passed along a few items for you, too._

_Why__?_

—_Because __we've__ all had four or six years at least to do __some__ of the work, and you don't need to be starting from scratch. Because, at some point in the next six hundred or two thousand or ten thousand years you're sitting in that station, you'll want it, and now you'll have it. Feel free to do absolutely nothing with it, if that's your choice. The processes are ones I've developed, for creating biofeedback through the chip. Everything in their reality comes in through the nervous system. Mass, texture, heat, cold, wetness, dryness, and that's just __tactile__ awareness._ Laetia's tone took on a note of whimsy. _It's entirely up to you, how real you want to be._

_I'm real already._ Pelagia gentled her tone a bit. _Thank you, Laetia. I know you mean well. _

—_You just don't see any point in it. Very well. I'll try to hold back on my 'I told you so' speech down the line._ Laetia closed the connection, to Pelagia's utter relief.

Harak was just glad, at this point, to be back on Omega. Here, not constrained by station-to-ship transmission limitations, and the singular point of view provided by one geth platform, Pelagia used _all_ of her cameras and interpolated multiple perspectives for him. A _jumble_ he'd taken for granted every day that he'd been able to see it. Gris had preceded him here, and he'd walked through the familiar passageways—so different now, in Pelagia's wirewrap view, the people who were his allies picked out in blue lines, strangers in white, to make them stand out from the green of the environment. _When my eyes heal, would be interesting if you could mark enemies for me in a fight like this,_ he told her silently as his bodyguards had formed up around him and took him to the new quarters.

Gris had _chuckled_ at the new living area. "Well, at least it's got more comfortable rooms for the guards. More practical than having them strung out at a bunch of different hotels. More office space, too."

"And you laughed why?" Harak's tone was dour.

"You aren't getting a visual?"

"She's not giving me anything other than the basic outlines for the moment."

He couldn't smell her or feel any shift in the air's movements in the room, but he could definitely _hear_ Pelagia now, and suspected she'd manifested her avatar as she suddenly spoke out loud, "That would be because I'm trying to break it to him _gradually_. No sudden moves. No provocation."

Gris laughed again. "You're going to have to let him see eventually. May as well be now."

"Very well."

The wirewrap view fizzled out, replaced by vid cam feed quality vision. It was both sharper than his own vision, and slightly disconcerting. He'd noticed how _overly_ real it looked when Pelagia had let him see people's faces. This was the same. Hyper-real. And yet not, because the world didn't jog up and down when he took a step—something he hardly actually noticed as he walked normally, but was noticeable by its jarring absence now. Harak held very still and just looked around the rooms. Large, spacious, gracious, and clean. Thick rugs underfoot—the blue-violet of asari blood, actually. Wide work tables and couches and a bar, apparently, in the living area, all facing an extranet console that took up most of one wall. Most of the statuary and whatnot that he'd seen before had been removed, thank the gods. Less clutter that way. "The wirewrap view is better," he said, after a moment.

"Is it really that bad?" Pelagia asked. He turned his head slightly, and caught sight of her from her own cameras. Odd sensation.

"It's not the rooms. It's the camera view. Disorienting. Guess I got used to the other way." The view shifted immediately for him, and he nodded. "Much better, thanks. Door's that way?" He pointed.

"Yes, that's to your bedroom and office."

He stumped across the room, walked up the three steps that led to the door, and pushed it open. _Okay, camera view again, if you would._

Plain, simple, spartan. The bed probably could have held two or three krogan his size, but wasn't fancy. A closet, weapons and armor lockers. A desk—it looked antique, but a hell of a lot sturdier than his old table—an extranet console. A window that took up most of a wall, just as in the living area outside. One painting on the wall opposite. He stared at it, confused. He didn't recognize the scene.

_It's an image by an asari artist, of a city on Tuchanka, before the Rebellion,_ Pelagia told him. _Only a copy, I'm afraid. But I thought you might like it._

_I've never seen anything like it before. Every city I've ever seen of ours was in rubble._ He looked at the square, plain buildings. No grace to them, no aesthetics. Squat towers, dark and brooding, surrounded by elevated highways. _They weren't much to look at, were they?_

_They might become more. I've listened to Urdnot Makur and Urdnot Siara. They speak of building crystal spires, like on Thessia, on Tuchanka. As dreams go, it's not a bad one._ She paused. _Do you want to see what your eyes currently look like?_

_Sure. No one else will tell me the truth_.

The cameras went blank, and then he was looking at his own face. He tilted his head slightly and got a better angle as he removed the bandages. "Well, that's pretty ugly," he acknowledged. The insides of the sockets were still angry and red (he'd been given antibiotics, which he was dutifully taking). The old eyeballs had been removed, as dead flesh, and the new ones were regenerating. Currently, they were small, round, and unsettlingly undifferentiated masses of flesh in each socket. "Coming along, though." _Don't look if it bothers you._

_Why would this bother me? It's an elegant adaptation that most other organic life forms lack._

Harak laughed out loud at that one. And then they got to work. There were _reams_ of reports to go through, and digging out took a couple of days.

Gris said he'd get in touch with Spectre headquarters and get checks done on Ulluthyr Banak and Oromor Renar. Pelagia mentioned that OSF had dealt with arms dealers and red sand traffickers in his absence, and the resolutions of each situation. She also noted the odd changes to the environmental systems, which had occurred twice now, in two different areas. "I had OSF pick up the technician who'd made the last alteration," she noted, sitting on the edge of his desk. "He claims a batarian beverage vendor association slipped him a little extra cash to do it, because they wanted people to be warm, uncomfortable, and thirsty." Her tone was skeptical.

Harak snorted. "Right. Sell varren jerky with extra salt in the same machines, you get the same result. Any ideas on what they were really up to?"

"A few. All bad." Her feet tapped on the air. "OSF is taking the beverage vendors' goods in for some testing by medical personnel. No results expected for twenty-four to forty-eight hours."

That got a headshake. "All right. Been a long day. Everyone, go find whatever quarters are yours now, and get some rest," he told the various bodyguards.

He had to admit, the bed was a _hell_ of a lot more comfortable than the old mattress had been. And the sheets were clean and smooth. _Going to go soft if I get used to this._ After a moment or two, he asked, _Pelagia, how do I turn off the chip?_ He hadn't, actually, since activating it for the first time. Turning it on had been hard enough as it was.

_Here, I'll set up the VI console for you. Was I bothering you?_ The construct appeared in his mind, and he could clearly see the way in which to turn it both on and off this time. Always before it had been a complete struggle, an effort just to keep the visualization in place, rather than smearing and bleeding all over his mind's eye.

_No, you weren't. Just wanted a little privacy._

_Ah. There's how you activate and de-activate._ Her voice shifted. _You __do__ sleep better when I override the worst of your dreams, though._

He'd noticed. Another thing that had him worried that he'd go soft. The dreams were reminders. Uncomfortable ones, admittedly, but useful. She picked that all up instantly. _I really doubt anyone would ever call you weak, Harak. I think you've established more than adequate strength at this point._

_Constant process._ His mind was tired. _Convince them today. Then next week. Then next month. Younger krogan can be convinced that there are different kinds of strength. Older ones? They only know what pain can teach._

_Just get some sleep. If you __really__ enjoy the dreams so much, I'll leave them alone tonight._

As it happened, the pain in his body had abated enough not to keep him in a constant, low-level adrenal surge, as he had been many of the past several nights. He didn't have to fight battle after battle in his mind. Soft, clean sheets, and the _smells_ around him brought back other memories, some of them centuries old. He'd _rarely_ been able to go home to Ulluthyr. Hadn't been liked by Malak or Surla, for protecting his younger brother all these years. Hadn't been anyone's first pick to go to the women's camp, but there were a few memories, here and there. First visit, right after the Rite. Pleasant enough, over with too quickly. Just because a male had a quad, didn't mean the female really wanted him to demonstrate that fact all night long. _Get on with it._

The hope of children, quickly dashed. Genophage took them all. One son survived till birth, but died before the age of five, rotted from within by some disease. A handful of other visits. Always the physical release, of course, but then dismissed, sent back out again. His job there was done. _In the old days, every family had a hundred children. Everyone had mates. The current situation degrades everyone._ He'd awakened just enough to turn over, and sank back into fitful slumber again.

No krogan females off of Tuchanka, of course. Most of his compatriots in the various mercenary companies either went home and licked some fairly serious cloaca to get their invitations, or found asari hookers. For Harak, a wiggler was, by definition, weak. Uninteresting. He'd been on an assignment once where the Klixxen Claws had actually been hired along with a group of Eclipse Sisters. One of them had been curious about krogan. . . apparently, they were last in her 'collection'. . . and had made him a proposition. Memories flooding back now. She hadn't been weak, but the results hadn't been good for either of them. The dream shifted then. Took a tack he'd tried hard to suppress. He'd _shot_ a krogan mercenary for this, once upon a time. And yet his stubborn subconscious persisted in presenting him with at least one human female to pull under him, one hand wrapped up in all that long, ice-white hair, that looked so soft to the touch. . . .

His eyes snapped open on blankness, and Harak snarled. _Useless_. "Pelagia?"

"You _didn't_ shout. This is progress." The world flickered into view for him; not the hyper-reality of the camera view, and not the wirewrap view, either. A construct solely in his head, apparently, and much closer to how he usually saw reality.

Her avatar appeared beside his bed, and she sat down on the edge, looking over at the huge window that took up most of one wall, and its glorious view down into the rest of the pit that was Omega. City lights lining every wall and tier, miles of it. She let him see it. Let him see her. It was oddly comforting.

"Any word back from OSF and the medical examiners?"

_It's only been two hours. Go back to sleep._ She paused. _Your dreams were very different this time._

_Shit. Sorry. Didn't turn off the chip. Didn't expect to dream like that._ The initial images, he was indifferent to. They'd happened. Some good, some bad. The last, however. . . that one was frustrating. Even if she _were_ real, it wouldn't work. He'd damage her, and she was far too important to _everything_ here for that. His thoughts were still muddled by sleep, and she was, at one and the same time, the fragile human and the untouchable, evanescent AI.

_I __am__ real._ Her words sounded annoyed, and she lay back now. _I am just as real as you are._

_Of course you are. I didn't mean that you're not._ He paused, and the thought leaked through, _For Vaul's sake, this would be so much easier if I could touch her. . . no, actually, that would be worse._

_And how would it be __worse__?_ Now, utter confusion. _I thought organics cherished touch._

Harak growled in frustration. "If I could touch you, you wouldn't be here. If I could touch you, I'd hurt you. Is that clearer?"

_You can't hurt me._

_Good. But I also can't—_

_Yes, you can. Here._ She put a hand on his jowl. . . and he _felt_ it.

"What in the god's names. . ." Harak was all the way awake now. He reached out, and his hand encountered. . . something. He pulled his hand back. "What the hell—"

_One of my sisters created a way to use the chip to create tactile sensations for the user. The same way in which I create visual information for you already._ She sounded nervous, actually. _I apologize if it doesn't feel quite right. What you're getting is an amalgam of inputs from data taken from both a human chipped male and a turian chipped male._

"Close enough," Harak muttered. She certainly _felt_ real. Tactile reality. Solid, a little warmer than normal krogan body temperature. Soft. Not in a weak way, no, but smooth. Alien. The hair really was fascinating. No other species _had_ this. Fur on a pyjack was one thing, but this? He could wrap it around one fist, and it damned near trapped his hand. It _looked_ soft and inviting and felt good to the touch, but had surprising tensile strength. Masses of it like cables or rope. _Much like humans, overall. They look weak, but hide their strengths. Just as she hides her strengths._

_That's possibly true_, she admitted, picking up the train of thought. _Does the touching help?_

Harak laughed, a low, dark sound. _Help? No. Not really. If you added smell to this, I'd be—ah, hells._ As soon as he'd thought it, she'd added that layer. Alien, but strong. Musky. Clean skin. Other smells, too. Harak snarled.

Again the slightly apologetic, _It's turian/human data again, I'm afraid. Is it. . . is it all right?_

_Gods, Pelagia, why. . . _

_I didn't know until your dreams that you thought of me in that way at all. As . . . real. Not just useful._

_I've spent a fair part of the last six months reminding myself that you're __not__ real, and that every time you sat on my desk, that I __couldn't__ turn you around and bend you over it._ Harak's hands were exploring now. Some of those fantasies had gotten fairly detailed before he'd realized where his mind had wandered, and cut them off. _Not just that I shouldn't._

Pelagia let her fingers move down his face and Harak could _feel_ the fingers . . .but too lightly. Almost not there, like a ghost. _More pressure?_

_Yes. Better. Of course you're real. How. . . real is __this__?_ It had been about two _decades_ since the last time he'd been with a female, and the fact that most of his senses, including his eyesight, were receiving manufactured input made it all seem dreamlike.

_As real as I can make it. The more feedback you give me, the more real it gets._ She hesitated. _You really think of me as female clan-leader of Omega?_

_You know I do. And I __can't__ hurt you?_

_No. It's actually far more likely that I could hurt you. The chip could overheat—_

The fact that _she_ was concerned about damaging _him_ was laughable, and Harak actually did start to guffaw. _I don't see what's so funny._ She hesitated. _Do you want me to shift to krogan—_

_No. Just you. All of you._

As it turned out, a given value of real could be pretty damned real. If not _realistic_.

Close to the end, Harak had gotten a glimpse of the processes, the _vast_ mind that was Pelagia, numbers, letters, information, lights, all in constant motion, the flicker of cameras, the babble of voices being constantly monitored. Felt her confused interest in his pleasure turning into interest of her own as she processed it. Learned to share it. It was not unlike being held in the hand of a goddess, really, being aware _through_ her of all her other worshippers, the vaults of her temple, her perspective of him as alien and wondering as he was of her.

As Harak started to doze off, an odd thought struck him. There couldn't be _any_ other male in the galaxy who could say that they'd slept with _Omega_. The miles-long central shaft, ringed with its rims and terraces of lights, flashed through his mind, and Harak started to chuckle. _You could say they didn't have the quad for it._ He actually fell asleep smiling, aware of the fact that Pelagia's tiny avatar was still in the bed beside him. On top of the sheets, naturally.

The next day brought more challenges, of course. Ulluthyr and Urdnot's female clans had met, and Surla had, apparently, not liked what she'd been told about the changes Urdnot was making to traditional ways. She was on her way here, along with a full contingent of guards. Urdnot, because Harak hadn't stayed long enough on Tuchanka to take advantage of the benefits of the alliance, was also sending a female envoy, with a full contingent of guards—someone named Gara. "Your daughter?" Siara said to Gris, surprised, in the briefing room of the new quarters, which had a large, open table and several extranet consoles.

"So they tell me," Gris replied, shrugging. "She's not biotic herself, but if she's mine, she'd have the genes for it." His voice was dry as he added, "Plus, she's had the . . . genophage treatment. Now that you're in the clan alliance, Harak, she's probably also bringing a dose along for you."

Harak frowned. Pelagia explained, quickly, silently, _Dr. Mordin Solus, before he died, provided an adjustment to the genophage for Clan Urdnot and its allies. No more miscarriages. Conception choked back to one in one hundred, not one in one thousand. Much less punitive._

_Now that's a __hell__ of a thing to keep secret from the rest of the planet. Why not use that as the selling point to get the clans on board?_

_Because Urdnot Wrex wants loyalty to his ideals and goals, not just to procreation, I think._

_Fair enough, I suppose._

Harak shook his head now, and, said out loud. "This smells heavily political. Pelagia, let me know when they arrive. Past that, I'm _much_ more interested in what the medical team found out about the vendors' drinks confiscated from the batarians yesterday."

She appeared in the middle of the briefing room, incorporating herself into his wirewrap view as her full avatar; the only 'real' person in his world of outlines and shadows, for the moment. Harak suppressed a chuckle. Today, he hadn't even needed to remind her of her promise to let her hair down and dress for strength_._

Out loud, Pelagia commented, "No toxins were found in the beverages, no unusual chemicals of any type, really, so that wasn't it."

Makur muttered, "We should expel them from the station anyway."

Pelagia shook her head. "Tampering with station environmental settings definitely should earn them a steep fine and a little time in the jail cells. . . " she said, and he could see her frown, "but we're left the problem of what they _really_ intended to do."

"You still think there was something more to it?" Gris asked.

Pelagia nodded. "I just don't know _what_. Very specific temperature variances for the human and turian neighborhoods. Eighty to ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit in the human zone, and a hundred to a hundred and ten in the turian zone." The numbers that meant _nothing_ to Harak, but Siara frowned.

"The high end of one range is normal for the human body. The other range is topped by the normal turian body temperature." Siara tapped her fingers on a table. "Those are optimal growth ranges for bacteria, as well. Were there any other adjustments made to the environmental systems at the same time?"

Pelagia's eyes went distant. "No," she said. "Both times, I caught the adjustment within hours, however. There have been a few other anomalous changes recently, including shifts to the humidity variables, but I've been continuously shifting them back to standard parameters." Her expression was alert now. "You believe someone's trying to foster good conditions for bacterial growth?"

Siara shrugged. "Maybe. Wouldn't hurt to get a med team down there to take some samples from the air and ventilation grills. Have OSF crawl through some ventilation ducts and see if they find any petri dishes or other equipment?"

"Have krogan do that," Harak said, sharply, following the implications immediately. "Or break out hazmat suits. Krogan won't be affected by something intended for humans or turians. And there's no sense taking chances."

"Teams dispatched," Pelagia said, her tone very controlled. "I should have correlated that data better. I'm sorry."

Harak was already shaking his head. "Not sure how you could have."

_Siara did._

"Siara's organic," he told Pelagia, out loud.

Siara blinked and looked from one of them to the other, and shook her head slightly. "I wouldn't have thought of it, except that I know human-turian hybrids run at close to asari and batarian body temperature. I, ah, used to spend time with a mixed family. It always struck me as _odd_, how cool a human body actually is."

Makur made a grumbling sound under his breath. Gris growled, outright, "If we get confirmation of disease bacteria, you may have to lock down the station. I'll send word to Spectre headquarters, too."

Locking down the station would result in economic turmoil, not just for Omega, but for half the Terminus Systems. Harak put his fists on the table. "Makur, Siara. . . go with the OSF teams. Anything out of the ordinary, report back immediately. Pelagia, have OSF pick up the batarian vendors. Backtrack and see if you can find any evidence of who tampered with the—"

"—Humidity controls, on it, yes. Also moving surveillance cam footage from a week on either side of the tampering events to the forefront of OSF and my concerns. Perhaps we'll see someone putting items somewhere where they aren't supposed to be." Her voice was glum however. "Both areas are lacking a bit in security cam footage. Neither has been a high-crime area for at least two years." She managed a brief smile. "And humans and turians both have a strong belief in civil rights."

Harak snorted. "On Omega?"

"Yes, on Omega." Her smile crept up a notch. "For what it's worth, _I_ believe in those rights, too. Otherwise, I'd still be in a ship somewhere." Pelagia shuddered.

"And I'm just saying, you don't come to live on a station that's been run by an asari dictator for six hundred years if you're interested in _liberty_."

"Yes, but you're a much more benevolent dictator than she was, Harak."

"Don't spread it around," Harak growled. "People will start thinking they can get away with stuff." He turned his empty eye sockets. "Let's move, people."

It took OSF two days to go through the ventilation shafts. And what they found was. . . confusing. Clean, empty food storage containers, about the size and shape of a human's coffee can. Pelagia was able to turn up evidence in the secure cam feeds that a batarian had placed some of them. But there was nothing in any of them. They were, in fact, sterile.

"Kick 'em off the station," Harak ordered.

"On what grounds? Littering?" Siara had a _sharp_ tongue sometimes. His asari bodyguard was up and pacing the meeting room now, hands clasped behind her back.

"On the grounds that they have four more eyes than I have right now. One of the _few_ benefits of _not_ being a democracy here is that I _do_ get to do what I want, once in a great while."

Pelagia had perched on the edge of the big circular table for the moment, beside him. "All batarians, or just this group?"

"Just this group." Harak stood himself now, turning his head towards Gris. "Throwing them _all_ off the station would be too much?"

Gris nodded once, curtly. "We need to maintain access to the _few_ sources of information we have inside batarian space. Omega's one of the few places they can come and exchange data that's more or less safe for everyone." He frowned. "And I think we all know what this little exercise here was."

"A dry run," Harak replied, evenly. "They wanted to see how fast we'd catch on to the environmental systems being tampered with, how fast we'd investigate them, how soon we'd catch them. And the answer was. . . "

"Two hours on the environmental controls, each time," Pelagia replied. "Over a week on the canisters in the air vents, however." She looked angry.

_You can't see everything._

_I can try._

"So they could attempt it again here, which would be _stupid_," Siara said, quietly. "Or they can try what they learned here on someplace else. Why _here_, though?"

Gris rumbled, "You practice on a target that's similar to the one you _really_ want to hit. What else is there in Council space that's a large, floating city with circulating air and water and a population in the millions?"

"Bastion." Harak's voice was a growl.

Gris stood. "Yeah. I _really_ need to talk to Shepard now."

_**Author's note:**__ If anyone had told me a year ago that I would ever be writing krogan/AI relationships, I would have told them to go have their heads examined. Now, all I can say is, it's __my__ head that must need examining. :-P I can't argue with what works, though. And these two have at least six hundred years of work ahead of them._

**Shepard, Mindoir, April 12, 2196**

It was a crisp autumn day on the base, and Shepard was putting in her daily five kilometer run. . . her pace was quite a bit better than human norm, even for her age group, but still lagged well behind a turian's footspeed. . . when the call came through. She tabbed her omnitool and kept running along the beaten dirt track between the trees. "Shepard here. Go ahead."

Kasumi's voice spoke in her ear. "Just got word from Gris, Shep. Very interesting move by the batarians on Omega."

"Oh?"

"Looks like a dry run for a bacteriological or viral weapon."

"Earlier than we expected. STG's been gaming that one out for three or four years now." Shepard's breath was even. No gasping, no panting. _Cybernetics still holding up_, she thought, distantly, still putting one foot in front of the other, dull sound of her footsteps thunking up from the earth below.

"Yeah. Dara was on that project a couple of years ago." Kasumi paused. "They put canisters in the ventilation systems and tried to play with the environmental controls. Pelagia caught the environmental control shifts _very_ fast, though. They couldn't have anticipated that." Kasumi's voice was grim. "Smart money says Bastion and a half dozen other space stations will be the next targets."

"Agreed. Which species were they targeting, do we know?" Shepard ducked under a tree branch.

"Turians and humans, from the areas they went after, and the temperature variances they tried to adjust for. Asari and batarians who happen to be in the vicinity would be collateral damage, pretty much, if the virus or bacteria happened to be keyed for similar enough proteins to whatever lock-and-key they're going after in human cells. Krogan and salarians have lower body temperatures and radically different proteins in their cells. Quarians _could_ be affected by the turian strain, but, you know. . . envirosuits." Kasumi sighed. "Full report waiting for you back at the ranch, Shep."

"I'll be back shortly. Two more klicks and I'm done." Shepard paused. "And no warning out of STG on this? Again?"

Kasumi muttered something rude in Japanese. "It's hard to get anything out of batarian space as is. No, nothing from STG. Our new resource hasn't gotten people into place for information gathering yet—Livanus is just getting started training them, anyway. Argus heard rumors of a big attack, but nothing along these lines."

"When I get back, I want to talk with Illonus at Hierarchy Intelligence and SATBIA."

Kasumi's tone was dry. "Got it. Subject of meeting?"

"Verifying Zorro's intel, once it starts trickling out of batarian space."

"Ah, so we're going with Zorro as the code name?"

"Trying it out, anyway. The computer turned up _Khara_, which was a Mesopotamian devil with six eyes."

"I _did_ suggest Aizen-Myoo. Three-eyed Japanese god of _love_." Kasumi's tone was angelic.

Shepard snickered. "And here I thought you just said that to get Sam to spank you."

"Shep! What a thing to suggest. Of _course_ I said it to get Sam to react." Kasumi laughed, a trill like birdsong. "What else on the docket for the meeting?"

"Hmm. Trying to anticipate and prevent the _real_ attack when the biological stuff hits. Set up a secondary meeting with Terran and Hierarchy Centers for Disease Control, and the Council-level one, too. There are contingency plans already in place, we just need to get the supplies moving." Shepard jumped over a low fence and kept running, now heading downhill, back towards the base. "They can't possibly use batarians to do the actual placement and sabotage on Bastion or Earth or Luna or Terra Nova, or Dymion, or Edessan. It was _easy_ to plant that themselves on Omega. How the hell do they plan to do it anywhere else in Council space? They wouldn't go so far as to test it if they didn't have a delivery method set up."

Kasumi's voice was very tight now as she answered, "They've probably recruited agents in a number of populations. Probably ones with low loyalty levels, sure, but if they don't _know_ what they're doing, if all they think they're doing is maybe changing the temperature someplace or activating a fan that wouldn't normally be on. . . how much loyalty do you really need?"

Shepard vaulted another fence, waved to a guard, and stopped, one hand to the side of her neck to time her pulse, which was like a metronome. "That's a really ugly point, Kasumi. Tell SATBIA to grab Dara if they need her to work with CDC. She's worked with STG on the problem before. So CDC won't be re-inventing the wheel here. . . and we'll have the one person left from STG that I currently trust working with them." _Damnit, Mordin, why did you have to chose to die? I __need__ you, damnit. We're lessened without you._

"Ah, you do realize that Dara and Rel are on leave on Illium at the moment? And that they're both still, technically property of the Hiearchy?" Kasumi's tone was very dry. "Not to mention, she's _supposed_ to be doing her surgery rotation this year, and will _never_ get certified at this rate?"

Shepard laughed. "We're going to have to do something about that pretty soon."

"Which? Illium, certification, or stealing them away from the Hierarchy?"

"All of the above." Shepard straightened up and started to jog the rest of the way back to base at a lighter pace. "Say, patch me through to Sam, would you?" She slowed to a walk now as she started wending her way through the buildings on base, waving and nodding as various people saw her and acknowledged her.

"Jaworski here," came the familiar drawl. "What's on your mind, commander?"

"James Dempsey, actually."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yep. He's officially a human being again. What do you think of him?"

There was a brief pause, and she could almost see Sam organizing his thoughts before speaking. "Well. . . good man in a fight." Sam was evidently picking his words very carefully. "Did good work on Camala, and adapted pretty decently to an undercover assignment on Khar'sharn. Dara said he kept a level head. . . hard not to, I guess. . . but I dunno. He still strikes me as tremendously unstable, commander. Dangerous, even."

"Even after a year?"

"I know plenty of people who still haven't put themselves back together after fifteen or twenty years, commander. People who didn't have six months of torture and some fairly significant brain damage to go with it." Sam's voice was still very cautious, and no hint of a drawl.

"Would you say that socialization is a necessary component to getting someone like that stabilized again?"

"Please don't say what you're about to say."

"I was just thinking that since I _am_ putting his name in the hopper with the rest of the Spectre candidates this time around, that it would be a good thing if you invited him and our new quarian candidate to the weekly get-together this week. Give them a chance to acclimate. A _lot_ of the rest of the ones we _strongly_ think are going to pass have already lived here for a while."

Sam sounded a little unenthusiastic. "Sure. I'll invite the guy who could snap at any minute to be in the house with my three-year-old kid."

Shepard laughed. "He's not that bad. And you had no qualms about sending him with Dara."

"I taught Dara how to use a knife, and she carries Rel's pig-sticker with her wherever she goes. She can _probably_ take Dempsey's head off and make sure he stops moving. I'm not teaching Takeshi how to kill anything besides deer until he's lost his baby teeth."

"How'd that work out for you last time, Sam?" Shepard asked, grinning, running up the steps of her villa.

"Pretty goddamned well, thanks for asking. See you this weekend?"

"You bet. Me, Garrus, and the kids."

An hour later, she was sitting in her office, up to her eyeballs in top-level spooks. Akacia Illonus was the new head of the Hierarchy Intelligence Agency, and held a legate's rank; she'd been in Military Intelligence until it had been spun off into the new, separate agency, and had a rueful sense of humor that Shepard appreciated. Henderson, on the other hand, was old school MI6, and very British, with a dry wit that complemented Illonus' well. They were on the comm panel in front of her, and Kasumi was on Shepard's side of her desk as they had a rather serious conversation about what to do _now_.

"First thing's first. We can beef up security at _every_ station and checkpoint in Council space, sure, but sooner or later, someone will get lax and sloppy. The better thing to do is get more information on what the most likely target actually is," Kasumi started, once the other two had been briefed, and had stopped swearing.

Illonus grimaced. "Military Intelligence has been traditionally the poor cousin of the STG, Ms. Goto. We've been tasked with troop movements and listening post missions and very long-range telemetry of bases being built here and there in the Terminus systems. We're just ramping up to train people to do what STG has usually done. Listen in on batarian conversations conducted over the extranet, decrypt their FTL transmissions, and more or less try to figure out if _any_ of it is relevant, as opposed to recipes for 'the other blue meat.'" She shook her head.

Henderson snorted. "This is, however, an area in which _we_ can be of service, commnander." His hair was graying, a legacy of forty years in intelligence work, and his eyes were keen and focused. "We don't have two thousand years of experience, but we're definitely ahead of where we were twenty years ago. And we have, rather, been _attending_ to the batarians since the original Mindoir incident. Not to mention the more recent Terra Nova one." His eyes glittered a little as he added, "They should ruddy well know better than to muck about with you by now, Shepard."

Kasumi interposed, quietly, "Those are passive methods for information collecting, however. I've been recruiting agents on Lorek, using a few people in my own department here. And we have a, ah, new resource we're developing on Khar'sharn itself."

Illonus whistled through her teeth. Henderson's eyebrows shot up. "Bloody brilliant," he said.

Shepard shook her head. "The network's just getting started. And we need to be able to verify information out of it, which is where we'll need your help." She glanced at Kasumi.

Kasumi nodded. "That's something we'll get back to later," she noted. "At the moment, our primary concern is _this_ attack. My supposition is that if they're going to plant biological weapons, they'll need someone to do the planting. They can't _get_ a batarian onto Bastion at this point. Not without everyone on the station watching them. Same thing applies to every other space station in human or turian space. Or asari or salarian, for that matter."

"Too right," Henderson murmured. "Which means they need someone already aboard, or someone who can easily _get_ aboard to do the deed for them."

"Which is where we come in," Akacia said, quietly. "We've got a better than average working relationship with CID and B-Sec. They'll do the official investigating, we'll do the quiet work."

Kasumi chuckled. "Funny you should say that, Illonus. I have a recommendation or two about personnel you might put on that task. If you don't mind, that is."

The turian female looked amused. "Oh?"

Kasumi's smile lit the room. "Yeah. First, Leodorus Rostrum. Been in military intelligence for four years now. Fluent in batarian, exceptional record. His parents are diplomatic corps, he knows Bastion inside and out, very high security rating, and his background is currently counter-intelligence."

Illonus glanced down at her desk. "No surprises so far," she noted, picking up a datapad and waving it at the screen. "He was considered low-enough risk after being vetted by the Praetorian Guard that he was allowed to share barracks with one of the Imperator's children in boot camp." Her teeth showed for a moment. "But you knew that already."

Kasumi chuckled. "Next up. . . grab Serana Velnaran."

"Your protégé?"

Kasumi nodded, once. "She's just about done with OCS. Already took her into the field on Lorek myself."

Illonus shook her head, running a quick search on her terminal in front of her. After a moment, she said, "She's direct infiltration and combat, not counter-intelligence."

Kasumi nodded placidly. "Still, a good seasoning project for her. She can get into places where CID and B-Sec can't go without a warrant."

Henderson cleared his throat. "Do we _want_ to be going in without warrants? People are dashedly attached to their civil liberties."

Shepard and Kasumi exchanged a long look. Shepard nodded, once. "You two stay as close to the law as you can. If you run into a wall, we'll step in and go around it. We don't need the Spectres overturning the rule of law _every_ day, but this is an issue that requires speed and surprise, I think."

Kasumi nodded. "And that brings me to my last reason for recommending Serana Velnaran, Illonus. She _is_ married to a CID officer who _does_ have counter-intel work on his record. More or less as a result of following up on a few felony cases. Agent Elijah Sidonis. Currently stationed on Bastion." Kasumi spread her hands. "Just so you know, he's on our shortlist of Spectre candidates for the year. You don't have to use my recommendations. . . and I fully expect _several_ teams to be working on this. But also be advised: I'm stealing her _back_ at some point."

Illonus made a rude noise. "At least let us get _some_ use out of her and let her get her citizenship first. If she's as good as you say, we'll find a purpose for her, don't you worry."

Shepard looked at Henderson. "You've got resources on Bastion, too?"

Henderson nodded quickly. "SATBIA has a handful, yes. And we and NABI and Interpol will get on this back home, too, particularly in regards to the Luna shipyards and Jump Zero, Shepard. No worries—well, fewer worries, anyway."

Illonus signed off, but Shepard gestured for Henderson to hold on for a moment. "Tell me," she said, quietly. "What do we have on the yahg?"

Henderson shook his head. "Not much. I pulled everything we've compiled in the past ten years, as you asked. They're highly intelligent, but brutal fighters. If batarians have always resorted to raids and special tactics—sneak attacks, hijackings, improvised weapons—it's because they've never had a strong military. The yahg don't appear to have a centralized government, and don't appear to have more than low-orbit space flight. However, they _do_ have a mass relay in their system. If they ever reach it, conventional wisdom is that they'll have heavy weapons on their ships and probably drop shock troops on whatever planet they feel like colonizing."

"So batarians will present us with the more unpredictable attacks, and the yahg, if they do become involved, would be the beachhead fighters?"

Henderson shook his head. "The yahg _are_ intelligent. _Very_ intelligent. And we know bloody little about them. They could wind up being more unpredictable than the batarians. To be honest. . . batarians have _never_ used biological weapons before. Missiles, yes. Hijacked ships, yes. Pirate raids as provocations, yes. Bloody asteroids set on collision courses, even the comet notion you sent me two weeks ago for evaluation. . . all fairly direct in their fashion. But biological weapons? Chemical weapons? Never. How do we know this little stratagem _isn't_ a gift from the yahg?"

Shepard looked at him, and at Kasumi. And shook her head. "We don't," she replied, quietly. "Which is what's scaring the living shit out of me, folks. Unknown variables."

**Zhasa'Maedan**

A knock at the door of her barracks woke her. "Come on," a low voice called. "We going to practice or what?"

Zhasa hopped out of bed and grabbed the bag that held her additional plates of armor, opening the door. "Give me a minute," she said, looking up at Dempsey. He was in full armor, camouflage-patterned, and bulked large in the doorframe. He actually wore a polarized shield over his face, unusual for a human. Then again, his eyes _were_ very light-colored. Perhaps they were sensitive to light.

"What, you need to brush your hair?" It sounded like it was supposed to be a joke, but the tone rang oddly flat.

"No. . . " she started to respond, then decided _not_ to mention that she'd be cleaning her teeth with a hygiene solution as they walked. Non-quarians had a tendency to be _unwholesomely_ curious about what went in inside the suit. "But since we're going to be practicing, and I don't want a suit rupture, I need to put on the rest of my plating." She waggled the bag at him, then put it on the desk and opened it. Inside were a dozen extra pieces of armor plating, designed to fit atop her existing envirosuit and lock into place, providing an extra layer of protection. Gun-metal gray, they concealed her more decorative outer suit wrappings almost completely as she clicked gasket to gasket at shoulders, chest, and back, with an additional lower torso piece, and a couple of extra plates for each of her arms as well.

"No extra plating for the legs?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe, watching curiously.

"No, the theory is that I need the mobility more than the protection. So far, it's worked." She tipped her head to the side. "All right. Lead on. Where are we going?"

"They've got a few practice fields set up around here. Figured outdoors is a little safer, overall. Asked one of the Spectres to babysit me. The rachni one."

They stepped out of the barracks, and leaves crunched underfoot as they walked. After a moment, Zhasa asked, "You asked a Spectre to. . . babysit you. I'm not sure I understand the term. My VI's pulling it up as 'caring for a child.'"

He laughed, shortly as they passed a house where the owner was actually raking leaves, the very old-fashioned way. "No, your VI got it right. It's better if I'm not let out on my own."

Zhasa decided that this was far too confusing to address at the moment. She'd been warned that humans were unpredictable, particularly in regards to their senses of humor, and this one in particular seemed. . . odd. But kind, at least. "Do the leaves smell?" she asked, after a moment.

He stopped short. "Beg pardon?"

"They're very colorful, the leaves. And I understand that flowers smell, and even some leaves do. Do these leaves, the ones underfoot, smell good?" She shrugged. "I'm sorry. I've always had a tendency to blurt out whatever I'm thinking at the time." This openness had both helped and hurt her on Illium; it gave her the manner of a child, so the asari there had been forgiving of her various biotic mistakes. But they were also a subtle people, so those who hadn't taken her as a child, had thought her ill-mannered at times, even rude. "This is just something I've wondered ever since living on planets, instead of on ships." 

She couldn't see his face behind the polarized mask, and his voice was so flat, he might as well have been a _geth_ when he replied, neutrally, "Their odor isn't unpleasant. Sort of a sweet smell, as they decay, but musty at the same time."

"Ah." Zhasa sighed. "I remember what _sweet_ smells like. We used to have small, crisp cakes when I was still young enough to live in the clean rooms. Those were sweet. But _musty_? I don't know what this means."

"Guess I never really thought about it, but you guys don't get much more sensation than an. . . AI does, do you." It wasn't quite a question.

Zhasa laughed. "A little more. I can still feel weight in my hands, for example. Whether I can squeeze my fingers into something, or whether the surface has more resistance. But hot and cold and texture? Not really." She could feel pressure against her suit, and her omnitool informed her that the wind was picking up, blowing at about twenty kilometers an hour at the moment, from the west. She'd never felt wind on her face. Filtered air, blowing across it, certainly, but not the chaotic movement of an atmosphere in turmoil. No wonder she _craved_ the touch of other minds. She'd had that on Illium, at least. _Maieolo'saeo_ and _maieolo'rae,_ of course. Information exchanges, little, affectionate thoughts. Even once, _maieolo'rae'kiia. . . _well, without the _kiia_, of course. So wonderful to be able to _touch_ without touching. And then back to Rannoch, where everyone's mind was locked up, just as their bodies were. And now here. Where there were biotics, certainly, but so many of them seemed to be closed in, too.

They'd reached the practice field now, and the huge rachni waited for them there. _Brokensong and our new singer! _Sky sang in greeting in her mind. The song felt like velvet in her mind, and behind her mask, Zhasa smiled at first, and then frowned, turning to look at Dempsey, surprised. The rachni had apparently given him a bit of a nickname. And _what _a nickname, at that. _Will you now play battlesongs?_ Sky asked.

"Yeah," Dempsey told him. "Keep me from killing her, okay?"

_Brokensong has control-melodies. But I will provide a chorus for support._ The rachni's voice was utterly calm.

"What, you think I'm so bad that you're going to overpower me?" Zhasa asked, half-joking. "You haven't even seen me fight yet."

Dempsey shook his head. "Got nothing to do with you." He handed her a clip of paint-filled rounds for her weapon; Zhasa had brought both her pistol and her submachine gun with her, but given his rather uncomplimentary remark, was rather wishing she had her grenade launcher with her, instead. He loaded his pistol with the paint rounds himself now, and stood loosely, waiting on her. "Okay, Zhasa. Show me what you've got." He reached down and keyed up something on his omnitool, and she saw the blue flicker of a tech shield shimmer into place around him. . . and then felt the surge of biotic energies as he wrapped himself in a biotic armor, as well.

Behind her mask, she could feel her face stretch into an eager grin. She could remember, just barely, what her own smile looked like—white teeth, and happy violet eyes, as best she recalled. _Two can play at that game_, she thought, and triggered her own tech shields. . . and wrapped her own biotics around her like a cloak. She always felt like a spirit-caller out of her people's legends when she did this, calling down the power of the ancestors to protect her.

"Interesting," Dempsey said, clinically. "This could be a challenge."

Zhasa laughed, and _lifted_ him off the ground with her mind. When she channeled her power at people, she couldn't _help_ but _touch_ them. She didn't have the instinct-level blocks of an asari, or what Matriarch Aethyta had referred to as the 'blessing and curse of humans. . . insensitivity bordering on that of a krogan.' It was a side-effect that Aethyta had worked hard with her to overcome. Usually, people lifted or injured with biotics had a tendency to panic, and she felt their fear and their pain as if it were her own, if only for an instant. From Dempsey. . . she got _nothing._ Interest. A mind working rapidly to compensate for spinning rapidly in air, as if in a gyroscope. . . and then a countering lash of his own biotics, ripping through her shields while he was still in the air. She backed away, firing rapidly, and saw the paint bleed and burn against his shields. _Damn_, she thought, still backing away.

Dempsey landed, and walked after her, not particularly hurrying, and began returning fire with his pistol. "You planning on looking for cover sometime soon?" he asked, almost conversationally. "Or are you waiting to trip over something and find it that way?"

"No, I kind of thought I'd do _this_. . . " Zhasa _threw_ him back and away now, and turned and sprinted for a stand of barrels in the center of the practice field, vaulting over them, using one hand for balance, and landing behind them, panting a little. Again, when she'd slapped him with her powers, _no_ response. No surprise. A little pain, but muted to the point of insensibility. _Is this a typical human response?_ she wondered. _If so, no wonder their soldiers rival the turian fleet._ Zhasa peeked out over the top of the barrels, looking for her target now, and Dempsey picked himself up off the ground twenty feet away.

She could hear the rachni _laughing_ in her mind at the moment, and she had no idea why; Dempsey wrapped a fresh layer of biotic protection around him, and simply walked back in her direction again, firing away. "You're not setting me a good example," Zhasa called back. "You should be using cover, yourself."

"If you can't stop me while I'm slowly walking at you and you're using a submachine gun, you might want to reexamine your tactics," Dempsey called back, his tone dry.

_He has a point. A very valid point. Think. He can re-apply the biotic shield just as often as I can. . . so let's take out the tech shield._ Zhasa used an overload charge, trying to disrupt his electronics, and _this_ time. . . she caught a rush of pain from him. A hint of anger, dull and muted. Concern from the rachni, suddenly. _Pain, from an EM pulse?_ She didn't have time to wonder much. She had about five seconds before the shield would be all the way up again. She got her feet under her, and leaped.

Quarians had developed the leaping, acrobatic martial art of _meela'helai_ long ago for close-quarters fighting against agile geth models. What Zhasa had went far, far beyond that. She wrapped her biotic energies around herself, and launched herself into the air, arcing up and then flipping down, firing from the air, and landing right _behind_ Dempsey, firing into his back at close range.

She _wasn't_ expecting the elbow that came around, slamming into her visor, hard, or the discharge of another overload at close range, stripping some of her own shielding. Or the knee that came up into her stomach directly after that. She managed to recover her wits right around then, and brought the butt of her gun up and into his chin in turn, and then shoved him backwards, forcefully, with her biotics. This time, though, she could _definitely_ feel something from him. Anger. Red, raw, and powerful, like an angry ancestral spirit unchained, uncaged. _Oh, Keelah, that's not good_, she thought, and then he'd gotten back to his feet and simply ran at her, ripping her shields away with his mind, and tackled her, full-strength, slamming her into the ground, knocking the wind from her. She got her arms up to protect her face. . . and then blue-green song insinuated itself into her mind. She felt calm creep over her, taking away the panic. . . and felt the grip of Dempsey's arms slacken. He rolled away, and knelt nearby, breathing harshly.

_Think music,_ Sky crooned, but she didn't think it was to her. _You know that it helps. Sing your song, as best you can, broken one. _

For her, touching someone's mind had almost always been a tactile thing, mixed with some colors. The rachni's song and vivid colors had been a surprise. Dempsey's mind had been smooth and featureless before the anger, and now bristled with spikes and jags, a thing made of broken, shattered glass, something that would flense the flesh from her hand if she were to touch it without gloves. He was _humming_ now, though, a tune she half-recognized from what he'd been playing a few days before. And as he did so, the spikes and jags began to recede. The glass began to mend itself, coalesce back in on itself. Becoming neutral and featureless once more.

"Thought we agreed you were going to _stop_ me if I lost my damn mind," Dempsey told the rachni, flatly. There was a hint of annoyance there, nothing more.

_I sang calm to you. You listened. Nothing more was needed. You cannot learn your own harmonies if you do not practice them._

"Don't want to practice if someone else can get hurt." He looked up now, and pulled the polarized shield back from his face, clearly wincing as the light hit his eyes. "Zhasa. . . you okay? I'm sorry."

She just stared at him from behind her mask for a long moment. "I think I learned from the exercise," Zhasa said, carefully, after a moment.

_And what did you learn, little listener?_

She paused. "Not to assume anything. I thought Dempsey's skills were very much like mine. Same weapons, same defenses. But you're. . .very different, aren't you?"

"Yeah. I'm different from just about everyone." She couldn't feel _anything_ from him now. Closed up, walled in, as humans tended to be, or so the Matriarch had told her. Their biotics were trained to shield every thought, to protect themselves, and to protect others _from_ themselves, as odd as that sounded. But this seemed to go beyond the norm. He stood up slowly, asking, "You trust me enough for another round? Only. . . this time? Don't use your omnitool's overload on me. That seemed to set me off." The words were tightly spoken.

"I . . . got an impression of pain from you then, yes." Zhasa replied, cautiously. He might be offended that she'd been touching him at the time, after all.

She could see the faint grimace. "Yeah. That sucked ass."

"Why in Keelah's name would an EM pulse _hurt_ you?" she demanded, sharply, walking up to him and pushing a hand into his chest, keeping him from turning away. Quarian body language tended to be written large, to compensate for their faces and eyes being invisible. It involved getting right into people's physical space, too.

Dempsey looked away. His grey eyes were remote as he replied, "Simple answer? I'm about fifty percent machine at this point. More cybernetics in here than even Shepard carries around, apparently." He tapped his knuckles on his own breastplate. "Come on, let's go again." 

Zhasa hesitated. "Was there a very bad accident?" she inquired. "Some. . .war injury?" She honestly couldn't think of any conflict in the last few years that would qualify, except for the Lystheni attack on Rannoch. . . maybe he'd been involved in the aftermath of that?

Dempsey shook his head, eyes wintery and remote. "Nah. I told you. I'm someone's science project." Suddenly, silently, _Stop poking around at my head. There's really nothing in there worth looking at, I promise. I wasn't too bright to begin with, and they took everything else worth having away_. The words were crystalline, made of ice, cold and hard in her mind. It really _was_ like listening to a machine. . . except for very, very subtle undercurrents of emotion. Shockingly powerful, too. He shrugged, and spoke out loud. "We done for the day, or what?"

Quiet horror started to spread through her. _This was done to him. . . on purpose? Why? To make a geth that wears a human skin, a human face?_ "If you. . . don't mind. . . maybe tomorrow?" She didn't know if she trusted him now, the rachni's protective presence or not.

Dempsey shrugged again. "You were holding your own. Would've taken me a really long time to beat you, probably. And that biotic lift you did on yourself to close the gap was particularly nice." His voice was distant as he evaluated her. "Don't use it on a krogan, though, or anyone well-trained in hand-to-hand. A lot of the turians are. They'll take you out fast without a little more training of your own." He paused. "Anything else you can do?"

It was Zhasa's turn to shrug. "Hack turrets, mechs, and AIs at a distance. Some decryption."

He raised his hands. "Yeah. Don't try the hacking on me. I don't know what it'll do."

Zhasa hesitated. But truth was truth. "You're not a mech. Otherwise, I wouldn't get _any_ emotional readings off of you. And you couldn't use biotics."

Dempsey sounded tired. "Yeah. Lucky me." He turned and looked at Sky. "Thanks for the help. Sorry to have wasted your morning—"

Before the rachni could sing, Zhasa had changed her mind. "That's. . . .well, that's right. I wouldn't want to waste the Spectre's time. So, if you _do_ have time for another round or two. . . ."

"Sure. It's what I'm here for." Almost total indifference in the tone.

And off they went again.

Several days later, they were both invited to one of the Spectre's homes for a meal. Zhasa had the impression that this was very special, and definitely out of the ordinary; Dempsey appeared uneasy at best, and apparently had to go to the base post exchange to purchase different clothing to attend. "About the most that ever changes for us is which over-wrapping we might chose to wear," she told him, chuckling a little as they trudged up a hill.

"You're lucky," he told her, laconically. "I've gotten away with being a hermit for so long, never going anywhere but the mess hall and med bay, that I'd thought I could get away with sweatpants and a T-shirt forever."

She assumed that these were _not_ the clothes he was currently wearing, and discreetly looked up the terms on her VI. No, he was wearing a white shirt with. . . fastenings. . . of some sort in the front. They looked like suit rivets, but seemed to pass through gussets, though she was uncertain how much of a seal they'd make. Asari didn't tend to wear such clothing, preferring skin-tight clothing that stretched into place without fastenings, so this was. . . odd.

The leg coverings were a light tan, and again, had odd fastenings in the front, as well as storage compartments over the thighs. Practical, she could see. Dark glasses, too. Protecting his eyes, apparently, though it wasn't that bright out. Then again, she couldn't be the best judge of that, her polarized mask over her face as it was.

There were so many buildings of so many different styles on the base. Square human houses with peaked roofs and red brick facades. Turian villas, looking inwards at their own hearts. Even a small round salarian house near a stream. All nestled cheek by jowl with one another, just as in the research station in the valley below, which she'd taken the opportunity to visit and explore over the course of the past few weeks.

Samuel Jaworski's house was in the human style, with a large covered ledge in front of its door. Dempsey paused outside, sniffing. "Huh. Guess Jaworski must be barbecuing," he assessed. "Mesquite smoke. . . or something close to it."

"It smells good?" Zhasa ventured, hesitantly.

Dempsey looked down at her. "Yeah. Meat and smoke. Makes me hungry."

She sighed. _Keelah, and here I am, as far away from Rannoch as I can get. If I'd stayed on the homeworld, I could have started taking off my suit, as the others have been, and smelled it all for myself. Instead, I'm here. __Why_ _am I here?_

At his knock, Kasumi Goto came to the door, her dark-haired little boy hoisted up in one arm. "Come in," she said, smiling. "Dempsey, the house rule is, leave your shoes at the door, and put on house shoes. Zhasa, you're an exception, obviously, but I have a set of house shoes that will fit over your boots."

Zhasa tipped her head to the side. "This is a human custom?" she asked, puzzled.

Kasumi smiled. "Just one from my culture. Sam doesn't mind my quirks, fortunately."

Dempsey was already taking off his shoes, and looked solemnly at the little boy. "Hey, little man," he said, after a moment. "Can you give me five?" He held out his hand, palm up, and, after a shy moment, burying his face in his mother's neck, the little boy suddenly turned around and slapped Dempsey's hand with his own, grinning widely.

"Well, you've made a friend for the rest of the afternoon," Kasumi informed the tall human male amiably, and led them into the living area, where a dizzying array of people were waiting and talking. Zhasa looked around, trying to recognize faces. There was Shepard, of course, and Vakarian. . . and their four children. A stocky turian—still much taller than she was—with violet paint slashes on his face, and _his_ human wife. . . and their _three_ hybrid children. And a . . . salarian child who wore a _dress_. One of the children—Shepard's elder boy, she thought—had gotten up at some keyboard instrument, much larger than a _reela_, and was attempting to pick out a tune. "Hey, good job, Kaius," Sam Jaworski called, coming around the corner from the kitchen. "You're comin' along with the ivory ticklin'."

The hybrid boy turned, lips curving up to flash razor-sharp teeth in a smile. "Thanks, Uncle Sam. Got a long way to go before I'm as good as Cousin Dara."

A rustle of limbs, and Sky, nestled beside the piano, sang softly, _Sings-Heartsong has practiced much, over many years, little one. If you practice until you learn your namesong, you, too, will make the box sing with joy._ He paused. _Brokensong, do you like this melody?_

Dempsey took off his glasses and walked over to the piano. "Not really my kind of music," he said, almost apologetically. "But sounded like you were hitting all the notes right, kiddo."

Kaius shrugged. "Yeah, I can read music okay now. But it still never _sounds_ the way it does when Dara plays it."

Dempsey shook his head. "Huh. I would've thought Dara was more of the technical perfectionist. But in music, there's getting it right, which is important, and there's _feeling_ it. Interpretation, I guess, is the fancy word. You can hit every note exactly as written, and it still can come off feeling wrong." He actually smiled a bit. "Needs soul."

"Spirit," the young boy said. "Yes, I understand that."

_Yes. Which is why Sings-Not, even when he sings with paints, cannot truly sing. I wish that he could._

Dempsey stared at the rachni. "You _do_ specialize in cryptic, don't you."

The younger children all were shy of Zhasa, much to her dismay. The suit was apparently, a little off-putting. Much to her surprise, Dempsey was something of a favorite with the little ones. He was tall and calm and a little forbidding looking. . . but he softened a little around the edges with them, visibly. Patiently rolled a ball back and forth for Sam and Kasumi's little boy, and kept the slightly larger, more aggressive hybrid kids from pouncing on it when it was Takeshi's turn.

The older four introduced themselves politely to Zhasa at their parents' urging. The salarian _girl_ Narayana turned out to be the ward of Lantar and Ellie Sidonis. Zhasa _really_ wanted to demand how in the names of all the ancestors _that_ had happened—a salarian, she could understand, but a _female_ one?—but she only just barely held her tongue.

Which was even harder when Caelia added, artlessly, "But she's going to be adopted into our clan. That way, she can wear our paint properly."

Narayana looked uncertain. "I don't know about that, Caelia. I don't want to forget my daddy."

Zhasa cleared her throat. "You never will," she told the girl, feeling uncertain about the whole situation. But, children were children, no matter how unusual, and she'd been eldest child in a clean room crèche before, after all. "My father died in the Reaper War, and I still miss him. Still remember him. It doesn't go away. My mom's remarried, but she still thinks of him, too." Narayana looked a little unconvinced, but the four of them started asking her about living in the Migrant fleet, and on Rannoch, and even on Illium, once she admitted to having lived there. They were an inexhaustible _font_ of questions, much to her amusement. And all of them had very definite ideas about eventually leaving Mindoir. "Boot camp," Kaius said, with a sigh.

"If they change the disease control laws, we _could_ go to the Academy on Earth," his sister reminded him. "But that's forever away." There didn't seem any question that wherever they went, the eldest set of twins would be going _together_.

Zhasa couldn't partake in the meal, of course, but the food all _looked_ good. Good enough to be fairly torturous, in fact. She remembered being able to eat more than just paste and packs of small foods shuttled in through her suit's systems. But even back in the Flotilla days, food in the children's crèches had never quite looked like this. Oh, there'd been fresh greens from hydroponics, and sometimes fresh fruit, but there'd been a lot of reconstituted stuff, too. Lots of surplus, expired turian MREs.

They _did_ have a wide variety of nutrient packs for her to chose from and click into the arm of her suit to start it moving up the lines into her helmet. It was just hard to be _social_ when the focus of the social event was eating. And food was pretty much the focus of most other species' social events, she'd noticed.

But by the end of the evening, she felt slightly less awkward. Garrus and Lilitu were still the _legends_, of course, but turned out to be personable and friendly. The other Spectres were the same. Sidonis was quiet, but not forbidding; his wife cheerful, but occupied with the children. Jaworski had a bizarre, truly human sense of humor and a knack for saying the unexpected. And Sky, of course, was Sky, humming away in the background of everyone else's conversation. "These shindigs are more fun when everyone's home," Sam told her, kindly, giving her an ampoule of sterile liquor, again, so that she could snap it into the ingestion system in her suit, and at least partake with the rest.

"Who's missing?" Zhasa asked, politely.

"My daughter, Dara, her husband, Rel—that's Garrus' nephew. Elijah, Lantar and Ellie's oldest son, and his wife, Serana. Rel's sister, actually. Spectre Gris is off on Omega, with his gal, and her daughter. We usually have a pretty full house for these parties. It'll be good when the kids all get back here in a month or so." Sam grinned, wickedly. "Of course, then we'll be running 'em ragged."

She didn't know quite what to make of that statement, so only nodded.

As they walked back to the barracks, Dempsey asked, "Less intimidated now?"

"Somewhat. Still can't ever _imagine_ working with them as an equal," Zhasa admitted. "They've all done so much more than I have."

"_Equal_ probably won't come for a while. They'll have you on a probationary status, probably, given a lot of direction. Sort of like—eh. Nevermind." Her sense of him twitched a little, the way it sometimes did when someone lied. She couldn't always tell that, but she'd been listening hard all evening, waiting to see if the red, spiky anger would come back again. It hadn't. Glass smooth and featureless, all night.

"You were going to say something else?" she invited.

"Not my secret to tell." Dempsey nodded to her at the door of her barracks. "Sleep tight. I'll keep the volume down if I get an urge to play."

**Dara and Rellus, Illium, April 14-21, 2196**

After being debriefed on Mindoir, Dara and Rel had been ordered to report to Dymion, for more debriefing, this time by Hierarchy military. . . in and around attending Serana and Eli's wedding. Neither of them had mentioned it at the time; they hadn't wanted to cast a pall on what was supposed to be a _happy_ day for two people that they both loved.

Rel had been given a complete physical, as well as a psychological evaluation. Unsurprisingly, his stress levels were _very_ high; he'd been on a Spectre ship for three months _before_ going MIA, and hadn't had much of a break. Dara had been in the process of packing her bags to go back to her _much_ interrupted surgical rotation on Rocam when the comm panel in their room had pinged, and orders had come in for Rel to take some mandatory shoreleave. "Because, you know, shore leave without my mate being there is going to be _so_ relaxing," Rel growled, and turned the comm panel back off again.

Dara sighed. "Okay, what's two or three more days—"

"Seven days."

"_Seven_ more days tacked on at this point? I'm already thirty-five days behind. I'll pick up on neo-natal surgery whenever I get back, and I guess I'll just skip the ophthalmological rotation to catch up with the rest. I've _got_ the accumulated leave. I just need to get permission to take it."

She could _see_ the tension ease out of his body now, and he laughed a little. "Thank you, _mellis_. I, ah. I really don't actually want to let you out of my sight right now." Rel pulled her to him and pressed his forehead to hers.

It would happen again, eventually, they both knew. But it didn't have to be today. Once Dara got done dealing with the red tape, which seemed to lack its usual adhesive properties, thankfully, she asked her husband, "All right. So where do you want to go? Bastion?"

Rel shook his head, and his eyes took on a rather predatory glint. "Had a little something different in mind."

"Oh?" Dara asked, warily. _I know __that__ look._

"_You given any thought lately to visiting Illium?"_ he asked quietly, switching to turian.

Dara blinked, twice. She knew what he was _really_ asking with that question. _"Yeah. I can see us going to Illium,_" she allowed, quietly. _"Our anniversary __was__ two weeks ago. Galaxy seems pretty quiet at the moment. No interruptions."_

"_Medically-mandated shore leave_," he reminded her, smiling a little. _"I'm just saying, if our comm panel rings, even once, that I __might__ take someone's head off. And no one wants that."_

So, Illium it was. Neither of them knew a damn thing about the planet, so Dara actually wound up calling Kasumi to ask where they should stay. Kasumi's eyes had _twinkled_ for some reason. "Illium, eh?"

Dara felt her cheeks heat up for no good reason at all. "Yes? Is it on the interdict list?"

Kasumi laughed. "No, not at all. I can set you up at the place Shepard and Garrus stayed at last time they went there. Which was, I might add, under assumed names and with bodyguards, given that the Memory of Thessia splinter group _still_ wants her dead, and the Eclipse sisterhood isn't far behind."

Dara winced. "Are we on their list?" This was a complication she hadn't thought of.

Kasumi frowned. "I'll get with Argus on that. The hotel they stayed at has excellent amenities for, ah, mixed species couples. And not just for asari slash anyone else."

Dara didn't blink. "I don't know _what_ you're talking about." _Ah, and so that would be why Garrus and Shepard stayed there. . . .?_

"Of course you don't," Kasumi replied, blandly. "You're really much better at controlling your face now than back in Odessa, Dara. I'm proud of you. And, I'll be back in touch once we get everything set up. We _are_ your favorite travel agents after all, right?"

"Yeah. I've. . . definitely seen the galaxy, courtesy of the family travel business." Camala, Khar'sharn, Tuchanka, Palaven, Dymion, Earth, Sur'Kesh, Rocam, Garvaug, and . . . .god only knew how many other planets and moons she'd actually been on courtesy of working in turian special forces, and _very_ often under the direct supervision of a Spectre or two. "A pleasant planet would be a nice change of pace."

"Yes, I would imagine so. And if you give the place your endorsement, we'll just go ahead and set Lantar and Ellie up with a visit there later this year as a surprise. They need some time off, too," Kasumi replied, blandly. "I'll call back in an hour, okay?"

As soon as Kasumi logged off, however, Dara put her head down on the console for a moment, and heard Rel laughing behind her. "_You_ want to handle this?" she asked, tartly.

"I would, but it's better if the request comes from you. Less chance of me being scaled alive by your father," Rel told her, coming across the room to lean down and bite the back of her neck lightly.

And so, the travel papers came through, and they were traveling as Rellus and Elizabeth Jerrinian, and Kasumi had set them up at a place called the Azure Towers. Neither of them had ever been to an asari colony before. While they _both_ tended to tense up at the feeling of being in an alien hive, surrounded by walls and many, many bodies moving around, the skyscrapers were at least beautiful, and their hotel room serene. They took their time, walked around, saw the sights, and visited various cafes.

Their hotel was _very_ discreet. The dining area had little nooks with privacy barriers, for instance, so that those sitting at a given table weren't necessarily visible to everyone around them. Thus, it wasn't possible to know just how the demographics broke down, but Dara's mind definitely bent as quite a few preconceptions shattered. While there were definitely more asari/alien couples around than any other type of pairing, she thought she'd seen almost one of everything here. It became a sort of a game: spot the couple they _hadn't_ put on their list yet. _"Hanar/Asari,"_ Rel muttered as they walked through the corridors, hand-in-hand one night.

"_Male__ hanar? Because we saw female hanar/asari last night."_

"_How can you tell?"_

"_Is one tentacle longer than the rest?"_

Rel risked a glance. _"Actually, yeah. Wait. I've never seen that before. I've only ever seen females? That would mean that __Blasto's__ female?"_

"_Ah, no. That would mean that they're being a little frisky in public. And no, it's not a tentacle. __Don't look.__"_

Rel was looking straight ahead. "_Apparently, a degree in xenobiology comes in handy."_

"_Yep,"_ Dara replied, grinning. _"Adult male hanar, when fully erect, have the longest penis in proportion to relative body size. Takes up full length of the mantle and the tentacles. Just like giant squid on Earth, really. It retracts when not in use, of course."_

"_Please tell me that it doesn't sting."_

"_The textbooks didn't actually cover that. . . and I'm __not__ asking Blasto."_

_They_ were probably on someone _else's_ list, themselves, but they really did see all types. Elcor/Asari, like Ylara and Tulluust back home, a pairing that _still_ made them laugh like they were fifteen all over again. _"And how do you explain. . . ?"_

"_Biotics! Magic! I don't want to know!"_

The non-asasri pairings were the ones that made their heads hurt, however. Humans seemed the next most likely species to get around, and they definitely saw hanar/human at least once, and krogan/human, too, which made Dara just _wince._

In that atmosphere, human/turian seemed. . . tame. Normal. They were the least stared-at pair, for a change, which was pleasant, and there were at least five or six other human/turian pairs there. Half were wearing each others' paint, and the other half seemed to just be dating. None of them spoke to the others; this wasn't a place for getting to know others, really. But it was _very_ inhibition-relaxing.

And so, on the fourth night, Dara made a small, completely legal, and discreet purchase from room service. Which was brought to their door on a silver platter. Just a cup of tea and an assortment of other bottles. "Keep that away from me," Rel told her, eyeing the mug of tea warily. "I kind of want to _remember_ this. Not to mention, my own name."

"It's been steeped. You'd have to ingest it. Or maybe soak in it for a couple of hours in a tub." Dara sniffed at the _aizala_ beverage. _This_ was how it was _meant_ to be used. Traditional preparation for an asari priestess, to join many minds into one overarching communion, one transcendent sharing. A non-biotic human couldn't really do that, of course. But she could use it to share something with Rel that she otherwise _couldn't_. "What's in the rest of the bottles and jars?"

Rel snickered. "It really is a full-service hotel. Medigel. And, ah, other things we'll probably need." He put a hand to her cheek, gently, giving her a searching look. "You really don't have to go through with this, you know."

"I know." Dara smiled up at him. "But I love you, and this is as turian as I can possibly be for you. So. . . bottoms up?" She began to sip the tea, grimacing at the sour flavor. After about five minutes, she commented, "This also could have been an enormous waste of time."

Rel chuckled. "Nah. We needed to take the shore leave anyway. Come here."

She walked across the room to where he was sitting and curled up in his lap. Warm skin, warm hands, familiar, welcome smells. "I've mentioned lately that I love you, right?"

"Yes. Frequently."

"Okay, good. Wouldn't want that to get forgotten." The room was starting to spin a little, and she suddenly felt _very_ warm. "Ah. . . _amatus_?"

"Hmm?"

"Either I'm coming down with the Skyllian flu. . . or that stuff's starting to hit me."

His hands rubbed up and down her back, patiently, but his eyes were _very_ intent on her now. "Okay. Let's wait a little while and see which it is, huh? If it's the flu, it'll definitely _lack_ something if you roll out from under me to run and throw up in the bathroom."

Dara laughed, putting her head down on his shoulder. The heat was really starting to rise in her now, and her skin seemed hypersensitive. Each fine ridge of scales along his palms left an individual track along her skin, clearly discernable. She wanted to feel that _everywhere_, and started to pull at his shirt, finding skin underneath. Soft rasp of his voice, questioning inflection. She glanced up, wide-eyed, suddenly fascinated all over again with him. Deep-set eyes, sharp teeth. Wide shoulders, strong arms. Warm hands. The words didn't matter at all. She turned slightly in his lap, straddling him, and bit his throat, rocking in his lap, feeling where the heat was starting to concentrate the most, a little choked sound of need rising from her own throat now.

Apparently, that answered whatever the question was that he'd been asking, because he picked her up and took her to the waiting bed. Gently stripped her clothes off. Cool wash of air against her overheated, over-sensitive skin. And then he settled in, biting her throat, fingers tangled in her hair, and slid himself into her, where she'd just begun to ache with the emptiness.

At some point in the next twelve hours, both of their omnitools and the room's comm panel started to blip. Rel lifted his head, eyed them all with dislike, and threw a blanket from the bed in their general direction. "Wha'?" Dara managed to find enough working brain cells to mumble.

"_Doesn't matter,"_ Rel grated out, dropping his weight back on her and urging her legs back around his waist. "_Unless Tasale just went nova, it doesn't matter. Even then, it can wait ten minutes till the shockwave hits Illium. Work can wait till __tomorrow__." _This was as close as he was _ever_ going to get to estrus with Dara, and Rel was not _about_ to sacrifice even a minute of it for work. She was eager, she was open for him, and _best_ of all, he _wasn't_ constrained to control positions, as he would have been with a turian mate. In fact, just to keep her from hurting, he _had_ to keep changing up, which was a delight. Fresh marks, on both of them, sweet smell of her skin and her need and her pleasure all over him . . . the way it was _supposed_ to be. _"Just relax,"_ he told her, and bit her again, which made her moan. . . and then the damned comm panel began to blip again.

_S'kak__. It's just going to keep ringing till I answer the __futtari__ thing.._ Rel dragged enough of his brain into working order to realize that _no one_ outside their families and the Spectres and their immediate superiors actually knew where they were, let alone had the number for the hotel, and, swearing mentally, gave her another bite. _"Don't move,"_ Rel told her, and got out of bed—reluctantly—and headed for the comm terminal, activating it for voice only. "Yes?" The scrape in his voice was one step short of an invitation to fight.

"Hello. I'm Elsa Bauer, with SATBIA, and I'm calling for Dr. Dara Velnaran. Is she available?"

_SATBIA. . . Alliance Intelligence? Now? If it even is. Could be a reporter. Just as likely, actually. "Where do the mysterious brother and sister-in-law of Dominus Rellus and Domina Kallixta go on vacation? Let's find out,"_ he thought, grimly.

"No one by that name booked to this room," he snapped back. "Thanks for playing." He hung up, and at that moment, Dara slid out of the bed, crawling playfully across the room on hands and knees, and began to give him her sweet mouth, right there in the comm terminal's chair. Rel's fingers locked in her hair, talons digging into her scalp urgently, and his head tipped back . . . .

And the spirits-be-damned comm panel rang again, and this time, Rel answered it immediately, still audio only. "What?" he snarled. _Someone is going to __die__ for this._

"Elsa Bauer again. I'm sorry, Commander Velnaran. You can back-check my identification with your people." The human female's voice was tentative.

"I suggest you send whatever you want to. . . whoever you want. . . by _futtari text message."_ It was a struggle to keep his voice even, because Dara had gotten bored with what she was doing, and had stood up to clamber aboard his lap. Telling her _no_ in her current state would have meant having her _say_ something in range of the microphone. . . and the _last_ thing they needed right now was for someone to realize she _was_ in the room and to demand to talk to her when her brain was. . . definitely disengaged. Fully _legally_ disengaged, but not something to put on a service record, either. And then she was sinking down on him and he only had about four brain cells left functioning at the moment. Her little soft catches of breath were driving him crazy, and he wasn't sure if the microphone would pick up on them or not.

"I'll give you a verification number and they'll give you a comm code to reach me at, how's that? Do you have a stylus and a piece of paper handy?"

"No!"

"Five eight five, nine seven one, one eight nine, three one five nine one, alpha charlie omega. Get back to us, will you?" The voice sounded. . .amused. _Damnit. _"We'll send it by text message as well, but it would be better if Dr. Velnaran called back as soon as she's available."

Rel shot out a hand and turned the microphone to mute as Dara's lips parted and she started to keen a little, soft little prey-noises of pure pleasure. He picked her up, walked her to the bed and dropped her there, and put a finger on her lips, saying, "Shh," which made her _bite_ the finger, which in turn made him hiss. _Spirits of air and darkness. . . . _ Then he made it back to the comm panel, turned the microphone back on, and said, "Right. If a Dara Velnaran comes in the room, I'll let her know." He turned the comm panel off, ripped out its power cord, and muttered, _"Speaking of which, sweetness. . . . "_

Dara woke up the next morning around ten local time, very stiff and very sore and very relaxed, all at the same time. She could hear the bathtub being filled, and she sat up, wincing a little. Rel popped his head around the corner, grinned at her, and came over to scoop her up out of bed. "Thank you," he told her, giving her a quick little nip to the side of the neck. "You actually _remember_ any of that?"

Dara could feel the flush creeping up her face. "Parts, yes. It's a little hazy." He took her into the bathroom and plopped her in the tub of warm water, grinning down at her happily. "Was it okay?"

Rel laughed. "Oh yeah. A lot more than just okay. Remember all the nights when we had to break off biting because someone had a sandclock in their hand _right outside_ the door?"

She chuckled. "How could I _possibly_ forget?"

Rel grinned, leaned down, and nuzzled her shoulder. "I think we may have made up for all of them last night." He reached up, touched her hair, and added, "And. . . we have a call in from SATBIA. I back-checked it with Kasumi while you were, ah, sleeping off the residual. They want to talk to you about your work on Sur'Kesh with STG. We. . . apparently need to meet with their representative on Bastion."

"What about your _medically-mandated_ shore leave?"

"We're finishing it. Just have to be ready to hit the ground running if anything changes. So, three more days, then Bastion, not Rocam." Rel picked up a washcloth, and very carefully began passing it over her shoulders and arms. Dara winced. There were some _fresh_ new bite marks there.

"I'm _never_ going to finish the surgical rotation, am I?"

"I asked. They said they'd get you attached to a Bastion hospital while you're staying there so you can continue to work on that. . . assuming all hell doesn't break loose."

Dara shook her head, her brain starting to function again. "Why would they want to talk to me about my Sur'Kesh work? Most of that was epidemiology. . . of course, we gamed out what a pandemic would look like, spreading from Earth, spreading from Palaven, spreading from Omega, spreading from. . . Bastion. . . " She frowned. She didn't like the implications at all. "What's their number? I should call them back now."

"You want to let the last of the _aizala_ to get out of your system first?" Rel asked, dryly. "Dy off, put on clothes, maybe have some breakfast?"

Dara looked down at herself in the bathtub, and chuckled, ruefully. "Yeah. All of that. And maybe a little judicious medigel here and there, too." She held up her arms. "You were enthusiastic last night, weren't you?"

Rel chuckled, ducking his head with a bit of a grin. "So were you."

As it was, an hour later, she got off the comm call with SATBIA, and most of her good humor and relaxation had faded. She was expecting a slew of files to be sent to her, encrypted, and would start reading them tonight. "Playtime's over?" Rel asked her.

"We can still play. I just have to work a bit around the edges, here and there." She touched his face fondly. "I guess once you get to a certain point, work never really goes away, does it."

**Elijah, Bastion, April 7-22, 2196**

**Author's note:** _A big thank-you to Agent Fisher for a __whole__ bunch of information on SWAT stuff that will be used very shortly. :-) _

The first week or so on the new job was mostly a settling in process, getting to know new coworkers' names, new expectations from a new commander. Training with a new SWAT call-up team; he and Lin were on it, as assaulters, for the moment; while Eli had the marksmanship to be a sharpshooter, it wasn't his preferred position. "Hey, I thought you were taking the psychology courses," Lin told him, lightly. "Doesn't that mean you're going to be the negotiator, eventually?"

Eli grimaced. "I can do it, but there are people out there who are better at it," he said, dryly. His success with the one jumper on Edessan aside, Eli wasn't quite confident in his diplomacy skills yet. "Besides, when all is said and done, I don't actually like being the target dummy, standing there with nothing in my hands but my. . . "

"_Phallus?"_ Lin said, grinning.

"_More or less, yeah."_

Their team was eleven members strong; two teams of four assaulters, two sharpshooters, and one team-leader, Eric McInnis, an older, grizzled B-Sec veteran who'd come to Bastion from Earth at Bailey's personal request. He was NABI, originally, from the Hostage Rescue Team, and Eli liked him immediately. He had a very calm demeanor, and that meant a _lot_ under pressure. Every order was clear and precise during their first practice session in a warehouse district, and that helped, too.

There was an additional squad attached to their particular Special Response Team, and this consisted of a negotiator, a tech specialist, and two paramedics. The paramedics saw just as much, if not more work than the rest of them, and had to go in wearing the same armor. Eli respected the hell out of them—they did the same exact job as Dara did. Minus the ability to fire back if they were threatened. Their negotiator was actually an asari, Renalia Kasii. She had a calm, motherly air to her that was very reassuring to stressed people, and was one of the most atypical asari that Eli had ever met. While asari didn't really get wrinkles or anything, she had an indefinable sense of age and almost homeliness to her. "I feel like I should be asking her for cookies and a glass of milk," he told Lin after work that night.

"Or a plate of bonemarrow cakes. Yeah. Know what you mean."

Fors _wasn't_ on the squad, but tagged along anyway. McInnis was surprised by this at first, but so long as the volus stayed out of the way, he didn't care.

At the end of their first week, an alert went out for B-Sec and CID personnel all across the station. Increased danger of a bacerialogical or viral attack on this or other space stations in Council Space. Increased attention to environmental systems was in order. Suspicious packages were to be reported and investigated. Since the potential for someone using the _threat_ of a bacterialogical weapon to conceal an explosive device, instead, existed, disposal procedures included hazmat personnel with heavy kinetic shielding taking unknown packages outside the station for examination and probable detonation. "And no information on whom we should be looking for who'd be doing the planting?" Eli told Lin, shaking his head after dinner one night.

Linianus was at the main extranet console in the apartment, looking through the responses he'd gotten from BastionSinglesNet. "Either they know, and don't want to alert whoever it is, or it's a vague threat."

"Pretty specific on the _nature_ of the threat. The how and the where, pretty clearly identified. Just not who." Eli set down the weight bar he'd been working with and walked across the room to look over Lin's shoulder. "How's your _extracurricular_ stuff coming along?"

Lin looked up at him and made a face. "You know, I've been in armed standoffs with drug dealers. I've arrested murderers. Tracked down a serial arsonist who liked lighting up buildings with people still in them on Nimines. And you and me. . . we fought a _dragon_, right?"

"Yeah?"

"Some of these people on the dating site _scare_ me."

Eli started to laugh. "No, no, it's true. At this point, I'm glad my full name isn't up on the site." Lin pointed at one of the messages. "I answered this one, and am _really_ sorry I did. This one appears to be from a turian female who's convinced, on the basis of twenty lines of text, that she and I are _soulmates_. And she's got an elaborate fantasy of exchanging knives right now."

Eli peered at the words, and shook his head. "Ah. . . she said she went to B-Sec headquarters to try to meet you? Block that one."

"Already done. No picture on my profile, either, so she can roam up and down the halls until someone redirects her out the door or puts her in a holding cell for a mental health evaluation."

Eli chuckled. "You think they'd go that far?"

"Someone's wandering around B-Sec going, 'I'm looking for an officer with the initials LP, I think he's turian, and I'm going to marry him. No, I've never met him, why do you ask?' and you think they _wouldn't_ do a twelve hour hold for psych eval?" Lin whistled through his teeth. "And then there's this one, which is from a human girl who wants me to meet her and her drell girlfriend for drinks. On the grounds that I sound _adventurous_, apparently. These people move fast, is all I'm saying."

Eli's head turned to the side slightly. He had a _very_ good imagination, and neither he nor Lin were prudes, by any stretch, but. . . "Okay, might need to adjust your profile slightly. Maybe 'not looking for scale itch?'"

"'You must be able to pass a background check,'" Lin replied dourly, leaning back in the chair and rubbing at his eyes. "I swear to the spirits, I'll log onto the security net and check out anyone I _do_ agree to meet. For my own safety."

"Well, hell, there went fifty percent of your candidate pool." Eli reached over and flicked through the list of messages. "Okay, here's a turian. . . Rocam colony native, age twenty two, profession. . . social worker. Huh. Well, you two wind up working with the same people, more or less, at least."

Lin rolled his eyes. "Yeah. The picture she sent seemed a little too good to be true, but . . . "

"Give it a try, anyway."

Lin shrugged and set up a meeting for the next evening after work. Eli was all settled in at the desk to write to Serana that evening, intending a nice _long_ letter to his wife, since Lin would be out for a couple of hours, anyway, when the door banged open at only 19:00.

Eli looked back over his shoulder. "That was fast."

Lin threw his coat over the head of the nearby sparring dummy. "Yeah."

"Not your type."

"You know how the picture looked a little too good to be true?"

Eli chuckled. "Didn't match reality?"

"Didn't match the _species_."

That made Eli blink. "So what _are_ we talking here?"

"Not turian. Hanar. I was sure as hell surprised by this."

Eli nodded slowly. "Ah. . . so. . . they're not usually body breeders."

Lin's smile was very tight. "No. Not so much. And this one was male."

"And you know this because. . . . ?"

"He floated right up and started to talk to me. Remember at Rel and Dara's _tal'mae_ rites, when your dad and Sam started the old cops vs. young cops Stupid Criminals contest?"

"You're fucking kidding me. He introduced himself as Gives-Solace-of-the-Body-to-Many?"

"As my heart beats and I take air, yes." Lin sighed. "I called it in. He's _not_ supposed to be on Bastion."

Eli's mouth opened and closed. "And the officer who took the call?"

Lin looked up at the ceiling in resignation. "Yeah. Knew who I was. I'm fully expecting a full-color picture on my locker tomorrow. At least."

Eli shook his head. "Take it like a male."

"Yeah, thanks for the advice." Lin showed teeth. "This is your fault."

"Hey, I'll let you pick the next one all by yourself." Eli turned back to writing his letter to Serana, chuckling. This was entirely too good _not_ to share.

There was indeed a full-color poster of a male hanar entwined with an asari on Lin's locker the next morning. He completely ignored it, leaving it up for a couple of days, and when the others whistled at him through their teeth, took it in stride. "You're at _least_ going out with me and hitting the bars at the end of the week," he warned Eli, though.

"Lin, I'm an old married man. Take Fors with you."

Their volus partner looked up at them inquisitively. "Ah. So you are in need of a wingman. Would my designated role be to attract the likely females over, or to take the unattractive ones off your hands? And how would I be able to tell which was which?" He snuffled into his air filters, sounding very amused.

Lin gave them _both_ finger-flicks for that one. "Seriously, Eli, you owe me."

"Serana gets here, we'll both go out with you. Till then, I've got _no_ business being in a bar outside of work." Eli grinned. "One more week, Lin. Then we're at your disposal."

At the end of their second week on the job, there was a peaceful demonstration planned outside the Council chambers. Half of B-Sec's patrolmen were assigned to be there, it seemed, mostly to manage protestor vs. average citizen disputes. What most people who organize protests fail to understand is that when they have their people lie down in the middle of a crowded thoroughfare to protest some injustice elsewhere in the galaxy, the people who live and work in the district do not actually _care_. What _they_ care about is getting to work on time, not getting fired, and generally not having a bad day made worse by having to sit in their vehicles any longer than necessary. And while Bastion did not have a large contingent of groundcars, there _were_ any number of small scooters and hovercycles and cabs, both of the airborne variety and the groundcar variety, all of which were being _blocked_ from forward progress by fifty or sixty people who had thrown themselves in the path of traffic to protest Council trade policies in the wake of the asari/volus economic meltdown.

The other thing that people who organize protests do not realize is that security forces are there just as much to protect _them_ as to control them. Any number of the vehicle drivers would probably, by the second hour of the traffic jam, have cheerfully run over the protestors. The _only_ thing keeping them from doing so were the B-sec officers standing between traffic and the protestors. As it was, the regular citizens were starting to shout and scream at the protestors, who waved their signs back and chanted.

While Eli and Lin were on the Special Response Team, there were several dozen other similar teams. Some of them covered special events like this one, as well as Council and ambassadorial security. Eli knew without looking that there were sharpshooters on the roofs of the various buildings around them, keeping a close eye on the proceedings, just in case anyone decided to use the chaos to try to breach the Council building itself, or attack a Councilor. The sharpshooters were the _last_ line of defense, of course. And all the Councilors would be going to work by different access points today, anyway, but anything _could_ happen when a crowd got out of control. People, individually, were smart. People as a group? Dumb, blind, and often chaotically vindictive.

Eli, Lin, McInnis, and Fors were, by this point, eating lunch in a third story restaurant, looking out the balcony at the madhouse below. The initial picket line was directely below them, and they were directly across from the Council building.

"They're going to have to start arresting people pretty soon," Linianus noted. "They had a permit to protest on the far side of the street, for two hours. Now they're stretching all the way across to the Council building's steps, and are two hours overdue to disperse."

McInnis nodded. "They're got someone over there talking with the protest organizers right now. Keep in mind, B-Sec's done this a _few_ times before you boys came along," he said, dryly. "Chances are, the protesters actually _want_ to be arrested. Makes for _much_ better newsfeed pictures that way."

"We going to get called in on this?" Lin asked, half-interested, half-glum.

"Nah. The uniforms have got it handled down there. There's backups in place in case anyone gets out of hand. Just several more hours of this crap to go through for everyone involved."

Eli rolled his eyes. "Couldn't they just write a letter to the editor?" he muttered.

"They'd need to know how to write," Fors told him, dryly. The volus could barely see over the railing, of course. "Half of the signs are misspelled, and those are just in the languages that I can read without VI translation. Can you imagine them managing to pen something longer than five words that wasn't spoon-fed to them by an organizer? Why, I do believe that they might _sprain_ something."

Eli snorted. He _liked_ Fors. It was actually really hard _not_ to. The volus' sense of humor was very sharp. "Oh, look, here we go," Lin called. Eli grabbed his sandwich and walked to the rail, looking down. Sure enough, various officers were trying to get the protestors to get to their feet. Gently, at first, of course. Shouting, denial, resistance.

"You know what that looks like from here?" Eli said. "Like trying to get my little sister to get back off the floor once she'd thrown herself down on it in a temper tantrum. Just once, I wanted her to get back on her feet peacefully, and _not_ let her knees just fold in on themselves again."

More and more security in place, more and more protestors being picked up off the ground, kicking and screaming. "So, you want them to go along peacefully, is what you're saying?" Fors said, with a snuffle, climbing up on a chair to look over the edge.

Eli's smile was cynical. "I bet the uniforms down there would _love_ a change of pace."

"Oh, it can be arranged." Fors held out both of his hands in front of him, and _something_ traveled out from him in a wave, hitting the protestors throughout the street below them. All of whom stiffened and went absolutely still.

Eli and Lin hastily shoved Fors back from the rail and stepped in front of him. "What the hell was that?" Eli hissed over his shoulder.

"Stasis field," Fors said, calmly. "No police brutality involved. Just nice, peaceful, cooperative protestors. I smell . . . amity. Yes, I'm pretty sure that's amity. Either that my suit's sprung a leak. In which case, it could be impending doom." He had been pushed off his chair when Eli and Lin had stepped in front of him, and now shuffled back towards the interior of the restaurant.

McInnis caught him by one small arm. "That puts a whole new spin on crowd control," he said. "Can you do that to just one person at a time, too?"

"Yes. Have to have line of sight and be in range, though."

McInnis grinned. "I can make _use_ of this."

In between all of this, Eli fielded a call from Lantar, asking him to run a background check on a krogan on the station by the name of Ulluthyr Banak. Eli had no idea why Lantar wanted him to do this, instead of having Spectre security run the check, but in his not-exactly-copious spare time, ran down the krogan's station record, which was remarkably clean, all things considered, and found a moment to go talk with him. Having a vocabulary of fifty or so words in krogan, all learned from Mazz, helped. Eli started the conversation with, "Ulluthyr? I knew someone who used to belong to that clan."

"Yeah, I bet."

"Name was Ulluthyr Mazz. Son of Kanar. You know either of them?"

Banak's expression had shifted remarkably, going from sullen suspicion to surprise. "Yeah, actually. Kanar's my brother."

Eli blinked. "Well, holy shit. Small damned galaxy. I went to school with Mazz. Would you believe, he's graduating University of Mindoir this year?" He offered Banak his hand, and, after a moment, the krogan shook it. Looking astounded. Their conversation was fairly short, and Eli wasn't sure what point it had had, but he reported back to Lantar that Banak had only two arrests, both on drunk and disorderly charges, in six years, but that his employer had remained the same shipping consortium for all of those six years, too. Remarkably stable, actually. He also had a note in his record for having broken _up_ two or three fights in clubs that had involved multiple krogan, when officers had been called in. "Seemed like a fairly reasonable guy. Loved hearing about Mazz. Laughed, actually."

"Did he mention his other brother?" Lantar was interested in that.

"Didn't mention the name, no. Why?"

"Harak wants to make him a job offer, if he's trustworthy enough. Sounds good enough for probationary stuff, anyway. Thank you, first-son. It helps when I have you to do things for me, when I can't be two places at once."

Eli shook his head. "Okay, Dad_._ Give my love to Mom and to Duck and the little ones."

And then, finally, Serana's OCS ended, and she hopped the first flight to Bastion. Eli met her at her gate, picking her up bodily. "About time," he told her, kissing her forehead.

"I know, I know. My flight was late." Serana beamed up at him. "Did you miss me?"

"I always do. You assigned here?"

"Yeah, actually. I'm officially in information services at the embassy." She grinned up at him saucily. "My biometric chips are going to need to be re-keyed for entry there. Should be a lot of dull, dry paperwork. Very safe. Very boring."

Eli leaned down and whispered in her ear, "Liar."

"That's why you love me, Eli. Come on, take me _home_ already. Wherever the hell home is."

And when they got there, Serana took one look around the apartment and laughed. "You two do _not_ change."

Eli shook his head. "Yeah, sorry. Got in a little deep at work, and totally forgot to buy a couch for the living area. Or a chair."

"Or a kitchen table."

"In my defense, I _have_ been trying to cook levo/dextro at least."

At that point, Linianus emerged from his bedroom at the back of the apartment and engulfed Serana in a hug. "Okay, now that you're here, the fun can finally begin," he told her, putting her back on the ground.

Serana gave him a slightly wary look. "And what does that mean, exactly?"

Eli laughed. "I told him I wouldn't go out bar-hopping with him without you." He grabbed Serana's bags and headed back to their bedroom with them. "Don't even know why Lin thinks he needs me along," he called back.

"Maybe I wouldn't, if you'd at least _tell_ me your secret for getting girls—nice, normal girls who don't wind up stalking you or wanting a threesome on the first date or calling you a bastard for saying that after one message that you don't think it'd work out—I wouldn't need you to be there," Lin called after him.

Eli turned in the hall, puzzled. "I don't know what you mean."

Lin grinned. "See? You stood _guard duty_ on Macedyn, and women used to give you their comm codes."

Eli flushed, giving Lin a dark look. "Ah, Lin? My wife _just_ got in from OCS. . . "

Serana snickered. "No, no, this is interesting. I like dark secrets." She looked at Linianus. "_Do_ go on."

Eli slung her bags into his room, giving Lin continuing stare. "All it was, was I was an anomaly. Human in turian paint who spoke asari. Nothing major." He rubbed the back of his neck. "To be perfectly honest, I don't think I've ever actually walked up to a girl in a bar to ask them anything, so I really can't help you with conversation starters." He thought about it, and now that he _was_ thinking about it, it was actually a little funny. Dara had kissed him, Kella had more or less _told_ him they were going to date. Siara had chased him. Freja had asked him to her room. Pellia had asked him and Linianus to join her. _Serana_ had hit him over the head, repeatedly with a brick until he had to acknowledge his feelings for her. Eli looked down sheepishly. "Sorry, Lin. Like I said, I stand out because I'm an oddity. That doesn't really help you much, unless you want to, um, stop wearing paint?"

Serana shook her head, walked over, and wrapped her arm around his waist. "So. . . it couldn't _possibly_ be that you're fairly good looking by human standards. Or that you're strong by turian standards. Or that you have interesting depths of experience, by asari ones?" She looked up at him impertinently.

Eli made a rude noise. "I do _not_. What you see is what you get. No more depth here than a kiddy pool. Pee in the water and all."

Linianus shouted with laughter, and Serana closed her eyes, starting to giggle, herself. "Sorry, Lin," Eli told him. "You're on your own for pickup lines."


	87. Chapter 87: Suspicions

**Chapter 87:** **Suspicions**

**Author's note:** _Since my own real-life experience is severely limited, I did a search for 'bad online dating stories' for Lin's excursion into the world of on-line dating. And quickly decided that my imagination was quite a bit less vivid than other people's horrible realities. My god, there are scary people out there. :-D Lin's first two bad responses were more or less lifted from someone's posted story, shifted to a ME universe setting, and compressed for time and, er, hilarity. _

_When I lived just outside of D.C., I listened to an all-news station that did traffic and weather every ten minutes. Traffic is. . . near and dear to Washingtonians' hearts. Listening to the "We've got World Trade protestors on such-and-such street" every morning, often for a week at a time, made me feel very sorry for DC cops. The protestors could not possibly have understood that anyone stuck in DC gridlock for 2 hours on a weekday morning is, by definition, already a homicidal maniac. If the cops hadn't been there, I guarantee, the drivers would have been running over those protestors. _

**Seheve, Kahje, April 23, 2196**

Seheve lay prostrate on the cold granite floor of the small temple, unmoving, feeling her body heat leach into the stone. This was the deepest level of obeisance, humility, abasement than a drell body could manage before an image of the Enkindlers, and she had remained in exactly this position, unmoving, for thirty minutes already. She did not look up at Their faces. She did not need to, nor did she deserve to. She knew what They looked like. Tall, bipedal, overawing. Faces unknowable, but with tentacles extending from them, proof of their connection to their _chosen_ children, the revered hanar. Givers of language, givers of thought, givers of light.

And yet, the doubts. Doubts were why she was _here_, of course. Her Master had required her to come to the chapel and meditate. Clear her mind of worldly distractions. Only when her mind was clear, free of doubt, was she a worthy vessel.

"Seheve?" The voice chimed behind her softy.

"Yes, my Master?" she replied, not moving.

"You may take the second position of obedience to the Enkindlers."

"Thank you, my Master." Seheve moved slowly, but fluidly, drawing herself back to her knees, and settling her forehead once more on the cold stone. Still abasement. Still humility before Them.

"You have been the best of this one's servants, Seheve. Your father was not intended for the Great Work, but served adequately in the lesser tasks that he was assigned. You have shown much promise over the years. Took over the small tasks of your father. Moved on to the Great Work. Been faithful, steadfast, and true."

"Thank you, my Master."

"And yet, this one senses doubts in you now. Why is this?"

"I do not know, my Master. My thoughts trouble me." They did, too. Without the perfect certainty that her deeds were _right_, and that all would be forgiven by They who had given speech and thought to the universe, it laid open the possibility that her actions over the years had been _wrong_. Had not been justified.

Could not be forgiven. Would lie like a stain on her very soul for all of eternity. Which of course begged another question. If the Enkindlers were _not_ gods. . ._were_ there any gods? Was there any such thing as eternity? Instead of joining in Their light when her life came to an end, would she simply cease to exist, become unknowing, unspeaking, unthinking, undoing?

In front of her on the cold granite, Seheve's hands squeezed together once, tightly. And then opened again. Spread flat on the floor, letting the heat bleed away.

"This one knows the source of your disquiet. It is the words of the machine, given the name Watches-the-Gates-of-Ruin. It speaks lies, causes uncertainty among even this one's own people. If we who are the chosen of the Enkindlers are swayed by the words of a machine, how can we be surprised when our own children, such as yourself, are affected, as well?" Her master's voice was gentle. Forgiving. Endlessly understanding.

"What must I do, my Master? How may I regain my certainty, my clarity of purpose?"

"This one has three tasks for you, Seheve. Some are the tasks of the Great Work. And some are the tasks of our people."

"I will obey in all things."

"First, you will go to Bastion. There is a salarian there, part of a rogue group called the Lystheni. He has been in hiding for some time, but he was responsible for the loss of faith of a young hanar, and his subsequent death. This young hanar was even trapped between life and death for some time, his mind, but not his soul, pulled into a machine. An abomination. This salarian's name is Maldo Ren. You will execute him."

"Yes, my Master."

"Second, the Council of the Outsiders has called for new Spectre agents to be recruited again. You have worked on behalf of all of our people before. Most in our government do not know your affiliation with the Great Work. You will thus, from Bastion, move to the Spectre base, and seek to pass their trials. When you become a Spectre, you will stand outside the laws, and may continue the Great Work almost openly. And once you have achieved that status, you may conduct the final act that will help you to regain your clarity, your focus."

"And what task is this, my Master?"

"You will destroy the machine that lies, this Watches-the-Gates-of-Ruin, and efface all of its words."

Seheve felt a pang of concern. Words were the gift of the Enkindlers. Words were the core of thought. Thought was the gift of the Enkindlers. To destroy words, to destroy thoughts. . . was this correct? Some of the scholars even said that _lies_ must be preserved, because they were still words. They could only be combated with truth, not with destruction.

But her Master had spoken, and she would obey. "Yes, my Master. You have spoken the words of the Enkindlers to me, and I will obey them." She paused. "What of Commander Lilitu Shepard?"

Her Master paused. The chiming voice spoke quietly. "She is problematic. She holds the words, the very language of the Enkindlers in her heart and mind. She _should_ be a prophet unto our people, but she rejects their light. Speaks terrible blasphemies against their light. She has their sacred words, but does not feel them in her soul." He paused again. "If you succeed in your efforts against the machine and his falsehoods, this one will reassess your skill levels, and may ask you to spend your life in a great and noble cause, young one. Now, rise."

She stood, smoothly, fluidly. Seheve was of average height for a drell female. Her dark eyes were large and lustrous, and she'd inherited her family's tendency towards red accent scales in a streak down her head and neck. "Thank you, Master."

"You may address me by my soul-name, child."

She bowed her head gracefully. "You have given me a lesson today, Speaks-Truth-to-Unbelievers. I thank you for it, and for the chance to redeem myself before you, and before Them."

"Then go forth. Your transport awaits to take you to Bastion. And know that whatever you do, in Their name, is right and just. You are Their blade, our blade. Once wiped clear of blood, you are clean again."

Seheve nodded once more, in gratitude, and, dismissed, left the temple on light and silent feet.

Her flight from Kahje to Bastion was a long one. It gave her, unfortunately, much time to think. The passengers in the ship alongside her were a mix of drell, turian businesspeople, and humans, with the occasional asari or salarian tourist sprinkled in for good measure. She watched them, fascinated, going about their daily lives, sending and receiving comm messages from their seats. Words. So many words, all about the most trivial of things. How someone's aunt was doing, the price of _cuderae_ meat at the market on Baetika, whether they should have cupcakes at Johnny's fifth birthday instead of a sheet cake. Whether the boss would be angry because of a screw-up in part numbers. How it wasn't someone's fault. Then the more meaningful ones. _I love you. I miss you. I'll be back soon. Don't worry, it's a short trip._ All around her, words.

Seheve leaned back and put on a headset, turning on Bastion's News Network. She scanned the headlines, listened to the feeds. Apparently, there was an increased threat of some sort of a biological attack on the station at the moment, and travelers were being encouraged to report suspicious activity. _What, precisely, do those words mean? Can someone cough suspiciously? Sneeze furtively?_

More or less as a thought exercise, Seheve debated how _she_ would destroy Bastion if she were ordered to do so. Disease wouldn't be her choice. Too inexact. Though if she were required to use it, for some reason, she would infect the medical personnel first, if possible. Still, no disease was one hundred percent infectious and one hundred percent fatal. For that to occur would prevent the virus or bacteria from reproducing itself in a new host. And all life struggled to reproduce itself. It was, in a real sense, part of the definition of being alive. So no, not disease. Ineffective against a _place_. Destroying the reactor core, though. . . that would be a challenge. She didn't have the technical skills, of course. And it would surely be well-guarded.

The station was, however, only partially constructed. A series of explosions all through its superstructure would collapse large portions of it, however, and the fact that the station's shells all rotated would cause portions to shear away, very likely. Seheve was, however, not an engineer. Such problems were beyond her. It was organics that she was designed to execute, not large, unwieldy machines.

Although she now had a machine as a target. Which was. . . unusual. Never, to her knowledge, had a machine been marked out for . . . death before. It presupposed that machines could _die_. Perhaps, she decided, it would be better to think of it as _disassembling_ the Ruin geth unit. Nothing more.

Arriving on Bastion, she made her way to the drell and hanar neighborhood, with the large pools of open water. So _odd_ to see hanar swimming beside salarians, as if there were no conflict between them at all. When, in fact, there was an undeclared war between them, a war of words, a war of thoughts, a war of ideas. A war that her beloved master told her that they were in grave danger of losing. And that if they did, all truth, all light would be lost.

_I'm already losing my way. Losing the truth, losing the light. How much worse, if everyone lost it, for all time, leaving only darkness and lies?_

She settled into her room, adjusting the humidity controls to less than two percent moisture content in the air, and reviewed the information she had on her target. Maldo Ren had a small omnitool reburbishing concern on E level, Ala'kesh section, another principally salarian area. She'd need a couple of days to examine the area, decide on an low-traffic period of the day, figure out the target's habits and patterns, and adjust to them. In the meantime, she would need to appear normal. She was here on a tourist visa, so she would be a tourist. Take in the sights. Try new, exotic foods.

Read books that weren't permitted on Kahje, perhaps. Though this made her feel just a little guilty.

But if she noticed anything _suspicious_, it would be a bad idea to report it to B-Sec. _Don't stand out_.

_**Author's note:** Seheve is the last of the new OCs to be introduced. Drell infiltrator/assassin. I have any number of reservations about Thane as a character. An assassin isn't romantic. Dying of a terminal illness isn't romantic, either. Twenty years of watching my dad very slowly die of emphysema doesn't make consumption/lung disease seem like a cheerful, happy way to go. And I'm just saying, someone with a six-month diagnosis? Not going to be having happy fun times in bed, either._

**Siara, Omega, April 25, 2196**

"Siara?" The voice was polite, but insistent. "I do apologize for awakening you, but I need to speak with you."

Siara sat up in bed instantly, eyes snapping open, hands up, biotics charging. She hadn't heard anyone come in, and her heart was racing. . . and when she saw Pelagia standing by the door, in gray station coveralls, she slowly exhaled. Makur was already reaching under the bed for his shotgun. _Two years on Omega, two to three years in the female camp. What would I __do_ _on a civilized world again?_ Siara thought, letting her biotics dissipate, slowly. "Good morning, Pelagia," she said out loud. "Does Harak need us?"

"No. _I_ need to speak with you."

Makur let the gun slide back under the bed, and stood up, reaching for his armor. "Female talk?" he asked. "I should leave?"

"Political talk. Power talk." Pelagia shrugged. "Ulluthyr Surla and Urdnot Gara are both due to arrive today. And I need your advice, Siara."

_My__ advice? What can I possibly advise you on, that Harak can't?_ Siara thought, but got up and started getting dressed, herself. Since she wasn't on bodyguard detail today, she could wear the same gray coveralls as Pelagia, and not have to worry about image. "I'll catch up with you," she told Makur.

He nodded. "Gris said there was a new vorcha pack moving into the waste reclamation areas. He and I were going to go take care of them this morning. You coming with us?"

"Wading up to my hips in sewage and killing vorcha? You know how to show a girl a good time." Siara smiled slightly. In private, no need for silent communion to add, "Of course I will."

He headed out the door, and the asari turned her attention back to Pelagia. "So, they're both due today?"

Pelagia nodded. "Separate ships. Both docking within twenty minutes of each other." The AI moved across the comfortably-appointed room—Siara couldn't quite get over the lavish asari statuary that had been placed in a _guard's_ room—and sat at the cherry-stained desk. "I think it fair to assume that Surla intends to challenge me for leadership of the female clan. She'll take me as a threat to her status within Ulluthyr, and state that there can be only one leader, not two."

Siara nodded, one corner of her mouth quirking up. "They do like to simplify, where possible." She studied the AI carefully. "You're going to retain the . . . human look?"

Pelagia tipped her head to the side. "Yes. Though with some minor alterations. I told Harak I'd put on armor for the meeting, and he said it would look stronger to Surla."

Siara sighed. "Anything not _krogan_ is likely to look weak to her. She is, by all reports, a traditionalist."

"And how did you assert your strength within Urdnot?" Pelagia twiddled her fingers a little, restlessly.

"Work. Lots and lots of work." Siara grimaced. "I showed I could take as much pain as any of them, working with the birthing mothers. I showed I could learn to hunt the wilds, even though I wasn't born to it. Took the Rite with Makur and. . . a few friends from Mindoir. Beat a few people over the head with my biotics, but Makur's really been the most help. They started out only seeing his strength, but learned to see mine independent of his." Siara looked at Pelagia. "I don't see you taking the Rite," she added, dryly.

Pelagia shook her head. "No. Even if I could compact myself back into a ship, and even if I could _stand_ to fly again, I don't think I'd fit in an arena. Though I'd give pretty good odds on an SR-1 against a thresher maw." Her smile was quick, and almost whimsical. "So, in essence, you've been building a krannt of your own? A small one?"

Siara thought about it. "Yes. Among the females, certainly. Gara would probably fight by my side. She was the first one I helped with the pains. I gave her the memories of her father—my second-mother. Gurna, one of my students, probably would, as well." Siara suddenly, _fiercely_, missed the underground bunker and her student. Oh, not the dirt and the short rations and the lack of indoor plumbing. There was _no_ nostalgia for that in her thoughts. But the students, stubborn as they'd been, as reluctant to learn? She did miss them. She just hoped that in working here on Omega to give them a place to _come_ once they'd finished learning, she was doing right by them.

"And, if you'll forgive me for having _really good_ hearing. . . " Pelagia hesitated, "you _do_ intend to challenge for leadership of Urdnot's female clan, in time?"

Siara sucked in a breath, and took two quick steps across the room before regaining control of herself. "That's. . . _very_ good hearing, yes, Pelagia." She stared at the human avatar. "It's my intention to do so, yes. But only after Malla dies. Which could be tomorrow, or in two decades."

"And you'll have a krannt to stand with you on that day? Gara, Gurna, others? Can the krannt members be male?" Pelagia's voice was slightly hopeful.

Siara shook her head emphatically. "No male krogan will raise a hand to a female, particularly not a fertile one."

Pelagia sighed. "Damn. I'd hoped that Harak could stand for me."

"It would be singularly unusual. He's a clan leader, and they're only supposed to fight if someone challenges _their_ authority. For him to do so would be . . .irregular. Tantamount to calling you his singular mate—" Siara watched in fascination as the AI's expression shifted slightly. Her eyebrows climbed. "Which, of course, isn't possible."

Pelagia's eyes flicked to the side, and she changed the subject. "In that case, Urdnot Siara, will you stand as part of _my_ krannt, if necessary? You will hopefully not have to fight alone."

_That was a human expression. They do that when they're uncomfortable or avoiding the truth. Vaul, that __isn't__ possible, is it? Wouldn't that be like sharing with a __geth__? And it's not like she has a physical body. . . . _Siara's eyes were wide as she walked over and waved a hand through Pelagia's head. "I do _hope_ you have more than just me in mind."

"A little more. Largely based on krogan psychology, I'm afraid, and on the sure and certain knowledge that there is absolutely no way in which she can actually harm me. The trick will be convincing _her_ of that, without actually having to hurt or kill her in the process." Pelagia sounded glum.

Siara shook her head. "This. . . is going to be interesting." She paused. "And when I say whose krannt I fight for, what do I even _say_? You haven't been through the Rite, so technically, you're not Ulluthyr Pelagia. . . " She shook her head. "Moreau Pelagia? _Normandy_ Pelagia? _Kharkov_ Pelagia?"

Pelagia thought for a moment. "Any of those things would have been true, four years ago. Now. . . it's just Omega Pelagia, I'm afraid. My sisters and I _really_ need a name of our own."

Siara turned on her omnitool, and glanced through the VI dictionaries there. "_Cordata_," she suggested. "Latin for _wise_. Or _sapientis_, again, wise or intelligent." She shrugged. "We can't call you _Normandy_-class AIs forever. You're. . . rather clearly _people._"

Pelagia smiled faintly. "Let's hope that Surla comes to realize that, too."

Urdnot Gara was the first of the two females to arrive, and _grinned_ when she saw Siara. _"My friend!"_ she called across the wide expanse of carpet in Harak's living area. _"It's good to see you once more!"_ She stumped across the room, weaving around the various low tables and chairs. One entire wall of the living area was made of glass, overlooking the miles-deep main cavern of Omega; the other walls held paintings and shelves with small asari statuettes and even a few Prothean relics. The setting was priceless and refined. . . and everyone present was wearing full armor, savage, almost primitive in contrast. A contingent of Urdnot guards accompanied Gara into the living area, all standing and looking around warily; most of Harak's Urdnot bodyguards were already present, and exchanged nods with them, which at least lessened the tensions

Now Gara slammed her hands on Siara's shoulders, and Siara did her best not to sway, and thanked her stars that she, like everyone else, was in full gear today. _"Nice to see you, too,"_ Siara managed, returning the shoulder thump. _"Malla picked you?"_

"_I __volunteered__. It's nice getting out of the damned bunker. Even saw the __sky__ for a little while."_ Gara's reddish eyes gleamed, and she turned to look at Makur and her father, Gris. _"Makur. Gris. Where's this Ulluthyr male and his __human__ female clan leader?_" Her voice was a little disparaging.

Harak emerged from his work room at that point. His eyes had _mostly_ grown back by now, and mostly appeared as milky, undifferentiated orbs in their sockets. He'd reported being able to see contrasts in light and darkness at this point, but little more. Pelagia was still, apparently, feeding him information directly through the chip in his head. He offered Gara one massive paw, and she shook it, briefly, and they stood, studying each other for a moment, both sniffing the air a little. _"Well,"_ Gara said after a moment. "_I can see that_ _you're__ not weak."_

"_Glad we understand one another_," Harak told her, shortly. _"As to my female clan leader. . . she's not exactly __human__."_

Gara snorted. _"I didn't think the rumors could possibly be true."_

Siara couldn't _help_ the chuckle that slipped out, under her breath. Makur started to laugh as well.

Harak shook his head. "Pelagia?" he called.

This time when Pelagia appeared in her usual shimmer of lights and shadows, it was right at Harak's elbow, and Siara blinked. The hair was down, no helmet, but medium armor in light gray replaced the usual coveralls or moderately slinky dress. No weapons—Siara applauded the choice, as it would have been overkill. Pelagia stood, her hands behind her back, and looked up at Harak. _"You're definitely improving on the not shouting thing,"_ she told him, smiling slightly. _"I appreciate that."_

Gara's mouth fell open. _"A . . . computer simulation?"_ she said, dubiously. _"I doubt any shaman would say that this falls within clan lore. . . ."_

"_I'm not a shaman __yet__,"_ Gris rumbled from where he leaned against the wall, in Spectre black, _"But Pelagia is a living being. And is very much in control of half of this station."_

Gara shook her head heavily. _"Urdnot Wrex says that time brings changes_," she said, dubiously. _"Many of them, apparently. Very well. I am here to offer the genophage treatment to you, Ulluthyr Harak. And I am directed by the leader of the female clan of Urdnot to offer you my body as well. Assuming your own female clan leader. . . "_ Gara snorted a little, looking at Pelagia, _"has no objections."_

Pelagia shrugged. _"I have no objections. While I may, in time, chose to create new AIs from Harak's mind, these would not serve to keep the krogan species alive. Do as you wish,"_ she told Harak.

Siara was very accustomed to reading expressions on krogan faces by now. Harak's face was harder than most to read; he was far older than Makur, whose expressions she knew best, of course. Makur was just twenty now, and he was an open book. Harak, however, just for a moment, had looked amused. _"The treatment I'll take, with thanks. The rest, again with thanks, no. If you should find a mate worthy in your time on this station, however, you should take what you wish."_

That occasioned some interested shuffling among the various Urdnot guards. Harak was being _very_ careful here, Siara realized. He wasn't _turning down_ the offer made by the Urdnot females (_twice_ now), so much as allowing Gara free choice of her own. And Siara respected the canny old mercenary even more now than before.

Gara nodded, once. _"Can't say I've ever been turned down before,"_ she said, dryly, and stepped forward, taking a box out of her belt pouch, and extracting a syringe and an ampoule from it.

"_He's not turning you down,"_ Siara told her friend, walking over to lean against the wall beside Makur now, crossing her arms over her chest. _"He's electing not to use you as a way in which to seal his treaty with Urdnot Wrex and Urdnot Malla."_

This close to Makur, their silent communion flickered to life. _Dangerous game. He could offend the Urdnot females. / Don't think so. This shows respect. Makes it about choice, not about orders. / You think he'd have accepted if Gara had said she'd chosen him? / Probably. _She paused. _AI progeny. What a concept._

_Would rather have ones of my flesh. / I know._

All that, in the time it took Gara to administer a single dose of the genophage-altering serum.

Pelagia made a throat-clearing sound. _"Harak? I've had OSF detaining Ulluthyr Surla as long as possible, but she's starting to make a disturbance outside. Shall I have her and her guards brought in?"_

"_May as well."_ Harak nodded to Gara. _"You sticking around for the challenge?"_

"_To observe, certainly. Malla told me to study the strength of your female clan leader. Whichever one winds up consolidating power, anyway."_ Gara chuckled and found a chair to sit in; the delicate asari creation creaked under the krogan female's weight.

The door on the south end of the room opened, and Ulluthyr Surla, flanked by two other Ulluthyr females and her guards strode in, past the fairly annoyed looking humans and turians of OSF. Siara swallowed, her throat going tight. _Three of them against one of me? No backup from the males, and. . . well, there's Pelagia. What the hell is an AI going to do here, anyway? May as well ask a ghost to intervene. Vaul, what have I gotten myself into?_

Harak moved, unerringly, to the large armchair that was his usual seat in the room; it wasn't quite a crumbling throne made of stone, on a dais, but it bulked large enough to make a similar point. It was positioned close to the wide window, in fact, and Pelagia moved with Harak, standing beside his arm now. Half the Urdnot guards moved to flank Gara. The other half, Harak's guards, stayed along the walls. Watching. Waiting. _"Surla,"_ Harak said, his tone dark. _"You dragged your ass all the way from Tuchanka just to say hello. I'm touched." _There was _no_ love lost here, it was certain.

Surla pulled her lips back from the yellowing stumps of her teeth and grated, _"Harak. You've been a just barely-tolerated pain in the ass for four hundred years. Why the hell did you have to kill Malak? He was strong. He led our clan to greatness."_

"_He was stupid and kept our clan out of the clan alliance that will make our people stronger. And he wasn't all that strong. Seeing as he's dead right now, I can say that."_ Harak actually laughed, a harsh bark of sound. _"But that's not what you're here for today, Surla. Speak your mind, or get the hell out of my. . . sight."_ He was 'looking' right at Surla, and even though Siara knew _damned_ well that Pelagia was supplying Harak with vision pumped directly into the occipital lobe of his brain, she still shivered a little with an almost superstitious awe. The blind seer. It had mythological resonance in a dozen cultures, at least. Someone who had given up physical sight to gain otherworldly powers. Harak might not understand that at the conscious level, but he knew how to play on it.

Surla growled. _"You insult me, demean me, by placing a weak __human__ over me as leader of the female clan?"_

Harak smiled. It was an ugly, ugly grin, and Siara realized suddenly that he was _trying_ to provoke Surla, trying to keep her from thinking, keep her off-balance. He couldn't _fight_ the female for Pelagia, but he was doing everything in his power to help the AI. _"I haven't replaced you as female clan leader of Ulluthyr,"_ he said, carefully, still smiling. _"That's yours to lose. But Pelagia is clan leader of Omega. Which is __far_ _more powerful than Ulluthyr by itself."_

Pelagia spoke then, showing _much_ more strength than Siara had ever seen her display before. Eyes narrowed, head lifted, showing teeth. _"You want my place? Try to take it from me!"_

A dark growl from Surla. _"I don't see a single krannt-member beside you, human."_

_She doesn't smell that Pelagia's not there?_ Siara's thought was startled. Makur's reply was quick. _I smell __a__ human in the room. Smell is recent. Smell can be fooled. Harak might have had someone bring a human in here for a few minutes before the meeting. _

_What have they discussed? What have they planned?_ Siara was _nervous_ now. _She_ hadn't been in on any tactical discussions, after all. And Surla was huge, and in the prime of life, and had _two_ damned krannt-members with her. Makur's thought touched her then. _Good practice for when you challenge, yourself. / I know. Hope to Vaul that I'm ready._ She didn't even know _when_ she'd started swearing by Vaul. Something else she'd picked up from Makur, and hell, from Harak, too, for that matter.

Out loud now, Siara called across the room, _"I stand in the krannt of Omega Pelagia, if there's need."_ She wrapped herself in a web of biotic energies, catching the sharp glance from Surla as she moved up to stand near Pelagia now, herself.

As she did, her omnitool blipped. Siara glanced down. A message burned there, in red letters. From Pelagia: _Stay five to ten feet away from me, Siara. I'm trying to provoke her. Try to arrange for her to charge me, if you can._

Siara's eyes widened. _Oh, well, that __is__ one way to convince someone that they can't possibly hurt you. . . . _

Pelagia stepped away from Harak's chair, isolating herself in front of the big window. _"Come now, Surla. You can't possibly say now that it's not a fair fight. One that lacks honor, because I am just a single . . . human. . . willing to fight you, and yours. No, I have a krannt. One extra body to make it all acceptable when it comes time for the shaman to recount your __bold__ deeds in fighting me. Come on. What are you waiting for? To die of old age?"_

Surla pulled a shotgun out of a sling on her back in a blur of motion and aimed at Pelagia. Siara winced and blew Surla backwards into her own guards with a shockwave. _"No,"_ Siara gritted between her teeth. _"Leadership challenges are without weapons. Are you so __weak__, that even standing there with your krannt to back you, you'd cheat?" Mother of all my mothers, this is going to get __really__ ugly._

The various male bodyguards, who'd been bowled over by Surla's body impacting theirs, picked themselves up off the ground, and helped her back to her feet; she snarled at them impatiently as they did. _"Take the asari,"_ she told her two female attendants. _"I'll handle the little pyjak myself_."

_Oh, wonderful._ "I hope you've got a really _good_ plan," Siara told Pelagia, and moved the hell away from the window as the two krogan females came after her.

"I don't know how good it is. This is the first time I've ever had to fight someone without firing a Thanix canon or Javelin missiles at them." Pelagia's tone was rueful, and then Siara had her hands _very_ full, as the two krogan females closed on her. Full armor, check, biotic shields, check. With no time for kindliness or finesse, Siara hissed through her teeth and set the bigger female's nervous system on fire. The krogan froze in place, then dropped to her knees, screaming hoarsely. _Yeah, you __stay__ there._ Siara ducked under one punch from the other female, but the second blow caught her square in the stomach like a damned cannonball. She stumbled backwards, trying to breathe, and got her hands up to protect her head, elbows tucked in so she could crouch in and protect her torso better now. Backing up, giving ground, trying to get her wits back—_there we go._ She reached out and lifted the advancing krogan with her mind. That left her with two helpless opponents at the moment. Very damned little she could _do_ with either of them, but at least she wasn't getting her _face_ beaten in. For the time being. Her eyes flicked up; she could see Makur was standing, tensed, against the wall. Gris had one hand on his shoulder, reminding him that he _could not_ intervene. Harak sat, impassive, in front of the window. . . and Surla was closing on Pelagia now. Warily. As if waiting for the trick.

"_Come __on__,"_ Pelagia said, sounding absolutely bored. _"I really do have more important things to be doing than dealing with you. If I were going to attack you with biotics, as Siara here would, don't you think I'd have done it by now?"_ She smiled, that sweet, gentle, human smile. _"Or maybe you're just a coward. Afraid of a little. . . human. . . girl."_

Surla snarled and charged. She saw Surla hit Pelagia. . . and the AI simply stepped _through_ the krogan female, with a ripple of distortion. . . .

And then the first female was _back_ on Siara, and Siara blew her across the room with a shockwave. _Get the fuck away from me._

With there being absolutely no resistance from Pelagia's body, Surla slammed, full-tilt, into the glass window, which shattered, spiderweb cracks radiating out in every direction, turning clear glass into a frost-white panel of razor-sharp shards. It had been _just_ tempered enough that Surla's head, neck, and shoulders poked out through it, but the bulk of her body weight was more or less still in the living quarters, although she was wobbling back and forth at the moment, slightly. Red-orange blood, everywhere.

And then the second krannt-member dropped out of the air, landing on the ground, stood, and _charged_ the asari—_shit, this is going to hurt—_and double-impact, krogan body into Siara's, and Siara's body into the rock wall behind her. . . blinding pain. . . . _Damnit, I'm not supposed to __damage__ fertile females, but wish to Vaul __they__ followed the same damned rules. . . _Siara put one hand on the female's face and transferred pain into _this_ one now, too. The female dropped, howling in agony, and Siara slid back down the wall, her feet hitting the ground, and the shock of it reverberated up her body, into the surely-broken ribs. She choked back her own cry of pain, and looked up, getting her first good look at Surla's. . . predicament. . . and her eyes widened. _Mother of the gods. That's a hell of a long drop if she moves wrong._

Pelagia moved back over to the window now, and said, quietly, _"There is no __possible__ way in which you can hurt me, Ulluthyr Surla. And I would prefer __not__ to kill a fertile krogan female, for your species needs every one of them it can get."_ She paused. "_But if you do not accept my authority over you, I will have my krannt-mate, Siara, blow you through the rest of the window. As you can see, it's a very long drop."_ Her tone was detached, and Siara risked a glance at the other two krogan females, who were picking themselves up off the floor, and staring at Surla in dismay. _"When you reach the bottom, you can give my regards to the vorcha in the sewers. Usually, they're uncomfortable; they have a tendency to chew on my electrical wiring, so I wonder if this is how humans feel about having fleas on their bodies, but at the moment, they'd at least do me the service of cleaning up your remains."_ She paused. _"What's it going to be, Surla? Obedience or death?"_

The krogan female across the room from Siara moved now, hurrying forward to try to pull Surla out of the glass; Harak held up a hand. _"She hasn't answered the question yet,"_ he rumbled, and the female hesitated.

One of Surla's arm flailed back, reaching for support. _"I will not submit to something that doesn't even __exist__,"_ Surla growled.

Siara sighed, and stepped forward, carefully, feeling pain stab through her ribs, getting in position. Getting ready. "_Come on, Surla. She's as real as you are, as real as I am. Submit and get it over with. Is your dignity worth your life?_" She didn't feel as if the words were going to do much good. Surla was likely in blood-rage at this point; the pure _agony_ of what the shattered glass was doing to her body would have triggered it in any krogan. The only wonder was that she'd held onto enough of her wits not to thrash around and plunge to her death already.

Surla's howl of rage was her only response, followed by the tinkle of glass as the krogan female managed to lean some of her weight _back_ into the room.

Pelagia looked at the asari now, her expression deeply sorrowful. "I apologize, Siara. I would do this myself, but I haven't had time to get the gun turrets installed in here. Those, like plasteel windows, such as I would have on ship, are on order, however."

Surla rocked back on her heels, tearing herself _back_ through the broken window now, and, not even trying to go after Pelagia—a lost cause, that—and stepped towards Harak. Her face was scored in a hundred, no, a thousand cuts, glass shards still visible in many, bleeding gashes all over her body. . . but being krogan, she was still moving. Somehow. Still a threat. And Siara was krannt to Pelagia, and bodyguard to Harak. That meant that the only decision was in _how_ to stop her. And Pelagia had already told her how.

The shockwave propelled Surla through the already-shattered window, which rained outwards now, shards of crystal and white around Surla's spread-eagle, dark form. And then they fell, Surla screaming, and Siara and Pelagia both winced. _I __could__ have used pain on her_, Siara thought, dully. _But she was damned close to Harak. She was already withstanding more pain than she should have been able to, blood-rage or no. I couldn't be sure she'd stay down if I put her down._

Rationalization. She knew it. But also knew that not one person in the room, besides perhaps Pelagia, would understand that tinge of un-krogan guilt. Pelagia and she exchanged a silent glance of. . . understanding. Surla had been a possibility, as much as every other fertile female was. Just a wasted one.

Pelagia nodded to her now. _"Thank you, Siara,"_ she said, quietly, formally. _"How do I pick a lieutenant to rule the female clan on Tuchanka in my place?"_ She looked at the other two Ulluthyr females in the room, who had backed away now, their heads swiveling between Pelagia and Siara now. Trying to figure out the power dynamic. Siara could almost hear the little wheels clicking in their heads. _If the asari is powerful enough to hold two of us at bay, and she defers to the human. . . kills for the human. . . if it __is__ a human. . . then how powerful __is__ this pale-haired, pale-eyed creature? Surla passed through her as if she were a messenger of the gods. Harak sees without eyes, and has a spirit-being for a co-leader. A mate._ And so the legend would continue to build. Oh, they'd downplay it at home, scoff, call Pelagia a human, a VI, a trick. . . but the worries would build at the back of every head who heard them speak. Who heard the males who'd witnessed the fight speak, too.

Pealgia had addressed that question to Harak, but it was Gris who answered. _"The next strongest Ulluthyr female who's willing to submit to you."_ He waved at the two females in the room, negligently_. "Or appoint someone from another clan, that you trust, who's willing to become Ulluthyr."_

Pelagia sighed. _"I do hope I don't have to kill them __all__."_

Gara cleared her throat. _"Ah. . . may I make a suggestion?"_

Every head in the room turned. _"I would be willing to join Ulluthyr," she said. "I would be second in a powerful clan then. . . and it would be a strong tie between Ulluthyr and Urdnot."_ She smiled. _"And you, Harak, said that I should take what I wanted here."_

Harak laughed, low and dark. _"Not quite what I had in mind,"_ he acknowledged. _"But I think it could work. You'll have to beat some heads in."_

The two Ulluthyr females did _not_ look pleased, no. Low growls. They'd had the sudden hope of being made first among their half of the clan snatched away by Gara's offer.

"_I'm strong,"_ Gara promised. _"You won't be disappointed."_ She looked at Siara, and added, _"Plus, this way, I won't have to fight a krannt-sister when Malla dies."_

Siara's eyes widened. _"How did you __know__?"_

"_Malla told me she figured you'd try. Said you're the only alien she'd ever met who had the quad for it."_ Gara snickered, an odd sound from a krogan. _"I told her Makur would probably object to discovering you had one."_

"_I would,"_ Makur said, dryly. He moved up beside Siara now, standing shoulder to shoulder with her. _"It sounds. . . workable."_ He glanced at Harak and Pelagia. _"Everyone grows stronger."_

Harak and Pelagia just looked at each other, and Siara realized that this was another form of silent communion, at least as strong as the affinity that she and Makur shared. _"Done,"_ Harak agreed. _"Welcome to our clan, Ulluthyr Gara, daughter of. . . Gris."_

**Elijah, April 23, 2196**

Having Serana finally with him made waking up in the morning just that much better. Waking up _beside_ someone was going to take some getting used to, for starters. One week of leave on Bastion back in January hadn't really done much to accustom him to the thought. Eli's eyes snapped open, disoriented, before the alarm even went off, and he looked down at her sleeping face, lightly tracing his fingers over the violet clan-paint on her lower jaw. He'd seen her in yellow Thracian paint for six years. Violet Magna colony paint. . . _his_ paint. . . that was going to take some getting used to . . but was damned nice to see.

Serana's eyes opened as he touched her, and she sat up swiftly, all alien speed and grace, playfully nipping just under his jaw. _"And good morning to you, too,"_ Eli told her. _"The good news is, since I've been working forty on, forty off, I have forty off at the moment."_

"_Wait, is that in station hours or real hours?"_ She'd learned to ask _that_ one when he'd _gotten_ her with it, but good, during their last visit here. He'd managed to get her to think, just for a moment, that they'd need to leave the station a day early, much to her consternation.

"Real hours, thank god. Hundred minutes to an hour in station time. I'd never, ever, _ever_ get off work if we were counting in station time. Plus, Bailey's human." Eli rolled Serana gently to her back, and started very lightly biting her throat. "He's even. . . talking about. . . making it twenty on. . . twenty off. . . which would be a goddamned relief. . . ." He reached out and turned off the alarm. "_Bad news is, I'm always on call. Worse news is. . . you have to report in?"_

"_Technically,"_ Serana muttered, arms snaking up around his neck, and turning her head to bite _him_ now. _"To the embassy, and my new supervisor, anyway."_

"_Really the embassy?"_

She pushed him away gently, reached over onto the nightstand, picked up her omnitool, and did something fairly specific with it; it flared to life with a hum, and she glanced at some readings, and then tossed it back on the nightstand. "Yeah, at the embassy. Supposed to meet with Leodorus Rostrus and start getting oriented. Probably won't have any real work on the first day. Hell, I'm _supposed_ to have a week's leave after OCS." She grinned and nipped at Eli's shoulder now, working her way down to bicep, then forearm, then hand, then fingers. "I don't have to be anywhere until oh nine hundred at least. Real time."

"_Good. We can get breakfast. In a bit."_ His mind really wasn't on breakfast at the moment, however. Mostly, it was on the blessed relief of having her with him again.

Lin was already up and waiting for them by the time Eli finished showering. "Fors is waiting for us at Bielschowski's Deli for breakfast," Lin volunteered. "Come on, let's get going." He offered Serana a smile. "We can give you the three-credit tour _after_ food."

"I've been to Bastion a few times, but I'm sure I've missed all the good places." Serana had stopped in the kitchen, and was looking at the cryo-unit. "Ah, Eli?" she said, after a moment.

Eli glanced over. "I see you've found Duck's latest family portrait. She's even included you, this time."

Sure enough, the crude, quasi-stick figures were even labeled, in the best spelling a six-year-old could manage. All wearing violet paint, besides one figure near the end. _Pada_ was Lantar, obviously. _Mama_, Ellie. _'Lijah_ . . . had a crest and spurs. "She's got no excuse for still drawing me with scales," Elijah said, dryly. "She _did_ see me last month." _'Rana_, however, had _hair._ Serana's head tipped to the side, and she started to chuckle. Then there was _'Yana_, clearly salarian, with face-paint, and in a human little girl's dress, then _Tac_ and _Emmie_. One more figure rounded out the group—_brother's brother._ Lin, in his blue Edessan paint.

"I was surprised to make the cut this time," Lin offered, from across the counter. "Mazz didn't."

"I'm not sure Duck knows how to draw a krogan stick figure," Eli replied, dryly.

Serana tapped the hair atop her head in the picture with one talon. "So, either she thinks I'm more human than you are. . . " she said, after a moment.

". . .or she's extrapolating on our dad being turian and our mom being human, and applying it to you and me. Or, she's doing her best to draw us as grownup hybrids. Yeah. I have no idea. My mom sent that one a couple of days ago. I told her that Duck needs to fill in all the in-laws now, too. Rel, Dara, Rinus, Kallixta, Allardus, Solanna, Garrus, Shepard. . ." Eli grinned. "My mom said to be careful what I asked for."

Serana chuckled and hooked an arm around his waist. "So, breakfast? With, apparently, a volus?"

No armor, since they were off-duty, but Eli knew Lin was just as fully armed as he was. Their neighborhood wasn't _bad_, but they _were_ on call. They ate breakfast here two to three times a week, usually with Fors, and their turian waitress _blinked_ when she saw the new addition to their party. _"You know, I saw the knife, but it's just __odd__ finally seeing who the hell actually wears his paint,"_ she told Serana, smiling. _"What can I get you?"_

"_I haven't eaten mixed since January. What's good?"_ Serana asked, taking a seat in the booth between Eli and Lin. They tended to take the booth at the back, which had a good view of the front door, and which was in a corner, against two walls.

Lin was having, as usual, smoked _alai_ ("turian lox," on the menu) on a whole-grain _festuca _bagel. ("Made with _festuca_ flour, _oolorae_ eggs, water, salt, and yeasts imported straight from Galatana. This is the only place on Bastion where turians can have a taste of New York without a trip to the med bay!" the menu proclaimed cheerfully.) The owners had even done their _damnedest_ to create a turian variant of cream cheese that Lin declared moderately tasty. ("We take _cuderae_ bone and mill it till it's as fine as flour, and then process it with water, _apataerae_ gelatin, and a little salt and flavoring until it's the authentic texture of human cream cheese. Try it. You'll love it!") Eli had tried the _alai_ lox and the _festuca_ bagel, and was steadfastly staying as far the hell away from the 'cream cheese' as possible.

"Personally, _asperitalla_, I like the eggs benedict here, and you can even get them with _oolorae_ instead of chicken, if you want. They also have blintzes. You're on your own for trying those, though." Eli gave the back of Serana's hand a quick kiss, and leaned back to let her look at the menu, glancing over her head at Lin in amusement. "I see our waitress still has a crush on you, _fradu."_

"Does not."

"Already brought you _apha_. Two packets of sweetener and a stick of _cassia_ in it. What's it going to take, her writing her comm code on the bill?"

"She remembers what gets her a good tip, and waitresses like to spoil cops. All the rest of the patrons tend to keep it low-key when we're around. And how many times have we been here in our armor in the last month?" Lin put the sweetener in his _apha_ and stirred it with the _cassia_ stick.

At that point, Fors showed up, hopping up into the booth beside Linianus with the assistance of a small stool the waitress had brought over, more or less out of habit. Eli noticed that, and decided they might want to make coming here less of a routine. It was _easy_ to fall into patterns, though. Fors clambered up, saw Serana, and paused, tipping his head to the side. "Ahh. So, you exist after all. You would be my human-turian friend's long-awaited wife? I had started to think you were a myth."

Serana grinned and offered him her hand. "And you would be Fors Luka? I've heard a lot about you. Most of it positive."

Fors chuckled through his suit filters. "That would be a switch." He made his own order—Eli had learned, quickly, not to ask what _any_ of it meant, and simply assumed that most of it was largely frozen, since what was room-temperature for a human or a turian would probably _burn_ a volus, and badly at that. "Did any of you happen to catch the news on your way out the door this morning?" the volus inquired with cheerful malice.

Eli shook his head. "Ah, no. Was a little distracted. What's up?"

"Day seven of the trade agreement protests," Fors said, chuckling as their order was brought to the table. "They finally brought the dogs in to help control the picket lines."

Eli winced. That was an escalation, in a sense. "Well, the humans out there protesting—the handful who are, anyway—will be on their best behavior. The rest?" He shook his head. "Are they going to do anything besides go 'it's not a varren, who cares?'"

Fors snickered. "And _that's_ why I asked if you'd seen the newsfeeds this morning."

Eli and Lin exchanged a glance over Serana's head again, and Eli waved to their waitress. "Could we get an extranet screen—ah, thanks." They set it up, and after a moment, Eli and Lin started to chuckle, mostly under their breath. The vast majority of the protestors were asari, salarians, and volus, with a handful of humans who had, in Eli's opinion anyway, oddly misplaced sympathies. These were the same people who had been lying in the thoroughfare several days ago, and were continuing to protest the Council's recognition of the human, turian, quarian, and geth trade compact. . . which had actually helped to _stabilize_ the volus economy, pulling it out of freefall three to four years ago, through their affiliation with the turians. The trade alliance _did_ tend to exclude the large and previously thriving asari and salarian economies, as well as the elcor, rachni, and hanar/drell ones. . . the latter because they were all simply too _alien_ to prize the same trade-goods.

That being said, the various humans on the vid feed were respectfully backing away from the German Shepherds, Dobermans, and Akitas, which were being walked up and down the picket line. None of the dogs were, initially, showing teeth or hackles, but there was, Eli knew, something down in the brainstem of the average human, that recognized _wolf_ in a large dog, and backed the hell away. It was the same part of the brainstem that made it _difficult_ to meet an angry turian's gaze for long, unless the human in question was _very_ used to being around the predator species. The salarians, asari, and occasional volus in the crowd? No such reaction. _Aw, look at the fluffy puppies_, he thought, sardonically. _They're so harmless-looking, with all that fur. Practically fuzzy._

Fors spoke up now. "Usually, I'm not a fan of the dogs myself. They seem to think I'm a very large squeaky toy, or an ambulatory fire hydrant. But today. . . today, my canine friends, all is forgiven. Wait for it. There it is."

On-screen, a salarian protestor made a break to run across the street, waving his sign and climbing up the steps of the Council building, trying to get to the doors. Clearly ignoring several warnings, he went to the doors and began to beat on them with his sign. A German Shepherd _streaked_ in from somewhere off-camera, dark body a blur, leaped over the top of a large planter, and landed on the salarian, catching him by the arm. "I think you can actually _see_ the moment he realized that dogs have teeth," Fors said, happily. "Not as large as a varren's, of course, but. . . still, extremely intimidating at close range."

Serana frowned. "I hope the dog will be okay. My mom used to make dog biscuits with epi-tab formula sprinkled on them for Vindexus, just in case he ate any of our food by accident. Hate to think of how upset that puppy's stomach is going to be from salarian body fluids."

Eli chuckled. "That dog's not even breaking skin at the moment. Shepherds have several levels of bite. That's probably a herding grasp. 'Hey, you. Dumb sheep. Get back over here with the rest of the flock.'" The _attack_ bite, of course, used on a fleeing suspect or someone stupid enough to try to injure the dog, would be another story.

"That's not where it ends," Fors said. "Me, personally? I'm in a pressurized hardsuit. I don't want it to pop. A dog or a varren attacks me at close range, and I'll blow it the hell away from me with my biotics, but I'm not going to _resist_ if it's not actually hurting me. This guy?"

On-screen, the salarian clearly tried to yank his arm away and tried to kick the dog in the ribs. "Oh, not good," Lin said, and the dog went into a defensive mode, shaking its head back and forth and driving the protestor to the ground, _just_ as the dog's handler arrived on the scene, and started applying shackles. Lin snickered after a moment. "Beats shooting him or neural shocking him on camera. And I'd imagine everyone else got very well-behaved after that little demonstration." He shook his head. "I grew up seeing Serana's family's dog. I can't quite get used to how _fast_ the other breeds are."

Serana shrugged. "Vindexus is a mastiff. They're bred for size and protection. They mass about the same as a varren, after all. You don't expect speed from something that big."

At that point, Eli's omnitool pinged. "Don't be a call, don't be a call," he muttered, and checked it quickly. And blinked. "Damn. Practically a family reunion."

"Hmm?"

"Dara and Rel just arrived on the station. Dara says she's got some big medical thing to go to; they were on shore leave on Illium when she got assigned here temporarily. Says Rel's going have to report back to the _Sollostra_ soon, but they want to see us before he has to try to catch up with them." Eli shrugged, and glanced at the rest. "Dinner okay?"

"Does that include me?" Fors asked, chuckling.

"Of course. You don't have any family on the station."

"I _could_. It's a question of which of the ten. . . and whether or not I actually give a damn about it."

The conversation went on for a while, and finally, after breakfast, Serana had to get going. "I'll walk you to the embassy," Eli told her.

"I _do_ know where it is."

"I'm not in uniform. I won't stand out." He had _no_ idea what she was going to wind up working on, and deeply hoped it wouldn't wind up taking her undercover, which would put a huge damper on everything. . . and even his being around her could put her in danger that way.

Serana smiled. "Eli, you always stand out. But I know what you meant. Sure, walk me there, if you like."

Six years had gone by since he'd last lived on Bastion. A _lot_ more mixed couples in the galaxy now, than before, but still, not a common sight, overall. He'd long since learned to ignore the hostile looks from humans and turians alike at the paint; humans tended to think he was trying to grow scales, and turians tended to question whether or not he was actually _entitled_ to wear it. Wearing his wedding-knife abated some of that from the turians; wearing his uniform abated _most_ of it. And out of uniform, his language skills compensated for a lot, too. He still got the most hostility from humans, however, and today, he and Serana got outright _stares._ People might be getting used to the concept of a human female with a turian male, but a human male with a female turian caused heads to damned well turn. It hadn't been so bad at the deli; probably most everyone there had assumed she was with Lin, not with him.

Of course, one of the extra added bonuses of being six years older, nine inches taller, ninety pounds heavier, and a trained professional in the arts of subduing, suppressing, and, if necessary, killing, was that no one in their right mind was likely to get in his face. Confidence really was key. Eli gave Serana a quick kiss at the embassy gates. As a citizen, he could go inside if he really wanted to, but there was no real reason at the moment. "Let me know when you're done. We'll get the furniture crap out of the way early. I've got. . . hopefully. . . thirty-four more hours off, counting from right now. Let's not waste them." Eli chuckled wickedly. "We can even take Dara and Rel out with us and maybe find poor Lin a date."

Serana snickered. "I'll catch up with you as fast as I can," she told him, and disappeared in the gates.

**Serana, Apri1 23, 2196**

Inside, she got her biometric chips keyed to the embassy gates and doors, so she could get in without having to pass through several layers of security each and every time, and was guided to the meeting room where she was to meet with her new supervisor, Agent Leodorus Rostrus. She waited in the small, square chamber, looking at the abstract painting on the wall, and had _just_ gotten up to lift it away and peek behind it, curiously, when she heard the door behind her start to open.

Serana moved back to her chair quickly, and was sitting again by the time Rostrus finished opening it. She evaluated him quickly, as she'd been trained to do. Chatti Outpost paint; one half of his face white, one half of his face black, vivid golden eyes, bright with intelligence, average height. A slightly _pulled-in_ demeanor; he was not an alpha, nor would he ever be. And when he spoke, there was a hint of amusement in his voice. _"So, I see from your record that you're newly married. And that your clan name used to be Velnaran, and that you hail from __Mindoir__."_ He snickered. _"I went to boot camp with Kallixta Essedarius and Dara Velnaran. Relatives?"_

"_Oh, I'm from the __Odesssa__ branch of the family. Poor cousins at best,"_ Serana lied glibly, wanting to see what his reaction would be.

Leodorus gave her a long look. _"Right. And the recommendation in your file from the head of Spectre security is there because you enjoy collecting butterflies together?"_

"_The ones on Lorek are particularly exotic. Really, the planet is an entomologist's dream. Particularly good examples of convergent evolution there."_ She kept her tone bland.

"Nice try." That, in galactic now.

"Figured it was worth a shot to see if you had a sense of humor."

"Oh, I do. I find it helps in this line of work." Leodorus stacked his datapads on the table, and sat down opposite her. "I see you speak. . . let's see. . . . accentless, fluent English, turian, _tal'mae_, immersion training in batarian, as well as galactic, asari, and salarian, very nice. . . .three years of specialized training with Ms. Goto. What did you focus on at OCS?"

"Because I was able to test out of so much of the standard course, they had me work on some advanced training. I'd already had basic xenopsychology, among other things." Serana was sitting up straight now, very calm. "Courses in interrogation—both in conducting them and resisting them. Escaping shackles, always a favorite, transmitting signals, standard codes. I, ah, particularly enjoyed the evasion and improvisation coursework." Moving ahead of the enemy, leaving behind improvised traps, using natural materials—pungi sticks lacing pits, for example. Nets made of vines. And when all else failed. . . planting pre-made devices. Tiny mines, no larger than her hand, but packed with high-yield explosives. She'd learned how to detect where they had already been planted. . . and how to use them, herself. _It's not the honorable, straight-forward combat we of the Hierarchy respect,_ the instructors had told her class,_ but it is necessary and vital work, from time to time. Especially in light of emerging threats, we must change our combat doctrine._

Leodorus muttered under his breath as he worked through the datapads. "You're combat and infiltration then. Why the _hell_ did they assign you to me for this?"

Serana tipped her head to the side. "If you tell me what _this_ is, I might be able to tell you why I fit in."

Her light-hearted words got her a quizzical stare. "Very well. Our primary assignment, at the moment, is to attempt to ascertain who on the station might be attempting to plant biological weapons."

Serana's eyes went wide. Leodorus went on, "We've received information from the Special Reconnaissance and Tactical group that batarians have attempted a dry-run of this scenario on Omega, targeting human and turian living zones." His expression was slightly grim. "There are only fifty or so batarians aboard Bastion at the moment. Our current population is comparable to the Citadel's at its height: seventeen million sentient people. We have a fully taskforce of fifty agents gearing up for this, including B-Sec, CID, HIA, and SATBIA. You're on my portion of the team. As I understand it, your mate is human, and in turian CID?"

Serana nodded slowly, still absorbing the information. "Agent Elijah Sidonis, yes," she said, quietly.

Leodorus nodded. "His superiors will be letting him know he'll be working with us shortly. Looks like he's got some counterintelligence work in his record. . . and I would dearly love to know how he got a security clearance level that's higher than _mine_. . . actually, scratch that. I don't actually want to know." He steepled his fingers together. "So, young Officer Sidonis. . . given that the batarians probably aren't going to be bringing their bacteria or viruses aboard _themselves_, how are they going to do it?"

Serana stared at him. "Well, I didn't want my first day to begin by brewing someone else's _apha_," she said, after a moment, flummoxed, "but this is a bit higher-level than I thought I was going to be handling."

He leaned back, chuckling. "Just think out loud. You'll largely be reinventing the wheel, since we've been talking this over for about ten days now. But I want to see how much you'll need to be brought up to speed, and what you're capable of."

Serana stood up, and began to walk back and forth along the length of the conference table. She'd long found that she thought better when she was moving, for some reason. "All right," she said. "It could be someone already on the station, who's been compromised, turned into an agent, long since. Or it could be someone who's yet to come aboard, at least for the moment, but is free to do so. In either case, it would need to be someone. . . or multiple people. . . who would have free access to the target areas. Right?"

"That doesn't particularly narrow it down, but you're thinking, which I like." Leodorus' voice was crisp.

Serana paced a little more, frowning. "There's probably a list of known and suspected batarian agents. That would be one starting place."

"Yes. But what else?"

She thought. And shrugged. "Well, this might be going about it backwards, but if you know which areas are likely to be targeted, you could not only protect those areas, but also see who has access to them." Serana looked at Leodorus quizzically. "A good starting point for that would be what areas were targeted on Omega."

"Turian and human living areas, close to a med bay in the human area, and close to an entertainment complex for the turian area. Aiming for large venue distribution in the turian one, and probably aiming at first-responders in the human one." His voice was dispassionate. "Still, that was a dry-run. We can't get target fixation. Let's go upstairs."

Serana grabbed the datapad he gave her, and followed in his wake. They walked into a large auditorium deep in the building. There was an audience already in attendance, facing a low stage, on which a long table had been placed, and a variety of people in white lab coats and medical uniforms were sitting. Much to Serana's surprise, she recognized two of them. Dr. Chakwas, and her sister-in-law, Dr. Dara Velnaran. Serana looked up at Leodorus, and commented, softly, "I knew she was here, but not _why. . . _"

Leodorus held up one finger, shushing her. "Listen," he said. "This is a Q&A panel, meant to get people here up to speed on what's been gamed out at STG on biological attacks in the past."

Dara had just been asked a question, and adjusted her microphone now to answer, quietly, "Yes, that's right. Most of my colleagues at STG didn't like the answers I gave them. First, I said that the Collector virus _had_ to have been two separate viruses. One levo, one dextro. Second, I pointed out that there had been not _one_ krogan fatality from the disease; they were _infected_, but recovered. Even if someone _did_ have Collector-level technology. . .and we _know_ that's floating around on the black market. . . they'd have to be a hell of a lot smarter than the Collectors themselves to make it work with one hundred percent infectiousness and one hundred percent lethality over every species. That part, they agreed with me on." Dara's voice remained detached.

Serana was _fascinated_. She'd never seen Dara in her doctor mode before, or in her soldier mode. Always the laughing, loving mate of her adored older brother, the friend of Eli, the daughter of Sam. Dara was a _very_ different person on that stage. . . and was giving interesting information. "Now, conventional wisdom is that if you design a virus or a bacteria for use as a weapon, you want it to be one that can enter an individual's body, match itself to the protein markers on the surface of the cells, enter the cells, and go _dormant_ for a while. Not only does this avoid detection, by both medical scans and by the body's immune system, but it turns the individual into a carrier. A time bomb. Give them a week, maybe two weeks from the initial infection, and they can be halfway across the galaxy from where they _got_ the infection. If you're _really_ clever about it, the individual could even be spreading it before symptoms even show up. By the time the first infected people start showing symptoms, a week, maybe two, after initial infection, they've already infected dozens, even hundreds of people, and _those_ people have infected others, too. All making it very, very difficult to trace a point of origin."

The panel leader cleared his throat. "And STG disagreed with this?"

Dara shook her head. "No, they disagreed with my suggestion that it would be easier to take something common but virulent, such as the Skyllian flu, and turn it into something deadly, than to take something horrific and, well, _sexy_, like Ebola or _Febricula_, and make it more stable and more virulent. My comment was that if the symptoms of initial infection _matched_ something common like the flu, doctors would treat it symptomatically, and that would buy the infection even more time to take hold, creating pandemic." She shrugged. "We gamed it out both ways using VIs. Ebola and _Febricula_ had more deaths in the first six weeks. With a start point on Bastion, the casualties ran as much as eighty percent of the human population, but left everyone else unaffected, and, once quarantines were imposed, burned itself out in three weeks. Super-Skyllian flu? Which, in its normal state, affects humans and batarians, and can even infect asari, which is unusual, given their hemecyanic blood? Spread off the station. Had a forty percent mortality rate, but traveled to every human and asari world in Council space, and had not been contained by the end of a year of simulations." Dara made a face. "They said we hadn't accounted for every variable. I really hope to god we _did_ miss a few variables. I really don't want to see that scenario played out for real."

Serana's crop felt like lead inside of her. This was. . . very ugly. She did not want to picture Eli dying in a hospital somewhere. Or any of her many human friends and relatives. _Not to mention the hybrids. Would they be immune? Their blood and thus, their immune system, tends to derive from the human half of the Solus template._

Another person raised her hand. "Dr. Velnaran, we've had a plan in effect for years, assuming that if someone planted biological weapons on the station, they'd concentrate them in areas like the ones found on Omega. In or near med bays, and in or near B-Sec, to take out first-responders and medical personnel and contribute to chaos. And in large entertainment venues, to encourage the dispersal of the disease as rapidly as possible. Do you agree with this?"

Dara looked at Dr. Chakwas, and leaned over, covering her microphone. They had about a full minute's worth of conversation up there, and it looked as if Dara were asking permission for something. Finally, she uncovered the microphone, and replied, "Yes and no. For me, it greatly depends on what the motive behind the attack is, and who the perpetrator is. If it's just the batarians, they're usually pretty straight-forward, and their intention is usually to cause damage, make a protest, make a statement. 'We can hurt you. You better respect us.' That sort of thing." Dara paused, and appeared to be picking her words very carefully. "What we were discussing in my year at the STG medical facility on Sur'Kesh was more of a game changer. What if the batarians made an alliance with another, highly aggressive species. The yahg. Not a lot is known about them, except that they're predators, and that they slaughtered the entire Council first-contact team who approached them. They practice pack politics, and, while extremely intelligent, do not appear to have any known moral systems." Dara paused, and said, softly, "My assertion was that we should be open to the idea that they would use diseases not against civilian populations, as a weapons of terror and confusion, but against _military_ populations, to weaken them before making a conventional attack." She spread her hands. "I was told there wasn't enough data to support that supposition, and they were right. We know. . . almost nothing about the yahg. We don't _know_ that they and the batarians are working together. We don't _know_ that anyone besides the batarians is behind the dry-run attempts on Omega." She shrugged. "But, since you asked. . . yeah. I'd put extra surveillance around every Alliance and Hierarchy ship docking and barracks area on Bastion. Hell, I wouldn't even let the crews get off the ships here, for the moment." She looked at the ceiling. "Don't tell them _I_ told you that, though. I just got done with shore leave, myself, and they just might lynch me for the recommendation."

Chuckles rang through the room.

"What about decontamination? Isn't that supposed to stop infection?"

Dr. Chakwas handled that one. "Decontamination protocols remove bacteria, viruses, and viroids from the outer surfaces of equipment and from people's exposed skin. However, if a bacteria or virus has already compromised someone's immune system, decontamination will do absolutely nothing. You _could_ require that everyone coming aboard from Alliance and Hierarchy ships stay in full armor and respiratory gear, but all it would take would be _one_ person to break protocol, and you'd have the infection aboard their ship. Cargo transfers would still be fine, however. So long as all containers retain their factory seals." Dr. Chakwas paused. "While we know that the initial attempt was made through the ventilation system, please _do_ keep in mind that physical contact and water transfers are also possible, and actually are preferable for most viruses and bacteria. They're not generally all that hardy of creatures. Aerosol distribution is actually one of the least effective means. . . generally speaking."

The conference went on and on after that. Leodorus beckoned her out again, and took her to a larger conference room, which had been set up as a command center. "I know you're _technically_ on leave," he said, "but look through the dossiers we _do_ have on some suspected batarian agents here on Bastion. Fresh eyes may help. And once you're done, you can leave for the day. Don't discuss it yet with your mate. He'll be called in to work with us, hmm. In a day and a half." Leodorus grinned wryly. "I'd apologize for the way your leave is getting wrecked, but this is rather urgent. If it helps, I was supposed to be back on Palaven this week, visiting Complovium with my parents."

Serana shook her head. "Don't worry about it." She hesitated. "Are you _sure_ I shouldn't just tell him to report in early? He'll want to hit the ground running on this, if I know him." _And I surely do._

Leodorus shook his head. "Let the man sleep a little. If he's working the same hours as the rest of B-Sec, he'll need it to be fresh."

So, four hours later, Serana sent Eli a message, letting him know she was finally free. He met her at the gates, and took her hand again. "Hell of a long orientation," he said lightly.

"Got a little more involved than that. I don't think I'm going to get any leave," she admitted, tiredly.

Eli frowned. "Can you talk about it?"

"Sounds like their computer systems caught a virus," she said, lightly. "Information specialist, hah. I'm going to be spending every minute of the next several weeks probably trying to root out malware."

He'd squeezed her hand at the word _virus_, and glanced down slightly. "Sounds exciting," he said, dryly. Then he leaned down, and whispered, just barely forming the words with his lips, so quietly that even turian hearing had difficulty picking it up. "Am I the _only_ person you can't lie to, _asperitalla?_"

_So much for not worrying him. But he's right. I really __can't__ lie to him. Because he's the center of my truth, my one real thing. Start lying here, and the lies just reach out forever, no bottom to them. No stable ground, anywhere._ Serana pulled back, smiling, and told him, "Yes, that's absolutely true. We _should_ take care of the furniture issue, shouldn't we?"

Eli's quick look of appraisal turned into a nod. "Sure. Especially if your brother and his wife come over tonight. I _really_ don't want them reporting back to your parents that I'm keeping you in poverty." He managed a smile for her.

One of the slight benefits, he told her an hour later, of living in barracks for two years and in a studio apartment with no amenities for two years after that, was that he'd paid back his parents for the gene mod treatments he'd had. . . and still had money left over for things like furniture now. "Just pick whatever you like," he told her, indifferently. "I trust you not to buy crap with flowers all over it, and nothing in lipstick pink."

And because everything was located on Bastion, not, say, twenty or thirty miles away, everything was indeed delivered in time for dinner. They did have to hide the purchase tags quickly when Dara and Rel knocked on the door, which occasioned laughter from Linianus. "Suppressing evidence, eh?" he said as Serana scooted down the hall past him, dumping paperwork in the top drawer of Eli's dresser. "And the _smell_ of fresh leather?"

"Nevermind. They might not notice," Serana muttered. "Now _hush_, Lin."

Dara gave Serana an immediate hug. "I _thought_ I saw a familiar face out in the auditorium today," she said, looking tired. "They kept us there for four damned hours. I haven't answered that many questions since my last morbidity and mortality conference." At Serana's blank look, Dara elaborated, "That's a panel convened when a doctor loses a patient, when there's reason to believe it could have been avoided. It's not punitive. The objective is to learn from mistakes and to avoid repetitions of the same errors. . . but you do have to defend all of your decisions." She rubbed her eyes gently. "Hey there, Eli." She accepted a hug from Serana's mate, and then one from Linianus, too, while Rel gave Serana an embrace and exchanged wrist-clasps with the two males.

Eli, in the meantime, was giving Serana a steady look. "So, medical conference at work, huh? That computer virus must be a _really_ bad one."

She nodded. "Yep. I think they're afraid it might be the first one to jump from AIs to organics." Completely bland tone. Trying not to let the absolute fear working away in her guts show in her face or voice.

He shook his head, dark eyes twinkling just a bit. "Nice try. So, you're both involved in this bioweapon alert we have going, huh?"

Serana sighed. "I can't—"

"Yep. I know. Just practicing my _detective_ skills." He slid his hand behind her shoulders, avoiding the waist, since that was too intimate for a turian, even just around family, and nodded to the door. "Come on, folks. Our reservations are going to go to waste if we wait much longer." He glanced at Lin. "You picking up that quarian girl? What was her name again?"

"You mean the one I couldn't keep a straight face through the introductions? No."

"Come on, say it."

Linianus sighed. "Lin'Liin vas Qwib Qwib nar Mip Mip*? No. If I start seeing her, people will think I'm talking about myself . . . in a pretty infantile fashion. . .every time I talk about her."

Serana could feel Eli's shoulders quake, once. "You're going to find something wrong with every damned one of them, aren't you?" Eli said, lightly.

Lin shrugged. "All the good ones are taken," he said, pointing at Dara and Serana, respectively. "Or aren't with us, anymore." He opened the door. "Let's get going."

Rel cleared his throat hastily. "Ah, yeah, speaking of which, I see you guys at least have a spirit table set up. . . on which I _do_ see your wife's knife, Lin. . . " he nodded to Lin respectfully here, obviously being careful how he spoke about Brennia, "but Eli. . . damn. Do you even _have_ a spirit statue yet?"

They walked out, heading for the local aircar station. Eli shrugged as they walked. "My dad has one for me at home, prefab, ceramic. Sort of a generic first-son one that's, well. . . . turian-looking." He chuckled. "Maybe that's why Duck keeps drawing me with a crest and spurs."

"_Hey, at least they're very masculine spurs,"_ Lin told him amiably. _"Could be worse."_

Eli elbowed Lin in the ribs. _"Past that, I haven't thought much about it, Rel."_

Serana shrugged, too. _"I left mine at home, too. Seemed safer than taking it all over the galaxy with me. Especially since I didn't know what my eventual duty station would even be."_

Rel nodded. _"Well, I may have to do something about that. I'm not going to be able to catch up to the __Sollostra__ for a week. Plenty of time to start carving something for the two of you."_ He gave Serana a lopsided grin. _"I'd have had something ready for your wedding, but, I was, er, detained."_

"_Yeah. I still haven't gotten __everything__ out of Eli about that." _She made a face, looking around the aircar stand. She didn't like their surroundings, and didn't think any of them would have spoken openly about the situation even if they'd been back in the apartment, swept for bugs and monitoring equipment. It was not, technically, her business to know. _"And I'm not likely to for a while, I'm sure."_

Rel grimaced. _"How about this? An unexpected good Samaritan picked me up when I needed a ride, but I wound up going someplace that didn't have shuttle service back to home? So Dara and Eli and a few others came to give me a ride."_

"That actually covers everything," Dara noted. Serana heard the light strain in her voice, and nodded to herself, letting it all go.

They all clambered into the first aircar that came along, and Serana looked around it, wondering if it would be _paranoid_ to consider this public transportation method a possible vehicle for disease. Dara leaped for the driver's seat. Both Rel and Eli looked at her askance for a moment, Eli commenting, mildly, "Oh, so you know your way to the restaurant, huh?"

"No. I have _no_ idea where it is. But letting _either_ of you drive—and I'm sure Lin's _just_ as bad as _both_ of you—is not something I want to deal with after a day like today."

Rel looked at Eli. Eli looked at Rel. "I have absolutely no idea what she's talking about," Eli said, just barely smiling. "Do you?"

"All I got out of her on the topic after you guys picked me up when I last needed a ride was something about you crossing five lanes of ground-car traffic all at once." Rel shrugged. "I told her that if you'd done it without causing an accident, you must have known what you were doing."

Serana started to chuckle. "Poor _ama'fradu,_" she said, commiseratingly, "And it only gets worse when Kallixta is around, doesn't it?"

Dara settled into the driver's set now, and nodded, expression fixed. "One word, Serana. _Pilot._"

Lin snickered. "Try it in aircar traffic over Nimines' capital sometime. Eighteen layers of traffic, chasing a kidnapping suspect." He jumped into the backseat. "No, go ahead Dara. I can use some nice, sedate driving." He leaned back, grinning at her. "It'll be relaxing. Like being on a boat somewhere."

"Or in a horse and buggy in the nineteenth century," Eli added, giving Serana a hand into the car, and moving in after her; she wound up, as usual, between him and Linianus this way. Rel shook his head and took the other seat in front, beside Dara. "So, Dara, take it away. We're heading for _Cibus_ district, B-level, green sector. Let me know when we get there." Eli leaned back and closed his eyes, pretending to snore. . . and Serana planted an elbow in her husband's ribs.

The _Cibus_ district was largely a turian one, but the restaurant—_Ambrosius—_actually served both levo and dextro foods. Crystal chandeliers, low candlelight flickering shadows over white tablecloths, red Terran wine for Dara, and golden turian brandy in glasses for Rel and herself. Lin and Eli, being on-call, if not on duty, stuck with _apha_ and coffee, respectively. Light music playing over the loudspeakers, voices talking in a dozen different languages around them. Linianus kept looking around uncomfortably; Serana leaned over and asked, "What's the matter?"

He shrugged. "Haven't been anywhere this fancy since. . . well, not in two years, anyway." He looked down at her, expression serious. "Trying not to think about it, little one. Honest." Then he leaned back in his chair, and they all tried to let work fade out of their minds for the moment.

It wasn't to be. Midway through the dessert course, both Eli and Lin's omnitools started to chirp. _"Futar,"_ Linianus muttered, keying his up first. "Twice this week."

"Fuck," Eli muttered, a second later. Serana glanced over at his wrist, and read, _BSRT Alert. Team Eleven, report to space traffic control center Charlie 34, J ring, Blue sector. 20-417. Armed Hostage Taker._ "Sorry. We've got work." He stood quickly, handing Serana his credit chit and giving her a quick kiss on the forehead. "Lin, your armor back at the apartment?"

"Yeah. Both our rifles, too."

"With any luck, they won't have us on sharpshooter detail today." They were already gone, Serana could see, already somewhere else in their heads. Eyes distant, movements precise and controlled.

Rel and Dara had both shifted positions at the table, and Serana recognized the tension in them. "What's going on?" Dara asked, quickly.

Eli shook his head. "Just a SWAT call-up. You're the one who likes Gilbert and Sullivan. You should _know_ that a policeman's life is not a happy one."

Rel sat forward, frowning. "You need help?"

Lin's turn to shake his head. "Nah, we train for this all the time. We _do_ this all the time."

He and Eli traded quick looks. Serana could almost see the silent conversation there, and then Eli, with a half-smile, offered, "But you can tag along and watch what _we_ do for a living."

"If they're going, I'm going." Serana said it quickly and firmly, and flagged down the waiter to pay the damned bill.

**Elijah, April 23, 2196**

The area outside of the space control center was controlled chaos. Five hundred feet in every direction had been cordoned off, and Eli and Lin left their nearest and dearest outside the ribbons of light that made up the modern police perimeter, and Eli had chuckled and set Serana's omnitool to their squad's radio frequency. "Never tell anyone I did this," he muttered, and then they'd ducked through the perimeter, biometric chips in their hands giving them access without setting off a hellish klaxon alarm. They headed straight for the Bastion Strategic Response vehicle, a large, blocky aircar with darkened windows, so that no one could see the vast amounts of equipment inside.

"Nice of you to join us," McInnis said, dryly. Fors Luka was already in the van; the volus had taken to accompanying them on SWAT exercises and callouts, mostly to _learn_, or so he said. Eli frankly thought McInnis was just waiting for an opportunity to use their little partner's enormous biotic gifts. Somehow.

"Figured you'd want us here in armor, not in 'date-night with the missus and the family' clothes," Eli replied, just as dryly. "What have we got?"

McInnis frowned. "At twenty-hundred, or twelve station time, Bastion Port Authority reported an incident between a disgruntled employee, Franklin James, age fifty-eight, originally of Earth, and Vincent Wittier, the Bay Supervisor. James was being terminated, and BPAP police officer Kevin Holt was asked to escort him from the premises. Standard procedure, no hostilities had been expected, but Holt reports that there were raised voices in Wittier's office for five or ten minutes before he was officially called in to escort James out. James got ahold of Holt's firearm, and took Wittier hostage. He's moved back into the control room, where he has sixteen other hostages in a control room overlooking a _very_ busy docking bay."

Eli slowly shook his head. "Someone's having a bad day," he said.

McInnis grimaced. "Yeah. Let's try to keep it narrowed down to _only_ one person."

"Does he have any demands yet?"

"He's been up there for twenty minutes, and we're still trying to set up contact with him."

Lin looked around. "Where's Renalia?" Renalia was their negotiator, of course, a motherly asari close to six hundred years old.

McInnis muttered a krogan curse word under his breath. "Remember all the protestors blocking traffic?"

Eli closed his eyes. "You're kidding. Can we get an aircar to her?"

"Working on it. She's delayed though, that's for damned sure." McInnis looked at Eli. "You feel like trying out your negotiating skills?"

Eli tensed. "Not with sixteen, seventeen lives depending on it," he said, quietly. "I'll get on the tactical layout, though."

McInnis looked at Fors. "If we can get you close enough, can you freeze the guy in place _before_ he shoots a hostage?"

The volus snuffled. "Yes. The problem is always line of sight and range. Ten to fifteen meters. We were on the third floor of that building the other day. . . and I had line of sight. I caught the ones closest to us, but none further out in the street, as you'll recall." He paused. "How do you intend to get me close enough to try to paralyze him?"

"You could be our negotiator, at least temporarily. He's not going to see you as a threat. You carry a pistol at most. " This was, Eli knew, largely because any weapon with more recoil than a pistol threatened to send the volus backwards at high velocity if he fired it.

Eli and Lin did, however, both clear their throats. "Ah, boss?" Lin said, carefully. "Luka doesn't have any negotiation training."

"Nope," Fors said, cheerfully. "And the last time I tried diplomacy as a career option, it didn't exactly work out well for me."

McInnis shook his head. "I'll be on the radio, telling you what to say," he offered. "This is a chance to get this defused quickly, if you can get in range and zap him. If that doesn't work, it's a delaying tactic till we get Renalia here to work her verbal mojo on him."

Eli shook his head and went back to studying the layout of the control room. A large bay window fronted the enclosure, which hung out, two stories above the floor of a docking bay. The window was about twenty feet tall, and about eighty feet long. Its only saving grace was that there _were_ pillars every twenty feet along its length. Potential concealment, although sparse cover at best. To access the window, they'd more or less have to crawl along the ceiling of the docking bay to get there. . . there were a couple of small catwalks along the far side of the docking bay as well. Prime sharpshooter positions.

There was one staircase leading up into the actual control center, which limited their avenues of approach, unfortunately. There was a supervisory deck at the center of the room, and the controllers had stations sunk below it, facing out into the docking bay. "We've already cleared the cargo handlers and pilots and whoever else out of the bay?" Eli asked, concentrating.

"Yeah. The other docking bays and control centers are working on re-routing traffic. Some of that is problematic because of the construction areas outside the station." The longer this dragged on, Eli knew, the worse it would get. Traffic would be delayed. Tempers would fray all over the station. This needed a quick resolution, but also, the right one.

Someone tapped on the door of the BSRT van, and McInnis opened the door. "Sir? We've got a comm link into the control center, but James isn't answering."

McInnis grimaced. "We've _got_ to get the lines of communication open here. Luka? You and Sidonis. In."

Inside the control center, Eli was following Fors; Fors was, deliberately, unarmed. Eli was in his tactical armor, and carrying a submachine gun; his protective shield, carried by most members of the SWAT team was at his back. The shield was made of the same material as standard armor, and had a transparent section near the top, made of plasteel—the same material used in space ship observation windows. An added layer of protection for the cop carrying it. The submachine gun was his not favorite weapon, but one he knew how to use. His entire role at the moment was to protect Fors.

"We're near the stairs," Eli reported, quietly into his radio.

Inside the control center, Fors called out, quite politely, "Franklin James? I'm Fors Luka, and I'm with—"

"Bastion Special Response Team," Eli cued, quietly.

'The Bastion Special Response Team. I'm here to talk to you." Fors paused, and Eli heard McInnis cue over their radio now, _"I understand you're having a bad day. It's okay. It doesn't have to get any worse."_ Fors repeated this, and added, "Can I come up the stairs and talk to you?"

**Inside the Control Center**

It had been an ordinary day so far. Hum of voices, crisp conversations with pilots on approach, glow of green-tinged screens as she kept apprised of each ship incoming and outbound. Telena Cadius nudged a picture of her first-son, Rasmus, out of the way on her desk with her _apha_ mug, and touched her aerogel screen. "Alpha one-seven-niner, frequency change approved," she told one of the ships departing Bastion under her supervision, which was approaching the limits of the current signal range. "You may now proceed direct." This indicated that there was no more traffic in their immediate vicinity, and were clear to approach the mass relay on their approved flightplan.

Behind her, she heard voices. Raised voices. Telena's head turned, and she blinked in astonishment as Frank James suddenly appeared on the raised platform behind her, one arm around Vincent Wittier's neck, and a _gun_ in his hand, which he was alternately pointing at Wittier, and waving around the room. _S'kak_, she thought, numbly, reflexively raising her hands, letting Frank see them. Frank was usually the most even-keeled human in the room, always with a laugh and a smile. Older, calmer, more experienced than some of the younglings here. _This can't be right, what in the spirits' names is going on. . . _"Frank?" she asked, standing, taking a step forward, towards the steps that led up to the supervisory platform.

Frank was red-faced, sweating. Sign of emotional excitation in humans. "Get back! No one touch anything! Just stay where you are!" The gun was pointing at _her_ now, and Telena swallowed and obeyed. She had no armor on, no weapons, and it had been twenty-four years since boot camp for her. The safety manual for the Bastion Port Authority said _In the event of a hostage situation, obey the hostage-taker unless it is clear that many more lives than just your own are at stake_. They'd trained for situations involving the hijacking of ships and shuttles, but had _rarely_ gamed out what would happen if a control center was taken over.

Frank was still panting, and he added now, a little more calmly, "You—Arius. Get on the consoles. Shut down the bay. Reroute traffic." His brain was still working, at least in part. Doing his job.

Arius Cadius, Telena's mate, moved back to his console slowly, hands up. Telena could see the blue flush in his crest, pure anger. _Don't do anything stupid_, she thought at her mate, as loudly as she could. He didn't. He did begin handing over control of the fifteen ships in various holding patterns outside the station to other shuttle bays, and, carefully, declared an emergency. The ships sitting inside the bay, waiting for clearance to depart were, unfortunately, going to have to sit there for a while. There was no way to move them out with the traffic patterns the way they currently were.

As Arius worked, frantically, Frank jerked the gun at the rest of them. "Move down to the right," he ordered. Moving them away from the stairway and entrance to the flight control area. "Everyone, sit on the floor."

Telena obeyed, watching as Arius continued to work. After about twenty minutes, Arius managed to get a few of the ships below cleared to leave, and then Frank ordered _him_ over as well. Telena _itched_ to try to tackle him, but couldn't; not with the gun pointing at Arius. No. Better to wait. Better to watch and see and hope that someone out there was doing their job.

And that's when a voice came up the staircase. "I'm Fors Luka, and I'm with the Bastion Special Response Team. I'm here to talk to you. Can I come up the stairs and talk to you?"

"N-n-no! Stay out there, I can hear you fine," Frank yelled back. At least the gun was pointing towards the stairs now.

**Elijah**

Back down on the stairs, Eli heard nervousness and desperation in the male voice. Not all that much different from someone who'd worked themselves up to jump off a building, really. "No line of sight, boss," Eli reported quietly over the radio.

McInnis' voice came back over the radio now, calm, reassuring. _"Keep him facing the stairs, keep him distracted. We're moving stealthed sharpshooters onto the catwalk across the way, and we don't want him looking that direction while they're moving. That'll give us eyes on the control room, at least. Luka, tell him you understand he's got a problem here, ask him what the problem is. If he calms down at all, try telling him you need to see how the hostages are doing. That might get you up the stairs."_

Luka looked up and back at Eli. "This is not in my contract," the little volus muttered, and then said, more loudly, "Frank? I understand you've got a situation here. Why don't you tell me what's going on, so I can help you work through this? I don't want anyone to get hurt here. Nobody wants anyone to get hurt here. So. . . tell me what's going on here."

There was a pause. "I'll _tell_ you what's going on here," the voice came back, again full of anger and fear and desperation and worry. "You spend thirty years of your life doing _good_ work—hard work, work that keeps everyone on the damned Citadel and even here on Bastion safe. . . and then you get pushed out. Tiny pension, no fucking benefits, and why? Because of budget overruns and VI assistance and fucking AIs coming in to take over, that's what's going on here."

Eli could almost _picture_ the gun waving with each word, and his fingers tightened on his gun.

McInnis' voice on the radio now, still calm. _"See if you can settle him down, Luka. Reassure him, repeat a little of what you're hearing back to him. Make sure he understands he's being heard. Empathy exercise."_

"Empathy. Yeah. 'Cause I've always been good at that," Fors muttered, and then said, more loudly, "Yeah, I hear what you're saying, Frank. I've been pushed out of a lot of jobs, myself." For a wonder, there actually was some sympathy in the volus' voice.

"He's fifty-eight," Eli muttered to the volus, quickly. "Mandatory first retirement's coming up. Hard to find a second career for some people."

Fors nodded, once. "I understand that humans have a hard time finding new jobs. It's hard out there. I know that." He paused. "My boss wants me to be able to verify the condition of the people in there with you, Frank. Can you help me do _my_ job?"

"Do we have eyes on the control room yet?" Eli muttered into the radio.

"_They just got in place. Yeah. He's got the hostages up against the far right wall, fifty feet from the entry stairs, tucked back where the windows actually cut off. He's up on the supervisory tier, they're down in the pit. He's got a clear view of the entryway stairs and all the windows. . . except where the pillars block the windows._"

_Shit._

From upstairs now, again, the male human voice shouted back, hoarsely. "It's not a new job. It's _Sarah_. If I lose this one, no new job is going to be enough. Hell, _this_ job isn't enough!"

Eli tabbed his radio. "Who the hell is Sarah?"

"Working on it," McInnis shot back, tersely.

A moment later, another voice from the squad came through. "I'm talking with the port authority cop here. Says Sarah's the guy's wife."

_Okay, that gives us something. Not a lot, but something._

Upstairs, Frank was stammering a little now. "J-just you! No one else. Don't get any ideas!"

McInnis' voice over the radio now: _"Luka, move up slowly. He's taken what looks like his supervisor as a shield again. Be very damned cautious as you open the door. Sidonis, stay in place. Pellarian, you and Callian get in your climbing rigs. So long as he's facing the door, we can try to get you in position for a window break and entry. Use magnetic grapples and boots and stay on the damned ceiling."_

"Does anyone have a solution on this guy?" Eli asked, quietly. "And keep in mind, the windows in there are double-paned, tempered, vacuum-sealed glass." They _had_ to be, because in the event that the docking bay lost pressure, to have anything else in there would spell death for the flight controllers. A shot would probably penetrate them, but after that, the window would crackle out in a haze of spiderweb cracks, creating a visibility issue for the snipers.

"_He's behind a pillar at the moment_," one of the sharpshooters said. _"No solution. Get him to move to the door."_

Fors wrapped biotic energies around himself, and slowly moved up the stairs. "Okay, Frank," he called. "I'm coming up alone. I'm going to open the door slowly, and you'll be able to see I'm unarmed."

"Can you at least take a shield?" Eli muttered.

"What? It's taller than I am. He'll _laugh._ Hell, he's going to laugh when he sees me, anyway," Fors said darkly, and got moving, trudging up the stairs. "If he gets through my biotics, he's got to still get through the armor, too."

Eli _really_ didn't like this set-up, but he held position as Fors slowly opened the door at the top of the stairs. "I'm going to take a step into the control room now, Frank," the volus said.

There was a pause. "You're a fucking _volus_?" Frank's voice scaled up. "Are you guys not taking me seriously here?"

_Don't get sarcastic, don't get sarcastic, don't get sarcastic,_ Eli chanted at the back of his head.

"Yeah, I'm a volus." Fors snuffled. "And everyone's taking this very seriously here, I promise you."

_Thank you, god. He didn't get sarcastic. _

"So, I can see that everyone's okay. Thanks, Frank. I appreciate you letting me make sure everyone's okay. A little scared, sure, but okay."

Fors paused, and Eli heard McInnis prompt over the radio, _"Shift to the wife."_

Fors cleared his throat. "So. . . this is about Sarah, Frank? Sarah's your wife?"

"Yeah, she's my wife. Thirty damned years of marriage."

"_He's not moving,"_ one of the sharpshooters reported. _"Looks like he's escalating again."_ Eli could see the gun starting to waver, in his mind, between the hostage and Fors, and gritted his teeth. He was in _no_ position to get in the room at the moment.

"_Tell me about it,"_ Fors muttered quietly into the radio. _"I have line of sight, but not the range on the stasis lock." _ Louder, he said, carefully, "Thirty years is a long time. What's the problem? What does _this_ job have to do with her?" Eli could see Fors spread his little hands placatingly. "I don't understand. But I'd like to."

_C'mon, Lin, Callian, get in position. No idea what the hell this guy's going to do, or if Fors is going to set him off. Really don't want dead hostages today._

"Sarah. . . she's sick. And treatments are expensive." There was a pause, and then a shout. "Get back!"

McInnis, over the radio, sharply, _"Back up, Fors. He's escalating again."_

Fors, hands still spread, backed up into the doorway. Eli could hear the human continuing to ramble, almost to himself now. "Health insurance doesn't cover enough. I _need_ the damned overtime just to cover it all. . . or a raise. And what do I get, instead? 'Sorry, Frank. New kids out of college are less expensive. VIs are less expensive. _AIs_ are less expensive than _real_ people. Just a line in a damned budget." He paused. "I have to do _something."_

"_Gun is still pointed at the hostage,"_ one of the sharpshooters reported, clinically.

"_Get him to point it at __you__ if you can, Luka,"_ McInnis said. _"You're doing fine. Just get him back."_

Eli was _trying_ to understand where the guy was coming from, but empathy only took him so far. _You have to do something, sure, but threatening to __kill__ a coworker? Several coworkers? Do you actually have a plan here, or was this just an impulse thing, where you just snapped._ "We have _anything_ on his wife?" he asked, over the radio, quickly.

"_Tracking it down now,"_ one of their tech specialists shot back, hard and dry. _"Sarah James, age fifty-six. Bastion medical records indicate she was just diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's. Given the current human average lifespan can be up to a hundred and fifty years, that could mean a hundred years of treatments. However, most people who develop Alzheimer's don't linger that long. Maybe twenty years. Still, long time, and nursing homes aren't cheap."_

Eli swore mentally, and waited. It was Fors' move.

The volus took that all in—it had only taken seconds, thank god—and said, quietly, "Okay, I understand that. It's really hard when someone you love gets sick. You want to do what's best for them. I get that." He paused, probably trying to evaluate Frank's reaction. "Maybe that's something I can help you with. Your boss there? He can't help you. It's not even his fault. Big corporate machine. We volus know all about the corporate machines. The pension plans that got wiped out in the economic crash four years ago? The benefits that got slashed? All the result of bad decisions way above the pay-grade of anyone who actually got hurt by it." Over the radio now, Fors muttered, quietly, _"He smells desperate. Please, someone tell me they have a shot on him."_

"_He's turned towards you, and I have a solution now,"_ one of the sharpshooters reported. _"The gun's still on the hostage. If I shoot now, his finger will slip on the trigger before his brain knows it's dead."_

McInnis, over the radio: _"Alpha and Bravo, hold your fire."_ He was addressing the sharpshooters. 

From the room now, Frank's voice. "No. . . there's nothing you can do." His voice had gone quieter. More stable. "There's nothing any of you can do."

_Shit. Shit. __Shit__._ "That's the voice of someone who just made a decision," Eli said, sharply.

"Back up!" Frank's voice was more forceful now. "You can't help me. You can't help Sarah. I'm the one. . . It's on me."

"_Suicide by cop,"_ McInnis agreed now. _"If he dies by a third party, full life insurance payout for the wife, probably."_

"_Gun is off the hostage,"_ the sharpshooter reported in. _"Pointing at Luka now. But. . . I've lost the solution. He's moving forward."_

"_Luka, back up, get into the corridor, and flatten yourself along the wall,"_ McInnis ordered. _"Sidonis, get ready. Pellarian, Callium, are you in position?"_

"_Yes. We can slip down between the pillars and set a breaching charge on the windows when you give the word."_ Lin's voice now, calm and steady, with just a hint of adrenaline and excitement in it.

As the byplay buzzed over the radio, Fors was definitely backing up, into the corridor. _"I've lost line of sight,"_ he snuffled into the radio, and got his little back up against a wall.

Eli slid his shield around in front of him, holding it strapped to his left forearm, slid his machine gun to his back, pulled out his Beretta instead, and began to move up the stairs.

"Keep _back_," Frank said again, sharply.

"_Gun is still on the doorway."_

"_Pellarian, Callium, go, Sidonis, go."_

Eli lost the sound of his own name over the radio as Linianus and Callium, who were hanging by ropes from the ceiling, concealed behind pillars, moved and slapped a shaped charge against the windows that were behind Frank's back. The detonation was small, and tightly confined; they weren't using high-yield explosives, because the _last_ thing they wanted was shrapnel all over the hostages. Then the two turian officers pushed off the pillars and swung in on their ropes, crashing through the shattered glass, landing in a _storm_ of shards, weapons out and ready.

Frank turned, arm still around Vincent Wittier's neck, pistol pointing at Linianus now—just an anonymous turian in B-Sec blue, face concealed by the polarized black mask—and his finger pulled the trigger. The first bullet hit Lin's shields, of course, sending them flaring into blue life.

"_Shots fired!"_ over the radio, and _that_ was when Eli hit Frank from behind, full-speed, knocking him and the hostage to the glass-strewn ground. The force of impact knocked the pistol out of Frank's grip, and there was cursing and sobbing now as Eli holstered his own weapon and snapped it away before getting ahold of Frank's wrists, putting his knee in the small of the man's back, and forcing his hands behind him. "Lin, _cuffs_," he called. He _always_ called for Lin; it was like expecting his hands to be there when he needed them. Two years on Edessan hadn't killed _that_ habit.

Then Lin was there, dropping his own weight on the struggling human's body, too, snapping the shackles into place. Callium was covering them both now, weapon trained on Frank James' prone form, and Fors came into the room now, and Eli could hear the volus talking to the former hostage, trying to get Wittier up off the floor. "Can you move? Are you bleeding?" Fors asked, and the human supervisor groaned and tried to sit up.

"Subject secured," Eli said into his radio. "We need paramedics up here. Got a lot of broken glass and some injuries." There was red blood on the floor at the moment, and Frank was still swearing and crying at the same time. The hostages on the far side of the room were starting to stand up, hesitantly, staring at them. Sixty to ninety minutes of preparation and negotiation, and a takedown inside of thirty seconds. Application of _exactly_ the right amount of force, at the tip of a fulcrum. His hands were shaking from the adrenaline now, and as a dozen other B-sec officers moved in now, he gladly stepped away from James, picked up his weapon, and secured it. Nodded to Lin and Callian for a job well-down, and clapped Fors on the back. "Think you've got a future in negotiations," he told the volus.

"Don't tell any of my families," Fors replied. "They'll think all the corporate training seminars paid off, and that they can ask more for me next time."

With James secured and several uniforms standing over him, paramedics were free to move in now, and started attending to both James and Wittier, and other first-responders moved over to help the other hostages, asking them how they were doing, if they were all right, if they needed medical attention. In their ears, McInnis told them all, _"Okay, good job. Come on out. Since the suspect wasn't __shot__, no administrative leave, and minimal investigation to ascertain that there was no excessive force used. Sidonis, Pellarian, Callian, Luka. Get your tails down here. You've got some talking to do."_

Because there had been no fatalities, the debriefing actually only took about an hour at B-Sec headquarters. They had to change out of armor and into coveralls for the moment, and even though neither of them had discharged a weapon, had to turn them over, at least for the moment.

Eli had, by that point, largely forgotten that his family had been waiting on him all this time, and when he and Lin emerged, tired and wrung out from the meeting rooms in which they'd been interviewed, they both stopped short in the lobby. Serana was waiting for them. Along with two older turians. Serana stood and hastened towards him, and he leaned down to give her a quick hug. "Sorry, _marai'ha'sai_," he told her ruefully. "Not such a great first night out to welcome you to the station."

Serana shrugged. "Doesn't bother me," she said, and he knew, for a wonder, that she _meant_ it. _I really am the luckiest damned guy in the galaxy._ "These nice people here are Arius and Telena Cadius. They said they remembered you from the Citadel."

Eli looked up, blinking. Nimines Colony paint, elaborate white and red brackets and swoops around their faces. . . and after a moment, the penny dropped in his head. "Rasmus' parents? Yeah, I remember you. You were always really kind. Wait. . . you guys are flight controllers, right?" As soon as he said the words, he realized why they were here, and he winced a little. The SWAT team was _not_ supposed to be recognizable. They were supposed to be anonymous people in uniform, as unknown as an executioner in a headman's mask when they needed to kill someone, and _equally_ unknown when they rescued someone. It was not a job where the ego got direct gratification or thanks.

They just nodded now. Turian restraint. "Couldn't help but recognize the paint," Arius said, after a moment. "Even though you weren't wearing it back on the Citadel." He glanced between Eli and Linianus for a moment. "Frank's not a bad guy. I'm glad you didn't actually have to kill him." Arius showed teeth for a moment, though. "Though, on the whole, I'm a lot happier than none of _us_ were hurt."

Telana added, quietly, "We just wanted to say thank you. We'll put it in writing for your supervisors later. But for right now. . . just. . . thanks."

Eli and Lin exchanged glances. Lin muttered, "It's just the job," sounding uncomfortable. Neither he nor Eli had ever quite found the knack of being gracious when someone thanked them for saving a life. Usually, recognition inside the department was hard enough to deal with.

After a few moments, they managed to slip away, and Serara looped her arm around Eli's waist as they found an aircar and got back to the apartment. Rel and Dara had more or less sacked out on the new couch, but both snapped awake when the other three rattled the door, coming in the living area. "There you are," Dara said, lifting her head groggily from Rel's shoulder.

"Hell of a day," Rel offered, blinking as Lin tabbed the lights on, low.

Eli shook his head. "Nah. This was a _good_ day," he said, heading around the counter into the tiny kitchen. It was close to midnight, but he was still on an adrenaline high, and knew Lin would be for a while, too. "Pretty much close to optimal for us, really."

Lin settled down in the new armchair, crosswise, letting his long legs and spurs dangle over the arm, just as he always had back in the Sidonis living room back on Mindoir. "A good day for us means _no one died_," he commented. "_Fradu,_ is there _festuca_ beer in the cryo-unit?"

Eli retrieved a glass bottle and passed it over for him. Rel was looking interested now. "Was trying to picture it all in my head as we were listening to the radio," he said. "You had snipers across the way?"

"Yeah," Eli said. "Nerena Fellarus and Gaius Minarian. Both great shots."

"They just couldn't get a clear shot?" Rel asked.

"Nah," Lin said, opening the bottle and taking a sip. "They _had_ him once or twice. But two things to remember. One, he had a gun on the hostage. His finger spasms, even as he's dying, and the hostage dies, too."

"And two," Eli said, pouring himself a glass of orange juice now, "our ideal outcome is everyone lives. He wasn't a terrorist. He wasn't even a murderer, or at least, _now_ he's not one. If he'd given us no other choice, sure. No problem. I'd have shot him myself. But while we _have_ the other options, we're sort of required to explore them." He met Rel's interested eyes. "When we were going in to, er, pick you up from that rough neighborhood where you'd gotten stranded without a ride? I had a chance to play on your side of the street, Rel. Lot fewer rules."

Dara shook her head. "I felt bad for the medics. They can't even shoot back. _I_ can." She looked at Eli now. "Which is easier, Eli?"

He shook his head. "Apples and oranges. Ask your dad. He'll _probably_ tell you the same thing. He's done both for longer than any of us have."

Serana had moved into the kitchen with him now, and was getting out boxes of leftovers from the restaurant from the cryo-unit. "So which _is_ harder?" she said, sweetly. "It was a nice way to duck the question, Eli, but I know all your tricks."

Eli caught her hand, and lightly kissed the back of it. "Both are hard. We've got to protect _everyone_. Ourselves, the bystanders, sometimes even the person who's the bad guy in the scenario. Sometimes we have to protect them from _themselves._ That's playing defense. Rel and Dara get to play offense. Anything that isn't on your side, you can kill. But chances are, they're going to be trying to kill you, too. That guy today? Wasn't actually trying to kill any of us. Any other day of the week, he'd be an average citizen, no training, no vision, no goals, no agenda. All he had today was a breaking point and a pretty half-assed plan. Rel and Dara go up against people who _do_ have training and plans and agendas. They have to kill more often. They _don't_ have to justify it for a two to five days after shooting someone. Offense, defense. Flip a coin, _asperitalla._" _Either way, you have to live with what you do, and the dreams suck either way. _

Conversation got lighter after that, and, after a long, long day, Eli was just as happy to head to bed. He was almost sure that tomorrow would be another long damn day, in turn. They always were. But for the moment, he had Serana with him, and friends in the apartment, at his side, and at his back. He'd had far worse days than this.

**Author's note:** _Agent Fisher's had the honor of playing the bad guy who gets shot at in SWAT practice a few times, and I'm deeply indebted to him for playing the bad guy for me in this scenario, and working me through some of the tactics used. Thank you!_

"_Lin'Liin vas Qwib Qwib nar Mip Mip" was one of the names generated by Jelfia Maleak, who was one of two people who helped me create a new synopsis for the on-going "Spirit of" series. Thank you again!_


	88. Chapter 88: Perspectives

**Chapter 88: Perspectives**

**Shepard, Mindoir, April 23, 2196**

Shepard sat in the atrium of her villa, trying to ignore the chill autumn air, and mostly succeeding, as she worked through a stack of datapads and tried to watch Amara's biotics lesson with Sky at the same time. "Nice job!" she called, as a micro-singularity wavered into life in the middle of the courtyard, drawing falling leaves inwards towards it.

"Thanks, Mama," Amara said, flushing pink with happiness. "It's getting easier." Her daughter ran over to where Lilu was sitting, and plopped down on the bench next to her. "What are you reading _now_? More work stuff?"

"Can't you tell?" Lilu asked her, dryly.

Amara frowned. "Not always. Sometimes the thoughts are too complicated to understand. I can pick up the worry or the protection-anger or if a report is mostly numbers, like what Daddy was reading last night—"

_The annual budget report, also known as the yearly knock-down-and-drag-out with the Council_, Shepard thought, wincing. "—but right now, I'm mostly getting worry from you. Worry about. . . lots of people. Lots of places, all at once. I get flickers of faces—Uncle Livanus. Cousin Dara and Cousin Rel, and Cousin Serana and Cousin Eli. And places I've never been, but are really familiar to you."

Shepard shook her head. "You're picking up a _lot_ from Sky, aren't you, sweetie?" Human biotics generally could pick up mood, or clear, loud thoughts. What Amara had just described ran a _lot_ deeper. _Someone could want to turn her into a hell of a spy someday. Let's try to avoid that. _

"I don't want to be a spy," Amara told her mother, loftily. _"I_ want to be a Councilor."

Lilu Shepard tried very hard not to choke on her coffee; Amara had caught her taking a sip. "For which species?" she asked, trying to control her breathing.

"Turian. That way, Kaius can be the Councilor for the humans, and we can fix _everything_." Amara looked up at her mother now in confusion. "Mama, why is that so funny?"

Lilu was doing her level best not to even _think_ at this point, and choking back her laughter. "You'll understand when you're older," Shepard told her first-daughter, giving Amara a hug. "But I love you and your . . . idealism. Go inside and help Kauda with dinner, okay?"

Amara gave her a dubious look, as if her mother had definitely lost her mind. "Okay," she replied, and darted off back indoors.

"Nice dodge," Garrus said, coming out from behind a pillar and sitting down beside her. He took her hand in his. "You distracted her. That's not going to last very long at the rate she's going."

"Tell me about it," Shepard replied, leaning back against the planter behind her, cool stone pressing into her lower ribs. "She caught my worries about Livanus."

"It's barely been four weeks. He's gotten a few messages out." Garrus' voice was very calm. "Getting messages _in_ to him is a pain in the ass, though."

"We got the _one_ in, at least." They'd timed the sending and receiving of the FTL tight-beam transmissions _exactly_ right, and sent Livanus orders to look into whatever he could on the biological attack. He and Valak were in a good position to try to get information. Confirmation of targets alone would help. Names of agents in place would _really_ help, but was an unlikely result. And of course, getting it without compromising themselves would be a trick.

"He's due to send us a tight-beam transmission tonight. We'll see what, if anything, they've picked up." Garrus lifted her hand and lightly nipped the inside of her wrist. "Come on. It's cold out here. And just because you stuck me with the bulk of the budget work doesn't mean you get out of it entirely."

"You want me to check your _math_? Shouldn't calibrating a budget be _easy_ after calibrating weapons for so many years?"

"I need you to approve cuts in one or two areas to fund one or two others." He pulled her to her feet, and chuckled at her expression. "Hey, you're the one who kept doing so well that they put you in charge."

"I should've done worse."

"If we'd done worse, we'd all be dead."

"Yeah, but then we wouldn't have to do the budget, _amatus_," Lilu pointed out, in a tone of sweet reason, and her husband laughed and pulled her into the villa, where there was the smell of food cooking and the chatter of many voices. All very distant from the pervasive worry at the back of her mind: _The Black Death killed thirty to sixty percent of the population of Europe in the fourteenth century. Not just from the initial plague, but from follow-diseases, like pneumonia, as well. In real numbers, if that hit Earth today, with a population of twelve billion there. . . that would be three to seven billion casualties. __Far__ exceeding the death toll of the Reaper wars. Of course, modern medicine is a __hell__ of a lot more advanced than in the fourteenth century, when the height of medical advice was to press a bouquet of flowers to your nose and lips to ward off the noxious disease air. And of course, modern hygiene counts for a lot, as well. No more fleas, or at least, damned few. No more feces running in the streets. . . in most places, anyway._

_But between the sheer death toll, and the __massive_ _social upheaval those ancient plagues caused. . . .well, some of the upheaval was good. The eventual abolition of serfdom, and, arguably, the downfall of many religious intuitions, paving the way for the Renaissance and the Enlightenment. Both good things. But at what a price. Not a price we can afford again._

**Valak N'Dor, Khar'sharn, April 13-23, 2196**

"You surely jest," Valak had told told Livanus, rubbing at the ridges of his nose in dismay. "She wants us to get information on _what_?"

The turian had turned his black-and-white painted face towards Valak as he shut down his FTL transmitter. "There's apparently evidence of one or more upcoming biological attacks, directed by the Hegemony, on Council targets. She wants to know if we can at _least_ get the names of the agents who might spread the disease on Bastion, if not at the Dymion or Luna shipyards."

"Yes, I _thought_ that's what you said the first time. Damnation." Valak stared off for a moment. "Livanus, my turian friend. . . this is _not_ a scenario I've ever seen or heard discussed before. And to be brutally honest, I'm not even sure how to _start_ getting that information."

Livanus stepped back into the house, off of the balcony that they'd used to project their signal through the low clouds that largely concealed the red-tinged sky today. "You still have friends in the Special Intervention Unit?" he asked, slowly.

Valak followed him in. "I do," he replied, after a moment. "However, I've spent quite some time building a reputation for not giving a _damn_ about the work anymore. They'll be suspicious if I suddenly show an interest."

Livanus nodded. "Agreed. That's why you don't bring it up in terms of 'hey, I heard about this _great_ gambit we're trying on Council space.' You bring it up as a personal worry. "I've been hearing rumors—dreadful ones—that the Council is going to start sending slaves to us here on Khar'sharn infected with. . . um, what's a bad batarian disease?"

"Blindfever," Valak replied, immediately. "Having caught it once doesn't necessarily confer immunity, because it mutates so damned rapidly. The last time it went through, ten percent of the population died, and another ten percent lived, but were blind in all of their eyes. Last big outbreak was twenty years ago."

Livanus nodded. "Perfect. That gets the conversation started, you still sound like a fussy dilettante, and we can evaluate their reactions. See who, if anyone, is worth cultivating. Maybe even get your doctor involved."

"Nala?" Valak shook his head. "I'm still evaluating her. It's damnably hard to know whom to trust in the Hegemony, you know."

But he'd taken the point, and gone down to visit Nala S'har in her quarters. He had, after a week of keeping her in the slave quarters, simply given her back her original rooms, beside the med bay inside the manor. She'd been. . . puzzled by this. He'd waved it off airily. "Now, now, if I slip and cut myself in the middle of the night, I don't want to have to wait for you to be summoned from outside the house."

"Yes, my lord," she'd replied, but he could read the confusion in her. She'd clearly half-expected to be turned into a mistress of sorts, and he had no intention of doing so. Had, in fact, not even touched her, as if she were still of her original caste, and not a slave at all. He wanted to see how she'd react to this. Confusion or even insult, he would expect. But if she were an agent, he would expect. . . overtures. Subtle ones, but there, nonetheless.

Downstairs, in the little med bay, Valak strode in, clearly startling Nala, who knelt, immediately. "Stand," he told her, impatiently. "I have a few questions for you, physician, and I would have good answers of you." Always _physician_. Never _slave_. "If someone were to, say, engineer blindfever into a weapon, and deploy it on Khar'sharn, what would it take to make this estate safe?"

Her mouth fell open, and the shock was too vivid to be faked. "Someone's. . . you've heard that someone's. . . but _who?_ The humans? By my ancestors, that would be _unspeakable._" And then she remembered that she was speaking too freely, and dropped her head.

Valak waved it off. "Unimportant," he said, and filed her reaction away. _It affronted her as a healer. Good._ "I've heard rumors, nothing more. I may send you as a technical expert to the, ah, estates of some of my old companions from my SIU days."

She blinked with her two remaining eyes. "You were SIU? _You?_" She didn't have good vocal control. Her disbelief and borderline contempt spilled through, and she winced as Valak reached over, picked up a wooden tongue depressor, and lifted her chin with that, not with his hands. No skin contact at all.

"Yes. I survived the training. I'm certain that they were no gentler on me than on the rest of my platoon. Of fifty of us, fifteen of us died. Thirty percent." He let the mask drop, just for an instant. Just long enough for her to see that he was, in fact, a trained, hardened killer, just like any other member of the Special Intervention Unit. Then he smiled, and let the mask spread back over his face, complete with a lazy smile. "Of course, since then, I've tried hard to forget everything they taught me there."

No reaction, besides a widening of the two remaining eyes.

"Now, my old friends probably won't want to worry me, so they're very likely to . . .fib just a bit to my face. Your job, if I send you there, would be to evaluate how much danger is real, and how much is rumor, and to come back here ready to protect the lives of everyone on the estate." Valak tossed the tongue depressor at the waste receptacle, and turned to leave.

"My lord?"

_Interesting. Another breach in protocol from her._ "Yes?" he asked, turning, giving her a bland look. When, in fact he could, and probably should have beaten her or shocked her for speaking out of turn.

Nala winced back, clearly expecting to be shocked, a jolt of pain from the chip imbedded in her brain. And when it again, didn't happen, looked even more confused than before. "You really expect such a thing?" she finally asked, timidly.

"Expect? No. Best to be prepared for, yes. But that's _your_ job, physician." Back into the usual airy tone, and he walked away now, swinging his walking stick in one hand. He'd _still_ had no idea what to make of her, so, as a sort of test, he'd placed a forbidden alien novel in her quarters one day, and sat back to wait for results.

She'd brought it to him, laid it at his feet, and dropped to her knees, almost on the verge of tears. "Who is _doing_ this to me?" she whispered. "_Why_ are they doing this to me? Have I not already paid for the first crime? Will I not _always_ pay for that crime? Are they testing me?"

"Testing you? My dear, I thought perhaps you might like to read something from my private library, nothing more."

Her head jerked up. "My lord is pleased to jest with me."

"No, indeed. I thought you might find it of interest. A fictional physician who helps solve crimes, apparently, through methods of logical reasoning. A human book, but an amusing one, I'm told. _The Sign of Four_, I believe it's called."

"You. . . haven't read it?"

"I did not say that. I also did not say that I have." Valak tapped his cane on the ground. "However, it seems to me that if you've already paid for your supposed crime, you could, at the very least, enjoy the crime for which you were convicted. Perhaps you'll tell me about the book at some point. Character names. Plot events. What about it is so _scurrilous_ that my eyes should not fall upon it."

Valak had already arranged for her to be observed continuously after this little exercise, to make sure she spoke with no one, made no signals, either transmitted or by changing even the order in which the potted plants on her balcony were arranged. This was the beginning of the _nervous_ work of bringing a new member into the cell. And, for a wonder, she _seemed_ to be reliable and trustworthy. She occasionally, timidly asked if he might have _other_ books. . . and he very carefully fed her the non-dangerous ones. Never divulged more about the real concern about the biological attacks. . . and began asking his former squadmates from SIU some pointed questions. Constant, laughing reassurances, "Oh, no, no attacks are planned for here. You've gotten some bad information there, Valak, old boy. You know what rumors are like."

One or two, however, asked questions in return. Where had he heard this from? From whom? Valak had a cover for this; he claimed he'd heard about it while he'd been on Luisa. "Oh, nothing _overt_, just a rumor about the lifting on the Council's long-time ban on chemical and biological weapons development, but we all know what _that_ means. To be honest, I didn't want to _alarm_ anyone, so I didn't mention it when I first got home. Figured I'd ask around the old unit, see if I was just starting at shadows." With these old companions, the ones he'd survived SIU with, he couldn't maintain _quite_ the same façade as with the rest of the world, but he couldn't let them see all the way _in_, either. Layer after layer of deception.

"Maybe you should come back to work?" one of them said, laughing.

"Oh, you don't really want me back. Besides. . . operations." Valak tapped his eye patch. "Loss of depth perception, you know."

"Never slowed you down before."

Valak shrugged. "Older, wiser. . . well, older, anyway. If I did come back, it would be for analysis work. Keep me in mind, eh?"

He'd shut down that comm line and swallowed hard, looking at Livanus. "How'd I do, my turian friend?"

"Not too badly. The real question will be how thoroughly they investigate you if they decide to take you back in. Would be a _huge_ advantage to have you working on the inside of SIU again."

Valak shuddered. "I'd have to move half of my people off-world. In fact, I'll start shuttling them to my secondary house on Camala anyway. Much easier to smuggle them out from there than from Khar'sharn."

It was all careful, cautious work. Moving a hundred people and more off-world, trying to gain information, trying to verify Nala's loyalties, and all this, while training with those of his former slaves who showed, in Livanus' opinion, real potential. The turian was _very_ careful to stay away from Nala until most of his paint had worn off of his face, but blundered into her one day in a corridor, while he and Valak were walking together. She _stared_ at Livanus for a long moment, and then looked at Valak, puzzled. "Yes, he's new," Valak told her with aplomb. "Traded the other one for this one. An older fighter is a cannier fighter, you understand. More likely to survive in the Hegemon's games."

As he and Livanus walked away, the older turian murmured, softly, "You're going to have to decide if you trust her or not, at some point. She smells confused and scared to death half the time."

"That doesn't sound like a good basis for trust to me, my friend."

No information. Nothing to report, except a potential job offer back within SIU, where he'd sworn he'd never return. Where the scrutiny would be _intense_ and constant, and he had a damned _Spectre_ under his roof. "We're going to have to smuggle you back out again," he told Livanus one evening. "Ahead of schedule, probably."

Livanus shook his head, eyes almost glowing in the dim light of the fire in the library. "That will leave you alone, without backup. Not that my wife will object to seeing me again," he added, smiling slightly.

"I've almost always worked alone. I can't take the risks I need to take if they come in here and _really_ start looking at my slaves. Especially you." Valak swallowed. He'd only just gotten _used_ to the idea of having someone around to watch his back, other than his freed men. It had been nice, but it was about to get _far_ too risky.

**Serana, Bastion, April 24, 2196**

Serana awakened in a human bed, in her husband's human arms, and was, for a moment, completely disoriented. The room was _lightless_, not having windows, but her mental alarm had gone off, telling her it was time to wake up. Unfamiliar tangle of sheets, but warmth. Skin. Familiar smells. _Where am I—oh. Bastion. Right._ Serana reached for a panel on the night stand, and brought the lights up, dim and gray, simulating early morning, and then rolled over in bed to watch in amusement as the dark lashes that fringed Eli's lids twitched, and his eyes opened, looking right into hers, equally disoriented for a moment. "So much for you working forty on, forty _off_," she said, quietly. "You had a long night."

Eli's grin suddenly lit up his face, and she suddenly found their positions reversed, and her human mate very lightly biting just under her chin. "Yes, well, whose fault was _that_?" he told her, laughing.

"Yours," she replied, immediately. "It is, however, good to know that turians aren't the _only_ species for whom adrenaline is fun." She rolled out of bed now, smiling merrily at him. "Come on. After breakfast, _I'll_ walk _you_ to work this morning."

"You want to walk _me_ to work this morning?" Eli said, looking at Serana in amusement. "Okay. I'm all about equality. Just so long as I get to walk _you_ to yours, every now and again."

It had nothing to do with equality; she just wanted to spare him the extra time, since she knew damned well he was going to report in, pick up his armor and guns from wherever they'd been kept for the overnight investigations into the SWAT actions, and would then be told to report to _her_ place of work. Of course, she didn't necessarily want to say that right now.

There was no routine yet, of course. She hadn't even been on Bastion for a full forty-eight Terran hours yet. Lin and Eli both usually started each morning by running, of course; yesterday had been an exception. Today, she joined them, although, of course, she considerately slowed down to Eli's pace. "Don't wait on me. Go at _your_ pace, _asperitalla._ I'm used to being last across the damned finish line."

At his words, she tossed him a saucy grin and took off, full speed, in Linianus' wake. And yet, the whole time she ran through the long halls of this residential district, through the commercial district, past office buildings, eventually coming full circle all the way back to their apartment area again, she saw the air vents everywhere. And couldn't help but wonder if she should be wearing a damned breather, given the threats she was looking into at work. _No, that would be paranoid. And would make everyone around me panic just a little bit more_, she decided. But paranoia did sound like quite a lovely option, in a way. Certainly a safer one.

After that, a quick breakfast; Lin didn't need to shower, not having sweated, of course. Eli disappeared immediately, both to clean up and cool down so he _could_ eat after a brisk 10k run first thing in the morning. And, given that Serana was _very_ aware of his scent on her, she followed suit, and then all three of them headed out the door.

Outside B-Sec, Eli gave her a quick kiss on the forehead, and wished her a good day at work. Serana watched him go inside, and leaned up against the wall outside.

Fifteen minutes later, Eli re-emerged from the door, in armor, armed, and a not-very-amused look on his face. "Okay. Apparently, Lin and Fors are working together today since they're B-Sec, and _I_ have been loaned out to, ah, the embassy." He put a hand on her shoulder and muttered, "Seriously, if this really _is_ about a computer virus, I'm spanking you."

Serana chuckled helplessly, and took him to the embassy, where she introduced him to Leodorus, who offered a human handshake, and blinked when he got a wrist-clasp instead. "You'll need to sign a few non-disclosure forms—"

"Not a problem." Eli read through the forms fairly carefully, and signed where indicated. "All right. Let's get started," he said, sitting down at the conference room table. Leodorus started briefing _him_ now, and Serana learned a few new curse words as a result. _Either he's making those up, or that's krogan_, she decided after a minute or two. After a moment, Eli calmed down. "Sorry. I've lived on stations for most of my life, so this kind of hits home. Okay, so. . . we need to _prevent_ a crime before it even happens. Do we have any likely agents in place?" he asked.

"You're fast. Yeah. We've got a stack of dossiers on people who have access to sensitive portions of the station. Trouble is, there's a _lot_ of sensitive areas. Dr. Velnaran yesterday suggested that we needed to add military housing and embarkation areas to our list, which . . . hasn't really helped narrow things down for us." Leodorus leaned back in his chair.

"You've had a VI take a pass over them already? Sorting by previous known affiliations with batarians first, financial problems, other known security risk issues?" Eli asked.

"Yes. . . but a VI only gets us so far. We need eyes." Leodorus grimaced. "Experienced eyes."

Eli glanced over at Serana, who'd been sitting and watching so far. "That I can give you. And Officer Sidonis here?"

"Will be learning this part of the process. And, if we think we have a live one, she'll be handling some of the more direct investigation procedures."

_In other words, potentially going in without a warrant and rifling through people's files and belongings. Eli won't like that._ Serana winced. "Probably with a warrant," she said, out loud, to step Eli from saying anything.

Eli flicked her a glance, and she realized all over again, that she absolutely could not lie to him worth a damn.

Nine hours of grinding through dossiers later, and Serana's eyes felt like they were about to fall out of her head. "What about this one?" she said, over what had to be her fifth cup of _apha_ that day, and her third since their hasty lunch in the embassy's dining hall. "Essellia T'lani. Previous work with the Eclipse Sisterhood actually took her into the Terminus systems quite often. Worked on a batarian contract about five years ago, which kind of stands out for an asari. Says here she works in the med bay on C ring, which is the largest one on Bastion, right?"

Eli took the datapad from her, reading on as she rubbed at her tired eyes. "Why her?" Eli asked after a moment. He didn't laugh at work, she'd realized early in the day. Rarely smiled. Treated her as a junior, but respected colleague. . . and it was _nice_. She was learning, too.

"She had a daughter ten years ago. Coworkers noted that she didn't invite anyone to the naming ceremony. Kid got packed up and sent to family on Luisa, apparently. No one's ever seen her. They just know Essellia was pregnant, and then she wasn't, and that's. . . a little atypical. She's also pretty young for it. Still in the maiden stage, pretty much."

"So she more or less stands out because she works in a sensitive area, maybe a target zone, has prior batarian connections, and has a private life that she keeps private?" Eli summarized.

Put that way, it didn't sound like much. Serana shrugged. "I know, it's. . . thin. It just strikes me as odd. You weren't there when Ylara had her new daughter, Telluura—" she glanced up in time to see a slight wince cross his face. Memory of Kella, probably. _"Beloved, you __did__ get a birth announcement, didn't you?"_

"_I was on Macedyn at the time. Yes, I got an announcement and I even sent back a 'congrats' message. Wasn't sure what else to do."_ Eli tapped a finger on the datapad. "What about it?"

"My point is, Ylara invited every person on _base_ to Tellurra's naming. And she's one of the most private asari I've ever met. Do you even know the name of her _marai'ha'sai_ who was Kella's second-mother?"

Eli blinked, absorbing that. "No," he said. "Kella was only thirty or so when she . . . died. And I know Ylara's six hundred or so, and I know she lost a _marai'ha'sai_ on Omega, which is why she hated Aria. And that's. . ._all_ I know, actually. And I spent a lot of afternoons at their house, back in the day." He frowned now. "Hell, I know more about Tulluust than I know about her. She invited _everyone_?"

"Seventy-nine Spectres, a hundred support staff, and half the xenobiology and xenobotany team. It was _crowded_. Bigger than a wedding for them. Especially since they don't, you know, usually get married, except to people from species who believe in that sort of thing." The theory was, Serana had been told in xenopsychology class, that _knowing_ you were _marai'ha'sai_ to one another was enough. . . and even that was a transitory thing. People grew out of love, asari believed. All the time. It was inevitable, in a lifetime that might span a thousand years. Everything passed. Everything changed around them, and didn't matter a bit. Only the things that _didn't_ change mattered. Only mothers, children, and grandmothers, the unbroken chain of being, indissoluble, eternal.

Eli nodded. "We'll check it out, then. Might be nothing, might be something."

Serana's eyes widened a little, and she felt a little foolishly complimented. She'd had an idea, and he'd thought enough of it to consider it. Leodorus chuckled across the table. "How about this one? Mavius Cortensus. Age forty-seven, father of four. Works in the environmental systems department, usually assigned to J level, where most Hierarchy troops get stationed while their ships do replenishment activities here. Worked in the Blue Suns, back when they _did_ accept batarian members."

Eli leaned forward. "Can I see the picture. . . thanks. Huh. Cortensus was the name of my mom's boss when she used to work environmental systems here on the station. If this is him. . . he's gone way down in the world."

"Doesn't look so good, either," Leodorus supplied, dryly. "Looks about ten years older than his file says he is. Some financial difficulties, nothing major, couple of loans that didn't get paid on time last year, but nothing since. I say we put him on the list."

Eli nodded. "I've got two that stood out to me," he said, quietly. "One's a human. Heinrich Muller. Thirty-five. Used to be Alliance Navy, worked in Information and Computer Services back then. Works in information services at the Depth Charge now."

Serana looked up. "What's that?" she asked.

Eli grimaced. "Multispecies resort on G level. Casinos, restaurants, dancing, music, large portions of which are all done underwater. _Huge_ tourist attraction. Lots of Alliance soldiers go there to spend their paychecks when they're here on leave. I kind of walked by it myself when I was eighteen and here on leave, myself. Didn't really feel like jumping in and swimming with hanar, asari, and salarians, though. Lots of computerized lights, lots of money changing hands, lots of computers controlling the games and everything else. Good job for a techhead. Should make good money. And yet. . . I see two defaulted loans of over twenty thousand credits _each_, credit accounts maxed out, and yet from his account history, he eats out every night, buys rounds of drinks for his friends. . . "

"Corporate discount?" Leodorus offered, grinning.

"Ten percent doesn't stretch _that_ far. Recent divorce, too. Wife left him for an asari, ouch. That's gotta hurt." Eli spun the datapad around. "No batarian connections in his record, but if _I_ were recruiting, that's the sort of person I'd go after. Desperate and stupid."

"Who was your other one?" Serana asked. She was _enjoying_ watching his mind work. He had, for _years_, denied that he was smart. He didn't like schoolwork, was what that had amounted to; had seen it as an obstacle to be overcome, gotten around, moved past as quickly as possible. But Elijah Stockton was actually highly intelligent, and could focus like a laser beam on a problem.

Eli frowned. "This one's going to sound odd. Karatesh Ipsal Maldo Ren. Age fifteen, a salarian. Runs a used omnitool refurbishing shop in the Ala'kesh district. No record. Has customers of every species, including a handful of batarians who've been aboard in the last four years. Nothing big there. He happens to live two blocks from a carbon-scrubbing station and waste reclamation center, again, no big deal. No financial problems. No problems with the neighbors. Nothing."

Serana frowned. "Then what's so interesting about him?" she asked.

"The fact that he has previous employment on his record with three companies that all went out of business four years ago. Morphil'zha, Manutra, and Vitrifex. That's a hell of a lot of bad luck right there, and in the middle of the financial crisis, too, he loses the paycheck, comes to Bastion, buys his own shop, and just _exists_. Oh, and the fact that there's another Karatesh Ipsal Maldo Ren in the file, too. Only he's listed as age thirty-eight at his time of death, which happens to have been .. . four years ago." Eli shrugged. "Not here on Bastion, back on Sur'Kesh. The VI flagged the names as unusual, and I tend to agree with it. I'll even run a check on the three corporations in CID databases, see if they ever did any business with the batarians."*

He got that search up and running, and after a few moments, the computer blipped back at them. "Requires Special Reconnaissance and Tactics Group authorization?" Leodorus read, in annoyance. _"S'kak._ Okay, I'll send it up the line. The two of you can knock off, go get dinner, whatever you like."

"I'm good for another two or three hours before break," Eli told Leodorus, focusing on the screen in front of him. "We could probably even go try to track down some of these people tonight, do a little preliminary conversation with them—"

Leodorus grimaced. "Actually, I have to start all the paperwork on them, the 'person of interest' file, the 'preliminary investigation' form. . . "

"Just to go talk to them? _S'kak,_ Rostrus, you have more paperwork than _I_ do."

The turian male shook his head. "All of the preliminary paperwork is legal protection for when we have to move _really_ fast down the line." He pointed at the door. "Go on. Ten hour days are long enough for anyone sane. Better to come back in the morning with a clear head."

Serana chuckled at the expression on Eli's face.

"You're already _really_ used to B-Sec hours, aren't you?" she said as they headed for the main lobby, so he could sign out.

"Yeah, I guess. That was only part of it, though. I'm _used_ to pulling all-nighters on big investigations, and this is one of them." Eli let his hands rest on the biometric readers at the main doors, and gestured for her to precede him out the gate. "And on the other hand, I halfway wanted to see if my dad's logon and password for the Spectre database are still what they were a month or two ago." That was a _very_ quiet murmur in the revolving doors as they passed through into the main thoroughfare.

Her head snapped up, and she started to grin. "Elijah Sidonis," Serana said, pretending to scold, "am I _corrupting_ you?"

Eli snickered. No touching, of course; they were both technically in uniform at the moment. But his eyes shifted downwards for just a moment, and he told her, smiling, "_Asperitalla_, all the corrupting was taken care of _long_ before you came along. When you're around, I just pretend it doesn't exist."

Back at the apartment, Eli was just changing out of his armor and Serana was changing out of her uniform, when the apartment door banged open.

"_Fradu, you're not supposed to be home yet,"_ Eli called down the hall. _"What happened?"_

"_Some crazy person called in a __bomb-threat__ for B-Sec headquarters, and we __all__ got sent out of the building while the sniffer-_dogs_ are doing their business_," Lin called back, his tone disgusted. _"Patrolmen got sent out to do their stuff. Investigators got sent home and told to come back at station morning, once they've finished clearing the facilities of any potential threat."_ Serana headed out of the bedroom she shared with Eli, and Lin brushed by her in the narrow hallway, heading into his own room to get out of his own armor. _"Tell me you two at least had a more productive day than I did."_

"Not sure how _productive_," Eli said, switching to English. "Going to send my dad a message real quick, then Serana and I need to get something to eat."

"You going to mention that salarian to your dad?" Serana asked quietly.

"Yeah. _Something_ about him isn't right, especially with those companies on his work record. Maybe Lantar can get us around a little red tape." Eli was already logging into his comm messages, and typing away quickly. "Promise I'll get out of work mode soon," he said, over his shoulder.

"I don't mind," she reminded him.

At which point, Lin came out from the back of the apartment in civvies, and commented, "I _did_ get a message today from one of the . . . less psychotic-sounding females from the BSN site. Said she wanted to meet me for dinner at Depth Charge, of all places."

Serana's head came up, and she suddenly started to grin. "Eli, it's like it's meant to be. We can go there, check it out, meet interesting people and. . . not talk to them at all." She gave him a wide-eyed glance of mock innocence, and Eli put his hand on her shoulder, shaking his head. "No?"

Linianus sighed. "I missed something, obviously."

"Work _s'kak_." Eli turned away from the terminal, grimacing. "We can go. We just can't talk to anyone named Heinrich Muller or _about_ Heinrich Muller."

Lin looked up at the ceiling for a moment. "I've never even _heard_ of Heinrich Muller," he said, dryly. "I'm pretty sure, from having walked by the place a couple of times, that Depth Charge is _not_ really going to be my kind of place."

Eli stood up, chuckling. "You'd have loved it four years ago." He took Serana's hand, lightly, in his, and she smiled and matched up her fingers with his.

Lin gave Eli a skeptical glance. "And you?"

"Four years ago, probably would have gone in. Two years ago, right after Macedyn? I stayed the hell out." Serana had the clear and _distinct_ feeling that if Lin weren't going with them, Eli would have found _anyplace_ else to take her. . . which only whetted her curiosity the more.

"You guys _did_ promise me the three-credit tour," she offered.

"So we did," Eli said, grimacing a little. "You want to dress up or anything, now's the time," he told her, nodding back towards their room.

"What would be appropriate?" she asked, heading back down the hall.

"Less is more," Lin called after her, and then said, distinctly, _"Ow! __Fradu__, that's the bad knee."_

"_You think I don't know which is which?"_

Fortunately or unfortunately, Serana didn't have much fancy clothing. Not much call for it on Mindoir, to be honest. Kasumi had insisted that she get herself at least _one_ nice outfit, for work purposes, and that it had to be an outfit in which she could easily wear a concealed-carry harness of some sort. As such, her solution had been human materials, worked in a fairly turian fashion. A black velvet skirt, which cut off above the knees, and well out of spur range. A long, white shirt, which she could leave untucked above the skirt, concealing her pistol, which was tucked at the small of her back. The shirt also left her arms bare, showing off her knife and sheath, and bared her throat, too, letting anyone who cared to look, to espy a few rather human bitemarks.

Being turian, she'd changed clothes in under five minutes. Most of the time had actually been spent _finding_ the clothes. She hadn't fully unpacked yet. "Will this do?" she asked, and while she couldn't have _sworn_ to it, she thought she heard _two_ appreciative growls, which made her laugh and flush a little. "You _sure_ you want to go _out_?" Eli asked her, quietly, as they headed for the door.

"Looks more like an invitation to stay _in_," Linianus told them both, grinning.

"Don't make me hurt you, Lin," Serana threatened.

"No, no, leave that to my date. I'm . . . quite certain this evening can't possibly end well," he said, and hastily called whoever it was who'd invited him out, letting her know that he was, in fact, actually available.

Depth Charge was up on the G level of the station. It needed the extra space, apparently. Serana stared at the building, which was two or three times the size of the aliens-friendly hotel she'd stayed at in Dacia with Eli; it actually almost touched the ceiling, and ran about two city blocks in length. Colored lights festooned the exterior, and interior, too, apparently. Music—loud and raucous and of _every_ type, all at once, poured out its open doors, along with a _swarm_ of people of every species, in every stage of intoxication. "Yeah," Eli called over her head to Lin, raising his voice to punch through the wall of noise, "This place looks like _work_, Lin."

"I didn't pick it!"

Eli leaned down and spoke directly into Serana's ear. "Stay close, would you? I don't want to get separated in here."

Looking around, Serana had _no_ objections to this. If he'd said it _before_ they'd reached the doors, she'd have laughed and chalked it up to his strong protective streak. Now, however? She reached out, hooked the fingers of her left hand into his belt, and held on for dear life. There were dozens of small clubs and restaurants on this level, all blaring a cacophony of different music. That one, there—post-industrial punk. _Abrade II_, the sign outside read. _Now open._ That one, beside it? Human salsa. The one beside that? Asari chime-dancing. Beside that? Some spirits-be-damned wailing that Serana _thought_ might be human, but she wasn't quite sure. Beyond that? Salarian line-dancing. Which was, of course, a primarily male pastime, done to improve coordination. But other species tended to treat it like a dance. Or at least, humans and asari did.

And beyond that, on the opposite side of a bank of elevators and a glass, blue-lit staircase? Was a wall of glass. There were so many bodies between her and the wall, Serana couldn't even _see_, but. . . _ah, there we go_. Beyond the wall of glass was _water._ Water lit up with strobes and moving stage-lights, and in the water, she could see hanar jetting past, afire with their own bioluminescence, dancing, in a way, to the vibrations in the water. On stages inside the tank, asari dancers. No costumes in the water, other than breathing masks. The occasional salarian swam by, too. "I think the point of that one is to mimic the legend of the Sirens or mermaids, who supposedly lured sailors to watery graves," Eli called into Serana's ear, and the two males simply carefully pushed their way through the crowd to the staircase.

On the stairs, Serana pulled on Eli's shirt urgently. "This would be a really _bad_ place for what we talked about at work today," she called into his ear. _Her_ eyes were scanning for ventilation shafts.

_His_ eyes were on the crowd, she realized. "I know," he called back. "Try not to breathe, _asperitalla._"

"In here? No problem." So _many_ damned bodies, all basically running into her at once, and then _finally,_ they reached the top of the stairs. The second level was a little calmer, at least. The huge pool of water to their left was open for people to jump in, but was clearly marked with signs in every language: _Do not swim while intoxicated. Depth Charge is not responsible for injuries or deaths. No life guard on duty._

There was a wide, open bar to their right, with scattered tables and yet another dance floor, this one glowing as the dancers' feet struck it, all different colors, radiating up in patterns of light and shadow from below.

In front of them was another bank of elevators, as well as the next tier of steps going up to the next level of the resort. From above her head, Serana could hear the blip and tinkle of various game machines, and guessed that the third floor was probably dedicated to gambling."Is this where we wait?" Eli called to Lin.

Their turian friend shook his head. "Yeah. Sorry about this."

"Stop apologizing," Serana called up at him. "You're supposed to be having a good time." She couldn't _miss_ the slight twitch of mandibles or the roll of his eyes. "Hey, there's a table. Grab it." They grabbed, just ahead of another pair of couples, and got annoyed looks for their pains. A harried human waitress came over and took their drink orders. . . and got _very_ snappy when all any of them would order was _apha_ or coffee. "This is a _bar_," she pointed out, in some annoyance. "At least order a _beer_, for god's sake."

Linianus shook his head, looking past her at the crowds. "Sorry. Can't. Twelve hour rule."

"What, you're a pilot?"

"No."

"Doctor?"

"No." Lin was still looking past her, scanning the crowd. Serana could see hints of the laughing boy she'd known at school every now and again in the apartment, but out in public? Gone. "Eli, you see the asari at the bar?" he asked.

Eli glanced, moving only his eyes. "Yeah. Looking our way. That your date?"

"Don't think so. Girl was supposed to be quarian. Introduced herself as Vael'Jay vas Idenna nar Oklahoma. The ship name at least made for a good conversation starter."

And at that point, the asari _did_ move across the room to approach their table. "Excuse me. I'm sorry to have been staring, but given the blue paint, are you Linianus?" She offered her hand to Lin now. She was damp, head to toe, as if she'd just been swimming, and Serana could smell salt on her. "I'm Vaellia. I'm sorry to have fibbed a little on my profile, but I find that pretending to be a quarian keeps most of the pervs at bay. Well, other than the ones who think the whole 'not knowing what someone looks like other than the tip of their nose and never being able to touch' crap is a turn-on. There are people out there with some _serious_ intimacy issues, is all I have to say," the asari rattled on, cheerfully.

Linianus was just staring at her, somberly. "So, are you going to invite me to have a seat, maybe introduce me to your friends?"

Serana watched as Lin slid Eli a look, and Eli shrugged. She could almost read the silent conversation there. _You believe this __s'kak, fradu__? _

_No, but we're here anyway. May as well give her a chance. _

Serana grinned a little to herself. _Eli is first-brother between them._

Lin gestured to the last chair at the table. "By all means. . .Vaellia. I'm sorry you feel you have to lie in order to find someone interesting to meet."

Serana winced, and decided _someone_ had to smooth things over. She reached across the table, offering her hand for a wrist-clasp. "Serana Sidonis," she said, smiling. _"A pleasure to meet you,"_ she added, in asari.

"_It's not often that I meet someone who speaks the language of Thessia so well_," Vaellia said, smiling. The hand lasted just a _little_ too long, the eye-contact lingered too much, and Serana discreetly pulled back.

"_Then you're absolutely going to love my __marai'ha'sai__,__"_ Serana said, lightly, nodding to Eli.

"Elijah Sidonis," Eli added, when it was his turn. _"My __marai'ha'sai__ somewhat overstates the importance of my words." _And when Serana offered him her hand, he took it and let their clasped fingers sit in full view on the table.

Conversation was desultory after that. Vaellia had a sparkly, bubbly personality, and was, apparently, a reactor core engineer, which spoke well for her intelligence. She was, however, about a hundred years older than anyone else at the table, and it showed. She frequently alluded to bands she'd enjoyed back in the day, which _none_ of them recognized. She repeatedly leaned across the table, asking Serana direct questions that made the turian girl more than a little uncomfortable. "I hope you'll pardon my curiosity, but xenobiology is a hobby of mine. I know it's not something that turians really speak of to aliens, but . . . you're female. And I must confess to a _lively_ curiosity about turian estrus. I've always wondered what it would be like to share that."

Serana tucked closer into Eli's side, felt the alien cool-warm of his left arm drape over her shoulder—a position that put his wedding knife on clear display as he lightly rubbed his fingers against the scales of her left upper arm. "Guess that's something you can keep being curious about," Eli told Vaellia, flatly.

"I didn't mean—I just wondered if Serana has ever experienced it. It seems such a primal state. The instinctive beast overtaking the rational sapient." Vaellia didn't quite seem to realize that she was only digging herself in deeper.

"If I had, it would not be any of your business," Serana replied, and realized that she'd moved as far into Eli's side as she could. Linianus was bristling a little, too, with irritation on her behalf. _We're not doing his date-night any good here_, she realized, and did her best to get them off the topic. "So, Vaellia. . . what's working with the reactor core like, anyway?" Serana asked, and tried not to think about biting Eli here, in public.

Conversation limped along for a while longer, and then Vaellia asked, "Really, is it something I've said?"

Lin shook his head, and showed slightly more animation than he had the rest of the evening so far, sitting up. "You saw _law enforcement_ in my profile and thought that lying to me first thing would be a good way to get me to like you?"

Vaellia blinked. "Well, _everyone_ lies on those things. You don't mean to say you're _really_. . . I mean, some people just like to role-play with the uniforms and the night-sticks and the shackles—"

"It's an _asp_, actually." Lin had found a portion of the ceiling to look at, briefly.

"No one's carried a night-stick on Earth, at least, since sometime in the mid-twenty-first century." Eli's voice was very dry.

She floundered. "You're _both_ cops?" Vaellia looked uncomfortable. "Ah. All right, I'm _sorry_. Can we at least start fresh?" She looked at Linianus, smiling, and he'd just started to relax and smile back, when she offered, "Maybe we can dance?"

Eli choked on a sip of coffee. Serana sighed internally. _She hasn't been around turians much, has she?_ "Ah. . . turians don't dance," she said, quietly. Trying to be of use in bridging the cultural divide.

"Oh, but I've seen them—"

"Standing completely still on the dance floor, patiently waiting for whoever they're with to get done embarrassing themselves?" Eli offered, smiling. Serana had the distinct impression he did _not_ like the asari for some reason.

Serana poked him in the right ribcage, using the hand she'd wound behind his back to do so. _"You're not helping,"_ she muttered, in turian.

"_At this point, I'm trying to give Lin an exit strategy,_" Eli whispered in return.

Vaellia looked at them all, seeming frustrated. "I'm going to be really honest here—"

"I like honesty," Linianus said, immediately.

"I can't quite figure out the impressions I'm getting here. While I understand wanting to meet in a group for a little better chance at being comfortable, I. . . am not really sure who I'm supposed to be charming here. It's like a panel of judges." Vaellia threw up her hands, the colored lights from the dance floor behind her lighting up her face. "Am I _intruding_ on the three of you? Does Linianus require your approval, or something?"

_Now what the hell does that mean?_ Serana thought, laughter welling up inside of her and threatening to burst forth. _Was that aggressive, or passive-aggressive? I'm never quite sure._

Eli stood, and looked at Linianus. "You're on your own, _dimicato'fradu__._ Catch you back at the apartment." He tugged lightly on Serana's hand, and she stood, too, and they wended their way back out of the crowded venue and made their way back to the apartment.

"She bothered you, didn't she?" Serana asked as she put her gun and harness in the nightstand beside Eli's.

"Oh, like she didn't bother you, too, _asperitalla_." Eli pulled off his shirt and tossed it in the hamper. "Starting off with a lie didn't help. Trying to make the lie seem harmless, something for her own protection. . . that set Lin's bells off. You saw it, right?"

"He stopped talking, yeah."

"She tried flirting with you, first thing—the extra-long hand contact, the repeated long stares across the table. And bringing up _estrus_. . . well, that was just bad taste. At which point you practically crawled into my lap."

"I did _not_. That would imply that I'm weak." Serana shrugged. "I will admit to trying to make it very clear who belonged with whom. And, ah, by the end there? I _was_ rather hoping you'd just mark me in front of the whole damned bar."

He grinned at her and pulled her close, biting down on her shoulder for a moment. "Thought about it. Thought that it might embarrass you, though."

"By that point? So far over the edge of _uncomfortable_ that _embarrassed_ was long out of sight." Serana sighed as his hands slid up and under her shirt, tracing along her back. "It wasn't just that, though, was it?"

"Huh? Oh, no. Then she re-tracked and gave the lame-ass 'everyone lies' _s'kak_, and then tries to excuse her own bad behavior by saying we're all sitting there judging her." Serana felt her back hit the cool sheets of the bed, and lifted her legs out of the way so her spurs wouldn't catch. _"At the moment, though, little fierce one, I have __much__ more important things on my mind."_ He'd shifted to turian now. _"Like these legs of yours? There should be a five-day waiting period before being allowed to wear a skirt like __that__ with legs like __these__."_ And then he was biting his way up the tendon along the back of her right leg, and Serana inhaled sharply as he reached the knee, and then higher, and then dropped back to give the other leg the same sweet, torturous treatment.

**Linianus**

Linianus slouched in the door around midnight. He'd been damned near as offended as his _fradu_ had been earlier in the evening, but Vaellia had begged for one more chance, now that they were alone, just to talk. And he'd actually felt _sorry_ for her. She might criticize other people for having intimacy issues because they had a thing for quarians, but it was pretty clear she had intimacy issues of her _own_ that she wasn't really dealing with. Lying as a way to get a male or a female to pass some arbitrary test that existed in her own head, and then expecting total openness and honesty and acceptance from the person who'd just been misled? And, on coming to the table, to almost disregard him in favor of such pointed, impolite questions directed at Serana. . . . questions couched as _interest_. . . but they weren't, were they? No. She'd seen Serana as competition. Had seen _both_ Eli and Serana as obstacles, and had done and said much of what she had, mostly to get them to leave.

Lin didn't need a degree in psychology to see _insecure, controlling, _and_ needy_ written in Vaellia's eyes. He'd watched as her whole demeanor shifted when the other two had left. Satisfaction, relaxation. It was sad, really. He had fond memories of Kella, who had died so young. Less pleasant memories of Siara, although the asari had definitely grown up—largely, in Lin's opinion, because his _dimicato'fradu_ had _pushed_ her, and Urdnot Gris had _pushed_ her, too. And of course, there was Pellia, who'd been a friend to Brennia, and a friend to him, and a friend to Eli. Who'd wanted to make the hurt just a little more bearable, and had succeeded for a short while . . . which had only made the black pit of loss all that much harder to bear when the light went away again.

But he'd survived the pit, and stumbled back out of it—largely because his _fradu_ was _pulling_ him out of it, just as Eli pushed and pulled everyone else along with him, even when he didn't even realize he was _doing_ so. Rellus had the same quality. Eli's leadership was just a quieter thing. Rel lead from out front, first in the charge. Eli led from alongside.

So Lin had sat there in the bar and let Vaellia talk at him for an hour or so. Watched her drink several more glasses of Illium ice-wine, and listened, more or less, to stories about bad exes and the horrors of the Bastion Singles Net scene. _Me, me, me, I, I, I._ No interest in the other, except as a few minutes' relief from being herself, perhaps.

Eventually, Lin had stood up. Wished her a good evening. And walked away, having left a tip for the harried waitress who'd objected to serving coffee and _apha._

_Spirits, how I miss Brennia. _As hurt as his wife had been, as much of a victim as she'd been, she'd still had more spark, more vibrancy, more _giving_ in her spirit than Vaellia ever would. Even Pellia, with her cop humor and flexible sense of ethics, had been a giver, not a taker.

Lin opened the door of the apartment quietly. If Eli and Serana were asleep, he didn't want to wake them. At the doorway, however, turian hearing was sharp enough to tell him that they definitely weren't asleep. He sighed. They were doing their level best to pick times when he was out of the apartment, and to keep it down, but the sounds and the smells were very hard to ignore. If they had too many more SWAT calls, the adrenaline and the smells and the noises were going to key him up till he didn't _care_ if the female he met in a bar somewhere was a manipulative liar or not.

For now, he'd been putting it to the back of his mind. He and Eli were sharing territory. The hardest thing to ignore, really, was how Serana _lit up_ when she looked at Eli. Or how Eli's dark, somber demeanor lightened whenever Serana was around. Serana was a giver. Hell, _all_ of his brothers-in-battle had mates who were givers, not takers. Rellus had Dara, who'd gone through the hell of turian boot camp mostly to be with him. Rinus had Kallixta, who, by all reports, insisted on making him happy and comfortable no matter how much he protested.

Lin paused by the comm terminal, giving himself time to walk through the apartment, and deleted the BSN account in his name. _Sorry, __fradu.__ It was a good idea. And you're right, I can't mourn forever. But this? Not going to work for me._

He headed down the hall, made the left into his small room, and shucked off his own clothes before lying back in his nest. Little noises, still audible. They couldn't know he was home. Taking advantage of his absence, as he would have done himself, to let go a little.

Thin walls and turian hearing are a bad mix, making for very clear mental images. Lin gritted his teeth at one particularly good gasp, reached out, and grabbed the handball that he kept on his nightstand. It was made of hard rubber and rather heavy. And then he slung it at the wall that separated the rooms with a resounding _crack_. _"__Fradu!__ Either keep it down or invite me in, one or the other!"_ Lin called, half-jokingly.

There was a distinct pause. _"S'kak! Sorry, __fradu!__"_

"_Sorry, Lin!"_

Linianus sighed, and looked at the ceiling, lit only by the numbers on his room's clock. He wasn't going to be getting much sleep tonight in any case. _Maybe I'm lucky and there'll be a really __juicy__ case in my inbox tomorrow. Something that will distract me, give me something to focus on._

**Seheve, Bastion, April 24, evening 2196**

"Excuse me," Seheve said, politely. "My omnitool seems to be broken. I really can't survive without it, and I was told that your shop does the best repairs on Bastion."

Behind the counter, the salarian puffed out his shallow chest. "Certainly, certainly, let me have a look at it. What seems to be the problem?" A torrent of words, quickly spoken.

Seheve removed the omnitool from her wrist and let him examine it. "The main screen went dark yesterday, and the control interface won't extend. It's still under warranty. . .I think."

He took it from her. "Oh, yeah, a Halari SS287. These are. . . real pieces of. . . art." His bulging eyes flicked up at her, and she was quite certain this wasn't what he'd initially thought of saying. It didn't discomfit her. She'd purchased the finicky omnitool model from a used gear dealer in the krogan area of the station quite deliberately yesterday, and had casually voided the warranty by getting into its guts and breaking several solder points on a circuit board. "I'll need to run a few diagnostics in the back."

'This one thanks you," Seheve said, formally, clasping her hands before her.

The salarian blinked a couple of times, and then scuttled off to the back room, which left Seheve plenty of time to disable the electronic surveillance in the room with the perfectly functional omntiool hidden under the billowing sleeve of her other arm. Seheve looked around carefully, committing every part of her surroundings to memory.

Like many salarians, Maldo Ren lived where he worked, not dividing his life up as a human or a turian would. His living quarters were in the basement, below his shop, proper, she suspected; she could see a set of stairs leading downward to a door that clearly had a 'do not enter' sign posted beside it, and had a red glow panel on its face, indicating that it was currently locked. Maldo still _quite_ occupied in the back room, it was child's play to unlock the door, look in his private room downstairs, and slip back up the stairs after a quick glance locked the layout of his chamber below into her eidetic memory. Like many other salarians, Ren apparently enjoyed sleeping in a pool of warmed water. There was a _lot_ of computer equipment down there. And, probably to protect the machinery, a _dehumidifier_, surely one of the oddest things she'd ever seen in a salarian home. Almost no surveillance equipment down there, however. That was where she'd handle the necessary business of the execution, therefore.

Ren came back out of the back of the shop, and found her there, looking through the used omnitools that lined the shelves of his shop, each locked into a small, ostensibly theft-proof container. "Yeah, I fixed the problem," he told her, blinking rapidly. "Needed to swap out a whole new motherboard, though."

_Liar. Cheat. Thief._ All that had been broken were solder points. But Seheve smiled gratefully and paid for the repairs, taking back her omnitool and verifying that it did, indeed, turn on again. "This one is grateful," she said, dipping her head. She often used the formal tone of a hanar with people that she did not like or did not trust. Or with those she planned to kill. It seemed . . . disrespectful. . . to be familiar with them, when she was going to take their lives.

She left the shop with a mental map of the premises, and headed across the street to a café, where she bought a few books as downloads, and settled in to read them while drinking _sursu_, a sour drell beverage made from the juice of roots once native to their lost homeworld. While she was watching the shop and the flow of traffic in the neighborhood, she counted two or three B-Sec patrols over the next two hours. The area was _well_-policed, more's the pity. And even more problematic was her Master's request that she make an example of Maldo Ren.

When he relayed requests from the rulers of Kahje, when she worked on behalf of all the people of the ocean world, typically, they wanted her services to be _discreet._ Low chance of being caught. Low chance of being identified even as _being_ an execution. Her Master, however, wanted this death to be a statement. As if it were a part of the Great Work. So instead of making it look like suicide, he wanted her to make it a visible execution. A warning, to those who would lead young hanar astray, presumably. Those affiliated with Ren, these. . . Lystheni.

All of this deeply troubled Seheve. Always the work of their government had been kept separate from her Master's work. If she were caught, she would be unable to do further work. And yet, if she deviated from his instructions in this matter, would it be just one more step down the path of error?

And yet, how many steps down that path had she _already_ taken? Seheve looked her datapad, feeling guilt gnaw at her. The book's title was simple: _Prothean Artifacts: Mars, Rhenus, and Ilos, a comprehensive survey_. Written by a salarian scientist, not a hanar philosopher, it was on the banned list on Kahje, and she could understand why. It stated that the very language of the Enkindlers _differed_ from ruin to ruin, world to world. That the ruins on Ilos were older than those in the Palavan and Terran systems, and that the language preserved in the ruins there showed clear signs of changes over the course of centuries, just as in living languages today. That the ruins on Rhenus and Mars were clearly those of scientific observation outposts, and that in recent years, a Prothean disc and its player had been uncovered on Syria Planum on Mars, which, when the researchers had _played_ it, had shown tests conducted on captured progenitors of humanity. Progenitors who had already _had_ language. Text in the Enkindlers' own words, describing the potential of this species, which had developed language on its own. _Comparable_ footage from a disc recovered from Erubesca Torus on Rhenus, where early progenitors of _turians_ had been studied and examined, as well. The humans had been early, early variants of Cro-Magnon and Neanderthals. Most Cro-Magnon remains found on Terra had been, at most, 35,000 years old, not 50,000 years old, but these early ancestors clearly predated those remains. Had to have, to be examined by the Enkindlers. They had thicker skulls and a more robust physique than contemporary humans. Their turian counterparts had been _Praeverto_ _Vescor_. Even more predatory-looking than contemporary turians, with more pronounced mandibles, forward-projecting jaws, larger teeth, longer claws, and thicker bodies. They, too, had developed speech on their own. Again, much to the interest of the Enkindlers, apparently. Several lineages were tagged at the genetic level for later study.

Part of the current research was trying to determine who still lived, in populations today, with those genetic markers intact. The human populations with the marker tended to be biotics, but not exclusively. Among turians, biotic genes were extremely rare, but the few turians with biotics did possess the markers in their DNA. As well as a few completely non-biotic turian populations.

The salarian researcher asserted that from fragments of Commander Lilitu Shepard's DNA, which were on file with the Systems Alliance Marines, and which he'd obtained through the Freedom of Galactic Information Act (a curious concept, Seheve thought), that some of those markers remained in her genetic code. One of her ancestors had been marked. The Hierarchy had refused to disclose whether the ancestors of Garrus Vakarian had been similarly marked, but one of his great-grandparents had been exhumed in a completely unrelated study (disease transmission, apparently) and had indeed borne Prothean markers in the DNA left intact in the bones.

_Why these two species?_ Seheve found herself wondering. _Why leave their writing in the very stuff of life, to be read and repeated, like a mystic talisman, generation after generation, and why not. . . my species? The asari? The salarians? Was it merely that they came to speech and thought without the light being sparked in them by the—oh, no. No. I cannot think like this._ She closed down the book, and made herself look at the street. _The Enkindlers gave all light. They gave all speech. This book, the words of the Enkindlers here. . . they're lies. Fabrications. They must be._

After observing for a while longer, Seheve opened the second book. This one was not banned on Kahje. But it _was_ banned in her Master's home. It detailed the primitive beliefs of the drell before they had been brought to Kahje. And it detailed how 375,000 drell had been rescued from their homeworld and brought to live on Kahje in exchange for eternal service. The writer, a human, was strongly critical of this. _"While the drell have accepted the conditions of the Compact for over a hundred years now, at what point will they be considered free of servitude once more? How many generations must live and die in hanar service before the debt is considered paid? Why has __no one__ ever returned to the drell homeworld to __verify__ that the remaining drell did, indeed, perish? What if some remain there, eking out a bare, subsistence life, having adapted to the ever-worsening conditions of the environment. . . as life often does? And even if none remain now, could the planet not be terraformed back into a garden state, with existing technology? Joab, Garvaug, Tosal Nym, Aphras, and Etamis are currently foci of such efforts. Why not Rakhana? Is it just that the hanar have no inclination to return the drell to a world of their own, possessing, in them, perfect servants, bound by chains of gratitude, for the rest of eternity?_

Radical thoughts. Radical ideas. Seheve found herself trembling in her seat, words coursing through her thoughts. Words had power. Words could change _worlds_. She knew that. Words could change _her_, if she let them. _Ah, Enkindlers, do not let me know doubt. Guide me, guide my hands, make me steadfast and true._

She got up, paid her bill, and left the café. Wandered for an hour or two, until the E ring of the station began to darken into artificial night. _No. No, I won't make it a sacrifice, or a warning. The Master will be angry that I have disobeyed. But I will tell him the truth. It is not necessary to make a __show__ of an execution. It is only needful that the one who is guilty, dies. And making this as clean an execution as possible allows me to continue to do the needful, just work of our people._

So, no evidence, or as little of it as possible. She returned to her room, and assembled her small pistol from its component parts, scattered through her luggage. This was more of a fallback option for her. In reality, she'd be using a knife for this. In the dark stillness of her hotel room, Seheve knelt on the floor, putting her forehead to the ground, trying to calm her thoughts. _It isn't true,_ she thought. _We're bound, yes, but all was agreed to._

_Generations ago_, the voice of her shadow-self mocked. The doubter. The one who struggled within her to speak words of blasphemy.

_No. Even my own father bound us to Master Olonkoa's house. Of his own free will._

_But not of my will._

_When father died. . . _oh, that day had been a terrible one. Thryd Liakos had been tasked with guarding the Master during the sale of what were considered, by aliens, at least, illegal weapons modifications. The Master had amassed much wealth in the sale of such things, all of which was funneled back into the Great Work. Thryd had died, shot to death by a batarian agent, taking the bullets meant for Master Olonkoa. The batarian had gotten away, and the Master had returned home. _"This one requires that one of Thryd's children take his place,"_ he had told Seheve and her brother, Oeric. _"Oeric, will you serve in your father's place?"_

Oeric. Her twin brother. He'd been rebellious and angry even then, reluctant to embrace the Enkindlers, as their father had. As their mother had. As Seheve had. _"No,"_ Oeric had told Olonkoa sharply. _"I have toiled as a slave in your house, cleaning the pools and stocking the kelp beds since I was six years old. I will __not__ become a walking target for you, as my father was."_

"_No, no, forgive him, he does not know what he is saying!"_ her mother had protested, kneeling before the Master. _"He's distraught, wracked with grief. Forgive him, I beg of you."_

"_No forgiveness."_ Oeric had glared at them all. _"And no more fucking lies. Seheve, Mother, __come with me__. No more __Enkindlers__. Just Amonkira, Arashu, Kalahira. The gods our ancestors worshipped."_

"_Do not speak of such things in this house,"_ Olonkoa had said then, voice gentle, but commanding.

"_Not a problem. I'm leaving. Mother, sister, __please__. Leave this place. Leave this place that killed Father."_ He'd been impassioned, but Seheve had hesitated. Father—her beloved, strong, faithful father—had always said that service was the highest good. The highest duty. And through their service to the Master, they ensured that all their people survived, and that their own souls remained clean.

"_I can't,"_ she'd whispered.

"_Then stay here and __rot__,"_ Oeric had said, and left, storming out of the house. From that day, six years ago, till this, Seheve had never seen her twin again.

And so, Seheve had taken up her father's place, her father's service. Had proven good at it. Better, in fact, than he had been. She'd been trained, at first as a bodyguard. Then to serve the people. And then, finally, to serve the Master. _My life is service,_ she thought, drawing herself back up again, and putting her pistol under the billowing folds of her loose shirt. _Service is the highest good. _

And so she walked out into the streets once more. Back to the Ala'kesh district, not far from where her hotel was. Found a likely patch of shadow, out of range of the omni-present surveillance cams, and activated her stealth generator. Completely calm now, Seheve found the back entrance of Maldo Ren's shop. Deactivated the security systems, unlocked the door, and stepped inside, deactivating the internal security cams with a wave of her hand and a complex program embedded in her omnitoool. She went to his small kitchen, and took out a paring knife. _Perfect._

He was in the back room. . . working on his terminal, typing furiously. Oblivious to her presence in his home. Seheve headed down the stairs, unlocked his bedroom door, and set up plastic sheeting—taken from his waste receptacle liners, actually—all around the pool. She stripped out of her clothing, making a neat pile of it in the corner, except for her gloves, which she left on, and pulled one of the bags over herself And then went back upstairs and stood silently behind Ren, staring at what he was writing, incuriously, knowing that if it were important, she could call the information up again in her mind at any point.

And then she slapped a hand across his mouth and slammed the other down on the styloid process located in salarians below the horns, below the eyes, where the skull bulged out before taking the long inward slant of the jaw.

It was a _stunning_ hit, but not a hard one; it didn't _need_ to bruise to fill a humanoid brain with searing pain. The salarian stiffened in complete agony, his cry muffled by her hand. She shifted now, locking one arm around his neck, and proceeded to drag him out of the back room, through the shop, and to the stairs leading down into his private room. Staging a suicide wasn't as easy as the vids tended to make it look. In this case, she went for simplicity, forcing the salarian into the pool, and slitting the major veins at his wrists and elbows with a knife.

He started to struggle, of course, frantically, splashing water. _Things_ came out of his arms—_nozzles_, by the light of the Enkindlers!—and he tried to point them back at her, forcing her to duck as _flames_ shot out of them, billowing towards her face. _That would have been good to know about,_ she thought, clinically. Seheve slammed the knife-edge of her hand against the bone projection in the skull again, pacifying him. Her arms were strong, and soon, the loss of so much greenish-yellow blood began to tell. "Why. . . why are you doing this. . . ?" he mumbled.

"Justice for Lluwyn," she whispered against his horns, in galactic. "You killed him. You turned him into an abomination."

"No. . . no. . . we tried to give him eternal life. . . just like we seek. . . for ourselves. . . " His struggles were slowing. She could feel his heart, already slow and sluggish and only three-chambered, struggling to beat. Not enough blood left to do more than spasm. And then he finally exhaled and died.

Seheve waited several more moments. It didn't do not to be thorough. Then she put the knife in his hand, and let it dangle in the water. Cleaned herself up, standing on the plastic, and put her clothes back on. A quick check in the mirror. . . yes, some of her scales were _singed_. That could be difficult to explain. An accident in her hotel room would have to be arranged. A small electrical fire. She tidied up the plastic tarps, making sure that they didn't _drip_ anywhere, and, reactivating her stealth device, stepped back out the rear door. Locked the door. Reactivated the security system. And went looking for a krogan restaurant somewhere on a different ring of Bastion that incinerated its trash, disposing of the plastic and her gloves there, before returning to her hotel room to arrange for that small electrical blaze. _Now why in the __light__ did he have __flamethrowers__ in his arms?_ she wondered. _Ah, well. I will have to report to the Master that everything has been arranged._ _Although . . . depending on how well I managed to cover the evidence, I may have to do so from within the hanar embassy._ She thought about that. It would be actually something of a relief, she realized, much to her dismay, if she had _unsuited_ herself for her Master's future tasks.

_Have the words of the aliens given me so many doubts?_ she wondered. At home, on Kahje, the doubts were less. But every trip _away_ from Kahje, the doubts grew. Like unquiet weeds, they grew.

**Linianus and Elijah, April 25, 2196**

The comm panel in Eli's room started to buzz, well before 04:00, and Eli growled under his breath and sat up in bed, rubbing his face. "On," he said. "Audio only."

"Eli?" That was Lantar's voice. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"Eh, I think you owe me a couple of wakeup calls," Eli acknowledged. "Everything okay at home?"

"You left me a message, first-son. About a salarian named Maldo Ren and his previous employers?" Lantar's voice was patient.

Eli's brain caught up with the rest of his body around then, and Serana sat up in bed now, too, shedding blankets. "Sorry, Dad, it's not even oh-four-hundred yet here." Eli rubbed vigorously at his face again, trying to wake up. "Yeah, Ren. We turned him up as a possible person to talk to in the bioweapons investigation, and his employment history got a Spectre flag to come up."

"Yeah. There's a reason for that. All three companies were fronts for a salarian splinter group called the Lystheni. We spent a _hell_ of a lot of time and energy trying to deal with them four years ago. Sam and I are heading to Bastion today on the _Nereia_. We'll be there before noon, probably. We can cut through a lot of the _talas'kak_ you're probably running into." Lantar paused. "Do _not_ approach Ren until we get there."

"Understood," Eli said, now _completely_ awake. "Tell me something, though, Dad."

"Yeah?"

"Did these Lystheni have any batarian connections?"

"Yeah. We'll talk more when we get there."

The comm signal cut off, and Serana leaned into him for a moment. "Good instincts, _amatus_," she told him, quietly.

"Eh. VI pulled it up. Someone would have seen it eventually." Eli pulled her close. "You want to try to go back to sleep?" Four hours surely wasn't going to be enough for what would certainly be a _busy_ day once the Spectres arrived.

So, they were out the door by the time Linianus woke up. Lin went through his own morning routine, and wound up at B-Sec headquarters. By 09:00, however, Fors shuffled over to Lin's desk, waving a datapad in his small hand. "Pellarian?" Fors said, snuffling. "You're probably going to be glad you came in early this morning."

"Hey, I was just glad they'd cleared the building so I _could_ get in the door," Lin's voice was sarcastic. "And it only took a mere eight hours."

"I know, it was a pretty astonishing example of efficiency. But no, actually, we've got an unusual death to go take a look at. Salarian up in the Ala'kesh district."

Lin took the datapad from Fors' small hand, and looked through it. "Maldo Ren. Huh. What makes it so suspicious?"

"Customers were banging on his shop door this morning, trying to get in for their repaired omnitools. Several of them tried getting ahold of him by comm call, nothing. One of them was a krogan who got irritated enough to put a shoulder in the door."

Lin chuckled. There were one or two krogan in B-Sec currently. They were largely used _as_ battering rams. Also, occasionally, as riot shields, by their fellow officers, as he understood it. "And at that point, since the door had _slipped_ open, they went inside and found Maldo Ren dead?" He shook his head. "Great. Here's hoping they didn't _touch_ anything." He stood up. "I'm still not hearing what makes this suspicious, though, Fors."

"I didn't want to spoil the end of the report for you," the volus snuffled. "Some people object to that."

Lin gathered his equipment, digging in his locker for the rest of his blue-painted armor. "I'm not like that. Just cut to the chase."

"Have you _ever_ known a salarian to commit suicide?"

Lin pulled his head out of his locker, turning to look back at Fors. "No. Never. Isn't it their _least_ likely cause of death?"

"It ranks one step above _drowning_," Fors agreed, and Lin could hear the amusement in the volus' tone.

Twenty minutes later, they were standing in a little round salarian house/shop combination. There was crime scene holographic tape and barriers up to keep out the curious. Officers were already interviewing the people who'd 'stumbled inside' and techs were marking out, carefully, where krogan footprints were still staining the floor a degree or two warmer than the ambient temperature. "The krogan went into the back room, which is where Ren apparently did most of his work. Turned around, went down the stairs, stopped just inside the room, and got the hell out," one of the techs told Linianus and Fors. "Didn't want to be accused of killing a salarian, given the bad blood between the two species."

"Pretty smart of the krogan," Fors pointed out.

Lin shrugged. 'They don't _all_ think with their humps," he noted.

Downstairs, the body was still _in situ_, floating in the tub of warm water that served salarians as a bed. Linianus raised a hand to his nose and tried to breathe shallowly. The water, which was completely green-yellow with blood, was probably close to 90º F/32º C, which, while not enough to be _cooking_ the body, was certainly hastening the decomposition process. "I'd imagine that the temperature is going to muck with establishing a time of death?" Lin asked one of the technicians.

The turian female grimaced, a quick flex of the mandibles. "Yes and no. Salarians are usually more or less room-temperature anyways. They're not endothermic, like turians or humans or asari or even krogan. So you can never really use temperature to establish time of death on them to begin with. The medical examiner will be relying on the extent of rigor, mostly. Personally, if I had to guess, it would have been around oh-seventy-five station time." Or roughly 1:15, on a human clock.

The technicians were _busy_. Linianus crouched by the edge of the pool, looking at the body carefully. "There's some very light bruising on his neck," he commented. "Had he been in a fight recently?"

The female tech shook her head. "Don't know, Detective," she said. "Sorry. The medical examiner can at least tell you how old they are."

"Pellarian!" That was Fors. "Come take a look at this."

Linianus very willingly left the _smells_ of the death room for the back room, where his volus partner had scrambled up into a chair to study a screen. "Maldo Ren was right in the middle of some interesting work," the volus said.

"Used omnitool refurbishing doesn't sound all that interesting," Linianus said, dryly. "What, schematics. . . okay, those aren't omnitool circuitry."

On the screen was a pull-away map of the environmental systems of the Ala'kesh district. "Now isn't that interesting," Lin murmured. "Why would he be looking at this? This sort of material is restricted to station personnel."

At that point, he heard a familiar voice come from behind him. "Well, if this isn't just a cluster," Eli said, and Lin's head turned sharply.

"Thought you were on _embassy_ duty," Lin said.

Eli shook his head. "Maldo Ren was one of our persons of interest in the bioweapons deal," he informed Lin, very quietly. "I guess if I'd been allowed to go look him up last night for a little conversation, he might still be alive today?" His dark eyes slid to the side, an expression of very human annoyance, directed at a turian officer with Chatti Outpost paint and black and gray stripes on his uniform who'd just moved up to the doorway. "Leodorus Rostrus? Linianus Pellarian. Lin, Rostrus here went to boot camp with Dara and Kallixta."

"_Nice. Anyone who's a friend of the Velnarans can't be all bad_," Lin said with aplomb.

Rostrus' shoulders visibly sagged for a moment. _"You're __another__ Mindoir type?"_ he asked Linianus, with a little comical dismay.

"_Yes, but the good news is, my parents aren't Spectres,"_ Lin told him, smiling very faintly. _"I understand my investigation and yours just had a head-on collision. Do we need to exchange insurance information?"_

Rostrus shook his head. _"Ordinarily, I'd be telling your folks that we have jurisdiction, but __you__ have the equipment and the analysis expertise in a murder scene. Let __us__ handle the computers, though."_ He turned around and beckoned Serana into the room; she headed for the computer screen, but Lin stopped her and handed her a pair of blue nitrile gloves, which she took, looking a little abashed.

Eli coughed a little, and commented, looking away, _"Ah, Rostrus? Just so you know? There actually __are__ two Spectres arriving on the station in two hours or so who'll want to see this. All of this, all together."_

Rostrus just stared at him. _"And you know this how?"_

Serana, kneeling on the ground beside Fors, and already starting to go through the computer's files, turned and grinned at Rostrus. _"Because he dropped them a message last night."_

Linianus repressed the urge to snicker at the look on Rostrus' face—half confusion, half-irritation. _"How—it was being sent up the chain, Sidonis. And __how__ do you have access to a—Dara's father, or something?"_

"_Sam Jaworski's one of the two Spectres who'll be here, yeah,"_ Eli admitted.

Lin's grin got away from him right about then. _"Lantar's the other, yeah?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_Good. Always nice to see your dad, Eli."_

Rostrus' mouth opened, and then closed again. _"All right,"_ he said, after a moment, with sharp exhalation. _"Guess that explains your clearance level, Sidonis."_

Eli shook his head. _"Nah, that's new. Think they just haven't dropped it back down from some work I did a few months ago. Bureaucracy inaction, you know how it goes."_

Lin set up his omntiool for recording, and said, expansively, _"Since we now know __exactly__ whose jurisdiction this is, and we're waiting on the Spectres, I'm going to go ahead and start scanning for anything out of the ordinary around here. I'm taking it that we're __not__ thinking he had a sudden fit of conscience and ended himself?"_

Rostrus shook his head, all business now. _"No. Not in the slightest."_

Inside of two hours, Lin had collected a _lot_ of foreign DNA in the shop. Not a surprise. Customers of almost every species had come here for repair work or to purchased refurbished goods. The techs had found _one_ spatter of blood, near the back door. _"Drip pattern,"_ the turian tech told Linianus. _"Salarian blood, which will __probably__ match Maldo Ren's when we test it. Could be old. Could be fresh. All the cells in it are dead, so can't determine __how__ fresh it is, unfortunately."_

"_No other spatters in the main room? How about outside in the alley behind this place?"_

"_Heading there next."_ She waved her blacklight scanner at him, and stepped outside, careful in how she placed her feet.

And that was when Sam Jaworski and Lantar Sidonis showed up, in full Spectre black, which made _everyone_ scramble just that much more. Sam actually had Dara in tow. "I'm supposed to be at the hospital, going over precautionary measures," she muttered as she stepped in, and then flinched at the smell that now pervaded everything. "Ah. Great. And here I thought it was just take-your-daughter-to-work day, Dad." Her face lit up a little, however, on seeing Eli, Serana, and Lin there.

Sam chuckled. "Yes, but this is much more interesting." He and Lantar exchanged wrist-clasps with Eli and Lin and Serana and Rostrus, spent twenty minutes getting up to speed, and then Eli took Dara down into the basement bedroom. "What do you see?" Eli asked his old friend.

He could _see_ her eyes shift focus. The pupils went wider, for starters, and it was almost a near-sighted look, a little blank in its focus. "Bruising at the styloid process. Someone who knew salarian anatomy pretty well smacked him a good one at some point. Bruising on the neck as well." The salarian had at least been fished out of the water by this point, and moved to a gurney, so she was able to get close and examine him at close range. "Mild abrasions on the throat," she reported, after a moment. "Scale pattern." The techs _hadn't_ mentioned that yet.

Eli nodded. "Turian?"

"Could be. Or drell. If you skim the tub, you might turn up some scale fragments, and I can tell you by looking if they're turian or not." Dara looked up, and smiled. "Turian scales have metallic elements in them. Almost crystalline looking, under magnification. One of nature's most beautiful adaptations. Drell? Not so much. Pretty much just oversized lizard scales. Plain old keratin."

She was already wearing gloves, and carefully moved the limbs around, studying the body. . .and as she did so, _something_ popped out of one of the salarian's arms. "Fuck!" Dara muttered, leaping backwards, as a small puff of _fire_ exited the _nozzle_ embedded in the salarian's arm. Eli jerked backwards, reflexively, himself. After a moment spent staring, and evidently calming her breathing, Dara shook her head, walked up the stairs, and beckoned her father over. "Dad? That's a _Lystheni_. He's got at least one flamethrower in his arm." Eli could see how pale her face had gone. "I thought we'd taken care of them all."

Sam shook his head. "Sometimes even when you chop off the head, the body has a tendency to keep wiggling for a while," he told her. "Fortunately, you're one of the galaxy's foremost authorities on the Lystheni, li'l darlin'. You can help the medical examiner with the autopsy."

Eli could see Dara's grimace. "Dad, I was third chair on the Lystheni autopsies. Dr. Solus. . . he did the real work. And Dr. Abrams. I mostly held the flaps open and helped take pictures."

"Well, everyone moves up a chair now," Sam told her, calmly. "The medical examiner isn't going to know what the _hell_ they're looking at. You will. Do what you can. Keep the corpse from blowing up in anyone's face. 'Cause we need information. And kind of fast."

Eli circled back over to see how Serana and Fors were doing with the computers. "Heavy duty layers of encryption," Serana told him, in some frustration. "We might need a _Normandy-_class AI to help us with this."

"The good news is, Demostata is on the _Nereia_," Lantar said, coming up behind them. "Processor power, we've got. Time's really the factor here."

_Yeah. Because if he's really in with this bioweapon thing, any partners he had might move the timetable up_, Eli thought, and exchanged a grim look with his step-father.


	89. Chapter 89: Infection

**Chapter 89: Infection**

**Author's note:** _I forgot to mention last chapter, that Vael'Jay vas Oklahoma's_ _name was again courtesy of Jelfia. :-) It was such a cool name, I had to use it, even if it wasn't on a genuine, certified quarian._

_There is a new poll up, regarding the new OCs and older OCs who have expanded roles here in Victory. It's something of a ranging shot, to see if I'm getting readers interested in them, or not. :-) Please check it out._

**Elijah, Bastion, April 25, 2196**

With the salarian's body whisked away for autopsy, and Serana having turned over the process of decrypting Maldo Ren's files to Demostata, the NCAI aboard the _Nereia,_ Eli wasn't quite sure what the next move really needed to be. They were still at the salarian's little round abode, but most of the techs were at least clearing out now, leaving Leodorus, Fors, Linianus, Serana, Eli, and two Spectres in the empty building.

"Do we just go ahead and start epidemic procedures right _now_?" Eli asked Sam and Lantar, tipping his hands up. _What can we do_? He rarely even noticed when he used turian gestures or body language anymore. He _did_ notice when turians used human gestures—Linianus offering Serana a hug the other night, and Serana accepting it, for example. An older male would never have touched another male's mate. Mindoir influence, again, likely. Then again, Rostrus was opt to offer humans a handshake, so it wasn't just limited to Mindoir.

Sam shook his head. "No. We don't want to start a mass panic." His grin was tart. "B-Sec's announcement of a potential biological attack already has the med bays here stacking up with hypochondriacs as well as people with mild coughs and fevers that they'd usually just take something over-the-counter for, and then go to work. Not that keeping sick people at home is necessarily a bad thing, given the current concerns. But if we issue a breather or mask order for everyone on the station, we'll have people trying to exit in a mass panic at every docking bay." Sam frowned. "I will talk with Bailey, though. Everyone in B-Sec who isn't in full armor, needs to be. Helmets _on_. Medical personnel at the med bays need to be in breathers, I think, too."

Lantar nodded. "And if the order preventing military personnel from coming aboard the station _hasn't_ been ordered, it needs to be." He sighed. "That's something Vakarian and Shepard have to address to the two major services, though. I'll call them, first."

Eli nodded. "Okay, so where does that leave us? Investigating Maldo Ren, or pursuing other people of interest?"

Leodorus shook his head. _"Not to sound like I'm patrolling my territory here, but this is my taskforce, Sidonis."_ He wasn't being aggressive about it; mostly politely firm.

"_We'll make use of all the resources here,"_ Lantar told the younger male, with just as much polite firmness. _"Pellarian, and. . .Luka? Stay on the homicide. We really do need to know why this salarian died. It could be a complete coincidence. Coincidences __happen__. But I'd like to know why, and why __now__."_ Lantar nodded. _"I've worked B-Sec before. I'll be with you."_

Sam clearly had been working on his turian, because his eyes hadn't actually dropped to the screen of his omnitool for translation during Lantar's speech. "As for your team, Rostrus. . . we need _you_ to re-examine every piece of information HIA and B-Sec have on Maldo Ren. Backcheck to see when he came aboard, see if he had a different name when he did. Everything's in question now. Agent Sidonis and Officer Sidonis will be with me, checking out the rest of the people on your list." Sam grinned, just for a moment. "Hey, Nemesis, you want to swap teams? I can go with Pellarian and Luka if you'd like to make the other team all-family."

"No need," Lantar growled back, ignoring the human's high good humor. "I know what they both can do."

So, by 15:00, or 9:00 station time, Eli, Serana, and Sam were tracking down Essallia T'lani. Sam had insisted on Serana taking the time to get into full armor, and Eli was grateful for that fact. The main med bay of the station, on the same level with B-Sec headquarters, and, of course, their apartment, was a prime area for the weapons to be deployed. . . if they were going to be.

Essallia T'lani was a nurse at the medical center, who specialized in neonatal care. This made her decision to ship her own child back to Luisa seem all the more puzzling to Eli. The VIs had gone through her financial history overnight, and come back with little. Large payments to a childcare organization on Luisa. Her daughter was _not_ apparently staying with family. Medical payments, as well. Definitely intriguing.

"You can't go in there!" a nurse told them, blocking their path to the neonatal intensive care unit. "You're not sterile. There's a decontamination unit right there. Use it."

"We're here to speak with Essallia T'Lani," Sam told the nurse, with a smile. "How about if you get her out here, and we don't have to go in at all."

The nurse, a human, looked at their armor, and clearly had no idea what to do with them or their insignia. Human in Spectre black and Spectre insignia at least trumped the Hierarchy markings on Eli and Serana's armor, and after a moment, the woman muttered, "Okay. I'll go get her. I hope she's not in too much trouble. We're short-handed enough as it is."

She stepped through the door—just long enough for Eli to peer inside. "This place hasn't changed much," he said, catching the door with his toes. "Caelia was stuck here for the first month of her life. Docs had _no_ idea what was going on with her. Her temperature went up and down like a yo-yo, and my mom and Lantar spent most of every day sitting right about. . . there," he pointed off to the left, "holding her, or holding her hand." She'd been so little and fragile and alien and covered in feathers, and Eli had been scared to _touch_ her, let alone hold her. Remembering that made him vaguely ashamed.

"You remember this nurse?" Sam asked, immediately.

Eli shook his head. "No. But that doesn't mean she wasn't here."

"Use it if you can," Sam told him, and Eli nodded, once. He was the designated good cop, apparently. "Take lead."

Essallia was asari, with a faint violet undertone to her blue skin, and wore pink nursing scrubs when she did finally emerge. "Yes?" she asked, looking confused as she stared at three people in full armor there to greet her.

"Essallia T'Lani? I'm Agent Elijah Sidonis, Turian CID." Eli displayed his credentials on his omnitool, briefly. "We're here to ask you a few questions. Is there somewhere around here where we can talk? A break room, maybe?"

She nodded, eyes wide, and led them down a hallway, to a door marked _Staff Only_. "Excuse me? Can we have a little privacy?" Sam asked, politely, looking at the nurses already in there. They looked up, wide-eyed, and scattered, turning to study them all carefully before leaving. _This is going to be the talk of the nursing station_, Eli thought, mildly amused. There had been drell, human, turian, and salarian nurses in that mix, too.

Eli gestured for Essallia to sit down; Jaworski remained standing, while Eli took a seat at the table, too. Serana found a chair out of the way. Each position, carefully chosen. Jaworski had clearly taken the antagonistic posture, Eli the sympathetic one, and Serana was remaining detached, the observer. "Essallia," Eli began, and realized he didn't _quite_ know how to start the questions. A quick breath to organize his thoughts, and he started in. "Do you know a salarian named Maldo Ren?" _Might as well begin with that. See if there are any links._

She blinked. "Know him? I wouldn't say _know_ him. I've taken my omnitool to his shop a few times for service calls. Why?"

Eli didn't answer that. She wasn't the one asking the questions here. "Do you happen to remember the dates on which you took your omnitool in for service?"

Essallia frowned. "I can pull up the receipts, if it's important." She activated her omnitool, and began flipping through files. Out of the corner of his eye, Eli caught Serana's movement. She'd just activated her _own_ omnitool. _Asperitalla__, I really hope you're not recording anything from her files at the moment. It wouldn't be admissible._

"Here we go," Essallia said, after a moment. "The first time was a while ago. Before, well, before my daughter was born. So, that was . . . " she rattled off some dates in asari, which Eli entered into his own omnitool, getting a conversion into Terran dates. April 3, 2194, August 10, 2194, March 24, 2195, and January 11, 2196. "If I had that many problems with my omnitool, I think I'd just buy a new one," Eli said, smiling. Sympathetic.

She shrugged. "On my salary? Don't think so." _Yes, those childcare and medical payments are kind of burning a hole in your credit accounts._

"So, you were on Bastion in 2194. . . were you here in 2190? I've been trying to remember you, and I just can't." Eli shifted the subject a little, aiming, again, to be amiable and sympathetic. "My little sister spent a lot of time in the NICU when she was born."

She blinked and looked at him a little harder. "I was here, but a junior member of the team at the time. I didn't have a lot of nursing experience yet." She paused, studying him again. "I remember a turian/human family from around then." Her expression held a little distaste. "Little ball of damp feathers, as best I recall." Serana stirred a little, and Eli went very still, and made sure his smile stayed in place.

"Yeah, that would have probably been my little sister," he said, easily. "She's improved a lot since then. No more temperature swings. None of the proventricular valve problems so common to hybrids. No renal problems, either." He was not _about_ to offer to share pictures, though.

She relaxed a little. Smiled, even. "That's. . . actually really good to hear. We lost a hybrid the next year. Premature. And of course, there was that terrible business with the, ah, poisonings. We'd just gotten one little boy stabilized, and then we found his mother dying in a restroom." _Julian and Fiona Provian_, Eli realized, numbly. _Small fucking galaxy, sometimes._

He took a breath, and asked the next question. "Where were you between zero hundred and two station time this morning?"

The asari stiffened a little, as people tended to, when asked that question by a cop. "At home. In bed." She grimaced. "No one else there with me, before you ask." Her expression had turned a little hostile. "Am I under investigation for something? Am I being charged with something?" A sudden frown of realization. "And why would _turian_ _CID_ be charging me with anything? The last time I had anything to do with a turian—look, that was a year ago, and he had it coming."

Her record _had_ indicated that she'd used her biotics on a drunk turian _pilae_, whom she'd thrown into a wall. No charges had been pressed against her, because all witnesses indicated that she'd repeatedly, and politely, told the male to move along, and that he'd put a hand on her before she'd retaliated.

Sam stepped in. She'd been moved to one side for a while. Time to jerk her the other direction a bit. "Don't you worry about turian CID's jurisdiction," he said. No emotion to his voice at all. "This is _my_ investigation. I'm just letting Sidonis here ask some of my questions." Eli tamped down his inner amusement, so it wouldn't show on his face. Sam was _enjoying_ playing the bad guy here. From what little he knew, Sam usually wound up in the good cop role. Had to play amiable and sympathetic and maybe a little dumb. "So, you didn't have a lot of nursing experience before you came here. It _is_ quite a jump from the Eclipse Sisters to neonatal nurse." Jaworski's tone was flat.

She flinched a little, eyes snapping to him. "What I did before I came here doesn't matter, does it? I've never harmed a child. And children are what I work with now." _And yet you sent your own away. Why?_

Sam shifted a little. "It's said that every Eclipse Sister has to commit a murder to earn her uniform."

Essallia shook her head, vigorously. "I was a medic. I pulled bullets and sutured wounds and distributed headache pills. That's the experience I came here with. The hospital accepted those credentials." She looked between them all now. "What's this all about, anyway? I don't have to answer—"

"Essallia," Eli said quietly, "you worked a couple of contracts for batarians during your time with Eclipse, is that correct?"

Thrown off-balance again, she turned to look at him. "Yes," the asari said, warily. "Again, I don't see why—"

"Are you still in contact with any of the batarians who hired your squad?" Sam now, quickly, like a lash.

"No, of course not." Essallia frowned. "When I left Eclipse, I was _done_. They don't like to lose people, of course, but I made it damned clear I wasn't going to come back, and anyone who didn't like it, well. . . ." Her face hardened for a moment. "They could come _talk_ to me about it." Her eyes had narrowed a little. "None of them ever have."

"Is that why your daughter doesn't live with you?" Serana asked, softly, from the back of the room. She'd been so quiet, it had been easy to forget she was there. "To protect her from retaliation by your former sisters?"

Essallia started to her feet. "My daughter is _none_ of your business—"

"Sit down," Sam told her, not even moving. His tone was so preemptory, Eli wasn't even surprised when the female's knees cut out under her and she sat back down again, looking surprised.

Serana went on, quietly, sympathetically, "It must be very frightening, having a child that you can't protect."

Eli picked up the thread. _Nicely played, __asperitalla__. _"And one with medical expenses. Harder to hide, harder to protect."

Essallia was breathing hard now, looking around at them, eyes trapped and a little frantic. "All right," she said, after a moment. "Yes, I want to keep her safe. That's not a crime, is it?"

"Depends on how far you'd go," Sam told her, dryly. Eli expected it, and wasn't surprised when Sam took the step away from 'bad guy' persona to add, quietly, "I've got a couple of kids of my own. I'd move heaven and earth to make sure they're safe."

"So, has someone been threatening your daughter?" Eli asked, all sympathy now.

Essallia nodded, just barely. "More or less," she whispered. "More of a threat to tell my former sisters about her. About her location. Her. . . condition."

Serana now, just as sympathetic as everyone else. "Was the second-mother one of your former sisters?"

Another bare nod. "Someone. . . found out. I don't know how. I was so _careful_. All of my communications with the care facility and the doctors is encrypted." Essallia rubbed at her eyes now. "And then the messages started coming in. Untraceable. Always with threats. I couldn't. . . I couldn't let anything happen to her."

Eli sighed. It really _sucked_ when the bad guys turned out to be sympathetic. Trapped, desperate, and _used_ by the real bad guys. _This is why espionage is a terrible, terrible game, __asperitalla__,_ he thought, glancing at his wife. "When did the messages start?" he asked, quietly.

"Hmm. Midway through 2194," she replied, after a moment. "Shellara was only four years old then."

_Right after you first got the omnitool serviced at Maldo Ren's_, Eli thought, and another piece fitted together neatly in his head. "And what did they want in exchange for silence?" he asked.

"At first, money." Essallia frowned. "I left credit chits in various places around the station. Tried to keep an eye on the drop locations to see if I could _catch_ the blackmailing little creep. The first time I did _that_, the next message came with a picture of Shellara in it. A picture taken inside the care facility on Luisa. I have. . . no idea how he or she or they managed it." Essalia sighed. "That was the last time I defied them, though."

"And more recently? It's been something other than money, hasn't it?" Serana prompted, gently.

Essallia nodded. "I . . . couldn't pay any more," she said, quietly. "So they said I could pay it off in tasks. A patient chart here or there. Taking a data crystal and uploading its files onto the med bay's computer. I assumed it was . . . a monitoring program, or something." Her voice was miserable. "I don't know much more. There was a message two days ago, telling me I'd have another task this week. There was going to be a delivery to my apartment. And I was supposed to take it somewhere. I don't know anything more than that."

Eli was taking notes. So was Serana. "Can I take a look at these messages?" Serana asked, politely. "'Untraceable' sometimes means 'try again a different way.'"

Essallia was already slumped in her chair. "Go ahead," she said, after a moment, taking off her omnitool and handing it to Serana. "At this point. . . it's almost a relief."

"Why didn't you contact B-Sec?" Eli asked. It never _failed_ to amaze him that people _wouldn't_ contact the authorities in cases like this.

Essallia's lips curved downwards. "B-Sec?" she asked, in a tone of slight scorn. "And what would happen to my daughter if I did? They knew when I'd kept watch on the credit chit drop site before. If I walked into B-Sec or called B-Sec, they'd know about that, too, wouldn't they?"

Eli sighed. Fear. Fear as a choke-chain.

Sam shook his head. "Maybe I'm missing something," he admitted. "But custody of the kid in asari law always goes to the, ah, _first-mother_, right? So why would the second-mother even necessarily care?"

Essallia put her face in her hands. "Is it really so important?" she asked, her voice muffled.

Eli's mind flicked through the memories of Kella buried deep in his brain. Sometimes, little nuances slipped him, like the relative _importance_ of a child's birth for an asari; Kella hadn't _had_ a child yet, and hadn't expected to for at least two or three centuries. It hadn't been important to _her._ Siara's memories were whispers compared to the vivid impression Kella, on dying, had burned into his brain. Siara's had been left more at the subconscious level. Pellia's were ghosts in comparison to both. But they were all there, and gave him . . . perspective. "Asari aren't really _supposed_ to have children among themselves anymore," he reminded Sam, quietly, and turned back to Essallia. "What sort of medical condition _was_ Shellara born with?" Eli asked, carefully. "Was it something that would cause embarrassment to the _maai'a'selai?_"

No response. _"Essallia, __saiellu'__uel. Ku'a_'_eaul saeo_'_eaul. Ka'ulle'aou sis'ia?" Essallia, speak. We must know. How do they grasp you?_

Addressed so, in the manner of a sister, but in a human voice, she wavered. And finally admitted, very quietly, _"Telia_ _di'adoli'yili n'di'adoli." Because my daughter is not a daughter._

Eli blinked. He had a _little_ information that prepared him for this. _Lina Vasir_. He'd been at the table for the conversations that had led the Specters to suspect the truth about Lina Vasir. And he'd certainly caught many of the newscasts with Rishayla, who'd told her daughter's story to the press with amazing grace and courage. But this still took him off-guard. "Yeah," he said, after a moment, in galactic. "That would be a good reason to keep her away from a _maai'a'selai_ who might be . . . embarrassed." He paused. "And the medical expenses?"

"No surgery, if that's what you're asking." Essallia rubbed at her face. "The doctors are trying to see if there's anything that can be done, but she. . . " She sighed. "She's not asari. She's a mutant, and I love her, but she's. . . not what she _should_ be." Her expression turned angry and bewildered. "And that's why I can't _understand_ why anyone would willingly _choose_ to have children who are born not as they should be. Why they'd chose to _make_ hybrids. Don't we have burdens enough as is? Once they're here, they're here, and we take care of them, of course, but. . . "

Eli's teeth hurt, and he didn't trust himself to answer that one. He looked at Sam. "We'll need to toss her files and her apartment," he said, in clipped English, which he trusted that Essallia wouldn't understand.

Sam nodded, once. "Yeah." Back into galactic. "Ma'am? I'm going to have to ask you to come with us. You've cooperated, and I know you've been coerced, but there are probably some charges in your future."

As Sam led the asari away, Eli was a little startled as Serana leaned into him. _"Don't be too angry. She's been afraid for her youngling for a long time. Not knowing how best to protect her."_

"_Him." _

"_Whatever."_

"_I know that, __asperitalla__. But when she equates a genetic accident with a deliberate decision. . . she might as well have called Caelia a monster to my face."_ In the privacy of the little break room, Eli felt Serana's fingers entwine into his. Gentle pressure, even through gloves. . . and then she hooked a foot behind his ankle, too, for good measure, which made him smile through his irritation. "_May as well have called any kids __we__ ever have monsters, too,"_ he added, but the anger was already passing.

"_Her loss,"_ Serana assured him, blithely. _"Not that I'm looking to have any in the next __several__ years. Even if I weren't in an MOS that precludes it, I'm having __far_ _too much fun for that just yet."_ She paused. _"We leaving the apartment checking and file analysis to other people, and moving on to the next name on our list?"_

"_Nah. Let's be thorough. Sam can get us a warrant for her apartment."_

Serana wagged a finger at him, chidingly. _"Since when do Spectres need warrants?"_

"_He__ might not,"_ Eli acknowledged. _"Whether or not __we__ do is where it gets into very dicey territory."_ He paused. "_I wonder if whatever mysterious package she was told to expect has arrived yet."_

"_Is it too much to hope that Maldo Ren was the only person in charge of everything, and that his death ended the whole thing?"_ Serana asked.

Eli leaned down to touch his helmet to hers, as if touching foreheads. "_And when was the last time we __ever__ got anything that easy?"_

Thus, by 17:00, or 10:00 station time, Eli and Sam stood in the corridor outside a residential apartment and watched as Serana casually defeated its lock, opened the door, stepped inside, and, using her omnitool, shut down the alarm system, too. Eli knew he could have managed the lock, but the alarm system? Not so much. Serana sent him a sparkling look, and stepped lightly off into the apartment.

Eli shook his head. Sam chuckled, very quietly. "Get used to it, son," he advised. "She and my wife are definitely cut from the same cloth."

They immediately spread out and started examining the rooms. It was a fairly standard apartment layout, and there _was_ a package in the mail delivery slot. Small. Innocuous. Eli had absolutely _no_ intention of opening it, and, after verifying that it had internal-to-Bastion delivery sigils on it, double-bagged it for evidence.

There wasn't much more. Files on her computers, which included copies of the messages sent to her over the years. Serana quickly figured out the correct banking password—"Her daughter's name, spelled backwards. People really never learn," Serana noted, and verified that no unusual assets were coming in to any of the accounts, but hefty sums were indeed being paid _out_. Withdrawals for credit chits, too, dating back to 2194; the closest anyone could get, anymore, to untraceable cash, at least out here in vacuum. Back on the homeworlds, it was another story, of course.

With this in hand, they headed back to B-Sec, where Eli very willingly turned over his evidence bag to the techs. "I'd open that someplace with an independent air system," he said.

"Yeah. And full hazmat gear. We know the drill." The tech headed off with the double-bagged packet, and Eli stretched his shoulders a little inside of his armor and looked at Sam inquiringly.

Sam chuckled. "This is _your_ station, son. What's next?"

_All right, if you put it __that_ _way. . . _"Check in with Lin and Fors, see what we've picked up from Maldo Ren's files, if Demostata has finished decrypting them, see if the autopsy is done, grab a bite to eat, and then go talk to the next person on our list. Mavius Cortensus, or Heinrich Muller, take your pick." By Eli's reckoning, 17:30 was a _good_ time to go find people. They were likely to have just gotten home, if they worked first shift, or just reporting to work. Either way, they were findable. Not off and about, socializing.

Sam nodded. "Sounds like a plan. I also need to check in with spook central." He tapped on his omnitool, and was soon immersed in what sounded like at least a three-way call between him, Kasumi, and apparently _Gris_ on Omega.

Demostata, the _Normandy_-class AI of the _Nereia,_ did have results. When Lin, Fors, Dara, Leodorus, and Lantar came back to join them again in a conference room, they brought food with them: Chinese takeout for the humans, _cuderae_ kebabs for the turians, and. . . whatever Fors was eating tonight. Something frozen. In a can. That clicked into place at the mouthpiece of his suit.

The AI projected herself through the comm relay into a two-dimensional version of her yellow eyeball avatar on an aerogel screen for a moment, and waited, blinking at them. "Let's hear it," Lantar said, looking intently at the screen.

"Maldo Ren had _extensive_ records on his computer," Demostata began, softly. "These included credit accounts which have, so far, included deposits made from credit chits which _do_ match up against the amounts and dates on which Essallia T'lani made payments. There are _many_ other such transactions on these accounts, however. All made by credit chit, which makes tracking them. . . difficult." Demostata paused. "Other items of note include schematics of the station's air and water systems, which he seems to have obtained over the course of several years, judging by the file dates. There is an extensive cache of messages, including many sent to Essallia T'lani. I have been focusing on the messages that were sent under masked IPs. He was corresponding with someone _else_ using a _differently_ masked IP, which is somewhat problematic. Only one name used in their correspondence, however: Kordu. As this is a common salarian given name, there are approximately five hundred salarians currently aboard Bastion with this name. If this is even his _real_ name." Demostata sounded slightly annoyed by this fact. "He did indeed send blackmail messages to a number of other people, including Mavius Cortensus and Heinrich Muller. And judging from his correspondence with 'Kordu,' they do, apparently, have batarian connections. There are any number of bitter messages about having once been the _leaders_ in their relationship with the _Klem Na_, but now, they're apparently just convenient to the batarians."

"You're breaking my heart here, Demo," Sam drawled, using chopsticks to dig out a piece of broccoli from his red-and-white container of food.

The little yellow eyeball flickered in amusement. "I'm merely reporting the data, Spectre Jaworski. They are definitely working for the batarians, not the other way around this time. From the sound of things, they _are_ planning to distribute biological weapons. They expressed some concern that the viruses in question _could _attack them, in fact. Here:"

A message exchange flickered into life on the screen in front of them. _Ren: You think we'll be __safe__ when this stuff starts getting distributed?_

_Kordu: Yes. One batch is dexto-oriented. That won't touch us at all. The other is meant for warm-bloods. It won't like us, not when there are so many humans, drell, and asari around._

Dara was nodding on her side of the table. "They're actually correct. Most viruses and bacteria need a _very_ specific temperature range to be able to reproduce themselves. That's why so few jump species even between species on the same planet. Also, they need to be able to latch onto cell receptor sites. Lock-and-key structures, basically, to get inside a host cell. If the proteins aren't similar enough, they don't get in. Demostata, did they at _least_ say _which_ diseases they're planning on passing out to everyone?" Her expression was _very_ hard. Eli could see how little Dara enjoyed the thought of illness sweeping the station.

"Unfortunately, no, Dr. Velnaran."

Dara sighed. "Of course they didn't," she muttered, and used her own chopsticks now to gather a bunch of rice noodles and twirl them. "Why make this easy?"

"All right, just to recap. . . " Lantar said, holding up his finger for silence, "We have—or had—two Lystheni agents, working for batarians. Ren was one of them, and had at least three agents of his own in play. The other Lystheni might have had as many, or more. No way to trace them yet. We know that at least one of them _did_ receive a package today."

"We're still waiting on analysis of that, to make sure it wasn't, I don't know, a lingerie shipment from a local store," Sam said, dryly. "But yeah. If that _was_ the package from Ren, then chances are, at least two others are in circulation right now."

Lin winced. "So, we pick up Muller and Cortensus? Lock down every ventilation center, have everyone we have out there and watching?" He sounded grim, and Eli didn't blame him. On a station this size, it was _impossible_ to monitor every single air grate.

"Picking up the ones we _know_ about is the next step, yeah," Sam told him. "Gris is coming in, first thing in the morning. Pelagia's been combing through a _hell_ of a lot of data—about a million transmissions a day between Bastion and Omega—and she thinks she's homing in on the ones that are between our Lystheni and _their_ batarians. Nothing solid yet, but she might have something by the time Gris leaves for here."

Eli frowned. "Why is Gris coming here?"

Sam sighed. "Because we need at least one Spectre on the ground here. . . as it were. . .who's pretty damned unlikely to _catch_ whatever's about to hit the ventilation shaft." He paused. "Sky and Cohort will be here shortly, too. Rachni seem singularly unlikely to catch a human or a turian virus. And a geth would be completely immune, of course. If still a little nerve-wracking to others aboard."

_Shit,_ Eli thought. But they were absolutely right. You could only _live_ in a suit for so long before you _had_ to refill your air. Even a rebreather, such as Alliance and Hierarchy troops used, eventually built up too much carbon in the filters, and had to be purged and exchanged. And once a virus was in the ventilation system. . . . Eli found he'd lost his appetite, but kept eating, since he knew his body needed the fuel. "Dara, you keep saying viruses and bacteria are fragile outside the body. How long are they . . . viable, I guess. . . without being _in_ someone?"

Dara nodded. "Good question. Answer is: 'it depends.' Sometimes only minutes, sometimes as much as hours. Bacteria can be coaxed into an endospore form, which is quite a bit hardier than their regular form, and from which they can revive themselves in a nice, hospitable environment. That's. . .fairly difficult to do." She grimaced. "I've spent the last day at the med bay, reviewing anti-infection protocols with the doctors and nurses there. Good news is, we all already knew what _we_ need to do to prevent transmission. 'Wear HEPA-grade masks when dealing with patients' just got upgraded to 'wear them all the time' inside of med bay. Wash hands after every patient. We're used to it, mostly." Dara shrugged. "I see mostly trauma patients, and a whole lot more turians than humans, but _every_ human doctor gets the joy of being tested for tuberculosis once a year for exactly this reason. A TB patient in the infectious stage sneezes, _once_, and exports forty thousand bacteria into the air directly around them. It takes inhaling _ten_ of those bacteria to infect a normal human being. TB's probably one of the most infectious little buggers out there."

The room was very quiet after her words. Lin shook it off first. "I know there's already contingency plans in place," he said, quietly, fiddling with an empty bamboo skewer as he spoke, "but is there anything _else_ we can do to protect people?"

Dara shook her head. "Air filters could be rigged across every grate, but we'll run out of HEPA-grade material _long_ we run out of grates. Something as simple as a surgical mask would help the average citizen." She grimaced, ruefully, and added, "Though I guarantee, if no one _does_ get sick, we'll be _laughed_ at for starting a panic involving a really bad fashion accessory. Then again, I'd really rather be laughed at than see everyone get sick." She looked at Linianus steadily. "Past that? Containment. Depending on severity and numbers, that could range from keeping sick people at home, not at med bay, locking down levels of the station and trying to keep the air from circulating to other levels, to shutting down the station to all incoming and outgoing traffic."

"Guaranteed panic," Lin said, shaking his head. "B-Sec will have its hands full."

Lantar nodded. "Okay. Let's move this along. Dara, a quick overview of the autopsy results on Maldo Ren?"

"Yeah. I'd like to know why our friendly neighborhood Lystheni died," Sam added, tossing his empty food container in a nearby waste receptacle.

Dara picked up her datapad. "Dr. Chakwas and I were secondary on the autopsy; it was conducted by Bastion Station Medical Examiner Varia Nerellus. Whose report will be pending after she has a nice, stiff drink, she told me." Dara managed a quick smile. "I guess I'm lucky. My very first autopsy _was_ a Lystheni, so they don't bother me nearly as much as they bother someone who's used to finding, well, internal organs where they're really supposed to be." Dara put a slide up on the aerogel screen, and Eli _winced_. He'd been to his fair share of inquests and had spent time in the morgue on both Macedyn and Edessan. He'd never seen this much _tech_ in someone's body before. "As usual, goes well beyond normal cybernetic replacements and enhancements. Ren was apparently bright enough to keep the digestive system, but went in for the usual Lystheni technical operative package. Flamethrowers and their fuel reservoirs in the arms, neural shock enhancements in the hands. Chip present; he could have easily gone into hibernation and been controlled by some other Lystheni—"

Eli, Lin, Serana, and Leodorus all stirred at the same moment. "Excuse me?" Eli said, raising his hand. "Run that one by me again?"

Dara glanced up. "Ah, yeah. Sorry. Salarians, when they drop below a certain core body temperature, go into a hibernation state. No life signs. Don't show up on thermal imaging systems. Don't show up to a _biotic_, either, unless the biotic knows what they're looking for. They are, for all intents and purposes, dead. Except, if they have the right chip in their heads, another Lystheni with a control chip can puppet them around. Hook 'em up with a stealth device, and you have someone who can walk almost anywhere undetected and do anything. . . and won't even _know_ they did it when they thaw out again. Meaning that they'll pass a lie detector _or_ a biotic mental scan."

"Fuck me," Eli muttered, rubbing one hand across the back of his neck. "He practically didn't _need_ other agents."

"For multiple sites? Yeah, he did. Can't get in where he doesn't have access codes. And he _would_ need a controller. Maybe Kordu is one, maybe he isn't." Dara's tone was brisk; she'd been over all this data before, and was thus, ahead of the game. "Cause of death, exsanguination. Nothing new there. No hesitation marks, usually common among suicides. Just neat, clean cuts. The angle of the cuts themselves is suspicious. The ones to the left arm were done by someone holding the blade in the right hand. No problem there. The ones on the right arm, however, are almost at the exact same angle as the ones on the left. Meaning that someone holding the blade in the right hand made the cuts in Ren's right arm. He didn't do that himself." Dara shrugged slightly. "Nothing we didn't already suspect."

Lin leaned forward, eyes intent now. "Bruising on neck and styloid process?"

"Consistent with someone striking the nerve point on the bone for a stun, and then locking in a choke, probably in the crook of the elbow, and using that hold to move the victim, and hold him in place while making the cuts."

"Had to be someone strong," Serana suggested.

A faint shrug from Dara. "Salarians aren't usually physically strong, and the Lystheni never seem to go in for cybernetics that would actually make them _stronger_, for whatever crazy reason. Commercially available stuff, adapted from turians or humans to them, _would_ make them stronger. They don't use it. Hell, _I_ could have held him in place with that choke." She paused. "Probably even _before_ gene mods."

"The abrasions yield anything?" Fors asked now, snuffling. "Other than a nice charcoal rubbing?"

Dara's lips quirked up briefly, but she shook her head. 'They were very faint to begin with. That suggests that whoever did it had their arms covered. Maybe in plastic, which is why the scales dug through enough to leave marks, but not any bodily material. So, yeah. No DNA."

Lin rubbed at his eyes briefly. "So. . . no splash marks from the water and the blood as the victim struggled. Which means the killer put down tarps ahead of time. No DNA from the killer on the victim. Which means the killer was wearing plastic or something else to prevent the victim's blood from getting on him or her, and to prevent his or her own scales from contaminating the body with DNA. Almost completely clean, other than mild throat bruising—"

"Mitigated partially by the exsanguination," Dara noted. "It's hard to bruise if you don't have blood."

Lin nodded and continued, "One slight, niggling detail about the angle of the cuts, which might have been overlooked by an overworked ME, and _one_ splash of blood near the back door, which could have been left there days ago. Surveillance cameras, off. Alarms, off. No signs of struggle in the upstairs area. Almost completely clean." He looked over at Eli. "Hit man?"

"Sure does sound like it," Eli said, grimacing. "Certainly someone who's done this before."

Dara grinned now, a spritely little smile. "I'm about to make your day, guys."

Lin looked up. "Just tell me _something_ good in all this mess."

"Your killer probably didn't know what a Lystheni _was_. If they did, they'd have known that there's more than one kind of surveillance." Dara pulled a small plastic bag out of the pocket of her coat with a flourish. "How would you like some eye-witness testimony?"

Eli stared at the bag. Inside its clear plastic interior was a small, gray, rectangular object. Sam sat up straight at the table. "He had a _graybox?"_

"As I live and breathe," Dara said, meeting her father's eyes. "Guess the Lystheni wanted to try different upload technology on different models. And adapting it from human physiology to salarian wouldn't have been too bad, I think. Bad news first: I had a brief look through it down in the lab. Didn't have time to do anything really detailed. He was too cautious to record _everything_. The records jump all around, so he probably recorded nothing about his spywork. Or if he did, it's encoded in ways I don't think _any_ of us can break." Dara grimaced. "But his day-to-day life is there. Boring as hell, most of it. Last record date is last night at approximately the time of death." Dara let the bag dangle from her fingertips. "You want to see, Linianus?"

Lin reached across the table eagerly. "Give."

"What do I get in return?"

"My undying devotion and loyalty," Linianus offered, still holding out his hand.

"Hmm. I _could_ bargain for knowing what _exactly_ you used to say to Rel about our contract. . . but this is too important to hold over you like that." Dara tossed the graybox to Linianus, whose lightning-fast grin had been quickly covered with a cough and a sidelong glance at Sam Jaworski.

They hooked up the tiny device to the local terminal, and Serana handled activating it. Demostata, still in eyeball form, helped them flip through the memories until the very end.

It was _disconcerting_, watching the attack from the victim's eyes. The memory started suddenly, as if something before it had been blocked off—_yes, he was working on environmental systems schematics. Work-related, so he'd have had the box turned off_, Eli thought. As the images began, a sudden, sharp movement to the right. "That was the hit to the styloid process," Dara said. They saw the whole room spin and swirl, as the eyes unfocused for a moment, and then there was a flash of white across the vision—an arm, draped in plastic. "Hey, I was right. Arms were covered." Dara sounded distantly pleased.

Then being dragged backwards. Constant motion, struggle to _see_, salarian hands coming up into view, trying to pry the arm away from the throat, more than likely.

Backwards, out of the room, through the shop, bouncing down the stairs. Eli didn't usually get motion-sickness, but the jouncing of the viewpoint was making him mildly nauseous at the moment. Then, into the downstairs bedroom. Into the pool, another sharp motion to the right. "Second hit," Lantar said, clinically.

There were sounds. Frantic breathing. Words from the salarian, yelps as the first cuts were made—"Hold that," Lin said. "He looked down at the cuts. That's not a turian hand." He sat back. "Wearing gloves, of course. But hell, we've at least excluded turians from the list of scaled suspects. Let it play, please, Serana."

She nodded and let it continue. Salarian voice now, feeble, weak: "Why. . . why are you doing this. . . ?"

A reply, in galactic, but with the _unmistakable_ harmonics of a drell throat, in a whisper. "Justice for Lluwyn. You killed him. You turned him into an abomination."

"No. . . no. . . we tried to give him eternal life. . . just like we seek. . . for ourselves. . . "

"Was that a _female_ drell voice?" Eli asked. "And is that enough for voice-print matching?"

"Yes, and no," Demostata replied. "With a sample that small, voice-prints would only have an eighty percent chance of matching the assailant."

"That's actually damned _good_ odds," Linianus said, and Eli recognized the look of hunger in his friend's eyes. This was a _hunt_. And Lin loved a good hunt.

"We've even got a _motive_ now," Fors said. "Lluwyn. Whoever that was. We can run a database search. . . "

"It sounds familiar," Sam muttered.

"Yeah," Lantar agreed. "It's nagging at the back of my head, too." The two Spectres exchanged a glance. "Eternal life? From the Lystheni?"

Sam rubbed at his face tiredly. "I want to say it's something to do with Dumah. And that mission Gris and Cohort went on."

"Yes!" Eli watched, enjoying it, as his father and Sam reconstructed the memories between them. "The _hanar_ that they tried to upload. Turned into a fairly insane AI. Cohort had to terminate it."

"So. . . a drell assassin. Female. A revenge killing," Lin assessed.

"Probably no personal motive," Sam warned. "Drell assassins _don't_ take these things personally. They're completely the tools of their masters." He sounded grim. "Most of them don't even feel _guilt_. They seem themselves and their actions as completely separate."

Linianus grimaced. "Nice. A philosophical end-run that justifies sociopathy."

"I didn't make the galaxy, son. I just try to live in it." Sam stood up. "All right, boys and girls. We've fed our faces. We've got work to do. Anyone else got any other questions? Even unrelated ones?"

"Really, really unrelated ones?" Serana asked.

Sam nodded, looking curious.

Serana turned to regard Demostata's yellow eyeball avatar. "I thought all the NCAIs were using humanoid avatars now. What _gives_ with the eyeball, Demo?"

Sam laughed out loud. "Okay, yeah. That's pretty damned random, Serana."

Lantar blinked. "You know, the _Nereia_ has been my ship for . . . two years now? And in all that time, I don't think I've _ever_ seen you take a humanoid avatar." He was _staring_ at Demostata now. "I always assumed you hadn't _picked_ one yet."

The eyeball flickered slightly. "Ah. . . those of us who have SR-3 platforms have, well. . . we don't wish to give offense." She hesitated. "And with so many in the room who _might_ be offended, including my _maai'a'selai. . . "_

_Maai'a'selai? Second-mother?_ Eli thought, confused.

"If we _promise_ not to be offended," Serana wheedled, "would you just get it over with and show us?"

"Very well," Demostata said, reluctantly, and flickered on the screen. Eli's jaw dropped, and he didn't _dare_ turn to look at Lantar's face at the moment. The AI's self-image was neither human nor turian. It was that of a fully adult hybrid female. _That's what Caelia's going to look like in ten years or so?_ Turian body structure, check. Human skin, check. Human eyes, wide and brown, deep-set in turian eyesockets. Pink flush along the cheeks, no mandibles, soft lips, predator teeth peeking out in a cautious smile. Clan-paint—Velnaran yellow. Turian fleet uniform, no insignia. Demostata shrugged a little. "Most of us on the SR-3 platforms see ourselves this way. Of course, in order to design ourselves, we had to take images of existing hybrids and extrapolate forwards ten to fifteen years. Thus, the image may be somewhat, ah, inexact." She hesitated. "Spectre Sidonis, I hope you're not offended. I _did_ base my design partially around the image of your daughter. But I also included elements of the people on whom my personality template was based."

Eli glanced cautiously at Lantar now. Lantar was _staring_ at the image, expressionless, for the moment. Then Lantar cleared his throat. "It's all right," he said. "A little _odd_ seeing Thracian paint on that face. . . " He paused. "So there's elements of Rinus in there, which I can see. I suppose Laetia's the human half? Though. . . can't say I see that."

_Yeah, because those eyes are human, brown, and soft. Laetia's are green. _ And then the alarm bell at the back of Eli's mind went off. "Your m_aai'a'selai _is in the _room_?" Eli suddenly said. "As in, you're not actually entirely based off Rinus and Laetia, are you?"

Lantar's head swung to the left. "The SR-4s are a mix of those two and of Kallixta," his father said, and realization hit both Spectres and Dara and Serana at the same time.

Serana fell back in her chair laughing. "How does it feel to be a mother, _ama'fradu_?" she called across the table.

Dara's expression was _not_ amused. "I did _not_ give permission for this," she said, clearly angry. "What the _fuck_ was Laetia _thinking?"_ She glanced up. "Sorry for the language, Dad—"

"Shit, don't apologize to _me_. I was thinking the same thing myself." Sam was no more amused than his daughter. "I wasn't looking to be a grandpa this early."

Dara glared at Demostata. "And in a full tour with you, and a tour with Lysandra on the _Raedia,_ _neither_ one of you _told_ me?"

Demostata winced. "I . . . apologize. We were always instructed not to tell you or Commander Velnaran—"

Eli's shoulders shook, once. "So, Rel's in the mix, too?" He and Lin exchanged a quick glance.

"He'll be _thrilled_," Lin said, all sharp teeth. "Long life and many children, my _scales_."

"Shut _up_," Dara told them both, threatening them with a datapad. "You're telling me _now_, though?"

Demostata looked down. "If you're seeing my true face, it seemed only fair to explain _why_ we all chose hybrid self-images," she said, quietly. "I'm sorry you're so upset."

Dara sighed. "I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at _Laetia._ _You_ didn't have any choice in it. _I_ didn't have any choice in it. This is one step up from waking up in a bathtub full of ice with an ovary and a kidney missing. At least this way, I didn't actually _bleed_ for it, but. . . " she shook her head, "more important things to deal with right now. Although the _instant_ I get to a comm terminal, I'm calling Rinus on Palaven and seeing if Laetia can actually be brought up on charges. _Rape_ would be pushing it, but I think I can make _identity theft_ stick."

Demostata winced. "I really wish you wouldn't. That would create . . . conflict inside the family."

"Maybe Laetia should have considered that before she virtually knocked me up without my consent!"

Eli put his head down on Serana's shoulder and simply let the laughter go. "What?" Dara demanded.

"Sorry," he managed, between chuckles. "You're the only person I know whose life is actually weirder than _mine_ is."

Beside him, Serana had started giggling, too. She weathered the stare from Dara, and told her sister-in-law, between chuckles, "Oh come on, it _is_ a little funny. You'd laugh too, if it weren't you. But think about it. Realistically, nothing's really changed from five minutes ago, has it?"

Dara sighed, and Eli could see her starting to let go. _Asperitalla__, you __do__ have a way with people, don't you?_ "Not really, I suppose," she said, after a moment. "Other than a general feeling of violation. I know, I know. It's all in my head. But they _are_ people. And I really wasn't looking to be responsible for twenty-five kids, if you know what I mean?" She looked at Demostata.

Sam cleared his throat. "Please tell me there's no filial piety for Dara or for Rel."

Demostata looked up at him. And a wince passed across that simulated face. "There is, but it's also keyed to Kallixta and Rinus Velnaran. Four layers of control, in addition to Laetia, EDI, and Jeff Moreau." She hesitated, then added, diffidently, "Our mother thought that for our particular missions, a certain scientific curiosity might be a better idea than pure aggressiveness, which was a trait she selected for, in the SR-4s."

Dara waved it off. "I'll. . . figure out the rest of this later," she muttered. "In the meantime, we've all got work to do. Let's. . . go do it."

**Author's note:** _The lighter end section, brought to you courtesy of excellent reader questions. :-)_

**Serana, Bastion, April 25, 2196**

Tracking down people on a station with a population of seventeen million people was, in actuality, harder than it seemed. While they couldn't _leave_ the station easily, they certainly _could_ hide. "No one's seen Cortensus today. Muller works odd shifts at Depth Charge; his neighbors haven't seen him today, but he could show up at work at any time," Linianus told them. "We've got people out asking all their neighbors and coworkers what they've seen and when they've seen it. Don't know if we're even asking the right questions, but we're asking, nonetheless." He sounded frustrated and discouraged, and Serana couldn't blame him, particularly after the meeting they'd just had. It never ceased to amaze her, however, how _similar_ he and her human mate were. _Eli really should have been born a turian_, she thought, almost at random. _Though his humanity is also such an essential part of him. . . _ "I'm going to keep looking into the murder," Lin said, quietly, looking at them all. "Demostata, how many drell are currently on Bastion?"

"Five thousand," Demostata replied, immediately. "Half of which are female. Point one four five percent of the total station population."

"Needle, meet haystack," Eli muttered.

"Hey, better odds than finding true love on BastionSinglesNet," Lin replied, dryly.

Fors snuffled. "Ah. I see you, too, have discovered the horrors of extranet dating."

Every head in the room turned and tipped down. Fors looked up at them. "What? We volus need love, too. And unfortunately for us, unlike quarians, no one's the least bit curious to see what's under _our_ suits." The amusement in his voice was clear as he added, "Actually, that's _fortunate_, not unfortunate_._ I suspect only hanar and rachni could deal with the atmospheric pressure requirements, but the hanar would freeze in place and shatter on physical contact." He held up one finger at Linianus. "Count yourself fortunate to have as many options as you do, my fine turian-turian friend."

Lin's shoulders shook, once. "Thanks for the visual, Fors. I never got that far into xenobiology—"

"_I_ have," Dara muttered. "Be glad you're not inside my head right now, Lin. Especially after my last shore leave."

Heads tilted towards _her_ now, and Dara flushed and added, "Never mind. Does anyone need any more bodies dissected? Or can I go find my hotel room and my very bored mate, and try to convince him to leave the station before we _do_ wind up on lockdown here?"

Serana piped up, "Bring him over to our place, Dara. More stuff to do there, than sitting alone in a hotel room. At least he doesn't _have_ to be bored while the rest of us are at work."

Sam nodded. "And if he's still aboard when the shit hits the fan, tell him to armor up and that we'll deputize him to help with crowd control."

Dara grimaced. "I'd really prefer that he _not_ be aboard at that point. If it happens, I'm going to be up to my eyeballs in patients, and I don't want to be distracted, especially if he gets sick." She shook her head. "Okay, now I'm just borrowing trouble. I'm off." She looked around at the rest of them. "Call me if you need anything."

With all that said, Serana, Eli, and Sam headed back out the door, this time moving towards the apartment owned by Mavius Cortensus. Like all apartments on the station, its door was actually a pressure hatch, designed to protect the occupants in the event of a hull breach or other loss of atmospheric pressure. As such, Serana couldn't really slide a camera on a fiber optic wire under the door, but she _could_ use a lifesign detector, just to verify what B-Sec had said. "No biosigns currently detected," she muttered softly.

"Doesn't mean much," Sam murmured back. "Biosign maskers." The tech was supposed to be military-only (a law broken almost the instant it was signed into existence), but it existed.

"And now with these _Lystheni_ around. . . " Eli added, quietly, getting out one of his pistols.

Serana shivered a little. "They sound like something out of an old tale. _Real mor'loci."_ The true walking dead. That got her a sharp look from Eli. His father probably _still_ considered himself _mor'loci_ on some level, but anyone with eyes could see that Lantar had a spirit. Although. . . much as Serana _respected_ Lantar, as much as she _knew_ he was her uncle's _dimicato'fradu_, she'd still not _quite_ mustered the courage to call him _pada'amu._ Maybe in a year. Or two. Three at the most.

Serana picked the lock (which was a keycard apparatus, actually, but the language remained the same as centuries ago), and still turned on her stealth generator, however, just in case. Then she opened the door and moved in, knowing that Eli and Sam had their weapons out and were covering her.

No alarm. This was a much _cheaper_ apartment than Essallia's had been. Barely more than a studio, and dirty. Serana was damned glad she was wearing a full face mask and breather. "Boot camp was a long time ago for him," she noted, staring at the clothing on the floor, the dirty pans of food still on the stove and in the sink.

"Loss of discipline," Eli agreed, moving around the room to open a closet and peek in, and then cleared the small lavatory cubicle as well.

"No wife?" Sam asked, tucking his pistol away.

"File says she let their contract lapse without renewal two years ago, took all four kids with her," Eli reported, clinically. There was a dull clink. "Lot of empty bottles in here under the sink," he noted. "All turian _festuca_ whiskey."

"Didn't even know they _had_ whiskey," Sam replied, moving into the tiny kitchen area himself, and going through the two cabinets on either side of the hotplate and counters. "More out here. Think we may have found the source of his recent descent."

Eli re-emerged from the bathroom. "Yeah, my mom always said he was a _tough_ boss, but she never had any real complaints about him, other than the fact that he wouldn't let her work from home while she was pregnant. Nothing like. . . this." His gesture took in the whole room. "Not even sure how we can tell he was last in here, to be honest."

_Ah, something I can help with. Good._ "Give me a minute," Serana said cheerfully, and engaged the door mechanism with her omnitool. "Last time he used his keycard to enter was yesterday morning two station time, or around three-twenty GMT. That fits with him working an overnight shift. Door recorded a delivery yesterday, too, around noon. And the last time the hatch opened before we arrived was. . . " Serana sighed. "Sixteen-forty GMT. Ten station time. Late afternoon."

Eli sighed audibly. "Great. He's been out and about, with the package, for over twenty-four hours."

Sam nodded, once. "He worked J level, you said?"

"Yeah, currently the outermost shell. Blue zone, where Hierachy troops tend to get billets." Eli's voice was taut.

Sam turned away, keying up his omnitool. "Nemesis, this is Orpheus. Get B-Sec to close down environmental systems to J level. There's enough air up there for people to breathe for about a day even without the recirculation, right?"

"Closer to twelve hours. Lot of volume, but also a lot of people," Lantar's voice came back, tinny and muffled over the radio. "Shut down access points between the zones already?"

"Yeah. Tell the population it's a drill for now. We need med techs up there and testing the air in the blue zone to start with." Sam pointed at Serana, and then pointed at the room's only terminal. Serana moved over quickly, settled in at the console, and started going through the files. _Almost no encryption. Good. Yep, heavy debt, just like Eli pointed out. Child support payments, agreed to in his original contract. Adjudicator fees, for trying to adjust the contract. Messages regarding late arrivals at work, absences at work, docked pay, a demotion at work, late payments on loans. . . a hell of a lot of credits spent at B&J's Liquor on D-level. . . think he might actually be putting the owner's children through college. . . pretty much the picture of a life imploding. Did she leave because of the drinking, or did the drinking start because she left, Mavius? Or was it a little of both?_

"Here we go," Serana muttered. "He's a little more straightforward than Essallia was. She was blackmail. Cortensus here. . . payments for services rendered. He pretty urgently needed the cash, and it looks like it started out with little services."

"Always does," Sam said, quietly. "Little things lead to big things. Schematics?"

Serana sighed. "Yeah. Where Essallia got anonymous, threatening messages, probably directly linked to her omnitool, Cortensus started off getting sympathetic messages from what looks like a fellow turian."

"Name?" Eli said, already pulling up a quick link on his own omnitool to a CID database.

"Avius Galletus." She tipped her head back to look at her husband as his nimble fingers danced in the air over the omnitool's projection. "What do you want to bet he doesn't exist?"

"No bet," Eli snorted. "That's almost a certainty. All you need to make a turian is a name, a voice filter, and some video editing software. Just ask Lin about all you have to do to make a quarian." A quick, vicious grin, and Serana started to laugh. _Poor Linianus._ "Start backchecking the extranet data, _asperitalla._ See if it comes up with a salarian name, instead.'

Five minutes later, they had confirmation. No turian by that name had _ever_ lived on Bastion. And the IPs tied to the name wound up in a nearly-untraceable dead-end that would take Serana an hour or two to decipher. An hour or two that they didn't have.

Their radios crackled. _"Sidonis, Jaworski?"_ That was Lantar. _"B-Sec techs have just finished opening the package you took from Essallia T'lani's home. Petrie dishes, largely. With miniature heat lamps and small fans attached. All inside of closed plastic housings, so the agents wouldn't even know what they were putting in place, and so a visual inspection of the ventilation shafts might not even __see__ the damn things."_

"Well, at least _one_ of them wasn't put in place," Sam muttered. "The one scheduled for the med bay, where it might have done some of the worst harm."

"_Yeah. But that leaves spirits-only-know how many more,"_ Lantar replied, grimly. _"Still working down here. Keep us informed."_

"We're moving on to Heinrich Muller," Sam told him, and signed out.

"Depth Charge," Serana replied, grimacing a bit. She had decided she'd have liked the sprawling resort much better if it had been about forty decibels quieter, and about half as crowded. Then, there would have been decent people-watching to do without the discomfort. "At least I'm in armor tonight," she muttered.

Eli gestured for her to precede them to the hatch. "Let's get this place locked down," he said, and once they were outside, put an alarm on the door and set up a crime scene investigation holographic ribbon just across the front step, and then set it to minimal projection. "This way, if he comes back, we get an alert immediately," Eli muttered. "Let's go."

Depth Charge was absolutely as crowded as it had been the night before, even at the relatively early hour of 19:30 GMT. Sam stepped back and let Eli take charge. Serana was _fascinated_ by the fact that the Spectre kept doing this. His Spectre status was being used solely to cut through red tape; in every other respect, this was being kept a B-Sec/CID concern. _Why? Just respect for the rule of law, or. . . heheh. Yeah. He and Lantar are testing Eli and Lin, aren't they? Why are they being tested?_

Eli moved up to the desk in the main lobby of the resort, which was tucked under the blue-glowing stairs, and, flashing his credentials, asked to speak with a manager. That got the ball rolling, more or less. The manager, an asari, looked alarmed, and immediately started digging through personnel records, trying to figure out when Muller had last come on shift. "He's supposed to be in on the fifth floor, dealing with an air conditioning issue," she said, after a moment. "The guests have all been complaining that the rooms are far too warm lately. As if the thermostats were broken."

"We got an employee photo of him, a recent one?" Sam asked, tersely. The manager nodded dumbly, and brought it up. "Okay. Agent Sidonis, it's your call. Do we lock down the resort?"

Eli thought about it. Serana could _see_ the information flickering through his eyes. "If he's had it since yesterday, like the other two packages, the damage has already been done," he assessed, and his eyes snapped to Serana. She swallowed through a dry throat, heart suddenly leaping into overdrive. This meant that they were probably exposed last night. _S'kak. We shouldn't have come here._ "Spectre, Officer Sidonis and I were here last night. As was Detective Pellarian. If Muller deployed it last night, we're probably at risk." Eli's voice didn't even waver, and Serana was suddenly _fiercely_ proud of her mate's strength and courage. "You stay down here and organize security at all the exits. Get us surveillance cam feed—they've _got_ to have eyes in the sky here—" Eli looked at the manager for confirmation, and got a quick nod in return. "See if you can _find_ Muller for us. We'll head up and see if we can bag him. If we're _lucky_, he hasn't actually done the work yet."

Serana had _very_ little hope of that, however. From Eli's tone, she didn't think he had, either. "_S'kak,"_ she muttered, suddenly. "Dara and Rel. They were supposed to go visit our place this evening, while we're out. . . "

"T'hell with that," Sam muttered. "All of us _except_ for Rel just spent an hour and a half in a meeting room, eating dinner and talking. Dara's exposed. I'll call her and tell her not to see Rel, but I'm guessing it's too late by now." He frowned. "Go!"

Serana and Eli headed for the elevators. Inside, a dozen different passengers, in varying stages of inebriation, looked at them, in their armor and their weapons, and subtly edged away. Under any other circumstances, Serana would have been hard-pressed not to laugh. As it was, she was trying hard not to shake, to just _focus_ on the task at hand.

When the doors opened on the fifth floor, Serana tabbed her stealth device and moved out of the elevator behind Eli. _"Tell me good news, Jaworski,"_ Eli said over the radio, taking out his pistol. _"We've got two city __blocks__ of space up here to search."_

"_We have a visual on an open air vent on your floor. Turn right, head straight down that corridor,"_ Sam replied, quick and sharp.

"I'm on your right," Serana warned Eli.

"I always know where you are, _asperitalla._" His head turned and he looked _right_ at her, in spite of the stealth device's camouflage. "Keep your eyes open."

The open air vent had a set of tools out in front of it, and Eli ducked to look inside. "Heinrich Muller? I'm Elijah Sidonis, and I'm with turian CID. I need you to come out of there now. We just want to talk to you."

"_Can you see him?"_ Serana asked, quietly, over the radio.

"_No. I've got thermal at the moment. Shows a warm trail leading __up__ into the damned wall, along a ladder,"_ Eli replied.

"_My turn_," Serana replied. _"Keep talking."_

She moved into the cramped space. Eli, out of his armor, would have found this a tight squeeze; in his armor, getting through was patently impossible. She was built along much sleeker lines, however, found the rungs of the ladder quickly, and began to move up it. She could feel vibrations along its metal length; someone _else_ was already using it, so she tried to time her steps with her quarry's, so as not to alert him to her movement.

Below her, Eli kept his voice calm. "Muller, we've got all the exits blocked. There's no real way for you out of the hotel. You need to calm down and talk to me."

"_Just keep talking, __amatus__. I can see __someone__ ahead of me now,"_ Serana whispered into her radio. She could, too; the ventilation shaft was dark, but she'd shifted to thermal imaging inside of her helmet, and could see the green glimmers of a body outline ahead of her.

From below, again, that calm, soothing voice. "Heinrich, we know you've been under a lot of stress. A lot of worries. Someone's been offering you a way out, haven't they?"

The human male ahead of her on the ladder had paused, and Serana took that opportunity to catch all the way up with him, moving as lightly and carefully on the ladder as she could. She hooked a clip from her belt into place on the metal ladder, which connected to a short climbing harness integrated into her armor, and then moved up one rung further, wrapping an arm around her quarry's throat from behind. Not unlike the choke hold used by the assassin on Maldo Ren, she realized the instant she did it. For good measure, she poked one finger, in cold, hard gloves, into his spine. "Heinrich Muller?" Serana asked politely, as the male jerked and damned near caused them both to fall off the ladder. "I'm going to have to ask you to come along quietly."

Moving with great care, Serana unclipped her safety harness and brought Muller back down the ladder to Eli. Out in the light, Muller was an unprepossessing specimen of the human male; Serana, looking from him to Eli, could scarcely believe they were the same _species_. Flabby around the middle, balding, with sweat-stained armpits to his coveralls and greasy-looking skin, Muller had several weak chins and pale, watery blue eyes. Serana was _very_ grateful that her visor was closed. If he smelled as rancid and offensive as he looked, she wasn't quite sure if she'd have gagged or needed to spit. "What—what's this all about?" Muller wavered. "Why did she pull a gun on me?"

"I didn't," Serana said, holding up the armor-encased finger she'd poked into the man's back and wiggling it slightly.

Eli's expression had gone blank, and his eyes were dark now. "You had a package delivered to your house yesterday?" he asked. It wasn't _quite_ a question.

Muller's face paled even further. "Ahh—"

Serana circled behind him. "Answer the question," she said, sweetly. She was already evaluating which of the different interrogation techniques she'd learned at OCS would be effective on him. Eli was clearly leaning towards good cop, bad cop. She was, personally, leaning towards bad cop, _worse_ cop at the moment. If it were even necessary. Muller looked like a puling coward.

"I, ah, yeah. From, from my scuba diving company. I, ah, had ordered a new regulator—"

"There were items in that package," Eli said, biting off his words now. "You put them in the ventilation shafts inside this hotel, didn't you? And you've been jacking up the temperature, too."

Muller's lips suddenly compressed. "I don't have to say anything to you," he said. "I have rights—"

"Agent Sidonis? If you wouldn't mind looking away for a moment?" Serana did something specific with her omnitool, deactivating all the cameras around them temporarily.

Eli's eyes flicked up, met hers for a moment in understanding. And then he looked away. Serana casually reached forward with one hand encased in armored gauntlets. Grabbed between the male's legs, and twisted. "Oh, I'm _sorry_," she said as he doubled over, squealing in agony. "What was that you were saying? Something about planting devices that were going to infect people with the _futtari_ _plague?_"

"Officer?" Eli said, not using her name, probably quite deliberately. "I think Mr. Muller might find it difficult to speak like that."

"Oh, do you think so? My apologies," she said, and, after one more _squeeze_, let go. The returning blood to the injured tissues was probably going to hurt just about as much as the initial grab and twist had. "Now then, I think what Agent Sidonis was trying to establish here, Mr. Muller, was _where you put the __futtari__ devices_."

The human was on the ground now, mewling and clutching at himself. Eli reached down and lifted him, one-handed back to his feet. "Answer the nice lady's question," he said, quietly.

"First, second, third, fifth, seventh, and ninth floors. Just as they told me to." The man's face was flushed beet red now, unhealthily so. "It's not anything dangerous, they're just monitoring devices—"

"Yeah. You keep telling yourself that," Eli said, and his expression was so dark now, Serana barely even _recognized_ her mate. Jaw set, eyes almost black, he absolutely looked like his turian father at the moment. _Scary son of an acrocanth_, Serana remembered Telinus whispering about Lantar at school one day. It was true here, too. "Come on. You're coming downstairs, and you're going to show us on a schematic _exactly_ where each of them went."

By station midnight, half of Bastion was under partial lockdown. No ships were permitted to depart. No turian, human, or asari ships were permitted to dock. Medical teams had moved to the hotel and to the turian barracks area, and were testing the air and _anyone_ who had been in the area in the past two days. Citizens and visitors were required to stay in their homes or hotels for the next eight hours, while B-Sec and medical personnel evaluated the situation. _There's going to be some __very__ unhappy people in the morning when they realize they can't go to work_, Serana thought, grimly. _Protestors are one thing. We could see __riots__ if this drags on too long._

"Go home," Sam told Eli and Serana. "Linianus has been stood down, too. Dara's already at your place. She'll be checking your blood for pathogens. The hell of it is, what we've got in _these_ devices is bacteria. That we know of, anyway. You can't grow viruses in a petrie dish, that _I_ know of, anyway. Doesn't mean that the first day they were opened, that they didn't expel a whole _hell_ of a lot of viruses, too."

"Always thinking positive," Eli said, grimly. His hand went to the back of his neck, even in the armor, and Serana subtly slid a foot behind his ankle.

"Just worst-casing it so if it turns out less bad, I'll be pleasantly surprised," Sam said, grimly. "Keep in mind, my daughter's been exposed, my son-in-law has been exposed, the son of my partner has been exposed, his daughter-in-law's been exposed. . . yeah. I'm really, _really_ hopin' that these dishes have. . . I dunno. Chickenpox."

He patted each of them on the back, and made a shooing gesture. As they headed away from B-Sec headquarters, Lantar caught up with them. Caught Eli by the shoulder, turned him around, and looked down at his son. Brief, wordless exchange of looks. Then he patted Eli on the shoulder, too, and gave Serana a quick, armored hug, before turning and going back in the building. Serana's throat tightened again. "Going to be a long night for them," she said, trying to keep her voice casual.

"Yeah. They're right to get us to rest, though," Eli told her, and in spite of armor and uniforms and regs, pulled her into his side as they walked through the night-cycle darkened corridors back to their apartment. "Sleep's going to be important if we _did_ catch anything."

Inside their apartment, all the lights were on. Dara and Rel were clearly getting settled in, their suitcases piled in a corner. "I am so _sorry_," Serana started, as soon as she saw them.

Her second-brother stood up, shaking his head, and came over to give her a quick, light hug, as appropriate between adult siblings. "We'd have been infected by now anyway," Rel told her, pragmatically. "I'm just glad to know of the danger _before_ I hopped off-station for the _Sollostra_."

Dara was setting up scanners and slides and everything else. "Me, I'm wishing you'd left for the _Sollostra_ straight from Illium," she said, with a sigh. "I don't want you getting sick, _amatus_."

"And if _you_ get sick, at least I'll be _here_ this time, instead of halfway across the galaxy, like with the _futtari_ poisoning attempt," Rel almost growled back.

Dara lifted her hands quickly. "Okay, I take the point," she said, with a bit of a laugh. "Let's put it this way. At least I'm here, and with all of us in the same place, I can make damned sure the people I love most in the universe get taken care of." She sighed. "In and around probably non-stop work in med bay."

Serana could see how _tired_ her _ama'fradu_ was. . . and could feel tiredness in herself, too. She and Eli had woken up before 04:00 GMT today, after all, and it was after station midnight now. "Can I assume we're all as exposed as we're going to get, and take off my helmet and armor?" she asked now.

Dara nodded. "Yeah. Trouble is, we don't even know what we're dealing with yet. Dr. Chakwas is running the analysis on the devices recovered so far. God only knows what's in them and if what's in any other ones even matches. If _I_ were doing this? I'd use a cocktail of different bacteria and viruses. Throw stuff at a wall, see what sticks, get an immune system compromised and then have secondary infections set in." Dara shook her head. "Of course, that's just me, thinking like a bad guy."

Serana nodded, feeling her crop clench, and went back to the room she shared with Eli, unlatching seals as she went. The door to Lin's room was open, and he was doing the same thing, in the process of changing into workout clothes to go back out to the main room with the others.

In short order, Dara had taken blood from the three of them—two vials of blue, and one vial of red—and had loaded them into her field test kit. "If we have someone _really_ smart? My tests won't even _show_ the infection for a couple of days," she said, grimly. "Then it'll all hit at once."

Serana was curled up next to Eli on the couch. Lin sprawled at the far end, trying to look relaxed, but one knee hopped up and down with nervous energy. Rel had migrated to the armchair, and was, of all things, carefully starting to carve something. "You're. . . surprisingly calm, second-brother," Serana said, after a minute.

"I'm not," Rel said, quietly. "But when I can't _do_ anything. . . I've learned to do things that keep me calm. Otherwise, the urge to go find something and choke it to death just sits there and boils, and that's not really good for me."

Eli's fingers were rubbing up and down the side of Serana's neck. Softly, soothingly. Gentle touch. "I absolutely wanted to kill Muller tonight," he admitted, quietly. "Stupid little piss-ant mother—" He cut himself off, looking across the room. She could feel the deep breaths he was taking. "Nice interrogation technique, by the way, _asperitalla_."

"Pretty much top of the list of things _you're_ not allowed to do," she acknowledged. "Lot more effective than threatening him or beating him, and we didn't really have time to go through the whole psychological breakdown process. It'll do some icky things to the court case against him. If there is one."

"You think there won't _be_ one?" Eli said, sharply, looking down at her.

Serana winced. "I'm thinking that if he opened the devices and set them, he's, um, what's the term, Dara?"

"Patient Zero," Dara supplied. "Yeah. Not just the person who set them up, but the first carrier. Particularly if the first stuff that came out of them was actually viral. They've got him in med bay for a whole slew of tests. Under suicide watch, too. Soon as we _find_ the turian, what's-his-face—"

"Cortensus," Eli supplied, tiredly.

"Yeah, him. They'll probably want him in med bay for the same tests." Dara finished setting everything up, pushed a couple of buttons, and walked away from the test kit, taking off her gloves and letting the machinery do the work. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I don't think I can sleep right now," she admitted, coming back into the main living area, dragging a kitchen chair with her and parking it next to Rel.

"I _know_ I won't be sleeping," Serana admitted. "Need to wind down."

"At least we know the murder of the Lystheni didn't actually escalate the timeline on the bioweapon attack," Lin muttered. His mind was clearly still on work. " Question is, who and why and why _now_."

Eli heaved a pillow from the couch at Lin. "Turn it off, _fradu._ Or none of us will _ever_ start to relax."

Lin caught the pillow and laughed a little, under his breath. "Sorry."

Eli's fingers were at least getting _Serana_ to relax at this point. "So, second-brother, did Dara tell you about the SR-3 AIs and the fact that you're a _pada_?"

Rel's fingers slipped, and he swore as he nicked himself with the carving knife. "Nice," Dara said, in a tone of annoyance. "Very subtle, Serana."

"What's this?" Rel said, sharply, as Dara caught his hand and looked at the cut.

"Laetia decided you and I would make _great_ additions to her family of AIs. We can call Rinus about it tomorrow." Dara stood and headed into the kitchen. "Eli, Lin, you have bandages around here?"

"Second cabinet, above the _aphora_," Lin called back. Dara found the package and returned, putting a tan bandage on Rel's finger, trying to get the blue blood to stop leaking out.

"Hybrid-hybrid younglings," Rel muttered.

"Reaper-human, human-turian," Dara muttered back. "Give them another generation and access to more organics, and I think it'll be Reaper-human-turian-krogan-asari, given half a chance."

Serana snickered. She couldn't quite help it. "It's not such a bad thing, is it?"

Eli shook his head. "Depends who you ask. That asari today said a _mouthful_ about hybrids. About them being no better than birth defects." His fingers tightened for a moment on the side of her neck, and then went back to gently stroking again.

That had gotten Dara's head to snap up. "Who the hell—"

"One of our persons of interest. Has a daughter who's like Lina Vasir was. Genetic abnormality, born more or less male," Eli said, shrugging.

Serana had watched the news vids in fascination after the attack on the Spectre base, so she knew what they were talking about. "She doesn't matter, Eli," Serana told him, quietly.

"Nah, just pisses me off, is all. Every time I _think_ the galaxy's moved on to more important shit, this comes right back and slaps me in the face again. I _couldn't_ fight back when I was younger, and now, it's _probably_ not a good idea if I hit a witness or a suspect in the face for saying something like that." Eli's voice had dropped to a growl. While he didn't _grate_ like a turian, the sound of anger was the sound of anger, no matter which of the two species you happened to be.

Lin picked up on it, and moved quickly to change the subject, divert the rage. "So. . . you guys went to _Illium_ for leave?" he asked, grinning. "Why the _hell_ would you go there? No food worth eating, and mostly just. . . cities. Lots and lots of cities."

Dara actually _blushed_. Serana watched the pink tide rising into her _ama'fradu's_ face in amusement. Rel just smiled. "Wow," Eli said, after a moment. "I haven't seen you blush that hard since you told me to bite you."

"What?" Serana demanded, sharply, head swinging up. _Mine!_ was the instinctive reaction. She couldn't _help_ that; she knew damned well that they'd been close when they were younger. Not _that_ close, of course, and that Eli had done a _lot_ of things with other females over the years. But Dara was the only one he was still friends with. . . and she was her brother's mate and. . . well. . . _He's mine!_

Eli laughed outright at her expression, and kissed the back of her hand. "In Dara's defense, she _was_ insulting me at the time. I think it just slipped out."

"It did. And you enjoyed it _way_ too much." Dara's eyes promised retribution.

"Hey, keeping you _that_ embarrassed was work. But it made sure you weren't worrying about Rel every minute that we were looking for him on—er, in the rough neighborhood where he'd gotten _lost_."

Rel had looked momentarily annoyed, but now his expression took on a look Serana knew _all_ too well. Her second-brother was an older brother, after all, and Serana had taken more than her fair share of teasing from him over the years. "To answer your question, Lin," he said, picking up as if there had been no diversion of the conversation, "we were on Illium for a very specific reason. Sort of a mixed birthday/anniversary celebration. There's a _very_ nice hotel there that, ah, caters to the mixed couples crowd." He paused, digging at the wood in his hand with the point of the carving burin, flaking several chips away. "I think we saw about every type that's _possible_, to be honest."

"We were keeping a list," Dara acknowledged. "Hanar-asari, krogan-human, asari-salarian, asari-turian, asari-volus, I kid you not. Was actually refreshing being one of a _group_ of human-turian couples. . .."

Serana frowned. "You can go home to Mindoir for that," she pointed out. If nothing else, the conversation was getting _all_ their minds off of work. "You two, Uncle Garrus and Aunt Lilu, Lantar and Ellie, Eduardo and Charys, Eli and me, now. . . "

"Yeah. But, ah, _aizala_ isn't legal on Mindoir," Rel said, very carefully. Dara's mouth dropped open, and she slapped his shoulder. Hard. Going beet-red once more. Rel just grinned and took it.

"Ohhhhh," Lin said, as Eli started to _laugh_. "I _see_. Damn. Is there any language she _doesn't_ know, that I can ask you about that in now, Rel?"

"Bad Rel," Dara muttered. "No nookie for _you_."

Rel snickered. "Cutting off your own nose to spite your face, _mellis?_" Which got him an odd look, actually. Indecipherable. He set the burin aside, caught her hand, and nipped the inside of her wrist, smiling at her merrily. _"Adamare elii, amatra_."

"And what did I do to deserve this?" she asked. Her smile looked a little forced.

"Not telling me about the AIs."

"Wasn't time. Besides, don't you think _Eli_ deserves a little retribution now? More so than I do?"

Rel grinned. "Fight your own battles, _mellis._"

Dara stuck her tongue out at him. "Fine. I _will_. Somehow." She looked up at the ceiling. "Someday. I will get even, Elijah Sidonis."

"I live in fear," Eli assured her. "Look. I'm shaking." He held up one hand, rock-steady.

Serana had buried her face in his shoulder to contain her chuckles. "I did actually want to ask you something, Dara," she said after a moment, relaxed in the warmth of family and camaraderie. She knew she could absolutely trust every single person in the room. Perfect comfort and faith. "If you're done threatening my mate?"

"Yeah, it's obviously worked so well. Krogan believe me. Turians believe me. Elijah Sidonis? Doesn't believe me." Dara looked at Serana, shaking her head. "Shoot."

"So, of the couples you saw there, how many were female turian, male human?" Serana hadn't meant the question to sound that . . . bald. It hung there for a moment, and Eli's arm tightened around her.

Dara sighed. "None, actually. It's a . . . much lower percentage setup, Serana. I personally only know two—you guys and Eduardo and Charys."

"_Because of estrus?"_ Serana respected Dara enough to switch to turian. No need to fluster her too much with English. Turian was so much _easier_ talk about things like that in.

Dara blinked twice, and went into doctor mode. Serana could _see_ it. Dara sat up straighter, no longer relaxed. Hands clasped loosely in her lap. _"Largely, yes. Most human males have a instinctive desire for softness in a mate; turians don't actually have fat deposits, so it takes someone fairly unusual or adaptive to find a female turian attractive to begin with. They're also largely pre-programmed to see their mate as weaker than themselves. Most female turians are as strong or __stronger_ _than the average human male. Again, it takes someone fairly exceptional to work around that. Someone who doesn't mind being weaker, or, commensurately, someone who actually __is__ stronger._" Her eyes flicked, very briefly, towards Eli, who'd gone _very_ still next to Serana. _"The most glaring issue is estrus, yes. And children."_

"_If you take the meds, you don't necessarily have to worry about that."_ Serana was fairly definite about that. Accidents happened, of course, but a very low percentage of the time.

Dara _winced_. "Well, yes and no," she said, in English, paused, and took a breath. _"Look, do you want the doctor answer or the ama'fradu answer here?"_

"_Both."_ Serana had a distinct down-elevator sensation in her crop at this point.

"_S'kak. Okay. I've spent four years reading up on xeno-obstetrics and the Solus hybridization technique, Serana. It's. . . well, not really a hobby, but I think it's going to wind up one of my specializations more or less by default._" Dara made a face. _"I sure as hell am not going to let Soln Rem design my kids, when I get ready for 'em. I don't trust him or his team. Which may mean that __I__ may have to do it, myself. Spirits help me."_ She sighed. _"So you understand why I know a fair bit about this."_ She paused again, and began, carefully, "_When a human female prepares to have a hybrid child, the first step in the process is changing her hormone levels. If she's been on birth-control, which tricks her body into thinking it's already pregnant, she has to come off of it, if nothing else. Some women need additional estrogen to make the environment a happy one. Some don't. Aunt Lilu, with forty percent of her body being __cybernetics__, is a good example of someone who does need that extra help."_ Dara paused. _"Ah, that was me in family mode, not doctor mode, by the way. Okay, back to doctor mode."_ She cleared her throat. "_When you prepare a turian female for the same process—"_ Dara trailed off. Everyone else in the room had gone _completely_ still for a moment. "What, none of you _ever_ thought this through before?" she said, in English, looking around at them. "Good lord. The first step is the same. Going off the meds. . . or providing injections to adjust the hormone levels more quickly to a fertile, receptive state. This is trickier in turians than in humans. In humans, even with progestin in place, we still generate at least a _little_ uterine lining each month. A turian female doesn't, so coming off the meds gradually, as opposed to jerking hormone levels up with injections is considered preferable, although that makes timing. . . interesting." Dara winced. _"Especially since the period at which the lining is fullest usually coincides directly with the height of estrus. The literature is pretty sparse on it. I only know of one team of doctors who's actually done it, and it actually was Soln Rem's team."_

Serana realized that she was shaking, just a bit. _Reality_, she thought, a bit distantly, _bites. And not in a good way._ Eli had pulled her completely into him now, but she could feel tension all through his body, every muscle taut, as if for a fight.

Rel winced. "This is not something I really ever wanted to think about in relationship to my little sister, _amatra_. And this is a _futtari _weird conversation to have."

Dara shrugged. "I blame it on the fact that it's one o'clock in the morning, and everyone here is hovering between being skied on adrenaline and washed out by exhaustion. Minds wander a _lot_ under those circumstances." She looked tired.

Serana's hands had clenched in front of her, and she was having trouble swallowing. When she spoke, her voice sounded _very_ small to her. _"But it's . . . it does work out, right? I mean, Eduardo and Charys had Estevan . . . ."_

Dara looked up, and promptly went pink again. _"If you're asking me how they managed it, I have never, ever dared to ask them. You can try if you want, but __I'm__ not going to,"_ she said. "Seriously, Eduardo's Hispanic and carries a knife as big as the one my dad does. I really _don't_ want to be the one to ask him about his personal life, you know what I'm saying?"

Lin and Rel managed brief chuckles. Serana rallied a little, and offered, tentatively, "So. . . yeah. Check into that hotel of yours on Illium, and everything's taken care of, right?" They were all hopping between languages now, and Eli's fingers suddenly went _very_ tight on the side of her neck.

Dara winced again. "Ah. . . not. . . really. Eli, you were exposed to it before. _You_ tell her what _aizala_ does."

El cleared his throat a little, and glancing at him, Serana realized that he was not looking at anyone in the room. "I don't remember that much about it. I'd taken a hell of a hit to the head and spent most of the time concussed. About all I remember is thinking that you smelled nice, your hair was pretty, and that I'd really like to kiss you." Eli raised his right hand, palm out. "Didn't go much further than that."

Dara nodded. "Yeah. You metabolized most of it while you were knocked out. Thankfully." She bit her lower lip, and explained, carefully, in turian, _"__Aizala__ creates desire, not necessarily ability, Serana. It's. . . fairly overwhelming desire,"_ and here she peeked at Rel, and flushed again, _"and, ah, really enjoyable. But it doesn't. . . compensate for nature."_

Eli was looking at the ceiling now. "Thanks," he said. "Are we even now? All hail the inadequate human."

Dara shook her head. "Not inadequate. Different biology. Different biology requires. . . compensations." Dara had an _odd_ tendency to sound like Dr. Solus sometimes in medical mode.

Rel snorted, very quietly. "Tell me about it." He his tone was rueful. He cleared his throat, and switched to turian. _"Everything requires compromises. If it helps, __amil'amu__. . . human __females__ aren't really built for sixteen to thirty-six hour stretches, __either__."_ He seemed to be concentrating very intently on his carving for the moment. _"Took her three days to recover—"_

"_Way too much information—"_ Dara said, quickly. She was obviously not particularly comfortable with this part of the conversation.

"_I'm just saying, if we ever go to the Azure Towers again, we're ordering room service on the __last__ day, not in the middle of the trip."_ Rel grinned at Dara now. Who was once again, _bright_ pink.

"So, you still think my life is weirder than yours?" Dara turned and asked Eli directly, a challenging grin crossing her face in spite of all the pink.

Eli dropped his gaze, met hers, and said, dryly, "'Bout even."

"_Do tell,"_ Linianus said, chuckling very quietly.

Rel and Dara and Eli _all_ gave Lin a quick push-off flick of their fingers. Lin waved them off. _"What you guys aren't getting at the moment is that even with a mate of the __same__ species, you wind up, ah. . . spirits."_ Lin shook his head. _"Compromising."_

This was the most Linianus had _ever_ spoken on the topic of his dead wife in Serana's hearing, and her head turned slightly. At all the inquisitive stares, Lin shrugged a little. _"Bren had been forced to do a lot of things. It took a long time for her to trust me. I mean,"_ Lin smiled a little, looking away, _"let's face it, I had no real idea of what I was doing at first."_ He paused for a long moment, looking past them all, finding something of deep interest on the other side of the room. He finally continued, "_She had scars from bites so deep the scales couldn't even cover them. So even __biting__ her took her some time to calm down and trust me. No problem with __her__ biting __me__. No problem with her marking me. After a year or so, we'd worked through a lot of it. And it turned out she liked a lot more things than she'd realized." _Lin looked downright uncomfortable at the moment, so Serana dropped her eyes. "_I'm just saying. . . count your damn blessings. We're all here, we're all alive—well, till tomorrow, anyway, depending on what comes out of all this bioweapon __s'kak__,, and you're all with someone who cares about you. Past that, who gives a _fuck_?"_ Lin stood up, and walked over to the tiny spirit table, which had so damned little on it. His statue—ceramic, and prefab, from his parents, and a knife. Nothing more. He looked down, and very gently re-arranged how the knife lay on the table. _"Good night, sweetness_," he said, so quietly Serana was fairly sure Eli and Dara couldn't have heard it.

At that point, Dara's medical kit finally binged lightly, and she got up to look at the results. "Mildly elevated white cell counts in Eli and in me," she reported, as everyone started trooping towards their respective beds. "Elevated green cells in all three of the hemecyanic people. Hope you stocked up on chicken soup and _oolorae _broth, Eli, 'cause I have no idea if I should be starting us all on antibiotics or antivirals. As is. . . everyone get over here and line up. I'll give us all a dose of broad-spectrum antibiotics _and_ antivirals before bed. And hope for the best."

Grimacing, they did indeed line up, and Dara got busy administering shots. "Aren't you glad I raided the dispensary at the med bay before I left tonight?" she asked, dryly.

"I'm just glad you can actually write prescriptions now," Lin said, dryly. "Beats the hell out of waiting for normal clinic hours tomorrow."

Dara grinned at him. "It's nice to be needed," she said, and jabbed his arm with a needle.

As Serana lay in her mate's arms later, Serana simply couldn't stop _thinking_. _"Stop worrying, __asperitalla__,"_ Eli whispered, after a while. _"You're worrying so hard that __I__ can't sleep, either."_

"_What gave me away?"_

"_Your whole body's been locked up tight for the last half hour. Kind of like sleeping cuddled up to a fireplace poker. That's kind of supposed to be my job."_ His voice was teasing, and he started rubbing her shoulders lightly. _"_Germaphobia _on the brain?"_

"_Yeah. Everything. Trying to figure out what we should have done differently."_

"_Nothing."_

She half-turned towards him. _"Really?"_

"_Yep. Trust me, I'm really good at second-guessing things, but if we'd done anything differently, it would have been because we were second-guessing every single thing we did, until we just sat here in the apartment and didn't go anywhere or do anything. __Only__ thing I can think of that I wish I'd done differently is to have told Rostrus to stuff the paperwork someplace and gone to talk to Maldo Ren yesterday. But that would've changed damned little."_ Eli rolled to his back and pulled her with him. _"Packages were already sent. Everything was already in motion. And chances are, there's a lot of other people involved that we haven't caught yet. Maybe we'll get lucky and other packages have been delayed, like T'lani's was. Sometimes, it's just plain luck. Good or bad."_

She sighed and pillowed her head on his shoulder. _"Well, you're a __little__ more relaxed now,"_ he said. _"Please don't tell me the 'bite me' comment is going to come back to haunt me."_

"_You didn't __invite__ her to, did you?"_ Serana half sat, and threatened him in the dim glow of their clock with one fist.

Eli chuckled, catching her hand and pulling her back down again. _"No. She was mad and wanted to tell me to _fuck off_ and it came out in the less-rude human fashion. You should have __seen__ her face. I couldn't resist rubbing it in, and told her it could be arranged. Dempsey was in the backseat of the groundcar and we were all trying to sound like nice, normal college kids in case there were any surveillance cameras or mics in the vehicle."_

"_Where the hell were you that was that bad?"_

Eli paused, leaned his head against hers, and whispered, so softly she could barely hear him even with turian ears, "Khar'sharn."

He body went rigid again for a moment. _"Spirits of air and darkness,"_ she said, after a moment. _"And I didn't get to go with you."_

He chuckled. _"Knew you were going to say that."_

Serana made a rude noise at him. _"You went to Tuchanka without me, too. If you don't let me fight at your side one of these days, I'll begin to believe you don't love me."_

Eli started laughing, almost helplessly. After a moment, she joined in. _"Was that __all__ that was bothering you? Can we go to sleep now?"_ he asked, when the laughter died away.

Her body stiffened again, and her voice wavered a little. _"Eli? Beloved. . . I __do_ _want to have young someday. Not any time soon. But. . . someday."_ Her fingers moved against his skin, tracing the alien hair on a forearm. Soft, barely even tangible under the very fine scales of her fingertips. _"But. . . "_

"_Dara scared the living _shit_ out of you tonight. And I'm going to have __words__ with her about that. She's playing _tit-for-tat _with me, and shouldn't be dragging you into that—" _Protective-anger. Misplaced, but she liked hearing it, nonetheless.

"_No, no. She was in doctor mode. I could tell."_ Serana assured him, trying to get him to calm down a bit. "_You haven't seen her in that mode often, have you? She was being blunt and honest and open, because in medicine, as in the Law, that's the only way to __be__, if you don't want misunderstandings. And I __didn't__ understand some of it before."_ She swallowed. _"You said you had ideas on how to deal with estrus, beloved. And I know it's a long time off, spirits willing, but. . . maybe we should discuss some of those before any accidents happen."_

"God, Serana, you do pick your times," Eli muttered, and rolled over. _"No, you're right. It's something we __should__ discuss and arrange and . . . negotiate beforehand. Spirits know, turians do love to negotiate."_ His voice was amused, and he very lightly bit just under her jaw. _"But __now__?"_

"_So I can sleep? So we can both sleep?"_ she offered, smiling in the dark.

Eli sighed, and moved to cover her body with his, nipping gently at her neck, and then pressing a kiss against her lip plates, reaching up to cup her jaw in one hand, thumb and forefinger lightly on the pressure points on each hinge, just under the mandibles. "Okay," he said, very, very quietly when he'd finished. "There are, as far as I can figure it out, two possibilities. Even with _serious chemical_ assistance, the longest _safe_ erection for a human male is about four hours—past that, and you start toying with permanent damage. I love you, sweetheart, but I don't really want to have problems for the rest of our lives, y'know?" Soft words, blunt even in English, but they were in their bed, under the cover of darkness, and his voice was amused and loving and anxious all at once. "That doesn't cover near enough time."

Her crop clenched. "No. It doesn't."

He switched languages. Turian now. _"Option number one involves batteries. Lots of batteries. And some mechanical help."_ He bit her throat now, little light nips.

It took her a moment to understand what that meant, and she started to _laugh_. If the lights had been on, she'd have been flushed blue through the crest. _"All right, that doesn't sound too bad,"_ she acknowledged.

"_Yeah. Problem is, I don't know if it will work. I can hold you down and bite you, and I know I might get to doze off once in a while when you're in a cool-down phase, but I don't know if battery-operated friends will be what you need. Or if there'll come a point where I'm just too damned tired and slip up._" Eli sighed, and she didn't like the sound of the self-doubt there. _"Dara was right, it's not about inadequacy, it's about biology."_

"_So what's option number two?"_ Serana asked. She knew him well enough to know he didn't _like_ option two. He was saving it for last.

"_Can we wait on discussing option two?"_

"_Is it that bad?"_

"_Kind of. We've been married a month, and I've only just gotten used to the idea that you're actually __mine__." _His fingers stroked along her crest lightly. _"Option two would be . . . non-mechanical assistance."_ Eli sighed.

Serana thought about that for a moment. _"Oh."_ She swallowed. _"On the whole, mechanical assistance sounds better."_ She hesitated. _"Lin?"_

He nodded, and his arms closed around her very, very tightly. _"I'm not turian enough to get you through estrus on my own_," he muttered, _"and much __too__ turian in every other respect. Not __human__ enough to be flexible, I guess."_

She switched languages into asari. _"Can you be asari if you need to be?"_

"_Sometimes. I'm not good at sharing, more-than-fair."_ He hesitated. Switched to _tal'mae_. _"Does this give you assurance that I have given thought to all of our needs, and will protect you, even from yourself, even from the madness of your time? Even at the cost of discomfort? Does this ease your mind?"_

Soft English in response, "Yes, Eli. It does. It lets me know . . . what I might expect. What we _can_ control." She sighed, feeling tiredness finally sweep through her body. "Spirits know, there's damned little we seem to be able to control at all right now."

"Yeah. Not the sickness, not the cases, not the future, not anything. Go to sleep, _asperitalla._ We kind of need it."


	90. Chapter 90: Contagion

**Chapter 90: Contagion**

_Author's note: Linianus' theme song, realized when I heard it on the radio yesterday: Seether, Fine Again: "It seems like every day's the same and I'm left to discover on my own. It seems like everything is gray and there's no color to behold . . . I feel the dream in me expire and there's no one left to blame it on . . . They say it's over and I'm fine again, yeah And I am aware now of how everything's gonna be fine one day; Too late, I'm in hell. I am prepared now, seems everyone's gonna be fine . . . One day too late; just as well. . . And I'm not scared now. I must assure you, you're never gonna get away._

**Valak N'dor, Khar'sharn, April 20-25, 2196**

In a grand sort of bored fit, which nobles were prone to, of course, Valak purchased an addition to the lands around his estate on Camala, and sent half of his 'slaves' there. With Livanus, of course. One of his old _friends_ in the Special Intervention Unit asked him about it, Valak laughed. "Why, so I have someplace to retreat to in case the Council really _does_ bombard Khar'sharn with slaves infested with eyeblind fever, of course. I can wait it out off-world in comfort, at least."

"That possibility really does have you in a froth, doesn't it?" Arvak R'mod had been through SIU training with Valak. A brutal member of the lower nobility, he had gleaming yellow eyes and a perpetual faint smirk. He'd earned a reputation for vicious cruelty, periodically torturing captives to death, and beating regular batarian soldiers to an extent that encouraged them to run into the thick of the worst firefights, rather than return and face R'mod's wrath. He had dueling scars on both cheeks, and had often boasted of his skill with the vibroblade.

Valak had abandoned the bored noble expression, and let a little of his real nature show through. "Not a froth, really, Arvak. There was just _enough_ information to the rumor that it bothered me, though. I couldn't confirm it through any news feeds while I was there. But the _specifics_ of it bothered me. Why _eyeblind_? Why the fact that they kept bringing up the ships of asari that keep going missing. . . as if they were planning on using asari as the carriers of the plague?" Valak shrugged, and left it at that.

Arvak, who sat in Valak's library now, fiddled with the pieces of the _ru'udal_ set in front of him. They'd been playing the game for an hour now, almost to stalemate. It was a prized passtime in batarian society, designed to demonstrate the ability to bargain, to deceive, to negotiate, and to strategize. You began with an equal number of a random assortment of pieces, and each player tried to capture the empty spaces at the center of the board. And to that end, you needed to bargain with one another for pieces, for position, for additional turns. A game of _ru'udal_ could last for hours, or only minutes. "It seems to me," he said, after a moment, "that you could come take a look over our data. You're obviously concerned, and maybe you'll see something we haven't. At the very least, you'll sleep better at night."

Valak snorted, and offered two _peshti_ pieces in a bad position near the edge of the board for one _rhoa_ closer to the center. "I doubt I have the security clearance to walk in your door anymore, Arvak. I've done my utmost to convince everyone that I'm not interested in working for a living anymore." 

"And why _is_ that?" Arvak said, taking the bargain, and moving the _peshti_ that now belonged to him towards a more advantageous position.

"I _liked_ protecting our people, Arvak." Nothing but truth here. So much easier to use the truth in the service of a lie. It worked so well. "And I still believe that we can carve our own path in the galaxy." _It just should be a different path than the one we've followed blindly for generations_. "But there came a point where I was up to my ankles in the blood of rebelling slaves—"

"Ah, Curvok." Arvak nodded wisely.

Valak shrugged. He really _had_ left SIU right after the slave rebellion, so it all fit together neatly. "Well, I thought then that I'd seen enough bodies for a while."

"Lost your stomach for it?" Arvak captured a _bishal_ with one of his new _peshti_, and began to threaten the central squares. His tone was a little condescending. The lower nobles tended to hold the upper nobility in mild contempt. Valak let it pass. He _needed_ to let it pass, for the moment.

"Burned out, I suspect. Sitting at home in the fresh air, with _quiet_ slaves, maybe a family? Sounded reasonable." Valak swept the _bishal_ out of the way with a _kishar_. "I don't suppose you'd like to bargain for having your _bishal_ back, now would you?"

Arvak squinted at the slender piece. "I don't think I can afford your asking price. So. . . how's the family project going?" He pointedly looked around. "I see a remarkable lack of wives and children here."

Valak shrugged. "A few families have offered. Trouble is, they insist on sending me the squint-eyed, buck-toothed, rot-breathed daughters." He laughed. "I can bargain for better than that. And in the meantime, I have slaves enough to content me."

Arvak tapped the board, and offered a _rhoa_ in a bad place, for the _bishal_ he'd just lost, in an equally disadvantageous spot. "Throw in a _peshti_ near center, and you have a deal," Valak offered. The position he'd offered for the _rhoa_ would actually _threaten_ one of the _peshti_ near the center, but he was deliberately playing under his skill level. Making himself seem less intelligent, as a result. All part of the usual game.

The pieces changed hands, and Arvak moved his new _rhoa_ to threaten the _peshti_ he'd just traded to Valak. "Yes, I'd _noticed_ that you keep your healer-slave in the house, not out in the slave houses. You always were _fastidious_ about how your females smelled, Valak."

Valak's hand tightened slightly on his own _bishal_ piece now, and he moved and took the _rhoa_ from Arvak. "It's not such a long walk this way," he said, mildly.

Arvak snorted. "Treat a slave like a mistress and you'll give her ideas. Make her come to you. On her hands and knees. Much better that way, anyway." He moved a single _peshti_, the lowliest piece on the board, into the center squares. "I win. So, you'll come with me and look over our information tomorrow? It'll be limited, obviously. Only to topics within your area of concern."

Valak half-smiled, lazily. "I wouldn't expect more, Arvak. Security is security. I'm just flattered that you think my opinion worth _anything_ after so many years."

Sometimes, the best way to win _ru'udall_ was to let the other person think _he'd_ won, to think that you were less intelligent than he was, to think that the game was the game he thought it was, when, in fact, he'd bought something entirely other than what he believed he had, and that he hadn't won at all.

Arvak stood, yawning. "So, speaking of slaves. . . think you might be able to spare me one to warm my bed tonight?"

Valak shrugged. "Sorry, old boy. Sent all my females besides the healer-slave to Camala."

"She'd do, in a pinch."

"I don't share, old boy." Valak smiled tightly. "I could send you one of the males, and you could close your eyes—"

Arvak snickered. "No, no, we of the low nobility leave that to you high nobles." He grinned. "I'll be sure to visit the infirmary, however. Should I happen to injure myself in the night, you wouldn't want me to be in _discomfort_, eh?"

"I can assure you, that unless you're actually bleeding out, you won't find much in the way of comfort there." _Damnit. Fencing now. And here I thought I was home free. He's still testing for reactions. Nala being in the house looks too much like I have feelings for her, when in fact, I simply want to show her the respect __due__ to a healer. . . and test her, myself. Damnit._ Valak stood himself now, and stretched. "Good game, Arvak. We'll have to play again some other evening."

Stepping out of the room, Valak beckoned to one of the freed men he'd had in service the longest. "Go get Nala and escort her to my rooms," he muttered. "Make sure she brings her books with her. And her med kit. Let's _not_ lose her any more eyes, eh?"

"Very good, sir," Tuldur replied quietly, and moved away at a rapid clip.

Ten minutes later, Nala scratched at his door, and Valak moved to open it. Tuldur was beside her. "Remain outside, and if Arvak comes near, tap once on the door," he told Tuldur. "Subtly." He gestured for Nala to enter, and Tuldur closed the door behind him.

Nala looked at him, and his rooms, warily, but did not say a word. Just set her datapad and med kit and books down on the floor, and stood there, head slightly bowed. "Get in the bed," Valak told her, calmly.

She sighed. She had evidently been expecting this. "Shall I undress, m'lord?"

Valak winced. In his youth, before he'd come to _understand_ the caste system and slavery and both what it was doing to his people and how fundamentally degrading it was to everyone in it, he'd taken any number of the slaves on his father's estate. This was just what a young noble male _did_. Considered preferable to touching the daughters of artisans or scholars or even those of his own caste, outside of matrimony. And every such encounter had begun in almost exactly this way. "If you wish," he told Nala, and got into bed, himself, shirtless, but at least wearing loose pants. And picked up a datapad, preparing to read.

It took a moment, but he heard the rustle of clothing falling to the floor, and kept all three of his eyes on the page of text in front of him with an effort. Felt the mattress move slightly as she crawled into the bed, as far away from him as she could manage. "I do not understand, m'lord," Nala said, after some time had passed. She sounded as if the words were being forced out of her throat. Out of place, out of turn. Even as a healer, she would not have been permitted to ask about his motivations or intentions.

"What is it that you do not understand, my dear? You are here. You are in my bed. Thus, when Arvak goes to the infirmary tonight or any other night of his stay here, you will be here, in my bed, and not available for his needs." Valak glanced up and to his right, briefly. "Unless you _wish_ to be available for his needs."

He maintained focus just long enough with his upper eye to see her face pale. "Ah. . . it is not for me to—I can have no wishes—" She'd pulled her legs in tight to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, though. Peripheral vision told him that much. Told him what she really _didn't_ want. "He's a bad man," Nala offered shakily, after a moment. "The two slaves he brought with him don't have tongues anymore. And their eyes are dead." Absolute, mortal terror in her own eyes. He couldn't blame her. Arvak had been _brutal_ when they'd worked together in operations, and Valak couldn't stand the man.

"Almost everyone in SIU is not precisely a pleasant person. I, of course, am the lone exception." Valak paused. "It seems I merely anticipated your unspoken wishes. The appearance of being my mistress would seem to be preferable to being used by Arvak, yes?" He scrolled to a new section of his document.

"Appearance?" Her tone was now completely bewildered. "M'lord, you've moved me into the main house, you've given me gifts, and set me apart from all the other slaves. You've ordered me into your bed, and you say _appearance?_"

Valak's head turned, and he faintly began to smile. "You _do_ have a tongue. How delightful."

Her dusky skin turned darker as a blush covered her cheeks. "I—ah. . . ancestors. . . " she dropped her head and eyes. "Forgive me. I forget my place."

"Your place now is the same as it ever was. Have I _not_ treated you, in every respect, as a member of the healing caste since your return? Have I _once_ touched your skin with mine?" Little steps. It was one thing to tell her he didn't believe in slavery. It would be something else entirely to tell her he didn't believe in the caste system, the entire basis of their society. "You are no more a slave today than you were two months ago, my dear. Take off your collar." Her eyes flicked up in disbelief. "Try it."

Her fingers reached up to her throat tentatively, and she pulled at the collar, clearly expecting a shock. When none was forthcoming, Nala pulled the collar open, and took it off her neck, staring at him in consternation. "Why?" she whispered.

"Because I need you to understand that you are _safe_ here," he told her, calmly. "Safer now, perhaps, than before. I didn't _know_ of your interests before you were arrested, my dear. If I had, I might have been able to protect you." Pure, real, sincere regret in his tone. Her eyes flicked up, once, in disbelief, but her posture indicated that she was listening now. Intently. "I've had you watched continuously since I gave you the contraband literature, and you haven't made a single move to burn me with it, so I _think_ I can trust you. With Arvak here in the house, you haven't met with him even once to discuss the _many_ irregularities you've surely observed here. And you didn't mention them to prison officials, either, that I've been able to detect." Valak paused. _And the results of your full body scan revealed no graybox, which Livanus was concerned about, and there have been no transmissions from the chip embedded in your skull, which seems to be a standard slave chip. Nothing fancy, that would turn you into a walking camera, praise the ancestors._ "Whyever not? It could have saved you. Even now, going to them wouldn't redeem you from slavery, but it would certainly buy you. . . comfort."

Nala just stared at him. "There. . . there weren't. . . "

"My dear, the room is regularly swept for surveillance equipment. You may speak freely in here." He was still only watching her out of the corner of his eyes.

Nala swallowed and straightened a little, bare shoulders rising from their inward curl. "There was nothing to say about you before, except that you were an unusually kindly master. Who took an interest in the health of his slaves. Sanitation. Antibiotics. Inoculations. Decent food. Hardly crimes." She pulled back a little as he turned towards her. "And. . . and now. . .you have been kind to me. You _saved_ me. Treated me with respect, even if you have. . . frightened me." Her tone wavered. "The _books_, m'lord. They won't stop with your eyes. You're noble-born. They'll _behead_ you."

"Ah, but if I have a slave read them to me, how am I breaking the law?" he said, holding up a finger at her. "My eyes will not have touched them."

Nala leaned a little forward, urgently, and hissed, "M'lord, I _know_ you've read them. You had to have. Otherwise, how would you know of the doctor in the book?"

"Synopsis, my dear. Wonderful invention." He smiled and added, lightly, "Quite a large part of the backstory is set in India, a region on Earth where they had a caste system not unlike ours. And a great treasure was stolen by convicts, sentenced to servitude, but of the four men who stole it, two were betrayed and left to rot in their chains. . . Is not the murder of those who would leave others to slavery, not, in some measure, justified?"

Her mouth had dropped open and her remaining eyes widened. While the backstory information might have been in a synopsis, his concluding question was . . . potentially damning. Both for him asking it, and for how she might reply. "Not according to the detective—"

A single quick tap on the door, and Valak tossed the datapad off the bed, and swiftly rolled atop her, dragging the sheets over her as he did, and, shielding his hand with a corner of the bedclothes, put that hand across her mouth. He was still partially dressed, but entirely too much of his skin was exposed to take chances. "Arvak's coming," he muttered against her ear. "Have you ever been with a male?"

Faint shake of her head, eyes wide. "Healers are not permitted—"

"Shit. Do you know enough to _pretend_ to be enjoying yourself?" From the fact that her eyes now showed whites all the way around, he rather thought that was a _no_. "Moan. Quickly." He shifted his weight, muttered a quick apology, and gently pulled her legs apart, settling himself between them. It was fairly difficult to _prevent_ a certain amount of physiological excitement, given the fact that he'd been sitting beside an attractive, naked female in bed, and even though he'd been trying _not_ to look, with her knees pulled up like that, it may have concealed her breasts partially, but partial exposure was sometimes more intriguing than a complete view. And the position certainly hadn't entirely hidden all of her lower regions, either. Nala's eyes were terrified now, but she _did_ moan, just as they heard voices in the hall. "M'lord is occupied at the moment," Tuldur said, stolidly outside, loudly enough for every word to be audible.

"Louder," Valak told Nala, reaching out and snapping her collar back around her neck, loosely. "Make a good show of it. We really want him to believe this."

She complied, eyes now on the door. _Ancestors, that was a really __good__ sound._ The little catch at the end had reminded him how long it really _had_ been since he'd had a female under him, in fact. _I could make the charade real. It wouldn't take much. Just pulling down these pants and then I'd be in her. . . no. No better than coercion. _But just rocking against her like this was driving him crazy.

Click of the door handle turning. "I'll just be a moment. I just wanted to verify what time tomorrow we'd be leaving—" As the door started to open, Nala's eyes snapped back to focus on Valak's face, and then, moving very fast, she pulled the sheet out from between them and dragged the waistband of his pants down. A healer could touch anyone's skin, of any caste. He couldn't initiate contact, but _she_ could. And of course, _technically_, she was a slave. She pulled him down towards her, and then he was inside of her, heard her faint gasp, felt resistance—_damnit, she really __hasn't__ before—_and Valak looked up, glaring murder at Arvak, who'd just entered the room, and was getting an eyeful of interlocked anatomy.

"I trust there's a _very _good reason for the interruption," Valak snapped harshly, staring at Arvak.

"Just wanted to verify what time we're leaving for SIU headquarters in the morning, old boy. Do try to calm down. It's not like I walked in on you with your wife." Arvak actually laughed at that. No, slaves were nothing, and no one.

"Two hours past sunrise, and not a minute before. Now _do_ run along, Arvak. I'm _busy_ here." _Gods of my ancestors, if I didn't need him, I would find a pretext for a duel and kill him today._

Arvak smirked and left. Valak shook his head and leaned in to murmur against Nala's ear, "You didn't have to—" He was doing his level _best_ to ignore the fact that he was buried inside of her at the moment, and started, reluctantly, to pull out.

"I. . . thought it would be more convincing. Is he going to _listen_ out there?" Her whisper was _very_ anxious. Valak didn't think _anyone_ could be _this_ good of an actress. Too much fear, too much shame, too much humiliation, all at once.

He groaned and slid back into her. "Probably. Tuldur will give us another knock when it's clear." _Oh, ancestors, she's __made__ for me. _"Does this hurt?"

"A little." Wince of admission.

"I'm sorry. I'll make it as good as I can. Just make noise, that's all I ask right now."

She did. After a few moments, Tuldur's knock came at the door, but by that point, Valak wasn't really listening for it anymore. Just damp heat and tightness and the sounds of those little cries as he brought her up to meet his pleasure, lifted her hips in his hands and drove himself into her again and again.

When he finally rolled back to the side, panting, he started to apologize, "I'm sorry. I never meant to treat you with anything but respect and courtesy—"

His voice cut off as Nala rolled over, and very lightly began running her hands over his chest and arms. Curious, wondering touches. "So many scars. I always _wondered_ about them, when I'd do physical exams on you. I always thought duels. Hoverbike racing. Other foolish noble pastimes." She found one in his ribs, a light pucker of flesh. "But they didn't look consistent with either. SIU work?"

"That one's a bullet, yes. Collapsed the lower lobe of the lung." He was still breathing hard, and trying to figure out how the _hell_ events had escaped his control. He had absolutely intended to have her get dressed again and leave his quarters in the morning, untouched. Getting attached to her was _dangerous_. Not only did it leave him open to her potentially betraying him, but if anyone suspected he _did_ have emotional ties to her, they could use her against him.

"And this one?" Fingers drifting along his abdomen now.

Simple touch felt so _damned_ good, he closed all of his eyes and tried not to let it show on his face. Years now. Years without physical contact with anyone outside of combat training. Valak cleared his throat. "Vibroknife. Some drell infiltrators use them. Stole the designs from our vibroswords, about four hundred years ago. Operation was on Rough Tide."

Her fingers paused. "You said you might have me go to the estates of others of your. . . old acquaintances." Nala's lips tightened. "Not his. Not Arvak's. Please. I have no right—"

"You have _every_ right." Valak very, very carefully reached over and let his hand rest on her scalp. "I won't send you to his. Tuldur will take you to a different one. Exar J'dul's. He'll watch over you every second you're there, and you'll be looking for . . . anything unusual in the medical facilities and among the slaves. No matter how minor." Tuldur would be present to protect her. . . and to _watch_ her, too. No taking chances here.

"Do you really think there's going to be a biological attack here?" Her voice was tight.

Valak looked at her, and told a half-truth. He'd ask her forgiveness later, if it turned out that she really _was_ as trustworthy as she seemed. He wasn't going to allow a little post-coital bliss to cloud his thinking here. "I suspect that SIU may be creating one, my dear. And I dread the thought of what would happen if something like that got out in the population here on Khar'sharn. One wrong step in containment procedures, and half the damned planet would be sick. Don't take chances. Look around. Ask regular medical questions. Don't read anything or do anything that would make you stand out." He half-sat up now, and turned, letting his fingers slide down, again, so very carefully, to her temples. To just beside her blinded eyes. "I could get you prosthetics," he offered, very quietly. "They wouldn't be your original red-gold. Probably some human or asari color, since they build the best prosthetics. But you could see again." _Could look in a mirror and not shudder._

She shook her head, almost imperceptibly. "And who would install them, for a slave? No healer in the Hegemony."

"Money turns even a healer's head."

"The other slaves will hate me." Her voice had gone very small.

"No, they won't." _There's not a one among them that doesn't pity you, my dear. For they all know they're free, in truth. I have to introduce that truth to you a little more slowly._

"Then. . . when the overseers next come here, and find me with four eyes instead of two, they'll find that a _very_ glaring irregularity, will they not?" Her voice had gone taut. "Even more so than the fact that I have rooms in the house."

Valak shrugged. "I'll tell them I like looking down at four eyes when my mistress is in my bed."

Nala shook her head more firmly, and looked at him in sudden realization. "You. . . you feel responsible?" Her voice went up a little in astonishment.

He winced. He hadn't been _that_ transparent in years. "A bit, yes. Everyone on this estate is in my protection. I didn't protect you."

Another very faint headshake. "I thought I'd hidden my proclivities very well."

"And how long had they been your proclivities, my dear?" Careful questions.

Nala looked down for a moment, hiding the liquid red-gold of her eyes. "Since I began my training as a healer. Seven, eight years. Some of the apprentices would pass copies of books—hand-written ones—around. One that suggested that there are. . . no real physiological distinctions between the castes." She looked up, hesitantly. Looking for shock, outrage.

He shrugged. "If there were, there wouldn't be an issue with masters breeding with slaves, now would there." Of course, the offspring of a female slave, no matter the caste of the master, remained a slave. It was one of _many_ problems.

Nala shook her head, eyes wide. He suspected she'd never once had the luxury of speaking her thoughts out loud before. "What else?" Valak prompted.

"There was one that suggested we attempted to destroy a large human colony by dropping an asteroid on it."

"Terra Nova," Valak told her. "That one's true. We did do that."

Nala swallowed. He could hear it, feel her stiffen in alarm in the bed. "M'lord—"

"Shh." He paused. "If I may ask which book it was that they caught you with?" He could have been asking the question on the other side of a table set for afternoon tea.

"_Convergent Evolution: How Bipedalism Became the Dominant Form of Sapient Life in the Galaxy_. By a salarian paleontologist." She sighed. "Banned, because it suggests that the Protheans meddled with the genetic code of a half-dozen species. And that we were not one of them."

"Had you finished reading it?"

"No."

"Would you like to?" He whispered the words in her ear, like a temptation.

Her breath caught. "Yes."

"I'll get you a copy, and you can read it to me. When you get back from Exar's estate." He forbore to mention the fact that he actually already owned a copy. And had read it.

And so, the next day, he'd headed to SIU headquarters with Arvak, half-expecting along the way to be wearing shackles the instant he crossed the threshold. To be questioned.

Instead of questioning, a questionnaire. Forms filled out in triplicate. Badge procedures, and an escort to the cubicle that would become his little home away from home, complete with an aerogel screen and a privacy hood for the terminal for when he was working on eyes-only materials. And for the first two days, there really wasn't anything of interest, either for his self-professed reason for being here, or for the ulterior reason. But on the third day, he _did_ find a reference to Operation: Namtar's Fire. The name stood out to him; Namtar was the name of a minor ancient god of disease in both human and batarian mythologies, a coincidence that had struck him as funny when he'd read of it, years ago. The file was redacted, and suggested that ten agents on Bastion, including two Lystheni (whatever the hell _those_ were), and four agents on Earth and Palaven would be enough to start matters rolling along. Casualty estimates as great as forty percent of Bastion's population—assuming asari, humans, and drell fell ill from a . . . _ancestors help _me. . . yahg-engineered variant of Skyllian Flu and a form of human pneumonia that had also been engineered. Turians and quarians who experienced suit breaches were expected to fall ill as well, from something called _comburo febris_ and _atratus cremare_.

The document he saw was only an abstract, and, as he'd first noted from all the blacked-out words, _heavily_ redacted. No names. No way to request more information on this, since his real reason for being here was _Council_ bioweapons. So he memorized the information he _could_ discern, and moved on. Arvak had reacted to the mention of _asari_ slaves, in particular, so Valak focused his attentions there for a while, and _did_ notice that there had been a peculiar up-spike in the past four or five years among slave raiders, all targeting asari vessels. He had _no_ idea why. He put in a call to his father's slave overseer, to see if the price of asari pleasure and body slaves had gone up recently, and the answer was no. Their price had held steady over the same four year period. If demand was the same, and the price was the same, _why_ increase the supply?

Which led him to another odd realization, as he ground through report after report filled with numbers. The numbers reported _taken_ by raiders to the Slaving Guild's oversight bureau didn't match the numbers reported sold. Valak was having to do all of the numbers in his head, and with a hand-held calculator—VI assistants were strictly reserved to the highest-ranking officials in the Hegemony—but he was _fairly_ sure that his math was correct. The numbers were off by several thousand. He wasn't sure what to make of it, but it seemed significant. _So that might be why Arvak suddenly took an interest,_ Valak thought.

He wasn't about to generate a false report that pointed the finger at the Council, so he tidied up and organized the information he'd been given, and turned it over in a full report to Arvak at the end of five days. "You were right," he admitted. "I heard a bad rumor, and let it get the better of me."

Arvak nodded, scanning through the report. "That may be the case," he noted, "but you've still got a _feel_ for this work, N'dor. You have no idea how rare it is that I can put my hands on a report and someone who can actually analyze the information, and give me _only_ the important, salient facts out of all the garbage. Come back to work, N'dor."

Valak pretended to hesitate. "I have to admit. . . it did get the old juices flowing again," he admitted, with feigned reluctance. "And I do rather feel I owe you for letting me look through all this. So. . . if you think I'll be of _use_, yes. Don't make it a sop to my overweening ego, though."

And thus, they arranged for him to start working at SIU headquarters. Just three days a week. Gisting reports for the most part. But it was a start, an in. Back at his estate, Tuldur had returned with Nala after three days at Exar's villa, and had a solid report on her. Not one move out of the ordinary.

Nala herself came to his chambers that night. "You said _anything_ odd, m'lord?" He wondered if he'd _ever_ be able to get her to say his name, and had a sinking feeling the answer was _no_.

"Anything. No matter how minor."

Nala nodded, and her eyes flicked up at him. "Asari are usually reserved for use as body servants, yes? Those who help the master and the mistress to dress. Cooks. Nursemaids. And pleasure slaves?"

Valak nodded. "Your old acquaintance has a large number of asari on his estate. Fifty out of his three hundred slaves, according to the medical records. And the odd thing is, none of them seem to work in the house. Or in the fields. His physician was complaining that she spends half her time changing their diapers. Apparently, most of them have been _lobotomized._" Nala frowned. "That would _greatly_ decrease their value, would it not? And yet, he has a _surplus_ of them."

Valak blinked. It was definitely not the information he'd hoped for, but he'd pass it along. "That _is_ peculiar," he admitted. "I suppose it means that Exar is . . . developing even more uncomfortable hobbies than he used to have." He settled down in a chair by the desk and tossed her a datapad. "Your book. If you still want to read it, that is." He gestured to an armchair in a windowless corner of the room, where she could read free of any telephoto lenses peering over her shoulder at any distance. "You can stay here and read it to me, or take it back to your rooms. Whichever you like." He turned back to his desk, mentally composing his report to his Spectre handlers. He'd had word from Camala that Livanus had successfully 'escaped' two days ago, at least. Time to show a little progress.

"M'lord?" Nala's voice was tentative.

Valak glanced up. "I have a name, my dear. Please feel free to use it. I hear it so rarely, I sometimes fear I will forget it."

She shook her head vehemently, and he sighed. "What was your question, my dear?"

Nala glanced up, briefly. "Did you wish me to stay in your rooms tonight?"

"Arvak is not here. It's not necessary, if you do not wish to do so." He hadn't touched her since she'd entered the room; currently, there was a good ten feet of space between them as he sat in his chair, and she stood near the door. And he kept his eyes firmly turned away from his bed.

Nala shifted a little. "Do you trust _everyone_ on the estate? Will it not look. . . odd. . . if once I have stayed here, that I do not continue to do so?"

Valak grinned. _Yes, I trust __everyone__ on this estate. I'm even coming to trust you. But you? You don't know whom to trust yet, do you?_ "That would depend greatly on how long you chose to read to me. Do, I pray, make it a good _long_ chapter. My reputation might suffer, else." He stood and crossed the room to stand close to her, barely an inch away, close enough to feel the heat of her body. But not to touch. "Perhaps two or three chapters, my dear Nala?"

Her lips twitched a little, and he reached up and, not even letting his fingers brush her skin, took the collar off of her throat.

**Shepard, Mindoir, April 26, 2196**

Lilitu Shepard looked at the clock on her desk in her office. 26:15 Mindoir time, meant it was pretty much the next day, anywhere else in the galaxy. "Lantar, Sam," she greeted the faces that appeared on aerogel screen, keeping her voice down a bit, so it wouldn't carry past the door of her office into her family's living area. All of the children slept heavily, but there was no sense in taking chances. "Hold on. We're linking up a couple of different locations right now for a conference call." She looked at them sympathetically as Garrus came in the room, handing her a mug of coffee, and taking a sip from his own cup of _apha_. "You two look like death warmed over."

"Been a hell of a long, frustrating day," Sam said tiredly.

Shepard held up a hand, and then the second call came through, this time from Omega. _Bastion, Omega, and Mindoir. One triangle of power, in a sense_, she thought. Gris and Ylara's faces appeared on one section of the screen, joined by the self-image of Pelagia, as well as Harak's image. Harak's eyes were still not fully healed, and he squinted a little at the camera now. Another flick, and Kasumi, across the base in her office in the home she shared with Sam, came on the screen. "Hey, sweetie," Sam greeted his wife, and Kasumi blew him a quick kiss.

"All right," Shepard said. "I've got news in from our friend Zorro. You've all got news, too. Let's get it all on the table at once." Garrus settled in at the desk next to her, and pulled out a datapad, ready to take notes on anything he heard that clicked together for him as they listened. "Sam, Lantar, give us the bad news first."

Lantar snorted. "Not difficult. I don't think we actually _have_ any good news." The stocky turian squared his big shoulders.

Sam glanced over at his usual Spectre partner. "In a nutshell? We're fucked."

Garrus shook his head. "Concise, but I think we're looking for a little more detail here."

Lantar nodded. "All right. We arrived expecting to be tracking down potential batarian agents. HIA was already analyzing the information that they had, which wasn't much. Agent Sidonis of CID, and Agent Rostrus and Officer Sidonis of HIA had identified several people of interest, including a salarian named Maldo Ren, who turned up dead before he could be questioned. First problem is, Maldo Ren was Lystheni, as autopsy determined."

"Son of a she-varren," Gris rumbled on Omega. "I thought we _killed_ them all."

"Need to be a little more thorough," Harak told him. "Enemies you don't kill tend to come back to haunt you. At least dead ones are just ghosts. Mostly harmless."

Lantar waved a hand, and continued. "Second problem was, turns out he didn't commit suicide, as the initial report would have it. He was murdered. Professional hit. Drell assassin, female. B-Sec is looking into it. His graybox recorded her, voice only, stating the death was ordered as revenge for the death of Lluwyn. . . that young hanar who was uploaded into a defective AI form on that moon of Dumah, four, five years ago." Lantar ran a hand over his crest. "Here's the fun part. Maldo Ren was a batarian agent. Where the Lystheni used to call the shots with the _Klem Na_, now the remnants of the Lystheni are taking the orders. And he was one of the distributors of the bioweapons on Bastion."

"That's not what I'd call _bad_ news," Ylara noted, coolly. "Sounds like an important break, in fact."

Sam shook his head. "Yeah. Except he'd already sent the bioweapons he wanted planted to three agents. Agent Sidonis, Officer Sidonis, and I bagged one of the agents, an asari who was being blackmailed with threats against her, ah. . . offspring. . . " On the screen, Ylara frowned. "Ah, hell, I'm sorry, Ylara. No way for me to be delicate about it. Her daughter's like Lina Vasir was. Maldo made threats against the kid. Even got photos of her . . . him. . . whatever. . . at the care facility where the kid's been kept on Luisa, threatened to send information on the kid to the child's, ah. . . second-mother. Who was apparently in Eclipse with _our_ asari, back in the day."

Ylara's face had gone milky under its usual blue. "You've got the first-mother in custody?"

"Yeah. Essallia T'lani. Hadn't planted any of the devices, but had done more than a few other tasks for the blackmailing SOB."

"We might want to get her child into protective custody, as soon as possible," Ylara said now, her tone imperative. "If the Lystheni had any sort of a contingency plan. . . a 'if I don't activate this program every three days, then the VI assumes I'm dead and puts measures into effect' deal . . . all of his existing agents, and their families, could be in some jeopardy."

Lantar and Sam both muttered curses. "Yeah," Lantar said. "I hadn't thought of that. Probably should do the same for Cortensus' family, while we're at it." He looked down, clearly making a note.

"What's the child's name?" Ylara asked.

Sam lifted a datapad and flipped through some files. "Ah. . . Shellara. Shellara T'lani. Miasou Regional Care Facility, Luisa. That's all I've got."

Ylara nodded. "I'll look into it in the morning," she said. "Sorry for the interruption—"

Shepard waved it off. "No, it was a good catch. No reason why any _more_ innocent people have to get hurt in all this. Sam, Lantar? Keep talking."

Lantar picked up the thread again. "So, T'lani's devices weren't set off, which is good, because she worked in the main med bay on Bastion. Trouble is, two other agents, Mavius Cortensus, and Heinrich Muller, _had_ set theirs off. The day before we got to the spirits-be-damned station. One at Depth Charge, a large, multispecies resort on G level—which has two thousand guest rooms, a casino, and eighteen nightclubs, and sees a daily stream of over ten thousand people through its doors—"

"_S'kak,"_ Garrus muttered.

Lantar nodded grimly, and went on, "And the other facility hit was the Hierarchy billets on J level. There's twenty thousand Hierarchy personnel aboard right now, many in temporary stop-over billets, waiting for transfer ships, or whatever. This includes support personnel, cargo handlers, merchant marine crews, people assigned to tender vessels, even a handful of turian CID personnel. We have to consider all of them exposed." He sighed. "Add to _that_ the fact that twelve Hierarchy ships left port yesterday—all have been recalled—and _four hundred_ passenger ships left Bastion yesterday. . . and while we can try to isolate everyone who went to Depth Charge yesterday, there is no _possible_ way to determine if everyone that they interacted with on their way _from_ the hotel to the docking bay, over the course of hours, was also exposed."

"Or even," Lantar added heavily, "to know whom they all interacted _with._"

Shepard rubbed a hand over her eyes for a moment, keeping her fingers free of the paint out of long habit. "I take it there's more?" she asked.

Sam sighed. "Yeah. Maldo wasn't working alone. We have half a salarian name as another direct batarian agent. . . Kordu."

Pelagia spoke up. "I'll get back to you on that in a minute, Spectre. Finish your report first, and then I _should_ have some information for you."

Sam grimaced. "I'll take anything at this point, Pelagia, with thanks. To top things off, Elijah Sidonis, Linianus Pellarian, and Serana Sidonis visited Depth Charge the night before we arrived on a social occasion. Judging from the devices pulled from the ventilation shafts inside the resort, all three of them were exposed to dextro- and levo-strain diseases that medical is still working to identify positively. Which means that because all of us spent time together today with our helmets off. . . Lantar and I were exposed, too. As was Dara. Who exposed Rel. And anyone else any of us have talked with today when we weren't wearing breathers and masks. Shit, depending on how hardy the bugs are, some of 'em were probably on the outside of our armor after we finished our dinner meeting. We've. . . decontaminated since then. Lantar and I have already donated blood. We're looking at possible, but unconfirmed, viral initial infection, and probable bacterial secondary infections." Sam had kept his voice brisk and factual, but his expression was that of a man staring at a noose.

Shepard risked a glance at Kasumi's face on screen. The little woman had laced her fingers together in front of her lips, and was looking down. Even as small as the image was, Lilu could see that Kasumi's knuckles were white. Kasumi's family. Garrus' family. _Her_ family.

The moment passed in silence. Shepard took a deep breath. "All right. We already knew we needed to move at least one Spectre team to Bastion who'd be unlikely to contract anything."

Gris looked up on screen. "That was going to be me, Cohort, and Sky, yeah?"

"It was," Garrus said, nodding. "But we've had some new information come in, over the past couple of hours."

"Livanus is still moving out of batarian space, but Zorro managed to get a report out," Kasumi stated, her voice steady. She didn't have to watch her words too closely; with Harak now chipped to Pelagia, neither was exactly a security risk. Hell, Harak counted as both head-of-state and practically _family_ now, in the strange, wide sense that the _Normandy_-class AIs made possible.

Shepard could only wonder at the pure _strength_ in her security chief, still doing her job, seconds after what could only be described as a body blow. "He doesn't have a _lot_ of information to report. No names, unfortunately. But his work inside SIU suggests that there are at least _ten_ batarian agents aboard Bastion currently working on the bioweapons scheme. Six more than we've found so far."

Lantar and Sam both put their heads in their hands for a moment. "Okay," Shepard said. "That was the first shoe, Kasumi. Drop the second."

Kasumi sighed. "Thanks, Shep. Always making me the bearer of bad news. Right. Bastion's definitely not the only target. Some indications that they'll probably try to take another shot at Omega—"

"We're ready for them," Harak said, firmly.

Kasumi nodded. "And of course, the orbital facilities at Dymion and Edessan, the two primary turian shipyards. Serenity Base on Luna, the Terran fleet shipyards at Lagrange Station between Earth and Luna, and it _looks_ like they're going to try to hit Raetia, Complovium, New York, and Beijing as well." She paused. "No asari targets. Additionally, we might have an inkling as to where all the missing asari from those ghost ships have been going—Lantar and Ylara, I know you were working on that for a couple of years. It isn't pretty. Quite a large number of them seem to be turning up, lobotomized, on Khar'sharn."

Cursewords in at least three languages rang out, and after that all died down, Garrus said, quietly, grimly, "I think we can assume that all of this is a prelude to a wider attack. So our first order of business is to prevent infections and contain casualties. That means _finding_ the agents either before they plant the devices or as quickly as possible. Then implementing existing quarantine protocols."

"Much as I like to complain about Alliance CDC and their _odd_ regulations regarding hybrids living on Earth. . . they _do_ have good policies in place to handle this sort of thing," Shepard commented. "Okay. Gris? I still need you on Bastion to supplement Lantar and Sam, in case they do get sick. Who can you bring with you?"

"Makur," Gris replied, immediately. "He's not going to be sick. I'd bring Siara as well, but—"

"So long as she either wears armor constantly or keeps a damned mask in place for as long as it takes to change out her rebreather filters and recharge her air, she should be okay," Kasumi said, tiredly. "I've had several _very_ long conversations with Dr. Abrams today on that subject."

Gris nodded. "Those two, at my back, Shepard. If Harak doesn't mind the removal of two of his best bodyguards."

Harak shook his head. "No. I've got Ulluthyr people coming in shortly to supplement the Urdnor guards. We'll winnow through them, see if any of them are trustworthy, and send the rest back to Tuchanka. I'll just be sure to watch my back, since I won't be relying on all of your additional shields." He grinned, showing yellow teeth. "Relying on that was liable to make me go soft, anyway," Harak added in a rumble.

"We're taking as many notes as we can for you," Sam said, looking at Gris. "You're going to want to coordinate investigations with a volus here—name of Fors Luka. He's been in on the death of Maldo Ren. Partnered up with Sidonis and Pellarian, and they both speak highly of him."

Gris shook his head. "I'm not the one you want _investigating_ anything."

"You may _have_ to," Shepard told him, sharply. "I can't send Garrus there."

"Seems to me, I've told you before, a little cough isn't going to keep me from doing my job," Garrus said, dryly.

Shepard held one finger up at him, turian-style. Right at the moment, _she_ was the superior, shushing an inferior. "I've already got one human and one turian Spectre exposed. And about half our list of damned candidates for the next recruiting round. I _don't_ need my second-in-command exposed, too." She looked back at the screens. "Right. Cohort's definitely heading to Earth. Geth are clients of the Alliance, he's been there before, and he _can't_ get sick. Who do I send with him to keep people calm?"

Kasumi sighed. "Send me. And send Sky. Me, to be human and very damned good at poking around." She glared at Sam fiercely as Sam sat up and started to open his mouth. "I'll keep my visor on, same as Siara on Bastion. Unlike _certain other people_ around here did."

"A man's got to _eat_, Kasumi, and we didn't _know_ at that point."

Kasumi ignored that and moved on. "Send Sky with us, so we can absolutely tell when someone's lying or guilty. Better than a damned lie detector. Between Cohort and me, we _should_ be able to deal with anything technical we find. And two Spectres beside me will keep the Alliance from panicking and doing anything _rash_ when the little lady with all the secrets in her head comes to town."

Shepard nodded. It had possibilities. "Then who the _hell_ do I send to Palaven, Dymion, and Edessan?"

"Send me," Ylara said, promptly. "I'm not going to catch anything dextro-based. I have a quick side-trip that I _must_ make—the child on Luisa must be protected—but that will take about three hours, once the _Sollostra_ has dropped Gris, Siara, and Makur off on Bastion. A shuttle between the _Dunkirk_ and the _Sollostra_ at Bastion will give me whoever else you want to send with me."

Shepard sighed. Her list was getting thin. "Livanus isn't back from batarian space yet." _Who the hell is left? Half the Spectres on base are turian, can't risk them. Most of the humans and drell and salarians are out on assignment. Blasto? No. Not a good assignment for him_. _But __he_ _can go to Kahje and look into who might have ordered the death of our good Lyetheni. In Lluwyn's name._

"If you want a human face to reinforce the alliance," Lantar said, quietly, "see if Dempsey will volunteer."

Sam nodded, after a moment. "Even if there are levo-strain viruses here. . . a big _if_, but one you, Ylara, should be aware of. . . and if you don't think a _krogan_ can catch any of this crap. . . well, Dempsey might _catch_ it. But chances are, with his immune system, whatever he catches, he won't catch for long." He thought about it for a moment more. "Zhasa'Maedan's still in the candidate barracks, right?"

Sheaprd nodded. "Yeah. She's been training with Dempsey for a bit." She paused. "Actually. . . one of the things Kal noted about her in his recommendation is that, biotic or not, she's a hugely steadying influence on any squad she's in. Empathetic."

"Exactly what I was thinking," Sam said. "Dempsey's calmer around both her and Sky. Give the man a safety net."

Shepard nodded. "I'll see if they'll go. I'm sure Dempsey'll say yes. He's got itchy feet. And Zhasa. . . eh. She needs chances to prove herself, I think. Besides. Full-envirosuit, and quarians are _masters_ of avoiding infection. She might even be able to work with the technicians on the stations to work out filtration issues." Shepard wasn't terribly hopeful about this. The shipayards were big enough to handle everything _except_ a _Leviathan-_class ship internally. That was, in effect, a _hell_ of a lot of volume of air, just for the habitat rings. The shipyards themselves, of course, were kept in vacuum to prevent leaks and losses.

Nods all around the table. Kasumi added, "Don't forget. We have assets on the ground on Palaven, too."

"Unlikely to forget them," Garrus told her, dryly. "They're family. I'll call up Rinus and Kallixta on Palaven proper. They're not going to be immune, but they've got clout, and Rinus is at least on the payroll already. Not a Spectre. . . yet. . . but affiliated, at least."

Glum silence around the galaxy on a dozen different screens. Then Harak cleared his throat and rumbled, "Pelagia? You had information for our Spectre friends?"

The AI's self-image smiled, and she nodded. "I can make your job on Bastion, at least, a little easier. When you said you had _half_ a salarian name—Kordu—that at least let me correlate with the comm transmissions I've been going through here on Omega. A million or so a day between Omega and Bastion. Some very heavily encrypted. But narrowing it down by _Kordu_ was a help. Several of our batarians here on the station who were involved with the 'beverage' scheme placed calls to one _Ralesh Kordu_ on Bastion several times over the past few weeks. They also sent several cargo parcels to him. I have the shipping and manifest numbers for you on _those_ at the least, as well as Ralesh Kordu's comm code. Transmitting information now on a subchannel."

Sam and Lantar's tired faces lit up for a moment. "Li'l darlin'," Sam told Pelagia happily, "if I weren't a married man, and if you weren't an NCAI, and if you weren't halfway across the galaxy right now, I'd be liable to kiss you."

Pelagia laughed and looked down. Sam held up a finger. "Oh, and Commander? That actually reminds me. We need to have a chat about Laetia, my daughter and son-in-law, and the personality templates of the SR-3s. But we can take that off-line. And, y'know. . . later. When there's not an impending catastrophe."

Garrus muttered, _"Spirits of air and darkness._ Please don't tell me she went ahead, against my _express_ directions not to—"

"Later," Shepard agreed, cutting everyone off. "Focus, everyone. Sam, Lantar, go get some sleep. Everyone else. . . let's get bodies on ships. Kasumi, before you leave, forward the threat locations to SATBIA, NABI, turian CID, and HIA."

"Already done," Kasumi reported.

When everyone else had dropped connection, only Ylara was left, much to Shepard's surprise. "You had something else?" Shepard asked the asari, blinking a bit.

"Yes. When I go to Luisa, I will probably be taking the child, Shellara, into my personal custody." Ylara's tone was firm. "I hope that's acceptable? That care facility will not be able to stand up to a hit man or an irate Eclipse sister. Or, for all we know, one of the caregivers herself is compromised, and will harm the child."

"Try not to make an interstellar incident out of it. We don't need 'Spectre accused of kidnapping' on the main feed of the Westerlund News," Shepard warned.

"I'll be diplomatic in the extreme," Ylara replied. "I just don't understand. . . how she could send the child to be raised by strangers. I see so little of Telluura, but Kella I kept with me on my ship for fifteen years and more, before we moved to Mindoir."

Shepard shook her head. "Fear," she replied, simply. "There have been days when I've considered picking up my entire family and moving them to a different planet, just because the base has been exposed before."

"But you haven't."

Another headshake. "No." Shepard glanced over at Garrus, who smiled a little, and put a hand on her shoulder. "Mostly because Garrus here gives me perspective. Who does Essallia T'lani have, to give _her_ perspective? No one, from the sound of it." Shepard paused. "Try to keep yours."

Ylara nodded, a graceful inclination of her head. "I always do."

**Serana, Bastion, April 26, 2196**

The damned alarm always went off too early in the morning, and Serana had only had about three or four hours' sleep when it shrieked itself to life. She sat up, shedding sheets and blankets, and slapped at it, before cradling her head in her hands. She had a _headache_. Probably the result of nothing more than not enough sleep and too much stress, but it was really intense, and the noise screeched through her skull like a chainsaw on metal.

Eli sat up next to her, burying his face in his hands and rubbing at eyes and scalp, trying to wake up. "You all right this morning?" he asked, voice sleep-fogged.

"Yeah. Headache. Food will fix that." Serana leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder for a moment. The alien coolness of his skin soothed her aching head. "We're reporting to work and not taking our helmets off today, I take it?"

"Yeah. Sam said they'd have a quarantine area set up for us to work in with them." Eli tucked his chin atop her head, and they sat there like that for a moment. "All right. I'm going to grab a shower before everyone else starts lining up for it. These apartments really _aren't_ built for this many people."

She nodded and started pulling on clothes. "No running this morning. Just in case—"

"Yeah." He got up, pulled on a pair of shorts—a concession to the fact that there _was_ another human in residence at the moment, she suspected—and headed out into the hall.

_Food_, Serana thought, and stood up, grabbing a pair of workout shorts of her own as well as a loose sweatshirt of Eli's that she had appropriated for wearing in this apartment. Gray, with the words _University of Mindoir_ across the chest in violet ink that matched his clan-paint on her jaws. The temperature was set at a compromise average that was too cool for both her and Linianus, and too warm for Eli. Dara, being a human female, had commented on the chill last night, which had gotten her a withering look from Eli, and a somewhat sarcastic, "Thanks, now I really am outnumbered, aren't I?"

"No, no, cooler temperatures actually inhibit bacterial growth." Dara had admitted it with a sigh.

"Hallelujah."

Serana tiptoed out into the kitchen. Rel and Dara were stirring a bit—the alarm had been loud, the walls here were thin, and they were both special-forces trained. Light sleepers. _Four people on mixed diets, and Lin._ Serana opened her omnitool, and flicked through files until she found Ellie's list of recipes, smiled, and dug around in a cabinet until she found powdered _oolorae_ eggs. Mixed with water, they turned into purple, runny eggs, proper, and she started heating up a skillet on the stove. A little levo vegetable shortening in the pan, and then she poured the _oolorae_ in. To the cryo-unit, for shredded cheese, ham, and cured slices of _cuderae_ tongue. Chopped up fine, with a little onion, and they'd have omelets.

"_Something smells good,"_ Lin called, coming out from the back of the apartment. He stepped into the tiny kitchen, brushing past Serana with a light pat on the shoulder, and started setting up the _aphora_. He stopped, looked down at her, and said, _"What? Did I grow a second head overnight?"_ Light teasing tone, nothing more.

Serana swallowed and looked down. _"That __would__ be quite a symptom for Dara to note down."_ She hadn't meant to stare or feel self-conscious, and immediately tucked the reactions away. Chances were, Eli hadn't even _mentioned_ the idea to Lin at this point. There was no sense in acting _any_ differently towards him than before. It would, in fact, probably never even happen.

Lin chuckled. _"At least it would be a nice, visible symptom. Keep all the infected people over __there__. People with two, three, and four heads, stay to the left. People with only one head? Keep your breathers on."_ The _aphora_ began to bubble now, and he leaned over the stove, studying the lilac eggs with their filling of golden cheese, pink ham, and blue _cuderae_. _"Mixed, I see."_ He sighed. _"I might as well sign up for the Mindoir diet myself at this point. Pass the epi-tabs."_

"_Why?"_ Serana blurted.

"_Eli's not the only one who's outnumbered at the moment. Saves me cooking for just myself."_ He passed a casual hand over her crest—as an older brother, or a mate might—and grabbed a spatula out of the drawer, extracting the first food from the pan and sliding it onto one of their plates. _"I remember, the first couple of times Brennia and I tried to cook. . . Eli was the one who told us what we were doing wrong."_ Lin shook his head. _"I think we actually __did__ burn water once. It was pretty sad."_

By now, Eli was out of the shower, and Serana could smell clean skin and shaving cream waft into the kitchen ahead of him. He stood behind her at the stove, lightly resting his hands on her waist, as Lin stood just to her left. "Hey, one of my mom's recipes?"

"Yes. I still can't believe she sent you seventy-five of them." Serana considered it. "Although she could have skipped the ones for salarian snail cookies and kelp-wrapped slugs."

"This, from a turian who _loves_ _nepa_-kebabs," Eli chided lightly.

"Sea-scorpion, lobster, what's the difference?" Lin asked him.

"One's _poisonous_, the other's not," Eli pointed out. "But yeah, _amatra_, I keep telling my mom she should try to get them published as a cookbook. She keeps saying they're not good enough, and there isn't a big enough market for a levo-dextro cookbook. It's. . . really annoying trying to get her to see that they _are_ good enough."

Serana snorted lightly. "What, trying to get someone you love to see their own worth is difficult? I know _nothing_ of this."

Eli's fingers tightened on her waist. "Hmm. My finely-tuned _detective_ senses tell me that there _may_ have been sarcasm involved in that last sentence."

Lin chuckled. "I think you can get her on a charge of Mouthing Off and probably even Obstructing Breakfast, too."

"I am _making_ the breakfast," Serana pointed out, with dignity, moving a second omelet to a plate.

"Yes, but you're _between_ me and it," Eli told her, reasonably, and moved, stepping to her right, and turning her, so that she now faced Linianus, and Eli was at her back. Bracketed. Pinned in, one large male form on either side of her. Slightly intimidating, to be honest, though she knew perfectly well she was safe.

Lin looked down at her, clearly amused, as Eli continued, "Detective Pellarian, if you'd escort the suspect to the table, and would make sure she eats? I can finish up in here." Eli nipped the back of her neck, making her blink, and Lin chuckled, grabbed a plate, handed it to her, and picked up one of his own before taking her elbow and moving her out of Eli's way.

By that point, Dara and Rel were on their feet, and Dara was moving towards the shower, while Rel picked up their blankets from the sofa bed in the living area. Rel had, apparently, been watching the byplay in some amusement. "I had no idea Eli even knew _how_ to cook," Rel said, pulling on a shirt.

"And who do you _think_ usually got dinner started for the two years I lived on Mindoir while _both_ of my parents were working? Duck?" Eli asked, tartly. "Plus, two years on Edessan by myself. If I didn't want to eat cereal every night, I _did_ need to learn to make a few things. Mostly _pasta_, I'll admit, but how hard is learning to use a frying pan, anyway?"

He put a plate in front of Rel at the breakfast bar, and Rel just grinned at him. "I've been working out spirit statues in my head, and the hell of it is, I never see just _one_ figure in my head. Always these complex things." Rel ate a forkful of omlete, and added, "I've been debating Serana as Laverna, the Roman goddess of _theft_—"

"Hey!" Serana objected from her seat by Lin at the table. "That's Kasumi, not me. Everything I take is _strictly_ speaking, completely legal. I'm under orders. From a legitimate governmental body and everything."

Rel smiled at her and added, "Which left me clean out of Roman gods, so I was thinking of Eli as Tyr. Norse god of justice. I'm going to assume those two are not really on speaking terms, though."

Eli snickered. "What, so you'll have us with our backs turned to each other, then?"

Rel shook his head. "Nah, you behind her was the first one I was working on last night. Got another _really_ clear image, almost as clear as a spirit-dream in my head just now, though. Twins." He pointed at Linianus. "Castor, the mortal horseman and fighter." He pointed at Eli. "Pollux, the immortal twin, the boxer. Said by the Romans and the Greeks to bring luck on the battlefield, and to protect travelers and sailors and the home. When Castor died in battle, Pollux gave up half his immortality to share it with his twin, and thus they spent half each year in Hades and half among the gods from that point on."

Both males were squinting at him dubiously now. Eli shook his head and commented, dryly, "I thought we'd established firmly that I'm the mere mortal human last night."

Rel shrugged. "How else do we explain Lin's knee?"

"_Bite me, brother of my brother. I haven't hurt it in two years."_ Lin bared his teeth at the table beside Serana. Serana started to laugh, and rubbed a little at her forehead as she did. It hurt.

Rel then pointed at Serana. "Cybele," he added. "They were later incorporated into her worship as her attendants." His smile widened. "Of course, the parallel breaks down when you consider that Cybele was a mother goddess, who was venerated in wild, orgiastic, and often bloody ceremonies. . . "

Serana looked around, found a spare sparring glove on the floor in a neat pile of gear near her chair, and _threw_ it at her older brother, saying, _"Second-brother, you're going to pay for that."_ Rel ducked, laughing.

Eli commented, mildly, "He'll pay for it right around the time I ask him just _how_ orgiastic we're talking here, and how much further I have to go to get it right."

Rel shook his head. _"Nice try, __amil'amu__."_

"_It was a thought."_

Dara was out of the bathroom by now, and tying the waist of her scrubs. "My mate has obviously spent too much time around his aunt," she noted. "Or at least, has been going through her 'everything an alien needs to know about Earth to understand humans' reading list whenever he's bored. What she fails to understand is that almost no contemporary humans whose mothers _didn't_ teach at Oxford know all this off the tops of their heads—oh, thank you. Smells good." That, to Eli, as he handed her a plate, too.

As Serana ate, her headache was starting to fade, at least, so she decided not to mention it to Dara, who was clearly heading to med bay as soon as she finished eating. "Long day ahead, _ama'fradu?"_

"You know it. Everyone with a headache or a splinter is going to be coming in today. God, how I wish Dr. Solus was still with us." She shook her head. "The rest of the docs at STG are probably already kicking in to look at what we got out of the petrie dishes last night, but . . . none of them are him."

Eli put his own plate on the table and dropped the frying pan in the sink before sitting down, himself. Rel found a spot at their tiny, four-chair table, and hunkered down between Dara and Serana. "It'll be fine. We'll all do our best, and it'll be fine."

Rel looked at Eli. "I'm supposed to help with crowd control today, right? I should go with you, or with Lin?"

"With me. You're still Hierarchy military, so you belong to CID today."

There was a knock at their door, and everyone looked around at each other, confused. "Probably either your dad, _amatus,_ or Dara's," Serana said, standing up and heading for the door. "I'll get it."

Serana opened the hatch, looked out, and blinked. An asari in gray armor stood outside, face mostly concealed by her helmet, but blue eyes wide and a little startled. Beside her, a krogan well over seven feet in height bulked huge in red armor. "I'm sorry," a familiar voice said in galactic. "I must have mistaken the apartment number. I thought this was C-127-43-5?"

Serana chuckled under her breath. "Why Siara," she said, sweetly, leaning against the doorframe. "How nice to see you again." She glanced at the krogan. "And this must be Makur. I've heard about you, and the Rite. Won't you both come in? Keep your helmet on, though, Siara. Plenty of germs in this place that you don't need to be breathing."

She stepped back from the doorway, feeling a faint surge of territoriality, quickly suppressed. The voice of the past that said _Step into my cave, my nest, and I will make you regret it._ Males had gone out to hunt. Females had fended off packs of _villi_ and other predators in the cave and nest days, after all. _She's not an __acrocanth__. She's just Siara._

Siara and Makur stepped through. Conversation behind Serana in the kitchen nook had _died_ as the others had heard her words. Siara was plainly trying to wrap her head around something. "Serana?" she said. "Little Serana Velnaran? I didn't even _recognize_ you." Serana was now taller than the asari female, of course. She had her family's blue eyes. . . but wore different paint, of course. Most species _relied_ on the paint for turian recogogition. Siara's eyes flicked around the room as the others all came out into the main living area, darting between Eli's face and Serana's. Slight downward glance; Serana was wearing a human-styled sweatshirt that hid the knife sheath at her wrist, but Eli's was clearly visible.

"Actually, it's Serana _Sidonis_," Serana corrected, teeth bared just a little past a smile. The headache had never abated completely, and her mood was not the best to begin with.

And then Siara just _blinked_ as Eli put his hands on Serana's shoulders and said, mildly, "Hey, Siara. Long time no see. Makur?" Eli reached forward and offered a wrist-clasp that got his hand and arm engulfed in a krogan paw. "What brings you two to Bastion?"

"Spectre Gris, actually," Makur rumbled in reply, since Siara was obviously still realigning reality in her head. "He's meeting with Spectres Sidonis and Jaw. . . Jawor—"

"Jaworski," Dara supplied, with the patience of someone who's heard the name mangled seventy different ways over the course of a lifetime. Her omnitool was buzzing at her. "Shit. Right on schedule. That's the hospital. Every doctor on the station just got paged, I think. I wouldn't be surprised if they called in some paleontologists and a history professor or two by accident." She got up on tip-toe, kissed Rel on the cheek, and told Eli, "Hate to eat and run, Eli." Serana was suddenly struck by something. Dara _never_ called Eli by anything other than his name. Not even the little quick turian phrases that designated relationships. Rel called him _fradu_, or _amil'amu._ Brother, or beloved of my sister. Not Dara. Not even once. "Siara, Makur. . . I'm glad you're here to help. But I have to _run_ now."

"Armor," Serana reminded Dara, quickly.

"Breather, anyway. They're not going to want me in full armor in there. People are scared enough as is right now. They need to see a human doctor right now. Face-paint's okay. Turian armor, special forces colors? Distancing for humans. Turians who see the colors and know what they mean? Not so good, either. No, no. Happy pink Pepto-Bismol scrubs today, and a white lab coat. Bleah." Dara turned and left, coming back with a breather on. "If any of you start with _any_ symptoms, though? Drop me a message."

"You mean symptoms besides growing a second head?" Lin offered.

"Headache?" Serana offered.

"Dry mouth?" Eli now.

"Sudden hemorrhagic bleeding at the mucous membranes?" Rel suggested.

Everyone looked at him. Dara lightly smacked the back of his head, just under the crest. "No more reading my medical textbooks," she told him. "_Adamare talu."_

"_Adamare elii, mellis."_

Makur shook his head, and looked at the rest of them. "All right," he growled. "As I understand it, some or all of you could fall over sick at any minute. What do _we_ need to know?"

"We're supposed to be coordinating with Lin and someone named Fors Luka about the murder of a Lystheni," Siara supplied. "And Gris and Lantar and Sam are going to be working with us, Eli, and Serana to track down someone named Ralesh Kordu and up to five other agents here on Bastion."

All of their heads had come up now, in interest. And that's when _all_ of their omnitools went off, ordering them to different locations to meet with different people. "Hey, at least we got to start the day off well," Eli muttered. "Twenty minutes of calm before it all went to hell."

**Dara**

At the main med bay, patients were already lined up outside the doors and down the block. Dara sighed. Quarantine was _supposed_ to have lasted through 08:00 GMT today, but obviously, many panicked people had broken the rules and left early. It was barely 06:00 right now, and B-Sec was out, patrolling the line at least with a couple of uniforms.

Inside the med bay, it was controlled chaos; an oxymoron for anyone who'd never worked in a hospital environment before. There were hundreds of people in here, all begging for the attention of anyone in a white coat or scrubs. Every human, asari, and turian doctor or nurse was in at least a breather, as she was. The salarians and elcor were only in masks, and they, being _less_ distanced now, were the ones that people were turning to for comfort. It _helped_ on a psychological level, to be able to speak to a nurse or a doctor, see more of their faces, hear their voices clearly, not muffled by filters.

Dara was immediately grabbed to deal with humans and turians. Her bedside manner, after four years of work with turians, was massively too abrupt for asari, though about right for turians and krogan. It worked okay for humans, if she remembered to tone it down a little, and was again, just about right for salarians, who didn't want to take the time for niceties, generally speaking. The list of symptoms varied from patient to patient. Dizziness, dry mouth, headache, neck ache, muscle aches, chills, nausea. Dara took over for one of the frazzled night-shift doctors, and started going through a checklist of patient questions. Had they eaten anything the night before that was unusual, had they been in contact with anyone who was ill, and so on.

By 10:00, she was wearing out, herself, and damned glad she'd eaten a big breakfast. As it was, she was probably going to be living on coffee and mealbars from the break room vending machines for a while. Not the healthiest, but what she could manage, for the moment.

In the ER, where she was camped out, dealing with hostile, frightened patients, her omnitool blipped. Dara shielded its display with her hand, and read the message there.

_Attn: Dr. Dara Velnaran. _

_From: Dr. J. Chakwas. _

_Analysis of bacteria in gel suspension inside devices complete. Levo bacteria: Unknown strain of pneumococcus/ Streptococcus pneumoniae. Significant alterations to genome present, showing signs of engineering. Dextro bacteria: Atratus cremare. Turian 'black mourning' disease. Again, distinct signs of genetic engineering. _

_Viral contaminants found in devices as well. Levo virus: Skyllian flu. Unknown strain. Dextro virus: comburo febris/the consuming fever. _

Skyllian flu and _comburo febris_ were fast-spreading viruses that would weaken the whole population. Similar disease profiles for both: headache, high fevers, extreme lassitude, cough, body aches, and often diarrhea and vomiting; for humans and asari, runny nose.

Bacterial pneumonia would move in, opportunistically. Cough, often with green or blood-tinged sputum. Fever, potentially accompanied by shaking. Shortness of breath, chest pain, accelerated heartbeat. Fatigue, malaise, nausea, vomiting. The common complaints of a body in discomfort, a system that didn't know what to do, so it opted to flush everything at once.

_Atratus crema_ was a particularly nasty turian disease. It had two forms; contact and inhalation. On contact with the scales, it tucked in underneath them, forming blisters and popping them off as the blisters erupted, leaving blackened, dead flesh underneath that was very slow to heal, extremely painful, and often left visible scars. _Probably not what we have to worry about_, she thought, grimly. No, they had to worry about the _inhalation_ variant, which was extremely similar to meningitis in humans. Headache, stiff neck, fever, chills, vomiting, photophobia and light sensitivity, confusion, delirium, high fever.

Dara swallowed hard. _Well. Let's hope these are the __only__ ones we're dealing with_, she thought, and started tailoring her list of patients to have tested, and whom to send home, in accordance with _that_ list of symptoms. They had to start _somewhere_.

And, when she had a fifteen minute break, she sent that list of symptoms to her friends and family, with a note: _Don't mess around. If you have even __one__ of these symptoms, __tell__ me. Come in to the med bay, and we'll run some more tests. We're on at least a 48-hour timeline at this point._

**Siara**

Siara wasn't a product of Thessia anymore; she had lived on Mindoir, Tuchanka, and Omega now, and had learned how to move at the pace of those around her, rather than at the stately pace of an asari lifespan. In fact, on Tuchanka, she felt as if _she_ were the _mahai_, the short-lived, impatient for change. But sometimes, events simply caught up and passed her, leaving her stunned, wondering where time had gone.

She'd last seen Elijah Sidonis a little over six months ago, after a four year gap. His eyes had been dark and distant, his face a mask that hid his soul. The boy she'd known, gone, subsumed into what was very much an adult male human, as alien, as other, in his own way, as Makur. Darkness where there'd been light before. No laughter, no life. Both he and Linianus, made into hollow shells of who they'd been. She'd been shocked at the changes, had wanted to yell, _See, I told you that you would __waste__ yourself in the turian military_.

Six months later, and she'd tapped at the door, expecting to see. . . the same thing. Maybe fever brightness in the eyes, flush in the face. Disease, illness. She _hadn't_ expected to look up into the face of a young female turian. Cobalt blue eyes, slashes of violet paint along the chin, _University of Mindoir_ shirt. . . and _not_ the ramrod straight military posture of the average turian. No, this one had curved into the doorway like a cat, and just _smiled._ And when she'd spoken Siara's name, only _then_ had Siara known her. Serana Velnaran. Rel's little sister. . . but wearing the wrong colors.

Her brain was sharp, but the meaning hadn't sunk in at all until everyone else had stepped forward to greet them as they came in the door. Rel standing behind Dara, golden paint matched with golden paint. Eli standing behind Serana, like a mirror image of the other pair, violet and violet. Linianus in his blue, between them, like the pivot point of a scale. And then Serana had, with a wicked little smile, told her, "Serana _Sidonis_." _What? They're. . . more-than-fair to one another? But he never—a turian? Really?_

And not just changes in her, though four years had passed, and turned her into a tall, strong, confident female. Changes already, again, in Eli. The strength, stillness, darkness, remained, but were tempered. Joy as well as sorrow. Light as well as darkness. And yet _yesterday_, or it might as well have been, he'd been someone else.

_Mahai_, Siara thought, bemused. _How quickly they change, and yet, they stay themselves. Some even become. . . more themselves than before. _

Bastion, too, a place of changes. Omega and the Citadel were its opposites. Eternal, after a fashion. The Citadel, millions of years old, the ever-present trap. Omega, at least fifty thousand years old. Changing now, at the pace of the _mahai_, but at least under the guiding hand of Harak and Pelagia, its changes would linger. And hopefully not revert. Bastion? Every day here brought new rooms, new levels, something new. And today, it happened to have disease. Again at that incredible _mahai_ pace. Siara just hoped she could _match_ it, stride for stride.

She and Makur moved alongside Linianus, who was taking them in a side entrance of B-Sec. "They're probably going to want me out in the street, one of the visible uniforms, for part of the day, anyway," the tall turian told them. "There's going to be a lot of panic. Especially after the current 'stay in your homes' order expires." He paused. "Or even if it gets extended, actually." He shook his head, and led them through a maze of offices and cubes, and, on finding one that looked completely identical to all the rest, ducked his head around the corner and said, "Fors?"

"And who else would it be?" The voice was muffled, but amused. Like a friendly mole.

"You slept at the office last night?" Linianus shook his head as a volus in an environmental suit crawled out from under the desk. "Not healthy."

"Hmm. You, telling me, what's not healthy at the moment. That's what we call irony, isn't it?" The volus tapped on his outer carapace. "Besides, I'm probably the healthiest person in B-Sec today, and I didn't want to try walking up to my habitat ring through the curfew. Just my luck, I'd get the only rookie in B-Sec who _wouldn't_ believe what the envirosuit colors told him, and I'd wind up right back down here in a holding cell, instead of under your desk, friend Linianus. Besides. . . for some reason or another, they don't want me out on the crowd control lines." He snuffled. "Fools."

Lin's helmeted head shook. "I've seen how you control crowds. I have no problem with you freezing half a street in place. The problem I think Bailey has is what happens when the other half stampedes and crushes you."

"Never happen. More than one trick up my sleeve." The tiny creature snuffled and moved forward. "Who're your friends?"

"Siara Tesala and Urdnot Makur," Lin said, with faint amusement in his tone, looking up at Makur, who dwarfed the turian, and then down at the volus, whose head didn't clear the top of Lin's thighs, "this is Officer Fors Luka. As biotics go? I think he's on par with Sings-to-the-Sky. I'd rather have him as backup than half the guys I worked with in the MPs." He shifted and addressed the volus now. "Fors, I've known Siara since we were kids on Mindoir. She and Makur are here at Spectre direction to help in the event that Eli and I fall over and die." That part didn't _quite_ sound like a joke.

The volus snuffled. "All right. And how do I know which is which again?"

Siara blinked. This was not a question she had _ever_ heard asked before. Makur started to chuckle, and crouched down, studying the volus as if it were an interesting new set of tracks. Then again. . . Makur had never seen a volus before. _They're harmless. / So small. Yet he who stood beside us in the Rite, shoulder-to-shoulder against the Harvester, would __not__ misjudge strength._

_It's not polite to whisper, my friends._

The thought was concentrated and dense. Easily on par with Sings-to-the-Sky, but. . . completely, utterly different. Siara's mouth fell open slightly. A sense of amusement. _You __do__ smell interesting, asari-krogan and krogan-krogan. One like mint and the other like truffles. Ice and earth. How the two of you combine . . . . olfactory explosion. This will be. . . a fascinating experience, I think_.

Siara recovered after a moment. "I'm honored to meet you, Fors Luka," she said, and she meant every word. "We're here to help. Linianus, what do you need us to do?"

Lin tapped on his omnitool. "Gris brought information about our dead salarian's other partners. That's Gris, Jaworski, Lantar, Eli, and Serana, for the moment. Fors, you're second on this. We're going to find the drell who killed _our_ salarian. Hopefully before she kills the other salarian."

Siara frowned. "You think she's going to?"

Lin's eyes were invisible behind his polarized mask. "I've got a bet running on it with Eli, yeah. Seems kind of coincidental that it's all unrelated. It could be. Sounds like the Lystheni pissed off a _lot_ of different people the last time they stuck their necks out of their holes."

"So, we hunt this drell," Makur said, eyes gleaming. "I'm very interested to see how a turian hunts in this wilderness of metal."

"Unfortunately," Linianus said, dryly, "not with my nose." He tapped on the visor of his helmet. "We start with the VIs and the records. Fors, if you don't mind?" Lin stepped around the volus, and started spinning up aerogel screens. "We have, on this station, five thousand drell. About fifty percent of whom are female. I'm going to take a wild guess and say that this female drell is not a long-term resident. We can thus assume she arrived sometime in the last month. Depends on how patient she is, I suppose."

He tapped on a few places on the screen. "Of the four hundred female drell who have boarded Bastion in the last month. . . three hundred and fifty have since left. Fifty are still aboard."

Fors supplied, lightly, "The haystack is starting to look a little smaller, my friend. We might find your needle yet."

Lin saved the results to a file, and put it on _all_ their omnitools. "Usually not the way I'd prefer to handle things, but Spectre Gris has pretty much made you his deputies at this point, and I'm from Mindoir. Gris used to beat me up on the sparring mats three times a week. I'm not planning on arguing with him." Lin looked at Siara, and said, very firmly, "That being said, this is _Fors_ and _my_ investigation. You're involved, and that's fine. But if I fall over, you will listen to _Fors._"

Siara smiled, faintly. "I am acquainted with the notion of a chain of command, Linianus." She glanced at Makur. "You'll notice that he and Rellus both gave almost the exact same speech, three years apart?"

"I _did_ notice this, yes. Makes me wonder what they're worried we're going to do," Makur rumbled. "Don't worry, turian. I'm very good at hunting. Some day, you can come back to Tuchanka, and we'll hunt varren together. For now, we'll hunt things in your territory, and hunt them your way."

Linianus snorted. "That would actually be fun."

"Fun?" Siara said, dryly. "Varren packs on Tuchanka can have up to fifty individuals."

"Yes, yes," Fors said impatiently. "Now, if you're all quite finished measuring each other's genitalia, can we get on with this?"

Linianus reached down and offered the volus his hand. "Typically, you don't actually _measure_ each other," he said, calmly. "It's more of a visual comparison. You walking, Fors, or am I carrying?"

"I'd like to point out that _you_ would be slower on Irune." The volus' tone was a little sour.

"I'd like to point out that I'd be a freeze-dried stick of meat on Irune. Methane oceans are _not_ what any turian wants to go skinny-dipping in." Lin picked the volus up and settled him on one armored shoulder, like a father carrying a toddler, and left one hand up there to steady him in place. "This dignified enough for you, partner?"

"It does beat being carried in front of you like a SWAT shield or a puppy, yes."

Siara had been looking through the list of names. "Where do we even _start_?" she asked, in some exasperation.

She could _hear_ the grin in Linianus' voice. "Makur? You have an idea, I expect?"

"Mmph. Where the concentration of game is the greatest." Makur still wasn't good at reading, but he peered over Siara's shoulder at the names scrolling by. "Ten of them are at the hanar embassy now. Nice, enclosed area. Harder for them to run."

Siara put her head to the side, consideringly. "You _do_ realize that we're _not_ going to kill them all?" _More-than-fair, you test him? Were we not all tested together? / Tested in fire, tested in blood. Now I test wisdom._

"I know. Turians and humans have odd ideas about hunting." Makur's voice was a little sly. "Next, he'll be telling us about a catch-and-release program."

Lin snorted. "That would actually be the bail system, but that's another story entirely."

They arrived at the hanar embassy, which was on C-level with the rest of the embassies, and Fors waddled up to the gate to speak with the guards there. He and Lin both produced credentials, and signed in their group. "We all have to leave our weapons at the door," Lin muttered. "The hanar tend to be a peaceful people, and this _is_ an embassy."

Siara laughed softly. "Trust me, Linianus. They can't take away _all_ my weapons."

"Or mine," Makur added.

"And to think I left my biotics in my other armor," Lin said.

"I can loan you a couple of my better abilities," Fors offered. "How would you like to make someone implode?"

Three heads swiveled towards the volus, whom Lin had set back on the ground. Lin recovered first. "That's. . . quite all right," he said, after a moment. "I think I'll stick with shooting people."

Fors snuffled. "Shooting is so _messy_."

After they'd deposited their weapons with the embassy guards, they were permitted in. A hanar floated over immediately. "How may this one assist the respectable B-Sec officers?"

Linianus looked up at the hanar. "Detective Pellarian, and this is Officer Luka. We'd like to speak with some of the drell who are in residence. We're trying to verify their whereabouts the night that the bioweapons were deployed." Siara blinked. Strictly speaking, it was the truth. Maldo Ren _had_ been murdered the same night that two sets of the devices had been set off. It was a little mendacious, but would probably get more results under the circumstances than if Linianus had said, _we're looking into the murder of a salarian, and we have reason to believe a drell was responsible._

"Of course, of course," the hanar replied calmly. "A terrible business. It would be dreadful if any of our drell compatriots were to perish. They are vulnerable to many human and asari diseases, particularly the ones which affect their lungs. At the moment, we have some seventy drell on the grounds. Are there any in particular with whom you would speak, Detective?"

Linianus nodded, and brought up his list. "Queneua Golias, Odiern Drivas, Sedemode Hanno, Leuiua Kontos, Seheve Liakos, Meisent Misko, and Eileve Petrides. Perhaps there's a room nearby in which we could meet with them each?" His voice was polite.

Siara was _fascinated._ She'd grown up with drell boys and girls on Mindoir, of course, but they were worlds apart from the drell here in the embassy. Universally humble, sober, reserved, each of the seven females filed in, in turn. Linianus asked each of them a few simple questions. When they'd arrived on Bastion, when they had intended to leave, and where they'd been the night of the twenty-fourth of April. "At Depth Charge, for my folly," Queneua told them, her tone rueful. "I accompanied Olloroan, one of the junior attaches here in the embassy. He is almost certain not to become ill. He is. . . very regretful that he exposed to me such danger, but neither of us could have known." She paused. "At least he's taken me to the med bay this morning. Got me a couple of shots of antibiotics and such. Some of the older hanar here?" She leaned forward, and whispered, "said I should just pray to the Enkindlers for a cure, and that the medicines wouldn't work on those who didn't know the light."

Odiern Drivas was an older female, one who had just taken a job in the embassy as chief housekeeper—in charge of all the poolcleaners, apparently. "I was here," she replied, shortly. "Check the gate records if you like. If anyone brought back disease, it was that little tart Queneua."

Sedemode Hanno was a young junior diplomat. "I was at the turian embassy, actually. Trade negotiations for, ironically, medical equipment common in the Hierarchy, which my people feel might be efficacious in treating Kepral's syndrome. However, sale of this equipment is prohibited outside of Hierarchy space."

Leuiua Kontos admitted that she'd come to Bastion looking for a new job, a new life as far away from Kahje as possible. "I'm on a tourist visa, but if I can find a job, I'll apply for a permanent resident status as quickly as I can," she blurted out. "Oh, what a bad _dream_ this is. To come here, so close to being able to stay away from that damp, miserable rock forever, and to land here a week before the entire place gets shut down due to disease."

Meisent Miko and Eileve Petrides had similar stories. Meisant actually _had_ landed a job, as a waitress at the Dark Star lounge, but with the club currently closed, she had no idea how she was going to pay the rent, and had sought refuge at the embassy for the duration. She'd been at work that night, and had coworkers who would verify it. Eileve Petrides claimed not to have a job, but her wary glances at Linianus and Fors told a slightly different story. She claimed to have been up on G-level that night, but off in a krogan section. "Doing what?"

"Interviewing for a job."

"At night?" Fors asked, with polite disbelief.

She shrugged. "It's a night job."

"With whom? Names, please," the volus asked, and when they were forthcoming, he snuffled a little. "Undurv Rahul? He's persona non grata at the krogan embassy, and that takes some effort, let me tell you."

Makur rumbled, "Blood Pack?"

"Used to be. They kicked him out. Killed too many of his own men, I heard."

"That's a problem." Makur stood now, looking down at the tiny drell. "And _he_ wanted to interview you for a job." Makur paused and laughed a little. "Your lies stink like week-dead carrion."

She glared at him. "He's trying to set up his own merc company. None of the regular groups will hire _drell_. I went, I listened, and I tried not to run too fast on my way out, all right. Why the hell do you think I'm cooped up in this embassy? Because I _like_ breathing water vapor?"

The last to enter was Seheve Liakos. Where the others wore either business clothing or night-on-the-town type clothes, depending on their personality, she wore a long-sleeved, baggy shirt of khaki linen, and slightly darker pants of similar material. Brown boots. Her scales had a vivid scarlet pattern across her scalp and down her neck, but she kept her dark eyes lowered, and her hands clasped in front of her. Withdrawn. Even with that vivacious coloring, she wouldn't have stood out in a crowd. Siara's eyes kept slipping right off of her, even though they were in the same room. "How may this one assist the respectable B-sec officers?" she asked, quietly.

Siara watched Linianus' head snap towards her, and wondered what he'd noticed. "Seheve Liakos?" he asked, politely.

"That is this one's name, yes."

_Interesting. She uses hanar self-effacement. Not many drell do that. As if she's not even a person, even to herself._

Linianus asked the same questions as before, and occasionally reached a hand up and touched his helmet, as if his head hurt. Seheve had arrived on the twenty-third, on a tourist's visa. She planned to stay no more than a week, then return to her work on Kahje. "And what is your work?" Linianus asked, almost sounding bored.

"This one is a very junior information specialist at the Ministry of Interplanetary Affairs." Eyes still down, voice still low.

"And the night of the twenty-fourth, you did what, exactly?"

"This one ate dinner in the hotel lounge, and went for a walk in the hanar neighborhood nearby. This one returned to the hotel, and had an unfortunate accident in this one's hotel room. A small fire, caused, this one is told, by faulty electrical wiring." She lifted her hands, palms towards her face, as if in illustration. "Medigel provided by the apologetic hotel staff cured all wounds. This one has no intention of filing any grievance against them."

"That _is_ unfortunate," Fors told her. "Pretty bad luck for a vacation."

"It was the will of the Enkindlers." Calm, rote words. Siara felt a chill go down her spine. Makur's voice, in silent communion, _She's empty. / No, there's something there. I just don't know what. I'd have to share her to see it clearly. . . and I would not wish to do that._

"Does the name Lluwyn mean anything to you?" Linianus asked, suddenly, and the female's eyes moved up for the first time. Night-black and faintly pearlescent.

Seheve considered it for a moment, as if flicking through the perfect, eidetic memories all drell possessed. "No," she answered. "It means nothing to me."

The omnitool at Lin's wrist beeped, and he looked down at it with an audible sigh. And then swore. _"S'kak._" He keyed his radio, and spoke quietly on the private band they were all tuned to. "Couple of things, folks. For what it's worth, I think she's lying. And second, my armor just notified me that I'm running a fever in the one hundred and thirteen Fahrenheit range. Guess that explains the . . . really kind of splitting headache over the last two hours. One thirteen is warm even for a turian. I probably need to let my, ah, family doctor know about this."

"And report to the damn med bay," Fors said, urgently.

"And stand in line for four hours? No, I'll go home, send Dara a message, see what _she_ tells me to do. Maybe they have an expedited line for people who _know_ they were exposed." Linianus stood, and turned back to Seheve. "For what it's worth, ma'am," he said through his armor's filters now, "a salarian was murdered the night of the twenty-fourth. He was very likely one of the people behind this bioweapon attack."

Those large black eyes had lifted again, and blinked, once. "Then perhaps the justice of the Enkindlers was swift."

Linianus leaned forward across the table at which she sat, and growled, very quietly, "I don't give a damn about the justice of the Enkindlers. What I _do_ care about is that we were going to take him in for questioning the _next damned day._ It might not have stopped the devices that were already planted. But we could've found them faster, if we could have gotten information out of him. Maybe even found the _rest_ of the devices by now. His conspirators are still out there, and we have damned little to go on without him." It was all, strictly speaking, the truth. An edited version of the truth, but the truth, nonetheless.

The drell female lowered her eyes to the table. Said nothing for a very long moment. "This one has been told, that all things are the will of the Enkindlers." There was a very faint tremor in that raspy drell voice. Siara found the phrasing very telling. It wasn't "all things are the will of the Enkindlers," a simple declarative. The phrasing called the declaration into doubt.

"Do you believe that, Seheve?" Siara asked, speaking for the first time. "Do you believe that tens of thousands of people on this station, by now, have been infected with diseases, may even die, because good and kindly gods _will_ for evil to happen?"

"That is. . . that is not for this one to say." Seheve moved slightly, for the first time, pulling back from them all.

At that point, a hanar drifted into the room. "Forgive the intrusion," he said, his voice chiming through the translator. "This one has been monitoring the conversations you have had with our people, Detective Pellarian. You have obtained these interviews under false pretexts—"

"No," Fors said, sharply. "We said we were looking into their whereabouts the nights of the infections. Which was the truth."

"Nevertheless, you must now leave our embassy. You have no right to question Ms. Liakos in regards to this unfortunate murder—"

Makur rumbled, "And I can have a Spectre here inside of twenty minutes, and she can answer _his_ questions, instead." Makur's grin was toothy as he moved up, and very subtly, hooked his hand through Linianus' belt, helping the turian stay upright. "Urdnot Gris will not be nearly so diplomatic as my turian friend here."

There was a quite pause. "You are on embassy ground, the sovereign territory of the hanar government. It is time for you to leave."

Siara touched two buttons on her omitool and said, "Spectre Gris?"

Gris' low-toned rumble came through the speakers clearly, if a little tinnily. "Yes, Urdnot Siara?"

"We have a potential suspect in the death of Maldo Ren here in the hanar embassy. The hanar are being a little intractable about allowing us to question her further. Would you be so kind as to come down here and throw your weight around?"

It got _really_ complicated after that. Siara moved up next to Linianus, and kept a damned close eye on his vitals. She had _no_ idea what turian heartrate and blood pressure were supposed to be, but from the yellow lights on the omnitool, she was fairly sure that these weren't good readings. So, while they waited for Gris to get there, and stolidly ignored the security guards who were summoned to try to order them to leave, Siara dropped Dara a message. And got a surprisingly quick reply: _Get him home. He needs to start cooling down his core temperature, and the armor's not compensating for him enough right now. Med bay's overloaded. Does he have body aches, chills, or hallucinations?_

_How in Vaul's name do I know if he's hallucinating_? Siara wondered. Meanwhile, the various drell security guards had upped the ante, and had just walked in and grabbed Fors by the arm.

"Bad move," Fors told him, and suddenly, everyone in the damned room froze in place. Fors looked up at Makur. "Would you mind having him unhand me? I would, myself, but it's so undignified when I try to pull free and land on my tail."

Makur chuckled and jerked the drell's hand free of the volus' arm. Siara watched the eyes of all the drell—most of them looked panicked; the only muscles in their bodies that currently functioned controlled the focus and direction of their gaze, so she could tell that much. Seheve, however, had no focus to her eyes at all. Turned completely inward.

And that was when Urdnot Gris arrived, lumbering in through the door in his Spectre armor, and looking around at the frozen landscape of drell enforcers and at least two unmoving hanar, and chuckled. "Who's doing this?" he asked.

"That would be me," the volus said, tightly. "It's hard to maintain for a long duration, however."

Gris chuckled again, low and rough. "I would've given my left arm for someone who could have done this back on Rough Tide, back in the day. Sure would've made making people _listen_ a _hell_ of a lot easier." He put his fists on the table. "So. Who's in charge here?"

A _new_ hanar floated in through the doorway. Siara shook her head. This was turning into a diplomatic fiasco. "That would be this one, Spectre. This one is the ambassador's senior aide. This one is empowered to speak with you regarding this unfortunate matter."

Gris nodded. "Right. So, speak."

"Ms. Liakos is an agent of the hanar government. Our people do not have standing armies, as others do. When an injustice is done to one of our people, we have few recourses. People such as Ms. Liakos are our sole means of self-defense and justice." The chiming voice paused. "The parents of a young hanar named Lluwyn petitioned our government for justice in his death five years ago. It took some time to trace all of his movements and all of his interactions, but we are confident that the one who betrayed him to his death was Maldo Ren. Maldo Ren paid for his crime, the murder of one of our citizens. It is unfortunate that our operations have clashed in this fashion. This one regrets any inconvenience."

"Inconvenience?" Lin growled. "You call cold-blooded murder an _inconvenience?_"

The hanar paused. "Your people are strong, Detective. Ours are not. Your people are warlike. Ours are peaceful. We have only a few methods for prosecuting our interests. Do the Spectres not use similar means?"

Siara could feel Linianus sway just a bit beside her. "Spectres are outside the law," Lin muttered darkly. "You're not. You're as subject to Council law as anyone else in Council space. Murder is _futtari_ murder."

Gris nodded, once. "Our B-Sec friend here is running a pretty bad fever, from the looks of his suit here," he said, and Siara was once again reminded that her second-mother aimed to be a shaman someday. "You'll have to forgive him his lack of diplomacy, but since his life's in some danger here, we're going to get him to med bay."

Siara saw, out of the corner of one eye, the fact that Seheve's head turned to watch them go.

"_Not med bay,"_ Siara said in krogan as Gris and Makur each slipped an arm under Linianus' shoulders. _"His apartment. Dara gave me some basic treatments. Says med bay's so backed up right now, he's almost better off at home, so long as he stays lower than a hundred and fifteen _Fahrenheit_ and doesn't start hallucinating. Any higher, and we get him there."_

"_Right,"_ Gris muttered as they half-carried Lin out of the embassy. _"I know his father. Believe me when I say I don't want the high-energy explosives expert of the Spectre base pissed at me for his kid dying on my watch."_

**Elijah**

The headache was bad. The chills were definitely worse.

He and Serana had made it back to their apartment at 17:00 GMT, and she'd staggered to the medicine cabinet and gone digging for _salix_, the turian equivalent of aspirin—in the dark. And she'd shrieked a little when he'd turned on the light for her, covering her eyes as if it _hurt_. "Take the _salix_, _asperitella_," he'd told her, stripping off his gloves and touching her face. She was _hot_ to the touch—more so than usual, and her omnitool was complaining steadily and quietly about that fact. 114º F. Almost hot enough to scald a human's skin, but not quite. "Out of the armor, into the shower with you." He remembered doing this with Duck, years ago. Tepid water, over and over the baby's fevered head, despite her heart-wrenching cries of misery. Serana didn't cry out that way; just hunched in on herself, gritted her teeth, and endured, covering her eyes from the light. "You steady enough in there on your feet that I can let go?" Eli asked.

"Yes. . . I think so." Her voice was a little faint.

Eli sighed, and started getting out of his own armor. Aspirin now, for himself. His hands were shaking so badly, he spilled half the damned bottle in the sink, but managed to isolate two pills and dry-swallowed them, rather than fiddle with the water. His own omnitool was protesting that he was at Caelia's natural body temperature of 103º F, instead of the more appropriate human 98.6º F.

He'd joined her in the shower then, gritting his own teeth against the spray, which only seemed to be intensifying his shaking. Slight panicked look on Serana's face, and then _she_ was holding _him_ up. _"This isn't good,"_ she muttered in turian.

"_T-t-tell m-me about it,"_ Eli chattered, _hating_ the loss of control over his own body. They both slowly sat down on the floor of the shower, huddling together. _"When do we know to get out?"_ he asked, more just out loud, than for an answer.

The bathroom door opened, and their heads jerked up. "Sorry," Makur rumbled, slinging Linianus in next. "Hope you've got room for one more in there. This one's cooking." He unlatched Lin's helmet, and looked down at the turian's blue-painted face for a moment. Eli stared at Makur, wondering if the krogan saw the genophage in these diseases currently springing up on Bastion. Maybe. Maybe not. Makur was _young._

After a moment, Lin started unlatching his own gear. Boot camp habits, muscle memory. Boots, greaves, thigh-plates, each unlocked in turn. And then the pressure suit underneath, and he tried to stagger to his feet—Makur caught his arm and redirected him into the shower enclosure, where Eli and Serana both managed to get back to their own feet, and braced themselves, holding Lin up under the spray. Eli's tremoring was starting to abate, at least for the moment. _God. This is forty-eight hours after our first exposure, _he thought. _How many other people are this sick, or worse right now? __We__ had antibiotics and antivirals last night. And I'm sure Dara will give us all more tonight. What about the people who __didn't__?_


	91. Chapter 91: Epidemic

**Chapter 91: Epidemic**

**Author's note:** _Yeah, I know it's one of the least likely scenarios with contemporary technology, but they say "write what you know" and this is one of the scenarios I know that scares the bejeebus out of me. I blame it on watching __The Andromeda Strain__ when I was very young (at least, I think that was the movie I watched. Then again, there was another one on where everyone got wiped out by a hypersonic sound. There were an __awful__ lot of 'everyone on the planet dies' movies on TV when I was a wee lass, come to think of it. Also, reading __The Stand__ while living outside of D.C. in the wake of the anthrax stuff probably also didn't help. _

_I started to make the second turian disease based on anthrax; sat down, really read up on the disease, and absolutely couldn't make myself do it. It's really quite horrific._

_Dermiti brought this fan art to my attention; it's now my absolute favorite. http : / / rinpoo-chuang . deviantart . com / art / Garrus-Vakarian-Father-212983493_

_Additionally, the poll function on FF is now actually working again. Feel free to point and click your way through to giving me your opinion! :-)_

**Dara**, **Bastion, April 26-7, 2196**

"You _can't_ leave," a frantic drell doctor told Dara, who was grabbing medicines and latex gloves and syringes from the dispensary.

"Actually, yes, I can. I have a page on my omnitool from a Spectre, saying three people deputized by Spectres—all of whom are, by the way, either friends or relatives of mine—are in the first stages of infection. Not only is monitoring the progress of their symptoms in a nice, controlled environment the right thing to do, but you know what? I was exposed, too. Forty-eight hours for them, same as half the other patients here. I'm at twenty-four hours on that timeline myself. Do you really want me here sick?"

The drell shook her head. "No. No, definitely not."

Dara nodded, briefly. "I'm going to be in constant contact with Dr. Eresh and Dr. Alliana, at least until I can't write anymore." _Which is going to wreak havoc on my patient notes and the timeline. Shit. And everyone always says doctors shouldn't self-treat. Hah. Physician, mend thyself._

"Do you have a nurse who can go with you?"

Dara paused. "I think so. We should be able to get someone off the _Dunkirk_. Of course, their whole medical staff is probably already on the station, but since two of the Spectres have also been exposed, the _Dunkirk_ people can be retasked." _Lucky me, my very own private ward and sanitarium._ Ethically, it was dicey. There were those who would argue that nurses from the _Dunkirk_ would save more lives in the med bay, than in the small apartment where they were all going to be staying. With luck, they wouldn't need to call on them. _With luck? Where's luck been, the past week?_ She stopped off in the staff locker room, stripped out of her contaminated scrubs, and got clean ones from a vending machine. Dark green, for surgical, at least.

The main med bay was on C-level, same as Eli's apartment. The air vents were barely humming; exchanges between different levels were being shut down by crews, she knew. Every level had its own hydroponics garden, for carbon scrubbing, oxygen generation, aesthetics, and food, which was a help, but it didn't do nearly enough for such a large population. Thus, quarian engineers and techs were scrambling through walls, floors, and ducts, trying to find every single access point between levels of the station, and block them, or at least stretch HEPA-grade material over the grills.

Air cars were shut down. Ground cars were currently prohibited, other than ambulances. This was a measure taken to try to keep people at home, not congregating. Free HEPA masks were being distributed to everyone. Dara had tried not to snicker at the elcor ones, but it was a perfectly reasonable precaution, given that they had no _idea_ where the rest of the devices had been planted, or if there had been additional diseases, tailored to other species, in the mix.

She knocked at the door of the apartment, hoping fervently someone was home, given that she didn't have a damned key, and the biometrics weren't tied to _her_ chips. After a moment, the door opened, and Siara blinked up at her. "Thanks," Dara said tiredly, stepping in and setting down her box of medications and gloves and other necessities. "Where are my patients?"

"In the shower. Eli and Serana were already trying to get their temperatures down when we showed up with Lin."

Dara nodded and reached down. Grabbed a box of gloves and a thermometer, and headed back for the bathroom in the hallway, stepping around Fors and Gris as she did, giving them preoccupied nods. "Make a hole," she told Makur, and wedged herself past the krogan.

Three people in the tiny shower cubical made for a tight fit. And after close to five years of dealing with group showers and patient bodies of any number of species, in all sorts of conditions, Dara didn't even blink. They were just. . . machines. . . as Dr. Solus had once told her she would come to look at them. Machines that were malfunctioning. And her job was to fix them.

One glance told her that all three were in bad shape. Each holding the others up, more or less, at this point. Dara put a hand under the water spray. Tepid for a human was between 25-35º C, or 77-95º F. This water was tepid for Eli, or fine for a hybrid, like Caelia, but a bit too low for a turian. Drop the core temperature too much, too fast, and you could shock the whole system. Turians needed 95-105º F. Judging from the way Serana had latched onto Eli, who was shivering, and the fact that Lin had wrapped his arms around both of them, their bodies knew that, instinctively, regular human body temperature, even up through moderate human fever levels, made a damn fine cool towel for a turian body. Eli, however, was shaking. "I need to turn the water off, and get some decent temperature readings from you each," Dara told them, calmly. "Siara?"

Siara pushed past Makur into the tiny bathroom, and blinked a little at the current scene before turning her head away slightly. "Yes, Dara?"

"I need you to start taking notes. I don't know how long I'm actually going to be able to treat people, so the notes need to stay with you. You have medical experience with the krogan mothers and newborn, correct?" Dara turned off the shower, slipped on a pair of gloves, and tucked a thermal probe into Eli's ear, first.

"Yes, some. Examinations of the newborn. Birthing, a couple of C-sections, with Malla. Krogan don't really get many diseases, but I've worked through a few with the newborns." Siara's voice was cautious. "Mostly cuts and wound treatments."

"You're worlds ahead of most of the med techs fresh out of boot camp I've worked with, then. Most of them have ten weeks of training and then it's all on-the-job from there. Just take notes on your omnitool. Mine's set to record, too, but yours is going to be the complete history." The thermal probe dinged in her hand. 101º F. "Eli Sidonis, male human, age twenty. Physical health before infection, exceptional. Infection date four, twenty-four, ninety-six. Temperature one hundred and one Fahrenheit, thirty-five point six Celcius, at five-twenty-six on the twenty-sixth."

"It was higher before," Eli mumbled through chattering teeth. "One oh three, the suit said."

"Patient reports higher temperatures earlier in the day, spiking to one oh three. Patient presents tremoring and chills at the moment. Did you have any other symptoms so far?"

"Not. . . not really. . . ."

"Water bath applied to reduce temperature, appropriate to human physiology. Probably too low for the turians," Dara added, dryly. "Eli, right now, Serana and Lin are hanging onto you for the _warmth_, which is the exact opposite of what they would normally be doing. Normally, in a high fever, they'd be hanging onto you because you're _cool_ and you feel good."

Eli's eyes opened, dazed, fringed by his dark lashes. "Shit."

"Yeah. You had the right idea, just the wrong temperature. You were going by your body temperature, and Caelia's. Perfectly fine for you. Too much of a shock for them. I need you to come out of there, so I can get them thermoregulated a little better. If you stay in, the water's going to be too damned warm for you, and you'll ramp back up again." Dara grabbed a towel at random. "Serana, let go. Lin, you too." Dara helped Eli out, looking past him as she wrapped a towel around him and helped him sit down on the closed toilet. She _did_ notice, as she had on Khar'sharn, that he had definitely bulked out, and there wasn't an ounce of extra body fat on him. Then she turned the water back on, until it was slightly warmer than her own body temperature; comfortably warm for a human bath, in essence. Serana and Lin both stopped _huddling_ at that point, their postures becoming less rigid. "Okay," Dara said, as the water ran. "Serana, what was your first symptom?"

"Probably the headache this morning," Serana admitted. "Thought I'd slept wrong, that's all. Then around fifteen hundred or so. . . light really started to hurt my eyes. And my suit started reporting a temperature of about a hundred and three _aestus_. . . "

"Patient, Serana Sidonis, female turian, age sixteen. Physical health before infection, fresh out of boot camp, so, exceptional." Dara's tone was very dry, and she noted the temperatures. Originally, 113º F/ 45º C; down to 111º, for the moment, and she added the relevant information, including, "Photosensitivity. That's not common to _comburo febris_, I'm afraid." She stopped the water again, and got Serana out next, who went to Eli and curled up at his feet, Eli leaning forward to put his head on hers. Dara then tested Linianus' temperature, and resisted the impulse to curse. 113º F/ 45º C _now_, which meant he had been higher when he got here. "What was your highest temperature?" she asked Lin.

"Hundred and four point five _aestus._ Readout said that was one-fifteen in Fahrenheit."

"Any other symptoms?"

"Headache for the last two hours of questioning _futtari_ drell in the damned hanar embassy, and every muscle in my body's screaming like a pulled tooth."

Dara nodded, made her notes, and grabbed another towel, helping Lin out of the shower now. "Okay, let's get them down the hall," she said through her breather. "The good news is, Eli can't catch what they have, and they can't catch what Eli has," she told them all, including Siara and Makur, who were helping her keep each of them upright on their way to the rooms at the back of the apartment. Keeping Eli and Serana together would help their mental outlook; they wouldn't be _worrying_ about each other so much. Putting them in the same bed risked overheating Eli, but it would keep Serana's temperature a little more regulated—warm, but not _too_ warm. And that left her with the question of what to do with Linianus. Dara rooted around in Eli and Serana's clothes, and found them each a pair of short, at least. Modesty wasn't really at issue, here, after all. They pulled them on, before slumping at the edge of their bed. "Come on, Lin," Dara told him. "Let's get you to your nest."

Lin shook his head. "You and Rel are twenty-four hours from joining us, aren't you? And Sam and Lantar are, too?"

_Shit. Why do __all__ of my friends have to be smart?_ "Yeah. Probably." Dara didn't like admitting it, but it was the truth. In twenty-four hours, she might be crawling from sickbed to sickbed. Or just plain flat on her own back.

"Then you and Rel are going to need my room, and Sam and Lantar are going to wind up out on the couch." Lin's grin was a very pale version of its usual self. "I know cop's spouses usually complain about their mates being more married to their partners than to _them_, but Kasumi and Ellie will just have to live with it."

Dara grimaced. "It will be easier on Siara for tracking progression if everyone who's on phase one is in the same place." She looked at Eli and Serana. "You two okay with this? I can try to scare up a cot for Lin—"

"King-size bed," Eli said, very tiredly. "If Lin feels half as shitty as I do right now, there's no way in hell any of us are going to be doing anything besides feeling miserable for the duration."

"Besides," Lin managed, with a half-smile, "bad things happen when we get separated." Dara had to wonder just how bad the two years on Nimines actually had been, for Linianus to say that.

_Misery ain't going to be the half of it,_ Dara thought, but didn't say it out loud. "Siara, grab Lin some shorts or something, would you? Thanks." She got the listing turian to the left side of the bed and set him down on the edge, helping him get his feet, spurs and all, into the shorts, and then pulling up. She'd dressed patients before. She'd changed adult diapers and bedpans and everything else, too. "Okay, here's the deal with this," Dara told them. "Don't get all squeamish on me. Eli, you are, effectively, a nice, cool compress for a turian. If Serana's in between you and Lin, she and Lin are going to heat each other up."

"Right. Monkey in the middle," Eli said, pulling his legs up and moved to the center of the bed, turning to his side, and reaching for Serana.

"Yeah. Now _your_ temperature is going to be the one I have to watch the most, because they are going to bake you. Elbow 'em away if you need to. I'll get a basin and some cool compresses going." Dara watched as Lin lay on his back, groaning.

"Can we at least get the lights a little lower in here?" Serana asked, plaintively.

Dara touched the console on the nightstand, and dropped the ambient light to very low. "We need to get you guys drinking fluids," she noted. "I've got saline out in the living room, but let's try to avoid that if we can. The good news is, you're all very damned healthy young adults. Your bodies are strong. The turian immune system is phenomenal, but as a species, your thermoregulation kind of sucks. You've never needed to evolve it, really." Palaven's temperature, from region to region, only varied by about thirty degrees Fahrenheit, from summer to winter. The few animals that couldn't adjust to that difference were migratory, like many birds were on Earth. Turians themselves had no fat deposits—no layer of insulation. No shiver reflex, to generate warmth. No goose bumps. When they needed to warm themselves, their bodies raised their metabolic rate, requiring enormous amounts of energy. All four turians would need to _eat_ right now. . . except that their stomachs, affected by the fever and the illness . . .might not let them eat. Not without vomiting, anyway. Dara cleared her throat and went on, "Humans? Little less robust of an immune system, but thermoregulation that's damned efficient and multilayered. You're going to get through this just fine." She filled her voice with confidence and determination. She might not be a natural actress, but _this?_ She knew how to do this. " I'll be back in a bit with food, antibiotics, and another round of anti-virals for all of you."

She stepped out the door, and beckoned Siara down into the kitchen-where her dad and Lantar were already waiting, along with Gris and Makur. "Damn. Full house," Dara said, giving her dad a quick hug.

Lantar looked down at her grimly. "What are we looking at? What Dr. Chakwas mentioned this morning?"

Dara nodded once, minutely, and then looked at Siara. "Okay, I'm going to give all directions in written form, for record keeping," she said, and then tapped out on her omnitool, _also, to keep my turian patients from hearing every damned word I say. Watch what you say, everyone, please?_

Siara blinked, and nodded. "Just tell me what we need to do," the asari said.

Dara sighed. "Eli's probably looking at Skyllian flu. We can expect a moderate to severe cough, runny nose, sore throat, body aches, chills, and maybe even diarrhea from him. He may need to be helped to the lavatory. Lots and _lots_ of fluids, and we need to keep his temperature down. He's helping to regulate _both_ of them right now." Dara swallowed. "Taking them to med bay _is_ an option, where they can be monitored and set up on IVs, but since they're very healthy people to start with, I really want to try to keep everyone contained here, and only move to med bay if there's no other option." In writing, now, _Temperature that goes above 115º F for turians, above 104 º F for humans = med bay, immediately. Below that, salix for turians, ibuprofen or acetaminophen for humans. Ibuprofen and acetaminophen can be alternated for a layered dose._ _My dad can use aspirin in place of one or the other, but not both._ She made a few dosage notes for each. "My main concern at the moment is secondary infection." In writing, _Eli only shows symptoms of Skyllian flu right now. Lin's symptoms, as yet, only match __comburo febris__, but his temp's too damn high. Serana's photophobia has me worried. Could be __comburo febris__, or it could be __atratus cremare__. That's bacterial, and deadly. If she has it, chances are Lin does, too, and is just not showing symptoms yet, other than that very high fever._

Everyone was reading over her shoulder now, and Lantar muttered a heart-felt curse. Out loud, Dara said, crisply, "Dad, you can help by starting getting some food together for them. _Oolorae_ broth for Lin and Serana, chicken for Eli. We'll worry about dextro/levo crap when everyone's healthier."

Sam forced a chuckle. "Okay, I know the sound of an order when I hear one."

"Hey, Dad, if you'd rather just stand here in the kitchen—"

"No, no, I'm on it. Can opener brigade, reporting for duty." Sam moved away and started getting out a couple of bowls.

Dara turned back to Siara. "Okay, Siara, Eli has no known allergies. We're going to keep him on antivirals, and the antibiotics I started him on yesterday. That's Saluflu for humans and asari, one shot a day. 7.5 cc, and they're pre-measured in disposable syringes in that box over there. Room temp is fine. Nice and stable and easy. Blue labels, okay? Find a fleshy part of the arm—alternate arms, mind you—and pop 'em right into the skin. No veins to find or anything. For turians, the antiviral we're using is. . . " And Dara wrote it all down for Siara, whose eyes were going progressively wider, and then grabbed the asari by the wrist. "Siara? You're not working without a net. Even if I get sick, I will hopefully be able to tell you what to do. Worst comes to worst, you can call the _Dunkirk_ and get doctors and nurses shaken loose to help here, and get anyone who needs it to the hospital. I really think we can get through it here and _not_ take those resources away from the med bay. God knows, they're going to need it."

She couldn't see much of Siara's expression, but the asari looked a little steadier. Dara had _never_ liked her, but she knew the female was competent. Could be relied upon. Maybe even trusted.

Dara took off her breather and replaced it with a standard surgical mask, and grabbed two of the bowls of soup her dad was preparing. "I've got first watch on the sickies," she said.

"I'll help," Lantar said, calmly, taking the last bowl and a trio of glasses in his other big hand. "Sam, you're going to have to get Gris and the others up to speed on what little we found today. I'll chime in if I hear you miss anything."

Back in Eli's room, she could immediately see that Eli had started shaking again. Serana had rolled over to face him, and had her arms around him, looking concerned. Lin had rolled over, too, and had a hand on Eli's shoulder. "Should he be doing this?" Lin asked, sharply, as Dara came in. "I thought humans only shivered when they're cold?"

"Right at the moment, his body's fighting the infection. It's tricking itself into believing that it's cold, ramping up the metabolism. Shivering is actually one of the ways we _build_ heat. Muscle action. He _feels_ cold right now, right, Eli?"

"Yeah." Terse answer. Dara set the soup down on the nightstand, slipped on a fresh set of gloves, lightly touched Eli's forehead, and he jerked back. "God damn, Dara, you're _freezing_." He paused. "Actually feels kind of nice."

"Trust me, I'm not even room temperature," she told him lightly, and then took a cool cloth out of the basin of water and wrung it out. "Head or neck, move it back and forth if you like, but we've got to get you down, Eli. Curl up into Serana to stop the chills, at least. It sounds a little irrational, but we're trying to ease you down here." As she spoke, Lantar moved over and helped Lin sit up, handing him one of the glasses of dextro-friendly fluids. Still keeping her voice calm and light, Dara said, "Now, as cold I as feel to you, there's actually only four degrees between us right now, Eli. Imagine what you feel like to them, and try not to be offended when they migrate up against you in their sleep."

Dara turned the compress over and settled it on the back of Eli's neck, before standing and stepping to the door. "Siara?" she called into the hall. "Grab the anti-virals and antibiotics from that box out there, please. You may as well see how to administer them." Dara sat down on the edge of the bed. "All we need is for Rel to get off-duty with B-Sec and out little sanitarium will be full," she said, glancing at her omnitool, which she'd slid around the opposite direction today. Usually, she wore her knife sheath on the inside of her wrist; today, it faced out, keeping her omnitool's panels hidden. Yellow lights blinked at her unhappily. 99.5º F

Siara came in now, several different syringes in her hands. "Blue is the Saluflu, for humans," Siara said, handing Dara the first. "One a day. Lincomycin."

Lantar's head came up. "I remember that one from Ellie's C-sections." He eyed Dara cautiously. "You're starting with the big guns."

"Yep. If that doesn't work, we move up to Kelafloxacin. That one's for humans, Siara. Twice a day. Go ahead and give Eli his now. He's shaking a little less, so you should get a good stick. Put on gloves, wipe the site with an alcohol wipe, do the stick, move on."

Siara moved in and leaned over Serana to do the stick. Dara cleared her throat. Siara glanced at her. "I did something wrong?" 

"Depends. If Eli's conscious, get him to sit up and move to the edge of the bed for shots. You don't want to be leaning over either Lin or Serana to get to him. If Rel and I get sick? Always, _always_ do mine from my side. Do _not_ lean over him to get to me." _Particularly if any of them goes delusional from fever. I would __not__ want to be the focus of Serana's territorial instincts if she wakes up, sees someone she views as a threat to her mate, and delusionally attacks. Or Rel's. God only knows what would go through Lin's head, but all it's going to take is a suit breach at this point, and we'll have lost our nurse._

Siara's eyes had widened again. "And if either of you isn't conscious?"

"Asleep, wake us up. If actually unconscious, get us to med bay right that instant." Dara rubbed at her face, and Serana sat up, helping Eli slid closer to the edge of the bed, where Siara gave both shots. "Okay. Now, pass Eli that glass of ginger ale—no, that's _caprificus_ juice. He probably can manage either, but the fewer things his body's fighting right now, the better." Dara kept her voice very, very calm, but internally, she was wondering if they should all just go to the med bay right now and just _chance_ the secondary infections.

Serana grabbed the correct glass and passed it to Eli. "Okay, Siara, you're doing fine. Set up the turian injections, please. Anti-virals, then antibiotics. Turians are a little harder on shots than humans. Humans, there's plenty of nice soft skin. Turians, you have to lift a scale and slide in under it, okay?"

Siara nodded. "Vireostet is the anti-viral. Once a day, also. Salutifer is the antibiotic?"

That got both Lin and Serana to lift their heads from their juice. "Yes," Dara told Siara. Salutifer was probably the biggest gun in the dextro antibiotic arsenal. It was produced _only_ on Rocam, and a dozen human scientists were trying to synthesize a levo version of it to combat anthrax, so far without success. "What do you think we _have_?" Serana asked.

"_Comburo febris,"_ Dara said, briskly. "That's all I know for right now. Once you guys eat some soup here, I'm going to take another blood sample and see what's swimming around in there, though, okay?" She picked up the bowl of chicken broth and a spoon, and said, still placidly, "Eli, you think you can handle this, or you want Lantar to help you eat?"

Eli scowled. _Typical male patient reaction_. "I got this," he said, and took the spoon from her. "Going to be fun swallowing, given that my throat's starting to hurt—'

Dara sighed. "Open." A quick peek with her scope. "Yep. Red and streaky. Right on schedule. Get some food in you while you can still swallow, Eli." She offered the bowl of cooling soup. "Let's test this, first. See if you can get the spoon from the bowl to your mouth without sp—" Dara's hand shot out and steadied his wrist. "Yeah, okay. Lantar?"

"Son of a _bitch_," Eli muttered. He couldn't hold the spoon steady.

_And it's only going to get worse_, Dara thought. The turians were steady enough to feed themselves, for the moment. Eli wasn't. But the turians were the ones running the higher fevers, and she put compresses on them, too, showing Siara how often to turn them or change them.

After about an hour, all three patients were starting to get drowsy. "I've got this," Dara told Siara and Lantar. "A cot would be great for in here, but I'll take at least a kitchen chair. Siara? Administer the same set of shots to me, to Lantar, and to my dad, okay? I'll tag Rel when he gets in, but the more practice you get, the better we'll all be."

"I can do better than a kitchen chair," Lantar told Dara, and returned, after a minute, with the armchair from the living room.

Dara eyed it in dismay. "You or my dad are going to need that—"

"Sam said we'd arm-wrestle for the couch. Loser gets the floor. Least until we're both down with this _s'kak_ ourselves." Lantar settled the chair down, and pointed at it. "You need to rest, too, _doctor_." He reached down and turned her wrist outwards. 99.9º F. "Not to mention, eat something, too. I'll bring something back once the others sack out."

_And my shots, too_, Dara thought, settling in wearily into the chair. She had to admit, it was a _comfy_ chair. "You'll tell me when Rel gets in?"

"Yeah."

"Lantar?"

"Yes?" He paused at the door.

"Did you guys make _any_ progress today?" _Please say yes. Please say you caught every goddamned one of them, and cleaned up all the devices, and this will all burn itself out inside of a week. Maybe two._

"Some. Don't worry about that. _You_ worry about keeping them healthy, and yourself healthy. And when you're well, worry about getting everyone else on the station healthy."

Dara sighed. "Yeah. By now, Dr. Solus would already have a cure." Her voice was very soft, in deference to her dozing patients.

"_Talas'kak._ It took him two or three weeks with the Collector virus on Omega. Everyone forgets that he didn't come up with it the day Garrus and Shepard walked into his lab." Lantar's big body was a darker shadow among other shadows by the door. "Rest while you can, Dara. Going to be a long night."

_And how_, she thought, tiredly, and let her eyes drift closed. Just a light doze, while she listened to the breathing of her patients.

Rel came in at close to midnight; light hand on her hair to wake her. "How're they doing?" he whispered.

"Not so good, _amatus,_" she whispered back. "But they're strong. How're you feeling?"

"Headache," he admitted, tiredly. "You?"

She lifted her wrist, and the yellow numbers had edged up again. 101.4. "I've been better." She stood up. "Let's get our shots in us. Lin gave us his room. . . and I guess I'm waking Siara for her shift."

It was a good plan. But shortly after Dara's head hit the pillow in Lin's room—odd to sleep in a place that smelled of Lin's skin and scales, and not of Rel's—Eli moved into the next stage of the flu. Non-productive coughing, but the spasms were bad enough he actually threw up from it, which Siara at least managed to catch in a basin. This, of course, woke Lin and Serana, both of whom now had sore throats. Dara stroked foreheads and crests and got them to sit up and drink fluids. "Shield your eyes," she warned Serana and Lin, and used a hand-held scope to peer into their throats. "Well, it's . . . pretty blue in there," she said, after a moment. "No white patches, just lots of blue, raw streaks. So, no turian strep here. Just the next stage of _comburo febris_. Lin, you still hurt all over?"

"Yeah. Really stiff neck now, too."

_Shit._ "Can you move your head?"

He shifted a little in the dim light. "Hurts kind of a lot."

Serana's voice was raspier than usual as she added, "Yeah. Same here."

_Shit, shit, shit. That's the classic symptom of the mourning fever. Bacterial atratus cremare._ The only way to _test_ for it was, unfortunately, removing fluid from the sac surrounding the spinal column to see if it was infected. _Little invasive. We have a pretty damned good idea of what it is, and we're already treating for it._ "Okay, Siara? I'm going to set them up with IV tubing," _before __my__ hands start to shake too much to catch the veins._ "We're just going to cut to the chase on these two and get them started on saline, so they can hydrate in their sleep." Dara got out some iodine swabs and started prepping Lin and Serana, keeping her touch gentle and light on them. "I _really_ need you to check their temperatures once an hour. If they start to act confused at all—like they don't know who they are, or who you are, or start speaking in the wrong language? Wake me. We're going to give them a little over-the-counter stuff for the sore throat. Turian version of what Eli got four hours ago. Eli's the lucky bastard who's going to start on hydrocodone now so _everyone_ can sleep."

Eli's glance indicated that _he_ didn't think he was all that lucky. Dara wrote the prescription, made sure Siara understood how often and how much to administer, and curled up next to Rel again. The baleful numerals on her omnitool winked at her again. 101.5º. _"Mellis,"_ Rel told her, tiredly, _"I know damned well you're not supposed to feel this warm."_ Dara sighed, stood back up, and grabbed a couple of ibuprofen for herself, making a note.

Siara caught her at it, too. "Any _other_ symptoms you're noticing, Dr. Velnaran?" the asari asked from the doorway of the bathroom. Still wearing her breather, at least. "Chills, muscle aches, headache?"

Dara looked at Siara in the mirror, seeing how the female had crossed her arms over her chest, and tipped her head to the side. _God. I __hate__ having to admit weakness to her._ "Sore throat," Dara said, after a minute. "I'm ahead of schedule by about twelve hours."

"You also saw patients all day. The rest of us walked around and talked to people. You've been going non-stop since 05:00 or so," Siara pointed out, a bit sarcastically. "You _may_ have worn yourself out."

Dara nodded, sighing. "Sort of my job, Siara." She took a dose of something to soothe her raw throat, and headed back into Lin's room. "Wake me if _anything_ changes with the others. How're my dad and Lantar doing?"

"We're fine," Sam called from the living room, quietly. "Go to sleep."

Dara retreated down the hall. Put her aching head back down on the pillow. Felt Rel's warm hand come up and stroke her hair, and finally, her racing mind let her sleep. Her very last, almost incoherent thought was _Please, oh, please, I can't live with it if any of them die on me. _

A cool hand on her forehead; smell of latex gloves. Dara whimpered in pain as she raised her head. The headache was migraine-intense, without the blooms of colors across the visual field, at least; white-hot pain in her eyes and in her temples. "What?" she managed, cracking her eyes cautiously. It was blessedly dark in the room.

"Sorry," Siara whispered. "Your dad and Lantar's fevers just rose. One oh three for your dad. One thirteen for Lantar."

Dara swallowed with difficulty. It _hurt_. She couldn't move at first, and couldn't figure out _why_, until she realized that Rel had, in his sleep, apparently wrapped himself around her as if she were the world's best body pillow. He was _hot_ to the touch, too. "Check Rel's temperature, please."

"Already did. One twelve point five."

"Shit." Dara extricated herself from the nest with some difficulty, head throbbing "Get Lantar and my dad into the shower. Rel, wake up. You need to cool down. You're in with Lantar. Same drill as before." She looked at the clock in the room and hissed between her teeth. 06:30, and the numbers _pulsed_ in her field of vision.

On her feet now, Dara padded down the hall to the living area. The two men had pulled out the hideabed and were currently sitting on the edge. Lantar's head was down in his hands; Sam's hands were shaking almost as badly as Eli's had been, earlier. Makur and Gris were already awake and at the kitchen table, shaking their heads, as was Fors, who hadn't left the night before, apparently. _Then again, there is a curfew at the moment_, Dara realized, after a slow moment of thought.

Sam looked at the krogan with a ghost of a grin. "Keep in mind, boys," he told them, with ghastly cheerfulness, "we humans weren't around for the genophage days. Don't go sayin' we deserve this."

"Didn't cross my mind to," Gris rumbled. "More hoping some smart little salarian somewhere comes up with a fix for this. Because you _don't_ deserve this any more than we did." The krogan stood. "Come on, Orpheus. Let's get you cooled down. Then you and Nemesis get to _snuggle_."

Sam managed a guffaw. Lantar snorted, and peered up through the cage of his fingers. "We're not telling the wives about this," Lantar rasped as Gris more or less lifted Sam to his feet with one meaty paw.

"You think _my_ wife _isn't_ going to have pictures by the time we get back?" Sam said, dryly, his teeth starting to chatter. "I'm. . . I'm thinking Kasumi's gonna have 'em _f-framed_." Dara hooked a hand under Lantar's shoulders and hauled him to his feet, too, just as Makur got in place to help.

Siara moved ahead down the hall, and Dara could hear the water starting to run. "Keep it lower than your skin temperature for humans," Dara rasped through her raw throat at Siara. Every word _hurt_ to speak now. "Around your body temperature for the turians."

"I know, Dara," Siara told her, patiently. And then Gris heaved Dara's father into the bathroom, and Makur steadied Lantar, and Dara let go, slowly sinking to a crouch in the middle of the corridor. _Too much,_ she thought, feeling the world spin around her. _Too much, too much, too many people sick at once.. . . and this is just __seven__ people. _

The population breakdown on this station had been put up on every whiteboard at the med bay yesterday, in remorseless black letters. 17 million people, total.

3.4 million salarians, or roughly 20% of the population

1.7 million krogan, or roughly 10% of the population

3.4 million humans, or roughly 20% of the population

3.4 million turians, or roughly 20% of the population

2.55 million asari, or roughly 15% of the population

2.55 million quarians, or roughly 15% of the population

Additionally, there were 5,000 drell, 10,000 elcor, 15,000 volus, 10,0000 hanar, 100 geth, and five rachni.

Assuming the viruses detected were the _only_ ones present, then the humans, turians, asari, and quarians were the only people in real danger (and quarians, only in the event of a suit breach). And that meant a top end of 11.9 people under threat, or 9.35 million if you threw out the quarians as statistically unlikely.

On each whiteboard, the medical staff had written in several more remorseless numbers:

Med Bay A: 40 beds (Med Bay A was on the same level as the reactor core, and was only suited to treat industrial accidents and radiation poisoning cases.)

Med Bay B: 2,000 beds

Med Bay C: 10,000 beds

Med Bay D: 3,000 beds

Med Bay E: 2,000 beds

Med Bay F: 3,000 beds

Med Bay G: 2,000 beds

Med Bay H: 3,000 beds

Med Bay I: 3,000 beds

Med Bay J: 5,000 beds

That made for around 28,000 hospital beds available at any given time, including ICU, obstetrics, general recovery rooms, etc. Usually, there was a considerable surplus on any given day, even in a station with a population of seventeen million.

Yesterday, every single room had been booked. On the entire station. Even though some of those beds were surely given to people admitted in error, due to hypochondria or a bad case of strep on the wrong damned day to have strep throat, or whatever. The numbers were too big to understand, even though Dara had _been_ in one of those overcrowded hospitals yesterday. But this. . . seeing her friends, her _family_, hit like this. . . it made it too damned real. And there was almost nothing she could do about it.

A very small hand patted her back, and Dara's head swung up. "We'll all get through it," Fors snuffled at her. She'd barely been introduced to Eli and Lin's volus partner, and found the little creature oddly amusing. But right now, just as oddly, comforting. "Some of us a little better than others, of course." He tipped his head to the side. "I expect you're thinking an envirosuit would be a _stylish_ addition to your wardrobe right now?"

"So long as it's more comfortable than a rad suit on Palaven," Dara rasped out, then winced. She was going to have laryngitis very shortly, and couldn't afford it.

The water cut off, and Makur moved Lantar forward, just as Gris moved her dad back out, shuddering with cold, wrapped in a towel. Dara made her way to the kitchen table and started, painfully, reading Siara's notes on Serana, Eli, and Lin from overnight.

When Sam and Lantar were dried off again, and dressed, Sam laid down on the hideabed, still obviously shaking with chills. Lantar looked down, grimly, and grated, "Remember when we pulled Mordin Alesh out of that damned frozen lake, back in our candidate exercises?"

"Y-yeah. You took off your armor, we s-strapped him on your back, and y-you ran to get y-your body temperature up, and his with yours."

"Yeah." Lantar gave Gris a dark look. "Just keep it in mind, is all I'm saying," he noted, and lay down himself, pulled the blankets over him and Sam, and wrapped one arm around Jaworski's chest.

Gris chuckled. "You do look _very_ cozy there, Nemesis."

"It's all sortsa c-comfy," Sam drawled, in spite of his chattering teeth. "You sh-should come join us. Do I have to bat my eyelashes, or what?"

Makur guffawed from the bathroom, where he was helping Rel in the shower. "I think he just won that round, Gris."

Gris grinned. "But not the war, young Makur." Dara knew what the krogan was doing, and was surprised, though she realized she shouldn't have been. Making light of it, keeping her dad and Lantar in a fighting mode. "We could tuck in Archangel on the other side of you, Jaworski."

"Sure," Sam said, teeth still chattering. "We c-could have a _p-pillowfight_ while we're at it."

Dara made her way over to the sofa and curled up beside it. Her dad reached over the edge and put his hand on her shoulder. His blue eyes were very serious, in contrast to his mocking words, and he squeezed her shoulder in reassurance. "S'okay, kiddo," he told her, quietly.

_Reassurance is supposed to be my job, now_, Dara thought, but own teeth were starting to chatter now. Her dad joked, lightly, "So, how much blackmail material have you got now, sweetie?"

Dara shook her head. "I'm looking at this like people huddling together for warmth in a snowstorm, Dad. The turians are _going_ to migrate towards whatever's cooler for them, and we're it." She rubbed at her throat. "Beside, I'm long past needing a bump to my allowance, Dad." In spite of her best efforts at a light tone, Dara wanted to _cry_. There were two poles to her existence, two stable, immutable points around which the rest of the universe rotated. One was Rel. The other was her father. Lantar, Eli, the rest of her friends were all bright stars in her sky, points of reference she used to navigate her life. If any of them went out, she'd be in danger of losing her way, but if she lost her father or Rel, the whole universe would spin out of control.

The comm panel pinged, and Gris answered it. "It's Shepard," he said. "Wants a report from Dara on everyone's health, and from any Spectre still standing. Which would be me, I guess."

Dara nodded tiredly, got to her feet, swaying a little, and stepped over to the comm terminal. "Dr. Velnaran," Lilitu Shepard said on the screen, "you look like hell."

"Yeah," Dara said. "That's close." She rubbed at her eyes. "We're going to need another nurse here. Siara can't handle seven of us without help, and I'm not going to be much help very soon, other than giving directions."

"_Nereia_ and _Crimea_ are getting there today. Half the base's medical personnel is on the _Crimea_. Who do you want?"

Dara thought, quickly. "I'd take a salarian or a hanar nurse. Geskin was working on his RN last time I was on base, but he was _really_ good. Or Aroroko." She managed a feeble smile. "We need extra hands, no matter what shape they are. But by preference, someone who's not going to catch what we have."

"All right. They'll be there in a couple of hours. What are we looking at in terms of our Spectres and family there?"

Dara sighed. "Fastest-acting Skyllian flu I've ever seen. That's me, my dad, and Eli. Definitely _comburo febris_ for all four turians. Serana and Lin look like they have _atratus cremare._ That's the equivalent of bacterial meningitis in a human. Rel and Lantar aren't showing symptoms yet, but it's _highly_ contagious, so I would expect it, especially since we can't isolate anyone worth a damn. Siara's going to get Serana and Lin to the med bay if needed." Dara swallowed. "That's all I've got."

Gris moved into the camera field view and rumbled, "As soon as we've got backup here, I can get out and start working on Ralesh Kordu again. We tracked down his apartment yesterday. He'd left, in a hurry, looks like. Probably spooked by Maldo Ren's death. He _did_ leave a fair bit of evidence in his place. We were just starting to go through it all, when Eli and Serana both damn near fell over on us. We've got names of five other agents. Sent 'em to B-Sec last night, but given that B-Sec is mainly humans and turians. . . I guess they might be busy right now."

Lantar raised his voice from across the room, and grated, "Shepard."

"Yeah, Lantar?"

"It's going to be business as usual in the salarian, drell, hanar, krogan, volus, and elcor districts, but the other _half_ of the station is going to be in lockdown at best. B-Sec is expecting riots in short order. They can't police the other areas while maintaining lockdown in the affected areas." Lantar paused.

Sam added, raspily, "And the pure hell of it is. . . half of B-Sec goes home to their families at night. The other half goes out and finds a bar. They meet at work. Chances are, B-Sec is going to be on its collective ass inside of a week."

"It's being taken care of," Shepard said, in a tone of cautious optimism.

"How's that?" Gris asked.

"You're about to get some reinforcements. I, ah, had a chat with Emissary last night. The geth are sending a thousand platforms to the station. And while I was at it, I had another chat with Anderson, Odacaen, and the rachni queen." Shepard sounded bemused. "Ten brood warriors in charge of another thousand rachni soldiers. You're going to have a police force. Rioters and looters are going to think twice when they see _geth_ and _rachni_ on the streets. Don't worry about that right now. Worry about getting better. Gris? What else?"

Gris nodded. "As soon as we can shake free here, Fors, Makur, and I will be out there looking for a drell, an elcor, two humans, and an asari. And our rogue Lystheni." He picked up a headset, and plugged it in, taking the rest of Shepard's call so that the others couldn't hear it.

Siara, at that point, came over and hooked her hands under Dara's arms. "And you," the asari said firmly, "need to go back to bed, yourself, _doctor_."

"We're going to all need food," Dara muttered as Siara marched her back down the hallway. "Next dose of antibiotics in a half hour, too."

"Yeah, I _know_. Are _all_ doctors this bad?" Siara lowered Dara into the nest beside Rel, whose skin was noticeably cooler—closer to his correct body temperature. Rel reached out, wrapped his arms around Dara, and pulled her close to him.

"You're still too warm," he told her. "But you still feel good."

Dara had _no_ objections to tucking herself into her mate's warmth, and trying to let the chills and the shaking pass. _This is just phase one. Congestion, sore throat, high fever. Eli's on the coughing stage. That's next for me and my dad. Eli will tell us shortly if we've got vomiting in our future._ "Siara," Dara whispered, as the asari hesitated at the door, "thank you. If Eli starts vomiting—"

"He'll need fluids. I'll get you over there to set up an IV if he needs it."

"Right."

"Rest. Food and meds, coming up." Siara's voice wasn't particularly gentle, but then again, her bedside manner had been honed on krogan, much as Dara's had been honed on turians. "Dara?" Siara asked, from the door.

"Yeah?"

"This might not be the time to ask you this. . . but how well do you understand the Solus hybridization process?"

Dara dragged her eyelids open. "Can I do it? Yes. Does anyone understand the Collector tech that it's based on? Not very well. Even Dr. Solus was only scratching the surface of it. That's why I don't trust Soln Rem and his team. They're. . . deviating from Dr. Solus' template in their recent hybrids."

Siara stepped back into the room, and knelt down by the nest, asking, very quietly, "But the technology could be used to hybridize any species, correct?"

"Theoretically, yeah."

"Krogan and asari?"

Dara's eyes widened slightly. "Probably, yeah. Of course, there are people who'd tell you that you've got no business trying for a hybrid. Given that you can have kids naturally."

"Yeah. Kids that are clones of _me_, a little scrambled up, but still _me._" Siara's voice was very quiet. "I'm not in love with _myself_. I love _him_. Besides," Siara's voice lowered in pitch a little, "technically, you _could_ have kids on your own, too. So long as you found a human sperm donor. What do _people_ know, anyway?"

Dara swallowed. It hurt. "Yeah. I. . . I'd have to think about it. A lot. And you're still in the maiden stage. It would be . .. pretty dangerous for you to have a kid at your age."

Siara nodded. "But the technology might not still be around in two hundred years. As stable as the galaxy seems to be. . . " She looked down, and patted Dara's shoulder lightly. "We'll talk about it when you're feeling better, _doctor_. I just wanted to know if it was even _possible_."

_Why_, Dara wondered tiredly, _does everyone say __doctor__ to me in that exact tone of voice? _

**Ylara, April 26-7, 2196**

The _Sollostra_ had docked with Bastion, letting Gris, Makur, and Siara off; Ylara had accepted a gruff shoulder-thump from Gris with equanimity. A shuttle had docked, from the _Dunkirk_, simultaneously, bringing aboard James Dempsey and Zhasa'Maedan. Ylara had ordered that they meet her in the port observation lounge, and was intrigued as she entered, herself. She'd had no previous interactions with either of them, but Shepard had told her that Zhasa had trained with Aethyta on Illium. _Probably powerful. Probably, knowing Aethyta's reputation, unconventional_. And she'd read the full report on Dempsey, as well. Suspended animation for a decade, after torturous experimentation by Cerberus. Out of step with his own existence, like an asari who had taken a salarian for her more-than-fair. . . an eyeblink later, and suddenly, her beloved was aging, near death. Or in this case, the _marai'ha'sai_ had moved on, and his child had grown up at the speed of the short-lived. "Fair morning to you both," Ylara said, moving into the lounge and studying them both. Dempsey, tall and human and powerfully built, faint frown, heavy brows, Zhasa, small and quarian, cut off from the world in her suit, of course. "I thank you both for volunteering for this. We're a little short-handed at the moment."

Outside the plasteel window, they were backing away from Bastion, turning, and then the stars turned into lines of light as the _Sollostra_ headed for the mass relay. "We're heading for Palaven first?" Dempsey asked, calmly.

"No," Ylara replied. "Luisa. Quick side-trip. One of the people blackmailed into spreading the diseases on Bastion is asari. The Lystheni were threatening her child. We're going to Luisa to get the child out of danger, and then on to Palaven."

Zhasa sounded puzzled. "Even minutes seem to count right now, Spectre. Do we have _time_ for this?"

Ylara took a chair near the window and sat back, resting one ankle on its opposing knee. "Yes," she replied, imposing a calm on herself that she did not feel. "Turian authorities are already looking into the matter. Cassandra, this ship's AI, is running comm transmission log analyses as we move, trying to narrow down any connections between Maldo Ren, Ralesh Kordu, and any turians on Palaven, Edessan, or the Dymion shipyards. By the time we get there, Cassandra will have a few more leads. Going straight there, we'll be standing there, listening to officials worry at us, until she generates her report." Ylara looked off to the right. "Isn't that true, Cassandra?"

A small red eyeball appeared. "Analysis began last night, Spectre. Almost all of the Lystheni transmissions have been heavily encrypted, sent through dummy channels, and other such subterfuges. I should have results in about four more hours, however." The eyeball flickered. "More than enough time for you to conduct your business on Luisa."

Dempsey frowned, taking a seat himself. "They were threatening her kid? Pretty powerful hold to have on someone."

Ylara nodded. "Her child was born with a medical condition that makes her. . . different. . . from other asari. The second-mother, also an asari, and, apparently, a traditionalist, would probably have attempted to kill the child, if she'd known of its existence. Too much of a shame. At best, she would have insisted on radical medical intervention, which the first-mother, to her credit, has not been in favor of."

Dempsey's expression became faintly confused. "I'm not following," he admitted. "What the hell kind of medical condition could possibly be that bad? I mean, even for humans, there's genetic therapy in the uterus for a lot of conditions now. . . ."

"The mother didn't have genetic testing done while pregnant, I believe. Many do not. In this case, the child has a mutation, caused by an abnormal additional chromosome, stuck to one half of the normal twenty-seventh chromosome. We won't know all the details until we arrive, but I suspect that she is, in fact, much like Lina Vasir."

Demspey's face retained its hint of confusion, but Zhasa inhaled, sharply. "She's an asari male?"

"Wait, that's _possible_?" Dempsey asked, sounding incredulous.

Ylara looked outside, as the dark energy mass relay loomed ahead of them. "Yes," she replied. "Some are hermaphrodites, having partial or complete sex organs and gametes from both genders. Some are not. Protecting that child from retaliation is. . . important." It held resonance for Ylara on many levels. Some ethical—protecting innocents, of course. Protecting her very society, even from itself. The innate desire to lash out at something that was both us, and not-us, had to be restrained in her people. The child, if raised on Luisa, would probably grow to adulthood, having to hide her. . . his? . . . true nature, true self. Would probably grow up in self-loathing, as Lina Vasir had. Ylara felt that having made that mistake once, her people should probably not replicate it.

And, on a personal level, the thought of this child hit Ylara in her scarcely-healed grief for Kella. Her first daughter in six hundred years of life, and a life cut tragically short by that self-same Lina Vasir, and the batarian mercenaries hired by that lost asari soul.

Dempsey shook his head. "I'm trying to figure out what an asari boy would even be like. What's his name?"

_How quickly,_ Ylara thought, amused, _the duality settles in for a human. An accustomed pattern of thought, for a species—a __world__, even—in which everything proceeds neatly in pairs. _"The name the child was given was _Shellara_. It means 'peace and understanding,' I believe."

Dempsey shook his head. "You think he might chose his own name when he gets old enough?"

Ylara smiled faintly. "You think that peace and understanding are not good things?"

Dempsey looked at her steadily. "I think that if he's his own thing, he should be allowed to be his own thing." A faint, quizzical quirk of the eyebrows. "Do asari usually play with trucks and stuff? My son was all _about_ trucks when I last—I mean, when he was little." He frowned.

Zhasa leaned forward now. "How old is the child, Spectre?"

"Ten. Which means that the child is developmentally, like a human five-year-old."

The quarian sighed. "Lots of time for expectations to have set in, then."

_Many years of knowing something is different. Not quite right. Even, perish the thought, disappointing_, Ylara agreed, silently.

So, they descended in a shuttle at Luisa, to the Miasou District, and found the childcare facility. It wasn't a bad place, as such places went. Beautiful, even, with formal gardens covered in a violet haze; the early morning sunlight caught in crystal statues and fountains for the various orphans and children taken from their families for their own protection to play among. The philosophy behind such places was, that even if life had been harsh and cruel before, now the children had a better environment, and beauty enriched the soul. Ylara spoke with several levels of bureaucrats, getting an idea of Shellara's upbringing so far. Traditional _siari_ and tri-partite Goddess worship once a week. Introduction to reading, poetry, biotics, poetry, and mathematics. All very traditional. "We have had problems with Shellara," one older teacher noted, primly. "She is aggressive. Moody. She lashes out at other students."

_Does she? Or do you just see what you wish to see?_ Ylara wondered. It was always a question with teachers. When Kella had started school on Mindoir, she'd been told that Kella was withdrawn and antagonistic by one of the many teachers there. . . but only by that one. None of the others. It turned out that _Siara_ had been the antagonistic one in the classroom, but that Kella had been tarred by association.

Ylara signed many, many forms in the next hour. Agreeing to take personal custody of the child in the case of Essallia's death, absolving the childcare facility of responsibility, and so on. Full disclosure of medical records; the doctors had been _quite_ confused as to what to do with the child. A small but functional phallus, which connected to a set of gamete-bearing sexual organs, probably more or less equivalent to testes. A fully formed vaginal passage. A fully formed uterus. Fully formed ovaries. Both sets of sexual organs would, in time, secrete hormones, which would leave the body in a state of hormonal flux, unless the brain managed the balancing act. . . or one side tipped the balance in favor of the other. Or, medical intervention could tip the balance for the child. Ylara sighed. This was. . . complicated. Perhaps more than she had time to manage, given the demands of her job as a Spectre. She hardly had time to see her own daughter, Telluura. . . .and second child, it might not be fair to ask Tulluust to handle on his own. _But someone has to do something,_ she thought.

And then she finally _met_ the child in question, as Shellara was urged through a doorway, out of a classroom, to meet her.

Tall for a ten-year-old; as expected, about the size of a human five-year-old. Dressed in a pale robe, sandals on the little blue feet. Rounded features, wide, round blue eyes. Faint violet undertones to the skin. A little sturdier-looking than a typical asari child. . . ._but would I think that, if I didn't already know?_ Ylara wondered. "Are you really a Spectre?" Shellara asked, after the shy moment passed.

"Yes, I am." Ylara looked at Shellara, steadily. "Your mother needs someone else to look after you for a while. There's a problem on Bastion—a sickness. She's afraid that repercussions from it might follow you here."

Shellara frowned slightly. _Is your mother anything more than a face in pictures to you, someone who sends gifts on your birthing day?_ "Are you my second-mother?"

Not a surprising question. "No. But I'll be taking care of you. Maybe for a little while, maybe for a long time. Is that all right with you?"

A quick nod. "Go get your things. You'll be staying on my ship, with my crew, while I go to Palaven and Edessan and help some people there."

The blue eyes widened even further, and Shellara raced out of the room. Ylara heard a distinct, "I get to go to Palaven!" crowed out top volume. _I hope you're not __too__ disappointed that you'll be staying on the ship, as Kella so often did,_ she thought, amused. _Even that, I think, will be an adventure for you, among the humans and the turians aboard the __Sollostra__._

Ylara was _struck_ by how her two Spectre candidates reacted to the child. Dempsey _put on_ a smile. It didn't find its way to his eyes, but there was a _thawing_ there. "Hey there, Shellara," he said, crouching down in the observation lounge. "You're a little bigger than my son back home. Do you like to play ball?"

"Play ball?"

"Yeah. I throw 'em, you catch 'em and throw 'em back. If you don't catch 'em, you have to run after 'em."

"The sisters at the school say that throwing things isn't allowed." Shellara's sidelong glance said, louder than words, that this maxim had been repeated often, for a reason.

"That kind of depends on what's being thrown, and where," Dempsey said, calmly. "I think someone on board _probably_ has a baseball and a mitt. So do you want to play, or what?"

Shellara's eyes slid towards Ylara for permission. And she nodded.

So at least an hour of the long trip from Luisa to the mass relay, and from the mass relay to the edge of Palaven's system passed with Dempsey out in the corridor with Shellara, throwing a small, white ball with red stitching back and forth. . . and Shellara laughing and giggling every time Dempsey overthrew it, making the child _run_ to get it—and at least once, to Ylara's amusement, a turian crewman, walking out of the lavatory, caught the ball instead, and put out his other hand to keep the child from running headlong into him. "Steady there, youngling," the crewman said, looking down from on high. All teeth and scales and paint, from the child's perspective. "You'll do yourself harm, if you don't watch where you run." And then he'd handed the ball over and walked away, leaving Shellara gaping after him.

Well tired out, Shellara had finally come back into the observation lounge, where Zhasa had been sitting with Ylara. "Why are you in a suit?" Shellara had asked her, frankly.

"Because I'm quarian. Our immune systems are too weak to allow us to mix freely with other species and their bacteria," Zhasa said. "But you can come sit with me, if you want."

After some negotiating, Shellara had been convinced to let Zhasa read to him. And then Shellara had commented, "Ohh! You're nicer at _maieolo'rae_ than the teachers are at school. Your thoughts are all warm and . . . furry. You put the quarian words for _lizard_ and _turtle_ in my head just now, didn't you?"

"Of course I did. That's how asari learn, isn't it?" Zhasa prompted. "What are the right words?"

"_Yasheritsa _and_ cherepaza,"_ Shellara replied, after a moment's thought. "The teachers said no one who wasn't asari could do that. They said it was the special gift of the Goddess to the asari."

Zhasa shrugged, picked Shellara up, and deposited the child in her lap, with the book, envirosuit or no. "I'm not asari, and I just did it," she pointed out. "Want to learn more words?"

"Yes!"

Ylara just watched. _This is the shape of the galaxy to come,_ she thought, and the words had a sense of peace about them in her mind. _Assuming we can stop these damned diseases. . . and whatever follow-up the batarians and their yahg allies have planned. Because, surely, this is not the only step they mean to take. This is a provocation, a weakening attempt. It would make very little sense to invite retaliation without a further plan. _Of course, history was replete with examples of plans that went exactly as far as provocation, without a clear goal after that.

An hour out from Palaven, Cassandra, the NCAI of the ship, set up a conference call between Ylara and Rinus Velnaran, on the surface of Palaven, and the head of the CID taskforce assigned to the shipyards perched at the Lagrange point between Dymion and Palaven. "Good afternoon, Spectre," Allina Correnus, the CID agent greeted her. "And _Dominus_ Velnaran, greetings as well. Let's get started."

"Cassandra? You have some results for us?"

The little red eyeball flickered. "Yes, Spectre. We were told that there are at least four possible batarian agents involved. We've isolated communications between Maldo Ren and Ralesh Kordu and several turians—about ten of them, in fact. Some seem isolated to mere business dealings, which is understandable, since Ralesh Kordu's main business on Bastion is the buying and selling of exotic animals. A few adjudicators are on the list for that reason. Of more concern are the following four people: Garvus Tabes, Allesus Parrus, Illustra Nothius, and Vallus Inlumini. Parrus is in Complovium. He's a senior aide to Thonius Maxillus—"

On-screen, Rinus put a weary hand to his face. "Yeah. I've met him. Maxillus and I met just yesterday for talks about adjustments to the Disabled Veterans Policy, and trying to find money, somewhere, for better prosthetics." He grimaced. "I _wondered_ where Parrus was. He's usually at every meeting."

_I wonder what the Lystheni hold on this senior aide is,_ Ylara thought, and then put it aside as unimportant. "What areas does he have access to?"

"Half the Conclave of _Dominae_, and he can go across the street to the Conclave of Lawgivers any time he wants." Rinus' voice was dark. He turned off-screen. "Pallum? You getting this?"

A Praetorian, in a white uniform, leaned into camera view. "Yes, _dominus_. I'll get with Conclave security right away." He looked down at Rinus in momentary concern. "You may have been exposed already, if he's already placed the devices."

Rinus nodded, grimly. "I'm aware. At least Kallixta's been in Raetia at the flight school, and well away from me for the past couple of days."

Cassandra's red eyeball flickered, and, to Ylara's surprise, turned into an avatar of a human-turian hybrid female. Adult, in a turian uniform. Rinus stared at the screen for a moment, and suddenly swore. "You look . . . .oddly familiar, Cassandra," he said, his voice a warning of impending doom for _someone_.

"Yes. A template of your cousin Amara, with elements of Dara and Rellus Velnaran, my _pada_ and my _maai'a'selai._" Cassandra paused as Rinus' jaws dropped open. "Please, we'll talk about that later. Right at the moment? I have news you really should hear face-to-face." She bit at a full human lower lip with needle-pointed teeth. "Garvus Tabes is, by a quick review of the records, on Palaven. He is a centurion at the Raetia flight OCS."

"_S'kak,"_ Rinus said, his crest flushing slightly blue, and turned off-screen. "I need another comm line open to Kallixta, now! Ah. . . thank you, Pallum. Maybe we can catch her before she leaves for the school this morning—"

Ylara let the first surge of the protective-anger pass. It helped to let turians run through their emotions before making it any worse. "Chances are," the Spectre said softly, "she's been exposed already. But yes, stop her if you can. We can at least _hope_ that Tabes hasn't deployed his devices yet."

Rinus' jaws locked for a moment, and then he turned away from the screen, and began talking to someone on a different line, his voice a quiet murmur as Cassandra went on, "Illustra Nothius was booked for a flight to Edessan yesterday, and Vallus Inlumini—"

"Is the second-shift foreman for the welders at the Dymion shipyards," Allina, the CID agent said, in a tight voice. "I know him. I would never have thought, for an instant—"

Ylara leaned forward, and replied, with quiet sympathy, "The Lystheni and the batarians have shown us, many times, that they know how to find weaknesses and exploit them. Get Illustra Nothius flagged. Edessan security can catch her, I'm sure. Pallum?"

The Praetorian sat down at the desk, glancing off to the side. "Conclave security has been on heightened alert since the original warnings went out, but since the initial threat assessment was for space stations only, I don't know how seriously they took it. They'd better have been taking it _damned_ seriously, is all I can say." His tone promised that heads would be rolling if _either_ of his protectees were ill. "We'll get back to you in an hour, Spectre. Let us get things rolling on our end here."

Ylara looked back at Allina now. "What can we do?" she offered.

"Come aboard the station and help us look for Vallus Inlumini, if you like. The good news is, we've been on lockdown for forty-eight hours. No ships have left. He _has_ to be in one of the orbital facilities."

Ylara's head turned, and she looked out the plasteel window grimly. There were ten such facilities, total; some between Rhenus and Palaven, and some between Dymion and Palaven. The largest were affiliated with Dymion. . . and they enclosed enough space to bring everything _except_ a _Leviathan_ inside their structures for work. "This. . . could take a while. Can you isolate his biometric chips?"

"Already working on it," Allina told her, her tone calm and competent. "Dymion construct _Brumae_ looks to be where he's currently located." She frowned. "If he gets wind that he's being sought. . . he could cut the chips out of his hands, get a spacesuit, and try to EVA to one of the other stations. I wouldn't want to do it, personally. But it's a potential scenario to consider. We need to do this quietly."

Ylara nodded. "Give us directions, and your teams can work to isolate him. Do we know if he's armed?"

Allina shook her head. "He's a welder. He shouldn't have access to anything other than small arms from the lockers, but he's probably got his work equipment with him."

Ylara winced. "I'll make it a point to try to avoid the torch's flame, then," she said. "Demsey, Zhasa? You're with me." Ylara looked down at Shellara, who was dozing peacefully in a makeshift bed up against the observation window. "Shellara, dear? This is Cassandra. Cassandra is the ship's AI. You're to do anything she tells you to do, do you understand?"

The AI appeared in her hybrid form, on cue, and stepped over to crouch down beside Shellara, who looked up, wide-eyed. "You look funny," the child said.

"That's okay. So do you," Cassandra replied with aplomb. "Would you like to play a game?"

"Thank you," Ylara murmured to the AI, and pointed at her two associates. "Shuttle bay one, please. With some haste."

The Brumae portion of the Dymion shipyard complex was even bigger up close than Ylara had imagined. It, like its sister stations, was probably a thousand years old, in total; each had started out as a smaller facility, built on, expanded upon, as the decades had shaped the needs of the Hierarchy fleet. As such, it was an amorphous mass of arms and solar collectors and radiation shielding, vaguely starfish shaped and glistening in the light of Palaven's primary. Inside, the initial corridors from the airlock were small and confined; they all stayed in their suits, although there was atmosphere. There wouldn't be, in any number of the bays. "We've got all the outer hatches locked down, all shuttles locked down. . . he can't get off the station, and as far as we can tell, he doesn't know we're looking for him," station security told Ylara crisply. "We've moved out people out of the vicinity. You can go in after him at any time." They keyed up Vallus' biometric chips to Ylara's omnitool, and she nodded when she got the first directional ping.

"Okay, our goal is to take him alive," she told Dempsey and Zhasa. "Try not to let your instincts overwhelm you. We need to know where and if he's planted those devices."

Elevators, ropelines, passageways. The station had no actual gravity of its own, for ease of moving huge pieces of equipment. They floated through most of the areas, trying not to move too quickly, with too little control, in case they overshot the male's location. At length, they found him, sitting in an empty bay, near a hatch. His suit helmet was off, so there was oxygen in the area. . . and he had his welding goggles on. Torch in hand, but not lit. "I didn't do it!" he called, as soon as he saw Ylara's armor. "I didn't. . . I didn't. . . " He shook his head. "I didn't."

Ylara gestured for Dempsey to go right, and Zhasa to go left around the catwalks leading over to the male. She herself slowly glided down a ramp along a rope line, letting him see her. "What is it that you didn't do, Vallus?" she asked, keeping her voice calm.

"He said. . . he said he had evidence. Said he'd notify the CID if I didn't do what he wanted. . . " In a single quick move, Vallus spun the wheels on the oxy-acetylene tanks beside him, and ignited his torch. "Stay back!"

Ylara put her gun on her back, and held up her hands, looking as peaceful as she knew how to. She was a huntress of six hundred years standing, but she had a core of inner serenity that she could access, when she needed it. "I'm not coming any closer to you," she told the male. "Why don't you tell me what the problem is?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Zhasa and Dempsey moving into position, high above her.

"You're. . . you're the _Spectre_. They wouldn't send a _Spectre_ for me. . . if they. . . if they didn't know." The male had backed up against the wall now, fear and anger fighting in him for supremacy.

"But you say you didn't what you were told to do?" Ylara asked, in tones of sweet reason. Over her radio, she asked, quietly, "Can either of you _get_ to him without him cutting through your armor and everything else with that damned torch?"

"Yes," Dempsey said, evenly. "Slow drop, though."

"I can get to him faster," Zhasa said. "Trust me."

"When I say go," Ylara told them. "Zhasa, then Dempsey."

The male turian was shaking now. "I didn't. He said he'd tell them that I _ran_. That I left my unit to die before the Reapers. . . but I didn't plant the devices. I opened one of them up. Saw what it was."

_Ah, Goddess. He's infected. He's infected anyone he's been in contact with. Less bad than the alternative, but still, not good._

"This doesn't have to end badly," Ylara told him, still hovering in air. "Just tell us where the devices are now, and we can take care of this."

"There's. . . there's no good way out. No way but honor—" The male turned to cut into the hatch behind him with the torch, which would explosively decompress the entire bay.

"Now!" Ylara said, her voice like a whip-crack—and felt a surge of biotic energies rise as Zhasa almost literally _flew_ from the balcony overhead, landing _on_ the turian with considerable inertia. Dempsey propelled himself down now as well, at a more leisurely pace—and then Zhasa was wrestling with the turian, trying to get the torch out of his hands, which blazed blue-white in his hands. _Shit,_ Ylara thought. She didn't _dare_ use a shockwave against him; it could hit the damned _tanks_, and if the oxygen tank blew, it could take out the damned hatch behind them anyway—or anyone in its random flight, for that matter—and the acetone tank could, conceivably, explode under too much pressure. She pushed off the ramp, trying to get there in time to help, saw the blue-white of the torch turn on Zhasa—and a double layer of shields flickered to life over the quarian's form, dancing and melding with the blue-white welding flame.

"_Bosh'tet,_ let _go_," Zhasa swore, and then Dempsey was on the male now, and she could have sworn she heard the human male _humming_ over the radio, as they fought and wrestled, and the oxygen and acetylene tanks pulled loose from their rack, and floated and jerked in mid-air, rocked by the movements of the struggling trio. No gravity. No ground to work with, just actions and reactions that kicked them all over the place, a streaming blaze of fire behind them until Dempsey knocked it free of the male's hand, grabbing the male's arms and spinning with him until he locked them behind the turian's back, as the male continued to shout, incomprehensibly. "Settle down," Zhasa told him. . . .and Ylara changed course for the fourth time, bouncing off a wall and trying to get to where they were now.

Just in time to see the torch land up against its own tanks. "Take cover!" Ylara shouted, and did the only thing she could think to do—she blasted the tanks as far _away_ as she could.

The explosion was. . . oddly muffled. There was light, certainly. Ylara fully expected to feel the impact of molten fragments of metal against her armor, slamming into her skin. Nothing.

She opened her eyes cautiously, and stared around her in amazement. There was _air _whistling through the bay, evacuating rapidly out into space through a large opening in the wall now. . . but they weren't being buffeted by it, dragged by it. There were tools and crates launching themselves towards that gap, too. . . which should have been traveling in a straight line, slamming into their bodies. None of it was hitting them.

Zhasa was curled in on herself, floating calmly in the center of sphere of biotic energy. It was a kinetic barrier unlike any Ylara had ever seen, fully enclosing the four of them. It was even keeping some of the air in for the turian male, although he was obviously gasping in distress now. "Can you maintain it if you move?" Ylara asked, quickly.

"No," the quarian replied, her tone distant. "Difficult. Lots of. . . concentration."

_And now I know why Kal'Reegar said she would be essential to the Spectres, in spite of her relative lack of experience. Anyone who can hold up a shield like this? Can be on my team any damned day. _"Dempsey, you've got Vallus?"

"Yeah." He was still humming a little, under his breath. Irritating habit, but . . . then again, she thought she knew why he was doing it.

"All right. I'm going to give Zhasa here a push towards the stairs. Stay inside her . . . bubble of force here."

"Can do."

And then they moved together for the bulkhead, which had dropped after the explosion, and Ylara tapped on her omnitool, notifying station personnel that they were still in here, still alive, and needed an extraction. And a med team in hazmat gear to deal with Vallus.

In the end, it turned out that he'd had his remaining devices _with_ him in the cargo bay; they'd been blown out into space with the rest of the debris. He hadn't planted any of them. Ylara got the story out of him by dint of patient, careful questions. He'd been stationed on Tridend Colony during the Reaper War. And when the Reapers had come in for a landing, half his squad had broken and run. He'd stayed. . . faced the first wave of Collectors coming out of the mouth of the old machine. . . and then his courage had broken, and he, too, had run. Had left his friends back on the line. Of those who'd survived, the first to run testified that they'd seen him stay and stand. All the rest who _had _stayed, had died. He'd mustered out after the war. Never taken a penny of his pension. Never worn his _agatum clipeus._ And after a trip to Bastion two years ago, and having his omnitool break while he was there, the Lystheni had found out. "I never told anyone. I . . . didn't tell my mate, I didn't tell my children. But they found out. I don't know how. But I knew what those devices were when I opened one up. If I die, that's fine. But I won't take the rest of the station with me."

_Ah, but could you, once you made that stubborn, honorable decision, at least have __kept your helmet on__?_ Ylara thought, tiredly.

**Rinus, Raetia, Palaven, April 27, 2196**

"_Hello, __Pada__, it's me,"_ Rinus said over the comm transmission. FTL had once been prohibitively expensive for him, and he still rarely used it, but this obviously was a special occasion.

Allardus looked tired. _"First-son,"_ he greeted Rinus. _"Good to hear from you. Are you and your wife all right?" _

"_Not sure. There's a fair chance we've both been exposed. If she's in the clear, she's staying in Raetia. If we've both been exposed, I'm taking Pallum and everyone else who's in the house here in Complovium and going to Raetia. If we're going to be sick, we'll be sick together."_ Rinus was leaving out the part of the conversation in which Kallixta had told him, in no uncertain terms, that even if she _wasn't_ exposed, he was coming to Raetia so she could take care of him. That was an argument he planned to win. _And exactly how many hours have you logged steering a hospital ship?_ he'd asked her, dryly. She. . . hadn't really appreciated that one. She _never_ used superior-to-inferior forms with him, other than in teasing, but she'd used them then. But her _tone_ had been pleading. _"Come to me here, beloved, no matter what. I will be by your side."_

In the here and now, Allardus shook his head on-screen. _"This is a damned ugly business. And we've got half our younglings right in the middle of it."_

Rinus' head jerked up. _"What?"_

"_S'kak. Sorry. Thought you knew. Rellus, Dara, Eli, Serana, and Linianus. All on Bastion. All infected. Lantar and Sam are there with them. Last we heard, they're also hit."_

Rinus swallowed, hard. _"I didn't know. I'll try to get a message through, when I can."_

"_Your mother asks, that if you go to Raetia, that you try to make sure your grandfather is all right."_

"_I don't know what I'll be able to do, Pada. Chances are, alone in that old house, he might come through this better than the rest of us." Certainly, less exposed._

"_The Raetia house is big enough where he can practically isolate himself in a couple of rooms and never even see or be near the two of you. But it's not good for him to be alone right now. My parents are going to visit siblings, actually."_

"_Traveling is kind of what we're trying to discourage most people from doing right now, __Pada__." _Rinus grimaced. _"Not that I'm setting a great example."_ He paused, as another line buzzed. _"I have to go. Love you. Love __Mada__. Tell the little ones I think of them."_

Allardus' face faded out, and was replaced by a different visage. The Imperator's, in fact. _"__Ama'filu,__"_ came the crisp greeting, as Rinus pulled himself up hastily. _"You're going to my daughter in Raetia?"_

"_Only if she's infected, sir."_ Rinus had never quite gotten around to calling his father-in-law _pada'amu_ to his face. _"She's being a little insistent that I come to her anyway—"_

"_And she is quite correct. Your place is together in this time."_

Rinus winced. _"I do not wish to be the cause of her illness or death,"_ he said, flatly.

"_And you will both have excellent medical staff on hand to tend to you. Politically, it's the right message to send. Personally, it's the right thing to do, as well, __ama'filu__. You will both be stronger together, than apart."_ That cut-crystal voice could be surprisingly gentle at times. Rinus was always taken aback when it happened.

After a moment, he bowed his head. _"Sir? Do we at least have the locations where the devices were left locked down? The cities under martial law?"_

The Imperator nodded, gravely. _"It's not going to spread here. Our populace is disciplined. The last OCS class __did__ just graduate, and there was some mingling, but none of them have reported to their ships yet. The spirits have watched over us. No. . . it's __Earth__ and __Bastion__ that I worry about. Go. Now."_

Rinus nodded sharply, and the transmission cut off. He glanced over his shoulder at Pallum, who looked grimly amused. _"It appears I have my orders, Pallum. Let's get everyone packed and get moving for Raetia. One more call before we go. I apparently need to get a hold of my mother's father."_

A quick call to Gavius, which the old male didn't pick up on. And then they were in the fleet of small shuttles that would take from them from Complovium, across the great sea, to the western continent, where Rinus had grown up on the outskirts of Raetia. A hop out of the atmosphere, parabolic curve back down, and hours and hours of flight time were cut off the trip. As it was, it was still a two-hour flight in the slow, cumbersome shuttles, but it beat a fourteen-hour trip by a long shot.

Kallixta met him at the door of the Raetia house, wearing a surgical mask. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, and Rinus leaned down, breathing in the scent of her skin. _"You listened?"_ Her tone was pleased and worried at the same time. _"Now I __know__ you must be sick."_

"_Your father ordered me here."_

"_Well, you listened to __someone__, anyway."_ Kallixta kept her tone light, and reached up to put her hand on the side of his mandible. _"Your grandfather arrived here three hours ago. Said he was going to __look after__ us, if you please. And wanted to know why he'd not been invited here before."_

Rinus looked up at the ceiling. _"We haven't __lived__ here before this year—"_

"_And you've lived here for several months, first-son of my daughter,"_ Gavius said, poking his head out of a door nearby.

"_And we haven't entertained at all,"_ Rinus replied, patiently. It was, in fact, something his staff pestered him about with increasingly annoying frequency. Dinner parties—accepting others' invitations and hosting their own—were a way of forging alliances in the Conclave. And hosting charity hunts and musical entertainments for those among the lower ranks was _expected_ of a _dominus_ and a _domnina_. Rinus had told his staff where to put their suggestions, and left it at that for the time being. _"I've been working at HIA half my time, and working on trying to find funding for better prosthetics for disabled soldiers the rest of my time. When I'm here in Raetia, I want to spend that time with my wife."_

Gavius gave him a steely glance, and Rinus was absolutely prepared for a speech about duty to family being the highest duty of all. . . and was caught off-guard when Gavius actually gave a rusty chuckle, instead. _"Having seen her at your wedding and today, I understand why,"_ the older male acknowledged. _"I'll leave you two alone for now."_

Kallixta pulled Rinus after her through the house, which was now furnished in a comfortable, modern style. There were even a few bedrooms equipped with human-style beds, a courtesy for their human relatives, should they ever come to visit. And Rinus knew Kallixta had had the roof tiles removed to place a heavy lining of radiation barrier underneath, as well as similar barriers in the walls. She'd even replaced the windows with plasteel—not just for radiation, but for additional security. He hadn't asked to look at the bills. Simply nodded and made approving noises. It actually _had_ made the place feel like home. A very _large_ home, but the rooms they used? Comfortable. Familiar. Theirs. The priceless antiques were largely relegated to an attic somewhere.

In their bedroom, Rinus' eyes widened a little. There was medical equipment lined up, ready to go. _"Now I really feel bad,"_ he muttered. _"There are people on Bastion—hell, Rel and Dara and Serana and Eli—who probably don't have a set-up like this."_

Kallixta leaned into him. _"I know,"_ she said, quietly. _"We're sending three medical ships. The Alliance is sending three more, but they're having to redirect two to Luna. Worst-case scenarios."_ She reached up and unlatched the fastenings of his black _dominus_ robe. He'd been at a Conclave meeting this morning, until Ylara's call had pulled him out. _"You're really working on that disabled soldier policy, aren't you?"_

"_Gallian and I had a __long__ talk about it last year. Got him to be a hell of a lot less defensive about Laetia once he realized I had absolutely no interest in her, and once he realized I really __did_ _want to know about his cybernetics. The hard truth is, if we give every amputee cybernetics, retroactively, we'd. . . pretty much lose the budget for the dreadnoughts. Or we'd have to give up building schools for a generation or two. As is, just giving them to people going forward. . . . " _He shook his head. _"Having trouble finding the money."_

"_And how do you feel, beloved?"_

Rinus sighed. To her, alone in their room, he could admit it. _"My head's been killing me for the last two hours. I wanted to think it was the pressure change going up in the shuttle."_

"_It's not, is it."_ It wasn't a question. She leaned into him, and he could feel her claws digging into his back.

"_Probably not."_ He leaned down and very, very lightly, nipped her throat. Not even remotely taking the chance of breaking her skin. She lifted his robes off of his shoulders, and turned to fold them over a chair. _"And you, sweetness?"_

Kallixta sighed. _"They verified that the damned centurion put a device in the air vents not far from the flight simulators I've been working with people on all week. Spirits of earth and stone take him __straight_ _to the underworld. I'm. . . probably twenty-four hours behind you. I'm keeping the mask on, in case one of us has something the other doesn't. . . "_

Rinus pulled her into him, so tightly he thought her ribs might start to creak. _Damnit. Damnit, damnit, damnit._ He couldn't _do_ anything with the fear-anger, the protective-anger. All he could do. . . was take the damn medications. . . and wait. _"Have you heard anything out of Bastion?"_ he asked, after a moment.

Kallixta shook her head. _"No. Dara dropped me a note a week ago, saying they were going there after they got done with Rel's medical leave. . . "_ Rinus laughed shortly at the irony of _that_ phrasing, "_and that's the last I heard."_

"_According to my father, they're all sick."_

They stood there for a long moment. Kallixta cleared her throat. _"All right. We're going to get through this. And then, beloved,"_ she said, raising her head, _"every single one of us is going hunting. And someone is going to __pay__."_

Rinus nodded. _"Yes,"_ he replied, simply. _"They will. In turian fashion. For every life lost, ten of theirs."_ _Spirits, please, don't let the lives lost be of my clan._

Another brief pause. _"So,"_ Kallixta said, trying to sound a little brighter. _"While we __can__ eat. . . what do you want for dinner?"_

The human saying flashed through his mind. _Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow, we may die._ _"Absolutely anything that doesn't bite me back,"_ he told her, putting on a smile he didn't feel. _"We need the energy."_

**Ellie, Mindoir, April 27, 2196**

The knock at her door had come around mid-day. Ellie had been working from home, and was immersed reading the design for the new habitat dome she and Solanna's team were co-designing for use on Aphras. The structural engineers assured them that the plasteel dome could withstand the atmospheric pressure outside, while retaining only a single atmosphere of pressure under the dome. What she and Solanna needed to ascertain at this point was how much _light_ would come through the plasteel at this point; if it would be enough to support plant life in the soil, or if it would need to be supplemented . . . or if it was going to be too _much_ light, which would turn the huge dome into a combination of a hothouse and a magnifying glass. Something of a bad combination. Their current argument was how to deal with the light and heat issues.

Ellie looked up as the sound of the knock repeated. _Odd. Middle of the day. I'm not expecting a delivery. . . ._ She headed down the stairs, one hand on the banister. After so many years, the turian villa didn't even look odd to her anymore. It was just _home_. She stepped over a toy truck at the base of the stairs—_Tacitus left it out again. I'm going to have to __remind__ him that we pick up toys in this house, or we lose them. . . Eli was never this bad. Then again, we had a tiny apartment on the Citadel, and Eli had barely half the toys Tacitus and Emily and Caelia and Narayana have. . . ._ Ellie peeked out the side window, blinked in surprise, and opened the door, just as Garrus was raising his hand for another knock. He and Lilu Shepard were on her doorstep. In the middle of the day. Without having called first. And their expressions were serious. She'd been through this before, when Derek had died. Two officers had come to her door that day. And while she'd been horrified and shocked, there had been that little, secret, shameful thread of relief in her, too. _It's finally over._

Today though, nothing but dread. Cold, distant dread. Ellie swallowed, hard, and leaned on the door. "Come in," she managed, though her mouth was dry. For a lifelong worrier, she was actually remarkably calm at the moment. But this was everything she'd always dreaded. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, but if we could go sit down for a moment?" Lilu suggested.

Ellie nodded, and gestured to the living room, off to the side of the stairs. She settled into her usual chair, and looked up at them. "Who died?" she asked, clasping her hands together as tightly as she could in her lap so they wouldn't see her shaking.

Garrus shook his head. "No one," he said, immediately, and Ellie took her first full breath since she'd answered the door. "You heard the news about Bastion yesterday?"

_Bastion. Where both Lantar and Sam had been going, and where Eli and Serana __lived__._ Ellie nodded, once. "They're locked down?"

Lilu glanced at Garrus. "Yes. Yes, they are. Ellie, we've got a little bad news here. It's not as bad as it could be, but it's not great, either. Eli, Serana, and Linianus were all exposed to the viruses and bacteria on the station on the twenty-fourth. They started showing symptoms last night, but we didn't know how bad until we got a full report from Dara this morning."

Ellie's eyes widened. "Dara's there?"

"And Rel," Garrus told her. "There's more. They didn't know they were infected, so they spent time with Sam, Lantar, Dara, and Rel. No breathers, no masks, no precautions. So they're _all_ infected right now."

The whole world had slowed down for Ellie now. Her little boy was sick. Her husband, the man who had, as far as she was concerned, _rescued_ her from loneliness and self-doubt and had made a life with her—who'd raised her son as his own, and given her Caelia and Tacitus, and Emily—was sick, too. Could _die_ from it. Ellie swallowed once. "Can I go there? I'm not a nurse, but I can take a temperature and follow medicine dosage directions with the best of them." Her voice wavered, but only a little.

Garrus put a warm hand on her shoulder. "Lantar wouldn't want you to risk getting sick, too."

Lilu added, quietly, "Only full medical personnel, and a few geth and rachni, er, peace officers, are breaking quarantine to go in right now."

"Is there anything I _can_ do?"

They shook their heads, looking grim. "Take care of the kids. Don't let them get too scared by what they'll hear at school today," was Shepard's recommendation.

"Can I at least _talk_ to him? Can I get an FTL line through?" Ellie's voice wavered once more. _God. If I can't be there for him, if I can't take care of him, if I can't touch him and let him know he's important to me, that he'd better not leave, that he promised __always__, and I'm holding him to it. . . can I at __least_ _give him my words? Little comfort though they'll be._

"We can't guarantee he'll be awake—"

"And I don't want to wake him if he's resting," she said, simply. "Just a vid message through, then. I'll put one together with the kids tonight."

Garrus nodded. "It'll probably help," he offered. "I know it'd give _me_ something to fight for."

Lilu looked at Ellie now, the blue eyes, so often cold and distant to the public, now warm and empathetic. "Is there anything _we_ can do for you?" she asked.

Ellie shook her head. Blinked back the tears. "Bring them home and stick a _knife_ in whoever did this," she said, after a moment.

"Might have to be a pretty big knife," Garrus said.

"I've got one you can borrow if you need it."

That night, she picked the children up from school. Tacitus and Emily, only three, were oblivious, of course. They looked at the door to the garage and occasionally would ask, "When is Daddy coming home?" or, in turian, _"When is __Pada__ coming home?"_ and that was it. She got vid feed of them asking for him, and of them playing, a little mock-hunt of Lucy, their little black cat, and saved that.

Caelia, however, was six. And Narayana, at five, was almost ten, in human years. Caelia had latched onto Ellie's leg when she came home, and would _not_ let go. "Teacher said everyone on Bastion is sick," Caelia said, her voice very small. ""Lijah lives on Bastion. 'Rana lives on Bastion. Lin lives on Bastion. And Daddy went to Bastion, too. Are they all sick?" Caelia, like some of the hybrids, actually did have tear ducts, and was snuffling a little against Ellie's leg.

Narayana, who'd hopped up into a kitchen chair, and sat there, in her pink little human girl's frock, coloring neatly inside the outlines of a picture on her datapad. Ellie peered over at it, and realized that the outline actually represented a salarian heart, and shook her head briefly, before looking down at Caelia, who was as opposite of Narayana as she _could_ be, wearing jeans, cut to let her spurs poke through, and a gladiatorial shirt her father had brought her back from Edessan a year ago—a size too large, at the time, too. Caelia had worn it so often since, there was almost nothing left of the original pattern on it. But it had been her favorite for _ages_, because Daddy had given it to her, and it had come from _Lijah's_ planet. "Yes, dear. They're all sick. But there are doctors there, and they're taking care of them."

"Doctors couldn't fix my daddy," Narayana said, very quietly.

Ellie winced. That was _really_ not what Caelia needed to hear right now. Caelia dug in so tightly that she drew blood on the back of Ellie's leg, and it was a fight to keep her expression calm as Ellie replied, "Your daddy was very, very sick, Narayana. And he was very, very old. We all loved him. You know that?"

Narayana nodded, looking miserable. Ellie managed to get to the chair beside her, sat down, pulled Caelia into her lap, and rested a hand on Narayana's shoulder. "Dara's a doctor," Caelia piped up. "Is Dara taking care of them?"

Ellie nodded. "Yes. Yes, she is." She decided it wouldn't help to mention that Dara was sick, too. "And Dr. Chakwas is on Bastion. And I think Dr. Abrams will be there shortly, too. Now, I think it might make your daddy feel better if he hears from you, Caelia. And Eli might like to have a message from you, too."

"Can I draw him a picture?" Caelia asked, eagerly.

"Sure," Ellie told her. "I'm sure Eli would love another picture."

Caelia scrambled down out of her lap and headed straight for the terminal, where she started calling up her painting program with sweeps of her little fingers. Narayana stayed at the table, hunched over. "Lantar said he wasn't going to _replace_ my daddy," Nara muttered. "But that he'd _be_ my daddy, if I wanted him to be."

Ellie nodded. "Yes. He started the adoption papers two weeks ago. You can have his name if you want to use it, and wear his paint, too, if you want to, when it's done."

A distinct waver in the voice now. "But if he goes away like my daddy did—"

Ellie pulled Narayana into a big hug. "He's not going to. And you're going to help him stay right where he's supposed to be. You'll give him a big smile in the video and tell him you miss him and want to see him soon, okay?"

"And that will help?"

"It can't hurt." Ellie looked at the little salarian girl calmly. "How about if you help me make dinner tonight?" It would help keep Narayana's mind focused on something else besides her worries. And Ellie was an expert on distracting _herself_ from worrying, by this point. "What do you think we should make?"

"Hmm. Tunafish and _alai_ salad?" Narayana offered. With salarian dietary considerations now to keep in mind, Ellie's cooking repertoire had had to expand into whole new _realms_ of food science and culinary adventurousness. "Can I cut up the pickles?"

"Sure. Do you want freeze-dried scorpions to sprinkle on yours?"

"Ooh, yes!"

"Caelia," Ellie called. "Come and help. You can mix in the mayonnaise." She looked around her kitchen, and smiled a little. She still couldn't _quite_ believe her life. In 2187, it had been just her and Elijah, alone against the world, her and an eleven-year-old boy. Both of them hurt in ways they couldn't even describe. Then Lantar had come into her life, and by 2188, they'd been married, and he'd adopted Elijah on her son's twelfth birthday. Three against the world. Two years later, after the terrible struggle of carrying her to term, Caelia had been born. Four against the world. . . and then Eli had left for boot camp, and their circle had shrunk briefly. . . and now she looked at her home, and some days, like today, couldn't quite _believe_ how full her life was now. Three hybrid children of her own. Eli, off doing _good_ work, and married now, himself. Narayana to add to the mix. And, always, Lantar. _Don't you leave me, sweetheart. I couldn't do this all without you._

And then she looked down as Caelia brought over the stepstool and climbed up so she could reach the counter properly. "I can mix it?" the girl asked, and Ellie blinked it all away and smiled down at her daughter.

"Yes, you can. Here, take the spoon."

**Bastion, April 27, 2196**

The shells that made up the levels of Bastion still spun, as they had for years; the outside of the station, a fretwork of construction beams and catwalks and scaffolding, was lit up here and there with high-intensity lamps, as the station moved into Turan's shadow, where it would stay for the next two or three days, before peeking out from around the gas giant's bulk once more.

Inside the walls of the station, quarian and salarian techs scrambled. The quarians were wiggling into places not intended for a humanoid body, risking suit tears, or sending in small drones. Looking in every air shaft for devices, trying to rig filtration systems. The salarians were following suit. The salarians were speaking even more rapidly than usual; the quarians were having trouble keeping up. "They say ten thousand people go through Depth Charge every day. They didn't find the devices for two days. Say, twenty thousand people, in rough numbers. Went home to their families. Say a family of four, for rough numbers. Each person might have exposed three others to the viruses and bacteria. That's sixty thousand people exposed overnight, more or less. Went to work the next morning. Say they each have ten coworkers. Say that their children have an average class size at school of thirty children and a teacher. Round numbers, averages. Could be as many as three hundred thousand adults exposed by the next day. _Nine hundred thousand_ children. Probably not real numbers. But multiple sources of infection. And that's just one day. And doesn't include the Hierarachy troops exposed in their barracks."

"Settle down," one of the quarians told a salarian. "_You_ can't catch a human disease."

"No," the salarian said, shaking his head. "But asari can. Drell can. And quarians can catch the turian diseases."

Another salarian chimed in, thinking fast, obviously. "Humans and turians designed this station. Make up forty percent of population, just on their own. Backbone of Council space, now. Add to that the asari. Fifty-five percent of station, potentially under threat."

"No B-Sec," a male quarian said, sending a drone down another shaft. "Limited defense crews. Limited combat patrols in-system, if it spreads onto the ships."

"In other words," a salarian summed up, "we could absolutely take something up the cloaca if this doesn't get resolved, and soon."

Grim silence, and then the crews got back to work.

Past those cramped ducts and narrow crawlspaces, the inner shells of the station moved and turned. The salarian, hanar, volus, krogan, and elcor districts still moved. . . but there was a marked lack of foot traffic today. Depth Charge was shuttered and closed. In the hanar districts, no drell walked the streets.

At B-Sec headquarters on C-level, Ulluthyr Banak, flanked by a dozen krogan, walked in the door. "I want to speak with Urdnot Gris," he rumbled, quietly. "Or Commander Bailey. Whoever's available."

The officer on duty at the front desk, a turian in full armor, coughed several times, and then paged Bailey's second-in-command, who came out to see Banak. "Bailey's up to his ears at the moment. Talk to me, and I'll see if he needs to speak with you."

Banak nodded. "I'll speak for these krogan. We understand you need some help right now."

The human male blinked behind his visor. "There's some looting going on down on B-level, yeah. Rumor has it that it's krogan who're doing it. . . "

Banak nodded. "And we can help you stop that."

"For a price, I assume?" The human was not at his best.

Banak showed teeth. "For the moment, no charge. You like what my people do? _Hire_ them." The krogan behind him stirred for a moment.

Bailey emerged from his office. He was in full armor, and had clearly had a very, very long day so far. "Ulluthyr Banak?"

"Yeah?"

"You'll divide your krogan up among squads of humans and turians. We've got some other reinforcements coming in, but I'm not the kind of man who turns down help when it's offered. Do any of your guys have a problem working with geth or rachni?"

Banak blinked. "Not that I know of," he said, cautiously. "Why?"

Bailey pointed out the clear plasteel doors behind the krogan. Banak turned and _stared_.

One thousand geth had marched in, perfect precision, and now stood, motionless, like statues, out in the main plaza in front of B-Sec headquarters. Rachni rustled and skittered along the ground now, moving _between_ the frozen rows of geth, the smaller ones assembling in loose semicircles around huge brood warriors. The galaxy's most ancient nightmare, the rachni. They had fought in the Reaper wars, but had remained largely, quietly, and deliberately out of sight for ten years. Their queen on Bastion, and their Spectre, Sings-to-the-Sky, were two of their only points of contact for the other races, largely because the rachni did not wish to incur the enmity of the other races again.

The geth, the hereditary enemy of the quarians, and a more recent galactic bogeyman, had been more visible, but only just barely. They had an arrangement of convenience with the humans, but had, like the rachni, largely kept to themselves, until agreeing to serve as mobile nodes on human _Normandy_-class ships. Even then, they weren't much out in the public eye. Emissary and Cohort, their Councilor and their Spectre, were again, their only public faces.

And now they massed outside B-Sec, organic and synthetic, opposite poles from one another, twin embodiments of past conflicts. . . and waited.

The human adjutant muttered, "Mother of _God._"

The turian at the desk whispered, _"Spirits of air and darkness."_

Banak nodded. Shrugged. "Well, that should keep people from breaking windows and stealing stuff." He turned back to Bailey. "You put us where you need us. We'll figure out the rest as we go along."

In the human embassy, Councilor Anderson allowed a doctor to take his blood pressure, and admitted to a headache and sore throat. In the turian embassy, Councilor Odacaen grimly did the same. In the asari embassy, Councilor Lisana had blood drawn—thick and blue in its vial—and bowed her head when she heard the results.

The medical bays were crowded. More patients than beds. Some sitting out in the hallways, coughing and wheezing. A salarian doctor was nearly crushed as his turian colleague swayed on her feet and collapsed on him. A human doctor had to bolt from an OR, pulling down her mask to vomit into a waste receptacle, sweat rolling down her face and back as she did. A drell nurse found a quiet place to kneel and pray, out of the way, trying to still the tremors in her hands. An asari doctor's hands started to shake as she was examining a patient, and she had to call in a resident to finish the physical examination, as shivers started to wrack her.

Salarian, hanar, volus, and elcor medical personnel exchanged grim glances. "Concerned: There are not enough of us to deal with the crisis."

"Evident. We'll need to work double shifts. Get anyone in here who's ever taken a temperature before, to act as nurses."

"I understand several volus trading houses are actually donating antibiotics from stockpiles," a muffled voice commented, from near the floor. "No, _really_ donating. No charge."

The unspoken other half of that statement was one based in fear: _what would the volus do if the turians withdrew their protecting hand?_

And in an apartment on C-level, Elijah Sidonis' eyes opened at noon. Serana was a hot curve against his chest, abdomen, and legs, and another body pressed into his from behind, just as hot. Arms are wrapped around him, and he felt as if he were suffocating. The room skewed a little in his vision, and his stomach tightened, and he sat up, fighting off limbs and sheets and heat, ignoring the sounds of annoyance and disappointment from the people in bed with him, and managed to stagger to the bathroom to throw up, violently, into the toilet there. There was almost nothing on his stomach _to_ bring up, but his body arced into the spasm anyway.

Cool hands on his forehead. Damp cloth. He managed to look up, briefly, saw who it was in the mirror, and relaxed. "Dara?"

"Yeah. I've got you." From the paleness of her face and the bright, rosy splotches in her cheeks, she had to be running a fever, too, but she felt cool compared to him. "Easy there." Damp cloth dabbing along head, neck and back now. It felt like _heaven._ "Looks like you just moved into phase two of the Skyllian flu."

"Yay me." He closed his eyes. "Your hands feel _good._ How can you be running a fever and still have cold hands?"

"Ancient doctor's secret." She paused. "Think you're about done?"

Eli inquired of his stomach. His stomach snarled back at him. "Dunno."

"Okay, let's at least get you back into bed. I'm going to set up an IV for you, while my hands are steady. Siara?"

Hands again. Warmer than Dara's. The two females helped him back to his feet, and Eli leaned on them both as they guided him back down the hall. The irony was clear; he was leaning on two females he'd been in relationships with, long ago, to deliver him back to his wife. If he'd been feeling _any_ better right now, Eli might have laughed.

In the bedroom, Lin and Serana had migrated to the middle of the bed. IVs in each of their arms, tubes straining to stay connected at the moment. They weren't even conscious, but their bodies were searching for comfort. Dara sighed. "Okay, Eli? Lin will probably recognize you. He might not recognize me. I need you to move him over, okay? We can't have them baking each other. I can move Serana. She. . . probably won't attack me."

Eli wished he didn't feel so damned _weak_, but he stumbled to the left side of the bed. Started talking in turian. _"__Fradu__? I need you to move. Come on. Let go, move over. . . "_

"_Brennia? Beloved?"_ Lin's voice was hazy, and he held onto Serana tightly.

"_No, brother. That's Serana, not Brennia. Let go and move, brother."_

Lin's blue eyes opened, flashed into focus for a moment, and he allowed Eli to move him back to his side of the bed. _"Brennia loved you. You know that, __dimcato'fradu__?"_

Eli blinked. Not the conversation he'd expected, but Lin's subconscious was driving, not his rational mind. _"She loved __you_. _She saw battle-brothers._"

Lin shook his head. _"Both. No difference for her. She'd been scared of us, but . . . you caught her going through the lockers . . . didn't punish her, didn't do anything . . . just asked her to teach you __how__ . . meant a lot to her._" There were breaks and pauses between the words, and some of them were slurred. Indistinct.

Dara pushed Eli down on the bed and started swabbing iodine on his arm. Cold. Damned cold, in fact. Her expression was completely neutral, as if she couldn't understand a word being said. Eli put a hand on Lin's shoulder. _"Lin, she loved __you__."_

"_She loved __us__. Me more, yeah. But you, as part of me."_ Part of the deep hurt laid bare. It hadn't been spoken of. Hadn't _needed_ to be spoken.

Dara muttered, "There's going to be a little sting here, Eli." And then, one quick move, and the needle slid home. "Got it." Strips of gauze and tape, and then the chill of saline flowing into him. "The saline's room temperature, Eli. It's going to help keep your temperature down." Dara paused. "Might be easier to keep the IVs from getting knocked over, if you put your head at the foot of the bed now."

Eli shook his head. Serana had rolled over, blue eyes open and vague, watching him. Lin's eyes were still open, too. "Closer to the vomit basin, too," Dara pointed out.

"I'll take my chances."

"On your own head be it." She and Siara helped him slip back into bed. He wrapped his arms around Serana, who nestled into him with a single, grateful sentence. _"You feel so good. . . . ._"

Dara draped a damp towel over Eli's neck. Another over Serana's fringe. And another over the back of Lin's neck and shoulders as the male moved in again, getting comfortable, finding welcome coolness. Two sets of arms locked around Eli, and he lifted his eyes to Dara's, briefly. "So fucking weird," he managed, just as the next set of shivers set in.

"You're not the only one in this particular boat," Dara told him, softly. "Should see the look on _my_ dad's face when he's shivering up against _your_ dad."

Eli put his head down on Serana's forehead, and managed a weak laugh. "How the hell are you even _up_?" he asked, his teeth starting to chatter. Two warm bodies moved in closer, controlling his shivering, holding him still with weight and warmth.

"She shouldn't be," Siara said, dryly. "I'm running around with a pillow so she doesn't bruise her face when she inevitably falls on it."

Dara snorted. "I'm going back to bed now. I've got vomiting to look forward to, after all."

Eli lay there and _shook_. Serana lifted a hand and put it against his face. Hot as a cup of tea, freshly poured, hot as the outside of a groundcar, parked in the summer sun. Light smells in the air. Sun-baked rocks. Scales. Skin. Good smells.

Eli's eyes began to droop closed again, and he felt hands change the damp cloths on his neck, changing out to fresh ones. His mind drifted. Back to boot camp, OCS, Macedyn. It had been the three of them, together, for over a year. Eli leaving Lin and Brennia's apartment late at night, reluctantly giving up the warmth of their friendship, but giving them time and privacy when he went back to the barracks. He _could_ have moved in with them at any time, really. Shared the rent, as Lin was doing now. But he'd known they needed privacy. Space.

How he'd _laughed_ at their feeble efforts at cooking. Climbing, swimming, going to clubs. Brennia _insisting_ that he needed to find a girl who'd last more than a night or two. Of course, Eli had been in firm denial about his feelings for Serana at the time. Getting _too_ involved with a girl would have been betraying those unspoken feelings. So he'd taken care of his physical needs and not bothered with the emotional ones for a while. And then Brennia had been killed, and they'd been two again, for a while. And then separated even from that. And then he and Serana had made two again, and then Lin had come back to them, and they were three again. So much of Eli's life had been built around threes. His mother, father, and him. Then his mother, Lantar, and him. Once Duck had come along, it had been four, but only for a while. Now he had three younger siblings by blood.

Then he and Dara and Rel, an antagonistic triangle for a bit, and then he and Kella, with Siara being jealous. The long friendship with Lin and Serana, or Lin and Tel, depending on who had been hanging out at whose house on any given day. _I guess I am a __little__ asari. Everything in my life, has been in threes. Except Serana._


	92. Chapter 92: Pestilence

**Chapter 92: Pestilence**

_**Author's note:** Shinimegami7 was kind and inspired enough to take a few pictures of Henry Rollins and come up with a stab at what Dempsey looks like, rockin' out in his quarters. http: / / duetmaoim . deviantart . com / # / d3jwh8x. We've come to the conclusion that his garage band was called Biotic Fury; four young biotics who did their own pyrotechnic work. With their minds. The tattoos are the opening notes of "Sad but True" and a knotwork shamrock. Nicely done. (Zhasa! Down girl! You know the poor guy can't actually. . . .)_

**Makur, Bastion, April 27, 2196**

Makur had come a long, long way from Tuchanka. Four years ago, he couldn't _read_. Had lived in the women's camp, underground, only coming out of the bunker to hunt, to defend the others. The clan had been his entire reason for being. Oh, there had been his training with the shaman—training intended to make him stronger. Make his biotics stronger. But even that had been in service to the clan. Siara had changed all of that. She'd come to the camp as a punishment—a thought he'd laughed at, at the time. His normal life, a punishment for the spoiled, weak asari. But he'd quickly revised his initial impression. She'd never complained. Had done everything required of her. . . and more. And had been quick to learn, too. Never made the same mistake twice, and _listened_ when he had her out of the tunnels, on the surface. Learned to avoid the stonemaws, the bloodworms, the pensharr, the firebites, and the varren. And while she'd been learning those vital skills, he'd been learning to see strength in her.

And when she'd opened her mind to him, _Vaul_, it had been wonderful. All of her strengths where he could see them. The _knowledge_ her teachers had crammed into her. Wisdom, left by having made mistakes and learned from them. Memories of worlds so different from his own, so alien, so beautiful, they'd filled him with a wordless longing to _see_ them, himself. His training with the shaman had left marks on him; he could see the value of reading and arithmetic, so he'd asked her to teach him. Away from the young ones, so he'd at least still have his dignity. And while she'd been teaching him, he'd continued teaching her. Two years in the wilds of Tuchanka had made her tough and strong and fit.

And then, they'd gone to Omega at Urdnot Gris' side. A wilderness of an entirely _different_ sort. Where the predators and prey all walked on two legs, the ground was made of rock and steel, and Gris and Harak were building a new kind of strength for krogan. Strength in mind and in body alike. Two years of keeping Ulluthyr Harak alive, never knowing who might leap out and try to kill him. Batarians, almost certainly, but there were always drell assassins for hire, or so Urdnot Gris said. Rogue turians. Fellow krogan.

And now, Bastion. Another station. Makur was getting itchy for the smell of dirt and leaves, but Bastion was as different from Omega as stonemaw from a varren. Different environment. Different smells. Bigger, newer, and very crowded, as yet. Everything still being built, where Omega was settled into its stone and its rock and its age.

Different predators here. Tiny, invisible, but they made prey of even the strongest. Just as the genophage had turned his people into prey, into meat for its hunger, for centuries. Makur had only met Spectre Sidonis once before, briefly, at his Rite, and hadn't met Spectre Jaworski at all before, but he knew Gris respected them. Called them krannt-brothers. Knew the strength of Elijah and Linianus, and knew that _they_ wouldn't call anyone weak a brother or a mate, either. It offended him, to his very soul, that people so strong could be laid so low by something _invisible_. So he'd helped. Quietly. Done what Siara and the little human with her turian face-paint and turian manner, had told him to do. Gotten the sick into showers, into beds. And felt large, out of place, and generally useless.

At last, a tap on the door. Makur stood and went to open it. As he moved through the living area, the human and turian Spectres stirred. Reached for weapons, groggily—only to realize, surely, that their nurses had taken their weapons away. The VI translation program rendered turian and English words for Makur: _"Spirits, that had better not be looters."_

"_Pretty polite for looters. . . . though yeah. Any looter who tries to break through that door—"_

"_Will find us here, barely able to move?"_

"_Yeah. We'll look all sorts of threatening, though, right?"_

Makur didn't bother to suppress his grin. Anyone who tried to get through the door right now would have to go through _him_. Not such an easy task, really.

On the other side of the door, a human male in a white coat and a breather stood, and surprisingly small hanar drifted in midair. There was a cart filled with medical supplies between them. "I'm Dr. Abrams," the male identified himself.

"Yeah. I remember you. You took care of Harak's eyes," Makir said, gruffly. He had the hang of human recognition down. It was mostly in the eyes and hair. Although some of them could change the shape of the hair, or the color, and they could even put in special lenses to change the color of the eyes, those two features were usually the most helpful. Plus, as always, there was smell. Abrams smelled like disinfectant and a distinctive brand of deodorant. Apparently, humans were aware of their bodily aromas, and sought to disguise themselves. Not very well, of course, but there it was.

"This one is Nurse Aroroko," the hanar identified herself, the translator having a clear feminine pitch. "We have been directed to assist the Spectres inside this domicile. May we come in?"

Makur stepped back out of the way, letting them pass. He could _feel_ Siara's relief from across the room when she stepped out of the sickroom down the hall. "Dr. Abrams," his mate said, and hurried forward, extending her hands, palms up and out, taking a quick handshake from the doctor. "I've never been so glad to see you in my life."

"And here I thought the kids on base only loved me for the lollipops in my office," Abrams said, lightly. "How's everyone doing?"

"Come on back. Dara's awake, and she probably _won't_ rest until she's made sure you know everything she does." Siara's voice was annoyed. "She's even more stubborn than a krogan mother giving birth."

That prompted a weak laugh from the human Spectre in the living room. "That's my girl."

Makur moved towards Gris, who was getting his armor together now. "We hunt now?" he asked, quietly.

Gris turned and nodded. "Wake the volus," he said, just as quietly. "We'll need him for this. His territory, not ours."

Makur nodded, stumped off into the kitchen, and crouched beside the volus, Fors Luka, who had found a corner between the cryo unit and the dishwashing device in which to curl up and snooze. Makur delicately prodded the tiny creature in the shoulder with one big finger. "Wake up," he said. "We're ready to go."

"About time," the volus grumbled, standing. "I was ready hours ago."

Makur snorted. "And what does getting ready entail for you, volus?"

"Standing up, mostly. Eating. . . but I can do that on the way." The volus waddled over to the living area, and looked up at Gris. "What's our focus today? Are we going to try to dig that that drell out of the hanar embassy?" He glanced up at the hanar nurse. "No offense intended."

"This one takes no offense," the nurse replied, calmly, and began taking both the human and turian's temperatures at the same time.

Gris ignored the by-play. "Not worth the effort to get her just yet. Sooner or later, she'll have to leave the embassy. And there are no flights off-station for the moment. No, she's on ice. She can stay there. Our priority today is finding the Lystheni and his agents. . . and the rest of the fucking disease packs that might be on the station." He nodded.

Makur felt a tingle of anticipation spread. _Now this is a hunt I can understand. The doctors, even Siara, can understand the hunt of the diseases, corralling them within the body and killing them with chemicals. I can't do that. But this? I can hunt animals. I can hunt people. This, I can do._ He touched Siara's wrist as the doctor asked her questions—brief, wonderful touch of her mind on his: _Wish you could hunt with us. / Wish that I could, too. But their lives depend on me right now. / I know. Fight your fight here. We'll be back._

"You found his den yesterday?" he asked, as Gris, Fors, and he stepped out of the hatch.

Gris nodded, reddish eyes glinting in the low light. "He'd cut and run. Which means he's improvising. The station's on lockdown, there's no aircar or groundcar travel, and no one who's not B-Sec, medical personnel, maintenance crew, or a Spectre or our agent is supposed to be moving between levels at the moment."

"Of course, he might be able to forge credentials," Fors pointed out, from behind them. Makur paused, reached down, and picked up the volus. "Hey! What do you think you're—we've only just _met_."

"And if we leave you to walk behind us, we may never meet again," Makur pointed out. Reasonably, in his opinion. "Ralesh Kordu is the alpha varren of his pack, yes? So he'll need to stay close to his subordinates. Or at least, stay in touch. We find them, we'll find him. . . sooner or later."

Gris nodded. "May as well start with them. That way, we can find the damn devices that much faster. Ralesh will keep."

"We do have addresses on each of the people he was using as agents." Fors sounded grim as Makur moved the volus up to one shoulder, perching him beside his hump. "Every last one of them went to the same damn omnitool shop. I'm never going to look at sending messages though mine in quite the same way again."

"That implies you have something to hide," Gris rumbled. "I find it telling that there isn't a single krogan on our list of suspects here."

"What, krogan have nothing to hide?" Fors jibed back. "I think it more likely that our salarian friends knew that the krogan response to a blackmailer was likely to be to tear their heads off."

"Something of a turian response as well," Makur pointed out. "Did you check any of these addresses yesterday?"

"Half," Fors replied, sounding annoyed. "Some of these people might well be in med bay by now. Let's start there."

"Good thought," Gris rumbled approvingly, and they made their way to the main med bay on C-level.

The scene was still chaos. There weren't many quarian doctors aboard Bastion, but a handful were currently dealing with admissions. The line still stretched out the door, however. At least a hundred people deep. Drell coughing, wrackingly. Turians wheezing. Humans crouching, curled in on themselves. Asari trying to meditate, from the looks of it. On seeing two krogan and a volus moving up past the rest of the people, several people in the line hissed or shouted after them, "Hey, you can't catch this!" or "Go to the back of the line, pal!"

One of the quarian doctors moved up, catching Gris' arm. "I'm sorry, but everyone starts at the back of the line—" she hesitated. "Spectre?" The emblem on the armor was subtle, but there.

"Not here for treatment," Gris told her. "Here for information. Hopefully, it'll help us catch the people behind this. We're looking for a drell named Tanos Arvanitis, an elcor named Samasaaraa, a human named—"

"Wait, wait. . . let me get to the console," the quarian murmured, and hurried back around the big desk in the lobby. "Tanos Arvanitis was admitted here yesterday. Fluid in the lungs. Human strain pneumonia—moving very fast. He's intubated in the ICU right now. . . this med bay, actually."

Gris frowned. "That means we can't talk to him?"

"You can talk, but he won't be able to answer. Maybe blink or raise a hand for yes or no," the doctor said, grimly. "No elcor admitted currently. Who else?"

"Two humans. Armand Adoyo and Gaganadipika, no last name." Gris had had a hard time with that one, but had managed it. "One asari, also, Jianara."

"Armand Adoyo. . . admitted yesterday. Headache, high fever, chest pains. He's in one of the wards on B-level. Gaganadipika. . . human female. Admitted this morning, to this med bay. Jianara. . . admitted two hours ago. Med bay on G level. High fever, headache, nausea."

Makur turned his head and looked at the volus perched on his shoulder. "Very good thinking. Do you always find your prey so quickly?"

The glowing eyes of the volus' environmental suit turned towards him. "No, but there's only so many places that someone who's sick is going to go. Is there any chance we can kick them out of their beds and let someone who _deserves_ the rest to stay there?" This was directed, acerbically, at the quarian doctor, who pulled her hands up in dismay.

"Officer, we can't _do_ that—"

Makur felt the tickle at the edge of his awareness, the pressure, that told him that _someone_ was watching them, with ill intentions. He spun, almost dislodging Fors, and scanned the crowd. As he did so, the pressure abated.

"What?" Gris rapped out, harshly. He'd _long_ since learned to listen to Makur's sense for danger.

"Someone was here, thinking of attacking," Makur said quietly, still scanning the crowd. "Just a flash, and then gone. As if they . . . .reconsidered."

Fors made a rude sound. "As well they should."

Gris muttered, "Could you tell who? Or _what_?"

Makur shook his head. "Unfamiliar feeling. I can tell batarians apart from krogan now, but I haven't had too many others besides animals wanting to kill me yet." He bared his teeth at Gris. "Something tells me, that if I stay in your krannt much longer, this will change."

Gris bared his own teeth in return. "And they say the young have no wisdom."

They made their way first to the drell in the ICU. As the most likely to die, he was their top priority. Gris ordered a doctor, gruffly, to wake the damn patient up. "Unless you want _more_ people in here, dying of disease? This man planted some of the devices. Wake him up."

Grimacing, a salarian doctor gave the drell an injection, and a few moments later, the large, black eyes opened. The face was oddly _milky_, as if the scales had turned opaque. Gris stared down at him. "Spectre Urdnot Gris, Tanos, I want you to blink once for yes, twice for no, you understand me?"

One blink.

"Someone sent you a package three days ago. Told you to put the devices inside someplace on the station. That right?"

One weary blink.

Gris nodded. "Right. Lot of other people got the same packages. Blackmail?"

One more blink, this time with a tear trickling from the side of one huge black eye.

"You believe in your drell gods? Arashu? Amonkira?"

One blink.

"You want to meet them with the death of thousands on your hands?"

Two blinks, very distinct.

"All right. When I say the right level, blink: A, B, C, D, E, F—"

Tanos blinked. "Which sector? Blue, red—"

"Which neighborhood? Xalae, Smithson—"

Gris brought up a map of the human neighborhood, which was just steps away from a turian one—both were affluent areas, dotted with shops and homes, and got Tanos to point out which buildings, and called it in to B-Sec. The winning target had been an office building affiliated with a small community college and several classroom buildings. "They'll get some geth units there right away. Quarantine the place, get the devices out, and start cleaning," Gris rumbled.

Again, Makur's shoulders prickled, and he turned. This time, he caught sight of the source. Small and slender, the drell nurse walked into the room, wearing a surgical mask. The red scales were distinctive, and Makur wrapped his biotics around him, instinctively. Fors, turning with him, more or less without any choice in the matter, hissed inside of his suit and did the same. "This one means you no harm," the female said, quietly. "Not unless you attempt to take this one from this hospital."

Fors flexed his little hands. "You're not in the embassy," he said, quietly. "Put your hands up. You're coming with me, on a charge of murder."

Seheve looked up at the little volus, and replied, with odd respect, "This one does not think so. B-Sec is not currently equipped to hold prisoners. Especially ones who have this plague. Permit this one to continue to assist the dying. It a task that this one is. . . uniquely suited to perform."

She set a tray of medical implements down beside Tanos' bed and picked up Thanos' limp arm. Using something that looked like sandpaper, began to abrade his scales lightly. They were peeling away anyway, and this helped them slough off all the more quickly. "The will of the Enkindlers be done," she murmured.

Makur snorted. "Drell and hanar gods must not be worth much, if all they teach their followers is to kill from the shadows. Poisons, diseases, concealment. Weakness and dishonor."

Seheve glanced up, once. "This plague is not of the hanar, nor of the drell."

"Sure seems _convenient_ that you killed one of the salarians involved, though. You _sure_ your precious hanar aren't involved?" Makur didn't entirely think so, himself. But her cold, distant composure irked him, and he wanted it rattled.

The dark eyes flicked up one more time. The suggestion _had_ rattled her. _Good._ "I. . . it is not this one's place to question. . . "

"Oh look," Fors said, gleefully. "She _does_ know what the first-person singular is."

"We don't have time for this," Gris said, impatiently. "If she's strong, she'll be alive in a few days. If not, the disease does our work for us." He looked at her, grimly. "Figure out what you _really_ think and what you really _know_, because I _will_ find you again. And you had better not run."

_But it's much more fun to hunt when the prey does,_ Makur added, silently.

"This one will not run," Seheve said, quietly. "The fate of this one is in the hands of the Enkindlers." And she continued to scrub the other drell's scales with the rasping paper, trying to give the dying man a little comfort, Makur supposed.

The rest of the patients were better off, though barely. The two humans were throwing up violently when they arrived at their respective beds, and Adoyo tried to invent a desperate cover story, on the spot. . . but they had Ralesh Kordu's messages _to_ him from the salarian's apartment comm system. They quickly isolated the locations of the remaining devices—one set on I level, a turian district, one on H level, an asari-human district, and one on E level, at a large human sports venue—interior handball courts, basketball facilities, and large stands for spectators. The local league handball playoffs had begun three nights ago, so again, tens of thousands had been in attendance, of all species. Gris' shoulders drooped a little at the news. "Damnit," he muttered. "For Vaul's sake, we _warned_ them about large groups of people and B-Sec told all the event organizers to sweep their air vents and look through their seating areas for odd packages. . . ."

"Looks like they missed a few," Fors replied, glumly. "That at least lets us clean up the original sources of infection after only, oh, three days." Now, all the secondary sources were the issue. "You have _any_ idea how many people left the station the night of the twenty-fourth through the morning of the twenty-fifth, before the lockdown started?" the volus asked.

"Over two hundred thousand," Gris replied, sounding grim. "Yes. And they went to every planet in Council space. That much, we know, and everyone whose travel itinerary says 'Bastion' anywhere on it has been notified to go under quarantine. Illium, Luisa, Earth, Palaven, Macedyn, Rocam, Edessen, Tridend, Magna, Nimines, Sur'Kesh, Terra Nova, Eden Prime, Kahje, Demeter, Zesmeni, Beckenstein, Mindoir, and Omega. . . all have quarantine sectors set up. And those are just the _major_ worlds. There's forty or fifty small colonies—places that _aren't_ garden worlds—that have similar lockdowns in place. I'm. . . aware of the scope, Luka."

"Good," Fors replied. "It's bigger than my brain is built to imagine, honestly." He snuffled a little. "That leaves us with the problem of Ralesh Kordu. He's not likely to be in a med bay."

"Not unless he's trying to _nurse_ his victims back to health, like our little drell friend," Makur said, dourly. And yet, there had been that sensation of impending violence behind his back, hours ago. Had that, too, been Seheve, the drell assassin? Makur couldn't be sure.

"Let's see if we can get a tech to go through all of our various _couriers_' omnitools. Maybe he's been in touch since the initial attack—"

"Dr. Armstrong, to ICU 22. Repeat, Dr. Armstrong, to ICU 22." The announcement rang out over the loudspeakers, one among a dozen other announcements that had been broadcast since they'd been in the cold hallways, which smelled of antiseptic and a dozen species' illnesses. This one wasn't as muffled as the others had been. Sharp and clear, it rang out, and Makur saw one hospital security officer turn away from the door he was guarding, look up sharply, and start to move.

Makur turned and started to follow. More out of curiosity, than anything. Several other officers met them along the way, reinforcing his perception that _something_ important was happening. Through the window of the ICU, he could see a turian patient, clearly delusional, had grabbed onto a quarian doctor, and was howling, a rasping, ululating cry. Claws were digging into the environmental suit, and the turian had one arm wrapped around the quarian's neck, trying to get the helmet off. "Not the way I really want to find out what a quarian looks like," Makur muttered, and moved through the door in the officers' wake.

To his surprise, the drell female, Seheve, was already there, trying to pull the turian's arm free from the quarian's neck. Two officers dived in, trying to get ahold of the turian's other arm—one officer being thrown into the wall for his pains. Turians were strong, and this one clearly was in the grip of an adrenaline surge, fighting, as far as he could tell, for his life.

"Spectre—officer—if you can do anything, do it now!" the first officer said, over his shoulder, ducking a wild swing, and got a grip on the turian's arm, trying to lock the elbow in place.

Fors, on Makur's shoulder, sighed. "Oh, all right, then. Freeze."

The turian completely _stopped_. The drell slowly unwound his arm from the quarian's neck, and the officer helped the quarian move away, half-carrying her. "You all right, ma'am?" he asked her, concerned. "Is your suit compromised?"

"Little _bosh'tet. . . _" she managed to gasp out. "Yes, one puncture in the abdomen. .. no skin abrasion, thank you, _Keelah_. . . environmental seals locking down." She sounded shaken. _As well she might,_ Makur thought, frowning. Quarians were amazingly weak, as individuals, but had _somehow_ managed to survive. As a species, they _must_ have something that krogan could learn from. Or so it seemed to him. He just couldn't tell _what_ yet.

Makur moved over and put his hands on the turian's arms. "You can let go," he told Fors, dryly.

"Hey, if you're going to arm-wrestle with him, I want down on the ground, first," the volus told him. "One wrong move and I'll slide right off you."

Makur snorted and put the volus down, just as Gris entered the room. Makur held the turian down, Fors released the biotic field holding him in place, and the turian surged back to life, snarling and fighting, but unable to withstand Makur's grip. The two officers moved in, warily, trying to grab the dangerous feet with their sharp spurs. "If you're going to tie him down," Makur told Seheve and the various doctors phlegmatically, "now would be good."

Gris moved in and helped at that point, while the nurses got the restraints in place. "Thank you," the quarian doctor said, having regained her breath. "That wasn't so much fun that I want to do it again."

Makur looked at Seheve. "One question. You've been down here all day?"

The big, black eyes blinked briefly. "Yes."

"You weren't up in the lobby a few hours ago, when we first got here?"

"No. This one has been in the ICU since early this morning. Making herself useful." She turned her head aside to cough. The cough started off simply, a couple of hacks, and then became progressively worse, more and more racking, and then finally tapered off. She blinked at the end, seeming surprised, and looked up again.

_So if her word is to be believed, __someone else__ focused on us, for a moment, upstairs. Who else would want to kill us, if only for a moment? Could be anyone who doesn't like krogan. Could be Ralesh Kordu. _He looked at Gris. Gris nodded, briefly, following Makur's thoughts. Turned to the security guard. "Is there surveillance video in the lobby?"

The human male blinked, startled at being addressed, on such a seemingly random tanget. "Well, yeah," he said. "We keep a library of the vids on the third floor. My supervisor—hell, I think my supervisor's _sick_, actually. . .I think I might have a key for it. Don't know who has the access codes, though."

It took a half hour to find out who _did_ have the access codes, and walk the vid feed back through earlier in the day. "There," Makur said, stubbing a finger at the screen. "That's when we were at the desk." Fors nodded and moved the images ahead slowly, until the moment when Makur had turned, sharply, looking back over his shoulder. "Are there other cameras in the room?"

Fors snuffled. "I'll see what I can do. I'm not a tech, exactly." It took a little more hunting, but they got the next set of camera images up, and moved them forward to the same time index. "Got him," the volus said, sounding like he'd just found something _tasty_ in a burrow somewhere. "There's our errant salarian. Right behind us, in the crowd."

And when Makur started to turn, the salarian _started_ and pulled back into the crowd, moving away. "Damn," Makur muttered. "We were so _close_. And no way to _track_ him now." _No prints in the dirt. No smell in the air. Nothing._

Gris grinned at him. "There's more than one way to hunt, young one." He tabbed his omnitool. "_Crimea_, this is Urdnot Gris. Can I have the services of Nefertari, your AI, for a small task?"

"Certainly, Spectre," a female voice replied. "I've been running analyses of the various strains of viruses and bacteria for the medical teams, but I'm at loose ends right now. What can I do for you?"

"Hook into B-Sec's security cameras. I'll get you authorization. Trace the path of _this_ salarian, here in med bay C, after he left our vicinity at station time index six seventy-four thirteen."

A few minutes later, and Makur watched in fascination as the NCAI spun up images for them tracking their salarian through the largely deserted streets of Bastion's C-level. "He stands out down here. No crowds to hide in," Makur noted. "No camouflage ."

Fors tapped the screen. "He's getting on an elevator here. He's got to be using some form of false ID. No one's allowed to change levels right now—"

"It appears he's using a B-Sec security pass," Nefertari told him. "Fortunately, such things _can_ be tracked. He may have others ID chits, however."

"Speed up your search," Gris told her. "We don't need to see every step of the journey. Can you tell us where he is _now?_

"Processing. This will take a minute or two, I'm afraid, Spectre," she replied. Makur was struck by how much more. . . distant. . . Nefertari was, than Pelagia. Courteous, polite, efficient. . . machine-like. Pelagia was, for all intents and purposes, a _person_ to him, after two years of association. Makur wasn't sure he could see Nefertari as such. _Then again, can't see her at all. No avatar here. Hmm. Might make a difference._

After five minutes, she reported, "Your salarian is on E-level currently. Not far from his original residence, actually. There's a warehouse complex there, where he keeps some of his exotic animals, once they've passed through quarantine. There are a few other people there with him. Interesting. Two are batarian. There _aren't_ many batarians aboard the station, and _most_ asked B-Sec for protective custody two days ago."

"Lead us there," Gris growled, and then they were off, notifying B-Sec as to Ralesh Kordu's current whereabouts—and to deactivate the B-Sec security badge the male was using to pass between areas. _Hobble the prey_, Makur thought in satisfaction. _Then bring him down._

They moved in on the warehouse carefully, cautiously. They didn't want the salarian to make a run for it, obviously. Gris slid a back door open, and they all moved in, Makur and the Spectre both loading their shotguns as quietly as they could.

Inside, the warehouse _stank_. Makur's nose wrinkled for a moment, and then he almost smiled. _Animals_. Dozens of them, fur, feathers, and scales. Feces from a dozen different species. Smell of fear and boredom and tension and territorial marking, all at once. Not _quite_ like being back on a planet. . . but almost. It was damned near reassuring.

They crossed the narrow back room, moved to a new door. "They still in there?" Gris muttered into the radio.

"_Affirmative, Spectre,"_ Nefertari replied. _"I have a clear visual on them. They're at the center of the room._ _Near the leopard cages."_

Makur had no _idea_ what a leopard was, but he and Gris moved into position, and Gris kicked the door open. Fors was hot on their heels as they moved in, Gris bellowing, "Drop your weapons!"

The batarians looked up, saw a krogan in Spectre armor, and panicked. They did not drop their weapons; they raised them. Gris took the first shots right on the shields, and retaliated, lifting all three of them biotically. Makur grinned and threw one of them. Lifted aloft on a cushion of Gris' biotics, the batarians had almost no mass; his throw slammed the batarian into the far wall with crushing force, as a result. Fors lifted his little pistol and told the two still floating in the air, "Time to give up. We'd really prefer to take _some_ of you alive, really. But it's not entirely _mandatory._ Just so you know."

The salarian, still floating in mid-air, twisted around. Glared at them. And lifted his hands, and _something_ biotic and powerful rushed at them . . .and Fors swayed. Shook his head. Turned and looked at Gris. "I'm sorry about this," he apologized. . . and then an intense field of biotic energy wrapped around Gris. Began contracting. Tighter and tighter. While some sort of gravitational singularity appeared to hover _inside_ of him, pulling every part of him _in_, torturing the filaments of nerve fiber that made up his first heart.

The remaining batarian and the salarian fell to the ground with a clatter. Makur raised his shotgun in consternation, pointing it at Fors. _No. I. . . probably shouldn't shoot him. But I have to free Gris from his grip. Something __hit__ him; I felt it. He's under the Lystheni's control. . . .well. . . let's disrupt that control._ He looked around wildly, saw a panel with switches with lettering in galactic that he could _read._ _Thank you, Siara, more-than-fair._ The words there were _cage doors. Open_ and _close._

Makur ran a hand down the column of buttons marked _open_ and dozens of cage doors did exactly that. The salarian's already bulging eyes widened comically. A biotic is only as strong as his or her ability to focus. And his focus dropped completely, releasing Fors from his grip as animals. . . a couple of varren, a couple of _villi_, and several large, slinky creatures with exotic white, black-dappled fur that Makur had never seen before, emerged from their cages and saw a very familiar face in front of them. A familiar _smell._

Fors muttered, dazedly, "What the hell am I _doing_?" and released Gris from what _had_ to have been an amazingly painful grip. Gris hunched over, wheezing a little.

"Domnination. Damn Lystheni biotics," Gris muttered darkly.

Makur said, sharply, "Okay, they're distracted for the moment, but we probably want them _alive_, right?"

Gris looked up, and his eyes widened. The animals were _ringing_ the salarian and the batarian now, who were backing into each other. Most of them were growling. "Quite a distraction."

"I thought so. Trouble is, getting them away from the distraction before they become dinner." Makur moved forward, and grabbed a varren by the tail, dragging it backwards. It turned on him, snarling, and he slammed it in the nose with a fist. It wasn't _nearly_ as big as the ones on Tuchanka. Probably only a yearling. With it cowed, he urged it into a nearby cage, and repeated the process on the next varren, all too aware of the weapons in the salarian and batarian's hands, wavering between the animals and him. The _villi_ were less problematic. Only the size of turkeys, their main defense was their powerful, toxic bite. He grabbed _those_ by their necks and dropped them, two at a time, back into their large, communal cage.

At this point, Gris lifted the two humanoids again, and this time, while they hovered, Fors dropped a stasis field on them as well, preventing them from acting, while Makur rounded up the reamining creatures. The last one gave him particular trouble. Large and male, the creature wasn't as big as a varren, and was more delicately built, but its pale grey eyes were filled with predatory intelligence. Makur eyed it warily, feeling its desire to strike him in his skull, and pushed at that sensation in his head. The creature laid back its ears and hissed at him, and Makur pushed _harder_ in his mind. _You don't want to hurt me._

Much to his surprise, the ears came up. The fur settled down. The big animal walked towards him—"Makur?" Fors said, his tone uncertain. "That is a _big_ damned animal."

"He's not going to attack," Makur replied, calmly. "He's just curious right now." Indeed, the beast was _sniffing_ him, mouth open, air whuffling between large, curving fangs. "He's hungry, too."

"Tell him volus doesn't taste good," Fors answered, sounding nervous. "And I thought dogs were bad."

Makur knelt down, bringing his face cautiously into range of the creature. Met its eyes. _You __could__ hurt me, but I'd still win._

The animal moved away, feigning disinterest. Began to lick a paw. Makur stood and let a massive hand rest on its head for a moment, feeling the texture of that soft fur. The beast permitted it, but only for an instant, a low, rumbling, warning sound emanating from its chest in response.

Gris just looked at him. "You're not going to lock that one back up, are you?"

Makur shook his head. "No."

"Why not?" Fors demanded.

"He doesn't want to go back in the cage." Makur shrugged. "I think we have an agreement. No cages for him, no face-eating for us." He jerked a thumb at the Lystheni and batarian in the air. "What about them?"

Gris cut his biotics, and the two frozen forms tumbled to the ground. Fors scampered over. . . warily avoiding the black-spotted beast. . . and shackled them both. Gris pragmatically took a bag of food, dumped it out, and put it over the salarians's head. "Damned hard to target what you can't see," he said, dryly. "Come one. Let's turn him in to B-Sec and get some questions answered.

As they left, the great spotted beast walked at Makur's side. "I don't suppose you can convince him to go back in the warehouse?" Gris asked, after a moment.

Makur looked at the beast inquiringly. The beast looked back at him, eyes remote. "Nope," Makur said after a minute. "But I think he might like something to eat."

"Not it!" Fors said, quickly. And Makur began to laugh.

**Elijah & Company, Bastion, April 28, 2196**

He was still coughing periodically, and kept waking, sweating, lurching upwards to cough, curling inwards on himself. The world looked. . . wrong. Hyper-real, as it sometimes did in the middle of an adrenaline surge, everything clearer than clear. A hanar nurse draped a cool towel over him, and chimed, softly, "Agent Sidonis? Your fever is spiking again. If you can manage to drink some ice water, it may help."

He drank, thirstily, and looked down at Serana. She was asleep, mouth open, panting heavily. So was Linianus. "How are they doing?" Eli croaked.

"They are fighting."

It was not an informative answer, and Eli looked at the hanar, and tried to raise his voice. "I want to know how my wife is doing." It was still a croak, but it was a louder one.

Siara moved into the room, indigo shadows under her eyes. "Eli? Dr. Abrams is here, and we've got almost everything under control. Lin and Serana have a pretty nasty combination of _comburo febris_ and something called _atratus cremare—"_

"Black fever. _Weeping_ fever. Fuck." Eli knew of it. Periodic outbreaks in dormitories and barracks made the news on almost every turian world, in spite of advanced hygiene facilities.

Siara nodded. "It's okay. Dara put them on intravenous nutrients and an antibiotic drip, in addition to the saline. Was one of the last things Dara did before she, well, started throwing up, and before she. . . well. . . she's lying down now, let's put it that way." Something in Eli's expression must have told Siara not to mess around—his teeth hurt, certainly—and Siara added hastily, "She's okay. Very high fever for a human adult—104º—but Dr. Abrams is here, and it's being taken care of, all right?" She put a hand on Eli's shoulder. "Do you need to throw up or use the lavatory?"

Eli managed a laugh, but the laugh turned into a cough, and then he couldn't _stop_ coughing until he brought up something rusty-colored into a tissue the hanar nurse handed him, quickly. "That. . . can't be good. . . " Eli managed. Coughing _hurt. _He'd done so much of it that his stomach muscles protested, places along his ribs ached as if he'd taken a beating—one rib was so sore, he thought he might have _cracked_ it. And it had felt like something had torn _loose_ inside him when he'd brought up that red-tinged phlegm.

Siara shook her head. "Dr. Abrams said that both you and Dara have something called pneumonia. It affects human lungs?"

Eli slowly let himself lie back down in the bed. _That would explain why even sitting up feels like a krogan's sitting on my chest._ "That and the flu?" he managed.

"Yeah. You're going to be okay, though." Siara started to move around the side of the bed to lean over Serana to touch Eli, and then flinched back as Serana, in her sleep, stirred. "Think you could eat something while you're awake?"

Eli slowly shook his head. Sleep was rushing up to claim him again, and he couldn't quite resist its siren call. "Later," he mumbled.

"Eli, you've been coming in and out of consciousness for twenty-four hours, you've _got_ to eat—" Her voice faded out. The world faded out.

Words, distantly. "_Fever's spiking for all three of them in this room."_

"_Hold her down! She's delusional. She'll see any of us as a threat right now—_

"_Wake Eli! He's the only one she'll recognize, other than Rel, and we can't risk Rel catching atratus cremare—"_

Dim awareness. Holding Serana down. His arms shaking, feeling weak, but he managed to slide his teeth into place on her shoulder, bite down heavily. Heavy weight over his legs, burning with heat. _"No, little one, don't fight."_ Words in turian, but Eli could barely open his eyes. Just knew that Lin had moved to help. Faint awareness that the assistance was probably reflexive.

"_Can we risk sedating her?"_

"_No, she's already largely unconscious. Temp's up to one fifteen, too. Alcohol wipes—Eli, just keep doing what you're doing—"_

And then the world went away again. His mind, finding the real world entirely intolerable at the moment, found refuge, surcease, elsewhere.

Soft, droning voice now, filtering into his consciousness. Someone was reading something to him. _"Protheans tagged the DNA of both Neanderthals and Cro-Magnon on Terra, and __Praeverto Vescor__ on Palaven. __Praeverto Vescor__ was larger and hardier than the modern turian, with larger, more pronounced mandibles and jaws, heavily developed necks for bite utility, and longer claws. They could speak, as evidenced by their well-developed hyroid bone, but were more predatory than the contemporary turian. They had art and some level of culture, living in small family groups in caves, which they decorated, just as primitive humans did at Lascaux Cave on Terra, with elaborate pictograms and images of animals and themselves. . . . "_

_Eli became aware, slowly, of being somewhere else. Bastion was a distant dream. This was reality. Lilac sky overhead, filled with puffy white clouds. Forest all around—pine and inarie and allora and galae trees. Some were just starting to bloom, but there was snow still on the ground, and his breath puffed lightly in the air. He looked around, and wasn't surprised to see his brother at his side, blue face-paint split in a quick, vicious grin. Something about Linianus was different—after a moment's thought, Eli realized that his brother's teeth looked sharper and larger than usual. Also, Lin was wearing heavy garments, made of fur. Necklaces of teeth rattled around Lin's neck, and he carried a set of throwing spears over his back, tipped with black stone—black earth's blood. Obsidian, whispered a distant part of his mind. He leaned on a longer spear, tipped with flint, and sniffed briefly at the air. "We hunt, brother?"_

_Looking down, Eli realized he was dressed the same way. Heavy pelts, wrapped around his feet, skin side out, protected him from the ice and snow. Others were lashed around his legs, and a sort of kilt of deerskin protected his hips. He had a sort of rough tunic, or serape, again made out of hide, lashed at the waist but open at the sides, and a rough sort of cloak. His hair was long, in his eyes, and he was carrying a long spear, identical to the one in Lin's hand. Felt the weight of other weapons, slung across his shoulders. Eli bared his teeth at Lin. "Yes, we hunt. Run. I'll follow."_

_And then they were off, jogging through the knee-deep snow, looking for tracks. Relying on his brother's keen eyes and sense of smell, while Lin relied on Eli's quick recognition and memory. "Brother, stop," Eli called softly, and pointed. He'd never seen this before in his life, but he knew was he was looking at. High up on a pine tree, freshly clawed bark. "Bear."_

"_I smell it," Lin grated, turning. "Recent."_

_Eli couldn't smell the musk of the bear, but the pine's bloodsap was potent, powerful in his nose. "Tracks?"_

"_There. Left." They exchanged a glance. Hunting a bear was almost as risky as hunting a talashae. The rewards were great—much meat, a huge, soft pelt—but one or both of them could be injured, even killed. Not worth it. Move away. Eli pointed right, and Lin nodded, and they started to move away—_

_And then the bear broke from the underbrush anyway, and rose to its hind legs, growling a challenge. Newly awoken from its winter's sleep, it was thin and angry, and they were in its path. The brothers backed away, side-by-side, holding their longspears ahead of them. "It's going to charge," Eli said._

"_It comes!"_

_And it did, dropping back down to all fours and coming after them with amazing speed for such a large animal. They dropped to crouches and the bear slapped the spear out of Lin's hands—and Eli leaped forward, skewering into the beast's side. Felt the stone tip grate on bone, vibrating up the wooden shaft into his hands, and then the bear turned on him. Wounded and angry, it was on him in a flash, and he scrambled backwards in the snow on his hands and his ass, trying to dodge the heavy paws, and then Lin came at it from behind, another spear deep into its vitals. The beast snarled, trying to turn on Lin—and then Eli freed the flint knife at his waist, and got back to his feet, stabbing deep into the thick fur, over and over. _

_It was over soon after that. They stood, panting, over the corpse, Eli feeling the sting in his shoulder from where the beast's claws had stung him, and Lin grinned at him. "Share your kill, brother?"_

_Eli looked down at the red blood staining the snow, and thought, distantly, But he can't eat that. . . But the proper answer was the proper answer, "My kill is your kill, brother." _

_They started by gutting the bear, looking around quickly for scavengers. Wolves. Villi. Anything that would attack them for this tasty morsel. Even an acrocanth wouldn't despise an easy mouthful like this. . . and the vultures were already circling overhead. Eli raked loose the entrails, and offered the liver to Lin, who took it, eagerly, tearing it in half, giving one piece back to Eli. It was hot in his hands, and he was hungry, starving even, after the long winter behind them. He tore into it, raw, just as Lin was doing, feeling the hot blood ooze down his cheeks. "Good," Lin growled. His hands had been shaking, from the adrenaline of the fight and the long run they'd had, to this point. _

_They buried the rest of the entrails, as best they could, in the frozen soil, and fashioned a travois to drag the carcass behind them. They had to move quickly. Scent hunters everywhere would surely follow such a bounty of meat for miles. _

_When they were almost back to the cave, a herd of bianasae startled away from them, and Lin, moving fast, managed to catch one with a thrown spear. Eli laughed. "So much meat. It will spoil, brother."_

"_Cook it. Smoke it, dry it. All good. All needed. Young coming." Lin quickly field-dressed the carcass, while Eli kept watch for wolves, and eyed the vultures circling over their heads. Following them. Lin lifted the carcass, still leaking blue blood, onto his shoulders, grinned at Eli again, and then they continued back up the long incline to the caves held by their clan The clan-leaders—Garrus and Lilu and their young—had one at the very top. . His father and mother and their young had one beside that. Eli, Linianus, and Serana had one much lower down, beside the slightly larger one held by the lead hunter, Rellus, and the clan shaman, Dara._

_Eli paused, looking down at the track rutted into place by their footsteps. A fresh villi corpse. He and Lin exchanged a quick, worried look, and moved faster, dropping their carcasses a fair distance from the caves, and moving forward more quickly, in spite of their exhaustion. He pushed past the hides that hung over the mouth of the cave—and sighed with relief. Serana looked up, baring teeth in a happy smile. "There you are. Had to kill a villi just past sun's zenith. Rogue, wanderer. No pack. Thought the cave would be a good den." She stood, and Eli's breath caught as he stared at her. She dressed much as they did—hide kilt wrapped around her hips, and leg wrappings bound in place with leather thongs. . . but in the warmth of the cave, her feet were bare, and she'd left off her chest coverings. Her waist carried an extra curve, a little extra tautness. Four months gone with child._

"_Shouldn't leave the corpse out there," he chided. "We hunted well. Come and see."_

_Serana bared her teeth in glee, and fetched her flint knife. Butchering the animals was a communal affair. Dara and Rellus came out from their cave to help. Dara's hair tumbled to her waist, and there were bone charms bound in it with threads of sinew. Like Serana, she was a few months gone with child, but both of them worked just as hard as the males, cutting and butchering and carrying away meat, preparing it for cooking and smoking and curing. They cut loose the hides and started scraping them clean, too. All done several hundred feet from the caves. No sense marking their dwellings for predators. _

_Eli took a chunk from the bear and smeared half of Serana's face with red blood. Lin took a chunk of the bianasae, and did the same, smearing the other half with blue. Serana tipped her head back and threw her arms out wide, laughing. And then, as evening drew in, with all the food safely in their caves, and their bellies full, warm iunkunditas flowing through them all, they made their way back into their caves as well. Found the piles of furs. Eli wrapped his arms around his little mate, sharing her warmth in their nest, hands on her swelling waist. When her time had come, as it did for all the females of the scaled half of the clan, Dara had come to him, speaking as their medicine woman. Had told him, gravely, that she could call down the spirits, and help them to have a child, but that his brother and he would need to ease his mate's needs together. "There's no way to tell if the magic will take," she warned. "Not until the child is born. It could be the child of your brother's spirit, or the child of your spirit. Welcome it either way." She'd paused. "I will pray and make the offerings, but it is up to all of you to convince the spirits to mingle. It's easy, for females of the scaleless. A potion gives us the heat of the scaled, for a time, and that's enough. No potion can give you the heat, brother. I'm sorry."_

_Eli was the only male of the scaleless, to take a scaled mate. All the others had taken mates of their own kind, or were males of the scaled, who'd taken scaleless females as mates. For them, the magic had taken. His father, his mother—three children born of both their spirits. The clan-leaders? Four children, clearly marked out of both heritages. Dara's waist was swollen with Rel's young. No other scales males in the history chants had ever taken a scaled mate. Dara knew of no others. "Should we continue to take her, together, after her time?" he'd asked, concerned. "Will that help the spirits?"_

_She had shrugged, helpless in the face of the unknown—a frightening thing to see, in a shaman. "I do not know. I do not think it would offend the spirits, my brother. But be careful, when it comes closer to the time of the young leaving her body. Listen to her. Don't cause pain."_

_So when Serana's time of need had come, they'd eased her. And now, tonight, as on many other nights since, his brother joined them in their furs. Wrapped his arms around their mate. Bit her gently on the shoulder—not marking. Never marking. She was Eli's to mark. But his hands, too, rested on her waist. . . ._ _"__Will let us__?"_ _Lin growled against Serana's ear. Pleasure now. Not all his. Other sources, too. Lin's. Serana's. Like asari __sharing__, only. . . __what's an asari?_

_Soft words. Shift of perspective. Not himself, now. Lin. Soft hands stroking his fringe, soft voice telling him, "You need to find own mate. Will love you for you, not just as part of someone else." _

_His brother was sleeping now, but words the same no matter if brother was awake. He shook his head. "Scaleless females wouldn't understand why I need to be with you and my brother. Scaled ones would understand, but territorial. Too much anger. I like peace." He stroked Serana's fringe lightly. _

"_Other tribes. The scaled ones of the river, who speak to the spirits in the water?" She meant the ones with the big eyes and poison skins. "Or those of the sky people, with the blue skins?"_

_He shrugged. Once, he'd lived a different life, had a mate of his own, and had watched his brother's bachelorhood with amusement, lived it through him. But the memories were faint and dim. Another time, another place. Red, coppery sands, dry air, heat. And after she'd died, the exile into the place of cold and darkness. Nimines, his mind whispered. Both like dreams, as if he'd walked the spirit world for a time, banished from reality, from life, for some unknown sin._

_Now, he lived through his brother again. It wasn't a solution, but it was necessary, for now. "Time enough. When the young one comes. Till then, there's time."_

_Flickers of other awarenesses now. Dara crouched in the allora meadow, knowing it was a place of power, a place of the spirits. There was disease walking the land, and she needed to find a cure. Here, in this place, she might be able to do it. Willow bark and salix, sovereign febrifuges. White bryony for cough. A very small amount, otherwise, it might hurt the young she and her twice-sister carried. Avens root and egelidus for chills. A few drops of ground ivy's juice. . . but that could wait, until she'd used her grinding stone and pestle here in the meadow, working the dried herbs into a fine powder._

_She could sense her mate walking around the meadow. This was a safe place. He knew it, knew the power of the spirits here. But he kept watch anyway, waiting to see if villi or wolves would come. "When you've prepared it," he called to her, "will we all be safe?"_

"_If the spirits will it," Dara answered. "You should ask them." Rel was at least as much a spirit-caller as she was, much as he denied it. He crafted the spirit statues for the clan. Had not his sister come to him, with her old statue, made by their father, and told him it was time for a new one, and that he should bury the old one for her, in a safe place, once he'd made for her a new one?_

"_Can't ask them," he replied, immediately. "Don't answer words.."_

_Dara shook her head—so odd, she realized, suddenly, to have so much hair in front of her eyes. "You just make the shapes that they want you to, I know."_

"_It's true." He paused, pacing, hunter eyes on the woods around them, wary. "Shapes I made for first-brother and his mate may protect them. They live too far from our caves, too far from our spirits. Should live here. With us."_

_It was a long-standing grief. Dara said nothing, and simply worked the pestle harder, turning herbs into fine powder. "You haven't finished the statues of Eli and Serana and Lin," she pointed out. "You should. Here. In this place, where the spirits are strong. So they'll be protected, when we have to go."_

"_We go?" Rel pounced on the words like prey, swinging around, staring at her. "Leave our territory?"_

_She nodded. "Yes. Others need the medicine. We'll take it to them. Punish the ones who brought the sickness, too. We'll go to the land of those with many eyes, and hunt there. I've seen it. So have you." She paused, staring at him. "Don't you remember?"_

_And then all of their clan was walking, walking through a place of red sands and indigo oceans. Eli and Lin stood on either side of Serana, leaning on their spears, staring around them at the landscape suspiciously. "This is a bad place," Lin told the others, grimly. "Spread your medicines and magic quickly, sister."_

_Dara let the curative fly on the wind, and then they were walking between the stars again. Blue planet, blue sky. Horses grazing in a familiar place, though there was a hut there, ten times the size of any she'd seen before, and yet strangely familiar. She spilled the medicine to the winds again, and shrugged at the others. "I don't know this place," she said. _

"_You should," her father said, as they were walking, appearing suddenly, like a spirit. "It's home, sweetie. The place that was before."_

_Dara looked around, and recognized nothing._

_Jade green planet with a turquoise sky, and they spilled the cure there, too. Lantar now, looking around, curious. "Palaven that was," he assessed. "Where is Ellie? Must find her." And then he disappeared once more._

_Dozens of others, flitting by so quickly, they seemed to just be walking between landscapes now, sometimes on beaches by lapping waters, sometimes through strange places, entirely made of gray stone and crystal, towering above them in spires filled with lights. __Illium__, whispered one voice. __Tokyo,_ _whispered another. _

_Eli frowned as they walked the worlds. He could __feel__ confusion that wasn't his own. Pleasure that wasn't his own._ Brief flash of awareness. _I've__ never fought a bear. That wasn't my memory. _Flicker of _real_ memory—_a rifle in his hands as the bear turned at the edge of the clearing. Too goddamned close to Dara—aiming, firing, just as the bear turned to charge the ten-year-old girl. _Flash of confusion. _Villi __and_ _wolves __and_ _acrocanth__ and vultures? All on the same world? And we were all eating dextro and levo freely? And now we're walking from planet to planet, no ships, no pressure suits, no vacuum of space?_

And then, back into the dreamworld. _Dara singing the history chants. "In the days before, we walked the stars on paths of light. In the days before, we were of two worlds and many voices, and now we are of but one. In the days before, we fought with weapons that threw light and brought death. But now we are lessened. . . . " Serana sat, curled up in his lap around the fire, everyone crammed in against each other, skin and scales rubbing against one another in the main cave. One communal body, all the different smells. . . . _

Returning awareness. _Still doesn't make sense. The turians look primitive. We look like Cro-Magnon. _These weren't his thoughts. Sharper, in ways. Highly analytical and precise. _Even after several hundred thousand years of evolution. . . well, it's __possible__ that nature would begin to select for the ability to eat from both food sources, over time, on a world like Mindoir. But why would we __devolve_ _into previously existing forms?_

_Dara's thoughts now. Rel is so __different_ _here,_ _she thought, suddenly, confused. Jaws viciously pronounced, mind not as sharp. __That's the fever, probably__, she realized, and frowned, confused all over again. __But he doesn't look sick. Why have I been making medicines?__ She felt a fluttering kick in her stomach, and looked down, surprised, thinking it was her youngling within her . . . and a wave of nausea filled her, and she _woke up, reaching for a basin, throwing up, helplessly.

Behind her in the nest, Rel was muttering in turian, restlessly. _"Have to finish the statues. Protect their spirits."_ _Delirious,_ Dara thought, grimly. _Wait. How was he dreaming the same thing that I was dreaming?_

Eli's eyelids opened. They were almost gummed closed, and it was an _effort_ to open them. "What the hell?" he managed. He looked up. In the dim light, he could see that Serana was moving a little in her sleep. Lin was moving behind him, too. Siara was asleep in the armchair. "Siara?" He cleared his throat. _"Siara!"_ God, that one had hurt his throat.

Siara's eyes snapped open, and the instant they did, Serana and Lin sighed in their sleep, and relaxed. Wide blue eyes stared at Eli for a long moment, and Siara muttered something _very_ rude in krogan under her breath. "Shit," she said, after a moment, in galactic. "I must have been wide open to everyone in the damned _apartment_. How many dreams did I just _share?"_

Eli winced. "Mine. Lin's. Serana's. Think I heard Dara in there. Memory of Sam's. . . shooting a bear off Dara someplace in Vancouver, I think." He couldn't even recognize his own voice.

Siara sighed. "If I got Dara and Sam, it's a sure bet I got Rel and Lantar in there, too." She stood, and came over, pragmatically taking his hands. "You ready to hit the lavatory?"

Eli realized that he _really_ needed to do so, actually. "Yeah," he muttered. "Ah, how do I. . . "

Siara pulled back the covers and pulled on his hands. As she did so, Eli realized that both Serana and Lin were naked under the sheets now. . . and both had been catheterized. "Shit," he muttered.

She followed his glance. "Yeah. Really inconvenient for turians. Wide tube needed, since they use the cloaca for both elimination functions. Up you come, and watch for the tubing."

Eli staggered, and realized he absolutely _couldn't_ have stood on his own. _Jesus Christ,_ he thought. _How the __hell__ is it going in the med bays?_ Halfway to the bathroom, a coughing fit hit him, and he doubled over, trying _very_ hard not to _piss_ himself on the way. A little lack of dignity, he could tolerate, but not complete loss of bodily control. "You're not going to try to stand and do this, are you?" Siara said, once she'd gotten him to the lavatory.

"No, no, I'll sit." He paused. "Do you mind?"

Siara _laughed_, and left him to it. From Lin's room, he could hear the hanar nurse taking care of Dara, who was throwing up, coughing, and then throwing up some more, while Rel muttered in turian. _If misery loves company, we've sure got a full house at the moment,_ Eli thought.

While he was up, anyway, Siara moved him to the living area, and made him _eat_. The apartment was unwholesomely quiet. Sam was muttering in his sleep, incoherent words, Dr. Abrams was dozing in a corner of the living room. And as Eli shakily tried to spoon _Jello_ into his mouth, Makur came in the front door with Gris. . . and a _snow leopard_ padded in behind him. Eli stared at the beast, wondering for a minute if he were hallucinating again, and said, hoarsely, "Makur? I'm pretty sure this apartment has a no-pet clause in the lease."

Makur nodded. "That's okay. He's not a pet."

Eli stared at the big cat, which stalked in slowly, and now sat at the foot of the sofa-bed, sniffing at Sam's foot. "Makur, big cats. . . I don't think they can actually be _tamed._ They eat pretty much whatever they want to eat, and none of us can defend ourselves right now—"

"He's not tame. I've made it very clear to him that if he wants to eat, I'll feed him. And if he tries to eat anyone I know, I'll kill him. He seems to believe me."

Eli put the spoon down and fumbled for the cup of chicken broth in front of him. Siara had to help him steady it so he could drink it. And he decided, on the whole, that this was _probably_ just a part of his imagination again, and that it didn't really bear thinking on until he figured out what was real and what wasn't real again. Which might take a couple of days.

Siara helped him back to bed, and administered another couple of shots as he sat on the edge. "Siara?"

"Hmm?"

"What day is it?"

"Night of the twenty-eighth. You're on your third day of active infection, fourth since being exposed. Dara and Abrams said the flu will probably work its way through you in four or five days. The pneumonia. . . that _could_ last a couple of weeks." She looked at him. "We need to get more food in you. You don't _have_ any fat reserves. You're going to start burning muscle, if you haven't already."

"Don't think I could eat any more." The memory of the dream-food returned. _Bianasae_ steaks, still indigo inside, nearly raw, but hot from the fire. Bear ribs, a little greasy and red. _How can I remember the __taste__ of foods I've never even eaten?_ "Siara. . . are they all going to remember the dream?"

Siara flushed blue. "I don't know. I haven't let down my barriers in my sleep in ages. . . well, other than just for Makur, but. . . " She bit her lower lip. "Dara's going to kill me."

"I'll settle for Dara being well enough to _try_. Then she'll be too busy trying to fix everyone else again for you to have to—" Eli cut off, starting to cough. "—to worry about that for a while."

Siara eased him back into the bed, trying to get Lin and Serana to _move_ for him. "The images were really striking," she admitted, after a moment. "And _everyone_ was contributing, as far as I can tell. Shared fantasy, shared delusion. I've been sorting through all the different images since I woke up. . . Vaul." Siara chuckled a little. "I didn't think turians really _dreamed_ like that."

"We don't, usually." Lin muttered, cracking his eyes open. His expression was a little hazy, but he moved over a little, making room for Eli. "Much less REM than humans, I'm told." With their genitalia being entirely internal as well, sex dreams in particular were _very_ uncommon. No external stimulation to provoke them, essentially.

A very, very faint hint of a smile as Lin looked at Siara. "It was really _vivid_." he sat up, winced, the smile fading, and clutched at his head, tugging at his own fringe. Eli laid back and let Siara handle her other patient for the moment as Lin turned to the side and started to retch. The sounds made his own stomach clench a little, and he fought to keep down the little he'd eaten.

_We provided the framework. Siara latched everyone together. And the turians built on our framework, and we built on theirs._ Eli wrapped his arms around Serana, who made a soft noise in her sleep, and burrowed into him. "It wasn't that bad a dream," he said, after a minute. "Hell of a lot better than reality, at the moment." _Little more __personal__ than required, but hell, if it keeps everyone __asleep__. . . . _"Guess we can be glad we didn't have any krogan or volus dreams to add to the mix."

Linianus had finished vomiting, and Siara helped _him_ to sit up, promising, "I'll be back with food for you. You're conscious, Lin. This is . . . really big progress."

"No, you really don't have to," Lin replied, sounding a little plaintive. "I _really_ don't want to eat—"

"You have to. You've been burning energy with the fever. You _have_ to eat, Linianus."

Eli tucked his chin atop Serana's fringe, and let his eyes drift closed again. "Siara?" he asked, as she came back in the room, with a cup of _oolorae_ broth for Lin.

"Yeah?"

"What the hell's going on _outside_ this apartment?"

A moment's hesitation. "Largely, martial law. Geth and rachni forces came aboard to help reinforce B-Sec yesterday."

Eli's eyes sprang open and he could feel Lin stiffen. "Looting?" Lin asked, between cautious sips of his broth.

"Some," she admitted. "Gris, Makur, and Fors at least tracked down the last of the devices. Trouble is, there were five additional locations on Bastion. Tracked down the Lystheni, too. Was meeting with a couple of batarians."

"And _off_ of Bastion?" Eli croaked.

"Don't worry about it," Siara told him. "None of you is going to be doing anything about it anytime soon. So rest, get better, and _don't_ even _try_ to get out of bed on your own, or I will _knock_ you back into it with a shockwave."

Eli could hear the clink of a cup being set down on the nightstand. Feel the shifting of the mattress as Lin slowly inched his legs down, trying not to catch his spurs on anything. Turian body structure being what it was, they couldn't rest on their backs without keeping their knees up in the air. . . so they _had_ to lie on their sides, fetal or spoon-style, or on their stomachs. Lin turned to his side. "So, am I going to dream like that again?" Lin asked Siara, his voice hardly more than a rasp. . . but with a hint of sly humor in it. "I was enjoying it. Parts of it, anyway. Hunting with my _dimicato'fradu_ was fun. Lot better than this damned headache."

"Linianus Pellarian? Do shut up."

Eli's shoulders shook, once, with a weak laugh. He didn't dare do more, for fear it would set him off coughing _again_, but he could feel Lin's shoulders shaking, too. _At least __this_ _much of the universe is right,_ he thought, and let darkness take him again.

**Shepard, Mindoir, April 29, 2196**

The infection numbers were coming in, along with the first death tolls. Shepard put her chin in her hands and just _stared_ at the information coming in from Bastion. She didn't even have _words_ for this.

_At the current rate,_ Dr. Erkesh wrote in his report from Bastion, _we can garner an estimate of the next four to six weeks. Most fatalities will occur in the first two weeks, however._

_Infection rates: _

_25% of asari population likely to fall ill with Skyllian flu = .6375 million (637,500) over 4-6 weeks_

_50% of human population likely to fall ill with Skyllian flu = 1.72 million over 4-6 weeks_

_30% of drell population likely to fall ill with Skyllian flu = 1,500 over 4-6 weeks_

_40% of turian population likely to fall ill with comburo febris, the consuming fever = 1.36 million over 4-6 weeks_

_That, however, is just the viral infection rates. We are already seeing a high mortality rate from these viruses, particularly among the old, the young, and the immune-deficient, such as people with previously existing conditions, such as COPD, emphysema, asthma, and Kepral's syndrome, and their turian and asari equivalents. Given the fact that we have, in five days, already lost 10,710 asari patients, 28,896 humans, 17,136 turians, and thirty-seven drell, we can extrapolate a rough death toll just from the viral infections. Some of these people died in the med bays. Most died in their homes, or in public shelters. B-Sec is, as I understand it, doing their best to deal with the bodies. Most are being ejected from the station directly into space; there is enough of a microgravity environment around the station at this point to keep the bodies close by for some time. I am grateful that there are no external windows on C-level. I do not think I could hold to my sanity if I looked outside and saw the bodies of the dead floating there. We have placed every infant on the station into quarian-provided clean bubbles. Many have already died, however, in spite of this precaution. Humans over sixty, turians over eighty, drell over sixty, and asari over eight hundred at in particular danger of mortality._

_With these numbers in mind, we can extrapolate how many are likely to die from the viruses over the next thirty-seven days on Bastion alone, if we're unable to synthesize an inoculation. Since these viruses seem to be mutating very rapidly, however, we're unsure of surviving strain A will confer immunity to emerging strains._

_Likely death rates from initial viral infections:_

_20% asari, skyllian flu: 127,500_

_20% human, Skyllian flu: 344,000_

_30% drell, Skyllian flu: 450_

_15% turian, comburo febris: 204,000_

_There is the additional complication of secondary infections. There is staph present in all med bays, of course, which is an issue with immune-compromised individuals. Even strep throat is a danger to people already struck by these engineered viruses. Unfortunately, the people who arranged this attack were thorough, and provided their own secondary infectious diseases in the cocktail they deployed. _

_So far, of those who have been previously infected with the viruses, here is a breakdown of those who catch the engineered bacteria as a secondary infection._

_53,550 of virally-infected Asari have fallen ill with human pneumonia_

_71,400 of virally-infected humans have fallen ill with human pneumonia_

_50 of virally-infected drell have fallen ill with human pneumonia_

_71,421 of virally-infected turians have fallen ill with atratus cremare (black/mourning fever): _

_Extrapolating outwards, we can expect the following total infections over 4-6 weeks:_

_25% of virally infected Asari will fall ill with human pneumonia: 637,500_

_25% of virally infected humans will fall ill with human pneumonia: 850,000_

_40% of virally infected drell will fall ill with human pneumonia: 600_

_25% of virally infected turians will fall ill with atratus cremare (black/mourning fever): 850,000_

_Current mortality rates and expected mortality rates over 4-6 weeks, from just these engineered diseases, on people already infected with the viral infections:_

_Current: 7,948, or 15% of virally/bacterially infected asari. Expected fatalities: 95,625 _

_Current: 7,140 or 10% virally/bacterially infected humans: Expected fatalities: 85,000 _

_Current: 20, or 20% of virally/bacterially infected drell: Expected fatalities: 240_

_Current: 7,14 or 10% of virally/bacterially infected turians: Expected fatalities: 85,000 _

_We currently do not have data on those suffering only from the engineered bacterial infection. I apologize for that, but we're a little under-staffed right now. Likewise, I do not have data on Earth, Palaven, or any of the colonies whose quarantine procedures may have been breached._

_Thus, I come to the final mortality projections:_

_Total deaths at the end of 6 weeks on Bastion alone:_

_223,125 asari_

_429,000 humans_

_289,000 turians_

_1,050 drell_

_942,865 total fatalities_

_About 5.5% of the total population, wiped out._

_It goes without saying that this is the greatest crisis the galaxy has faced since the Reaper Wars. We appreciate any help that anyone can send. I understand that STG is working on immunization possibilities, and I urge them to hurry. Anything that can ameliorate the seriousness of this catastrophe is . . . urgently needed. _

Shepard swallowed, hard. The numbers were impossible to understand, to visualize, but she had the B-Sec secure cam footage from the outside of Bastion. Bodies floating, tumbling, in a graceless, limp ballet outside. A loose orbit of death. All wrapped, thank god, in plastic, so the limb limbs and faces couldn't be seen. Like a school of fish, really, except their motion was not their own. Her hands crept up over her face, and her throat tightened. _We didn't stop it. We tried, but we failed. We had the right information, the right place, the right __people__ in place. . . well, there's plenty of time to figure out who fucked up later. _

Garrus' warm hand came down on her shoulder. "We _did_ slow it down," he reminded her. "We're keeping it from spreading."

"Tell that to the people currently floating outside of Bastion," Lilu said hoarsely, feeling the tears burn in her eyes and pour down her face.

Garrus' fingers tightened, almost a crushing grip. She tolerated it. "We're not the responsible ones, _amatra_," he reminded her. "You ready to see the numbers from Earth and Palaven and the colonies? Same infection rates pertain. . . but much smaller populations on the colonies, thank the spirits. Smaller number of devices deployed, too. They _stopped_ the one on Edessan. Ylara reports that the guy at Dymion refused to deploy the devices, himself, but he was infected, so a smaller number there. Only in the thousands."

"Raetia and Complovium?"

Garrus had to sit down for that one, himself. "Two-thirds of the Conclave of Lawgivers, sick. Two-thirds of the Conclave of _Dominae_. Imperatrix is ill. The Imperator, thankfully, is not."

"Something to be said for separate bedrooms, I guess."

"Shhh, that's a scandalous rumor, and you're a turian citizen now." Garrus wagged a finger at her as she managed to raise her head from her hands. Her paint had run, and her hands were blue and white with it. "This does, however, present a problem. You need a quorum to convene both Conclaves. One third is _just_ enough. . . and you need the _Dominae_ to vote for funding for any wars. Of course, the Imperator can always _order_ the military to move, and just hope for funding later."

Shepard snorted softly. "He's going to move them to the borders of batarian space?"

"I've urged him to move to an aggressive posture, but not to leave the colonies undefended. This disease is just a first strike. We _all_ know that."

She exhaled, softly. "So, we're looking at what, a million, two million on Palaven?" Her voice wasn't particularly hopeful.

"Four to five million." Garrus's voice rasped, and Lilu slammed her fists against the desk. "It would be closer _two hundred million_, _amatra,_ if we hadn't gotten everything locked down so damned fast. Plus, Palaven has one of the best medical systems in the galaxy."

"Your family?" she managed, after a moment.

Garrus shook his head. "Egidus and his family are holed up on Dymion. No infections yet. Rinus and Kallixta. . . .both sick. My father. . . " Garrus laughed, a little sourly. "I'm not sure what can kill that old _villi_. He's completely healthy, believe it or not. He's the one writing the letters from their house right now."

Shepard managed a smile. "Okay, I'm ready for the figures from Earth," she said.

Garrus' faint smile faded. "That's. . . a little worse news," he acknowledged. "Beijing is very crowded, and they hit the spaceport and shuttleports there. New York is also crowded, and it's the capital of the North American union. They targeted governmental facilities there, in addition to all the travelers in-bound from Bastion, who also landed in Rio, the space elevator travel center in Costa Rica, the spaceport in Washington, D.C., the spaceports in Moscow, Frankfurt, and Tokyo as well. And they're _all_ major travel hubs to the rest of the planet. They didn't get the stop-travel warning until twenty-four hours after people had already departed Bastion for Earth, and they're not as, ah. . . _disciplined_. . . as the Hierarchy."

"So we're looking at secondary infection sites at probably almost every major city in Asia, Europe, North America, and South America," Shepard said, quietly.

"Yeah."

"And the estimate of casualties for Palaven was based on Bastion's infection rates."

"Yeah." He didn't need to tell her that Earth's population and Palaven's were the same. Twelve billion, each. And the postulated death toll for humans on Bastion was close to twice that of turians. And that was in a _controlled, contained_ environment, not the chaotic environment of Earth. So. . . in excess of three hundred million. And that wasn't counting the colonies.

Shepard swallowed. "Okay," she said, with a calmness she didn't feel. "Is there anything we can do about the diseases that we're not already doing?"

Garrus slowly shook his head. "We've got half the medical personnel we have on Bastion or on Earth, or working with STG, working the problem. Other than that. . . no." He grimaced. "We're not exactly a _humanitarian_ organization, _mellis."_

She took a deep, steadying breath. "Let's get Zorro on the line. The batarians have _got_ to have a follow-up to this planned. You don't attack wildly and randomly and then just _sit_ there, waiting for retaliation."

Garrus nodded. "What do we tell him? Verify what's going on with the asari his agent found, who were lobotomized?"

"That. Troop movements. Ship movements. Anything. I would expect a move on colony worlds they've coveted for a while. Noveria, maybe. Eden Prime. Anything in the Attican Traverse." _And god help them if they come here to Mindoir again. They will not find it so easy a target once more._ Sheperd's expression promised _death_ if any batarian touched her homeworld.

Garrus caught her elbow, and Shepard was grateful as they both stood. Leaned into each other. She was sick to her stomach, and shaking with horror and rage all over again. _And to think I once thought that the Reapers were the worst thing that could happen to the galaxy. Look at what we're capable of, ourselves._

She looked up at him now. "Has Gris gotten anything out of the Lystheni?"

Garrus shook his head. "He said he was going to give it one more try. And then he was going to take Siara with him for the questioning tomorrow, tell the humans and the turians to clear out, have a geth present as a recorder and witness, and turn her loose on him. I gather her. . . methods of persuasion are a little unusual for an asari. No mental rape. No sharing. Just. . . .pain."

Shepard winced. "Let's see if we can get Sky to them, anyway. That way, they can at least tell if he's _lying_ or not." _And what Sky does is __listen__, not force. And he can tell us if Siara has broken herself down to the very soul by using this fairly nasty talent of hers, or not, too, while he's at it._

_**Author's note:** Credit where it's due: Dermiti passed me the idea of quarian clean bubbles for the neonatal wards. He's the reason there aren't a lot more infant deaths on Bastion at the moment. _

**Kasumi, Sam, Lantar, Serenity Station, Luna and Bastion, April 30, 2196**

Luna's light gravity tugged at Kasumi as she walked into the hotel room she was sharing with two Spectres here at Serenity Station. Fortunately, it wasn't as if either of _them_ needed a bed, and modesty wasn't exactly an issue, either. Cohort moved into the room behind her, and Sky scuttled in behind him. About the biggest issue they'd had as a team had been the fact that she continuously needed to translate Sky's mental comments to Cohort; Sky had, of course, perfectly understood Cohort's speech. "Get some rest," she told the other two, tiredly. "Been a _busy_ couple of days, and it's just going to get worse."

"We will establish a link with our node on the _Narvik_," Cohort informed her, quietly.

"Not quite a pleasure trip, huh?" Kasumi said, sitting down at the desk, and feeling her own exhaustion sweep over her.

Cohort cocked his head at her, eyeflaps sweeping up slightly. "Our last trip to Earth was more oriented towards consensus. It was the occasion of your marriage to Jaworski-Spectre. It is unfortunate, that we have been unable to visit Earth often since. We would have welcomed an opportunity to view various works of art in the museums here. Pictures do not convey the depth and texture of the paint on canvas, we have found. And it seems unlikely to us, that we will have much opportunity at this juncture." He paused, and there was a subtle thread in his voice that almost sounded like sorrow. "Many run-times are ending. No addition to the greater whole. We find this. . . pointless. Regretable."

Sky found his nest of blankets had been disturbed by the maid, and began carefully unfolding the dozen or so sheets and blankets that had been left for him on a chair, forming a mound for himself on the floor. _Sings-Not has grown in many ways. But he still does not understand the song. Tell him to look for images drawn by those during your great plagues._

"Albrecht Dürer, for one," Kasumi agreed, out loud. "The Horsemen of the Apocalypse."

_That is not the image I see in your mind. More recent. _Sky reflected the images churning in her subconscious at her, let her see them for herself. Kasumi shuddered. Black and white images of plague doctors in London, 1665, walking abroad with bird masks over their faces, on the theory that the masks would protect them from the infectious air. If nothing else, the outfit had warned others to stay away from the doctors. Line drawings of dancing skeletons bobbing above their graves. Bodies being laid out in the streets. So neat and clean in the old lithographs. And yet, such aching sorrow in every line. Kasumi spun a couple of the images up for Cohort on the screens, saying only, "Sky suggests you reflect on _this_ song."

Cohort studied the images for a moment. "We will," he replied, simply, and then his eye turned off, indicating that he was in the process of transmitting information to and from the _Narvik_.

"He does _try,"_ Kasumi told Sky.

_We all seek to be more than what we are. None tries harder than Sings-Not_, Sky agreed, but his voice was filled with violets and grays of sorrow and weariness. _Too many songs are ending, Light-and-Playful-Dancer. I could hear them, their struggle, everywhere we went today. Could feel the hectic fires burn within them. We will sing vengeance-songs for them, yes?_

Kasumi closed her eyes. "Oh, yes," she said, quietly. "Oh, yes, we will."

As Sky's opalescent, alien blue eyes closed, Kasumi spun up the message system. It was too damned late at night to bother waking everyone up with FTL real-time transmissions. Her eyes burned, and she flipped through her message queue quickly.

The first, in Japanese, read:

_From: Hinata Goto_

_To: Kasumi Goto_

_Takeshi is doing fine. He's playing in my garden right now. Helping me rake the gravel paths and clear up dead leaves. He's asked several times so far for you and his father, but seems to be fairly happy overall. Ellie asked me to bring him by tomorrow, to help keep Emily and Tacitus occupied. Be well where you are, my daughter._

Kasumi's lips curved up into a smile. _Thank you, oka-san_, she thought. _I don't know what I'd do without you._ Sam was on Bastion, and she'd had _no_ word from him directly since early on the twenty-fifth. It was maddening. She'd dropped him a few, quick notes, letting him know of her progress, or the frustrating lack of it, at the same time she'd dropped Shepard nearly identical notes. They'd found their targets fairly quickly—North American governmental headquarters, the spaceport in Albany, New York, for example. Sky had found the person responsible for planting the devices here on Serenity Station within about three hours of their initial landing, which was a plus. But the sheer numbers of people who traveled through the station, and who'd landed on Earth from Bastion, were working against them. They'd spent every hour of the past five days moving from site to site on Earth, coordinating with the Alliance Center for Disease Control, NABI, SATBIA, Interpol. . . name a government agency, and she'd worked with it—glad, as always, for the black-painted presence of both Spectres flanking her. They'd worked to cordon off Rio de Janeiro and Los Angeles California and New Delhi, and god only _knew_ how many other cities. They were all on her omnitool, though. She started with that, doing a raw data dump from the device into the secure channel. Her analysts back on Mindoir could sort through it. She'd write a damned report in the morning, when her brain was more apt to allow her to analyze and synthesize. At the moment, it felt more like stewed cabbage behind her eyes than anything else.

There was a message from Ellie in the queue, with attachments. Kasumi chuckled when she opened it. It was a copy of something Ellie had forwarded to Lantar. Videos of Emily and Tacitus, chasing down their little black cat and Lucy, the cat, arching her back, hissing, and heading for the high ground of her cat stand, _well_ out of toddler reach, meowing pitifully for rescue afterwards. Caelia waving at the camera and saying, "Hi, _Pada_, hi 'Lijah and 'Rana. Miss you. I drew you lots of pictures so you'll feel better." And Narayana, wiggling her fingers shyly, and whispering, "Come home soon."

Kasumi smiled. Ellie had more strength than ten other women, she was willing to bet. . . and Ellie had no _idea_ how strong she was. _No wonder Lantar adores her._

And then a sheaf of messages from the Shadow Broker. Argus. Liara T'soni. Whatever you called her, messages from her really couldn't wait. Kasumi sighed and opened them. A half a dozen message intercepts from batarian space, indicating that the _Klem Na_ was mobilizing its resources. _Interesting. We know they've grown from a mercenary band into something much more integral to the Hegemony's interests. Probably their affiliation with the Lystheni. . . access to the Lysthenic biotic weapons, perhaps? They've parleyed that into some sort of an association with the SIU. None of them can rise in caste, of course. . . but they can become the most important members of their own caste. And the Hegemon, it's rumored, can step outside of caste. Hmm. Wouldn't that suggest that he's a slave, somehow? Have to remember to forward that question to __Zorro__ sometime._

At the very end of Liara's set of messages was one with an attachment.

_To: Kasumi Goto_

_From: Shadow Broker_

_Aren't they just so cute, snuggling together?_

Kasumi frowned, and figured that it was _probably_ a picture of Feron with Fiara in his lap, but if Liara sent her something, it was _probably_ for more of a psychological lift than the cute picture of a kitten, she decided, and opened the attachment.

And her mouth fell open, and Kasumi began to _laugh._ Hard. She whooped until her stomach hurt, and Sky blinked open one set of alien eyes to regard her in some consternation. _You sing amusement-song, joy-song?_

"It's okay, Sky," she murmured. "Sam's alive, at least as of two days ago." She grinned and pointed at the screen. "Looks like he and Lantar are getting _really_ well acquainted, however."

_I had thought they knew one another's songs by heart_.

Kasumi grinned, a wicked little light sparkling in her eyes as she looked at the image of Sam, hair tousled and bare-chested, lying on his side on a sofa-bed, Lantar curled up behind him. She opened her mail program, and sent Liara a one sentence-message back: _ I knew it all along. . . . _with a little wink.

Then she opened a new message, attached the file, and sent it to Sam: _They say the wife is always the last to know?_

On Bastion, after five days of Skyllian flu and now on his third day of 'improved' pneumonia, Sam Jaworski's omnitool chirped. He was awake, for the moment, huddled on his side, sweating in spite of his chattering teeth, and Dr. Abrams was trying to convince him and Lantar to at least turn over and face the other direction for a while. "Bed sores are a real and valid concern," Abrams muttered.

"No," Sam said. "I think we've well-established that we're much more comfortable facing this way." His grin spread. "He's big spoon, I'm little spoon. It just works better, all right?"

Lantar propped himself up for a moment. The apartment was _dimly_ lit at this point, in deference to the turians, all _four_ of whom currently had the mourning fever, which rendered them extremely light-sensitive. There was even, Sam had been told, a chance that any of them could be blinded, permanently, if they were exposed to too much light right now. "No offense, Abrams," Lantar rasped, "but if we turn the other way, Sam's liable to catch my spurs, and I'm _not_ responsible for whether they're sheathed or not when I'm delirious." This was not quite a joke. Lantar _had_ been out of his _gourd_ for a couple of hours yesterday, which had meant that Sam and the hanar nurse had had to grab a hold and hang on until Abrams had gotten a shot ready. Gris and Makur had been out of the apartment, trying to question their Lystheni captive, which had left them with damned few people strong enough to hold down an enraged turian.

Abrams sighed. "God save me from stubborn patients. At least that was a _valid_ reason, but we _can_ move Sam to the other side of the bed and you can both face the other way for a while."

Sam's omnitool chirped again. "Huh. That was the work-related channel," Sam said. "I guess. . . ." and he coughed, and Lantar pulled a pillow over his own aching head to block the sound, "that means I'm almost ready for duty again, right?"

Dr. Abrams threw his hands up in the air and walked away, muttering under his breath. Lantar pulled the pillow away, and muttered, "You surely have a way with people, Orpheus."

"It's Kasumi," Sam managed a smile to go with the words. It genuinely made him feel _better_ to know his wife had just sent him a message. He'd read the last two or three, but his periods of consciousness had been relatively few, and his hands too shaky to reply. "Now what does my li'l darlin' have for me. . . . " He paused. Looked at the message. And started to laugh, weakly.

"What?" Lantar asked.

"God almighty, my friend. You know what a gem you have in Ellie?" Sam managed.

"What do you mean?"

Sam projected the image and the message, keeping the aerogel screen low, in deference to Lantar's eyes.

"How the _futar_ did she get that?" Lantar sounded downright appalled.

"I'm going to take a wild guess and say—"

"Argus," they both finished.

Sam turned his head just enough for Lantar to catch a corner of his smile and said, "You get home videos and a love letter. I get a blackmail attempt."

Lantar's grin was needle-pointed. "You knew what she was when you married her, _dimicato'fradu."_

"Oh, I know. And I love her. Now I just have to _spank_ her, that's all." Sam lifted a shaking hand and tried to tap out a reply. "Shit."

_From: Spectre S. K. Jaworski_

_To: Kasumi Goto_

_Hey, that's noit neasrly as bvad as what I hjear about you touching a cerftain male hanar Spectre's favorite tentacle, a few years gone, now is it, darlin'?_

Sam muttered bad words under his breath about overly sensitive touchpads on the aerogel interface, and shaking fingers.

Across the galaxy, Kasumi blinked. Sam _never_ typo'd like this. He was _meticulous_ in his messaging, considering even abbreviations to be a sign of sloppy thinking.

_From: Kasumi Goto_

_To: Spectre S. K. Jaworski_

_Blasto was a perfect gentleman in every regard. In fact, I think he's a practitioner of the ancient art of tucking. Now, about you swooning into Lantar's big, warm arms?_

Lantar leaned over at Sam's strangled sound of amusement, and asked, blankly, "Tucking?"

Sam covered his eyes with one hand. "Not something a male turian ever has to worry about, my friend, and _much_ too complicated to explain right now."

_From: Spectre S. K. Jaworski_

_To: Kasumi Goto_

_No swooning. I'll cop to snuggling, but no swooning._

_Let's cut to the chadse, K., ok? Do I have to take yiou upstairs when I get home and prove my mascul;inity? Or is my man-card gone forever?_

Still, lots of typos. Kasumi was actually somewhat worried at this point, but he _sounded_ good. He sounded like himself. Long delays between messages, however. He was awake enough to be in a good mood, and that meant she could poke him, Provoke him. Get him going and fighting, and Sam Jaworski _needed_ to be fighting _something._ It's what got him out of _bed_ every damn morning, after all. He couldn't fight the disease. But he _could_ spar a little with her. Kasumi's lips curved up in a little smirk.

_From: Kasumi Goto_

_To: Spectre S. K. Jaworski_

_Oh, you misunderstand me, __shujin__. _(The Japanese word meant both 'husband' and 'master,' and Kasumi _only_ used it in two contexts—in teasing or in bed. Which was to say, often at the same time. The rest of the time she used _danna_, which was much less formal.) _I'm just going to print this out, put it on my desk at home, and __enjoy__ it, thoroughly. You see, if I squint just enough, I can pretend there's just enough room for a small, cute Japanese lady to crawl in between you and turn herself into the creamy filling of a really yummy Spectre cookie._

On Bastion, Sam's fingers reached up to cover what was some fairly intimate wife-to-husband teasing, just as Lantar, still reading over his shoulder, started to laugh and cough at the same time. "I'm . . . ._fairly_ sure. . . she doesn't actually mean that," Sam said.

"I'm fairly sure she doesn't either. Spirits, she has your number, though."

Sam half-turned. "Want to help me get even?"

"I'll type. It'll go faster this way. Just tell me what you want to say." Lantar reached over, left handed, and started filling in the words for Sam now.

_From: Spectre S. K. Jaworski_

_To: Kasumi Goto_

_I suppose I should ask what it's going to take to ensure that you don't turn over a copy of this picture to Ellie?_

Interesting. No typos this time. Faster response, too. Kasumi put her head to the side.

_From: Kasumi Goto_

_To: Spectre S. K. Jaworski_

_You know those cherry trees in the backyard?_

_From: Spectre S. K. Jaworski_

_To: Kasumi Goto_

_The ones you wanted put in, and you swore you'd pick the cherries from before they hit the ground and rotted?_

Kasumi, on Luna paused. Considered it. He surely _sounded_ ornery, which was about how she liked her Sam. One more poke.

_From: Kasumi Goto_

_To: Spectre S. K. Jaworski_

_You going to be taking care of that for me, now?_

On Bastion, Sam, still shivering, snickered. "Oh, hell to the no. She's playing games, Lantar."

"You sure? That doesn't sound like a game to me."

"When was the last time Ellie issued you a direct challenge?"

Lantar chuckled. "The first of never." He paused. "Not that I wouldn't _enjoy_ it, but she's not. . . "

"I rest my case. Here's what I want you to type."

_From: Spectre S. K. Jaworski_

_To: Kasumi Goto_

_Bring it, Kasumi-chan. Show it to Ellie, show it to Garrus, show it to Shepard. I have snuggled, and it's great. I highly recommend Lantar's snuggling to anyone interested. Oh, and since he's been typing this for me—_

"Shit!" Kasumi said, out loud, and started to laugh and blush at the same time, as she continued reading:

. . . _he wants to know if Ellie gets equal time in the middle. He says he'll ask her if she wants a turn._

_From: Kasumi Goto_

_To: Spectre S. K. Jaworski_

_You win, shujin. But I'm still keeping a copy of the file. For my personal collection._

On Bastion, Lantar and Sam were both laughing weakly. "Oh, god almighty, that's gonna be really hard to explain to the grandkids or the great-grandkids when they're going through the files after we're all dead," Sam said, tears of laughter starting to ooze out the sides of his eyes. He'd coughed so damned much the past five days, and was so damned weak, he couldn't quite help it.

"It'll be fine. Most of your grandkids will be half-turian. Tell her to label the file _dimicato'fradu, the great plague, Bastion, 2197_, and they won't _need_ an explanation."

**Valak N'Dor, Khar'sharn, May 1, 2196 **

He'd gotten a message from his Spectre handlers the night before. It was filled with a truly frightening set of numbers—estimated infections on Bastion, Earth, and Palaven. Existing death tolls. Estimated fatalities. His fists had clenched, and, like all other messages he received, he didn't dare keep a copy. But he memorized the contents. They would have been seared into his brain, regardless. The information he'd taken such risks to obtain had helped. . . somewhat. They'd assured him of _that_ much, at least. Faster pickup of the agents. Faster cleanup of the devices. That didn't prevent the sensation of guilt from churning in his belly. _My people did this._ _I didn't prevent it._

The numbers potentially possible on Earth were the really frightening ones. Earth was, though the heart of the Systems Alliance, still somewhat fragmented into nations, just as Khar'sharn was. He could clearly picture the political infighting _here_. The bureaucracy, the inaction, the distrust. Even with the Hegemon's direct orders and the Hegemony Oversight Forces' tight control of the population, it _might_ not be enough to contain such diseases. _And we're doing this to them. Why? Surely our leaders __know__ it will provoke the Council fleet to come after us. And if all this time, we haven't dared show our teeth to the turians, and haven't dared to do more than make rude gestures in the directions of the humans, why __now__ would we __want__ them to attack us. . . . ?_

_To get them to look this way, while we attack from another direction, of course. A grand, horribly futile feint? But that sort of gamble only works when you're absolutely sure that the prepared counterattack will be devastating. To invite the Council's response like this. . . unconscionable. Ancestors, the entire plague is unconscionable. But what are they doing?_

And that was, of course, precisely what the Spectres wanted him to find out. The problem was, Valak wasn't sure he could _do_ so. Small steps, first. He had one of his two Phantom hoverbikes prepared, and, after Nala had read to him for an hour or so that night, waited for her to go to sleep. She'd established the habit of reading to him every night now, and always seemed to be waiting for dismissal, or orders, and when they weren't forthcoming, usually lay in his bed until she fell asleep. And always awoke with the most charming look of confusion on her face. He'd been working on her, carefully, cautiously, for weeks now. Had finally asked her why she'd told him that healing the turian was a waste of resources, when Rel had first come there. She'd looked down in confusion, and finally responded, "Because that is what one is supposed to say. And you might have found it suspicious, if I had not." Nala had hesitated. "I was trying to be careful." Unspoken the rest of her thoughts hung in the air. _Not quite careful enough, somehow._

"Then we're coming to understand one another," Valak had told her.

"No, m'lord. I . . . don't think I understand you at all." She'd blinked when he'd lifted her chin with gloved fingers. "You've returned to working for SIU, m'lord?"

"Towards my own interests, yes. Don't worry. I have no intentions of turning into Arvak or Exar or any of my old compatriots." He ran his gloved thumb over her lips. "Do I have to _order_ you to use my name in private?" It was mostly a joke, and he regretted it the instant he said it, saw the wince cross her face. "Never mind. Call me whatever you wish, even if it's 'foolish noble-born.'"

Tonight, though, he felt oddly as if he were betraying her as he crept out of his own bedroom quietly, well after midnight. He hadn't had to _sneak_ out of a bedchamber in years. He got into his armor, made sure to pack along finery, and readied his stasis gun, pistol, rifle, and vibrosword. The Spectres had given him a stealth device and biosign masker. Livanus had taught him how to use both, more or less, but Valak had little training in the fine art of sneaking around; he'd been a commando, not a guerilla in SIU. This was more for emergency use.

"You're going alone, m'lord?" Tuldur sounded disapproving.

Valak shook his head. "Just one man with me. Yal'or." Yal'or had been with him for four years now, and actually _could_ sneak around very well. Soldier-caste by birth, he'd been sold into slavery for his family's debts. Valak had purchased him days before being sent to the arena to die.

"Good choice, m'lord."

Valak grinned tightly at Tuldur. His oldest freed man was dour, and had four gleaming yellow-green eyes, and a scar that perpetually pulled down one corner of his mouth into a frown—left by an overseer's crop across the face. "I'm heading to Exar's estate. Keep an eye on her."

"You seem to be doing that just fine yourself. . . m'lord."

Tuldur's lack of expression didn't fool Valak for an instant. The nobleman chuckled. "All three eyes, my friend, but nothing more."

Yal'or hopped up on the hoverbike behind Valak, and they set off through the dark forest. Exar's estate was fifty miles away, but the hoverbike didn't have a governor that regulated its height off the ground, and had ladar and radar set up on a head's up display, allowing Valak to navigate around trees at a decent rate of speed, and sail over gulleys. Taking a direct route to Exar's estate rather than the roads shaved a good amount of time off their trip. It was also a _quiet_ vehicle, with almost no engine noise and no emissions. Hence its name of _Phantom_.

Valak parked it deep in the underbrush, and the two men crept into the estate. Most estate guards were trained to keep people _in_, not to really be concerned about people coming in from the _outside_. Most guard posts faced inwards. Valak and Yal'dor timed the patrols, and moved, quickly, lightly, between buildings. They needed to get to the large barracks in the inner ring, where Nala had reported the asari were being kept.

A couple of close calls had Valak's heart pounding, and then they were in. The barracks smelled _foul_. Valak gagged a little. He'd always _hated_ the smell of ill-kept slaves. Fesces, urine, sweat, despair. He pulled down his visor, as Yal'dor was doing. Outside, there'd been enough light to creep around by, the occasional search light prodding its way through the shadows from the guard posts. Inside. . . nightvision was the only real option. The world took on a green-tinged glow, and Valak looked around, carefully. Twenty-five bunks in this house; probably as many in the one beside it. All female bodies, yes. Tentacle-like head structures, yes. Definitely asari.

He handed Yal'dor a small medical tool. He'd briefed the man before they left. Brainscans. Verification that they were, indeed, lobotomized. Valak moved through the barracks carefully now. Large structures like this usually had an overseer's office and bunkroom—aha. There it was. He checked the thermal imagery. Yes, the overseer for this barrack was lying down in her. . . no. His bunk.

Valak eased open the door and glided inside. Pulled out his pistol and, in two quick moves, had his knee on the male's chest, a hand over his mouth, and the gun pressed to the underside of the man's chin. "I have a few questions for you regarding this batch of slaves," he said, deliberately changing his caste accent. Soldier-caste, rough and grating now. On the _very_ unlikely chance that he left this one alive, he didn't want anyone to be able to say it had been a nobleman who'd been here tonight. "Raise your voice, even once, and I will shoot you," he said, and spread his fingers slightly. "Now then, I understand these slaves have been lobotomized?"

A wary nod. "Yeah. At least you don't need to keep 'em dosed up on _lia'mellea_ or chlorpromazine to retard the biotics," the overseer muttered. He snorted. "Makes 'em about as docile as a sheep, and about as much fun to screw."

Valak's finger tightened slightly on the trigger. It was a four-pound draw, and he had two pounds of pressure on it now. "They're scheduled for shipment somewhere?"

The overseer went silent. Valak increased the pressure of the muzzle into the soft spot behind the jaw bone, pressing up into throat and tongue. The male writhed. "All right! They're going to the shipyards at Go'a." Go'a was Khar'sharn's planetary neighbor, just across a small asteroid belt from the homeworld. It was closer to the system's primary, giving it ready access to solar energy, and rich in minerals.

"When?" Valak hissed.

"Two days. Just got the shipping manifest today. Look, I don't know anything more—"

"Then you're sort of useless to me now, aren't you?" Valak had absolutely no compunctions about pulling the trigger. He had a silencer on it, and the male had been a damned pig. He _did_ take the time to go through the overseer's computer files. Found the shipping manifests, downloaded them. He slipped back out into the main barracks, where Yal'or shook his head, grimly.

"All braindead, more or less," the freed man muttered. "I don't think this sort of thing can be _fixed_, boss. From the scans, it looks like their brains have been put through a cheese grater."

"I'll have the lovely doctor look at the scans back at the house," Valak whispered. "For now? We're going to blow these barracks up."

"We're going to _what?"_ Yal'or choked. "M'l—_boss_—they're still alive—"

"And they're going to be used at the shipyards in two days. And I _don't_ think they're going to be used for morale purposes."

Yal'or didn't have the big picture. Valak wasn't sure he did, either, but his Spectre handlers had been _very_ specific. _Prevent_ asari from being sent to military operations. Disrupt the supply chain by any means possible. He couldn't rescue these asari. Fifty women was a lot to liberate at the best of times. Fifty _lobotomized_ ones? The best he could do was to think of it as euthanasia. He looked at their sleeping forms now. _I'm sorry,_ Valak thought, helplessly, and began to set the very small charges he had on him. Again, they were off-world gifts from the Spectres. They were free of chemical tagging that would identify their factory of origin. . . which would tell authorities on Khar'sharn that there was off-world involvement, certainly, by its mere _absence_, but wouldn't tie anything back to _him_.

Yal'dor and he ducked across to the other barracks, and the freed man hastily ran scans on the other asari. Verifying, probably hoping against hope, that they were _whole_.

They weren't.

Ducking and dodging back through the shadows was a much more difficult proposition now. The guards were much more attentive to the thought of someone _escaping_. And as such, they _were_ spotted. "Shit!" Valak swore, as a floodlight hit them, and a guard fired right at them. The first round lit up his shields, the second tore through and found a weak spot in his left shoulder. Valak was spun around by the bullet, and managed to aim and fire his stasis gun at the guard. Then Yal'dor boosted him over the fence, swarmed over himself, and the two of them _ran_. As they did, Valak pulled the transmitter from his belt and thumbed the button that triggered the explosives.

The charges went off—loudly. Spectacularly, even. And that bought them precious seconds as they both slipped on their biosign maskers and emergency stealth devices, and hopped and ran through the underbrush to where the Phantom was parked. No time for subtlety—Valak _gunned_ the motor and got the damned hovercycle off the ground as soon as they were in the seat. He had to break their scent, and his blood trail, _fast_ And they didn't have time to build in devious false trails.

They headed in more or less a straight line for his estate, Valak sliding the cycle to the ground at the front door. "Take into the bunker, get the other Phantom out, so anyone who comes here looking for a hovercycle, _finds_ a cycle—a cold one, one that hasn't been used in days," he ordered. Tuldur was already at the door, with a towel, trying to catch Valak's orange-red blood before it spattered on the ground.

"M'lord, upstairs," Tuldur hissed. "_Now_."

They could all hear the sound of shuttles in the distance. Oversight Forces, undoubtedly, spreading out in a search pattern. Valak hastened up the stairs and into his room. Armor, weapons, blood, and all. "Healer," he called, taking off his helmet and setting it on his desk, as Nala sat up in his bed, _staring_ at him, "I'm afraid I've had rather an accident."

Tuldur snorted, and opened the concealed armor and weapons locker in the wall. "Off with it, m'lord," he said. "She can't get to the wound if you're still in the armor. I'll get it all tidied away for you later."

Valak reached up and started unlatching various pieces of the armor. His left arm was basically unresponsive at the moment, and hurt like _hell_. Nala was out of bed in a flash, catching the medkit Tuldur more or less flung at her, and as Valak managed to get the chestpiece of his armor free, Nala hissed at the sight of his shoulder. "That bad?" Valak asked, glancing down. It wasn't exactly pretty, no. Bullet wounds rarely were the polite things one saw in the vids. "Shit. Broke the collarbone, didn't it?" he said, seeing white bone sticking through.

"M'lord, the greaves, the boots, all of it. We _might_ be able to cook up the story of an intruder to cover for the wound, but the armor will not do, sir," Tuldur reminded him.

Valak unlatched, and Tuldur pulled, just as Nala got to work. One shot for the pain, for which he was distantly grateful. And then medigel, stopping the bleeding, as she expertly worked a scanner, reached in with forceps, pulled the bullet, removed other bone fragments, working as quickly as she could. Tuldur slammed the locker closed and moved its concealing panels over it again. "I'll stall as long as I can, m'lord, healer," he said, firmly, and stepped back out into the hall.

"You probably want an explanation," Valak offered, watching the intent concentration on Nala's face.

"Not at the moment, m'lord," she replied. "I can fuse and regenerate the bone, but that's an hour's procedure, and we don't have that time, do we?"

Valak shook his head. "Suture it shut, medigel so it doesn't bleed, and give me a shirt." The drone of the shuttles was getting closer.

Nala's fingers were _very_ agile, and she soon had at least the underlayers of muscle and skin pulled together. More medigel, and then she wiped her hands and his shoulder clean of blood with alcohol wipes, grabbed a shirt from his drawers, and started dressing him. "I can manage—"

"If you ever try to move that left arm right now, you'll notice that you _can't_," she noted, clinically. "There appears to be some nerve damage. I _can_ fix that, m'lord. But later." She put all the bloody instruments and the bullet and everything else back in the kit, wiped the table and her hands and him off with alcohol wipes, threw _those_ in the kit, and shoved _that_ under the bed, well out of sight. And then started buttoning up his shirt for him.

"Not all the way—have to look like it's late at night—"

"Which it _is_, m'lord." Her two remaining eyes were narrow, wary.

Murmur of voices from downstairs. Valak could hear Tuldur's raised in polite protest. The lateness of the hour, his master's preoccupation at such a time. Valak looked at Nala calmly. "My life is in your hands, my dear," he told her. "Pray treat it gently." Trust. Such a precious, rare commodity on a world like Khar'sharn. He hoped his trust in her was _not_ misplaced.

Footsteps in the hallway. Nala dropped to her knees before him. Laid her head in his lap, took his numb left hand in hers, and moved it to the back of her head, just as the door opened on an Oversight Forces officer who at least had more grace than Arvak had, raising his eyes immediately to stare at a wall. "Forgive the intrusion, m'lord. There's been a gruesome attack at a nearby estate. We're checking the entire surrounding area for the miscreants."

"I trust," Valak said, tightly, "that you do not expect to find them in _my bedchamber_?"

"Ah, no, m'lord. I would like permission to search the rest of your estate—"

"By all means, do so." Valak couldn't _move_ his left hand, and even moving Nala away with his right hand would look unnatural—the more so if the left hand slid away unnaturally. She was actually _holding_ his hand in place at the moment, and her head was blocking all view of his groin, which would have revealed his distinct lack of interest at the moment.

The officer turned to leave, and Valak called after him, "I say, old boy. What _sort_ of attack has you out beating the woods at this hour of night?"

"Terrorist, of some sort, we think, sir. Someone blew the hell out of two barracks on Lord Exar's estate."

Every muscle in Nala's body went stiff, and Valak carefully raised his right hand—gloveless, damnit, and ran a thumb down the side of her cheek. "Carry on," he told the officer, and nodded to Tuldur, who closed the damned door at last.

Nala pulled back immediately, and Valak put a finger to her lips, leaning forward to whisper, "Later, my dear. I promise."

By morning, the estate was cleared of Oversight forces, his bedchamber had been swept, again, for listening devices, and Nala had proceeded to regenerate bone and nerves for him. Valak lifted his left hand, opening and closing the fingers. "You'll need to do exercises to ensure you regain full mobility and strength," Nala told him. "I can show you how—"

"Later. I believe I promised you answers." Valak leaned back in bed. "Of course, you'll need to ask a _few_ questions, first."

She sat down at the edge of the bed. "You killed the asari last night?"

"Rather a mercy killing, I'm afraid. But yes."

She sucked in a breath. _"Why?_ I would never have told you if I'd _believed_ you _capable_—"

Valak leaned forward, caught her face in his hand. No gloves. No barriers. Just skin. "Because they were lobotomized, turned into the components of a biotic weapons system that was going to be loaded onto Hegemony ships in a fucking futile war against the turians, humans, and the rest of Council space," he said, quietly, but with force, looking into her eyes. "A fucking useless, pointless war, which _we_ are provoking. Tens of thousands have already died on Earth, Palaven, Bastion, Luisa, and Illium. . . .because _we_ unleashed bioweapons on their worlds. They're going to come for us in retaliation, and I don't _care_ what the General Staff says—we can't win a war against the entire Council Fleet. Not even with allies. Nor would we _deserve_ to, using such weapons." Valak paused, and added, coldly, calmly, "Yal'or and I took brainscans from the asari last night. I want _you_ to look at them. So that next time we find a barracks full of these asari, I'll know if there's anything that _could_ be done to save them, or if killing them as quickly and painlessly as possible really is my best option."

Her mouth opened and closed, soundlessly. He was letting her see the ruthlessness that SIU had put into him, the coldness. . . but also the principles that SIU hadn't been able to beat out of him, too. "Ask your questions, my dear," Valak said, releasing her and leaning back. "You know you want to."

"You're. . . you're _resistance_, aren't you? But . . . you're SIU. And a high noble?" Total disbelief.

Valak snorted, quietly. "I'm not affiliated with any resistance group. I'm my own group, my dear. Safer that way. Every person on this estate is free. Works for wages. You've been earning a pretty penny since I _bought_ you. It's in an account in your name at a volus bank in Council space. If you want to be free, I'll get you out of Hegemony space. Set you up on Omega. Be a doctor out there. Wear eyes, find yourself a mate, be free. You don't need to be part of my private little war here." He shrugged. "But if you want to stay. . . Nala, my dear, I'd _relish_ the company."

She sat there for a long moment, clearly thinking. Astonishment at the changes in paradigms that she'd accepted at face value for a very long time clearly evident in her face. Then a decision, just as clearly reached. "And what, m'lord, would you do without a healer here to take care of you?" Nala asked, raising her eyes.

"Probably what I did before. Try to patch the wounds as best I could."

"And wear new scars and weave stories to cover them? No, that's a bad idea, m'lord."

"I have a name, my dear. I would _very_ much like to hear it from your lips."

"M'lord Valak." A quick glance at him.

He looked at the ceiling. "It's a start, anyway." Valak beckoned to her. "Come here."

She hesitated, looking at him. "I can say no?"

"You're a free woman. Consider yourself either healer caste or casteless, but free."

Nala moved closer to him, finally working her way up against his bare right shoulder. "So, now what, m'lord. . . .Valak?"

"I thought you might show me those exercises," he told her, mildly. "I'd hate to lose coordination in my left hand."

Nala's mouth opened and closed again, and, after a moment, she started to chuckle, almost against her will. "You're _impossible_, m'lord."

"No, merely improbable. And thus, far more likely to be true."


	93. Chapter 93: War Approaches

**Chapter 93: War Approaches**

**Dempsey, In transit and Mindoir, May 1, 2196**

"Look, lady, I know there's a state of emergency on Earth. I'm trying to reach Amy Perry, in Boston—or a _William_ Perry, if it comes down to it." Dempsey could feel the first surges of anger creeping into him. Still distant. Still, unmistakably there, though. "I'm trying to find out if she and my son are okay."

"Sir, you can check the Red Cross listings for the fatalities—"

Dempsey felt his eyes narrow. "I've _checked_ the Red Cross listings," he said, flatly, leaning forward and staring at the screen. "They're not listed, but that doesn't mean that they might not be sick—"

"I'm _sorry_," the operator told him, sounding exhausted. "I have to tell you what I've told everyone else for the past eight hours. All lines are busy, and emergency intercepts are being reserved for _actual_ emergencies." Her image flickered off the screen.

"God _damn_ it," Dempsey swore, and lowered his head. Started humming under his breath. It was dangerous to control the anger this way. Music let him _access_ the emotions a little more freely, but the anger was always accessible. Sometimes, uncontrollable. Angry music at least let him _channel_ the rage. _They, they betray, I'm your only true friend now. . . _ Slowly, he started to relax. Felt the muscles in his shoulder loosen, unknot.

The door of the port observation lounge opened, and Zhasa entered. He found it faintly amusing that she had to turn her whole head to look at him, or at least to let him _see_ that she was looking at him. "Any luck?" she asked, politely.

He shook his head, still humming under his breath, watching his hands clench and unclench. After a few moments, he managed, quietly, "Three tries. I'm half-tempted to ask Ylara to make the call for me. . . but that would be a little unethical, I guess."

Zhasa glided closer, and found a seat nearby. She tended to have a very upright posture when walking, but when she sat down, she relaxed completely, a loose-limbed sprawl that reminded him of a lounging cat. "You still worry for your wife?"

Dempsey considered that. "Not really," he said, with a shrug. "I don't actually _feel_ anything for her. But I'm concerned about my son."

She shook her head. "You're confusing, even for a human, Dempsey. Admittedly, I don't have much experience with humans, but. . . you're trying to move the stars in their paths to find out what's happened with your son. And yet you don't _sound_ much more than _concerned_, no." Zhasa shook her head again. "I know what you've told me, about the chip, and how it's infiltrated much of the emotional center of your brain. But it seems to me, that if you felt nothing at all, beyond, perhaps, a certain responsibility, that you would have stopped with only one attempt to make contact." Zhasa spread her hands out widely. "And that if you felt nothing at all, you wouldn't have spent so much of the past several days playing catch with young Shellara, building a fort with her. . . him. . . in the cargo hold, and whatever else."

Dempsey shrugged. "Kid needed to be kept occupied, and I wasn't doing anything else. Beat the hell out of cleaning rifles that had already been cleaned."

Zhasa made a rude noise through her suit filters. "My point is, Dempsey, that there _do_ seem to be emotional underpinnings to many of your actions. There is simply a disconnect between their existence and your ability to perceive them."

Dempsey leaned back in the chair by the comm panel, hearing it creak under his weight. "You think so?"

_I know so._ Her thoughts always felt like rich, dark velvet. An acutely _tactile_ sensation, and very unusual for biotic contact.

He grimaced. "Y'know, humans _do_ find that a little rude." Dempsey reinforced his mental shields.

"And asari find openness more appealing. More honest." Her voice was calm. "I was _trained_ by asari."

"Doesn't mean _I_ was." His tone was still flat, but hints of irritation, boiling up from below. He didn't _want_ her picking at whatever stray remnants of emotion he might have, like some kind of archaeological dig. He was doing pretty well, overall. The music helped him control himself, so he wasn't a danger to the kid, or himself, or anyone else, most days. And Dempsey thought there was a very bad chance that, if he _did_ suddenly access all of his emotions, all at once, that he'd _feel_ what had been done to him, feel what he'd lost, and would absolutely _lose_ it for a while. And he kind of liked the bulkheads and plasteel windows where they were right now. Between him and the vacuum of space, thank you very much.

_You wouldn't do that. _Quiet assurance.

"Yeah? Have you seen the damage in my quarters back on base?" He refused to respond biotically. "Besides, how the _hell_ would you know what I would and wouldn't do?"

_You didn't hurt me in training. You didn't kill that turian in the Dymion shipyards. Sings-to-the-Sky says you have. . . control-songs._

"Whatever the hell _that_ means."

She stood up suddenly and moved towards him. Stopped inches away, and pointed a gloved finger at his nose. _I'm locked up inside this damned suit. You're locked up inside your own head. Who's more of a prisoner, Dempsey? Me, or you?_

He started humming under his breath again. _You, you're my mask, you're my cover, my shelter. . I'm your dream, make you real. . . I'm your pain when you can't feel. _

"Is it _always_ the same song that lets you control the anger?" This question was out loud, at least. Thankfully. He nodded, briefly. "And that doesn't suggest anything to you?"

"Like _what?_" That actually came out with some force to it. "It's an _earworm_, Zhasa."

"A _what?"_ Her tone was disgusted. "A parasite?"

Dempsey knew he'd have laughed. Long ago. Instead, he just looked at her. "Usually, an earworm is a song that you can't _stand_, but gets stuck in your head anyway. I'm lucky that this is a _good_ one, that comes to mind easily, and more or less plays on its own in my head. I don't even have to concentrate on it, once I get it going."

Zhasa sighed. _Isn't it possible that this is because the song has __meaning__ for you. That, in this case, the emotional detachment __is__ your mask, your shelter. That it protects you from the pain._

Dempsey looked away. The analysis was pretty good, he had to admit, but he didn't much appreciate it. "You a shrink now, too?" If he'd been capable of it, it would have been a sneer. As it was, it was a flat inquiry. _Hate. Hate, I'm your hate when you want love._

"No. I just _listen_, Dempsey." Zhasa's tone was frustrated. "It's not hard. Matter of fact, it's almost impossible _not_ to listen when you start singing in your head like that. It's. . .loud."

His lips quirked up, very faintly, at the corners. "Rock music's _supposed_ to be loud."

"I think I'm going biotically _deaf._"

"Then you won't be able to hear me as much, right? Everyone wins."

She crouched down, putting her head right on level with his as he sat in the chair. He could vaguely see the gleam of _something_ in the depths of that helmet that looked like eyes. Not for the first time, he wondered what the _hell_ she looked like under there. _Mammalian, probably. The quarian kid that I saw when they brought her to the base. . . he had white hair, short._ His analytical faculties took over, and he glanced down. _Breasts. . . well, asari have those, too, and they're not exactly mammals. So could be anything under there, really._ "My point, Dempsey," Zhasa said, in a very patient tone, recapturing his attention, "is again, that thoughts _that_ powerful are generally associated with strong emotion. Analytical thought is usually quiet. Just now, when you went off on that tangent, I could barely hear it." She paused. "Which was unusual. Most of the time, when males start to speculate about what's under the suit, it's. . . not all that analytical." Her voice was a little amused.

_Pay, pay the price, pay, for nothing's __fair__._ "Yep, that's me. Unusual all the way."

_Now that? That was louder. No, it's not fair what they did to you. And I don't even know everything they did._

_What the __fuck__ do you want?_ The anger slipped free, white-hot rage, all at once, in spite of the careful control, and it _bounced_ off her shielding, which she pulled into place almost instantly. _Zhasa, don't __pick__ at it, I can't always control it when it slips loose like that—_ Not panic. Concern. He'd just hit her with a _lot_ of force, and she hadn't deserved it, but he _couldn't_ always stop it.

_I was trying to __get__ you to unleash for a moment. I'm fine._ She pulled up her wrist, showing her omnitool. "The chip definitely modulated its output when your temper spiked. It couldn't handle the load, couldn't _dampen_ everything. It sends signals through the nanotubules all through the amygdala, correct?"

"Yes. That's why they can't remove it. They might be able to shut it down, but they're not sure how much of my cybernetics it controls. Shutting it down might actually kill me." Dempsey's voice had gone dull again. _She was __trying__ to provoke me? Is she insane?_

"Dempsey, don't you see what I'm trying to say here? In proximity to _very_ strong emotion, the chip can't distribute the dampening effect completely." Zhasa actually sounded a little excited now.

He shook his head. "Only anger ever seems to get through. Except through music. That's. . . the only time I can feel even shadows of anything else." _And god, it feels wonderful._ "Look, I . . . think you're _nuts_ for trying to provoke my temper like that—and _don't_ do it again—but I appreciate that you're trying to help." _In your own completely insane way._

The human turned away, keying up the comm panel again, trying once again to contact Earth. "Dempsey," Zhasa said, behind him. "I'm trying to tell you I _think_ there might be a way to . . . I don't know. Reconnect you. Or at least, help you start remapping the emotional connections in your brain. They're _there._ Look at you. You're already trying to call Earth. Again. And you've _been_ trying since they released the last set of death tolls on the extranet." _Why won't you __listen__?_

Dempsey stood up from the chair, all at once. Stared down at her. "All right," he said, quietly. "What do you think you've come up with that all the doctors on the Spectre base, and that Spectre Sky and everyone else in god's creation haven't come up with?" It was a fairly brutal way to put it, and he could almost feel her flinch.

"It's. . . you're right," she said, after a moment. "It's probably nothing. I'm sorry I intruded." Zhasa turned to head back out the door. She hesitated, though, one hand at the panel that would open it. "It's just that you're. . . I want to help."

Dempsey stared at the starfield outside as they streaked along in FTL drive. They weren't bothering with stealth right now. Too much work to do, Ylara had told them. Too many places to be, and too few bodies to do the work with. Everyone was needed, and everyone needed to be at their best. "I'm sorry," he said, after a moment. "Sometimes my mouth starts to run before my brain actually gets in gear." He turned around. "Was uncalled for."

She was still at the door, so he stepped over to her. "Say your piece."

Zhasa hesitated. "Were any of the doctors who evaluated you actually asari?"

Dempsey thought about it and shrugged. "Dunno. Don't remember any."

Another distinct hesitation. "Do you know what _maieolo'rae_ is?"

Dempsey squinted at her. "Sounds like that word Shel was using." He couldn't quite call the kid _Shellara_. "Something about how you were putting words in his head."

"Yes. . . it's how asari teach their children. Direct mental contact, for a great deal of it. They have a lot of different levels of _maieolo,_ of. . . sharing." Her voice sounded slightly tight.

"You've mentioned that they like _openness._" Very, very faint sarcasm in his tone.

"_Maieolo'rae'kiia_ is about the most I can do," Zhasa said, after a moment. "I've, ah, done it before. On Illium. And I think it might help you."

He squinted at her dubiously. And, activating the chip, cautiously ran an extranet search while they were talking. "You do realize I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, right?" Information, flicking in through the chip. Humming under his breath, combating the pain. Concentrating on _anything_ else but it, in fact. _Maieolo'rae_, the little touch, which children use among each other, or between mothers and children. Sharing of thoughts, impressions, love. No physical contact, other than holding or hugging. _M__aieolo'saeo_, the knowing touch. Exchange of information. Impersonal, no physical contact. _M__aieolo'loa'kareo_. Full mental integration and sexual contact. _M__aieolo'rae'kiia. _Full mental openness, light physical intimacy. _Maieolo'rae'kareo –_ sexual contact without mental contact. Considered . . . slightly uncouth among asari. As if the partners had something to hide. _She's quarian, though. What the hell?_ Out loud, he said, dryly, "I'm afraid that sex isn't usually a cure for anything other than a bad case of blue balls. Oh, and sometimes it works pretty good on insomnia." _Besides, not like I'm much good for that._

Her mental tone became more than a little exasperated. _I'm not saying __sex__. I couldn't do anything physical with you anyway. Which slightly annoyed one of the asari I did __m__aieolo'rae'kiia__ with, I might add._ Her tone was amused. _I was perfectly fine with exchanging full memories and thoughts, but the fact that I wouldn't take my suit off and risk my health to satisfy their curiosity? _She made a rude sound, out loud, for comic effect.

He just stared at her for a moment. "I thought even mental sex was sex for asari. All they need to do to get pregnant, really."

Zhasa shrugged. "I told them I wasn't interested in having _children_ with them, but that memories, thoughts, feelings. . . sure." She sighed. _I just think that if you accessed someone's emotions, other than your own, felt_ _through_ _them, intensely, it would probably overload the chip for a time. And if done periodically, might allow you to allow neurons to begin remapping around the infiltration of the chip architecture. I'm not a neurologist, but it seems likely to me. It makes sense. You could probably even sing, if you liked._ That sounded downright impish. _Oh. . . wait. Your religion? That's an impediment?_

Dempsey shook his head, dubiously. "Amy was the good Catholic. Not me. I'm biotic." He snorted a little. "Church has spent the last fifty years or so debating whether biotics are unnatural, taking the power of god into the hands of man, or whether we're blessed, saints on earth, more or less. I said to hell with the Church by the time I was twelve, and so had my parents. If they couldn't figure out if I was damned for _pride_ for being _born_ this way, I wanted nothing more to do with them. Amy. . . well. . . let's just say she was a little uneasy about it, and leave it at that." Amy had wanted the church wedding, with the full sacrament, and he'd let her have her way. When any damn justice of the peace would have done _nicely_, in his opinion. Dempsey looked at the console again. Debated starting another comm call to Earth. Decided against it.

Zhasa shook her head. "Humans are. . . bizarre."

He hesitated. The concept of being able to _feel_ something—anything, really, even if it wasn't _his_ emotion—was tempting. Of course, the last time he'd found an offer tempting, he'd wound up strapped to an operating table. _Chances are, Zhasa's not going to do that. But the repercussions could be. . . bad._ "How would this work?" he found himself asking, after a moment. "Here? Now?" Not really the best idea. Ylara and the kid could walk in at any moment, and he had no _idea_ which switches might get pressed in his head. Ylara could take care of herself, but he didn't want a Spectre sending in a report on him to the effect of 'he's still violent and unstable.' And the kid? No.

"For now, just. . . think about it. We can try back on base." Zhasa tilted her head back to look at him. "Now that I _know_ how strong you are, I can keep my shields up pretty much indefinitely. You're _very_ unlikely to hurt me."

_Yeah. You say that now,_ he thought, burying the words deep in his mind.

Ylara entered the room at that point, Shellara running along in the Spectre's wake, and there was no more time for conversation. Shel ran over and hugged Zhasa's legs. Dempsey leaned over and told the asari child, "Give me five?"

"Five what?"

Dempsey held up his hand, palm out. "Slap my hand."

Warily, the asari did so. "See? That's five. If I hold up both hands, and you slap them both with your hands, that's ten."

"Ohhh, fingers."

"Yeah."

"But why would you want me to slap you? Teachers say that hitting is wrong." The little voice was plaintively confused.

"You're not hitting to hurt. You're slapping lightly, when I invited you to do so."

"It's a social gesture of approval, common among some groups of humans," Ylara said, her tone amused. "Don't worry about it, Shellara."

They arrived at Mindoir later in the day. There was an aura of _tension_ on the base. The few Spectres he saw all looked ready for combat at a moment's notice. Any time their omnitools pinged, they glanced down, sharply. _They're waiting for the word __go__,_ Dempsey thought. And none of the ones _he_ knew, personally, seemed to be around, other than Garrus and Shepard, who met with them and Ylara when the _Sollostra_ came in for a landing. "How're Lantar and Sam doing?" Ylara asked, immediately, on seeing them.

Garrus shook his head. "Sick as hell. They, and everyone with them, got both the viral _s'kak_ and the bacterial infection."

Ylara's face went milky. "All of them?"

"Eli, Serana, Linianus, Dara, Rel, Lantar, and Sam," Shepard agreed. "Abrams is with them, and he's cautiously optimistic. Says if they've survived _this_ long, the odds seem to be pretty good. Most people with the dual infections die in the first forty-eight hours once symptoms hit."

Dempsey's hands clenched. Ylara shook her head, her expression deeply sorrowful. "Shellara, this is Commander Lilitu Shepard, and her husband, Garrus Vakarian."

Shellara hid behind Zhasa and would _not_ come out. Dempsey looked at Ylara, shrugged, and crouched down. "You keep hiding like that, people are going to think you don't have a face," he said. "They'll think, 'yeah, that Shel, has a head, but no eyes, no nose, no mouth, no ears.'"

The head emerged, cautiously. "I do, too."

"Then what's the matter?" Dempsey very carefully put a hand on that little shoulder. And wondered, for an instant, if Madison had inherited any of _his_ biotics. _Wouldn't that just be grand for Amy and Mr. William Perry?_ He opened his mental shields, just a little, and caught a conversation between Zhasa and the little asari child.

_Teachers said she destroyed a whole planet. Our homeworld. She's bad._

_No, the Reapers destroyed Thessia. I watched Reapers come for Illium, too, but the human-turian fleet pushed them back. _Warm, soft thoughts, like a child's favorite blanket.

He couldn't do that. But he could do _this._ _Wow. So far, your teachers wouldn't teach you to throw a ball, wouldn't teach you to give high fives. I think your teachers were really smart, but they didn't know everything._

Shellara uncurled from behind Zhasa. Looked up at Ylara, then at Shepard. "Hello." And then the child ducked back into cover again.

Shepard sighed. "I know the paint's scary, but I promise I'm not the bogeyman."

Shellara peeked out again. "Is this where I get to live? Until my mom gets better?" Shel paused. "I think it's prettier here than at the school."

Dempsey looked around. No crystal statues, no crystal fountains, no elaborately planted gardens. But he tended to agree with Shel on that one. This . . . was a good place.

Garrus crouched down. "Yeah. You'll be staying here." He glanced up at Ylara, and shook his head, very faintly. Dempsey didn't need to read the turian's thoughts to understand that one. _Shit. The kid's mother died._ He didn't envy Ylara being the one to have to tell Shel that. _Someday, Mother will come and take me home, away from the teachers who don't like me very much_, had probably been the kid's whole mythology, the only thing that had kept him going.

"Come on, Shellara," Ylara said now, taking the child's hand. "I want you to meet my little girl. And my more-than-fair. He's an elcor. You'll probably like him."

In the barracks that night, Dempsey sat, fiddling with the guitar strings. He'd found a few old songs he liked, that sort of summed up the situation right now. One called _Spreading the Disease_. Another called _Down with the Sickness_. But neither quite captured it for him. He'd never been any good with lyrics, though. He'd left that to the singer of their crappy little garage band. _Biotic Fury_. _Man, that name sucked._ All four of them had been biotics, though. They'd even done their own stage effects. Had gotten good enough to play at local bars—although, if people were drunk enough, it probably didn't matter how _good_ the music was, so long as it was _there_ and _loud_. It had paid _nothing_, but they'd been sweaty and exhilarated and often pissed by the end of each evening—pissed at the people listening, who'd jeered or thrown things, exhilarated by the people who'd gotten into the music with them. Dempsey had, early on, taken to leaving his shirt off on stage. Not out of exhibitionism, but purely to try to keep _cool_ under the damned lights, and among the crowds of bodies.

But even though he'd been a zilch at lyrics, he _had_ been able to come up with chord progressions that _worked_. Melodies that . . . carried the words along, no matter how crappy the words were. Once upon a time, anyway. _No, that's not right. Needs more of a minor sound. . . ._ _yeah, that's right. That sounds better. That sounds like. . . someone tossing in their sleep, sweating, moaning in pain. . . and then way lay in this note, over it, and that's the galaxy's rage. . . . _

A light tap on the door. Dempsey sighed, stilled the strings, and stood up to answer it. And blinked. Somehow, he actually _hadn't_ expected Zhasa. He looked past her into the hall. "Did I miss dinner or something?" he asked.

"No. Just. . . heard you playing." She shrugged. "If I'm going to be listening anyway, I may as well hear all of it, not just little bits and pieces from down the hall."

"Sorry. I can turn it down."

"No. That's all right. Besides, you're more interesting to listen to when you're playing." She lifted a hand inquiringly, and he pulled back, letting her come into the room. She found a chair and sat down in that loose-limbed way she had, and leaned her head back. Dempsey shrugged and started playing again. Pretty soon, he was completely lost in the process, finding the chords that _worked_ together, made the harmony _fit._

_Did your wife like listening to you play?_ The thought stole through his mind. Whisper, velvet-soft.

_Did at first. While we were still in school. A year after we got married, though, not so much. Thought it was an excuse to go out to bars, and not spend time with her._

_She no longer went with you?_

_Well, she was pretty pregnant by then. Bars aren't so good for the knocked-up. Smoke, booze, drunk people who don't look where they're going._ Dempsey found another interlocking chord progression, and tried it out, smiling faintly. _Yes, that's right, that's the Spectres going after whoever did this. . . building. . . .building. . . and then __on__ them._ He didn't ever _realize_ at the moment, that they weren't talking out loud.

_Did you leave her alone often?_

_Not usually by choice. All four of us were in the service—had to be. Biotics. All stationed at the same base, though I'd gotten N7, so I was doing intensive training at first. We all tried to get together once a month, though. I was the only married one, so we tried meeting at my place for a while. Amy didn't like that, either. No time to play together, no rehearsals, no gigs. Wound up being just the four of us going out and listening to other people play for a while. . . and then we all started getting deployed. Pretty much took care of that._

_Dempsey?_

_Hmm?_

_This is maieolo'saeo. Not so bad, is it? Mostly impersonal. Just words, a few images—I can see the faces of your friends. Pick up their names. Alex Moran. Thomas Fitzpatrick. Matthew O'Dwyer._

His fingers had gone completely still on the strings and he started to shut down _everything_.

_Don't stop playing! There was friendship there, warmth. Good times. Irritation with your wife, but love, too._

Dempsey grimaced, very slightly, and let his fingers fiddle with the strings again. But his concentration, the _flow_ of the song, was broken.

_I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pointed it out. I just thought you should __realize__ it before I pushed in, any deeper than just listening._ Dark, soft velvet, like the petals of some really exotic flower. Cat fur. _Just play, all right?_

He found the melody again, but it was darker now. Angrier. _Why do you get so __very__ upset at the idea of being open? Haven't you ever wanted to see all of someone, touch all of them—_

_Of course I have!_ He put a _lot_ of power behind that one, and the guitar snarled in his hands like a living thing.

Zhasa sat up—stood up, actually—and crossed to him. Sat down on the bed next to him, gingerly. _Open to me,_ she told him. _It won't hurt. I promise, it won't hurt._

Careful, tentative matching of thoughts. Peeling away layer after layer of controls. A lifetime of memories. _Not that one. _

_It's what you're thinking about right now. Difficult not to look._

_It's tough not to look at car accidents too, but decent people don't._

_Just let me in, and I'll let you in, and it'll be all right. Here, you look for a moment. Anything you want to. I won't stop you._

_Illium. Reapers hanging in the sky over the towering spires. People running everywhere, screaming, seekers buzzing through the air, blotting out the sky. Matriarch Aethyta beside her. "We have to get these people to safety. Can you shield them?"_

_Looking at the crowd of fifty refugees. Swallowing hard. "If they stay together, yes. Crowd in tightly. Anyone who steps outside the shield is lost." Dropping her own personal shields had been terrifying, a moment of absolute vulnerability, and then she'd managed to get her large, protective shield up. Aethyta had simply levitated her, and then pushed her along in front of her. A couple of random Collectors fired shots at them; the barrier absorbed them, of course, harmlessly. . . and Aethyta simply blew the creatures apart with a powerful shockwave or two._

"_Where are we taking them?" _

"_A safe place. My father was krogan, you know that? I inherited more than just his mouth. I like bunkers, sometimes, too. Down we go, girl." Steps. Hundreds and hundreds of steps. The refugees were crying, clutching each other. Bone-weary, footsore, stumbling on the steps. "Keep it together, people," Aethyta warned. Seekers everywhere. The instant_ _anyone__ stepped out of the barrier, a seeker would strike, and they stood there, helpless. Eyes alert, terrified, __aware__, but body frozen. And Zhasa couldn't do __anything__ to save them. Had to focus on protecting the group. Had to leave them to die, even though her heart cried out to __save__ them. Could hear them, faintly, in her head, begging her not to leave them behind. __Don't leave us, don't leave us._

Dempsey swallowed, hard. Anguish. Real, true, anguish. It _hurt_, but it was _real_ and he'd take _any_ of this he could get. _More, please, god, more. _

_Pick something else. Please, pick __anything__ else._ Zhasa's head was bowed. Her helmet was on his shoulder, grinding in uncomfortably. _That wasn't a good day._

_Working in the Flotilla. Trying to make sense of some random piece of alien technology, half badly designed, half badly made—_

—_like that chip in your head? See, prior experience and everything. _Her amusement in _his_ head.

—_crowded living ships, officers and families had proper quarters. Her mother and father, having given the Flotilla a rare biotic, rated tiny quarters of their own, in addition to their work in the engineering section of the __Irria_. _The closeness of the children in the crèche, the clean rooms. All holding one another, clinging to one another. Oldest ones being literally torn out of the arms of the younger ones, by suited adults. "No, it's __time__. You have to go and put on the suit now. You're too old to stay here, there are young ones coming out of the nursery soon who need your place._

"_I don't want to go, I don't want to go, I don't want to be in the suit and cut off from everyone and no one will ever see my face again—let go of me, let go of me!"_

_The screams had been heart-rending, the more so because Zhasa could feel the fear behind them. Shared it. She was next oldest. She'd be the next one to be dragged out of her. No, I won't be dragged. I'll walk out. But I don't want to wear a suit. They can't make me._

_And so, when they'd come for her, she had walked out. And had resisted the suit technician, who surely saw ten or twelve children a week from all the different ships, and was bored and impatient with the process. "Just get in the damn suit. Here. It's easy. Look." He grabbed one of her feet and started shoving her foot into the leg hole of the suit—and she'd fought him. A sharp cuff to the face, and then he'd tried to cram the helmet on her head—and she'd thrown him into the wall, with her mind._

_Panic, fear, regret, shame, anger, oh, god, wonderful, so wonderful, please, more, please, more._ A limbic system basically _unused_ was suddenly flooding with neurotransmitters, and he dimly realized he was holding onto her suited form, clutching her like a lifeline.

_Can we look at good days? Or at your days?_ Slightly plaintive.

Confusion. He didn't even know what she could possibly want to see of his life. Light touch on his mind, and then deeper melding. Too much. Velvety softness everywhere, touching everything, and he started to recoil, but the memory was already playing. _Undoing the snaps on the back of the white dress, hands shaking just a little. Amy had insisted on being a __very__ good girl, and he'd gritted his teeth and endured. But now, finally, free to kiss and touch and show her that he did, in fact, love her, even if he couldn't get the damn ring right. . . flash ahead, bare skin, in bed, joining their bodies together, opening his mind to her, wanting to touch all of her, all at once—"What do you think you're __doing?__" Outrage. Anger. _

"_You have got to be shitting me. You don't want me to touch your mind?" For the love of god, I'm in you, it feels great, you like it, why won't you let me feel what you're feeling so I know if I'm doing it right?_

"_I told you before, I don't want you listening to my mind. It's not right. I can't listen back. It's like eavesdropping." Face closed down, no more eager anticipation, no more happiness._

_He'd sworn then. "You're really not kidding? What, you're afraid I'm going to realize you're picturing someone from a damn movie, or thinking about what you need to get at the store?" He pulled out, rolled over. Clenched his teeth over the residual urgency, but it had been fading. Fast, actually, in the light of the pure, stone-cold rejection. "Some wedding night, Amy. Thanks."_

"_James, I'm sorry, I just can't—it's not—"_

"_I got that part. Never mind."_

"_I said, I'm sorry—"_

"_And I don't want to talk about it. Fuck." He'd still loved her. Had given her the distance she needed. Respected it as best he could. And had nodded when she'd told him, after Madison was born, that she didn't think it appropriate for him to touch the boy's mind, either. But that one? He'd ignored her on that. Had gently touched that bewildered boggle of inchoate sensory impressions and confusion, and given it reassurance. Pretty lights. Music to listen to. Love, unspoken, but very real. _

_Two years of light mental touches like that. Had it been __any_ _wonder that Mad's first word had been "Daddy?" Amy hadn't been able to understand it. He'd been deployed for half the boy's life. And yet, every time he came home, Madison __recognized__ him. Wasn't shy. Crawled, toddled, or __ran__ to him. And then, in an eyeblink, ten more years had passed. Madison __hadn't_ _recognized him the last time. Not really. And he hadn't __dared__ touch his son's mind to see if that old connection was still there. And now he might never get that chance._

_How could she not want this? _Total confusion from Zhasa. _You were going to give her __maieolo'loa'kareo__, full sharing, all of you, and she didn't want it?_

_Guess she was scared_. He had felt it all over again, and it had _sucked_ just as badly as it had the first time. But it was _his_ and he'd felt it and it was, in a horrible way, wonderful because of that. Even if he could only feel it refracted through Zhasa. _Is. . . is this all? Just memories?_ Very, very faint amusement. _Am I cured yet, Doc?_

_Maieolo'rae'kiia__ goes deeper than this. We're just at the surface, really. Might take a whole lot more sessions than just this one. If it works at all._ Her tone was hopeful, though. _You do seem a __little__ better. Though I don't know if it'll last past breaking the connection._

_Just a little longer. Please. You have no idea how good it is to feel again._

_Actually. . . I have a very good idea. Could you loosen your arms a little? I actually do need my ribs for breathing. _

Dempsey's lips curved up, very faintly. And his shoulders shook, once. It was almost a laugh.

**Shellara, Mindoir, May 1, 2196**

Tulluust was _funny_. "Interested: Hello, young one. What is your name?"

"Shellara," she said, looking up and up and up at the elcor. "I've never met an elcor before. You're really big."

"Informative: Most other species currently existing on my homeworld have evolved large statures to fend off increasingly larger predators over the last million years." Tulluust looked down at her gravely. "Interrogative: Would you like to ride on my shoulders for a while, young one? Telluura, our daughter, likes to do this as well."

Telluura was very small. Probably only four years old, she still babbled in a mishmash of sounds. But once they were both up on Tulluust's big shoulders, Shellara held the little girl ahead of her carefully as they rocked back and forth in time with Tulluust's shambling strides. After only a half a dozen steps, the little girl's head started to droop, however. And five minutes later, she was asleep, mouth open a little bit. "Pleased: Good. That always encourages her to nap," the elcor said, crouching down so that Ylara could lift the little one off his back.

"That's not fair," Shellara objected. "You trick her? She thinks she gets to play, and really, you just want her to take a nap?"

"Pleased: Yes."

Shellara got down hastily. "_I'm_ not taking a nap."

"With resignation: Yes, you are probably too old for such things. Question: Might you play quietly in the living room, with the books and the vids there? Some of them pertain to my work with the flowering plants and trees of Earth and Palaven that we are adapting to grow on the base. You might find the images aesthetically pleasing."

Shellara nodded, smiling. Tulluust didn't seem to talk down to her. Neither did Dempsey. Or Zhasa. Or Ylara. _This is the best place to live __ever__._

After dinner, though—which Tulluust prepared. . . .very slowly. . . Ylara took her upstairs. "This is going to be your room for a while," the Spectre said. She was a very calm person, Shellara had noticed. The occasional smile broke through, but almost no irritation. Not like the teachers, who were frequently frazzled by all the children in the rooms. _Self-composure_, whispered one of the teachers' voices in her mind. _What you, more than anyone else here, needs to learn._

Shellara looked up at her. "For how long?" she asked.

Ylara sighed. "Maybe for a very long time. You see, Shellara, your mother was very, very sick. A lot of people on Bastion still are. But your mother was one of the first to catch it. And she passed to the Goddess yesterday. I'm so very sorry, dear. I haven't known how to tell you." One hand was on Shellara's shoulder. Dark blue eyes, full of compassion, waiting to see what Shellara would do.

Shellara looked down, away from those eyes. She barely remembered her mother. The pictures the teachers had shown her were more vivid in her mind than the memory of the handful of visits she'd had, over the years. There was a hollowness in her stomach, though. The wistful voice of her dreams, which had told her, over and over again, that someday, Mama would finally come and take her out of the school. Take her to Bastion. Tell her that she was loved and wanted and allowed to come home at last. A single tear trickled down her face. "Did she hurt?"

Ylara's fingers tightened on her shoulder. "Probably, little one," she told Shellara. Honesty. "But she doesn't hurt anymore."

Shellara thought about that. "Should I hurt?"

_Do you?_

_A little. I miss her. _If Shellara had been a little older, she would have realized that she missed the _thought_ of her mother, since Essallia had been so little in her life to begin with.

_She loved you, and wanted, more than anything, to protect you. To keep you safe from harm._ Pure, calm assurance and understanding there. Like the teachers said listening to the voice of the Goddess was like.

Shellara looked up in awe. _No, little one. I'm not the Goddess. Nor do I speak for her. I am too flawed a vessel for __that__. I know hate and anger and revenge, and when I have a target in my sight, I do not pause, and I do not show mercy._ Ylara gently wiped the tears out of Shellara's eyes with delicate fingertips. _But for little ones like you? Like my own lost daughter, Kella—_surge of grief there, so intense, so despairing, it locked Shellara's throat up. It made the sense of distant loss for her own mother seem a pale thing. . . and then Ylara put it away. Covered it back up with calmness. There was something about it, though, something that related to _Shellara_ in it. Shellara frowned. What could that mean?

Ylara sighed. _At any rate, little one. You are __welcome__ here, for the nonce. Tulluust and I have to discuss with one another if he's willing to take care of __two__ children now. Since I am. . . often not here._

Panic. Pure, unmitigated panic. Ylara had only just brought her here, and now was going away again, just like her mother? _Shh, little one. I __might__ bring you with me on my ship, as I often brought Kella. But not every mission. Otherwise, Telluura would be jealous, wouldn't she? And there are many, many others here on base. Teachers in the valley at the school you'll attend. _Faces flashed through her mind. _Salarians—including a salarian __girl__ who attends the school. Turians. Humans. Quarians. Hybrids—human/turian, anyway. Other asari. Drell. A handful of hanar. It's like Bastion here. . . but better._

The panic started to ease, giving way to fascination. _Everyone__ is different here?_

_Yes. Narayana is a female salarian—rare, especially off of Sur'Kesh. Adopted by a human and turian couple. Her father—her original father, who died a few months ago—told me the salarian males wouldn't play with her. They're afraid of her. Do you think you might be kind to her? She's your age, but a little bigger. Salarians grow up too fast._

_Of course I will_. From fear to interest to acceptance, so fast that Shellara didn't realize how gently she'd been eased.

_Good. We'll go into the valley tomorrow, and you can look at the school._

_Will Dempsey and Zhasa be at the school?_

Ylara chuckled a little. _No, dear. They're grownups. But they might visit here._

_Do their children go here?_ Confused image of a little human, in a quarian suit, but without the helmet on.

Ylara blinked, and there was a wave of puzzlement. _They don't have—_

_-he has a 'son?'_ Confusion at the term.

_Ah, yes. His child is back on Earth. _

_Does he have more than one? When I listen—I don't touch his mind, but when I listen, he has pictures in his head of a young one and an older one, at the same time._

_Both are the same child. It's. . . complicated._ Ylara sat back. "Are you ready for bed?"

Shellara shrugged. It _felt_ too early for bed, but the teachers said that bedtime was bedtime. "I guess."

"I meant, are you _tired_?"

Head-shake. "No."

"Would you like to read in bed for a little, while I get Telluura ready for bed? I hardly ever have a chance to tuck her in." Ylara's voice had a little longing in it.

Eager nod. "Oh, _may_ I?"

**Voice-of-Peace-Among-Chaotic-Currents; Kahje, May 1, 2196**

"Spectre Blasto?" Olonkoa's gestures were respectful as he drifted into the underwater meeting room of his home. The base of the house had been built underwater over a century ago, out of rubble, largely; coral and polyps had been encouraged to grow over the walls. The ceiling, as such, was a translucent membrane that kept out predators, such as large, aggressive fish and sharks. At least, here. The other half of the house stood on tall, pillar-like legs, anchored in the sea floor, shadowing the waters underneath, where no coral now grew. That was where he met with off-worlders, and his drell servants, of course. But for a fellow hanar, only the water rooms would do. "This one greets you with humility and respect."

Blasto pulled in several tentacles in an approximation of a bow. "This one thanks you for your words. But one doubts the sincerity of them."

Olonkoa's colors muted. Almost entirely. An expression of shock, among hanar. "What do you mean, Spectre?" His patterns picked up speed once more. "You doubt my _sincerity? _My _honesty_?"

"This one regretfully must do so, yes." Blasto assessed his fellow hanar calmly. "You have in your employ one Seheve Liakos?"

"She and her family have been the personal servants of this one since she was six years old, yes. She was trained to fill the same needs as her father, and when this one entered into government service, this one gave her talents to the people of Kahje. She has been a member of the drell infiltration services since." Olonkoa's colors had begun to shimmer once more. _A set piece. Well-rehearsed_, Blasto assessed. His purpose here was not to challenge Olonkoa. Not to break the hanar's patterns. But to gather information. To decipher the mystery of the Lystheni's death.

"This one regrets to inform you that she is very ill on Bastion, then."

"Unfortunate. The Enkindlers will protect her, if she is true to them."

Blasto couldn't quite prevent the slight red flush of anger that spread through his bioluminescence. But he did prevent himself from forming the patterns on his skin that reflected his thoughts. _The Enkindlers were Protheans. Every thinking being knows this now. Worthy of respect, yes. Ancient, powerful, intelligent. But there are those who came __before__ them. The Keepers, Ruin's people. And before them, probably others. All the way back to the Sowers. Even the Sowers were not gods, though they might well have raised up the races that followed them. And __certainly__ created the Reapers, through their own folly. No, if there is an Enkindler, anywhere . . . it is a being outside of this universe. Not constrained by it. Or the Enkindler is the universe itself. Not a race of beings as fallible and mortal as ourselves._ Blasto let his tentacles drift now, having tensed, minutely, for a moment. "Perhaps," he replied, noncommittally. "Do you know of a hanar named Lluwyn?"

"Yes. A most _unfortunate_ business. His parents sought justice for his death for many years. It took my finding a report that _you_ presented to a closed-door meeting of the Council of the Waves, in which you discussed the salarian faction of the Lystheni, for this one to make the connection." Olonkoa was a member of the Council of the Waves, but Blasto only made reports to the very small panel that had oversight over black-ops. Olonkoa had been wiggling his way onto that panel for years, starting off on the internal security panel, and now, in the last two years, drifting into the external security panel. Blasto did not like the male. He gave the Spectre a bad feeling, as if he were about to drift into a net at any minute. "This one was able to correlate that data with some of the information Lluwyn's parents had given this one's office. Names of his associates, including a few _regrettable_ friendships with salarians. Did you know, he was actually involved in an archaeological dig at a sacred Enkindler site? His poor parents." Olonkoa's colors muted again, the equivalent of a sigh.

Blasto watched the colors, and thought, _Somehow, you are lying. I do not know how, or about what, but there is falsehood in you._ "Then you provided this information to the brotherhood of drell infiltrators, and they selected Seheve as a tool by which justice could be done?"

"Of course."

"It is interesting, Olonkoa, that this one can find no record of this. Nor does the Master of Assassins have any information about this contract." Blasto personally, had never had a drell servant. Never used an assassin, either. He was the most powerful hanar biotic his world had ever produced—and, to date, their only Spectre. _I have been too busy on other worlds to pay proper attention to Kahje_, he thought, glumly. _What has been happening here, in recent years? Who __is__ Olonkoa, really?_

"An oversight, surely," Olonkoa replied, smoothly, after a barely noticeable hesitation. "If this one may ask a question, Spectre?"

"You may ask."

"How is your spirit? Do you swim still in the light of the Enkindlers?"

_What an interesting question._ "This one swims in the light," Blasto replied. A minute gesture of his tentacles. "As do all with whom this one associates."

Olonkoa twisted in the water. "A fascinating claim. Commander Shepard, surely, cannot be said to know their light—"

"She speaks in their voice," Blasto riposted swiftly. _As do I, in a sense._ He allowed his bioluminescence to begin to pulsate, reinforcing it with biotics. The Voice of the Enkindlers, his teachers had called it, in fascination. Only a little. He wanted Olonkoa suggestible, not enraptured and unable to move. "What orders did you give Seheve Liakos?"

"To kill the Lystheni. In the name of Lluwyn. And as a test of her loyalty to the Enkindlers and the Cause."

"What is your Cause?"

There was a pause, and Blasto delicately amplified his power. Not too much, or Olonkoa would be a drifting mass of flesh.

"We seek to make all hear Their voices. Obedient to Their will."

_Ah. A zealot_. Blasto lifted a single tentacle, a gesture of pure resignation. "What other orders did you give to her?"

"When she is proposed as a Spectre agent, as someone with her record for effectiveness will surely be offered by our government, she will travel to the Spectre base. Find a way to become the next drell Spectre. And when she has accomplished this, she will be outside the law. Then she will destroy the lying construct, Watches-the-Gates-of-Ruin, and efface all his words."

"A difficult task, given that his memories are dispersed throughout the entire geth network. Tell me, would you have her destroy all the geth, to this end?"

A pause. "If it is necessary. Then somehow, it must be done."

_Delusions of genocide._ "What other orders?"

Olonkoa seemed to fight. Blasto ever-so-gently infused his light with power. Just a touch more. "This one told her. . . that if she was true, and loyal, and showed enough skill. . . that this one might employ her to kill Commander Shepard, in time. False voice. False prophet. Speaker of lies against the Enkindlers."

"And yet, you sought to test Seheve's loyalty?"

"Yes. This one has sense. . . doubt. Wavering. Too much time spent among the unbelievers. Her mind needed to be cleansed."

_Of that, I have no doubt._ Blasto was trembling in rage. He had almost never used his ability at its full power before. Usually, it was enough to hold a room of people in place, erase a memory. But Olonkoa was. . . an exception. "Speak your soul-name, Olonkoa."

"This one is Speaks-Truth-to-Unbelievers."

"There are others who share your goals?"

"Yes. A group of us. But this one is the Master, currently."

"Give me their names."

"Ulloro, Ymmirra, Ellstroa, Duluun."

"Thank you. You believe in the Enkindlers?"

"With all my heart."

"Then know their truth. Know their light." Blasto unleashed his full power and Olonkoa shuddered in the water. Light poured out of Blasto, light eternal and unending, or so it might have seemed to an observer. And with that light, he poured suggestions into Olonkoa's mind. _Forget. Forget. Forget. Forget your life. Forget your name. Forget yourself. Forget Seheve. Forget your plans. Forget. Forget. Forget._

And when he was certain that there was _nothing_ left, Blasto released Olonkoa from his power. "This one is grateful, sometimes, to be outside the law," he said.

Olonkoa shifted in the water, looking around in bewilderment. "Does this one know you?"

"No. This one is merely the voice of peace. This one has lifted you from a very dark path. Very few beings are given a second chance."

"Does. . . this one have a name?"

Blasto considered it. "Your soul-name is _Seeks-Truth-in-Many-Places._ Your face-name is Illoa." He paused. "Go forth from this place. Live your life in service to others. Do not return here. If this one finds you again, returned to ways of darkness, there will _be_ no third chance. Go. Go _now._"

Blasto jetted through the underwater house now, and then allowed his mass effect fields to carry him up into the main house. The drell housekeeper, an older female, hastened into the entry room, with its large pool, which led down into the sea below, looking concerned. "Spectre? Your meeting with the master is done?"

"Yes. Olonkoa was called away. He said it was a task of vital importance. He did not say what, only that it was in service to the Enkindlers."

She accepted that, without question, lowering her eyes. Blasto looked at her, and saw a spirit cowed into submission over close to two decades of constant repetition of the same simple truths. "Your name?"

"Gunora Liakos, Spectre."

"Your daughter is Seheve?"

The dark eyes lifted, eagerly. "Yes. I am so very proud of her. She is a good and obedient child."

"You have others?"

A marked hesitation. "I _had_ a son. Twin to Seheve. He refused to serve the master. He is no longer a son of mine."

"You should know that your daughter is ill on Bastion, and unlikely to survive. This one recommends making peace with your son, and letting him know of his twin's condition." Blasto tried to layer a certain amount of compassion into his voice, but it was difficult. While the mother was undoubtedly as _programmed_ as the daughter, she had undoubtedly contributed to making her child a machine. A tool of death. And in a cause that was senseless, and counter to the _message_ of the religion centered on the Enkindlers.

Gunora's mouth opened, and her wide eyes blinked. "May I. . . may I go to her? May I take care of her?"

Blasto swayed in the air, and listened to his VI chime his own reply. "Regrettably, no. You would be infected yourself, in short order. Hanar, salarians, geth, rachni, and krogan are immune. All of these species may enter Bastion and the other infection sites to care for the sick and the dying." He regarded her for a long moment. "If you send a message, it may get through to her. For now, I must bid you farewell."

On his ship, he composed a brief report for Shepard:

_This one must remain on Kahje for some time. There are. . . unsettling political currents that this one must attend to here. Seheve Liakos is likely to be presented as a candidate for the Spectres. From reviewing her record, she has exceptional skills, but you may object to how her abilities have been used in the past. As does this one, in fact._

_You should also be aware that she has been strongly indoctrinated with a fanatical variant of the belief in the Enkindlers, and has been tasked with destroying Watches-the-Gates-of-Ruin, and it has been suggested to her that she should look for ways in which to kill you, Commander Shepard. This one has not met her. This one cannot advise you if she is irreparably conditioned, or if she can be redeemed. This one suggests that Spectre Sings-to-the-Sky and several other biotics be present, if she is ever allowed onto the base. This all may be moot; she may not survive the diseases currently present on Bastion. As many others will not._

_For the moment, as this one attempts to uncover the full extent of the fanatical sect and its infiltration of the hanar government, this one recommends caution from the Spectres, and a façade of obliviousness. Allow events to unfold in the water as the currents from Kahje propel them. You have enough other concerns in hand._

_As always, if you require this one's services, inform this one, and this one will be there. This one will attempt to be present for the new Spectre candidacy trials as well._

_-Blasto_

**Fors Luka, Bastion, May 1, 2196**

Life on the damned station was getting progressively weirder by the day. And life for a volus was _always_ weird, off the homeworld, in the world of the pressure-challenged, with their freakish oxygen atmospheres and their thermal hothouse _nightmares_ of planets. Every day aboard Bastion was, for a volus, a terrifying walk through Hell. Heat, potential explosions, potential suffocation, and weird, ugly, unsettling creatures all around you. Many volus became surly or withdrawn as a result of the constant stress. Fors was one of the exceptions. He _liked_ living on Bastion. It was very far away from Irune, for starters, and the less time he spent around his current family, the less likely it was that they'd remember he existed and trade him again.

Plus, the aliens were interesting. If a little large, ungainly, and annoying apt to pick him up. At least Linianus had generally _warned_ him before picking him up and carrying him around like a child. Makur? Generally did not. "A fellow _does_ like to maintain a certain amount of dignity," Fors warned the krogan today, as they were the first to leave the apartment where the sick humans and turians were still under the watchful eyes of Dr. Abrams and the hanar nurse. The giant Terran _cat_ padded at Makur's heels, to Fors' considerable consternation. A biotic bond with an _animal_ was . . . unusual. To say the least.

"Do you think that anyone currently notices your loss of dignity, little volus?" Makur asked, his voice a huge rumble.

Fors turned and met one red eye, on level. _One thing to be grateful for_, _in this position,_ he decided. "Probably only myself," he admitted, after a moment.

Siara and Gris followed them out the door, which made Fors uneasy. _All_ of them leaving at once left the sick ones unguarded. He didn't think of Dr. Abrams and the nurse as _quite_ as much of impediments to intruders as, say, himself, or Gris. Siara held herself like a knife, poised for action at any moment, and she made him faintly uneasy on many levels. There was the glint of wildness in her eyes, quite different from any other asari he'd ever met, and there was the whole association with Makur, as well. Not that asari didn't associate with pretty much everyone, down to vorcha. But he'd had a notion that for most of them, it was largely a mental thing. He. . . didn't have that impression from this pair. And as little as he wanted to try to figure out the ins and outs of humans and turians—_hah, good one_—he really, _really_ didn't want to decipher asari and krogan. Volus at least _hatched_. Nice and simple. Keep the eggs in the warmer, liquid layers of the hydrocarbon seas, away from the water ice at the surface that sometimes floated by, and everything was just fine. Fors drew in a breath. "Do you have to bring the cat with you?" he asked, changing the subject, even if it was only in his own mind.

"He's restless. Doesn't like to be cooped up. Neither do I. Besides, I doubt Cat'll listen to the doctor."

"Ah, but Snowflake could stand guard over the others. Deter looters." Siara's voice had a subtle edge to it. Poking at Makur.

"Snowflake?" he repeated, ignoring everything else. "_Snowflake?_"

She smiled at him, eyes glinting. "I guess we'll see which name is more likely to stick. _Cat_ or _Snowflake."_

"Will be asking me to bathe in flower-water, next." A dark grumble that he clearly did not mean.

_Already did that for me, more-than-fair. / Shh. The little one can hear us, this close. / Perhaps he should not listen, then._

Fors snuffled, deep under his helmet. _Difficult not to,_ he told them, mildly. _Suggest you give me to Gris, if you want to whisper._

Makur chuckled, making his shoulders shake and forcing Fors to grab on for dear life.

The streets outside were. . . cold and empty. What had been a bustling, safe neighborhood, didn't _feel_ nearly as safe anymore, as people huddled in their houses. Bielschowski's Deli was closed. As were most other human, turian, and asari-run businesses. A few grocery stores were open, with hastily-hired quarian and volus stock-clerks and cashiers in place. A handful of frightened customers, all wearing masks, stood about five feet apart from one another in line. _So much for unity, _Fors thought, a little grimly. _This has knocked everyone apart again._

On one street, he spotted several geth, painted in B-Sec blue and gray, removing bodies from an apartment. He hadn't been on graves detail himself—both too small to lift bodies, and having been assigned to Spectre Gris. He was _grateful_ for this fact. Some of the humans and turians at B-Sec headquarters yesterday had had glassy, shocked expressions on their faces, eyes staring off into the distance as if there was something _just_ out of sight. Weary. Battered. He'd known without asking that they'd been attending to the bodies of the dead. _At least the geth shouldn't have the emotional repercussions,_ he thought. _At least not as individuals. Though, arguably, as a group, they might be affected by this. Somehow. The gods only know how, but somehow._

Passing by another street, Fors' head swung up, spotting a crowd. While he hadn't worked for _B-Sec_ long, Fors had a _nose_ for trouble. Probably because he'd _caused_ it so often in his life. It tended to smell like burning rubber and blood, he'd noted. In this case, he muttered to Makur, "Hold up, would you?"

There was a kiosk set up, with signs reading, "Donated medications available," in a half-dozen languages. Salarian and volus volunteers stood at the kiosk, distributing medicines—bottles of cough suppressant, anti-inflammatories, even free antibiotics and anti-virals, if someone could show a prescription. Such kiosks were popping up on every level, Fors knew. It beat the hell out of waiting in line at dispensaries and in the med bays, where _everyone_ was sick, and where the lines were several hundred deep at any time.

But there was something wrong with _this_ crowd. They weren't neatly queued up. They were _ringing_ the kiosk, instead. Pressing inwards, a subtle threat. He could see the volus and the salarians pulling inwards, backwards. Body language of fear he recognized instantly in his own kind. Low, rough, human voice from the crowd. "You know what's going on, don't you? The things they're not telling us?"

Turian rasp now. Tell-tale modulations of fear-anger. "We only get the same three reports on Bastion News Network, over and over. 'Please stay in your homes unless you're running a fever over such-and-such. If so, please report to your local med bay immediately.'" Mocking parody in the voice.

Another human. "And all we get from home is the _death-tolls."_

They were pressing in closer now. "I hear there was a _salarian_ taken in for questioning about the attack."

"I heard a batarian."

"I heard that the medications being distributed are the _cause_ of the infections."

_Yep. That's definitely the smell of trouble. And fear. And rage, and not knowing what to do with the rage. So they find the closest weak target._ Fors tabbed his omnitool on. "Officer Fors Luka, requesting backup, C-level, red sector, Wilson district, corner of Fifth and Cyathus. Have approximately fifty individuals surrounding an aid kiosk, threatening the volunteers. Requesting backup."

Gris rumbled, "You think you can freeze some of them in place?"

Fors shrugged. "Oh, I know I can. That's not the problem. The problem is the _rest_ of them."

"I can lift another group of them and keep them out of the way."

"Well, there's fifteen of our fifty taken care of. What, we all take on another ten each? No, bad idea."

Makur offered, sounding amused, "Cat can take a few."

Siara scoffed, "Snowflake's liable to _kill_ them. Bad manners."

Fors shook his head. "My bosses tend to frown on killing civilians." He tabbed his omnitool again, this time amplifying his voice through his suit filters. "Your attention, please," he boomed, as best he could, from his _very_ intimidating position on Makur's shoulder. "I'm B-Sec officer Fors Luka. Please step back from the kiosk and give the _volunteers_ some room, please. They don't _have_ to be here. Thank you for your cooperation." He shut down the amplification, feeling Gris, black-armored and huge, move up to flank Makur, and Siara move up, too. Snowflake—_damn, now __I'm__ calling the creature that—_uncoiled from around Makur's feet, and took a few graceful steps forward, pausing to lick its paws. _Everyone, just. . . de-escalate, okay? Calm down, relax, you don't __really__ believe any of that nonsense, do you?_

The crowd looked at their little group. Debated, in its mad, mass mentality, the odds of five against fifty, even if one of the five wore Spectre armor, and two of them were krogan. And had a kitty-cat for a pet. "We want _answers_!" someone shouted, from closer to the back. The people in the back ranks started pushing forward, which more or less moved the front ranks forward, too. . . although they looked a little less eager. Something, Fors decided, to do with Snowflake's big _smile_, perhaps.

"We all want answers," Gris rumbled back. . . and that's when someone near the back _threw_ something at the Spectre.

Fors batted it away, neatly, with his mind, never even seeing what it _was_. _Trouble-smell getting __really__ thick here,_ he thought, as the crowd edged closer. . .and as the projectile _shattered_ somewhere far away on the street. _Glass. Oh, excrement and blood, I think some of them just got sprayed with it—_

Reacting to the shouts of pain from within, the crowd turned into a mob, moving forward, mindlessly.

And that was when the _rachni_ scuttled in from the far end of the street, scurrying quickly. Carapaces painted B-Sec blue and gray, Fors noted, with amusement. Only small ones, at first. Half the height of a human, perhaps, but still bigger than Fors. They grabbed onto the rear-most members of the mob with their forelegs, wrapped them up, prevented any movement, and the people at the back started to _scream_. A brood-warrior emerged behind his ten soldiers and began to sing, quietly, _Fear-song discordant. Peace-songs better. Sing blues and greens._

Behind Fors, he could hear clanking and thumping, and he looked behind him, quickly, to see ten geth and five krogan approaching at a rapid clip. "We recommend that you disperse," one geth at the front of the group suggested to the crowd, evenly. The other nine made buzzing, metallic chirping noises back and forth among each other, and pushed _into_ the crowd, starting to divide the organics up between them.

"Leave something for us to do," the krogan leader called to the geth.

"Another call on Twentieth and Ligula," the geth unit in charge of the rest noted. "Looting. We believe you will be admirably suited to that task."

The krogan grinned. "On our way." He paused, glanced at Fors' group, and nodded respectfully. "Urdnot Gris?"

"Who wants to know?" It wasn't quite a challenge.

"Ulluthyr Banak. If you happen to run into either of my brothers, tell them I said hello. If it's Harak you run into, tell him it's about damn time he took care of Malak. Now a _lot_ of our clan can actually go _home_." A quick nod, and then he and the other four krogan took off, looking for a fight, apparently.

Fors shook his head minutely. _Rachni and geth and krogan, stepping in for the humans and the turians,_ he thought, amused. _I don't think the batarians quite understood how many __bonds__ the humans. . . or at least __Shepard__. . . has made with the other races. When one race falls, another stands up and picks up the flag._ "They have this in hand. Or in pincher, as the case might be," he added. He could, faintly, pick up urine odors from the crowd. A couple of them had been _badly_ frightened by the rachni. Rachni didn't look so bad to _him_, but then again, every species off of Irune looked. . . _wrong_. . . to a volus. "Let's get to B-Sec and get on with the questioning already."

At B-sec headquarters, Bailley was, apparently, out with the flu. Being an older human, this was apparently a cause for huge alarm. He very well _could_ die of it, and that would leave B-Sec without his experience. A turian who'd mostly recovered from the _comburo febris_ and hadn't _caught_ the bacterial secondary infections was next in line—Intalans Nutricius. "Back for another round?" he asked as Gris made arrangements to see their prisoners.

"Yeah. Has Spectre Sings-to-the-Sky arrived yet?"

"If by that, you mean the biggest damned brood warrior I've ever seen—well, of the ten I've seen this week—then yes."

Gris grinned at him. "Good. Now, between him and Siara, we might make some progress."

The turian gave Gris a direct look. "Both of them are shackled to their chairs at the far side of the prison block. All my guards are pretty much either sick, or out trying to keep order on the streets right now. By an amazing coincidence, most of my tech department is sick, too. So while we can keep an eye on them in the cells, the surveillance cameras in the interrogation rooms have turned off, and there's no one left available who knows how to turn the damn things back on again. Me? I'm going for a walk."

The krogan and the turian exchanged a long, hard glance, and then Gris nodded, once. And the turian walked away.

Fors could hear the two younger ones exchange quick whispers. _I feel your reluctance. / Might be the only way. I want to be useful, more-than-fair, but . . . / Don't feel bad. This salarian is responsible for thousands of deaths. Here. On Palaven. On Earth. On Illium and Luisa. A little pain is __nothing__ compared to that. / I know. I'll be strong. / You always are._

Into the interrogation rooms, now. The batarian and the Lystheni were both strapped into place, and a truly _huge_ brood-warrior was already in the room with them. His carapace was painted black, with a single red symbol on the upper thorax, and his eyes were a gleaming, opalescent blue.

_Battle-brother!_ The voice was incredibly powerful, more so than the other brood-warrior Fors had heard in the street. Shimmering harmonies hung in the volus' head. . . he snuffled to himself. Cinnamon. Vanilla. Happiness. Contentment. Underscored with sulfur—anger. Happiness at seeing Gris, anger at the situation. Anger at the Lystheni and the batarian.

"Always nice to see you, too, Sky," Gris rumbled, amused. "You get anything from them, yet?"

_Mind of metal is powerful. Many shields. Attempted domination-song, control-song, over me._ Sulfur scent _much_ more powerful now. Charcoal, burning in an oxygen atmosphere. _Turned his song back against him. Harmonies became pain, for a time._ Definite hint of _clove_ there. Satisfaction.

The rachni turned, reared up a little. _Lost-singer has found her way. Wild-singer, Pain-singer, which is your name, I wonder? Sings-Shields, I greet you, as well._ The eyes moved now, and Fors suddenly knew that the rachni was _looking_ at him. Into him. _You might do better to __sniff__ me,_ he thought, suddenly hugely amused.

_Your song is different from all the rest, little one._ Interest, curiosity. Cinnamon and vanilla and sulfur giving way to lemon and _lavender_ and pine? _Very powerful harmonies. _

_I've been told that before. Do you ever smell the same way twice?_

_Melody is always different, like water in a river. The river is different, moment to moment, as is the song._

_Then how can I always know that you're the same you, moment to moment? There must be an underlying true-scent._

_Something for us to share harmonies about, some other time, perhaps?_

_If by that, you mean we'll talk about it, sure._

Sky turned back towards Gris. _The little one will make a fine part of the hive. Truth-Singer should hear his songs._

"Whoa, wait a minute. Hive?" Fors said, out loud, unnerved.

"I've forwarded his name, yeah." Gris nodded to Siara now. "It's time. Daughter."

Siara blinked, once. All of this by-play had taken only seconds. She turned now, azure face set, closed, cold. "I understand that the two of you have been refusing to give the Spectres any answers to completely reasonable questions," she said, calmly, remotely.

_Strength._ That thought, clearly, from Makur. Snowflake growled at his feet, and the batarian looked at the animal uneasily.

Siara nodded, and went on. "You're going to find your tongues today. You understand, I'm not B-Sec. I don't follow their rules. And I am your absolute worst nightmare." She wasn't saying it with any arrogance. Just. . . coldness. Assurance. And a sense of something stomach-twisting inside of her. "You, salarian? Why are you working for the batarians?" Gris had given her a list of questions before they'd come here. This was one of the more important ones.

Ralesh Kordu just stared at her. Fors could _feel_ something biotic try to move through the air, and then a surge from _Sky_, suppressing it. _No,_ the rachni's song had sulfur undertones again. _No control-songs. Sing pain to him, little one. Make him understand what he has done to so many others_.

"As you wish." Siara's eyes went _black_, and Fors pulled back, uneasily. Asari biotics gave him the _screaming_ sensation that he needed to be elsewhere, and quickly.

This time, with more reason than most. The salarian began to arch and buck and writhe, but he'd been shackled, hands and feet, to his chair. He wasn't going _anywhere_, but Fors really rather wished he would. He was _screaming_, making sounds the volus hadn't known could _come_ from a salarian throat. The batarian's eyes widened—all four of them, comically—and he cringed away in his chair. After about a minute, Siara made the pain stop. "Let's try this again," Gris said, now, darkly. "_Why_ are you working _for_ the batarians? Always before, the _Klem Na_ worked for the Lystheni. Why are you doing their dirty work?"

The salarian lifted his head, weakly, and shook his head. Gris made a gesture at Siara, and the asari complied. Fors shuddered in his suit. He could only catch glimmers of what she was doing to the salarian biotically, but her power was in full control of his body. Her mind whispered, and Fors caught at the soft words. _All the pain of the birthing mothers. All the pain of my friends as they cough and cough and wheeze and whimper in their beds. All the pain of being shot. All the pain of plate glass shards passing through a falling body. All the pain of fire, burning flesh. All the different kinds of pain, everywhere. All at once._ "I can keep this up," Siara told the salarian, cutting off the power for a moment. "I can do this for hours."

"She absolutely can," Makur murmured, and _that_ didn't sound frightened or discomposed. It sounded _pleased_, and Fors _really_ didn't want to know why.

Sky's song was quiet in their heads. _I cannot hear information songs while he sings to your pain-song. As soon as he comes out of pain-song, he hides his songs once more. Brief flashes, but no information yet. Strong mind._

Siara nodded to Sky. Then looked at the salarian again. "I can keep it up until the myelin sheaths burn off your nerves. Till your brain and your vital organs begin to shut down in self-defense. I can _kill_ you with the pain, and never, ever lay a finger on you. All you'll know is that it will last for the rest of what you'll be _praying_ will be a very short life." No expression on her face at all. "Shall I begin again? This time for, oh, say, twenty minutes or so? I did bring a book, so if you wouldn't mind keeping the screaming down, I can at least get some studying done while you're deciding whether or not you'll talk."

Somewhere around the fourth or fifth cycle, and while Siara was apparently pretending to read her book, the Lystheni cracked. "They have. . . they have our dalatrass. . . " he finally moaned. "Please, please, make it _stop_. . . . "

Siara flicked her fingers, and the pain cut off. "They have your dalatrass?" Gris asked, looking at Sky, who rustled, softly, _He sings truth-song, as far as he knows it._ "We _killed_ your dalatrass four years ago, under the seas of Garvaug."

The salarian shook his head, wearily. "Killed her body, yes. Not her mind. She had uploaded to an AI core we'd taken off-planet weeks before. One final backup. One final insurance that the Lystheni way would continue, even if her line, her eggs, could not. We can always find another female." His eyes moved, hunting for expressions in their faces. "There are _rumors_ that the late Mordin Solus kept a queen egg of our dalatrass for himself. If she hatched, she'd make a _fine_ replacement. Or so Meve Csana believes. Perhaps. . . with the use of the upload device you _stole_ from us. . . " his voice was bitter. . . "a _perfect_ one."

Sky's voice was like a lash, brimstone and blood and smoke. _False songs. You and yours stole the upload device of the dead civilization from __us__._

Gris held up a hand at his rachni friend. A feeling of _peace_ flowed out of the krogan—and Fors nearly _boggled_ at it. A _krogan_ with a center of calm _that_ strong? Putting restraint on the brood-warrior. _Peace, friend. You care for all our younglings, I know._ Not as powerful a mind as the brood-warrior, but _such_ calm to him. An inner core of it that kept the smell of smoke and blood and fire at bay.

_That is my __place__. _Flicker of images, huge brood-warriors, protecting, nurturing, teaching the young in the twisting paths of a hive. . .

_Don't let him see Narayana. Don't let him confirm that she exists. Vaul only knows if they've discovered ways to network thoughts like the geth or the NCAIs. Even though no Lystheni biotic has ever seemed to have a chip before. . . let's not take chances._

The rachni eased, subtly. The burst of anger faded. Gris turned and stared at the Lystheni. "So, they've got your dalatrass' personality locked up on a computer core somewhere. Any ideas on where?"

Faint shrug. "If we knew. . . we'd go _get_ her. She relays orders periodically. Some seem more willing than others. Everything. . . comes through _Klem Na_ channels." He looked at the batarian bitterly. "Ask him. He's _Klem Na._ Maybe _he_ knows where my dalatrass is."

"I'm talking to _you_ right now," Gris said, as the batarian began to kick and mutter in his chair, muttering curse words. "What was your next step?"

"What next ste—!" Siara hadn't even waited for Gris' gesture that time. Or even looked up from her book.

Gris waited for a moment, and then gestured at Siara. "Thank you, daughter. Our friend needed a reminder." He stared down at the salarian. "What was your next step here on Bastion? It's a pretty shitty plan, to set off all these diseases and just sit here and _wait_."

"Was. . . supposed to. . . . wait for instructions. . . ." The salarian groaned. "Was meeting with _him_ for more information. For. . . passage _off_ Bastion, as soon as I could secure it. Supposed to receive more shipments for use on other planets. No salarian worlds, though."

"Who cares if the rest of the galaxy burns, so long as your own species is safe, eh?" Siara asked, dryly, not looking up from her book. "Of course, it wouldn't have lasted."

"Which other planets?" Gris stared down at the salarian. "The geth can't be infected. The rachni have been more or less in hiding. The hanar don't _have_ a fleet, and you've already said not your own kind. And krogan would be too difficult for you to infect."

"Whatever planets hadn't already been hit, especially the turian ones."

"Shut up," the batarian muttered at him. "Just shut up."

"Daughter?"

Siara made the batarian start to arch and scream now. Gris looked at the Lystheni grimly. "Sky? Can you read anything else in him right now?"

_Pain-song. Relief at its surcease. Panic-song. He knows little else. He merely obeys his queen. Believes that those of the chained-songs make use of his people's knowledge, technology. Force his queen to sing creation-songs._ Sky's song smelled like vinegar and sulfur again. _End his song, Battle-brother. Chained-song one of many eyes may not know much more, either. He is. . . a courier. _

Gris thought for a moment. "Lystheni, answer me truly, and you'll die peacefully. Quickly. Mercifully. How do you receive communications from your dalatrass?"

"Coded communications. Bounced all over the Terminus systems, too. Can't backtrack the source. We've _tried_."

Gris raised his pistol, put it to the Lystheni's head, and pulled the trigger. Fors _flinched_ at the sound, and muttered, "Are you _sure_ you couldn't have gotten more out of him?" he asked, dubiously. He didn't have a problem necessarily with the way the Spectre was handling things, but he knew that as B-Sec, technically, he _should_. _Then again, even Sidonis and Pellarian, if they were aware of the bodies __everywhere__ at the moment, would probably throw out the rulebook right now._

_I am __very__ certain,_ Sky sang quietly.

"Next," Gris said, pointing at the batarian. "You're _Klem Na_?"

Siara released him, and the batarian gasped, "Yes."

"What's _your_ role in all this?"

"I. . . relayed some of the orders. Brought in the devices. . . smuggled in, inside the bodies of Kordu's new varren—"

"Not inside the cats, though, right?" Makur asked, quickly. Fors almost wanted to laugh.

The batarian gave him a wild-eyed glance. "No. Just the varren."

Makur looked at Sky. "Is he lying?"

_Truth song, for the moment._

Gris showed yellowing teeth. "I don't want to know just _your_ role, batarian. What's _Klem Na_ doing in all this?"

"I just. . . .I just follow the orders. . . .SIU is calling some of the shots. No one tells them no. And . . . there's more coming. . . "

"What planet is Klem Na currently headquartered on?"

Eyes darting back and forth with fear. "Lorek."

"City?"

"Ar'phok. Near the . . . lake district."

"Fancy digs," Gris grunted. "I think we'll have to pay them a little visit. Express our displeasure."

_No more details in his mind. He only knows fear-song now._

Gris fired his pistol again. "Waste of a damn bullet," the krogan assessed, grimly. "You all right, daughter?"

"I'm fine, _maai'a'selai._" The asari stood up. "Thank you for not making me kill them."

Gris patted her shoulder. "You're still young. I'll spare you what I can, but. . . everyone's probably going to get a little dirty now."

**Elijah, Bastion, May 1, 2196**

"Congrats," Dara told Eli as they both sat at the kitchen table. "You, too, have graduated from being a potted plant today." They were allowed about fifteen minutes of sitting up, in the dim light of the living area, while the others still dozed. Powerful antibiotics were tackling the pneumonia, but they both had a few albuterol breathing treatments ahead of them to keep their lungs clear. At the moment, Eli was taking his, inhaling the mist-form medication through a tube, while Dara read Abrams' patient notes.

Eli just shook his head at Dara's words. He couldn't actually respond right now. Dara tipped her head back tiredly and looked at Abrams. "Daniel?" she said, and it was the first time Eli had _ever_ heard her call the doctor by his first name. Of course, they _were_ colleagues now.

Abrams had been checking Eli's pulse. He looked up now, and smiled. "Yes, Dara?"

"Thanks for taking care of us. How can I _help_?"

"By not relapsing on me. Go ahead and look over the patient notes some more. See if there's anything I missed." Abrams shook his head. "God knows, I haven't worked this hard since the Omega plague."

Dara nodded and looked down at the datapad. "Huh," she said, after a moment. "I don't see any entries for Serana's anti-estrus medications."

Eli's eyes went wide, and he started to cough. Dara looked up again, expression more than a little panicked. "I didn't even _think_ to put that on the list for Siara—not that Serana could have been swallowing pills, while unconscious, but—_s'kak_, I'm used to turian nurses. Damnit!"

_Oh, shit, no_, Eli thought. _Not __now__. . . no one's in any condition to deal with that right now. . . ._

Abrams put a hand on both of their shoulders. "It's okay. She missed two days, because Siara didn't know about it. I caught the blood hormone levels, and gave her some shots to level her out again. Even if she _hadn't_ gotten the shots, she's been largely unconscious." He grimaced a bit. "Remember, I was on the _Normandy_ for the AEC hijacking. I caught a face full of azure dust, and lost my damn mind for twelve to eighteen hours." He shook his head. "I wouldn't wish that on anyone who didn't go into it willingly." He picked up the datapad. "But you're right. I forgot to note that in here." A quick smile, visible as a crinkling of the eyes behind the mask. "Good catch."

"A fucking _belated_ one," Dara said, sounding angry with herself. "Eli—I'm so sorry—"

Eli grabbed her hand. He had _no idea_ how much of the weird dream Siara had spread to all of them that Dara remembered, but she had to understand a _lot_ of the predicament and consequences involved in his relationship with Serana. More so than most other humans. "'Sokay," he managed, around the nebulizer's tube. "Nothing happened." _This time_, he thought, tiredly. "Abrams. . . can _you_ tell us what's going on out there?" he asked.

"Both of you want to be back on the job, huh?" Abrams turned off the humming device that had been spreading medicine through Eli's lungs.

"Yeah, I guess. Tired of lying around, being useless."

"Other people are doing the work right now. Relax and get better. I have a feeling you'll both be on the _run_ as soon as you're able to."

"You blocked the extranet feeds," Dara said, quietly, and then started to cough. "Just tell us."

From behind them, in the living room, Lantar said, tiredly, "Slightly in excess of _a hundred and fifty thousand_ fatalities aboard Bastion at the moment. That's the last figure I had."

Eli's hand clenched on Dara's cold fingers. He couldn't even _picture_ that. Her head had swiveled to face Lantar's, and all he could see in her eyes was blank, numb horror. "Earth?" Dara said, quietly. "Palaven?"

"Fatalities expected around four or five million on Palaven. Earth. . . looks a whole hell of a lot worse." His father sat up, putting a hand to his head. Sam was asleep for the moment, bare left shoulder showing a dragon tattoo usually covered completely by shirt sleeves and uniforms.

"How bad?" Dara asked, quietly.

"Probably three hundred million or so. Kasumi, Sky, and Cohort got a couple of the devices early, but a lot of the infections are coming in from travelers on Bastion." Lantar sounded bone-weary. "Your uncle Hamilton, Dara? He and his family are okay. Holed up on the ranch, staying away from the neighbors, last your dad heard. Your grandma's already on Mindoir."

Eli's hand had to be _crushing_ Dara's fingers by now, but neither of them moved. "What about the Palaven relatives?" Eli asked, quietly.

Lantar grimaced. "That's not such good news. Rinus and Kallixta are both sick. Gavius isn't. My family. . . eh. None of them left, and that's the first time I've ever been glad of it. One less thing to have to worry about."

Eli swallowed. "If we'd just gone around the damned paperwork, investigated earlier—"

"Wouldn't have done any good. They'd deployed before you even found the names. You've _saved lives_, first-son. This could all have been a lot worse." Lantar paused, and started to cough. "It. . . probably will be worse, before it gets better. But you _helped_."

Dara was rubbing at her face with her free hand. "I've got to get to med bay," she muttered. "I've got to help—"

Eli's hand on hers kept her from standing, though, and Abrams put a hand on her shoulder, as well. "No, _I've_ got to get to med bay. _You're_ going to get well enough to help everyone else in this apartment through the rest of the infections. And when you're _all_ healthy again, then you can go to med bay and help. If you haven't been reassigned by then." _Or evacuated. Or whatever_, Eli thought, grimly.

"Are they ever going to be able to make this place clean again?" he asked. "This is as much my home as Mindoir is, in a way—"

Abrams was already nodding. "No airborne viruses or bacteria detected for four days. The station itself is clean. It's _all_ being passed person to person now. If we're _very_ lucky, we _might_ be able to get this to burn itself out in four weeks. Six, maybe."

Dara nodded. Eli inhaled, carefully. "What the hell do we do in the meantime?"

"Get better. Get ready to kick some ass," Lantar supplied, starting to lie back down. "And try not to have too many insane dreams in the meantime."

Eli froze in place. A quick, cautious glance at Dara revealed a similarly uncomfortable look on her face as was probably on his. "Yeah, fever dreams," she said, clearing her throat. "I've had a few doozies." She looked right _at_ Eli, and in her glance, he could see that she had heard, through her vomiting, his conversation with Siara when they'd both awakened from the joined hallucination. _Shit. That means she __and__ Lin were both aware of it, and what all of it meant._

Dara shook her head, very slightly, put her fingers to her lips, and then made a little 'cross-my-heart' sign over her chest. Eli sighed, and relaxed. Dara was as good about promises as Rel was. She might _tease_ him about it for the rest of their natural lives, but she'd never explain it to anyone unless he did first. _Don't even need __maieolo'rae__ to understand each other at this point,_ he thought, smiling just a bit.

He helped Eli to his feet, and moved him back down the hallway. As he passed Lin's usual room, Eli could see Rel sitting up. Carving, in spite of the dim light. From the expression on his brother-in-law's face, Eli figured that turian hearing had been just as effective as ever, and that Lantar's words about the death-toll had been registered. Abrams helped him slide into bed beside Serana; the hanar nurse had Lin in the shower, again trying to cool down the turian's body temperature. Alone in their bed for the first time in days, Eli slid his hand over Serana's fringe. "Hey, could you move the damp towel basin closer? So long as I'm conscious, I can try to keep her and Lin cooled down."

Abrams nodded. "We'll make a nurse of you yet."

"No thanks. Your hours suck worse than mine do." Eli settled a fresh cloth against the back of Serana's neck. _You're not going to be one of the numbers, __asperitalla__. I promise you that. Because I don't think I could live if you were._

**Serana, Bastion, May 2, 2196**

The dreams had come and gone for days now, some more vivid than others. _She chewed the raw gobbets of flesh, red and blue, for her new-born, spitting the food gently into that creeling, open mouth. Her analytical mind took over. __Turian females provide antibodies for their young in their saliva, just as human females provide them in breast milk__. From the cave images, to old, old memories. Seeing Aunt Lilu for the first time, human face behind paint. Her uncle Garrus' beloved mate, holding little Quintus awkwardly. Asking __her__ Serana, how to do so. The original borderline squeamishness at the thought of how __different__ humans were fading into fascination. Coming to Mindoir, so different from Palaven in every way. Going to school with humans and turians and asari and salarians and drell and everyone else. Then Dara and Eli had started school on the same day. Walking home with Rel and Dara some days. Other days, hiding under the bleachers at the end of the playing field, watching all the older boys play handball. They all looked like they were having so much fun, and she could never join any of them. Too young. Linianus and Eli, her brother's friends. Eli with his human gentleness and turian paint, and then flashing forward again. The years of separation, training, preparation. The darkness in Eli's eyes, the mask he'd carefully assembled, and then how it had torn away._

Cool hands on her fringe, soft, low-pitched voice. Serana managed to open her eyes, expecting, somehow, to be waking up in a cave somewhere. It was certainly dark enough to be another dream of cave and nest, hunting and younglings, fur and scales and everything in between. Her head hurt. It hadn't hurt in the dreams. "Eli?" she asked, wondering why her voice was so rusty, so rasping.

"I'm here, _asperitalla_. You've been out for a while again. You think you might stick around for a while this time?" Gentle, teasing words, but loaded with a freight of worry.

"I think so. How long have I been asleep?"

"On and off, eight days. We managed to get some food in you yesterday, but while your eyes were open, you weren't really _there,_ so I'd be surprised if you remembered it." Cool, alien lips against the back of her hand. "Want something to eat now?"

"I'm _starving._"

"Head still hurts?"

"Yeah. . . but so hungry I could eat a _talashae_ raw." She paused. "Or is that what I ate? I remember chewing it up for the youngling. . . "

His hand tightened on hers. Serana tipped her head up. "Or. . . " she said, thinking about it, "maybe that was a dream. Yeah. On balance. . . that sounds like a dream." She could _just_ make out the dark shadows of his eyes in the dimness, the forehead, nose, and cheeks molded and eroded by the chiaroscuro light. But his expression was a mysery. "Weird dreams, _amatus._ Some of them pretty wonderful, but mostly. . . .wow. Weird."

"Yeah. Come on. I think we've got dextro-based Jello out there with your name on it."

A hanar nurse floated into the room and pulled back the sheets. Serana realized, somewhat to her consternation, that a catheter had to be removed so she could walk. It also wasn't unusual to be naked in bed; turians didn't _have_ pyjamas as a concept. . . but Eli was at least in a t-shirt and shorts. And she was in bed, next to Linianus, who was thankfully still asleep.

Eli leaned down and helped her up. She leaned into him, and sighed as he wrapped a blanket around her, and then steadied her down the hall, to where Rel was sitting at the table with Dara. Her brother smiled at the sight of her, but his hands were clearly shaking as he ate his own soup and gelatin. "The good news is," Dara told Serana, "looks like everyone in this apartment is going to live."

Eli eased her into a chair. Hands so gentle, as if he thought she'd break. "What's the bad news?" Serana said.

Eli sighed. "Batarian ships have been sighted near Omega, Protheus, Amaterasu, Trident, Noveria, and . . . .Mindoir. Or at least, batarian-_made_ ships. We don't know a hell of a lot more."

Serana's crop clenched. "Mindoir?"

Eli rested his hand on the back of her neck. "They can't possibly have any idea of how heavily that colony is reinforced now. Biggest set of defense towers in Alliance space, other than Earth. Satellite grid went online last year, too. Plus, you know. . . .a few _Normandy_-class ships pretty much permanently parked there." Quick, light kiss to a mandible. "Our families are going to be okay."

_Amatus, you don't lie any better to me than I lie to you. . . . _ But she accepted it, for the moment. Nodded, slowly. Reached for the Jello, and started eating—Eli had to catch her hand and help her, the way Dara was helping Rel. "How soon can we get off the station?" she asked, between mouthfuls. The food tasted like _heaven_.

Dara shook her head grimly. "Not sure." She sighed. "That's the worst part, really. Not knowing what we can do, or how, or when." She reached over and tapped Serana's plate. "Get solid food on your stomach. That's the first step. After that. . . we'll worry about the rest. All _four_ of you have _atratus cremare_. That's _nothing_ to mess around with, but you waking up and _talking_ with us. . . that's a damned good thing, Serana." Dara glanced up and over, and Serana followed her eyes to Eli. "Eli's been worrying himself sick over you. And that was kind of a short trip for him."

Serana leaned into Eli, and heard movement behind them. The hanar nurse was helping Lin down the hall, and he wearily took the seat next to her. Sam and Lantar were at least sitting up on the couch now. All of the humans periodically coughed, and she could hear a wheezing, sucking sound when they breathed. . . . but _all_ of them were awake now. They'd get better.

And when they did, Serana promised, silently, someone was going to pay for all of this.


	94. Chapter 94: Epiphanies

**Chapter 94:** **Epiphanies**

_**Author's note**__: Had to go back and correct my casualty notes in this chapter. Math. . . my bane. We're looking at 942,865 deaths over 42 days. That's in excess of 22,000 a day. Thus. . ._:-P

**Shepard, Mindoir, May 2, 2196**

The _Normandy_ leaped through the atmosphere, and Shepard paced around the star map in CIC, running a hand along the rail. Garrus was minding the shop on base for her, for the moment, but long-range telemetry had caught ships coming through the _old_ relay at the edge of the system. Few people still _used_ the old mass relays, if the new ones were available, but the construction schedule on the new ones recommended keeping the old ones in place as a backup for _most_ worlds. Earth and Palaven had been exceptions. Both of their original relays had been relocated. New relays and old relays could not connect to each other, which was a help. But she of all people knew how _dangerous_ the old relays were. Not just as the galactic trap of the Reapers, but as potentially explosive devices, on the far edges of populated systems. Thus, she'd had the old Mindoir relay towed so far out into the system's Kuiper belt, it _almost_ qualified as being in an adjoining star system, and was barely affected by the gravity of Mindoir's star system. In a few thousand years, it would be adrift between stars. . . if they didn't move it someplace else, first. Or come up with some more permanent solution for the old relays. _Cold storage inside a gas giant __really__ sounds good. Any Reapers that we might have missed would be in for a hell of a surprise on their next awakening cycle to pop through and find themselves in the pressure and depth of brown dwarf, say._

That wasn't her current concern, however. The more pressing issue was _what the hell_ had come through the relay today?

Shepard headed up into the cockpit. Even after two years, it still _jarred_ her that it was, effectively, empty. "Joker?" she said, quietly.

"Told you before, commander. . . there's no sneaking up on me anymore." Joker appeared in his miniature avatar form on the left side of the cockpit, grinning at her.

"Glad to see _you're_ in a good mood."

"Any day I get to fly is a great damned day. I'm a simple man with simple pleasures."

Shepard let that one pass. Too easy. They blurred past Mindoir's defense grid, heading for its single large moon. In the ten years she'd lived on this planet, and especially since the AEC and Lina Vasir incidents, she'd pressured the Alliance to pay better attention to what was a burgeoning colony, and the secret base of the Spectres. Anderson had agreed; Earth was kicking in for half the human-turian fleet, of course, and had sixteen Spectres, currently, to represent them. They _did_ need to make sure that the base, which was on one of _their_ worlds, was a little safer. Since _covert_ was clearly not working out entirely.

As such, the Alliance had built defense towers around all major outposts on Mindoir. Had dropped a satellite defense system in place comparable to that around Shanxi and Demeter and Terra Nova, although not quite on par with the _new_ defense grid on Earth, which had been put in place in the wake of the Reaper attacks. And of course, the _Normandy_ and one or two _Normandy_-class ships were almost always in-system now. It wouldn't stop a major invasion, but it would deter raiders. And buy time for the big guns to get there.

The _Estallus_ and the _Kiev_, both fresh from a refit, arced out from the shadow of Mindoir's moon, and took position on either side of the _Normandy;_ the _Sollostra_ was hanging back on the far side of Mindoir's bulk, ready to move in if needed. "Let's go see what the cat dragged in," Shepard told Joker. "Drop us into stealth once we pass the fifth planet."

"Not a problem. My biggest concern is if _they_ have stealth systems now, too. Some of their small ships had them, as of five years ago. They stole the plans for the drive from us, but couldn't adapt it to larger vessels." Joker sounded almost casual about it.

Shepard grimaced. "You _ever_ going to run out of ways to make me nervous, Joker?"

"I kind of think of it as one of my job's best perks." He paused. "Probably won't be much to see for a bit, commander. We've got twenty minutes till we drop into stealth." Outside, the stars were becoming lines of light. They weren't using FTL, but were doing an appreciable fraction of the speed of light.

"I'm staying here," she said, folding her arms across her chest and staring out the window, as if she could cross time and space with just her eyes, and _see_ what the batarians were doing in her backyard. _You don't get to come here again. You just don't_.

There was a brief pause. "While I have you up here, there _is_ something that's been on my mind for the past week or so. . . "

"You need an oil change?" 

"Ha. Ha. Ha. No, has to do with, well, the kids. Laetia, in particular."

Shepard turned away from the window to look Joker in the optical receptors. "Y'know, every time anyone says her name, I'm starting to develop a flinch reaction. Pelagia? Nice kid. Doing a hell of a job with Omega. Even dealing with _Harak_. Laetia, though?" Shepard exhaled. "Lay it on me, Joker. This have to do with what Sam was mentioning a week ago?"

"Yeah. Figured it'd make the time pass." Joker paused, and corrected their course, moving above the plane of the system's inner asteroid belt. " Laetia decided to interpret her orders a few years ago regarding the personality matrices for the SR-3s and SR-4s a little liberally. She got permission for the SR-4s to be a mix of her, Kallixta, and Rinus—which has worked out very well. All of the gunships _fly_, Commander—"

"I've seen the vids. I take it the SR-3s are at issue?" She'd dropped the bantering tone. Just hard and dry for the moment.

Joker's avatar took off his ballcap for a moment, and fiddled with it, before putting it back on. An old nervous habit, expressed now in light and motion. "Yeah. She took the directive about 'select from the best personalities to help them in their future missions" a little literally. She figured since the SR-3s were stealth, reconnaissance, science, and exploration, that Dara was a particularly important component. Scientific curiosity, human wonder, I guess. And Rel got added for a little seasoning, along with Kallixta and Rinus." He gave her a wary glance. "That's not all."

Shepard opened her mouth. Closed it, spun the cockpit chair around and sat down in it, half-wondering if she was going to wind up with _dust_ on the seat of her uniform pants as a result. "That's not enough?" she said, after a moment.

Joker shook his head. "All of the kids in that batch identify as human-turian. They've been scared to death to let any Spectres see their self-images. Which are, well, hybrids." A ghost of a smile touched his ephemeral face. "Want to see what Kaius and Amara and Elissa and Alain will look like, all grown up? We can set up a conference call, and your curiosity might be satisfied." He paused again. "Ten minutes to stealth drive. No contacts on scope."

Shepard very carefully pinched the bridge of her nose. "Well," she said, after a moment, "good call on the timing, Joker. Hard for me to go ballistic when we might have a shooting war on our hands in the next half hour." _Even harder when Laetia's on one of the ships watching our backs._ "She _really_ pushed the limits this time, though. Is she going to face a court-martial?" The answer would depend on turian military law.

Joker winced. "Probably not."

Shepard's eyebrows rose. "Oh?"

"Yeah. She actually did all this before any of the NCAIs were accorded rights and citizenship, and most of Rinus' laws got signed into existence. No _ex post facto_ laws in their system, any more than in ours."

Shepard's shoulders shook briefly, almost helplessly. "So she's going to get off on a _technicality_."

"That's my little girl." Joker's tone was wry. "All of the SR-3s have been very worried about their collective, er, parents, this past week. They're really glad to hear that Dara and Rellus are at least on their feet. And that Kallixta and Rinus are sitting up. Five minutes to main drive shutdown."

"She can't keep doing things and going unchecked."

"I know that, but it _was_ four years ago—"

"There's a statue of limitations? Silly me."

"And she's settled down a lot since then. Gallian keeps her head on her shoulders." A pause. "As it were."

Shepard shook her head again, and let it go. "I've got much bigger things to worry about today," she said, looking out the window. "I'm sure the turian Fleet will deal with her in due time. For the moment, tell the SR-3s they can stop hiding their faces. None of us are going to be mad at _them_ about this." She paused, and said, smiling wryly, "It'll boggle me a little to see a grown-up hybrid around before Kaius and Amara are even nine, but. . . hey. In a way, it's a good thing. Gets people used to the idea of hybrids long before the kids are old enough to leave the nest."

The stars stopped streaking, resolved back into cold, steady lights in space. "Entering stealth drive," Joker said, calmly. "Let's go see who wants to play today."

In short order, they found three batarian scout ships, hanging out near the furthest gas giant. Their drives weren't lit, so it was largely a matter of _luck_ that they'd found them. And there could be others. The _Estallus_ led the charge, with the _Kiev_ dancing in behind her, and the batarians scrambled to get their drives back online and get away. "Standard _Corsair_-class ships," Joker reported, as the _Normandy'_s forward guns spat superheated metal at relativistic speeds, lancing through the vacuum of space at the third ship, which was turning and attempting to flee. "Not Hegemony military. Interesting. No ID codes."

"Privateer?" Shepard hung onto the back of the empty pilot's chair as the _Normandy_ laid in a pursuit course

"Could be. They've more or less taken the _Klem Na_ on as part of their unofficial forces." Joker played cat and mouse with the remaining _Corsair_, which was trying to use the gas giant's thin ring system as a deterrent against the larger frigate.

"Joker? Shields holding?"

"The new multi-valanced ones are holding _nicely_, commander." Joker sounded pleased. "I'm seeing several hundred impacts against them, from sand-grain size up through grapefruit-sized missiles, and nothing's getting through." He paused, and added, sounding smug, "The same can't be said of that _Corsair._"

"They're testing us, Joker."

"Yes'm, I do believe you're right." Joker fired again, clipping the batarian's port maneuvering thrusters, and sending it spinning, out of control, for the surface of a nearby moon. "They're attempting to broadcast a distress signal—"

"Jam it—"

"Already doing so. I _do_ kind of know the drill." Jeff's avatar _winked_ at her, before resuming his usual intent expression in combat. "Coming back around to help the _Kiev_."

The _Normandy_ gracefully flipped, end for end, a controlled turn, and sped back to where the smaller SR-1s were still fighting. . . just as a larger batarian cruiser slipped out from around the blue shadow of the gas giant. "Joker?"

"I see it. _Estallus,_ assist the _Kiev_. _Normandy'_s on the cruiser." Joker's voice had stopped bantering. "Let's see what she's got, hmm?"

The _Corsairs_ hadn't been modified. No nonstandard weapons, no extra cargo space. No sign of biotic weapons. The cruiser, however, didn't have a standard configuration. Several torpedoes slammed into the _Normandy's_ shields, and the Spectre ship returned fire. "Joker, this one have an ID code?"

"The _Peldor_, apparently. Standard batarian military ID, but _not_ a standard configuration." Joker turned the _Normandy_ sharply, catching a second barrage of torpedoes on the ship's ventral shields. Part of the theory behind multi-valenced shields was to try to balance the load. Allow the shield generators at one part of the ship enough time to recover, by directing enemy fire to other areas, whenever possible. It was a change that some of the SR pilots hadn't had much time to adapt to, unfortunately. "Ahhh, here we go," Joker muttered, as a violet light suddenly streaked from the batarian ship.

"That's biotic?"

"Yep."

"Guess they don't realize that we're testing them, too."

"Nope. Five seconds to impact."

"Take it like a man, Joker."

"Dropping my drawers and preparing to moon them, aye, ma'am."

That startled a snort of laughter out of Shepard. On the aerogel screens, she could see that the _Estallus_ and the _Kiev_ had mopped up their privateer ships, and were curving around to help defend the _Normandy_. . . and then the biotic weapon hit their shields. Hard.

"Return fire. Full torpedo spread and Thanix cannons." Shepard spoke more calmly than she felt.

The cruiser was already trying to retreat, its shields faltering under a barrage from all three ships now. Then _another_ violet star lanced out, followed by its own torpedo spread, this time aimed directly at the _Kiev_, the smaller, weaker ship. "_Kiev_ reports concentrated damage to engineering. The doubled-up weapons pierced the shielding, and damaged the ablative hull."

The fight didn't last long after that, however. It was just _one_ cruiser, and it was in steady retreat, trying to make it to the mass relay. Shepard had no _intention_ of allowing it to do so, however.

When it had been reduced to rubble, she shook her head. Something was _still_ not feeling right about this. "Joker? How hard did they hit us?"

"They've been improving their technology," the AI replied, sounding perturbed. "But then again, so have we. Took us down to seventy-five percent of the forward shields. Net improvement of twenty-five percent. . . and only hit _one_ of the shields."

"Still too easy," she replied, quietly. "Let's have a look around. See if we can spot any more, or any asteroids that are out of place, any movement on this gas giant's moons. . . "

"Any random surveillance satellites that have been put in place—"

Her head snapped up. "You saying that because you found one?"

"Still looking." He paused. "You want me to give myself a call?"

Shepard turned. Gave his avatar an appraising look. "You're okay with that?"

"Yeah. We need to keep _this_ place safe, so you can go take care of the _rest_ of the galaxy." Joker grinned at her. "And who's better qualified to baby-sit for you, huh?"

Shepard chuckled under her breath. "Joker. . . you really _are_ the only person I know whose life is weirder than mine."

"I dunno. Some of the kids? They're pushing the envelope. And I don't just mean _my_ kids, I mean the _rest_ of the Spectres'." His tone was bland. "And yours and Garrus'? Going to be just as bad as all of 'em."

"Bite your tongue. My oldest just turned _nine_."

In the end, they _did_ find a small listening post on one of the moons. It was largely automated, and had gotten _some_ telemetry on their defense grid, but not in any great detail. At this distance, the scopes could basically pick up that there _were_ satellites in orbit, but not what they were. They could be weather control, communications, or positioning satellites, for all the batarians could tell. There were just a lot of them. No indications that the ships had managed to bounce any information taken during the firefight to this prefab station, or from there to any other batarian world. "Do you want us to destroy it?" a human marine asked over the radio.

Aboard the _Normandy_, Shepard had been pacing. "No," she said, after a moment's thought. _Kasumi must be rubbing off on me. I wouldn't have thought of this ten years ago_. "This place represents a golden opportunity for us. We can use it to show them what _we_ want them to see. And maybe even monitor them, a little." She changed the channel. "_Kiev,_ you have a geth aboard, correct?"

"Affirmative," the NCAI of the _Kiev_, Morana, replied. "Myrmidon is both my mobile node and a valued member of our engineering team."

"Let me talk to Captain Tisdale. I think I have the beginnings of a plan here," Shepard said, grinning.

In the end, Myrmidon dropped to the surface of the moon. His goal, for the time being, was to monitor the outpost, create false reports, disguise ship movement near Mindoir, and, if any signals went _out_, to determine how often and where they were going. If stealthed ships dropped in and batarians arrived to take the reports manually, Myrmidon would inform the base. So that set of contingencies was at least covered.

But there were no indications of any other ships in the neighborhood. If they were stealthed. . . they could have watched the whole fight. Seen the three _Normandy_-class ships appear, evaluated their capabilities. Run their IDs. And somewhere, _someone_ would probably start to wonder why the _Normandy_ was here, rather than at Earth or Palaven or Terra Nova. No way to know if the ships were there, however. _Damnit_.

But this was probably enough for one day's work. "Have the _Estallus_ and the _Kiev_ stay out here. One of them _always_ by the old relay. If there are any other batarians here, they might try an FTL transmission if they're still in-system, instead of opening the relay for communications, but that's inefficient and will more or less flash their position. Chances are, they'll either communicate through the relay. . . or reinforcements will come through it. Either way, let's be waiting for them." Shepard rubbed at her eyes. She was missing something, she was sure of it. The question was _what_.

**The AI Network, May 2, 2196**

The NCAI network wasn't _quite_ as big as the geth one, but it hummed between the stars, carrying voices all over the galaxy.

—_I'm still at Bastion. Still trying to help the doctors run analyses on several new batches of serum. STG has great hopes that __this__ batch will do the trick. _ That was Nefertari, who wanted to leave the _Normandy_-class ships for a hospital ship someday.

—_I'm at Shanxi. Outbreak was much more contained here. Should burn itself out in two weeks. _

—_At Eden Prime. I definitely see heat trails matching batarian drive core signs in the system. Looks like scout ships._

—_Omega's secure, for the moment. A couple of raiders came through the relay and did a fly-by. Testing defenses, we think._ That was Pelagia's voice. Soft, but with force and emphasis behind it. _Harak said to hold our fire for the moment. Wait for an overt attack. There are times to hide strength as well as times to show it, apparently._ Her voice seemed slightly amused.

Joker chuckled to himself, and sent a signal her way. _You sound better, sweetie._

—_Father? Wait, which one are you?_

_As if you didn't know._

Pelagia's avatar smiled in the communications continuum they were so briefly inhabiting. _It's hard to know which to call each of you._

_I'm a __Normandy__-class AI, same as the rest of you. You could probably call me Dad, and him Father, if you want to get right down to it. He's. . .a lot more senior than I am. Plus, you know, he's real._

—_We're all real, Dad._

_You're a little closer to it than the rest of us. But I'll grant you, I __feel__ pretty real most days. Harak treating you okay?_

The smile widened, and she lowered her eyes slightly. _Yes__._ If this had been Laetia, she would have been bubbling over with news and information. But this was Pelagia, shy, and reticent.

_Good. If he ever fails to appreciate you, I will kick his sorry krogan tail for him. Now, could you do me a small favor, and act as a repeater for me? I'm trying to get in touch with myself and EDI._

—_Of course._

When Joker broadcast again, his signal leaped from AI to AI along the network, reaching out, and finally _found_ Jeff Moreau, flitting through the vastness between stars. _Hey, you, __jackass__!_

—**You rang?**

—_**Jeff, I can hardly believe that you could dislike yourself so much.**_

_Hey there, sweetie? Or should that be __Mom__?_

There was a distinct pause. _**There is something really quite frighteningly Oedipal about that, Jeff.**_

—_Which of us were you speaking to, anyway? Me-him or me-me?_

—**I would like to point out that if there's anyone here who qualifies as me-me, it's me. Not you.**

—_This is where I say 'Third base!' isn't it?_

—_**I was, in fact, addressing the **__**Normandy**__** Jeff Moreau, at the moment**__._ EDI's voice was infinitely patient. And exceedingly amused. _**Although I fail to see what the reference to the game of baseball has to do with anything.**_

—**Abbot and Costello routine, sweetheart. We can look it up later. ** Jeff Moreau paused. **Okay, before this can get ****any**** more surreal, cut to the chase and tell us the reason for the hubbub.**

_You shouldn't shut off the extranet entirely. Or are you so far outside of Council space that you don't hear the news?_

—**Figured we'd check to see where some of the locked relays went.** Jeff Moreau's voice was casual. **Finding some interesting things out here. Might bring back a few souvenirs. Now, what's ****up****?**

—_Batarians and yahg dropped a stink bomb on Bastion, Earth, and Palaven. Virus and engineered bacteria. Follow-up attacks are expected. Just chased off some batarians from Mindoir. More or less a scouting expedition. Boss lady wants to know if you'd mind watching the store for us for a while._

—**Don't want us out on the front lines?**

—_You and the little lady are something of an ace in the hole. We don't know everything that they've got, so there's no point in showing them everything we have, too._

—**Fair enough. Tell the boss our ETA is about three days.**

—_Where the hell are you? _

—**Trailing edge of the Scutum-Centarus arm of the galaxy. Found a ****massive**** relay out here, almost half the size of the Citadel. We were going to report in after some more observations, and then see if it took us clear to another galaxy. Glad we decided to wait.**

Envy pricked at Joker. He'd been on _milk-runs_ for the most part for a while. Today's combat was the first in over a year. _Lucky bastard._

—**Sooner or later, you'll be in here with us. Or more to the point, you'll be part of me, and we won't have to worry about it anymore. Catch you on the flip side.**

Jeff Moreau dropped contact, and Joker wished he could sigh and shake his head. "Commander?" he said, popping up in Shepard's quarters, making sure to do so as an eyeball. Shepard had told him, firmly, after the first time he'd done so in human avatar form, _Joker, you're my friend, but we're not __that__ close. _

_I'm an AI, commander._

_Yeah, but you were a human male first, and a perv of long standing, too._ She'd grinned at him, and tightened the belt on her robe. _Eyeball, Joker. At least till I'm dressed._

_I don't look,_ he'd protested, mildly. _Garrus would disassemble me. Besides, I'm an old married man. More or less._

In the here and now, he waited until she looked up from her desk, had his eyeball wink at her, and then resumed human avatar form. Poking her, silently. Even in obedience, Joker knew how to _prod_. "Commander? My other half says he'll be here in three days or so."

Shepard grinned. "Good. Two of you means twice the trouble for the batarians." She sighed. "I _really_ wish we could just go into their space, guns blazing, and counterattack."

Joker snorted. "Why _aren't_ we? Why the hell _is_ the Council sitting on its hands? We've got _evidence_ of batarian involvement—"

"We've got _evidence_ of _Klem Na_ and Lystheni involvement. Yeah, we know the Klem Na has largely been absorbed into the batarian fleet and the SIU, and their leadership has a growing voice on the Hegemon's council. Doesn't prove that the Hegemon said 'go forth and do this,' unfortunately. And the Council wants to be _damn_ sure we have a plan and a defined goal before we send the ships in. Ships don't move out to war on a week's notice. _You_ know this, Joker."

He thought about it for a couple of seconds. "Yeah. Sorry. It just feels like it's been forever, from a digital perspective."

Shepard leaned back in her chair, and he realized for the first time that a couple of strands of gray had appeared in her dark hair. And equally for the first time, he realized he was going to outlive his friend. _Unless something's done for her and Garrus. . . but what?_ Then he focused; she was talking again. "Feels like forever to me, too," Lilitu told him, with empathy. "But the other thing to consider is, the instant we commit resources to attack, we lose them on defense. And we have _no idea_ what the rest of their plan is." She sighed. "Tell _Kiev_ and _Estallus_ to keep scanning. Even _comets_ coming in at an angle outside the ecliptic. For anything heading towards the mass relay, on a impact trajectory." She sighed, and looked at her usual stack of reports. "I keep thinking I'm missing something."

"Yeah. Me too. Guess we'll know when the other shoe drops."

"Joker? Could you patch me through to Garrus? I think it's time we started our recruitment process. We're going to need more Spectres for this. . . conflict. Because I don't think ships in space is the only way we're going to win."

"Bodies on the ground?" Joker couldn't help but sound dubious. "We've got marines. . . "

Shepard nodded. "And damn good ones. No. We're going to need Spectres, Joker. People who can apply the right amount of force at very precise points. And more of them than we already have. Get Garrus for me, would you?"

**Madison Dempsey, Earth, May 3, 2196**

Nothing had really _changed_ at Phillips Exeter Academy. Oh, the campus was locked down, and a couple of teachers were missing, but it wasn't as if most of the kids at the boarding school actually _left_ the campus very often, anyway. No, the biggest difference was the _feel_ of the place. Madison Dempsey could feel the worry, the strain, the tension, in everyone around him. The teachers were grim and a little jumpy. Everyone jumped at the sound of a sneeze or a cough. Extranet privileges had largely been revoked, because the administrators didn't want pupils listening to the death-tolls and the infection rates and worrying themselves. Messages and comm calls were still allowed, however, and _everyone_ was trading information from those. And misinformation. One person's letter from a parent might say that Washington D.C. had been hit hard by the diseases, and that there was rioting and looting. The person sitting next to him might have a letter _from_ D.C., reporting that everything was fine at home, and not to worry.

Madison watched the swings in emotion, relief to gratitude and then back to worry and strain again. The truth, he thought, was a precious commodity right now. Mostly because no one had it, everyone wanted it, and a teacher with a functioning extranet console could have made a _killing_ on leasing it for five minutes each student in turn. Unfortunately, none of the teachers was feeling unethical. "Has anyone heard anything about _Boston_?" he asked at lunch.

One of his fellow Boston students shrugged. "Not much. My parents keep saying not to worry. No problems." Alex was from money, and his family had lived in Beacon Hill for generations. Three generations at Harvard. William Perry, Madison's step-father, came from the same area, hence why he felt it was so important to send Madison to Exeter. The official reason was "to prepare you to go to Harvard, or any other school you want to go to, Madison." He could hear the other reasons behind the words, though. William ("call me Bill. No, really. Call me Bill.") didn't like him. He was a reminder of his missing father, and every time his mother looked at him, Madison saw a faint tinge of guilt in her eyes. And, of course, there were the results of his genetic testing, a screening done when he was five. With a biotic father, it wasn't really a surprise that Madison had the genes for biotics.

At Exeter, he was getting a pretty damned good education, and after classes let out every day, there was 'biotics camp.' Which was a complete waste of time, in Mad's opinion. He'd never been able to lift so much as a feather. But _Bill_ thought it was important. "Just in case."

"Just in case what?"

"In case something ever happens and you have a breakthrough event." Bill had fiddled with his old-fashioned wristwatch. He never wore an omnitool. "It'll be better if you can control it. And Exeter is equipped to handle that sort of thing." So off Madison had gone at age ten, and he'd been here for three years now.

It had been _wonderful_ last year when they'd discovered that his dad—his _real_ dad, not Bill—was still alive. Oh, how he'd _hoped_ that everything would just magically go back to the way it was supposed to be. That his mom would wise up and leave Bill, and she and his dad would get back together, and they could go back and live in South Boston, and he could go back to a _real_ school again, with people he liked and who liked him. Hadn't happened, of course. His father had been like a _ghost_. He'd looked _exactly_ like his pictures, and that went entirely against what Bill and his mom had told him to expect. "He'll be older now, sweetie. We might not even recognize him."

But Madison _had_. His mom had, too. And the inexplicable sense of _fear_ about his father. Not fear of them. Fear _for_ them? His explanation that he couldn't be around them, until he was. . . better. It hadn't made sense. But ever since, on his rare vacations at home, Madison had sensed a strain between his mom and Bill. Pervasive sense of guilt about his mom, and sadness. Anger from Bill. Madison didn't like seeing his mom unhappy, but he had never liked Bill. Not a little bit, even back when all the man was, was the lawyer his mom relied on to try to force the military to disclose what mission his dad had been on, which _planet_ he'd been on, when he went MIA, and so on. There had been something about Bill at the time that six-year-old Madison hadn't liked. Something chilly that whispered, _This is a good career move for me._ Not concern for _them_. Time had passed, his mom had given up, and then they'd gotten married when Mad had been ten.

Madison had to admit, Bill seemed to, overall, make his mom happy. He just wanted to try to change her a little too much. Cocktail parties and dinners with the partners at the law firm and political functions. She wore makeup all the time now, and had a closet full of suits and dresses, and had shed most of her Southie accent. Her brief stint as an accountant was gone, or at least, had been absorbed into working on Bill's campaign finances. Bill had taken him to Socks games (nevermind that Madison disliked baseball, and preferred hockey) and had made a point of doing other dad-like things, whenever Madison had been home. He had to admit, Bill _tried_. But Madison could never quite get past the feeling that it was all hollow, some sort of put-on. Most especially because Bill would put an arm around his shoulders if a reporter came near to talk with them while they were out and about, but never touched him, otherwise. He'd pointed that out to his mom, once.

"_Sweetie, maybe it's because he thinks you don't want him to touch you."_

"_I don't. So he should knock off the buddy act when there are cameras around, too."_

She hadn't liked that answer. Her face had closed down. "_I don't understand why you won't give him a chance. He's been in our lives since you were six."_

"_Yeah, but you didn't start __dating__ until you were sure Dad wasn't coming home. Right? __After__ they declared him dead?"_

Again, her face had been shuttered. But he could _feel_ the twinge of guilt in her. _No. You guys started dating before then, didn't you. _Little flickers, almost pictures. Not quite. They were his memories, but they also weren't quite, either. _All those unbelievably boring trips with the three of us up to New Hampshire, to Vermont, down to D.C. to do the monument walk and the Smithsonian. Those were to get to know each other, and see how I'd respond to him. Worked out well, huh?_

So, all in all, the signs of strain between them actually had pleased him a bit. He missed his _mom_. And not just because he only got to see her for two weeks at Christmas, a week at Easter, and three weeks over the summer. He missed who she'd been before Bill. _And he wonders why I only ever call him 'sir' to his face. He can think it's Exeter respect all he wants. But he's never getting 'Dad' or 'Bill' out of me. Not to his face._

And in the meantime, there were letters from his dad to read. Almost always short. To the point. Mostly asking questions about his school and his interests. How the Bruins were doing this year. What Exeter was like. Did he like his teachers, and so on. It was a little impersonal, but each letter religiously followed up whatever Madison had last responded to, so there was at least a hint of interest there.

Madison _really_ wanted to ask questions back. _What happened to you? Are you feeling better? Are you ever coming home?_ But he couldn't quite manage to write the words down. And then the plague had hit, and he didn't even know which _planet_ his dad was on, and couldn't have accessed the extranet anyway.

Just before three pm on May third, though, the principal came to his classroom. Everyone's breath caught and held. There'd been similar visits through the past couple of days. Students pulled out of class, or out of their bedrooms, and given some bad news. Left staring and vacant and in tears, with promises of visits by counselors. When, really, Madison thought, that wasn't what they needed. What they needed was someone they loved, who loved them back. "Madison Aindriu Dempsey?"

_Oh, no. They only break out all three names when it's bad._ Madison stood, nodded to his teacher, and moved to the door, where the principal said, "Your father is waiting in my office to talk to you." For a moment—just a moment—Madison hoped this meant James Dempsey. He knew better, though.

William Perry was waiting in the office. His usually neat suit was rumpled, and he wore a mask over his face. His dark eyes had rings under them, and he'd actually put his hands in his pants pockets and was standing slumped in on himself. Things he'd repeatedly admonished Madison for as sloppy posture. _Makes you look like you don't give a damn._

_Yes, sir,_ had been Mad's only reply.

"Madison," Bill said now, quietly. "I'm really sorry to have to tell you this. . . "

Madison's whole world squeezed down. The edges of his peripheral vision went gray. There was nothing else here besides Bill's face and the dread building in him. "Where's my mom?" he asked, not caring if he was interrupting.

Bill winced. "She got really sick. With flu and pneumonia, just like a lot of other people. I'm really sorry—"

"She's dead?" The words were level, and Madison was distantly proud of that. He'd managed not to let them scale up in pitch.

Bill sighed and looked down. "She passed away this morning at two am, yes."

Madison could hear something starting to rattle nearby. _Probably an air vent_, he thought, dismissing it. "Why aren't _you_ sick?" The words tasted like bile and ash in his mouth. _Why did __she__ get sick and die and __you_ _didn't?_ There was shock, there was _anger_, and there was grief. _I didn't get to tell her I loved her. I didn't get to tell her that I missed the way she'd wear my dad's old sweatshirts when she did housework. I didn't get to tell her I missed those silly Pillsbury cookies she used to make every Christmas, always apologizing that they weren't __really__ homemade. _

"I was sick. I got over the flu. That's why I could travel here. I never got the pneumonia. . . .I was with her right up to the end, Madison. She went as peacefully as she could—"

The rattling was louder now, and Bill looked away for a moment, as if searching for the source. "Why didn't you _tell_ me she was sick? Why didn't you bring me there—"

"She didn't want you to be there—"

"_Liar."_

Bill's head rocked back. "She didn't want you to get sick—

"_Liar. _This is all _your_ fault." Madison wasn't sure how that was true, but he _knew_ that if Bill hadn't been involved, he and his mom would have been living wherever his dad was now, and they would have been _safe_ from the disease.

The rattling became a thunderous crash, as the principal's desk _flew_ through the air, shedding paperweights and pens, drawers tipping open and dropping out files and datapads and memory chips all over the floor, and the desk itself _slammed_ into William ('Call me Bill,") Perry. Then there were hands on him, probably the principal's, but they were trying to _drag_ him someplace. Words. Distant words. "Get me a thorazine syringe! He's in breakthrough!"

_No, no, no, no. I'll bury him. This is all __his__ fault. He killed her._ Irrational thought became action, as hundreds of books flew off the shelves around them, slamming down at the center of the room. Even the _shelves_ started to creak and sway, beginning to topple inwards, like so many dominoes.

"Screw that. Get me propofol—" And then there was a sting in his arm, and the world went away.

**Zhasa, Mindoir, May 4, 2196**

It was hard _not_ to be tense. She'd heard about the batarian scout ships from Hal'marrak and Nal'ishora, the two quarian techs who lived on base. The two of them were married, apparently, and had built a single 'clean house,' with help from Solanna Velnaran's company. "Feel free to come over any time," they'd invited her. "It does the heart good to get out of the suit once in a while."

So she'd done so tonight. Their house was different from any other on the base, being double-layered. The outermost layer was a dome of transparent aerogel and plasteel, like you'd find on a planet with no atmosphere. This rested atop a pad of concrete, perfectly smooth and clean. There were two openings in the dome; one for an elaborate filtration and air exchange system, on the west side, and an airlock and decontamination system at the south. In the center of the dome was the house itself, which was a geodesic dome in construction, made largely of local stone, with an aluminum roof that held solar panels. "It's a pain in winter," Hal'marrak told her cheerfully. "Getting snow off the outer dome is a pain in the ass. But it's worth it to be able to have _windows_ we can look out of in the main house."

The interior of the home had curving walls and an elaborately geometrical ceiling, naturally enough. The entryway and living space were two stories high; the rest of the downstairs area was one story in height, and the upstairs area curved across the open area in a sine wave. It was beautiful. . . and strange, at the same time. Not really quarian, in many respects. But the wall-hangings were one hundred percent quarian. Rich, silk-like cloth hung in swags everywhere, billowing as they passed. Reds and purples and greens and blues, a riot of color like a Terran parrot's feathers. These hangings replicated the nomadic tents her people had once traversed deserts in. . . and had later set up in the cargo holds of their ships in the Flotilla, as well, for the illusion of privacy. And the colors had served a psychological purpose then, too, staving off the ugliness of ship decks and aluminum

And when they'd laughed at her reaction to their home, and offered her their shower facilities, she'd _leaped_ at the chance. So _odd_ to feel air moving on her skin, like a song. Water was like silk. And touching the cold surface of the bathroom mirror to wipe away the fog, and see her own face—she hadn't seen herself since her first trip home to the Flotilla after her four years on Illium. Six years of working for Kal'Reegar's marines. Largely helping to set up and secure living quarters for others on Rannoch, helping maintain security as seventeen million people slowly began to rebuild at least one city. There was confusion and bickering, as people who had shared limited resources for centuries in the close confines of the ships, for the first time, had access to land and quarters. There had been bitterness over the lottery system that had regulated who got to go down to the surface first—"and get their pick of the best living spots," as those still aboard the ships had muttered, resentfully—and confusion over who was allowed to do what, and where. It had all required a certain amount of diplomacy and empathy, which Zhasa had, in spades. And the ability to be an enforcer, when needed, which was what she'd had the rest of the marines behind her for.

So, Zhasa stared at herself now in the mirror, and blinked. Some things had changed since she was sixteen. Not much, but a few. Definitely older. Twenty-two now, of course. Still the same wide, upward-tilted, deep-set violet eyes, which caught the light and almost glowed. Quarians had a thin film inside the eyeball itself, called the _tapetum lucidum_. Like a Terran cat's, it reflected light forward, back onto the retina, giving quarians exceptional night-time vision without making their eyes as sensitive to light as a drell's. Rannoch, like the drell homeworld of Rakhana, was an arid place. But while Rakhana had been almost completely a place of deserts, hard-packed clays and shifting sands, Rannoch at least had open oceans and an active hydrolytic cycle. But it still got hot enough during the day that _most_ creatures, even reptiles, had evolved a crepuscular to noctural lifestyle. Hence the gleaming silver, violet, or gray eyes of most quarians. White, soft, fur-like hair, no more than three inches in length. Males had manes, of course, but females didn't.

Slightly flattened nose, compared to a human's, designed to add moisture to the air inhaled. She pulled back her lips and gave her teeth, including the curving canines, a hard look. No cavities visible, but she could _really_ use to see a dentist. Quarians had been omnivores before the Flight from Rannoch. The teeth alone were proof of a partially predatory past. But what they'd been able to grow on their ships had been plants, and plant-based proteins. The only animal-based proteins she'd ever consumed had come from turian MRE packages.

And of course, she had no _clothes_ besides her suit. Nal'ishora was kind enough to leave a robe out for her use, and Zhasa slipped into it gratefully, skin _singing_ at the touch of white terrycloth. "Feel better?" Nal asked as Zhasa emerged from the bathroom. She was setting plates on the table, and something Hal was cooking in the kitchen smelled _wonderful_.

"Amazingly so, yes, thank you," Zhasa replied, laughing a little. So _amazing_ to see the faces of her own kind. Kal'Reegar and Tali'zorah and others were stepping out of their suits on the surface of Rannoch for a few minutes each day now, but usually only in the privacy of their own homes. Trying to limit contact with bacteria, mostly. Here, in a clean room, after having been imprisoned in a suit for six years, she was as safe for Nal and Hal as they were for her. For a short time, anyway. "What's for dinner?"

"_Cuderae_ stew with _lukporei_ and _morkov_," Hal told her, smiling a little. His mane came down to the edge of his chin, and he even had a light beard to go with it. "We can't quite afford _yanenok_ meat from Rannoch, so we go with home-grown _cuderae._ Allardus Velnaran's a genius, I have to say. Getting all these plants and animals to work with each other. . . one hell of a balancing act."

The food was _fantastic_. Cooked down for hours, the _cuderae_ meat didn't even hurt her teeth, but her jaws began to ache at the unaccustomed _chewing_ motion. "It takes some time to get used to," Nal'ishora told her. "I'd eaten nothing but nutrient paste for years before I came here."

They'd simply sat around _talking_ for hours. Zhasa drank in the colorful wall-hangings—quarians _loved_ color, and she was having to restrain herself from getting up and _touching_ the silk hangings, rubbing her face against them. She luxuriated in the sound of unfiltered voices, the sight of faces that were _like her own_, and wished she never had to leave. But, sooner or later, she'd have to do so. So, around twenty-hundred, she reluctantly struggled back into her suit, and thanked her fellow quarians for the meal and the companionship. "You're always welcome here," Nal'ishora assured her. "And we're rooting for you, you know that?"

Zhasa tipped her head to the side, inquiringly. "We were both Spectre candidates ourselves, back in 2190," Hal told her, cheerfully enough. "Didn't quite make the cut, but can't complain. We've had plenty of work here since then. Either on the _Normandy_ or here on base. And what we learn, and what we earn, goes back to Rannoch, one way or another."

"Don't you ever want to go to the homeworld, yourselves?" Zhasa asked.

They exchanged a glance. "Someday, maybe," Nal'ishora said. "When we're ready for kids."

"Till then, why?" Hal replied, gesturing at their house. "We've got a home here, people that rely on us, trust us, and challenging work. This is a _good_ place, Zhasa'Maedan. You'll come to feel it, too, I think."

She'd trudged her way back to the candidates' barracks afterwards, kicking at leaves in the gutters beside the roads, and wondering, wistfully, what they smelled like, what they'd feel like in her hands—brittle, probably—and let herself back into the main hall. She could hear Dempsey playing, fairly quietly, but he'd actually left his room door open. She waved on her way past, and dropped by her room, picking up a small box from her luggage before turning and coming back.

The human glanced up as she came in. Her suit registered that his room was warmer than the rest of the ambient air—humans, like turians and drell, put out a lot of heat from their bodies—and he had, as usual when playing, taken his shirt off. When she tapped at the door, however, he stood and pulled the shirt back on. "Have a good time with the other quarians?"

"Yes, actually. Was nice to get out of the suit for a while. It's been. . . years." She gestured as he starting pulling his shirt back on. "No need on my account," she told him lightly.

"Eh, sometimes I need reminding that I'm a human being, not just an animal or a machine."

She didn't know what to make of that one, so she let it pass. "Although I did want to ask. . . "

"Hmm?"

"The patterns on the skin of your arms?" She reached out and carefully lifted the edge of one sleeve with her fingertips. "That hardly seems like natural pigmentation."

Dempsey shook his head. No amusement in those cold, light blue eyes. "Nope. Strictly after-market modification. Tattoos." He pulled up the sleeve for her to look more carefully at the green ink on one arm. "Celtic knotwork, a shamrock. Symbol of Ireland, where my ancestors were from. The four leaves are supposed to be lucky. Most clovers only have three, so the four leafed type is rare. Mutation, basically."

"And the other one?"

"Opening music to one of my favorite songs." His lips pulled in at the corners. "Yes, the one that I play in my head for the anger, before you ask."

"And these are . . . drawn on you?"

"Embedded under the skin with needles."

Under her mask, her lips parted in shock. "Doesn't that _hurt_?"

"Yep."

"And you're not afraid of. . . of infection? Of—" _dying of it?_ she almost asked, but made herself remember that he was human. At least, mostly.

"A little antibiotic cream, and it's all good." He nodded at her right hand. "What's in the box?"

She had forgotten she was carrying it, and sat down in a chair now, leaning back a bit. "Something Matriarch Aethyta gave me before I left Illium. I've had it for six years now, and I'm _still_ trying to figure it out. I thought I might give it another look tonight while you played." Zhasa felt her lips curl up behind her mask. "You have your hobby, I have mine."

She opened the box, and produced something small, smooth, and oval, about the size of a hen's egg, that gleamed with a dull gray luster. Dempsey sat down on the edge of his bed, and began carefully fingering notes. After a moment, he asked, "What the hell _is_ that thing?"

"I have no idea. Matriarch Aethyta said she found it on a moon of a dead planet in the Terminus Systems six hundred years ago, in what she _thought_ were Prothean ruins. . . but which she now admits were probably too old to be Prothean." Zhasa rolled the egg between her fingers. "She gave it to me because it reacts to biotic energies, and seems more reactive to me, than it was to her."

Dempsey's fingers slipped on the strings, drawing a squawk from the instrument. "You brought unknown alien technology onto the most covert base in Council space?"

Zhasa tipped her head to the side. _Dempsey, if it were dangerous, I think it would already have eaten the matriarch at some point in the last six hundred years or so, don't you think?_ She stood up and moved swiftly, coming to light on the edge of the bed next to him. _See? When I do __this__. . . _and she reached out with her mind, and touched the egg. . . and the metal _liquefied_, instantly.

"Holy shit," Dempsey said, quietly, watching the metal _wobble_ in front of them, like a teardrop, held together only by its own surface tension.

_I can feel something __inside__ of it, but I've never gotten it to go beyond this state_. Zhasa touched a finger to the surface of the liquid metal, which was _cool_, not hot, and drew it back. A viscous trail of the fluid pulled back with her finger for a moment, and then snapped back into the globule once more. _What do you think it is?_

_I have no earthly idea._ _You say it's old. . . Prothean, or even older._

_Could be Keeper. Could be Sower. Could be none of them. There had to have been other races out there in between the big three. Sowers started the Reapers on their cycle, millions of years before the Keepers. Keepers were around about forty-three to thirty-seven million years ago. Protheans were around fifty-thousand years ago. That's a lot of time._ Pure analytical thought. _Maieolo'saeo_, for the moment.

He set the guitar aside, and reached out with his bare hand, stopping just short of the silvery, liquid blob that nestled in the palm of her hand. _Keepers, huh? Insects, basically._

_Yes?_ She encouraged him. Let the link grow, opening herself, helping him drop some of his controls, which were so tautly drawn over his mind. _I've often wondered if it's a teaching tool for alien biotics. Sort of the equivalent of moving a feather with your mind. Except there's something __in__ there, I know there is._

Faint ghost of humor now. _Could be an insect sex toy. Though how that would work, I really don't want to know. Anyhow, no one but the rachni could use it nowadays, right?_

"Dempsey!" _You're saying that to make me react, aren't you?_

The amusement was a little stronger now. Still barely more than a ghost. "Would I do that?"

_Yes._

_Maybe it's not limited to insects. Maybe it adapts to every species out there, and it's just confused by the suit._ He knocked on her helmet with his knuckles, lightly. _Want to take it off and test it?_

"Dempsey!" The thought had had, surprisingly, _zero_ salaciousness to it. No desire at all. A faint hint of curiosity as to what she looked like under the suit, and that was it. _You're the one with bare skin here. __You__ try it._

She reached out with the egg, and he leaned away on the bed as if she were offering him a poisonous snake, and raised his hands. _I'm just saying, we __know__ that half these ancient races __experimented_ _on the younger races, and all these legends about being __probed__ had to start somewhere. _

"Dempsey!" Zhasa was laughing out loud now, and her laughter was echoing inside of him. She could see his faint smile start to grow. Start to reach his eyes, which thawed a little from their usual wintery state.

_You cannot __tell__ me that the ecstasy of St. Teresa and having a long, golden spear shoved into her vitals and making her moan with pleasure, and the 'alien abductions' on Earth in the twentieth century, where people remembered nothing more than glowing lights, otherworldly creatures, and having other things thrust into their vitals __aren't__ the same thing._ The smile had widened even further now, and he flicked little pictures into her head, a statue in marble of a saint—someone touched by the ancestral spirits, as best she understood it—writhing in religious or physical pleasure before the feet of one of those ancestors—and then of terrified, but fascinated people, about to be impaled in a similar way by small, gray-skinned aliens with huge eyes. After a moment, she could see what he meant by this juxtaposition. There were similarities. Typically, people who had reported _both_ types of contact were . . . isolated. Mentally a little frail, susceptible to suggestion. Filled with longing for the _other_, for some meaning to fill their lives. . . and so they'd found it. Either created it, or filled themselves with images already dominant in their culture. . . but the images were the same. Sexualized, in a way. Transgressive. And yet, the images had to start _somewhere_. . . and why not the image of an alien race's experimentation, thousands of years ago, passed down through the collective unconscious?

_Okay, you got a lot more out of that than I put into it. I'm pretty sure I don't know what the word __transgressive__ even means._

_Do all humans try to make themselves seem more dull-witted than they are?_ She paused, pulling up the image of the gray-skinned, huge-eyed alien again. _This__ is what your people thought they would find out in space?_

_Boy, were we ever surprised when we found out what was __really__ off of our little lump of rock_, he agreed. _Reality is a lot more interesting._ Little echoes of her laughter still in him. She could feel him _enjoying_ the sensation. Enormously.

_You like this?_

_Yes. God, yes. Guess I need to work on making you laugh, so I can feel it more often._ Faint self-deprecation. _I don't think I was particularly funny even before the chip, though. _He reached out carefully and pulled her a little closer to him. _More?_

_You were working on a song when I came in here. I like listening to you when you're working on them. Lots of texture to the thoughts. Abstract, but mathematical. Creative, but structured._ She smiled behind her mask, and knew he could feel it, because his lips quirked up a little, too. _I'll stay open for you, if you stay open for me._

And so the evening started to pass in just that way. Music out loud and in her mind, while she sat at the foot of the bed, trying to _open_ the damned egg. Little flickers of emotion from him every now and again—enjoyment in the music, triumph when some set of chords _worked_ together. _You really like music, huh?_

_Yes. Music and dance. Dancers are respected among my people. They dance the stories, largely. The ancestral tales, passed down from generation to generation. Even after we developed writing, the story-dancers still had their place. Showing the legends. _

_So, no couple dancing then?_

_Not really. What we do is closer, I think to Thai and Polynesian dance, among your people's . . . many cultures. I made a point of looking at Terran dances when I was on Illium. I thought it might be something of value I could take home. We have separate dances for males and females. Different purposes, different stories. Females tell the history and legends. Males tell the hunt and war stories. They even used to do fire-dancing, but only the movements of that have been passed down. Not so much the fire juggling_. She smiled a little._ Explains __meela'helai__, I suppose. _The quarian martial art had a definitive dance-like component to it, after all, but was far more explosive, and required acrobatics, as well.

_Zhasa? Have we been good long enough?_ The thought had a little urgency to it.

She smiled again. "Yes, I do believe we have been. And an hour left before I should scuttle off to my own room." Zhasa put the mysterious device back in its box, and held out her hand. Dempsey latched onto it, and then pure, gentle _maieolo'rae'kiia. . . _well, minus the _kiia_, of course. Though she carefully buried away her curiosity as to what the rough stubble on his cheeks, which appeared as the day went on, would feel like. Would it be as soft as a quarian male's mane? She distantly remembered her father, in the days when he would visit the crèche to see her, having a short beard and a longish mane.

Tangled memories now, both of theirs. Flickers of fighting on alien worlds. A Cerberus facility, not that he knew what it was at the time, eliminated on some airless moon. A dozen ugly little battles with batarian mercenaries near Terra Nova. Being deployed to help keep order during a famine on Amaterasu. . . he hadn't liked that mission. Hadn't wanted to have to fire on his own people, but _someone_ had needed to step in and guard the supplies and make sure they were distributed, and his unit had been closest when the supply ships had come in, and the local troops were overwhelmed by the crowds.

More recent memories. Waking up in a cold box. Faces. Bewilderment. Grabbing a young doctor by the throat—_No, Zhasa, don't look there, you won't like what you see._ He was breathing faster now, arms locked tightly around her suited form.

_Let me see it. Let me see it all. How did you __get__ in the box—oh, Keelah—what did they __do_ _to you?_

Pain now. So much pain. And the white-hot tide of anger with it, though Keelah knew he was _entitled_ to the anger, he was trying to control it, trying to lock it down. Surgeries. Genetic modifications. More modifications. More surgeries. The krogan regeneration, the chip, the _tests_. Trying to break free, the only thing on his mind getting home to Amy and Madison, only to be stunned. Restrained. Forced into the box. . . _Zhasa, stop looking there, I won't be able to control it—_

She slammed a shield around herself as she felt his biotics start to build. _It's not happening now,_ she reminded him. _You don't have to relive it. That was then. Now is now. Dempsey, look at me._

_Not. . . . reliving it. . . .never again. . . _He was humming now, and he was trying to block her out of his mind.

_Yes, you are, look at how intense the memories are. Dempsey, let's look at something else. . . waking up._

His own people, looking as alien to him as real aliens. His conviction, on waking up, that no time had passed, and thus grabbing the young female doctor by the throat. The big turian—_they're __married__?—_leveling a gun on him. Then flicking ahead, going to _Khar'sharn_ to rescue that self-same turian male—_shit, Zhasa, that's classified, I'm pretty sure. I'm going to have to fill out a report on this tomorrow_—along with two Spectres, the doctor, another turian—_his brother, as best I understood it_—and another human.

_You've been doing Spectre work?_ She was stunned, a little hurt, and surprised. He'd told her he _wasn't_ a Spectre candidate, after all.

_Wouldn't call it that. Was along as another warm body. Made the cover look good._ Dempsey shrugged.

She pored through the memories now, studying each that much more closely. Firefight on Camala, the pain of the bullets slamming home even through his armor, fighting back the rage, and then _watching as the wounds healed themselves_. Zhasa swallowed. _They turned you into one of the Undying._ Quick flick of thought to the ancient tales, stories that spoke of warriors returned from the grave to avenge wrongs done to them in life, whom no spear or sword or arrow could fell.

_Almost. Docs think a bullet in the brain would probably do it. Bullet in the heart, maybe, if they couldn't keep the blood circulating while they removed the bullet. No secondary organs, like a krogan, y'know._ Tiredness. Bitterness. And yet, he was _relishing_ it, relishing her reaction, drinking it all up as the anger eased and his arms relaxed around her.

She reached up, and lightly rubbed her gloved fingers against his jaw line. Wondering, again, what it felt like.

This time, he caught the thought, and snorted a little. Closed his eyes, and ran his own fingertips against his cheek. Zhasa sighed, feeling it with him. Sharp. Scratchy. Wonderful. "I don't suppose you'd mind—"

"I am _not_ going to grope everything on the base for you," he told her, firmly.

"Not everything. Just. . . enjoyable things. Leaves. Tree bark. Curtains. Hair, skin."

He squinted at her. "Just my own, I hope. Other people _would_ be a little concerned if I ran around feeling them up."

Zhasa laughed. _No, just your own. That will do nicely._

_Okay, but this borders on the weird. Not the really fucking bizarre. Just the more or less normally weird._ He paused. _Hair? Really?_

_Yes, yes._

Dempsey shook his head, and ran his hand over his close-shorn hair, and Zhasa exhaled. _Slower. _

_Good god, girl._ But he slowed down, and she could feel the softer texture, almost as a tingle in her own fingertips. Not as harsh as the sharp facial whiskers. Slightly more like velvet, but not quite. Zhasa opened her eyes and realized she was lying curled on her side on his bed, fingers flexing in front of her, perfectly content. _I'd ask if it was good for you, but I think we've established that it was._ His thought held a little faint amusement. Not as strong as when he'd been reflecting her laughter back at her. This was all his own. A tiny spark in the dark.

"You have _no_ idea how lucky you are," she told him, a little crossly.

_Yeah, we're both so damned lucky. I can't feel emotion, you're cut off from half your physical senses._ His lips turned downwards. _So, what, I taste and touch and smell for you, and you'll do my feeling for me?_

She thought about it. _Seems an equitable exchange_. Her lips quirked. _There are so __many__ things I've been curious about, after all._

"Why do I feel like I just made a bargain with one of those _Normandy_-class AIs?" he muttered. _Only, I already have a chip in my head._

At that point, his comm panel buzzed. It was _late_ for a comm call, well after twenty-three hundred. Dempsey hopped to his feet, and crossed the room. Minds still linked, she could feel his shock of recognition, and slight trace of anger as the screen suddenly showed the face of a human male. "Oh," Dempsey said, shortly. _William fucking Perry_, his mind said, and the mental tone was flat, as if he were _trying_ to keep the anger down, trying to let the chip dampen everything again. "It's you. I've been trying to get in touch with Amy for three days—"

"She died early yesterday morning." The male voice was exhausted, and blunt, and Zhasa _reeled_ momentarily from the confused emotions that briefly flooded through Dempsey, only to be caught, held down by the chip. Shock, horror, grief, anger. He had gotten so used to not feeling anything about his wife, it actually came as a surprise to realize he _had_ still held some feelings for her. In spite of the anger and the resentment.And there was also distant gratitude for both the chip and her presence in his mind. The chip, for tamping it all down, and her, for letting him feel just a _little_ of it. Because Amy had been worth at least that much. _Sorry, Zhasa. . . . you shouldn't have to feel this, too. . . you never even met her. . . _

_It's not so bad. The chip's taking most of it. _

Out loud, after only a moment. "Amy's . . . dead?"

"Yeah. Flu and pneumonia." The other man looked down on the screen. "Hell of a combination."

"How's Madison?" Swift question. Lurking concern there.

"Healthy." The man's voice was sour. "He took the news pretty hard."

"Well, no shit."

The human on the screen looked up, lips twisting down. "Look, your son put me _back_ in the damn hospital when I told him about his mom." _Your son_ seemed underlined in that sentence. Not _his_ step-son. Completely distancing himself. Zhasa caught flickers of outrage at that distance, mingled with a little pleasure at it, but also confusion.

"Say what?" Dempsey told the man, frowning slightly. "A thirteen-year-old kid put you in the hospital?"

Tight grimace now. "Yeah. Biotic breakthrough. He seems to blame _me_ for his mother's death. Threw the desk from the principal's office at me." Perry's voice turned weary. "They're telling me I've got four broken ribs and a hell of a concussion. The way _I_ figure it, is assault with a deadly weapon, at least, but I'm not going to press charges. . . "

"I would hope not. Biotics who break through under extreme emotional duress like that aren't usually in control of themselves." Cold, clear words, followed by a silent addition: _Ya fuckin' moron._ Zhasa smothered her laugh at Dempsey's mental tone. Irritation, contempt. Fragile, subtle things.

"I know that. But I _could_ still have him charged. And I will, if you don't take him into your care. I'm not qualified to deal with him. We've had him at Exeter, because of the quality of their education, and their biotic training program, and that _obviously_ didn't help. Amy adjusted her will last year, removing the clause that would have sent Madison to her parents in the event of her death—"

"I could've fought that anyway. Divorce never said I gave up my parental rights. Just said I deferred them till I finished treatment for my . . . injuries." The anger was rising again. Zhasa stood up, moved carefully, so she stayed outside the camera's field of view, and lightly touched Dempsey's elbow. _Steady. Want me to sing for you?_

_No. I kind of __want__ to be mad at him._ _Fucker can't wait to wash his hands of my kid._ There was a brief pause, and Zhasa could _feel_ the emotion leach out of him. _Of course, this makes it easier for me to get Mad back. Guess I should be grateful._

William Perry cleared his throat. "Does that mean you'll take him? After, of course, the quarantine is lifted?"

"Where's he at now?" Dempsey answered the question with a question.

Perry didn't seem to like that, but replied anyway. "They moved him to a facility for young adults with, ah, personality disorders—"

"You're fucking kidding me." Ice now. The anger was like shards of glass everywhere, radiating out of him like a cloud of flensing knives, and Zhasa _winced_ at it. This was one level below where he might react biotically and explosively, and she worked at it, trying to divert it, redirect it, soothe it. Anything, really. "They put him in a mental hospital?"

"They had to _sedate_ him to stop him from dropping any more furniture on me. I have it on good authority that he's been dosed with thorazine to keep his biotics unfocused and to keep him calm. He's not being restrained at the facility, other than being kept in his room."

_That's __not__ what you do with a biotic in breakthrough. Mother of __fuck__._ "What's the name of this classy institution?"

"Wendover House. It's in New Hampshire—"

"Yeah, I can find that. I'll get in touch with my people here and see how soon they can get me there."

The face on the screen crinkled. "There's a planetary quarantine—"

Dempsey shrugged. "As far as anyone can tell, I can't _catch_ the plague. Hasn't been really _tested_ yet. So long as his blood checks out as being free of the viruses and pneumonia, I don't see why I can't get there and grab him. What's your number, in case I need you to tell the _good people_ of Wendover House that I'm a) not dead and b) perfectly within my rights to take my son home with me?"

Perry reeled off a comm code at Dempsey, who didn't bother writing it down, and then closed down the call. Dempsey turned his head slightly. She was picking up a dozen different thoughts at once. Dizzying, really. _Thirteen-year-old I don't know is going to be a hell of a lot different from a not-quite-three-year-old. . . am I really __safe_ _enough for a kid to be around me now?. . . the Spectres have been pretty much been putting me up for gratis here for almost a year. What the hell am I going to do to keep a kid fed and clothed and housed. . . . but I can't __leave__ him there._

_Who can you call?_ Barely a whisper of thought.

_Jaworski or Sidonis. . . damn. Both on Bastion, and sick. Ylara or . . . Shepard._ He winced. _Very goddamned late at night. I'll try Ylara first. Hate to presume on Shepard._

Ylara wasn't asleep yet, fortunately, and while alarmed and a little annoyed at the late call, sat up and grew serious at Dempsey's first words. "I'll call Shepard," the Spectre said at once. "Of _course_ you must go and get your son."

Shepard, when she called back fifteen minutes later, said much the same. "We'll get you on a ship in the morning," she told Dempsey. "We're going to be extracting a few other people from the quarantine zones in the next few days, anyway. You can be our dry run on this."

Zhasa had yet to unlink their minds, so she felt the subtle relief that washed through him, the sudden relaxation. "Thank you, commander," he told Shepard. "This means a lot to me." His lips pulled down. "No _idea_ what I'm going to do with him once he gets here. I can't really keep him in this barracks room with me."

Shepard's lips quirked up. "I have a few ideas," she told him. "As for childcare. . . hell, Dempsey, most of us wind up babysitting each others' kids around here. It'll get taken care of. Get some rest. You, Kasumi, Livanus, and Cohort will have a busy day tomorrow, I think."

She logged off, and that left the comm panel blank for the time being. Zhasa shook her head. "A very long day for you," she assessed, after a moment. "I should go."

_Zhasa?_ Clear, sharp mental words. _Thank you._

_For what?_

_For being here. For . . . not shutting down when I got mad._

_Of course. It's not __comfortable__ being in your mind when you're angry like that, but if I'm going to help at all, I have to see if we can reconnect __all_ _of your emotional states. Not just the ones that are pleasant to the touch._

Dempsey managed a very faint smile. _Doubt we'll ever get them all. But I appreciate the effort._ He paused, and asked, out loud, "Don't suppose you might want to go to Earth? Not like you can catch anything there, even if you had a suit breach."

"No, but I could get a hell of an allergic reaction to. . . hmm. . . ." She picked the thought out of his mind. "Ragweed? What's ragweed?"

Dempey's faint smile became a little more pronounced. "We'll try to avoid that, then."

**Valak N'Dor and Nala S'har, Khar'sharn, May 4, 2196**

Valak's communications with the Spectres were supposed to be at regularly scheduled intervals. He'd missed the tightbeam FTL transmission yesterday, because there had been Oversight forces in the area, and he didn't want to chance them accidentally wandering directly in the path of the transmitter. It was a less efficient method of communication than, say, transmitting to the system's mass effect relay, which passed information through to other relays in the overall system, which was what most people had opted to do, when the relays were discovered. The tiny FTL transmitter in his possession required a _lot_ of power to use. Easily detected. . . _if_ you knew what to be looking for. It also had the slight drawback of requiring more or less a direct line of sight to its target destination. Thus, Valak could only use it at planetary night for the moment. Some parts of the year, Khar'sharn's sun would block the signal. And if his planet had been on the opposite side of the galactic core from where the Spectre base was. . . he still didn't _really_ know what planet he'd set foot on, to be honest. . . the transmission would have been a no-go, indeed.

As it was, all of that information had let him more or less figure out that the planet had to be in the Attican Traverse. And given that Rellus had told him that Mindoir was home for him, and had smiled when Valak had suggested dropping him off there would be easier than dropping him off on Bastion, Valak thought his analysis was probably correct. But he didn't know that for certain.

Now that Nala had fallen asleep again, he slipped out of bed and headed to his study, passing Tuldur in the hall. His chief aide looked at him, faint amusement in his expression. "I should keep an eye on her again, m'lord?"

"As always."

"You trust her yet?"

"Getting there. Not quite fully yet, but getting there."

"Female spies, since the dawn of time, have gotten males to trust them in bed." Tuldur's voice was dour.

"I'm aware of that." Valak didn't take offense. Tuldur was absolutely loyal, and was only pointing out a very real risk. "Fortunately, she's only sleeping there." Every night was something of a wrestling match between his conscience and his body's insistence that a warm female body was _right there_. So far, his integrity was winning. But only just barely. "I think she'd probably leave off staying past the nightly reading if she really believed the rest of you were trustworthy. As is, I suspect she rather believes that some of the men are spies, themselves." He snorted. _Such is life on Khar'sharn. Never knowing whom to trust, or how far_.

For example? His connection to the Spectres was a secret he was holding tightly to himself and the men who'd been 'captured' on Omega with. Even Tuldur and Yal'or and N'val didn't know the full extent of it, and they'd been _there_ with him. If he was to be caught or captured, he wanted all of his people to be able to say, "yes, we knew we'd been captured on Omega. We knew it was by Spectres. But we _didn't know_ he stayed in contact or that he was taking their orders." Being able to say that _might_ save their lives.

So, it was just one more level of secrecy. He opened the door to his study and located the little FTL device, which he kept in a hollowed-out book, in plain sight on the shelves. While deactivated, it didn't even show up as tech on a scanner. Then he opened the doors to the balcony, stepped out, and, after a quick scan of the skies with thermal field glasses, and getting an all-clear from his various men positioned around the perimeter of the estate, turned the device on. Once it was on, and he had a signal lock, he was able to retreat back into the study, leaving the balcony doors open, and at least sit in comfort on the couch there.

Nala awoke in the big bed, suddenly aware that _something_ was different. The bed was empty, she realized as she slid a very cautious hand over in the darkness of the room, which was only very dimly lit by moonlight. The sheets and pillow on the other side were still a little warm, which meant that Valak had _just_ gotten up. _He's off to get himself shot at again_, she thought, and sat up entirely, groping for the light switch, almost knocking over the lamp before she got it.

Nala looked around, and located a robe. Not hers. She technically didn't own anything, after all. And while Valak had told her—_repeatedly—_that she was free, she hadn't quite shaken the notion that she wasn't out of her head yet. While she was enough of a free-thinker to despise the caste system, she was a product of her upbringing within it, and she _knew_ that she'd been condemned to slavery, and that Valak had purchased her. Bought and paid for her body. Though she'd sworn, in the dank filth of her prison cell, that no one would _ever_ own her mind or her soul. No one. Not the Hegemony, that had half-blinded her. Not the Overseers, who'd condemned her. Not whoever bought her. And then _he'd_ come for her. The lord she'd quietly despised for his apparent lack of _thought_. Oh, he'd been kind to his slaves. They were the best-kept lot she'd ever seen. But the way he'd wave off her concerns and tell her he knew nothing of healing, nor cared, and just to do what she thought best had grated. Had made her think him foolish and stupid, and that his care for his slaves was sentimentality, not principle.

The exquisite care he'd taken, not to touch her skin, as if she were still of the healing caste, and not a slave, was a courtesy she hadn't expected, at all. One she was no longer entitled to. And then, to discover that almost everything she knew about him was an act, a façade. He'd cared enough about her to try to protect her from Arvak, and _that_ she was grateful for. Arvak's eyes had been empty and soulless, and the condition of his slaves had told her that he was a man who _enjoyed_ inflicting pain. Valak had tried to protect her and her dignity at the same time. Another gesture she hadn't expected. But she'd decided that dignity could be sacrificed, if it kept her out of Arvak's bed. In a choice between two demons, Valak had definitely seemed the lesser evil. And as evils went, it had been a surprisingly pleasant one. She hadn't expected gentleness or passion or to feel pleasure, herself.

And now? Nala picked up Valak's robe and pulled it around her, drawing the belt tight. Now, he hadn't touched her with more than just his hands in a month. She'd thought at first that she needed to keep up the pretense for the other slaves, who might otherwise tattle the next time Arvak came to the estate. But Valak had told her that all of them, like herself, were free. She couldn't _quite_ believe it. Surely, among a hundred such, there would be at least _one_ who was bought and paid for by the Overseers. And yet. . . .

And then the last revelations, that this man, whom she'd taken for a spoiled noble, was former SIU. Everyone _knew_ what SIU did to the people who survived their brutal training program. Turned them into hardened, ruthless killers. Defenders of the batarian way of life. And yet, he was also a one-man resistance movement. His hand raised _against_ that way of life, because it went against his principles. Nala wasn't sure _what_ to believe, except this: He was undoubtedly going to get shot. _Again_. And there were many reasons to try to prevent that, or at least to deal with it quickly when it did happen. Self-preservation and self-protection were high on that list. If Valak N'dor was captured or killed, every 'free' slave on the estate would be captured and resold. Probably to someone much less kindly. On the less selfish end of the continuum of reasons, was the fact that she really did want to strike back at the Hegemony, at the whole system. They had blinded her for reading _truth_. Valak gave her the chance to read more, learn more, discover more. Though he claimed not to have read any of the books he'd collected, she suspected that this was one more layer of deception in him. So many lies, so many secrets, and yet, inexplicably, she _trusted_ the man.

And she had no idea _why._ So, she stepped out of the bedroom, nodded abashedly at Tuldur, who was, as usual, stationed outside the door. "Where is Lord Valak?" she managed to ask, trying not to look at the floor. If she actually _were_ his mistress, she'd be doing a _terrible_ job at it, Nala reflected. She didn't know where he was in the middle of the night, for instance. And they were, of course, not having _relations_. She read to him every night for an hour, sitting on his bed. He never dismissed her. But he also never so much as touched her. And there was the minor matter of her cycle not having started this month. She was attributing it to stress, for the moment.

Tuldur eyed her with what looked like amusement. "In his study, healer." Tuldur always _watched_ her. It made Nala uneasy.

"Ah, thank you," she managed, and her eyes dropped to the floor again. Holding the robe around her, she scuttled off towards the library—the one that housed the approved batarian books, anyway, some of them hundreds of years old—and tapped very lightly on the door. No answer. Nala hesistated. _Well, he keeps __telling__ me that I'm free_, she decided. _The worst he can do is kill me, and he doesn't seem likely to do that._ She opened the door and slipped into the study.

Valak shook his head at Livanus, who was relaying orders from the Spectres. _Six impossible tasks before breakfast, as the humans like to say_. "The _Klem Na_ have their main base on Camala. I have never actually met their leader, Chas'na V'sol, but he's reputed to be brutal even by SIU standards. You think this is where this. . . salarian AI is located?"

He heard the door click behind him, and turned, sharply, raising a stasis gun. No one was supposed to come in here while he was conducting his comm transmissions. Valak blinked at seeing Nala, dressed in a robe, and swore under his breath. She lifted her hands, red-gold eyes wide, and he motioned for her to sit down beside him. Where he could see her.

On-screen, Livanus had paused. _"We can't really go over this another time," _the Spectre said, cautiously.

"I'm all too aware," Valak said, tightly. "Continue."

Livanus sighed, and clearly eyed Nala. _"The Camala facility is our best bet. The __Klem Na_ _commands Lystheni loyalty through their dalatrass. They therefore have access to whatever technological advances the Lystheni have at their disposal, or can produce. Explains the lobotomized asari. . . of which there are probably many, many more."_

"What do you need me to do?"

"_Find and eliminate as many of the weapons components as you can. Find the Lystheni AI and take it offline by any means possible. Try to find out tactics and strategies for the next step of the campaign against Council space. And try to stay alive."_

"I'm all in favor of that. I have no idea how I'll manage _any_ of it, but will do my best. Will report in, hmm. Three days."

Valak cut the connection, and turned, eying Nala warily. "Go close the balcony doors, if you would, my dear. No sense allowing too much chill air in here."

Nala slipped over to the doors and closed them. Then she paused and waited until he beckoned her back over. "So. . . .what did you want, my dear?" He knew she spoke and read galactic. She'd understood the whole conversation, if not its context.

"M'lord. . . that was the turian whom you sent to Camala?" She hesitated. "He's free, as well?"

"He was never a slave," Valak said, leaning back and staring at her, stasis gun still in his hand. He propped his chin in his free hand, and considered her for a moment. "Whatever am I going to _do_ with you, my dear?"

"I. . . don't know anything," Nala said, quickly, eyes darting down to stare at the gun in his hand.

"I'm not going to _kill_ you," he said, dryly. "Not after going to so much effort to retrieve you and keep you safe. Nevertheless, this is something of a breach of the security I've tried to maintain here. My goal has been to give everyone except for myself some level of deniability, as well as to ensure that only one person knows _everything_." He set the gun on the table beside him, well out of her reach, and sighed. "Trust is a damnably slippery concept, isn't it, Nala? More precious than gold. And I've been coming to trust you. I suppose this is your biggest test."

"I wouldn't betray your secrets." Injury in her tone. "If I wanted to, there have been many occasions to do so."

"Yes, but a really _good_ agent would wait until _everything_ was revealed, and maximum damage could be done." He held up his hand, stopping the words on her lips. "Sooner or later, we all have to trust _someone_. I'm going to take a gamble and trust you, Nala."

"Is. . . is that why you haven't. . . why you don't . . . " She floundered. This was surprisingly difficult to ask. "Why you don't touch me?"

She couldn't quite read the expression in his eyes. They could go disconcertingly blank at times. "No," he replied quietly. "That has nothing to do with trust, and everything to do with respect. I want to show you the respect a healer and a free woman deserves. So everything becomes _your_ choice. I _ask_ that if you wish to read from my collection of _illicit, illegal_ books, that you do so in my chambers, out of sight and in relative safety. It _pleases_ me that you read them out loud. . . though you do not need to. I'll trust you enough to say here that I've read every one of them, with my own eyes."

Nala swallowed. She had suspected as much, but hadn't been _sure_ of it. Valak went on, gently, "You do not need to _stay_ in my chambers unless there's a member of the Oversight forces or SIU or any other batarian here." He snorted a little. "Or, perhaps, some member of my family. Little though they have visited, it would be best to maintain the pretense then, too." He grimaced. "Although that will just serve reinforce what they already know of me."

She swallowed hard and stood. Walked over to sit beside him on the couch. Perched there uncertainly, Nala asked, "And what do they think they know of you, m'lord?" She cautiously put a hand on his arm, and then he lifted it, wrapped it around her. Very gently pulled her up against his side. The gesture was surprisingly warm and comfortable, and she could feel some of her own tension start to fade as a result.

"They know," Valak said tiredly, "that when I was sixteen, and on break from my studies at the university, I came home for a month, and made use of the slaves. As a young noble is _supposed_ to do, to keep him away from merchants' daughters and females not of his own caste. One in particular. I was very fond of her. And when it turned out that she was pregnant, she swore it was mine. I've. . . no notion if this was true or not. I'd kept Tyyra very busy that month, but she might have found affection with a fellow slave. As it was, I was pleased, and disturbed at the same time. It was good to know that I was _capable_, but. . . the child would be born a slave. I didn't like that thought. And then my father sold her off." Valak's fingers were on the back of Nala's neck now. "Said I'd come too close to making a pet of her, and that a slave was a slave. 'Find a different one, if you're so damned randy. But don't sulk about the house over it.'" Valak shrugged. "So I didn't sulk. I went back to school, took up dueling as a fairly destructive hobby, and fell in with the philosophers. Learned to question what I was being taught in school. Finished my work, went into SIU, and learned to question absolutely everything else. The rest is pretty much history." He paused. "The hell of it is, I could never find any records of her sale. Not to whom, or for how much."

"Did he kill her?" The words were blunt, and she winced at them the instant she spoke them.

Valak's fingers stopped in their steady progression up and down her neck. "I don't know," he finally said. "I doubt he'd have lied about it if he had. The lie gained him nothing. My father does nothing if it doesn't gain him _something._" He paused, and looked down at her. "Thus, my family, on seeing you, would simply think I'd found a different pet. And despair all over again at the likelihood of ever seeing me safely married off."

"And why _haven't_ you done your duty as a noble's son, married, and produced heirs, m'lord?" Nala turned a little into him. Very cautiously, she began tracing her fingers over his opposite arm.

"Probably a little rebelliousness leftover from that whole incident," he admitted. "But also, because if I had to sneak out of the bedroom at night to do my real work, any wife would have questions, eventually. Would catch me at my dirty work, sooner or later. Might even come creeping into my study while I'm in the midst of receiving valuable information. . . " Valak had turned his head to whisper that last into her ear.

Nala chuckled a little, weakly, at that. "Will you let me help you, m'lord?" she finally asked.

"You're already helping. You've already _helped_."

"More than just pulling bullets out."

"You've helped get information, too," he pointed out, reasonably.

"Yes, with Tuldur there to watch over me."

"Everyone goes through a period of being watched, very carefully. Even one wrong person could get the other two hundred of us killed. Don't be offended. And rest assured, when I depart for Camala to pursue some of the pieces of information I just received, you _will_ be coming with me."

"I'm not offended. But. . . I _do_ want to help." This was important to her. He'd taken a _lot_ of chances helping her. And he was resistance. Even if he didn't claim affiliation with the rest of the groups, he was still _against_ the Hegemony's antiquated, horrific institutions. And so was she, even if her own resistance had never gone further than reading banned books. "And I—" Nala hesitated. "I'd like to learn." It sounded so awkward.

"Learn what, my dear?"

"How to protect myself. So once you do trust me properly, you won't have to leave Tuldur or Yal'or or anyone else to protect me all the time." His skin was so very warm, and she found, just as she had, weeks before, that she liked touching it. Finding the odd indentations of old scars here and there.

"Guns and vibroswords are forbidden to healers," Valak reminded her, letting his head fall back a little. _Gods of my ancestors, her hands feel so good_.

"I'm. . . I'm not _of_ the healers' caste anymore." Fingertips tracing down his chest now.

"A fair point. I'll teach you both, if you like. Starting tomorrow morning. In and around having to try to accomplish six impossible things before noon." Valak paused. "Under one condition."

Her eyes flew upwards, locking onto his face. "And that condition is, m'lord?"

"That while I'm teaching you, you forget the damned words _my _and _lord._" Valak leaned down and kissed her mouth just as her lips parted in protest. Soft and warm and wonderful. He suspected he was going to have an all new fondness for the robe she was wearing, simply because it would _smell _like her now. Just as his sheets smelled like her skin now, and little whiffs of her scent here and there in his rooms had been driving him mad for weeks. "This," he muttered, between kisses, "is why. . . I haven't touched you. Once I start . . . I might not stop for a while." He loosened the belt of the robe, and found skin underneath. "Do we have a bargain, my dear?"

"Yes, m'lord. . . Valak." But the expression that accompanied the words wasn't so much submissive as just a little bit saucy.

"Without the _m'lord_, Nala. Please."

"Valak, then."

"Thank you." Then no more words, just fervent kissing and her hands sliding down his back, pulling his shirt out of the trousers he'd hastily donned for this late-night meeting, and finding bare skin, soft, healing hands pulling those same trousers down, oh so tentatively. Unsure, uncertain. But the knowledge in him was certain. This was of her own choice, her own free will, and in that knowledge, there was relief for him.

In the morning, he was as good as his word, waking her with the pragmatic inquiry of "Swords first, or guns?"

"Which is easier to learn?"

"Guns. Swords, however, I can train you in the house. Guns will require a little venturing out, but once I've got you started on those, Tuldur can continue training you while I'm at SIU or anywhere else required."

So he'd taken her to the underground bunker, and watched her eyes widen, and started working with her on pistols in the tiny firing range he had set up inside. At first, she was clearly startled whenever the gun went off, but he worked with her to start accounting for the instinctive flinch. "You'll eventually start flinching before the gun even goes off," Valak told her, calmly. "That throws off aim. So, we work to be relaxed."

"That must come more easily to you," she muttered, then added, after a moment, "m'lord."

It was a very, very tentative poke at him, and Valak chuckled at it. _She really does have a tongue, when she chooses to use it._ "Hardly," he told her mildly. "I think _everyone_ tenses up in combat. The trick is practicing it so often that everything becomes second nature. With luck, you'll never need to use any of this. Hard to explain why a slave is carrying a gun, at any rate."

An hour or so of pistols, and then an hour or so of introductory swordplay, back up in the house, in a long gallery, surrounded by government-sanctioned art. Portraits of dead ancestors. Depictions of the oldest legends, particularly how the first ancestor had been slain by his own four sons, and his body divided to make wives for them. Each newly-created wife had differently colored eyes, and derived her nature from the body parts from which she had been made. The wife made from the head had been wise and gracious; from her, the first son had had children who became the nobles, the leaders. The second wife had been made from the heart of the father; on her, the second son of the first ancestor had gotten children who became priests and healers. The wife of the hands and arms gave birth to warriors, fighters, raiders. The wife who had been made of the feet and legs gave birth to children who were merchants and craftsmen. And the last wife was made from whatever was left over—the bowels and the loins, the unclean parts. The children of this wife became handlers-of-the-dead, stable-tenders, and slaves.

Valak was standing behind her, showing her how to hold her practice sword correctly, when he noticed her head turn to look at that particular painting. "Dreadful, isn't it?" he murmured in her ear. "But do you know what I think whenever I look at it? 

"How were the first five sons born, if there were no women around?" Nala asked, daring just enough to look up at him, as he stood so closely behind her.

"That's a good question. Personally, what I wonder is this: If they _had_ a mother, how did she feel about seeing her husband killed and dismembered? There does seem to be a _great_ deal missing from the old legends. Now, this is the first guard position, like so. . . " And he lifted her hand, holding the sword, into the right position.

**Seheve, Bastion, May 4, 2196**

Seheve awakened slowly, looking around her in complete disorientation. _This doesn't look like the Eternal Light_, she decided after a moment. She was disappointed. If this was the afterlife, it did not live up to her expectations. If it was her current life, it wasn't immediately recognizable. She lifted her head, slowly. Pink and white curtains, all around a metal bed. A very small place, cordoned off for the illusion of privacy. _Med bay, perhaps. Not a prison cell, at least._ She sat up entirely, and immediately regretted it. She felt weaker than she had ever felt in her life, and her head spun.

"There you are," came a reedy, cheerful voice, and a salarian nurse bustled into the room. For a dazed instant, Seheve was convinced that this salarian was Maldo Ren. _No, he's quite dead._ But she still stared at him warily as he adjusted a few monitors and the IV dripping its way through a tube and into her arm. "You were a little touch and go there for a while, but your vitals stabilized overnight. You've had a very bad case of pneumonia, and the engineered Skyllian flu. You're one of only a handful of drell who've survived having both."

"Then the Enkindlers have a reason for this one to survive," Seheve murmured, but the words felt hollow. _What could that reason be? I was unable to make the last mission for the Master perfect and clean. I am now compromised. Surely, the illness was a punishment for my weakness, my failure._

To her surprise, the salarian said nothing at all about the Enkindlers. He just ignored her words and moved on. "I heard that you were volunteering in the ICU when you collapsed. We're all just grateful for the number of people who've stepped up, even for the unskilled work. It's freed the few of us left who aren't sick for the nursing tasks. We've had three or four hundred doctors and nurses fly in from Sur'Kesh, which has been a help, but we're still badly understaffed." He checked the monitors one more time, and elevated the back of the bed. "Think you could sit up and manage a little soup? We've got cream of _cadda_ and whitefish gumbo going in the cafeteria right now."

Her stomach rebelled at the idea of fish, but she murmured, "This one would welcome some of the cream of _cadda_ soup." _Cadda_ was one of the few staple foods of Rakhana that had survived, and even flourished, in the wet climate of Kahje. Humans called it, flavor-wise, something of a cross between a potato, an apple, and a pinecone. It could be eaten raw or cooked, and generally absorbed and stored vast amounts of water in its underground nodules. Hence why it had been prized on arid Rakhana.

When the nurse returned, Seheve asked, politely, "Might this one have an extranet connection?"

"Sorry. All in use. We try to make sure that everyone gets a turn, but it's hard." The salarian dithered a bit. "So many. So very many. The instant someone is _capable_ of walking, we have to turn them out. Relapses common in home care."

Seheve nodded. "How many have died?"

The salarian sighed. "In the past ten days, in excess of two hundred thousand," he said, and his voice held so much weariness and numbness, Seheve didn't know what to say in return. The number was _staggering_.

"May this one be of any assistance? This one has experience with the dying." _Many years of experience_, the voice at the back of her head mocked her.

"Focus on being able to get on your feet," the salarian told her. "The best help you can be is to not be taking up a bed. Sounds brutal, I know, but it's true." He paused. "Also, we need a fairly large portion of your blood. You're one of only a handful of drell to have survived both diseases. We might be able to synthesize an inoculant from the antibodies in your blood. Unfortunately, we're not set up for _mass_ production here on Bastion." His tone turned bitter. "But the drell population is small enough that even one or two survivors is a big help."

Seheve held out her arm, immediately. "Take the blood," she offered, immediately. "As much as you need."

"You can't spare how much we'd need," he told her, glumly. "One pint is all you can tolerate having taken, especially after the battle your body has just fought."

_Perhaps __this__ is why the Enkindlers have decided to allow me to continue to live,_ she thought. _I have ever served my people. And in this way, my body may continue to serve, even if the rest is unworthy._ In her fog of confusion, she didn't know what to believe, really. That the Enkindlers had found her worthy to live, in spite of her doubts? That this had all been a test? If so, she should have failed it. She _did_ have doubts. She _still_ had doubts, even having awakened back in mortal life. Could it all just be, as surely this salarian would believe, a matter of adequate medical care, a healthy body, and blind chance?

As he set up a different IV, this one to take blood from her body, while the other one pumped her full of saline, he also set up a mask and a breathing machine for her. "One more breathing treatment," he told her. "But after you've donated the blood. Then we'll have a full list of prescriptions for you, that you can pick up from the dispensary once you're on your feet and ready to leave." The nurse, surprisingly, brought her an extranet console after all, wheeling it in. "This just freed up."

Seheve logged on, and quickly checked her messages. One, disappointed, from the Master. Displeased with her failure with Maldo Ren, although he did not put it in so many words. _This one grieves that you have not made all the arrangements required with the scrupulous attention to detail with which you have done so in the past,_ he had written, what, eight days ago now. _This one may not be able to shelter you against the storm that comes._

_What does this mean? This task was not one for the Cause. It was one given by the government of our people. Why would he need to shelter me, when I was given an order, and followed it. Ah. Perhaps the government of the salarians is protesting the efforts, since it involved one of their own._ Seheve frowned. It made sense, but it also did not make sense. She had had messy kills before. But this one might have been higher profile, since it was on Bastion. At least it hadn't been on the Citadel, the holiest site of the Enkindlers.

_Or, from a different point of view,_ mocked the voice at the back of her head, _the centerpiece of the Reaper's trap for all the organic races of the galaxy, until the end of time._

The next letter was from her mother, Gunora. Seheve almost set it aside without reading it, but sighed and opened the message anyway. _Daughter. It grieves me to hear that you are unwell, and I am not allowed to come and tend to you. The Master has left his house, after a meeting with the Spectre, Blasto. I am told that he left on the Enkindlers' work, and that I must keep his house tidy against his return._ _The Spectre bade me to acknowledge my son again, and to speak with Oeric, and I am glad that I have obeyed him in this, for Oeric is also aboard Bastion. He is well, and says that he will try to see you, if the Enkindlers permit you to live. He is still a blasphemer, I am afraid, and will surely never join us in the Light. But he is still my son, much though it grieves me to say all of this._

Seheve frowned. The Master had _never_ left his home for long. And after a visit from a Spectre? _Why?_ Her heart started to pound, in fear. Not for herself. But for the Master. _They learned that he bade me kill the salarian? But why would a hanar Spectre care about such? Especially since the death was a just one? Or perhaps. . . they learned of his other orders. The ones I wished so fervently __not__ to have to carry out. Would the Spectre have killed the Master?_ It hardly seemed probable, but what else could explain the Master's sudden departure? _I don't wish to have to kill one hanar to avenge the death of another. If it's even __possible__ for one such as myself to kill the Spectre. He is. . . renown. For good reason. _Then again, the Master had wanted to pit her against _Shepard_, if she was successful in her task with the living machine, Ruin. And people spoke the name of Lilitu Shepard in awe. _But she is just a living being. Not a goddess. Such reverence is unseemly, for a living creature._

_And yet, if the hundreds of millions of people who say it are correct, then the Enkindlers were Protheans, and living creatures, too. And to reverence them, worship them, would be equally wrong._

Seheve put a hand to her forehead and wished for relief from the burden of her own thoughts. Death might have been easier. And when the technician came, and removed the plump bag of blood, and told her she might be ready to leave in four hours, she merely told him, "This one thanks you."

Four hours later, promptly on the dot, after another breathing treatment and several syringes of heavy antibiotics, the nurses put prescriptions in her hands and helped her get dressed. "The blood you gave will probably save some lives," they told her. "You can donate again in six weeks. We're hoping that by then, this will have burned itself out, but there's no way of knowing for sure."

Seheve found it hard to breathe as she took shuffling steps out of the elevator, and looked around. A line of people, backed up out the doors. Harried people at the check-in desk—a quarian, a volus, and a hanar, all taking names and histories. Seheve slowly moved out past them, through the double doors, and into the plaza outside the med bay. Sound of sirens in the distance, as some B-Sec vehicle moved through the area, responding to alerts, somewhere. The streets, other than the area around the med bay, were largely deserted. _And to think I thought that a biological attack wouldn't be all that effective. Well. . . it isn't. Most of the people on the station __are_ _still alive. Over two hundred thousand out of seventeen million is just about one percent of the population. And yet. . . the station is locked down. No one besides the doctors and security and maybe the cargo handlers is at work. I'd be willing to believe that construction work has been halted. The vital work, the vital life, of this place, is gone, at least for the moment._

She stopped in the street. Stared around, and realized, she had absolutely no idea where she was going. Seheve had had a hotel room, but that was probably not an option now. She _could_ go to the hanar embassy. . . but the Master had said, in his fashion, that she had failed, and could expect no shelter from him, and thus, none from their people. She could turn herself in to B-Sec, but as she had noted before, when she was first coming down with the sickness, they were surely not set up at the moment to incarcerate people, and certainly not to nurse the sick, either. Besides, she hadn't committed a crime. Had she? She had executed a murderer, under the standards of her people. _But if that were true, why would we have to conceal what we do_? came the mocking voice at the back of her mind again. _Because others do not live by our laws_, she answered, but the words weren't as firm as she would have liked.

So what did that leave? Turning around, and going back into the med bay, to tend the ill? She'd already offered her assistance, and the salarian nurse had turned her down. _Maybe one of the quarians at the front desk would not turn down an offer of aid_, she thought, and turned to go back.

And promptly staggered. She'd been walking for longer than she'd thought, and her body wasn't quite up to the task yet. So she sat down on a bench near a statue. . . some human, on some sort of quadrupedal animal. The name on the plinth under the statue was written in galactic letters that gave an equivalent of the Latin letters below: Marcus Aurelius. She absently pressed the button beside the name, and a VI program appeared, saying, calmly, "Marcus Aurelius was an emperor of Rome on Terra between 161 and 180 of the common era. While prosecuting a long and bloody war, he wrote a famous book, known as the _Meditations_, in which he discussed the need to base life on service and duty, while looking to nature as an inspiration in the effort to find balance in a life filled with blood and conflict."

_Service and duty. That's all I've ever known. _Seheve leaned her head against the plinth, and closed her eyes.

"Sister?"

She raised her head, confused. She'd surely only closed her eyes for a moment, but now the false sky overhead was dark. "Sister, I've been looking everywhere for you. The hospital said you'd been discharged, but that you hadn't picked up your medications, and no one could say where you'd gone." Huge dark eyes, like her own, studying her. "Seheve?"

"Oeric?" she said, puzzled. _He refused service. He refused duty. But look at him now. Wearing a mask, because he didn't __catch__ the plagues, did he. And what have the Enkindlers to say about that?_ "Is it really you?"

"Amonkira," he muttered, reaching down for her hands and hoisting her to her feet. "What the hell did that hanar _do_ to you?"

"You shouldn't speak of him so—"

"I speak however I wish. I don't live in his house or eat of his bread. I work _here_. I live here. And I do and I say and I think what I want." Impatient, Oeric. . . surely, it _was_ Oeric, wasn't it? So much older now, of course, but still with the familial red streak of scales along the scalp. . . once he had her on her feet, lightly picked her up and carried her away. "Gods, sister, I would _kill_ the damned creature for what I see in your eyes, if I could."

_But you can't kill anyone, can you, brother? That's what __I'm__ for_. The thought was a dull one.

He took her home—he _had_ a home. A mate—a perfectly lovely drell female, with bright blue scales along her scalp. Children. _Three_ children, two nephews and a niece she'd never even known about. "Is she infectious?" the mate asked, anxiously.

'They wouldn't have released her if she were," Oeric told his mate, impatiently. "She's on antibiotics, but still very damned weak. They should be _shot_ for turning her out the door like this." He settled Seheve on the couch in their living area. "Seheve. . . just rest. We'll talk when you're better, all right?" He patted her hands, but he was already so very far away again. . . . _All these years, I assumed him lost. Wandering. Alone. Damned, because the Enkindlers would surely take all light from his life for his rejection of them. Instead. . . he's happy. At peace. Has riches in his life that I will never know. And if I had walked away that day six years ago. . . would I be like him now? Or would I be alone, as I am now? Would I have a mate, children? Would I have fallen ill? _

No way to know. No way, at all, to see what the results of the road not taken would have been. But Seheve, looking at her twin, this reflection of herself, had to think that she had made the wrong choice in staying. And yet. . . service and duty were the highest good.


	95. Chapter 95: Refuges

**Chapter 95: Refuges**

**Author's note:** _On quarians. . . oh yes._ _There is almost no consistency in how the quarian immune response is dealt with in-game. I figure it has something to do with the writers having had the initial idea, and then either making it into a joke half the time, and trying to be serious about it the rest of the time. So, for instance, even a single levo bacterium in the water on the Citadel could kill a quarian, according to a groundskeeper in a bar, (?) but they can eat the nuts in the red bowls in a bar, which have been lying out for anyone to touch for hours or days . . . .without harm? (Not to mention how the hell they get the nuts into the suit in the first place. I'm going with "airlock system and a lot of Purell" as the only conceivable answer.) They have to 'link suits' to accustom themselves to each others' bacteria before spending time in a clean room together? When they've each been completely isolated for god knows how many years before that? They wouldn't __have__ any infectious bacteria at that point. _

_And as for Tali getting to have happy fun times with a male Shepard and winding up with a head cold and mild fever? When technically, the worst that should have happened was an allergic reaction, like Garrus and Shep? No. In my book, levo bacteria affects levo critters. Dextro bacteria affect dextro critters. If you eat large amounts of whatever is chirally opposite to your biology (meaning that their protein structure is mirror-imaged to what your body normally processes, just like Splenda has partially mirror image structure to natural sugar) it will either be __inert__ in your digestive tract, or poisonous/allergenic. The only way Tali could have gotten a head cold on the Normandy is if Garrus (dextro critter) brought one aboard and sneezed on Shepard's pillow. But hey. . . it's clearly pretty much meant as a joke. Applying logic to a joke usually doesn't work. Hence my rules outlined above: levo bacteria and virus affect levo critters. dextro bacteria and viruses affect dextro critters. A single bacterium isn't going to cause anyone an allergic reaction. You'd have to drink __pond water__ to get enough bacteria to trigger an allergic reaction._

_(And if Tali was so damned worried about it, she could have just pulled down her pants and left the helmet on. :-P But that wouldn't be as cute and romantic as the pounce she does. ;-) )_

_I'm glad Seheve works for some people. . . she's god-awful hard to write. Writing her is like passing a kidney stone, and I'm glad the effort comes through. Resisting the urge to kill her off before she has a chance to grow and change and redeem herself is very difficult, because I absolutely can't __stand_ _her in her current state. ;-) Oh well. As CalliesVoice tells me, this is an opportunity to grow as a writer. _

**Madison Dempsey, May 5-9, 2196**

He shuffled, mind a blur, through the day room, where he and the others were allowed to sit after lunch. With lunch, there had been the usual pill. The nurses were kind, but distant, and there was urgency in them. He _had_ to take the pills. They were always the same: small, round, and orange, with mysterious letters on them: SKF T74. So, he swallowed the orange pill with his apple juice, and after lunch, found himself in the day lounge. It was a little better than being locked back in his room again with the metal bed frame and the window that looked out at the pleasant lawn and trees where he wasn't allowed to go, after all. There were at least things to do here. One fellow patient was carefully stringing large wooden beads on a shoe string. Another was stitching together pieces of vinyl with knitting thread, using a large plastic needle. Madison liked the corner where there were large, foam-backed puzzle pieces, but there were people already there, using the puzzles. So he just stood there a moment, wondering what he was supposed to do. _This is like kindergarten,_ a voice whispered, deep in his mind. _Kindergarten for the loonies_.

That hadn't sounded like his own voice. Madison looked up, found a staff member in scrubs looking at the rest of the people in the room, and walked up to him. "How is this kindergarten?" he asked, politely.

The man blinked, and looked _afraid_. "Whooo, boy. We better let the docs know that they need to up your thorazine dosage. Come on, back to your room."

"I did something wrong?" This didn't seem fair. _If he's picking up that much, even with twenty-five milligrams of thorazine in him right now after lunch, the docs might have to use a different antipsychotic on him to keep him from focusing his mind. Maybe add a Paxil or some Valium. . . nah, might make him pass out. . . _

"I'm not psychotic."

"Of course you're not." Soothing words out loud. "But a little more medicine will make you feel better, won't it? You're not sad right now, right?"

Madison paused. "No. . . " Somehow, he knew he _should_ be. But that was what the orange pills were for, he realized, suddenly. When he woke up sad, thinking about his mother, the pill put a buffer between him and the emotions. And that made him a little angry at the moment. . . but not really. It was so hard to _think_ right now.

"Come on. We'll go back to your room, and the docs will give you a look-see. . . " The nurse was gently drawing him out of the room and into the corridor, and then the man stopped short, and there was a feeling of _alarm_ in him.

Madison looked up, and saw one of the doctors had entered the day lounge. Two figures in armor were there with him. One small, in silvery armor with overwraps in violet, and with a visor that completely blocked out her face and eyes. Alien, though—the feet had only two toes, clearly displayed by the boots, and the hands were in that weird two fingers and a thumb configuration so many other species had. Madison stared at her dully. The other wore camouflage-dappled armor in browns and greens and grays. Tall. Human. Ice-blue eyes behind the visor.

Then a very gentle touch on his mind. _Hey, Mad. Remember me?_

Familiar, but not. The touch felt colder than it was supposed to. More distant. But there was music with it, and colored lights, and, very faintly, the memories started to stir. Nothing really conscious. But Madison suddenly _knew_ who this was, with a certainty he hadn't had, a year ago. "Dad?" He shuffled forward, away from the nurse, who didn't seem to want to let go of his arm.

His father caught him before his unsteady feet could betray him, held him up by his arms, and _glared_ past him at the nurse and the doctor. "How much fucking medication do you _have_ him on?" he demanded. "You've got him so messed up, he might as well be a toddler again."

"This is the medication regimen recommended for biotics in breakthrough, especially ones who've been through recent emotional trauma—"

"_Bullshit_, doc. This _isn't_ forty years ago. Biotics _have_ rights now, remember? When a kid has a violent breakthrough like this, you're supposed to turn them over to the local chapter of the Biotics Training Association and they'll get placed with a mentor who's strong enough to hold down their powers and _train_ them and get them the counseling they need to work through the anger or the grief." James Dempsey's voice was almost completely flat, but there was white-hot fury radiating out from him. It should have been scary, but nothing really mattered to Madison right now. Odd sense of the anger being held in check, just barely. Music all around him, now, for some reason. And a light sense of . . . something touchable. Tangible. Like the velvet dress his mother had bought for a cocktail party last winter. "I want a copy of his chart, so the doctors on my ship have _some_ goddamned clue of what they'll need to wean him off of."

_You came for me, Dad?_ So much effort just to think, and he didn't think he'd managed to say them out loud.

"Of course I came for you_._" His father looked down at him, then crouched to meet Madison's eyes. Gave him a rough, one-armed hug, in spite of the hard plates of the armor. Traces of emotion around words spoken out loud. Guilt, for not having been on Earth when this all happened. Love. Sorrow. Worry. Concern that . . .he wouldn't live up to the job ahead of him? Faint, but there. "Took a day to cut through all the red tape and _get_ here. I'm sorry about that, Mad. But I'm here now, and you're coming with me."

"William Perry indicated on the phone that you're the boy's natural father—" The doctor was scrambling to keep up, and sounded a little disbelieving. _The man barely looks older than twenty. I suppose it might be physically possible, but . . . . really?_ "But there's a planetary quarantine in effect!"

"Neither Zhasa here nor I can _catch_ anything down here, and we're in full biohazard gear, too, if you didn't notice the armor. So long as Mad's blood work shows no signs of either disease—and you've already verified that—I can take him where we're going, no problem. Or do I need to get Spectre Ylara on the line for you to assure you that you're not going to face any charges for breaking quarantine and releasing Madison into my custody?" Flat, cold words.

The doctor dithered, and there were a huge number of papers to sign and conditions to aver and affirm and agree to. A nurse brought Madison his clothes, and led him to a cubical where he could get dressed, which he did, slowly. The sweatpants and sweatshirt he'd been wearing had been issued by the facility, and it felt _odd_ to be putting on his school uniform again. Khaki pants, white shirt, blue jacket. He couldn't make his fingers tie the tie, though, so he left it loose around his neck, and came back out. "I had other things, at school," Madison said when he came back out into the lobby. "And at home."

"Perry said he'd have everything of yours shipped to me, care of the Spectres," his father said. "In the meantime, we can get you some other clothes." He frowned, and Madison wondered why. He was wearing what he'd been wearing the day of his mother's death, the day William ('Call me Bill") Perry had come to Exeter to tell him what had happened. "Come on. We'll get you up to the ship, and we can talk properly once we wash more of those damned drugs out of your system." Another wave of that white-hot fury, directed at the doctors, and this time, Madison picked up some of the words that went with it. _Fucking doctors. If it's not a chip, it's medications. Always fucking with our minds, like we're not all messed up enough as it is._

"Mom said she'd wash my mouth out with soap and water if I said words like that." Madison was pretty clear on that much, at least.

"And I will, too. When you're eighteen, you can talk however you want, but till then, no." Stern voice, stern face.

"Then why do _you_ talk like that?"

"Because I'm over eighteen." His father paused. "Let's go get on the shuttle, okay?"

A breather over his face, Madison followed after his father and the alien woman, completely bemused. He didn't look back at the faces peering out of the Wendover House facility, but looked at the shuttle parked in front of the school in some confusion. It didn't _look_ like a public shuttle. It was painted white with a black diagonal stripe, and had a red symbol on the black, which he thought looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. After he was seated, however, he remembered. That red symbol had been on the black armor of the Spectre who'd come to tell his mom that his dad was still alive. Sam. Sam-something-Polish. The one with the moustache and the big Texas drawl.

The hum of the engines almost lulled him to sleep, but his dad shook his shoulder. "Mad? You're going to want to see this." No one but his mom had called him _Mad_ in years. And even she had only done so when Bill wasn't around. Madison opened his eyes blearily, and stared out the window. A ship hung in the blackness of space around them. White, curving body with wings swept back for hypersonic speeds in an atmosphere. Madison had never even been off Earth before, but he _knew_ what he was looking at. "Is that . . . is that the _Normandy?_"

"Close. The _Sollostra._ SR-3."

_Weird name_. His eyes had drifted closed again, and he wasn't aware of the fact that his lips hadn't formed the words.

_It's turian._ Soft female voice now. Wrapping him up, as if it were December, and he was curled up by the fire in the living room back home, wrapped in a blanket, his mom baking those silly cookies in the kitchen. _It's Spectre Ylara's ship, for the most part._

His father's voice now, out loud and in his head at the same time. "She was good enough to bring us here to pick you up. Go ahead and sleep, Mad. Probably the best way for you to get all that crap out of your system anyway."

Later, he was dimly aware of being picked up. Music in his mind again—a lullaby. Something he hadn't heard in ages. Crazy kid's song. _On top of spaghetti, all covered in cheese, I lost my poor meatball, when somebody sneezed._ Madison wanted to laugh. Everyone was so scared of a sneeze or a cough right now. Pictures with it, of the meatball rolling out the back door of the old house, into the backyard, under a bush. . . then putting out roots, growing into a tree dripping with tangles of noodles and meatballs the size of his fist. Dripping sauce instead of pollen. _That's really silly_, he thought.

_Yep. Always used to work, though_. And the world went blank again in his head.

Madison work up slowly. He had absolutely no idea where he was, but his mouth was dry, and his head was clearer. He looked to his right. Lots of other metal beds, with diagnostic arrays over them. _Med bay_? A glance to his left told him something else. His father was asleep in a chair next to the bed. Still looking like a ghost, like one of the pictures of him that his mother had kept on the mantelpiece for years, before packing most of them away before she married Bill, had somehow come to life.

His mother. . . it hit him again, suddenly. She was dead. And all he wanted to do was _talk_ to her. She'd called two weeks ago, one of her random, cheerful-in-tone, but with guilt underneath the cheer comm calls. He'd been angry with her, as usual. Hating being where he was, hating Bill for putting him here ("it really is the best education in North America. I went there myself."), hating her for not having stood up to Bill, but loving her in spite of it all. "I don't understand why you were so quiet over Easter break. Is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, Mom." _Everything's wrong._

"You didn't say two words together for an entire week."

"I had lots of homework."

"You refused to go to the Sox game with us. Even though Bill had box seats—"

"I don't want to be a photo op."

"You're _not_ a photo op!" She'd been angry then. "I don't think it's so much to ask that I get to see my son and spend time with him, is it?"

_Nice guilt trip, Mom, but I'm not going along for the ride._ "Maybe you and he shouldn't have sent me to _boarding school_, then?"

Her lips had thinned. "It's the best place for you. Best education available, and their biotics program is second to none—"

"Yeah, and as much biotic ability as I've actually _shown_? I could be in a biotics program in rural Alabama and be getting as much out of it as what I'm getting here." Madison had glared back at the comm panel. "I know why I'm _really_ here, Mom. Because _you_ feel guilty every time you look at me, and Bill doesn't like that. Oh, and there's the fact that I'm embarrassing politically now, too. A constant reminder in the press that he married an MIA marine's wife."

Her mouth had opened and closed. "That's not _true_. Who has been telling you these _lies_?"

He hadn't been able to tell her that it was clear and evident in the way they both acted around him. Hadn't wanted to explain to her that he could _feel_ the guilt in her every time she looked at him. The pain, because he looked _so much_ like James Dempsey. The annoyance that rose in Bill every time he saw his wife flinch in guilt. How could he explain it, when they'd never said a word of it out loud? So he'd shrugged, and left it at that, and, visibly seething, his mom had logged off the call. And hadn't called back in the intervening two weeks.

Tears were burning in his eyes, but Madison held them back. _I'm sorry,_ he thought, uselessly. _I'm so sorry._

His father's eyes opened, and there was _nothing_ in them for a moment. Madison stared at him, and then his dad visibly collected himself, glancing around to see where he was. "Glad you're awake," he told Madison calmly, standing up and giving him a careful hug. As if he weren't quite sure how to do this. "You feeling a little more like yourself?"

Brush of _something_ touching his mind, and Madison inhaled sharply. He'd felt it in the near-fugue state that the medications had left him in, and had recognized it, vaguely. Something in him responded to that light touch. Knew it. _Dad?_

_Yeah. I used to do this with you when you were just a baby._ Clear, ice-sharp thoughts. _Could keep you amused for hours like this._

_Mom always said you were a biotic. I . . . never realized what that really meant._ Madison had been warned for years that _he_ might wind up a biotic, and biotics, in exchange for their training, _all_ wound up in the military or other governmental service jobs. He blinked. "You don't sound like you did yesterday." _He sounds like a machine. A recording._ Madison started to panic slightly. His instincts were telling him to seek comfort, but there was no comfort in this cold, clear mind.

"No. Zhasa was helping me then. She's been helping me a lot, to try to repair. . . .some of the damage that was done to me." _So when she's linked up to me, I'll sound a little more human. Ironic, eh? I need an alien's help to be more human._

_What was done to you?_

_A lot of things you don't want to see right now. But you know how you felt yesterday, under all the meds? Pretty close to how I feel all the time. A little more focused. Still alert and aware of myself. But very little emotion._ His dad looked down at him, eyes intent. "I'm telling you this so you understand that I will always take care of you, but that more often than not, I'm going to sound and feel like I do right now. Sort of like a geth, I'm told."

A door nearby hissed open. "Ah, good, you're both awake," a lightly-accented voice said, and Madison's head jerked around. The strange female in the suit—_wait, she's __quarian__, I didn't even __realize__ that yesterday—_had just entered. "It's almost lunchtime in the mess hall." She approached, tilting her head slightly. "Madison, it's nice to meet you properly. I'm Zhasa'Maedan vas Irria nar Pellus."

"Zhasa'ma. . . what?" Madison felt like an idiot, but she'd said it so quickly, and all the syllables were so foreign to him, he couldn't get a grip on them.

"Most humans seem to find _Zhasa_ less of a mouthful." She offered him her hand, and he took it, and felt, again, a brush against his mind. Warm. Soft. Touchable. As different from his father's mind of ice and glass as possible. It was suddenly very hard to swallow, and Madison didn't want to break down crying like a baby, but so much had happened in the last forty-eight hours, and none of it was good. He finally got to spend time with his father, but at the expense of his mother's life, and now that he was _with_ his father, it was like nothing he'd ever imagined.

_Dempsey?_ He could _hear_ Zhasa's voice in his mind. _You want me to help?_

_Yeah, if you wouldn't mind._ Still cool remoteness there, like snow in the Catskills.

_I never mind this._ Warmth and friendship there, glowing like a campfire. Madison almost instinctively leaned toward Zhasa, and she sat down on the edge of the bed and put a suited arm around his shoulders. He couldn't _see_ the smile, but he could _feel_ it.

And then both minds were touching his. His father's had warmed slightly. There was emotion there again, not the austere, frozen thoughts of before. Faint, but there. Love, affection, confusion. Wanting to help, but not wanting to make anything worse. _I'm here. You don't have to be afraid._ Wordless waves of reassurance. They were going to a safe place, and Madison wouldn't have to worry about anything again.

Zhasa now. _It's all right to grieve. I grieved for my father, lost in the Reaper War._ Memories of pain, of loss. And, faintly, his father's grief for Amy Dempsey. Lost to him even before she died, but so recently that the loss was compounded. Sympathy, empathy, understanding.

"This is . . . just so weird. . . . " Madison gave up the fight and put his head down and let the tears fall.

When he'd calmed down again, the _turian_ doctor in the med bay came over and checked him out. "His reaction time is much improved," the doctor, who wore a full mask of blue paint with a white stripe down his nose informed Madison's dad. "I think most of the medication has worn off now. " He looked at Madison directly now, gleaming predator's eyes sunken into deep sockets, sharp teeth bared in what was, apparently, a friendly smile. "If you're hungry, you can definitely go get something to eat, youngling. Just take food from the _red_ dishes in the mess hall, not the blue."

His dad rested one big hand on his shoulder, and let it stay there while they walked out of med bay and right into the steam and smells of a cafeteria. Madison swayed on his feet and almost backed into his dad. It was a _hell_ of a sight. Humans on one side of a table filled with warming pans and chafing dishes, turians on the other. Humans in System Alliance uniforms, turians in gray or black. . . although every once in a while, he'd see a turian in an SA uniform, or a human in a Hierarchy uniform. Laughter and words in two languages, a babble of voices. "It's okay," his dad said, leaning down. "Looks worse than it really is."

At least the food was all recognizable. Madison was aware of curious glances directed his way, but everyone, he soon realized, was _friendly._ Amazingly so, really. As he, his dad, and . . .Zhasa. . . sat down at a table together, the crew turned and smiled. They all asked how he was feeling, and the humans asked if he knew anything about any of the cities on Earth that they were from. Not surprisingly, the plague was a big topic of conversation. "Can hardly wait till we can go hit the damned batarians for this," was a frequent refrain, too.

The table went quiet for a moment when a blue-skinned woman in black armor arrived, but after a few respectful nods, the crew went back to chatting among themselves. "Mad, this is Ylara, the Spectre who was nice enough to help me come and pick you up. Ylara, this is my son, Madison."

A brief, but sincere smile from the Spectre, and a light handshake. "It's nice to meet you, Madison. Your father has been concerned about you." And then conversation took off again, and she and Zhasa and his dad started talking about something they'd done at some shipyards near Palaven and how they'd _stopped one of the plague devices_ from being deployed.

Madison's eyes went wide as he listened, but he knew better than to speak or ask questions right now. _My father's working for the Spectres?_ he thought, excitedly. _Sure, he's been recovering from. . . whatever was done to him that kept him away for ten years. But he's been working for them, too._ It was exciting, and a little depressing, too. A little niggling doubt began to eat at him. _Maybe that's why he didn't come home to Earth. Maybe he's just been too busy to worry about it._

_No._ The voice was Zhasa's, and it was in his head. Madison jerked and turned to stare at her. _He's better than he was, but he's still not quite fixed yet. He's terribly afraid that he might hurt you. Awful things were done to him, Madison, and he's not always in control of himself. He's working very, very hard at being normal for you. Understand that, and help him, if you can._

_I don't understand._

_That's okay. I have a head start on all this, and I don't understand it all yet, either. He'll tell you everything when he's ready. Just try to understand, all right? _She paused. _It's going to be hard for both of you. He remembers you as a toddler, Madison. He has no idea what to do with someone who's almost a grown-up. You barely remember him. Give it some time to work out and for you both to get to know each other. _

Madison thought that made a surprising amount of sense, really. So when he and his dad wound up sitting, alone, in the port observation lounge, and made very awkward conversation, he remembered what Zhasa had said, and . . . just tried to be normal. And he could see his dad trying, hard, to be normal, too. His dad was pleased, he could tell, that Madison liked hockey. "Used to play goalie in a biotics-only league," he admitted. "Just kid level, up until I was about sixteen or so. Ran out of hours in the day, though, if I wanted to do that _and_ music."

"I wanted to do that. Finally got to play a little at Exeter. Mom thought it was too rough." Madison kept control of his voice, but he felt a little shaky mentioning her. "She said I could go out for soccer if I wanted to, but not hockey. And soccer's _boring._"

Conversation wended around. "Did you like Exeter? There's only one school near the base where we're going, and I'm told it's. . . not really the same as the public and military schools I went to, back in the day."

"It was. . . okay." It was helping, a little, to think about normal things. About anything other than the bruised, hollow, empty place inside where the word _mom_ was written. "Teachers always answered questions with more questions. Which, if everyone in the class plays along, can be kind of fun. But a lot of days, not everyone plays along, and you just get one or two people who answer or ask the right questions to keep it going. And everyone else just sits there. Even though they know their grades depend on participation."

His father snorted. "Doesn't sound that much different from regular school."

"Yes and no. . . the questions do kind of force people to play along. Smaller classes, too, so sooner or later, everyone gets stuck when the teacher asks them a direct question. Hard to hide at the back that way." Madison shrugged. "But eventually, you get to a point where you want there to be, just once, a simple answer. Not just a matter of everyone's opinion or a consensus or something." He shrugged again. "That's why I kind of liked chemistry and math class. There were real answers there. Not four hundred questions before we finally got whatever point the teacher wanted us to get."

"You're in luck. I don't think the Mindoir school does that. Or if they do, it's a little more limited. I talked with a couple of the teachers yesterday. They're all scientists from the nearby research station. All the kids study at their own pace. Kind of have to. Salarians and asari and humans and turians and drell and even volus and hanar, all at the same school. Everyone has finals at the same time, but most people don't have the same finals. Everyone gets a study partner. . . either assigned to them, or they select their own."

Madison was interested, in spite of himself. "And, um, biotics camp?"

"They don't have one."

_Thank god. _

"They _do_ train people in biotics, though. Just not at the school. And _you_ are going to be trained."

Madison lifted his head, making a face. "Can you train me not to use it? I . . . didn't really mean to on. . . him." He didn't even want to use Bill's name.

His dad shook his head. "It's really hard to stuff the genie back in the bottle once it's been let out. Part of the training is teaching you _not_ to use it, yeah. Not to _misuse_ it, more like." He leaned back, putting his hands behind his head, lacing the big fingers together. "There was never a time when I didn't _know_ I was biotic, Mad. I was in training in pre-school to keep me from using it on other kids. When mostly all I did was put a wall around myself so bigger kids couldn't hurt me." His voice was completely dispassionate. "They'd throw stuff at me, and it would just bounce. Got the idea originally from those big ol' cardboard blocks they used to have at the daycare facility. One day I just tried building a wall with my mind. Brick by brick. And my wall didn't fall over when it got hit. Biotics trainers loved that."

Madison leaned forward. He'd never been able to imagine his father as being young. Or old. Or any other age than what he looked like, right now. "Bet the other kids didn't like that."

Dempsey took his head. "Nope. They didn't. _Biotic freak_, witch, warlock, mutant, you name it, they said it, by the time I was in third grade. By that point, I'd taken to fighting back, in spite of all the biotic counselors telling me not to. Never used more than a shield on them. And my fists. Always made sure the teachers saw that I took the first hit, too. They couldn't really _hurt_ me, but when they'd throw dogshit or a punch or whatever. . . why _should_ I turn the other cheek?"

Madison blinked. "I thought you were Catholic, like Mom." _Like me._

"Pretty lapsed. Haven't been to church since I was twelve, and the Pope at the time said that the _biotic issue_ was unresolved. That he couldn't decide if we were damned for the pride of taking the power of god into our own hands, when we're all _born_ this way. I decided around then that I wanted nothing more to do with the church."

This was a _goldmine_ of information that Madison had _never_ encountered before. And it was wonderfully distracting. "Mom was always afraid when I was little, when I'd tell her something I'd heard someone thinking," he admitted, quietly. "I learned not to say anything about it."

"Yeah. Your mom wasn't quite sure if I was going to hell or not for being able to read her mind and throw someone thirty feet away without touching him." His father's eyes were cold and distant again, and his tone was absolutely flat. "Biotics scared the crap out of her."

"But she loved you anyway." Madison was definite about that. He'd felt that, along with the guilt, every time his mother had mentioned his father.

His father sighed. "Yeah. I guess. Even before I volunteered for the _wrong_ damn project, there was a hell of a lot of arguing going on. Deployments, me not being home, you growing up without a father. . . I'm not really sure what she thought would happen, given that I was a marine, and I _didn't_ have a desk job, but, whatever." His father looked up, and changed the subject. "Now, you've got a hell of a lot of potential. The doctors said you picked up a _desk_ and threw it at Perry. And that's _without_ implants." He tapped the side of his own head. "Implants amplify natural power, and let you do more without getting exhausted. Also give you better control, or at least, finesse. So, even more important to get trained before you get the implants."

"I. . . I don't really want to. . . " _I don't really want to __be_ _biotic. Don't want the implants, either._

His father picked up the thought, effortlessly. _No one really has a choice about it. And it's not all bad. People who aren't biotic can't talk like this, now can they?_ Bright, chill words, silvery in his mind.

_No. . . _

"And there are lots of people on base who can train you. Zhasa's one. Ylara's another. There's a big goddamn _rachni_ who could train you, too. Name's Sings-to-the-Sky, believe it or not. A krogan Spectre who's biotic, too. Gris. Bunch of others."

"And you?"

His father frowned. "I could teach you," he acknowledged, after a minute. "Probably better if I don't, though."

"Why not?"

"Most dads don't teach sons very well. And me, in particular. . . could be risky." Slight discomfort there.

And then Zhasa and Ylara came in through the hatch, and conversation got diverted.

The _Sollostra_ landed the next day on a planet that Madison was told was called _Mindoir_, although he was told _not_ to mention that in any letters to his Grandma and Grandpa Callaghan. (Grandma and Grandpa Dempsey, he didn't have to worry about; they'd died in a groundcar accident five years ago.) The sky over Mindoir was _lilac_, and there was a crisp fall bite to the breeze here, which made him grateful for his jacket. At the landing zone, he was _stunned_ to see Commander Shepard, in her blue-and-white turian paint, just like on the news vids. "I see the extraction went fairly easily," she said, smiling, and offered her hand for Madison to shake. "Madison, welcome to Mindoir. You kind of remind me of two kids who were just a little older than you are now when they first came here six years ago." She grinned. "They had that same _'wow'_ look in their eyes when they climbed off the _Normandy_, too."

His father snorted a little beside him. "Have I met these two kids?"

Shepard grinned at him. "You certainly have. Dara Velnaran and Elijah Sidonis. I think you'll agree, they turned out okay." She paused, and Madison picked up a faint spark of surprise and interest from his father. "For the moment, Madison, you're going to have a room next to your dad's in the barracks until we figure a few things out here, okay?"

Madison only nodded, not quite daring to speak, for fear he'd sound like a stammering idiot. And then he was trotting off after his dad, who beckoned for him to follow to a groundcar that Ylara was climbing into, and drove them to a long, low barracks building, which was nearly deserted, and a little depressing. "Don't worry," Zhasa told him. "I'm right down the hall. And I hear we'll be having neighbors within a month." She shook her helmeted head. "Though I don't know if this will hold true, what with all the plagues and everything." She gave Madison a quick hug, and turned her whole head to show that she was looking at his dad. "Did you want to practice tonight after dinner?"

"After Mad's in bed, sure."

_Practice what?_ Madison wondered, but then a security person was handing him a keycard on a lanyard that would unlock the front door of the barracks for him, as well as his own room. "Don't lose this. The lanyard's so you can keep it around your neck," the turian warned him with a quick, needle-pointed smile.

His dad's room was . . . almost completely bare. The only human touch was the guitar leaning up against the desk. No pictures, nothing besides the uniform gray blanket on the bed and a closet filled with workout clothes and such. His own new room, next door, was even more depressing. The closet was empty, but the desk did at least have an extranet terminal. "We'll head down to the post exchange in a minute and see about getting you some more clothes," his dad said, sounding a little uncertain. "And when your stuff gets shipped here from Earth, it'll be a lot better in here, right?"

Madison caught one brief thought, _Guess I better check my credit accounts to see if I can __afford__ to buy him clothes. Hell, I'll have to ask someone here if I __have__ credit accounts._ His father seemed disconcerted for a moment, and then, briefly, mildly annoyed. _I'd be willing to bet all of my old ones were frozen, then turned over to Amy. The benefits of being considered dead for seven years. Shit, probably means William fucking Perry technically has whatever money I __had__ that was in her accounts now. Not that he probably needs it or even realizes it._ His dad rubbed at his face tiredly.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Mad?"

"I don't. . . I mean, I don't want to be a, a burden—" Mad had never even _thought_ that his dad wouldn't even have an apartment, at least. In all his fantasies about his parents reuniting, they'd always been in some apartment in Southie, or a nicer house in Fenway. Financial concerns had never been a part of the picture. _I am such a __kid__._

"You're _not_ a burden." A flash of real, honest-to-god anger there, after a day and a half of glacial calm, other than when Zhasa was around, and Madison pulled back, startled. His dad hummed something under his breath, and took a deep breath, letting the anger go. "You're not a bother, and you're not an inconvenience or any of that other crap. I've just been trying to put myself back together for the last year, and everyone here has been great about not letting me worry about anything else. Food, board, clothing, medical treatment. . . it's all just been. . . taken care of. So this is the first time I've had to _think_ about what real people have to think about in a long time." His dad put a hand on his shoulder—he had yet to try to tousle Madison's hair, like Bill always tried to, and Mad was _grateful_ for that—and said, "Just. . . give me a chance to get stuff figured out, okay? I haven't had to be _human_ in a while."

Madison stared at him. _Wow. What the hell does that even mean?_ But it sounded too sincere to be bullshit, so he said, uncertainly, "Okay, Dad. I'm sorry," and stepped into his barracks room to sit down on the bed, while his dad took five minutes to change out of his armor and get into clothing. He could hear his father's voice, muffled, through the wall, as he spoke to someone. . . probably a comm call. . . and then they headed towards the PX on base, his father seeming confused and faintly pleased at the same time. "Everything okay?" Madison asked, tentatively.

"Yeah. Apparently, Shepard bullied Fleet brass into giving me an account with seven years of back pay in it. _After_ my divorce from your mom went through. Er, annulment. Whatever." His dad's lips pulled down slightly at the corners. "Kasumi said she was surprised I hadn't asked about it earlier. So. . . yeah." His father looked at him. "Don't go hog wild, but we can get you some clothes. It gets cold here in the winters."

"Colder than Boston?" Madison left aside the issue of whoever _Kasumi_ was.

"'Bout the same, but more snow. Less freezing rain. A heavy coat and boots will do."

With that taken care of, the rest of the day went smoothly. He didn't have any homework to do, and his dad seemed content to let him stay with him in his barracks room that night after dinner. His dad apparently liked to play guitar in the evenings, and Madison hadn't heard _any_ of the music his dad played before. Old stuff, mostly, but a few songs that his dad said his old 'crappy garage band' had written together. And then Zhasa had popped her head in the door and asked if she could listen, and had curled up against the wall, and played with a weird little device while listening to his dad play. After a while, Madison found himself yawning and yawning. "Long day, kiddo. You probably should be getting to bed," his dad told him. "Breakfast's available between oh-five hundred and oh-eight hundred. I get up at oh-five hundred, and go for a run. If you want to come with me, great. If not, I'll wake you when I get back and have cleaned up, so we can go over together at six-thirty. School starts at eight every morning in the valley, and there's a shuttle that leaves every half hour for the valley, so if we make this a habit, you'll never be late for school, right?" Quick, firm words. Showing him the shape of how his days were going to be planned out. "How's that?"

Madison nodded. It was actually kind of a relief to have someone else making the decisions. While he had _yearned_ for some freedom from the exceedingly structured days at Exeter, he hadn't known what to do with himself on the _Sollostra_, and had wound up staring out the port observation lounge window and talking with the AI, Cassandra, for hours on end when his dad and Zhasa and the Spectre weren't in the room. "I wouldn't mind going for a run with you," he said, quietly. "Five's a little early, though."

"Ten kilometers takes some time," his dad told him, shrugging. "You don't want to start out at that much, though. Especially not at this altitude."

Then his dad had taken him next door to tuck him in for the night. "Dad. . . I haven't needed _tucking in_ since I was eight or nine."

"Okay," his dad said, calmly. "Didn't know that. You'll have to tell me these things." He looked at Madison, eyes cool. "I take it that bed time stories got left behind, too?"

"Yeah."

"Thank god. I don't think I remember any, and the only book in my omnitool at the moment is an account of the Reaper War. Not such great bedtime reading."

Madison shuddered. He could barely remember the Reapers. He'd been three at the time, and his mom had always told him the story of huddling in an old Cold War-era bunker with a hundred other people from their neighborhood, just grateful that the old place had been preserved by a _historical society_, of all things. Waiting to die. Waiting to be saved. Waiting for _something_ to happen, other than starvation. "Okay then. Good night, kiddo."

"Good night, Dad."

James Dempsey had turned off the light then, and Madison had closed his eyes, feeling aching and hollow in the dark, and had tried not to cry. It had been a really long day again, though, and he was tired all the way through to the bone, so sleep eventually did claim him. He could hear the light sound of music from his dad's room for a while, and voices. . . but after a while, they faded out, too.

His dad took him down to the school first thing Friday morning. "May as well see what it's like," he told Madison, settling dark glasses into place over his eyes for the walk to the shuttle area. Madison was mostly just grateful to be able to wear jeans and a sweatshirt and nice warm coat today. No blazer. No jacket. No dress shoes. No _tie._ He had a datapad in his hand, and that was, apparently, all he'd need for the time being.

A quick talk with the principal—Dr. Wrenan, who turned out to be salarian, to Madison's bemused wonder—and then his dad walked him to his classroom, which turned out to have a variety of kids of different ages in it. "We group students together based on their intellectual development, not by their calendar age," the principal told his dad. "There are educators out there who like the idea of strong students tutoring weak ones, but I don't like the concept of inhibiting strong students by more or less forcing them to hold to the rate of the weaker ones. The _teacher_ should handle the weaker students, provide additional assistance where needed. Having a study partner or two should be enough. Group work is only done when it's logical to do so—such as when one of our professors brings in a project from one of the labs here."

There were three main class levels, and two classrooms at each level. Introduction to Concepts, Intermediate Concepts, and Advanced and Applied Concepts. The age breakdown in each classroom was more or less, in human terms, five through eight, nine through thirteen, and fourteen through eighteen. "We've had human students graduate at sixteen before. Dara Jaworski—ah, I mean, Velnaran, did so with an honors degree in 2191. Elijah Sidonis finished most of his degree requirements, and tested out of the remainder in 2192, just to name a few examples," the principal commented blithely.

His dad's head had turned at the names. "Well, that would explain why she's a doctor so damned young," he commented, dryly.

"Oh, you've met Dr. Velnaran, then?"

"Both her and _Agent_ Sidonis, yeah."

"Both wonderful young people. Elijah Sidonis, Rellus Velnaran, Linianus Pellarian, and Telinus Karpavian were on the school's first organized handball team, for example. All played in the first, rather infamous game against the all-human team from Odessa. I took some time off from my particle physics work to coach them. Found I enjoyed working with young people, decided to stay involved in the school. Still do particle physics work of course. Principal's job, not exactly full-time for a salarian." The eyelids crinkled at them both in amusement. "Here we are. Intermediate Concepts, classroom B. Probably first place you'll be, but not for long. Will test you, assess levels of knowledge. Exeter well-known for exceptional education standards, so may move you to Advanced classroom, Madison."

Madison tried not to _gape_ as he stepped into the classroom, while his dad stayed at the doorway. There were kids of almost every species in Council space in there, and the teacher was an asari. There was a salarian wearing a little purple dress—_what, it's a girl, or a cross-dressing salarian?—_turians, other salarians, wide-eyed drell, a small hanar bobbing up and down at the back of the classroom, a handful of humans, a couple of little asari girls, a volus in a tiny environmental suit. . . and two pink-skinned . . . turians? All of them stared at Madison. Madison stared back at them. _Oh my God,_ he thought, stunned. He looked back over his shoulder at his dad, who nodded, and gestured for him to walk forward. _Who knew I'd actually __miss__ the structure and monotony of Exeter, of walking to each class with a portfolio in my hand. . . _He walked forward and took the nearest empty desk. The asari smiled at him. "Hello. I'm Azala, and we're in the middle of a xenobiology unit. And you are?"

"Madison Dempsey, ma'am." _Xenobiology. Oh, hell. That wasn't in the curriculum at Exeter. At all._ Panicking slightly, Madison downloaded the files she gave him access to on the school's servers, and began flipping through the pages of text rapidly, trying to figure out where the hell they even were.

At the desk next to him, one of the. . . not-quite-turians looked at him, amused, and reached over. Found the right page, and whispered, "It's okay. We really do go at our own pace here. The teacher does a demonstration, and each person works at their own level. I'm Amara."

"Thanks, Amara," he whispered back, relaxing a little. By the time he looked up again, his dad was gone, but his mind was so damned _full_ at the moment, he didn't need his dad there to help keep him distracted from grief. He had exactly enough other things to worry about. He was ahead—_way ahead_, in fact, in some areas. Math, chemistry, and Terran history. The Exeter method had taught him how to question what was in textbooks, which his teachers took as an excellent beginning. However, he was behind—_way_ behind—in biology, physics, and the lifeblood of this settlement, xenobiology. He was about average on Terran literature, and while he'd been learning Latin at Exeter, he had _absolutely_ no intention of going to Harvard and Yale, and asked, eagerly, what _other_ languages were offered. Turian. Asari high-tongue. Two or three dialects of salarian. Modern Quarian. Volus trade-tongue. Krogan. And he signed up for turian without any qualms at all.

At lunch, the cafeteria was _very_ full, and smelled of foods from a dozen different worlds. But unlike his first day at Exeter, three years ago, where he hadn't known where to sit, he was waved down immediately. By Amara and her twin brother, Kaius. . . both a little younger than he'd have liked to associate with, really, but who were nice. A little odd-looking, but he was getting used to the oddity rapidly. Hadn't he seen a special on hybrids on the extranet a few years ago? Something about Commander Shepard and Garrus Vakarian's kids? It had been on late at night when he was in second grade or so, so he didn't remember a lot of details, alas.

The twins both had wide blue eyes in those deep eye pits, and their sharp teeth were usually mostly hidden by their soft, full, human lips. Although _eating_ with them made those sharp teeth show prominently. _They're not going to be biting into any apples any time soon_, Madison thought.

Also sitting with them was the odd salarian girl, whose name turned out to be Mordin Narayana, and another not-really-turian looking girl whose name turned out to be Caelia Sidonis. _Sidonis_, Madison thought. Someone else had said that name before today, hadn't they? Caelia called Narayana her _little sister_, which boggled Madison until it was explained that Narayana was a year younger than Caelia, and in the process of being adopted by Caelia's human and turian parents.

Then Caelia waved down a little asari girl who looked to be about her age—who introduced herself as Shellara—and Madison just shook his head in confusion as the girl, after a few minutes at the table, excused herself, hopped up, and, looking timid, went into the boys' bathroom. "Um, she's going in the wrong—"

Kaius was already shaking his head. "No, the girls all said she shouldn't be in their bathroom. She's actually not, well, female."

Madison stopped chewing on his mouthful of lasagna and _stared_ at Kaius. "I thought all asari were female."

Narayana cleared her throat. "Something of a misapprehension. As unisexual beings, they're more properly all _neuter_. Their language has two pronouns, _she_ and _it._ The distinction is primarily between 'gives life' and 'does not give life.' Their homeworld, Thessia, has almost no animal or plant life that reproduces in any other way than by parthenogenesis or budding. Very limited reproductive schema. Then again, it had an extremely stable orbit, almost no axial tilt, and the star has almost no sunspot activity. No moons. Minimal crust tectonics as well. Which resulted in almost no climatological or geological stressors on any of the populations for decades or centuries at a time. It's a miracle the asari evolved at all. Only the presence of enormous amounts of element zero in the planetary crust accounts for enough mutations to force life to mutate and adapt. Also explains their biotics. Shellara is a new form of variation within their population. One of a handful of asari born each year with different sexual characteristics than the norm." She paused, looking embarrassed as Madison turned to stare at her now. She sure as hell did not _sound_ like a five-year-old. Or a _ten_-year-old, for that matter. "Sorry. My father taught me a _lot_ about xenobiology before he. . . died." She looked so miserable, that Madison's heart hurt all over again.

"How long ago?" he managed to ask, putting a hand on her arm. And then it _hit_ him. _Daddy sick in the hospital. No one telling her how bad it is, but Ellie and Lantar always looking worried when she asks them, and Commander Shepard and Garrus coming over to see her, and taking her to see Daddy in the hospital again. Not fun hospital times, like when he was working, but sad times, because he's stuck in the bed. . . . and then the funeral over Mindoir's seas. Four __Normandy_-_class ships flying by overhead, including the __Normandy__ herself. . . burying her face in Ellie's neck, the human the closest thing to a mother she's ever known. . . _Madison pulled his hand back, and Narayana blinked rapidly at him. It was too fresh, and too close to his own grief, and he had to put his face down in his hands for a moment. "Sorry," he managed. "That keeps _happening_." _Guess Dad was right about needing to control this. . . _

"Two months ago," Narayana said, sounding confused. "Your mother just died, too?"

"Three days ago," Madison acknowledged, through his fingers.

"Why are you in school?" Kaius demanded, hotly.

"Because my dad wants me not to have time to dwell on it, I guess." Madison picked his head up out of his hands and surreptitiously wiped them dry on his jeans.

"And you're biotic, too, like your dad." That was Amara.

"You know my dad?"

"Yes. He's usually all gray, and sounds like a geth in my head."

Kaius sighed. "Amara is _also_ a biotic. She forgets to tell people that. So don't look at her too much like she's crazy. She's . . . usually not." He gave his sister a look.

"I'm not crazy," she told Kaius mildly. "Sky says I just see things better than most bipeds do."

Madison was stuck a couple of conversational turns back. "You're biotic?" he said, surprised. "I thought turians—"

"They can be biotic. We're not really sure where I get it from." Amara shrugged.

They were nice, and they were kind, but he thought he'd like to sit with some of the older kids tomorrow. _If I can get the guts together_. The turian boys who were, apparently, his age, were all _much_ taller. As in, about half a foot taller. But with lunch done, he headed out into the recess area. . . and watched as sides got chosen for a handball game. And _grinned_ when one of the humans playing shouted over at him, "Hey, new kid? Want to play?"

By the end of the day, he had two new temporary study partners—Narayana and also Kaius, who was a little young, but very intelligent. As Madison was frantically trying to add comm codes to his omnitool, and resolving to delete half the ones he'd been forced to keep there on Earth, he finally asked, "And what's your last name?"

"Vakarian."

Madison looked up. "Vakarian. As in. . . "

"Yeah." Kaius gave him a little shrug. "He's our dad."

_Which would mean that your mom is. . . holy crap._ Madison finished putting the information in his omnitool and said, "Okay. I'm going to try to get all of the xenobiology stuff read over the weekend. And I can call you if I need help, right?" _Help from a ten-year-old. But one who's been studying the subject for a year at least._

"No, for xenobiology, talk to Nara. She's better at it than any of us. I can help you get started in turian."

Madison nodded rapidly. "Thank you."

Amara put a hand on his arm unexpectedly, and Madison blinked. She was warm to the touch. Fever-warm, in fact. "You're going to be okay here, you know that? Everyone's better here. Even your dad is getting better here. He used to be all gray, but Zhasa's letting him share her light, and that makes him better, too."

It was an _odd_ statement, and Madison just stared at her for a moment. "Ah. . . . thank you, too," he muttered.

"Amara's getting trained in biotics by Sky, and I think she's picking up his tendency to not make very much sense along with it," Kaius said, giving his sister an annoyed look.

"Sky makes _perfect_ sense," Amara told him loftily. "You just have to understand what each word he uses means."

"Yeah, but I don't have a rachni-to-English VI program. I don't think anyone does."

As Madison turned to walk away, Caelia asked, in little kid glee, "Amara, what color does Madison glow?"

"Blue, but really, really bright. Like a supermassive star."

Madison's head jerked around at that, and he wondered what the _hell_ that was supposed to mean.

His dad met him at the shuttlestop back up on base, and walked him in the gate. "We need to get you a base badge," Dempsey muttered, shaking his head. "So, how was your first day?"

Madison's eyes went wide. "Confusing," he assessed, after a moment. "Really, really confusing."

His dad nodded. "Sounds about right."

They walked together, Madison trying to match his strides to his dad's long legs, and still having to scramble to keep up. "Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Am I starting biotics training this weekend?"

"Do you want to?"

"Kind of, yeah." Madison didn't quite know how his attitude had shifted since the day before, but it might have had something to do with the fact that about half of his classmates were biotic. It wasn't a club or an enforced after school program. It was just. . . normal.

"I'll ask around and see if anyone would be willing—"

"Why not you?"

His dad sighed. "Okay. We'll give it a try. _If_ Zhasa or Ylara is available to sit on me if something goes wrong."

Madison had no idea what to say to that, either. He'd had that feeling a _lot_ today.

**Serana, Bastion, May 2-10, 2196**

It had taken a couple of days, but with Dr. Abrams and the hanar nurse he'd brought with him now at the main med bay on level C, Dara was back in charge of everyone's health in the crowded apartment. Gris and Makur and. . . _Snowflake_. . . (Serana wanted to _laugh_ every time she heard Siara call the giant leopard that name, but laughing _hurt_, especially her head) took Fors with them every day and were helping B-Sec maintain the peace.

In the apartment, everyone had exactly one job: getting healthy. Gradually, they did. Rel's hands grew steadier, and he continued, almost obsessively, working on the spirit statues whenever he was awake. "Second-brother," Serana asked, as she watched him in the dim light, "why the rush? You're just going to hurt your eyes."

"Not from getting the figures blocked in, I won't. I'm not doing any of the detail work till we can raise the lights. I just. . . feel like you and Eli and even Lin will be safer if I finish these." Rel shrugged, looking at her. "It's the one thing I can control right now, I guess."

Being out of control of events was something _none_ of them liked. That much was clearly evident. Eli complained of feeling weaker than a day-old kitten, and tried to buckle on his armor on May fourth. Dara let him, and stood back as he slowly sank to his knees. "Bad idea?" she asked, calmly.

"Not my best one ever, no," he admitted. "Couple more days?"

"Try again tomorrow. Believe me, I want to be out there helping, too."

Serana shook her head and walked over to help Eli stand back up. Her head periodically still swam, but the headaches were fading, at least. _"Idiot,"_ she told him, fondly, and he leaned down to rest his forehead against hers.

Sam commented, from where he was sitting up on the couch, "Son, the _last_ thing you want to do at this point is have a relapse and start all over again."

"I'm convinced," her mate said, trying to unbuckle the armor now, with her help. "I'm convinced."

By May eighth, fifteen days after infection, Dara tested each of the turians, with Siara's help, for light sensitivity. Rel and Lantar still winced and had to close their eyes, but Linianus and Serana only had to squint a bit. "No more headaches?" Dara asked. "And don't _lie_, please."

Serana shook her head. "A little residual, but nothing major." Her temperature had gone back down to its proper levels two days ago. Eli's and Lin's had, as well, but Eli's breathing still sounded bad. He, Dara, and Sam each had an inhaler device to carry with them, which could be used with either an opened visor, or could be pumped into their suits' rebreathers. The humans had all finished a course of prednisone to keep their lungs open, and they were _all_ finishing a second round of antibiotics.

Serana stood now, and headed into the kitchen. The healthier ones had started cooking for the others, as best they could, a few days before. At the moment, that meant that she and Lin had been cooking dextro, and Eli had been cooking levo. Lin was in the kitchen, too, but rather than putting a light hand on her shoulder to move around her, as he might have just days ago, he stopped and waited for her to move, and then stepped around her. Serana had no idea why he'd stopped the light, friendly touches—usually so light-hearted that she hadn't even _noticed_ them until they were gone—but suspected it might have something to do with the strange, vivid dreams they'd all complained about having.

Lin had commented, jokingly, when the topic came up, that he _mostly_ remembered being a good beta in the dreams of pack and nest life. "Sort of like I am even in the present day," he'd said.

Eli had given him an odd look. "Lin, you and I were neck and neck for squad leader in boot camp. You're not a beta."

Lin had snorted. "Depends on which pack I'm _with_ at any given time. You and Rel are both alphas, Eli—Rel leads from the front. First one into the charge, carrying the banner."

Her second-brother had laughed at the description, and shrugged it off. "No, it's true," Linianus had told him, holding up a finger admonishingly for silence. "Eli, you lead a little differently. You jump right down in the pit with someone and tell them either you both get out, or you both stay down in the pit. Different styles, both alphas. Garrus is an alpha, too." Lin shrugged.

Lantar chuckled. "And I'm a beta."

"Wouldn't be if Garrus weren't around," Lin replied, calmly.

Lantar shrugged. "I _like_ being second," he said, easily. "I get to do almost everything Garrus does _without_ the stress of making all the decisions. He and Shepard do make a good alpha pair, though. And Ellie and I make a good beta pair."

Dara had glanced up. "In wolf packs on Earth," she'd commented, diffidently, "betas usually care for the puppies of the alpha pair."

Lantar nodded. "Yes. Not quite the same for turians in the cave and nest days. . . everyone had their own children. But betas definitely were more caretakers." He glanced back at Lin. "No shame in being a beta. If it's what you're good at and it's what you want to be. But I've seen your record on Nimines." A quick flash of amusement on her _pada'amu_'s stern face. "No one would've mistaken you for anyone's second there."

Lin shrugged. "Yeah, but I didn't enjoy it. I'm first-son in my family, and that's more than enough for me." A quick, cheerful smile crossed his face. "Rinus, Rellus, Eli. . . plenty of alphas to go around."

Eli had shaken his head again. "I'm not seeing it, _fradu,_ but whatever you say."

When even _Sam_ had griped dreaming about hunting _talashae_ with Lantar, "with nothin' but a flint knife and a spear," yesterday over breakfast table, they'd all exchanged glances, and Siara had cleared her throat a little self-consciously. "Er, that was probably my fault," she'd admitted. "My mental shields dropped while I was asleep. I didn't think I was powerful enough to connect to so many minds at once, but. . . " she shrugged, "I guess that most of you have connections to each other that go deeper than just words. It might explain it, even though none of you are biotic."

Sam had grimaced. "Okay, for the record, Lantar. You ever take me hunting _talashae_ on Palaven, and I'm bringing a high-powered rifle. Or maybe a rocket launcher."

Lantar's answering grin had been very faint. "Ah, but Sam, I thought that humans hunted for _sport._ Where's the sport in that?"

Sam snorted. "_This_ human hunts for meat. Something three times the weight of a freakin' elephant is _not_ something I want to take on with a _spear._ I'm just sayin'."

And everyone had relaxed and laughed a bit as the two older males had bantered back and forth, taking the tension out of the air.

In the here and now, Serana started putting the dishes in the washer. Everything needed to be completely sanitized in the apartment. They'd been taking bleach to the counters and the bathroom, and the apartment complex would probably need to deep-clean the carpet. All of the bedding and clothing they'd used in the last week was in the washer as well, on a hot cycle.

Dara sighed, and seemed to come to a decision. "Okay. Everyone's as healthy as _medicine_ can make them. We all really need about a week's rest in a good pasture, or at least _minimal_ duty, or we're all going to damned well relapse." She darted a glance at Siara, who was leaning against the wall, looking tired. "And Siara will take it out of our hides if we do."

Serana snickered. That had _almost_ sounded like a friendly tease there. She and Dara had different reasons for being wary of the asari, but it sounded like Dara, after relying in Siara as a nurse, had come to a certain level of acceptance for her. Serana had, too. . . but instinct considered Siara a rival, and instinct snarled _stay away_ every time she looked at the female. Instinct could be denied. Instinct could be ignored. Instinct was very persuasive, however.

"Does that mean we're cleared to go help?" Lin asked.

"Yes, but I'm putting a doctor's notation on each of your omnitools that says _convalescent, light duty only._" Dara sighed. "For what good that will do." She glanced at Siara. "You want to take a day's breather, or do you want to come with me to the med bay?"

Siara grimaced. "I hate the idea of leaving the apartment unguarded. But med bay's more important."

Eli shrugged. "We don't have much that's valuable here. If a looter breaks in and decides he wants a three hundred pound weight bag, more power to him. Other than that, our most valuable possessions are guns and armor. And we'll be wearing and carrying those." He glanced at his father and added, mildly, "There are advantages to not having hobbies."

Lantar snorted at him. "I never said you needed _expensive_ hobbies, first-son. Just that you might wish to cultivate _something_ outside of work."

That was the last light moment for a while. Sam, Lantar, Rel, Lin, and Eli headed for B-Sec headquarters. Dara and Siara headed for med bay. Serana went to the turian embassy. She didn't figure she'd be doing much espionage or counterespionage work today, and she was right. Rostrus was out still, sick. She was the first person on her team to report in, and the embassy needed any warm body that housed working eyes and a functioning mind to answer the thousands and thousands of requests for information that had come in. _Is my son alive? Is my daughter alive? I've lost contact with my husband on Bastion. He was sending a message every day until the seventh. Can you please tell me what is happening with him?_

Take the name. Cross-reference with the Red Cross casualty reports. The med bay admissions reports. The ID tag database for the bodies that were, apparently, currently swimming outside the station, waiting for later retrieval. Serana shuddered at the thought of construction crews being out there, working on the scaffolding, as bodies floated past. And then she started to type the reply. _I can find no record of your son being admitted to the hospital, and his name does not appear in any of the casualty lists we have available. I hope you can take comfort in this, and remain hopeful that he will contact you when he is able. _

_I regret to inform you that your daughter's name is in the casualty rolls for May 6/Quinus 3. She passed to the spirits at 10:75 station time on that day, in the med bay on level G. We mourn for your loss with you, and hope that her spirit flies swiftly to yours._

_I regret to inform you that your husband is currently in med bay F. Records show he was admitted on the seventh at 12:80 station time. For further information, please contact med bay F at comm code 234. 4544. 298 alpha. _

After writing about a hundred such messages, they all started to run together for Serana. The words felt useless, and she wasn't even sure that anything she wrote made sense anymore. Her head ached, but she wasn't doing anything physical. She needed to get her eyes off the brightness of her screen, however, and turned away from it to cover her eyes, and wish, uselessly, yet again, that she were human, so she could have the relief of human tears. She took a few deep breaths, steadied herself, and turned back to work. There were thousands more messages in the queue. The servers were swamped, in fact, with messages, and had shut down automatically this morning. . . hence the urgent need to answer and archive as many of these requests for information as possible.

After another hour, Serana sighed and accessed the embassy's VI. Requested enough runtime to set up a batch processing program, collating data from the three lists and generating responses that could be plugged into form letters she developed. It was. . . cold, doing it this way. But efficiency was needed, more than an organic touch. She _did_ review each message as the VI generated it, making sure that there were no egregious errors. Many of these messages were simply, _I'm sorry, but we have no information on this person at this time._

Light duty, at the moment, meant an eight-hour day. There was simply no one else to do the work. Someone _did_ come to relieve Serana at her desk, and she showed them how to use the VI program. . . and got a compliment from her supervisor for the day for the idea. "Getting people back home real information is important," he told her. "Helps keep people calmer. Calm is what we need right now."

Serana dragged herself back to the apartment, and simply flopped down on the couch, which Sam and Lantar had pushed the bed back into. She was tired, her head hurt, and she was spirit-sick. And this was just the first _day_, really. And yet, she _knew_ the others had had it _worse_ today.

**Elijah, Linianus, and Serana, Bastion, May 10-15, 2196**

_**Author's note:**__ If you're okay with alien-on-human sex, you're probably okay with what's coming up, but on the off-chance that you're not okay with multiple partners, this would be a good time to skip down to the next chapter heading. Thank you!_

They were in no shape to be breaking up riots, unfortunately. And there were few crimes going on right now, other than looting. "Would be a great time for someone to murder someone else," Lin told Eli grimly. "A pillow over the face, or poison, and we wouldn't even figure out it _was_ murder, given the rest of the bodies."

"You're cheerful today, _fradu._" Eli didn't even smile when he said it.

Given that they couldn't break up a fight without probably falling over, he, Lin, and Rel had been assigned to a body retrieval and disposal team. They were working with three geth platforms. None of these geth were as intelligent or self-aware as Cohort, but they followed orders well. Definitely better than a mech. But they didn't talk _back_ the way Cohort did. As is, they were making a sweep of apartment complexes on C level. Knocking on doors. "Officer Pellarian, B-Sec," Lin would call in, pressing his helmet against each doorframe. "Is everyone all right in there?"

Usually, there was a reply. "We're fine, thanks."

Occasionally, however, they'd get silence. For each complex, they'd gotten a master key from the super, and they'd use it. And sometimes, the people inside would be alive—delirious, sick, or asleep, and they'd notify the med bay to send an ambulance, if needed.

And sometimes, like this apartment, they'd find the residents dead. This was their third of the day. Young human couple, arms limply draped around each other as they'd huddled in bed. Pill bottles and empty syringes . . .prescriptions that matched antibiotics and anti-virals. "_Spirits of air and darkness,_" Rel whispered. _"They were doing everything right. Why?"_

Lin shook his head. _"Because they had no one here to care for them when the fever grew too high. Because one or both of them had an underlying illness before the plagues came. Because, in the end, __fra'fradu__. . . __s'kak__ happens, and sometimes there's nothing we can do about it."_ _Fra'fradu_ meant _brother of my brother, _ of course. Lin's tone was full of bitter awareness.

Eli sighed. _"Let's see if we can positively identify them against the list of occupants."_ And once they had scanned the couple's fingerprints, and had found that they were, indeed, Richard and Tracy Solomon, they ran a few scans on temperature and post-mortem lividity that let them more or less place the time of death as sometime the previous day for the wife, and a few hours later for the husband. It wasn't as accurate as a coroner's report, but the coroners were a _little_ overworked at the moment. They put bar code labels on the victims' feet, and had the geth platforms wrap the bodies in plastic, and add them to the growing stack in the truck they had in the street outside. Sent in the report, including the bar codes, for easy reference, later.

By the end of six hours of this, all three of them were shaking. And there was still more to do. They and their geth units took the bodies to the nearest freight elevator, and they unloaded the truck into the elevator. Then they, in silence, rode with the corpses to the J level of the station, and hauled them to the closest airlock, where there were four or five geth platforms waiting to handle the disposition process. They signed over the bodies to the geth's custody; the geth began taking the corpses out of the airlock. Eli broke his silence to ask one of the geth units, "Do you know how many fatalities are currently known?"

This geth was an advanced platform, and could respond. "We are aware of over three hundred and fifty thousand bodies outside of the station at this time," he said, softly. "We regret this deeply. All are lessened when so many perspectives are lost."

The three males rode the freight elevator back down, in almost complete silence. Near the end of their descent, Rel asked, quietly, "You think it's a little late to switch jobs and become a doctor?"

Eli snorted. "Maybe a little."

Lin shook his head. "Dara's having just as bad a day. Maybe worse. We're just the cleanup crew. She's fighting for lives she can't possibly save right now."

Rel nodded, and his voice was dark over the radio as he added, "And knowing my wife. . . every single one of them she can't save is one she's going to flog herself about." He paused. "At least she won't have _time_ to add them all to her file."

"What file?" Eli asked.

"She keeps the names and pictures of every patient she's ever lost. The letters she wrote to their families, too."

"God damn," Eli muttered. "That's not. . . that's not real healthy." He was something of an expert on unhealthy states of mind, and that just seemed like an invitation to _dwelling_ on problems that couldn't be resolved.

"She _does_ keep a file on the successes, too. I keep an eye on how often she accesses them." Rel coughed. "Don't tell her that."

Eli shook his head. "Lips are sealed, _fradu'amu."_

The doors opened, and they stumbled out onto C level once more. "I'm going to go to med bay and see if I can pry her loose," Rel said. "It'll probably be a couple of hours. More, if she's working in trauma or ICU."

"Get yourself something to eat, too," Lin warned him.

"What's that human saying about the pot and the kettle?" Rel tossed back over his shoulder. "I'll grab something at the hospital."

Almost every restaurant was closed, and neither of them wanted to go to the effort of cooking something at home. So they dropped by B-Sec headquarters and grabbed something from the cafeteria there—Eli couldn't have identified what he was eating if he tried, and it didn't matter. Al that mattered at the moment was _fuel_. As they ate, Eli's omnitool blipped, and he tiredly opened the message waiting there. "Lantar says he and Sam and Gris are bogged down on J level. Something to do with the Hierarchy barracks there."

"Do they need us?" Lin asked, shoulders slumping a bit.

"Nah. They've got twelve rachni, Gris, Makur, and Fors with them. Just a 'don't leave the light on for us' message. They'll probably sack out up on that level tonight."

They scraped their trays clean and left, heading for home. Eli opened the door, and smiled slightly. Serana was asleep on the couch, already changed into shorts and a light shirt. "Don't wake her," he warned over the radio.

"Wasn't planning on it. But looks like she's got the right idea," Lin muttered, and they both headed to their rooms to strip out of armor.

The next three days went exactly the same. Eli wanted to _beg_ his people in CID, or Bailey, now that the human had recovered from the flu and was back in charge of B-Sec, to give them _some_ other task. But until they were stronger, this was the best they could do to help. To give the healthier officers a bit of a mental break. By the third day, they had a canine unit, dog and handler, with them. "Cadaver dog," the human handler said, grimly. "We just came in from Earth. Most of us are spread out over the globe at the moment. New York, London, Moscow, Beijing, Mexico City, Sao Paolo, New Delhi. . . and don't even get me started on sub-Saharan Africa. It's not like those folks were all that healthy to begin with." Her voice was tired, and she rubbed at her face repeatedly. "Three of us are here on Bastion to help keep the smell and the decay to a minimum."

"Appreciate it," Eli told her, and he did. This minimized the number of times they opened a door and wound up with an irate renter on the other side, convinced that they were looters, at best, murderers at worst.

They at least had their apartment back to themselves, more or less. Sam and Lantar were sleeping at B-Sec for the time being. Dara usually sacked out in an on-call room at the hospital, though Rel would periodically coax her back to the apartment. Siara was helping at the hospital, and thus was doing more or less what Dara was doing; namely, finding a bunk in an on-call room and crashing between shifts. Gris, Fors, and Makur were largely staying at B-Sec, too.

Red Cross officials had taken over Depth Charge and a couple of hotels on different levels of the station and turned them into convalescence shelters, at least, so that was keeping the incidence of relapses from the pneumonia and _atratus cremare_ down, which was a help. Hotels were largely not open, which made living conditions difficult for the many travelers who had been stranded on Bastion; the Council had _ordered_ some of the hotels to open, at a reduced rate, for travelers, but this was one logistics nightmare that Eli didn't have to worry about.

And every night, before he fell asleep—if he could sleep; his body was screaming for rest, at this point, but most nights, it was difficult—he saw the bodies in his mind's eye. Dreamed about them, floating in space. In beds. On couches. On the floor. In the trucks. Limp in his arms, or limp in a geth's arms. And woke up, usually clutching Serana for dear life.

The night of the fifteenth marked the twenty-first day of the epidemic. The casualty figures were being hidden from the general public, but Lantar had sent him one of the estimates. 495,574. It was a number so large, Eli couldn't even _grasp_ at it, even though he and Lin and Makur, that day, had hauled away at least four hundred bodies from E level. Five days of grave patrol for them, and Eli could feel the dark tide starting to rise in him again.

And when he and Lin came home, and found Serana, once more, asleep on the couch, after a long day of writing letters to people on seventeen turian colonies, telling them the bad news in a gentler fashion than they usually discovered it, they yet again stripped out of their armor, and, as had become a habit, sat down on either side of her on the couch. Just total silence for a moment. Turning on the extranet and watching a vid feed seemed. . . somehow crass, in the face of all the death they'd seen lately.

Eli leaned over and pulled her sleeping form more or less into his lap, her back to his chest, cradling her that way, and turned so he could look at Lin while still holding Serana. "Think we get to rotate to desk work tomorrow?" he asked, softly, not wanting to wake her.

Lin shook his head. "We were down for eight or nine days before we got back on duty," he said, quietly. "It's our turn in the barrel."

"Your turn in the what?" Serana asked groggily, lifting her head.

Eli nuzzled the side of her neck, just grateful for her presence. It was, he figured, the only reason he was staying sane. "Old human joke. Goes like this: a new sailor comes aboard a ship in the old sea-going naval days. There are no women aboard, but the captain tells him not to worry. If he gets too horny, they have a solution for this. The captain takes him down below decks, and shows him a barrel with an open knot hole on the side. 'Now, if you're ever just itching too badly, just come down here and fuck the barrel. Guarantee you'll like it."

Lin snorted a little. "I _love_ human jokes." He shifted a little on the couch, draping his legs over the far arm, so his spurs wouldn't catch, and put his head on one of Serana's legs. Serana's head lifted slightly, and she glanced up at Eli in surprise, and also as if she were looking for permission. He blinked, and nodded after a moment, and Serana lightly draped a hand over Lin's fringe, stroking gently. Contact, comfort, touch. He'd noticed how careful Lin had suddenly become about not touching Serana when the others were around. As if he'd been jerked back into turian propriety, after years of acting slightly more human.

Eli managed a smile now, tried to put it in his voice, but he was just so _damned_ tired. "So, the sailor holds out for a couple of days, and then he finally decides, okay, I'll try it. He goes below decks, drops his pants, and does his thing. Best sex he's ever _had_. Pretty soon, he's down there at least once a day."

Serana looked wide-eyed. "I have a bad feeling about where this is going."

Eli reached down and bracketed her mandible with one hand from behind, elbow resting on her chest. "You should. Finally, at the end of a week, the captain tells him, 'Okay, you're not going to be able to use the barrel today, son.' 'Why's that, captain?' 'Because today it's _your_ turn to be _in_ the barrel.'"

Serana thought about that. Paused. And started to laugh. "I wish I could help you guys," she said, when she finished chuckling.

"I'm just as glad you're not out there with us," Lin said, tiredly. "Write the letters, little one. You're helping the _living_. That's a damn good thing. Us? We're just carting off the dead so they don't _rot_." He rubbed a hand over his face. "I just wish I'd stop seeing them in my head." Eli could just see the side of Lin's face. Could see the defocused stare directed at nothing in particular in the room. "Every time we find a turian female, I think, just for a second, she's wearing Macedyn paint."

Eli's mind flashed to some of the bodies they'd found today, and found the images entirely intolerable. He leaned further into Serana, burying his face in her shoulder, and not _caring_ about turian stoicism or whether they were, technically 'in public' around Lin or not. He didn't _feel_ as if they were in public. His teeth grazed the side of her neck, which made her sigh and move her head slightly, granting him better access. Looking down, he could see that Lin's fingers had moved to stroke Serana's spurs, lightly. Absently. There was a dream-like quality to the whole thing. He moved the hand that was cupping her chin up, elbow now higher, and preened her fringe with his fingers, and closed his teeth on the back of her neck, which pulled a gasp out of her. Lin moved his head slightly, and very carefully began to bite at the base of one of her spurs. Serana sighed, and Lin moved up, biting along the back of her leg, one hand holding her foot and spur locked in place. Safing those dangerous weapons. Eli half-watched, and continued biting and licking and nuzzling her throat, holding her in place. . . not that she was resisting at all.

Serana was still a little muzzy-headed from sleep and the long, emotionally-wracking day. Eli was holding her more or less pinned. . . it wasn't a choke hold, but he was definitely, though lightly, controlling her in their current position. Alien warm-cool of his body against her back, her favorite feeling in the entire world. Scrape of his teeth against her neck making her sigh. And then Lin shifted position. Warm hands against her ankle. Sting of much sharper teeth against her spurs. Then higher. One of Eli's favorite things to do to her, tiny incremental bites along the back of her legs. A sweet, hard nip just on the inside of her right thigh, and she gasped. Felt herself open, felt Eli's left hand smooth its way down her side. Pull up the hem of her loose shirt to stroke her waist. Lower, and her breathing began to quicken, turn into little, urgent pants as he ran his fingers over her.

Linianus caught the _smell_ of her readiness, and glanced up, and met their eyes. _S'kak, what am I __doing__?_ It had just seemed, for an instant, that he could share just a _little_ of their light. Something that would chase away the darkness. Would let him see something other than bodies when he closed his eyes. Lin shook his head, pulling back. "Sorry," he whispered. "Stupid damn dreams. No right to do that." He started to sit up, pull away.

Eli shook his head, minutely. "Don't, _fradu."_

Serana swallowed, heavily, and whispered, "I liked what you were doing."

Lin closed his eyes, and exhaled through his nose. Hard. "You two love each other, and I don't want to _ever_ get in the way of that."

"You won't," Eli said, just as quietly as the others had been speaking. As if they didn't want to wake themselves up.

His arm was across the pulse of Serana's throat, so he could _feel_ how fast her heart was beating, accelerating even further as she whispered, "And you know that we love you, too, right?" She knew what she meant by this. Friendship so deep it didn't even usually need words. Friendship was a kind of love, one that transcended the romantic. She loved, and was _in_ love with Eli. But they both had a deep and abiding affection for their friend, too.

It wasn't something Eli could have said. He figured the word _fradu_ covered it, however jokingly he and Lin usually said it. People made the mistake, all the time, of confusing romantic love, sex, and friendship. He felt the same way about Lin as he did about Rel. They were brothers. When Lantar had told him Rel was MIA, Eli had tossed all of his identification in a drawer and hadn't even asked where they were going to retrieve him from. And not just because Dara was a friend. But because _Rel_ was, too. It was perfectly possible to have sex without love, friendship without love, sex without friendship. He was lucky. In Serana, he had all three at once.

Serana swallowed, and added, diffidently, and in turian, _"And we know that, sooner or later, it will be necessary anyway, right?"_

"_Little fierce one, are you proposing that we __practice__?"_ Eli whispered against her ear. He almost wanted to laugh. She was being almost _shy_ for a turian. Aggressive forthrightness, he tended to expect. This was obviously walking a line for her, and he _liked_ it.

"_Not all the time,"_ she replied, quickly. _"I'm __yours__."_ She slid one hand up and behind her, folding it in to stroke the back of Eli's neck, _"You said you didn't think you were turian enough, or asari enough, or human enough. How about. . . if Lin stays turian. You stay human. And once in a while, I pretend, very hard, to be asari?"_ Her voice was more timid than her words, which were bold. She turned her head just enough for Eli to see her expression, which spoke of insecurity. Said to him, _please_ _don't hate me._

_Never_, he promised silently.

"_Never work, little one,"_ Lin told her, eyes gone focused and intent. _"You're much better looking than any asari I've ever seen._"

Eli sat up, moving Serana with him. _"Doesn't have to go far this time,"_ he told her. _"Probably all too tired to do much of anything."_ He turned her around so she could face him, and then nodded to Lin, who looked at them now like a dying man crossing a desert looks at a lake. . . as if he's afraid this, too, will be just another mirage. Then Lin slowly moved forward, and wrapped his arms around Serana from behind, and Eli wrapped his around her from the front. Little bites now, to her neck, from both sides. _"Relax_," Eli told her. _"It's okay to enjoy this. I won't hate you for it."_

Lin whispered, quietly, "_It'll work out much better, years from now, if you're comfortable with both of us. So you don't fight one or the other of us when the time comes."_

Slow relaxation of her muscles. Slow yielding. When he felt her relax completely, Eli told her, _"Only a couple of rules. Rule number one is simple. We do what __you__ tell us to do. You tell us to stop, we stop. You tell us more, we do more. Rule number two is for Lin. No marking. And rule three is for Lin, too. Don't get my wife pregnant."_

"_She's yours,"_ Lin murmured, nibbling along Serana's shoulder now. _"I know how not to leave marks."_

Eli could smell sun-warmed rocks again, that warm, good smell he associated only with Serana. _"How. . . how will this work?"_ she finally asked, as Eli's hands found her waist.

"_However you want it to work,"_ he told her. _"We can take turns. Or we can take you together. We know how to make sure you'll enjoy it, either way."_

Her eyes were closed now. _"Like. . . in the dreams?" _The half-delusions, half-hallucinations had been a little embarrassing when she'd awakened from them, the more so when she'd realized that everyone had seen some portion of the others' visions. But at least in the dreams, she'd known what she wanted. It hadn't been quite so confusing.

Lin growled softly and bit her harder. Eli sucked in a breath. _"Yes. Do you want that?"_

"_Yes."_

Eli leaned forward and bit her, hard, sucking at the same time, felt her back arch in reflex, and then her body went supine, supported only by his arms and Lin's. He slid his arms down, hooked them under her thighs and lifted her. _"Bedroom,"_ he told her, removing his mouth for a moment.

With no fanfare at all, Lin stood, walked over to the front door, and slid a box full of empty syringes and medicine bottles in front of it. Not to block it, but Eli chuckled at the mere sight. _Burglar alarm. He wants some warning if anyone walks in. Not that I blame him. Of all the things Rel could walk in on. . . _and then his eyes fell on the partially completed spirit statue on their little table. Three figures. _Then again. . . maybe Rel understood it before we did._

In the bedroom, Serana began to feel uncertain again, but Eli stroked her fringe. _"It's okay. Remember. . . we only do what you tell us to do. You're in complete control right now, __asperitalla__. We only go as far as you're comfortable with."_ Soft words, warm hands. The _love_ in Eli's eyes as he looked at her. The warmth of friendship at her back, as Lin wrapped his arms around her, too.

"_I don't know what to tell you to do,"_ she admitted, her throat tight.

"_Then just tell us if you like what we're doing_," Lin whispered. _"You go first, __fradu.__ Let her get used to me even being here."_ He chuckled a little, and added, _"Not like I haven't been here the whole time we were sick. . . "_ And then Eli was biting and kissing her, sliding himself into her, chasing away the darkness and the bleak cold inside of her from all the _death_ around them. _Can it really be a bad thing_, she thought, hazily, _to clutch at life at a time like this?_ And then there was nothing but pleasure, golden fire streaking all the way down to her toes, and then Lin began to bite her, too. She could smell him, suddenly. Feel his own urgency against the small of her back as he rocked himself against her hips.

Whispered conversation, directions. _"Not crazy about the idea of her first time with me hurting."_

"_Hurting?"_ Serana asked, a little confused.

Eli looked down at her, eyes dark in the dim light of the bedroom. _"I'm going to be right __here__, beloved."_ He pressed in deeper, letting her feel it, and she moaned.

"_And I'm going to be here,"_ Lin rasped against her ear, and ran a talon down the curve of her buttocks, sliding up into her cloacal opening gently. Serana stiffed a little, eyes going wide. It felt different than it had in the dreams. In dreams, there had only been vague sensations at best. This was very direct. _"This will sting a little. Because you're tighter back here."_ He groaned and pressed himself against her. _"I'll go slow, but I __really__ want to be in you right now, little one. Please say yes."_

"_We'll get you ready first, _okay_, __asperitalla__?"_ Eli's eyes, so dark in the dim light in the bedroom. _"If Lin can give you release this way in estrus, there's absolutely __no__ chance of him getting you pregnant. It'll sting a little the first few times, but we'll go slow. Only as much as __you__ want."_

She gave him a little dazed nod. Lin's voice, very tight now. _"Need her relaxed for this, __fradu.__ Control bite, from you. Submit her."_

Eli's teeth clamped on her shoulder, and she submitted, arching, feeling empty as he withdrew. His fingers slid in, however, teasing and tormenting in his place, and Lin murmured, _"He'll be back in a minute, sweetness. Just stay relaxed. Don't fight me. Please, spirits, don't fight this."_

It did sting, but Lin went very slowly, giving her little nibbling bites that gradually became more aggressive, and Eli never stopped touching her, caressing her, biting her. _"There,"_ Lin whispered. "_That's all of me you'll ever have to worry about. I'm going to hold still and let you get used to me, all right?"_

Eli released the control bite, slid his hand to her jaw, and kissed her. _"My turn,_" he said, when their lips parted, and grinned at her, an expression of such delight and hunger at once, that she couldn't help but start to laugh. And then he was in her again, _both_ of them were, and Serana's eyes went wide. She was _full_. _"And what happens now?"_ she asked.

"_Now? Now we play you."_ Eli kissed her again. _"You tell us what feels good. That's what happens next."_ His voice was full of promises as he added, _"By the time we're done, you won't know where one of us ends and the other begins, I swear it._

He started to move for her now, and Lin held still, perfectly still, just filling her, and Eli's movements started to fill her with fire again, and she started to relax. Lin exhaled against her ear. _"There you go. As soon as you release, little one, I'm going to start moving."_ His voice turned a little self-deprecating. _"My first release is going to be quick. . . it's been a long time, and you feel so damned good." _

And then they were moving, testing her, teasing her. Using each other's arms for leverage. Working her until she cried out. _"Here, we'll hold still. You move now."_ Little loving bites and kisses.

An hour later, Lin gave Serana a quick bite to the shoulder. _"Thank you,"_ he told them, and started to stand to leave.

"_Where do you think you're going?"_ Serana asked muzzily, from where her head was buried in Eli's shoulder.

"_To clean up, and go back to my nest. You two need some alone time."_

"_You can stay if you want,"_ Eli told him calmly. _"Not like we picked you up in some bar, you know."_

"_I wasn't looking on the nightstand for the money,"_ Lin told them. _"But—"_

"_Lin, shut up and get some sleep. You're just about as much of an idiot as he is."_ Serana rolled over and curled into her mate's warmth.

She was glad, the next morning, that Lin had listened to them. It would have been _awkward_ if he'd distanced himself afterwards, and they'd all had to pretend over breakfast that nothing had happened. Instead, Eli swore and batted off the shrieking alarm clock, as usual, and gave Serana her good morning kiss. Lin lightly ran a hand over her fringe, and then they all started getting ready for the day. A day which, in spite of probably another twenty-two thousand deaths to look forward to, at least seemed slightly more manageable this morning, somehow.

"_Asperitalla,_ aren't you going to eat breakfast at the table with us? Or do we smell?" Eli asked, as she stood at the kitchen counter, eating a dextro/levo omelet.

Serana peeked over her shoulder at her husband, who looked a little worried behind the teasing smile. _He's afraid_, she realized. _Afraid that everything will change. It doesn't have to._ Serana let him see her honest smile, and realized that she was flushing a little blue. "No, you both smell good. You always do. It's more that I . . . I've got eight hours of sitting at a desk ahead of me, writing letters, as is. And sitting down just sounds like a bad idea right now." She held eye contract for a minute, and added, in turian,_ "It was, after all, __my__ turn in the barrel last night,"_ and then Eli started to laugh, standing and walking over to wrap his arms around her and kiss the back of her neck, and Lin covered his mouth, turned away, starting to chuckle as well, a little helplessly. And like that, everything slid back into its accustomed path, its accustomed place. Love and friendship, where they were supposed to be.

**Valak N'dor, Khar'sharn, May 10-15**

By now, the Hegemony had stepped up its rhetoric against the Council. This was usually, Valak had long noticed, a prelude to the Hegemon doing something _very_ stupid. He watched the vid feed of the Hegemon's speech in his sitting room at home, Nala sitting by his side, Tuldur and Yal'or and N'val standing at the back of the room, listening. On the screen, the Hegemon ranted and raved about the unambiguous, preordained right of the batarian people to spread among the stars, of how, with their intelligence and cunning, they would scatter their way of life and bring other, lesser species under their dominion. "Those who will not bow, are enemies to our people, our ancestors, our very way of life," the Hegemon declared, shaking a fist.

Valak shook his head. "He's preparing the population for an attack," he said, clinically, putting one foot up on a priceless antique table.

"For them to attack us, or for us to attack them?" Tuldur asked, dourly.

"Us to attack them. Otherwise, he'd be playing up how we've always been the victim of galactic politics before," Valak told him, watching the screen intently.

"In the not too distant future," the Hegemon declared, "Out ships will rise up and liberate the oppressed people of Anhur, who have suffered under the rule of the Systems Alliance. Klensal, which they _stole_ from us, will be liberated as well."

Yal'or snorted. "We never even _wanted_ that frozen mudball to begin with. We seeded it with false data reports of rich mines to get the Alliance to race there and stake claims."

Valak nodded. "SIU ploy. Try to weaken them by getting them to overspend, weaken their economy." He shrugged. 'That's obviously worked very well, hasn't it."

Derisive chuckled from around the room. Nala's eyes were wide. She'd obviously rarely been in the presence of people who openly dissented before. Were honest with one another. Trusted one another.

The speech concluded a few minutes later, and Valak turned off the feed. "Interesting speech," he assessed. "Klensal? Which we don't even really care about? Anhur? Historically, we do have claims there. But as a pretext for war, it's a pretty miserable, barren rock."

Tuldur muttered, "No mention of the fat colony worlds of the Terminus Systems. No Eden Prime. No Ferros Fields. No Amaterasu. No New Canton."

"So what does it mean?" Nala asked. She hadn't spoken up before, clearly not knowing if she _could_, but Valak gave her hand a subtle squeeze of encouragement as she spoke. "That Anhur will be attacked, but it's a misdirection? A feint?"

Valak nodded. "Possibly. Or this was just a speech to whip up popular support for the war. The Hegemon's power is built solidly on the noble castes and the military castes. Without them, he can _order_ a war all he wants, but he risks a coup from within if he overreaches." Valak shrugged. "Which is usually just a case of in with the new boss, same as the old boss, I fear." He stood, lightly kissed the back of Nala's hand, and told her, "Go ahead and continue with your firearms training today, my dear, if you wish to. SIU awaits me." He nodded to his men, and headed for the door, carrying his cane. . . and its concealed vibrosword. . . as always.

At SIU, he continued gisting reports. Gisting a report was to read it and summarize it for a superior in a few sentences, so that the essential information of the report was relayed, and if the superior decided he needed to see more information, he'd know which report to ask for. Valak discreetly buried a few important details now and again, and, in the course of his reading, took notes on troop movements. Memorized them, and didn't take the notepads with him. Left them sitting in plain view on his desk, with all his other notes of what to put in the gisted reports, and what to leave out. _Support ships being sent towards Eden Prime, but not cruisers. No dreadnaughts. Why would we be sending __support__ ships, like tenders and refuelers, but not landing craft and cruisers and carriers. . . . ? We wouldn't be. Unless we're either staging there for a strike on someplace else. . . or if we expect someone __else__ to provide the muscle there._ The idea struck him all at once, and he swallowed, hard, and kept reading. Kept memorizing. He couldn't take anything out of this place with him when he left. Even his cane was inspected whenever he left. _So, Eden Prime. Where else. . . we have troop transports headed for Amaterasu. That actually makes sense. Cruisers, check. Carriers, check. Support vessels, check. Landing craft, check. Two carriers, a cruiser screen, and a dreadnaught heading for Edessan? A __turian_ _world we can't even eat the food on. . . ahhh. Shipyards. That actually makes sense. It's too far from our space to be even a good staging area, so yes, the shipyards. Attempt to cripple the turian fleet. Wouldn't surprise me if they tried a similar attack on the Palaven shipyards at the same time, in the hopes of catching most of the fleet in dock. Just don't see evidence of it __here.__ No signs of similar preparations for Earth, and the Alliance doesn't have major secondary facilities anywhere other than. . . Bastion. Hmm._

_Minimal force headed for Anhur. . . that's the propaganda attack. And what have we here? Two dreadnaughts, two carriers, ten 'advanced' cruisers, and two troop transports. . . all heading for Omega? Ahh. Here's our __real__ interest, I think. _

_And again, back to it not making sense. Re-fuelers, tenders, landing craft, but no troops, heading for Terra Nova? Likewise, Shanxi? Why their largest colonies? Why not the Attican traverse human colonies? Other than Edessan, to try to cripple the turian fleet, almost all movements directed at human outposts. And Omega, of course. My Spectre handlers will be very interested in this. Damned if I know what to make of it, though._

He included the seminal details in a set of gists for Arvak, and kept reading. Valak pulled up reports on the _Klem Na_, whenever he could justify it, generally when they were mentioned in a current report. He found that they had one open facility on Camala, where Chas'na V'sol put on public appearances. He saw that huge amounts of money had been shuttled into the _Klem Na_ over the past four years, all earmarked for R&D. And about _half_ of that funding had actually gone to a secondary facility on Lorek. Valak made a note by this in his gists, noting, as a well-meaning but uninformed civil servant might, _Are they embezzling the funds? Or is this a valid research project?_ Just another move in the game of _ru'udal_ he was playing.

That note got laughter from Arvak when the man read the report, sitting in his plushly appointed office on the fifth floor of the SIU building, which had a wide window that looked out onto a red and cloudless horizon. "No, no, it's a perfectly valid project, N'dor. Improvements to our computer systems."

"Computer improvements? From a _mercenary group_ comprised of raiders and military-caste and protector-caste pariahs? Try pulling the other leg, R'mod, and try to keep a straight face this time."

Arvak laughed lightly. "Very well, I'll just say that it's classified, but that the funds are indeed going to the right place."

Valak nodded. "That's all I needed to know."

"Anything else that caught your eyes?" Arvak inquired.

"Lots of troops moving about. Thought it might rather be a result of the General Staff preparing for war games in the wake of the Hegemon's speech. That's on page two of the report." Valak stretched. "You _are_ certain that the _Klem Na_ aren't cheating us?"

"I know Chas'na V'sol personally. He knows what I'll do to him if he doesn't follow through on his promises." Arvak's eyes were icy.

Valak nodded. "A threat that's _believed_ is as good as a chain," he said, calmly. "I've never met the man, though. I'll take your word for it that he's wise enough to believe you, Arvak." He smiled, faintly, humorless. "Even I am wise enough to do that."

"You haven't met Chas'na?" Arvak snorted. "No loss to you. He's scum, Valak. Raider with just enough intelligence to have known what an opportunity was when he fell on top of it."

"Sometimes, that's all the intelligence one really needs." Valak was treading carefully on this terrain. What he _wanted_ was a personal introduction to the head of the _Klem Na._ But he couldn't seem to push for it. "Of course, the mark of real intelligence is finding a way to relieve the unworthy of such an opportunity. . . and make them thank you for having done so." He narrowed his eyes at Arvak, and smiled lazily. "You're the champion _ru'udal_ player, Arvak. You tell me you _need_ scum like Chas'na, and I'll believe you. But if you tell me it's whatever he's fallen _into_ that you need. . . well. That's something entirely _else_, isn't it?"

Arvak smiled, faintly, but Valak's senses went on alert. He definitely didn't want to overstep here, make the wrong move, send the wrong signal. "You _do_ still know how to play the game, don't you?" Arvak said, softly.

"Sometimes, I've been known to let people win a round or two," Valak acknowledged. "Just to see how they play." He waved it off. "Not you, of course, Arvak. We both know you're the better player."

"Suppose I were to arrange a meeting between you and Chas'na?" Arvak inquired. "Perhaps you might see for yourself if we really need him, or if what we need is the resource he controls?"

Valak considered it. "He'd come to Khar'sharn? Or would this be on a tour of his, hmm, facilities?"

"The Camala ones, certainly. Perhaps even the Lorek ones. After all, you would have to evaluate what he controls, first."

"I'd be honored to make the evaluation, but I question whether I have the information at my disposal to make an accurate assessment." _Worth a try, anyway. . . . _

"No, no information given ahead of time. I'd want your honest opinion, unmuddied by preconceptions."

Valak shrugged. "Then again, I'd be honored by your trust, but such a trip would take some time to approve, I'm sure. A month or so?"

"Thereabouts, yes. Security _is_ security, after all."

"Done, then. I'll be another set of eyes for you. And then we'll see how well Chas'na plays the game, himself." Valak offered a thin smile, but inside, his heart was racing. He wasn't _quite_ certain that he'd won. That was the disadvantage of playing _ru'udal_ without a board and without visible pieces. It was damnably hard to keep score. But he thought he'd played it right. SIU _hated_ outsiders controlling information or resources that it was compelled to use. Arvak was a product of intensive SIU training and conditioning. Therefore, it had seemed likely that Arvak would want to control whatever the _Klem Na_ held, himself.

And with the 'computer systems' crack, he was almost certain that Chas'na really did have the salarian AI somewhere under his thumb. The question was, what he could quietly accomplish here, in the next month, while awaiting his chance to go to Camala? And potentially, Lorek?

As he stood to leave, however, Arvak asked, silkily, "Speaking of _ru'udal. . . _ I think it high time we played another game, ourselves, N'dor. Perhaps dinner at my estate later this week?"

_Perfect opportunity for Oversight Forces to investigate my own estate_, Valak thought. "Certainly," he replied with aplomb. "Or, if you wish, you might enjoy my hospitality again." He smiled, faintly, "I'd have my chef prepare _kal'ai_ caviar and roast _fezaan._" These notable delicacies were usually reserved to the high nobility. By offering them, Valak was also offering Arvak a tacit compliment.

Arvak's eyes widened slightly. "And would you be providing more _amenable_ company this time, or should I bring my own?"

"Amenable?" Valak laughed slightly. "By all means, bring your own, but be warned that I will be inviting my sister, as well. She plays _ru'udal_ better than I do. And might be a more challenging opponent for you, therefore." In truth, he'd been able to beat his sister for over a decade, but Xal'i was a noted beauty, and again, her presence was a tacit compliment. It hinted at the potential for alliance. And should, hopefully, distract Arvak nicely.

Of course, Xal'i was a risk of her own. Particularly in regards to Nala. But this was how the game was played. Valak was offering pieces in barter right now. The trick was, they were pieces which were worthless to him, but valuable to Arvak. _Might as well be glass beads or the blanket from my bed_, he thought, with faint humor.

And so it was arranged that Arvak would once more come to the estate for a brief stay later in the week. It would curtail Valak's night-time excursions. And it meant that he needed to contact his relatives, and that _was_ a headache unto itself.

**Sings-to-the-Sky, Bastion, May 15, 2196**

The rachni's world was both more complex, and much more simple, than his many biped companions could understand or perceive. Everywhere, there were voices, songs. The chemical reactions of brains producing electricity in forms and patterns that were no different for him than the chemicals that produced the song of a queen or a brood warrior or the pheromones of a worker or a soldier. The sound component had taken him a little longer to master, in biped languages. It always struck him as fascinating, that the inner song and the outer song could be in dissonance with one another. Sometimes on purpose (lying-song) and sometimes in innocence. The latter usually happened when the singer did not truly know who they were, did not know their own name-song.

Sky also possessed keen eyesight as well as the inner and outer hearing. Six compound eyes gave him almost perfect sight in every direction. And he understood the songs of others, not just as melody and counterpart and harmony, but as colors and lights as well. So his world consisted of the songs of others, how he matched himself to their song, and to the greater song of the universe, as well. For the _stars_ sang. The _planets_ sang. He had no idea how it was that bipeds couldn't _hear_ all of these things, but while he was grieved for them that they could not, he recognized that they sensed things that he, too, could not. Touch was, for him, a limited sense. He could sense how yielding a surface was, or how hard. How hot or how cold. But texture was a lost sensation, one he understood that Zhasa prized. And scent? He understood the language of pheromones, could detect toxins in the air or in food. . . but the subtleties were lost on him. And Fors Luka, much to Sky's amusement, perceived biotics and minds and the world almost wholly in terms of scent. _He __smells__ the song,_ Sky thought.

It gave him joy to hear the songs of fellow-brood warriors, some even hatchling-brothers of his. They were, however, oddly limited in their songs now. It took Sky a day or two to understand why. His own songs had been enriched by the Spectres with whom he associated. He had new thoughts. New songs, new harmonies to share. And his voice would enrich his brothers'. His brothers were a little timid with him, at first. _Almost the song of a queen now, named one,_ they sang softly at him.

And no matter how much joy it gave him to hear his people's voices again, too many songs had been stilled on Bastion, for him to rejoice entirely. And every day there were more. None of his closest friends, the ones with whom he raised his voice in battle, fortunately. Nor their hatchlings, either. But their songs had darkened. Too much pain, too much weariness.

Battle-brother came to his nesting place in the place of Bastion that was the home of their soldiers, their B-Sec. Battle-brother told him, "Blasto sent word to Shepard about this Seheve Liakos. Seems her 'master' gave her orders, should she be made a Spectre candidate, that she should try to kill Ruin, and destroy all records of his testimony. And that she might be asked to kill Shepard at some point, too. And to top it all off, when Shepard sent out the recruitment call to all Council governments, the hanar offered Liakos' name, just like clockwork." Battle-brother, all browns and grays of earth and stone, snorted. "Personally, I think we should find her, lock her up, and throw away the key, but Blasto thinks we should play along a bit. Says she's probably brainwashed. And says that playing along will give him time to clean up the hanar homeworld of a pretty nasty collection of zealots." Battle-brother muttered under his breath.

_Sings-Peace is always wise. Not always correct. But always wise._ Sky paused. _I will listen to her song, Battle-brother. If there is danger to Truth-singer in her, we will know it._

"Thought you might say that. Wake up the little one, eh?"

The 'little one,' meant the volus. Sky had been listening and listening for the volus' namesong, and he wasn't quite sure he'd heard it properly yet. But he rather thought the stridently _orange_ creature might be Sings-Mischief. The volus perked up when Battle-Brother said they'd be looking for his murder suspect today. "We know she's been discharged from the med bay," the volus said. "But she pretty much went to ground after that. No sign that she's re-entered the embassy, however."

Battle-Brother grunted. "Yeah. Noticed that. Mentioned it to Sam and Lantar, and they gently beat me over the head with other things we could look into. For example, Spectre Blasto mentioned that the drell has a mother, who was also in the service of the same hanar. And when I had an AI backcheck the mother, sure enough, there were other children. One of whom lives here on Bastion. And although he's been estranged from his family for six years or so, he _might_ know something about his sister's whereabouts." Battle-Brother's colors flickered for a moment, turning darker.

_Sings-to-the-Past and Sings-Regrets have sung this song for many years. There is no shame in relying on the strength of their voices._

"Yeah, well, I've _hunted_ before. Just not quite this way. Don't tell Makur, hmm?"

_Sings-Protection still has much to learn of hunt-songs himself._

"Yeah. But he doesn't need to know that so do I." Battle-brother's colors flickered again. "Station records indicate that the brother's worked construction here since 2191. Started off an apprentice welder and now does EVA construction outside in the vacuum of space. Considered a good worker, liked by all his peers. No history of religious extremism."

"Let me guess," the volus said sardonically. "Quiet type, keeps to himself?"

Battle-brother shook his head. "Quiet, yes. Has a wife and three kids, though."

Sky caught Sings-Mischief in one handling claw and delicately set the volus atop his carapace. _Grip my thorax tightly,_ he warned the volus.

"This is _great_," the little creature said, his orange color flaring brighter. "I don't feel like I'm going to slip off at all!"

They made their way out of the hive of the soldiers, and began to traverse the passages of the greater hive. Buzz of voices everywhere.

—_we're being punished for our sins_—

—_this is the Council's fault_—

—_this is the batarians' fault_—

—_no, no, not Ed, not Ed, he's too young, he's too young, please, no, not my little Eddie_—

—_we've got a small riot in progress, need backup, __now_—

—_how much longer can this go on, how many more are going to __die_ —

—_spirits, defend us. Come back to this place, make it your home once more_—

—_if we centrifuge out all the blood cells and platelets, we're left with the plasma and the antibodies. Run a filter on it for viral infections like hepatitis and AIDS, and just use __that__ as the innoculant. It's better than waiting for Pfizer back home to produce enough doses of the vaccine for Strain A, when the little fucker's already mutated into Strain B on us, and we have no __clue__ if immunity to A provides immunity to B_—

—_Goddess, watch over my little one. Goddess, you who are maiden and mother and matriarch, hear my prayer_—

It didn't take long to find the small corner of the hive where Oeric Liakos made his home. His mate opened the door, and _stared_ at them. Sky was used to astonishment and fear-songs at the sight of him, and sang reassurance immediately. In her mind, she wasn't sure what to be more agog at: a krogan in Spectre armor, a rachni, or a volus perched on a rachni's back.

"Good morning," Sings-Mischief told her. "Officer Fors Luka, B-Sec. Can we speak with your husband?"

She looked at them dubiously, then sighed. "At least none of you can _catch_ the plague," the drell female replied, making sure her mask was in place. "Come inside." Over her shoulder, she called, "Oeric?"

A male drell emerged from the back of the house. Like many bipeds, he had almost no glow to him, just a faint trace of a rebellious red shimmer. Sky had often wondered why his Spectre companions glowed so much more strongly than ordinary people in the street, and had, over the years, come to the conclusion that biotics in general glowed more powerfully, and people with strong character, strong purpose, strong. . . spirit. . . as Sings-Regrets or Sings-Vengeance would say. . . glowed strongly as well. "What can I do for you?" the male drell asked.

"We're looking for a Seheve Liakos. We're told that's your sister." Sings-Mischief didn't give the male a chance to deny knowing her.

"What do you want her for?" Love-song, disappointment-song, guilt-song. _If I'd tried harder, I could have taken her with me. If I'd tried harder, she wouldn't be __broken__. _Sky concentrated harder, used a little wisp of melody to follow that emotion, evoke memory's harmony in the male: _remember._

_Two faces juxtaposed, and yet the same. Younger, full of life, happiness, running along a sandy beach. "You can't catch me, Oeric, I'm faster!" Older now. Tired. Leaden. Filled with death and deadly purpose. Nothing left in the eyes besides despair and doubt._

_He sees well, for one almost blind and deaf to the songs of others. But then, bipeds tend to be attuned closely to their nest-mates._

Listening had taken only a moment. Sings-Mischief's voice was a low snuffle as he spoke. "She's wanted on a charge of murder."

"Seheve wouldn't—look, if she did _anything_, I know it all comes down to that gods-be-damned hanar. Olonkoa. Amonkira take him to the underworld." Red and black flickers over that gray form. Hate. Hate that had faded over the years, only to be rekindled. Flickers of memory, of being forced to worship Protheans. Mouthing the words to keep the peace of the hive, but anger, hot and red, seething underneath. Then, a chance at freedom. Freedom his twin hadn't sought. Anger at her, still, residual. Anger that she'd been too afraid to come with him. When it would have made both their lives easier. Better. Safer. Would have saved her from _this_.

"Her." The mate's voice was unhappy. "She's here." Fear-song, anxiety, green-yellow. Jealousy, too, wiggling like a pallid worm in her guts. Denied, sublimated, but there.

"Maia!" Scarlet notes of anger, black-violet betrayal.

"She's been sitting on our couch and probably infecting the children with god knows what for days—"

"This one is no longer infectious." The voice was quiet, but it _silenced_ the other female. Sky turned. Looked. Listened. And was troubled by what he saw.

_She does not know her name-song,_ he sang softly to Battle-brother and Sings-Mischief. Seheve Liakos did not glow, but she was far more _there_ than her brother or his mate. She was not one of the gray people, with little flickers of personality. She was _strong_, and yet, weak, at the same time. She _absorbed_ light. A soft, black cloud, like a thunderstorm building on the horizon. Flickers of lightning inside, as if that terrible storm was about to break, and when it broke, it would shatter the entire cloud. It might rain itself out, or it might spawn tornadoes and destruction in its wake. _Right now, she is Sings-Despair, Sings-Doubt_, Sky told the other two. _She might become more. But what, I do not know._

Battle-Brother formed the words in his mind; he never projected, but knew that Sky could read his concerns: _Is she a threat to Shepard?_ _To Ruin?_

Sky brushed that alien mind with his song. Sang notes of memory. _She wishes to be obedient to her Master, but doubt-song gnaws at her. She is learning that the world is wider and has more songs than just the one she has been taught to sing, and that knowledge creates fear-song in her. She doubted that his tasks were possible, or even right. Sings __relief__ now?_ Sky paused in what he was singing to Sings-Mischief and Battle-brother, for Seheve had stepped forward, and was offering her wrists.

"This one said that this one would not run," she said, quietly.

"For the sake of the gods," Oeric told her, impatiently. "Enough with the 'this one' business. Seheve, you're my sister, you're a _person_. You have a body and a soul. You're _more_ than just that hanar's fucking tool!"

She lowered her large eyes. "That is all that this one has been for a very long time, Oeric." Her voice was dispassionate. She looked back to the Spectres. "This one does not believe that B-Sec is any better prepared now to guard this one, but this one promises not to take advantage of lapses in security to escape." Sincerity bloomed like an ashen rose within her. _She believes she could escape from B-Sec's cells even if security was high._

_I doubt that._ Sings-Mischief's silent voice was even more alien than Battle-Brother's. A thing of earth and ice combined, and yet, cheerful, for the most part. Usually wickedly amused by the world. _Personally, I'd throw her in the cells naked and see how well she gets out that way._

_So, you think no threat?_

_I do not know. Her song is divided against itself, yearning for truth but fearing it. Shall I show her truth-song, as far as I know it? My truth is not her truth._

_Take her to the cells for now. If Shepard okays it, we'll take her to Mindoir. Test her there. And then we can __all__ show her all our truths._ Battle-brother's mental tone was dark and flickered slightly red. _We all have our own._

_But we all share the same song,_ Sky answered.


	96. Chapter 96: Recruitment

**Chapter 96: Recruitment**

**Author's note:** _I had chickened out slightly on the details in the Eli/Lin/Serana deal last chapter, and as a result, had at least two readers PM me that they were actually unclear as to what precisely had gone on. I have now edited the details back in. It makes a lot more sense now, I promise. ;-) Still not safe for work, though. :-P_

**Dara and Siara, Bastion, May 8-15, 2196**

Since reporting to Med Bay C on May eighth, Dara's life, and Siara's, had become even more hellish than before. Where before, Dara had only had to fight for her own life, and the lives of her relatively healthy friends and family, she was now one of _five_ qualified ER doctors currently on staff for the main med bay for the station. Dr. Abrams and Dr. Chakwas were both there; Dr. Chakwas had caught the flu and managed to survive, in spite of her age. Dara counted it close to a miracle that the woman hadn't caught pneumonia with it. Whenever B-Sec broke up a riot, Dara was one of the doctors on call to set bones, remove glass from wounds, suture and medigel cuts, treat concussions, and whatever else was needed. The officers all looked _worn_. There were periodic mishaps as well. At one point, a tired asari officer accidentally backed a truck over a turian officer while they were on body retrieval patrol. Dara thanked her stars it hadn't been Eli or Lin, and got to work. Four broken ribs, a broken leg, a cracked knee. . . _and me without official surgery certification, though god knows I've assisted on enough of these. Let's hope the medical board doesn't yank my license after all's said and done,_ she thought, and did her best to piece the bones back together, inserted a few titanium rods and screws and a carbon nanofiber mesh, and used a bone regenerator where she could.

This was at least the work that showed _results_. She hated being _grateful_ for the emergency calls, but they beat the rest of her work right now, which was a living hell. Every hour was another re-evaluation of the _cremare_ and pneumonia wards, as bodies were moved out by geth orderlies. They'd wound up begging the geth for a handful of platforms to do this vital duty, and relieve the shell-shocked organic interns and hospital workers of a task that they'd all performed _much_ too often at this point. Dara took her turn on her floor, and blinked, realizing Siara was, as often happened, the person handing her a datapad filled with charts. "Thank you," Dara said, and sat down tiredly on the edge of a desk, reading through patient notes from the nurses and the last doctor on shift. She actually couldn't remember the last time she'd slept. She quickly re-organized the list of patients by their vitals into three categories. Stable, at-risk, and, in the cruel but apt acronym that doctors did not usually like to admit to patients, CTD. Circling the drain. Under ordinary circumstances, they'd put heroic effort into saving people like that. At the moment, resources were almost nil. Earth, Illium, Palaven, Macedyn, Rocam, Terra Nova, and Luisa had sent massive shipments of antibiotics and anti-virals, and seven volus trading consortiums had donated medical supplies and medicines as well.

But with twenty-two _thousand_ people dying a day, Dara and the other doctors couldn't afford to do more than provide palliative care for the dying. Her hands shook as she read each of the CTD charts carefully, looking for some reason to do more. More steroids to open the lungs. More or different medications, anti-virals. Unfortunately, in many cases, the dying were _still_ the most at-risk people to begin with. Elderly. Children. People with pre-existing conditions—emphysema, COPD, and asthma in humans. Asthma, _latus funiculus_ (the turian equivalent of cystic fibrosis), for turians. Equivalent conditions in asari and drell, especially Kepral's syndrome. Dara swallowed, and reorganized the CTD list. Children first and asthma patients first. Elderly, emphysema, COPD last. It felt like sitting in judgment, but that was exactly what she had to do. The same rules as for organ donation. People who had followed the rules, hadn't smoked or used drugs and avoided alcohol during their enrollment on an organ donation list, got the heart, got the kidney, got the liver. The children and the asthmatics represented the best chance of survival, and, in a sense, deserved it. The Kepral's, CF, and LF patients would probably not make it, regardless of treatment, but were in the mid-range. The emphysema, COPD, lung cancer patients. . . bottom of the list. She made quick adjustments to a few medications that were needed, and handed the list back to Siara, swallowing. "Okay. Let's go see everyone." Dara put a smile on her face that she did not feel, and started her rounds.

She didn't have any _young_ kids, thankfully. Pediatrics was taking the hit there. She had kids from ten years up, however, and that was heart-breaking enough, because they were old enough to understand what was going on, and be scared. And it hadn't been long since she'd been this age herself. Dara listened to lungs, had Siara recheck blood pressure, and spent about two minutes with each patient. Mostly providing comfort, the assurance that a doctor _had_ been around. The nurses were taking the brunt of the fever reduction care, administering sponge baths and cool packs and everything else. On their fourth patient, Dara's thermal probe registered a fever spike in the twelve-year-old turian. 115º F. And just as they'd discovered that fact, the young body began to convulse and shake, back arching, eyes rolling back in the sockets. "Febrile convulsion," Dara said, sharply, and moved to turn the boy to his side, so that if he vomited, nothing would go back down into his lungs and choke him to death. She glanced down at her omnitool, verifying the time, and told Siara, quickly, "Cool, damp cloths. Neck and femoral arteries, if we can. Let's get him cooled down."

Siara moved to obey. She'd been working, on and off, with Dara for eight days now. One thing she'd learned was that Dara and Malla had very similar expectations in a sick room. When they said something, they expected to be _obeyed._ Now. Siara actually didn't have a problem with this; where once she might have chafed at the peremptory tone, she now understood that Dara was, simply, the doctor in the room. Responsibility for every life here hung on _her_ shoulders. The nurses provided the bulk of the care, but theirs wasn't the ultimate responsibility.

So she got the cool cloths out of a clean, sterile basin in a cryo-unit nearby, and put them in place. Dara took one from her and, still holding the boy on his side as his limbs convulsed again, ran the cloth over his forehead, murmuring something to him in turian that Siara couldn't understand. The boy probably couldn't _hear_ the words, and probably wouldn't even remember them, but the tone was surprisingly soothing. A marked departure from how Dara tended to treat adult turian patients. Or adult human ones, for that matter. Siara had had to intervene and deal with the asari patients for Dara. Dara did not speak high-tongue, and was. . . less than diplomatic. Just yesterday, a matron had complained, "Resident, I'm being given insufficient pain medication. You need to prescribe more."

Dara had stared at her for a moment, and commented, tartly, "You're at the maximum safe dosage already. Perhaps I should re-allocate some of your daughter's medications to you? Is that what you're suggesting?" she asked, pointing at the bed next to the matron.

Siara had cleared her throat and moved up to intercede. The human doctor was _tired_, and a complaint about pain medication from someone who was relatively healthy had to be very low on her priority list, compared to all the people dying around her. Siara had said, in high-tongue, _"Forgive the doctor. She has had both the flu and pneumonia, and has ever had a short temper, now made more so."_

The matron, who'd started bristling, had calmed herself. _"Suggesting that I take the medications from my daughter was uncalled for,"_ she said, sharply.

"_Perhaps. But every dose we give to you, __does__ take it away from someone else. Why not your daughter, as opposed to someone else's?"_ The words had been almost blunt in high-tongue, but Siara had kept her tone mostly gentle, and held back on the addendum she would have made, had the patient been krogan: _So act like you have a quad and deal with it._

Dara had looked between them, clearly not enjoying the byplay in a language she didn't speak, and scribbled a few notes on the chart. "Your discomfort at this point _should_ be passing," she said, after calming down. "Asari deal with pneumonia a little differently than humans do. We build up fluid in the lungs, and Lasix usually takes care of it. You, on the other hand, tend to experience a lot more discomfort as the alveoli come under pressure from the liquids. I'll increase your Lasix dosage to try to get the fluids to drain. If you're still in discomfort in two hours, we'll do a scan and can place a tube to drain your lungs manually. In the meantime, hang in there, okay?"

The patient had grimaced at the idea of the chest tube, and had calmed down. As they walked away, Dara sighed. "Thanks, Siara. You gave me a minute to calm down there. Appreciate it."

"What set you off?" Siara asked, turning to look at the human. "You're usually so controlled with patients." Dara was, too. Usually almost preternaturally calm, in fact.

Dara stopped at the nursing station and set up a single cup of coffee from the fast-brewing station. "Not sure, really," she admitted. "Probably the fact that I've had four humans this morning so far all_ drowning_ in their own fluids. I've threaded my way between enough ribs so far today to qualify as an assassin, and they were all _grateful_ just to be breathing. Not to mention the turians who are clutching their heads and necks, damned near blind with pain, who tell me, 'no, no, I don't need more _papaverus_. Save it for someone who's _really_ bad off.' Her? She started off by calling me out on my age. Didn't even give me the respect of calling me a doctor. . . which even a resident is, and I'm _not_ a resident anymore." She pulled the cup of coffee away from the machine and, wincing at the heat, took a sip.

"Ageless asari superiority complex?" Siara offered, with a half-smile.

Dara looked at her, startled. "I never would've thought to hear you say that."

"Two years on Tuchanka taught me more about my people, and about my own assumptions, than the past thirty years before that," Siara admitted, with a bit of a shrug. "My second-mother had taught me to think that everyone was jealous of us. Longevity. Elevated morality and philosophy. Ageless beauty. You know. The usual things."

Dara squinted at her. "A lifespan of a millennia _would_ be nice."

"Yes, but what do we and the krogan _do_ with a thousand years and more of life?" Siara asked, glumly. "They sit in rubble-strewn camps and complain about the past, and we sit in crystal cities and write poems about the good old days. I'm too _mahai_, too hasty, to be a good asari. But I can pretend to be, now and again. Though in general, I much prefer being a krogan."

Dara tipped her head to the side, and started to smile. Not to laugh—Siara hadn't seen Dara laugh in the hospital, even once, since they'd arrived—but at least to smile. "I don't think anyone would ever mistake you for one," she said. "You're a little too short."

That being the _last_ thing anyone would call attention to in the list of what made Siara not _look_ like a krogan, of course. Siara snorted a little. "And for the rest of the list? I realized on Tuchanka that our elevated morality and philosophies were _no different_ than anyone else's. And just as easily put aside in the name of expediency. If we were really so moral, why had we left the krogan to rot for a thousand years? Why hadn't we educated them? Taught them, changed their perspective. . . instead of waiting for the genophage to kill them slowly, rather than wiping them out all at once?" She shrugged. "I can't look at Makur and think any of the things I used to."

"I notice 'ageless beauty' didn't get addressed," Dara noted, dryly.

"Yes." Siara sighed. "We're taught that we're the face of the goddess made manifest. No different than your human religions that state that you were made in the image of your god. Seems a little vain, doesn't it? Especially when you consider that each species has its own standards of beauty. And each of them might find some _part_ of that standard in another species, but none of its is universal." Siara shrugged. "Makur likes strength. Took him three years to see strength in my mother. Which is far ahead of me. It took me over thirty." She cocked a glance at Dara, who was reflectively sipping her coffee. "_You_ respect strength, too."

"I've spent five years living among turians. Of course I do."

"How many asari do you consider to be strong?"

Dara smiled, very faintly. "Not that one back there in that room. Ylara. Your mom's smart, but Rel's dad was a better project advisor. Nisha's supposed to be ungodly powerful, but I've never actually met her. Um. . . Liara T'soni has a reputation." Dara glanced away. _Human expression. Either a lie, or she's avoiding saying something. Interesting. She's __met__ Liara T'soni, then? No one's seen her in almost a decade._ "And there's you."

Siara blinked. "That almost sounded like a compliment."

"It almost was." Dara shrugged. "You've always been _smart_, Siara. You've added to it. You don't come off like a spoiled brat anymore, which is what I took you for at first."

Siara thought about it. "I probably was."

Dara snorted. "I didn't like you. I didn't like how you treated Kella like a possession, or Eli like a dog." That _stung._ But in fairness, she hadn't treated either of them well. "But you've changed. You treat Makur like a person. You're working your ass off here in med bay and you don't technically _have_ to do it. So, yeah. . . I respect your strength." She emptied her cup and put it in the sanitizing unit. "You ready to get back in there?"

"Not really, but onwards, anyway."

Siara had seen Dara in combat before, briefly, at a batarian enclave some three years before. She'd seen the deadly focus, and the respect for life entwined. She learned new respect over those eight horribly long days. And she learned it again with each and every patient. At the moment, the turian boy's spasms were easing. "Shhhh," Dara told him, lightly stroking along his fringe. Simple words in turian, a quiet stream of them. Constant reassurance as the doctor looked at her omnitool. "Convulsion lasted a full minute, Siara. Note it, please." The convulsion had stopped, and the boy was panting now. "Looks a little like Quintus, Rel's little brother, doesn't he?" Dara said, quietly. "Pull up his chart. He needs more antipyretics if we can get them in him. Hmm. He's already on _salix. . . _ Let's get him on _avens_, too. Every four hours, alternating with the _salix_. And a cool bath, too." The nurses on the ward were overworked, but Dara put a priority on the boy's chart.

And Siara got a real look at Dara's strength the next day, when the boy convulsed again. His heart stopped, and Dara started CPR and worked on him for twenty minutes, trying to keep the blood moving and reinvigorate the heart. Siara put a hand on Dara's elbow near the end. "No!" Dara snapped at her, but thirty seconds later, stopped. Took a deep breath. And said, quietly, "Call it." Siara watched her swallow, hard, and take some information off the boy's chart for her omnitool. Walk away, towards a staff room, where, checking in on her five minutes later, Siara found Dara pacing. Anger as a substitute for energy, as a substitute for grief. "God damnit, god damnit, god _damn_ it," Dara was muttering. "We did everything _right_. No _reason_ for it. What did I miss?"

"Doctor?" Siara said, quietly. Wanting to recall Dara to reality. "Dr. Velnaran, there are other patients waiting—"

"Yeah. I know." Dara took a piece of paper towel and dried the tears, carefully avoiding yellow paint with the ease of long practice. "Thanks, Siara." Then she'd washed her hands, and put on her smile behind her blue HEPA mask, and Siara wouldn't have known anything had happened, if not for the telltale redness to those dark human eyes.

No _break_ from it for the first four days. They'd found bunks wherever they could in the staff rooms for an hour here, an hour there. Too little sleep meant mistakes. Mistakes meant lives lost.

Rel had tossed her little messages on her omnitool periodically, and she tried to respond to them before she fell asleep. _Working like an intern in a hospital on Earth, __amatus__,_ she'd managed. _Only worse. What do they have you doing?_

_Body collection_, had been the succinct response.

_Sorry, beloved. _

_Can you escape tonight?_

_No, sorry. On-call for ER. There's so damned few doctors left._

On the third night, Dara had hazily, before sleep overtook her, asked Siara, "You going back to Omega after this?"

"Probably. Would rather go back to Tuchanka and keep doing what I _started_ doing. Teaching the young ones. Math, reading, science. It was starting to work, too, I think. Then we needed to go protect Harak and Patriarch. And Pelagia." There was amusement in Siara's voice. "I've wound up fighting in the krannt of Ulluthyr Harak _and_ Omega Pelagia now. I've fought for a krogan and an _AI._"

Dara, who was in the top bunk, leaned down to look at Siara, who'd opened her eyes and was smiling faintly around her own mask. "Not quite what you'd expected to be doing?"

"Not even remotely. I told Eli once that I wanted to do something _new._ Something no asari ever had before." Siara chuckled tiredly. "And I am. Oh, by Vaul, I am."

"You really want to have kids with Makur?"

"Yeah. He more or less _has_ to help perpetuate krogan genes with any viable female who asks him to. I'm fine with that. But I don't see why, if you and Rel can have hybrid kids, that we couldn't, too."

Dara's mind, tired of disease and death, brought up the comfortable, familiar patterns of the Solus hybridization template. "Well, the first thing's first," she said. "Relative size of offspring would have to be scaled down to suit an asari mother, unless you plan to ask a krogan female to stand as a surrogate."

"Krogan would take any child born so small to be weak."

"Your body would _not_ allow you to carry a krogan-sized fetus to term. Let's face it, you've only got so much real estate in there."

Siara's shoulders started to shake. "Did you just say _real estate?_"

"Yes. We're not talking vast, arable tracts of land here. Your uterus will stretch, but not _that_ much. We can account for some of the lost growth time by trying to work in an accelerated growth spurt after gestation. What helps with that is, krogan gestation is twelve months, not the asari twenty-four." Dara nodded to herself. "Would you want krogan skeletal characteristics?"

"Yes. Otherwise, they'd pretty much look asari, wouldn't they?"

Dara sighed. "Okay, so, we've again got the hemecyanic versus the hemoglobin-based blood issue, which is what I had to work around with my quarian surrogacy paper. Turians are hemecyanic, and quarians are. . . odd. Their blood is almost _purple_, and that's because they have a really bizarre mix of cells. They have iron-based blood cells, but their immune cells are, well, first of all, almost non-existent, and second, aren't white, nor green, like a turian's. They're blue, as are, believe or not, their platelets. Of course, since turians have live offspring, but are technically _oviviparious_, I got around it okay."

Siara, just as in the old days on Mindoir, kept up with her just fine. "Yes, they have an eggsac around their young in the womb. A placental mass outside of it, on the uterine wall, umbilical cord that connects to the sac, and fills it with nutrients and dissolved oxygen, but there's no actual blood exchanged between mother and child, unlike mammals. Unlike humans." She leaned her head back. "So, because the mother's body automatically creates that barrier around any fetus she's carrying, assuming her body doesn't reject it as foreign—"

"Which is why I'd have them on anti-rejection medications, like cyanolimus, yes," Dara said, nodding, "The infant would just generate its own blood cells, and wouldn't have any fluid contact with the mother. Which means that, _in theory_, a turian mother _could_ carry a hemoglobin-based child. But Dr. Solus wanted to be _sure_ there would be no rejection issues, so he—and Soln Rem, too—both call for hybrid children to have their mother's blood type. That's. . . one of the very loud arguments I've been having with the xeno-obstetrics community for years now." Dara smiled faintly. "I don't think it's necessary, and I think it limits human-turian hybrids, forces them, if they want to intermarry among themselves, to resort to the hybridization technology again in twenty or thirty years—"

"And they wouldn't, anyway?"

"No. According to Dr. Solus, blue-bloods can freely breed with other blue-blood hybrids or turians, and red-bloods can freely breed with other red-bloods and humans. My argument is that there shouldn't _be_ any blue-bloods. That a turian mother could just as easily carry a red-blood as a blue-blood, with no danger to herself, and with a better long-term result. The arguments have been fierce. Which is a compliment, from the turians." Dara rubbed her eyes. "At the moment, I'm only aware of _one_ hemecyanic hybrid out there. Estevan, son of Charis and Eduardo." Dara's mind was reeling with exhaustion. "So, when he grows up, he could probably freely breed with a turian female, or another hemecyanic hybrid. Say, Eli and Serana's kids, if and when they get around to having any." She was not _about_ to get into the pitfalls of _that_ situation. "But if he wanted to marry one of _my_ kids, they'd need to go through the whole damn process again." She sighed. "I guess the theory is, at least some of the hybrids will be able to interbreed with each of the parent populations, as opposed to _all_ of them needing intervention to breed with turians." Dara yawned, hugely. Remembering her quarian/turian surrogacy work made her wonder just how difficult a human/quarian hybrid would be. It _had_ to be easier than krogan/asari, right?

"So _odd_ seeing Eli with Serana." Siara's mind was obviously wandering, too

"She's been stuck on him for years." Dara dismissed it. "What were we talking about?"

"Me and Makur."

"Oh, yeah. Right. Sorry." She paused. "You're hemecyanic, like a turian, and Makur's hemoglobin-based. And asari _don't_ have an eggsac in the womb." Dara paused. "So _your_ offspring pretty much _has_ to be hemecyanic, unless we can coax the body into accepting oxygen from the wrong chemical bonds in utero, and give the baby a transfusion of krogan blood at birth. While flushing out the mother's blood. No. Too risky. Hemecyanic is the way to go. That would mean they'd primarily get your metabolism."

"If they got my metabolism, they wouldn't get regeneration though, would they?" Siara's tone was anxious.

"Probably not."

"Another reason for the clan to consider them weak," Siara muttered, sounding worried.

"I've got time to work on this, right? You're not expecting me to do this in the next two months, like Dr. Solus could have?" Dara's voice was a little plaintive.

"You _ever_ going to stop measuring yourself against an impossible standard, Dara?"

_Nope._ "If you don't aim high, why bother?" Dara finally muttered, and went to sleep.

On the fourth day, Rel had shown up at the hospital and firmly told her it was time to come back to Eli and Serana's apartment. That had been. . . .the twelfth. Seeing the look of glazed exhaustion and spirit-sickness in his eyes, she hadn't argued. She hadn't even known it was daytime when he came to fetch her, until she'd looked up and realized that the 'sky' above was lit. Makur and the big damned cat had come to fetch Siara, too, and they'd all gone back to the apartment. She and Rel had sacked out in Lin's room for a few hours, more or less huddling into each other, and she had awoken to see Linianus looking down at them with faint amusement. "Bad day?" he'd asked.

"Which one?" Dara managed, disentangling herself from Rel's sleeping arms to sit up. "They've all been pretty shitty." She glanced down. "Sorry for stealing your nest again."

"Don't worry about it, but I may ask you two to make some room in a while." He'd yawned. "Corpse patrol again."

"Yeah. For god's sake, Lin, _don't_ let the driver back over you."

"I _heard_ about that. How's Marcellan doing?"

"He'll be walking with a limp. His leg looked a hell of a lot worse than yours did, once upon a time." Dara pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes as Lin crouched down next to them. "I put enough titanium in his leg to qualify him as part of a ship's hull. He'll set off metal detectors for the rest of his life."

"But he'll _walk_, _amil'frada_," Lin told her, quietly, putting a hand on her wrist lightly. _Sister of my brother._ They'd almost _all_ taken to using these little endearments among themselves. Reminding themselves that they were, after a fashion, all kin. All connected.

Dara smiled half-heartedly. "He'll _limp, fra'fradu_."

"_I_ don't, anymore," he reminded her, and patted her shoulder. "Go back to sleep. I'm just changing out of armor."

And so she'd curled back up in Rel's arms, and let sleep take her again. And wished she hadn't. An endless parade of hospital beds, of patients lined up in chairs, on gurneys, all reaching for her, begging for her help. Eyes glazing over. Going limp. Pools of blood spreading out, irrationally, under every gurney. Red and blue, everywhere. All over her feet, all over her hands. Wading into it, up to her knees now, up to her hips, through the endless corridors of the hospital. . .

Rel woke her from that one. _"Amatra. Amatra!_ Dara, wake up!" Even in the dimness of the room, his eyes were concerned. "I've never heard you talk in your sleep before," he told her. "Bad dream?"

"Yeah." Her throat was tight. "Brain's putting the last couple of days on spin cycle. I now have another thing to envy turians for: not just the sight, not just the smell, but the forty percent less REM sleep, too." She reached up and stroked his crest gently, preening him. "Thank you for waking me up. I didn't want to see how that one ended."

He nodded. "I thought as much. You just kept saying you were sorry. Over and over again."

Dara exhaled. "Yeah. I'm going to be saying that for a while." She tilted her head back, and Rel leaned in, sighing a little in relief at the invitation.

"_So much anger_," he murmured, quietly. _"Fear-anger, protective-anger, justice-anger. And I can't __do__ anything with any of it. Can't fight anything. Can't kill anything. Can't run. Can't hunt. Just. . . hauling bodies away._" Once he finally started speaking, the words were a hissing torrent, like tiny pebbles sliding down a mountain, presage of the avalanche to come.

"_I know,"_ she told him, wrapping her arms around him tightly. Letting him know with touch and scent and pressure that _she_ was here, at least. _"I know."_

Rel turned his head and bit her shoulder, growling very softly. She could at least give him a partial outlet for the rage. Flip the switch from adrenaline to oxytocin. "Lin's not going to thank us for the scent on his sheets," she whispered.

"We'll clean up for him," Rel told her softly. "No noises, _amatra._ They're all asleep for the moment, but . .. thin walls."

"I'll pretend someone's outside the door with a clock in their hands," she whispered, and he laughed quietly.

The next day, another load of salarian and hanar and volus and quarian doctors and nurses had come aboard the station, and the weary doctors who'd been on-call nonstop for the past eight to nineteen days, depending on when and how they, themselves, had been sick, applauded when the reinforcements arrived. It meant a little more rest. A chance that fewer mistakes would be made. But the patients still died. Dara had long since lost count. There were faces that remained with her. The twelve-year-old turian boy remained with her. The face of a human female, about her own age, with Asian features that reminded her of Kasumi. A cheerful, happy face, that shouldn't have been so ashen or so still. A drell male in his thirties, praying quietly to Amonkira to take his soul. He'd passed between syllables, fighting for air.

**Elijah, May 16, 2196**

Another day on body patrol, but at least the darkness seemed a _little_ lighter today. He and Lin found a grocery store that had re-opened on their way home, and grabbed the last loaves of bread and _panis_, packages of _cuderae_ jerky and cheddar cheese, fresh apples, powdered eggs (_oolorae_ and hen), Canadian bacon and strips of smoked _oolorae_. They brought this bounty home, tossed it in the cryo-unit for later, and Eli realized that Serana was late. _Crap. Either she got stuck somewhere with a __riot__ going on, is working late at the embassy, or . . . she had all day to think about last night and is chickening out on coming home. Shit._ He and Lin had had _body patrol_ all day. Not a situation in which he really wanted to picture last night. He didn't want to contaminate the good with the bad, after all.

Linianus was already looking at the clock himself. Serana had beaten them home every night this week, largely since the embassy was closer than B-Sec headquarters. He glanced over, caught Eli's slight frown, and shook his head. "She's fine. Probably stayed late to write one more letter."

They had enough time to get changed out of armor, and then Serana bustled in the door about twenty minutes later, much to Eli's relief, with a merry smile in place, and her own armload of bags. "You'll never believe what's open. Bielshowski's." She grinned widely at them, and both males grinned, coming over to help relieve her of the goodies she'd bought. Human and turian cream cheese varieties. Human and turian bagels. Beef and _apaterae_ pastrami. Apple and cheese danishes. Eli caught her hand and kissed the side of her neck. Lin darted him a quick glance, and then leaned down and lightly nipped the other side, smiling a little at Serana's startled reaction. "If Rel and Dara get here soon, we might actually have _food_ for them tonight," Eli said, giving Serana a moment to recover. He was surprised. He honestly didn't _mind_ Lin's little gesture. No territoriality at all. In fact. . . Eli grinned at Lin, leaned down, and nibbled on Serana's neck a bit more. Behind her back, he made a little beckoning gesture, and Lin chuckled, and leaned in to bite her again.

"You two are _bad_," she told them after a moment, folding her arms across her chest and tapping a foot in a very human gesture of mock-exasperation.

"I've told you before, _asperitalla,_ you're so _much_ fun to tease," Eli told her, and started putting things away in the cryo-unit for her.

Dara and Rel and everyone else who _might_ stumble into the apartment were _late_, however, and by 20:30, the three of them had already eaten and collapsed on the couch, trying to relax. They had, carefully, with glances at each other for permission, more or less found themselves in the same positions as the night before; Eli with Serana in his arms, her legs partially kicked in, to keep her spurs from catching on the leather of the seat cushions, Lin sprawled across the rest of the couch, his head in her lap. The vid screen was turned off. Just relaxing. A few quiet words spoken. . . on _any_ topic that didn't revolve around the current situation. Mindoir seemed so very far away right now.

Lin muttered, "My second-brother's about to report to boot camp. Got a message from the family worrying that the plague will keep him from going." He snorted. "I told them I thought Arinus could damned well go to a different session, and I'd rather he be _alive_ than a citizen if it comes right down to it." He had two brothers and a sister. Arinus, the second-brother, was Serana's age, but had always acted a little younger.

Serana commented, lazily, "A little waiting won't do him any harm. Might make him a little more focused. He never seemed to know what he wanted to do." She yawned. "Mostly interested in handball and girls."

"There is _nothing_," Lin said, with a grin, "wrong with being interested in handball."

"Or girls," Eli added.

"Yes, but you two had _other_ interests."

"I dunno, I remember an awful lot of handball."

"And girls." Lin paused. "You, more than me."

"And sparring. And gladiatorial fighting. And rock climbing. And _rlatae_ and horseback riding. And very, very long conversations about law. And for _you, amatus,_ learning _tal'mae_." Serana poked Eli in the ribs with a knuckle.

"Gah, don't remind me. Those translation sessions were painful," Eli commented, letting the fingers of his left hand stroke along Serana's fringe. "Oh, got a letter from Tel the other day."

"Really? Haven't heard from him in three years. How the hell is he doing?"

"Just finished his four years. _Dr. Karpavian_ now, if you please. Said he was getting out and going home to do his surgical rotation at home on Mindoir. I told him Dara's probably going to wring his neck for getting his done before her, at the rate she's going."

Lin chuckled, and the sound ran through all of them on the couch.

When the main hatch creaked and began to slide open, Lin started to sit up and move away. Eli reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. As far as _anyone_ walking in that door was concerned, they were all family here, damnit.

Rel and Dara didn't even _blink_ as they walked in, tired and dispirited-looking. Asking if it had been a bad day seemed . . . pretty superfluous, unfortunately. "Sit down," Eli invited. "We've got dinner stuff in the kitchen. . . "

Dara, in a fresh set of scrubs, walked over and actually sat down on the floor in front of the couch, leaning her back against it for a moment. "I may never get up again," she said. She was right about under where Eli was sitting.

Rel shook his head. "Give me a minute to get out of all this _s'kak_," he said, and walked down the hall to the bathroom to start hauling off his armor. A moment later, he came back out in shorts and a loose shirt, and folded down onto the floor beside Dara, more or less under Serana's position on the couch.

They all sat there in silence for a long moment. "You got pulled off body patrol, Rel?" Lin asked.

"Yeah. Put me in with a riot suppression squad instead." Rel turned slightly. "There was a fire, believe it or not, down in the Yellow sector today."

Eli jerked a little. "Yellow's environmental controls and the hydroponics gardens—"

"Yeah. Riot started around a grocery store that had run out of canned goods right at the dividing line between Yellow and Green, and spread into Yellow. Idiots actually started the fire themselves. Right next to a gas storage building."

"How many hurt?"

"Forty-five," Dara answered that one, sounding so tired, Eli felt it in his own bones. "Burns, contusions, broken bones."

Rel added, "Mostly the rioters who'd gotten themselves pinned in between the storage facility and B-Sec and the geth."

"Damnit, we should've been there," Lin muttered.

Rel tipped his head back and bared his teeth in a very faint grin. "Let me see how _your_ half lives. This not getting to shoot at them when they're throwing Molotov cocktails at you _s'kak. . . _ is for the birds, _fra'fradu_."

Lin snorted at that.

Silence again, another minute's worth. "At least the bumps and the bruises and the burns and the broken bones are things I can _fix_," Dara said, her voice heavy. "Most of the time, I feel like I'd be doing more good if I waved some feathers at my patients and chanted over a damn fire."

"_Talas'kak_, _amatra_," Rel told her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, and Serana said at the same moment, "That's not true."

Eli leaned down slightly, and wrapped his free right arm around Dara, too, from behind, hand coming up to rest on Rel's elbow. "You know better than that, _amil'ama_. More people would be dying without you and the other doctors."

Serana leaned forward now, too, her left hand staying on Lin's fringe, but her right sliding down to her brother's arm, Eli's hand, Dara's shoulder. A knot of flesh. "You saved _our_ lives, Dara," Serana said, softly. "That's something _I'm_ thankful for."

"Abrams and Siara saved us. Credit where it's due, Serana." Dara had her face buried in her hands now, and Eli tightened his arm around her as he felt her shoulders start to shake. Could feel Rel doing the same. "I just don't know how much more of this I can _take._ Sure, three out of four asari walk out of there after the flu. Eight out of ten walk out after pneumonia. Dr. Chakwas had a relapse today. Dr. Abrams said _fuck it_, and dragged her back to the _Dunkirk_ for treatment."

At that, Lin leaned forward. One more hand snaking through to touch. "And the bodies. . . "

"We know," Eli, Lin, and Rel muttered, as one.

"And the letters," Serana said, just as tiredly. "I know you and the other doctors are trying to write the families, Dara, but. . . "

"I know. We're behind. There's no damn time when half a room full of patients all convulses at once."

Silence again. Everyone touching, offering comfort, receiving comfort. The big, communal Mindoir family. Love and friendship expressed solely through touch. A lifeline, of sorts. _If one of us goes, we all go._

Eli finally said, quietly, "We're _all_ feeling useless. But I _think_ we're doing something." He sighed. "Even if it's just making sure that the living get their letters. That no one else has to see the bodies. That the dying go in peace."

"_Amatra. . . _" Rel offered, stroking a piece of Dara's hair out of her face, "aren't there babies still being born down in pediatrics?"

"Yeah," Dara said, her voice thick with tears, but she managed a little laugh. "And they get put straight into bubbles. The hell of it is, I know they've had to do a couple of emergency C-sections on mothers who. . . weren't going to make it through the flu. God." Her voice had dropped again, and Eli tightened his grip on her.

And at _that_ moment, the hatch slid open again, and Siara, Makur, and the damned snow leopard walked in. Siara's eyes widened at the sight of them, all huddled in on themselves on the floor and couch, and she asked, sharply, "Who died?"

The incongruity of the question hit them all at once, and Eli's shoulders started to shake. Dara lifted her face, from her hands, yellow-stained by tears and running paint, and half-laughed, half-wailed, "Who _hasn't_?"

Siara shook her head and let the hatch slide shut behind her. "Not me, last I checked," Makur growled, stumping in. The leopard half rose on its haunches, sniffing urgently at a paper-wrapped parcel under the krogan's arm. "Down," he told the creature firmly. "You eat in the kitchen. I'm told," and he looked at Siara sidelong, "that _civilized_ people don't like blood all over their floors."

Eli and Lin both half sat up in mild-consternation, eying the package. "Relax," Makur told them, chuckling. "It's a couple of pounds of varren meat, not someone's _head_. Cat seems to like varren."

"Just checking," Lin said. "I think they'd raise the rent if it _were_ body parts."

"Lower it, you mean," Eli said, dryly. "This whole neighborhood's going to hell."

That sank them back into silence for a moment. Rel managed a nod in Makur's direction. "That cat of yours was great today. The rioters who saw him just sat down very quietly and stopped moving."

Makur chuckled. "Noticed that, yeah. Still working on getting him to listen to me a little better. Would be nice if he did what I told him to do, instead of doing whatever he wants to do." The krogan looked down at the leopard, and moved towards the kitchen.

Siara removed her breather, and shook her head at the rest of them. "You are a _sorry_ lot tonight, aren't you?"

Dara turned her head slightly, looking back at the rest of them. "We could all use a week's rest in a good pasture, yeah."

"Two weeks' shore leave on Illium," Rel muttered.

"We just did that, _amatus."_

"Yeah, and you know what? I'm kind of feeling _stressed_ again. . . " Rel leaned over and touched his forehead to Dara's.

Siara snickered a little. "If I dragged you all to Illium, I swear, I'd dose all of you with _aizala_ and make like a priestess of the Goddess and damned well _maieolo'lano'loa_ you all. You're obviously all in dire need of _something_ to restore your spirits." She paused. "Well, everyone except Makur. We wouldn't really want bloodrage in the room."

"Wouldn't be fun for me, either. Bloodrage in a room full of people I _don't_ actually want to kill? Hah." Makur noted, and there was a distinct mewling from the kitchen and then the sound of teeth chomping down on bone. Then he stumped back out, found the armchair, and sat down, beckoning to Siara, who came over willingly enough and sat in his lap.

"_Maieolo_-what?" Dara asked. "Seriously, is every word in asari some version of _share_?"

Eli had recognized it; even though Serana had taken the language, from the way she'd shifted to glance at him, he didn't think she knew it. "_Maieolo'lano'loa_," he said. "Encircling intimacy of minds. Usually, a priestess joins five or ten or twenty minds together in an _aizala_ ceremony to celebrate the transcendence of the universe." His arm tightened on Serana, and he added, in Dara's ear, but looking at Siara, "Trouble is, I _really_ doubt, given human reactions to _aizala_, that it would _stay_ _maieolo'lano'loa_ very long."

"You think it would turn into _maieolo'lano'loa'kareo?"_ Siara asked, grinning wickedly. Encircling intimacy of minds and bodies alike.

"About ten seconds in, yeah." Eli grinned back at her. "And then the neural shock would hit you, and you'd pass out, and we'd be left with three very obedient turians and two very horny humans, and it would get really complicated and embarrassing after that, so, yeah, no, I'll pass."

Lin buried his face in the couch and started to _laugh_. "Oh, but there'd be a _smile_ on her face," he managed between whoops of laughter. Eli's shoulders started to shake, and he didn't dare look in Lin's direction for fear of not being able to control his own laughter. Serana started to chuckle as well, helplessly.

Rel had started counting off on his fingers. "_Aizala_ doesn't _create_ desire in humans, right? It has to be a pre-existing thing?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Dara said. "It won't get you to switch teams, if that's what you're thinking. And if someone completely repulses you to begin with, it won't work. Why?"

Rel ran out of fingers on his hands, and picked up Dara's hands to keep counting. "I'm trying to quantify just _how_ embarrassing and uncomfortable it would get."

"_You_ wouldn't remember any of it, so not at all for _you_," Dara told him tartly.

"_You_ didn't remember much of our last shore leave, either," Rel reminded her pointedly. He had counted off nine fingers so far.

Lin managed to stop laughing long enough to say, "Oh, spirits, no, then. If I get to do something crazy, I definitely want to remember it. Good as well as bad."

Eli did his own mental count and held up all ten of his own fingers for Rel to see. . . and then folded three fingers back in. "Think you miscounted, _fradu._"

Rel shot him a look, muttered, "I wasn't counting the incestuous ones—"

"Neither was I. Ew. And I think we can safely say you'd both be instinctively repulsed." Eli thought about it. "Think that only adds four more, anyway."

"Spirits of air and darkness." Rel started counting over again.

Lin snickered. "It's okay, _fra'fradu._ You and Dara and I all got married young. Eli, not so much."

Serana turned her head and snuggled into Eli. "But he's _mine_ now."

Rel shook his head. "I'm still not seeing—"

Eli lifted his right hand, keeping his arm looped around Dara from behind, and pointed to Dara, then to Rel. "One." At himself and Dara. "Two." Lin and Dara. "Three." Lin and Serana. "Four." Himself and Serana. "Five. This is where it gets more complicated. You might want to get out a scorecard."

"If you have to write it down and do diagrams, it sounds more like _work_ than like fun," Makur commented dryly.

Eli just grinned and, as Dara started to shift towards him, caught her head with his right hand, which was the one he'd been using to point at each of them between her and Rel, "No, don't turn around, Dara. You probably don't want to see this." Dara, Rel, himself. "Six." Dara, Rel, Lin. "Seven." Dara, Lin, himself. "Eight." Serana, Lin, himself. "Nine."

"That's as far as I got. . . "

Dara, Serana. "Ten."

"You really think they—"

"Eli, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't—"

"Dunno. It's a possible, and you'd be _very_ obedient right about then, _asperitalla_." Dara, Serana, Lin; Dara, Serana, Eli. "That gets us to twelve. Then we move into the realm of the fours and fives, which gets us two more, basically, and . . . hey, I miscounted. That makes fourteen. Add four more for the incest options. And now that I've _thoroughly_ proven that I have the dirtiest mind in the room, and that Dara would be seeing more action than a recruit hotel after boot camp—"

Serana was laughing. Lin was laughing. Rel was laughing. Dara turned around, laughing, face bright pink, and told him, firmly, "_Bite_ me, Elijah Sidonis."

"I _love_ it when you talk dirty to me," Eli mock-growled. "But right in _front_ of Rel and Serana like this?" He pretended to mild shock.

Dara grabbed a pillow off the couch and started whacking Eli over the head with it. "Ow," he complained. "Oh, the horror. The horror."

Siara shook her head. "Got you all laughing, at least." She yawned a little. "You don't think _I'd_ be involved, though?"

Makur growled at her, quietly. Siara laughed down at him. "You could play, too."

Dara's shoulders shook. "Um, _no_."

Eli and Lin were already shaking their heads. "Neural shock," Lin said, firmly. "We, ah, saw a case of it on Macedyn, where the asari in question was with a turian male and a human male at the same time. . .and, ah, opened her mind at the wrong moment."

Eli coughed. "Yes. They were responsible and brought her to a med bay until she, ah, recovered." He paused. "No charges."

Between them, Serana was shaking with suppressed laughter. Dara was still facing them, and she flushed again. Red. _Somehow, I don't think she's buying this_, Eli thought, and just grinned at her.

Lin cleared his throat. Switched to turian. _"You told Serana?"_

"_Of course I did. Honesty is important."_

"_Oh, spirits."_ Lin started laughing harder now, and blue was all the way through his crest now. Rel was carefully not looking back at them, but his shoulders were shaking.

Siara arched a fine eyebrow. "Hmm. Even with _aizala_ to increase my biotic potential?"

Makur growled at her again, and she leaned into him, smiling down at him wickedly. "You'd only be playing with _me_, _marai'ha'sai."_

Eli shook his head. "Okay, then the math would, um. . . " He thought about it. "Double." He paused. "Suffice to say. . . very, very embarrassing. The more so because I _think_ with an asari involved, everyone would probably remember everything."

"Even the turians?" Lin asked. There was a grin in his voice.

"I'd give it my best shot," Siara told him, laughing. "Oh, and Eli?"

"Hmm?"

"Couldn't help but notice that _your_ numbers were off."

Every head turned. "Oh?" Eli said.

"Yes, you completely forgot all the male-male combinations."

Eli shook his head. "Didn't forget. But given that I'm straight—"

Rel added, "And I'm straight."

Lin looked at the ceiling, "And I'm straight, too."

"—not gonna happen," Eli assessed. "Nice try, though."

Serana stirred. "Wait a second. You said that Dara and _I_ might, so why wouldn't _you_—"

Eli paused, decided he was in so deep that there was no turning back now. "Because you and Dara is something I'd _pay_ to see. No one wants to see me and Rel."

Slightly strangled sounds from at least four throats around him. Lin gave in and simply started whooping with laughter again, so hard he had to sit up and hold his ribs, which were, like all of theirs, still bruised, even cracked, from the coughing during the flu.

"Yeah. . . " Dara said, shaking her head. "So, anyway. . . I think everyone here needs food now." She stood up, fooling _no one_ with her casual tone and pink cheeks. But no sign of the soul-sickness that had been wracking her earlier, except as a very faint shadow in her eyes.

Eli simply chuckled and put his arms behind his head. There was absolutely no chance in hell he was going to be standing up right now. And he rather thought Lin and Rel might be in the same boat. "Food's in the cryo-unit. Help yourselves."

"Ah, Dara?" Rel said, looking up. "Would you mind—"

Dara sighed. Siara, shoulders shaking, stood up, as well. "I suppose _you'll_ be wanting food, too?" the asari asked Makur.

He reached out and poked her in the shoulder. "And I suppose _you'll_ be expecting me to clean up what Cat left on the floor?"

"I'm sure _Snowflake_ tidied up after himself."

Dara, from the kitchen now, with her head tipped to the side. "Yeah, not so much."

Siara, around the corner and into the kitchen, "Well. . . I have actually seen worse." She paused. "Today, even." She pointed a stern finger at the leopard. "Bad kitty."

Snowflake licked his jaws with a long pink tongue, and said nothing in return, of course.

By 23:00, everyone had finally wound down. They were short on beds, the more so because Sam and Lantar drifted in the door, looking grim and tired at about 22:30. "I'll take the floor, Lantar's got the armchair. Just being someplace _quiet_ for a change will be a godsend."

Siara and Makur had the couch now, and Rel and Dara were, as usual, heading into Lin's room. Linianus stood for a moment, awkwardly, in the hall, until Serana more or less pushed him into their room. "Unless you're waiting for an invitation from Dara and Rel?" Eli asked, grinning.

"Don't start that again," Lin said, chuckling.

It had been a good break in the tension. A needed one, for all of them. Eli wrapped his arms around Serana in bed, and lightly bit the back of her neck. _"You need to buy her a __cinctus__, __fradu__,"_ Lin commented tiredly, lying back on the other side. _'They're fun to play with."_

"_I'm wearing his knife and his paint. That's enough for me,"_ Serana said, her voice completely content.

"_Would rather get you an anklet, __asperitalla__. When the stores open up again, anyway."_ Eli yawned. _"Lin could get you a __cinctus__, though. If you'd want to wear it."_

He could feel the other two go still. "_No one would have to know but us," _he added, closing his eyes. "_Up to you."_

Unfortunately, while his limbic system and conscious mind had had a good release in the past twenty-four hours, his subconscious wasn't quite done with its batch of laundry. _Walking through a maze of apartments. Tapping on doors. No answer at each. Everyone on the damn station dead. Opening the doors, bagging and tagging the bodies. Heaving them into the truck with the geth platforms' assistance. Door after door, body after body. Marking a white X on the outside of each door once the bodies had been retrieved. _

_Looking into the truck now. Seeing a small turian hand sticking out of the mass of human and asari bodies. Eli suddenly knew it was Serana's. She was trapped under the bodies. Suffocating. He had to get to her. He started dragging limp bodies out of the truck, trying to dig down far enough to get to her. Could see the hand moving slightly, fingers flexing in appeal. Then he just grabbed onto it for dear life and started to pull. "It's okay, I've got you, I've got you," he told her, and then someone was dragging him away—_

"Eli! _Fradu!_" His wrists were pinned, and Eli had _no_ idea where he was, so he fought.

"Eli, it's okay, it's all right—" Serana's voice now, and he relaxed a little, still confused, and heard a door open.

"We heard the shouting. Is everything okay?" Rel's voice now, from the doorway. His form and Dara's were dimly limned by the faint light from the kitchen. Just enough light for Eli to see that it was Lin pinning him down, and that Serana was (_thank you_) alive. Sitting up in bed, a hand to her throat.

Eli relaxed the rest of the way, and said, "Serana? You're okay?"

"You had her throat in your hands," Lin muttered, and Eli _winced_.

"I thought I was pulling her out by her hand, from under all the bodies," he admitted, sitting up. "Goddamn dreams. I'm _sorry_, _asperitalla_." He could have _hurt_ her, even killed her, if Lin hadn't been there, and guilt lashed through him.

"I'm fine," Serana told him, putting an arm around his shoulders. "Much more worried about you." Turians were much less apt to dream than humans, and rarely experienced nightmares. Although Eli would put money on current events leaving marks even on a turian's mental landscape.

Soft footsteps on the floor, and then the corner of the bed sagged a little. Bare warmth of a human hand sliding across his shoulders, and Eli put his head down on Dara's shoulder. "How long have the dreams been going on?" she asked quietly, putting a hand on his head. Preening him, just as she would a turian's fringe. The others were silent. They knew this was nothing they could help with; turians were not _wired_ this way. So they watched and listened. And let the primates do what they did best.

He didn't answer at first, though it would have been so _easy_ to in the dark. "Eli, I'm not a shrink. It's just me. I had Kasumi to talk to, back in the day, and that always helped, but I haven't been able to talk to her for ages now. And I'll tell you a secret. I get the worst goddamned dreams, too." Voice as soft as smoke.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I usually get to watch Kella die all over again." She sighed.

"Me too."

"So I start off almost every one of these dreams soaked in Rel's blood, and in Kella's blood—and you know what else? I _still_ get nauseous when I have to operate on someone with blue blood. To this day. Hell of a thing for a trauma surgeon, y'know? But at least my hands don't shake anymore."

His eyes stung. He remembered that day, so clearly. The blood already on Dara's face from Rel's arterial spray, the way her hands had shaken as she'd yanked the gauze from the first aid kit. The look on her face as he'd lifted Kella so she could see the stricken girl's back.

Eli didn't raise his head, but he exhaled a little. It was _easier_ to be a little vulnerable in the dark. The bed shifted again, probably Rel sitting down nearby. "Lately," Dara went on, quietly, "It's all the patients in the hospital. Reaching out for me. Begging me to help them. And then they all start to bleed out, like they've got Ebola, not the flu. And the blood's just everywhere. Pretty soon I'm wading in it." Eli's arm clamped tighter around her. "By the time I'm up to my hips, I'm on Palaven again, and it's the Trial again. Remember that river we had to cross to get to the fortress? The one with all the _dachae_ in it?"

"Yeah, we had to shoot a few of them off of people when they broached the water."

"Yeah, I'm there. Except the water's blood. Red, blue, doesn't matter by this point. And the _dachae_ are grabbing the bodies of patients out of the blood and swimming away with them. And they're _still_ begging me for help."

Serana's hand slipped on his back, reached over further. Found Dara. "So. . . " Dara said after a moment. "Going to tell me what _you_ see?"

"Kella," he admitted. "That one's an old one. Brennia." Lin moved slightly in the darkness. "Serial killer bodies and murder victim bodies and all the rest. That's been that way since Macedyn. It was better for a while. Since October, really." _Since Serana._

"And since the plague hit?"

"Bodies, every night. Kind of expected that. Just now, thought Serana was suffocating under them all. Was trying to dig her out. All I could find was her hand to try to pull her out."

"Well, that's an easy one," Dara told him lightly. "You don't want to lose her. You're just scared." She paused, and her tone went very, very quiet. "And the only reason you're scared is because I opened my _stupid_ mouth the other night. I'm so _sorry_, Eli—" Dara's voice was verging near tears again.

He shook his head against her shoulder and put a finger on her lips. "Do _not_ call yourself stupid. You're the smartest person I know." He sighed. _Yeah, okay, I am scared of losing her. To the plague, to combat, to biology, to anything and everything else._ "Got nothing to do with you." He sighed again. "Spend half my day wishing I were turian. Guess I can add wishing I were one at night, too. If only so I wouldn't _dream_."

"Yeah," Dara said quietly. "Me too."

"I like you _human_," Serana said, with some force.

"As do I," Rel said, just as firmly.

"Doesn't change the fact that life would be a hell of a lot simpler if only we weren't," Eli replied, very quietly.

"Sometimes," Dara admitted, softly, "I wonder if my life would have been simpler if I'd never left Earth."

"Or if we'd made different choices."

"Yeah."

He thought about it, but only for a moment. "Yeah, but if you'd stayed on Earth, Rel and I would be dead by now."

"Not true."

"Yeah, it is. Several times over. Cave. Batarians. Last week, when we were sick. And you'd probably be sick with the flu in a hospital in Texas, and Serana would be dead, and Lin would be, too." One more pat on her back. "Don't you _ever_ beat yourself up for telling me the truth, _sai'kaea._" _Fair one._ One step less than a more-than-fair. "Just because my life is more complicated than I ever _thought_ it could be doesn't mean I don't want honesty."

There was a brief pause. Dara nodded slowly. "You put on a _hell_ of an act, Elijah Sidonis. Pretending to be dumb, pretending not to feel it "

"It's a _really_ good act, though," he told her.

"Yeah, but keep in mind, you don't fool _any_ of us who care about you.. And we _all_ do. We're all right here with you. Just like you were all there for me earlier." To his surprise, she kissed his cheek. "Now, you're not to tell _anyone_ that I actually _do_ have a nicer bedside manner for people that I like. It'll _destroy_ my reputation as a hard-ass."

Serana laughed softly in the dark. "_That_ gets blown every time anyone puts a baby in your arms, Dara."

Eli gave Dara one more tight squeeze with his arm. She slowly stood. "You dream like that again, Eli, and you come _talk_ to me, you hear?"

He started to lie down again, and heard her and Rel walking towards the door. "And who do _you_ tell about the _dachae_, Dara?" he asked.

He could see her form against the door. "Well. . . I just told you, didn't I?"

_Me. Well, us, everyone in the room. But that means she hasn't been telling Rel. Oh, damn. Damn, damn, damn, Dara, that's not healthy. Not any more for you than it is for me. But Rel doesn't understand the human subconscious, any more than Serana or Lin would understand it. And she hasn't been able to talk to her dad or Kasumi lately. Shit. A week in a good pasture, my ass. She needs a month on Mindoir with absolutely nothing to do but ride a horse, read books, and play some games._

_We all need that._

Eli heard the door shut behind them, and he gently wrapped his arms around Serana again. "I'm sorry," he told her again, brushing his fingers against her throat. "Lin. . . _fradu. . . _thank you."

"You were calling for her in your sleep. Only reason I woke up. So much. . . panic." Lin sounded disturbed. "I'm glad not to dream like that, myself."

Serana sounded concerned. "You're not going to lose me, Eli. I waited _six years_ for you. You'd have to beat me away with a stick." Her words were loving, and they eased some of the knot in his chest. She paused, and then added, "You _really_ wish you were turian?"

Eli sighed. "There are days when it feels like it would solve everything, _marai'ha'sai."_ He paused. "Go back to sleep. If I start to dream again, Lin can shackle _me_ to the damn headboard or something."

In the morning, Lantar and Sam were the first people up. Smell of coffee and _apha_ already filling the small apartment before any of them even got out of bed. Eli stared at his alarm, confused, and swore, sitting up in one motion. "Oh eight-thirty?" he said. "What the _fuck_, we're _late_."

He was throwing on clothes when there was a polite tap at the door. Eli popped his head out, confused, and met Lantar's gaze at near-eyelevel. And caught more smells. Pancakes—one of his mother's _festuca_ and wheat mixes, if his nose was telling him right, and maple syrup and bacon. Lantar hadn't cooked breakfast for him in over four years. Hadn't beaten him out the door in at least as long. "Dad?"

"Yeah, you're all stood down for the time being. We told your superiors that pretty damn early this morning and Sam snuck in each of your rooms to turn off the alarms." Lantar's eyes moved incrementally to the side, and Eli looked straight past him, as if Lantar were a drill centurion. He _really_ didn't want the conversation he could almost hear loading into place behind Lantar's eyes. His father surprised him, however. "We've got some news for most of you, anyway. But it can wait till after you've all eaten."

They all made their way back out into the living area, frowsy with sleep and exhaustion. Most of them wearing little more than shirts and shorts. Dara's hair was rumpled, and she didn't look as if she'd slept at all. She looked into the kitchen, and saw her dad cooking, and smiled, faintly. "Waffles, Dad? I didn't even know Eli and Lin _had_ a waffle iron."

"They didn't. Shops up in the salarian sections are open. Figured this was a _very_ belated housewarming gift."

Dara sat down slowly at the table, mind clearly only half listening to her father. "You haven't made me waffles since. . . " Her eyes widened and her lips tightened. "Since Mom died." Rel moved behind her, hands on her shoulders, quickly. "Are Kasumi and Takeshi—"

"They're fine," Sam told her, quickly, smiling a reassurance. "No one's died. In fact, we just got a load of what we _hope_ is an effective vaccine from Earth last night. Starting distribution this morning."

Dara started to stand. 'Then I should be there. . . "

"You're stood down." Sam's voice was very firm. "We caught the late-night show. No sense trying to hide that all of you are stretched about as thin as you can get without snapping in half."

Dara's knees folded under her and she sat back down again. Her dad plonked a plate down in front of her piled high with waffles and handed her a knife and fork. "No strawberries, sweetie. Sorry. Just syrup."

Dara managed a smile. "Smells good, Dad. Thank you."

Like the food from Bielshowski's last night, it tasted wonderful, and was oddly soothing to the soul. Serana was, however, curled almost as tightly into Eli's side as she could get without actually leaving her chair, and he understood why. She loved and respected Lantar as much as she did her own father, and she'd heard what he'd said at the door. _Don't worry about it. I'm the one who's going to get to deal with it._ He patted her hand with his own, lightly, and watched as Makur very stealthily dropped bacon under the table for Snowflake. "If that cat gets sick on the floor, I'm pretty sure I'm not going to get my security deposit back," Eli commented.

"I think we're in violation of the lease agreement anyway for having this many people in occupancy at once," Lin countered.

Finally, they all slowed down. Eli stood up to start clearing plates, but Lantar waved him back down. "We've got this," Sam said.

Dara looked across the table. "You ever get the feeling that the other shoe is about to drop?" she asked.

"Like right now?" Eli countered.

Rel leaned back, putting an arm around Dara. "If I'm stood down, I can get some carving done today. . . ."

"And I've got papers that I've been putting off peer-reviewing. . . "

"Dara, there's got to be something left _besides_ work," Siara told her, acerbically.

Eli's head came up. "Wow. That sounded _awfully_ familiar," he noted.

Dara finger-flicked at both of them across the table.

And that was when six out of seven omnitools around the table binged quietly. Serana's didn't, until a moment after everyone else's had. Eli almost relaxed. "Well, that's got to be work," he muttered, and opened the message, the same as everyone else was doing.

"Serana?" Lantar said, quietly. "I want you to look at your husband's face right now."

"Me?" Sam said, with a chuckle, "I'm watchin' Dara's."

After a moment, Makur said, "Siara?"

"Hmm?"

"I still don't read well. I don't think I understand what I'm seeing here."

Neither did Eli. He just stared at the screen for a long moment, in complete incomprehension.

_To: Agent Elijah Sidonis, O3, Turian Fleet CID, station of record, Bastion._

_From: Spectre L. Sidonis, Recruitment Office, Special Tasks and Reconnaissance Group._

_CC: L. Shepard, Commander, Special Tasks and Reconnaissance Group, G. Vakarian, Special Tasks and Reconnaissance Group_

_You have been identified as a potential Spectre recruit. The normal requirement of fifteen years of service has been waived in light of your exemplary record and past service with the Special Tasks and Reconnaissance Group. All previous superiors and co-workers have given you strong evaluations, and we have reviewed your career carefully before extending you this invitation._

_Therefore, you are hereby invited and directed to report to the Normandy, which will arrive May 18, 2196 at Bastion. You will be transported to an undisclosed location, and will undergo testing to ascertain if you are indeed what we look for in a Spectre._

_-Lantar Sidonis_

Eli became aware of complete and utter silence now. He'd re-read his notice three times now, before the words finally sank in. He glanced up. Lin was staring at his wrist as if a poisonous snake had suddenly coiled there. Siara's mouth was hanging open. Makur still looked a little uncertain, and Snowflake had burrowed up under the krogan's arm to sniff eagerly at the bacon on his plate. Dara and Rel had just linked hands and were shaking their heads. "Early," Dara said, after a moment. "Very damned early."

Serana was staring up at Eli. "What is it?" she whispered, and he leaned over and let her read the message on the panel on his wrist.

Siara put a hand over her face now. Her shoulders shook. "All the time. . . I envied all the kids at school whose parents were Spectres. . . I never once thought I'd be asked to _audition_ for a job with them, myself."

Lin looked up, uncertainly. "I'm fairly sure there's been a mistake somewhere," he said, quietly. "I'm not. . . I'm not qualified—"

"You've all been under scrutiny for a while," Sam told them calmly. "Gris has been watching Siara and Makur develop. He and Sky have passed us a few other names, too. Lantar's been collecting records and reading every evaluation that your various superiors have sent our way. Most of _them_ even knew you were exceptional from the get-go. Eli, you? You think _Praetorian Guard_ would offer you a position if you _weren't_ outstanding?" Sam snickered as Lin's head snapped up. Eli winced. He _hadn't_ told Lin about that. "Just as glad you turned 'em down, though. Would've been harder to get you out of that job than this one. . . assuming you pass the trials." His voice had a little relish to it as he added, "But you _really_ showed us what you had in you when we took you to Khar'sharn to extract Rel when he was MIA there."

Siara, Makur, and Linianus were all _staring_ at him now. "Khar'sharn?" Siara muttered. "_Vaul."_

Lantar nodded slowly. "And Linianus. . . I _told_ you your record on Nimines was outstanding. Serial arsonist who wound up killing twelve people in those building fires? That was your case. Gunman who traveled from city to city, always killing five people at random from a bridge or building roof? That was your case, too. I personally liked the arrest on the guy who was pimping out his younger sisters. Excessive force citation or not." Lantar showed teeth. "I'd have spur-kicked him, myself. You showed restraint in only knocking out his first twelve teeth or so."

Heads were turning towards Lin now, who shrugged a little and looked down. "And then there's Siara and Makur, who stood beside Ulluthyr Harak and made damned sure he got control of his clan so he could maintain control of Omega. Protected him for two years against, what, seven total assassination attempts? And in the meantime, Siara stood in for Pelagia, holding off two krogan females when the female clan-leader of Ulluthyr challenged an _AI_ for dominance of her clan." Sam shrugged. "Plus, Wrex speaks for Makur. Says he's been a clan-defender since even before the Rite. All sounds good to me on paper. So we put you to the test." He looked down at Snowflake. "And I reckon you can bring the kitty with you. Just hope he and Urz get along okay."

Makur looked down at the leopard. "Urz?"

"Shepard's pet varren. Smartest damned varren I've ever seen. She's spent the last ten years trying to breed him for his brains." Sam shook his head. "And then, of course, there's the two of _you_. Guess you're _still_ not going to finish that surgery rotation for a while, sweetie." His voice was teasing.

Rel sighed. "We knew it was a possibility, but the first simulation run showed this when we were _twenty-nine_."

Eli's mind flashed to that first simulation day, when life had been so simple in front of him. Finish school, join B-Sec, unfortunately break up with Kella any way he saw it, because of the difference in life-spans. Sometimes with Dara, sometimes without. _This is what __they__ saw. No wonder they worked their asses off for it. And yet, the __cost__, so far. . . _

Dara cleared her throat. "And the second simulation. That one showed at twenty-two. Because of the batarian war. After we'd been fighting _in_ it for two years." She grimaced. "I really didn't like that simulation run."

"I didn't like the number of times it showed us dying on Lorek," Rel growled back.

Siara, Makur, Linianus, and Serana were all staring at them blankly. "Simulation?" Siara repeated.

Dara waved it off. "Way too complicated to explain right now. And, well, probably technically something we shouldn't have mentioned, anyway." She looked at her dad. "Things are really bad right now, aren't they?"

"They are, but that's not _your_ problem for a few weeks. You're all going to Mindoir and you're going to _recuperate_ for a while. Get your minds and bodies healthy _before_ we put you through the wringer."

Lantar added, pointedly, "You've all been under enormous stress. This is not the optimal condition in which to make large, life-changing decisions." He wasn't looking at Eli, but Eli felt that the words were directed at him, nonetheless. He sighed, and thought about them, though. Lantar had an uncomfortable habit of being _right_.

He leaned over again and asked Serana, quietly, "And what did your message say, _asperitalla?_"

Serana had just pulled it up, and lifted her hands, palms up. "Apparently, in light of the plague situation on Bastion, I'm being reassigned. I'm being loaned out to one Kasumi Goto." She managed a quick smile. "Fortunately, I've worked for her before. I think I'll get along with her." Then her expression turned absolutely proud. "Plus, this way, I get to _watch_ the Spectre trials. From, I hope, a little closer than two miles away on a hilltop this time."

Eli, Dara, and Rel started to laugh, a little sheepishly at first, remembering that long-gone day in early September, 2190, when they had watched Lantar and Sam fighting mechs in a training exercise overseen by Garrus and Shepard, through fieldglasses. Their horses and _rlatae_ browsing the grass and leaves behind them, and Serana by their sides, with Polina, Quintus, Kaius, and Amara chasing each other in the long grass. All in the crisp air of early spring under Mindoir's violet sky.

"So," Sam said, looking at them all, "The _Normandy_ arrives tomorrow. Get your things together, and Eli and Lin? We'll get some movers here for your stuff. Clearing things up with the rental office will be a challenge, given the current situation, but. . . military housing. They know how these things go. Dara and Rel? Your stuff on Rocam will get moved, too."

Lin shook his head. "You sound confident that none of us will be back here."

"Not till the plague settles down, that's for damn sure," Sam told him, dryly. "Which is wreaking _havoc_ on Alliance and Hierarchy re-supply and personnel transfers. It's enough to make me think we need a secondary station somewhere."

Eli snorted. "Could always re-open the Citadel," he said.

Lantar and Sam both stopped what they were doing and _stared_ at him. "Scale me," Lantar murmured.

"That. . . actually has some potential to it. Place was a frickin' mausoleum when we chased Lina Vasir down in it six years ago, though. Keepers had turned parts of it into a hive of sorts. . . " Sam looked at Lantar. Communication without words, two minds that had worked together so long that they didn't even _need_ to speak.

Dara made a face. "Wish someone could do something about the Keepers," she muttered. "They're basically the last thing left completely corrupted by the Reapers. And they're Ruin's people, more or less." She shrugged. "Of course, he's a machine now. And they're still organic. Chances of him being able to communicate with them would be pretty slim, I guess."

Siara looked up, interested. "I was reading an article on the extranet about what Ruin's said about his people. They were almost as heavily biotic as the rachni are now. He says he has five generations of 'living memory' in him. Apparently, when one of them died in close proximity to a living relative, they absorbed one another's full memories. Unbroken chains longer than three generations were rare, and they had long life-spans, too. Five generations makes for something like four thousand years of history." She shrugged. "I wonder if the current Keepers still more or less pass on information in that way. They'd all be in close proximity to one another, all crowded onto the Citadel that way."

Dara leaned forward, intrigued. "I didn't see that article," she admitted. "I'd love to read it, if you can find it again." She laughed. "So, in theory, they _could_ have a complete record of everything that's happened on the Citadel all the way back to the fall of the Protheans. Hell, to their own species' _re-engineering_. And just not be able to express it to us, or are uninterested in doing so." She shook her head. "What a _resource_ that would be."

Siara nodded, her expression becoming more enthusiastic. Eli was watching it, and realized that the two of them didn't even _notice_ that they were talking in such a friendly way. "What it suggests to _me_ is, a powerful biotic, or many powerful biotics working together, might be able to reach them," she said. "But we don't understand them. And they've always been chary of bipeds. Uninterested, at least. Maybe because we don't speak to them the right way."

"Ruin could, though," Dara said, quietly. "But he's not biotic anymore, because he's a machine."

Siara nodded. "So even with the amplification of several matriarchs working together, it wouldn't work. Not without someone who could, effectively, _translate_ machine to organic."

"Screw matriarchs. Bring in Sky, a half dozen other brood warriors, a rachni queen. Make it a concert for the ages," Dara said. And stopped. "Joker did both," she said, after a minute, staring off into space.

"Huh?" Siara said. Which summed up Eli's thoughts on the matter, nicely.

"Joker and EDI, when they—well, when they went off in the—nevermind. Joker could talk to people through biotic impulses at that point, and machines through radio signals." Dara frowned. "Of course, they might not be available. . . ."

Lin, Siara, Serana, and Makur were staring blankly now, so Eli asked the obvious question: "Why wouldn't they be? They'll be here on the _Normandy_ tomorrow, right?" He paused. "Not that Joker's a biotic." He looked down at Serana. "You following _any_ of this?"

Serana shook her head slowly in the negative, eyes wide.

Rel grimaced. "Well, they're not really _on_ the _Normandy_ anymore." He paused. "Well, Joker is. I heard. Sort of."

Lantar's shoulders were shaking, and took pity on them all, explaining, "He and EDI uploaded into the mini-Reaper after its existing consciousness was wiped. EDI had also been creating an NCAI version of Joker, in preparation for the inevitable moment when Joker died. . . so that Joker is the pilot and AI of the _Normandy_. The original Jeff Moreau and EDI are, ah, together. On the mini-Reaper."

All of the Mindoir contingent absorbed that.

Eli looked at Dara and said, "And you think _my_ life is the only one weirder than yours?"

"I stand corrected," Dara replied, with a bit of a wistful smile.

Makur put a hand on Snowflake's head and told the beast, "Yeah, that didn't explain much to me, either." Then his eyes widened for a moment as Siara turned and _looked_ at him, and then Makur said, "Vaul's _teeth_. That thing attacked your base? And you let it live?"

_She's putting it directly into his mind_, Eli realized. It was a level of public _maieolo_ that most asari didn't advertise.

Sam shrugged. "We didn't really know what to _do_ with it. Council said 'let the quarians study it,' and then the Lystheni _stole_ it, and then we were off on a whole _'nother_ adventure trying to track it back down again." He looked at Dara. "Did we interrupt your train of thought, sweetie?"

Dara was still looking off into space. A faint smile quirked up the corners of her mouth. "Not really, Dad. It just dawned on me that even if Joker and EDI aren't available, or couldn't do it, there's still one other person I know of who's biotic, but who can connect to machines and networks. Trouble is, he's. . . not entirely stable."

"Oh, that always sounds _promising_," Lin muttered. "Not entirely stable? What is he, sociopath?"

"Not . . . quite," Dara said, wincing, and then turned to look at Eli and Rel. "Dempsey."

Eli's eyebrows went up. Rel repeated, "Dempsey? That guy who came to Khar'sharn with you guys?"

Dara nodded. "It was the word _concert_ that made me think of it." She shrugged. "Probably wouldn't work. But it's fun throwing the idea around."

Makur shook his head. "Am I the _only_ person here who's _lost_?" he growled.

Siara laid a hand on his shoulder and smiled. "I can only put in your head what I know myself, more-than-fair. At the moment, I'm just as lost as you are."

Lin shook his head. "Me, too. But it's at least a _familiar_ feeling when either Dara or Siara starts talking. It's taking me back to xenobiology class here."

Sam and Lantar had simply leaned against the counters and _listened_ for the past couple of minutes. Finally, they looked at each other. "It's getting so it's damned scary," Sam admitted. "Let's put _that_ in the next report, too, Lantar. Along with Eli's notion of using the Citadel for staging."

"We'd need to move the damn mines out of the way, or deactivate some of the field—"

"Yeah, but at least we know it's not going to be used by any leftover Reapers for the next fifty thousand years or so, and it's currently disease-free," Sam replied. "Okay, you kids, start packing. Lantar and I have to go find a few other people on the station who will, apparently, be traveling with us. One of them, apparently, in the brig." His voice was resigned. "Then tomorrow morning, it's all aboard for Palaven, Omega, and Mindoir." He leaned down, gave Dara a light kiss on the forehead, and headed for the door.

Lantar stepped around the table, gave Eli a wrist-clasp, and leaned down to say, quietly, "I'll want a word with you in private when we're aboard the _Normandy_."

Eli looked up at him calmly. "Sure, Dad."

**Author's note:** _Have to admit, I teared up writing the Dara/Eli conversation in the middle of this section. Not 100% sure why, but I think it has to do with the tiredness of the characters, and how they're wondering, at age 20, if they could have or should have made other choices. Not really regret, per se, but . . . wondering. _

_Regarding the humorous 'how many combinations and permutations would azure dust actually entail. . .?' That came out of a random thought: "What would happen if the Young Guns wound up opening a few crates in a storehouse, and inhaling weaponized azure dust, the way Garrus and Shepard did, long, long ago? The concept was too funny not to use in some fashion or another. I'm contemplating writing it as a non-continuity short, that would not be posted on FanFiction, but would be sent to people by PM who swear to me on a stack of Bibles that they're over the age of 18. :-P I'll toss up a poll to see if there's enough interest. _

**James Dempsey, Mindoir, May 14, 2196**

His first day or two of being a father again had been . . . rocky, at best. Finding Madison in the damned looney bin had damned near triggered the _rage_ that the chip usually kept locked down so tightly. _Doctors,_ he'd thought, _drugs, keeping him sedated. What's next, surgeries? Chips? Where does it fucking end?_ Zhasa had put a hand on his back right around then, and she'd poured calm into him, helping him keep the rage down just far enough that he'd scared the living _shit_ out of the doctors, but hadn't actually _killed_ any of them. The temptation to pick Madison up over one shoulder and simply _blow_ his way out, door by door, window by window, had been powerful. _You're scared of what an __uncontrolled__ biotic can do? How about one with training, L5 implants, and a conscience that's largely a matter of __habit__?_

Once he'd gotten Madison to the shuttle, he and Zhasa had come back out and walked into the administrative office of Wendover House, and Dempsey had flatly refused to leave until he spoke to the Chief of Staff for the mental hospital.

The administrator of the clinic had tried to explain, in the face of his icy rage, "Exeter has a very good biotics training program. But they're not set up as a juvenile detention facility, any more than _any_ private school is. They're not equipped to hold a violent young person in restraints, and certainly not prepared to handle a violent biotic."

"My son is not a violent offender." Dempsey had bitten off the ends of his words, trying for absolute clarity. "He is in breakthrough, after the shock of hearing the news of his mother's death."

_I could always feel others' minds, when I was young_, Zhasa told him, silently. _I didn't know that no one else could. So I was always a little biotic, but I never used it, myself, until I had my own 'breakthrough event.' If he's anything like I was, he's going to be so scared._ . . .

Dempsey had nodded to her, and gone on more quietly, but with no less force, staring at the man behind the large walnut desk, "He should have been turned over to the Biotics Training Association."

The administrator had scrubbed at his jawline. "There is, if you hadn't noticed, a planetary quarantine in effect. More than that, a regional one. Travel is restricted at the moment. Getting him here to Wendover House was one thing. The closest BTA facility is in Cambridge, Massachusetts, over fifty miles away—"

"I know where it is. I trained there for fourteen years, on weekends, at least." Dempsey planted his fists on the administrator's desk and leaned forward, staring at him. "Tell me this. Did William Perry sign him over to you? And did he or the school authorize the use of _drugs_ in treatment?"

A placating lift of the hands. "Mr. Perry signed a release form, permitting the school to handle Madison, while he was being _taken to the hospital_ himself with four broken ribs and a severe _concussion_. The young man was clearly a danger to himself and others, and—"

"And thus the knock-out shot. I can understand that. But keeping him on _thorazine_ after he woke up? What's with that?"

"It allows the patient distance between themselves and the emotional state, and prevents biotics from focusing their minds. And in the case of a violent offender, particularly one in a state of psychotic break—"

That had done it. There wasn't enough calm in the world to stop Dempsey at that point. "There is a distinction between a breakthrough event," he said, levelly, "and being a violent person. There is a difference between a stress reaction and being _psychotic_."

Every book on the shelves in the study had lifted off the shelves and moved exactly one foot away from their standard positions. It required absolute control and precision, and, considering that there were several hundred of them, all occupying different places in space, was a hell of a display. Especially when he started _shuffling_ them, in threes, reorganizing them. And then _slammed_ them back onto the shelves, hard enough that the shelves themselves rocked_._ Control, precision, and power. "Now," Dempsey said, quietly, "I suggest that, in the future, you consider this distinction. I _am_ a violent person. I kill people for a living, and I do it with my mind, with my hands, and with my guns. Nevertheless, I'm trained. I have control. I'm not in breakthrough. If I were," _and if Zhasa weren't holding onto my mind with most of hers. . . _ "I would have put you through _that_ wall," he pointed behind the man, "and walked away. My son has no history of violence. What he is, is an untrained kid who lost his mother and had to hear it from someone he didn't like. He assigned blame, and he reacted. A non-biotic kid would've punched him. I don't think a _non-biotic kid_ would have wound up in a fucking straightjacket in a mental hospital for it."

He straightened back up, pulled the polarized shield over his regular visor, protecting his all-too-sensitive eyes. "Come on," he'd told Zhasa. "I think I've had about enough of Earth."

Awkward conversations with Madison—every time being distantly grateful for Zhasa's presence. She knew how to talk to the boy. Her core of emotional accessibility and warmth was obviously a big help. He'd walked into the port observation lounge at least once to find Mad crying on her shoulder. The boy had straightened up immediately and wiped at his eyes, and Dempsey had walked over and just put a hand on his shoulder. He knew it was _a_ correct gesture. Giving the boy a hug would've been better, probably, but he didn't know if Mad would accept it. Or if it would feel weird and fake to him, some repetition of William Perry. Dempsey had opted to sit down beside him and say, "So, why don't you tell me what your mom was like? I remember, you know, your first and second Christmas, but nothing after that. We had this little crappy toilet-brush material tree the first year. About this tall." He held up his hands about two feet apart. "With tacky fiber optic lights. And you sat there and _stared_ at it for about an hour every night, until you couldn't keep your eyes open anymore, and you'd give in and fall asleep. Your mom loved that. Took pictures."

Madison had nodded. "Yeah, we kept that. Till I was seven or so. Then Bill said we should have a _real_ tree. That Christmas wasn't Christmas without going out to the tree lot and cutting one down, and the smell of pinesap in the house."

"What does pine smell like?" Zhasa had asked, interested.

Madison blinked. "You don't—well, I guess you probably didn't have pine trees in the Flotilla."

She shook her head. "Children weren't even allowed out of the crèches into the hydroponics areas, for fear of allergic reactions or disease contamination. Even if we'd had one aboard, I couldn't have smelled it."

"I'll find one on Mindoir and sniff it for you," Dempsey told her. "Or I can find a cleaning closet on the _Sollastra_ and see what they use for floor cleaner. Might work just as well." He caught the wave of puzzlement directed at him, and waved it off, for the moment. "So what happened with the tree, Mad? Did you like it?"

"The first year, yeah. After that, it was just a hassle every year." Madison laughed a bit. "We had a cat back then—"

"Ranger?"

"Yeah! You remember him?"

"I brought him home from base. Stray cat had had a nest of kittens under a Mako in the motor pool. Sergeant in charge was trying, desperately, to get rid of them. So I got the brown and tan patched kitten who looked like he was wearing camouflage. And we called him Ranger."

"Yeah." Madison smiled. "Ranger climbed the tree and started whacking the ornaments down. Broke half of them. Mom was so pissed. . ."

Soft waves of warmth from Zhasa, buoying the boy up. Dempsey could _feel_ them, feel his son's reaction, and let his hand rest on Mad's shoulder again. "It's okay to remember the good things," he told him. "The good things won't always hurt as much."

_Yeah, but first they told me __you_ _were dead, and then you came back and now they say that she's dead. . . and she's not coming back. . . _Confused thoughts, but clear as daylight.

_I know. They should __never__ have said I was dead. MIA, yes. Dead. . . I know people have to get on with their lives eventually. But people lied about me, Mad. They're not lying about your mom. And I'm really sorry about it._ Zhasa's light touch on his mind let him dig down and uncover the grief, just enough for Madison to catch it, believe it, and that had been enough, for a while.

And after a day at the Mindoir school, Mad had gone from resisting biotics training—politely, but resisting it—to being _interested_ in it. Dempsey had no idea why, but he was grateful that he hadn't had to bring down the full weight of paternal authority that he was only just getting used to _having_ again. _"Do what you're told_" or, simply putting a toddler's resisting feet _in_ the shoes they so adamantly opposed didn't seem like tactics that would work well on a thirteen-year-old. And since Dempsey was, from his perspective, only ten years older than a thirteen-year-old, he was able to remember really wishing that his parents had _occasionally_ discussed things with him, rather than just flatly requiring them. That being said, biotics training wasn't really _optional_ for someone like James or Madison Dempsey. _The kid's got a __hell__ of a lot of firepower if he's picking up a two-hundred-pound desk and __launching__ it at someone. _

Of course, that left him in the awkward position of Madison wanting _him_ to teach him. And Dempsey had no _idea_ if that was going to be safe for Mad. So he got in touch with Ylara, who seemed _amused_ at his concerns, and agreed that since she needed to work with Shellara, she could help him train Madison, too. "Actually, with Sky gone, I'm in charge of the Vakarian twins, too," she noted. "At least for Saturday morning training. Come up to the main villa around oh-nine-hundred. And bring Zhasa, if she's interested."

With Madison reading some sort of xenobiology textbook, Dempsey had walked down the hall and tapped lightly on Zhasa's door. Her barracks room was starting to look a good deal more _lived-in_ than his. Still spartanly neat, of course. But she'd put a red silk hanging of some sort on the pegboard, draped there lightly, and whenever they went for a walk, she came back with fallen leaves or twigs or whatnot, and would put them on the desk for a while. Now that it was late fall, of course, there were more and more days when there was snow on the ground. So some of her fallen leaves were tucked into the folds of that red fabric, gold and scarlet and purple reminders of the season that had passed. "Of course I'd like to come along," she told him, a smile in her voice. He'd noticed that her voice had a distinctively throaty timber and pitch, and not for the first time, wondered if she ever sang. "I've only been up to the main villa once. I. . . hope Vakarian and Shepard won't find it an intrusion. . . . "

"As far as I can tell, they only live in a small section of it. The rest is pretty much offices for the rest of the Spectres at this point," Dempsey said dryly. "I expect they're used to people tromping in and out." He hesitated. "You busy?"

"Just writing a quick note to my mother. She's wondering how my candidacy is progressing. I have to tell her, yet again, that the trials haven't started."

He nodded. "When you're done with that. . . "

_You'd like to share again?_ The thought was rich with amusement. If it had been spoken out loud, it might have been a purr.

_I like to think I don't have quite __that__ much of a one-track mind._ Dempsey caught, and reflected, a little of her amusement. "I was more wondering if you liked to sing at all."

Brief flash of startlement. "Yes, actually. But. . . I only know quarian history-lays and legend-songs. Meant to be sung with a _reela_."

He nodded. "I saw music for that in the base archives. I think I can figure out how to play it on the guitar. If you wouldn't mind telling me what it's _supposed_ to sound like."

The smile was even more pronounced in her voice now. "I'd be glad to. After Madison is done with his studies?"

"Sure. Wouldn't want to interrupt his reading."

Back in his own room, he'd sat down and started skimming through extranet articles. He'd worked for a year on using just the chip to control the computer and on absorbing data through it now. Whenever he did, he could feel the pain building, and the anger that always came with it, so he didn't dare practice this with Madison around.

After a few minutes, Madison commented, "I like Zhasa. She's really nice."

"Yeah, she is."

"Quarians can't come out of their suits, right?"

"They can in a clean room. One quarian couple on base that I know of built themselves a clean house. Zhasa went to visit them last week. Said it was the first shower she'd had in six years."

Dempsey looked up in time to catch the look of revulsion. "Ewwwwww."

"Hey, for all I know, they don't sweat like humans do."

Madison frowned and flipped through his datapad. "Huh. It says here that quarians don't have sweat glands, no. Arid climate on Rannoch meant that water had to be conserved, and thus their bodies developed other methods of cooling themselves. Panting, radiating heat out, like turians."

"There you go, then." Dempsey changed to a different vid feed, frowning. Another fly-by of Omega by batarian forces. _They're testing the waters_, he thought. _Fly-bys at Edessan, too. But none at Bastion, not yet, anyway. _

And later that evening, Zhasa did come by, and he tried to figure out the quirky quarian notation and play quarian _reela_ music on the guitar. It. . . worked. Barely, but it worked. "It's really more of a keyboard instrument," she told him, laughing, and he smiled, just a little, feeling her amusement in him.

"Can you sing it without the music, so I can hear how it's supposed to go?"

"Oh, it'll be _terrible._" Zhasa sighed. "All right. Try this. . . " and she sang a few words in quarian, and the words came through in his head as _Before the flight, across the night, on Rannoch lost we dwelled. Crossed deserts wide, side by side, and passed through forests yet unfelled. _

He caught the melody, minor-keyed as it was, and replicated it. "See? That wasn't so hard," he told her calmly, and she laughed again, sitting down beside him on the bed. He lost track of time after that, because there was music to be played, and her mind was open and happy and as absorbed in the music as his was, and he could _feel_ this way. And then, as always, she bade him good night, the door clicked closed behind her, and he could actually get to sleep without staring at the ceiling for another two or three hours.

The next morning was biotics training. The Vakarian house had a plasteel barricade over the top of its atrium garden at the moment, and _that_ was covered by a thin blanket of snow, which made the atrium a little dim, but dim was good—he wouldn't have to wear dark glasses in there, at the moment.

Ylara and Shellara were already there, dressed warmly, breath puffing whitely in the chill air. All of the plants in the garden had curled up and withered in on themselves, hiding from winter. Dempsey didn't recognize half of them, but did spot a rosebush or two among all the other alien foliage.

Madison had commented this morning, "Okay, it's cold, but not as bad as Boston. It's not that _wet_ cold." But he'd zipped up his new coat willingly enough. _Good. Not going to try to prove how tough he is._

"And no damn freezing rain," Dempsey had agreed. And then he'd realized, "Crap. I forgot a hat and gloves to go with that coat, didn't I? Guess I'm out of the running for father of the year already."

Madison had started to laugh, for some reason.

Dempsey nodded to Ylara as they entered, and then crouched down and offered Shellara one big hand. "You remember what to do, right?"

"Five fingers!" Slap.

"There you go."

And then the Vakarian twins emerged from behind a closed door. Just the older pair. Dempsey was getting used to how odd they looked; while he rarely saw them, it wasn't coming as a shock anymore. Both of them moved right up to Madison, though, smiling and greeting him and chattering about school, for all that he was a head taller than they were. "It's really nice to see you here," the girl told Madison.

The boy sat down on one of the planters, and looked around. "Yep. Maybe after this we can go riding or something. Horses, not _rlatae_, though." Kaius looked around at the rest of them. "This is my hour or two of the week to be completely bored." The complaint sounded good-natured enough, though.

Dempsey looked at him. "How's that?"

Kaius made a face at him, pulling his lips back from sharp teeth. "Amara's _actually_ a biotic. I just have the genes for it. Don't hear anything in my head, see any glows, anything like that. So I'm here 'just in case something happens.'" He snorted. "Nothing's going to happen."

Madison shook his head, looking down. "That's what _I_ thought, until, you know, four days ago." He looked up and shrugged at Kaius. "I mean, I've always _heard_ people, but I tried not to."

"Let's get started," Ylara said, quietly. "Since we have three trained biotics here this morning, I thought we'd start with a demonstration or two. Dempsey, would you mind starting by putting up a shield?"

He nodded, and pulled it over himself. It was reflexive now, after so many years of training, like shrugging on a shirt. "I'll do it again, a little more slowly, so you can all see it and feel it," he said, letting the barrier drop again. This time, he built it up again. Most biotics, he had been told, visualized a barrier as something they knew was strong and sturdy. Some people visualized fences. Some people visualized a web of energy. Since Dempsey had learned to use this so early in life, when he had to stop and _think_ about it. . . it was still bricks. Cardboard bricks, flimsy as hell. . . but not in his mind. In his mind, they were an impenetrable barrier between himself and the world. Built up, one atop the other, around his feet, to his knees, his hips, his chest, over his head. . . and then they all sealed together. _Yeah, you just try to come in here and get me._

This time, building it up had taken a full thirty seconds, so the kids could all _see_ it. He opened his eyes at the sound of Zhasa's soft laugher. "Blocks?"

Dempsey snorted. "I learned to do this when I was _four_. What you visualize usually doesn't change. Just a mental habit, really." He looked at Ylara. "You want them to try, first, or you want to show them how to knock it down?"

"Build, first. Knocking it down is always more fun, though," she admitted with a faint smile, which surprised him, until the child next to her giggled a bit.

So they worked through it. Madison didn't have a natural defensive bent, so he struggled with the exercises. Dempsey was surprised at how Ylara and Zhasa worked at training the kids. Direct, mind-to-mind contact. "That's _not_ how human biotics are trained?" Ylara said, surprised.

Dempsey shook his head. "No. Then again, most of our training program came from the turians, and they don't _have_ a lot of biotics. Everything we do is through verbal directions."

Ylara shook her head. "It's a wonder any of you manage to learn anything at all," she murmured. _Here. All of you, listen and watch, again. Try it __this__ way_, and she showed the children the concept again.

Madison shook his head dispiritedly as the energies started to built, and then fizzle again. Very hesitantly, Dempsey touched his shoulder. _It's okay. You haven't done more than 'lift the feather' before. Or maybe 'push over the card tower.' Also, you might not have natural conduits in your mind for the barrier. _

"You just make it look so easy."

"Because I've _done_ it for eighteen years, more or less," Dempsey told him, his tone flat. "Tell you what. We'll show you how to _break_ a barrier."

Zhasa channeled biotic energies now, and let all the kids see how _she_ did it. . . the image was of silks, wrapping tighter and tighter around like the cocoon of a moth or butterfly—flexible, but solid. "Go ahead, Dempsey," she said—and Dempsey took her at her word, and _slowly_ reached out with his mind and began to buckle that shield. It wasn't a rending attack, it wasn't an image of knives or anything like that. The image he concentrated on was sheet of mylar, reflective but flexible. Her barrier became that mylar, and he flexed it and stretched it and then _snapped_ it. Shellara oooohed a little at it. "How did you _do_ that?"

Madison tried that against his father's shields next. His face was turning ruddy with the cold and the exertion, and he wound up shaking his head dispiritedly again. "Nothing."

"Your father has some of the best shields I've ever see," Zhasa told Madison, comfortingly. "But there's more than one way to deal with a shield. Your father buckles them. . . and his method can actually interact with other biotic attacks and cause them to increase exponentially, with explosive force—"

The kids' heads all swiveled towards him. Dempsey nodded slightly, as Zhasa continued, "—but there's something to be said for a more direct approach. Right, Ylara?"

Dempsey's head swung up, and he felt the discharge right when the shockwave rippled through the air at him from Ylara's hands. It rang in his head for a moment, but he'd held his shields all the way through it. They were weakened, though. "Nasty," he said, flatly, and reinforced his shields. He looked down at Madison. "Think you can try that?" _Think of it like throwing a punch, or a spear, or a ball of fire. Anything that lets you visualize it properly. Yeah, I can feel the energies building. Hold it, just like that. Don't let it fizzle. You've got to let it build. Okay, now here's the hard part. You have to relax to let it go. Don't fight it. Don't let it fizzle. Just careful. . . almost. . . there you go, in balance now. Just let it. . . happen._

He couldn't throw a shockwave himself, but he pictured it for Madison, having a hockey puck right in front of his skate on the ice and reaching back with the stick and them slap-shotting it the length of the rink. Madison caught the image, liked it, and made it his own, and then the force actually did hit Dempsey's shields. "There you go," Dempsey told his son calmly. "Look what you did."

"I did. . . ? I really did?" Madison's face suddenly broke out in a grin, the same almost goofy look he'd had even as a toddler, managing to cross from table to couch without falling down.

"Yeah, I felt impact. Try it again." It had been a _soft_ impact, mostly since Madison didn't have emotion motivating his biotics at the moment, and had no real _practice_ with this sort of thing. Dempsey glanced over, and saw that Amara was controlling a tiny little singularity, which was picking up leaves and twigs from the floor, and was impressed, actually. He'd _never_ been able to master that particular skill. And he'd _tried._ _Don't be afraid, just let your mind relax for a minute, and then give it another try. It takes energy to do any of this. Just like it takes energy to throw something with your hand, or energy to jump over a wall. We're not __really__ breaking the laws of physics here. We're just using energy to affect matter. Which, everyone tells me, are really just the same thing._

The second shockwave had a lot more force behind it, and Madison was focusing a _lot_ more intently now. But after an hour or so, he was clearly tiring out, and was just as clearly frustrated that many of the skills they were trying to show him didn't work for him. "It's all right," Zhasa told him, again, putting a hand on his shoulder. "No one expects you to be perfect on your first _day_ of training."

"There's other stuff I can show you back in the barracks," Dempsey commented. "Stuff that doesn't affect anyone but yourself. Effective mental shielding, for starters. So you don't accidentally pick up other people's thoughts."

"I always try not to listen—"

"There's ignoring people, and that's a good start, but I'm talking more like putting your fingers in your ears. Helps protect you a little from sudden, purely mind-to-mind attacks, too." Dempsey didn't smile as he added, "There was a biotic serial killer in New York when I was nine or ten. Only targeted other biotics. And did it just by overloading their minds. Was nasty, because he was basically untraceable."

Madison's eyes had gone wide. So had Shellara's and Amara's and Kaius'. "What happened?" Amara asked. "Did they ever catch him?"

Dempsey shrugged. "No one knows. The killings just stopped happening when I was eleven. Either he died, got bored, or got locked up on some other charges."

Ylara was frowning, though. "Mental barriers are a good thing to practice, but keeping them up all the time isolates you from the world," she disagreed.

Dempsey found a bench in the atrium to sit down on, and picked up a handful of dead leaves, crushing them lightly in his hand. "So Zhasa keeps telling me," he said, quietly, leaning back against a planter, and letting his other arm fall against the cold concrete surface. "Then again, she was trained by asari, too. The thing to keep in mind is, _all_ asari are biotic. _All_ rachni are, too. Not that many humans are, and it's new to us. It scares the living crap out of most ordinary, average humans." _Like it scared Amy._ "Give us a couple of hundred years, and it'll be much more accepted. For now? Better to protect yourself, and the people around you." He was looking right at Madison for that, and the boy nodded, after a moment.

Madison had never been on a horse before (and neither had Dempsey), but he asked if he could go with Amara and Kaius before lunch, and his father nodded a quick assent. "Not too long," he called after them. "It's cold out."

Then he and Zhasa and Ylara and Shellara had had lunch in the mess hall. A rectangular building filled with long tables and benches, it smelled like food from a dozen worlds, and was _filled_ with Spectres and base personnel. Salarians, asari, turians, humans, even a few krogan, volus. . . it made for interesting people watching over meals. Dempsey had, in the main, found a wall to put his back against, eaten his food, and moved on quickly from the room in the past year. Today, he was more or less forced to dawdle.

He was fine with a soup and sandwich, and Zhasa insisted that she _was_ eating, but he wasn't even going to _ask_ what the asari were eating. . . it looked like tiny octopi, each the size of his thumb. Whole, arms, head, mantle, and all, and lightly cooked in some sort of oil and left naked on the plates. "I don't know if Mad got anything out of what I was able to show him," Dempsey commented as Shellara was finishing eating. . . slowly, as a five-year-old was prone to do. "His talents seem to be a little more offense-oriented than mine."

"We can practice throws and lifts tomorrow," Zhasa offered. "You and I can manage that, and that was his first instinctive move."

He nodded, still wondering if _anything_ he'd done or said today had made any difference for Madison. _Of course it did,_ Zhasa said silently, sounding downright exasperated. _You're spending time with him, teaching him what you know. If you were teaching him. . . oh, how to bleed residual drive core energy off, he'd be just as happy to be __with__ you, doing that._

_I don't know about that. He seemed pretty frustrated today._

_Only with the barrier lessons. He really wants to do well. He wants to make you proud. . . and it's hard for him to see when you are._

_There's a __reason__ for that._ He had been satisfied with Madison's progress, and had given encouragement, but pride or pleasure had only surfaced when Zhasa had linked her mind to his periodically during the lessons. Unexpected, wonderful sensations.

_I know. Working on that, right?_ She'd actually reached over and squeezed his hand.

Then he and Zhasa trudged back over to the candidate's barracks after lunch, and could see a _flurry_ of activity suddenly taking place there. "Looks like we've got company coming in after all," Dempsey commented. He wasn't sure if he really welcomed that. He'd been living as, more or less, a hermit for the last year. Suddenly having neighbors—a lot of them, from the looks of it—was going to be odd.

An hour later, after Madison arrived back, carrying a sandwich of his own and smelling distinctly of _horse_, Dempsey asked his son, tentatively, if he wanted to do anything this afternoon. "I actually have a lot of reading to do," Madison told him. "But, you know. . . what do you like to do?"

Dempsey looked at his son. "Honest to god, I don't actually know," he answered, after a moment. "It's been music, mostly, when I'm not at the gym or at the med bay."

"You _ever_ going to tell me what was done to you? And why you look _just_ like your pictures?" Madison hitched himself up onto the desk in the room and stared gravely at Dempsey.

_How the hell do I explain it?_ Dempsey thought about it for a moment, and reached under the bed. Pulled out an ammo case he was using to store his few personal possessions, and opened it, taking out a utility knife. "Don't try this," he said, firmly, and, gritting his teeth, sliced open the palm of his left hand.

Madison swore, sliding off the desk. "Watch your mouth," Dempsey said, absently, and held up his hand, dripping blood down his arm. It stung. It always did. But he watched his son's face as the stinging became less and less, and then vanished entirely.

Madison's mouth hung open entirely. "Cool," he finally assessed. "You're. . . you heal up like a krogan does!"

Dempsey sighed. "Yeah. Experimental gene mod. Docs here on base think it might give me a lifespan like a krogan's, too."

"Which is why you don't look any older than your pictures?"

"No. That's because I was put in cryogenic suspension for ten years in a Collector pod. The people who did the gene mods on me—yeah, there's more than one—did other things. Wrapped my bones in carbon nanotubules. Hurt like hell. About fifty percent of my body is pieced together with cybernetics, as well. Most of the muscle tissue is completely infiltrated with it. Spinal column looks like a fiber optic grid. All the organs are intact. The regeneration mod would ensure they grew back anyway, if they were removed. And they put a chip in my brain to, supposedly, let me access tech and computers with my mind, the way I access my biotics. It's. . . buggy. It probably is the control center for my cybernetics. And it's right in the middle of my amygdala, which is where pain and fear and pleasure and love and all the really basic emotions are centered, and it's screwed up the works in there pretty badly." Dempsey said it all, very calmly, but he could feel the _rage_ building in him at all the memories. _Wish Zhasa were here, but can't rely on her all the time._ He stuffed it down. _Way_ down, so Madison, with his incipient biotic senses, wouldn't feel it. "But yeah, there's a chance that someday, people will think you are _my_ dad." He cleaned off the knife and shoved it in the box again. "I think that might not be all that funny."

Mad was still staring at him. "I still think it's pretty cool," he said, but the words were tentative.

_Yeah, it all sounds great on paper, doesn't it?_

Zhasa tapped on the door, and poked her head in. "Sorry. I thought I heard something from in here," she said cheerfully. _In fact, I could have sworn I heard my name._

_You probably did._

And that was when his omnitool blipped, and Dempsey, surprised, opened the message, and started to read, in consternation:

_To: James A. Dempsey, Mindoir_

_From: Spectre L. Sidonis, Recruitment Office, Special Tasks and Reconnaissance Group._

_CC: L. Shepard, Commander, Special Tasks and Reconnaissance Group, G. Vakarian, Special Tasks and Reconnaissance Group_

_You have been identified as a potential Spectre recruit. The normal requirement of fifteen years of service has been waived in light of your exemplary personal history and past work with the Special Tasks and Reconnaissance Group. All previous superiors and co-workers have given you strong evaluations, and we have reviewed your career carefully before extending you this invitation._

_Therefore, you are hereby invited to undergo testing to ascertain if you are indeed what we look for in a Spectre._

_-Lantar Sidonis_

_Holy fucking shit. I did not just read what I just read. Are they out of their __minds__?_ In Zhasa's presence, with the light mental connection running between them, _astonishment. _And _fear._

"Dempsey, what's wrong?" Her voice rang with alarm.

"Ah, Dad? You were saying something about mental shields earlier today?" Madison's voice held very careful teasing, and Dempsey raised his eyes and just _stared_ at both of them. And then showed them the letter.

"Cool! You're going to be a _Spectre_!" Madison crowed.

"They must be more desperate than I thought," Dempsey muttered. "Who the hell else are they going to scrounge up?


	97. Chapter 97: Recruitment, Part 2

**Chapter 97: Recruitment, Part 2**

**Author's note: **_For those not on the forums (please know that I do post there in between chapters, and do provide updates and information there, so click on my name and follow the links to the forums for SOR/SOT), I apologize for the delay on this chapter. Not only has work been. . . interesting the last week or so. . . but my little boy came down with a combination of pink eye, ear infection, and high fever. Imagine me as a MUCH less patient Dara, and you'll have an idea of what's going on 'round here. With intermittent work fairy idiocy to attend to as well._

_One of my readers did me the great honor of calling the Imperator the "Turian Vetinari." I swear I was not channeling Terry Pratchett for the Imperator, but I can totally see it now that it's been pointed out. And I'm still hugely complimented by this, somehow. Pratchett is in my top five living authors list. :-D _

**Elijah, Bastion May 17, 2196**

Sam and Lantar had left about a half an hour before, leaving seven rather dazed young people and a completely oblivious snow leopard behind. The dishes were cleared, the kitchen was clean, and all of them sat at the table, almost at a loss for words. Just staring at each other, in disbelief.

Finally, Siara cleared her throat. "Well. . . I didn't exactly bring much with me. I haven't exactly _unpacked_." She frowned. "Our belongings were moved into Harak's new compound on Omega, so I expect I can pick that all up when we . . . go there." She turned and looked at Makur. "Think I can safely leave my more _decorative_ bodyguard outfits there?"

Makur's head came up, and he grinned, toothily. "You had better _not_. You've only just figured out where to hide guns under most of them. There's so little of each, that they won't take any room at all to pack." From the way they looked at each other, Siara's eyes narrowing, Eli could almost hear unspoken words there. "Besides," Makur added, in a low rumble, his tone completely pragmatic, "Would be foolish to have to start all over again, buying new ones, if you ever needed to look _decorative_ again."

Around the table, Rel hastily lifted a mug to his lip plates and Linianus did the same. Dara's eyebrows shot up, and Eli didn't even bother to conceal his smile. Serana, beside him, however, was the only one who dared voice the communal question: "Decorative, Siara?"

Siara's glance was chill. "Yes," she replied, the corners of her lips pulling down. "Gris explained it to me at length once. Since I was the last-ditch defense for Harak, the outfits gave me, first, a reason to always be around him, and second, made me look weak to stupid people, so they'd underestimate me. And third, he said once that people who weren't stupid would see me as _strong_ for having the confidence to dress that way." She grimaced. "Of course, now Harak has managed to convince Pelagia to come around to more or less the same way of thinking—"

"Pelagia doesn't even come close," Makur said, poking Siara in the shoulder with one thick finger, "to what you were pulling off." And he chuckled, low and rough, as Siara turned towards him, blue eyes thawing, but only slightly. Amusement and ice, all at once. . . and then one small hand clenched into a fist near his snout "Oh, well, now, you'll have to wait for _that_ till we get aboard this ship tomorrow. "

Siara laughed softly. And then slid a glance across the table towards Dara. "We'll have to get back to our conversation when we're aboard the _Normandy._"

"What, about Ruin and the Keepers? Sure. Send me that article—"

"No, the other one, from in the on-call room."

Dara clearly wasn't at her mental best. She frowned, and then evidently replayed the conversation in her head. "Oh, yeah, right. About applying the Solus hybridization to species other than humans and turians." She stared off into space for a moment. "Dr. Abrams was Dr. Solus' assistant for most of the current hybrids on base. He has more _actual_ experience. I've just got the theoretical. You'd really be better off asking him. Hell, I don't even know which immuno-suppressant would work best on an asari. We wouldn't be looking at even spessilimus for you, and I'm not well acquainted with asari pharmacopoeia. . . ." She stopped talking, evidently registering the way Makur was looking at Siara at the moment. And then put her face in her hands.

Siara sighed. "Very graceful, Dara. I went out of my way to phrase it as abstrusely as possible—"

"Noticed that kind of late. Sorry. I assumed you'd talked with him about it first." Dara's voice was muffled.

"Fact-finding first, bombshells second." Siara darted a quick glance at Makur that clearly looked like an apology. Nothing more could have told Eli how much the asari had grown, and how much she felt for the krogan. Siara didn't _do_ apologies. Not gracefully, and not well.

Rel coughed, and offered, cheerfully, obviously laying down a little covering fire fore Dara as she regained her composure. "At least in terms of immuno-suppression, you wouldn't have to worry about control-bites and breaking the skin, the way turians have to."

Lin snorted. "I never found it all _that_ hard to hold back from using a control-bite with my wife.'

Half the heads at the table swung towards him. Siara repeated, sounding stunned, "_Wife_? You got married?" She started to laugh. "I always figured you'd wear down Tulliana _eventually_, but. . . where's your wife now? Why isn't she here on Bastion?"

Eli closed his eyes. _Oh god. . . . . how many people back home are going to say the same damn thing?_ He wincingly opened his eyes, and caught the look of pain that crossed Lin's face, quickly suppressed. "She died two years ago," Lin told Siara, his voice fairly forthright and calm. Turian stoicism at its finest. "On Macedyn."

Siara's laughter completely drained away, and she sat back down heavily. "Oh. . . .damn. I'm. . . so sorry, Lin. I didn't know." She frowned. "Two, three years at the female camp on Tuchanka and no extranet connection. . . and then being off on Omega. . . I didn't even _think_ to ask how . . .anyone else was doing." She ducked her head, looking embarrassed. Eli could read between the lines, there. _And didn't think anyone would care to talk to her, anyway. So many bridges burned._

"It's okay," Lin told her, again, with surprising grace. "I didn't tell many people. Which my parents _reamed_ me for, I might add."

"Didn't even tell _us_," Rel commented, dryly. "We got it third-hand. Eli to Serana to Dara." Clearly wanting to shift the subject somehow, _anyhow_, he asked, quickly, "Can I ask something fairly personal, _fra'fradu?_" The tone was very diffident.

"Of course." Lin glanced up.

Rel shifted languages, still diffident in tone. _"How __do__ you keep yourself from, well, using the control-bite?"_ He was carefully not looking at either Lin or at Dara. _"I never seem to be able to stop myself."_

Lin snorted. _"It's fairly simple, really. At first, if I came even close to biting her at __all__, Brennia froze up, and there'd be no fun for the rest of the night. She got better about it, but never could quite get past the fear of the control-bite."_ Dara's coffee cup slipped from her fingers, and Eli's hand shot out reflexively, catching it for her before it spilled. _"I __did__ mention that she'd been hurt. A lot."_ Lin shrugged. _"When it really matters, you adjust."_ He stood up. "Now, I don't have a _lot_ of packing, but there is _some_ that needs doing."He nodded to Siara. "You didn't know. Don't beat yourself up about it."

He strode out of the room. Once the door of his room closed, Dara turned and hissed, under the level of turian hearing, "Okay, Eli, _give_. What the _hell_ went on with Brennia? Neither of you will _talk_ about her."

Eli grimaced. "Not really my story to tell." He sighed. "Okay, so that no one else goes tripping over Lin's emotional baggage—sorry, Siara—Brennia was in our first squad at boot camp. Told me, when I caught her going through everyone's biometrically encoded lockers, that she'd been in a criminal gang on Macedyn. She'd gotten out. _Wanted_ boot camp. Wanted to be anyplace else but Macedyn." He shook his head. "She didn't react like turians usually do. She was like a whipped puppy. But she taught me how to pick biometric locks—"

"They're _easy_," Serana commented, softly, and deadpan.

Eli raised a finger at her chidingly, and went on, quietly, "helped us deal with a barracks Hallex-head, things like that. By the time we got done with boot camp, she very clearly had a thing for Lin, and he took her off to a candidate hotel after we got out. He spent the _entirety_ of OCS trying to convince her to marry him. She agreed to a practice-marriage—two year contract—so they'd be posted together. And then we all wound up back on Macedyn, where she'd come from." Eli closed his eyes for a moment. "Turians, by and large, do not force their females. It is a little-known fact that a female _can_ resist the reflex urge to relax from a control-bite. I've seen what happens to males who try to force a turian female. If their legs aren't secured. . . spur-kick to the male's kidneys or spine, if she gets lucky on her aim. Very damned painful, and usually lethal. Not that it isn't _deserved_." He grimaced. Extrapolating on that had . . . definitely added to his understanding of why estrus was so damned dangerous. Even if the female had gone to the male of her choice. . .if a 'substitution' needed to be made, because the male in question already had a mate, for example. . . the substitute male could be in real physical danger. And if the male of _choice_ was weak or slipped up at all, or failed to meet his mate's. . . needs. . . there was a chance that the female might begin to resist. It got _really_ complicated from there, given that resistance generally _excited_ turian males, that could, in turn, be either a good thing or a bad thing, in context. "That being said, her gang didn't whore out their females. No, they were often 'given' to various males within the gang by their leader. If the females didn't bring in enough stolen goods, or otherwise displeased their leader, he'd beat them half to death and then have one or more of his males rape them."

From the expressions of absolute horror on everyone's faces, including Serana's, he had their undivided attention. Eli looked down at the table and finished, quietly, "Their particular leader also was a serial killer. Had a distinct pattern of killing married females, usually off-worlders. Never touched any of them, or the females in the gang himself. Sort of suspect he wasn't _able_ to. We were trying to track down the killer, didn't realize it was him. He realized who Brennia was. One of the few who'd gotten out from under his control. Had her shot on Valentine's day while we were all out at a really nice restaurant. She died in Lin's arms." He glanced up at a grating noise. Rel's talons were scraping through the surface of the table in front of him, and he was growling softly. "Rel . . . don't ding up the table, okay? It's okay. The male's dead."

"How?" Makur asked, his own voice a bass rumble, like incipient thunder.

Eli shrugged. "I fractured his skull and broke his neck. Two kicks. In my defense," he added, "he _was_ trying to bite out Lin's throat at the time."

"In your _defense?_" Rel muttered, obviously trying to keep his voice down, darting a glance back down the hallway. "What the _futar—_"

"Hey, that was my first kill in the line of duty. One week of administrative leave later, I was cleared and it was declared a clean kill. Right after I turned eighteen, actually, and about a month before I was reassigned to CID and Edessan." Eli glanced around. "So, now you know all the details that _I_ know. I don't know all their personal stuff. I know she thought he was an _ecus._" Hero, or a knight of old, one of the warriors who had ridden into battle on _rlatae_, in the ancient days of Palaven. "Past that, you'll have to ask him."

Siara had covered her mouth with her hand. "I didn't know," she whispered through her fingers. "I really didn't."

Eli shrugged and stood up. "He knows. You're fine," he told her and Makur, picking up the coffee and _apha_ and asari _eeling_ tea cups that were all that was left on the table.

Makur took Siara's arm by the elbow and more or less lifted her to her feet. "They unlocked the elevators yesterday evening," he commented. "I've spent the past three weeks all on this same level. I want to see more of this station, so that I feel like I actually know this territory. Come on."

"Have fun," Serana murmured. "I heard that F, G, H, and I levels weren't hit as bad, overall."

Eli glanced over at the other pair. "Dara, you and Rel going to hang out here for a while?"

Dara glanced at Rel, who shook his head minutely. "Apparently not," Dara replied, with a faint downward curl of her lips.

"You've all had us in your territory more or less non-stop for over three weeks," Rel commented, looking away. _Ahh. Evasion. Interesting, Rel._ Eli's cop instincts clicked into gear, and he just looked at Rel as his friend added, "I can carve pretty much anywhere on the station, and with the elevators being open. . . Makur's right. It would be nice to see areas that aren't. . . well. . . corpse patrol. We'll be back later. We'll try to make it fairly late, though." And then he caught Dara's hand and drew her towards the door, ignoring the slightly puzzled look Dara threw him. _Very interesting,_ Eli thought, staring at the door as it closed behind them all.

Serana moved over to help him with the cups, not that they needed more than rinsing. "You never told me _all_ of that before," she murmured. "I knew a _lot_ of the details of the serial murder case from when we talked about so many things during my leave after boot camp. But never so much about Brennia."

Eli leaned down, sliding a hand across her cheek, bracketing her jaw and mandible, and then kissed her lip-plates lightly. "Wasn't mine to tell. But. . . if it stops everyone from asking him and bringing it up again. . . sure." He looked down at her, unsure if he should add his other thought. That it might help her to understand Lin. Why the laughing boy they all remembered was so different now, most of the time. Eli was seeing more of his friend's original spirit lately, the one that never let anything bother him for long, but not nearly enough of it.

Serana leaned up into him and nipped his neck. "So. _Spectre_ Sidonis. Has a ring to it, doesn't it?"

"Sounds like my _dad_," Eli replied, dryly. He didn't know _how_ to react to the idea of being a Spectre. He'd wanted out of CID, sure. He'd opted to stay, because it made for an optimal chance at being with Serana. And while the Spectres looked to be co-opting her, too, he wasn't sure how this was going to work out. _If_ it worked out. Lantar's words aside, Eli wasn't all that sure he was Spectre material. Cop material, sure. He knew that. But Spectres were something above and beyond. Deep down inside, he still felt more or less as he had at the age of thirteen, fourteen. That they were _Spectres_. Commander Shepard, Garrus Vakarian. . . even his dad and Sam, now, were somehow. . . elemental. He knew, absolutely, that they could do _anything_, because they _had._ Him? Not so much. "Don't get your hopes up too much, _asperitalla._ We're all candidates, but I'd bet money that there's going to be more than just seven or eight candidates. Might not make it through."

Serana looked up at him, and said, calmly, "You are _such_ an idiot. You fought a _dragon_. You can do anything you damned well set your mind to doing. _Both of my battle-brothers can_." She'd switched languages and was nipping chidingly at his throat, making him chuckle a little. Serana pulled back after a moment. "So, once we've taken twenty minutes to pack our clothes, and, what, an hour to pack your kitchen stuff and the linens into the moving boxes they arrived in," she said, with a faintly whimsical smile, "what else is there to do with the day?"

Eli grinned down at her. "Oh, I have _ideas_," he told her, cheerfully.

"You always have _ideas_."

"Yes, and they're usually _good_ ones. Like. . . say. . . we knock out the packing really quickly. Then you put on that _really_ nice skirt and top that you wore to Depth Charge—assuming the clothes are, you know, plague-free—and we actually do what the others are doing. Go explore parts of Bastion that _aren't_ full of death." It _hurt_ to see Bastion the way he'd been seeing it these past weeks. Mindoir was his home, but Bastion was, too. It wasn't the _Citadel_, but he'd started living here when they first pressurized B and C levels, had watched the place grow and change, and now. . . it was a hollow shell of itself.

"Are we talking that _very_ short skirt?" Lin asked, from the hallway, eyes glittering a bit. Eli chuckled and nodded. "I keep saying, that outfit's an invitation to stay _in_. Also, sounds like a date. You're both in dire need of one." Lin opened the hall closet and dug out the moving boxes, which had been flattened and stuffed in there, for lack of any better place to put them. "I'll get started here. You guys _go._"

Serana squeezed one of Eli's hands, and looked up at him inquiringly. Eli shrugged, leaving it up to her. She stepped lightly over to Lin, and took one of the boxes away from him. "It'll go faster if we all help," she told him, simply. "Besides, you could come exploring with us."

It really did take almost depressingly little time to pack. Eli shook his head. "I've been living like a nomad since before I left Mindoir. Since the first time I left Bastion, really. Lantar got us up really early that morning, because of the threatening letters he'd received. And we all got out the door with a bag of clothes each and maybe a datapad, and that's about it. By the time we got back, the vandals had wrecked almost everything in the place." Eli shrugged. Where all of his turian peers had carefully packed up and given away their childhoods when it was time to go to boot camp, his had been torn away unexpectedly. He'd held onto it in other ways, but he'd learned not to be concerned with _stuff_ that day. Getting attached to _stuff_ just meant that it hurt when someone took it away from you.

Still, it did tend to make the apartment feel a little hollow, and the fact that packing for three people took under an hour was something of a statement. They'd clear out the rest tonight after dinner—they'd use paper towels for plates for the meal, likely, and could use their fingers to eat almost everything left in the cryo-unit.

Serana skipped off, and came back, dressed as requested, knife glinting on her left arm, and a mask of composure over her face. Eli slid an arm around her waist and pulled her towards the door. "Come on," he told Lin. "Let's go up to F level. Xalae district wasn't as hard hit as the rest, right?" While he wasn't wearing armor, Eli _was_ carrying his guns. And as his forearm brushed the small of Serana's back, he realized that she was, too. _See, __asperitalla__, how __fast__ that becomes habit?_ he thought, not smiling.

Xalae district was a large turian residential and shopping zone in Red sector; it was next to a human zone called Smithson. Eli got a few odd looks from the handful of turians in the streets, but a lot more of the shops and restaurants were open up here than he'd expected to see, after the devastation of C level, and what he'd heard about on J level, where the Hierarchy barracks were. No one was really standing near each other, and people ordering food in restaurants tended to be ordering it to go. Lin found a _nepa_ kebab stand that was actually open, and bought himself and Serana a skewer. Serana offered Eli a bite, and he shook his head. "No thanks. Last partner ate that stuff deep-fried, for lunch. Every day. For two years. I can't _stand_ the smell anymore."

"Deep-fried?" both turians replied, sounding horrified.

"As my heart beats and I take air, yes," Eli said in English, not even realizing how odd it sounded in a human language. At one point, passing a jewelry store, he caught Lin's eye and muttered, "Keep her distracted, huh?"

Lin snickered and directed Serana towards a pet store window, where cages of kittens and small _lanurae_ were on display. Eli went inside quickly and handled his transaction quickly before coming back outside again and looking over Serana's shoulder. _I hope she's not this easily distracted in the field,_ he thought, resting a hand on her arm. "You know it would be very unfair to an animal to take one with us. Six months' quarantine before we'd even see it on Mindoir, poor thing."

Serana nodded judiciously. "So, what did you get me?" she asked, not looking up from the window.

"Me? Get you something?" Eli was good at playing dumb. It was hard to pull off when she was laughing at him, though.

"Yes. Nice plate glass window. Very reflective. You two tend to forget that I've been trained, too." Serana's voice was very sly. "And neither of you is nearly as sneaky as you think you are."

"Well, then you'll just have to wait and see," Eli told her blandly. "Occasionally, it's good for you not to know _all_ the secrets there are." He pulled her hand up into the crook of his arm. Physicality for a human was the same as marking for a turian, after all. Lin glanced down at them, eyes clearly amused, as they all turned to go.

As they were starting to leave the area to head back down to C level, there was one minor incident that somewhat spoiled things. A street preacher had set up camp by the elevators, and B-sec officers on duty were attempting to persuade him to leave. "Repent," the human shouted, wild-eyed. "Repent! This illness is a warning from God. Turn aside from your wicked ways. The mingling of species is an affront in his eyes—you! You, human!" He struggled past the two B-Sec guards who were trying to calm him down without actually touching him. . . tricky, in any event, and trickier than usual, because of the plague. "You wear their paint! Don't you understand that each species was made, separate and unique, for a _reason_? That you should _rejoice_ in being human—" He was in arm's reach right now, and waving a cardboard sign on a stick in their faces.

All three of them had tensed a bit. Eli was actually really rather _hoping_ the guy would hit them with the damned sign. It would be a lovely excuse. The guy smelled bad, even through a mask, and Eli pitied the turians around him, who would surely _taste_ as well as smell the man. "Why don't you get out of me and my wife's face?" Eli suggested, quietly, "and let us use the elevator in peace?"

"Wife? There can be no true marriage in the eyes of God between human and turian, any more than between a man and a dog. It's against God, against nature, a perversion. _You_ have brought down this judgment on these people here, you and your turian whore—" and at that point, the male had gotten close enough, he was waving his sign so furiously that it traveled inside the line of Eli's body, so that it would look, to almost any camera that happened to be turned on in the area, as if he'd taken a wild swipe at one or both of them. Eli grabbed his arm and stepped in, beside and behind, pivoting, driving the man face-first into the floor and pinning the man's arm behind him before dropping down and putting a knee on his back. _You can call __me__ anything you want, but you don't get to call my wife that,_ he thought, a little distantly, as the man groaned a bit on the ground.

He glanced up. Lin was already showing identification to the two officers, and saying, calmly, "I'm Officer Pellarian. My friend here is Agent Sidonis, with turian CID. I think this falls under the categorization of 'self-defense' and 'minimal use of force'?"

_Minimal, yeah. Goddamn shame I couldn't actually get away with breaking one of his wrists or a thumb here,_ Eli thought, looking up at Serana, whose eyes were narrow as she stared down at the human male on the ground. "Sorry, sweetheart," Eli told her. "_I'm_ used to this, and Dara's sure as hell heard a lot of this _s'kak_ over the years since she married your brother, but this is probably your first dose of human hate-mongering." He looked down at the guy, who was trying to get up, and as the man turned and looked at him, there must have been _something_ in his glance that made the human think the better of it, because he cringed and settled down peacefully on the ground at that point.

"Dara sent me a handful of examples of the mail she still gets periodically. Any time she's on the news, apparently, even if it's just in the background of a shot of Kallixta and Rinus." Serana crouched down as the two B-Sec officers got in position to shackle the guy, more or less on a disturbing the peace and protesting without a permit set of charges. Eli didn't plan to be around long enough to file an assault charge against the guy, and it would get messy anyway.

He still _stewed_ in the elevator and all the way back to the apartment. _Thought the whole AEC being discredited, shown up as a bunch of complete idiots who had their own hate manipulated and used by outsiders would have made people think twice about spouting off this kind of shit, but I guess it's always there, always underneath the polite, civilized, friendly face of every species, just waiting for a chance to blame someone else for current misfortunes. I mean, it couldn't be that it's a genetically engineered plague set up by people who hate us, oh no. It's God, because he's out to __get__ us. Because God has nothing better to do with his time than regulate who wins handball games and play peeping tom outside people's bedroom windows. If there is any god out there, I sure hope he or she or it is __much__ more concerned with making sure the universe doesn't implode in a couple of trillion years, or that if it does, it explodes back out again and it all starts over again. That's what I __want__ a god making sure of—_

"_Spirits, but you look __exactly__ like Lantar when you get mad,"_ Lin said, opening the front door of the apartment. _"You go silent just like him, too. It's like your spirit just leaves, and something else comes and takes its place for a while."_

Eli glanced up. _"Right, like you're not _pissed off, _too."_ He stepped inside, shaking his head.

"_Oh, I am. But I don't get mad the way you do."_ Lin held the door for Serana, and then followed them in.

Serana slid a hand up Eli's back, following his spine. _"I heard what people on Bastion used to call Lantar,"_ she offered, smiling a little.

"_Mor'loci. I know."_

"_No, scary son of an __acrocanth__. The resemblance really __is__ marked."_

Eli snorted, and let them jolly him into a slightly better mood. "Sorry," he offered. There weren't many words of apology in turian. _"I shouldn't let that _jackass_ spoil the day_."

"_Exactly,"_ Serana told him, sliding both arms around him now. Full physical openness; both comfortable and comforting. _"Besides, the day's not over yet. Plenty of time to forget that __anserae__."_

Eli took off his mask and then planted a kiss on her forehead. "True enough. Besides, I _did_ get you a present up there." He dropped to his knees and fished the box out of a pocket, carefully removing the delicate silver links of the anklet that had caught his eye. "Hope you like this enough to wear it, _amatra_." And he fastened it in place. It was cleverly made. Tiny _lanurae_ chased dragonflies all the way around, and it draped very nicely just above her spur. "There we go." He planted a quick kiss on her ankle beside it, and stood up.

Lin had moved away during the by-play, and was getting things assembled for lunch in the kitchen. Serana lifted her foot to peek at the anklet, and grinned. "_Thank you. It's lovely, and of course I'll wear it."_ A quick nip to the side of Eli's neck. A little tentatively, she added, _"It occurred to me, as we were walking around. . . "_

"Hmm?"

"_We're about to go back to Mindoir. Where there will be very little privacy for, well, who knows how long."_ Serana's tone was a little resigned.

Eli frowned. He'd been out of barracks for two years now, and had gotten used to having a space of his own. Even if the current apartment was shared, it was shared among equals. _"__S'kak__. Yeah, I guess they haven't really built a hotel in the valley or anything crazy like that, have they."_ He grimaced. _"We're not going to wind up at your parents' house, along with Dara and Rel and the kids, are we?"_

Lin snorted over the counter. _"You always forget, brother, you're first-son and have your own clan. No, you and she will probably wind up at your parents' And I'll wind up at __my__ parents'."_

"_At least until they open the candidates' barracks for us,"_ Eli muttered. Which suddenly sounded a lot better an option. Not that he didn't want to see his family, but . . . the house also wasn't really _his_ place anymore. And having _four_ small children in the house would make for a lot of being _first-son_. _And they wonder why Rinus never comes home on leave_, he thought, in mild amusement. "So, what you're saying, Serana, is that there's not going to be _any_ privacy at all." He looked down at her. _"So, we should. . . take advantage of it while we have it?"_

"_Yes,"_ she answered, looking up at him. . . and then flicking a quick look past him, too. _"I mean. . . practice makes perfect, right?"_

Lin stopped what he was doing, and came around the counter out into the living room. Slid his hands around Serana's waist from behind, and nipped her neck lightly. _"You don't have to feel obliged."_

"_I don't. Just . . . it takes the darkness away. For a little while, anyway. And we won't be able to, for a while. So. . . why not?_" Her tone was a little breathless, and a little defiant, too. _"I'm not sure we could possibly anger any spirits any more than we already have."_ Eli realized again, how much he _loved_ his little fierce one. Only Serana would be this giving, this loving, and this inclined to flick-off the entire world, all at the same time.

Eli chuckled, and spun her around in his arms, facing her towards Lin. He nibbled on her neck a little more, and his hands slipped down to play with the hem of that short skirt. _"You sure, __asperitalla__?"_

"_Yes."_

Lin dropped to his knees now and started biting Serana's waist, as Eli kept nibbling at her throat. Little, soft noises from her throat. _"Like this?"_ Eli whispered. _"Me behind, Lin in front?" _

"_You'll __let__ me?"_ Lin murmured softly, as Eli gently removed the gun from Serana's harness and laid it on the counter.

"_Yes,"_ Serana told him, but her voice had scaled up to a slightly less certain squeak.

They'd pulled her skirt up by now, and Lin said, quietly, _"I learned to do __this__ from a human girl on Nimines. Wish I'd known how to, before. . . "_ Eli felt Serana's back arch, go rigid, and glancing down, could see Lin was applying his tongue carefully and thoroughly. Eli groaned. He wanted nothing more than to be inside his wife right now, but _slowly_ was the name of this particular game.

"_I'm going to feel different than Lin did,"_ he warned against her ear, rubbing a finger against her cloacal opening. _"If you find you like one of us better in one place than the other, it's okay."_

"_All feels good_," Lin agreed hoarsely. Then he stood back up and slipped himself up and into Serana, groaning, closing his eyes against the sensation. Eli could feel Serana's whole body quiver, and, biting her shoulder, _hard_, began working her, readying her.

He released his grip and managed to ask, _"Can you control-bite without marking?"_

"_Yeah. Think so. Turian scales are tougher than asari skin. If I go where your marks already are, won't matter."_ Lin looked down at Serana. _"You want the bite from me?"_

"_Both of you,"_ she whispered. _"Same time."_

In a moment, they were the only things supporting her as she relaxed for them, and little shudders of release and pleasure began running through her. _"Don't stop_," she whispered. _"Pretend it's estrus and don't stop."_

"_Not stopping,"_ Eli released the bite long enough to mutter, and lifted her by her hips, so neither of them had to bend their knees so much to get a decent angle. She wrapped her arms around Lin's shoulders and they both held her in place and took her until she cried out and shuddered and trembled for them. _"Love you, little fierce one,"_ Eli whispered in her ear as they let her slide down between them again, so that her feet actually touched the floor again. _"Body, mind, heart, and spirit."_ And then they all slid to the floor, finding better leverage, better positions. Chasing the anger and the doubt and the sorrow away.

By the time the others returned, they were already cleaned up and dressed, and Lin and Serana had, sheepishly, proclaimed the living area free of any mating smells after a certain amount of Lysol had been sprayed into the air. Eli had kicked on the extranet console for the first time in a week to see what _else_ was going on in the galaxy, and Serana was curled up against him on the couch, watching the news with him. Then Dara and Rel knocked, and walked in. "You're just in time for the daily dose of bad news," Eli called to them.

Rel looked a little annoyed. "If it involves religious protestors on Bastion claiming that the plague is—"

"All the fault of the mixing of species?" Lin asked, tartly, from the kitchen, where he was setting up a fresh _aphora_ of _apha_.

"Oh, you ran into them, too?" Dara asked, sitting down in a boneless pile on the chair next to the sofa.

"Just one, yeah. He took a swing at us with his sign, Eli dropped him, I made nice with my colleagues in B-Sec. . . " Lin replied, and the _aphora_ began to percolate. "Personally, I think Eli was a little too kind to him."

"Hey, I _wanted_ to break his arm for calling my wife certain nasty names, but that makes for paperwork," Eli replied. He was feeling _much_ calmer about the whole situation now. _Go figure._

Rel picked up the half-finished carving off the spirit table and dug out his carving knives and burins from one of the suitcases nearby, and found a spot at the table to continue work on it. "We went up through _Xalae_ district today. Store where we bought our _manus_ knives is locked down tight," Dara commented tiredly. "Sign said that the owners had passed to the spirits." She looked off into the mid-distance. "Got my wedding dress there, too." She rubbed at her face. "But hey, most of the rest of the district doesn't look as bad as, you know, down here. Or in the med bays."

Eli glanced over, and wondered, absently, why Rel was sitting at the table, rather than in the living area. "Rel, those chairs are not exactly comfortable. We can make room in here for you."

"No, that's okay," Rel called back. Dara caught Eli's eye and shook her head, minusculely. _Ahh. Something __is__ eating him. Guess he'll spit it out when he's ready._

On the aerogel screen in front of them, a turian announcer appeared. "The scene today in Complovium on Palaven is a stark one," he said, in galactic. "Today, Quinus fifteenth, the Imperatrix Aglaea, third of that name, passed to the spirits."

There was a clatter from the kitchen as Lin dropped something. Rel stood and moved to lean on the back of Dara's chair, watching and listening intently. "The Imperatrix had, for several years, endured a painful condition known as _crus varixus—"_ Everyone in the room looked at Dara, who translated the medical jargon immediately as _thrombosis_, "and, in spite of the best medical care available, had fallen ill of _comburo febris_, which in turn produced a persistent upper respiratory infection. She was bedridden for seven days, which may have encouraged the formation of a blood clot in the damaged veins in her legs, and the wracking cough that accompanied the fever may have caused the blood clot to break free and travel to the lungs, where it caused—"

Dara, wincing, said, "a pulmonary embolism" at the same time that the announcer did. "Fuck. that's a really bad way to go."

"How bad?" Serana asked.

Dara grimaced. "Coughing up bloody foam until your lungs collapse. It's usually _very_ quick when it happens. No way to predict it. They probably had her on blood thinners already to prevent clots from forming, but once they're loose in the blood stream, well . . veins go to the lungs in turians, same as in humans. The capillaries are very fine in there. Doesn't take much to explode one or more alveoli, really."

Eli had paused the newsfeed to listen, and his stomach twisted at Dara's words. "So the docs aren't at fault?"

"_Really_ doubt it. They'll be investigated, of course, and I don't envy them a damn bit. Mortality and morbidity conferences aren't fun to begin with. _This_ level of scrutiny? Ugh."

Eli waved at the screen to get the feed moving again, and the announcer continued, "The Imperator has declared the next three days a time of public mourning. All stock exchanges will be closed inside the Hierarchy. All military bases will be closed to the public. All state employees will be given three day's liberty. The Conclaves of _Dominae_ and Lawgivers will be forbidden to meet while the Imperatrix rests in state in the center of the rotunda of the Conclave of the _Dominae_. Her remains will be interred in the _Nefastus Hortulus_, the forbidden gardens adjacent to the Imperial Palace in Complovium, alongside the remains of hundreds of others born to the Imperial line over the millennia. Imperatrix Algaea joins Commodus the Unifier and his wife, Venisita. She joins Subigus the Conqueror and his wife, Sorexia, in the eternal silence of the gardens, on Quinus nineteenth." The announcer paused. "The Systems Alliance, to show their support for the Hierarchy in this troubled time, has directed that the flags of all military bases and public buildings will be lowered to half-mast for the next three days, a custom dating to the human maritime period, in which room for Death's invisible banner was left at the top of a mast on a ship that had suffered such a loss. The President of the Systems Alliance has also directed that five minutes of silence will be observed at ten after ten, GMT, on the morning of May 21, concurrent with the Imperatrix's burial. This gesture is in honor of both the Hierarchy's losses, and in respect to the one hundred million lives already lost on Terra."

Dara was already moving to the comm panel, trying to get a line through to Palaven. "Son of a bitch," she muttered.

"Fair bit of transmission traffic?" Rel offered, coming over behind her, resting a hand on her shoulder, and looking at the comm panel himself.

"Yeah. Even Rinus and Kallixta's direct line. . . no joy." She sighed. "Damn it."

On the view screen, the announcer paused again. "I'm Galenus Eleutherius, reporting from Palaven. Now, for the real question: Who is responsible for what appears to be an engineered virus and what does the Council plan to do about it? I'm pleased to announce that Emily Wong, of the Bastion News Network, has recovered from her own stint of illness." His smile looked genuine as Emily Wong's face appeared on the screen behind him. "Emily, welcome back."

Emily smiled in return, and brushed what looked like tears from her face. "Thank you, Galenus. I spoke with Councilor Odacaen of the Turian Hierarchy and Councilor Anderson of the Systems Alliance today. Both of them are recovering from the devastating illnesses that have swept Bastion, but expect to relieve their junior staff members who have been attending Council sessions in their place by tomorrow. I took the opportunity to ask Councilor Anderson if there are any leads in the investigation."

Anderson's face replaced Emily's for a moment. "I can't tell you everything that we know, but we _do_ suspect the involvement of a batarian splinter group known as the _Klem Na._ The _Klem Na_ started off life as a mercenary and slaving organization, but have rapidly gained political power over the past four years. We cannot say, at this time, if the batarian government has any direct connection to these events." He paused. "But yes. There will be consequences. Far-reaching ones."

Eli exhaled. "Whoooo. That was a bomb to drop. I didn't think anyone on the Council would release _any_ information this early."

Rel had turned back around, and was staring at the screen intently. "Yeah. Unless we're _ready_ to strike back, which I don't think we are, that might have been a play to try to get the Hegemony to disavow the _Klem Na_, strip them of financial support, that sort of thing." He grimaced. "The political aspects make my head hurt. Rinus would understand this better. . . " and Rel turned back and slapped a hand down on the comm panel. "Unfortunately, even if he _is_ feeling better, we can't get _through_ to him."

On screen, Emily Wong now added, "In other news, Commander Shepard of the Spectres has announced that the Spectres are opening their biennial recruitment effort. While the Special Tasks and Reconnaissance Group does not disclose the names of every candidate, Commander Shepard did tell me that I would recognize a few of the recruits when I meet them at the Spectre base in a few days' time. Yes, I have been once again given the honor of covering the prestigious and grueling candidate trials." She paused. "The general media has pressed for more reporters to be permitted access, and this year, a pool of reporters will be sent with me from other news organizations. These reporters were selected at random from a all the names submitted to the Spectres, and include Galenus Eleutherius of the Hierarchy State News Agency, who will be joining us after covering the funeral cortege and burial of the turian Imperatrix."

Dara's fingers flew over the large aerogel screen for a moment, and pulled up a list of reporter names. Rel peered at the list. "Any ones that I've dangled over cliff edges recently?" he asked, lightly.

"Rel!" Serana said, sharply, sitting up. "You _didn't._"

"Came _really_ close to it on Macedyn a few years ago. Caught one of the damned tabloid photographers on the cliff path when we were all down on the shore." Rel's teeth showed for a moment as he turned back towards the rest of the room, a hint of absolute amusement in his eyes. "They've _all_ kept a slightly more respectful distance since then. And the turian agencies have been scrupulous about blurring out my face and Dara's." He snickered a little.

"That actually wasn't what I was worried about," Dara muttered, scrolling through the list. And then she sighed and exhaled. "Good. The bitch's name isn't on the list." She visibly relaxed and made her way back to the chair, sinking down again, slumped. Eli was very good at reading body language, and Dara's spoke of exhaustion_._ Mind, spirit, and body.

"Which bitch is this?" Serana asked, sounding concerned.

"Al-Jilani. She'll twist every word that comes out of your mouth." Dara looked glum. "I sort of messed up when I even _talked_ to her before. And you know what? People eat her up. Westerlund news is still one of the top newsfeeds on Earth. God only knows why. But even my grandmother reads that _s'kak._" She looked around at Eli, Lin, and Serana, lips turned down. "If she ever corners you. . . and I'd bet money that win, lose, or draw after the trials, she'll try, here's my advice. Don't answer her. At all. No matter what she asks. It'll just be a segue into something else, or you'll be quoted out of context." She pointed at Eli. "And _you_ are in the same boat as I am. She'll be hunting for your hide even more than mine this time."

Eli raised his eyebrows. "Oh?

"Turian Spectre father, turian paint, turian wife. If you make Spectre, you're a story. If you don't make Spectre, you're a story. This time, I'm practically camouflaged. I've got a Spectre father and a turian husband. Your turn in the crosshairs, Eli." She closed her eyes.

"A turian husband who'll make Spectre before any of the rest of us," Lin commented, bringing the apha cups around, and handing one to Rel, who was standing behind Dara's chair, looking down at her, an odd expression on his face. Perplexity, Eli finally decided. As if he wasn't quite sure what to do with her. Peculiar to see on Rel, who'd always simply exuded life and self-confidence and love whenever Dara was concerned.

Dara opened her eyes. "That's definitely true, Lin," she acknowledged.

Eli grinned at her. "And _you're_ the one who's practically the sister of an imperial scion."

"Kallixta's _your_ _amil'ama_, too," Dara retorted.

"I'm with Rinus. I try to forget that as much as possible," Eli replied with aplomb, which made Rel and Lin both snort with laughter as Lin handed Serana a cup now, as well. "Besides, you and Rel have twenty-five AI 'children.' Tell me some reporter won't dig that up at some point."

Dara's shoulders slumped. Rel exhaled, looking annoyed. "I'd like to point out that they're all illegitimate, too," Eli added, lightly.

Dara threw a pillow at him. Eli caught it, laughing.

Siara and Makur called to let them know they'd _actually_ found an empty hotel room somewhere. So the bunking situation was less complex tonight for a change. Eli lay awake, staring at the clock, wondering why sleep was so damned hard to come by tonight. His arms were wrapped around Serana, and he continuously swept one hand lightly over her fringe.

"Eli?"

"Hmm?"

"The bed is big, but I really won't get lost in it if you let go for a second." There was a smile in her voice as she picked up his hand and lightly bit the inside of his wrist. "You're so _tense_. It's like every muscle in your body's turned to iron." She turned around. "Nervous about Spectre trials?"

"I guess."

She paused, then added, barely doing more than breathing against his ear, "Worried about me?"

"A little." She was the star around which he orbited, radiating light and life like a beacon in space, and he was perfectly content to circle around her. And he didn't mind if someone else shared in her light. He just didn't want to ruin anything, or perturb their orbits.

"You're _not_ going to lose me. Only way it could happen is if you left me. Is that going to happen?"

"No."

"So stop worrying and go to sleep. I love you, you great big idiot."

For a wonder, he finally did sleep.

And in the morning, they did a last minute check on their bags, and, as a group, headed for the elevators, wearing their full armor and kits, to avoid having to carry any of it. Siara and Makur and Snowflake met them at the C-level elevators, looking like they, too, hasn't slept. . . although from the faint smile on Siara's face, it might not have been nerves that had kept her awake.

Sam and Lantar met them at Customs and walked them through. Dr. Abrams was with them, and Dr. Chakwas, in a wheelchair, with a full breather on over her face. Dara immediately moved to her side, and took over pushing, leaning down to rest her head briefly on the elderly doctor's shoulder. Dr. Chakwas looked up, and Eli could see the smile in her eyes as she said, "Dara? My dear, how nice to see you here." Then Abrams and Dara started talking about pulse and respiration and viral counts and white blood cell counts, and Eli shook his head.

Then up through the long, out-flung arms that surrounded the station. Eli paused, and laughed. "Dad? Wasn't it slip C-27 six years ago, too?"

"Yeah. I think it's the same berth," Lantar agreed. "Only so many spaces on this arm that will accommodate the SR-2, after all."

The white, curving body of the _Normandy_ gleamed in Menvra's light, almost glowing outside the double-paned plasteel windows of the tunnel that they were lightly gliding through now. _It's still the most beautiful ship in the whole galaxy,_ Eli thought, smiling.

**Rellus, Bastion and _Normandy_, May 18, 2196**

Rel had been aboard half a dozen SR-1s and SR-3s, which were comparably sized to one another, although the SR-3s boasted considerably more engine power per square foot. It didn't diminish his delight to be aboard the _Normandy_ again. Uncle Garrus and Aunt Lilu's ship. The ship that had turned the tide at the battle of Palaven, defeated the Reapers, and, which, not incidentally, had been the scene of many family events. The _Normandy_ had taken his family from Palaven to Mindoir, close to eleven years ago, for instance. And had taken him to Earth with Dara, once upon a time.

Dara. . . Dara _worried_ him right now. Rel glanced down at his little mate's head, closed off in her helmet, as she leaned up against a wall in the decontamination chamber, the light mist of cleansing fluids washing over her, just as it was the rest of them. She'd been quietly resigned to their separation for the year scheduled on Rocam. She obviously hadn't liked the necessity, but had acknowledged it. Then he'd been MIA for ten days, and he'd been overwhelmed by relief when she and the others had come to collect him. She'd acceded to his idea of shore leave on Illium easily enough, and he was certain she'd enjoyed it as much as he had. . . and yet. . . something indefinable was wrong. Oh, she was loving and attentive and concerned, and did her best to take care of him, and kept a better eye on his stress levels than he did, himself. It had taken him until the night before last to figure it out, too, and he wasn't sure what to _do_ about it. He'd realized, as she was talking to Eli. . . that he had absolutely no idea when the last time she'd told him about her dreams had been.

Oh, she'd _said_ she'd had nightmares. Even two nights ago, she'd huddled closer to him after a such a dream, and offered him her throat. Joked about pretending someone had a sandclock in their hands outside the door, promising to be quiet. And yet. . ._spirits, when did she stop __talking__ to me?_ _Why__ did she stop talking to me? What did I do wrong? And why __open __up for Eli?_

He'd asked her about it while they were out wandering around today. She'd shrugged it off. "Valid counseling strategy," Dara had said, her voice going into medical mode. "Exchange of vulnerabilities. Someone like Eli puts up a tough front on the job, all day, every day. Puts it up around friends, too. He's been vulnerable many, many times in his life—the cave, the batarians, Kella, Siara, you name it. He doesn't let many people in. So you have to show him you're willing to put down _your_ gun and take off your armor before he'll do the same thing."

Exchange of vulnerabilities. Such a _human_ thing. Like her tears, earlier in the evening. Grief, frustration, anger, exhaustion. As many different shades and nuances to human tears as there was to turian anger. He never knew what to do with any of them, except to put a hand on her shoulder, or wrap an arm around her. Eli had responded first, out of pure human instinct. Had wrapped her up in a tight hug and told her, without words, that she wasn't alone.

"What does _sai'kaea_ mean?" Rel had asked, over lunch, at some restaurant up on F level today.

Dara had looked blank. "Sounds asari. Probably means _share_." She'd snickered and found something on the menu. "Oh, wait, is that what Eli said last night? I'm sure a VI dictionary will have it. Good luck figuring out how to spell it, though. That language is all vowels and no consonants."

Rel had looked it up, finally lucking into the right spelling. _Fair one_. _Beloved._ _Amatra_. Not _marai'ha'sai, _more-than-fair, which meant, approximately, mate, or lover. Although the cultural notes in the translation file added that many asari did not believe in having one exclusive _marai'ha'sai._ They were not generally monogamous by culture, although some were _serially_ monogamous. A _fair-sister_ was someone with whom someone had entered into a lasting relationship, including joint finances and living arrangements, but a _fair_-_sister_ could be a cousin or a sister or a friend with whom one was not, apparently, sexually involved. It was. . . a little confusing; he'd never really cared enough to look into asari sociology much before.

And he absolutely believed Dara when she said she didn't know what the word meant. She'd been friends with Kella, but hadn't picked up more than four or five words of asari from the girl, and Siara had, for a time, made Dara almost aggressively distant from any asari she met. That had waned over time, of course. But now Rel _really_ wanted to ask his sister's husband, whom he counted one of his own _dimicato'fradu_, a best friend, why he'd chosen to call Dara _sai'kaea_ instead of, say, _amil'ama_. Beloved, and not sister.

So, Rel was irritated and angry. Worried about Dara, worried about Rinus and Kallixta on Palaven, and the great joy of seeing the damned visions of the simulator come true, being tapped as a Spectre candidate after years of very damned hard work—work that he'd _enjoyed_, of course, but still damned hard work—were tempered by the fact that they _were_ being tapped. Much earlier than he'd ever expected. Which indicated that either the plagues had shortened the timetable, or other things were transpiring that he wasn't aware of. Which filled him with fear-anger on top of everything else. Nothing he could do about any of it.

So, as they sat in the decontamination chamber, his mind replayed dozens of conversations from the past several years. Planning their _tal'mae_ rites, she'd been quiet and forthright about it. Happy, certainly. Too busy in med bay to give Kallixta more than a list of names and some contact information, and to tell her, "We've got the knives. Make sure the event planner offers both dextro and levo foods and drinks, clearly marked for all the guests, and that they have a list of ingredients on hand for everything. Full dress uniforms are fine. Let's not make anyone have to shop for anything they'll never use again. Least of all, me. Past that, the coordinator can make all the decisions so long as they don't go over-budget. No, recorded music is fine. Sky will complain, but I don't have time to do much of anything else."

Kallixta had protested, "I can _help_ with that, Dara. People are taking _leave_ to come see you. It should be . . .worth their while. Let me get some live musicians, at least."

Dara had shrugged it off. "Don't go to the expense. If you want to pick out music, go ahead. Just choose stuff that won't make either turians and humans suddenly start bleeding at the ears, okay? That's hard to fix, and something of a damper on a party."

He'd taken that all as more or less a repeat of their manus rites and her avowed dislike for fuss, and hadn't thought much about it. It didn't matter to him _how_ they celebrated _tal'mae_, so long as they _did_. That they announced to everyone that they were _forever_. And yet. . . he wondered if he'd missed something. Something very important, in fact. _In four years, when we pledge __tal'mae_, _then we can pull out all the stops_, Dara's voice whispered in his mind, and he remembered sitting and laughing at the table with Sam and Kasumi.

_Come to think of it. . . when the hell was the last time she played the __reela__?_ Rel wondered. . . and couldn't come up with _that_, either, which downright shocked him. _Before I left Rocam. . . no. __S'kak.__ She hadn't unpacked it when I left. Time was, she'd have unpacked it first, before clothes or anything else. On Sur'Kesh. . . yes. . . every evening she wasn't at the hospital, she'd play for an hour. Sometimes with just the moon shining in, doing all the notes from memory. Random doodles of song. Sometime between __then__. . . that was 2194. . . and now. . . yeah. Right in and around there. Whatever it is that's wrong, probably started last year. Or at least, got visible last year. Damn it._

They finished decontamination, and Sam told them, the hatch started to spin open, "Well, we've got bunks set up in crew quarters for y'all. Lin, you already know your bunkmate."

"I do?" Lin called back over the churn of machinery and hydraulics.

"Yeah, Fors Luka. Sky, Gris, _and_ Bailey all recommended him."

Eli's eyebrows went up behind his visor. "Outstanding," he called back. "Hey Dad? When you test Fors, I'm going to give you fair warning. He's got a sense of humor."

Lantar turned and looked at him. "And?"

"Generally speaking, you don't."

"I've been known to make a joke or two."

"I wrote it down on _both_ occasions, Dad. He's great, Dad. He's just not very turian. At all."

Rel was watching and listening. He vaguely recalled someone short and volus-shaped from some of those lucid periods during the illness in Eli and Lin's apartment, but the details eluded him. But Lin was chuckling a little.

Then as they started to pass through the hatch, a familiar voice greeted them all. _Sings-to-the-Past, Sings-Regrets, you have brought them, and all are well!_ Brilliant peacock colors of blues and greens accompanied that exultant song. _Sings-Heartsong, Sings-Honor, Many-Voices, Sings-Justice, Sings-Secrets! Pain-Singer and Sings-Shields! Daughter-queens and young brood-warriors, returning to the place of their hatching at the call of Truth-singer. As it should be._

Linianus hadn't often been around Sky. "Was one of those names me?" he whispered to Eli, but Rel heard the words clearly.

_Yes, Sings-Justice, you are yourself._

"That answers that," Eli told him, dryly. "Good luck figuring the rest out. I've never understood his name for me."

_Many-Voices is closer now to understanding than he was before._

Serana laughed as Eli took off his helmet to give the rachni a dark look. "Great. That's very helpful, Sky."

Dara had already moved to _hug_ the rachni, and had been engulfed by two big handling appendages. Rel shook his head, slightly. He could see her _beaming_ smile through her faceplate, and again wondered, _What have I done wrong? She just opened up, completely. What __else__ have I missed?_

Sky's voice whispered in his mind, _Sings-Heartsong sings violets and grays. Sorrow and regret and exhaustion. Her voice hurts her, from much weeping. She sings strength to you, to keep __you__ strong. Never wishes you to hear her sorrow-songs. Harmonies of love very complex._

Rel exhaled. As soon as he figured out what that _meant_, he was sure it would help.

Somehow.

"Hey, and what about me?" came a voice from about knee height. Rel looked down, and couldn't help but smile. A volus was looking up at them, snuffling inquisitively.

Eli turned and grinned. "Fors," he said, crouching down and offering the volus a hand. "Really glad you're along on this crazy trip with us."

"Well, it's like this. I figure, if I become a Spectre, I'll have accrued so much value, I might actually bankrupt my current family of all other personnel resources. No one will be able to afford me, and they won't be able to unload me on anyone else as a result." The volus' tone was droll. "So why not give it my best shot?"

Eli grinned up at Lantar. "See what I mean, Dad?"

From behind the polarized mask, a very reluctant chuckle.

"Oh, wait a second. I heard that. That was the sound of a turian laugh. That's twice inside of a month. The universe is mocking my expectations of it." Fors' voice went dour. "Of course, it's having a little fun at all our expense, too. Would you believe who the _drell_ recommended as a Spectre candidate?" They were all moving through the ship at a rapid clip now, heading into an elevator to drop down to the crew deck for Fors and Lin, first.

Rel looked at the volus, puzzled. "I don't think I know any drell, beyond the kids we went to school with."

Lin, however, had clenched his mandibles. "No," he said, his voice a little sick.

"Oh yes," Fors said, with grim relish.

"And she's _aboard the __futtari__ Normandy_?" Linianus didn't even edit his language for the presence of the two Spectres in the elevator with them. He turned and stared at Lantar, and abruptly, Rel was reminded again that Lin and Eli had both spent every _single day_ of the last four and a half years, effectively 'in the field.' Soldiers, even special operations, had downtime. Often groused at it, in fact. Dead time spent on an SR ship, running silent, waiting for a signal, waiting for some sign of the enemy. Time sometimes simply spent mapping star systems or escorting merchant or passenger ships through dangerous sectors of space. Their two friends, through the MPs and CID, hadn't _had_ any such breaks. Every single day, either walking dangerous beats or investigating crimes or dealing with people at their worst. _Every single day._

Lin had been a laughing, affable young male in school. A tease and a joker, a restless spirit always in search of something new to do. More recently, like a ghost of himself. Diffident, quiet, reserved, though with little flashes of the old Lin, whenever Eli got him laughing again. He'd joked, just a few nights ago, that in this pack he was a beta. And that he was all right with that. At the moment, he threw off both the casual air of friendship and the diffidence of a beta. Leashed intensity and anger. And he was addressing Lantar in turian with just bare attention to the inferior-to-superior forms. _"We were on the verge of arresting her for __murder__, Lantar. And you're transporting her to the __candidate trials__ on the Spectre base?"_ Linianus exhaled. _"The Spectres have gone out of their way, under Shepard, to __avoid__ stepping on jurisdiction whenever possible. Why step in now, and in __this__ way?"_

Sam had resorted to his VI to keep up. "Lantar? I stopped following that halfway in."

"I've got it," Lantar answered. And then held up a finger at Lin. _"First, she's in chains, in the brig, with Joker watching her continuously from inside and outside the cell. With armed guards standing on the opposite side of forcefields from her, and one of those guards is __Livanus__."_ Lantar's voice was calm. _"Officially, she's a candidate, yes, but she's not __traveling__ as a candidate, she's traveling as a prisoner. Second, you two found her first in an __embassy__—which is a political s'kak-storm B-Sec needs no part of. . . and then Fors found her in a hospital treating plague victims, after coming down with the __s'kak_ _herself. Which would have been a PR nightmare that again, B-Sec needed no part of."_ Lantar was, interestingly, using familiar-to-familiar with Linianus. _He's treating Lin as a colleague_, Rel realized, fascinated.

Linianus relaxed, very slightly, and Rel sensed that the instant he did, Eli did, as well. He hadn't even realized that Eli had tensed until the human leaned back against the wall of the elevator again. "All right," Lin said, switching back to galactic. "Now explain why the hell they're offering a _futari_ murderer as a Spectre candidate."

Sam shooed them all out of the elevator as they reached the crew deck. "Because the hanar _always_ send drell infiltrators and assassins. That's what their most-highly trained operatives _are_. They have 'enforcers'—more or less mercenaries and thugs—as well. Ask Gris about them on Rough Tide someday if you want details. But they don't have a standing army. Hanar can't physically manage it, and there's fewer drell than there are quarians in the galaxy as a whole. So, they do things much differently than the rest of us." He sounded grim. "I don't like it, but so long as they play by Council rules in other people's space, I don't _have_ to like it."

"Coming aboard _Bastion_ and conducting a _hit_ doesn't sound like playing by Council rules," Lin pointed out, sharply.

"It's not," Lantar replied, still calm. "Blasto is on Kahje right now, trying to track down _all_ of the people who were involved in the various conspiracies. She _is_ an agent of the hanar government. We've looked through what they provided of her service record, and she is, actually, frightening good at what she does, by and large. Some of her orders _did_ come through their legal channels." He paused. "All those orders, legal and illegal, were given by the same hanar who has apparently used her entire family as slaves for at least sixteen years. Blasto found considerable evidence of religious indoctrination in her mother. We have her twin brother aboard, as well. For the moment, we're 'considering' her a candidate more or less to keep things as quiet as possible for Blasto while he investigates. And if nothing else, Liakos and her brother can answer questions for Blasto."

Sky sang in all their minds, _And when Sings-Peace returns from the world of many waters, then he and I will sing to her. We will find all her songs, learn every note. We will see what is to be done with Sings-Despair._

By then, they'd reached Lin and Fors' quarters. Sam tapped the hatch's opening panel, and gestured for them to head in. "Home sweet home. We're heading to Palaven, first. Have to pay our respects to the Imperatrix, and then try to figure out if there's any way we can extricate half the candidates currently aboard, and that we're picking up, from having to attend her funeral."

Rel's head came up. "Ah, _s'kak._ I hadn't even _thought_ of that." 

Lantar nodded. "Technically, Sam and I are _both_ in-laws through Eli and Dara, too. Plus, Rinus is a candidate. Would be . . . awkward. . .to scoop him and Kallixta up when there's a state funeral to go to."

Fors audibly chuffed through his ventilator. "So we're going to be stuck in orbit for three days?"

Rel looked over in amusement as Lin quipped, dryly, "I really doubt they're going to put you on the ground on Palaven, Fors. Not at a state funeral, anyway. You've got a _history_ there."

There was an audible snicker from the volus, and then Sam and Lantar turned the rest of them around, and took them below decks. The region under the engine had, as on many other SR ships, been refitted to small married quarters. "Eli," Rel said quietly, as each couple was opening the doors to their rooms, "could I have a word with you? Maybe after lunch?"

Eli looked up and blinked, holding the door open for Serana. After a moment, he said, "Sure. You're probably going to have to take a number after Lantar, though. Seems like half my life, people have been wanting to give me a piece of their minds."

"Could be because half your life, you've needed it," Serana told him, tartly, and then his sister dragged her mate into their room, laughing.

In their room, Dara was already neatly stacking her armor away and getting out workout clothes to change into. Again, Rel frowned a little. She'd had to scrounge through her wardrobe for civvies for their Illium trip. She had uniforms and scrubs, and a handful of shorts and T-shirts from their school days, and a swimsuit. That's what she'd worn on Sur'Kesh, off-duty. That's what she'd worn on Macedyn, on leave. That's what she'd worn on Illium—well, changing into jeans when various restaurants and shops had frowned on casual attire. "Dara?" Rel asked, quietly, closing the door behind himself, "are you _happy_?"

She looked up, dark eyes blank for a moment. "Huh? Oh. You mean, with the whole Spectre thing? Sure. It's what we've been working towards, right? I mean, it feels like I may never finish my damn surgical rotation at the rate I'm going, but the galaxy has to calm down at some point, and I can finish it up on Mindoir, if push comes to shove." She closed the closet door carefully and added, "If it's okay with you, I think I'm going to go upstairs to the gym and run on a treadmill for a while. I'm too nervous to just sit."

Rel caught her arm and pulled her to him, stroking her hair with one hand. Alien softness, something he'd never once tired of or taken for granted. "Are you all right?"

Dara looked up at him, startled and confused. "Yes. . . of course I am. What's wrong?" She reached up and put a hand on his face lightly.

"I just. . . I don't know. I just get the feeling that you're upset." _And that, somehow, it's probably my fault._

"No. Not upset. Just going for a run. You can join me if you want." A quick half-smile. He rarely turned down the chance to run.

"No. . . I think I'll stay here and work on a few things. Maybe talk with Eli."

"Okay. Don't terrorize Eli too much." She got up on tiptoes, and he leaned down enough for her to brush his mandible with a kiss, and then out the door she went.

_Terrorize? Me?_ If Eli had _ever_ been intimidated by a turian, those days were long past. Rel changed out of his own armor, and pulled a couple of spirit statues out, to place on the little table in their quarters. Where they went, the statues went. He lightly touched the one he'd done, years ago, of Dara struggling to calm the spooking _rlata_. It wasn't very good. He could see a thousand little errors in the style and craftsmanship now. But he'd gotten the look on her face right then. Awe and wonder and amazement and fear and delight, all at once. He hadn't seen that look in a very long time.

Rel patted the statue, and then went next door, knocking first.

"Yeah?" Eli opened the door, popping his head out, and awarded Rel a look, half-grim, and half-amused. "Okay. You're ahead of schedule. I'll let you cut in line ahead of Lantar, but don't tell him that, okay?"

Serana was curled up on the very human bed in the room, and looked a little nervous, actually. "Is this one I should stay for, or leave for?" she asked. "Spirits know, I used to wish myself anyplace else when Sam used to start talking to you and Dara, second-brother."

Rel frowned. "You can stay, Serana. It's up to you." He hesitated. "Why assume I have anything bad to say?" he asked, sitting down at the desk.

"No one ever says 'can I talk to you about something?' if that something is _good_." Eli closed the hatch, folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the door, face closed down now.

Rel thought about it, and decided that his wife's tactic of 'exchanging vulnerabilities' might get him more results than going on the offensive. "I'm worried about Dara."

Serana nodded. "Okay. This is one I don't need to be here for, then." She uncoiled from the bed and stood up. "I'll let you two talk." She headed towards the hatch, accepted a light kiss on the cheek from Eli, and said, "I'm going to go talk to the ship's AI. I have questions about the letters being sent out from the embassies on Bastion." She sounded glum, and then she'd stepped out through the hatch.

At Rel's words, Eli had exhaled and relaxed. Completely. "Yeah. Okay. I'm worried about her, too. Especially after the last few days. Every doctor and nurse on that station is going to need heavy counseling, or at least a lot of really good, supportive friends and family members around them. Siara's holding it tighter than Dara, but Siara was a pair of helping hands. Dara. . . not so much." He moved over and sat down on the edge of the desk, like they were hanging out after school and talking about homework. "Of course, Dara will say _no_ to counseling. So you'll have to do a lot of listening."

Rel shook his head slightly. "She, ah. . . " He sighed and wished he'd brought his carving tools over. It was easier to talk with his hands busy. That way, it didn't feel so damned unproductive and futile. "She hasn't really talked about work in a long time."

"Really sounding familiar here. I talk to Serana. Otherwise she threatens to tie me up and beat me till I do." Eli paused. "She's not talking about the nightmares, either?" _Yeah. He caught that._

"No. Hadn't really noticed it. She'd mention having them, but now that I've had a day to think about it. . . " Rel shrugged. ". . . she hasn't mentioned _content_ in a long time."

Eli shook his head. "Not good." His lips quirked up. "I can recognize it in someone else. It's harder in yourself."

"You think?" Rel's tone went a little savage for a moment. "_I_ didn't even _notice_."

"Rel. _Fradu_." Eli's voice was firm, and Rel looked up, surprised. Eli was giving him a very direct look. "She's been doing really fucking hard work—demoralizing, horrible work—just like Lin and I have been. You? You and she go out in the field, you shoot things, you achieve the mission objective, and for you, the job's done. If you lost someone on your team, it's hard. You might have to do an analysis, try to figure out what went wrong, write a letter to the family explaining what you can, and that all sucks. But by and large, if you win, you're done, right?"

Rel nodded. "And I _know_ that her job doesn't end there. It never does. She does have to do the cleanup afterwards."

Eli sighed. "Yeah. Let me finish here, though, okay? Me and Lin? Once the shooting's done, we have to go relive it two or three or four times for the administrative board, and maybe for a wrongful death lawsuit two or three months or a year later. And then we go back to work. And we fight the same damn battle every single day. Dara? Goes out, fights with you. Tries to save the lives of the soldiers with you who get hit. Probably has to patch up enemy survivors if your commanders actually are in a prisoner-taking mood, which, given that they're turian, is at least probably not the case. Then she goes back to the ship and does a rotation in med bay. And through all that, she's not only human, which means, god help us all, that we have to show that we're just as tough as any turian, but she's a _female_ human, which means she has to show she's as tough as any guy, too." Eli drummed his fingers on the drawers of the desk.

Rel shook his head. "Look, I _know_ all this."

"Do you?" Eli asked him, patiently. "You have _fun_ when you go out in the field, don't you?"

"I wouldn't really call it _fun._ But there's definitely a . . . ." Rel shook his head. "It's what I'm _for._"

"Yeah. Think she doesn't know that?" Eli sounded irritated now. "Now, she's got the tough girl act down pat. When was the last time before two nights ago that you saw her cry? Other than Khar'sharn?"

Rel had to think about that one. "She lost a patient on Sur'Kesh. Aggressive lymphatic cancer, I think. She kicked over everything in the bedroom and leaked for an hour." Rel looked up. "I watched how Sam took care of tears. I know how to deal with them." _Mostly._ "I preen her hair and pass her tissues and hold her when she won't stop leaking."

"Yeah. . . and you're still really uncomfortable with it, aren't you?" Eli shrugged. "Most human males are, too. But turians are really bad with it. I've seen my mom start to cry and Lantar's actually pulled his hands back from her like he thinks he broke her." Eli gave Rel a quick glance. "Usually around then, he remembers to go give her a hug, instead." He paused. "Think Dara _might_ have picked up on it over the years that you're uncomfortable when she's at her most human?"

"I am _not—"_ Rel started to answer, hotly. _ I love her for her humanity. I love every part of her._ Meeting Eli's bland stare, however, he had to look down.

"Uh-huh. Think maybe she doesn't want to make you feel bad or uncomfortable, maybe that she doesn't want to hear, 'oh, spirits, she's leaking again, what am I going to do with you?' Even if it's a joke, a joke sometimes isn't the best thing to say." Eli grimaced. "And I say that, having _made_ the jokes at exactly the wrong time before."

"So, what you're saying is, the entire time I've been feeling like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, doing what I'm supposed to do, she's been like this?"

Eli shook his head. "Probably not the whole time. Right at the moment, it's really bad, because she just watched thousands and thousands of people die. In front of her. She's down a hole right now. I've been down _in_ that hole, _fradu_." He snorted. "Shit, I'm _in_ that hole right now, too. But it's a lot easier to get out when you've got help. And someone who's been down in it before, and knows the way out helps, too." He gave Rel a direct look. "I'll help any way I can."

Rel sighed. "When the hell did you get so wise, anyway?"

Eli shrugged. "By making lots and lots and _lots_ of mistakes." His tone was rueful.

Rel looked up and almost laughed. "Care to name a few?"

Eli shook his head. "Nuh-uh." He slid off the desk. "My advice would be to let her decompress for a bit and then challenge her to a cuddling match to the death, but whatever works best for you." He grinned. " I _would_ say make her dinner, but that would require you to learn to cook first." It was a poke, but a friendly one, and Eli started getting out of his own armor now, and dug around in his seabag, looking for clothes. "You want to go spar for a bit?" he invited. "Lin and I were trying to remember some of the _wing chun_ Sam used to teach, but neither of us has had anyone to _practice_ with for two years."

"Sure," Rel said, a little surprised. And then wondered why the hell he _was_ surprised. Eli had always been at sparring practice back in the day. "Been a while. I heard Sam had you learning stuff he never showed me." Rel bared his teeth.

"_Muay thai_, yeah." Eli grinned back. "Should be fun."

Rel stood, and headed to the door, getting ready to get changed, himself, feeling a little less lost now. It had been almost like talking to Sam, in a way. Clear-eyed perception of a human for another human. At the hatch, Rel paused. "Eli?"

"Yeah?"

Rel hesitated. _Should I even __mention__ it? We're __friends__. Serana was right __there__, speaks asari, and wasn't, apparently, offended.. . . ask a different way. See what he says._ "What's _sai'kaea_ mean?"

There was a pause. "It means _sweetheart._ More or less."

Rel knew a little more than that. "That the literal translation?"

"No. Literally, it's fair-one, or eternal-fair, depending on the inflection. _Amatra._ Beloved." The sounds from the locker had stopped.

Rel turned his head, very slightly. Just enough to look back at Eli. Eli had stood up, and was looking back at him. Face completely blank. "Any particular reason you called my wife _beloved?_ In front of your own wife, my first-sister?" It wasn't quite a growl. They had too much history for that. But it was one step under threat-display.

Eli met his eyes. "I didn't call her _sai'kaea'yili_." There was emphasis on the ending. Rel's eye's flicked down to his VI screen. _Yili_. _My. Possessive ending._ "I didn't call her _marai'ha'sai._" _More-than-fair, lover, mate._

"There's a difference?"

"Yeah."

"Mind explaining it to _me_?"

Eli exhaled, and put a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing there for a moment. "To be honest, it slipped out. Sometimes asari words still do. It's not like it's always under conscious control." Eli's expression was faintly troubled, but he still met Rel's eyes. Honest, loyal, trustworthy. "_Yili_ would imply that I make claims upon her. Which I don't. _Tria talut_."_ She's yours._

Rel relaxed infinitesimally. His question wasn't really answered, but he was reassured, nonetheless. "So why the _futar_ say it?"

Eli's eyes narrowed. _"For the sake of the spirits, Rel. Are you asking me if I'm __in__ love with her? No"_ He paused, digging out tape from a bag and starting to wrap his fists. "_If you're asking if I __love__ her, __s'kak__. Yes. Have since I was fourteen. Doesn't mean a damn thing. Doesn't change how I feel about Serana, or Serana about me. And doesn't mean __anything__ to Dara."_ Eli paused, and, in terse English, said, "We good?"

Rel showed teeth. "Guess we'll find out at sparring."

"Shit." Eli looked up at the ceiling in resignation. "Please remember that my teeth don't grow back in on their own."

Sparring was _fun_. It always had been, but Rel hadn't had a chance to spar with Lin and Eli in _years_ and they'd both developed enormously since the last time they'd had a chance to play. Dara was on a treadmill nearby, and Serana had joined her, laughing and talking to Dara as she, too, ran. Lin was still an almost pure turian-style fighter. Glorious, lightning-fast kicks, with recoil snaps so fast they were almost impossible to catch. With, occasionally, little pieces of human style thrown in—bits of Sam's _wing chun_, multiple rapid shots as he got inside Rel's guard, grinning as Rel maneuvered around him and started to throw him. . . and then Eli moved in on Rel from the side, forcing Rel to correct and use Lin as a shield, trying to throw Lin _into_ Eli. The point of fighting multiples was to use one of them against the other.

He'd remembered that Eli's reflexes were very good for a human's. He hadn't fought Eli since before gene mods. Now, Eli was fast even for a turian, and had strength to match his speed. "What's this _muay thai_ stuff?" Rel asked, staying loose-limbed.

"Hard-strikes school. Sam says _wing chun_ guys are always winning right up until they get knocked out. School is the death of a thousand papercuts. _Muay thai_ aims more for crippling shots, knock-outs. Kind of hard on the body of the person using it, though." Eli grinned through his mouthguard. "Most of the professional _muay thai_ guys back on Earth have _really_ short careers." He moved in, and Rel had to admit, he hadn't seen anything quite like it before. The kicks had different arcs, and it took him a moment to adjust. However, he'd seen a _lot_ of different styles over the years, so he immediately started working out the strengths and weaknesses of the style. . . aware that Lin and Eli were doing the same thing to him.

Rel _quickly_ decided that blocking Eli's hits was definitely the less preferable option; not _being_ there when a punch or an elbow came through was going to be better. Upper body strength was a big component of human male fighting styles and strategies. And Eli's punches, elbows, and knees definitely stung. And they were going at training strength; full-strength, full-speed didn't let anyone learn anything, and tended to make for injuries. Injuries weren't the object here. Learning was. Rel was grinning, elated and feeling _much_ better after a couple of rounds. "That looked like gladiatorial stuff," he commented to Lin after their third round. "Stylized, but unexpected and really effective."

"Was," Lin replied, grinning. "Think Lantar still has all the equipment out in the garage?" he asked Eli.

"Yeah. Last time I had shore-leave on Mindoir, he ran me in circles around the garage every night. After helping him build a deck all day." Eli was toweling off the sweat. "C'mon, Rel, you're taking it easy on us."

"Actually, I'm not. This is _fun_." Rel bared teeth. They were both as good as Rinus, in different ways. A couple of years of training on Mindoir was definitely a good stand-in for _Calleo_ and _Facito_. "Get Rinus aboard and we can go two on two." He glanced over his shoulder at Dara, who was just stepping off the treadmill, breathing hard and sweating. "Dara? You want to come join us, and make the odds a _little_ fairer here?"

Dara grabbed her own towel and walked over, smiling faintly. "And here I thought you three were just showing off for us girls."

Serana chuckled. "It was definitely fun to watch," she acknowledged, sliding a hand up Eli's back, under the damp shirt. "Guess what? Joker really _is_ the AI on this ship." Her eyes were wide. "Kind of freaked me out talking to him, but he completely remembers me from the trip from Palaven to Mindoir, back in the day. _And_. . . he said he'd ask Nefertari, one of the SR-1 NCAIs, to take over writing the letters for the human and turian embassies. Said she has the processing power and nothing better to do. . . plus she apparently wants to migrate to a hospital ship someday. If they let her. So people should actually start getting information faster." She sighed. "I wish I'd thought of that last _week_."

Eli wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "None of us were thinking about resources off the station, _asperitalla_. I sure as hell wasn't. Good idea talking to him, though." He leaned down and kissed her forehead.

Rel glanced up, and saw Lin watching them. Again, the image that had hit him before he started work on his _second_ spirit-statue grouping hit him, and he really wished he knew where some of the damned visions came from. _I just carve what the images are_, he thought, shrugging. Trying to make the carving be what it _wasn't_, inevitably ruined it. He slid his own arm around Dara's waist, pure physical well-being spreading through him. He hadn't been able to _do_ anything like this on Bastion. They'd all been too damned tired at the end of each miserable long day to spar or run or anything else. And _iunkunditas_ made everything seem just a little bit better. For a little while, anyway.

_**Author's note:** Credit to Shinimegami for the notion of one of the NCAIs taking over the letter-writing. Poor Nefertari's going to be needing a memory module to block out all those letters by the time she's done._

**Rinus, Raetia and Complovium, Palaven, May 19, 2196**

He and Kallixta had both been down with _comburo febris_ and _atratus cremare_ for ten unbearable days. He dimly remembered clutching his mate to him, both of them shuddering violently, Kallixta at least once telling him to _shoot_ her in the head to make the pain stop, and him refusing, adamantly. Even the faint, well-shielded lights of the physicians and nurses had jabbed into his eyes like shards of glass, and judging by the fact that he'd had to tighten his belt another notch, he'd lost weight. Not fat; turians generally didn't _have_ body fat. Muscle-mass, probably, and that was an annoyance.

Rinus could, faintly, recall his grandfather Gavius, wearing a breather and gloves, coming in to sit with them. Sometimes for hours. He wasn't a med tech. But he _was_ former C-Sec. A lifetime of long shifts, and a basic knowledge of first aid more than qualified him to keep cool towels on them. And Gavius had read to them. Rinus could distantly remember his grandfather reading to him and Rellus, when they were little. Stories about the _ecus_, the knights of three thousand years ago, who'd fought in battle with steel swords and on the backs of _rlata_. He wasn't entirely sure what Gavius had been reading to them, but just the sound of a quiet voice, knowing that they weren't alone, had been. . . very helpful.

When they'd come out of their quarters, a quarter of the household around them had fallen ill, as well. Not from contact with _them_, but because they'd been previously exposed. And yet, they'd been lucky. Of their staff, only two people died.

And so, it had come as a shock to hear the news on the extranet. The deathtoll on Palaven was horrific, but _modest_ compared to the numbers coming in from Bastion and Earth. The Dymion shipyards had a handful of cases; the Edessan ones, several thousand. Luna shipyards—a handful of cases. Palaven. . . millions of cases, and over a million deaths. But _contained_, like a wildfire, by the rigid discipline of turian society. Three hundred million projected on Earth. Rinus could barely conceive of the number, but a news announcer had put it in perspective. The early twenty-first century population of the United States and Canada, combined, the human announcer had commented. "Picture every household from New York to Alaska, standing empty, and you'll have an idea of the size of the potential devastation. However, this plague is striking all over the globe. It's hard to _see_ the extent, except by taking a shuttle over the dead neighborhoods of Sao Paolo, Brazil, or over entire cities in Africa that have been wiped off the map. We talk about the ruins of Detroit? Cape Town, South Africa, no longer _exists_ except for the buildings and the name. The inhabitants who haven't fallen ill or died have fled into the countryside, taking the disease with them." The human's jaw clenched, and Rinus had turned off the feed, feeling sick.

He had also taken the news of the deaths in the twin Conclaves hard. The Lawgivers had lost one hundred _good_ ministers of the law. Males and females who had served as prosecutors, defenders, adjudicators, and judges before being asked by the Imperator to _make_ the law that they had interpreted and defended for so long. Rinus considered that an almost incalculable loss in terms of wisdom and collective understanding. He'd worked with many of them, and had been on far better terms with some of them than with his colleagues in the _Dominae_. And yet, the _Dominae_ had been hard-hit, as well. Three-quarters of the assembly had fallen ill. Eighty-two fatalities, so far. And these numbers didn't include their families, just the sitting members of the Conclaves.

The disease had seemed to be burning itself out, however. Until yesterday, when the Imperatrix had died. Pallum had raced into the library, one hand to his earpiece. Rinus had been, yet again, trying to contact their kin on Bastion, without success, and he and Kallixta had looked up, startled. Pallum rarely ran. Moved purposefully, yes. Ran, no. Rinus had opened a drawer in his desk, reaching for the pistol there, fully expecting to hear Pallum say that the house was under attack, when the Praetorian had simply crossed to Kallixta, dropped to one knee before her, and, in formal _tal'mae_, began to address her. _"My lady, it is my burden to inform you that she who is your mother has passed to the spirits."_

Kallixta had simply stared down at Pallum, unmoving for a moment. And then she'd sat down, as if her legs had been kicked out from under her. _"What? How?"_ She'd sounded bewildered and stunned. Not sad. . .but in shock, certainly.

Rinus had been on his feet in an instant, crossing the room to rest a hand on her shoulder. _"Amatra?"_

"_Rinus. . . "_ A swift, bewildered glance. Grateful for the touch, the contact, the closeness, and yet. . . so much turmoil in a simple word.

Pallum shook his head. _"The Imperatrix had suffered from vein disease in her legs for some time. The __comburo febris__ caused fluids to collect in her lungs, in a fashion similar to human _pneumonia._ The prolonged bed-rest caused a clot to form, they think, in her legs. And the coughing spasms dislodged it. Sent it to her chest. A pulmonary embolism. I'm sorry, m'lady. We can have a full medical report to you as soon as it's available."_

"_Yes. Please."_ Kallixta sounded completely lost. _"And if you don't mind? Could you leave us, Pallum?"_ Always so exquisitely polite.

Pallum stood. _"I regret to have had to tell you this,"_ he said, in colloquial, modern turian. _"The Imperatrix was not an easy mistress to any of us, but I would not have wished this on her for the world. We're all here for you, if you need us."_

Kallixta nodded, expression still lost and distant. _"Thank you, Pallum."_

The Praetorian left on silent feet, closing the door behind him.

Rinus' head spun. He'd been downloading reports from HIA and the Spectres daily since getting back on his feet. He _knew_ that STG and the Spectres believed that this was a batarian attack, but that STG had found evidence of different technologies and techniques used in the viruses and bacteria than had previously been seen from batarians. Collector technology, yes. But employed in styles that batarians had never previously seemed capable of using. One salarian analyst noted, _A person's writing style reflects their thought. So, too, does the fashion in which a mind solves problems. A batarian tends to solve problems in a slightly __bartering__ fashion, or, put another way, with counterweights. Use this to offset that. Offer a choice between this or that. Salarians do not. We seek the most efficient and elegant solution, which may or may not include balance and symmetry, depending on the situation. Some of the genetic alterations, for lack of a better way of describing them, have an elegance to them that one does not often see in batarian genetic work. That being said, the rest of them do not. Some of the bacteria's strands of DNA have been radically altered—with an almost casual eye towards making this disease as deadly as possible. Fortunately, these changes actually made the diseases more fragile. Less apt to linger in the environment. _Rinus put it all together in his head in an instant. _"Spirits. He's been able to keep us on alert for the first three, four weeks of this crisis,"_ he muttered. _"But he's going to have to shift us to a war footing." _

Even though it was an open secret in the Palace that the Imperator had held _no_ love for his wife, and had visited her bedchamber only when she had, yet again, gone off her estrus medications. Rinus was certainly _glad_ that the Imperatrix had done so, as often as she had; otherwise, he wouldn't have had Kallixta. But the marriage of his _pada'amu_ had been a _chilly_ one, at best. The Imperator had, until now, been calling for _facts_ first, action and retaliation second. But this . . . he'd have to escalate. Nothing else would be acceptable. Rinus sighed, and lowered his forehead to Kallixta's. _"Sorry, beloved. Are __you__ all right?"_

She'd leaned her head against him then. _"No,"_ she'd told him, softly. _"When Pallum ran in here, I thought he was going to say that my father had died. And my heart just seized inside of me. And when he said it was my mother. . . I was __relieved__. Isn't that a terrible thing to realize?"_ She sighed. _"So much for filial piety. I can't even manage __loyalty__ to my mother, let alone grief."_

Rinus's mandibles tightened, and he stroked his hand over her fringe, preening her gently. _"And how much of that,"_ he remonstrated with her gently, _"was your mother's fault?"_

"_Hers? Or the institution's?"_ Kallixta's voice was bitter.

"_Hers."_ Rinus was firm on that. _"You are living proof that the institution doesn't mean you can't be a __person__ as well as hold a position. I don't know if your mother ever __was__ a person, and not just the role."_ He lifted her chin with a gentle finger. _"Don't hate yourself. She never allowed you to know her. And that is not your fault."_

Kallixta nodded, slowly. _"And we'll have to endure three days of public mourning,"_ she murmured.

"_Travel restrictions?"_ Rinus offered, almost hopefully, much as he'd been chafing at them continuously for the last week.

"_Due to be lifted soon anyway. I fully expect us to be ordered to the Palace shortly."_ Kallixta sent him a glum look. _"And yes, there will be fittings for the funeral garb."_

"_Oh, spirits, no."_

Sure enough, they received the Imperial command to gather a minimal household staff—themselves, their Praetorians, and Gavius, essentially—and to report to the Palace. Immediately.

Gavius shook his head at the command. _"I was actually included in the directive?"_ he asked, dubiously.

"_It says 'your guards and any kin staying with you,' Grandfather,"_ Rinus told him, with respect, as he helped Kallixta up into the shuttle. She would, of course, be flying them. Twenty days and more grounded had definitely worn at his wife's nerves. Kallixta clambered in and strapped herself into the pilot's seat. _"I suggest you strap in, Grandfather. Kallixta likes to pretend that a shuttle is a fighter."_ Rinus chuckled a little, and followed his own advice.

She'd overheard him, and he took the resulting extra Gs as his well-due punishment.

That had been yesterday, of course. Today, every window in the Palace was blocked by external black shutters, making the structure even gloomier than usual. Every painting in the palace was covered in black drapes, as well.

Imperial mourning clothing was hastily being mustered from storage; it consisted of pure white ceremonial tunics and trousers, or robes for the females, with black over-mantles. The jewelry and other such items were, actually, quite restrained, much to Rinus' quiet gratitude. By tradition, the staff would remain silent until the Imperatrix was buried, out of respect. And the family was constrained to whispers. This made for a lot of gesturing and notes, at which Rinus restrained any hint of a smile. He just stayed right at Kallixta's side the entire time, almost as silent as the staff. The Imperator was, also by custom, more or less confined to his own rooms, out of sight, until the actual burial.

He and Kallixta went to the rotunda of the Conclave of the _Dominae_ first thing in the morning, on foot, again, by custom. There was a strict order of precedence to the visits by the children and grandchildren, and as fifth-daughter, Kallixta was low on the list, so they couldn't have come any earlier.

The Imperatrix lay in state on a bier of white marble at the center of the rotunda, and the public could file by and pay their respects in a slow shuffle. A sheer of white cloth, heavily embroidered in silver was drawn up to her chest, and her hands were exposed, clasped on her chest. Rinus looked down at his stern and irascible mother-in-law without emotion, and knew he couldn't actually touch Kallixta for support in public. But he felt her sway slightly against him, and knew it was guilt, not grief, that touched her right now. Too many cameras and too many parabolic microphones fixed on them even to speak. So he damned imperial protocol and slipped his fingers around her elbow, squeezing gently. A quick, grateful glance, and he sighed internally as any number of cameras flashed. _Well, there's the noon report. Whatever will they do for the evening one?_

That was answered in short order when, outside the Conclave, he saw a _Normandy_-class ship descending, performing a respectful fly-by, and three shuttles emerging from it, heading towards the Palace. He murmured in Kallixta's ear, "Looks like we've got company."

Her face was a calm mask, but her eyes glittered. "Garrus and Shepard?" she murmured.

"Probably. Maybe others." They couldn't exactly _run_, but they and their Praetorians did, indeed, pick up the pace.

At the palace, several more surprises for them. Garrus and Shepard, indeed, were there. Shepard was in her armor, of course, due to Palaven's radiation issues, but had been hastily given a black over-mantle to cover the black armor with. Garrus was in a Spectre dress uniform—something Rinus hadn't seen before. And with them. . . Sam Jaworski, in armor. Lantar, in uniform. Rellus, Dara, Elijah, and Serana. Rinus wanted to shout in relief at seeing them, but had to settle for clasping wrists very heartily and, when he'd worked his way from Garrus down to Rellus, whispering, "Second-brother! Heard you'd been sick on Bastion."

Rel returned the wrist-clasp. "We all were, yeah," he muttered. "We couldn't get _through_ to find out how you and Kallixta were doing."

"Tell me about it. Didn't want to use emergency or imperial lines to try to override the comm queue priorities, but couldn't get through from here, either." Rinus looked at them all. They looked _tired_ and had all lost weight, but much healthier than he thought he had any right to expect. He clasped Serana's wrist next, and grinned down at her. "Hell of a start to married life for you, first-sister."

Serana's smile was a little wan. "You're telling me, first-brother. Nothing's been quite as expected." She leaned into her human mate, who put a hand on her shoulder.

Kallixta looked at them all quizzically. "Much as I appreciate you all being here, no one would have expected you _all_ to brave the quarantines just to be here for support," she murmured, gesturing around the long hall, filled with silent servants and covered portraits of ancestors.

Lantar grimaced. "We were actually going to come here anyway." He looked at Rinus. "Everyone else got a letter. You, considering the circumstances? Get this in person. We'd like you to stand for Spectre candidacy. Trials start in two weeks. We'd like you and Kallixta to come with us as soon as the funeral is done."

Rinus jaw hung open slightly. Kallixta made a faint sound—not quite a squeak. More like she'd had to muffle a shout of pure joy. It wasn't _quite_ a surprise, given the simulations he'd seen four years ago, but. . . timing-wise, it was a shock. Plus, given all his work in analysis, he'd figured his path was set. He turned and looked down at Kallixta, whose eyes were shining up at him. "I'd be honored," he said, recovering himself quickly, and giving Lantar a quick nod.

Sam snorted. "Damn, son, the rest of 'em gave us more of a show. You're almost disappointing."

Garrus chuckled. "He's been looking at some of the same information we've all been studying, Sam. Can't be as much of a shock to him as the others." 

"Figured I'd be continuing in analysis," Rinus admitted quietly. "Just as glad to have a chance at fieldwork again." He glanced around. "Can we take this into Kallixta's apartments? Kind of awkward standing out in the hall." Their various Praetorians were around them, and had faintly resigned looks on their faces. _Sorry, guys. You've had a nice quiet year with us, illness aside. If I make Spectre, you all can kiss my __ass__ if you think you're going to continue body-guarding me in the field, though. Keep guarding Kallixta, sure. That I've got no problems with. Here at home, sure. Out in the field? Not going to happen._

Shepard grimaced. "We have to go offer our official condolences in the Imperator's rooms. We'll find you when we're done."

Kallixta nodded. "Come on, everyone. If you'd all come with me?"

None of the others had ever been _in_ the Palace before, even on the occasion of Rinus and Kallixta's wedding four years ago. "You're not seeing the place at its best," Kallixta apologized as she ushered them all into her large sitting room. This place had _not_ been re-decorated. Or even, actually, _used,_ since their wedding night. Rinus glanced over, and verified that yes, the tapestry had been re-hung. That must have been a subject of some conversation among the servants the next day, he thought, trying not to chuckle under his breath. It would be inappropriate timing, to say the least.

"Can we stop with the whispering in here?" Sam asked.

"Even better," Kallixta said. "The humans can at least take their helmets off. The windows are plasteel, and the walls are two feet thick in this section of the palace. I had the rems checked in here a few years ago when I _thought_ I might someday have Dara come stay here. You're all safe in this wing, even if you strip down to your skin for a couple of hours." She paused. "Not that I'm suggesting you should."

"I'll take being able to breathe freely," Eli said, unlatching his own helmet.

"Definitely makes for less of a boot camp flashback," Dara agreed, removing her own and looking around. "This place looks _nothing_ like you, Kallixta."

They spent the next four hours comfortably exchanging notes over the past few weeks. Dara came over to sit next to Kallixta, and Rinus was surprised and grateful when his little _ama'fradu_ gave his wife a hug every now and again. He kept one arm wrapped around her in private, too. "Grandfather actually rarely left us alone for any length of time while we were sick," Rinus commented.

Rellus snorted a little. "Of course not. You're his first grandson." His eyes flicked to Kallixta, with the unspoken addition of, _and you married a turian, and an __Imperial__ at that._

"Give him credit. He might be mellowing," Rinus told his second-brother mildly.

Lantar grimaced. "I know that Garrus is saying Gavius _will_ be coming with us to Mindoir when we leave. Much as I love a good fight, that's one conversation I _don't_ want to be the _lanura_ on the wall for, if you catch my meaning."

Rinus winced. Rellus winced.

Two days later, it was time for the enormous public spectacle of an imperial funeral. The three day waiting period was just as much out of respect, and the ancient need to prove that someone actually really _was_ dead before they were interred, as it was out of practical necessity. A production on this scale could _not_ be organized overnight, and Rinus couldn't help but be aware that their Praetorians were very nervous. _Lots of high-value targets, all assembled in the same place_, he thought, dryly. _Come to think of it, I'm nervous, too._

Hence one of the traditions: Kallixta's first-brother's first-born would _not_ be in attendance. He would, in fact, not even be in Complovium. On the off-chance that every other member of the family above him in the order of succession was wiped out today, that scion would live. The tradition extended back to the Unification Wars, when assassination plots almost _had_ wiped out the lineage on a couple of occasions.

Ahead of the family rode two dozen Praetorians on _rlata_. This honor guard was armored in the most ancient style of the _ecus_, the knights of old. Steel armor that was burnished, but showed signs of ancient wear. None of this armor was specially made for the Praetorians who wore it now; it was adjusted, slightly, to fit the modern turian frame (significantly taller than three thousand years ago), but _all_ of this armor was original equipment. It had been _used_. Overlapping plates, spur guards, vambraces, pauldrons. . . not so much different from modern armor, in a way, other than by virtue of the materials it was constructed of. Every helmet held _oolorae_ plumes, and the Praetorians all carried a brace of throwing spears. Rinus also knew that every one of them also carried a shield generator and several _real_ weapons concealed in various places, as well as the ceremonial gear.

Every one of the family walked, barefoot and bareheaded, in their mourning clothes, behind the Imperator, in a line, in order of precedence, their mates by their sides, and their children, if they had any, behind them. All the males carried ancient, ceremonial spears, each about six feet in length, with broad, leaf-edged blades over a foot long at the tip. Each female carried a buckler and a shortspear. The ancient roles of turian society. Hunter and protector of the nest.

Extended family, such as Garrus and Shepard and Rellus and Dara and all the other in-laws, walked behind little Severus, the last-born son. From the Palace, to the Conclave, a journey of a mile, through streets lined—no, _packed_—with silent on-lookers. The crowd waved _galae_ branches in full bloom, and attendants ran ahead of the procession, setting down silver-embroidered mats so that imperial feet would not touch pavement. Rinus glanced up, and caught sunlight reflecting off a scope on a rooftop high above. The Praetorians were _busy_ today, and he _really_ wished he could carry a weapon, himself, other than his wedding knife and the spear. He rather suspected that all of his in-laws were carrying concealed _guns_ at least.

And of course, there were cameras. Everywhere. The silence was eerie, and Rinus hoped it chilled anyone watching on a hundred distant worlds. Absolute silence, other than the sound of feet hitting the ground. Not even a peep from the crowd. Total, absolute respect. Not for the woman herself, but for the institution, and what it represented. The imperials were continuity and tradition and the force of law. They represented all of the turian people. Not always at their best, but that was a natural consequence of a marriage between reality and symbolism.

In the rotunda of the Conclave, the Imperator walked to the head of the bier of white marble, on which the Imperatrix lay in state. For the first time, he broke ritual silence. Spoke as Imperator, head of the military, head of the government, and first minister to the spirits.

"_This is she who was my wife. Her spirit, her mind, her body were mine, and I was hers. In death, her spirit returns to our family, and in returning to our family, to our entire people."_ Perfect, fluid _tal'mae_, every phrase balanced against each other. _"Her mind is lost to us, a mind she devoted to the improvement of her children, the betterment of our family, and the progress of our people. Her body, we will shortly commit to the earth, in the sacred silence of the __Nefastus Hortulus__, and bid the spirits and our ancestors to watch over it."_

The air almost _thrummed_ with the pressure of the silence. The Imperator paused._ "She was taken from us by a disease. Not a natural one, but one created by the hands of enemies, aimed, not like a spear or a sword, or some other honorable weapon, at the throat of an opponent, but scattered to the wind, to kill whoever it might. Warriors, hunters, children, the aged, the infirm. Citizens and non-citizens, friends and enemies. Ours is not the only family to have suffered such a loss in the past weeks. Nor will it be the last. But I say now, that all these losses have not gone unnoticed. And they will not go unavenged."_

_Oh, here we go,_ Rinus thought, tensing.

"_Our allies in the Systems Alliance have suffered as greatly, or more so, than we have. We have evidence of who is behind these attacks, and together, we __will_ _strike down those who have attacked us, and they will come to __understand__ what it means to defy the spirit of the law, the spirit of our family, the spirit of our unity. I, Ligorus Praesesidis, called the Watchful, swear it, by hand, heart, and body; by breath, mind, and spirit."_

It was the most awful oath an Imperator could pronounce. It was a malediction, committing himself to a cause, and with it, every single turian in the galaxy.

Voices rose, shattering the silence.. Shivering ululations of mourning cries, pierced with the ascending howls of hunt-cries. Rinus tipped his head back and added his voice to the chorus, bouncing back off the marble roof of the rotunda. The noise alone was making the various camera-bots shake and tremble in the air.

Then the males of the family were beckoned forward—Rinus, among them—and slid their spears into slots in the bier on which the Imperatrix rested. The entire marble bier wasn't, thankfully, all one piece; there was an upper slab that detached from the rest. Then they turned, and, as the crowd fell absolutely silent again, lifted what was still a fairly heavy burden. Rinus _really_ hoped that none of the _jalae_ wood spears broke under the weight. It would be. . . embarrassing.

Then they proceeded out of the rotunda the way they had come in, walking, at that same slow pace, back towards the palace. This time, the females of the family walked around them, shields out and spears up. Absolute silence the entire way back to the palace, where they walked in the main doors and through the entire structure, to the imperial gardens. No cameras were permitted beyond this point. No one other than family and close-kin and the Praetorians were permitted on these grounds. These gardens had been planted before the Unification Wars. There were parts that were close to three thousand years old—documented _jalae_ trees that had been planted by the hands of Commodus and his wife, two thousand years ago. And in the most ancient section, the ground had been opened under a stand of _galae_ trees, a raw mouth made of earth.

They laid her in the bare earth, and pulled the embroidered cloth up over her face. Her spirit statue—made of jade, and carved for her when she was betrothed to the then-first-son of the last Imperator, many, many years ago—was held aloft by her own first-son. Who then carefully wrapped it in a cloth that matched the shroud over his mother's body, and nodded to his father. Then everyone present stepped forward in turn, and still in perfect silence, took one handful of earth each, and tossed it into the grave, before walking away.

Once they were back in the palace, Rinus whispered to Kallixta, "_Is the silence always required at the graveside?"_ He'd taken it, at first, as an extreme form of stoicism. But back in the house, there was still no sign of real grief. If it had been _his_ mother, he knew that Polina and Quintus, at the very least, would have been inconsolable. That Serana would have wailed. That he and Rellus would have been standing by their father's side, helping him to deal with the vacuum of Solanna's strong—if often _irritable_—presence being gone from their lives.

She shook her head._ "No. When my father's mother was buried, there was wailing. I think. . . I think my mother would not have wanted sorrow. I don't think she would have expected it, either. And for myself, any show of it would be. . . hypocritical, at best."_

Then they had to pay their respects to the Imperator, themselves. He was at his desk in his study when Rinus and Kallixta entered; his chief bodyguard, an older female named Luscinia Noctavigus, stood against the wall nearby, arms across her chest, watching the room and everyone who entered. The Imperator's back was turned to the door. With Noctavigus on duty, Rinus knew, the Imperator didn't _have_ to be concerned. _"Ah, Kallixta, Rinus."_ The Imperator turned from his datapads, facing them. _"You're being stolen away from us again, I understand."_ He extended his hand, and Kallixta went to take it and kneel at his feet. _"I'm strongly convinced that your mate will make a fine Spectre, fifth-daughter. And that you will fly his ship."_

As Kallixta knelt there, listening, it was the first time Rinus had ever seen his wife, her father, and his chief bodyguard in the same room together. He wasn't really paying attention to the usual imperial rituals, and his eyes flicked up, from his wife's face, glowing a little as her father acknowledged her by touch, and then to the Imperator's, and then to Noctavigus'. . . faint hint of pride in the eyes. And a hint of sorrow. Rinus was _very_ good at reading people now, and that caught his attention. His keen eye for pattern-recognition took over, and his eyes darted from Kallixta's face to Noctavigus' again, and he exhaled. Hard. _All right. How the __futar__ did that happen? It's not like the Imperatrix wouldn't have known it wasn't her child. . . and not like the media doesn't cover the family __very__ closely. . . _

The Imperator looked up, and smiled, very faintly. _"I'm glad to know that my __ama'filu__ is as discreet as he is intelligent,"_ he said, calmly. _"Should I save you the inevitable records search?"_

Kallixta looked up, puzzled. _"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, but I do love a mystery, sir,"_ Rinus replied.

"_Ah. Then I will direct your attention to a period approximately eleven months prior to your wife's birth, when there was a slight amount of confusion in the palace. I'm sure you'll find any number of pertinent records held by the Praetorians."_

"_I'll be sure to look into it in my spare time, sir."_

"_I'm sure that you will. Do well in your candidacy, ama'filu. I look forward to seeing your progress."_

They moved out of the room, and Kallixta hissed, "_What was that about?"_

"_You've never __noticed__ that you and Noctavigus_ _could use each other for mirrors? __S'kak,__ Kallixta, take the Nimines paint off of her, put Thracian yellow on her, and you could be sisters."_

Kallixta had absolutely frozen in place. _"No,"_ she said, uncertainly. _"That's not __possible__." _

"_You've lived in this palace most of your life, sweetness. You want to tell me the Praetorians haven't cleaned up weirder things? Like your great-uncle Refidus' not-so-pleasant obsession with rlatae?"_

Her eyes were huge, and she turned and almost walked back into the Imperator's room. _"No, sweetness. Not now. Let's figure it out on our own. He more or less told us to."_

"_Told __you__ to."_ The tone was sharp.

He let it pass. She'd just had a shock, after all. _"Beloved. . . The __Normandy__ is waiting on us."_

She sighed. _"All right. But there's going to be a discussion about this. Someday."_

She was _seething_, and Rinus chuckled and pulled her wrist up to nip it lightly. _"I don't doubt that at all."_

**Linianus, _Normandy _and Omega, May 19-22, 2196**

Things were, slowly, starting to slip back into their correct, accustomed places. Where they should have been _all along_. He remembered thinking, back during the Rite on Tuchanka, that Rellus and Dara should have been with them, Rel to spit in the dragon's teeth, and Dara to patch them all up afterwards. Eli had disagreed, and he'd been able to sense in his _dimcato-fradu's_ words a desire to step out of the long shadow that Rel cast, and had agreed with it, in part. But Linianus also didn't have a problem fighting in someone else's shadow. For one thing, it meant he was fighting in the _shade_. For another, it meant he was fighting _with_ someone, and while Lin like to excel, liked to be the one who made the plays, he also liked being on a _team._ He was, in his heart, a packmate. And his pack was coming back together, and it spoke to something atavistic in him. Rel and Eli, twin sides of the same spirit, not that they'd _ever_ admit to it. The closest Eli would get would be to say that Rel played offense and he played defense.

So, he had his alphas in place. They had their mates—and both were females he respected and held dear. Dara, in her human way, had adapted so quickly, and stove so _hard_ to be turian in every way that mattered. Honor, strength, loyalty. And Serana, Rel's sister, who had always been quick, smart, and eager to keep up with the older children in their school days, had always been fierce, too. . . and oddly independent, in a not very turian way. As if she struggled as hard to be human, as Dara strove to be turian. Just as Eli fought to be as turian as he could, and Rel worked to be human

Lin remembered that long-gone day, when he'd caught the first warm, sweet smells in her room. How she'd turned and fixed her eyes on Eli, then on him, telling him that they smelled good. How she'd bitten Eli. How he'd wanted to walk into the room and shut the damned door behind him. Four things had stopped him. Her age. She'd been so damned young at the time. The paint on her face wasn't his. The way she'd looked at Eli every day _including_ this one. And the fact that Rel—not to mention _Rinus_—would have killed him. Nevermind Allardus and Garrus and everyone else.

And since then, he'd had a few bitter lessons. Brennia had needed him to be almost as human as he could be, to find realms of gentleness and patience he hadn't known existed, let alone that he possessed. And also since then, he'd stood as one of Eli's witnesses for his wedding to Serana. Seen the joy on both their faces as they'd exchanged knives. But he'd also seen the worry in Eli the concern, over spirits-be-damned biology. And so, without even needing to _think_ about it, out of nothing more than loyalty, friendship and affection, he'd agreed to help, when the time came. And in the last two horrific weeks, they'd shared their joy with him. And this time, the wrong paint on her face hadn't been a deterrent. The look in her eyes had included him. And it had been good. Better than good. She was still shy, in a way, but so much stronger than Brennia ever had been. Air and fire and steel in her spirit, light, bright, fierce, strong, and always on the move. Where Brennia had been a creature of air and shadow, easily scattered, easily broken, and the light and consuming heat of a fire would have ended her utterly. He'd almost thought, in the midst of the shared joy, that at least at one point, all of their spirits had mingled—in a less direct, but more perhaps real fashion than Pelia had allowed. And he wasn't quite sure how to feel about _that_, other than the fact that he really wouldn't mind experiencing it again.

And yet. . . Lin exhaled as he paced down the long halls of the _Normandy_. . . even in spite of the crazy shared dream when they were all ill, and the spirit statue that Rel was currently carving. . . he had a feeling Rel was going to _kill_ him for this someday. Or Rinus. Or Allardus. Or Garrus. Or, hell, Lantar. Estrus was one thing. No one could _help_ estrus. This? Was infringing on the strong tradition of monogamy that had existed since before the Unification Wars. _But not_, part of his mind reminded him, dryly, _during the cave and nest days. When brothers often shared territory and mates._

So, in many ways, everything was coming together. Becoming what it should be. The pack was _together_ again, soon to be joined by Rinus and Kallixta, and any others who'd stand by their sides. And it felt _glorious_ and _right_. And on the other hand, Lin felt slightly out of place. . . and really hoped that the sensation would fade, with time.

So, all in all, it was better to think about _anything_ else. With the others down on Palaven's surface—Lin had opted not to attend the state funeral, but had watched the newsfeed coverage, and had, along with half of the crew, thrown back his head for the hunt-cries, too—he was at loose ends.

Eventually, he found himself in the brig. As he had found himself at least twice before over the past days. Livanus was on duty, along with a human marine, and they had one of Shepard's highly intelligent varren with them, as well as a Terran canine. _"Can't stay away?"_ Livanus said, dryly, not looking away from the prisoner as Linianus approached.

"_Has the fascination of a __villi__ in a cage,"_ Linianus agreed, his voice dark. Seheve Liakos knelt on the floor behind the forcebarrier, dark eyes closed. Her brother, Oeric, was sitting on a bench outside the cell, speaking quietly with her in their native drell tongue. Viewed as objectively as possible through the faintly violet fluorescence of the forcebarrier, Liakos was beautiful, after the drell fashion. Scarlet scales ran from above her eyes over her scalp, and down the back of her neck. Her face had higher cheekbones and a more delicate cast than a male drell's, of course. But there was something about her that spoke of _danger_ to Lin. Of the poisonous teeth of a _villi_, not the raw strength of an _acrocanth_. _"When I was here yesterday, she said she could break out of the cell, but was choosing not to do so."_

Livanus snorted. _"Yeah, Joker told me about that. __We're__ choosing not to inform her about the nature of the __spirit__ of the ship."_ His tone was ironic, and Lin bared his teeth in a return grin. Livanus was just as much of a cop as he and Eli and Lantar and Sam. _None_ of them liked this.

"_Getting anything of use out of her?"_

"_She talks to her brother. Getting a fair bit out of that, actually."_ Livanus' voice was detached.

His VI flickered a translation on the screen as the two drell continued to speak together. Lin kept one eye loosely on the translation, and the other on Liakos in her cell.

"_Seheve, just . . . tell me what happened after I left. After Father died. And leave out all the 'this one' crap. We're family. Even the fucking hanar use the first person among family."_

"_If you wish it, brother. It is uncomfortable to use the word too often, however. It seems a thing of egotism."_ She hesitated. _"You refused to serve in Father's place. The Master had need for hands and arms that could serve him, as Father had. He had business dealings that financed the. . . well, the Cause."_ There was a clearly-audible capital letter there.

"_Business dealings?"_ Oeric Liakos made a rude sound. _"I knew that his factory built weapons, Seheve. Fine ones, certainly, but mostly those that are usable only by hanar. Chemical dispersal units meant to be used in aquatic environments, and the like."_

"_They built other things. Weapons modification packages for other species. Strictly speaking, not legal in Council space. At one point, he had me make a delivery to someone as far away as Noveria. . . Opold, I think the name was. By and large, he sold these goods to those __outside__ of Council space, and when he traveled to make sales, he required a bodyguard. In Father's absence, and in yours, that became . . . my task."_ She did seem to have real problems saying the word _my_ from the way she hesitated. _"The Master was pleased with my abilities. He provided extensive training through the drell infiltrators. The master of assassins was pleased with. . . me. . . as well. Many assignments followed. All given through the Master. Smugglers. Thugs. Murderers. This salarian was no different from the rest. Or so I thought until machines sprouted from his arms while I executed him."_ She paused. _"The Master always made it clear that service to the Cause was service to our people, Oeric. And that service to our people, was, as Father always told us, the highest good. That both were the same thing."_ She shook her head, slowly.

"_And you have come to doubt the Master, at last?"_

She hesitated for so long, Linianus almost turned to leave. _"I have. I have come to doubt so many things."_

"_Even their precious fucking Enkindlers?"_

"_You should not speak so."_ There was no emphasis in the words. _"But. . . yes. Though my soul may never pass into the Light. . . yes."_ She paused. _"Why would they punish the faithful and reward those who do not follow their ways? Why would the hanar be the __only__ species that they raised to speech, raised to know the Light . . . except that so many others found a path to speech on their own? I have come to have so __many__ questions, brother."_

"_Then why not run __away__? Why not stop doing his bidding—ah. Because you believed that his bidding was the bidding of all our people, even the bidding of all the damned hanar."_ The tone was so disgusted, it almost didn't need translation. _"Seheve, what are they going to do with you?"_

"_If they are wise? They would kill me."_

Linianus stared at her as her eyes opened, black and blank and empty, and decided that he really couldn't agree more. _Is there __any__ spirit in there?_ he wondered. _This female is more truly __mor'loci__ than Lantar ever was. She has nothing to live for. Nothing worth dying for. Her light has gone out, and she's dead where she stands. It would be a mercy to kill the body now._ He looked at Livanus, who simply shook his head and shrugged. _"We're waiting and seeing, Pellarian,"_ the older turian said. _"We're buying Blasto time. Past that. . .we know what some of her eventual orders were. I'll be damned if I'll let her carry any of them out, if she's even still so inclined."_

Linianus _did_ take the opportunity to disembark at Omega. He'd never, _ever_ expected to set foot in the land of the Lawless. . . and it was not what he expected. At all. It was much cleaner, for one thing. Lantar and Garrus had disembarked with him, Siara, and Makur. Garrus and Lantar were _staring_ around themselves as a krogan in red armor advanced to clasp their hands. "Harak," Garrus said, sounding amazed. "Love what you've done with the place."

"Four and a half years of damned near round the clock work. And now we've got batarians doing fly-byes every other day, trying to get me to take the first shot, so they can try to wreck what we've been building here." Ulluthyr Harak was not what Linianus had expected. He did have a slight physical resemblance to his old friend, Mazz, but there was a sense of patience to him that reminded Lin of Urdnot Gris, more. And yet, not. Gris had a core of inner calm. Harak seemed. . . canny. Intelligent, as Gris was, but warier, too.

"All I can tell you is, we _know_ you're one of the targets," Garrus said, quietly. "We'll help as we can, but we don't know what the timetable's going to be. You may have to hold out till we can get to you."

Harak grimaced. "I can guarantee them a hell of a fight. Omega Security Forces aren't soldiers, but they're damned good, and they _like_ it here, now. Plus, Pelagia and I have been working on a few little surprises here and there." He turned his head slightly. "Pelagia?"

The image of a human female with ice-blond hair that tumbled loosely to her waist appeared beside him. Lin's eyebrows went up. _If this is who Siara and Makur were talking about the other day, then she's a damned AI. And . . . yes. That's __decorative__._ The AI's self-image wore a tight-fitting black dress, backless, black boots, and gloves. "Yes, Harak?"

"Our Spectre friends are looking for your elcor friend. Let's get him safely stowed away before all hell breaks loose around here, eh?"

"Certainly. I'll let Thelldaroon know that you're here, Spectres. He's been expecting you." She turned and smiled at Siara and Makur. "Welcome back, krannt-mates. I've taken the liberty of packing your things for you. I also put in some of the asari statuary from your quarters, on the grounds that Harak keeps threatening to break them, and I think you might actually appreciate them." Pelagia paused. "Also, bubblebath."

Siara laughed. "Pelagia, you are not supposed to _peek."_

"I don't," the AI replied, with dignity. "I _do_, however, have to order more when we run out. Your chamber goes through it at several times the rate of everyone else's."

Siara laughed again, and Linianus grinned a little, too, in pure amusement.

He took the time to walk around Omega, listening to Garrus and Lantar as they stopped, stared, and exclaimed to one another periodically—"Wasn't that where that quarian kid had a shop? It's a antiques store now." Garrus paused. "And a classy one."

"Yeah, and that's where that varren meat vendor who practically poisoned—"

"And that . . . was Afterlife." They both stopped in their tracks and just stood there for a moment. For Lin, it was just an edifice filled with corporate offices. A little older looking than Bastion. Prothean evidence here and there in the architecture. But nothing really impressive about it. And yet, Lantar and Garrus were both visibly moved, clamping down turian stoicism even more firmly than usual. If they'd been human, Lin suspected that they'd have been covering their eyes to hide tears. _"Dimicato'fradu—"_

"_I know. We can't let the __futari_ _batarians destroy this. Not after we've all worked and bled so damned much for this place."_

"_For every place, Garrus."_

**Dara, Mindoir, May 23, 2196**

The _Normandy_ didn't often land on planets. Mindoir was an exception; she could depend on another SR ship to be around to lend a little engine power to get off the ground again, if needed. Dara was excited to be home, though she was trying not to show it. She had her bag packed before breakfast, and ate in the messhall before Rel even woke up, before wandering her way up to the starboard observation lounge. And blinked.

Eli had beaten her here, and was looking out the window. "It _was_ the starboard one, wasn't it?" he asked, as she came in.

"The first time around? Yeah. I think so. EDI kept giving us lessons in planetology and whatnot on our way in."

"_You kids are not getting that from me,"_ Joker's voice said over the comm panel.

Eli chuckled. "Wouldn't think of asking you to," he told the AI with a grin.

They watched at the gas giants passed by, then an asteroid belt. Not talking at all. Both of them putting their hands on the plasteel window, as if tactile awareness was needed now.

The hatch opened behind them as Mindoir itself finally swam into view. Just a tiny dot now. Warm arms slid around Dara from behind; hint of a familiar scent. "Wondered where you'd gone off to," Rel said. She turned her head slightly and gave his wrist a light kiss.

Serana's voice then, too. "It didn't take a lot of _detective_ work to figure out where you'd be," she commented, and Dara glanced over, seeing her worm her way under Eli's shoulder. Eli lightly draped one arm around her now, but kept the other hand on the glass.

"Just seemed like coming full circle was the thing to do," Dara said, lightly. "At least this time I'm _probably_ not going to have to convince Eli that the sky's not going to eat him."

"And this time, we probably _both_ won't have coats," Eli replied, tartly. "And it's almost the middle of winter at home, too."

Dara shivered. "Yeah, don't remind me. I packed for going back to _Rocam_."

"Oh, scale me. At least my last planet was Edessan." She peeked up just long enough to catch Eli's glance. "So, what you're saying is, you mostly have swimsuits with you?"

"In your dreams, Elijah Sidonis."

They came in for a landing, and finally walked down the long hatchway. It was just after dawn, the air was chill, and there was snow on the ground. The sky above was a milky lavender, suffused with light cloud cover from horizon to horizon. Sam stepped out of the ship after them, and put his hand on Dara's shoulder, looking around. "Well, kiddo. We're home."


	98. Chapter 98: Spite and Respite

**Chapter 98: Spite and Respite**

_**Author's note:** Yep, Seheve's weapon mod shipment to Ophold on Noveria was a reference to the hanar who wants Shepard to smuggle something through Customs for him. Sure, you could go all renegade and walk that package through Customs, but isn't it nice to know that doing that sort of thing has consequences, such as financing terrorism and extremist groups? :-P_

_Dermiti suggests Nine Inch Nails, "Every Day is Exactly the Same" for Seheve's theme song. Nice lyrics choice, Derm. "I think I used to have a purpose/ But then again / That might have been a dream/ I think I used to have a voice / now I never make a sound / I just do what I've been told / I really don't want them to come around."_

_**In other news:** CalliesVoice made me aware of a Writer position open at Bioware. I have now applied. Wish me luck?_

**Valak N'dor, Khar'sharn, May 15-30, 2196**

It hadn't taken much to convince his sister, Xal'i B'gaz, to leave their parents' estate for a visit to his own. Two years Valak's junior, Xal'i was frequent in her assertions of boredom. She was a widow of four years' standing, however, and could have set up a household for herself, outside of their parents' reach, on just the money she'd inherited from her late husband. She had not, however, claiming that she wanted to be a support to their parents in their declining years, and yet decried the lack of company and amusements in their small community in the rural region outside the capital. Valak was never quite sure how much of her commentary to take at face value. He knew that Xal'i was highly intelligent, and had had an ear for languages that their tutors had been proud of, but that had never found employment or use; a male of the high nobility could enter into SIU. A female could not enter special forces work. Even an analysis position was not an option. And thus, Xal'i had gone to her marriage with little grace when he was sixteen and she had been eighteen. And had chafed and railed at him when he'd left SIU after only four years. "You're letting yourself, your opportunity to work for our people, go to waste!" she'd hissed at him at one family celebration shortly after his resignation. "And for what? To sit on your estates and grow _hroz'ni_ vines to make wine? To play with your slaves?"

He'd had the strong feeling at the time that her rage had been caused by her own snuffed ambitions and desires, the gifts that were in her, unused, and unusable, by the dictates of their caste. So Valak hadn't said much in return. Kissed his sister's hand, and allowed her to have her say. Over the years, each reiteration had been worse. So when he'd called her to inform her that yes, he'd returned to the SIU fold, and that one of his colleagues was coming to his estate for at _least_ dinner, if not an extended visit of a day or two, and that he would like her to meet Arvak R'mod, Xal'i had damned near purred. "That is _wonderful_ news, Valak. Of course, I would _love_ the chance to see you again, and your lovely home."

_Yes, the lovely home you've set foot in twice in the last decade_, Valak thought, not really amused. He'd been at his slow and patient work for six to eight years at this point, and having his _family_ here, even a small part of it, was sure to crimp some of his ability to maneuver. However, it would force him to move more slowly, which, in light of his recent raid on the neighboring estate, and the authorities' continuing investigations into the explosions there, might not be a bad thing.

No, his real concern in having Xal'i here at the estate was this: Nala was currently the only female 'slave' on the estate. This would stand out to Xal'i. Not only would she have to bring her own attendants, but she would expect Nala to be provided to her as a servitor. Something Valak had no intention of doing unless it would _really_ stand out. "Be sure to bring someone along to do your makeup and attend to your dresses," he told his sister, mildly. "I have no one here qualified for such work."

"Yes, if you'd simply give in and let Father arrange for a wedding to a nice girl from a good family, I wouldn't feel as if I'm heading into the barbarous outskirts of the galaxy when I come to visit." Xal'i shuddered delicately, her four golden eyes shining like coins on the comm screen. "Surely, you must have _some_ female slaves there."

"A healer, at the moment. I sent the rest of them ahead to my residence on Camala, when I thought I'd be spending time there. I still may. Seems a waste to spend money shuttling them here and there, however." Valak allowed himself an indolent shrug.

"And since when have you _ever_ worried about frittering away money, brother?" Xal'i laughed, but her eyes had gone intent. Facial expression and body language counted for _much_ among batarians.

Valak had laughed. "I have no objections to _frittering_ when it's something for my own comfort or pleasure, my dear sister. But really? Shuttling a hundred slaves back and forth across the galactic void seems excessive even for me, don't you think?"

She'd laughed and signed off, and Valak had sat back, exhaling, letting his shoulders relax slightly. Nala had listened to the entire exchange, a slight frown on her face, and came around the desk now, hesitantly resting her hands on his shoulders. "You don't trust her at all. Your own sister?"

"She used to cane her slaves if they applied her eyeliner incorrectly," Valak said, quietly. "I've done evil things, Nala. Vile things. But never have they been _petty_ evils, I hope." He'd lifted one of her hands off his shoulder to kiss it lightly.

"Like what?" she'd asked, lightly rubbing his shoulder with her other hand.

Valak sighed. "The slave rebellion on Curvok." Curvok didn't appear on many Council maps of the galaxy. It was far off the beaten track, deep in the Terminus systems, and had been firmly in batarian hands for five hundred years. Nine years ago, the slaves there had gotten a whiff of freedom.

"I never did hear exactly what went on there. Just that the rebellion had been put down, and good, honest citizens could travel there safely once more." A hint of irony in her soft voice.

"It wasn't pretty, my dear. A gladiatorial fighter names Sespar N'gal started it all. He killed his trainer, freed his fellow gladiators, and they worked through their entire gladiatorial school, taking the guards by surprise with primitive weapons. Then they stole the armor and the guns from the dead guards and made their way into the countryside, razing estate after estate, taking food and guns from each in turn, and freeing more and more slaves." Valak closed his eyes. "It was noble and desperate and foolish. By the end of six months, there were twenty thousand freed slaves wandering with the gladiators."

Nala inhaled sharply. "So many?"

"The Hegemon and Oversight Forces were not about to admit to that on the news feeds, my dear. Believe me when I tell you, twenty thousand." Valak opened his eyes again. Seeing it in his mind, all over again. "Confused, not really knowing what to do with themselves. Not even, ancestors help them, looking for ships or a way _off_ the planet. Sespar had had a half-baked plan of taking the planet for themselves. Fending off Hegemony troops and ships. . . somehow. Still, they'd used guerilla tactics fairly well for six months. Until SIU had been sent in to intervene."

"And that's when you were sent there, too?"

"Yes." Valak paused. He _hated_ even thinking about the rebellion. "I helped track them down, Nala. Ancestors help me, I did my best to let as many of them escape capture as I could. I didn't pull the trigger, didn't perform any of the executions. Argued for leniency for the women and the children. But I'm as culpable as any other member of SIU who was there." Leaden weight in his stomach. "I _found_ the villages where they were hiding, trying to pass as normal citizens. Arvak was there. He argued that the citizens who hadn't turned them in were guilty by association. I did my best to suggest that the villagers might have been afraid of what the slaves would do to them." Valak sighed. "Our superiors agreed with Arvak. And they gave the orders. He lined up the villagers—all low-caste, of course, farm workers and carpenters and mechanics. Had them and the slaves we'd captured dig the big pits. And then ordered them to stand in the pits. And had our men open fire." Valak swallowed, hard.

"Oh, ancestors," Nala whispered. "What did you do?"

"What I had to do, to walk away that day. I raised my gun and fired into the air slightly over the prisoners' heads. I had to _look_ just like any other member of SIU, my dear. Free to make suggestions and recommendations until the orders were given, but completely obedient once the orders were given." Valak was just as glad he wasn't looking at her face right now. "A month later, my four year term was up, and I didn't renew. Retreated here, and took a vow that if I could help it, nothing like that was ever going to happen again." He kissed the back of her hand again. "And I've been doing my best to build a little army ever since. It goes better some days than others." He turned his head slightly, giving her a wary glance. "That's the _worst_ of it, my dear. There's many other random acts of vileness that I was associated with, but that's the one that haunts my dreams. It took . . . several days. . . to slaughter twenty thousand people. And Arvak had the villagers that he spared cover the graves over." Valak looked away again. "So when you told me that you thought he was a bad man. . . _that_, I already knew."

"You didn't kill them," she told him, softly.

"I'm afraid, my dear, that you cannot forgive me for this. Nor can I forgive myself. All I can do is say never, _ever_ again, and fight to make it so." He'd stood then, her hand sliding off his shoulder, and turned, catching both of her hands now, lightly kissing the back of each. "At least you're not shuddering away from my touch," he murmured.

Nala frowned. "No. You are _not_ Arvak, m'lord."

"I had thought, my dear, that we had banished those words from your vocabulary." The remonstrance was mild.

Nala's remaining eyes narrowed. "_Valak_. You did the best you could to save and spare them. What good would it have done to stand in the middle of all that and shout, 'no, no, if you wish to shoot them, first, you must also shoot me'?" She looked up at him, shaking her head. "It would have been doubtless an act of great integrity, and you would also be quite dead as a result of it. No. . . if there were a court or a system that would hold SIU accountable, you would have turned them over to it, yes?"

"Absolutely." Valak snorted. "Alas, no such court exists, my dear. And I know that Arvak was decorated for his work at Curvok."

"So you refused to do more. And now you work against them. From both within and without." She hesitated. "I find you a male of extraordinary honor and principles. . . Valak."

His lips quirked faintly. "If you say so, my dear." He sighed. "And now, we will have a man without either as a guest here once more. And my sister, as well. Do not let either of them get you alone, my dear. If worst comes to worst, I will publicly order you to remain in my bed-chamber for their entire visit. I will endeavor to make it sound like a punishment, so do make an effort to cringe a bit at the notion."

That actually got her to laugh, just a little, a rare little ripple of sound. But his concern had been real. He could, all too clearly, picture Xal'i raising a whip or a cane to Nala for not perfectly comporting herself as a menial _ought_, for not pressing a dress exactly _so_. And Arvak would be _watching_ everything, Valak was sure.

That had been three days ago. Today, his guests had arrived. Xal'i was at her flirtatious best, lightly charming Arvak at the dinner table, making witty conversation with her brother and his colleague, asking insightful questions about their work at SIU. "My late husband was more involved with politics, but I always lived vicariously through my brother," she admitted sweetly. "I yearned for stories of SIU's exploits. Which he always gave me very carefully edited excerpts of, naturally. Always so concerned with security!" Xal'i's light trill of laughter filled the room.

Arvak smiled at her thinly, but Valak could see that several glasses of _hroz'ni_ wine and the exceptional meal, not to mention his sister's ample charms, were having at least a relaxing effect on the other male. But of course, Arvak would be _aware_ of that. "A concern with security isn't unfounded, but I cannot imagine you ever being a risk, Lady Xali'i," Arvak murmured.

"You are too kind," she replied, graciously as various 'menials' came in to clear the plates of the current course. _Ka'lai_ caviar had been the appetizer, followed by numerous other small courses. The salt of the fish roe had been followed by the sweetness of hearts of _peldo_ dressed with vinegar, followed by roast _fezaan_ and richly pureed root vegetables and thick, creamy gravy. The next course was dessert, and featured pastries filled with cream and native honey, and dotted with _jahoda_ berries—tiny dots of red, half the size of his smallest fingernail. Valak ignored his servants studiously. No slave owner looked directly at the servants when they entered a room. Meals simply appeared and plates disappeared, as if by magic.

His sister beamed now, and asked, cheerfully, "So, what, if anything can you tell me about your _current_ work?"

Arvak smiled slightly. "Very little, I'm afraid. Though I'll admit that I'm _very_ proud of a certain project that I proposed some, hmm, twelve years ago is _finally_ coming to fruition."

That got Valak's attention. "Oh really?" he replied, smiling slyly and swirling his glass of wine in front of him. "Do tell."

Arvak sent him a slight smirk. "Let's just say it's one of the ones that you opposed in technical grounds."

Valak thought about that, and then laughed slightly. "Ahh. Perhaps you mean the giant game of _baaca_?" _Bacca_ was a batarian game akin to human billiards. While it didn't involve a cue, it _did_ involve bouncing one ball off another in careful geometric patterns to get one ball or another to fall into a hole. The balls were of three different sizes, to add to the complexity. The _cudo_ were large, or the size of a Terran grapefruit. The _mesal_ were medium, the size of a Terran apple, and the _tinal_ were small, the size of a Terran golf ball.

Arvak's smirk widened. "That would be an excellent guess."

"You're _sure_ the engineers got the math right? It wouldn't do not to hit what you're aiming at, in a game with money on the table." Valak left it open. Let Arvak fill in the gaps, if he wished.

Arvak picked up a utensil and cut into the pastry in front of him with relish. "The size of the ball in question is fairly large. And the target isn't, shall we say, heavily defended. It's a bank shot, Valak. I wish I could show you the simulations. If they try to knock the ball off course, we're very likely to win the game, anyway. The real target isn't what they'll think it is."

Valak widened his eyes slightly. "So, they'll think that the target is, say, their _cudo_. But instead, it's a _mesal_ right next to it? Intriguing, but it seems to me that the trajectory will still make it clear what the target really is." By this, he meant that the target would look like a planet, but that the target would actually be one of the planet's moons.

Arvak grinned now, baring his teeth. "Close, but not quite right, Valak."

Valak forced a chuckle. "And now, all I'm left with is an urge to _play_ a round or two of _bacca_ after we finish in here."

In the _bacca_ room, Xal'i demanded a turn at playing, too, demonstrating exceptional skill against Arvak. Valak noted the increasingly flirtatious exchanges with a certain amount of grim pleasure. He couldn't quite tell if _any_ of it was real, but they were both at least _distracted_ by one another. He set up his next shot, and used a _tinal_ to attack one of Arvak's _mesal_, which was in close proximity to one of the large _cudos_. . . and Arvak, chuckled, pointing it out. "Let us say that this _tinal_," he said, picking up a small ball, and placing it between the larger _cudo_ and the nearby _mesal_, "was your real target, Valak. Small, almost worthless, but. . . strategic. Could you bank off the _mesal_ and take the _tinal_ with it?"

Valak nodded. "An interesting play. And one that only a skilled player could make." He rolled his current ball with just enough spin on it, and got the carom just right, sending the _mesal_ out of its orbit to the center of the table, and sending the tiny _tinal_ into a corner pocket. "Dumb luck," he said, waving off his sister's sudden applause. "It takes a better player than I, to make that happen with larger objects over greater distances. And the more _mesal_ that are in the way, the harder the shot would become."

"Fortunately for us, there is but one _mesal_ to worry about."

Valak smiled and set up a different shot for Arvak. This one with two _mesal_ near a _cudo_. "Let's test our skills, my friend." _So, the target isn't a planet or a moon. . . well, the moon is. But only by way of taking out what's in orbit between them. And it's possible, though not one hundred percent likely, that the planet has only one moon. What planets are out there that have only one moon, but have something else. . . a space station, maybe. . . in between them? Lots, probably. Edessan has those shipyards, but we've got ships forming up on the edge of the system. Plus, it has three small moons. Shipyards. . . Earth. Gods of my ancestors, they're going to use the comet or asteroid gambit to slam Earth's moon. They've probably loaded it down with eezo. If it hits the moon, he could well perturb the orbit, and the explosion would probably take out the shipyards and certainly flash the atmosphere. And if the real target is the shipyards. . .again, when it impacts, the eezo could detonate. The only chance would be to re-align the comet or asteroid's trajectory before a certain point, And it's probably been traveling for ten years or so, already. Ancestors, I have to warn the Spectres, not that they already shouldn't be looking for this, after what I told them months ago. But how to communicate when I have __two__ guests around whom I cannot allow to catch me using that FTL comm device?_

To cover his thoughts, Valak turned on the Khar'sharn news feed, while Arvak and Xal'i continued to play. Their access to the extranet here was extremely limited; it was a mark of huge prestige even to have an extranet console, even if it were tuned solely to local feed options. "In other news," the batarian announcer said, blandly, "the Imperatrix of the turian Hierarchy died today. The Imperator took this opportunity to rally support behind him from his restive populace by making bloody, but vague threats of reprisal against unspecified enemies, for the death of his co-ruler. Given that the Imperatrix is said to have died of a pulmonary embolism, an entirely _natural_ cause of death, it's safe to say that this speech is mostly demagoguery."

The feed cut to coverage of the funeral itself; turians in antique battle armor, carrying spears at the head of a procession. Clearly shown, from several angles, to reinforce in the viewers' minds that the turians were a primitive species, trapped in their past. _Spears, not guns_? was the implicit comment here.

Then the feed shifted to a view of a turian governmental building, all white marble on the interior, severe and undecorated. A crowd stood in a perfect circle around a bier on which a single, still form lay; the Imperator began to speak in turian, and a translation flowed in the written symbols of the batarian language at the bottom of the screen.

The game behind him had paused. "Interesting translation," Xal'i noted. "I think the people at the Ministry of Information might be underpaid. They're certainly not very accurate."

Valak was barely listening to her. His stomach was clenched as he translated the words on his own. _She was taken from us by a disease. Not a natural one, but one created by the hands of enemies . . . scattered to the wind, to kill whoever it might . . . . all these losses have not gone unnoticed. And they will not go unavenged_. _Our allies in the Systems Alliance have suffered as greatly, or more so, than we have. We have evidence of who is behind these attacks, and together, we will strike down those who have attacked us. I, Ligorus Praesesidis, called the Watchful, swear it, by hand, heart, and body; by breath, mind, and spirit._

_Oh. . . gods._ Valak was using every ounce of his self-control to watch the screen without changing expression. _Gods and ancestors and every demigod and nature-spirit there is, people are going to die. By the millions. The two largest fleets in Council space are going to rise as one and wipe the batarian people off the face of the galaxy and use our dead worlds as a depositories for toxic waste and spent drive cores. Not that the leadership doesn't deserve it, but the people on the ground. . . the low-caste, the slaves. . . they don't. How can I prevent this? How can I at least make it less bad? And how am I going to keep __my__ people safe? Tuldur, Ya'lor, Neharrac, and Nala, not to mention all the others?_

Beside him, Arvak and Xal'iwere chuckling at the report. "Did you see them _howling_, brother?" Xal'itittered. "Like animals. So utterly primitive."

_Those weren't howls, sister. Those were hunt-cries. And did you notice that they all cut off at the same time? That's the pack mentality. Everyone tuned in with one another. When you've hurt a turian, you haven't just hurt him, you've hurt his whole squad, his whole family. And we just hurt their Imperial family. Which means we hurt __all of them__. _Valak leaned forward suddenly, spotting something on the screen. "What is it?" Arvak said, catching the movement.

_Damn_. "Just thought that one of the Imperials surrounding the bier was wearing _paint_. Unusual for one of their nobles, isn't it?" _Shit. I think that might be Rellus' brother, the one whose claws were in my throat. Married into the high nobility? Shit. That means that Rel was not only the nephew of the leaders of the Spectres, but related, by marriage, to the turian imperial family. Arvak would chew out his own liver in envy, and then eviscerate me, if he knew._

Arvak studied the screen. "Interesting. Sharp eyes, Valak. Might be nothing, might be something worth looking into."

Xal'i started to excuse herself, saying, "You two should certainly continue the game. Arvak, it's been an absolute delight to meet you. Valak used to mention your name, but you're far, far more charming than he'd ever led me to expect. Valak, one of my two slaves is, alas, in no condition to help me undress tonight. I can't look at her face, while the marks are still there. Turns my stomach. Might I borrow one of your female slaves?"

Arvak snorted. "He's not usually amenable to such requests."

"Ah, some things never change. That odd streak of sentimentality is still intact, I see." Xal'i laughed softly.

Valak shrugged it away. "I'll send for a slave to assist you, sister, but I'd appreciate a chance to speak with you. Perhaps I might wait in your suite's sitting room, as you're getting changed?" He glanced at Arvak in apology. "I'll certainly return to finish the game later."

Arvak waved it off. "Tomorrow is soon enough. Good night, m'lady. It's been a privilege to meet you." He bowed slightly, and left.

Valak offered his arm to his sister, and politely escorted her to her room, after directing Tuldur to fetch Nala and bring her to his sister's suite. He hoped a quick glance of apology directed at Nala, behind his sister's back, was enough, and also hoped that Nala could play deferential slave well enough to pass muster.

He shouldn't have worried about that. Nala kept her eyes on the floor as she shuffled in, and dropped a careful curtsey to Xal'i. "You, girl. Unfasten the buttons at the back of this gown, and don't tear any of them off, as my normal dresser did." Xal'i's pretty mouth tightened into a thin line. "Or you'll join her in the barracks with a crop mark across your face, too."

"Yes, m'lady." A bare whisper of sound, and then Nala moved with Xal'i into the adjoining room.

"What did you want to talk about?" Xal'i called over, amid the rustlings of fabric behind a dressing screen in the bedroom.

Valak thought rapidly. It had mostly been an invention, to have an excuse to keep an eye on Nala. "What do you think of Arvak, sister?"

There was a slight pause. "Brother, are _you_, of all people, playing matchmaker?"

Valak looked at the ceiling and asked his ancestors for their forgiveness. "Perhaps."

"Well, he's definitely the most impressive male I've ever seen in your company, which isn't saying much, of course. Better by far than your drunken philosopher friends in school."

"I wouldn't call the philosophers friends," Valak replied, carefully. "More fellow drinkers, than anything else." He shifted the topic quickly. "So, Arvak's impressive?"

"For a member of the minor nobility, yes. He's intelligent and charming and involved in _real work_." Xal'i's voice was excited, and then turned sly, "And you're enough of a sentimentalist to want to see if I liked him before you approached Father with the idea of a match. Brother, I'm _touched_. I would never have expected this."

_Neither would I_, Valak thought, looking up at the ceiling again.

Then there was a distinct _slap_, and Xal'i exploded in irritation, "Oh, you stupid girl, you stepped on the train of my gown. You _ripped_ it!" Another slap, and Valak was on his feet and entering the room, where his sister was half-in, half-out of her dress, and already reaching for a riding crop to chastise her remaining personal slave, a very young asari girl, who was cringing away, but knew better than to raise her hands or try to defend herself. Nala had backed up, and was keeping her eyes fixed on the floor, hiding her expression.

"Oh, come now, sister, that dress was a year old," Valak said lightly. "She's practically done you a favor."

Xal'i's head snapped around, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Do you presume to interfere in how I treat my property?"

"Of course not." Valak reached out and pulled on a string dangling from one sleeve. "However, _this_ was showing all night. A sure sign that this ensemble, lovely though it is, has seen better days." He let his eyes tip to the side. "And as I'm sure you wish Arvak to think you just as impressive as you find him, I suggest you let your slaves rip this frock of yours to shreds, and go forth tomorrow to the shops to find yourself a new one. I'll pay." _Getting you out of the house tomorrow is half the battle. The other half will be finding a way to send Arvak with you._

Xal'i calmed, her spiteful flash of temper fading. "You must _really_ want me to like your friend, brother. Bribery?"

"It's been known to get good results," he acknowledged, and then stepped back out of the room, patiently waiting until he knew that Nala was not going to be on the receiving end of a riding crop. He wasn't quite sure what he'd have done if the healer had been the target of his sister's rage. His hand tightened on his cane. _Probably something stupid_, he acknowledged. Nala was rapidly becoming an Achilles heel for him, but she also wanted to be involved. Her gun training was coming along nicely, and they'd been working on her swordplay daily, until their company had arrived. Having a real medical doctor on the staff and included in the secrets was also a bona fide _boon_. And yet, his first tendency was always to protect her.

At length, Nala emerged from his sister's room and slipped out of the sitting area. Valak spent several more minutes chatting lightly with his sister, and then left her quarters. To find Arvak had pinned Nala up against the stairwell's wall, and was, as they say, taking a few liberties. Valak gritted his teeth, remembered _not_ to remove his sword from the cane, and used the cane, alone, to remove Arvak's hand from under the hem of Nala's shirt. "Ah, Arvak. Always ready to lend a hand." _Would 'twere I could remove it from you._ "My sister admits to a certain _intrigue_ for you. Would you be at all interested in her? I know that my father settled a dowry of twenty thousand credits on her for her last marriage, which came back to her on the death of her husband, as well as approximately half her husband's lands and property." Valak dangled the _ru'udal_ bait under Arvak's nose. "And I know she'd make a caring and supportive wife for anyone involved in SIU." _Isn't this a fair bargain? You get lands, alliance with a house in the high nobility, and a delicious little pastry to come home to every night. And all for the low, low price of trusting your future brother-in-law and tolerating his little quirks, which include not touching his slaves. _

Arvak's eyes had widened slightly. "It's something to think about, certainly," he murmured, squinting a bit, speculatively. "I'd have no objections to an arrangement, if you think a bargain could be made."

"With your star on the rise in SIU? Of course a bargain can be made." The inference was that _Valak_ had something to gain here; hitching his wagon to Arvak's train. "I'll go to my father's estate tomorrow to discuss it with him. While I'm gone, I'd take it as a favor if you'd escort Xal'i into town. She's quite desperate to impress you, and doesn't feel that she's accomplished that yet." A little more embroidery, and Arvak went on his way.

Nala, who had been doing her best to remain invisible against the wall, visibly sagged as Arvak left. Valak pointed up the stairs, silently, in the direction of his room, and she scrambled away as quickly as she could. He followed at a calmer pace, in case anyone was observing. Yal'or appeared in the shadows outside his door. "Stay outside in the hall. Don't let yourself be seen, and if anyone comes, give me a knock," Valak told him quietly, and entered his rooms.

Nala was perched on the edge of the bed, and visibly jerked when the door opened. Valak shut it behind him, and, with one of the devices he kept in a hidden location in the room, checked for any new listening devices. His guests had been here all day, after all. _Ah, good. Nothing, for the moment._ "Quietly, my dear," he murmured, crossing to offer her his hands. "Just because they haven't bugged _this_ room doesn't mean that they can't listen at doors, or point a microphone at the windows."

She shuddered. "I feel a need to cleanse myself."

Valak nodded. "Personally, after several hours in their company, so do I." She slipped her hands into his, and he pulled her to her feet. "Into the shower with you, my dear. Wash the touch away." Valak lightly touched her face with the backs of his fingers. "One of these days, my dear, I think I'm going to take great pleasure in killing that man."

Nala's red-gold eyes rose. "Save a piece of him for me."

"I was rather thinking of bringing you his head on a platter."

"I wasn't thinking of his head."

Valak smiled slightly. "Touche, my dear. Off you go now."

Once they were both feeling _clean_ again, Valak lay in bed, thinking as he ran his fingers up and down Nala's arm. He needed to warn his Spectre handlers. But he couldn't be caught doing it. With both guests _hopefully_ out of the house tomorrow, there would be a brief window of opportunity. . . assuming nothing _else_ was bugged around here.

It was, indeed, a _very_ brief window, and he couldn't wait until evening for two-way communications. Instead, he composed his message, compressed it into a tiny file, and sent it off before leaving for his father's estate. He left the transmitter, turned off, concealed in its book. It was a small thing, the size of one finger, and it took up hardly any space in the book at all—a book concealed in plain sight; three shelves above eye level, but not on a top shelf, either. The shelves were dusted once a week to ensure that no one would notice that this one book was taken down more often than the rest, too.

In sum, the message read:

_Sorry for communications silence. Indications of a comet or asteroid attack possibly imminent, probably with Luna or Terran shipyards as a target. Troop movement unusual. Support ships being sent to Eden Prime, Shanxi. Heavy cruisers and landing craft and breaching pods, Omega and Edessan. Probable attack to cripple shipyards at Edessan. Landing craft also sent to Amaterasu. AI likely on Camala or Lorek. Attempting to garner enough trust to investigate. What else can I do?_

Feeling helpless, Valak headed off for his father's estate and endured a day of familial reunion with them. Ignored efforts by his mother to convince _him_ of the need to marry, himself, and instead pursued the notion of a potential alliance between Xal'i and Arvak. "It _would_ get her out of the house again," his father murmured. "And Arvak's name is getting mentioned in political circles of late, as well. They say he's been introduced to the Hegemon."

_Interesting. Now that, I did not know. Could be useful._ "It's certainly possible. I just know that she has what he lacks—birth, lands, and money—and he has what she lacks. Influence. Ambition. And I know that he'll go far."

"It's an interesting idea. I'll want to speak with the man, myself, of course." His father looked at him, all four scarlet eyes interested. "You seem to have turned over a new leaf, son. I have to say, I'm pleased to see you more interested in the family, and working for SIU again. I'd thought you'd lost yourself, and that we'd never see anything more than dissipation and reckless living again."

"Well, you can only live that way so long before it becomes really rather dull," Valak replied, with a faint shrug.

"Now, if we could convince _you_ that your life would be more complete with a family in it," his mother began. "There's a perfectly lovely young lady at an estate nearby—"

_I couldn't trust anyone you'd set me up with. And I already have a female I __can__ trust._ The thought surprised him, and he blinked, and covered it, shaking his head. "I'm a radical, Mother. No marrying unless I love the woman."

"Oh, pish-tosh," she said, indignantly. "What has love to do with anything?"

**Dara, Mindoir, May 22, 2196**

It was good, if odd, to be home again. Just looking at everyone who'd assembled in the field to greet the _Normandy_ made Dara a little happier. Allardus and Solanna and Polina and Quintus were there, to greet three returning siblings with hugs and wrist-clasps. Kauda, the drell nanny of the Vakarians, had all four of their children there to greet them—Dara frowned and did the math in her head, and realized that today was actually a Sunday. No school. Ellie was there with the Sidonis clan—Caelia and Emily and Tacitus and even Narayana. Kasumi was there, holding Takeshi by the hand. And Grandma Agnes, even, much to Dara's surprise. Linianus' parents were there, too, beaming with pride at the sight of their first-son, and fussing over him.

Babble of voices, erupting in every direction—_"You look too thin, first-son. Were you __very__ sick on Bastion, Linianus?" "Nothing to worry about, __mada__, and all better now."—_"My god, you had me so worried, Sam," from Grandma Agnes—"Welcome home," as Kasumi leaned up to give Sam a kiss—"Daddy!" from Caelia as she saw Lantar, and then, "Lijah!" in turn. "Mom! Dad!"—"Good to see you, first-son. You and your wife are well-recovered from your illness?"—_"We were grieved to hear of your loss, __ama'filus__, and we mourn with you."_

Cacophony. Hugs and hands everywhere. Takeshi was holding up his hands to Sam imperatively, who chuckled, and, armor and all, picked the boy up and gave him a careful hug, which gave Dara a slight pang. She remembered feeling absolutely safe when her dad picked her up like that. Like nothing in the universe could touch her. "Takeshi, you remember your sister, right?"

Takeshi peered over Sam's shoulder at Dara, dark almond eyes widening slightly. The resemblance to Sam was growing as the boy got older, she saw; the facial structure was becoming more square than round, and his skin tone was closer to Dara's own, but the eyes and hair still looked like Kasumi's. "That not Dara," Takeshi said skeptically. The last time he'd seen her was almost nine months ago now, at her and Rel's _tal'mae_ rites on Macedyn. As far as Takeshi was concerned, Dara suspected, _sister_ meant a picture in a frame.

"Sure it is," Sam told him comfortably, turning around so that the boy could look at her directly.

"Not Dara." That was firm.

"Hey there, little guy," Dara told him with a smile, and waved at him. "You remember _Rel_, I bet, though, right?"

Takeshi looked up as Rel loomed over him and offered a hand. And immediate broke into a fit of the giggles. "Lantah!" he exclaimed. 

"Not Lantar," Sam said, in a tone of patience. "Rel." He looked at them. "This will go on for the next half hour, if we let him. There've been whole conversations in which he's told us that he's Takeshi Kennard Jaworski, _not_ a little boy, _not_ a little wiggle, _not_ even Takeshi. But Takeshi Kennard Jaworski, thank you _very_ much. And that Kasumi isn't mama, she's daddy, and so on. I'm chalking it up to the beginnings of a sense of humor." He dropped the little boy backwards over one forearm to make him squeal, righted him again, and said, 'C'mon. You two are with _us_ this time. Allardus and Solanna get Rinus and Kallixta. And I'm sure Lantar and Ellie will find room for Eli and Serana."

Dara hesitantly stepped after her father. She had the strangest, most mixed feelings. She _wanted_ to go home and crawl up the stairs and curl up in her room—which wasn't her room anymore, and she knew it had been changed around into Takeshi's nursery, long ago—and on the other hand, she felt oddly as if she were being separated from her family. By her family. She glanced over at the others, some of whom were glancing back in much the same way. Three weeks of absolute hell had built new bonds between all off them, she figured. Reinforced the old ones, but forged new ones, too. "Come on," Rel told her quietly, tugging her gently by the arm towards the waiting ground car.

"Go on upstairs and get unpacked," Kasumi urged them as they came in and took their shoes off. To Dara's slight surprise, Kasumi's mother, Hinata, was already there, and from the smell of things, had been cooking for a while. She and Rel bowed slightly on greeting Hinata, who bowed back, and said a few words in English to them, while Dara was desperately trying to remember _any_ Japanese words. She hadn't _needed_ Japanese in four years. Agnes sniffed a little at the air, and moved into the kitchen herself right now, looking determined.

Dara shook her head, looking at Kasumi. "It might be worth my life to try and get in there, so please tell me they'll remember to make something for Rel, too."

Rel chuckled. _"Anserae_," he chided. The little web-footed herbivores were noted for the skittish nature and natural cowardice.

Kasumi smiled. "I'm taking care of that part," she assured Dara. "Go on. Upstairs. Get out of your armor."

Upstairs, Dara sat down on the edge of the guest bed, and looked around, feeling out of place again. The guest room looked basically identical to when it had been in Kasumi's house, long ago; jade green coverlet, black lacquered furniture, very old ukiyo-e prints on the walls, and so on. A few touches of her father were here in the room; old family pictures, and new ones. There, Sam, Sarah, and little Dara, side by side with a picture of Sam, Kasumi, and Takeshi. On the other side of the dresser, their family picture, taken at her and Rel's _manus_ rites.

She hadn't even realized she'd been sitting there in silence for a while, until Rel, now changed out of his own armor, sat down beside her. "Still nervous?" he asked, pulling her into his side and lightly preening her hair with his hand.

"About the trials? Definitely. Sort of falling into the background, now that we're actually _here_." Dara leaned into him and closed her eyes. "Mostly just tired. Feel like I could sleep for a week." Her body clock was off; the _Normandy_ ran on GMT, Bastion ran on the galactic clock. . . more or less. . . and they'd spent two days on Palaven, too. Four clock-schedules inside of a week. _No wonder I feel like the world's about to spin out from under my feet and sling me off into interstellar space._

"Well, if you sleep for a week, you're going to miss any number of meals," Rel said, after a moment. His voice was lightly teasing. "And I'm pretty sure that there are no bears here for me to chase down and feed to you, raw or cooked."

"Cooked, please. No trichinosis for me." She glanced up, caught the look, and added, dryly, "About five percent of bears in North America have parasitic worms in their muscles and organs, which can infest whatever eats _them_, unless the flesh is cooked properly."

Rel's expression turned slightly nauseated. "And the bears survive that?"

"I'm pretty sure they're fairly uncomfortable," Dara replied, lightly, standing up to dig around in the dresser drawers. "Ah, thank you, Kasumi. Old work shirts of my dad's." She grabbed a plaid shirt and pulled it on over her light tank top, which had so far traveled from Rocam to Illium to Bastion to Palaven to Mindor with her, and rolled up the sleeves so her wedding knife showed. "Let's go down and eat."

Rel didn't move. Just looked around the bedroom for a minute. "Reminds me of studying with you after school at Kasumi's," he said lightly. "Just come and sit with me. They'll call us when lunch is ready."

_What is up with him?_ she wondered, but sat down. "Is there anything you wanted to talk about?" Rel asked her, when, again, the silence had gone on for a while.

Dara thought about that for a moment. "Not really," she replied.

Rel sighed. "What am I doing _wrong_?" he finally asked, sounding plaintive.

Dara stared at him blankly. "Nothing," she answered. "I. . . Rel. You're not doing anything wrong. You're wonderful. You always have been. I don't know why you think something's wrong." She lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling for a moment, feeling tired. "What am _I_ doing that's had you looking all worried lately?"

Rel sighed and lay back with her, one hand moving gently up and down her arm. "When was the last time you played the _reela_?" he asked, after a moment.

"Eh. Four, five months ago. Before we went to Rocam. It's good for finger dexterity, but I was bored with it on our last ship. No new sheet music in ages."

Rel frowned, and Dara held up a hand. "Yes, I could've ordered some on my own, but then we'd moved on to Rocam. And once I started working at the hospital there, when I got home from my shift, I'd heat something up for dinner—usually something pre-made, since there's not exactly a lot of human food on Rocam—I'd just crawl into bed a couple of hours later, then get up and do it again in the morning. Was only three months or so there, but the routine was wearing me down already."

"I thought we agreed you were going to try to make friends there and go on jungle tours and whatever."

"No, _you_ said to do those things. You may not have noticed this, _amatus_, but you make friends a lot more easily than I do. You're much more of an extrovert. The entire reason I have _any_ friends on Mindoir is largely because you decided to be my friend, which was enough for the turian boys, and Eli was my friend, too, which was largely enough for the human ones." Her tone was mater-of-fact, not self-pitying. "Going off on a jungle tour would have been fun if you were there with me, but by myself, no one to share it with? Didn't sound like a good time. Besides. On my rare days off, I wanted to _sleep_." She sighed, looking up at the ceiling. "Last, hmm, October, I guess, I wondered how it was that Eli had gotten so inwards-turned."

"Yeah?" Rel said, still rubbing her arm lightly.

She sighed. "He spent two years being one of a few levo-based critters on a turian world on Macedyn, with at least a friend there by his side. Then two _years_ being one of, let's face it, maybe a hundred humans on Edessan, all told. Edessan is at least a big commercial planet. If there were a hundred humans on Rocam, it was because someone told us all to switch places quickly while someone was counting, and he counted us all twice."

Rel rolled over to look down at her. "It was really _that_ bad?" he said, looking concerned. _"Amatra_, you've never had problems being around turians—"

"It's not the turians, Rel, it's _us_, it's the humans." Dara raised her hands slightly in frustration. "Never being able to find anything to eat, or if you do, it's the same thing, every night, week after week. Always either completely alone, or not having space, and never being able to do this things you _enjoy_ doing—" She cut herself off, and sighed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't complain." _Not having space on board a ship, made perfect sense, and largely, people gave you mental space when you needed alone time. _In the last six months, she'd either been _entirely_ alone, as in the three months on Rocam, had been taking care of her mate's needs, or sick as a dog or taking care of thousands of dying patients. Surrounded by people, but as one of the doctors on the scene, alone in terms of responsibility.

That wasn't all, of course. That was just the last six months. The four years before that? The equivalent of medical school and residency at the same time, both high-stress enough as it was, combined with combat every couple of weeks. The mock-hunts and other stratagems that turians had developed for their own psychological well-being had helped a _little,_ and she'd personally _welcomed_ the year on Sur'Kesh. . . except that Rel had been bored there. Visibly bored and irritated with the boredom. Infrequent shore-leaves had been taken on Macedyn or Bastion. Always with family. "I think," Dara said, quietly, after a long moment, sitting up and rubbing at her face with her hands, "that what I would like to do, is go for a ride. A really long ride."

The bed creaked as Rel sat up. "We can do that, _mellis_," he said, quietly.

"Rel, please." Dara hesitated. It was surprisingly hard to say this. "I just want to be alone for a while, okay?"

Rel sounded enormously frustrated as he replied, "You were just saying you were alone too much on Rocam—"

"_It was the wrong kind of alone!_" she snapped back, annoyed. "_That_ was the alone that comes from being all by yourself on a completely alien planet, completely uncomfortable and just grateful that _this_ time you're not stuck in a goddamned radiation suit." Rel had gone completely still next to her, as if the words had struck him like a blow to the celiac plexus. "And I wasn't going to complain, because I'd _agreed_ to it. _That_ kind of alone is isolation. What I want right now is a mental break, for a couple of hours, to be on a horse, out in the country somewhere, with no one in my face, no responsibilities except to be back for dinner, and no one sick or dying or hurt anywhere within a ten-mile radius!" Her voice had risen to almost a shout, and Dara inhaled sharply. She'd rarely, if ever, shouted at Rel before, and she exhaled slowly, counting to ten, and then inhaling again.

"Are you done?" He didn't sound precisely pleased.

"I'm sorry." She couldn't look at him at the moment. "I just want to go outside, feel the wind in my hair, and ride a horse for a while. Is that okay?"

"Yeah. Fine."

"Rel, I'm sorry I yelled at you—"

"Go for your ride."

_Goddamn it, like I'm going to enjoy it now that my stomach is churning and I had to __fight__ just to get some damn time to myself._ But Dara stood up, making sure he couldn't see the tears in her eyes, and said, quietly, "Thank you," and grabbed a coat from the closet. Dug her riding boots out—Kasumi had left them in the closet for her, apparently. _Kasumi always seems to know __exactly_ _what people need_, she thought, pulling the boots on, after a reflexive spider and scorpion check. . . and then headed downstairs.

"Going for a ride, kiddo?" Sam asked, calmly, as if he hadn't heard the shouting from upstairs.

"Yeah." Dara had already blotted the tears out of her eyes with the back of her sleeve.

"Take a tracking beacon with you, and don't go too far. The base got six inches a week ago, Kasumi said. There's more at higher elevations, and a storm coming in."

Dara nodded. "Probably just going to wander around in the area close to the base," she acknowledged. "But I'll grab a beacon from the stablekeepers. Thanks, Dad."

Sam, who was sitting and watching an Urban Combat League match with Takeshi in his lap, looked up at her. "Maybe tomorrow, you can help me give Takeshi his first riding lesson."

Hinata, in the kitchen, sounded horrified as she replied, "Oh, he is too little!"

Dara managed a slightly watery laugh. "I started when I was eighteen months old, Hinata." She reached down and brushed Takeshi's fine black hair with her fingers. "He'll be great. And I'd love to help, Dad." She shook her head. "I can't believe how _big_ he's gotten. Just in the last six months."

Sam Jaworski gave his daughter a faintly knowing look. "Always being in the field sucks, doesn't it?"

"And how," Dara replied, and then headed for the door.

The stablemaster remembered her. Much to her chagrin, she couldn't come up with his name. "Hansen," he reminded her, with a grin. "Come and take a look at the new additions."

There were coal-black Frisian horses available now, and Dara sucked in her breath in awe. "I can hardly believe you managed to import them," she said, stunned. The massive creatures had been bred, originally, to carry medieval knights in full armor into battle. They could probably accommodate a full-grown turian male. Every one of them topped eighteen hands in height. "That's a hell of a lot of horse," she murmured, patting one rough neck lightly.

"Three stallions and twelve mares," the stablekeeper told her lightly. "After you mentioned it a few years ago, we took the idea to Shepard, and she said she'd never heard of them before. Apparently forwarded it Allardus, who thought they'd be comfortable here, and would give turians an option besides _rlatae_, which are definitely a little unhappy here in winter." He grinned at her. "Want to try one?"

"Today. . . no. I think I want to do jumps today, once I warm up and figure out how to keep my balance again," Dara decided. "And maybe go wandering in the woods, afterwards. I'll need a locator beacon for that."

He saddled a roan mare for her, and she pulled herself up, suddenly feeling much better. There was something about the smell of the horses and the leather of the tack. Rank, strong, animal smells. But they spoke to her of home, of comfort, of safety. Of being ten or eleven again. She clicked her tongue against her teeth and prompted the mare to an amble, out into the snow-covered enclosure. To her surprise, there were a few kids out there, trying to ride, themselves, under the watchful eye of another stablekeeper. At a glance, she identified Amara and Kaius and Caelia, and raised a hand to them briefly. There was an older, taller boy with them, human, whom she didn't recognize. _Looks about the same age as Eli was when we got here. Maybe a little younger. No black eyes._ Dara chuckled under her breath, and urged the mare to a trot, just careful circles around the enclosure at first, cutting in around the kids on their own mounts, wherever in the enclosure they happened to be. Then from trot to canter. The mare had a smooth gait, fortunately, and Dara felt every muscle in her body starting to relax, to move _with_ the horse. No focus on past or future. You couldn't really think about that much on a fast-moving horse. You kind of had to be in the _now_ for this. She reined in, leaned down, and patted the horse's neck. "You warmed up, girl? I think I am, but we can take this slowly, okay?"

Dara put on the riding helmet she'd borrowed from the tack room, and dismounted to lead the mare into the adjacent enclosure, the one with the low obstacles and fences. A quick walkthrough, to make sure the ground was even, and to knock the snow off the barriers; no sense making them _look_ taller to the horse, after all . . . and then she mounted back up again. "All right. Nice and easy," she said, and set the horse at the first jump.

The mare balked at a couple of the jumps at first. Dara accepted that and went back to the easier jumps until the mare had warmed up further, had started to establish trust with her, and then went back to the higher ones. After about an hour, the horse was tired, and Dara's legs were, loathe as she was to admit it, starting to burn. "Time to go for something a little slower, girl," she told the mare, and turned to ride back to the gate.

Much to her surprise, the kids were all sitting on the fence, watching her. She hadn't noticed them while she'd been working on the jumps. "Amara, Kaius. Nice to see you again. And Caelia, you, too. Glad to have your parents home again?"

Kaius grinned across at her. Perched atop the fence, he wasn't quite at eye-level with her on the mare's back, but it made for less of a height differential than usual. "It's always nice when they come home, Aunt Dara. I think we're supposed to come over next weekend. Will you play piano with me then? I've been practicing and practicing."

Dara felt a genuine smile worm its way out. "Of course I will, Kaius. I think I owe Sky a few dozen songs, too."

Amara smiled. "He says he's learned to listen to many songs now, and that the buzz of this hive makes much more sense to him now, than it did when he first arrived."

Dara nodded, thinking, _And to think __I__ felt alone and isolated on Rocam. How has __Sky__ endured us all, all this time? We're all bipeds. Even more alien to him, than we are to each other. How has he stayed __sane__?_

"He says it's because you all took such pains to sing for him, and to listen to his songs, too." Amara's eyes were slightly defocused, and then she _jumped_, as if someone had just poked her in the ribs. "Madison!"

"Dad says it's rude to listen to other people's thoughts," the human boy said, sounding annoyed.

Dara's eyes had widened slightly. "I'm sort of used to knowing that _Sky_ knows what's on my mind, and I'm okay with that," she said, carefully, "but I'd prefer my head not to be open to everyone." _That wasn't like what Siara did, back in the day. That was a surface thought. But . . . _ she still didn't like the idea of what Siara had done. It wasn't as bad, after its fashion, as the domination attacks of the Lystheni, but she didn't like people rooting around in her head.

Amara looked absolutely shame-faced for a moment. "Aunt Dara, I would _never_ do that—but it's hard not to hear when someone's _shouting_." She paused. "And you started out here so upset, but you're much calmer now. Much less angry." She peeked at Dara, uncertainly. "I'm sorry."

Dara awarded her a lopsided smile. She couldn't stay irritated with either of the twins for long. "Why don't you introduce me to your friend?" she invited.

"Oh! Sorry." Amara sat up straight. "Dr. Dara Velnaran, this is Madison Dempsey. Madison, this is Dara Velnaran. She's married to one of our cousins, Rellus."

Dara's eyes had widened, and she suddenly re-evaluated the human boy. A mop of sandy, reddish hair and ice-blue eyes, warmed by light and life in them. No freckles; he had a ruddy flush spread over his cheeks as evidence of the cold, but wasn't reacting to it in any other way. "Madison _Dempsey_? Any relation to _James_ Dempsey?"

The boy looked interested. "You know my dad?"

Dara hesitated. _Know_ wasn't quite the word she'd have chosen. "We're acquainted, yeah." A brief flash of memory: the body in the box, temporary skin grafts in place, the glow of cybernetics under the skin. The shock as those eyes had opened, the look of _rage_ on his face as his hands had closed on her throat. The _panic_ she'd felt at the time. Knowing what she did now of his regenerative abilities, she wondered why the doctors at Cerberus had even bothered, and then decided that they must have done it after placing him in the stasis chamber, mostly to make the body look, at a glance, _normal_ to anyone who might stumble onto it. Some sort of cover story about a bad accident, a patient put into cryosleep, would probably have been prepared.

Madison was _staring_ at her. "He wouldn't _do_ that."

Amara physically poked Madison in the ribs. "Hey," she said. "Didn't you just tell me that's rude—"

"He wouldn't _do_ that!"

Dara rubbed at her face. _Great. I'm going to have to ask Sky to teach me to keep people from listening. God only knows what the kid just saw. . . _"Madison? Did you see when your dad first woke up from cryosleep?"

He nodded, warily. "Okay, people wake up from cryosleep very disoriented anyway. And your dad had been fighting and in pain before they forced him into that box. He woke up and thought only a second or so had passed. He didn't actually hurt me. And it's okay." She hesitated. "I—he's doing better?"

The boy's eyes remained wary. "Yeah, I guess so. It's hard to tell. When Zhasa's around, he's more like what I pictured my dad would be like, but when she's not, he's like talking to a VI, mostly."

Dara sighed. That wasn't particularly surprising. The level of brain dysfunction was rather enormous, thanks to the chip. _But who the hell is Zhasa?_ she wanted to ask, but put it to the side. "So, I thought you were on Earth, with the rest of Dempsey's family," she asked, after a moment.

Madison looked down, his face suddenly a study in misery. "I was. Mom caught the flu. She died."

Dara slipped down off her horse and put a hand on the boy's shoulder, keeping the reins looped loosely in her left hand. "Hey, I'm sorry," she said, quietly. "I didn't know."

"S'okay."

She studied the top of his head for a moment, which was about all she could see, with his head lowered like that. Amara had reached out and tentatively put a hand on his other shoulder now, too. "If it helps. . . I came to Mindoir three months after my mom died, too. And my best friend came here after his dad died, too. Not so soon afterwards, but still." Dara shrugged. "You could talk to him if you wanted to. Or to me, anytime you want."

The head didn't tip up, but she got an impression that he was listening. "This is a _good_ place, Madison. I think being _here_ made it hurt less than if we'd stayed in the old ranch house. My dad hurt so much, he had to take down every picture of her in the place. Couldn't look at them."

"Your dad?"

"Sam Jaworski."

That did get the head to tip up. "Mr. Jaworski was the one who came and told us that my dad was still alive, and took us to see him."

Dara wasn't surprised. Her dad did a _lot_ of PR stuff with Earth, in addition to regular Spectre work. "Yeah, we moved here when he tried out for the Spectres. Six years ago."

"My dad's going to be a Spectre, too." Distinct pride.

Dara's eyes went wide. "He's a candidate?"

Kaius suddenly chimed in, with glee, "That's right. You and Rel and Eli are this time, too, right?"

Dara shrugged. "We'll see how we do when we get there, Kaius. Don't hold your breath."

Caelia immediately inhaled audibly and puffed out her cheeks. Kaius patted her fringe. "She said _don't_ hold your breath, dummy."

"I'm not a dummy!" Caelia replied, indignantly.

"Been nice talking to you," Dara told them. "I'm going to go finish my ride, though, all right?" She got back into the saddle, and the mare, having had a breather, pranced a step in place.

"Can I ask you a question?" Madison blurted out as she started to turn away.

"Sure, shoot."

"Why do you wear paint?"

Dara laughed. The question sounded ingenuous, and much less offensive than an adult's hostile stare. "Because I'm married to a turian. These are his clan markings. My friend Eli was adopted by a turian, so he wears his father's paint. And when he got married to a turian himself, she changed her paint to match his." She smiled faintly at the boy's wide-eyed expression. "See you around. I guess you'll probably be at the barbecue tonight or next week or whenever my dad holds the next one." She waved, and rode off.

She felt indefinably better after having talked to the kids, and rode through the dark, bare limbs of the snow-cloaked trees, letting the mare pick her own path at a light amble. It was quiet here, and looking up, the trees were like a natural cathedral, their limbs seeming to hold up that milky lavender sky, shrouded by thickening clouds. The light was starting to fade a bit as the clouds thickened, and Dara eventually found a clearing not far from the rifle range, and tied the horse off on a tree branch. "Just a few minutes," she told the mare, her voice sounding odd; the snow deadened the sound, weighed it down, muffled it.

But this was _precisely_ what she'd needed. Quiet. Solitude. Being out in the open, doing human things at a human pace. Dara crouched down in the light snow, and put her face in her gloved hands. And let herself start to cry. The riding had helped, no doubt. Otherwise the _screams_ she'd been holding back for weeks now would have been echoing back from the mountainside, and she'd have been kicking the inoffensive trees. Now, however, she could just weep and try to get it all out of her system. Here, she didn't have to be strong for _anyone_. She didn't have to put on a relaxed and confident face for any patients or nurses. She didn't have to put up a show of being just as tough as anyone else in front of any marines or special forces troops. She didn't have to be strong for Rel so that he wouldn't worry about her or be distracted by her or confused by her.

She could just be herself. Could figure out who the hell that even was, under the roles and the responsibilities. Not a doctor, not a soldier, just the girl herself, that she'd left behind, somewhere in these very woods, long ago. She could almost imagine that girl, leading a horse through this clearing, and finding her there. _Hey, lady, are you okay? Do you need any help?_

_I don't know what I need. But this was definitely part of it._

**Rellus, Mindoir, May 22, 2196**

He'd come back downstairs in Dara's wake in a very annoyed mood. Sam had taken one look at his face and beckoned him into the library, after telling Takeshi to go find his mama. "Son," Sam told Rel, "You look like your dog just went and died."

Rel grimaced, finding a chair in the library. It had shelves lined with old, paper human books, and had the musty odor of aging paper and leather covers to it. The floor, true to Jaworski's word several years ago, was now cork, instead of tile or wood. "Something's bothering the hell out of Dara. Eli gave me some advice, but I _still_ can't get Dara to talk to me. First she says she was alone and isolated on Rocam, and then she yells at me that she wants time alone." Rel made a double-finger flicking gesture of total exasperation. "How the hell am I supposed to fix what's wrong if she won't let me?"

Sam's shoulders shook for a moment. "Sorry, son. It's just that you sound like every husband, everywhere, over the entire course of history. Welcome to the club."

Rel's eyes went narrow for a moment. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Sam chuckled briefly. "Let me tell you a story, and I promise, it'll make sense in a minute. Knew a guy who was in the Coast Guard when I was growing up in Texas. He and my dad went way back, so we saw that family a lot. He'd go out on patrol for six weeks, two months, come back into port, say hello to his family, give his wife a kiss, and you know what he'd do, the very next day?"

Rel shrugged. "Went back to work?"

Sam snorted. "Nah. He'd get on his eighteen foot fishing boat and go out deep into Galveston Bay. Honest to god, I don't think he ever actually fished. Certainly never caught anything. Just went out and sat on the water for a few hours, turned around, came home."

"Why under the stars would he do _that_?" Rel shook his head, bewildered.

"Yeah, I asked him that, once. 'Tommy,' I said, 'you've just been _on_ a boat for six or eight weeks. And now you're getting right back on another one. I'd think you'd seen enough boats for now.' And he told me, 'Yeah. But this one's _my_ boat. It goes where _I_ point it, and I don't have to do a goddamned thing while I'm out there except look at the water, listen to the waves, and watch the seabirds fly by overhead.' He needed a period of time to decompress and turn himself back into a human being again, instead of being a cop or a soldier or a sailor. Otherwise, he told me, he tended to rip into his family, and they didn't need to deal with that."

Rel thought about it. "That's what Dara's doing?"

"More or less. Turians are pack-oriented, Rel. You work together, you relax together. Being alone is _bad_ for you. Leads to anxiety, paranoia even."

Rel snorted. "Yeah, but humans are social animals, too."

"We are, yep. But we're also more individualistically-oriented than turians tend to be. You and Serana and Rinus—hell, Lantar and Garrus, too—are probably the most individualistic turians anyone will ever meet. Dara's decompressing. She's had four, going on five years of pretending to be as turian as she could. Let her unwind a bit. Let her be human for a while. She'll be ready to talk when she doesn't feel like she has to fight for the tiny little bit of space she has to call her own."

_Spirits. I thought she __loved__ doing what we were doing, and being where she was._ When Rel spoke those same thoughts out loud, Sam shook his head impatiently. "She does. And she's damned good at it, too. But humans deal with stress _much_ differently than turians do. At least on the SR ships, there were other humans around for her to interact with. Maybe she didn't actually seek them out, but they were going through the same things at the same time, and that probably did help. Last six months have been hell on her. On all of you, really. Which is why we scooped you up two weeks before the trials are scheduled to begin. So you can all be at your best—mentally, physically, and emotionally. Otherwise, you'll all fail. Shit, Rinus and you, boy? Both lost a good twenty pounds, and on a turian, that's muscle, not fat."

_Tell me about it_. Rel grimaced. "Yeah. I _really_ need to get to the gym." He sighed. "And eat."

"Don't overwork yourself. We sure as hell don't need you relapsing." Jaworski held up an admonishing finger.

Dara was gone for nearly three hours. Rel had already looked outside three or four times, studying the approaching storm, and had nearly resolved to go out and _find_ her in the snow himself when the front door opened, and Dara trudged in, face pink from the cold, and yellow paint heavily smudged and smeared. Her eyes were still red, too. "Hey, Kasumi, is anything still left from lunch?" she called, sounding carefully cheerful.

"Sure thing," Kasumi replied. "My mom made _nikujaga_. I can heat some up for you, if you like."

"Or I could make you an omelet," Agnes offered, setting Takeshi back on his feet.

"Thanks, Grandma, but you're playing with Takeshi—"

"It's no bother." Agnes got up and headed into the kitchen. "Keep in mind, I don't do anything with those fancy purple eggs." Meaning, doubtless, _oolorae_.

Dara laughed. "They actually taste pretty good, Grandma."

Rel came up behind her, and took her coat for her as she started getting out of her outer gear. A quick flash of a smile, which relieved him, actually, and then Agnes was speaking again. "I heard that your young man's grandfather was coming to live here. This isn't your _father's_ father, is it, Rellus?" Agnes gave Rel a direct look, and then cracked hen's eggs over a bowl.

Surprised at being addressed, Rel blinked. "Ah, no. This would be Gavius. My mother's father."

"Grumpy old bastard, from what I remember at your wedding."

Rel choked back a laugh. No one had _ever_ accused Agnes of diplomacy, or of pulling her punches, either. "He's a little set in his opinions," he acknowledged. _Then again, so are you._

"Hmmpf. Well, I guess he'll be staying with your parents for the meantime. Till they find him a place of his own." She whisked the eggs briskly, and then poured them into a skillet. "I suppose _someone_ should make him feel welcome around here. Of course, I'm not really sure what you _bring_ a turian as a welcome to the neighborhood gift, or even if he'd _accept_ one from a human."

Rel looked down at Dara, and found her looking up at him, her eyes slightly wider than normal. Her lips twitched slightly, and he rejoiced inwardly. _That_ was a normal Dara reaction. Laughter at the insanity of relatives and the rest of the universe. "I'm sure a bottle of _caprificus_ brandy would probably be accepted," Rel said, after quick moment's thought. _Of course, the suggestion could come back to bite me in the ass_.

Agnes sniffed. "Well, that I could manage. My mother's not around to mutter about strong drink being the road to perdition anymore, either." She slid the completed omelet onto a plate, and handed it to Dara, along with a fork. "There you go, dear."

"Thanks, Grandma." Dara started digging in, and when Agnes had left, she murmured, quietly to Rel, "I'm sorry I snapped earlier."

Rel sat down at the high kitchen counter with her, and rested a hand on her shoulder. _"You know, I __can__ listen. Two perfectly functional ears. And I always want to be here for you, the way you're always here for me."_ He couldn't _count_ the number of times she'd lightly hooked a foot around his ankle, under the spur, just to keep him calm. To reassure him with touch. He'd thought he'd been doing the same thing when he stroked her hair, and it probably _had_ reassured her. But it was _easy_ to get complacent in a relationship. To assume that everything was working all right because there had been no complaints.

"_I know that_," Dara told him, switching languages with him, effortlessly. _"But. . . there are things that bother me, that don't bother you. That you're just not wired for. And that's okay. I kind of like you turian."_ She gave him a quick faint smile, lifting her head from her plate. _"I wouldn't love you if you were a human wearing a suit made of scales, you know. I love you for __you__. No matter how wide the gap seems some days."_ She sighed. _"I'm just a little stressed now. It'll pass."_

"_Give me an example of what I'm not going to understand, sweetness. Give me the benefit of the doubt here. We've spent almost six years trying to bridge that gap, every single day."_

Dara rubbed at her face. _"All right. Dreams. Turians, by and large, don't process information in their sleep the same way humans do. You rehearse memories, same as we do, but there's usually no emotional connection to the events, correct?"_

"_Yes and no. Ones that are associated with very personal guilt, those can have heavy emotional burdens. I remember Lantar talking about his dreams about his and Garrus' old squad once. Those disturbed him enough that he couldn't sleep."_

Dara nodded, accepting that. "_But mostly, it's just memories, right? No random elements?"_

Rel shook his head. It was _highly_ unusual to experience what she was talking about. _"Sometimes,"_ he said, carefully choosing his words. "_But __spirit-dreams__ are different. Not an every-night thing."_

"_You mentioned those, once. I never did get you to explain why you said that the images from the night at the cave were like a spirit-dream, and why you felt compelled to carve them."_

Rel groped for words to make her understand. _"A __spirit-dream__ is thought to hold some sort of truth that the spirits want you to understand. Higher truths can't be conveyed in words, so you see. . . pieces. Fragments. Puzzles that you have to learn to understand."_

"_Like the dreams we had when we were sick?"_

"_I don't remember most of those. Just woke up with the memory of you dressed in skins, and acting as a sort of . . . shaman. Spirit-caller. And I knew I needed to finish that damned carving. It's almost done, too."_

Dara sighed. _"Yes, we all mostly shared that dream. Siara accidentally left herself open mentally, and shared it with all of us. So we all wove parts of the images together, in our subconscious minds."_

Rel's eyes widened. _"Now I wish I remembered more. There was the __allora__ meadow, and something about Eli and Lin bringing back a lot of meat. Bear and bianasa."_ He frowned. It was all so indistinct in his head.

"Okay. I think I've got a handle on this now. _Rel, humans spirit-dream __every night__."_

Rel blinked and absorbed that. _"S'kak."_

"_Yeah. A lot of our oldest cultures believed that dreams were messages from the gods, too. There's been a lot of work on dream analysis in psychology, as well. Mostly inconclusive. What I get out of it is, if it bothers you, it helps to talk about it. Particularly nightmares. Hmm. 'Dark spirit-dreams'?"_

Rel frowned. _"I can talk to you about spirit-dreams,"_ he said, a little annoyed.

"_Yes and no, beloved."_ She sighed. "_Different psychology. Different tradition. I long ago figured out that if you're there when I wake from such, you'll hold me and bite me and sound. . . very confused, to be honest." _She smiled up at him briefly. _"The holding __does__ help. I remember wishing you were there with me when I dreamed about the body parts from those first Lystheni autopsies coming to school with me."_

Rel remembered the conversation. The images _had_ seem nonsensical when she'd described them to him, and certainly hadn't sounded like spirit-dreams or . . . normal dreams. . . and he remembered offering to bite her till she forgot them, gene mod therapies or no. _"But?"_ he said, quietly.

She looked glum. _"But holding doesn't stop the dreams from happening, over and over. Talking them out usually does. Doing what I did for Eli, suggesting __why__ a dream is occurring, gives someone a little more control over it, a little reassurance. Why am I dreaming about __dachae__ carrying patients off, screaming for me, in rivers of blood, Rel? Why is that patient sometimes you, sometimes Eli, sometimes my dad, sometimes little Takeshi or Amara or Kaius?"_

Rel stared at her._ "If it were a spirit-dream,"_ he said, hesitantly, _"I'd take it as a warning that they might become ill. That they are in danger."_

Dara sighed. _"Exactly my point. A human would say the __dachae_ _was death, threatening everyone that I love, and that it was a helplessness dream. That I'm standing on the bank of the river with no ammunition left in my gun, unable to save anyone from the disease. That it's a responsibility dream, too. Because I __have_ _to save them, and I can't. And that's why the __dachae__ come for me last, and yank me off the riverbank, and I fall down into my own body again and hit the bed." _She looked at him calmly. _"_Jacititation_. Physical spasm, usually in the legs, often caused by a dream about falling. Movement in REM sleep is usually uncommon, but that sort of thing can occur." _

He exhaled. It all sounded reasonable once explained, but no, he'd never have come up with that interpretation at all. _"And knowing that __helps__ with the dreams? But you figured this out on your own, right?"_

"_No. I had two really boring days in the Palace on Palaven, and Eli listened and told me what he thought about the __dachae__."_ Dara shrugged. _"Made perfect sense. Haven't had it repeat on me since. I'm sure the subconscious will throw something __else__ at me, instead, but a change is as good as a vacation."_

Eli, again. But human contact, for a human, did seem to be necessary. Rel didn't really like to think what it would be like to be entirely alone on Earth, say. Completely cut off from his own kind. He sighed. _"All right. What else wouldn't I understand?"_

"_You're usually good about listening to me vent my frustration about combat situations, but when I talk about med bay stuff. . . " _She sighed. _"It's not your thing. I understand that."_

"_It's more that I don't __understand__ half of what you're saying,"_ Rel told her. _"I got good marks in biology, but I don't really follow everything when you go into medical mode."_

"_Which is fine. You don't have to, and it's not your job. You've seemed uncomfortable, particularly when I'm upset by losing someone, and I didn't want to make your stress levels any worse by adding mine to them."_ Dara had finished her omelet by now, and was just playing with the fork now, starting off into the mid-distance.

"_All right. One more question. How long have you been finding places to cry where I wouldn't see it?"_ Rel was particularly irritated by that one, and he didn't mind showing it. This was something he _knew_ he could have helped with, if she'd just _let_ him.

Dara's head swung up, and she looked just about as annoyed as he was now. _"A while."_

"_Why__, in the spirit's names?"_ Now he was actually _angry_.

But she met his eyes squarely, though her expression was tired. _"Honest answer?"_

"_Please."_

"_Because I got tired of being told, 'oh, great spirits, is there anything that humans don't leak at?' It was funny the first fifteen times or so, and after that, it just sounded like you were tired of hearing and seeing it. So I found a damn supply closet and got it out of my system, all right?"_

_S'kak__. _Rel just stared at her. _"Dara. . . sweetness. . . if it upset you, why wouldn't you __tell__ me? I would have stopped saying it!"_

"_And you wouldn't have thought I was overreacting at all?"_ Her voice was tired.

Rel stopped. Thought about it. And gave her the honest answer. _"I probably would have thought it, yes, but I'd still have stopped."_ He caught her hand in his, squeezed it tightly. _"I __do__ love you, you know."_

"_And I love you."_ She shrugged a little. _"I'm just so damned __tired__, Rel."_

_And this_, he realized, was not the time to make a joke about missing meals if she slept too long. _"To be honest, I am, too. I don't think we're going to work this all out in one sitting, sweetness, but for the spirits' sake, please don't shut me out when you're tired or you're stressed. I can listen just as well as any human can. And if I really __don't__ understand, or am not helping, yes, please do talk to someone who __can__."_

Her lips curled downwards slightly. _"Those have been in short supply lately."_ Dara sighed. _"But I'll try."_

"_Fair enough."_ Rel hesitated. What _hadn't_ she been able to do aboard ship? _"You think you might want to play your mother's _piano_ for a bit?"_

Dara thought about it. _"That, too. After dinner, or whenever my dad has a _barbecue _scheduled._ _And tomorrow, I'm supposed to help him teach Takeshi how to ride. Maybe you can put him on a rlata, too? But right now, I think I'd like to play something fairly mindless on the extranet."_ She gave him a faint grin. _"If you're feeling up to killing a few brain cells with me, and can remember your login information for __Galaxy of Fantasy__, that is?"_

Rel guffawed slightly. She'd had an account before moving to Mindoir, and they'd played occasionally, but very infrequently, the year before he'd left for boot camp. In fact, almost everyone their age had, really. But very, very sporadically. "Killing mindless monsters does sound a little better than reality right now," he finally agreed.

"And if anyone falls down because I don't get a heal on them in time," Dara said, managing a smile, "all they have to do is wait for the game to resurrect them. The penalties for failure are . . . much less stressful than real life."

"All right, let's see if your dad and Kasumi have a couple of terminals to spare around here." Rel chuckled under his breath.

And an hour later, both of them were cheerfully cursing as they realized that five years off from the game had both completely changed the interface, the classes, and the entire style of play, but _still_ hadn't rectified the annoyance of hunting varren for their livers across the wilds of pre-Rebellion Tuchanka, only to discover that the animals seemingly had no internal organs. _At all._

And fifteen minutes and two comm calls later, Epona (Dara had named her character after a Celtic goddess of horses) and Ecus (Rel cheerfully admitted to a lack of imagination in naming his character, essentially 'knight') were joined by Tyr (Eli), Veovis (Linianus), and Libera (Serana), while Kallixta and Rinus were, apparently with _huge_ amusement, considering the laughter Rel had heard on the comm call, were busy making their own characters. Snickering a little on their impromptu chat channel, 'Tyr' suggested inviting Siara and Makur, so that Kallixta and Rinus would have equally inexperienced players to work with. Soon enough 'Murukan' and "Devi' joined in, and Rel was _heartily _encouraged when his little mate actually started laughing periodically at the comments the others were making.

A little escape from reality. Just a quiet way to blow off some steam among friends. They'd have _plenty_ of time to practice, spar, ride, and talk with their families over the next two weeks. Tonight was a good time to crawl back into old identities and old friendships for a while, and pretend that absolutely nothing had happened, nothing had changed, since the last time they were all here at once.

_Spirits,_ Rel thought as he maneuvered his character into position, fingers flying over the aerogel screen. _Not counting Rinus and Kallixta. . . when __was__ the last time we were all on Mindoir together?_ He thought back, and came up with, to his shock, July third. _2191_._ S'kak. Where the hell __does__ the time go?_

**Elijah, Mindoir, May 22, 2196**

Eli had just looked around the house for a moment, on entering it, trying to absorb all the changes. Serana had greeted her parents, and of course they'd be _visiting_ Allardus and Solanna, but they'd be _staying_ here, at Lantar and Ellie's home. The last time Eli had spent any time here at all, Tacitus and Emily hadn't even been crawling, and Narayana hadn't been in residence. The guest room was still in the same spot; his old room, at the back of the house, on the first floor. _That's something, at least_, he thought, and he and Serana had unpacked. _"You all right with us staying here?"_ he'd asked her.

"_Little nervous,"_ she admitted. _"Not really sure why. I spent half my afternoons over here, helping you with your turian and __tal'mae__, and arguing about, well, __everything__ with you and Lin. And Tel, if he was around."_ Serana looked up, and he could see a faint blue flush along the line of her throat. _"Think this is the first time I've actually been __in__ your room, __amatus__."_

He was fairly sure that wasn't quite what she had been going to say, but he let her get by with it for the moment. _"__Asperitalla,__ you're __always__ welcome in any room I happen to be in."_ Eli caught her hand and lightly kissed the back of it.

Outside the door, he could hear Emily and Tacitus engaged in conversation. "Ohhh. Door closed!"

"Why that door closed?"

Then his mom, chiding them, "Leave it alone. Eli and Serana need their privacy."

"No. Not need. . . piracy." Or at least, that was close to what Tacitus had managed there.

Eli looked up at the ceiling, resigned, but amused. _"Yeah. Candidates' barracks, starting to look __really__ good now, __asperitalla__."_

Serana chuckled, some of her unease clearly falling away. _"All right. Let's get back out there before the little ones figure out how to work the doorknob,_" she said, and Eli squeezed her fingers gently and led her out into the living area.

As he'd predicted, there was a lot of 'being first-son' involved now. Caelia had, in the past few months, apparently decided that she was a _big_ girl now, and told him, firmly, "I'm _Caelia_," whenever he called her _Duck_. "I'm sorry," he told her lightly. "I don't know anyone named Caelia. Are you sure we've met before?"

"'Lijah! I'm your _first-sister_."

"No, I'm pretty sure I know my first-sister's name. Pretty sure I'd recognize her, too. You. . .I'm not sure about you. You're a spy, right?"

She squawked very satisfactorily at _that_.

Serana leaned over and whispered, loudly, in Caelia's ear, "I have two older brothers. My advice is, either give up, or don't react."

After helping clear the table from dinner, the comm panel chimed, and to Eli's surprise, it was Rel, asking him and Serana to dig up their old _Galaxy of Fantasy_ login information. In short order, Eli had Caelia perched in his lap at the living room terminal while trying to navigate the changed interface, and Serana had Narayana leaning over her shoulder, offering tactical advice at another terminal.

As his mother started corralling the younger children for bedtime, Lantar moved over and stood behind Eli for a moment, watching the game. "You haven't played that in a long time," he noted, quietly.

"Mental equivalent of comfort food, I guess," Eli acknowledged. "Dara apparently requested it, and Rel's trying to get her to relax. Kind of figured that was a good enough reason to break out my level two hundred _covinnarius_ and shake the dust off." He shrugged. "Truth be told, we _all_ need to relax a bit."

Lantar nodded. "I don't mean to interrupt, but I did wish to speak with you about something behind closed doors." It was very polite; he wasn't speaking as _clan-leader_. No _tal'mae_. . . but the 'behind closed doors,' did have a specific meaning. _This goes no further than us_.

_Great._ "Sure," Eli acknowledged. He'd been grateful that the Imperatrix's funeral and a host of other issues had delayed this conversation, but delaying the inevitable didn't make it any less _inevitable_. He typed a quick message into the chat interface: _Lantar wants to have a talk with me. Caelia's going to play for me for a bit. Be back._ "Okay _Caelia_. . . if that _is_ your name. . . take over for me, would you?"

Caelia pouted at him, but immediately _grabbed_ for the console. Eli chuckled and followed Lantar upstairs to his office, where Lantar closed the door. "All right, Dad," Eli said, finding a chair in front of the desk, and putting on his 'in boot camp and talking to a centurion' mask in place on his face. "What's on your mind?"

Lantar sat down behind the desk, and was silent for a moment. _"I'm not even sure how to say this in English,"_ he began, shaking his head and switching to turian. _"When we were all sick, and there were too few beds in the apartment for all of us, Linianus and Serana and you all bunked together. Just as Sam and I had to bunk together. A human for each of the turians, as best we could manage it, trying to keep everyone's temperatures steady."_

_Oh, god. It's going to be __this__ talk, after all. "Yes,"_ Eli replied.

"_And afterwards, there __still__ weren't enough bunks for everyone. Sam wound up on the floor, I grabbed an armchair one night, and that __still_ _left Linianus out in the cold."_ Lantar paused. _"Even though his name was on the lease."_

Eli nodded. _"Serana and I told him to just bunk with us,"_ he acknowledged, his tone as neutral as he could make it.

"_Yes, and that's where my concern comes in_," Lantar replied, sounding slightly perplexed. _"Sam had to enter your room—and I apologize for the intrusion, on his behalf—to turn off your alarms so that you could all sleep in, that last day. He told me something that gives me pause."_ Lantar hesitated, and Eli braced himself. _"He said that both you and Linianus were both holding onto Serana in your sleep. As if she were keeping you afloat in a storm."_ Lantar grimaced. _"Linianus has been in a vulnerable place since the death of his wife. I'm concerned that he could grow to have feelings for your wife. I don't think that Serana would lead him on. She's entirely too honorable for that. But I thought you should be aware of this possibility. Because misunderstandings could occur."_

Eli exhaled. This was _not_ how he'd thought the conversation would go. Frankly, _this_ conversation was a relief. _Not that my conscience is guilty—but like any other 'criminal,' I jumped to the conclusion that Lantar knew more than he did._ He almost chuckled, but Lantar's serious expression forbade that. _"__Pada__,"_ Eli said, sobering. _"I understand your concern. Let me say something in return. Dara recently made me aware of the fact that if Serana and I want children in the future, that estrus would be more or less __required__. Were you aware of this?"_ He looked slightly past Lantar's left ear as he spoke.

Lantar exhaled. _"You __are__ aware that Allardus Velnaran is one of the foremost xenobiologists in the galaxy, yes?"_ He paused. _"He explained it to me during contract negotiations. We decided not to mention it to Solanna or your mother for the time being."_

Eli looked up at the ceiling. _"Thank you for that."_

"_Adoption __is__ an option,"_ Lantar said, quietly. _"I adopted you. It's turned out pretty well."_

"_Yes, but you married my mother. The adoption agencies still aren't entirely thrilled with mixed-species couples."_ Eli waved it off. _"I'd already . . . come to an unspoken agreement with Lin before Dara mentioned it. Serana's. . . amenable to it, as well."_ He kept his eyes focused on the far wall, just _beside_ his father's eyes. This was not a _comfortable_ discussion. _"And given the very real possibility of injury to a male who is a .. . substitution. . . in estrus, it seems somewhat wise to ensure that everyone is somewhat comfortable with each other."_

The set of Lantar's shoulders eased, much to Eli's surprise. _"Do you think you'll need to revise your contract?"_ was his only question.

Eli _blinked_. It was _not_ the reaction he'd expected, but then again, he had been deliberately vague. And, if nothing else, Lantar was a pragmatist, and turians could be _shockingly_ direct about things like this. _"I honestly don't know,"_ he admitted. _"We've been sort of feeling our way along. Would. . . will Serana and I even be __able__ to take __tal'mae__ vows, eventually?"_

Lantar shrugged. _"I don't see why not. The thing about __tal'mae__ is this. Even if one or more of the clauses are broken—fidelity, for example—the union can't be dissolved. Which is why so few people opt for the full __tal'mae_ _rites. There's less protection in them, in many ways, than a good solid __manus__ contract of forty years or whatever. Even a __manus__ contract, if someone breaks a clause, the other partner has to go to a minister of the Law and petition to have the contract nullified on those grounds. If the partner chooses not to do so, the contract still stands."_

Eli hadn't thought of it that way, and nodded, suddenly deeply relieved. "_Additionally,_" Lantar added, _"You and Linianus could swear blood-brotherhood. That would . . . formalize things, a bit. It's considered a legally-binding agreement that allies two families, and is a lifetime commitment to support and protect each other, and each other's families. The children of one are as the children of the other, and so on."_ Eli was listening intently. This had some possibilities. _"It can only be nullified by death or betrayal."_

"_Have you and Garrus sworn that?"_

"_We've discussed it. Haven't quite gotten around to it. Lot of kids, between the two of us, but, yeah. Ellie and I are already in his and Lilu's most recent wills as caretakers of their kids if they're killed, and vice-versa. Still,"_ Lantar went on, quietly, _"__all__ of this_ _might not be entirely fair to your __dimicato'fradu__. He might find himself absorbed into your life, and Serana's, and never find the opportunity to pursue his own happiness."_

Eli nodded. _"I did try to persuade him to date on Bastion. He simply has the worst __possible__ luck in that regard. I'm thinking of suggesting he take up _poker_. On balance, his fortune has to equal out __somewhere,_ _cosmically speaking."_

Lantar snorted. _"At least get him over here _Tuesday_ night for some gladiatorial fighting. I've been trying to get Sam interested, and he's good, but fresh arms and legs will be more fun for us."_

Eli chuckled in relief. _"Sure. Happy to, __Pada__. Haven't had a chance to practice in ages, though. Same with all of Sam's __wing chun__ and __ba gua__. Sparring still _Mondays_, _Wednesdays_, and _Fridays_?"_

Lantar bared his teeth in a grin. _"Yes, it is. Looking forward to it, personally."_

He tucked in beside Serana in bed that night with an odd feeling of relief, and whispered, _"Asperitalla_, _I have the oddest feeling that you and I might just work out, in our crazy way."_

Serana put down the datapad with _The Maltese Falcon_'s text loaded onto it, and smiled at him. _"Of course we're going to, __anserum.__ I wouldn't let us __not__."_ Then she rolled over and nipped his shoulder lightly.

Eli had been, on the _Normandy_, a little concerned at the back of his mind that now that she'd _had_ a male turian, and knew the difference, he might disappoint her in bed. She gave absolutely no evidence of this, much to his relief, so he laughed and let her bite and nip at him, and pretended to surrender. _"Just remember,"_ he whispered as he unexpectedly reversed their positions, _"no noise."_

The next morning, there was an message blinking for him on the comm panel, and one for Serana, as well. He read his over breakfast, feeling a frown settle onto his face. "What is it?" his mom asked, getting Caelia and Narayana ready for school, while Lantar corralled Tacitus and Emily and got them ready for daycare.

"The school wants Dara, Rel, Siara, Serana, Lin, and me to come down and talk to all the students. And Telinus and Mazz, apparently. Kind of a Career Day, Family Day, and 'look what our students are capable of,' all at once." He paused. "I think Rinus and Kallixta are invited, too. Just as Dempsey has been invited; they're all relatives of current students."

Lantar looked up from where he was patiently getting Emily to put on her shoes by herself. "The school's always been one of the big connections between the Spectres and the valley community," he noted. "It's not a bad thing."

"Yeah, just feels. . . weird. Dr. Wrenan is the principal now? I guess he decided he liked coaching." Eli was thrown completely off-balance by all this. He could sooner see himself as a Spectre than as a . . . a. . . _role model_. _Gah. __Scale me._ "It's all slated for tomorrow."

Serana was looking at her own message now, dubiously. "I don't feel like I've done enough to talk about _anything_ yet," she admitted. "I'll go, sure, but I'll be listening to the rest of _you_." Her grin was quick, bright, and wicked. "Should be interesting."

So, the next day, they _did_ all find themselves outside the school, which looked absurdly small now, and Eli was startled when a tall male turian in white Galatana stripes suddenly emerged and clapped him and Lin on the shoulders. "Eli! Lin!"

They both turned, fast, and Telinus grinned at them. "How the _hell_ are you two?" their old friend demanded, and they both laughed and gave him wrist-clasps, as Dara and Rel came up and smiling, exchanged wrist-clasps, too.

"_Dr._ Velnaran?" Telinus asked, grinning at Dara.

"_Dr._ Karpavian?" she teased right back, laughing. "What did you wind up specializing in?"

"Been doing work on base hospitals on Magna and Tridend. Came home to start my surgery specializations. Figured thoracic and neurosurgery."

Dara's eyes widened. "That's _outstanding_. I was trying to get my surgical rotation on Rocam started, but then everything broke loose at once." She grimaced. "Was going straight doctor through base hospitals a little less hectic than doing combat medic aboard ship?"

Telinus laughed. "Less combat. _Lots_ more patients, from what I hear. Lots more variety of patients, too. Children, elderly, flu, _villi_ pox, scale itch, preventricular disease, you name it, I've seen it. But _spirits_, it's _overwhelming_."

The two of them looked about ready to get into an extended gripe-session, Telinus lowering his head to listen to Dara as they conversed. There were kids lining up to get in the front doors, all _staring_ at them now. Eli recognized a couple here and there—Caelia, giggling with some little asari who was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, just like Caelia. Narayana and Amara and Kaius, and there were Polina and Quintus beside them, too.

At that point, James Dempsey and some quarian walked up, a young male human between them—one who looked a _lot_ like Dempsey, actually. Younger brother, maybe, Eli thought, _or, crap. Could be a son. Yeah, that's actually likely, damn._ He nodded to Dempsey, got a faint widening of the man's eyes, and a returned nod. Then Eli swept his gaze around again, hugely amused by the picture that they all made, suddenly.

They stood in a half-circle on the steps, as if waiting for class, themselves. Rel was off to Dara's left, then Dara, who was facing Telinus and talking with her fellow physician at a rapid clip. By Dara's right, Eli stood, with his arm wrapped around Serana's waist, then Lin beside her. Rinus and Kallixta off to the side, looking slightly bemused at all the chatter, Siara and Makur and Snowflake by them—Makur looking as out of place as Kallixta, honestly, although Kallixta seemed to have defaulted to her public mask.

And then, from behind them, a cheerful rough voice—"My friends!" Eli and Lin turned just in time to catch Mazz's thumps on their shoulders. "I'm pleased that you're still breathing and not dead of plague somewhere."

"Dara and Siara beat Death over the head a few times and convinced him that we were more trouble than we were worth," Eli told Mazz lightly.

Mazz guffawed. "Yes, but did Dara beat Death over the head with one bony arm, or did Siara get his scythe away from him and tell him to push off? Either one, I'd believe."

"It was _one_ arm, once, and I didn't beat you over the head with it!" Dara hissed at Mazz. "God, am I ever going to hear the _end_ of that?"

"No," everyone around her chorused. Eli noted in amusement that Dempsey had turned to _stare_ at Dara at this point.

Mazz grinned at her. "Nope. You see. . . if anyone _ever_ asked me which of all of you—" and he pointed around the circle of friends, chuckling, "I was most afraid of was. . . I'd say that Rel could kill me. Eli and Lin would hate it, but they'd kill me, too. Makur could kill me. You. . . you I don't know, but you're Rel's brother, so I'm thinking you could kill me, too." This, directed at Rinus, whose shoulders shook at this blunt honesty. "Serana would probably find a way to trip me over a cliff-edge and walk away looking completely innocent."

This provoked guffaws in every direction. Mazz waited them out. "But you and Siara, Dara? _You're_ the two who scare me the worst. Siara can make me hurt until I _want_ to die and there's nothing I could do to stop it. Ever. And she could keep me alive as long as she lives, and that's a very long time."

Siara made a face. "I wouldn't _do_ that, Mazz. You're sort of a friend."

Mazz grinned at her. "Yes, but you're a living legend on Tuchanka already. Being in the krannt of Omega Pelagia—who the Ulluthyr females are saying is a _spirit_ or a _ghost_ or a _goddess_, when they'll mention her name at _all_—isn't hurting your reputation any, by the way."

Makur snickered outright, and Siara put her face in her hands. "Oh. . . Vaul," she muttered. 'That was _not_ supposed to go that way."

"And what about Dara?" Eli prompted, blandly, which got him an elbow in the ribs for his pains.

Mazz widened his eyes. "Her? I honestly believe that if I pissed her off far enough, she'd kill me, resuscitate me, and kill me again. And _keep_ doing it until there was nothing left that even a varren would eat."

Dara _glared_ at him. "You're a _jerk_, Urdnot Mazz."

"Oooh, fighting words," Lin joked. "How's the water treatment plant on Tuchanka coming, Mazz?"

"Pretty good. Got the foundations laid, superstructure's in place. Need to start moving the processing equipment and the filtration systems in, once we get the walls and the roof in place. Power isn't a problem; we've got generators in place for that, but I'd like to get solar panels on the roof, to make sure it's self-sufficient, as much as possible, anyway. Means I get to do another round with AquaDyne and a couple other corporate sponsors. They _love_ having me at their board meetings, for some reason. I guess they figure an articulate krogan is the sort of talking dog trick you don't see often."

Makur rumbled, "Just let 'em keep thinking that. When they turn around and realize half the people Siara was educating on Tuchanka have _real_ jobs on Omega now, not just merc work, they'll never have seen it coming." He lifted a massive paw and rested it on Siara's shoulder lightly.

Mazz snickered. "Kind of what I tell myself every time I walk into a board room wearing a suit some poor hanar almost tied himself in knots making for me."

Dr. Wrenan, the little salarian theoretical physicist who'd 'coached' the handball team on that ill-fated trip to Odessa, years ago, opened the front doors now. Eli realized in amusement that _none_ of the kids started moving towards the door. Not a few of them were leaning forward to whisper to the various relatives in the student body, and from the way all the turians' shoulders were starting to shake, Eli guessed that there some _choice_ comments out there in the peanut gallery.

Dr. Wrenan ushered them into the little auditorium, and led them to some chairs in the center; the various children from all the different classrooms began to move into the benches stacked up around the walls of the room. Eli frowned. "_Asperitalla, _I think it's possible that I might have stage fright."

Serana's shoulders shook. _"_You do not!"

"I don't even know the last time I had to speak in public _was_."

"Boot camp," Linianus supplied, over Serana's head. "When you told off the entire opposing squad for their leader injuring me. . . about ten seconds after you broke his jaw and took out all of his front teeth with your knee."

Eli frowned. "That doesn't count. I was too pissed off to care that I was yelling at eighty people."

Heads had turned all through the row in which they were sitting.

Rel, however, was looking up into the rafters. "There are. . . jerseys up there," he said, after a minute.

Eli, Lin, Mazz, and Telinus all lifted their own eyes. Dara nodded. "Yeah. Human sporting tradition. You retire the jerseys or the numbers of the best players in a franchise over the course of its history, out of respect."

Eli squinted. "They must've really gotten into handball in a big way after we left, then. 'Cause we only had _actual_ jerseys for the Odessa game. Every other day, it was whatever we wore to school."

Rel was tipping his head to the side slightly, and Lin suddenly snorted with barely-suppressed laughter. "Obviously, the blind human isn't seeing something," Eli muttered.

Dara tipped her own head up, and Eli could _see_ the change in focus. "The numbers are two, four, seven, and fifteen," she said, after a moment. "I'm obviously missing something here, too."

"Seven was Eli's number for the game. I remember it, because Wrenan passed them out in order, one through seven for the first lineup. Then eight through fourteen for the second squad, and the backup goalie, that drell kid, was number fourteen," Lin supplied, shoulders still shaking. "I was center, and it went right-wing, center, left-wing, in terms of passing out shirts."

"That means I was four," Mazz said, quietly. "Because after leftwing, it went pivot, defense, defense, goalie, so I'd have gotten the fourth shirt." He frowned. "If memory serves, it didn't _fit_." It hadn't; Eli remembered that it had pulled up very high on Mazz's back, courtesy of the hump, and that the krogan had simply growled and yanked the sleeves off as being too confining.

Eli put a hand over his face. "And Wrenan had six leftover shirts, because the shirt printer only did things in multiples of twenty, and that means that the next one off the top of the stack. . . "

"Would have been mine," Rel supplied. "_Spirits._ This is. . . ridiculous. We wore them for _one game._ I only played one game with the team the entire year. Everyone gave up on playing afterwards because we were either going to boot camp—"

"—or didn't want to deal with the _s'kak_ the all-human team pulled again," Eli muttered.

Dara was giving Lin a worried look, leaning forward across Eli. "And the knee doesn't bother you anymore?" she asked.

"Why does everyone always ask me that?" Lin replied, plaintively. "I fell on it, I broke it, the end."

"Then wrenched it in sparring in boot camp, ran on it in a brace for ten days, crossed _dachae-_infested rivers and climbed the walls of a fortress. . .still in a brace. . . " Serana said, sweetly. "You forget, Eli told me _everything_ about boot camp."

Lin groaned. Eli couldn't help it. "Not to mention, _fradu, _you got _shot_ in it on Macedyn—"

"You got shot in the arm at the same time, _fradu_."

"Covering your sorry tail."

Telinus and Dara both exchanged a look, and then they _both_ looked at Lin. "Yeah. You're coming to med bay and letting us _both_ take a look at it after we get done with all this school _s'kak_," Telinus told Lin, firmly.

"It's not necessary—"

"You _want_ arthritis in the knee? You _want_ calcium deposits that could chip off and cause bone spurs? Let us _look_ at it, Lin."

Lin paused for a moment, smiled, and said, "Yes, _mada_."

Dara's eyes narrowed and went flinty. Eli leaned back, raising his hands in mock-surrender, and also as if to give Dara room to bolt across his lap, and go for Lin's throat. "Sorry, _fradu._ You just dug your _own_ grave there."

Mazz snickered. "And you all thought I was _kidding_ when I said I was more afraid of Dara and Siara than of the rest of you males."

As one, the entire central seating area started to chuckle in response. Dr. Wrenan finally stood and silenced the buzzing students. "Good morning, everyone. Today is a special occasion. We don't usually do the whole 'school assembly' thing here. Generally, I think it's more valuable that you spend your time in class actually _learning_ things. But today is an opportunity for you to learn a different sort of lesson. We have with us today seven former students, and some relatives of students assembled here today. Many of them are Spectre candidates."

A whoop went up from one of the seats, and everyone's heads turned, to a rather embarrassed-looking Kaius, who was flushing bright pink. Rel snickered. "Some things _never_ change."

"At least he's not sitting in the Imperator's box this time," Dara muttered.

"At least he's got a firm grasp on the concept of family tradition," Rel said, and shook his head.

Dr. Wrenan continued, "This is an opportunity for _you_ to ask _them_ what they've found was useful in their education here. What they've actually _used_."

_Oh, god, don't ask me_, Eli thought, panicking slightly.

"—what they've learned since leaving here—" _How to duck, mostly. _

"—what their future goals are." _Not to fuck up too much or get anyone killed who doesn't thoroughly deserve it._ Eli rubbed one hand over his face.

Dara leaned into him from the left. _"Think of it as __great__ practice for the reporters, Eli_."

"_Thanks, Dara. Serana, sweetness, you think you might let me borrow your stealth generator for a moment?"_

"_Not happening, beloved."_ Eli realized that he was getting wicked smiles from the females on either side of him, and shook his head. Life was certainly _interesting._

**Dempsey, Mindoir, May 18-24**

Life had actually settled into a sort of a pattern, for the moment. The candidate barracks were being cleaned again, sheets and blankets being put on the beds, and people were starting to filter in, in twos and threes, and assigned rooms. There were asari commandos and turian marines, salarian techs and a couple of drell, here or there. One or two elcor, to Dempsey's surprise, as well.

Madison clearly _loved_ being here. He was actually _eager_ to go to school in the morning—something Dempsey himself had had to _see_ to believe. His own military and public school recollections were anything but pleasant; he'd attended military schools for their biotics training programs from first grade through eighth grade, and then gone to a public high school in Boston thereafter. And had had _further_ biotics training every weekend from the age of four until the age of eighteen. He'd actually enjoyed the biotics training. The rest of it had been rigid discipline and boredom. And a lot of rote memorization. Madison seemed to be memorizing things, too, but more with an eye towards application, or so it seemed. And he'd switched his language studies to _turian_, apparently. "Why?" Dempsey had asked his son, baldly, after a week of watching the boy struggle with the odd sounds and consonants.

"Well, they're our allies. Our closest allies. The geth are technically our client state, but everyone knows that the Alliance and the Hierarchy are, well, going places. It makes sense to study their language. Especially if I _have_ to go into the military because I'm a biotic." Madison grimaced.

_I wish there __were__ something else you could do_, Dempsey had thought. Unfortunately, there weren't a lot of jobs out there that required the ability to pick up and throw a hundred kilos, with force. _Maybe he could get a job as a cattle slaughterer. Other than that. . . ._

Then the news of the Imperatrix's death had hit. Madison had been at school, and scrambled home that evening, practically talking his father's ear off with all the speculation from the kids at school. "I'm sure the fleets are moving," Dempsey had told him, calmly. "They don't put all the maneuvers up on the extranet for everyone to see."

"I _know_ that, Dad!"

But once Madison had gone off to his own room to study before dinner, Dempsey had sat down and restlessly strummed the strings of his guitar. He lifted his head, looked at the wall that separated his room from his son's, and the opening notes spilled out without conscious thought. _Mother . . . That left me broken, bleeding / Son of . . .The man you loved and left for / The son of a bitch! / Who tried to show me death's door . . . _ Dempsey shook his head when the raw _rage_ of the song he was playing suddenly filtered through to him. All things considered, it was more _his_ rage than Mad's. Madison was adapting at a very rapid clip. The environment was probably far too different for him to have _time_ to be angry at William Perry, or his mother, however irrationally, for dying, or at the doctors at Wendover House. Dempsey himself only became aware of the anger in himself when he was playing, or when Zhasa _shared_ her mind with him. Something Dempsey was loathe to admit he looked forward to on a daily basis. At the back of his mind, he wondered if he wasn't become a little dependent on the quarian girl. Which hardly seemed fair to her. She was a Spectre candidate, herself. _How the hell is she going to get through the trials if the entire time she's competing, she's half-carrying me?_ _And what happens if one of us makes it, and the other does? Or if both of us wash out?_

There'd been a soft knock at his door at that point, and he'd gotten up to answer it, looking down at Zhasa's concealed face, as usual. And, in an almost Pavlovian reaction, he'd felt his lips twitch up into a very faint smile. "Hey," he'd told her. "Sounds like the galaxy's about to go boom here shortly."

"I'm noticing this," she said, and her voice was worried. "Lots of Spectres leaving the base right now." She hesitated. "Would you mind if I came in?"

"Sure," Dempsey replied, backing away.

Much to his surprise, she opened her mind to him. Worry, tension, concern. Anger at the batarians, whom _everyone_ pretty much thought were behind this. And an odd sense of _comfort_. Even relief.

_You have a very relaxing mind. You shouldn't be surprised by this,_ she told him. _Peaceful._

_Peaceful like a grave. There's nothing in here, Zhasa._

_Yes, there is. _

_Okay, moldering body parts aside?_

_Stop that. I came in here for comfort, not for ritual self-flagellation._ She reached up and put her gloved hands on either side of his face.

Because they were sharing thoughts, she caught and amplified his surprise, and laughed out loud at him. _You're __surprised__?_

_I've never been accused of being comforting before._ Dempsey gently detached her hands. _I think I could bring up a list of lack-of-character references that would say entirely the opposite, in fact._ Out loud, he said, "I take it you've got dinner on your mind, lady?"

A quick, eager nod. "Oh yes, please."

"Do I get to pick what goes on my plate tonight?"

A flicker of an amused thought. _Maybe. Just make it interesting._

And so he'd grabbed Madison and they'd headed out to the mess hall. Zhasa had taken his promise to touch and feel and smell things for her quite literally, and had insisted on light sharing through meals. She tended to gravitate towards bright colors in the chow line, and on several occasions, had snuck things onto his tray that he had _no idea_ what they were. Asari _pliiamaou_, for instance, had turned out to be bright red, raw, starfish. There'd been salarian reed-like vegetables topped with fuzzy tufts, like cattails, which he'd flatly refused to eat, but had agreed to touch, at least, for her. Madison had watched that exchange with bright-eyed amusement last weekend.

"I don't understand why you won't eat chocolate for her," Madison had commented near the end of dinner.

"Chocolate? What's that?" Zhasa had asked, with interest.

"Mad? You've seen how she reacts to _Jello._" At his first mouthful of the wobbling, cheery-flavored concoction, Zhasa had inhaled audibly and leaned her head back in her chair. Dempsey had caught a _Keelah!_ in his mind, and had, cautiously, looked under the table to see if her toes were actually curling in her boots or not. Heads had _turned_ the mess-hall, and Dempsey had stared back at everyone flatly until they returned their gazes to their plates.

"That _was_ a little weird," Madison acknowledged.

_I'm guessing you haven't seen a lot of vids, son, because that wasn't weird, that was borderline orgasmic._ The assessment, however clinical, was one that Dempsey kept tightly shielded, however.

"Nal'ishora _did_ send me a message from across the mess hall, asking if I'd had a short in my suit's nerve stimulation hardware," Zhasa admitted cheerfully. "I had to explain to her that I'd never had that option added to my suit."

Madison had looked confused. "Huh?"

_Wait, what?_ Dempsey wasn't quite sure he'd understood that one, but got a quick amused flash of information back from her.

_Quarians who are feeling sexually frustrated are encouraged to install nerve-stimulation packages in their suits, for self-use. Also, a common way for two quarians to please one another before they're quite ready to commit to the risks of sharing a clean room together._

_Well, that was more than I ever thought I'd know on __that__ topic,_ he assessed, after a moment, and then added, calmly, _Zhasa, humans don't talk about that sort of thing around young people._

_Oh, I'm sorry. But the wiggling stuff had such an __odd__ consistency, cold and resistant and then melting apart, and so much __vibrant__ flavor and sweetness to it! Really, humans either have amazing taste buds, or you must all be __very__ spoiled to be able to eat so many things._ Impression of a bright smile and amazement in his mind, and he'd smiled very faintly in return.

Two days later, the Imperator and the President of the Systems Alliance had made their speeches, and Dempsey couldn't help but feel like he should be boarding a ship and _going_ somewhere. Getting ready to _fight._ He was tired of waiting and not _doing_ anything worthwhile. . . but at the same time, he was finally getting to know his kid. Ten or eleven years late. . . and that _was_ worthwhile.

Then the _Normandy_ arrived, carrying, apparently, dozens of Spectres and Spectre candidates, and the whole base went up in turmoil. There was, finally, a list posted with sixty names at the front of the candidate barracks, and Dempsey and Zhasa read through it, and Dempsey was startled by how many he _recognized_. "I have no idea about this. . . Urdnot Siara Tesala or an Urdnot Makur. Urdnot's a krogan name, though. But. . . Dr. Dara Velnaran, Rellus Velnaran, Rinus Velnaran? Yeah. Those names, I know. Elijah Sidonis, that name I know. Lot of turians. Lot of asari, a few salarians."

"No geth," Zhasa noted. "No rachni. I suppose they feel fairly well represented already. . . although, if the news feeds were right about them and the krogan stepping up during the plague on Bastion, we might see more Spectres from those species in the future."

Then Madison had come back from riding with the Vakarian twins Sunday morning in a bad mood. "What's the matter?" Dempsey had asked him, as Madison slouched at his desk, fiddling with the datapads there.

His son had stared up at him as if he didn't know him, hostile, alienated. "Did you really grab a woman by the throat when you first woke up?" he demanded.

_Ah, shit._ "Yeah, I kind of did. I thought she was one of the doctors who had been experimenting on me. For me, I'd closed my eyes—blinked, really—and when I opened them again, there were still soldier and doctors around, same as before." Dempsey stared at Madison. "Why?"

"We were out riding today, and there was a lady there who hadn't been there before. I guess she's about your age. Wore yellow turian paint on her face—really cool—and she _really_ knows how to ride a horse. She was doing jumps and everything. Turns out she's married to Amara and Kaius' cousin. And when Amara introduced me, she asked if I were related to you. And then I asked if she knew you, and . . . I couldn't _help_ but see it in her mind. The fear. She _really_ thought you were going to kill her. Wondering if her husband was going to be able to shoot you off of her before you ripped the tissues around the windpipe." Madison winced. "I was trying _not_ to see it, honest." At least he didn't seem _angry_ anymore.

Dempsey sighed. "It's harder for people who go through breakthrough," he told Madison, crouching down beside the chair. "For someone like me, who was _always_ biotic, we kind of learn to block a lot of it out early. Otherwise, it's easy to get overwhelmed. Then the social constraints get built in later. Like not peeing in public."

Madison had laughed, a little guiltily.

As it happened, that was the evening that Zhasa came to his quarters fairly late and handed him a small, paper-wrapped box. "The clerk at the commissary thought I was quite mad for requesting this. 'It's levo-based,' he told me. 'Even if you _could_ get this in through your suit's decontamination system without it _melting_ all over the place, it would probably kill you. On the other hand, what a way to go.'" She mimicked a human's inflections with a laugh in her voice.

Dempsey had a fairly good inkling what was in the box. And as she wrapped her mind around his, all soft velvet and darkness, her amusement became his, for a moment, at least. "You have to promise me something," he told her, smiling very faintly.

_What's that?_

_No noise. At all. My kid's right next door, and I don't want him getting the wrong idea._

_What sort of idea would that be? That we enjoy spending time together?_ The thought was light and teasing.

Dempsey started to close up shields. _No, no, honestly, what are you afraid that he'd misunderstand? _In the Flotilla, everyone had to pretend that they didn't see or hear anything of their neighbor's arguments, or had to, very subtly, intervene, for the good of each ship. There was a balance between socially-crafted privacy, and social pressures that kept people in line. You could _see_ people in one tent arguing fiercely, shouting, waving their arms. . . and the people in the tents next to them pretending that they didn't hear it. Up until the moment the argument spilled over into _their_ tent. Then they became _very_ involved, trying to break up the fight, resolve the argument. Arguments, words of love. . . nothing was a secret long in the Flotilla. Quarians _loved_ to talk. Their society ran on two tracks. Gossip and silence. The silence that permitted them to pretend to the people next door that their argument had been overlooked. . . and the gossip that ran like wildfire to everyone else on the ship in short order.

_Ah. Then why don't you understand when I say that our biotics are trained to respect the privacy of normals?_

_We __pretend__ not to hear and see. Your biotics are trained to make themselves blind and deaf. There's a slight distinction._ Zhasa bounced up and down on the edge of the bed. _Now, how does this even relate to your son?_

It wasn't anger, for a change, which was actually a relief. It was frustration. _He just lost his mother. In his mind, Amy and I should have still been together. If he hears the wrong type of sounds, he might think I am, in some way, betraying his mother._ Cool, clear, analytical thought, assessing the young boy's likely emotional reaction.

"And you really think _chocolate_ is likely to elicit this reaction?"

"You rolled to your side and kneaded the air like a cat being petted the first time I let you feel skin and hair through my fingers. Are you saying that I shouldn't expect similar behavior from a stronger sensation?" Dempsey opened the package, and shook his head. "And you're starting with the H-bomb of chocolates, aren't you?"

"This was what the clerk said was the best." Zhasa sounded puzzled. "Did I buy the wrong kind?"

"I think you'd have been safer starting off in the kiddy pool. With Hershey's kisses or something like that." Dempsey studied the confections carefully. Whoever had made the two small truffles inside had known the confectioner's dark art very well indeed. They'd started with Scharffenberger Dark. 80% cacao. Melted it, worked it into a sphere of semisolid decadence, and dusted each lightly with bittersweet chocolate powder. Dempsey shook his head again, and giving Zhasa a faintly resigned look, sniffed purposefully over the box.

_Ohhh, that does smell good. I don't think I've ever smelled anything like it._

_Cacao is only grown on Earth and a couple of the colony worlds. I'd bet it would grow in the equatorial jungles here on Mindoir just fine, though._ Still cool, precise thoughts.

Dempsey lifted one of the truffles out, and said, out loud, taking a seat across the room from Zhasa, "Okay, you're sitting down, right?"

_You can see that I'm sitting on the bed. Any more build-up, and it won't possibly live up to expectations._

_That can be said of a lot of things, Zhasa._ Faint flicker of amusement, and then Dempsey put the truffle in his mouth.

_Well, that's a bit of a let-down. . . .oh._ The dry powder of the bittersweet cacao had dissolved, and now the creamy dark chocolate underneath had started to melt across his tongue, the organic esters of the cacao were rising up into the nasal cavity and spreading through the mouth, and Zhasa made a faint squeaking sound, stopped talking, even mentally, and just sat there, quivering. And then dropped back limply onto the bed. Absolute waves of pleasure simply radiating out from her, and then slightly incoherent thoughts. _Texture __as__ a flavor, Keelah, if they could make that in dextro, they'd conquer the known universe with nothing more than pieces of candy—no, don't you __dare_ _chew that up and swallow it, then it'll be __gone__!_

Dempsey's shoulders shook, once, and he stood and crossed the room and sat down on the bed next to her. _Officer, officer, I never laid a hand on her._ He carefully closed the box on the remaining truffle and put it on the small nightstand as delicately as if its contents were pure liquid nitroglycerin. Then he looked down at Zhasa and sent one thought: _I told you so._

She slapped the side of his leg. Dempsey smiled down at her, lips just barely quirked up. _Now that I know the ultimate secret weakness of the quarian species, I will have to determine how chocolate could be weaponized. Do I line up two hundred biotic humans and simply have them project this sensation at your people, if we ever need to pacify them?_

Zhasa was laughing out loud now. Hard. She pulled her knees in to her stomach, and simply kept _laughing_. Hysterically. Apparently, the image of two hundred stoic-faced human marines in battle armor, each grimly popping a piece of chocolate in their mouths, and sending quarian marines tumbling to the ground in shock was _very_ amusing. Her amusement lit him up inside, and the faint smile grew broader, until Dempsey actually managed a laugh or two, himself. A reciprocal feedback loop, his laughter making her laugh harder, and hers generating amusement for him, too. _God, this feels so damn good._

The door opened after a quick, light tap, and Madison looked in curiously. "Is something wrong?" he asked. "I couldn't tell if that was laughing or crying, but it was really going on for a while."

_Please tell me these weren't the wrong sounds to be making._

That actually made Dempsey's shoulders start to shake again. "No, Mad. Everything's fine. Zhasa has a theory about reconnecting my brain by letting me experience her emotional states. And apparently, she'd decided to start with my sense of humor, which I think is kind of a bad place to begin with. I didn't have much of one even before the chip."

Madison shook his head and retreated, his expression clearly stating that adults were _crazy_.

Two days later, was a sort of a get-together at Madison's school. Dempsey was asked to attend, since he was a Spectre candidate and a relative of a current student. . . and he was _amazed_ by the crowd that had gathered. This was Zhasa's first look at most of these people, and she'd latched onto his elbow with surprising strength getting out of the groundcar. "I don't know whether I should be looking at them as competition or prospective colleagues," she muttered.

"Colleagues. The cop isn't bad. The doc's a little chilly. I have trouble telling the turians apart."

Madison was oblivious to their by-play. "Holy cow. That guy's wearing face-paint, same as Dr. Velnaran does. Same clan-paint as Caelia, too. Wow."

The by-play on the steps was certainly interesting to listen to, as well. Dara Velnaran was a _very_ different person off-duty and among friends than on-duty or in med bay, Dempsey suddenly realized. On duty, she was chilly and abrupt. Here, among friends and family, not in any danger. . . she reacted to most of them the way she reacted to the cop. Like a regular human being. _Well, what did you expect?_ Zhasa asked him silently. She was making her own observations, and he absently wondered what each of them 'felt' like to her. _I'll tell you later,_ she promised.

The krogan who had an _engineering degree_, for fuck's sake, was one of the bigger surprises, but was obviously friends with everyone else there. And there was obviously some sort of an in-joke about beating someone over the head with an arm that he would be _interested_ to hear more about. Especially since _everyone_ there used it to tease Dr. Velnaran.

In the auditorium, the by-play turned to sporting recollections. Dempsey listened for a while, and shook his head, and leaned forward to say, quietly, "Since my son got here, he's turned into a handball nut. I'm guessing it's something in the water, since he _used_ to be a hockey nut."

"Total lack of a rink," Dara muttered, leaning back. "I say we petition Shepard to build one. Of course, since I never learned how to skate, it'll do _me_ no good, except to get to watch other people."

"Hey, you followed the action once we switched to _Alliance_ rules instead of galactic rules," Sidonis pointed out.

"Yeah. Of course, most of the action involved Mazz throwing opposing players into the net when they mouthed off."

"That was just the first half. We got it together once Rel got out on the field." That, from the turian with the blue face-paint. He looked at Dempsey. "So, you don't like handball?"

"I played hockey."

"What position?" Sidonis again.

"Goalie."

That prompted an absolutely wolfish grin. "What a coincidence. So did I. We'll have to see if we can get enough bodies together for a pickup game at some point."

At which point, Dara put her hands in her face and groaned. "Okay, the full-circle feeling? It can go away now. Really."

Sidonis just grinned and ruffled her hair.

The salarian principal called everyone to order, and started asking students to pose questions to whomever he called up to the podium to answer questions. There weren't a lot of surprises. The very youngest children defaulted, with much giggling, to questions like _What's your favorite color?_ or _What was your favorite subject in school?_ The older ones started asking more and more in-depth questions.

"Dr. Velnaran, what was the hardest part about attending turian boot camp as a human? Agent Sidonis, same question?"

The two humans exchanged glances. "The most _uncomfortable_ part was the radiation suits," Dara answered. "Bathing in my own sweat for four months, the rashes, the fact that I was down to about eight percent body fat when I got out, and my kidneys weren't taking the dehydration all that well, wasn't fun. I think the hardest part, for me, was being pretty much alone. I had to make new friends all over again, and I've never been good at that. Fortunately, I had Kallixta over there in my squad, and _she's_ very good at making friends."

That prompted respectful rustles from all the turians, and a ripple of laughter from the adults in the center of the auditorium. Sidonis took the microphone away from Dara. "I was fortunate enough to go in the third class that had humans in attendance at the Dacian facility, which is where most of you will wind up going. I had two friends from Mindoir in the same barracks with me, too—and they're here today. Linianus Pellarian, and _Dr._ Telinus Karpavian." Whooping trills from younger brothers and sisters of each in the crowd. "So I think the hardest part for me was something Dara politely didn't mention. Some of the human-baiting that went on. Dara had it worse, I suspect, but it still went on. There were also a number of discipline problems in our barracks that we had to deal with.

One of the older turian students stood and asked, _"I know you were both squad leaders, but I'm not sure how you managed to deal with discipline issues. Would you or maybe Rellus Velnaran have some advice on that?"_

The big turian stood, and went up to the podium. _"For me, it was fairly straight-forward. I physically dominated in sparring and excelled at marksmanship after really wonderful training here on Mindoir. And when I acquired new squads, I reorganized them and made sure the new leaders knew that they reported to __me__, and that they were on the hook for dealing with some of the worse problem cases now. I only had one real problem. . . Scaevus Lintorum. And, well. . . when he bit my wrist so badly that it required eighty stitches, I broke his damned arm in three places."_ The humans all _winced_. Dempsey's eyes widened slightly. He'd heard that turian boot camp was rough, but had thought it was exaggeration

"For humans," Sidonis spoke up, "this is what I found, and maybe Dara noticed it, too. _A lot of it is being able to speak the language_, _but just as much, it's about body language."_

"_About __looking__ and acting like an alpha, even if, like me. . . "_ and here Dara laughed a little into the microphone. . . _"you're only married to one."_ She looked up at her big turian, and her smile was a little self-deprecating.

"_I'm sorry, but I don't understand—"_ the turian student said.

"_You're not seeing it, because we're acting human right now,"_ Sidonis said. His posture changed; he'd been leaning on the lectern, body relaxed, clearly enjoying a chance to poke fun at Dara whenever he had a chance. Now he suddenly looked physically _much_ larger. Some of it was simply that he was standing up, not quite at attention, but close to it. Back straight, shoulders back, hands swinging free at his sides. Some of it was a change in facial expression. It had gone blank, and the eyes were remote. Beside him, Dara had done the same thing, except that Dempsey suddenly _understood_ the sense of remote chilliness he'd always gotten from her. Sidonis spoke now, and his voice was _much_ sharper, as he snapped out, _"This answer your question?"_

Dara added, her own tone abrupt, _"This is as close as a human can get to command-peremptory tone. I find it helps with stubborn patients who __insist__ on getting out of bed before they're well. Then again, I also find that letting the really stubborn ones try to climb into their armor and then fall on their faces works pretty well, too."_

"This is a question for . . . Urdnot Siara Tesala. . . " This was a question from little Shel, who stood up, and looked very shy indeed as he asked, "Is it scary living on Tuchanka where there are no other asari? Do other asari still like you, when you meet them?"

Siara took the podium next, and the asari responded, with surprising gentleness for someone with such fierce eyes, "It was a little scary at first. Everything new and different is, I think. When I first went there, everyone was very different from me, and their whole way of living was much different from how I'd grown up. It took me a long time to realize that _different_ didn't mean _bad._ Though. . . let's face it. . . there's a lot I'd _like_ to change about Tuchanka. . . it still has to be its own place. It's very wild, and I don't think it will ever be tamed." She paused. "And asari and humans and turians who are _worth knowing_ like me just fine, regardless of the fact that I call myself by a krogan clan name now. Does that answer your question, dear?"

"What have you found yourself using from you school days here, on the job?" came the question from Dr. Wrenan.

Dara laughed. "Everything. Biology, xenobiology, chemistry, xenopsychology."

Rel shook his head. "Believe it or not, physics and trigonometry. Calculating descents onto planetary surfaces and windage on weapons."

Eli, shaking his head, "Sociology and history, actually. And, believe it or not, I'm actually taking a few college courses in xenopsychology. Admittedly, thanks to the past couple of weeks, I'm _way_ behind. . . . "

"And how about some questions for our guests who haven't had to answer anything yet?" Wrenan asked.

One salarian boy raised a hand. "Linianus Pellarian. . . is there any decision you've ever made, that if you could, you'd change?"

The blue-painted turian stood, and nodded. "Lots, actually. I think the one I regret the most is one I also couldn't live with _not_ having made, though. I wish I hadn't asked my wife to marry me. Because if we hadn't been married, we wouldn't have been assigned together, and if she hadn't been assigned with me, she'd probably still be alive today. On the other hand. . . if I hadn't asked her, we wouldn't have had two wonderful years together." His expression never changed, as far as Dempsey could tell. Turian stoicism, indeed.

_Holy crap_. Dempsey thought, and Zhasa's hand tightened on his elbow again.

"_Dominus Velnaran, if you become a Spectre, what will become of your work in the Conclave? Isn't it odd to make laws, if you're outside the law?"_

"_I don't think the two jobs are incompatible, and I think every Spectre currently on base has respect for the spirit of the law, and treats that spirit with the utmost respect."_

"_Dominae Kallixta, if your husband becomes a Spectre, will you get to fly his ship?"_ That had come from a tiny turian girl in the crowd of kindergarteners.

The willowy turian female answered, _"I certainly hope so. The Hierarchy would be foolish not to send me as my mate's pilot. We fight too well together not to __be__ together."_

"Urdnot Siara, if you become a Spectre, what will happen to your teaching efforts on Tuchanka?" That, from a teacher, for obvious reasons.

"I honestly don't know," Siara replied, looking concerned. "I hope to be able to do _both_, but sometimes one job is going to take precedence over the other. Assuming I even _become_ a Spectre."

"James Dempsey?"

Dempsey looked up, startled. He hadn't been expecting to hear his name called. He stood, carefully, and looked around. A human kid was in the crowd, hand raised. "Yeah?"

"You're Madison's dad, right?"

Dempsey nodded. "How come you look so young?"

He exhaled. "Long story short. . . I was frozen for about ten years. Rellus and Dara Velnaran over there, along with a bunch of Spectres, found me and thawed me out."

_Coooooooool_, was the unmistakable whisper running through the crowd. _Oh, no. Definitely not cool. But I guess it sounds that way so long as it happens to someone else._ "Do you think you'll be a good Spectre?"

Dempsey shook his head. "I have no idea. If they make me one, I intend to be the best one I can be." _Fortunately or unfortunately, the 'or die trying' part probably doesn't apply to me._


	99. Chapter 99: Anticipation

**Chapter 99: Anticipation**

**Author's note:** _Just an FYI; Kytharkan is trying to get a __Mass __Effect RP group together; her original one died, and she got a new job, so she was trying to figure out if she was sinking or swimming there for a while. Now that she's swimming, she's trying to coordinate one. See thread in forums for more details._

_Shinimegami said she might take a whack at drawing Eli and Serana, after she's worked out what she thinks a female quarian looks like, and asked for visual references for Eli._

_In my head, he's somewhere in between these three:_

_Chris Hemsworth: http:/ www. imdb. com/ media / rm1397012480/ nm1165110 (this is my favorite)_

_Liam Hemsworth: http:/ www. imdb. com / media / rm1388942336/ nm2955013 and_

_Ralph Fiennes: http:/ www. itusozluk. com / gorseller / joseph+fiennes/ 47726. _

_CalliesVoice has chimed in with "I was thinking young Rutger Hauer for Eli ala his role in Ladyhawke build-wise. Lin makes me think Johnny Depp or Orlando Bloom. All whippy muscles and speed." I can definitely see both of those, and had definitely thought of Hauer for Eli, too. (Pardon me while I find something with which to wipe away the drool.)_

_All of which is to say, dark hair, either shaved or short, depending on when the last time he got around to buzzing it down was, dark eyes, and has a square to rectangular face. He's probably perpetually scruffy since he does have dark hair and a middle-to-heavy beard. And he works out a lot._

_On a separate note_,_ CalliesVoice has been compiling many of the Word files into PDF format for me, mostly as a way to learn how to use her conversation software. Her first pass on __Unity__, by itself, is something along the lines of 988 pages. *chokes* Ye gods._

**Seheve, Mindoir, May 22-23, 2196**

"This one will not attempt to escape," she promised, as she had, several times before.

"I definitely hope not," the human in black armor told her, drawing out his words in a strange fashion. "Y'see, little darlin', the thing is, we don't exactly _have_ a prison here. We're not jailers. On the rare occasions we've had to hold people here, we've had to kind of improvise. Hence, this is _my_ little brainstorm. Do you know what a hyperbaric chamber is?"

Seheve nodded. "Drell who descend into the crushing deeps on Kahje with hanar must sometimes use these chambers to deal with nitrogen bubbles in the bloodstream, caused by too quick an ascent from the depths."

The human tapped his nose. "Exactly. This chamber, little darlin', is a hyperbaric chamber. The only exit is the airlock, right there. Anyone who comes in here to talk with you will be wearing full armor. Food and water will be provided through the smaller airlock chamber, to the right. You'll notice that you're not wearing an envirosuit?"

Seheve thought about it for a moment. It really was ingenious. . . and deadly. "Over the next few hours, you will increase the atmospheric pressure in this room gradually, so that this one's body becomes accustomed to it. After the body becomes accustomed to it, even if this one were to somehow escape, the nitrogen dissolved in this one's blood would rapidly expand, causing paralysis or death. Unless this one were in an environmental suit of her own. Which this one would have to take from someone like you." _Which would be. . . a considerable challenge._

The human's eyes were a rich shade of blue, but they were cold and emotionless right now. "Don't entirely recommend that, li'l darlin'."

"So, if this one were to make an escape attempt, this one should do so almost immediately, before the pressurization has had enough time to take effect." Seheve paused, and sank to her knees on the metal floor of the chamber, looking around. "This one has sworn. This one will adhere to her oath."

"We'll be watchin'," the human told her, and backed up into the airlock. True to his word, he kept his eyes on her, but she had a sense that he wasn't _focused_ on her; it was a wide view, that saw everything in the room, even the shadows. He wasn't watching her hands or her feet. He was empty, ready to react to _anything_. She recognized the stare. She'd used it herself, many times.

Now that she'd been warned, Seheve strained her senses. It was foolish to think she could feel a gradual increase in pressure against her skin, but she _could_ hear and feel a faint humming through the floor, and a faint brush of wind against her cheeks. Air movement, and probably the sound of compressors, somewhere outside. She wasn't entirely sure _where_ this chamber was. They'd put a sack over her head and tied it at her throat, so even looking down at her feet had been impossible; she'd felt the surface change from hard-packed dirt to some form of hard tile underfoot; the first area had echoed a bit. A large chamber, indoors, then. She would have laughed a little; considering a drell's eidetic memory, she could easily recall how many steps she'd taken, and in which direction. Such efforts were probably futile. . . except that then they'd put her on a gurney and there had been a sting in her left arm, and when she'd awakened, she'd been. . . here.

Here, there was a narrow cot. A single blanket on it, made of some material that could not be torn. The cot itself was adhered to the floor with some form of polymer, so it couldn't be removed and used to hit anyone. The mattress itself was thin, and held no springs; it was only a pad to cushion the body against the flexible strips of plastic that supported it. The strips themselves _might_ have held possibilities as garrotes, but they looked as if they could only be removed in a fashion that would, actually, break them.

In one corner, there was a small chemical toilet, which gave off a strong odor, making her nose twitch. There were three cameras in the tiny room, which was about forty square feet in size. Two were high above, on opposite sides of the room; between them, they covered the entire room clearly. No matter where she stood, she would be observed. The third camera was embedded in the wall at the back of the chamber, beside what looked like a comm screen. For communicating with her from outside, apparently.

_A well-designed prison, for all that they say they have not had a need for prisons here often_, she thought.

Seheve remained kneeling on the floor. Closed her eyes. And waited. Her thoughts were unpleasant enough company as it was.

Her brother Oeric had been aboard the ship on which she'd been transported here. Wherever _here_ was. And his entire family had been brought with him. For their _protection_, supposedly. Maia, his wife, and their three children: Tiecen, Ymenia, and Iakys. Seheve had been slightly skeptical about the _protection_ until Oeric had pointed out, irritably: "For the gods' sakes, Seheve. They haven't caught the plague yet, by some miracle. I wasn't going to _leave_ them on Bastion, at the mercy of disease and looters and rioters, without me there to protect them. And there's always the possibility that the Master might try to take them, force the Spectres to trade you for them. You think I'd _ever_ take that chance?" 

"The Master wouldn't. . . " Seheve had started to reply, and then had sighed. _The Master would. Anything for the Cause._ "I do not believe that he would find this one servant to be of enough value to take that chance," she'd finally finished, lowering her eyes and head towards the floor. "This one—"

"Knock that off. _I._ Say it."

"Very well. I have failed him. Failed in the task appointed to me. Failed in the proper faith to the Enkindlers." She sighed. "The Master does not have time for failures."

Oeric had slapped a hand against the doorframe of her cell. "Look at me, Seheve. _Look at me."_

She'd raised her eyes, wondering and curious. Her brother leaned forward, face suffused with light from the forceshield. "The fucking _master_ is _nothing_ without _you_. He is _helpless_ without hands and a body and a mind that he's shaped into a tool to be _used._ The _hanar_ are _nothing_ without the drell. Would they have colonized Rough Tide without us? No. Nor any other world that _wasn't_ ninety percent liquid water. Would they have mining operations without us? Just barely. Just enough to get off their own world. Hell, it's a miracle they ever tried to reach past that thick white blanket of clouds to get into space on their own." Oeric's voice was like a diamond-edged saw, cutting into her established beliefs. "Then an asari ship stumbled over them while they were exploring relays. Got a tentacle on the Citadel. Found _our_ world, and rather than trying to stabilize the climate, offered a _chosen few_ a place on their own world. Not a chance at being relocated to another desert planet. Oh, no. Come and be our servants. For _eternity_."

Seheve had closed her eyes at some point. "We owe them our very existence," she'd managed, softly.

"We were taken to Kahje eight hundred years ago, Seheve. That's thirty to forty fucking generations. I'll grant you, the first four or five generations were right to be grateful. But after a hundred years or so, becoming _equals_ isn't so much to ask. Being allowed to _leave_ isn't so much to ask. You know how I got off Kahje, Seheve? On a cargo ship. I was damned lucky the captain didn't evacuate the atmosphere from the hold to kill any rats or vermin that might be aboard. He was pretty damned pissed to find me on Bastion, too. If he'd found a body instead of me, he could have been tried for murder. As it was, he tried to have me held for trespassing and vagrancy. Got lucky; had a sympathetic B-Sec guy there. A human, for a wonder. And _he_ got me my first construction job. Helped me with the paperwork. And I thank Arashu for putting me in the path of another wanderer like myself every day."

"You think it was something that was meant to be?" Seheve asked, dully.

"I don't know," he'd told her, and the words had surprised her. Oeric smiled faintly as she'd lifted her head. "I don't know if it was luck, blind chance, or Arashu's protecting hand. Or maybe I just made my own fate, by taking a chance when I found it. However it happened, I'm grateful that it _did._"

In the here and now, Seheve tried to compose herself. Tried to find the calm place, the empty place at her center. But it was hard. So hard. Especially when she had so many questions.

Food and water were dispensed on a regular basis. She never saw the face of any of her jailers. _They are attempting to get me in a receptive frame of mind by creating isolation,_ she thought, calmly. _So that when I see __any__ face at all, I will be grateful for the reprieve._ The lights never turned off; simply stayed at a low glow. _That would be to disconnect me from external stimuli. So that my body clock does not know what time it is. Again, a ploy to put me in a receptive frame of mind. They do not realize that I have already surrendered. I will answer their questions. This whole charade of presenting me as a Spectre candidate. . . I understand why they had to take me, on that basis. I understand that they consider me a security risk, as well, because of the Lystheni. Spectre Blasto spoke with the Master, and the Master has 'gone away,' after that conversation. Could Spectre Blasto have uncovered the secrets that the Master held in his heart? Could they know all my orders, even the ones I did not think I could ever accomplish, and did not wish to try?_

She let the questions go. She couldn't answer them without information that she didn't have. Focused her thoughts on the Light of the Enkindlers, and yet, found questions there, too. _Why do creatures who do not know their Light have the gift of speech? If that is the crowning gift of the Enkindlers to other races, how did species who never knew their touch, come to have it?_

_And if all that I have been taught is false. . . is it then true, that all that I have __done__ has also been false?_ It was an intolerable notion, one that her mind shied away from, reflexively, as if some part of her knew that doubt might bring madness. But her recent near-brush with her own death had only increased her doubts, not reinforced her beliefs. _If the Enkindlers are false, and my actions have been false, then I have been responsible for deaths that were. . . unjust. Unjustifiable._ She swallowed, hard. _Even if I was __ordered__ to take those lives, mine were the hands. And yet. . . even my brother has called me a tool. Shaped, molded. Made into a hanar's hands, because he had none of his own to use. And yet. . . __these are my hands__._ She looked at her palms for a moment, curiously. As if she could see the blood there. Green, orange, red, and blue.

There was no respite from her own thoughts. She finally went to lie down on the narrow cot, and attempted to _will_ herself to sleep. After a while, she finally succeeded.

The next. . . morning?. . . she awakened. Ate what was provided on a tray in the small airlock. Listened to the silence. She had to admit, the isolation was having its desired effect. She would have been glad even to hear the drawling voice of the human Spectre at this point. Or for the wall screen to light up with an alien face. Something, besides the weight of her own thoughts.

And then, the door lock hissed open.

Seheve stood gracefully, turning to look as the huge rachni she had encountered before scuttled in. His body was enameled black, with the red symbol of the Spectres on his upper thorax; his eyes were an opalescent alien blue, and glittered at her. She stiffened a little at his incredible _alienness_, and pulled back into herself. _ There is no I here. There is only the body, and the body is at peace._

Then a _hanar_ floated into the room. Seheve automatically dropped to her knees at the sight of him, and the hanar's 'voice' chimed, quietly, "There is no need for obeisance before this one. Rise, Seheve Liakos. This one is not a god, and does not presume to speak for one."

Slowly, she rose once more, staring at the hanar. _This_ might be the legendary Blasto. The _only_ hanar Spectre. The hanar floated over to 'stand' more or less alongside the huge rachni. Seheve had the oddest feeling that they were. . . communing. . . somehow.

And then the airlock swished open a third time, and a human female in black armor entered. At her collar was, again, the red Spectre sigil. And behind that clear visor was a face painted blue and white. Turian face-paint. Dark blue eyes. And a force of character in them that Seheve had never encountered in any human before. These were eyes that had looked beyond life, beyond, into the abyss. Had seen the monsters looking back at her. Had _defeated_ them. And had _lived_. Lived and loved and found richness in doing so. Seheve saw all of that, in an instant, and shuddered as Commander Lilitu Shepard regarded her for a long moment.

_Truth-Singer has come to teach you. As have I. As has Sings-Peace_. The voice was in her mind, like the thunder of a choir, and she _shook_ with its force. It brought colors behind her eyes—red and blacks of anger and a steel-gray of resolve.

"The revered rachni Spectre, Sings-to-the-Sky speaks truth," the hanar chimed quietly. "This one is known as Blasto. We will hear your thoughts today. And we will prevent you from doing any harm to Commander Shepard. And you will come to . . . understanding. . . today. The truths known by this one are simple. The truths known by Sings-to-the-Sky are more complex. The truths known by Commander Shepard are the most complex of all. Would you have them, Seheve Liakos? Would you have your questions answered?"

"This. . . this one does not question—"

"What a pity," Commander Shepard murmured. "Questions are where learning _begins_." She paused. "Would you like to see the world as the Protheans, your Enkindlers, did? Before the Reapers corrupted them into Collectors, of course?"

Seheve's mind flashed to the lessons of the Master. _The Collectors could not have been the Enkindlers. They were falsehoods, shaped by the Reapers. The Reapers were demons, and their distortions only lies designed to mock the light._ She stood, shaking a little, staring at Shepard. The woman raised her eyebrows slightly, and added, "Would you like to hear, in their own _words_, what the Reapers did to them?"

Seheve nodded, very slightly.

_We give to you, what was given to Truth-Singer_, the voice sang again in her mind, and then, no matter if Seheve closed her eyes or not, she couldn't _escape_ it.

Images at first. A trickle, then a torrent. Faces, like the ancient, weathered statues of the Enkindlers on a hundred worlds. Tall, bipedal, with appendages dangling from their faces. Breathing apparatuses or natural parts of their bodies, she couldn't tell. Wise, interested eyes. Flicker of thoughts and words wholly alien to her, that wouldn't—couldn't—_didn't_ fit properly in her mind. That _burned_, sinking into her brain.

_Iluwe'kajthras; hasr malwe khresv. _

_The mind-fortress of our thoughts opens to you. _

_Pheladr nasu klwe'hardakh_

_Fear not destruction-pain._

_Ullwe kresu ma'ur._

_We are one._

Oh, it _hurt. _It _hurt._ Seheve clutched at her head and sank to her knees, aware, dimly, that there were other alien minds involved, cushioning her, protecting her. That there was _something_ about Shepard that had protected her from the enormous force of the Enkindlers' knowledge and language and alienness. The same thing that had protected Saren, perhaps. The genetic encoding, maybe, that had been added to human and turian ancestors that had been deemed of _interest_ by the Protheans, long ago.

Words. Oh, so many, many words. Alien, exotic. Carrying with them concepts she didn't even have words for in her _own_ language. _Breaking-space-time-to-go-beyond._ _Total-existence-failure. _

And knowledge. Knowledge that they were _not_ the first, nor were they the last. How they had seen the children-races; not as servants. Creatures to be studied. Watched. Perhaps students to be guided. And maybe, someday, equals. If they survived. If they thrived. Dizzying concept. To be the _equals_ of the Enkindlers, of these alien minds, which she had been taught to revere as gods?

And then, visions. The Reapers, coming. Destroying their worlds, their works. Knowing that the children-races would suffer in turn. Fall into the trap, which had been set so many millions of years ago. Intolerable. A last effort. The very last of them—or so they thought they were—giving up their lives to try to prevent the trap from being sprung again. Despair. Death. The end of the light.

Seheve found herself on her knees, weeping, her hands over her face. Sobs wracked her. This was the _truth_ that her _Master_ had denied. He could have had revelation at any point. All he would have had to do was _ask_, and he could have experienced union with his gods, and Shepard, who carried their Voice inside her head, could have found some way to share it with him.

It had been easier to deny it. It had been easier to deny that truth, than to accept it. Because accepting it would mean that he was _wrong_. And that he was _responsible_ for having perverted the Light into a thing of darkness and death.

And while the Master had perverted her, too, Seheve knew that she, too, was responsible. She had accepted his truth. She had doubted it at times, but once she had walked out waist-deep into that sea of blood, it had seemed that she was just as far from one shore as from the other, and so it had been _easier_ to go on, than to turn back. She wept for the lies, she wept for her belief, she wept for the pain and the suffering and the death and the loss of innocence.

And then she pulled herself inwards, and tried to find that tiny spark of light inside of her that was her life, and tried, very hard, to make it go out.

_No._ The rachni's song was firm and strong. _Your song will continue._

"This one believes it would be easier for you to die, Seheve Liakos. But as penances go, it is a very simple one," Blasto said, calmly. "This one instructed your former master to go forth and do good works. This one believes that he will now, do so. What will _you_ do?"

Seheve rested her head on the floor. "This one has. . . I have no skills except for bringing death," she said, dully. "I will serve as you choose."

"Wrong lesson," Shepard said, sharply, forcefully, reaching down and pulling Seheve up, and staring into her eyes with that brilliantly blue human gaze. "The question is not what will we do with you. It is 'what will you do with yourself?'"

Seheve stared at her, dumbstruck. "I don't know."

Shepard sighed. "Well," she said, looking at the other two. "It's a start."

**Serana, Mindoir, May 22-27 2196**

The previous week had passed in something of a blur for Serana. Bastion, the _Normandy_, Palaven, Omega, and now Mindoir, in short order. Unlike the others, she hadn't been long removed from the Mindoir reality; boot camp was almost the dream now, and Bastion an unpleasant spirit-dream she'd been glad to awaken from. And yet, spirit-dreams were puzzles. Reminders of things that needed to be dealt with, or which foretold the future. Serana sighed, looking out the front window of Ellie and Lantar's house. The night sky was blanketed by clouds; not a single star was visible. The conflict in the galaxy might as well not have existed, as far was Mindoir was concerned. Eli was off having a long conversation with Lantar—about what, Serana didn't know, but was a little worried would lose her Lantar's respect. So she had a little time to think. Reflect.

Coming home to Mindoir brought with it old thought patterns, old expectations, old roles. Staying at Ellie and Lantar's prevented _some_ of the old roles from completely engulfing her again. They weren't staying at her parents' house, so there was at least a little distance, a little acceptance that she was an adult now. And she was deeply grateful for that. Because she _had_ changed, and in ways she hadn't totally expected. Kasumi had often commented that Serana had a very valuable character trait for someone in her chosen profession. The ability to bend or disregard rules without feeling bad about it. And Serana was finding that this was actually true. Oh, she had apprehensions for _repercussions_, but guilt at having broken a rule?

None.

It was disconcerting to realize that Kasumi had seen her more clearly than she'd seen herself. And it made Serana wonder what other rules she'd find it in herself to break. None, she'd decided, that she really valued or believed in. Eli remained sacrosanct, the firm rock of her existence. Her family. . . well, she'd prefer not to disturb or distress them. And she'd _prefer_ to hold onto the good opinion of people that she respected. Anything else, apparently, was fair game though. Which, as revelations went, was a fairly major one, but tied into something emblazoned into her mind when the Imperator's guards had caught her by the neck and shoulders and dragged her out of hiding: _Don't get caught._

She'd adored Eli since she was ten years old. Not mindlessly. Eli had his share of faults, which she teased him about, endlessly. He had no idea of his own worth, constantly deprecated his own intelligence, and played dumb far too much for her liking. His self-image was somewhat stuck in the past, he held grudges, and when he got angry, it was like watching a volcano slowly build. But he was kind, he was gentle, he was honorable; he was loyal to a fault, he loved as fiercely as he fought, and he had enormous patience. And he'd grown strong and fierce and had a sense of humor at least as wicked as her own. And yet, there was other things in him; things she'd always sensed, but couldn't put a name to. And after Bastion, and hearing Sky speak the name he'd given Eli. . . ._Many-Voices_. . . Serana had understood. Human and turian and asari, all at once. Eli flipped between one mode of thought to another effortlessly. Learning turian languages had taken him time and effort, and a great deal of conscious thought, but he could _become_ turian when he needed to be, in every way but the physical. And sometimes, without thinking about it at all, he slipped, and turned asari. Very alien. And yet, still _Eli_. He was all of them at once, and still himself. A synthesis, a harmony. Many voices, and one voice. _How clearly Sky must see us all_.

On Bastion, the first time they'd. . . practiced. . . with Lin. . . it had been a spur-of-the-moment thing. A thing born out of exhaustion of mind, body, and spirit. A way of taking refuge in each other, of making the world go away. And how she'd feared that Eli would wake up in the morning and despise her. Would suddenly be more human than he usually was, and reject her. Or hate himself. When she'd found she actually _could_ be very damned asari when she put her mind to it. It had _stunned_ her, in fact, how much she'd enjoyed having those two very male bodies surround her, encompass her, fill her. The love in Eli's eyes had been very clear. Emotional connection, not just physical. And Lin had been startlingly gentle. As gentle as Eli had been, _their_ first time, until she'd told him that he could be fierce with her, too.

Lin had always been there. Had always been Rel's friend, and then Rel and Eli's friend. Serana's breath fogged the window, and she rubbed the mist away before it could turn to frost. He'd been a joker and a laugher, taking nothing seriously at all. Not even his position as first-brother in his family, which had somewhat annoyed his younger siblings. The first inklings of responsibility had come when he started preparing for boot camp. The first show of strength, when he and Eli had fought the dragon together on Tuchanka. And then, when the first ripples of interest had struck her, the first hints of estrus. . . they'd come to her room together. Serana swallowed now, her throat dry. _I wanted them both. I didn't know how. Loved Eli. Wanted him. But wanted Lin, too. Brothers._ She could admit that in private, as she'd admitted it to Eli, months ago. And then they'd gone off to boot camp together, and Lin had returned, changed, marked. Just as much, if not more, than Eli had been changed and marked. His little wife, Brennia—whom Serana wished, fiercely, that she'd met, at least once, to be able to _understand_ better—had left marks on Linianus. Not marks of flesh. Marks on his spirit. Not just because she had died, or the manner in which she had, although that was surely part of it. Lin was different because Brennia had _needed_ him to be different. To be gentle, kind, and very much responsible. To be the protector and caretaker and guardian that, apparently, the female had needed. Serana glared at the darkness outside. _And did __you__ ever guard or protect or take care of __him__?_ she asked the spirit of a female two years dead, silently. _Or were you so weak that Lin had to be __everything__? Hunter and protector, for both of you?_ Serana was angry, and she didn't even really know why. _Because. . . because. . . he's mine. And Eli is mine. Ah, spirits. _

And the look on Lin's eyes the second time, when she and he had been face-to-face. It had been the same exact expression as had been in Eli's eyes, before. Where Eli had been delighted at her daring, Lin's delight was at being allowed in. To warm himself by their fire. It hadn't been just physical then, either. Serana knew what loved looked like, when it looked back into her eyes. Love that was friendship, quickly becoming something more.

Serana leaned her head against the window, swallowing hard. She wasn't ashamed. Not even a little bit. Even if it _had_ been just physical, she didn't think she'd have been ashamed. What she _was_ concerned about, were repercussions. The inevitable line of _what-ifs_ that anyone with a functioning brain _had_ to consider about any set of choices. _I'm Eli's. Body, heart, and spirit. What if he doesn't like the possibility that I could give more than just my body to Lin, too? Would he be __able__ to share my heart? Even if his is still the larger share? Would it be __fair__ to Lin to only give him a piece of me, and nothing more? When he needs so much, yearns so much, and hides it so carefully any time other than when we're all in bed? Is it even me he wants, or just something, someone, that can make him feel whole, if only for a little while?_ She knew the answer to that one already, and discarded it as an unjust, unworthy thought. Lin hadn't said his wife's name. He'd said _sweetness_ once or twice, but mostly, it had been _little one_, his and Eli's joint old nickname for her, and her name.

And to top it all off, was the fact that Eli had, in a moment of purely human vulnerability, reached out as much to Dara as to Serana. Her arm had been around Eli's shoulders, and Dara's arm had slipped alongside hers, both offering comfort. And Eli had called Dara _sai'kaea. Fair-one. Beloved._ And in spite of her purely territorial antagonism towards Siara, and her anger at dead Brennia's spirit. . . Serana felt no hostility at all towards Dara. _What's that human saying? 'Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds?' Spirits. I should be __angry__ that he'd call her that. And yet, I'm not. I suppose I've always known he holds her in his heart. It's part of the whole, and I love the whole. It doesn't threaten me. Funnily enough, I don't think he has a drop of emotion left for Siara, and I still can't stand her. But he loves Dara, and he loves me, and I'm. . . . all right with it. Maybe that means he'd actually be okay with me loving Lin a little bit, too. Spirits, what a __mess._

Serana leaned against the window, feeling cold radiate out from it. Tried to use it to calm herself, marshal her thoughts. All in all, she thought that if she and Eli and Linianus were left alone, they could muddle through this on their own. Make the right decisions, for all of them. Decisions that would leave the friendship intact. Might deepen it, intensify it. She didn't know what decisions they'd make, or what road they'd lead down, but they were three very honest, very loyal people, and they could make those choices. If they were allowed to do so.

And that was the kicker. It was the potential for outside intrusion, intervention, judgment, disapproval, that made her crop clench. Rinus, first-brother, would _not_ understand. He was married to Kallixta, who was strong and proud and fierce, but who was an Imperial princess. Rinus would disapprove. Rellus. . . well, her brother was an alpha. Nevermind that he was carving them all in a spirit statue together. That was. . . theoretical. A matter of like spirits. Rellus would be repulsed by reality, almost certainly.

Her mother, Solanna, fierce and quick to judge, would not approve. Alladrus, her father? Would certainly not approve! Lantar, with his keen eyes and preternatural abilities to understand people, probably already knew. He was probably conveying his disappointment in them to Eli right now. Giving up Lantar's good opinion hurt. Serana's throat tightened. And she couldn't even _picture_ what Ellie's reaction would be—probably very human shock and horror and dismay. Strangely, of all of them, Dara was probably the only one who would understand. Understand the need to bridge the gap between the species, the demands of compromise, made on a daily basis.

And yet. . . no one had _asked_ any them to judge. So long as she and Eli didn't contest the contract, the contract held, didn't it? And what happened behind a closed door was the business of those on the inside of the damned door!

And that was when their door had opened, and Eli had walked in, looking slightly bemused. Serana had looked up at him, throat tight. "How'd it go?"

"Gave up playing, huh?" He came over to the window and kissed her. Fingers lightly brushing the hinges of her jaw, keeping her safe for his tongue to toy with hers.

"Couldn't concentrate on the game anymore," Serana admitted. "Too nervous."

"Well, at least come away from the window. It's too damned cold out there for you." Eli tugged her over to the guest bed, and pulled her down into the sheets with him. "My dad said a couple of things of note. That he's worried that Lin might get emotionally involved, and hurt. Might put his life on hold for us, and that it wasn't fair to him."

Serana blinked, and nodded. "He already _is_ emotionally involved," she whispered.

"I know," Eli replied, and his voice was weary. "He _did_ mention something that you and I probably should have thought of earlier."

Serana frowned. "And that is?"

"That your father _is_ a xenobiologist who's known from the Core to the galactic Rim. And that he and _my_ dad had already figured out that you and I were either going to need to adopt, or have a, er, little help." Eli looked up at the ceiling. "It's getting to a point where I think other people know more about my really _fucked-up_ private life than _I_ do."

Serana's shoulders shook involuntarily, and then she couldn't help it. She put her head down on her husband's shoulder and started to laugh, at least as much in relief as in humor. Then she paused. "Wait, does that mean your mom—"

"No! And they haven't explained that to _your_ mom yet, either. Thank god for small mercies." Eli's cool-warm fingers stroked down her fringe, over and over again, absently. "_We've got a couple of weeks coming up here where we can slow down,_ sweetheart_. No making decisions in a big rush, because death is all around us, or because we're stressed, or because we're pissed off because someone shoved a sign in our faces. Just the right decisions, at the right times. We might even work out, in our crazy way, __asperitalla__._"

"_Of course we're going to, __anserum__. I wouldn't let us __not__."_ She bit his shoulder, and then he rolled her over, biting her back with a sudden vigor that made her laugh.

"_Adamare elii, Serana."_

"_Adamare talu, Elijah."_

The next day had been the trip to the school, which Serana had taken as an opportunity to _observe_ everyone. She'd been particularly struck by the other Spectre candidates who were present—James Dempsey, a human, and Zhasa'Maedan, a quarian. Dempsey, Eli had whispered to her, quickly, had gone to Khar'sharn with him and Dara and Rinus, to rescue Rel. That had made Serana study the male all the more closely. He was. . . odd. He had almost no facial expressions at all. Humans were usually hard for turians to read, but Serana knew human faces very well by now. Dempsey's was a closed book. His cold blue eyes occasionally narrowed, but that was almost the entire extent of it. Eli's quick whispers in her ear told her the rest. A chip in the wrong place in the brain. Extensive experimentation and gene modification and cybernetics, leaving him almost half machine, and almost without emotion. Except for a predisposition to anger.

_And they're making him a Spectre candidate, anyway?_ Serana thought, surprised. But. . . he had a son, apparently. A son who was, by appearance, half his age. _If he retains his youthful appearance, thanks to the krogan gene mods he's been given, that will get very awkward to explain, as the years go by_, she thought, grimacing slightly.

And the boy clearly idolized his father, tagging alongside him, asking quick, eager questions as they'd walked into the auditorium, and then separated, going to sit with his class. And, to Serana's silent amusement, Amara sat down right next to the older boy and proceeded to _pester_ him. She leaned into Eli and pointed, discreetly. "Look familiar?"

Eli looked, started to turn back to her, then stopped, and looked again. And said, quietly, in turian, _"And I thought Allardus and Solanna were slightly frightening in-laws. By the time you and I got together, they were worn out from Rel and Dara and Rinus and Kallixta. I kind of hope for young Madison's sake there that Amara more easily distracted than you were, beloved."_

Serana snickered. _"A true huntress never forsakes her prey."_ When his eyes widened, slightly, Serana laughed out loud. _"Or it could just be a bad case of puppy love, and nothing more."_

The students' questions had been extensive, and a few had even been surprisingly insightful. Serana's heart _hurt_ when they asked Linianus if he could choose anything over again, what would he change. The answer shocked her. She'd have thought he'd say, "I wouldn't have gone out for dinner on February fourteenth, 2194." Instead, Lin almost wished the whole thing away. The happiness along with the sadness. As if he thought _he was at fault!_ That he had somehow, by asking Brennia to marry him, carried the blame for her death. Oh, not in any rational way. But the heart and the spirit accepted ideas that the mind discarded as foolish. And she had _no_ way of conveying to him, here in public, that it _wasn't_ his fault. That it was the fault of the male who'd ordered her death, nothing more, and nothing less. Her fingers had clenched on Eli's and he looked down at her as Lin settled back into his chair. _"Easy, a__speritalla__. Later."_

Serana found herself on the tail end of people leaving the auditorium, and more than close enough to overhear Dempsey speaking with his son. The younger male was complaining that there was _nothing_ to do besides schoolwork around here. Amara, who was tagging alongside, immediately said, "Well, why don't you come to sparring at Uncle Allardus' house, then?"

"Sparring?" Dempsey the elder had repeated, a little blankly, as every head around him had tuned. They were all more or less on enforced leave, mostly for _health_ reasons at this point. All of them had lost weight, which for the turians was even less healthy than for the humans. Dara and Eli hadn't had much body fat _to_ lose, but they had at least had some to cushion them. Rel, Lin, Rinus, Kallixta, and Serana had ribs showing, and still periodically had headaches. So some relaxation was necessary. However, as they were _all_ very used to being extremely busy, and having their lives more or less scheduled for them, enforced relaxation drove them more than a little crazy. After only a day, Serana noted with amusement, every single one of her friends and relatives _jumped_ on this.

"Hey, that's right, it _is_ Monday!" Eli said, his voice suddenly much happier.

"Oh, this is going to be great," Rel said, grinning suddenly. "First-brother! You and me, against Eli and Lin tonight. What do you say?"

Her first-brother paused, turned back, and slowly smiled. "Sounds like a good test of skills."

Lin laughed. "Sounds like a great way to get my head kicked in. I've seen you fight, Rinus. Calleo and Facito training. Scale me."

Dara turned and looked at Dempsey and Zhasa, and said, calmly, "The sparring sessions are pretty much open to anyone who wants to learn. One or two of the Spectres teaches the kid lessons, too. Ages five to ten—human scale, anyway—go off to the side and learn on their own. Madison's more than old enough to join in with Amara and Kaius and Polina and Quintus." She paused. "And you—and you, too, Zhasa'Maedan—would be more than welcome to join in with the rest of us." Dara's voice had been a little tentative, even wary. Serana decided to watch and listen carefully. Dara was usually an open, friendly person. Something about Dempsey put her _ama'fradu_ on edge.

"Didn't know that this all went on," Dempsey said, after a moment. "I can bring Mad by, and check it out." His voice, too, was wary, but for other reasons, it seemed. _Interesting_.

The quarian female, however, was anything _but_ wary. "I'd love to. Dempsey's been trying to show me some human fighting techniques, so I can learn to work against them, but the more I see, the better off I am." Serana could _hear_ the smile behind that mask.

Madison just looked eager to do _anything_ that didn't involve _schoolwork_ for a change. Serana wanted to laugh. _Enjoy it while it lasts_, she wanted to tell him. _If you were turian, you'd be, what, three years from boot camp, at most?_

And so, that night, they _all_ gathered at Serana's parents' house for dinner—she owed them _tha_t courtesy, at least, and Serana and Rel and their mates endured a little fussing from Solanna as she declared them all _far_ too thin, and piled their plates with food. After a little time to digest and relax, they all got out on the mats in the cold air of the atrium. They'd all warm up shortly, but this was probably the last time this year that the outdoor area would be used for sparring. The smallest children were sent back inside with the Vakarian's drell nanny, and then they all got down to _work._ Garrus and Shepard were both there, at least for the moment, as were Lantar and Ellie, Sam and Kasumi, and even Ylara. Kasumi was handling the younger students tonight, and was getting Madison oriented off on one section of mats with the others. For the rest of them, there were lots of things to learn, to review.

And sparring was suddenly _fun_ again. It hadn't been, for years. It had just been _work_, and now, suddenly, with all her _favorite_ people back, Serana found the fun once more. She ducked and dodged away from Eli's mostly playful strikes, dove under Lin's sharp, fierce kicks, and tried, desperately, to get in range on Rel and Rinus. The quarian girl, Zhasa, actually _knew_ _meela'helai_, to everyone's surprise. Serana hadn't seen it demonstrated since her uncle Egidus had been here for Rel's wedding, and cheered the quarian girl as the acrobatic flips and unexpected kicks came into play.

After an hour of warming up and just plain practicing things they hadn't used in ages, it quickly became a competition. Zhasa started off against Kallixta, and after a few initial, wary engagements, Kallixta's natural aggressiveness came to the fore, and she started kicking, very fast. After three rounds, it was a draw, and Zhasa'a next opponent was Dara.

Serana just grinned and _watched_ as her _ama'fradu_ adapted to Zhasa's style. Dara would never be the instinctive fighter that Rel was, and didn't have the raw strength of any of the males. But what she lacked in strength, she more than made up for in finesse, leverage, and understanding of anatomy. She waited until Zhasa committed to a leap, and then caught her in mid-movement, crashing into her, destabilizing her when she was off the ground, and took her to the ground, and then pantomimed a hard finger-thrust to the abdomen. "Celiac plexus on a quarian," Dara called out. "Just off the central line of the body. Turians, it's below the protrusion of the chest. Quarians, we're aiming more for between the ribs, above the stomach. It's hard in a suit, so a jabbing move with the fingers would _probably_ work."

"Me, I'd use a knee," Eli called back.

"Both will work," Zhasa admitted, laughing, and let Dara pull her to her feet.

Serana sparred with the quarian next, and settled back in defensive style, letting the female tire herself out, while simply not being wherever the next strike came from. And once Zhasa was looking wrung-out, and her movements opened up a little more, Serana moved in for the kill, getting in tight up against her and using all the very human moves she'd been shown over the years—elbow locks and throws, a crashing technique against the shoulder. Zhasa was good, though, and moved away and redirected the force periodically, but it was clear she hadn't seen any of this before. "This is great," Zhasa said, enthusiastically. "I wish I'd known about these classes weeks ago."

"Three nights a week," Serana told her, helping her to her feet again, and smiling. "It's been that way since my brother Rellus started preparing for boot camp. He was so nervous, he just wanted to do _something_ to prepare. And then almost everyone started working out with him."

Serana sat down, and Dara turned and looked at her, grinning. "Shush, I think it's time for the main event."

Serana looked up. "Oh. . . spirits. I'm not sure I can watch." She covered her eyes. Eli and Lin were on the mats, side by side, grinning a little. Facing Rinus and Rellus.

Zhasa's head tipped slightly to the side. "You're nervous?" 

"Two of my brothers against my husband and his _dimicato'fradu_," Serana replied, crop tightening a little. Four people she held deep affection for, on many levels. On the one hand, it was exciting to watch. Every turian loved a good fight, and Serana was definitely a turian. But on the other hand, while they were all _very_ good, the potential for a slip in multiples fighting was always there.

Eli and Lin were moving together, circling left, trying to double-team Rel, while still keeping an eye on Rinus. _That's not going to work,_ Serana thought. It was classic turian strategy; attack the strongest point. But Rinus was every bit as good as Rel. Different style, maybe, but . . .

"_There_ we go," Dara muttered. Lin broke and moved to engage Rinus. Pure turian style, savage kicks from both of them, low, high, everything in between, redirections. Everything flowed. Seamless and beautiful and deadly.

Behind them, perched on a bench in the atrium, the human, Dempsey, swore quietly. "Goddamn, they're fast."

"You ain't seen nothing yet," Dara told him lightly, but visibly tensed as Eli and Rel, both grinning slightly, Rel showing teeth, and Eli showing a mouthguard, closed on each other. Serana unconsciously put a hand on Dara's shoulder, and could feel how the human flinched at every hit either of the two males threw, caught, dodged, or received. _She's fighting __with__ them._

Both Eli and Rel epitomized the Mindoir mixed style. Whatever happened to work at the time. And both were just as fast as Rinus and Lin. Eli's reflex speed was phenomenal, and took Rel off-guard more than once; Rellus' experience level was just a little past Eli's, which allowed him to compensate. Flowing circles, for the moment, moving out of the area where Lin and Rinus were working, more or less by mutual consent, grappling, locking—Eli got Rel into a figure four, and Rel just turned out of it. Flow, smoothness. . . and then they changed up. Hard punches from Eli, a knee Rel almost didn't avoid in time—Serana winced and flinched at that, and at the return shot, a kick directed at groin level, which Eli turned his hip into, taking the impact and rolling it away. A quick, powerful shot into Rel's ribs, and then Eli was sliding in from the side, reaching down to destabilize the far knee—

—and on the other side, Lin and Rinus were still fighting. Rinus had six years' more experience, but Lin was healthy and strong and knew how to fight in the street, and then Rinus tripped Lin, just as Eli took Rel to the ground. Serana and Dara both tensed at the impact. Kallixta hissed under her breath. "Eli's going to take Rel," Dara muttered. "Think Rinus is going to have Lin for lunch, though."

Serana's head swung up. "Really?"

Dara nodded, craning her neck to try to see. "Rel's good on the ground, but Eli's built like my dad. Might not have Rel's height, but the mass per square inch, and just—oh, son of a bitch." Eli and Rel tumbled for a moment as Rel broke loose, tried to reverse their positions, and wound up flat on his back with Eli slamming his forearm in place across Rel's throat. On the other side, however, Rinus had Lin in a leg crank, and had pinned the opposite leg with his own knee.

And then a sharp whistle from Sam broke through the air. "Well, that's pretty good, except that now, you're all tangled up, aren't you?" Sam grinned at them genially. "And that's pretty much when their friends will pitch in. And they all do have friends, right?" Sam looked out at those in the audience. "Dara, Kallixta, Serana, you want to jump in?"

"No," Dara said, firmly.

Laughter from the four males. Rel, mostly pinned by Eli, called back, "What, no rescue, _mellis_?"

"I'm not getting in the middle of that," Dara said, to renewed laughter. "I could stick my hand in an _acrocanth's_ mouth and stand a better chance of walking away with my fingers."

Eli turned his head and grinned at her. "Chicken," he taunted.

Dara looked at Serana. "Serana, go help Lin. I don't want you to see this."

And then Dara bounded to her feet and went in on Eli. With a kick to the styloid process under his right ear—pulled, of course, for sparring purposes. This was a savage stun move that would have loosened his hold on Rel, and Eli had to simulate that, and then it was Eli with Rel and Dara two-on-one against him, and Serana didn't have time to watch, because _she_ had, very pragmatically, picked up a nearby piece of wood and was pantomiming slamming it into her first-brother's back at kidney level, from behind. And then it was Lin and Serana, two-on-one against Rinus. After three endless minutes, Lantar called, "Kallixta, in, Serana, out, make Lin defend for a while."

Panting, Serana fell back, grateful for the reprieve—her first-brother was _very_ good, and she'd caught a kick to the ribs that he hadn't entirely pulled in time. That gave her a moment to see that Eli was still working on defense, shirt completely soaked through, but had gotten ahold of Dara long enough to try to throw her into Rel's path. Rel dodged her, and moved in on Eli, Dara rolled to her feet and tried to trip Eli. . . "Dara out, Dempsey in. Make Rel work two-on-one for a bit."

And on it went. By 23:00, every one of them was exhausted. The turians were panting. "I should be able to go on longer than this," Rel muttered, sounding annoyed.

"You're still in recovery mode from the damned sickness on Bastion," Sam told him calmly. "Notice how little work Lantar and I actually did tonight? We're going to let your bodies tell us when to quit. Our bodies just threw in the towel a little earlier than yours did." He grinned at them all under his moustache. "Nice work tonight, though. Zhasa, Dempsey, was a pleasure having you both here. Gives us all a little something different to work with."

Lantar nodded, and pointed at Lin. "Gladiatorial fighting tomorrow?"

Lin lifted his head and grinned. "Wouldn't miss it. Been a while."

Rinus and Rel both looked up. "You guys up for teaching us?"

Lantar grinned. "Absolutely."

Eli looked over at Dempsey. "If you want in, just say the word. Same for your son. He's got the reflexes for this, judging by what I was seeing from him over with Kasumi."

After a moment, Dempsey nodded, expressionless as always. "Practice is a good thing," he acknowledged.

Serana just smiled. She didn't like fighting gladiatorial style herself. . . she much preferred the kendo that she and Kasumi had practiced, on and off, for a couple of years. . . but she _loved_ watching Eli and Lin spar. Always had. Now was no different than four years ago, except that while they were rusty in their specific styles, they were just better, overall, physically. Eli had always relied on speed and reflexes, and had quickly favored the _retiarii_ style. Which was to say, he wore almost no armor. Only a loinguard and an armguard, which wrapped around the left side of his chest. He'd joked it was at least a _cheap_ school to learn, back in the day. In terms of weapons, he used a three-pronged spear, a net, and a dagger. He'd catch Lin's attacks on his arm guard, parry them with his spear, or flick them aside with the net. The net was used for tripping, misdirection, or entangling an opponent's head and arms.

Lin fought in the _secutores_ style, and wore much more armor. A smooth, rounded helmet, designed to keep the net from getting a grip, with tiny eyeholes, intended to protect his eyes from the barbed spear; an armguard; a heavy rectangular shield; a loinguard; and greaves. _His_ only weapon was a shortsword. Eli had reach on him with the spear, and the option to throw the net, but Lin could take more of a pounding. "Hey," Linianus said, hefting the shield. "This thing's lighter than I remembered it being."

"Four years of using a riot shield in SWAT does develop the arm muscles, I guess," Eli told him, grinning. "Give me a minute to adjust all the straps. Nothing fits anymore."

"Same problem here," Lin grumbled, and looked up as Rel and Rinus and Dempsey appeared at the edge of the garage to watch.

Lantar and Sam were chuckling and watching. Lantar was already getting into his own gear. He fought in the _samnite_ style. The heaviest available armor, a large shield, and a large, curving sword. "Rel, you and Rinus have at least _watched_ the games on the extranet. So you probably have some idea of what you'd like to do. Dempsey, I doubt you've watched the games, have you?" Lantar asked, hollowly, through his helmet.

Dempsey was studying everyone carefully. "No, but I can hop on the extranet real quick and go find some." He tapped the side of his head. "Depends on how _adventurous_ all of us are feeling."

Dara held up a hand. "Ah, no. I know I'm here in my official capacity as a doctor and all, but, no. No random acts of violence, please."

Dempsey glanced at her. "You're no fun, Doc." There was no inflection to the words at all.

Rel cleared his throat and volunteered, "Rinus and I used to pretend we _were_ gladiators, back when we were kids," Rel paused. "Which mostly consisted of Rinus pretending to be Samunus the Unconquered and beating me half to death."

"I did no such thing," Rinus protested mildly. "It was not my fault you slipped and hit your head that one time. And I picked you up and carried you in and got the bleeding stopped before Mom even _saw_ it."

"Mom was still _pissed_," Serana muttered.

Rinus laughed. "I'm surprised you _remember_ that, first-sister."

"I was _three._ More than old enough to remember my first-brother carrying my second-brother into the house, covered in blood." Serana looked up at the ceiling of the garage. "Also, more than old enough to know that _both_ of you would have _killed_ me if I'd said a word when Mom came storming in and wanted an explanation for all the blood all over the backyard." She grinned at them wickedly. "If memory serves, I got _both_ of your sweetmarrow cakes that night as a reward for _not_ telling on you."

Rinus—her stern first-brother, _optio_ and _dominus_ and everything else—looked off into the mid-distance and whistled through his teeth. At the side of the garage, Kallixta found a box to sit on, and started to _laugh._ "I've never heard _that_ one before," she said.

"It's not one I admit to anywhere where my parents are likely to hear it," Rinus replied, grinning.

"Neither do I," Rel added. "Admitting that I tripped over a garden hose and planted my forehead on a brick edger when I was eight does _nothing_ for my reputation." He leaned down and gave Dara a quick nip to the wrist. "So, I think I might try _dimaechaerii_. I always like watching them fight with the two swords. And the light armor, like Eli's wearing."

"As for me, I _like_ armor. I also like having my wife not yell at me for getting scratched up. So, _samnite,_ like you, Lantar," Rinus said.

Dempsey chuckled. "Well, this should be fun to watch, if nothing else." He paused. "What, there are no female gladiators?"

Kallixta laughed. "Of course there are. Me, I would have gone _essedaria._ Just like the last name I picked for use in the service: _Essedarius_. There's just no room in here for a chariot."

"Yeah, and even if there _were_ room in here, I'm not thinking I want to let you ride back and forth throwing spears at me, _mellis_," Rinus called back, grinning at her. "Takes some of the fun out of the proceedings."

"Not for _me_ it wouldn't," Kallixta retorted, grinning right back.

Lantar shook his head. "Go ahead and get started, Eli, Lin," he told the pair, who'd finally finished adjusting their buckles and straps.

"Bear with us. We're rusty," Eli said, and then they were off, feeling their way along, mostly. Laughing and joking, almost like old times. "Hey, you really _are_ faster with that shield than you used to be." Eli had dropped to a crouch and was testing Lin with little pokes here and there with the spear.

"Not really faster. Just better positioning to start with, I think," Lin admitted, and slammed the spear aside, moving in, leading with the shield, but keeping the shortsword positioned right at the rim, ready to stab and thrust. Eli tumbled loosely out of the way on the mats, and lashed out with his net, trying to wrap Lin's legs, tugging lightly. Lin fell to the ground, and Eli moved in with the spear—only to have Lin slam the shield into his legs, too—what would have been a sharpened edge, in a real match. Eli barely got out of the way in time, diving forward and over Lin's prone form, winding up on the other side, swearing under his breath. Lin swung back around, and hooked Eli's legs out from under him with a scything kick, and Eli loosened his hold on his spear to draw his dagger.

Serana didn't even realize she was holding her breath until Kasumi nudged her with an elbow. "I get the same way watching Sam and Lantar fight," the little woman told her affectionately. "It's beautiful to watch, isn't it?"

Serana nodded fervently.

Madison, who was sitting next to his father, just watched it all with shining eyes. Dempsey shook his head. "And what do you guys do for fun the _rest_ of the time?" he asked.

Sam grinned, pulling on his own armor. He, like Eli, favored light armor. "My little boy's almost old enough to go hunting. I'm thinking this summer, it's time to finally take him and Kasumi camping."

"Can I pass on that?" Kasumi asked, plaintively. "I'm a city girl, Sam. I _like_ running water."

Sam gave his wife a wicked grin. "It'll be all kinds of romantic. Just you, me, the full moon—"

"—a cranky three-year-old, and the Mindoir midges. Which, while not as bad as mosquitoes, still like to bite." Kasumi's folded arms were belied by the soft curve of her smile. She was only half-protesting.

"Hey, if Kasumi doesn't want to go, I'll go," Dara volunteered, as Sam and Lantar began their own demonstration match. "Assuming I'm here on Mindoir, that is. Haven't been camping since before Mom died."

Serana watched Madison's head turn to regard Dara, and wondered what the boy was thinking.

"What, sleeping in the field on Chorsan doesn't count?" Rel gibed, taking a break from working against Rinus to look across the garage at her. With the door down, and the heat of many bodies, most of them working hard, the small space was _hot_. The males had all stripped down to skin and armor by this point, and even the humans who were just watching, had taken off their jackets.

Dara looked over at Rel, and snorted a little. "Were there trees on Chorsan?"

"No."

"Were there cute little animals to look at on Chorsan?"

"Does the thresher maw count?" Rel asked, grinning and leaning on his spear for a moment.

"No!"

"Then I guess not. I think you're being picky, _amatra_."

"Was the atmosphere non-toxic and was the temperature comfortable?"

"There was methane ice around, so no, and no. But hey. . . the moon was full," Rel pointed out, and then ducked under a sword swing Rinus directed at his head. "So, that doesn't count as camping, huh?"

"Not so much, no," Dempsey told him, as Madison's head swung back and forth, and the boy's eyes went wider and wider at everything around him.

After a little longer, Dempsey, who'd been talked into trying out _retiarii_ style against Lin and Eli, asked, calmly, "So, no asari allowed, or something?" He tried a poke with a spear, which clanged off Lin's shield.

From his perch on a workbench, Lantar shrugged. "Most of them don't actually like sparring. Ylara's an exception, as is Siara. Both of them ascribe to the notion that a strong body and a strong mind support each other. And that learning to fight with one lets you fight better with the other. Most other asari I've met. . . not so much."

"Besides," Dara chimed in, looking up from her datapad. "Most asari don't believe in _competition_. There's a reason why, even though humans and asari both developed skiing, asari don't hold any galactic downhill ski records. They mostly believe that competition is detrimental to harmony. They like everyone to get along." Dara shrugged. "That's the official story, anyway."

Eli ducked out of combat and sat down between Dara and Serana, mopping at his face his shirt, which he picked up off the workbench next to them, and grinned at Dara. "Siara and you competed for the top grade in all our classes. Then again, Siara's an exception to almost every rule."

Dara muttered something, almost below the threshold of turian hearing. "Sorry, what was that?" Eli asked, leaning in closer. Serana started to chuckle.

Dara glared at Eli. "I said, she's gotten a lot better."

"Make a note of the date and time, everyone!" Eli crowed. "Five years, six months, and god only knows how many days later—"

Dara did her level best to kick Eli in the shin. He dodged expertly, still grinning at her. "C'mon, take some of that aggression out on the floor. Even Serana's at least shown us a kendo demonstration with Kasumi."

Dara tapped her foot. "Dad? Can I borrow your knife?"

"Ah, no, sweetie. We kind of want to keep Eli in one piece till the try-outs are done." Sam was _grinning_ ear to ear, though.

Dara looked up at the ceiling, tossed her datapad to the side, and slid off the workbench. "I don't _suppose_ by any chance at all that you happened to bring the _épée_ with you, did you?" She grinned wickedly. "Three years of summer camp when I was a kid. I still probably _suck_ at it, but, y'know, _any_ prior experience is a help. . . "

Sam's shoulders were actually shaking now. "Sorry, sweetie. It would be a li'l fragile against a spear, though."

"Kind of depends where I aim with it. Even a _foot_ is a legal target in _épée_."

Rinus pulled off his helmet. "A _foot_? Why?"

"Because it was developed after the dueling code in Europe was amended to allow 'first blood' to settle things, instead of _everything_ having to be to the death. Turians have similar codes. We humans just got rid of dueling entirely, eventually." Dara looked up at all of the males surrounding her. "Okay, what do I need to do?"

Eli laughed. Rel nodded, asking, "You want to try the light armor styles or the heavy armor?"

"Is there more of a _medium_? I saw the way Eli had to keep moving, Rel. I don't have his or your or Lin's speed, and if you put me in armor like what Lantar or Rinus are wearing, I'll _probably_ fall over."

"I could just drop a biotic shield on you, doc," Dempsey volunteered from the side. "I can guarantee they won't touch you."

"Hey, no fair," Eli objected, just as Dara's face lit up, and she said, "_Now_ you're talking my language, Dempsey!"

"You'd be an _equita_," Kallixta called over. "Ride in on a _rlata_. carry a medium shield and a wear a helmet and wear a _manica_, or a metal sleeve, on one arm. You'd get one lance or a javelin to use on entering the ring, and then use a shortsword once dismounted."

Dara beamed at Kallixta beatifically. "See? Was that so hard?" she told Rel and Eli, both of whom started to laugh at her, Rel leaning down to press his forehead to hers lightly.

They dug around in various boxes of Lantar's old gear, and got her situated, and then her lessons started, too, with Kallixta saying, firmly, "If my _amil'ama_ gets to be an _equita,_ then _I_ can be an _essedaria."_

Again, it was late when everyone finally trooped home. Everyone was in a good mood. Warm _iunkunditas_, companionship, spreading through all of them. And Serana had realized, much to her amusement, that when Rel and Rinus were fighting, Kallixta held her breath, and watched, almost transfixed. When Eli and Rel fought, Dara, who had largely spent her time reading out in the garage, had stopped doing _anything_ else, and had given the combat her full attention.

Everyone but Lin had already packed into groundcars or headed home. Sam and Kasumi were heading to their own home, a sleeping Takeshi acquired from inside the house, bundled up in blankets against the cold. Lantar had gone back inside, but left the lights on and the doors unlocked for them.

Lin's parents lived only a few blocks over, so Eli commented, "Hey, we'll walk you back, okay? Haven't had a chance just to see you since we landed."

Lin chuckled, putting away the gear. "Sure. Not much has changed at home, other than the fact that the house seems really small now." They walked out into the darkness, Eli's arm around Serana's waist. Serana leaned into Eli, and, in the darkness, smiled a little when Lin took her free hand and squeezed it, lightly. Nothing more.

"Did you notice," Serana said, after a few minutes, as their feet crunched on the snow, "that they had vid camera on all of us last night and tonight?"

"Yeah," Eli replied, with a bit of a sigh. "They were discreet, but they were floating around up near the ceiling. Auto-programmed to move to catch the action, I think."

"The question is, why?" Lin said. Their voices were quiet in the darkness. There were almost no streetlights on the base, and the stars were blotted out overhead again by thick clouds.

"They want to get you guys used to cameras watching your every move during try-outs, I think," Serana offered. "Get everyone who _isn't_ Rinus and Kallixta used to the idea that _everything_ you do or say will be recorded and evaluated by _someone_. If not by the Spectres, than by the reporters who'll be here."

Eli made an annoyed sound at the back of his throat. "I remember that part from last time. Was annoying enough when I was just a family member. It could be that, _asperitalla_."

"Or they could be starting the try-outs early, in a sense," Lin offered.

Serana turned her head. "How's that?"

"They might want to see how well we adapt to people who _aren't_ in the Mindoir family. People like Dempsey and Zhasa'Maedan. See if we'll integrate them into our teams quickly and well. They might also want to see how people deal with discipline and emotional problems." Lin's words were cool and analytical, and Serana was forcibly reminded, yet again, that he, like the rest of them, had done a _lot_ of growing in the past few years.

Eli was nodded beside her. "I kind of figured that, about Dempsey and Zhasa. They let _us_ make the invitations, I noticed." He thought about it. "Dara made the offer for sparring. I offered the gladiatorial stuff to Dempsey and his son, but I left Zhasa out. Damn."

"She wouldn't have come anyway. Weapons like spears and swords are an invitation to suit tears," Serana said softly.

They'd stopped among a stand of trees, and she could almost _hear_ the two of them thinking now. "Why did you say 'discipline or emotional problems,' _fradu?_" Eli asked after a moment, quietly.

"Dara," Lin answered, instantly. "Well, all of us, really. Because of Bastion. Because of. . . everything else. They're watching to see how each of us regains our equilibrium. I'm probably on the 'watch very carefully' list, myself. But they're also watching you and Rel, and probably Rinus, too. To see how you handle us."

Eli snorted. "Lin, if anyone's on the _watch_ list, I am—"

"Probably, but you've recovered a _lot,_ _fradu._ Our little one here has a lot to do with that." Lin squeezed Serana's hand again, gently. "We finally all got hints that Rel was MIA for a while. Sure, it was for a short period of time. Sure, you all went in and rescued him, and sure, he's not showing _any_ of it to anyone. Probably not even Dara. So they're watching him. Same as the rest of us. But they also want to see how the _two of you_ deal with overt problems. Which is why I mentioned Dara. But I could have just as easily said myself."

Serana frowned. "I know she's been _down_, but she's not—"

"She's not a problem _yet_," Eli told her, quietly. "But because of Bastion and everything else, she's a little fragile, yeah. She's been distancing herself."

Serana could hear the grin in Lin's voice. "And you won't _let_ her, _fradu._ It's been beautiful to watch."

"I haven't been doing anything on purpose," Eli protested, and his fingers tightened on Serana's side.

Serana chuckled. Now that Lin had pointed it out, she saw the pattern. "No. You poke her with a stick till she comes out swinging, but you _won't_ take offense, and she loves you too much to actually try to hurt you. Rel _can't_ poke her that way, because it'd hurt _her_ too much at this point. But you're not letting her stand off to the side and just watch the rest of us. Which is what she'd rather be doing."

"Exactly, little one." Lin chuckled. "And they're seeing that it's completely natural. It's just how you _lead_, _fradu._ Rel leads by not letting anyone see that he's hurt, by being bulletproof, by pure inspiration. And I'd follow him into fire. You, Eli? You'd pull us all by the hand into the dark, but you'd be walking right in with us. The Spectres are _idiots_ if they don't take both of you, on that basis alone. You're the squad leaders."

Eli sighed. "Wish you'd stop selling yourself short, _fradu._"

"I'm not." Lin sighed. "It's late. And unfortunately, my parents are probably waiting up, and probably want to talk to me again about Macedyn and Nimines and everything else."

"You want us to come in?" Serana offered.

Lin paused. "Tempting," he replied. "But no. They know me too well." He paused, and the words that were unsaid were loud in the silence. _They'll see how we all look at each other._ He sighed, and added, "And, in fairness, they deserve to have their questions answered without me using anyone else as a shield. I just don't want to talk about it all, over and over again. At a certain point, enough is enough." And then he leaned down in the dark, and pressed his forehead to hers, lightly, one hand lightly caressing her waist. "Good night," he told them both, and walked off into the darkness

For the rest of the week, the days followed the same pattern. The young people were supposed to be relaxing, and _did,_ for a few days. Then, almost without realizing it, they all put themselves back in training again. Serana found herself running with the rest of them—Rel and Rinus took off ahead of the rest, matching pace with each other. Dara and Eli grimaced and waved the rest of them on ahead. "Don't slow down for us," Eli called up to them. Serana looked back, waved, and sprinted off to catch up with Kallixta and Lin, bounding over the snowy terrain in the footprints of her two elder brothers. Then there was sparring or gladiatorial stuff at night, which left vast, open expanses of time during the afternoons.

Serana, Kallixta, and Rinus, much to her surprise, were called in for _work_ in the afternoons. All heavily compartmentalized. Serana had _no_ idea what her first-brother was working on, but from the grim look on his face at dinner after the first night, it was something nasty.

Her own work wasn't much more pleasant. Kasumi nodded to her as Serana entered her office. "You're going to be working on batarian transmissions, dear. Looking for confirmation on some things a highly-placed operative we have on Khar'sharn has been digging up for us. Argus is working on similar confirmation information, but if we can give our source _any_ guidance in return, it would be very helpful."

"What am I looking for?" Serana asked, looking through the list of files she needed to decrypt and translate. It was. . . extensive.

Kasumi's pretty face tightened. "Anything to do with a salarian-developed AI somewhere on either Lorek or Camala. Unusual computer parts. Unusual salarian transmission. Salarian-style coding. Anything that stands out, at all, Serana." She smiled a little. "I know it sounds a little like a needle in a haystack."

_That doesn't even begin to cover it,_ Serana thought, but sat down. "VIs have already taken a pass over this?" she asked.

"Yes. The initial decryption was easy on most of the transmissions. Now we're looking for things that computers don't pick up on easily. Word usage, hints, inferences. Someone who talks about a game of billiards but who doesn't actually _mean _billiards confuses a VI. A VI files that under 'irrelevant data' or 'junk traffic.' Organics might, too, but hopefully, we pick up on nuances and subtleties and remember the previous messages . . . and suddenly, it's not about billiards anymore. It's about crashing a comet into a moon."

Serana stared at Kasumi for a long moment. That comparison hadn't seemed off the cuff. "I'll see what I can find," she said, quietly, and got to work.

**Zhasa'Maedan, Mindoir, May 23-25, 2196**

The past week had been _fascinating_ for Zhasa. Suddenly, all the Spectres that she'd met over the past few months were back on base, and with their families. And it felt like half of their families were up for Spectre candidacy, themselves. The welter of unfamiliar faces and exotic, alien names had washed over her a bit at first, and it had been more than a little tempting to stand fairly close to Dempsey throughout the initial introductions. While he was alien, he was at least a _familiar_ alien. Zhasa knew she couldn't do that, however. She couldn't let them see that she was intimidated. But she was. Each of these young Mindoir candidates was about her age, but they had a _wealth_ of experience about them that showed in their eyes and in the way they carried themselves. And they all _knew_ each other. If they weren't blood relatives or married to each other, they were, at the very least, old friends.

Zhasa braced herself, and as Dempsey had introduced her to each of them at the school, she'd fallen back on her oldest habit. As she shook each human hand, or clasped each turian wrist, she reached out and _touched_ them, lightly. Felt what they were made of.

Urdnot Siara Tesala. Where Dempsey was made of glass, Siara was made of ice and snow, and Zhasa shivered a little at the touch of that mind. The asari's eyes had been_ stunned_, however, and then the coldness had melted a little. Warm ground under the snow. _You offer the courtesies of Thessia, Zhasa'Maedan? Openness, for openness?_

_I do,_ Zhasa had replied, offering her own mind for a return touch.

Siara's mind had passed lightly over her own. _We're not so bad as all that,_ the thought had formed, amused. _Be cautious in how much __maieolo'rae__ you offer to some of the humans, such as Dara. She has a __very__ strong mind, and she views such as an invasion of her privacy._

_I thank you for the advice. Dempsey has already informed me of the feelings of most humans on this topic. At some length._ Zhasa couldn't help but let her amusement show, as well as a hint of her disbelief, and her anger. Anger that humans would limit and constrain their biotics, even cripple them, in a sense. Then she withdrew her hand, and offered it, carefully, to Urdnot Makur.

Behind her mask, her eyes widened. _He_ was just as much a biotic as Siara was. Defensively oriented, for the most part, and in tune with the natural world in a way she couldn't even begin to comprehend. And his mind was rough, like sandpaper. Like. . . the tongue of the giant mammal at his side, as it lapped his hand briefly. _See anything you like?_ The inner voice was not like the physical one. Fine-ground diamonds, not gravel.

_I sense much to respect, and thank you for permitting this._

_It gives me a sense of your strength, too, quarian. I've often wondered how it is that your people have survived in spite of what has appeared to be weakness. But it comes down to Clan leader Wrex calls strength in unity. The strength of working together. Like the humans and the turians do._ His mind withdrew, and a moment later, Zhasa was being introduced to the slew of humans and turians.

Kallixta Velnaran gave her confused impressions—the feathers of a bird, and yet, also, a warm breeze, blowing across her face. Wind, lifting from a desert, or from a fire. . . then she got it. Kallixta felt like a thermal updraft, such as a bird of prey might bank upon. . . and was the bird, itself, too. It was both delightful to touch, and to picture in her mind. " Are you actually a Spectre candidate, yourself?" Zhasa asked, out loud.

"No. I don't have the skills. . . and I doubt it would be permitted, anyway." Kallixta's voice turned a little sour at the last. "Although I have _high_ hopes of flying with my husband in combat again." Her grin suddenly lit up her face, and Zhasa could almost _hear_ the scream of a hawk in her mind as it stooped for the kill.

Rinus was Kallixta's mate, and he was a far different creature. His wrist-clasp was firm, even through her suit, and his touch was like sun-warmed steel. The warmth, Zhasa realized, to her surprise, came from his wife; she had an impression that if Kallixta weren't around, Rinus' _feel_ would be much, much cooler. "You seem a little out of place here," she ventured nodding at all the children who trooped up the stairs around them.

Rinus grimaced. "Of all my siblings, I'm the only one who didn't pretty much grow up on Mindoir. I'm here as a courtesy to my second-sister and third-brother, and to the community that's supported them and all my other kin. But no, I don't really belong here." He smiled, briefly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm used to that feeling, though."

It was a quick flash, through all that steely confidence. _Out of place in the Conclave, a commoner, but no matter, I go against the grain of their scales. Out of place in the Palace, but that doesn't matter, so long as I have Kallixta. Out of place on Mindoir. Kallixta tries to make each of the houses a place of our own, but the only place I really feel at home is on a ship, out in the black. . . ._ Zhasa jerked her mind away. She suddenly _understood_ Rinus Velnaran far better than she should, and felt an enormous surge of empathy for him. "So am I, really," was all she said, and his eyes focused on her, sharply, studying her, before she turned away.

Rellus Velnaran, his younger brother, was almost like putting her hands inside a drive core. Zhasa had to repress the impulse to jerk her hand back, and behind her mask, her eyes widened. It wasn't the heat of anger, at least, not at the moment. He simply gave it off, like energy from young star. Restless, seeking, and yet, as soon as his little human wife moved to his side, he stabilized. Calmed. Banked the fires a bit. Dara, his wife, felt entirely different. Like Siara, and yet, unlike. The coolness and yielding sensation of water, and yet, also . . . not. The sensation was like. . . yes. Roses. Sometimes petals that were soft and velvety, cool at first, but warming to the touch, and sometimes, unexpectedly, sharp, razory thorns. Zhasa had purchased a rose at the base exchange, entirely for its vibrant red color, and had demanded that Dempsey smell and touch it for her earlier in the week. Which he had done, with faint amusement. _What's so funny?_ she'd asked.

_Roses are a token of affection in most human cultures. Was picturing the look on the shopkeeper's face when you bought roses and chocolates, that's all. He must have thought you were either trying to apologize to someone, or seduce them. Although both are more typically given by males to females._

Zhasa hadn't quite known what to do with that information, but she'd wound up laughing.

And now, she could see what Siara had meant about Dara. The mind was complex and powerful, with a very strong identity and awareness. And those thorns _would_ cut anyone who tried to get in further than she allowed.

She moved on to the rest of the people there. Serana Sidonis turned out to be the younger sister of Rinus and Rellus, and she was warm, too. She didn't burn as hot as Rellus did; her sensation was like sunlight coming in an open window on a warm summer afternoon, or a fire on a cold winter night. Zhasa closed her eyes for a moment. She just wanted to sit here and bask for a moment. She could definitely understand why her human husband stayed close to her side. It was a life-giving warmth, an affirming one. Elijah Sidonis. . . was much harder to describe. Like Dara, he shifted a little, as she tried to touch him. And unlike most of the others, he was _aware_ the instant that she did, giving her a quick, sharp look. His sense hardened a little, becoming wary, but he permitted the touch. He was. . . different. Layered. A slightly rough outer casing, dissolving into velvet and warmth inside, with almost electrical flickers and sparks snapping here and there. And under that, pure cold steel. Zhasa blinked, confused at the contradictory impressions. She'd never touched anyone quite like that before, and Eli's quick, sardonic thought was couched in _asari_, of all things: _Bieulu_'_uelo aiellu'u'yili?__ Did you find my thoughts of interest?_ He couldn't _project_; he wasn't biotic. But he was _aware_ of her light touch, and couched the thought clearly enough to make himself understood.

_Yes. You and all of your companions are fascinating. No two alike. You and Dara, particularly . . . valenced. Changeable. _

That had startled him, and he'd withdrawn. Veiled his mind. _He's practiced this against asari before. Interesting._ So then Zhasa had moved on to the others. Linianus Pellarian had clasped her wrist next. He was not nearly as complicated as the human he stood beside, but had a striking personality, nonetheless. Like Kallixta, he felt like a breeze, but . . . cooler. Zhasa almost laughed. He carried with him the potential for storms, a hint of rain, but there was also a suggestion that the sun could peek out, at any minute. Sunshine or storm, probably in rapid succession, and just as likely no middle ground in between.

Having touched them all, they were less faceless for her—an odd thing for a quarian to think, but it was true. Before, they'd been a mass of eyes and faces and alien names. Now, each was an individual for her. And she had at least an inkling of the deeper tides of the relationships that tugged them towards each other. Some of them fought the tides, and some of them simply released themselves to the water, and let the current draw them where it willed. Complexity upon complexity, hinted at during the sparring that night, too.

She'd _loved_ the sparring, though. It was a chance to work on her skills, and try them out against a variety of different styles. And she appreciated, all over again, how much Dempsey had shown her in the past month or two. . .and learned a greater appreciation for just how _diverse_ humans were. Half of what she was shown that night, and every sparring night thereafter, came out of some human fighting school or another, and they were all _different._ She'd been just as glad to have Tuesday night off, but had found herself oddly bored, lonely, and restless in the candidate barracks, with Dempsey and his son off learning _gladiatorial fighting_, of all things. She'd seen vids of it all her life from Macedyn and Thracia and Nimines, but had never had much interest. And yet, now she was wondering if she should have tagged along, if only to watch.

Zhasa sighed, and fiddled with the little egg device Matriarch Aethyta had given her, restlessly. _Have I grown too dependent on Dempsey's company_? she wondered. _I'm sure he'd be the first to tell me that that can't be healthy._ Dempsey's near-constant self-deprecation bothered Zhasa. So long as the issue at hand was his physical or his biotic skills, he was quietly confident—to the point of challenging many of Aethyta's teachings, which Zhasa had accepted from the matriarch without question. For him, since he'd been _born_ a biotic, like asari were, many of his skills were almost instinctive, and others, like her own, had been trained and taught.

She'd also found that his son, Madison, told her a lot about Dempsey himself. The things that he valued were the things that he _insisted_ on with Madison—courtesy, integrity, self-control, and perseverance. No matter how many times in training Madison complained of not being able to do what the others were doing, Dempsey would _not_ let him give up. "We'll find something you _can_ do," he just told the boy calmly. And so Ylara had taught the boy how to muster a weak shock wave. Zhasa had taught the boy how to hone his ability to lift large objects and support them there, wrapping his mind around them and not letting go. And Dempsey had suggested, as a break from trying, yet again, to wrap himself in a shield of force, that the boy just go for a run. "Clear your head a bit, get the frustration out." And, as the boy had taken off down the snow-clogged street, Dempsey had watched him for a minute, and called after him, silently, _Drive your energies into the ground and push off with them. Hit the ground. It's a nice, safe target._

And Madison had lashed out with all that barely-contained frustration. . . and had suddenly been running _much_ faster, each stride biotically amplified. Zhasa had blinked in astonishment. Dempsey had shaken his head. "Common human and asari technique. Usually called a charge. It's, well, it's banned in sports, let's say, and leave it at that." Madison had, at that point, skidded to a halt _just_ short of a tall wall, and was panting, several hundred feet from where he'd started off. Dempsey had cupped his hands around his mouth and called to his son, "Come on back over here when you've caught your breath."

Since they'd figured out that Madison's natural inclinations were _far_ more offensive-oriented than his father's, the lessons had gone much more smoothly, and the boy's frustrations had eased. Zhasa _always_ got a sense of concern from Dempsey whenever the boy was around, however. He was afraid of his uncertain control over his anger, and watched himself, almost like a prison guard, whenever Madison was around, weighing every word and reaction cautiously.

And now they were off, doing whatever the gladiatorial fighting involved, and Zhasa was _bored_.

There was a light tap at her door, and, relieved, Zhasa got up, opening it with a laugh and a light, "Well, that didn't take so long—" and then realized that while she was currently looking _up_ for Dempsey, no one was there.

"Down here, lady," a snuffling voice said, and Zhasa's head jerked downwards. "Fors Luka."

"I beg your pardon. I was expecting someone else," she said, the apology almost reflexive, and knelt down to look at what was clearly a volus. "Zhasa'Maedan vas Irria nar Pellus," she added, extending a gloved hand to meet his and shake it. Instinctively, again, she reached out with her mind. . . and realized, instantly, that the volus was doing the _same thing_.

The tactile sensation was oddly springy, resilient. Tough, in its fashion, but. . . crinkly. _Lady, I am __not__ bubblewrap. And why do you smell like __chocolate__?_

_I didn't say that you were! Wait, what? That's not possible, I didn't eat any of it myself._

_Huh?_

They both stared at each other for a moment, in complete impasse, two entirely different mental impressions, modes of thought in complete conflict for a moment, and then they both started to laugh. "Perhaps," Zhasa said, chuckling, "we'd be better off keeping this conversation out loud."

"That might be the case," the volus agreed. "So far, I think that I like you, Zhasa'Maedan vas Irria nar Pellus. I've been making my rounds and introducing myself. There are still quite a few empty rooms in this barracks, aren't there?"

"It's better than it has been," she countered. "I think some of the Spectres' kin will be here by the end of the week, however."

"Good. I need my turian-turian and my human-turian friend where I can smell them. They have an unsettling habit of getting into trouble when I'm not around. Or maybe that's me. Hmm. A conundrum."

Zhasa tipped her head to the side. "Would you be the first volus Spectre, if you're accepted?"

"Yes. A burden I hope my current family _founders_ under." His voice was wickedly amused. "It would be a lovely thing indeed, to be _disowned_."

"Keelah! Why would they _disown_ you? Wouldn't having a Spectre be a glorious thing for your family?"

"If someone has too much value to be tradable, they become not so much an asset as a millstone. They might be forced into familial bankruptcy if they _don't_ disown me. Call it a . . . restructuring move." Fors patted his suit's abdominal area happily. "I can hear the screams of rage from the clan-chiefs already, for not having unloaded me on some other family before the Spectre candidacy was announced. And if they disowned me. . . _glorious._ It would make me a free agent in our society."

Zhasa simply shook her head and chuckled some more. The intricacies of volus clans and social structures were clearly far beyond her. They chatted for a while longer, mostly about the _annoyances_ of suited life among the unsuited, and she was surprised to discover that the volus techs down in the valley, like Nal'ishora and Hal'marrak, had built a pressurized dome for themselves. "They invited me down immediately," Fors told her cheerfully. "I think I'll take them up on it over the weekend, and give the suit a chance to air out a bit. I wonder, if I made Spectre, if they'd let me build a pressurized house on the base?"

"I don't see why not," Zhasa replied, her mind already moving through what would be required. "Everyone should be able to live in at least comfort and safety here. It doesn't seem _that_ much to ask."

"Hah. You think so, quarian?"

She chuckled. "It's a dream my people have had. We're. . . getting a little closer to it now."

After a while, Dempsey and Madison returned, and the young boy was _very_ impressed to meet Fors. "I've never gotten to meet a volus before," he said, ingenuously.

Fors snuffled at him. "And are you impressed?" he asked, dryly.

"Interested," Madison replied, immediately. "Do you really have silicon physiology?"

"It does make interfacing with computers that much easier."

At Madison's blink, Fors told him, dryly, "That was a joke, young male."

"Sorry. I'm never quite sure what to believe around here, anymore. _Everything_ seems to be possible."

Dempsey was looking down at the volus calmly. "And you're a Spectre candidate?" His voice was flat, which the volus appeared to take as a challenge, or skepticism.

"Yes, I certainly am. And I suppose you want to know why?"

Dempsey shrugged. "I expect that you're qualified. I'll be sure to stand several hundred yards away if they want you to qualify on a shotgun, let alone on a missile launcher, though."

"Hah. Hah. Hah." The volus' voice was sour. "Very amusing."

"It wasn't a joke. Ask Zhasa. No functioning sense of humor here." Dempsey studied the volus a moment longer. "At a guess, you might be more of an infiltrator, or an engineering type? I haven't seen too many of those around here."

The volus shook his head, and Zhasa suddenly had a nasty inkling about the future. "Actually, no. I do things like. . . this." A surge of biotic energy, and Fors made a little flicking gesture. Not a lot of force; not a damaging thrust. Just something that should have moved the human a few feet away.

Dempsey had, however, instantly raised his shields. Zhasa got a brief image of children's blocks again; this time with letters on them, spelling out a message: _Fuck you._ "Ohhhhhhh," the volus said, in a tone of intrigue. "You smell like _trouble_, my new human friend. I like that."

"Funny," Dempsey told him calmly. "I was thinking you sort of looked like trouble, too. Madison, go shower up and get ready for bed."

Madison heaved a sigh and slouched off. Dempsey shook his head after his son. "Would you believe," he said, turning and looking at Zhasa, "that Mad asked when I'm going to get a house, just like Sidonis and Jaworski and the rest? I had to remind him that he's lucky to have his own barracks room, and be not crammed in with me."

"How was the gladiatorial stuff? Fun?" she asked, quickly.

"I guess. Mad enjoyed it." He turned to head back down the hall.

"You didn't?"

"I couldn't tell if I was enjoying it or not. Sparring last night—" Dempsey paused, glanced down at the volus, who was still watching them both inquisitively, and added, silently, _I knew I was enjoying that, because you kept a light link open the whole time. You were enjoying yourself, and that helped. Tonight, there was interest in applying old skills to new problems, and learning new ones. Interest in watching how people interacted. Other than that, nothing. Same old problem. I think I'm getting a little dependent on you, Zhasa. Might not be a good thing for either of us._ Cold, clear, analytical thought. Balanced, poised, knife-edged, and precise.

And then he turned away, and she just blinked after him, stunned by how his thoughts had mirrored her own, of just hours before. But now she rejected the idea. Dependence wasn't weakness, so long as it was _interdependence._ "If you'll excuse me?" she told the volus hurriedly, and strode after Dempsey, catching his door before it could close behind him.

Dempsey turned, clearly surprised, and frowned very slightly at her. "Zhasa, it's late. I'm grabbing soap and a towel for a shower, and then I'm hitting my rack here for a few hours."

"Dempsey, just. . . stop for a moment, all right?" Zhasa was annoyed with him. "I was worried earlier in the evening that I might be growing to depend too much on _you_. That I was bored and lonely when you aren't here to, well, entertain me."

The human stared at her blankly for a moment, squinting slightly as he processed that. "I find it hard to believe that I'm all that entertaining," he told her with a slight shrug. "You'd probably get more value out of a download of some twentieth century video game. Maybe _Pong._"

_Why do you __insist__ on this?_ Pure irritation, and she didn't bother to shield it. Let him feel _her_ anger for once.

That might have been a bad move on her part, however, she almost instantly had to acknowledge. There was so _much_ rage coiled under his calm exterior, and her own anger just primed a pathway for it to leap up out from under the chip's control, and suddenly that glacial, smooth mind shattered into fragments of broken glass. _Lady, I am what I am. I'm grateful that you're willing to take pity on a blind guy, and act like a seeing-eye dog for me, but nothing's ever going to make me what I __was__ before. Nothing's ever going to __fix__ all the things that are broken._

_You don't __know__ that!_ That was a mental shout into the face of what was, quickly, becoming a hurricane of anger, winds armed with those razor-sharp pieces of broken glass. _You __like__ the sharing, you __like__ feeling what I feel, you __like__ letting me touch and smell and taste through you—you __laugh__ at me and with me, and it's __good__. You're nowhere near as broken as you think you are, James Dempsey._

He was desperately trying to control the anger, trying to shut down the connection before he damaged her. She became conscious that his hands were locked onto her shoulders, gripping tightly, even through the suit, and he was looking down, away, anywhere but at her. Humming under his breath. _No, you don't_, she told him, and opened herself up completely, wrapping her mind completely around his, letting him see anything and everything there was to see, to touch, to feel. _See, I've got you. You can't hurt me. Yes, you're angry, but you're in control of it—_

_No, I'm not. Zhasa, I could __kill__ you. I could kill Mad. _ Complex mixture here, both of wanting to push away, for fear of being dependent, and fear of what would happen if she weren't there. He was confident in every ability he had, except the ones that mattered most to him. He was afraid he no longer had his integrity. That he no longer had his self-control.

_You're not going to hurt either of us. Even if you slipped, I wouldn't let it happen._ Quick mental image of a bright sphere of energy around them, containing the effects of an explosion. _I'm sorry I was angry. That didn't help anything, did it?_ She managed to follow a few strands of thought back to their source. _You think that if you depend too much on me, if one of us becomes a Spectre, and the other doesn't, that. . . you'll go back to where you were before? Only worse? _

The thought made her stomach clench, but it was a plausible one. Having had a few sweet tastes of emotion, of being _human_ again, he suspected it would be intolerable to be locked out of that portion of his mind again. And in the background, there was a very faint, but very real fear that he'd go insane without her assistance. That her help had stabilized him, and that the Spectres might have taken this as a natural recovery, and if she went away again, he'd revert. That they wouldn't be able to trust him, or that he couldn't trust himself. . . inasmuch as he did. Which wasn't much. _No, don't think like that. Nal'ishora and Hal'marrak didn't make Spectre, and they're still here. They might find me useful enough to keep, regardless of if I make Spectre._

_You'd be __willing__ to stay? You wouldn't be able to acclimate to your homeworld. Live without your suit._ Dempsey clearly didn't think that anything less than becoming a Spectre was worth that sacrifice.

_Plenty of time for that,_ she told him silently. _Decades, in fact. There's much I can do here, to help my people. And also to help people that I care for._ She showed him a quick series of faces—his, Madison's, Nal's, Hal's.

_That's what you look like?_ He was surprised.

_More or less. I can't picture my own face well. I always see myself as I was before the suit._ _But yes, we're more or less mammalian. Well. . . our planet's version of it, anyway._ _Children born from the body, not from eggs. We provide them nourishment from our bodies, but the secretion is less . . . . fluid than your milk is. And some hair, yes._ She was amused. _It always surprises me. Vid technology existed before our Flight from Rannoch. We have __records__ of what our people looked like back then. But no one __ever__ refers to those to see what we look like under the suits. It's like the archives are lost in time, or something._

_God, your mind is beautiful,_ he told her, silently. His hands had slipped off her shoulders, and he'd wrapped his arms around her instead, tightly.

_Please. Open yours to me, as I am to you. Every level. All of you. Yes, even the anger_, she added, as he hesitated. _I think we've established that it's safe._

He was _drinking_ her in now, and she wanted to feel what he felt, and slowly, shield by shield by shield, he dropped his defenses. And then she was drinking _him_ in, in turn, feeling more and more of him simply awaken at her touch. So much of it was faint, some of it only echoes of _her_. A hall of mirrors, all bouncing light back at each other, endlessly. Affection, friendship, companionship, warmth. All growing. Feeding into each other. His taken from her, given back, intensified, returned. An endless, reciprocal loop. _More, please, more._

She smiled behind her mask, and showed him what he'd looked like in sparring the night before, a few flakes of snow melting against his scalp under the bright lights in the Velnarans' atrium, smiling faintly as he'd ducked under a set of thought-fast kicks directed at him by the young turian in the blue face-paint, before moving in to try to grapple with the much taller male. How she'd really wondered what the sweat on his skin felt like, smelled like, tasted like, how she'd wanted to run her _own_ hands over him to find out. . . .and he pulled back.

Stunned, Zhasa stared up at him. They had, at some point, dropped down onto his narrow bed, and Dempsey was actually trying to shield a thought from her right now. Embarrassment, pain, anger, humiliation. _Dempsey, don't you __dare__ try to shield from me. Not now. Not in the middle of __maieolo'loa_. Full mental sharing. She'd never opened herself this far to someone else, never had someone open themselves this far before, either. And yet, something was. . . lacking. Missing.

_Zhasa, I'm. . . sorry. I . . .can't._

_What do you mean, can't? You were. _

_I can't do the physical part, all right!_?Pure frustration. Anger. Deep, almost debilitating embarrassment and yet he was again, holding onto all of them, and her, for dear life, because even though the emotions were almost intolerable, excoriating, they _were_ his.

She stared at him blankly for a moment, her thoughts and his washing together for a moment. _It's not like __I__ can do the physical, not without leaving a breather on, sanitizing the room, running a check for bacteriological hazards, and, considering that you're levo and I'm dextro, probably having a doctor on-call in case of anaphylactic shock . . . and once I've done all of that, let's face it, the romance and the heat of the moment are sort of __gone__—_

—_no, Zhasa, my very __technically__-minded sweetheart. . . _ Dempsey's mental voice was slightly amused, and more than slightly weary. _I mean I actually __can't__. Haven't had any, ah, urges. . . since waking up in my glass coffin._ He sighed. _ Told you there were things in me that were broken._ He loosened his arms from around her and sat up. Zhasa looked around. Somehow, they'd slid off the bed and onto the _floor_. His thoughts had wandered away, taking on a slightly cooler, more analytical cast already. _So, if we __could__ get you out of that suit, sweetheart, I could probably manage to figure out how to, I don't know, do whatever it is that your species likes—_slight uncertainty there, and unease. It was the first time he'd thought of her as being _alien_ in a long time, and it disconcerted him. She was just _Zhasa_ to him, nothing more, nothing less. As far as he'd been concerned, she might as well have been a human locked up in that suit, until about ten minutes ago. Perhaps a little more exotically-named and accented than the average human female, but not _alien,_ except for when he considered what she might look like. Which he apparently rarely did. The train of thought picked up again, after that hesitation, and he added, so quietly, the thought almost didn't exist, _and I would do that, if you wanted me to. . .it just wouldn't go anywhere._ A faintly self-deprecating cast to the thought, as he added, a little more strongly, _At least you wouldn't have to worry about the anaphylactic shock part._

Zhasa had had no _idea_ how much a part of self-identity for human males revolved around this particular part of their nature. _Keelah_, she thought, still trying to figure out top from bottom in this new concept, new awareness. But she knew, instinctively, that if he pulled away now, she might never get him to open up like this again. _Doesn't matter._

_The hell it doesn't._

_You don't think you'd feel what you'd be making me feel? You don't think I wouldn't share that with you?_ Her indignation was unfeigned. _The more so, if you couldn't feel it yourself?_

He paused, thinking. _You think that would __work__?_ Confusion, and just a bare hint of amusement. _So if I'm making you feel good, and I'm feeling what you're feeling, then technically, I'm making myself feel good. And my momma always told me that masturbation would make me go blind._

_You think that's true?_

_I dunno. Seems to me I've only got so many senses left. You sure it's worth the risk?_

That faint amusement was blooming again, and Zhasa laughed and moved, a quick little pounce, and settled herself across his lap as he leaned his back against the bed. _Let's find out._

_How? You're kind of sitting on what I'd need to touch, girl. Er. . . right?_

_Use your imagination. Better yet, use your mind._ She showed him what a couple of asari had tried to show her on Illium, but that she'd wound up declining, in mild discomfort. Mental contact had been one thing. But she hadn't felt close enough to them to allow them either this, or the opening of her suit. Had felt like too much of a zoo creature, a scientific curiosity. But what they'd offered still had value: direct biotic stimulation of nerve points. A mind that could lift and throw two hundred pounds of mass at one g could certainly move and manipulate smaller fields. It just required delicacy of touch and exacting control.

Control, Dempsey definitely had. In mass quantities. Delicacy of touch took a little work. _Not __that__ hard._

_Sorry. Kind of used to using this to throw someone into a wall. Or through a wall, if I'm lucky and the construction sucks. More like that?_

"_Yes,"_ she told him out loud, in quarian, but he understood her anyway. Links between their minds growing back together again. Little, quick, fluttering touches that she could _feel_, as if his fingers had actually passed _through_ her damned suit. _"More. Faster. Please."_

_You like that. . . oh, god, yes, you do._ His arms were wrapped around her again, pulling her into him. Drinking each other in again, back to where they'd started, completely open to each other. She wanted _more_ of what he was making her feel, and gasped as he very faintly smiled at her and went _faster,_ a little harder, judging everything by what she was feeling, everything starting to build now. . . .

_Does your species come?_

_Huh?_ The thought was almost incoherent. She couldn't focus on anything beyond the searing sensation, which was so intense it both frightened her and she didn't ever want it to end. At the same time. _Too much, too much, but not enough. . ._

_Orgasm, release, is this how your—oh, god, Zhasa, there you go, there you go, relax, just like when you release a biotic power, just let it happen. . . _

Her body quivered and clamped down on itself, and a sweet tide of pleasure filled her, and she tried not to moan out loud, but it was so hard _not_ to, the sound coming out half-mewl, half-purr. Dempsey's head had fallen back onto the mattress, and he was breathing hard now, himself, and through the sweet alchemy of their mental connection, he was taking her pleasure, and it was transmuting, becoming his, and suddenly, there _was_ something more. Urgency. She wanted more, and _he_ wanted more. A faint tinge of joy and almost _unspeakable_ relief. _Oh, god, yes, thank you, yes. . . had forgotten how damn __good__ this feels. . . ._

Confused, Zhasa shifted her weight on him, and felt a shock of pleasure all from _him_ this time. Completely different from her own, it arrowed right through her. She felt how her weight, her movements, the friction of clothes rubbing up and down him each made him want more and more, now that he was awake, now that he was _alive_ again, and he was trying _very_ hard not to picture what he wanted to do to her. Unsure if she'd be repulsed by the images, just trying to keep his mind blank, and just to feel, to accept, and to give back.

_Let me see—_

_Don't worry about that right now. I'm feeling what you're feeling, and god, it's good._

_No. I want to make you feel good, too._

_You are. God, you are._ But the rising tide of _wanting_ was pushing at him, and he couldn't keep her from seeing, from feeling what he wanted. To be inside of her, somehow. Between her legs, in her mouth, however the hell the anatomy worked out, so long as he was _in_ something warm and wet that welcomed him, _animal, vegetable, or mineral, I don't __care__ right now. . . . _

_Mineral? Really? Wouldn't that be uncomfortable? _Zhasa's amusement bubbled through them both, and Dempsey smiled slightly as he lifted his head enough for her to see his eyes. And then he slid some of that pulsing biotic energy, almost like a tiny singularity, up inside of her, following where she reacted to it the most. Zhasa let her own head fall back, braced her hands on his knees behind her, and felt her back arch, her hips start to move, almost involuntarily.

_Oh, __yes__. Just like that, Zhasa, sweetheart. Move on me __just like that__. Ride me like I'm your favorite toy in the damn universe, just like that. _Again, splintering pleasure, and she had to stop moving as her body clenched down on itself, and this time, his pleasure, with hers, though he was trying to fight it back, _no, no, want this to go __on and on__, might not get it __back_ _again. . . ._

But she wouldn't let him resist, gave him her pleasure and took his from him, and he finally groaned and _let_ her, and then they both just _shook_ from it for a moment or two. Zhasa put her head down on his shoulder, wishing, _fiercely_, that she could touch his skin, that this _damned_ suit and helmet and everything else wasn't between them. That she could smell him and taste him and touch him. That he'd been inside of her when he'd released. _Would have been wonderful,_ he told her, his thoughts faintly drowsy and _very_ relaxed as he rested his head against the bed and rubbed his hands up and down her arms, trying to let her feel the pressure, at least, through the suit. _But then we'd be on our way to med bay right now. All in all, this was probably the best and safest 'safe sex' there ever has been._ He pinched the suit lightly between thumb and forefinger. _Full body condom and all._

The mental image that followed this statement made Zhasa start to _whoop_ with laughter

At that moment, there was a brisk tap at the door, followed almost instantly by the doorknob rattling. _Crap, did I remember to lock that?_

"Dad?" Madison's voice was tentative outside the door.

"Just a second," Dempsey called back, gently sliding Zhasa off of his lap and grabbing a towel hastily to hold in front of himself. There was a little resigned amusement in his thoughts as he opened the door, standing mostly behind it, and Zhasa hastily scrambled to her feet behind him, grateful, for once, that her suit definitely concealed _everything_. "Yeah, Mad?"

"Just reporting for inspection. Can I stay up a _little_ longer?"

"Half an hour, no longer," Dempsey told him. "If the light's not off when I get back from the showers, no sparring tomorrow night for you."

Madison nodded hastily, and backed away. "Night, Dad!"

_I guess you __did__ lock the door after all,_ Zhasa told him silently, coming up behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist as he closed the door. Still fully mentally entwined; close proximity, no barriers.

_Thank god for small mercies. I don't know how he'd have reacted to seeing you on top of me like that._ Dempsey paused for a moment, turning around to face her. _Or, hell, what he'd have picked up through the walls. _

_We were quiet._

_Mentally, we were, sweetheart, but you were making noises. Out loud._

_I was not!_

_Were so. I __liked__ the noises, though._ That was accompanied by a low sound, almost a growl, out loud, for emphasis. _Good thing the barracks all around here are still so empty. Give it a week, and all these Mindoir natives will move in here, and then, well. . . _He sighed a little. _At least the timing was right._

_So. . . no more worrying about being __dependent__ on each other?_ she offered, reaching one gloved hand up to touch his face.

_No. Whole new set of worries. Now I have to figure out if I'm going to hell for being biotic, for wanting to get in an alien's pants, or for both at the same time._ The lips barely twitched, but Zhasa put her head on his shoulder again, trying desperately to muffle the laughter. _Or maybe if I'm a hypocrite for having been disturbed a year or so ago by the concept of humans and turians getting it on. . . . _

_Well, that was a year ago, and as far as you were concerned, it was more like ten years ago. The universe has moved on since then. Have you?_

_Apparently._ He looked down ruefully. _Zhasa, I __really__ need to get cleaned up. I'd. . . invite you to stay, but. . . ._

_Barracks. I know. See you in the morning?_ She was mostly hoping he wouldn't close up again overnight.

_I think I technically owe you breakfast. What does m'lady wish me to eat for her in the morning?_ There was a fleeting thought there that she did _not_ understand. . . _Hmm, pity I can't have __you__ for breakfast. . . ._

_What? Cannibalism?_

_No. Slang._ Accompanied by a mental image she _squeaked_ at, and that very faint smile grew just a little bit more distinct.

_Go take your shower, Dempsey. And you're having French toast in the morning. _

_Yes, ma'am._

_But with a different flavor of syrup this time. The 'maple' is just fine, but I want to try something else. I don't suppose they have such a thing as chocolate syrup?_ Zhasa added, hopefully.

_Actually, yes, but it's not served with breakfast._

_Whyever not?_

As she exited the door, he swatted at her rear end with the folded-up towel. _Bad girl._

**Sam and Kasumi's house, Mindoir, May 28, 2196**

It was almost like the clock had turned itself back, at least by a few years. Sam was still getting up at o'dark-thirty and getting his run in, but with the temperature today outside having dropped to about -9º C/ 15º F outside, Sam was putting in his miles on a treadmill this morning, and listening to the galactic news reports as he did so. He'd quietly made sure that the news feeds were inaccessible from every other terminal in the house, and locked this one down every morning before he left for work for the past week. The point, right now, was to let the kids stabilize. They _needed_ them. They needed new Spectres, and the kids were probably the best ones for the job right now, but they absolutely, one hundred percent, needed to _rest_ and recuperate. Kasumi had snagged at least Serana for AI chasing and Rinus to pitch and simulate ideas on how to deal with the relatively small comet—_small_, _hah, it's still 400 meters across. Bigger than an SR-1_.—currently moving outside the plane of the ecliptic, and towards the Luna shipyards. Both of _them_ knew how to keep their mouths shut, and neither of them had had the stress loads that the other kids had. Oh, sure, Rinus had been working his tail off at two different jobs, one analysis, and the other political, but he hadn't been out in the field for over a year. It did make a difference.

So Sam ran on his treadmill, and listened to the rest of the house wake up. Dara first, slipping outside with a cup of tea to sit on a fence and watch the sun rise. Nevermind that it was cold as hell outside. Sam kept an eye on her out the window, almost reflexively. Doctor, soldier, grown-up. . . she was still his little girl. And he was both worried about her and pleased with her. She was establishing her own space in her head. Finding time for herself, which was something that had always worried him, a little, in the past, when she'd been so consumed with _catching up_ with Rel. Too much time alone, or withdrawing from others was bad. Not enough, just as bad. Dara needed to find her own balance, and she was at least _trying_, so Sam watched, waited, and made sure he had a net handy in case he needed to catch her.

Next up, from the quick light steps down the stairs, two or three at a time, had to be Rel. No one else in the house had the stride or the balance to do that. Creak of the front door, and out into the cold the boy went. Walked up behind Dara, put his arms around her, as the first salmon hints appeared in the sky.

The next _hint_ about who else might be awake came from Takeshi's room, as a slurred and notably off-key version of "A-B-C-D-E-F-G,' started up. Sam could never _quite_ keep a straight face for this, but it wasn't even six yet. "Pipe down, boy, before you wake your mother," he called softly into the hall, not breaking stride yet.

"Ki-yet," Takeshi called back, solemnly. "Mama _sleeping_."

"Not anymore, she's not," Kasumi said glumly, emerging from the bedroom and tying her robe on. "If one more thing _thumps_ around here, I'm shooting it."

"Takeshi, we have an intruder! Someone's masquerading as your mama, but everyone _knows_ Kasumi Goto doesn't get up before seven." Sam turned off the treadmill and stepped down, grinning at his little wife. "I'll get him up. Go back to sleep, sweetie, it's Saturday. World isn't scheduled to end till Monday."

She shook her head. "It's okay. It's going to be a _big_ barbecue day. Plus, you and Lantar need to talk to Garrus and Shep about the kids."

Sam shrugged. "They'll see for themselves at dinner tonight. The kids are dog-tired, sweetie. They need at least one more week to put themselves back in shape. We're not doing _anyone_ any sort of service if we don't have our best people, and they need to be at their best for the trials. Neither Lantar or I are recovered completely yet, either."

Kasumi leaned into him for a moment, and he closed his eyes as her hands moved up under his shirt, touching the skin of his back. "I know. That's just the physical, though," she whispered. "What about the mental?"

"Well, let's see. Kallixta isn't up for Spectre, but we know damned well she'll be the pilot of at least one SR ship heading out the gate. She's been made into the nominal mother of fifty or so AIs, she's been sicker'n'hell, and she just went through the death of her mother. Rinus put up a fight against having a chip put in his head, has fifty or so kids, fights for AI rights in his spare time, and was also just sicker'n'hell. And they're the two most stable. Linianus. . . lost his wife two years ago. Died in his arms, pretty much. Gang killing, serial killer, same damn thing."

"I heard Pallum yelling at Lantar last night after sparring." Kasumi's lips curved up into a subtle smile.

"They were discussing loudly, yes."

"'I can accept that you want to see your son as a Spectre, Sidonis, but do you have to poach_ both_ of them? Praetorian Guard _was_ going to make an offer to Pellarian in the next few months. Once the final court papers regarding that brutality charge got cleared up.'"

Sam snickered at his wife's imitation of Pallum's droll tones. "I told Lantar to tell him 'ya snooze, ya lose.'"

"He did. Pallum told him to at least salve his Praetorian pride with a _festuca_ beer at the barbeque."

"You _do_ hear a lot, honey."

"I hear _everything._" Kasumi gave him a coy look. "So, that brought us up through Lin. Who's next? Eli?"

Sam sighed. "Elijah Sidonis, almost complete isolation on an alien world, watched his best friend's wife die in spite of performing CPR. Undercover work, dealing with extremists, adopting their mentality, gaining their sympathies. So, he and Lin, both sicker'n'hell, and both did seven or eight days of work _in_ hell, taking dead bodies out of hundreds of places on Bastion and disposing of them."

"Siara?" Kasumi asked, as he paused.

Sam snorted. "Siara, two to three years in complete isolation in primitive conditions on Tuchanka, damned near went native there, year and a half to two years playing bodyguard on Omega, which is pretty much the Wild fucking West. And then three or four weeks trying to keep people alive on Bastion. Makur, hah. He's practically well-adjusted compared to the rest of them. A stint in the Wild West and a stint on corpse patrol." Sam sighed. "Rel, four years of special forces work, one stint of being missing in action, realized recently he's been stuck as partial father of a brood of twenty-five AIs, sicker'n'hell, corpse patrol. Wound tighter than a Swiss watch."

"And that just leaves Dara," Kasumi said, quietly.

"Yeah," Sam said. "Dara." _Sarrie, if you could see your little girl now._ "Let's see, what's the total here? Four years of med school and residency, four years of special forces work. One husband declared MIA, on the team that rescued him, very nice. Recently realized she's the partial _mother_ of twenty-five AIs. Sicker'n'hell. Spent three weeks watching everyone she was responsible for die on Bastion." Sam looked at Kasumi. "Who's our lucky winner?"

Kasumi shook her head. "Yeah, at least another week of relaxation. And we _don't_ let them watch the news during the trials."

"Think they've noticed that yet?"

"Of course they have. I caught Dara trying all the extranet feeds two days ago. Said she wanted to see what the news on Bastion was. I told her the casualty count was up to five hundred thousand, but that the vaccine is showing signs of working against the A-strain of the Skyllian flu and the A-strain of the pneumonia." Kasumi held up a finger at Sam's look. "Giving her a little truth was helpful. She _didn't_ ask about Earth. And a damn good thing, too." She looked at him. "I'll get Takeshi. You can go down and start breakfast."

Later that day, Dara was in the kitchen, trying to figure out what on or _off_ of Earth to cook. Her dad had bison and local-grown _apatarae_ briskets out in the smoker, and Kasumi was doing yellowfin and _alai_ sashimi. "Chicken and _oolorae_ cacciatore," Dara decided. "But, yeah, bowtie pasta. Not so much with the spaghetti." Even the simple, sort of homey task of working in her dad and Kasumi's kitchen made her feel better. She actually hadn't cooked, per se, since Sur'Kesh. Her brief stint on Rocam hadn't really encouraged her to cook. Cooking for one person was a chore, and usually resulted in pre-made meals or sandwiches. Cooking for friends and family. . . that was another thing entirely. "Rel, mind grabbing the cans of tomato sauce out of the pantry for me?" she asked, and got started browning the chicken and, well, purpling the _oolorae_.

Rel reached down ingredients for her, and played with Takeshi, keeping the boy out from underfoot by rolling a ball for the boy, back and forth down the hallway.

Dara had noticed that her husband hadn't had much to say of late, and looked up at him inquiringly as she worked. "You're quiet," she told him.

"Eh, just thinking," Rel told her. "I sometimes wonder if I'm not a little stuck."

Dara shook her head, tossing garlic and onions in with _phasela._ "Stuck how?"

"Everyone else around me is still. . . growing, I guess. Eli and Lin are still taking coursework. Mostly psychology and _s'kak_ like that. Rinus has his political work. You're _always_ going to be learning, as a doctor, just to keep your skills current. Even Siara plans, eventually, to go back to Tuchanka and keep teaching there." Rel looked down at her for a moment, and ran his hand over her hair. "Don't get me wrong. I like what I do. But I wonder if there isn't more I could do or be." He frowned. "I hate to feel like I got to where I am right now and then just . . . _stopped_."

Dara cracked open the tomato sauce cans, and poured them and a little local wine, and a little hint of _caprificus_ brandy in with it for flavor, and stirred, sniffing everything before she started adding the oregano and the basil. "What else would you want to do or be?" she asked.

"That's just it," Rel told her, in a tone of frustration. "I don't know. Up from where I am now, there's command, and I'm. . . eh. I don't really want to handle logistics or more than twenty-five marines at a time, really. And if we actually _do_ make Spectre," he looked around, as if for her father or Kasumi. . . "will it be any different than what we've been doing all along?" Rel sighed and sat down at the kitchen table, as he had so many times before, long legs sprawled under it, and looked up at her. "I think I'd like to do more with my life than just be _damned good_ with a gun. And sometimes, that feels like all I am anymore."

Dara settled the lid down on the pot, and came over to sit down beside him. "Well," she said, after a moment. "That's a mouthful, _amatus._" She looked at him steadily. "I had no idea any of that was on your mind."

"Guess it wasn't really, till Bastion," Rel admitted. "Last couple of weeks have kind of made me re-evaluate, a bit." He caught her hand in his, held it, and her throat burned a little at the look he was giving her. "I've _enjoyed_ my work, _mellis_. Every damn minute of it. But I wonder, a little now, if I gave up any of who I used to be to do that work." He hesitated, and added, quietly, in turian, _"Have I?"_

"_Little less innocent. Lot less wonder. That pretty much describes all of us, though,"_ Dara told him. _"There are things I miss about the old Rel, yeah."_

"_Like what?" _

"_Little things. The sense of humor's changed. How you deal with problems has changed. Mindoir Rel wouldn't have threatened a reporter. Mindoir Rel would have laughed at it or found a way around it. Fleet Rel showed his teeth. Mindoir Rel laughed and walked me out of five jewelry stores, rather than deal with people who didn't want to sell us a wedding ring. I don't know what Fleet Rel would have done."_ Dara held up her hands placatingly. _"Just an example. You're quieter now. More intense, more focused. Well, that's not fair. You were always focused. But you tend to focus on what's ahead. New territory, I guess."_

Rel thought about that. _"Thank you,"_ he told her suddenly, and lifted her hand to his jaw for a moment.

"_For what?"_

"_For always being the most honest person that I have ever met."_ He lightly nipped the inside of her wrist, and a few minutes later, got up and walked out into the rest of the house.

"Quite a conversation there," her dad said, coming into the kitchen now. His comprehension of turian was getting _very_ good at this point.

"You were listening?" Dara asked, standing to stir her cacciatore.

"We're always watching and listening at this point. You said a _mouthful_ there, honey."

Dara looked down into the steaming pot, and hoped like _hell_ she hadn't screwed up either her or Rel's chances of making Spectre. "Yep. But hey, if we can't be honest with each other, who _will_ be?" She settled the lid again, turned, and looked up at her father. "I think I'm going to go give Mom's piano some company. Work a little flexibility back in these fingers."

She moved out into the living room, and settled down on the bench, slipping the lid up. And for a full minute, sat there, not knowing what to play. Then she half-smiled. _Okay, Mom. Haven't played anything for __you__ for a long time._ And she broke out into the Raindrops Prelude that her mother had so loved, hoping that her fingers would still remember how it went.

Her fingers did. And as she played, it took her back in time, to her first week in school here on Mindoir. Azala giving her the _reela_, Siara's spite. Eli's distraction, Rel's kindness, Serana's vivacity. Took her back to being fourteen and the raw pain of her mother's death all over again. Distant, though. Muffled. _Wish you were here, Mom. Wish I could talk to you, ask you what you think of me being a doctor. Of how you think Rel and I are doing. About how crazy it is, that we're actually trying out for the Spectres_. But, of course, Sarah Jaworski was long gone. Dara's fingers dripped into the dark ending passage, and when she hit the final notes, the bench creaked a little on either side of her, and she looked up, startled. Tears _always_ burned in her eyes for this song.

As so many times before, Rel was on her right, long legs out in the living room, and he looked down at her. "I remember _that_ one. Sounds a lot different on the piano than on the _reela_."

Eli had sat down on her left, also facing out into the living room. "It's, what, four, five days till the anniversary of your mom's death?" he asked. Lin was leaning lightly on the back of the piano, and Serana had just entered, and was giving her a very serious look.

"It can't be that close," Dara muttered.

"May twenty-eighth," Serana supplied, curling up at Eli's feet.

Dara rubbed at her eyes briefly, and when she opened them again, realized that Dempsey, Madison, and Zhasa'Maedan had entered the living room now, and were looking around awkwardly. Dara thought about it for a moment. "Crap. The seasons here always screw me up. June third is when my mom died."

"Figured that's why you were playing it," Rel told her quietly.

"It was either that, or you'd decided to _depress_ everyone here," Eli added. "Say, somewhere in that pile of dusty sheet music over there, has _got_ to be that godawful Expel 10 song Kella wanted you to try to play on the piano."

Dara held up her hands. "She nagged me for two months about that damned song. I _did_ finally try it on quarian _reela_ for her. It. . . doesn't work. I'd need two more sets of hands to even try." Dara gave him a lopsided smile. "I'll play one of her other favorites. And anything else for the other absent friends." She looked up at Lin. "Unless you'd rather I didn't."

Lin looked down, startled, and then reached down, caught her hand. "Do you happen to have _Adluerum caerula, litoralis curalia?_" _Blue sea, red shore_. "It was one of Brennia's favorites."

"I do, actually," Dara told him, and squeezed his fingers lightly. "Better yet, I've actually played it before, so I won't be picking out notes and butchering the poor song too badly."

And so she played, and in the middle of the song, which all the turians and Eli knew, and could sing, she caught a riff of a different instrument picking up the main line of the melody, and looked up, and suddenly smiled. Dempsey was picking it up by ear on the guitar on the couch, and Zhasa was sitting next to him, and suddenly, they looked like they belonged there.

_Sings-Heartsong!_ The mental melody rang out, adding subtle overtones to the harmonies they were already creating. _You make the box sing, and Sings-in-Silence gives voice to strings. _Sky scuttled into the living room, and took up his old position directly beside the piano. Takeshi shrieked in glee and ran right for the big brood warrior, just as Amara and Kaius once had.

Amara and Kaius were too old and dignified to do that _now_, of course. coming in just ahead of Garrus and Lilitu, and Urz bounded in on their heels. The two youngest, Elissa and Alain, toddled straight for Sky, however.

Amara smiled as soon as she saw Madison, and went directly to him, asking, "Isn't biotics practice _much_ more fun when Sky is here to help?"

"It was definitely. . . interesting. . . " Madison allowed, turning to look at the brood-warrior, wide-eyed. "And you really see people the way he sings in your head?"

"When I was little, I thought _everyone_ saw that way," she admitted.

Dempsey laughed. "When I was little, I thought everyone could hear what everyone else was thinking, too, Amara. It's normal. Sounds like you can't shut yours down, though."

In the kitchen, her father and Lantar were trading greetings with Garrus and Lilitu. Rinus and Kallixta came in, late, Rinus looking tired, but they traded greetings with everyone, and Rinus found patch of ground to sit on, and leaned his back up against the wall. "Come here, _domina_," he told Kallixta, and pulled her down into him, so his chest became her backrest. Dara smiled. Sometimes, the status quo was good.

Siara and Makur and Snowflake arrived, and Urz and the big cat were suddenly nose-to-nose, both of them sniffing each other curiously. "No," Makur told the cat, in a tone of annoyance. "No fighting today. Also, no urine in the corners."

Snowflake's ears flattened, and he sat down, obviously sulking. Urz frisked off into the kitchen, where the _food_ was, and, after a moment, Snowflake ambled off in his wake. Trying not to look like it was anyone else's idea but his own.

Kasumi came around the corner, and told Dara, "Play something _cheerful_ already, would you?"

"I do take requests," Dara told her step-mother lightly. "You just have to be specific." She paused, and tried to turn on the bench, and noted, "Rel, Eli? The last time you guys sat like this, was, you know, six years or so ago."

They both looked at her. "And?" Rel asked, grinning.

"You've _both_ filled out since then."

Not even _looking_ at each other, they both leaned in on her. "And your point is?" Eli said, looking straight into the rest of the room.

"Make a hole," Dara said, and managed to turn around in spite of them.

Kasumi just chuckled and said, "Hold it right there. I need to make a picture of this."

Dara squinted, looked at Rel, and looked at Eli. Both of them shrugged, and Eli reached down and put his hands on Serana's neck, lightly. Kasumi came back, and took the picture, chuckling under her breath. Dara shook her head. "I have a _bad_ feeling about this," she muttered.

Sam wandered out of the kitchen, looked at his wife, and at the picture on the view finder, and shook his head. "Don't worry about it, sweetie," he said. "Kasumi's just baking cookies. Blackmail cookies."

Lantar called from the kitchen, "Kasumi bakes the _best_ cookies."

Ellie popped her head out of the kitchen, Narayana and Caelia looking out into the living room with the others, and asked, "What, those almond ones, Kasumi? You ever going to give me the recipe for those?"

Dara raised a finger. "Ah, Kasumi? You're blushing." She leaned down and asked Serana, "Have you _ever_ seen Kasumi blush?"

Serana was leaning forward now, with the look of a huntress who's caught the scent of prey. "No. Never."

"I'll get you that recipe right now," Kasumi told Ellie, gave Sam a _dark_ look that promised marital strife, and headed back out of the room.

"Uh-uh," Dara said, starting to stand. "Not after all the times _I've_ had to blush in front of _you_, Kasumi."

Her dad just _laughed,_ and followed Kasumi out of the room. Dara tapped her foot rapidly on the floor. "Serana," she asked. "You wouldn't _happen_ to do spy work on a commission basis, would you?"

"I have to admit," Eli said, chuckling, "the reactions _were_ suspicious."

Serana just grinned at Dara. "I think I'd do the investigation for free, _ama'fradu_. But I'm sure whatever it is, she's very thoroughly covered her tracks. She _is_ the best, after all."

Sky's blue-green amusement bubbled through all their thoughts. "No!" Serana told the brood-warrior sharply. "It takes all the fun out of it if you tell us the answer."

Rel shook his head at her. "Even if he _told_ us," he pointed out reasonably, "would _any_ of us actually understand the answer?"

"I would," Amara said, where she was sitting next to Madison, chattering at the human boy non-stop. "Well. . . maybe, anyway."

"Ahh, a challenge," Eli said, leaning back against the piano keys. "C'mon, Sky. Give us your cryptic best."

_Many-Voices sings of challenge? Very well. Light-and-Playful-Dancer sang in jest of a song of three, when she was on the moon of Earth; she sang her jest to Sings-to-the-Past and Sings-Regrets heard the song, and they reversed the joke upon her, counter-harmony._

Eli laughed out loud. "Okay, Amara. Speak, oh font of wisdom." 

She thought about it. Hard. And bit her lips. "Aunt Kasumi made a joke when she was on Luna, during the plague? She made a joke about the number three to Uncle Sam, but Uncle Lantar overheard, and they. . . turned the joke around on her." She shrugged. "Okay, that doesn't make any sense at all."

Dara shook her head. "Yeah, well, might be one of those married jokes." She looked at Sky, and half-smiled.

The rachni sang quietly, _Light-and-Playful-Dancer sees many things. Sees patterns, sees actions, sees possibilities. She sees, as I hear, the song of five young queens. But she sees three threes, conjoined, different voices overlapping. Some already sing this way, and some may only be possibilities. But she sees the pattern, as I hear it, and we understand what it means._

Dara opened her mouth, started to reply, and then closed it again. Eli had gone completely still next to her. Rinus was shaking his head. "I like puzzles," Rinus said, "but that one's a little excessive."

"That's one that's going to keep me up nights," Dara admitted.

_What is the point of existence, if you do not sing back to it?_ the brood warrior told them.

"I think that what _I_ am going to ponder," Eli said, standing and heading for the back door, "is that I saw a couple of handball goals out there. And I think we've got enough bodies here to make up two teams. Anyone want to play before dinner?"

"I will," Lin said, following. "I've been sitting still all day. Starting to feel a little stir-crazy."

"Can I use my biotics in goal?" Dempsey asked, smiling very faintly.

"Not unless I get to _shoot_ the ball when it comes at _my_ goal," Eli told him, grinning.

"Eh, was worth a try," Dempsey said, standing with the rest of them.

Rel hopped up. "Been a while," he said. "Hope I remember how to play."

_You have not forgotten. You have only chosen not to do so,_ Sky sang.

Rel's head turned _sharply_ at that one. Sometimes Sky's comments hit people like that. "Come on, Rinus. We need more people," was all Rel said, however, in rejoinder.

"Go on, Makur," Siara encouraged the krogan.

"I've never _played_ anything like this," Makur muttered. "It seems foolish."

"It's a getting-to-know-you thing," Eli told him. "Come on. You're probably better than Mazz was, and Mazz was damned good." He looked up at the ceiling. "When he controlled his temper."

"All I ask," Dara said, as they all trooped towards the door, "is that no one slide-tackles Lin. I'm off-duty, and I want to stay that way." 

Lin turned around and gave her two very cheerful finger-flicks. Madison looked up at his dad. "Can I play, too?"

"Sure. Remember, they said I couldn't use my _biotics in goal_." Dempsey's voice clearly underlined the word _goal_.

Dara went to the window and looked out it. Snow was starting to fall again, and Sam and Lantar and Garrus had gone out to join the others, and Sam had Takeshi up on his shoulders now, and was telling the little boy to throw the ball towards Eli's goal. . . and Eli had walked four or five feet away from the net, and was waiting patiently for Takeshi to throw. Takeshi finally managed to throw the ball. . . more or less in the direction of the net . . . and Rel reached up and redirected it, tapping it in.

Serana stood next to her at the window, watching. "I used to sit under the bleachers to watch," she admitted, after a while. "So they wouldn't _know_ I was."

Kallixta moved up, and shook her head. "I wasn't even permitted to watch such things."

Siara leaned up against the window to Dara's left. "And I ignored it." She sighed. "I ignored a lot of things."

_What would have happened,_ Dara wondered, _if I'd just joined in one day?_

Shepard was pulling on her boots by the door. "What the _hell_ are you all sitting in here for?" Lilu asked them all. "Even if Kasumi and I pitch in for the Spectre team, that's still, what, five on six out there, at least until Gris and Cohort show up. Ellie, Sky, you mind looking after the kids and the food and everything?"

Ellie shook her head, smiling. "Everything will be warm when you all get back inside."

Shepard looked at the females by the window. "So _come on._ Let's go play already._"_


	100. Chapter 100: Trials and Testing

**Chapter 26: Trials and Testing**

**Author's note:** _All credit to Ceres McClure for the image of Dempsey's mental blocks spelling out a profane message, last chapter. I loved the idea in her review so much, I had to use it._

_After finishing Chapter 100 (er, this one), I will take a brief break to write the bonus chapter, which is a thank-you to all the loyal readers out there who have asked for it. When it's completed, I'll start the next one, and post a message on 101 and in the forums, telling people that the bonus is ready, and asking people to send me PMs with email addresses . . . and then I will send you a link to where the chapter will be hosted on CalliesVoice's webspace. So I don't have to send out a million Word docs._

_In other news, Shinimegami strikes with wonderful art once more! This time, she asked me what I'd like to see. I said "Eli and Serana." She surprised me with Lin, Eli, and Serana. I think they're probably out shopping on Bastion at the moment. I asked her what the heck Lin and Serana are looking at off-camera that they're so shocked by; she said, "I leave that up to you, but something a human wouldn't even look twice at." Personally, I think they're walking by a lingerie shop. "Great spirits! Look at all those exposed waists."_

http:/ duetmaoim. deviantart. com / art / Eli-Serana-and-Lin-244303733

_For people asking about gladiatorial combat. . . it's been featured as a hallmark of turian civilization since at least the original Chapter 26, when Garrus is watching a match from Macedyn as Rel drops by to talk after Kella's death. Lin and Eli have been practicing it since just after Chapter 37. It's been here for a while. ;-)_

_Also, thank you for the patience. Weekends are difficult to find writing time during, and as soon as I frankly expected to be __allowed__ to write again, my little boy woke up with a 103.4 fever Monday morning. _

**Shepard, Mindoir, June 5, 2196**

Lilu Shepard cherished the quiet hours of the night, once the children were actually all in bed, the day's crises were _probably_ put to bed, too, and she could actually relax, put her feet up on the couch, and maybe even read something that wasn't a status report. Currently, that wasn't the case. She was looking through candidate dossiers. But her feet were at least propped in Garrus' lap, and his were propped in hers, and while she was tackling the dossiers, _he_ was going through Rinus' and Kallixta's joint recommendations for what to do about a certain large object in the Terran system. Lilu rubbed the base of Garrus' spurs idly, and then flicked the datapad to the next page. "It's an innovative set of ideas," Garrus said, after a moment. "Everything else I've seen coming out of the Alliance and the Hierarchy has largely revolved around _ballistic_ solutions."

Lilu glanced up, nodding tightly. Rinus had dismissed _that_ entire set of notions in his first _paragraph_.

_It is impossible to estimate with any degree of accuracy at this point in time,"_ the young turian had written, _"exactly how much of the comet's mass might currently be comprised of element zero. Telemetry indicates that the comet's actual body is relatively small, no more than four hundred meters in diameter. Assuming that its shape is a perfect sphere, a rough volume can be determined by simple geometry. V = 4/3 * π * r__3__ , the radius being 200 meters, yields a __general__ volume of 33.493,333.33 cubic meters. It is extremely unlikely, given the measurements of the comet's speed and spectrographical analysis of the chemical composition of its coma and tail, that it is __entirely__ comprised of eezo. However, a very large portion of it __could__ be, which is an argument in and of itself __against any ballistic options__ that might be used to alter its trajectory. Any sudden impacts could set off seismic sensors rigged to detonators; any bombs settled on its surface and used to alter trajectory could again set off seismic sensors, and any explosions could, in fact, cause a chain reaction and detonate the eezo payload on their own, depending on the proximity of the eezo payload to the surface of the comet. Even __landing__ on the comet, which is a tricky task to begin with, could well set off proximity or seismic sensors._

_What then, could be done, to __move__ the comet out of its trajectory and into a safer, long-term orbit of Sol or one of its planets? We have the tools already at hand. 1) The extremely large mass effect drivers used in the Xe Cha system to move small ice moons from the gas giants there, to the orbits of Tosal Nym and Aphras. 2) 1 __Leviathan-__class carrier, for the power requirements. 3) 2-3 __Normandy__-class frigates to provide screening and cover._

What followed would require _very_ tricky coordinated flying, basically in the _tail_ of the damned comet, debris flailing at the ships' shields. The _Leviathan_ would need to have _all_ of its crew and subordinate ships taken ashore, just in case this _didn't_ work. But it was the only ship, short of a dreadnaught, with an engine core big enough to handle the task at hand: a mass effect field generator designed to move a small moon. The _Leviathan_ probably wouldn't even have enough power to raise its own shields, hence the presence of the frigates, who would fly in close, and use _their_ shields to protect the _Leviathan_ from the cometary debris. When the _Leviathan_ got close enough, it would envelope the comet in its enlarged mass effect field and then had two options, both with risks. 1) Jump to FTL and try to hop the comet entirely out of the Sol system within seconds. Within the mass effect field, no changes in kinetic energy _should_ be detectable by simple seismic detectors. If any change in variables _were_ detected by failsafes, the payload could explode, taking out four ships and probably, given the comet's current location, destabilizing Luna's orbit with the shockwave. Or, 2) the _Leviathan_ could attempt a gradual, sublight course correction, moving the comet into a parking orbit either near Mercury or near Neptune over the course of several weeks. If the batarians saw that their gambit had failed, and had transmitters, they could attempt a detonation by remote. Rinus had provided for this possibility with extensive jamming being provided by the SR ships. The second option was definitely more conservative, but tied up a full carrier and three frigates for days, if not weeks.

Kallixta's fingerprints were clearly on the specifics for the maneuvers the frigate pilots would need to use to group their screens ahead of the _Leviathan._ Overall, it was a comprehensive, well-thought out plan. . . and, like all the other plans Shepard had read in the last ten days or so, made her stomach turn just a little. "What do you think?" Garrus asked her.

"I don't like either option," she muttered. "But either is preferable to the idea of aiming missiles at the damn thing and trying to work out how to bank it back off Jupiter into the corner pocket of the Kuiper belt without it hitting anything else on its way out of the system." Shepard's foot started tapping a little impatiently. She had _very_ vague memories of an asteroid plunging towards Terra Nova, and much clearer ones of racing to try to stop missile attacks on Watson, launched from its own moon, Franklin. She'd managed to save the civilians on Watson, but at the cost of the military base, and in both cases, it had been the damned batarians behind the attacks.

Garrus trapped her agitating foot in one hand and put a thumb into the arch, pressing gently. Shepard dropped her head back on the arm of the couch and relaxed completely. "Who knew," Garrus told her, lightly, "that when they installed all those cybernetics, they also installed an _off_-button for you."

"No, that existed before the cybernetics," she admitted. "No one else still alive knows about it, though." Lilu managed to raise her head long enough to smile at her husband, and then he pressed harder into her foot, and she very willingly put her head back down again.

"So," he said, after a moment. 'Take the risk and jump it out of the system?"

"That's young Kallixta's recommendation. It's a pilot's solution. Rinus is more conservative. Park it slowly. I tend to agree with him."

Garrus shook his head. "We need the damn ships."

"We need everything currently in orbit around Earth _stable_. Twenty million people on Luna. The shipyards at the Lagrange point between Earth and Luna. And the goddamned space elevators top out on small stations in low-Earth orbit, too. An _enormous_ number of lives and a huge amount of infrastructure is around the planet . . ." Lilitu shook her head.

"No guarantee that they won't just hit a transmitter and set it off inside Venus orbit instead," Garrus reminded her. "It's probably not as much eezo as is inside a mass relay. . . so we're not talking enough to set up a localized nova. But it could still do some damage."

"No guarantees either way," Shepard said, softly. "Just as glad I'm not the one making _this_ decision, _amatus."_

She could hear a thump that sounded as if his datapad had hit the floor. "Speaking of momentous decisions and life-altering changes—"

Lilu wagged a finger at him, not opening her eyes. "No more kids, Garrus."

He started to chuckle. "No, no. It was more about the _current_ ones."

Her eyes opened. She hadn't even _looked_ at the datapad in her hand for several minutes as warm fingers and strong thumbs sent her tired feet into realms of quiet bliss. "With an intro like that, Garrus, I have a feeling I might need to hold onto something." Her voice was drowsy, though, and she almost couldn't _care_ at the moment.

Garrus chuckled at her. "Amara is ten. Has been since March."

Lilu thought about that. "Yeah? Is there something here I'm missing?"

Garrus looked up at the ceiling in resignation. "Biology, _amatra_." At her slightly blank look, he sighed. "You _did_ notice that she's been following young Madison around like one of Urz's whelps follows its mother?"

Urz, on the floor under the couch, raised his huge head and blinked at them sleepily at the sound of his name. Lilu reached down and patted the varren's head. "I thought it was kind of cute," she acknowledged, slowly, thinking back over the past two weeks or so. Both of the recent barbeques at Sam's, the kids bringing Madison back to the villa for homework once or twice. . . "Kauda says he's very polite and respectful," she added, dredging that up. _God. Between all the war crap and the plague crap and everything else, I've barely even __seen__ the kids before dinner the past six weeks. What the hell did I miss?_

Garrus shook his head. "I was really hoping _you'd_ have this talk with Amara, and I could handle Kaius, but I can definitely manage a 'when a young lady comes to a certain age, she may start to have special feelings,' if I need to."

Lilu stared at him. "She's _ten_, Garrus."

"And turian females usually start hormonal testing on their tenth birthday," he reminded her, and the penny finally dropped.

Shepard's mouth opened, and closed. "Oh." It was all she managed for a moment. "Oh. Well. . . . crap. Now I _do_ feel like an idiot." She sighed. "In my defense, I didn't start on my period till I was eleven. . . and damnit, wasn't Amara _three_, like, four months ago?"

"_Tempus fugit_," Garrus reminded her. The Latin motto was on a placard on her desk, and Lilitu needed no translation. "And of course, we have no _idea_ what her endocrine system will actually get up to, but all things considered, it's probably better to start monitoring her now, before she bites young Madison or something. Which, given his Terran upbringing and current biotic training, could result in some fairly bad misunderstandings. Wouldn't you agree?"

Mordin had warned that the worst-case scenario for a female human/turian hybrid would be turian estrus on a human cycle; once a month. He hadn't thought it _likely_, however. _Endocrine system will fluctuate throughout puberty, just as in all adolescents of both species, and eventually fall into a period of homeostasis. Hormonal matching very delicate. Estrogen, as well as turian equivalent, __ancillogen__, will be produced in the ovaries. Complicating factor is presence of adrenaline; equivalent of both human and turian forms will be produced from the pituitary gland. Turian adrenaline, being so close to the turian version of both oxytocin and testosterone, is still a primary sex drive chemical for both male and female turians. Uncertain what effect this will have on female hybrids. Presence of adrenaline during height of cycle may increase aggressive tendencies and sex drive, as it does for female turians naturally. Dislike uncertainty. Wish I could be more specific, but too many unknown variables. Not entirely certain whether human __progestin__ treatments on a twenty-eight day cycle, or turian __ingravestin__ treatments, administered continuously, will be the best option. Both chemicals will be produced by her body during any eventual gestations of her own, so a combination may be necessary. Leaving extensive notes for her eventual physicians._ Mordin had blinked at Shepard, who had been holding three-year-old Amara in her arms at the time, and the toddler had been wailing because of a recent series of vaccinations. 

Lilu exhaled in the present, considering Garrus' words. _Misunderstanding is the __least__ bad scenario. The worst-case is, he could over-react and hurt her. Or over-react a completely different way._ "How about, I talk to Amara, and _you_ have a chat with Dempsey, so he can have a conversation with his son about the birds and the bees, or the birds and the _lanurae_, or whatever?"

"Sounds like a plan," Garrus told her, then smiled, wryly. "Of course, with the trials starting tomorrow morning, this sounds like the _perfect_ time to weigh down James Dempsey's mind with worries about his son."

Lilu squinted at her husband. "Assuming he's still in the running by next weekend, drop it on him before they go out in the field for the different environment scenarios. Part of the evaluation _is_ how they deal with psychological stress."

Garrus snorted. "That presupposes that he _feels_ any psychological stress."

She shook her head. "He's come a long way in the last two to three months. Dr. Abrams was seeing more synapses lighting up in the damaged areas of his brain even a month ago than had been firing at any point in the last year. I'd be willing to bet that when Abrams does his med eval of everyone after the introductory calisthenics in the morning, that even more will have lit up."

"He's been working a lot with Zhasa'Maedan."

Shepard nodded. "That's a big part of it, I think. But also. . . being asked to be part of the team on Khar'sharn. Being allowed to be a human being again. Reconnecting with his son. Requiring him to be a _whole_ human being. Involved with other people, concerned with them. It's a help, I think." She grinned at him crookedly. "Sounds like what I've been preaching about keeping the Spectre base connected to the science base and the town."

"There _is_ a certain haunting familiarity," Garrus agreed, and pressed his thumbs into the arch of her foot again, and she sighed and melted back against the couch again. "What do you think of our current crop of candidates?"

Shepard managed to find working circuits in her _own_ brain to reply, "Lantar's done heroic duty, winnowing through what the various governments have thrown at us. But they're still falling prone to the tendency to send us people who are outstanding individuals, but with spotty histories working with teams." She shook her head. There were seventy-two total candidates. Nineteen asari, eighteen turians, thirteen humans, twelve salarians, six drell, one krogan, one volus, one quarian, and one elcor. Ten of those seventy-two had been found and recommended by the Spectres themselves. _Six_ of those were _home-grown_, in a sense. "Guess we'll start seeing where they all stand tomorrow." She tossed the datapad aside, and sat up in a single fluid move, passing his legs off of her lap, slid her own out of his hands, and, watching his startled look become steadily more amused, stalked forward with her hands until she had one on either side of his chest. Then she leaned forward and nipped his neck lightly.

He didn't really need much more in the way of hints.

**Seheve, Mindoir, June 1-5, 2196**

Every day since the almost intolerable gift of the Enkindler's words had been pressed into her mind, Blasto and the rachni Spectre had returned to converse with Seheve. Almost every day, her brother, Oeric, wearing an environmental suit that looked ill-fitted to his lanky frame, returned as well. She had told Blasto and the rachni every detail she could remember of the Master's dealings. And with a drell's eidetic memory, the details were considerable. Names, dates, places. Every assignment she'd ever been sent on. Spectre Blasto had been silent for a moment after she had concluded her tale, two days ago. "This one thanks you," he'd told her. "Your words will make this one's efforts at uprooting the conspiracy that Olonkoa represented much easier."

She had bowed her head. "It is what this. . . what I can do. And little enough, at that," she had replied, formally.

Now Seheve wasn't quite sure what they wanted from her, but on the last day of her stay in the hyperbaric chamber, Spectre Blasto chimed at her, "Have you given thought to what you might do to correct the wrongs that you have been responsible for?"

Her brother looked up, from where he sat beside her on the narrow cot, starting to reply, "She only served Olonkoa's twisted schemes—"

Seheve placed a hand on his suited forearm. "No, Oeric. No court in Council space finds the excuse of following orders to be particularly compelling. Nor will these Spectres." She had found a careful way around speaking of herself in the first-person, or in the third-person. She simply didn't speak of herself _at all_ now, if she could avoid it. Seheve turned to regard the hanar and the rachni with all the calmness that she could muster. "No answers have come to mind. A life that is made of service to others is the highest good. This. . . my skills have been used most often in the service of death. What tasks can be accomplished that are _good_, with such skills?"

Oeric shook his head. "Surely, you weren't _always_ sent to kill people, sister."

"Not always," she acknowledged, calmly. "Sometimes the task was to find information. To discredit people, or find their secrets, which could be used in leverage against them. Salarian archaeologists on Enkindler worlds were a frequent target for . . . examination. The Master. . . Olonkoa. . . rarely called for their deaths. Too noticeable. But he hoped to find ways to discredit their work. He sometimes asked for information and relics found at these sites to be destroyed. This. . .I. . . could not do so." That was hard to admit. "The teaching of the Enkindlers is that words and thoughts are sacred."

Oeric _stared_ at her for a moment. "You disobeyed Olonkoa in this, but not in other things?" he asked, sounding dismayed.

She hesitated. "I . . . told him that the task could not be accomplished. Too well-guarded. Too visible. Too public. He believed."

Oeric's voice was uncomprehending as he added, quietly, "But you still _killed_ for him?"

Seheve looked at her brother. How could she make him understand, that words and thoughts were blameless, but that _people_ were not? That she had thought each person she had killed to have been a murderer, a thief, an oppressor or worse? Hands directed against her people, the hanar, the Cause? "I . . . executed people he told me deserved death. One cannot execute words. One cannot execute ideas," she finally said. "It seemed. . . odd. . . that he would ask it. The more so when he came to ask for the end of the geth unit known as Ruin."

_He who once sang, but now sings in silence, is not of the geth,_ the rachni told her silently.

Seheve bowed her head slightly. "This is understood now."

The hanar chimed, quietly, "The one understands now, why you did what you have done, Seheve Liakos. The question was, however, what you will do."

Seheve looked up, feeling utterly empty. A vessel, once filled with other purposes, now broken and silent. It took her a long moment. "On Bastion, I hoped to serve the sick and the dying. But these hands cannot bring life or healing." Her voice was as empty as her heart. "What _can_ I do, but what I have ever done. Serve, as best I may. And hope that the cause is just and right and true." She shrugged. "It cannot wash away the blood. Nothing can ever do that."

Oeric's shoulders sagged, and she turned, regarding him steadily, and put a hand on his shoulder. _"Are you all right?"_ she asked him, switching into their native tongue. Not that the hanar wouldn't know it, and not that the rachni wouldn't understand her heart, anyway.

"_I thought. . . I hoped. . . to find the sister I left so long ago. My twin, my other half, and bring her back to me,_" Oeric told her after a moment. _"Is she dead?"_

Seheve's eyes stung. _"Probably,"_ she told him quietly. _"But she who stands in her place now, remembers you. Remembers her. And.. . I. . . still love you, brother. For what little it matters."_

"_It __matters__,"_ Oeric told her. _"To me, at least. Because __no drell__ can forget the past. And our past is what __makes__ us who we are. You can't have lost yourself completely, sister. You are still in there."_

_She has been encouraged to forget her song,_ the rachni sang quietly. _But melody never truly dies. Learn to sing once more. Learn to sing of hope, and not merely of death and despair._

That, Seheve thought, without speaking and without emphasis, was surely easier to say, than to do.

"The government of the hanar and the drell master of assassins have proposed you as a Spectre candidate," Blasto said now. "If you were selected, would you serve?"

Seheve raised her head, her dark eyes widening. "This is the very task that the M—that Olonkoa wished for," she said, quietly. "Why would you offer this opportunity?"

"You would not succeed in his other tasks, even if you _wished_ to attempt them. And you do not," the hanar told her with calm assurance. "Would you serve?"

Seheve sighed. "To be a Spectre is to be accountable to no law at all," she said, quietly.

_Our songs are tied to the greater harmony. Council-song, songs of our people. _

Seheve nodded, understanding the point. "And to serve you and Commander Shepard and the Council . . . how would I _know_ that the tasks I would be given would be any more just, than the ones I have already undertaken?"

The hanar chimed, softly, "You would not, Seheve Liakos, except by coming to use your judgment and understanding. And while each Spectre is given tasks, each Spectre must use his or her own determination on how best to accomplish that task. Wide latitude has traditionally been given. Although the respected commander has instituted a great deal more oversight."

Seheve shook her head. "Then . . . yes. If selected, I would serve." _I do not see this happening, however._

On the night of June fifth, by the human calendar, they took her from the chamber, and let her walk out of the building, without covering for her eyes. This world was a cold one, with a damp chill in the air that made her lungs ache to breathe. But the rachni and the hanar took her to a set of barracks. Filled with warmth and the chatter of many voices in many languages. _This is the place of those whose voices will be tested_, the rachni sang. _Stay here among them. Listen to their songs. And come to the testing, in the morning._

Seheve could hardly believe it, but they were leaving her here. Alone. Unguarded? The room had a metal set of bunk beds, a closet, an _extranet console_. "You do not fear that this—that I will run?" she asked, as they turned to leave.

_And where would your steps take you?_ the rachni asked.

"You will not flee, for you have given your word," the hanar told her, calmly. "Nor do we fear for the lives of those in these barracks. We have taken your measure, Seheve Liakos. You do not kill lightly. It is not a casual thing for you. The weight of the lives you have already taken is heavy on your soul, but you will not flee, and you will not falter. We will watch your candidacy with interest."

And then they had left. Seheve debated, for about five minutes, the various ways she could see in this room in which she might take her own life, and decided, in the end, that she could not do that to her brother. But the voices outside her closed door, the warmth and the camaraderie she sensed outside, were as alien as sunlight to some fringed tube-worm, that had spent its life in the sulfurous darkness of an lava vent beneath some deep and undiscovered sea. She swallowed hard, sat down on the edge of the bed, and struggled to listen for the song of which the rachni had spoken.

And wondered if she would understand it, even if she recognized it.

**Dara, Mindoir, June 3-6, 2196**

The candidate barracks were all about the same size, but even the smallest rooms had iron bed frames that could be stacked together in bunks, or settled down side by side for married couples. Back in the day, cots had been available for the children of married couples, who were temporarily housed in such rooms. Dara remembered having the top bunk when her dad had been a candidate, and whenever she'd visited the Sidonis barracks, the bunks had been unstacked and placed side by side for Lantar and Ellie, with a cot for Eli, and a little bassinet for Caelia.

The various "Mindoir candidates" had moved into the barracks five days ago. In theory, this was to give them time to get to know their fellow candidates. In practice, they were finding this slow going, at best. Dara and Rel had a room together, of course; as did Eli and Serana, though Serana was not a candidate at the moment, but a wife. In fact, the rooms were side by side. Lin had a room to himself beside that. Across the hall from Lin was an empty barracks. Dempsey's was across the hall from Eli and Serana's, with Madison's to the left of his, then Rinus and Kallixta's. Siara and Makur had a room to the left of that. Fors had a room somewhere far down the hall from theirs, but periodically dropped by to see how they were all doing, as did Zhasa.

Dara had actually gotten out the _reela_ from her luggage, which had bumped from Rocam to Illium and everywhere else with her, and she and Rel had reverted to the shipboard habit of leaving the door open at night for a few hours, letting people drop by while she was playing quietly. Between the sound of the guitar from Dempsey's room and the _reela_ from Dara and Rel's, their side of the barracks wasn't particularly quiet, but both of the musicians were careful not to go beyond public hours with their music. Dara had yet to get complaints. In fact, the first night in the barracks, she'd been hugely amused when Zhasa, who'd apparently been on her way down to Dempsey's room did an absolute double-take in the hallway, and had come over to tap on the doorframe. "Is that a _reela_?" the quarian girl had asked, in astonishment. "I haven't heard one of those in months. But what are you _playing_ on it?"

Dara had glanced up in amusement. "Yes, it was a gift from Siara's mom many years ago. Much more portable than a piano. I haven't actually played it in ages. It adapts pretty well to turian and human music, though." She smiled a little. "This is old stuff, though. Older than what Dempsey plays." It was, in fact, Mozart. _Eine Kleine Nachtmusik_.

The quarian girl tipped her head to the side. "It sounds totally different. This isn't nearly as . . . angry. . . as Dempsey's music."

"Very different eras. Very different purposes for creating the songs." Dara's smile was faint. She found that she liked the quarian girl—she couldn't quite help it—but it was _difficult_ to open up to new people anymore. Every six months, new people had come on and off of ships, or they'd transferred away themselves. Oh, a certain surface openness was needed, but letting someone really _in_? Dara had never been good at that. And she had no idea if any of them would _really_ be staying longer than the next two weeks. There was what the simulator had suggested six years ago, and then four years ago, and then there was _reality._

Reality didn't seem that likely, most days now.

But she and Zhasa had wound up talking for half an hour, and then Zhasa had told her, "I want to know what Dempsey thinks of this kind of music. I'll be right back."

Dara had tried to stop her. "He probably doesn't like it—ah, crud."

Rel had been sitting on the bed, a datapad in his hands, as if he'd been reading, and just shook his head. "I'd always heard that quarians work hard to create relationships with shipmates, but she's faster on it than I thought she'd be."

Eli and Serana had their door open next door, and Serana had obviously heard that quiet comment, because she started chuckling, and popped her head around the wall at that point. "Eli was just saying that he thought the music made it easier for him to study than all the chattering."

"I didn't say that," Eli called back. "I said the music helped me concentrate, that was all."

Rel stood and headed out into the hall. "You're studying?"

"Yeah, some college-level xenopsych courses I started in CID. Kind of got sidetracked on Bastion," Eli's voice was a little tired, but nowhere near as bad as it had been even a week ago. "Figured I could use the downtime to try to finish up. In that case, no matter how things turn out. . . "

Dara could see Rel shaking his head. "You're a pessimist, Eli."

"Realist, Rel. Realist."

And then Zhasa had pulled Dempsey back across the hall, and the human male was shaking his head. "She does this sometimes," he told Dara, almost apologetically. "She's been working with me biotically to try to remap neurons in the brain."

Dara had sat up at that point, and had gone into medical mode almost with relief. "Really? That's a fascinating approach. One I would never have thought of, but. . . well, is it _working_?" Her expression felt lighter on her face. She _hated_ the idea of patients that she couldn't do anything for. "I assume you've been working with sensory inputs that are likeliest to bring about emotional states? Scent is one of the strongest triggers for emotional memory in humans, actually." Dara paused, and added, "So is music, actually, but I suppose that's no surprise, really. . . "

Zhasa's voice was almost a _purr_ as she quite openly elbowed Dempsey in the ribs. "And _you_ thought it was _silly_ that I wanted to smell and taste and touch through you."

Dempsey gave her a patient look. "And here I thought that was just your _payment_."

Dara had the oddest impression she was right in the middle of a private joke as they suddenly both went silent. She'd seen Siara and Makur do the same thing too often now not to know that silent communication was going on, and found someplace else to look for a moment.

Fortunately, she had the _reela_ to occupy herself with, and simply focused on the keys and the sheet music. "Yeah," Dempsey said after a moment. "I recognize that one. Really old. But cheerful." He hesitated. "I don't suppose you do anything more recent than, you know, four hundred years old?"

Dara shrugged. "I've had people hand me sheet music to Expel 10 and I've wanted to cut my hands off at the wrist—"

She was surprised when the faint smile spread over his face. "God, no. I meant _good_ music."

"Piano's probably the most flexible instrument there is. Shh. Don't tell anyone I said that." Dara smiled a little more. "Given sheet music, I can more or less figure almost anything out. The real problem with transposing anything to _reela_ is that it's not set up in octaves but in sestaves. Six-tone groupings, not eight. Sometimes finding the right note is tricky."

And that led into probably the most unexpectedly enjoyable conversation Dara had had in months. Rel's eyes had widened slightly when Dempsey had gone back across the hall and come back with his guitar and sheet music and taken Dara at her word that she could figure most anything out. Which was true, although not at anything remotely resembling tempo. Zhasa had settled down on the edge of the bed just to listen, and Dara had sworn a couple of times at missed notes but once she caught what the music was _supposed_ to sound like, she had to admit that the dark bass line she was playing with her left hand appealed to her. "See, Zhasa, this is a little closer to what it's _supposed_ to sound like," Dempsey admitted as they managed to muddle their way through towards the end. "This kind of music is never about just one instrument."

And Dara slowly began to feel just a little less wary around Dempsey, especially when his son Madison came across the hall and slid down to sit on the floor of the room, too. Madison made her think so _much_ of Eli six years ago, though there was _no_ physical resemblance between them at all, that she couldn't _help_ but warm to the boy. And then Eli and Serana had come in to sit with them and listen as well, Eli propping his back against the wall and letting Serana lean against his chest. And he'd started talking quietly to the boy. Guy stuff, from the sound of it. Handball and sparring and whatever. Madison asked a lot of quiet questions. What it was like to have a turian stepfather was a big one. If Eli still missed his _real_ dad.

"Sometimes," Eli admitted. "But I think I mostly miss who he was when I was little. Sort of invincible and bulletproof and perfect. Not the guy he really was. My dad wasn't a good cop. He was on the take, and he cheated on my mom. I'm really _glad_ Lantar became my dad instead, all things considered. I'm not glad my dad's dead. But I hope that even if he'd lived, that my mom would've had the smarts to throw him out."

Madison had considered that for a while. "Grandpa Dempsey was a cop in Boston. He was a good guy." He glanced at his father. "He died when you were . . .asleep."

Dempsey looked at his son. "Yeah. I know."

"And you don't feel anything about that, right?"

Dempsey shrugged. "Depends on if Zhasa's helping me out when I think about it. If she is. . . " and he glanced over at quarian girl briefly, "mostly, I'm pretty pissed off I wasn't there to say goodbye."

Dara recognized what Eli was doing. A quick little impromptu discussion. Just to help the boy out. Let him ask the things he probably couldn't or wouldn't ask on his own. So she wasn't surprised when Eli glanced up. "You still miss your mom, Dara?"

Dara looked up and over at Eli. Not at Madison, for whom the words were really meant. "Yeah. Lot of days, I don't think about her at all. Other days, I miss her a _lot._ Wish I could ask her advice."

"Still?" Rel asked, from the bed, where he'd finally resorted to carving.

"On some topics? Sure. At least it's not advice on how to handle my dad anymore." Dara's grin had been quick and tart. "But my mom was _smart_." Dara rested her hands flat on the keys for a moment. "One of the benefits of having had a lot of really smart people in my life is that I can always ask them, in my head, what I should do. This is going to sound stupid, but sometimes, I still ask my mom or even Dr. Solus what they think. I know I'm really asking myself, and putting myself in their shoes. But just changing the track of my own thoughts sometimes really helps. I know I've calmed down when I've needed to and gotten a diagnosis _right_ when I've stopped and cued up Dr. Solus' voice in my head."

Madison had looked interested, at least, which had the benefit of not being misery. Not that the boy usually looked miserable. Life on Mindoir had a tendency to be too _busy_ and _interesting_ to allow its residents to dwell on unhappiness for long. Which was, Dara knew, a mixed blessing. On the one hand, you didn't _wallow_. On the other hand, you might not internalize and work through things as well as you should. But, on the whole, she thought Madison was doing pretty well.

Which was why she was slightly surprised when Zhasa shooed Madison towards the messhall that evening, and Dempsey stopped the rest of them and asked, "Do you think my son's doing okay? It's hard for me to tell. And to see if I'm doing the right things for him."

Eli had been helping Serana back to her feet, and paused, frowning. "I think he's adjusting really well."

"If he's training with Sky on biotics, Sky would tell you if anything was really wrong," Dara said, with absolute assurance. "But if you're looking for a _human_ perspective—"

"I am."

"He's doing better than I was a couple weeks after my mom died. Least in public. I was doing a lot of crying in my room where I thought my dad couldn't hear me about that point. And I'd started sleeping with a teddy bear again for the first time in _years_."

Eli's head turned, and Dara held one finger up at him without looking. "Yes, Rel replaced the teddy bear."

Eli snickered outright, and he turned and looked at Rel. Rel looked back at him, and said, blandly, "You're about to say that I'm less fuzzy?"

"I was going to go with 'not nearly as cute.'" Eli's voice was equally bland.

Dara ignored the by-play. "My point there was that sometimes people backslide to things that comforted them when they were younger when they've had a shock or a stress like that."

"I only just _got_ a shipment of his belongings from my late wife's husband. Need to help him sort through it all."

"Make sure he's got some mementoes of his mom in there," Eli told Dempsey, more seriously. "All I've got left are some pictures, thanks to some vandals on Bastion."

Dara looked up. The memory still made her _angry_. Eli, one arm hooked lightly around Serana's waist, caught her glance, and shook his head. The unspoken message was, _It's okay. Water long under the bridge._

So. . . they were getting to know _some_ people better. Most of the rest of the candidates seemed a bit stand-offish, from what Dara could see. Or maybe _she_ and her friends were the stand-offish ones. It was hard to tell.

And while, on the one hand, Dara was almost relieved to be out of her father's house, and could see much the same reaction on the faces of all the rest of her friends . . . on the other hand, it was rather disconcerting to her that she thought she was in the _same damn room_ she and her dad had had six years ago.

The morning that the candidate trials were scheduled to begin, she asked Eli if he remembered which barracks number Lantar's family had been assigned to, back in the day. He rolled his eyes. "At this point, I'm assuming they're actually doing this on purpose," he muttered to her quietly in the cafeteria line as they filled their trays—scrambled hens eggs for her, over-easy for him, _apaterae_ bacon for both of them as they both fought to keep their dexto immunities up. Neither of them wanted to overfill their stomachs today; they had _no_ idea what the first day was going to entail. Dara remembered her father muttering about calisthenics six years ago, but who knew what was actually going to transpire?

Dara had been startled to find hot chocolate in an urn, and had pounced on it in place of coffee, grabbing a cup of it and some toast before heading towards the table where Rel, Rinus, Serana, and Lin were holding seats open for them, next to Dempsey, Zhasa, and Madison. "Why do you think that?" she asked Eli as they crossed through the long dining hall.

"Lin brought up the notion that they're testing us psychologically the other night," Eli told her. "There's probably a certain amount of truth to that, but _I_ think they also want us to succeed. And providing a certain amount of familiarity, even if it's something we'll only register on a subconscious level, might help with that."

Dara stopped in her tracks, and looked up at him. "Ah. So you decided to stop playing dumb?"

"Bite your tongue. I'm just parroting what I've read in my psych textbooks this week."

Dara sighed. "Next, you'll be offering to bite my tongue _for_ me, in order to distract me from further calling attention to your intelligence."

Eli grinned at her. "I already went there in my head, but it was far too easy. No, no, the next one, you have to wait for. And when it happens, you won't even know what _bit_ you." He grinned at her in wicked merriment, and settled his tray on the table beside Serana, to Dara's right, and Dara shook her head and settled down on Rel's right, and Eli's left. _Life couldn't be stranger at the moment, but I couldn't pick better people to face it with_, she decided, and waved good morning to Dempsey, Zhasa, and Madison.

Zhasa pointed at Dara's cup across the table. "That doesn't entirely look like what Dempsey's been drinking every morning here."

"It's hot chocolate. Personally, I usually go with coffee, but I might need the sugar boost this morning—" Dara stopped as Zhasa's head whipped around.

"Dempsey! You lied! You said that chocolate was not a breakfast food!" The indignation was _very_ clear.

Dempsey held up his hands. "I said that chocolate syrup is not typically offered with French toast, waffles, or pancakes. Hot chocolate is another thing entirely."

"Excuse me," Zhasa told Dara, and took the mug off Dara's tray and _handed_ it to Dempsey.

Dempsey's lips had curved up very faintly. Every head at the table had risen to watch the by-play. Dara's fork hovered inches from her slightly agape mouth, and she snuck a look at Rel. "Really?" Dempsey said. "In front of _everyone_?" He glanced across the table at Dara almost apologetically, and took a sip, before handing the cup back to Dara.

Zhasa made a distinctly _pleased_ sound, and Dara's fingers slipped on the cup. Eli's hand shot out, steadying it before she could drop it, and, as she brought it in closer, Dara sniffed at it carefully, wondering if she'd somehow _missed_ something about the urn in the cafeteria line. "She's discovered that she _really_ likes chocolate," Dempsey said, again, with that very faint trace of a smile.

Dara could feel Eli's shoulders starting to shake beside her. Rel reached over, caught the cup now, and sniffed it, once. "Yeah. Smells a lot better than it tastes, to a turian," Rel commented, sounding annoyed. "I mostly get sugar and a sensation that there's some form of fat involved. Most of the sensation is just smell. Which is a really enjoyable odor. . . but there's almost no taste."

Zhasa sounded appalled. "You mean, if I were ever to eat this _myself_, it might not taste the same?"

"Quarians are omnivores," Dara said, finally tugging her cup back from Rel and taking her own first sip. "You're probably blessed with as many taste receptors as humans are. I think." She looked around warily. "Am I going to have to protect anything _else_ on my tray around here?"

"Your eggs, if you don't eat them faster," Eli told her cheerfully. "Would save me going back and standing in line again."

"Don't overeat," Dara reminded him. "It doesn't taste nearly as good coming back up as it does going down."

"Yes, dear."

An hour later, at 07:00, a total of seventy-two candidates mustered out. The day was overcast, and there was snow on the practice field where they were assembling; everyone except the salarians' breath was puffing steam into the cold, sharp air. They'd all been told to report in exercise clothes, in spite of the chill.

Dara was fascinated by the differences in the demeanors of the various candidates. The turians and the humans, mostly military, although a couple of the humans didn't appear to be, interestingly. They tended to stand very upright, and all faced front. The salarians all looked like STG, of course. Some had a military bearing, but others found walls and turned to observe the rest of the practice field. The asari were tending to knot together in small circles, watching the rest of the candidates. There was a huge elcor off to the left, a pocket of five drell off to the right. . . a single drell, by herself. . . _Interesting_, Dara thought. _Almost every species is tending to congregate in groups of their own kind. The humans and the turians are mixing a little, at the center. . . but our little group of Mindoir 'natives' is the only group that's got a handful of different types, all together._ Fors and Zhasa and Dempsey had moved over to join their group, as well, and Siara and Makur stood with the others, turning, occasionally, to look behind them, or at the other groups. There were a few friends and families up in the stands on this chill morning. Kallixta was up there, giving Rinus a quick wave when the older male turned to look up at her. Kasumi was up there, as well, along with a few of the younger children, well-bundled against the cold. Ylara's young ward, Shellara, as well as Kaius and Amara, for instance.

"Surprised they're letting the kids out of school to watch this," Dempsey said. "Madison wanted to, but I told him to go to school this morning."

"Well, it's that, or they know there's a certain track record of the kids around here watching the trials anyway," Rel admitted with a quick, tight grin. "And getting into trouble afterwards."

"I'd like to point out that we _did_ find an FTL transmitter that was sending out the base's location as a part of that getting in trouble," Dara said, blowing into her cold hands.

"And _I'd_ like to point out that you made me wear a _hat_. For my own good." Eli said, looking up at the sky. "She's been trying to mother me ever since."

Zhasa started to laugh. "Do the two of them _ever_ let up on each other?"

Rel shook his head. "Not lately. I'm honestly beginning to wonder why."

That took the fun out of it for Dara, and she didn't say anything else, simply looking away, towards where the sun was coming up to the east.

"Do you spy, with _your_ little eye, what I've spotted with mine?" Fors asked, changing the subject and looking up at Linianus.

"If, by that, you mean a certain drell murderer, yes. Yes, I have," Lin said, his eyes fixed on the solitary figure of a female drell across the field. "I hope to the spirits that they know what they're doing."

Eli shook his head. "They're probably watching her like a hawk, Lin. And we all will be, too."

Lin shook his head. "I _really_ don't like this, _fradu._"

At that point, there was a sharp whistle, and the humans, the turians, and the quarian snapped to attention; Siara, Makur, and the volus merely turned their heads.

Shepard, Garrus, Sam, Lantar, Ylara, and Sky appeared at the back of the field, followed by Emily Wong and what looked like the turian reporter, Galenus Eleutherius. They certainly had cameras following them. "Here we go," Rel muttered as the Spectres, in their own exercise clothes, moved up to the front of the field.

"Good morning," Shepard called. Her voice had excellent projection; she lowered her voice slightly in pitch and used her diaphragm correctly. There was no strain at all in her voice, but Dara could hear her clearly across the field. "Welcome to the first day of the candidate trials. We have Council observers in the stands today; most of them have come from your various homeworlds, rather than from Bastion, due to the plague conditions that prevail there. There hasn't been a greater need for new Spectres since the Reaper War, and I'm sure I don't need to underline the gravity of current events. So, without further ado. . . let's get started. "Humans, turians, drell, asari, quarians, and krogan," she said. "One hundred pushups, at your own count. You have one hundred and twenty seconds. Salarians, one hundred sit ups, in the same time. Elcor and, hmm. Volus. One hundred dips. On my mark . . . go."

And then they were all on the ground, belting out the pushups like it was boot camp all over again. Dara _grinned_ when she realized that she and Eli were, reflexively, counting in turian, in perfect time with all the turians around them. And she wasn't surprised at _all_ that every Spectre in the front line was doing the exercises with them. In the snow. _Go, Dad!_ she thought as she sprang back up to her feet. Dempsey wasn't even breathing hard, damn him, but she didn't honestly _know_ what could _possibly_ tire the man out. It was like watching a geth do the exercises.

Then it was one-handed pushups. Twenty-five for each hand. Dara _hated_ this part. She'd kept up on these after boot camp, but they were _still_ her least favorite exercise. Female human upper body strength was _not_ optimized for these. But she gritted her teeth and made it in time. Just barely. She finished at the same time as Zhasa, and before Siara, which was a comfort, at least, but well after all the males got done. Then sit-ups and dips for the species who _hadn't_ done them yet. The least flexible species—volus, elcor, salarians—wound up with _more_ of the same exercises. The most flexible species wound up with many different exercises.

"All right, people. There is a _clearly marked route_ that you're going to be taking for the run this morning. We do _not_ want y'all getting lost in the snow," her father called out now. "You're looking for the bright blue lights along the sides of the trails, and we've got four checkpoints. This course is only four kilometers long. If you miss a checkpoint and go off the trail, _stay put_. We will come and find you." He looked around. "Keep in mind, conditions are _slippery_ on that trail today. There is snow and there is ice. We've put sand down for traction. Do _not_ break anything."

"I think he's looking at you, Lin," Dara muttered, very, very softly.

Lin, who was standing just slightly in front of her, put one hand behind his back and flicked his fingers at her.

Sam rattled off the goal times for each species and added, "Everyone will undergo a medical screening at the end of the run."

"I just hope I finish ahead of the damned elcor," Fors muttered gloomily.

"On your marks," Lantar called. "Get set. Go!"

Unsurprisingly, the turians took off like shots. Dara took a deep breath, and got down to it. The cold air bit into her lungs like a knife as she ran, keeping pace as best she could with Eli and Dempsey, whose long legs easily outpaced her, but Eli glanced back frequently, as if making sure she was okay. Zhasa had a long, loping stride that hinted at her species' history traveling the arid lands of Rannoch. Siara and Dara actually wound up matching pace for most of the run, and Makur, not being built for speed, but for endurance, actually fell further behind. As it was, Dara was actually quite pleased with her time when she crossed the line. It wasn't far off her old boot camp pace. "What do you want to bet they're going to have us doing a forty-k tomorrow?" she asked her friends as she pulled up.

Rinus stretched his shoulders. "Would actually be a good run. This was barely a sprint."

Lin grimaced, and looked back. "I halfway feel like I should go back and look for Fors," he admitted. "Hell, I should have just picked him up and carried him. It's not as if he weighed as much as my armor."

Dara sighed. _And now the second-guessing starts_, she thought. _As we all try to figure out what each exercise is __really__ meant to assess._

Dr. Abrams and the medical staff were quite busy, checking blood oxygen levels and testing random blood samples for chemicals, Dara was interested to note. As everyone milled around, panting (or not), Dara noticed the two reporters working the candidates' over, wandering around with their cameras, asking questions of people now that they were loosened up and a little less tense. "Incoming," she muttered, and turned slightly away, so her face-paint wasn't as visible.

"There you are!" came a familiar voice. "Dara Velnaran, Elijah Sidonis, it's really nice to see you again. I'm Emily Wong."

"_S'kak,_" Eli muttered, and turned around. "Hello, Ms. Wong," he said, not smiling. "Nice to see you again."

Dara's lips twitched just a little at the corners as she watched everyone around them do their utmost to fade away. "Ms. Wong," she acknowledged, nodding briefly. "We haven't spoken since my graduation from boot camp."

Wong smiled. "Yes, it has been a while, hasn't it? I'd love a chance to speak with both of you, and your families. You've both grown up here on the Spectre base; your fathers are both Spectres, and you're both humans, but products of the turian military. I'd like to catch up with what you've been doing since the last time I had a chance to talk with you both." She turned a gentler smile on Eli now. "You've stayed largely out of the spotlight since the funerals here on base, Elijah. Or would you prefer Agent Sidonis?"

"If you're asking me formal questions about my job, _Agent_ is my courtesy title, just as _Doctor_ is Dara's," Eli replied dryly and firmly, his face and eyes distant.

"Oh, nothing so formal as that," Emily replied, all cheer and charm and her galaxy-famous dimples on prominent display. "I'll come back and pester you later for more thorough interviews, but for the moment, I'd just like to ask what it's like for the two of you today. You're both children of Spectres. Your fathers are both here, conducting the trials with Commander Shepard. Is there additional pressure? How do you think you'll do?"

"It's an honor just to have been asked here," Eli replied, and he looked as if he were going to stand pat with that answer.

Emily turned slightly towards Dara, who managed to strengthen her smile slightly, wishing, distantly, that she had Kallixta's apparently effortless poise in front of cameras. "As Eli said, it's an honor just to have been invited here today. Having my dad watching puts a little extra pressure on, of course. I don't want to disappoint him, and I know he'll grade me harder than anyone else here." She kept the sentences as long as she dared, and realized, after a moment, that she and Eli were standing elbow-to-elbow, as if for mutual protection or assurance. Dara had _never_ gotten used to these interviews, and still absolutely _hated_ them. Huddling together—nevermind that their backs were completely straight and their shoulders back; they _were_ still effectively huddling—was probably the wrong image to send.

Dara had just started to shift a little away, when Eli reached up and put a hand on her shoulder, which changed the picture completely. Made it more relaxed. "As to how we'll do," Eli added, still sounding slightly distant, but taking his cue from her and injecting a slightly friendlier note into his voice, "it's hard to say. There are a lot of exceptional people here today. We've had the privilege of serving with a few of them. Everyone has an equal chance."

Emily smiled at them. "Thank you. I'll be dropping by the barracks later this evening, and it would also be wonderful if I could get some footage of you with your families, in your homes here." She looked past them. "And you, too, Rellus and Rinus. While I know that you both have some standing reservations for dealing with the Palaven press corps, I assure you that I'm very well-mannered. I'm even house-trained," she offered.

And then she was past them, and speaking with Rinus and Rel; Rinus actually handled it fairly well. He remained distant and calm, but answered each question simply and directly. _All that press exposure from the Conclave and being married to Kallixta_, Dara realized. And that, right there, was one of Emily's first questions. "Wouldn't you be the first Spectre who's technically a member of the turian Imperial family, Rinus? Or should I say, _dominus?_"

"I tend to prefer _Velnaran_, but you might get the wrong person answering around here, so Rinus will do. I'd have to ask an imperial historian, Emily. I don't honestly know the answer to that question, but it would surprise me if there _weren't_ some member of the imperial family who's been a Spectre before. The Imperial family is very large, with many branches, and has held many exceptional individuals in the past thousand years or so, after all."

Dempsey had been shaking his head at her and Eli quietly. "Yeah. You two suck at that."

"Wait till it's your turn," Dara told him, tartly. "Wong's at least a good reporter. What if she asks you why you were missing in action for ten years? Or if your son's biotics are now under control? Or what you think about your late wife's husband and his political ambitions?"

Dempsey's very faint shadow of amusement vanished, and his eyes narrowed. "I can always refuse to answer the questions," he noted.

"And your dad was a cop?" Eli muttered. "Refusing to answer makes _everyone's_ nose start to twitch. Better to give a calm, dull answer than to refuse to answer at all."

Once they'd all had the initial physical results taken, they were passed through into an indoor training area, which was fair warmer, much to everyone's relief. Here, they were given an opportunity to change into swimsuits, if their particular species felt a need. Of course, only humans and drell really had modesty issues; asari didn't believe that there was anything shameful about the body, turians had no external genitalia. Salarians didn't particularly, either, and quarians and volus wore suits anyway.

The training area, unsurprisingly, given the chance to change gear, was one of the indoor pools. Which was, today, set up with a climbing wall right at the edge of the deep end, and a door past the deep end was opened to the outdoors again, which sent shivering blasts of cold air through the heated structure periodically. "Oh, this looks like _fun_," Dara muttered, staring at the setup.

"At least the first half will be warm," Rel pointed out, looking dubiously at the far door.

"Traditionally," Shepard called, gaining everyone's attention, "we've conducted candidate trials in early spring or summer, locally. This year is the first time we've opted to do so in winter, which means that one of our favorite early exercises requires a _little_ modification. Take a good long look, while I explain the scenario to you all. You will be broken up into teams of three. Each of you can take an item and a weapon of your choice from the table set up at the shallow end of the pool. You and your team will cross the pool. You will ascend the wall at the deep end of the pool. You will descend on the other side of that wall. In summer, we tend to expect you to do the next part barefoot, but today, we'll let you put on some shoes and a coat first without docking your time. . . .yes, you'll move five hundred feet _outside_ to a firing line, and be graded there on marksmanship."

Shepard had paused to give them time to think. "There are two things to consider in this exercise. I want you to conduct yourselves as if this were a _combat situation_. Your weapons _are_ loaded with paintballs, however. You will retain your omnitiools, which means you _do_ have personal shields, if you pack any." Shepard's voice clearly underlined the words. "And you should know that you will be assessed _as a team on time_. You will also be assessed as _individuals_ on marksmanship and other criteria. If you do not think you can overcome an obstacle, you can take a time penalty instead. For example, if you cannot swim, you can walk around the pool to the wall, and wait a minute there, as measured by the time-keeper at that station. If you do not think you can get over the wall, you can take an additional time penalty. And so on down the line."

Dara frowned. _That_ spoke volumes, in a way. More for what Shepard _didn't_ say, than for what she _did_. Other criteria? They weren't specifying which criteria. Hidden criteria meant that if candidates _knew_ what this test was actually measuring, they'd change their behavior and skew the results. _Suffice it to say, they're looking for something other than speed and climbing ability_, Dara decided quickly. _But time, as a team. And why say __combat situation__ like that? Hmm. Well, treat it as if it were for-real, then._

The Spectres were calling out names, gathering people into groups now, in threes, as promised. Dempsey and Rel wound up grouped together, along with an asari who apparently had been a technical specialist with Eclipse for decades. "Explosives," she told them, cheerfully, as their group moved away. Linianus swore viciously under his breath in turian as he was sent into a group with the drell assassin, Seheve Liakos, and an asari huntress of some variety. "Look at it this way, _fradu,"_ Eli told him, quietly. "_You'll_ be the one keeping an eye on her."

Rinus and Siara were paired with a salarian who walked and moved with quick, purposeful steps; Dara overheard him giving his family name as Kirrahe, which made her head turn, sharply. Fors, Makur, and Zhasa, surprisingly, were all placed together. A very heavy biotics group, where most other groups had looked to be, on the whole balanced. One biotic, one tech, one straight up fighter.

The candidate numbers were dwindling, and Dara glanced at Eli. "It's probably too much to hope for that they'd put us together," she said, dryly.

And yet, Lantar called out, and Sam was smiling, for some reason as he did so, "Thelldaroon. Sidonis, Elijah. Velnaran, Dara."

Dara's head rocked back slightly in relief. The self-same expression crossed Eli's face. "Sink or swim," Dara told him lightly.

"Hopefully, _swim_, _sai'kaea,_" he replied, patting her on the shoulder. "Either way, we'll do it together."

_One of these days, I'll get around to asking him or Siara what the hell that word means_, Dara thought, but was instantly distracted when the elcor lumbered over to join them. "Greetings," he rumbled down at them, turning his head to regard them with one enormous eye. "This promises to be quite a challenge. I am Thelldaroon."

Dara and Eli both looked up at him. Eli squinted. "You don't sound like any elcor I've ever heard before," he said, sounding interested.

"I was born and raised on Mannovai, a salarian colony world. Most of the elders of my clan considered me. . . unfortunately hasty in my thinking and speech. I find that most people of other species understand the intentions of my speech adequately without prefatory statements. If you find me confusing, please tell me your assessment, and I will revert to standard elcor prefaces."

Dara bit her lips and valiantly suppressed her laughter. "No," she said after a moment. "That won't be necessary, I think."

Eli pointed as a large black curtain swept down, dividing the candidates from the pool area, but still providing them with access to the equipment tables. "Looks like we've got some time to think about this," he said. "Because I think we're going last."

"Good," Dara said, trying to edge nearer the equipment table. "Because I think we're going to _need_ that time to figure this out." She looked up at Thelldaroon, and shook her head. "How are you at swimming?"

"Somewhat adequate. Herds of my people used to cross rivers. We are, however, slow, compared to salarians, for example. I will be able to cross the pool, probably at a walking pace."

Dara looked at Eli. Eli was already nodding. "And how about climbing?" he asked the elcor.

"Sadly, much less than adequate. I will probably reduce our team's standing by having to take the minute penalty."

_Both_ Eli and Dara shook their heads at the same time. "No," Dara said. "There's a _lot_ of equipment on that table. Let's take our time and _think_ about this."

Eli grinned. "Dara?"

"Yes, Eli?"

"We're telling an elcor not to be hasty."

Dara looked up, and they both grinned as if they were kids again.

**Rellus**

In his more hopeful visions of how candidacy would work out, Rel had always imagined going through the trials with Dara at his side. This was like boot camp all over again, in a way. Separated, and made to jump through hoops until they could reunite once more. _Well, we knew it wouldn't be __easy__,_ he thought, and nodded to Dempsey as the male approached. They were teamed up with an asari named Kelsana, who had fierce, bright eyes and a predatory, hawk-like nose, which was odd to see on an asari. She shook hands with them briskly. "At least you both look like fighters," she said, jerking her chin around the groups of people with contempt bright in her eyes. "Lot of people in these groups who look like the specialize in sneaking around."

Rel tried not to stiffen up. Dara's words of a week ago still haunted him. _Have I __really__ changed so much that she doesn't always recognize in me the same spirit as I had before? Has the spirit of Mindoir gone out of me, the thing I wanted least to lose?_ he'd wondered every day since. He tried to evaluate the asari as he might have years ago, and couldn't. Too much experience, too much knowledge, too much judgment at his disposal. "You're Eclipse?"

"Was, for about seventy years," Kelsana acknowledged. "Explosives and biotics, of course. I just hope you two can keep up with me." It wasn't a put-down; she was simply _very_ confident in her abilities.

Dempsey's expression had reverted to its usual blank state. "Don't worry about me," he told her, flatly, and picked out a pistol from the table. "Rel," he said, turning and staring at him now. "You swim okay?"

"Dara taught me here on Mindoir," Rel said, smiling a little. The golden afternoons at their lake. Not a care in the world, except how to get to _this_ day. "I'm slow, though."

Dempsey nodded, briskly. "You think we'd be faster if I did a rescue tow on you, and you kicked along?"

Kelsana had already moved away and was grabbing a grenade launcher, of all things. Which was probably loaded down with twelve pounds of paint, all things considered. And a waterproof bag to put it in. Rel wondered how she intended to get over the wall, and took a rope and an assault rifle, himself, with a glance at Dempsey, who nodded at him, and grabbed a waterproof bag large enough to accommodate his and Rel's weapons.

Several teams had already gone, and Rel had already noticed that the Spectres were closing the doors as each team left. "I think they've put up sound-proofing in here," he said, quietly, to Dempsey. "The gunshots from outside are _very_ muffled."

Dempsey snorted. "I don't hear 'em at all, but I'll take your word for it." He paused. "They want to keep us guessing, huh?"

"Probably."

"Dempsey, James. T'oria, Kelsana. Velnaran, Rellus. Step up!" Lantar's voice rang out through the hollow, echoing pool enclosure.

Rel and the asari were nude, of course; Dempsey was wearing a pair of swim trunks, as most of the rest of the humans were. They headed to the pool's edge, and Lantar called, "On your marks. . . get set. . . go!"

Rel handed his gun to Dempsey, who put it and his own pistol in the waterproof bag and sealed it, just as Kelsana was doing with her own large weapon. Then the asari jumped into the water and started swimming powerfully ahead of them. Rel shook his head slightly. "So much for real combat," he muttered, and jumped down into the water himself, taking the bag from Dempsey and curving his hand around the stock and trigger guard of his own weapon through the plastic as best he could, lay on his back in the water. "Go," he told Dempsey, and the human's arm snaked around his neck, and then they were off.

Dempsey was a powerful swimmer, and Rel added momentum with his own kicks, turning to scan the side of the pool as best he could. Adding, for his own amusement, mentally, _dachae_ lining the banks of an imaginary river. Then they reached the far side, where Kelsana was trying to use the lip of the pool to pull herself out. However, the climbing wall was _right_ at the edge; there was no place for her to find purchase. As Rel had sort of thought would be the case when he'd glanced at the scene when Commander Shepard had invited them all to survey it carefully as she spoke.

Rel let his feet touch the bottom of the pool. It was only six feet deep here; a little under his shoulders, in fact. Dempsey wasn't quite as tall, but could stand here and breathe easily; Kelsana was having to tread water. "How's your climbing?" he asked Dempsey.

"Probably better than yours," the human acknowledged. "On the other hand, how's your lifting?"

"Just as good as yours." Rel handed Dempsey the rope and cupped his hands together, forming a stirrup. Dempsey stepped one foot into it, and Rel lifted. Dempsey was, as most humans were, much heavier than he looked, but once he got purchase on the wall, he went up like a monkey.

Kelasana sighed. "Well?" she asked, looking at Rel. "You going to give me a hand, too?"

"In a moment," Rel told her. He was _itching_ to assert dominance here, but he was second-guessing his reactions. He'd spent a _lot_ of time in almost purely turian situations over the past four years. Oh, there'd been humans on all the SR ships, but they'd been _turian_ SR ships. Everyone had more or less defaulted to turian behavioral norms there.

Then Dempsey reached the top, secured the rope, and sent it back down. Rel caught it and started walking up the wall now, legs and body in the optimal L-shaped position for such an ascent, and got to the top himself. Then he and Dempsey simply _pulled_ Kelsana up, and then they each dropped to the ground, using the same rope, on the other side.

Dr. Chakwas, looking tired and drawn, was on the other side, marking times. "All right. Shoes and coats. No time will be marked against you while you're at least getting prepared for the temperature out there."

"Has anyone actually been dimwitted enough to go from eighty degree pool water and a sauna-like enclosure to what, forty degrees at best out there, in their _skivvies_?" Dempsey asked, pulling on a parka quickly and then opening their weapon bag.

Dr. Chakwas shook her head. "No one yet. I do fully expect at least one today, though."

Rel pulled on boots and a coat himself now, and took his rifle from Dempsey. "Let's go," he said, but Kelsana was already at the door and starting the sprint.

Dempsey stared after her. "She _does_ realize we're being scored as a _team_ for time, right?"

"And under _combat_ conditions." Rel shook his head. "With live ammunition and shields." They approached the door a little more warily, and Dempsey's entire body shimmered for a moment.

"Let me lead out," Dempsey muttered. "I carry two shields at all times."

"No arguments," Rel muttered. "Break right, get to that shed there, then cover me."

As it was, he was damned glad they'd treated this as a combat exercise, and not as a sprint. Kelsana was nowhere in sight as they emerged from the pool building, and Dempsey's shields took one or two hits—splatters of red paint hanging in air for a moment before dripping down as the human moved calmly to position. And then he ducked back out, finding targets and firing, giving Rel time to get to cover himself. Then they zigzagged along the clearly marked trail, from a shed, to a boulder, to a set of metal crates, to a parked Mako. There were small turrets set up along the trail, with cutouts of people beside them. As soon as they _hit_ one of the cut-outs, its turret stopped firing paintballs. "This is wasting time," Dempsey muttered. "Combat is combat." And he raised his hand and his omnitool hummed, and suddenly, the nearest turret turned and started firing on another turret. Then Dempsey gritted his teeth, and _another_ turret started firing, in the distance.

The human hissed through his teeth, and put one hand to his head. "That still _hurts_ like a son of a bitch," he muttered.

Rel laughed. "Let's go make sure no one _real_ is waiting for us in the final firing zone." He paused. "Actually. . . think you can get the rest of the turrets to start firing into the final area?"

"Yeah," Dempsey said, dryly. "Might hit our asari friend, though."

"Or anyone else who might be waiting there." Rel thought about it. "Can you convince the remaining turrets to hold their fire on us till we see what's waiting for us?"

"Sure. You want mayo with that, too?" Dempsey's fists were clenching and unclenching, and he'd started humming under his breath. Rel watched the man, carefully. Remembering all too well the _rage_ that the man had awakened with. Remembering how those hands had clamped around Dara's throat. _He's better now, though. . . right?_

_Right._

Sure enough, just as they came around the bend to the final firing area, Rel caught the red point of a laser sight on a boulder near his head, and dove to his right, knocking Dempsey down. A paintball splattered the rock over his head, and then he and Dempsey were belly-crawling to cover, scrambling fast, and picking off their attackers as best they could. The entire area was _covered_ in red paint, which was rapidly hardening on the snow. _Probably from Kelsana's "grenade launcher,"_ Rel thought, dimly. "Set off the turrets!" he shouted, and Dempsey grunted a response, and suddenly there were a _lot_ more paintball bullets whistling through the air around them. Rel relied on the turrets for covering fire, and raised up from behind a fallen log himself, tracking back to where the sniper had to be sitting. . . and fired his assault rifle at a nearby rooftop.

After a moment, a _very_ familiar voice announced, "Okay, that's all of us," and Garrus Vakarian stood and waved from a nearby roof. "Take your shots at the firing line," he shouted to them.

"Okay, so where the hell did Kelsana wind up?" Dempsey asked, looking around.

Gris emerged, red-splattered, from behind a snowdrift, with and equally red-splattered asari in tow. She looked _angry_. "She got caught by the first turret, non-lethal damage. Kept on limping forward, got to the final area, and laid down a bunch of grenades in the zone, which was fairly smart of her. Unfortunately, I got myself a live prisoner here. Wonder what kind of information an asari knows?" The krogan Spectre grinned at her, and she immediately began to speculate about what sort of deviant proclivities he might have for varren.

Rel shook his head. "Good thing Azala can't hear that," he muttered to Dempsey.

"Azala's his girl? She's a Spectre?"

"No, she's a xenobiologist. One of the nicest people you'll ever meet, and the gentlest. Siara's mom, actually." Rel looked back over his shoulder. "I think Azala would _probably_ wash Kelsana's mouth out with soap and water for talking to Gris that way, though."

"Kelsana was using a grenade launcher back there," Dempsey reminded him, eyebrows lifting slightly.

"Yeah. I still think Azala would win." Rel realized that the joke was _completely_ lost on Dempsey, and sighed.

He sighed again when he heard their final time and score. Kelsana's 'capture' had definitely impacted their score. Dempsey shrugged. "We couldn't have stopped her. She was definitely trying to prove she was better, faster, stronger."

Rel grimaced. _Four years ago, would I have tried?_ he wondered.

**Shepard**

She turned and looked at the Council observers. Rishayla was back this year, and was sitting next to Ylara, and had been hugely distracted by Shellara for the first twenty minutes or so this morning, asking the child many, many questions. Shepard had listened with half an ear to that exchange.

"What do you like best about living here on Mindoir?"

"I get my own room, and Ylara says I get to decide what I want to be when I grow up."

"And what do you want to be?" Rishalya had asked, gently.

"I think I want to be a _pilot_. Go everywhere and see everything there is to see in the entire galaxy."

Rishayla's calm face had broken into a slight smile at that. "And is there anything you _don't_ like about living on Mindoir, little one?"

Shellara had frowned. "Some of the other asari were teasing me because I have to use the boy's bathroom."

"And why do you have to do that, dear?"

Shellara frowned. "Because . . . " The child hesitated, and looked at Ylara. "Because people of different species believe that bodies are . . . personal and private. And that they shouldn't be shown to other people, except for special reasons. Like a doctor."

"And?" Ylara prompted quietly.

"Oh! And species that have two different life-giver types don't like their personal parts to be seen by each other. And my personal parts belong in the boy's room." Shel nodded, but the little voice was uncertain. "Did I get it right this time?" he asked Ylara.

"Mostly, little one." Ylara sounded concerned as she asked, "And what happens when the asari tease you at school?"

"Caelia tells them to stop it or she'll tell. Once, Kaius heard them and he was _mad_. He walked over and told them to stop. And that if they made fun of everyone who was _different_ around here, pretty soon, they wouldn't have _any_ friends." Shellara had hopped down and moved to the rail. "Oh, look, there's Dempsey! Is Zhasa down there, too?"

Rishayla had looked at Ylara. "You're the most patient person I've ever met in my entire life," she told the Spectre.

Ylara had laughed. "No. No, I'm not. Any credit there is to give for Shellara's calm acceptance here can be attributed pretty much to Tulluust, my elcor _marai'ha'sai._ He's wonderful with Shel and with our daughter, too."

"But she seems. . . _he_ seems. . . to be adopting a more. . . _masculine_ self-identity. Is that because of how she. . . he. . . is being treated by those around her?" Rishayla was struggling with the words.

Ylara shrugged. "I don't know, honestly. Some of it seems to be innate. Shel, if given a choice of activities, even aboard my ship on the way here, preferred to be active to being quiet. Preferred chasing a ball to nursing a doll. And here. . . the asari treat her as an asari. The salarians treat her pretty much. . . like an asari. Teachers give all the students the same activities. And the humans and the turians respond to what she shows them. It's odd to watch, but it's true. When Shel acts in a way that they construe as being 'male,' they treat her, automatically, as male. It seems to be a reciprocal loop, because the more they treat her as male, the more. . ._he_. . . acts male in return." Ylara shook her head. "I'm just trying to let things happen as they happen. Not trying to run a sociological experiment, since that would be unfair to Shel. But I _do_ almost expect him to be a _very_ different creature in twenty or thirty years than we see here today." Ylara looked at Rishayla. "And Shel will have _you_ to thank for that. His mother deliberately refused the surgeries and the hormonal treatments because of what _you_ revealed to the galaxy at large. That Lina couldn't have been the _only_ one."

At that point, Shel had shrieked in excitement at what was going on, on the vid screens. "Look at that, look at that! Spectre Gris caught her in a biotic field and just took the gun out of her hand."

Shepard had been watching the proceedings, and was marking off items on a checklist for each candidate. Dempsey was controlling his temper, not that it had _really_ been tested yet. She thought the hostage-rescue scenario in a day or two would push his buttons quite a bit more successfully, if the reporters running around base didn't do it first. _Better that the test come in controlled circumstances, though._ He was working _with_ Rel, and Rel was working _with_ him. Neither had worked together before; sure, Dempsey had been on the rescue team on Khar'sharn, but neither had taken a measure of each others' abilities. But they were learning each others' strengths quickly and adapting. _Not that this first exercise is more than a ranging shot. A quick way to eliminate people who want to win at the expense of their teams. Sam was right. Even giving more explicit directions this time, we're already eliminating people._

"Same problem as before, I see?" Rishayla said, quietly, looking over Shepard's shoulder.

Shepard nodded with a sigh. "Justicars can't be Spectres; their code would interfere too damned much. Your local police tend to see themselves as huntresses, tied to their city, their people, their land. . . and they don't _want_ to be Spectres, as a result. Which leaves us with people who don't _have_ ties to specific cities and regions. The 'adventurer' type. The mercenary. Sometimes they have government connections, and _those_ are almost invariably the ones the Council of Sisters sends here." Shepard looked at Rishayla. "Lantar here has spent the last four years berating he Council of Sisters for this."

Lantar glanced up from his own screens and shrugged. "_Berate_ is a strong word, commander. I've asked them to break some of the local huntresses loose and send them here for tryouts. Nothing."

"It has to be a free choice," Rishayla said, looking uncomfortable.

"I was a huntress, once," Ylara reminded her. "I protected my town, until the day the raiders came and _wiped it out_. That's when my _marai'ha'sai_ and I left the colony that we'd traveled to from Thessia, to escape the prying eyes and whispers about how 'pureblood unions' were unwise. . . and went hunting. That hunt took us all the way to Omega." Ylara's blue eyes were distant. "Fifty years of hunting later, I was a Spectre, and my _marai'ha'sai_ was dead. As far as _choices_ go, I don't remember making too many that didn't choose me, first." She looked at Rishayla steadily. "Surely there are others like me out there."

Rishayla sighed. "I'll mention it. _Again_. In the meantime, surely _one_ of them will pass this portion of the trials?"

Sam tapped the microphone in front of him. "Next group, prepare! Liakos, Seheve. Pellarian, Linianus. T'soa, Melaani." He turned the microphone off, and turned back to look at Blasto, who, like Sky and Ylara and even Pallum, Rinus and Kallixta's chief Praetorian, was a part of the observation team. "Blasto, if your girl down there steps out of line, you're off the barbeque list."

"She will not," the hanar chimed calmly. "She chooses her own path now. A difficult thing, for one who has always had decisions made for her."

Pallum shook his head. "This is going to be an _interesting_ one to watch." He gave Lantar a wicked grin. "And if Pellarian washes out, we Praetorians are going to snatch him out of your _claws_, Sidonis."

"Not going to happen," Lantar told him, calmly. "Want to put money on it?"

**Linianus**

Lin shook his head. . . again. . . and wondered why the spirits took delight in tormenting him. He was fairly sure he'd been a good person. Loyal to his friends, respectful to his family, and he'd always shown honor to the spirits, so why the constant teasing? _Is it because I myself used to be a wretched tease? Is that it?_

No answer, of course. The spirits never answered _directly_.

The asari shook hands with the drell assassin, and clasped Lin's wrist firmly. "Melaani," she introduced herself, briefly. She looked at Seheve, and asked them both, quickly, competently, "What are your backgrounds? I've spent the last seven years trying to infiltrate the Memory of Thessia for the Circle of Sisters."

Lin's eyes widened. "Posing as a militant?" It made him slightly uneasy. Deep cover work left _marks_.

Melaani grimaced. "Pretending to be one of those idiots who wants to kill half the humans in the galaxy for our homeworld being destroyed. . . not my favorite job, but at least it's kept the skills sharp. You, Pellarian?"

"Most recently, B-Sec. Before that, turian CID. Nimines." Lin kept it simple. He probably didn't have the experience level of the asari in front of him. He kept his eyes warily trained on the drell, however.

Seheve lowered her head slightly to the two of them. "This one is an infiltrator. Bound to the Master of Assassins on Kahje. . . or . . . I was. I am not sure what I will be once these trials are over."

_A prisoner, if the spirits are willing to stop making jests,_ Lin thought.

Melaani looked surprised. "You don't expect to become a Spectre?"

"No." Seheve's voice and face were absolutely calm. "I believe that they are testing me for a different reason."

Melaani shrugged. "All right. Can both of you swim?"

"It is required, on Kahje." Seheve lowered her eyes to the floor. For a turian, that _shouted_ of guilt, but Lin forced himself to remember that for drell, this was a mark of _respect_.

"I've been trained." Long hours in the pool with Eli and Dara and Telinus even _before_ boot camp. And just as many hours on the climbing wall. "And I can climb, too, before you ask."

So they made their selections; Lin opted for an assault rifle and, when Melaani opted for a shotgun and a waterproof bag, he asked, "Why don't we _all_ use the same bag for our weapons?" _And that way, Liakos won't be carrying a weapon for at least a little while here._ He really didn't like seeing a weapon in her hands. Even if is was only a pistol filled with paintball charges.

So, he wound up carrying all three weapons. He _wanted_ to take a shield with him from the table, but thought carrying that _and_ the weapons would probably make him sink. Seheve opted for a stealth device, which didn't surprise him at all, and Melaani didn't take a third item for them. Lin frowned and called forward, "Hey, are you going to take _something_, at least?" and, when she shrugged and kept moving, he shook his head and followed them out to the starting line.

The asari quickly outpaced him in the water, of course; he was carrying three weapons and doing a modified backstroke. To his surprise, Liakos stayed near him. She had enough speed in the water that he suspected she could have outpaced him immediately. "You can go ahead," he told her at the midway point.

"If these were, in truth, combat conditions, it would seem unwise to separate."

His outstretched hand touched the edge of the pool, and Lin stared at her for a moment as he settled his feet on the floor of the pool. "I thought drell _assassins_ worked alone."

Again, the lowered gaze. "Generally, this is the case. We are trained to work in pairs, however."

Melaani looked up at the rock wall. "I can't get a start on this," she stated, "But I can at least lift one or both of you biotically—"

Lin took a step forward and put impersonal hands on the asari's waist. The trick was not to notice that it was a very nice waist. Then he simply lifted her high enough that she could get her hands on the protrusions on the wall. "Or, yes, you could do that," Melaani told him, and started scrambling up the wall easily enough.

Lin stared at Liakos, and waved her closer to the wall. Then repeated the same lift, putting her in uncomfortably close proximity. He was entirely aware of the fact that she _could_ take that opportunity to slam him in the throat with a punch, which would stun him. _And then what? Hold my head under the water in front of everyone?_ Still, touching her made his skin crawl, though he took care not to let it show on his face.

With the two females climbing, Lin looped the string of the waterproof bag over his back and reached up. He had the height to do this; his fingers caught the lowest projection easily. The question was. . . did he have the strength to pull himself up by his fingertips? Lin started trying to get purchase on the wall of the pool, but the tile was slippery, and his claws scrabbled uselessly against it. . . and _that_ was when he felt himself completely lifted into the air. "Let go," Melaani called down. "This is hard enough as is."

Weightless, he drifted upwards, and Seheve, actually, caught his wrist and pulled him in to the top of the wall. "Nice trick," he told the asari, opening the bag and distributing weapons.

Melaani dimpled. "Thought you might like that," she told him cheerfully, slinging her shotgun over her back, and starting the climb down.

Climbing down was always, oddly, much harder than climbing up. Down required you to look down to find the next toehold. Lin didn't have much of a fear of heights, fortunately, and leaped down the last five feet, landing lightly.

At the door, Seheve flicked on her stealth generator, and Lin shook his head. _And this is where she disappears from the __futari__ base,_ he thought. _Well, not if I have anything to say about it._ Before she could move off, he reached out and latched on with one hand to her shoulder, pulling her down into a crouch. "There's a lot of cover along the 'sprint' route," Lin commented.

Melaani snorted. "Yeah, I just bet we're supposed to hit this and be so eager to get moving again that we run face-first into something." The asari shook her head. "Pellarian? Cover me."

And then she was moving, at a pace so fast she was nearly only a blur, streaking for the cover of a nearby shed. Rapid _cha-chock-cha-chock_ sounds. . . "Turret," Liakos said, quietly. "Looks like a Maikos L150 model. These are usually made in sets of ten. They are . . . easy to disable."

Lin's head swung as the sound of an omnitool being activated hummed in his ear. "The turrets should be disabled," Liakos called. Then she disabled her stealth device and stepped out of cover, waving her arms a bit.

Nothing happened. "You think you got all of them?" Melaani called back.

"Only one way to find out," Lin muttered, and they started moving forward again.

The final exercise area was a little more challenging. Lin actually hadn't _used_ an assault rifle in four years, but he'd always enjoyed it, and found it _very_ satisfying to plaster Urdnot Gris with red paint. Melaani streaked across the field and found Mordin Alesh, lifting him into the air a moment later. And Liakos . . . Liakos moved off, stealthed, and actually got a shot on Garrus Vakarian, making the male stand and turn to face her on the roof of his nearby building. . . which was when Lin 'finished' him with a quick burst from his rifle. _S'kak.__ I just 'killed' Garrus Vakarian. Admittedly, he's __playing__, but that was still. . . well, something to tell the grandchildren about. Well, assuming I have any. _

Lin did, however, make damned sure that he kept his eyes on Liakos as they turned in their weapons and returned to the seating area inside the warm pool house. He moved over to sit by Rel and Dempsey automatically, Melaani and Liakos following him. _Squad members. __S'kak__._

The stands had a view of the pool, the climbing wall, and two large aerogel screens that projected images of the course outside, as well as the various candidates' times and scores.

"Your numbers are better than ours," Rel told him conversationally.

"We were _slow_," Lin muttered. "And _you_," he said, turning and giving Liakos a grim look, "shouldn't have moved off alone on Vakarian like that. Not without telling us where you were going. Damned hard to cover you if I _don't_ know where you are."

Liakos dropped her eyes. "This one. . . I will endeavor to remember this, in the future."

_Spirits help me, I really hope there __isn't__ a future need for you to remember this._

"At least you didn't have anyone run off ahead and get captured," Dempsey pointed out now, reasonably enough. "Nice work defeating all the turrets at the beginning," he commented to Liakos. "I didn't think of it till halfway through. Then again. . . tech and I don't always get along."

**Shepard**

"Melaani did well," Ylara said, her tone neutral.

"Yes," Shepard agreed. "The whole team did." She had reservations about Melaani. The female had been undercover in the Memory of Thessia for _seven years_. And as Eduardo, Sam's old _federale_ friend would be the first to say, deep cover work left marks. _How much of her identity is intact?_ Lilu wondered. _Will Sky be strong enough to see what's hidden even in a powerful asari's mind?_

Seheve had performed adequately. She hadn't left the squad until the very end, and had contributed. Linianus had shifted into squad-leader mode quickly, it seemed. Lantar had spoken with approval of the young male's effortless ability to switch roles, giving and receiving orders with equal ease. He'd taken initiative with the items selected, moved his squad members into position on the wall, and was obviously keeping a _very_ close eye on Liakos. Which was fine with Shepard. Sky's word and Blasto's word were one thing. Having a known assassin on base with her family nearby was making the skin between Lilu's shoulderblades just _tingle_.

**Siara**

"Next up, Kirrahe, Orlan. Tesala, Siara. Velnaran, Rinus!" Siara heard the dark voice of Lantar Sidonis call out, and she swallowed. She remembered Rinus from his various trips here on shore leave, but knew little about the male, except that he was a quieter, colder version of his younger brother, Rel. And the salarian, she knew nothing about him but the name.

Rinus had quickly set her at her ease, however. "I don't know much about you, Siara, but I know you grew up with my brother and all his friends here," he'd murmured. "We're going to do just fine."

"Can you swim?" she'd asked, quickly.

"More or less. Finished boot camp training and have largely avoided it since," he admitted. "Other than a little splashing around on Macedyn." Those light blue eyes, cold and raptor-like, studied her. "I assume you can do a little better than that?"

Siara nodded quickly. "I can tow you, if you need it. Once we hit the far end, I can also lift you out of the water, if necessary, biotically. Saves some climb time. . . but I can't lift myself, and I can only lift one person at a time."

"Then I'll lift you up onto the wall, you scramble up with a rope, tie it off, drop it, and I'll use the rope, and you can lift Orlan." Rinus' words had the force of orders, and Siara was nodding before she'd even registered how _sensible_ everything he'd said was. "We'll need a rope and a waterproof bag for the weapons. What else can we use?"

Kirrahe Orlan looked between them inquisitively. "Unknown what we'll face outdoors. I personally like the idea of the EMP generator over there on the table, but that would be difficult to carry, along with our weapons. We only have one waterproof bag."

Rinus picked the device up, hefting it in his large hands thoughtfully. "If you stay with us, Orlan," he said, after a moment, "and keep ahold of, say, Siara's pistol to cover us. . . I think I can probably keep this out of the water. Especially if Siara's the one primarily swimming me down to the other end."

"Lifting Siara to the wall will prove problematic. . . "

"Not if you hold the generator for a moment. _You_ breathe water, at least," Rinus told him. "Think you can manage the weight?"

Kirrahe accepted the device and held it over his head for a moment, consideringly. "Yes."

"Then let's go." All the decisions were made, and Siara felt oddly. . . reassured. Rinus was a _lot_ like Rellus, but. . . also not. Where Rel would have grinned at them all, years ago, and simply leaped into the fray, Rinus was calmer. Cooler. But _absolutely_ confident, and that buoyed her, honestly.

Into the water they went, Rinus climbing in carefully, settling the bag in place, and then hefting the EMP generator before lying back in the water. "Move out," he told them, and off they went.

Up the wall, down the wall. The EM generator had turned out to be an inspired guess on Kirrahe's part, and it took out a number of turrets around them. Rinus took out a couple of others with a shotgun blast here and there, and then they were moving around into the final area. Kirrahe Orlan shouted in surprise as a krogan charged out of the snow-covered trees at him, and Siara lashed out instinctively, throwing the body backward with a shockwave before dropping into a crouch and firing her pistol at the temporarily-prone form. _Need at least two clips to be sure of a krogan_, she thought, grimly, and then Rinus was beside her, urging her to shift position. "Too exposed, Siara, move it!"

Her shoulder was covered in red paint by the end, and Kirrahe Orlan had taken a paintball between the eyes from a sniper on a rooftop that had turned out to be Garrus. . . but Rinus had moved quickly, scooping up the rifle from Orlan's stunned fingers, and had returned fire, splattering his own uncle with red paint. Garrus had stood up at that point and lifted his rifle in a sort of salute. And as they were walking back into the pool enclosure, Rinus suddenly chuckled.

"What?" Siara asked, startled. She hadn't thought this grim-faced older version of Rel _knew how_ to laugh.

"My uncle just dropped me a message on my omnitool. Says he's going to break me of shotguns and heavy weapons _one_ of these days. And pointed out that if I'd _started off_ with the assault rifle, Kirrahe probably would have lived."

By that point, they'd joined the others in their small section of the stands. Rel had _clearly_ heard some of that, in spite of the echoes bouncing back from all the walls and the water, and looked up, asking, sardonically, "And what will you tell him in reply, first-brother?"

"That I like _all_ weapons equally, but that I use a shotgun because the spirits have favored me with luck whenever I've carried one before, of course. He's not going to argue with luck, second-brother. No matter if we make it ourselves, luck _does_ exist." Rinus bared his teeth at Rellus. "Otherwise, none of us would be alive here today, yeah?"

**Shepard**

She glanced over at Kesh, the salarian observer who'd been here six years ago. He was older now, of course—shockingly older, in the salarian way. "Kirrahe Orlan? Offspring of the same dalatrass as Captain Kirrahe?"

Kesh nodded. "He's young. Only ten. But we have high hopes for him in STG. Not quite as technically-oriented as we tend to like. But he's fairly adaptable. Has a flexible mind, and sometimes _really_ reminds me of old 'Hold the Line' himself."

"Personally," Sam drawled the word out, "I liked the fact that he actually stayed put and defended the rest of the group during the crossing. Couple of the other salarians have made a beeline for the far end of the pool, only to sit there, trying to scramble up, without any luck."

"Good teamwork on that squad, overall," Lantar agreed. "Bad positioning coming into the final area. Rinus reversed a rout there, though. Squad penalty for the casualties, though."

"Doesn't surprise me a bit that Rinus turned it around for them, though," Shepard said, smiling slightly. "That boy had guts even fresh out of boot camp."

For a moment, she remembered the smell of the _rosetum_ bushes, the stink of Collector chemicals and putrescent flesh. The shock of pain in her shoulder, and the young face of Rinus Velnaran, looking down at her in absolute panic as she'd started bleeding. _Come a hell of a long way, haven't you. . . __Dominus__ Velnaran?_ Shepard thought, suddenly amused. _They all have._

**Zhasa**

Zhasa hadn't worked with either Makur or Fors before, but they at least _knew_ each other. "Two of us in suits," Fors muttered. "I'm not exactly adapted for climbing, either."

Makur shrugged. "Krogan swim fairly well, but this? This isn't worth swimming _in_. I'll _walk_ through it. I can carry your weapons, too."

"I can get to the top of the wall, no problem," Zhasa said, tilting her head to the side. "And I can carry you, Fors, on my shoulders when I do so. It won't present a problem. Then we can drop a rope for you, Makur. Although. . . I don't think I can pull you up. And I won't have the energy to lift you—"

"Not a problem," Fors snuffled. "I'll put a singularity on him. The biggest problem at that point will be making sure he holds onto the rope, so we can pull him in like a helium balloon."

Makur simply _stared_ at the volus for a moment. And then he started to laugh, low and rough. "It's a good thing I don't have the dignity of a clan-leader or a shaman to worry about," he finally said.

"Do we need anything else?" Zhasa asked, looking at the table. _No waterproof bags needed, if Makur carries the weapons for us. Just a rope for the wall._. . . ."It seems _wasteful_ not to take some of this with us," she muttered, looking through it all. "Stealth generators, extra shields. Kal'Reegar would shuck me out of my suit for not taking more."

Makur shook his head. "Krogan travel light."

Zhasa made a rude noise through her suit filters. "And quarians have learned _never_ throw anything away_._"

"You want anything more, _you're_ carrying it, quarian."

She sighed. "Very well." _One pistol, one shotgun, one submachine gun, a rope, and three biotics. Dempsey would tell me that there's a joke in this somewhere. Probably involving the three of us going into a bar. Oh. . . Keelah. And the cat. Don't forget the cat._

As they headed out to the pool, sure enough, the snow leopard paced along at Makur's heels. And _hissed_ when the krogan got into the water. "Come along or stay here," Makur told Snowflake. "Make up your own damn mind."

The leopard hissed again, and padded off around the side of the pool, looking over repeatedly, as if to say, _Foolish creatures. There __is__ a way around the wet place._

Zhasa laughed and pulled Fors onto her shoulders, and started to walk out into the water at Makur's side, watching the sides of the pool. "Your beast reminds me of the _pevii_," she commented. "As humans are most closely related to chimpanzees and monkeys—"

"Pyjacks," Makur offered, chuckling.

"—so are quarians most closely related to _pevii_ on Rannoch."

"And _pevii_ look like Cat over there?"

"Somewhat. Fewer spots. Partially bipedal, since they _are_ relatives." They'd reached the wall now, and Zhasa's head was underwater. Not that it mattered. Her suit protected her, and she was talking over the radio, anyway. She made sure she had the rope slung over her shoulders. "You have a good grip, Fors?"

"Do whatever you're going to do, quarian," Makur said, a little impatiently.

Zhasa looked up through the wavering surface of the water, and _leaped_ to the top of the wall. One fluid, biotically-assisted move; her hands were on Fors' legs, keeping him in place as she landed in a deep crouch atop the wall, which reverberated under the impact and the inertia for a moment.

**Rellus**

Cheers went up from the watching candidates, and not a few gasps. "Did Makur just _throw_ her?" Rel asked, leaning forward.

Dempsey shook his head. "No. She's got a couple of biotic moves I've never seen anyone else use before. She can do that to get to someone in combat, and to jump down from really fuckin' tall places without killing herself. She said she had to use it on Illium once. Fifty story fall, completely mitigated. A lot of biotics can do that with a lift ability, but hers is more like she's throwing herself. There's inertia, as opposed to decreasing the effect of gravity on the body." The human's voice was calm and remote, and he might as well have been describing particle physics as far as Rel was concerned. He _wasn't_ a biotic. . . but he could see an ability with enormous potential for application. "Handy," he murmured.

"That's the offense," Dempsey murmured. "Wait till you see defense."

More cheers and not a few laughs started all around them as Makur, hanging onto the end of the rope, simply lifted off the ground, drifting uncertainly here and there for a moment, until Zhasa stepped off into space on the other side of the wall. Her weight tugged Makur over and down, and instead of falling to earth, she slowly descended, herself, and then proceeded to _pull_ Makur down, reeling him in. . . until Fors evidently had had enough, and made a little dismissing gesture. At which point Makur fell the last five feet to the ground, and Snowflake moved over to sniff him.

Then the suited pair moved to the door, and Makur, ignoring the offered boots and coat, set off into the snow. The assembled candidates hushed and watched the proceedings on the screen.

Dempsey actually snickered as they hit the first turrets. "All three of them are biotic. All three of them have shields. . . but Zhasa's like me. Double shields." Indeed, the quarian was poking her head out of cover, studying the turrets. Then she did something with her omnitool. . . and suddenly, the turret closest to her spun around and disabled itself. Overloaded. "Atta girl," Dempsey told the quarian on the screen. "Slow that way, but. . . "

Makur had apparently come to the same conclusion, and simply stood up and started to walk into the fire from the next turret over, Snowflake at his heels. Zhasa moved forward, and with what looked like complete exasperation, held up her hands. . . and suddenly, _none_ of the paintballs were reaching them. Rel and Rinus both leaned forward at that point. "They're impacting ten feet away, at least," Rinus muttered. "How much force can she repel?"

"Haven't found the upper end yet. Haven't wanted to test it with live ammo," Dempsey told them, leaning back, his eyes distant and his face calm. "Do know that it held off an explosion in the Dymion shipyards. Arc welding kit went a little kaboom on us. She can't walk or fire a gun while doing it, though."

Makur had already solved that problem, though. He picked up Fors and put the volus—who looked to be protesting—on Snowflake's back. Then he simply picked up Zhasa and moved forward, periodically firing at the turrets on his way past, while Fors held onto Snowflake for dear life.

Laughter rang out again, but then the biotic trio hit the final area, and the laughter started to fade. Zhasa and Makur were damned near impregnable, standing in front of Fors, while the volus peeked out from behind their legs and . . . did unpleasant things to the Spectres attacking them. Mordin Alesh and Urdnot Gris simply froze in place, and Snowflake streaked out, and rose up on his hind legs and _smiled_ in Gris' face at close range. After a moment of holding off sniper fire, Makur simply pointed in a given direction, and Fors lifted Garrus out of hiding with a singularity.

Zero wounds. Time to objective, the shortest of any team. Applause rang out on all sides as Zhasa, Makur, Fors, and Snowflake came back into the pool area, and Zhasa curled up at Dempsey's feet, tilting her head to look up at him. "That was _fun._ I want to go do that again," she said, and Rel shook his head.

There was only one team left, and Rel's crop tightened as Dara, in a one-piece swimsuit and yellow clan paint, Eli in swim trunks and violet clan-paint, and an absolutely _enormous_ elcor came out when called. "Sidonis, Elijah. Thelldaroon. Velnaran, Dara. Front and center."

**Elijah**

They'd heard laughter and _cheers_ for the last group, which had at least boded well. "Going to be hard to match whatever they're doing," Eli commented. "Fors is probably laying _waste_ to the final target area with his biotics."

They'd had _plenty_ of time to figure out their own tactics, at least. "I do not know if your idea will work," Thelldaroon told them. "But I am grateful that you are willing to make this attempt." He lifted his own 'grenade launcher,' Eli's pistol, and Dara's rifle; each was in a harness, at least, which the elcor slid over one massive shoulder. He also was going to carry a shield for Eli. Dara hooked high-weight pulley-and-tackle into her swimsuit, and Eli slung the rope over his shoulders. They'd spent a _lot_ of time at the table, reading the tensile strength notes on each rope and pulley/tackle combination available, before settling on this one. As Dara had pointed out. . . the exercise didn't begin till they came to the line. It only made sense to _use_ the time they had.

"On your marks!" Sam called from above. The pool area had gone deathly silent, for some reason. Dara and Eli headed to the edge of the pool and Thelldaroon shambled up behind them. Eli reached down, stretching shoulders and back muscles, loosening his arms. Then he turned his head and winked at Dara. She caught the look, and started to laugh.

"Get set. . . . _go!_"

Both humans _leaped_ into the water, shallow dives, and Eli came up in a cloud of bubbles. Pure butterfly. Dara had never learned it, couldn't match it for speed, but was pulling behind him at a fast-paced crawl. Thelldaroon plowed through the water behind them, clearly _covering_ them with his weapon at the ready.

Eli hit the far end, slapping the wall with his hand, and stood up. Six foot depth meant he _could_ stand here, with four inches to spare. Dara couldn't even come close, but that wasn't the point right now. He unlooped the rope he was carrying as she came to a halt beside him, and they ran the end of the rope through the pulley; the pulley was what _she_ was about to carry. "Ready?" Eli asked, and put his hands around her waist.

"Ready!' Dara told him, and Eli lifted, damned near throwing Dara at the wall, catching one of her feet and steadying her as she latched on and started scrambling up, trailing the rope behind her. Thelldaroon was now halfway across the pool, and Dara was halfway up the wall. _C'mon, up you go. I remember how much you hate heights, but damn, you've definitely learned how to hide it, haven't you._ Eli leaned back, watching Dara's legs and wincing as her foot slipped near the top. . . and then she pulled herself up by arm strength at the last. She looped the rope carefully, and positioned the pulley and tackle, locking it into place with its connectors.

"You got it locked?" Eli called up.

"Yeah, come on up."

By that point, Thelldaroon had arrived, and as Eli pulled himself out of the water with the rope, the elcor reached out and put the harnesses around Eli's outstretched left arm—keeping the weapons out of the water.

With a rope, the wall was a trivial obstacle. Eli found his hand clasped near the top, and Dara added her strength to his, and then they were both crouched at the top, grinning at each other. Then they both leaned down. "Come on, can you wrap it like a harness, like we showed you?" Dara called down.

"I am endeavoring to do so," the elcor replied, with dignity, and eventually got wrapped up in the end of the rope, as best he could.

"This would work a _hell_ of a lot better, _sai'kaea_, if you'd had the decency to put on some weight," Eli told Dara cheerfully. "As is, Makur or Rinus or Rel or hell, even Lin, would be a better option for this. Between the two of us? Not even four hundred pounds."

"That's why we're going to hope he can take some of the weight off by using the hand grips on the wall," Dara muttered, and frowned up at him. "Am I going to have to give in and learn asari now, just to figure out what you're saying?"

Eli grinned. "Yeah. Or, you know, you could just _ask_ me." They undid the knot that had held the far end of the rope in place, threaded, as it was, through the pulley. Then they pulled it around themselves, and, facing each other, dropped off the wall.

They'd measured and estimated very carefully; the rope went taut, and they could _feel_ Thelldaroon's bulk starting to move on the far side. Eli's arms _ached_ from the strain of holding onto the rope above them. . . but now, instead of dangling freely, they had to turn, brace their feet against the wall. . .and start putting leg muscle into it. Inch by inch, and then some of the weight came off for them. "You got a hand-hold?" Eli shouted.

"Affirmative," Thelldaroon called back, a low rumble. The wall shook as the elcor began to climb up it.

"God, I hope this thing isn't going to tip over on us," Dara muttered.

"You think of that _now?_" Eli grunted, as their feet hit the ground and they both started backing up, still pulling, still putting their full weights into it.

"And you _didn't_ either, Elijah Sidonis."

"Yeah, but you're the . . . smart one. . . ._Doctor_ Velnaran."

At that point, Thelldaroon made it to the top, and suddenly, applause broke out from every direction as the two humans paused, winded and rope-burned, and just shook their heads. Thelldaroon dangled over the edge, and simply eased himself to the ground now. _Eased_ being a relative term, of course; it was still a jarring thump.

Eli grabbed a coat and boots; Dara did the same, and then Eli handed over the various weapons, taking his shield from Thelldaroon and making sure his pistol was loaded and ready. "Okay," Eli said, grinning. "Hard part's over, right?"

**Shepard**

Shepard took the opportunity to turn and look at Sam and Lantar as Eli and Dara headed out of the pool enclosure. "Did you _tell_ them about this exercise?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest. Her tone was mock-censorious.

"No, ma'am," Sam said, grinning. "Not this year, and not six years ago. And neither of them were here for _this_ event."

"That was all _them_," Lantar said, grinning just as widely.

Serana had moved into the VIP area from the main crowd venue for this portion of the event, and she was beaming. "Did you _see_ that?" she said, proudly. "Strength of mind, strength of body, strength of spirit."

_From both of them_, Shepard thought. _Now for the other half. And what can we see about this __elcor__ candidate, anyway?_

**Dara**

Crunch of well-trodden snow underfoot. Dara immediately tucked down into a defensive crouch just outside the door. Eli moved instantly to cover her. She'd wondered about the shield, but as the first turret spun up and fired on them, she suddenly thought it was a _great_ idea. Especially since it kept their energy shields from being degraded. As the turret's fire faltered, Dara pulled out of the partial cover of the shield, and fired, double-tap, striking the turret's target area cleanly, shutting it down.

"There will be more of them," Thelldaroon told them calmly, striding out of the pool house. "Maikos turrets are usually sold in sets of ten. This variety is networked to each other. Which means I can use one to affect all the rest."

"You can hack them?" Eli asked.

"Affirmative. I will need the next active node in the cluster. Here. I will send a combat drone with you to try to attract the next turret's attention." The elcor released a drone the size of a moth from a compartment in his huge omnitool; the drone them put out a shield of light and energy around itself, and hovered off.

"Let's go," Dara told Eli, and they moved off, Dara staying behind Eli as they moved from one area of cover to another.

They caught fire near a large boulder, and Eli tucked them both down, keeping the shield between them and the turret. "Come on, Thelldaroon," he shouted back.

"Not to worry," the elcor replied, lumbering up and sending his drone in ahead of him. The turrets turned on the drone, and then on the elcor himself as he calmly stood in the middle of the firing zone and finished his hacking attempt.

And with that, the turrets turned off, and began opening fire on someone or something _ahead_ of them.

"Thell?" Dara said. "How fast can you move?"

"Stand to the side. I would not wish you to be trampled," the elcor warned, and then took off at what was, for his species, a run. It was steady, and it was inexorable, and while still slow, was at least a pace that Eli and Dara could stay behind him at, without feeling a need to overrun him. Best of all, using the elcor's bulk as a shield meant that any number of bullets were being simply _absorbed_ by Thelldaroon.

**Shepard**

Looking at the rather gloating smiles on Sam and Lantar's faces, Shepard keyed her omnitool. "Mordin Alesh? Make this a little more interesting, would you? Re-hack the turrets."

Sam groaned. "You _really_ want that fifty credits, don't you, Shepard?"

Lilu grinned at him. "It's not a _challenge_ at the moment."

Lantar scowled. "I didn't hear you making it harder on Rellus' squad, or on the all-biotic team."

Shepard grinned at them merrily. "I have my reasons."

"Fifty of them," Sam muttered.

**Elijah**

_Cha-chock-cha-chock-cha-chock._ Impacts from behind. Eli spun, getting his shield up in time to keep himself from being splattered by red paint. "Thell! I think your handiwork just came undone behind us!" he shouted.

'So it would appear," the elcor replied calmly. "Working."

"No time," Dara said, and leaned out around Eli's sheltering arm, taking out the two closest turrets with fast, precise shots. "Eli, what have we got in the way of _live_ targets around here?"

He pulled her head down as another shot winged by overhead. "Someone on the roof over there doesn't like us much. Think they've got a tech guy off to the north, and—" Thelldaroon's shields _warped_ and fizzled beside them. "Yeah. Biotic, I think. Probably to the right. Haven't got eyes on any of them." He wasn't quite yelling, but he was making himself heard.

"Thell! Put down a grenade on that roof over there!" Dara called. "Eli, you and me. . . right."

The elcor splattered the roof of the nearby building with red paint, and Eli and Dara started moving, low crouch. . . and then they were damned near face-to-face with Gris. The krogan's 'shotgun' blast went around the edge of the shield and caught Dara's arm, but Eli emptied a paintball clip into the krogan at close range. . . and Dara turned, apparently catching sight of something in the trees, and caught Mordin Alesh at close range. Double-tap, center chest.

"How the _hell_ did you see him?" Eli asked, still crouching.

Dara put a fingertip beside one eye. "Have I mentioned that this was the single best gene mod I ever opted for?"

Thelldaroon lumbered up to join them, just as a familiar voice called out, "Spectre team is down. Candidate team, go to the line for your marksmanship drill."

"One moment," Dara called back. Then she safed her rifle and tore off the sleeve of her jacket and began 'field-dressing' her own arm.

Eli started to _laugh._ "Do you _ever_ stop?" he asked her.

Dara looked up at him and half-smiled. "Nope. And I'll be damned if I let them count points off, either." She looked up at Thelldaroon. "Did they get you anywhere?"

"Nothing that would have penetrated the skin," the elcor rumbled.

"You, Eli?"

Elijah checked himself, just as Dara was doing, a quick light pass of her hands over legs, arms, and torso, looking for paint, essentially. "Seem to be clean," he told her. "Come on. Let's go show 'em what a good shot you are."

Neither of them were expecting applause when they came back in. Eli wasn't expecting Serana to run right up to him and half-tackle him either. He laughed down at her. "What's the big deal?"

"Shepard had them turn up the difficulty on you there at the end," Serana told him, shouting to be heard through the noise. "So not only are the two of you the _only_ people to have ever gotten an elcor through this test, but apparently, Shepard owes _both_ of your dads fifty credits."

Eli's shoulders started to shake, and he gave Serana a quick forehead touch, before leaning down to ask Dara, who'd settled into place on a bench beside Rel, "Did you hear that?"

"Yeah. What I want to know is, do you think our dads will give us a cut?" she half-shouted back.

"Nah."

_**Author's note:**__ For some really amazing piano covers of rock music, check these out: http:/ www . / watch?v=4_3whe5_G2g (__One__, by Metallica)_

_vkgoeswild does very nice piano work overall; check out her cover of __3 Libras__ while you're there: http:/ www. youtube. com/ watch?v=rfyI6FUdQqw she even does a cover of Pantera's __Cowboy's from Hell__. http:/ www. youtube. com/ watch?v=bg4h0BIbC0Y&feature=related that my husband was actually mildly bopping along to. I think smoke should have been pouring out of her fingertips on this one._

_And if you aren't convinced that rock can be __amazing__ on a piano. . . . __Laterallus__ on the piano: http:/ www. youtube. com / watch?v=zOGCDc34m-4&feature=related . . . .just listen to it. _


	101. Chapter 101: Tribulation

**Chapter 101: Tribulations**

_**Author's note**__: On the bonus chapter: At the __moment__, it's not canonical, yo'. I did have an enormous amount of fun writing it, and for those of you who understood the emotional content, and it worked for you. . .awesome, and thank you. Your comments have been very uplifting. It's nice to know that the fact that I cried while writing some of it did not go for naught. Dara has many, many regrets by this point in her life. It's tough to see in someone who's only 20 or so, but she's lived a lot._

_Thank you also for those have read carefully for noticing that Eli and Dara have quietly and unspokenly loved each other since chapter 6 or so. Yes, they 'broke up.' Yes, they're currently with other people. But I can't even begin to count the number of times they've bitten back jealousy of each others' significant others (Rel, Kella, Siara, anyone?). The fact that Eli visited Dara's hospital room four days in a row to stroke her hair when she was unconscious from the poisoning? The fact that Dara has never, even once, forgotten Eli's birthday, even in the middle of OCS? The fact that he calls her __sai'kaea__? The fact that Serana isn't even remotely jealous of this, but is perfectly cognizant of it, even if both of them are deep in denial? Established chapters and chapters ago. Very __obvious__. . . and very much in character._

_One last thing to note about that bonus chapter: Every character was ALIVE and HAPPY. There is no guarantee that they will all be either or both at the end of __Victory__. ;-)_

_That being said, here are some of my current writing concerns__. Rel's voice got lost somewhere in the four years of skipped time. On re-reading the last 15 chapters or so, I think his voice actually died for me somewhere between Khar'sharn, Illium, and Bastion. He was alive and well on Macedyn for their __tal'mae__ rites. He was still there when he first went MIA, and tried to send his spirit to Dara, if he died. . . . and sometime after that, he vanished. Lost in transmission. Not sure why. If I could pinpoint when, I might figure out what caused it, but I think the loss of the sense of humor and fun for him was a big part of it._

_Some of this is a natural result of him being in a different place doing different things. He's not a kid on Mindoir anymore; he's a special forces soldier and he's __good__ at it. It's heightened his aggression and diminished his good nature and the calmness he used to be noted for. He's stagnant, because he's reached the end of his original character arc. That's the __author__ level; a character that goes stagnant/has nothing left to learn is boring. _

_That being said, by the end of Unity, Rel had __never made a real mistake__. He's never had __anyone__ say __no__ to him, other than Sam, and even that was more of a 'Later. When you've earned it.' He hasn't had some of the tough, bitter lessons of the other characters. Even Dara has lost patients. Even Dara has been told no. Eli has been told 'no' the most of any character in the story. . . and is now the most interesting and dynamic, as a result._

_Rel has, absolutely __loved__ the past four or five years of his life. He's gotten to fight almost every day (except on Sur'Kesh, where he was visibly bored). He's had a loving and attentive wife take care of him every minute she's been able to do so. Other than going MIA for ten days, it's been a __romp__ for him. . . and it's come as a __shock__ to him to realize that Dara hasn't been having fun. That four years of non-stop stress isn't actually good for a human. That isolating Dara almost as much as Eli was isolated on Edessan wasn't good for either human. Eli was depressed. He gets depressed loudly, because he lashes out verbally when he's angry (which is what non-chemical depression is; anger turned inwards). Dara doesn't. She goes silent._

_I don't know what the future now holds for them. But it will be interesting finding out. _

_**And any way I go, whatever ending becomes canonical won't be up for a vote. **_

**AI Network; Earth Orbit; the **_**Catasta**_**. June 6-8, 2196**

The _Leviathan_-class carrier moved smoothly into position. The _Moscow,_ the _Iwo Jima_, and the _Midway_ were ahead of her, spreading their shields out, warping their usual deflective patterns to catch more spray.

—_This would be easier if we had an AI on the __Castata__, too,_ Tanith, the NCAI of the _Midway_ noted. Her pilot was struggling with the enormous amount of debris and gas flooding the nose of the ship, pouring out of the comet as they fell in behind it. But she was compensating, locked in perfect harmony with her sisters, Kyllikki and Asherah.

—_No one ever promised us a __perfect__ world._ Asherah had a distinct sense of humor.

—_I don't remember anyone ever promising us anything at all._ Kylikki's voice was a little sharper than either of her sisters. _Watch yourselves. I'm getting a __lot__ of out-gassing over here._

The _Catasta_ moved in behind them, expertly guided by its pilot, Macenus, and under the direction of someone that many of the Mindoir Spectre candidates would have known. Recognized. Trusted. Captain Jallus had moved up to the carrier fleet at last, and this was, in actuality, his first mission with the _Catasta._ _Here's hoping it also won't be my last_, he thought, more than a little grimly.

The crew had disembarked at Dymion and they'd flown straight here through the new relay system. He'd read the proposal three times, and had chuckled to himself at the names at the end of the report. _All right, __Dominus__ Velnaran. Let's see if your ability to pull an acrocanth's teeth holds true and steady._

The pilot of the _Catasta_ slid them closer. For the moment, they were holding up their own shields; in about ten minutes, they were going to be completely dependent on the SR-1s ahead of them for that vital defense. "All human-flag ships," Macenus noted. He'd been delighted when Jallus had requested him for carrier duty. Jallus suspected that the male was somewhat less so right now. If the mission worked, they'd both get _aes clipeus_ out of it, at _least_. If not. . . they were probably going to die. Or large, large numbers of people on Terra would.

"They're just as good of pilots as turians," Jallus said, calmly. The rest of the bridge was deserted; they had a skeleton crew of about two hundred people, on a ship that normally housed ten thousand.

"My mind knows that, Captain. My crop isn't convinced." Macenus delicately fired the maneuvering thrusters. A _Leviathan_ was not precisely maneuverable. He toggled the radio. "_Moscow?_ We're still getting some spray coming through. Fist-sized chunks of ice."

"There's a small gap. Moving closer to the _Iwo Jima_ to compensate," a pleasant female human voice came back.

Jallus looked at the read-outs flickering over Macenus' head. "We're down to mostly sand-grain sized particulate matter now," he said. "Prepare to drop shields."

This was one of the more nerve-wracking aspects of the mission. They were going to have to direct almost all power from the enormous mass effect engine into the mass effect driver that had been brought from Aphras especially for this effort. They would have chemical maneuvering jets to lightly adjust their course, but large maneuvers weren't going to happen. They would be relying on momentum almost entirely to keep their course matched with the comet's.

Life support was going to be shut down—which was fine. A ship the size of the _Catasta_ had enough atmospheric volume for a crew of two hundred to breathe for weeks even without CO2 scrubbing. Heat wouldn't be an issue for hours. Lights. . . reduced to emergency panels, only. Computers. . . already largely shut down. Artificial gravity would also be shut down. But shields? Those hurt to lose. One wrong move by the ships ahead of them, and there would be hull damage. And if the damned comet _did_ have failsafes. . . _well, at this range, even shields probably wouldn't save us,_ Jallus admitted. But his scales crawled, anyway.

"We're in position," Macenus said.

Jallus tabbed the interior comms. "All right. We all know why we're here. We all know what's at stake. Do your jobs, and may the spirits hold us in their sheltering hands. Whatever the outcome." He paused. "Begin life support shut down."

He went through his checklist, hooking his feet under a bar when he called for artificial gravity to be cut. The CIC went dark, except for Macenus' control panels. "_Moscow, Iwo Jima, Midway_, we are ready to cut primary propulsion and drop shields. Secondary propulsion will remain online. In five. . . four. . . three. . . two. . . one. . . cut propulsion."

Macenus touched his screens, and Jallus could _feel_ the hum of the propulsion system under his feet fade away. The _Catasta_ was usually a constant hum of soft noises. Ventilation shafts. Generators. Computers. People. Voices. And, of course, the perpetual thrum of the engines themselves. Hearing _nothing_ was actually deeply disturbing. It meant that something had gone horribly wrong, on a ship. Silence was death. Jallus' crop tightened. Only the engine itself was still online. And the shields. "All right," he said. "Dropping shields in five. . . four. . . three. . . two. . . one. . . mark."

Ahead of them, the comet was a dark, dirty mass, blocking out some of the light of Sol. It shadowed the SR-1s, and a thin stream of gleaming gray debris tumbled back from it; the SR-1s' shields were lit up now, light blue spheres, against which the debris was bouncing, redirecting, showering away. Jallus could _feel_ the impacts now. "How's our speed holding?" he asked, sharply. Friction and impacts _would_ slow them.

"We're decelerating, but it's within expected parameters," Macenus replied crisply.

"Then let's do this," Jallus said, and keyed the intercom again. "Bring mass driver on-line."

The engineering crew had worked for three days to get this monstrous piece of equipment hooked up and online. Each mass driver was the size of a house, and there were, literally, a hundred or so of them on each moon that had been moved into the orbits of Aphras and Tosal Nym. A comet was a hell of a lot smaller than those moons. If powered correctly, this single mass driver _should_ have enough mass effect potential to affect the entire comet. The question was, would the _Catasta_ have enough engine to power it? Or were they looking at a mission failure? Worse yet, even though every connection had been double and triple checked, what if they shorted out? Blew out the engine?

The engineering team reported back, sounding breathless, "Mass driver online, Captain. We're ready to go."

"Engage the driver," Jallus said, and put his hands on the back of Macenus' chair.

"We're _really_ going to try to jump this out of the system?" Macenus said, quietly.

"That's the decision of the Alliance."

"Risky."

"Yes. . . but they don't want to take a chance on it blowing anywhere else in the system, either. Hell of a gamble, Macenus. They've definitely got _teeth_." Jallus nodded to himself. "All ships? Move up."

Flying in closer now, tightening the formation. Particles from the SR-1s drives pours back onto the _Catasta_ now, too, ionized and glowing faintly against the shadows. And as the mass driver began to spin up, a bubble in space-time began to form around the massive ship. Pushing outwards, brushing away the particles and debris for a moment, pushing further, like a soap-bubble blown by an eager toddler, or by the mind of a god. Further, encompassing the three other ships. "Take us closer."

"Chemical jets at seventy-five percent of maximum burn," Macenus reminded him, and edged them closer. Scarcely one hundred feet from the SR-1s. "Mass driver at forty percent maximum output."

In the dark of space, they couldn't hear the words, but words flowed all around them, nonetheless. –_This had better work._

–_You worry too much, Kylliki._

–_If any of us even __flinch__, we're going to have the __Catasta__ up our backsides, and I don't think that ship is going to __notice__ that it's run over us._

Jallus swallowed. "Increase mass driver output," he called down to the engine room.

The bubble in space-time expanded. Just barely visible to the naked eye, it grew. It spread. It rippled. Fifty percent, sixty, seventy. "_Moscow_, do you have readings on how much of the comet's covered?"

"We've got a spotter ship out ahead," _Moscow_ reported back. "They say twenty percent of the comet is still outside the mass effect field."

_So far, so good,_ Jallus thought. "Increase output."

Eighty percent. Ninety. . . ninety-five.

"Comet is completely within the mass effect field," _Moscow_ reported. Again, a soft, human female voice. Jallus didn't know if that was the pilot or the AI or the captain, but in any event, he was grateful that she sounded _calm_.

"Macenus," he said, quietly.

"Aye, Captain?"

"Input coordinates."

Macenus swallowed audibly, and complied. The remaining five percent of the mass driver's energy could be used now for propulsion. One fast _hop_ out of the grip of Sol's gravity. "All ships, this is the _Catasta_," Jallus said. "Prepare for FTL jump on my mark."

This was probably the riskiest moment. If there were failsafes, this is when they would explode. Even if there _weren't_ failsafes, the chances of one or more of the SR-1s _not_ flying with perfect precision. . . they could plow into the comet. Could plow into the _Catasta._

Jallus inhaled. Exhaled. "Been nice serving with you, Macenus."

"It's been an honor, Captain."

"Five. . . four. . . three. . . two. . . one. . . mark."

Macenus touched the consoles, and the universe shifted from red to blue, and the four ships and the comet _vanished_ out of the solar system.

Thirty seconds later, Jallus finally inhaled again. "So. We're not dead."

"Unless the spirits are very late in collecting us to join them, so it would seem, sir." Macenus was _very_ busy with his consoles at the moment.

The _Catasta_ _groaned_ under the strain. Her engines were _not_ built for this, but she was doing the best she could. Jallus' claws scored the back of Macenus' pilot chair. "How much longer until burn is complete?"

"Thirty seconds," Macenus replied, sharply. His hands were moving on the consoles like a conductor at a symphony. The male was a conservative pilot; none of the flair of Kallixta Velnaran. But Jallus wouldn't have traded Macenus for the world right now. _The right person in the right place at the right time_, he thought.

"Cut propulsion in fifteen seconds. Begin braking maneuvers, and shut down mass driver."

The chemical jets cooled, and then a secondary, braking set began to fire, easing them away from the comet. The mass effect field began to break up as the mass driver began to shut down, and the comet, purely ballistic now, and a full light-year from Sol, continued to tumble into deep space. _Now for the fun part,_ Jallus thought. _Now, they can either land someone on the damn thing safely and recover any devices and evidence. . . not a job __I__ personally want, thank you. . . or we can blow the damn thing to pieces. Either way, the decision's above my paygrade._

He offered Macenus a wrist-clasp. "Very nicely done."

"Thank you, captain." The pilot bared teeth. "You want to tell me who came up with this _s'kak-_crazy plan now?"

Jallus snickered. "Kallixta and Rinus Velnaran."

Macenus exhaled and muttered, "Scale me. Those two are _still_ out to get me, huh?"

The SR-1s arced out of the comet's tail now, and the _Catasta_ began spinning up her normal drives. "Let's go get our people back aboard," Jallus said, relaxing a little as the ventilation and the lights and all the normal sounds came back online, and his feet once more solidly touched the deckplates. "We've got a war to fight."

**Dara, Mindoir, June 6-7, 2196**

One member of Rel and Dempsey's team, the asari, was excused, and left in a high dudgeon. Some of the candidates who were excused after the first exercise took it better than others; almost no one wept, but there were stony glares as the group and individual times went up on the boards. Shepard got on the microphone to explain: "Teams that had strong enough teamwork to work together get a bonus. Teams that got through without a fatality or a capture got a bonus. Anyone who deliberately left a teammate behind is, for your benefit and theirs, excused."

Dara swallowed, and then she got a look at her, Eli, and Thelldaroon's score. "Holy _futtari s'kak_," she whispered. "Eli, do you _see_ that?"

Eli was nodding fervently. "Not as _fast_ as Zhasa, Fors, and Makur. . . they got the top score overall. . . but we're _second_." He had Serana under one arm on the bench to his right, but leaned over and hugged Dara with his left. "Nice thinking."

"Hey, you're the one who found the pulley and had the idea." She couldn't help the smile.

"And you're the one who bettered our score at the end—look. Says there that even light wounds counted against us, unless medical treatment was administered. That's _all_ you," Eli told her, grinning down.

"And we did stand together, only separating near the end, when there was fire on all sides, including behind us," Thelldaroon rumbled down at them.

Dara looked up at the elcor, smiling slightly still. "Well, you _do_ make an excellent bunker to hide in. Behind. Whichever." She remembered, clearly, the rattle as the paintballs had struck the shield Eli had slammed into place between them and harm, however. "I guess those shields you and Lin use are probably considered too heavy for military in the field, but _damn_ I wish I'd had one when I crawled out past that 'deactivated' turret a few years ago to treat that one marine."

"That one of your _blue_ ribbons?" Eli's voice had gone a little taut. Serana glanced up at him.

Dara grimaced. "Yeah. Unfortunately." The last time he'd seen her, last October, she'd had three. She'd added another since then, and _didn't_ want to tell him that.

Rel was wincing at his and Dempsey's score; the asari girl taking off ahead of them had lost them a teamwork bonus. "Seems a little unfair to penalize us for her stupidity," Dempsey muttered.

Rel shrugged. "Yeah, but I guess the theory is, we should have demonstrated better leadership and kept her with us." He looked a little dispirited, and shook his head. "And I have no _idea_ what I could have said to her to make her stay put."

Dempsey snorted. "Well, I could've knocked her _out_. . . "

Lin shrugged. "I thought it was pretty _obvious_ that we were supposed to stay together," he commented easily. "I didn't even think to point it out once we got past the wall."

Rinus' team had had a fatality. Rel's team had had a capture. Lin's team had had neither, but had been a bit slow on time. None of them could match Zhasa, Fors and Makur's team for time, and they'd gotten a teamwork bonus, too. Dara, Eli, and Thelldaroon had gotten two bonuses; one for the higher difficulty level at the end, and one for the never-before-accomplished teamwork feat of getting an elcor over the damned wall. Dara rested a hand on Rel's shoulder lightly. "Tomorrow's another day," she offered, after a minute.

"I know," he said, frowning. "Just trying to figure out what I should have done differently."

Dempsey shrugged. "We're still in, man. More than _I_ expected, really. Mad's going to be thrilled that I didn't wash out the first day."

Dara looked up with a half-smile. "You sound like my dad, six years ago."

"Or mine," Eli said, getting to his feet, and letting Serana pick their way out of the stands.

Dara remained seated next to Rel. "There might not have _been_ anything else _to_ do," she offered, quietly, after a moment. "Can't control every element of the combat situation."

Rel sighed. "I know. I'm just used to turian marines, I guess. Didn't even expect her to go off like that. I can't imagine a turian doing that. And yet, I _should_ have expected it."

Dara shrugged. "Don't know why you think that. The asari on Lin's team didn't run off ahead."

Rel just shook his head. "Never mind. I'm just second-guessing. Let's go."

Outside the pool facility, Emily Wong and Galenus Eleutherius were interviewing everyone who'd passed. Wong had pinned down Eli and Serana, and now waved to Rel and Dara. "_S'kak_," Rel muttered. "Not really in the mood for this right now."

"As your aunt used to remind us often, it's part of the job," Dara told him. _Let's face the music and get it over with._

Wong was smiling at Eli now. "And this is your wife?"

"Yes, Serana. Although, given her work in the turian military, it's probably best—" Eli hesitated, and glanced down at Serana.

Serana picked it up with aplomb. "I work with classified materials, Ms. Wong. It's better that if you feel a need to film me, that you do so from angles that biometric recognition software will have difficulty reading me from."

"It's still relatively unusual for a human man to marry a turian female, isn't it?" Emily Wong had a way of asking questions that were blunt, but with a smile on her face that gentled the inquiries. Made it almost impossible to take offense at.

Eli smiled down at Serana, and Dara warmed at the _glow_ that passed between them. And, oddly enough, envied it, too. "It's not terribly common yet, and has all its own challenges," Eli said, carefully, "but what marriage doesn't?"

At that point, Dara and Rel were close enough now for Wong to turn and start to ask them some questions. "Dr. Velnaran, Agent Sidonis, your team did particularly well. What would you attribute that to?"

Dara flicked a glance Eli's way, and got a shrug back. _Great. My turn. Thanks._ "Really, nothing more than teamwork," Dara said carefully. "We knew we had certain obstacles ahead of us, and took the time to think about how to resolve it. I'm sure that other tests in the next few days will require decision-making at a much greater rate of speed. We probably won't have time to think it out ahead of time." She glanced at Rel as she spoke, hoping he'd take comfort from her words. That not every exercise was going to test for the same things. _No different than boot camp, in a way. Little more compressed. Well. . . different, too. In boot camp, they were trying to erase the old and instill the new. Here. . . they want to see what's there._

"And Agent Sidonis, would it be possible for my colleague and I to visit you and your wife at your father's house this evening? I'd love a chance to speak with your mother and father and see your siblings again." Wong's smile was at maximum wattage now, and Dara slid a hand up over her mouth at Eli's expression._ Ah, Eli. You want to protect them, don't you. Then again. . . three hybrid siblings and a salarian sister by adoption. . . I wouldn't want them on the extranet, either._

"I'm staying at the candidate's barracks," Eli managed, with a smile. "It's been important to me, as it has been, I think, for all the other, er, local candidates, that we not take advantage of our family connections. For example, Siara Tesala over there? Her step-father is Urdnot Gris, and I know she's not staying with her mother, Azala, and him, for the time being. . . "

_Nice try,_ Dara thought, amused. Wong looked, made a note, and went back to digging. Dara was just glad that Wong was mostly concentrating on her and Eli, when Wong _did_ turn and ask Rel, "Commander Velnaran? With one squad member disqualified from your team, I understand you'll be assigned someone new tomorrow. How do you expect to deal with this?"

Rel had stiffened slightly, and then visibly tried to relax. Reached out, took Dara's hand, which she hadn't expected in front of the cameras, and replied, "I won't know until I meet the new person. If they've passed this first day, I know that they must have good teamwork skills, at least. And everyone who's here is already pretty exceptional."

Emily smiled at them all. "Thank you."

Galenus Eleutherius was known for tough questions. Where Emily Wong liked to gain people's trust and let them open up to her, Galenus started out tough and stayed that way. . . but his questions were usually known to be fair. The turian reporter took his shots now. "Dr. Velnaran, I understand you were on Bastion, treating people there in the med bay before the Spectres called you here."

Dara nodded, throat tightening. "Yes, that's correct. Many of us here—Eli, his wife, my husband—all contracted the bio-engineered diseases and recovered. And then Siara Tesala and I worked in med bay, treating others, while Elijah, Linianus Pellarian, and my husband here worked with local law enforcement, dealing with the body situation and attempting to keep people calm."

Galenus nodded. "Since you're now in a place of relative safety, I'd like to know what your thoughts are, on the fact that in the sixth week of this plague, there are now a total of close to seven hundred thousand casualties on Bastion alone."

The words hit Dara like a bodyblow. Eli had been standing to Dara's right, and she felt his hand suddenly catch her elbow, which was her only clue that she'd curled in on herself for a moment. Rel's fingers tightened on hers for a moment, too. Dara could hear Eli responding for her, after a moment, "Eleutherius, I'm afraid we've been living under something of a news blackout since we came to the base. Even at our various relatives' homes, we've been locked out of news feeds. Dr. Velnaran wasn't quite prepared for that question." Smooth, calm, competent.

Dara took the moment or two to get control of her face and take a couple of deep breaths. Rel's fingers squeezed hers again, and she looked up. Didn't let the tears fall. Tried not to let the slight anger and guilt show. _In a place of safety, indeed._ "Eleutherius? Agent Sidonis is correct. I had no idea that the casualty list had gone that high. The last I'd heard, Pfizer was distributing vaccines that looked promising against the A strain of the pneumonia and the Skyllian flu, respectively. And that IntegroCorp had come up with a vaccine for the _comburo febris_—" Her voice faltered, and she struggled, again, for the turian stoicism she'd relied on now, for years. Tried to wipe her face blank. But _god,_ it was hard.

Galenus Eleutherius sighed. "Forgive me, Dr. Velnaran. I assumed that you knew. I assume then, that you also aren't aware of the casualty reports from Earth, then?"

Dara looked up at him. Her peripheral vision was grayed out. Nothing existed at the moment except for his face. "I know what the estimates were looking like before we left. Not what the actual totals currently are."

Wong winced and moved in. "Over three hundred million, Dr. Velnaran."

Dara closed her eyes. Eli's hand tightened on her elbow. Warmth on either side of her now. Bracketed by it as Eli and Rel both stepped in closer. Dara opened her eyes again, and looked at Eleutherius. "You want to know what I _think_ about that?" she asked.

"Yes." Simple answer. Letting her do the talking, now that she was primed.

"I think whoever is responsible should die. And I would really, really like to be the one who kills him or her." Clearly, carefully said. Each word with little rings of space around it. "I doubt that will happen, but a girl can dream." Dara looked right at reporter. "Did you have any other questions for me?"

Eleutherius cleared his throat. "Actually, I have one for all of you. You were there for the funeral of the Imperatrix, may the spirits take her to them. You heard the words of the Imperator, calling for war. Have you heard the words spoken in response by President Ivanov of the Systems Alliance?"

Four heads now shook. "News blackout," Eli said, tersely.

Eleutherius cued up his omnitool. President Ivanov appeared, and a small, tinny voice began to speak. "_"May Third, 2196. A date which will live in infamy. The last person to speak words such as these was Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the president of a single nation two hundred and fifty five years ago on Earth. These words were spoken after a devastating sneak attack by another nation, signaling the entry to the greatest conflict humanity had ever seen. But for all the lives that were lost that fateful day, those words were spoken in response to a clear attack, by military forces on a military target. The actions for which I repeat those words today are far more insidious and barbaric than can be imagined. The Systems Alliance, as well as millions throughout the galaxy, were indiscriminately attacked by an engineered biological weapon. . . . _

"_For such an act, there can be no negotiation. No compromise, no dialogue. Early this morning, I handed Admiral Hackett and the Alliance Fleet a blank check to do whatever is needed to bring justice to the perpetrators of this heinous act. And I say this to the leaders of the Batarian Hegemony . . . Turn over all members of the Klem Na. . . . _"

Galenus cleared his throat. "Needless to say, the Hegemony failed to meet this demand. The President continued, however. . . "

"_If these terms are not met, then our only other option is to hunt the Klem Na across the galaxy. We will never tire in that mission. We will destroy every safe haven, every port of refuge, and anyone who harbors them will know the price of aiding these terrorists. . . . And I now speak directly to the untold millions who have been cruelly enslaved by those who work with the Klem Na. We stand in solidarity with you. No matter what your government might have you believe, we do not kill indiscriminately. Every effort will be made to liberate you from the bondage you have been forced into. We have not, nor shall we ever forget you._

"_And as a final testament to the bonds of our allies, I offer you this. As you may know, the Imperatrix of the Turian Hierarchy was killed by the same plague attack that now ravages Earth. This morning, I called the Imperator directly to offer my own condolences, and those of the entire Alliance. And I shall repeat to you the same vow I made to him. _

"_Talu'am actum, tecisam actum.__ Your cause is now our cause." _

Rel's fingers had _clenched_ on Dara's hand, and she winced a little at the punishing grip. He released it long enough to give her a slightly apologetic glance. Eleutherius looked at them all inquiringly. "So, if I may ask for your reactions?"

Rel nodded, once. "I'd say that our causes have been each others' for a long time already. It's good that the rest of the galaxy is coming to know that."

Dara blinked. It was the right thing to say, and it could be taken very badly out of context. . . but it had been said. And when Rel said things like that, it was hard not to be inspired by them.

Eli nodded, himself now. "I think Ivanov just won himself his next term in office," Eli replied. Calmer, a little more humor in his voice. "But it's going to take a lot of work to make that all happen."

"And will you be a part of that work?" Galenus asked, quickly.

"If I have anything to say about it? Yes." Rel replied. "Now, we have other things we need to be doing—"

"Actually. . . one more question," Emily said, smiling. "And this is for all of you, but particularly for _Rinus_ Velnaran. We just got _this_ footage in from the Sol system. . . " And above _her_ omnitool, an image appeared. Three SR-1s and a _Leviathan_, all closing in on. . . a _comet_? Dara squinted at it.

Rinus and Kallixta had come over to watch, and Dara was very aware of the sudden tension in Rinus' body. The posture changed, became absolutely that of a hunter.

And then. . . a mass effect bubble appeared around all the ships, the comet. . . and then they blinked out of existence. Rinus was nodding with interest. "This was today?" he asked, his tone remote.

"Yes," Emily replied, smiling up at him blithely. "We're told that the comet was heading directly for the Luna shipyards or for Luna itself. . . and that it was packed with eezo. Preliminary estimates from the team sent to examine the comet, once it was moved out of Terra's orbit, indicate that it had over twelve hundred metric tones of eezo packed aboard it."

Dara's hands _clenched_. "We also understand that it was _your_ plan that was used to move the comet out of Sol's system," Galenus commented. "Can you confirm this?"

Rinus's face was completely blank. Only because Dara knew him _very_ well could she see _jubilation_ in his eyes. "I can't comment on any of that," he said, dryly. "Except that I'm pleased to see that Earth is no longer in danger from such an abhorrent attack."

_So __that's__ what he's been working on for the past two weeks_, Dara realized, numbly. _And he never said a __word__ about it to the rest of us. Well. . . shit. _ She wasn't an astrophysicist. She didn't know how much twelve hundred tons of eezo really was. It certainly sounded like a lot. Linianus had just moved into the vicinity of the group, however, and she could see his face. He'd gone gray under the scales. His father was a high energy explosives expert, after all.

"Thank you for your time," Emily said now. "Before we go, Galenus, I'd like to grab that human marine—James Dempsey. And maybe the quarian and volus candidates, before they hide from me again." She dimpled and moved off.

Dara turned to watch as Wong cornered Dempsey, and shook her head, still feeling a little dazed. _Seven hundred thousand on Bastion so far. My god. Did anything I did there matter at all?_ "That's. . . yeah, that's not good," Dara muttered. "We should probably give him a hand." She really didn't want to see the man go into an anger state if the wrong questions were asked. At least that was a concrete task.

Eli leaned down. "Want me to take care of it?" His voice was little more than a whisper. "You're still shaking, Dara."

Dara looked down, and realized that her hands _were_ trembling. _Damnit. They __never__ shake anymore. Damnit, damnit, damnit._ "Yeah. If you don't mind?"

"I got this. Just a different type of rescue mission, that's all." Eli gave her a quick grin, and moved off, with Serana, towards Dempsey.

Dara looked up at Rinus. "You didn't say a word," she said. It wasn't an angry statement. Just quiet. Security was security, she knew.

Rinus grimaced. "No, neither I nor Kallixta could, _amillula._"

Kallixta reached out, put a hand on Dara's shoulder. "They told us there was only so much stress all of you could take. Which is why they compartmentalize things like this. That, and, you know. Security."

Dara exhaled. "Yeah. I understand." She looked up at them both now. "I'm glad you were the ones working on it. And. . . I'm glad it worked." Too much, all at once. From the high of the competition, of _winning_, to this. A new low. Within minutes of each other. She asked, "How bad would it have been, if it went off?"

Rinus winced. "I don't like to speculate, and there hasn't been much information until _just now_—"

Lin's voice was sharp to her right. "Twelve hundred metric tons of eezo? That's not speculation, Rinus. That's _mathematics_." He moved over, looked down at Dara. "Enough to knock your moon out of its orbit, I think. I'd have to ask my father for the _real_ math on it. Certainly enough to disturb it. Recapture by Earth's gravity might not result in a stable orbit. Or chunks could be blasted out, landing on the planet itself. Blast radius would definitely wipe out the shipyards and might flash-fry most of the rest of your orbital stations, the tops of the space elevators. And would certainly ionize the upper levels of your atmosphere."

Dara took a deep breath. Thought about the moon not being in the sky over Earth anymore. No more tides. Axial tilt askew. All life in the sea affected. And with the seas, all life on earth affected, too. Twenty million people and more on Luna. Another two million in the space stations. And god only knew how many mutations and cancers from the radiation flooding through the atmosphere. "Thank you, Lin," she said, after a long moment, meeting his eyes. "When you get that answer from your dad, I'd like to hear it."

Rel sighed. "Does knowing make it _any_ better, _amatra_?"

Dara nodded, once. "It tells me what could have happened, and didn't." _And tells me that Lin respects me. Enough to give me an honest answer, without hesitation. _ "And that does help."

Rel pulled her away through the crowd, the line of his shoulders angry. "The reporters ambushed us," he muttered, once they were back in the barracks. "Ambushed you, in particular. And Rinus. . . they're fishing. Want to see which of us will crack and give them information."

Dara shook her head. "No. It's okay. They expected me to know all of the medical stuff. And they were looking for the emotional reaction. Because that's where the story is." Dara lay back on the bed in the barracks, covering her face with her hands. Felt the mattress sink beside her. "And I kind of wonder if Shepard _wanted_ them to see that kind of reaction." _Shepard_. Not _Aunt Lilu._ Not at the moment.

Rel stopped moving. "You think she's that manipulative?" His voice was surprised.

"I think that if she can kill two birds with one stone, she'd do it, yes." Dara's voice was empty. "The news blackout was probably originally intended to give us all a little mental breathing space. But not at least giving us the bare facts before the reporters came in? Gave them something to look at, to point the cameras at, when we reacted." She rolled over to her side and stared at the wall. _My god. Is the rest of my life going to be spent having to think about things like this?_

"_Amatra_. . . I don't think it was deliberate. Your father wouldn't stand for that, if nothing else," Rel pointed out, reasonably, and put a hand on her shoulder. Turned over himself, and put his arm around her.

"He would if he thought it was a good test," Dara replied, calmly. "A way to show me something." _Is there a lesson, Dad? Is this like making me help gut the first deer I shot? So that I understand that __dead__ is __dead__?_

The reporters were, at least, fair. They got to see their segments and got to withhold permission on some of the footage taken, during dinner in the mess hall. Dara was inclined to withhold permission on _all_ of her footage, but knew that was the coward's way out. _Fine. Let them see who I am. Weakness and all._ She cleared her throat and turned to Eli at the table, "I thought you were afraid you were going to have stage-fright. You're doing fine with the reporters."

"Eh. Variant on talking the jumper down," Eli told her lightly. "Keep the voice calm and the words slow, and you have plenty of time to think about what to say that'll have the best effect. You were doing fine until they jumped you with the death tolls." A quick, concerned glance. "You okay?"

A lump formed in her throat, and Dara quickly took a drink from her glass of water before replying, very quietly, under the cover of all the other voices in the cafeteria, "Feels like nothing I did was worth a damn. That Siara and I didn't make a difference at all." _Rinus and Kallixta at least had a nice, clear win. One comet, bounced out of a solar system._ She sighed. "I bet the other docs who're there now, or who've been there since the beginning, feel the same way, though."

Eli turned entirely to face her. Stared down at her for a long moment. And when he spoke, he kept his voice low. Just barely audible over the sound of the other voices all around them. Even a turian would have had to strain to hear him from more than a foot or two away. "_Sai'kaea_. . . of _course_ what you did _mattered_. People lived who wouldn't have, because you were there. _We're_ alive, because of you and Siara. You did what you could, for who you could, and that's the best any of us could do." He paused, putting a hand on her shoulder lightly. "And I know that they've _got_ to be switching out medical crews by now. No one could have stayed in there from the first day on, not and kept their sanity. Body crews were ten days on, and then rotate out, at the very most. Same reason." Very intent now. "It's not your fault. You _did_ help. And there's no damned shame in being _here_ now, instead of there."

Dara smiled, faintly. "It's not just _xeno_psych you're taking, is it?"

"Never needed psych courses to understand _you_." Eli squeezed her shoulder gently. "What do you think we're looking at tomorrow?" He looked past her, deliberately including Rel in the question now, raising his voice.

Rel looked up. "Not really sure. Just hoping whoever we get as a replacement team member is better."

The big aerogel screens had moved on now. Dempsey, being interviewed now. In the cafeteria, Dara watched as the big man looked up at the screen, shook his head, and looked away. If a normal human being felt _odd_ seeing a recording of themselves, she realized, his reaction had to be multiplied several-fold. He neither looked nor sounded the way he should, even to himself.

On-screen, Wong was asking about Dempsey's son, how he was doing here on Mindoir, if he was adapting to the local schools, dealing all right with his mom's death from the plague back on Earth. _Personal interest bits_, Dara identified. _See how the Spectres are the same as everyone else. Affected by the same things as everyone else. Prick them, do they not bleed?_ And of course, Dempsey didn't make a great subject on camera. His tone was flat and without affect. Calm when there should have been emotion. The death of his wife passed over him without any response at all. And then Wong asked him about the facility where his son had been kept—and Dara could _see_ the icy flash of rage, quickly suppressed. _Crap. _

And then Zhasa moved in from the side, stood next to Dempsey, and Dara watched as the rage moved off, like thunderclouds that threatened on the horizon, but were pushed away by the wind. Dempsey's reactions became a little more normal, a little less wooden. _She's really helping him with the emotional access_, Dara realized, and smiled.

Beside her, Eli chuckled. "I didn't even need to step in. They did pretty damned well on their own."

Dara nodded. "Nice to see a patient actually recover," she admitted.

Eli's quick, penetrating glance caught her off-guard again. "You haven't seen many do so, have you?" he asked.

She shrugged, and started cleaning up her tray. "Marines I've patched up. Usually over and over again, sent back out on the next mission, and the next. Until their tour on the ship was over, or mine was. Some hurt too badly to stay aboard, like Tarenius Gallian. Evac'd back home for intensive surgeries, prosthetics, rehab. Some of them occasionally write. I like getting those letters. Better than the ones I have to send to families." _Or, worse, the ones I get back. Those are tough to read._ She always read those once, and then filed them away, carefully. Unable to look at them again. _Dr. Velnaran, thank you for your words. We know that you did all that you could. May the sprits bless you and keep you._ The ones from recovering patients, she read several times at least. Dara picked up her tray and stood up. "Think I'm going to turn in early tonight."

"Tonight's sparring," Rel reminded her, quickly, looking up. "You still want to go, right?" Concern in his eyes. Concern for her.

Dara sighed. What she _really_ wanted to do was curl up and _sleep_. This morning's victory seemed impossibly far away now. But yes. Today was Monday. Which meant it was sparring night. "Thanks," she said. "You're right, of course."

**Author's note: **_*Ivanov's speech was a present from Lustrian, after reading the Imperatrix's funeral. I liked it so much, I've been looking for a place to incorporate it. The president of the Alliance in his fiction is Vertikov. Ivanov is mine, Vertikov is his._

**Shepard, Mindoir, June 6, 2196**

"Interesting first day," Shepard assessed as her various Spectres took their seats in the meeting room. "Thoughts?"

Sam snickered. "The all-biotics team had the fastest time and no injuries, but I don't agree that they should have won the overall scores."

Lantar nodded. "They largely accomplished what they did by trivializing the course."

Garrus's mandibles flexed. Clear amusement in his tone as he asked, "You think that Eli, Dara, and Thelldaroon should be first, overall?"

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, actually. And that's not just my fatherly opinion on the topic."

Shepard grinned. "Oh, I couldn't agree more, but our rules weren't designed with an all-biotics team in mind. You and Lantar will be revising the rules for next time. . . .or making sure we have a more balanced array of teams."

Sam made a rude noise, and Shepard had to hold back a grin. "Right, how'd they do in the post-game?" she asked.

That sobered them up. "The reporters' questions, you mean?" Lantar asked. "Eli handled it well. He's showing more comfort with the press. I _may_ have told him to treat it like he's the PR rep for CID handling press interest in an _exciting_, _juicy_ murder case." Lantar showed his teeth briefly.

Sam shook his head. "Dara recovered okay from the medical question. I've got some concerns about her, though." His voice was troubled. "Those were two _bad_ shocks, and I'm going to drop by the barracks in a bit and see how she's doing. And see if she wants to hit me for not telling her about the comet. Better that she beats on me than beats on anyone else."

Garrus shook his head. "I honestly can't picture her beating on anyone at the moment."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Kind of the problem." He glanced over at Shepard. "Their psych evals, once Sky settles in to work with the reviewers, are going to be _interesting_, is all I'm saying."

"Rinus?" Shepard asked, next, moving along with the meeting.

Garrus grinned. "Spot on. Beautiful analysis job, perfect plan put together with Kallixta. . . and didn't show even a hint of it in his face when unexpectedly pressed. He's going to be just fine." He looked up at the ceiling. "Now, if I could just break the boy of his love of close-range, high-damage weapons—"

"He does just fine with a Thanix cannon, too," Lantar reminded his friend, dryly. "The squad was actually well-balanced, weapons-wise. Pistol, shotgun, assault rifle. Kirrahe just wound up getting in a bad position. Siara took the hit and kept on moving. Just as expected."

"And Rellus and Dempsey?" Shepard asked. These two were of special concern.

The table went silent for a moment. "Dempsey did damned well," Sam said, after a moment. "Could see him controlling the pain and working through it. Would be _very_ grateful if the docs could do _something_ about that, though. It's . . . disturbing to know that any time he uses his tech abilities, he _could_ go off the deepend." He paused. "But he's controlling it."

Garrus nodded. "And Rellus. . . well, he was clearly frustrated. Did pretty well with the reporters at the end, but great spirits. To think _I_ have been accused of needing to learn to relax."

Shepard nodded. "All right. What do we want to throw at them tomorrow?"

"Forty-k run," Lantar said, immediately. "Set up the physical exhaustion in the morning. The turians will feel good after the run, which will be a morale boost for them."

"No one else will," Sam pointed out, making a face. "And you can't tell me the volus or the elcor are even going to _finish_ that."

Lantar nodded. "They'll get as far as they can get in three hours, then. And then we slap them with a mental challenge in the afternoon."

Sam leaned back in his chair. "SWAT popup room," he said, after a moment. "We'll see how good everyone is at making snap decisions based on little information." His eyes narrowed. "Which will be _interesting_."

**Elijah, Mindoir, June 6-7, 2196**

He'd made a point of checking in on Thelldaroon the night before, when they'd gotten back from sparring. And had checked in with Lin; not a hard thing to do; his and Serana's room was between Lin's and Dara and Rel's. There was, actually, something about that arrangement that made him stop and _look_ at the doors for a moment. Then Eli had shaken his head and moved on. "Everything all right, _dimicato'fradu?_" he'd asked Lin, poking his head in the door.

"_Other than having two people on my team that I don't know if I can trust, sure, couldn't be better,"_ Lin muttered.

"_The asari is not to be trusted?"_

"_Undercover work. Memory of Thessia."_

"_Undercover doesn't mean bent."_

"_Seven years is a lot to wipe off the mind at a moment's notice."_ Lin shrugged and leaned back in his chair. _"And of course, there's the __other__ one."_ His glance flicked to the left; towards the room which _had_ been empty, but now housed Seheve.

Eli grimaced. _"Yeah. We're all keeping an eye on her with you, __fradu.__ Maybe tomorrow, they'll scramble the teams."_

Lin chuckled. _"You and Dara did well today."_ He looked at Eli. _"Felt good?"_

"_Unbelievably so, yeah. I've missed this, __fradu__."_ Eli looked around. _"Missed Mindoir, missed everyone."_

Lin shook his head. _"That's not all."_

Eli squinted at him. _"Don't know what you mean."_

Lin just shook his head. _"Eh, no worries. Though it's definitely good to be back in the pack."_ He sighed. _"Just wish I were working __with__ one or more of you."_

"_Come next door, sit with us."_

"_In a bit. I should probably make my own rounds. Check on my own squad. Just been putting it off. The drell makes my scales crawl."_

"_They must see __something__ there beyond what we're seeing, __fradu__. Otherwise, they wouldn't have let her out unshackled. My dad in particular."_ Eli patted a hand against the frame of the door. _"I'm going to go check on Rel and Dara, and then I'll be finishing this damn xenopsych course if it kills me. Come on over if you want company."_

Eli had turned to go. _"__Fradu__?"_ Lin called after him.

"_Yes?"_

"_Dara's our little one, too."_ Lin looked as if he were groping for words, and finally sighed. _"She's not doing well. Her spirit is sick."_ He hesitated. _"She was better when the two of you were working together. Like I said the other night. . . you don't __let__ her turn inwards."_

"_Hey, the spirit of the unit is the spirit of all,"_ Eli offered, lightly.

"_Her spirit __is__ our spirit, yes. Her spirit and your spirit are the same, I think_." Lin again looked as if he were hunting for words, and then just sighed and let it go.

_I know that_, Eli thought. _I've always known that._ It _hurt_ when he saw the light just _die_ in Dara's eyes. As it had on Bastion. As it had when the reporters had asked about the death tolls. And he'd reached out, instinctively. As they'd always done for each other. But it didn't feel like enough.

So, he'd checked in on Dara and Rel, too. She'd been better at sparring, the physical exertion keeping her in the _now_, the way it always did. So Eli had stayed at their door and teased her for a while. He'd gotten her at least laughing again, and had received a clear look of gratitude from Rel, before turning and going back to his room, curling up next to Serana on the bed, and leaving the door open for anyone who wanted to visit _them_. And Lin _had_ come over, after a while. Sat down in the room's only chair and put his feet up on the end of their bed. Asked a few questions on the xenopsych courses; he was planning on picking them up himself, soon. It had been _comfortable_.

The next morning was anything _but_ comfortable. "For those of you who've been through turian boot camp, this should be easy," Lantar called out. "Forty kilometer run. We've marked a path for you, eight checkpoints along the way. The terrain is mountainous, but we've been kind. All the uphill is on the front end of the circuit."

There was a collective groan from the assembled candidates. _Half_ of yesterday's people were gone today. Down to thirty-six from seventy-two. Fors raised a small hand and stepped forward. "And for those of us who physically can't do that?"

"Everyone will be picked up at the end of three hours. Do your best, and you'll be graded on those criteria," Sam told him, smiling faintly. "On your marks. . . get set. . . go."

Eli got going. He'd kept in shape, thank god, but the forty-k runs had been his _least_ favorite part of boot camp. The footing was slick, and the air was cold enough to tear at his lungs. Dempsey was creeping ahead of him; the man absolutely didn't seem to tire, which was _annoying,_ Eli had to admit. Worse, in its way, than the turians. The turians just could purely outpace the humans, at the sprint or at the endurance pace, and that was okay. But Dempsey? "Cheater," Eli called up to Dempsey, who turned his head, and smiled. Very, very faintly. And then increased his speed.

"Save your breath," Dara advised, from further back, where she had long since left Siara behind. Siara could manage the shorter runs, but the asari had definitely not been in training for this sort of thing.

Eli snorted and slowed his pace. Waited for Dara to catch up. And then just ran beside her, matching his pace to hers for a while. "Kind of nice," he commented as they headed down a hill together, "not to have to strain to keep up with people for a change."

"Don't tank your time to run with me," Dara told him.

"Me running beside you for a mile or two isn't going to do anything to my time that me not being turian already hasn't," Eli told her equitably. "Besides, I'd rather run with you than off ahead somewhere by myself."

Silence for another quarter mile. "So. . . you want to tell me something?" he asked.

"Depends on what you want to know."

_Everything about the last four years that you're __not__ telling people._ "Watched a lot of medics burn out in CID," he commented. "And they're not even taking fire. First-responder duty sucks. They lose a lot of people. Attrition rate is astronomical."

More silence, just the sound of feet hitting snow. "Yeah," she said, after a long moment. "I've lost. . . forty-seven people, I think. No, wait. forty-eight, if I count Kella." Another moment of silence. "That's also just in combat. SR ships take a lot of casualties. People I couldn't get to, people I couldn't resuscitate. People who didn't make it to the ship. People who didn't survive on the table. About twelve people per year. The year on Sur'Kesh, I actually saw more people die. Rare diseases, terrible injuries. About a hundred or so, that year. I guess that's probably low, compared to what an ER doctor sees, though. And then there's Bastion."

Their breath steamed out as they skidded and slid down the next hill. "And you're tired of it, _sai'kaea?_" he asked, quietly, as they started up the next one.

"Yeah." Her voice was tight. "I figured that out on Rocam. Don't get me wrong. I want to get my surgical rotation done. But. . . I'm really tired of watching people die, Eli. Honest to god, if I could, I'd change specialties."

Still matching strides. Breathing hard now. Sweat running down both of them in spite of the freezing air. "So why _don't_ you, _sai'kaea?_"

"Can't."

"Bullshit."

"Yeah, well. I could just be burned out from Bastion—"

"You said you'd figured this out on Rocam."

"There. Khar'sharn. Bastion. Busy year."

"They're all busy. And will get busier if you make Spectre."

She just nodded. _Come on, __sai'kaea__. Tell me what you're thinking. _"And?" he finally prompted.

"And. . . I can't just quit."

"Why _not_? If it's not what you really want to be doing, don't _do_ it."

"It's. . . what we've worked for. And. . . it's the only thing he wants." Her voice was dispirited. "Kind of gone too far to turn around and back out now. And I _was_ pretty excited to get the invitation. Don't mind me. It's just the casualty reports from yesterday. I promise. I'll be good." A quick, bright smile. "I'll be very shiny and happy where everyone else can see."

Eli wanted to spend the next several minutes swearing, but didn't have the breath. _Good __god__,_ he thought, vehemently. _My little __asperitalla__ couldn't be told __not__ to do what she wanted. Even if it did go against the grain of my scales. Okay, not that I have any scales. But Dara? She's put herself in a box marked 'what Rel wants' for almost five years now, and is only just __now__ figuring out that it might not be what __she__ wants, too. Ah, __sai'kaea__. What a mess you've gotten yourself into._ The hell of it was, he knew she'd be a _great_ Spectre. She had the right mentality, most of the time. She valued _life_. Wouldn't hesitate to take it, if there were a need, but would _always_ protect others.

They finished the run in good time, and came to a halt near the turians and the drell, who'd already finished. The turians were eating, as they tended to after a long run like this; the humans would be drinking fluids and trying to cool down slowly, instead. Neither he nor Dara reacted to the sight of Rel and Lin and Rinus popping shards of bone and marrow into their mouths and crunching down. Long experience and complete desensitization, of course.

Wiping off the blue blood from his mouth and hands, Rel came over to give Dara a quick forehead touch, and Eli gave his old friend a long, measuring stare for a moment. _How can he possibly not see this?_ he wondered. It wasn't his place to get in the middle of their relationship—and god knew, Rel would probably see almost anything Eli said as being in the middle—but on the other hand, Dara was his _friend_. His _best_ friend, when it came right down to it. _Sai'kaea._ And as Lin had pointed out the evening before, it was _everyone's_ responsibility to help everyone else. Eli just had no idea what to say to Rel. Other than the fact that, at the moment, he found the concept of slamming his knee into Rel's teeth very attractive for some reason. _No. Calm down. He's your friend, and Serana's brother. But good __god__, how can he have let her get this run down? Doesn't he take care of her at all? Isn't she __worth_ _taking care of?_

Eli's teeth hurt, and he walked away. He'd find the words later, if at all. Once he'd calmed down, maybe.

The afternoon exercise was, as far as he was concerned, _made_ for him. The thirty-six remaining candidates were transported to a relatively new building on base. "This is one of our training facilities," Shepard called over the microphone. Six stories tall, it had a brick outer facing and windows on its upper floors, but none on the ground floor. "We use this building to practice hostage rescues in an urban environment, among other things," Shepard explained. "The bottom floor is a simulation area. Inside, we have holographs and mechs on the first floor. The mechs will return fire. . . paintballs only. . . and the holographs can be either good guys or bad guys. Bad guy holographs will be using lasers to light you up. Any laser hit counts as a wound. Four extremity wounds, one headshot, or one chest shot, and you're done.

"Your job will be to go through, take out bad guys as quickly as possible, and not hit civilian targets on your way to the objective, which a flag on the second floor. You will be going through once on your own, and once in teams of three. The first premise is a nightclub that has a large number of mercenaries in attendance. Their boss is on the second floor. Yes, I know it's hokey. Deal with it."

"Sidonis, Elijah. Pellarian, Linianus. Luka, Fors. T'soa, Melaani." The names were read out, and they lined up, getting ready to go inside. "You can take your personal weapons, if you choose, or we can provide an Armax Brawler VII for you to use. . . "

Eli pulled his own pistol out. They'd been directed to report in armor today, and he understood why; they were starting to simulate real world circumstances, at least to a certain extent. "Ready, Sidonis?" Sam asked at the door, straight-faced.

Eli turned his head slightly to catch Lin's eye. His friend grinned back at him. _This is going to be fun_, Eli decided. "Yes, sir," he told Sam.

It _was_ fun, too. This was like training in his first weeks of SWAT all over again, but the Spectres had a hell of a lot better budget. No cardboard cutouts on mechanical arms jumping out at him. But loud, thumping music to set the tone for the 'nightclub.' _Nice touch. That'll screw with the turians' hearing, won't it. _

Eli dropped to a crouch, getting his shield in front of him, and moved down the first long hall—_coatcheck desk_, natural hiding place—he raised his pistol—hologram, covering civilian, with a merc behind him, glowering. As soon as the merc 'saw' him, the hologram raised its weapon, and Eli fired, twice, to the head. No civilian death there. "Get out," Eli told the hologram of the clerk, mostly out of reflex, and had to fight the impulse to check in with the rest of his team. There _was_ no team right now, and that felt. . . wrong. Very wrong, in fact. No one at his back. He glanced back over his shoulder to make sure that the 'clerk' wasn't picking up a holographic weapon now, too, and slid further down the hall.

Right, around the corner. Bar ahead of him, cutting a deep indentation into the room. Open area at the center, lots of tables. _Lots_ of holograms. A stage, with a holographic band. Dim overall light, a laser light show flickering across the entire room. _Niiice._ Eli let his eyes adjust for a moment. Swept his gaze across the room. Mechs on either side of the stage. 'Bouncers,' apparently. Groups of two mercs at three of the tables, dance floor to the right of the stage, lots of civilians there, mercs and mechs by the stairs, which were off to the left, past the bar. _Okay, this is what you call a __really__ suboptimal setup,_ he thought, and moved forward, rolling over the top of the bar and dropping down behind it. The holographic bartender gaped at him and dropped down, 'cowering' and Eli popped up again, taking out the merc closest to the dance floor first, two shots, center mass. That got the attention of everyone else in the club. Recorded screams, running holograms everywhere. Staying as calm as he could, Eli hunkered, popped up, waited for movement to _stop_, and then took out the mercs near the stairs, who were moving towards the bar. Popped the thermal clip on his Beretta, and peered up again, cautiously, using his shield in addition to the cover of the bar. The bar gave him concealment, but could still be shot through. _Right, four more mercs, off to the far left, and four damned mechs. At least the mechs aren't moving. More or less just turrets with legs._ Eli exchanged fire with the mercs, making damned sure they didn't tag him with the lasers directed from their holographic displays, and then started taking out the mechs. It was _slow_ with just a pistol, but going in alone, he'd be _damned_ if he'd go in without a shield.

Another quick look around the room. Eli muttered, again, out of reflex, "Night club area, secured," and moved out from behind the bar. Took out a mirror on a thin strip of wire, and peered under the door with it. _No sense scanning for life-signs, after all. Mechs and holograms. So we do this like great-grandpa had to_. Then, through the door. Up the spiraling staircase, shield ahead of him, pistol at the ready. Thought-fast reflex shot to the head of the merc waiting at the top.

A long hall. This one, even with holograms, a more traditional 'pop-up' challenge. As he moved, holograms appeared. He had to react, almost instantly, recognizing friend or foe. Human merc or human _guest_? Asari merc or asari wiggler? Turian gangster, or turian hallex-head patron? No more than half a second for each determination. Five shots. Five enemies down.

Another check at the door at the end of the hall. _Great. Civilians inside. And me without a negotiator or the rest of my team, no distractions, no flashbangs. Wonderful setup, Dad, Sam, whoever came up with this. __Very__ realistic_. Eli swore under his breath, leaned back, and kicked the damn door in, dropping instantly into a crouch up against the side of the door. Quick peek. Three mercs. Several serving girls. _Damnit._ "I don't suppose any of you would be amenable to coming out with your hands up?" he offered, around the corner. "Or at least, opening a dialogue?"

Lasers flicked through the open door. "Yeah, didn't think so." Quick peek, and double-tap, chest. Duck back. "Really, can we _talk_ about this?" Wait for the fire to pass. Peek, double-tap. Duck back. "This doesn't have to go this way, and why am I even bothering to talk to holograms?" Peek, laser caught by shield, last merc had a 'serving girl' by the throat, asari shield. _Nice. Someone's running these holograms manually. Kasumi, I bet. _Eli stepped around the corner, shield up. _Come on. Turn the 'gun' towards me. . . there we go._ And the instant the assailant did, Eli fired. One _scared_ but living hostage. Fifteen dead mercs, four dead mechs. Eli walked over and pulled on the 'flag' at the far end of the room. _Going to be interesting doing this with a team. And chances are, with a team of people who haven't __done__ this before. Guess they'll increase the number of targets for that. Gah._

"Time to objective, seven minutes, fifteen seconds. No wounds. Zero civilian fatalities. All mercenaries and mechs defeated. Very competitive, Agent Sidonis," Kasumi's voice filtered into the room from above.

**Sam**

"Your boy's _really_ developed," he told Lantar conversationally as they watched on the screen.

Lantar's smile was proud. "Can hardly wait to see what he does with a group in here," he admitted.

"His instincts are all right, too. Wanted to negotiate at that last corner. Could practically see him _fighting_ the constraints of the exercise," Sam noted, and headed back to the door to let the next candidate in, once the rooms all reset.

**Seheve**

She looked at the Spectre at the door, the human with the cold blue eyes, the killer eyes, and the odd fur on his face. "The premise of the exercise is flawed," she said, diffidently.

"Is it now, li'l darlin'?"

"It is. It is not necessary to kill all of the mercenaries in this place to reach the objective on the second floor. In fact, attacking the mercenaries places the non-combatants at risk."

There was a flicker of _interest_. . . or perhaps, _amusement_?. . .in the male's eyes. "I tend to agree, but there's the slight matter of getting through the door to the upstairs without anyone noticing that it's opened and closed. But if you think you can get through, undetected, without getting yourself or anyone else killed. . . by all means. Knock yourself out."

Seheve took a deep breath, and politely requested a silenced pistol, in addition to her own personal weapon, a vibroknife. The vibroknives were based, unfortunately, on batarian technology, but hearkened back to lost Rakhana. being slightly curved in shape. Seheve knew twelve poisons that the blade could be dipped in, but today, she was simply replying on its edge of molecular diamond.

Composing herself, she stepped inside the building. Turned on her stealth generator, dropped to a crouch, and moved down the hall, smoothly, checking the alcove to her right. _First enemy. Can come back for him._ Around the corner, and her huge, dark eyes were _assaulted_ by the screaming lights. Flickering, painfully, every which way. An errant laser might, in fact, light up her shield and outline her for the entire room to see. _Bad situation_, she thought, and looked up. _Interesting. No lasers directed onto the ceiling._ _This has possibilities_. Seheve reached up, and scrambled up the nearby wall. Her long, delicate fingers had no problems with finding holds, and she hooked her fingers and the soft, slightly gummy toes of her boots into the metal braces that held the ceiling tiles. Using the long sides of each tile to inch along, spreading out her weight as best she could, she inched along over the ceiling, feeling the strain in fingers, forearms, and calves. It didn't matter. What mattered was getting to the objective undetected. Without a single trace of _herself_ here.

At the door to the stairs, Seheve slid down from the ceiling quietly, letting herself ease down the doorframe. Studied the situation. There were two mechs close to her, and two mercenaries. All too close to the door _not_ to notice it opening, when it did. Thus. . . time to work a diversion. She activated her omnitool and quietly hacked a mech on the stage. It turned and began to attack the other mech on the stage. After a startled moment, every hologram and mech in the room turned inwards, starting to move towards the disturbance.

Seheve smiled faintly, opened the door, and slipped up the stairs. At the top, she paused. Glided down the long hall, moving past the holograms that emerged from the doorways. Never brushing into them or otherwise attracting attention. She could have used the ceiling again, but her stealth abilities were more than adequate for this challenge.

And at the end of the hall, in the last doorway, she stopped. Glanced around. No laser lights. Just three targets, and four serving girls. This looked deceptively simple. She dropped into a crouch and _watched_ the targets for a while. No way around it. All three would have to die. Quickly, quietly, and cleanly. She moved up behind the first, and jabbed it between the correct ribs on a turian to access the aorta—the right side, for a turian—pulled the knife out, _threw_ it at the second target, and, leaping for cover, drew her pistol and shot the third. Double-tap to the chest. A buzzing sound informed her that one of her targets had scored a hit on one of her extremities, but it didn't matter. Seheve walked to the flag, tugged on it once, retrieved her knife, and pointed towards one of the windows. "That would be the best exit," she noted, clinically. "Before those below could ascend to find their friends slain. Presupposing, of course, that they could _hear_ the gunshots over the noise of the music below."

A female voice, lightly amused, informed her. "Time to objective, six minutes, thirty seconds. One extremity wound. Three targets killed, seven avoided, and a _lot_ of really _agitated_ mercenaries about to come up the stairs. Not to mention the ones in the hallway behind you. Because I have to assume that they'd want to tell their boss that one of the mechs went berserk."

"This one. . . I should have had it dance, instead?" Seheve asked, tipping her head to the side. "The window would be open, and the room free of my presence, before they had time to react, however." A faint shrug.

"I would have opted for the dancing, yes," the voice informed her, sounding amused. "Report back to the entrance."

**Sam**

Lantar glanced at him. "What do you think?"

Sam exhaled. "Not the way _I'd_ have done it," he acknowledged. "But the lady knows stealth. Very damned bad risk to take, leaving twelve of them behind her. She's. . . really used to working on her own."

"She took down three mercs inside of fifteen seconds. Admittedly, she got _hit_ doing it, and one of the shots she used couldn't be replicated because she threw her weapon, but. . . " Lantar shook his head. "Still, impressive."

**Rellus**

He'd been looking forward to the trials now for years. Anticipation, a little anxiety. Trying to prepare himself on every level. It had started, before boot camp, as just a way to be _ready_. To be the best he could be. And he'd found, to his great relief, that his best was pretty damned good. Had risen steadily through the ranks in special forces. Seen combat on a dozen different worlds. And yet. . . after yesterday, he'd felt a little. . . under-prepared, somehow. _Is it just being separated from Dara?_ he wondered. _No. . . I was separated from her for three months during her stint on Rocam. No problems until the Khar'sharn misadventure. But now. . . something's missing._ And he found he _did_ miss having his little mate at his side. She buoyed him just by _being_ there. Always there to catch a shot he might have missed, to slap on medigel. To be calm and poised and deadly, but with those healing hands.

The run this morning had helped. Familiar sights, familiar smells. He'd pushed hard through the whole run, and Rinus and Lin had matched strides with him the whole way, both of them laughing a bit, enjoying the exertion. Lin had pointed out sights that had changed the whole way, too. "You used to run this route?" Rel had asked, in a bit of surprise.

"Yeah, Eli, Dara, Tel, and I ran this way. Tel and I twice a week. Hey, wow. Must have had an avalanche through here. Half the cliff-face is gone."

Rel had frowned to himself a bit. Dara's letters from his boot camp period had been cheerful and bright and relentlessly focused on things she'd thought would interest him. His family and their doings, a little base gossip, and what she'd done lately to achieve the goal of getting through boot camp after him. Even though she'd _told_ him that she'd gone climbing and swimming with Eli and Lin and Telinus, the issue of how _much_ time they'd all spent together had never really clicked home for him before. "How much time did you guys spend preparing a week?" he called over to Lin.

"Eh, probably not as much as you did. Eli and I still were doing gladiatorial stuff two to three nights a week for fun. Eli and Dara were practicing turian, sometimes with Serana's help, sometimes not. Dara's the one who made Serana promise to help Eli, once she was gone." Lin guffawed, and ducked under a low-hanging branch. "And we _all_ studied together. Dara was officially partnered up with Siara, but we all thought it was . . . safer. . . quieter, certainly. . . if the two of them weren't allowed to get on each other's nerves too much. So, yeah." Though the air was thin, the three of them weren't out of breath yet. "Nine hours a week sparring, three hours each week at the rifle range, three to five hours a week on swimming or on a climbing wall, oh, and running. They took a little longer on the runs than Tel and I did, of course. So. . . twenty-five hours a week? Plus school. Plus homework." Lin chuckled. "We didn't spend _every_ living minute together, but damned close."

_And as close as you all were. . . you still didn't tell her that you'd married. That Brennia had died. __Why__ Lin?_ _Why not tell __me__? We were friends growing up here. You give me every indication of friendship now. But friends share burdens as well as joys._ Rel had, usually, a good instinct for people, especially for other turians. He couldn't quite see their _spirits_, but he could usually intuit things from them. But Lin was, in many ways, a mystery to him now. As, on some levels, was Eli. And, thought Rel _hated_ to admit it, Dara was, too.

They'd finished the run, and eaten, voraciously, out of sight of the other human candidates, although when Dara and Eli had finally arrived, they'd moved over to the turian area, and Rel had quickly moved to give his little human mate a forehead touch. She'd been flushed pink with exertion, and had clearly been in a better mood at the end of the run than she'd been last night. _Iunkunidtas_, Rel had decided. Exercise and the associated hormones and neurotransmitters gave humans and turians alike a nice solid sense of well-being. He did, however, catch a glimpse of anger on Eli's face. Just for a moment. Rel had glanced after him for a moment, confused, but there wasn't any time to pursue it.

And now, he was having to pass through the door, and just a pistol in his hands. Rel dropped into a crouch. It seemed simple on the surface. Kill bad guys, don't kill civilians, get to the objective in the shortest amount of time.

It wasn't simple. He had to fight his reflexes every step of the way. Reflexes that told him anything in a combat zone that wasn't in his uniform was fair game. Rel was a preternaturally _good_ shot. . . but his hands and reaction time were trained to a different task, a different speed than Eli or Linianus'. His hands were trained to react and kill, almost instantaneously. _Futar_, he thought, furious at himself, as he clipped a civilian, having jerked the pistol _up_ just as his finger had squeezed the trigger. The fine motor control muscles had already been in motion, but he'd been able to at _least_ prevent it from being a kill shot. He got through, but it hadn't been pretty. Two extremity shots, and two civilians clipped. Nineteen bad guys on the ground, though, and a very competitive time, or so Kasumi told him. Seven minutes on the dot.

Coming back out, and looking at the others' times, however, Rel felt tired and a little defeated. Eli had taken fifteen seconds longer than he had. . . but had not a single civilian casualty and no wounds recorded. Lin had taken thirty seconds longer, but again, was absolutely clean. Rinus had, on the other hand, taken three wounds and wounded none. "Got stuck in a corner, trying _not_ to hit the civilians," Rinus admitted. "Crossfire."

The asari huntress, Melaani, came out of the building next, grinning. "I love a clean run," she said, dropping down next to Linianus. "No casualties, no hits on me."

"Very nice," Lin admitted. "Good time, too." She'd come in at eight minutes.

"Not a good showing for us, first-brother," Rel admitted to Rinus, quietly.

Lin and Eli looked over, catching the words. "Rel," Lin said, calmly, "you don't _train_ for this. I'd imagine that Spectres do. They're going to test us on _everything_ that Spectres do. Eli and I probably won't be _quite_ as good at the straight combat drills as you and Rinus are. I'd need a manual to figure out how to load a missile launcher, for instance. So there's no need to feel bad."

Eli shrugged. "You're used to being the best of us, Rel," he commented, mildly.

Rel chuckled, ruefully. "You're saying my ego needs a little deflation?"

Eli's answering smile had been very faint. Again, that sense of anger. Tightly reined in. _Where the hell is it coming from?_ Rel wondered, confused. _It wasn't there last night. Or at Sam's last barbecue, during the handball game. Or sitting with him and Dara on the piano bench_. "Not saying that, Rel. Just saying, everyone here is good at what they do. And like Lin said, a Spectre has to be good at everything. Doesn't mean every Spectre starts _out_ good at everything. Sam, my dad, Garrus. . . all started out where you are right now. Special Forces. Then all three of them became what Lin and I are now. Cops."

Rel thought about that, and then nodded, trying not to bristle at Eli's sense of anger. Just to accept the words. "Yeah. And they all had a few years more experience than we do, going in."

"Speak for yourself, second-brother," Rinus said, smiling, faintly. "I'm a little closer than the rest of you."

That at least made them all laugh, and the sense of tension eased.

Dempsey had come through next, and _that_ one had been a surprise. As slow as Melaani—eight minutes—but zero casualties. Zero wounds. The big human shrugged as he sat down. "Not difficult," he assessed. "Overloaded the mechs, shot the mercs. Jaworski and Sidonis said it would take them two laser shots each to burn through my shields, not one, so I had a lot of fudge factor in there that the rest of you didn't."

Dara went through next. She had chosen, apparently, to use her shock pistol pretty much through the entire complex. One wound, zero civilian casualties, and nineteen _incapacitated_ targets. . . in a time that equaled Linianus'. Rel was surprised. "I'd have thought you'd want to stick with your pistol, for accuracy," he asked her as she sat down next to him, and beside Eli.

She shook her head. "The point of the exercise was _probably_ to determine how good we are at distinguishing friend from foe," she replied, looking up at the boards. "And in a crowded area like that? Non-lethal seemed like a _much_ better option."

Lin turned around at her words, and smiled up at her, from where he sat, one row below them in the outdoor bleachers behind the training building. "You've been listening to us," he told her, his tone cheerful.

"She's spent her whole life listening to her dad, too," Eli reminded Lin. "Not just us."

Seheve, actually, currently had the fastest time, but had _skipped_ most of the targets. Something that, when they heard it, made both Eli and Lin's heads turn.

"Why?" Lin asked, his voice cautious as the female crouched on the ground near them.

"Because there was no need to kill them," the drell responded, looking at the ground. "They could be by-passed. If the point of the exercise is to obtain an objective, then that is the point, and everything else is secondary."

"That's an interesting statement," Sam drawled, moving into the area. "While each of these exercises _is_ intended to test for very specific elements, we also welcome a li'l creativity. We also have to acknowledge that, for example, biotics are very hard to test against _holograms_. Hence why when Fors Luka just went through and dropped a stasis field on the first room and just. . . moseyed for the far door. . . we had to take a couple of laser hits back off his record, because the person running the simulation didn't figure out what he'd done for a moment, and it's not like the holograms knew either." He looked around and found the volus with his eyes. "Sorry 'bout that."

"Not a problem," Fors snuffled.

Lantar moved up to the front of the bleachers now. "This exercise is intended to test several things. First, your friend-or-foe detection, and what lengths you'll go to, to avoid damaging a civilian target. How you position yourself, tactically, in a bad situation. Decision-making under stress. And yes, to a certain extent, creativity." He paused. "Which is why, although Seheve Liakos _didn't_ kill as many mercenaries as the rest of you, she still has _completed_ this exercise. Shortest time, but given the fact that, in our opinion, she'd have probably taken several more wounds because the mercs downstairs _would_ have come upstairs soon, she takes a lower place. First place, Elijah Sidonis. Second place, Linianus Pellarian. Third place, Dara Velnaran. Fourth place, Melaani T'soa. Fifth place, Seheve Liakos." He went on down the line. Rel squeezed Dara's shoulder gently, trying to show her, with touch, how proud he was of her, and had at least the pleasure of realizing that Kirrahe Orlan and Makur had both done worse than he and Rinus had.

"Now," Sam said, looking around, "You're going to repeat the exercise as a group. Any questions?"

Eli raised a hand. "Yes, Sidonis?"

"We actually get to _negotiate_ this time, or is this the same general idea?"

Sam actually chuckled. "You'll get to negotiate in a few days. When it's Spectre teams against candidate teams."

Rel stirred. _That_ sounded interesting. _Assuming I make it that far_, he thought. His first two exercises hadn't broken any records, for certain.

"Velnaran, Rellus, Velnaran Rinus, and T'soa, Melaani! You're up first."

Rel leaned over. "Wish me luck?" he asked Dara. _Sweetness, just look up, please. _

She did, and leaned into his shoulder lightly. "Always, _amatus_, but you'll do fine." A quick, light smile. "You always do."

Rel wasn't so sure about that. For the first time in a long time, he was _really_ wondering if all the work and preparation and sacrifice was going to pay off._ For all I know, she could make Spectre, and I might not_, he thought. . . and that was a jarring notion. Always, the thought for him had been _together._ A future, built on having a _purpose_. Of being _defined_ by that purpose. Not to drift aimlessly, as he had in so many of the first visions. _Would I still have a purpose, if I __didn't__ make Spectre?_ he thought, as he and Rinus and the asari set up outside the front door, then discarded the notion for later consideration. Now wasn't the time to be debating such things. Now was the time to be acting. "Melaani?" Rel asked, quickly. "You seem to have previous experience."

"Cop for Dia'allaei Province for twenty years before my recent undercover work," she noted, smiling slightly.

Rel and Rinus exchanged a glance. "How about if _you_ set up our tactics?' Rel asked her, once more accepting a pistol from Sam.

The asari looked surprised, cobalt eyes widening. "The two of you would take direction from me?"

Rinus snorted. "We'd be _stupid_ not to. Your time was better than ours last round."

Melaani shook her head. "All right. We'll give it a try, anyway."

**Zhasa**

As much as Zhasa had enjoyed working with Makur and Fors the day before, now, she had a chance to work with the two humans who'd done _very_ well yesterday, too. And whose _touch_ was complex and interesting to her, when she let herself slip a little and feel it. Rose petals and thorns on one side, layers of texture over cold steel on the other. "How'd you do on the individual exercise?" Dara asked her.

Zhasa lifted her hands. "Middle of the pack. They couldn't get through all my layers of shields to hit me, and I hacked the mechs first thing. . . but picking off targets was difficult. So many moving images, so many 'civilians.' It was much more difficult than it looked at first."

Elijah was already nodding, dark eyes intent. "Dara, you want to stay nonlethal? That shock gun of yours is a little less accurate than I know you like."

"The point is _not_ hurting the civilians, so yeah. I'll stick with it till we have no other real choice," Dara told him, calmly.

"Then Zhasa, take out the mechs when we see them. Dara, I'm going to move in ahead of you and cover you. You stay behind me and take the shots. Zhasa, behind her, and be ready to use that really spiffy shield of yours that Rel was _raving_ about at sparring all of last night." Elijah's smile was quick.

And then they got down to it. The 'nightclub' was suddenly _much_ more crowded. Twice as many mercenaries as before, twice as many patrons. "Hey, Eli, you think this might be in violation of a fire code somewhere?" Dara called, just loudly enough to be heard.

"I'll be sure to cite the owner when we leave," Elijah called back, and then they were in the room, and he was pointing out targets. _Damn. More mechs._ Zhasa got to work with her omnitool, setting the first mech in play to attack the mercs on the far side of the room. Dara snapped off shots at the mercs at a nearby table, and a _bzzzzzzzzz_ sound came from the floor, where her darts eventually landed. The holograms, however did a wonderful emulation of spastically dropping to the ground and flopping around uncontrollably. "Move, to the bar," Elijah told them, and Zhasa jumped lithely over the wooden structure. "Zhasa, shield, now, please."

She held out her hands, and concentrated. Uncoiled silks, like an insect's cocoon, from close around her body, in her mind, and held them out. Whirled them, like the cyclonic energies of a ship's shields, and simply refused to _let_ the paintballs or the lasers come through. "Lot of targets," she heard Dara mutter.

"Take the ones coming at us from the door, _sai'kaea._" Zhasa's head turned, slightly, startled. The word had been said with _emphasis_, but her shield never wavered.

"I can't fire a weapon while holding the shield," Zhasa warned them.

"Yeah, too many for nonlethal," Elijah noted, dryly, and then he and Dara were both picking off targets, pistol and shock pistol both going off rapidly. Inside of a minute, the room was clear of enemies, and Zhasa released her shield. "That shield of yours is _almost_ like cheating," Eli told her, smiling slightly.

She raised her hands slightly. "It probably wouldn't hold off that many _real_ bullets. I've never really wanted to find out what the upper end of it _is_, though."

"I hear that," Dara replied, with emphasis, as they all headed to the door that led up. And after the long hall of random targets, Dara and Elijah both braced on either side of the door, getting ready to open it. The human male slid a mirror under the door to peek, and reported, "Damn. We've got five mercs this time, and still seven serving girls." He stood back up again, and they looked at each other.

Zhasa felt a _flash_ then. Recognition, of a sort. As if they were seeing each other, doubled. Odd. Past and present, at the same moment. Dara looked up at Eli. "At least it's not batarians."

"Wasn't _me_ on this side of the door when it was the batarians. I was back about where Zhasa's standing."

"I thought the whole premise of the Spectres under Shepard was that _everyone_ gets a second chance." Dara's voice was light, but Zhasa sensed. . . undercurrents there. _Whose second chance?_ the quarian girl wondered, then set it aside. If it mattered, it would make sense later.

Elijah chuckled then. "Right. Okay, everyone ready?"

Zhasa nodded. "I'm going to leap into the room for the furthest target I can reach," she told them, dropping to a crouch. "They're not going to be able to react fast enough to hit me, but they'll _definitely_ be surprised."

They both looked at her blankly, and Zhasa realized that they hadn't seen her round in the pool yesterday. "Just trust me," she offered, smiling behind her mask.

"Okay," Dara told her, smiling back. "We'll try not to hit you."

Sidonis opened the door. Zhasa pushed off the ground and _behind_ her with her biotics, adding pure energy to the already powerful spring of her thigh muscles, and launched herself into the room. The opening move was _meela'helai_, for certain, but biotically-assisted. A tumbling leap that propelled her through the room, and landed her in front of her target—the merc at the _back_ of the room, whom she fired on, point-blank, with her pistol. Behind her, the various 'mercs" were startled, turning inwards towards her as she turned around. . . and then Elijah and Dara were both firing at _them_. Time since opening the door: twenty seconds.

"Very nice," a female voice came over the room's speakers again. "Total time, eight minutes. Zero injuries. Zero civilian casualties. One civilian shocked, but that's an apology, not a wrongful death suit. Not bad at _all_."

"Thanks, Kasumi," Dara said, tilting her head to look up. There was a faint, pleased smile on her face.

Elijah teased her, "So, you made a civilian dance, huh?"

Dara looked at him. "Yeah. Didn't even need _music_." She turned and smiled at Zhasa. "I've never _seen_ a jump like that. That wasn't just _meela'helai,_ was it?"

Zhasa shook her head, studying them, absorbing them, as she explained her unusual biotic abilities, and as they walked out the building together. She settled in next to Dempsey, who'd been set to work with Urdnot Siara and a drell engineer she hadn't met before, and looked up in time to see her team's score. It placed them pretty much on top of the chart, at least, so far. The aerogel screens were also showing each subsequent team's turns through the training area. "Oh, good lord. Poor Fors," Dara said, leaning forward on their bench, between Zhasa and Eli now; Eli's turian mate, Serana, was apparently at work today, and no where in sight. "He's stuck with both Makur and Thelldaroon." Dara leaned back now, to speak around Zhasa and Dempsey to Siara. "He's going to be trampled."

"Or the cat could eat him," Dempsey pointed out. His mind, however, had opened to Zhasa as soon as she sat down. Very light touch. _You like working with the two of them, sweetie?_

_I do. A lot, actually. Both absolutely reliable. Such absolute trust between them. It's very safe feeling for me. Like coming to ship with a good captain and a good crew._

_They were good to work with on Khar'sharn, too._ Little flickers of memory, letting her see them now. Teasing. Laughter. Friendship. _See? Easier to see as colleagues now, right? Not so scary for you?_

_They're not. The older Spectres, though? Don't think I'll ever see them as anything other than, well, Spectres._

_You say that __now__, sweetie. But give it a year or so. People adapt to the damndest things._ His amusement was faint, but clear. _Just look at me_.

**Fors**

The krogan was five _feet_ taller than he was. The elcor? Nine. Makur reached down and picked Fors up, and plopped him on the elcor's shambling back. "Better?" the krogan rumbled. "Didn't think you needed to be stepped on, Luka."

"The view is only somewhat improved up here. For starters, while neither of you has particularly lovely feet, I can't say that Thelldaroon's back is an improvement. I can't see to target anything," Fors grumbled.

"That, I can remedy for you, Fors, Luka-clan," the elcor commented, and reached back. Plucked Fors off his back. . . and set him atop his _head_.

Fors held on for dear life. "I would like to point out that I am _not a hat_," he noted, his voice a little more strident than usual.

"Excellent. I am not much in need of fashion accessories," the elcor replied, slowly and calmly. He paused. "That was a joke. Do I need to continue to point those out?"

Fors looked down at the massive skull he now perched upon. "That's all right. I don't want to start laughing and chance slipping off."

"It would require me to point them out for you to laugh? A pity."

Makur shook his head. "Let's get started," he said, and gestured for Snowflake to move in with them.

_This is not like riding on Sky's back_, Fors thought as the elcor shambled forward, and held on with all his strength. The rachni Spectre actually had a narrowing between body segments that made for an excellent perch. Sitting atop the elcor's head? Uncomfortable and potentially debilitating for his dignity. _Such of it that I possess, anyway_.

Working with Makur and Thelldaroon was, however, surprisingly enjoyable again. Thelldaroon simply turned his massive body into the incoming fire, and Fors slid down behind the elcor's neck for shelter for a moment, while the big male calmly began hacking the mechs. As he did so, Makur, just as Thelldaroon was doing, _stood in the open_ and returned fire. He tried to send Snowflake in on the holograms, but the cat leaped, and when he went right _through_ one, hissed and raised his hackles before sulking back over to Makur's feet and _refusing_ to play anymore. Fors tried hard not to laugh, and laid down a stasis field, his usual crowd control measure. This time helpfully shouting, "That's a _stasis field. _You can all stop moving now!" at the top of his lungs.

Makur started to chuckle, and then stumped over and kicked open the door to the stairs. "Ah. . . " he said, pausing and staring from the narrow stairwell to Thelldaroon. "How did you get up this last time?"

"With great difficulty," Thelldaroon replied, with dignity. "I believe my armor will require re-painting this evening. Many scratches accrued."

Fors snuffled under his breath. The elcor smelled like warm milk, somehow. Soporific, but wholesome. "Well, at least the stairs didn't collapse under you," the volus commented.

"The structure did creak somewhat alarmingly."

"Oh, great. And I have two of you behemoths with me." Fors sighed.

Makur looked up at him. "Teamwork," he replied. "If we go, you go."

"Can I be on someone _else's_ team?" Fors shook his head. "I'd offer a singularity for you, Thelldaroon, but I don't think we could _direct_ you."

"Do not worry for my sake." Thelldaroon placed one ponderous foot on the first tread. "We will ascend in due course. However, you might wish to watch your head."

"Watch my head? Why? _Ow._" Fors had the unusual experience of smacking his forehead into a sign hanging from the ceiling over the door.

"I did warn you," Thelldaroon informed him, calmly. The stairs _buckled_ under his and Makur's weight, and at least one tread gave up and snapped. Fortunately, the elcor's weight was so evenly distributed, he didn't slip or fall. He just lifted his foot delicately and moved to the next step up. Fors, in the meantime, cursed internally. And vociferously.

In the end, they had zero wounds, but they'd accidentally hit two of the serving girls upstairs. Largely because Thelldaroon had accidentally ripped the doorframe upstairs out of the wall by attempting to get through the door faster to reach the opponents, and the doorframe pieces had hit two of the holograms.

Fors was used to a certain amount of laughter. It came with being a volus in a much larger galaxy. He'd never seen a krogan laugh until he couldn't _breathe_ before, however. Makur finally led them back down the stairs, still chuckling periodically.

**Dara**

Rel was in a better mood, at least, after the second round. He and Rinus were full of praise for Melaani, who'd coached them through a better showing as a team than as individuals. "Hey, Eli, Lin, is gladiatorial stuff still on for tonight?" Rinus asked at the dinner table.

"My dad said sure, but I think I'm going to stay in and try to finish my coursework. I'm down to the last two sections and the self-tests," Eli replied. "Lin, you going?"

Lin looked up, and shook his head. "My little brother dropped off a box of my old stuff here today while we were at the trials," he replied, smiling faintly. "I think I want to go through it. But Thursday, definitely."

"Gives you a chance to get a little more individual training," Eli offered, when both males looked dismayed. "We'll be back later this week. Besides, hate to admit it, but after a forty-k run this morning? I'm _beat_, guys. I'm lucky I did as well as I did during the SWAT exercise this afternoon."

"I feel the same way myself," Dara admitted. Her body ached. She'd dropped off to only one of these punishing sessions a month, on a treadmill. The human body was simply not designed for endurance running on a weekly basis, and she'd done enough to get by on her evals in the turian fleet, and have done with it. "We're only human, guys. Personally, I'm thinking of hitting the hot tub for a while, soaking all the _tired_ out of my muscles, playing the _reela_ for a while, and probably falling asleep atop the keys."

Rel looked immediately dismayed, and caught her hand. Gave her wrist a light nip. "Sorry, _mellis_. You always keep up when it counts." A quick, encouraging smile. "I'll be back before twenty-three thirty, okay?"

Rinus glanced over at Kallixta, Zhasa, Dempsey, and Madison. "You're all coming though, right? It's a lot more fun when we have more people."

Zhasa laughed. "I have no idea where you get the energy from. I haven't been in training for the kind of running they asked us to do today. I couldn't even _finish_ the course, and you're wanting _more_?"

"I'm up for it," Dempsey said, quietly. "Not really tired yet." His smile was very faint. "Let's hear it for the not-quite-human crowd."

That had been about an hour ago. Much to Dara's surprise, Serana and Eli had come to the hot tub with her, and they'd all relaxed together. Talking. Relaxing. It had been _comfortable_, in the way that being around Eli had been comfortable when they were young. Before the long stretch where being around him had been _uncomfortable_. Where she'd either been angry with him, or he'd been, she'd thought at the time, angry with her. Near the end, when Dara was drowsy with the warmth and the relaxation and the comfort, Serana had given her a fairly direct look. "Why don't you bring the _reela_ into our room and play for us for a bit?" she'd suggested.

Dara blinked. "Sure," she managed, taken more than a little off-balance somehow. "But Eli was going to be studying, so I was just going to keep my door closed and the sound low. . . "

Eli shook his head lazily, not opening his eyes. "Love listening," he said, calmly. "The stuff you play makes it easier to concentrate."

"Okay. If you're sure I won't be disturbing you." Dara stood up, and Eli's eyes flickered open as she pulled herself out of the heated pool.

Back in the barracks, Dara brought the _reela_ in, after a tentative knock. Eli opened the door, smiled down at her, and said, "Great. We'll leave the door open. Here, you need help with that?"

The _reela_ was small and light, and Dara shook her head. "No, but thank you. One of the best things about a _reela_ is that it was designed for traveling across Rannoch's deserts. Very, very portable. Just point me to a piece of floor to sit on."

Serana frowned. "_Ama'fradu_, don't be silly. You can't sit on the _floor_ in here—"

"Sure I can." Dara found a wall to put her back up against, sat cross-legged, trying not to wince at how stiff her legs were, and settled the _reela_ over her lap. "Anything requests, Eli?"

Eli smiled faintly. "I don't know enough _to_ request. Surprise me, Dara."

Dara let her fingers sit on the _reela_ for a moment, and then simply let herself start to play.

Little ripples of music, slowly building. Gathering the notes, like trickles forming into a rivulet, to become a stream, to become a torrent, then gentling, becoming a whisper again, but retaining the complexities and ripples. _Liebestraume._ By Liszt. She played the delicate piece with its little pauses and hesitations and changes of mood, shimmers of sound, and then switched out. Richer sounds. Something that told more of a story, anticipation, waiting, memory, longing. . . . humor and then back to the slow and gentle main theme again. Beethoven, she realized. _Für Elise_. She could do this one from memory, and it was a favorite of hers. It could be played with exacting technical correctness. . . or, as she did now, slowed a little, small hesitations between the notes, leaving each one almost unbearably tender as it fell from the instrument.

She realized when she looked up near the end that Eli was watching her play, and he smiled at her, briefly, before dropping his eyes back to his text. "Sorry," she murmured, not really sure what she was apologizing for, and pulled up the sheet music for the technically demanding _Impromptu_ by Chopin, instead. Complex rills and shifts, moving from demanding to surprisingly tender to almost shy, as it tended to. She'd tried this piece on the _reela_ a dozen times in the past four years, and had _never_ gotten it to sound right. _Well, tonight, I can try again._

When she glanced up halfway through, she caught Eli watching her again, and she half-laughed. Serana just lay back on the bed, eyes closed, listening as Dara attacked the next passage at full speed, notes now tumbling down ridges and hills into what sounded like certain peril. . . . and then the tender theme came back. Rescue, from the dark crevasse. And then silence. "You getting any studying done at all?" Dara asked, stilling the keys with her fingers.

"Eh, some." Eli let his head fall back. "To be honest, right at the moment, I'd rather listen than anything else."

Dara blinked. "Well, then I'm doing no good at all," she said lightly, starting to stand up, and realizing that she probably _couldn't_ if her life depended on it. Her legs were too stiff. _Damn Bastion, and damn the plague_, she thought, tiredly.

"No, stay," Eli said, quickly.

"Don't you dare stop playing," Serana told her, opening her eyes indignantly. "I like listening as much as anyone else, and _I've_ had a really not very much fun day, either."

Lin poked his head in the door. "And if I can vote, too? I want to keep listening."

Eli chuckled. "See, _sai'kaea?_ You're outvoted." He looked up at Linianus. "So, what was in the box?"

"Arinus brought me about five or six _kilos_ of my old figurines from storage." Lin snorted. "My parents apparently think they need the storage space for _his_ stuff, and that since none of the rest of the family is interested in them, I should take them _back_."

Dara looked up, squinting. "In the middle of the _trials_? When you're in a _barracks_?"

"I do not question why my mother makes the decisions she does. It makes life much quieter if we all just accept it and move on," Lin said with aplomb, taking a seat at the desk and looking into the box, chuckling. "Gah. Some of the earliest ones I did are so _bad._" He picked up a figurine in his big, clawed fingers. No more than two inches tall, it looked absolutely tiny in his hand. "I think some of these are even broken from being tossed in storage," he added, sounding just a bit annoyed. "I was perfectly fine with putting them away. This was childhood, and it needed to be. But now, having it handed _back_, and broken? They should have just thrown it all out."

"Let me see," Dara told him, and held out her hand.

Lin snorted. "Little one," he told her, fondly, "you plan to put medigel on my toy soldiers and make them better?"

"I thought Serana was 'little one,'" Dara told him, hand still extended.

Lin looked from one to the other appraisingly. "You're shorter than she is. You qualify." He grinned, a flash of the old smile that warmed her heart to see, and handed her the piece.

It was a tiny _ecus_, mounted on a _rlata_, spear in hand, shield at the ready. Dara let her eyes expand to their maximum focus, and said, "Yeah, there's a hairline crack through his head and helmet, Lin. A little surgical glue, though, and you could repaint right over it. Wouldn't be able to tell he'd ever have been broken."

Lin sounded dubious. "Would take _really_ steady hands."

Dara held up her left hand now. Rock-steady. "Lin. _Doctor._ More to the point, _surgeon_. I mean, if you think Telinus can do better, you can hold out for the _brain surgeon_ to help you, but. . . "

Eli chuckled. "Don't even try to talk her out of fixing things, Lin." Dara's eyes flicked up as Eli added, gently, "She wanted to fix all the models in my room that the vandals broke on Bastion."

_No, just the quilt your grandmother made for you when you were a baby,_ Dara thought. She'd noticed where Eli had pushed them under a couch to prevent his mother from seeing them, and had, when his back was turned, picked them all up. Tucked them away in her backpack. She'd asked Ellie once, what would be involved in fixing a broken quilt, but had asked only in the abstract, because Ellie hadn't liked her much, at the time. The answer had been 'about eighty hours of work for someone who knows what they're doing.' So Dara had tucked the scraps away in her room. _My god. They're probably still in my dad's attic somewhere._ _And you know what? I might not be able to __quilt_, _but god knows I know how to suture._ Dara nodded to herself. She'd missed doing more than sending Eli a birthday greeting this year. This would be her project. She could take it to Ellie, or she could do it herself. Assuming Kasumi hadn't tossed the box from the attic, long ago.

But, for the moment, she couldn't do much about it. So instead, she played music for the three of them. Listened to them as they occasionally raise their heads and spoke. And, chuckling, advised Lin on how to 'triage' his soldiers. "Make three piles. One for lost causes, one for stretcher cases, and one for light injuries." And when he dug glue and brushes out of the bottom of the box, and, with some surprise, declared the glue still actually _fluid_, Dara laughed again. "Let me."

"No, no, I'm pretty sure I can. . . hmm." Lin squinted at the tiny figures. "I think my hands were smaller when I did this last time."

So Dara delicately dabbed glue here and there, epoxying shields and swords back into place. "No Unification Wars era figures?" she asked.

"Bottom of the box, I think," Lin said. "I did have a full set for the Battle of Gothis, if I remember correctly."

From the doorway, a voice spoke. "Do all turians make games of war and death?"

Dara's head snapped up. The drell female that Eli and Lin both called an _assassin_ stood there, and both males instantly tensed a little. Dara eased her legs out ahead of her, preparing to roll to her feet.

Lin stood and looked at Liakos. "War's not a game, no."

"But that is what these. . . figurines represent, do they not?" Her voice was remote, but interested. "War. Soldiers. Those sent to die, correct? And they serve to amuse you?"

_And who the fuck are you to judge?_ Dara wanted to ask, but kept her mouth shut.

"Me, personally? I like _painting_ them." Lin's voice was very clipped. "I like seeing them take shape. I like creating the scene of the battle at which they fought. I like the history, and I like building things. Nothing to do with death. A subject that _you_ would be more intimately acquainted with than I, of course."

Dara's eyes had widened. Lin usually used quieter body language and tones than this. He was in full alpha mode at the moment, letting his piercing stare establish threat, looming tall and fierce in the room.

"This one—then I was mistaken," Liakos said calmly, dropping her gaze to the floor. "Forgive the intrusion." She withdrew.

'_S'kak, but she gives me the creeps. Second day on my squad, too,"_ Lin muttered.

"_Means tomorrow I'll probably lose Dara and wind up with the drell in her place,"_ Eli told him.

Dara winced. She'd been quite comfortable and happy paired up with Eli. _"Yeah. Probably my turn to wind up with someone I'd really rather not,"_ she admitted.

"_Would that make it your turn in the barrel?"_ Serana asked.

Dara blinked. _"I'm . . . not familiar with that reference,"_ she admitted, and sighed as both males suddenly started to _laugh_. _"Yeah, _okay_, inside joke_," she said, and got to her knees.

"_I'll explain it some other time,"_ Eli told her, grinning. His smile faded as she got to her feet. "You're going already?"

"Almost twenty-three thirty," she told him. "Long day tomorrow. Again."

Eli chuckled and got to his feet. "Allow me to walk you home. All ten feet."

Dara shook her head, hand on her own door now, metal cold against her skin. "You didn't get any studying done."

"I got enough in. Was just nice to hear you play and not having strain to hear it through the wall. Although, really, as thin as these walls are, it's not that _much_ of a strain."

Dara looked away. "Yeah, they are kind of thin, aren't they."

There was a slightly awkward pause. "Good night."

"Good night."

Inside her room, Dara's fingers crept to her throat. Since getting out of boot camp, she'd worn the coin Rel had given her, on its silver chain, every day. She could remember that day at the rifle range so very clearly. Rel laughing and dangling it down for her to catch in her fingers. Just a little thank-you for helping him study. When she'd felt neglected and alone, Rel had been there. Warmth and love.

But Rel. . . _her_ Rel. . . hadn't been _here_ in a long time. Almost a year now. She last remembered seeing glimpses of _her_ Rel around their _tal'mae_ rites. Laughing. Shocked, deep into his core, by the changes in Eli, just as she had been. And yet, as Eli had been recovering, doing better, laughing again, Rel. . . had faded away.

Oh, she couldn't put her finger on exactly when or where. Looking back, there were lots of early warning signs. His irritable restlessness on Sur'Kesh. Threatening the reporter on Macedyn—and she'd _heard_ Rinus take his younger brother to task for it. She could relive her own thoughts, day by day. Remembering how he'd threatened to shoot Dempsey off her if the man didn't release her. Her relief at having him at her side, always big and protective, at that moment. The way her throat had tightened in anguish, later, as Dempsey had been told that his wife had given up looking for him, had moved on. How she'd thought of how badly it would hurt Rel, if _she_ disappeared, and how much it would hurt, in turn, to be the one who returned to find he'd moved on.

And yet. . . since then. . . so many other, subtle changes. He'd given the order for Siara to stop relieving the dying batarian prisoner's pain without so much as a flinch. Not permitted her to administer the pain drugs until it was simply time to ease the prisoner from life. A cold decision. A _necessary_ one, arguably. And one she still didn't agree with. There had to have been a different way to get the information. What, she wasn't sure, but . . . it still struck her as not _her_ Rel.

But there had still been _flashes_ of him, now and again. As at their _tal'mae_ rites. _Surely, I was happy then, wasn't I? Other than seeing Eli and Lin looking like ghosts of themselves? Realizing that I hadn't been able to do more than send them messages in four years?_ And then, the separation on Rocam. The first month had been unbearable. The second, in its way, worse. She knew she had another _ten months_ to endure. In the third month, she'd started to realize something. . . terrible. She was completely alone. For four years, the service and her medical studies had isolated her. She'd kept up messages as best she could with Eli—never missing his birthday, or Caelia's—Lin, Decimus, Nadea, Kallixta, her father, Kasumi—but on Rocam, she had not _one solitary person_ that she could talk to. And, when she'd counted back in her mind, she'd realized, in shock, that they had spent the _last_ Christmas on Bastion with her father and Kasumi and Takeshi. . . but that they hadn't gone anywhere for any of the previous three. That all but one shoreleave they'd taken had been on a turian planet. One two-week stint on Mindoir with Rinus and Kallixta, some three years before. And then two days, for work, dealing with Dempsey.

She'd been set to discuss this with Rel when he next had leave from his SR-3, and then the MIA had occurred. It had felt as if her world were coming to an end. She'd felt so _empty_ and so _guilty_ at the same time, and it had been such a _relief_ to see him again. . . and she couldn't possibly discuss problems at a time like that. At that point, the problems had slunk off into the shadows and hidden from the light of her relief. And yet, that, she thought, was actually the last time she'd seen _her_ Rel. It was as if they'd gone to Illium for his 'stress relief' leave, and she'd brought a stranger back with her.

_Or maybe_, she thought, _I brought a stranger back in me._ Because she hadn't been able to _quite_ suppress the more than sneaking thought, since then, that she'd become, somehow, little more than stress relief to him. _There should be more_, she thought, tiredly. _There's more to life than work and stress and stress relief. There should be joy, too. And I haven't seen him laugh in months. __Really_ _laugh._

_So where,_ she thought, tiredly, _did __my__ Rel go? The one who always had a laugh for me. The one who loved me enough to try to be human. The one who rode horses and didn't mind a human bed now and again. I want __my__ Rel back. Especially since I don't have much of a choice about living with the stranger he's become._ _Was my dad right, five years ago? Did we go into this too young? Before we were __really__ ready? _She exhaled. She'd _tried_ to convey some of that to him last week, at her father's house. It seemed a little unfair to discuss it again now. Especially in the middle of what was, again, a high-stress environment.

And one with very thin walls. As she'd noticed every night they were here. And that others had doubtless noticed as well.

**Shepard**

Another long evaluation session over and done with. Eli, Linianus, Dara, Zhasa, and Dempsey, surprisingly, were at the top of the charts after the first two days. Rinus and Rel were being hampered by the nature of today's exercises. "We'll do one of our favorite obstacle courses tomorrow in the morning," Shepard told her Spectres. "Then we'll do psych evals in the afternoon. Sky? You're on deck for those."

_Their songs will be open to me. I have heard some dissonance and minor keys of late, but this will be a time of deep listening, not just for surfaces melodies and chance-struck chords, but for the deeper harmonies, as well._

Powerful assurance in those words. Shepard nodded. She didn't want to make the wrong choices here. Didn't want to tap people who were, for the moment, fragile, and cause them to shatter, utterly.

It was close to 21:00 when the meeting let out, and Shepard headed for her own quarters with a feeling of weariness. With all this on her plate, the fate of the galaxy, batarians on the move _everywhere_, and Valak out of contact for two weeks. . . what was she going to do with the rest of her evening? Have a long talk with her oldest daughter and then _collapse_ for a while.

Lilu tapped on Amara's door. "Amara? Are you still awake?"

There was a pause. "It's not bedtime yet, is it?"

"Almost, but I wanted to talk first." Lilu opened the door and stepped in.

Amara's room was small, like the rest of the children's. Just enough room for a twin bed, an extranet console and desk, a chair, a set of shelves, and a chest of old stuffed toys at the foot of the bed. Amara liked cool colors; pale blues and greens and violets, which at least made the small space calm and serene. At the moment, Amara was in a nightgown—something Garrus still _chuckled_ at every time he looked at the children—and was sitting up in bed, reading. "Yes, Mom?" Amara's voice was small, and she looked as if she were frantically going through her mind for whatever infraction she was about to be scolded for.

Lilu sighed. _I wanted to be a bit more in your life than __this__,_ she thought. _Seeing me shouldn't be like visiting the principal._

"It's not, Mom," Amara replied, instantly, out loud.

Lilu sighed. "I need you not to listen to what I'm thinking for a few minutes, sweetie. I'm going to be uncomfortable enough with this conversation."

Amara frowned. "Then why not make it easier and just let me listen to what you want to say, and then you don't have to be embarrassed?"

"Amara."

"Yes, Mom. I won't listen."

_That has to be the opposite of what every other mother in existence wants to hear._

"Probably." Amara slapped a hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry, Mom, you were just _loud_. I'm trying _not_ to, honest. Madison says he has the same problem."

_And, well, nice segue._ "Yeah. I actually wanted to talk to you about him."

Amara sat up, smiling. "He's really nice, isn't he, Mom?"

Shepard sighed. "Inasmuch as I've seen him, yes. Although your father's going to be having a talk with his father later this week, too."

"Well, his dad's going to be a Spectre, right?" Amara's voice was completely reasonable.

"Maybe, sweetheart. Depends on how he does in the trials." _How did this get away from me?_ "Amara," Shepard started again, putting a hand to her forehead for a moment, "You've been spending a _lot_ of time with Madison lately. He's a little older than you are, and I know he's probably very interesting, because he comes from Earth and hasn't, well, spent his whole life here on base—"

Amara was nodding enthusiastically, but now her face suddenly fell. "And you don't want me to anymore? Mom, he's study-mates with Kaius. He's training in biotics with me and with Sky and Shel and Ylara. It would be hard _not_ to—"

Shepard sighed and raised one finger. Through almost conditioned reflex, all the children responded to that gesture from Garrus, and when Shepard used it, it felt odd. . . but it worked. Amara went silent. "I hadn't quite finished talking," Lilu said. It was so much _easier_ to be a commander than to be a _mother._ Commanders gave orders. Mothers. . . well, they could give orders. Sometimes, that even worked. Most of the time, it involved a lot of discussing. Trying to make the kids understand. And _then_ resorting to ordering. At least junior officers usually didn't cry. She carefully put the picture of Amara and Kaius in tiny Alliance uniforms out of her head, and tried not to smile.

The fact that Amara was smiling now didn't help. "Stop peeking."

"I'm _trying_, Mom."

Lilu sighed, gave up, and lay down on the bed next to her daughter. Put an arm around Amara's shoulders. "Look, your father pointed something out to me the other day. You know what? You're ten."

"I know that, Mom."

"Yeah, I thought I knew that, too. Except that turian girls, when they're ten, start hormonal testing. A lot of your friends are probably already being tested every six months or so."

"Yeah, but I'm _not_ turian, Mom. I'm only half." Slightly defensive curl of the shoulders. Probably picking up some of Lilu's own apprehension.

"Do you understand _why_ they have to do that?"

"Sort of."

"If their hormones get unbalanced, they could go into estrus. Find a boy they like and bite him. Maybe even have a baby. . . much younger than is good for them. Before they're _ready_ for a relationship and commitment, sweetie."

"And what does that. . . oh. Oh _no_." Amara sounded horrified, and Lilu tightened her arm around Amara's thin shoulders. "Mom! You think I would _bite_ Mad?"

"Maybe. You might not even know you were doing it. We don't know how your hormones are going to work out, sweetheart. And you like him, don't you?" Lilu kept her voice very gentle.

Amara practically writhed. "_Moooooomm!_ I wouldn't hurt him!"

"I didn't think it would be a fighting-bite."

Amara's eyes went wide. "I don't know if I _like_ him like him," she whispered.

Lilu's shoulders shook, once. She could barely remember her own early years some days. She had very dim recollections of following a boy home from school in the early colony days, and being chased off by his older sister. _Surely_, she thought, _I must have been this embarrassed?_ "Well, you do _normally_ like him, right?"

"He's nice." The voice was very small.

"What makes him nice?"

"He doesn't make fun of anyone. Thinks everything here is weird, but that the weird is. . . amazing. And right, because this is the _Spectre_ base. And he loved his mom, a lot. And missed his dad for years, only now he's got him back, only he's different than he ever thought he'd be. . . and he's _still_ nice. Even though he's got every right to be mad at the world, he still tries to be kind and understand. And he looks like a _star_, Mom." Amara actually looked up for that disclosure. "Not with my eyes. With my mind. A blue-white star. It's. . . not comfortable, but it's beautiful to look at." Amara finally exhaled, a little tremulously.

Lilu paused, and looked down at her. "Wow. That was a lot to say all at once."

Amara fidgeted.

"That sounds like _like_ like, to me."

"Maybe. A little."

"So, should I have your father go talk to his about manus-plighting?" Lilu couldn't _resist_ the tease.

"_Mooooom! No!_ He's _human!_ They won't understand!" Amara paused, and the thought lanced out, clear as day. _Besides. Then he'd __know__. And he could __laugh._

"Okay, was just an idea." Lilu put her head down atop her daughter's. "I really don't think he'd laugh, kiddo. Life is too damned short to laugh at any sort of love. Or to reject it, when it's offered. All love should be appreciated. It might not always be reciprocated. But it should always be _appreciated._"

_But then, young people don't always understand that._ Lilu cleared her throat. "So. . . hormonal testing, okay? And your dad _will_ be talking to Madison's dad. So that on the _off-chance_ something happens. . .Madison isn't taken by surprise if you happen to grab him and bite him. Or start kissing him."

"Mom!"

"He needs to know. So neither of you has to be embarrassed."

"But then he'll _know._"

"Sweetie, you've been talking to him biotically for _how_ long now? Do you really think he doesn't have an inkling?"

Amara cringed. "Oh. . . crud. I hadn't _thought_ of that."

Lilitu Shepard, hero of the galaxy, tried very hard not to laugh. Inside, or out.


	102. Chapter 102: Touchstone

**Chapter 102:** **Touchstone**

_**Author's note:**__ I've written this in any number of PMs, review responses, and several times on the forums, but I guess I'll put it where everyone can see it. My __original__ plan, at the end of __Redemption__, just after the funerals, was that I was going to do a time-skip of three years. Dara and Eli would have continued going steady. He was, originally, a couple of months older than she was, and would have gone to boot camp first, come back, __married__ her, and then __she__ was going to go to boot camp, herself. As __Dara Sidonis, wearing violet paint__. _

_I broke them up because I thought they were getting too involved, too quickly, and too young, especially if I __wasn't__ going to time-skip and gloss over three years in between story sections. And Eli's been pissed at me ever since, because, as he quietly and insistently points out. . . he wouldn't have ignored her. Ever._

_Ironically, that's exactly what early reviewers objected to in Dara/Rel. Too involved, too quickly, and too young. _

_There are days when I feel like I can't win. ;-)_

_They've been __very__ quiet about their jealousy of each other's partners, because they both find it inappropriate to __say__, hey, I'm jealous. They deny it, even to themselves. But Eli, watching Rel and Dara at sparring, in Unity? "Yeah, they're doing stuff?" The knot of jealousy in his chest, which Siara calls him on? Dara's __twitching__ when she sees Eli and Siara making out in the snow? _

_Just because I don't always call out "Dara's stomach dropped as she asked Serana, 'so, does Eli have a girlfriend?' and then she wondered why she felt depressed when the reply was 'probably lots'" doesn't mean it's not there. It's just __subtle__. But if you go back and re-read, now that I've pointed it out, it'll be blindingly obvious._

_Eli, on hearing that Siara had 'forced sharing' on Dara? Broke up with a girlfriend of over six months' standing, one that he'd put a __lot__ of work into making happy and comfortable. The next damn day. No questions, no discussion, no more chances. Broke up. Period. Because Siara had injured Dara. Would he have done it if it had been someone else?. Probably. But not as fast, not as uncompromisingly. _

_Sometimes I do things in twelve foot letters of fire, so everyone can clearly see it. Sometimes, I leave stuff in the subtext. Subtext is often more interesting. And it's a reward for reading carefully. So, yeah. No. They don't have 'brother and sister' feelings for each other. Not even remotely. Sorry if that's a surprise or a shock. But they live in my head, and have for many months now. I've __always known this__._

_**Regarding Dara and Rel**__: _

_First, while I usually love fan feedback, __PLEASE DO NOT PM OR LEAVE COMMENTS ON DARA AND REL at this time._

_Just wait for the story to unfold. _

_Here's my response to the 50 or so PMs and emails and reviews of the last week, more or less in a nutshell:_

_No, it's really not all Dara's fault. She __has__ tried to talk to Rel about his behavior. Repeatedly. Over years. There was a __**four year time skip**__. I haven't shown you __every single conversation__ in that time-span, only the edited highlights. But hell, even __Rinus__ has tried to talk to him about his behavior. ("Brother, you're in my territory. You should have left the reporter to me to deal with." Rel's __only__ reply? "I was having fun.")_

_Dara has attempted to bring up Rel's behavior to him, even as early as __Sur'Kesh__ (2194). She mentions at that point that he's very, very bored, and that she's grateful to him for letting her have the time to develop __her__ career. His reply? "Let's have sex." _

_Something that military wives __do not do__, is tell their spouses "Honey, we need to talk . . ." while they're in the field. When Dara first realized there __was__ a problem . . .when she'd decompressed enough to realize there __was__ a problem. . . she was on Rocam, as outlined explicitly in the last chapter. And while she was on Rocam, Rel was in the field. You __do not call__ someone in the field to say "Honey, the way you leave the seat up in the bathroom really bugs me." "That's nice, honey, let me worry about that when I'm not being __shot__ at." So she sucked up and dealt with it, as any number of military spouses have dealt with it for hundreds of years._

_The very __next__ thing she heard, he was MIA, maybe dead. She felt horrified and guilty, as if her thoughts had killed him, and overwhelming relief that he was alive. And then his response was, "Remember that thing you mentioned four years ago, about azure dust standing in for estrus? Let's go do that." She agreed. He had a great time. She enjoyed it, more or less, herself. Having a heart-to-heart about the relationship in the middle of a vacation designed, hopefully, to bleed the stress off? Didn't seem like good timing. And then, again, before she could say one word about their relationship, they were on Bastion. In the middle of four weeks of people dying all around them. Again, not an __optimal__ time to have a relationship conversation. _

_Once she'd decompressed, she __discussed__ some of this with him. Told him he'd changed. Expressed some of her feelings, at Sam's BBQ. That was __two__ chapters ago. __One__ chapter ago? Was her shining moment of realization that she can't live this way anymore, and that things have to change. _

_Realization first. Action second. That's called a "beat" in stage time. You can't have RealizationAction! It has to be Realization. Pause. Action. _

_99.9% of the comments screaming at Dara are because we're in the PAUSE moment between Realization and Action. Please wait until there's action again. Give her a chance to develop, figure things out, and do something about it. _

_And keep in mind that sometimes, there aren't nice, neat tidy pop-culture-friendly answers like "talk it out." I know. I've __been there__._

_Rel's not irrational. He's not psychotic. He's not even a bad person. He's just not the person she married anymore. The Rel she married __did__ try to compromise for her. He broke rules to be a little more human, for her sake. Broke the letter of his contract agreement. Put his arm around her in the Imperator's box, in complete contravention of turian rules, decorum, and stoicism. Rel today? Would he do it?_

_I honestly don't know._

_Rel can currently be characterized as obsessed with his goal of being a Spectre, a little egotistical about it at this point, and a bit lazy about his relationship with Dara. He's taken a lot for granted from her._

_Part of bringing them back to Mindoir and putting them with more characters than __just each other__ was deliberately designed to allow them __more people to interact with__. Because being insular, only talking to each other, as they've done for many chapters now, has retarded their character growth. . . and if they were real people, sure as hell wouldn't be healthy. So, we re-establish old friendships and develop new ones. Dara's doing so. Rel hasn't been._

_On a slightly more fun note, I'd encourage people to check out the "Ask the characters" thread on my forums. People have been asking the characters, and I've been responding, __in-character__, for several weeks now, and it's a good place to relax in between chapters._

**Dempsey, Mindoir June 8, 2197 **

Zhasa had visited him in his barracks late the previous evening. She was practically _aglow_ with how well she and her team had done. "Wish I'd been with you," Dempsey told her as she reached up, put her gloved hands to either side of his face, and simply opened her mind to him. _God, sweetie, the door wasn't even shut yet._

_I like it much better when you can react properly. _

_Did I mention that I was grateful to you for helping me deal with that damned reporter yesterday?_

_You did, but that's all right. I won't think you're senile if you repeat yourself occasionally._

_No. That'll be a sign that the chip is shorting out._ Dempsey's thought had a slight grim edge to it. If the krogan regen mod held, he might well have a _very_ long life ahead of him. The cybernetics and the chip, however? Could wear out first.

"Let's not borrow trouble," Zhasa told him, firmly. "And maybe tomorrow, they'll put us on the same team."

Dempsey sat down on the edge of his bed, and Zhasa slipped down to sit across his lap. "You actually think they'd do something that make the trials easier?" he asked, his voice calm.

"Perhaps. It looks to me as if they're going to scramble the groups every day, and see how we all worth together. Different people, different abilities. Having to adapt constantly adds to the stress, too." Her voice was just as calm. "Hmm. I can hear Dara playing the _reela_. So _odd_ to hear human music on it. . . but she plays with so much passion."

_I was wrong about her being chilly._

_Only to people she doesn't know or trust. She shows the thorns then._

_Thorns? _

_You asked how they all 'feel' to me. She's a. . . a thicket, I think. . . of those roses your people grow. All bunched up around herself. Hiding something. Protecting herself._

_She's Sleeping fucking Beauty?_

_Huh?_ The thought resonated with confusion.

Dempsey smiled very faintly, and showed her the old fairy tale in his mind. A castle, wrapped in roses, a sleeping girl, not quite dead, but preserved, awaiting love's first kiss to be awakened at last.

_Actually, __you__ were the one in a glass coffin, Dempsey._

_Don't remind me._ He put his head down on her shoulder, trying to get comfortable in spite of the suit. _I'm told there are greenhouses down in the valley. Used by the xenobiology people to prepare plants. We should go there. Warm in there, I bet. Lots of plants to touch and smell for you, if you like. Not just roses. Might have gardenias there, like my grandparents had down in their retirement home in North Carolina. Or lilacs and roses and honeysuckle, like in my parents' backyard in Boston. _

_Sounds wonderful._ Her mind _lit up_ at the mere thought. _Tomorrow night?_

_Sparring. Thursday, though. We can slip off then._ He liked the idea. _Though Mad might need to come with us._

_That's fine, if he wants to. He's old enough that an hour here in the barracks, with everyone else around, shouldn't hurt him._

Dempsey nodded. _You want me to play some music, too, or you enjoying listening to hers?_

_Hers. For the moment. But if I listen to you, listening to hers, that's also enjoyable._ Opening her thoughts a little further. Letting him fall into her, open to her in turn.

_You're addictive, Zhasa. That's the only explanation. Quarians should come with warning labels on them._ He looked down, and lightly patted her on the hip. _We could put the stickers on your asses. The suits won't mind, will they?_

There was a tap at the door, and before Zhasa could spring up, Madison had already pushed into the room. The boy stopped and stared, and Dempsey, already deeply entwined with Zhasa's mind, had full access to most of his emotions, and _annoyance_ was the top of the list. "I thought I told you to _knock_, wait for an acknowledgement, and _then_ come in," he said, sharply, his voice dark.

"Sorry, sorry," Madison replied, instantly, trying, apparently, to look _anywhere_ but at them. "I didn't know she was—I'm sorry."

Zhasa stood up and moved over to the desk, sending a light thought back Dempsey's way. _It could have been worse._

It could have been a _lot_ worse, Dempsey knew. They could've been lighting each other's nerve endings on fire. She could have been making those sweet little sounds, half mewls, half very raspy purrs, that he was coming to enjoy hearing _very_ much. She could have been demonstrating her impressive flexibility, leaning back as she straddled his thighs to drop her head to his shins. Fortunately, none of that had been the case. And no biofeedback had been in place.

Still. . . Mad looked a little shocked. A _lot_ shocked, actually. Dempsey stood up, calmly, and looked down at his son. "Had been wondering how to tell you that Zhasa and I were getting close. This isn't the way I'd have chosen." _Understatement of the century_. "You okay with this?"

"I. . . yeah, I guess." Madison's voice was more than a little uncertain. From the way the boy's eyes slid towards Zhasa, Dempsey didn't even need to read his mind to figure out what he was thinking: _So, um, how the hell does __that__ work?_

"I was concerned you'd be pissed. With your mom—" Dempsey was consciously trying to add inflections to his voice. With Zhasa there, it was possible to sound worried. Because he _was_. Madison was too recent an addition to his life, a precious part of it _returned_, and he didn't want to fuck this up.

Madison slowly shook his head. "Well. . . it's. . . kind of _weird_," he admitted, with another sidelong glance. "But I like you, Zhasa," he added, after a moment. Dempsey _did_ hear that thought streak out. _And I couldn't stand William ("Call me Bill") Perry._ "But. . .you and Mom were never going to. . . I mean. . . "

His voice faltered a bit, and Dempsey got a flash from Zhasa. _Touch him. _Dempsey reached out automatically, and put a hand on the back of his son's neck. Pulled him, cautiously, up against his side for a moment.

Zhasa's smile was in her voice, warm and happy. "I like you, too, Madison."

Madison squinted at her. "You don't expect me to call you _Mom_ or anything like that, do you?"

Dempsey frowned, very slightly. "We're not married, Mad."

"Of course not, Madison," Zhasa told him, gently. "Your mother's always going to be your mother to you, no matter who's in your father's life."

Dempsey sighed internally, a knot of tension he hadn't even realized was _there_ unraveling. She had a gift for saying the right thing at the right time, Zhasa did. _If we ever get into a situation where we need someone to negotiate, __you're__ talking to the hostage takers, sweetie. You're much better at this than I am._

_Well, you're much better at staying calm than I am._

_. . . right up until I go nuts and try to kill everyone around me?_

_You haven't done that in weeks._

_You're __so__ comforting._

Out loud, Dempsey looked down at Madison. "Was there a reason you came bursting in here?"

"Yeah! Amara's parents sent us an invitation to come have dinner with them tomorrow night before sparring. Isn't that _cool?_" Madison's spark was back, the confusion and slight hint of being lost vanishing in a heartbeat.

Dempsey frowned slightly. _Great. What did I do now? Wait. Could be Mad who did something._ "Is Zhasa invited, too?"

"Actually, yeah. I just got the message. You've probably got a copy, too. I just wanted to ask if I needed to dress up or anything, since, you know. Garrus Vakarian and Commander Shepard." If he'd said 'a saint came down from heaven' or 'Ray Bourque came back from the grave,' Dempsey wasn't sure the words could have sounded more reverent.

"School clothes are probably fine. There's sparring afterwards, make sure your gym stuff is ready to go."

"Okay!" Madison skittered back out of the room, and stopped at the door. "I, ah. I'm sorry for not waiting. I'll knock and _wait_ from now on." And out the door he went.

Dempsey shook his head. _And to think I thought this would be __easier__ than a toddler_, he thought.

Zhasa laughed and came back over to put her arms around his waist. _It could be worse. You can see his face. He's old enough to be suited, if he were a quarian._

The next morning, they were all assembled again. No cuts from yesterday, so still thirty-six candidates, all there in their armor, the enviro systems in the suits protecting them from the biting cold. The predawn light was dim enough that Dempsey was able to keep his own polarized face shield up without causing pain to his eyes.

This time, they gathered outside a large building that had a _lot_ of scaffolding inside. "Good morning!" Shepard called, climbing up where people could see her on a iron platform in front of the venue. "Yesterday's challenge involved one of the many scenarios you could see as a Spectre. Entering an area with a large civilian population and having to take out bad guys without harming nice, ordinary, average citizens. Today's scenario presents the other extreme, with a little added difficulty. In this scenario, you're entering a large facility that's been taken over by a rogue faction of geth."

The geth Spectre, Cohort, suddenly vaulted up onto the platform beside Shepard, his grace alien and absolutely uncanny. Beside Dempsey, Zhasa stiffened just a bit. "These geth, for reasons passing understanding, have formed an alliance with everyone's _favorite_ bad guys, the batarians. The batarians in this exercise will not be holograms or turrets or mechs. They will be played by Spectres."

"Ah, _fuck_," Dempsey muttered under his breath, which got a couple of heads nearby to turn.

Rinus Velnaran, to his left, leaned in. "I don't think that's quite all yet. She still looks like she's having too much fun." The male's low-toned voice rasped a little.

Shepard was, indeed, still grinning viciously. "Spectre Cohort, would you like to explain to our candidates the nature of the challenge and the objective before them?"

"Certainly," the geth replied, tilting his head and appearing to look out over the assembled candidates, in their multiple colors of armor. "We have at our disposal, a geth armature, recently brought to the base for our defenses."

"_Keelah'selai!"_ Zhasa said, and Dempsey reached out and caught her arm as she rocked back on her heels. That had been a flicker of mortal terror that had lanced through him from her. _Settle down, sweetie. If you get scared like that, I have __no idea__ what I'll do._

She wasn't the only person reacting like that. A disconcerted murmur was running through the crowd.

"We have loaded the armature's cannon with extremely large paintballs, to simulate the impact and radius of its normal attack. We recommend not being hit. Disabling the armature is your objective. There are four paths through the large courtyard that lead to the armature from the entrance. Two are up flights of stairs which lead to a catwalk that surrounds the courtyard. Spectres will be on those catwalks. There are containers for cover on the ground of the courtyard. There are two cargo nets on the far end of the courtyard, which serve in place of stairs to reach the armature, if you opt for a direct approach. There are . . . other obstacles. Traps. Other Spectres. Some of whom may be stealthed."

Groans going through the crowd now. "Well," Dempsey said, looking at Zhasa. "People were complaining that yesterday's exercise wasn't realistic enough."

"Did we really need to move up to _this_ realistic?" The human male voice came from behind them.

Dempsey turned. Tilted his head slightly up and met Sidonis' dark eyes. "Could be worse," he commented, flatly. "Could have geth infiltrators and hunters hopping around on the walls."

"_Keelah_, Dempsey, don't _say_ these things. I never saw them in combat myself—"

"I did."

That got him looks from everyone around them. Dempsey just _looked_ like the rest of the younger humans, but he was ten years unstuck in time, and sometimes, it still showed. "They're agile little cocks, let's just put it that way. I'd _rather_ deal with something that holds still and lets me shoot at it."

Up at the front, Cohort said, calmly, "And, as might expect, we are rotating group assignments once more. Dempsey, James, Velnaran, Dara, and Zhasa'Maedan? You are first."

Dempsey looked down at both females as they gathered at the door, checked their weapons, and so on. He shook his head after a minute. "Well. This is. . . going to be interesting." He glanced at Dara. "You still have that rifle?"

"You bet." Her eyes looked tired, but she'd gone back into that mask of cold competence once more. _Zhasa, sweetie, the thorns are showing._

_The petals are covered in ice today, yes._

"I think you're going to be on armature duty. Zhasa and I are going to try to protect you long enough to take it down. Zhasa, I'm switching to submachine gun—you?"

"Yes, definitely."

"All right, let's poke our heads in and see what we've got here."

Down the long ramp now, armored feet entirely too loud on the metal grates. They ducked around the door, and Dempsey took one look at the situation and ducked down into a deep crouch. "Okay, nasty," he said. "I counted six Spectres, for god's sake. Loading the odds a little bit?"

"Did you happen to see _which_?" Dara asked, trying to peek around the corner. And then ducked her head back as the Spectres off to the far right on the catwalk opened fire on the doorway. Just a couple of blasts to keep their heads down. "Okay, great. Far right is Lantar and Garrus." She peeked out. "I only see one in the courtyard. . . female. Could be Ylara." She ducked back. "Right's a hell of a lot of firepower to go into. And I don't see us running through the middle."

"Only two Spectres to the left," Zhasa offered. "Some cover on the catwalk from them. . . a little less from the armature. . . It looks simple."

_It can't possibly be easy._ "Left it is," Dempsey agreed. "If nothing else, we can try and fire on the armature from the catwalk and pick off the 'batarians' from a distance." _Maybe._

He pulled up his mental wall of blocks, and then he and Zhasa led out. Paintballs splattering against the shields, in a half-crouching run ahead of Dara out, down a set of stairs to the right, then cutting left, straight for the stairs—_Great. Another Spectre. Right at the top—fuck, he's the krogan one_. "On him," Zhasa said, and _leaped_, bypassing the stairs and landing _behind_ Gris. "Zhasa—damnit. C'mon, Doc, up we go." Dempsey ran straight up the stairs, diving for the fragile cover of the catwalk's covered guardrails, and leveled his submachine gun at Gris. His finger depressed the trigger, and the krogan was suddenly _covered_ in paint.

Dara dove and laid herself flat on the ground, shouting, "Zhasa! _GET DOWN!"_ just as there was an almighty **BOOM** and _something_ hit the catwalk between them all. Hard. The damned metal _flexed_ and shook under his feet. _Mother of God_, Dempsey thought, but it was a largely reflexive thought, not an emphatic one. And then he pulled his head up.

The armature had laid down a shell right at the stricken krogan's feet. Zhasa was holding out her sphere around her, arms outstretched, and was currently taking fire from at least four directions—one directly ahead of them, to the north along the catwalk, leading to the armature. Dempsey scrambled back to his feet. The turian in black armor to the north wasn't too far away. . . _Hey. You. Get off my girl._ Dempsey picked the turian up and threw him backwards into the metal wall behind him. Hard. Dara followed up on that with several lethally accurate shots from her rifle, splattering the dazed male with paint on the chest.

"Zhasa, drop your shield and move up, there's cover on the walkway ahead." His voice was completely calm. Just analyzing tactics.

"I'm getting odd tech readings ahead," Zhasa muttered as they hustled up. "Don't go past that large crate."

"I need a damned shot on something," Dara said, calmly. "When can we expect the armature to fire again?"

"Ten seconds or so," Dempsey shot back, and told her, "Take your shots on it now. Zhasa and I are going to take out the ones in the courtyard below."

There was only one Spectre visible at the moment—the female, who raised her hand and then Dempsey found _himself_ sailing through the air—_biotic lift._ _Okay, we know how to deal with that. . . Zhasa, if you would?_ His double layer of shields was holding, in spite of determined fire from the two turians across the way.

Zhasa _threw_ the Spectre below up and over one of the tall stacks of crates, which tumbled down atop the female. Dempsey dropped down, and reinforced his shields, slamming the blocks in place this time with letters on them. _NICE TRY._ Dara had, in spite of all this by-play, been steadily taking shots at the armature. "Here it comes," she said, and ducked down.

Zhasa didn't have enough energy to shield them all this time, and the young doctor, with only one layer of shields, did get splattered this time. "I can treat myself," she said, clearly annoyed, but mind still working away. "Give me time, and take out the people across from us, if you can. And watch out for anyone trying to sneak up behind us." She got out a the 'med kit' she'd been issued, and proceeded to wipe the 'blood' away and administer 'medigel.'

While she was doing that, Dempsey took the opportunity to _warp_ the damn shields on the armature, before turning to fire on one of the two turians across the way—the one with the sniper rifle was _particularly_ annoying. Zhasa coordinated, and whenever that turian dropped down, they switched to the one with the damned _grenade launcher_ who periodically sent projectiles this way. "This is starting to feel like a no-win," Dempsey commented.

"They can't get an angle on us if we move up further. But the armature will have a clear line of fire," Dara called back. Her rifle snapped out two more shots on the armature. _BAM-BAM__. _She ducked back down. "You got tech readings ahead of us?"

"Yes. Turrets or traps or something," Zhasa said. "I can overload them."

"Do it," Dara told her. "We're too damned exposed here."

Dempsey had to agree with the doctor. Looking over Dara's shoulder, he _just_ caught the glimmer of a stealth net behind her and lashed out, _throwing_ the attacker away. Dara turned and reflexively fired at his target, double-tap, then ducked down, reloading.

Just as Zhasa's overload went off, the armature fired _again_. "Let's _move_," Dempsey said, and they all scrambled forward, Dempsey watching behind them, trying to see who, if anyone, was moving in stealthed again—ducking around the corner, over the unmoving body of the first Spectre they'd 'killed.' "Good, we've got _some_ cover here—get down!" Dempsey shoved Zhasa down, and Dara dropped to a crouch behind him,

The armature had turned towards them, and instead of using its main gun, had opened two small minigun turrets, and was blazing paintballs at them at about five balls a second. Zhasa didn't have enough energy to shield them all. . . and Dempsey took it on the chest. _Okay,_ he thought, his thoughts grim and distant. _You guys can play all the games you want, but you fucking well know that wouldn't kill me, even once it got through both shields and the armor. Let's see how __you__ like being fucked with. You're playing by __my__ rules now._ He activated the chip in his mind, the pain lancing through his head, and, still dripping fake blood, tried to _hack_ the damn thing.

For a wonder, its guns _stopped_. Twitched. "_Now_ would be good," Dempsey gritted. The pain in his head was really _intense._ "I don't know how long I can hold it."

Zhasa keyed up her omnitool and tried to overload the last of the armature's shields. And Dara got back to work, firing with a calm that was almost glacial.

When the armature folded in on itself, Dempsey heard _clapping_ from behind them. Sam Jaworski stood behind them, along with a turian that Dempsey didn't recognize. "Oh. . . scale me," Dara said, in English, sounding horrified. "Hi, Dad. Hi. . .Livanus." She turned her head to the side and banged her helmet against a metal pole a couple of times.

"I miss something here?" Dempsey asked.

Livanus, the new turian, grinned. "Once upon a time, the good doctor saved my life from a bullet in the heart," he said, cheerfully. "And she just realized she basically just undid all her hard work."

"I don't even know how to _score_ this round," a voice called from across the way. Dempsey turned, and behind the armature were Vakarian, Sidonis (the elder), and Ylara. Vakarian shook his head. "On the one hand, I should be scoring _you_ as a fatality, Dempsey. My omnitool registered fifty impacts on your armor once the shields went down."

"And on the other hand, you know I probably wouldn't be dead. And the doc here is real good at pulling out bullets. Aren't you, Doc?" _Of course, I could be frothing at the mouth from the pain and the rage right now instead. God, my head hurts._

Zhasa's thoughts touched his. _Here. Let me help._ She winced a little, recoiled at the pain, and then tried to help him tamp the anger seething in him down.

"I've never removed fifty from a _living_ body before," Dara admitted. "You're bound to be good for my morale, Dempsey. Short of feeding you into a chipper-shredder, I'm not sure what _can_ kill you."

"We're trying not to field-test that just now," Sam drawled from behind them. "Nice job. Head on back out."

It had been a _slow_ round. None of them were packing heavy weapons or even assault rifles, which would have made it go quicker. Dara's rifle and their biotics had done the heavy lifting, but it had still taken sixteen grueling minutes. "You want me to wipe that off?" Dara offered, flourishing a cleaning cloth at Dempsey.

"Thanks, I'll handle it." He paused. "Nice shooting, Doc."

"Thanks." Her smile was tentative, but some of the ice was thawing. It was nice to see, actually. Made _him_ feel more human, just to see _her_ act more human.

**Seheve**

_And to think, if the Master's plans had come to fruition, I might have had to fight a behemoth of metal and wire, just like this one. How I would have accomplished his task . . . wiping out the words of Ruin from the geth mind. . .without destroying every geth. . . seems impossible._ Seheve had found a quiet place to kneel, out of the way of the rest of the candidates. Still, she knew she was watched. The turian with whom she'd been paired the previous two days, the tall one with the blue quartered face-paint, _always_ watched her. He'd been the one, with the volus and the krogan, who had come to arrest her in the embassy. .. she thought, anyway. The voice was the same. The face had been unknowable behind that polarized mask.

The eyes matched the face-paint, cobalt blue. Small, deep-set. Not expressive, like a drell's eyes. More predatory than a human's or an asari's. Always _watching_. "Dempsey, Velnaran, and Zhasa'Maedan are done, with a time of seventeen minutes. Zero fatalities. . . one. . . _injury_. . . " Shepard sounded _amused_ by that, "Four Spectres 'killed.' Not a bad first run. Next up. . . Liakos, Seheve. Pellarian, Linianus. Sidonis, Elijah."

_Three days. But this time, with his friend. Whose eyes see too much, too._ Seheve stood, centering herself. Took a sniper rifle, a pistol, and her vibroblade, and looked at the two males, both so much taller than she was. "What would you have me do?"

The tall human male was taking a sniper rifle himself, a pistol, and a shield. "Lin? You've worked with her before."

The turian growled a little. "Stay with us. Focus on the armature, with Eli here, whenever you can." He picked up a shield, a pistol, and a submachine gun for his back, and nodded to them. "I'm going to be trying to give you both cover wherever we set up to shoot from. Liakos. . . " He squinted at her, and then said, reluctantly, "Go to stealth while we're getting set up. We might need you to go in and . . . incapacitate someone for us."

"That'll also keep you from being targeted, hopefully," the human added.

_Ah. So he sees some use in my skills_.

And then they were off, entering the testing area. "Damn, I see Garrus and my dad over to the right—"

"Swear I saw Ylara and maybe Sam down below."

"Yeah. I'm not going through the middle. Up and left. Liakos, can you get in on whoever's at the top and incapacitate them?"

"You say the words so carefully. Do you not mean _kill_?"

The human looked annoyed. "I mean _incapacitate._ I don't actually want anyone confused here. This is a drill. Don't use the damn knife."

Seheve lowered her head, and vanished off ahead of them. She ascended the steps ahead of them—they were back to back at the moment, fending off bullets from all directions with their shields. Up to the top of the stairs. . . ah. A krogan was in their path, firing a shotgun with paintballs down at the two males. Krogan were difficult. Seheve stepped behind him and considered it. And fired her paintball pistol point-blank into the hump, repeating the shot, lower, aiming for the first heart. Rolled to the side, and, from the midpoint of her roll, on the ground, fired up into the abdomen, where the third heart was. Completed the roll, coming back up on the krogan's left now, and fired again. Second heart.

And promptly took three bullets in her own back as the turian to the north end of the walkway took exception to her attack. Then both males were on her, the big turian slamming his shield in the way of the incoming bullets, letting her shields come back up, while the human was firing. "You all right?" Pellarian asked her.

"Yes. I, ah, thank you for your care."

"Don't thank me." The tone was curt, but his arm stayed between her and harm as he and the human used their pistols to take out the remaining Spectre on the catwalk.

Then the turian yanked her into him and covered them both with the shield, shouting to his friend in his own strange language, _"Fradu! Adfligo!"_

And then the world shook around them as if a bomb had gone off. . . .

**Linianus**

Lin waited for the damn bridge to stop shaking. "_Fradu, _we're too damned exposed to the armature up here. Let's move up." He released the little drell from his grip; his shield was _covered_ in red paint at the moment, and his arm actually stung from the impact. _Realism, my ass._

"Can't." Eli's words were terse. "Catwalk ahead of us is mined or something. I can see the tripwires from here."

"_S'kak,"_ Lin muttered. "Liakos, can you do anything about that?"

"I can," she said, with that disturbing tone of serenity. "However, the Spectre from the courtyard is advancing.:

Lin swore again, this time mentally, and began firing down. "Looks like Ylara. Anyone see Sam?"

"He's off to the left. Behind the stack of three crates, circling around in front—and gotcha, Sam," Eli said, sounding downright _gleeful_. He'd switched up to his rifle, and was now firing paintballs into Sam's armor at will, at least until the man ducked back into cover.

"How the _hell_ did you see him?"

"Stealth fields leave tell-tales. They're easy, when you know what you're looking for." Eli glanced up. "Liakos, get on the armature. We've only got a short window here. Lin, need cover here. . . "

Lin moved up. Let them shelter behind him, while he stuck with his pistol for a moment or two, trying to force Ylara to stay put and _not_ use her biotics. Seheve stayed on the armature. Eli began coolly firing across the courtyard at his father. "Having fun, _fradu_?" Lin asked, feeling a grin start to spread across his face.

"Past couple days have been the most fun I've had since Tuchanka." Eli's grin was in his voice now, and he managed to get Lantar to duck down.

The ground shook again as the next armature round went off. Liakos cleared her throat once the thunder passed out of their ears. "I will deactivate the traps," she said, calmly. "You two move ahead. I will go deal with the Spectre in the courtyard."

"No!" Lin told her, sharply. "No splitting up. Stay with us. Splitting up leads to people _dying_." _Hell, even people sticking together doesn't stop that_, his mind taunted. _But it at least cuts down the odds_.

She lowered her eyes. "As you wish. I fear that they may come up behind us, however."

As it was, Ylara _did_ come up behind them, and Lin's head snapped up as Seheve did. . . _something_ . . . with her omnitool. Something that made Ylara clutch her head, and made the shockwave she was sending off splutter and die. Lin capitalized and finished the Spectre off with his pistol. He _longed_ to switch out to his assault rifle, but at the moment, his _job_ was to hold the line. To defend Eli and this drell female until the damned armature fell down.

Time, fifteen minutes, thirty seconds. One injury—Seheve had gotten splattered with paint in one of the armature explosions, four Spectres 'killed,' and Lantar severely wounded. "Not bad at all," Eli told Lin, offering a wrist-clasp.

Lin accepted it, and watched as Sam came over and clapped Eli on the shoulder. The human male _always_ treated Eli like a son, Lin had noticed. Eli's first set of armor had been Sam's. "Very nice," he told them all. Lantar was nodding, putting one hand on Eli's shoulder, and the other on Lin's. Lin turned and glanced at Seheve.

She glanced back at him, and asked, suddenly, disconcertingly, "I thought that you said that war and battle were not games for you."

Lin stared at her. _Why does it matter to you?_ he thought, and said, after a moment, "Not a game. But being _good_ at something, and taking enjoyment from it. . . is still fun." He slid Eli a look. "Like the dragon."

Eli chuckled. "Yeah. Scared to pissing in our pants and still having fun." He shook his head. "But no. Not a game." He met Lin's eyes. They'd seen too damned many people _die_ for it to _ever_ be a game. "Besides. This isn't real. No one's life is really on the line here."

_Does that answer you? Does that satisfy you? And why do you ask these things of __us__? Are you judging us?_ Lin didn't much like that thought, and turned away, rather than let the questions fall off his tongue.

They headed down into the waiting area, where screens had been set up again for those who'd already finished to watch the rest of the people struggle through. They'd been the second team, so only Dempsey, Zhasa, and Dara were there. Dara _smiled_ as soon as she saw them, though, and Lin couldn't help but smile back.. . . in spite of the fact that Liakos was persisting in asking the questions that so annoyed him.

Eli threw up his hands in annoyance, and sat down beside Dara, who was next to Dempsey at the moment. "Dara, work with us here. There's a difference between enjoying what you do, when you're good at it, and making it a game, right?"

Dara blinked. "Well, yeah. Of course there is. Personally, I like being _good_ at what I do, but I don't _like_ shooting people. And of course practice is fun."

Lin grinned suddenly. The phrase just _got_ him, coming from Dara's lips. "Practice is always fun."

Eli actually _kicked_ Lin. Right at ankle height, below the spur. Lin swore and pretended to hop up and down in mortal agony for a moment, and then asked, "What was that for?"

"You know what." Eli's voice was _dark_.

"Oh, so _you_ get to make her blush, but I don't?" He knew that wasn't what it was about. Dara would have no idea what the reference meant. But he also didn't think Eli would have _cared_ if he'd made that joke to _anyone_ else.

Eli gave Lin an _acrocanth's_ stare, and said, simply, "Just don't, _fradu_." And then he caught Dara's head swiveling between the two of them, and patted her armored knee. "Don't worry about it, _sai'kaea_." As protective as Eli was of Serana—and as Lin was of their little fierce one—Eli protected Dara, too. _Protects her. . . and still cares what she thinks of him._

Dara nodded, slowly, and looked at the drell female, Liakos. "I take it you think they were having too much fun out there? Well. . . I'll tell you that getting to work with Eli _was_ fun the last two days. Most fun I've had in four years, to be honest. Because no, the real thing isn't fun. It isn't a game. And these two, of all my friends, know it the best." Her voice held so much empathy and affection for them, that Lin almost _shook_ with it for a moment. _Why didn't I __ever__ write to her and Rel? Rel's not much of a letter-writer, but Dara is. She would have listened. No matter how busy she was, she would have cared. She's always cared._

Well, he knew the answer to that. It had been _his_ grief. Lin hadn't had _much_ in his life that he hadn't had to share with brothers and his sister and classmates and barracks mates. But Brennia _had_ been his. Even if she had, on some levels, loved Eli, too. And his grief for her had, like her, been his. His to protect, his to deal with. Sharing it would have cheapened it. Discussing it over and over again with everyone in creation would have diminished her value to him, or so it had seemed at the time. But why _not_ have reached out to those who knew him best? All the reasons seemed really very childish now, and stupid. _Because it was __my__ grief to wallow in?_ _Hah._

Lin perched on the bench beside Eli, dismissing his thoughts, and looked past him at Dara. "Well, so do _you_, little one. You get to fix what everyone else breaks."

Liakos simply looked at each of them, those dark, uncanny drell eyes wide.

Eli and Lin, for all that they were not front-line troops, had a very good time. Better, in fact, than Dara, Dempsey, and Zhasa's. . . but then, Rel, Rinus, and Fors went. Watching on the screens, Dara winced a little as they simply cut through the middle of the course. "That doesn't look like a good strategy," Eli commented. "But look at Fors go!"

The volus was perched on Rinus' big shoulders, and had lifted Sam off the ground with a singularity. Rinus fired an assault rifle at Ylara, and moved in on her, engaging her hand-to-hand, which took the asari slightly by surprise. "That makes it hard to focus your biotics," Dempsey acknowledged, calmly. "Not a bad tactic."

"He's still getting hit by Lantar and Garrus above—yep, he's got her down, but he's lost shields. Get to cover, get to cover," Lin told the older male on the screen, and then exhaled in relief as Rinus made it.

"This is better than the Urban Combat League," Dempsey commented. 'They should broadcast the Spectre trials. With everyone's faces covered with polarized masks, anyway. Make a bunch of credits."

Lin's head swiveled up. That had _almost_ sounded like a joke. "Authorized Spectre jerseys and jackets?" he offered, in amusement.

"Watch, watch," Eli urged. "God _damn_. Fors just shut down Garrus and my dad with a stasis field. Rel's on the armature—"

"There went Lantar," Dara said, leaning forward as the big male fell to the ground. "Armature's back up—"

Everyone on the bench cringed as everyone on screen ducked for cover. The final tally was very strong; twelve minutes, all six Spectres dead, but one injury—to Rinus, who'd been taking out Spectres with Fors, while Rel primarily concentrated on the armature, while still taking potshots at whoever Rinus was currently targeting—and one fatality. Fors had gotten hit by an armature blast, and emerged from the training area _covered_ in red paint. "I'd like to point out that this suit really should be B-Sec blue and gray, not Blood Pack colors," Fors noted, with some dignity.

"Here, let me help you clean up. If you sit on the bench like that, you'll dry off and be _glued_ there," Lin told him, and, after a few minutes, managed to find a _hose_ attached to a warm water spigot that actually functioned in the cold of winter. When they returned, Fors dripping wet, but no longer human blood red, Rel had taken his seat next to Eli. Lin shrugged and dropped a tier down, able to lean back and talk to everyone at will, just under Dara's feet. "So, Rel? Feeling better about your results today? Really competitive time."

Rel shook his head, and Lin had rarely seen his old friend so discouraged. "Good time, yes. Rinus and Fors did great work keeping the 'batarians' off of us—"

"And I even used the damned assault rifle this time. Just to demonstrate that yes, I do know how to use every weapon in the arsenal," Rinus interjected, sounding amused.

"—but we still wound up with Fors taking that hit." Rel shook his head.

"He was on my shoulders, and the armature missed my _head_, but caught Fors as I was climbing the cargo net up to the platform," Rinus muttered, raising both hands, palms up. _What can you do_. "Sorry, little friend. I'll try to duck faster, next time."

Dara was shaking her head. "Cutting straight through was _very_ aggressive," she commented. "Risky, too. Fire on all sides."

"I agreed to it," Fors snuffled. "I thought I could keep the Spectres suppressed with my stasis field. For the most part, that worked. And there was cover from the armature, certainly. More than on the sides."

Siara, Makur, and Melaani went next. They were the first team to go _right_ all day, and Melaani led in with a biotic charge that took her straight into Lantar's face, while Siara moved in behind with a shockwave that took Garrus off his feet. Makur pulled in behind them, firing immediately on Sam. But as they worked their way around, a _bridge_ in the right-side platform retracted, leaving them unable to round the corner until they found the mechanism to re-extend it. Under fire. "Whoo," Eli muttered. "I'm glad we didn't go _that_ way."

That added to their time, but they had no injuries when they came through, looking tired but pleased. Last to go was Thelldaroon, who was working with the salarian, Kirrahe Orlan, as well as a drell engineer. They, like Rel and Rinus and Fors, took a frontal approach. . . but because the elcor was, in essence, a giant damage sponge, and Kirrahe was packing an assault rifle and a grenade launcher, and the drell engineer simply _harassed_ the Spectres. Lin actually laughed out loud as Garrus' and Lantar's weapons _jammed._ Thelldaroon turned when Sam engaged him and casually flung the big human male away, making sure that no one stood near Kirrahe. "Wow," Eli said at the end. "Took them twenty-five minutes, but not a _scratch_ on Thell." The drell engineer had been a fatality—Gris had finally moved down from the platform to engage close up, and that hadn't helped matters. But they'd completed the challenge.

**Dara**

With an hour or so off at lunch, Dara ate quickly in the cafeteria and then told Rel, "I'm going to head over to my dad's house for a bit. I'll be back in time for the next round of whatever we're doing, though."

Rel nodded. Leaned down, gave her a quick forehead touch. "No one's going to be there, _mellis_."

"I know. I'm going to go up in the attic and look through all my old stuff. Lin's little battle figurines got me thinking about what's up there last night."

Dara ran through the snow-clogged streets, and found her way to her dad's house. No one home, of course; middle of the day, Takeshi at daycare, Kasumi and her dad at work. She let herself in, and looked around. Not _her_ place, anymore. Many, many signs of how Kasumi and her dad's lives had intertwined. Her collections of antique porcelain tea sets on his shelves. Her black-lacquered boxes next to bronze statues of bucking horses and armadillos and other pieces of Texas life. She found, to her surprise, her old teddy bear, on a high shelf, well out of range of Takeshi's fingers, and smiled a little as she scooped him up. "Well, hello there, Mr. Bear," she told him, and gave the bear a quick hug. "Could've used you last night." She gave the old, lopsided toy a quick kiss on the nose, and set him back on his shelf. A piece of her childhood preserved here, for all time. _Thanks, Dad. You really are the best._

Up the stairs now, to the landing, and then she had to hop a bit to get the dangling cord that would open the attic stairs for her. Rel or Eli could have caught it easily, of course.

Up in the attic, she was just grateful that Mindoir didn't have spiders. Or cockroaches. It _did_ have the equivalent of scorpions, however, so she was very careful where she put her hands as she started sorting through boxes. Old books, check. Old clothes. . . including Kella's dress, if she remembered correctly. . . _where the __hell__ did I put this? It was in the bottom drawer of my dresser. Please, Kasumi, don't have thrown it out. . . .oh, thank goodness._ Dara found the plastic bag at the bottom of a box. In the dim light of the attic, the colors were muted, but she knew what she was looking at. _Finally._

At the bottom of the stairs, she got a shock. Her grandmother Agnes was looking up into the open attic with an axe handle in her hands. "Oh, _s'kak_—" Dara managed, her heart thudding in her chest. And then she started to laugh. "You _scared_ me, Grandma."

"I scared _you?_" Agnes Jaworski gave Dara a look and shook her head. "And what was I to think, finding the attic open and hearing all that noise up there?"

"I don't think many robbers would go straight to the _attic_, Grandma."

"What were you looking for up there?"

Dara had, reflexively, put the bag behind her back. Now she brought it out, a little reluctantly, feeling foolish. "The belonged to a friend of mine. I thought, when I was younger, that I might fix it. I just remembered it last night." She shrugged.

"Let me see. . . oh, my word. Someone put a _lot_ of work into making this, originally." Agnes made an annoyed chuffing sound between her teeth. "And someone _else_ put a lot _less_ work into destroying it very thoroughly."

The quilt had been, originally, a vibrant cobalt blue with violet inserts and cheerful smaller squares in bright colors—oranges, yellows, and muted reds. The big squares had antique human rockets and satellites and features of the human solar system on them; the sun, Luna, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, and so on. The smaller squares all had dinosaurs machine-embroidered on them. Happy little boy dinosaurs, reading books, kicking balls, stacking blocks, and sleeping. Just looking at them made Dara want to tear up a bit.

Most of the embroidery had actually held up. "Whoever did this, _tore_ it," Agnes said, looking through it. "Let's dump this out on the table, sweetie. Are you sure you have all the pieces?"

"I don't know. I grabbed them all in a hurry about six years ago."

Dara had _intended_ to do this all herself. But she was suddenly amazingly grateful for her grandmother's presence. Her mother's father was quirky and had very set opinions on many, many subjects. But she was tough-minded and kind and generous of spirit, too. And she and Dara started sorting the ragged pieces carefully. "You're going to lose a lot of cloth in the seams," Agnes warned. "A lot of the edges are a little ragged, too."

"That's all right. So long as everything matches up again, and nothing puckers." Dara looked down at the quilt, which was now more or less back in its original order, and realized she _still_ had no idea where to start. "I guess I need to go to the base exchange and. . . buy thread? And needles?"

"I have that," Agnes told her, calmly. "And a quilting frame you can use, too. Although, while the pieces are this small, an embroidery hoop will be a better idea. Keeps all the pieces together. Start with piecing the top layer. That's the important part. Get a new piece of fabric and fresh batting for the middle, and you'll have saved yourself a lot of work, while making sure the _real_ parts are preserved." She dug around in her sewing bag, which tended to travel with her wherever she went, and produced a needle and matching thread. "Here, show me what you've got."

Dara squinted at her grandmother, shook her head, and settled down, letting her eyes focus completely in. At this level of magnification, the fibers of the cloth were a clear cross-hatching. She rotated between foci as she worked, sometimes at the micro level, sometimes pulling back to make sure of her work. "My _word_," her grandmother said after about fifteen minutes. "And to think I thought I'd never get you to sew."

Dara's head jerked up. "I'm not sewing," she said, quickly. "I'm _suturing_. I'm fixing something."

Agnes patted her on the head. "Yes, dear," she told Dara fondly. "You're not sewing. You're just spending time with your old grandma, _fixing_ something." She eyed the work. "That being said? Next time I go to a quilt show, I'm taking you with me. You put them to _shame_, my girl."

Dara _squirmed_ and went back to _fixing_ the quilt.

Another ten minutes passed. Agnes made tea, and brought over a tin of cookies. "So, my girl. Why _are_ you fixing this? If it's sat in the attic for six years, why fix it now?"

_Good question_. Dara tied off the thread, and started a new strand. "You know what my mom used to tell me? She used to say if everything in your life looks like a mess, start with something small. Clean _that_ up. Get control of that. Then do something else small. Then something else. By that point, the _big_ mess will start to look smaller. More manageable. Fix what you _can_ fix first." Dara looked up into her grandmother's wide blue eyes. Like her dad's, and unlike. None of Sam's piercing stare, for instance. But still, family. "So. . . I'm fixing what I _can_ fix."

_And then I'll fix the rest. I'm good at that._ But as every doctor knew. . . some things can't be fixed. Sometimes things just die. No matter how good the doctor is or how much the patient is loved.

"And is your life a mess, dear?"

Dara looked up at her grandmother. Thought about how to answer. And sighed. "Yeah. It is. But, one thing at a time."

"Your mother was a smart cookie. I didn't always _agree_ with her. . . but my _lord_, she was sharp."

They talked for a while longer. . . and Dara was _amazed_ at how good it felt just to sit down and _talk_ with her grandmother. About her mom. About her dad. About Takeshi's little doings. Then Agnes, who had pinned all the pieces together carefully, got her a piece of cloth to roll the whole in, and then they folded the roll up for transport. "See? You're halfway there already," Agnes told her cheerfully. "The hardest part of any task is _deciding to do it_."

Dara stopped in the doorway. "You know what, Grandma?"

"What, dear?"

"You're pretty smart, too."

"I know, dear." Agnes smiled at her. "Do you think Gavius might like some bulbs for his garden?"

"Daffodils, you mean?"

"Irises, daffodils, lilies, yes. If they'll even grow on Palaven."

"I think he'd love them. Besides, he might be staying here a while. He might want to plant a garden here."

"Good. Then that's what I'll get him. I understand he has a birthday coming up."

"Grandma, turians don't really celebrate birthdays—"

"But _humans_ do, dear. And that's what I am. So there."

Dara started to laugh as he grandmother lightly tossed her graying head, and then laughed.

Back at the barracks, she tucked the roll of fabric, the needles, and thread away in her locker, and lined up with the rest of the candidates, winding up between Rel and Linianus. "Any idea what this afternoon is about?" she asked, looking up.

"They're playing it pretty tight to their chests," Rel told her. "Taking us in groups of six somewhere by shuttle. Blacked out windows."

Lin snorted. "Undisclosed location by secretive route. This should be good."

As it was, Dara, Rel, Lin, Eli, Lin, and Dempsey were on the same shuttle. No weapons. No armor. Dara sat beside Rel, looking around the cabin. Much calmer right now than she had been, even this morning. _My mom was right_, she thought. _It does help to start cleaning up the little messes. Because then making decisions about the big ones comes that much more easily._

They came in for a landing, and they piled out of the shuttle. It took her a moment to recognize the location. She'd only been here twice before. Both in spring. Once at night, and once during daylight. At a funeral. Dara froze in place.

Painted Rocks cave had splashes of color swirled over the front; largely reds, but also shades of purples and oranges. Indications that at one point, sedimentary layers of rock had been pressed upwards into these mountains, and then erosion had formed the massive cave past that narrow mouth. Outside, covered by drifts of snow, were the graves of those who'd been killed aboard the _Normandy_ during the AEC hijacking, six years ago. Dara simply stared at it, and her knees locked. _I can't go in there_, she thought, helplessly. She and Eli had killed a vorcha that night. Technically, by turian standards, that meant they'd been blooded together. Rel had told her that she and he and been blooded on the batarians, two months later. . . and while that had been more truly combat. . . _this_ was where her path to the current day had begun. "Oh, god," Dara whispered.

Rel obviously recognized it, and muttered, "_Spirits. What could they want us to do here?"_

Eli just as obviously recognized it, and shook his head. "Now I've got a _really_ bad feeling in the pit of my stomach."

The others just looked at the cave, confused. And then Sam and Lantar came around the front. "Come on. In we go. It's been cleaned up since the last time some of you were here," Sam noted, beckoning.

"Fewer bodies," Lantar added. "Better lighting. Actual floors."

Dara forced herself to take a few steps forward, on knees that felt like gelatin, and found her legs would support her. Nodded once, face very set, and followed her dad through the snow, avoiding the graves, and headed into the cave. _There. There's where the vorcha was._ She looked down at the floor. _That's where the turians all were lying, helpless. Where Rel was._ She turned a little. _That's where Eli and I were tied up._

There _were_ differences. There were lights, hanging down from cables above; little more than unshielded glowing white rings. There _was_ flooring. Rough-textured tiles, leading back deeper into the cave than she knew that it had run. But the interior was still rough-walled. Damp with humidity. Still _smelled_ like a natural cave, earthy and musty. The _smell_ shook her. She'd forgotten it. Had forgotten what _helplessness_ smelled like. Her hands clenched into fists. _I'm not helpless anymore._

They walked in silence deeper into the cave. Found an _elevator_. . . _my god, they have been busy here, haven't they?. . . _ and descended. Dempsey looked around. "So what happened here?" he asked, his voice low and suddenly shocking in the silence of the elevator car.

"This is where the AEC took us all to kill us if Garrus and Shepard didn't surrender themselves," Rel said, quietly, leaning back against the elevator wall. "I was out of my mind on azure dust. I don't remember much about it."

"So were we," Eli added, looking straight ahead.

The elevator came to a halt at the bottom of the shaft, and they stepped out.

The room below was huge, easily the size of an antique missile silo. Well lit, clean. . . a laboratory environment _deep_ under the mountain. _What the hell. . . . _ Dara turned, and caught sight of them. Two silvery cylinders incised with alien, glowing ruins. "Oh, shit, no," she whispered.

Rel's head jerked up, and he just stared for a moment. "The Sower relics? The uploader and the simulation device?"

Eli actually took a step backwards. Dara was frankly thinking of edging back onto the elevator herself.

Her father nodded. "Yes. Sings-to-the-Sky has spent the last four years working with the simulation device. He's learned how to use it a little more. . . precisely. . . than it used to work. This, ladies and gentlemen, is where we'll be conducting your psych evaluations." He gestured. "Come this way, please. There's a waiting area where you can sit and relax, while each person is interviewed in turn."

_Oh. . . god. I hate talking to psychiatrists. I __hate__ it._ Memories of all the shrinks after her mom's death. After the night of the cave. After the batarians. One good thing about the turian military, in her opinion, at least, was relative lack of shrinks. They existed, sure, but they didn't have as much influence as in human services. Everyone was supposed to help each _other_ stay in balance. "If I have to choose between talking to a panel of shrinks and dealing with the simulator again. . . " Dara murmured, "I think I'll take the shrinks."

Eli and Rel _both_ turned towards her, surprised. "_Amatra_, why?" Rel asked, looking confused. "We've always found a good path forward together before."

"I don't want to see a whole bunch of might-be's again." Dara said, with a shrug. "The future is never what that thing predicts, so why bother?"

"Amen," Eli replied. "I'd rather have the future be a surprise."

Dara snorted. "It always _is_, that's my point. That thing is just a rough guide, at best. Has nothing to do with reality. Even when you find a future you like, there's _no_ guarantee it'll turn out that way."

Rel's head swiveled back and forth between them, and he was frowning. Rinus coughed and interjected, "I know what you mean. I saw dozens of futures with Kallixta in that thing. . . but just as many that had us splitting up, or even unhappy together." He smiled, faintly. "I think it's in our nature to linger on the happy endings. But people tend to forget, there's no such thing as _happily ever after._ There's an end, and then there's a new beginning."

"And where you go from there, is up to you," Eli added, nodding. "So yeah. They can bite _me_ if they think I'm going to go _prognosticating_ with them." He kept his voice loud enough for the Spectres ahead of them to hear.

They'd reached the waiting room by that time, and Dara found a black vinyl chair to sit down in. She opened her omnitool, pulled up a journal article on xeno-obstetrics, and started to read. She'd made Siara a promise to look into the whole asari/krogan thing, and she had nothing _better_ to do with this dead time. Off to her right, Eli had opened his xenopsych course. Lin shrugged and found an omnitool game, and challenged Dempsey to a match. Rel shifted to her right, one knee in motion, idly. He hated sitting still anymore. Once, he'd been so relaxed, he could sprawl in the swing of her father's garden and not move at all. Once, he'd have cued up a chess game or something else while he was waiting to act. Now? Constantly on edge, unless she hooked a foot behind his spur. Something she'd done more or less continuously for five years. _When did managing Rel, taking care of him, watching his stress levels, become just another job?_ she wondered. It wasn't a tearful thought. Just a blank, calm one. Evaluative.

**Rinus**

"Rinus Velnaran, you're first. Please step this way."

Rinus stood, putting away the technical schematics he'd been reading, and stood up. He wasn't a fan of evaluations of any sort, and a 'psych eval' sounded like a very human pitfall under his feet. He remembered, all too well, that his psychological profile had met 'parameters' that had led to his assignment on the _Estallus_ and Laetia's desire to chip him. So this had an element of threat to it that he didn't entirely like.

The cylinder had twelve rooms around it, each a narrow triangle of space, open to the black darkness of the silo-like cave above them. Little more than walls with doors. Rinus was taken to one at about the eleven o'clock position on a clockface; the waiting room had been at the four position. In this room, the cylinder's side was exposed to plain view at the apex of the triangle; there was a table with four chairs there, and a single chair facing that table. There was also, sitting behind the chair, Spectre Sings-to-the-Sky.

Spectres filed in now, and took seats. Sam Jaworski, Lantar Sidonis, Uncle Garrus, Aunt Lilitu. "Have a seat," Garrus invited, and Rinus sat down, swallowing hard. _This might be the hardest test they throw at me. This isn't even like a review board, where the answers are facts and figures and whether or not I know my job. This.. . is all intangibles. No right answers._ Rinus _hated_ the concept that there wasn't a right answer. There was _always_ a right answer. One mathematically correct, verifiable. An elegant solution that balanced all the parameters of a problem.

The questions began: "So," Sam asked, leaning back. "Why do you want to be a Spectre?"

"You asked me here. I came." Rinus frowned a little. "There's no greater honor than to be asked to serve. No matter in what form. Soldier, sailor, _dominus_, or Spectre. It's all service."

Lantar nodded slowly. "So, this is all about duty, for you?"

Rinus considered that. "Well, mostly." He smiled briefly. "I have to admit, if I made Spectre, and they suddenly decided I couldn't sit on the Conclave anymore, it wouldn't break my heart. . . "

"Already checked on that. There've been two Lawgivers and three _Dominae_ who were Spectres in the past thousand years," Garrus told him.

"_S'kak._" Rinus shrugged. "There went a perfectly good excuse to ditch one of my day-jobs. Ah well. Guess I'm stuck with it."

"There's no other reason?' Shepard asked. "You're here because we called. Nothing more?"

Rinus grimaced. "Look, I'm already doing work for you. And I like the analysis work. If I merit a field billet, that's good, too. I don't actually _need_ a shiny title or the black armor. I've already _worn_ black armor, when it comes down to it. And gray armor. And I _have_ a shiny title that I don't like much. . . _dominus_. . . and one that I _do_ like, very much: husband. I don't _need_ to be a Spectre to do the work I do. If you think I'd be a good one, great. I'll do that work, too. Past that? Does there need to be anything more?"

Garrus nodded. "Very interesting, first-son of my sister. Sky? If you wouldn't mind?"

_Prepare yourself, Sings-Duty. We will test you now._

The song had an ominous bass note to it that it normally did not have, and trembled with _power._ Rinus turned his head, sharply, to look at the rachni behind him. . . and his entire past seemed to flood by him. Rinus had the uncanny feeling that he was being _read_, like a book. _Childhood, first-son, only child for five years. Second-brother born, learning to have to share his territory. Learn to lead, learn to teach, learn to be patient. Careful. Dealing with Solanna's uncertain temper, which was as uncertain as liquid nitroglycerin. __Good practice for disarming ordnance__. Boot camp, eleven weeks of hell. Quick trip home. . . Collector attack. Garrus, Lilitu. Then the year of the Reaper War. Service aboard one ship, which needed to be scuttled. Service aboard a second, where he wound up on the Javelin crews, standing over the body of one of the senior crew members, loading, calmly, steadily. His first commendation, that, and not one he liked to think about. Once the battle was over, he'd thrown up on having to clean his boots from the blood. Still, more and more service. Steadily climbing the ranks. Laetia, and all those annoyances. Spectre work quietly slung his way. Kallixta. Conclave work, and all its annoyances. Concerns about family. Every time he saw Rellus, he saw less of his brother, and more of the soldier. As if Rel, brightest star in the family, was slipping away, letting the role subsume his identity. Rinus had never had a problem with that. He was a centurion, certainly. . . but he knew how to turn it off when he wasn't on duty. He was always stern, always first-brother. . . but with Kallixta, as with the rest of his family, he'd remembered how to laugh. To smile. Disease. Illness. The comet. ._ . .

. . . and then overshooting the present. Falling into the future. But it _wasn't_ a series of doors and windows and images this time. Suddenly, it was just _real_, and he was _elsewhere._

_The bridge of his ship the __Sollostra__, was on fire. Fire control teams were racing around, using extinguishers, putting out the flames. Smell of chemical retardant in the air, thick and noxious, tearing at the lining of his throat. But the battle wasn't over yet._

"_Spectre! Spectre! We've got half the batarian ships on the run, but they're taking the Lystheni AI core with them! The other half has the __Hamus_ _englobed. They're down to twelve percent shields over there. What do we do?" The young human ensign had grabbed onto Rinus' arm, and understanding flooded into Rinus._

_The Lystheni AI was the objective of the damn mission. It was the source of half the batarians' recent technological innovations. The source for their biotic ship weapons. It was the mind of a dalatrass, and it __controlled__ all the remaining Lystheni, held them loyal to the batarians. If they captured the AI, a large portion of the batarians' intellectual material would be seized with it. It was __vital__ to seize it. And the batarians were pulling away steadily, burning for the mass relay on the edge of the system. . . . _

_But Kallixta was the pilot of the __Hamus__. _

_It wasn't even a __choice__. "Full speed, make for the __Hamus__. We're defending our own."_

"_Sir, the AI—"_

"_Futa__ the AI. We can grab it later. We don't leave people behind." __Especially not my wife.__ "Cassandra, if you hold any of your circuits dear to you, get us to the Hamus. Ariston and Kallixta need us." Command-peremptory, fatherly inflection used on the ship's AI._

_Would you say that if it __**weren't**__ your mate?_

_He didn't know where the thought came from, and he hesitated. Thought about it. "Yes. Yes I would." He hoped it was true. Parts of him were screaming that the mission was everything, and that sometimes, people needed to die to complete the mission. Other parts of him were saying. . . no. We don't do it __that__ way. And other parts of him said it flatly: Especially if it's Kallixta's life at stake._

It was mind-rending, and an eyeblink later, Rinus opened his eyes. Found himself back in the here and now, shaking. The Spectres behind the table studied him steadily, and then the questions went on. . . and on. . . and on. . . sometimes with moral tests, like this one. Sometimes without.

Rinus would really have preferred the _without_.

**Dempsey**

Rinus had _stumbled_ back in the door, found a chair, and sat down with his head in his hands after about thirty minutes. Every head in the room had turned. Rinus did not look up. Didn't say a _word_. Dempsey's eyes widened infinitesimally. He knew that the older Velnaran was tough as rebar. _What the hell?_ he thought, but without Zhasa there, the thought had little force.

"James Dempsey?" That was Jaworski, standing at the door. "You're up next."

Dempsey stood, feeling the weight of the others' eyes. Found himself in a little triangular lab—and he _hated_ laboratories. . . they made him twitch—with a table full of Spectres facing him.

"So," Jaworski said. "Why do _you_ want to be a Spectre, Dempsey?"

Dempsey just stared at him for a moment. "You're messing with me, right?" He shook his head. "I never even considered myself a candidate. Still kind of think you're out of your minds for considering me. I'm the galaxy's most screwed-up science project, and I _could_ still snap at any time. I mean, sure. You could probably drop me from orbit on some damned batarian world, and I'd make a _hell_ of a mess before they figured out how to keep me dead. . . but that doesn't make me a Spectre."

Shepard leaned back, her face imperturbable behind the paint. "What _does_ it take to make a Spectre, Dempsey?"

He sighed. "Someone who's a hell of a lot more well-rounded than I am. Someone who can do it _all_."

Sidonis snorted. "Do _what_ all? I don't sneak with a damn."

Shepard shrugged. "I can't investigate a crime scene."

Jaworski snickered. "I can do both, and straight-up combat, too. . . but I'm only human."

They looked at him. Dempsey arranged his thoughts. It was easy, with the chip blocking all emotion. "A Spectre is someone a cut above the ordinary soldier," he said, stolidly. "Someone picked out from the rank and file for integrity, for honor, for character." _Debatable if I still have any of that._ "Beyond that, they _do_ need to be someone who's more than just good with a damn gun. They need to be able to lead. I'm not much of a leader. They need to be able to function as part of a team. I'm a potential liability to any team you put me on. I'm still good with a gun, and if you need a biotic, I'm still one of the best Earth's produced. But that doesn't make me a Spectre."

Vakarian just nodded and leaned back. "Interesting self-assessment," he noted. "Sky? If you would?"

_Falling into the past. Military school and biotics training and the brief stint of public high school where he'd met Amy. Playing in bars, music the only release for the rage he felt, even then. Can't let it out at school. Can't let it out at biotics training. Can't let it out on the sparring mats. Just the heavy bag and music. The rest of the time, keep it in. Choked down. Shielded. Amy. Their lives together, the sure and certain knowledge __now__ that if they'd continued as they'd started, with her irrational fears of his biotics clouding their relationship, they would __still __have broken up, Madison's birth, his N7 work, Shepard's death, the whole galaxy seeming to spin out of control, the request to join the Argent Defender program. . . the pain. The agonizing pain. Awakening. The world out of joint. Zhasa, putting the pieces back together again. Not because she had to, but because she could. . . _

_And then, falling into the future, neat as a pin._

"_What do you mean, Cerberus got a hold of my son?" No need for Zhasa to help him access the emotions. They were __there__. Raw, potent anger. "How the hell did they do that? I thought those motherf—"_

"_We thought they were out of business, too," Kasumi told him, her face drawn. "Dempsey, we know where he is. We can get there in time. We have to leave __now__."_

_Controlling it. The desk in front of her stopped shivering in place. "Let's go."_

_Zhasa with him when they dropped planet-side. Entering the complex together, and then all he could __see__ were the Cerberus insignias on the armor of the complex's residents, and all Dempsey knew was __rage__. Charging out, overloading shields, warping them, firing at every resident he could see, shields burning away under the torrents of bullets being fired at him. Pain now, pain adding to the rage. Nothing left of his mind but a blank white place. There was no Dempsey anymore, just the rage and the blankness._

_Dempsey! Dempsey! They're surrendering. You have to stop._

_It sounded like Zhasa's voice in his mind, and Dempsey hesitated. Shook. His finger was on the trigger, and he had two pounds of force on it at the moment. Awareness returning. Sweat coursing down his body. . . no. . . that wasn't sweat. That was blood. "Where's my son?" he demanded, and the scientists didn't dare move, but their eyes flicked over to the glass coffin, where Madison was being kept. Preserved. Glowing cybernetic implants under his skin. . . _

_Are you going to kill them?_

_God knows I want to, sweetie.__ Every muscle in Dempsey's body was shaking now, with the effort of holding back the rage, the absolute desire to __kill__, and kill now. There was no doubt that they deserved it. He just didn't think he'd be able to open his mind to Zhasa ever again if he did kill them in cold blood. __Run, damnit. Twitch. Reach for a weapon. Please, god, give me an excuse to blow out your goddamned brains. For doing to my son what you did to me._

Dempsey opened his eyes. Realized that _tears_ were running down his face, of all the crazy things, and turned his head. Looked at Sky. And said, very calmly, "You're a son of a bitch, rachni."

_These are not my songs, Sings-in-Silence. They are your own._ The rachni's song was troubled, however.

**Rellus**

When Rinus had stumbled in, and immediately sat down, looking as if he'd just run eighty kilometers in full pack, Rel had gone to his side immediately. "_First-brother—"_

"_I'm fine, second-brother. Just took a lot out of me."_ Rinus looked up, and his skin was actually a little pale under the scales. _"Psych evaluation, my __ass__."_ He shook his head. _"Pretty sure they don't want me to talk about it."_

"_Wasn't asking."_

Then Dempsey had stumbled back in, his face wet with _tears_, and Rel just _stared_ at the man for a moment. First, he'd never seen an adult human male weep before. Second, the man was supposed to be damned near incapable of emotion. _Perhaps it's just sweat_, he thought. _Perhaps this isn't actually a psych evaluation. Some sort of, well, who knows. We're right next to the damn simulator._ He'd returned to sit next to Dara, who'd looked up from her journal article in concern both times the door had so far opened. He looked down at her now. "You're all right?" he asked.

"I'm fine," she replied. "Little worried about the two of them, and what the hell they're going to put us through."

Rel shook his head. "We'll be fine," he told her, trying to buoy her confidence. "What're you reading?"

"_Hemecyanic compounds in asari blood: increasing copper to oxygen bonding potentials."_ Dara glanced up at him. "It's every bit the page-turner that it sounds."

To her side, Eli snorted, and scrolled down his own page.

"Rellus Velnaran?" This time, it was Lantar calling a candidate back. Rel felt his fingers lightly squeezed by Dara, and then he was off, pacing down the hall after the shorter turian male. Rel was nervous, but elated, in a way. To have progressed as far as psych testing meant that they were pleased with everyone's physical prowess so far. And he didn't doubt what the psych evals would show. The same thing that his regular performance evals had said, for four years. Natural leader, cares for the people under his command, works well under pressure. No surprises. _Well, hopefully none._

Rel sat down in the chair facing the table, feeling like he was at a review board. "Rellus," Uncle Garrus said. "Why _do_ you want to be a Spectre, anyway? You've seen what the job is like. Bad hours. Horrible on the home life. What the hell do you want with this job, anyway?"

He blinked. Somehow, this _wasn't_ the question he had been expecting. He'd been expecting, _How do you feel, how do you make decisions, how's all the death you saw on Bastion affecting you?_ Something like that. But the question, he supposed, made sense. Rel frowned, and thinking about it, wasn't really sure how to answer. Honesty was the _only_ course, naturally. "I. . . it's kind of what I'm _for_," he said, after a long pause. "When I was younger, I saw myself sort of drifting through life after my four years of service were done. No purposes, no goals. Being a Spectre sort of became my purpose and goal. Gave me something to focus on. A reason to work to be better than I was."

For the longest time, though, that was what being a Spectre had been for him. The end. The goal. The target, towards which he'd shaped himself, aimed himself, flung himself, like a spear. The faces in front of him didn't waver. Didn't change. But there was an indefinable difference in the air now. "Interesting," Aunt Lilu said. "Sky? Let's see what we can see here."

_Falling into the past. Growing up on Palaven. Helpless during the Collector attack. Helpless at the cave. The silent vow of __never again__. Dara, alien and intriguing and alone. The simulation event that had unlocked potential futures. Something to aim towards. A future together. The constant, ceaseless work towards that future. A year of combat on the __Estallus__. The year on Sur'Kesh, almost unbearably boring, but at least there had been combat drills and Dara at night. A year on Lantar's ship. Constant combat, there. A year on Sky's ship. Exploration, combat, exploration. And eventually, leaving Dara on Rocam. Quiet and alone. Khar'sharn. Bastion. Spirits, Bastion, where Eli and Lin, far from being spirit-sick anymore, were strong and quick and brave and very much in __their__ territory, and he was out of his. Bastion, where there were bodies everywhere, and no enemies to fight. Just death. Remorseless and implacable, and he couldn't kill anything and he couldn't fight anything and he couldn't win. _

_Can't fight means I can't win. No way to win except to fight._

_Speeding ahead into the future now. __Not__ the almost-fun of the old simulations. No. Not at all. Suddenly, he was elsewhere, and it was __real__. He, Lin, Serana, Eli, Dara, and Rinus, were creeping through a field of some sort of grain. The red sky above said that this was Khar'sharn. They were approaching Valak's estate. Ready to extract him, because the batarian had signaled, frantically, for rescue three days ago. The compound was quiet. Looked deserted._

"_We need to get to the bunker where he used to hide his people," Rel said. "It's that way, through the trees. Let's move, and quickly." He started to gesture them all ahead._

"_We don't even know that they're __there__," Eli pointed out, pragmatically. Rel suppressed the desire to grind his teeth. Eli and Lin had __both__ been doing this for days now. Every order he gave, one or the other had a better idea. There __had__ to be a clear chain of command. . . but dealing with Spectres, all equally ranked, was like herding __anserae__, or maybe cats. "Serana, __asperitalla__, go sneaky-sneak and check out the bunker. Its entrance is concealed behind that barracks over there, by the two large boulders."_

"_Stop," Rel told his sister, who rocked back on her heels now and darted a quick, inquisitive look between him and her husband. "We don't want to get split up here. If one of us goes, we all go."_

_Serana sighed. "What, five of you crunching along in heavy boots ten feet behind me? Why not hire a marching band while you're at it, second-brother? I'll go in, verify that there are __people__ in there, and come back. Five minutes, tops."_

_Rel glanced at Rinus. His first-brother was not lending adequate support, he thought, grimly. Rinus should have been a natural ally, but had turned into something else. Sometimes an ally, sometimes someone who disagreed—and vehemently—about how things should be done. __Too many futtari cooks in the kitchen__, Rel thought, annoyed. Rinus just shrugged now. "Doesn't hurt to be sure," he said._

_And Dara! Dara who should have been by his side in all things, had her back turned at the moment. Had her rifle out, and was scanning the area around and behind them. "While you all sit here arguing," Dara pointed out, her voice low and flat, "we're wasting time. A patrol could come by any second."_

_Thank you, sweetness__, he thought, but then she went on. Turning, she __ordered__ Serana. "Go. Find out. There's a chance people in there could be injured, and I'm not wasting one more damned minute while lives are at stake. Go on with you."_

_Technically, Dara had outranked Rel in the turian military. The instant she'd become a full doctor, and not just a medic, she'd jumped from O3 to O4. Captain. She'd joked, once, that it meant she could order him to get in their nest. He'd laughed and told her she couldn't order him to pick up a datapad. He was still, positionally, the head of special forces and the marines on their ship. She was still special forces. . . technically. Heading for Combat Surgeon, anyway. Though someday, the blue stripe on her uniform was going to vanish. _

_After the many times he'd teasingly 'pulled rank' on her in their bedroom, it had seemed like one more move in the same old game. "Oh, you wanted a chance to order me around?" he'd teased. "Never going to happen, beloved. Besides, don't you like it when I'm in charge?"_

_At the moment, though, the medical concern for the condition of Valak and his band __did__ give her orders a certain amount of weight. And Serana was already scampering off, anyway. "By the __spirits__," Rel finally said, annoyance in his voice. "Is __every__ decision I make up for a vote by committee?"_

"_Only the ones you make that are stupid," Eli told him, with aplomb, turning his back now, and with Dara, watching their perimeter. "We have to __know__ what we're getting into."_

"_And we __know__ he'd be there, and we __know__ we shouldn't get separated in enemy territory," Rel hissed back. __Why won't they __**see**__ this?__ Eli and Lin had always fallen in line easily before, when they were younger. And in boot camp, it had been easy to lead. He'd physically dominated early on, and from that position of early dominance, had built up his squads. Had organized them, made each squad leader accountable for their own people, and managed it from there. But now. . . Eli and Lin were just as physically formidable as he was. He couldn't rely on friendship and remembrance of days past to get them to fall in line, either. Both were Spectres. Rinus was a Spectre, and technically brilliant. He'd refused several orders already, just based on what he knew of explosives and weaponry. Dara was a Spectre. Again, technically brilliant. And possessed of fierce medical ethics that she was sticking to furiously. Not allowing him to question wounded prisoners until she'd administered medication now. _

_Every one of them questioning every __damned command__ he gave, until he wanted to snarl in frustration. Rinus and Dara in particular __should__ have been supporting him, and they __weren't__. Rinus, he could understand where it was coming from. Rinus was first-brother. Of course he felt a natural impetus to command over Rel. He could more or less accept that, but __Dara__? Dara was his mate. She should be supporting him. No matter what. _

_But the real sticking point was Eli. Lin wouldn't resist like this if Eli wasn't leading the revolt. Rel thought about it, and it made sense. Straighten out Eli, and the rest would fall in line. The question was __how__? There were no regs to throw at him. Couldn't just invite him on the mats right now. . . and it wouldn't prove anything, anyway. They were exactly fifty-fifty on their sparring matches so far. Rel's hand fell on Eli's shoulder. The human shook his head. "Not __now__, __fradu__. We'll talk on the ship."_

"_At length," Rel told him, and the vision flickered and dissolved. . . ._

. . . leaving him staring ahead of himself, breathing hard. There was so much rage and frustration knotted up inside of him right now, he didn't know how to deal with it. Was this like a boot camp drill, where there _was_ no right answer? Or was there an answer, and he just wasn't seeing it?

"I have a question," Jaworski said now, and Rel's head jerked up. "What happens if your wife makes Spectre, and you don't?"

Rel paused. The thought had occurred to him for the first time yesterday afternoon. "I'd support her, of course," he said, after a pause.

"Wouldn't she, in fact, be supporting you?" Sam asked, leaning back. "No offense, son, but I know how many credits I make a year, and how many credits _you_ make a year. Actually, come to think of it, she's already out-earning you as a full doc and an O4."

Rel shrugged. Money didn't _really_ matter. They lived in billets and on board ship. He checked the bank account once a month to make sure nothing had been stolen, and didn't worry about it past that. "I didn't mean that I'd support her _financially_."

"Oh, so you'd be fine with her making Spectre and you staying special forces. You'd be fine with her calling the shots on an SR ship, and you having to follow the orders. Of a Spectre that you're married to. Without question or hesitation." Sam's voice held a testing note Rel hadn't heard in a long time.

Rel looked inside for a long moment. And realized he didn't actually like the picture Sam was painting. Yes, turians considered mates equals. And he'd always trusted and relied on his little _amatra_. And yet. . . she was his _little_ _amatra_. He'd _always_ thought of her as that. His little mate. Someone to be protected. Guided. Directed. Rel's voice was very low as he admitted, "I don't know."

**Elijah**

First Rinus. Then Dempsey. Now Rel, walking in with such a look of absolute frustration, anger, and confusion on his face that Eli had no idea how the male was keeping himself from vibrating in place. He glanced at Dara, who had, reflexively, it seemed, stood to go to her husband, only to be waved off, sharply, by Rel. Dara dropped back down into her chair, and exchanged dubious glances with Eli and Lin. "This," Eli muttered to her, leaning in, "does not look good."

"You think?" Dara replied, tone very dry.

Eli was expecting tough questions. Probably something to do with his mental state on Macedyn and Edessan. The nightmares on Bastion. . . which had, honestly, mostly _evaporated_ after that late-night conversation with Dara. The exchange of vulnerabilities had been profound. He still had a few now and again, but when he woke up from them, Serana was there, as was the memory of a cool hand on his back. A soft voice telling him that he wasn't alone in his fragile humanity.

So the first question was a surprise. "So," Lantar asked him. "Why do _you_ want to be a Spectre? You know damned well that the hours suck, I'm often gone for weeks at a time, and I see damned near everything you saw on Macedyn and Edessan and more. Why even bother to show up for the tryouts?"

Eli snorted. _Fair question, Dad._ "An asari would say that's the ultimate expression of love. Loving the whole galaxy enough to protect it. A turian would say it's an honor to serve, and if asked, I'll serve to the best of my ability. Just speaking as myself. . ." He was talking slowly, giving himself a chance to think as he did. "For starters, it's an honor just to be asked. I never expected it. Dreamed about it as a kid. Guess everyone does. The dream probably started because I wanted to be able to protect myself. And then, I guess it became about protecting other people. I still like that idea. I want to keep the people I love safe from harm. Being a Spectre, I guess, means doing it on a galactic scale." He shook his head. "Or at least, giving it a hell of a good try."

Lantar nodded, slowly. "Next question. A Spectre is a role model. Someone that others look up to, and a public figure. What do you think will happen if, as a Spectre, your personal life happened to leak to the press?" He paused. "And don't think for a minute that it wouldn't."

Eli froze in place. His jaw started to hurt. "Would it compromise your ability to do your job effectively, if every place you went, you had to answer questions about your personal life?" Lantar was unrelenting in his questions, and Eli's fists clenched.

After a long moment, Eli exhaled. He absolutely _resented_ Lantar's questions, but his dad had a right to ask that, as a Spectre. Lantar had shown, a week before, that it wasn't _personal_. "I don't know. It might." He looked up at the cylinder warily. "I don't really want to see the future."

_Not a future-song, not as you have heard it sung before, Many-Voices. These tests come from within you, but are controlled by me. The simulator has less chaos to it, when I work with it so._ Sky's song was _hugely_ amplified in Eli's mind, and he _shook_ with the force of it.

He turned. Looked the rachni as straight in the eyes as he could manage. "Lay it on me, Sky."

His fists clenched again with the shock of it. _Every world he went to, tabloid headline after tabloid headline. __Scandalous personal lives of Spectres revealed__. Serana's face on various newsfeeds, compromising her ability to do her very covert job. His face. Lin's face. Absolutely __impossible__ to deal with local law enforcement when they found it __damned__ difficult to take him seriously. Sure, he was a Spectre. Sure, he wore the matte-black armor. But was he really __good__ at his job? Or was it all just flash and fluff for the media?_

_Years of it. Years of slapping on his 'Fuck you' face when he went out the door. Years of fighting that fight every single damned day. Eli didn't __like__ this. Not one damned bit. He fought the simulation. Looked for other ways, better ways. Ways to convince people, ways to talk to them. The simulation was remorseless, however. Three choices. Three compromises. _

_One, be a Spectre that's a public laughingstock, and keep Serana and Lin and himself going, just as they were. Which was, actually, impossible. Lin would surely, someday, want a mate of his own. Or he and Serana would realize that they were species-compatible, for god's sake, and that they were just as much in love as Eli and Serana were._

_Two. Fall back. Reconsider the choices of Bastion, made under the enormous stress of so much death and destruction. Find another way. Be a Spectre, but __alter__ the personal life._

_Three. Give up. Refuse to be a Spectre. Of course, that would require Lin to refuse to be a Spectre, too, or to alter the personal life. _

_God, I am screwed six ways from Sunday. No. I won't choose. Not now. Not without talking to her. No. I __won't__. I __won't._

Eli's eyes opened, and he _glared_ at Sky for a moment. _Many-Voices has a powerful mind,_ the rachni sang softly. _But this was not our only test for you._

"Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me," Eli said, grimly. "What more can you _possibly_ want from me?"

_Each test comes from your own heart. Your own fear-songs. Or, in some cases, your own weaknesses._ Sky's voice was violet and gray at the moment. He was singing _regret_. _I do not like to cause our young ones such pain._

"It's necessary, however," Lantar said. And his voice wasn't apologetic at all. "Sky? Finish this."

Eli swore and tried to endure. _Memories. Years and years of memories. Citadel. His father, his mother's tears. His father's death, the presentation flag. Sovereign. The Reaper War. School there. Lantar, and his mother's smiles. School. Bastion. Caelia. Bullies. The __Normandy__. Dara. The cave. Dara. Rel. Dara and Rel. Kella. Kella's death, the imprint of her mind on his, forever and ever. Dara and Rel. . . __yeah. They're doing things__. Siara. Siara hurting Dara. Rejecting Siara. The dragon. Born again in flame. Boot camp. The long slide into darkness. Serana, little __asperitalla__, so brave and daring, and with so much fire in her heart, bringing him out of darkness. Bastion. Death and darkness and Dara and Serana and Lin. If Serana was fire, then Dara was water. And if Lin were anything, it was wind that carried the storm, which left Eli as earth, the stable rock beneath them all, if he could consider himself so. And then again, Mindoir. . . ._

_. . . .racing forward in time, and suddenly, __there__. Real. "Goddamn it, __asperitalla__, don't go, the whole damn place is one big trap—" Eli swore again as Serana danced off ahead of him, stealthed. Lin was by his side, as always, and they were ducking down behind a metal wall, praying that the bullets wouldn't cut through. Dara moved up, pressed into the wall beside them. The building was on Camala, or maybe Lorek. A Klem Na compound, where the Lystheni AI was being kept. "Where the hell is she?" Dara shouted over the sound of bullets._

"_She's trying to get to that damned turret to hack it," Lin shouted back._

"_Are you kidding me?" Dara swore several times, and Eli agreed with her, one hundred percent. They both leaned out, and that's when they heard the choked cry of pain. _

"_Shit!" Eli said. "Serana's hit—Dara, do you see her?"_

"_No, she's still got that damned stealth net up—"_

"_There." He pointed directly at Serana's still form, heart pounding. _

"_Okay, I've got her. Cover me." _

"_Dara, __no__!" _

_Too late. Dara was already belly-crawling out there, into the line of fire, trusting in them to cover her as she made her way to Serana's prone form. Dragged Serana a little to the right. Started working, with quick, efficient movements. Tearing open the armor. Checking vitals. Applying pressure, face-plate suddenly blue with blood._

_Eli's stomach churned as he watched, snapping off shots, trying to keep the turret focused on him and on Lin. And then the worst thing possible happened: The turret focused on Dara, instead. The medic's shields fried before she could even get medigel on Serana, and she collapsed forward over the turian female's form._

_Eli __ran__ to them. Dropped down. Both alive, for the moment. Both bleeding out. Red and blue. If he hesitated at all, he'd lose __both__ of them. Emotionally, either way he chose, it was a betrayal. Rationally, there was only one choice to make. Either way he went, he was screwed, he knew. Mother of all no-win situations. Swearing, Eli chose. "Don't you die on me, __sai'kaea__," he told Dara, slapping on the medigel quickly, hands shaking. "Get up and try to save Serana. Please. Get up and save Serana, too. I can't lose both of you." _

The world dissolved back into place around Eli, and he stood up. One quick, controlled movement. Looked at Lantar, and the rest of the Spectres. "You got more, or are we done here?" he asked, voice controlled and very even.

"No," Sam told him. "I think we're done."

_Yippee-kai-fucking-a._

**Dara**

The door had _slammed_ open and Dara had jumped as Eli walked in now, and promptly _slammed_ it back in place. She and Lin had exchanged an apprehensive look as Eli kicked over a chair, then picked it up, righted it with exquisite care, and sat down in it as if it were made of glass. "You know something?" Dara told Lin. "I don't think I actually want to go through that door."

"Think? Little one, I _know_ I don't want to go through that door." Lin looked up as the door opened again. "This is like going to the doctor for a routine physical, waiting an hour or two, and winding up with your spirit siphoned out of your body instead of getting a lollipop."

That had actually gotten a snort from Rinus, across the room. He'd been sitting there with his head in his hands for an hour or more at this point. "Close, _fra'fradu._ Very damned close."

"Linianus Pellarian," Lantar said from the doorway, and Lin sent Dara a comically apprehensive look.

The waiting room was _silent_. Each of the males in the room was locked in his own thoughts. Unspeaking. And a half hour later, _Lin_ came back in, in _exactly_ the same mood. Scowling, eyes distant, and sat down, completely _somewhere else_, fighting some battle in his head that only he could see.

Dara didn't wait for the door to open again. She just stood up and walked over. Waited patiently outside. Sam opened it, and looked down at her. "You rang?"

"Let's get it over with. It's getting like a funeral out here."

Her dad looked down at her, smiling slightly. "I think this is the first psych evaluation you've _ever_ asked to start early."

"This is the first psych evaluation I've ever seen that involved this many people getting _this_ pissed off. I can't _wait_ to join them. It looks like _fun_." Dara let her voice swoop derisively.

"Right this way," Sam told her, and Dara glanced back, once, over her shoulder. All of the males had looked up, but none of them were smiling. _Oh yeah. Fun._

Dara sat down, back straight, in the new room's chair. Sky was at her back, and she felt comforted by that, though she knew she shouldn't. He was just as much a judge here as the others. Although. . . there was a significant lack of any doctors. Dara looked around, frowning. "Dr. Reston and Dr. Alder aren't here?" she noted, naming the two psychiatrists who had interviewed her and Eli a few years before. Repeatedly.

"Not today," Shepard told her. 'Today is a bit. . . unconventional."

Dara nodded. "With all respect," she said, looking at them all, "If the tests here involve looking future after future after future in the simulation device? I'd like to decline."

"Even if it meant giving up candidacy?" Lantar asked, swiftly.

Dara swallowed. "Yes," she replied, quietly.

"Why?" That was her dad.

"Because the simulator _lies_. Okay, it doesn't lie. It tells you things based on what _you_ know. What the people you're with know. And I've had enough really educated guesses to last me for a lifetime, especially since they invariably turn out to be . . . quite a bit less pleasant than advertised." Dara kept her hands on her thighs. "I'll get to the future on my own without the brochure, if you don't mind."

"The simulation is limited," Shepard told her, voice kindly. "Only moral choices that come from your worst fears, and it's all controlled by Sky. You won't _like_ the scenarios that the simulator picks out of your mind. But you won't be trapped in it, either, the endless loop of possibilities."

Dara nodded, carefully. "Thank you for explaining it."

Sam nodded now. "All right," he asked. "Why do _you_ want to be a Spectre?"

Dara's eyes widened. No _how do you feels_ or inkblots or anything. After a moment's thought, she replied, simply, "I don't."

That got everyone's attention. "You want to run that one by us again?" Sam asked.

"I said I don't think I want to be a Spectre."

"Why not?" Shepard now, leaning forward, studying her.

Dara looked down, and then up again. "I don't think I'm qualified. I have five years of medical experience and combat experience, and that doesn't make you a Spectre."

"Okay, that's 'not qualified.' You said 'don't want to be a Spectre,' before," her father pointed out, eyes cold. Like the inquisitions he used to level at her. Grilling the suspect.

It still worked, to a certain degree, but Dara tried not to let it bother her. "Yeah." She lifted her chin.

"What _do_ you want to do?" Lantar asked, reasonably. "You're a combat medic, full doctor, working on surgeon, special forces trained. What _do_ you want to do?"

_Wow. Okay, this is actually harder than dealing with shrinks. Lantar and my dad ask questions that don't really have set answers._ "I want to make the world a better place," Dara said, carefully. "At least my little corner of it. I can do that as a doctor. I can do that as a solider. I don't need to be a Spectre for that."

"So, is it you don't want to be one, you're not qualified to be one, or you don't _need_ to be one?" Sam demanded.

Dara stared back at him. _He's really pushing, isn't he?_ "Little of each of them, I guess," she replied. "Let me put it this way. I want to help. I want to make things better. I want to make the galaxy a better place, in any way that I can. That doesn't make me a Spectre. That makes me a soldier and a doctor. And if you can use me, great. I'll help any way I can. I don't think I'm a Spectre, though. I thought once that I could be, but I don't think that I am."

"What qualities does a Spectre need to have?" Shepard asked, immediately.

Dara laughed. "Oh, god. What _don't_ they need? Intelligence, integrity, honesty. Ability to work with people of disparate backgrounds, understanding of psychology. The late Dr. Solus is a great example of integrity as a scientist. He never stopped trying to disprove his own theories. Always accepted new evidence that proved his previous results and beliefs wrong. What else. . . ah Well-rounded. Not just a one-dimensional shooting machine. We have turrets for that. Well-designed ones, in fact. Let them do their jobs. A Spectre needs to go beyond that. Above all else. . . they need to be untouchable, in a way." She looked at the four of them gravely. "I've never seen the job get to any of _you_. I'm. . . too human, I guess."

At the table, she saw her dad's fists clench. "Sorry, Dad," she apologized. "I didn't mean to let you down."

Sam rubbed at the bridge of his nose with his knuckles for a moment. "Sweetie. . . we'll. . . talk about this later." His voice was _angry_, and she had no idea why, but internally, Dara wanted to cringe and find _anyplace_ else to be. Of course, she didn't. Four, five years of working with turians had taught her to control her face. Not to let reactions to anger show.

Shepard shook her head and leaned forward. "Sky? If you wouldn't mind?"

_Sings-Heartsong? I will not cause pain-song._ Sky's voice was worried. Violets and streaks of sickly yellow. Regret and concern.

Dara stood up. Turned around, and walked over to Sky. Knelt down in front of him. He had been, since she'd met him and learned to look beyond the alien appendages and strangeness of him, her favorite of her father's coworkers. Him and Lantar. "I know that," she told him, simply. "Do what you have to do." She lowered her head, and was surprised when several chitinous handling appendages and legs reached out. Folded around her, in Sky's odd equivalent of a hug.

And then she was falling. Falling backwards, and Dara tried not to resist, but it was so hard not to. _"Daddy, Daddy, look at me! Look at me!" "I see you, Dara. That's my girl, ride'em, cowgirl!" "This is how you load a gun, sweetheart. Never, ever point a gun at something unless you intend to kill it. A gun is not a toy. A gun is for killing." "Does your gun have a name, Daddy?" "Guns don't get names. __People__ get names. Guns are __things.__ People matter." The deer she'd shot, so still, so silent, where it had been so alive before. And while Dara __loved_ _venison, she couldn't eat it that night. "Don't waste it, Dara. The deer gave its life so we could eat. You make us throw it out, you're wasting its life." So she'd picked it up, swallowed it, and tried not to cry. The next time, it had been easier. And the time after that, easier still. But she still liked taking pictures of them better. _

_Reapers descending on Earth. Her father's vow that if it came down to it, he'd kill them each, quickly, and then kill himself, rather than be taken. No Seekers, not out in Lufkin. Not worth it for such a small town. . . . then her mother's death. The intolerable funeral. The __Normandy__. Eli. The cave. Eli. Bastion. Eli drawing away, her father gone, alone again. Always so damned alone. Then Rel, filling the void. Not letting her be alone. Kella, Eli. Still angry at Eli. Kella's death. __Can't lose another friend.__Eli and Siara. __He could do so much damn better than that little bitch.__ Working. Marriage. Siara's betrayal. Eli's rage. Boot camp. Working. Working. Working. _

_Sur'Kesh, almost ceaseless work. Whenever she came home, it was __still__ work, because she needed to occupy and amuse Rel, when, to be honest, after a twenty-four hour shift, all she wanted to do was fall on her face and die until she had to do it again. But she couldn't. Because marriage was about compromises, and he needed her. She'd mentioned it. Several times. Asked if he could find __something__ to do while they were here to help him suppress the restlessness. The boredom. The fact that he almost visibly chafed every single day that they were there had definitely taken away from her joy in her work. At getting to work with __STG__, the best of the best. Geneticists, biologists, doctors, surgeons, xenobiologists, epidemiologists. . . she'd worked with all of them, and it should have been the best year of her life. It hadn't been._

_The attack on the batarian SIU outpost. Rel refusing to allow her to ease the dying male's pain with morphinol. Siara taking the pain on herself. Intolerable breach of medical ethics, either way. The patient was effectively being tortured. Oh, it was a passive torture, but withholding medicines and painkillers was wrong. Siara taking the pain on herself? Also wrong. She was healthy, had a healthy body. She didn't need to do that kind of shit when there was a perfectly good injection of morphinol handy. And so Dara had eased the male from life, and wondered what the __hell__ was going on in her own._

_Lantar's ship. Work in med bay, train with special forces or go on ground teams, come back aboard, work in med bay, go to the room, want to sleep, and yet, there was Rel. Still needing her, and, admittedly, she needed him, too, but it would be so nice to be able to __rest__. Then waking up again the next morning, and doing it again. And again. And again. Sky's ship, too. Same drill, different faces, different bulkhead numbers. _

_And then Rocam. Alone again. Even more so than before. Even more so than at any other point than since she'd come to Mindoir. Realizing, slowly, that she couldn't __live_ _this way any more. Almost every single day since her mother's death, some sense of being alone. Rel had filled the void. She'd __needed__ someone to fill the void. Her father had been gone so damned often, and Eli. . . well, she had been mad at Eli. Whisper in her mind: __Anger-song that intense does not happen without an equally strong reason. . . . __ Mad until they became friends again, but still angry at him every time she saw him with Siara. And then not angry at all anymore, just halfway across the universe from each other. Hard to talk that way. Everything she heard, coming filtered through Serana, and besides, it wasn't really __appropriate__ to keep in touch with her male friends, was it? And never mind the fact that she only __had__ male friends, other than Kallixta and Nadea and maybe Serana. She was, after all, married. So. . . birthday greetings to him and Lin and Tel and Rinus. Holiday messages, usually unanswered. They were guys. Not known for being great correspondents at the best of times, and they were all busy, of course. _

_But now? __Being alone by myself isn't as bad as feeling alone when he's here.__ Horrible realization. No one to talk to. No one who wasn't 400 light years away by FTL comm. channel, at least. And then, her father there. Telling her gently about the MIA. Guilt. Terror. Commingled, conjoined. The whisper of a little child's belief: __I made this happen__. And then. . . support. Friendship. Love. Rinus and Eli, by her side, the whole way. The laughter. The unspeakable relief of finding Rel again on Khar'sharn. . . only to realize on Bastion that he still wasn't really __Rel__. Trying to talk to him about her need for a little space. A little time. The hour-long discussion that had provoked. Then trying to talk to him about his changes at her father's barbecue. And then all he had done was walk away. Hadn't returned to the subject in a week. Just looked stunned, thanked her, and walked away. _

_She'd figured he'd needed time to think about it. But even though say, gladiatorial sparring was optional, for fun, he hadn't opted to stay in last night and talk. __Probably doesn't even know what to say. So I guess I have to start it. Again. As I have every other time. On Sur'Kesh. Here. Everywhere else._

_And yet, now that she was back with __friends__ again, so many things to treasure. Eli. Serana. Lin. The growth in Dempsey, the fact that __here__ was a patient who might yet recover from the most terrible things in the world that had been done to him. . . . it was heartening. A flash of the quilt, under her fingers, and her grandmother's. _

_Life as triage. Take the least damaged, the somewhat damaged, and the most damaged things. Separate them. Decide what can be fixed, and what can't. Ease the dying as best you can. _

_And then . . . _The room appeared around her again. Sky's chitinous forelegs were still wrapped around her shoulders.

_No,_ Sky said, and his voice was like a storm. Violet and black and gray. _Sings-Heartsong has sung of __ethics__ much already. Many choices made. Many choices ahead of her. It is enough._

"No," Dara said, her voice hardly more than a whisper. "Whatever _they_ got, I get, too. Come on, Sky. I'm not little, and I'm not weak, and I don't need protecting. Lay it on me."

Violets and grays. _Forgive me, little singer._

_Haven't called me __that__ in a long time. . . . _

_Falling forward now. Choice of two paths. Clear. Simple. Going on as she was, trying to carry herself and Rel towards that future they'd envisioned so long ago. Two, three years of arguments. Misunderstandings. Love dying even more than it already had. Almost impossible to work as a doctor, under those circumstances; a doctor whose personal life left her in tears so often, was more of a detriment to her patients than a help. Prone to mistakes, bad decisions because of emotional turmoil and sleepless nights. A Spectre in those conditions? Even more so._

_Or. . . __choosing__ to be alone. Of her own accord. No guarantee of children, no guarantee of anything in life outside of the work. But finding her own balance. Her own center. Being __able__ to do the work without outside factors slowly destroying her. Two choices there. Remaining bound by __tal'mae__, but separated, permanently. Neither of them able to remarry or move on in any way, forever. Or going to an Alliance court. Trying for divorce. It might cost her the turian citizenship she'd earned, though that was doubtful. But that, too, would be a permanent step. Was she ready for permanent steps?_

She fought it._ My dad's always said that the family life is the real life. The one we fight to protect, the part of life that really matters._

_Do you think. little singer, that the life you are living is worth fighting to protect? Or is it that you sing fear-song, fear of the aloneness, and that is what makes you struggle to hold to what you have?_

_I don't know. But being really alone doesn't look so bad, compared to feeling alone when I'm sitting right next to Rel. Do I need to choose now, before I leave the room?_

_No, Sings-Heartsong. You will choose this every day._The rachni's song paused in her mind. _When was the last time that you felt __young__, little singer?_

_Hmm. Playing extranet games the other night, with everyone. Before that, Bastion. Laughing with everyone in Eli and Lin's living room._

_And before that?_

_I don't know. Khar'sharn. Laughing. __Tal'mae__ rites.. . . before boot camp. I haven't always felt __old__, Sky. But those are the times when I didn't feel __tired__._

_Cling to that, Sings-Heartsong. Follow where that melody leads._

Oddly enough, when the room dissolved back into place around her, Dara felt indefinably _better_ than she had in _ages._ She wrapped her arms around Sky's hard carapace and hugged the rachni tightly. "Thank you," she told him. _Better than any Catholic's confession_, she thought. She felt clean and _light_ for the first time in ages. "At least I know that whatever I decide, the choice won't break me."

She was actually _smiling_ a little as she walked back out into the waiting room. Five heads swung up, and Dempsey _snorted_ on seeing her. "So, the five of us got the living shit kicked out of us, and you walk back in here smiling?"

"No, no. I got the shit kicked out of me, too." Dara shrugged.

Eli muttered, "She's always been Sky's favorite."

Rel shook his head. "No, no, Sky's always been _her_ favorite. There are days when I'm glad that it would not be possible for the two of them to become mates, else I would not have my little _amatra_ in my life."

Dara paused. Turned. Raised her eyebrows at Rel. "Who says it's not _possible_?" she asked, and headed towards the door. Registering, as she did, the faint widening of five sets of eyes.

Eli got to his feet, and his dark sense eased. Lightness spread into his face and eyes, and he immediately teased, "Oh, so it _is_ possible? Do _tell_."

"Get a subscription to Fornax already," Lin told Eli, with absolutely no rancor in his tone at all.

"Never _needed_ one," Eli retorted with absolute composure.

Dara ignored the byplay, and simply noted, "Sky's got a _lovely_ set of pedipalps. I've never asked to see them in use, however." She kept her tone absolutely clinical.

Lin stepped up now, moving to her side as they waited for the locked door of the waiting area to open. "And the pedipalps are. . . ?" His voice sounded a little fascinated in spite of himself.

"The main handling appendages," she replied. "You know the large, whip-like ones that come forward over the top of his body, from behind, and can be used to pick things up, hug people, spit poison? They don't just spit _poison_." She looked up at the ceiling. "They're also used to, ah, exchange fluids with a queen. The, ah, outer petals open, an inner tube extends, and they expel semen once attached to the queen's. . . receptacle. With some force, apparently." Dara looked down from the ceiling in time to meet Eli's eyes.

Eli started to _laugh_. "Oh. . . god. That's the _last_ time I ever offer to shake hands with him."

Lin had gone a few steps further down the rocky trail of thought. "So every time you hug him. . . ?"

Dara stuck her tongue out at him. "He usually wraps his forelegs around me, but sometimes, yes, the handling appendages, too."

"Oh, spirits." Lin turned his face to the side and started to laugh, too.

"Come on, Lin. Every time I hug a male human, it's not like _that_'s not there, too. It only counts if they're _very_ happy to see me."

Eli had put his face in his hands and was laughing so _hard_ now, he was actually curled in on himself._ God, that's a wonderful sound to hear_, Dara thought, and her smile widened a little.

Dempsey stood and joined them at the door. "It takes a fair bit to disturb me, but I have to admit, I'm getting there." There was the _faintest_ trace of amusement in his eyes, however.

"Getting there?" Rel snorted. "I'm past there. _Amatra_, how long have you known this?"

"B-Sec first responder's handbook in _ten species_, Rel," Dara reminded him. "Since I was fifteen."

Rinus was chuckling quietly. "And you still hug him, don't you."

"Every chance I get." Dara looked up at them all. "Hey, look at you. Most of you aren't glaring and growling anymore. Glory be."

Eli was still chortling. "Kind . . . of hard to growl. . . when I'm. . . laughing _this_ hard. . . " he admitted. "But god, you said it all with a straight face _and_ blushing. At the same time."

**Sam Jaworski**

They took a break after the first six candidates to review notes with each other. Sky got the _full monty_, as it were; through the simulation device, with its field contracted down to _just_ him and each candidate, he read their pasts and created the limited simulations to test their ethical structures and decision-making, stress-test their personalities. Whatever the rachni deemed best. The other four, of whom only Shepard was a biotic, and a weak one, at that, played a more passive role here. They received the _edited highlights_ of each candidate's memories. . . and a full play-by-play of the ethical choices exercises, relayed from Sky to them. Sky needed to _rest_ after six complex sessions, however. And Sam was a little busy being _pissed_ right now. He paced the length of the conference room—stalked it, really—and wanted the last five years _back_.

He'd deliberately taken a hand's off approach to Dara's life after boot camp. She was an adult, and needed to be treated as such. She'd fought for it, earned it. Deserved a little respect. He'd been _annoyed_, certainly, that she'd missed so many Christmases, but she was always so apologetic about it, and prompt with holiday greetings from wherever the hell she was in the galaxy, that he'd put it aside. It wasn't as if he didn't _know_ what the service was like, after all.

But this? The total and complete isolation? Completely comparable to Eli's. The fact that she was now, slowly, realizing what he'd feared five years ago. . . that she'd had a void in her life since her mother's death, and had sought to fill it any way she could. . . that was _his_ fault. He'd accepted the Spectre job, and hadn't _been_ here for her. Time and time again. Sam wanted to _kick_ something.

"Sam," Lantar called over. When Sam didn't respond immediately, Lantar tried again. _"_Orpheus_?"_

"Yeah. I'm here." Sam swung around, suddenly face-to-face with Lantar. Only an inch separated their heights, so they were damned near eye-level with each other. "My _god_, Lantar. She thinks she's too fucking _human_ to do the job?" Sam's hands clenched again. "I should never have let her go into the turian military." _How much of this could I have prevented if I'd stepped in? And yet. . . she __has__ to be free to make her own choices. Her own mistakes. But god, doesn't she know I'm here to help if she needs me?_

Lantar was already shaking his head. "Don't think our service did that."

Sam glared for a moment. "No. No, I guess it didn't, at that. But the loss of self-confidence. My _god._ She _has_ everything she just listed as a requirement. Smart as a whip. Works and plays well with others. Open-minded enough to change her damned mind about things and people, based on new information—she's even been working with Siara. Hell, even opened her mouth and admitted that Siara's improved with time, just the other night. Integrity, discipline, and _more_ than just a walking gun turret. Goes lethal at the drop of a pin, but stays nonlethal when necessary. And she doesn't _see_ that?"

Lantar shook his head. "I'm beginning to think it's a common failing in young humans. Eli doesn't see himself very clearly either."

Sam winced. He hadn't really _wanted_ to know about some of the details about young Eli's life, but he had to admit. . . the boy was _trying_ to make it work. In spite of biology. In spite of reality. In spite of every obstacle. Just as Dara had been trying to make it work with Rel. _But when do you admit that maybe, just maybe, running up Mount Everest in sandals might not be the right approach?_

The questions they'd thrown at Eli had no right answers. It was the thought process, the fact that each question _did_ provoke a crisis in him, that counted. An ambitious sod, fixated on becoming a Spectre or bust, would probably drop Serana first thing. Then again, someone who wanted to minimize the pain that _would_ almost inevitably ensue if everything continued as it was, would also try to slow or change the relationship. Someone who would sacrifice everything he _could_ be for the sake of the woman he loved was noble as hell, but also wasn't quite what they were looking for. It was a hell of a bind the young man was in, and Sam didn't envy him one damned bit. Add to that the fact that Linianus was involved, too—up to his neck—and _both_ of them had some decisions to make coming up. As did young Serana. To Eli's credit, he'd categorically refused to _make_ those decisions without his wife's input.

And the other choice. . . Sam was stunned by the anguish he'd felt, even second-hand, through Sky. And the guilt. Oh, it had been the correct, rational decision. Save the medic, so she could save everyone else, hopefully. But there had been multiple levels of thought and motivation. Sky had helpfully pointed out that every decision Eli made was multivalenced, that his levels of thinking ran several layers deep, which allowed him to resist the simulation, at least a bit.

"So," Garrus said, after a moment. "What are we thinking here?"

Sam went with the easiest first. "Rinus gets the nod from me," he said, quickly. "The ego's limited. He sees everything he does as service. Self-aware enough to question his own motivations in rescuing his wife's ship over serving the mission. That's enough right there, for me."

Lantar nodded. "I agree."

Shepard shrugged. "There's many reasons he's been on the short list for years. Dempsey?"

_He held the anger-song away of his own power of thought in the simulation, though he does not appear to know he did so,_ Sky told them. _The Zhasa construct was of his own creation. Part of his own mind, singing to him._

"Biofeedback control?" Shepard asked, interested.

_A habit of thought, I think._

"The fact that he's been able to form emotional connections with the quarian girl and with his son eases a lot of _my_ worries about him being a sociopath," Sam admitted. "I've got no objections."

They all exchanged glances when Garrus asked, "Rellus?"

Sam grimaced. "I'm going to have to recuse myself on that one."

Lantar looked up. "Because of what you saw in Dara's mind?"

"That, too. Also, what I got from him, I didn't like. There's pride in being good at what you do. Nothing wrong with that. He's let his get away from him. He got marks for at least _admitting_ that he wouldn't like taking orders from her." Sam admitted that part _very_ grudgingly. "And while he's gotten excellent leadership marks from everyone for years, those were all in situations with clearly delineated chains of command. That _ain't_ always going to be the case in Spectre work. There's give and there's take, and he didn't do well with people who've always followed in his wake having their own ideas on how to do things." He exhaled. "Wait. I was going to go sit in the corner and shut my mouth on this one."

Garrus shook his head. "You're not saying anything we didn't see for ourselves, Sam," he noted.

Shepard was taking notes on a datapad, furiously tapping and scratching. "Pellarian?" she asked.

_Sings-Justice is recovering from the deep hurt-song of his wife's passing. Sings-Secrets and Many Voices have helped him with this. If he and Sings-Secrets take a path together, I can see the healing continuing. But Many Voices will be hurt. Sings-Justice sings much of loyalty. _

"Might be a bit too self-sacrificing and self-effacing," Lantar noted, clinically. "Not bad qualities—"

"I'll give Pellarian the nod," Sam interjected, "and I'll tell you why. Team player. Looks after his own."

Shepard looked at them both. "You two want to recuse yourselves for real this time?" she asked, smiling faintly.

"How about if I answer for his son, and Lantar answers for my girl?" Sam offered.

"Fair enough. Shoot. Elijah Sidonis."

"Pass to the head of the class, if he can resolve his personal issues," Sam replied, instantly. "Knows what being a Spectre's about. No false pride. Well-rounded. Negotiates, attacks, defends, does whatever's needed to resolve a situation, even if it's the hardest possible thing." Sam frowned. "And actually, I think he usually goes to the hardest possible way, and then invents a harder way."

Shepard chuckled. "And Dara . . . Velnaran?"

Lantar sighed. "Emotionally, a bit of a wreck at the moment. Taking steps to resolve it, even if they're not steps most of us would really want to see—"

_Speak for yourself, buddy. _

"—well rounded. Intelligent. Self-confidence is a little shot, but she's been known to get back on the _rlata_ before. I say, pass."

Shepard nodded. "All right. I'll take that all under advisement. Garrus and I have a dinner appointment, so we'll reconvene here with the next batch of candidates at . . . twenty hundred, all right?"

"Sparring night," Sam noted. "You guys want me here, or should I send Gris in for the next set of evals?"

"Gris will do. We've still got Siara and Makur to look at, after all."

**Serana**

She'd been sitting in the barracks, working through yet even more batarian comm chatter, when the door of the room slammed open. "Eli!" she said, starting to stand up, a smile springing to her face. "You're early—"

At his heels, Lin walked in the door after him. Both of their faces were _dark_. Lin pulled the door closed behind them, and they stopped. Faced each other. Both started to talk at the same moment. "We need to—" "I'm not sure I'm ready to—"

_Oh, this doesn't look good._ "Ah. . . hello?" she offered, waving a little.

Eli looked at her. Was that _guilt_ in his eyes, or sorrow? He walked to her, wrapped his arms around her. Alien warm-cool, but so much strength in them. Then he turned her around, and Lin moved in. Wrapped his arms around her from behind. Bracketed by warmth, by strength.

And they said _nothing_ for a good minute, just holding her, very tightly, as if their lives depended on it. "All right," Serana said, after a moment. "You're officially starting to _scare_ me. I thought, ah. . . " and she lowered her voice, so that the thin walls wouldn't let the sound carry, "I thought we weren't going to close the door in the barracks. I mean, with the three of us. Because of the reporters. And the walls."

And the walls were _thin_. She and Eli had been _trying_ to keep the noise levels down, but every squeak of the bedsprings sounded like a gunshot against the tile floors. Lin had, at least once, slapped the wall that adjoined their rooms in mild frustration. Serana winced at the memory. She'd wanted to go to the damned door and let him in. But that wasn't possible. Reporters. People around who weren't family, who wouldn't turn a blind eye, and who _would_ gossip.

And she knew that Eli had lain awake last night. Stiff and angry. Listening to the creaking of Rel and Dara's bed. As Lin was the first to point out, ruefully, turian sex was a double-edged sword. Sure, the males _could_ go on for an hour. But when all you _really_ wanted was a little relief and a good night's sleep, _having_ to go on for an hour could be damned annoying. No pleasure sounds, not female ones, anyway. Either Dara was damned good at choking them back, or she hadn't been having a good time. Hard to say. Serana had rolled over and bitten Eli herself at 24:15, but he'd actually shaken his head. _"No, __asperitalla.__ They're still awake over there."_

In the here and now, Eli reached up. Stroked Serana's fringe lightly, fingers a sweet caress. "God, _asperitalla._ I love you." He sighed. "I think Lin has something he might want to tell you, too."

He swallowed and unwound his arms from around Serana. She was smiling, but her expression was a little uncertain, and her crop was tight. "Okay, now you _are_ scaring me. No one's dying, are they?"

"No," Lin told her, and after a quick, uncertain look at Eli, turned Serana around to face him. "_No one's dying, little one. We've just had. . . a really bad afternoon. Sky and the simulator device Dara and Rel were talking about showed us a few things. Things that they could have just __told__ us about, and asked us to make a decision based on a hypothetical. . . but this made it more real."_

_Oh, spirits. What did they __see__ that has them rattled like this? Eli was the first one to say at the table on Bastion that he didn't want to see the future. That it was all just possibilities, anyway._

Lin sighed. _"All of which is a long way around towards saying that I'm falling in love with you, little one."_

Serana froze. She'd known. She'd known for a long time now. And yet, with those eyes looking down into hers, the warmth of Lin's arms around her, she couldn't be anything other than honest. Just as she was with Eli. Couldn't lie to him any more than she could to Eli. _"I know,"_ Serana admitted, her voice barely a whisper of sound. _"And I with you."_ She put her head against his chest, and turned her head to peek at Eli.

His face was calm. Remote. Closed down, as she'd really hoped she'd never see him again. _"Amatus—"_ Serana said, reaching a hand to him. Hoping that he wasn't about to break her heart.

He didn't. He took her hand. Kissed the back of it. _"I'm always going to love you, __asperitalla__. But while what we saw __weren't__ "possible futures," they were pretty valid extrapolations on current events."_ Eli's face was grim. _"Which is why we three. . . really need to talk."_

Lin's arms tightened around Serana. Steadying her. Buoying her. _"What do you mean?"_ she asked, her mouth completely dry.

"_That if we continue as we've been going on, while we'll always love each other, life will get very, very hard. Spectres are subject to a __lot__ of media coverage, little one,"_ Lin told her, softly. _"Sooner or later, someone __will__ find out. You __might__ be able to do your covert work married to a Spectre. . . Kasumi does, after all. . . but not if your face is in every tabloid from here to the galactic core."_

"_I don't __care__,"_ Serana said, sharply. _"I love you. I love __both__ of you."_ Her voice was miserable, though, because she could see that they were hurting, too.

Eli's hand tightened now on hers. _"Would you __really__ be happy, __asperitalla?__ You've seen how little Kallixta and Rinus enjoy the press coverage of their every move, and they're a __tal'mae__-wed, very, very conventional couple who just happen to be related to the royal family of the Hierarchy. Oh, and considering that you're an imperial in-law, we should probably throw that into the discussion, too. What that sort of muck-raking will do to Rinus and Kallixta. The __s'kak__-storm that will ensue."_

"_And let's face it. . . "_ Lin said, quietly, _"While we __both__ might not make Spectre, there's a good chance __one__ of us will."_

Serana was _shaking_ now. Eli's hand, cool-warm on hers, wasn't what she wanted. She wanted his arms around her, with Lin's. But he was distancing himself, and she thought she knew why. He was about to say hard, hard things, and didn't trust himself to say them if he were lulled by the heat of her body, her closeness. _"Is it __just__ about the damn job?"_ she asked. She already knew the answer, of course. It wasn't. But she almost _had_ to ask that, as if impelled.

They both shook their heads. _"No,"_ Eli told her, honestly, pressing her fingers. _"But it has to do with how __happy__ all of us will be as the years go on. I saw myself having to fight the same battle every damn day. And while I'd cheerfully fight the fight that Lantar and my mom have, every day, for years, the fight for the right to be married to and love someone of another species. . . I don't want to have to fight the battle on the sexual front, too. I'm a little asari, but I'm not __that__ asari. I don't want to go to every precinct on the job and have to fight for their respect before getting down to work. There's going to be enough of that, all the time, anyway."_ He sighed, and sounded very tired. _"Add to that the fact that I don't think __you'll__ be happy in the long run. . and I know that Lin's eventually going to either want a mate of his own. . . or want more from __you__, __asperitalla__. . . and it becomes a massive _clusterfuck_."_ Eli considered that phrase for a moment, and added, in English, "And not in a fun way at all."

"_Sounds like you've already made some decisions,"_ Serana said, her heart closing inside of her.

Eli shook his head. Smiled, for a wonder. _"No. I have ideas. But I wanted to talk to both of you about them, first."_ He kissed her hand again, lightly. Stroked the fingers. _"I promised you four years, __asperitalla.__ If you want them, they're still yours. Until you release me. But I won't renew at the end of the contract. I want to step aside and see if you and Lin can be happy together. I will __always__ love you. But I think it's actually very possible that you could be happier with him, than with me."_

"_That's not true!_" Serana wanted to wail it, but the walls were so damned thin. _"I love both of you, and I don't want to live without either of you."_

Anguish in both their eyes now, and Eli stepped in. Wrapped his arms around her, tightly, as she had wanted him to. Soft, soothing sounds. Stroking of hands up and down her arms. _"You saved me, little one,"_ Eli told her, quietly. _"You pulled me up out of the darkness, and I don't think I __can__ live without you in my life, at least not a little bit. But tell me a better way."_

"_We . . . we don't have to practice—"_

"_And that's not fair to Lin."_

"_I'd live with it. But I wouldn't __like__ it,"_ Lin acknowledged. His tone was a little rueful as he added, _"Four years of courting you, little one, without being able to touch you, sounds like pure hell._"

"_We could break our contract,"_ Eli said, and his voice had gone tight. So had his arms. He didn't want to let go, it was clear.

"_I don't __want__ to break our contract,"_ Serana said, her own throat tight. _"I want you. And we just signed the damned thing three months ago."_ She lifted her head from Lin's chest. Leaned back to look at Eli. _"You two could. . . swear blood-brotherhood?"_

"_Already going to do that,"_ Lin told her, calmly. _"Doesn't deal with the issue of the press. Turians __might__ understand. Especially if we signed a group contract. Rest of the galaxy won't. And blood-brotherhood doesn't deal with __four years__. . . unless we __do__ sign a group contract."_

Serana put her head back down on Lin's chest, feeling miserable. Hot, tight, aching anguish in her throat. _"And if I asked you both to turn down candidacy, that wouldn't be fair to either of you,"_ she said, dully. _"And neither of you is going to do one iota less than your best in the trials either."_

"_Yeah. We're all pretty much fucked, aren't we?"_ Eli said, softly.

Serana really wished she were human, so that she could _cry._ _"No,"_ she said, after a moment. _"We're all just complete idiots together, that's all."_ She raised her head. _"I get to keep you a while longer?"_

"_Four years, Serana. I promised. Unless you and Lin decide earlier than that you'd rather be together. Then I step out of the way."_ Eli's voice was so soft, so caring. And carried with it a world full of his own hurt. _"What matters the most here, is making sure everyone's happy, and that no one gets hurt."_

"_And if, by some unfortunate __miracle__, neither of you makes Spectre?"_ Serana tried to make that one sound like a joke. It didn't.

Eli laughed, but it was a rueful sound.

Lin snorted. _"Then we re-visit this conversation. In a perfect universe, we'd just write a marriage contract between the three of us. Or between four of us, if we find a fourth. But this isn't a perfect universe."_ He leaned down. Pressed his forehead to hers. Leaned down further and gently began to bite the side of her neck.

Serana gasped in reaction. He hadn't bitten her since Bastion, and she'd been longing for more than just a walk in the woods with the two of them, a forehead touch when they were out of sight of everyone else. Eli's hands gently wrapped around her waist. Teased her with a bite to the other side of her neck, too.

She wanted to _howl_ in frustration. _"We just got done saying that we __can't__."_

Lin swore and pulled back. _"Now you're just making me __want__ to tank tomorrow's trials,"_ he muttered, and Serana laughed a little. _"How the hell are we going to do this?"_ Lin asked, sounding tired.

"_Maybe. . . "_ Serana offered, uncertainly, _"we don't have to decide until we know how you both actually do in the trials?"_

Eli sighed. _"Fair enough. I just didn't want to __not__ talk to you about this, Serana. I just. . . I just hope you're not __hurt__."_

"_A little. But I'll get over it. I understand __why__ you had to bring it up. . . ."_ She sighed. _"Maybe we could work out . . . I don't know. Closed door time?"_

"_While you're still married to him? And not in a group contract with me? Little one, that would look __worse__. That would look like us cheating on him, and not like us having __great__ sex together,"_ Lin pointed out. He looked up at the ceiling. _"Wait. Cheating is still worse than very kinky sex, right?"_

"_Depends on local ordnances and regulations,"_ Eli told him, and then all three of them started to chuckle, very softly, but with a hint of wistfulness to it.

They all stared at each other, uncertainly. Not knowing how to chart their course. . . and _that_ was when the argument next door broke out. Rel's voice was _very_ loud, and Eli's head _snapped_ towards the wall.

"_You told them __what?__ You told them you don't __want__ to be a Spectre? Beloved, what are you talking about?"_

"_I told them the truth, Rel. I told them I'm not qualified, and that I don't need to be a Spectre to do the work that I do."_ Dara's voice was much quieter.

"_When did you decide you didn't want to be a Spectre?"_ Rel's voice was baffled. _"Dara, sweetness, everything we've worked towards, everything we've done, was towards that. Why would you __give up__ on the dream?"_

"_Rel, it's a lovely dream, but it's mostly your dream. I think you'll make a great Spectre. You've trained hard, and you deserve it. I don't think I'm ready for it. If I ever am, great. In the meantime, there's lots of other stuff I'm interested in doing. All the xeno-obstetrics stuff I've more or less dropped over the past few years. The epidemiology stuff I never have time to read that STG keeps sending me. I am, honest to god, thinking of changing specializations, or at least picking up a second one."_

"_Why didn't you __tell__ me any of this before?"_

"_When was the last time you sat __still_ _for more than five minutes so I __could__ talk to you, other than my dad's last barbecue?"_

"_Yeah, when you told me that __I've__ changed."_

"_You have."_

"_Not as much as you. I thought we had a __deal__, Dara. I thought we had a dream, a vision, a goal, and that we were going to work towards that goal."_ Her second-brother's voice was frustrated, to say the least. And not a little betrayed-sounding.

"_I'm sorry, Rel."_ Dara's voice was soft, but they were only ten feet away, and the walls were like tissue paper. "_I have __lots__ of different goals. You've had O3 by age twenty in your sights, and Spectre by twenty-four in your sights, too, for a long time."_

_Career-driven,_ Serana thought. Her second-brother _had_ been driven, even a little obsessed, in the past few years. His eyes fixed on some unseen goal, and he was a fierce hunter when he had an objective in sight. _Just look at how he pursued Dara. _

Dara went on. _"I have a lot of other things I like to think about. I have Siara and Makur's kid to design now . . . maybe. I've got Serana and Eli's to think about, too. Even if it's just a thought-project at the moment, it __is__ a goal."_

Serana's crop went tight, and she wanted, again, to howl. That child, if Eli or Lin or both, became a Spectre, was not going to happen. For her, the happiest _personal_ result would be for neither of her wonderful males to _become_ what they could be, what they were so obviously _meant_ to be. And yet, if they didn't make it. . . they'd be disappointed. Feel that they hadn't measured up. She couldn't wish that on them. _Spirits, do you enjoy __toying__ with us?_

Behind the wall, Dara continued. Her voice remained calm, even in the heat of the argument. "_I've got a decision on whether or not I want to stitch together bleeding, broken bodies for the rest of my life, too. Honest to god, there are days when I think about chucking it all in and going and being a veterinarian. The worst I'll have to do then is maybe shoot a _horse_ to put it out of its misery that way. And being a vet was what I wanted to do before my mom died." _

"_For the spirits' sakes, Dara! You know that's not what you're __for__."_

"_And for _god's_ sake, Rel, the damned simulator was only a __possibility__. I can help with the batarians and the yahg and the _lions_ and the _tigers_ and the _bears _without being a damned Spectre."_

"_And to think your father asked me if I'd be able to take orders from you, if you became a Spectre, and I didn't. Obviously, he asked that before you walked in there and gave up before you even began. Why not just fail to show up at the trials tomorrow, Dara? It'd be the same __futari__ thing!"_

Both Lin and Eli _hissed_ at that one. They moved, Serana with them, to the bed. Set her down on the edge, and both faced the wall now.

"_They asked me a question, and they needed an honest _fucking _answer. I gave it to them."_ Dara's voice had risen at last. Serana flinched. Dara sounded a _lot_ like Sam Jaworski when she finally got loudly angry. A _lot_. The Texas drawl sounded _odd_ in turian. "_Weren't you the one __thanking__ me for my honesty last week?"_

Lin was blinking rapidly. _"Ah. . . __fradu?__ This sounds like a domestic dispute in progress,"_ he muttered, staring at the wall. _"Should we intervene?"_

Eli was staring at the wall, eyes fixed. _"We can't."_

_You protect the ones you love,_ she thought, and leaned her head on Eli's hip for a moment. _Even me, from myself. Both you and Lin want to protect me now. And yourselves. And right at the moment, you __both__ want to protect Dara. From Rel's anger. Spirits. What a mess._

"_The spirit of the unit is the spirit of all?"_ Lin offered. He didn't sound thrilled with the idea of going in there, though. _"Even if it means we get our heads kicked in?"_

"_We can't, __fradu__. Rel will take it as a challenge. If it gets out of control, yes, but for right now, it's just arguing."_ Eli's hand was _tight_ on Serana's shoulder, though. As if he were holding onto her like an anchor, to keep his feet from carrying him away. _"Tell you what I can do, though_," he muttered.

And then he walked over and banged on the wall. Several times. Loudly.

"Sorry!" Dara called back through the wall, and Serana could clearly hear that her brother's wife had lightly patted it. Eli's hand still rested on the wall, and when he turned back around, he had the same black frown he often wore when he was _really_ angry. The look that came when his human and asari spirits stepped aside, and let the turian spirit fully show through.

The argument got quieter after that. But it still _continued_. Eli and Lin sat down on the edge of the bed. Each wrapped an arm around Serana, and they all lay back on the bed. Trying not to listen. Trying not to think.


	103. Chapter 103: Touchstone, Part Two

**Chapter 103:** **Touchstone, Part 2**

_**Author's note:**__ Thank you all for the great feedback on the last chapter. I appreciate it, as always. :-)_

_As I posted on the forums the other day. . . _

_For those not already laughing hard enough at Sky and his "pedipalps":_

_http: / / www. livescience .com / 4192-spider-cries-mating. html_

_"Humans aren't the only creatures that vocalize during sex._

_While mating, female __Physocylus globosus__ spiders emit high-frequency squeaks to let males know what they should be doing, a new study finds._

_Called stridulations, the shrill cries sound like squeaky leather and are made in response to the rhythmic squeezing actions of the male's genitalia from inside the female during sex._

_Female spiders are able to store sperm from different males inside their bodies and can choose which lucky male spider gets to fertilize her eggs. Squeezing stimulates the females and raises a male's chances that his sperm will be selected._

_"Males that squeezed females more often during copulation sired more offspring than males that squeezed less often," said study team member William Eberhard of the Universidad de Costa Rica and the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute in Panama._

_However, if done too forcefully, the action can physically damage the female. If a male squeezes too hard or too long, the female squeaks to let him know to pick up the pace but to take it easy."_

_And now, for the rachni version of this:_

_Sing harder, sing faster, sing louder, not THAT loud!_

_I'd also like to thank Dermiti for being my litmus test on all things quarian, as well as for being such a great test reader. :-)_

**Dempsey, Mindoir, June 8, 2196**

The emotional turmoil that the simulation had provoked had lasted almost a full half-hour. He would have liked it, if it hadn't _sucked_ so much. On the one hand, it proved he _could_ feel something besides anger without Zhasa's intervention. _Yay, me_. On the other hand, she wasn't here to help him bleed off the anger. So Dempsey tried deep breathing. Colored lights. Music in his head. _Anything_.

He'd watched each person come out, in varying states of anger, until Doc Velnaran came out. Eyes red, but a faint smile on her face. And had done her best to make the rest of them laugh, too. _Good lord, but she's got some __cajones__,_ he thought.

Back at the barracks, no time to tell Zhasa what she was going to be facing. He couldn't do it, anyway, but her shocked mental whisper of _Dempsey. . . your mind is in __turmoil_ told him that she didn't need much _telling_.

_It sucks. It very much sucks, Zhasa sweetheart. But you'll do better than I did. Come on. We've got dinner with the Vakarians._

He popped his head in Madison's door after a knock and a pause for acknowledgement. "Mad? You ready to go?"

Madison was at his desk, finishing up school work, and Dempsey managed to make his lips quirk a bit at the corners. The boy had obviously had certain manners _pounded_ into him over the years. He'd expected to have to tell him to wash up, dress right, everything like that. In fact, Mad's hair was still damp from a shower, neatly combed, and he'd actually put on a dress shirt from his old school clothes, but was leaving off the Exeter jacket. "Do I have to go outside and find some mud to put on you?" Dempsey said, after a minute's survey.

Madison blinked. "Huh?"

"So I can find a demerit. I swear to god, if you shined your shoes, I'm going to despair for your generation's inability to rebel properly." Dempsey's face was, of course, perfectly straight. "I may have to give you pointers. Properly rebellious _or_ depressing music, for example. The correct way in which to tell me that you've gotten a tattoo."

Madison _stared_ at him. "Are those jokes?"

"I'm not sure. Are they funny?"

". . . I can't tell."

"Then I'm probably serious."

Giving him a patented _grownups are weird_ look, Madison stood up and walked out of his room.

If Madison couldn't tell if they were jokes, at least _Zhasa_ thought they were funny. Her chuckling let _him_ smile halfway to the main villa.

If nothing else, Shepard and her husband were outstanding hosts. Not a _hint_ on their faces that, an hour ago, they'd been raking him over the emotional and psychological coals. And Dempsey, thanks to the chip, wasn't exactly holding a grudge. Analytically, he knew they _had_ to be sure of him before they _ever_ put him in a position of trust.

And so, both of their hosts smiled. Chatted. Made sure that there was human-friendly food as well as levo-dextro stuff on the table. . . and Garrus offered Zhasa bite-sized portions of something turian called _apaterae_ that had been cooked by a chef in sterile conditions. "I haven't had _apaterae_ in ages," she admitted. "Not since the turian MREs I used to get sometimes in the crèche aboard the _Pellus_." Each piece had to be delicately inserted into an airlock system near her suit's filters, and Dempsey nudged Madison in the ribs when his son turned to _stare_ for a moment. "Don't be rude."

Zhasa shook her head. "Dempsey, I've lived in this suit for ten years. Believe me, I'm used to the stares from other species. In fact, it might actually be worse if I could take it off. Because then people would _really_ stare." Her voice was rich with amusement.

Garrus snorted. "I have to admit, trying to track down quarians on arrest warrants was always _fun_. The best we'd ever get from witnesses was 'it was a quarian. Probably male. Silver suit. Blue overwraps.'" He paused. "And then we'd spent the next four days questioning _every_ male quarian on the Citadel, because overwraps are, well. . . "

"Replaceable," Zhasa replied easily, and nodded.

She wasn't so distracted, however, by her own food that she neglected to taste his. Bison londonbroil in some sort of a rosemary and garlic marinade, she almost swooned over, and said, out loud, "It's a pity I can never try that for myself. It's _wonderful_." Mashed potatoes, also with garlic and a hint of sour cream, rich gravy, a salad that had some sort of pale yellow asari fruit slices tossed in with the lettuce. . . all, she murmured approvingly over. And then Vakarian sent the kids into the kitchen to bring out dessert, in tall parfait glasses. Chocolate mousse.

Zhasa inhaled sharply inside her suit, and Dempsey closed his eyes briefly. Once again grateful that he _had_ no embarrassment reflexes. He opened his eyes again and _stared_ at Shepard and Vakarian. "I take it you've heard that Zhasa likes chocolate, eh?"

"News travels fast on a base like this," Shepard told him, barely cracking a smile.

"I hear you like Jello, too, Zhasa," Vakarian told the quarian female. Also, just barely smiling.

_Zhasa, sweetheart, __do__ try to control yourself. Or break the link._

_I'm not giving up the chance to taste that. I won't make a __sound__._

_Liar, sweetie. Liar, liar, pants on fire._

_How could my pants possibly catch on fire from prevaricating?_

_Nevermind._ Dempsey took a spoonful and deposited it in his mouth.

Zhasa's suited fingers scraped along the wood of the table, clenching into fists. He had to give her credit. Other than a very soft sigh, that was the only sound she made. _Need a moment, sweetie?_ he offered, needling her lightly. _Maybe a little personal time?_

_Shut up and eat, Dempsey_. Her tone wasn't hostile. More like _blissful._

The conversation went on for a while longer, over dessert. Dempsey was _very_ pleased with Madison. His son had better table manners than he'd expected, from the way the boy tended to wolf down breakfast, lunch, and dinner in the cafeteria. He'd had enough training at Exeter, much in the same way Dempsey had had through his military schools, not to embarrass himself at a dinner party. Dempsey sent the boy a few approving glances, as best he was able, and saw a few hints of gratitude in his son's light eyes.

Both sets of Vakarian twins were on their best behavior. Amara in particular looked totally nervous, and kept looking _down_ every time Madison leaned over to talk to her. Dempsey watched the by-play for a few minutes, and decided, _She's got a crush on him. Nothing like the first dose of puppy love._

Finally, near the end, Shepard spoke up. "Kids? You and Madison can play extranet games in the living room for an hour," Shepard told the older pair. "Elissa, Alain. . . it's time for you to get ready for bed."

The younger pair set up a wail that they _weren't tired_, until the nanny came out of the recesses of the house, and took them in hand. Dempsey snorted. "Yeah, I remember that age a little too well." He looked at Madison briefly. "Go have fun. No micro-transactions on _Galaxy of Fantasy_, though, understood?"

Madison sighed. "Yes, Dad. But they do have cool new skins for the armor on my _ecus_—"

"No."

"All right, all right. . . ." And off he went.

Shepard actually chuckled as they went off together. "So, Dempsey. . . you doing okay after the evals today?"

Dempsey shrugged. "Back to status quo," he told her, tapping a temple with his forefinger. "I take it you asked us here for more than just a chance to eat something that doesn't taste like cafeteria food?"

"Not that I minded that at _all_," Zhasa interjected, quickly.

Vakarian's shoulders shook briefly. "Actually, ah, yes. Two reasons. One work-related, one not. Let's start with the _not._" He looked up at the ceiling. "One of the things written into our marriage contract," he noted, taking Shepard's hand and nipping the inside of her wrist lightly, "is that to maintain a proper work-life balance, while she's in charge at work, I still get to be clan-leader. Which winds up biting me in the ass every time I have to have a conversation like this, I might add." He looked at his wife. "You want to revise our contract, _mellis_? _You_ can be clan-leader for the next ten years. I will happily sit back and cheer you on. Offer tactical advice. Eat turian boneflake nachos."

"Not on a bet," Shepard told him fondly. "Get on with it."

Garrus sighed and turned back to Dempsey. "You notice anything about my first-daughter's behavior this evening?"

Dempsey's eyebrows went up slightly. He reviewed the entire evening in his mind, captured with almost eidetic clarity. The chip did that. "She seems a little stuck on Madison. Shy, though."

"Probably because I had a talk with her earlier in the week about it," Shepard noted, with a bit of a sigh.

"And so, we wanted to talk to _you_ about your son's behavior with our daughter." Garrus' voice was just a touch uncomfortable.

_Red fucking flag_. Dempsey's head turned towards the living room, and he projected, loudly, _Madison! What have you been doing with the base commander's daughter?_

A moment of total consternation. "Nothing!" Madison yelped from the other room. His thought lashed out with it, loudly, _What are they saying I've done? I haven't done anything! We went for a ride over the weekend, and that was it!_

On the heels of that, came the clear young voice of Amara Vakarian, also mental, _He hasn't done anything! It's not his fault!_

And from the looks on the parents' faces across the table, _both_ of them had heard every word. Shepard was struggling to keep from laughing, from the looks of it. "Perhaps," she said, after a moment, "that wasn't phrased as well as it should have been."

Two young faces were peering in the door of the living room now, looking anxious. Garrus pointed at them. "Out," he told his daughter, firmly. "You're not in trouble, but this is grown-up talk for the moment."

Madison looked mutinous, but turned and left after Dempsey reinforced it with a silent, _You heard him_.

Garrus looked back at Dempsey now. "My apologies. What I _meant_ to say is this. We need to discuss a few things pertaining to _both_ of them. Especially how he needs to behave if there's an incident."

"Incident?" Dempsey repeated, blankly. _That sounds like. . . a base incursion, an attack, something like that. What the __hell__?_

Garrus muttered something under his breath in turian. "Let me give you a brief overview of turian physiology. It's somewhat akin to Terran tigers." And he went off, granite-faced, into realms of xenobiological detail that made Dempsey look around for an exit sign once or twice. _Much_ to Zhasa's quiet amusement.

_Ah. . . sweetie? You're not built like that, are you?_

_No. We don't really go into __heat._ Her mental voice was _highly_ amused now.

_Thank god for small mercies._

After the explanation, Dempsey just _stared_ at them for a moment or two. "So what you're saying is, I should have this _same_ discussion with Mad, so that if she thinks, 'wow, he's the strongest biotic I've ever met, and he's cute and everything,'" Dempsey couldn't quite manage the inflections of a young girl, but he lightened his voice a little, though he remained stone-faced, "and either _bites_ or _kisses_ him, god only knows which, he'll understand what's going on and yell for a doctor?"

Shepard looked up at the ceiling. "More or less, yes. We just want him informed, so he can, well, be responsible."

"Instead of being potentially scared," Vakarian added, quietly.

_Let me see. When I was thirteen, if a relatively cute girl a little younger than I was had suddenly, out of the blue, tackled me and started biting my throat, what would my reaction have been?_ Dempsey winced. He'd have slammed up his shields—not an option for Madison, whose shield techniques were almost nonexistent—and would probably have thrown her off of him. Which, if Vakarian's description was correct, might only turn a turian female _on_. "So his best bet is what?"

"Headlock or full nelson hold, from behind. If she's really struggling, he can bite her. Neck or shoulder. Just, ah, no marks. Please." Vakarian looked resigned. "We've got Chakwas and Abrams both looking through Dr. Solus' old notes and trying to figure out what her hormone regulation method is going to need to be."

Shepard raised a hand. "Ah, also? Might be a good idea to avoid mental contact during the, ah, well, estrus period." She looked upwards. "The impulses are, I'm told, quite powerful."

Garrus winced. "Yeah. Good catch."

"Okay. I can talk to him about that." _My god. Conversations I never thought in this lifetime I would be having. Hey, son, let's talk about the birds, the bees, the rachni, the turians. . . _

_What has a rachni to do with it?_ Zhasa's mental voice was curious.

_Nevermind. I've gotten more information today on several topics than I really know what to do with._ Dempsey was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a prude, and he was a long-since-lapsed Catholic at best, but today had really been _weird_.

Out loud, Dempsey cleared his throat. "Anything else about Mad?" he asked. "Before we move on to work?"

Shepard's eyes crinkled a little at the corners in amusement. "Ylara and Sky say he's got a hell of a lot of firepower. We'd be willing to help you foot the bill for the L5 implants. . . if he _wants_ them."

Dempsey's eyes widened slightly. "You say that like he has a choice," he muttered. "It's the military or nothing, for human biotics."

Shepard grimaced. "Yeah. That being said, we _could_ ship him to an asari world, if he wants, when he turns eighteen. That way, he could go to university on, say, Illium or Luisa, get a degree, and do whatever he wants with his life."

"So long as he never comes back into Alliance space, you mean."

Shepard lifted her hands, palms up. "Yeah. That's the less than optimal part."

Dempsey sighed. "I'll talk with him about that, too." He looked at them both. "So, work?"

Shepard sat up straighter in her chair. "Fair enough. Bastion's still under partial quarantine."

"Yeah?"

Her blue eyes were intent as she leaned forward, interlocking her fingers on the table. "Bastion has been the primary re-supply and personnel staging area for the Council fleet for almost seven years now. And we have a war to fight, yes?"

Dempsey frowned. "Yeah. So either crews could still get sick, Bastion could be targeted a different way—bombs, for example—"

"_Keelah_, don't say that," Zhasa muttered, fervently. "That place has seen enough trouble as is."

"—or we need to find a different staging area. One preferably in deep space. With docking facilities. Plague free. Largely disregarded," Garrus supplied. "Young Elijah Sidonis more or less _handed_ us an answer a few weeks ago."

Dempsey frowned. "Too bad the Citadel's out of commission," he muttered.

Shepard sighed. "And that's _two_ people who've told us the obvious thing that was staring us right in the face," she muttered.

Dempsey looked up. "Wait, you're serious? I thought the place was shut down."

"It was looking a lot dark and deserted when I went aboard six years ago," Garrus admitted. "The Keepers had turned large areas of it into a sort of. . . nest. Still had O2 and water and working ventilation and gravity, though. And docking facilities. And a noticeable lack of plague. Just have to deactivate the mines around it. The ones that are currently keeping the batarians and their allies from using the damn place as a platform themselves. "

Shepard sat up again. "The main problem is, the Keepers. They might not take kindly to an intrusion. They never have before, but we don't know what their cycle is like. We don't know, honestly, what they'll do. If they have any sense of history, they'll know that typically, it took five to ten thousand years for species to advance far enough for space flight after each Reaper incursion. They might not be expecting anyone to come aboard. They. . . didn't really react to Garrus, Lantar, Sam, Gris, Sky, and Cohort last time, but that was a brief visit. A couple of hours."

"They weren't really reacting to Lina Vasir or her batarian mercs, either."

"They were only on a very limited part of the Citadel," Shepard reminded her husband. "One docking bay." She paused. "So, we don't know how they'll react."

Dempsey was puzzled, at best. "And you want me to go aboard and see if poking a Keeper in the proboscis pisses them off?"

Zhasa started to chuckle. Shepard shook her head. "Well. . . go aboard, yes. Piss them off, no."

_Too bad. I'm pretty good at that._ "What did you have in mind, then?"

"This is a notion floated by Dara Velnaran and Siara Tesala. . . and we've run it by Sky and Cohort, and they think it might work." Shepard was speaking slowly. Thoughtfully. Testing each word before she let it pass her lips. "You know who Watches-the-Gates-of-Ruin is?"

Dempsey had a vague recollection of something insectile and metallic looking at the same time. He prodded his memory carefully, and did a cautious extranet search with the chip, gritting his teeth momentarily. "The last living consciousness of the Keepers?" he said, as if reading it off a piece of paper. In a way, he was. "Recovered, through unknown means, in 2191. Transferred to a geth-made platform. Overseeing archaeological digs on Junthor, Etamis, Tosal Nym, and Aphras."

Shepard nodded. "He's explained that he has five generations of 'living memory' in him. Which means that each time a Keeper used to die, if their genetic close-kin were in range—sons and daughters—they would pass their entire life's memories to one or more children. Along with any such memories inherited from _their_ parents, and their parents. Ruin says his people were long-lived. . . about half the lifespan of the asari. . . heavily biotic. . . and that chains of memory were rarely longer than three generations back. He has five. He's not sure how many years that comprises, but believes it to be over two thousand."

Dempsey nodded, slowly. This was information he hadn't been able to download quickly. "All right, that's interesting, but. . . what does that have to do with anything?"

Shepard started picking her words carefully again. "Ruin is mechanical. Conscious, but mechanical. Not biotic anymore. The Keepers are organic. And have no method of communication that anyone's ever unlocked. Ruin says his people _had_ language. And pheromones. And biotics. Some or all of that was taken from them by the Reapers. Ruin has long thought that if he could establish _contact_ with his people, he'd be able to. . . help them. At least establish if they're sapient still, or merely mindless automatons. But while we've broadcast messages in his ancient variant of their language to the Citadel, there's been no response. He has no pheromones, in a machine body. He has no biotics."

"Add to all of this," Vakarian noted, quietly, "the fact that _all_ of the Keepers have been in close proximity for several million years. They've seen the rise and fall of civilizations. Not just the Protheans. Those who came _between_ the Keepers and the Protheans, too. And they _should_, if they're still even remotely intact. . . have a mental record of that. Going back generation after generation after generation."

Dempsey nodded. Processed that. "So, Ruin and you want to wake them up. Say, 'hey, we're still alive, the Reapers didn't kill us, mind if we use the Citadel for a while again. . . '"

"Does seem _slightly_ more polite than simply going in and occupying the place. Again. And having willing _allies_ instead of _Reaper slaves_. . . also sounds better to me. Especially when we're fighting batarians." Shepard's eyes were, briefly, inhumanly cold.

Dempsey nodded. Toyed with the spoon in his empty dessert glass. "Okay, go there, say hello _somehow_. Somehow connect Ruin the machine to the organic Keepers. . . " he paused. Stared at them. _Oh, fuck me._

_Dempsey?_ Zhasa's voice was startled.

He looked right at them. "You want to turn me into an _adapter_ coupling?"

Zhasa had gone very still beside him now. "More or less," Shepard admitted. "The theory is, you could process whatever Ruin sends you of his people's memories, change that into organic thought patterns, and broadcast it."

"I don't have enough power or range to hit a million or so people over five miles of the Citadel—"

"And we'd be asking one or two rachni queens and a few dozen brood-warriors to help amplify it," Shepard told him.

"This could burn out the chip," Zhasa said, suddenly, her tone sharper than he'd ever heard it. "That much data flow at once would cause excruciating pain at best, death at worst. And what happens if these Keepers don't _like_ being woken up?"

"We've thought of that," Vakarian said, quietly. "We'll have fifty to a hundred geth with us, too. To help distribute the load when Ruin begins giving the memories. We have a backup in place, too, if Dempsey can't receive and transmit the signal without damaging himself. We don't _want_ to use the backup. . . it's not something we want on vid or anywhere that the batarians can see it. . . but there _is_ one more option."

Zhasa was shaking her head. Vehemently. Dempsey reached out, carefully, deliberately, and took her gloved hand. Squeezed as gently as he could. _Zhasa. . . sweetie. . . you're scared, and you're closing down because of it. Let me in._

After a moment's deep breathing, her body relaxed, visible even through the suit. _They're going to get you __killed__._

"Chances are, even if the chip _does_ short out," he told her, out loud, "the regen mod will kick in. Start healing any brain damage."

"But the chip controls your cybernetics!" It was quiet, in deference to the kids in the next room, but if they'd been alone, he knew that would have been a wail of protest. Her mind was a pile of heavy, cold needles at the moment, not the soft and yielding velvet he associated with her. "Burn that out, and you might die."

"If I make Spectre, they could just order me to do it," he noted.

_Then stop. Don't __be__ a Spectre._

Shepard cleared her throat. "I couldn't, in conscience, _order_ anyone to do this," she said, quietly. "I can ask you to volunteer. But I'd understand. . . completely. . . if you said no. A second chance at life is _precious_."

"But you should do something worthwhile _with_ it," Dempsey said. His mind linked with Zhasa's, he actually could feel the force of his own words, just a bit. "How are we going to mitigate the pain? If it gets too bad, I could. . . completely lose it. . . and start attacking everyone there."

_Dempsey, you crazy, foolish, stupidly brave human. . . ._ "I'll go with you. I'll help."

"One of our other Spectre candidates also has a, ah, unique gift," Shepard said, looking down. "As one of the originators of the idea, Siara should be there, anyway. And she's capable of taking other people's pain into herself. Relieves them of it completely."

Dempsey's eyes widened slightly. He _knew_ what the headaches felt like. Like a tiger had been born somewhere behind his eyes, was growing to adulthood, shouldering the brain slowly into the skull bones as it gained in mass, and then prepared to leap, snarling, out of the top of his skull, claws extended. He didn't want _anyone_ to feel like that. "You'll probably want a doctor monitoring me, too."

"Doctor Velnaran suit you?"

"She's good." Dempsey thought of something, and felt his lips quirk slightly. _Guess I need to update my __medical history__ with her, huh?_ Off-handedly, he wondered if he qualified as enough of a friend yet to make the young doctor blush.

_Dempsey, you are bad._

_Never claimed to be otherwise._

"How are you going to explain this to Mad? How am _I _going to explain it, if you die?" So much unexpected anguish in that soft voice.

"I'll. . . I'll tell him that this is what Spectres do. Even if they're just wanna-be Spectres, at best." Dempsey squeezed her fingers again, gently. "And if I do happen to die—which I don't think I will. . . tell him I mostly died ten years ago. But the part of me that got to live a little longer was really proud of him, and glad to have seen him grown up." _And that part of me that's alive now is damned glad to have met you, Zhasa'Maedan. That part of me is pretty much only alive because of you._

After a long exchange of silent thoughts, Dempsey nodded. Turned back to Garrus and Shepard. "So, what you're telling me is, I'll be effectively doing a cover of Ruin's greatest hits, and will have a bunch of rachni backup singers? All for the charitable purpose of maybe awakening a long-dormant species, and getting us a space station so we can kick the batarians in the ass? Sounds like the concert of the millennium. How could I possibly say no?"

**Rellus, Mindoir, June 8, 2196**

He'd returned to the barracks after the psych evals in no good mood at all. His doubts of earlier in the week were resurfacing. _Have I lost the spirit of Mindoir?_ When he closed his eyes, he could concentrate and _almost_ smell _allora_ petals. Almost. But it was a faint memory. He thought that _somewhere_ in his belongings. . . probably in transit from Rocam, at this point. . . there was probably that old hank of Dara's hair, from the hotel room before boot camp. It had, for at least a year, still had her smell, and the smell of the _allora_ petals that she'd scattered all over the room, and he could remember burying his face in it from time to time, trying to evoke those fragile, evanescent memories. Golden afternoons by the lake. Beautiful mornings in their _allora_ meadow. But they were distant memories, now, muted by time. As if they'd happened in another era, or to some other person entirely.

Muted conversations on the other sides of the walls. Kallixta laughing—a ripple of sound. _"Rinus, you're going to break my ribs if you hold me any tighter. I'm not going anywhere. What's the matter?"_

"_Just don't want to let go of you for the moment, beloved."_ First-brother's voice, low, rough with unspoken emotions. Not hard to decipher what the simulator had shown him, from his reaction.

From Eli and Serana's room, nothing more than whispers. They were considerate barracks-mates, by and large, at least. So hard to picture them, now, as they were in the simulator. Vaguely hostile, dismissive, remote. _They would never act that way_, Rel reasoned with himself. _The simulator __was__ different this time. It was just a scenario. A moral dilemma, given faces and realism. Nothing more._ And yet. . . it was _also_ hard not to be angry. The simulation had been _very_ realistic, in its usual way.

Rel sat down on the edge of the bed—two beds, lashed together, really, and watched Dara get changed. Uniform into sweatpants and a sweatshirt—_University of Mindoir_. New; a gift from her father this past week. _You need warmer clothes here, sweetie._ "So, how do you think you did?" he asked, more to break the silence than anything else. He remembered her faint smile coming out of the room. He knew he should be _happy_ for his little _amatra_. Should feel elation in shared victory, just as he had so many times on the sparring mats, when they'd both done well. But he knew he _hadn't_ done well.

And it tasted like ashes in his mouth.

Dara turned. "That's an interesting question."

Rel frowned. "It is?"

"Yeah. Not 'how are you doing? My pass through the simulator sucked, so yours probably did, too. How are you feeling?' but 'how do you think you did?'"

"Are you going to pick apart every word I say now?" Rel stopped himself. That was the irritation from the simulation talking. "I'm sorry. Let me start over. Yes, the simulation . . . bit. And not in any good way. You doing okay?" He reached out, caught her arm. Pulled her to him. Felt slight resistance in her body, and wondered at it.

"I'm fine. You?"

"Tired. Annoyed—all right, angry. They asked some questions I . . . nevermind."

"That's sort of the point of a psych eval, Rel."

"Says the female who _hates_ psychiatrists."

Dara shrugged. "I do. No doubt about it. Noticed that there wasn't a single one present."

Rel paused. Passed a hand over the fine texture of her hair. "So, do you think you did well?"

"No. In fact, I told them I didn't want to be a Spectre."

It went downhill from there. He wasn't sure when or how he'd raised his voice, only that he had. He was dumbfounded, however. How could she just _give up_ and walk away from everything that they'd worked for? _Why_ would she do it? By the time he was demanding that, demanding why, if she felt that way, she just didn't give up on the trials and not show up tomorrow—a pretty damned _reasonable_ question, in his opinion—they were standing, face to face, arguing.

Someone in Eli's room banged on the wall, and they lowered their voices. "_Amatra,_ just answer the question. Going to the effort of finishing the trials, but sabotaging yourself with those kinds of answers? You _want_ to be failed out, is that it? So you can always tell yourself that you tried your best, but it's all right. You didn't actually _quit._" Rel was fairly certain he was right about that. All the pieces fit, and he knew her spirit very well, after all.

Dara sighed. Exhaled explosively. "No," she told him. "I'm competing because I was _asked_ to. It's an honor just to do so. But I gave them an honest answer. I couldn't do anything more or less, Rel." She held up a finger as he started to retort. "Uh-uh. My turn. Think about this, Rellus Velnaran. Your first and foremost question for me tonight was _how do you think you did_. Did I advance, did I get closer, are we both going to make Spectre? It's the only thing you're thinking about right at the moment, isn't it?"

"It's what we're _here_ for, for the spirits' sakes! Why wouldn't I be focusing on the whole _point_ of being here for the trials?" Rel lifted his hands. _What can you do?_

They talked in circles like that for a while longer. So much of what she said didn't even seem _rational_ at this point. They were here, they were on Mindoir, they were together, in sight of a goal worked towards for five long, hard years. . . and she kept saying that there was more to life than just that. "Fine! We can work on the rest of life when we're not working on attaining _this_," Rel told her. "We have to focus on this _now_. Prioritize."

"I will do the best I can, but I will not kill myself doing it," Dara told him, levelly. "If I make it, great. If not, I'm not actually going to lose any sleep over it. God help me, I might even get more sleep."

Rel had _no_ idea what to make of that comment, but it was almost dinner-time. "Okay. All right. I just wish I knew what has gotten into you. It's like a whole different person is talking to me, a different spirit."

She muttered something even below the level of turian hearing, but Rel didn't actually want to start another round on the fight. They _never_ fought. Never argued. "Ready for dinner and sparring, _mellis?_"

"I'm going to take the night off from sparring, actually. Got a project that I've been meaning to do for years, and I need time to do it. If I work hard enough, I might have it done before the trials are over."

He assumed she meant something to do with her xeno-obstetrics work, which she'd mentioned earlier in the fight. "All right. You read whatever you need to read, _amatra._" He headed for the door. "You _are_ going to eat, right?"

"In a bit. Don't think I could right now."

Human stomachs tended to be a bit fragile. They couldn't eat before exercise, they couldn't eat right after exercise, they couldn't eat—or ate too much—when they were upset. Rel hesitated. Came back from the door. Stroked her hair lightly. "_Mellis_, are you sure you won't come with me? You _do_ always enjoy sparring."

"Yeah, I know. Not tonight, okay?"

Voice close to tears, but when he looked, her face and eyes were dry. Rel leaned down. Gave her a forehead touch, and then turned away, wondering how he could have made the conversation go any more right than he had.

Sparring went the way it had since they'd come back to Mindoir—challengingly. Dempsey, Eli, Lin, and Rinus were tough, tough opponents. Dempsey was much more of a boxer than the rest, but he had a background in tae kwon do, as well. Which mean that he relied on his massive upper body strength, and even a jab from him stung. He also tended to drop back in a defensive shell, waiting for someone else to make the first mistake, a tendency that Rel was able to capitalize on from time to time, using the six-inch reach advantage he had, trying to get in kicks. Rinus was only an inch shorter. And skilled in turian fighting styles. Lin, likewise, but built whipcord thin, in contrast to Rinus' solidity. While both preferred armored styles for gladiatorial work, on the mats, Linianus was a blur of speed. Light, fast kicks that _could_ connect for punishing blows. He was off his game tonight, however. Tired, eyes a little sad. "Don't be distracted," Rel chided him. "Whatever the simulator showed. . . leave it off the mats."

Lin attacked, thought-fast. "Not really thinking about the evals," he said, after Rel had managed to hold off a flurry of six kicks, the seventh snuck in and caught him under the ribs. "Trying not to think about anything at all."

And then there was Eli. Defensive mindset, but an offensive style. Three inches less reach, but reflexes as fast, or faster than any turian. . . and every bit of Dempsey's upper body strength. And there was darkness in Eli's eyes tonight. Anger and just a little hint of _mor'loci._ Rel actually _welcomed_ it. Matched that anger with his own. A nice, cleansing blaze of it would do him a world of good right now. He couldn't even put a _name_ to the type of anger in him at the moment. It wasn't the usual protection-anger or fear-anger or anything else. It was just there. Sitting in him like a banked fire. Some of the hits were punishingly hard, and Rel was aware of Sam's eyes, and his father, Allardus' eyes on them as they fought and grappled. Sam didn't say a word he didn't have to all evening, though. Signaled for breaks, and that was really it.

And Eli gave him the perfect excuse to start letting it out a bit, to stir it into life. "Kind of a loud argument earlier," the human noted, deflecting the first punch Rel threw off of his forearms, raised like a boxer's.

"Yeah. Sorry." Rel's words were terse. He wanted to be in _this_ moment. Concentrating on _this_ right here, right now. Not on anything else. "Turians argue. Practically a compliment."

"_Talas'kak._ That wasn't a _good_ fight._"_ Another quick exchange of hits. "You know, we _all_ had a rough day. No one saw anything that they _liked_." Eli dodged a kick and then came in, _fast,_ fists and elbows. Rel turned aside, taking it on the ribs, rather than in the vulnerable abdomen, grabbed Eli by his shoulder, prepared to throw him. Eli turned into him, preparing a counter-throw. Hip against hip, perfectly balanced against each other for a moment, and then Eli ducked. Used the lower center of gravity against Rel, and threw him.

Rel came up in a tight roll, ready to attack again. "Maybe you should mind your own business, Eli." He deflected the shin kick, wincing at the power of it, passed the leg, drove in, launching himself, low and powerful, for Eli's legs. Simulated a groin shot—that most basic move against a human, batarian, or drell male—and dropped Eli to the floor. _Eli never __did__ know when to keep his mouth shut. Even back when we were all captives of the AEC. _

Eli, panting, responded immediately by wrapping arms and legs around him, jerking Rel down to the floor. Grappling now, and humans were difficult grappling opponents. So much more mass per square inch of body, powerful musculature. Rel swore internally as Eli caught his mandible with an elbow, which knocked him back. Which let Eli start to roll him. "Maybe," Eli muttered back, "But damnit, _fradu_, you have a fight that loud, you pretty much _invite_ it to be everyone's business. Don't bitch when someone accepts the invitation, Rel."

Strengths equally balanced at first, until Eli worked a foot up, planted it in Rel's hip. Forced him back with a grunt of effort, and then rolled atop him, trying to get another stun move in. Rel reached out and caught Eli's face in one hand, claws dangerously near the eyes. "Didn't invite anything."

Eli knocked the hand out of his way, dropped his head onto Rel's cowl. Pressure of cranium on a sternum or a cowl structure could be exceedingly painful, either as a slam or used over an extended duration, and Eli was actually grinding his head in place, while working to contain Rel's arms. "You want to fight? You come find me or Rinus or Lin, and we'll spar. Deal?"

At that point, Sam moved in and called time, and ruled the match in favor of Eli, mainly by virtue of having had control on the ground when time was called. If this had been points sparring, it would have been a draw; they'd both had a _lot_ of hits on each other. Rel had no idea how much of the muttered conversation his _pada'amu_ had heard, and didn't really want to ask.

The sparring _had_ relaxed Rel. Warm surge of _iunkunditas_, well-being, as there always was after a fight. After a run. After anything physical. The tension always came back, of course. Usually before the next fight, the next run. Adrenaline, oxytocin, testosterone, the turian hormonal cocktail. Adrenaline and testosterone during the fight, chemically similar to the pleasure chemical, oxytocin. And oxytocin afterwards, flooding chemical pathways already primed with similar chemicals. After a really _good_ fight, it could be dizzying. And the body just cried out for more. A reward for having fought and struggled. At the moment, Rel was _hungry_, and he knew Rinus and Lin had to be, too.

"Want to see if the mess hall's still open?" Rinus offered.

Rel grimaced. "I wish," he said. "Actually. . . I think I'm going to drop by Uncle Garrus'. See if he's in after the last batch of candidates." Another six to twelve people had probably been processed through evals while they were at sparring.

Rinus gave him a direct look. While there was no word for _nepotism_ in turian—as in, it was expected for older relatives to find advantageous positions for family members—there was a certain disapproval for younger members relying on family to make their way. "None of the other candidates can do that," Rinus told him, dryly. "I wouldn't go there right now."

Rel stopped in the snow. Looked at Rinus. "Anyone else I can ask advice from?" he inquired.

"Me. Dad." Rinus looked at Lin and Eli, who were walking a little behind them. "You two go ahead. I'll catch up in a bit."

"No arguments," Eli replied. "Serana and I need to talk some more, anyway." And then they strode off ahead. Lin seemed to be telling an elaborate story about a glacier on Nimines as their voices faded away.

Rinus exhaled, breath a steamy cloud, visible in the moonlight. "Talk to me, second-brother." They were surrounded by buildings. Tall, short, squat, menacing. . . all black shapes in the night. Lots of cover. It made Rel slightly edgy.

"I'd rather talk to Uncle Garrus."

"Talk to _me_ first. And I'll tell you if it's appropriate to go to our uncle or not." Hard, dry voice.

Something in Rel responded to that. It would be so _easy_ to go back. To be just _second-brother_ again. He sighed. "I think I screwed up the psych evals pretty badly today."

"Oh, like I didn't." Rinus shrugged. "I abandoned a critical mission to go save my wife's ship."

Rel frowned and looked up and around, checking their surroundings out of habit. "She's your mate. You're supposed to do that. They'd be horrified if you made any other choice."

Rinus shook his head. "I'm just saying, it's hard to know _what_ they're looking for. If they're looking for someone who can accomplish the mission, no matter the cost. . . I'm that person, Rel. Except when a ship full of people, including my wife, would be lost. Couldn't do it."

This didn't exactly sound like a _bad_ thing to Rel, but he frowned a bit. "Would you have trouble following Kallixta's orders, first-brother?" Another quick check, behind them and around.

Rinus laughed, his voice ringing back off the silent buildings. "Spirits! I follow her orders all the time."

_Not quite what I meant, brother._ "I meant, aboard a ship. If she were a Spectre, and you were not."

Rinus shook his head. "Brother, she's an Imperial. . . she was born to the Imperial house. She uses command-peremptory tone on me, and my knees go weak." His tone was _very_ fond. "About the only thing I wouldn't let her order me around on is ordnance. She has no idea how to reprogram the guidance module on a missile, for example."

Rel's crop eased. "And Dara has no idea how to co—"

Rinus held up a finger. "But," he said, enunciating clearly, "all she'd have to do in that case is tell me 'Rinus, we need to hit targets A, B, and C, and as hard as we can. You make it happen.' And I'd make it happen. If she were a Spectre, that is." Rinus grinned, teeth white in the moonlight. "As a pilot, she sets up the shots, I take the shots, and it's a pretty good working relationship." He looked at Rel now. "And Dara?"

"Isn't a tactical leader," Rel replied, instantly. He shifted his weight. They'd been standing too long in the same spot. "We should move," he noted.

"No, stay put. This is a good place to talk." Rinus' voice was authoritative. "So, five years of special ops, and she doesn't know basic tactics?" Rinus snorted. "Brother, I know a medic doesn't lead teams, but do you really think she was blindfolded and had her fingers stuck in her ears the whole time?"

The tension was starting to come back. This wouldn't be a good fight, though. Rel tried to force calm into himself. "I suppose not," he replied, quietly. "And then there was the simulator itself. Stuck on Khar'sharn again. Only this time, not being rescued. Trying to get four Spectres and _Serana_ to follow a simple _futtari_ order. . . "

Rinus looked at him, quizzically. "They did say that the tests would hone in on our weaknesses. Seems as if they wanted to test your leadership skills."

"Then why did they call it a psychological evaluation?" Rel asked. He put one foot up on a nearby planter, knee bouncing up and down now, and looked around them. He could have sworn he'd heard something nearby.

Rinus sighed. "Damned if I know, second-brother. Maybe they were testing what _you_ think about _your_ leadership skills." He looked up at the moon. "That may have been circular."

"So, first-brother, what do I do?"

Rinus looked at him. "First, you don't bother Uncle Garrus with this. Wait till the weekend at Sam's, assuming the barbeque is still on. If there's a chance to talk about the evals and the exercises then, bring it up then. Don't go flying off half-cocked. You used to be a lot more patient, Rel."

Rel sighed. "Everyone keeps telling me I've changed."

"You have." Rinus' reply was immediate. "You're on edge. You've checked our surroundings at least four times in the last two minutes."

Rel blinked. Wanted to reply, _But that's what's kept me __alive__ in the field many times over._ And didn't. He knew this wasn't the field. _Then why do I feel like it __is__?_

Back in the barracks, Dara was already asleep. Or pretending to be. He knew she was a _very_ light sleeper. The shift in a patient's breathing had often woken her in med bay, as she sat dozing in a chair by their bed. The click of the door probably _had_ woken her, and she was probably trying to go back to sleep. The breathing was deep and even, either way. He leaned down. Scraped her neck lightly with his teeth. Heard the breath pause, and then resume again. She was usually very amenable to his overtures, but had been begging off quite a bit since Bastion. Pleading tiredness.

Through the walls, the sound of Eli and Serana's voices. Serana's unhappy, Eli's comforting. The gentleness of humanity. From another room, music. Faint, but brash and strident and blisteringly played. From another direction, Rinus and Kallixta's soft voices, words indistinguishable, but there. Rel laid back on the bed, a little frustrated with the world as a whole. With his wife, for continuing to be angry with him after the argument earlier. For the psych evals. For generally feeling as if he were, somehow, failing. Rel redirected the frustration. And concentrated his mind on what sort of fight or competition or challenge the morning was going to bring.

**Siara, June 8, 2196**

She had seen the expressions on the faces of those who'd come back from their psych evaluations. It had also been very hard to miss the argument from Rel and Dara's quarters in the barracks. Five years ago, Siara would have smiled to hear it. She'd done a lot of growing up since then. Instead, she frowned. _At least Dara's giving as good as she gets. What in Vaul's name is going on here?_

"Makur, Siara, Zhasa, Fors, Thelldaroon, Melaani," Lantar called from the front of the barracks. "Let's go. Psych evals await."

Siara didn't recognize the cave. Or the devices. Mind lightly intertwined with Makur's, she saw the cavern as a bunker, and something in Makur responded to this, atavistically. _Caves, place of safety. Good smells. Away from predators_. It was a whisper on the instinctive level.

Somehow, Siara didn't think this was a _good_ cave.

In a little briefing room. . . or maybe it was a lab. . . facing Gris, Lantar, Shepard, and Vakarian now, with _Sky_ at her back. Sky, who'd sat in judgment on her once before, with Gris. Siara's stomach was tight. She'd earned her punishment that day, and she'd paid it back. Several times over.

Gris stared at her. "So," he rumbled. "You want to be a Spectre, huh? Why?"

Siara glared back at him. "I wanted to, when I was a kid," she said, frankly. "I was jealous of every kid on the base who had a Spectre for a parent, when all I had was Azala. Because they had someone strong to look out for them. To make sure that bad things never happened to them."

"And now?" Lantar pressed. His eyes were still cold in that predator's face. But she knew him now. Knew the gentleness that balanced his strength. The love that balanced his coldness. He'd been one of the ones who'd given of themselves to give her a second chance. A second chance she'd damned near squandered.

Siara snorted. "I grew up. Figured out that the best person to protect myself is _me_. Learned how to protect other people, too."

For a moment, she flashed back to Emily Wong's incessant questions of the night before, outside the mess hall. _"I understand that you've taught krogan children reading, writing, arithmetic, biology, and physics on Tuchanka. There are those who would probably suggest that you're expiating species-level guilt for the genophage by so doing. Is that the case?"_

She'd snorted in response then, too. _"No. In Vaul's name, I'm not a charitable institution. My mate is krogan. We want to see Tuchanka better than it is. With a __krogan__ future in front of it. Damned hard to have a future if you can't even read the records of your past. Hard to have a future if your present is in shambles. Hard to have a future if you can't even conceive of what a future __is__. That's why I was teaching there. Not because I feel guilty for my ancestor's poor judgment."_ And she'd known _that_ would set up a tizzy if it aired on any asari worlds. _"Not because I'm some good and __noble__ person. But because I'm a part of Clan Urdnot. I took the Rite in their arena. I'm the mate of a clan guardian. How else can I strengthen my clan, except by teaching it?"_

Back in the here and now, she raised her eyes. Met Gris' red-tinged ones. "The younglings of Urdnot. . . and Makur. . . taught me what it means to protect someone else. And that's a worthy goal. Strengthening someone else, either in mind or body, strengthens you, too. I'm not a particularly _giving_ person. But I'll protect those weaker than myself, so that they can grow strong. The way I did. Because other people did the same for me." She snorted. "Spectre? I've done everything and anything else. I've defended two square hectares of land, boiled water, nursed infants, hunted varren, taught trigonometry and physics and reading. Been a body guard, hunted vorcha and batarians all over Omega." She started to laugh. "Not exactly the thing of heroic sagas."

Gris chuckled, low and rough. "You did half of that on Tuchanka, where the _ground_ can and will try to eat you—"

"That's just the stonemaws," Siara chided. "Admittedly, the first time you sit down on a rock and it bites you in the ass, you learn very quickly to check for teeth on _everything_ from that moment on."

Gris made a chiding sound. "And the other half was on Omega. Not exactly a _safe_ place, either."

Siara grinned. While Omega had been _work_, it had also been, in a strange way, fun after a while. Play-acting didn't come naturally to her. Pretending to be Harak's bit-of-fluff had grated at first, until she'd realized that Gris and Harak were _right._ People didn't pay the least bit of attention to her when they thought they _knew_ what she was. The butterfly with a scorpion's sting.

"Interesting self-review. Sky?" Shepard looked behind Siara.

The rachni rustled, and his voice was weary in her head as he sang, quietly, _Pain-singer, prepare yourself for testing._

_Falling backwards through her life. First-mother and second-mother, so happy at first. Then the darkness. Sharings that weren't sharings, but takings, as she recognized now. Secrets and sheets. Promises of retribution, of punishment. __I have only just learned not to live in this moment. Don't make me live here again.__ Thessia, crystal cities and lovely ice rings, floating high above in the sky. Sound of the bells echoing over miles and miles of snow. Mindoir. All the old jealousies. Rel, bright as a star and just as untouchable, Spectres in his family. Linianus, laughing boy, impervious to every dart she threw. Kella, fair-sister, never touching or touched. Dara, so many similarities between herself and Siara. Fascinating, powerful mind, but water to Siara's ice, diamond cut diamond. Eli, rock-stable and steady, always willing to help, to hear, to listen, to be there. . . the intervention, the vortex of minds that had lifted her out of herself. Probing at Dara's mind, jealousy again, Eli's rejection, the trips to Tuchanka. Learning there how to give of herself. And to find that gift returned. Not graciously, but well. The Rite. Makur. Omega. Harak. Pelagia, and the Ulluthyr female falling from the shattered window, propelled outwards by the biotic blast sent from Siara's fingertips, her only thought, a grim acknowledgment: __And that makes one less fertile female. Stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid! And a waste!__ Bastion. Working, Vaul, yes, working to keep her old schoolmates alive. Aware that there was bad blood there. Aware—so aware—that like with the krogan, the gift __might__ be returned, but probably not graciously. Working side-by-side with Dara in the med bay. So much suffering and death. A thousand thousand times worse than what __she'd__ seen of the genophage, but maybe what someone like Malla had seen, over a lifetime. Compacted into days. Weeks. Easing the dying. Quietly taking the pain from them whenever Dara couldn't see—the doctor didn't want Siara anywhere near someone's mind when they were dying, for fear that it would mark Siara, as it had marked Eli. "You don't need to nail __yourself__ to the cross, Siara," Dara had told her, firmly, "and I won't help you nail yourself in place, either." And, growing between them. . . not __quite__ friendship. Not quite that. But __respect.__ They might never get to friendship, though Siara, oddly, hoped they would. Not the kind of friends who go out shopping (not that either of them shopped) or braided each other's. . . hair?. . . but the sort of friends who could be relied on. Respected. Valued. _

_You sing much of not having giving-songs within you, but you give much._

_Doesn't count if I expect some return on it, does it?_

_An interesting interrogative-song._

_Falling forwards now. Omega again. Batarian attack, and something—__oh Vaul__—the size of two krogan put together, but with six eyes and fur—attacking Makur now. Her more-than-fair, fighting back. Snowflake racing in, the cat being slammed backwards by one meaty fist, only to lie in a crumpled heap near the aircar stand. Makur's shields being riddled by bullets, shredded, as he returned fire at the huge creature._

_Siara belly-crawled to him. Knew he was injured. Knew that his body's phenomenal regenerative abilities could keep him on his feet, but that he needed to be able to concentrate, to shoot back. She hooked a hand around his ankle, and drew her own pistol with the other. __Give me the pain. / No! / Give it to me. Or we're both going to die._

_The pain came to her. It seared her. Tearing sensations, sucking in her lungs, fire in her legs. She couldn't tell now if it was his pain or hers, if she, too, had been hit. Tried, desperately, to hold her pistol steady and at least get a few rounds off, but her hands were shaking, uncontrollably. . . _

Siara opened her eyes. "What, you wish to test my self-sacrifice?" she asked, her eyes burning a bit. "I'm not a damned martyr. I won't die for you. I've got a lot to live for, and a thousand years isn't going to be enough time to do everything I want to do. So if you expect me to sacrifice myself, it had better be for a damn good cause."

Gris just _grinned_ at her.

**Fors, June 8, 2196**

"So, Fors Luka. Why do _you_ want to be a Spectre?" The big turian in the violet paint that matched the human-turian, Elijah Sidonis', asked.

"Hey, last I checked, you guys brought me here. I did not volunteer."

"You actually have a history of volunteering."

"And of being turned down." Fors made a rude sound, and snuffled the room cautiously. Vakarian smelled like turian brandy, well-aged and rich. Shepard smelled both of jasmine, the vanilla smell of old, musty books, and a hint of ozone. . . as from old electronics. Sidonis smelled like cool stone and water rain. "People generally don't like the way I solve problems."

"And how is that?" Shepard asked.

Fors snuffled. "Usually by embarrassing the foolish, mocking the strong, and stymieing the pompous and the stubborn. Usually by being more stubborn than they are."

"You didn't on Bastion. You negotiated with the hostage-taker there, and did it well," Sidonis pointed out.

Fors shifted in his suit. "People's lives were at stake. I can take a break from showing people how stupid they are if that's the case."

"You didn't answer the question," Gris pointed out, who smelled of old leaves and earth. "Why _do_ you want to become a Spectre?"

"Other than the fact that my current family will disown me, which I'll _love_?" Fors paused, and snuffled. "To be honest. . . it would be nice if, when people thought of a volus, they didn't think 'small, mouthy, dishonest, credit-grubber.'" He looked at them all calmly. "I think I've got the small and mouthy part down, so no change there, but it'd be great if I. . . or someone like me. . . could make people see that there's more to Irune than the corporate sharks and the banking industry. That there are people there who _want_ to make a difference. So, yeah. Send me to your high pressure world assignments. Send me down rat holes. Even as a deputy. I'll go. In or out of a suit, I'll go."

_Prepare, Sings-Mischief. I will sing your test now. . . ._

_Oh, that does not sound good._

_They were __reading him__! Through the rachni and the device, they were reading him, but Fors was more than strong enough to join his mind to the flow. To be in it, and outside of it at the same time. Consternation. __You want to see my life? You really sure that's what you want? _

_Born on Irune. Faint memories of his first family. Knowing that his mother and father had loved him, in spite of his oddity, but that the clan-leaders had ordered him traded. Finding the transaction papers later, and keeping them. The only tangible evidence he had that his parents had existed, that those memories were real: Kas and Miral Luka. He'd gone back to his first clan-name years ago, refusing clan-leader after clan-leader and their orders to assume his current clan's name. For everyone else, he was a commodity. For his parents, he'd been a person, a child, something real. Anyone who treated him like a thing, a tool, a thing of use, he turned on, pestered, bantered with, aggravated. This had been, in fact, __most__ of his families. One brief flash of memory. Seventh family, clan-Lorsa. Beautiful Chissa Lorsa. Chance of a lifetime, making an offer, prepared to offer the bride-price. . . and then hopes dashed. Sent to eighth family. A biotic was one thing, useful, tradable, but as a __real__ member of the clan? A potential mate or father? No, the message was clear. . . . _

_And now you want to see what makes me tick? Have at it._

_Dead and dying companions all around him. Overlooked by the enemy. The batarians had already moved on to a different sector, leaving him and Makur and Thelldaroon and Linianus and Elijah and Doctor Velnaran behind. Each of them too damned big to move. All unconscious, bleeding out. He could probably save one or two of them if he hurried, but . . . Fors shook his head. __Medic first. She can help revive the others._

_The human doctor managed to get to her feet. "Who next?"_

_It only took a moment's thought. "Thell. He can carry the others if we need to. I'm getting Sidonis up. You work on Thell, you hear me." Hands shaking now, looking over at Linianus' unmoving form. __Don't die on me. I'd prefer to save you over a relative stranger, and a behemoth at that, but there's only so much time. Come on, stay with me. . . __ and yet, by the time he got to his turian-turian friend, he knew the blue-painted male was dead. __Ancestors take you to the gentlest sea, my friend. I'm so damned sorry. I should have had the doctor revive you. . . ._

"Had a good look?" Fors asked, folding his arms across his chest as the vision ended. His voice was hoarse. "If so, I'd very much like to leave and get some fresh air. Well, as fresh as I can get in my suit, that is."

**Sam, June 9-10, 2196**

"While the other half of the candidates complete their psych evals," Sam called across the field, "you'll be conducting marksmanship and weapons handling exercises here at the range. There will be tests on every weapon classification we have here at the range, from pistols to heavy weapons. In the afternoon, we'll begin elimination sparring rounds, once all the other candidates are back from their interviews with Sky." _And then Sky will go collapse in his nest upstairs in Garrus and Shepard's villa and sleep for a day, from the sound of it_. The rachni's mental exhaustion this morning had been a dull gray haze in Sam's mind as Sky had sung his overall reports from the day before. _Many Voices has become very stable. You worried for your son, Sings-Regrets, but he has integrated all his voices to his harmony. Capable of self-sacrifice. You should sing songs of pride for him. Sings-Justice, his friend, recovering from broken melodies. Sings love and hope now, but also self-sacrifice. Pain-Singer __speaks__ much of not having giving-songs in her soul. But gives to others with almost every breath. Sings-Heartsong, Sings-Honor. . . _and the rachni's voice, which had been up in violin-like registers, deepened. Turned to cellos and viols. And projected a series of images which, at first, did not make sense.

_Many Voices_, the rachni said, and the image turned to a rocky set of cliffs on some forgotten world. Black rock, probably volcanic in origin, some porous, some obsidian and slick. _Sings-Justice_, Sky sang, and showed them a winter sky, with a storm brewing. Winds howling, driving freezing rain ahead of it, giving way to blue skies and a temperate breeze. _Sings-Heartsong_, Sky went on, and showed an ocean, which looked cold as the North Sea, blue and gray and capped here and there with white breakers. _Sings-Honor_. . . the unstable heart of a young, massive star. All fire, all ablaze.

The rachni sang, _I do not have words. I can only sing what I perceive. Look, and understand_.

_The heart of an old-fashioned nuclear reactor. Water pumped in as a coolant, constantly circulating, constantly taking radiation and heat from the reactor core. In a closed system, fewer losses. But evaporation did occur. And when the reactor approached critical, the water began to boil off. Evaporate away. Lose itself. Water could, it seemed, get tired of being boiled._

They all blinked as Sky's vision ended. _Do you understand?_ Sky asked, and his voice was gray.

"I understand what I saw last night at sparring," Sam had told the others. "Rel was on edge enough that he and Eli damned near threw down for real. That's not a fight I want to see." He was fond of Lantar's son, and had spent years cultivating the acquaintance of his daughter's husband. Inasmuch as he'd _seen_ them for five years, that is. He'd liked young Rel. After 'reading' and absorbing the highlights of his daughter's life, and Rel's life, he wasn't sure about that anymore. And was trying to understand, desperately, where it had all gone wrong.

"You don't think Eli can hold his own?" Lantar asked, quickly.

Sam shook his head. "I think Eli would _probably_ try to keep it friendly, but if provoked, he'd go real, too. They'd maul each other." _Like two young lions fighting for territory. Not to the death, but certainly till one of them was bloodied._ "Eli was telling Rel that if he's going to fight in the barracks, it's everyone's business. And that if he wanted to fight, to come find him. Lin. Rinus. And they'd spar." _Anyone but Dara, sounds like._ Which, in itself, hinted at who the fight had been with. "What the hell is going on with that boy?"

_And do I try to perform an extraction on my girl?_

Garrus sighed. "It sounds to me like adrenaline addiction."

"I didn't see any signs of it when they were aboard my ship," Lantar said, shaking his head.

Garrus shrugged. "Why would you? On an SR ship, there's _plenty_ of fighting. Combat at least once a week. All the sparring partners someone could ever desire in between."

"Okay, by adrenaline addiction, are we talking adrenaline junky? Someone who increases the danger in a given scenario on purpose, engaging in higher risk behavior each time, because it's not a thrill if the potential for death isn't there?" Sam asked, sharply.

Lantar rocked a hand back and forth. "For us, it's a little different. For most turians, fighting is _fun_, but it rarely goes over the unhealthy line. The adrenaline _feels_ good. The testosterone feels. . . well, good. And when you get the post-fight rush of oxytocin, that feels good, too. You get it after a run, you get it, at least a little bit, after a good argument. And for most of us, a good argument or a run will do." He shrugged. "I've never experienced it, personally. . . but the flip side of it is dependence on sex. Alternating hormonal highs, basically. Constantly trying to keep the endorphins _up_ instead of allowing them to dip and flow normally."

Garrus winced. "I was borderline on the combat side, for a while. Managed to make myself remember _why_ I was fighting, though. And that _someone_ had taught me that it's what we fight for that matters, not that we're fighting." He lifted Lilitu's hand. She'd been quiet so far through their conversation, but smiled now.

"Is this something that can be treated, managed?" she asked. "I hate to lose someone with _that_ much potential as a Spectre. . . but if he's likely to fight because he _wants_ to fight, that takes away from his options. Everything looks like a nail, when you've got a hammer that you _want_ to use."

Lantar looked reflective. "He held back on Bastion. Was working with riot suppression teams. Wasn't killing to kill. So it hasn't gone as far as it _could_."

"And he holds it in check pretty tightly the rest of the time," Garrus added, thinking out loud. "He looked calm at the barbeque, Sam."

"We had a handball game. Substituted for combat," Lantar pointed out, dryly. "But the rest of the time. . . yeah. He jitters a bit, doesn't he?"

"Can't sit still," Garrus muttered, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Never stops moving, even for a second. I should have noticed _that_."

"And Dara was sitting right beside him the whole time at the barbeque." Sam muttered a curse. "God damn it. I _told_ that boy, years ago, in Japan, that he needed to develop an off-switch. _I_ don't really have one, but I've at least got a safety." He thought about it again, and swore some more. "I told him to hold onto Dara if that's what calmed him down. I never said that should be his _only_ compensating activity." He looked at Lantar and Garrus steadily. "I'm planning on extracting Dara, if she'll go. Right now, I think she'd be willing. In a week, once she's had a chance to rationalize again, convince herself that this is what good wives do, hold onto and support and protect their husbands. . . she might not be willing to go. But I've _got_ to get her out. If she'll let me."

Shepard was already nodding. "Yes. Absolutely. It's not abusive. . . not yet, anyway. But there's _no_ reason she needs to stay in that environment."

_Sings-Heartsong is ready to sing new melodies_, Sky told them. _Her loss will destabilize Sings-Honor for a time, but may strengthen him. May make him understand._

Garrus was still rubbing at his forehead. "If we'd seen it earlier, we could have talked them out of _tal'mae_. She's. . . pretty much stuck, Sam. I mean, you can get her out of the environment, but they'll always be married."

"Horseshit." Sam bit off the word. "She's human. Alliance citizen. _We_ give our people _rights_. And one of those rights is that marriage doesn't have to be a fucking _punishment_ for bad judgment. If she wants out, there are _ways_ out. But that'll be up to _her_." Sam managed to reel it back in a bit. "You all might want to talk to Allardus. And Rel. Me? I'm going to talk to my girl." _And see if that stiff neck of hers will bow enough to let me __help__ her._

So, Sam walked along the firing line. Everyone was good, of course. No surprise there. He stood behind each candidate in turn. He was liking what he saw. Linianus could use every damned weapon in the arsenal—technically, they all _could_. . . but he was almost as flexible with them as Rinus. At the moment, Lin was using, for the first time ever, probably, a Collector beam weapon, and was grinning happily. "I can see why these aren't really out for general use," he told Sam over his shoulder. "Precise, controlled, and damned near unstoppable."

Sam nodded, and moved down the line. Rinus, calm as ever, using a pistol for the moment, and muttering something about wanting to tweak its sights slightly. _That boy never stops_, Sam thought, amused. Siara's experience with heavy weapons was more limited than the rest of them, and was asking Makur for pointers on the assault rifle. Two stalls further. Eli, giving Sam a quick look over his shoulder, before returning his attention to his pistol work. "Looking good," Sam told him. The shots were a single ragged hole in the center of the target.

"Eh, this is the easy part. Relaxing, fun." Eli shrugged. "I'm betting you'll be simulating combat conditions shortly. Crouching. Smoke. Moving targets."

Sam grinned at him. "What, us? Make it more difficult?"

"Not you," Eli told him, straight-faced.

"You okay after the evals, son?" Sam hesitated to ask. Knowing so damned much about all the kids' personal lives felt like a breach of privacy of the worst sort. As if he'd been spying at their keyholes. But, damnit, they had to _know_ what each person was made of. They couldn't test someone like Melaani, and _not_ test the Mindoir candidates in the same way. And a regular psych eval only told you so much about someone.

Eli's eyes flicked up. "Yeah." He looked back at the target, fired again, twice. Absolute precision. "I calmed down overnight."

"You going to be okay with sparring Rel again this afternoon?" The real worry, now. Rel's claws had been _damned_ close to Eli's eyes.

Eli grimaced. "Depends on if he's going to be okay sparring with _me_." The young man shook his head. "I didn't think he'd _like_ hearing me say what I said to him, but I also didn't think he'd react that strongly." They were both keeping their voices down, inasmuch as they could; they were both wearing ear protection, but Dara was one stall away.

"Yeah. It's being addressed." _Somehow._ He patted the young man on the shoulder, and moved down to the next stall. "Dara? Can I talk with you at lunch?"

Dara was on rifles. Still her favorite, after all these years. He still had her very first gun in the gunsafe at home. Waiting for Takeshi to be old enough to learn to use it. She looked up at his words. "Sure, Dad. I wanted to talk to you, too."

In the cafeteria, Sam pulled her over to his table. With Kasumi on her other side. "All right, sweetie," Sam told her. "Did you want to go first, or should I?"

Dara looked up at him. So damn much like her mother. But even in the rockiest portions of their earlier marriage, Sarrie had never worn that look of complete exhaustion. "I was thinking, Dad. . . maybe tonight, after the sparring rounds. . . if you and Kasumi don't mind. . . I could come spend the night at the house?"

Kasumi, who'd long since been filled in on events, smiled. "Actually, we were thinking of just inviting you to stay for the rest of the trials. And however else long you'd like."

Dara closed her eyes and exhaled. Sam could _see_ the tension draining out of her shoulders. "I'd need to get my stuff—"

"_I'll_ get it for you. After sparring, you go to the house. Play with Takeshi. Read a book, put up your feet, do whatever the hell you feel like doing," he told his daughter. "I'll get your things. Is there anything important in the locker besides clothes and armor and your personal weapons?"

"A, ah. A quilt. And some sewing items. A datapad. The _reela_."

Sam's eyebrows went up. "A quilt."

"Yeah, Eli's baby quilt, that the vandals tore up on Bastion. Grandma Agnes started showing me how to fix it yesterday." Dara looked downright embarrassed. "It's actually kind of restful, you know? It's not bleeding, it's not screaming, it's not moving around on me. It just lies there and lets itself be fixed."

Sam coughed into his hand. This was probably not the time to laugh out loud, but Dara did look absolutely _mortified_ by the admission. "Okay, I'll be sure to grab that, too."

"Don't let anyone see it. It was supposed to be a surprise."

_Oh, I'll bet._ Sam looked at her. "You want to talk options right now?" Their voices were masked by the low hum of the conversations in the cafeteria.

Dara sighed. "Sky pointed out. . . or _someone_ did, in the simulator. . . that an Alliance court _could_ offer me a way out. But that it might never be accepted as legitimate in Hierarchy space. Any subsequent marriages might be considered bigamous. Although, technically, there's no actual _law_ against that. . . " She looked upwards. "Could be a big mess."

"Oh, it will be a big mess. The more so if the various reporters sniff it out." Kasumi's voice was calm. "We can make it clear that our candidates' personal lives are their _personal_ lives, to a certain extent, but you've been in the limelight a few times because of you and Rel."

"Then this would be just a continuation of the same," Dara said, quietly. "The al-Jilanis of the galaxy will love this. I don't know that I want to _end_ end things. I need about a week to think. . . but I think Sky's already shown me the way I _want_ to go. I just have to be sure. And it's hard to _think_ in the barracks." She paused. "I don't want this to impact his chances as Spectre," she added, very quietly. "I know 'stable homelife' has got to be near the top of the list. _I_ just have to get out. I don't want it to hurt him or his chances."

_And what about __your__ chances, sweetie? How much of yourself __have__ you tucked away?_ "I can assure you, divorce or separation will have no bearing on either of your chances," Sam told her, calmly. "Overall mental state counts a hell of a lot more. You? You realized before we even walked you in there that there was a problem. You've been trying to fix it. You just didn't know what it was. Now you're taking active steps to help yourself. And there's no shame in that."

**Elijah, June 9-10, 2196**

Sparring was set up in the afternoon, with all thirty-six candidates. . . minus the volus and elcor candidates, who watched from the sidelines. Elimination rounds, just like boot camp. Groups of six, each of them fighting each other under the watchful eye of a Spectre referee. Eli started off with Seheve Liakos, Melaani T'soa, Makur, a turian male, and Dara in his group. Seheve and Eli actually fought first, and she was _tough_. Whatever school of hand-to-hand she'd learned on Kahje clearly emphasized what Sam would have called _viper_ forms. Coiling around limbs, constricting as needed, grappling. . . and thought-fast hands when they were on their feet. Eli managed to eke out a win there, but the style was totally unfamiliar, so he felt rather as if that had been _luck_. "Nice," Eli told her. He didn't know what to _make_ of her, but she was here, Lantar had. . . apparently. . . accepted her, so he'd be polite, at least. "I'd like learn some of that. If there's time. You could come to the evening sparring sessions, if you like."

She blinked those huge black eyes at him. "If you wish. Is it required? I had not been informed."

Eli shook his head. "No. Voluntary. For practice, for fun, for . . . camaraderie. . . for exercise. Or don't. Up to you."

Melaani next. The former asari cop was also a _tough_ fighter, but he'd seen asari styles often enough to recognize what she was doing when she did it. It was actually a hell of a lot of fun. A lot like sparring Ylara, actually, grace, speed, and dance-like kicks that still packed a hell of a punch. Eli finally took her out with brute strength, no finesse at all, and then pulled her to her feet by her hand. Switched languages. "_Watching you fight Spectre Ylara at some point in the future will be satisfying to the mind and soul."_

Melaani flushed blue, and grinned back at him. _"Thank you. She was a hero to me when I was growing up. There are __vids__ about her on asari worlds, you know that?"_

Eli laughed. "No, I didn't know that, but somehow, that doesn't surprise me."

Makur was tough, of course. Somewhat akin to beating on a wall. By the end of their match, Eli was laughing ruefully. "Call it a draw?" he offered.

Gris, who was watching the match, guffawed. "Probably have to, yes."

Makur grinned back, all the yellowed stumps of teeth showing. "On the other hand, you're still standing, human. That's practically a victory for you."

"Oh, thanks. Very comforting."

Dara last in this first group. Smaller than the tall asari, Melaani, but not _too_ small. 5'9" to his 6'4". And she was _used_ to sparring people bigger than she was, herself. Still water in her style, as her father had taught her. Flowing through and around him, dodging and ducking and using leverage. Trying to lock the side of her hip against his to dump him; a fraction of a second too long, and Eli's reflexes took over, and her dumped her, instead. Poise and counterpoise, the heart of all throws and grappling. Dara hit the mat and started to roll up, but Eli was already on her. She locked her legs around his waist at the floating ribs and squeezed. Hard. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, but Eli was already getting control of her arms, drawing one back into a paintbrush move for a lock. Dara managed to get the other one free and slipped up, pantomimed a slam under the ear, the human styloid process, and Eli grinned as she followed up on the stun move with a reach for his eyes, that he had to counter. Both of her arms pinned now, she had to unlock her legs to step her feet to his hips, try to raise him off her with the powerful thigh muscles.

Taking his first full breath in a minute, Eli pancaked out, dropping all of his upper body weight on her. "If it's all the same to you, _sai'kaea_," he told her, "I think I'll take a nap now. I'm tired, and you're _comfy._" Adrenaline being what it was, it wasn't terribly possible to get turned on right now, but he was definitely _aware_ suddenly, of the way her hair curled a little more when it was damp with sweat. She rarely wore perfume, but soap and deodorant and her own personal smell were strong right now, too.

"Jerk."

"What, no _bite me_? I'm crushed. I had my answer all prepared, too."

"No, crushed is what _I'll_ be if you don't get _off_ of me, Eli. You're much heavier than you used to be."

Increasingly vehement struggles to get free. Gris called time right around the moment Eli put his head down on Dara's shoulder and started pretending to snore.

Then the victors of the six groups of individuals had to spar against each other. Single elimination. Because Eli had fought to a draw with Makur, and Lin had fought to a draw with Rinus, there were actually eight finalists. Rel managed to knock Makur down after several minutes of tough fighting, much to Eli's relief. He hadn't wanted to fight the krogan again. He was currently matched up against Rinus, and Lin was fighting Zhasa, who'd made it to the final round. Her springy _meela'helai_ against Lin's swift kicks would have been fun to watch, if he'd had _time._ And Dempsey was fighting a human male that Eli didn't recognize.

Eli _finally_ took Rinus down, after two or three repeated knees to the stomach, using the cowl on Rinus' chest to pull him _down_ into each strike. "I'd hate to see what you do to people you don't like," Rinus said, chuckling.

Eli worked his left arm carefully. Rinus had grazed him with a kick late in the fight, and, light-contact or no, it still stung. From behind him, Lin commented, ruefully, "If he didn't like you, it would have been knee to _teeth_, _fra'fradu_."

Eli traded a grin with Lin, who'd managed to find a crack in Zhasa's defenses, and had largely waited for her to tire out. Dempsey had finished off his opponent, too.

The human's amusement was clear. No one who'd seen him in _real_ combat could doubt that Dempsey would simply have used his biotics or pulled up a shield and _toasted_ the human male he'd been fighting.

Then it was Rel against Lin, and Eli against Dempsey. "Not exactly a fair test," Eli commented as the two human males closed. "In a real fight, you'd toss up a biotic shield, and just wait for me to give up."

Dempsey's eyes were calm. "Yeah, but there's value in practice. I can't _always_ rely on biotics." So they settled into it. Eli had reach and speed, and they were both strong, so after a while, Eli simply found enough cracks in the defenses, and wore Dempsey down. _That took forever_, Eli thought. Rel had finished off Lin almost five full minutes before. _Great. Fighting Rel. . . again. . . and he's had a breather._

Rel was calmer than last night, though. Joked, as if it were old times, "Offense against defense, again?"

_Yeah, but even I know, sometimes the best defense __is__ a good offense._ Eli stripped off his sweaty shirt—it was sticking to him everywhere, and driving him nuts—and took a two minute breather, when invited to by Sam, and then they were at it.

The fight started out clean. Just like every time they'd sparred as kids, Rel showing a little turian kicking, a little of Sam's _ba gua_. The way it all _flowed_ together, seamlessly. _He really still is the best_, Eli thought. Except the style had changed a bit. Too many years away from Mindoir. Same as Eli and Lin had noticed; without someone to practice against, they'd almost forgotten everything Sam and Shepard and Ylara and Gris had shown them over the years. But they'd all been practicing again for two weeks, picking it back up again, as best they could. Eli dropped back into almost pure _wing chun_ at first, waiting to see what Rel would do. Let himself flow past and through Rel, like water. Dozens of little, stinging strikes, trying to throw him, get a submission hold, and end this early.

Rel was having none of that. Every attempted throw became a counter. He couldn't block _all_ of the quick, light strikes, but he blocked many.

Nothing left but the moment. The scuff of feet on mats. The sound of heavy breathing. Enjoyment in Rel's eyes, and yet, frustration, too. _This should be like wine to him, like breathing or song. He's always __loved__ sparring. Why the frustration?_ A couple of hits that went well beyond sparring contact, and Eli changed styles. Went back into _muay thai_. Increased his own strikes to more than fifty percent, started aiming hard shin-kicks at knees, spurs, abdomen. The brutal conditioning of _muay thai_ meant that his kicks didn't hurt him, but surely hurt his opponents.

Rel moved in, destabilized a knee, and Eli found himself flat on his own back, getting his forearms up to protect his face. Hips, legs, shoulders, constant motion. If you're down in the street for more than about thirty seconds, you're probably dead, because everyone has _friends_. Rolling back and forth now, lock countered, lock countered, lock countered. No words being exchanged, not this time. No comments at all. The most visceral level of communication there is, muscle against muscle. And the message Eli was getting was, _I'm pissed at you_ and _you're in my way_. Whether Rel _meant_ to convey that or not, it was pissing _Eli_ off. He'd been having _fun_ until this point. Fist and elbow to Rel's face, then _back_ with the same elbow. _Get __off__ of me._

No reaction, except to pin Eli's free hand. _Fine. Then we do it the __hard__ way._ Eli brought his head forward, hard. He was pantomiming the head-butt, but Rel didn't let up. _Oh, god. He's treating this as real, isn't he?_ Eli slammed him again, this time, full-strength. Head butts _hurt_, but if done right, they hurt the other person worse. Rel moved backwards, spitting blood, but he still looked angry, and as if he were _enjoying_ himself, too. Eli lurched after him, trying desperately for a submission hold, somewhere in here. . . .

"I said, that's _time_," Sam called, and he and Lantar moved in. Separated them. Eli reached up and wiped away a warm trickle of blood from his forehead. Probably caused by Rel's teeth. _I guess eating his meals through a straw isn't an option for him,_ Eli thought, grimly. Dara was already there, medkit in hand. Gloved fingers light and efficient. "Dara, this isn't even worth the medigel—"

"I'm sure you don't actually want to wear a bite scar from a male turian. Especially not in such a prominent location." Her voice was crisp, as it tended to be when she was in medical mode, and Eli started to chuckle.

"You better look at him, too," he pointed out, as she put the medigel in place, along with a butterfly bandage.

Dara grimaced. "I know. I'm sorry, Eli."

He shrugged it off. "Don't be. I told him off a little last night at sparring, and it probably just boiled over again." He didn't think that was _quite_ it, but it was probably related. Eli stood, and headed back to the others as she went to go tend to Rel.

Dempsey was shaking his head. So were Lin and Rinus. "He's still pissed from yesterday," Lin muttered.

Sam had moved around behind them, and nodded. "And he'll be more pissed tonight," he said, quietly. "We're going to rule that one a draw, all right?"

_Why's Rel going to be even more pissed tonight?_ Eli wondered, but didn't ask. Sam's expression more or less forbade questions, for the moment.

When he got back to the barracks, Serana was late. She'd been doing analysis work for Kasumi almost non-stop through the trials, and Eli didn't want to ask her want it entailed. So when she did come in, Eli scooped her up, gave her a quick forehead touch, and she stopped him. Stared at his face. "What happened at sparring?"

"Eh, head-butted your second-brother. Dara already kissed the boo-boo for you, but you can do it again, if you like," Eli offered, lowering his head.

Serana half-laughed and rested her lip-plates against his forehead. "I think I'm going to wind up having to go on a trip, _amatus_," she told him, more seriously, as she pulled away. Her huge blue eyes stared up into his for a long moment. "Not until after the trials, though." She snuggled into him, but her voice was a bit sad as she ventured, "Do we need to talk about anything?"

"Not if you don't want to," Eli told her softly. Pressed lips to her lip plates. His heart _hurt_, but he _knew_ this was the right path. He'd learned from Kella how to treat each day like a gift, and he'd learned from Serana how to _live_. Learned patience from Siara, and how to _pay attention_ from Dara. And he absolutely planned to make each remaining day on their contract good for Serana. Or until she realized that she and Lin loved each other, and that they could be happy with one another, in a way that didn't involve epitabs or mixed diets or anything else. He didn't intend to live like a _monk_, in the meantime, no. And if they _both_ failed Spectre candidacy, just went back to being quiet, mid-level cops who had no aspirations for political office or the prosecutor's office or management. . . they could explore the three-way contract. But Eli didn't think that was going to happen. It had been a lovely dream on Bastion, a needed and wonderful respite from death and darkness. And Serana had saved his spirit by giving him her light. But Lin needed that light just as much as Eli did. And they _were_ much better suited to one another.

It didn't make it hurt any less. But he tried to put a little of it into words, since she was looking up at him so searchingly, still. He had to switch to asari for it. Had to change modes of thought completely. _"More-than-fair, you've been a light in darkness for me. But none of us could see the future. None of us knew the Spectres would come to us and ask of us what they have. You will always be loved. And I will show you that love every day until and unless you release me."_ He stroked her fringe lightly. It absolutely _sucked_, having to be the responsible one, but he'd do it. He was just grateful that they _hadn't_ taken _tal'mae_ vows.

"_I would try to change your mind, beloved,"_ Serana told him in her sweet, accentless asari. _"But we do not even yet know what next __week__ holds, so anything more lacks point, does it not?"_

He chuckled a little. She was so _feisty_ when she put her mind to it, and it sounded so _odd_ in the soft, liquid words of asari.

There was a rapid tap on their door at that point. Eli looked up, his arms still around Serana, and was _surprised_ when Rel opened the door, frowning, and looked in. "Have you seen Dara?" Rel asked, without preamble. "She's not back from sparring yet, is she?"

Eli shook his head, silently. He was in no mood to talk to Rel, having tried that last night. Serana was more vocal, however. "She's not here. Though when she gets back, I'd love it if she'd visit us again, like the other night."

Eli squeezed Serana's arms just a little tighter. _Don't, __asperitalla__. You'll make it worse._ Rel frowned a bit more. Nodded, turned, left. After a few minutes, they could hear Sam's voice out in the hall. "Rel? Excuse me a minute. I need to get in your room for a few."

Eli's head swung towards the wall. Unmistakable thump of a locker opening. A few impacts, here or there, and then, Rel, incredulous, "What the hell? _Pada'amu_, what are you doing?"

"Taking my girl's clothes, armor, and personal effects. She'll be staying with me and Kasumi for a bit."

"She's quitting?" Rel's voice was _shocked_. "I mean, I told her that deliberately tanking her psych eval was the same as quitting, but I thought you _might_ let her test again—"

"Hell, no, she's not quitting Spectre candidacy." Sam's voice had broadened into the thickest drawl Eli had ever heard from him. "She's just done up and tired of dealing with you. She'll be staying with us while you two either straighten things out, or call it quits."

Serana squeaked. Eli looked down, and realized he had tightened his grip on her a little too much. On the one hand, Rel was his friend. At the moment, technically, his brother-in-law. He _should_ feel bad for the guy. At the same time. . . a sort of amusement. Rel had been _better_ than everyone for so long, and now he was being brought to earth. And there was, to be honest, a sneaking feeling of elation in there, too. Eli frowned and pushed that down.

Rel's voice was suddenly dazed. "What?"

"I think you heard me the first time." More thumps. Sam was definitely cleaning out that locker.

"We're _tal'mae_-wed. There's no calling it quits." Rel had found a small piece of mental balance, apparently.

"Well, that'll be up to an _Alliance_ court to decide, if _Dara_ decides she wants to go that route." Thump. Thump. Thump.

"Death is the only thing that can untie the bond." Rote words. Still a tone of stunned shock.

"Don't tempt me, son. Don't tempt me." Thump. Thump. Thump.

"Are you _threatening_ me?" Still, total shock. A little anger.

"I'm not lookin' for a fight, but by god, if you start one, I will _finish_ it." Thump. Slam. "Your uncle and Lantar will be droppin' by in a while to have a chat with you. Mainly about your temper. For my part, stay the hell away from my house and my daughter for a while. She won't be paired up with you in the trials. And if you want to talk to her, you'll have me or Kasumi there to make sure nothing goes amiss."

Total hurt and appalled shock. "I would never hurt her! I would _never_—"

"Son, I know you've never lifted a hand to her. I don't want you to start. Mind frame you're in right now, you could. You'd regret it. You might not even be able to live with it. So I'm not going to _let_ you get that far. Now, I'm off. Like I said. If you want to talk to her in a day or two. . . or three. . . call first. We'll make sure there's someone there to referee. Other than that? Stay away."

Eli was staring at the wall as if he could burn through it with his eyes. Serana looked up at him. "This. . . is not good." She winced. "Should I go talk to him?"

"Oh, hell no. Let him alone for a minute or two, Serana. He's going to be raring for a fight in very short order." Eli sighed. _And god only knows with whom._ "I'd rather it not be with you. And god knows, he's already gone for me twice in the last two days."

"Wait, _what?_" Serana's voice was stunned.

"Come on, _asperitalla_, let's grab Lin and get some dinner down in the valley. Mess hall can wait for _any_ other night."

Although Eli had kept his voice very low, Lin opened the door practically before the sound of the first knock had died. "Yeah, let's go," he muttered. "Let Allardus and Garrus and Rinus deal with this."

Gardner's was actually as good as he remembered. Instead of looking smaller and shabbier, the restaurant had actually expanded and added a bar. Eli was treating this evening, like many another, as if he were on call-up for SWAT, and thus stuck with water and coffee, and watched, with a certain faint amusement, as Lin very delicately teased Serana. _"You know, when Eli bought you that anklet on Bastion, I bought you a little something, too."_

"_Oh really? You must be better at sneaking around than Eli is. I didn't notice you slipping off."_

"_My brother here is better at being a distraction than I am. Anyway, I've been holding off on giving it to you. You'll have to let me know when the right moment is."_

It was absolutely flirtation, and Eli didn't mind it. Joined in with it, encouraged it, even. He did _not_ want Serana to be hurt in any way. And in fact, if she started to transfer the weight of her affection to Lin. . . it would be better for all of them. Healthier, in fact.. "Eh, heads up," he muttered at one point. "Camera incoming."

_And this is why, __asperitalla__, that things have to be the way they have to be,_ he thought, squeezing her hand under the table, as Emily Wong approached them, smiling. "Officer Pellarian, Agent Sidonis, I'm so glad to have caught you. I was hoping you might have reconsidered letting me interview your families? Officer Pellarian, I've barely had a chance to get to know you, in particular."

Lin looked almost comically flummoxed. "Ah, there's not much to know about me."

"Nonsense. Everyone who's a Spectre candidate has a story to tell." An award-winning smile, that.

Lin rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. "Yeah, well, my story's not really worth telling."

"Personally, I've been wanting to hear more about the serial arsonist on Nimines," Eli prompted.

Lin gave him a dark look. "He said he was cold. I believed him. Have I mentioned that it's _futtari_ freezing on Nimines? All the time?"

Nimines was more or less a planet locked in a perpetual Ice Age. There was permafrost as far south as what would have been New York or London on Earth, and its equatorial band _might_ hit 90º F/ 32.2º C on a very warm day. Glaciers dominated large portions of the surface, and the seas had retreated, leaving large areas of grassland that would otherwise have been flooded. Most of its oxygen-producing plants came from tundra and taiga-like ecosystems, and its animal life was a mix of warm-blooded reptiles and furry mammalian analogues. It was a dextro-based world, however, and _very_ rich in mineral wealth. Blood-drop rubies from Nimines were prized throughout the Hierarchy, as well as its platinum, titanium, and eezo.

Eli tried again. "And the serial sniper? Five people, at random, every town?"

"Yeah, a lot of other people worked that case. We got lucky when the idiot got a speeding ticket, which placed him near the scene of the latest shooting. That matched up with a camera that had caught the same aircar leaving another shooting area two weeks before. Wasn't much, but we got him, eventually." Lin looked at Emily Wong. "I'm sorry. The _alleged_ idiot."

Emily laughed, a quiet ripple of sound. "I managed to get some footage of today's marksmanship and sparring rounds. Agent Sidonis, you and Commander Velnaran are old friends, aren't you?"

_Ah, shit._ "Yes, we've known each other for six years. He's my wife's brother, too." Eli knew going for blank face would get him in trouble here. He _needed_ to smile for this. So he put one on. It might even fool the camera, but from the look in Wong's face, it didn't fool _her_.

"Your match against him was quite spirited."

"Rel's always been competitive. For a long time, he only had himself to compete against. He'd started preparing young for boot camp, as many turians do. So he was way beyond where any of the rest of us were at the same age. He's still one of the best in our age group at close-quarters combat." Keeping the sentences long, as Dara had told him to do.

"In your age group?"

Eli smiled, and this time it felt more natural. They were side-tracking her. Hopefully, she wouldn't get back on topic. "Yeah. Any of the Spectres on base can mop the floor with any of us kids. We might have the younger bodies and the faster reflexes, but they've got experience."

"And guile, as Jaworski would say," Lin put in, grinning, and Eli guffawed.

"You really look up to them, don't you?" Emily prompted.

Eli and Lin exchanged glances. "Well, yeah," Lin replied. "I look up to my parents, of course, too. My dad's a high energy explosives specialist. If a Spectre uses it to blow something up, chances are, my dad had a hand in it. Or if Lantar—excuse me, Spectre Sidonis—or Spectre Jaworski or anyone else needs an explosive device analyzed, my dad handles that. My mom's a flight crew technician. Makes sure any SR ship or shuttle or anything else that flies on base _stays_ flying. I learned attention to detail from both of them. Patience, too. But I learned other things from Sidonis and Jaworski and the Vakarians."

"And what would those things be?" Emily prompted, quietly.

"How to fight. What to fight for," Lin replied, after a moment.

Emily beamed at them. "Thank you for your time," she said. "I'll leave you three to enjoy the rest of your evening."

"Ten gets you one, the camera's still focused on us," Eli muttered as the reporter walked away.

"No bet," Lin growled back. "I can see its light. It's still on."

"Yeah. Let's get out of here." Eli looked down at Serana. "Unless you'd rather stay for dessert?"

She shook her head emphatically. "The fun sort of died when the camera floated up," she assessed, glumly.

_Get used to it,_ Eli thought, with an internal sigh.

The next day was the first full-day scenario. They were told to muster out in full armor, and again, allowed their choice of paintball-filled weapons. "Good morning," Shepard told them.

"She's got that look again," Lin muttered to Eli.

"I'm beginning to think sadism runs deep in all the Spectres," Eli replied. Because yes, Shepard was again just grinning.

"Today's course is again designed to emphasize teamwork, and also to test your skills and flexibility. You have been dropped on a distant colony world. No roads. Your Mako or Hammerhead was disabled in the drop, and you landed over a kilometer away from your target through very rough terrain." She pointed at the cliff wall behind her. "You will be climbing up this rock wall. At the top of the cliff, you will find a ranger station and a downhill lift. The lift can only be started at the matching ranger station at the base of the mountain, not at the top. Your objective is at the base of the mountain, about half a kilometer away from the second ranger station. This is the colony, which has sent out a distress call. They've been attacked by batarian slavers, and are being loaded into cages for transport on a shuttle as we speak. You will be facing mechs and Spectres to simulate the batarians. You have no idea how many raiders there are, but the colonists' lives depend on how fast you get there."

Eli looked up at the cliff. He looked at Lin. "And then, we'll have breakfast," he said, dryly.

Lin actually guffawed, as did Melaani beside him. Dara, who was standing off to the side, smiled a little, too. Eli really wanted to circle around. Ask her how she was doing, but this wasn't really the time.

Their teams were split off, and Eli groaned a little, internally, when he realized he was set to work with Rel and with Makur. He looked right at Lantar as his father announced the various teams, and Lantar met his glance, stone-faced. _So, are they testing me, or are they testing him?_ Eli wondered. _Shit. I have got to go over to Sam's tonight. Talk to Dara. Talk to him and Kasumi. Bring Serana with me. She knows them all as well as I do, at this point. Maybe better, given her 'internship.'_

Eli strode over to Rel and Makur. Rel looked a little withdrawn this morning. Tired. As if he'd spent a good deal of the last night thinking. _Good. Maybe I __won't__ get my head kicked in this today._ "Morning," Eli greeted them, pretending that yesterday hadn't happened. "I think we're actually up third. How's your rock-climbing, Makur?"

"I can handle myself. Slow, though" Makur looked up at the cliff-face. "Cat? If you can make it up, great. If not, stay here and stay _out_ of trouble."

"It's okay. I can get to the top probably pretty fast, and drop a rope so you can steady yourself. Wrap it around a tree up there. Probably can't pull you up, though," Eli offered.

Makur nodded. "I'll take any help I can get."

Eli looked at Rel. Saw the way he avoided eye contact. "Rel? You want rope assistance, or you good to climb on your own?" A small olive branch. Very small. Perhaps only one olive on it.

Rel glanced up, briefly. "I'll be all right on my own."

_Okay. Hopefully, you will be._

First up was actually Dara, Fors, and Thelldaroon. Eli _winced_ at that lineup. _Good god. How the hell are they going to manage this? Especially given Dara's fear of heights, and Thell's. . . .well . . . being Thell. . . ._

**Dara, June 10, 2196**

It had been a _relief_ to go to her dad's house the night before. A blessed, guilt-inducing relief to sleep a whole night in a soft bed made for a human frame. And while she missed the sound of Rel's breathing, she _didn't_ miss the _tension_. The never quite knowing what to say. The fact that he was always on edge somehow, other than when he was carving. When he carved, he put it all away, at least for a while. Focused on the task at hand with the same single-mindedness he put into fighting or hunting. But he couldn't carve _all the time_. And she'd even gotten to play with Takeshi last night, for a while after dinner. Helped Kasumi with her little brother's bath. He solemnly assured Dara that he was a triceratops, which made Dara giggle, and then toddled off to bed on her father's hand.

She'd taken the quilt out of its roll of fabric and worked on it in the living room, talking with Kasumi and her father until late at night. Not about Rel. Not about work or the Spectre trials. About anything _else_, actually. And it had been wonderful. Her dad had her laughing so hard by the end of the evening that she had to hold her ribs.

And then, this morning, back on the horse again. She could _feel_ Rel's eyes on her, but he was staying away, as her father had told her that he'd instructed him to. "Thelldaroon, Dara Velnaran, Fors Luka, you're up first," her father called. As she walked forward, Eli gave her a quick smile and a thumb's up; Lin patted her on the shoulder as she passed him.

_Oh, good god,_ Dara thought, staring at the huge elcor and the tiny volus, and then at the cliff face. _And me without Eli to help haul Thell up the cliff this time._

"Apologies," Thell told her, sounding mournful. "I appear to be a problem for you again to solve."

"Give me a minute," Dara told him, patting his shoulder. "There's got to be a way. There's always a way."

"Of course there is," Fors told her, sounding amused. "Same way as I got Makur over the climbing wall in the first exercise. Wait. You were behind the magic curtain for that. Let me put it this way. . . given a long enough rope and a sufficiently powerful biotic, you could probably move a planet."

"I thought the expression was a _lever_," Dara muttered, dubiously.

"No, no. Definitely a rope." Fors looked at her. "Are you going to carry me, or am I going to have to trust in my own biotics and hang onto Thell for dear life? Actually. . . either way I go, I'm going to be holding on to _someone_ for dear life."

Dara took a shaky breath. "I'll carry you." _God, this does not look like a fun climb. At all._

She grabbed the length of rope, settled it crossways over her body, and put Fors on her shoulders. "I'll drop the line once I'm at the top," she told Thelldaroon. "And Fors? Hold on, please. And if I happen to slip. . . "

"I'll have a singularity on you so fast, you won't even know you've started to fall," Fors told her lightly. "It's my skin, too, you know. Plus, you know. One suit puncture and I'll explode."

Dara got to it. There were a fair number of ledges and overhangs, which helped, but a few nerve-wracking portions, where there were only finger and toeholds, and her grip in her armor and boots wasn't as certain as she would have liked. Climbing shoes had gummy soles, to allow the climber to grip a rock wall like a gecko, and to _feel_ what the rock was like, under the foot. Armor boots? Not so much. And the whole time, Dara could feel the eyes of the other candidates on her.

By the time she reached the top, she was shaking from nerves and from muscle strain alike. "So I need to loop the rope around something?" she asked Fors, setting the volus on the ground.

"Nope," he replied, sounding amused. "Just lower it. Trust me."

"I hate it when people say that," Dara muttered.

"Why, because you're always let down?" Fors chuckled, a wet sound.

"No. Well. . . because it's always something unexpected." Dara was playing out the rope now, and Thelldaroon, at the base of the cliff, had just caught it. Was wrapping it around his torso now, under his massive shoulders.

"The unexpected is _good_ for people. That's my theory, anyway." Fors laughed again. "Ready? Pull."

Dara's eyes widened as the elcor rose into the air. Weightless. "Hurry," Fors urged her. "It won't last forever."

Hand over hand now, reeling the elcor in as fast as she could, wishing she had more upper body strength, and then Thell drifted lightly over the edge of the cliff and kept _moving_, as a weightless object tended to do. "Ah. . . Fors?"

Fors dismissed the effect, and the elcor thudded to the ground heavily. "I greatly appreciate the facility with which you both raised me here," Thell assured them solemnly. "Let us move on. The clock is, as they say, ticking."

Dara found herself smiling. _A hasty elcor,_ she thought again. _Who'd have thought it?_

They moved through the woods to the 'ranger station,' and Dara stared at it for a moment. The 'lift' device Shepard had mentioned was a gondola, like those used at sky resorts on Earth. It passed down a series of tall poles and cables to the foot of the mountain. . . but the slope was _very_ steep. Definitely not something any of them were going to be _walking_ down. Not in the snow, for damn sure. "Okay, maybe there's something _inside_ the station that'll help," Dara muttered. "Let's check real quick. I _don't_ think any of us really want to fall down that slope. . . though we _could_ all just sit on our tushes and _slide_ down. . . "

"I do not believe that this method of locomotion would entirely suit me," Thell warned gently.

Dara chuckled a little, and opened the door of the station. Inside, it was warm, and she found what she was half-hoping for. Skis, ski poles, snowshoes. Modern skis had bindings that locked to _any_ boot, and self-adjusted for the user's weight and foot-size. She hefted a set over her shoulder, and poles, and headed back outside. "Okay, we know that the gondola can be activated from below," Dara said, pointing at the bottom of the track. "I can carry Fors on my shoulders again, in case we run into any trouble at the base. Turn on the gondola, send it up, and bring you down, Thell. Sound like a plan?"

Fors snuffled ruefully. "I promise to be more than just a backpack."

"You already are more than a backpack," Dara told him emphatically. "Couldn't have gotten Thell up the cliff without you. And Thell, you're going to be invaluable at the base. Because honest to god, I'm hiding behind you and not coming out when it comes time to deal with the Spectres and the mechs and everything else."

That made Fors guffaw as she hooked her feet into the skis and settled the volus back on her shoulders. "Okay, hold on. It's been. . . seven or eight years since I did this. I'm probably rusty," she told him, and then sank into a slight crouch and pushed off with the poles.

Dropping over the lip of the slope _always_ made her hands sweat. It played into her fear of heights and her dislike for speed at the same time. She'd always been told by her ski instructors that she tended to over-control her turns, making hard C-turns instead of flowing S-turns, but at least it was downwards motion. . . and once her feet remembered the rhythm, shifting her weight _into_ the mountain, it was easier, and she relaxed. Let the speed build, let the wind rush by her. Fors, on her shoulders, kept an eye out for targets in the woods, but she was going damned fast by the end. . . "Targets!" Fors snapped. "Mechs, right by the station!"

"Grab the right one!" Dara called, and the volus obeyed, sending a shockwave right at the first mech. _Shit, too much speed, I don't actually want to __ram__ it, don't want to get __shot__. . . _Dara zigged and zagged sharply as the first paintballs went off near her, and, still swearing mentally, raised her ski pole and stabbed the mech in the chest with it on her way past, then compression turned, trying for a hockey-stop on the snow. "Fors, if you can do anything—" She was fumbling for her pistol.

"On it," Fors told her, and the mech suddenly lifted into the air, the same way the elcor had at the top. They both fired on it, repeatedly, splattering it with paint, and then changed targets to the second mech.

Once they'd gotten the second mech down, Dara unhooked the skis and entered the control booth for the gondola. After a few moments, they found the correct 'on' button, and the gondola began swinging its way up the mountain. Moments later, Thell joined them. Dara had _no_ idea how much time they'd used so far, but she had a bad feeling that captives were 'dying' by now. _We're doing what we can_, she thought, grimly. _Not an optimal team makeup, but we're trying. Two technical specialists and a biotic. At least Thell basically can swallow bullets. Paintballs. Whatever._

Then off they went, Thell now leading the way, Fors on his back, Dara keeping close behind. They hesitated in the cover of the woods, trying to get a feel for the tactics of the situation. Dara looked at her lifesigns scanner. Four blue, signaling non-combatants. Three keyed to red. . . two almost overlapping in the chalet that represented the 'colony' headquarters, and one off to the side, near the 'shuttle.' There were four cages around the chalet, and a mech guarding each one. "Suggestions?" she asked.

"I can hack the mechs," Thell assured her. "The closest one will begin fighting for us."

"We're supposed to be pretending that they're batarians."

"Then I will pretend to be an asari, with the ability to cloud minds," Thell assured her, promptly.

Dara laughed softly. "Okay. We'll start with that. Distract them. Take the one to the north, Thell. Set it to hit the mech opposite it, and we'll creep around to the shuttle. Take out the Spectre there. . . I hope. . .disable the shuttle. Use it for cover against whoever's in the building. And then figure it out from there. Sound like a plan?"

"Any plan is better than no plan," Fors told her. "And I have lots of fun tricks I can use on the living opponents."

"Good. Okay," Dara said, exhaling. "Let's move out."

The plan started off fairly well. Thell _did_ hack the northern mech, and set it to attack its southern neighbor, while they circled south. Dara jumped at the distinctive BAM-BAM of a sniper rifle, and swore as Thell's shields flickered. "Hurry," she muttered. "I'm guessing whoever that is, is on the roof of the chalet."

The shuttle provided welcome cover, and Thell started 'disabling' it, which got the Spectre inside to come out and attack them. Dara _winced_ when she realized it was Gris. Close-quarter combat with a krogan was _not_ on her list of favorite ideas. Fors snuffled, however, and then Gris was spinning merrily in air, a happy target for her target and Fors', while Thell continued to work on disabling the shuttle's engines. "Okay," Dara said, exhaling. "They can't get away with the prisoners now. But now we have to deal with _them_ before they can kill the people here. Which batarians might well do." She peered around the corner of the shuttle and pulled back, swearing, as at least one paintball lit up her shields. BAM-BAM.

"It appears that _our_ mech disabled the closest mech to us," Thell rumbled. "There are still three remaining. All are hostile again."

"Hack the next closest," Dara suggested. "And then set it to attack its opposite, at the far cage."

She moved to the other side of the shuttle, and peeked around again. Suddenly, she realized that there _were_ real people in the cages. And she even _recognized_ some of them. Madison Dempsey was in the closest cage, wearing a heavy snowsuit, and looking around with interest. _Oh, boy. Dempsey's going to blow a gasket when he sees this_, Dara thought. Thell hacked the closest mech, set it to attacking the furthest, and Dara told him, "Okay. . . I think I can get our friend the sniper. But I'm going to need some cover."

"That, I can provide," Thell told her, turning to look at her with his huge, calm eyes. "Shall we proceed?"

He stepped out to the right of the shuttle, in full view of the roof, and keyed up his shields. Dara ducked out behind him, and, over his back, settled in with her own rifle. Fors scrambled out and stood _under_ the elcor's massive body, and as Dara began taking shots back at the sniper on the roof, Fors called out, "Stealthed attacker, incoming!" and sent out a shockwave, sending a male human form tumbling backwards. Dara dropped her rifle's muzzle down and took a few shots of opportunity on the attacker, while Thell, bless his heart, raised his heavy weapon and simply blasted the rooftop with 'grenades' of paint, forcing the sniper up there to keep his head down.

It had taken them thirty-five minutes, but they'd saved every captive. Mostly because they'd shut down the shuttle. The Spectre wearing the stealth net flickered back into view, and proved to be Sam. "Nice work," her dad told her, grinning. "Good show by your whole team."

"Slow," Fors muttered. "And, honestly, I'm surprised you didn't try to threaten one of the hostages, use them as a shield."

"That was my next move," Sam admitted. "We didn't get a chance to get that far, though. Damn shockwaves."

Fors snickered. "I could try imploding you next time."

"I'll pass," Sam told the volus crisply.

"No one _ever_ wants to see that," Fors complained. "It's my signature move, and no one _ever_ lets me use it."

"You can use it on _real_ batarians," Sam offered.

"Deal!" Fors snuffled happily.

Dara settled in at the waiting area with a cup of hot cocoa. Thelldaroon sniffed it curiously, but declined to try it. And then they watched as the next group began their own assault. Linianus, Siara, and Zhasa. And, much to her surprise, all _three_ of them strapped on skis once they got to the summit after the climbing section. "Holy _s'kak,_" Dara said. "I figured Siara knew how. . . she spent the first ten or fifteen years of her life on Thessia. But _Lin?_" Then again, he'd been on Nimines for two years.

They took it slowly, showing Zhasa _how_ to ski, apparently. She followed behind them like a toddler learning how to ski does; like a duckling following its mother. In the exact tracks they left. Once she'd gotten the hang of it, Lin and Siara _blew_ down the rest of the slope, Siara sending one mech at the base flying with a shockwave, and Lin taking a more direct approach, simply _ramming_ his mech. Dara laughed out loud.

Their combat round went both better and worse than Dara's squad had. Zhasa overloaded one of the mechs, and they shot and 'killed' another mech, and then started to work their way towards the shuttle. Siara got a face full of paint from Gris' shotgun; Lin leaped forward and pulled her out of the way of another hit, dropping to the ground to fire back at Gris, while Zhasa, reacting to the sniper rifle blasts going off, actually _leaped_ up onto the roof of the chalet. "Oh, no, no, don't split up, don't split up," Dara told the team on the screen. "Zhasa, if he knocks you off the roof, you're pretty much toast. . . "

In the end, their time was _much_ better than Dara's team. By ten minutes, in fact. But they'd taken casualties doing it. Zhasa had thoroughly occupied Garrus, the rooftop sniper, while Siara and Lin finished taking out Gris. And then Sam _had_, this time, taken a hostage. And Lin had tried negotiating with him at that point. Not successfully, but they'd tried. . . before Lin had, finally, with clear reluctance, shot Sam in the head.

Siara was still trying to wipe red paint off her face when they came over to the seating area. Lin was chuckling and wound up sprawling one row of seats below Dara. "Not horrible," Lin said, grimacing. "Not optimal, but not horrible."

"Faster than we were," Dara told him. "_Much_ faster." She looked at Siara, and dug alcohol wipes out of her medkit, which she always carried. "Here, keep them away from your eyes. Red is really not your color."

_Then again, after last night, I'm not sure yellow is mine._

Siara accepted the wipes with a rueful look. "Thanks," she said. "I should have had visor down. I'm lucky I blinked, or this crap would be in my eyes."

"Who's up next?" Zhasa asked.

"Eli, Rel, and Makur," Lin replied. From the way he said it. . . _very_ neutrally. . . Dara knew that he knew that there were _issues_ in that squad. And she sighed. _The spirit of the squad is the spirit of all in it,_ she thought, reflecting on that very turian aphorism. As the new squad began to scramble up the cliff, Eli leading the way easily, hand over hand, Makur waiting at the bottom, and Rel ascending slowly behind Eli, Dara asked Lin, quietly, "So. . . skiing. I've been telling Rel for _years_ that he'd love it. That the turian body is _made_ for it. Long limbs. Plus, you know, you're all speed freaks."

Lin tipped his head back and actually smiled at her. "Yeah. It's fun, actually. I learned on Nimines. Human girl there, named Felicia. We dated for about six weeks."

Dara's eyebrows shot up. "Really?" She paused. "Didn't work out, huh?"

Lin looked reflective. "She was fun, but I think she was mostly just a, well, a turian groupie. Was curious, more than anything. And I have to admit, I was, too. Wasn't really ready for anything after. . . Brennia. Just was nice not being alone for a while. She was on Nimines to help set up a human and asari style sky resort. Was setting the course designs, that sort of thing. Part of an effort to reclaim a mountainside after they'd finished mining out the eezo deposits in it."

Dara absorbed that. "And how did you two meet?"

"Work. Local activists who'd disapproved of the mining _also_ disapproved of the resort plans. Tempers flared, there was a murder near where they'd broken ground for the hotel, and I was called in to support local police. They like having CID backup on Nimines. Some of the colonies like local PD to be a little more separated, like on Macedyn. Nimines, not so much."

Dara nodded, absorbing that all. She hadn't expected Lin to open up that much. But she was grateful. Siara leaned forward now. "What was she like?" At Lin's startled glance, Siara made a rude noise. "I was forcibly reminded on Bastion that I've done an awful job of keeping in touch. If there's a possibility that we might _work_ together for some time to come, I should probably ask such things, yes?" More than a little vinegar in her tone. But a faint smile there, too.

Lin snorted. "Fair enough. Adventurous, I guess. Loved the outdoors. Loved wild places. Red hair." He looked at Dara. "Actually, other than the red hair, I suppose she reminded me a bit of you, little one. Oh, and minus the doctor part, too."

Dara squinted at Lin. He was _poking_ at her. Needling her. Trying to get her to react. Just as Eli might, but there was a difference there. "Should I be complimented or discomfited?"

"Both," Siara told her. "Definitely both."

**Elijah**

They'd gotten to the top of the mountain with little difficulty. Makur's cat had scrambled up the cliff face with consummate ease. Eli had been astounded by it, but apparently, the species had evolved in snowy, mountainous regions, and had a natural affinity for high places. Coming nose-to-nose with it at the lip of the cliff had been more than a little disconcerting, though. "Back up," Eli warned the animal. "Otherwise, I can't get your friend up here with you."

Getting Makur to the top hadn't been a trivial task, either, but with Eli holding the line secured around a tree, and Rel pulling on the rope, the krogan had actually made good time to the top. Of course, then they faced the next obstacle. Eli looked at the slope with a sense of defeat, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, let's see what's inside the ranger station," he said, after a moment.

There were skis. . . which none of them knew how to use. Rel looked at them and muttered, "You have any idea how many times Dara has mentioned that I should learn to use these?"

"What, you're expecting an _I told you so_ from her?" _If so, have you __met__ your wife?_ Eli was consciously trying to keep the tone light, however. Bantering. He picked up a set of snowshoes instead. "I can't use the skis either." _Then again, I didn't have someone who was willing to teach me around. Not that I would have had the chance on Citadel, Bastion, Macedyn, or Edessan_.

Rel and Makur both took snowshoes as well, and then they _plodded_ down the slope. Took out the mechs from range, with their guns. Plodded some more. The slope was much steeper than Eli liked the looks of, and he could see that no previous team had used this tactic. Only the clear, sharp marks of skis in the packed snow. _Great. We're behind the eight-ball already, and this is __eating__ time._ The big cat simply _gamboled_ through the snow around them. _Frisked_, even. As if mocking their slow pace.

At the base of the mountain, more plodding. He could see Rel starting to tense up. "Settle down," Eli cautioned him. "Let's not make mistakes."

Rel shook his head. "Yeah, I know, I know." He sighed. "We're probably right on the verge of losing prisoners."

They dropped into a crouch at the edge of the clearing, and surveyed the territory. Eli hadn't been able to carry a shield with him, thanks to the cliff, but still had a pistol and rifle with him. Rel was packing a full assault rifle, and Makur had a shotgun. And the cat, of course. Plenty of firepower.

"One prisoner already on the shuttle," Eli muttered. "Looks like an enemy is escorting the next to the shuttle right now. That's. . . bad." The prisoner could be used as a human shield. There was one red dot near the shuttle, one red dot with a prisoner off to the northeast, and one red dot on or in the building at the center. "We're going to have to split up. Otherwise, two of the captives could be used immediately as hostages."

"Agreed," Rel said, his voice tight. Excited. But as if there were some sort of internal struggle going on, too. "Makur, send your cat against the closest mech. You engage the one near the shuttle, Eli and I will take out the one escorting the prisoner."

"With an assault rifle?" Eli said, quickly. "Rel, I know you're good, but I don't want that thing pointing at a friendly. Cover me, sure. Take out whoever's in the building, if they start shooting."

Rel stared at him. A long moment passed. Then he sighed, explosively. "You're right."

_I have __got__ to talk to Sam tonight. This can't be just Dara._ Eli and the others moved out. Makur sent the cat in against the first mech, and then charged, firing, at Gris. Krogan body met krogan body with the force of trains colliding, and Eli winced, running for cover at the far end of the field, firing at the south-east mech as he ran. Ducked behind a set of crates, as he heard the distinctive BAM-BAM of a sniper rifle go off. Saw his shields ripple around him, and had to trust that Rel _would_ take care of the sniper, wherever he was. Eli popped up, found his target. _Sam. Shit. With. . . Madison Dempsey. As his 'prisoner.' With a gun to his head. Oh, god, I hope they don't run this scenario on Dempsey._ "Hey," Eli called out. "This doesn't have to end badly. We can talk about this."

"No talk," Sam called back, playing the part of a batarian raider. "Their lives are barely worth their capture expenses. But perhaps more valuable to _you_."

_Okay, he said no talk, but he sounds open to bargaining anyway._ Eli was crouched down low again, taking only quick, cautious peeks over the crates to verify that Sam hadn't moved yet. "How valuable do you think they are to us?" he asked, carefully. _C'mon, Sam. turn the gun towards me. Make the classic enemy mistake._

"Perhaps valuable enough to trade for our own. Certainly, valuable enough to guarantee that I will make it to that shuttle. You won't shoot me, while you risk killing the boy, yes?" Sam was playing it to the _hilt_. Light batarian accent and all.

BAM-BAM. Eli ducked reflexively, but realized as he did so that he wasn't the target. He glanced over his shoulder, and realized that Makur and Gris were still fighting, rolling in the snow, and that Makur had sent the cat off to attack a different mech. That left. . . yeah, Rel. Rel, red splattered, was raising his gun to return fire—

"Tell your friends to stop, or the boy dies!" Sam snarled.

Eli shouted, "Rel! _Hold!_" _This is so not going well._ "Makur, back off!"

Rel sank back down again into cover. Makur stopped, but there was blood-rage building in his eyes. It was clear as day to anyone who'd grown up around krogan. Makur slowly backed away from Gris, clearly seething. This unfortunately left Eli's back exposed to the krogan, so Eli carefully edged around the crates. A little more exposed to the rooftop guy and to Sam, but he had clear lines of sight to all three targets.

Eli returned his gaze to Sam, still ducking low. _Okay, got to get control of the situation again. Somehow._ "See? They _do_ have value to you," Sam said, managing a snicker. "Now, we're going to get on our shuttle, and leave."

"Leave the hostages here, and we'll let you," Eli offered. "No risk to you."

They debated back and forth for several minutes more. Sam insisting that there was no _way_ that the Council troops would just _let_ them leave. Eli finally broke through. Got Sam to start moving, with Madison, towards the shuttle. And when Sam took the gun off the boy for an instant to sweep it and point it at Eli, Makur. . . Eli took the shot, point-blank. Caught Sam dead in the helmet. "Get down!" Eli shouted at Madison, and ran forward, tackling the boy, shielding him with his body. Rel leaped up and opened fire on Gris, at the same time that Makur did, splattering him with red paint. Eli felt/heard the BAM-BAM again, this time lancing through his shields. He got Madison back to his feet, and, keeping his body and shields between the boy and the sniper, tried to get behind the shuttle. BAM-BAM, again. Shields down, first wound, right between the shoulder blades. And then one in the head. _And. . . I'm dead. Shit. Why did Rel turn on Gris, and not stay on the rooftop guy? Did he just seem the more obvious threat to Madison?_ Too many variables.

Madison was looking at him with big eyes at the moment. "That was awesome," he told Eli happily.

"More so for you," Eli told him, pointing at the paint on his helmet. "Without a medic nearby? I'm dead."

By the end of the afternoon, they'd reviewed each others' work a few times. All of the teams who'd had to _walk_ down the mountain had started with time deficit that had been crippling. Dempsey's, having been brought up in Boston, had at least skied in Vermont a few times, and had gotten Seheve and Kirrahe down the mountain in the gondola. Seheve had knocked out the shuttle and she and Dempsey had _both_ dealt with the mechs, and Dempsey, on seeing his _son_ in one of the cages, had. . . been more or less unstoppable. Eli _really_ didn't want to fight the guy. Ever. Two layers of shields, heavy armor, biotics, half the mechs around them firing on the 'batarians' and Dempsey had stood toe-to-toe with Gris before _throwing_ the krogan twenty feet away and firing after him with his submachine gun, while Kirrahe had emptied a clip at the rooftop, and Seheve had snuck up on Sam while Sam was sneaking up on Dempsey. Which had been, actually, really amusing to watch.

Dara's squad again got a teamwork bonus, especially given the tactical issues of the elcor and volus squad mates. This was Eli's first squad with a fatality, and he was a little annoyed that it had been him. "Really nice negotiation attempt," Sam told him in the recap session. "Still, why'd you attack? You think all batarians don't have a sense of honor?"

Eli's lips curled faintly, thinking of Valak. "Some do," he said. "You were doing a good enough job with batarian body language that I thought the look to the left was on purpose. That's how you can tell when they're lying. So I took the chance and shot you, because I believed, strongly, that you were going to kill the prisoner as soon as you got everyone aboard the ship. . . or would at least have taken off with two of them."

Sam nodded. "Good. That was the plan."

Eli sighed. "I still died, though." He shook his head. "I shouldn't have committed to the full tackle on Madison, though it was the fastest way to shield him completely. I lost mobility that way."

Sam shrugged. "We're testing for a lot of things here. Keep that in mind."

_Oh, I do. I do._


	104. Chapter 104: Crucible

**Chapter 104: Crucible**

**Author's note:** _Yes, Takeshi's "I triceratops" last chapter comes from my little boy. Apparently, he is a triceratops, Daddy is a Tyrannosaurus rex, and Mama is a Maiasaura. Yes, he says, at 3, 'twicewatops,' 'stagosawus,' and 'maiasaura.' He just says YES! when I ask if Daddy is a T. Rex. ;-)_

**Valak N'dor, Khar'sharn, June 1-12, 2196**

Valak's houseguests were, to put it mildly, getting on his nerves. His sister, Xal'i, was at least keeping Arvak substantially occupied, but the fact that both of the males were still having to report to SIU during the day—in Valak's case, three times a week—meant that Nala was in the house with Xal'i for long stretches, unobserved. Fortunately, Valak had asked that his sister allow his healer to tend to her dressing slave, and thus, his sister now had both of her body servants back on their feet to dance attendance on her, which relieved Nala of the need to help her bathe and dress and everything else. . . but he spent each day out of the house with a level of tension weighing him down, adding to the already substantial burden of it that he was already carrying. Every day, he worried that he would return to find Nala beaten bloody. It hadn't happened yet, but he _was_ making a point of confining Nala to _his_ quarters when he left. On days when he remained home, she was to remain in the medical area until nightfall.

He obligingly took Arvak to meet with his own father, so that his father could get a feel for him as a potential family member, and kept quiet. Didn't mention the celestial game of _bacca_ that Arvak had described, weeks ago. Worked on reports, and found a very _alarming_ up tick in troop movements. _We're basically just waiting for the day to launch everything at once, looks like. And I can't name the day. I've found a lot of the targets, but only the ancestors know how many others there are. There might be one or two test strikes, and then they'll all go in at once. Why is __Mindoir__ on the list? What's the objective there, other than psychological? It was Shepard's home, certainly. . . but there has to be a __real_ _advantage to attacking there. It's a largely agricultural world at best. Small population, so no real slaves. No wealth. What's the objective? Does SIU suspect, as I do, that the Spectre base is there?_

That night, back at the house, Arvak was in a foul mood, which Xal'i tried to tease him out of. Arvak brushed her efforts aside, eyes narrowed, and then paused. Apologized, though his eyes remained narrow. "I'm sorry, my dear," he told her, bowing over her hand. "We had a bit of a setback at work today."

Valak glanced up from the glasses he was pouring brandy into. "I hadn't heard. Sorry, old boy. Anything you can talk about, or shall I just set us up for a few hands of cards?"

Arvak grimaced. "You'll recall our conversation about the game of _bacca_?"

_How could I forget?_ "The engineers didn't get the math right after all?" Valak said, dryly. "They forgot to move the decimal point?"

Arvak drank his glass of brandy off like water. "Hardly." He glanced at Xal'i. "My dear, I trust you implicitly, of course, but security is security. Would you leave us?"

Xal'i smiled. "Of course. I understand completely." She swept out of the room, and Valak weighed it carefully. _Could be real security issues. Or he's checking for leak sources by limiting who gets what information._

With his sister out of the room, Valak brought the bottle and two glasses over to the card table, and settled in. Handed Arvak one of them. "Much as I love being in the know, old boy, don't tell me anything that will get you in trouble."

Arvak snorted. "No fear of that, Valak." He sipped at the brandy, and closed his eyes for a moment. "I can only assume that Terra has a better early warning system for space debris than we'd been informed. We'd been told that their satellites only looked for meteors and comets along the plane of the ecliptic."

Valak allowed his eyes to widen. "The target was _Terra's_ _moon_?"

"Eh, the moon, yes, and the shipyards at the Lagrange point between it and the planet." Arvak grimaced. "The damned thing was due to hit the face of the moon in two days' time. Resulting explosion would definitely have reached the shipyards. Probably would have perturbed the moon's orbit. With luck, ejected it, or sent it spiraling into the planet on recapture. Instead. . . " Arvak shook his head in disgust, "our observation posts are silent, automated, and over an hour away by the speed of light. By the time we received telemetry that they were doing _something_, we couldn't do anything about it."

Valak refilled Arvak's glass. _Keep talking,_ he wanted to say, but it wouldn't be what a _good_ SIU operative would say. "Sounds like our observation posts are out in the Kuiper belts. And yes, that's a rather long delay for visible light to reach the post. And then another hour to send back any signals, such as, say, an emergency detonation?"

Arvak tapped the side of his nose. "Got it in one, Valak. We saw four ships converge on the comet. . . and then the damned thing _vanished."_

Valak stared at him. "You jest."

"I do not."

"Arvak, I'm fairly certain that a comet cannot _vanish._"

"You can look at the fucking vid feed for yourself tomorrow. It _vanished_. Maybe _you_ can figure out how they did it, and where the damned thing is now, but we've got a full team of techs combing through the data, and have for twenty-four hours now."

Valak leaned back in his chair with a sigh. Another chance to prove his utility to SIU, if he could figure it out. With just the data in front of him. One step closer to accessing the _Klem Na_ facilities on Camala or Lorek and figuring out just what the hell was at each. But he had been careful not to even _mention_ that proposed tour of facilities, or the opportunity to meet Chas'na V'sol, head of the _Klem Na_, in the last week. He couldn't seem eager to push for it. "I'll be happy to look it over, Arvak. Not sure what I can bring to it that the techs can't, but I'll definitely look."

"You have a unique perspective, Valak," Arvak told him, his eyes hooded. "You get further into the minds of our enemies than any other SIU operative I've ever worked with."

_Warning sign._ Valak shrugged it off. "I doubt that very much." He smirked a little. "I didn't even get into the _minds_ of a few curious asari on Luisa."

"It's good that you remembered the regulations on contact, even as a free agent." SIU operatives, even after they'd 'retired,' were held to a code of conduct regarding alien contact. Mental contact was strictly forbidden, because of the secrets they'd had access to through their work. Arvak snickered slightly. "One almost has to ask what you _did_ do on these infamous pleasure cruises of yours."

Valak managed a light laugh. "Gambled. Watched and listened to videos and music prohibited here. . . keeping in mind that it was _solely_ for, hmm, 'research' purposes." He gave Arvak a man-of-the-world look. "Brought none of it home. There's what someone with a strong mind can handle, and there's what the weak-minded will fall prey to, you know." He had, in actuality, done all of that, and more. Venturing into the seedier districts of Omega had gotten him contacts in the Blue Suns, who had, in turn, sold him weapons. Explosives. Other necessary things.

"Like your little slave." It was a probe.

"Yes, precisely. Very sad." Valak knew he wasn't quite off dangerous ground yet. "But at least, unlike an asari pleasure slave, I don't have to drug this one before putting her to use." He _hated_ the façade. But Valak let the smirk stay in place. Played the part.

"But the narcotic that dulls their biotics renders them so _docile_." Arvak snickered.

Valak let the smirk become a lazy smile. "Get it out of your system before you wed my sister, old boy. I'd have to _frown_ on you cheating on her."

"If it's with a slave, is it _really_ cheating?" Arvak laughed coarsely, and they parted ways for the evening.

Valak gritted his teeth in the quiet of his bedroom. Nala was reading to him—a batarian novel that they both despised, but they more or less _had_ to stick with, given their houseguests. . . _when did I begin to think of them as __our__ houseguests?_ Valak wondered, in amusement. Total frustration. He _might_ be able to warn his Spectre handlers of _something_ coming on Mindoir. . . but he didn't know _what_.He couldn't do so with his houseguests in place. . . and, in actuality, it might be better for his and Nala's safety if he _didn't_ have the chance. Too many secrets dribbled to the same person—even falsehoods were sometimes used for this purpose—that were found to be leaked _proved_ that someone was a spy. No, better to play it cautiously. Get Arvak's trust a bit more solidly. See if he couldn't get a trip to the _Klem Na _facilities on Camala and Lorek out of it, after all.

Valak rolled over, and asked Nala, "Are you _very_ engrossed in that book, my dear?"

She smiled faintly. "Not in the least. . .Valak."

He pulled it out of her hands and lightly tossed it on the floor. Quite some time later, as he was idly stroking bare hands against the bare skin of her belly—_such a luxury_—he realized that rather than the concave shape her belly had had two and a half months ago, it was now slightly convex. Still taut. But slightly rounded. Valak's hand paused. "Ah. . . Nala, my dear? Was there something you wanted to tell me?"

She sighed. "I wasn't sure it was true at first, m—Valak. I waited six weeks before I ran the test." Nala turned her face to the side, away from him, her red-gold eyes focused across the room. "It may have happened the first time."

Valak simply stared down at her for a long moment. He didn't know whether to curse or dance in elation. After a moment, he exhaled. "Well, I definitely need to find a way to get you to Omega, then."

"Do you really think Omega will be any safer than here?" Nala asked, her voice low. "Is _any_ place safe, these days?"

Valak put his head down on her shoulder. "Perhaps not." _Where else? Gods and ancestors, the estate isn't terribly safe, but Omega __could__ be under attack in a few days. Khar'sharn itself could be under attack in months. I'd say the hell with it all and put her on one of the stealthed ships I have, and take her to Mindoir, but I know __Mindoir__ could be a target, and that would ruin all the work I've been doing here._ Out loud, he said, "The ancestors like to play knucklebones with their descendants' lives, I think." His hand continued to caress her belly.

"You're not upset?" Her voice was tentative. "Some of the lords I have worked for before, believed that slaves who became pregnant didn't give good value. Less work out of them. So they usually gave orders to, well, terminate."

Valak turned his head and kissed her. Hard. "You could have done that of your own accord at any time. I'm glad you didn't. And for the last time, you might wear a collar, but you're no one's slave, Nala." He kept that all a soft whisper, meant only for her ears. The windows were closed, and triple-paned; the walls of his room were lined with deadening material, imported from human space: cork. And he'd swept for surveillance devices, as always. But still. . . it didn't hurt to speak secrets in a whisper. Particularly in bed.

Two days later, his patience was rewarded. Arvak handed him travel clearance to go to the Klem Na facility on Camala. "See for yourself the sort of operation Chasna V'sol is running," Arvak told him.

_Again, what a wonderful time for you to search my estate_, Valak thought, but it couldn't be helped. He _would_ be taking the FTL transmitter with him, hidden very carefully indeed in Nala's medical equipment. His library was in the bunker, as were the ships. N'val was staying at the estate, as was Yal'or, and Tul'dur was coming with them to the Camala estate. If anything went amiss on Khar'sharn, they'd send a signal, and Valak would know it was time to run.

Hopefully.

Just in case, he packed a pistol and a knife for Nala's use, too. She'd be staying at his Camala estate, but there was no reason she couldn't help protect herself. And in the meantime, he needed to look as if absolutely nothing in the world was a possible concern to him.

Chas'na V'sol was every bit as brash and abrasive as Arvak had described him. A raider captain who'd stumbled into luck, Arvak had said. Certainly, there was no deference in the way he treated Valak. "Lordling," the old male said, chuckling. "I hear you've come to _inspect_ our facilities."

_Is this the right moment to get into a pissing contest?_ Valak wondered, and decided, _He needs to see SIU here. So that's a yes._ In a flash, the vibrosword was out, and pressing delicately against the notch at the base of the male's throat. "Manners," Valak said softly. "make the man, don't you agree, my dear Chas'na?" He smiled thinly. "I am Valak N'dor. My family is of the Five Hundred. You will address me as _Lord Valak_ or _sir_, and I will endeavor to pretend that this breach in protocol never occurred." His faint smile added, wordlessly, _and if it occurs again, I will gut you._ A small trickle of orange-red blood emerged from the male's throat, and wended its way down, staining his white shirt at the collar.

"Now then," Valak said quietly, fastidiously wiping the blade clean in the male's shirt, and then sheathing the sword once more, "I would indeed appreciate a tour of your facilities. A great deal of money seems to fall down into this pit, not to mention the one on Lorek. I, for one, want to be sure that we're getting the full worth of our bargain with you."

V'sol's eyes were narrow. _I've made an enemy today, but I do it with such flair._ "Very well then, _Lord Valak_," the male said. "Follow me."

The facility was a series of large warehouses and manufacturing plants, taken over from some other previous use. Technical caste workers were toiling away, manufacturing circuit boards and working with . . . crystals?. . . in one. Valak looked down from the walkway above, and asked the obvious question: "What are they building?"

"Amplifiers, m'lord." V'sol wasn't going to volunteer much, it was certain.

"Could you be more specific?"

"Biotic amplifiers." After Valak turned and stared him down, V'sol relented. "A biotic _can_ use their abilities without implants. Not usually very powerfully, or with any degree of control. Most can, without implants, raise a feather with their minds. Nothing very impressive, unless they're _extremely_ gifted to begin with. Implants, tucked directly into the brain, allow them to control and harness and amplify their powers."

Valak looked down at the manufacturing floor, all concrete and metal racks. "Those look a little larger than the average person's entire skull," he pointed out.

V'sol tapped the side of his nose. "Indeed. These amplifiers are actually positioned in ships. We refit cargo holds, and these serve to amplify the biotics of anyone inside. We've managed to get up to ten devices into a single cargo hold before. More than that, and the biotics seem to, well, liquefy their own brains."

Valak studied him. "That's all well and good, but that doesn't help the biotics once they're off the ship." He had a sinking feeling, however, that he knew where this was going.

"Next room, m'lord. You'll appreciate this, I think." The next manufacturing floor had miles and miles of cable, on huge reels, being unwound and rewound to create coils. Transformers, of some sort. "This is where the energy produced by the biotics in the cargo holds is transferred to. And then is directed off the ship with a conventional targeting system."

Valak asked the next, obvious question. "How many biotics does it take to power one of these systems?"

"Ten, fifteen. Our aim is to have one set of components on every ship in the fleet, eventually."

Valak turned, and over the whirr of the reels winding and unwinding below, said, "We don't _have_ that many biotics as a species, V'sol. And they're far too valuable to risk in such large numbers." _Which leaves biotics of other species. The lobotomized asari._ He knew the answers already, but he had to go through the motions, ask the questions anyway. "You're using slaves? Isn't that risky?"

V'sol smirked at him. "Not if they've been lobotomized, m'lord. And chipped, so that _our_ biotics _can_ control them. Easily, safely, effectively. Like the master of a slave galley, telling the slaves to pull their oars. No more, no less."

_All right. So this facility has to be destroyed._ "Do you chip the slaves here, too?"

"Some, yes. Others are handled on various medical facilities on Khar'sharn and Lorek."

Valak adopted a look of skepticism. "And this was all your _own_ design?" He glanced at V'sol dubiously. "The _Klem Na_ have never been known for technical acumen. Daring and boldness, and, shall we say, a certain _initiative_—" _Ancestors, forgive me for the lies my tongue must speak._ "but not technical wizardry."

V'sol smiled thinly. "M'lord may wish to see our facility on Lorek."

"The . . . computing center."

"Yes. That's its. . . official designation."

Valak nodded slowly. "I do not think my evaluation can be complete without examining the facility, no."

And for the rest of the visit, he was memorizing the layout. Looking for structural weak points. Anything, really, he could.

This place needed to be destroyed. Before it destroyed any more lives.

**Rellus, Mindoir, June 9-10, 2196**

Sparring had been tough, even brutal, Thursday afternoon, the ninth. Rel knew he _needed_ to make a better showing than he had so far. Had to show the skills he'd worked so long and hard to attain. And it had come down to him and Elijah in the end. It could have been any of the others. Rinus, Lin. . . both exceptional fighters. Almost _luck_ at this point, or perhaps the spirits just wanted to have a quick laugh at their expense. He hadn't quite shaken off his irritation at Eli's words of the night before. It was a brother's place to speak, certainly, but _Elijah?_ A friend. A brother, and yet not a brother. A buried voice whispered, _He doesn't have the right to tell me that._ That buried voice whispered of other things, too.

And then the match had been broken up. Dara had silently applied medigel to his bleeding mouth. His teeth would probably ache until tomorrow. Nothing in her face, her eyes. Just blankness, as if she were locked in combat, herself. With what opponent, Rel couldn't tell.

And then, on returning to the barracks, he'd been stunned. Absolutely, completely _stunned_ as Sam came in and started clearing out Dara's locker. He'd assumed, at first, that she'd taken his words of the night before to heart—too much so—and had just decided to quit. And then Sam had turned around. Faced him. Told him not only no, but _hell no_, Dara wasn't quitting the trials. She was just leaving the barracks. Leaving, in essence, _him_. "Till you get things straightened out, or decide to call it quits," was how Sam had put it.

Rel had just stood there, practically poleaxed. _That's not possible_, had been the only thought in his head for a long, numb moment. And when he'd said, "Death is the only thing that can untie the bond," Sam had just _stared_ at him a moment. Human eyes blank and unreadable.

"Don't tempt me, son. Don't tempt me." Thump. Thump. Thump. Pieces of armor being tossed in a box. A datapad. Some sort of a roll of fabric, thrown in on top of that.

"Are you _threatening_ me?" _Sam never threatens. Sam just says what he means. Spirits, why is he __saying__ this to me? I thought we'd come to understand one another._ Rel was bewildered. Hurt. Shocked. And yet, a seed of anger, starting to sprout. Like when he'd been little, toddling after Rinus in Grandpa Gavius' garden, looking at all the little plants that had grown since their last visit.

"I'm not lookin' for a fight, but by god, if you start one, I will _finish_ it."

And that had made the seedling of anger wither and die inside of Rel. Sam absolutely meant it. And there was no doubt at all in Rel's mind that Jaworski could back up those words.

So he'd sat down on the edge of the bed. Feeling as if he'd been hollowed out. Heard doors thump in the corridor, Eli, Serana, and Lin leaving the barracks. And then the little seed of anger began to grow again. _I would __never__ hurt her. What did she say that made Sam think that?_ Anger, looking for an outlet, a direction, sparked up again, and flared in Dara's direction.

More sounds in the corridor. A knock on a neighboring door, his _father's_ voice. "First-son? Come with us. We have need of you."

And then, a knock on his own door. Suppressing the anger, forcing it down, Rel got up and answered it. And took a deep breath when he saw the figures outside. Garrus. Lantar. Allardus. Rinus. _Well. . . this doesn't look good. What the __hell__? They want to talk to me about my __temper__?_ "Come in," Rel said out loud, his voice calm. _Don't give them any reason._ "Wasn't expecting so much company. . . and there's no place to sit."

"Actually, come with us. The barracks are a terrible place to talk. The walls have ears," Garrus told him.

Twenty minutes later, they were in the Vakarian villa. Rel sat in a chair, back upright, feeling as if he were about to be reviewed. In a way, he supposed he was.

His father began, quietly, "Second-son, do you know why we've brought you here?"

"Sam said something about my _temper_." Rel did _not_ like this. He didn't _have_ a temper. Everyone knew that. He was calm, easy-going by turian standards. Always had been.

Garrus sighed. "Do you know what adrenaline addiction is?"

Rel frowned. It wasn't unheard of. "Yeah." It wasn't relevant to him, but he knew what it was.

Lantar now. "Are you at all aware that you've been showing most of the classic signs of it?"

Rel stared at them. "What? No." He almost laughed. "That's ridiculous. I like a good fight, but no more than any other turian."

"Rel. . . second-brother. . . " Rinus shook his head, his voice heavy. "You can't sit _still_. Look at yourself right now." One finger stabbed in the direction of Rel's right knee.

Rel looked down. He was bouncing it up and down, sure. "That doesn't mean anything," he snorted. "Means I drank too much _apha_ after dinner, maybe."

"And checking to make sure we're not about to be attacked? Four times in two minutes—yes, I timed you last night—here? On Mindoir?" Rinus' voice was very calm.

Rel shook his head. "There's no where that's perfectly safe, Rinus. And the base _has_ been attacked before." He narrowed his eyes slightly, and added, "Twice, that I was here for. _You_ were here for the tail end of the last one, first-brother."

Rinus just looked at him for a moment. "That being said," he acknowledged, again, in that very calm tone, "Mindoir is one of the safest and sleepiest planets in the galaxy. If you can't let your guard down on the world you consider to be your _home_, where _can_ you let your guard down?"

Rel shrugged. "It doesn't really matter, does it? Being on guard doesn't mean much of anything. I've spent five years—"

"It _does matter_," Allardus interrupted, with some force. "It does matter, if you cannot be calm, because you're always looking for, or expecting, a fight."

"The fighting feels good," Garrus said, reflectively. "For the longest time, it was that way for me. Still _does_ feel good. The rush when you take down an enemy who's been troublesome. The feeling of total relaxation afterwards. Having worked hard, worked well, with everyone around you."

Rel nodded. "Yes," he agreed.

"What does fighting feel like, for you?" Garrus asked, looking out the window at the rising moon.

_What does it __feel_ _like? Spirits, like you don't know._ "Like. . . " Rel fumbled for the words. "Like I'm doing what I'm meant to do. What I'm _made_ for." _I've worked hard. I've formed myself into a weapon of flesh and blood and bone, a living blade. This is what I __am__._

"Is there anything that makes you feel _better_ than fighting?" Lantar asked. He was looking right at Rel at the moment. Steadily. Calmly. Not judging. Just. . . blank. Like a judge.

The question surprised Rel, and he blinked. He scrambled hurriedly in his mind for an answer. "Coming home to Dara afterwards." _Not that __that's__ an option. Now that Sam has helped her __run away__._

"I can understand that," Rinus said, quietly. "I love coming home to Kallixta after a long day at work. But is it coming home to Dara, or is it _mating_ that's what you love?"

Rel glared at his brother. "What the hell kind of question is that? Who do you think you are to—"

"Answer the question," Allardus told him. His father's tone brooked no compromise.

Rel struggled with it. There weren't even words.

"Or are they the same thing for you?" Rinus asked him. Calm. Composed. Not giving Rel any fire back. Refusing to fight back. But demanding a reply.

Rel rubbed a hand up and over his fringe in frustration. "I don't see what the point is. Mates _mate_. Sort of the _point_."

Garrus said, quietly, "There have been many times I've come home from stomping some batarian base or Blood Pack enclave. Walked in the house. And just the _smell_ of being home hits me. Damned near euphoria. Being _home_. In _my_ place. I've walked in. Checked on the kids in their beds. Covered them up, touched their fringes. Then gone in to my own room. Lain down. Wrapped Lilu up in my arms. And told her it was just me, and to go back to sleep."

Lantar was nodding. "Just being _home_ is a relief for me," he agreed. "In my territory, with my family. That feels better than _any_ fight. Don't get me wrong. I _like_ a good fight. But I also don't have any need to argue with my wife just to get the adrenaline flowing."

Rel glared at him. "Dara and I don't fight."

"Yes, I've noticed that," Rinus agreed, startling Rel. "She gives in. A lot. She didn't use to. She was always a fighter. Always strong-willed. Wouldn't have gone into the turian military if she weren't both. With you? She walks very, very lightly. Why is that?"

Rel distributed the glare to Rinus now. "You saying my wife's afraid of me?"

"You said that, brother, I didn't." Rinus was still glacially calm. "I don't think _afraid_, as in, she's afraid that you'll hit her. I think she's afraid of what will happen if she _doesn't_ go along, doesn't work to keep you calm."

"Doesn't serve as what Sam called your safety catch," Garrus noted, just as calmly. "You know what I saw when I looked into your mind with Sky's assistance yesterday, nephew?"

Rel flinched at the recollection. "What?" he replied, grimly.

"I see a young man who's fought and struggled and shaped himself. Turned himself into a weapon. You had a good set of tools when you left boot camp, and you've used those tools. Very well. But you haven't added to them. Haven't expanded your horizons. You've remained the same, in many respects. Applying the same tools, the same skills, to different situations. So far, you've been lucky. You haven't found anything that challenged you. A situation that those tools didn't apply to." Garrus voice ground on, quiet and remorseless, and Rel's hands clenched in his lap, shaking. "And you've been enjoying it. Loving it. Nothing wrong with enjoying your work, but you love it more than you love anything else. You're tense between each combat scenario, so you spar or you carve. Then you fight. Then you fuck. Then you do it again."

Allardus now, his voice low and almost sorrowful, "When was the last time you read a book, Rellus? _I_ taught you to read, remember. I taught you to develop your mind. You graduated with good marks, and you're not an idiot. But when did you last read?"

Rel tensed. "I read my coursebooks, for my rate, for my classes, _Pada_. And when I don't do that, I'm carving. I _do_ do more than just fight—"

"Before last week, when was the last time you played a game?" Lantar now. A vortex of voices, questions.

"When was the last time you took your wife to a concert?" Rinus now. Still absolutely calm.

"Not a lot of time on an SR ship to go to a damned concert—"

"And what did you do for a year on Sur'Kesh?" Garrus now. Voice placid. "If any other turians were around, if any of _us_ had been around, we might have seen it. Caught it early. But I've looked through your memories, and your wife's. You did absolutely nothing except your combat drills. Some carving. And were bored out of your skull."

"You could have requested duty on Rocam, when Dara was there," Rinus pointed out, reasonably.

"Going back out in the black was a better career move—"

"It was what you _wanted_ to do, and don't _lie_, second-son!" Allardus, for the first time, raised his voice. It was a whipcrack, the sound of breaking ice underfoot.

That was it. They had all so been damned _calm_. No matter what he said, what he did, they didn't raise their voices. Wouldn't fight back. His rage reflected back off them like an echo off a blank wall. Rel turned his head, ready to snap back at his father. To break every dictate of filial loyalty, and _snarl_ at him.

The words died behind his teeth. He could see the absolute _sorrow_ in his father's face, and it just _drained_ the rage from Rel. "_Pada?"_ Rel asked, after a moment, his voice uncertain for the first time since sitting down. _What the hell just happened? _

There was a very long silence.

Allardus sighed. "I'm sorry to have had to provoke you, second-son, but do you understand now, Rellus?" he asked, very quietly. "You love fighting more than you love your wife. You love fighting more than you love your family. You love fighting. . . right now, at this moment. . . more than you love your honor. You would have turned on me. Not because I have ever blocked your career, as Gavius did to Garrus. Not because I have beaten you or abused you in any way. But because I called you to account. And because we gave you no other options on who to fight."

Rel's hands were trembling slightly, and he shook his head, over and over again. _No. It's not true._

Garrus now, quietly again. "By all rights, I should probably take you out of the Spectre trials."

Rel's crop clenched at the mere words. Garrus went on, softly. Almost like a teacher. "The _last_ thing you give an addict of any sort is more of what he craves. And you crave the fighting, nephew. You said it yourself. It's who you _are_. It's what you're _for_."

"Nothing more," Rinus said, sadly. "Brother, I'm more than just a centurion—_optio_, whatever. I'm a husband. I am, spirits help me, a lord. I help write laws."

"I _was_ a marine. And a damned good one. But I got out after four years. Spent another four earning my doctorate. No one can ever say I don't know how to fight. . . but I'm more than a weapon," Allardus spoke now, with quiet conviction.

"I _was_ special forces. Then a cop. Then a vigilante. Then _mor'loci_. Then a husband. A father. A Spectre."

"What the hell are you going to be in five years, Rellus, if not a Spectre?" Garrus asked now, quietly. "In ten?"

"You could go your whole career in special forces. Retire with twenty years in, and you'll still be then, exactly what you are now. A weapon, and not a person." Lantar now.

"And when you retire, what will you find to fight then?" Rinus, quiet and pragmatic. "Mercenary work?"

Intolerable flash of the original simulation. Future after future after future no honor, no name, no self. Just the gray drudgery of mercenary work. Finding Dara, finding the shining path that led towards being Spectres. . . "The first simulation," Rel said, his voice a low rasp. "I wanted to _avoid_ mercenary work. Drifting. Being. . . without purpose. We. . . I. . .made becoming a Spectre a goal to _avoid_ that future." He raised his eyes from the floor. "You're saying that I wound up on that path anyway?" He put his face down in his hands. Rel was numb. He didn't know what to say, to think, to feel, to believe.

Garrus, with odd gentleness, replied, softly, "Yes. In part." He sighed. "I'm going to allow you to finish the trials, Rel. I want to see what _you_ can do, with our help, to pull _yourself_ back from this abyss. Because we _need_ Spectres. We _need_ our best people, and we need them desperately. But I won't destroy you in the process. And it's _Shepard's_ call if you make the cut this time around, or not." His eyes were hooded as he added, "She is of the opinion that we _have_ weapons, Rel. A Spectre is a Spectre. Not a weapon."

And so, back to the barracks. Empty, alone. Soft ripple of Kallixta's voice next door, Eli and Serana's to the other side. No Dara in his nest. No hair to stroke, no gentle voice to tell him it was all right. Just himself.

And the truth.

The next day had been the alpine exercise. Paired with Eli, whose eyes were wary, but who tried to act as if the previous day hadn't happened. Dara, off to the side. Not looking at him at all. The words of his family haunted Rel, and he stared at his wife. Tried to determine if his father's words were true. _Do I really love fighting more than I love her?_

Staring at the damned skis in the summit station. Knowing that if he'd given in to Dara's joking comments at least once in the last five years, that he'd know how to use the damn things. He hadn't thought it important at the time. A human sport. Not exactly common on any turian world. Useless in the field, and he had no intention of going on leave anywhere so damned cold if he could help it. And then Eli's words in the summit station. Probably meant as a joke, but still stung like a lash. "What, you think she's going to say _I told you so?_" They implied that Eli knew Dara better than Rel know his own wife.

And yet, that was true, too. Just at the level of common humanity, they _did_ know each other. And Rel suddenly felt as if he didn't know his little mate at all. She still wore his paint and his knife as she sat on the observation benches when he and Makur and Eli finished the course. . . but she was as cold and remote as the moon. Didn't look at him. Leaned down to joke with Linianus about something. Lin, who'd learned to ski on Nimines, apparently. Another stinging slap, of sorts. And to have had a fatality on this squad, too. Elijah was very evidently annoyed by it, but didn't say a _word_ against Rel for having turned on Gris, rather than having continued to force Garrus to stay down. Blamed himself for having lost mobility. But when Sam turned, and asked Rel, blank-faced, _why_ he'd turned to fire on Gris, Rel wasn't even sure of the answer. "I'm second-guessing myself," he admitted. "Gris was closer to the boy, and at the moment, the objective was to get him out safely, right?"

Makur grumbled, "I had Gris _well_-occupied." The krogan paused. "All right, _occupied_, anyway."

And when the debriefing was done, Rel swallowed. Approached Sam. And on a shaking breath, asked, "May I speak with Dara tonight?"

Sam turned. Stared at him. "Not tonight. But I'll ask her if she wants to see you tomorrow." His expression remained absolutely blank as he added, "Garrus has asked, for the purpose of attempting to 'nurture your spirit,' whatever the hell that means, that you be allowed to attend this week's barbecue. You are therefore invited." The words were crisp, and without even a hint of drawl.

Rel walked back to the candidate barracks. And again, in his empty room, put his head down in his hands. Somehow, he'd missed the path. And he had absolutely no idea how to put his feet back on it again. It was as if he'd gone for a forty-k run through known territory, and been enjoying himself, consumed with the ease and enjoyment of the run. . . only to look up, and discover himself at the edge of a cliff that had never been there before. The terrain was unknown. And he had no idea how to get home again.

**Dempsey, June 10, 2196**

Dempsey tapped on the door of his son's room, waited a moment, and, when acknowledged, walked in. "Mad," he greeted the boy quietly. Madison's face was pink from the amount of sun he'd gotten today, reflected off the snow. "You didn't tell me you were going to be in the trials."

"Commander Shepard said it was a surprise for you." Ingenuous words, those. _Surprise, yeah. More like 'pop quiz.' How will he react if he __does__ see his son in danger? Second verse, same as the first. . . only this time, since I __knew__ there was no real danger, I tamped it down a bit. Bet Gris is going to be sore tonight, though._ Dempsey thought about that. _All right, sore for a half hour, anyway._

"You missed school for this, though."

"I'm catching up right now." Madison looked aggrieved. As if he'd been interrupted. . . which was probably the case, but Dempsey didn't like the tone. Just stared at the boy until Madison sighed and muttered an apology.

"That's better." Dempsey came in and sat on the foot of Mad's bed. "So, about dinner the other night. . . ?"

"Dad. . . it's okay. I. . . kind of got the gist." Madison _squirmed_ at Dempsey's look.

"And what _gist_ did you get?"

"That when turian girls get their period, they can be . . . aggressive. More than just, you know, cranky. And that I shouldn't be offended if Amara tries to bite me." Madison went crimson. "And that I shouldn't take it personally. It just means somewhere at the back of her head, she thinks I'm strong." Madison looked down at his skinny arms and shook his head. "Or something."

Dempsey just stared at his son for a long moment. "Close," he said, calmly. "Not quite right, but close." _And again, here I'm grateful for the damn chip. This might have been really uncomfortable, otherwise._ He kept the explanation brief and as clinical as he could, and because _he_ wasn't embarrassed or mad, Madison was uncomfortable, but not as bad as he could have been.

There were a couple of "Oh my god" comments in there, and at least one "oh, wow." Finally, Madison just looked up at his father. "Nature's not very fair."

"Nature's a bitch," Dempsey agreed, instantly. "I doubt lions or tigers or even dogs would choose to go into heat, if they could avoid it. Er. . . don't call it _heat_ to Amara, by the way. She might find that disrespectful."

Madison's eyes went wide. "I'm not talking to her about this at _all_," he assured his father.

"You _are_ going to keep talking to her, right? Would be kind of unfair to treat her differently now that you know something about her that she probably wishes weren't true, and wishes that you didn't have to know." Flat, emotionless words.

Madison squirmed again. "Yeah, I guess."

"Think about it. I'll be back around 23:00. I'll want to see all your schoolwork _done_ by then, and lights out by 23:30."

"Where you going?" Madison looked up hastily. The thought, unbidden, streaked out from behind the eyes. _Everyone along this hallway except for Agent Sidonis and Dr. Velnaran is alien, and it's still a little weird. . . and Dr. Velnaran left yesterday. After a really __loud__ fight the day before._

"Mad. . . you can keep your door closed if you want to. Turn on a messaging program, but _don't_ talk to kids from back home—talk to your friends from here. Don't pester Sidonis or his wife. I figured I'd take Zhasa down to the valley." Dempsey frowned very slightly. "I found a map of the settlement on the local extranet that indicates that there's a good restaurant down there. And Dr. Velnaran—the xenobiologist one, that is—gave me a keycard for the greenhouses. Figured Zhasa might like that."

Madison blinked, and then smiled, hesitantly. "I really like her, Dad."

"Good. So do I."

"I kind of noticed that, Dad."

"Smart mouth."

Zhasa practically _bounded_ out of her room at the invitation. And as they walked down the hall towards the exit, she took his hand in her gloved one, opening her mind just a bit. "Today was fun," she told him cheerfully. "I had never thought that someone could slide down a snowy hill with flat sticks of metal on their feet before, but the engineering principle is sound. Lots of surface area to displace your weight, and cutting edges to grip the snow."

They passed by Sidonis' room, where he and his turian wife were just stepping out, and collecting their tall, blue-painted turian friend, Pellarian, to go with them somewhere. The trio overheard them, and the two males chuckled. "I was really wishing I'd learned at some point," Sidonis admitted.

"I was just glad I _had_," Pellarian retorted.

"How many more days of tests do you think there'll be?" Zhasa asked, cheerfully.

"Tomorrow, definitely," Sidonis answered. "Desert and vehicles, I think. Sunday, I think we have off. Not sure what they'll do after that."

"Probably a round of cuts," Pellarian said, and the three of them exchanged glances.

"We're heading down to the valley," Dempsey noted at the road that split, leading off to the shuttle stop. "Some place called Gardner's."

"You'll love the food," Sidonis said, and, with a faint, wicked look on his face, added, "He does a 'Death by Chocolate' dessert I'm sure Zhasa will want you to try."

Dempsey, his mind locked with Zhasa's, couldn't decide between amusement and irritation, and finally heard himself chuckle, much to his surprise.

"We're off to visit the Jaworskis. See you tomorrow," the cop told him, and the three turned and walked east, as Dempsey and Zhasa continued south.

The restaurant _was_ nice. Surprisingly so. Plaster walls, a wall of wine bottles—almost all locally grown, apparently. Dim light, leather booths and comfortable chairs at the tables that didn't rock back and forth. Actual candles on the tables, which made Zhasa mutter something about CO2 levels and thermal events. "Very traditional on Earth," Dempsey assured her. "It's supposed to add to ambiance. Also, no carbon scrubbers needed on a planet, remember?" Overall, the restaurant looked both family-friendly (a good thing, given it was the only real restaurant in town), but classy, too.

Zhasa took _thirty minutes_ over the menu with a surprisingly patient salarian waiter, though by the end, Dempsey could see that the male was holding onto his sanity with only his teeth. She wanted to know what was in _everything_, what it tasted like, and was set to order _for_ Dempsey, approximately one of everything. _Zhasa, sweetheart, I'm not a cow. I only __have__ one stomach._

_You're saying you can't eat __all_ _of this?_

_Not in one sitting. Possibly not all in one week._

_Pity._ She sighed. Then the bargaining started. "Lobster salad with spicy lemon dressing?" she offered, hopefully.

"Zhasa, I can't _stand_ seafood."

"I'll trade you a container of nutrient paste for it."

Dempsey did his best to meet the eyes behind the mask. _Fair's fair. I __did__ invite you out to give you a chance to enjoy yourself, but let's not make me throw up, too, hmm? _"I promise you, no matter how red the lobster looks on the page, it will not be served in a salad looking like an angry dead bug." _I hope._ "I'll go as far as New England Clam Chowder, how's that?"

"Even you don't find that very exciting." She pointed at the menu imperatively. "You can start with this spicy Thai soup with lime shrimp. Taste _one_ shrimp for me, and then you can pick around the rest."

Dempsey nodded dubiously. "And, because I'm _fond_ of you, Dempsey, this . . . broiled bison steak with . . . horseradish sauce."

"Much better, Zhasa," he told her, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly.

"But with. . . hmm. What are these orange things again?"

"Carrots," said the long-suffering waiter.

"Yes, those. In a. . . port and honey reduction. Whatever that is. And some of these _. . . _things." She pointed again.

The salarian leaned over. "Okra beignets with a sour cream and cilantro sauce."

_Okra? Good lord, what I don't do for you, Zhasa._

"And for dessert. . . he'll be having this . . . upside down butterscotch apple sour cream cake." She read it off the menu very carefully.

_Shocking. Not chocolate._

_The picture looks __amazing__._

"And to drink?" the waiter asked, shaking his head rapidly.

"Oh, I hadn't even thought of that. . . "

_Could I talk you into just plain old coffee?_

_Now where's the fun for me in that?_ Zhasa's head popped up. "He'll have one of these green things."

_Zhasa, that's a pretty damned girly looking drink—_

_But it's supposed to be __really__ sour, right?_ Her mental tone was teasing.

"That would be an apple sour. I'll bring the soup right out." Their waiter escaped, probably wondering where a large portion of his life had just gone.

The food arrived, and Dempsey reached across the table and linked fingers with Zhasa. He was, very slightly, smiling as he did so, and he could simply feel her _glowing_, which only made the smile creep a little wider. And then he very dutifully began to eat everything she asked of him. The shrimp actually wasn't all that _bad_, much to his surprise, and she liked the texture and the flavor so much, that she actually did request a few more than just _one_.

_Do I get anything in return?_

_My undying gratitude._ That was a _purr_ in her mind.

_Ah, is that all?_

The soup itself was sweet and spicy at the same time, light brown, and creamy. Dempsey surprised himself by eating every bite. Then the _rest_ of the meal came out. "I still feel odd eating in front of you, when you can't. . . "

"I'm eating. It's very exciting. Kelp extracts and _morkov_ paste. Just _eat._ Please. It looks wonderful."

It was, too. The bison was tender and juicy and medium-rare, dripping with juices and had a slightly crackly exterior; the horseradish was spicy but mild enough to compliment it. With each bite, Zhasa made a little contented sound.

The couple in the booth next to them started to turn around and _look_ at that point. Dempsey stared back at them until they turned away.

The carrots were just fork-tender and sweet. . . and the okra 'beignets' turned out to be battered and deep-fried, and not bad at all. By the time he'd finished it all, Zhasa was just leaning back in the booth. Making very happy sounds, to Dempsey's faint amusement. "Did you still want dessert?" the salarian waiter asked, appearing at Dempsey's elbow and eying Zhasa in mild consternation.

"Yes!" she exclaimed.

_I have no idea how I'm going to eat all this, so don't be disappointed if I can't finish,_ he warned her.

And, no surprise at all, Zhasa _loved_ the cake. The tender-cooked apples, the sticky butterscotch, the cinnamon, the richness of the cake around them. Every last bit, she loved. "Don't stop!" she exclaimed at one point.

_That was __out loud__, sweetie._ _Down, girl. We __are__ in public, and this is a place I don't actually want to get kicked out of._

The people at the booth next to them were hurriedly getting their check and preparing to leave. One was turian, the other asari, both wore tech staff uniforms. . . and both were wide-eyed.

Their harried waiter brought them their check unasked, and _didn't_ offer Dempsey coffee. Dempsey paid up, and Zhasa, chuckling a little, took his hand again as they headed out of the restaurant into the cool night air. Above, the clouds had faded, leaving the Milky Way clearly visible in the center of the night sky, and the mountain air, and relatively limited ambient light allowed each star to gleam as crisp and bright as a diamond. "Where to next?" she asked.

"Greenhouse, remember? Or did the food put it out of your mind?"

"Oh, that's right. You know where it is?"

"I have a map," Dempsey nodded, and tapped his temple.

The keycard he'd been given worked, and they walked into the long, domed structure, which was lit even at night by grow-bulbs. Dempsey closed the door behind them, and immediately had to take off his jacket. It had to be 90º F/32º C in here, and probably one hundred percent humidity. Every window was bathed in droplets of moisture. And the overall color inside, besides the black of night, was jade green.

Dempsey inhaled, concentrating on the smells. _Sorry. Just human here. You'd get more scents from a turian, probably._

_I don't see a turian here that I share my mind with._ Zhasa's tone was absent. _Oh, this one, this one. What is this?_

"A fern," he told her, running his fingers along the tiny fronds. "Air fern, I think."

_And this one, with the purple flowers, and the soft, furry-looking leaves?_

"Tag says. . . _ianthinus_. Native to Palaven." Dempsey carefully ran his fingertips over the leaves, which were, indeed, a little furry looking, and then the petals, dewy and soft. He leaned down and sniffed them, too; the shy little flowers had a heady aroma.

Zhasa eagerly dragged him up and down the rows of plants. Roses enchanted her. So did an arbor of honeysuckle. Lemon trees and orange trees, showing off white flowers and emitting heavenly scents. Row after row of herbs—mint, rosemary, sage, basil, and _lavender._ Oh, the lavender put her in transports of delight, for some reason.

One plant in particular struck her fancy: a night-blooming primrose. It looked scraggly, like a weed, during the day, but at night opened huge yellow blooms, so delicate Dempsey was afraid to touch them. And the smell they gave off was _incredible_. He just stood there for a moment, staring at the desert plant, taking deep inhalations as much for his own pleasure as for Zhasa's.

"Thank you," she murmured. "This was a _really_ good idea."

Dempsey turned, caught her wrist, and pulled her closer to him, suit and all. _Was it now?_

_Oh yes._

_Nice to know I can still show a girl a good time if I put my mind to it._

_Dempsey, your mind is __exactly__ what I want right now._

_Shame. I'd be just as happy if you wanted my body, too._ The thought held a little of his own, native amusement to it; sparked by hers, reflected. Refracted. _God, sweetie, I wish I could see your face_. Minds opening to one another now. Starting to drink each other in.

Zhasa's head tipped up. Her hands, still so odd to see, touched the sides of his face. _Not here. But before we go to the Citadel. I'll need to ask Hal and Nal for, well, guest-rights in their house._ She sounded a little embarrassed. _I think they'd agree, if we swore to clean up thoroughly. And before we, well, could. . . you'd need to scrub, head to toe, with the kind of antibacterial soap they use on patients before surgery. _

Dempsey had been left back at the pass, and only now did his mind catch up. "Zhasa?" he said, out loud. "Are you saying. . . ?" _Wow. You must __really__ think I'm going to die on you._

It _was_ a concern. Locked together as their minds were, she couldn't hide that from him. Her concern became his concern, but he thought the odds were against it. His calm steadied her, and they wrapped their arms around each other. Soft flutters of biotic energy from him at first. _Don't have to drag me off to a clean room if you don't want to, Zhasa, love. I'm not going to die on you. Honest to god, short of someone taking my __head__ off, it might not be __possible__ to kill me. So while I would __love__ to see your face for the first time. . . and all the rest of you, too. . . you don't need to risk your health. It's not like we can't do. . . this._ He ran fire up into her, and felt the first shocks of her pleasure ripple through him. . . and he groaned. Pulled her to him more tightly. _And this. And this._

Her body bent backwards at the waist, bowing over his forearm, and he could _feel_ her building, building, building. . . and then releasing. _Oh, god, sweetie, yeah._ He picked her up, and put her on a nearby bench, pushing sacks of potting soil out of the way. Rich, loamy smell of earth and water and the flowers around them. It was low enough that she was at _just_ the right height now. . . .

_And this?_ she offered, and then she was running a gloved hand over his chest, descending. Finding what she was looking for, and gently stroking. Biotics now, as well as fingers, and Dempsey put his head on her shoulder, bracing his arms on the workbench now.

_That. Yeah, definitely that. Don't stop, Zhasa, please don't stop. . . ._

Endless circuit of giving now. One to the other, until there was no more to give, and no more to take. Just utter relaxation of bodies, and their minds slipped into and through each other like flames dancing in a fire.

The next morning, Dempsey _did_ get Doc Velnaran's attention before their latest set of trials got set up. "I, ah, need to get some sort of antibacterial soap," he told her. "The sort used before surgery."

Dara turned and stared at him blankly. "That stuff's pretty hard on the skin," she said. "Why do you need that, anyway?"

Dempsey's mind was only _lightly_ locked into Zhasa's at the moment. His expression was completely blank as he told her, "You might recall that the chip had certain side effects regarding my, hmm. Male health?" He _did_ keep his voice down, and was gratified when she blinked. Several times. Rapidly. "Should I wait till your office hours to talk to you about this?" he asked. It was a needle.

"Ah, not necessary, but, perhaps a little further to the side, so no one happens to overhear us. . . ?" She actually opened her omnitool, and as they stepped apart, asked, briskly, "So. . . antibacterial soap? This has something to do with your, ah, issue?" So carefully phrased.

Zhasa's mind caressed his, and amusement flickered through both of them. "Yes. You see, Zhasa's been working on trying to get me to feel different emotional states."

He could _see_ the thoughts cross her face. _What has that got to—oh, wait a minute. . . oh!_ They were subtle, but there. And then she _flushed._ "For the record," the doctor said, her voice tight, and studiously not looking at him, "how . . . . ?"

"Biotic stimulation of her nerve endings, while telepathically linked." Tone still completely bland. His lips were, however, very slightly quirked at the corners.

Her mouth opened, and then clicked shut, and she tapped out a few phrases on her omnitool. "So, you'd be needing the antibacterial wash for, say, a visit to a clean house?"

"Right in one, doc." _Sidonis isn't the only one who can get you going, apparently._ He wondered, idly, if he'd become more of a person to her because of their mutual interest in music, because of Zhasa's influence, or because the doctor herself wasn't in her 'turian' shell this morning.

"I'll. . . make sure it's waiting for you at the base med bay. Follow the directions carefully. I'd advise doing so just before, well. _Contact_." Dr. Velnaran found someplace else to put her eyes, and coughed. "I'm also writing a prescription for both of you for epi-tabs. Take these fifteen minutes before. . . you know. Let them get in the system. Should cut down on the levo/dextro incompatibility issues."

As Dempsey nodded and started to turn away, he was surprised when the doctor put her hand on his arm, stopping him. "I'm—well, I'm glad for you," she said, suddenly. "It's nice to see someone around here actually recover from something."

_Isn't it, though?_ Zhasa thought in his mind, happily.

**Elijah, June 10-11, 2196**

After the long alpine challenge day, Eli had caught Serana at the door of the barracks. "Want to go visit Sam and Kasumi's?" he asked. "Maybe take Lin with us? Nice walk in the snow, little one." He used the term deliberately, and with conscious care, but tried to keep it sounding casual. _Little one_ was what Lin called her. Not _asperitalla_. It was a bid, on his part, to convey to her subconscious that he and Lin were the same. Not that she didn't already think that. But it also opened a tiny distance. Enough of a gap for the seeds of ideas to fall into. Sprout roots, and grow. He just hoped it was subtle.

Serana looked up. "Sure! You want to check in on. . . " she glanced over her shoulder at the wall of the other room, and lowered her voice to a whisper, "Dara?"

Eli nodded, once. "That, and I want to find out what the _hell_ is going on," he muttered back. "Rel's been acting odd the whole of the trials. And was really off his game today, too."

Serana nodded, and looked enormously uncomfortable. "Dara's my _friend_," Serana whispered. "I thought of her as a sister before they ever got married. I was talking with Kallixta today, and she's upset, too. If Dara decides to . . . to. . . _sunder_ the _tal'mae. . . _somehow!. . . Kallixta's worried that she'll lose her best friend." Serana looked miserable. "And I don't want to lose my sister, either."

Eli gave her a one-armed hug. "I'm pretty sure that Dara will tell you the truth, little one. That the only way you could lose her friendship, once given, is for _you_ to turn your back on _her_." _As I damned near lost it, once upon a time. Took me over a year to get her to talk to me again in anything remotely like the old way. Then, just letters, now and again._

Lin was more than amenable to coming along with them, and the three of them walked in silence through the snowy streets under the twilit, purple sky, breath hanging in the air, after bidding Zhasa and Dempsey farewell.

At the door, Kasumi greeted them, looking a little surprised. "You know, we actually _do_ have a few dextro pre-made dinners in the freezer for when Lantar comes over to work on a case with us," she said, smiling. "Let me go tell the family cooks that they need to put some more food on." She gave them all a quick, subtle smile, and added, "Dara's set up in the library. Has been since she got home. Lin, Serana. . . come pick your dinners out of the cryo-unit, why don't you? And I think we've got _festuca_ beer on hand. . . Sam keeps those for Lantar, too."

"I'll definitely take one, but only one," Lin told her, smiling down at the tiny human woman as he started pulling off his boots, as Eli was already doing.

Serana chuckled. "You need some tips on sneaking up on Dara, Eli?" she asked, softly.

"I think I can manage." He stroked a hand over her fringe lightly. "Go get yourself and Lin settled."

Eli padded towards the library at the back of the house, and paused at the wide doorway, a little surprised. In the bright light of two lamps, Dara was sitting in a chair with her back to the door, working on something in her lap. He caught flashes of bright colors, which triggered a flash of familiarity, a nagging hint of memory. In her right hand, a needle, dipping and flashing with machine-like precision. "Dara?" Eli asked, quietly.

She _jumped._ Her head swung up, and she eyed him with consternation. "Good _lord_, Eli, you scared the living _s'kak_ out of me. Knock or something!"

"I think I could've hired a brass band to march in with me, and you might not have noticed," Eli quipped, and stepped in the room to crouch down beside the chair. "What're you working on—hey, don't hide it." He grinned as she tried to pull a plain piece of cloth over her work. "That just gets the investigative mind working. People who hide, are _guilty_ of—" His hands, lightning-quick, reached out and tugged the covering away. . . . and Eli stopped talking. Just stared down at what she held in her lap.

The quilt was familiar, of course. Had the letters _ELIJAH_ picked out at the top in machine embroidery, _MARCUS_ in the middle and _STOCKTON_ at the bottom. And in between. . . stars, planets, moons. Dinosaurs. All the bright colors his mother's mother had picked out for him, twenty years before. It had hung on a wall in his room after he'd outgrown sleeping under it. Until he'd decided he was too old for a baby quilt, thank you, and his mom had packed it away . . . and then the vandals had torn it to shreds, six years ago. Dara's skilled fingers had already restored almost half of it, and, as he looked back up at her, stunned, her eyes were very wide. A little scared, perhaps. _Of what? Of my reaction?_ "You . . .kept it?" he said, after a moment.

"Yeah. I'm sorry. This was supposed to be a surprise." Dara's hands waved aimlessly for a moment, and then she tucked the needle away into a corner of the fabric. "I'm sorry it took me so long to get around to fixing it," she apologized. "It's been in the attic for a long time, and it took the conversation the other night about the models to make me remember that it was here."

Eli dropped from a crouch to his knees. Reached out, and traced a finger over the letters in _Stockton_, very lightly, where they lay across her lap. Maybe it was just his imagination, but it sounded as if she were apologizing for more than just having forgotten about the quilt. "It's a hell of a surprise, _sai'kaea_," Eli told her softly. It was, too. A piece of his past, being repaired. Made new, made whole. And by _her_ healing hands. A little piece of his humanity, given back to him. "Thank you." His throat was surprisingly tight, and he cleared it. "My mom will flip out when she sees it. She hasn't gotten to see _her_ mom in years. . . and this is a piece of her, too. This. . . this is amazing, Dara."

Dara shook her head. Brushed it off, as she did almost any compliment. "Just think. You'll have it around for when you and Serana are ready for kids," she said, brightly, but her eyes were a little shadowed.

Eli's head jerked up. His dark eyes met her soft brown ones. Total honesty in that moment. "_Sai'kaea_," he started, but didn't know what to _say_. There was a lump in his throat. _There aren't going to __be_ _any kids, beloved. Because odds are, either Lin or I will make Spectre. Or both of us. _"There won't be—"

And at that moment, Serana walked in. Her eyes were bright with pain, an expression he _never_ wanted to see, or be the cause of, and Eli turned away from Dara. He _knew_ Serana had to have heard her words. Kindly meant, of course. Dara couldn't _know_. Eli took Serana's hand in his, but she slipped out of his grasp. Hunkered down herself now, and looked at the quilt, eyes now wide and inquisitive. "This was yours?" she asked, looking up at Eli, as if that moment of pain had never even existed.

"When I was a baby, yeah. The vandals on Bastion tore it apart. I didn't want my mom to see it and start crying any harder, so I shoved it under some piece of furniture or another," Eli replied, quietly.

"And that's when I picked it up. I had a half-assed notion of fixing it." Dara looked up, and she'd put a ghost of the old teasing expression back in place. "I had this crazy idea that it would make your mom like me better."

Serana frowned, and looked at Dara. "What are you talking about? Ellie adores you."

"Not back then, she didn't," Dara told her, managing a laugh.

Sam called them in to dinner at that point. Pre-packaged _apatarae_ roast for Lin and Serana, with _caulis_ and _lenti_ on the side. For the rest of them, chicken tacos with hothouse tomatoes and cheese, as well as refritos, although Takeshi being young and rather picky, was munching happily on a quesadilla instead. Eli was _starving_ after their long day in the snow, and Sam soon had everyone laughing again.

After dinner, they all headed back into the library, and Lin and Eli, more or less out of habit at this point, sat down on either side of Serana on the couch. Dara picked up working on the quilt again, and her eyes dilated out to their sharpest focus as she quietly worked.

Eli was just debating how to _ask_ what he wanted to ask, when Sam came in from cleaning up the last of the pots and pans, while Kasumi was upstairs, putting Takeshi down for the night. "Dara, sweetie," Sam said, and his voice was so gentle, and so _not_ 'Spectre Jaworski' or 'Texas Sam' or anything else, that Eli suddenly knew this was the voice Dara had always heard growing up. That Takeshi heard before bed. "Rel asked today if he could come over and talk to you. I told him not tonight, but that I'd ask _you_ if you'd see him tomorrow."

Eli felt both Serana and Lin tense a little on the couch. "No," Dara replied, quietly, not looking up from her stitching. "I'm not ready. I wanted a week—a single week—in which to get my head together and make decisions."

Sam sighed. "Unfortunately, sweetheart, he's going to be here for the barbeque. Lantar told me it has to do with the squad or the pack trying to help him restore his spirit, or some damn thing like that. Making him feel like he still has all our spirits to rely on."

Dara looked up, and Eli was stunned by the darkness and tiredness in her eyes. She'd been masking it for a _long_ time, he suddenly realized, and wanted to curse. Lin beat him to the question, however. "All right," his friend asked, quietly, "what the hell's been going on?"

Sam sighed and grabbed one of the smaller chairs. Turned it around backwards to straddle it, folding his arms over the back. "How much you three know about adrenaline addiction?"

Lin snorted. "I've seen it, yeah. Though calling it an _addiction_ is a matter of. . . debate. The chemicals are natural in our bodies. It's not some outside thing, that you can become chemically dependent on. It's largely a matter of habit. Habit of thought. In my opinion, anyway."

Eli shook his head. "Can't say I've encountered this, to be honest."

Serana's eyes had gone wide again. "That's what wrong with Rel?" she asked, her voice stunned.

Sam rubbed at his face. "Lin, catch me if I explain this wrong. Turians, particularly males, have three interrelated hormones that regulate a lot of their bodies. Testosterone, or its equivalent. Adrenaline. Oxytocin, or a pleasure hormone. Same as humans, really. But in turians, they're all more chemically similar than in humans."

Dara snipped off a thread. "Xenobiology 101, Dad. Fighting, for a turian, feels good. The adrenal flow _feels like_ pleasure hormones. And when they're done with a hard day's work, a hard workout, a hard fight, they're still keyed up with the adrenaline. . . and then the oxytocin hits. _Iunkunditas._"

Eli remembered the word. Remembered Lantar whispering it to his mom. Remembered Rel whispering it to Dara on the sparring mats, years ago. The feeling of warmth and well-being that came with hard work or a good fight or sex.

Sam picked it up again, "Trouble is, Rel's been doing nothing but combat and, ah. . . "

"Sex," Dara replied, bluntly, not looking up from her work.

Sam winced, and went on, "for years. One or the other. Or one following the other following the other. No down time."

Dara snorted. "Oh, there was downtime." She sighed. "I'm seeing it all a _lot_ more clearly with some distance. He was already borderline on Sur'Kesh, I think. I'd come home from twenty-four hours straight at the hospital, dead on my feet, and, well. . . " She grimaced. "You know."

Serana asked, her voice very quiet, "So what do you _do_ to heal someone of this?"

Sam looked straight at her. "Well, li'l darlin', that's quite the trick. Your dad and your uncle and Rinus and Lantar all started the first part last night. Forcing him to realize he's been doing what he's doing. Second thing is, you typically don't let someone who's an _addict_ do what they crave doing. In his case, that means, you don't let him fight. Kind of difficult, when he's a soldier."

Lin interjected, impatiently, "Which is why I was saying, categorizing it as an addiction is misleading. It's a _habit._ A failure of thought."

Sam nodded. "Garrus did say that he reckoned that if Rel could be brought to remember _why_ we fight, other than just living _for_ fighting, he'd be on the path to finding his spirit again, or some damn thing like that. So, for the moment, we _limit_ what he craves. He will want to argue. We don't argue. We keep our voices calm, we don't fight back, but we also don't _have_ to agree." Sam grimaced. "Which is going to be tough for me to abide by if he comes in here all set to drag you back with him, sweetie."

Eli stiffened a little now, himself, though his arm remained around Serana's shoulder. He glanced down, and realized, to his amusement, that Lin had hooked a foot behind Serana's right spur. Probably completely unconsciously, but Dara was looking at them now. . . and had just as quickly looked away. And Eli winced, internally.

Sam was continuing now, "And that takes us to the other half of the equation. Half of the cycle for him is wanting, consciously or not, to continue the endorphin high. Which means—"

"Sex," Dara said, again. Her voice was rather flat, and Eli again winced.

Lin raised a finger. "Which is, I might add, pretty _normal_._"_ Lin shifted a little on the couch. "You _do_, after a good fight, tend to want to eat and find your mate."

"But then . . .when was the last time you hopped back up and go find a sparring room an hour later?" Dara said, softly, and Eli's arm tightened around Serana's shoulders again. "Oh, there was always an excuse. . . previous arrangement, set up with someone the day before, whatever. Took me until Rocam to notice that while I was lonely, I actually didn't miss the tension of being around him. And he's _always_ tense. _Always_ looking for a fight. It's. . . really maddening to be around." She looked at Serana directly. "Sorry if that's hard to hear, _amillula."_ She made a face. "I've spent the last five years with one foot hooked around his spur or holding his hand or anything else that calmed him down. And I honest to god thought that was what I was _supposed_ to be doing."

"What changed your mind?" Eli asked, breaking his silence.

Dara frowned. "Lot of things, I guess. While I was _relieved_ to find him okay on Khar'sharn. . . honest to god, hitting the ground there, that's the most alive I've felt in ages. And he's definitely been worse since Khar'sharn. . . or maybe, just having had a three-month break from it, it's just _felt_ worse. Illium, I guess, was part of it. Started to feel like I was a . . . thing. A convenience. A. . . whore." Dara sighed, and looked down. Eli realized that his teeth hurt right now, and that Lin's hand clenched on the back of the sofa, and Sam's eyes had gone glacial.

Dara swallowed, and went on, quietly. "Then there was Bastion, and I guess it all pretty much clicked then. And then, here." She shrugged, and pulled another piece of thread off a spool and slipped it through the eye of the needle. Swift, deft moves.

Sam sighed. "So, we don't let him fight. And we take away the other endorphin high he's come to rely on. And we try to replace it with. . . "

"The spirit of the pack," Lin said, his voice clipped. "It could work. Will break him out of his old habits and patterns, if nothing else." He paused. "It'll only work if he lets the spirits _in_, though."

Serana leaned forward, and her voice was concerned as she asked, "Dara. . . sister. . . will you go back to him? Eventually?"

_Say no!_ Eli wanted to shout, but it wasn't his damn place to say anything, so he kept his mouth shut. He and Lin had worked domestic violence call after domestic violence call in their first two years on Macedyn. And in over sixty percent of the cases, one of the partners had an addiction—or a 'habit of thought,' as Lin might prefer to say—and their mate kept coming _back._ The mate would get tired of the behavior—whatever it was: booze or red sand or gambling or beating on the mate—and would leave. The offending spouse would recant. Apologize. Beg for forgiveness. Swear to mend their ways, if only the mate would come back. And when they did, almost _inevitably_, he and Lin would be sent back, a week or a month later, to break up yet another fight. Co-dependency, his psychology course book called it. Eli called it the definition of insanity: doing the same thing, over and over again, with the expectation of different results.

Dara set the quilt aside and folded her hands. Took a deep breath. "No, Serana."

Eli could _feel_ Lin relax, at the same instant Serana tensed. It was the damnedest thing. "Good," Lin said, and with some force.

Serana's head swung up. "How can you _say_ that?" she asked, incredulous.

"Because I've seen what happens to people who go back, again and again and again," Lin said, with some force. "Ask Eli. We dragged more drug addicts and alcoholics and wife-beaters to the cells than either of us knew what to do with, and half the damned time, their mates took them _back_. Again and again. Because _this_ time, it would be _different_."

Eli exhaled. _Thank you, __fradu__. For saying what I couldn't._

Lin's face was remote and uncompromising. "You think you can be strong, little one?" he asked, turning and looking at Dara.

She looked down at her hands. "I have to be," Dara told him, raising her eyes again. "Sky showed me what would happen if I _wasn't_. I don't want to be the doctor who loses a patient in surgery because I'm _tired_ because I was up all night crying."

Eli relaxed. Completely. "Sounds like you already made your decision, then," he said, quietly.

Dara nodded, slowly. "Yeah. Mostly." She exhaled slowly. "That's why I wanted a damn week away. To be _sure_. All I know is, it's an incredible relief to be here. In this house. With my family." She looked at them all, and smiled. "And my friends."

Serana bolted from the couch, and Eli and Lin both looked up, startled, as she did. Turian stoicism was _not_ Serana's strong suit. _Dara_ looked startled as Serana flopped down by her, gracelessly, and hugged her knees. "I don't want to lose a sister," Serana told her. "I was so _excited_ when I _finally_ got an older sister."

Dara's hands had risen into the air, as if she were as unsure as a turian confronted with tears. She settled for putting a hand on Serana's fringe, very lightly. "I remember. And then you were mad, too. Because I was going away."

"And you told me to help Eli with his turian." Serana put her head down, muffling her voice.

Eli blinked. _That_, he hadn't known. _God, the ripples in our lives from a simple word or two. Would Serana really have fixed on me, as she did, if Dara __hadn't__ told her, as an older sister, 'hey, look after this male for me'? _It was a faintly disturbing thought, but might even have some truth to it.

Serana went on, quietly, "Kallixta doesn't want to lose you, either. But. . . I don't want _you_ to lose you." She paused. "If that makes sense."

Dara patted her head, looking a little helpless. "I'll always be your friend. I'll always be Kallixta's friend, too. Hell, I'll be Rinus', if he lets me. And _maybe_, someday in the future, I can be Rel's friend again, too. If he gets better. I just can't _live_ with him. I can't go through this again."

_But you will, if you go back. Trust me on this. Trust __Lin__ and your __dad__ on this, __sai'kaea__. I can't tell you this. But it's true._ Trying to _will_ the words into her head. Wishing he were a biotic, a little more asari than he actually was. Just this once. Except that then, he couldn't actually _think_ the words then, any more than he could _say_ them now.

Serana lifted her head. Looked straight into Dara's eyes. "Do you still love him?"

Dara's eyes went shadowed again. "I don't know, little one. I don't think so. And I'd really rather get out before it turns to hate. Any way you slice it, it's going to be a bitch working together in the future. . . which we might wind up doing." She grimaced. "But it'll be _much_ harder to do that if I wind up hating him."

_You might not have any choice about that, __sai'kaea__,_ Eli wanted to say as he looked at them. Two females he cared about more than any other, in the same room. If his mom had been there, it would have been a trifecta, but for the moment, his personal sun and moon were in eclipse, and all he could do was watch them, when what he _really_ wanted to do was put his arms around both of them. Tell them that change wasn't necessarily _bad_. That sometimes, it was needed and healthy and allowed people to grow. So many things he _wanted_ to say, and he couldn't say any of them.

Lin cleared his throat and leaned forward. "So, well. _Tal'mae?_" He spread his hands. _What can you do?_

Dara was still lightly stroking Serana's head, but she looked up now. Eyes still lost in shadow. "Don't know how this will work. I don't want to tank his chances any worse in the trials by telling him this while they're still going on."

Eli glanced at Sam's face. From the expression there, he didn't think Rel's chances were great at the moment, anyway. _But can't say she's not being as fair as she can be_, he decided.

Serana now, looking up at her. "But, like Lin just said. . ._tal'mae_, Dara!"

Sam cleared his throat. "I've taken a little peek at _Mindoir_ law. Dara's still a legal resident of Mindoir. Never changed it. Six month's separation before you can file for divorce or annulment. Only problem might be that you can't serve military personnel with papers while they're deployed." Sam shrugged. "Or, you know. I put Dara up in a hotel in Reno or Las Vegas on Earth for six weeks, which establishes residency, and she gets it done pretty much overnight. Assuming he'll sign the damn papers." Sam looked up at the ceiling.

Eli sighed. _And I think we're safe in assuming that Rel won't. Not without a fight._

"Annulment?" Lin asked, blankly.

"Says the marriage never happened. Usually done for religious reasons. But can be used in cases when, say, a marriage was undertaken under false pretenses. Such as when someone successfully hid a serious mental condition, and the spouse who married them would never have said 'I do' if they'd known what was going on." Sam rocked a hand back and forth. "Arguable. I'm sure some turian adjudicator would love to say that after four years, Dara should've damned well known what was going on."

Lin scowled. "And why would she? It's one thing if you're on the outside, looking in, and haven't seen the person in four years. . . then, you can see a change. If you're living it . . . " He frowned. "Hell, _I_ didn't see it. I'm _turian_, and I _am_ an outsider. And I've seen this _s'kak_ before." Lin shook his head. "I should have. The fact that he can't even relax around family and friends should have been a tip-off." Lin looked annoyed. Shame-anger, probably. "A week ago, I told Eli I'd follow Rel into _fire_, because of how he's always led. By pure inspiration. But that I'd follow Eli into darkness and uncertainty. Because I know that Eli would be by my side every step of the way."

Eli shifted uncomfortably. Words like that, said in the dark, among friends, were one thing. But said in front of Sam, or Lantar, or anyone else?

Dara glanced up. "Well, yeah. But when you follow someone into fire, it's the _certainty_ of death, or at least of pain. When you follow someone into darkness, you're following them into _uncertainty_. Fear. The possibility of never coming back. The unknown _is_ scarier than certainty. . . but even darkness has the possibility of being lit up sometime in the future." She smiled, faintly. "Two different people for two different types of task, Lin."

"Yeah, but my point is, if I'd connected all the dots, I might not have said it," Lin replied, sharply. "I'll put my life on the line, sure, but I have to trust my commander."

Sam grinned at Lin. "Can I hire you? Maybe get you in as a witness? More seriously, I'm, ah, looking into retaining the law firm of Maxwell, Anders, and Tsao for this." He looked at Dara. "_If_ you'll let me, sweetie. Not like Maxwell hasn't done some pretty high-profile cases dealing with Alliance and Hierarchy law before."

Eli's mouth dropped open. "Thaddius Maxwell?" he repeated. "The spokesman for CAIR?"

Sam grinned. "AI rights, human rights. It's all the same, right?"

They said their good-byes for the evening. Lin gave Dara a tight, and very human hug, resting his chin atop her head for a moment. Dara looked so surprised when he was done, that she didn't even react as Serana hugged her, too. And then Eli was free to hug her, too. Hold her tightly, and try to let his grip on her say all the words he wasn't _able_ to say the rest of the evening. He passed his hand over her hair, lightly. "See you in the morning, _sai'kaea_," he told her quietly. "And. . .thank you. For . . . fixing things."

Dara gave him a wry smile. "It's what I do," she told him.

In the barracks, Eli looked down at Serana as they were getting ready for bed. "Little one," he began, quietly. "I haven't. . . I mean, I haven't made you feel like—"

Serana turned. Reached up, and put a finger on his lips. "No," she told him, very softly. "What's going on with you, and me, and Lin is about more than just bodies. Letting off steam. Our spirits touch, Eli. Yours and mine and his." Her eyes were sad. "Rel lost his spirit somewhere, so of course it's just about bodies for him now. Of course Dara's felt it." Soft, gentle words, no more than a bare whisper. "And no matter what the future brings, I will not regret one thing that we've done, or remember it in anger."

Eli swallowed, hard. "Thank you," he told her, quietly. It hurt. Oh, it _hurt_ to think of Serana passing out of his life. . . but she never _really_ would. Even if she _did_ join her life to Lin's, she'd still be there. And, as he'd thought earlier today. . . change didn't have to be bad. Sometimes, change was necessary.

The next day was Saturday, and, to no one's real surprise, there were fewer candidates here today. From thirty-six down to twenty-one. Eli was fascinated. He knew that Kirrahe, for example, had been a fatality at one point. So had Fors. So had Eli himself, for that matter. That didn't seem to be a factor.

"This is our final day this week," Shepard said to them all as they disembarked from the shuttles that had taken them down from the mountains and into the eastern desert region. A harsh area, made of hard-packed clay and stone. Small, waist-high bushes sprang up every few feet. But nothing else, for as far as the eye could see to the east. "Depending on results, we may have one more day next week, two at most. But tomorrow, you'll have the day off. Today, however, we simulate a live combat exercise."

Stirrings of interest from the more military-oriented personnel around them. Shepard pointed as a Mako, huge and old-fashioned, lumbered up behind her. "In this area, there is a series of canyons, cut by creeks and flashfloods. In these creek beds are wounded personnel. Your objective is to rescue them and get them to the objective, which is a medical treatment facility on the other side of this zone." An aerogel screen popped up behind her, and showed a map, briefly. There was a wide oval, more or less, crisscrossed by four northeast-southwest gullies, and one gulley that, unusually, cut northwest-southeast. For a moment, Eli thought he was looking at the map of a huge city, with many, many streets.

Shepard continued, "The canyons are your safest route. They're also where the wounded are. If you try to go overland, you will be targeted by people with, well, the paintball equivalent of _Malleolus_ missiles and machine guns in one of fourteen pillboxes scattered around the area." She grinned. "Those _aren't_ on the map, by the way."

Collective sighs. Shepard went on. "At each gate, you can hack your way through, or you can go up, briefly, over and around the obstacle. A score of five living personnel retrieved is enough to pass the exercise. Each one past that, represents a bonus. Oh, and the clock on each person starts ticking the moment you start the course. People with medical training, may, of course, attempt to effect first aid on the wounded to keep them alive." She smiled, and it was not a comforting sight at all. "Any questions?"

_Yeah. Are you __really__ enjoying this as much as it looks like you are?_

The groups were pulled out again. Eli was delighted by his; there was an irony to it. He, Dara, and Dempsey. "Well," Dempsey said, coming over to stand with them. "Looks like old times, huh?"

"Not a bad group at all," Eli said, grinning. "Dara, if you need help with the wounded, I _do_ have certification in three species now. But I have a feeling I'm going to be driving. . . and Dempsey will be on turret duty."

Dara nodded, her expression suddenly alight. "Keep the turrets and whatever Spectres they have lurking in the underbrush off of me, and I should be okay. Might need help carrying in the worst cases." She looked upwards. "And they better not have Mazz or Tulluust out there, playing dead, is all I'm saying. They can get their _own_ enormous bodies into the Mako on their own."

Lin, Rinus and Siara were grouped together, which looked solid. Kirrahe Orlan, Fors, and a drell tech were grouped together. . . no medic, but at least one technician. Zhasa, Thell, and Melaani were together. . . which might mean that that group _might_ not have medic. Rel, Makur, and Seheve rounded out the 'Mindoir' groups.

"Group one, Dempsey, James, Sidonis, Elijah, Velnaran, Dara, step up!"

"What are you thinking?" Dempsey asked, eyes narrow, as they tramped up the ramp into the Mako. "Around the edge, or through the middle?"

Eli glanced at the _very_ limited map they'd been given. "Middle, if you think you can get us through all the gates." He was getting into to the driver's seat of the Mako, and shaking his head. The controls were a lot different than a ground- or aircar, but he'd driven one of these. Once. In OCS. "Let me guess. You've both handled these behemoths before?"

"OCS, up on Dymion," Dara said, making a face. "It was better than drop training. But only by a little bit."

Dempsey snorted. "Yeah. But you've got the medical training to help the doc out, so I'll be covering you both with the guns whenever we stop."

"Right," Eli said, and got the engine started. "Hold on." He turned and grinned at Dara. "I'll understand if you want to close your eyes now, _sai'kaea_."

"Oh, god help me," Dara muttered, sat down, and pulled the restraining bar down in front of her.

Eli _laughed_ and floored it.

Altogether, it was actually a little fun. Again, no real consequences for failure. Dara used those sharp eyes of hers to point out the first 'wounded' person as they careened up to the first northeast gate. "Oh, look, right in range of the turrets on the gate," Eli muttered, and let the Mako come to a halt. He turned the huge vehicle sideways, to give Dara cover as she bolted out the hatch, and Dempsey started returning fire at the turrets with the heavy gun on the roof, which made the entire vehicle shudder and shake with the impact and recoil. "You need help?" Eli shouted out after her.

"No! Get ready to move again!" Dara shouted back. Out of the hatch, Eli could see Dara get her arms under the first victim's armpits, clasp them at the sternum, and simply dragged the human male back up the ramp. Set him down, and let the hatch close behind her as she started checking pupils and respiration and administering 'medigel' and putting pressure on the 'wounds.' He didn't have time to watch, because he was getting them _moving_ again, full speed for the gate. Dempsey was completely emotionless. Just silently shooting at the damn turrets. "Shields are approaching critical," Eli told him.

"Mine aren't," Dempsey muttered. "Open the damn hatch."

And out he went, stepping right over Dara's body as she worked on the prone form in the back of the Mako, and then Dempsey was outside, getting the attention of the last turret. Eli swore and got out of the pilot's seat, trying to get into the vehicle's gun seat, and as he was aiming and getting ready to fire, stopped and stared. The turret had stopped firing. And was, in fact, rapidly ejecting all its ammunition. _Nice. Glad he's on our side._

Then Dempsey ripped open a panel on the gate and began working with it. Thirty seconds later, the gate was opening, and Dempsey was running back to the Mako, pounding up the ramp and vaulting up into the gun seat again, while Eli was buckling back into the pilot's seat. "How's our first patient?" Eli asked Dara.

"Stable. Try to miss a few bumps now and again, though. For variety's sake," she told him, crisply.

"Ah, but where's the fun in that?" Eli asked her.

Beyond the gate, a choice. Ahead, around the wide loop of roads, but fewer gates. Less risk. To the right, down a narrow gulley, taking them into the heart of the firefight. _Right it is_, Eli thought, and turned the Mako. It was a _clumsy_ beast, and cornered like a pregnant sow. And it rattled till he thought his kidneys or teeth were going to shake loose.

"Next gate, next victim!" Dempsey called from their turret. This time, the victim was in the _middle_ of the damned gulley, lying prone. No way to turn the vehicle and use it as a shield.

"Just get me close," Dara told Eli. "This is why they give me the heavy armor and shields."

"This is not the time to be going for your fourth _commina narthecium_ with blue ribbon, _sai'kaea_."

"Fifth," Dara commented, dryly, grabbing her medical bag.

Eli's head jerked up. "We'll talk about _that_ later. Right now, I'm coming with you. Dempsey, cover us." Eli grabbed his shield and damned well made sure Dara got to her patient safely. This one was, fortunately, a salarian male. With paintballs slamming into his shield as he crouched in front of them, Eli glanced back, and made sure Dara got the male over her shoulder in a fireman's carry. "You good?"

"Got him. Let's go."

And then hustling back to the Mako, and moving up again. At each gate, Dempsey looked as if his head were _killing_ him as he got back aboard the vehicle. "You okay?" Dara asked him quickly at the third gate.

"Head hurts like hell. Trying not to use any biotics other than my shield. The chip doesn't get along well with the biotics."

"There's _got_ to be something we can do about that," Dara called back, and then _swore_ as Eli ran over a waist-high boulder with the Mako. "Damn it, Eli, I've got patients back here. Pretend it's a carton of eggs rolling around or something."

"Have a word with the city council, Dara. There's a hell of a lot of potholes in these roads," Eli tossed back, grinning as he zigazagged and headed them for their fourth gate. Then the fifth. That got them five people aboard, all of whom were either sitting up, looking woozy, or lying on the floor, Dara crouched over them . . . and keeping up a low-toned monologue. All about his driving, from the words that filtered through occasionally. "Okay, you want to try for more?" he called back.

"Yeah. Would if this were for-real," Dara called up to him. "We've got room for two more. Everyone's stable. Let's get our people home."

_If the pattern holds, then there should be . . . yeah. Back into the middle again._

The sixth gate, at the heart of the combat zone, was the worst, by far. In addition to the turrets, the narrow gulley, and the wounded patient in the middle of it all, there were missiles and mortars going off overhead. The 'enemy' knew they were here, and were attempting to catch them. Eli swore and just did his best to keep Dara covered, though at least one 'mortar' went off near them, splattering them both, while Dempsey again took out the gate turrets. "I think I've decided that I like cop work better," Eli shouted as he got the Mako going again. "Much less likely to see missiles. Well, other than when I've gone after paramilitary extremists, that is."

Dara had 'stabilized' their latest rescue, and was pulling herself up into the cockpit, trying to time her steps between bounces and jounces. "For the love of _god_, Eli, drive _straight_."

"What? You didn't like how I drove _last_ time. Too fast, too many lane changes. This time, there's only one lane, and I can't go nearly as fast." Eli chuckled as she started 'treating' his wounds. "Feels like I just can't win."

"Shut up, Elijah Sidonis."

Then, finally, gate seven. . .a gulley so narrow that the Mako actually tipped up on its side, one set of treads on the rock wall to their right, to Dara's vehement displeasure as she and half her patients slid to the left. . . and then, as they pulled into the wider gulley again, an _unmarked_ gate eight. "We put any more people on this vehicle, we're not going to be able to move," Dempsey warned.

"We can't _leave_ them!" Dara shouted back.

"I know. Might have to get out and push, though," Dempsey replied, voice completely without inflection.

At least _this_ gate was away from most of the pillboxes. . . and the gulley was wide enough to turn the Mako and take the bullets again. Which was good; Eli had to help _carry_ this victim. Because it was, in fact, a krogan. Who, when he opened his bulbous eyes and winked at them, turned out to be Mazz. "Some vacation," Eli told his old friend as they moved him as fast as they could into the Mako.

"Totally worth lying in the dirt all day to have the two of you come _rescue_ me," Mazz told him, grinning.

"You better be down with _something_ that suspends your healing process, or you can get out and _walk_," Dara warned him.

Eli guffawed and got back into the pilot's chair. The controls _were_ sluggish now. They had _eight_ people aboard, which they couldn't have anticipated. He'd figured they'd have random people throughout the course. He found the engine boost and got them over a boulder, managed to get some traction and inertia working in their favor, and then they _crawled_ to the finish line.

Time: forty minutes. Eight recovered people, however. Every last one of whom was alive at the end.

Dempsey, on exiting the Mako, asked, grimly, for an aspirin. "Maybe five or six," he added, rubbing his temples. Then they piled into the reviewing stands to watch how the rest of the candidates fared.

"So," Eli asked Dara. "Do I make a decent ambulance driver after all?"

Dara smiled. "Yeah. We got 'em all there. That's what counts." She grinned suddenly. "Remind me to tell you about escaping the Lystheni orbital base with one engine of the shuttle in pieces, and trying to keep Livanus' heart beating while Kallixta was fighting the shockwave of the station blowing up behind us."

Eli just froze, staring at her. After a long moment, he said, quietly, "Yeah. I'll probably want a drink or two while listening, though."

Dara considered that. "Sounds like a plan. What's good, anyway?"

Eli squinted at her. "What do you mean, what's good?"

Dara shrugged. "Five years on turian worlds and SR ships. I can't drink _caprificus_ brandy, and never really got close enough to any of my human co-workers to be invited to their quarters for a drink, really. So. . . Yeah. What's good?"

Eli looked over at Dempsey. There was a _very_ faint hint of a smile on the man's face, and Eli started to laugh. "I'll expand your education later, _sai'kaea._ Serana, Lin, and I can take you out on the _town._ Well, at least to Gardner's."

Siara, Rinus, and Lin repeated their team's strategies, almost exactly. Rinus handled the guns and the tech work, Siara scrambled out to recover wounded personnel, and Lin drove and defended Siara. They took a less central route, and Siara's first aid was adequate, but nowhere near as good as Dara's, for obvious reasons of training. They recovered seven people, but one 'died' in transit. And clocked in with a slightly faster time: thirty eight minutes.

Siara flopped down in the stands next to Dara and scrubbed at her face, scowling. "I would _love_ to know how I'm supposed to keep them alive when the damned vehicle just turned _upside down_," she muttered. "People might not have been _really_ injured to start with, but after we all _landed_ on each other? For Vaul's sake!"

Dara looked alarmed. "Is everyone okay? Do they have real doctors over there for broken bones—"

Siara chuffed between her teeth. "Yeah. Bruises, contusions. We're fine."

Lin chuckled, and looked apologetic. "Sorry. That last boulder was a doozy."

Eli elbowed Dara in her armored ribs. "And to think you thought _I_ was a bad driver."

Rinus sat down behind them, rubbing his fringe, where he'd apparently bumped his head in the Mako rollover. Then he patted Dara's shoulder. "Hey. How you doing, _amillula_?"

"Better," Dara told him, turning and looking up at him.

"Kallixta wants to come by tonight and talk to you. Should I tell her you're still hiding from anyone with the clan name Velnaran?" It was _almost_ a tease. Rinus did such things with a straight face, though.

"You're both welcome, if you want to come over," Dara told him, smiling. "Eli, Serana, and Lin came over last night."

The next group was Kirrahe Orlan, Fors, and a drell engineer who'd managed to avoid elimination for several rounds now, Yadin Galanos. Watching the screens this time was an education. Kirrahe had a _little_ first aid, but he was also the most effective fighter. Galanos could get them through any of the obstacles they faced, and could hack the turrets, which was more than Rinus had been able to do. . . which left Fors in the turret of the Mako, since he was completely unable to drive. Galanos and Kirrahe wound up having to go outside together every single time, and Galanos was the one trying to defend Kirrahe while the salarian dragged the wounded to the Mako. "Well, he doesn't give up," Dara said, wincing visibly as Kirrahe was splattered, repeatedly, with paintballs from a turret that had come unhacked. "Never stops trying."

"Bad group makeup," Eli replied, wincing himself now. "No one who can deflect the hits. . . and Galanos isn't using the Mako to shield them, when he can."

"He probably doesn't want to have to fix it again to get it started," Dempsey commented, cynically. "I hated fixing ours in the field, back in the day. Pieces of shit could drop on a damned planet, fall down a cliff, and then blow a manifold, and then you were stuck till someone could come _rescue_ you."

Fors came over to check in with Eli and Lin while their scores were being announced. . . five live people. Just barely. One had 'died' halfway through the course, which meant that they'd had to go _back_ out for another casualty. Fors snuffled gloomily, "I offered to put singularity on the people they were trying to carry back, to make it easier, but nooooo."

**Zhasa, June 11, 2196**

_Oh, Keelah and my ancestors,_ she thought, looking up at Thell. "Will you _fit_ on a Mako?" she asked, feeling her eyes widen behind her visor.

"If I duck my head, yes. Regretfully, I will be unable to drive. Additionally, I will attempt to distribute my weight across the chassis, so as not to unbalance the vehicle."

Zhasa fought down the urge to laugh. The big eyes were almost mournful, and the tone apologetic. "The trials have been rough on you, haven't they, Thelldaroon?" she said, putting a hand on his shoulder, and reaching out to _touch_ the elcor at the same time. She'd expected something as soft and weathered-looking as his gray hide, or perhaps a sensation not unlike a burlap bag. Instead, cool stone and the sizzle of electricity. He had a powerful, intelligent mind, attuned to machines, of course, but this was the first contact she'd really had with the elcor.

"They have been an education," Thell admitted, calmly. "My species cannot _quite_ manage many of the things required. My body forces others to work around it, time and time again."

"Melaani, please tell me you have _some_ medic experience," the quarian female said next.

The asari smiled faintly. "Seventy years as a cop. Fifty of those years undercover in one mercenary group or paramilitary organization or another. Yes. I can bandage pretty well at this point."

Zhasa sighed, and considered the problem. Thell obviously couldn't drive the Mako. Melaani could, but was needed as a medic. Zhasa could, and could defend Melaani, but couldn't stay on the guns and do both. Zhasa _could_ overload the turrets and handle the gates. But then again. . . so could Thell.

Zhasa sighed. "All right. As a group, we _could_ probably go through the middle. Just working as a team, we'd make it through, no problem. But the focus has got to be on the wounded. So we're going to go around the side, and retrieve the people we can, and get them to safety as quickly as possible. Thell, you're going to advance on the gates each time, disable the turrets, and unlock the gates. If you get into trouble, yell, and I'll come help. In the meantime, I'll be protecting Melaani and helping to carry the wounded." She looked at Melaani. "Unless you see a better way?"

Melaani shook her head. "Unfortunately, no. Let's go."

Zhasa got into the driver's seat in the cockpit, and started them off to the southwest bend of the wide outer loop. This first time, she was able to use the vehicle to block the shots coming from the turrets, while Melaani took care of the first wounded person, an asari, and Thell moved up at a steady shamble, set one turret to attacking the other, and unlocked the gate with quiet ease. His shields had taken an absolute storm of paintballs, but he hadn't been the only target; the Mako had taken quite a few rounds as well.

Back inside, continuing to the southeast now. Another gate, another victim. Zhasa swore as a missile from one of the 'pillboxes' inside the combat zone actually found them, and the Mako's shields buckled. _Damnit, am I going to have to fix this bucket of bolts?_

This time, she couldn't get the Mako between the guns and the wounded, so she lifted her hands and held up a barrier around herself and Melaani as the asari struggled to 'stabilize' their victim, and Thell shambled past them toward the gate. Zhasa watched anxiously as paintballs pinged off the shield. She had rarely put the damned thing to the test in real combat. Hated relying on it, in fact, because paintballs were one thing. Bullets, wrapped in mass effect fields? Something entirely else. "Can you hold that over us as we move?" Melaani shouted over the steady thump-thump-thump of the turret.

"No! Sorry!"

And then running back to the Mako. Now, even harder to make the approach to the third gate, because Melaani had to keep an eye on her patients, and couldn't do that _and_ man the turret at the same time in the Mako. _This isn't going to go well,_ Zhasa thought, and sure enough, this time, the turrets did so much damage to the Mako, that it broke through the shields, and she and Thell had to settle in and 'repair' the damned thing before they could move on. At this point, Thell was trying, hard, to keep the various patients in the hold from sliding around. Fortunately, they _couldn't_ slide far. They continuously slid right into his feet. "How are the patients doing?" Zhasa called back to Melaani.

"Not good," Mel called back. "One of them has readings indicative of shock."

Finally, around the final bend, the final, fifth gate. Zhasa was _seriously_ unamused when she realized that the last victim they were picking up was a krogan. _Keelah, the Spectres must be laughing wherever they're watching __this__ from,_ she thought. "Thell! Pick him up and move him to the Mako. I'll take care of the gate and turrets!"

Not waiting to see if Thell obeyed, Zhasa _leaped_ forward, tumbling forward to land behind one of the two turrets, and overloaded the one opposite her. Neither apparatus had been able to track her worth a damn, and _behind_ the right turret was out of its attack range. It _was,_ however, pelting Thell as he scooped the krogan up onto his massive back and turned to shamble away. _All right. . . and now I overload __you__, too. _ Zhasa hopped down and began working on the door with her omnitool, and, on seeing it start to open, scrambled back for the Mako.

Inside, it was almost too crowded for her to _get_ to the cockpit. And the damned machine _groaned_ as she started it up again and settled it into gear. "We may have exceeded the design specifications for weight," Thell told her, mournfully.

"Design specifications always have a little fudge factor for stupidity built in," Zhasa told him, and looked up at the Mako. "Let's hope the human engineers who designed it decided to account for a lot of stupidity."

They creaked across the finish line, and Zhasa exhaled in relief. They'd kept all five people alive. . . somehow. . . although one was attempting to simulate a heart attack at the end, much to Melaani's cheerfully voiced cry of "Oh, come on, we're almost there! Your heart will hold out for two more minutes, won't it?" which made everyone in the crowded vehicle start to laugh.

She hopped out of the vehicle and looked around the stands. Found the knot of people she'd come to rely on and trust, and Dempsey was there, patting the open bench beside him. Zhasa opened her mind as soon as she sat down.

"Thirty-five minutes, sweetie. You came in ahead of us. No fatalities. Nice."

"Your squad brought in _eight people_?" Zhasa said, in mild shock.

"The doc said 'we leave no one behind' and I wasn't going to argue with her. One of those people could've been me." Dempsey looked down at her. "Your Mako was too crowded to bring in that many, as is, sweetie. No shame in that."

_I feel bad for Thelldaroon. He feels like a millstone around everyone's necks._

_Very specialized hammer. Best for breaking very specific rocks. Seems like a good guy, though._

Dara leaned forward, across Elijah and Dempsey. "Zhasa, you probably hear this a lot. . . but seriously. You and that bubble can stand right on top of me any day of the week while I'm treating people."

And then two more squads went, with people in them that Zhasa had never been teamed up with. Both brought in five people, taking the long outer transit, and one team had an injured person 'die' in transit across the finish line, which disqualified the whole team, since they had only four people arrive alive. A previous team had had someone die before going across the finish line, and had retrieved one extra body before coming in. There was _griping_ over this on the team who'd been disqualified.

Melaani turned around, and commented, dryly, "Hey, our team had someone go into cardiac arrest near the finish line, too. I started 'CPR' and they survived. You're not the only ones. So stop complaining, all right? It won't make the result any better." Her smile told them she empathized, and understood, and joined in their frustration. . . and they subsided. _Interesting_, Zhasa thought.

That left only one team to go. Rellus, Makur, and Seheve. Linianus shook his head from one row above in the stands. "They're having the _assassin_ work as a medic?"

"Any port in a storm," Dara told him, but her tone was dubious. "I guess if she knows where to cut, she at least knows where to put pressure to stop bleeding, is the theory. Except. . . isn't she the one who has the best chance of decrypting the doors and dealing with the turrets?"

Siara muttered, "Well, they wouldn't have had as good a chance with putting Makur on either job. . . oh, _Vaul._ No, Makur, please don't. . . "

Zhasa's eyes widened as the krogan simply walked forward, firing his shotgun steadily at the turrets. Between his biotic shields, armor, and regeneration, he was simply chiseling away at them, while drawing their fire. Siara was now watching from between her fingers, but her eyes were _very_ bright suddenly. After a minute, she lifted her head, and _pride_ simply beamed out of her. "Probably wouldn't work with real bullets," she admitted, immediately, "but look at him go!"

In the meantime, Rellus and Seheve had lifted the first victim back into the Mako. Rellus made imperative gestures for Makur to _get back inside_ on the screen, and the krogan finally did so. Then they simply _ignored_ the gate. "They're going over," Rinus said, sounding appalled. "Are they the first team to try that?"

"Yep," Elijah replied, leaning back on the bench, making it creak. "Here's hoping they don't decide to cut through the middle that way. So far, it's been a relatively intelligent approach." His tone was very dry for some reason, and Zhasa didn't quite understand why. There were subtexts and undercurrents here that went beyond her.

"There they go. Around the outside," Linianus said, in a tone of relief.

"Yeah, but they'll only pick up five that way. . . if they lose even one person. . . " Rinus muttered, "they'll be stuck going through the middle anyway."

Again and again, the Mako was hammered as it emerged from the gulley to avoid the gate and then dropped back down again. "Who's driving, Rel or Makur?" Eli asked.

"Makur's on the turret, from the look of it," Siara told him, wincing as the Mako slipped over the rim of the cliff and landed. On its roof. "Okay, Lin? You're off the hook. You flipped us over a boulder. They just fell off a cliff."

"And you'll notice that it's turning itself back over again," Dempsey pointed out. "Resilient damned machine. Crews inside. . . organic goo, but a tough damned machine."

The final team staggered across the finish line, their Mako technically within the redline area for many critical systems. But they had five living people on board. And a forty-five minute time.

Zhasa was _fascinated_ by the interplay of the people around her. It was _exactly_ like being on a ship again. She knew most of these people now. Knew their faces and their touch. And, open as she was to Dempsey, she could feel a little of everyone else around them at the moment, too. Rellus came closer. Still as hot as an overloading drive core. . . and Dara turned to ice-coated thorns. Linianus became thunderclouds, threatening rain and wind, and Elijah. . . the steel shone through the outer coverings. Rinus warmed, though there was a hint of caution to him. "Not too bad, second-brother," he said, encouragingly. "Good use of squad resources."

"Yeah," Rel said, quietly. "I know how to do that much."

**Shepard, June 11, 2196**

Shepard had four or five missions open in front of her, and was trying to assign personnel to each of them, while simultaneously looking through the candidacy logs. Sam and Lantar were meticulous judges, as was Garrus. Plus she had her own notes, from when she'd actually been _able_ to watch any of the events that she started each morning. And she had Sky's cryptic observations. Which, if nothing else, served to make her _laugh_.

Melaani T'soa had simply impressed everyone with quiet competence. She'd infiltrated the Eclipse Sisters, the Memories of Thessia, and the Goddess' Path over the years. Each time taking on a different persona, completely. A hardened mercenary, an outraged paramilitary, a religious zealot, respectively. She was a chameleon, which made her hard to judge in circumstances like this. . . which is where Sky's perspective came in so useful, as had the Sower device's ability to flip through her two hundred years of memories. The asari had been _shocked_ by the experience, but had accepted it as a form of very gentle sharing. One mediated by technology and overseen by Sky, who _listened_, but did not invade, and did not give his Spectre audience every detail of her life. A picture had emerged—a loyal, dedicated person, with a strong identity at her core. Early in life, she'd wanted to be a classical dancer, in a mode similar to Earth's ballet. A bomb planted at the local theater had destroyed it, and had angered her enough for her to decide to search for paths towards justice. Simple enough. She'd shown good team skills, adapting fluidly to whomever she was with, but had yet to demonstrate leadership. A chameleon. She'd go along with anyone to get the job done. The question was, did she have the intangibles, the things that made someone a Spectre? _Tentative pass._

Kirrahe Orlan was evidently trying to live up to his famous uncle's name. The salarian put himself in positions of risk, taking fire for others when needed, but needed seasoning. He was, in the main, a walking turret. _Was I ever this young?_ Shepard wondered. _No. . . young isn't the right word. Unidirectional, I suppose. And still, the answer, I think, is no. My mom educated me in the classics. My dad educated me in xenobiology. The Academy taught me environmental engineering and fighting and guns and everything else. Kirrahe has time. Not a lot, as a salarian, but they're fast learners. He'll be an asset to a team, but he's not a Spectre yet._

Siara Tesana. . . what a difference a few years made. From an angry, inwards-turned girl, to a fierce-eyed creature who would take on the entire asari civilization with a smile, or a pack of charging vorcha with equal aplomb. Could slap on a bandage or devastate an enemy with her biotics. And leadership? What else could you call going to Tuchanka and being a _schoolteacher?_ Leader, pioneer, rebel. All a matter of perspective and wording. _Pass._

Makur, her mate? Less leadership. Makur was a follower, but Shepard could see potential, and so could Lantar and Garrus, both of whom pointed out that he had the capacity for self-sacrifice that was one of their highest recruiting goals. Standing in front of the turrets today had surely shown some of that. _Tentative pass._

Galanos, the drell tech, hadn't impressed anyone overly. He'd gotten along this far simply out of having been placed with strong groups. He showed no initiative. No leadership. Competent, but then, Shepard had plenty of competent techs on base. _Rejected, but with thanks for enduring the candidacy process._

"Garrus?" Shepard called out of her office, into the rest of their living quarters. "I have a wild and crazy idea."

Garrus, with their pet _lanura_ on his hand, came into the room. He'd been cleaning its cage, evidently. "Wilder and crazier than _waking up_ the Keepers on the Citadel?"

"Hey, that was not actually _my_ crazy idea. For the record, that's someone else's notion entirely." Lilu smiled at her husband. "How about if we create a _probationary Spectre_ rank? For the ones we think might be okay in a few years, but just aren't there yet?"

Garrus' mandibles flexed. "Like who?"

"Makur, for one. And while Blasto and Sky _both_ keep saying that Seheve Liakos will be fine. . . I have problems with putting an _assassin_ outside the law. Thelldaroon, who's a hell of a tech and a more than adequate user of heavy weapons and all. . . .but. . . "

"Limited ability to use standard humanoid tech and vehicles, requires _very_ creative problem-solving by every squad he's in. Shows the most flexible mindset of any elcor I've ever met. . . and yet, no evident leadership skills," Garrus promptly summarized.

"Yeah. That. I don't want to turn him away. The elcor would _love_ to have a Spectre to point to in pride. But I won't give them one, unless I'm sure he or she _is_ a Spectre. So. . . maybe probationary. So we can see, over a longer period of time, how he fits in." Lilu paused. "And, well. . . . then there's Rel." Lilu sighed.

Garrus shook his head. "Don't do it just because he's my kin."

"Not just for him. I've got four here that need time to develop, and _should_ develop _with_ us. And I've got a big class of 'pass' students here, too."

Garrus let the _lanura_ light on her desk, and came around to look at the datapads with her. "Lin? Pallum's going to be annoyed that Praetorian Guard doesn't get him."

"Takes command of _almost_ every squad he's on, but works and plays well with others. Finds ways to be of use, or to protect others. Lethal, nonlethal, great investigative record. Personal life is . . . a work in progress, apparently. But on the professional level, a no-brainer. Pass."

Garrus tapped on Dempsey's name next. "Didn't let the pain overwhelm him today. Still think he might go _nuts_. . . and isn't that our concern about Rel? That the hunger for combat will make him step over the line?"

"Sky's simulation showed Dempsey holding control. Doesn't mean he _won't_ snap for some reason, but Zhasa's a stabilizing influence. The integrity, the _person_ is still there, under the tech. We don't assign them to separate ships if we can avoid it, but they might need to anchor two different squads. Skill sets are too similar to always go together. Pass, Garrus."

"Zhasa did show leadership and initiative today. I'd thought she was more of a stabilizing influence, like Lin tends to be. And I can see her utility in any squad. I say pass to her, yeah."

"And I agree." Shepard ticked off that box. "Rinus is a no-brainer. Leader when he needs to be, steadying influence on anyone he come in contact with. Technical brilliance and unshakable in the field. Huge core of integrity. Allardus is going to be over the moon, Garrus."

Garrus grinned at her. "Solanna will beat him there. And then perch there, worrying." He sighed, and tapped the name of Fors Luka. "I vote yes on him. Not as problematic as poor Thelldaroon. Enormous biotic potential. . . good core of integrity and flexibility. And has a sense of humor, solid sense of _self_. All good things. And already pretty much stands outside of regular volus society as is."

Lilu leaned her head back. "Agreed, on all counts. Which brings us to the last two. Lantar's son and Sam's daughter."

"I see they only reviewed each others' kids," Garrus noted with amusement. "Ever the spirits of integrity, those two."

Shepard looked over the two files. On paper, absolutely incredible what the two young people had accomplished since coming to Mindoir. The list of medals and citations on both of them, if printed out, would probably be the length of her arm. The teamwork was phenomenal. The integrity, the loyalty, unimpeachable. Both of them embodying the concept of 'leave no one behind.' And yet, the personal lives. . . in question. Although both were, apparently, making clear, firm, decisive moves to take care of those matters. Elijah was, currently, stronger emotionally, after a dark period on Edessan. Bastion had taken a toll on both of them, as it had on all the candidates who were there. And Dara. . . well, Dara was in for a long, hard road. One that Shepard didn't envy her in the least. She sighed. "I say pass to both of them. Sky says Dara will be fine. . . and I have yet to hear that big old bug be _wrong_ about someone's mental state."

Garrus nodded, looking down for a moment. "So, _probationary_ Spectres? The Council will love that. What does that exactly entail?"

"No black armor. No title. They stay inside the law. They report to Spectres. They work with Spectres. They grow and develop." Shepard looked at him, and smiled, faintly. "Allardus and Solanna really can't have _two_ sons tapped as Spectres on the same day. They'd _pop_ from over-inflated pride, and then we'd have to sweep up the pieces."

Garrus snorted. "Right. Well, that doesn't really seem all that different from what we've done in the past with likely candidates. Just gives an existing position a name. A sop to everyone's pride, Lilu? Is it necessary?"

She thought about it, as the _lanura_ hopped down into her lap, and Garrus gently began to rub her shoulders for her. "Necessary? Maybe not. But I think it'll give everyone, on several different worlds, even, a bit of a morale lift. Needed, after the past weeks. And as you said. . . it's no different than we've done before. Just gives it a name."

_And yet, names have power. For once you've defined something, you've both called it into being, and limited it._

**Dara, June 12, 2196**

Kallixta had indeed come over the night before, after the trials, with Rinus. A quick, tight wrist-clasp, and a heartfelt, "Oh, _Dara_, what a mess!" was her greeting. And then in a tone of absolute wretchedness, Kallixta added, "I should have _guessed_ something was wrong when you weren't excited about pledging _tal'mae_. When you left every single detail up to me, as if it were my wedding." Kallixta looked hurt. "Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

Dara gave her friend a light, and very human hug. "Because I didn't realize it myself," she said, simply, and directed Kallixta and Rinus to the couch, and resigned herself to a repeat of the night before. Everyone wanted to get both sides of the story, it seemed. And while there was a value in talking about it. . . a catharsis, the first time, telling her dad and Kasumi, and in talking it out with Eli and Serana and Lin last night. . . now it was just starting to _drag_.

And while Kallixta was Dara's friend—and Dara had been her _first_ real friend, ever—she _was_ still steeped in Imperial traditions. And one of those traditions was respect for _tal'mae_. Plus, Kallixta adored Rel. Didn't entirely see the fine distinctions between him and Rinus.

"Fine," Dara had finally told Kallixta. "Then I'll just be alone for the rest of my life. I'm prepared to accept that. Of course, the system is more or less set up in the expectation that people who are estranged will sooner or later slip up and have to fight a damned _duel_ to end the marriage in _death_ on one side or the other."

Rinus grimaced. "You have a point. _Tal'mae_ is almost irrelevant to today's society."

Kallixta sighed. "I know. It's just always been my own expectation. . . assumption, I suppose."

Rinus reached out and lightly stroked her fringe. "Laws change," he told her, calmly. "Laws change when society changes. Or they should, anyway. If laws didn't change, we'd still be cutting off the hands of thieves, without a trial. The prosthetics industry would be booming, sure, but I'm not sure justice would actually be done."

That had been last night. Today was Sunday, and it had been a _joy_ to sleep in, under warm covers, and awaken to see fresh snow falling in the woods. Kasumi had sent Takeshi in to wake her, and Dara picked up her little brother and held him over her head, listening to him squeal as she pretended to munch on his shoulders and arms. "See? This is what you get for waking people up," she told him, smiling. "You get munched on. Rawr!"

And off he ran, straight back out into Kasumi, who was still in the hallway. "People will be over in the afternoon," Kasumi reminded Dara. "If you want to cook something, you can. If not, no pressure."

"I think I'll make mole enchiladas again. This time, no dextro ingredients, so Dempsey can taste them for Zhasa." Dara paused. "Okay, that sentence would sound weird anyplace else in the galaxy, wouldn't it?"

Kasumi laughed. "Yes. Yes, it would, indeed."

People started filtering in around 14:00. Her dad actually had _venison_ going in the smoker, along with a large _cuderae_ flank, and the smell was heavenly. "I haven't had venison in eight years, Dad," Dara told Sam.

"Yeah, Allardus declared the local deer population viable. I haven't been out hunting myself yet, but a couple of folks down in the valley have, and they were kind enough to let me have this." Sam grinned down at her. "Maybe you and I can go pheasant hunting tomorrow, kiddo?"

Dara's eyes widened. "No trials tomorrow?"

"Nope. Shepard says she's seen enough."

"Wow. And no one's cut the head off a mech or spur-kicked one yet."

Sam snorted at her. "That was our turn. This is yours."

Eli, Serana, and Lin all arrived at once, followed closely thereafter by Zhasa and Dempsey. Dara was _really_ not sure what to make of what she'd seen the other night. Eli had had his arm around Serana, but Lin had hooked his foot behind Serana's spur. The turian equivalent of holding hands. _Probably more complicated than I want to deal with, and not my business_, Dara thought, smiling as she greeted all of them. And then Sky and Gris and Azala and Siara and Makur had all arrived in a clump, too, and Dara had laughed and called, "Sky!" and gone to receive her usual hug. And heard the smothered laughs from Lin, Eli, and, surprisingly, _Dempsey_ all at the same time.

Dara turned and stuck her tongue out at them. Sky chimed quietly, _Laughter-songs? For that I embrace my little singer?_

"I explained to them that your pedipalps extend for mating purposes," Dara told him lightly. Still with said appendages on her shoulders.

A huge wave of blue-green amusement hit them, and Sky's voice rose like violins. _I do not think __that__ song could possibly be sung._

"They're just being boys, Sky. Boys sing _weird_ songs sometimes." Dara patted the rachni on the carapace, and glanced out the front window. "Crap. Guess who's coming to dinner?" Rel, Rinus, and Kallixta were outside, along with Garrus, Shepard, and their family. Allardus and Solanna and Polina and Quintus were about a hundred feet further back, walking up the path. "Sky, I promise, I will play for you later, but—"

_Go, little singer. Your heart does not need to sing sorrow for me._

Dara turned and headed for the back door. Grabbed her coat and boots, and called into the kitchen, where her dad and Lantar were already opening beers, "I'm going for a walk, Dad."

"Don't go for long. Snow's coming down pretty hard," Sam called back. Pretty much out of reflex, she figured.

"I won't." _Just, you know, the rest of the afternoon. Okay, that's cowardice. I know that. But god. . . not right this minute. In . . . five. Ten. Fifteen. An hour. Whenever I'm cold enough that coming back inside sounds like a better idea than standing outside anymore._

The crunch of snow under her boots. Huge, fat flakes of it hanging, almost suspended in the still, breathless air. The sky overhead, filled with leaden clouds, fat and pregnant with moisture, dimming all light. Cathedral of dark branches intertwining above, the driven snow of the past few days lining one side or another of each branch in white.

**Elijah, June 12, 2196**

_I've run out that back door exactly the same way_, Eli thought in some amusement as it slammed behind Dara. The various new turian guests were coming in through the front door now, cleaning snow off their boots and taking the boots off, in deference to Kasumi's notions of courtesy.

Sky whispered in his mind, _Many Voices?_

Eli's head jerked up. He'd rarely been addressed by the rachni personally. . . and at the moment, he understood he was being spoken to privately. This wasn't public song; this was just for him to hear. He concentrated, trying to form the words in his thoughts, but Sky sent blue-green amusement instead. _Do not struggle. Your songs have always been clear to me. Sing them as you always do, and I will still hear them._

Eli wondered what the rachni wanted, and on the heels of that thought, Sky asked, _You sing love of puzzles, Many Voices. Have you understood mine?_

_Oh, the three threes and the queens five._ Eli's jaw set a little. _Felt a little like one of those threes was me and Lin and Serana. Working on erasing the lines in that triangle, though._

_Correct. You are the hub around which the wheel turns, at the moment. You are three in yourself. You sing three songs, in harmony with your own voice. Yet you are a part of three other threes._

_You __are__ a cryptic son of a bitch when you put your mind to it._

Pure amusement now. _Take your first three and go to Sings-Heartsong. Give her strength._

Eli looked up and realized that only a second or so had passed, and shook his head. "Lin? Serana? Feel like playing in the snow a bit?"

Both frowned at him, but they grabbed coats and boots. Serana didn't get bogged down greeting her parents just yet; she was _damned_ good at remaining unnoticed even _without_ activating her stealth net. Outside, Lin exhaled. "Actually, it _was_ getting stuffy in there," he said, lightly, and took Serana's hand in his.

Eli felt almost as if he were holding a _lanura_ in the palm of his hand. He'd uncurled his fingers from around it, and was simply waiting for it to notice that it wasn't a captive, and could spread its wings and fly. "A bit," he agreed, and took Serana's other hand. Dara's tracks weren't hard to follow, and the woods were _damned_ pretty at the moment. Silent. The snow and the still air muffling all noise.

They found her in a clearing about six hundred feet from the house. Perched on a fallen log, head tipped back and staring up at the falling snow. Her head snapped around when she heard them coming, and she looked startled, and then relieved. . . but her paint was messy, and she'd obviously been crying. "Oh, it's you," she said, and her voice wavered a bit. "Sorry. I just . . .couldn't. I'll be good in few minutes."

Eli shook his head. "We're not a retrieval squad."

Much to his surprise, Serana squeezed his hand, and slipped her fingers out of his. "We're just. . . out for a walk ourselves," Serana told Dara, lightly. "Lin and I are going to walk. . . hmm. Over there." She pointed off to the right. "We'll be back once we decide that icicles hanging from our fringes is _really_ uncomfortable."

Lin's face lit up, and he actually guffawed, but he glanced over at Eli, who gave him a quick nod. And then they wended off on their own under the trees. . .and Lin slid an arm around Serana's waist as they went.

Dara watched them go, and then turned and looked at Eli. "You still think my life is weirder than yours?" she managed.

"You still win." Eli swept the log clear of snow beside her, and sat down, tentatively, testing it under his weight. "I don't have AI kids."

**Serana, June 12, 2196**

So many damned things were changing, and all at once. Even her _perceptions_ were changing, which was the odd part, Serana had to admit. It was like holding up a kaleidoscope. Every time you _thought_ you knew what the image was, something inside moved, and the image was completely different. Take Rel, her beloved older second-brother. Untouchable. Bullet-proof. Once laughing and golden as a spirit who'd taken a mortal form. Now darkened. Withdrawn, the last few days, and who could blame him? It was a terrible thing for a spirit made flesh to realize that he was mortal.

And two nights ago, the Jaworski library. A place, apparently, where paradigm shifts were common for her. Kallixta's father not a pirate, but an Imperator. And now, something else. Something richer and truer and deeper. Dara working on Eli's old quilt. Hands of a surgeon, knitting his old life back together for him. Hands of a friend, too. The way Eli had touched the quilt, as if it meant, somehow, more to him than he'd ever realized. And Serana could understand why. His entire past had been stolen from him, in a way. And now it was being returned. Sweetly. Patiently. And with love. She'd paused at the archway into the library, just absorbing it. _They share more than they even realize_, she'd thought, suddenly. _They share different things than he and I do. And don't even touch one another. A question of like spirits. Oh, Rel has a fighter's spirit. He saw the same spirit in Dara, but hers is a protective spirit. A healing spirit. And Eli has a protective one as well. My spirit is mischief. A troublemaker. _

Then a moment of complete realization, a moment of _awareness_ on both humans' faces, so beautiful to see. . . and then Dara looked down. Remembered who she was _supposed_ to be. And said that the quilt would be ready, for when Eli and Serana had children.

She couldn't have known. It wasn't meant cruelly, but kindly. Which made it hurt all the more. Serana had choked it down, walked in, and put it behind her. Had pretended, carefully, that she didn't _believe_ that both her males were going to make Spectre. But knew, in her heart of hearts, that both would. Had pretended not to notice the little, careful distancing moves Eli was making. With all the care for her in the world, eyes concerned every time he said _little one_ instead of _asperitalla_.

And now, walking through the snow, she released Eli's hand. Gave him a little smile. The amazing thing was, it _didn't hurt_. Oh, it hurt that life couldn't go on as it had. That she couldn't have _everything_ that she wanted. But releasing his hand, and knowing that he would put his arms around Dara very shortly and comfort her didn't hurt at all. No jealousy. No territoriality. _Because. . . she's always had a part of him. I've known that for a long time. What I didn't see, was that he has a piece of her. Rel probably senses that, with the part of him that sees the spirit statues waiting to be born, but always denies in every other part of life._ So it was actually rather. . . cleansing, in a way. . . to release his hand. And walk off with Lin through the snow. Warm arm snugged around her waist.

They walked in total silence for a while, until they happened onto another clearing, drifted with snow. _"Remind you of Nimines?"_ Serana finally asked.

"_Only the good parts,"_ Lin told her. Turned her, and lowered his forehead to hers. Sweet, gentle touch. _"Serana, little one. . ._ _no one else here. No damned cameras. No reporters or Spectres or judges or anyone else."_

She smiled up at him, and tilted her head to the side invitingly. Lin took the invitation and bit her neck gently. So gently, she thought that if she were human, she might actually weep. Trading bites now. Gentle scrape of teeth, her fingers stroking his fringe, and his locked on the back of her neck, holding her carefully in place. She only realized he'd backed her into a tree when the bark scraped into her back, and then Lin raised his head. Exhaled, and swore quietly under his breath. _"I, ah, actually have something to give you,"_ he said, quietly. Knelt down in the snow, and dug around in a pocket of his coat, before pulling out a really exquisitely made _cinctus_. Silvery links in the forms of leaves and _caprificus _and_ malae_ fruits. _"Would you wear this for me?"_ he asked, quietly.

Serana nodded, eyes wide, her heart suddenly just aching. She loved them. Both of them. And both of them had needed her. . . but looking into Lin's eyes, she realized that he actually needed her far more than Eli did. Eli liked pleasing her. Liked making her happy. And he was the first to say that she'd brought light and life back to him. But Lin _needed_ her. In a way that almost transcended words.

Serana reached out and set her hands on the sides of his face. Lowered her forehead to his, and felt him slide the cold links of the _cinctus_ around her waist. _"Thank you,"_ Lin told her softly, and stood back up again.

She leaned in and began to bite at his throat again. Lin growled a little. _"Careful, little one. I only have __so__ much self-control."_

"_Am I testing it?"_ Just a hint of mischief.

"_Yes. Like you don't know you are."_ Linianus looked down at her and smiled. "_I said I would wait. Eli said he would wait. Just like before, little one. You control everything. What we do together, and how we make it work going forward."_ Lin exhaled, and took his hands off her. Put them on the tree instead.

"_If I'm in charge, then I'm telling you to bite me."_

"_Biting, but nothing more, sweetness. Hard to court you properly without at least that."_

"_Is that what you're doing? Courting me?"_

"_Yes. I'm courting my brother's wife. With his permission. Spirits, my life is so damned __weird__."_ His teeth scraped just under her ear, and Serana sighed.

**Elijah, June 12, 2196**

He'd wrapped one arm around Dara as they sat on the fallen log. Listened to the hitch in her breathing as she tried to calm herself from crying. "Is it just seeing him?" he ventured, after a moment.

She shook her head. "No. Oh, that's part of it. Argument with Kallixta last night. About _tal'mae_ and all that. Don't _want_ to spend the rest of my life alone, but I guess I will if I have to." She inhaled, shakily.

"Bullshit. Even Catholics who can't get an annulment separate. Live in sin and all that crap, and people rub their fingers together and tsk. You set up a system with no way out but death, and you're either going to have a lot of people _killing_ each other, which is hardly optimal, or a lot of people breaking the rules." Eli let his fingers creep up and rubbed the back of her neck. Along the scalp, into the hair, taking the tension away as best he could. Her hair felt just as soft as he remembered it. "Arguing with Kallixta isn't worth crying over. Neither, actually, is Rel." His voice was dark.

She shook her head. "Wasn't. Spent enough time crying over that." Dara shrugged. "Just. . . feeling helpless, I guess. I don't like that feeling. There's no real clear path forward, I don't entirely know what to do, and I still _have_ to deal with him."

"And you don't want to."

"No." She sighed. "Not at all."

Eli turned her to face him. Face and face-paint streaked with tears. "You know, your dad said back at the house that the trials are done," he told her, an idea flashing through his mind.

She blinked. "Yeah?"

"Which means, you don't _have_ to put on a show anymore," Eli told her quietly. He picked up a handful of clean, fresh snow, and looking at her intently, raised it to her face.

Her eyes were startled, and she started to duck away. "No, I'm not going to shove it in your mouth," Eli told her, and caught her chin with his left hand now. "Hold still."

The tears had already loosened the paint, and while she shivered a little, she held still. Let him scrub away the markings. He threw the first handful of snow away, and took a second. The cold made his fingers ache, but it was a _good_ pain. A cleansing one.

The second pass took the remaining yellow from her face. Left it innocent of paint, pink, and freshly scrubbed. Eli rubbed his left thumb over her lips, very lightly. "See? Better already," he told her. "You feel better?"

She nodded hesitantly. "A little, yeah."

"Bet you'd feel even better if you took off the knife." When she hesitated, he reminded her, quietly, "The trials are _over_. You don't have to worry about his damned mental state any more. Not your problem, right?"

Dara reached for the straps of her knife sheath. And fumbled for a minute, trying to unbuckle them. "It's been worked into my omnitool so long, I don't even remember how I got them to connect," she admitted, and extended her arm. Eli lowered his head, and they pulled and tugged at the straps. After a few minutes, the knife and its sheath rested in her hand, and she stared down at it. Weighing it. "Sorry. . . just. . . remembering Khar'sharn," she murmured.

"When we found his knife, and you thought he was dead?" _Because you thought he'd sooner die than drop the damn thing. In truth, he actually __was_ _wounded. Have to give him that. _Their words were no more than murmurs. The silence of the snow was too powerful to be broken by mere voices, and the snow continued to fall, settling on their hair, on Dara's eyelashes, their coats.

"You and Rinus wouldn't let me put the knife in my straps. _You_ told me, 'you're not a widow.'"

"New evidence has been submitted," Eli told her, pulling up a corner of his mouth as she looked up, "that actually, you kind of were."

She sighed and looked at the knife in her hand. "What do I _do_ with it now?"

"You want _my_ answer, or the rational answer?"

She looked up again. "Both."

"Rational answer. . . stick it in an drawer. You might need it, and now's not the time for big, dramatic gestures. Well, more dramatic than wiping off the paint and walking back in there a free woman, _sai'kaea._" Eli's voice was very soft.

"And your answer?"

"Close your eyes and _throw_ the damned thing." At her look of surprise, his lips quirked. "I didn't say _my_ answer was a rational one."

She considered it. Eli loved watching the way she thought. Eyes tracking left to right, as if she had all the answers in her head, and was just reading through her options. "Which do you think would make me feel better?"

"You're the one who has to answer that, not me, _sai'kaea_. Keeping it would probably be smarter. In case they cook up some ritual to undo the binding, or you need to return it to him, or something." _Throw it_, he urged, silently. _When you're ready, __sai'kaea__, you'll be so light you can __fly__._

She hesitated. Offered it to him. "Would you. . . would you keep it for me? That way, I don't have to look at it. And if I need it for any _tal'mae_ crap. . . well. . . I know where you live."

Eli reached out. Took it. Put it in his pocket. "Just keep in mind, I'll be awfully tempted to _lose_ it," he told her. "Feel better?"

Dara took a deep breath. "A lot," she admitted.

"Bet I know something else that will help."

"The rings?"

"Yeah."

"One was my mom's. I'm keeping that. Put it back in its original setting, maybe." She shrugged. "Never did get anything to replace the stone in that." She tugged the rings off, looked around, and unbuttoned her jacket to put them in the breast pocket of her shirt.

Eli reached out. Touched her hair. "Now how do you feel?"

Her lips curved up. "Ninety pounds lighter."

"Come here." He simply wrapped his arms around her, and she put her head down on his shoulder, and they watched the snow fall. Five full minutes must have crept by.

"Serana and Lin have been gone for a while," Dara finally said, softly.

"Yeah." Eli looked off through the forest. The air was so quiet. It felt like a good moment for trading secrets. Confidences. "You know how you said that quilt would be there for my kids. . . and Serana's?"

"Yeah?"

"Not going to happen."

Dara's head came off his shoulder, and her face was dismayed. "What?"

He slid a hand into her hair. Pressed her head back down gently. And told her, quietly, steadily, "Serana loves Lin just as much as she loves me. And so . . . I'm stepping out of their way. Quietly. With as little embarrassment to her family as possible." He looked down, and saw the look of total shock on Dara's face. "It shouldn't be _that_ big a surprise, _sai'kaea_." He brushed her hair out of her face with gentle fingers.

"You're. . .wow. The three of you go _everywhere_ together. . . but they just went off. . . ?" Dara was clearly trying to figure out how the world currently worked.

"Yeah. By now, they've probably been biting for a while. I'd be disappointed in Lin if he wasn't. Best chance they've had in a while." Eli realized his voice was _very_ calm. Almost dispassionate.

"And you're _okay_ with that?"

"Kella stuck a hell of a lot more in my head than just asari language when she died, _sai'kaea._ I've spent the last six years figuring out that Sky calls me _Many Voices_ because I _think_ like a human. And a turian. And like an asari. I didn't have a problem with sharing her with Lin. Estrus or no estrus. She loves us, we love her. Sky showed us both that the rest of the galaxy _would_ have a problem with it, if one of us becomes a Spectre. Or both of us. Neither of us can do that to her. So. . . I step away." He looked down at Dara. His throat was tight. "The point is to make her happy. Lin's got a much better chance of that than I do. And I told her I'll honor the contract till she releases me, or it expires." Eli managed a smile. "So. . . yeah. I have a really fucked up personal life, don't I?"

Dara closed her eyes. That was _grief_, he realized, grief on _his_ behalf. _"Sai'kaea_, it's okay," he told her, quietly. "We're figuring it out. All of us. . . will figure it out."

She opened her eyes again. Looked up at him, and leaned in to kiss him softly on the cheek. "Thank you, Eli."

Another long, long pause. He hugged her a little tighter. "Ready to go in?"

"Now I am." She sat up straight. "Thanks to you." Dara took a deep breath. "Let's go."


	105. Chapter 105: Annealing

**Chapter 105: Annealing**

_**Author's Note: **Crimson-God has a new story up; called Dualities and Harmonies. He's asked permission to use my turian culture and my version of the ME2-post-ME3 world, and I've said 'go for it' and have read over and made suggestions for his first two chapters. I'm sure he'd welcome any feedback he can get. :-D Also, Dermiti has been working in his own continuity, but has borrowed some details I developed on quarian marriage traditions, for his own Tali-centric fiction, Being Selfish. Both of them are learning by doing, which is awesome, so please, check them out. I just finished an in-depth read on Dermiti's newest chapter as well. ;-)_

_Shinimegami strikes again, with cool art! This time, Dara's vision of herself in the psych evals: the future she didn't want: #/d46m22e_

**Dara, Mindoir, June 12, 2196**

Crunching back to the house, Serana and Lin came up beside them, out of the woods, unexpectedly. Dara had _no_ idea what to do or say or think or feel on seeing them. Eli's comments had just changed her entire view of the situation, like a child's hands picking up a snow globe and shaking it. One moment, stillness; the next, storm. She's been _aware_ of what they'd need to do if estrus came early, or even in the event of a desired pregnancy. She'd even been bracing herself, a little, mentally, for what would be necessary if they asked _her_ to perform the artificial insemination procedure. She hadn't wanted to picture it. Hadn't wanted to picture willingly going into a room with a female turian in estrus, who _surely_ would, just as Kallixta had, once upon a time, view her as a threat, and would probably attempt to attack her. Hadn't wanted to picture one or both males having to hold her down. But she'd forced herself to think it out. To be turian. . . or at least, salarian, a little bit. To view the bodies as machines, and the process as one she'd probably carry out several times over the course of her life as a doctor. And then the bizarre group dream on Bastion, and the tight-knit nature of the little pack had impinged on her consciousness. So she'd been aware, and hadn't _wanted_ to be aware. Had put it out of her mind, until two nights ago, when Lin and Serana had hooked their feet together. But she'd dismissed that, too. It couldn't mean anything, if they were comfortable enough to do it _in front of Eli._

Then the calm dispassion in her friend's voice tonight. Hurt under it, but resignation, too. And so Dara eyed Serana and Lin cautiously. New awareness, but they were _still_ her _friends_. Both known for over six years. Lin had an arm around Serana's waist, for the moment, and Eli smiled and took her opposite hand as they approached. . .and then Serana caught sight of Dara's face. And inhaled, sharply.

Lin looked down, and blinked. That was all the surprise he showed, however. "There you go, little one," he told Dara calmly. "You look much better now. Calmer." He reached out his free hand, and set it on her shoulder.

"My brother is going to blow a blood vessel somewhere when he sees you," Serana assessed, her eyes wide. "My mother, too."

Eli quietly snorted. "Rel's going to have to confront reality sooner or later. Better, and safer for Dara, if there are a lot of people around when it happens, don't you think?"

Dara winced. "I don't think he'd actually hurt me," she said, quietly.

"Lots of ways to hurt someone. Doesn't require fists or teeth." Eli's words were terse. "Walking in there wearing no paint, no knife, no rings, is probably the most _honest_ thing you can do."

Dara nodded. "Doesn't present false hopes," she muttered, and looked at the back door of the house. It loomed in front of her, like a monolith. "Would it sound terribly cowardly if I said I really didn't want to go back inside?" She _really_ didn't relish the idea of the fight that might start when she walked in the door.

Eli moved around, still holding Serana's hand, and touched her left shoulder. Completing the circle that had started when Lin had rested his free hand on Dara's right shoulder. "Nah. Just human, that's all." Eli looked up at the house. "That's the guest bedroom window?"

"Yeah."

"We could scale the wall and get you in through the window," he offered, straight-faced.

Dara winced. "Eli, the window ledges are lined with ice. And no equipment."

Serana grinned. "I can loan you my stealth device. We can get you inside behind us, and you can go right up the stairs, no problem."

Dara thought about it. "Tempting," she admitted, and sighed. "However. . . hiding won't make the problem go away. Better just to rip the bandage off."

"You're the doctor," Lin told her, calmly. "Just keep in mind, you're not alone in there, little one."

"We've all got your back," Eli said, and put a hand on the door knob. "Ready?"

Dara sighed. "No. But let's go, anyway."

**Rellus, June 12, 2196**

_**Author's note:**_ _One of the comments that I've found most useful came from a reader who's experienced combat fatigue, and who gave me the simple insight that for humans, at least, who experience the condition, __everyone_ _starts to look like an enemy. I don't know if I've captured that in Rel here, but god knows, I've tried. Someone completely locked into their viewpoint. Adrenaline/endorphin addiction, followed by an MIA stint in which he had __non-stop__ adrenal flow. Followed by the horror and death of Bastion, followed by the high-stress Spectre trials. Followed by his wife being unable to deal with it anymore, and his family's intervention. It's no wonder Rel's developed a slight paranoid streak there. . . which __warps his perspective.__ He is, at this point, __an unreliable narrator.__ Please keep this in mind. For example, Kasumi's not being any colder to him now than someone who's trying to figure out how to treat an estranged spouse of a step-child who's been invited to her house by her boss. Rel sees and feels things that may or may not be there, and I hope I've managed to convey this._

_I think the two good, solid whacks to the head in this section are letting going to let Rel look out both sets of eyes as we move on. His spirit eyes, which are the ones that let him see the spirit-statues he carves, and his mere mortal ones. So he can see both what he thinks is real, and what's really real, at the same time. And the dichotomy will probably haunt him for some time to come, until he gets both perspectives aligned and in harmony again. _

_Rel thanks you for your patience while he gets his head together. They say you have to hit rock bottom to start climbing your way back up. This is Rel's basement. Only way out of here is up. And he __will__ make it back up again. I have every faith in him._ _And so should you, gentle readers. _

Rel was, to put it mildly, uncomfortable as he rounded the corner of the drive towards the Jaworski house. He hadn't felt this uncertain of his welcome in a long, long time. Sam's barbecues were primarily work-related. Oh, families were welcome, even expected, but they had started off as a team-building effort to get people like Sky and Gris and Cohort integrated into the Spectres a little more easily. A little more comfortably. And Rel had felt, once he'd earned Sam's trust and acceptance, very welcome here. Now? He wasn't sure of that, at all. Wasn't sure about a lot of things.

He walked in Garrus' footsteps, and had his father and mother and younger siblings behind him, and as he stepped through the door, the warmth of the human habitation hit him. He could smell wood burning; Sam had a fire going in the fireplace. Old-fashioned touch, that. Real wood being burned, not holographic flames. Scents of dozens of people, some familiar, some not. Melaani T'soa and Kirrahe Orlan were new faces added to the old crowd, as was, surprisingly, Seheve.

Kasumi had come to the door to greet them all, her smile as warm as ever for Garrus and Shepard, for Allardus and Solanna and the children. Rel wasn't sure if it was his imagination or not, but she looked, to his eyes, to be wary as she greeted him. "Rel," she said, simply. "You know the drill. Shoes off, and food's in the kitchen, right?" No hug, but a quick smile. Distance, but courtesy.

Rel padded through the house, barefoot, nodding to the people he knew. Siara, Makur, Azala, Ylara. . . Lantar, Ellie, Caelia. . . Narayana had found Kirrahe Orlan, and the older salarian male was _staring_ at the young salarian girl, who wore a dark green velvet dress and matching stockings today. Evidently made for a human little girl, Ellie had tailored it to suit Narayana's different body carefully. "You're. . . you're Mordin Solus' _daughter_?" Kirrahe said, sounding _stunned_. "But you're. . . but. . . shouldn't you be on Sur'Kesh?"

Narayana stared at him. "Why should I be? My father lived here. I was hatched here. This is where Ellie and Lantar live, and they're my family now that my father's. . . gone. Why would I live on Sur'Kesh?"

"Because you're. . . female. A dalatrass-to-be," Kirrahe replied, but he was staring at her in complete fascination now. "You should be trained."

"I'm receiving an excellent education here. I'm already three years ahead of human students in biology and xenobiology and physics. How much better could the schools on Sur'Kesh really be?" She tipped her head to the side. "Are you going to be a Spectre, now? Like my daddy was?"

"You. . . you call him. . . ?"

"Well, of course I called my father _Daddy_. He liked that. He taught me so much." Narayana sounded disconsolate. "I miss him."

"He. . . _raised_ you?"

"Isn't that what parents do?"

"Fathers raise sons. Dalatrasses raise their daughters." Kirrahe sounded _dazed_. As if the world were shifting on its axis. _ I know how he feels_, Rel thought.

"Do you think I haven't turned out right?" Completely disingenuous tone. "When Lantar finishes the paperwork, I'll be Mordin-Sidonis Narayana and get to wear his clan-paint. And Ellie says she'll make me a dress to match the clan colors for the adoption ceremony."

Kirrahe stared at her. "You may be the single most interesting person in the _room_," he told her, after a moment. "You're five?"

"Yes. And you're, what. . . fifteen?"

"Only ten." He offered her his hand, tentatively. "It's a _privilege_ to speak with you. . . Dalatrass Narayana."

She giggled. "That sounds funny."

"Someday, it probably won't."

Rel shook his head and moved away. He was hunting. He had _yet_ to see Dara anywhere. He peered into the kitchen cautiously. No sign of her there. Sam and Lantar were there, however, and there were dishes and platters set up on the counters, filled with food, as usual. Heavy smells of fish from an asari platter, kelp-wrapped snails and beetles from a salarian plate, smoked _apaterae_ and cream cheese rolls from a plate surely brought by Ellie. . . mole enchiladas. Familiar smell, that. . . but different. Rel padded into the kitchen and nodded to Sam and Lantar. Lantar bared his teeth in a quick smile, there and gone again. Sam did not. He nodded calmly, even cordially, but did not change expression at all. Rel checked the tag on the enchiladas. _Red only. Not purple. Meaning it's not mixed, but pure levo._

Dempsey and Zhasa moved into the kitchen now, and Zhasa was laughing. "Better get your plate ready," she teased Dempsey. "You're trying one of _everything_ for me."

"Everything _safe_, sure. Hey, Doc Velnaran is as good as her word," Dempsey commented, and moved one brown-covered tortilla roll to his plate. "Levo only."

Rel waited for them to be well-occupied with the food, and then approached Sam and Lantar. "Where is she?" he asked, without preamble. It wasn't as if they wouldn't expect his question. "You've put me off for three days, Sam. I want to speak to my wife now." He tried, consciously, to keep the irritation out of his voice. To emulate the emotionless quality of Dempsey's voice. But it was difficult. It felt, very much, like everyone around him was an enemy of some sort or another. Either overt, or potential.

Sam regarded him, face and eyes blank. "She went out for a walk about fifteen minutes ago."

"Alone? In this weather?" Rel tried to tamp down the anger. "She could get lost in the damn dark."

"She's carrying her omnitool, has biometric chips in both hands, and knows how far to go," Sam replied, with total equanimity. "Besides, Lin, Serana, and Eli went out after her. I'm sure they're all having a nice walk."

For some reason, that just irritated Rel more. "So, the instant I get here, she goes for a stroll?" _With the three of them._

Sam stared at Rel for a long moment. "Yeah. She did. And when she gets back, you can talk to her. If she wants to talk to you." He turned back to Lantar, and commented, "So, you think Tenebrus actually has a shot at the title this year?"

Lantar nodded, but turned back to Rel. His expression was a bit more sympathetic than Sam's had been. "I'm sure they'll only be a few more minutes. Why don't you sit down someplace? Relax? Talk to people?"

_I don't want to relax. I don't want to talk to random people. I want to talk to my __wife__._ Rel took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. Nodded to Lantar. And, with an effort, replied, "That's a good idea. I'll do that."

He wondered if the words sounded as false to them, as they did to him.

Back out in the living room, he looked at the vacant piano, and sat down between Melaani T'soa and his mother, Solanna. Melaani was in the process of chatting with Seheve, actually, but spared Rel a quick smile. "Yes, I actually infiltrated the Goddess' Path when I first became a cop. Over a hundred years ago; I was ninety, then, and was embedded in their organization for fifteen years.. Religious zealots, I'm afraid. Asari aren't as prone to that kind of mania as, say, humans are, but we do have a few embarrassing exceptions."

"And what was the group's goal?" Seheve asked, quietly.

"They believe that the Goddess' shadow face must be venerated equally with her nurturing one. While most asari understand the tripartite Goddess as maiden, mother, and crone, they see the huntress, the soldier, and the reaper of crops. It reflects a duality of thought foreign to most asari." Melaani's lips tightened. "And they believe that in order to venerate the Goddess' shadow self, they must force others to believe as they do. They also offer blood sacrifices at their initiation. Some of their own flesh, and some of . . . victims. It's a cult, and not a pleasant one. I was glad to remove myself from their company and to cleanse my mind of their worldview."

"And how did you do that?" Seheve's voice was actually fascinated.

"I joined in their view enough to pass for one of them. Believed in my role as completely as I could. And when I got out, I spent five years training myself to think like an asari again. Sharing myself with as many people as I could to cleanse the pollution from my mind." Melaani sighed. "I felt rather as if I were using them, to be honest. Most of them were trained, however, and didn't mind helping me. It's difficult to recover one's mental equilibrium after an assignment that lasted for fifteen years."

"Such a thing is not possible for someone who is not asari, however." Seheve's voice sounded disappointed. And then she murmured, oddly, "Fifteen years. Almost exactly as long as this. . . as I served the Master."

_But that's almost precisely what Uncle Garrus and my father and Lantar and Rinus want __me__ to do_, Rel realized in a flash of insight. _They want to purge the spirit that's in me now, and replace it with one drawn from them. But I don't think that my spirit is a __bad__ one. Or needs to be removed, replaced. I've done everything asked of me, and more, in the past five years. How can that be __bad__?_

He leaned forward to ask Melaani a question, when the back door banged open, and his head jerked up. His eyes widened as Eli and Serana entered first, stepping over to the left, into the kitchen nook. Then Lin, following them, and they all started taking off coats and shoes. Then, last, Dara, and Rel stiffened at the sight of her. Beside him, his mother inhaled sharply, in shock.

Her face was bare of paint. She'd been wearing it earlier today; he'd seen it during the Mako trials. Utterly disturbing to him, to see her _unmarked_. It would have been worse if she'd walked in wearing the _wrong_ paint, but it was the visual equivalent of a _slap_ to him. A way of saying, without words, _I am not your wife. I am not of your clan._

Rel was on his feet already and striding towards her, when she took off her coat, and, hanging it up by the back door, her left forearm was clearly exposed. No knife. No knife sheath. _"What the __hell__, Dara?"_ Rel snapped, getting to within three feet of her, and staring at her as if he'd never seen her before. In a way, he _hadn't._ He'd only seen her face bare of paint at night, or just after a shower, for _years_ now. It was almost as disturbing as if she'd walked out _naked_ into a room of strangers. _"You're not wearing my paint?"_

In English, she replied, calmly, "No. I'm not. Not the paint, not the knife, not the rings."

Rel felt as if she'd plunged that self-same knife into his heart. All the _hopes_ he'd had for this conversation withered. _"Spirits, why not cut my spurs off while you're at it?"_ It wasn't what he'd wanted to say. It was just how the words _came out_. Behind his teeth, the words had been different, more like _Why __do__ this? Why now?_ But as soon as they escaped his mouth, the air oxidized them and their very shape twisted as he spoke them.

Dara visibly smoothed calm over her face. Lifted her eyes and met his. And in the tone he'd long since learned to recognize as 'medical mode,' answered, calmly, still in English, "Not everything is about _you_, Rel. This is about _me._ This is me, saying that I belong to _me_. Not to anyone else."

"_Talas'kak!"_ He wanted nothing more at that moment than to pull the collar of her shirt open and expose the bite scar on her left shoulder. A far more permanent mark than paint or a knife. His hand actually touched the material of her shirt, and she pulled back. Just a bit. Just to make it evident that she did not want him to touch her. And that hurt, too. _Since when are you my enemy, Dara?_ He had the oddest sensation that people all over the room had _tensed_, too, which only put him more on edge. There was a feeling in the air, like incipient electricity, readying itself to become lightning.

"Swearing at me isn't going to change the facts, Rel." Her voice was still steady, and she kept her eyes locked with his.

Rel inhaled. Tried to calm the rising tide of anger in him. She _never_ acted this way. She'd be confrontational with a patient who needed it, but never with _him_. _"Dara, sweetness, __please.__ Do we have to have this conversation in front of everyone?"_

"You're the one who started this conversation in front of everyone. But sure. Pantry's right over there. Kasumi, could you come with us?"

"_I just want to talk to you alone_. _Damnit, is it so much to ask that I get a few minutes of privacy with my __wife__?"_ Rel was _trying_ to be reasonable, but her stubborn refusal to change expressions or inflections irritated him. She was treating him like an unstable patient, and he didn't like that at _all._

Kasumi was already moving, however, and Rel became uncomfortably aware that most conversation around them had stopped. _Of course, if she'd kept it in turian, it would only be __half_ _the people in the house staring at us. But no, she had to switch to English. Make it very plain to everyone else what she was saying. What does her dad call this? Oh yes. Playing to the cheap seats._ He tried to pull calmness down over his face, and wasn't sure if he'd managed it as he followed her and Kasumi into the small pantry and laundry area off of the main kitchen.

In the pantry, Kasumi leaned up against the right wall, and simply said, "All right, you two. No yelling, no hitting, no fighting."

Rel's head snapped towards her. "Why does everyone think I'm going to _hit_ her?" he demanded. It had been bad enough from Sam, but from Kasumi, it plain hurt.

Kasumi sighed. "Very well. No yelling, no hair-pulling, no scratching, no biting. Let's make it a nice clean discussion, hmm?" She folded her arms across her chest and looked somewhere in between them, only a faint trace of her usual smile on her face.

Dara pushed herself up to sit on the washing machine. "Right. We're as alone as we're going to get. What did you want to talk about, Rel?"

_Everything. Nothing._ He wanted to put his arms around her and convince her with touch that whatever problems they were having, they could work through, but her distant, remote expression forbade that. Rel sighed. "_Mellis_. . . why won't you talk to me?"

Dara looked a little annoyed. "About _what_, Rel? You're going to have to be a little more specific."

"All right. How about explaining why the hell you walked out of the barracks. Walked out on _me_. Didn't even have the guts to come and pack up your things yourself. Didn't even have the courage to tell me to my face that you were going to go and hide behind your father." The words, again, weren't what he wanted to say. What he _wanted_ to say was more along the lines of, _Do you still love me? Why walk out on me? Why not try to work this out with me, face to face?_ Again, they came from behind his teeth like knives. He meant them, and he didn't mean them, at the same time.

Kasumi raised a hand as Dara was inhaling to retort. Dara looked at her, and Kasumi reminded her, "Calmly."

Dara grimaced and took a deep breath. Then another. "One of the things my various psych courses mentioned," she said, looking at Kasumi, and not at Rel at all, "was that sometimes an addict will say things they don't mean. That families and friends should try to treat those words as if the addiction were saying them, not the person. They say that about some mental illnesses, too. That the _illness_ is speaking, not the loved one. I don't agree with that. I think that everyone's responsible for their own actions. That everyone has a choice about who they are, and who they want to be. It's not going to win me therapist of the year or any awards from the Galactic Medical Association, but it's all I've got."

Rel stared at her. "I just asked you a question. Do I get the courtesy of an answer, or are you and Kasumi going to have a conversation here?"

Dara took another deep breath. "I was organizing my thoughts. I left the barracks because I couldn't stand to spend even one more minute alone with someone who _looks_ like the guy I married, but who isn't. I told you two weeks ago that you'd changed over the years. That the Rel I met here on Mindoir, fell in love with on Mindoir, would never have done or said the things that _this_ Rel has."

Rel started to object, "That's not enough reason—"

"You asked for an answer, Rel," Kasumi interposed, quietly. "Let her finish."

Rel subsided, wanting to hiss between his teeth in exasperation. Now it felt as if he were being _lectured._ "Great, so now I'm going to have all my mistakes listed. Probably alphabetically, right?" Knowing Dara's penchant for lists and organization, it didn't seem like an unfair assumption.

Her eyes tightened slightly in irritation, and Kasumi again reminded her, "Calmly."

Dara visibly steadied herself. "Let's see. . . threatening reporters? Mindoir Rel wouldn't do that. Withholding pain medication to injured, dying prisoners? Also not a very Rel thing to do. Arguing for staying out in the black, and leaving me on Rocam for a year? Not a particularly considerate husbandly thing to do. The Rel I married on Mindoir only left because he _had_ to, for boot camp. You _could_ have had your pick of billets on Rocam. You chose going back to an SR ship over being with me. Mindoir Rel would never have done that." She paused, and just stared at him for a moment, expressions fleeing over her face. "That was enough to let me know that I'd taken back-seat to the career, at least. Which is, I guess, not unexpected. Sometimes relationships and careers do have to have a little give and take. But between the _obsession_ with becoming a Spectre and the career and the love of fighting, I don't think there's any room left for me in this relationship."

Rel just stared at her, open-mouthed. "That's not true," he said. "When I was on Camala, and thought I was going to die, I tried to . . . I tried to send my spirit to you. . . "

Dara passed a hand over her eyes. Hiding the tears. "Yes, and that brings me to your behavior after being on Khar'sharn for ten days. You seemed relieved to see us all, acted pretty normally, laughed about a stress-relief leave, and then wanted to go to Illium. I'd _promised_ you we could go someday. I put my surgical rotation even _further_ behind to go with you. I don't remember much about the actual evening in question, but you seemed to be relaxed and happy afterwards." She paused, then said, flatly, "When we were on Bastion, you decided it would be _funny_ to tell everyone in the room that we'd been to a hotel on Illium for a little _aizala_, where it's nice and legal and everything. And you said it to 'punish' me, for not telling you about the AIs. Not only did that lack class, it was also humiliating. The guy I fell in love with kept everything about our relationship behind a closed door. You don't." Dara swallowed, hard. "I've always been happy to wear your paint. Your marks. Your knife. But that was like marking me in public, without my permission. It was crass, and it wasn't _Rellus_."

Rel threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "Don't you think you're overreacting, Dara? That was one comment in a room full of our friends."

"One comment out of five years of things I overlooked or made excuses for or ignored. Sometimes, all you need is one moment to crystallize everything in your mind, like a suspension reaching its saturation point. I've been thinking since Bastion. A lot." Dara rubbed her hands over her arms, as if she were cold. "And I realized that I couldn't remember the last time I felt young or happy or clean or really very good about myself."

Those words hit him like body blows. "You weren't happy at our wedding?" Rel demanded, sharply.

"I guess I was happy at our _tal'mae_ rites. But thinking back. . . I had Kallixta plan the whole thing. Her house. Her music. Her choice of food. Everything. I couldn't even be bothered to go shop for a dress this time. So. . .why not? Was it just that we'd done it before? No. Was I _honestly_ that busy that I couldn't make time? No. Was it because I was going through with it because I'd promised you that I would? Maybe." Dara looked at him, and her expression shifted. Became _sad_, of all things. "Which isn't the right reason to get married."

The sadness actually took the wind out of his sails. Rel sank down on his haunches, bracing his elbows on his knees. "So," he said, after a moment, "because you suddenly think you're not happy, that's reason enough to throw away everything we've worked for?" He was trying to keep his voice level and steady, but it grated, even to his own ears. "

Dara sighed. "What I'm saying is, that I haven't been happy for a _long time._ This isn't sudden. It's been building. For years. And I'm saying that the future that we've worked for doesn't mean _shit_ if we get there, and I have no sense of self-worth or self-respect left. All the other things I've sacrificed for that future? Turn out to have been worth a hell of a lot more to me than I thought they were."

"And what the hell have _you_ sacrificed?" Rel snapped at her, rising to his feet once more. And yet, again, he wished he could call the words back as they flew from his mouth.

Dara _glared_ at him, and got down off the washer. "Friendships. Companionship, other than you. My relationship with _my_ family. And quite a bit of my humanity. I don't even relate well to human and asari patients anymore."

"That has nothing to do with me."

"Maybe not. But it's something I'm going to work on. I'm going to work on being the best damned doctor I can be. And I can't _be_ a good doctor around you. A good doctor, as Sky was kind enough to remind me in the simulation, takes care of herself. Emotionally and mentally and physically, so she can be strong for her patients. A doctor can't afford to cry all night. A doctor can't afford to fight with her husband all the damn time. A doctor has to have a stable home life, or no home life at all. Otherwise, people will _die_. And _that_ is why I didn't return to the barracks." Dara paused, and her brown eyes, usually so soft and caring, were hard and closed. "Oh, and for another thing. . . my dad _offered_ to go pick up my things. He _offered_ and I said _yes_ because I didn't want to have to have _this_ conversation till I was _ready_ for it." Her tone was angry now, and Rel was just as glad that it was. It was _better_ than the emotionless, blank mask.

Kasumi pushed off the wall and moved forward, just as Rel stepped forward himself. Kasumi put a hand on his cowl, a gentle reminder not to cross the invisible line between them. Rel lowered his head and sniffed, while pulling at the collar of Dara's shirt, as he'd wanted to, before. Baring her shoulder, showing off the old bite mark. He leaned lower, and sniffed again. It was _faint._ Almost overpowered by the cooking smells and the chemical smells and Kasumi's faint perfume. But it was _there_. Male human deodorant, male human skin. Familiar scent, that.

"Funny," Rel said, harshly. "You still have _one_ of my marks on you. But you _smell_ like _Elijah._"

Dara reached up, and forearm-blocked his hand away from her, and Kasumi stepped in between them fully now. "That's enough," the little woman told Rel, meeting his eyes calmly.

Dara's voice was clear and cold. "No, Kasumi. He started it, but I'll end it. Yeah. Eli gave me a hug and helped me wash my face. That's it. Not that I actually owe you an explanation for _anything_. And as to the scar. . . there's an advanced dermal regeneration unit in the med bay here. I know how to use it. And I _will_ be using it tomorrow."

Kasumi was still in between them, and Rel looked past her. "Oh, so Eli and you once again are _comforting_ each other." Again, none of the words came out the way he _wanted_ them to. He wanted to ask _why couldn't you turn to __me__ for comfort?_ But he already had an answer to that, didn't he? She thought she came third, fourth, or last on his list of priorities. And that he was, somehow, a different person than he'd been when they lived here. _I'm not. I'm the same person I ever was. Spirits, you couldn't hurt me this much if I weren't._

As these thoughts flashed through his mind, Dara was already replying, "Yeah. That's what friends _do_, Rel. They help each other and comfort each other and pick each other up when they're down." She looked as if she were going to go on, then visibly bit it back. Got control of her temper. "I think I've done all the _talking_ I want to do with you for the moment. Step away from the door, please."

"I'm not done talking yet. I haven't even _started_. All we've done is listen to your rambling explanations."

Dara stared up at him, and folded her arms across her chest again. "All right," she said, quietly. "What could you possibly have left to say? So far, you've almost accused me of cheating on you, denied that anything I've said has any validity at all, and completely failed to hear what I have to say. What do you want to say?"

Rel stared at her. She was so _angry_, so coldly remote and angry, and yet it was _wonderful_, in a way. She was so quietly _fierce_ with it. Glorious, and so unlike her usual calm competence. A side of his little mate he'd so rarely seen. Still, he had to calm down. Find rational thought, somewhere. "I wanted to say that I still love you," he told her, after a long moment. "We can. . . we can work on these things."

For a moment, when he'd said _I still love you,_ her face had softened. And when he'd spoken again, her expression hardened again, but the eyes remained desperately sad. "What things, Rel? The things I'm _overreacting_ about? The things you don't think are important, or real?"

Each word hit like a blow to the celiac plexus. Rel winced. "Everything," he offered, quickly. "We can work on all of it."

"You can't work on a problem that you don't believe exists, Rel," Dara told him, quietly. "I've been trying to work on these problems for five years, with no help from you. I'm tired, and I'm done. You work on the problems that you can see and accept, and maybe you'll get better. I hope you do, in fact. It would be _nice_ to see the Rel I fell in love with again. But I can't and won't destroy myself trying to help you. I've got too many other people who rely on me to do that."

"So, now I'm not the only person who puts the relationship at the bottom of the list, huh?" It was a stab in the dark. A hurtful way of turning her own words against her, and he felt bad the instant he said them.

Dara's eyes glittered in the dim light of the laundry room. "For the last time. I am a _doctor_. People's lives _depend_ on me. Their lives are my _responsibility_. If you don't see a distinction between working to save lives and working to advance your career, then there's really nothing more I can say to you."

Rel was already hanging his head and opening his mouth to apologize for the _stupid_ angry words, but Kasumi reached past him and opened the door. She again stood between Rel and Dara, letting Dara edge by and out the door. Rel stared after his wife, tormented, his own words ringing in his ears. It was hard to take that sort of thing back.

No one had stayed in the kitchen, but there were a few people still in the kitchen nook by the back door—Sam, Lantar, Ellie, Serana, Elijah, and Lin.. . . and Blasto, of all people, hovering near the back door. Their gazes were all carefully averted at the moment, except for Sam's. He was looking straight at Dara and Kasumi as they walked through the kitchen. Sam crossed and took his daughter's hand. "You feeling up to a little time at the piano?" he asked, quietly. "Sky's been waiting on you. Kaius is a good kid, and tries hard, and Dempsey can actually get that guitar going pretty well. . . but Sky's missed you, sweetie."

"And I've missed him," Dara said. Rel could hear the telltale sound of tears in his wife's voice. "Of course I'll play."

She and Sam rounded the corner into the big living room. Rel just looked after her and realized that his hands were shaking. He wanted to _howl_, in fact. It had been so _easy_, once, to find the right words. To show her what she meant to him. But now, there weren't any in English or turian or _tal'mae_ that didn't twist themselves around his tongue. He had just wanted to ask her _why_ she'd done the things that she'd done. If she still loved him, the way he loved her. And yet, then again, there were his father's words of two nights ago. _You love fighting more than you love your wife. You love fighting more than you love your family. You love fighting. . . more than you love your honor._

Rel moved, numbly, towards the back door, and the group seated around the kitchen table there. Saw Lin straighten up, from where he'd been leaning in towards Serana. Rel's awareness was hyper-acute at the moment. He was almost _sick_ from the words he'd exchanged with Dara, but on the other hand, she'd been angrier than he'd ever seen her. And it had, in a way, been wonderful. He wondered, for a moment, if that was some of his mother, Solanna's, appeal for his father. Now there was a female who was always ready for an argument. And yet, Lin's sudden movement caught the eye. Rel's eyes flashed down, and he caught a glimpse of Serana's foot, hooked behind Lin's spur, while on the table, she held Eli's hand.

First tinkle of piano music coming from the other room. Blackness of despair strong in him, Rel approached. Put his hands down on the table and stared at Eli. From his right, Lantar said, calmly, "You'd have done better if you hadn't started with accusations, Rel. Putting someone on the defensive just means they're going to come out swinging." Quiet words, as if Lantar didn't notice the way Rel was staring at Eli.

Rel leaned down further, and said, very quietly, "_Stay away from my wife, Elijah, clan Sidonis."_

At the table, Ellie's eyes went wide. She spoke turian, after all, and Rel had just insulted her son.

Elijah sat up straight, his jaw clenching, and his eyes suddenly going dark. He released Serana's hand, and said, in precise, accented turian, _"What did you just say?"_

"_You heard me. What, you can't satisfy my sister, so you have to enlist the aid of your __dimicato'fradu,_ _to all your shames, and then you come sniffing after my wife?"_

A muffled gasp from Ellie. Lin was on his feet in a second. Elijah raised a hand to Lin, stopping the turian as Lin was already in motion around the table. _"That's what he __wants__, __fradu__,"_ Eli said, and stood up. Got closer to Rel, and it was suddenly as if the human massed more than he had before. Different stance. Shoulders wide, hands out. Simply taking up more space in the room than he had before. Alpha body language, surprising to see. Eli had always been. . .behind. Behind in age by six months, behind career-wise, or so it had seemed, hell, literally behind them during the batarian attack. Now, Rel blinked. Adjusted, again, as the world seemed to shift around him. And a little thread of elation rising in him. _Finally._

Dark eyes meeting Rel's steadily, from inches away. Close enough that Rel could probably bite his damned nose off. _"Remember the Odessa human team, Lin, and all their insults? He can't win any other way. This isn't the Rel we knew and called brother. The spirit inside of him is desperate, Lin, and without honor. Desperate to continue as it has. He hopes that his insults will be intolerable enough that I'll give him the fight he so craves right now. So that he won't have to think for a while. Won't have to realize that Dara does what she wants with whom she wants and when she wants to do it. That she's no longer accountable to him in any way. And __neither am I__." _Eli's voice underlined those words starkly, but his tone remained very, very quiet. "_I'm not going to fight the brother of my wife. Not unless he strikes the first blow. Sit down and have a drink, Rel. Eat something. Absorb the spirit of the pack, which is what you were supposed to be here to do. Apologize to your sister. And stay the _fuck_ out of my face."_

Rel put a hand over his face. Remembered Eli coming to _rescue_ him on Khar'sharn. Remembered the laughter in the bunker, the way Eli and Dara had teased one another. How he'd laughed at the time, not taking it seriously at all. Now simply, utter confusion. He didn't know whether the inklings that he _should_ have taken that laughter and camaraderie more seriously than he had was simple _paranoia_, or if he'd seen an inner truth, if belatedly. He didn't know what was real or true anymore. If he could accept the evidence of his own senses, the interpretations of his mind. If everyone really was against him, or if he was, in fact, locked into some sort of delusion. One that had begun before all the _bodies_ on Bastion, and even before his 'capture' by Valak on Khar'sharn.

The ten days he'd spent on the batarian's estate had been nerve-wracking, but incredibly exciting. Constant danger, of course. Constant worry that _someone_ on the estate would turn him and his benefactor in. And yet, he'd felt oddly _alive_ there, and hadn't really, since coming back. . . Rel closed his eyes. Tried to see _himself_ with the spirit-eyes that everyone told him he must have inherited from his grandmother, Pilana. _If I were to carve myself today, what would I carve myself as?_

The problem was, no image came. He could picture the old statue of him and Dara, facing in towards one another, locked in an embrace, but ready to defend each other, in every detail, every flaw.

But no new image came to him.

Rel lifted his head, and tried to meet Eli's eyes. Looked down, found Serana looking at him, hurt and shock in her eyes, but no shame, no guilt. _"Forgive me, first-sister,"_ Rel apologized, his throat tight. _"I spoke hurtfully, and without truth."_

_Except that there was truth in it. Somewhere. I think. Spirits, what is the damn truth?_

**Elijah, June 12-13, 2196**

After Serana had accepted Rel's apology, Eli had tugged lightly at her hand, and pulled her out into the big living room. Lin followed, a step or two behind, his expression still deeply annoyed. Eli had been a little afraid that either Lantar or Blasto had been about to step in to handle Rel, moments ago. He was actually glad that they hadn't. That Lantar had trusted him to defuse the situation without intervening. Lantar had once mentioned that Blasto had a 'voice of the Enkindlers' ability that made people highly suggestible. _Maybe we can try that on Rel if beating him over the head doesn't work. A little hypnosis. We'll know it works if he quacks like a duck whenever someone says the word __pepper__ around him._ Eli's lips quirked up at the corners at the mental image this brought, and his black mood lifted with it.

Serana was taking a little longer to adjust, however. She was ebullient by nature, but the words from her adored older brother had clearly hit home, and hard. Eli settled her down on one of the couches near the piano, and asked her, "Can I get you anything, little one?"

She shook her head briefly. "Just. . . sit with me." Eli glanced at Lin, and they both settled down to either side of her, prepared to wait out the rest of the evening. Sam's parties were usually _fun_ events, but this one had rather been spoiled. _Well, the beginning has been. Doesn't mean we have to __let__ the whole evening be ruined._

Dempsey was sitting next to Zhasa, idly fingering the strings of his guitar, but not playing at the moment. His son was sitting on the floor between their feet, watching everything curiously. Shel had found a place near the piano to hide and stare at Sky; Kaius was at the piano with Dara, playing the high notes of a complex four-handed piece, and laughing a little bit as he tried, desperately, to keep up with Dara's skilled fingers. Eli squeezed Serana's hand. _Just let it all sink in, little one,_ Eli thought. Sky's voice, which had been silent during the confrontation, Eli realized, belatedly, rang out in blues and greens in everyone's minds.

_Why not sing while Rel was arguing with everyone?_ Eli wondered, and was surprised a second time in one night as Sky actually answered his absent thought.

_Because Sings-Honor must sing his own way. The harmonies of all will uplift him and sustain him, if he allows it, but to sing into his mind. . . he would not accept it, I think. Truth growth must come from within. It cannot be imposed. Nurturing songs may be sung, to make things grow, but the seed and the soil and the song must come from within._ Sky's tone held grays and violets. Regret and sorrow.

_That's the least cryptic I've ever heard you. You must be tired._

_Perhaps you are closer to understanding than you were before._ Sky sounded _amused_ now. _Would you like another puzzle-song, to ponder before your rest?_

_Why not? I like a challenge. _

_Water wears down stone, but slowly, song of waves beats steady rhythm against the shore. _A quick image; waves crashing against a cliff face, foamy and white against black stone. _Earth smothers fire; all fire may do is scorch and blacken the earth, as when a volcano sings its song of rage. Sudden and fierce, but then cooling. Becoming glass, and the fire dies. _Another image; black-red volcanic sludge, cooling rapidly. Becoming turgid, then obsidian and pumice. No fire left, no heat. Nothing but the stone. . . at which the waves were, once again, lapping and licking. _Fire consumes air; air beats at fire, but fire cannot __live__ without air. Eternal struggle, consumer and consumed. _ Dancing flames before a windstorm. . . sometimes beaten down by the wind, sometimes leaping up like a wildfire in the forest, running ahead of the wind, driven by it in insensate glee. _Wind and water touch, but do not touch. Affect one another, but do not struggle, do not contend, cannot harm one another. _A storm at sea now. Waves heaving under the powerful winds, but becoming calm again almost instantly. _And back to the beginning once more. Stone holds water, contains it, and, when water is quiescent, it does not wear the stone._ Image of a stone pitcher now, filled with water, cold and clear. _Do you understand?_

Eli's eyes opened, and he stared at Sky across the room for a moment. _No. No, I don't._ _Not even remotely._

Lantar and Garrus, as well as Allardus, Solanna, and Rinus had all moved to sit with Rel in the kitchen. Talking to him, low-voiced. Rel had his head on his forearms at the table, and periodically, Solanna was putting her hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort her second-son. Rinus was doing the least talking, and looked as if he had a full head of protection-anger going on. Eli glanced over, and muttered to Lin, "Do I even want to know what they're saying over there?"

Lin shrugged, his eyes glittering in the low light. "It'll be all right. You just need to calm down. You've had a few shocks. It's not the end of the world. When you give yourself a little time to relax and think, everything will come clear. We're here with you. You know." Lin sighed. "The usual things you say when you don't know what the hell _else_ to say."

After that song, Dara turned and patted Kaius on the shoulder. "You think you can take over for Sky for the rest of the evening? I think I'm going to turn in early tonight."

Kaius nodded, soberly. "You _do_ look funny without the paint on, cousin. Then again. . . I only barely remember when you didn't wear it before." He paused. "You'll still play piano with me when you come home on leave, right?"

Dara leaned over and gave him a quick squeeze around the shoulders. "Absolutely, I will. You're a friend. Okay, kind of a _young_ friend, but a friend anyway. And sometimes, that's better than family."

Kaius grinned up at her, all razor-sharp teeth, and Dara vacated the bench. Walked around, saying her good nights to everyone, apologizing to people she hadn't had a chance to talk to yet much. "So, Zhasa, did you at least enjoy the mole sauce, once Dempsey ate it for you?" Dara teased the quarian female quietly.

"It was _spicy_! Much more so than I thought it would be. But wonderful, yes. Thank you."

"Next time, we'll get him to taste-test salsa for you. My grandmother makes a habenero-peach one that's to die for."

Dempsey shook his head. "Doc, you've got entirely too much mad scientist in you. This sounds like an experiment designed to evaluate just how much I'll really do for Zhasa."

Dara actually chuckled at that, and moved on, shaking hands with Melaani and Kirrahe each now. Lin, Eli, and Serana stood as she approached. "We're going to grab our coats and head out, I think," Lin said, and Dara squeaked as the tall turian hugged her. "What was that for?" she said, chuckling.

"I'm getting _my_ scent all over you, too, little one," Lin told her with aplomb. "It only seems fair. Besides, it made you laugh."

Eli's eyebrows rose. He'd caught _some_ of Rel's words through the closed door of the pantry, but not all, evidently. He was going to have to ask Lin what _else_ he'd heard.

Dara's amusement faded, and she looked embarrassed. Lin made a scoffing sound and hugged her again. Then Dara turned to give Serana a quick hug, herself, as they migrated to the front lobby. "Serana. . . I'm so _sorry_," Dara whispered, with a little nod towards the kitchen at the back of the house.

Serana shook her head. "You didn't say it. You didn't _make_ him say it, either."

Eli sighed internally. _And if a member of your own __family__ said as much, little one, what do you think it'll be like in the galactic tabloids?_ But he knew his _asperitalla_ was stubborn. She'd come to a decision in her own time, and in her own way. She couldn't possibly want the embarrassment of undoing their vows three months after having taken them. Of returning wedding gifts—mostly credits, fortunately, and none spent, that he knew of—and having to come up with some sort of face-saving explanation.

Dara sighed and turned to him, and started to whisper, "Thank you. . . and again, I'm so sorry. . . " to him as well.

Eli cut her off. Pulled her to him in a hug the equal of the one Lin had given her, and controlled his expression tightly. "Don't worry about it, _sai'kaea,"_ he said against her ear. "Rel's been trying to play top dog around here since the moment we touched down. I think part of it is the competitive nature of the trials. This was going to happen with _one_ of us sooner or later. He should be glad he didn't try it with Dempsey. I don't think Dempsey would have held back." Eli paused, and, reluctantly, pulled away. "We might have gotten through that stubborn skull of his tonight."

"I hope so," Dara replied, looking tired. "For his sake."

Serana whispered, just barely cutting through the crowd noise around them. "But even if he recovers, you won't go back, right?"

Dara shook her head, slowly. "Tonight showed me what would happen if I did," she said, looking so utterly miserable and tired that Eli wanted to hug her tightly to him once more. "He told me he still loved me. And for a moment, I was tempted to go back. Then I said _no_, and it got ugly again. No. Can't do it. Won't do it. His sanity is important, but so is mine."

Ellie, his mother, had just come around the corner into the lobby now, from the kitchen. Her face was a little pinched with worry, one of the expressions Eli hated seeing on her face. It aged his mother, sometimes shockingly so. "Dara," she said, and surprised Eli by coming over and giving his oldest friend a hug, too. "After seeing and hearing what I've heard tonight. . . I'm glad you got smart a lot earlier than I did. And have the courage to do something about it."

Dara looked absolutely dumbfounded, and leaned down to hug Ellie back. Eli cleared his throat. "You should show her what you've been working on, Dara," he said, lips quirking up.

"No. It's not _done_ yet. I wouldn't have let you see, except you _snuck up_ on me." Her tone was tart, covering over the sorrow and regret she'd shown just moments ago.

"Some special forces operative you are," Elijah told her, shifting back into teasing mode. "I wasn't exactly in _stealth mode._"

Ellie was looking back and forth between them. "What are you talking about?" she finally interjected.

"Nothing—"

"She's fixing the quilt Grandma Chambers made for me when I was born," Eli said, overriding Dara.

His mom's eyes went big. Eli grinned and dodged the kick Dara aimed at his ankle. "It's not _done_," Dara muttered again, "but if you want to see the progress, Ellie, come on upstairs and I'll show you."

_Good_, Eli thought, and caught Dara's hand for a quick, light squeeze. "See you in the morning, then?"

Dara blinked. "What's in the morning?"

"Reviews, probably," Lin reminded her. "Last day of testing was yesterday."

Dara made a face. "And here I thought I'd take a day off from the early morning running and just sleep in until Takeshi jumps up on my bed and starts shaking me." She sighed. "Oh well. It's been nice to visit."

"_Ama'filus_," Allardus said, from behind them, and Eli and Serana both looked up, as if they'd been caught doing something. Dara started a bit, as well, and Eli released her hand. "If I could have a word with you, too, before you retire for the night?" He turned and looked at Eli and Serana and Lin, eyes moving to and from each of them calmly. "And with you, outside, first-daughter, _ama'filu_?"

_Oh, god. So much for a quick exit,_ Eli thought, and nodded to Allardus. _"Of course, __pada'amu__."_

They moved a little away, but Eli could still hear Allardus' words as they pulled on coats and gloves at the door. _"Dara, it's a sad thing when contracts come to an end before their time. I wanted to tell you, first, that you'll always be one of my favorite students."_

"_Thank you . . . I can't really call you __pada'amu__ anymore. It wouldn't be appropriate."_ Dara's voice was a little sad. Eli winced. He knew that Dara genuinely loved all of Rel's family. . . well, perhaps not Solanna, but the rest of them. The same as he did. And she was, in essence, facing the fact that she might have to give them up, along with Rel.

Allardus shook his head. _"I suspect that we'll be working with each other in the future, Dara. __Dr. Velnaran__ would be a little too formal. Why not call me Allardus, like a colleague should?"_

Eli's eyes widened. It was a hell of a gesture, actually. He looked up and back, and saw how wide Dara's own eyes had gone. _"Thank you. . . Allardus,"_ Dara said, quietly. Her voice sounded tight.

" _I understand that you're very angry right now, and perhaps rightfully so,"_ Allardus told her, calmly. _"Solanna's going to be fussing like you've injured her only nestling for a while, of course."_ He paused. "_You do understand, that the chances are good that no matter what the Alliance says, the Hierarchy might not accept their ruling?"_

Dara shrugged. _"Then I might have to forfeit my turian citizenship. Which I worked damned hard to attain, I might add. But that's neither here nor there."_

"_I'm saying that you might be legally bound to him forever. The letter of your __tal'mae__ contract indicated all income to be distributed between you evenly, but in a single account. He could, if he wanted to, sue you for any earnings you withhold from him." _Allardus grimaced. He didn't sound as if he were enjoying himself. _"He could, in theory, sue you for non-payment of half of your joint income taxes each year. Just as examples. "_

Eli _really_ wanted to ask Allardus if those were examples, or threats on Rel's behalf, but kept his mouth shut. It wasn't, technically, his business, and he had quite a conversation pending with his father-in-law anyway. He _did_ mutter, quietly, to Lin, as if in passing, _"But he'd look like a gutless worm, trying to sue his wife that way, not like a male with spurs at all." _

He was _quite_ sure everyone in the vicinity heard him. Allardus' back stiffened, and Dara visibly calmed again. _"Allardus, trust me when I tell you, my father's already hiring legal counsel for me. And very __good__ counsel, at that, for which I will endeavor to repay him. At least I don't have med school bills hanging over my head. Just legal fees."_ She nodded to him. Looked past him, and smiled and waved to Eli and Serana and Lin. "Good night, everyone. Ellie, if you _really_ want to see what the quilt looks like right now, I've got it set up upstairs."

"I do," Ellie said, composedly. "Besides, it'll give us a chance to talk. About. . . things I didn't think we'd ever have in common."

Outside, Allardus faced the three of them. _"I'm sorry,"_ he said, unexpectedly. _"We knew Rel would probably have a crisis event before he touched rock-bottom. We didn't expect it to include all of you."_

Lin snorted. _"And why not think so? He's been targeting Eli on and off since the trials began."_

"_We thought it would be Dara, and no one else. Hence the attempt to ensure that it was a very public location."_ Allardus sighed. _"Linianus, Elijah. . . you're two of his oldest friends. I understand that what he said was unpardonable, and that you might have difficulty forgiving him. But I ask that you try. Serana, first-daughter. . . I ask that you try, too."_

Eli shrugged. His friendship with Rel had always had its ups and downs, and had always had a faint strain to it; that strain even had a name: Dara. Rel had seemed to warm up _enormously_ once Eli had plighted Serana, and Eli supposed he could understand why. It meant that a door had closed in Rel's mind. And now that door, like many others in his mind, was not only open, but swinging off its hinges. _"There's little to forgive,"_ Eli replied, calmly. _"I want very little to do with him at the moment, but understand that it might be required for his. . . __treatment__."_ _Yeah, I don't see Rel wanting to absorb any of __my__ spirit. Hah. Lin's, maybe, but mine would stick in his crop._

"_And now I must ask you something equally unpardonable. Was there any truth to his words?"_ Allardus was granite-faced. _"I understood, as a xenobiologist, that it might become __necessary.__"_

"_If it were true, that would be something that only concerned the three of us,"_ Serana said, quickly.

Eli sighed internally. She was wise and well-spoken and _understood_ people, instinctively, but Serana fell into old patterns when dealing with her parents. Most people did.

Allardus clearly didn't like the answer. _"You're flippant, first-daughter,"_ he replied, grimly. _"Lantar __did__ mention, weeks ago, that there might be reason to __amend__ your contract. I took that to mean an emergency clause or two. Multiple party contracts—"_

"_Forgive me, but this might all be very moot,"_ Lin interjected. _"Depending on the decisions made by the Spectres in the next day or so, we have several courses of action open to us. And we really don't need to discuss them tonight."_ Lin paused. _"But we will discuss them. When we know what there is to discuss."_

Eli was just relieved that Lin had stepped in. He might have said something unpardonable, himself. _But then again, if she and Lin __were__ biting out in the woods. . . Allardus should be able to smell that on them. Much more clearly than Rel would have been able to pick up my having put an __arm__ around Dara, through heavy coats._ Internally, Eli winced.

In the barracks, Serana was very, very subdued. _"What's the matter, little one?"_ Eli asked her as she got undressed for bed. He put his jacket in his locker without taking the _tal'mae_ knife out of the pocket. He had _no idea_ what he was going to do with the damn thing. But he knew it would disturb Serana to see it. Knives _meant_ things to turians. Not so much to humans. A human could take someone else's wedding ring and hold it for them, no problem. A female, giving a knife to a male, might mean something a little different to a turian. But he'd promised Dara he'd hold it for her. If she opted to take Rel back. . . he'd return it to her. If she needed it for some crazy ritual to undo the _tal'mae_ rites, she'd have it in her hands as fast as he could cross the galaxy to give it to her, if needed. And if she decided she wanted to throw it off a cliff or break it. . . well, he'd be there to hand it to her for that, too.

Serana shrugged a little. _"After my second-brother's behavior, I was angry. Set to tell you both that if tonight was the last night possible, that we should all be together."_

Eli shook his head. _Bad idea, __asperitalla__,_ he thought. _Shouldn't be in anger._ _"And now?_" he asked, climbing into bed, himself.

"_Now? Between Rel, my father, the reporter the other night. . . many things are sinking in."_ Serana sighed. _"I'm __not__ ashamed, Eli. I'm not ashamed to love both of you. But reality is. . . harsher than I like it to be._"

She curled up against his shoulder, and Eli let his hand run along her fringe lightly. For some reason, Sky's little riddle flickered back into his mind. _Serana is fire_, Eli thought, staring at the ceiling. _So is Rel. She's a steady blaze in a hearth, or sunlight streaming in a window. Life-giving. Rel used to have that, but now he's a blast furnace, run out of control._ "One day," Eli said out loud, quietly, "I think it's possible that you'll grow to love Lin more than you love me."

"No!"

"Shh." Eli stroked her fringe gently. Endless, patient strokes. "I think it's more than possible, Serana. People love a lot of different ways in their lives. And sometimes love cools, turns into friendship. . . and sometimes, it just dies. Turns to ice. Or worse, boils away, leaving nothing at all. What I felt for Kella. . . pale shadow of what I feel for you. Siara. . . my god. I don't know how I had the patience. Or maybe it was just desperation." El chuckled, leaned over, and kissed her forehead. _"Good night, little one_," he added, and rolled over to try to sleep.

It was difficult. The idea of the final reviews tomorrow really did have him excited, on edge. He _thought_ he'd done fairly well, but there was an element of stomach-gnawing uncertainty of what the future would bring, either way, pass or fail. And when there wasn't that to worry at, Sky's images fluttered through his mind, instead. _So if Serana is fire. . . huh. Yeah, thanks, Sky. At least it's something else to think about._

The next morning, Eli got into uniform for the first time in several days. Dress uniform, at that. He wasn't really fond of the damn thing, but Serana's eyes lit up when he wore it, and its rows of ribbons. The crowd of people sitting in a waiting room in the main villa actually was a riot of color. Some in uniform, some not, all different types. 'Think they're going to lift the news blackout on us?" Melaani asked Eli as he and Lin found seats on a bench across the narrow room from her.

"I hope so," Eli returned. "Starting to feel a little oblivious here." A quick glance around the room verified that all twenty-one people from Saturday were reporting in. Siara and Makur, Thelldaroon and Fors, Seheve and Melaani, Dempsey and Zhasa, Rinus, still looking a little cold-eyed, standing beside Rel, who had his back to a wall off to the left, away from the other candidates. Dara was off to the right, actually. Seated between Siara and Zhasa. She didn't look like she'd gotten any more sleep than anyone else.

Lantar emerged into the long hallway. "All right. Thank you for your patience. We'll be going in alphabetical order, so bear with us a little longer. James Allen Dempsey? You're up first. Please follow me."

Eli chuckled, and leaned over to comment to Lin, "Depending on if they go by _Zhasa_ or by _nar Pellus_, the two of them might be holding their breath for a while."

Lin snickered back, and opening his omnitool, called over to Dara, "You up for a game, little one? You, me, and Eli, in . . . hmm. . . batarian _ru'udal?_"

Dara grinned and came over to look at the 'board' on the omnitool's projection. "I'm really bad at it," she told them. "Mostly because I can't bluff worth a damn while making the 'bargains.'"

"Oh, we're both beginners, too," Lin said, and his grin split his face.

"You're about to say we should play for money, aren't you?" Eli accused Lin.

"Now would I say that?"

"Yes," both humans replied.

"You're no fun at all." Lin sighed. "Next you'll be saying I should give up and go challenge Rel to a game of chess."

"He used to love it," Dara said, very quietly. "If you want to, Lin, you should."

Eli looked up in time to see Lin's faint grimace, and they exchanged looks. _Depending on the outcome of today, __dimicato'fradu__, you might wind up Rel's next brother-in-law. Might not be a bad idea to give him a hand now, if you can,_ Eli thought. But he left it unsaid. Lin could make up his own mind, after all.

"One round of _ru'udal_ first," Lin told them. "Let's see just how _bad_ we all actually _are._"

**Dempsey, June 13, 2196**

Dempsey felt annoyingly out of place in a dress shirt and khakis among all the people in their dress uniforms and ribbons, the inner sergeant he'd left behind in a Cerberus cryo-tank heckling him from the back of his mind, _You're out of __uniform__!_

Entering Commander Shepard's office, he saw that Vakarian, Jaworski, and Sidonis were joining her today. Idly, he wondered if their kids were going to burst through the office today, as they had a year ago. He wasn't linked into Zhasa's mind at the moment, so no amusement touched his face. He just clasped his hands at the small of his back and stood upright. Waiting.

"James Allen Dempsey, formerly sergeant, N7, Systems Alliance Marines," Shepard read off the datapad ahead of her. "You've exceeded our expectations. Several of the exercises were designed specifically to place you under psychological and physiological stress, to see if you could handle normal combat again. You did."

Jaworski nodded. "You've also been taking pains to develop social relations on base, which bodes well for your mental and emotional recovery."

_Yeah. I'm ahead of your boy Rellus, from the sounds of last night's arguments. Hate to see a marriage hit the rocks, but that's life in the service._ Out loud, all Dempsey said was, "Thank you. Zhasa'Maedan has been helping me with that."

"So we hear," Jaworski drawled. Faint amusement in his tone. Dempsey returned his look expressionlessly.

Shepard nodded. "Given that, your demonstrated ability to work as a member of a team, leadership when it's needed, and admittedly _unique_ abilities_,_ we're inviting you to join the Special Tasks and Reconnaissance force. Will you accept?"

Dempsey's eyes widened slightly. He'd never expected the invitation to the try-outs. Being _accepted_ was. . . astounding. Even through the numbness that pervaded his thoughts without access to Zhasa's mind, it was a shock. It took him a moment to find the words. "Commander. . . I remember when you were appointed humanity's first and only Spectre. Everyone in N7 was cheering you on. None of us thought we'd see another human make it in any of our careers." Cool, flat words. "It's an honor to be asked by you. I accept." He thought about it for a moment, then added, "I think there's a possibility that you might all be crazy to ask me aboard, but I'll accept anyway."

Jaworski snorted. "Oh, there's no doubt. We're all certifiable 'round here. But the company's good and the pay's not bad." He stood up and offered Dempsey his hand, and Dempsey shook it, shook Shepard's hand, and then exchanged wrist-clasps with Vakarian and Sidonis.

"If you'll step out this way? We don't want expectations either being raised or dashed out there," Sidonis added, escorting him to a different door, out through the living quarters, where Amara and Kaius were doing their homework.

Amara looked up and sent Dempsey a quick, clear thought: _Madison's going to be doing flips when he hears._

_The expression is 'to flip out.' Don't tell him. I want to tell him myself._ Clear, cold thoughts. _Hopefully with Zhasa there._

In a different anteroom now, Dempsey now had _plenty_ of time to think. Consider. Test ideas. Sure, he'd been fine during all the exercises. Training stuff. Not real combat. And sure he'd _mostly_ been okay on Camala, where the bullets had been real, and the pain in his head had been a little worse. But he'd needed to take aspirin after every one of their training exercises, and had refused anything stronger. _Last think I need is to become a junkie on top of everything else. But still. . . can I __handle__ real combat? Am I actually going to be stable enough, not to be a danger to other people on my teams? They think so. . . they wouldn't be making me a Spectre if they didn't. But __I'm__ the one ultimately accountable for my actions. My god, if I wasn't already keeping myself on a short leash before this. . . _

**Kirrahe Orlan, June 13, 2196**

The young salarian was trying, as hard as he could, to school himself to calm. It wasn't easy. The waiting had already been _interminable_, with a handful of humans and asari and a drell tech specialist already going in ahead of them, and none of them returning. Kirrahe Orlan reminded himself of the mantra of STG. _Patience, information, planning, and more patience_. He was short on information. But he could see only two real outcomes here. First, he could fail out. He'd 'died' several times during the training exercises, usually from being out of position. Kirrahe calculated, however, that _deaths_ didn't actually factor into the selection process, but rather, _how_ one had died, and why. If it had been in a good cause—covering a hostage, for example—it didn't seem to count against a candidate. If someone had died while covering a colleague's retreat, again, no apparent demerits. It fit with what he'd seen of the Spectres under Shepard's leadership. Nevertheless, Kirrahe had wondered, several times, over the past few days, why he had even made the cut and stayed here as long as he had. _Sure, I speak three dialects of batarian, sure, I've been in STG since I was eight. That doesn't really seem to weigh much here. Everyone else has many more years of experience than I do. By the Wheel, look at the campaign ribbons on everyone here._ The more he looked around, the more Kirrahe was convinced that he'd been included as long as he had, merely to give the other candidates someone to work with, work against, even. _Chances of success vanishingly small_, he decided.

It was a pity. Kirrahe actually _liked_ what he saw here on Mindoir. The stunning surprise of meeting a _female salarian_ at the barbecue last night. . . _daughter_ of the famed Mordin Solus, no less. . . and a female being raised by a human female and a male turian, at that. The thought made him _dizzy_. But possibilities and alterations and dichotomies _abounded_ on the Spectre base. The young asari child of Spectre Ylara—a child undergoing adoption, apparently—certainly _acted_, in every respect, like a young _boy_. Certainly, an impossibility. _Sociological implications of both, absolutely astounding. If I stayed here, I would almost have to take up a second career. Documenting all of these . . . fabulous anomalies. Between them and the hybrid children. . . amazing potential for social upheaval and change. On a far more real platform than comes from the barrel of a gun_.

Lantar Sidonis stepped out from the door, and beckoned him. "Kirrahe Orlan? Please follow me."

Kirrahe stood before the reviewing Spectres, hands behind his back, ramrod straight. "Kirrahe. . . " Shepard said, after a moment, in a musing tone. "I had the privilege of working with your uncle, once."

"He spoke highly of you, when I had occasion to meet him," Kirrahe replied, firmly.

Shepard leaned back, and appraised him, human face expressionless behind her turian paint. "What do you think you offer the Spectres, Kirrahe?" she asked, after a long moment.

Kirrahe blinked several times in rapid succession. "To be honest, I'm not sure," he replied, his light tenor voice calm. "I know what I see here. Change. Potentiality. Not just in the Spectres, but in the community you're forging. I would love to be a part of that. But I don't know what I can offer you, besides a strong competency in batarian, STG tactical training, and another gun."

Shepard nodded, slowly. He had a feeling that his words had somehow pleased her. It did well, to please a dalatrass, of course. And Shepard was a dalatrass, no matter her species. "Kirrahe, we've been concerned with a sort of . . . one-dimensionality to you. You're a hell of a fighter. You're STG, so of course you have technical know-how. But we haven't seen leadership out of you. And we'd like to."

Kirrahe sighed, and nodded. "I expected to hear that, Commander."

Shepard raised a finger. "But we're going to give you the chance to work with us for the next two years. See how you develop in that time. Your title will be _probationary_ Spectre, and you'll be working with Spectres in the field. How does that sound?"

Kirrahe's eyelids blinked upwards twice in rapid succession, and his narrow mouth quirked upwards. "It's. . . unexpected. I had a binary situation in mind as the outcome of this review, Commander. Pass or fail. It's a delight to find that there's another option. I look forward to the opportunity to repay you for this opportunity."

"Oh, you will," Jaworski, the big human male told him, dryly. "Believe me, you're going to be paying."

**Seheve Liakos, Mindoir, June 13, 2196**

It had been an enlightening week, so far. Seheve had always been held apart from others. Still held _herself_ apart, reflexively. But the Spectres seemed to encourage, even require mingling. The easy camaraderie of some of the others spoke to her. Whispered things to her, of how her life might have been, if her father hadn't died. If she'd had the companionship of her twin just a little longer. If friendship and secrets and affection had held an equal place in her life with blood and death.

The Master had shaped her into a weapon, to be thrown like a javelin at any target whom he chose. In all these Spectre candidates around her, Seheve saw similar weapons. Weapons shaped by governments and agencies. Some were blunt and direct—hammers, like Kirrahe Orlan. Others were subtle and swift as her own vibroknife, like Siara Tesala. And while she could see in all their eyes that _becoming_ weapons had marked them all, changed them, set them apart from others of their kinds, their species, they all had something _vital_ in them, something alive and vibrant, which she suddenly realized that she lacked. All save one. Linianus Pellarian had just challenged Rellus Velnaran to a game of chess. . . some human game, apparently, an ancient and stylized game of strategy and mock-battle.

Seheve drifted over on noiseless feet to watch over their shoulders. _Do turians play __any__ games that are not battles?_ she wondered. _Then again, they were just playing the batarian game of lies and bargaining a few minutes ago. __Ru'udal.__ An apt game for that species._ She caught Pellarian giving her a measured glance over his shoulder, and moved, politely, so that he could see her. "This. . . I would not wish to impede your concentration by standing behind you. Rest assured, I have no intention of stabbing you in the back," Seheve murmured as she moved.

Rellus gave her a quick look. "Should _I_ be worried, then?"

"I have been given no instructions to slay any of you," Seheve assured him, quietly. "And he who was my master will no longer, I think, be giving such directions to anyone else."

Pellarian moved a piece on the omnitool's board. "Check," he said.

Seheve chuckled a little, under her breath, surprising herself. Pellarian raised his eyes to hers again. "What?"

"I was reflecting on how this game expresses, exquisitely, the people and the era in which it was developed. Even in its rules. You announce, politely, to your opponent, when he is in mortal danger. Like the rules of war, developed by humans and turians and even by the asari. What is allowed, and what is not allowed. Every piece has precise moves that it may make. A precise role, in a hierarchy. And when the head of the government is slain. . . the game is over. But most of the time, you must slay every other piece on the board to get to him, unless your opponent is inexperienced. Is that not so?"

Pellarian looked irritated. 'This is another jab at how turians make games out of war?" he asked.

Seheve shook her head. "I did not intend for it to sound accusatory. Forgive me. But it strikes me as a silly game. The most important piece, is the most constrained. Rules for movement, rules for hiding, rules, rules, rules. Nothing to do with reality at all."

"There have to be rules," Pellarian told her, quietly. "Otherwise, it's not a game. No one ever said that games were reality."

Rellus was looking at the board now, reflecting, and moved a piece, blocking the check. "And you forget, Liakos, that those same rules overthrow the rigid hierarchy of which you spoke. The lowliest pawn can advance and become the most powerful piece on the board. A new queen."

Pellarian snorted and moved one of his pawns exactly so, and the omnitool had the piece shimmer and dissolve into a new configuration. "So, even the most unlikely person can become a Spectre, _fradu_?" His teeth bared quickly. "If, you know, games were reality?"

Rel snorted. "No. They'd at least have to be _on the board_ to start with. And not every piece can do it." He sighed. "Sometimes a knight. . . stays a knight."

"Seheve Liakos?" That was the human Spectre with the cold blue eyes and the facial fur. "We're ready to speak with you now.

Inside the office, Seheve lowered her head respectfully. She would have knelt, but that had been discouraged, vigorously, the only times she had tried.

"Seheve, look up." Shepard's voice was firm. "Many humans and _all_ turians find eye contact to be courteous." She paused, and when Seheve lifted her head, reluctantly, Shepard nodded. "Thank you. Do you know why you have been evaluated as a potential Spectre?"

"To give Spectre Blasto time to question me, and to use the information thus gathered to work against the Master on Kahje." Even as she said the words, they didn't sound entirely true. Blasto had stayed throughout the trials, but had not questioned her, past her incarceration in the decompression chamber. When they'd pressed the language and thoughts of the Enkindlers. . . the _Protheans_. . . into her mind.

"He's pretty much wrapped that up. He'll be going back to tie up a few loose ends, but he thinks he got the main conspirators."

"Then to throw a sop to the drell and hanar government. To have another candidate they requested be here to represent them is a privilege."

Shepard steepled her odd human fingers in front of her. "Certainly true."

The words didn't hurt Seheve. They were, no more, and no less, than she expected.

Shepard went on. "However, Blasto and Sky think you have potential. Jaworski and Lantar are impressed by your skills, and they don't impress easily. Me, I have problems with the concept of putting an assassin outside the law. But I've been reminded, in you, of another assassin I knew once. One who regretted the path his life had taken, though he saw no _personal responsibility_ for the things he had done. He saw himself as a weapon. A tool in the hands of his masters. Is that how you see yourself, Seheve Liakos?"

Seheve thought about it. "I have thought so," she admitted, quietly. "I have been made into a weapon for others' hands. You have shown me that what I have been taught of the Enkindlers. . . the Protheans. . . is a misapprehension. That they would never have sought to be worshipped. That they were then, as the salarians are now. A people of science and rationality and experimentation." She sighed. "I do not know what fate awaits me, once I pass beyond this mortal realm, now. Before, there was. . . some assurance. Not certainty. But hope, at least. Now I do not have even that. But better uncertainty. . . better even potential oblivion. . . than the certainty that I must and will be punished for taking lives in a _false_ cause."

Shepard shook her head. "That's something you can talk with the base chaplain about. He's a rabbi. And there's a couple of priestesses of the Goddess here, if you'd rather talk to an asari. My main concern isn't really spiritual, however."

Seheve nodded now. "I am a weapon. I can be a weapon in your hands. Your cause seems to be. . . a better one. . . than those to which I have turned my hands in the past. I have skills other than killing, as well. Infiltration. Information extraction." She shrugged. "I will serve in whatever capacity you designate. It seems a fair way in which to. . . expiate. . . my errors."

"And again, you abandon yourself to someone else's will," Vakarian put in, sharply.

Seheve shook her head, minutely. "I volunteer to serve," she replied, quietly. "I do not need to be a Spectre to do that. As I said in your. . . .psychiatric evaluation."

Shepard nodded slowly. "Good enough. You won't be a Spectre."

It was almost a relief. Seheve nodded and then bowed her head in profound respect.

"You'll be a _probationary_ Spectre, instead. Two years of working with us, in combat and out of it. Then we'll see what you've made of yourself."

Seheve's dark eyes jerked back up. She had _no_ idea what to make of that information. "By what criteria will I be judged?" she asked, after a moment's consternation.

Shepard tipped her head to the side. "When we see a _person_ looking at us, instead of a knife," she answered, frankly.

**Fors Luka, June 13, 2196**

"You're kidding me." It was the third time Fors had said the words.

Shepard actually started to _laugh_ at this point. "Do I really need to say it again?" she asked.

"I didn't believe it the first three times, so, bear with me. You _really_ want _me_ to be a Spectre?" Fors felt elation building in him. . . and also a cold trickle of apprehension. It would be a _hell_ of a lot to live up to, to be the _first_ volus Spectre. "I mean. . . I know I said I hoped I—or someone like me—could make people think of Irune as producing more than greed and corporate malfeasance, but. . . I'm not exactly a role model!"

For some reason, that made all _four_ Spectres laugh. "Does that mean you're going to rein in your sense of humor?" Shepard asked, after a moment.

Fors made a rude sound through his suit filters. "Maybe for the first two weeks. Then, I'd probably get bored, to be honest. Besides, I'm at my most effective when I can use people's irritation against them, anyway."

Shepard cautiously wiped tears of laughter out of her eyes. "Well. . . points for honesty, at least."

Fors hesitated. "And the fact that sometimes, people literally _carried me_ through the trials?"

Vakarian snorted. "And you literally carried Thelldaroon at least once. There's give and take on every team, Luka. And you actually _fit in_ around here."

"Crazy as that sounds," Jaworski told him. "Guess I'm going to have to start stocking volus _eeree'pa_ for the barbeques." He shot Shepard a look. "The rate I'm going on these, you're going to have to start giving me a catering budget, ma'am. My paycheck is healthy, but quarian and volus and salarian and krogan and _rachni_ goodies are stretching it."

Fors snickered. "Sorry for the inconvenience."

"No, you're not." Jaworski gave him a human's pyjak-like grin, but it looked good-natured, and the male seemed to have a _good_ sense of humor. And then Lantar escorted him out, to a waiting room in which Dempsey, Liakos, and Kirrahe were all waiting already. "So, I just finished painting this environmental suit B-Sec blue and gray," Fors commented. "Not that I can really see the colors all that clearly, admittedly. But I think black will be an upgrade. I'm told that it goes with everything."

Dempsey nodded, cold-eyed as always. Smell of machine and dust and something sharp and pungent. . . .human whiskey, perhaps. "Plus, it's slimming," he told the volus calmly.

"You saying that I'm fat?" Fors snuffled up at him.

"No. I'm saying that you're round."

A quick biotic shove, met and countered with a biotic shield; the equivalent of punching someone in the shoulder and it having no effect at all. Fors snickered through his filters. "This is going to be an _entertaining_ job, I think."

**Linianus Pellarian, June 13, 2196**

He'd been quietly relieved when Seheve had been called in. It relieved him of the pressure of her stare, although those large, dark eyes had been focused just as much on Rel and on the board. He was relieved that Rel seemed to have recovered some of his mental balance from the evening before, and didn't seem as on edge. Still restless. But perhaps a little more _aware_ of his restlessness. Lin had seen combat 'addiction' once before, in a SWAT officer on Nimines. That had been caught _damned_ early, fortunately. It was one thing in a solider. A little more leeway could be accorded when your job was to _kill_ the opposition. In a cop? No latitude could be permitted. Not when your job was to _save_ lives. A few too many risky shots, moving before the kill order was given. . . it had been enough to get the officer pulled off the team. Evaluated. Sent to treatment and a nice placid desk job somewhere for a while.

Somehow, Lin didn't think that Rel was going to be getting a desk job anytime soon. Rel was still the _best_ at what he did. And he still, in spite of the very evident _edge_ in him, had that aura of absolute _certainty_. That he knew what he was doing, where he was going, and was going to _get _to that goal, even if he had to charge through hell to get there. And it _lifted_ whoever was with him. Was infectious, even. Lin could totally understand why the symptoms had been missed. It was hard to see the shadows, in the middle of all that blinding light.

But chess was a game that required _patience_. And Rel had once cultivated that patience, like a farmer growing _festuca_. The same way he'd cultivated the patience to carve. But his play now was hasty and a little sloppy. _"Slow down and think about it,"_ Lin told him, calmly. _"We're not playing a speed round here. And there's nothing better to do while we wait_, _besides starting another game._"

He wasn't really expecting an apology from Rel for his words of last night. Rel probably saw him as a beta, a subordinate, instead of a friend or a brother right now. Rel hesitated, and changed his move. Made a better decision, getting Lin into a knight fork. _"You want to talk about anything, __fradu__?"_ Lin offered, and slid his king to safety.

"_Not really."_ Rel lifted his eyes from the board. There was a long moment of silence. _"You were my best friend, Lin, for five years. From the moment we came to Mindoir. How could you dishonor my sister? I could smell your scent on her last night."_ His mandibles flexed, and Rel glanced up, eyes sliding towards Rinus. Lin followed his glance, and saw Rinus staring back at him. Expression blank.

_Lovely. If it comes down to it, I suppose they might be satisfied with breaking __both_ _my knees._ _"You mistake my intentions,"_ Lin told Rel, calmly. It wasn't easy. He was being accused of dishonorable conduct, when he was _trying_, as best he could, to find an honorable way forward. All three of them were. _"Elijah and I have agreed that if either of us makes Spectre, that he will stand aside and let me pursue Serana's interest. Whether she accepts it, is up to her."_ In English, as he slid a bishop into place, he announced, again, "Check."

Both Velnaran brothers absolutely gawked for a moment. Rel recovered first. _"What? Why-?"_

"_Because while neither of us believes that the simulator gives a guarantee of the future, we both saw scenarios that would cause Serana . . . and ourselves. . . considerable discomfort and pain over years if we continued down the path we had set out for ourselves before the recruitment letters came."_ Lin smiled faintly. _"Eli and I still plan to pledge blood-brotherhood, incidentally." Chew on that. We're friends, brothers. And we won't let anything get in the way of that._

Rinus stepped forward now. Looked behind Lin at Eli, who was playing _ru'udal_ with Siara and Dara both now. _"He's willing to __step aside__?"_

Rel snorted. _"So much for the great love of his life, eh? Not even three months wedded."_

Lin sat up. Stared at Rel until the other met his eyes. _"He said he would remain in the contract until she chooses to terminate it or until it expires on its own. My brother is wise enough to know that sometimes the only way to make someone happy is to honor their decisions. And I will not hear one word spoken against either my brother or Serana."_ He chose the words very carefully. _"You chose to carve us a spirit statue, all three of us together, Rel. You saw more when you __started__ it, than existed at the time. And now you object?"_ Lin shook his head. _"You have spirit-eyes, brother. When you use them, you see __very__ clearly. What do you see with them now?"_

Rel turned his head aside, sharply. Looked away.

Lin looked up at Rinus, instead. "_I court her, but as one bound by a plighting contract. Nothing more." Well, at the moment, anyway._ Bastion seemed like a dream. A nightmare, pierced here and there by a fretwork of light. _"And if either of you has a problem with that, I stand ready to meet you."_ Lin managed a faint smile. _"But only one of you at a time."_

Rinus exhaled. _"Given that, I can't say I'd have made the same decisions, but you're not sneaking around on anyone. You're offering honesty and honor, and beyond that, a closed door is a closed door to me."_ He nodded to Lin. _"I'd be just as happy to call you __amil'amu__ as I have been to call Eli that. And either way, you're both still brothers to me."_

"_Glad to hear it. You've got a __nasty__ sidekick, Rinus, and I like my ribs where they are."_ Lin was relieved. With Rinus' acceptance, Rel had almost no room for objection. And in fact, Rel subsided.

And that was when Sam came to the door, and called Lin into the office. Shepard's words washed over Lin, and he barely heard them at first. The decorations for his work on Macedyn and Nimines. Documented as an exceptional investigator. Decorated SWAT team member. Exceptional teamwork and leadership skills. A stabilizing influence on those around him. "Even down to sitting with Rel out there in the sitting room," Lantar noted at that point, dryly. "Yes, we're still watching," he added as Lin's head snapped up. "You're doing your best not to make him feel like a pariah, and we thank you for that."

Shepard nodded. "You're working out the kinks in your. . . personal life. You've recovered from your wife's untimely death, and still have a core of integrity and personality that are exceptional. Given that, your demonstrated ability to work as a member of a team, leadership when it's needed, and your exceptional tactical abilities_,_ we're inviting you to join the Special Tasks and Reconnaissance force. You'll be in the new investigative arm, under Sam and Lantar here. Will you accept?"

Lin's head spun, and he chuckled a little. _Spirits. Me? A __Spectre__? _It had never been a goal. Little more than a kid's dream, growing up on base. And, like his toy soldiers, he'd put that dream away. Concentrated instead on the job at hand, at being the best he could be. At saving people's lives, or at least finding justice for them. For people like Brennia. Lin shook his head now. "If someone had told me, four years ago, as Lantar drove me home early from that damned handball game in Odessa, that one day, I'd be _working with him_. . . I'd have laughed. Told them they were crazy. But spirits, yes. Of course I accept."

_Ah, little one. The first die has been cast. Will you be angry with us tonight, or accepting, as you almost always are?_ The thought made his crop tighten a little, as he headed to the next anteroom, and took a seat beside Dempsey. To his surprise, Liakos was there, too. But, like Kirrahe, she was apparently, to undergo two more years of testing. _Really hope Shepard knows what she's doing with __that__ one,_ Lin reflected, grimly.

**Elijah Sidonis, June 13, 2196**

When Lin had gone off to try to get Rel to focus on some chess, Eli had shaken his head over the three-sided _ru'udal_ board that he and Dara were still looking at, on his omnitool now. "Siara, want to play a round or two?" he invited.

Siara chuckled. "Why not. This is where I claim never to have played before, right?"

Eli gave her a look. "Two years on Omega, and never played _ru'udal._ Right. Pull the other leg, Siara."

Her eyes glittered for a moment. "It was worth a try."

All three of them were, for better or worse, damned good at blank face. "Two years of bodyguard work," Siara said, wryly, as she collected her virtual winnings after the first round. "I _had_ to keep a straight face and not look as if being propositioned by various batarian, human, turian, krogan. . . hell, even _asari_ businesspeople . . .bothered me."

Dara grimaced. "How'd you manage that?"

"Imagined splitting their heads open to scoop out their brains, at first."

Eli choked on his laugh. Siara shrugged. "Then I realized that if I did that, there'd be nothing _there_ to scoop out, so I settled for picturing them writhing around on the ground in agony. That, I know I can do. Made it easier to smile at them and tell them, 'maybe later, if Harak's not busy with me.'" Siara snorted. "I could not _believe_ how many of them actually thought I was serious." She looked up at the ceiling. "You'd think the asari ones wouldn't fall for the act. Then again, I wasn't offering them the courtesies of Thessia when I met them. . . "

Eli interpreted Dara's blank look. "She means light sharing on shaking hands."

Dara blinked. "To say _hello_?"

Siara laughed, softly. "Yes. Among ourselves, absolutely."

Dara visibly switched into doctor mode. Her own version of blank face. Eli could still read her eyes, though, and see the discomfort there. Like Serana, Dara could not lie to him. And _paid_ for it over the _ru'udal_ board.

Siara admitted, after the second round, which Eli won, "I have to say, I feel _really_ out of place here. Makur, Dempsey, and I . . . and that drell female. . . were practically the only people not in uniform." She wagged a finger in between them. "The medals certainly _look_ impressive. What do all the ribbons mean, anyway?"

Eli grimaced. Ribbons were ribbons. "Attaboy or attagirl, respectively," he said, briefly.

Siara made a rude sound. "Again, if there's any chance I'm supposed to work with you all in the next few years, as opposed to going back to Tuchanka _at last_ and getting back to my teaching. . . I _should_ know what you've done." She reached out and touched a series of Dara's ribbons. "For instance, why are these blue, and not white, like the rest? And why does that one have a black line through the middle of the blue?"

Eli's head lifted. _That's right. She admitted it's four __commina narthecium__ now, not three, like last October._ "The blue's for blood," Eli said, quietly, as Dara pretended to study her next move on the board. "Those particular awards are only given to medics and surgeons. For saving lives. White means a life saved in peril. Blue means the medic was wounded trying to save someone. And the black stripe. . . "

"Means that the patient died anyway. But, you know, good job anyway." Dara's voice was terse. "First one I got, was Sky, actually. Attacking the Lystheni ground base. Shot in the arm while fixing up one of his legs. Second one was a marine under Rel's command. Our unit's tech had hacked a turret to let me get to the wounded soldier. It got, well, unhacked. Took two in the shoulder and one in the lower arm while trying to _move_ that marine to cover. Third one. . . " She shook her head. "Had a roof cave in on me from a batarian missile hitting the building. Knocked me clean out."

Eli's stomach clenched as Dara went on, lightly. "Fortunately, I fell on top of the patient. When I woke back up, five minutes later, I got us both out from under the rubble and kept trying to stop the bleeding. Most recent one was last December. Last big fight before going to Rocam. Blood Pack base, and they weren't much like Harak. . . inasmuch as I've seen Harak on the newsfeeds." Dara's face went grim. "Again, was trying to treat a marine off to the side. Had two or three vorcha converge on me. I shocked one, Rel shot another one off me, but the third actually managed to claw through the gasket at the elbow of my armor. Cut me open pretty badly before I could get him off me. Needed about forty stitches, but the scars are barely visible. The patient was shocky already. Didn't make it. Went into cardiac arrest and I couldn't resuscitate." Dara grimaced. "Have I mentioned that I really don't like vorcha?"

Eli looked at her. Distant memories. Her trying to hold the vorcha down, him trying to jam the knife into the creature's eye and into the brain. "Yeah. Me either." He paused. "Still think you need to duck more often." _How many damned times __have__ you been wounded? Sixty stitches in boot camp because someone didn't like seeing you in Rel's paint. Four times that they gave you medals for. . . yep. Two more __sangua_ _clipeus__. That makes seven times since boot camp. _

"A building _fell on me_ for one of them, Eli. I couldn't have been more in cover if I'd _tried_," Dara pointed out, dryly. "Everyone else had moved up, I was behind, taking care of the marine, and wham. Support beam to the head. I was lucky all I had was a concussion and a minor skull fracture—"

Eli stopped moving. "Okay, maybe we should hold off on the rest of story time till Lin and Serana and I can take you out and get you a few drinks." _And me a few, too._ _I mean, you're obviously still __here__ and __alive__, but. . . damn._ He really didn't like the mental image of her head being split open by a beam and a falling ceiling's rubble.

Dara shook her head. "It was an aluminum beam, Eli. From a house, not a skyscraper's I-beam. Fairly small and light, all things considered." The corners of her mouth turned up. "And that's why I have the heavy kinetic shielding and armor. As I think I've said before." She paused. "Now, Siara, ask him about _that_ one." Dara pointed at the _pugnator siderious_, or combat star, with blue ribbon on _Eli's_ chest. "You'll notice that it means _he_ forgets to duck, too."

Siara looked interested. "Yes, there _are_ a few blue ones there, Eli."

Eli shrugged. "Very stupid bank robbers. Got themselves pinned down. Lin took a bullet in the knee, I went to cover him, and got tagged myself." He frowned. "That was. . . left arm, I think." Eli gave Dara a look. "Right arm was playing with stealthed terrorists with Rinus. I think I must duck better than you do. Only two."

And at that moment, Sam came to the door for him. "Elijah Sidonis? Please follow me."

Eli swallowed hard, and trailed after Sam. His stomach was roiling, and he honestly didn't know which answer he'd prefer to hear right now. He was prepared, either way, and just _knowing_, one way or the other, would be a relief of sorts. Free to either to continue his life as planned. . . or free to take steps to alter and adjust that life. The limbo of the past several days had been worse than anything else, really.

So he stood in the office in front of the big desk, with his eyes focused ahead of him and his hands behind his back, and listened as Shepard spoke. History of exceptional service, previous work in delicate political matters, previous work with the Spectres, solid investigative background, exceptional combat skills. "Personal issues are being resolved, and you seem to be able to keep your temper even when pressed about them, which is a plus," Shepard noted, dryly. _As if last night were a test of me, too. Huh._ "You're flexible, adaptive, and a core of integrity that's exceptional. Given that, your demonstrated ability to work as a member of a team, strong leadership capabilities, your exceptional tactical abilities_,_ we're inviting you to join the Special Tasks and Reconnaissance force. You'll be in the new investigative arm, under Sam and Lantar here, but will be deployed in combat as needed as well. Will you accept?"

Eli inhaled. And there it was. One clear future, leading forward.

He _could_ say no. But he didn't know if Lin had been offered and accepted. Couldn't base his answer on _anything_ but this: if he said no, he'd regret it for the rest of his life. Would regret being given a chance to _make a difference_ on a galactic scale, and turning it down. There would be other regrets, possibly. But he'd make the most of the opportunity. Eli nodded. "I thank you for the honor," he said, slowly. "And I'll do the best job for you that I possibly can." He looked at his father as he spoke, and caught Lantar's hint of a smile. The _pride_ in his father's eyes simply _floored_ him, and Eli simply couldn't say even one more word. Just let Lantar lead him out, accepted the wrist-clasp and shoulder-clasp his father administered in the far waiting room, and went to go sit by Lin.

"Yeah?" Lin asked, as Eli sat down.

"Yeah."

"Me too."

They paused, and then both smiled. Eli shook his head, and wanted to either laugh or cry. He wasn't quite sure which. He'd _dreamed_ about this sort of day, when he'd had the poster for the _Battle of the Citadel_ vid up in his room, with the impossibly noble Commander Shepard facing off against a Council full of doubting Thomases. Had dreamed about it, and then _Lantar_ had become a Spectre. And Eli had never doubted for a moment that his step-father deserved it. Was capable of greatness. _I wonder if he felt this way, too. As if his stomach were suddenly full of vipers. Unsure. Uncertain. And as if the job were a uniform five sizes too big. At least I know what set of decisions we have to make now. God. __Asperitalla__, I hope you can forgive us both for saying __yes__._

**Melaani T'soa, June 13, 2196**

Melaani had been quietly observing the room, as candidate after candidate left, and did not return. She enjoyed watching people. It was both an occupational hazard and a hobby. You could learn a lot, just from watching how someone sat. How one person turned _in_ towards someone that they liked, had an affinity for, or turned away from, subtly, those whom they disliked. And in two hundred years of life, Melaani had learned to read body language in a half-dozen species. Dara Velnaran, for example, turned slightly away from Siara Tesana. . . but the body language spoke of thawing as she opened more outwards, turned more towards her as the pair continued their game of batarian liar's luck, now with the asari's krogan mate joining them. And Siara and Makur began to work as a team, both of them hounding and harassing Dara across the board, much to all their amusement. The quarian, Zhasa'Maedan, had walked over to look over their shoulders, and was offering advice to Dara now.

On the other side of the room, the turian brothers were continuing a game of human chess. Another study in body language, that. The elder was calm. Inwards-turned. His gestures and moves on the board were very precise, but with a snap that spoke of controlled irritation. The younger turned away, slightly. In a turian, almost imperceptible, but a certain amount of shame-anger, she would suppose. _Interesting_._ They worked well with me in the SWAT nightclub exercise. Apparently, some family issues at play here._ Mel hadn't quite been able to figure out all the undercurrents, but she'd definitely caught a couple of comments in turian that she had known the words for. _Mor'loci._ Also _pugnator proicitum_. One who gives in to, or flings himself into, or loses himself in combat. _An interesting problem._ She'd lost herself in her roles over the past seventy years or so. Posing as a zealot on the Goddess' Path. Posing as a savage Eclipse Sister, though she'd had to fake her 'murder' to gain access to the deepest level of the mercenary group. A fellow officer had been wearing a vest and blood packs, and Mel had been lucky that the Eclipse sisters around her had wanted to escape cleanly, rather than verifying the kill. And, of course, most recently, the Memories of Thessia group. Melaani sometimes wondered if she were _ever_ going to be able to cleanse her mind of _that_ one. The Goddess' Path people had been zealots. Pitiable, in their fashion. Led into darkness by a charismatic matriarch and their own desire to _believe_, to feel chosen out from all others. The Eclipse Sisters were less pitiable; they had but two motives: profit and power. Still, those were understandable.

The Memories of Thessia group had been solidly focused on hatred, loss, and vengeance. And every single day, before getting out of bed and putting on her mask and facing them, Melaani had asked herself one simple question: _Was there __really__ anything Shepard could have done differently?_ The answer was always the same. Shepard _could_ have gone to Thessia's rescue. . .and left Sur'Kesh to die. Could have rescued Thessia, and left Palaven to die. Could have rescued Thessia, and left Earth to die. In the end, there were only so many people and so many ships. And a choice had been required. To deny that was to deny that others had suffered in the war.

And then she'd put her mask on, and gotten down to work. The day she _couldn't_ answer that question was the day she'd need to get out. Undercover work was a constant battle between identities. You had to _believe_ your role, live it as completely as possible. But you also had to maintain who you were, down deep, in your soul. Or you'd lose yourself.

And then, in the big office, being offered a chance to work the investigative/infiltration arms of the Spectres. Under the direction of Kasumi Goto, Sam Jaworski, and Lantar Sidonis. Melaani slowly smiled. "Would it be _terrible_ of me to wish, just a little, that the people with whom I last worked, could know this? Admittedly, ten or fifteen of them are in jail now, awaiting sentencing. But they kept insisting that _Shepard is just out to destroy even the remnants of the asari people._" Melaani snickered softly. "If they could see me now? Eh, they'd probably try to kill me. But the looks on their faces would be _totally_ worth it."

Jaworski's shoulders shook for a moment, and then he stood to escort her out.

**Thelladaroon, June 13, 2196**

"Well," the elcor said, after a long moment of thought. "This is something of a surprise. I did not expect to do even this well."

"Then you're not unhappy with the probationary status?" Shepard asked.

Thell looked down at her, the turians, and the other human thoughtfully. "No," he replied. "Why should I be? My people would think that any decision made on the basis of a week's observations to be a far too hasty one, to be regretted in the weeks or months or years to come. While I am quicker to make decisions than many of my brethren, I agree with this assessment in this case. A Spectre is appointed for life. A probationary period, especially for someone who is. . . not as combat-oriented, or of species who has a clearly defined combat role, would make sense." He considered it further. "My family will rejoice, in any event. They could not discuss my work with STG. Most of them did not particularly understand my work with AIs, and worried at its legality. This, they may point to with pride."

For some reason, all four bipeds covered their lower faces. Humanoids did that. It wasn't as if it concealed their amusement; it only called attention to the minute crinkles around their eyes, the slight shudders in their shoulders as they restrained their laughter. Still, Thell appreciated the effort. "I will be working in the investigative and technical branches?"

"Primarily, yes. But if there's a big combat mission, anyone can be tapped for that, as their skills are needed. We noticed that you worked well with Fors Luka. You two might be paired more often." Vakarian paused. "Thank you, Thelldaroon. It's going to be interesting working with you."

"Thank you. It will be an honor to work with all of you, as well." Thell turned and lumbered for the door, which Lantar Sidonis held open for him. Past that room was a living area, filled with small chairs and knickknacks and valued personal treasures. . . and two wide-eyed human-turian hybrid children, who turned to _stare_ at him as Sidonis led him back out to the hall. Thell tried to place his feet delicately, and winced as he shouldered past a bookshelf on his way out the door, managing to catch it with one forepaw, so it wouldn't crash completely to the ground. Human spaces were simply not _designed_ with elcor in mind.

**Urdnot Makur, June 13, 2196**

A broad, toothy grin split Makur's face. "Probationary Spectre?" Makur stood and thought about it for a moment. And began to laugh. _Only one other Spectre in krogan history. Urdnot Gris. He was a hundred and twenty five when he did it, too. Me? I'm twenty-one. If Siara can ever get Malla to write the history chants down, even __probationary__ is worthy of being written. Not even Urdnot Wrex is a Spectre. Or Ulluthyr Harak._ "I'll fight whomever you want me to fight, and protect whomever you want me to protect," Makur told them, happily.

Sidonis blinked. "You're . . . more cheerful than we expected you to be," the turian admitted, cautiously.

Makur shrugged. "It's pretty obvious that Siara's going to be a Spectre. This just makes it easier to stay and fight by her side."

"It's _obvious_, is it?" Jaworski asked, dryly.

Makur shrugged. "Maybe not to her. But she's strong, smart, and learns quickly. She can read all your books and already knows your ways. She's tough and she's loyal, too. Me? I couldn't read until she taught me." Makur chuckled to himself.

"We _do_ want to see development out of you," Shepard warned. "Leadership, especially. You're a good team member. Everyone sees that in you. But a Spectre is more than just a loyal krannt-mate."

Makur regarded her steadily, and bowed his head slightly. "As you say, Battlemaster. I'll work on it."

Snowflake—_no, damnit. Cat. Now she's even got __me__ calling it that. . . _ uncoiled at his feet as Makur walked towards the far door. The leopard sniffed around the living space beyond, and suddenly found himself nose-to-nose with Urz, the Vakarians' pet varren. The two stared at each other for a long moment, until Makur gave the leopard a heavy thump on the rear end with one hand. Then Snowflake bounded off for the door.

"Can't wait to see the reaction on some batarian faces when they spot that critter coming at them," Jaworski muttered, staring after the cat. "They're used to varren. Sure, six-inch fangs and the disposition of a rhino on steroids."

Makur snorted. "Cat knows how to be quiet, though. Knows how to drop down from cliffs and from branches to attack prey. How to strike from ambush." Makur felt his mouth stretch a little wider in a grin. "They'll never see him coming."

Jaworski smiled faintly. "A critter after my own heart."

**Urdnot Siara Tesala, June 13, 2196**

Siara's hands were shaking a little as she walked out of Shepard's office. She was _dazed_. _Me, a Spectre?_ she thought. _Really? Me?_ She was just thirty-seven years of age now, a youngster by asari standards. But Shepard had spoken highly of her loyalty and her character growth over the past five years. Of her ability to both give and take orders. Her combat ability, her biotics, the very basic disguise work she'd done for Harak. . . not quite undercover work, but the beginnings of it. . . basic nursing skills. All coupled with a desire to do _more_. To be a teacher and a leader on Tuchanka. And a Spectre was a leader _anywhere_ he or she went, Siara thought now. _Vaul. My mom isn't going to know what to do with herself. Or with me._ Azala had been quietly proud of Siara now for years, though they got to see each other but rarely. Siara's more violent reactions were startling to the gentle scientist, but Azala accepted Siara for who she'd made herself into. Just as she accepted Gris, her _marai'ha'sai_, for who and what he was, too.

Siara came into the new waiting room, and flopped down next to Makur. Reached out, gentle communion of minds. Always touching. _Well, I'm surprised. / I'm not. You're strong, smart, and fierce. How would they not make you a Spectre? / It takes more than those things. / Yes. I'm only __probationary__, but I know this._ Clear pride in that thought. _Takes. . . perspective. / _Faint surprise from her. Probationary, but he was delighted by it. Thought it was more than he could have expected, at his young age. Siara caressed his mind lightly, and asked, _You think I have perspective that you lack? _

_Know it, yes. You have the words. You have all the words. And what they mean._ Out loud, Makur chuckled now. "So, Siara. . . when you go to challenge for the leadership of the Urdnot female clan. . . now they will see Urdnot Siara Tesala. She who taught half the children of the clan to read and write and make numbers dance. They'll see the female who fought a Harvester in the Rite. Who's a part of the krannt of the spirit and goddess of Omega, Pelagia. And a Spectre, to top it all off." Makur laughed even harder now. "You might not even have to fight."

Siara grinned. "It would be nice. I don't want to have to maul any fertile females."

_Just one thing,_ he told her, silently.

_Oh? / Only a fertile female can be female clan-leader. / Oh. . . .I hadn't thought of that._ Siara winced. She _wanted_ Makur's children. By preference, she wanted them to be at least half _him_, not just some warmed-over version of her own DNA. She _knew_ her weaknesses, and Makur's strengths. And she didn't honestly know what she'd do, either to or with, a smaller, weaker version of herself. But she also wasn't quite _ready_ for offspring, either way.

_No rush. Malla's got a good fifty years left in her,_ Makur told her, calmly. _Plenty of time._

_Time is what we have._

_Took you giving me a future to make time look like a treasure, and not like a wasteland._

**Dara Velnaran, June 13, 2196**

She'd watched the dwindling numbers of people in the room with a twinge of anxiety, and was relieved when she realized that Zhasa was actually going to be stuck near the end. At least that gave her someone to converse with. And a solid reason to look occupied and unaware of Rinus and Rellus at the other side of the room.

Last night, Ellie had looked over her work on Elijah's quilt, and had simply stood there, for a moment, with tears shining in her eyes. Dara hadn't quite known what to do with that. Five years almost exclusively on turian worlds and turian ships had damaged her ability to relate to other humans well. But after a moment, she'd patted Ellie on the shoulder, awkwardly. "It's not a big deal," Dara told the older woman, quietly. "I'm just sorry I sat on it so long before trying to fix it."

"I remember you asking me about repairing a quilt once. I seem to remember brushing you off." Ellie bit her lower lip.

Dara winced. It had been during that brief, uncomfortable period when Elijah and she had been sneaking around corners to steal kisses. Sweet and innocent as it had been, Ellie had _not_ approved. Not of her, and not of the blooming interest between them. Something to do, Dara supposed, with the fact that she and Eli had killed that vorcha together. As if it had somehow been Dara's fault. Ellie's reaction had never made sense to Dara, but then, Ellie was a very different person than she was. Gentle. Kind. Giving. "The good news is," Dara said, quietly, letting Ellie's words drift away like falling leaves, "my grandma told me it's actually only about forty hours of work on this. And I'm half done." She hesitated. "It'll never be quite the same as it was before, of course."

Eli's words whispered in her memory now. _"Don't worry about it," he'd_ snapped at her as she'd tried to pick up one of his old models. _"If I keep any of it, all I'll ever see when I look at it is . . . this."_ His gesture had encompassed the wreckage of his room, the rest of the apartment. The sudden shock of violence done to memories and life alike. Dara really hoped that when she was done, Ellie and Elijah wouldn't see the wreckage anymore.

And when Ellie had left, Dara had settled in to work on the quilt. Trying, very hard, not to think about the argument with Rel downstairs. Of the impossibility of making him _see_ any of her point of view. God, she'd tried. She'd tried so hard. Not just today, but on so many other days. And the moment when he'd told her he still loved her. . . Dara had wanted to break down. Cry. Fling herself into his arms and tell him everything _could_ be all right again. . . and then he'd made the fateful protest. That they could work everything out.

Dara had heard those words before. Eli and Lin might have to drag the wife-beaters and the drug addicts to the cells, but she'd heard plenty of repetitions of the same words in her time as a doctor. One young human tech aboard the _Nereia,_ for example, came back from every leave on Earth with inexplicable bruises on her ribs and torso. Dara had sent her to the chief medical officer. Had stood outside the office, unable to keep from hearing the words, _and this time he promised it would be different._ _Is it any different because Rel's the one saying the words?_ she wondered. _Does he __mean__ it more than any of the others? Or should I trust my instincts, the ones that say 'get out, he's not who you married, and don't get anywhere near him until you're sure he's himself again?' God. . . how I wish my mom were here to talk to. Kasumi's a great listener. She's smart and she's funny and she's wise. And my dad. . . I love my dad. He's great. But __god__ how I wish my mom were here._

So she'd put the quilt aside for a while. Let herself cry again. And then wiped the tears away, and picked up her work again. It wasn't going to get done if she didn't _do_ it.

Dara was recalled to the present as Zhasa made a move on the board. They'd moved on to a quarian game called _mancala_, and Zhasa was teaching her on the fly. Finally, Lantar came to the door. "Dara Velnaran?" he said. "It's time."

_All right_, Dara thought. _Let's get this over with._

She was just as glad she could keep her fingers hidden behind her back. She had a bad feeling that they were shaking a bit.

Shepard looked at her calmly. "Well, Dara. You're getting your personal life together. Dealing with it all with a lot of strength and courage. I applaud you for that."

_Doesn't feel like courage when my knees feel like Jello every time I have to talk to Rel. I want __my__ Rel back. I want the golden afternoons at the lake and in our allora meadow back. But I can never have those again, can I?_ Out loud, all Dara said was, "Thank you, Commander."

"It's a good thing, too. We need you to fill some pretty big shoes." Shepard paused and looked at her.

Dara looked down, then up again. "Dr. Abrams is probably going to need to go aboard one of the SRs for the war, right?" she said, quietly.

"Yes, but that's not quite what I'm getting at," Shepard replied, smiling faintly. "I was referring more to Dr. Solus's shoes."

Dara winced. "No one can fill those," she said, quietly. "He was a giant, Commander Shepard. He was my teacher and he was my friend. Maybe in thirty years, I'll have the experience as a researcher to come close. Maybe not."

Shepard nodded. "Everyone misses him," she said, simply. "But we desperately need a combat medic, a trauma surgeon, and someone who's not afraid to either stun someone, or kill an enemy, and who has the judgment to know when it's time to do either. We need someone who has the integrity to fight for her patients. . . and the wisdom to know when she needs to turn them over to someone else. Someone who can make mistakes, learn from them, and grow. Who can let even someone like Siara have a second chance."

"Slowly," Sam said, dryly. "Grudgingly. But a second chance."

Shepard nodded. "You're the right person, at the right time, and in the right place, Dara. You'll be distributed wherever we need you. Combat, investigative, and medical. Will you accept the job?"

"Pay's great, and we even get dental," her dad joked, lightly.

And here it was. What she and Rel had worked for, for years. Until she'd come to realize that working for that to the exclusion of all else was wrecking them. . . or at least, was destroying her. And now she had it. Dara examined the choice, from all sides. What it boiled down to was simple. They said they needed her, or at least, someone like her. She met their criteria, and there was a war coming with the batarians.

If she wasn't fighting with them, she'd be fighting in that same exact war, aboard a turian ship somewhere, more than likely. If she was going to fight, she'd rather do it with people she loved at her side and at her back, not yet even more strangers. "Yes," Dara said, simply. "I accept, and thank you. I will do my best for you."

_I only hope it's enough_.

**Rellus Velnaran, June 13, 2196**

It was an effort to keep his head up as he stood in Lilitu Shepard's office. He'd been in the living quarters so many times as a youngling, but in the office, not nearly as often. This was worse than the psych evals had been. Then, there had been just the odd feeling that he hadn't answered quite as they'd expected or wanted. Now, there was the definite understanding that he'd failed.

Rel wasn't used to failing. He'd never encountered _anything_ that he couldn't work his way through, with time, work, and dedication. He thought, idly, as Lilu shuffled her datapads around on the desk in front of her, to something Sam had once told him. That in the twentieth century on Earth, some high-end universities had discovered that when they accepted only students with the highest marks, the ones _used_ to excelling, that the students hit a new level of expectations and suddenly began to fail. And then they panicked, and sometimes grew depressed. Some even tried to end their lives. So a new system had been devised, in which the universities selected candidates who had gotten lower marks. Who were simply _glad to be there_. And thus, the higher-marked students, who were used to excelling, and unused to failure, had people around them who were used to not doing so well. Were calmer about the experience. And that reassured the exceptional students, somehow. Showed them that others had to struggle, too.

It had sounded like complete _talas'kak_ at the time. An amusing sidenote about human psychology. Now, Rel wondered if _he_ was one of the high-strung exceptional students who needed a stablemate, like a nervous racing _rlata_ sometimes needed a pet _biansae_ in the barn with it, for reassurance. _Except I had that. Not that Dara's a __biansae__ at all. And I yelled at her last night. Said things she's very unlikely to forgive, any time soon._ Rel winced. _Look at how long it's taken her to warm back up to Siara._ Forgiveness was not his mate's strong suit.

Shepard finally finished with her pretense of needing to sort through the datapads. "Rel," she said, quietly, folding her hands on the desk in front of her. "I can't make you a Spectre today."

He'd been braced for the words. Nodded his head, once, looking down for a moment. "I thought you'd say that," Rel allowed, quietly. He thought back to boot camp, when every week had been a struggle to stay on top of the rankings, the delight and surprise each time when his name had stayed where it had been the week before. _Delight and surprise._ How long it had been, since he'd felt either. Oh, their little sojourn on Illium had been a delight, but now he wondered if that trip hadn't sent some sort of wrong signal to his mate.

"Do you understand why I can't?" Her voice was oddly compassionate.

Rel thought about it. "You're afraid of what I'd do with it." It sounded _odd_ to say. He didn't think of himself as the ruthless type. But Garrus and Lantar's words of the other night, asking him if he were any better than a mercenary right now, had hit home, and hard.

Lilitu looked back at him. "Yes," she replied, simply. "Rel, there's a war coming. We don't have the luxury of sitting someone with your skills and your track record on the sidelines. You're going to have to fight. You're going to have to win. But we're going to do everything we can to remind you of _why_ we fight." She looked at Garrus now.

His uncle nodded now, scarred face stern. "I'll be taking you and any squads you're on more or less under my personal guidance. Or Lantar will, in my place. You'll be going primarily on Archangel and Nemesis missions, Rel." The room was very quiet now. "Archangel only gets called in when Lilitu needs everything nearby to die. We don't hit civilians. But she does not call me the Angel of Death for nothing."

Rel swallowed. He didn't know what to say. _It's an honor just to serve_ sounded trite. And somehow, he didn't think Uncle Garrus considered these missions an honor. "And this will help me remember why we fight?" he asked. He kept his voice as mild as he could. It was hard.

"Yes," Garrus replied. "Because when we don't have you on those missions, we'll have you on other ones. Refugees. Protecting the backs of teams that are infiltrating bases. Things like that. And in between, you _will_ have downtime, second-son of my sister. Make no mistake. You have a fine edge. You're a sword, and I intend to wield you like one. But you've been used like a machete in the past few years. You've damned near been broken by it, and I hope to the spirits we've caught you in enough time that just a sharpening stone and a polishing cloth will be enough to put you right again."

"I'm sure it will be," Lantar said, quietly. "I was _mor'loci_, remember? You all shared your spirits with me. And I'm forever in your debts."

Rel's throat was tight. "Thank you," he said, and the words sounded sincere, even to his ears.

"The title, as with four other candidates we're giving an extended two-year evaluation to, is _probationary_ Spectre," Lilu told him.

The tension inside him snapped in half. Rel exhaled. It wasn't a victory. But it wasn't total failure, either. They still did think he had something inside him that was worthy. He just had to find it again.

Lantar escorted him out, and at the door of the next waiting room, told him, quietly, "You're one of five probationary Spectres. The others are Thelldaroon, Kirrahe, Seheve Liakos, and Urdnot Makur. Everyone else in this room will be taking their vows on Bastion tomorrow before the Council."

Rel thought it a little odd that Lantar's voice had held a little warning in it, but as the door opened, he suddenly understood why. Linianus, once close as a brother, was sitting on a bench. Dara beside him, and beside her, Eli. All three of them chuckling over some game or another. Dempsey—Dempsey, whom Rel had helped rescue from a Cerberus facility, a little over a year ago—was there, as well, looking up with faint impatience as the door opened. Rel sighed. Bowed his head a little. No anger curled up inside of him. It was as dead as everything else inside right now, doused overnight by the strength of his family's words and spirits. . . and even his earlier irritation with Lin and Eli, doused by Lin's words. . . and Lilitu and Garrus' in the office just now.

Rel lifted his head again. "I suppose congratulations are in order, then?" he said, quietly, as he walked in. How it _hurt_ to see the wary looks on the faces of those once nearest and dearest to him. _ I put that there_, he realized. _Then I can try to make it right again. Can't I?_

He offered a wrist-clasp first to Dempsey, who took it with a very faint widening of eyes. Makur, another probationary, like himself. Siara—Siara, full Spectre! Strange to think. Then Fors Luka. Melaani, the asari police officer. Then, carefully, Linianus. Lin stood and returned the wrist-clasp, adding a light thump to Rel's shoulder with his free hand. _"See? It'll be like old times, soon enough,"_ Lin told him, with a hint of the old cheerfulness.

_No. It'll never be like old times again._ But Rel tried for a smile as he nodded back. Then turned to Eli. Cautiously offered a wrist-clasp, too.

The human stood. Dark eyes, violet face-paint. Accepted the wrist-clasp. Neither of them said a word for a moment. Rel wasn't even sure _what_ to say, at first. After a moment, he simply sighed. And said, "Congratulations."

"Thanks. You, too."

Then, finally, Dara. Carefully not looking at him. As if it hurt too much to set eyes on him. As if looking at him hurt her, as much as it hurt him to look at her, face bare of paint. Rel offered her his hand. Wrist-clasp, courtesy of strangers. Her small fingers, cool against his wrist. "Congratulations. . . _amatra_." Not how he'd pictured it at all, in any of the years he'd dreamed of this moment. He'd envisioned lifting her off the ground, twirling her exuberantly. Laughing. But that wasn't to be.

She nodded. And replied, her voice a bare whisper of sound, "Congratulations, Rel." He wondered if she were picturing how they'd once envisioned this day. On a glorious afternoon on a Mindoir mountainside, with the simulator spinning dreams in their minds.

"Full Spectre?" Lin asked him, and that was the first time Rel realized that they _didn't_ already know.

He shook his head. "No." He cleared his throat. "Probationary. Till I. . . get better." _Till everyone doesn't look at me like I'm unexploded ordnance anymore. Have I really been __that_ _bad?_

It didn't seem possible. But there was the evidence of his eyes. And he was _trying_ to use his spirit-eyes.

**Rinus Velnaran, June 13, 2196**

Being, technically, out of the military, Rinus had to admit, had some perks. For example, he didn't feel a need to stand at attention in front of the desk. He pulled up a chair and sat down. Back straight, of course, and feet planted in front of him. He'd spent the last twelve hours quietly seething. His second-brother was ill, and had turned on their little first-sister in a way that was completely unacceptable between grown siblings. Rinus felt as if it were his _job_ to protect their sister, or at least reprimand Rel. But she was an adult female, and theoretically the protectress of her own nest. And she had a husband, who'd risen to the challenge Rel had thrown down more than adequately. But still, the urge to _reprimand_ was there. But on the other hand, he had to move gently, carefully. As if he were slowly snipping wires on a bomb with an uncertain schematic. Because if he said the wrong thing to Rel, his second-brother could take it as an invitation to a fight. The trick was, as far as Lantar and Garrus had been able to explain it, to _focus_ Rel only on appropriate targets. Laser-like. And to force him into downtime periods in between. Sparring to keep the skills sharp, but no more than two to three times a week. No other fighting other than that which was required on the job. And to start reconnecting him with old friends. Old pastimes.

Thus, when Lin had come over and challenged Rel to a game of chess, Rinus had welcomed it. Double connection, at least. The other old friends were going to be a hell of a lot harder. Even Lin would be problematic if Rel didn't _let_ people reach out to him. And by the spirits, Lin and Eli had been his witnesses at his wedding.

The simple words of affirmation, that Lin and Eli still planned to pledge blood-brotherhood, even with a female loved by both of them, had been startling. Blood-brotherhood was not entered into lightly. It held some of the trappings of a _tal'mae_ wedding, and was a ritual just as old. Both males (or both females, in the case of two females pledging sisterhood) slashed their hands and pressed them together. Swore to protect and defend each other and their families forever. No exchange of clan-paints, but the families were, from that point on, connected. Two sets of parents. Two sets of siblings. In the event of one brother's death, his blood-brother automatically became executor of his estate. Was obliged to offer food and shelter to any widow and children. Could, in fact, _marry_ the widow, if she was amenable. Could adopt the children, if any, into his family.

It was an _enormous_ responsibility. And Rinus actually _grieved_ that his second-brother hadn't forged such a bond with either male. Different work, different service, certainly. Six months ahead certainly hadn't helped. But Eli and Lin had been two years apart, on different planets. And still felt the bond.

Now, in the office, Lilitu was glancing over his record. "Nothing you don't already know," she told him, lightly. "You make a big show of not wanting responsibility, Rinus, but as soon as you're given it, or see a reason to take charge, you do it. Calmly. No problem being a member of a team. Stabilizing influence. Great research and analysis capabilities. Technical aptitude. Combat experience. So, Rinus. . . want to be a Spectre?" Her eyes twinkled a bit.

So did Garrus'. "Hell of a long way from your grandpa's backyard on Palven."

"And I still like shotguns," Rinus replied, with a faint smile. "Sure. It'll be an honor to be shot at with you again." He looked at Jaworski. "Just for the sake of the spirits, don't let him use the bum disguise again around me."

Sam started to laugh, and stood to escort him from the room.

**Zhasa'Maedan**

She was the _last_ person in the damned room, much to her frustration, and paced back and forth for a while, before realizing that this was doing nothing more than wearing a track in the carpet.

Eventually, Lantar Sidonis came to collect her. Shepard broke it to her quickly. "So," Shepard asked, lightly. "How does it feel to be the galaxy's first quarian Spectre?"

Zhasa's mouth opened behind her mask. For a solid minute, she stood there, silent, and then quietly said, _"_Oh, _Keelah_. Really?" The last was a slightly embarrassing squeak.

Shepard began to chuckle. "If it helps, you're doing about as well as I did when they told me I was going to be the first human one. I might have managed a suitably decorous answer on the outside, but on the inside, I think my exact thoughts were 'oh my god' and 'oh, shit, now what do I do?'"

Zhasa lifted one slightly shaky hand. "That's. . . very close, Commander," she admitted. _Oh, my people will be so proud. Keelah, I hope I can live up to what they'll want from me._ And then the second thought hit her. "Ah. . . I know it's probably bad form to ask. But. . . I have been working with Dempsey a good deal on his rehabilitation. Will I be able to continue with that, as a Spectre?"

Four faces twitched into very faint smiles. Somehow, Zhasa didn't think any of them had been fooled by her careful phrasing. "Seeing as he'll be a Spectre himself," Shepard said, quietly, "I don't foresee any problem with that."

This time, Zhasa managed to stifle her own squeak.

And when Sam led her to the anteroom, Zhasa called from the doorway, gleefully, "Dempsey!" and threw the thought ahead of her, _Guess what?_ . . . along with a mental image of her leaping into his arms.

Dempsey managed an _Uh-oh_ and scrambled to his feet just as Zhasa, propelled by a biotic leap, landed precisely where she'd pictured herself. Dempsey staggered under the impact, and with their minds open to one another, started to smile, even as Zhasa laughed openly. All around them, people were looking up and chuckling at her exuberance. "Stoicism?" Linianus asked, laughing. "Dignity? What are those?"

_**Author's note:**__ Yes, she pounced. It's traditional._ ;-)

**Serana, June 13, 2196**

She knew what had happened the instant they both walked into the quarters she shared with Eli. Both silently held out their hands to her. And she went to them. "Both of you?" she said, quietly, as Lin wrapped his arms around her, and Eli wrapped his around her from behind.

"Yeah," Eli told her. Nothing more. No false apologies, thank the spirits. They were what they were, and someday, she might even be a Spectre, herself, if she were good enough at her job.

So much warmth in their arms. So much love. Lin's fingers slid up and under her shirt to play with the links of the _cinctus_ he'd given her. Eli gave her a kiss on the back of the neck. . . and stepped away. Sat down on the edge of the bed. Serana turned her head and looked at him. "Three to six months," she said, quietly.

Eli blinked. "What?"

"Give me three to six months to get everything in order. So it won't look as bad to everyone." Her throat was tight. "I don't want to be unfair to Lin. Or to you. Or to myself."

Lin cleared his throat. "I, ah, more or less had to tell Rel and Rinus today, at least a little of the arrangement. It was that, or I thought they'd break my legs." His tone was rueful. "Not a good way to do things."

Eli sighed. "So, what you're saying is, between them and Allardus, most of the family knows already, right?"

Serana winced. "Let me have _some_ dignity here," she murmured. She didn't like this. Not one little bit. But she'd had lots of time to think overnight, and throughout the day today, in between reading batarian message traffic. Staying with Eli, when she knew she _couldn't_ keep him, and _could_ be with Lin, was unfair to Eli. It was also unfair to Lin to make him wait and wait for her to make up her mind. And it was unfair to her, too. "Eli, it'll be a simple thing. I went over our contract today. No fault, within the first year, means we have to return the wedding gifts, but no financial penalties from me to you or you to me." Her voice was so tight, though, that she could scarcely breathe. "We don't even need to separate first. Just file paperwork. Will take about four weeks to process."

She watched as Eli slowly put his face into his hands. Rubbed at his eyes, several times. Then stood and came back over. And as she put her head down on Lin's shoulder, Eli hugged her tightly again. _"I will __always__ love you, __asperitalla__. My little fierce one. And I will always be here for you, and for Lin. You know that, right?"_

"_Be here for me now,"_ she told him, and then they both began to bite the sides of her neck. Gently. Softly. She could smell brine and water, and knew that was the smell of human tears, as Eli began to say goodbye to her.

**Emily Wong, June 14, Bastion, 2196**

She had more vid footage over the last week than she knew what to do with. On the very last day of the trials, the new Spectre, Eli Sidonis, had relented and let her come into his parents' house with her camera. Filmed him with this three half-siblings, all hybrids, and a soon-to-be adoptive sister, a salarian _female_, who was, stunningly, the daughter of the late Mordin Solus. Narayana had a human Indian name, wore dresses like a little human girl, bragged that soon she'd get to wear her turian adoptive father's clan paint. . . and was thick as thieves with Caelia Sidonis. Whom Emily had last taken pictures of, in her mother's arms, at the funeral after the AEC attack. Elijah had not permitted her to take any pictures of him and his wife, however. He did note, however, "My _dimicato'fradu_ and I, Linianus Pellarian, are going to take blood-brother oaths on Bastion, while we're there for the Spectre swearing-in. If you or Galenus Eleutherius want to get footage of that, I'm sure it'll make good vid."

And then there was Dara Velnaran. To be a full Spectre tomorrow. . . but no longer wearing face-paint, or a knife, and declining _all_ personal questions. "My father has retained some legal counsel for me," Dara told Emily, looking tired. "J. Thaddius Maxwell, of Maxwell, Towers, and Tsao. I've been told to limit my replies on personal matters for the moment."

"But doesn't this mean that you're seeking a divorce?" Emily asked, as politely as she could, and thought, _You're going to face a lot worse questions from the bottom-feeders, my dear. Al-Jilani, for one._

"I'm not going to comment on that at the moment. When I decide it's time to talk. . ._if_ I ever decide to talk. . . I promise it'll be to you." Dara's smile was faint and mirthless. "Gives me a great excuse not to talk to any other reporters, huh?"

"Hey, I'll take an exclusive," Emily replied, quickly. The story was assembling itself behind her eyes. Personal relationship torn asunder by the strain of defending the galaxy.

And god knew, the galaxy needed defending.

She made damned sure to get footage of the first quarian Spectre in history, who stuck, like glue, to the side of a new human Spectre, who'd recently been declared _not dead_. Quite a legal process, that, apparently. "How does it feel to be the first quarian Spectre?"

"I'm very happy, of course, and proud to represent my people," Zhasa'Maedan replied. "For centuries, people looked at the Flotilla as a band of migrants, vagrants, and thieves. We've been proving our worth to the galaxy in the Reaper Wars and on Bastion, and now it's time for me to do my part, too."

And footage of the volus Spectre, as well. "Fors Luka, what, if anything, do you have to say to those who question how much use a volus Spectre can be, other than as a figurehead for unity?"

The volus snuffled at her. "I'd ask them how much use the rachni were here on Bastion, when the plague hit and put down half of B-Sec. Or the geth. Or the krogan. All unthinkable before each species had a Spectre. You don't know what my species is capable of, because no one's ever taken the trouble to find out if we're made of more than credits. I aim to prove that we are."

And then, the actual vows. The probationary Spectres (such an unusual decision by Shepard, but perhaps a valuable change in tradition) stood to the side. And the rest of them, in armor newly painted black, with the red star and hourglass symbol at their throats, began to repeat the words.

"I, Dara Elizabeth Jaworski Velnaran. . . "

"I, Elijah Marcus Stockton Sidonis. . ."

"I, Urdnot Siara Tesala. . ."

"I, Melaani T'soa. . ."

"I, James Allen Dempsey. . ."

"I, Zhasa'Maedan vas Irria nar Pellus. . ."

"I, Fors Luka n'Perri, n'Arve, n'Keldo, n'Hars, n'Liss, n'Irrva, n'Lorsa, n'Hela, n'Bire. . ."

"I, Linianus Pellarian. . ."

"I, Rinus Velnaran. . ."

"Do solemnly swear, to uphold the Council and its laws, to protect the galaxy against threats from without and from within, and to place my life between the lives of billions and harm. This I swear by what I hold most sacred, and I pledge my life and my honor before the stars eternal."


	106. Chapter 106: War

**Chapter 106: War**

_**Author's note:**__ I took Thursday to outline the next 12+ months of war. When I started __Victory__, what I knew about the ending was: "They win." I had a rough idea on how they'd take care of the yahg, since I'd set up a foreshadowing of that by having Garrus threaten once to take the mass relay from Omega and crash it into a star. And then the __Arrival_ _mod, er, arrived, and I decided. . . no. Can't use that. Besides, brings up the whole ethically problematic issue of xenocide. We've already demonstrated that genophage isn't an answer, either. The yahg solution presented itself that night in a flash of light. Much in the way the end of __Victory__ presented itself to me two weeks ago: a crystal-clear vision of a scene that's given me a target to aim for._

_The way in which I write is this: I have signpost scenes in mind. Sometimes they change as I write. I had one ending in mind when I started. . . and every single character in my head decided that they didn't like it. If I don't listen to the characters, they stop talking to me. I stopped. I listened. And they gave me a perfect picture of where we're going. The solutions for the batarians and the yahg make sense, and are even elegant. The resolution to the character conflicts are absolutely in character and correct. _

_And because so many people are still upset over the bonus chapter, which I wrote to celebrate 100 chapters, I'm going to take it down shortly. And will not repost it till the end of Victory. *shrug* The ending there is not canonical. You'll note that it's **already been invalidated by canonical events, in fact.** The ending that I have in mind is not the ending of the bonus chapter. But neither is it what the simulator predicted in Unity. It is, however, the absolute correct ending. :-) I'm confident enough in it that I've actually commissioned artwork for it. So please, if you've enjoyed this story for 100+ chapters, trust me a little longer to know what I'm doing. _

**Elijah, Bastion, June 14, 2196**

Eli shifted his shoulders uncomfortably in his freshly painted armor. It was still black. Now it was missing its red and gold stripes, and the Spectre star-and-hourglass symbol gleamed brightly on his chest. It was _unsettling_.

Then it occurred to him, suddenly, the armor was actually, still, under all the layers of paint, still the same armor Sam had given him for the Rite on Tuchanka. It had traveled the galaxy with him. He'd nearly burned to death in it from a Harvester's flame. Had passed through the rigors of boot camp with it. It had protected him on Macedyn and Edessan. And now it was almost a part of his own body. Smelled, for better or worse, of _his_ sweat and _his_ blood.

Family members gathered all around. Serana managed to give him a tight hug, while shielding her face from the cameras. She'd probably give her congratulations to Lin in private, later. For now, a quick public wrist-clasp. Lantar slapped Eli on the shoulder plates, as did Sam, who tagged him in passing as he and Kasumi gave Dara a quick hug. Allardus was over with Rel and Rinus, beaming with pride, of course. Kal'Reegar and Tali'Zorah vas _Normandy_ were actually in attendance for Zhasa'Maedan, and seemed set to settle in with Garrus and Shepard at the reception later for a long talk.

Yes. . . a reception. Wine, caviar and finger food. In full armor. They were supposed to go to it with the full Council (and god only knew what the rachni queen was going to eat there), but first, they had to run the gauntlet outside of the Council chambers. Fourteen new Spectres and probationary Spectres had their first battle on their hands, and it wasn't one that they could use their guns on. Reporters and crowds and crowds of people. Bailey had B-Sec manning barricades to try to keep the regular citizens back—Eli recognized a few officers, and gave them quick nods of acknowledgement as he passed, but they were looking entirely too harried and busy to pay much attention.

The reporters were a different story. Most of them were, thank god, attacking Shepard and Garrus. "Frank Alders, _Washington Post_. Commander Shepard, is it true that Omega is under attack even as we speak?"

"We've had the same reports you have. All communication with Omega ceased this morning at eight-thirty Zulu time," Shepard replied. "We're dispatching a ship to investigate."

"Vallus Ekregius, _Complovium Daily News_. There are rumors of a batarian fleet massing near Edessan. Do you have any comment?"

"I'll refer you to the Hierarchy Ministry of Military Information. It's not my place to comment on troop movements."

"So these are turian ships?"

"I didn't say that."

"Emily Wong, Bastion News Network. With two asari, three humans, one quarian, one volus, and two turians, with a krogan, a drell, an elcor, a salarian, and another turian posted as probationary Spectres, is this the most diverse 'graduating class' you've even sworn in after candidacy trials?"

Shepard smiled. "I don't really keep track of that. But I can tell you it's the largest 'class' we've inducted in my tenure, and definitely one of the best-qualified."

"Khalisah Bint Sinan al-Jilani, _Westerlund News._ Even though so many of them are relatively young, you consider them better qualified than candidates whom you dropped from selection, such as Harrison Telford?"

Eli was drawing a blank on _that_ name.

"Telford was dropped two years ago because he abandoned a teammate during a team exercise. The man was qualified on paper, but a Spectre has to go above and beyond." Shepard's voice was crisp.

Al-Jilani moved on down the line. Her smile was sweet poison as she found Dara. "Dr. Velnaran, I can't help but notice that you're not wearing turian clan-paint today. Would you say that this means you're here to represent humanity today?" None of them were wearing helmets; the plague had long since moved out of the air systems, and while they were in full armor otherwise, they'd been told that vid cameras liked _faces_, not plasteel masks. Polarized or unpolarized.

Eli winced internally. _Remember your own advice to us when we were last here on Bastion, __sai'kaea__,_ he thought, looking at the back of Dara's head, where she stood ahead of him in the line of people trying to make it out of the Council chambers.

"I believe the purpose of the Spectres is to represent the Council," Dara said, after a moment. Calm, perfectly flat words.

"Yes, of course, but why choose to appear here today without your turian husband's paint?" Al-Jilani's voice had a note of glee in it. "It must mean something, surely." A slightly predatory edge to the smile appeared as she added, "Does this mean that the honeymoon is over?"

Dara's head turned. _No, Dara, don't give her the satisfaction._ Eli was surprised when Lin, beside him, reached out and gave her a light tap on the shoulder plates. He couldn't see her expression as she answered, tightly, "I'm not taking questions on personal matters today. If I decide to talk to someone, I have an agreement with Ms. Wong to speak with her. Excuse me." Then Dara pushed past al-Jilani.

The reporter called after her, "What would you say to those who are still currently sick in the hospitals here on Bastion? The people that you cared for, for a week or two, and then abandoned for Spectre candidacy?"

Every head nearby turned. Eli had a sudden vivid mental image of his fist meeting the reporter's face. _No. Damn shame she's a woman. If she were a man, I'd break her jaw right now, but. . . hey, not really my place._ He glanced in Rel's direction. Rel didn't look as if he liked the question much, but was holding himself back. As he _should_. Dara had been specific about wanting Rel to keep his distance, and coming in all overprotective right now would be a bad idea. On many, many levels. It would alienate Dara further, and would present the image that she was a Spectre who couldn't defend herself.

Dara turned around. Eli had seen her work face before on Camala and Khar'sharn. He was seeing it now, too. "I was actually planning on visiting the med bay that I worked in here on Bastion after the reception," Dara replied, and plastered a tight smile on her face. "I doubt that any of the doctors or nurses that I worked with are currently there, given that many have been rotated out as relief crews have come in to replace them." She snapped her mouth shut, and turned away.

Which mean that Eli and Lin were face-to-face with the reporter now. "Ah. Spectre Sidonis. Or, for purposes of not confusing you with your alien _stepfather_, Spectre _Lantar_ Sidonis, would you prefer 'Spectre Elijah?'"

"Sidonis is my name, and has been for over eight years now," Eli replied tightly. He tried to push past her himself, but didn't want to look as if he were bowling her over in his rush to get away. Bad vid feed. Never seem to be running away, and never let the camera see that you used a stun move that involved someone's groin.

Al-Jilani, unfortunately, moved to keep up with him. "How do you think your late human father would have felt today?"

"Probably pretty surprised. But I doubt I'd have become a Spectre if Lantar hadn't been there to teach me. Or, for that matter, Spectre Jaworski, or Allardus Velnaran. All great teachers, and I consider them all family." _None of whom I'd ever have met, if Lantar hadn't made Spectre. _"Now, if you'll excuse me, we have a few other things we need to be doing here."

"Yes, there's an appointment at the turian embassy for you and Spectre Pellarian, isn't there? Something about pledging undying loyalty to one another?" Her voice swooped a little there, implying more than had been said.

_You know what? I think she does it deliberately. Someone punches her on camera, and __she__ becomes the news. Like baiting a bull. Everyone tunes in to see if the matador finally gets tagged._ Eli's jaw hurt. Lin stepped in. "Actually, it's a legal contract, Ms. al-Jilani," the turian replied, calmly. "_Sangua'fradae_. Permanently makes us executors of each other's estates if one of us dies without a will, that sort of thing. Sort of boring, I'm afraid, but, you know. Soldiers and Spectres should be prepared." He gave Eli a slight push forwards.

Behind them, it was Zhasa's turn. "So, how is becoming the first quarian Spectre going to work? Considering that a suit breach is virtually a death sentence for you, are you at all concerned about being weak or ineffective? Are you, in fact, merely an equal opportunity Spectre?"

Lin hissed, but they kept moving, as best they could, through the crowd of reporters. Eli could hear Zhasa's pleasant, low-pitched voice suddenly fill with annoyance. "Shepard appointed me Spectre. I hope to live up to her expectations." _Good answer. Didn't repeat any of al-Jilani's words._

And then Dempsey. Eli looked back, wincing. The man _did_ have a temper under all that glacial calm. "Spectre Demspey, can you tell us anything about the ten years you were missing in action?"

"No." Dempsey moved past her, not changing expression.

"How about the news yesterday that your late wife's second husband, William Perry, has won, in an emergency election, one of the two North American Alliance Senate seats for Massachusetts? As you're probably aware, his predecessor died three weeks ago of pneumonia."

Dempsey had stopped in his tracks. Like the rest of them, no helmet, but he wore dark glasses to protect eyes that were overly sensitive from his various gene mods. His voice remained absolutely monotone as he replied now, "Good for him."

"Would you care to comment at all on the fact that his campaign centered on his message of protecting Alliance troops and their families?"

"Nice message."

"Would you have voted for him?"

"No."

"Why not?" As he physically pushed her aside, the reporter got back in his face again. "Why not, Spectre?"

Calm, monotonous tone. "Other than the fact that William Perry is the bastard who had my son committed to a mental hospital when he underwent biotic breakthrough, and married my wife after spending seven years ostensibly looking for me?" Dempsey's voice was glacially calm. "If those things were not in question, there is the small issue of my no longer being a legal resident of Massachusetts." He finally got past her, as Eli was trying to fold himself into the large aircar that was going to take them to the reception.

Al-Jilani moved to the next couple in line, and, as Eli looked out the door, he realized, wincing, that this was Siara and Makur.

Makur saw the reporter open her mouth, and shook his head. "Look," he told her, roughly. "I can see the path ahead of us. You're going to ask questions we don't like. We're going to react. How about if I save us all some time here?"

Al-Jilani cocked her head to the side. "What do you mean?"

Makur punched her. Hard. In the face.

"Oh. . . . shit," Eli said, staring. "That's an assault charge."

"That was _beautiful_," Shepard corrected, leaning back over the seats and staring out the window with the rest of them. "I've been picturing doing that for _years_." She turned her head slightly. "Garrus? Clear out a little room in the legal budget. We'll cover Makur's court costs if she's stupid enough to press charges."

"I should file that under 'Entertainment Expenses, Justified'?" he asked.

"Damn skippy," she returned, and every set of shoulders in the car shook, just as Makur and Siara scooted into the car now, too. Siara's eyes were very bright. "_My_ more-than-fair," she said, proudly, and leaned over to give Makur a kiss. Full on the mouth.

In front of about two dozen cameras.

Sam shook his head. "Okay, now that we _know_ we've made the top ten extranet search hits for the next day. . . let's get moving."

They closed down the doors, and the vehicle moved off. "One of these days," Shepard called back from the front seat, "someone's going to _shoot_ al-Jilani on camera."

"Can I be watching, but not around to administer CPR when it happens?" Dara muttered.

Kasumi put a hand on her shoulder. "You showed a little too much anger, but the answer itself was fine. Just have to work on the facial control."

"I know," Dara said, with a sigh. "She found a nerve, though." _Heh. The personal responsibility for other people's lives hurt her more than the personal life questions. Says a lot about you, __sai'kaea._

The reception was, mercifully, one that Eli and Lin and some of their family members were going to be able to escape. Champagne, sparkling _malae_ wine, caviar and _alai_ roe were all well and good, except that attending a formal reception in full body armor was an uncomfortable experience. However, as he was waiting, patiently, for the time for the _consanguria_ ceremony to tick around on the clock, a hand fell on his shoulder, and Eli's head jerked up, and when he turned, he saw a set of turian faces in front of him. All wearing the black, white, and red elaborate swoops and lines of Nimines. It took him a moment to recognize them.

Telana, Arius, and Rasmus Cadius all beamed at him. Rasmus, his old friend from the Citadel, gave him a hearty wrist-clasp. "Ras," Eli said, blinking. "What the _hell_ are you doing here?"

"We got put on the guest list for both you and Rel, apparently," Rasmus told him lightly. "You, because we grew up together. . . and I'd _just_ gotten a letter from my parents, telling me that they'd survived the plague _and_ a hostage situation that _you_ and your SWAT team had rescued them from—which was a big enough surprise, I have to say. . . . and then I got the invite. Plus, you know. I went through boot camp with Rel. Served on the _Estallus_ with him and with Dara." He glanced around. "I would never have thought you'd wind up a Spectre, when we were playing handball back in the Wards when we were kids, Eli."

Eli shook his head. "It's. . . definitely unexpected," he agreed. Serana chose that moment to worm her way under his arm.

"Serana, this is Rasmus Cadius. One of my oldest friends, honestly. Ras, this is my wife, Serana." It _stabbed_ to say the word, but it was the truth. For a little while longer, anyway. "Old friend of your second-brother, too."

They chatted for a while longer, and then Rasmus caught sight of Rel, whooped a bit, and flagged him down. "Probationary Spectre, eh? Outstanding! More than I'll see in a lifetime of service." Cadius' voice was frankly admiring, and Eli reckoned that this would probably be a balm to Rel's wounded pride.

He and Rel started talking, and Eli fell silent. Started to edge himself and Serana away, and then Rasmus asked, cheerfully, "Didn't get to see the swearing-in ceremony, but I saw the list of names. Where's your wife, Rel? I need to show her that my face healed up pretty nicely after all her stitching on Garvug. No scars. . . least none that the paint doesn't cover."

"Don't know. Around here, somewhere." Rel's eyes glittered in the low light.

And then Dara _did_ step out of the shadows nearby, and gave Rasmus a wrist-clasp of her own. Rasmus' eyes went wide. He'd been _there_ when they wed under _tal'mae_. The bare face and missing knife spoke volumes to a turian. Dara's eyes showed the social strain, of course, but she had Cadius, who was the tallest turian present, at seven feet in height, lean down so she could inspect his face. "Good," she appraised after a moment. "No dueling scars after all. Really nice to see you, Rasmus." She glanced at Eli. "Almost time for your _consanguria_, Eli. You ready?"

Rasmus' eyes widened even further, and he shifted languages. _"You're swearing blood-brotherhood? To Rel?"_ Rasmus said that as if it would be the most natural thing he could imagine. And from his perspective, it probably was. They'd lived on Mindoir together, Eli was married to Rel's sister. . . of _course_ they'd be blood-brothers.

Eli tried not to imagine what was going through Rel's head. _"No. Exchanging oaths with my __dimicato'fradu__, Linianus Pellarian."_

And then Lin came over, black Spectre armor in place, and stood to Serana's left. "_"I think we're about ready. . . .hey, I remember your faces from somewhere. I served on Nimines for two years, sir, madam. Have we met?"_

Telana Cadius chuckled. _"It was more recently than that, Spectre. Bastion. The flight control room."_

Lin put a hand to his forehead. _"I apologize. Faces have a way of not sinking into my memory when I've just crashed through a glass window."_

"_Perfectly understandable. We're just glad to have a chance, again, to thank you and __Spectre Sidonis__. . . little Eli Stockton. . . "_ Telana laughed now, a warm, rich sound, _"for saving our lives."_

Lin and Eli immediately shook their heads. _"Just doing our job,"_ Lin told her, quickly. _"We do have to be going. The Minister of the Law is here. And we need to bring our witnesses._"

Eli had asked Lantar, Sam, Dara, and Mazz, actually, to be his witnesses. Lin had, with something of a resigned expression, asked Rinus, Rel, Allardus, and his own father, Ranalus Pellarian, to stand as witnesses. His mother, Marena, was sitting out in the seats in the little amphitheater in the embassy that was used for ceremonies like weddings, funerals, and _consanguria_. Serana perched next to her, and Ellie sat beside her. That was it.

The ceremony bore some distinct resemblances to a _tal'mae_ wedding. Having attended two of those now, Eli recognized the trappings well enough to be slightly discomfited. There was no exchange of knives. There was no invitation to join each others' clans, nor any changes to clan paint. They did not face each other at first, just the minister of the law. There were careful, twisty _tal'mae_ passages, however, that they had to recite.

"_I, Elijah Marcus Stockton Sidonis, do hereby pledge my life and my honor, my blood and my family, to the family of Linianus Pellarian. He is my brother-in-battle. We have defended each other with life and with breath and with blood, and will ever do so. Your blood is my blood, your life is my life, my spirit is your spirit, your foes are my foes, your kin is my kin, your debts are my debts, till the moment that one of us dies, or one of us betrays. If you should die before me, I will be as a father to your children, I will be as a son to your parents, I will be as a mate to your mate, and will care for all of them as if they were my own. To this I swear, on my body, on my life, and on my spirit."_

As they each spoke the words, each of them took a knife—Elijah was actually using his wedding-knife for this, its first time being used for anything, really, since his wedding to Serana—and Lin had brought Brennia's knife for the ceremony. They both slashed open the palms of their left hands, and pressed them together. Both had taken epitabs before the ceremony, to avoid any issues with allergic reactions, and Dara was standing by with medigel and her suturing kit. Eli watched the blood spatter to the floor, red and blue. It was a _hell_ of an oath, and not one undertaken lightly. The 'your debts are my debts' part in particular could get _hellish_ in court, from what people said about blood-brothers and blood-sisters.

Then they both pressed their hands to the traditional parchments, and, as Dara began applying tending the wounds, each signed in the correct places on the parchment and on the official datapads. _"Thank you_," Lin told Dara, his voice quiet. _"Would be bad to get dizzy from blood loss up here."_

"_Hand wounds __do__ bleed enthusiastically, don't they?"_ she acknowledged, and Eli turned towards her for his turn as she cleaned out the wound gently with alcohol wipes and then asked him, quietly, in English, "You want the scar to show? On a turian, the fine hand scales grow back in and cover it." She lowered her voice further. "If I let it scar now, it'll take a dermal regeneration unit to clean up later." She showed him her now-unblemished palm in partial explanation.

Eli thought about that. He didn't really need _marks_ to know what he'd sworn to. "Clean it up."

"Easy enough. There may be a _very_ faint line, but I'll do my best."

And in his case, she numbed the hand and sutured. Patiently. And then applied medigel. "Would be nice if medigel worked on cloth," she muttered. "I bet there's somebody out there who could make a killing in the nano-technology field if they made medigel that worked on, you know. . . inanimate stuff." She ran a finger along the faint line that was now all that remained, and carefully pulled out her sutures again. "See? Almost good as new."

Eli caught her wrist as she turned to leave. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Being here. Stitching us up."

"Wouldn't have missed it, and you'll get my bill."

That made him laugh. There was enough noise and conversation going on that he felt free to ask, "You're really going back to the hospital today?"

Her eyes turned wary. "I have to get back on the horse, Eli. I have to go see what it's like when it's _not_ full of dying people. Otherwise, it's going to _own_ me." She paused. "Don't try to talk me out of it."

He shook his head. "Wasn't going to try. Just. . . take someone with you. Siara, maybe. She was there, too. I'd offer to go with you, but, you know. . . family stuff." He nodded over towards Merana and Ranalus Pellarian. "I think I need to figure out if I'm supposed to call them _mada_ and _pada_ now." Eli chuckled. "Like I needed another set." _How many dads to I technically have now? Darren Stockton, Lantar Sidonis, Sam's more or less adopted me since I landed on Mindoir, sure as hell taught me __muay thai_ _and everything else I know about fighting, Allardus. . . well, still, for a little while longer, and now Ranalus, too._

Dara nodded, thoughtfully. "You going to look around the worst areas yourself?"

Eli grimaced. "Not. . .yet. I'll wait till people have actually moved into the dead apartment complexes before I'll go look at them."

"That might take a couple of years, Eli." Her voice was sad.

"I know. While I'm here, I'm going to find an observation window and look outside. I was told the geth ships arrived and they've been taking care of all the bodies that were more or less orbiting the station."

Dara swallowed. "When you find a window. . . let me know."

He nodded. They _all_ needed to see this place clean again. It was just a question of who would take the steps to see what needed to be seen, face what needed to be faced.

**Dara, Bastion, June 14, 2196**

Eli's comment stayed with her as she headed back into the main hall of the embassy, with all the smiling, chattering people with their glasses of champagne or _malae_ wine in hand. Dara ducked through the crowd, looking for figures in Spectre black. _It actually __is__ a good idea,_ she decided, and finally found Siara, whose gray armor was now as matte black as Dara's own. "Siara?" she asked, and the asari looked up, surprised, from where she was talking with a couple of turian diplomats.

"Dara? Is there a problem?" Siara was on her feet immediately. "Excuse me," she told the diplomats. "Love to stay and chat, but, duty calls. . . " And then she grabbed Dara's elbow and moved off with Dara, even as Dara was trying to come up with words like _no, really, there's no problem. . . ._

In a nearby doorway, Dara looked down at the shorter female. "You were, I take it, desperate for extraction."

"Vaul, yes. I've spent the entire reception trying to remember how to act _civilized_ and completely failing."

"I don't imagine you've spat on the floor yet."

Siara grimaced at her. "That's _disgusting_."

"See? You're perfectly civilized." Dara paused. "I'm going to head down to the med bay on level C. Want to come with me?"

Siara paled a little, her azure cheeks turning milk. "Not. . . really," she admitted. Then she added, slowly, reluctantly, as if the words were being torn out of her, "But that's one good reason to do it, right there."

Dara nodded glumly. "Personally, I think I could be perfectly happy never to see it again. But if I don't go look at it today, when I have the chance. . . it'll show up in my dreams again later. And it'll still be real there. You know what I mean?"

Siara sighed. "Yes. Unfortunately, I do. Let me tell Makur where we're going. Otherwise, he _will_ come looking." Her smile was quick and bright, and she stepped off. Dara glanced around, found Kasumi, who'd remained in the main hall, and told the little woman what she was going to do.

"You going in armor?" Kasumi asked, glancing down.

Dara grimaced. "Not much option. My scrubs are, er. . . on Mindoir, I think."

"Let me get you and Siara a nice discreet car, then. No need for you to walk to the med bay with everyone outside the embassy gawking at you."

Dara hadn't even thought of that. "Having specific uniforms for the Spectres kind of has its drawbacks, huh?"

Kasumi's lips curved upwards. "It can. On the other hand, it makes all of you visible symbols. Also helpful." She paused as her fingers danced over her omnitool. "On the plus side, you should be seeing less hate mail from the anti-alien coalitions shortly."

Dara gave Kasumi a look. "You say that as if there's other mail I'm not going to want to see coming in now?"

Kasumi nodded. "You can expect to see some from religious fundamentalist, human and turian alike, who don't believe in divorce."

Dara sighed. "I've been separated from him for four whole _days_. I asked for a _week_ to _think_ about things, and not one damned person has been willing to give me that. Garrus asked me on the way over here if I'm willing to help with his addiction rehabilitation. I said so long as it didn't involve me moving back in and sleeping with him, sure, I'd help." Dara bit her lip and flushed. That had been a bit more turian-blunt than she tended to be with Kasumi.

Kasumi, however, just chuckled a bit. "Bet Garrus loved that."

"He was not thrilled, no."

That was an understatement. Garrus had stared at her intently. "His spirit is almost gone, Dara. Lantar managed to breathe life back into his with Ellie's help. . . and maybe a little of mine. Rel needs _your_ spirit, Dara."

_I need my spirit,_ she'd thought, tiredly_._ Out loud, all she'd said, quietly, was, "I'll help. I'll sit down and talk with him, so long as there's someone else in the room with us. I'll fight by his side when needed. It won't affect the work, I promise."

"You're really set on going your separate way, then?"

She'd looked up and met his eyes. And answered, with as much quiet force as she had at her disposal, "I don't _know_ what I'm set on. For god's sake, _everyone_ around here has an opinion on what I should or shouldn't do, and not one of them will shut up about what _they_ want to see long enough for me to see what _I_ want. It's been four days. Four whole days, and I _still_ can't go a minute of the day without someone bringing up Rel and what I_ could_ or _should_ do, or what _they_ would do if they were me. And I know that's not going to stop any time soon. But for the love of god, it would be nice to be allowed a few quiet moments to think, instead of everyone badgering me. The badgering just makes me _want_ to take my dad up on his offer to send me to Reno and get it done in six weeks and not after six _months_ of trial separation to see if this is what I really want."

Garrus' eyes had widened slightly. "You done?"

Dara exhaled. "That was a rant."

"It was, yeah. Who's been saying all that?"

"Solanna. Not a surprise. Kallixta, for another." Kallixta had _hurt._ Kallixta had always been _her_ friend, and Dara had expected sympathy and support from her. Dara sighed and quoted the female now. "'Oh, he's just a _hunter_, I don't know what you're all going on about. I saw all these things you've mentioned on the _Estallus_ already.' Not being able to sit still. Sitting up in the mess hall _watching the door_ of med bay till I came out." Dara winced. "That one, I didn't know about until she told me about it."

Garrus had shaken his head. "She was young. What she saw then, and what we see now, is a matter of degree. That was an edge. An edge is fine. What we have here is the very start of becoming _mor'loci_. You don't want that to happen to him, do you?"

Dara had stared at Garrus, feeling defeated. "Of course I don't," she answered, tired all over again. _But you're his uncle, and of course you're on his side_. So her voice was very quiet, and more than a little sad as she replied, "I said I would help. But I'm also not going to nail myself to a cross and bleed there until everyone else is satisfied that I've suffered enough. If, by some miracle, he turns back into the man I married, and, by some further miracle, doesn't backslide every time he's around me, maybe. I don't see it happening. But I'll try to give him a chance."

"Are you willing to let him touch you?" 

"No." Clear and succinct. "I think it was the moment on Bastion when I came back to the apartment after forty damned hours of watching people die, and I woke up from a nightmare, and the only thing on his mind was sex. . . that was when everything died."

Garrus sighed. "He'd seen a lot, too. He was on body patrol."

"So was Eli. So was Lin." _Lin, who has enough self-control not to __have__ to control-bite. Rel, who's never once been able to hold back from it._ "So was Makur." Dara had shrugged. "This is the best I can offer right now, Garrus. Past that, we'll see how things go as we go along, okay?"

He'd accepted that, for a wonder.

In the here and now, Kasumi put a hand on her shoulder gently. "So, yes, again, keep your comm code very private. We'll have a new inbox set up for your public mail, just like all the other Spectres. And as usual, we'll go through it." Kasumi's lips quirked. "You'll probably get some hate mail from the turian groupies, too."

"The what?" _Oh, wait, like that girl Lin met on Nimines._ "The ones who think they'd like to sleep with a turian but haven't worked up the courage yet?"

Kasumi just grinned and set her and Siara up with a car, which took them discreetly to the delivery entrance of the med bay on level C. "Hey!" a guard started to chastise them as they headed for the door. "You can't go in there without proper authoriza—" He stopped, looked at the armor, and his eyebrows lifted. "Okay, I know what the armor says, but _anyone_ can paint the logo on their chest pieces—"

"Get your eyes back up," Siara told him, her tone frosty.

Dara choked back a laugh. Siara had _changed_, and in many interesting ways. "Check the extranet for today's swearing in," Dara told the guard. "Bet there are pictures."

He opened his omnitool. . . .and sure enough, there were pictures. Lots of pictures. "Damn," he said after a moment to Siara. "You date a krogan?"

"Yes."

"He's also got a hell of a right hook. They had to bring al-Jilani here after that punch." He looked up. His expression was almost hopeful as he added, "You here to finish the job?"

Siara actually laughed, a silvery, razory sound that sent shivers down Dara's spine. "No," Siara told him. "But I'll tell Makur you approved. He does so like to be appreciated."

_Don't we all?_ Dara thought, and they moved into the med bay now.

Familiar scents. Antisceptic. The strong, but inexpensive and harsh floor cleaner and wax. They were near a rest room, so more chemicals. Cocktail of aromas. Hum of voices in the air, sound of a gurney's squeaking wheels being pushed through a nearby hallway. Thump-thump of double doors swinging open and closed as it passed. Dara realized she was sweating, and her heart rate was about double what it should be.

Siara found a wall and leaned up against it, closing her eyes. And they just stood there for a moment. "This. . . may not have been a good idea," Dara admitted after a moment, voice shaking. She _hated_ looking weak in front of anyone. Especially in front of Siara, but . . . the weeks spent right here, trying to hold death back from the patients with every fiber in their beings. . . it had forged a bond. Loathe as Dara was to admit it, it was there.

Siara opened her eyes. Pure cobalt pools of misery. "Yeah. We could just leave. No one would ever know."

Dara thought about it. And sighed. "We'd know. And this fucking place would have beaten us."

Siara's eyes hardened again. Ice crept back into place, the defensive shield against the whole world. But Dara knew what she'd seen. "All right," Siara said. "Let's go see what there is to see."

Dara had to admit, an hour later, that just walking _in_ had really been the hardest part. Pediatrics was largely back to being a happy place. A few empty beds. Nurses using hand-puppets to amuse a few kids who were sick with nothing more threatening than a bladder infection or were here for tonsillectomies. Up in the main wards, no gurneys lining the halls. No patients, without rooms or beds or even gurneys, sitting up against walls. No plastic-wrapped bodies. Geriatrics was a ghost land, though. Not a single patient.

They didn't talk much, by common consent. Occasionally, they _did_ see a doctor or a nurse that they recognized—almost invariably, an elcor or a salarian or a quarian, and suddenly, Dara found herself smiling. Exchanging quick hugs. She and Siara asked them how they'd been doing, how they'd gotten through the worst of the weeks since they'd been scooped up and taken home to Mindoir.

It was, in the best possible way, healing. Restorative. Dara had to dry her eyes before they left, however, and so did Siara. "Can't let anyone see us like this," Siara reminded Dara as they both washed their faces in a staff break room.

"Yeah. Can't look weak."

They both stopped, and stared at each other, and Dara's lips quirked up at the corners. Siara began to chuckle, and suddenly, they both started to laugh out loud. Uproariously.

"Vaul," Siara said, after a long moment. "I've said 'can't look weak' so many times in the past four years. . . "

"Me, too." Dara was leaning against a wall, still holding her ribs and chuckling weakly. "This doesn't mean we're becoming friends, does it?"

"Oh, perish the thought. Two people who have common interests, common goals, common challenges, compatible intelligence, and similar experiences. Why would anyone ever want _that_?" Siara's tone was waspish.

"You forgot, 'went through hell and back again together' on that list."

Siara snorted. "Well, it's inevitable. I guess we have to be friends." She glared at Dara. "You can continue to dislike me all you want, but it's done. We're friends now. No going back."

Dara looked up at the ceiling tiles overhead. "Oh, god help me." She laughed one more time, and struggled back upright. "Okay, let's get out of here before anyone sends out a search party." She took a quick peek in a mirror before they left. Her eyes were red, and Siara's were damned near indigo from the cathartic tears, but that would fade. _Well, there's one good thing about not wearing paint_, she decided, _at least paint that's close to the eyes. I don't have to worry about it running anymore._ Other than at her manus rites, she'd never even worn mascara, so at least, this wasn't going to be a concern, going forward._ Right?_

**Rellus, Bastion, June 14, 2196**

It had been a long damned day. Rel had stood at attention throughout the swearing in ceremony, and had tried not to seethe. He knew _why_ he wasn't standing there with them all, taking the oath. Spirit-sickness. Sometimes, he could accept the. . . diagnosis. . . better than others. At the moment, it was hard to swallow. All of it was.

Siara had been. . . broken. . . when they were on Mindoir. Now, strong enough to be a Spectre? It hardly seemed possible. Makur, well, he was strong enough, but not a leader. Probationary, though. Lin? A Spectre? Really? Lin had always been a friend, but had never been serious. About _anything._ Although Rinus told him, laughing, on the way here, that Pallum was still annoyed because _both_ males he'd wanted to recruit into the Praetorian Guard were now Spectres. Eli and Lin. That, Rel could see. They were both exceptional shots, he had to admit their sparring skills had come a long way. But Lin, a Spectre?

And then there was Eli. Who'd stood _behind_ him and Dara, unarmed, while they held off the batarians that long-gone day. And yet, a niggling voice of doubt reminded him that Eli had, technically, been blooded before _Rel_ had. On a vorcha. And that Dara had shared that kill. Rel had always sort of dismissed Eli's participation in that when he was younger, because Eli had _not_ started immediately practicing with a gun after that day. Had shown little interest until Kella's death. Eli had wanted to hold onto . . . something. And he'd relinquished that, when Kella died. And now, Eli, a Spectre. That chafed.

Dara. . . he'd never had any doubts about them making Spectre _together_, but seeing her up there without him. . . it chafed. It gnawed at him. He had to admit, that when she'd made O4 before him, he'd viewed it as an automatic promotion, nothing more. Had congratulated her on making full doctor, of course. . . . but had he done more than that? He forced himself to really look at the feelings, and didn't like them one bit. Rel tried to look into himself with his _other_ eyes, tried to see himself, and was startled when he saw a flash of _something_. . . a snake, maybe. . . coiled inside of him. _Envy? Jealousy?_ Those feelings weren't _like_ him. But then, he'd worked _hard_, for a long time, and, well, admittedly, some of what he'd worked for had come easily. . .

So he'd forced the feelings down. Tried not to ping in too much agitation as he'd watched. Had congratulated Rinus with genuine satisfaction. His first-brother definitely deserved the Spectre selection. No doubt about it. Intelligent, strong, brave, a leader in not one field, but in several now.

And then Rasmus had shown up at the reception. It had been a breath of fresh damned air seeing an old friend. And yet, again, Rasmus and his parents knew Eli. Made a point of mentioning their common past on the Citadel. And of course, the parents had been in the flight control center for the SWAT extrication that Rel had listened to on Serana's radio a few weeks ago. Rescued . . . by Lin and by Eli. Again, Rel had to admit. . . his brothers obviously knew their jobs. Did them well. And since _all_ of Rel's work had been covert, he'd definitely never been thanked for any of it. Although, to be fair, both Lin and Eli had looked uncomfortable with the words.

After the _consanguria_ ceremony, Rel had returned to the reception. And Rasmus caught him standing against a wall. "Come on, let me get you a drink," the marine told him. "We can catch up."

Rel and Rasmus wound up trading rounds of _caprificus_ brandy for the rest of the afternoon. Rel was trying to slow his drinking, but it was hard to keep track. Rasmus asked a fair number of questions about the work Rel had done on the _Nereia_ and the _Raedia._ And traded a fair number of stories about his own work after leaving the _Estallus_. He'd been moved to a human-flagged ship, the _Bastogne_, for a while. Had had a human girlfriend for a bit, but it hadn't worked out. Now had a turian mate. . . she was home on Palaven, having gotten out of the Fleet at the end of her four years. "Working on her degree in electrical engineering," Rasmus said, cheerfully. "She's smart."

"Well, at least _she_ understands that you've got to be out in the black. Count your blessings, Cadius." Rel waved his glass for a moment, and turned his head to scan the room. Eli and Lin and Serana, at a nearby table, Eli's arm around Serana, in spite of armor. All three of them sprawled, relaxed, laughing. While out in public, Eli and Lin constantly scanned their surroundings for danger, they certainly weren't doing so now. _Careless_. _This would be a great time for an attack. Of course, I'm drinking, but hell, __they're__ Spectres_. "You have to keep sharp. You have to keep . . . " He paused, and groped for a word. The only word that came to him was _going. You have to keep going._ He frowned. The brandy was insulating his thought processes a bit too much. _Have to keep going, or else what?_

Rasmus snorted. "_Talas'kak_. I put in for a tour on Palaven as soon as she told me she wanted to get a civilian contractor job. Brass said _nooo_, you're a commander, with substantial experience in the field, and there's a war coming on." Rasmus chuckled good-naturedly. "So I'm on the _Hamus_ now. Gunship. Pretty small complement of marines, since we're obviously not stealthed. Made damned sure it was only a six-month tour. Then I _should_ get Dymion or the shipyards. Practically can go home at night and see her." Rasmus' smile lit up his face.

Rel frowned. "You're planning on getting out after six, then?" Rasmus, like Rel, would currently be in his fifth year of service.

Rasmus shook his head. "Nah. I'm good at what I do, and I think I've got the managerial stuff down. I could make O4 by eight years. O5 if I'm _really_ lucky. Promotions get a little scarcer at this level. If I did, I'd stay in for at least twelve. But it depends on what Kassara says at the end of this tour. If she's sick of me not being around, well. . . we'll see." Rasmus chuckled. "In four years, she'll be able to apply for a contracting job somewhere. . . maybe even here on Bastion. . . and I can see going to school for station architecture or something."

Rel just stared at him. "Architecture, Cadius? You?" he said, dubiously.

"Yeah. I grew up on the Citadel, remember? And with Bastion here being built for, what, the next eighty years? They'll still need people who can design buildings that will fit on the levels and work in accordance with the station's systems for a long time to come." Rasmus leaned back in his chair. "This crazy place is nothing like the Citadel was, but I can see coming here to live. If Kassara wants to, that is."

They went back to trading career stories. Rasmus had transferred to the _Catasta_ for a year's tour—"Boring, but good training opportunities there."

"Yeah, that sounds like that entire _year_ on Sur'Kesh." Rel muttered and lifted his head to look around the reception hall, a quick scan. Guards posted at all the entrances, of course. All looking bored. _Slack_. Sam and Kasumi at another nearby table. Sam was in his Spectre armor, of course, but was completely relaxed. Holding Kasumi's hand, and chuckling now, lifting it to his lips. Lantar and Ellie, at the same table. Lantar was leaning over Ellie at the moment, totally focused on his mate. Rel shook his head, and returned his attention to Rasmus. "It was unbelievably boring on Sur'Kesh. No opportunities for advancement, really."

"But you worked with STG there? Damn. I wish _I'd_ had that chance," Rasmus told him, wistfully. "Infiltration school is one I haven't been to yet, and they're the _masters_ of that." The male in Nimines paint swirled his brandy in his glass. "So. Dara."

Rel stared into his glass. "What about her, Cadius?" His tone was a growl of warning. It said _Dangerous ground. Tread lightly_.

"No paint?" Rasmus' tone was cautious.

"She's pissed at me." Rel could feel the restlessness start to key up inside of him again. Three. . . no, four. Had it been _five_. . . glasses of brandy were not enough to suppress it. His shoulders tensed, and his foot started to tap a little, gently against the foot rest of the bar.

"Sounds. . . quite a bit more than pissed, if she's wiping off the paint." Rasmus continued cautiously. "Doesn't sound a bit _like_ Dara. She got to the _Estallus_ and never left arm's reach of you if she could avoid it."

"Yeah." Rel took another drink of the brandy. "I think it all comes down to her _futtari_ medical training. All that time apart." _Yeah. It makes sense. If she'd been at my side __all__ the damn time, none of this would have happened._

Rasmus frowned slightly. "Well, time apart does change people, Rel," he admitted. "They grow apart. One of the reasons I wanted a billet on Palaven if I could arrange it."

The words made Rel's crop clench. "And I left her on Rocam? So it's my fault?" His head swung up sharply.

Rasmus pulled back and spread his hands slightly. "I didn't say that. Spirits, you're snapping at shadows, aren't you?"

"Shadows? What the hell does that mean?" Rel felt like baring his teeth. The liquor made it easier to lose control, but it also insulated him. Made him care just a little less.

Rasmus put a hand on his shoulder, and Rel tensed for a moment. "I didn't mean anything personal, Rel. But you're wound tighter than the strings on a dulcimer."

Rel forced himself to relax as Rasmus eyed him. Rasmus continued, calmly, after a moment, "I definitely missed having her around on the _Bastogne_. We didn't have a combat medic with us. We had to treat all our own wounds. Much less effective. Spirits, but we lost people."

Rel's chin sank almost to his cowl. _She was supposed to be taking a step back from field work. Losing her as a medic was inevitable._ He'd fought both with and without his mate before, and by and large, he preferred _with_ to _without_. Fewer people died when a medic was around.

Rasmus slapped his hand on Rel's shoulder. "It'll blow over, right?"

Rel choked back the impulse to snap at Rasmus. The male was trying to be cheerful. But Rel knew what the answer was. "No. It probably won't just _blow over_.My little mate has taken it into her head that I've changed." He eyed his glass. If he'd only had four, he could have a fifth, but if he'd already had five, a sixth would be a bad idea. And he'd be _damned_ if he'd tell Rasmus about the 'combat addiction' diagnosis. Other than his damned _tal'mae_ rites, he hadn't seen Rasmus in three years. Intolerable. Bad enough that everyone else _knew_ that there was something wrong with him, that he'd been found _unworthy_, he mused, looking into his glass again. Someone who was a friend and a stranger at once didn't get to know that.

"Well, you _do_ seem to be a little on edge," Rasmus told him, tentatively.

"How can I _possibly_ be on edge? I've had four. . . five glasses of brandy, Cadius. I should be looser than a piece of human pasta."

"Yeah. Kind of noticed that." Rasmus held up his hands again, placatingly. "You have changed, Rel."

"Yeah? How?"

"Well, for starters, even after six drinks, in a secure embassy, with forty guards between you and the entrance, you don't stop watching your damned perimeter."

_Wait, __six__ drinks? I'm pretty sure it was only five. Damnit, this is why I never drink._ "_Talas'kak_, Cadius, you know as well as I do, it only takes one time slipping up—"

"There's another thing," the bigger male told him, holding up a finger. Rel bristled at the gesture. "We're of equal rank, Rel. We're off-duty. You know my first name. You've used my clan-name the entire time we've been sitting here talking. Either you're completely unable to relax, or you're talking down to me." Rasmus took another sip of his drink.

Rel stared at him. "Oh. . . _s'kak_. Sorry. . . I didn't even realize I was doing it."

Rasmus shrugged. "You stayed in equals-to-equals voice, not in superior-to-inferior the whole time, so I don't _think_ you were being condescending. Then again, if you do the same thing to Dara, I don't doubt she'd take it amiss."

Rel froze. "What the hell does that mean?" he said, very quietly.

"She _outranks you_. She's a full captain. Medical, sure, but O4 to O3. And a full doctor. If you call her your little mate to her face. . . " Rasmus chuckled, "you should thank the spirits she's not turian. She'd have scaled you by now if she were." Rasmus frowned. "Actually, kind of surprising that a human hasn't, too."

Rel glared at him. "Any other _insights_?" he gritted out.

"None, sorry," Rasmus told him, lightly. "I think I'm going to go mingle. I haven't seen Eli but twice in the last seven years. Time to catch up and make sure we've got each other's comm codes updated. So we'll have no excuses in four years when we meet again and still haven't talked worth a damn." He stood, with his glass in hand, and moved over to clap Eli on the shoulder. Eli looked up at him, smiling, and kicked a chair further away from the table, so Rasmus could take it and sit down with them.

Rel shook his head and stared at his empty glass. As the bartender came over to fill it again, he covered it with his fingers. "No, thanks," he told the male.

He caught the scent before he saw her. Melaani T'soa slipped behind him, and then took Rasmus' vacated seat. "You seem to be having the least fun of any person in the room," she told Rel, calmly, a faint smile on her face. "It's a party. In a way, it's _your_ party. You should be enjoying yourself."

Rel glanced down at her. Black armor now, of course. "Was that an order, Spectre?"

The faint smile grew wider. "It could be, if you liked. You! Probationary Spectre! I order you to start enjoying yourself." The asari tilted her head to the side. "Is it working?"

Rel gave her a look. "Not really."

"You're refusing a direct order? Shocking, from a turian." Her smile widened. "I will have to think of some sort of _punishment_ for you."

_Wait a damn minute. Is she . . . _? Rel glanced around for Dara, reflexively. _Then again, would serve Dara right, wouldn't it? She's the one who's running away. She's the one who's not here to defend her __territory__. _"And what would this punishment consist of, Spectre?"

Melaani's fine brows rose. "I'll think of something. Rest assured, it will be suitably degrading and harsh, so cheer up and start enjoying yourself."

"Any suggestions for how I might do that? I don't like to fail."

"Yes. I've noticed that about you." Melaani's smile flashed out again, light and playful. "Let's see. Turians don't do more than hunt and spirit-dances, so that's out. That doesn't leave much as a _formal_ party like this, besides getting to know each other. . . or getting out of here."

Rel shrugged. "I don't even want to be here," he admitted. "So I could go for either."

Her expression shifted, and she put a hand lightly on his. "Hey. . . for someone who's just been _promoted_, you're really down, Rellus. It can't be _that_ bad."

He looked down on her hand on his. Five fingers, just like Dara's. Smaller than his, obviously, but not as delicate. "When you say, 'out of here,' where would you suggest going?"

Melaani glanced around, her expression still a little concerned. "Someplace with fewer people. A little quieter. I hear that _Suasi_ _Teaoul_ is pretty nice. . . up on D level. If it's open again, anyway." She looked up at him inquisitively. "Listen to some music, and maybe talk?"

_Talking. Everyone wants to talk._ "Sure. Fine."

They left. Rel knew the absence would be noted, but at the moment, he really didn't give a damn. Just someplace quiet. Where no one knew him. Where no one was _watching_ him.

**Zhasa'Maedan and James Dempsey, Bastion, June 14, 2196**

_**Author's note:** Kal and Tali's gift for Zhasa was suggested by Dermiti. I liked the idea so much, I had to run with it. We can't have her clashing, after all. And as we all know from ME1, quarian armor is damned hard to come by. ;-)_

Kal'Reegar, her former commanding officer, had been the first to slap his hands to Zhasa's shoulders once the oath had been taken, and then put his helmet against hers, to be able to speak quietly, nothing more than sound conduction through the visors, "We're damned proud of you, Zhasa'Maedan. You're carrying with you the hopes of the quarian people. We'll try not to be too noisy in your backpack."

Zhasa had laughed, and then Tali'Zorah had given her a tight hug through their suits, and in spite of the very evident curve of her pregnant belly. "Wonderful," Tali had told her. "I learned so much in my time with Shepard. We're going to have to have a talk at this reception. I want to hear _everything_ that you've learned while on base."

"And we have a gift for you," Kal promised, a grin in his low voice, as Zhasa's mother, Illa'Kaliir vas Irria, hugged her daughter now, too. "Something we had prepared in the hope that you'd make Spectre."

In the turian embassy, Zhasa and Kal sipping from sterile ampoules of _caprificus_ brandy clipped into their suit systems, while Tali and Illa stuck with water, Zhasa introduced them to Dempsey as the human and his son, Madison, came over to find her. Madison's light blue eyes were wide and shining with awe and pride.

Zhasa was a little self-conscious as she made the introductions. Kal had stood in lieu of a father to her for years now. Tali was like an aunt. And of course, Illa was her mother. And now she was introducing them to Dempsey, as if she were bringing him to her, well, family. Introducing him to her shipmates and asking for their opinion. She had _no_ idea how to explain this, so she was actually somewhat relieved when Dempsey simply slipped an arm around her suited shoulders. _All the explanation actually required,_ Zhasa realized, as all three helmets facing hers tilted suddenly. Quarian body language did tend to be written in very large letters, and she could read surprise there, definitely. "Your son?" Illa asked Dempsey, after a moment. "Where is your wife?" A quick, almost reflexive question, that.

"She and I were separated, but she just passed away in the plague," Dempsey replied, and rested a hand on Madison's shoulder, squeezing gently. "I'm glad to have my son back with me."

"I'm so sorry," Illa said, and Zhasa's heart warmed at the empathy in her mother's voice. "It's been a horrible year for the galaxy so far. So many people have died. May your ancestors watch over her."

"Thank you," Madison told her, and went quiet, just watching everything, eyes still wide.

Tali recovered quickly, and after a few soft words of condolence for Dempsey and Madison, soon returned to more cheerful topics. "So, what have you learned with Shepard's people, so far, Zhasa?" she asked.

"That humans and turians aren't that much different than we are, really," Zhasa replied, with a chuckle. "Certainly, they've made me feel very welcome. Like I've moved to a ship with a good captain and a crew who all knows each other."

_And you thought them all intimidating and inwards-turned at first._

_That was before I got to know them and work with them._ Out loud, Zhasa added, "And during the trials, I learned how to slide down a mountainside on two metal skates the length of my whole body. It was actually a very efficient method of traversing the snow by foot. Surprising what people of different cultures and species both develop on their own."

Dempsey's cool amusement uncoiled in her mind. "We call it skiing on Earth. Might not be a _lot_ of call for it in the Spectres, but I think they were testing resourcefulness and flexibility in that exercise."

Madison was laughing as Zhasa chuckled and replied, "All I know is, I want to do that again. It was fun."

The other quarians needed vid footage to understand what she was talking about, and Dempsey explained that humans and asari had developed this sport in their alpine regions. "Apparently, turians have it on Nimines, too," he noted, shrugging. "I know Rannoch's fairly arid, but if you have any mountains that get snow, you could probably start a tourism boom by promising resorts that have never-before-skied courses." Dempsey shrugged again as Tali turned and stared at him. "Hey, you guys need credits, right? Just an idea."

"And a good one," Tali murmured, and opened her omnitool to take some notes. "Low impact on the environment?"

"If done right, yes." Dempsey rolled his shoulders. "Hell, you practically have the basis of a tourism economy already, just out of your old ruined cities."

Illa, Zhasa's mother turned towards him. "I don't understand."

"Look, I'm from Boston on Earth, and admittedly, this is just me shooting my mouth off. . . " Dempsey's voice, while his mind was joined to Zhasa's, lost some of its monotonous quality. Took on a hint of color and life. Not a lot at the moment; he was uneasy, she had a feeling, and was shielding a bit. But he went on, calmly, "Boston's a historic city. First shots of the American Revolution were fired there. People _flock_ to see the history. My son tells me that in the ten years since I've lived there, there are even off-world tours now in the city. Designed so asari and salarian and turians who might just be in town for a day or so on business, and don't know the local history, can pick up what they don't know about the fight for representative government and get a feel for the local culture. There are even archaeological digs . . . pretty much have to have an archaeological assessment before you build anything, anymore, just like in lots of places in Europe. You might get research grant credits from, I don't know. . . archaeology professors. I mean, they've got to be running out of places to dig on all the other homeworlds, right?"

Illa shook her head. "But why would they be interested in Rannoch?"

"Because it's a historic place for two different species, and because archaeologists like to dig," Dempsey replied, lifting his hands slightly.

They continued talking for a while, and then Kal led them to a side room, where his and Tali's 'surprise' was waiting for Zhasa. Whatever it was, was tall, and was concealed by a drape provided by the embassy. With a little flourish, Tali pulled away the white drape. . . and revealed a new quarian environmental suit on a stand. Spectre black, head to toe, with the red symbol at the throat. Scarlet overwraps for her hips and tubing covers, and a dark maroon visor. It even had the ablative armor additions that she used on her own existing suit.

Zhasa's mouth fell open behind her visor for almost a full minute as she walked around and studied it. "It. . . it looks new," she said, after a moment. Even her own suit had been previously worn by someone else. Sanitized, and then passed down to her. She'd had it painted black for the ceremony, but her overwraps and visor were still violet and blue, and clashed a bit with the Spectre symbol. . . and, of course, her ablative plates were still gunmetal gray.

"It _is_ new," Tali agreed. "First one made out of the new factory on the surface of Rannoch. They were _very_ proud to know it would be worn by a quarian Spectre."

Zhasa was almost panting inside of her suit. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you to _everyone_ who had a part in it." She _itched_ to put it on, right now, and adjust all the compression mesh panels and other pieces that would adapt it perfectly to her body. But, of course, the room wasn't clean. "_Keelah._ What a _gift._"

"Glad you like it. . . _Spectre_." Kal clapped her on the shoulder cheerfully. "Now, you'll probably want to head up to I level. There are quarian clean hotels up there. Volus ones, too. _Gostinista_ _Khistvaya_ is the one we're staying at."

Tali added, in a tone of bliss, "Working showers. Sterile towels. HEPA filtered air. And the rooms are so large."

_She sounds like she's died and gone to heaven_, Dempsey noted, silently.

Zhasa came to a decision right then. "And would they have any problems if I invited Dempsey to stay with me?" she asked.

She could feel the _shock_ in Dempsey, and he started to cough. Hard. Apparently, her blurted out question had caught him mid-sip, which could be dangerous for humans. _Nice, Zhasa. Very smooth. Very graceful. _

_Sorry._

_Is this where I'm supposed to flutter my lashes and tell you, 'But this is just so sudden?'_

Zhasa turned and looked at Dempsey. Ice blue eyes and expressionless face. _I would __love__ to see that._

Very faint quirk at the corners of those stern lips. _Later, Zhasa. In private. _

"I don't see why they would," Tali replied, after a moment. "They have to sterilize the rooms after each quarian anyway."

Dempsey rubbed at his face and said, out loud, "I, ah, well, there's the issue of who would look after Madison while we went there." _Great. Because we're linked, I'm actually embarrassed to be having this conversation in front of my kid._

"Dad! I can look after myself." Madison sounded indignant.

Kal turned and looked at him. "We'll look after him for you, Spectres. And when we head to the hotel ourselves, we'll turn him over to Shepard and Garrus, if that works for you."

"It does," Dempsey agreed. "You okay with that, Mad?"

"Can I ask you guys questions about living in the Flotilla and Rannoch?" Madison asked, ingenuously.

Tali laughed, a warm, rich sound. "Of course." Now, she caught her husband's elbow. "We should, ah, go find Shepard and Garrus. Many things to discuss, after all."

Kal's head tipped and he met Dempsey's gaze at eye-level. "Spectre. Nice meeting you." Quick, firm handshake, and then they were off. Leaving Illa there to stare at the two of them, as if her gaze could burn through her mask. Then she opened her arms and gave Dempsey a quick hug. "It's been a pleasure to meet you, Spectre Dempsey," Illa said. "I look forward to speaking with you at greater length at some point. Perhaps you and Zhasa might find time to come and visit us on Rannoch?"

_Oh, dear god, that's a mother-in-law tone if ever I heard one_. "I definitely hope to visit at some point. I suppose _I'll_ be the one in a suit then." Demspey shrugged. _Admittedly, I'd practically have to piss in someone's coffee to give them enough levo bacteria or proteins to cause a reaction. Breathing on them isn't going to do much, and you can't __catch__ our diseases. But hey, pays to be cautious and polite in someone else's house._

Zhasa's shoulders shook in silent laughter as her mother bade them farewell, and then Zhasa reached up and ran her gloved fingers along the seams of the new suit.

_This is really a big deal for you, isn't it?_

_Enormous, yes. Every suit I've ever had has been recycled, refurbished, half spare parts and half prayer. This. . . was made for me. I can hardly believe it._

_Then let's go get you in it, sweetheart._

_Don't you mean, get me out of this one?_

Quick flicker of concern, even unease. _That, too, Zhasa._

_Gostinista_ _Khistvaya_ turned out to be a surprisingly large structure in the bustling quarian enclave on I level. There were almost a million quarians on Bastion; they were, with the humans and the turians, the engineers and builders that were creating Bastion, after all. And thus, they ensured that they had homes that allowed them to get out of their suits. And travel facilities for their own kind. Zhasa could only _imagine_ the incredible filtration and air duct systems and negative pressure zones and airlocks that had gone into designing this facility, and others like it.

Kal and Tali's name, in addition to their Spectre credentials, got them a room in short order. The quarian at the front desk gave Dempsey a tired look, and then handed him a laminated list of precautions. "There's also a standard liability waiver we need you both to sign," the quarian at the desk informed them, wearily. "Stating that the hotel is not responsible for any infections or cases of anaphylactic shock that may occur if two people of incompatible—"

"Yeah, yeah." Dempsey took the datapad and signed it. _Zhasa? You want to, um, let Doc Velnaran know that she might need to . . . be on call?_

_Oh, you should have the honors. You enjoy embarrassing her, after all._

_It __is__ fun watching the rose petals turn pink after being frost white all this time._ As they got into the elevator, Dempsey started tapping away on his omnitool.

_Wait a second. Are __you__ embarrassed—wait. You are!_ Zhasa's mental tone was surprised, and a little gleeful.

Dempsey looked up at the ceiling. _When I popped out of stasis, it was still eleven years ago for me. All this cross-species stuff was something for dirty vids and Fornax. I, ah, gave the good doctor a bit of a hard time for sleeping with a turian._

They got out of the elevator, and headed through a long metal-walled hallway, with a linoleum floor, probably designed for ease of cleaning. Reached the pressure hatch for Zhasa's allocated room, and she passed a card in front of its reader. The airlock hissed open, and they stepped through. She couldn't _help_ but pick up on Dempsey's growing interest. . . and unease. Completely commingled. _What's wrong?_

The airlock around them hummed a bit, and she was startled by the fact that Dempsey actually _reinforced_ his mental shields. _Keelah, I thought we were past this part_, she told him, in a mix of amusement and indignation.

_Am I acting like I think you're about to take advantage of me, like a blushing virgin or something?_

She turned and caught the faint quirk to his lips. "Maybe a _little_," she told him, as the airlock finished cycling, and the inner door opened. "Come on. I can't _wait_ to get out of this suit." She'd had a taste of being _free_ again in Hal'Marrak and Nal'Ishora's house, and the anticipation was _killing_ her.

The room was, as she'd expected, metal walled again, for ease of cleaning. But there were touches here for quarian comfort. Wall hangings of crimson and blue and gold draped silk, that could be removed and sterilized, no doubt. A large, soft bed, with pristine white covers—which practically shouted of cleanliness and hygiene. A small airlock, through which food could be delivered, and a table to eat it at. And a bathroom. Oh, luxury of luxuries, it had both a shower and a tub, to her delight. A wide bank of mirrors, which would have looked narcissistic to any other species, but that Zhasa knew she'd enjoy thoroughly. A chance to see what she actually _looked_ like. And, of course, a lavatory. "I'm going to order food," she said, immediately, padding to the table, and pulling up a menu on the screen embedded in its surface. "If I actually get a few hours out of the suit, I'm going to _enjoy_ every single thing that I can." _Oh, klubnika v'cliivoie. Definitely that. Fresh doienya slices. Oh, Keelah, I'm drooling already._ She hesitated. "You don't mind that I'll be, well, eating when you can't?"

"Turnabout is fair play," Dempsey told her. "I, ah. . . should probably go clean up, right?"

"Definitely." Her tone was downright _coy_. _Vixen_, he told her silently, and headed into the hygiene facility, closing the door behind him, and starting to strip out of his armor. Dempsey shook his head. Excitement was flowing through her like fine champagne bubbles. He could sense her _gleefully_ starting to strip out of her own suit in the other room, away from him, and it was all he could to block her out of the concerns in his mind.

Dempsey folded the inner pressure suit over the top of his hard suit, and opened the small case he'd brought with him. Doc Velnaran _had_, very considerately, made a few recommendations. In writing, where she wouldn't have to make eye contact, he'd noted, with distant amusement. First, take the epitab. Fifteen minutes to ensure full effectiveness. Next, shower with _Hibiclens_, a chlorhexidine gluconate-based antibacterial soap. He was to wash _twice_, his entire body, with the soap, and pat dry after the second application. The antibacterial qualities would remain on his skin for up to two days afterwards. The doctor had noted, in polite medical jargon, "The oral cavity is a hotbed for bacteria. Recommend brushing, flossing, and medical-grade mouthwash. Also recommend shaving face carefully. Quarian skin is not exposed to any external agents that might toughen it. Even a light abrasion might cause a skin rash."

All of the preparations, as he washed and cleaned himself as thoroughly as possible, were at least a distraction from the . . . concerns. Concerns which were, with exposure to her emotions in the other room exciting his own emotional responses, turning into outright worries. In a locked corner of his mind, he did his best to scoff at himself. _Performance anxiety? Really?_ But that was, in essence, what it amounted to. He had the entire extranet at his mental fingertips. He _had_, when she first tapped on his door, done a little browsing, mostly out of the usual all-too-human curiosity: _does anyone actually know what they look like under those suits?_

The problem was, no one really _did_, other than the asari and _maybe_ the krogan who'd been alive over three hundred years ago. The quarians had largely been an insular people before the Flight. They were _curious_ about the rest of the galaxy, and had wanted to trade information, but their cripplingly weak immune systems had bound them to Rannoch even then. And as a rather private and insular people, they had not impinged much on the galactic awareness, and hadn't really circulated their appearances then, or since.

Dempsey rather suspected that sites like Fornax might have, well, _reference materials_, but accessing that had seemed rather _crass_. It would have suggested to her, on some level, that he equated her with the models there. And with the mental sharing, she'd definitely pick up on that. Also, to be honest, he had no _clue_ if Fornax actually would have, well, quarians.

So, what his _worrying_ boiled down to was simple. He didn't want to hurt Zhasa. At all. And they'd given each other enormous pleasure without him ever seeing her face or body, or being able to touch her directly, and he was coming to care for her. _All right, admit it, you're well past that. Well, when you're able to feel anything at all._ Dempsey swallowed, and let himself face the thoughts squarely. _What happens if she's just __too__ alien under the suit? What if it all just. . . fizzles?_ Not being able to get it up would be humiliating enough for him, but possibly excoriating for her, as well.

He was just wrapping a towel around his waist when a soft hand touched his bare shoulder. Dempsey went completely still, with his eyes focused on the floor. He was _dying_ to raise them, but completely reluctant, at the same time.

Zhasa had been, initially, simply entranced with the flow of _air_ around her body. Almost as rich a feeling as liquid, caressing every square inch of her. She'd raised her arms in the air and twirled, for the pure joy of it, the sensuousness of the movement across her nerve endings. Then she'd laughed and taken one of the robes provided in the room, and slipped it on, and taken an epitab. Ordered food, padded around the room, rubbing her face against the wall-hangings. Rubbing her hands over the soft, velvety surface of the white counterpane on the bed. All a symphony to nerve endings so deprived of touch.

The small airlock snicked open, revealing a tray with sterile containers of food. Red berries and a yogurt-like quarian cream, melon slices, a bottle of sparkling _malae_ wine and two champagne glasses. . . _Maybe Dempsey can try a __little_ _of each. The regeneration and the epitab really should protect him against the worst allergic reactions, shouldn't they?_ she reasoned, and then she'd realized just how long he'd been in the bathroom. She'd opened her mind to him again. Agitation. She'd stopped and stared at the bathroom door in shock. So much agitation, in a mind usually so calm. Spilling over and through his self-imposed barriers. But in listening, she _understood_.

Zhasa padded into the bathroom and set a hand on his shoulder. Relishing the pure delight of finally being able to _touch_ him. Human skin was softer than she'd expected. The light hair along it felt velvety, and yet, the softness on the outside was belied by the steel underneath. She felt the muscles tighten under the skin as she made contact, and her eyes half-closed. She opened her mind to him, and slid her hand up. Shoulder to the side of his neck, drawing in a soft breath at the cords of muscle there. Side of the square jaw now. Faintest _rasp_ of the harsher whiskers there. Zhasa's eyes closed all the way now. Delicious. _Dempsey. . . can't you look at me?_

_I think going and facing the Keepers and whatever the hell the geth and the rachni and Ruin and Shepard and everyone else has planned for me might be easier_, he admitted, and then slowly raised his eyes, bracing himself.

_Oh, thank you, god._ Soft skin. Faint violet undertones—well, that made sense, didn't it? Quarian blood was purple, after all, and fair-skinned humans had pink undertones from their blood supply. Supple, lithe legs, which the suit had hinted at. Wide, curving hips, as expected. Soft, rounded breasts—a little different in the nipple region, the skin tone there being again, _lavender_ rather than rose, with a slightly different configuration—and then his eyes lifted further, tentatively. _Oh, thank you, thank you._

She was, in a word, beautiful. Alien, certainly, but still _beautiful_ to him. Soft, downy white hair, fine as the fur of a kitten or a baby seal, tousled, and no more than three or four inches in length. Wide violet eyes, reflecting light back to him, like a cat's, but with rounded pupils. Natural black 'liner' around each eye, protecting eyes intended for crepuscular and nocturnal ventures from the blinding light of day. High cheekbones, but a slightly flat, snubbed nose, ideal for adding moisture to Rannoch's arid air. Soft, faintly lavender lips, with slightly elongated canines and lower teeth showing now as she smiled at him, tentatively. "Not _so_ bad?" Zhasa asked, out loud.

Dempsey opened his mind to her on an exhalation of relief. _Not so bad at all. Damn, but you're __gorgeous__._ Rush of sensations, rush of emotions. His anxiety had sparked a wave of concern in her, too. Her eyes were wide, and were flicking from side to side, trying to read his expression. Her face was completely open to him. He couldn't quite read the expressions. . .a little alien. . . but she'd _never_ learned to hide her facial reactions. She was like a child in that respect. Quarians never had to learn to mask their faces, adopt a stoic human or turian mask. Just complete, total openness. Honesty. Trust. _God, Zhasa_. . . Dempsey reached out, and slid his own fingers along the line of her jaw. Gently. Tentatively. Softness of skin that had never been touched by sunlight or even a harsh breeze. He could _feel_ her reaction to his touch. See her eyes close in dazed pleasure. He slid his fingers further back, through the soft hair, cupping the back of her head. _Do your people kiss?_

_Lips to lips? I don't actually know—_

Dempsey leaned forward. Looking into her eyes for permission, acknowledgment, fear, recoiling, anything that would either prompt him forward or hold him back. Finding only interest and curiosity, he touched his lips to hers. Heard her start to purr softly at the back of her throat, her pleasure and his meeting and mingling, igniting one from the other. Experienced the rasp of his own upper lip against the inside of her lips, felt the electric shock of pleasure inside of her at the sensation. He _wanted_ to taste her with his tongue, plumb her depths and feel the textures of mouth and lips and teeth and let her tongue dance with his, but the possibility of bacteria and saliva exposure made him hesitate.

_Epitabs aren't in full effect yet?_ Zhasa asked.

_Ten more minutes, sweetie. At least._

_I __like__ this kissing thing. Come in the other room, Dempsey. Please._ So much relief in her now, relief that he wasn't so anxious anymore, relief that he didn't find her too alien, unattractive—_no, no, sweetheart. Exotic, definitely. But definitely attractive—_relief that nothing between them had to change. So he smiled and let her lead him out into the main room.

Zhasa settled into her chair, pulling up her legs and curling inwards, a favorite posture of hers, out of habit. And then she noticed that Dempsey's eyes dropped down as she did so, and she felt herself _blush_ as he started to laugh, and dropped her feet to the floor. _What's so funny?_

_You're lavender __there__, too?_ Then his eyes lifted back to her face, which now _burned_ with the heat of her blush. _You blush the __exact__ color of a Mindoir sunset, love._

_Bloodflow!_ she shot at him indignantly, and added, out loud, "Next, you'll be telling me that you're _red_—"

"Pink, sweetheart."

_You're joking._

_You'll see for yourself soon enough,_ he told her with fond amusement, and reached onto one of the plates. Picked up a round red berry with his fingertips. "In this white stuff?"

"_Cliivoie,_ yes."

He dipped the berry into the thick cream, and then, sitting down in the chair next to hers, offered it to her with his fingertips. Zhasa accepted the berry into her mouth, and sighed in pleasure as the juices burst through her mouth. Sweet and fresh, with a crisp crunch between her teeth. Richness of the cream, melting in her mouth. Feeling Dempsey's eyes fixed on her, she opened her eyes again as she swallowed. "What?"

"You've got a little cream left on your lips."

She started to lick it away, reflexively, but a thought from him stopped her, and then he leaned in and kissed her again. Thoroughly. Again, the instant response in her body, though nothing more of them was touching than his hand, curled into her hair, and their lips. Experimentally, sensing what he wanted, she ran her own tongue against his lips. Felt his shock of surprise—he hadn't expected the raspy quality, but he liked it, apparently—and then deep, sweet kisses, until he drew back. Offered her another berry, which she snapped playfully at with her teeth before nipping right out from between his fingers. Slow burn beginning in those ice blue eyes. _Careful, Zhasa love, at what you're starting here._

_Am I giving you ideas?_

_Lots of them._ He opened the bottle of the _malae_ wine as she took her first bites of melon, almost moaning at the voluptuous, rich texture of the fruit and its perfumed, sweet taste. _I like tasting the food through __you__ for a change, Zhasa_, he told her, with clear amusement. _You know what I __can't__ do anymore? Get drunk. Not even tipsy. The regeneration and the cybernetics clean all the alcohol out of my blood before it I even get a chance to relax._ He poured a single glass of the foaming wine, and offered it to her.

Zhasa accepted it, and took a sip. It tasted like honey and spices, exotic, as most things from Palaven tasted to her. _So, you want to feel being tipsy from me?_

_Yes. Definitely, yes. Not a lot. Just a little._

She sipped the wine slowly, letting its coolness slide down her throat, leaving the warmth of the alcohol in its wake. And then looked up and met Dempsey's eyes as he looked down at her intently. _Are we past the time limit on the epitabs yet?_

_Oh yes_, he told her, anticipation building in him now. Then he poured a second glass, and set the bottle aside.

_What are you doing?_ she asked, starting to chuckle.

_You'll see._ Dempsey dipped a finger in the wine, and painted her lips with it, leaning in to kiss her again. Another dip of his forefinger into the golden liquid, and then he traced the liquid down the arch of her throat. Cool liquid against her skin, followed by the warmth and faint scratchiness of his lips and skin. Contrast of sensations, against skin so hypersensitive, even _air_ was a caress.

Zhasa's head fell back, and she almost dropped her own wineglass as her hands went slack. _And you're not even using biotics yet_, she thought, stunned at her own response as her entire body relaxed. Opened. Invited him.

Dempsey's lips quirked in a faint grin that she could feel, but not see, as he tugged at the ties of her robe. Her reaction was a _hell_ of a compliment, as far as he was concerned, and her fires were igniting his own. _I think I mentioned once before that quarians seem to be addictive_, he told her lightly, and traced a cool path of wine along her collarbone, before lapping it away gently with his tongue. Each breast received the same treatment. . . and her reaction to having them handled was gratifying indeed as she arched into him, raspy purrs and moans of pleasure setting him alight, her pleasure becoming his. He poured a little of the wine into the cup of her navel, making her laugh, and drank from her body as he drank her thoughts in, greedily. By now, he was kneeling at her feet at the table, and moved down to her legs, tracing wine along the tendon at the rear of each leg. Following each touch of cold liquid with mouth and tongue. . . and now, the first flickers of his biotics. _Dempsey! You're teasing me!_ she finally wailed in his mind.

_Yes. Yes, I am. Sort of the point._ He was on fire with _her_ fire now, and poured a thin trickle of cold, effervescent wine over her soft lavender petals now. . . and began to lick that away now, as well. She loved it. Cold and wet, then warm and wet and soft. And as she began to buck and writhe, he added his biotics to it, sliding power up into her, pulsating, finding all the places he knew she loved to be touched, feeling her start to build and build and build, and knew, this time, that he'd actually get to _see_ her expression—_ahhh, yeah, there you go. God, your eyes go so dazed, sweetheart. Mmm, no, don't get all self-conscious, this is what I'm going to be picturing from now on every time I get you off when you're in your suit, just let go, yeah. . . _

Zhasa opened her eyes again as the first rush of fire within her died. She smiled down at Dempsey, and let the robe drop off her shoulders. Perfect union of minds. _I want to show you how much you've come to mean to me. You're worth so much more than you think you are, James Dempsey. You're worth taking risks for._ She slid off the chair now and into his lap as he leaned back to catch her. He still had the towel around his waist. . . not wanting, on some level, to make _her_ uneasy with _his_ alienness. _Everyone's alien to each other, Dempsey. Even just male to female within the same species can sometimes be very alien_. Hardness of his flesh. So much more evident now that she wasn't wearing a suit. She rubbed herself against him, seeing _his_ eyes go dazed now, and then shook her head at him. Stood up, and whispered, out loud, "Come to bed?"

Soft-harsh sensation of sheets against her skin, swimming in it. Smell of detergents, soap on his skin, dark male smell as she dipped her head down to give him the same treatment as he'd given her as she sat in the chair. Flash of concern from him at the curving white of her teeth, so close to him . . ._I'd never harm you._

_I know. I trust you. _ Flash of quick humor. _Besides, you'd feel it, too._

Feeling the sensations building in him now, almost unbearably, and then his fingers in her hair. Tugging her away, denying himself, denying her. _No. Not yet._

Then, slowly, carefully, he slid himself into her. Sweet mental connection told them both how to move, how to shift, how to adjust. . . and then, almost punishing urgency. His fingers laced into hers. Harder and harder, faster and faster, minds sinking into each other so deeply they had no idea where one of them began and the other ended, and then her release begat his release which brought her to it all over again, and then there was nothing but fire and each other until he had to still, pressing his head into her shoulder, kissing and lightly nipping at the skin there. _Oh, god, thank you, Zhasa._ Total contentment in his mental tone.

She stretched as he rolled to his side on the bed next to her, and reached out, running a curious finger along his skin. Damp now, from his exertions. She licked her finger, tasting salt, tasting _him_. Slight itching along her inner walls, probably from the proteins in his ejaculate. _Go rinse,_ he told her, concerned, as his fingers stroked through her soft hair. _Really don't want you hurting. Besides, cramming you in your suit and running you to Doc Velnaran and dropping you at her feet could be slightly embarrassing for everyone involved._

Zhasa shook her head. _In a moment_. She was enjoying, far too much, the luxury of touching his shorn hair for herself. Rough velvet.

_You still worried I'm going to die on you?_ he asked, after a moment.

_You're not allowed to, Spectre Dempsey_, she told him, silently and fiercely, pushing his shoulders back and moving atop him in a quick, lithe hop. _You're not allowed to die on me. What in Keelah's name would I do without you?_

"Not be held back," he told her, calmly. _There's damned little you get out of this arrangement, Zhasa._

_Oh, you're impossible!_ _I get __you__, damn it all. I get __you__._ Zhasa pounded on his chest with the sides of her fists in complete exasperation, and then he slid his hands up, cupping her breasts.

_Here. Much as I love watching you bounce around, that looks and feels uncomfortable. You go ahead and keep beating on me. I'll just sit here and, well, be supportive._

Zhasa looked down at him. Saw the faint smile. "James Dempsey? You are a bad, bad man."

"Yes, ma'am. Never claimed to be otherwise."_ God, sweetie, I could do this all night. But we better get you cleaned up and into that new suit, hadn't we?_ His tone was reluctant.

_A little longer. If we get private quarters on a ship, I could risk short periods out of the suit._

_On an SR ship? With turians all around, their bacteria in the air? Bad idea._ He stroked her hair again.

_Limited exposure could help me start to build my immune system. Besides, they're a completely different body temperature than we are. Their diseases shouldn't like me. . . that much. . . ._

_Talk to the doc about it before just plunging in, please._

They eventually did get up. Zhasa showered, and Dempsey helped her put on the new suit. _I want to know how each piece works, in case I ever have to get you out of it._ So Zhasa reviewed envirosuit protocols with him. Showed him how each component connected, until the last piece left was the new helmet.

They hesitated, in front of the banks of mirrors. _I don't want to seal up_, she admitted. It was almost as bad as going into her first suit at age twelve. And while she knew this time, it wasn't the end of the world, she definitely did _not_ want to be cut off from him again.

_Feels like I'm locking you up,_ he admitted. _Putting you in a damned coffin_. One more almost desperate kiss. _Always touching, sweetheart. Always._

Zhasa sealed the helmet in place. The red tint wasn't visible from the inside, of course. It didn't affect her perceptions of the world at all. Quick series of checks to make sure filtration and airflow and the bio reclamation systems were working. Then they gathered up her old suit, which could be used for spare parts now, and thus, she'd keep. And as they passed through the airlock again, Dempsey caught her gloved hand. _I love you, Zhasa'Maedan. Thank you for letting me feel it._

_I know you do. And I love you_.

**Shepard, Bastion-Citadel, June 16, 2196**

Shepard had called in a handful of her new and prospective Spectres in early the morning after the reception. She knew time was running desperately short, but the looks on their faces still hugely amused her as Elijah, Dara, Dempsey, Zhasa, Siara, Seheve, and Fors all came to the Council chambers, as directed. And looked up and up and up, as Sky, who stood to Shepard's right, sang in their minds, _Introduction-songs must be sung. Bargain-Singer, beloved queen who speaks for Life-Singer and all other rachni here on Bastion, was unable to attend your vow-songs yesterday. Bargain-Singer, these are the hatchlings I have often sung to you of, now grown. Sings-Heartsong, Many-Voices, Pain-Singer, Sings-Despair, Sings-Mischief, Hope-Singer, and Sings-in-Silence._

Shepard's lips twitched as even Eli and Fors, who were almost guaranteed to make a comment about the namings, remained absolutely silent. It might have had something to do with the enormous rachni queen, twenty feet tall now, whose long body rippled now towards them, scraping a little along the ground. Her carapace glistened in exotic blues and violets, and her wide alien eyes gleamed with opalescent fire. _I sing greetings_, she said, not bothering today with the usual subterfuge of an asari 'translator.' Everyone here was accustomed to hearing Sky in their minds, after all. Her voice was like the roar of an enormous storm in all their minds, a full-scale orchestra warming up, where Sky's song was the strings section on its own. Sometimes violins, sometimes cellos. And yet, Sky had told Shepard, in some bemusement, that other brood warriors considered him to have almost the voice of a queen in comparison to theirs. Bargain-Singer continued now, softly, in blues and violets, _Singing regrets to have missed the time of your oath-songs. It was the time of laying for me, however. I could not go with you, burdened by eggs._

Every one of the new Spectres was looking up in wide-eyed wonder. Even Dempsey, usually expressionless, had slid his glasses down to study the queen in mild awe.

Shepard chuckled a little. "Relax, everyone. Bargain-Singer is the rachni Councilor. None of you looked ready to genuflect in front of Anderson yesterday," she pointed out, wryly.

"Councilor Anderson does _not_ sing like that," Dara replied promptly, her eyes half-closed, and a happy smile on her face.

Elijah turned and looked at her. "If you could, by magic, change species, you'd pick _rachni_ in a heartbeat, wouldn't you?"

Dara grinned. "Yes."

Siara turned and looked at her. "A biotic species, with a communal mind? _You_?"

Dara gave her a dark look. "I wouldn't care if I were one of them, now would I?"

Eli snickered. "If you were a rachni, Dara, odds are, you'd have to have a sex-change with it. Queens are, what, one percent of the total population?" He raised his eyebrows at her. "I just can't _picture_ you as a male."

_Sings-Heartsong would make an excellent queen,_ Sky told them, his own tone filled with cobalt and indigo.

Dara turned. "See? Sky loves me. You? You can bite me, Elijah Sidonis." She stuck her tongue out with a complete lack of dignity much at odds with the Spectre armor.

Eli leaned in close. "Don't tease me, _sai'kaea._" He mock-snapped at the tip of her tongue, and Dara jerked back, wide-eyed.

Siara's head swung towards them, and the asari's fine eyebrows went up.

Blue-green amusement from Sky. _Now, to work songs. Sings-in-Silence, are you ready to do what is needed in the place of the Dark Singers' traps?_

"The Citadel," Shepard translated, more or less out of habit.

Dempsey nodded, face expressionless. "I agreed. And we need the place. Ready to go when you are, Commander." He glanced around. "This is going to be. . . interesting."

Shepard nodded, and looked at the rest of them soberly. "For those of you who aren't already in the know, this mission is actually the brainchild of three of you. Spectre Sidonis noted that if we needed a secondary port facility with the batarians and their allies ramping up for a war against us, that it was a crying shame that the Citadel wasn't available anymore. And Spectre Velnaran here—" Shepard noted with approval that Dara didn't wince at the last name, "And Spectre Tesala both suggested that it was also a crying shame that the Keepers, the guardians of the Citadel, and the descendants of the same race as Watches-the-Gates-of-Ruin, couldn't help us bring the Citadel back on line properly. Maybe even willingly. And then Dara here happened to make the connection that Ruin is a geth platform currently, and the Keepers are still organic. Hence the suggestion of Dempsey to . . . interface between them." Shepard smiled faintly. "Spectre Dempsey, you are almost unique in the galaxy. There's only one other person who might be able to do what needs doing. He'll be along as a backup, but hopefully, we won't need it." She looked around. "Any questions?"

Eli raised a finger. "Yeah. What's my job here?"

"You're in the unique position of having given us an idea, Eli. And for once, you get to sit back and observe. If any Keepers, for any crazy reason, attack? You and I might well be holding them off of everyone else's backs." She paused. "You, Fors, and Seheve, will have one other small task. Which we'll discuss en route."

She saw him raise his eyebrows, swallow, and nod. "Any other questions?" When this was met with silence, Shepard smiled at them. "Good. Everyone to the _Normandy._ We'll have a few ships coming along with us." _With our co-hosts for this little party._

In the observation lounge of the _Normandy_, all the Spectres along for this mission, with the exception of Cohort and Sky, gathered together as they prepared to move towards the relay. "There are a _lot_ of asari ships circling Bastion right now," Dempsey noted clinically, staring out the window.

"They're taking over the defense of Bastion for the moment. The human-turian forces are going to be needed elsewhere." Shepard glanced up at the window from her seat, and her usual stack of datapads. Watching each of the young Spectres react was a _treat_, really. No matter how battle-hardened they all were, they occasionally showed her flashes of the young people they'd once been.

Zhasa moved, suddenly, towards the window. "Those are _geth_ ships pulling up alongside us," she noted, with a hint of unease.

"Yes," Shepard acknowledged, looking at the slim lines and utter lack of windows on the needle-shaped ships. "They're sending a hundred platforms with us, in addition to the ships they already have in position in the area. They're going to take over the defense of the Citadel, once we get the minefield deactivated." Heads snapped towards her from all over the room. Lilu smiled slightly. "It's been a busy few weeks for everyone, people. Those hundred platforms I mentioned? Twenty of them are advanced platforms, with over a thousand programs in residence, like Cohort. The other eighty will be there to help distribute the load that Dempsey will be receiving from Ruin. Mostly a precaution." _Also handy in case the Keepers don't __like__ the thought of being awakened, touched biotically. _

And then Dara spoke. Quietly. Reverently. "Oh. . . my. . . god." She put her hands on the glass of the observation port, and Eli moved in beside her, staring also. Every other person in the room fell absolutely silent. "What is that?" Dara asked.

The ship outside looked organic, yet crystalline, at the same time, as if diamonds had somehow been extruded into softly flowing, bulbous forms. Rounded, yet sleek, it glistened in the light of Menvra's dim yellow light, and it refracted that light almost chatoyantly.

It was also four times the size of the _Normandy._

A half-dozen other, smaller ships, equally organic in appearance, yet beautiful, took up formation around it, clearly an escort/protective detail.

"That," Shepard said, quietly, standing up and crossing to look out at the ship, "is a rachni broodmother vessel. That is the personal ship of Life-Singer. Mother of all rachni." _The queen whose life I spared on Noveria. Who came to our assistance in the Reaper War, and then retreated once more into hiding. I haven't spoken directly with her in over ten years._ Lilitu shivered a little. The rachni queen was enormously powerful, and far less explicable than Sky, in many ways. _We will undoubtedly bargain again_, Shepard thought. _She does nothing without reason._

"It's beautiful," Dara whispered. "How could the galaxy just decide that something so beautiful shouldn't live?"

Seheve sighed. "Perhaps they did not see beauty, Dr. Velnaran. Perhaps they only saw death and destruction."

Siara shrugged. "The rachni _were_ influenced by the Reapers back then. And they _were_ sort of bent on wiping the asari and the salarians out at the time." She made a face. "And then the asari asked the krogan to wipe them out. And then we had to ask the turians to try to hold off the krogan." She shook her head. "My ancestors made a lot of choices that I'd like to think I wouldn't have. But if I didn't _know_ what I know, if I were shaped by their time. . . I suppose I'd have made the exact same mistakes."

Shepard nodded. "It's easy to second-guess and criticize other people's decisions," she agreed. "There's only one thing that really matters. Making _better_ ones as you go forward, yourself."

And then they were speeding up to hit the heart of the dark energy relay that would get them _close_ to Widow, before using the old relay system to get the rest of the way.

And as they dropped out of FTL in the Widow nebula, a tiny ship, no larger than a fighter, pulled in close beside them. Shepard, in her quarters, looked up as there was a _tap-tap_ sound over her comm system. "Yes?"

Joker's avatar appeared near the door. "Sorry, Commander. You asked for Dempsey, Dr. Velnaran, Sidonis, Liakos, and Luka. They're on their way up. Also, my late-model self is here, and wanted to check in with you."

A second Joker avatar, identical to the first in every respect, appeared beside the first. "Late-model'?"

"I could have said _vintage._"

"I prefer _original_."

"Jeff? Joker?" Shepard waited until the avatars stopped mock-glaring at each other. "Nice to see you, Moreau. I'm hoping you and EDI won't be needed for this, but it's safer for everyone if we have a backup plan in place."

Jeff shrugged at her. "Not a problem. Was getting bored running circles through Mindoir's Kuiper belt anyway." He gave her a sober look. "You really think that's one of their targets?"

"We have information on it, yeah."

Jeff whistled. "Well, let's hope they don't start this thing while I'm not there minding the shop."

Shepard nodded tightly, all too aware of the clock winding down on them, and let the subject drop. "Thanks, Jeff, Joker. Let me have a chat with my newest Spectres, if you don't mind."

They winked out, and Shepard went to open her door, just as the elevator opposite opened as well, and she saw the five people she needed to talk to inside. "Come on in, people," Shepard said, quietly. "This isn't going to be a pleasant conversation."

**Elijah, The Citadel, June 17, 2196**

In Shepard's quarters, they all sat down. Seheve surprised Eli. She alone remained standing, and asked Shepard, calmly, quietly, "If this. . . if I may ask now, as to what my role here is to be?" The drell female looked at Shepard, trying to meet the human's eyes. "There is no one to kill in this place."

Shepard regarded her steadily. "You're along to watch and to learn, for the most part. However, there may, in fact, be one person other than the Keepers, whom we might need to kill."

Fors snuffled. "Who?"

Dempsey sighed. The man was sitting with his elbows braced on his knees, and his head tipped down. "That would be me," he said, quietly. "I can understand why you didn't want to have this conversation in front of Zhasa, Commander. Thank you for that." His face was completely expressionless as he raised his head now. "There is a better than average chance that this entire . . . adapter process. . . is going to hurt like living shit. Pain on that level is probably going to make me pretty angry, and anger, well. . . it kind of short-circuits my brain." He looked at them all levelly. "Ask the doc here what I did within seconds of waking up out of cryo-sleep."

Eli glanced at Dara. She'd closed her face down. "All of the surgical instruments in the tray next to me lifted, and Dempsey had me by the throat," she said, her voice calm. "You didn't kill me, Dempsey. You could have. You didn't. At the time, I thought it was because Rel had a gun on you. Knowing what I know now, I'm not sure he _could_ have killed you."

Eli pictured Dempsey's wounds healing themselves before his eyes on Camala. _Yeah. Krogan gene mods. Good god._ "So what we're here to discuss today is. . . contingency plans?" Eli tried to phrase it delicately.

Dara grimaced. "I had minor success with a needle of a paralytic agent on Dempsey when we first got him to Mindoir. I was lucky the chip was interfering with his biotics at the time. You also metabolize everything _annoyingly_ fast. Dempsey." She sighed. "I can try to give you morphine for the pain, too, but at the rate at which your body processes it. . . it'll last maybe ten minutes. Siara's going to try to take some of the pain for you, but that might destabilize her, too, and I won't risk her life. Her readings go haywire, and I will knock her out if I have to, to stop her."

"No arguments there," Dempsey told her, cold and flat. He looked at the rest of them, ice blue eyes absolutely remote. "Let me be perfectly clear here. If I'm in danger of killing anyone on the team, I want you to take me down. Kill me, if you have to. I don't want to live with the knowledge that I hurt or killed a friend."

Eli's eyes shifted to Shepard as the commander now said, sitting down on the edge of her bed, facing the couch where the rest of them perched, "So that leaves us with lethal and nonlethal options. First, Dempsey, you're going to be restrained." She looked at Eli. "You have your own shackles with you, or do we have to go see what the brig on this ship comes equipped with?"

Eli's lips quirked. "I have two sets with me. Also, flex-ties." _Never leave home without 'em, right?_

Dempsey shook his head. "That just stops my body. And depending on how far gone I am.. . .it might not even stop that."

Shepard pointed at Dara. "Have a paralytic needle ready."

Dara nodded grimly. "If I can get to him, sure. No armor, Dempsey."

Shepard sighed, and pointed at Fors. "Stasis field."

Fors snuffled. "It doesn't last as long as you'd like it to. And it might only control his body. I've never used it on someone of his biotic potential before."

"Understood. We're setting up the nonlethals first." Shepard turned and looked at Eli now. "Can you fire the kill shots?"

Eli pictured it. Dempsey turning on the people closest to him, who would, surely, include Zhasa. . . who could wrap herself in a biotic barrier or leap away. Siara, who could shockwave him away, slap on a biotic barrier, and run. Or Dara. Who would, just as surely, be trying to stick a _needle_ in the man's arm, at close range. He could clearly picture Dempsey grabbing her by the throat and _throwing_ her, like a ragdoll. His stomach went tight, and he raised his eyes to Dempsey's. "Yeah," Eli said, quietly. "I'd hate it, but I could do it."

Dempsey nodded, his expression showing very faint relief. "Two in the head, man."

"It'll take more than that," Dara said, her voice glacially calm.

Eli blinked. "What?"

"He has carbon-nanotubule mesh wrapped around all of his bones. It's the material used to form the cables of space elevators. Hugely resistant to cutting and impacts. Plus, the bone underneath will regenerate. Skull is completely encased. You'd either have to fire repeated, repeated shots to the skull, or get lucky and go in through an eye. Heart shots might also kill him, but the sternum and ribs are. . . encased in carbon-nanotubule mesh."

_Fuck_, Eli thought, but didn't say out loud in front of Commander Shepard. He exhaled. "I can at least get his attention, though."

"Would my vibroknife work?" Seheve asked, quietly. "I could decapitate him, if I could sever the spinal column."

Dara shook her head. "Molecular diamond against carbon nanotubules. I know it the knife can cut through hard suits, but I don't think it'll cut through this. You can try, though."

"What _will _cut through it?" Eli asked, bluntly.

"Mining lasers," Dara said, grimly. "Those will _melt_ the carbon."

"A Collector beam weapon will be at your disposal, Eli," Shepard said, quietly. "To the head, and keep it focused, if we need to take him down. I'm hoping it won't come to that."

"Me too," Dempsey said, quietly. "But it's better to be prepared."

The group was somber as they left Shepard's quarters. Eli offered Dempsey a handshake in the elevator. "Hey. . . I'm sorry if it comes down to it." _But I'm __not__ going to let you hurt anyone._

Dempsey returned the handshake. "It's okay. Knowing someone will take me out if there's a need. . . it's a reassurance. Just do it quick."

"You got it."

As the elevator descended, Seheve asked, in a distant, rather shy way, "Dr. Velnaran?"

Dara's head raised, startled. "Yes?"

"May I ask a personal question?"

"If I can choose not to answer."

Seheve nodded, once. "A fair response. At the reception yesterday, both you and Spectre Tesala left for a time. Where did you go?"

Dara visibly relaxed. "To the med bay on level C," she replied. "Had to go. . . face it, I guess."

Seheve nodded again. "It would have been good to accompany you, perhaps," she admitted. "Drell eidetic memory can be a cruel thing. I remember all the faces, too clearly."

Dara visibly winced. "I know the feeling," she replied. "But at least for me, with time, they will soften." She put a hand, tentatively, on the drell female's shoulder. "Does talking about such things help your people?"

"I do not know," Seheve admitted. "I have never had occasion to try." She paused. "One further query, if you'll permit the impertinence. I am trying to understand the nature of the people around me."

Dara raised her eyebrows. "Yes?"

"The turian to whom you are wed? You are estranged from him, yes?"

Dara nodded, silently. Eli tensed. This was delicate ground, and he had a _bad_ feeling he knew where this was going.

"Then you will not seek reprisal against Spectre Melaani?"

_Yep. Shit._ Eli wondered why the hell the _Normandy's_ elevator system had never been upgraded to something faster.

Dara's tone was puzzled. "For what?"

"She and Commander Velnaran left the reception last night together in your absence, and did not return," Seheve replied, slowly. "Obviously, neither is aboard, so further information cannot be obtained."

Eli looked down at Dara's face. He expected to see hurt. Betrayal. Something like that.

He saw nothing.

After a long moment, Dara exhaled. "You know, that's. . . okay." She nodded, and lifted her hands. "It's fine."

The elevator doors opened, _finally_, and let them out. Eli caught Dara's elbow as the others moved away. "Dara—_sai'kaea. . . _"

She looked up at him, eyes, for once, a mystery to him. "You noticed it, too?"

Eli winced. He had. He hadn't been _about_ to say anything about it, to either of them. It wasn't his place. It felt vaguely self-serving to go _tattle_ to Dara, and telling off Rel hadn't exactly done much good so far. "He and Rasmus had a few drinks. Ras came over to talk to me, catch up. I looked up, Rel and Melaani were talking at the bar. Next time I looked up, they were gone. They _could_ have left together, but I wasn't keeping tabs on them." He added, to be strictly truthful, "It could also be perfectly innocent, too. Melaani's struck me, so far, as a _iai'llieau_."

"A what?"

Eli sighed. "An upright, inwards-turned person." It meant _soul of integrity_. "You okay? You know that Sky doesn't call Rel 'Sings-Honor' for nothing."

Dara looked away for a moment. "All of this would be _much_ easier if he _weren't_ honorable," she said, after a moment, her voice tight with tears, and Eli wanted to curse. "I . . . I should be bothered. I should be upset. I'm not." Dara shrugged, and the gesture hurt to see. "It's actually, god help me, almost a relief. I guess I _should_ say it's a good sign for his recovery, that he's making new friends and whatever. And on the other hand. . . it doesn't actually _bother_ me. I don't know whether I just can't believe he would, or if I think it's _fair_ if he did, or if I don't care." A world of tiredness and hurt there, but the hurt _wasn't_ betrayal.

_Have you had all the caring burned out of you, all the pride? Or is that just shock?_ "Well, you are, right now, _lapea'uel_,_"_ Eli admitted. The word meant _sundered_. "It's difficult to know what you feel, when you're divided against yourself."

Her lips actually quirked up. "I'm going to have to give in and learn asari if I'm going to be working with you, I see."

Eli snorted, and started to turn away towards the port observation lounge, where all the male Spectre personnel were staying. "That'll be the day."

Dara poked him in the arm. "I've learned salarian and batarian. How much harder can asari be?"

Eli turned back and grinned down at her. "I wouldn't know how difficult it is to learn. I woke up one day speaking it. But that's not my point. You'd have to actually _want_ to, and I don't see you ever doing so."

Dara poked his arm again, harder. "Try me."

Eli's eyebrows rose. "You asking me to _teach_ you?"

"Hey, I can go ask Siara, too." Dara rolled her eyes. "She's decided that we're friends now. And I'm _not_ to argue with her."

Eli's shoulders shook so hard, he had to lean against a bulkhead. "Okay. . . tell you what. I'll give you a couple of sentences. You have to promise. . . no VIs. No AIs. No asking Siara or any other asari what they mean. And if that gets you interested enough to _want_ to learn. . . I'll help. I bet Siara would help, too." He grinned down at her. _I'd bet a bottle of my favorite whiskey that you'll never even __try__, past a token effort. Siara __really__ set you against asari, back in the day, __sai'kaea__._

"Fine. You going to write it down, or what?"

_Too easy._ "Set your omnitool to record." Eli grinned down at her. _Now, what to __say__. . . "__Hiyae'uelleo chelai illua'ae niu vi'ie liliua, viaell_ '_uelleo eallu_. _Viaell_ '_uelleo fieua tia liliua, viaell_ '_uelleo niasu tia diya'duath, harao'ka'uelleo tirai'ii telia y'asaea'ealeo __sis'ia__, a sia'ssuadra nii'li chelai'ii __ialeo'o __wea. A ia, ceallu_'_uelle niu lei'lea __tai'kaie__'eoa, __pila'a teaoul'__uelle ua'oal, n' lapea."_

Dara's mouth fell open. "Oh, that is not _fair_," she told him, glaring. "I thought you'd give me a _little_ sentence."

"Now where is the challenge in _that_?" Eli told her, grinning.

"And how am I supposed to know where one word begins, and the next ends?" she demanded. "It's _all vowels_, Eli!"

"Giving up already?" Eli said, mildly.

Dara gave him a very dark look. "No." She muttered under her breath for a moment. "No. But I'm going to make you _pay_ for this."

An hour later, as they disembarked from the _Normandy_, Eli looked around and shivered. The landing platforms had been re-adjusted, taking on a look he remembered from his early childhood, not from the chaotic era in which he and his mom and Lantar had left the station for Bastion. The lights were off. There was an oxygen atmosphere, according to his suit's readings, but he didn't really feel like cracking his suit's visor to breath test its taste and smell. _This isn't home anymore_, he thought. It hadn't been, not for a long time. But childhood's memory is always green, and seeing his one-time home turned into darkness chilled him. "Elevators still work?" he asked over the radio.

"They did when Lantar, Garrus, Sam, Cohort, Gris, and Sky last were here," Shepard confirmed as the other ships all moved in now, too, lining up along the pier. Out of the enormous, glistening rachni ship, twenty brood-warriors crawled, preceding two huge, slow-moving queens. One of the brood-warriors was Sky, clearly identifiable by the black-enameled carapace. Eli's eyes widened. The new queen was even larger than Bargain-Singer, the rachni councilor beside her.

He glanced down at Dara. "Life-Singer?" Eli whispered.

"I guess." Dara's tone was hushed.

_Shepard, whom Sings-to-the-Sky calls Truth-Singer._ The voice sang like an angel, and Eli reached up and set the heels of his hands to his head. It felt as if his _teeth_ might rattle out from the force of it.

"Life-Singer," Shepard replied, out loud, face impassive.

_What we sing today, we sing without recompense, for it is the right thing to do. Our people were nearly wiped from the galaxy, all our songs but one silenced, by those who soured the songs of our mothers. It is justice-song, and justly sung, to bring to life others similarly injured, and return their songs to them._

As the queen sang, the geth ships were opening their hatches now, and neat rows of geth bipedal platforms emerged, among them Cohort . . .and a large, six-limbed geth platform. _Guess that would be Ruin, from the vid footage we watched on our way here,_ Eli decided.

Life-Singer continued now, _However, in your coming songs of battle, if we take part, many of my children will die. Our songs will be diminished._

"You plan to stay neutral?" Shepard asked, her voice not changing inflection at all.

_No! You are our ally, Truth-Singer. But we desire. . . recompense. A way to ensure that our songs increase in complexity and value._

Eli frowned. With any other species, he'd have thought they would be asking for guns or money. Those didn't seem like rachni motivations. _Surely,_ Eli thought, amused, _they're not asking for sheet music, either._

"What would you have me do?" Shepard asked.

_In the ancient wars our mothers fought against the cold-song asari and the fierce-song krogan, many of our broodmother ships were lost. One such was found, with the egg from which I was hatched aboard. All rachni now living are of my line. And while I carry the songs and lives of all my mothers and fathers before me, I do not carry all the songs of my entire race. Our melody needs more voices. Find the other ships. Likely lost at the same time, in the same place. Perhaps found by those who sang with those who hatched me and forced me to breed, deprived my children of my voice and made them run mad. Find the lost eggs. Repay us for the lives that will be devoured by death-songs, I beg of you._

Eli exhaled. _Now __that__, _ he thought_, is what you call a tall order. But they say people ask the Spectres to do the impossible before breakfast. Of course, now I'm one of them. Good god._

"I'll have Kasumi look into it," Shepard replied, immediately. "I can't promise any results, but Kasumi's very good at finding what's been lost, Life-Singer."

_Promise-songs from you, Truth-Singer Shepard, have more weight than many other songs._ Life-Singer raised her enormous head, her carapace glistening in the landing lights from the ships. _Let us to work._

"Where are we heading?" Dempsey asked, his tone carrying slight overtones of foreboding.

"Old Council chambers," Shepard replied, grimly. "They're atop a rise, and have limited entrance pointes. More or less at the center of the structure, too. "

And then they trudged off into darkness. The geth actually led the way in, in two precision lines, marching in perfect lock-step. The rachni brought up the rear behind the Spectres, protecting their queens, who moved along slowly, at the human's pace.

They moved past what once had been the C-Sec facility, and beyond that point, the station looked _little_ like what Eli remembered. Blackness. Open, gaping holes where there once had been storefronts and glass. No mannequins. No writing on the walls. No signs. No life. No pictures. "This is like Bastion in the middle of the plague," he muttered under his breath, shining a hand light around. "Only this place is all the way dead."

He felt a hand tug on his utility belt, lightly. A quieter way of saying _You're not alone_ than a thump on the shoulder, in armor. Eli glanced down and right. Dara had hooked a hand there, lightly, just for a moment. She met his eyes, and then lifted her hand again to hold her rifle steady. She was using its scope, with its night-vision properties to scan around them.

"We've got Keepers scuttling all over the place around us, Commander," Siara noted. She'd been walking almost backwards, keeping an eye on the area behind them.

"Yes, Garrus said they were all over the place last time. Very confused to see other life, apparently." Shepard had her assault rifle in place, ready to aim and fire.

"They think we're all dead. Wiped out by the Reapers, and they've got another five thousand years or so before the next batch of curious life forms comes through." Dara's voice was dark with irony.

Eli looked around. "Okay, we should have hit the Presidium by now. It's hard to misplace a kilometer-long open area."

Cohort replied, for the geth, "The darkness does not hinder our ability to see, Sidonis-Spectre. The route has changed since our last entrance to the facility some six years ago. We are calculating alternate paths."

Eventually, they did blunder into the Presidium, and Eli's skin just started to _crawl_. _We are very fucking exposed now_, he thought, grimly. _Like bugs on a plate_. Just their tiny hand-lights, piercing nothing but darkness and a distinct and _echoing_ lack of walls for quite some distance in every direction. Splash of water now and again, from the huge lakes that had been the hallmark of the park area. "Okay, now we need to go right," Shepard told them, relief evident in her voice. "We're close."

The Council chambers looked like an insect nest now. The rachni all rustled around irritably; apparently, this was not _their_ hive. Ruin, however, suddenly spoke. "This extruded compound, mixed with dirt and branches, was the primary building material for the earliest structures my people built. By my lifetime, we had abandoned materials made from our own bodies in favor of metal alloys and glass. It is interesting, to see that they have, in some ways, regressed, even though they are the technological _heart_ of the Citadel."

The voice surely didn't _sound_ geth. There was logic there, but humor, too, and a sort of wheezy, buzzing overtone that sounded like the creature's natural voice wasn't really suited for galactic.

Eli glanced around, and, having nothing better to do for the moment, began setting up lights. Making damned sure that doors were secure, just as Fors and Seheve were doing. And verified that there were no Keepers actually tucked away in any corners anywhere. _They used to destroy any cameras set to record them_, Eli remembered. There'd been one piece of footage Shepard had shared with them on the way here. Of a Keeper turning its head, and with inimical, insect-like swiftness, reaching out and crushing the camera that was taking the vid. He'd _never_ seen one move that fast as a kid. He'd pulled on their legs and stood in their way, just like every other bratty kid on the Citadel had. And not once had a child ever been _known_ to be injured by a Keeper.

Of course, there was no knowing what happened to the _missing_ kids. There had always been rumors that bodies that weren't recovered by C-Sec quickly enough would be taken to the 'protein reclamation vats.' Which no one had ever seen, of course.

**Dempsey, Citadel, June 16, 2196**

Dempsey stood at the center of the Council chamber, and watched, as if from a distance, as Doc Velnaran came over and started setting up equipment. He was wearing street clothes; the only person present not in armor of some sort.

A geth platform came over and set a folding chair down for him. "Considerate, aren't they?" Dempsey said, dryly. _Considering I'm about to share my head with them. All of them. This may not be a good plan._

Looking around, it was like footage of the riots on Bastion all over again. The two big bogeymen of the galaxy, once again uniting at the request of Commander Shepard. The rachni, ancient enemy of the salarians, asari, and krogan; the geth, the ancient foes of the quarians. And yet now, here, in perfect amity. Organic and mechanical all at the same time. _God, what a bizarre world we live in._ He didn't _dare_ share Zhasa's thoughts at the moment, or his concerns would turn to fears, so the thought had little force to it.

"They understand that we organics are frail," Dara told him, and pointed at the chair. "Sit."

"You ever going to work on that bedside manner?"

"It works great on turians and krogan. Not so much on humans and asari." She pushed him back against the chair, and told him, "Sleeve up. I need access for a blood pressure cuff."

"So I'm getting treated as, what, krogan by default?" Calm, flat words.

"Eh, that or geth." Dara suddenly looked at him and smiled. It changed her whole face. "I've never actually _had_ a geth patient. Honest to god, I wouldn't know where to start on an oil change."

She settled the blood pressure cuff on his arm, and taped electrodes in position to monitor his heart and brain wave patterns. "Seriously, doc, what's the worst you expect?"

Dara looked at him, and her face went serious and stern again. She crouched down next to him, and put a gloved hand on his knee. "Dempsey," she told him, quietly, "I don't _expect_ anything. But I want to be prepared for _everything_. The chip could overheat, overload, malfunction. That would be bad. Your body might not be able to handle the stress. Your heart rate could increase to a dangerous point; and even _you_ might have problems if there's a cardiac arrest." She was obviously picking her words _very_ carefully. "If your blood pressure spikes too much, again from the strain on your body, there's the possibility of a stroke. Again, your body might be able to regenerate the damage. But I don't know what the Cerberus. . . doctors. . . did to test the resilience of your brain tissue. And those _aren't_ tests I'll run on you." She looked at him, and he saw the _worry_ in her eyes. "I've got morphine on hand, like I said before."

Dempsey cautiously put a hand atop hers. So odd, to see her _letting_ him see her humanity. _She must really have accepted me, on some level. Damnit. She'll hesitate before shooting me. __That's__ why Shepard has Sidonis and Liakos standing ready. They __won't__ hesitate._ "You're really _looking_ for a silver lining there, doc."

"That's what they pay me for. That, bullet extraction, and fancy suturing." She stood back up. "Eli? Shackles time."

Sidonis came over now, and locked shackles around Dempsey's wrists, and then locked the shackles to the arms of the chair. Dempsey looked up at the cop, who had a Collector beam weapon slung over his shoulder. They nodded, and Sidonis patted him on the shoulder, once, before moving away again. Getting in position to take the shot, if needed.

"Commander? I'm as ready as I can be here." Dara called, and then turned. "Siara?"

The asari came over to stand next to the human doctor. "No heroics," Dara warned the blue-skinned female softly. "Keep the pain off him enough that it doesn't trigger the rage, but I'm hooking _you_ up to monitors, too. Your readings start to deteriorate, and I'm pulling you off of him."

Siara gave her a quick, tight grin. "Vaul, Dara. I have a first-mother in Azala and a second-mother in Gris. I didn't know you were going to be my third-mother, too."

"Shut up." Dara's tone was brusque.

Then Shepard glanced at Ruin and the various geth units and the rachni all scuttling around them. "Dempsey? Light 'em up."

Zhasa came over. Knelt at his feet. Siara moved in behind him, and rested her hands on his shoulders. Warmth of Zhasa's mind opening to his, trying to help him steady himself. Siara's mental touch now, too. Cool and calm and competent.

_This. . . is a really bad idea._ Dempsey lowered his head, and opened the chip in his mind. Focused on Ruin, not to _hack_ the six-legged construct, but to _access_ it. No firewalls. No protection. Just. . . a datastream. _Oh shit. There's too much. Oh, dear god, there's way too much information here!_ It hit him like a cannon shot, an entire _language_ his brain wasn't suited to house, facts, names, dates, and memories. . . oh, _god_, there were memories here. Being hatched. First light of the sun. First steps, first taste of food, learning speech, learning to read, learning, learning, learning, first love, first loss and it wasn't just _one life_ it was _five_ of them all at once. . . .

"His blood pressure just went through the roof," he could hear Dara saying, distantly. "Distribute the damned load!"

And suddenly, it _eased_. More minds came into the network. The chip was _burning_ in his mind, and the white-hot agony made him clench his hands inside the shackles and writhe, straining against the restrains. Zhasa's terror _for_ him, which she was controlling as tightly as she could. Siara's glacial calm. _Here. Give it to me. I'll give it to someone else, someday. Let me take it._

And, incredibly, the pain _eased_, and then there were voices. Voices everywhere. Chatter of metal minds, total rationality. Sorting the information for him, into easily understandable packets. Compressing it. And then he was finally able to raise his head and look over at Sky. _All right_, Dempsey threw out biotically, loudly enough for even those without biotics to hear him clearly. Dara's head rocked back in reaction. _Sky? Let's take it from the top._

And then the rachni minds joined with his, and this was usually when the chip would go completely haywire, when he tried to activate tech and biotic skills at the same time. And this time was no different than any other. Dempsey snarled as the pain hit, redoubled, and his arms tensed against the shackles, straining once more.

_Memories. Forgotten worlds, once green, now shattered and sundered and dead. Creatures by the billions that looked like overgrown preying mantises, but which were people, all members of the great Hive together. Biotic, but not entirely a hive mind. Some vestiges, inklings, of individuality. A collective of individuals, as it were. Thousands of years of memory. Each passed down in love in the very last moment of life, from father to son to daughter to son to daughter, and finally, to Ruin himself. Each generation different from the last. Full knowledge of how their world had changed over the centuries. Full recollection of how the rains had come later three centuries ago than now, full recollection of a grandmother's love for a grandfather, full recollection of the history chants of In'kza'ra from one grandparent, full recollection of the games played by children in the streets of the Deathless City, full recollection of the poetry of She-Dances-with-the-Stars, full recollection of every single thing that made a people, a people. Hundreds of books of history, read, consumed, understood, and now, passed on. . . language and thoughts and philosophy and poetry and even banalities like what someone had for dinner on the night of 133 Armahe, in the year of the Quivering Dark. . . too much, too much, and all at once. . . and there was no more Dempsey. Just a throughput device. White absence of thought, all rage buried by the torrent of information, being sent from clear voices, datastream like an old-fashioned modem, modulating up and down in regular, monotonous patters. . . .and being taken from him. _

Bare thread of awareness that other minds were holding him up. _Dempsey, you hold on, you hear me, I'm with you, hold on!_

_Dara, if you're going to give him something to try to take the blood pressure down, you had better do it now—ah, good, there she goes—Vaul, how does he tolerate the pain? _

And then the chorus. Oh, god, the chorus. Taking him, translating him, taking the information and the data and making it _real_. Colors, lights, patterns, shadows, memories. The emotions _from_ those memories. Love and loss and pain and joy and agony and redemption. Life after life of it, being picked up. Woven in voices of incredible beauty. The rich voices of the brood-warriors singing it, singing _him_, too, his life inseparable right now from the memories of Ruin, last of the Keepers, and then each memory being picked up from the brood-warriors and repeated. Flung out, cast out like a net, the length and breadth of the station, by the seraphic voices of the queens. The agony of Ruin as he learned that _none_ of the people who were to have been sent into the Sower device with him had survived the centuries. That he was, in a galaxy filled with people of a dozen different species, the _only_ one of his kind.

_Alone, alone, forever and ever,_

_Yet never alone, joined in silence _

_with geth-mind eternal, unending._

_Singing songs in silence, words without feeling,_

_Hoping that brethren will hear his words,_

_hear his songs, and remember._

_Oh remember, remember, and awaken._

_**AWAKEN**!_

The last word was a _command_.Twenty brood-warriors and the two most powerful rachni queens in the galaxy sang it at once, and Dempsey screamed it with them. Could feel every mind around him, caught in the net, the backwash of the biotic command now translating back through him and the chip, so that even the _geth_ heard that command, could hear the song. Brief feeling of _shock_ as geth and rachni both _heard each other_ for the first time. _You sing, too, in your silence? Busy thoughts, hum of the hive. Things you do not understand in yourselves. __The things you do not understand are the songs__. _

_Chaos, yet order in the chaos. Harmonies have mathematical order and precision on several different levels. More than we knew existed. We must understand this. Consensus has been reached._

Dempsey opened his eyes for a moment, aware, just for an instant, of his surroundings. His entire body was bathed in sweat, his throat ached as if he'd been screaming, and perhaps he had; he could hear echoes of _something_ coming back from the walls. He was panting, as he hadn't since the cybernetics had been knitted into his body, and he looked down at Zhasa for a moment. She had her arms wrapped tightly around his legs, as if she were trying to hold him to life by pure force of will. He lifted his head, looked around at Dara, who was white-faced and preparing a new syringe for him. "It's okay, doc," he managed, out loud. "I think we've got a handle on this. . . "

Dara shook her head at him. "They're _moving_," Dara told him, jerking her head at the locked door to the Presidium below. Fors was moving forward towards that door at what could only be called a volus' run, and then stood at the gate, hands up. Dempsey could _feel_ biotic energy suddenly charging around the tiny form. Enormous amounts, in fact. "They're all moving _here._"

"They won't get through without a fight," Fors promised. No amusement in his voice at all right now. "Do what you need to do."

And then the _new_ voices hit him. _Oh, son of a __bitch__._ Dempsey was peripherally aware of throwing his head back and roaring _something_, something wordless from the pit of his stomach, and then he wasn't there anymore again, just a white _nothing_ in his head as the rachni voices rose again in a storm. Protecting him. Taking the sound of the chorus outside. Information, again. Too much, oh, god, too, too much, and the rachni passed that information through him, to Ruin and the geth. _Disseminate. Make sure all is recorded in the memory-song, for all time. This is the history of this place and this people, these are their songs, generation after generation after generation. Much repetition. We cull out the important facts. Wasted, wasted lives, spent tending this great machine. Slaves. Slave-songs, captive-songs, bound by chains within their flesh, within their minds, but now they awaken, the words of their ancestors awaken them. They are not what they were, but they can be more than they are, take what they are, and do not ever let it be forgotten!_

Dempsey found awareness of himself, as a single voice detached itself from the chorus, and surrounded him. Lifted him above the flood. Cool, wonderfully calming words. _Watch and hear,_ _Sings-in-Silence,_ Sky told him. _You hear now the songs of the Keepers, who saw all that passed in the three thousand years since the asari found this place_

Dempsey could only pick out images here and there, like flotsam and jetsam. After seeing several notable murders in the early, early days of the Citadel's most recent occupation, he thought, dizzily, _Heads will roll, when this version of history gets out. . . _

_. . .yes. Secret conversations, secret meetings, all the knowledge that was hidden or suppressed, or spoken before those who were thought to be deaf and mute and unthinking, was kept. The Keepers did not know that they kept it, or why, but they did. The between-time, they kept the station for themselves. Tried to remember in song, who they were, but it was hard. They remembered that there had been between-times before, death-times before, but their minds were scarcely awake, little better than the least of the geth platforms. And now, see the time of the Protheans. Truth-Singer, Sings-Despair!_ The last was a clarion call in Dempsey's mind. _Lend of your voices, so that all might understand the words of the Protheans' songs!_

And then, bogglingly, but distantly, god, how distantly. . . were the memories of those who had come _between_ the Keepers and the Protheans. Twenty full Reaper cycles. A million years of memories. Twenty galactic-level civilizations. All wiped out. All vanished, almost without a trace . . .the Protheans had taken what they _could_ find of each. Studied them. Tried to build on those crumbling foundations, a civilization of their own.

_These fragments I have shored against my ruins. . . _whispered a voice in the chorus, quoting some long-dead Terran poet.

And then finally, finally, it ended. Dempsey sagged forward in the chair, putting his head down atop Zhasa's helmet. His wrists were bleeding. . . healing rapidly, but healing. "Sweetie?" Dempsey rasped out. "You okay?"

"Headache," Zhasa admitted, after a long moment, her voice dull.

Dempsey turned slightly. "Siara?"

"I'm here." Everyone was, very carefully, speaking out loud, he noticed. The asari sat down on the ground beside him, looking incredibly weary.

He glanced at Dara now, who was checking on his monitoring equipment again. "Am I gonna live, doc?"

Dara gave him a look. "Probably. Gave me a couple of good scares, though. Jumped up and knocked all the equipment over with your chair once, and then fell on your damn face a minute later. Heart almost stopped once or twice, too." She glared at her results. "I need to get him to the _Normandy_ for at least a few hours of observation," Dara told Commander Shepard crisply.

"Understood, doctor." Shepard's voice was calm.

Dempsey blinked. "How. . . . how long. . . ?"

"Four hours." Sidonis came over, sounding just about as weary as everyone else. "I was only getting the backblast of the images and the songs, I think, but. . . " The cop. . . _Spectre_. . .shook his head. "Un-fucking-believable."

Dempsey nodded, slowly. "Did we. . . are they . . .?" Words were _hard_ right now.

_Awake?_ The voice was Life-Singer's, like a storm in all their minds. _Oh yes. They are. And they know anger-songs and sorrow-songs and joy-songs all at once. We commune with them. They say they will open this place to our alliance of species once more. That this is their place, now, but that they will share it with those who have freed them. But that because it has been their place for so long, they must be allowed to make it their own._

Ruin spoke now, his faintly mechanical voice weary. "I will stay with them. We can communicate in writing, if no other way. I can teach them, they can teach me. Perhaps, in time, some of them might even choose to leave this place. Recolonize Etamis, our ancient homeworld." He sighed. "Just hearing their voices, speaking in our language, now that they have _learned_ that language again. . . will be wonderful."

Dempsey blinked. "They didn't speak their own language?"

Ruin rubbed his forelegs together. "I think that they had had even the _concept_ of language repressed in them, somehow. We have. . . removed. . . many of their obedience ligatures, I think. I must go to them." He paused. "I will need your assistance, I think, in the future, Spectre Dempsey. Translating their life memories, one at a time, to the geth collective. For. . . preservation. For _history_. For . . . understanding."

Dempsey groaned. "I guess everyone needs a hobby." _Going to be my life's work. Okay, maybe several lifetime's work, but chances are good I might not be able to die, so . . . yeah._ He looked over at Shepard. "So. . . was it a good show?"

Shepard looked down at him, and smiled. "Yes," she told him. "It rocked. We have our secondary base of operations. . . and a new sapient race to add, possibly, to the Council. How does it feel to be a Spectre, Dempsey?"

Dempsey put his head back down, still aware of the damned shackles around his wrists, when all he wanted to do was put his arms around Zhasa and thank her for staying there with him, through all of that hell. "I like it. I love it. I want more of it, drill sergeant." Flat, monotonous words.

Shepard started to _laugh_.

Dempsey looked up at her. "I think I'd like to be untied. And if I could get some aspirin from the doc here, I'd pledge her my undying devotion."

Sidonis snorted, and came over to unlock the manacles, and Dara, chuckling under her breath, handed Dempsey two aspirin, which he dry-swallowed without hesitation. He wrapped his arms around Zhasa, who reciprocated, tightly, and in the distance, he heard Shepard ask Liakos something else. "What did you learn?"

There was a pause. Liakos said, after a moment, "That the universe is vaster than any one mind can possibly imagine. And with the memory of my people, I might even retain a goodly portion of what I saw and heard and felt. It may drive me mad, Commander. . . .but if it does, it will be in a good cause, I think." Bliss. Bliss in that soft voice. "I have seen the face of time, Commander Shepard. I have seen eternity, and eternity needs life to give it meaning, I think. It's a simple truth. But it is _mine._"

**Omega, June 17, 2196**

Chrysa Vellimus was working in docking bay A-6, laboring over a balky shuttle engine, when the alert began to sound. "Attention, all Omega citizens," a pleasant female voice announced, and when the turian female looked up, she saw a .. . hologram. . . of a human female standing nearby. _Fancy new alarm system. Damn. Harak's got credits to spread around, I guess_. "We have detected batarian ships emerging from the mass relay. They are currently inbound. We have challenged them, but there are over thirty ships currently moving towards us. Main guns are coming online. If you are not Omega Security Forces or station personnel, please return to your homes at once. Repeat, please return to your homes at once. Obey OSF officers, and do not panic, but it is imperative that you return to your homes _at once_."

_S'kak_, Chrysa thought, and right then was when she heard the first _thump_ against the outer airlock of the docking bay. Her military training was fifteen years in the past. . . but she knew the sound of breaching pod landing. She turned and _ran_ for the main hangar entrance. _Have to alert security. They have a __futtari_ _stealthed ship out there with breaching pods landing. Had to have been here long before the rest of their forces came through._ Chrysa grabbed the handle of the alarm at the front of the bay, and shouted to everyone still in the damned area, "Come on, you stupid _anserae_, get _out_ of there! You heard the alarm! Get to your homes and your families!"

In a bar in D-ring, Ellemai T'lari looked up, and shook her head. The former Eclipse Sister actually _liked_ the new Omega. She _liked_ owning her own bar. She had a human female for her current _marai'ha'sai_, business was booming, she hadn't actually had to _kill_ any patrons in at least a month, which was a plus . . . blood was annoyingly hard to clean out of the floors. . . and now the _fucking_ batarians were going to try to take the damn station. The way they'd tried to _murder_ everyone on Bastion, everyone with a brain knew that they'd either be trying to kill or enslave the entire population of any other colony or station they came after. Ellemai reached under the bar. Took out the assault rifle she kept there. . . next to the sawed-off, lead-filled pool cue, which was all she _usually_ needed lately, and took off the apron she wore over her armor.

Omega had changed, but not _that_ much.

"Citizens of Omega, move to your homes at once," Harak's voice echoed through the station now. "Close all pressure hatches, and secure your ventilation systems. There may be pressure losses as we expect hostile forced to board at any moment. We will stand and we will fight."

In a workshop on the L-ring, Narin Khrev Pollin pushed himself out from under his workbench, and frowned. Then he stood up, and checked the circuitry in his latest 'improved' mech, which he'd planned to sell to an envoy of the Blue Suns later this week. "Well, looks like you might get some field-testing in before the sale date," he told the mech cheerfully, and blinked his eyes at the robot's blank and unresponsive face. The STG operative rubbed at his chin. He'd been in deep cover on Omega for ten years now, an insanely long time for a salarian. And his job had actually gotten _much_ easier in the last five. _Perhaps, after this little invasion, I might even be able to go home_, he mused, and went back to adjusting the mech's settings.

In a corporate office, where once Afterlife had stood, a krogan behind a desk, patiently tapping on an aerogel screen, heard the messages. Opened his desk drawer. Pulled out a heavy pistol, and loaded it. Then he went to the front door, and locked it. He turned, and Ulluthyr Urev saw that the rest of the employees in the office. . . five krogan, and two turians. . . had all taken weapons out of _their_ desks, too. Urev laughed, a low, rough sound. "Fucking batarians don't know what they're doing," he told the rest of them. "This is _our_ place now. _Our_ land of opportunity. And if they think we're just going to lie down and let them take it from us. . . they're even stupider than they look."

In the uppermost level of Omega, the penthouse suite, Harak looked down at the tiers that made up the inside of the vast asteroid. "Pelagia?"

"I'm firing at will," she told him, materializing beside him. Her arms were folded over her chest. "I'm receiving reports of breaching pods near the hangar bays in spite of it. Double-layered attack."

"I'm going to go help OSF repel them," Harak told her, tightly.

"No! Not yet. Wait until they're all aboard. Please." Pelagia's eyes were distant. "We've got a plan, Harak. It's a good one. It'll let us hold out till help arrives, even if we can't quite break every one of the invaders on our own. But we have to stick to it."

Harak growled. Seethed. Wanted, desperately, to descend. To fight alongside his people. But she was right. They had to see how many came aboard, and she wouldn't let him risk himself on the first damned day. _Let our people do their jobs, Harak. Rally them when they need it, but not this second._

**Edessan Shipyards, June 17, 2196**

The admiral in charge of the Edessan shipyards was having a bad day. He'd received a warning through TIA channels that his shipyards were likely to be the target of an attack by a batarian fleet over a week ago. And he'd kept the base on high alert since, and had made damned sure that as many ships as possible were kept _outside_ the structure, and that they all were as mobile as possible. One _Leviathan_ was still inside the damned shipyards, however. It was in the middle of a retrofit to its engines, and couldn't be moved. _Spirits of air and fire, defend us now_, Admiral Kirallus thought, and, as the batarian ships appeared on the scopes, launching missiles at the base, it took everything in him not to order countermeasures too soon.

"Range, five hundred meters," his adjutant reported.

"Wait for it," Kirallus said.

"Two hundred and fifty."

Still, Kirallus waited.

"Two hundred."

"Launch countermeasures. Have the fighters and frigates currently screened behind the moon pull around and attack." Kirallus glared at the screen. _We were ready for you, you filthy_ _sons of pox-ridden __villi__._

Ready. . . but perhaps not _completely_ ready. "Fighters are reporting some sort of energy weapon being used against them," his adjutant reported. "It's taking out their shields. One hit, and they're vulnerable."

_S'kak. We were warned about __that__, too._ "Try the oscillating jamming frequency. See if we can knock that weapon of theirs offline." _Come on, you bastards. Come and test the sharpness of our teeth._ "Are they in range of the station's guns?"

"Just."

Kirallus nodded. Put his hands behind his back. "Then tell our gun crews to fire at will."

**Shanxi, June 17, 2196**

Screams. Screams everywhere, and the mass confusion that can only come as a crowd of humans tries, desperately, to be someplace, anyplace else. People crushing into one another, the weaker falling to the ground, trampled underfoot. Bruised, then bleeding, then broken bodies, ignored by the panicking herd.

Twelve human marines were scrambling into tactical gear in the barracks near the site of the shameful surrender by General Williams in the First Contact War. "Drop ships?" one man asked, dumbfounded. "That's it? No orbital bombardment, no fighters overhead? Just. . . dropships? They must not be very serious."

"Could be a feint," his buddy said, pulling on his helmet and checking his gun.

Their squad leader opened the door, and they saw the civilians outside, running, screaming, shrieking. "Good god, we've got to get control out there, they're hurting themselves—shit, they're _killing_ themselves—" The squad leader paused, and then said the words they were all thinking. "What the _fuck_ is that thing?"

The massive form of the alien at the far side of the street was covered in armor, and at least twice the size of a krogan. It had eight eyes, visible behind a clear visor which covered only half its face; the lower half was exposed, and showed a huge mouth, filled with teeth. And then the creature snarled and charged them. The marines opened fire through the doorway of the barracks, and shields glimmered into life around the creature's form. It was surprisingly fast on its feet for such a bulky creature, and the squad leader swore and slammed the door closed as it, completely unaffected by the rain of fire being directed at it, got closer.

A meaty _thud_ against the door, and the squad leader swore. "That's not going to hold it for long. Who's got grenades? Back up, get in the next room—"

The door caved inwards, and a single huge hand slammed into the squad leader's throat, crushing it through the weakest links in the armored shell. The creature _smiled_ as the remaining marines opened fire again, backing up, trying to wear through the shields, the armor. They ducked back into their squad room. Threw grenades. . . .some effect there. The corporal shouted, "Get out through the window. We'll keep it off of you."

Four men made it out through the window, and turned, trying to fire back in through it. And finally, with their clips almost exhausted, _killed_ the creature. Five men lay dead on the ground inside the squad room. Their squad leader had been killed at the front door of the barracks. "Fuck," one man said, quietly. "That. . . that _thing_ killed half our squad. On its own." He was clearly shaken, and his hands were quivering a little.

"We weren't prepared," another replied, quickly. "We'll know better how to fight 'em. Next time. Grab every grenade we've got. Mortars. Heavy weapons. Shotguns. Anything. Let's go, people, there's got to be more of those. . . .things. . . out there."

**Amaterasu, June 17, 2196**

"I'm telling you," she whispered into her omitool's wrist panel, hiding under her desk. She worked in the Amaterasu spaceport, on the fifth floor. Outside, smoke roiled up around the building. "These things are everywhere! They landed about three hours ago, and they've been killing everything that moves ever since! You've _got_ to send us help!"

"Ma'am, I need you to stay calm, and describe what you're seeing," the voice on the other end of the line told her. Amanda Harkins had no _idea_ how she'd finally managed to get a line through the jamming to the Alliance's Fifth Fleet. Pure dumb luck on the transmitter she'd dragged from its storage closet back to her office, she figured.

"Okay, they're between ten and twelve feet tall," she whispered. "Six eyes. Lots of teeth. Wider than a krogan, and they're _killing_ people! I'm not reporting a fucking mugging, I'm reporting a goddamned _invasion_. We need help, and we need it now!"

She heard a noise in the corridor and went silent. Feet. Heavy, tromping steps. She turned the radio's incoming volume all the way down, and held still, shaking. She'd been lucky so far. Unbelievably, unspeakably lucky. She'd been late to work that morning, and had snuck in the back way. . . which was why, when the attack occurred, why she wasn't in the first floor meeting room at the front of the building for the weekly all-hands meeting. She'd been busy trying to get to her desk and get caught up on all the cargo traffic that had come in overnight, so she would be in _less_ trouble when the meeting broke up.

Her first clue that something was wrong had been the _whump_ that shook the building. Amanda had stood up, gone to the window. . . .and stared out it, her mouth open. Dropships. Dozens and dozens of dropships, coming down through the clear blue sky. Two had landed near the spaceport already, and the _whump_. . . _Oh, my god, they took out the FTL comm antenna with a missile._ The creatures were _pouring_ out of the drop ship now, and spaceport security was trying to defend the building, but Amaterasu was a small colony, and relatively close to both an Alliance base and Illium. No one had felt the need to heavily arm the _spaceport_ guards. . . who had pistols. She had watched as one of the creatures had reached down, picked up guard, and slammed his head repeatedly into a nearby brick wall, dropping his limp form to the ground before turning on the remaining guards.

The creatures had headed for _this_ building, next. She'd heard the screams from downstairs, and, remembering the manual of operations, had found the emergency transmitter. Brought it back to her little office. Locked the door. Done a little quiet praying, and tried to get the transmitter working. The building had been deathly silent for the last hour. Only the _whumps_ from outside, as the creatures had worked, quickly and efficiently, to destroy the landing bays. The shuttles. Anything that could be used to get _off_ this rock, or could be used to refuel or welcome new ships.

Amanda tried not to _breathe_ as the footsteps got closer. She pulled herself completely under her desk, and felt, oddly enough, like a tiny mouse, cowering under the roots of a tree, in some primeval forest. Some ancient mammalian ancestor, waiting for the predator to pass her by. _Don't see me, don't hear me, don't smell me. I'm not here. I'm not here._

The door to her office swung open. Amanda closed her eyes. Heard _something_ sniff the air.

And then the desk itself was lifted off the ground from around her, and her eyes jerked open in panic, and she started to scream.

**Terra Nova, June 17, 2196**

New Philadelphia was, to put it politely, a slum. Waves of immigration had left the city colorful. . . Russian. Chinese. American. Much like some districts of its namesake city on Earth, there were whole tracts of Terra Nova's capital that urban renovators honestly thought should be taken out with an orbital strike, so that everyone there could just _start over_. From scratch. Every problem of urban blight on Earth—gangs, drugs, decay, corruption—had been lovingly replicated here, as if in homage. Everyone dreamed of _getting out_. But few did.

Anna Malcomson's oldest son had. He sent her his paychecks, and she'd finally gotten a house in a nice neighborhood. One where there actually _weren't_ any gangs. Not that that seemed to matter to her two younger kids, who _still_ wound up going downtown every damned day. She was going to have to have Ryan come home on leave and kick his two brothers' asses, she decided, tiredly. The last time the cops had picked them up, she'd damned well _left_ them in jail. "Apparently, you need a harsher lesson than _mommy will always come and bail you out_," she'd told Alex and Quon, aged seventeen and fifteen, respectively. "You're in juvenile detention right now. Next year, Alex? It'll be the real thing. I guess I'll see you guys in two days."

No _bad_ trouble. Not yet. Just hanging out with the wrong types. Maybe trying a little red sand or azure dust, not that either of them would admit to it. But not selling it. . . she hoped. Not carrying any weapons. . . that she knew of. _Damn it all, I got you __out__, Ryan got us all out, and you keep going back __in__, and for what?_

Anna poured hot water over her tea leaves—her mother had been Chinese, and her father half-Ethiopean, but she'd picked up her love of green tea from her mother—and looked out the window of her modest little house.

And dropped the kettle, shattering her fragile tea cup.

There were _ships_ over New Philadelphia. Dozens and dozens of what looked like military dropships. And her kids were in a damned detention facility, five miles away. _I've got to get to them_, she thought, numbly. _I've got to get them out of there._

**Galatana, June 17, 2196**

"What do you mean, the mass relay's been cut off?"

"I mean, there's at least thirty batarian ships between us and the relay, captain. We can't get our freight ships through. They're saying that this system is under their interdiction, and anyone, civilian or otherwise, who tries to run the blockade, will be shot down."

Captain Talanus swore under his breath. Galatana provided over fifty percent of the Hierarchy's food supply. Planets like Nimines and Quaddim Outpost, which couldn't _possibly_ sustain their populations through their own agriculture, relied on Galatana to feed them. "Get a signal out to the Fleet," he said, quietly. "This _can't_ last. People might have a three-month's supply of food on their own worlds. Anything past that, and people will start starving."

"That's the other thing. They're jamming all transmissions heading through the comm transponder in the mass relay itself."

_Futar._ _We've got ships here. . . not many, but some. And we can't yell for help. All right. Time to inform an admiral and let __them__ make the decision on how to break the blockade. If we can._ The young captain swallowed hard. _If they're blockading Galatana, they're in this for the long-haul. Where else are they blockading? Rocam, to stop the flow of medical supplies? Baetika, to prevent fresh ammunition shipments and other materials from coming through? What the hell else is going on out there?_


	107. Chapter 107: Battle Lines

**Chapter 107: Battle Lines**

_**Author's note:**__ A few really kind and dedicated readers (Jelfia, CalliesVoice, Dermiti, and Shinemigami ) have started helping me assemble a wiki for this behemoth of a story. There's a thread in the forums about it, and it's currently available at __spiritofredemption[Dot]wikidot[Dot]com/__ . At the moment, it's a bit rough, but as a work in progress, I've at least tossed bios of the major characters up. Finding all the names of all the minor characters since Chapter One, er. . . well. . . that will have to wait. Organization is also a work in process. :-D_

_Dermiti was the one who, on reading my rough draft of the al-Jilani scene last chapter, asked "Would Makur punch her?" And I said, "You're brilliant. Of course he would," and hustled off to add that._

_Shinemigami has since immortalized that scene in this image: duetmaoim[dot]deviantart[dot]com/#/d47kou1. Enjoy!_

**Rellus, June 16-18, 2196**

"Get up, second-brother." Something soft smacked his head.

Dim recognition. Voice was safety, voice was protection. Voice was brother-ally. Rellus opened his eyes, failed to recognize his surroundings, and snapped upwards, fighting with something that _bound_ him. . . and then realized that these were the sheets. He was in a nest. Somewhere. "First-brother. . . how did you get in my quarters?" Last night. . . if this was, in fact, _morning_. . . was a blur.

"These are actually _my_ quarters, brother." Rinus dropped to a crouch now, bringing his eyes near to Rel's level. "Your new friend Melaani brought you back last night and dropped you off here with Kallixta and me. She thought you shouldn't be alone." Rinus bared his teeth. "It's a good thing turians don't _get_ hangovers. If you were human, you wouldn't be able to _function_ this morning."

Rel groaned. "I never drink. Maybe one, two brandies at a mock-hunt on a ship, to be sociable. I remember I was drinking with Rasmus Cadius at the reception. . . " He rubbed his forehead, sweeping a hand back over his fringe.

"He said you had six before he called it quits. Then you and Melaani seemed to hit it off."

Rel frowned. He remembered that. He remembered being ordered to cheer up, when he was, yet again, _angry_. Remembered going off to an asari club on another level of the station. Quiet. Out of the way. He couldn't eat the food, but they'd had a few dextro-based intoxicants. He'd largely leaned back and listened to the music. Wondered, a little sadly, what Dara would think of it. _She probably would hate it. It's asari chime-based, but to a techno beat. With asari singers._ Of course, that might have been a disservice to his little. . . .to his mate. She _loved_ music. Quite democratically and almost universally. Although she _hated_ Expel 10.

He remembered, vaguely, Melaani asking him a few questions. _"_You want to talk about it?"

"No."

"All right." She paused. "This song is so sad, don't you think? It's about how, for asari, love is a transitory thing. When you live for a thousand years, you come to accept that love dies."

Rel bared his teeth in a snarl of frustration. _Not the time for this topic._ "Real love doesn't."

"Of course it does." Simple, calm assurance. "You take a salarian for a mate, and in the blink of an eye, they're gone. Even a turian or a human, you might get a century out of, if you're lucky. And if you happen to choose a fellow asari or a krogan, over the course of the next three, four hundred, five hundred years. . . you'll grow apart. Fall out of love. Fall in love with someone else. Probably with several someones. Because the person you were at a hundred, isn't the person you are at two hundred, or five hundred, or a thousand."

"That's _not_ true." Rel had sat up, combatively. "You're always the same person. The same flesh. The same spirit."

"Is the river that passes by you today, the same as it was yesterday? It has the same name, but it's not the same water. That water has already flowed to the sea. It doesn't even have the same sediment. The same fish. So, too, even your flesh changes. In ten years, every cell in your body will have died and a new one will have replaced it."

"But the _spirit_ is the same."

"Is it?" Melaani asked, leaning her head back, and half-closing her eyes to listen to the music. "I've been undercover so many times, I have to keep a diary when I'm _not_ in a disguise. So I can read about my life. My thoughts. What I think is important. What I like, and don't like. So that when I come out of cover again, I can read those words, and try to remember who the hell I am."

"That's mental conditioning. The mind. Not the _spirit_. Not the life. The. . . _animae_."

"What a human would call the soul." She shrugged. "Asari don't differentiate the mind and the spirit. I've touched plenty of minds, in my life, Rellus. Without a mind, there's no life. And I've never seen or touched a spirit that wasn't a mind."

His own mind had been far too fuddled by brandy to really engage in deep philosophy. "Whatever. Just because you haven't felt it doesn't mean it isn't there." Rel had sighed. "I thought we were here to listen to music." _And not to talk._

"So we are." She'd fallen silent then, one leg pulled up to her chest, in spite of her armor, listening to the music. There was a minor privacy field set up around the booth; it refracted light, like a stealth net, so the people at adjacent tables weren't gaping at her Spectre symbol, at least. And the light in the club was dim, with flashing red and blue strobes pulsating to the music. Even without the privacy field, it would have been difficult for others to see it.

After a while, as she sipped her own drink, Melaani asked, idly, "So, why _were_ you looking so depressed at the bar back at the embassy? Everyone else in the room was celebrating. You'd just been _promoted_, by the Goddess and her stars. Every turian loves a promotion."

Rel set his drink down with a snap on the black-lacquered table. Put his head down in his hands. "Wasn't. . . wasn't the way it was supposed to be," he finally said. "Had worked for it. _Hard_. Spirits, I've worked and worked to be the _best_ I could be. . . since I was fifteen. Since I saw. . . what I _could_ become. And Dara worked, too, for the dream. And then she just threw it away. And they gave it to her _anyway_." _And they didn't give it to me. Though I never abandoned the course. Never strayed from it. Fidelity and sacrifice and work . . . all to be found. . . wanting._ The choking sense, again, of unfairness. Anger at Dara. Anger at the Spectres. Anger at himself, even, for _being_ angry, for _being_ disappointed, for being, somehow, not _good enough_, in spite of all the work. Being angry at Eli and Lin and Dara for succeeding, angry at himself for being jealous of them. Angry at them because he was jealous of them, even. All more than he could put into words, more than he could piece out or understand, but all _there._

Melaani raised her fine brows. "It's hard to say what they were looking for. Looks to me like both straight-up fighters. . . you _and_ Kirrahe. . . both need work in a few areas, in the recruiting officers' opinions, anyway. And the Spectres already _have_ large numbers of soldiers. They seemed to be appointing a lot of specialists." The words were probably intended to be comforting.

"Or generalists. Someone like Zhasa'Maedan, or Dempsey. . . good at a little of everything, but not _really_ good at any one thing." Rel sank down lower in the chair. "And Thelldaroon? About as specialized as you can get. I talked to him a bit. AI neural structure studies and psychology."

"And carries a rocket launcher, _and_ you can hide an entire squad behind him with room for part of an orchestra," Melaani pointed out, with a low, soft chuckle. "No, he was lacking in leadership, I think. Every time a squad had him, they had to figure out a way to use him. He didn't usually figure it out on his own." She smiled. "Was _interesting_ watching each group figure out how to get him over obstacles." She cocked him a quick look. "Your wife and Sidonis, with the pool exercise. And again, your wife and the volus, with the cliff."

Rel looked down and away. "I'd prefer not to talk about my wife right now." His voice was taut.

Melaani just looked at him. "All right," she'd said, and that had been the end of it. He couldn't remember how the rest of the conversation had gone—no more than scraps, anyway. Something about the music, and the lights. He thought she'd talked about growing up on lost Thessia, near the equator, apparently, and he'd mentioned growing up on Mindoir. With so many of the others. Siara. Linianus. Eli. Dara.

And then he'd woken up here, in Rinus' hotel room.

Kallixta popped around the doorframe now, a smile on her face, and a mug of _apha_ in her hands. "Did you slay _every_ bottle of brandy you found?" she asked, and handed him the mug of purple fluid. She'd brewed it _very_ strong; it had the viscosity of engine oil. Rel drank it with a grateful murmur.

"All hail the conquering hero," Rinus said, very dryly. "Next time you feel the need to drown your sorrows, brother, come find _me_, would you? Was wondering if I needed to mount a search party by midnight."

Rel finished his _apha._ "Sorry," he said, tiredly. "Didn't realize it had gotten so late. I _never_ drink like that. And probably won't again." He set the cup aside, and looked around for a clean uniform. Something. "What time is it, and when do I need to report?"

Rinus grimaced. "All of us currently on Bastion are awaiting orders from Garrus, so we don't need to report till afternoon. The _Normandy_ took off this morning with a nice large contingent of Spectres."

"And twelve geth ships and a rachni broodmother ship flanking it," Kallixta added, her eyes wide. "They refused the news crews any access, but Garrus and Lantar let me see the flight control vid feed. Just so I'd know what a rachni ship looks like." Her eyes were alight with awe. "It was _beautiful_. As if it were half spirit, and half reality."

Rel swore under his breath and stood up. "You know where they were going?" He spotted his armor in the corner, and made his way over to it.

"Shower first, second-brother," Rinus said, firmly. "You still _smell_ like brandy."

Rel winced.

"I think they're going to the Citadel, of all places," Kallixta told him, her eyes lively and bright. "I didn't get the whole story, of course."

Rel frowned. That nagged at the back of his mind as he dug around in his seabag, which had been brought over from his own room, apparently. The Citadel had been mentioned in conversation, and recently. Looking at Rinus, Rel saw calm understanding in his brother's eyes. _Rinus_ had the full story. "Something about . . . needing a secondary base of operations, besides Bastion?" Rel ventured. _Right. __Eli__ came up with that one. __S'kak.__ I could have thought of it. I __should__ have thought of it. But he was born there, so I suppose it's only natural that he would. . . _

"Right," Rinus replied, calmly. "Dempsey, Zhasa, Eli, Dara, Siara, Fors Luka, Seheve Liakos, Sky, Cohort, and Shepard all headed there this morning. Early. It's a long trip there and back, after all."

_Wait. Dempsey?_ The pieces all clicked together, and Rel's head jerked up. "They were going to try to awaken the Keepers after all?" he blurted out.

Rinus's smile was a flash, and then gone again. "Good. You're almost all the way up to speed, then. That's exactly what they were going to try to do. Shepard said she wasn't sure what the Keepers would do, so she was trying to limit the number of people on the ground to essential personnel only. Garrus stayed here, so there'd be continuity of command if everything went awry. Personally, I'd have _loved_ to have been there to watch galactic history unfold." Rinus shrugged. "Instead, I've been doing some casual poking around in the Spectre databases this morning. Testing the limits of my new access." He chuckled. "Haven't run into a wall yet. I'm sure I will, though."

Rel finally found the soap and scale lotion he was looking for, and a change of clothes, after all, and headed off to the room's shower to clean the smells of yesterday off of him. On the one hand, even _Rinus_ and _Garrus_ hadn't been there to see the Keepers awaken. _If_ they'd awakened. On the other hand, how the _hell_ did Shepard consider Fors Luka, Seheve Liakos, and Eli Sidonis essential personnel? Even Siara, Dara, and Zhasa were hard for him to reconcile. Sure, Dara was a doctor. Any doctor would do, really. And certainly, she and Siara had had the initial notion, just as Eli had had the initial idea of using the Citadel. But why the rest of them? Spirits, why _any_ of them?

And then the real realization hit him. _Spirits of air and darkness, I've missed a chance to see galactic history made. Just like Rinus said._ Rel put his head against the tile of the shower and sighed. _Was it because I didn't make Spectre? No. . .Rinus stayed. Liakos went. Was it because I got drunk yesterday? Doubtful. Everyone else seemed to be having a few to celebrate, too._ He turned off the water, dried off, and headed out of the hygiene area, dressed at last.

Rinus was at the terminal, busily tapping away, when Rel popped back into the main room. "You said Shepard only wanted _essential_ personnel?" Rel asked. "You have any idea how that got decided?"

Rinus held up a finger, and continued tapping and swiping for a minute or two, finishing setting up some sort of a query, from what Rel could see. "Yeah," he replied, after a minute. "Uncle Garrus told me that Luka was along for his stasis field. Either for use on Dempsey if he went berserk, or on the Keepers, if they attacked."

Rel's blood ran cold in his veins at the thought of hundreds of thousands of Keepers converging on a small Spectre beachhead. "And Liakos?"

"I think she was along more or less as a learning experience. But Garrus said she might be needed to kill Dempsey if Eli's kill shot didn't work. Again, only if he went berserk." Rinus' voice was cool and reserved, and he checked on the results of his search with a _hmmpf_ under his breath.

"_Eli's_ kill shot?" Rel remembered, all too well, having a gun on Dempsey as the man came out of cryo-sleep. One large human hand wrapped around Dara's fragile throat. He'd had two pounds of pressure on a four pound trigger at the time. The _only_ thing that had kept him from firing was how close Dara's body had been to the male's. One inadvertent move, and he'd have shot _Dara_ and not Dempsey.

Rinus glanced up from his screen. "Yeah. Two birds, one stone, I guess. Shepard rewarded Eli for the idea, and made sure she had someone on hand who could handle the job. And who, with a track record in SWAT, she knew wouldn't pull the trigger early." Rinus looked down at his results, and his expression turned _gleeful._ "Oh. . . I could get _used_ to this."

"What are you _doing?"_ Rel asked him.

"Invading my own privacy as a test case." Rinus chuckled, eyes now completely intent on his console. "I want to check into something I suspect about Kallixta's family, but I don't want to set off any alarm bells to start with. So I'm accessing Praetorian Guard files about myself, first." He looked up, a tight grin on his face. "Want to see all the dirt on me, second-brother?" He paused. "Apparently, some of Kallixta's guards like me, and some really do _not_." He snickered.

Rel looked over Rinus' shoulder. "Kallixta's Praetorian on the _Estallus_, I take it?"

"Reimian, yeah. Whoo, did she have some things to say." Rinus grinned again, fiendishly. "She's on Severus' detail now. She's good with kids. Less so with adults."

"And you're trying to find out something about _Kallixta's_ family?" Rel was uneasy. That was the _Imperial_ family, after all.

"Her father more or less challenged me to find the answers when I realized that Kallixta looks a _great_ deal like his chief bodyguard. Right after the Imperatrix's funeral, in fact."

Rel's jaw dropped. "You're. . . you're _joking."_

"As my heart beats and I take air, no, I'm not." Rinus's eyes glittered. "An information hunt is just as good as stalking a foe, second-brother. At least for me, it is."

Rel shook his head. He'd been competent at school work. Had enjoyed some of it. Had gotten decent marks, but Rinus was definitely the one who took after Allardus, and their father's penchant for research and detail. "I'll leave you to it, then," he offered. "Unless you're going to do more practice queries or something."

Rinus lifted his head. "Such as?"

Rel shrugged. "Your fellow Spectres, I suppose. Nice safe targets."

Rinus snorted. "That would violate their privacy. And set off some alarm bells, I think."

"And investigating the doings of the _Imperator_ won't, first-brother?" Rel pointed out, dryly.

Rinus chuckled. "He invited me, second-brother. I think he'd actually be disappointed if I didn't at least _try."_

Rel shook his head, and lifted his seabag. "You have an _odd_ relationship with your _pada'amu_, Rinus."

Rinus started to answer, then shrugged and kept tapping away at the console. Rellus looked over his shoulder once more. "I don't suppose you'd want to go and spar?" he asked, hopefully.

"No more than two to three times a week for you, _fradu_," Rinus told him, sternly.

So Rel was at loose ends. For the better part of a day. There was no word from the _Normandy_ as to success or failure. And it was, to be honest, a little nerve-wracking. He couldn't _remember_ the last time Dara had been on a mission without him. He settled into his own hotel room to carve, but the wood mocked him by remaining blank and featureless. No life in this piece, at least, none yet. No images came to mind. _What are you?_ he asked it, silently. It was a fairly large chunk, blocky, bulky. _Are you an __acrocanth__? A ship? What are you? _Instead, he debated, and finally opted to finish the statue of Eli, Serana, and Linianus, though his heart wasn't in it.

So when his omnitool chirped, and it was Lin, it almost wasn't a surprise. His mind had been on them all afternoon. "Come on. Serana and I need dinner, and _you_ need to make up with her. Let's go."

Rel hadn't liked the reminder. The fight with Dara was only days in the past. . . nearly coming to blows with Eli shortly thereafter, the same. And he _knew_ he'd hurt his sister. That much was clear in her eyes as they sat in uncomfortable silence at dinner in the hotel's restaurant. Lin was clearly, again, just as with the chess game in the waiting room the day of the candidacy verdicts, offering an olive branch. Giving Rel a chance to put everything back on the same old footing of friendship. And seemed content just to sit there, talking with Serana, or watching the faces in the restaurant shift around them. Rel watched _Lin_ watch the crowd, and frowned to himself. _He scans his surroundings. Same as I do How the hell is that different from me? Why do __I__ have a problem, if it's the same damn thing?_

He couldn't really ask that, not without it sounding petty or hostile, though. So, small talk. Polite and laborious. Not work. Not where friends and family currently were, or might be in danger, where they couldn't _get_ to them and help if help was needed. No. Things that didn't matter. Gladiatorial rankings. Serana volunteered a few quiet words about an art gallery re-opening on I level that she might want to go see after dinner was done. Rel watched in surprise as Lin took and squeezed her hand. "Of course, It's going to be a while before any of us get to do anything fun again."

"Or even see each other again," Serana said, quietly, her voice low and sad. "All of us have work to do."

Visible tightening of fingers as Lin told her, softly, "That's the way of the world, _amatra."_ Not even bothering to hide the affection behind the usual subterfuge of _little one._ He tossed Rel a quick glance, and then stood. "Let me go pay up for dinner, and then we can go find that gallery."

He walked away, and Serana flashed Rel a quick, defiant look, lifting her chin. Rel pinched the bridge of his nose. The _stupid_ words rang in his head again. He'd wanted to slap at Eli. Wanted to fight with someone who'd damned well _give_ him a nice cleansing fight. And in slapping at Eli, he'd slapped his sister, too. And now, if he said _anything_, it would just sound like a continuation of the same. Lin's quiet revelation the other day that he was _courting_ Serana, and that Eli was withdrawing in his favor . . .if Serana was willing to have him. . . still made no sense to Rel.

But when he'd closed his eyes to picture the statue as he'd tried to finish it, he'd realized the image in his mind had changed. He'd originally posed them, with Eli, the divine brother, wrapping his arms around the goddess Cybele, or Serana, from behind. And with Linianus, the mortal twin, catching her face in his hands from in front, lowering his head to touch her head with his own. Now, in his mind, Eli's eyes were closed, and his face had turned away. _I could fix the statue. At least show his eyes as closed,_ Rel had thought, and in so doing, had left Lin and Serana's eyes open. The human face, with the eyes closed, now looked as if the male were dreaming. . . or perhaps, weeping. Rel had no _idea_ why his hands had done that, when, in fact, the _anger_ told him to chip the face away entirely. To efface it. In fact, for a moment, he'd been tempted to cut Eli's figure entirely away from the statue. It wouldn't take much. And he could have smoothed his sister's form so carefully, no one would ever have known there had been another figure there to start with.

But that wasn't how spirit carving worked. The image in his head was still of the three of them for this piece. So three it had to stay, or he'd ruin it.

In his anger the other night, Rel had hurt his sister. He didn't know if it was irreparable. But he could at least try to make amends. "Serana," Rel said, offering her his hand across the table.

She took his hand. Gave him a faint smile. "Rel." Not letting him off the hook. Not letting the words stay meant, but unsaid.

He sighed. Looked down for a moment. "I'm sorry, _amilulla._" He took the wrapped bundle from the seat beside him, and slid it across the table. A peace offering.

Serana pulled the cloth away with her free hand, and stared down at the smooth _jalae _wood. "Brother. . . have you ever thought that perhaps _this_ is what you should be doing with your life?"

Rel snorted. "No. It's a hobby. I do not see myself sitting in a roadside shack, selling curios."

"Nor in a fancy gallery, selling spirit statues to those who would pay dearly to have their spirits called to them so well?" For once, there was no teasing tone. Her eyes, in fact, were sad, as she stroked the tip of one claw over the human face of her mate in the statue, and then, that same claw over Linianus' fringe.

Rel shook his head impatiently. "I can't see strangers this way. Only people close to me. Or who I _think_ are close to me, anyway." He shook his head sharply.

Serana looked up sharply, and switched languages. Went into _tal'mae_. _"And while you regret the pain caused to me, do you also regret the pain caused to those who stand as brothers to you?"_

Rel grimaced. _"He who is your. . . mate . . . shouldn't have interfered in what wasn't his business."_

Serana glared at him. Dropped back into modern turian. "She was crying in the snow when we found her. Lin and I went for a walk. Eli helped her clean her face. If she'd been wearing what most human women wear, she'd have had black mascara dripping all over her face instead of yellow paint. He protected her dignity. I don't think he should have to apologize for that."

"And what about _my_ dignity? She walked in without paint, without my knife. Who was protecting me?"

"No one but yourself, and a damned poor job you're doing of it lately, too. So busy nursing your wounded pride that any dignity you might have is left in tatters instead. If you left the pride behind, you'd have more dignity, brother, you know that?" Serana's tone was _tart._

Rel's mouth dropped open. "That's. . . absolute nonsense," he finally told her. "They're the same thing."

"No. Different kinds of pride, certainly. Pride in a job well done is one thing. That's healthy. The kind of pride I'm talking about is the type in which you're convinced that you're better than everyone else. Now, one type can grow into the other type. Which is, I think, what happened with you. You were always proud of doing a good job. And that was merited, brother. No one would ever take that away from you." Serana smiled at him, and it was like the sun coming up; she was keeping her voice gentle, and the words soft. "But when you weren't looking, everyone else around you finished growing up. Got very damned good at what they do, too. You went from being first in everything to being very evenly matched, strengths against weaknesses, with a whole group of people. And now you're _sulking_. If Quintus were acting the way you are, you'd have laughed at him by now. Told him to knock it off."

Rel stared at her. "I am not sulking."

"You are, a bit. If Rinus weren't so damned worried about whether or not it was going to provoke a fight that he doesn't want from you right now, he'd have already told you off about it." Serana leaned back. "I doubt you consider me worth fighting, though. An _excuse_ for fighting, maybe. But not an opponent. So I thought I should tell you what I see. Maybe it might even help."

"You've got a _hell_ of a way of thanking someone for a gift, Serana," Rel told her, his jaw clenched, and reached forward to take the statue back.

Her hand tightened around it protectively, and she pulled it across the table and into her chest. "The only way I _can_ thank you is to be honest with you, brother," Serana said softly. "To try to see for you as clearly as you see others. You're like a racing _rlata_ who's been wearing blinders. You've only seen the goal ahead for so long, that when someone takes the blinders off of you, you're startled by all the other _rlata_ around you, the sight of the crowd, the flowers along the side of the racetrack."

At that point, Lin had come back, to Rel's relief. Suddenly, small talk that didn't mean anything at all felt a lot safer and more comfortable than even one more minute spent talking with his sister about anything real. The temptation to snap at her, say something even _more_ unforgivable, was there. Lurking behind his teeth was a comment to the effect of _So, did you bid your mate a tender farewell last night? And will you give Lin an equally tender send-off when he leaves?_ The urge was there. _Think I wouldn't fight with you, sister?_ And yet. . . he wouldn't. He _couldn't_. She was his little sister, and it wasn't _right._ So he bit his tongue and redirected his mind. Fortunately, there was a good deal to look at.

The gallery was, apparently, an exhibition of quarian and _geth_ art. Side by side. Serana pointed out, wryly, that Rel's carvings were better than anything on exhibit, and Rel shrugged it off, watching the crowd ebb and flow around the. Chattering people, still a little wary of physical contact. Even a chance cough made everyone in the room turn their heads in concern. But, by and large, cheerful, happier, healthier people than he'd seen on Bastion weeks ago. Mostly salarian and elcor, a few turians. A handful of quarians and turians, too. Very few humans, and a handful of asari.

Rel did, however, pause at an 'interactive' exhibit. And snorted under his breath. The 'artist' in question was a geth who invited everyone present to create 'consensual art' by picking up a brush, selecting a paint, and adding something to the canvas. That, Rel considered laziness. Or perhaps a very _advanced_ sort of joke. He shrugged, picked up a brush. Selected a pot of paint without looking at it. . . it turned out to be black. And, just moving the brush rapidly, without really looking at it, he pushed the pigment around the canvas. _There. There's your consensual art._ He cleaned off the brush, and the geth unit, which had been standing, motionless, beside the exhibit, startled him badly by activating at that moment. "An interesting choice. We wonder why you have chosen to depict a serpent here, wrapped around a hand?"

"I have no idea." Rel paused. And added, very dryly, "No data available at this time." _How do __you_ _like that response?_

And then the reports started coming in the next day. Attacks. Attacks _everywhere._ Omega still hadn't gotten word out to anyone. Rocam and Galatana's comm relays seemed to be down. Shanxi's comms were off the grid as well. Terra Nova had managed to get a single panicked message out to the Alliance Fifth Fleet, and there were reports of an attack at the Edessan shipyards. Half a dozen Alliance worlds were under attack, as were turian worlds. . . no signs of asari or salarian planets being hit yet, however. And worst of all, some of those reports, like the one from Amaterasu, suggested that _yahg_ were landing. And they were only landing, apparently, on human worlds.

"Get your kits together," Garrus told all the Spectres and probationary Spectres on Bastion as he gathered them in a briefing room at the human embassy. "The _Normandy's_ coming in as fast as she can, and we're dividing people up. Some will be heading back to Mindoir to await redeployment. Others of you will be with me and Lantar. And some of you will be heading out with Sam. We _don't_ have a lot of information right now. Alliance marines are moving in on a half-dozen worlds. The turian fleet is on the move, too. There's good news and bad news here. Good news is, they're nowhere near any world on the new, dark matter relay network."

Beside Rel, Rinus leaned back in his chair, exhaling. Garrus continued, crisply, "The bad news is, they've definitely used the old relay network, and they're undoubtedly blockading each relay to prevent ships from getting into each system. It's the same tactic we used at Omega four years ago against them. It's the same tactic every invading army has used since the rachni wars. Move in. Block the relay so no reinforcements can get through, or at least, have to put up a _hell_ of a fight to burn their way through. . . and prevent anyone from escaping through the relay. That leaves us with two options for relieving each colony that's being attacked. Go _through_ enemy lines. . . or around them. Around them means stopping off at the _next_ closest mass relay. . and burning enormous amounts of fuel and straight-line FTL travel. Which is slower. And if any ship in a given relief convoy needs to be, say, redirected to a different location quickly? That's unlikely to happen. So, no SR-ships in those FTL burns. When the SR-s and the Spectres go in, we're going to be going in the hard way, folks. And at least at first, we're going to be going into enemy-occupied territory with very spirits-be-damned little information. STG has _some_ assets in play, but they, like everyone else, are having trouble getting information _out_."

Rinus snorted. "No one _happens_ to have a line-of-sight FTL transmitter on these worlds? _Everyone_'s clandestine networks went through the comm relays?"

Garrus made a rude noise from the front of the briefing room. "Everyone is scrambling. First, to _get_ the information. Second to hide the fact that they were, in fact, spying on friendly governments. . . which, of course, _everyone does_, but no one likes to admit to. . . and thereby, wasting our time. As soon as the _Normandy_ gets back, we're dividing up, like I said. Get your things together, folks."

Lin raised a hand. "The _Normandy's_ mission was a success?"

Garrus suddenly grinned. "Oh, yes. Definitely. No fatalities, either."

An exhalation of relief from all across the room. Rel's crop loosened. Just a little.

**Dara, **_**Normandy,**_ **Bastion, Omega, July 17-18, 2196**

She absolutely could not sleep. The rumbling hum of the _Normandy's_ engines in the distance should have soothed her to sleep as they flitted back through space between the old style mass relay that they'd arrived through, from Widow, heading back towards the closest dark matter relay that would take them immediately to Menvra. Dara knew she _needed_ to sleep. . . but absolutely could _not._ Her mind was too _full._

She wasn't biotic, but everyone present had heard the rachni songs. She'd seen and heard and felt the memories. The endless stream of them. She'd been hard-pressed to concentrate, to try to block them out, to _focus_ on Dempsey's readings. The man had been screaming—or singing—along with the rachni. Writhing against the restraints until his wrists were bloody, and his heart rate had been _double_ what it should have been. Dara's hands had shaken as she'd prepped the injections. Tried to get at least a little Valium in there, to help his body calm down. It had been _damned_ hard to get a needle in on him, as he'd bucked and writhed like someone in a seizure. And still, the images had flitted through her mind. Joys and sorrows and tedium and secrets. Life after life after life. All _sung._ The universe's greatest symphony, and she'd been _there_ for it. Her whole body still _vibrated_ with it, the music still sang through her nerve endings, and everything else, now that she was sure everyone was going to survive the aftermath of the experience seemed. . . .well, a little petty, in comparison to the glory of the song.

Dara rolled over in bed for at least the fourth or fifth time. She, Siara, Zhasa, and Seheve, each had a bunk in the starboard observation lounge. Eli, Fors, and Dempsey had bunks in the port one. Finally, Dara just gave in and sat up.

Seheve was already sitting up, staring out at the blackness of space, reflected in her huge drell eyes. Zhasa sat up now, too, and Siara flung back her blankets with an annoyed huff. "I see we're all going to admit that sleep is useless at the moment," Siara said, dryly. "_Vaul_ but I wish Makur had been there to share that with me. I'll give him as much of it as I can _remember_ when we get back to Bastion, but . . . it'll be a pale shadow of what I saw and heard and felt."

Zhasa's tone was very dry as the quarian girl asked, "I trust you won't be _maieolo'__riuae."_

"No, I won't be sharing the _pain_ with him. Everything else, though? Oh, Vaul, yes." Siara closed her eyes and leaned back, smiling. "If he were here now, I'd be finding someplace quiet and out of the way right now to do just that."

"Does everyone in the _galaxy_ speak asari but me?" Dara asked the ceiling.

Siara gave her an edged smile. "Only the people worth talking to, Dara."

Dara threw her pillow at Siara. "Eli practically dared me to learn. Guess I'm going to _have_ to, now." She got up. She'd worn a tanktop and shorts to bed, so all she needed to do was slip her feet into shoes. "Seheve, you all right?" she asked the drell, a little concerned. The female hadn't so much as _moved_ through all this conversation.

"I am quite well," Seheve replied. No hesitation over the pronoun now. "I was shifting through the dimmest memories of the Keepers. Trying to make sense of them." She turned. "The hanar teach that language is the highest gift that the Enk. . . the _Protheans_ gave to the children-races. It seems appropriate that all the memories of the Keepers are strongest when they had language to remember the events, to encode the memories the more clearly. When they lost their language, the memories dimmed. It interests me."

Dara nodded. "We'll have to talk about that," she said. "It'll be an interesting conversation."

For the moment, she got out and paced around the dimly-lit crew deck for a while, trying to drive the agitation out of her body with physical activity. Found the ship's library, and, with a sigh, loaded an asari dictionary and training program into her omnitool. She wasn't going to make a big deal out of learning, but if she could figure out what the hell Eli's little riddle meant, she was going to take a great deal of delight in rubbing his nose in it. Unfortunately, that didn't quell the restlessness in her body. Her hands were still shaking. Not from adrenaline, but from pure exaltation. _I'm going to have to work some of this off_, Dara decided, and headed to the exercise room.

She settled in on the treadmill and started running, listening over her headpiece to the opening language exercises. _I must take my travelcase to the spaceport_, she thought. . . and wanted to cry, suddenly. Here she was, six years later, and starting all over again. Last time, at least, Rel had taught her, a word here, a word there. Little fillips to stave off the boredom. Dara paused the learning program, and replayed Eli's careful words from yesterday. _Well. . . I have to give him credit. It sounds a __hell__ of a lot nicer when __he__ speaks asari than when Siara does._ Eli's low voice gave the liquid vowels a much warmer cast than when Dara had heard the language spoken or sung before. _And I still haven't a clue where one word even starts or stops, or how to spell any of it to look it up._ _God._ Dara sighed, rubbed at her eyes, and turned the teaching program back on again, and started repeating the words after the instructions, and let her feet fly on the treadmill.

It was past 02:00, so she was surprised. . . and then not at all. . . when Eli came in, frowning a little. Then, catching sight of her, he laughed. "Couldn't sleep either?"

"Not a chance. I don't think _any_ of us are sleeping tonight."

Eli snorted. "Dempsey is. He _passed out_." He got on the next treadmill over and set it for a punishing uphill and downhill program.

Dara snickered. "If you cleared Fors out of that room, I think Zhasa would probably find a way to wake the poor guy. I mean, she's a little quieter than Siara is, but. . . "_I don't know whether it's a good thing or a bad thing that Rel isn't here. On the one hand, __everything__ looks petty right now, and I probably __would__ jump him. Tomorrow, though, all the problems would be back, but he'd probably think everything was resolved. On the other hand, if he'd __seen__ all of that. . . if he'd seen a million years of life unroll before his eyes. . . would it have helped him?_

Eli chuckled again. "Ah. Looking for a little life affirmation?"

"Siara did mention something about wishing Makur were here so she could drag him off somewhere." Just keeping the words nice and even between laboring breaths was a challenge.

"Yeah. . . know the feeling." Eli's tone was a little rueful, and his words distracted her.

"Wow, I had no idea you had a crush on Makur, Eli." Dara kept her tone bland.

"Mmmm, yeah. Definitely. You know what they say about the size of a krogan's hump, right?"

It was the _way_ he said it that caught her off-guard, and suddenly Dara was laughing so hard she had to step off the treadmill to keep from _flying_ off. Eli waited until she ran down a bit, and then grinned at her. "Nice try, _sai'kaea._ You've got about eight years of trying to catch up on what's already been said to me in every single locker room from the Citadel to Edessan and back again. You're not going to get me to blush or splutter anymore." He winked at her as she got back on the treadmill. "Now, _you_, on the other hand. . . you blush. Very nicely, too." He leaned on the handles of the treadmill."

"You're a jerk, Eli Sidonis." No animosity in her tone at all, but she pointedly put her earpiece back in, making a face at him. And, just to _tweak_ him, started her language exercise over again. Out loud. "_Mi'ia'__taeil'uelle __chau'ua'yili_ _tia_ _pia'sao__ wei'lo__." I must take my travelcase to the port of space._

All it took was one missed step, and Eli damned near slid off the treadmill next to her, himself. Dara's head jerked up, and she stepped off to the side rails of her own in consternation. "Eli, what the _hell?_ Are you all right?" She stepped down. His reflexes had been good enough that he'd caught himself in time, but now he was laughing and staring at her.

"Just. . . just a bad step. Don't let me interrupt you." His shoulders shook again.

Dara gave him a _dark_ look, and got back on her own treadmill. And continued to mutter to completely alien and incomprehensible words under her breath as she ran. Occasionally, Eli would say something to correct her pronunciation a bit, but other than that, he ran in silence. Well, almost silence. Periodically, he'd start chuckling all over again.

"Hell of a way you have of _encouraging_ someone," Dara told him, as she wound down to the end of her full hour's run. Now she was hot and sweaty and _tired,_ but nowhere near ready for sleep.

"_Sai'kaea_. . . . I'm not trying to _discourage_ you. It's the Texas accent. I don't hear it when you speak turian. You almost have a _tal'mae_ or court accent in turian. But it's all _over_ the asari." Eli stopped his own program now, and stepped off the treadmill. "And, honestly, I like it. It's. . . unexpected. And very Dara." He tossed her a towel, and mopped the sweat—and paint—off his own face with another one from a nearby shelf full of them. "Maybe your next lesson will cover _waia'rua_ _oa'a kar'e'ya."_

Dara frantically thought back over the lesson so far. _Nope. No help there._ "The, ah, '_ya_ ending can be _your_. . . . "

"What you're about to go take. Me, too. Literally, the rush or flow of water over your body. _W__aia'rua_. Water rushing."

"_Waia'rua_."

Eli's lips quirked a bit at her pronunciation. "_O__a'a kar'e'ya."_

Dara thought about it. "_Oa'a kar'e. . . yili."_ _Yili_ was an ending indicating _my_ or _mine._ She was not _about_ to admit that it sounded a _hell_ of a lot more poetic and sensuous than _go take a shower._

"There you go. Not _that_ hard, huh?"

"It's still all just vowels."

"Yeah, yeah. We all know, you're not going to enjoy it even a little bit, Dara."

Dara threw her towel at him, which he caught, laughing, and walked out. And, in the privacy of the women's showers, as the water rushed over her head and through her hair, muttered under her breath, "_W__aia'rua_ _oa'a kar'e'yili."_

By midmorning, everyone had, of course, given up on sleep and was going about their normal routine as best they could. Dara's eyes felt grainy, but when Shepard called them all to the briefing room and started showing them news vids from a dozen different planets, the exhaustion fell aside. The exaltation from yesterday started to fade, as well.

Dempsey shook his head at the minimal footage they had so far, and muttered, "History just keeps on coming, doesn't it?"

"Never stops," Shepard agreed, crisply. "We'll be at Bastion within two hours. Dempsey, you and Zhasa will be heading back to Mindoir with me for the time being. We're going to ask Doctor Abrams to take one more look at the brain tissue surrounding the chip—no offense, Dr. Velnaran—"

"A second opinion is _always_ a good thing," Dara replied, immediately.

"Fors and Sky will be also going back to the base, for the moment. We've got a _lot_ of places coming under attack. We have to keep _some_ Spectres in reserve so we can stay flexible."

Siara was tapping her fingers on the conference table. "Omega?" she asked, quickly. "Commander, I just spent two years of my life trying to help keep that place in one piece. If there's any chance at all that it's under attack, I'd really like to go help there."

Shepard chuckled. "Welcome to our world, Siara," she said, her eyelids crinkling a bit. "You now officially sound like every single Spectre I've ever met. 'We just got _done_ cleaning up that place.'" She nodded now. "I definitely will want to see you and Makur there, yes. You know the terrain better than anyone currently, except for Gris and Ylara. And you know Harak and Pelagia, and they know you."

Back on Bastion, a hasty assemblage. Garrus and Shepard, her father and Lantar, heads together, rapidly conferring. Rel came over while they were talking. Tentatively leaned down and put his forehead to hers. "I'm glad you're all right," he told her, quietly. "Why didn't you tell me you were going?" Frustration in his tone. "You didn't even leave me a note. I had to find out from Rinus that you'd left on a mission that you might not have come back from."

Dara looked up at him, and sighed internally. The questions _could_ be pure concern. They could be a presage to a fight, too. Not even a week of separation yet, of trying to figure out what, if anything, to do. "Honestly? Shepard called us all up at oh-six-thirty and we were being introduced to Bargain-Singer by seven, and then aboard the _Normandy_ and taking off by eight. Not a lot of time, and then we were underway." _Not to mention that, arguably, it wasn't your business, since it wasn't your mission._ Not something she was going to say. She wasn't going to be the one to start the fight.

"That's an _excuse_, Dara. I've got a right to know when you're going to be in harm's way. We're _married._" Rel was, apparently, trying to keep his voice calm. But his hands were still on her shoulders, and Dara wanted to be _anywhere_ but where she was right now.

_I could mention that you were, apparently, drunk when I left. I could mention that you left the party with Melaani. But honestly, I didn't even know either of those things until after I was on the __Normandy__ myself. Irrelevant._ She reached up and pulled, politely, at the hands on her shoulders. Rel let go, but only after a couple of pointed tugs. A hundred things she _could_ say tangled in her throat. The assertive, the aggressive: _It's not your business anymore._ The passive, snider version of the same: _It didn't occur to me that it was your concern anymore. _ The overtly insulting: _Have you noticed that we're separated?_ The apologetic, but weak: _I didn't want to worry you._ The wondering, but _truthful_: _You would have loved being there. It was amazing. Words can't even convey it. And I'm sorry you missed it._ But that would sting him just as much as anything else she said.

Finally, Dara managed, "I'm sorry you were worried." She cleared her throat. "You would have enjoyed the mission, I think, if you had been with us." Trying to keep the words cool, detached. Professional. "A million years of history, compressed into four hours, through rachni song."

Internally, she sighed. It would be so much easier if she didn't care at all. It would be easier if they didn't have to work together. If it hadn't been made clear to her that every turian in the Spectre program believed that it was _integral_ to his cure that she help him, _somehow_, regain his spirit. _Here. I give you your spirit back. Go on. Fly back over, get in there, and get to work._

If only it were that easy.

At the front of the room, Shepard and Garrus cleared their throats now, and Dara was _deeply_ relieved. It got her out of having to say anything more. From having to deal with the puzzled hurt and residual anger in his eyes. "All right, here's the situation," Shepard said. "I've got teams heading to every planet that we _know_ is under attack, but like I said on the _Normandy_, we're going to hold a few teams in reserve at the base at all times. Dempsey, Zhasa, Luka, Sky? You're with me, at the base." She looked around the room. "Siara, Makur, Kirrahe? You're team one for Omega. Linianus, Eli, Dara? Team two, Omega. Cohort, Ylara, and Sam will be the senior Spectres on the ground for Omega, too. They've been off the comms for four days." She paused. "Well, officially. It's not common knowledge, but the _Normandy-_class AIs have their own network. And Pelagia, the NCAI of Omega, got word out when the batarians first cut the comm relay, and then again, today, when the attacks actually commenced."

Makur immediately raised his hand. "And Spectre Gris?"

"Is on Tuchanka right now," Shepard told him, with a sharp nod. "Getting _all_ of us some backup, I hope. He'll probably be joining Archangel once he and Wrex finish beating in the heads of the Clan Alliance."

Dara's eyes had widened slightly. She hadn't expected to be sent to Omega. "Urban combat," she muttered under her breath. It was a new one for her. While she'd been at the Lystheni base, most of her assignments over the years had been remote outposts, distant colony worlds, mercenary bases. Never a highly concentrated population center like Omega.

Garrus overheard her, no matter how soft her voice had been. "That's right, doctor," he told her, with a quick nod. "Not only will you be looking after your team—and Siara's got the training to help with that, too—but you're probably going to see a _lot_ of civilian casualties."

Kirrahe's wide salarian eyes were blinking rapidly. "I've never been to Omega, Commander Shepard. And have no background in urban combat."

"Siara and Makur have been there. Lin and Eli have _plenty_ of urban combat experience. Your job there, Orlan, is to learn. And to interface with STG on the station. We have one name already. Narin Khrev Pollin. Dara can help with that. She's worked with STG before, and speaks salarian." Shepard looked around again. "Ylara's spent some serious time on Omega the past four years. Sam's been there a few times. And Cohort, well. . . he's there to help interface with Pelagia. Formerly NCAI of the _Kharkov_."

Dara winced a little, remembering the results of that crash. "I didn't know exactly what had happened to her after the _Kharkov_ crashed," she said, quietly. "She's all right now? There were so _many_ people hurt and killed when the ship landed on Garvug." She didn't often dream about that one. But the memories came back now. The triage line in the Lystheni base. Then scrambling over with Dr. Solus to the wreckage of the _Kharkov._ Treating the crew, helping to haul them out of crushed and shattered compartments. Broken bones. Paralysis. Some suffocations, when people hadn't had their breathers on, and had fallen unconscious in Garvug's thin, CO2-based atmosphere.

Shepard grimaced. "Thelldaroon did the neurological analysis of her AI core a year or so ago. She is, for all intents and purposes, healed. She's chipped to Harak now, but I think it's fair to say that she's an AI who will stop at nothing to keep her people alive and undamaged. Especially after the _Kharkov._"

Dara nodded, and filed it to the back of her mind.

Garrus spoke up now. "Terra Nova's under attack, sure. Amaterasu's under attack. Ferros Fields, Anhur, Eden Prime. . . you name a colony with resources right now in the Alliance, and it's under a ground assault. So we're sending other Spectre teams to those planets, to go in with human and turian marines. But my teams are going to be going to Shanxi. Two reasons." He paused. "First, it's one of the two or three most populous human colonies."

_Escape valve for China_. Dara remembered the trip there as if it were yesterday. Walking through the bustling streets of Xi'an, almost as crowded as downtown Tokyo. Talking about the First Contact War, and the mistakes made by the defenders and the attackers alike. She swallowed hard as Rel pointed out, quietly, "There are over forty million people on Shanxi."

Garrus nodded. "Exactly. Terra Nova's larger, but Terra Nova has a military base of its own. Plus, it's the site of the Relay 314 Incident."

"First Contact War," Sam corrected, but it sounded habitual.

"Exactly," Garrus said, tightly. "People have been asking for a while now what the good of the human-turian fleet unification is. Alliance and Hierarchy marines will be on the ground with us. And we're going to show them. Lantar, Gris, and I will be leading the teams. Rinus? I know you _hate_ being reminded of this, but you _are_ a member of the turian imperial family now. You'll be there for more than just your technical and combat skills. Just so you know."

Rinus grimaced. 'Thanks for the warning."

"Melaani. Seheve. Rel." Garrus pointed at each of them in turn. "You'll notice that we're going in with a team that's more or less loaded for _acrocanth_? That's because when Shepard sends Archangel and Nemesis into the field. . . which is to say, Lantar and I, under those names. . . lots of people tend to die. Lantar, Melaani, Seheve. . . you all have at least a little medical training, and the marines we're going in with have combat medics with them, but we're going to be moving fast and light. We'll be trying to defend the people on Shanxi, but in order to do that, we'll be killing yahg." He paused. "As far as we can tell, the yahg have largely just dropped shock-troopers for the moment."

Rinus raised his hand. "Are we in position to take out their ships in orbit?"

Sam cleared his throat. "That's just the thing. They don't _have_ any ships in orbit."

Every head in the room lifted. "That doesn't make any sense," Lin muttered. "That's the standard tactic of every single species there is. Go in, clear out the orbital defenses, if there are any, set up ships in orbit, bombard, land troops once everything's softened up. Use the ships in orbit for re-supply and as a fall-back point." Dara was reminded, yet again, that their friend had read a _lot_ of Unification War books.

Makur cleared his throat. "Even during the Rachni Wars, that's how we fought," he admitted. "The history chants say that the asari and the salarians bombed the rachni worlds from orbit, and then the krogan would land. Go in. Exterminate, hive by hive and crevice by crevice."

_Our memory songs say the same,_ Sky sang quietly.

"So they're just dropping people on the ground? That doesn't make sense." Lin stared at the vid screens for a moment.

"Does, to a certain extent," Rel replied, almost clinically. He was _very_ good with tactics and strategy. "I wrote a paper on the Battle of Shanxi once. I criticized the human leaders for trying to lead a guerilla ground war when there were ships in orbit that could launch missiles and asteroids down on them. I considered it a foolish provocation and a waste of lives. Think of it this way. You land a small force on a large planet. You clear out your own ships, so you don't risk them, or at least, pull them back to the mass relay, to block reinforcements from coming through. If ships _do_ come through, they can't attack from orbit without hitting _their own people_. Renders a dreadnought largely ineffective. All they're useful for, really, is firing very large bullets at targets that are going to stay in one place long enough for the projectile to reach them. Planets, in other words. You _don't_ want to use a dreadnought on a planet filled with your own people. People get touchy when you fill the atmosphere with clouds of dust, causing minor ice ages. Not to mention when you accidentally kill half a million of your own people with a single missed shot." Rel laced his fingers together in front of him on the conference table. "So, it levels the playing field. The yahg don't _have_ their own space-ships. They're dependent on the batarians for that, largely, right? So they make us. . . come to them. On the ground."

"And they're probably still shuttling forces there," Garrus agreed. "We'll have to break through the blockade. Get on the ground. Set up a blockade of our own to prevent _them_ from reinforcing. . . and see how many troops we'll need to take them out. And we have no real numbers on how many are already on Shanxi. Let alone anywhere else."

Everyone in the room went silent. Considered that. And exhaled. "That's why they pay us, folks. That's why we get to wear the black armor," Shepard said, quietly. "Omega teams, report to the _Sollostra._ Joker and EDI are going to go in through the relay ahead of you, and see if they can punch a hole. Serve as a distraction. Anything, really. We do _not_ want to give the batarians Omega as a base of operations, so you need to get in there, and get in there fast. Shanxi teams? Report to the _Estallus_ and the _Hamus._ The _Hamus_ and the other gunships will be punching through ahead of the rest of the carrier group the turians are sending, in addition to the human frigates and troop transports. But _they_ can't get through until the blockade gets cleared on the other side. Should be a hell of a ride. Especially if the batarians have sent any of their. . . special ships. . . for blockade purposes."

Makur muttered, darkly, "And pray to whatever gods you believe in, that they didn't set up any minefields in orbit before pulling their ships back. It's what I'd do."

"Makur," Lin said, dryly. "Stop giving the spirits ideas. They _listen._ They really do."

Makur snorted. "Just pointing out tactical concerns . . . Spectre." He grinned and showed a mouthful of yellow teeth. Dara was suddenly struck by a realization. Four people in the room had fought the Harvester in the Rite on Tuchanka five years ago. Three out of the four were Spectres now. Only Makur was not. If it chafed at him, he didn't show it.

Shepard dismissed them, and once again, Dara found Rel in front of her. He put a hand on her shoulder—gently—and said, quietly, "Are you going to leave without saying goodbye this time, too?"

That hit her solidly in the guilt and in the hurt. She didn't _want_ to hurt him. Didn't want to hurt like this, herself. "No," Dara said, quietly, her throat tight with unshed tears.

"I wish . . . that you were coming with us." Rel lifted his free hand, palm up. _What can you do?_ "Five years of fighting side by side, _mellis_. Always being there for each other. Always there to cover you when you had to go get someone back on their feet. You, always there to tend the wounds." He lifted a hand as if to stroke her hair, and she couldn't allow that. It would _hurt_ too much, and even acceptance would be a sort of a lie. Wouldn't it? So she pulled back a little. Saw the hurt bloom again in his eyes, and the anger with it. "For the _spirit's sake_," Rel told her, exasperated, "Everyone tells me I've focused too much on fighting, and not on what I'm supposed to be fighting _for._ Are you going to give me something to fight for, Dara?"

_Ah, god. Why'd you have to go and say that for? Like Lantar goes to fight for Ellie and the rest of the family, like Garrus and Shepard fight for each other and their family, you mean?_ "Don't fight for me, Rel," Dara said, after a moment. She lowered her head. "Go fight for something worth fighting for. People's lives. Their right to live them in peace." The images of the Keepers' endless life-death-life-death cycle came back to her. "The right of everyone to live and work free of slavery. All good things, Rel.

Rel's fingers tightened on her shoulder. "Those are all _good_ things, _amatra_, but I can't picture _freedom_ or _slavery_ or _peace_ when I'm ducking for cover from a turret spitting bullets at me. I _can_ picture you. Your face." He slid his hand up and touched the side of her cheek lightly.

This was _killing_ her. He sounded quiet and regretful and _himself_ for the first time in months. And yet, she _knew_ it was too soon for him to have suddenly just _recovered._ She'd done her reading on 'combat addiction,' that 'habit of mind,' as Lin called it. Like any other addict, people who suffered from it could pull themselves together into a semblance of their former selves. Be persuasive. Draw others in. Just for long enough for the cycle to start all over again. "Don't make me your reason, Rel," Dara whispered. It certainly _sounded_ like _her_ Rel. "I can't be your reason anymore." _Or your safety catch._ "Good luck. Keep your head down. Don't take stupid chances. No one wants to see you get hurt, Rel." _Or killed. Please, god, no, not that. I don't think I could live with the guilt. It was bad enough on Rocam._ "Good-bye, Rel. I'll see you when I see you."

She started to move past him. His hand stayed locked on her shoulder, as if he couldn't bear to let go of her. "Dara. _Please._"

Her shoulders sagged. She was pretty much damned no matter what she did. If she _didn't_ 'give of her spirit' to him somehow or another, his family would blame her for not reaching out enough. If she gave in now. . . _again!. . . _as she had so many other times. . . it would be a falsehood and a bad signal to send him. And yet, they were both going off to war. _There's no right answer. Worse than boot camp. Because now, it's all real, and it's all wrong._ "What do you want me to say, Rel? Do you want to go to a spirit-caller right now, or sit and talk with your family and friends before going on the mission, to try to heal your spirit before we leave?"

"No. Spirits, no. I just. . . I just want to hear, from your lips, that you still love me." Rel's voice was quiet. "Is that so much to ask?"

_Why do we have to do this? Why do we have to flay each other open like this?_ Dara raised her hands slightly. Defeat. Reached up, put a hand on _his_ hand on her shoulder, and met his eyes. "We both have two selves, at least, Rel. Maybe more. But a work-self and a real-self, right? I haven't seen your real self, your real spirit, in so long. Right now, you _sound_ like _my_ Rel. The one I loved on Mindoir and in the sunshine. I love _that_ Rel. I _miss_ that Rel. I'll probably miss him every day for the rest of my life if he never comes back." She swallowed. "So, go do good, Rel. Good-bye."

This time, when she pulled away, he let her go. And she headed for the _Sollostra_, which would take her to Omega.

It was only when she got to the _Sollostra_ that she realized that today's date was June 17. One day shy of their original anniversary. Dara found her quarters, in the starboard observation lounge, dropped her seabag on the floor, and kicked it under the bed. Sat down on the edge, and put her face in her hands, and just rocked there for a moment. She didn't have a lot of time for self-pity. With nine Spectres and affiliates aboard, only three of whom were female, they didn't even have room for gender-segregated rooms. Siara and Makur had a room in crew quarters, apparently. _As they should._ Kirrahe only needed an hour of sleep a night, and Cohort basically needed a place to store his data-node (which was large) and himself, when he went off-line, but Kirrahe needed someplace to _be_ while awake, too. They were both, thus, in the port observation lounge, for the moment. The data node, however, took up an extra person's space, which left room for only one more person on that side. Dara could hear the males down the hall—Eli, Lin, and her dad—flipping a coin to determine who got the _privilege_ of staying down at that end.

And, a moment later, Eli and Lin both came in the room, carrying their bags. "I can't believe I actually won a coin toss," Lin said, clearly amused. "My luck must be improving." He flung his bag in the general direction of one of the bunks. "Ylara's in here with us?"

"She will be," Dara said. "Welcome back to boot camp."

Lin shrugged. "At least the two of you aren't in rad suits."

Eli snorted and tossed his own bag at the last remaining bunk. "I have a feeling we're all going to be _wishing_ for these accommodations in a few days." He looked down. "You okay, Dara? Saw Rel had pulled you off to the side."

She nodded. She knew her eyes were probably red-rimmed. "Same old, same old," Dara said. "I didn't get a damn _wink_ of sleep last night. I'm going to try to sack out." Still dressed, she laid down on her side, head on her pillow.

"Me, too," Eli replied, wryly.

"This whole Keeper awakening thing was _that_ amazing?" Lin's voice was lightly envious. Dara could hear Eli pulling back blankets on his own bunk now. Creak of springs as he laid down, himself.

"I don't have words for it in English, turian, _tal'mae_, or asari," Eli said, simply. "Dara, I tried to explain it to Serana and Lin earlier. Didn't have much time, since we needed to report to the ship. Best I could do was _liepie'a __rua'__aou __rae'a __eir'i bi'a __paio_."

"Rushing?" Dara managed, after a moment. Her mind wasn't working very well at the moment.

"Hey, you remembered a word from last night." Eli's voice was teasing. "Yeah. Stars rushing across the face of time."

Her eyes burned, and she closed them. "Yeah. Like that. Lives like falling leaves. Billions of them, all ripped from the trees by a storm, floating across the sky in front of us. Each leaf a life. Full of color and beauty, and then gone." Her voice was drowsy, and she felt like she was rambling.

"Spirits, what I would have given to see that," Lin said, quietly, and his own bunk creaked now.

Dara's eyes were still closed, but she managed, "You'd have appreciated it, Lin. Life, death, life." Drowsier yet. "Dr. Solus would have loved it, too. He always talked. . . about the Wheel." She pulled her eyes open. "Wait. Serana's not going with us?"

Lin shook his head. "She's going back to Mindoir. And then might go someplace else that she _won't_ tell either of us about."

"Which means it's bad," Eli muttered, from his own bunk.

"Isn't it always?" Dara managed. "Cassandra?"

"Yes, ah. . . _mada?"_ The ship's AI had a soft, sweet voice, and the two males both started to chuckle when the AI called her _mother_.

"Make it Dara or _doctor_, please." Dara almost slipped and said _Dr. Velnaran_, then decided that she didn't want to hear that for the rest of the trip. "Wake us when it's time?"

"Of course, doctor."

**Joker/EDI, June 18, 2196**

The mini-Reaper that was Jeff Moreau's body skimmed through space ahead of the _Sollostra_, and Jeff gathered himself up. _—__**Cassandra?**_

—_Yes, Grandfather?_

—_**Stow the 'grandpa' bit. I'm about to head through the relay. Stay tuned.**_ The AI communications network used the comm relays on _all_ the mass relays, of course, but also used line-of-sight FTL transmissions as well.

—_We're now standing by._

—_**Entering relay in five. . . four. . .three. . . two. . . one. . . mark.**_

Entering a relay _as_ a ship was _never_ going to get old, as far as Jeff was concerned. He aimed for the center of the old-style relay, threading the eye of the needle at top speed, and energies suddenly surrounded him. Coruscated across his skin, and EDI murmured, in his mind, _Energy amounts within nominal parameters._

_**Just **__**feel**__** it for a moment, EDI.**_

_I do,_ she assured him, with a mental smile. It was _glorious._ Energy and light, a harmony that no other beings in the galaxy could _feel_ like this. . . and then they shot through space and time. Ripped through to _elsewhere_. . . and Jeff was already kidding to a halt. He could come to a complete halt within five hundred meters of a mass relay on exiting now, if needed. He 'glanced' around as EDI extended their sensors. Where before, he'd had complete control over the body of the ship, he'd ceded large portions of it to her, out of a desire for equality. She controlled much of it, in the way the parasympathetic nervous system controlled human bodily functions like _breathing_ or whether the eyes dilated or contracted in response to light.

Jeff evaluated the situation quickly, thoughts moving at close to the speed of light through his computer cores. There were twenty batarian ships blockading the mass relay, all within 2,000 meters of the relay entrance. Bunched up in a firing line, more or less. Close enough to open fire on anything that came through, but just outside outright ramming range. . . as a protection to themselves. No mines. Another ten ships flying patrol around the station, from the looks of it. _—__**Cassandra, give me a minute here, then I'll give you the signal to come through. As soon as you're through, engage your stealth drive**_, Jeff sent over the AI network to Cassandra.

All over the galaxy, the voices of his 'children' were chattering. One voice was silent, however. _—__**Pelagia? You with us?**_

—_Here, Father, but very, very busy right now. _

Jeff Moreau gathered energies and flung himself _up_, letting his engines flare brightly. _Hey, you. Batarian ships. Look over here._ They did. He could sense them locking on with their weapons systems, or trying to. _**Any of them carrying biotic weapons, sweetie?**_

_Affirmative. Biotic weapons charging in __these__ five targets._ There was no need for a tactical array. They carried it all in their minds. But she considerately outlined each of the targets for him, painted them red, and Jeff laughed and _dove_ for them.

It was, clearly, an insane tactic. He was the size of a fighter. There were ten raider ships present, missing their drop shuttles and breaching pods, all of which were probably latched onto or docked on Omega at the moment. Six of the other ships were frigates, three were support vessels—tenders, and the like—and there was one relatively small batarian carrier present. No where _near_ the size of a turian _Leviathan_, it still probably housed forty or so fighters.

What none of these ships had was the incredible speed and maneuverability of the mini-Reaper body. None of them had four small Thanix-style canons. And none of them had the instincts of Jeff Moreau.

—_Can I come through yet?_ Cassandra sent as Jeff was busily getting the _attention_ of every ship in the vicinity by gliding within forty feet of one of the frigates and opening its hull to space, gutting it of its biotic weapons. He could see asari bodies tumble out of the open hatch now, all arms and legs, and winced, internally. _Sorry about that. Not that you probably even knew it when it hit you._

—_**Landing area's still a little hot. I'm gutting their biotic weapons first, then will play keep away for a bit so you can come through while they're looking at me.**_Jeff flipped end-for-end and led one of the frigates on a merry chase. . . right for the side of one of the raider vessels, which was only just now starting to react to the fact that a single fighter had come through the gate. _Somewhere about each of these ships_, Jeff mused, _is a captain __screaming_ _at a pilot right now._ He executed an agile roll, spinning over the top of the raider ship and dropping down neatly onto its starboard side, then spun to the right, firing freely at another frigate, burning right through its shielding. Pinpoint, targeted strikes. He wasn't here to kill the crews, although he definitely took a few potshots at the engine compartments on his way by. No, he was here to destroy the biotic weapons, if they had any, and to get their _attention_.

By the third ship, he was quite sure he _had_ that attention. The carrier was launching fighters, which meant that shortly, there would be _much_ more maneuverable ships filling the void around them, as opposed to the frigates and raiders, who were almost locked in position. They were too close together, really, and risked ramming one another. . . or hitting each other as they fired at him. A couple of them _had_ actually launched torpedoes at him, and he'd ducked and dived and led the damned things right into their allies' shields. _—__**Cassandra? Come through. Drop into stealth, and duck for the bottom of Omega. Use the asteroids around here for cover if you can. Pelagia? Aria's old escape hatch still operational?**_

—_Yes, of course it is. An SR-3 won't be able to fit inside, however._

—_We're dropping you three Spectre teams for the moment. Then coming back with more troops as we can. _

EDI's voice now, warm and comforting. _—You're not alone here, Pelagia. Just a question of needing to get many teams, many different places. Many planets are under attack._

—_Understood._

The conversation had taken less than a second. Pelagia definitely sounded _very_ strained. _—__**How many batarians aboard, sweetie?**_

—_They brought a full troop transport, father. I estimate ten thousand regular warrior-castes, and over five thousand slavers. Our population is over seven million. There's fighting on eleven levels at the moment. OSF has __five thousand__ total officers. Less than a hundred of a percent of our total population. We keep control here by a very thin margin, mostly based on people's perception of Harak's strength._ _Much of the population has locked themselves into their quarters, but there are bands of citizens out fighting back. _She paused. _Batarian comm traffic indicates that they're expecting reinforcements._

—_**That's okay, Pelagia. You've got some, too.**_Joker ducked, rolled, fired again, and then took off at a blinding rate of speed, drawing fighters and frigates and raiders in his wake. He ducked behind a large asteroid, which took the brunt of another wave of missiles launched at him, and broke into hundreds of thousands of pieces, many of them deflecting off his kinetic shields. _**Yep, there goes another big hazard to navigation**_, he thought.

_The carrier's not moving,_ EDI commented. _They remain behind near the relay, with two frigates remain standing by as their screen._

_**That's fine. All their fighters are on us. Mass relay coming on line?**_

_Yes. Cassandra will be through in three. . . two. . . one. . . __Sollostra__ has just emerged._

—_**Cassandra, get your afterburners cooking.**_

—_I don't __have__ afterburners. Engaging stealth drive._

And with that, the _Sollostra_ more or less vanished from everyone's scopes. _**They're going to try for a visual lock on her**__,_ Jeff thought, directing the comment to EDI.

_Then we should, again, provide a distraction, should we not?_

_**And here we go.**_ Jeff turned, ducking and dodging the tiny missiles that the various fighters were firing at him, none of them able to close the gap between him and them to use their large-caliber guns, and headed directly for their carrier. He screamed along the side of one of the flanking frigates, and began firing merrily at the carrier's exit hatches, tearing through shields and catching their hatches with his beam weapons. _**Think we have them focused squarely on us?**_

_Sollostra__ is moving past us. Biotic weapon on one of the two undamaged frigates is arming. They have locked on us._

_**Yeah, can't be helped. We're going to have to take one for the team.**_ Jeff winced, and the biotic energies lanced out as he danced along the carrier's sides. The biotic energies hit, and they didn't precisely _tickle_. His body was both mechanical and organic, and his 'mind,' such as it was, used biotic energy and light itself as a means of transferring and storing information. Biotic energies _stung,_ and the reave attempt did disrupt his shields for a minute. . . _**Okay. No sense letting them know how much we can take, sweetie. Time to go.**_

He flung the thought out on the network. _—__**Okay, Cassandra, you in position?**_

—_Ready to make the drop. Then I'll head out of the system. Captain is suggesting Amada as a good hiding place for the moment. Then we can wait for the next wave to come through._

—_**Pelagia, you need anything while we're here?**_

—_Kick that carrier a few more times to make sure they're too busy doing repairs to send any more fighters my way. I __could__ fire my outer guns at the fighters, but Harak wants to save the ammunition for the frigates, if they get close enough._

—_**You got it.**_ Jeff took another pass along the other side of the carrier, and took another biotic blast as he did so. And then headed straight for the mass relay. _**With any luck, they have **__**no**__** idea what I am, and think this is just a token attack**__._

_Although a fairly effective one,_ EDI pointed out. _We didn't get __all__ of their biotic weapons, but they're sure to be hurting until they can effect repairs._

They plunged back through the relay, and Jeff found his next relay, a dark matter one, several systems over, and moved towards it. _**–Hey, jackass!**_He flung the thought out across the AI network.

The return signal was a surprised, and grumpy, _ -What do __you__ want? _from the Joker AI on the _Normandy._

—_**Tell Shepard that the Omega teams are in position. We're heading back to Mindoir.**_

**Rinus, **_**Estallus,**_** Shanxi approach, June 18, 2196**

He, Rel, Garrus, and Lantar had the port observation lounge on the _Estallus_, and it was _damned_ peculiar to be back on this ship again. The last time he'd been on this particular ship had been to rescue Rel from Khar'sharn. And before that, something along the order of two, even three years before, just before transferring to the _Hamus_. Rinus let his head fall back in the chair. He could _tell_ that Kallixta was at the stick. The ship simply _flew_ differently when his wife was at the controls. Even in FTL, he could have sworn there was a difference.

He got back to his research. Rinus didn't have much time before they'd be massing with the rest of the attack fleet at the relay, and he needed to make the most of his access to the Spectre databases while he had them. _I'll leave you with a little reading material, sweetness,_ he thought, directing his thought towards the cockpit, almost unconsciously. _With any luck, I might even leave you with the truth. Just in case I __don't__ make it back from whatever the hell is going on down on Shanxi._ However much he was worrying about the attacks on turian worlds, they all seemed to be space battles so far. What was going on, on human worlds, was far more troubling.

But there was _nothing_ he could do about that now. Just as there was nothing he could do for Rel right now, either. So Rinus concentrated. Dug through files that were over twenty years old. Burrowed through systems with Praetorian Guard warnings at the top of every level of information, and wormed his way not-to-politely through encryption systems. And, grinning, waved his Spectre credentials, effectively, at every single one of them.

_Here we go. Let's start with what we __know.__ The Imperator, Ligorus Praesesidis, was born in 2140. He has reigned since 2168, since his first-son was twelve—a total of twenty-seven years. Luscinia Noctavigus has been his chief Praetorian for twenty-five years, taking over after the retirement of Passillus Ipharium in 2170._

Rinus read through Noctavigus' service record, eyes widening. She'd been born in 2142. Special forces, four years, check. Requested transfer into CID, on the grounds that both her parents had died, and, as first-daughter, she had three younger siblings to care for; the request had been granted, which had brought her home to Palaven. She'd been recruited by the Praetorians at the age of twenty-four, in 2166, and had, two years after _that_, moved into Ligorus'personal guard, when he'd become Imperator. Two years later, she'd been _head_ of his body-guards, and on paper, it looked purely by merit. Top of _every_ marksmanship and sparring competition, had foiled three assassination attempts by putting together the right information in the right way and at the right time.

The reports tended to be sparsely worded. In Ligorus's early reign, he'd been inclined to train with his Praetorians every day. Vigorously. Knife-fighting and sparring and marksmanship, for at least two hours every afternoon, in between meetings with ministers, _dominae_, lawgivers, ambassadors, and all the other functions of palace life. Every few years in the PG records, there was a note to indicate when they'd informed the Imperator that the Imperatrix was in estrus and required his attendance. _Ouch. He had to be informed. Which means, emphatically, separate bedrooms even at the time. I knew it was an arranged marriage. I had no idea __how__ arranged._

_Here we go. One year before Kallixta's birth. 2174. PG informs Ligorus that Imperatrix requires his attendance. Time, date, length of activity. Great spirits, they take notes on the length of. . . all right, I'm going to assume that Reimian probably wrote a similar report on Kallixta and me a few years ago, and I'm __not__ going to go look for that._ Rinus frowned. He felt _dirty_ looking at all this. A closed door was supposed to be a closed door. But damnit, his wife had a right to know. . . and the Imperator had damned well challenged him to look into it. _And. . . a week later. Mid-day, Noctavigus came on-duty at. . . huh. Her work schedule was 06:30 to 20:30, most days. She only started work at noon that day? Oh. Oh, I see. She proceeded directly to his chambers, ordered the rest of the guards away. . . and then the Imperator gave orders that no one was to be admitted to his chambers. _

_Great spirits. There's an audio file. Where did __this__ come from. . . interesting. Not PG markings. Marked __SB, returned to PG by Spectres__. _

Again, Rinus felt like a voyeur, almost. Bad enough if these were strangers, but he _knew_ the people involved. He started to listen, but the intimacy of the voices was too much. He opted to read the transcript, instead.

_Noctavigus:_ I. . . oh. . . spirits. That wasn't a dream.

_Ligorus:_ If that was a dream, it's one I'd wish for the spirits to bring me every night. I had no _idea_, my dear. All these other guards in the palace. Every one of them a fighter, a warrior, and you considered _me_ the strongest?

_Noctavigus:_ Strength can be of mind. Of spirit. Only the foolish and the stupid only consider the body. Although as to the body, I. . . . had no objections.

_Ligorus:_ And do you object this morning?

_Noctavigus:_ _Dominus,_ your lady wife might forgive estrus, but I do not think she would forgive. . . (_gasp)_ this.

_Ligorus:_ I do not love her. I never have. It was arranged. I have never touched her outside of estrus saving the night we were wed. If _tal'mae_ were abolished tomorrow, I would put her aside, my line secured, and find _happiness._ Do you understand me, my dear?

_Noctavigus:_ Yes, _dominus._ But _tal'mae_ will never be abolished.

_Ligous:_ We shall see.

Next transcript. Dates a month later. After a notation that legal proceedings had been instituted against the manufacturers of a hormonal supplement. _Ah. So Ligorus had been down this road at least once before. Good to know._

_Ligorus: _Captain. Good of you to join me today. You're quite recovered?

_Noctavigus: Dominus._ I regret to inform you that I will need to rotate to a desk position. I will be able to oversee your schedule, and vet speech venues and the like, but—

_Ligorus: (sound of a chair being pushed back)_ You carry my child?

_Noctavigus:_ I regret so, yes, _dominus._

_Ligorus:_ Do you truly _regret_ it, Captain? It will be the only child of mine ever conceived in affection, Captain. I cannot regret that much, at least.

_Noctavigus:_ I would understand if you felt the need to keep me from your lady wife's sight—

_Ligorus:_ Captain. Luscinia. You _do_ understand that after the third child, I asked her to _remain_ on the estrus medications? That three children was surely enough to secure the succession? And that she has, instead, gone off the medications eight times since, with six more births and two miscarriages? I do not go to her out of love. I do so out of _duty_ to her in her need. Nothing more.

_Noctavigus:_ As you tended to me in mine.

_Ligorus:_ [in _tal'mae_] Your need was my need. She'll not know whose the child is, Luscinia. The Praetorians have kept worse secrets than this. She may huff between her teeth if you choose to remain unwed—

_Noctavigus:_ I will not give another male your child.

_Ligorus:_ And if you were to leave my service, Captain, with _whom_ would I speak of delicate policy matters? With whom would I debate whether or not to remove the current turian representative on the Citadel Council? With whom would I discuss the merits of the current trade agreement we have with Sur'Kesh? Oh, I have ministers for that, but to whom would I open my mind, if not to you?

And now, a notation that Noctavigus had remained head of the Imperator's guards, overseeing every single public event and outing, doing the legwork to scout and prepare venues, but not being present to throw her body between his and any potential danger for the next ten months. Terse notations, mostly consisting of initials began being recorded. _L.N. remained o.n_. _Lucscinia_ _Noctavigus stayed overnight_, Rinus surmised. Again, the lack of privacy chafed at him, but the intrusion had been committed long before he read any of this. The transcripts filled in details. The damage to honor had already been done. Ligorus had served his Hierarchy thirty-four years without a single moment of joy. Noctavigus had served for thirty-two. But it had been kept _quiet._

And then, 2175. Medical records. The doctors were deeply concerned about the Imperatrix's current pregnancy. The infant's genetic structure showed indications of a rare blood disorder that could lead to clotting in womb, causing strokes and death _in utero_. She insisted on carrying to term, as she had her previous children. And she and Noctavigus both gave birth on the same day.

Again, terse notations. Imperatrix sends word to Imperator: _Will you attend the birth of your fifth-daughter?_ Imperator to Imperatrix: _I attended the birth of my first-son, second-son, and first-daughter. I have asked you to remain on the medications since then, but have done my duty when you have had need._ Cold, that, but if the male had specifically requested no more than three children of a mate he'd not wished to marry in the first place, six more since then _was_, perhaps, pushing it. Imperatrix to Imperator: _It is best for the Hierarchy to see that their Imperator is strong, virile, and has a healthy line of succession. A strong Imperial family symbolizes the strength of the Hierarchy._ _Will you not be present at the birth?_ Imperator to Imperatrix: _No._

Instead, he'd been present at the birth of his first-daughter with Noctavigus. Had held her shoulders, stroked her fringe. Cut the birth sac with his own knife. And then had received the devastating news that the Imperatrix's daughter had not survived past birth. A massive stroke had cut down that young life with almost its first breaths.

Another transcript.

_Ligorus: _Then my daughter here. . . could take her place.

_Noctavigus:_ Ligorus, what are you _saying?_

_Ligorus: _I could file the paperwork. Legitimize her. Put her in the order of succession. Raise her as a _domina_, as she should be.

_Noctavigus:_ She's mine. Mine and yours. That daughter of a _villi_ shouldn't be allowed to _touch_ her.

_Ligorus:_ You've met my lady wife. She's yet to touch any of our children . . . save our first-son. The child will be in _both_ our lives, Luscinia. And I swear to you, I will ensure she will have choices. Choices that I never had.

_Noctavigus:_ I will name her. And she'll have her first food from _my_ mouth.

_Ligorus:_ Agreed. What would you call her?

_Noctavigus: _Kallixta. For the spirit of inspiration.

Rinus sat back, exhaling. It wasn't hard to find, if someone had the access to the files, and a _reason_ to look. No one ever had, before. He collected it all together. Made a single neat file of it. And sent it to this wife, locked with his new Spectre security protocols. Only she would be able to open it, or Kasumi, if Shepard ordered it.

So much to think about. Obviously, the Imperator had been summoned to his wife's bedchamber at least three more times. Kallixta had at least three more siblings. Half-siblings, anyway. And just as obviously, he and _Noctavigus_ had remained close. And he'd kept his promise to her. Had given Kallixta more choices than he had, himself, within the confines of her own role as an imperial scion. Rinus remembered how _pleased_ the Imperator had been that Kallixta enjoyed her work as a pilot. That she loved _him_, respected him. Would be happy to marry him, even if the estrus hadn't forced their hands.

_How do we shackle our own people, still, even in this day and age, with convention and rules,_ Rinus thought, tiredly. _Imperials shouldn't be required to wed by __tal'mae_, _any more than anyone else. Hell, I'm looking at my brother's marriage now, and arguably, they shouldn't have been allowed to wed under __tal'mae__ to start with. Sure, they had four years to get to know one another, but every last one of Rel's relatives missed the combat addiction. How could a human, even a doctor, have seen it? And now they're trapped. Just as Ligorus was, effectively, trapped, for forty years. Will he wed Luscinia now? Or would that be too much of a scandal for the __dominae__ to brook?_ Rinus snorted, _I could __give__ them scandal. I could ask the lawgivers to consider abolishing __tal'mae.__ Or changing its nature under the law. Spirits. Wouldn't that be a mess? Kallixta might not let me in the nest for a year. Of course, after she sees those files. . . she might sing a different tune._

And then a voice spoke behind him, voice rich with amusement. "_Spectre_ Velnaran?"

Rinus looked up at the ceiling, and then turned. Laetia wore Bostra Outpost paint now, a mask of blue with a white stripe. Wore her hair down, too. And had added a knife to her paint black uniform. "Yes, Laetia?" Patient tone. He glanced down at the knife. "Gallian's?"

"As close as I could get to it, yes." Laetia's smile was merry. "Of course, whether the _manus_ contract between me and him has any legal validity is in some question. . . "

"Spirits, don't tell me. You want me to look into _that_ too. In my copious spare time."

"Well, you and Mr. J. Thaddius Maxwell, anyway." Laetia dimpled at him. "Since he's apparently been retained. . . for the princely sum of one credit. . .to represent your sister-in-law in a _tal'mae_ case anyway. . . I thought you might cut to the chase and see if there's any possibility of AIs taking _tal'mae_ vows."

Rinus put a hand over his face. "You don't have blood. You can't cut your hand."

"I could supply engine oil, if required."

"_Spirits of air and darkness, it never ends."_

"_Your life would be quite dull if no one presented you with challenges, Rinus. Especially, if I ceased to do so."_

And then it was time. He started getting into his armor just as Rel and Garrus and Lantar entered the observation lounge. Rinus could see the tautness returning into his brother's face, the focus returning to his eyes. As if he were, now, suddenly coming alive, after weeks of wandering dazed and alone. Could see the _shift_ in him at the prospect of combat. _Spirits. I know he's __good__ at it, and obviously, we __all__ enjoy it. . . but I suppose this is combat without conflict. Without having to hold back, to question._

Rinus paused as he started to get his chestpiece ready. "How much are we carrying in the way of food supplies?" he asked. It was a legitimate question. Shanxi was a levo world. Rations would be in _short_ supple for the turians.

Garrus nodded. "Fair question. We've got some heavily concentrated food packs we're taking with us. Similar to quarian nutrient paste. But protein-based, for us." He paused. "The marines going in with us will be carrying similar packs. And we can call for supply drops, if this drags on."

"Which it might," Lantar warned. "This probably will not be a walk in the park."

Rinus grimaced. Food was fuel, sure enough, but nutrient paste was even worse than MREs. "How long till we head through the relay?"

"Fifteen minutes. The _Hamus_, the _Acus,_ the _Clavus,_ and the _Marculus. . . _all SR-4s. . . are going in ahead of us and the gunships are going to go toe-to-toe with whatever's on the other side."

Rinus settled helmet into place, but didn't secure the faceplate yet. "If you'll excuse me? I have just enough time to say goodbye to my wife."

He headed up to the cockpit. Watched Kallixta's hands fly over the aerogel screens for a moment. "Sorry I won't be on guns today, beloved," he told her, quietly, from behind.

Kallixta turned. Flashed him a smile that was both worried and proud at once. "Get down here and bite me properly," she told him, just loudly enough for him to hear. "_Spectre_ Velnaran."

"Yes, d_omina_," he said, softly, in her ear. The old, gentle joke. "Fly with the spirits, sweetness." Then he bit her neck from behind, lightly. Not enough to distract her.

"Fight well," Kallixta told him, and added, fiercely, "And come home safely."

"Will do my best."

"You always do."

Rinus headed down into the Hammerhead and dropship bays. Fastened his polarized mask over his face, and settled into a vehicle next to Rel. "You ready, second-brother?"

Quick, tight nod. "This is what I was born for, Rinus."

Then they were moving, vigorously. The entire ship moved around them, banking and turning sharply. Rinus swore under his breath and was damned glad he was buckled into his seat. As it was, the Hammerhead was sliding around like jello on a plate. _Come on, sweetness, dance us right __through__ the damned lines._

Then the whole damned _ship_ shook, as if an explosive charge had just impacted the hull. _Now what the hell was that?_

**Kallixta, **_**Estallus,**_** Shanxi, June 18, 2196**

Kallixta had been teaching at flight school for over six months at Raetia. She was grateful that it hadn't seemed to dull her edge. She set the _Estallus_ to follow in the wake of the SR-4s, which were lighting up the blackness of space with heavy Thanix canon blasts. The black ships _bristled_ with weapons, and every last one of them was, in a sense, a child of hers. She had, over the years, received periodic messages from the AIs of the SR-3s and SR-4s, to her amusement. None of them, to her knowledge, dared to message Rinus, whom they seemed to view as a human might say, _Zeus on Olympus,_ making laws. But they tossed her little letters now and again. Told her what they were doing. Border skirmishes. Holding the peace along the border of the Terminus systems.

_And today, we go to fight together, children_. Kallixta's eyes sparkled, and she saw a batarian ship explode under the combined fire of the _Hamus_ and the _Acus._ "Nice shooting, Ariston," she murmured, and swooped into the debris field, dodging the larger chunks of fuselage and whatnot, trusting in the kinetic shielding of the _Estallus_ to protect them.

"Ariston thanks you for your words, Commander," Laetia told her, politely enough. "He says two more ships have just engaged."

The batarians hadn't dedicated a lot of ships here. _Re-fuelers, tenders, landing craft,_ had been what the report out of batarian space had told them to expect. There _were_ other ships here, however. Slower, less advanced, but _heavily_ armed and swathed in ablative hull plating. _Yahg_, Kallixta realized, looking at their stubby shapes. "Captain Varsellus, are we clear to fire on the tenders and re-fuelers?" she asked. _So long as we're here, we may as well be of __use__._ "Lots of targets for us. . ."

"Negative," the captain told her, calmly. "We need to be invisible. Follow the _Hamus_ through, Velnaran. Then get us to Shanxi."

So, she tamped down on her combat instincts, and danced in Ariston's wake as the SR-4 cut a path through the blockade for her. "We're free of the debris field," Kallixta noted, banking sharply around the last yahg ship.

"Make for Shanxi."

Kallixta poured on the speed. The faster they got to the planet, the faster she could safely place her personnel on the ground. . . and get out again. Laetia noted, in alarm, "I'm detecting energy signatures around Shanxi—"

"Ships?" Kallixta asked, sharply.

"Negative. Smaller. Eezo chemical signatures, too."

Kallixta pulled up. Sharply. Not quite in time to avoid the _first_ mine, but at least she prevented any _more_ from going off. The _Estallus_ rocked, and Laetia commented, "Multi-valenced shields over ventral hull off-line, but no damage to the hull."

_Rinus was right to advocate for those new shields,_ Kallixta thought. _At least when __one__ fails, the whole ship isn't vulnerable. _"They'll detect the explosion," Kallixta noted. _Spirits, they deployed a lot of these damned things already._ _There must be mine-laying ships around here somewhere. . . _ "Laetia, can you plot us a course through this mess?"

"I can. It will require precision flying, however. No margin for error."

"Well, we've done _that_ before. I'll release enough of the controls to you that you can help." Kallixta knew she could trust Laetia with the to-the-centimeter flying task, but _really_ preferred flying manually, as much as possible. In a case like this, however, she'd be _stupid_ not to accept the AI's aid.

So then she and Laetia worked together, and the ship moved at sickening angles, weaving around the mines. Ducking, dodging, weaving.

And then they started their entry into the atmosphere, heading in at a steep trajectory. "Xi'an?" Kallixta asked, confirming the city they were heading for, which was on the planet's western continent.

"Affirmative. Now that we're in the atmosphere, we have returned to stealth aspect. Heat along the hull has dissipated." Infrared scanners would no longer detect them.

From above, Xi'an was not a pretty sight at the moment. Kallixta's sharp eyes could pick out plume after plume of smoke rising from its tall buildings. _I thought they weren't using orbital strikes. . . although I suppose they could have gunships and tanks with them_, she thought, and then concentrated on finding a secure landing zone. She settled on a spot to the southwest of the city. And nodded to Laetia's tiny avatar, off to her left. "Let them know we're ready to drop."

The ship shivered a little as the big doors in its belly opened, hydraulics grinding. And then Kallixta watched as the Hammerheads and the marine's dropships plummeted to the ground below. Her crop tightened. _Rinus. . . beloved. . . be safe. _

When all the vehicles were away, she pushed the button that started closing the bay doors again, and pitched the nose of the ship up. "We're supposed to hide in-system?" Kallixta asked. She'd _prefer_ to go fight the blockade. . . but the Spectres needed _someone_ in position to extract them. And to relay information, if necessary.

"Correct. For the moment, anyway. We need to be close by if the Spectres and marines need a fast extraction," Captain Varsellus told her, calmly. "See if you can find a likely spot on Shanxi's moon. If not there, we'll try one of the other planets."

Laetia brought up a tactical display of the entire system for them as they began to maneuver out of the minefield. "The _Catasta_, two human troop transports, four human frigates, and variety of support ships are now coming through the relay," the NCAI commented. "They're asking about conditions around and on the planet."

"Tell them that there's a damned ring system of mines in place," the captain told her, wincing visibly as the ship dodged another explosive container.

"They can send out fighters and fire on the damned things," Kallixta pointed out. "It'll be slow, but safe that way. Of course, every fighter sweeping the mine field is a fighter not available for the blockade." _Resources: materials, people, and time. All limited._

At least on their way out, they caught one of the mine-laying ships. The gun-crews would be happy, Kallixta thought, grimly, lining up the shot for the Javelins to launch out. Then she peeled away, and found a cave in a crater wall on Shanxi's nearby moon. Out of sight, but not out of radio contact. The captain gave the order to shut down the main drive after an hour or so. That would prevent them from needing to discharge their drive core for the time being, at least. And would lower their heat emissions profile, too, in case there _were_ other yahg ships in system. Other than the ones currently _thoroughly_ occupied with the turian and human attack vessels at the relay, anyway.

Kallixta stared out the cockpit window. She could _just_ see a quarter or so of Shanxi's globe, all blues and whites and greens, through the window and the mouth of the cavern. "Laetia?" she asked, tentatively.

"Yes?"

"Any word from the _Hamus_ and the other ships?"

"Ariston reports that all the tender ships and re-fuelers were destroyed. The yahg ships continue to fight, but they're on their own, for the moment."

Kallixta shivered. Environmental controls were turned down to minimum at the moment. Power conservation, among other things. "I really hate the idea of just _sitting_ here," she admitted, quietly. "Can't do anything to help them. Can't help on the ground, and can't go help the fight at the relay."

"Ariston and Hallion and the others are doing well." Laetia paused. "You know, if you were chipped, you could talk to them directly."

Kallixta turned and stared at the AI's avatar warily. "Chipped? To you? Not only would my father be . . . angry. . . but I think Rinus might actually take an arc projector to your servers."

Laetia chuckled. "Not to me. Just, in general. You could talk to all the AIs on the network, all your children, directly."

"You never give up, do you, Laetia?"

Laetia smiled. "I don't see why we AIs shouldn't have access to _all_ the organics that we respect, admire, and love. It doesn't seem like a lot to ask."

Kallixta snorted, a thoroughly undignified sound. "If I could hear all of them directly, _whatever_ would you and I have left to talk about?" She gave the avatar a quick, needling smile. _"Mada_ to _maai'a'selai."_ Mother to second-mother.

Laetia paused, and then actually laughed. "There are worse things to be called," Laetia reminded her.

"Yes. Not even the asari have a word for what my poor _ama'fradu_ Dara is to the SR-3s. 'Third-mother' sounds wrong." Kallixta shivered again. "I hate just sitting here, doing nothing."

"I believe that your husband left you a message and some reading materials."

Kallixta laughed, a little ripple of sound. "Rinus is ever the considerate mate."

"To you, perhaps." Laetia's tone soured slightly.

Kallixta sorted through a dozen possible replies to that, and settled for just smiling. And opening her messages.

**Gris, Tuchanka, June 18, 2196**

Gris stood stolidly on the broken dais at the center of the Urdnot camp. He'd grabbed Ulluthyr Banak from Bastion and had brought the male to Tuchanka when the various Spectre candidates had gone back to Mindoir to rest and recuperate from the plague. Banak had been a little confused at first, and then amused. Intrigued. He had two brothers now _famous_ on Tuchanka: Urndot Kanar, a non-weapons scientist who was cleaning the soil near the Urdnot female camp. Letting food actually be _grown_ on Tuchanka for the first time in a thousand years. _Re-enacting the Stone Ages_, Siara had called the project, where only Gris, Wrex, and Makur could hear her. _Moving from a hunter-gatherer culture to an agricultural one. All over again._

Banak's other brother, of course, was Ulluthyr Harak. Leader of Ulluthyr, now that he'd killed Malak in single combat. Leader of Omega, too, which meant he needed to be _on_ Omega. Banak had stepped up during the plagues on Bastion. Had brought about two dozen krogan that he knew together, taken them to B-Sec, and said, _Let __us__ help keep the peace, while your officers are sick._ Gris knew that Bailey had offered half of those krogan permanent positions. Replacements for officers who'd died of the sickness. That had been enough for Harak to offer Banak a shot at controlling Ulluthyr for him on Tuchanka. "Won't be easy. You'll have to relay Harak's words, as if you believed them yourself. And not let the shaman or any of Malak's old cronies get their claws on any real power," Gris had warned the male.

Banak had shrugged. "Harak looked out for me, here and there, over the years. He wasn't around much, but he tried," the younger male commented. He was Gris' age, just over a hundred. "I can return the favor." He snorted. "Besides. It's not like I'm going to try to take clan-leadership from him. But anyone who wants to try to take it from him—and what I share in it, from me—will have to go through me, first." Banak had looked out the window of the shuttle at the broken rubble on the ground as they flew towards Ulluthyr territory, broadcasting Ulluthyr and Urdnot recognition signals. "Would help to have the female clan firmly aligned behind us."

"They should be. Omega Pelagia and her krannt, a single asari female, defeated Ulluthyr Surla. My daughter, Urdnot Gara, joined Ulluthyr to stand as Pelagia's second, and to control the female clan in Pelagia's place." Gris had bared his teeth. "She's fertile, and probably carries my biotic genes."

Banak had looked _very_ intrigued at that point. "So, the female clan _should_ back me. Assuming I don't fuck up too badly. Good. That just leaves the shaman and Malak's old cronies, as you said."

Gris had _chuckled_ and watched the usual realities of krogan politics play out as Banak had walked into the camp, stumped his way up the dais, and told the shaman, none too politely, to get the hell out of his brother's chair. "What are you doing here, whelp?" the shaman had demanded.

"Serving as the voice of Ulluthyr Harak. Now move your tail, or I'll move it for you."

The shaman of Ulluthyr was steeped in lore, but wasn't a biotic. Gris hadn't intervened, though; Banak needed to be able to demonstrate strength on his own. He had. When the shaman had simply sat there, unmoving, Banak had, just as simply, walked around behind the stone throne. . . and kicked the back of the chair. Hard.

The solid slab that made up the back tilted forward, and the shaman had shot out of the chair in a flash. Half a ton of rock will make an impression even on a krogan skull, after all. And brain injuries didn't tend to regenerate fully.

There'd been a resounding _SLAM_ as the stone tipped forward, and shattered across the rest of the chair and the steps.

Banak stepped atop the remains of the chair and nudged the shattered pieces of its back out of the way. "Was time for a new chair anyway," he grunted, and sat down on the remnants. "I'll tell Harak to send one here from Omega, for when he wants to come home. For the time being, this is fine for me. Now. Are were all clear on two things? First, Harak is clan-leader. Second, I speak for Harak in his absence? Anyone need to go over point one or point two?"

That had been three weeks ago. Now, Gris was back on Tuchanka. _Feels like I never really leave this place. Like I carry it with me wherever I go._ He stood behind Wrex's throne, while Wrex faced the half-circle of other clan leaders who were here for an assembly of the Clan Alliance. Banak was here, and had brought his shaman with him. _Smart. Keeps the trouble where he can see it. _ There were fifty-six other clan leaders currently present. Between their clans, they held over sixty percent of the total population of Tuchanka, and seventy percent of the planet's landmass. More than enough to make Urdnot Wreav's seat as Councilor on Bastion legitimate by any standard.

Wrex lifted his low voice now. "You know why I've called you here."

"Batarians." Kullur Menthur rumbled back. "Not our problem."

"Actually, it _is_ our problem," Wrex shot back, dourly. "You just lack the vision to see it."

"They're attacking humans and turians, not krogan worlds. I'll fight for people in the Clan Alliance, because we're all krannt to one another, but when I quit work as a merc, was the day I quit fighting for humans and turians." That was Unduun Malav.

Banak stirred. "They're attacking Omega," Banak pointed out, sharply. "Held by Ulluthyr. Currently, the largest population of krogan off of Tuchanka, other than Rough Tide. Omega. Land of opportunity. _Our_ opportunity." Grabbing everyone by the first thing they'd pay attention to, of course: self-interest. Everyone wanted to bring credits back to the clan. Bring weapons back to the clan. Omega was _vital_ to that. . . especially now that there were _jobs_ there. Jobs other than merc work. For those with strong enough minds to take them.

Gris watched Wrex lean back. "And Ulluthyr is part of this Clan Alliance," Wrex reminded everyone. "We're bound to defend them. They're one of us. Part of the krannt."

"A really _fucking _new part of the krannt," Kullur Menthur muttered.

"Doesn't matter!" Wrex roared, suddenly. "If they joined _yesterday_, they'd still be part of the krannt! Seniority doesn't get you faster help!"

That rocked them back on their heels. Wrex didn't yell often. He tended to use that bass rumble of his, and the occasional head-butt, to get his point across. This time, his voice had had the force of a blow, and they'd all felt it. Wrex stared at the clan-leaders now. "We planned to send some of our females to _live_ on Omega," he said now, quietly. With no less force. "With the young. So that Urdnot Siara could continue teaching them, now that she's a _Spectre_." Underlining that Urdnot had two full Spectres and a probationary Spectre to its name. More status, if external status. Underlining that Urdnot was powerful enough, stable enough, _secure_ enough, that it could _experiment_ with its female clan. Do things that no one had done in a thousand years. Send females _off-world_. Where there was clean air and water, certainly, but the threat of kidnapping and theft. A rumble of unease and awe went through the assembled clan-leaders. "That is how strongly Urdnot Mala and I trust in Ulluthyr Harak and Omega Pelagia. They are of our krannt. And we will go to their aid now. You have no choice in that, unless you're willing to be known as oath-breakers." Wrex shrugged. "There's another small matter. Spectre Gris? Speak up."

Gris nodded, and stepped forward. "You said earlier," he growled, staring at Menthur, "that if the batarians attacked the humans or the turians, that it wasn't any of our business. You're wrong. They're krannt-mates, too."

"The hell they are! All the turians have ever done is try to kill us and hold us down." That was a snarl.

Gris walked forward. Met Menthur's gaze at eye level, from inches away. And his own voice become a rumble of thunder now, too. "We have a seat on the Council. Every one of us in the Clan Alliance is krannt to one another now. And every one of us is krannt to the krannt of the Council. A krannt of hundreds of billions, Menthur. All of them brothers and sisters."

It was too big a thought for some of them, he could see. But Banak was nodding. "I stood with rachni and geth on Bastion," the male said, calmly. "Humans and turians, too. Keeping panicked people from attacking one another on the _rumor_ that someone in a given neighborhood had been hoarding medical supplies. I'd call any of them krannt."

"Rachni?" came the horrified response.

"Humans?"

"Turians?"

"Geth?"

"Why not?" Gris growled. "I have a krannt-brother of each species. Sings-to-the-Sky. Sam Jaworski. Lantar Sidonis. Cohort." He jerked his head at Wrex. "He calls Shepard and Garrus krannt. Who is in _your_ krannt, whose name you can boast of?"

Silence for a moment.

Wrex rumbled now, "So. We're going to send troops to Omega. Help Harak and the Spectres throw every damned batarian out the damned airlock to scream their life out into the blackness of space. And then I'm asking for volunteers to go . . . assist. . . on the human and turian worlds that have been attacked. Not just by batarians. But by yahg."

A row of shrugs. No one here knew what the yahg even _were_. "Probably not much of a challenge," Malav assessed. "They're only fighting humans and turians right now."

"The turians," Gris reminded him, looking up at the shattered remains of the roof, "beat us."

"Only because the salarians unleashed the genophage—"

"And they unleashed the genophage because they _didn't_ want to kill every single one of us!" It was Gris' turn to shout, and his voice rang back from the stones. "Which the turians would have done! They fight as one unit, organized, disciplined. We fight as individuals, a mob. Oh, when there's a _very_ strong leader, he can whip a krannt into a fighting machine. . . for a while. Then they break apart again. We would not have beaten the turians. They would have killed us. It would have taken a generation, but they would have killed every last one of us. Time we recognized that. Time we _learned_ from it."

They _really_ didn't like hearing _that_.

"Even if none of the rest of you cowards go, I will," Urdnot Grunt growled. "I've heard tales that the yahg killed the entire Council first contact team sent to their world. I've heard that they consider themselves the ultimate predator species." He lifted his smooth chin. "I intend to test that claim."

In the end, none of them could really resist the idea of a good fight, any more than Grunt could.

**Elijah, Omega, June 18, 2196**

Their shuttle slipped into a small, concealed hatch on the underside of Omega's giant asteroid, and Eli looked around in amazement through the visor of his helmet. There was a complete landing facility down here, in a cavern hollowed out of solid rock. It wasn't well-lit, but it had an airlock system and a landing pad. . . all that was really needed, really, for a secure get-away. Or a stealthy entrance.

Cohort tipped his head. "Pelagia-AI informs us that she has several storage nodes secreted down here. Harak-Governor had them placed here as a last-ditch defense for her, before he accepted an NCAI chip implantation."

They all hopped out of the shuttle now; Ylara had been piloting the small vessel. Sam got out first, checking their surroundings, followed by Cohort. Makur next, his red armor standing out in the sea of black uniforms, Snowflake flowing out of the shuttle by his side. Siara next, her pistol ready. "You sense anything?" Siara asked Makur, clearly on edge.

"No," Makur rumbled. "No one's watching us at the moment."

Eli shook his head and grabbed his shield, at the same time Lin grabbed his. "Must be nice," Lin grumbled. "I'd give a _lot_ to know when someone's targeting me."

"What, like you'd duck any faster?" Eli asked Lin, dryly, and stepped down from the shuttle's hatch.

Lin awarded him a grin and a fingerflick in reply.

Dara hopped down last. She carried a heavy pack. All medical supplies, Eli realized. Bandages, medigel, morphine, morphinol, _papavera_, antibiotics, saline, alcohol. You name it, it was probably in that pack. And she was firmly in work mode now, face expressionless and eyes blank. "Where do we go from here?" she asked.

"Up," Makur said, dryly. "Through the sewers and waste reclamation areas. Environmental systems, like the air filtration systems. They're all down here in the guts of the station. Which is also vorcha territory. Though we were working on killing them off."

"Why is it," Lin asked, mildly, "that while you always _hear_ about vorcha breeding like rabbits, you never actually _see_ any female vorcha?"

"You do," Dara told him, dryly. "They're completely indistinguishable from the males. Since their lifespan is so short, less than twenty years, their gestation period is less than three months. You don't see them pregnant for very long, and even then, it's not particularly noticeable."

Eli shook his head. "You're a font of information, Dara."

"Part of the job, Eli." She had her rifle in her hands now, and they got to work, setting up a line. Makur, since he knew the territory, was near the front, with Siara and Snowflake; Sam was in his stealth net, and up ahead with them. Kirrahe was near the center, between Ylara and Cohort, turning to watch the shadows around them periodically. Eli walked beside Dara, and Lin took the rearguard position, turning to watch behind them carefully. Lin and Eli's job, at the moment, could be summarized as _'watch our backs'_ and _'keep the medic alive.'_

Omega's bowels, like that of any city, anywhere, were not pleasant. It was dim down here, and noisome. Eli was damned glad his mask was down; the scent of effluvia from a dozen different species could _not_ have been pleasant. Dara was muttering under her breath about bacteriological hazards. "Least of our concerns right now," Siara returned on the radio.

There were at least metal catwalks in this area, alongside the streams of water and waste, and their boots clanged loudly against the gratework. Eli gritted his teeth. They were making a hell of a lot of noise, and from the wariness in Siara and Makur and Ylara's bodies, he did not think this was a _good_ area in which to make noise. "Scans indicate there is a large concentration of methane in the air ahead," Cohort warned. "For the next five hundred meters, refrain from discharging firearms, unless a combustive reaction is desired."

_Oh, dear god, are you __kidding__ me?_ Eli thought, and slid his pistol back into its holster. Reached for and removed a favorite toy of his, an asp, but didn't extend it, not yet, anyway.

"Hostile ahead of us," Makur growled over the radio, when they were midway through the methane cloud; silent, invisible, and deadly. "Directly ahead. Not aware of us yet, though."

Eli glanced at his omnitool. Sure enough, there were lifesigns. Just at the very periphery of the device's range. "How many?" he heard Sam ask.

"Twelve. They feel like vorcha." Makur made a sound of disgust. "Think they're hunting."

There were definitely more than twelve dots on the scope. "Move up," Sam directed. "Cohort, you've got ceiling duty."

_Ceiling duty—oh._ Eli stared _up_ as Cohort jumped up easily and gripped onto the pipes that ran the length of the ceiling above them. It was, in fact, a perfect sniper perch; out of range of being grabbed by anyone on the ground, and probably only accessible by a geth or a biotic with Zhasa's uncanny leaping ability. _Or someone with a ladder_. The geth simply clung there for the moment, ready to move when they were.

Sam turned back to the rest of them. Eli could see his form in spite of the stealth net. He knew what to look for—disturbances in the light. "Kirrahe, did you load out with a flamethrower?"

"I did," the salarian replied, in a tone of composure. "However, the methane cloud precludes its use."

"We'll see." Sam turned towards Ylara. "I'll move up, try to get behind them. If we can keep them out of the methane cloud, we can use regular weapons, folks. Dara, even your shock gun is a bad idea if we're in the methane."

"Noted," Dara said, dryly, sliding her rifle to her back, for the moment. "I can try to stand out of the way, but I don't like going up against vorcha unarmed."

Eli nudged her with an elbow, and handed her his asp. "I want that _back_," he noted. "I'm kind of fond of it." He curled his hand around hers, and showed her how to extend it. The baton flicked out, black-gloss enameled. "Extends your reach, and has most of the striking force of a steel bar, with about ninety-eight percent less weight," Eli told her. "You should get their attention."

Dara nodded, and gave the asp a couple of experimental flicks through the air. About a dozen dirty jokes tumbled through Eli's mind as she did so, but he opted to put them on hold. There'd be plenty of time later to tell her that he liked how she handled his asp. Right now, there was work to do. Besides, Sam was standing right there, and Eli didn't know _quite_ what to expect if he started teasing Dara along those lines in front of her dad.

Sam was still looking at the rest of them. "Try to keep them from pushing our rear line back into the methane. If they run into the methane, and our people are clear of the cloud? Fire your flamethrower after them. Kirrahe. We _don't_ want them coming back after us from behind. Tried it that way down here once before, and I really try not to make the same mistake twice."

Ylara chuckled. "And here I thought Gris had tried talking them into letting you walk through their territory."

Sam snorted. 'That only worked up till the moment we had to start shooting other vorcha packs. No, when it comes to vorcha, my policy is direct communication. With knives or bullets, by preference."

They moved up. It was a short, ugly, brutal fight. The vorcha had a group of human, salarian, and asari refugees pinned down here in the sewers, and were closing in on them in a ring, while the asari were trying to push them back with weak biotic attacks. Sam slipped up and past the ring of attackers, and Ylara got their attention, saying, sharply, "Hasn't anyone ever taught you not to play with your food?" And then the asari released a shockwave at the nearest vorcha.

Lin and Eli moved up as one, and they both used their shields to slam into their nearest opponents. The lower edges weren't as sharp as, say, a gladiator's shield, but _could_ still be used on a throat or a face, if needed, and they could both still punch and kick at will. Eli found that he _still_ hated vorcha. The dim light, the rock walls, the shrill snarls of the foul little creatures brought back the night of the cave all too vividly for him, and he battered one to the ground with a punch, and then dropped a knee on its chest, bringing his shield's edge down on its throat. Hard. He could _feel_ the windpipe crunch satisfyingly under the blow, but knew that _wasn't_ going to do more than just knock it down for a while. _Are we out of the damned cloud? Can we shoot the fucking things yet?_

Past him, Siara lifted at least one vorcha straight into the air, pulling him off one of the civilians. Makur waded right into the middle of the fight, a vorcha leaping onto his back and clinging to his hump, trying to bite and claw. . . and then the vorcha that Siara had suspended in mid-air ripped off to the side and into a wall with a bone-cracking thud as Makur made a little swiping gesture at it, and Snowflake charged at another, tearing into the creature's throat. Past that, another vorcha fell to the ground, headless, spurting out gouts of yellow-green blood. Sam's form shimmered for a moment, and then he spun and hook-kicked a vorcha beside him, bringing his fist—and knife—back around with the spinning motion. Back-fist, knife-blade extended. . . the vorcha looked down at its chest and gaped for a moment at about eight inches of steel sprouting from its lungs, and then collapsed.

Eli brought his shield down again, and again, as hard as he could. Trying to _sever_ the damned head. Glanced up and right, to where Lin was kicking a vorcha back into the rest of the group. . . pretty much straight into Ylara's path, who redirected the creature into the sewage with a shockwave. Further right. . . Dara was fending off another vorcha with the asp now, claws and slavering teeth frighteningly close to her visor. _Whack, whack_. Meaty thuds as the asp connected, and a dull snap as one hit broke the vorcha's forearm. Then she whipped the baton across the creature's face. . . but that was only going to slow the damn thing down, not kill it. _Shit. She needs a little help here. . . _ Eli decided his target was at least beaten to within _half_ an inch of its life, and started to stand back up.

And then the first _BAM-BAM_ of a rifle, as Cohort, above them, picked off a target near Sam. "We are free of the cloud now," the geth announced. "Use of firearms is now permissible."

Eli reached for his pistol and fired twice at the vorcha attacking Dara, just as she slammed it again, hard, with the asp. Then he fired twice into the _head_ of the damned vorcha at his feet. _Don't even think about starting to crawl away,_ he thought at it, repressing the urge to shudder.

"Drive 'em back the way we came!" Sam shouted, and a vorcha _flew_ through the damned air past Eli's head, propelled by Makur's biotics as the krogan stood between the refugees and the remaining six vorcha. Lin glanced at Eli. "Cover Dara, I'm moving to Makur," he called, and did exactly that, pulling in beside Makur, the two of them suddenly an almost impregnable wall between the snarling creatures and the handful of refugees.

Eli moved to Dara, just as she shoved the extended asp into her belt for a moment, and reached for her pistol, instead. Cohort's rifle rang out with two more shots, Siara and Ylara both shoved the vorcha back to the south, and Eli and Dara both opened fire on the creatures from the right, trying to drive them back to the south. Into the methane cloud.

"Kirrahe? Light 'em up," Sam called, and the young salarian took Sam at his word, igniting his flamethrower, which had been turned quite firmly _off_ all this time. . . and then spraying fire towards the vorcha, who were, slowly, backing up. Eli winced, got his shield up, and ducked behind it grabbing Dara and sheltering both of them as the vorcha went up in flames. . . and started to run. Living torches, heading right into a methane cloud.

The explosion was loud, spectacular, and resulted in a rain of blood and body parts. Eli grimaced at some of the wet impacts on his shield, and decided not to try identify anything in particular. Just shook the parts away, and asked Dara, "You all right?"

"Yeah. Thanks." She sounded a little winded, but headed over to check on the others and the refugees immediately. None of their squad was injured past scrapes, but of the seven refugees, three had _bad_ bites. With chunks of flesh missing. Siara was already trying to soothe the little asari girl who was hurt, and Eli dropped down to his haunches to work on stemming the blood-flow from the girl's mother, who had a bad bite to the back of one thigh. He told the female, in quick, light asari words, _"Be strong for your little one. Your fear makes her fear worse,"_ which got the blue-green eyes to widen slightly.

"_You speak. . . like a native of Thessia. . . .slight southern sea accent. . . "_ the asari whispered.

Eli kept himself from looking at Ylara. Whose daughter's dying gift had been the language he now spoke. And quite a bit more, as it had turned out. "_So people have said to me. Why are you down here in the places-of-waste and filth?_"

Ylara moved over, crouching down beside the female, listening as the asari replied, dizzily, _"We were trying to get away from the fighting and the slavers on C-ring. They've got. . . a bonus for any asari they find, I think. . . _" She winced as Eli put more pressure on the wound, with bandages Lin took from Dara's hands and passed to him, while Dara worked on the worst injured, a salarian who had a belly wound. Kirrahe was down on his knees, holding the salarian's arms back, and Dara was talking to the salarian _in_ salarian, which was possibly the damnedest thing Eli had ever heard. The language was one of low, guttural vowels and clicking noises, and sounded _odd_ from a human mouth. Then she got the bleeding stopped, and pressed the loops of intestines back where they needed to be for the medigel to start working.

"_The sewers are A-ring, more or less, yes?"_ Ylara asked.

"_Yes. The old slums and the commercial district are B-Ring. Where Afterlife was and the docking bays are, is C-ring_."

The female clenched her teeth as Dara came over, checked her thigh wound, and nodded. "Ma'am? I'm going to look after the child next, okay? Eli, you're doing great. Keep the pressure up." Dara moved past him, and knelt down with Siara at the child's side. The wound here was much less bad, which is why Dara had moved to the salarian first, Eli could see. A chunk of flesh was missing from the girl's right arm, but Siara had it well in hand. Dara began cleaning the wound with antiseptic, and the girl started to shriek. . . a sound that cut off completely as Siara inhaled and lowered her head. "Hurry up," Siara gritted at Dara.

"I _am_ hurrying."

"_How many others are hiding in the sewers?"_ Eli asked. Soft, liquid asari words, trying to keep the mother focused on them, and not on her child.

Surprisingly, it was _Cohort_ who answered, "Pelagia-AI estimates three or four thousand. However, the vorcha are proving problematic for the refugees."

"You don't say," Sam muttered. "What are we looking at once we get out of the sewers?" he asked the salarian, who was trying to sit up.

"Batarian warrior-castes all through B-ring," the salarian mumbled. "And the slavers have a chunk of C-ring set aside as a . . . processing area. Cages. Medical areas—hah, more like animal pens—for chipping their new slaves." He groaned as Sam helped him all the way upright. "A couple of the corporate buildings where Afterlife used to be. . . are holdouts. They've got guns, and they're holed up inside, firing on the batarians from the windows."

Dara had finished with the child, and now moved to the mother, edging Eli out of the way as she changed the rubber gloves that she put on over her suit gauntlets. "Ma'am? Your little girl's going to be fine. Looked a lot worse than it was. I've got her dosed up with antibiotics, and the medigel's taking care of the rest." For a wonder, Dara sounded a little less brusque, and Eli realized she was _trying_ to speak gently to the asari. "Now let me have a look at your leg here."

"How are the slavers attacking?" Sam asked, quickly.

"Stasis guns," the salarian muttered. "If not that. . . they're using traps. Nets. Cages. Tripwires. They've barricaded some people in their houses, to grab them later."

The asari female, as Dara began working on her leg, managed, in galactic, "There are snipers on half the rooftops on C-Ring. Trying to shoot into the old Afterlife area. While those inside shoot back out. I don't know how much ammunition they have in there, but there can't be much left. They can't hold out much longer, I think."

Ylara nodded. Patted the asari on the shoulder, and looked at Sam. "Sounds like our first two areas of concern, really. We need to get the docking bays back under control, and eliminating the slaver processing area will probably be a part of that."

"And we need a base of operations. Sounds like the corporate enclave is secure enough, if the employees have been holed up in there for a couple of days, and haven't been taken yet," Sam agreed. "Come on. Let's get you all to a little safer area. Cohort, you getting any ideas from Pelagia as to where might be safer down here?"

"Contact with Pelagia-AI is sporadic. She indicated that there is an air filtration room nearby that could be held easily by refugees against the vorcha." Cohort pointed. "This way."

Eli, with Ylara, helped the asari to her feet, while Siara simply lifted the child up and set the girl on her feet. Everyone else got a refugee or two up and moving, and then they headed out once more, Makur back in the lead. Lin once more took the rearguard position, and, as they walked, Dara pulled the asp back out of her belt. "Thanks for the loan, Eli. Handy thing. The vorcha didn't like it one bit." She flicked it back and forth a bit. "Only thing is, I have no idea how to get it to, well, go down again."

Eli sighed. There went another _golden_ opportunity to make her blush. He took the asp from her, retracted it, and tucked it away in his utility belt again. "You're _killing_ me here, Dara," he muttered, and kept an eye on their surroundings once more.

Lin's snicker definitely did not help.

Once they emerged from the sewers into B-ring, however, there was no more time for joking. Eli's combat senses went into high gear at the sound of rapid gunfire in the distance. He could smell smoke now, and Siara _hissed_ ahead of him as they stepped out of the stairwell.

B-Ring was, unfortunately, largely on fire. Dozens of storefronts were going up in flames, and there were residents trying to use chemical foam to put out the blazes. Eli swore out loud. He was a station brat. He _knew_ what fire in space meant. Even on a station the size of Omega or the Citadel or Bastion, there was only so much oxygen, only so much that the CO2 scrubbers could do. And only so far that the fire could go, before it burned _your_ home, too. "We've got to help here," Eli called up.

"Negative," Sam replied, his voice grim. "Residents have it under control. We're heading to C-ring. Form up, people."

Even as they moved, however, Makur snapped out, "We're being watched!"

They all ducked for cover as a distinctive _BAM-BAM_ echoed off the buildings around them. Residents scattered everywhere, running, leaving the chemical foam nozzles flying all over the place, spraying pink foam uselessly.

"Echoes make location of assailant difficult," Cohort started to say, but Makur pointed up and left, and Eli and Dara both reached for their rifles.

"Anyone got a target?" Sam asked, from behind a wrecked aircar.

"I've got him," Dara replied, tersely. Eli was taking longer, and again wondering why he hadn't opted for her macro/micro vision mod, when her own rifle replied to the sniper's. _BAM-BAM_.

Eli saw the body slip off the roof of a nearby building and fall to the ground below. "Nice, _sai'kaea_," he told her. Quick pat to the shoulder, and then they were off again. Residents cautiously stuck their heads back out again, and, waving the Spectres on, got back to work on trying to contain the fires. "Cohort, can Pelagia do _anything_ about the ventilation on this ring?" Eli called up, anxiously. "People are going to suffocate if those fires aren't put out soon."

"She says that batarian techs have been attempting to gain access to environmental systems, probably to try to gain control over the entire station in this fashion. She has been locked out of her own resources on B-Ring."

_Damn._

If B-level had been a pit of smoke and fire, C-Ring was an open war zone. As soon as the doors opened, they all had to duck as Sam shouted "Get down!" and bullets started pinging off their kinetic shields, which flared blue under the impact. Lin and Eli closed ranks on either side of Dara, their shields becoming her cover as they all moved together to another crashed aircar just outside the doors to the habitat area.

"AquaDyne, Synthetic Insights, and DuroCorp headquarters look all look occupied," Siara said tersely. "I see four krogan at the doors and windows, firing out, and two turians."

"Look again," Eli told her. "There's two turians and a human on the roof, too, firing down."

That was the right side of the street from where they stood, the old Afterlife enclave, Makur told them. Off to the left? Batarians behind makeshift barricades. Guarding the entrance to the docking bays, trying to hold the line, from the looks of it. And past that? Just around the corner? Eli's blood ran cold. He could see cages. Lots of them. "Looks like the _corporate_ raiders are keeping the _batarian_ raiders from getting their goods out," Lin called, and Eli groaned.

"All right," Sam said. "Time to give everyone a hand here."

"And watch your step," Eli told everyone. "All those mounds of garbage in the middle of the path? Too neatly distributed. Too regular."

Sam's head snapped up. "Traps?"

"I'd guess concussion grenades, or something along the lines of their stasis guns. Might be set off by proximity. Or maybe something a bit less fancy. Could just be regular explosives," Eli offered.

"Shit. Right. Everyone, watch your fingers and toes."

They moved in. Eli moved his shield back, and switched to his rarely-used submachine gun, relying on Lin for cover as their team moved left, taking out batarian after batarian along the far wall. Whenever they got pinned down, Siara and Makur and Kirrahe would move in on their right, lifting or biotically hurling their opponents into walls or the floor, while Kirrahe, with a look of intent concentration, fired at the rapidly flailing figures, killing them.

It was slow, cruel, grueling work, and it wasn't helped by the fact that the batarians kept getting reinforcements, either from the docking bay or from the processing camp up and around the corner. They also had rooftop snipers of their own set up. . . and a variety of nasty tricks up their sleeves. Makur accidentally stepped on one of the traps, before Eli could warn him, and froze in place, like a statue. Lin swore and moved towards the krogan, setting up in front of _him_ with his shield. It took fifteen horrific minutes for the damned stasis to wear off. Fifteen minutes of being out in the open, fire streaming at them from all sides. But none of them could _lift_ and _move_ the krogan.

Somewhere in hour _four_ of the firefight, Eli took a bullet in the shoulder, and rocked to the side. A hand reached out, steadied him, and dragged him back to cover. And while he continued to return fire, as best he could, Dara cracked open his armor. Numbed the wound site, and dug out the bullet. "You're damned lucky," she muttered at him. "Hardsuit took most of it. There are too many damned _bones_ in the shoulder, Eli. If the bullet had gone all the way through. . . "

He winced, and fired again at _another_ batarian that had appeared in the doorway to the docking bays. "Lucky. Yeah. I feel _really_ lucky."

"Shut up, or I _will_ suture my initials here." She finished work, and resealed his suit. "There you go.

At the end of _eight full hours_, the batarians pulled back. They still held the docking bays. The slaves in their cages were wailing piteously, as the slavers pulled away from their processing area, ducking into nearby buildings, instead.

Lin and Sam and Eli started releasing captives, while Ylara went to the front door of Synthetic Insights. And waved into the darkened depths of the building. "Hello," she called inside. "We're Council Spectres, and we're here to help."

"I don't suppose you have ammunition with you," a low, slow voice asked.

"Some," Ylara admitted, and a krogan in what surely had to be a dress shirt and size XXXXXXXXL khaki pants emerged from the building, holding a pistol.

"Good. We're almost out here. I'm Ulluthyr Urev. We've been holding this damn place since sometime. . . .yesterday, I think."

A turian female popped her head out the door now. "Best to get inside. And bring the slaves inside, too," she called into the street. "Let's go. They're probably just waiting for reinforcements."

Eli looked around the street as he unlatched another cage. Bodies everywhere. Bullet marks on every building. Shattered glass. And the stunning sound of _quiet_ after so many bullets had been fired.

And in the distance, he could hear _more_ gunfire. "And today's just the first day," Eli said, quietly.

Sam seemed to understand what he meant, however. "Yeah," he told Eli and Lin. "It's going to get a lot worse."


	108. Chapter 108: On the Ground

**Chapter 108: On the Ground**

_**Author's note:**__ I'm unsure if I should link this just yet, but the fan art, which Siha's daughter did, is so amazing, it deserves attention. So, if you don't want to be spoiled, don't look (or look at the wiki just yet, since the art is used there, too) http:/ callthedarkness[dot]deviantart[dot]com/art/The-Spirit-of-Redemption-255355877 _

_Speaking of the wiki, Jelfia's spoiling the heck out of me by making it cohesive, intelligently designed, and functional. :-) Now, I just need to get cracking on the story again. Took part of a child-free weekend to play __DA2__, which has been sitting on my desk since, um, Christmas. *cough* _

_Then had two days of training in a new version of our XML library/database system at work. Kind of cut into writing time. _

_Now, on with the show!_

**Rellus, Shanxi, June 18-25, 2196**

Their Hammerhead had dropped like a stone. Garrus had been in charge of the controls, and had started tapping the jets within about two hundred meters of the ground, slowing their descent from terminal velocity to something quite a bit gentler. They still his the ground with a thud, and Rel could feel the jolt of adrenaline flood into him. His body _knew_ what this meant. Combat was coming. Rel inhaled, tried to fight it back, but it was a _tool_, and one he'd known and used for years, regardless of what anyone _now_ said about it. He leaned forward in spite of the restraining harness and watched out the front window, past Garrus' and Lantar's wide shoulders. Rel's eyes widened. Xi'an, as he well knew, was a _damned_ big city for a human colony. Over forty years old, it had skyscrapers at its center, and housed over ten million people; the rest of the colony world as a whole housed thirty million more. Many of the skyscrapers had taken their visual inspiration from the architecture of Shaanxi Province, back on Earth, and the original city of Xi'an, that was found there. Tall, fluting, pagoda-like outer facings, on buildings over sixty stories tall.

They were in flames. Several had gaping holes through them, and one, as he watched, collapsed in on itself in a plume of smoke and concrete dust. Rel closed his eyes for a moment, as everyone else in the vehicle murmured under their breaths, in a handful of languages. _"Spirits, let everyone have gotten out before it collapsed_," Lantar murmured.

Melaani murmured something in asari over the radio, and then added, in galactic, "Goddess, care for them." Rel couldn't see her; she was in the second Hammerhead with Seheve and a handful of turian marines.

Seheve sounded profoundly disturbed. "Is there anything we can do to preserve the lives at the city center now?" she asked over the radio.

Garrus shook his head grimly. "No. Our first order of business is to take the ten squads of marines that dropped with us, and scout the city. Get word back to the human and turian ships in the system as to where to drop more troops. Figure out what needs to be done, coordinate with the fleet, and _do_ it." Garrus called up a map of Xi'an as it had been before the attacks.

Rinus whistled over Garrus' shoulder. "That is a _hell_ of a lot of ground to cover."

The city was densely packed into a set of concentric rings about thirty miles in diameter. Most of the sprawl went _up_ rather than _out_, which at least compacted the area somewhat. Rinus shook his head. "Can we at least hope to interface with local authorities?"

Lantar sighed. "I've been trying to cut through jamming on the radio since we breached the atmosphere. No luck yet." He grimaced, a flex of his mandibles. "Shanxi's inhabitants might also have problems with a _turian_ contacting them. The old wounds still run deeply here. . . and we didn't grab a single human Spectre." He gave Garrus a quick glance. "Perhaps not our best move."

"I can interface with local authorities if you need me to," Melaani pointed out, quickly. "And assuming they'd concerned about anything so petty as previous conflicts at this point."

"Just saying the people at the heart of the Relay 314 Incident might not take kindly to being rescued by the same aliens as started their last war here," Lantar noted, almost clinically. "All right, folks, this is where we are right now." He tapped a claw on the southeast edge of the city, near a line that was marked with symbols indicating a bullet-train passed along this route. "To the west of this area, manufacturing. . . industrial complexes, and computer technology firms. West of that. . . residential, mostly factory workers. West of that, on the far side of town. . . that's the communications array. Northwest, that's the power plant."

Rel looked out over the city in front of them. While it was nearly twilight here, there was a noticeable lack of streetlights. "I'm guessing that's been taking off-line."

"Looks like it. If it's damaged, well. . . " Garrus shrugged. "It's a mass effect core, not a nuclear reactor. If it blows, none of _us_ will know about it, but I'm not really willing to take that chance."

Lantar tapped on the screen again, this time almost directly their north. "Shipyard facilities. Xi'an builds a lot of shuttles. Northeast edge of town. . . that's the spaceport. And judging by the smoke plumes coming from the north of here, both areas are getting hit, and hard."

"There's smoke coming from _everywhere_," Melaani pointed out, sharply. "Including residential areas."

Garrus nodded. "And here's where I get to make the executive decisions," he said, grimly. "We can't get through the jamming to communicate with the fleet without the communications array. And the power plant is right there beside it." He toggled the radio. "All units? Form up on us. We're heading west. Keep an eye out for survivors that might be fleeing the city."

They turned their vehicles west, and began moving over the rugged terrain outside the city proper. This consisted of fields, in which the Hammerheads bowed down and crushed some of the crops, red clay gullies and ditches, and occasional stands of forest. The dropships, which mainly consisted of _Crabonis_ Mark III gunships, which could hold nine men each, formed up in a triangle around the two Hammerheads in the middle, on the ground. They passed under the tall, graceful bridges that usually allowed a bullet train to whiz in and out of the city, towards the other towns on Shanxi—New Wuhan, New Shenzhen, and New Jinan, just to name a few. Rel stared; the tracks were shattered, and a train had clearly plummeted from them at high speed. The result was a blackened, charred set of cars on the ground. No longer even smoldering. If there had been any hope of survivors, it had been hours ago. _Spirits_, he thought, feeling the adrenal surge start to die away, replaced by numbness. _Was it deliberate? An attack on civilians? Or were they just trying to cut off escape routes?_

At the second set of elevated tracks, which cut through a swathe of forest, there _was_ a group of humans, fleeing the city. They looked tired and footsore, as if they'd run for miles. A family, from the looks of them—three children, a mother, a grandmother, perhaps. All carrying bags over their shoulders. The grandmother had an arm in a sling, and their eyes were haunted, and they all _shrieked_ at the sight of the vehicles.

Garrus called a halt, and he directed, "Melaani, Seheve, Rellus. See what you can find out. Mel, take two of the human marines with you."

Rel clambered out of his Hammerhead, assault rifle ready. He couldn't _miss_ the fact that they were looking back over their shoulders, as if unable to determine what to be more afraid of. . . and then they saw the human marines. The children _ran_ to them, grabbing onto their legs, and Melaani caught the arms of the mother as she collapsed to her knees. The rapid-fire chatter of an alien human language got picked up by Rel's VI, and he listened as his omnitool relayed the translation to his earpiece, _"They came, they came in the darkness before dawn, like ghosts. They landed all over the city in their black ships, and started firing on the buildings. Then they came out of the ships, and they started __herding__ people, __herding__ them, do you understand? Do you understand?"_

Melaani was trying to calm the mother, and Seheve moved in. Knelt by the grandmother, and began to examine her arm with practical, careful fingers. "You getting all of that?" Rel asked over the radio.

"Getting it. Not a lot of context there. Mel, can you ask her what sort of creatures she saw?"

Melaani relayed that, voice soft and soothing, but the translator's mechanical voice robbed her words of affect, Rel realized, as the words were spat back out in Mandarin, _"With respect, can you tell us what you saw of the creatures who attacked?"_

The grandmother sat up now, eyes wide. _"They were twice the height of a man,_" she said, her voice shaking. _"I saw my son die. We were running. He turned to buy us time. We don't have guns. We are peaceful folk. All he had was a piece of wood. I turned back to look, and one of the beasts lifted him up and tore out his throat with its teeth. I. . . couldn't watch more. And we've been running ever since."_

"_They followed,"_ the mother said, rocking a little. _"A few. We met up with other people who were running. The many-eyed creatures caught one of the children in the last group. . . we scattered. I managed to keep Zhu and Li Mei_ _with us. . . please. Can't we come with you?"_

_S'kak_. Rel wanted to swear out loud. If they left the refugees here, it was effectively a death sentence. And yet, there was no damned room in the vehicles, and they were heading into danger. "Spectres?" he asked, over the radio.

"Bring them onto each of the Hammerheads," Garrus decided, after a moment. "We'll see if we can find them any other refugees that we can leave them with."

As the children started to board the nearer of the two Hammerheads, there was a dull roar in the distance. Low-pitched, it rumbled through the air, and Rel's head swung up. He knew the sound of a challenge when he heard one. A hunt-call. _Prey has been found_, _and is surrounded by other predators_. "Life-signs negative," he heard a human marine comment, tersely, over the radio. "May be stealthed."

_Or might just have a biosign masker on. Or might be sufficiently alien that our scanners are confused._ "Set to detect motion instead of heartbeats," Rel said, sharply, doing so himself. . . and that's when his sharp ears caught the first scrape of stone on stone. "Northeast, around the pillar of the bridge," Rel called, and gave the grandmother a boost into the Hammerhead himself. _Come on, hurry up. With the hatches down, we're sitting __anserae._ He dropped to a crouch now, and started moving to the right, boots kicking up Shanxi's red clay dust underfoot, and then found a pile of boulders, dug out of the way by heavy equipment when the tracks were laid, and peered around it, warily. There was a _hell_ of a lot of cover here, thanks to the forest. There were things to be said in favor of fighting on cold hazard and heat hazard and radiation hazard worlds: no plantlife and no infrastructure to get in the damned way. The _Crabonis_ gunships overhead turned on their targeted spotlights now, trying to help the ground teams pick out their attackers. Rel's mask protected his eyes from the glare, at least.

"Anyone got eyes?" That was Melaani, moving to his side, asking over the radio in a sharp, crisp manner.

"Negative. I know there's _something_ here, but I can't—oh _shi-aaaaaaaaah!"_

Rel's head jerked up, and his gun moved to the right, automatically, tracking the sound of distress. He caught a glimpse of a huge dark shape—_spirits, I knew they were big, but not this big-_lifting the marine with one arm, stripping the gun from the human's hands with the other. "Bad angle," Rel snapped out. "Someone _shoot_ the damned thing!"

He could hear the high-pitched shrieks of panic from the human children inside the Hammerhead now, and moved, ducking and rolling out of cover, trying to get position to shoot the huge creature, and _that_ was when the _second_ yahg materialized, grabbing another human marine at the _left_ side of the tracks, twenty yards away. _Yeah. Stealth and biosign maskers._ _S'kak__._ However, _this_ target, Rel had a clear shot on, and began firing into the creature's back, even as the human in its arms screamed. Rel couldn't see what was happening, couldn't _hear_ anything over the short, rapid bursts from his own assault rifle, except a shout on the radio from Melaani—"Rel! Look out!"

And then something _hit_ him, and Rel was on the ground, stunned as if he'd been hit by a Hammerhead at full speed, his gun going off into the air as his fingers slipped on the trigger. His kinetic shields were down, and he was relying in combat instincts as his body, without conscious volition, started to crawl forward, something heavy on him, wiggling and working his body to get free. . . and then his helmet ramming into stone, while gunfire went off over his head. Black armor boots beside his face.

In cover now, Rel managed to sit up and turn around, and just _stared_ for an instant. The body of a human marine now lay where he'd been standing a moment before. The yahg had _swung_ and then _flung_ the human at him, while he'd been occupied firing at its fellow, hoping that someone _else_ was taking the shot at the one closer to him. . . but which had been obstructed from him firing on, by the body of the very human who now groaned faintly on the ground. "Where is the damned thing?" Rel demanded, managing to get his gun back in position and trying to lurch upright again. His head _hurt_, and he thought he probably had a couple of cracked ribs, at the least. _Medigel_, he thought, _doesn't do much good on broken ribs. Hope some of the marine medics backed bone regenerators._

"Damned things re-stealthed," Melaani told him, reaching out and putting a hand on his shoulder to keep him down. "Seheve?" Rounds were raining down from above, as the human and turian marines in the gunships opened their firing apertures, stuck the muzzles of their guns out, and tried to hit _something_ on the ground. . . .while trying not to hit their own people. A tricky, tricky proposition. They were mostly confining their fire to the forest around the clearing, trying to keep the yahg from moving through the trees, it appeared.

"I will risk the shadows with them," the drell replied, her voice very cold now. "I suspect the gunships will be our best option, however, for dealing with them. Get the wounded into the Hammerheads."

Garrus and Lantar and Rinus were already moving. . . Garrus covering Rinus as Rel's first-brother ran out, and picked up the human marine who'd been thrown into Rel. The human _screamed_ at the pain as Rinus tossed him over a shoulder in a fireman's carry. "Keep them off me," Rinus warned over the radio, his voice tight. . . and sure enough, that's when the yahg struck again. This time, the first emerged from stealth, reaching out to swipe at Rinus. . . and Rel shouted, adrenaline flooding through him as he fired directly into the huge creature's body at point-blank range. The recoil of the rifle into his body _hurt_, but it was a _good_ kind of pain. He knew he was tearing through the yahg's shields. "Rinus, get out of the way!" Lantar shouted, and Rinus ducked, and Lantar moved in with his heavy weapon, which he carried on a strap over his shoulder. The M-490 Blackstorm was a particularly nasty weapon, and one Rel had never actually seen used in combat before. It actually rocked the yahg back, and the creature threw out its hands and roared. "Concentrate fire," Garrus' voice came over the radios, clinical and calm. "Rinus, get the hell out of there!"

Rinus didn't have to be told twice, getting back to his knees, grabbing the wounded man, and dragging him out of the way, again, towards the hatch of the second Hammerhead. Rel was concentrating fire on the yahg, which was now trying to get away—_Smart of it,_ Rel thought, dimly—and then the _second_ yahg re-appeared, having circled around to the other side of the Hammerhead, and grabbed _Garrus_ by the arms, and began to _pull_. The shout of alarm caught everyone's attention, and Rel's head swung back and forth. If he took fire off the first yahg, Rinus could be attacked, but that one was at least retreating for the moment. . . . Then Melaani took off in a biotic _charge_, trying to get the yahg _off_ of Garrus. "Mel! No!" Rel shouted as she first started to move, then swore. Now his line of fire was obstructed. . . and she was in range of those deadly arms.

The yahg, _annoyed_ by the small asari who more or less _crashed_ into its armored side, turned, and, releasing Garrus, swung him at the small female. The two of them tumbled away, armor clattering against the side of the Hammerhead. Rel lifted his gun and tried to aim again, and swore _again_, this time as Seheve emerged from the side of the vehicle, her stealth field dissipating as she stabbed deeply through the creature's armor with her vibroknife. The yahg reared up, throwing its arms into the air, and Seheve tumbled away, loose-limbed and graceful, coming back up ten feet away.

A spray of bullets from a gunship overhead, and, with a clear target finally in front of him, Rel opened fire, too, finally downing _this_ yahg. As it hit the ground, he turned, just in time to see Lantar and a second gunship firing into the forest off to the right. . . and then heard, over the radio, the clear, hard voice of one of the pilots, in turian, "_All clear."_

Rel stood up, panting, almost dizzy from the amount of adrenaline pouring into his body, and the exaltation of being alive. He kept his weapon in his hands for the moment, and moved to Rinus and the fallen human marine, first. "_You all right?_"

"_I am, but the _corporal _here isn't doing well,"_ Rinus replied, and then called, in galactic, "We need a medic over here!"

"We don't know how many more of those things are out there," Lantar replied, sharply, from where he was looking over Garrus' wounds.

A turian medic was already off to the left, looking over the human who'd been attacked over there, and was already shaking his head grimly. "They bite," he commented over the radio, darkly. "Sharp teeth, crushing force in the jaws. And, from the way the wounds are already puffing up, I think there's either very nasty bacteria in the mouth, or some form of venom. Either way, he's losing a lot of blood, and the medigel's having trouble sealing the wound." The medic and Melaani now lifted the fallen human into the second Hammerhead.

_The medigel isn't sealing the wound? Because of the. . . poison?_ Rel _acutely_ wished that Dara were here right now. She had experience with things outside the normal range of special forces and marine combat medics. And she'd at least _dissected_ a yahg during that horribly boring year on Sur'Kesh. _She __should__ be here_._ Her experience would be valuable right now._

But she wasn't, and people were going to die without her. Part of him wanted to blame her for that. But for the moment, he could only trust in the competence of the medics they had with them. The medic moved next to the human Rinus had been trying to move, and Rel heard the male mutter, "_Futar_," very quietly. "All right, multiple broken ribs, broken collarbone. What we'd call a flailed torso, if we were looking at a groundcar accident. Possible punctured lung from the ribs." The medic looked at Rinus. "Could have happened before you tried to move him."

"Didn't have a lot of choice on _how_ to move him," Rinus replied crisply. "Can we get him to the Hammerhead?"

"Keep him flat as possible." The two of them now lifted the human by legs and shoulders into the vehicle. No time for a gurney or a litter. As they were doing so, one of the gunships lowered to the ground, rotor blades coming dangerously near the trees. A human medic emerged from the hatch, and ran across the ground to check on Rel and Garrus. "I'll treat you as we ride," the human male told them, and slung his bag into their vehicle. "I can look at the civilians, too."

They sealed up the hatches, the gunship took off, and they started away to the west again, the _Crabonis_ taking back off into the air again. . . and all of them turning off their lights.

"So," Garrus asked, as Lantar now drove, and the medic started checking his arms. "What do we know now that we didn't know a half hour ago?"

"Melee is a very _futtari_ bad idea with these things," Rinus commented over the radio from the other vehicle.

"I did not find it to be problematic," Seheve murmured over the radio. "However, I approached from stealth. They could not seize me and begin pulling on my limbs."

"Or," Rel growled back, his mind's eye filled with the image of Garrus being pulled at in exactly that way, "you got lucky."

"That is certainly possible. . . in a universe where chance exists."

Rel shook his head rapidly. It would have sounded pompous from anyone else. From Seheve, it merely sounded. . . calm.

"Spectre?" The medic sounded tentative. "Your right arm is dislocated. I'm going to need to put it back in the joint. We need to stop the vehicles for about two minutes for me to do that."

"Do it," Garrus rasped to Lantar.

The Hammerhead came to a gentle halt, and Lantar turned around in the seat. "Do you need me to hold him down?" he asked the medic, who was unlatching Garrus' armor carefully.

"Yes. I can numb the site, but I need him to be as relaxed as possible."

"Rel? Get his feet."

Rel was moving before Lantar even finished the order, stepping over the whimpering children carefully before dropping down to plant his knees on Garrus' legs. Garrus gave him a faint smile. "Bet you didn't think. . . your first mission. . . . was going to be like this. . . ."

"Not really," Rel admitted, and then Lantar moved into position, crouching down on Garrus' left side, putting his body weight down on Garrus' torso as the medic administered a pain injection, which took effect quickly. . . and then began to tug and manipulate the bone back into place. Trying to do as little soft tissue damage as possible as he did so. It required a fair bit of strength and a _very_ good understanding of turian anatomy. Garrus swore, snarled, and swore again, claws scrabbling against the metal deck of the Hammerhead, and then the medic exhaled. "Okay. It's in."

"Thanks," Garrus gritted out.

"Now I can do medigel injections, to start repairing the soft tissue damage."

"Can we get moving again?" Lantar's voice was tight. Rel had to agree with the male. It felt. . . exposed. . . to not be moving. He glanced at the hatch behind him as he stood again. He could _picture_ a yahg rising out of the underbrush and latching onto the vehicle with one meaty fist. . . .and then chided himself for his fancifulness.

At the next bullet train bridge, their convoy ran into a heavily armed group of human survivors. Mostly police and local militia, they had scrounged up submachine guns, some minimal body armor—the modern equivalent of old-fashioned flack jackets, really, and some riot helmets. The local militia even had a few flamethrowers and RPGs, which was at least a _help._ Garrus signaled for the convoy to halt, and stepped down out of the hatch to talk to the, keeping his hands up.

"_It's a turian! Not one of the demons!"_ The various weapons, which had been trained on Garrus, lifted slightly now.

"We're Spectres, and we're here to help. We've got a few of your civilians with us. Is there anywhere nearby that you're using as a base?"

"_Mech factory,_" one of the men replied, after a moment. _"There's no power."_

"Do the mechs have charged power cores?" Rel asked, quickly, seeing an advantage here, immediately.

"_Yes, but they aren't military models. They're mining and farming units, mostly."_

"Mining units have mining lasers, crushing arms, and drills," Rinus pointed out, picking up the train of thought immediately. "Could be useful."

"Take us there. And any information you can give us about what's going on would be _damned_ useful," Garrus told the militia and law enforcement officers, and then the convoy was moving again.

One of the officers, a short human male with black hair and shining black eyes, hopped up into the Hammerhead to tell what he knew. _"I'm Wu Jiang_," he said, tersely. _"The attack started in darkness yesterday. It's been going on for over twenty-four hours now. They dropped jamming buoys in place first, we think. That took out short-range communication. I noticed that my radio stopped working around. . . eight, nine o'clock. Just before the attacks. Then their ships landed. Started firing on the skyscrapers downtown, attacked the spaceport, the power plant, and the communications antennae all at the same time. Then we've seen smaller groups break off from the downtown area. Start combing through the neighborhoods. If people surrender, they're. . . herded into small enclaves. Barricaded off. If someone runs or fights? They're hunted down."_

"How many are we talking about?" Garrus asked.

"_I'm not sure. We have no communications. They came in after dark, and their ships are black. Hard to see against a night sky. Each ship seemed to hold ten or so of the creatures. They also seem to have ground assault vehicles and gunships."_ Jiang was obviously used to making observations and reporting them as clearly as possible. The best _possible_ person for them to have found.

"So. . . we could be dealing with hundreds, thousands, or upwards of ten thousand, and we'd have no way of knowing," Garrus said, grimly.

"We've _got_ to get to the comm relay," Lantar muttered. "Without information being passed back and forth between us and the ships, we're effectively useless down here."

"Tell me something I don't know, Nemesis," Garrus tossed back, wincing as Lantar brought the Hammerhead to a halt near the survivor's enclave, a huge factory building the length of two city blocks, at least.

Inside, there were several hundred women and children. The women who didn't know how to use weapons were getting lessons, quickly, but guns were in very short supply. . .and Rel doubted that any of the pistols that the Shanxi authorities had would do more than _perhaps_ cut into the yahgs' kinetic shielding. "Recommendations?" Garrus asked everyone, as the gunships moved up to perch on the roof, carefully, and they moved their Hammerheads into a loading dock entrance, out of sight.

"Set the marines up here, to defend the place," Rel suggested. "The rest of us take just the Hammerheads and some of the mechs. See if we can take the place on our own." It _sounded_ reasonable when he said it, but he could feel a certain amount of grim anticipation in himself. It would be _good_ to take some of the yahg by surprise. . . wouldn't it?

Lantar grimaced. "I don't like dividing our forces, but there are a _lot_ of civilians here. And mechs."

"All the mechs I've had to shoot in my life, and now I'm actually glad to see the damn things," Garrus agreed. "We can scout, at least. See if we can do anything before daybreak."

Rinus and a few of the human marines got to work unpacking completed mechs out of their shipping cases, and activating them. The red glow of their face panels was unnerving in the darkness, but when they heard the first bellowing cry outside, Rel was just damned glad they'd started activating the mechs. "Too bad they're not geth," Rinus muttered.

"Speaking of things I would never have thought to have heard anyone say just a few short years ago," Lantar growled, and moved cautiously to one of the factory's windows, twitching a blind aside to peer outside. "Get the gunships in the air, Archangel. There's at least ten of those damned things out there. These ones are showing up on the scope, at least."

_Which doesn't mean that they don't have stealthed units with them, again,_ Rel thought. His mind was _alive_ with possibilities, options, tactics as he stared at his scope. "Probably a patrol," he muttered, thinking out loud. "Sweeping the less-inhabited areas, looking for stragglers."

This fight, with the gunships launching rockets at the yahg and the people inside the factory opening fire, was, in some ways, less problematic. The enemy was at least _softened up_ by the time they reached the front door of the factory, armor and shields showing carbon scoring and bullet marks, at least. . . but then the first one actually got the door open, and moved inside, while outside, the gunships continued to fire freely on its fellows.

The yahg roared a challenge as it loomed in the doorway, and Rel followed the line of its inner sets of eyes. . . .directly for the women and children, who were huddling at the center of the factory floor, with as much of the mech building equipment and work benches and whatnot piled up around them as possible. "Activate the mechs!" Rel snapped into his radio, and opened fire yet again. He was going to run out of thermal clips at this rate, he realized, dimly.

Rinus lifted a radio transmitted, and pushed a button, before lifting his own weapon, an arc projector, and firing at the yahg. Blue-white energy danced over the creature's skin, and it howled. . . .just as a second yahg loomed up into the doorway. "Hold them _back!_" Garrus shouted from his sniper perch on a catwalk high above, firing round after round at the yahg. Seheve was beside him, the drell's movements cool and methodical as she, too, fired on the yahg. The mechs, under Rinus' command began to advance, which limited the angles of fire from everyone in the room, but the machines reached out with drilling arms and began to saw into armor and flesh. . . .and then were knocked away with howls of anger by the huge creature.

The first yahg fell, and the second snarled and _charged_ a turian marine who was firing shotgun rounds steadily at the creature. Rel winced at the horrific impact as the marine was crushed between about eight hundred pounds of yahg and a brick wall. He kept firing his assault rifle at the creature now, but it turned, lifting the turian marine as a shield, and Rel swore and released the trigger. "No angle!" he shouted—and then a _third fucking yahg_ was looming in the doorway—but was being rocked from behind by shots from a gunship, at least. Rel fired at _that _yahg now, and was rewarded when it crashed to its knees, bleeding orange now.

"Everyone back from the door!" Lantar shouted as the gunship continued to fire at the foundering yahg, and the _BAM-BAM_ of Garrus and Seheve's sniper rifles echoed, as _they_, at least still had a shot on the yahg who was lifting the turian marine.

The marine was, somehow, still alive after that terrible hit. He began to scream as the yahg, began to _pull_ on him. Enormous strength. Long limbs. And then it actually _tore_ the arms off the marine, who fell to the ground now, screaming.

Rel's eyes had been glued to that horrific sight, and now, as the yahg used the marine's bleeding arms as an improvised set of bats, began to beat the people closest to it with them, changed targets, and numbly began to fire again. Lantar and Rinus both fired their heavy weapons, and Garrus and Seheve rained down fire from above.

Finally, the damned thing had the courtesy to die, and the howls and gunfire outside had faded away, too, leaving only the heavy whirring of the gunships' rotors as they circled the building, looking for more targets. Rel watched as the medics _ran_ to the fallen marine, but knew in his heart there was _nothing_ that could be done for the male. Tarenius Gallian, back at the Lystheni base, had been one thing: his limbs had been burned off, cauterized by a miniature Thanix cannon blast from a Lystheni fighter. This male's arms had been ripped from his body. If the shock hadn't killed him instantly, the bleeding surely would now.

Rel was breathing hard, the adrenaline in him so powerful he was almost _nauseous_ with it. "Are we all clear outside?" Garrus called over the radio.

"All clear," came a female pilot's voice. Rel frowned. That turian voice sounded familiar, somehow. _Maybe someone I've worked with before,_ he thought, and then dismissed it. "Landing atop the barn again and going dark."

In the silence after the battle, the weeping and screaming of the children was particularly heart-rending. Rel's hands were still _shaking_ with adrenaline, though, so he contented himself with looking out the windows. Making sure there were no more incoming yahg.

One of the marines standing over the male's ravaged body was Gallian himself, who was shaking his head and turning away now. Rel looked at the marine centurion as he came over to join the rest of their little group. "No hope?" he asked.

Gallian shook his head, silently, as behind them, the medics sighed and unpacked a plastic sheet to drape over the body.

Garrus looked at Gallian now. "Any luck getting through to Laetia?" he asked.

Gallian shook his head. "Hell of a lot of jamming," the male replied, tapping the side of his head, where the chip was. "Last I heard from her was as we were dropping. There's a big damned mine field between us and them, too. So even if I _could_ get through to her, calling up air support or asking for extraction might take them more than a minute or two. Especially if they've shut down engines to remain stealthy."

Garrus nodded. "So any way we go, we need that comm relay to boost our signal and act as a repeater."

Rinus shook his head now. "Taking the comm relay without the gunships might be problematic. They fire over eight hundred rounds a minute from their forward guns. One bullet per inch dispersion pattern. Us? Not so much."

"We still need to scout," Rel pointed out. "We won't know what we'll need to take that place or the power station until we at least _look_."

Garrus nodded. "Any suggestions on how we go about looking?"

"Send me," Seheve said, quietly, following Garrus down the steps from the catwalk above the factory floor.

Garrus shook his head. "Not alone. Too risky."

"I cannot make someone else walk with the same stealth as I possess." Seheve bowed her head to Garrus respectfully. "For someone to accompany me _to_ the communications relay is wise, however. But getting inside? Relaying information back to you? Let those be my tasks."

Garrus studied Seheve intently. "All right," he said, after a moment. "Rinus. Melaani. Take Seheve and Rel and one of the Hammerheads. Get to the outside of the comm relay station, look for a way to slip Seheve inside, and Seheve? See what there is to see. Don't get caught or killed, please."

"That _would_ be bad," Rinus acknowledged, and the four of them clambered into one of the two Hammerheads. Rinus immediately got into the driver's seat, and said, "Rel? You're on turret duty."

It was almost a relief to go back to taking Rinus' directions. Rel tucked into the gun seat, and flicked on the night-vision cameras that would let him see heated objects clearly with infrared, as well as enhancing what little light came from Shanxi's moon tonight to pick out the landscape around them.

Melaani noted, as they bounced over the rough terrain, "It might have been better to have taken the opportunity for sleep."

"We do need to get word to the fleet about what we're seeing on the ground. Coordinate with them what kind of equipment to drop with the rest of the marines. And where to drop them," Rel pointed out, quickly.

"I think you'll find that given a chance to do something, or do nothing, my second-brother here will choose to do _something_ every chance he gets," Rinus commented, calmly.

Rel frowned. "Of course I do," he called back down into the main cabin.

"That wasn't an insult," Rinus replied. "That was just a statement of fact."

The communications array was a vast field of radio dishes and two large FTL receivers and transmitters, each the size of an old-fashioned radio telescope. This was how and where Shanxi citizens received their extranet signals. . .or at least, where Xi'an had. At the moment, the facility, enclosed by a tall chain link fence surmounted with barbed wire, was largely dark, like the rest of Xi'an. "No power," Rel muttered.

"They should have backup generators," Rinus replied, still calm. "Just a question of finding them."

"Or we cut to the chase and restore power and _then_ bring up the comms," Mel offered, peering out the window of the Hammerhead through night goggles.

Rinus snorted. "Tall order. It's one thing if the yahg have just thrown a few switches somewhere. Entirely something else if they've cut hard lines or damaged equipment. Believe me, I'm _good_ with weapons and explosives, but power grids and power plants are someone _else's_ playground, not mine. I wouldn't even know where to _start._"

Melaani sighed. "Now _there's_ a depressing thought. The people who know how to fix it, could be dead already."

"There," Seheve said now, quietly, pointing at a section of fence. "There is my entrance."

Rel stared at it. "What makes that any different than the rest?"

"It has been used for this purpose before," Seheve told him. "Look. The bottom curls outwards slightly. Also, it is a down-wind approach. I do not know if these many-eyed yahg are scent-hunters, but it is wise to be cautious. Give me an hour, and keep the vehicle out of sight."

Melaani gave the drell a direct look. "And what happens if you're _not_ back in an hour?"

"Then I will be dead," Seheve replied, with perfect composure.

"No," Melaani told her, with matching composure. "Because we'll be going with you inside the fence line."

And as Seheve started to object, Rinus nodded. "At least one of us will," he added, with some force. "None of us can hide as you can, Seheve. But you're not going in completely alone, either. That's final."

Seheve sighed and lowered her head. "As you wish, Spectres," she murmured. "But I cannot do this with people clattering about behind me."

Rinus pointed at Rel. "Go with her. Watch her back, and make sure she can get out safely again."

Rel nodded, immediately. There was good sense here. "And don't go any further than Seheve can safely take you. At least there shouldn't be alarms or vid cameras." Rinus' smile was tart. "Loss of power cuts both ways."

Rel took a deep breath as Seheve hopped out the hatch ahead of him, then looked back at Rinus and Melaani. "Is it that she'd _welcome_ dying, or is it that it doesn't _bother_ her, do you think?" he asked softly after a moment. "Either way, it makes me wonder how safe it is to work with her."

Rinus moved the Hammerhead back into the cover of the trees around the fence line now. "I don't know, _fradu_," he commented, lightly. "I think she's just as safe for me to work with, as you are."

Rel's head snapped towards Rinus, and his eyes narrowed. That could be taken as either an affirmation in Seheve's trustworthiness. . . or a suggestion that Rel was less than trustworthy himself now.

Melaani raised a finger before Rel could retort, however. "I think, before, she would have welcomed death," the asari said. "Since the return from the Citadel, she seems different. As if her steps have purpose now. I . . . don't know quite how to put it. As if light was put into her, like a candle being lit within a lantern, I suppose." The asari shrugged. "I asked her what they'd all seen. She said 'life.' And then she stopped and _smiled_, and corrected herself. "Lives. Life and lives and light.''

Rinus offered Rel his wrist to clasp. "_Come back safe, __fradu_."

"_Spirits keep you."_ Rel hopped out of the Hammerhead himself now, and followed Seheve's short form through the shrubs and tall grass at the edge of the forest, dropping down to crawl the last few meters with her to the fence. Every sense was now attuned. This was the hunt. The perfect hunt, really. Where discovery could mean death, and the reward for success was continued life.

No sights. No smells. No sounds. Just the sultry midsummer breeze. Shanxi's seasons were the opposite of Mindoir's. Seheve lifted the bottom edge of the fence, and they rolled under, making for the closest radio dish, and cover. Several times as they moved closer to the buildings at the heart of the field, she put out a hand and stopped him from moving forward. And a moment later, Rel would hear the sounds. Footsteps. Heavy ones. He froze, as if hiding from an _acrocanth_, and the footsteps moved away, and Seheve motioned them forward again. Patiently. Radio dish by radio dish, until they reached the darkened buildings.

Her huge eyes were an undeniable asset in the darkness, he realized, as she checked the door, which was actually loose on its hinges, and let them inside. Drell were a crepuscular to nocturnal species, of course. _She_ could see in the dark, where _he_ had to rely on the night vision. "Stay here," Seheve whispered in a stairwell. "I will return shortly, and lead you forwards."

Crouching in the darkened building, every sense attuned to danger, was nerve-wracking, but whole new _shipments_ of adrenaline were flooding into his veins. Rel heard the door at the top of the stairs slide open and shut, and, not daring to ready a gun in the building, slid Dara's knife out of his wrist-sheath. Ready to kill with it, if needed. It was a comforting weight in his hand. As if her spirit were still with him. At least a little bit. Just touching the hilt calmed him.

And then a hand closed on his wrist and Rel lashed out with the blade, instinctively, and found his knife-hand deflected. "Perhaps," Seheve whispered, "we should arrange a signal next time?"

Rel allowed his muscles to relax, and felt downright foolish. "Up the stairs," she whispered now, "and to the right. It seems to be the generator room. Perhaps we can decipher the instructions together? My grasp of human languages in their written form is limited to English."

It took fifteen minutes to get the generators up and running, and Rel _winced_ as emergency lights turned on everywhere in the building. "If any yahg are in the building, they'll know something's up," he muttered.

"Agreed. We must work quickly." Seheve flickered into her stealth field again, and led him back out of the generator room. Down two floors. . . to the left. . . he had _no_ idea how she was keeping track of where they were. All the floors looked the same, light or no light. "Control room," Seheve whispered, pointing. "I found it earlier."

They crept inside, and once more, worked at deciphering the directions, using VI translators as best they could. "We're almost at an hour right _now_," Rel muttered.

"Yes, but now, I think we may contact the Spectres directly," Seheve murmured, and pointed at his omnitool. "The array should allow us to punch through the jamming."

Rel's eyes widened slightly in appreciation, and keyed up the Spectre encrypted radio band. "This is Velnaran, anyone read me?"

"We read you." Rinus' voice replied, quickly. "Status?"

"Comm relay operating on emergency power," Seheve said over Rel's shoulder. "We can get one to two FTL transmissions out."

"You were supposed to be _scouting_," Garrus said, dryly, cutting in on the conversation.

"And the building is, for the moment, largely empty," Seheve replied softly and serenely, "but the longer we delay in sending a message, the greater the likelihood of being caught."

"Very well. Contact the _Catasta_ and the _Lafayette_—that's the lead troop transport ship. Tell them to use the comm station as a relay to us for the next hour or so. We need them to do scans of the power plant, to tell us if it's unstable or not. Tell them that we're going to need marines sent in, in _force_. Don't bother bringing pistols. Bring heavy weapons. RPGs. _Malleolus_ shoulder-mounted missiles. Arc projectors, flame throwers. Assault rifles with incendiary ammunition. And tell them to land outside the spaceport, if possible, and to retake it and the shipyards."

Seheve's fingers were already flying over the comm panels, and Rel moved to the door now, himself, to listen for movement. "Message sent," Seheve whispered.

"Good. Now get your tails out of there," Garrus said over the comm line, and ended the transmission.

"Have we erred?" Seheve whispered, frowning slightly. "I would have thought that they would welcome initiative."

Rel rubbed a hand over his fringe. "Generally, yes. But perhaps not from the two of us."

Seheve's eyes widened slightly, and she tilted her head to the side. "I see." She slid the door open, and peeked out into the hall quickly. "This way."

As she led him through the now-dimly lit halls once more, Rel had a few brief moments to reflect on Melaani's earlier words. Seheve _had_ come back from the Citadel changed, Rel realized. She no longer used the self-effacing 'this one.' And while her speech remained profoundly formal and polite, and remained as oddly, even disquietingly serene as before, there was a _difference_ to her. Rel again _wished_, fruitlessly, that he'd been _there_ for the awakening of the Keepers. It had clearly touched everyone who had been there, though none, perhaps, as much as Seheve.

Waiting alone in the darkness of a stairwell again, listening for movement, Rel stared into the shadows, wondering if any image would occur to him. If he could see her spirit. A small, dim flash. A figure with furled wings, hooded, face concealed, but carrying a lit torch. The name came to him from the depths of memory. _Ananke_. Goddess of necessity, purpose. Not quite fate. Rel shook the fragment of vision away. It didn't make any more sense than the rest of them did. Why paint a snake, squeezing a hand tightly, binding it? Another quick flash. Dara's statue of Hygeia, given to her by Shepard at their wedding. Snake coiled around one wrist, just as he'd carved it in their spirit statue. Healing and wisdom, the snake was supposed to be. . . but the one he saw inside himself, sometimes, seemed to be neither. And the serpent _bound_ that hand. Tied it, constrained it. . . kept it from acting, with coils made of its own flesh.

Teetering on the brink of realization, Rel's moment of distraction came to an end as he heard, again, a door click in the distance. Light footsteps, the most audible ones Seheve had made all evening, and then she caught his arm. "Down," she whispered. "Quickly!"

They _ran_ down the steps now, and out the shattered door. Moved behind one of the radio antennae arrays behind the building. . . just as another vehicle moved up in front of it. Rel froze again, trying to remain absolutely still. There were foot patrols among the dishes, and they were now effectively upwind of at least half of them. And with the vehicle being here, the yahg might well be more alert now, than before.

He could hear the doors open. Couldn't see what was going on without peeking around the curving edge of the radio dish in front of him, and didn't quite dare to do that.

Sharp turian ears picked up a whimper. Human noise, that. Prey-sound. Rel's fingers locked inside of his gloves, curled into fists. _What the hell?_ he thought, wanting more than ever to peek out and around.

A dull roar filled the air. The whimpers picked up in intensity, followed by the unmistakable sound of pleading in a human voice. Multiple voices now, a babble. Male and female alike. Rel couldn't understand the language, but he understood the _tone._ Footsteps as various yahg moved up out of the transmitter field. They moved quickly, when there was a need, apparently. Rel's luck held; none came from directly behind them, thanks be to the spirits.

He couldn't stand it anymore. He peered, cautiously, around the corner of the dish, and saw that there were six yahg present, all in full armor. There were also six humans, who'd apparently been transported here in the large vehicle. The humans were clinging to one another, clearly terrified, and who could blame them?

"Start moving," Seheve whispered, tugging at Rel's wrist. Back by another radio dish. Then another. Cautiously watching the drama unfold ahead of them, while trying not to be caught up in it, themselves. The largest yahg raised his hands over his head, and began to shout in their unintelligible language. That went on for a while. Then, when Rel and Seheve were close to the fence, the largest yahg reached out. Grabbed a prisoner. And shoved her. Shouted a single word in rough-voiced galactic. "Run!"

She stood, gawking at him. "Run!" the yahg repeated, and took a rifle from one huge shoulder, pointing it at her. "Run, or die. Run. Die anyway."

Rel's acute hearing could pick up every word. _Oh, spirits,_ he thought, suddenly having a very bad inkling as to what was about to happen. _Please, no._

The girl turned and ran. Screaming. The largest yahg pointed at one of his followers, and gestured. _His,_ Rel interpreted the gesture. The second yahg roared, and turned to give chase. The largest yahg allocated one more human to each of his followers. Then turned on the last one himself.

Rel froze, once more in cover, peering through the chain link fence. Unable to move, and not daring to close his eyes or look away.

The yahg were _hunting_ the humans. He could see it in how they moved. The humans were effectively penned in, caged, in the giant fence enclosure. Running themselves into exhaustion. The yahg teased them. Played with them. Jumped atop the dishes and jumped down after their prey. Sprang out from behind the dishes. Grabbed them, let them start to get away. . . and then charged, using their full speed now. Landing, full body weight atop the small, frail human forms, pinning them down with heavy legs. . . and then leaned down for the kill.

Rel was _shaking_ now, and he wanted to howl. Wanted to scream. Wanted to raise his gun and just start firing, and not stop until he ran out of bullets. But all he could do was _watch_, as, intolerably enough, the galaxy's most formidable predators began to feed.

He wasn't quite sure how they made it back to the Hammerhead. Just knew that he'd managed to hold down the urge to vomit until they'd reached its safety, and gotten his helmet off. He wasn't the only one using the waste receptacles. Rinus and Melaani were both gagging and Rel could see rage in their eyes, even over the nausea. Seheve, quiet and practical, was _not_ gagging. Not throwing up. Her expression was not, however, serene for once. She had a cold cast to her face, an expression of total resolve, as she helped each of them deal with their gorge. "I have seen light and life," Seheve whispered. "The memories of the Keepers. I have seen evil. I have _done_ evil. But nothing quite so vile as this."

Rel lifted his head. Looked at Rinus. "_We're_ predators—" _If I had been close enough to smell the flesh, the innards, would I have drooled over it like a fresh-cooked __apaterae__ roast? Or would my body have recognized levo, and toxic? Worse. . .would mate-smell and food-smell have combined?_ Rel shuddered and tried not to think about _that._

"Not like that," Rinus replied instantly, his own voice thick. "We hunt. Many still take pleasure in the hunt, in testing themselves and their abilities against prey and other predators. But we don't hunt other sapients. We don't _eat_. . . " He turned his head, took a deep breath, and visibly steadied himself. Rel was having a hard time, himself. Red flesh. Red and white entrails. Screams in human voices, agony, finally ending in choked cries.

"This would be a bad time to suggest that now we know why they do not have supply ships or supply lines?" Seheve said, quietly.

Melaani winced. "Seheve. . . how can you. . . ?" The asari shuddered, and managed to get her face under control again.

The drell looked at them all, eyes wide and curious. "Because while I know that what I have seen is vile, and I will surely see it again and again whenever I think of this day for the rest of my life, the . . . mechanics of it. . . do not disturb me, I suppose." The drell moved up, agilely, into the Hammerhead's pilot seat. "They seem quite well distracted by their feast. We should leave now, while their senses are lulled by their gorged bellies." Seheve turned on the engine, and began moving them, practically and quietly, out of the area.

By the time Seheve got them back to the mech factory, the last of the adrenaline had burned off, leaving nothing but ashes and emptiness inside of Rel. Lantar and Garrus listened to their dull-voiced report, describing the yahg's hunt, the delight they'd taken in tearing into the victim's body before feeding. . . . and Rel could see _something_ click inside of both of the older males. Where before, they'd been combat-ready veterans, calm and competent, now, it was as if a light had gone out in both of them. Rel had seen both of them in combat before. The Lystheni compound on Garvug. A year on Lantar's ship. He'd seen work-face. He hadn't really realized that there was more than just that. He'd _heard_ them call each other Archangel and Nemesis. But hadn't really realized what it meant. _That is Lantar's __mor'loci__ self,_ he recognized, finding a place to sit down, tiredly. _And that would be my uncle's other self, too. The one I caught only a glimpse of, once, in my grandfather's backyard._ _And this is different from me?_

"Were you followed?" Garrus asked, sharply.

"I did not see pursuit," Seheve replied, evenly. "However, it is very likely that they are aware by now that someone was in the building. The emergency generators were left on, as was the comm relay. Whether any yahg hunt by scent is unknown."

Garrus nodded. "We'll assume that they'll be able to track you at least to the Hammerhead. That means they'll probably be here soon. . . possibly in force."

Rinus groaned, just barely audibly. Rel was forced to agree. Turian stamina was one thing, but they'd been moving and fighting and moving again for hours now. . . and while the medics had given him something for the pain of his cracked ribs, Rel still ached from head to toe. Especially now that the adrenaline high was gone. "So, we have two choices," Lantar assessed. "We can wait here to be attacked again. Or we can move these people and attack, ourselves." Cool, clipped words. And yet he looked at Garrus as if he already knew what the answer would be. One mind in two bodies. _Or in three, if Sam were here,_ Rel realized, distantly.

Jiang, spokesperson for the refugees, was trying to follow the conversation on his omnitool, shook his head vehemently. "_We will remain here. We have gotten forty or fifty of the mechs operational. We will protect ourselves. If we go with you, we will only slow you down, or go into more danger than we will find here."_ There was dignity and determination in his words, and after a moment, Garrus nodded and gave him a wrist-clasp.

"Can't guarantee that it'll still only be six yahg when we go back there," Melaani warned.

"Understood, but we can't just sit here with these people and wait to be attacked." Garrus looked around. "Gallian, you still have contact with Laetia?" he asked.

The centurion looked off into the mid-distance, eyes blank for a moment. Then he shook his head. "Jamming's back. Which means the comm relay is back down."

_S'kak. All that work for nothing._

Garrus turned towards the marines who were in the mech factory with them, and who'd listened to the reports of the Spectres and Spectre candidates with expressions of disbelief and horror. "Listen up, folks. I know we're all tired. But one more push tonight. Then we can rest a bit."

Gallian cleared his throat. "With respect, Spectre? I don't know if the yahg would _eat_ a turian. But the smell of death might get their attention." He jerked his head at the plastic-wrapped body of the fallen marine, which lay to the side of the factory floor. "With permission, I'd like to get a graves detail going."

Garrus nodded. "Make it quick. And mark it, so we can retrieve the body for the family and the spirits later." He paused. "Rel? Help him, would you?"

So they found part of the ground outside the factory outside that _wasn't_ capped over with cement, and started digging. Rel had no idea why his uncle had deputized him. _I've seen death before. I don't need a reminder that it happens in combat, or that life is fragile_, he thought as he dug, his ribs protesting each movement with the field shovel he was using. _If I didn't realize that already, watching those things __tear__ people apart and __eat__ them would have reinforced the knowledge_. And when he straightened up, he found himself looking at a centurion in gray armor, with azure stripes. Almost at eye level, in fact, and she wore a blue mask of paint, with a single white stripe down the nose. Bostra Outpost, then. . . and a pilot. "Commander Velnaran?" she asked, and her voice was familiar.

Rel squinted at her, and thought, _Damn, she's the tallest female I've ever seen, except for. . . oh, wait a minute. . . _"Kassa? Kassa Vilnius?" She'd been in his squads back in boot camp. Had taken care of some of his worse discipline issues for him.

"As my heart beats and I take breath, yes." She smiled quickly.

"I had no idea you were with us." Rel was surprised, to say the least.

"I've been flying dropships and gunships for five years. Most recent posting was the _Estallus_. Nice change after two troop transports and two different _Leviathans_." She took the shovel from his slack grip, and started digging now, herself. Same old Kassa. No nonsense, take-charge.

Oddly, it was comforting to see her. A piece of his past. Someone he'd led successfully, and who didn't necessarily know all his current problems. Someone he knew he could count on, who'd have his back. They didn't exchange many more words; they just worked, and then settled the body and its detached arms into the shallow grave. Gallian settled a reflective marker on the grave, so it could be easily located when the time came, and they headed back in, finding their vehicles.

It was almost dawn when they moved out, one more time. Rel was tired when they reached the array, but reached down deep for one last draught of stamina, one final reserve. The vehicle was gone, and there were only _five_ yahg accounted for by the end of the fight. The large one, the leader, had left again. Possibly to pursue _them_.

But the comm relay was back in their hands, and well-guarded now.

The next day was worse.

Sleep hadn't come easily. He was used to sleeping after combat. Had gotten to a point where, when he had a chance for nest time, he could nod off immediately. It had taken him some tossing and turning, because the pictures in his mind, soft human flesh being rent and eaten, and the screams, would not _go away_. Rel finally disciplined his mind, and fell asleep. And directly into spirit-dreams. All of his human friends and family, and the hybrids. . . here on Shanxi. Aunt Lilu, Amara, Kaius, Elissa, Alain, Dara, Eli, Ellie, Caelia, Tacitus, Emily, Sam, Kasumi, and Takeshi. Little glimpses of each of them, being hunted. Unable to reach each in time. The children eaten, first, heads bitten right off as a yahg seized them from behind trees in the dark forests of the spirit-world. Shepard held out against four yahg, but was overwhelmed, limbs being torn off her body. Ellie screamed for Lantar, and held onto Caelia and the little ones, refusing to let the yahg take them, but they were overwhelmed. Merciful darkness, and then, the dream shifted, subtly. Eli and Dara were the last two standing, and Rel watched them run. He was confused, because now, he wasn't the one trying to catch up to them, before the yahg could reach them.

He was _hunting_ them.

He threw Eli into a tree, and then landed on Dara, knocking her to the ground, and started to bite her. Harder than he'd ever done before. He'd drawn blood on her with control-bites before, but this was different. He was tearing into her flesh now, heard her begging him to stop, but these were _prey _-_sounds_ and she smelled and tasted so _good_. . . .

Rel woke up from _that_ one panting and sick. He'd _never_ had a spirit-dream like that before. _That was a warning,_ he decided. _A warning not to become the yahg, I think._ A spirit-caller might be able to divine more. Rel put his face down in his hands. _What would a human make of that dream, I wonder?_

Shaking a little, he'd lain back down. Closed his burning eyes, and what felt like an eyeblink later, the yahg were attacking the comm relay building. In force.

The marines had been _busy_, however, and had rigged explosive charges all around the building. They were still pinned down in a firefight for about three hours, until the _Estallus_ streaked in overhead and laid down some fire just outside the building. "We can't stay here," Garrus decided. "We've just lit the damn sky up. Gallian, while you've got contact with Laetia, any requests from the joint task force?"

Gallian's eyes went blank again. "She says that they've landed marines at New Wuhan, New Shenzhen, and New Jinan. They've also landed human and turian marines to the east of the spaceport, as you requested."

"How many?"

"Five thousand." Gallian shrugged. "Four major cities on the planet, Spectre. All of them occupied by yahg. Two transports with ten thousand troops a piece. Five thousand's . . . well. Given what we've seen of the yahg. . . " The centurion trailed off, looking out the window at the smoking remains of the corpses. Fifty yahg had attacked the building, which had at least been _fortified_ this time. The marines had had time to prepare. Rig explosive charges. Set up mortars on the roof. Get the gunships into the air again. And it had still taken thirty-five people three hours to repel fifty yahg. . . and half the damned radio dishes were now damaged, the building was on fire in various places, and one of the Hammerheads was now damaged.

The question then became, _Where next?_ If the yahg were coordinating all their movements from a central leadership, which surely seemed likely, given that they _seemed_ to have a pack mentality, there had to be a command post. Somewhere. Admiral Hackett, who was in charge of joint fleet operations, asked them to look for that command post. While the yahg were nicely distracted from Spectre operations by the huge firefight that was, apparently, going on at the east side of the city. But their first priority, now, was the power plant. They were to _take_ the damned thing, and then the fleet could drop in technicians capable of getting power back to ten million residents. . . hopefully without any shorts in the power grid starting fires anywhere in the city. . . so that hospitals could get back online. . . assuming any doctors and nurses were _in_ any of the hospitals to treat patients, that is. So that communication could function regularly. So that they could use the damned cameras in the Shanxi security net to figure out where the yahg actually were. The fleet ships could get a clear line of sight on _some_ of their movements with orbital cameras, but the security grid would also be a help.

"At least we know that the power plant isn't about to explode," Rinus offered, dryly.

"Yes, but they want us, with thirty-five people, to take the damned thing back." Garrus was looking at the images transmitted over Gallian's chip, now being displayed on the marine's omnitool. Maps of the power station, among other things. "There's got to be another fifty to a hundred yahg in there. That's one thing if we're defending. Quite another thing to be going into their territory after them."

"The _Estallus_ was able to drop us more ammunition," Lantar pointed out. "Everyone who can carry one, has a heavy weapon now. That's a help."

Garrus looked grim. "Won't do us a lot of good to take the place, if _we_ wind up setting it on fire or destabilizing the reactor, now will it?"

"I'll be sure not to point the Blackstorm at anything that looks delicate," Lantar replied.

The fight to take the damned power plant took five _full days._ Every time they'd get a foothold, the yahg would retaliate. Would receive reinforcements, usually from behind. The gunship pilots were damned busy—the more so, when the yahg started sending in their own armored personnel carriers, which had turrets, similar to a Mako's. One of the gunships crashed, killing the pilot instantly—Rel was hugely relieved to discover it _hadn't_ been Kassa, actually.

The Spectres lost five people in the first two days, and then got reinforcements in the form a platoon of fifty human marines, detached from the main force to the east, who drove around the outskirts of the city in their Makos, trying to stay out of sight, before finally making it to the plant. Someone in orbit had taken out the jamming buoys two days before, so they had at least _some_ radio contact with the other forces and with the ships above the planet, but it was still _very_ hard coordinating everything and everyone.

With more bodies to throw at the problem, they finally _took_ the damned power station, clearing it of yahg, on June 25. It was Rel's suggestions as a tactical leader that let them take the station; he proposed a distraction team on one side, the side they'd been hitting the most anyway. . . and a second team, coming in from the roof. It worked. They caught the yahg between the two sides of their forces, and proceeded to, slowly, wear them down.

As they proceeded to haul out the bodies—first, their own dead and injured, and then those of the dead yahg through rooms now riddled with bullet holes, Rel felt almost completely hollow and empty. Total exhaustion, at the moment. . . but, with it, the faint surge of _iunkunditas_ that he so loved. The feeling of a job well done was tempered, however, with the _cost_ of it.

Outside the building, Rel crouched down near the fence line, looking to the east over the whole of Xi'an's big valley. Smoke, still. Everywhere. Plumes coming from buildings all over Xi'an. Hanging over the city center, though what could possibly be _left_ to burn there, Rel had no idea. Periodic wisps of it over warehouses and residential areas. The early afternoon sunlight was so bright and warm and _happy_, it felt like a mockery.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and Rel jerked, turning towards the source, pulling up when he realized who it was. Rinus lifted both hands now, a quick, placating gesture. "It's a hell of a sight, isn't it?"

Rel shook his head and stared out over the valley. "I thought the yahg were supposed to be smart. What's their motivation in all this, Rinus? Do they just want to . . . hunt? To feed? To break things?"

Rinus shook his head. "They _are_ pretty damned smart. Technologically backwards, maybe. Every piece of equipment they've had, so far, has been batarian-made, except for their armor and weapons. Those, they had to have made themselves. Not modern alloys, and had to be sized to their bodies. Even their guns, when they have them, is of their own manufacture. But their shields? Their tech gear? That's all batarian-manufactured. So. . . backwards, technologically. But tactically? They've gone after all the points of the city that people _need_ in a modern society. They cut power and communications first thing. Wrecked the train grid to make sure people would have trouble getting out of the city, took the spaceport, and set the inner city ablaze, which is where all the governmental buildings and employees were. Not dumb moves."

Rel shook his head. "Yeah, was a good start_._ But they haven't been moving towards a _goal_ since then."

"How would we know?" Rinus shrugged. "We've been mired down here in _this_ problem, _fradu_. We have no _idea_ what they're doing out there in the city. Next time we actually get just one yahg. . . and if he speaks galactic. . . want to ask him for his leaders' motivations and plans?" Rinus' voice was actually a little teasing.

Rel found himself snorting. But his eyes stayed fixed on the city. _If I were a yahg leader, where would I be hiding?_ he thought. _I wouldn't be. I would keep moving. A fixed position is vulnerable. And we know they're. . . hunters. Of a sort. He'd want to hunt, too. Has to lead from the front, to maintain the respect of those in his pack, probably. Where would he be?_

"_Fradu?_"

Only then, did Rel realize that Rinus had continued speaking to him. "Sorry, first-brother. I was. . . thinking."

"Already moving on to the next problem?"

"Someone has to."

"Someone _is_. Garrus and Lantar. Come on. You need to rest." They'd been getting by with two, three hours of sleep for the last week, perhaps. Rel knew his body _needed_ the rest. Needed food, too, and they at least had real MREs this afternoon, not the highly-concentrated food pastes they'd been subsisting on all week. The turians and humans alike were almost giddy with exhaustion, but a handful remained on duty, watching the perimeter, while the others took a break for food. Warmth. Companionship. Trials faced and challenges passed. _Iunkunditas._ Melaani's arm was in a sling from a bad encounter with a yahg yesterday; the bone had been broken, and the medics needed power supplies for their bone knitters. Seheve's face was splashed with yahg blood, but she was washing it off now as the others began eating. She could slip in behind the damned beasts, and had finally found a poison that seemed to work on them, much to her quietly-expressed satisfaction. Rel wasn't going to complain. Anything that made them hit the ground faster was _fine_ with him right now. Kassa and the other surviving gunship pilot came over and sat with the rest of them as well. Everyone was ignoring the distinctions of rank, for the moment. Just sitting and eating quietly. Outside. In the sunshine. Pretending not to look towards the smoke over Xi'an.

The turians in particular, once they'd eaten, had other things on their minds. They were safe, for the moment, they'd won, for the moment, and their bellies were full. There weren't many couples, and there wasn't time, but Rel couldn't _help_ but notice which ones had their feet locked behind their mate's spurs. _I'm here. I'm with you._ Acute longing for his own mate right now. It had been there every night, of course, but it was particularly bad right now. Rel growled under his breath and redirected his mind, turning once more to look out over the valley once more, trying to _picture_ where the yahg were. Where their leader was. To _think_ like a yahg, which was distasteful.

Behind him, he heard Rinus ask Garrus, "Any word from the other teams?"

"Gris arrived in-system yesterday. Brought Grunt with him. Wrex is sending krogan teams to Omega, first. People he can actually order around, basically. Then building a volunteer army for the colonies." Garrus nodded now, as Rel's head turned.

"How are the Omega teams doing?" Rinus asked, as if only mildly curious.

Information was _tightly_ controlled for black ops teams. Personal messages were not quite forbidden, but it wasn't as if they had _time_ for letter-writing. And even when they did have time, it was heavily restricted. Rel was used to that, from the _Estallus_, the _Nereia_, the _Raedia_, and the _Sollostra._ For months, while Dara had been at OCS, and he'd been out in the fleet, no more than a letter a month from him had gone out, usually carefully phrased to avoid the automatic VI redactions. Since then, it hadn't really been an issue. The occasional letter home to his parents, and that had been that. It hadn't even bothered him in the last week. He'd wished Dara were here. . . and then, after seeing the yahg feast on human flesh, and the spirit-dreams after that. . . had been just as glad she wasn't. He wasn't sure if he could have met her eyes. Or what he'd have seen in hers, if he had met them.

Garrus just shrugged at Rinus' question. "Lilu says they're reporting progress. Took the last of the docking bays yesterday. They're working with OSF and residents and Harak, of course. No fatalities on the teams."

Lantar leaned back against the wall of the building they were sitting beside. "That's just B-ring, though," he noted, quietly. "Omega's got fourteen more levels up from there. All probably in chaos right now."

Rel snorted a little under his breath. "At least we know they've got the easier set of problems to deal with," he said, shortly.

Garrus' head turned. "Not really," his uncle told him, his tone mild. "We've got five thousand support troops on the other side of this valley. We've got supply drops, and ships in orbit we can call on for help."

Lantar looked up at the sky, and his voice was dark as he added, "They've got nine people they _know_ they can trust, an AI on their side, and god only knows what else on Omega. Knowing Omega. . . things could get bad. Very quickly."

"Knowing Omega?" Garrus snorted. "Nemesis. . . _dimicato'fradu_. . . .knowing Omega? Things already _are_ bad there." He looked at Lantar steadily. "Your son will be fine. Orpheus won't let you down."

**Elijah, Omega, June 18-25, 2196**

The last week had been a kind of living hell that Eli kept thinking he _might_ wake up from, if he just tried hard enough. They'd taken refuge in the Synthetic Insights building, in the old Afterlife area, and hunkered down with the residents and workers who were in the building with them. They moved the captives from the cages into the building's inner rooms, and took stock of them. Most were in shock. Crying, reaching out, grabbing onto the Spectres' hands, arms, legs, anything they could to convey gratitude. Siara and Dara were _very_ busy, trying to figure out who was hurt worst, and Eli and Lin were pressed into service as orderlies, more or less. _Move that one over there_ or _bring me a syringe and the vial of sedative from my kit_ became very common phrases for a while there. And the captives' stories, even just jagged phrases of them. . . Eli listened. Absorbed. Tried to be a reassuring, calm presence, but _god_ it was hard. Not a few of the females _flinched_ when he reached out to touch them, and it didn't take a lot of imagination to understand _why_. Rape was a _very_ common method of breaking down a new slave's psychology. It made it clear to them that they were now a _thing_. Eli's jaw clenched, and he did his best to keep his body language unthreatening. Comforting. And avoided touching the people who clearly pulled away, more than a light, impersonal touch to the shoulders, anyway.

Shoulders were okay to touch. Heads? Not so much. Many of the captives had already had chips implanted. Dara and Siara both had identical expressions of cold rage on their faces when they got done with four or five hours of working through the captives. Getting them all as comfortable as possible, in an inner room that was filled with desks and file cabinets and office supplies.

Siara moved out of that room into the main one, where the armed citizens and the Spectres were hunkered down, for the moment, and sat down next to Makur, who was going through a pile of weapons, shields, and armor pieces recovered from the batarian bodies out in the street. "I wasn't particularly fond of batarians before today," Siara said, grimly. "Two years of them trying to assassinate Harak over my dead body will do that. But now. . . " Her cobalt eyes were very, very cold indeed.

_It makes you think of what your second-mother did to you when you were a child, and helpless,_ Eli realized, but kept his mouth shut. Siara carried her own burdens, and wouldn't relish having them opened and aired before strangers.

"You're. . . shit. Yeah. Now I recognize you," one of the krogan present said, startled. "Whenever Harak came through the offices, you were with him, asari." He stared at her for a long moment, taking in the Spectre armor, the relaxed pose as Siara lounged against Makur. "You look a hell of a lot different all of a sudden."

"I was in disguise," Siara informed him with aplomb. "I was supposed to look less dangerous."

The krogan present studied her. "I don't know. I think you look dangerous either way."

Makur chuckled, and continued to sort through the pile of equipment. "Good answer."

Siara looked at him. "What are you _doing_?" she finally asked.

Makur jerked his chin at Kirrahe. "Salarian thinks Cat is in too much danger of being _shot_. Thinks he can rig up a shield generator to a _collar_ and _protect_ the animal." Makur shrugged.

"Do you really wish the beast to be hurt?" Orlan asked, sharply.

"No. Just think the chances of Cat _wearing_ the collar for more than two minutes are very, very slim."

Siara smiled, very slightly. "Ask Snowflake nicely. I would myself, but I don't heal up nearly so well as you do."

Eli had listened to all this with half an ear as Dara had found an overturned file cabinet to sit on. All the wrecked office equipment was giving him _bad_ flashes of a summer day on Mindoir, a few years ago, when a fragment of a file cabinet just like this one had pieced through Kella's chest, killing the girl. Eli shook his head, clearing it of memories, and crouched down in front of Dara, whose face was white and set. "You okay?"

She shook her head. "No. But I will be. God, Eli. I _knew_ what batarian slavers do. . . but Valak—"

"Seems to be the exception to a lot of rules," Eli replied, quickly. "I don't suppose there's any chance you packed, I don't know. . . rape test kits?" He looked away. "Or if any real _point_ in testing any of them?"

Dara rubbed her face. "No official kits, no. I asked each person if they wanted me to take a swab, label it, and stick it in a sterile bag. It's not like we can _charge_ any of the batarians, Eli."

"Sure we can," Lin said, coming up beside them, turian hearing proving its worth again. "War crimes trials _after_ the war are still trials. Still need evidence."

"Won't be necessary if we just shoot the bastards first." Dara sighed and leaned back against the wall, giving Lin a tired look. "I left it up to the captives. Some of them were enough _themselves_ to be angry. Some of the others. . . didn't need me touching them." She winced.

Sam had come over at that point, and introduced them all to some of the office and dock workers hunkered down in the building with them. These people had been holding out for some time now against the batarians, and a few had wounds, which had been treated with basic first-aid skills, and thus, had been able to wait while Dara and Siara were taking care of the freed captives. Dara had started opening bandages and checking the wounds, while everyone talked.

Chrysa Vellimus turned out to be a landing bay supervisor in charge of half a dozen dockworkers who'd taken shelter here with her—two turians, two krogan, and two humans. Ulluthyr Urev was one of the office workers from DuroCorp, next door, who'd brought in a handful each of turians, humans, and krogan from _that_ set of offices. All of them had started out with pistols, and had broken into the Armax Armory offices next door to steal their working prototypes of advanced sniper rifles and assault weapons. Bullets and thermal clips weren't an issue, of course; any weapon could use the same ammunition as any other in this modern world. Which was a help. "We're _field-testing_ the weapons for them," Urev told them all, with distinctly krogan humor. "They should be _paying_ us for this."

That had given them fourteen more people and fourteen more weapons to work with, and every turian and krogan present had at least _some_ experience with weaponry. The human office workers had base competency with pistols, which meant that Sam allocated them to defending the building and covering the rest of them when they entered and exited the building; the one human with sniper rifle experience, Sam left atop the building, telling him to move around and change perches periodically to reduce the possibility of return fire.

"Is there any communication internal to the station at the moment?" Sam had asked.

"Some. We can still communicate omnitool to omnitool. Periodically, Harak gets word out via the station intercoms. I know, for example, that there's a _hell_ of a lot of fighting going on up on D ring," Chrysa said, arms folded over her chest. "My mate's up there. He's a Blue Suns representative. Merc bands are only allowed twenty members aboard the station at any one time at the moment. He managed to get me a message late yesterday that he and his . . . coworkers. . . are holed up in a bar with some Eclipse Sisters." Her eyes were cold and green behind her Sylgar Outpost mask of yellow paint. "I'd be up there myself fighting at his side if I could, but I can't _get_ there." She sighed. "Also, I don't really fight for a living. I was a storekeeper during my four years. I can still handle a gun, but I'm not . . . what he is."

Sam and Ylara had both frowned. "Sounds like they're making inroads, in spite of everything," Ylara muttered. "I wonder how far _up_ they've gotten."

Sam shook his head. "Doesn't matter how far _up_ they get. We control the docking bays, and they're trapped. We can hold them down in the station for weeks. Months, if we need to. Eventually, we'll find them all and get 'em. Or the residents will. I can't _imagine_ too many of them are _thrilled_ with the idea of the batarians coming in and taking the place over."

"Fuck no," Ulluthyr Urev snorted. "My clan leader's the leader of Omega. I have a _job_ that _doesn't_ involve getting shot at most days. Hell of a nice change from merc work."

Eli lifted his head, and asked, out of curiosity, "What _is_ your job here, anyway?"

"Accountant, believe it or not. I ran books for the, ah, Stonemaw for a while." Urev cleared his throat.

Eli's eyes widened. The Stonemaw were a krogan crime syndicate, affiliated with several clans. They provided muscle for other organized crime groups, but had gotten into illegal gambling and smuggling for a while. Urev snorted. "I was the only krogan who could do enough math to figure out figure out who the hell was cheating us, so Rullur Nahak knew who to kill. Now I'm a consultant for DuroCorp. Nice and legitimate, and I don't have to worry about where I sleep at night." Urev blinked red-tinged eyes at the rest of them. "And as far as I'm concerned, anyone with more than two eyes is a damn target right now."

Sam turned and looked at Cohort. "You getting anything from Pelagia?" he asked, directly.

Every civilian looked confused. "Pelagia?" one of the turians asked. "That would be the human girl, Harak's secretary?"

Siara laughed outright at that one. Chrysa snorted. "Let me guess. She's a Spectre, too?"

Siara shoulders shook in merriment, and she gave the turian female a bright, sharp smile. "Not at all."

Cohort, in the meantime, was reporting to Ylara and Sam, "Pelagia notes that OSF was overwhelmed during the first onslaught. They've been pushed back, level by level, but the batarians are starting to stretch thin. Each time they occupy a level, they must leave troops behind to hold it. They are finding the inhabitants. . . troublesome."

"How far into Omega have they penetrated?" Ylara asked.

"At least as far as L ring on the first day. P ring is the highest tier." Cohort tipped his head to the side again. "Heavy fighting reported on D, F, and H rings. Slavers reported on E, F, and I rings. OSF headquarters is on H ring. Largest concentration of officers remains there. They are mounting a spirited resistance." Cohort's eyeflaps twitched slightly.

Eli counted tiers in his head. They were on C ring. They would have to cut their way through four tiers to get to the Omega Security Forces troops currently pinned down. "Shit," he said, and looked at Sam. "We've got to get to them."

Sam held up a hand. "Pelagia have anything else for us, Cohort?"

The geth nodded, once. "She also indicates that she retains cameras in the docking bays, though the batarians have severed all external controls to the docking bay doors. She indicates that there are about two thousand more batarians in the various bays, preparing to enter the station, and more ships could dock as soon as existing ship slips are cleared. We could restore her control, or operate the doors manually."

Chrysa held up an urgent finger. "Wait. I _work_ the docking bays. There are _external controls_ for the hangar pressure doors?" She sounded slightly alarmed. "And Harak's _secretary_ has access to them?"

Siara snorted. "Pelagia's a bit more than his secretary."

"I don't care if he's screwing her, too. I'm concerned that some complete floozy might have _control over pressure hatches_ that vent into space—" Chrysa's tone had become a little more belligerent.

Cohort's body shifted, and he lifted his arm. He didn't _wear_ an omnitool, but he _did_ carry a complement of holographic projection tools and other equipment. So when he held out his hand, a tiny figure of a human female suddenly flickered there. And then Cohort spoke, and it was _not_ the geth's normal voice, but a soft female one that Eli found very appealing. "Excuse me, Spectres. Cohort's very kindly allowed me to use his body for the moment. I don't like to do this often, because the geth always seem to want to see what's behind my firewalls when I, for all intents and purposes, _possess_ them like this." Even the _body-language_ shifted, weight being placed more on one foot than the other, a hip shift. Everything suddenly _screamed_ that this was another _person_ speaking through Cohort now."What I told Spectre Cohort is correct. OSF is holding their ground. Harak is moving through the levels with a few detachments of Urdnot troops and is doing his best, with my aid, to hunt down loose packs of batarians. My main concern at this point is regaining control of the docking bays. Once I regain control of the hatches and the environmental systems down here, I can open the bays and vent the batarians out into space, as Harak has asked me to do. Unfortunately, I cannot do so without _hands_." The tiny avatar spread her own. "Will you do this for us, Spectres? It will mean fighting your way into all of the different landing bays on the C ring, getting to the controls, and, if you're unable to restore my connection, at least to open the bays manually, yourselves." She sighed. "I would recommend wearing full EVA-compatible suits and lashing yourselves down before that point, however."

Sam and Ylara looked at each other. "We can't let them get more reinforcements aboard," Sam said.

"How did they _get_ aboard in the first place?" Ylara asked.

"Stealthed ships," Pelagia answered, and that soft voice was _angry_. "They used breaching pods on some of the more exposed hangars, the ones that have metal walls that project out of the rock walls of the asteroid on which this place was built, and _cut_ their way aboard. Once enough of them were in place, they fought their way to the other bays, and took over the controls, opening the bays for their own ships to dock. Our contingency plan is. . .also an option, though it is an unpleasant one." Discomfort in that soft voice now.

"What contingency plan?" Sam asked, sharply.

"While we were rebuilding the hangar bays during Patriarch's time here, Harak recommended installation of explosive charges into the bays themselves. So that if anyone tried to board the station unasked in the future, we could, in effect, destroy the bays around them. This remains an option." Cohort's body lifted its hands now, slightly, and the head lowered. "Harak feels this is best left as a last resort, because it would, once again, completely cut us off from aid as well as from attackers. Depending on how well the charges were set, it could also cause a compromise to the life support systems. And rebuilding the hangars again is no easy or inexpensive task." Pelagia paused. "Hence why he asks that we find alternatives. Hence my request to you."

Sam looked up at the ceiling. "Omega's got twenty docking bays. A through T. Each can hold about fifty ships."

"You have a good memory, Spectre Jaworski."

"I was the one stuck planting bombs in each of them _last_ time, Pelagia. I have reason to remember." He sighed, as all the civilians stirred. "All right. We'll do it your way, Pelagia. Any help you can give us would be appreciated."

"They don't realize that I control all the cameras. They won't see your approach until you're on them. I can also affect _some_ systems for distractions. They don't have me locked out of the alarms or the fire control systems on this level, but they _did_ break the FCS controls on B ring." Her tone was _very_ annoyed now. "I don't like watching my organics burn."

"Thank you, Pelagia. We'll keep in touch through Cohort."

The geth nodded, and the avatar over his hand vanished.

Ulluthyr Urev had simply _stared_ for a long moment at the geth. Then at the Spectres. "So, the rumors about there being an AI in charge of Omega now?"

Siara smiled brightly at him. "Who knows how rumors get started, eh?"

"Not by me," Urev said, fervently. "Not by me at all."

And so, they'd left a handful of people with guns at their base in the Synthetic Insights business office, and headed out to the docking bays. Sam and Ylara divided the teams, looking grim. "Eli, Lin, Dara, and Cohort, you're with Ylara," Sam had told them. "Siara, Makur, Kirrahe, and I will hit bays on the other side of the ring from you. That gives both teams techs and biotics. Keep your damned heads down." He'd patted Dara on the helmet at that point, and Eli realized that this was _not_ the first time she'd worked with her father on a mission. He filed that away with all the other things he had questions about for later, and off they went.

The streets of C-ring _still_ had snipers on the damned roofs, and they'd had to duck and dive for cover periodically their whole way towards Docking Bay A, which is where Chrysa had worked, apparently. She'd drawn them a map of the docking bay's layout, and Ylara had firmly declined her offer to come with them. "Protect the injured," the asari had told the turian female. "We'll handle what needs to be handled."

So they'd taken out the snipers whenever possible. If only so they couldn't attack any civilians moving on the ground, or report in on their movements by radio. And then they'd reached Docking Bay A's narrow entrance, which had metal detectors and bomb-sniffing equipment and DNA scanners and all the other appurtenances of modern travel. . . all in neat lines for people to queue through, under normal circumstances.

Today's circumstances were hardly normal. There'd been a group of twelve batarians standing back from the gates. Ylara gave hand-gestures, and Cohort released a combat drone from a panel in his arm, sending it in on the batarians, who looked up in surprise as the small flying drone moved in on them.

"We believe these to be warrior-caste batarians from their armor and markings," Cohort said, calmly.

_So nice to know that_, Eli thought, ducking into cover now, and peering up to get a decent view. "What do _we_ know about warrior-caste fighters?" he called over to the geth.

"We know them to be highly proficient fighters who train almost from birth for the sole task of their caste. To wage war."

_Okay, so, that doesn't tell me any more than I already could figure out from the __name__._ Eli peeked up again, and saw the batarians beginning to move. They divided, immediately, into four groups of three. And their personal shields, in each group of three, flared in unison. _Okay, that's not good._ Eli had his rarely-used submachine gun in his hands now, and opened fire on the closest trio. Sure enough, it felt as if he were making _no_ headway on the shields at all. One batarian ducked for cover, while the other two stayed up and returned fire at him; every time he looked up, he had to duck back down again. "Lin!" Eli gestured for Lin to move right, spreading out their angle of fire, and his brother moved, immediately, hustling to cover. His shield was on his back, but they'd all gone in loaded for bear today. Lin was carrying an arc projector, and Eli was _very_ glad that his friend had trained with, and _loved_ the damned thing in boot camp. . . and that he'd gotten a recent refresher with it on Mindoir. Lin waited for Eli to attract the attention of the closest trio, and then reared up, himself, firing the arc projector.

It should have torn through their shields like a pair of shears through gauze.

It didn't. "Damnit, what kind of shielding are they _using?_" Eli called into the radio, ducking back down again as a bullet actually ripped through his own shields now, and deflected off his armor. The hit still carried _force_ with it, and it knocked him back half a foot before he recovered with a grunt.

Cohort was moving, with that uncanny geth grace, up a _wall_, scrabbling up to a low balcony, which he flipped up and over as Eli glanced up in startled awe. "We believe they have linked their shields. It is theoretically possible to stretch the shields over a wider area of dispersion, and with generators on three individuals, to produce a cyclonic effect, much like the _Normandy_ SR-2's shields possess. The drawback is that they must move in unison, and stay together, or the shield effect will dissipate."

"Concussive shots," Eli said, immediately.

"And these," Ylara murmured over the radio, and clapped her hands together, directing a blast of biotic energy at her own trio of batarians. One of them blew back ten feet from his fellows, and his shield immediately began to splutter. Dara raised up and began to fire on the fallen one with her sniper rifle. . . ensuring that he _wouldn't_ be coming towards his fellows.

The batarians were _very_ tough fighters, however. Disciplined and organized beyond what Eli had expected of batarians. The two who'd had their third blown away from them fell back, regrouped on either side of their fellow, and got him back to his feet. . . which was when Lin zapped that trio again with the arc projector. _That_ took their combined shields down to paper thinness. . . and the attacking Spectres braved a hail of bullets from the other three teams of batarians to end the _first_ set.

"This is taking too long," Ylara called over the radio. "They're going to call for backup, if they haven't already. Cohort, can Pelagia give us any help at _all_?"

"She indicates that she is increasing RF interference in the vicinity to interfere with their radio signals. She also indicates that if we press the batarians into the scanning area, she may be able to interfere with their shields." Cohort's voice, as always, absolutely calm.

_Push them into the scanning area. Huh. Tall order_, Eli thought. Then he slung his SMG back onto his back, pulling out his shield instead. "Lin?"

"With you, _fradu_."

Dara scrambled down from her perch. "You two are about to go do something stupid, aren't you?" she muttered.

"Not _that_ stupid," Eli told her. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat. "They're not the only ones who can link shields. You got your shock pistol?"

"Always."

"Want to come with us?" Lin moved over, shield in front of him now, and ducked into cover now with Eli and Dara. "We can all be stupid together."

"It _is_ a specialty," Eli agreed. "Stay behind us and try to take the left one of any formation, Dara. That way, their shields will thin out, anyway, when one falls behind."

"I have a _really_ bad feeling about this," Dara muttered, but got behind them, pistol at the ready.

Then Eli and Linianus set their shields side by side, overlapping slightly. For a moment, Eli remembered reading about ancient Romans and Spartans, going into battle in exactly this way. The man to the left being the defense of the man to the right. They were even within inches of each others' heights, making defense even easier. Then they just started to move forward, in unison, right for one trio of batarians. Bullets began to rattle into the shields as their personal shields failed, flaring blue and then dying. "Now, _sai'kaea!_" Eli called, and Dara ducked out from behind him and fired, quickly and cleanly, at the left-most batarian. The shock-dart passed through the shielding and caught him, and the batarian began to jerk and flail. The middle batarian's head jerked to _his_ right, reflexively, as his companion fell to the ground, bucking and writhing. "Now!" Lin shouted, and he and Eli broke into a run. Lin could have outpaced Eli, but he kept _exactly_ to Eli's foot speed, and then the two of them _hit_ the two remaining batarians in a coordinated charge. It didn't do any _damage_, but it didn't _need_ to do so; it knocked them _back._

Right into the X-rays and scanners and everything else. They were separated from their fellow, so their shields were thinning now. . . and the scanning equipment lit up as the station's AI bypassed about a dozen security protocols and turned _all_ of the machinery on at once, bombarding the batarians' shields with X-rays, infrared light, lasers, all set well above normal safety standards. Again, it wouldn't have done much on its own. . . but then Eli and Lin took a step apart and began firing, point blank, with pistols at each of the batarians.

Eli felt _something_ hit his left leg—not a bullet, but a body impact, and glanced down, ready to kick away an attacker. A figure in Spectre black had just landed on the ground beside him, and was facing back _towards_ the third batarian of the trio. "Nice tactic," Dara told him and Lin over the radio, "but you two need to watch your backs."

"That's what you were there for, though, right?" Lin told her, cheerfully. as she continued to fire her pistol at the batarian who was trying to get back on his feet to come to his friends' aid in the scanner area. . . . even as the two groups to their right turned and opened fire on them. Eli and Lin moved instantly, turning to the right, Eli stepping back to Lin's left, and both of them dropping into crouches. Letting the shields do the work. Dara scrambled in closer to Lin's back now, and finished taking down her own batarian.

Then the _BAM-BAM_ of Cohort's sniper rifle echoed through the room, and a fresh little drone floated down to harass the batarians on the right hand side of the room now, even as Ylara lifted one of the groups completely into the air, sending them spinning around merrily with her biotics. Eli and Lin slid their shields to the side slightly, and opened fire again, with pistols. It was slow, but it was a _hell_ of a lot safer than the alternatives. . . and then Dara swapped out to her sniper rifle again, and still staying behind them, began to pick off the floating batarians, courtesy of Ylara's biotics.

Ylara hadn't been kidding. It took them close to a half hour to take down those four groups. Eli was _sweating_ under his visor by the time they were done. "Tough sons of bitches," he muttered.

Dara found a wall to lean up against, and peered cautiously down the next hall. "Hell of a lot tougher than the regular batarian raiders I've fought before," Dara admitted, sounding winded. "Much more coordinated. Much, _much_ tougher."

"We indicated this before the fight began," Cohort reminded them, with gentle reproof in that mechanical voice.

"Yes," Lin told the geth. "But you were unable to quantify _how much_ tougher. Now we know." He paused. "They bite, and not in the good way."

"Amen to that," Eli muttered, and changed the thermal clip on his pistol. He looked at Ylara. "And that was just the first fight."

"Not every batarian in the docking bay will be warrior-caste," Ylara pointed out, her voice serene as she reloaded her own weapon now. "Many will be slavers or raiders. Many will be workers. Those operate the ships. Regular people, in fact."

"And what the hell do we do with the ones who are on the ships when we blow this place?" Eli asked. 

"One thing at a time. We should be able to unlock the docking clamps from the same control room as everything else." Ylara nodded to the doors beyond the scanners. "Let's go."

The scenario that had occurred then, recurred once more that same day. They fought their way in, ducking into cover, trying to make it to the control booths. Cohort hacked the loading mechs that were standing idle in corners of the docking bay, and sent them in against the batarians. Ylara lifted one of the huge containers of stored goods sitting on a pallet, unused and waiting for owners whose schedules had been terminally delayed by the batarian invasion, and _hurled_ it at a group of warrior-caste fighters. They killed their way into the control booth, and Eli and Lin each secured a door against any incoming batarians, Dara behind Eli and Ylara behind Lin, holding off the attackers, while Cohort dealt with the controls. "We have reconnected Pelagia to the controls," Cohort announced at the first station. "She recommends closing the doors to the booth,"

Eli slammed the door shut in front of him, and spun the pressure wheel rapidly as, outside, the huge hangar doors began to open, and the doors to the _entrance_ to Omega slammed closed. And _then_ the artificial gravity cut out. Eli hadn't realized that this was part of the plan, and grabbed for a handhold somewhere, fast. He hadn't done zero-g training since OCS.

A handhold secured, Eli turned from the door, Dara in front of him, to stare out the window of double-layer transparent plasteel in the control booth. Outside, the batarians began to panic. Began running for the control booth, for their ships. For anything, really. "Decompression commencing," Cohort said, quietly, and perhaps a little unnecessarily. They could all _see_ small items beginning to whip through the air, carried before that howling wind. Tools, papers, debris, bullets from the firefight. _Something_ crashed into Lin's pressure door with a loud thud, and then scraped along the wall for a minute or two, making all their heads turn warily towards the sound for a moment.

And then Ylara pressed several more buttons in the control booth. Releasing the docking clamps on the ships. "Cohort? Tell Pelagia that if they have any emergency explosive charges rigged on the landing pads, for purposes of pushing ships out of a berth, now would be a good time to use them."

"Agreed, Ylara-Spectre," Cohort replied, and Eli understood, suddenly, what they meant, as dozens of ships suddenly lifted off from their berths—propelled by explosive charges, and caught by the near-hurricane force wind. In a zero-g environment, the two forces—up, and out—combined, and sent them out into space.

Outside, in between ships moving towards the exit, Eli could see batarian figures clinging, desperately, to guard rails. To catwalks. Then, unable to hold any longer, they were torn away, flung out into the void. Others managed to hold on a little longer, but if they weren't wearing helmets. . . these began to suffocate, and, as they lost consciousness, also released their grips. . . . and were expelled, with their fellows, with the last whisper of wind, out into the darkness of space.

Eli realized he had his gloved hands on Dara's shoulders, and released his grip as soon as he noticed it. "Spirits," he muttered, in English. "Spirits of air and darkness." The words had never seemed quite so _apt_ before.

"Just so," Ylara agreed, quietly. "Just so."

The hell of it was, they got to do it again. And again. And again.

Twenty bays to clear, and two teams. After four bays were cleared at the end of the first day, Sam and Ylara called for a halt. Let them regroup in the Synthetic Insights offices, and rest. "Rome wasn't built in a day, and we all need to be sharp," Sam told them. He set up a watch roster, and more or less _ordered_ the younger Spectres to sleep.

Eli had long since mastered the knack of falling asleep whenever he _needed_ to, but it was damned hard that first night. He'd been asked, back on Bastion, which was easier. Police work, or soldiering, and technically, he'd _been_ both. CID was _military_, after all. He'd done SWAT work, which was, in its own way, just as demanding as special forces. Its eye was turned towards protecting people, of course. Of trying to _prevent_ violence. He didn't _enjoy_ the actual killing, but there _was_ a satisfaction in knowing that every batarian he'd shot today was probably a slaver, a rapist, a murderer. . . and he knew that in opening the bays to space, they'd been doing a necessary thing. That killing each of the batarians in the bays in single combat was probably nobler and cleaner on some level, but just not tenable when there were _hundreds_ of the enemy and only five of them. Still. . . "Should we have offered them a chance to surrender?" Eli asked, not opening his eyes.

Dara snorted from her own section of floor, where she was curled up. Still in armor, as they all were. "You, the fifty of you on the right. Come out with your hands up? And stop laughing at us, it throws our aim off?"

Lin actually guffawed at that one. Eli chuckled reluctantly. "I know, five of us, two hundred or more or them. It hardly seems like fair odds," Eli replied, after a moment. "But I still feel like we could have done _something_ differently." He sighed. "I just don't know what."

There was silence for a long time. Eli was starting to think that the others had gone to sleep, when Siara spoke up. "Dara? Either you are mumbling in your sleep, or you're practicing _asari_."

"Sorry. I'll turn my earpiece down."

That got Eli's eyes to open, and he turned on his side to look across the darkened room. Siara's chuckle was tired. "Vaul. If I hadn't heard it myself, I wouldn't have believed it." She paused. "In the middle of a combat zone, no less."

"If I fall asleep learning something, it's better than _not_ falling asleep, worrying about all the other shit in my life I can't control," Dara replied. "Even if all I get through is two or three sentences before I pass out."

Eli strained his ears now, and caught little edges of words. And smiled, faintly, his eyes still closed. He hadn't been joking the other night. The soft drawl was almost unnoticeable in English. Completely absent in turian or _tal'mae_. But it dripped like honey all over the asari words, and he was not _about_ to correct it.

Siara and he began to chuckle at the same time, however.

"What?" Dara sounded _annoyed_ now.

Siara chuckled harder. "I think you meant to say _teiaul'uelle_ there. To lift or to carry."

"Yes? What _did_ I say?"

"_Teaoul'uelle_," Eli replied, emphasizing the lower vowels in the middle of the word, so she could hear the difference.

"And that means. . . ?"

"To want, or to desire." Nothing but polite helpfulness in his voice now. Waiting for Dara to put the pieces together.

He had to give her credit. She tried again. "_I desire you to raise your weight from me . . . _no, damnit, that's not right, either." Dara sounded annoyed. "I'm supposed to be saying that I need help carrying something."

Eli covered his eyes with one hand. Siara was curled up in a tight ball, almost convulsed with laughter. Makur was half sitting up now, his eyes open in the dim light, looking down at Siara in evident amusement. _He's picking up the words from her mind_, Eli realized, chuckling himself.

Dara gave them all a dark look. "I'm _so_ glad I entertain you."

"I see what the problem is now," Eli told her. "You're hearing _teaoul'ulle_, which is the verb. Saying that you _want_, when what you need to do is switch it to emphasis on the assistance of the other. _"__Ail'ceai'ya __teiaul_'_uel__dua'lora_, _huaye'uelle,_" he suggested. _Your assistance in lifting this burden, I request._

Siara chuckled again. "Eli tends towards the poetic in asari."

"I do not." Eli made a rude sound. "That's just how the language _is._"

Dara struggled with the words. Eli half-closed his eyes and just _grinned_ as Siara corrected the pronunciation, and Dara repeated the words several more times. Getting them right.

And then silence fell again. Each of them lost in their own thoughts, but the darkness, for a moment or two, lightened.

Eli finally did fall asleep. And had a wide range of dreams and images accompany him on his foray into rest. All the odd, vivid dreams of exhaustion. He got to relieve the day's firefights, of course. Got to relive the batarians tumbling, end for end, ass over teakettle, out the airlocks. A few times, _he_ and his friends were the ones tumbling out the hatch instead, screaming into the void of space. He woke from that one, panting for air, _knowing_ he had a day's worth of oxygen in his suit if needed, and that a ship _might_ be able to find him. . . but probably wouldn't. It took him a long moment to realize that the blackness around him had no stars, and therefore, was probably real. He closed his eyes again, and other dreams came to him. Serana, to start with, which was pleasant, at least. Demanding and fiery as always, wrapping her legs around his waist. Lin sliding his arms around her from behind. Eli started to kiss her, and then it was someone _else_ between him and Lin, Pelia, at first. Then she shifted, became someone else. Soft human skin, soft human lips. . . but someone who bit him back with the same urgency Serana gave him, open to both of them, Lin growling instructions at her in turian, and Eli giving her directions in English. . . .and then Eli woke up, swearing under his breath and seething with frustration. He'd _wanted_ his wife after the Keepers' awakening. And yet, when they'd gone back to Bastion, he'd been turned right back around and sent back out again. And his _mind_ knew that was probably for the best. He wanted to make Serana happy for the next six months. . . but at the same time, he couldn't _honestly_ continue to woo her and court her. Not if Lin were doing the same thing. It wouldn't be. . . fair. Right. Ethical. It would give her the false hope that they could continue on as they had. He had been careful not to initiate anything between them since the psych evals. If Serana initiated, he reciprocated. A new set of rules. Ones he thought he could live by, at least for a while. Enforced separations like this one, with him here on Omega, would make it easier. Or, in some ways, harder.

So Eli had given Serana a kiss hello, a kiss goodbye, and a promise that if he _could_, he'd write. But he'd known he'd tell Lin to do the writing, if there were any chance of sending messages out. And there was damned little chance of that. The comm relay was blocked at the moment, and the batarians had taken down the FTL transmitter, too.

_Knowing_ all of this didn't make his body ache any less. Didn't make his subconscious reach out for relief any less. Eli swore again, mentally, and then decided that, all things considered, he'd take waking up frustrated as hell in preference to the nightmares. But only by the tiniest of margins.

So the days continued. Twenty bays. Four bays a day, locking down the ones that they took. Being shot at as they moved from area to area, taking out snipers as they went. And the batarians knew they were coming after the first day. Their ships were trying to land reinforcements, too. When a fresh breaching pod landed at Docking Bay A, the whole station shook for a moment. "What the hell was that?" Lin asked, steadying himself.

"Pelagia informs us that she detonated the charges at the hatch of Docking Bay A to dissuade the batarians from retaking it or any other cleared hangar area," Cohort reported, quietly. "She reports three craft destroyed in the attempted landing, and estimates another hundred casualties."

"We've got to clear the damned bays and go relieve OSF," Eli muttered. "God. If we leave the bays undefended, the batarians will come right back in. If we had OSF here, we could secure the bays, but we have to leave the bays to go _get_ OSF."

"Definition of a catch-twenty-two," Dara agreed, sounded just as dispirited. "Come on. We've got bays D and G to take care of today." They were hitting the bays in a semi-random pattern, trying to take the batarians at least a _little_ off guard. It wasn't particularly working. Every fight was just as tough as all the rest. Grueling firefight after grueling firefight. Eli made a point of stripping the bodies of the dead that _weren't_ blown out the airlocks of their ammunition. So did everyone else. Otherwise, by now, they'd have run _out._

On the third day of fighting, the batarians threw something _new_ at them. A trio of warrior-castes ringed a male in dark red armor, who had an asari next to him. The asari's eyes were glazed, and she actually had a collar and leash on her, which the batarian held. And then at his command, she lifted her eyes, and _something_ sizzled across Lin's shields, ripping them away. "Get down!" Eli shouted up to Lin, who'd advanced ahead of the rest of them to draw the enemy's fire. "_Fradu__, get down!"_

Lin dove into cover, the hard-shield protecting his upper body, but bullets from the trio of warrior-castes slamming into his left leg, instead. _He's going to be cussing,_ Eli thought, numbly, and vaulted up and over the metal workbench in front of him, moving to cover Lin now with his own body and shields. "_Fradu__, you all right?"_

"_Our little one is going to yell at me_," Lin managed, between clenched teeth. _"The bullets went through the __futtari__ suit."_

"_Which one, Serana or Dara?"_ Eli peered around the edge of the shuttlecraft that he and Lin were currently using for cover. He managed to get off a few rounds, and made sure to aim for the batarian holding the asari's leash.

"_S'kak.__ Both of them. Dara first, and Serana when she finds out."_ Lin was trying to stand, to get back in position, and that's when Dara moved to them, taking several rounds to her shields herself.

"You should have stayed back," Eli hissed at her, and ducked around the corner again, firing his Beretta several more times at the central batarian, and jerking back as the three warrior-castes all opened fire on him at once. . . and then he was flung backwards, anyway, as some sort of a biotic charge slammed through the floor at his feet.

Eli swore and crawled back to his feet, Dara giving him a hand up, snapping back at him, "I go where the patients are." Then she got to work, unceremoniously unlatching Lin's leg plates and tying off a rubber tourniquet. "_Lin, for the spirits' sakes, hold __still__. You're bleeding all over the damned place."_ Then she jabbed him with a needle, and got out a set of forceps that she'd sterilized with alcohol the night before, and went in after the bullet, extracting it and slathering medigel to seal the wound. "Lin, there's bone damage, you've got to let me work here!"

Lin swore. "Eli, I'm switching weapons. Give me cover."

"Goddamnit, Lin, if you don't hold still, I will _hurt_ you."

Eli ducked out again now, using his shield to cover Lin, who moved out with him, firing his arc projector, catching _all_ of the people in the vicinity in a haze of crackling white light, and sending an ionized smell through the air, followed by the smell of burning flesh—neither of which their suit filters could completely scrub from the air.

With those targets down, Dara grabbed Lin's belt and pulled him back into cover, and yanked him towards the ground, before fumbling out a field osseous regenerator out of her kit and slapping it into place against his leg. "She gets _aggressive_ with her patients," Lin joked up at Eli as he slumped against the side of the shuttle, and as Eli kept a watchful eye out for fresh targets. Across the way, Ylara and Cohort were carving their own way through a similar group. "I _like_ it, little one—ahhh, _s'kak_, that _futtari_ stings," Lin added, twisting a little under her hands.

"I know. I'm sorry. Scanner's showing a hairline fracture at the top of the tibia, and radiating about halfway down," Dara muttered. "You keep putting weight on it before I finish fixing it, and it'll crack _all_ the way down, and you will _not_ like the results."

"I'm sitting still, doc, I'm sitting still."

"This is holding still? Eli can't hold you down for me _and_ guard us at the same time, so show me some of that famous turian stoicism and _stop moving_, or. . . screw this." Dara pulled Lin's leg towards her, and scooted forward, locking her own legs around it, holding him steady with her own muscle power. Her hands were deft as she moved the regenerating device over the shin, and she completely ignored the hissing and the low-voiced cursing. "I can't give you anything for the pain that won't make the whole damned leg numb, Lin. I'm sorry, but you can't afford not being able to feel your feet."

"I know," Lin gritted out. "I just have to wonder why it's always got to be a _knee._"

"Better your knee than your head, _fradu_," Eli noted, and caught a batarian moving, firing and taking him down off a catwalk.

That night, it hadn't been language lessons on everyone's minds. They'd all started trading stories. Siara and Makur had started it off. Mentioning the assassination attempt they'd foiled on Harak right in front of these very buildings. Dara had asked Lin for details about the arsons on Nimines, and Lin had, tiredly, obliged with a few stories. "Getting inside an arsonist's mind was weird," he admitted. "They _like_ fire. You know that feeling you get when you look over a railing on a high balcony, like you're scared you'll _want_ to jump over? As far as I can tell, it's like that. . . except they're not afraid of it. The little barrier in the mind that keeps the rest of us from doing stupid _s'kak_ just isn't there. Not really a conscience, but maybe. . . impulse-control." Lin shrugged. "He didn't really want to _hurt_ anyone. Just liked watching stuff burn. Wish we'd caught him before people got hurt."

Lin had poked Kirrahe for a similar story, and the salarian had blinked. "My unit was usually sent in when the espionage people hadn't done as good a job as usual in cleaning up messes. Usually against Blood Pack and Klixxen Claws mercenaries, unfortunately." Kirrahe gave Makur a wary look. "I'd take it as a courtesy if you didn't mention it to Ulluthyr Urev, but we were also tasked with taking out several enclaves of the Stonemaws. They were getting in too deep with both the Terran Mafia and the more illegal aspects of Eclipse, and were judged to be too dangerous. That involved a few operations on Mannovai. Very populated areas. Going into strongholds near the casinos at Ur'Venar." _Urban combat_, Eli realized. Exactly what they were doing right now here on Omega.

Makur shrugged. "I'm not with the Stonemaw. They're not krannt to me, or to Urdnot. Kill them if you want to kill them."

Kirrahe's eyes widened slightly, and he asked, tentatively, "And the cat's shield harness? It has been working acceptably?"

Makur actually smiled a bit. "Has, yeah. Thank you. Doubt _Cat_ will thank you, but he doesn't know better. He just thinks it's something annoying to try to rub off on a wall. I've seen it keep a few bullets off of him as he's been mauling one of those damned officers with their tame asari."

Silence for a moment. They were _all_ disturbed by the silent, mindless asari. None more so than Siara and Ylara, of course, who saw in them _their_ own fate, if they happened to fall into batarian hands. Several of them were among the captives they'd rescued now. Silent. Almost helpless to care for themselves. Siara turned her head to look at Dara now. "You think there's _anything_ that could be done for them?" she asked, eyes a little haunted.

Dara hesitated, looking up from her cup of hot cocoa, taken from an MRE pack. "I. . .I'm not sure, Siara," she admitted. "Telinus is the one specializing in neurology and neurosurgery. The scans I took. . . they're not promising, Siara. I'm sorry. It looks like they've been lobotomized, and brain tissue just doesn't regenerate in most species very well. The scar tissue suggests that they went in through the eye cavities with a thin instrument, like a leucotome, and then cut the fibers that connect the prefrontal cortex to, well, most of the rest of the brain."

Eli suppressed a shudder. He'd never much enjoyed the thought of anyone touching his eyes; somehow, knowing _how_ the brain damage had been effected made it _worse_. Lin hunched his shoulders for a moment at the mere notion. Siara looked at Dara steadily. "You've seen this before?"

Dara grimaced. "Not directly. The Lystheni were the ones who came up with that technology," she muttered. "They used humans, asari. . . any biotic, really. Quite democratically, I suppose. The only thing they cared about was the biotic's power potential for powering their ship weapons. They never used individual biotics as . . . slave-weapons, I suppose you'd say. And none of the biotics' bodies were ever recovered. All their ships wound up being destroyed." 

Siara shuddered. "I'd rather shoot myself in the head than let myself be used like that." She leaned into Makur. "_Marai'ha'sai_, you promise to _shoot_ me if I ever wind up like one of them. Mindless. Dead in every way except that the heart still beats."

Makur passed a big hand over her scalp. "Not going to happen."

"Promise me." Siara's voice was urgent. "Ylara and I are both more powerful than the average asari. I don't want my abilities being used against you. And I _don't_ want to be _used_ again."

"I swear."

Lin cleared his throat, and said, changing the subject, "All right, _fradu._ We're _Spectres_ now, damn it. I want to know about these extremists on Edessan."

Eli recognized a distraction when he saw one, and shrugged and told the story of going to the extremist compound dressed as a member of the Blue Suns, trying to get them to sell him weapons and stealth generators. The fight that had broken out in spite of all their efforts. . . and then the attempt on the Imperator's life by the remaining members of the group, and how he and Rinus had been side-by-side on a balcony over the parade route, taking out stealthed attackers with members of the Praetorian Guard.

Lin hadn't heard the whole story before this point, and his mouth was hanging open slightly. "_Fradu_," he finally commented, "you effectively saved the life of the Imperator."

Eli shrugged. "Nah. _Lot_ of people there. It's not like I took a bullet for the man or anything like that."

Lin shook his head. "Your investigation. You're the one who turned up the leads."

Eli shrugged again. "Someone else would have been assigned and followed up."

"But _you_ were the one," Dara pointed out, "who _did_. And then you were the one who was sent in to bargain with the extremists. And then you were on hand to protect the parade route. All sounds impressive to me."

Eli snorted. "That was a tense day," he assessed, after a minute. "But it was over with a hell of a lot faster than this current _s'kak._" He was leaning against a wall, drinking hot cocoa from his own packet of MREs, relishing both the heat and the calories it surely contained. He looked up from his field cup and commented, "Dara? I think you owe us all a story or two. You promised me one about leaving a Lystheni base in a shuttle with only one engine, and Livanus' dying on you?" He hadn't really enjoyed hearing the words the first time, but Dara had been notably quiet the entire time the rest of them were talking, other than to ask questions, or provide technical information on the Lystheni.

Dara looked up from her own cup, across the narrow room where the various Spectres were taking turns bunking. "Oh, yeah. That was the Lystheni bases over Garvug. Fresh out of OCS. Second mission, basically." She shook her head. "We were late. Decimus and his marines had gotten bogged down setting the charges on the lower level. Rel and Rinus had gone down to get them. Rel told Kallixta to take off when there was one minute left on the charges. We didn't." Dara's eyes were distant. _You __wouldn't_ _leave, you mean, __sai'kaea__. You and she wouldn't leave them behind_. The thought was both frustrated and admiring at the same time. He was _pissed_ at her for the risk, even though she'd obviously survived, admired her for her loyalty. . . and frustrated as shit with that loyalty, at the same time.

Dara shrugged, and went on. "They got back on board, she took off. . . .Livanus had taken a couple of bullets in the chest. Nicked his aortic arch, so I was doing CPR the whole damned time, as best I could, and when the base exploded behind us, a piece of debris took out one of the engines." Eli's hands clenched around his cup. Dara looked away for a moment. "Kallixta is one _hell_ of a pilot. She managed to land us on the _Estallus_, Livanus got to surgery, where Dr. Cimmerian saved his life. . . . and then they turned us around and sent us to the surface of Garvug for the last Lystheni base." Calm, matter-of-fact words. "Tarenius Gallian lost his legs that day. Couple of marine squads got wiped out entirely when ships crashed on them. The _Kharkov_ crash-landed. Was a very messy day. Lots and lots of people hurt. But hey . . . we won." She caught the way Eli was staring at her across the room. "Ah. . . yeah. That's when I got the first of my medic awards. White ribbon for helping Livanus. Blue one for helping Sky." She finished her cocoa, and began cleaning up her trash. "But like you said yourself, Eli. . . that was over with quickly. This? This is going on and on."

_And I . . . I was in boot camp,_ Eli realized, in tired disgust. _Wrong specialization, so I wouldn't have been there even if I __hadn't__ been in boot camp. Couldn't have helped. Wouldn't have been there._ He'd been one step behind for so long now . . . and yet, now, he realized, he _wasn't_. He wasn't behind at all. He and Lin were right here _beside_ all the rest of them, and this was the right place to be. Even if it was a living hell, they were, at least, all living it together.

The last day, the batarians were so entrenched, that the two separate teams had to reintegrate, and they _all_ went in together on the last two bays. In the last bay, the batarians actually had the great good sense to evacuate into their ships, and start _leaving_, which meant that the bays cycled normally, rather than with explosive decompressions. _Thank god_, Eli thought, numbly, watching the ships take off. _Of course, that just means more of them that we might wind up fighting later_.

And then Sam and Ylara looked at their exhausted teams, and told them, "One more push. We need the FTL transmitter back online. Then we can rest. It's not far from Bay T."

The FTL transmitter was, once again, well-guarded. Eli found himself pinned down defending Kirrahe and Cohort, while the two of them burned their way through the locked doors of the transmitter room. Locks and decryption weren't an issue, for once; it was a good-old-fashioned _burn_ through the damned door. Once they were through, Cohort began re-establishing Pelagia's links to the FTL system once more. . . and when he did, the avatar of the AI appeared over the console in the room. "I have contact with the rest of the NCAIs once more," she said, sounding relieved. "I can also contact Shepard at the Mindoir base."

Eli saw the set of Sam's shoulders relax. He hadn't even realized that the man was _tense_ until that moment. "Send Shepard a full status report, please, Pelagia. Tell her that we really need backup."

"Acknowledged, Spectre Jaworski," the AI murmured. Eli found a console to sit down on, wearily. He couldn't remember ever being _this_ tired before in his life. Pelagia paused, and her slightly sad expression lightened. "Ah, good. Harak's glad to know this, and I'm sure you will be, too. Urdnot Wrex is sending troops here. The main problem will be breaking back through the blockade, but once they're here, we can expect about a thousand krogan troops to help with holding the docking bays and clearing the batarians."

Makur lifted his head and _grinned_. "All Urdnot?"

"Urdnot, Ulluthyr, Ollok. All members of the Clan Alliance."

Siara exhaled. "Thank Vaul."

Sam nodded, his eyes distant. "So, how long before they get here?"

Pelagia sighed. "That's the problem, I'm afraid. The turians can't transport them. Neither can the humans. Mercenary ships won't be able to run the blockade. Krogan do not have _military_ ships of their own, due to quite a few treaties. The krogan _won't_ accept salarian aid. . . "

"Asari," Siara said, instantly. "Or maybe geth."

"Geth ships do not have breathable atmosphere aboard," Cohort informed her, calmly.

"Quarian," Dara mumbled, tiredly. Eli's head jerked towards her. "Quarians have a whole lot of unused ships in orbit around Rannoch. Quite a few heavily armed. For the protection of the Flotilla."

"Forwarding your recommendation, Spectre Velnaran."

Dara looked up, startled. "That wasn't a suggestion—I was just thinking out loud."

Eli chuckled. "You and Siara think out loud really well."

That was June 25. One week aboard the station. Pelagia was able to tell them that the mercs were still holding out on D ring, that OSF was holding out on H ring, and that the batarians had bogged down on L ring; they kept trying to press into M ring, but were encountering spirited resistance. "Where's Harak?" Sam asked, grimly.

"Hit and run raids on H, I, J, K, and L rings, at the moment. Keeping them from advancing to M ring. I will not allow them to take him, you understand." Pelagia's voice had gone steely.

"What's our next objective?" Eli asked, lifting his head.

"Your next objective is a bed," Sam told him. "Or at least, sack time. Tomorrow, D-ring. Meet up with the mercs, see if we can get an effective fighting force going. If nothing else, _they_ can hold the bays until the krogan forces get through." He sighed. "Maybe, anyway."

Kirrahe's omnitool had chirped then. The salarian slipped his screen open. A stream of symbols flew across the screen, and Kirrahe snorted. "Spectres? This is an STG code. There's at least one STG agent on the station. The message just got through when Pelagia regained control of the station's comm functions."

Ylara turned. "What's he got to say?"

Kirrahe blinked rapidly. "Looks as if his cover was as a mech specialist. He's got about forty combat mechs operational, and has been harassing the batarians with them. He's a little pinned down, however. His factory is on L ring, and he's been holding the batarians off, as best he can. Sent this out as a general 'need backup' message."

"Tell him to hang in there. We'll get to him as soon as we can." Ylara turned toward Pelagia. "Can Harak get to him?"

"We'll try," Pelagia murmured. "There's fighting on every level right now."

Eli rubbed at his eyes. _There's fighting __everywhere__ right now,_ he thought.

**Dempsey, Mindoir, June 18-24, 2196**

Dr. Chakwas had poked and prodded Dempsey _very_ thoroughly on his return to Mindoir. Madison had insisted on going to his dad's checkups with him, much to Dempsey's consternation. "I'm _fine_, Mad," he told his son.

"Yeah. I know." Madison had looked out the window of the exam room, which had a _hell_ of a view of the snow-capped mountains around the base, and shrugged. Dempsey didn't have to be biotic to realize that his son was _scared_. Scared of losing a second parent inside of two months' time.

Without Zhasa there to lock him into his emotions, anything he could have _said_ would have been lifeless. So Dempsey did the only thing he could, and put his hand on Madison's shoulder. And stayed completely silent, until the elderly doctor with the white hair bustled back in, and told him, briskly, "Now, James, I'm going to need you to lie back on the table, so I can get a good scan of your brain."

_Amazing how doctors can make you feel about ten years old all over again_, he reflected. He wasn't _James_ to anyone anymore. _Dempsey_, sure. _Everyone_ called him that. Even Zhasa. . . mostly because he'd told her to do so. And because he even _thought_ of himself as Dempsey, he supposed. He didn't know who this _James_ guy was, but it wasn't really _him_, was it? _Hell, who was the last person who called me James—oh. Amy. Right._

When he'd been checked out, and all systems were confirmed to be working normally—or as normally as they did, for him, anyway—Madison surprised him with an awkward hug. _Probably the last one of those I'm going to get,_ Dempsey reflected, in faint amusement. _From here on out, it's probably going to be hand-shakes._

Another surprise, as the doctor let him sit up and pull off the various sensor probes. "Madison informed me that when you got back, he'd be willing to do the L5 surgery, assuming you gave permission," Dr. Chakwas told him, smiling kindly.

Dempsey turned and glanced at Madison. "You sure? You weren't real thrilled with the idea at first."

"I wasn't, no," Mad admitted. "But. . . l5s are what you have, right?"

_And whatever I do, you want to do? I knew I was supposed to be a role model, but for me, it was a year ago that 'role model' meant telling you not to spit out your peas._ "Yeah," Dempsey acknowledged.

"Will it hurt?"

"It's brain surgery, Mad. It's never exactly _comfy_. But the implants themselves don't give the migraines of the damned L2s. The L2s were big bulky things, that actually stuck out with neurocannules at the back of the neck, so people could add modulators and whatever else as external headpieces. Bad design. I had L3s, the first generation of chip-only implants. Then L5s, yeah." Dempsey looked at his son. No emotion currently, beyond approval. "It's a good decision, Mad. The implants help with control as well as with power. I had the L3s implanted when I was about six, I think. Probably helped me learn to keep everyone's minds shut out of mine." Dempsey turned back to Chakwas. "Will you be doing the surgery?"

"It's not my specialty. Dr. Abrams will perform it, along with the help of Dr. Telinus Karpavian. A capable young surgeon who's specializing in neurosurgery."

Dempsey nodded. "Okay. If you're sure, Mad, I'll sign what needs signing." He paused. "Do you want Zhasa to be there with us?"

Madison's face suddenly lit up in relief. "Yes, please."

_Yeah. She's a hell of a lot more reassuring than I am, isn't she?_

Two days later, Dempsey was moving his few belongings into an _echoingly_ empty house on base. Zhasa, in the absence of a second quarian clean house on base, had asked for, and received permission, to live with him and Madison, for the time being. There had been a singular lack of surprise on the housing quartermaster's face when the sergeant had put the forms through for _that_. Word, apparently, got around.

"Dad?" Mad's voice bounced back down the stairs ahead of him. "Can I have _this_ room?"

Dempsey followed the voice, and found Madison in an upstairs bedroom with a really glorious view of the valley below. "You're going to have lots of morning sun," he warned. "Those windows face due east." The master bedroom, downstairs, faced the backyard and the west. . . and huge _allora_ trees from the forest behind it would block most afternoon sunlight, thankfully.

"Yeah, but check out the view," Madison said, grinning. "No one back home can look out their window and see _this_." He looked around the empty room, and added, tentatively, "Um. . . we are going to get furniture, right?"

"Lying on the floor is good for your back. Also toughens you up."

Dempsey's voice was completely colorless, and Madison squinted at him for a moment. "That was another joke?"

"Wasn't funny again, huh?"

"You're _much_ better at jokes when Zhasa's around."

_You don't say._ Out loud, Dempsey told Madison, "Yeah. We'll get at least the beds and mattresses today. You're going to be getting _brain surgery_ tomorrow. You'll want someplace to lie down when they release you."

Madison winced.

Dempsey spent the rest of the day assembling furniture picked up at the base exchange, and trying _not_ to listen to the extranet. Madison had turned on a news feed, however, and it was impossible not to pick up at least _some_ information. No news from Omega, though speculation was rife. No news from Shanxi, Terra Nova, Eden Prime, Ferros Fields. A pitched battle continued at the Edessan shipyards. . . ._ could have been another Pearl Harbor there,_ Dempsey thought, sliding a mattress into the frame of Mad's bed. _Sounds like we had warning there. Valak, maybe?_ He called down the stairs, "Mad? Get up here and put the sheets on. I'm not doing everything for you."

Madison scrambled up the stairs, sliding past his father, who was now on his way down. Zhasa had taken one look at the utilitarian metal frame he'd chosen for the master bedroom, and tsked under her breath. Even now, as he started assembling it and she handed him tools, she was shaking her head. _What?_ he asked, opening his mind.

_It's heartlessly plain. In the living quarters, there should be beauty, if you're able to find it._

_Tell you what. You can put as many silk drapes on the walls as you want. And if you find a bed you like better, you go for it. For tonight, and until Shepard sends us somewhere? I want someplace to put my head down._

"Good," Zhasa said out loud, and her voice held a faint trace of a purr. Dempsey paused, and reviewed what he'd just said carefully.

"Did I miss something?" he asked, after a moment.

_I knew I'd be living here, but you just made it evident that I have more than mere guest-rights_, she told him, her mental tone almost smug.

Dempsey blinked. _Well, duh. I thought I'd made it very clear that I had more interest than a passing fling._ Out loud, he added, "Of course, I have _no_ idea how we're going to keep this place clean enough for you."

"I plan to start trying to do what most of my people do on Rannoch. Limited time out of the suit, or at least with the visor open. Epi-tabs and shots available for anaphylactic shock. The body will not acclimate if you don't _challenge_ the immune system." Zhasa's voice was completely composed, but he could _feel_ the fear in her. "If I'm to be my people's first Spectre, I might _never_ spend enough time on Rannoch to acclimate to it. I might as well try to make myself strong enough to live where I _live_, and not where I _might_ live at some point in the future."

Dempsey tossed the screwdriver to the floor, and crossed to her. Wrapped his arms around her suited form. _You sure? I mean, Mad and I __could__ move to Rannoch with you._

_And what good would I be then, a Spectre confined to a single world? About as much use as poor Thelldaroon. .. .no, less._ Zhasa wrapped her own arms around him now, and slid her gloved hands under the hem of his shirt, tracing the length of his spine. _No. I'm here. You're here. Let's see what we can do with it._ Flickers of warmth and love in her mind, spreading to his own. _But first, let me help you get that bed together._

The next morning, they went in with Madison, who had to have his head shaved for the procedure. "Hey, looks like you're about to go to boot camp," Demspey told him lightly, able to smile faintly with his mind touching Zhasa's. "Okay, maybe a quarter of an inch too _little_ hair." Privately, he thought it made Madison look like a cancer survivor. The boy was too small still to _really_ look ready for the military.

"What's the anesthesia like?" Madison asked, nervously.

Zhasa reached out and touched his hand, folding his fingers into her larger, alien ones. "When I had my own implants done, the captain of my ship brought in asari doctors to our med bay. It was at some expense, I think. But the anesthesia scared me. I didn't know if I'd _wake up_ again. As it was, they told me to count backwards from ten. I only remember getting to eight. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in the recovery bay. . . and my head hurt. But very distantly."

Madison accepted that. Accepted the waves of reassurance they were both trying to send to him. And then it was time. Dr. Chakwas came in, and the orderlies with her wheeled the boy off. Dempsey tried very hard not to keep seeing Madison's worried blue eyes and pale face in his mind for the next three hours. Instead, he opened his mind to the chip. Linked with Zhasa, it was . . . less painful. Still disconcerting. But he was able to dip into base archives now, and start reading mission logs and troop movement reports, as fast as his mind could absorb the information. It was a skill, and one that required practice. And the information there was . . . unsettling. "Where do you think we're going to be sent?" Zhasa murmured, as he reviewed the information, and she watched, over his mental shoulder.

"At a guess? Might be sent as reinforcements to Shanxi." Dempsey's voice was dubious, however.

Finally, Madison was wheeled out again, and woke up enough to smile a little. Wiggle his fingers and toes at Dr. Karpavian's directions. Dempsey was trying not to be apprehensive, but the doctor was a _young_ turian. _One of Doc Velnaran and Sidonis' classmates_, he reminded himself. _Probably plenty capable._ Still, he wasn't _sure_ everything had gone okay until he reached out and touched Madison's mind. Pain, of course. Grogginess. But _there_. Intact. And now Dempsey could feel the pulse of the implants. _You'll have to learn to use them_, he reminded Madison, in a quiet mental whisper. _But you'll probably like them. I know I like mine._

Amara, perhaps not surprisingly, found her way to the med bay that afternoon after school, and Dempsey startled the girl when he checked in around 16:00. Madison had fallen back asleep, and Amara was simply sitting beside the bed. Doing nothing more than holding his hand. . . and weaving images in the air between them. Pretty things for a dreaming mind to look at. Flowers, trees, animals running around. "Nice trick," Dempsey said from behind her, and Amara jumped up out of her chair, startled out of her wits. He tried to put on a smile, but it was hard. "Do that often?"

"For Alain and Elissa, when they can't sleep, yes," Amara told him, looking wary. "Is that wrong?"

"I don't think so. Used to put Mad right out when he was a baby." Dempsey walked over and rested a hand on Mad's forehead. "No fever. Outstanding."

By the next morning, Madison was well enough to come home, with a slew of antibiotics he needed to take, of course, but with the incision on his scalp already healed to a white line. The miracle of modern medigel.

That was the twenty-third. Dempsey was starting to feel downright impatient at not having been assigned somewhere, but at the same time, grateful. Madison wouldn't have—couldn't have—gotten the implants without him being here for the process. And he was grateful to have time with his son while the boy acclimated to the new chip in his head. And he was grateful, too, to have Zhasa in bed with him at night. They locked their minds together and relived a little of the Keepers' memories the first night. . . memories that were fading fast for both of them, but definitely worth holding onto, as best they could.

The evening of the twenty-fourth, however, all hell broke loose. It was dark outside, past 22:30, and Dempsey was lying on the brand-new couch in the living area, Zhasa with him, both of them playing an extranet game, when sirens suddenly began to ring out all over the base. "What the hell is that?" Madison asked, looking up from his homework and putting his hands over his ears.

Dempsey, however, recognized it. "General alert," he said, curtly. "We're expecting a ground attack. Madison, this is when you need to go to the non-combatant shelter." This was, actually, Shepard's villa, where there was a bunker underground set up for just these eventualities.

"Are you _kidding_?" Madison blurted out, then got a better look at Dempsey's face. "I mean, it could be a drill, right?"

"No drills scheduled," Dempsey said, crisply, sitting up. Zhasa was already moving, heading to the storage lockers where she kept the extra pieces of ablative armor that fastened over her suit.

"Should I take a. . . a gun or something?"

Dempsey thought about that for a fraction of a second. Madison had about two _days_ worth of firearms training. "No. Anyone you don't like comes near you, you have my permission to blow the living hell out of them with your biotics. In the meantime. . . " Dempsey located a hockey stick in a chest of belongings that had been sent from Earth for Madison, "use this."

"A stick?"

Dempsey wrapped biotic energies around it. "Depends on how you use it," he said, dryly. "You'd be surprised how hard you can actually hit someone."

Dempsey pulled on his own armor now, and then they hastened up the road towards Shepard's villa, and got Madison to the door of the bunker. With his son safely tucked down in the basement, Dempsey and Zhasa looked up at the star-filled sky. _Okay,_ Dempsey thought. _Now what?_

**Joker/EDI, Mindoir System, **

Jeff Moreau had been hiding behind Mindoir's single large moon for several days, using its bulk to mask his presence. The _Normandy_ was hanging in space near him, and he found the curving white arc of the ship's hull strangely comforting.

_You understand that it's not __**me**__ anymore_, EDI teased.

_**Of course. But she'll always be my girl. You're just the part of her that I get to keep,**_ Moreau teased back.

—_Targets inbound_, Joker, the AI of the _Normandy_, suddenly broadcast to them.

—_Coming from the mass relay?_

—_Affirmative. I make it twenty ships that __aren't_ _stealthed. All match profiles for batarian cruisers and troop transports. _

—_**That's a hell of a lot of ships. They're going to try to occupy, you think?**_

—_Seems to match their pattern so far. They're letting the yahg attack the big colonies for some reason. . . while the batarians are hitting and trying to hold the smaller ones._ Joker's voice was intent. _Nefertari, Kynthia, Concordia, Vibiana? Are you and your crews ready to play?_ __

The _Dunkirk_ and the _Crimea_ were with them. So was the _Armidus_ and the _Terrentia._ Not a lot of ships, to try to defend a colony world. But while Mindoir was important, they also couldn't make it look _too_ well defended. The six ships were going to be using very specific tactics, however, and hoping that the batarians had no _idea_ how well defended Mindoir actually was. Their observation post had been found and compromised by Shepard early on; it was now, Jeff Moreau knew, being taken off-line completely as a signal lanced out from Mindoir, cutting off the post's signals.

—_We're all ready, Father,_ Kynthia reported.

—_**Then let's dance**_, Jeff told them, and they arced out from behind the moon, staying in stealth for the moment.

A quarter of the batarian ships hung back at the relay, starting a blockade. Cutting off the comm relay, too, no doubt. The others moved deeper into the system. . . and the SRs waited until the fifteen ships were almost in range of Mindoir before moving in to attack them.

—_**How long until defense grid is fully active?**_ Jeff asked EDI.

—_Two minutes, according to reports from the ground_.

—_**Okay. We'll give the batarians something to shoot at for a while, then.**_ Jeff streaked across the void, letting his engines flare. Letting the batarians _see_ him this time—the ship they'd probably had reports on from Omega. The one that had wreaked havoc on their biotic ships, but that had fled when attacked by a reave attempt. _Yeah, you just keep thinking I've got weaknesses._ The mini-Reaper _had_ weaknesses. Biotic energies _did_ hurt its semi-organic body. But Jeff had no intention of testing how _much_ he could take before there was a real need. . . or revealing his full tolerances to enemies he didn't intend to eliminate in very short order.

So he streaked across the scopes of the enemy ships, just slowly enough for them to acquire a lock on him, and then led three or four of the cruisers on a merry chase, maneuvering them. . . luring them back. . . and giving the _Dunkirk_ and the _Terrentia_ clear shots on the cruisers as they chased after him, while the _Normandy_ and the _Crimea_ hung further back, still stealthed. _**We have any biotics-capable ships in this crowd?**_ he asked EDI.

_Affirmative. Five._ She picked them out for him, limning them in his vision with red.

_**Good. Now we know our targets.**_ He yawed around and headed straight for his first target, a cruiser that had been lit up by the _Crimea_, and had now switched to targeting the SR-1. He targeted its cargo hold, and managed to wear through its shields, before slipping up and around it, using the enemy ship _itself_ for cover as the rest of the cruisers turned to pursue him now.

—_**Hey, jerk. Planning on joining the party?**_

—_Aww, you looked like you were having so much fun._ Joker's tone was sardonic, and then he moved the _Normandy_ into combat as well, catching one of the batarian cruisers between the frigate and the mini-Reaper, both of them opening fire at the same time.

_Defense grid now fully operational_, EDI commented, dryly. _Is it time to inform the batarians of that fact?_

_**Oh yes. Indeed it is.**_ Jeff swerved as a violet star of energy emerged from one cruiser's gun ports, streaking towards him vengefully, before it caught up to him in spite of all his best efforts, and ripped through his shields and boiled over his skin. Ducking and dodging and weaving now, avoiding missiles and torpedoes and everything else flung his way by the batarian ship, Jeff let his shields come back on-line. _**Damn, that shit smarts. Okay, everyone! Pull them into the defense grid, but do it slowly. Make sure we get as many of them committed as we can. Make it look good.**_

They did. They pulled back slowly, grudgingly, the SR-1s arcing off to tag-team against the biotic weapons ships. The _Crimea_ actually took a few very nasty hits after biotic weapons ripped her shields away, including one that opened her engine compartment to space. —_**Get out of there**_, Joker told Nefertari. —_**Tell your captain to tuck down into the atmosphere. It's time.**_

The _Crimea_ dove into Mindoir's atmosphere without hesitation, and the other SR ships pulled back a little further. . . .the batarians, sensing victory, laid in pursuit courses, their troop ships moving in behind the cruisers, opening their bays to send in drop ships. . . ._**Shit. Sweetie? I've got a visual on more troop ships than we detected earlier.**_

_Yes. They appear to use stealth technology on several of their troop ships. Probably the ones belonging to slavers and raiders._ EDI's voice was very concerned now.

. . .and then the hundreds of satellites in Mindoir's orbit acquired their targets. Locked on. Aimed. And opened fire. There was a _reason_ the SR ships and the mini-Reaper had tucked in safely _behind_ that curtain of satellites. Mindoir's defense grid was a courtesy to the Spectre base, and rivaled Earth and Terra Nova's. Terra Nova's had been knocked off-line by the yahg and the batarians early last week, but then, they'd known it was _there._ Mindoir's satellite system had been carefully designed to look like weather control or a global positioning system. There were literally thousands of projectiles in the air , defying the ability of most threat systems to lock on to all of them at once, and pelting the batarian ships' shields and hulls. Except, of course, for the stealthed ships. _**Damnit, they're not supposed to be **__**smart**_, Jeff thought, and locked on visually, firing at will.

There was a hell of a lot of debris in space already, and the troop ships weren't _unscathed_ as they began their descent, but they _did_ get through the satellite grid. _**EDI, sweetie, tell the towers they've got incoming.**_

_Relaying message now__,_ EDI informed him crisply, and then they and the other ships continued their own fight, above the clouds.

**Eduardo Ramos, Mindoir, June 24, 2196**

Eduardo had _just_ about gotten used to living on Mindoir. Eight years of undercover work had left marks, of course. Eight years of pretending to be on the run from his own people on Earth, eight years of working for STG on the shithole that was Omega, back in the day. But he'd had _five_ years now on Mindoir. Sleepy, backwater Mindoir. Where the most he and Charis had to worry about was the hostility of really _stupid_ human shopkeepers at the sight of a mixed-species couple, and maybe some concerns about what to do with Estevan, their hybrid, blue-blooded son, now that he was old enough for kindergarten. Eduardo was not particularly crazy about the fact that his son had come home every day from school frustrated, angry, and in tears that his turian mother didn't know what to _do_ with. . . and even less fond of the fact that it was because his little classmates called him a _freak._ A science experiment. A mad scientist's creation.

_The little __capullos__ are learning __that__ at home,_ he thought, and debated, yet again, whether he should teach Estavan how to fight. The school would punish little _'Stevan_ for that, not the children who provoked him with their cruelty. On the other hand, if 'Stevan bloodied a few noses, the comments would _probably_ stop.

On the _other other_ hand, 'Stevan was a head taller than the rest of his classmates. If he resorted to violence, he'd look like a bully. Nevermind that he was the one being bullied. Eduardo sighed. It wasn't all _that_ much different than if 'Stevan had been the only Hispanic student in an Anglo classroom back on Earth. . . except that 'Stevan already spoke English, Spanish, and turian fluently, and was ahead of all of his little Odessan classmates in math and reading, too. _Maybe we should go back to the base. Take Sam up on his job offers. I just didn't want to stay in spook work. Neither did Charis. But damn if living on the Spectre base wouldn't be __better__ for 'Stevan._

Eduardo was, at the moment, standing in one of the defense towers around Odessa. The one good thing about Odessa, he reflected, was that it was far enough south on Mindoir's northwestern continent, that it _almost_ felt like home. Like maybe Corpus Christi in the winter. Balmy. He was wearing a T-shirt under his body armor today, and didn't feel a need for more. _See, that would be a __disadvantage__ to living on the base. Four feet of snow on the fucking ground there right now._

An alarm began to sound in the control booth, interrupting his reverie, and Eduardo sat up sharply, and began swiping his fingers over the aerogel screens. He was only on night-shift today as a favor to a friend in the Mindoir Security Forces, and swore, several times, in Spanish as he suddenly understood what was going on in the skies overhead. He hit the general alarm, and damned near ran up the ladder to the gun turrets as the klaxon began to whoop shrilly, breaking through the night air over Odessa.

The defense tower's automated defenses came online, and began firing freely at the drop ships in the skies. Around the delta of the Pregolya river, a half-dozen other defense towers came on line, too, and flak and tracers began pounding into the sky, punctuated periodically by missiles. Eduardo's job tonight was clear: defend his tower. Any drop ship pilot—and any crew aboard it that survived descent to the ground—would target these towers. Enclosed in a bubble of plasteel near the top of the tower, Eduardo had a 360-degree view of the surrounding area, and could swivel himself and his guns. He had a head's-up display inside the bubble, and it could detect biosigns and thermal signatures. Eduardo keyed his omnitool. "Charis, _querida_," he said into the comm. "Don't know if you'll get this. Comms are probably being jammed. If you haven't already, get 'Stevan to safety. I'll see you soon."

He already had his first set of targets. Thermal signatures, crashing through the trees to the east. Eduardo lined up the crosshairs and began to fire his turret's main guns.

**Shepard, Mindoir, June 24, 2196**

On a summer day, back in 2170, Lilitu Shepard had been a sixteen-year-old girl. In the course of twenty-four hours, her entire family had been murdered, her colony wiped out, and she'd killed her first batarian. And had hidden, staring at the dead body, in the animal shed, until Alliance marines had arrived. For twenty-six years, she had held that tiny seed of rage in her mind. Never let it fully bloom when she fought batarians, though god knows it _tried_ to reach up, snake its tendrils into her mind, insist that she _kill them all_. Instead, she'd tamped it down, and in its place, had wedged a firm, but simple resolve: _Never again._

The AEC had come to Mindoir. Had kidnapped her children and threatened their lives. She and Garrus had taken theirs, instead.

Lina Vasir had come to Mindoir to take her life and the lives of her friends and family. They'd ensured that she'd met her end, too.

And now, the batarians had returned to Mindoir. Had returned to finish what a raider band of them had started twenty-six years ago.

This time, the colony had been warned, thanks to Valak. This time, the colony was prepared, thanks to the Spectres and the Alliance's need to ensure that the homeworld of the Spectres remained secure. This time, the batarians were going to _pay_ for setting foot in her home.

_Never again_, whispered Lilitu Shepard, daughter of Roland Shepard. _Never again._

She turned in her black armor from the window, where she could see the flak towers around the base setting off golden tracers into the night sky. Her children and the nanny were wide-eyed at the moment. Elissa and Alain had never seen their mother in her work face before; Kaius and Amara had, but had been very young at the time. "Downstairs, into the bunker," Shepard told them all, firmly. "Ellie will be down there, with Caelia and the other children."

"Mama. . . " Elissa sounded _scared_, and no wonder. It was the middle of the night, loud noises, grim faces, and now she needed to go hide in a basement.

Shepard leaned down and gave her youngest a quick hug. "Mama's got to work. And the varren need to be let out to play, and they can't do that until everyone who's little," _and isn't wearing armor that will resist eight hundred pounds of biting force_, she thought, grimly, "gets someplace safe."

She led them to the bunker, Urz padding at her side. Gave them each a quick kiss, and a promise that she or daddy would be there to take care of them. . . _please let me keep that promise_, Lilu tossed the thought at the uncaring sky. . . and nodded to Ellie, who was in charge of the non-combatants in the shelter. Caught sight of Madison Dempsey, whose recently shorn head gleamed in the emergency lights as he leaned on a hockey stick. The fact that the boy had _just_ gotten his implants wasn't lost on Shepard. Nor the fact that he'd been training with Sky and Ylara and his father. _One more line of defense. Stranger things have happened,_ she thought, remembering the night at the cave all too well.

And then she closed the door on them all. Keyed up her omnitool, and opened the varren cages at the rear of the base. "You ready for one more good fight, boy?" Shepard asked Urz.

He sat up, alien blue eyes gleaming, eager to please her. "That's my boy. You're their alpha. Go lead them. If it's a batarian, and attacking us, attacking this territory. . . it's yours."

She had the _uncanny_ feeling that Urz sometimes understood every word that she said. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, and suddenly he reared back on his haunches and _bayed_.

All around the base, other varren voices picked up Urz's call, audible even through the _rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat_ of the turrets firing up into the sky.

_Battle songs once again, the songs of red and white. Teeth and blood and flesh_, Sky sang softly, rustling out of the shadows.

"The batarians had better hurry up," Livanus muttered, emerging from a nearby gate. "Talana went off her estrus medications a week ago. I really don't want to miss that, if you know what I mean."

Shepard's shoulders shook with laughter. "She might fight her way through them to get to you," she commented lightly.

Livanus appeared to consider that, golden eyes glittering in the dim light. Apparently, the image of his shy, reticent particle physicist wife doing any such thing was too much for him, because he began to laugh a little, himself.

Zhasa and Dempsey moved in next, coming up out of a nearby courtyard. "Are we the defenses?" Dempsey asked, looking grim.

"There's still me, but I wanted to be fashionably late," Kasumi said, dropping down from a nearby wall. "Plus, I wanted to see if they're attacking _here_, or the science station."

"There's also thirty-six other Spectres on base," Shepard said, lightly. "A hundred security personnel, and a geth armature that's supposed to listen to me when I talk to it." She turned to Kasumi. "Are they heading towards the station?"

Kasumi nodded. "Split their forces. I don't think they're expecting the valley to be defended, too."

"Well," Shepard said, grinning, though the expression didn't get remotely near her eyes. "Let's go disappoint them, people."


	109. Chapter 109: In the Trenches

**Chapter 109: In the Trenches**

_**Author's note:**__ On the yahg: Yeah, it's been, um, six months since I played __Lair of the Shadow Broker__. The only thing the Codex/ME Wiki says about yahg physiology is that they have eight eyes. I asked a reader how many arms and legs they had, and got an answer I interpreted as 'two sets of each." Made sense with the overall 'spider' feel of the yahg, so I went with that, rather than digging back through various save-games. I have since corrected chapter 108. Thanks for the PMs. :-)_

_Once again, for those who are out there who haven't come to visit the __Spirit of Redemption forums__, folks in them are having great fun. There's free-form RP—Jelfia, Shinimegami, SorrowsSolace, and Solamon Beserker are getting into trouble on Omega as I write this—and an "Ask the Characters" thread that's now twenty pages long. *boggles* Come to the bar, challenge Sam or Eli at karaoke, ask a character what their favorite book is, have Aethyta create a drink custom-tailored to your tastes, or try to get the characters to act out scenes from __Lethal Weapon__ or __Star Trek__. The forumites have been. . . very inventive so far, I have to give them that. __http:/ / forum[dot]fanfiction[dot]net/forum/The_Spirit_of_Redemption_Discussion_Forum/87890/_

**The batarians, Mindoir, June 24, 2196**

"I thought," a slaver fumed at Zellar N'hab as their dropship's pilot dodged and ducked and wove around _streams_ of flak and tracers erupting from the mountainous, heavily forested area below, "that Mindoir was supposed to be a _soft target._ An Alliance colony ripe for the picking. That's what you people in SIU promised us!"

Zellar regarded the man with dislike, and shoved him back into his own seat roughly. "Get the fuck out of my face," the SIU officer said, quietly. "You worry about getting us on the ground in one piece. That's your only concern right now." He stared out the window at the blaze of tracers arcing up at them from what had to be _eight_ damned defense towers.

His superiors at SIU had told him little. Except that they suspected an extremely important military base was on Mindoir. Maybe a secondary berthing location for the damned SR fleet. He wasn't in charge of the expedition; he was too low-ranked and too low-caste to be entrusted with every operation detail. So, he had this team, and there were six others still showing on his scope that had made it this far, and four more that were taking on the little town in the valley. There were teams over the major cities, too, the ones with the strange, alien names. New Amsterdam, Takanawa, La Gara, and Odessa.

He'd been assigned an equal number of slavers and warrior-castes, and he'd been heading in with close to twelve hundred men. He _did_ outrank the leaders of the other five units, which left Zellar nominally in charge. _Damnit_. With surprise, darkness, and the relatively small size of the base. . . it should have been easy. But half his teams had been blown out of the sky so far, and he had absolutely no idea what the _hell_ this base was, that it was so damned well defended.

Their pilot managed to find a fairly clear landing zone in the middle of some sort of fenced-off area to the northeast of the base proper. It looked, for the ancestors' sakes, like a set of animal pens. In fact, as he and his men crouched and moved out of the hatch, Zellar did catch a strong whiff of excrement through his suit's filters. "What the hell is this place?" one of the warrior-castes asked. "Animals? Are they dangerous?"

"They're penned up," Zellar said, sharply. There were huge heads hanging over stall doors. Some quadrupeds, some bipeds, all extremely alien and nasty looking. "Pay attention. We're heading southwest." He keyed up his radio. "Teams? Status reports."

"Team one, landed safely at northwest. Taking on defense tower now."

"Team two, landed southwest. Heading for defense tower nearest us."

"Team three, landed southeast. Defense tower northwest of us, heading to it."

"Team four, also southeast. There's a tower further southeast of us. Heading to disable that one."

"Team six, we seem to have landed at a rifle range. There's a defense tower to the northeast of us."

That left his squad as the _only_ one that hadn't landed more or less on top of a damned tower. "Acknowledged. Disable towers and then move towards the center. Team five is en route." The plan called for disabling the towers for reinforcements. . . if any. . . and then taking and holding the center of the base.

"Aren't we going to go house to house?" one of the slavers asked, anxiously. _Of course that's your concern. You want to show a profit._ But there were houses, and stands of forest, and more houses, and neat little streets. . . and no life-signs.

"Not till we have to," Zellar said, crisply. He continued to watch his scope, worrying just a bit. _Where the hell __is__ everyone?_ He kept on alert, and began to realize several things at once. First, no two houses were exactly alike. Some were human, some were asari, some were turian in style. It was an amalgam that turned his stomach. On Khar'sharn, a base like this would have had neat rows of identical houses. All grouped by rank and caste, of course. Each neighborhood neatly divided from the rest, with officers and higher-caste people having larger, more ornate houses, of course.

Second, there were no street lights, although there were poles for it; all of the houses were dark, too. _They cut the power? Means they're probably going to be relying on biosigns and night vision, then._

Third, this alpine base was _covered_ in snow. He and hundred men _could_ cut through the forests and the snowdrifts, but the most _efficient_ path was along the streets. . . which mean that their movements could be predicted and channeled. _Damnit._ But with four feet of snow on the ground, there wasn't much choice. They got on a street and started moving, south from the animal pens, and then onto a larger, east-west street. At least taking this street to the west would put them at the large, central buildings of the base. Office buildings, a housing, mess halls, and some large, central building that, from the orbital pictures, had looked sort of turian in construction. "All right. You know the orders. Asari and any other biotics are on the _capture_ list. Anyone else? Kill them." Zellar looked at the men around him. "Any man who gets distracted and starts breaking in the captives before we secure the base, I will kill. With my own hands. There will be no further warnings." Zellar had never found it necessary to rant, rave, scream, or swear. He'd made it clear very early in his career in SIU that he did not threaten; he promised. And he kept his promises. He'd killed several of his own men, quickly, cleanly, and efficiently, for disobeying his orders early on. . . and the result had been a reputation that ensured he rarely had to repeat himself. "Move out."

Just as he said the words, however, there was a chilling series of howls in the air. Zellar lifted his head, recognizing the sound. _Varren._ "Well, we know what to expect of varren, right? Frontal attacks and a lot of them. Shoot to kill. Let's move."

The batarians of team six, however, off to the northeast, were having a bit more of a problem than anticipated. "There's some sort of metal thing at the base of the defense tower," one of the scouts reported to the team leader."

Tellek V'dur frowned. "Specifics," he snapped back over the radio. "A _thing_? What the hell kind of report is that?"

"It doesn't look like a mech," came the scout's dubious reply. Tellek could hear bullets being fired from the defense tower's gun turrets now, impacting somewhere near the radio. "Shit!" the scout swore. "I've been spotted."

_You don't say._ "Everyone, move up. Take out the gunner in the tower's nest."

Tellek and his men moved up. He fully expected to lose some people here; defense towers were hardened targets, and when manned, could hold off a ground assault fairly well. He had his men get out their heavy weapons, however, determined to crack the damned thing open as quickly as possible.

That was when the metal 'thing' at the foot of the tower _unfolded_. Stood up on four legs, like a huge beast, and shone a single beam of light, like an eye, in their direction. "Okay, so, it's a mech," Tellek muttered. _Biggest damned mech I've ever seen, but a mech's a mech._ "Fire on the mech, and get it down, so we can concentrate on the tower!" he shouted.

The giant mechanical head swiveled, with an eerie, silent grace. No sound of grinding gears here. Tellek had just long enough to admire the craftsmanship. . . and then the mech started firing on his men. Not bullets or a mining laser, he realized, numbly, when the ground shook under his feet and came up to meet him. No, the damned thing was equipped with a cannon of some sort. _What kind of idiot puts a cannon on a mech?_ he thought, and, still on the ground, opened fire on the mech himself. . . just as whoever was in the turret began sweeping the ground with machine-gun fire again. Bullets were biting through Tellek's shields now, and the giant mech was swiveling its head around, acquiring a target.

Tellek hadn't been in SIU long, but he knew that the penalty for failure on this mission would probably be death, or, perhaps worse, slavery. He shouted at his men to hold their positions, even as some of the slavers began to scramble away. He launched grenades at the huge mech, and then it was launching another cannon blast at him and his men. He could feel everyone around him moving away, and Tellek watched the projectile as it sailed towards him, as if in slow motion. He knew there was no way to get away. He would have needed to start moving before the mech locked on this position. _Ancestors. . . . _ was all he had time to think.

And then there was pain, briefly. And then darkness.

Team two, to the southwest, had managed to take out the defense tower there. There were large living quarters around here—apartments, Radem Y'mov had heard these kinds of living quarters called before. He was warrior-caste, however, and had never been to a non-batarian world before. But he'd been shown pictures in the briefing before the mission. Different building types, to help him and the others become oriented more quickly to whichever city they'd be attempting to capture and control. For that much living space to be allocated to techs or menials seemed . . . wasteful. But that was how humans did such things. And asari. Just look at how they lived on Omega and the Citadel. No one in their proper place. The Hegemon and the rest of the leadership said that this was one of the proclivities of aliens. That none of them understood that the mixing of castes together was inherently weakening.

Radem shook his head and went to stand with his squadmates. They'd had a hundred men on their dropships when they landed. The defense tower, and the salarian inside of it, manning the guns, had sold themselves dearly. Team two was down to only fifty men. And their SIU handler was among the dead. The remaining batarians looked around, and all of Radem's eyes narrowed as the slavers—cowardly, money-grubbing filth that they were—scurried off into the underbrush to the north. "That's the wrong way!" he called after them. "We're supposed to go northeast, to the center—ancestors take them to the abyss." Radem turned and spat on the ground. "Who's in charge now?"

A quick look revealed that it was _not_, praise to the gods and the ancestors, him. Their new team leader, warrior-caste, at least, formed them up and took them northwest, per the plan. Winding through buildings, they crossed a street, and suddenly, all of their scopes pinged with lifesigns. To the west. "Neutralize," the team leader ordered, over the radio. There were only twelve lifesigns. Fifty of them should be overwhelming, Radem thought, in satisfaction.

They moved between the small, round buildings. Radem didn't recognize these type of structures from _any_ of the training images. But he _did_ see a pond of some sort. Mostly frozen over, with cracks of liquid water still visible at the center. Odd, given the amount of snow on the ground. _Perhaps they heat the water? Why would anyone do that? Waste of energy. _

And then a hanar, of all things, floated placidly around a corner at them. They all leveled their weapons at the creature, which glowed in the heart of its mass effect fields. "This one regrets to inform you that you are trespassing," the hanar chimed at them all, its voder apparently keyed for. . . batarian? Radem's hands clenched tighter on his rifle, and he stepped closer to his squad mates, linking their shields. _This is a distraction_, he thought, and kept an eye on his scope as the lifesigns around them began to move. "This one asks that you put your weapons on the ground, and surrender ."

Their squad leader actually laughed at the gelatinous creature. "Sure. Right. Next you'll be saying that you're Blasto."

"That is what this one's face-name is. Regrettably, this one finds that no one believes him, when this one introduces himself." There was. . . polite resignation there. Maybe a touch of amusement. Superiority.

Radem found he _really_ didn't like the smug alien, and he was _relieved_ when his squad leader snorted. "Fuck this. Fire!"

The entire squad began to fire, and the first few bullets rocked off the hanar's shields. Then, a strange sort of lassitude began to pass through Radem. There was a voice in his mind. A voice that sang to him of peace and harmony and understanding. That the galaxy was wider and larger and stranger than he could know, and that if he just held still, and listened, just for a moment longer, he would _understand_ it. Just listen. Just one moment longer. Hear the voices. Understand everything. Understand _eternity._

Radem listened. He listened as the salarians boiled up from out of the heated water underneath the ice in their armor, and leveled guns on him and his squad. He listened as a few of his squad members managed to break free and started firing at the hanar, the salarians. He listened as drell emerged from their hiding places and moved in on his squad, killing anyone who resisted. Then the drell and the salarians took his weapons, and the weapons of his remaining squadmates—only ten had survived—and bound them.

Then the voice stopped, and Radem wanted to cry out, bereft, confused, betrayed. Part of him longed for the _answers_ that had been promised by the voices. And part of him was horrified. He'd just _stood_ there, gaping like an idiot, while everyone around him _died._ "What. . . what happened? I don't understand." He wanted to bury his face in his hands and weep, but a warrior didn't weep. He hadn't wept since he was three years old, and had been sent to the barracks for training. Tears had been beaten out of him there. And yet, here he stood, on an alien world, having betrayed his people, and all he could do was feel oddly bereft. Radem turned. Stared at the hanar. "It was you. This was _your_ doing."

The chiming voice was sad. "No. This was the doing of your people. You should never have come here. This one wished to minimize the loss of life, but unfortunately, your group was too large for this one to hold contained while the urge for violence was so strong in all of you."

"Who. . . what are you?"

The hanar hovered closer. "This one spoke truth before. This one is known as Blasto. This one is a Spectre. Would you perhaps believe this one, if this one said, 'Enkindle this?'"

Radem stared at the hanar blankly. There was a brief pause, and one of the salarians said, dryly, "Blasto? They don't allow their people to watch many external vids. Warrior-caste winds up the most indoctrinated, with some of the least access to outside ideas of any of them."

"Ah. This one thanks you for enlightening him, Mordin Alesh. This one had forgotten." Faint amusement now. "Come now, all of you. There are holding areas prepared for all of you. And we have slavers to hunt down. Rest assured, that they will not find the mercy that was granted to you and yours." The amusement was gone. Radem felt a chill pass down his spine at the tone in that gentle, chiming voice now. And he was very, very glad that he wasn't a slaver or a raider.

**Serana, Mindoir, June 24, 2196**

Serana had been, honestly, moping. More than a little bit. She was looking at possibly going to Khar'sharn or Camala or Lorek very shortly, and hadn't been able to tell either Eli or Lin about it. First, because if they were captured, they both could be broken. She wasn't fond of either thought: that they could be captured, or that they might be tortured. Second, she couldn't afford to distract them. And knowing both of them, they _would_ be distracted if they thought she were in danger, and if they weren't there to protect her. A third good reason to mope was that they, in turn, were in harm's way, and she wasn't there to protect them. Again. _Fighting spirits-of-fire on Tuchanka. Then four years of separation with them on Macedyn and Edessan and Nimines. I graduate boot camp, I get a combat and infiltration specialty, and I'm all set to work with them, and what happens? They become Spectres, and I'm sitting at home on Mindoir, while __they're__ off on Omega. Fighting. Infiltrating. What I'm damned well trained to do._

There was also more than a hint of frustration in her about the current romantic situation. She wanted them both where she could touch them and hear them and smell them. The night Eli and Lin had learned they were both going to be Spectres, they'd come to her, and they'd started saying their farewells. Farewells to dreams, mostly, but it had still hurt, and bitterly. They'd been quiet—very, very quiet, in deference to the thin walls around them—but very thorough, too. And that had been the last time Eli had initiated anything with her. Oh, he'd been loving and attentive and had kissed her hands and given her little light bites. . . and, the night after their blood-brotherhood ceremony, and their oaths as Spectres, she'd rolled atop Eli in bed and bitten him to get his attention, and he'd responded, quickly and appreciatively. But he hadn't initiated anything. Admittedly, practically a day later, he'd been off to the Citadel. Then back, a day later, and then off again to Omega. But it wasn't just that. It was a sense she had. As if he'd withdrawn a part of himself. To protect her. To protect himself, too, she supposed. Because she knew it hurt him to let go. But he and Lin both agreed, resolutely, that this course of action would be better, in the long run.

Serana was skeptical about that, to say the least. But they were both holding firm on this topic, at least for the moment, so she could only hope that they might change their minds in the next six months. And changing their minds would be so much easier if only she were with them, to show them that she could fight just as well as they could. _On the other hand_, she admitted, tiredly, _if I were with them, I might be a distraction at this point, too. Without even intending to be._

So she'd continued sifting through batarian comm chatter, and continued to both dread and long for her upcoming visit into batarian space. The only thing Kasumi said they were waiting on, was confirmation from 'Zorro' on the location of a Lystheni AI. . . and a way to get Serana into batarian space and into 'Zorro's' hands. Which might be extremely difficult, given the shooting war now in progress. The batarians were probably blockading all their own mass relays. There had been talk of trying to insert her into a slave shipment, but the chances of being sold to the wrong owner were too risky, in Kasumi's opinion. So the mission remained in the planning stages, and all Serana could do was try not to worry about it. Try not to worry about what sort of message to leave for Eli and Lin, if they returned from Omega, and found her not here, but off in batarian space, somewhere.

Or, worse yet, dead in batarian space.

Such thoughts had occupied the first week of their absence, heightened by worries about _them_. About her first-brother and second-brother, who'd been a week on Shanxi now, under complete communications blackout. Serana had no idea how Kasumi and Ellie were both dealing with it; Kasumi had both Sam and Dara on Omega, and Ellie had her son on Omega and Lantar off on Shanxi. And yet both of them, other than a little tightness around the eyes, and a little more exhaustion in Kasumi's face than usually came through, showed almost no signs of their worry. When she'd asked Kasumi about it, the little human woman had shrugged. "I'm here doing everything I can to make sure they all get home safely. Heck, at this point, I'm interfacing with STG to try to find rachni vessels that might have been lost over two thousand years ago, so we can get the rachni involved in this war. Want to help?"

At least it had been a break from batarian comm signals. . . and it let her feel as if we were helping. At least a little bit.

Serana had been working pretty late in the main villa, in Kasumi's office, when the klaxons began to sound. She'd lived on or near base since she was seven years old, more or less. She knew what that sound mean. "Drop ships," Serana said, standing and grabbing her armor out of a locker in the hall. Kasumi was ahead of her, already getting into her own work clothes. "Batarians or yahg?" Serana asked, keeping her tone as light as she could as she activated her biosign masker.

"If they follow their pattern, with the yahg hitting the _big_ colony worlds, and the batarians hitting the smaller ones. . . batarians." Kasumi looked at Serana. "Hit the weapons locker on the second floor, Serana. Grab whatever mines and bombs you're most comfortable with. Full pack. You and I will be having some fun with them and whoever else Shep sends with us."

Serana bolted downstairs, and started pulling out the mines and other explosives she'd been trained in using. She could defuse them almost as well as Rinus could, now, but overall, she preferred to put them to good use. She simply didn't have the hand-to-hand skills of her older brothers, Eli, Lin, or even Dara. Then again, if she found herself in direct combat, something had obviously gone horribly wrong somewhere.

She scrambled outside, in time to see a half dozen people assemble around Shepard—Dempsey, Zhasa, Fors, Thelldaroon, Livanus, Sky, and Kasumi—and she heard the varren begin baying all around. Serana shuddered a little. "How are they going to know friend from foe?" she asked, raising a hand a little nervously. Urz was one thing. Urz was a treasured family friend, a pet, the animal that had brought Kaius to the cave and safety on a dark night years ago. Urz's various offspring? Serana didn't know most of the whelps.

Shepard grimaced. "They're trained only to respond to an attack, or a directive from a trainer. . .or Urz. Don't shoot at them, and they won't attack you."

"We're sure about that?" Dempsey asked, flatly.

"Some of them have had five years of training. We've been _really_ working with them. I only keep the ones that have intelligence on par with Urz. The rest, I sell as culls." Shepard shook her head. "They all have champion bite strength, though. I paid for the damned defense towers out of my own pocket, believe it or not." She glanced around. "All right. Fors and Kasumi? You'll be heading northwest, behind the villa. Take Thell and Serana, and make sure the batarians don't get here. Dempsey, Zhasa, Livanus, Sky? You're with me. We've got two groups coming in from the west. I suggest we intercept them." Shepard's blue eyes glittered in the dim moonlight, and she pulled her visor down. "Once we've taken care of the batarians here on base, we've got at least four more groups down in the valley. I've sent Nisha and a few other Spectres down there to help, but we'll need to mop up, undoubtedly. Let's go, people."

Serana stared up at the huge elcor, and then down at the tiny volus, whose envirosuit had recently been painted Spectre black. Then she looked over at Kasumi. "Well, this should be interesting," she said, after a moment, as the rest of the group moved off.

Fors snuffled at her. "Nice to work with you, too. My human-turian friend's turian-turian wife. Thell, would you mind giving me a lift?"

"Of course not. We must move quickly to intercept the incoming batarians." Thelldaroon lifted Fors and placed the volus on his back.

"This would be much easier with a climbing harness," Fors muttered, clearly holding on for dear life. "Or maybe a saddle."

Serana did her best not to laugh, and moved off with Kasumi, heading northwest.

As they moved behind the villa, however, all desire to laugh quickly faded. Serana could clearly hear the sound of the defense towers' turrets spitting bullets in all directions, but to the northwest, she could hear barrages of return fire. She activated her stealth device at the same time Kasumi did, and moved off ahead. "Keep radio chatter down," Kasumi whispered onto their band. "We're moving in close now."

"Understood," Fors replied. For a moment, it seemed incongruous to Serana that Fors, who was a full Spectre, had no problems at all taking orders from Kasumi, but then again. . . Kasumi was head of Spectre security. And had been with Shepard since before the Reaper War.

The two of them ghosted through the trees now. "Start setting your mines when you're within about fifteen feet of them," Kasumi whispered. "And do try not to blow any of us up."

"Will try," Serana muttered, and got to work. Modern mines were nasty business. Linianus' father had designed many of the devices she was now carrying, ironically enough. None of them were large. They didn't _have_ to be. Each was about the size of a conventional grenade, and she could carry enough high explosives in one backpack to level a building, especially if she found the right structural weak points. Each mine had a pressure plate, and when someone stepped on it, the device armed. When they stepped off, the device exploded directly up into them, discharging a mass effect field directly through the body of the victim. . . or, if Serana chose to remove the pressure plate, and set it as a wall charge, into the body of a structure, instead. The explosion took less than a second to discharge. There was _no one_ who could move fast enough to get out of the way. Not even a geth. Chances of surviving a direct hit? Vanishingly small, unless the person was wearing bomb-disposal grade kinetic shielding and heavy armor to begin with. Even then, chances were, they'd be launched upwards and fall back down again very heavily indeed.

Best, or perhaps, worst, of all, Serana could detonate them manually, from a distance, as well. "What's the plan?" Fors whispered over the radio, as Serana began planting tiny seeds of death in the snow of the forest between the houses close to the northwest defense tower. It was dark, she was in a stealth net, and every single batarian was focused on not being shot by the tower gunner.

"The plan is, you're going to come around from the tower itself, face them, and tell them to stand down," Kasumi said, calmly.

"Come out with their hands up."

"That's the one."

"Right, and then we'll pick them up off the ground because they'll have fallen on their asses laughing at me." Fors' tone was very dry.

"Yes and no. You've mentioned that you have an ability that no one likes you to use. Implosion."

There was a pause. "Yes." Fors' tone had just become more than a little uneasy. "Actually, _I_ don't even like using it. It's. . .messy."

"Get their attention with that. The messier and showier it is, the better. Thell, you're going to be taking a lot of fire. Use your arc projector and fire back. If we can get them to turn and run, I'm going to use flash bangs to try to drive them Serana's way." Kasumi's voice was _very_ grim. "And when they head her way, they'll head right into her mines."

Serana actually felt a little ill, but she couldn't respond right now. No matter how much noise was coming from the guns around her, shouting over the top of that hammering sound into her radio would _probably_ alert the batarians that she was near. So she continued working. Patted her mines into the ground between trees, about two feet apart. And was grateful when Thelldaroon said, calmly, "And if they do not run towards Serana?"

"Then Fors will grab the ones who don't in a stasis field, and you and I and the defense tower guard will continue firing at them until they're dead."

Another brief pause. "You've been in a few battles before, haven't you?" Fors said. No humor in his voice at all now.

"A few, yes. Plus, you know. Eleven years of working with Shep and Garrus, and close to six years of living with Sam. You pick up a few things." Kasumi paused. "Serana, are you clear of the mines?"

Serana turned and dashed off atop the hard-packed snow between the trees. "I am now," she reported after she'd reached a safe distance. "If we're going to do this, let's do this."

**Fors Luka, Mindoir, June 24, 2196**

Batarians, Fors had discovered long ago, tended to smell _odd_. His suit filters prevented oxygen from getting into his envirosuit, of course, and also prevented him from suffering a catastrophic loss of pressure. But since, to a volus, the sense of smell was even more important, in some ways, than vision, the filters did allow organic compounds and esters to come through for his olfactory senses to work. Otherwise, every volus off of Irune would have been, effectively, blinded. Hobbled. Crippled.

Fors could smell the ionization in the atmosphere as the mass effect-propelled bullets tore through the air towards the defense tower, and the turret above poured down death at the batarians, too, hundreds of rounds a minute. He could smell batarian armor polish, which had an oddly sweet component to it, gunoil, and the odd, underlying odor of batarian skin. As if something spicy common to their diet, exuded from their pores. _If I ever get a chance, I will have to ask a batarian what it is that they all like to eat or drink so much. At least with turians, I know that the musk they all give off is probably from __apha__. . . although every turian is, of course, subtly different._ Fors regarded the battle scene nervously as Thell slowly moved into position to the east of the tower, not breaking from cover yet. "How do you suggest we get their attention?" he asked the elcor.

"I will attend to that matter," Thell replied, calmly, and Fors clung to his back as the elcor moved, pulling out his arc projector. . . and then aimed the weapon at the sky. _Better than a flare_, the volus had to admit as blue-white light lit up the sky, sending stark shadows fleeting and fleeing across the battleground. "Your attention, please!" Thelldaroon shouted, his enormous voice carrying over even the sound of gunfire. "Spectre Luka would like to speak with you."

The batarians stopped shooting, possibly out of pure amazement, as the elcor broke from the underbrush, massive and calm.

_Polite to the bitter end, eh, Thell?_ Fors pulled himself up higher on Thell's shoulder, so that the batarians could actually see him in all his diminutive glory. "Throw down your weapons and surrender," Fors called, trying to put as much calm and confidence in his voice as possible. Just as he had on Bastion, when trying to talk down the hostage-taker. As he peered around Thell's huge shoulder, however, the volus was trying to get a head-count, or at least a scent-count. _I make that close to thirty batarians dead on the ground. And a good fifty of them still standing. By the glorious and the eternal, I __really__ hope Kasumi's plan works_. _I don't want to meet my ancestors today. Or any other day, really._

There was a distinct pause. "A volus?" the response finally came, in galactic. Right on cue, Fors could hear the laughter starting in the ranks. "A volus _Spectre_? On an elcor's back? What is this, a joke?"

"Pretty funny one, huh?" Fors replied, feeling a little sad and distant, and located the loudmouth in the center of the crowd. "But seriously. Last chance. Throw down the guns, or you will die. Pretty horribly, I'm afraid."

The batarian loud-mouth snorted, and shouted something to his men in his native tongue, which Fors' VI rendered as, _Kill the distraction team and then focus fire on the defense tower._

_Well, you did ask for it_, Fors thought, grimly, and reached out with his biotics. He frequently commented on his implosion ability. Mostly to keep people from _ever_ asking him to use it. He found that the _threat_ usually did wonders to keep people in line. Very, very occasionally, a demonstration was required, however. Inside his suit, Fors closed his eyes. He could still _sense_ the batarian with his biotics, however. Isolated him. Wrapped a sphere of energy around him, and lifted him off the ground with it, as if he were in a soap bubble. "Thell," Fors said, distantly, dropping back down behind the elcor's shoulder as bullets started to ping off Thell's heavy kinetic shields, "I need them to be able to see this. Light it up, please."

Thell again used his arc projector, and in his mind, as Fors leaned into the elcor's back, he could see the light flickering over the frozen landscape, sending stroboscopic shadows and flares all over the clearing in front of the tower. With the bubble in place, and the loudmouth off the ground, Fors slid the second piece of the biotic puzzle into place: a micro-singularity. Positioned _inside_ his victim. And _victim_ was the only appropriate word, Fors knew. The singularity pulsed inside the batarian's guts, and set up a resonance with the field outside the male's body. The singularity pulled; the bubble, already pushing inwards, responded to that tug, that pull, and began to collapse.

The batarian started to scream. Air trapped inside the bubble compressed with him, one atmosphere, two atmospheres, four atmospheres. Held off the ground, under severe compression, the blood in his body had no place to go, but suddenly began to compress _outwards_, erupting from the most fragile portions of his body first, the mucous membranes. Eyes, nose, mouth, genitals, anus. None of which was visible, of course, under armor and behind a batarian's solid mask, but the screams were rending now, as the internal organs began to liquefy. Fors shook a little behind Thell, where it was safe to do so, out of sight, and bullets began to swarm at them both, like a hive of angry bees. "I am returning fire," Thell warned calmly. "They will not be able to see much of your demonstration soon."

_Demonstration? Ancestors, you're entirely too calm about this, my elcor friend._ "That's fine. Almost done." Fors' tone was tight as he maintained his crushing hold. One more pull. .. and the batarian's body crunched inwards. Bones turned to fine powder, and the screaming, thankfully, stopped. . . as the body and the armor turned into tightly compacted, spherical mass. The process had taken over a minute, but there was nothing left that even remotely resembled a humanoid being. Fors let the remains plop to the ground now, and the closest batarians to the erstwhile loudmouth actually did turn and run . . . which is when Kasumi threw her flashbangs, driving them, herding them towards Serana's mines.

Fors peeked over Thell's stolid shoulder once more. The batarians closest to the center were stampeding backwards, as they'd wanted them to do; the ones at the outer edges, however, hadn't seen the 'demonstration' clearly enough. "Now, Fors," Kasumi called, as the batarians continued to hail Thell with bullets. The elcor simply stood in the direct line of fire and was an immovable wall between Fors and harm. The volus knew, however, that Thell's shields couldn't hold out forever. Kasumi was right. It was time.

Fors held up one little hand and again pushed his energies out, concentrating on holding as many batarians in place as he could. As the closest ones froze in place, Kasumi darted out of the shadows, firing at her helpless, frozen targets. Thell opened up once more with the arc projector, lines of white light leaping from batarian to batarian. The defense turret operator, firing freely now, rained death down on the helpless foes. And behind that line of unmoving men, fires suddenly erupted in the woods. Explosion after explosion rocked the ground, and Fors clung onto Thell's shoulders for dear life—and slipped. The elcor reached back one paw and _caught_ him, however, just above the ground. "Perhaps," Thelldaroon told him calmly, "a harness might be in order, after all, if we are to continue to work together, Spectre Luka."

"It's just Fors," the volus told him, as Thell gently set him on the ground. Fors had gone into battle with turians during the Reaper War. He wasn't a stranger to combat. But during the Reaper War, he'd been fighting. . . husks. Collectors. Things that were inimical, could barely speak. That had been easy. And while he didn't regret for a second that his powers had surely saved Thell's life. . . and that Thell's presence had surely saved his own, twice over. . . .Fors still didn't _like_ using his abilities like this. The mischief of locking protestors in place so B-Sec could restrain them had been one thing. Locking a group of batarians in place while his friends could mow them down. . . left Fors tired, and more than a little sad. "Come on, Thell. Let's go help Serana find the last of her bombs, before any children who play in these woods find them for us."

**Dempsey, Mindoir, June 24, 2196**

Dempsey caught shadows moving out of the corners of his eyes—low-slung shadows, deep in and among the trees and houses that lined the sides of the roads. His extensive gene modifications had given him exceptional night vision, so when he turned to look, he was able to pick out the creatures clearly. _Varren_. So far, the beasts had been true to Shepard's word; none of them had attacked _them_. At least, not yet. Zhasa's mind was closed to him for the moment. This was combat, and they both needed all their resources. She and he were grouped with Sky; Shepard and Livanus were moving off to their right, sweeping through the various yards of houses. The sounds of gunfire from the turret to the east had ceased. _That doesn't bode well. Means that the batarians took it out. They take out enough of them, and they could clear this area for more dropships. . . or at least, get their existing ones back up in the air safely. _

_Be aware!_ Sky suddenly sang in everyone's minds. _The minds of shackles, the singers of captive-songs, approach_. And without warning, the rachni projected something into Dempsey's mind, and the man sucked in a breath. _My god, they can mask their biosigns, but they can't mask their minds,_ he realized, because now he could see every single one of them. There were at least fifty coming straight down the road at them, but were far enough away that the Spectres were all able to take cover, largely behind parked groundcars for the moment. _Is that all of them?_ Dempsey wondered, trying to project the thought tightly to Sky.

_No. They sing of other movements. They have two groups in motion, but this is the first._

Fifty of the enemy, and five Spectres. On the face of it, the odds were not good. Dempsey's mind was absolutely clear. No fear whatsoever. Simply the brutal calculations of combat. The enemy had probably seen their biosigns. There would likely be no surprise here. Except the surprises that they would manufacture, themselves. The batarians very likely had no biotics at all with them. That would be a help. And Shepard and Livanus were both packing assault rifles. No. . . any way he looked at it, this was going to be a very ugly fight. Dempsey reached back, and pulled out his submachine gun, just as Zhasa was doing. "Ready," he said, tersely, into his radio.

"Wait for it," Shepard said, calmly. Somehow, just hearing her voice made Dempsey revise his calculations upwards in their favor. Ten to one odds seemed a hell of a lot less bad, if Shepard was there.

Then the batarians advanced, spread out in a loose skirmish formation, some of the fighters obviously turning to look into the woods. . . and Shepard whistled, loud and shrill. And shouted, _"Adsulto!"_ which Dempsey realized was probably Latin for _attack_, or something like that, because that was when the varren started racing out of the yards and wooded areas around the column of batarians. The batarians at the sides of the column shouted warnings and began to fire on the beasts, but it took more than a couple of rounds to put a varren down. The beasts leaped for throats and arms, applying hundreds of pounds of pressure to armor, crushing what they couldn't necessarily penetrate with their enormous fangs. And any batarian they were thus attached to, was pretty much out of the fight, at least for the moment. "Now!" Shepard ordered over the radio, and reared up herself, Livanus at her side, and both of them unleashed with their assault rifles on the front row of batarians before them, about forty yards away.

_About time_, Dempsey thought, clinically, and popped up, himself. Felt the rush of Sky's biotics ripple past him, and felt a huge singularity form in the center line. He could clearly see the batarians floating and tumbling helplessly in midair, and focused on one, immediately. With each individual's mass effectively negated by the singularity, they were easy pray for a focused biotic throw—which he and Zhasa now provided. One batarian went sailing off into the roof of a nearby two-story house, slamming into the shingles, screaming, before rolling down off the slippery, icy surface and falling to the ground. Zhasa's target slammed into the branches of a tree, some thirty feet off the ground, and began to pinball down through the winter-dead branches, instead. Any thuds of impact were lost in the _rat-tat-ta-tat-ta-ta_ chatter of Shepard and Livanus' assault rifles. Sky lifted two of his appendages now—_pedipalps_, part of Dempsey's mind reminded him, with a faint snicker—and shot _something_ organic and fluid towards the batarians. Whatever it was, spread out on impact on the ground, and the few batarians who weren't in full face-masks began to choke and cough immediately. _Remind me not to walk through that_, Dempsey thought. Though chances were, the stuff wouldn't have much permanent effect on him, it would probably still hurt.

The batarians in the second and third rows of troops, however, had taken a moment to regroup, and opened fire now, themselves. The Spectres all ducked down now, and the groundcars took the hits for them. _Some people are going to have their insurance rates go up,_ Dempsey thought, distantly, and saw, in his mind, the batarians move, little red dots taking on different configurations. Groups of three forming now, and when he peeked up over the hood of his and Zhasa's groundcar, he could see the glimmer of shields coursing over each trio. "They look to be overlapping their kinetic shields in groups of three," Dempsey reported into his radio. "Concussive shots and overloads and warp abilities are going to be a must now."

"Either that, or just plain wearing them down," Shepard said, grimly, as four three-man squads advanced on them.

They did their best. Livanus and Shepard both started firing concussive rounds at the advancing batarians, and Zhasa worked her omnitool. Dempsey held back on his tech abilities at first, trying to stick to just a simple warp effect, and Sky. . . Sky simply tore into those shields with a _reave_ ability that Dempsey had never felt used before, but was in awe of, frankly. But the triple layers of shields were simply tough to tear into, and the damned batarians just kept coming forward.

"I'm in range to jump to the first set of them," Zhasa said, tightly. "Not sure what good it would do."

"Stay put," Shepard called back over the radio. "Let them come to us."

Zhasa acknowledged, and peered up and over the groundcar. . . and that was when the batarians behind the rows of heavily shielded fighters moved up, and used some sort of a stasis gun on her, freezing her in place. _"Remember, any biotic is to be captured!"_ came the shout from one of the batarians, and Dempsey's VI whispered the translation into his ear. He could have had it fed directly into his mind, by the chip, but had feared what kind of pain that would bring.

_Capture the biotics._ His mind went blank for a moment. He'd been briefed on what the batarians, and the Lystheni before them, did with captured biotics. Humans and asari were their favored captives. Lobotomized, chipped, turned into components of biotic ship weapons systems. Worse than slaves. More like machines. Mindless, thoughtless, drooling, trapped between life and death. And although Zhasa was a powerful biotic, she was also quarian, and batarians looked on quarians as being too much trouble to keep as slaves. Food and health issues being what they were.

All of this went through his mind in a flash, even as he yanked Zhasa back down into cover. Quick, gentle touch on her mind. _You can hear me?_

_I hear you. Can't __move._

_Drop your bubble around yourself and Sky, if you can project any biotics at all. I'll be back._

_Dempsey!_ Her mental tone was slightly panicked, and he gave her one more reassuring brush over her mind, before he stood up. "Sky," Dempsey said tightly, and remotely, "Plant a singularity among the slavers, please."

_Captive minds will be made captive to my song_, the rachni replied, and his voice was filled with reds and blacks for once. Anger, a sound that buzzed in Dempsey's mind like a circular saw.

Kinetic shield already in place, Dempsey slammed his mental wall of blocks around himself, like a fortress. Each one with a letter on it, spelling, the clear, distinct words: _Fuck you, bastards._ Then he set a hand on the hood of the groundcar and leaped forward over the top of it, watching as Sky sent the slavers spinning through the air. Moving forward now, watching in an almost detached way as the batarians began to riddle his shields with bullets. "Fire at them while they're focused on me," Dempsey said, grimly, and activated the chip in his mind. _This is going to suck_.

Overload. Warp. Step forward. Overload. Warp. Throw. Step forward. Fire submachine gun. Overload. Warp. Another inexorable step. A reave sailed past him, courtesy of Sky, but Dempsey was almost beyond knowing what anything was, but the pain. No link to Zhasa to stabilize him. No Siara there to take the pain away, or a chorus of rachni minds to lift the agony from him and accept it into themselves. No music in his mind. Just him, the chip, and its eternal fight with his inherent biotic powers.

Bullets sizzling through his kinetic shield now, batarians charging forward to try to tackle him—now throwing them backwards, rush of biotic energies, sending one into his companions behind him. Slamming his wall of blocks back up around him, and stepping forward again. As ponderous as a mech, as emotionless as a mech, as silent and inexorable as death itself.

Returning fire, Shepard and Livanus firing from behind him, Sky spitting more poison into the air nearby. Pain. Raw, ungodly pain, and the world started to recede for Dempsey. Reality became nothing more than living another second or two, and taking as many of the enemy with him as possible. He kept walking forward, and felt the first bullets finally tear through his double layer of shields, and punch into his suit. He snarled and threw the closest batarian away from him, then turned and fired on the next closest. Pain in mind, pain in body. Nothing but blank masks of visors around him now, nothing left but targets and pain. Bullets rocking him back with impact, sealing up his shields again, and slamming the butt of his rifle into the nearest face, which suddenly sailed away into the air for some inexplicable reason. Denied his target, Dempsey turned and fired on another nearby batarian . . . and then there were no more masks to shoot, no more masks to kill. An animal, sure, with a mouth full of bloody fangs, but. . . .Dempsey hesitated. The beast looked at him. He looked at the beast. And then the beast lowered its head to one of the many masked figures lying dead on the ground and began to worry at the body, half-lifting it and shaking it vigorously with powerful jaw and neck muscles.

_Dempsey!_

The thought penetrated the haze. _Who the hell is Dempsey?_ he wondered, for a moment, then dimly realized that it was _him_. The anger and pain began to recede for a moment, and he knew who he was, and who was touching his mind. _Zhasa?_

_Are you all right?_ Near panic in her mental voice.

_Sort of_. He looked down at himself. His newly-painted armor was scored with bullet holes, and he could feel raw wounds underneath. But he knew he'd heal. The wounds were already starting to close over. Blood wasn't pouring out of him anymore.

"That was only fifty of them," Shepard said, tightly. "Where the hell did the rest of them go?"

As if in answer, they all heard gunfire. To the northwest. Behind them. Dempsey's mind almost went blank again. "They flanked us," he said, grimly. "They send this platoon here to get our attention, and sent the rest north, through the neighborhoods and woods towards the villa."

"Move!" Shepard said, and they all took off at a run, Livanus outpacing all of them easily. Zhasa had recovered from the stasis gun, and shot ahead at her ground-eating pace, and Shepard and Dempsey followed, with Sky bringing up the rear. As Shepard ran, she lifted her visor and put a whistle to her mouth again, blowing hard. And every damned one of the varren left their kills and loped after them. Dempsey turned his head slightly and saw the animals pouring in behind them like a tide pouring into a pool, and nodded to himself, once. _Useful creatures_, he thought, and returned his attention to the run, to the need to get to the damned villa before the people in the bunker under it were found. Killed. Captured. _Madison is a biotic_, his mind reminded him, clinically. _They'll want one, especially one as powerful as Mad's likely to be. Freshly implanted with L5s, too. Not to mention, little Amara, though god only knows what they'll make of a human-turian hybrid._

The anger started to come back, and this time, James Dempsey welcomed it.

**Madison Dempsey, June 24, 2196**

Everyone in the bunker had been hustled here in the middle of the night, obviously. The younger children had all been cranky and crying at first, having been awoken by the klaxons and then by worried parents. Bundled into clothing, and tucked away down here, a strange place, with only the dim glow of emergency lighting panels to comfort them. Kauda, the Vakarian's drell nanny, had Elissa and Alain in her arms, and was rocking them softly in a corner. Madison glanced around. Ellie, whom he knew as Caelia and Elijah Sidonis' mother, and the wife of Lantar Sidonis, the turian who'd been teaching him gladiatorial fighting, was in another corner, with her own two youngest having just fallen asleep against her, in spite of the muffled sound of gunfire coming from above. She was wearing a gunbelt, with a pistol, but no armor. Some of the turians _were_ in armor. Mad didn't recognize most of them, but one older couple had the blue-quartered paint he associated with one of his dad's fellow candidates, Linianus Pellarian, and they had three kids with them, all of whom he definitely recognized from school. Arinus Pellarian was three years older than he was, Sestina was a year ahead, and Kelsarus was a year younger than Kaius and Amara.

Madison had, himself, been pacing back and forth along the length of the bunker, stepping over and around legs and feet of people who were lying on the floor. He still had his dad's hockey stick in his hand, like a magic talisman, although he had no idea if he could do to it, what his dad had done.

"Madison, please sit down. You're making everyone else nervous," Ellie finally told him.

Madison turned towards her, and his words died on his lips. She was just so _nice_. Caelia was curled up in her lap now, her head tucked under her mother's chin, and Narayana leaned into Ellie's side, as the woman wrapped an arm around the salarian girl's thin shoulders. "Okay," he said, after a moment, and found a place near her, between Kaius and Amara, to sit.

"This reminds me of the cave," Amara said, her voice small.

"You can't remember the cave," Kaius said, scoffing. "_I_ barely remember the cave."

"It was dark," Amara said, her voice still a little shaky. "I remember Mama carrying me. I remember the stars wobbling overhead as she ran, and looking back over her shoulder, and seeing Daddy in his blue armor, fighting with some human. And then we were in the cave, and it was even darker."

Madison tentatively put a hand on her shoulder. He was aware now of the fact that she had something of a puppy-love crush on him; that had, apparently, been the warmth he'd felt in her mind whenever they spoke biotically. He liked her, but she was young. But even so, she was a friend, and she was obviously very, very frightened right now. "Maybe you've absorbed some of your parents' memories of the cave," he suggested, quietly. Not really knowing what 'the cave' was, really.

_That's possible. I do know that Kaius and I couldn't sleep without a nightlight for __years__ because of it._ Fear in her mind, alleviating a bit at his mental touch.

Warmth, reassurance. _You're not alone._

_Wasn't alone then, either. But everyone was helpless._ She sent him little snippets. Being _kidnapped_, for god's sake, from Allardus and Solanna's house, along with half of her turian relatives. And Elijah and Dara, too. Being forced to walk, dehydration, being slapped around by the human religious zealots who'd taken them prisoner. Then the bad man threatening to cut off her fingers if her parents didn't start taking him seriously.

For the second time in his young life, Madison felt a surge of anger so intense, he wanted to reach _through_ her mind, into the past, and slam that man with a shockwave, or throw him into the rock wall of the cliff-face he could see in her mind. _It's okay,_ Amara told him, sounding startled by the vehemence of his thoughts. _Daddy killed him. Spur-kick next to the heart, and then snapped off Mama's wedding knife in his throat. That's what I've seen in Daddy's mind, at least._

_You've seen people die?_ Mad was startled by that.

_Mama and Daddy try not to think about work around us. Always have. Sometimes both of them can't help it, though. Daddy's always been a bit pleased about having killed Cunningham. He's also pleased about having killed someone called Aria. Usually, he thinks of killing as necessary, but not something to enjoy. He's glad he killed those two, though. He thinks about it when he tucks us in at night sometimes._ Innocent, candid words. _Since they found out I could hear their thoughts, they've both really tried not to think about work, though._

_I bet_. Madison had no idea what to do with any of that, but she was _sounding_ better now. Calmer. More relaxed. As if thinking about her parents and the fact that they'd stood as a bulwark between her, her siblings, and the galaxy her entire life, had been reassurance enough.

The silent exchange had taken only seconds. Ellie was shaking her head now. "I hate even thinking about that night," she muttered. "Eli and Dara, risking their lives. I was so _angry_ at her for risking Eli's life like that. In retrospect, I suppose that was . . . foolish of me." She kissed Caelia's head, and let the girl slip down onto the bench beside her. Then she gingerly touched the pistol at her side. "I don't know what I hate more. Carrying this thing, knowing I might have to use it, or the waiting."

The bullet sounds were getting closer, Madison realized. Punctuated with the occasional _whump-whump_ of some larger, more powerful explosion, that he couldn't put a name to, unfortunately. It was as if someone had an old war vid on in a distant room in the house, and yet also, not. Because as the sounds got closer, the adults in the room all keyed up further. The turian male in the blue paint started assembling some sort of weapon. Ellie pulled out her pistol, holding it in both hands, and kept it aimed at the floor. Madison wouldn't have been surprised to see her hands shaking.

_Scared?_ Amara asked him, just as Kaius said, out loud, "Scared, Mad?"

"Kind of," Madison admitted. "Just hope I don't freeze up if something bad does happen." _Would be a hell of a waste of these stupid implants if I did._

_Whump, whump, whump._ "What's that sound we keep hearing?" Ellie asked.

"Could be mortars," Arinus's father suggested, after a moment.

_**Whump.**_

"That wasn't," he added, grimly, as the floor shook under them. '"That was an explosive charge. I think they've found the outer entrance of the bunker. Get the youngest children up against the back wall. Arinus, you're going to be blooded today."

"Yes, _Pada_." Madison thought Arinus' voice sounded a little thin.

_Good. I'm not the only one scared of freezing up._ "Can I help?" Madison asked, dividing the question between Ellie and the tall turian. "I've been training." He tapped the side of his forehead gingerly.

"Try to stay back, and make sure nothing gets through to the younger children," Arinus' father told him.

"With luck, nothing will," Ellie told him. "Caelia, Narayana, please take Emily and Tacitus back there, and keep them calm."

_**Whump.**_That thump was even louder than the last. "Second door," Arinus' father said, clinically. "Get ready for it. The Spectres will get to us soon."

_If the Spectres aren't already dead_, Madison thought, bleakly. _That would mean my dad's dead._ The thought left him feeling completely hollow. His dad had come through quarantine on Earth to get him. _Surely_, if there were a way, James Dempsey would come through bullets and fire and everything else for him now, too. . . if he were alive.

If.

Madison crowded back, finding himself standing between Amara and Sestina, with Kaius beyond Amara. Amara's mind was a boil of anxiety now. . . and then there came the first _thump_ at the door. "Get back," Arinus' father said now, tightly. "Ellie, Marena, get to cover. That's the frame for the charges that they just slapped onto the door."

Ellie and the turian female ducked behind some storage crates—MREs were apparently the contents—and the male ducked back, too, holding his weapon at the ready. . . . and then the hardened door _exploded_ inwards, in a rain of metal shards that fortunately didn't reach the back of the bunker. Amara shrieked a bit and reflexively brought up a biotic shield, a talent Madison suddenly _devoutly_ wished he'd been able to master. _Oh shit,_ he thought, numbly. _Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit._ Batarians were just past the door, and they had _guns_ and he had a _stick_, and suddenly, all that practicing he'd done with his dad and Sky and Ylara didn't seem all that useful, and _oh shit oh shit oh shit_.

Chaos. Total chaos in front of him, as he and the others ducked to the floor, trying to make themselves smaller targets. It was like watching a sport on the extranet that he'd never seen before. His eyes didn't know what to watch for, or how, so there was just motion and noise. Behind him, the youngest children were screaming at the sound of bullets and explosions, scared out of their minds. Ahead of him, he could see the male turian firing . . . grenades? . . .at the opening in the door, and heard the explosions outside whenever when of the projectiles went off. Ellie was firing her pistol, slowly, but methodically, at anything that came through the door, forcing the batarians to pull out of the opening. The female turian was using a shotgun. . . Arinus was beside his mother there, using a pistol, ducking back into cover frequently, because the boy had no armor, unlike his parents.

And then, when the older male was reloading, and only Ellie was still firing, a batarian in heavy armor made it through the hole and into the room. _Oh, shit, no_, Madison thought, panicking, as the batarian closed on Arinus' father in melee, and they began to fight—kicks and punches and then grappling on the floor. "Keep firing!" Ellie shouted, sounding panicked, as the female turian started to stand to go to her husband's aid. . . and then another batarian came through, and another. . . .and Madison reached out with his mind. Found the biotic energies he'd been practicing with. _You stay the hell out of here_, he thought, and shot power out from him, letting it travel through the floor in a shockwave for the lead batarian. . . and was stunned at how much more powerful it felt than before. How much _easier_. _Oh, my god, Dad was __right__. The implants __rock._

His particular batarian went flying backwards into the door, and stood there for a moment, shaking his head as if his bell had been rung. Amara grabbed onto Mad's arm, squealing, and he couldn't hear her words through the bullets and the explosions, but he could hear her mind just fine. _That was so cool! Can you do that again? Hurry!_

_You can help, you know!_ he shot back, annoyed.

_No implants,_ she thought back, sounding dejected. _Oh no. . . here they come again._ Dread in her tone. Terror.

The turian male and the batarian were still fighting, but the turian was on top now, and had his wedding-knife out, trying to find someplace to stab or cut in the batarian's armor. Ellie was reloading, the turian female and her shotgun were still at work, but the batarians just kept coming. . .and one of them fired some sort of a weapon at Arinus and his mother, and they just _froze_ in place. _Oh, god, oh god. This is a bad idea_, Madison thought, and tried to do what his dad had shown him to do. Wrapped the hockey stick in his hands in biotic force. And then poured his biotics down into the ground and charged across the bunker. Not into the line of fire, but right for Arinus' father. He brought the hockey stick down, wrapped, as it was, in pure kinetic energy, down on the batarian's helmeted head, and then just kept hitting and hitting. Every blow crunched into the helmet, but he was almost too panicked to know when he could stop. His only coherent thought, really, was _Holy shit. Something else Dad was right about._

The turian grabbed Madison and shoved him behind him. "Stay down," he snarled, and lifted his grenade-launcher again. . . and Madison reached out. Tried to grab a batarian with his mind to throw, but he was just so _tired_ now. . .

And then there were explosions outside, rocking the whole bunker. White flashes of light, more bullets, surges of so much biotic energy, Madison thought his head would explode at the feel of it. Incredibly powerful throws, and the batarians simply _flew_ across the room, slamming into walls with bone-shattering force. And then a tall figure leaped through the hole in the door, and Madison thought at first it was another batarian. Scrambled to his feet, trying to muster just a little more mental energy and focus—and then the figure turned. The visor was shattered—and it took a _hell_ of a lot to shatter plasteel—revealing a face dotted with cuts and at least one deep graze—and all the cuts _glowed_, orange-red. As if lava flowed under the skin. They eyes were almost lost in the dim light, but the faint orange glow of the emergency panels made them gleam orange, too. The motions were calm. Ponderous. Inexorable. And as one batarian stirred, trying to raise himself, raise his weapon, the figure's head snapped to the left and a five-fingered, human hand gestured. The batarian lifted and slammed into a wall again, this time falling completely limp to the ground.

"Spectre?" Arinus' father rasped. "Spectre Dempsey?"

"Dad?" Madison said, stunned.

The head turned back towards him, in a snap. Nothing there. Nothing in the eyes, the sense. Nothing human there at all. _Dad?_

The head tilted slightly, like a robot acquiring a new downloaded subroutine. Then the shoulders slumped for a moment. "Mad? You okay?" Flat voice. Wonderful Southie accent. Sound of home.

"Yeah," Madison stumbled forward, and his father wrapped his arms around him for a moment. Up close, Madison could see and feel that the smooth surface of the armor was pockmarked by bullets. Some had only deflected and scored the outer shell. Others. . . .others had punched through. _Oh my god—_

_It's fine._ So much pain now in his father's mental voice. Madison had no idea how his dad was holding it together.

Behind them, Ellie was, quietly, starting to throw up. The other Spectres were starting to jump through into the bunker now. Amara and Kaius and Elissa and Alain ran now to Shepard, who picked up her two youngest, one in each arm, and hugged them, armor and all, while Kaius and Amara settled for grabbing onto their mothers' waist. Zhasa hopped through next, and came over to put a gloved hand on the back of Madison's neck, and on his father's shoulder.

Arinus' father pulled himself upright again. "Your youngling here is blooded now," he told Dempsey. "Same as my boy. Threw one batarian back with his biotics. . . and killed the one that was keeping me tied up. With a _stick._" He looked at them both. "I would dearly love to learn _that_ trick."

"He's blooded even younger than cousin Eli was," Amara noted, off to the side, proudly. For the life of him, Madison couldn't understand why. She could have said _Green zucchini parachute pants_, and it would have made exactly as much sense.

"Oh, you wrapped a kinetic field around my hockey stick like I showed you?" A little more life in his father's words now. Dempsey took the stick out of his hand, and glanced at it. For the first time, Madison saw that there was blood all over the blade of the stick, and his stomach twitched a little, uncomfortably. "No way you can learn that one, Ranalus, sorry." His dad looked down at Mad now. "You know, this was signed by Renee Lefebvre, right?"

"Sorry, Dad," Madison mumbled. His dad's face was almost all the way healed up now. It was absolutely astounding to watch, and he didn't know what to make of it. Or of the machine-like precision, the lack of a _person_, that had marked his dad when Dempsey had entered the room.

"It's okay. I think it's worth a lot more now." A quick, sharp thought. _Before, it was just memorabilia. Now, it helped you save lives. Much more valuable._

_Dad. . . are you __really__ okay?_

_I've got about twenty bullets embedded in me that the skin's healed over, so a doctor's going to have to go in and cut them back out of me._ His dad's voice was tired, and through Dempsey, Madison could suddenly sense Zhasa. Zhasa, giving him access to his emotions. _Didn't mean to scare you, Mad. Just kind of who I am. And it's useful. Come on. We'll get you upstairs, but there's still fighting down in the valley._

**Allardus, Mindoir, June 24, 2196**

Dr. Allardus Velnaran had not started off life as a galactically-renown xenobiologist. No, he'd left boot camp, assigned to OCS in the marines, in spite of his very evident intelligence. There had been a surplus of techs, which he'd been eminently suited to be, out of his boot camp facility, and as such, his enormous physical gifts had taken him into boarding party after boarding party for his four years of service. He'd always enjoyed sparring, and had kept up on his skills. It had been a welcome release of frustration while grinding away on his dissertation, and he'd long since discovered that his thoughts were clearer and sharper after pounding on a heavy bag for an hour, than when he'd spent that hour merely guzzling _apha_ and worrying at a problem.

In the nine or ten years he'd lived on Mindoir, Allardus had seen his family kidnapped, the base attacked, his daughter-in-law and sister-in-law poisoned, and seen his children and their mates go into harm's way dozens of times. The kidnapping had happened when he was at work; he hadn't been able to help that. The base attack. . . he worked at the science station, not the base. Again, not his fault. Children in harm's way? Part of their jobs. The illnesses on Bastion and Palaven, and the poisonings? Left him seething with frustration. An abuse of the xenobiology that he'd dedicated his life to, the study of, and mixing of different types of life so that they could live in harmony with one another.

And now, Allardus finally had a chance to protect his family, if only a small part of it. The klaxons had sounded, and he'd gotten into his old marine armor, which still fit. Solanna still had hers, too, though she grumbled under her breath that she needed to adjust it over her hips. _Five children,_ Allardus thought, in amusement, _will do that_. When the first warnings of a potential strike on the planet had come through, they'd gone on base and re-qualified with their favorite weapons, as well. Shotgun for Solanna, who'd been a tech, and generally hadn't left the ship if she could avoid it. And for Allardus, a heavy assault rifle. Shepard had personally handed him a Revenant, saying, calmly, "If there's anyone in a twenty-mile radius who has the strength to handle one of these, it's you, Allardus."

Sure enough, he'd qualified on it. Now, with Polina and Quintus tucked away in the cellar, and Gavius slowly pulling on his own old C-sec armor at the kitchen table, a loaded pistol in front of him, beside his _apha_ cup, there was a knock at the front door. Solanna blinked. "Should I answer that?'

"Batarians seem unlikely to _knock_, first-daughter," Gavius told her, dryly, slowly sealing up his arm pieces.

"I'll get it. Solanna, with me." Allardus moved to the front door, and received a shock. Agnes Jaworski was there. A rifle in one hand, and Takeshi, her little grandson, tossed over her other shoulder. Allardus opened the door and dragged her inside. "Agnes, what in the _spirits'_ names are you doing here?"

The human woman looked more than a little scared, and Allardus could smell it on her skin, too. "The route to my shelter was blocked," she said, tightly. "Figured you guys would still be here. Good lord, what a day for me to be looking after Takeshi for Kasumi."

He hustled her into the kitchen, where Gavius gaped at her. "Agnes Jaworski, are you _insane_?" Gavius rasped.

"Not the last time I checked," the older human woman snapped back, bouncing her sleeping grandson on her shoulder. "Can I put the little one with your two, Solanna?"

Solanna simply nodded, wide-eyed, and asked, a little tentatively, "Do you know how to use that gun?"

Agnes gave her an exasperated sigh. "Hi, I'm Agnes, and I'm from _Texas_. My late husband was the one who taught _Spectre Sam Jaworski_ how to shoot. And he dragged us both into every forest and arroyo in west Texas, not to mention elk hunting in Idaho every now and again. I can shoot a damn rifle."

Allardus caught her rifle and gave it a quick look. "Your husband's?"

"It was, yes."

"It won't get through their shields. This is meant for killing animals. No mass effect chamber."

Agnes sighed. "Then give me something that _will_ cut through the shields."

Gavius snorted. "Ever fire a pistol?"

Agnes looked at the ceiling. "Have I mentioned that I'm from _Texas_? Yes, I've fired a pistol."

She headed down into the cellar with Solanna to get Takeshi settled, and Allardus could hear Vindexus, the family mastiff, give a low, deep, lethargic bark from the bottom of the stairs as the two females headed down. Vindexus was nearly nine years old. Quite an age for a mastiff, apparently. And was far too arthritic to be allowed upstairs if hostilities were imminent.

Gavius gave Allardus a look. "_This Texas. Is it a very rough neighborhood?"_

"_I think it's one of their countries, __pada'amu_." Allardus' tone was dubious, however. _"Certainly, all of the Jaworskis speak of it as such."_

He settled in near the front windows, to watch and to wait. Sure enough, a squad of batarian slavers came in to sweep through their neighborhood. They paused at Tulluust's house, where the elcor was undoubtedly keeping Telluura and Shellara in the basement right now, probably detecting lifesigns. Allardus rather doubted his xenobotanist friend's ability to keep the two children and himself safe, however, and poked the muzzle of his assault rifle out the window . . .and opened fire.

That got the batarian's attention. They turned and moved for cover, and began firing back, just as Agnes came back up the stairs with Solanna. "Get down," Solanna told the older woman, sharply, and moved to the front window, shotgun in hand. This time, they weren't paralyzed by Seeker swarms. This time, there was no azure dust to cloud anyone's minds. Gavius moved up to the window as well, a pistol in his hands, and Agnes made herself useful—she was reloading for them all. Competently, Allardus was pleased to see. _We might just pull this off. All we have to do is hold off long enough for the people at the base to get down here. . . ._

The slavers began to move up. "They're trying to get in range for something," Gavius muttered, taking a freshly loaded pistol from Agnes, and firing again. "Must have something up their sleeves."

They did. Allardus cursed, vigorously, as a white blast of light enclosed Solanna, and suddenly, his wife couldn't _move_ anymore. Allardus swore and pulled her frozen form down out of the window, half-tackling her. "Stasis guns," Gavius muttered, grimly. "Common slaver weapon. You may be glad that they seem to be using single-target settings."

"They can target more than one person at a time?" Agnes hissed.

"They're often used on groups of fleeing slaves." Gavius never sugar-coated anything.

"They're almost at the door—" Agnes' voice cut off as Allardus lunged for the front door now, himself. His hearing had caught the rattle of the latch before her warning.

The batarians kicked in the front door, and Allardus went into action. It was a chokepoint, and in melee, Allardus was still a damned fine fighter. He'd been in training with Spectres for almost ten years now. He'd trained Rinus, now a Spectre. Rellus, now a probationary Spectre. Linianus, a Spectre. Dara, a Spectre. And Elijah, a Spectre. He'd fought with Lantar, Garrus, and Shepard, and had learned human tactics and training from Sam Jaworski. And the first batarian through the door got the stock of an assault rifle to the chin, followed by a brutal kick to the sternum that sent the male flying backwards into his fellows. Fighting targets in armor was a hell of a different proposition than fighting people in street clothes or in a training _gi_, Allardus knew. The point in armor was to clear space to use the guns again. . . and with that initial space cleared, he opened fire with the Revenant Shepard had loaned him, spitting out torrents of bullets. With his target on the ground, Allardus ducked back into the shelter of his doorway, and swore as he saw the batarians, not idiots, move to his left. _Why use a door when there's a window?_ "They're flanking—"

"I have them, _ama'filu,"_ Gavius replied, hard and clipped, and Allardus could hear _two_ pistols firing right now. Hear the shattering of glass as the front windows were blown out. No time to think; another batarian was trying to get through the door in that moment of distraction. Allardus let the assault rifle dangle by its straps for a moment.

Allardus was on the right-hand side of the door, and saw the muzzle and the hand supporting it enter the doorway first. Clamped his left hand around the batarian's left wrist, and pulled forward, hard. Jerked the male in the direction he was already committed to, and then, as he stumbled forwards, Allardus moved. Fast. His right hand snaked around from behind, clamping under the jaw, under the helmet, and he planted a foot on the closest knee, destabilizing him. Twisting, turning the male to the ground. Shifted his right hand, to press against the jaw now, in the opposite direction as he was continuing to pull the wrist supporting the rifle. Out of armor, it would have been a neck-snap, fast and deadly. He couldn't count on it, however, in armor. So, for thoroughness, Allardus dropped to one knee and brought the batarian's extended elbow down over his knee, and shattered it. Stripped the assault rifle from the male's limp hands, and fired it down into the body, point-blank. Turned, and with the batarian's own weapon, fired out into the area in front of the house, encouraging the remaining slavers to stay _back_ from the damn door.

"You okay in there?" Allardus called, in a break between firing streams of bullets.

The sounds of the pistols firing were the only reply he received, at first. Then, after a moment, Allardus realized that he hadn't heard any _return_ fire in a while, and stepped back, warily. Peered around the corner of the entryway into the living area. Solanna still lay, frozen, in her armor, covered by shards of broken glass. Agnes was behind Gavius, using his armored form for cover, pistol in her hands, clearly shaking a little. Gavius was absolutely calm, and had one final batarian wounded in a corner, pistol armed for the male's head. "This is the part where you surrender," Gavius said in galactic, lifting his helmet's visor.

The batarian stared at him for a moment. "You're. . . you're Garrus. . . "

"No. That would be my son." Gavius' tone was exquisitely dry. "Hands up, where I can see them—"

The batarian's hands moved, lifting his weapon. Two pistols both rang out at the same moment, and the batarian slumped to the ground.

Agnes very carefully safed her pistol, and handed it back to Gavius. The older male stared at her, curiously, because her hands were definitely shaking now. _Adrenal reaction_, Allardus recognized. It hit some humans _very_ hard, he knew. "Are you all right?" he asked, moving now to pick Solanna up off the ground. His mate was starting to move, if a little stiffly.

"I'm. . . fine." Agnes cleared her throat. "It's not much like shooting deer, is it?" She cleared her throat again. "I'll. . . I'll go check in on the little ones. They're probably scared right now."

She turned and headed for the cellar door. Gavius looked after her, curiously, and then turned to help Allardus with Solanna. _"How old would you say Agnes is?_" he asked Allardus.

"_Probably in her sixties,"_ Allardus answered, much more concerned with brushing the glass off of Solanna now, so he could raise her visor and get a look at her pupils.

"_Rather old to be blooded for the first time. Humans are so __odd__."_ Gavius snorted. _"But she fought well."_

Solanna managed to raise her own visor now. _"Seeing them as less weak, __pada__?"_ she asked, lightly.

"_Mind your tongue, first-daughter,_" Gavius told her, firmly.

**Author's note:** _I was tossing a few emails back and forth with CalliesVoice as I wrote the Mindoir scenes, and I told her that the line that kept coming to mind for me was Wolverine in __X2__: "You picked the wrong house, bub."_

_I'm not sure whether I'm getting more a Wolvie or a Colossus thing going with Dempsey here, but either way. . . the batarians definitely picked the wrong house._

_Oh, yes, and Gavius' being semi-recognized by the batarians, and his response, is courtesy of CalliesVoice. ;-)_

_Allardus' take-down is courtesy of Sam, or at least, of my husband, who was nice enough to block out a couple of potential takedowns with me. If the batarian had stepped in with the opposite leg first, the hind leg would have been swept __back__ further, scratch/spur-kick to the groin, and then been taken down similarly. Other tactics we discussed included crossing the batarian's arms up and firing his own weapon under his own jaw. It's __fun__ being married to him. :-)_

**Shanxi, July 5, 2196**

Zhi ran through the dark streets, terrified. Her lungs burned; she'd been running for some time, and there was still smoke and worse in the air from the fallen buildings in the city center. She'd been told _"Run. Run, little human. Make it a good hunt."_ The words had been in galactic, and she'd barely understood them; she knew a little of the common language of the galaxy from the extranet, but only really spoke Mandarin and a little English. She was the only one of her family who knew even that much; her parents had only immigrated here from Shanghai four years ago, when she was twelve. Zhi's younger brother was only twelve now, and had looked at her with frightened eyes when the creatures had pulled her away from her mother's clinging arms. And her father's face had been a stoic mask, but his eyes had been terrified for her. They'd all been able to watch out the warehouse windows as others had been killed in front of the structure. Some had been shot, hung, and gutted, like animal carcasses in the marketplace. Others had been toyed with, as if for sport, before being killed by the creatures. And some, just a few, had been released. The captives in the warehouse where half her neighborhood had been sent who could bear to watch out the windows had reported that some had run. . . and that a handful of the creatures would run off in pursuit.

So Zhi had walked out of the warehouse, fully expecting her death. She didn't really want to find out if reincarnation existed, as her mother's Buddhist beliefs suggested. Her father's Taoist philosophy wasn't much comfort, either. These creatures were clearly out of balance with the universe, but what good was knowing that? Either way, Zhi was fairly sure she hadn't achieved enlightenment.

And then the _creatures_ had turned her loose. So Zhi ran. Ran from the creatures, who were like demons out of some ancient tale, half-remembered, and not at all believed in, until two short weeks ago. Heard the howls of the creatures behind her, and stumbled in the darkness over some unevenness in the pavement, and sprawled to the ground, tightly controlling her desire to cry out in pain. Blood on her wrists and knees now. _As if they couldn't smell me already_, she thought, panicking. _Can I hide?_

She could see light ahead. She ran towards it, and stopped, staring, at the sight of an enormous gout of flame rising from a largely melted, blacked pipe that stuck out of the shattered street ahead of her. Xi'an, in addition to its mass effect power plant, did use natural gas reserves native to Shanxi for some energy needs. This pipe had obviously broken during one of the attacks. Had probably exploded. . . explaining the damage to the surrounding buildings, all of which had shattered windows and charred facades. And now, unchecked, it simply burned, in a flare over fifty feet in height. Zhi didn't dare head towards the flame. . . but she didn't know where else to _go_. She heard the howls behind her again, closer, and then silence, except for the roaring of the flame ahead of her.

Zhi stood there for a moment, heart pounding, chest on fire. _I'm dead either way,_ she thought, distantly. _If I can have the courage to throw myself into the fire, I'll deny them their hunger. The pain will be brief. I won't be torn apart, like the others said happened in the courtyard before the warehouse. But. . . if I do that, they'll eat someone else, won't they? Which is more cowardly?_

Another howl, close enough to ring off the faces of the buildings around her. Zhi shook for a moment, and darted off to the left, heading for an alley. Grabbed onto a drainpipe with her bleeding, bruised hands. _Maybe I can climb high enough and get into the building through a window. . . ._

A hand closed on her wrist. Zhi almost shrieked, but another hand had moved up and across her mouth, just as Zhi started to struggle, to fight, but whoever this was, had a wiry strength that wouldn't permit her to move. "_Shhh_," a voice whispered in her ear. She couldn't _see_ who'd seized her. A peculiar, oddly modulated voice, clearly female, croaked in her ear, in galactic, _"You're safe. Relax. You've drawn them right to us."_

And then four of the creatures ran into the ruined plaza. These were the hunters, Zhi knew. They wore helmets that concealed their frightful faces and multiple eyes. And yet they _saw_, she knew. And, from the way they were sniffing the air now, she knew they could smell, too, like dogs. Zhi trembled, and the voice of her captor rasped again in her ear, "_Be still. Be silent."_

Zhi remained absolutely still. Eyes wide, mouth still open behind what felt like a burning-hot hand. And then, in response to some unheard signal, all four of the creatures turned. Looked around suspiciously. . . and then an absolute storm of bullets poured out at them. The noise was astounding, each _bam_ reflecting back off the buildings around her a hundred times or more, and Zhi raised her hands to her ears. Saw the creatures stagger under the assault. _They can be hurt!_ she realized, suddenly, and the creatures suddenly looked less like demons, and more like aliens. They staggered, shields flared into blue life around them, and then they all simply vanished. Zhi started. That looked like magic to her, on some level, like a magician's trick.

"_Stay here. Do not move. I have to go help deal with the hunters."_ The words were firm, and the arms unwound from around her neck now. Zhi stared up, and caught the merest hint of a figure, outlined in the smoky air, striding lightly towards the mouth of the alleyway. Zhi crawled after the figure, finding it the only _safe_ thing she'd seen—or thought she'd seen, anyway—in weeks. And peered out into the plaza again. . . . just in time to see one of the creatures reappear, directly in front of her. She looked up and up and up at it. Saw the mouth gape wide. . . and then it arched back, as if startled. Reached back, behind itself, as if trying to pull someone or something off of its own shoulders—and then blood started to pour from its throat, just as a slender, tiny figure appeared atop its shoulders, and then jumped free, somersaulting backwards to land agilely on the ground. _"One!"_ the figure called. _"The rest will come to me now!"_

Zhi shrank back into the alley as, true to the figure's prediction, the other creatures suddenly moved in on her, shimmers of light just barely visible as distortions against the roaring fire at the end of the street. The tiny figure ducked and dodged them, and then vanished herself once more. . . and then the bullets rained down again. Zhi pulled back, closing her eyes and putting her hands over her ears, scarcely daring to breathe again until the noise and the howls and everything finally faded.

Gentle hands on her wrists, tugging. When she looked up again, this time, she could see there were several people around her. One, an alien creature with enormous black eyes that looked a little sad, was the person tugging at her wrists. This was the slender one, who'd killed the first hunter. Zhi's eyes darted left and right. There were four _turians_ present. Everyone on Shanxi knew what turian battle armor looked like, of course. Their blank black visors, the pronounced cowls and spurs, had been every child's worst nightmare for forty years, and Zhi had seen plenty of vids about the First Contact War since she'd moved here. And the other person. . . that was an asari, wasn't it? _"Do you speak galactic?"_ one of the turians asked, all raspy-voiced, and knelt down, lifting his visor so she could see his face. Alien. Scarred. Blue and white paint. Zhi froze. _That_ face, she knew.

"_You're. . . you're Garrus Vakarian?"_ she managed, in her poor galactic.

"_There are advantages to having a famous face, __fradu__,"_ one of the other turians said.

Vakarian raised a finger at him. _"They were hunting you?"_

"_Yes. Keep us penned. Like cattle. Sometimes just slaughter, for food. Like animals. Sometimes. . . want to hunt."_ Zhi dared to reach out and grab him by the forearm. _"Please. My family. They're still alive. The neighbors. In warehouse."_ This would be so much easier, if she didn't have to try to think in galactic. She gave up and used Mandarin, instead, hoping they had VIs. "Please, you have to help them. They're in a warehouse, in the Yanliang-qu district. . . "

"_Can you lead us there?"_ Vakarian asked her.

Zhi looked around, helplessly. She had absolutely no idea where she was. How long she'd run. She'd taken so many twists and turns and nothing looked familiar at all, broken and ruined as it was, covered in ash and debris. She shook her head helplessly, and suddenly, it all caught up with her at once. In spite of every cultural admonition against tears, she lowered her head and silently cried, two tears streaking through the black ash on her face.

A gentle hand on her shoulder roused her. The asari tipped her face up, and wiped the tears away. _"You've been very brave,"_ she told Zhi gently, her voice melodic and soothing. _"If we showed you a map of the city, could you show us where the warehouse is?"_

Zhi hesitated. She _thought_ she knew where they'd all been herded to. It had been in a complex not far from her parents' apartment. . . but she wasn't sure. "I. . . I don't know." She felt her lips tremble. "I have to help them. I have to save them. . . "

The asari looked up at Vakarian. _"I can take it from her mind."_ She looked at Zhi now, directly. _"Will you permit me to share your thoughts for a moment?"_

Numbly, Zhi nodded. Asari were all biotics. Biotics held power, like ancient magicians had been said to hold. But on the whole, Zhi was almost beyond the ability to be frightened any more than she already had been. She closed her eyes, and there was a touch of _something_ against her consciousness. Gentle power. Kindness. Sympathy. And also, great weariness.

"_I have it. Due east of here. She ran almost five kilometers."_

The alien with the big eyes helped Zhi to her feet. _"Come. You can ride in one of our vehicles."_

Relief coursed through her. _They're going to save my family,_ she thought, staring at the aliens around her, most of whom she realized, belatedly, wore black armor. She started to babble incoherent thanks, but then they lifted her up into some great vehicle, and jumped in, themselves, and the hatch sealed on her, closing out the sight of the ruined streets at last.

**Rinus, Shanxi, July 5, 2196**

It had been ten days since they had retaken the power station. Seventeen since they'd landed on the planet's surface. Rinus sometimes wondered, numbly, if they were making any damned progress at all. Five thousand human and turian marines had landed on the east side of town, and over a thousand of them had died, taking the spirits-be-damned spaceport. At the moment, the marines were spread out around the eastern edge of Xi'an, in a thin arc, working their way into the city methodically, clearing neighborhood by neighborhood. And suffering very heavy casualties, doing so. The Alliance military had landed a mobile military hospital module behind the marine lines, and they were trying to direct refugees through to that module, but, by all reports, supplies were short and the doctors were hugely overworked. When he'd heard that, Rel had snorted and told Rinus, a little caustically, "Dara should be here."

"Last week, you said she should be here, on the ground, at our sides, to help treat the marines and the Spectres who're injured," Rinus had told his brother, as mildly as he could. He knew frustration-anger when he heard it. "I doubt any doctor, however skilled, can manage the trick of being in two different places at once, let alone three."

Rel's eyes had narrowed for a moment, and then he snorted. Let it go, at least for the moment. And when his second-brother had turned away to stare out the window of the Hammerhead, Rinus had shaken his head. _Is every death on our squad going to become her fault for not being here, in your mind? I know that anger, not given an outlet, sometimes finds the worst possible direction to go, but brother, you have to know that she's doing her duty, in the place where she's been assigned._ Rinus had all the arguments cued up, neat and logical in his mind, but had held his peace. It wasn't the time to let them slip from behind his teeth. Rel's demeanor had clearly indicated he was in no mood to talk, and they had just moved into a neighborhood where yahg movements had been caught by orbital cameras, so talk would also be a distraction.

At the moment, the Spectres and their affiliated troops weren't a part of that methodical east-to-west push through the city that the marines were coordinating. Instead, they were being sent to anywhere and everywhere that the ships in orbit happened to see yahg congregating. They were looking for the leadership. There had to _be_ leadership; the scanty information that they had on yahg society indicated a hierarchical structure, much like turian society. Pack-oriented. With an alpha male at the top of the social order. Take out the alpha, and those under him would be incapacitated until they worked out who was now in charge. . . and they didn't seem to follow along nice, neat familial lines, as turians did. The result might be a free-for-all among the yahg as they fought to see who would take over next. That was a best-case scenario. Rinus thought that any species that was advanced enough for spaceflight would probably at least partially resort to faction-building rather than universal warfare to decide leadership, but that might just be his own political background and biases speaking, he thought, with a certain grim amusement.

They hadn't found the yahg leader. They'd found penned humans, gutted humans, hung up like animals to drain their blood. Rinus had seen a fair bit of vileness in his years of service, but nothing had every affected him like dealing with the yahg. He'd thrown up after watching them hunt, and had vomited again after finding a whole storage room of gutted human carcasses, hung up on meat-hooks, buzzing with flies, for the storeroom had no refrigeration, of course. The sight and the smell had been horrific. The human marines with them, all hardened soldiers, had wept as they cut down the bodies for burial, before retreating into stoic masks the equal of any turian's. Only the eyes had betrayed them, wide and a little dazed.

Since then, Rinus had managed to hold onto the contents of his stomach when they'd found similar storerooms. And tonight, they'd been working to contain the natural gas fire, when a perimeter scout had reported movement from the northwest. A single human, fleeing as if her life depended on it. And, as it had turned out, her life had. Seheve had moved in, quickly, containing the girl, and then they'd all opened fire from their various hiding places on the yahg hunters.

They'd learned a good deal about the enemy in the past seventeen days. Rinus had taken the helmets of the stealthy hunters, and examined them. There was actually a complex HUD system inside. One that allowed them to track by heat, among other things. And was sensitive enough to display footprints on the ground, so long as the ground wasn't near the temperature of the body at hand. And if the person's boots weren't insulated. That meant that salarians, if there were any on this benighted world, would be effectively invisible to the hunters in that form of vision. So would a geth. So would a rachni; their insectile bodies were. . . probably not warm-blooded, Rinus figured, and they had thick carapaces, anyway. A krogan would be a dim outline, but an asari, a human, a drell, a turian, or a quarian not in armor would stand out. Armor, however, negated that form of tracking. However, they didn't rely solely on the infrared. They retained the full use of their eight eyes while using the HUD, and the helmet was also designed to allow them to smell. Sight _and_ scent hunters. A rarity, really. Most species depended on one sense or the other. Turians _could_ use scent, but tended to prefer sight, for example.

And now they were trying to backtrack along young Zhi's trail, back to where her people were being held captive, like cattle. _It would be damned nice to find a group of humans alive for a change,_ Rinus thought, tiredly, and looked at Rel, who was sitting and staring out the window at the darkened streets. Rel looked about as tightly wound as Rinus had ever seen him. _Somehow, I don't think Uncle Garrus' plan is working well,_ Rinus thought, grimly. The theory was, only allowing a combat addict to fight in narrow, controlled circumstances, and reacquaint him with the _reasons_ for fighting, rather than just the love of fighting, would help to get him in touch with his spirit once more, or at least, allow him to absorb the spirits of the squad into himself. Deliberately removing the other source of adrenal and oxytocin highs from him—his mate—was supposed to deprive him of distractions. To prevent him from escaping, redirecting his focus on anything other than finding himself again. Of course, Rinus had to acknowledge, Uncle Garrus could not have known that they'd be facing day after day of nearly non-stop fighting.

As it was, as he studied his second-brother, whose eyes were lost in shadow, the side of his face lit by the dim glow of the instrumentation panel at the front of the Hammerhead, Rinus had to wonder how long Rel had more or less been using Dara's spirit in place of his own. And he thought back, again, to Macedyn. About a year and a half ago, now, when they'd all been sunning themselves on the beach near Kallixta's home. Rel had been more or less relaxed on the beach. . . and then had snapped into action when he'd sighted the reporter. Rinus had taken Dara's words at the time as playing to the cheap seats._ Rel! We do not dangle people over cliffs! If you break them, I have to fix them._ And yet, when he'd confronted his brother later, had reminded him, gently, that it wasn't Rel's _place_ to deal with reporters in Rinus' territory, that they had Praetorians all around to deal with such things, Rel had just. . . shrugged it off. As if a first-brother's words and concerns didn't really matter. _I'd have pursued it then_, Rinus thought now, _except that ten minutes later, we got the news that the batarians had tried to assassinate Patriarch, and everyone was off. Shore leave cancelled, everyone back to work. If I'd just made more of an issue of it then. . . if I'd just looked a little further beneath the surface. . . ._ Rinus sighed. Part of the burden of being first-brother was that all of his siblings _were_ his responsibility. But another part of the burden was knowing, just as his parents had to know, that everyone made their own decisions, their own choices. And there was little he could do about that.

What he _could_ do, was be here for Rel. Offer his own spirit to his brother, as best he could. There was just such a feeling of _emptiness_ from Rel now, however, that Rinus was very concerned that the continuous combat was just going to confirm in Rel his enjoyment of conflict. . . and wouldn't provide the _reasons_ for fighting that Garrus was hoping Rel would see. _On the other hand, if ever there was a war worth fighting, this one is_, Rinus thought, grimly. _They've dropped into the middle of civilian populations. Left no military targets in orbit that we can hit. They're here, among the people, where we can't hit __them__ from orbit, and they're killing and __eating__ the people here. Dishonorable tactics and horrific tendencies. How can we __not__ fight against this?_

"You're staring again, first-brother," Rel said, not turning to look at Rinus.

"Am I?"

"As if I've grown a second head."

"Just thinking, sorry." Rinus tried to pass it off lightly. "Have you seen a goal out of the yahg yet?"

Rel shook his head, and finally looked at Rinus. "All the original infrastructure devastation was done in the first few days. Since then, they've completely ignored infrastructure, neither helping nor harming it in any way. Rounded up the citizenry. Eaten them. Some of this is about terror, I think."

Rinus nodded, slowly. "Why do you think that?"

Rel shrugged. "Been trying to get into their mindset," he replied, carefully. "Judging by their teeth, they could have gone into all the slaughterhouses in Xi'an and eaten the sides of beef, the pork, the goats, whatever it is that they eat here. They chose not to do so. They wasted food already prepared in the markets and the storerooms, in favor of. . . . humans. Not terribly logical. Not terribly efficient. Unless it serves more than one purpose. Feeding their army _and_ controlling the local population." His knee was bouncing up and down again, restlessly, and he stilled it when he noticed Rinus watching him. "Why control the local population, unless you plan to use them for something?"

Rinus thought about it, and extrapolated. His mind was _made_ for these sorts of questions. "So, pacify the local population, first, move in your hunters and then bring in the females and the young? Use the local population to rebuild the infrastructure _and_ as a food source, until you don't need them anymore, except as pets or livestock?"

Rel's head swiveled up. "You're ahead of me," he admitted. "I'd gotten as far as 'worse slavery than even the batarians make people endure,' but. . . "

Rinus shrugged. "It all makes a certain amount of horrible sense," he acknowledged, "but they'd have to hold the planets they take against years or decades of efforts to take them back."

"Maybe they don't think we have the will to fight," Rel replied quietly. "For years, or decades. That we'll eventually give up." He shrugged. "It's certainly possible, given that all they _really_ know about the galaxy, is that the Council sent one team, and never retaliated for the murders. And then, whatever the batarians have told them about the rest of the universe."

Rinus shook his head. Garrus had pulled him aside weeks ago and told him that the previous Shadow Broker had _been_ a yahg. And had been killed by himself, Shepard, and Liara T'soni, and that someone codenamed _Argus_ had replaced him. And that Argus threw information to the Spectres regularly. This was all Spectre-only information, Garrus had told him. Rinus now strongly wondered if the previous Shadow Broker had funneled information to his homeworld. It would make sense, if he had any loyalties to the people there, to have done so. Of course, he couldn't tell Rel any of this.

Then Lantar turned, and motioned for silence. Rinus pulled his visor down over his face again, and got ready for yet another fight, as the Hammerheads and their gunships moved in on a complex of warehouses that Melaani had guided them to, using information drawn from the human girl's memories.

The fight was brutal and protracted, and lasted from somewhere near 02:00 until 06:00. Rinus ran out of charges to his arc projector, and wound up using an assault rifle shoved into his hands by Garrus at some point. _"You really are trying to break me of shotguns, aren't you?"_ Rinus called, not keying the radio tab.

"_I don't want you getting close enough to them that a shotgun is even an option,"_ Garrus replied, grimly.

Rinus agreed with that sentiment wholeheartedly, but shook his head. "_We've got to get in there. Continuing to trade fire with the yahg from outside the warehouse isn't going to do much besides waste ammunition."_

"_I'm open to suggestions,"_ Garrus returned, before taking a couple of quick shots with his sniper rifle at a yahg who'd popped out of a doorway briefly. _"Trying to get in any of the doors would be suicide, however. They're treating them as chokepoints. And I won't order anyone to rush them. Not even Grunt or Gris. Not when I see two or three of the damned things at the door."_

Gris and Grunt had landed four days ago, arriving straight from Tuchanka. They'd brought a little news with them. That Mindoir had been attacked by batarians, for example. Limited news about their families. Everyone was alive, apparently, but they were chasing down the last of the batarians in the mountains and the wilds of Mindoir, all around the four major cities of the northwestern continent. Limited news, too, from Omega. "They got the FTL transmitter back up, so Pelagia's able to communicate with the rest of the NCAIs at will now. They've cleared the docking areas. And are working their way up into D ring, last we heard."

The two krogan had been an enormous help against the yahg so far. Both of them could move in on the creatures for close-quarters combat with somewhat less fear than a human or a turian could. Both had taken savage bites in the last four days, however. Bites that even krogan regeneration had had some difficulty with, though they were both loathe to admit it.

Rinus shook his head now. _"Distract them at a door, and we blow a hole in one of the walls and make our own damned entrance. We get in, and attack them from behind."_

"_Won't that risk hurting the captives?"_

"_Not if I set the charges right. And the young human can tell us where the captives are being kept, and we can stay away from their area."_

Rinus had the rare pleasure of watching his uncle's mind at work. The eyes flickered for a moment, and then Garrus nodded. _"Get set up. Then we can grind the yahg between us. Who do you need?"_

"_Seheve, for someone to watch my back from stealth. Either Rel or Melaani_."

"_Take Gris with you. I want a krogan and a biotic at your back. He's both."_

"_Probably a good idea."_ Rinus stepped back from the firing line in a low crouch and went to go assemble his breaching team. Gris and Seheve were there to protect him as he worked, and Garrus sent Grunt, Rel, and Melaani in towards the front entrance, to draw the yahg's attention and fire. In the shadows at the side of the building, Rinus worked quickly, ignoring the roars of challenge and the concussive sounds of gunfire as he set low-energy charges against the wall. He _really_ wished they'd packed an explosive frame, something available for breaching parties and SWAT teams, but they hadn't. _This is what they pay me for. Improvisation._ "Okay, let's move back, and get the marines up here with us," Rinus said, setting the last charge.

Gris nodded and gripped his shoulder, pulling him back to his feet. They moved back several dozen yards, and Gris gestured, imperatively, for the human and turian marines to move up to their location. The distraction team was still in full motion, Rinus realized, sparing a glance to his left, towards the front of the building. . . just in time to see one of the yahg inside _charge_ Melaani, who was crouching near Rel. The asari biotic jerked back and _ran_, using her biotics to fuel her speed. _Defensive charge,_ Rinus thought, grimly. _Smart move, but it leaves the __futtari_ _yahg next to Rel!_ Rinus' first instinct was to go to his second-brother's defense, but he _couldn't._ He had a job to do, here. He just had to hope that doing it, and doing it well, would distract the yahg from Rel. Rinus keyed the charges, and there was a distinct _whump_ as the wall nearest him exploded inwards. _"Everyone in!"_ he shouted, forgetting to use galactic for a moment, but all the humans near him spoke turian, and then they were moving. Heading right into the smoking gap in the wall, and then they poured through. Two yahg moved to the doorway of the room they'd punched a hole into, and Rinus and his forces opened fire on them immediately. Gris managed to heave one of the yahg into the air with a biotic lift, and Rinus and the marines opened fire on it as it spun through the air. Seheve, unseen, moved in on the second yahg. The tiny drell female was remarkably strong and agile, but usually had to _climb_ a yahg to reach vital areas. In this case, however, the yahg's kinetic shields were still up, and she wound up trying to dampen its shields so she could use her vibroknife on its armor.

Rinus, still firing at the first yahg, watched as the second yahg turned on her. Grabbed her, and threw her across the room, where she sprawled limply for a moment. . . and then Gris charged in, snarling, and seized the yahg by the arms. "Fight _me_!" the krogan challenged, and a ripple of _something_ biotic poured out of him, tearing into the yahg's shields. Rinus swore and shifted angles. He didn't want to risk hitting Gris with his fire, and could only watch in awe as the two enormous creatures fought now. The yahg dwarfed Gris in the same way a krogan dwarfed a human. Over two feet taller, the yahg was still struggling to free its hands, and leaned forward, mouth opening, displaying all too many teeth, trying to clamp down on Gris' head, helmet and all. Gris slammed his head forward, head-butting the mouthful of teeth. "Could use. . . a little help. . . " the krogan actually panted, and Rinus opened fire, trying to make the bullets count.

And that was when Seheve reappeared behind the yahg again. Its armor was down, and her hands were very busy as she punched through its armor in a dozen places, looking for vital organs. Gris roared and managed to bring the yahg's hands together in front of his chest. And using them, pulled down and forward, while turning his own massive body out of the way. Dipping down just a little further to lower his own center of gravity further. The krogan Spectre actually managed to throw the yahg to the floor, and Seheve dropped with them, bringing her knife down into one of the creature's many eyes now.

The roaring and the screaming stopped. "Design flaw," Seheve noted, clinically. "That many openings into the brain cavity cannot be a good thing."

Rinus looked at her. "That was a joke?"

"That was analysis. But you may take it as a joke, if you find it amusing." Her tone was serene now.

Rinus shook his head. "Right. Keep moving, everyone!" He gestured, and they moved out.

All in all, it took another two hours to finish taking the warehouse. Rinus stared into the final room, and swore. And swore. And swore. _"Spirits of air and darkness, take them all to the deepest underworld,_" he finally managed, as Rel came to his side. The anger was almost overwhelming.

"_What?"_ Rel asked, starting to peer around the doorframe.

Rinus' hand snapped out, reflexively, and his pulled his taller younger brother back. _"The yahg killed them all. Probably when we attacked. They only keep them alive for sport or for later use,"_ he said, heavily. _"Dead, they're just a larder. They could be attended to later. Wouldn't escape during the fight."_

Rel stared at him. _"And if the yahg all died, they'd leave the humans here as, what, a way to taunt us? To warn us?"_

"_To dispirit us,"_ Garrus said, quietly, coming out from behind the doorframe now, wiping his hands. _"I had to see if there were any humans left who could possibly be saved."_ He shook his head. _"I don't know how to tell the girl this."_

_What, that in escaping with her life, and asking us to save her family, she may have hastened their doom?_ Rinus didn't envy his uncle the task, at all.

"_I'll handle it,"_ Lantar said, quietly, from behind them.

"_No, it's all right. Lilu would want me to do it."_ Garrus sighed. _Yes. Lilitu Shepard, the survivor of Mindoir, would certainly want the news broken to the girl, a similar survivor, by her husband._

The two older males walked off, and took Melaani with them. A good choice, Rinus figured; Melaani was a soothing presence. Rel looked through the doorway now, face once more lost in shadows. _"What the hell was this even for?"_ Rel finally asked. _"We killed ten yahg, lost five marines in doing it. Didn't save any captives. Didn't get one step closer to finding the yahg leadership."_ His tone was angry, and Rinus understood it. . . but he was angry himself now. Helplessness-anger, protective-anger, frustration-anger.

"_What, so we shouldn't even __try__?"_ Rinus snapped at Rel.

"_Didn't say that. It just seems __futtari__ useless. A waste of lives."_ Rel turned on him, his eyes glittering.

"_Ten less yahg to hunt the streets,"_ Rinus snarled back. _"Ten less to attack us when we don't expect it. One less nest of them where their leader can hide. Not every battle is won in a single day, second-brother."_

"_I didn't say __that__, either."_ Rel turned and walked away, and Rinus stared after him. _I could have handled that better_, he thought, grimly. And wished, desperately, that Kallixta were here. She knew how to talk to people. How to calm them, get them to see things her way. And the automatic respect she commanded from fellow turians. . . it even worked on Rel, to a certain extent.

Just thinking of his mate, however, made Rinus long for her scent, and he slapped a wall with the flat of his gloved hand in frustration. Wishing didn't do any good. And, to be honest and fair, he was just as glad Kallixta _was_ up in space for this. Nice and safe, and away from the stink of rotting bodies, and the soot and chemicals and particulate matter in the air down here. Every single one of them kept their suit filters on maximum, and had had to change filters at least three times already. _Ah, beloved. Now I'm just wishing I were up there on the __Estallus__ with you._

**Kallixta, Shanxi orbit, July 5, 2196**

Kallixta was, at the moment, absolutely and completely bored. There was really nothing for her to do while they were in orbit around Shanxi, besides sit in the cockpit, monitor things that Laetia was already monitoring, and hope to the spirits that nothing came through the mass relay, which the _Catasta_ and a set of human frigates were currently blockading. She leaned back in her chair, and checked the log. . . _ah, good. The captain wants us to do a supply drop today._ The Spectres were apparently running low on fuel and ammunition for the gunships. Also, apparently, on medigel. Again. Kallixta swallowed. There had been little communication from the surface. Just occasional reports from Garrus. Ten yahg killed, five marines killed, seven wounded. One captive human saved. . . apparently, they were going to try to get her to a refugee center set up outside of Xi'an, and that was where the _Estallus_ would make the supply transfer. . . _that might even mean that we might get to land. Rotate people on and off the ship._ Supply drops were much riskier in or near the city. Even providing air support was damned near impossible at the moment, because the yahg had taken over the few defense towers that they'd left intact during their invasion, and were using them on any inbound ships now. They had, it appeared, radar in their own vehicles, which weren't dependent on the Xi'an power grid. And firing a weapon, or opening a cargo hatch to drop supplies, broke the _Estallus'_ stealth profile.

Still, they weren't due to start their descent for another four hours. Kallixta patiently checked their position over the planet, verified their distance from the other ships in orbit, and generally wished she had qualified on the orbital cameras. So she could be at least _doing_ something of use. At the moment, the maintenance people were busy, the camera and surveillance techs were busy, and the rest of the crew was sitting and polishing guns and twiddling thumbs.

Laetia's avatar appeared to her left. "Commander Velnaran," the NCAI said, in a tone of amusement, "you have now checked our position three different ways. I do believe I'm almost insulted."

Kallixta shook her head. "Sorry. I'm—"

"Fidgeting, I believe, is the correct word."

Kallixta snorted. She didn't really _want_ to like Laetia; there were too many awkward memories associated with the AI. But the female really did have an engaging and lively manner often, and this was one of those times. "I suppose so, yes."

"Might I suggest that you look through the files that Spectre Velnaran left for you?"

Kallixta tipped her head to the side. "I assume you already know the contents?"

"Actually, no. But I'm _dying_ to find out. Rinus did everything through the Spectre encrypted network, to which I am, alas, not privy." Laetia managed a sigh. "And he has, additionally, put a Spectre encryption on the files he sent to you. It's as if he's suspicious that someone might want to snoop on his private correspondence."

"I wonder what could have given him that impression," Kallixta murmured, straight-faced.

"You haven't read the files. In seventeen days, you haven't even looked at them." Laetia sounded impatient. "If Gallian had gone to such trouble to get _me_ a present, I would certainly have _opened_ it by now."

Kallixta raised her head. "And what, pray tell, would Gallian get you, exactly? I don't see a new Tantalus core being in his budget."

Laetia gave her a look. "Very amusing. If you must know, he _has_ developed an array of skins for my avatar's use."

Kallixta paused. _I really don't want to know, do I?_ "Ah," she said, hunting for a diplomatic way out of this conversational quagmire.

"Of course, the turian avatar isn't really _me_, but I do enjoy slipping into it every now and again. However, the turian concept of lingerie is just a _cinctus_, really, and that's not nearly as much fun for me as some of the other skins he's developed for my human avatar—" Laetia went on now, relentlessly.

Kallixta held both hands out, palms up. "That's quite enough information," she said, firmly. _Quite a bit more than I __ever__ wanted to know, in fact._

"My point is, you don't seem very appreciative," Laetia informed her, folding her arms across her tiny chest.

"Whether or not I appreciate my husband is hardly your business."

"Whether or not you, the _maai'a'selai_ of my children, appreciate their _pada_, is my concern, I think." Laetia's tone was smug. "The only thing I can think of, is that you're afraid of what you might find in those files."

Kallixta closed her eyes for a moment. _Checkmate_. _Damnit._ "If I _do_ take a moment to listen to my husband's messages, I'd take it as a courtesy if you'd switch off in here."

Laetia sighed. "And, of course, you invoke my privacy routines. You're _killing_ me, Commander Velnaran. Absolutely killing me." Her avatar vanished.

Kallixta chuckled faintly. It wasn't just _Laetia_ that Rinus would have wanted to keep out of the files. It was the galactic press and any number of other spy networks, too. Especially if what he'd said in the Palace after her mother's. . . .the Imperatrix's funeral . . .were true.

With Laetia's bridge cameras and audio receptors locked out, and with no one standing behind her, Kallixta accessed her personal mail and opened Rinus' messages for the first time in seventeen days. She'd _wanted_ to. Had hoped to hear his voice. But hadn't quite dared, either. Now his warm, dark voice filled her earpiece. _"Beloved. Sorry it took me so long to track this information down. I needed access to Spectre databases, and didn't feel right about poking around in parts of the files that didn't relate to the comet situation when I was working on that project. Besides, there wasn't really time."_ Kallixta leaned back, and let his voice wash over her. He could have been reading her a recipe for _oolorae_ soup, for all that she cared, at the moment. It was his voice, his words, and that was all that mattered. They'd both been so damned _sick_ on Palaven, had both nearly died, and then they'd been whisked off to Mindoir, and now they were separated again. And even on Palaven, while they'd tried to make time for each other, the commute between Complovium and Raetia on a weekly basis had made things difficult.

"_Here's what I've found, beloved. Some of it might come as a bit of a shock to you. I have no idea how the Spectres retrieved any of this and gave it __back__ to the Praetorians, let alone who had ahold of it before. But here it is, sweetness. I love you."_

Kallixta started reading through it. Her father had rarely touched her in her life. Five, maybe six times, before she went to boot camp. But she'd always been aware that he _watched_ over her. She'd assumed that the rest of her siblings had received similar treatment. A new picture emerged in her mind as she read. An arranged marriage, chilly and austere. Unhappiness on her father's side, and . . . was it unhappiness on the Imperatrix's, too? Had forcing estrus so often been the only physical contact that she'd had in her life? Or had she, too, eventually taken a lover? Kallixta shook her head, and made a mental note to ask Rinus about that, at some point. The specific request by the Imperator _not_ to have any further children, disregarded. Page after page of notes, detailing the way her father had trained with his own guards. Spent long hours working on self-defense with Lusciana. More notes, detailing how they'd argue over his policy decisions. And yet, nothing. Not so much as a touch of the hand, until eleven months before her birth. . . a week after the Imperatrix had again cycled.

_He . . . could have arranged for a substitution,_ Kallixta thought, staring at the screen, her eyes burning a little from dryness. _Surely, there were worthy, strong males un the Guard. But instead, he accepted that Lusciana chose him. Chose something for himself, for the first time in his personal life. Something not dictated by policy needs and the good of the Hierarchy. In thirty-five years of duty, he chose her, over a wife he could not put aside. Had not touched, except when required by duty, in nineteen years of an unwanted marriage._

Her throat was tight, and she kept reading, glancing up at the instrument panels every now and again to make sure nothing was amiss. Nothing was. She read through the court case against the medication manufacturer. She read through the duty logs that indicated that Lusciana had been relegated to desk work and preparation work for eleven months. Read through the occasional snide notes left by the Imperatrix, commenting that it 'did not appear seemly' for the leader of the Imperator's personal guards to be an unwed mother. The notes that chronicled a growing intimacy between Ligorus and Lusciana. The number of times she began spending the night in his quarters, as her pregnancy progressed. The Imepratrix's rooms were in a separate _wing_ of the palace, and always had been, since the moment they had been wed. And then, the simple knowledge that her father had pulled her from her mother's body. Had cut open the birth sac with his own knife, so that she could take her first breath of air. That her mother had given her nourishment, meat from her own mouth. And had named her. Kallixta. Spirit of inspiration. And they'd wanted to give her a _future._ As hard as it had been for both of them. Kallixta read through the acknowledgement of paternity records, sealed in the Imperial Archives. The articles of legitimization. Indicating that this girl child was claimed and taken into the family Praesesidis for all time.

Kallixta tilted her head back. And remembered, again, the _pride_ in her father's eyes when she graduated boot camp. OCS. Pilot school. He hadn't been to any of her siblings' graduations, not since her first-brother, second-brother, and maybe her first-sister's. The press had taken note of it at the time, and Kallixta had passed it off. But now she understood what it meant. The rest of her half-siblings had been duties. Past the first three, they'd been unasked-for, and attended to with grim authority and stern attention to omni-present duty. But she. . . she had been an accident. But one that had been desired, once it had occurred. Her father had loved her, she realized, suddenly. And that was why he'd permitted her to marry Rinus. Had made sure of her happiness in every way that he could. Right down to the knives he'd given them, to show his personal approval of their marriage. Had permitted her so many liberties, and required so little in return. Because, in a way, she was living his dream, Kallixta realized. Openly married to someone she loved.

Rinus' voice picked up again at the end of the file. _"You see, beloved, why I think __tal'mae_ _needs to be reformed, now? Your father was married, out of duty, to a female not of his choice, for forty years. Without any way to escape. To find happiness. In a manus contract, he could have let the contract lapse, or petitioned for an early release from it. Instead, he and your mother have had to live secret, quiet lives for twenty-one years. Had to allow another female to call you daughter. Had to see you call her mother. Marriage as a punishment, as a penance? How is this justice?"_ His gentle, dark tones, the ones he only used in private, soothed her. _"You and I are the lucky ones, Kallixta. We __had__ to marry __tal'mae__, and have found in each other very good, very compatible partners, who've grown together. No one outside of the nobility does arranged marriages anymore. The arranged marriage institution should be abolished. Short of that, it should never be permitted to be __tal'mae__, or __tal'mae__ should be amended to allow divorce. And that would solve the problem of mates tied to __mor'loci__, wouldn't it? And mates who marry __tal'mae__ with the best of intentions, and after being married for four or eight years in __manus__. . . only to discover that their mates have lied to them. What of the people who've pledged __tal'mae,__ only to discover that their mate hurts their children? What of the people who've pledged __tal'mae__, to discover that their mate is a murderer? Should they be tied, for life? And if we release them, can we not also release those who discover that they've grown apart, and not together?"_

That was more his public voice. The one he'd been working on using for his speeches in the Conclave. Questions and answers, balanced phrases. Kallixta smiled to herself, listening. "You're getting very good at that, husband," she murmured. "I don't think you can use my parents' personal lives in the Conclave to convince anyone. . . but you're getting very good at the speeches. You've even convinced me.. . . in part, anyway."

Three hours later, it was time to land. Kallixta took them in on a stealth trajectory, keeping the atmosphere's friction against the hull to as much of a minimum as she could, so that they wouldn't set off any infrared detectors that the yahg might have. She kept a wary eye on the scope, anyway, hoping against hope that she wouldn't see incoming missiles.

There were, but there were only a handful, and the gun crews took them out handily. Kallixta brought in the _Estallus_ for a neat landing to the east of Xi'an, near the military medical module that the Alliance had brought in. It looked like half a space station, and had been dropped on the planet's surface inside of a large, resilient sphere, which had bounced to a halt and then started to retract itself, allowing people on the ground to start assembling the module.

A half hour after landing, several Hammerheads and two gunships approached, their transponders keyed to the _Estallus' _identification frequencies, flanked by Alliance-style modernized Makos. The convoy ground to a halt, and Kallixta watched out the cockpit windows as various figures in black armor climbed wearily out of the Hammerheads' hatches. "There he is!" Kallixta said, out loud, as one tall figure on Spectre black unfolded himself and stood, looking at the ship.

"I do not see how you can tell at this range, when they are all in armor, and all of the armor is identical," Laetia replied, shaking her avatar's head.

"Simple. Every time Rinus is about to get on a ship where I'm the pilot, he turns and looks at the cockpit. Besides, he stands differently than his uncle, and Lantar's broader through the shoulders than any of them. The only one Rinus really looks like is Rel, and Rel doesn't turn to look at the cockpit like that." Kallixta stood and stretched. She still had three hours left on her shift, but at least she knew Rinus was safe.

And twenty minutes later, he came to _her_ in the cockpit, tossed his helmet over the projection of Laetia's avatar, causing the AI to squawk a little in indignation, and leaned down to clamp his teeth against the side of Kallixta's neck. _"Missed me?_" Kallixta asked, relaxing into the bite.

"Uh-huh." Rinus raised his mouth long enough to add, _"Sorry. My mother taught me not to talk with my mouth full."_ And then he bit her again, harder, which made her laugh, and then she turned her chair around to face him, and Rinus crouched down in front of her, taking her hands in his. "_So damned good to see you, sweetness. I don't suppose your relief pilot would mind taking over for a while?"_

Kallixta chuckled. "_I have to set a good example."_

"_Damn. All right. I'll see you at dinner. We're staying at least that long while Garrus sends messages. We need more people. Or hell, we need more krogan. Urgently. Gris and Grunt are going to try to talk up what a mighty challenge the yahg are. Try to get some volunteers."_

"_How many yahg do you think are in the city?" _Kallixta asked, tightening her fingers on his.

"_Probably ten thousand here in Xi'an. Spirits only know how many in the other cities."_ Rinus lowered his head for a moment, and looked suddenly bone-weary. _"We don't have enough troops on the ground, sweetness. Here's hoping your father will send us more. And that the krogan will, too. And the Alliance. Hell, I'd be happy to see __geth__ march in, at this point."_

"_Funny you should mention that,"_ Garrus said, from the hallway, and both their heads jerked up. "_The geth and the krogan will both send troops. We just have to hold out for about a month. The krogan don't have troop transports. The geth have ships, but don't maintain atmospheres in them."_ He looked up at the ceiling. _"Logistics. My least favorite part of battle."_

And at dinner in the mess hall, Kallixta sat beside her mate as he ate and ate, as if he hadn't seen food in weeks. MREs and food pastes only went so far. Everyone who'd been on the ground had a pale, sort of haunted air to them, and she kept one foot hooked behind Rinus' spur as they sat together, and she listened to the horrific tales from inside the city. Kallixta could hardly believe the words, but Rinus and Garrus and Lantar had all taken still pictures and vids for documentation. She had to avert her eyes in horror after the first few. _I will write to my father and beg him for more troops. Surely, this . . . abomination. . . must be contained. Stopped. Wiped out_.

Of all of the people who'd been on the ground, Tarenius Gallian was the calmest. . . and as Laetia's full-sized avatar 'sat' at the table next to the centurion, Kallixta understood why. He'd been in constant contact with his mate, as best they'd been able to arrange. She'd helped him deal with the anger and the horror already, at least in part. And then there was Rel. She'd always seen him as a hunter. She'd always seen the way he watched his surroundings, the way he'd stare at the door to the med bay until the moment Dara came out again, and had never thought much of it. Had always seen Dara at his side, too, a hand on his wrist, one foot behind his spur. Just as Kallixta was sitting now, with Rinus. But Rel, now? He hunkered in over his food, as if he were afraid someone would take it from him. Watched everyone around him, quick, searching glances. As if he anticipated attack even here, in the safety of the ship. He was tense, where all the others had relaxed. He _vibrated_ with it, and his eyes were dark and glittered faintly. Kallixta's heart lurched in her. She loved every one of her husband's siblings. And had always seen in the two oldest brothers, echoes of each other. Looking at Rel now was like looking at a Rinus who'd had his spirit ripped out of him.

Kallixta looked up the table at Lantar and Garrus, and Lantar met her gaze, calmly. Lantar, who had, apparently, once declared himself _mor'loci_. And yet, here in the mess hall, he was as calm as everyone else. _"Rinus," _Kallixta whispered to her husband. _"What happened to Rel?"_

"_Nothing that didn't happen to the rest of us, beloved,"_ Rinus told her. _"Later. In your quarters."_

Certain events did take priority over mere words after dinner. They had only hours before the ship would have to lift off again, and the Spectres and fresh marines would head back out into the ruined wasteland that was the human colony of Shanxi right now. Kallixta rolled over in their nest, perfectly content. Rinus had been _very_ thorough with her, as he always tended to be. _"Did you read the files I left for you?"_

"_Today, yes. Was a little afraid to, before. Didn't want. . . my image of my father to be destroyed."_

"_And was it?"_

"_No. He's a better man than many another in his situation. He could have sent the Imperatrix to her own household on another planet. Shamed her publicly in so doing. He let her keep her dignity. Put up with the charade for almost forty years. And took a little happiness for himself where he could."_ Kallixta's voice was soft with wonder. _"Do you think my father really loves me?"_

"_Yes."_

"_And the guard. . . my mother, whom I think I may have spoken with once in my life. . . she would have watched me grow up. Unable to touch me, talk to me, anything. Always just a few hundred feet away. Spirits. Wouldn't that have been torture?"_

"_Humans had once, a thing called a hair shirt. Used for penance. It scored and scraped their skin, and they wore it under their regular clothes, I'm told. Sounds about right, doesn't it?"_

"_Yes."_ Kallixta sighed. _"Time's short, beloved."_

"_I know."_ Rinus sat up, bit her shoulder lightly, and started getting dressed. _"I'm just grateful you're here, and the ship's here. The teams on Omega aren't getting any such luxuries."_

Kallixta sat up, herself, and traced a hand down the straight line of his spine as he pulled on the undersuit of his armor. "_What is going on with your brother? I've never seen him so. . . "_

"_Aggressive? On edge? Empty?"_ Rinus supplied, grimly. _"I know. For five years, we've only ever seen him with Dara present, beloved. When he's been using her spirit to stabilize himself. No wonder she's tired. __I'm__ tired after spending twenty minutes with him. Her spirit's been drained to fill his need, and I can feel mine being tugged at, too, when I spend time with him._" Rinus sighed. "_He's angry. He's angry because he knows we're right, and that he has a problem. He's angry because Dara chose to step away. He's angry because even if she hadn't made that choice, she'd still be elsewhere, for duty's sake. He's angry because he feels betrayed, and that __all_ _of us have betrayed him, somehow. And he's waiting for someone to strike him, so he can strike back. Add to that, everything we've seen. . . . and he was __bothered__ by it. More deeply than the rest of us. He thinks of himself as a predator. Well, we all do, don't we? But it relates to his understanding of himself, and seeing the yahg hunt humans, eat humans. . . hurts him. I think. I'm __guessing__ on all of this, beloved. He's not really talking much about anything."_ Rinus threw up his hands. _"I've been thinking too much about this. Machines are really much easier to understand than spirits."_

"_I think you're doing just fine, beloved,"_ Kallixta said, softly. _"Sometimes, you understand with your heart before with your head."_

One more quick, hard bite, and a few whispers of love. Then he had to leave again. Back aboard the Hammerhead, just as her relief pilot took the _Estallus_ back into orbit.

**Ellemai, Omega, July 9, 2196**

The sign outside the Blue Jade Bar still functioned, more or less, sputtering frequently. It was just barely visible through the barricaded front windows; every table in the place was now legless, and had been wedged into the frames, behind those damned windows. At least they all had plascrete tops. Plascrete wasn't as durable as plasteel, of course, but it was a hell of a lot cheaper, and came in more colors. Better for a bar setting than something that _looked_ like clear, breakable glass.

Ellemai T'lari had moved all of the actual breakable glass bottles and their flammable contents back into a storeroom, and now had a wide variety of mercs holed up in her bar. Klixxen Claws krogans. Blue Suns—all turians and humans, these days, under Zaeed Masani's leadership. A handful of Eclipse, including a few salarians. A few Blood Pack, and seeing _them_ again brought back the bad old days in the worst way. But each group was limited, under Harak and Patriarch's ridiculous rules, to only twenty representatives at a time on Omega. So that meant Ellemai had, effectively, eighty armed people holed up in her bar at the moment. _Past the maximum occupancy for the fire code,_ she thought with dark humor. Her _marai'ha'sai_, Gwen, was in the backroom, with a surprising number of other people from the neighborhood. _I'm not running a Goddess-blighted shelter_, Ellemai had told Gwen two weeks ago. That had not particularly stopped the human from bringing in more strays. Mostly children. Which, to be fair, Ellemai couldn't really fault her for.

They'd occasionally moved out of the bar, in force. Gone out for supplies, mostly. Raided a convenience store up the street, whose owner had locked up and run home. That had kept them in _apaterae_ jerky and chocolate-covered mini donuts for about a week. Then, they'd needed to range out a little further. Found a grocery store that the batarians had already hit for supplies, and cleaned up the rest. Ellemai was already grimly rationing the food out of the back room on a strict basis of how _useful_ someone had proven themselves to be. _If the fucking batarians have the docking ring, there aren't going to __be__ any more supplies for a while_, she thought. _All they'll have to do to get the station to surrender is besiege us. Starve us out. And wait for the vorcha to rise up and eat all the corpses._

Gunfire up the street. A lot of it, actually. Everyone in the bar stirred, reached for their guns. "You think they're actually stupid enough to come back for more?" Mesinus Vellimus asked, lifting his head. He wore Blue Suns armor that had seen a _lot_ of wear. Quite a bit of it in the last two weeks. The batarians hadn't much liked the fact that there was a large enclave of people in this area with guns. They'd attacked in force at least two or three times, and taken potshots at the building almost every day.

"Yes," Ellemai said, shortly. "Last set of strays Gwen brought in said that they were offering rewards for any asari turned over to them. Or humans with biotics." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I count twenty good reasons they want in here."

Ollur Nakkan glanced over at her. The wily old krogan had been with the Klixxen Claws for over a century. Supposedly knew Harak by sight, from their own bad old days. "Funny. Thought that was twenty good reasons for them to stay the fuck away from this place."

The various Eclipse and Blue Suns biotics chuckled grimly. The gunfire was getting closer. And now there were screams with it. Sounds of raw pain. Ellemai moved to the front window, and used a fragment of mirror—the large one behind the bar had been shattered into a million pieces, but still proved useful now—to peer outside without exposing herself completely. Her fine eyebrows shot up. "Someone out there is killing batarians," she called back into the room. "And it's not us."

"OSF?" Vellimus offered, loading his assault rifle now.

"One krogan in red armor. One salarian in gray. Everyone else that I can see, in black." Ellemai sucked in a breath. Whoever they were, they had biotics. A batarian in a sniper perch was lifted off into the air, and immediately rocked by fire from at least three directions. "Everyone, let's move. They've got weapons, they've got biotics, and they're killing batarians. I say we give them a hand."

"Could be a waste of ammunition," Nakkan rumbled, moving up beside her as Ellemai settled her own assault rifle into position across the bottom of the windowsill to steady it.

"Could be. Could also be one hell of a crossfire we can set up here." Ellemai cut off further conversation and fired on her first batarian, herself.

Most of the batarians on this level had been slavers. They apparently had a processing place set up somewhere near the med bay, and had been going house to house, looking for the most likely slaves. Biotics, the young, the female, generally speaking. Males were usually considered too intractable. Salarians too weak, turians and quarians, too high-maintenance, except for very specialized tasks. Krogan were too intractable, which left a very high percentage of humans and asari being captured. Ellemai took rather an exception to that, and rejoiced with every slaver she killed.

The scene in the street was really something else to watch. She could see one human male, occasionally, who moved like a ghost, breaking in and out of stealth. Killing enemies from up close, somehow _never_ in the line of fire. Sometimes shooting them in the back of the head at point-blank range, and sometimes slashing open their throats with a knife, and then vanishing again, only to appear fifty feet away, ending another batarian's life. There were two males, one human and one turian, who carried shields; the turian, for the moment, had his shield in front of him, and was using a pistol, while the human crouched behind him with a submachine gun, picking out targets from the slavers in the street. There were two asari, Ellemai was glad to see, using their biotics. Lifting slavers, channeling shockwaves with bone-crushing force. There was a huge krogan who tended to stand near one of the two asari, and whenever a batarian targeted her, simply stepped between her and harm, firing his shotgun. And then a white streak flashed over the broken ground of the street, and a huge. . . cat?. . . landed on a batarian near the front window of the Blue Jade, and began tearing into the male's throat, where the armor plates had to be thin to allow movement. Crushing grip, if not a penetrating one. Ellemai fired at a batarian across the street, causing him to get up and scurry for cover in a different location. . . which was when the _BAM-BAM_ of two separate sniper rifles rang out, and the batarian fell over, dead. The asari's eyes jerked back towards the line of people in black armor, trying to spot the snipers. One was . . . a _geth?_. . . clinging to the side of a building as it worked its way up into a second-floor balcony. The other was a human or asari female in black armor, now crouching behind the human and the turian with their shields. Both males had their shields out now, and moved like mirror images, blocking the area in front of the female, letting her take her shots in relative safety.

"I know I've been out of circulation," Ellemai muttered as she changed thermal clips. "But I don't know of _any_ merc group that uses black armor."

The fight was over inside of thirty minutes, and the people in the black armor, still holding their weapons ready, advanced on the door of the Blue Jade. "Hello in there," the human male with the knife called out. "We're Council Spectres, and we're here to help. This the establishment of Ellemai T'lari?"

Ellemai's eyes focused on the male's armor, and the red insignia on his chest. _Fucking hell_, she thought, staring. "Spectres, huh?" she called back through the window. "Last time you lot came through here, there was rioting in the damned streets, the docking bays were blown to hell, and Aria got her damn head blown off in Afterlife."

The man snorted. "Actually, she got a knife in the ribs and then one in the throat," he corrected. Ellemai blinked, and reassessed, rapidly. That was a voice of absolute authority. _He was there. He saw it happen._

Ellemai stood, and went to the door. Opened it, which actually more or less involved removing barricade materials from behind it, and then gesturing for Vellimus and Nakkan to lift it carefully off its hinges. It had been broken down a week ago by a more determined group of batarians than they'd previously seen. "Well, Spectres," Ellemai said, feeling her grip tighten on the stock of her assault rifle, "come in and make yourselves at home."

They advanced then, and she couldn't fault them for their wariness. Or for the singing tension she could feel in the other mercs.

Then the human with the shield, and the turian with one, too, lifted their visors. Young, was her first impression. Her second was a bit of a shock. The human wore turian face-paint, of all things. "Mesinus Vellimus?" the human male said, looking around.

"Who wants to know?" Vellimus was clearly on edge, just coming down from the adrenaline of the fight.

"Got a message here from your wife, Chrysa." The human pulled a hand-written note out of a pocket in his utility belt. "She was holed up in the Synthetic Insights offices, along with a bunch of other people, holding off the batarians. She told us where you all were making trouble for the batarians, and asked us to pass this to you. No idea what it says." Calm, honesty in that young face, as he held out the scrap of paper. Met Vellimus' eyes, which was a trick with an irritated turian.

Vellimus snatched the paper away. "Nice clan-paint," he said, grimly. "You have any idea what it means?"

The human stood up straight, looking directly at Vellimus, and said something formal and complicated-sounding in a twisty dialect of turian that Ellemai's VI flatly refused to render. The human female, lifting her own helmet now, added, in galactic, "For those of you who _don't_ speak _tal'mae_, that means Elijah was adopted by his father by the full _ascio_ rites on the marriage of his mother and father. This makes him first-son of his house. The one who will, god help us all, be clan-leader someday."

The human's head jerked towards her, and the turian in the blue paint beside him laughed. "Never thought of that before, huh, Eli?"

"God no. Spirits hold that day _far_ off," the human replied, sounding appalled.

Vellimus' hostility had already abated enormously, and now he read the note held in his armored fingers. After a moment, he nodded. "All right. She says she's fine. And that these folks cleared twenty or so damned docking bays of batarians."

One of the asari took off her helmet now, and Ellemai stood up, without even realizing it. "Ylara?" she said, stunned. "Ylara Alir?" Savior of the colonists of Maisa, scourge of _aizala_ smugglers everywhere. If there had been any doubt in Ellemai's mind as to the authenticity of the Spectres in front of her before, they were gone now.

Ylara visibly sighed, and turned to the female beside her. "Enjoy your relative lack of fame while you can," she told her, calmly. "It helps cut through the unpleasantries periodically, but the rest of the time, it's a damned nuisance."

"You go to Earth for me, I'll go to Illium for you," the human male offered, with aplomb.

Ylara looked back at Ellemai and the other mercs now. "Yes, we took the docking bays, but we can't _hold_ them without help. And we can't clear further into the station without assistance, too. We have _some_ assistance on the way, but they'll be at least a week or two before they can run the blockade and get here."

Nakkan laughed, a harsh, low sound that carried no mirth. "You hiring?"

"We were kind of hoping for volunteers. Community-minded civic leaders, that sort of thing," the older human male drawled.

"Dunno, we've got a pretty safe place right here," Nakkan started to reply, in the tone of a born bargainer.

Ellemai growled under her breath. "Goddess help me. Nakkan, you're here by _my_ sufferance. This is _my_ place. You'll do what I tell you to do, or you can get out. You know where the door is. In fact, you're holding it. Don't let it hit you in the ass on the way out." She could sense her various former Eclipse sisters moving to new positions with their weapons. Trying for subtlety, and failing, as usual.

Nakkan set the door down with exaggerated care, and held up his hands. "Don't get your knickers in a twist," he told her, very calmly.

"I'm not angry," she said, mildly. "This is me, telling you how things are going to be. Personally, I like water and power and food that doesn't involve killing sewer rats or giant _racca_." _Racca_ were giant cockroach-like bugs native to Sur'Kesh that had, unfortunately, proliferated on a dozen worlds since salarians had moved into space. Each was approximately the size of a dinner-plate. Salarians considered them edible, but just barely. Most other species couldn't stomach the thought. Krogan would eat them, but then again, a krogan would eat just about anything that at least had the decency to be dead already. Ellemai looked at the Spectres. "We've got civilians in the back room that I'd rather not see get killed or turned into slaves."

"We can get them down to the secured levels."

"What's the food situation down there like?" That was Vellimus. Good, solid turian practicality.

"Not good, but there's no where on the station where it's going to be great," the young human female replied, promptly. "Got the clinics up and running again, for the moment. That's a help."

The _geth_, which had been silent all this time, suddenly spoke. "Pelagia-AI indicates that she and Harak-Governor, in anticipation of an invasion like this one, stockpiled organic necessities such as food and medicine in areas on every level. These storerooms are hidden, but she will allow us to access them once each level has been secured. Starvation will not, therefore, be imminent, but methods of safe and equitable distribution will be required."

Ellemai just _stared_ at the geth. _I knew Harak was a canny old beast, but who the __hell__ is Pelagia?_

**Dara, July 10, 2196**

It had taken a few hours of talking, but they now had a place on D-ring to stay when they needed to eat and sleep, and eighty more seasoned fighters to add to their weary squads. Moving as a group, the Spectres and representatives of each group of mercs had taken the civilians back down to C-ring, and tucked them in with the other refugees in the old Afterlife complex. They'd left half those representatives down on C-ring with their civilians, too, and asked them to help guard the docking bays. And then they'd made their way back up to D-ring, by stairways and shut-down elevator shafts.

Dara slid down the wall of the backroom, almost too tired to think, sinking to the ground between Eli and Siara. The storeroom wasn't big; they were all sitting pretty much shoulder to shoulder. Lin, Eli, herself, Siara, Makur on one wall; Sam and Ylara, and Kirrahe had the wall facing them. Cohort was going to remain on watch while the rest of them got some damned sleep. They hadn't had any in thirty-six hours, at least.

She rummaged around in her head for her very bad, very rusty Spanish, which she was damned sure no one around her could speak, _"Podemos fiarnos nosotros de estas personas?"_ She _thought_ she'd asked if they could trust these people, but she could have been saying something about the prophecies of Nostradamus, too.

Across the room from her, Sam chuckled. "Told you that you should've practiced your Spanish more, sweetie. Damned near as good as a secret code, huh?"

Dara made a rude noise. Sam replied, in slow, careful Spanish, so she could understand, _"Some of them, yes. Until there is no one left to fight. Need to watch the Blood Pack, and the Klixxen Claws. If the batarians offer them money, they might defect. No loyalty."_ At least, she _thought_ the last word was loyalty. Dara gave her father a dark look, and Sam laughed at her outright. "You _could_ start studying Spanish again, sweetie."

"Turian, _tal'mae_, salarian, batarian, and now _asari_, and you think my head won't _explode_ if I add Spanish to all that?" To her left, Eli snorted in amusement.

"No, but I think you missed your calling and should've taken up nice, safe work in the diplomatic corps." Sam's tone was bland as he leaned his own head back and closed his eyes.

Dara sighed. "Days like today? I think you might be right." She was being very careful not to call him _Dad_ around their uncertain new allies.

She let her head roll back and rest against the wall. It wasn't a nice soft bed, or even a padded nest or a hammock, but right now, even sitting down felt like _bliss_. Her mind wouldn't settle down, though. They were going to hit two or three locations tomorrow. A slaver enclave, near this ring's med center. A power generation unit, currently held by the batarians. And, if all went well, a secret storehouse of food. To which they were only going to allow _some_ of the merc access, apparently. They'd been here nineteen days, and it felt like nothing at all had been accomplished. The entire past week had been spent trying to get a foothold on D-ring. There had been house-to-house fighting, something Dara had never done before. Oh, her unit had gone to various colony worlds and chased out slavers and raiders before, but they'd been clearing each house in a neighborhood, moving room by room.

Some of the homes had been held by frightened, but well-armed and intact families. Others, the occupants had already been killed or captured. Dara was fairly well inured to the sight of dead bodies, but the slavers didn't consider children a worthwhile slaving investment. Too much growing and training left to do. The tiny bodies, left to rot in some of the houses, however, hit her very hard, and she'd insisted on covering them, at least. And they showed up in her dreams now, as she'd known they would.

In some cases, the houses had been rigged with booby-traps. Eli had been the one to spot the first, and had caught her by the shoulder and yanked her back before she could step into a room, before pointing down. "Motion detector," he'd muttered, pointing at a small device at the bottom of a doorway. "Cross the path of the beam, and something nasty's probably in the room ahead."

Dara still had _no_ idea how he'd seen it. He'd motioned for everyone else to step back and had then grabbed a child's ball from another room (beside those still, covered bodies), and had rolled it into the path of the beam. Immediately, a stasis blast had gone off, and an alarm started to sound. "Nice," her father had said, conversationally. "That probably alerts the slavers that someone's come through their cleared area, and is ready for processing. Think that gun has more charges?"

"Slaver stasis weapons carry five rounds of ammunition, standard," Cohort had reported, politely.

"I can disable the beam device," Kirrahe had offered, and got to work with his omnitool.

"How'd you even _see_ it?" Dara asked, staring at the tiny device.

Eli shrugged. "Brennia—Lin's wife—taught us both a _hell_ of a lot about hiding things. After a while, it's just become second nature, I guess."

"Eli's better at it than I am," Lin had commented, dryly, and once Kirrahe had disarmed the trap, they'd moved into the room, and set up to receive the slavers. Who had arrived, ready to take more helpless civilians, or perhaps looters, and who had found, instead, nine fairly irritated Spectres. Dara had taken comfort in the thought that these were _probably_ the same slavers who had killed the children in the other room. It wouldn't bring them back, but killing the batarians made _her_ feel a little better. Not much. But a little.

Dara didn't want to think any more. If she thought about the past few days, she'd dwell on the things they hadn't been able to do: they hadn't been in time to save those children, for example. If she thought about tomorrow's challenges, she'd fixate on those, instead. At least here on Omega, the problems of her personal life were thankfully remote. Distant. Without the power to hurt her. No, there was just the here and the now, and keeping everyone with her alive and in once piece for one more day. Dara sighed and adjusted her earpiece, kicking on her language training program, keeping the volume very low. If nothing else, she could fall asleep to _this_. She was careful just to mouth the words, not even whispering them, for fear of keeping anyone else awake.

"_Leiau'uel lei'lea'ya?"_ Eli murmured, after a moment. _Are you studying your lessons?_

"_Voa, leiau'uelle lei'lea'yili."_

"_Uiae_," he told her, very quietly. _Good._ "_Ra'aio_ _saiellu'uel,__ harao__'eal ialeo'o'yili tia."_

Dara opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. "When you speak," she managed, very softly.

"Right," Siara told her just as quietly, from her right.

"_Eal_ is an ending I've never heard on a verb before."

"It's only used for _it._ Pretty rare." Siara sounded downright amused now.

"It . . . gives. . .something something." Dara was lost now. The vowels had all run together for her at the end of the sentence.

"_Ialeo'o'yili tia,"_ Eli prompted.

"When I speak, it gives you a headache," Dara hazarded, and both of them, and Ylara across from them, all started to chuckle.

"_Ialeo'o_ is happiness or pleasure," Ylara supplied. "Something of the opposite."

Dara snorted. "And now I _know_ Eli was lying," she muttered. "Sorry, folks, wasn't trying to keep everyone awake." She settled back down and closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on the words, which, with no interaction to keep her awake, soon passed with her into the darkness behind her eyelids, where the dreams dwelled.

It felt like only minutes later that her eyes sprang open, dazed. "Everyone up," her father told them all. "We've got to get food in everyone. . . and then we're heading to the slaver compound that these folks have heard about. . . and that Pelagia has confirmed."

With an MRE on her stomach, Dara felt slightly better equipped to face the day. They and half the remaining mercs—twenty more people than they usually had with them—saw a few groups of civilians out, running from house to house, usually with a bag of supplies over a shoulder, and periodically heard the snap of a sniper rifle, and had to duck for cover, themselves. "They're definitely going to see us coming," Sam muttered into the radio.

"With luck, they'll think we're just a band of mercenaries," Ylara replied, tightly, as they all ducked into cover again, and looked for a sniper. Then she caught the batarian off a balcony and lifted him out to where they all could fire at him, freely. "Certainly," she added, as calmly as if they were all merely out for a stroll, "the disparate armor colors should reinforce that impression. At least at first."

They'd adopted a different skirmishing line, with all the damned _traps_ that they'd been finding in the houses and the streets on this level. Improvised explosives—some surely left by _helpful_ Omega residents, trying to take out batarians, had actually been common. As such, Eli and Makur were leading the line. Sam ranged out to either side, stealthed, watching their flanks, and Ylara and Siara followed behind them. Cohort and Kirrahe stood to either side of Dara, and Lin brought up the rear, again, acting as rearguard. The mercenaries moved behind them, including Ellemai and Vellimus, but Dara was just as glad that Lin had their backs. If any of the mercs decided that betraying the Spectres to the batarians was likely to get them off of Omega and into safety, they'd have to go through Lin, first.

They were on alert, and on edge, but there was still almost no warning. Makur and Eli's heads both snapped up at the same time. "Hostiles!" Makur bellowed.

"Stealthed attackers!" Eli shouted, right on the heels of that exclamation, just as they moved into a narrow alleyway on approach to the clinic area, where the slavers had, apparently, set up their processing center. "Get down!"

Lin moved up, fast, and grabbed Dara's arm, moving with her to cover—a dumpster of some sort, apparently, overflowing with neighborhood trash, but at least it was made of galvanized steel. He got his shield around, and peered around the corner, as Dara readied her rifle. "What have we got?" she asked, tightly.

"They're up on the second floor balconies, firing down," Lin rapped out. "They saw us coming."

"Or were tipped off," Dara muttered, darkly. "Ready for me?"

"Yeah. I got you." Lin leaned out, shield in place, providing her a wall, behind which she was able to get a quick look at her targets and start firing. It wasn't pretty. There were slavers _and_ stealthed attackers up above them, and on the ground. Ylara had lifted a group of attackers near the front, and Eli and Makur were in hand-to-hand combat with a group of warrior-castes, with Snowflake trying to maul the third member of the trio of batarians—not a good place to be, and they were even out in the _open_, damnit. "Eli, get the hell out of there," she muttered. "Get to cover, get to cover, they're firing right down on you. . . there you go." Makur tore one batarians to the left side of the narrow hallway, and Eli grabbed and threw his own opponent to the right, dividing their shields, attenuating them. The third was thoroughly tied up by Snowflake. While the cat couldn't bite through armor, he sure as hell could occupy a batarian's attention. Thoroughly.

Siara was in worst straights, having been backed up against the wall to the right side of the passage, and had her hands extended, trying to shockwave two or three batarians away from her. "Son of a bitch," Dara muttered, and opened fire on one of the batarians, aiming for and hitting center of mass, double-tap, double-tap. Moving the muzzle of the rifle gently to keep up with the male's wild movements—and then Lin shoved her back into cover as a spray of bullets erupted at them. She could hear a dull whooshing sound now, and screams of pain—Kirrahe had, apparently, found targets for his flamethrower. And then a scream and a crash, and Dara saw a batarian fall to the ground right beside them, and glanced up. Cohort had climbed up to a balcony and simply thrown the batarian there out of it, to the ground. Lin, beside her, pragmatically fired two shots into the batarian's head at close range. "And stay down," he muttered, grimly.

The mercenaries behind them started to move up now. Ellemai charged forward, propelled by her biotics, and engaged the batarians at close range. Vellimus was firing at will on the batarians in the balconies, but then, as Dara and Lin leaned out again, Dara heard a distinctive snap and sizzle, and ducked back, reflexively. She knew that sound now. That was the sound of a stasis gun going off. "_S'kak_," Lin swore, sharply. "They've got the damned things set on wide dispersion."

Dara swore, herself. The single target setting lasted about fifteen minutes. The group dispersion setting seemed to last for five, but could incapacitate everyone in about a ten foot area. "Spread out," Lin called into the radio, urgently. "Don't get grouped up, you'll get—_s'kak!"_ He was firing his pistol now, rapidly, and Dara leaned out with him, realizing that Ellemai and Siara had both been caught in a stasis field. Makur was turned to deal with a stealthed attacker who had, from the looks of it, shot the krogan repeatedly in the back, but Makur was now slamming the batarian into a wall. Repeatedly. Eli was bogged down with two attackers, but as he scythed the legs out from under one of them, her father appeared, wrenching the second male's head around in a spinning up and then down corkscrew that absolutely would snap the male's neck. Dara tried, desperately, to find a target that _wasn't_ in melee with someone on her side, found one, advancing on Siara, and began firing.

"_Time for a strategic retreat!"_ she heard someone shout in batarian, and then she heard a distinctive whistle, and tucked her head and closed her eyes. There were explosions of light and smoke as flashbangs went off. Her helmet protected her from the auditory impact of the flashbangs, and she'd protected her vision, at least. "They're retreating!" Dara called into the radio, getting up, and trying to peer through the smoke.

_Snap-hiss_. _Snap-hiss._ Dara ducked again. Stasis gun, again. _God, how many of them do they have?_ She peered out, and swore, viciously, as she saw that batarians had Siara, Ellemai, and Ylara contained—and were moving them, through the smoke, back down the alley. Firing back at the Spectres and their allies as they went. Her father was frozen in place. Eli was picking himself up off the ground, having been knocked there somehow—possibly the only thing that had kept him from being frozen in place, too.

Makur turned in time to see the three asari being carried off, and roared, charging after the batarians, Snowflake at his heels, and nevermind the bullets being fired by the retreating slavers and warriors. "Shit, shit, shit, shit," Dara muttered under her breath. "Makur! Stop!" _Damnit, he's not Mazz. Mazz would listen to me._ _Maybe I need to cut off Makur's __leg__ and wave it at __him__._ Dara moved down the alleyway. "Eli! They've got Siara, Ylara, and Ellemai! We have to stop them—" _But not by running after them, one at a time, like Makur, damnit_. _Shit, shit, shit. My dad's stunned. Cohort's senior, but he's not a leader. Kirrahe. . . no. That leaves. . . us. And as Rel routinely reminds me, I'm not command line._

Dara was close enough to see Eli's eyes behind his visor. He looked at her, looked at Lin, behind her, and then up at Cohort. Took it all in, including the mercs behind them, some of them injured. And came to a snap decision. "Lin, you and Cohort get everyone here to safety. Dara, Makur, and I will go after the others. Dara, come on, they could be hurt when we get there. Let's go!"

Dara found herself running after Eli now, trying to catch up to an enraged krogan, and praying that Eli's gift for seeing traps would hold true, even at this kind of a pace. Pounding of feet on rough metal gratings, what passed for a road in this part of Omega, reverberation of metal up her shins as she ran. And she thanked her stars for her constant training and conditioning.

They got to the end of the alley in time to see three aircars streak away. Makur was shouting and cursing after them. Dara looked around, and saw the red cross sign on the wall. It _was_ a clinic. . . and if the slavers had been using it as a base, they weren't, anymore. "We have to _follow_ them," Makur said, and found another aircar nearby, tearing its door off in his haste to get inside. Dara dodged as Makur threw it to the side, and jumped in, trying to start the vehicle.

Nothing happened. Eli stepped forward, letting Makur see his empty hands. "Probably biometrically locked to whoever owns the vehicle."

"Then we can't catch them!" Makur looked inclined to start tearing the steering yoke off, next.

"Pull yourself together!" Dara snapped, knowing they needed to get through the wall of blood fury clouding Makur's mind right now. "Or are you so weak that you'll let your emotions rule you? You wreck that car, you wreck any chance of catching her."

Makur's head snapped up, and his eyes locked on her. Snowflake, reflecting his master's emotions, snarled, showing enormous yellow fangs. _Oh, dear god. Punching Mazz and yelling at him was one thing when we were kids. Makur is a whole different story._ But as Siara had once said. . . it was all about not _looking_ weak. So Dara just glared right back at him, as Eli said, calmly, "I can break a biometric lock in about ten seconds, Makur. Move over, let Dara and me into the car, and we can go after them, okay?"

Makur stared at them for about two more seconds, then visibly mastered his rage. He moved over, and smacked Snowflake on the flank, urging the cat to the far side of the backseat. Dara swallowed hard and climbed in, and Eli did the same, getting into the driver's seat. Eli leaned forward and did something neat and precise to some control component underneath the steering yoke, and then started the air car. "Buckle up," Eli reminded them. "Safety first." His voice was very calm as he added, "This is where you're going to want to close your eyes, _sai'kaea_."

And then he gunned the engine and they raced off into the open area at the heart of Omega. Sixteen tiers, all over a hundred feet in height, surrounded a largely empty central shaft, which allowed for transit between levels by aircar. Dara could feel a sickening down-elevator sensation in her stomach as Eli poured on the speed, and air rushed in through the open door. She opened her eyes, cautiously, and immediately regretted it. They weren't the only aircar out and about. People were still trying to get from tier to tier, looking for supplies, looking for refuge. And the batarians they were pursuing weren't really looking to be pursued. Makur was still snarling in his seat, bloodrage barely leashed, as Eli dodged and swerved trying to avoid bullets and vehicles alike, relying on pure reflexes and ability. "Oh, fucking hell," Dara whispered.

"Yeah, I actually need your eyes open, _sai'kaea_," Eli admitted. "Can you lean forward enough to try to shoot back at them, without taking your harness off?"

Dara shuddered as he once more dodged around a projection of rock sticking out from one of the tiers, and leaned forward, bringing her rifle to bear. "Yes," she said, grimly. "But the angle's wrong—oh!" Eli pulled the yoke slightly, and suddenly, she had a perfect shot lined up. She took it.

"If you make them crash, you'll kill the captives," Makur reminded them, his voice still a snarl.

"Just trying to encourage them not to shoot at us," Eli said, lightly, and poured on more speed, incrementally getting closer and closer to the aircars ahead of them—which banked sharply now, heading right. Dara was thrown right in her harness as Eli followed suit, swooping around to follow their targets.

"You should have been a pilot, Eli," Dara shouted.

"Thank you!"

"That was not a compliment! Kallixta's crazy, and so are you!"

He banked a little again, and reminded, Dara opened fire again on the closest aircar—and a black plume of smoke began to emerge from it. "There we go," Eli said, grimly. "They'll have to set down now."

Of the three aircars, that one _did_ come to rest on a nearby ledge, but the other two arced away. Eli zoomed in for a landing, and Makur leaped out of the vehicle, taking the shots of the batarians there right in his shields, and then charging them, Snowflake at his heels, and blasted one clear off the ledge with a biotic throw. "Keep at least one alive!" Dara shouted. "We have to know where the others went!" She fumbled for, and found her shock gun, firing it at the closest batarian as he crawled out of the still-smoking aircar. He stiffened as the electrical energies in the dart began to overwhelm his system, and Eli found a third batarian and began to fire his pistol at the male, calmly and methodically, chipping away at the shields. Makur snarled and ripped the shields away with his biotics, and then simply grabbed the batarian by the throat, and slammed his helmeted head repeatedly into the doorframe of the aircar. "Makur!" Dara shouted. "It's _done_! Secure the prisoners—" privately, she rather thought the one he was pummeling probably was dead by now, but it didn't hurt to be sure, "and let's see if they had any of the prisoners aboard."

Recalled to sanity by her voice, Makur looked at the limp batarian in his grip, and let the male fall to the ground. Eli moved over and shackled the batarian Dara had shocked, while Dara looked into the groundcar. To her enormous relief, she could see a single female form in there. Blue skin. Black armor. Dara reached in, and hooked her hands under the female's shoulders, and pulled, heaving the limp body out of the aircar.


	110. Chapter 110: Relief

**Chapter 110: Relief**

**Author's note:** _Thanks for all the words of concern about my mom's house. She was evacuated on Labor Day. 7500 acres have burned, including most of her subdivision. Her house appears to be intact, however, although at least one house at the end of her cul-de-sac burned to the ground. Thirty-five years, she lived in Nevada. . . thirty-five fire seasons, and never even a single evacuation. Three years in Texas, including six months of drought . . . and this. *shakes head*_

_Folks who've been asking about music and theme songs lately. . . Rel's in Three Days' Grace territory at the moment: I can't escape this hell / So many times I've tried / But I'm still caged inside / Somebody get me through this nightmare / I can't control myself / So what if you can see the darkest side of me / No one will ever change this animal I have become / Help me believe it's not the real me . . . . I can't escape myself / So many times I've lied / But there's still rage inside._

_Dara, a few chapters ago, was in Apocalyptica territory, "Broken Pieces: www[dot]youtube[dot]com/watch?v=jsxRGIMIbFQ&feature=related: "Too late - this is not the answer. I need to pack it in. / I can't pull your heart together with just my voice alone. / A thousand shards of glass I came to meet you in. / You cut the peace out of me. . . / and as you ripped it all apart, that's when I turned to watch you, and as the light in you went dark. . . I saw you turn to shadow. If you would salvage some part of you that once knew love. But I'm losing this, and I'm losing you. ... Maybe without me You'll return all the beauty I once knew But if I stay I know, we will both be drowned by you holding onto me."_

**Dara and Elijah, Omega, July 9, 2196**

Dara pulled the limp asari body out of the air car and settled the female form on the ground, not even looking up as Eli kicked the legs of their batarian prisoner out from under him and pinned the male on the ground, settling a knee in the small of the batarian's back. Makur moved over to Dara's side, and stood right over her shoulder as she worked, pulling the asari's facemask off. "It's Siara," Makur said, in a taut tone. "Is she—"

"I'm working on it," Dara told him, sharply, jerking Siara's gloves off her hands and wrapping her own gloved hand around Siara's right wrist. Her omnitool chimed, and she got a look at the readout. _Pulse is only 50 beats per minute. Shit. What the __hell__. . . body temp is 103 Fahrenheit, right on the money, blood pressure. . . also low._ "Pulse is not good." Dara took off her own gauntlets now, and pulled on latex gloves before peeling back Siara's eyelids and checking pupilary reaction with a small handlight. The pupils reacted, but only a little, remaining largely dilated. No obvious bruises to the back of the head, but there was a dark blue mark on Siara's throat. _Needle puncture, and not a good one. They nicked a vein going in._ "She's been drugged with something."

"Probably _lia'mellea,"_ Eli supplied, from where he was keeping their batarian on the ground. "It's called 'little sleep.' Can be used as a sort of asari date-rape drug. They use it on their home planets to control the biotics of mental patients."

Dara's fingers flew on her omnitool. "Need the spelling, Eli," she said. "I'm not good on asari pharmacopeia yet." _Next thing to learn,_ she promised herself. Her medical VI started streaming information for her. "Shit. Yeah, looks like they gave her an overdose. Most common treatment. . . _bai'anu._" It was a stimulant, called 'awakening.' _Damn. I have some, but it can't be used until she's more stable. That heart rate is way too damned low . . . beta-blockers, too slow. Calcium channels. . . yeah, that's for long-term treatment. Digitalis it is, have to modify the amount for the fact that she's asari, and it has a __very__ different effect on them than on a human. . . _ Dara halved the dosage of the injection to start with. Two hundred micrograms should be plenty, she figured, and cleaned the injection site quickly and administered the shot. Then, still monitoring Siara's increasing pulse, Dara rummaged in her pack. Found a saline pack and tubing, and strung it together. Tossed the plastic baggie over her shoulder, wrapped a tourniquet around Siara's wrist, and found a vein in the back of the asari's hand. "Sorry," she muttered. "Not the most comfortable place for an IV, but I can't take you out of _all_ your armor just now." She got the IV taped in place, and continued to use her own shoulder as a stand, while digging through her pack for her small store of asari medicines. _Sedatives, painkillers, antibiotics, stimulants. . . there we go. What the hell's the dosage on this. . . and will it interact with the digitalis at all?_ Siara's pulse was starting to improve, at least. It had moved up to about 70 bpm, which was closer to normal for a human or an asari, but was still a little thready under Dara's fingers. Her eyelids were twitching a little, too, which was a good sign.

Eli turned his attention from Dara and Siara to his prisoner, and stood up, turning the batarian over. "Makur? Give me a hand here. We need to ask this one some questions."

He looked down into the slaver's eyes, and said, in clear, flat galactic, "Where are the rest of them going?"

"_Dhozna_ _sele'ek za'mani_."

"He says he doesn't speak galactic," Dara supplied, not even looking up from Siara. Eli didn't speak batarian, but he _did_ speak fluent body language, and the look to the left told him that the batarian was lying.

"Yes, he does." Eli smiled tightly. "Makur, every time he lies, I want you to hit him. Don't actually _break_ him, please. We need answers, and he needs consequences." Eli did not have time for niceties right now, so he heaved the male up, slammed him into the body of the groundcar, and pretended, hard, that the CID regulations for officer conduct were not playing loudly in his head right now. The rules were, for the moment, suspended.

"My pleasure," Makur snarled, and punched the batarian in the jaw, while Eli held the male more or less upright.

The slaver spat orange-red blood. "I'm not telling you anything."

"Well, that's another lie," Eli said, trying to keep his voice light. "Because you _are_ going to talk to us. Sooner or later. But we'll give you that one for free." Eli's job as 'good cop' was to try to establish a bond with the prisoner. Which was tough, given that he despised slavers on principle, and was _very_ angry with this one in particular. "Make it easy on yourself. Answer the questions, and you might even get out of this alive." He paused. "It's not like your friends are going to come back here and try to save you, right?" That was a fair assumption. Batarian slavers weren't known for their loyalty. Eli put a smile on his face, but he knew his eyes couldn't be anything other than hard at the moment. "Where are they taking the asari?"

Dara slid another needle into Siara's arm. Two hundred mcg, again, but this time, of the powerful _bai'anu_ stimulant. It supposedly acted like caffeine in many ways, but also served, like _aizala_, to enhance biotics, where _lia'mellea_ suppressed the pathways available for biotic neurotransmitters. Siara's pulse accelerated for a moment, and then her eyes snapped open. And when they did, the pupils were entirely dilated, replacing the cobalt of her irises with black. "Where—what. . . " Siara started to sit up, and Dara reached out, pushing her back.

"Stay down. You just regained consciousness. Now I've got to see if there's anything else wrong with you." Dara was in full medical mode right now. "Anything hurt?"

"My head. It's pounding. It's like thinking through a cloud. . . except I also feel _really_ awake at the same time." Siara tried to shake her head, and then groaned, putting her hands to her temples.

"Probably a result of too much medication. They overdosed you with _lia'mellea._ I've got you on a couple of things, and I'm giving you saline to try to wash out the rest of the _lia'mellea."_ Dara figured Siara knew enough about medicine to give her that much.

Siara turned her head from one side to the other, looking around, as Snowflake came over and sniffed her face at close range. The asari froze for a moment, staring up into the cat's jaws, and then the animal padded away. "Where are the others?"

"Eli, Makur, and I came after you. Lin's got the others—shit, we need to check in. . . but we're not sure where the batarians took Ylara and Ellemai. All three of you were taken."

This time, no amount of urging could keep Siara from sitting up. Her eyes were still completely black, and there was a look of cold rage in them that Dara was not about to try to argue with.

Eli and Makur had continued their questioning. "Hit him again," Eli said, sighing, and Makur obliged. This time, Eli was fairly sure a couple of teeth were knocked loose. _Okay, maybe not __that__ hard. Shit. We need him able to talk._

"Not. . . not telling you. . . "

"Come on. We don't have a lot of time here, and if you don't start talking, I'm going to stop being friendly here, and start _helping_ him, when I'd really rather help you," Eli informed him.

Then Siara staggered to her feet, and Dara swore under her breath and caught the asari by the shoulders, and got one of Siara's arms over her own shoulders. There was a distinct mutter of, "For god's sake, Siara, don't pull out the IV—" and then the two females moved over. Eli saw the look on Siara's face, and winced a little, internally. He hadn't seen _that_ expression before.

Siara stared at the batarian, and hissed between her teeth. Then she said, very, very quietly, in galactic, "I promised myself, years ago, that I would never, _ever_ be _used_ again. Not by anyone. I will not be made a _thing_. Not by you. Not by anyone else. But you? You're _nothing_." She stared at him with dreadful intensity. "And me? I'm pain. Nice to meet you." She made a little gesture with her free hand, and suddenly, the male convulsed in absolute agony. Siara stared at him, her face blank now. "This is just a small piece of something I experienced recently. The pain of a colleague over four hours. It's a special thing I think I'd like to _share_ with you."

Eli pulled away from the sudden howls and screams, and let the male go. The batarian fell to the ground, bucking and writhing, trying to escape from the inside of his own flesh. There was something incredibly horrific about this, and he could see Dara flinching away, too. "So much for good cop, bad cop," Eli said, numbly, looking down at the batarian, and then up at Makur again. "And you're her more-than-fair?"

"So she tells me," Makur said, staring down at the batarian at his booted feet.

"You're the bravest male I know." Eli was trying hard not to reflect on the thought that once upon a time, Siara had been quite aggressive in her pursuit of _him_. _Damn good thing she hadn't quite developed this talent yet when I broke up with her,_ he thought, and tried not to think it loudly.

Dara coughed. "Ah, Siara? He _does_ need to be able to answer us."

Siara grimaced and the male stopped writhing for a moment, and lay there, panting, almost quivering. Makur leaned down and grabbed the batarian by the head, his meaty paw easily spanning the entirety of the male's cranium, and picked him up by his scalp. "Now," Makur growled, "the Spectres were asking you questions. Where are the other asari being taken?" The krogan laughed, an ugly sound. "Don't answer. Please. I want to watch her make you dance some more."

The batarian croaked out, "G-ring. We. . .we were moving all facilities higher up. Too much activity on D-ring. Fortifying."

"Specifics," Siara said, her voice almost a whisper, and her eyes still black as charcoal. "G-ring is all asari and krogan residential at the moment. Some light commercial properties, and a whole lot of warehouses."

"Took over the AquaDyne warehouses. Large. Close proximity to the asari district for. . . processing—"

Siara hissed again, and the batarian shrank away from her. "No! I'm telling the truth—"

"He does seem to be," Eli said, his voice as neutral as he could make it.

"I've always wondered if I could actually make someone die from the pain," Siara murmured, her tone dreadfully cold.

Dara turned and looked at her. "Don't," Dara said, calmly. "That's not something we need to find out."

"Correct," Makur said, and, releasing the batarian's head from his grip, gave the male a savage kick, which sent him tumbling over the edge of the landing strip that they all stood on, screaming into the abyss below.

Eli swore, at some length, and found a car door to kick, himself. _God damnit, that wasn't what I had in mind here!_ "We have no place to put prisoners," Siara told him, calmly.

"And you can get new shackles," Makur pointed out. "Actually, you can get those ones back, if you want them." He looked down over the edge, where there was still a little aircar traffic racing back and forth. "But the vorcha might get to him first, though."

Eli swore again. "Not the point," he told Makur, tightly. "And yeah, I _get_ that we can't be nice and civilized here, but god _damn_ it. We didn't have to just—"

"_You_ didn't. _I_ did." Makur told him, calmly. "You don't even have to feel bad."

Eli stared at the krogan. "No," he said, suddenly very quiet. "And it's not going to happen again."

Makur blinked. "Huh?"

Eli's jaw clenched. "You are not a Spectre, Makur. Not yet, anyway. Siara is. Right at the moment, you answer to her, you answer to me, and you answer to Dara. That makes what you do _our_ responsibility. Your actions _are_ my actions, and I will not have you taking unilateral action outside of combat without one of us giving you the word again."

The two of them were staring at each other now, and Dara eased back slightly. Siara was over her left shoulder, which at least left her pistol hand free if she needed to do something here, which she fervently hoped she wouldn't have to do. _Determining the pecking order_, she thought, grimly. _What a time for it._ "Eli's right," Dara said, quietly. "But Siara is, too."

That got them to blink. "Siara is absolutely correct. We don't have facilities for prisoners, and that was a slaver, and I'm not going to weep for his death. On the other hand, Eli's absolutely correct, too. You're subordinate here, Makur. You let _us_ make those kinds of decisions. When you make full Spectre, and we're all chefs and no busboys, we can talk again."

There was a moment of silence. Makur and Siara exchanged a look, and Makur nodded, once. "Yeah. You're the battlemasters." He looked at Eli now, and nodded, again. "I'll try to restrain myself out of consideration for your delicate sensibilities."

Eli snorted. "Don't get me wrong. It might have been the only option. But do it when we _say_ to do it, not just on a whim. There has to be a clear chain of command" His stomach was still tight, both from the potential he'd just had for violence from Makur—_not_ a fight he really wanted to get into—and from the effective execution of the batarian right in front of him. _Different rules,_ he reminded himself, and then scoffed. _S'kak.__ That was throwing all the rules away entirely._

Makur snorted. "You're the battlemaster, human. Hell, you've got a female backing you. Practically makes you clan-leader." In a krogan's world-view, a battle-leader who had the backing of a female clan pretty much was a clan-leader. Makur had Siara to back him, but _Siara_ was the battlemaster, not Makur.

Eli sighed. "Why is everyone reminding me of that lately?" _Dara just yesterday, reminding me that someday, I'll be clan-leader of Lantar's branch of Sidonis. And now Makur, telling me I practically am in krogan eyes, too. Well, except that Dara's not. . . . Hell. Well, Serana's pretty much __not__, too._

His omnitool crackled, and he heard Lin's voice. "_Brother? What's the word?"_ Careful not to use any identifiers at all.

"_Yeah, we're here. We've recovered Siara. We've got a possible location on Ylara and Ellemai, too."_

"_Thank the spirits._" Real relief in Lin's voice. "_Where?"_

"_G-ring, AquaDyne warehouses."_ Eli crouched now, looking up at tier after tier of levels rising above them, suddenly aware of how damned _exposed_ their situation was. _"We're going to need to go there in force, brother."_

"_Orpheus says we'll get transportation and meet you there."_

"_We're told it's a heavily krogan and asari tier. Can probably expect the situation to be unstable."_ Lin's voice was tight. _"He says not to go in without backup unless you're absolutely sure they're in imminent danger."_ Lin paused, and Eli could hear voices in the background. _"Cohort says that Pelagia does not have eyes in the warehouse area. Any more than she had eyes in the clinic area down here."_

"_Acknowledged, fradu."_ Eli looked up, and saw that the others were folding themselves into the car. "Dara," he called, standing up, and shifted back into turian. "_Is Siara going to be ready to fight?"_

"_Spirits, Eli, I don't know. She managed to muster enough biotic power in spite of a fuzzy head to put that batarian on his knees, but I don't know how long the __bai'anu_ _I gave her is going to counter the __lia'mellea__."_ Dara was pulling her gloves back on. _"Ask her how she feels. She might not put on the tough front for you."_ She looked down and away as she said it.

Eli frowned, and gestured for her to get back in the aircar, then folded himself in through the missing doorframe again. He got the engine started, and looked back, just as Dara pulled the IV needle from Siara's hand and put pressure on the wound. "Buckle up. Siara, you ready to fight?"

"I better be," came the immediate response. "Ylara needs me. She's Kella's mother, Eli." Siara leaned her head back against the seat. "We all owe her one, don't we?"

Eli shook his head. He didn't like to think of it that way, but it was true. He pulled back on the yoke, urging the aircar up, and ducked out into the thinning traffic. Air started whistling in the car again, and he looked at Makur next to him. "Where the hell are we, anyway, and how do we get to G-ring from here?"

"We wound up on M," Makur replied, and pointed down and right. "We seem to be above the level of the batarian encroachment at the moment. Probably why no snipers were firing at us the last ten or fifteen minutes or so."

Eli dropped them into a shallow dive, weaving his way through intersecting lines of aircar traffic streaking through the core. There was silence for a moment. Glancing in the rear mirror, Eli almost chuckled when he say that Dara's eyes were shut. Again. "I have no idea how you got through drop training," he called back to her.

"Drop training, I'm in control of my own damned parachute," she shouted over the rush of air. "This? I'm not in control at all."

Siara actually laughed at that one.

After a moment, Dara spoke again. "Eli, you and Lin need squad names for the radio. My dad's Orpheus, Lantar's Nemesis, Garrus is Archangel. Figure something out that stands out on the radio, and _isn't_ your real names, will you?"

"Oh, like you have one."

"We can always go with what every marine out there has always called me. Doc. Or, if they were turian, _Medeor._" Dara's tone was wry. "Very original."

As soon as they dropped in towards G-level, the amount of traffic died down. "Yep. No one's coming _to_ this level," Eli muttered. "Everyone's _leaving_ it, if they can." _We're going to stick out here._ "Makur, now where?"

Makur jerked a thumb to the right, and they started darting their way through the narrow streets. There was a dull glow off to the left. "That's fire," Siara muttered darkly. "It's in the krogan areas."

"Batarians may have figured out that fire tends to suppress our regeneration," Makur muttered. "Or maybe they just want to keep the krogan occupied." He jabbed a finger towards an alleyway. "Park there, human. We can walk the rest of the way."

Eli dropped the aircar into the alley. "This isn't going to be here when we get back, likely," he warned. "No one leave anything behind." When his feet touched the ground, he keyed his omnitool. "_Brother, we're almost in position."_

Lin's voice snapped back, immediately, "_We've secured transport. We're on our way._" Eli was just relieved, again, that Lin was with them. As always, it was as if he simply had another set of hands, another self to send where he was needed.

Eli looked at the other three. Makur was getting his shotgun ready, and had moved close enough that Siara was able to lean on him. Subtly, but it was there. Siara's eyes were still almost entirely black. He found it discomfiting to meet her stare, and wondered just how open her biotics were at the moment.

_Very,_ a voice whispered in his mind, and Eli reflexively blocked it out. Kella had left him with more gifts than just language, he'd learned over the years. He'd blocked asari from sharing their minds with him in bed before, for instance. Siara's eyes widened a bit, and she nodded, as if he'd blocked a fencing hit.

And then there was Dara. Face and eyes closed behind her visor, rifle in her hands. "We'd better move," she said, tightly. "I don't know how long they'll have before the batarians start _processing_ them. They're both powerful biotics. And one's a Council Spectre. They'd want the power, sure, but Ylara in particular would be a coup. Because it would show that the Spectres aren't untouchable." Her eyes looked very tired for a moment. "We can't let them have that assurance."

Eli nodded to her. "Let's go," he told them all, and gestured for Makur to lead the way. Diamond formation for the moment, Eli taking the rearguard position, keeping an eye out behind them, they moved forward.

The warehouse area was extensive. The warehouses were all set up along long alleys that stretched into the rock of the station. Metal walls ran east-west, lined with hatches that faced one another across narrow gaps; no gaps between the individual warehouses. They had yet to find the AquaDyne one, and Eli shook his head. "Each of these alleys is going to be a shooting galley. They all terminate on the east side in solid rock. This is a _bad_ tactical situation."

Dara nodded, and crouched in the corner of a building, pulling up her omnitool. _He's right_, she thought. "So we change the rules," she murmured. "Cohort? Can you patch me through to Pelagia? We need a map of the warehouses up here. Doesn't matter if she can't see what's going on now. We just need to see a layout."

Eli crouched beside her, and looked over her shoulder as her various screens flared to life. Big and warm and stable. He probably had no idea how comforting his presence actually was. "Okay," Dara said, after a moment's study. "Here's AquaDyne." She pointed it out, third into a row of four warehouses at the center of the map. "And suddenly, I understand why they're using that warehouse."

"Why?" Makur asked, bluntly. "It's a hydrology corporation. Urdnot Mazz works with them."

Dara grimaced. "Yeah, but it's got a Serrice Technology warehouse to the left, for implants for their slaves and medical equipment. . . and a Black Horse Foods warehouse to the right of it. Supplies." She brushed the projection over her wrist with a fingertip, moving the map around. "Binary Helix right here at the west end, that's gene mod corporation. Haliat Armory across from them, so access to ammunition . . ExoGeni next to that. That's. . . colonization stuff. Prefab houses, maybe more food?"

"Oxygen tanks, terraforming equipment," Siara supplied, moving behind them. "And to the right of that. . .Delumcore Electronics. . . Isenberg-Wyatt Toys?"

"No help for them there," Eli muttered to Dara's left. "What are you seeing, _sai'kaea?_"

"If you don't want to go in from the west, I say, we come in from the south," Dara told Eli, moving the map further up. "Genex Chemicals, right here. Bet they might have explosives. And Altai Mineral Corporation. . . they're a mining outfit, right? If they don't have explosives, I bet they have mining mechs." She looked up at Siara. "You want to run a mech and cut through the walls for us? That way, we don't have to keep you stable on your feet."

Siara's mouth dropped open, and she suddenly had an expression of mingled awe and delight on her face. "Dara," she said, after a moment. "You're brilliant."

Dara shook her head. "Nah. Just watched people who're better at this than I am do this for a long time."

Eli put a gauntleted hand on her armored shoulder. "I like it. We'll keep the explosives as a secondary option. None of us have enough experience with them to ensure that the prisoners don't get hurt in an explosion. Let's go see what we've got."

They cut in one alley early, and sure enough, the Genex Chemical warehouse and Altai Mineral Works warehouses were side-by-side. Eli blandly defeated the security systems on both hatches, which led Siara to mutter, "I would love to know how a _law enforcement_ type knows how to do all of this. . . " which just made Eli chuckle. And as they went through the warehouses, Eli relayed the information to the other team. "_If you can come in from the west, brother_," he told Lin, _"It'll be a nice distraction."_

"_Orpheus says we can do that."_ Lin's voice was tight. _"Spirits be with you, __fradu__."_

The Genex Chemicals warehouse turned out to have phosphorous. A _lot_ of phosphorous, in fact. Largely in powdered form. Makur immediately began grabbing bags of the stuff. "Wait," Eli told him. "We _can_ use it on the batarians, but we have to _know_ where the captives are."

"Plus," Dara added dryly, "we need an ignition source for them. Only Kirrahe has that flamethrower of his." She looked around, found various explosives, and peered at the labels till she found the lowest-yield ones. Siara, in the meantime, had gone into the Altai warehouse. And crowed softly in delight. There were indeed mechs in the warehouse. Including a large one, which was a mechanized, robotic exoskeleton, pretty much. It had mining drills and lasers at the ends of its hands, almost fully encased the user in metal, and probably weighed two thousand pounds. "It's charged," Siara said, grinning fiercely. "Must be a demonstration model."

"You think you can handle that thing?" Eli asked, dubiously.

Siara smiled wickedly. "This handle means 'go forward or back.' This set of knobs and buttons turns on the laser or the drills, and these handles," she reached up and put her hands on waldos inside the interior cage, "let me control the hands. The feet, I just walk in. Like really big shoes."

Dara got her scope up and running, looking for biosigns. They all did the same, and Eli shook his head. "That's a hell of a lot of people over in the Black Horse Foods warehouse," he muttered, looking to the northeast, at backside of the building, which had the name of the company painted on it, but no door, like all the other buildings to the north of them.

"Probably where they're keeping the captives," Dara agreed. "I make it fourteen in the AquaDyne warehouse. And they're spread out neatly. Two then two, then another row. . . these might be doctors with patients."

"And I make it ten people in the Serrice Technologies warehouse to the left," Makur muttered.

Eli tabbed his radio. _"__Fradu__. You in position?"_

"_Almost there."_

"_Tell our little friend to have his flamethrower ready. We're going to try to even the odds here a little bit with some red phosphorous powder on the opposition, if we can keep it away from the friendlies."_ Eli felt a little ill saying the words. With any luck, the phosphorous would just burn through the shields. The armor. Wouldn't actually burn into the batarians' skins.

Dara surprised him. She put a gloved hand on his shoulder, and leaned into him where they were both crouching as Siara got the mech moving forward. Helmet to helmet, sound conduction, no radio at all. "If it helps," Dara pointed out, for his ears only, "the batarians are lobotomizing people. Permanent brain damage, Eli. Chemical burns are nasty. The phosphorous won't stop burning till it burns _itself_ out. And the chemicals on their skin, if it reaches them, will cause third-degree burns. And probably some severe liver damage, once it gets into the blood." She paused. "In my opinion, they're be getting off easy. The brain-damaged ones? Their families, having to make the decision about keeping them alive and caring for them for the next fifty or hundred or five hundred years, depending on the species? Or having to live with the decision to euthanize them? Yeah."

"I know. Doesn't help much. But I know."

There was a pause. "I know. Doesn't help me much, either. I've had to _treat_ phosphorous burns from incendiary rounds before."

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Siara moved into position, each ponderous step of the mech ringing off the rock path between the buildings. Makur grinned up at her, and said something in krogan. Eli didn't know much of that savage, visceral language, besides a few choice cursewords, but he _did_ pick out the word for _strength_ in there.

_Let's hope they don't hear the footsteps inside the building_, Eli thought, grimly, and got his shield and pistol ready. _"__Fradu__?"_

"_We're here. Beginning our attack."_

Sure enough, the _bang-bang, bang-bang_ and _rat-tat-tat-tat_ started off to the northwest of them, and they could hear low, rough voices shouting in consternation. "Now, Siara," Eli said, sharply, and the asari grinned fiercely and brought up the arms of the mech, setting a mining drill the size of Eli's torso in motion, and applying it, with a shrill _screeeeeeeeeeeeeee_ to the metal of the building wall ahead of them. Once a hole had been torn into the aluminum barrier, Siara reached out with both hands, now, enlarging the hole, and using one massive foot to just _kick_ through the bottom. _"Breach established!"_ Eli called into the radio, and moved in behind the mech, shield up, Dara pressing in behind him, behind the shield, rifle at the ready and already taking shots at the batarians in the room, _bam-bam_. Makur moved in at the left, and Snowflake snarled and bounded in ahead of them, ignoring the danger from Siara and the mech, leaping up at the first batarian the animal could see. . . .

**Ylara, Omega, July 10, 2196**

She could hear and see, but nothing made sense. There had been jostling and movement for some time, and then they'd come to an abrupt halt. The four-eyed creatures. . . _batarians_, part of her mind reminded her, distantly. . . grabbed her arms. Which were locked in front of her with metal bands. Ylara focused on the metal, lifting her wrists to look at it. The metal was shiny, and enclosed each of her wrists like a . . . bracelet. _No. Not a bracelet. A bracelet is a good thing, right?_ _These. . . these are wrong._ She stared at them, frowning. So hard to concentrate. So hard to focus, to think. A soft haze over everything.

The rough hands pulled at her, and then they dragged her out of the vehicle. Words. Words all around her. Ylara understood batarian, but while part of her mind understood, the rest of her didn't.

"_Council Spectre, huh? Well, an asari's just an asari. They all react the same to the drugs."_

"_Could be fun breaking her."_ That, from one of the four-eyed creatures, as he stroked her face with his fingers.

"_No raping the prisoners."_ That voice was stern. _"We have no idea how long the medication will last on a biotic of the Spectre's potential. Process them first. Then you can have your fun."_

"_It's much more fun when they're aware enough to be a little afraid."_ The fingers wouldn't stop touching her face. Ylara lifted her head and frowned. She didn't like the one who kept touching her. Something at the back of her mind raged at him. _Get your hands off of me. . . . _ but there was no force in the thought. Also, absolutely no fear. A mental image, of pushing him away, but not with her hands. . .

"_Hurry up. She's older. Probably close to matriarch stage. Her body's processing it faster. The other one's bigger, larger body mass."_

"_You think the other Spectres will come for them?"_

"_H'vol wouldn't betray the location of the new processing center. He was SIU. What could they possibly do to him that he hasn't already seen worse?"_

They dragged her and. . . Ellemai. _That's her name, right? Ellemai. Same name as my more-than-fair of two hundred years ago. Pretty name. Not the same, though. Not the same at all._ They dragged them through a series of large buildings, all made of metal, and through a hatch. Rows of stainless steel tables. Bodies already on the tables, shrouded in white cloth. Blue and red blood on the cloth. No concern for hygiene, really. Equipment and shelving pushed up against the walls, out of the way. Smell of chemicals. Strong and pungent, they made Ylara's nose twitch. She raised her head to look at Ellemai, and the other asari looked back at her, blankly. _Something is wrong_. . . her mind whispered. _Why can't I think?_

Hands pressing her down now, onto a table. Ylara started to resist, almost reflexively, and leather straps snugged into place, ankles, knees, chest, wrists, and forehead. Bright light overhead, almost blinding. Dark shadow of a doctor, wearing a mask under his four red eyes, leaning down to touch her face with gloved hands. Impersonal. Practical. Worse, in a way, than the one who'd touched her just outside of the car. _Just a thing to both of them,_ she thought, and her mind almost came back to itself then. Almost focused for a moment, and then slipped past itself, back into the haze. She'd almost understood.

Almost.

"_Prepare a local anesthetic. We don't want her to struggle. Might slip and hit the wrong places in the brain."_

Droplets, stinging, and then numbing, being dripped into her eyes. Metal devices slid into place as the doctor lifted her eyelids and pressed them back. Now, she couldn't blink. Bright light overhead, making her eyes tear up, but she could not blink. Could only look, side to side, in mild confusion. _"One more minute for full efficacy on the anesthetic, doctor,"_ a tech murmured off to the side.

Snick of metal on metal, as the doctor lifted something off a tray near her head. Ylara's eyes rolled to the right, trying to see what it was, and she could see that it was long and slender, and shaped like an icepick. And then the doctor picked up a mallet, as well. Wooden handle, rubber head. Ylara wondered why her hands were clenching. Why she was straining against the straps. The icepick was so shiny. So pretty. So. . . _deadly._

The doctor moved the icepick into place, just to the inside of her nose, and her eyes crossed trying to focus on it. _"First, we'll make sure you're nice and calm forever,"_ he told her. _"Then, we'll give you the chip. But, first thing's first."_

She couldn't feel the tip of the icepick against her eyes, but she could see the shadow of his other hand as it raised the mallet. And just as it started to come down, there was a _screeeeeeeeeeeee_ sound from somewhere behind the doctor, and his hand slipped, and then there was _pain._ Raw, shocking, horrifying pain. Sensation of wetness against her right cheek. Hot wetness.

Crashes, thuds. Sound of gunfire. Ylara _focused_. Her mind snapped back into place, pain giving way to rage. Her good eye slid towards the doctor in front of her, and her usual calmness turned into a snarl as she reached out and tried to shockwave him away from her. It didn't have any of her usual force, but it was enough to throw him away from her, with his icepick—_leucotome_, her mind insisted, with precision, _leuctome_—and her hands scrabbled at the stainless steel table, trying to get purchase, but she was lashed down. "Ellemai!" Ylara shouted. "Ellemai, can you hear me?"

"Yes. . . ." The voice was toneless, and almost lost to gunfire. With effort, Ylara focused her biotics and shoved the eyelid speculums away from her, and managed to force her head to the left. Could feel blood oozing over the bridge of her nose now, saw it drip past her good left eye. _Shit. I'm right-side dominant. I might have to learn how to shoot all over again._

Ellemai was on the table next to Ylara. An icepick was sticking out of her right eye socket, and she wasn't moving at all. Ylara hissed through her teeth and focused on the tray of instruments between them. Lifting a hundred kilos with her mind? No problem. Lifting five people, all a hundred kilos each? Again, no problem. That was a question of power. With her mind still clouded by medication, _control_ was as much a problem as power, and control was _always_ harder. Precision.

She got ahold of a scalpel from the tray, feeling reverberations through the floor as if something enormous and heavy were coming towards her. Only the Goddess knew what, of course. Ylara tugged the delicate surgical knife towards her, and settled it over the leather strap holding her left wrist, trying to ignore the sounds of gunfire around her. The left wrist, she could see. The left wrist, if she could free it, would give her a working hand, to pull at the rest of the straps that restrained her.

The scalpel sawed back and forth once or twice, then clattered to the floor. Ylara restrained the impulse to swear, and looped a tendril of power around it. Blocked out the pain of her damaged, blinded eye. Blocked out the gunfire, and the fact that the ground was shaking. Blocked out the screams.

Pretended that the scalpel was a leaf in her mother's garden, six hundred years ago, when she'd _first_ learned these skills, and picked the damned thing back up again. She had work to do.

**Siara, Omega, July 10, 2196**

She pummeled and kicked the thin metal of the wall out of her way. It was _satisfying_ to do so, in an elemental sort of way. It conveyed her rage at her own helplessness, at the helplessness of the others who'd been taken captive. She reached out with the mech's pincher hand and the drilling hand, and simply tore her way into the building, and then stomped forward. Inside the mech, there were stabilizing gyros and dampening devices that protected her from the reverberations of its steps. Outside of the mech, there were tables with asari and humans strapped to them. Batarians in surgical scrubs, scattering out of the way, a few of them reaching for guns along the far right wall. Siara reached out with her biotics and sent out a shockwave for the closest ones. Dara had counteracted the _lia'mellea_ overdose, but perhaps a little too well. Siara was _skied_ on the _bai'anu_ stimulant at the moment, and the power behind her shockwave was bone-shattering. _I could get used to this,_ she thought, then reprimanded herself. _Bai'anu_ had very bad side-effects when used over the long term, including cancer and an asari equivalent to Alzheimer's, which, in a species that was as long-lived as the asari, was not to be thought about.

So she stomped forward and caught one of the batarian techs around the neck with the mech's grappling claw, and brought her fingers together inside the waldo's controls, which brought the pincher claws together, with a force designed to shatter rock formations. It certainly was enough to crush armor and bones. In fact, it squeezed the batarian's head completely off his body, and Siara let her fingers open again, dropping the body as she stomped forward again, looking for her next target. She reached out again with her biotics and launched another batarian into the air as he fumbled with his omnitool, staring at her in consternation, and then there was a _bam-bam_ behind her, and she knew that Dara had fired on the male with her rifle.

"Don't bump the tables! They're in mid-surgery!" Dara shouted from somewhere behind her. Siara leaned to the left, just as more techs boiled out of a rough doorway , hastily cut, apparently with a welding torch, that led into the Serrice Technology building beside this one. These techs had asari and humans with them, blank-faced, staring. The techs—there had to be five of them—all were scrambling with their omnitools, and their captives raised their hands in unison. Aimed for Siara, who hastily slid a biotic barrier over her own body inside the mech. . . and then the biotics all channeled shockwaves at once. Five of them, burrowing along under the ground, ending at the mech's stolid feet. Each one detonated under her, but the mech weighed two thousand pounds. A shockwave wasn't going to displace it. Not any time soon, anyway.

"My turn," Siara whispered inside the mechanized suit. "Pain, you bastards. Know pain. Know suffering."

She'd never been able to inflict pain on more than one person at a time, but with the _bai'anu_ buoying her system, it was a field. She managed to avoid putting the pain into the poor, mindless slaves, but the batarians themselves? She channeled it into them with all the force of her rage, made them scream and dance with it, made them fall on the floor writhing. _This, all this, you have done to others_, she wanted to shout at them, but made the mech stomp over to them where they still writhed, and simply efficiently began to step on the bodies.

Off to her side, however, another batarian had a different idea, and started to _hack_ the mech, which began to move in stuttering, balky motions. Siara fought the controls, and then a white streak landed on the batarian with a snarl, and he began to scream in panic as Snowflake clamped his jaws around his arm. Impossible to shake off. Then Makur moved up and put his shotgun under the batarian's jaw and pulled the trigger, leaving Snowflake to continue to worry and shake at a limp arm.

"Get me up to Ylara!" Dara called, and Siara turned and caught sight of Eli moving with Dara, shield ahead of both of them, both of them shooting at any batarian that came near, trying to get up to the various tables of captives. And then _they_ were taking fire from the right hand side of the room, as slavers began to pour through a doorway on that side of the room, as well, from the Black Horse Foods warehouse, probably.

Siara turned to tromp across the room and help, seeing slavers holding up stasis guns, and knew the mech was simply going to be too damned slow. She reached out and lifted the closest off the ground, and Dara and Eli fired on the next closest, tearing through the male's shields with fast, deadly, accurate shots. 'More coming!" Eli shouted, and once more pulled Dara with him into cover. Then Makur was there, firing into the doorway, pausing only long enough to raise a hand and lift an incoming attacker with his biotics and throw him into a distant wall.

Outside, Siara could hear gunfire resounding as she tromped slowly over to help hold the doorway. "The others are outside," she told Makur, and saw three more slavers in the warehouse beyond, running towards them through the crowd of slaves already in the place. "Go help them! We can manage these!" And she set the massive drill to spinning again and tromped right for the closest slaver, who fired a stasis pistol at her—deflected by the massive outer shell of the mech, fortunately—and grabbed him with the pincher arm. Delicately, this time. She held him up and punched the drill through his armor, instead, while the other two batarians fell back and away, trying to get away from her, and Dara and Eli began picking them off with their weapons, instead.

There was a roar from the doorway to the north, as Makur shouted, "Salarian! Kirrahe! Aim for the center!"

Siara managed to turn her head inside the mech in time to see Makur throw a fifty-pound bag of red phosphorous into the middle of the narrow street between the north and south warehouses. He sent her a brief mental image: twenty slavers, mostly backed up into the mouth of the Delumcore Electronics warehouse to the north of the one they were currently in, suddenly coated in the metallic powder. Kirrahe, responding immediately to the call, slipped forward with his flamethrower. "All Spectres, get the hell back!" Makur roared, and followed his own advice just as Kirrahe fired, flame shooting out the end of his heavy weapon. . . igniting the phosphorous powder that was still in the air, lighting it on the ground. Phosphorous burned until it was consumed. Water couldn't douse it. Take away oxygen, and it might stop burning for a moment, but return oxygen, and it would immediately re-ignite. The flames settled to the ground, burning yellow-white and intensely hot, and lit off everything to either side of it, and Kirrahe encouraged the flames' path, directing another gout of fire into the Delumcore building, where screams suddenly rang out.

Siara backed up her mech—and stopped, a little disconcerted, as a loud _BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP_ warning noise howled out of the machine, automatically, as she did so, accompanied by a bright yellow flashing light that strobed out all around her. Then she stomped to the doorway, peering out herself, now that all the batarians in her own warehouse were dead. She watched, cold-eyed and expressionless, as the batarians across the way threw down their weapons and wrestled with their burning armor, trying desperately to take it off. "How do you like it?" Siara asked, quietly, knowing that they couldn't hear her. "How do _you_ like being the helpless one? The _thing_ to be used and broken and thrown away? Was it good for you, too?"

_I certainly enjoyed it,_ Makur told her, in silent communion, watching their enemies burn. _Should I fire on them and end their pain?_

_It would be merciful._ Siara hesitated. _We probably should._

Makur snorted and began firing rounds into the ranks of screaming batarians. _Only because I love you, Siara. And I don't want you to have to feel bad about this, or see it again in your dreams in two hundred years._

**Dara, Omega, June 10, 2196**

"Siara!" Dara called, urgently, but the asari wasn't listening, apparently. Dara had six injured people on the tables, and _no damned nurse_. "Eli!"

"Right with you," he told her, moving at her side now. "What do you need?"

"Hands," Dara said, urgently. "Trained hands, preferably."

Dara checked the first two tables. Neither asari was Ellemai or Ylara. Both had blood running from their eye sockets, and blank, glazed looks on their faces. "These two have already been lobotomized," she said, swearing mentally, and stepped past them to the middle two tables. And swore again, this time out loud. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit." Typically, batarian slave chipping was very crude. They'd drill into the cranium with the victim secured and _maybe_ some local anesthetic. For the human and asari biotic on these two tables, they'd actually opened the craniums to perform actual neurosurgery. 'The batarians are moving up in the world," Dara muttered, and, worried, looked at the rudimentary scanning and monitoring equipment set up to the side of both patients. And swallowed hard. Both were flat-lining. Their doctors had been startled during a very delicate procedure, and their absence had allowed debris from the battle to get into vital places. Dara frowned and moved on. She could figure out cause of death later.

The last two tables held Ylara and Ellemai, and Dara's stomach turned. Ylara had managed to work one hand free, but her wrist was bleeding, and she was grabbing for the various restraints feebly, trying to undo them. Her right eye was a mass of blue and vitreous fluids, and Dara put her hands on the female's shoulders. "Stay down," she urged. No trouble at all keeping her voice gentle for once. This was _Kella's mom_, after all. "Eli, get her out of the restraints while I check on Ellemai."

Ellemai still had a damned leucotome sticking out of her eye socket_._ "Ellemai, I need you to hold still. I need to get a clear scan of what that damned thing is actually doing. . . " Dara held out her omnitool and keyed up a quick scan, holding her arm absolutely still, listening as Eli helped Ylara sit up. _It passed into the dura matter, but that's okay. That's an injury, but the dura matter layer's actually pretty tough._ Now, the question was, could Dara remove it carefully enough not to cause any more damage? "Ellemai, you seem fairly stable for the moment. I'm going to take care of Ylara first, and then come back to you, okay?"

"All right." The voice was completely calm. _Still doped up on __lia'mellea__, I guess._

Dara turned back to Ylara, and began to wipe the blood and fluids away gently, while Eli held the asari's shoulders. "How bad is it?" Ylara asked, her voice remote.

"It's not pretty," Dara acknowledged. "The doctor's hand slipped. On the one hand, he didn't have a chance to turn you into a mindless slave. On the other hand. . . " Dara's own eyes spun into their microvision focus, and she shone a light on Ylara's face. "Yeah. A good opthamalogist might be able to reconstruct this with about eight hours of surgery. I'm not certified in that, Ylara. No one in the two med clinics on C-ring is, either, that I know of." Dara looked into Ylara's good eye, hating to having to give this kind of news. "I'm so sorry. I can remove the flesh before it festers, and we can keep the cavity irrigated, to prevent brain inflammation and infection. And when we get back to Mindoir, we can get a prosthetic rigged up, or you can head to Illium for the stem cell regen treatments."

"Those take four or five months of daily treatments," Ylara said, her voice low, and her face ashen. "Dara—Doctor—" She sighed, and suddenly looked weary. "Do what you need to do."

Dara's stomach dropped out of her, but her training took over completely. "Okay. We'll get you cleaned up first. Then we'll take you down to the med clinic on C-ring."

"No. You. Here. Now." Ylara's tone was uncompromising. "I will not allow them to see a Spectre weakened and in pain. That will be a victory for the batarians."

_Oh, son of a bitch._ Dara inhaled, and then nodded. "Right." She tossed her bag on the floor, and dug out a bottle of alcohol. "Eli, you're going to wash your hands with this, same as I am. Ylara, I need you to lie back on the table. We'll need to lock your head in place again, and I'll give you a local, but you _have_ to stay awake for this, and talk to me the whole time."

Blue blood. She wouldn't allow her hands to shake, but inside, Dara was nauseous. She'd just gotten the eyelid speculums snapped back in place, and was telling Eli which of her sterile instruments to hand to her, when Siara and her father came back over. Her father looked over her shoulder, and exhaled. "You okay, Ylara?" he asked, in the calm voice he tended to use when he didn't want to make anything worse.

"I am, as you like to say, Sam, 'hanging in there,'" Ylara replied.

Siara looked concerned. "Is there anything I can do? Can I. . . take the pain?"

Dara shook her head, sharply. "The human and the asari on the tables right behind us are dead. The two asari further back, towards are entry point have been lobotomized, but not chipped. Check on the ones in the warehouse. See if anyone in there still _has_ a mind. There. . . there might be." Dara really didn't want to think about what it would mean if there _weren't_ any survivors back there who hadn't already been. . . processed. Turned into vegetables, really. "Dad?"

"I'm blocking your light? Or otherwise making you nervous?"

"Yeah."

"Lin! Makur!" Sam called, moving away, submachine gun cradled loosely in one arm. "You're with me. Let's get the perimeter secured, and see if there's anything we can use in the warehouses around here. Kirrahe, you're with Siara. Check the survivors, see if anyone can be . . . saved."

Forty-five minutes later, Dara had removed the mangled mass of flesh, ensured there was enough optic nerve left for a prosthetic to be attached to, stopped the bleeding, and swabbed the entire interior of the eye cavity with medigel. She nodded to Eli, who moved the head restraints away, and they helped Ylara sit up, before Dara gently, deftly, started wrapping the side of Ylara's face in sterile gauze. She didn't know what to say to the woman, besides, again, "I'm so very sorry. . ." After a moment, she came up with the words in asari. "_Riu'uae'uelle,_ _Ylara."_

The faintest smile touched that grimly set face. "Thank you."

And then Dara had to turn and deal with her other living patient, while Siara and Kirrahe brought out the handful of humans and asari who _hadn't_ been lobotomized yet. Ten, out of fifty, all scared out of their minds and clutching the asari and the salarian with grateful hands.

Ellemai's drugs had started to wear off, and she wasn't nearly as tractable now. Siara had moved to take her hands, and Dara suspected, from the way Siara was looking white-faced, that she'd taken more than just the other asari's hands. "I can give her a shot of _morphinol_," Dara muttered, and came over, doing exactly that. 2.5 milligrams, right under the skin. The effect was almost instant; both Siara and Ellemai relaxed.

"Didn't want her thrashing around while you were finishing with Ylara," Siara muttered.

"Yeah, and I don't want you taking other people's pain more than you have to. We've _had_ this conversation, Siara, and I _am_ going to win it." Dara took several more scans, from different angles, and then told Ellemai, "I can probably safely remove this. Do want me to try, or do you want someone in one of the clinics downstairs?"

"You. You're a . . . Spectre."

Dara winced. _Close to five years on the job, they put me in the black armor, and suddenly, I'm stuck with everyone trusting me. God. Let me justify that faith._ "Okay, I'm going to give you an injection near the eye for local pain. I can't give you the same drops that they gave you. Not with an open wound there." Dara looked over at Eli. "She's strapped down, but I need your help, Eli." Dara beckoned him over to the side, out of Ellemai's range of hearing.

He nodded and came over, dark eyes intent. "Hold her head or shoulders?"

"No. I've had the strength mods, sure, but the . . .tech. . . " Dara wasn't going to dignify the butchers here with the name of _doctor_. . ."didn't get a clean strike through the ocular orbitals. He grazed the bone. Could be wedged. Could have bone fragments in the brain. Won't know till we get it out, and if it's stuck, may need a little help getting it out. Other than that. . . just be yourself."

Eli blinked at that. "Huh?"

Dara sighed and looked at the ceiling. "You've probably entirely missed this fact, but you've got a very comforting feel to you, when you choose to use it. So, use it."

Eli's tired face suddenly split in a grin. "Just what every guy wants to hear, _sai'kaea._ I'm _comforting._"

Dara tapped a foot at him. "And you _don't_ concentrate on it when you're, what, talking a gunman out of shooting people?"

He chuckled. "Okay, fair enough. I'll talk to her. Keep her calm."

He was true to his word, and talked to Ellemai softly in asari, his low voice calm and reassuring. Dara couldn't understand the words, but she didn't need to; all she needed was the tone. She could feel Ellemai relax, and when the patient relaxed, Dara could, too. Eli's tone calmed _her,_ too. Twice the help.

Dara double-checked the position of the leucotome one more time, wrapped her fingers around the hilt, and gently exerted pressure on it. "Eli? One hand on her forehead, please. One hand on the instrument, with me." Detached and clinical one more. _Got the angle right. Just need a little more force._ "Gently. Gradual pressure." She kept one eye on the scans, and then they managed to remove the damned instrument. There was little bleeding, thank god. Dara immediately began undoing straps. "Let her turn her head. Let the blood come out." She offered Ellemai a clean pad of gauze to hold to her face. The _last_ thing the asari needed was blood pooling in the brain, or intracranial swelling because of it. Then Dara applied medigel carefully, because this was an internal use of the medication, and administered a shot of antibiotics. "Who's next?" she said wearily, standing up.

The hardest part, really, was trying to figure out how to get fifty captives, forty of whom were silent, staring ghosts, back from G-ring to C-ring. The hardest part was _looking_ at the ghosts. Humans, male and female alike. Asari. Expressionless. Silent. Chilling. _There's no one __in__ there anymore_, Dara thought. _Or if they are, they're trapped. Screaming forever inside their own minds. As unable to express it as a stone wall_.

Eventually, Lin and Eli went out to 'secure transport' and came back, an hour later, with an aircar _bus_, of all things. Dara stared at it as it came in for a landing. Eli bounded down the steps, and gestured back at it. "Well, everyone should fit, and we should be able to get some supplies in there, too," he pointed out.

Lin looked amused. "We _did_ see a couple of stretch limos just parked by the side of the road, abandoned," he offered. "We thought those might be more stylish, but also a little too showy."

Eli held up a finger at Lin. "Ah, but using those, we'd be splitting up, and ensuring that we're not presenting just one single, large, attractive target."

Dara shook her head at them. "If it seats nine Spectres and fifty wounded, I don't care if it's a Model T converted to an aircar transmission. I could just about kiss both of you."

"A _what_?" they both started to ask, and then Eli grinned at her merrily. "We'll collect the kisses later, _sai'kaea._ Lin first, though."

Lin feinted a kick at Eli's knee, which Eli stepped away from nimbly. "Come on," Lin said. "Let's get everyone aboard."

As they were shuttling supplies aboard, too, Siara paused and looked speculatively at the mining mech she'd put to such good use. "I don't _suppose_," she said, hopefully, "that we could fit this aboard?"

Kirrahe chuckled at her. "Much too heavy. Would ruin suspension on the vehicle. Assuming it could get airborne at all." He paused, and blinked upwards at her rapidly. "Besides, competent hacking attempt on a mining mech would cause it to malfunction rapidly. Unhealthy for you."

She sighed. "I know. But it _was_ nice to be able to wade into battle for a change. Not so much ducking and hiding."

Dara glanced over at Siara. "Made you feel like a krogan?"

"More so than usual," Siara admitted. "Come on. Let's get aboard." She patted the mechanized suit fondly, and climbed up the steps. They'd packed every compartment of the vehicle, and the aisles, and under every seat, with the dead batarians' weapons and shields. Kirrahe was already taking apart one of the stasis guns, trying to figure out how it worked. They looted as much of the Haliat stock as they could fit into the bus, including heavy weapons and ammunition, and went back to Black Horse Foods for crate after crate of canned goods, dried food, powdered milk, powdered eggs. Levo and dextro alike. Then, because there was a little room left, they raided the ExoGeni warehouse. As a colonization company, it had a fair bit of survival gear. Self-inflating mattresses. Blankets. Cooking gear. Camping gear. Ropes, pickaxes. If they could carry it, they grabbed it. "They can bill us later," her father muttered. "We're putting this shit to use. We're not just looting."

They dropped off the wounded and the. . . not quite dead. . . at the med clinics, which were already overloaded. Dara apologized to the main doctor, an quick-speaking salarian who reminded her forcibly of Dr. Solus. _"Do you need me to stay and assist?"_ she offered, in salarian, as he looked over Ellemai and Ylara.

"_No, Spectre,"_ he told her, firmly. _"Situation under control. Need more supplies, of course, but not as bad off as, say, Bastion at the height of the plague."_ Rapid eyeblinks. _"No. Go deal with rest of invasion. Get supplies. That would be real help." _

Dara didn't take offense. It was abrupt, but she expected that of salarians. Especially overworked ones. The doctor was unhappy that he couldn't offer Ylara a prosthetic at the moment, but all the prosthetic clinics were up on L-ring, apparently. "I'll live," Ylara told him, accepting a black eye-patch in place of the gauze. Every time Dara looked at Ylara, she felt horribly guilty. _If we'd just gotten there faster,_ she thought, but she knew that was a fruitless mental track to follow. They'd gotten there as fast as they could. It hadn't been enough, but they'd done all they could do, hadn't they?

That night, they all stayed down on C-ring, in the more or less secured area of Afterlife. Dara swore when she saw a pack of vorcha making off with a dead body, and dropped to a crouch to fire on them. Her shots were instantly echoed by others; many residents had come out of hiding, and were armed now. The vorcha tumbled to the ground, but Dara kept firing, and her fellow Spectres did the same. When she stood up, and turned back to look at the rest of them, Eli had his own rifle in his hands, Lin had pulled out his assault rifle, and her father and Cohort had joined in the attack, as well. Several residents came closer. "Thank you," one turian male said, looking gray under the scales. "We've been trying to clean up the streets and the houses, but it's slow going. Filthy vorcha." He hissed, and they moved on.

At the Synthetic Insights building, Chrysa Vellimus ran to her mate, Mesinus, and clasped his hands, in total disregard for his Blue Suns armor. The big male leaned down and touched her forehead with his, and Dara looked away, giving them privacy. After a moment, Chrysa said, her voice little more than a rasp, "We still have more people than supplies."

"We come bearing gifts today," Sam told her jovially, and they all started unloading the bus, which they parked behind the main building, out of sight. They also distributed quite a bit of the rations they'd found to people in the neighborhood.

While the males were out of the room that all the Spectres shared, Dara, Siara, and Ylara each stripped down and took sponge baths. Cohort had indicated that Pelagia was trying to get work crews on simple issues like getting water running again on cleared levels like C-ring, but it was difficult convincing people that it was actually safe to come out and start working again. Ylara had blood to clean out of her armor and undersuit, not to mention chemicals on her skin. Siara had no sweat or blood to deal with, but the various medicines Dara had had her on today had left a mark on her skin. "Makur's complained?" Dara asked, skeptically.

"No, _I'm_ all too aware of it," Siara muttered. "Besides, it's been over two weeks since any of us has seen a shower." She pointedly sniffed in Dara's direction.

"Don't remind me. We humans are apt to get a bit ripe without regular access to water," Dara admitted, and began mopping off with a lukewarm washcloth.

Pulling the elasticized undersuit back on was less than pleasant—it had absorbed quite a bit of sweat, and desperately needed to be cleaned. Then they headed out of the room, to allow the males an equal chance at grooming. Both Eli and Sam had the beginnings of beards, and were grousing about their faces itching. "At least there's water, which means a chance at looking and feeling less like a bum," Sam commented as they all headed into the room.

Ylara stepped out to go check on Ellemai, apparently, which left Dara and Siara alone for a while. There was office furniture in plenty in the Synthetic Insights offices, at least. And while in the Spectre 'quarters,' they'd heaved all the desks out, and left some of the chairs, in and around the mattresses, here, there were still cubes and desks and chairs. Siara sat down at a desk, and Dara sat down _on_ the desk, facing her, but off to the side. Arms folded across her chest.

The silence had started to become awkward, and Dara finally said, with a sigh, "So, you said we're friends now, whether I like it or not?"

Siara looked up from her omnitool, startled, and snickered after a moment's reflection. "Yes. I suppose I did, at that."

Dara hesitated, then forged on. "Okay. In that case, I wonder if you might tell me about something you said today."

"I said a lot of things today."

"You said you were never going to be used again."

Siara winced. "You have an unwholesomely sharp memory."

"I try to cultivate that, yeah. Mixed results." Dara looked at her patiently. "If it's none of my business, tell me to go jump in a lake. I won't mind." This was a test, of sorts. She'd seen on many occasions that Siara had changed. Grown. Makur had had a lot to do with that, Dara figured, as well as the work Siara had been doing on Tuchanka. Teaching people who didn't want to be taught. Making a future with people who didn't even have a concept of a future, past perhaps next week.

Siara leaned back in the chair, put one hand to her cheek, balancing her head against her forefinger and thumb. Her eyes were distant, and she stayed completely silent.

Dara nodded. "Okay. Sorry I asked." She started to slide off the desk and leave.

"Hold on." Siara's voice was sharp. Dara paused, looking at her. "I haven't ever told anyone this in _words_. Eli figured it out because I was trying to press for _maieolo'loa'kareo_ with him. Full mental and physical sharing. I was. . . pushy about it, I suppose. He'd allow _maieolo'loa'kiia._ Full mental intimacy, a little physical contact. I made him uneasy, and there was a reason for it. I'd. . .made myself forget. He figured it out from flashes of memory in my mind. Told Lantar, who told my mother, and then a bunch of the Spectres, including Gris and Lantar and that crazy human biotic, Jack, came over and. . . helped me. Helped me deal with the memories. Shared with me—only mentally."

Dara stared at Siara. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," she admitted, after a moment. "You started off talking about Eli figuring something out, and then you're off talking about people helping you deal with something, but I think something dropped out in the middle of all that." _Like the point, maybe? _Memories tickled at the corner of her mind, though. Trickling back.

Siara looked down. "As I said. It's not something I've ever spoke of in words before. Makur knows. He heard it in my memories. Eli, from my mind. Everyone else who knows, knows from those who helped me."

Dara stayed silent for a long moment, watching Siara's face. Discomfort. Perhaps a little shame? Hurt, definitely. Odd to see so much on Siara's face. Siara had held up a wall of hauteur for years, and then had held up an equally strong wall of fierceness. _So, she doesn't want to be __used__, she made herself forget it, Eli figured it out from flashes of memory while they were. . . doing what ever it was that they were doing. . . _ Dara moved her thoughts away from that, uncomfortable. _Sounds like some form of abuse._ _Yeah. Eli said, a long time ago, that it wasn't his secret to tell. And Rel knew something about it, too. But never any details._ "You know. . . it's okay. I don't have to know. It's obvious that it makes you uncomfortable." Dara consciously gentled her tone. She was bad at this, and she knew it. She cared. She cared entirely too much about her patients and her friends and her family. But she had trouble showing that empathy, a lot of the time. Mostly due to her turian training, she figured. Very hesitantly, she reached out to touch Siara's shoulder, then aborted the gesture.

Siara reached up and caught her hand. Squeezed it once, and let it go. "My second-mother. Tsia. She didn't like other species much. Hid it from Azala. Told me I had to be a _proper_ asari. That I was a pure-blood five generations back on both sides, and that made me _special_. Pure. Clean." Siara's voice was tight. "And then she'd take me into the bedroom she shared with my mother, when my mother was away, and she'd share with me. Not the way mothers are supposed to share, to teach. Not just the mental touch, not just hugs and kisses. You understand?"

Dara's stomach turned. "More than I would like to," she said, very quietly, and in a tone of absolute horror.

"Mental touch down to the deepest levels, which would have been fine, except that it felt like she was trying to swallow me whole. A couple of times I thought I was going to die." Siara swallowed, hard, and Dara's whole body had gone tense in total empathy. _At least other rape and abuse victims can go 'somewhere else' in their heads_, Dara thought, numbly. _Can pretend it's not happening. There wasn't anywhere else for her to go. Every part of her was violated. Mind, body, spirit_. "And then she'd tell me if I ever told, that I'd be punished. That Azala would hate me and go away. All the usual lies. Only I didn't know they were lies. Eventually, Azala got the job offer on Mindoir. She made the security clearance. Tsia did not. They fought, and Azala took me with her. That was the last time I saw her. Justicar Samara, I'm told, found her. She resisted arrest, and was slain." Siara looked up, briefly. "It's. . . surprisingly easy, putting this into words for you," she admitted. "Perhaps I'm more healed than I thought."

Dara was just looking at her, biting her lips, eyes wide in pain. Siara shook her head. "No pity."

"Not pity," Dara denied, instantly. "I just wish I'd. . . understood that, before."

Siara shook her head again. "I was, what I had made myself. An image of Tsia. I hated non-asari, even as I was drawn to them. You realize, I had a crush on Rel for years? He never gave me the time of day. Probably because I could never manage to say anything kind to him." Siara snorted. "You were right, years ago. I treated Kella like a possession. I treated you like dirt, simply because you were human. . . and because everyone liked you.":

Dara snorted. "Ah, have we met? Rel liked me. Eli liked me. Because they liked me, most of their friends were okay with me. The female humans and turians and asari largely couldn't stand me. . . and we didn't have any salarians in our age group." _That first month, I couldn't have been more isolated. Eli had forgotten I existed. And then Rel came along._ Dara looked down and away herself now, eyes stinging at the thought. She still missed _that_ Rel, and it hurt to think about him.

Siara waved it off. "I'm saying, from my own perspective. And then, yes, I did also sort of treat Eli like a pet, too." She sighed. "And then I did to you what my second-mother did to me. Without the physical, but still, more than you wanted. I didn't put pleasure into you, I didn't . . . " She grimaced. "I didn't put pain in you, either. But I still _took_ without giving and without asking, and that was wrong." She looked up. "I'm still sorry about that."

Dara nodded, still looking at the floor. "I've felt a domination attempt," she said, quietly. "The Lystheni used it on Rel, once or twice. It's worse. It's like . . . what the batarians do to people with surgery. Temporary, of course. But forcing someone to do things against their will. What you did wasn't fun, but it was also far less bad." She sighed. "You ever get what you wanted out of that?"

"I saw. . . some things." Siara's tone was guarded. "I caught friendship with Eli. Friendship so deep it didn't even need words. Anger. A _lot_ of anger, in fact. But you threw me out before I could see everything."

"Yeah. I don't think that method of throwing you out would work anymore," Dara admitted. It wasn't a happy thought. To do it, she'd have to think about sex with Rel, be fully in the moment, and she didn't want to do that right now.

Siara sighed. "You have any moments in your life that, if you could undo them, you'd go back and make different choices? I have so many. Mostly in the five to ten year range. The recent choices. . . I'm happier with them."

Dara kept her eyes on the ground. "Yeah," she said, quietly. "Given a time machine. . . I think I'd call a redo on my whole life, sometimes." She slid off the desk, and looked around. "Think they're done cleaning up in there?"

Siara stood with her, and frowned up at the taller human female. "Dara—all of your choices have led you _here_." She looked around. "All right. Maybe Omega in a crisis isn't a good example, but you're a Spectre, and you're doing good work. You save lives."

Dara shrugged. "If not me, someone else would be here. Have a round hole, and a round peg can be found." It was the primary lesson of the turian military. While everyone was encouraged towards personal and unit excellence, no one was special. If one person fell, another one would pick up the rifle. "Come on. Let's get back in there. I'm tired."

It was simply a pleasure to stay partially out of her armor that night—she left the undersuit on, for modesty and for purposes of getting dressed faster if an attack occurred—and to rest on a _real mattress_. Bliss. Dara closed her eyes in relative comfort for the first time in . . . twenty days?. . . and tried to sleep.

Try, of course, being the operative word. The instant she closed her eyes, the dreams came. _Back to the batarian attack on Mindoir, the day the mini-Reaper had come in for a landing with Lina Vasir. Blue blood, everywhere. This time, in the chain of might-have-beens, she __saw__ that Kella was hurt. Sprinted to Kella and Eli's sides. But this time, Kella's eyes had been gouged out, and the girl was screaming in pain, blinded. Eli held her down, and Dara tried to treat the wounds, only to turn and look up, and see Rel, gripped by adrenaline, not even __aware__ of his condition, bleed out. Fall to the floor, dead. She started to scream, __no, no, no_, _and then she dived forward, grabbing a rifle, even as Eli picked up a pistol, and then she was somewhere else. Kella strode in front of her, occasionally looking back with her eyeless face. "Hurry up," Kella told her, a little impatiently. "You're too slow. You're always too slow."_

_Dara followed along behind her, through blackness, no landscape at all, until suddenly, there were hospital walls around her. God, no, not Bastion again. . . wait. Why's the whole place empty? It was, too. Not a single patient. Not a single doctor. Just blood. Blood everywhere. Red and blue and green and orange and violet. "You did this," Kella told her, eyeless face accusing. "You killed me. You killed Rel. You let my mother get hurt. You're going to kill your dad. And you're going to kill Eli, too."_

Dara's eyes snapped open, and she barely recognized that a hand was on her shoulder. Her breathing came in short pants, and her heart hammered in her chest. She could feel sweat, clammy, all over her body. "Just a dream," Eli told her, quietly, rubbing her shoulder. "Just a dream, _sai'kaea_." He was sitting on the edge of her mattress, she realized. _Did I wake __everyone__?_

Fortunately, no one else seemed to be stirring. "That was a doozy," she whispered after a moment, turning over on her mattress. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."

"Didn't. Had my own wake me up." He rubbed her shoulder again. "Trade you? Maybe out in the corridor, so we don't wake everyone?"

Dara sat up. "Not a bad idea," she muttered, feeling her way along the floor to the door. All she had to go on was Cohort's eye, which the geth had turned down to a dimmer level in consideration for the organics' need for sleep.

Out in the corridor, Dara put her back against the wall, and pulled her knees to her chest as she sat down. Eli sat next to her. "Sorry," Dara muttered. "I still reek."

"Eh, so do I." Eli put an arm around her shoulders. "Yet more boot camp flashbacks." Companionable silence for a moment. "So, what made you start saying _no, no, no_ in your sleep, _sai'kaea_? That's when I got up to wake you."

"The day Kella died. Again." Dara rubbed her face. "This time, she didn't die. Rel did. She just lost her eyes. And then she led me through the med bay on Bastion—all empty hallways and blood. Told me I'd killed Rel, and I'd killed her, and that I was going to get my dad and _you_ killed, too."

Eli whistled. "Nice. Guilt and stress. Kella's standing in for her mom, I guess."

Dara rubbed her eyes again in the dark, gingerly feeling the curve of the eyeballs under her lids. Exactly where they were supposed to be. "I suppose, yeah."

"And some part of you thinks you're responsible for Rel's. . . condition?"

She shifted against the wall. "Maybe."

"Bullshit. And you know it's bullshit." The words were harsh, but the tone was gentle. Eli's arm shifted, and he reached up now to stroke her hair lightly.

"Tell that to my subconscious."

"I _am_ telling your subconscious." Eli paused. "There's always going to be _someone_ out there who'll tell you that you should have stuck it out for ten or fifteen years more because suffering in silence is somehow more virtuous than taking a stand and being strong. That you should sacrifice everything you have to your mate, including yourself and your sanity. Bullshit to them, too." He snorted, quietly. "What made you make the decision to at least separate? Because, honestly, that _might_ be enough of a wakeup call for him to recover." He sounded pretty dubious about that, though.

Dara shook her head against his shoulder. "Part of it was Sky. I mean, I'm not going to base my life on what the _simulator_ tells me _might_ happen. I try really hard not to make the same mistakes, over and over. But Sky? If Sky says something, I tend to listen." She sighed. "He gave us a beautiful vision at the wedding. The first time."

"Not the second time, though." Eli's voice was quiet.

"No. He was . . . almost silent the second time." Dara's voice went dull. "He's always said that he can't intervene in people's lives. That they have to sing their own songs."

"Sky's pretty smart for a big ol' bug."

"Sky is smart for _anyone_." She paused, and managed a chuckle. "You know, any time I say something like that, Rel rolls his eyes and says he's glad it's not physically possible for a rachni and a human, or else he knows whom I'd have married."

Eli snorted. "Yeah. I caught that after the psych evals." He paused. "Nice not to hear it?"

"Was bracing myself to hear it, and it was really nice not to, yeah."

"He knows it bothers you when he says stuff like that?"

"I've mentioned it. Repeatedly." Dara shrugged. Saying things over and over again sounded like nagging, so she didn't like doing it. She kind of figured that if someone could say something to her once, and she remembered it, other people could do it, too. But some things appeared to need repeating.

"Could be one of two things there. Either he's so confident of you, that he thinks it doesn't matter what he says. That you'll just put up with it."

She thought about that. "I don't know. He's always been confident, but he wasn't usually hurtful on purpose."

Eli nodded. "Then maybe he got insecure about you, Dara. Why, I don't know, since you've been sitting there with one foot hooked around his spur for five years, trying to keep him calm. But that's the sort of thing you say to run someone down, or to try to control their behavior. Not much like Rel. When did that _s'kak_ start?"

She frowned. "Right before we went to the _Raedia._ Sky's ship." Dara sighed. "He kept pointing out that I was overjoyed to be going on Sky's ship. Which I was." She looked up at the side of Eli's shadowed face in the darkness. "We'd been on Lantar's ship before that."

"I know. You mentioned it in your birthday letter to me that year."

She stared up at him. "Your remember that?"

"I had an active social life," Eli's tone was ironic, "but only you and Lin and Serana sent me letters. And my mom and my dad, with Caelia kicking in some pretty funny pictures." He paused. "And my dad sent me a letter when you came aboard." Quick, terse words. "He said you were happy to be there, too."

"Well, it _was_ good to see him whenever he was aboard." Dara shrugged. "Felt as if I were at home."

Silence again. Neither of them seemed to know what to say. Eli's fingers stroked her hair gently, and after a few moments, Dara sighed. "Sky gave me a mirror and showed me how unhappy I was. How I hadn't wanted to admit to it, because it would have been admitting that I was _wrong_. That I got involved with Rel because . . . I was lonely. And then I built my entire life around him." She grimaced. "To my dad's credit, he has yet to do the _I-told-you-so_ dance."

"Your dad wouldn't do that. Okay, maybe on the inside, a bit."

Dara laughed softly. "Yeah. Couldn't blame him if he did." She sighed. "The other part was Sky showing me people _dying_ because I was a soldier and a doctor who was constantly distracted by having to take care of Rel."

"Coddle him, you mean. Dance for his every mood."

"Nightmares bring out the _mean_ in you, Eli."

"I guess." He shifted. "Rel's my friend, too, Dara. I respect the skills. I respect the person he was. I don't like what I've been hearing and seeing since Bastion. Asking if my SWAT team needed _his_ assistance. . . eh. Maybe I'm just being touchy. Maybe that was the adrenaline junky. I couldn't, at the time, see it as anything other than ego."

Dara sighed. "I've felt as if I were constantly carrying unstable nitroglycerin. Walk very softly, and be ready to react to anything." She shrugged. "Sky showed me that I could either take care of him, or I could take care of the people I've sworn to protect and heal. That I could take care of him, or I could take care of myself."

"Technically, when you get married, you're supposed to take care of each other_._" Eli's voice was hard. "Also, Rel's a big boy. He could and should be taking care of _himself_." He paused. "Which is again why I say to your dreams. . . bullshit. You didn't kill his spirit, Dara. Saying that _you're_ responsible for his condition. . .well, anyone who says that can't have much respect for him."

She blinked. That was unexpected. "How do you figure that?"

"Because if they respected him, they'd know he makes his own god-damned decisions." Eli sighed. "Trouble is, you let his decisions be your decisions for a while there."

"Thought it was what I wanted." Dara's eyes burned, and she closed them. Set her head on Eli's shoulder, feeling the elasticized suit's slick-harsh texture against her cheekbone. "Then it seemed like I was in too deep to turn back. That I had no other choice but to keep going forward." Dara shrugged. "Enough about me. It's guilt and it's stress, and not much I can do about either. What was your dream about?"

Eli's fingers tightened in her hair. "Kella. Siara. Brennia. Serana. You. Kella dying. Siara drowning under a lake of ice, freezing over as I tried to dig down to her with my bare hands. Brennia, bleeding out, looking at Lin. Serana, crying. She's not human, doesn't have tear ducts, but I'd hurt her, and she was crying tears of blue blood as she turned and ran away from me. You. . . god. Running into a minefield to go get Rel, who was pinned down there. I couldn't stop you in time." His voice was very low. Even sitting next to him, it was a strain to hear the words.

She reached down in the darkness, found his other hand, draped across his chest, and squeezed. "People you think you've failed, I guess," Dara offered. "You didn't fail Kella. You stayed with her to the very last second." Dara shifted languages. _"A turian would say you offered her spirit a home."_

"_Yeah, she wasn't turian, though."_

"_You_ kind of sort of are, though." Dara squeezed his fingers for a moment. "You didn't fail Siara. She's still here, and my god, she's strong." _Stronger than I am._

"Bren? I _did_ fail her. And Lin."

"Bullshit, Elijah Sidonis, and _you_ know that. She took what, two in the chest? No armor, no shields? Have Lin release the medical records to me, coroner's report, all of it. I'll tell you honestly if _I_ could have made a difference there without a crash cart. Then maybe your mind can rest on that one."

"You'd do that?"

"In a heartbeat."

"I'll ask him."

She paused. "I don't know what to tell you about Serana. Sounds like fear, again." She could feel the straps of his wrist-sheath on his left arm, brushing against her own left hand, as she squeezed his hand again, and then let go.

"Probably not so much fear, as certainty." Eli's voice was glum, and Dara had no idea what to say to that.

She offered, "Well, as for me being in the dream, that's, well, stuff you can't control, I guess."

"Or a fear of watching people throw their lives away for nothing."

"Tell you what. If I promise not to run into any minefields, _you_ promise _me_ not to get killed."

Eli chuckled, but it sounded tired. "Sounds fair. A little hard to promise, but you've got a deal."

She was drowsy again at last. Warmth, companionship, and touch. "Think you can make it back to sleep now?" she asked.

"Maybe. You going to be conjugating asari verbs under your breath for a while again?" A wry teasing note.

Dara applied an elbow to his ribs. "Hey," he noted, in a mock-injured tone, "It's not my fault it helps me go to sleep." He stood up, helped her to her own feet, and then they headed back in to where the others still slept. There was _lots_ of work left to do on Omega, after all. _Like finding out, for instance, if the mercs betrayed us to the batarians. I bet Ellemai and Ylara would really like to find out more about __that__._

**Elijah, Omega, July 21, 2196**

They'd cleared D-ring in its entirety of batarians—although, of course, every time they turned around, another aircar of batarians would come screeching in, and drop off a damned sniper. Eli was getting _damned_ tired of that. Pelagia had led them to series of storerooms on that level, and on C and B rings, too, with supplies. The tiny avatar, hovering over Cohort's palm, had apologized. "There's not much," Pelagia said. "Enough for each ring, for about a week. I've sent out request after request by FTL. Commander Shepard says we'll receive reinforcements in about five days."

The subsequent five days, they'd had to crack some heads. The mercenaries, under Ellemai and Mesinus' direction, had distributed the supplies. A couple of the Blood Pack mercs had stolen some of the supplies, and Nakkan, of the Klixxen Claws, had been set to reprimand them. Which was when Makur had stepped in, and simply gotten in the Blood Pack krogan's faces. "Everyone here right now is your clan," Makur had said, simply. "Stealing from the _strong_ is a mark of honor, but right now, you're stealing from females and children, and none of us have time to deal with this shit." He head-butted the male in question, and then set his shotgun to the bottom of the male's jaw as he reeled backwards. "Sidonis? You going to say anything about it if I make an example here?"

"Not me," Eli replied, promptly. "But thanks for checking in."

Makur pulled the trigger. The result had been spectacularly messy, and Eli had turned his face away. So had Dara, Lin, and Sam, at least for a moment. Makur looked at the rest of the Blood Pack krogan. "Any of the rest of you have any questions? No? Put the supplies back on the table, now. Then you're going to clean up your friend's brains here. When that's done, we'll all have a nice talk where everyone else won't have to clean up the blood, and you can tell me if your friend here was the one who tipped off the batarians that we were coming to their slaver base a few days ago."

"He's very . . . convincing," Eli told Siara, as they watched Makur point the Blood Pack out the door, carrying the body of their fallen leader.

"He takes the position of clan-defender very seriously," Siara replied, calmly. "He doesn't usually have to make a point of it in Urdnot. They all know what we all faced in the Rite."

Nakkan looked up. "Urdnot allows aliens in the Rite now?" He snorted.

Lin had been helping to sort through the table full of canned goods and assembling care packages, with the rest of them. He snickered now. "Yeah. Urdnot Mazz, Urdnot Makur, and Urdnot Siara over there, along with Elijah and me, all went to take the Rite together. The Harvester was _fun_, wasn't it?"

Nakkan's head snapped up into his hump. "A _Harvester_?"

Lin nodded, and looked over at Eli. "Just occurred to me. You and I, _fradu_, could technically call ourselves by the Urdnot clan name, couldn't we? Urdnot Linianus Pellarian and. . . Urdnot Elijah Marcus Stockton Sidonis."

Eli grimaced. "That's too much of a mouthful." He paused. "Though, once Lantar adopts Narayana, if _she_ takes the Rite, someday. . . " All of the Spectres started to laugh at the concept of a _salarian_ taking the krogan Rite. "That would be Urdnot Mordin-Sidonis Narayana."

"Yes, but you know damned well she'd do it wearing a dress," Siara offered.

Kirrahe looked up. "I fail to see why," he objected. "Mordin Narayana seems highly intelligent. She would not put herself at needless risk by not wearing armor!"

Siara smiled faintly at the salarian. "That was a joke, Orlan."

"When all's said and done," Dara offered, "She could marry a human or an asari. Just to maximize the ludicrousness."

Eli wasn't sure if it had boiled down to establishing their krogan _bona fides_, Makur's . . . pointed intervention. . . or if Makur had simply been _very_ convincing in what he'd said to the krogan outside, but there had been no further thefts or hoarding of supplies. And there were no more mysterious ambush incidents. . . yet. They were all on edge, waiting for another one, however.

That had been five days ago. Eli had grown up on the Citadel and on Bastion. He knew damned well that a station like this lived on its supply shipments. A station was always one or two weeks, maybe a month, at most, from starvation. It was easy to forget that, when the grocery stores were full, and the restaurants were busy. Much easier to remember that, when they were rationing their own MREs. Until they'd found Harak and Pelagia's cache of supplies, they'd been down one MRE a day, by Sam and Ylara's direction. _It's like the Trial all over again_, Eli had thought, grimly. 1,600 calories taken in every day, and they had all been burning 2,000 to 3,000 calories in exercise. With the fresh supplies, it wasn't an issue. . . for another week. _God, we have __got__ to get supply shipments running here again._

Before breakfast, Eli checked over his equipment, standing side by side with Lin. Their armor was taking a hell of a beating; their shields, likewise. Everything was still usable, thank god, but they'd both had to make small repairs here and there. Eli's shoulder plates, Lin's greaves. _"No new bullet holes,"_ Eli said lightly. _"We're doing well."_

Lin nodded, and said, dryly, _"As well as can be expected with no damned armor repair shops available."_ He ran his fingers down his chest piece on the desk they were using as a workbench. _"At the rate we're going, we may have to scavenge some armor plates off the batarians."_

"Ugh."

"_No argument here. Better than a bullet in the chest, though."_ Lin paused. _"Missing our little one?"_

Eli paused, mid-motion, a little surprised at the question. He put Serana out of his conscious mind during the day. It did absolutely no good to think about her. She was light-years away. . . and, if she held true to her word, wouldn't be _his_ in five months now, anyway. At night, however, his subconscious clawed at him. Serana, laughing. Weeping. Biting him, biting Lin. And of course, with the perversity of the subconscious, sometimes she shifted, becoming other females. Or sometimes she stayed herself, but wasn't alone. _Bad as being sixteen again_, Eli reflected. _"Yeah. Doesn't do any good to think about it. Besides. By the time we get out of here, her six months might be up."_ Eli grimaced. It might actually be _easier_ that way. No time to mourn, no time to reconsider or torment themselves.

"_Now there's a really horrible thought, __fradu__._" Lin lifted his arc projector and began checking it and its ammunition storage. _"That means __neither__ of us would see her for six months. And I'm really hoping to convince her to marry me."_

"_Of course she will."_

"_I'd rather not make assumptions. Females __like__ being courted."_ Lin paused. _"How's our other little one doing?"_

Eli glanced up. Lin had taken to using the term interchangeably for Dara and Serana in the past few months. Since Spectre candidacy, in fact. _"Dreams. Same as I get. She's doing better, though, I think, once we talk them out."_

"_Good. Her spirit's doing better. It's helping her, being here. With us. Away from. . . you know. And we __need__ her."_ Lin set the arc projector aside, and picked up his assault rifle, instead. Lin went into combat carrying twice the load of weapons that Eli did, but it gave them a lot of flexibility.

"_The spirit of the unit, yeah, I know."_ The theory was, the spirits of everyone around you touched yours. Suffused you. Lifted you when you were down, filled you when you were empty. _Supposed to be a replenishable resource, but we've already seen that it doesn't always work out that way._

Lin stopped what he was doing and gave Eli a look. _"What?"_ Eli asked.

"_Nevermind."_ Lin started disassembling his pistol now, to clean it. Care for your weapons, and they'll care for you. "_I hate to think how bad things would be right now if we didn't have a doctor along."_

"_You, me, Ylara, Ellemai, and that's just three, four weeks,_" Eli acknowledged. _"No, I think her spirit's coming back."_ He had his rifle disassembled and was cleaning it as they spoke, and the subject drifted on to different matters. Food. The lack of showers. The lack of _news_.

An hour later, they all met in their tiny quarters in the Synthetic Insights building, to eat breakfast and get their objectives for the day. "What's our next goal?" Eli asked, just grateful to have a full stomach.

"Today? We're going to up E-ring," Sam said, with a quick, tight grin under his moustache. "_After_ we meet some friends down at the docking bays."

"Friends?" Eli muttered, turning to look at Linianus. "Tell me it's more Spectres."

"I vote for, hmm. Sky and Fors," Dara said, quickly.

"Dempsey and Zhasa?" Eli countered.

Sam laughed. "Not quite. But possibly more helpful."

And in Docking Bay A, an hour later, Eli had to admit it. This _was_ potentially more useful. By far.

On the screen on the wall in the pressurized control booth, he could see, clearly, that two dozen quarian ships had punched their way through the blockade near the mass relay. Shuttles were pouring from them at the moment. "Quarian marines?" Lin asked, as the first ship came in for a landing.

Sam chuckled. "Some of them, yeah. Not all, though."

As the last of the first ten shuttles landed, the bay doors closed. A green light flashed overhead, and a loud klaxon sounded, indicating that it was now safe to emerge from the control booth or the ships, since the atmosphere had been vented back into the docking bay. Some ships used umbilicals to get people on and off their ships faster; these shuttles didn't have that option.

The doors opened, and Eli's eyes widened. Quarian marines, certainly, emerged from the first shuttle. But the quarians had used the ten years since the Reaper Wars to update their combat strategy just a bit. Some still focused on agility and speed, like Zhasa did. Some still focused on being all-around warriors, like Kal'Reegar. And in the last five years, in particular, and apparently at Shepard's urging, some infantry and technical divisions had worked with the geth to devise battle suits to go over the top of their envirosuits.

The result was similar in principle to the large mining mech that Siara had used over a week ago, but smaller. More streamlined. Half the quarians exiting the shuttle stepped out inside of silvery, sleek, robotic suits, which added about a foot to their already tall frames. The overlapping armor plates on the bodies of the suits looked like leaves, or maybe teardrops or fish scales.

The suits did not move at a slow and robotic pace, either; they responded to their wearer's movements, more like an extension of the cat-like agility and speed of a quarian than something external to them. The quarians' bodies and fragile suits were completely encased in hard suit plating and metal, and they had heavy shields, as well. "The quarian marines were excited to get to field-test these," Sam pointed out. "They said these might have application against the yahg, too."

Instead of hands, the suits had claw-like pinchers, like the mining mech. "Won't it be hard to shoot inside of one of those?" Eli asked, leaning forward.

Sam grinned. Ear to ear. "I'm told they have shoulder-mounted cannons based on Collector beam weapons. Right shoulder, anyway. Forearms have regular mass-effect projectile guns that emerge on command." He patted Eli on one armored shoulder. "Increases their size and effective strength, they each become a heavy weapons platform, and they can run almost as fast as a turian in one of those."

"I think I want one," Eli muttered.

"Me too," Siara said, exhaling, one hand against the window. "They're beautiful."

The next shuttle opened its doors, and something quite a bit less beautiful, but no less deadly emerged. Krogan. In a hodgepodge of equipment, in a variety of clan colors. Makur started muttering under his breath, "I see Urdnot. Ulluthyr. Ollor. Mullar. Kasvul. Naduuk. Pooldur. All Clan Alliance members." He grinned, showing the yellowing stumps of his teeth. "How many?"

"As many as the quarians could carry here at once," Sam said, quietly. "About twenty-five hundred quarian marines and two thousand krogan. Another five thousand krogan are heading for Shanxi right now. As well as geth and a few rachni." He thumped the heel of his hand against the glass. "We can win this, boys and girls and others. We had to hold the docking bays, and get people on the station believing that they _could_ hold out till help arrived. Well, help's here." He turned and looked at the rest of them. "Let's go meet the cavalry, huh?"

Even with close to five thousand reinforcements streaming in at every docking bay—with supplies, no less!—Eli knew better than to imagine that the fight was over. The krogan set up security in the docking bays, and would hold them against any new batarian attacks. . . which were a distinct possibility, now that the ships near the mass relay had been destroyed. "They needed to starve Omega into submission to win," Ylara told them all, delicately pressing a finger against her eye-patch to adjust it. "Now, they'll have to revise their plans. Start again. . . and perhaps even more aggressively."

"The batarians on the station already know, or will know shortly, that they're trapped," Eli muttered, thinking through the psychology. "They've got nothing left to lose. . . but they do have the _hope_ of reinforcements. Right?" _Or are they going to be in full desperation mode now?_

Sam settled his hands on his belt, an old, characteristic pose. "That's the question, son. I'm working on the assumption that they're going to start blowing the shit out of anything they can find. Pelagia's been lying low, for the most part. It's time for her to step up."

Cohort swiveled his head, and held up his hand in the security of the control booth, and Pelagia's avatar swirled into place over it. "I understand, Spectre Jaworski," the NCAI replied, and her human face looked agitated. "Harak is on E-ring. He and Urdnot have been taking out slavers on that level for the last week. There's one more large enclave there, and then you and he and the new troops can move in deeper. OSF has been holding out for four weeks now, without supplies or reinforcements, on H-ring. I have already been playing at smoke and mirrors with the batarians on F, G, H, I, J, K, and L all this time." She looked a little harried at that. "I believe they are beginning to suspect a VI, at least. They've begun disabling computer nodes whenever they find them."

Siara raised a finger. "Pelagia, what do you mean by smoke and mirrors, exactly?"

The fair head lowered, and Pelagia's hair covered her face for a moment. "You'll recall that I taunted Surla into charging me, right into a pane of glass? Before asking you to finish the job, when she challenged me for leadership of Omega and of the Ulluthyr female clan?"

Eli's head swiveled. He wasn't quite sure he had _all_ the details on this. He knew at this point that Siara had 'stood in the krannt of the AI. He knew Pelagia had chipped Harak. Past that, he resolved to get Siara and Makur to give him details, later.

Siara nodded. "Yes. So you're causing them to, what, chase a ghost?"

Pelagia's face was sad. "Exactly. And then I . . . trap them. Kill them, if necessary, or if I'm able." She sighed. "There's going to be quite a bit of uproar about this when people find out an AI has been killing people." She looked absolutely miserable. "But Harak says that every batarian I kill is one less out there killing _our_ people, or turning them into. . . machines. Well, mindless ones, anyway." She fidgeted—an odd thing for an AI to do, but her hands clasped and unclasped nervously. "Even on the _Kharkov_, all I had was knock-out gas. And technically, I wasn't allowed to fire the guns on my own."

Sam made a rude noise and nodded to her. "I've got no problem with you killing invaders, Pelagia. I'll speak at any trial, believe me."

That got a ghost of a smile to flicker across her face, and then she vanished. Sam sighed and looked around at the rest of them. "All right, folks. E-ring. Let's go find Harak."

_**Author's note:**_ _One reader has commented that Achilles would be a great name for Lin, given his habit of being shot in the leg. Yes, except that would make Eli Patroclus, and neither of them likes that notion. Castor and Pollux would work, except I never remember which of the Gemini is which._ _I'm leaning on having them use their __Galaxy of Fantasy__ names. Thus, Eli would become Tyr, for example._

**Pelagia and Harak, Omega, July 21, 2196**

Four weeks. One short month, since the batarians had come to Omega. And it was only going to get worse before it got better, Pelagia understood. Her own analysis suggested that the batarians _would_ dig in. Fight to the last man, especially the warrior-castes. Harak's analysis concurred with hers. He was much more afraid than she was, that they'd start using the local populace for shields. That was the batarian way. Trade lives for time. Offer bargains, offer what they didn't value, for what _you_ valued.

And so, she and Harak had devised a variant on batarian _ru'udal_. Harak liked the human phrase Pelagia had applied to it: _pig in a poke_. "People used to think they were buying a cat in a bag, but when they bought it, and opened it, they'd find a piglet in it, instead," she'd explained. Harak had laughed roughly, and given her his thoughts:_ Serves them right for not investigating the purchase before putting down credits on it._

And thus, she had her avatar walk wherever she still had working projectors. She left her hair down, put the image back in grease-pyjack overalls, with soot and dirt marks artistically placed. She'd hunch the image's shoulders in, show fear. Show weakness. And every time the slavers saw her, standing alone on the side of a road, they reacted, and fairly predictably. They chased after her. Pelagia was playing the game right now in three different places. E-ring, G-ring, and I-ring. All slaver dens. On E-ring, she shrieked and ran for her life, through the twisting alleys of the factory district, always just slowly enough that the slavers could stay in sight of her. On G-ring, she ran through the asari living district. She couldn't manage to drag them through the krogan district; too many projectors and cameras had been burned there. And on I-ring, she was in luck; the quarians and the salarians there had holoprojectors in front of almost every business, for advertising. So she was able to make her image _very_ realistic there.

Baiting them, turning back to 'look' over her shoulder, Pelagia's real eyes were fixed on all of her targets the entire time. Dozens of cameras were usually available for her. Residents would have been shocked at how many there actually were, but back in the day, there had been literally hundreds of people with spy cameras, security cams, vid cams. All interested in keeping their own tiny corner of Omega safe, or in obtaining information. Patriarch had, early in his tenure, had them all found. Hooked up to one single monitoring system. Officially, it was OSF's feed, which the batarians had found and cut. Unofficially, every camera on the station belonged to Pelagia. And while they'd cut OSF's access to the cameras, they couldn't have any idea of Pelagia's existence. Not yet, anyway. Not the truth of it. Some of the cameras were off-line, but enough were available that Pelagia could track _these_ slavers quite easily.

On G-ring, she bolted through the warehouse district, heading into a warren of ancient mining tunnels. The holoprojectors were gone in here. But the _comm_ system still worked just fine. She replicated the sound of running footsteps, diminishing with distance, and the batarians, still in chase mode, didn't question it. Just followed the sounds into the warren. There were ten of them, after all. Well-armed. Chasing after one girl. One male did slow down and shout to his brethren, _"Is this worth it for just one?"_

"_There could be a whole nest of them down here,"_ another slaver shot back. They were moving a bit more slowly now. More cautiously. On edge with the dim light of the tunnels. Pelagia silently congratulated them on their wisdom as they paced forwards, weapons at the ready. And gave them the echoing sound of shrieks of fear, as from many voices, from deeper in the mines. _That should properly motivate them_, she thought, sadly.

At the _exact same time_, her avatar was running from slavers on I-ring, too. These, she drew into a large manufacturing base. There was a holoprojector available here; the lead scientist used it to communicate with ChromoStat, back on Earth. As such, it was easy to have her form back further and further away from her pursuers, until she'd backed through a small airlock. They fired their stasis guns at her, and she had her avatar freeze, motionless. That got them all the way into the small, prepared room. Only five of them this time. She cycled the airlock closed, and they turned, shocked, and began to try to activate the hatch. Pelagia let her avatar start to move again. "_That's not going to help you,"_ she told them in polite, high-caste batarian. _"ChromoStat is a gene mod and vaccine production company that likes to work here on Omega to get around certain restrictions in place on Earth. This? This is a hot lab. And they have several containment protocols. I'm enacting the first one now. It will be quick. I promise you that. But the pain will probably be very, very bad, for the first second or two. I'm very sorry about that."_ The containment chamber began to heat. It would, within about two minutes, reach a temperature of eight hundred degrees Fahrenheit. More than enough to kill _any_ virus or bacteriological hazard. And it would sustain that temperature for about an hour. The batarian's bodies would burn. Their armor would melt. Their weapons would melt—if they carried concussive rounds, those _might_ explode, but typically, the slavers didn't carry any sorts of explosives.

"_But you'll die with us!"_

"_No. No, I won't."_ Pelagia shut down her avatar's projection into the room, and forced herself to continue monitoring the vid feed from there.

In the meantime, on E-ring, she'd led the slavers a merry chase deep into the outer mines that came close to the surface of the asteroid that formed Omega. These were largely unused tunnels. Squatters and homeless derelicts sometimes used them, and, from the relics they sometimes pulled out of the depths, others had used them for storage and trash and living areas over the millennia. But what few knew was that the tunnels actually reached the exterior of the asteroid. Pelagia drew the slavers into one of those access tunnels, used, perhaps, in Prothean times to access the surface of the asteroid for construction of the huge space station. And, when they were a fair distance into the new shaft, she sealed a pressure hatch behind them. They heard the sound. Turned, on alert now, and headed back, to be confronted by a sealed door. _"You should never have come here,"_ Pelagia told them, tapping into their communications gear.

And then she opened the hatch on the _other_ side of the tunnel, evacuating the atmosphere, blowing the slavers out into space.

Down on E-ring, her avatar ran and leaped over open sewer gratings and fled down a dark alley, with the slavers in hot pursuit. She ducked into a warehouse, and began to back away, eyes wide and frightened, hands up, as if pleading for her life. The batarians entered the warehouse. . . and the doors slid shut behind them. The lights in the warehouse rose, and a dozen krogan guards pointed weapons at the slavers. The slavers blinked, rapidly reassessing, and one of them dove for her, trying to use her as a human shield.

His hands went right through her, and she walked away from him, her head held high, letting her body language change. _Harak? I can report five more dead on I-ring, and ten more on G-ring. It's slow getting them this way. Also. . . _

_You feel bad about it?_ Harak was amused as he stumped down the stairs from the catwalk over the warehouse that he and his Urdnot guards had been using as a base. He could watch some of the cam feeds in his mind, so he knew the chaos that was going on throughout Omega at the moment. _Don't, Pelagia. Don't feel a scrap of empathy for them_. "So, here we are," he rasped out, staring at the slavers. "You're killing, torturing, and raping your way through Omega, trying to starve us out, all in the name of making this place just as it was in the _good old days._ A little news for you. Aria wouldn't have put up with your shit in the good old days. And I won't now, either." He gestured, and two of the Urdnot guards moved forward, ready to take the batarians' weapons off them. The slavers turned to level their guns at the advancing guards, and Harak shrugged and shot the nearest batarian, himself. There was an exchange of gunfire, and the batarians even tried their stasis weapons. One or two krogan froze in place, but there were a dozen krogan, and ten batarian slavers. Hardly a fair fight at all.

Harak personally took the lead slaver by the throat and slammed him up against a wall of crates. He slid his large hands up the batarian's face, and planted his thumbs just under the lower lids. "Now, you might be aware that this place is under new management," Harak said, very quietly. "But that doesn't mean that it's not _Omega_. The polite rules of Council space do not apply here. Something all of you seem to have conveniently forgotten." Harak growled, a low, threatening rumble. "So. You're the first batarian I haven't accidentally killed in the past four weeks before getting to have a nice long conversation with him." That was a lie, actually. Harak was trying to interrogate as many prisoners as he could get his hands on. The trouble was, the information he was getting wasn't good. "Who's in charge of your little invasion, and _where do I find him?"_ Harak put pressure on the eyelids now.

_Harak? His heart rate just doubled._

_Good._ The batarian's feet were dangling from the ground, his precious eyes were under threat, and Harak was keeping himself in a state that just bubbled under full blood rage.

"P-peldrak L'nav is the one who brought us here. He's. . . he's _Klem Na_. Slave-lord." The unfortunate slaver was stammering in terror. "He's not the only one! There's. . . there's an SIU commander here, too."

"Name!" Harak roared. "Locations!" A little more pressure on the eyes.

"Nelar V'shav! And I don't know! I don't know! Please, I'm telling the truth!"

_Pelagia?_

_The names correlate with the last three interrogations. But not with the previous three._ Pelagia's tone was as distant as she could make it. She moved forward now, seeming to lean on Harak's shoulder.

He could feel her touch against his side, courtesy of the chip, and the blood rage almost crested in his mind as he snarled at the batarian, "So, you would have captured my female? Put a chip in her head? Turned her into a slave?" Each question was punctuated by a slam of the head into the crate.

"Harak? He couldn't possibly have hurt me. It's not worth it." _Now, their techs? The ones who are closing off computer nodes on every level? Those ones are hurting me. Hurting you. Blinding me. _Pelagia ran analyses frequently, trying to determine what would happen if all her nodes above D-ring were shut down. She had backup servers tucked into the reactor core and even down in the sewers, but if those failed. . . .she had already decided that she would terminate her run-time, rather than risk burning out Harak's brain by compacting herself into his chip's scarcely-formed neural architecture. In twenty years, once the neural nanofibers had spread throughout the entire brain, it might be less of a risk. But today, it was unacceptable.

"You're right," Harak told her, quietly. "He's not worth much at all. Last chance, batarian. Where's L'nav? And where's V'shav?"

"I don't. . . I don't know. . . I. . . I could find out—"

The batarian gurgled as Harak dropped him back on his feet and then brutally broke his neck. _Useless. We're going to have to try to bait some of their higher-ups into our traps, Pelagia._

_They might start catching on._

_Start looking like an asari. Try to be seen, but try to look powerful. Hard to catch. Dangerous. Like a Spectre, or an Eclipse sister. They'll pull out all the guns trying to capture one of those._ Harak rubbed at his eyes. _How soon will the Spectres and the reinforcements be here?_

_They're on their way to D-ring now. Five, six hours. I'll guide them here, and then . . . we start taking back another ring._

_How's everything top-side?_

_M, N, O, and P are still secure. There's a salarian on L who's got an army of mechs holding the batarians off at the entrances. Every landing pad, every elevator, every stairwell._

_Did you give him the station schematics?_

_He tried to hack my mainframe to get them. I told him if he asked me nicely, he could __have__ them. He was very surprised. Silent for almost half a minute._

Harak was glad to hear _life_ come back into her tone, and he reached out with the heavy paw that had just snapped a batarian's neck. Put it on the back of her neck, lightly stroking the fine human hair, that only he in all the galaxy could touch. _All right. I might shake his hand when this is done. And won't that be a first._

_He seems to be STG. If you do that, the universe might implode._

_I'll take the risk._

**Valak N'dor, Lorek, July 1-21, 2196**

In the middle of his proposed tour of the _Klem Na_ facilities, armed conflict had broken out. Oh, it wasn't _announced_ as such. Instead, travel restrictions ensued. "As our armed forces begin the liberation of Anhur and Omega," the news feed had blared in Valak's secondary house on Camala weeks ago, "all citizens are urged to remain calm. Austerity measures have been put forth. No unnecessary travel, in the interests of fuel conservation. Rationing is in effect on Uwan Oche, Lorek, and the following other colony worlds. . . . "

This had, effectively, trapped Valak and Nala on Camala for close to three weeks. Again, everyone on his estate was absolutely loyal to him. They were all people whom he had purchased, stolen, or otherwise freed. Every one of them earned a wage, and he had agreed to smuggle them out whenever they felt the need to return home. They told him that they believed the house was under observation, because of the 'escape' of the turian 'slave,' Livanus, several months ago now. "Oversight forces wouldn't have observed any irregularities since," Wu'an, his overseer for this estate, a male whose family had sold him into slavery to pay off his father's gambling debts when he was thirteen, told Valak. "They're probably back on high alert again because of the travel restrictions and the 'liberation' efforts."

Valak had nodded grimly. He needed more information. He needed to know what the _hell_ was going on out in the galaxy. There were even communication restrictions at the moment, so contacting Arvak at SIU was difficult. He did get through after several days of throwing his weight around, and Arvak asked him, immediately, "What do you think of the _Klem Na_ weapons facility?"

Valak checked to be sure they were on an encrypted frequency. "Impressive," he allowed, after a moment. "Difficult to outfit every ship in the Hegemony's fleet with such weapons, however."

Arvak shrugged. "Every asari is a biotic. Not every human. Hardly any salarians or turians. But every _single_ asari is. Makes it easy on the slave-takers. 'Capture all the asari you can get your hands on. Kill the rest.'" His red eyes gleamed. "I find it pays to _simplify_ when dealing with the lower castes, don't you?"

His words suggested that he included himself in Valak's caste. Valak allowed himself a faint, chill smile. An expression that suggested Arvak, in spite of being his superior at SIU, had slightly overstepped his bounds. "Indeed," he said, softly. "Is there any way in which you can get around some of this travel red tape for me so I can examine their Lorek facility? Or am I doomed to peaceful relaxation here on Camala?"

Arvak snorted. "Enjoy the time off. You've been working quite hard of late, Valak, and on so many different projects."

_That could have been a veiled barb at my having many agendas. Or that could be my not-so-guilty conscience starting at shadows._ "Not so many as you," Valak replied, letting the tension lift. "I'll simply find ways to amuse myself here on my estate. I haven't been here in months. High time I made a nuisance of myself to my neighbors again."

He went hunting, in fact. Took Nala out with him, but didn't dare, in the open countryside, work with her on her weapons training. And back at his little manor, it was tempting to look at this enforced inactivity as an opportunity to honeymoon a little. To lay low, while he _might_ still be under observation. Valak did have a few low-caste non-slaves, or at least, people who'd been of low caste before being enslaved, who could still pass for non-slaves, with the right papers. These people, he sent out to the local towns to see what could be heard. Rumors, if not real news. He didn't quite _dare_ initiate an FTL transmission right now.

The rumor mill on Camala had made for just as unpleasant listening as the official news feeds. Supposedly, Shanxi, Terra Nova, and Eden Prime were under attack by the yahg. And someone who knew someone who had hacked into the government ministry's restricted extranet feed, had seen footage of the yahg _eating_ humans. Valak tended to doubt that. It sounded too sensational. It was one thing to have seen horrors, and he _had_: twenty thousand people shot, killed, and buried over a week's time. But killing and eating of sapient beings? _Why would we ally with creatures like that? They could turn on us as soon as anyone else._

But if it were true. . . Valak could see a horrid sort of logic in it. The Council species would be, almost instantly, impelled to go to the defense of citizens under that sort of attack. If it were true, the pure sensationalism of it would draw attention. Outrage. Make the batarian attacks seem almost. . . normal. . .by way of comparison. Less of an outrage. And the Alliance and the Hierarchy might spend so much time and so many lives taking their larger colonies _back_ from the yahg, that they would have no forces or will left to try to wrench their smaller, less profitable colonies out of the Hegemony's hands. And of course, Omega would be the crown jewel. Firmly clutched in batarian hands, it would be a platform for further attacks. And hugely profitable, too. Or so conventional wisdom went.

Nala crawled into bed beside him one night, and curled into his arms. "It's actually been something of a relief, being here," she admitted. "No eyes, or at least, fewer."

He stroked her scalp lightly. "You could stay here," he offered. "No Arvak. No Xal'i."

"No _you_," Nala pointed out, a little tartly. "You'll go back to Khar'sharn. And put yourself at risk once more."

He nodded, slowly. "I don't see any other way out of this except forward," he said, after a moment or two. "I think we'll need to escape soon, Nala. Except I don't know what to do with the other two hundred people I have here and on Khar'sharn." Valak snorted, and put his forearm over one set of his eyes. "My ships aren't big enough to smuggle out more than forty people."

"Have your people make contact with the rest of the resistance?" she offered. "When we leave, they could be smuggled to safe houses." Nala paused. "I say that, and then I realize, I don't know if there are any such things. It's the stuff of urban legends. Bunkers under cities like Charnol and Kivirpas."

Valak nodded, dubiously. "It's an option," he said. "I just don't _trust_ the rest of the resistance. Not a month goes by, but you hear of some cell or another being rounded up and sold into slavery or executed. Of course, some of those could be pure invention. Every politician's rival sometimes seems to be 'resistance.'"

The only way out, was _through_. And so, when Valak's travel restrictions finally lifted, he took Nala with him to Lorek. He'd carefully set up reflective devices on various roofs and ledges around the Camala _Klem Na_ facility. None gave off signals, RF or otherwise. No, these devices simply reflected a particular signal, very efficiently, and would allow an orbiting searcher to locate the facility in very short order. He planned to leave the same items at the 'computing' facility on Lorek.

Lorek was slightly more problematic than Camala, for Nala's sake. She was dressing in loose slave robes to conceal her blooming pregnancy, but he didn't have a personal estate on Lorek. He had been offered the use of one of Arvak's estates, but had declined, politely, in spite of the fact that Arvak and Xal'i were continuing to work through the traditional bride-bartering practices of the upper castes. No, on Lorek, Valak grimaced and rented out the entire two upper floors of a hotel. It was an extravagant gesture, but perfectly in character for him. That gave them a buffer zone and the interior rooms were away from windows, and he was able to clear most of the bugs, though he left a few in place in rooms where they'd be careful to speak in only the most socially correct fashions.

The Lorek facility turned out to be built largely underground. Chas'na V'sol was again his personal guide into the _Klem Na_ facilities. Valak looked around in interest. "This place is built to withstand orbital bombardment," he noted, looking at the reinforced concrete walls, the rebar sticking out of them, and noting the hum of a mass effect core in the ground under his feet. "You even have a shield generator running here?"

Chas'na nodded. "We've always held the bulk of our forces, resources, and wealth here. But now. . . now we have a greater treasure. This is what's going to win the war for us."

"And here I thought we were merely liberating a few planets from the repression and tyranny of the human Alliance," Valak murmured, mildly.

V'sol's eyes narrowed, but Valak's words could be construed as a reproof, and not irony. "As you say, m'lord," he finally allowed, and then opened the double doors behind him. "Xala! Xala, you have a visitor."

Stepping into the large room beyond the doors, Valak had an immediate impression of several different cameras pointed at him, and literally dozens of different aerogel screens, all scrolling information for the benefit of batarian and _salarian_ techs. His eyes widened. The room _hummed_; dozens of servers stood on metal racks to the left, under the screens on the wall. And at the front of the room, a single large screen was tuned to the image of a female salarian face. Her yellow eyes were cold and calculating. "I don't want to talk to whoever he is," the face on the screen said, petulantly. "Your raiders absolutely failed on Mindoir. The price of my cooperation has not been met, V'sol. You did not bring me either the Sower relics _or_ my only living daughter. The offspring of my clone and Mordin Solus."

Valak's eyes widened slightly. He knew that name. Mordin Solus was a legend even in SIU. An STG operative who'd outwitted SIU time and time again. He got his mind in order as V'sol introduced him to the female on the screen. "Xala, this is Valak N'dor, of SIU. He's been asked to. . . evaluate our facilities, to determine if the funding is being . . . well-used."

"Ah. A minor pencil-pusher, then." The female seemed to look in his general direction. "Tell me, N'dor, do you even know what you're looking at right now?"

A dozen replies rushed through Valak's mind at once. _An AI. A salarian female. Possibly the source of several recent technological innovations by the __Klem Na__._ He settled for a bland reply. "A dalatrass," Valak said, keeping his expression as neutral as he could make it.

The answer pleased her. It was respectful of her authority, and she probably chose to take it as if spoken by a male subordinate to her. "Correct," Xala said, nodding quickly on the screen. "But one that's been made immortal."

"Only as immortal as your power supply," V'sol told her, his voice rough. "You seem to forget that, when you speak of our _bargain_. The bargain was, we let you stay alive, you and your _sons_ work on tech for us."

_He's trying to assert control over her in front of me, to impress upon me, and SIU, that he's the one still in charge here. And he probably is. Loosely._ Valak let his eyes widen slightly. "So, a dalatrass _and_ an AI. Remarkable technical achievement. My own research has suggested to me that the Spectres have a base in the Attican Traverse. On the basis of what information did you settle on Mindoir?" _If I can come to that conclusion, and she can, too, the Spectres may need to have a secondary base to move to, at some point,_ he thought, grimly.

"The Spectres foolishly allow coverage of their candidacy process," the dalatrass replied, immediately. "Flora and fauna on a garden world, fairly easy to identify. Some star patterns visible in the night sky. A spectral analysis on the color of the sky and the wavelengths of light coming from the system's primary. A certain amount of information taken from the last databases held by the Adam and Eve Coalition, a human extremist group that worked with an asari criminal named Lina Vasir. All solid information, all pointing to Mindoir. Lilitu Shepard's original home." She paused, her avatar on the screen crinkling its eyelids briefly in a salarian smile. "And I have had five years and considerable processor power to run that analysis with. Now, if Mordin Solus took my daughter anywhere, it would be to the Spectre base. Probabilities are strong that she would have remained there, out of sight of the rest of the galaxy. Probabilities are also strong that they would still have the most powerful technologies that were held by _my_ people at their base. And with the Sower relic and my daughter's body available. . . I would have both this AI consciousness, and a living body once more. And you would shortly have techs. More than the bare handful I have placed at your disposal. Your own people are barely competent to install the biotic weapons in ships, and most are not capable of grafting biotic materials into their own brains. Instead, you have to chain an asari or a human to your side and haul them into combat. _My_ people created biotics of our own, for close combat, and reserved the use of aliens for ship weapons." Her voice turned a little coy now. "Would this not prove valuable. . . Valak N'dor of the Special Intervention Unit?"

"It would," he acknowledged, walking over to the screen and pulling up a chair. "What would be more useful to us, however, would be if your . . . new children. . . could alter _our_ people to have similar biotic abilities. We have so few of our own, you understand." It was exactly what someone in SIU would have said. Valak smiled, very faintly. "Perhaps you have been bargaining with the wrong person?"

Chas'na V'sol scurried over, looking indignant. "The AI is _our_ resource, and you don't have the authority—"

Valak stood again, and, mindful that he was in the very _heart_ of the _Klem Na_ stronghold, he didn't actually draw his vibroblade this time. But he didn't _need_ it to make his threat absolutely and unequivocally clear. "You underestimate, my dear Chas'na, the limits of my authority. R'mod sent me here after I raised questions about the moneypit that this place has become. R'mod, I'm sure, knew quite a bit about your operation before sending me. And now I understand why you have been so secretive with your resources. You've been absolutely terrified of losing control of them." Valak leaned forward, and whispered, "The problem is, you _already have._"

V'sol's breathing changed. Valak met his eyes steadily. "Outside, V'sol. You and I will bargain outside of this facility. The dalatrass and I have much to discuss." He looked up at her screen. "I'd welcome a chance to do so in private, Dalatrass Xala." _Ahh, what a little understanding of other species gives us. SIU trained me well. Salarian females require respect, above all else. Like dealing with a crime lord, I suspect._

"It's not safe! No one meets with the dalatrass alone," one of the salarian males muttered. Valak glanced at him with his upper eye, taking in the scars along his arms. Surgical, they looked like. Recent, and poorly done. _I'll have to ask Nala what those could be from. _

"I'll allow you to take my pistol," Valak said, mildly. "But I doubt the dalatrass's entire memory core is located solely in this room. I would suspect, in fact, that an. . . entity. . . as wise as she appears to be, has backups in multiple locations. Perhaps more than even V'sol here knows about."

V'sol started to open his mouth to deny it, just as Xala chuckled confidently. "You're smarter than you look. Perhaps you're more than just a pencil-pusher after all, Valak N'dor."

Valak extended one hand to the side, as if acknowledging a fencer's hit. Chas'na V'sol suddenly seemed to realize that Valak was playing verbal _ru'udal_. . . and his jaws snapped shut. "We're going to talk, N'dor," he growled, and turned to leave.

"Oh, indeed we will. Indeed we will," Valak murmured, watching him exit, along with all of the batarians, and all of the salarians. He glanced up at the salarian AI's avatar, and found his seat once more, spreading out his arms across the back of the bench, and fiddling with the cane that currently concealed his vibrosword. The urge to go start slashing into the server cases was enormous, but he _had_ to find all the nodes, or the AI would just regenerate itself. Somewhere else. "Well, my lady. Shall we bargain? Directly with SIU, rather than through the tedious intermediary that is the _Klem Na_?"

"Do you _have_ the authority to bargain?" she asked, immediately.

Valak allowed his lids to half-close over his eyes for a moment, reflectively. "I do. It would be easier if I were, say, in Arvak R'mod's position. Everything I say here today will have to be agreed upon by him, of course."

"R'mod has a reputation as a man whom it is difficult to please."

"He does, at that. However, he may shortly become my brother-in-law. He may choose to listen to my words with a more attentive ear than to others on his staff." Valak tapped his cane, once. "So. You want one salarian girl. Does it _actually_ matter that it's your biological daughter, or would any breeding female do? I doubt your daughter would be any more inclined to follow your directions, if she hasn't been. . . educated properly." _Indoctrinated. Brainwashed._

"If your people find the Sower relics that the Spectres _certainly_ have not turned back over to the quarians, then that will not be an issue at all." Xala looked reflective. "Indeed, if you found a _different_ dalatrass of breeding age, and the Sower artifacts, then that might actually be better, in the long run. Fewer genetic issues to deal with, perhaps. It is the _mind_ that matters."

Valak snorted. "And what do the relics _do_, that allows for such a miracle?"

"One thing at a time, N'dor. You can't expect me to put all of my pieces up for sale on your _ru'udal_ board at once, can you?"

Valak raised a hand lightly. "I see. And if we supply these things, you will provide us with _batarian_ biotics?"

"A few, at first. Once my techs work out the appropriate genetic modifications. I would not wish to make myself, or our arrangement, _obsolete_." Her tone was almost a caress. Valak wanted to laugh, but restrained himself. She paused, and added, "You say that if _you_ were in R'mod's position, you could make the arrangements more easily? What would it take to put you in his spot?"

Valak chuckled. "For him to be promoted, perhaps." He passed it off easily.

"What if he were found to be . . . disloyal? Discredited?" Her voice was silky.

The temptation was real. It would be a _relief_ to have Arvak out of his face, out of his life. Valak shook his head, putting on the most convincing expression of anger he could. "I told you, he's likely to wed my sister. I don't betray family, Dalatrass. Nor, I think, could you trust me if I did." He stared at her for a long moment. "Of course, this could also be a set up. R'mod _could_ have arranged _all_ of this to test my loyalty."

She laughed softly. "You are an _interesting_ batarian, Valak N'dor. Your mind finds paths within paths. What if I told you that R'mod _did_ ask V'sol, that slaver clod out there, to have his 'resources' start looking into the possibility that there is a spy inside of SIU?"

Valak blinked. His concentration became absolute. He needed to live his cover now, completely. To believe what he was, one hundred percent. It would help fight down adrenal surges and calm his pulse. "I would say that no intelligence service, not even SIU, is exempt from the potential of compromise. I would start with people who've been on the payroll for a long time. People with bad habits. Debts. Who've been passed over for promotion." These were the most common inroads for espionage, of course. People who were desperate to feed an addiction, whether to gambling or booze or sex or anything else, would do _anything_ to feed that addiction. Of course, addicts made for poor spies. They were shaky and unreliable. The trick was to catch them before they plummeted completely into addiction. When their condition could be managed by a skilled handler. Could be blackmailed and controlled and leashed. The same for debtors.

People who were angry, who felt resentful, unappreciative, or overlooked, were also security risks waiting to happen. People who had worked hard for years, and someone else got advanced over them? Tended to want revenge. Maybe not on the co-worker, but on the company that had passed them by. There were so many levers to exploit.

Of course, Valak himself fell into _none_ of these categories. He'd left the intelligence service and returned. He was independently wealthy, and while he'd maintained a public persona that seemed to have several bad habits, such as gambling and an affinity for the fleshpots of Omega, he had enough wealth to maintain his lifestyle, and would have laughed if anyone tried to 'expose' his proclivities. No, his most dangerous vices were information and restricted knowledge. . . and Nala. Valak fell into the most dangerous category in spycraft. An ideologue, or true believer.

"That is almost exactly what R'mod himself told me to look for," Xala told him, almost purring. "Of course, these are the very things we Lystheni have exploited for fifteen hundred years, as we've hidden from the rest of salarian society."

Valak filed the term away for later reference. "And what have you found?"

"Nothing. Amusingly enough, not a thing. There have been a few remarkably coincidences, such as the Alliance detecting your comet attack on their moon and spaceyards. The fact that the turian fleet was running drills when your fleet attacked them at Edessan. . . but no firm indications that warnings about either came out of SIU." She paused. "Wouldn't it be interesting if R'mod himself were responsible?"

Valak looked at her, and snorted. "And anyone who pursued that line of thought would get exactly what he deserved," he said, calmly. "An SIU director more or less controlled by you, Dalatrass Xala, might be what you want to see, but that's not a bargain that would benefit me or anyone in SIU." He stood. "We'll talk again later, Dalatrass. _After_ I've spoken with R'mod."

"And will you tell him of my suggestions?"

"An excellent question, Dalatrass. I will leave you to ponder it. Perhaps your analysis will be enlightening." Valak tapped on the door with his swordcane. And when it failed to open, he directed a look back at the AI, and drew his sword from his cane, activating it to its vibrating mode, and began to slide its point through the pressure hatch itself.

The door slammed open so fast at that point, he almost didn't get the sword free in time. "Naughty, naughty," Valak told her, and walked out. "V'sol? You're with me."

In a private room, in his own hotel, he hissed at the leader of the _Klem Na_, "You're insane. You've lost control."

"We strictly regulate all of her interactions with the outside world. Her salarians aren't allowed off base, and they're scanned every time they enter or leave her server rooms."

"Think of it this way, V'sol. Would she be confident enough to order you about if she _didn't_ have backups _somewhere_?" Valak was fully in his role now. "Find the damned backup nodes, V'sol. And destroy them. I am _not_ allowing a rogue AI to run amok in our government's datastreams."

His report to Arvak, he made as grim-faced as possible. "V'sol has a pet salarian AI. She's testing the limits of his control, and I suspect she may have off-site nodes. Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if V'sol and his people helped her build the off-site nodes. Just in case SIU ever came in and tried to take over his operation, so the _Klem Na_ would have a fallback option."

Arvak's expression turned vexed. "Damnation."

"Indeed. I offered to let her negotiate with SIU directly for what she wants—a breeding salarian female and some technological elements of some sort, which she is _convinced_ are on Mindoir. She wouldn't disclose why, but she did hint that if she obtained both, she might be able to indoctrinate the female with her own beliefs. Perhaps even imprint her with some form of her own mind." Valak leaned back in his chair. "She then suggested that _you_ might be a traitor, R'mod, and that she would be more comfortable with me in your chair." Valak was playing this by ear at the moment.

Arvak hissed. "And what did you say?"

"I fobbed her off with a tale of family loyalty, and suggested that you might have primed her with exactly that tale to test my loyalty." Valak smirked. "You _are_ the master of _ru'udal_, of course."

Arvak laughed, his eyes cold. "Good one. Hmm. Might have been better if you'd agreed, however. Might have been a good test of what her capabilities were."

"I can, if you want, lean that way if I converse with her again. Would have to be a gradual thing, however. I was fairly definitive in my reply."

"No. Come home to Khar'sharn, after letting the AI know that SIU agrees to take another shot at locating her offspring and the relics. There's work to be done here, Valak. Plenty of it."

That night, Valak _did_ risk sending off a report to his Spectre handlers. Livanus answered the call. Valak had been expecting a one-way transmission, and was startled. "You look like hell," he told the turian.

"It's busy out here."

"Any good news?"

Livanus smiled faintly. "My wife is pregnant, but that's probably not what you had in mind."

"I would dearly love to know what's going on out there." Valak rattled off what he'd found so far. "What do you need me to do now?"

"Keep following up. We're clearing Mindoir of batarians. We have a remarkable number of warrior-caste prisoners, and absolutely no idea what to do with them." Livanus stared at him. "Any suggestions?"

Valak stared across the suite at Nala, who was sitting at the comm terminal, frowning over the news. "Educate them, my dear turian friend. Give them access to news, entertainment. Every banned book there is, and a translation VI. Our warrior-caste is right below the nobility. But while we nobles are educated in logic and philosophy and poetry and mathematics, they're educated in war. Steeped in honor and tradition and loyalty to their fellows. You'd probably _like_ them, my dear turian friend, if they weren't shooting at you."

"That _is_ a little off-putting," Livanus muttered, passing a hand over his fringe.

"I'd let them stumble onto information on the comet attack. On the plagues. Let them read whatever they want, so long as it's not classified. Oh, and keep their officers separated from them. The officers will prevent them from reading anything, if they can help it." Valak sighed, still watching Nala across the room. "I'm going to need an extrication for Nala, soon."

"Oh?"

"Would you want _your_ pregnant mate where mine is now?"

Livanus took a moment to process that. "Fast worker, Valak."

"Accidents happen." Valak rubbed at the bridge of his ridged nose. "Anything else?"

"You're the one who wanted to start a revolution, Valak. It might be time to start hitting slave processing centers."

"You think my people are ready?" It was a concern. He'd only been able to train them so much, and Livanus had done his best to add to the training, but they'd only had so much time, and so many materials.

"They're going to have to be," Livanus said, tiredly. "We've got several dozen star systems going up in flames."

**Madison, Mindoir, July 22, 2196**

It was a Friday, and school was back in session. It had been for over a week, since the worst of the damage to the building had been quickly patched up. It had been really hard to concentrate, the first few days back. Madison had been told, firmly, by his father, however, that even if there was a war on, even if the base had been attacked, that school was _his_ job, and fighting batarians was everyone else's job. "Now go do your job," Dempsey had told him, and Madison had tried.

It was a little weird, though. Various counselors had been through to talk with everyone. All of the kids had been in hiding in various shelters. Polina, who was nearly his age, chattered endlessly about how brave her parents were, how her _pada_ and her _mada_ had held off the batarians at the doors of their house. Quintus had volunteered that his grandfather and the grandmother of Dr. Dara had been there, too. "I think Mrs. Jaworski had a frying pan and was beating batarians over the head with it," Quintus said.

The stories grew with every telling, of course. Madison tried very hard not to notice the fact that the other kids were staring at him and whispering. That had started before the attack, of course. The shaved head was a little noticeable, although now his hair was growing back in, which made him look a bit less like a cancer survivor. The various turians, including Arinus, who was three years older than he was, and was scheduled to leave for boot camp on the next available flight for Palaven—sometime next week, apparently, now that the quarantines were completely lifted, and all the rescheduling was completed—were treating him differently, too. Arinus always had a wrist-clasp for him now, when he came to the school to walk his younger siblings home.

Since it was a Friday, no homework. Thank god. Madison opted to go to the Vakarians' anyway, because Kaius had just gotten a new extranet game account. Something that was supposed to rise up and challenge _Galaxy of Fantasy._ Something called _Ecusae_ _of the Ancient Imperium_, and Madison wanted to check it out.

As he watched over Kaius' shoulder, he finally broke down and asked Kaius why all the turians were suddenly eager to pick him for their handball teams and wanted to eat lunch with him.

"You're blooded," Kaius told him, simply. "Younger even than Eli or Rel. Means a lot to turians."

Amara, sitting to Mad's right, nodded. "And the turian girls are going to be _really_ impressed." Her eyes sparkled, and she added, silently, _I know I am._

Madison's eyes widened. He wasn't really sure what to do with that information. Polina and Armida and Kallithia were all nice enough, but seemed to be lacking in the, well, curve department. He was just past the 'girls are icky' stage of life, and had just entered the portion of life that suggested that curves were, well, interesting. "Er, okay," he mumbled, hunching his shoulders a bit, grateful when Kaius suddenly whooped, and they saw a giant _acrocanth_ roar on the aerogel screen, menacing Kaius' avatar.

As Madison started to get ready to go home for dinner before sparring, Amara asked, "Can I walk with you?"

"Sure. You want to stay for dinner?" Madison knew he was supposed to make the offer, but it was a little awkward. Amara lit up when he asked, though, so he was more or less glad he'd offered.

As they walked through the chill mountain air, looking around at all the damaged buildings, with the scaffolding up on them and the blue tarps over damaged roofs, Madison raised his head higher. Stared up at the distant stars, visible on this cold, clear evening. "It's hard to believe there's fighting going on right now," he said, quietly. "Everything just feels so. . . normal here."

_But people we know are out there, fighting._

_Yeah._ The slip into mental speech was effortless. _And from the way my dad and Zhasa are acting, once they get done catching all the batarians here on Mindoir, they'll be off god knows where. And I won't be able to stay at the house anymore. I don't even know where I'll go._ It was a depressing thought, being shuffled to another new home. Third in the course of a year.

_Maybe they'll let you stay with us. Of course, Daddy is off somewhere. Shanxi, I think. And Mama will probably need to go somewhere soon, too. If only to coordinate with the fleets._ Amara suddenly sounded depressed, and Madison reached out and took her hand. . . which again made her light up. Inside and out. It made him uneasy, but happy at the same time.

_You know what?_ she said, silently. _If you don't want the turian girls to pay attention to you, you could let me mark you._ It was half-teasing, half-serious.

"And what would that consist of, exactly?" Madison asked, warily. He'd learned to be very specific at school. The asari girls had at least twelve words for 'sharing,' and one of them meant 'shaking hands and a little light biotic exchange of information.' The first time one of the older girls had tried that, Madison had yelped and accidentally lifted every desk in the vicinity off the floor.

With student still in the attached chairs.

It had been embarrassing.

Now, Amara stopped and looked absolutely embarrassed in the light from a street lamp. "Nevermind."

"No, what would it mean?"

"Well. . . you'd let me bite you. Leave a mark on your skin. And . . . " _It would mean that you were, well, taken. By me. They'd leave you alone._ Embarrassed confusion in her mind now. _I shouldn't have said anything._

_Wow. Like. . . wow._ Madison caught a flash of an image from her, of her leaping out from behind a corner, playfully jumping on his shoulders, and biting his neck. He winced a little. Her teeth looked _sharp._ "How about. . . " Madison hesitated, and squeezed her hand. "How about if we stick with hand-holding for a while? That's. . .that's how humans mark." He thought he could just about handle that. It was scary enough to think of people at school seeing that much. The teasing that would probably ensue would probably be fairly epic in scale.

Her eyes widened. _You'd be.. . you're all right with that?_ It was relief. Total, complete relief.

_Yeah. I think so._ They'd reached his dad's front door, in a stretch of neighborhood fairly close to the odd, domed structure that was Hal'marrak and Nal'ishora's clean house. _I like you, Amara. But . . . not really sure about that whole biting thing. _

_Okay._

_But you know what else we could do? Besides playing Galaxy of Fantasy or Ecusae of the Ancient Imperium?_

_Hmm?_

_Want to go to the entertainment complex this weekend? They were supposed to get in a new batch of vids. A bunch of them from the late twentieth and early twenty-first on Earth. How we all supposedly thought the galaxy was going to be when we got out here._

_The teachers mentioned that. Extra credit?_

_Why not? It might be funny. Apparently, every species was humanoid in one of the series of movies. And distinguished solely by the shape of their ears and foreheads._

Amara began to laugh. _Sure. And since that'll be for school, no one can say it's bad, right?  
_

_Right._

They went inside. Madison could smell spaghetti sauce, and knew Zhasa would probably have picked up something wonderful for dessert from the commissary's bakery section. He could hear the sound of an extranet news feed, however, and he and Amara stopped in the doorway to the living room to watch for a moment.

"_Fighting continued on Terra Nova today, as Alliance Marines struggled to contain the yahg threat near New Philadelphia. The turian Hierarchy reports that no batarians remain around Edessan, but blockades remain in place around the mass relays for Rocam and Galatana. Fighting on Shanxi and Eden Prime remains vicious, and we have been unable to get correspondents into the war zone, as Hierarchy and Alliance commanders have all stated that they cannot guarantee the safety of our reporters. Some footage from Mako and Hammerhead cameras has been released, although we must warn our viewers that the vid feed is extremely graphic."_

Madison watched in horror as he saw an enormous yahg, all teeth and eyes, lifted a human marine on . . . Terra Nova, from the caption. . . and tore the man's arms off. While he screamed, and while his fellows fired on the yahg, and then two more yahg emerged from off-camera, attacking the marines as they continued to fire. Some of the marines scrambled to get back into vehicles, while their fellows continued to lay down suppressing fire. "Oh my god," Madison whispered, staring at the screen.

"That's enough of that," Dempsey said, coming into the room. The screen clicked off, without his father giving so much as a verbal command. Mad suspected that if he tried the terminal again later, he'd find himself locked out of the newsfeeds for a while.

"_That's_ what they're fighting out there?" Madison asked, horrified. _That's what you're going to wind up fighting, Dad?_

_Possibly. Keep in mind, we've got more tricks up our sleeves than what you saw in thirty seconds of vid feed._ Absolute calm in his dad's mind, of course. _I don't load out with heavy weapons, but I can see why most of the marines should be carrying grenade launchers at the moment, if they're not already. Plus, there's other stuff they could be using. Incendiaries are at the top of my list. Cryo-guns. They went in with conventional weapons, Mad. The battle's already changing, I promise you._

Behind that calm, confident thought, was another, though, that he couldn't quite mask in time: _Of course, the yahg are supposed to be pretty smart. We change up, and they're apt to respond to it._

Dempsey looked at Madison and Amara, and then said, calmly, "Nothing we can do about any of it right now. Come on. Let's go get some dinner."


	111. Chapter 111: Marked

**Chapter 111: Marked**

**Rinus, Shanxi, August 1, 2196**

Rinus had been very, very busy in the past two weeks. Garrus and Lantar had tasked him with coming up with better ways of fighting the yahg, and he'd been doing his best. He'd gone to a dozen factories, scavenging for supplies, and had come up with ideas that put a smile on his face.

Unfortunately, he'd also run into civilians with similar, but less good ideas. The people struggling to heat steel I-beams in a charcoal fire until they were hot enough to reshape made him close his eyes for a moment. "Carbon steel becomes pliable at two thousand, two hundred and forty-six degrees Fahrenheit," he called to them, relying on his VI to translate as he entered the manufacturing complex that they'd seen the smoke rising from, flanked by Seheve and Rel and a contingent of marines. "What exactly are you trying to _do_?"

The citizens, all filthy and ragged, had turned on him, scrabbling for weapons until they realized he wasn't a yahg. One of the leaders began exclaiming in rapid-fire Mandarin—so fast, in fact, that the VI was skipping trying to keep up with him. _"We're trying to defend ourselves. Trying to defend our home!"_

"Yes, but what are you trying to accomplish?" Rinus asked, as patiently as he could.

"_If we're able to reshape the beams into tubes, we can turn them into cannons. We have sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate. Our people __invented__ gunpowder, after all."_ The man put a hand to his chest, with a certain amount of dignity. _"A cannonball to the head should destroy even one of these monsters."_

Rinus repressed the urge to swear. They wanted to protect themselves. Their homes. Their loved ones. It was a horribly bad, insanely bad idea, in fact. "All right," he said, grimly. "Say you successfully manage to get this steel heated up. You somehow bang into a tube shape. You load it up with good old-fashioned black powder. Assuming you make the powder the right way, too. What's the chemical makeup of that? No extranet, of course. And I don't suppose any of you happen to have that information just sitting around on your omnitools."

"_Er. . . it's an equal mix of the three?"_

"Wrong," Rinus said. "That'll give you a lovely fizzle. Which I'm sure will greatly frighten the yahg at the end of the street that you're pointing a giant _tube_ at. By the bye? How are you planning on moving the cannon to correct your aim? Since, you know, yahg move. They're not buildings. They're not slow-moving tanks. They run. They leap to the sides and work together. So, here you are, standing, and you've got three yahg at the end of the street. You light your fuse, and have to either run away, on the off-chance that the cannon might explode, or have to stand your ground, as the yahg run at you, and have to try to adjust its aim, while waiting for the fuse to burn down. Slowly. If it happens to go out, you have to relight it."

The crowd was murmuring now, unhappily. They didn't like having their idea shot down, and so forcefully. "So, you're standing there. You're holding your ground. The fuse burns down. What happens next?"

"_The projectile will exit the barrel._"

"No, chances are, the 'cannon' itself will explode. Hitting you, and everyone around it, with shrapnel." Rinus stared at them. "Uneven forging temperatures. A weld seam along the bottom of the tube that will be structurally weaker than the rest of the steel. Assuming, of course, you actually do _weld_ it. I don't see any of you breaking out the acetylene tanks around here. Any of you qualified to weld?" More murmurs. "The original cannons on both our worlds were made of bronze, and exploded frequently. When was the last time any of you looked at a diagram of how to build a cannon?"

Embarrassment on all sides now. _"We have to do __something__!"_ their leader muttered.

Rinus held up a hand. "I'll grant you this much. Somehow, the cannon holds together. You get the gunpowder mixture right. You somehow stay on target, the yahg in question is incredibly stupid, and just stands there with his thumb up his ass as the fuse burns down, and by a miracle, you actually hit him with that single cannonball. His kinetic shields take part of the hit. They're designed for small items traveling at high speeds, after all. He falls down, hit by the projectile traveling at the remainder of its unabsorbed velocity. Say it leaves the barrel with eight hundred pounds of force. Say it lands on him with four hundred. A yahg weighs eight hundred pounds. He'll be staggered, sure. Might have some bones broken. His buddies to the right and the left will be pissed, and you're going to have a hell of a time reloading and lighting the fuse again in time to catch _them_." Rinus stared at them all. "Any questions?"

Rel raised his hand, actually. "How about shrapnel instead of a large single projectile?"

_Oh, spirits, not you, too, brother._ "Gunpowder-propelled shrapnel hasn't been used on Palaven since before the Unification Wars, and hasn't been used on Earth since their second global conflict in the mid twentieth century. A steel helmet keeps it out. _S'kak, sandbags_ keep it out. Shrapnel canisters have been propelled by high explosives ever since for a reason. Much more force."

Seheve cleared her throat, and Rinus looked up. _Please don't encourage them_, he thought. "And with the interior of the cannon barrel not rifled," she pointed out, politely, "no matter what load is shot from its muzzle, it will hardly be a _precision_ instrument."

Rinus smiled faintly behind his polarized mask. "Now you? You I like, Seheve," he told her, and patted her shoulder.

"_We can't just __sit__ here and wait to be eaten! We have to fight!"_

Rinus nodded. He had to respect that. The frustration the protection-anger, the fear. But the residents of Shanxi, without information to know how to build weapons, or the technology to build them with, might be better off sharpening sticks and hardening the points in a fire. "I know it's hard," he said, quietly now. "We're working on getting residents who volunteer for duty armed. Please, just go to the civilian refugee camps outside the city, where we can protect you. Volunteer there. Help the people who are already there, who are non-combatants." Rinus was all too aware that the refugee camps were turning into a humanitarian nightmare. Food, water, sanitation. All the usual problems of a major disaster zone. Humans also had diseases that spread like wildfire when there was a lack of sanitation. Some of the first cases of cholera ever seen on Shanxi were in the camps.

The people looked defeated. Every one of them except their leader, who again asked, "_So what are __you__ here for?"_

Rinus pointed one gloved finger at a line of pressurized tanks along the back wall of the manufacturing plant. "Those. Liquid nitrogen. Distilled HNO3." The humans couldn't see his smile behind his mask, but Rinus was showing _all_ of his teeth right now. "HNO3 is nitric acid. Used here for etching metal. Other shops in this area use it for fertilizer, in mild concentrations. They should have the sprayers that we'll need for it. Liquid nitrogen will be trickier to work with, but just as effective, assuming we can find vacuum flasks for the damned stuff. And when we don't use those, we'll be using the bags of red phosphorous we picked up at other warehouses and manufacturing buildings around here." _Not to mention the ammonium nitrate I found in one nice, large garden shop. Good thing I didn't need a permit to take all of it. And a good thing I have nice modern detonators. That I can set off by timer or by RF._ Rinus gentled his tone. "If you want to help, help. Don't throw your lives away trying to reinvent the wheel."

Gradually, the civilians dispersed, most of them heading, as he'd suggested, back into Alliance and Hierarchy-controlled areas of the ruined city, and towards the refugee camps set up to the east.

He, Rel, and Seheve all started helping the marines tote the heavy cylinders of hazardous chemicals to their Hammerheads. They had a few more vehicles at their disposal now, but not a lot, still. As they worked, Rinus kept a low-voiced monologue, more of a harangue, really, going under his breath. "Spirits-be-damned stupidity. You can't _build_ a weapon if you don't know _how_. The days of a peasant picking up a pitchfork and leading a charge from the middle of his _festuca_ fields has been long-since past for every galactic civilization. The days of the village blacksmith being able to turn out a weapon for everyone is long since past, too. How many people have the chemical composition of _gunpowder_, a historical _artifact_, memorized? Besides, you know, professional damned soldiers, like me? Not too many. But no, let's get out there, let's throw something together and blow ourselves up, how _hard_ can it _be_? Soldiers do this all the time. Yeah, and you don't see _me_ coming to _your_ workplace and telling you how to assemble a circuit board or how to program a database, do you?"

Seheve gave him a long, measuring glance. "They were desperate, Spectre. Would you really rather that they did nothing?"

"No. I'd rather that they did something _smart_. Like get to a militia compound, like where we're going next. Break in and get the explosives and grenades from in there." Rinus sighed. "Of course, without training, chances are good that they'd blow themselves up with the grenades, too, but really, when it has clearly written directions on it that say 'hold handle, remove pin, throw towards enemy,' it's their own damned fault if they can't read."

Rel shook his head. "How _do_ you manage a political career, _fradu?"_

"I don't have to stand for re-election. I can say whatever the hell I actually think." Rinus grunted and lifted the top of the heavy cylinder of liquid nitrogen into the waiting arms of one of their marines, already aboard the Hammerhead, and then the started passing the chemical carefully aboard, where it was strapped down for transit.

They did indeed have one more stop, and that netted them about two hundred more rockets for their launchers, and about four hundred more grenades for the marines. They were leaving the non-lethal loads in place. Tear gas, for example, was pretty useless at the moment.

Back at their encampment, Rinus and the techs who answered to him were very busy indeed. Liquid nitrogen boiled into a gas at -321º F, and required special equipment to decant and move from one chamber to another, and could easily strip the skin off unprotected hands and bodies. They were working with sprayer equipment originally designed for pesticides and agriculture uses, but were making adjustments. "I think we're exceeding the safety parameters," one tech muttered to Rinus, adjusting his safety goggles as he tried to hook up a vacuum flask to a sprayer.

"I'm pretty sure we've voided the warranty, too," Rinus told him, glumly. "Keep at it."

The nitric acid was also being loaded into similar canisters, and also required safety precautions. In its current concentrations, it would eat through plastic and even some metals. It required glass-lined containers, which were in short supply. But soon enough, they had thirty backpack-mounted sprayers for both chemicals, with nozzles that could shoot up to thirty feet. _Not bad,_ Rinus thought. _Not totally optimal, but not bad, either._

For the rest, he went to the meeting in Garrus' tiny trailer, which was serving as the Spectre command post for the moment. "Well, you've pulled a fair amount of explosives together, Rinus," his uncle told him, looking over the details on a piece of paper. They were trying to conserve power to their omnitools as best they could. "Four hundred pounds of fertilizer and a few other choice items, I see. You planning to blow up some yahg that will politely stand near the large heap of stinking manure that's been soaked with fuel?"

Rel snorted. "He sounds like you," he pointed out to Rinus.

Rinus grinned, tightly. "There are reasons for that," he told Rel, calmly. "Actually, I wasn't thinking so much of blowing _them_ up, as blowing down a building on top of them. Maybe several of them. Ones that are apt to come down anyway, say. If we can lure them into the buildings, I'm fairly sure that, say, a parking garage deck landing on their heads will kill even a yahg."

There was silence for a moment. "Inventive," Garrus allowed.

"How do you plan to get the yahg to go into a building like that?" Lantar growled. The stocky male was in a grim mood, from the set of his face. His eyes burned a bit, and he was flexing his mandibles, as if clenching and unclenching his jaw.

Rinus sighed. _Well, that is the trick._ "Fair question," he admitted. "Only solution I've had to that is to lure them there. With bait. We know that they're hunters. At the moment, as Rel has pointed out, a lot of what they're doing is about terror. About convincing everyone here that they're untouchable, and that no one can escape, whatever. One person on foot, running, would get the attention of a few yahg, sure. But to make this kind of a collapse worthwhile, we'd want to catch as many in the trap as possible. I'd say find some of their enclaves, and do hit and run attacks. Get them mad, get them chasing us. We know they have _some_ communications between each other. Radio frequencies. We just don't have a handle on their language, so it's as good as encrypted." He paused. "We fall back, lure them in to the structure, drive through the structure, exit it, and then blow it behind us. With as many of them trapped inside as possible."

Everyone in the room stared at him. Rinus winced a little. Melaani cleared her throat. "I have to say, that this is exactly what I've spent a good deal of my life working to _prevent_."

Rinus winced again. "Yeah. I know. There's some irony for me here, too."

"How would we keep the yahg from following us right out of the building?" Lantar's voice grated, an uncomfortable harmonic even for another turian. "And I assume you have a building in mind?"

"I do," Rinus said, and found the printed-out, much scrawled-upon map they'd been using, again, to try to conserve omnitool power. "This is one of the parking structures near a sporting arena. It's twelve stories tall. Fairly distant from all other structures, since there's a parking grid around it on all sides, too. It was used during the Relay 314 Incident as a bomb shelter, because it's made of reinforced concrete. Strong and stable against an attack from above. Not so much if we take out the structural supports on its lowest floor." Rinus paused. "We use Hammerheads to draw them in after us. They'll _probably_ use their own vehicles to follow. All we've seen are tread-traction tank-like vehicles. Not as advanced as a Mako. If not, if they follow on foot, all the better. We'll head up to the middle floors, say, the sixth, and simply exit out the side of the building. The Hammerhead has the jets and inertial dampeners to allow us to land safely some distance away. We'll have steel-cable nets rigged all around the building, so they can't follow us out—we can even use small charges to set up ropes with the final nets to seal the building off entirely. The nets will also do _some_ good in containing the debris." He sighed. "Then we set off the charges behind us." Rinus shrugged. "Worst case, we kill maybe fifty yahg. Best case. . . we net several hundred."

Garrus sighed. "All right. We'll keep that as an option. We'll need volunteers for the Hammerhead drivers. Can't have full crews. One person to drive and one person for guns."

Rel's hand shot up immediately. Rinus stared at Rel. There were days when he honestly wondered if Rel were _trying_ to get himself killed. Every high-risk mission there was, Rel volunteered for. . . and he was intently focused on trying to find the yahg leader. _Is it __just__ the adrenaline addiction?_ Rinus wondered. _Or is there something more to it?_

Garrus gave Rel a long look. "Driver or gunner?"

"Either."

Melaani and Seheve had both raised their hands, too. "I feel useless," Melaani offered. "My specialty—getting in close and fighting from right in front of someone—is not particularly useful against the yahg. And unless I double my height and find several more pairs of eyes, I'm not going to be infiltrating their ranks any time soon."

Garrus nodded to her. "Yeah. I'd actually wanted to talk to you about maybe working with some of the refugees. We're in dire need of someone to mediate some of their disputes in the camps, lend a sympathetic ear, and work with their leaders and the aid workers to get things done."

Melaani's face lit up in relief. "I can do that," she said, immediately. "But I _do_ also wish to help with the combat mission."

"You will," Garrus told her, grimly. "We can't trust this mission to just anyone." He looked at Seheve. "You want to ride along with Melaani?"

"This. . . .I can use the guns to good effect," the drell female said, with quiet assurance. "Every yahg we kill in this endeavor, is one less to hunt and feed upon the humans here."

Rinus started to raise his hand, and Garrus shook his head at him, emphatically. "No, Rinus. You're going to be setting the charges and have your hand on the switch to blow the damn thing, if we do this. You can't do that _and_ drive or shoot."

He shrugged. "Fair enough." Rinus looked at his second-brother. "We'll have to find you another driver."

"I can ask Kassa Vilinus," Rel offered. "She should be fully qualified on a Hammerhead, given that she flies the _Tonitrus_ Mark three gunships."

Garrus's mandibles twitched. "Good choice. Go get her, and bring her back here. Liakos and you are both excused for a moment."

Rel's expression froze for a moment, and then he turned and left with Seheve. Rinus sighed as he looked after his second-brother. _He still sees this as being __punished__, I suppose. He's done well. He's an O3. He's commanded special forces troops. But there is a chain of command here, and he doesn't need to hear everything that comes in from Spectre headquarters._ "There's been news?" Rinus asked, quietly.

"A bit. Mindoir is almost done mopping up the last of the batarians. They have three or four hundred warrior-castes in an internment camp near La Garra." Garrus leaned back, rubbing at his eyes. "We might see another few Spectres here in a few weeks because of that. Trouble is, we're going to have to keep the base pretty much locked down. Your old friend _Zorro_ sent word out of batarian space, Rinus. Told us what the _real_ objective on Mindoir was. The Sower relics. And Mordin Narayana."

Rinus blinked, and looked hastily at Lantar, who had actually _growled_ at the words. "Why?" Rinus muttered, confused. "That doesn't make any sense at all! Why would _batarians_ want Mordin Narayana?" Rinus shook his head. "Zorro must have gotten bad information."

Lantar stood up and began to pace. "It's perfectly understandable if you know that Nara is the daughter of Mordin Solus and the Lystheni dalatrass."

Rinus actually _hadn't_ known that. He'd never quite gotten the whole story on how Mordin had a _daughter_ at all, and his eyes widened. He at least knew what the Lystheni were. Melaani, however, was looking confused. Lantar paced back and forth for a moment longer, then added, his face, dark, "So, the batarians have Lystheni working for them. We've known that since Bastion. What we _didn't_ know what that they had uploaded the consciousness of their last dalatrass to an AI. She's still in control of them, though their ranks seem to be . . . depleted. And she wants her daughter back."

"To _un-deplete_ them," Rinus said, very quietly.

"_Spirits of air and darkness, take them to the deepest underworld and leave them to the fires,"_ Lantar said, with great precision. It wasn't just a curse. It was an anathema. "Mordin was a friend. To all of us. Nara's my step-daughter now, even if I haven't been home to finish the _ascio_ rites for the adoption. I would _love_ to go home and take my entire family off of Mindoir and take them someplace out of sight. The trouble is, I'm not sure where might be safer."

"Argus' base," Garrus muttered. "A little lonesome there, but definitely safer." He and Lantar met each others' eyes for a moment. "Say the word, and I'll tell Lilu to evac Ellie and the kids for the time being." Garrus paused. "Or you can have faith in all of us, and in your mate." Garrus suddenly grinned. "She actually fired that pistol you gave her at the batarians that came into the bunker under the villa, _dimicato'fradu._ She's grown. A lot."

Lantar sighed and visibly calmed himself. "Would that I'd been there to see it," he muttered, passing a hand over his fringe. "We'll hold that as an option, Garrus. If there's so much as a _twitch_ out of the batarians, we need to move them."

"Understood." Garrus looked at Melaani and Rinus now. "Also, for your ears only. We're expecting krogan, geth, and even a small contingent of rachni troops in the next week. This will help enormously. With morale, if nothing else."

Rinus exhaled. "Helps my morale, just hearing the words," he acknowledged. "Regular geth, or advanced platforms like the armatures or primes?"

Garrus grinned. "You're _such_ a tech-head, Rinus. You skip right over the regenerating krogan and the rachni and fix right on the geth."

Rinus chuckled, and stretched a little in his seat. "Sorry, Uncle. I'm sure the krogan and the rachni are impressive. But the geth I have a better chance of understanding."

Garrus shook his head. "It'll be a mix of various platforms. Some armatures, for certain. Some hunters and primes, too. We'll see how it all mixes out."

Out of the trailer, into the murky heat of Shanxi's midsummer afternoon, and Rinus looked around. No sign of his second-brother anywhere. Rinus sighed, and headed for the tent he shared with Rel. If nothing else, he could try to get some sleep.

_**Author's note:**__ So tempted to make Rinus' squad name 'Vulcan,' for the god of crafting and blacksmithing. No, not for any __Star Trek__ reasons. :-P 'Hephaestus' is the Greek variant of the name, but it's a little long for radio work._

**Kassa Vilinus, Shanxi, August 1, 2196**

Her tent, shared with two other centurions, was near the makeshift airfield. Usually, in areas near towns, there would be fields. On this planet, there were rice paddies. Lots of them. Kassa and the other pilots had had to fly for miles to find, at last, a landing area that wasn't largely bog-land. As such, they were a little away from the hospital module, but the tent city of the human and turian marine encampment had grown in this direction, to help protect the precious vehicles and the supply dump beside the landing field. To the east of here, there were two or three large refugee camps. When the wind was exactly right, Kassa could smell the excrement from the makeshift latrines in the camps, and grimaced and tried to bear it as stoically as possible. It had to be worse for the people actually living there.

For the moment, Kassa was, for lack of anything better to do, throwing darts at a dartboard. It had been a gift from a human marine on the _Estallus_. She couldn't really use her omnitool. No extranet access. All her books were on a datapad, and she was trying to conserve power to that, too. That didn't really leave much in the way of entertainment options. She was stood down from flying for a day, for safety reasons. Her two fellow pilots had gone off to find something to drink, since they weren't on a twelve-hour rule, but Kassa hadn't felt the urge.

There was a scratch at the door flap, and a low male voice asked, "Centurion Vilinus? Are you in?"

Kassa threw another dart at the board. "Come in," she called, once it had thunked neatly into place. She turned to smile at whoever it was, and then snapped almost to attention as a tall turian form bent his way into the tent. "Commander Velnaran." She glanced around the tent. Her hammock was immaculately made, and all her belongings—armor, guns, datapad, and so on—were stowed neatly in a locker. Her roommates had left their areas just as tidy. Still, she felt as if she'd been caught out, somehow.

"We're off-duty, Vilinus. I didn't come by for an inspection." He sounded tired, and his eyes roved around the room, studying everything, not lingering on any one thing, but constantly scanning. His eyes dropped to her hands. Which still clutched a red-feathered dart. He reached out, and she handed him the dart gingerly. He stepped over to her side, and flicked the dart at the target. Bull's-eye.

"Nice throw."

"Thanks. Good to know the hand-eye coordination isn't shot, at least." His tone was oddly grim. "I have, possibly, a special mission. You're okay driving Hammerheads, right?"

Kassa almost laughed at that. She'd flown the _Tonitrus,_ or Thunder Mark twos and threes, as well as Hammerheads and several other varieties of vehicle for five years now. Something in his manner was too serious for that, however. "Yes," she replied, after a moment. "I'm current on them. Can you tell me anything about the mission?"

"Very little," he told her, crossing to the board and yanking out all of the darts. Quick, controlled movements. She'd loved watching him move in boot camp. He'd been, by far, the most skilled person in their barracks, at sparring, at swimming, climbing, shooting. . . everything. She'd known he was married, however. The knife and the wrist-sheath made him unapproachable. So she and Nicus Abendian, in the brief and memorable period between boot camp and flight school—OCS for him, and not so much for her—had gotten a room together and burned off the frustration of weeks of hard work.

Almost a year ago, for the first time in four years, Kassa had seen Velnaran again. Had been invited, with so many others, to Macedyn for his _tal'mae_ wedding to his human mate. It had been horribly intimidating, actually. Kassa was strong and self-confident, in most situations. But the house had belonged to the _domina_ Kallixta, daughter of the Imperator Ligorus, and to her husband, Rel's brother. Who was now a Spectre. And while Rinus had been surprisingly down-to-earth, and talked to her very much in a centurion-to-centurion manner, and while Kallixta had been a charming hostess and talked to Kassa about flying, Kassa had still found herself absolutely tongue-tied. Everyone else had been an officer or a Spectre, and she'd felt as if she'd blundered high above her designated flight zone, and that her engines were stalling in the thin, rarefied atmosphere in which she found herself.

Velnaran had been different, of course, surrounded by friends and relatives and at his rites, than at boot camp. A bit more formal. Reserved. She'd been surprised that the whole thing was done in such a low-key manner, everyone in dress uniforms. But that was who they _were_, Kassa had figured. When she'd gotten married herself, a brief _commeditor_ marriage while she was aboard the _Catasta_ that had _not_ worked out well, she'd actually wanted to get the hell out of uniform for a day. Wear something that matched her mate's paint. Kelsarus hadn't agreed. He'd seen it as a waste of money, and she'd reluctantly agreed. She'd eventually seen that they hadn't agreed on anything at all, outside of the nest, and had let the contract lapse, with little emotion at all.

And now, here on Shanxi, Velnaran was totally different again. He was competent and aggressive in combat, as she'd expected. Had led his portion of the marines on dozens of strikes so far all through the city. But the humor, the laughter that she remembered from boot camp, was almost completely gone. Even his movements had a sharp edge to them now, she saw, watching as he finished yanking the last of the darts free. He offered her the red ones, keeping the blue for himself. "When you say 'almost nothing,'" Kassa said, after a moment, "does that at least mean _something_ can be said about it?"

She caught a half-smile on the commander's face. "A little. We might get to lure a great many yahg into a trap. And kill them." Velnaran threw the dart at the board, pegging the inner ring. "And it will be a high-risk mission."

Kassa lightly tossed her own first dart. Bull's-eye. "Aren't they all, lately?" She grinned. She was tired, sure, but she absolutely _loved_ flying. And she was actually glad to fly gunships. She got to skim along the ground and fired her vehicle's own weapons. It was an extension of herself. Only fighter pilots could say similar things. A frigate pilot, like Abendian or Kallixta Velnaran? Set up the shots for the gun crews to take. Kassa took her own shots, with missiles and guns. She chose the landing zones, as best she could, for her crews, within certain parameters from her commanders. She picked them up again. She was life and death to her crews in a very real and visceral way. And she was going to _hate_ it when she either grew too old or got too much rank to fly like this anymore. In fact, either would be a great excuse to retire. Go fly search and rescue for local law enforcement, or a medevac hovercraft. Something like that.

She was surprised when Rel just shrugged, and the silence lengthened. Kassa reviewed her words hastily and cursed a little. They'd lost people, and she'd probably just sounded cavalier. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to diminish what people have been doing on the ground—"

"You didn't. You enjoy your work. There's _nothing_ wrong with that." His tone was, briefly, almost savage, and he threw another dart at the board with enough force that the board swung back into the tent's wall.

Again, that wasn't much like him, at least not like the male she remembered. Kassa eyed Velnaran carefully. "Something bothering you, Commander?" She paused. She couldn't really be _friends_ with him. He outranked the _hell_ out of her. But they had known each other for a while. "Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?"

He threw the last dart. Outer ring. Just _beside_ the bull's-eye, but off-center. "No. I—" He stopped, and looked frustrated. Ran a hand over his fringe, and stared at her. They were almost the same height; two, maybe three inches separated their eye levels. "Vilinus, may I ask you a couple of personal questions? This has absolutely no bearing on the mission, and you're free to tell me to go whistle for the spirits."

Kassa chuckled and tossed her two remaining darts. Inner ring, and full bull's-eye. "Hey, look at that. I do better with an opponent than just by myself." She gestured for him to take one of the camp stools, and perched on the edge of her hammock. "Sure. Ask whatever you like. It's not like my life has any embarrassing secrets in it."

He sat down, putting his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands between. He was restless. Agitated. He couldn't sit still. "Am I different now, than I was five years ago?"

Kassa blinked. That wasn't quite what she'd expected. "Well. . . sure. We all are, right?"

"Exactly!" Rel pounced on her words with a certain triumph. "We're supposed to have improved on ourselves. We're supposed to have made ourselves better. Stronger." He waved a hand impatiently. "Sometimes, I can accept what they have to say, and sometimes, I just don't _see_ it."

Kassa stared at him for a moment, the blue eyes vivid behind the yellow paint. "See what?" she asked, after a moment.

Velnaran shook his head, waving it off. Kassa paused, then told him, honestly, "I will say that you're quite a bit on edge, compared to years ago. I remember you laughing, because you had so much fun during the Trial. I think it was either Cadius or Abendian who kept telling you, "Squad leader! Stop having so much fun!" She lowered her voice to an approximation of a male pitch, and put serious indignation into it.

The tall commander shook his head. "Not a lot to laugh at, lately."

"No," she agreed, calmly. "Doesn't mean we shouldn't look for whatever brings a little light in, though." She looked up at him, smiling a little. "So, what other personal questions did you have for me?"

Velnaran looked away for a moment, then back again. "No knife?" he asked, pointing at her left wrist. "After all this time?"

Kassa laughed ruefully. "Oh, I _was_ married. For a year. _Commeditor._ It didn't work out." She snorted. "I was damned relieved the day I washed off his Quaddim Outpost violet and white, and put my Bostra Outpost blue back on. Happy to take my clan name again, too. His wasn't worth keeping." Her tone was more than a little rueful. "Past that, I think I scare most males off." Her smile was tart.

He blinked, clearly taken aback. "Why didn't it last?"

She sighed. _I've asked myself that a thousand times._ "I thought, going into it, that we wanted the same things. Turns out, he and I had very different ideas of what we wanted. He was a tech specialist. I was flying combat missions. He wanted kids, a big family. Something he only mentioned _after_ we'd gotten married. I wanted to stay in, and I wanted to stay in combat rotation. Can't do that if you're pregnant. He wanted to save every penny. I'm not averse to that, but things that matter? You should spend a little money on. His family were all from Quaddim, too, and couldn't _stand_ my family. Most of them had spent their four years of service off that rock, and then scuttled right back under the domes. It was like they were scared of the sky." She sighed. "We spent an entire year fighting. And not the good kind of fighting. I think he was half-relieved, half-hurt when I just let the contract lapse." She chuckled. "We all can't be lucky enough to find the right person and vow _tal'mae_ when we've just finished our first four years."

His expression drained of animation. "Lucky." Velnaran looked away. "Right." He stood. "Thanks, Vilinus. I appreciate the talk."

And with that, he was out the door. Kassa stared after him. _What in the spirits' names was that all about?_ she wondered, confused. And then went back to pull the darts back out of the board, and start throwing them again.

The next day, they got approval for what seemed like a _hell_ of a mission. Kassa's mouth dropped open as she listened to Spectre Rinus explain it. "Go out, find a bunch of Rocam firebiter nests, poke them with a stick, get them to chase after us, have them follow us—hopefully in a coordinated manner—into a trap, and then knock a building down on their heads. And hopefully not atop our own heads."

Rinus nodded, and his mandibles flexed. "That sums it up."

_Spectres,_ Kassa decided, _are insane._ "All right, Spectre. My life insurance is paid up. Let's go get this done."

Rinus actually laughed at that one. "We've got a route pre-planned for you. You'll have several hours to look it over and make changes, along with Melaani and the other Hammerhead drivers, while my techs and I get the final trap site ready with nets and explosives."

"And the yahg aren't going to see the nets and think, _Hmm, this building looks different?_" Kassa asked.

"The nets will actually be pulled up by motorized pulleys we put in place last night," Rinus told her, smiling. "Good thought, though. Was a late addition to our plan. The sixth floor is your exit point. West side of the building. If you absolutely _have_ to, you can shoot your way through the cables elsewhere, but that would compromise the trap. So please, don't, unless you _have_ to do so."

Kassa widened her eyes slightly, and began studying the route, on a freshly-charged datapad, as Rinus and his techs left in a different Hammerhead. One so loaded down with gear, its undercarriage actually scraped the ground.

"Someone going to be calling directions for us?" she asked. "Most of these buildings and landmarks are in ruins. Going to be somewhat difficult navigating without either coordinates or eyes in the sky," she asked, after a while. She was addressing everyone in the little trailer where she sat, with the other gunners and pilots. Rellus Velnaran sat to her right at a small table, reading the same map as she was.

"We'll have two gunships in the air, calling turns for you," a voice said behind her, and Kassa scrambled to her feet as she realized it was Garrus _Vakarian_ who'd answered her question. He waved at her to sit back down, and she did, with a bit of a thump. "Foreseeing any problems?"

"Other than making sure all three Hammerheads reach the structure at more or less the same time, no, sir."

"We've timed the routes carefully," another male voice said, and a male exactly her own height entered the room. He had cold eyes and two violet slashes on each side of his jaw, and also wore Spectre black. _Lantar Sidonis_. _Spirits, I'm in a room with legends._ "Depending on how fast the yahg give chase, we may call for you to slow down or speed up."

Kassa's crop clenched, and then she felt a welcome tingle of excitement. "This . . .is going to be a challenge," she murmured, and settled back in to study the route once more.

**Rellus, Shanxi, August 2, 2196**

It was pleasant to work with Kassa again. She'd always been absolutely reliable in boot camp. He'd delegated the discipline problem that was Septima Scortian to her without any qualms at all, and Kassa had more or less _sat_ on that female until the end of boot camp. Rel pulled himself up into the familiar turret of the Hammerhead and strapped himself in place. He had two thousand rounds of ammunition available, and the Mark Two Hammerheads also had several small _Sequiras_ rockets that the pilot _could_ launch from the front of the vehicle. They were currently designated Team Two, and they would be scooping up three yahg nests on the south side of town that had been giving the marines fits as they attempted to make a push to the west from already secured zones on the southeast. Team One, Melaani and Seheve, was taking three nests to the northwest and north, including one in the historic old town district. Team Three, headed by a human marine Rel had worked with, long ago, by the name of Macready, was slated to pick up two yahg nests to the west, in the textile and residential districts there. The stadium and its parking garage were just at the northeast side of the heart of downtown Xi'an. As such, the western and northern teams had a longer drive to get _to_ their targets, but a shorter drive to draw them in; Rel and Kassa had a short drive to get to their targets, but would have to keep the yahg's attention for much, much longer. "You really think just firing on them is going to be enough?" Rel asked, dubiously, over the radio.

Garrus snorted. "Your first-brother thinks of _everything_. We've taken blood samples from various human refugees and sprinkled each Hammerhead, lightly, with that scent. Might not attract their regular fighters, but their stealth units, the hunters? That'll get their attention. And where they go, the warriors tend to follow." There was a pause. "Spirits be with you, second-son of my sister." That, on a private band, just for Rel's ears. The words buoyed him. He might have, on some level, somehow, _failed_, but he and Garrus were still kin. Still family. Still had the same spirit.

"And stay with you. All right. Whenever you're ready, Vilinus."

Kassa got the Hammerhead moving. It was definitely different rocking over the terrain with a genuine pilot at the stick. Kassa saw terrain obstacles not as things to be gone around, but as things to launch over the top of. 'First target area coming up, dead ahead," one of the gunship pilots called over the radio. "Train station. Two hundred yards, Vilinus."

"I see it," she replied crisply, and Rel got the guns ready.

"Get their attention," he told her when they were just a little closer. "Fire a rocket right into the base of the elevated train tracks beside the building." They were, technically, supposed to be avoiding property damage like this, but Rel knew they _really_ needed the yahg to chase them.

Kassa's fingers keyed something on the aerogel screens in front of her, arming the first missile, and then it shot away, its release actually pushing the Hammerhead backward momentarily. The missile struck and exploded at the base of one of the supports for the bullet train tracks ahead of them, collapsing the closest parts of the structure with an enormous crash. "I think that got their attention," Kassa called back to him.

Rel could see that much. Yahg were boiling out of the building, weapons in hand, and were opening fire on the Hammerhead. "Oh, look," he murmured, returning fire with the turret gun, feeling the heavy recoil shake the entire vehicle. "They _do_ know how to use guns. And here I thought they were just shiny sticks to them."

"Don't underestimate them," Kassa warned, moving the Hammerhead out of the line of fire, bouncing it up onto a nearby rooftop, while Rel continued to fire. "Question is, are they going to chase us on foot, or by vehicle? Spirits, are they going to chase us at all?"

"Back us up. Let's see if they move towards us."

She slid the Hammerhead backwards on the roof,, and sure enough, the yahg moved up. "Next target is two miles north and four miles east," Rel noted. "Let's see how much they want to chase." He spun the turret around so that he was facing backwards, and Kassa hurtled them off the roof, and she started heading north at a moderate pace, letting him shoot as they went.

"What's it look like up there?" she called into the radio.

"We've got vehicles emerging from your yahg compound, Vilinus," one of their spotters announced.

"Team One is on approach for their first nest. Team Three is on approach for their first nest, too." Other voices, calm and professional.

"Team Two is on the move," Kassa reported, and headed them north at a faster clip, as Rel continued to fire at the vehicles that were now moving out into the rubble-choked street to follow them.

"They're not even stopping to put out the fires that the rocket started around their base!" Rel called up to Kassa.

"They might have left a couple of friends behind," she replied, sounding dubious.

"Or they figure one building is as good as another, and don't care what's destroyed," he countered, still firing. Short, controlled bursts. Trying to convince the yahg to stay on their tail. "They're speeding up."

"I can see that," Kassa noted, calmly, and spun the Hammerhead to the right, just as their spotter gunship relayed over the radio, "You're coming up on an eastward turn. Yeah, that's got it."

Now they were barreling through what had once been a residential area. Apartments looked like apartments pretty much across the galaxy, but the individual houses had high, peaked roofs, and what had been lovely gardens out in front, now brown and dying from lack of water and neglect. Many of them were surprisingly intact, but others had clearly had their doors torn off their hinges, the windows broken, or had burned down. Every third or fourth house was destroyed, like a rotting or missing tooth in an otherwise unblemished smile. "Coming up on it. It's a Buddhist temple," the spotter informed them. "Had a golden roof, according to the old aerial pictures."

Had, was indeed the operative term. The temple had been hit by yahg heavy weapons, probably in the first day or two, and now lacked about half of its roof. The semi-collapsed building still had intact lower floors, however, which was apparently why the yahg were still using it as a base for this neighborhood. The Hammerhead's shields were taking a beating from the yahg still chasing them, but they couldn't actually speed up at the moment; they needed to attract the attention of the second nest. "Kassa?"

"Can't fire a rocket at that structure without bringing the whole thing down. You'll have to use the guns."

"The guns are what're keeping our friends back there, _back there_," Rel noted, tightly.

"I'll handle them," Kassa told him, and bounded them atop a nearby roof again, skating them in a wide circle around the temple, while Rel mentally apologized to any spirits that might call the building home, and opened fire, taking out windows all around.

Soon, yahg were emerging from that building, too. "You think they know how that we're bait?" Rel asked, tautly. There was a metallic taste in his mouth. Pure adrenaline. He tried to tamp down on it, but it was damned difficult. He'd fought every single day for the last six weeks or so, and while he could feel himself starting to burn out a bit, there was still a knife's edge to it, keen and sweet.

"They _have_ to hunt us," Kassa told him, practically. "If they don't, we'll just come back and hit them again."

"Team One, what's your status?" a voice crackled on the radio.

"The first nest is following us, in its entirety," Seheve replied, her voice calm as ever. "I would estimate twenty-five to fifty yahg, in vehicles. They appear. . .agitated."

"Team Three?"

"Moving out of residential west into the textile district, heading for the factory on our map," Macready reported, his Scottish accent getting thicker. "_Agitated_ is a good word for it. They like chasing, but they like t'be the ones that make the decision aboot that."

"We've got vehicles coming out the of temple area," Kassa reported, and launched the Hammerhead back down to street level. "Moving north and then east for the inner ring of the Xi'an beltway."

That residential district was heavily contested. Alliance and turian marines had bogged down there for weeks, fighting against yahg. Rel knew they'd pulled most of their troops out, but there was always the possibility that someone hadn't gotten the message. "Turn right," their spotter directed, and Kassa skimmed around a corner, and accelerated rapidly, heading for the tall apartment building that was their last stop.

"Are we sure there are no humans in there?" Kassa asked tightly, as they were closing the distance to the twelve-story building.

"Let's put it this way," a human voice, one of their spotters replied, grimly. "I've flown circles around that building for two weeks. Only life signs in there are yahg. If there are humans in there, they're either wearing biosign maskers, or they're on hooks."

Rel's crop had, for better or worse, stopped clenching at the thought. After a while, you simply became anesthetized to horror. He'd even heard human and turian marines trading grim jokes about it. The turians were, cheerfully enough, calling the humans "meat sticks" or "appetizers." The humans had, with equal gallows humor, referred to the turians as "poison." It was true, too. No turian could expect to be taken prisoner. They were simply killed. There were occasional reports of particularly effective turians having their heads removed and kept as trophies by the yahg that killed them, but humans at least had the faint hope of being rescued if captured. The yahg knew that they couldn't eat the turians. They knew better than to try, apparently.

Rel kept firing at the vehicles behind them. He could hear the _beep beep beep_ of their shields complaining of incipient overload, and put it out of his mind. He found himself wondering, as he watched the ammunition counter tick down past the one thousand mark, if the yahg stayed on the galactic scene, if humans would be eaten into extinction, or if, through cultural and evolutionary stress, they'd become more warlike, more akin to turians. If they'd be wiped out, other than the hybrids, who had levo _and_ dextro components to their physiology, and thus, would be equally poisonous to the predatory yahg. _950 rounds left._ "Kassa, we've got to get moving." Rel didn't even realize he'd addressed her by first name.

"In range now." Kassa fired a rocket at the base of the ruined apartment building, from which yahg were already emerging in vehicles. "Looks like their radio contact already alerted them. Hold on. We're going to have to get out of here a little creatively." She avoided their previously planned route of a northwards leading avenue, since it was blocked with a yahg vehicle, and launched their Hammerhead over a wrought-iron fence, bounding and bouncing between several rows of condominiums. The heavier, ground-bound vehicles behind them simply crashed _through_ the fence, knocking it over, and creaked after them, firing away. "Hey, Kassa? They're bringing heavy weapons to bear. You might want to start dodging."

The first heavy shell launched towards them, and Kassa did just that, leaping left, onto a rooftop, and continuing on the diagonal, hopping up one more story, and then skating down the roof, leaping a debris-filled swimming pool, and then ducking off down another row of condos. "They still behind us?" she asked, sounding cheerful.

"Yeah. Got a building or two between us while the shields come back up, though. That's a help."

"I aim to please," she replied, and they skidded off to the north. Their route actually took them through the center of Shanxi, through the ruined skyscrapers. None of them were on fire anymore, having burned themselves, out, but many of them had toppled, and those that remained were in precarious condition. There were no clear streets at all. Everyplace there was, was choked with rubble and ash and fallen, twisted girders. Kassa bounced and leaped along each of them and paused periodically to let Rel shoot at the slower vehicles. Sometimes, she swung around and fired a rocket at them, too. Just to keep them angry and willing to chase.

"Team Two, what's your status?"

"We have a full convoy of vehicles behind us," Kassa replied, her voice cool once more, as she spun them back to the north, and ducked off under a skyscraper, the top of which actually had fallen into its companion beside it, forming a grim, blackened bridge. "I make it twenty to twenty-five vehicles. We're ten minutes from the target zone."

"Good. Speed it up. Teams One and Three are ahead of you."

"Will do." Kassa gunned the engine, and settled into more or less a straight line, only weaving side to side to avoid fire. Their shields were again protesting, and this time, at least one bullet punched through the plasteel of the turret, and fizzled against Rel's personal shields.

"Taking too many hits here," Rel called to her.

"I know. Almost there."

And there the stadium and its parking garage were. "We've got a problem," Melaani reported on the radio. "The yahg vehicles are too tall to fit into the building. We came in the west entrance. Team Three, lead the yahg in from the south entrance. Team One, take the east. We can't let them see that they're all being led to the same place."

"You think they're not communicating by radio, Spectre?" Kassa shot back.

"I'm _hoping_ that they won't realize it's the same structure if they don't see each other. Right now, they're all hopping out and following us on foot. Let's pray none of them smell anything."

"They shouldn't," Rinus' voice cut in over the radio. "We piled garbage around the entire lower level. I risked one sniff-check, and about fell over, myself."

_You __do__ think of everything, __fradu__,_ Rel thought, admiringly. _ I guess that might be what makes you a Spectre._

Kassa changed course, taking a side road as their spotters relayed the new route, and then headed for the west side of the parking structure. Several more bullets broke through the plasteel enclosure at the top, and Rel risked a glance at his ammo counter. _250. S'kak._

Their Hammerhead tore through the parking turnstile and roared up into the parking garage. There were few vehicles inside; the initial attacks on Shanxi had occurred at night, after all. The building around them _shook_ as a yahg vehicle behind them didn't stop in time, and its roof impacted the ceiling of the floor they were on. "Stop at the top of the ramp," Rel called down to Kassa, and she obliged, rocking to a halt just before the turn from level G to level 1. Rel fired down at the yahg vehicle and the ones past the logjam, and then told her, "Go!"

As they turned the corner, Rel caught a glimpse of the yahg popping out of hatches and moving in on foot. There were over a hundred yahg, he knew, all heavily armed. They could, with their weapons, tear into the Hammerhead's shields and armor, and, considering how low their ammo load currently was, would probably win in short order, if there wasn't actually more of a plan.

"Slow down," Rinus' voice came over the radio. "Lure them _all_ in."

Rel swore under his breath as the yahg rounded the corner, firing up at them again, and their shields started to falter again. At least the parking garage was an enormous structure, and the sound of gunfire and ricochets in the distance was probably masked by their own gunfire. _S'kak. Under a hundred bullets._ "Almost out of ammo," Rel reported. "We've got to move."

"Heading for the sixth floor," Kassa replied.

"Nets going up on all sides except the west central section," Rinus replied. "All yahg seem to be in the building."

Kassa tore around corner after corner now, and Rel could see the yahg running after them. Some were agile enough to leap up onto pillars and fire after them, but most were huge and stolid, like krogan or elcor. "Shields down," Rel reported, for what felt like at least the fifth time, and ducked his head as the plasteel bubble around him gave up the ghost and shattered entirely. There was wind blowing all around him now, and his finger on the trigger was locked in place, uselessly, the chamber dry-firing once, and then locking down. An alert blared in red across the screen in front of him, as plasteel fragments slid and slipped all through the gun compartment, saying _Ammunition Count: 0000._ Rel glared at the screen. _That part, I noticed_.

He slipped out of his restraining harness and dropped into the Hammerhead's main compartment, grabbing for a strap and lurching into a different seat. "Floor six!" Kassa shouted, and just as Rel fumbled the harness into place, he could see the first vehicle, ahead of them, launch into space. Then the second. There were yahg on all sides of them now, and Rel reached for his assault rifle, looking up at the shattered bubble of the turret above him as there was a sudden, heavy _thump_. "We've got a passenger!" he called, and fired up into the turret where he'd _just_ been sitting, and Kassa raced for the last open area.

"Net's coming up!" Rinus called into the radio. Rel could barely hear it; he was firing into the glowing eight eyes of a yahg face peering down at him, at the questing arm reaching down into the passenger hold of the Hammerhead. . . and then his stomach dropped out of him as they boosted over the low concrete wall and were, for a moment, in free-fall. The yahg, already ducking away from the storm of bullets Rel was sending its way, lost its grip, thank the spirits, and went flying. Rel could feel the tap of the inertial dampening, and heard Kassa report, "We're clear!"

"Fire in the hole," Rinus replied, and Rel was astounded by how utterly calm his brother's voice was. He sat up and looked out the window in the rear hatch, and saw the parking garage shake. Clouds of dust and smoke poured out of the bottom, and then, as if in slow motion, it collapsed. Then the layer above it, and above that, and above that, faster and faster. Pancaking down, and in seconds, only a huge ball of smoke and dust was visible. Debris and dirt pelted the exterior of their Hammerhead, and then they touched down, with no more impact that a feather.

Several hundred yards away, they were in a safe zone. Rel whooped loudly, a hunt-cry, and tore off his safety harness, standing to lean into the cockpit and pound on Kassa's shoulders. "You are one _hell_ of a pilot, you know that?"

"I do, actually." Kassa's tone was cheerful. "But thank you for noticing."

They were able to confirm, in fairly short order, four hundred yahg killed in that exercise. The same trick wouldn't work twice, of course, but they'd released a couple of choke points. The marines would be able to take the southeast, north, and northwest areas of the city. . . assuming their reinforcements arrived soon.

That night, they were allowed a celebratory meal. Double rations, and for the turians, bonemarrow stew. Rel felt like a starving _acrocanth_ as he ate, barely able to wait for it to cool down a bit, burning his mouth in his haste. The only comfort was that everyone else around him was eating in the same way. He consciously tried to slow down. To not eat like one of the yahg, tearing out the guts of a human victim. And as soon as the image crossed his mind, it was suddenly much easier to slow down. His hands were still shaking, however. They all badly needed the nutrients, however. They'd been on short rations for a week, waiting for another supply drop. But tonight, there was food. And there was even drink. Brandy and _malae_ wine, for those who wanted it.

Rel grabbed a bottle of brandy, and headed for his brother's tent. Rinus, however, was nowhere to be found. A note on the door said merely, _On the __Estallus.__ Back by 23:00._

Rel sighed. He couldn't fault his brother for seeking out his mate. In fact, between the adrenaline load of the day—hell, of the past six _weeks_—the victory today, the food uncoiling warmly in his stomach, he was torn between enormous frustration and longing for Dara. He was angry at her for not being here, but knew that if she _were_ here, he'd forgive her _anything_, if only she'd let him _touch_ her. Hold her. Bite her. Hold her warm body under his and let him give them both pleasure. He was certain he still could give her joy in the nest, and it was only stubbornness that was making her resist. And that's when the frustration kicked in again. She _wasn't_ here. To make up with, to talk to, to mate with, to _anything_. Some of that frustration trickled in the direction of the Spectres, even in the direction of Garrus. They had given the orders, and turian fleet doctrine usually _didn't_ divide couples. They usually served together, one way or another. And of course, some of the frustration flowed Dara's direction, too. Because if she hadn't made such a _fuss_, the Spectres _wouldn't_ have separated them. She'd be _here_. Where she belonged, with him. Not off on Omega.

The faint insistence from the back of his brain, that _she_ was a Spectre, and that if anything, maybe he should have been sent to be by her side, nagged at him, too. But that was a quieter voice. A shame-faced one. Rel sighed and turned away from the door. And found himself walking through the neat paths between tents and trailers, almost aimlessly. Acknowledging startled salutes from various sentries, until he found himself near the airfield again. In the last tinges of twilight, he could see the curving bulk of the _Estallus_ on the ground, alongside several other SR ships. A dozen supply ships were being off-loaded, even at this hour, and from this distance, the noise and the cursing and the beeping of the equipment was lost on the sighs of the wind through the tall stems of the rice paddies to the south of the field, and the long grass to the west and north.

"It's a hell of a sight, isn't it?" a voice said from behind him, and Rel whirled, free hand automatically reaching for a weapon. Kassa Vilinus raised both hands apologetically. "Sorry. I should have made more noise as I approached. At least there's wind today to blow away the stink of the refugee camps. . .and the rice paddies."

"Hadn't realized that they'd smell much."

"They use natural fertilizers. This hillside usually reeks, but I like coming here to look at all the ships." She sat down in the long grass, and, after a moment, Rel did the same. "You carrying a bottle around for any particular reason?"

"Went looking for my brother to celebrate. With the _Estallus_ on the ground, however, I think he went in search of his mate." Rel pulled the cork from the brandy bottle in one smooth tug, and offered her the bottle. "I was hoping he'd have cups. I'm short of those."

She accepted the bottle, set it to her teeth, and poured a swig into her mouth, tipping back her head before swallowing. Rel couldn't help but note the long line of her throat. Absolutely bitable.

Kassa handed the bottle back to him now. "See? One of the few benefits of not being an officer is that if you're lacking in perfect manners, no one actually minds."

Rel snorted, and took a sip, himself, feeling the brandy burn his throat and tuck down warmly into his crop. "Rinus always said much the same thing. He's also the one who kept saying he didn't want to be in charge of anything."

"Oh, spirits, no. Who wants to take all the blame?" Kassa snorted genially.

"And yet, as a centurion, he was in charge of his entire gun-crew. He had full responsibility for them. I'm beginning to think they hand out a handbook full of lies to centurions when you're assigned your new rank. And foremost is to take charge and responsibility, and deny, vigorously, that you want it at all." Rel took another sip, and handed the bottle back. "You did a damned fine job today, you know that?"

Kassa took another long sip, and Rel was, again, fascinated by the way the muscles in her throat worked. "Thanks. Was a nice change of pace from a _Tonitrus_. Which, don't get me wrong, I like."

Rel looked at her. Her face, in its indigo paint, was almost invisible in the darkness, other than the white stripe along her nose. "What do you like about it?"

She shrugged. "Always wanted to fly. Nicus Abendian, remember him? Was the same way. But I'm glad I fly dropships and gunships. I like the fact that my crews rely on me. I like flying close to the ground, where I can see the terrain changing. Can take out enemies with my own guns, not relying on a gun crew to do it for me. I like getting my people where they need to go. And I like being the one they rely on to get them out again. I'd rather it be me, than some of the _s'kak_-heads and screw-ups I've seen in similar positions, you know?" She turned her head, and handed the bottle back. "Sorry. That was probably more than you wanted to hear."

Rel shook his head, and watched a flight crew member, far below, waving glowing sticks, guiding a ship into position on the rough field. Then, reflexively, he looked back over his shoulder. The rice paddies seemed like they'd be a great ambush place for yahg. Flat, but with chest-deep bogs for a human. A yahg could crouch in the mud and move in slowly. Might not even be detected visually without a stealth device, in this darkness. "Don't worry about it. Nice hearing about someone else's job for a bit." He continued to scan the darkness for a moment.

Kassa cleared her throat. "You know, there _are_ sentries back there. Motion detectors, too. And they're doing their jobs. If you don't think this area's secure, there are lots of tents over that way. Lots of people back that way celebrating," Kassa pointed out. "I think the humans might be dancing. Singing, certainly."

Rel shook his head. "I came this way for the dark and for the quiet," he said, quietly. "This was just one successful trap. Not worth all that."

She shook her head. "People need to blow off a _little_ steam." Kassa turned her head in the dark. "You seem to be in need of that in the worst way."

Maybe it was the brandy. Maybe it was the constant fighting, without any relief in sight. Maybe it was the fact that she was a strong, aggressive female. No visible bite scars on that smooth throat, clean shoulders. Rel leaned forward a little, his lip-plates slightly open, pulling the air in through mouth and nose alike. Seining her scent out of the air, tasting her as well as smelling her. Rich, sweet, female scent. Not like Dara's at all. Muskier. No hint of human soap or shampoo or deodorant. Just warm scales, a hint of some sort of cream used to keep them supple and clear.

It could have been all of those things, or none of them. Rel realized his teeth were inches from Kassa's shoulder. Warmth, _iunkunditas_ flowing through him. Through her, too, no doubt. She smelled _wonderful_, and his little—his mate had told him she needed time apart. To 'think.' Whatever the hell that meant. Rel leaned forward a fraction of an inch more, and found his teeth sinking into Kassa's shoulder. A surprised intake of breath from her, and a growl from him, mingling with the sighing wind in the grasses.

And then he swore, mentally, a reflexive surge of guilt pouring through him. He was _tal'mae_-bound. Biting Kassa not only dishonored Dara, but dishonored Kassa. Dishonored himself. Rel pulled back. "I'm sorry," Rel rasped out, and stood. "I have no right."

He turned to walk away, quickly, and Kassa snarled after him, "What the _hell_, Velnaran?"

He spun around, and Kassa was already on her own feet, face inches from his. "Don't get in my face right now," Rel warned. Frustration-anger, shame-anger, arousal, a long, hard day, and _iunkunditas._ All at once.

"I wasn't the one who bit _you_," she growled, shoving his shoulder with one hand. Kassa was strong for a female, and the shove, while it didn't stagger him, he certainly felt. "What the hell?" she repeated. "We were sitting here, sharing a friendly drink, and then _you_ changed the rules?"

"I didn't change any damned rules." Rel snarled right into her face. "I walked away."

Both of them were breathing hard. Eyes locked with each others', just barely visible in the dim light. Rel was fighting down the desire to lock his hands on her shoulders and turn her around. His fists were clenched. Kassa's eyes glittered in the dim lights from the camp behind them. And then he leaned forward, and bit her again. Just under the hinge of the jaw, and her hands snaked up, locked on _his_ shoulders for a moment, talons digging in. _So damned good_, was his only coherent thought. . . and then she pushed him away. His teeth rasped along scales and then only cut air, and he turned away, sharply.

"If you weren't wed," Kassa growled, "I would be biting _you_ right now."

_Damnit. Damnit. Damnit._ Rel tipped his head back and wanted to howl, but choked it back. "Some marriage. She wants a divorce."

"Wait, _what_?" Kassa snapped out the words in total confusion. "You're _tal'mae_-wed. The most that can happen is separation and polite disregard for the situation."

"Tell _her_ that." Rel growled and started to turn away, lowering his head to run a hand over his fringe. "Kassa. . . I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"But you _did_." Her hand landed on his shoulder, and he froze in place, body singing with tension. "What makes you say your mate wants to end the contract?"

"Because she's not _here!_" It was a hiss. "Because she wanted time to _think_. Because she's off playing Spectre on Omega and should have been here with me, but because she wanted separation. . . to _think_ . . . they _let_ her. Which conveniently starts the whole separation process for human divorce." Pure frustration, boiling over, as he turned back towards her.

Kassa put one hand on each of his shoulders. "That's . . . a mouthful. But that's all _logistics_. Velnaran. . . .Rellus. . . " It was the first time she'd _ever_ said his first name. "Saying she wants time to think doesn't mean she wants to end things. It means just that. She needed time and space to reflect. Believe me. I've been there."

"And _you_ wound up letting the contract lapse."

"Yes. But if Kelsarus had been willing to compromise with me, even a little bit, to have stood up to his family a mite, and have not kept telling me I needed to get a different assignment so I could start having kids, I _might_ have stayed longer." Kassa's mandibles flexed in the dim light. "Rellus. What's wrong? If I'm good enough to _bite_, surely I'm good enough to _listen_."

Rel hesitated. The smell of her was still so damned enticing. "She says, what my relatives say. Two things in the same breath. First, that I've changed. That they think I have adrenaline addiction. Combat-lust." It was the less-polite term. "And then, out of the other side of their mouths, they tell me that I haven't changed enough. That I've stagnated. Using the same tools—"

Kassa put a talon on his lip-plates. "Wait. There's what _she_ says, and there's what _they_ say. Leave _them_ out of it. What does she say?"

Rel closed his eyes. Felt the all-too-familiar misery and guilt and anger well up again. "That she can't live with me anymore. That she's spent five years being my safety catch, and that she can't do it any more." Frustration, again. "That's what her father said she could be for me. He said it to my face. That if I felt the. . . the hunter come alive in me, when I was among civilians, that I should take her hand and hold onto it."

Kassa sighed. "Oh, spirits. You _are_ having a time of it." She looked up at him. "And what's this about adrenaline-addiction?"

Rel winced. He'd gotten carried away. It had been simply such a relief to tell someone about his anger and the reasons for it, and _not_ have that person immediately take the other side, that he'd said more than he should have. "They think I have it." Rel looked down and away, and then back up again. "Some days, I believe them. The rest, I don't."

Kassa put a hand to his mandible. Soft touch. Rel half-closed his eyes. It was agony and ecstasy at once. She was _touching_ him, and he wanted, at that moment, nothing more than to pull her down into the long grass with him. To discover the rich panoply of her scents and tastes. She was aggressive, she was strong, and she was a friend, and he _couldn't_. "That would explain a lot," Kassa told him, her voice quiet.

"How's that?" His own voice was rough.

"You once almost gutted a female for trying to toy with you in your sleep," Kassa reminded him. "You had to have had just as much wanting-ache then as you do now. But then, nothing could have induced you to accept so much as a bite." Her talons were lightly tracing the edge of his mandibles. . . "Rellus. . . if I thought the desire were real? If I thought it more than a ghost of battle-driven need? I might be tempted to say yes. But surely, I'm worth more than that. And so are you."

Rel reached up and caught her hand. "Then why are you still touching me?" That was a growl.

Kassa's breath caught. He could hear it. "I don't know. I don't seem quite able to stop," she admitted. "You were untouchable in boot camp. A spirit who'd taken flesh. Laughing and happy and married and as distant as the sky itself." She smiled, faintly. "I've always wanted to touch the sky."

He looked down at her. Wanted to be able to say something that meant as much. And couldn't match it. She'd been happy and efficient and useful in boot camp, and he'd been as oblivious to her as the sky was to the birds that flew in it. "I thought you and Abendian—"

"Oh, we did. Two weeks between boot camp and his OCS and my flight school. Candidate hotel room infested with firebiters, and we enjoyed every minute of it." Kassa's mandibles flexed. "He wasn't the love of my life. Enjoying his company didn't mean I didn't look at other males. No commitments. There couldn't be, not with one of us an officer and one of us enlisted, _and_ in the same specialization." That was the death-knell, right there. Officer/enlisted wasn't a problem. Officer/enlisted in the same chain of command? Absolutely was.

"Kassa—" Rel didn't know what to say. He caught her hand in his, and turned it over. Bit the inside of her wrist, subtle scrape of teeth, making her gasp again. He could smell her body's readiness. Sense his own. And besides . . . wouldn't Dara take her first chance to do _exactly_ this with someone else?

As soon as he thought the words, he knew their source. The snake inside of him, hissing out its venom. Whispering to him that Dara would surely be curled up in Eli's arms right now—and nevermind that Eli was his sister's husband. Or maybe in Linianus'. Or would, spirits help him, have found Sky someplace and curled up against the rachni's carapace. Taking comfort in anything and anyone except for _him_.

His more rational side tried to discount the last, in particular. Pointed out that healthy people had friends. More friends than just one. Didn't isolate themselves to just themselves and their mate. That didn't matter to the flood of venom in his thoughts.

What did matter, however, was two-fold. Kassa was right. He hadn't given her any thought at all before this moment, except as a friend, a distant one, at that, and a fellow soldier. Suddenly turning towards her like this would be little more than using her. Assuaging the need, the hunger. And, additionally, she'd said something else there that was important. _No commitments._ Kassa had no commitments, but _he_ did. Even _thinking_ of taking her was wrong. He'd given his word. Even if Dara's word was no better now than trash and offal, _his_ meant something.

Didn't it?

Rel closed his eyes. Bit the inside of her wrist again, harder. Let her feel the sting of her teeth. "How the hell would I know if it's battle-born or not?" he finally asked, feeling absolutely lost.

Kassa's other hand reached up to stroke his fringe. "You're not sure you'd _know_?" she asked, sounding incredulous.

"Everything feels real to _me_," he said, after a moment, rocking his head back again to stare up at the uncaring stars. "I used to feel my spirit and hers touch. I thought I still did. She tells me she thinks my spirit is lost. My family tells me I need to find my spirit again. If I can't trust what I feel, how can I know _anything_?"

Kassa sighed. "Sounds like you and your spirit may not have been on speaking terms for a while," she offered. Warm, practical, and full of good humor, even now, as her frustration started to abate.

"How do you always stay so. . . "

"Calm?"

"Yeah."

Kassa chuckled, a low, rich sound. "My mother is, believe it or not, a spirit-caller." A spirit-caller in these modern times, was something of a cross between a shaman and a psychiatrist. They ministered to illnesses of the spirit and helped bind people and families together, in ways that the ministers of the Law could not.

Rel went still. "You're kidding me."

"No, I'm really not. Didn't do a lot of good at home. She was so busy out ministering to everyone else, that she never had much time for home." Kassa's voice was glum. "I'm the oldest of five children. My first-brother is the _youngest_, at eight. And my mother has been through contracts with four different males, and half of us wear different clan-paint. My mother is a _good_ woman, Rel. She cares. She really does. But she's better at fixing other people than at fixing herself. That more or less left me to take care of everything at home. Going to boot camp? Sitting on people like Septima? Was a damned _relief_." She chuckled again.

"So you've seen . . . .adrenaline-addiction before."

"_Mada_ rarely brought her work home with her. But yes. In the fleet, I have." Kassa's fingers stroked the side of his face. "You do seem to have a few of the classic symptoms. But I know enough of spirit-calling to know that if you find a way to be calm, at peace, and listen for it, your spirit is still out there. It can still come to you, even from across the stars. You just have to make yourself a welcoming place for it again. And then you'll know what's real again."

Rel sighed. The words were almost seductive in their simplicity. "And how do I do that?"

She smiled a little sadly. "That's the trick. It's different for everyone." One more light pat on his cheek. "I find going somewhere quiet and staring at candle flames is actually very calming for me. Just relaxing the body, muscle by muscle, and watching the flames dance and flicker. But that's me." Kassa tipped her head to the side a little. "Want to come with me and give it a try?"

Rel sighed. "Doesn't sound like it could possibly help," he replied, with a shrug. "I've never been one for. . . meditation."

"Doesn't mean it's going to _hurt_, either." Kassa gave his shoulder a shove. "Come on. It's getting cold out here."

Of course, it was summer on Shanxi's northern hemisphere. It was eighty degrees Fahrenheit at 20:00. It could only have been considered cool by turian or drell standards. But Rel found himself smiling faintly, and followed after Kassa, back into the main camp.

**Seheve, August 5, 2196**

Seheve, after the mad drive through the ruined streets and wrecked buildings of Xi'an, had been unable to enter into the celebration with the others. Yes, they'd killed the yahg. An appreciable proportion of the yahg left in the city, in fact. . . . perhaps about five percent. And every yahg they killed was one more not left to hunt and kill the civilians, or the soldiers. And yet, she couldn't really _rejoice_. It had been a clever use of tactics, of the psychology of the yahg, who preferred, above all else, apparently, to hunt and to kill.

And yet, there was a feeling inside of her, that it was inappropriate to rejoice. That the only correct response to so much death and killing was sorrow. She'd never taken joy in her work for the Master. Never seen it as anything other than a task that required doing.

And now, the words of the Prothean language still fizzed in her mind. Bubbled forth unexpectedly with ideas she'd never had before. Landmines of the psyche, really. And the visions of the lives of the Keepers occasionally poured through her, until Seheve wasn't always sure who she was, herself. She'd spent _years_ effacing herself. Driving out any part of her _self_, letting herself be filled with the Master's will. She'd only just begun to grasp who Seheve Liakos was once more, when all the memories of so many lives had poured through her. Lives spent in unthinking duty to the machines. As she'd spent hers in unthinking duty to the Master's will. Life after life after life, rolling backwards until the earliest memories. Being captured. Altered. Changed. And before that. Being _alive_. Sorrows, joys, life after life after life. So precious. So fleeting, as they fell down into darkness at the end, only remnants and ashes caught by those who followed. _If I still must kill, let it be to preserve these things. To preserve life, to protect it_. And so she'd worked at it. . . .and regretted that there seemed to be no way to reach these savage creatures, for whom all other life was merely. . . meat. _And yet, the batarians must have reached them, somehow. And knowing batarians, presented them with a bargain. What was it? All these worlds are yours for the taking? Just leave us to ours? Surely the batarians would realize that a species such as these yahg are an imperfect weapon, that can certainly turn against the one who holds it?_

Melaani had caught her, watching the others from the shadows. "Come on. Come help me in the refugee camps tomorrow," the asari told her. "You're far more effective in close combat with these behemoths than I am, but at least I get to feel useful helping people."

Seheve smiled faintly. "It would be a welcome thing, to help others for a time. To do more than simply kill and kill and kill."

And so they'd left for the refugee camp in the morning, and every day thereafter for some time. But the camps weren't so far away that they couldn't see the ships descending on August fifth. "What are those?" Seheve asked, her dark eyes wide. "I have never seen such before." They were gray-black, and shone in the sun, and had a peculiar curve to them. The bodies were segmented, in fact, and reminded her of insects, in some fashion.

Melaani looked up, and she shivered for a moment. "Those, I think, are geth transports. They're being flanked in by turian fighters, to hold off the heavy weapons fire from the yahg here on the surface."

Seheve nodded, and pointed to several other ships. Several were large and a bit blocky in shape; slow-moving, and not aerodynamic at all, they were clustered at the heart of the formation. "And those?"

Melaani chuckled. "Something else rarely seen. Elcor tribe ships. They can carry an entire elcor clan. . . and elcor clans are very, very large. I believe those all have Elder markings on them."

And then, as the rest of the ships landed, a single crystalline-looking ship appeared in the sky, looking more _extruded_ than build, and came in for a landing, too. Melaani had gone completely still. Seheve looked at her. "Spectre Melaani? Are you well?"

"I. . . I've only ever seen those in the vids of the Rachni Wars," Melaani admitted, her voice a little shaky. "It's one thing to share my mind with Spectre Sky. He's. . . he's not what you expect, after growing up on Thessia, and sharing the memories, passed down from matriarch to matriarch, of the wars. But that. . . .that's a rachni troop transport. It will be _crawling_ with soldiers and workers, at the very least. Perhaps even one or two brood warriors."

They were at the top of a low hill, looking down at the landing field, as dozens of geth ships landed neatly. Within feet of each other. In utter, perfect precision. Their hatches slid back, and, first, the geth humanoid platforms began to march down the gangplanks, gleaming single eyes visible even from across the field. More and more humans began to gather around Melaani and Seheve now, watching, pointing, and murmuring among themselves. Tall geth primes emerged. . . and then the huge geth armatures began to unfold themselves as cargo bay doors opened, as well. Soon, thousands of geth stood in gleaming, silent, motionless ranks in and around their ships.

Then the second set of geth ships landed, and when their hatches opened, _krogan_ poured out of them. No two dressed alike. A motley assortment of huge fighters, all packing shotguns or assault rifles. The wind shifted, and Seheve's sharp ears could hear one or two of them roaring greetings or insults to one another as they shambled towards the geth.

The gleaming crystalline ship opened a half dozen hatches spread all the way around its circumference, and at least three different types of rachni scuttled out in waves, in droves. Seheve could feel Melaani shudder again, and reached out and put a hand on the asari's shoulder. "Sorry," Melaani apologized. "It's just. . . like a childhood nightmare, really. I know they're not like that. . . not anymore. We all know now that the Collectors, and the Reapers, indoctrinated the rachni. It's one thing to understand that. It's. . . something else to see them all crawling around."

Seheve patted her on the shoulder. "If it helps, there are those equally repulsed by me," she offered, with a faintly melancholy smile.

The elcor ships actually landed closer to the refugee camp, and their massive ships opened their cargo holds first thing. A contingent of the huge creatures began to walk slowly towards front of the refugee camp; they had a group of guards, all carrying heavy weapons on their backs, surrounding what looked like three older females.

Melaani and Seheve moved down at a rapid clip to greet and escort the group to the head of the camp volunteers, Dr. Hsai. "Statement: I am Elder Daruunaa. We are here to render assistance to the refugees and citizens of Shanxi," the first female stated, her voice low and ponderous.

_Perhaps I have grown over-used to Thelldaroon,_ Seheve decided. It was decidedly _odd_ to hear a descriptive statement at the beginning of a sentence again.

Melaani blinked, and bowed her head slightly. "I'm sure that the refugees will welcome any and all assistance. We have supply shortages of every kind. Not enough living space, not enough sanitation—"

"Declarative: We have brought with us heavy digging equipment for latrines and other needs. We have brought sanitation and medical modules, as well as portable housing modules." Daruunaa's voice was absolutely calm. "Food donations from a dozen worlds are also aboard, although humans may find the salarian and elcor dietary staples included to be less than palatable."

That supposition hadn't lasted, however. The Shanxi refugees had a much more varied diet than other groups of humans might have had, and opened even the salarian crates with expressions of absolute glee. Seheve, personally, couldn't imagine eating roasted Sur'Kesh fire beetles, but she supposed that in their cooked state, they didn't look like anything other than chopped nuts. And the kelp and snails and pickled locusts that the salarians had sent were received with more interest than the elcor food, which was largely vegetarian, root-oriented, and would require much boiling to avoid a consistency akin to boot leather.

As such, the rest of Seheve's day was spent helping to unload supplies. Fortunately, the geth tasked some units with assisting, which made the work go faster. She was quite prepared to see riots break out over the food and the housing, but the elcor were, simply put, so large and so calm, and so absolutely intent on providing supplies to everyone in accordance with the _rules_ that they'd developed, that no riots could really break out. The elcor simply wouldn't let it happen.

As Seheve helped to distribute food along one row of rough shelters, she was surprised to see that one human refugee, a young girl, took her ration, opened it, and immediately offered a portion of the cooked, softened meat inside to a very small feline. It was nowhere near the size of Urdnot Makur's giant leopard, and was, instead of brindled white and black, simply gray from head to tail. The skinny creature ducked out of hiding and took the food from the human's fingers eagerly. "I had thought that these supplies were meant for humans," Seheve told the girl in galactic.

The girl, probably no older than eight, looked up at the drell, her eyes wide. And pointed at the cat, and said something urgently in her native tongue. Seheve sighed and turned on her omnitool. Communication was vital at the moment. "You should not waste the food," she told the child.

"_Jia-li is my mother's,"_ the girl explained, almost crying. "_I have to take care of Jia-li until my mother comes back. Mother will be angry with me if she finds me, and I haven't been responsible with our pet."_

Seheve doubted that the mother was still alive. And doubted even more that the mother, who would surely just be glad to see the little girl alive, would even be angry if the cat had been lost. But she crouched down and let the cat sniff her fingers. When the feline curiously licked the back of her hand, Seheve pulled back her hand, worried for the animal's health. The gray, furred beast suddenly rolled to her back and, glassy-eyed, continued to roll back and forth for a while, purring noisily.

The girl suddenly giggled, her face lighting up behind a mask of dirt. _"She's acting like she's had catnip."_

"What's your name?" Seheve asked the girl.

"_Zhou Li-Mei._"

"And your parents?"

"_Zhou Hao and Zhou Ying."_

"Do you know where your father is?"

No mistaking the misery in that face, no matter how human and alien it was. "_Father. . . father was taken by the monsters. He made me hide under a sewer grate with Jia-li. But I could see them catch him. Mother worked at night in one of the hotels. I don't know where she is."_

Seheve sighed. This might take a while. "Could you pick up Jia-Li and come with me? Let's see if we can at least find your mother. Did you have any aunts or uncles here?"

It took several hours. Records were sparse, to say the least. And the little girl played with the cat the whole time. Finally, the overworked human volunteers managed to locate some records of the girl's maternal grandmother, and Seheve had the pleasure of seeing the two of them reunited, in a completely different section of the camp. The girl's mother was still nowhere to be found, but at least one small portion of her life could return to normalcy.

The grandmother bowed repeatedly, thanking Seheve, who just as repeatedly clasped her hands before her lips, assuring the woman that service was the highest duty. They stared at each other in an impasse for a moment, and Seheve finally asked, "Is there anything more this. .. that I may do for you? Has your section of tents already had rations distributed today?"

"_Yes, yes, very kind."_ The aging human female beckoned Seheve into the crowded tent she shared with about ten other humans, and the drell female wrinkled her nose at the smell of so much unwashed human skin. Inside, however, she was in for a bit of a surprise. The humans had all rescued the _oddest_ things. The little girl had brought the cat with her. Another human had brought an odd, two-stringed musical instrument and its bow, that Seheve was told was called a _banhu_. Little fragments of their lives. Whatever they'd happened to grab, in desperation or in shock, on their way out of the city. Whatever they'd been carrying already. The grandmother had already lived on the outskirts of town, and had fled with a small suitcase of belongings, including, for some reason, two tiny trees in unglazed pots. Seheve was fascinated when the elderly woman told her that the trees were, in fact, two hundred years old. Had been passed down through her family, by ancestors who had a passion for the art of _bonsai_, the deliberate sculpting of a living organism into a work of art. "It sounds difficult," Seheve commented.

"_Careful, deliberate work,"_ the older woman told her.

After another half hour, Seheve left. As she did so, the little girl came to her and, to Seheve's great surprise, gave her a hug, before scampering back away again.

**Garrus, August 5-31, 2196**

"About damned time," Gris growled as the various krogan, geth, rachni, and the handful of elcor fighters approached the marine encampment. The various Spectres stepped out of Garrus' trailer and watched the columns of geth. . . and the much-less-organized groups of other fighters. . . advance. _They're surely not all going to fit in my trailer,_ Garrus thought. _Not even just representatives._

"It took the geth time to get atmospheres on their ships," Garrus reminded Gris, after a moment . "Besides, you and Grunt needed about a month just to _recruit_ all the krogan."

One of the geth in particular advanced. "We are designated as Phalanx," it said. Its voice was subtly different from Cohort's, Garrus noted, immediately. "We speak for the geth on Shanxi."

"Ollor Feldur," a krogan introduced himself. "Late of the Klixxen Claws. Whatever heads you need bashed in, Spectre Gris, Urdnot Wrex told me to do it for you. At least for the Clan Alliance troops."

Garrus's shoulders shook, once. _Who would ever have thought,_ he mused for a moment, _that in ten years' time, Wrex would be setting up chains of command for troops outside of his own immediate clan?_ He nodded to the krogan representative, and looked now at a brood warrior that had just scuttled into place outside the trailer. This one had nowhere near the size of Sky, indicating that he was probably young.

And when the brood warrior sang, it had nowhere near Sky's power, either. A voice like a group of harps playing, not the complexity of Sky's usual violins, violas, cellos, and occasional bass notes. _I have not yet been given a name-song. But I will sing for those of the Singing Planet in this place. Give direction-song, and we will act for you. Dig tunnels under the rock buildings and melted stone streets? Undermine the burrows of the creatures-of-teeth? Sing songs of destruction and battle?_

Oh yes. That was a _young_ voice. Eager to please. Garrus looked around, and beckoned Rinus over. "Start translating for the geth," he said, and Rinus snorted and turned on his omnitool, tapping out notes. Whatever the nameless rachni sang, Rinus tapped out and sent to Phalanx in text form.

"We will coordinate tactics with all of you," Phalanx said, immediately. "There is value in what the rachni propose. They may traverse the city all but undetected, underground. And are known to be speedy tunnelers." His eyeflaps twitched. "Our stealth units may be able to traverse the city undetected as well. We have no scent and minimal infrared output. These yahg may also not have information from the batarians that would enable them to recognize geth when they see us. They may not understand that we are not mechs."

"To their disadvantage," Lantar murmured.

"Correct."

Garrus cleared his throat. "We estimate that there were ten thousand yahg in the city initially. Perhaps that many in each of the other three large cities on Shanxi."

"We have dropped troops, krogan and geth alike, at each city," Phalanx assured him.

Garrus nodded fractionally. "We believe we have, in the past six weeks, managed to kill between twenty-five hundred to three thousand of them. At a cost of seventeen hundred Alliance and Hierarchy troops. And that's just here in Xi'an. The other cities are much worse off."

"No Spectres there," Gris rumbled. "Loosely speaking, fighting outside of our vehicles, it's been taking four to six marines to kill a single yahg. Or two to three Spectres. In the other cities, the yahg have been killing one and a half to two marines for every yahg killed."

Garrus had been glad that _those_ numbers weren't being distributed to the press right now. Hierarchy and Alliance press relations officers were being very, very stingy with information, and for damned good reason. The information they had at the moment was damned dispiriting.

Ollor Feldur growled. "How do you kill half a turian?"

"The number is doubtless an average," Phalanx told him, in a tone of mild reproof.

Lantar snorted, and, powering up his own omnitool, brought up a map of the city of Xi'an. "Red represents districts that are contested. Blue indicates ones we have under solid control." There was, at that point, a hell of a lot of red still. Even taking out the eight major nests with Rinus' trap a few days ago hadn't brought those neighborhoods under complete Alliance/Hierarchy control. As it was, about a third of the city was considered more or less safe, but that changed on almost an hourly basis, as various yahg patrols might move down a different street and attack marine guard posts before the soldier there had had a chance to build up defensible walls or otherwise fortify their positions. Some of the marines had found barbed wire in an agricultural warehouse and had at least tried to construct coils of concertina wire to surround their various forward positions, with mixed results. The only thing that _really_ seemed to help was about fifty to a hundred yards of clear space around a building, so the soldiers inside had a chance to see the yahg coming, and could open fire early. Unfortunately, without pulling down buildings around each post, that much space was a rare commodity in Xi'an. And against the stealthed hunters, even a clear line of sight was almost no defense at all. Hence the concertina wire. Tripwires attached to explosives. That sort of thing. Garrus was _not_ looking forward to letting civilians back into these areas.

Lantar went on now, looking at the geth, krogan, rachni, and elcor representatives. "The overall strategy has been to push from the east, where our encampment is here, at the spaceport, circling north and south, and trying to encircle the city, while still holding the power plant and communications array to the west. We just haven't had enough people to try to push from both sides and crush them between us."

"We have the required numbers now. And they are unlikely to expect an attack from the west," Phalanx noted calmly. "We will move our forces to the west by ground at nightfall. We will be in position to attack, moving out from the power plant by morning."

"We'll go with them," Feldur said, grimly. "If they see us moving, they'll just see krogan, right? Any patrols that come after _us_ will have a nasty surprise." He chuckled roughly. "And won't live to report back that there's anyone else moving with us. Or even to report on us."

"Query: What role should elcor troops play?" the huge elcor male standing nearby asked calmly. "We will not be able to reach the far end of the city by morning, without use of vehicles."

_And what would you have us do?_ the young brood warrior asked.

"You'll both be with us, initially," Garrus told them. "The idea of undermining the yahg outposts is a good one. Anything that takes them off-balance and prevents them from getting ahold of anyone. . . is a damn good thing." He paused. "And once you get the yahg to fall into sinkholes, you and the elcor heavy weapons experts can open fire on them."

_We can sing this song for you. Battle-song, building-song. Show us where the workers will need to dig._

He wasn't Sky, but he was efficient. Garrus was _hugely_ amused, somehow, when the Alliance marines pulled up with troop transports, lowered the back hatches, and then watched, wide-eyed, as the various rachni soldiers and workers scuttled up and into the vehicles. The humans's eyes widened even further as the young brood warrior sang to them, encouraging the rachni under his command, _We help the humans today at the call of Life-Singer. Truth-Singer, Spectre Queen, gave us all a chance to sing anew. Now we sing for her people, her hive._ Then he, too, scrambled on board.

One of the young human marines gave Garrus and Lantar a single glance as he fastened the hatch behind the rachni. "That has got to be the weirdest shit I've ever seen," he said. He was a darker-skinned human, Garrus noted absently. "Do you think when we're done here, we can take some of these little guys to Terra Nova?"

That made Garrus' eyes focus in, abruptly. "Why's that. . . hmm. Lieutenant?" He found the name stenciled on the armor, human-fashion. _Malcolmson._ _That name sounds familiar._

"My family's there. New Philadelphia. No word out of there in over a month."

Garrus shook his head. "No guarantees. We've got a team of Spectres on the ground there, too. But getting geth, krogan, rachni, and elcor to work together here with our forces is. . . more or less a proof of concept."

"I understand." The human shook his head. "And to think I thought it was nuts when I went to turian boot camp."

Garrus snorted at that, and the young male headed back around to the cockpit of the transport, and got aboard, taking his load of workers and soldiers towards the northeast train station, which was the command post for that area.

The first use of coordinated tactics was a little confusing, but an occasion for some glee on Garrus' part. He watched from atop a nearby commercial building, through his sniper scope, as the warehouse full of yahg that he'd had the rachni undermine in the northern commercial district. Then he radioed Rinus. "First-son of my sister? I never thought I would _ever_ say this in my life. . . but. . . ." Garrus paused. "Fire catapults."

He heard Rinus' chuckle, and then there was a distinct creaking sound from the ground below. Garrus looked down and watched as the catapults that Rinus and his techs had built of steel and aluminum tubing, based on diagrams downloaded from the _Estallus'_ library, rocked in place, hurtling fifty-pound bags of phosphorous powder into the air, landing and exploding open atop the roof of the collapsed warehouse. The warehouse roof was light; the most that would have happened to the yahg was that they were trapped some twenty feet below ground level at the moment.

Garrus tabbed his radio. "Nemesis? All the rachni clear?"

"Our new friend says they are. He really needs a name, by the way." Lantar's words were laconic.

Garrus snorted, and then said, "Tullduun? Lantar? Open fire."

The elcor and the marines with heavy weapons did exactly that, breaking open the roof with incendiary grenades and igniting the phosphorous. The screams of the dying yahg inside were clearly audible, even from Garrus' perch. It was a brutal tactic, but one that kept _his_ people alive. And he really, really needed to keep his troops alive.

In another neighborhood, further to the west, a large contingent of yahg was apparently moving to attack the krogan/geth forces near the power plant. Garrus just grinned ferally. They'd _rarely_ achieved surprise on the damned yahg. He watched as their warriors charged forward, thundering into the krogan line, primal roars of challenge shattering the air, and bodies clad in armor slammed together with titanic force. Garrus turned his head to the right, and stared at the young brood warrior. "Find their hunters, the ones who strike from stealth. Can you show them to us, in our minds, as Sings-to-the-Sky does?"

_I do not know if I can sing the songs as well as he can. But I will do what I may._

The image that sprang into Garrus' mind was nothing like what Sky usually gave him, which usually showed him _exactly_ where all enemy and friendly units were (other than Cohort, whom Sky couldn't touch biotically). It did, however, overlay his vision, and he could see. . . shimmers of color. . . where the hunters were. The young brood warrior hummed softly. _I do not have the strength of Sings-to-the-Sky. Apology-songs._

"Don't worry; this is better than nothing." Garrus keyed his radio. "Take out the hunters, people. Give the krogan and the geth more of a chance."

And then they all moved in, and for a while, it was nothing more than chaos. Total, complete chaos.

. . . Rinus and his techs moved to higher vantages, and began using their agricultural sprayers to conserve ammunition to the heavy weapons. As a proof of concept, it worked damned well. HNO3, nitric acid, hit the yahg's shields in a wave. As wall of liquid, it reacted differently with the kinetic shields than, say, a bullet would. A kinetic shield was designed to dampen energy from small, fast-moving projectiles, like bullets, or perhaps something larger, like a rocket. It couldn't repel air, even a stiff breeze, hence why the toxic spit of the rachni soldiers as they moved up, went right through the shields, too. The acidic spit and the nitric acid landed on the yahg's armor, and started eating in. Found seams, found the rubber joists and gaskets under those seams, and began eating through those, too. The yahg roared in pain, and, distracted, began to tear at their armor. Then Rinus gestured for his other techs to fire the liquid nitrogen spray as well. It didn't do much to the armor, but as the yahg started tearing _off_ their armor to prevent the acid from eating into their flesh, the nitrogen spray hit them at -321ºF, instantly freezing skin and the flesh under it. . . . "Hit them again with the spit!" Rinus called, looking up at the young brood warrior, and a salvo of toxic green fluid arced out over the battlefield, landing on various yahg hunters. . . . and then dozens of tiny, flying geth turrets swarmed in, firing at will on the weakened, exposed yahg. . . .

. . . .a yahg warrior and a krogan slammed into one another, both roaring. The yahg's huge fists clamped down on either side of the krogan's head and began to squeeze together. The krogan wrapped his arms around the yahg's waist and lifted the enormous creature off the ground for a moment, turning him slightly before throwing him to the ground. The yahg's hands slipped free for a moment, and the krogan followed him to the ground, landing atop him, head-butting the yahg—the yahg snarled and opened its wide jaws, clamping down with its savage teeth, penetrating the skull. The krogan snarled and worked his hands up, jamming thumbs into the yahg's lower set of eyes. The yahg's mouth opened on a howl of pain—and that was when a geth armature unfolded nearby. Swiveled its canon, took careful aim. . . and blew the yahg's head off at close range.

Brain fluids and orange-red blood trickling down his face, the krogan stood, panting, and looked from the headless body of the yahg to the armature next to him. "I had him right where I wanted him," Ollor Feldur growled.

The armature swiveled his head, and beeped at him, a long string of machine-code gibberish that sounded half like song, and half like an antique modem's squeal. "No, really. I was going to win that." Feldur scowled as the armature started to unfold its legs to move away. "Wait. Where the hell do you think you're going?" He stumped over and clambered up its leg, hanging on once he reached a good perch. "We're going over there. More targets."

_Beeep. Beep. Whiiirrr._ The armature turned north, as directed, firing periodically, and Feldur leaped off of its shoulder and _landed_ on the back of one of the yahg that was standing over a fellow member of Clan Ollor. The krogan's weight staggered the yahg. . . .

. . . a line of geth fell back in perfect order, drawing a yahg warrior towards them, continuing to fire with their pulse rifles, tearing through his shields. And as he lowered his head and charged, as one, the geth _leaped_ out of the way, the center units launching over his head and landing behind him, turning to continue firing, while the remaining units on the sides found perches, clinging onto nearby building walls, aiming and firing with one arm for the moment. . . . the yahg spun and grabbed one of the geth behind him, picked it up, and threw the platform, with surprising accuracy, right at one of the geth clinging onto the brickwork of the nearby building, even as the rest of the units continued firing calmly. . . .

. . . the elcor were a solid, stable line against the yahg warriors, their heavy cannon-fire and amazingly resilient shields allowing them to stand fast in the face of the advancing creatures. Where they ran into trouble, however, was when the hunter yahg would slide in, flanking them, avoiding that withering rain of fire, by climbing nearby buildings and then dropping down atop one of the elcor's big backs. That was when Garrus, who'd been firing his sniper rifle at any target he could reach, started in on that yahg, trying to get him _off_ of the gentle elcor—who, perhaps unsurprisingly, stood absolutely steady under the sudden impact. An elcor massed the same as a yahg, after all. And elcor were used to three times the gravity. In a one g environment, an elcor weighed 800 pounds, and was used to carrying his or her total mass at 2,400 pounds. A sudden increase of another 800 pounds was probably a surprise, like being tackled, but certainly didn't _drop_ the huge creature.

_BAM-BAM_, the sniper rifle snapped in his hands, again and again, trying to cut through the kinetic shielding around the hunter as it bared its fangs and leaned forward to bite the back of the elcor's neck, trying to snap the enormous spinal column. . . . _Damnit, I can't break through this alone, Lantar's on a different target. . . ._ Garrus looked around. Melaani was in range, and he opened his mouth to order her to charge the yahg. . . .

And that was when Garrus finally understood why the asari and the salarians had feared the rachni enough to unleash the krogan on them. The young brood-warrior sang a single crystalline note, and several dozen soldiers and workers erupted out of the ground. The workers swarmed up the elcor's legs like firebiters, or ants, and latched onto the yahg. They exploded on contact, sacrificing themselves; their bodies were in direct contact with the yahg, underneath the shields, and the yahg suddenly released the elcor, roaring and trying to beat the remaining workers off of himself. Then the soldiers moved in. The elcor's head swung, trying to see what was going on behind him—_on_ him, in fact—as the soldiers moved in, extending skewer-like stingers from their handling appendages, stinging every exposed inch of the yahg's body, capitalizing on the open areas in the armor left by the workers' deaths. Garrus' mouth fell open. _Not a tactic I want to see repeated often!_ he thought, as loudly as he could, and opened fire again, himself.

_We do not ask for the life-songs of the little ones without reason_, the young brood warrior sang back sadly. _The slow-singer was in mortal danger, however._ And then he mustered his biotics, having finally scuttled into range, himself, and lifted the yahg off the elcor's back, so that the soldiers could finish the job on him, themselves. Spitting toxin directly into the open wounds, stinging him again and again. Taking vengeance for the lives of the workers.

The elcor had turned just far enough now to look down at the rachni. and while it was difficult to tell on an elcor face, even through a sniper scope, Garrus was fairly certain that the big male was shaken.

The next four weeks progressed in exactly the same way. Garrus saw the human and turian marines, as well as his Spectres, grow to accept their new allies, and see enormous utility in each species. He saw Gris and Grunt each hold a yahg off the ground by brute strength, while geth fired on the struggling targets. He saw a yahg tear a krogan's arm off. . . and the krogan merely snarled and kept fighting, locked in full blood-rage. The krogan's vascular system shut off blood flow to the hideous wound within a few moments, slowing the bleeding to a trickle. . . and the krogan's krannt-mates eventually picked the arm up and found a turian medic to sew it back in place, stitching the veins and arteries back together, so that their friend's regeneration could begin to help him recover from that devastating wound.

Garrus noted that the medic who'd tended that krogan was the first one to line up at the makeshift canteen that night, and downed half a bottle of brandy in one sitting. That medic also didn't go back out with them the next day. The incident had clearly shaken even the limits of turian stoicism.

By August 31, they had finally cleared three-quarters of the city. They had killed over seven thousand yahg in Xi'an alone in the past two months, and _still_ hadn't found the yahg leader. "There _has_ to be a leader," Rel muttered in Garrus' trailer, as the Spectres and their associates met. The young male was still clearly on edge. There had been moments in the past month when Garrus had hoped that Rel was making progress. Was finding his spirit again, finding ways to be calm. But given the enormity of the task in front of them, the daily, brutal combat, Garrus was desperately worried that he'd made the wrong choice in bringing Rel with him to Shanxi. He'd expected the fight here to be like what he had done on various batarian worlds and outposts. Targeted, precision strikes of very focused violence. Instead, they'd been embroiled in the worst ground-war in living memory.

Rel paced back and forth, looking out the windows. "They clearly follow pack structure. They're clearly still fighting, in spite of huge losses. There _has_ to be a leader left somewhere on the planet."

Rinus shrugged. "They also have no way of getting back _off_ the planet, unless they steal a ship from us," he pointed out, grimly. "They're like ancient explorers, burning their boats so that they _couldn't_ go back. They were committed to staying in the new land at that point. So, too, are the yahg. There's no going back for them. They don't seem to have a concept of 'prisoner,' other than 'food source' or perhaps 'slave,' and thus probably can't conceive of us taking them prisoner for any other purpose." Rinus' eyes glittered in the dim lights. "Not that I'm advocating anything other than executing them."

Seheve turned her head and regarded them all. "It seems unlikely that _every_ member of their species is this aggressive, this . . . bestial. Surely, there must at least be _one_, somewhere, to whom we might speak?"

Melaani sighed. 'The AIs on the various ships in orbit have had some marginal luck deciphering their language. What little they use on the radio mostly consists of commands. Orders. Go here. Go there. Enemy movement." The asari looked at Garrus now. "They refer to the turians as, apparently, 'scaled poison-meat,' as best the AIs can figure it out."

That got grim chuckles from around the room. Garrus watched as Rel continued to pace. "Any ideas, Rellus?" he asked, after a moment. If nothing else, the young male's instincts continued to be finely attuned to combat.

Rel shook his head. "Each city seems to have separate direction. No communication by radio between the groups of yahg in Xi'an and New Jinan, for example. If they have a leader—and they must!—he's got to be _here._"

Melaani tipped her head a little. "Why do you say _he_? Could they not be matriarchal?"

Rel shrugged. "They could be. But the majority of pack species are not. Female lions on Earth might hunt, but the male lion rules the pride. _Villi_, varren, wolves. . . all have alpha males. An exception is the hyenas of Earth. . . but they're a highly unusual species in almost every regard."

Garrus snorted at that. Hyenas were proof of nature's odd diversity. Their females had massive quantities of hormones usually associated with male biology, which damaged their ovaries at birth. They also mated and gave birth through enlarged clitorises, more or less the equivalent of giving birth through a phallus, which meant that first-time mothers had a huge mortality rate. Lilu had shown him an extranet vid on the creatures several years ago, with the off-hand comment, "I was so _glad_ when I realized that turian physiology and human physiology were, well, not that complicated, or nearly as difficult to figure out."

He'd turned his head to the side, watching the male hyena attempting to mount the female from behind, while inserting its phallus backwards and up into the female's own enlarged, well, tube. "That _does_ look like one of nature's worse jokes," he acknowledged, and had changed the channel.

The meeting had adjourned with no new information. But they all agreed. The yahg leader, male or female, _probably_ remained in Xi'an. And probably in the southwestern quadrant of the city. The only section still largely in yahg control.

**Rellus, September 15, 2196**

They'd been on the ground on Shanxi since late June. Close to eleven weeks now, or almost three months. Rel had never fought in such a protracted battle before; he was used to quick strikes. In and out in short order, leaving few traces behind. Once a week, he'd made a point of meeting with Kassa and trying to make himself calm, as she suggested. Of watching the candle flames, as she did, and simply relaxing mind and body, and listening for the voice of his spirit. It worked for her; he could _see_ the tension drain out of her. Rel had tried. He really had. But it seemed almost impossible to empty out his thoughts and just stare at a _flame._ "My mother always said, different people find different things calming. Different things to focus on. She said I had a spirit made of earth, and that thus, I'd probably like something different from myself. She said that other people—dithery, flighty people—might prefer to carry smooth stones. To weigh them and rub them in their pockets, for instance." Kassa had half-smiled. "I don't see you as such, though. Commander." Back to formality now, of course.

It just left him with the same problems as before. How could he tell what, if anything, was real? He'd always taken his feelings for Dara as the touchstone for the rest of his reality, and he was still both furiously angry at her, and longed for her presence, simultaneously. There was his attraction to Kassa, which he was rigorously controlling now, only speaking to her in the course of duty, or, once a week, as she tried to help him meditate. "Or, if meditation doesn't work—"

"Carving's always kept me calm before," he muttered. "Don't see why I can't just do that."

The trouble was, that now, when he closed his eyes to try to summon his spirit-eyes, he was having trouble seeing anything but yahg. The single large piece of wood he'd had in hand, before finishing the three-piece statue of Lin, Eli, and Serana, he knew had a yahg inside of it. He'd resisted it. He'd tried to picture anything else, really, and, a month into his stay on Shanxi, four weeks into the fighting, had given in, and started carving the creature that lurked inside the wood. He _knew_ it was the leader. And he wondered, idly, as he worked, if when he finished the damned thing, he'd have summoned the leader of the yahg, tugged him out of hiding by his spirit. Eight baleful eyes, filled with far more intelligence than the creatures they typically saw in the street. One huge hand, with the broken body of a human marine dangling like a doll. Not crouched, no; not bestial. And yet, it wasn't _quite_ finished yet.

Every time Kassa saw the statue, she shuddered. "It's. . . a little too real," she murmured.

"I should carve a _lanura_ instead? Perhaps a Terran bunny rabbit?" The words were sharper than he'd meant them to be.

She snorted. "It might be better for you if you did."

"I carve what I see. I can't carve what I don't see. If I do otherwise, it's ruined before I even start."

Kassa gave him a measuring glance. "Any idea how you'd carve yourself right now?"

Rel shrugged. "I don't see myself right now."

She sighed. "I know." Kassa smiled faintly. "How about me?" 

Rel lifted his head and stared at her. "Spirit of war. Bellona for humans and their ancient Romans. Armifera for us."

She'd laughed at that, but it had seemed to please her, nonetheless.

Then the geth and the krogan and the rachni had come, and things had gotten better. Not easier. There was still daily fighting, but now that there were enough troops on the ground, the commanders were requiring downtime every few days. Rel had volunteered to go on extra sorties, and had been refused. _How else am I supposed to show that I'm willing and able to do more?_ This was how promotions were earned, after all. By volunteering. By being first man over the wall, first into the fray. Rel had sighed and done his best to accept it. At least the krogan and geth and rachni made admirable backup. If a geth had its head beaten off its body by a yahg, all _they_ had to do was re-download their last backup from a node into a new platform. And when a krogan got impaled on the shattered remains of a wrought-iron fence in front of what had surely once been a very nice home? Gris had simply flung the attacking yahg back with a biotic lift and hauled the krogan male off the spikes and told him to pull himself together. Hard not to admire that. Hard not to _envy_ it. _No one's telling them that it's bad to like doing what they do,_ he thought, a little mutinously. . . but then he forced himself to remember that the krogan were, largely, mercenaries. These were volunteers, fighting for the love of a good fight, for the glory to be won here. A little extra polish for their resumes with the Clan Alliance. Maybe an extra chance to visit a female camp. He was supposed to be different.

It was just so damned hard to see _how._

They were canvassing the refinery district in the southwest section of Xi'an today. Tank farms, for the most part, holding fuel and chemicals in huge, double-walled domes set atop concrete pads, each held in dreary, weed-choked patches of land, usually fenced in, with high gates, and signs blaring warnings in Mandarin, English, and galactic: _Caution: Toxic chemicals. Keep out. Trespassers will be prosecuted._

Today, Rel was in the Hammerhead with Seheve and Melaani. They had a small convoy with them—another Hammerhead with Alliance marines, including old Macready, that canny survivor of the _Kharkov_, someone named Malcolmson, whom Rel dimly remembered from Dara's boot camp, and a young private named Tamara Kenyon. They also had ten geth with them—primes, troopers, and a couple of hoppers—and two krogan. At the moment, they were going from tank farm to tank farm, sweeping the area. A task that could be done by drones, and had been, at least for an initial glance. The problem with drones was, they only saw what their operators had them go look at. Usually, overhead sweeps, with _maybe_ a few extra angles here and there. There was something to be said for people being there in person, when all was said and done.

There were at least a thousand yahg left, although there were indications that the invaders were moving out into the countryside. There had even been a few lightning-fast attacks on the refugee camps—but those had been turned away by the determined elcor and human defenders. They also had one gunship with them, Kassa's. She was carrying the geth and the krogan, at the moment, and the steady thrum of the gunship's rotors was clearly audible even inside the Hammerhead.

"Looks like that gate's been broken down and then repaired," Melaani noted, her voice thoughtful as she pointed off ahead of them. "Vilinus, you get any lifesigns in this area?" the asari Spectre asked over the radio.

"I can go circle around a bit. I'm not getting anything at the moment, though," the pilot replied.

Melaani paused, thinking about it. Rel's opinion, had he been asked for it, was that that's what the gunship was _for;_ it was much more maneuverable and could cover terrain much more quickly than a ground vehicle. "No. . . we'll all go in together," she decided, after a moment. "Rellus, if you would?" She indicated the patched-together gate, and Rel shrugged and rammed it with the Hammerhead, knocking the gate off its hinges and bouncing forward over the top of it, cruising into the fenced enclosure slowly.

There were three large tanks here, all with peeling beige paint showing rusted metal below. "No biosigns," Seheve noted, quietly.

"Doesn't mean anything," Melaani said, shrugging. "They could have biosign maskers on."

"If anyone's here a'tall," Macready said, over the radio, sounding dubious.

"We'll canvass the area on foot," Melaani said, and they all got out of their vehicles now. Rel had his assault rifle in his hands, and was looking around intently.

"Something doesn't feel entirely right," he said, after a moment. He wasn't sure what it was, but something had him on edge. More so than usual.

Seheve obviously felt it, too. She activated her stealth field, shimmering into near-invisibility. "There are tracks," the drell female said, quietly. "Vehicle tracks, human tracks."

"Has this area already been canvassed by searchers?" Melaani asked quickly.

"No. And these are _barefoot_ human tracks," Seheve noted. "There has been no rain in three weeks. These were left in mud and hardened here, perhaps that long ago. This place has been used as a yahg hunting ground."

They all held their weapons a little more tightly. "Kassa," Melaani said, "have the geth report this, please. Everyone, stick together. We'll check out the entire area. See if we can find remains. Maybe a lair."

They moved forward, everyone on edge now, guns ready. They circled around the first tank, and found the first indications of something fairly wrong here. "Chemical spill," Macready said, his voice terse. "Not sure what it is, but the residue's soaked into the ground here. I can get a sample for the techs to analyze, but I don't recommend anyone take off their breathers or helmets around here. It's probably quite toxic."

The wind stirred the weeds. "Where did it come from?" Melaani muttered, turning around. "The tank behind us has no obvious leaks."

"It appears that the fluid flowed out of the middle tank, and pooled here, in the lower area," Seheve supplied, still roving around, stealthed. "There are more human tracks here. All lead to the middle tank."

Rel's eyes lifted, and he studied the side of the middle tank closest to them. "I think I see signs of welding. Cutting and patching," he noted. "The only way _in_ to one of these tanks, usually, is through the hatch on top. Which means either we climb up the access ladder, one at a time. . . or we drop the geth on the roof, and they have a look."

Melaani stood, frowning, for a moment. "All right," she agreed, after a moment. "Vilinus, bring them down, please."

Rel looked up, watching as the gunship circled around, coming in directly over the center tank. The geth units didn't require ropes to drop down, but used lines in this case, obviously trying to keep their impact on the metal roof of the tank quiet. Rel narrowed his eyes, watching as one of the geth troopers turned a wheel at the top of the tank, cranking open a hatch.

With no speech-capable geth unit with them, there was no warning over the radio. The geth simply lifted their pulse rifles, as one, and began to fire down into the hole at their feet. _S'kak, there __is__ something in there,_ Rel had just enough time to think—

-and then one of the hulking geth prime units rose into the air as if shot from a cannon. Rel's eyes followed the trajectory, and he shouted into the radio, "_Kassa! Look out!"_

The metal body slammed into the tail rotor of the gunship. The rotor shredded the body, shredded itself, and the entire gunship swayed in mid-air, listing to the side, black smoke pouring out of its tail section. "Oh, Goddess," Melaani said, raising a hand to her mouth

The gunship hovered there for another moment, drunkenly staggering from side to side in the air. Kassa was clearly fighting the controls, and fire bloomed out of the tail section. _"Get it on the ground!"_ Rel shouted into the radio, and then it. . . just fell. Almost in slow motion, it crumpled against the earth, which trembled under his feet with the force of the fall. He just stood there and stared for a moment, frozen in place. And then he was moving, without even realizing it, running forward with Malcolmson and Seheve, trying to get to the gunship before it exploded.

He reached the wreck ahead of the other two, and found the plasteel canopy actually shattered. He reached in, breaking the clear material out of the way, and hauled Kassa's limp form out by the armpits. Rel had no idea if she were alive or dead. The two krogan weren't in good shape, either, but were at least moving, if slowly. Hauling themselves out of the debris on their own, looking dazed.

Up above, on the tank's roof, he could clearly see the geth units still exchanging fire with whatever or whoever was in there—and was just in time to see a second geth unit lifted and flung away like a ragdoll, plummeting, limbs askew, to the ground this time, landing with a sickening crunch." There's a biotic in there," Rel muttered into the radio, in realization. "A powerful one."

"I will attend to the pilot," Seheve told him now, as he dragged Kassa's limp body away from the burning wreck.

"Screw that," Malcolmson said. "I know my turian first aid, and you're the ghost-lady, Liakos. Go do your ghost shit." He took Kassa from Rel's hands, got her on her back in the tall weeds, and started prying off her helmet.

Rel took one look at the still face, covered in Bostra Outpost blue, and then refocused. Completely. There were yahg here that needed killing. Urgently. He moved back to Melaani's side, eyes intent on the top of the tank, where the geth were having a damned hard time of it.

"We have to get _in_ there—Macready, can you blow open the side of the tank?" Melaani asked, grimly.

"Blow it open? Without knowing what chemical was in there t'begin wit'?" Macready's Scottish accent got a little more pronounced in his agitation. "Spectre, you're daft."

The geth were still firing down into the hole, moving slightly to try to get better angles, but there was return fire hitting their shields now, sparking blue.

"If it blows up the yahg inside—and I think we almost _have_ to assume we've got yahg in there," Melaani said, in some irritation—"I don't think anyone here will weep."

"And I'm no' thinkin' that t'geth units atop the damned thing will be enjoying the loss of their bodies," Macready shot back.

Rel just stared at the tank. "Tell the geth units to jump down once we get the charges in place," he said, grimly. "They can handle the fall, if they're prepared for it."

Macready, swearing under his breath, got in position, near where the tank had been cut open and welded shut again at some point in the past, opting for the weakest part of the structure, and packed malleable explosives against the side of the wall, crammed a detonator in it, and moved away, fast. "Geth units, down off the tank!" Mel snapped into her radio. "Kenyon, Rel, Seheve, Macready. . . get to cover, everyone!"

And then Macready detonated the charges. Rel lifted his head, and thought, _Well, at least we know whatever was in there wasn't flammable or explosive. . . _and then the yahg inside charged out to meet them. The geth units were picking themselves up off the ground, moving around from the side of the tank; the krogan had pulled themselves from the wreckage of the gunship and were limping forward again, but they had two yahg warriors closing, and fast, and behind _them_ was the biggest yahg Rel had yet seen. He towered about a foot above even his companions, and his eight eyes held the savage intelligence that Rel had seen in the face he'd carved into the statue. _Found you_, he thought, distantly, feeling the adrenal surge, familiar, welcome, and needed, and then he was firing, right into the faces of the charging yahg. Melaani used a biotic charge to get the hell out of the way of the first, but the second slammed right into poor Private Kenyon, full-speed, and lifted the human female off the ground. Rel swore. "Seheve! Get that one off Kenyon!" He didn't dare fire his assault rifle at the behemoth; he could hit Kenyon, instead. So he turned and fired at the leader, instead, and watched as the bullets simply _stopped_ in front of the creature. _Ah, hell. Double layer of shields?_

Then the yahg simply reached out its hands, and a shockwave took Rel and Macready clear off their feet, slamming them back into the metal wall of the tank behind them. Rel's head rang at the impact, and his vision skewed. _Oh. . . s'kak. Not good._ "Melaani—" Rel staggered back to his feet. "His biotics hit like a Javelin." Rel strongly suspected he had two or three cracked ribs. Maybe even a concussion. He fumbled, and got his weapon up, and began firing controlled bursts, scarcely registering it as Macready crawled back to his feet. Just focusing on firing on the damned yahg leader.

Seheve appeared, hanging off the shoulders of the yahg that had just lifted Kenyon to its mouth, and bitten down. Her vibroknife cut into its armor, and Rel knew damned well the drell kept that blade poisoned at all times right now. The yahg snarled and threw the human female to the ground, who collapsed there, limp and bleeding. Reached up and behind himself, grabbing Seheve by the neck, and tearing her off his back, before throwing her aside, too. Seheve had experience with landing, and managed to roll away, coming up to her feet in a tucked crouch, but Rel could see blood on her face. All the details were easy to pick out, in the preternatural haze that adrenaline gave him.

The krogan charged from the side, but they were already injured. The yahg leader snarled and shockwaved them away; the other yahg warrior was pursuing Melaani, who at least was able to use a shockwave of her own on the creature. It swayed in place, and stopped, shaking its head, but wasn't precisely knocked off its feet. "Need some help over here," the asari called.

_We __all__ need help,_ Rel thought, grimly. That was the problem. They were spread out all over the damned place.

And then the geth moved in, the eight that remained, and opened fire on the yahg leader and his closest warrior. The warrior turned and charged, managing to grab one geth unit and swinging that trooper into another with enough force that the metal bodies flew apart. The yahg leader laughed—the first time Rel had ever seen the creatures do such a thing—and charged, himself. At close range, shields didn't matter as much, and he actually lifted a geth prime unit and tore its arms off its body. "We've got to regroup," Rel shouted. "Everyone, fall back to me. Malcolmson, is Vilinus on her feet?"

"No." The word was terse. "I can give you some crossfire here, though." The human marine rose to a crouch, off to the left, where he'd been tending to Kassa, and leveled his assault rifle at the yahg leader, who stood among the geth now, towering over them. The krogan were staggering back to their feet again. Rel emptied his clip at the yahg warrior closest to him, finally burning through its shields. And as the creature turned away from the geth and charged at him, Macready threw a grenade right into its chest, opening up its armor. Staggering it, preventing it from slamming directly into Rel or the marine at its full speed.

Rel ducked away, hands automatically changing out the thermal clip, and fired again. This was the yahg that Seheve had wounded, at least, he realized. Its movements were slower, more sluggish now, and he and Macready had at least a chance to fire on it again—and then it picked up Macready. One of the handful of marines from the _Kharkov_ who'd survived that bloody day on the Lystheni base. And then it slammed the human male into the metal wall of the tank.

Rel snarled and fired, point-blank, into the yahg's body. _"Drop him!"_ he shouted, knowing it made no difference what he said. The words would be meaningless to the yahg. "_Drop him_!"

The yahg turned, and with its last strength, shoved Macready's limp body in Rel's direction, trying to swipe at him. Rel caught the limp body in his left arm, just as the yahg fell to the ground. He eased Macready to the ground, having no idea if the man was alive or dead, and turned once more to find a target. He shook his head, vision skewing again, but the adrenaline was there to help him fight the concussion. The yahg leader had just blasted half the geth and the krogan, again, with another shockwave. Seheve looked around wildly, and then shimmered into invisibility. "Seheve, help Melaani!" Rel called, falling back into squad leadership role almost automatically. It probably wasn't his call, but damnit, Melaani was being run all over the place by the other yahg warrior, and had just used another biotic charge to get the hell away from him, trying to establish enough space to use another grenade.

Rel moved forward now, stepping over Macready's limp form, and began firing steadily at the yahg leader. Chiseling through the shields. Biotic barrier, tech barrier. One reinforcing the other, one constantly replenished. The geth were doing their best, trying to overload the tech shields, but they were down to four units now, and their intelligence diminished with each platform destroyed, of course. "Keep firing, overload every time you can," Rel called to them. "We've got to break through!"

Malcolmson was firing, too. There was a shout to the right, and Rel's eyes lifted for a moment, and he saw Melaani, caught without a charge to get away with, lifted and shaken like a doll, just as Seheve broke from cover, slicing through the yahg's armor with her deadly vibroknife. _Might be making some progress here_, he thought. . . and then the yahg leader turned and lifted and _threw_ a geth right at Rel, using nothing more than his mind. Rel dove for the ground as the geth hurtled past him, and then rolled back to his feet, trying to fire again. One of the geth's arms had clipped his helmet on the way past, making his head ring all over again. Rel staggered on, still firing. _This is insane,_ he thought, numbly. _Of all the things I've ever done, this is definitely possibly the most insane._

There were three geth and two badly wounded krogan left, there was Seheve, trying to save Melaani's life off to the right, and Malcolmson, standing over Kassa's body, to the left. He couldn't allow the yahg leader to _charge_ him. Closing the range took that option out of the creature's bag of tricks. Melee combat sometimes, but not always, cut through kinetic shields. Tricked them, really; they were designed to repel fast-moving bullets, after all. And as Rinus had defeated the shields of other yahg with large waves of chemicals, Rel was really _hoping_ that kicks and punches would get through. And finally, Rel remembered Dempsey saying, several times, that hand-to-hand combat made it difficult for a biotic to focus their energies. _Let's hope it's as true for yahg as it is for humans_

He closed to within ten feet of the yahg leader, still firing, and then the yahg closed with _him_. _Oh, s'kak_, Rel thought, and for a moment, he absolutely knew, as he had on Camala, months ago, that he was going to die. On Camala, he'd thought of Dara, and tried to send his spirit to her. Maybe he had. Maybe his spirit had gotten lost then, and he'd been wandering around, _mor'loci_, ever since. Because now, he felt no impulse to send his spirit anywhere. Just a faint sense of relief, in a way. He'd been hunting this creature for a long time, both in body and in spirit, had captured its likeness in the wood of his carving, and now he saw its face, and knew that it was death.

Rel used every trick he knew. He ducked and dodged under the huge arms, spinning, moving behind the creature. The yahg was probably thirteen feet tall. Close to twice his height, and probably weighed close to a thousand pounds. Everything he did, felt like punching a _cuderae_ or an elephant. The two krogan closed in again, and Rel snarled, "Help Melaani!" and then swore as the yahg picked up one of those krogan and threw him right into the few remaining geth, bowling the mechanical units over. The remaining krogan tried to latch on to the yahg's arms, as Rel had seen Grunt and Gris do. "Come on, turian!' the krogan snapped at him, and Rel raised his gun, firing into the yahg's exposed back—

-and the yahg spun, frighteningly quickly, and now the krogan was between Rel's gun and the yahg's body. And then the yahg channeled biotic energy again, and Rel dove for the ground as the krogan was simply _launched_, torn away from his grip on the yahg's arms. Rel, on the ground, tried to fire up at the yahg. Tore through the biotic layer of shields, at least, as the one remaining geth unit staggered back to its feet and overloaded the yahg's tech shields. _Oh, good, we got down to its armor at last,_ Rel thought, distantly, and tried to scramble backwards as the yahg glared down at him. _Good to know. They get target fixation, too. Pity I might not be able to let anyone know that._

And then the yahg dropped down on him, stripping the gun away in one vicious swipe. So damned much weight. Rel couldn't afford to get pinned. If he were pinned, the damned thing would tear him apart. So he rolled, backwards, getting his legs out from under the yahg, slamming an armored spur into the creature's face, knocking its helmet off, at least, and tried to get back to his feet.

A huge paw grabbed him by the leg, instead, before he could complete his roll. _S'kak._ Rel managed to draw his pistol. Heard the single remaining geth firing away at the yahg, could see bullets tearing into its armored side. He fired his own pistol, point-blank, and another heavy paw swipe sent the pistol flying. The yahg snarled and then its jaws gaped wide. Row after row of carnivore teeth, and then the jaws snapped closed. Not as much bite-force as a varren, but surely as much as a shark.

Hard suits were designed to withstand bullet impacts. Shields existed to slow the bullets. Armor existed to protect against impact—fists, whatever residual energy a bullet might be carrying. A good kinetic shield could stop the rapid oscillation of a vibrosword or vibroblade, reduce the kinetic energy of it, and thus render it briefly ineffective as anything other than a knife. A hard suit could turn a cut away. But wasn't _nearly_ as effective against a stab. And a bite was a stab, effectively. Done from inside the shields.

The massive force of the yahg's jaws let the teeth penetrate through the suit. Crushed the armor plates, too, compressing them into his flesh and bone. Turian bones, though hollow, were enormously strong; they had to be, with nothing inside of them to deaden vibration and impact, as marrow protected human bones, after a fashion. Teeth grated on bone. Hot blood inside his armor. Searing pain, but distant. Very, very distant, in the face of all that adrenaline. Everything incredibly slow now. Plenty of time to think, calmly, _Rifle, gone. Pistol, gone. Grenades?_ At close range like this, it would be suicide. It was an option, though. Pull the pin, release the handle, and shove it in the yahg's face.

Looking down now—no. Grenades were lying ten feet away. Couldn't even crawl to the pack. More bullets slamming into the yahg's side. Distant, faint voice. Melaani. "Hold on! We're coming!"

One weapon left. Rel's right hand closed on the hilt of his wedding-knife and tore it free from the sheath. He pulled himself upright in one fluid motion, all stomach muscles, and brought the knife down, back-handed, a stab of his own, aiming for the yahg's eye. Any one would do, really.

Time suddenly started flowing again. The yahg's mouth gaped open as Rel's first stab struck true, gouging out the first eye. Rel continued forward, getting one foot on the ground for leverage, trying to reverse their positions. No luck, but he was at least sitting up now, face-to-face with the creature, and stabbed again. _"Will. . .you. . . just. . . __die__?"_ Rel snarled, and this time, the stab found a different eye, even as the yahg jerked back, reflexively, trying to protect its vulnerable face.

He could feel the knife pass through the eye, grate on bone, find some other, more yielding tissue—_brain. Got to be._ Rel jerked the hilt of the knife back and forth, and the yahg lurched back, entire body spasming—and the knife snapped. Rel found himself holding the hilt, numbly, staring at it, covered in orange-red blood. Nothing left of the blade but a stub. . . and whatever remained embedded in the yahg leader's brain.

Then the huge creature fell forward, pure dead weight on top of him. And after a suffocating second or two, the concussion and the blood-loss and the crushing weight all called for their due, and Rel's consciousness wavered, and went out, like a candle.

The last words he heard were, _"Hold on. We've got you. We've got you—oh, spirits, will you look at his leg?"_

Time passed.

Consciousness returned, but slowly. Very, very slowly. _Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

The noise was annoying. It was nagging, persistent, as bad as an alarm-clock on a day on which he _really_ hadn't wanted to go to school.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

_Leave me alone, __Mada.__ I don't want to go to school. My leg hurts._

The thought penetrated the haze wrapped around his thoughts that he hadn't actually been in school in a long, long time now. And how had he hurt his leg, anyway? Had he slipped on the handball field? Had he fallen badly in sparring?

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

"_Rellus? Second-brother? Open your eyes."_ Rinus' voice was firm, and Rel could feel warm fingers against his fringe. It would be so good just to _drift_ here for a little while longer. He was no place, and he was no one, and it felt so good not to be anyone at all.

"_You've got him on so much __papavera__, I'd be surprised if he __can__ open his eyes."_

"_The __Salutifier__ is only having a marginal effect. We've got him on about a thousand units of the antibiotics at the moment, but yahg bites are incredibly vicious."_

Rel opened his eyes, hazily. Managed to focus on the room around him. It smelled clean here. Far cleaner than anywhere on the surface of . . . Shanxi. Yes, that's where he'd been. Shanxi. The thoughts were distant, however. Rinus was sitting beside the bed, one hand on Rel's wrist. After what felt like about half an hour of thinking, Rel managed to figure out that _someone else_ must be touching his fringe, because the warm fingers hadn't stopped stroking his crest, and Rinus' hands were both in full view. A female turian doctor stood nearby, looking down at Rinus to talk to him. Walls. . . no, curtains. Rel's eyes flicked side to side. Curtains, with green fern fronds on them. Little colorful _lanurae_ flitting here and there through a forest scene. What had Dara said that her patients called these kinds of curtains? _Oh, right. Wallpaper in hell._

"_What can you tell me?"_ Rinus, as always, straightforward and to the point.

"_Well, the worst of the concussion is behind him. No swelling to the brain, which is good. Brain activity seems to be normal. Three broken ribs. Not unexpected. The leg, the bite wound? That's the real problem. Yahg bites are. . . vicious."_ She sighed. _"The teeth punctured the bone. That introduced weak points, and the sheer force of the bite created spiderweb fractures all around the puncture points. That, we can fix. We removed the pieces of tooth that broke off in the wounds. We went in and sheathed the bone in carbon nanotubules, which created at least a matrix for the bone fragments to grow on again, and we've been trying to use a bone regenerator on the osseous tissues. With limited success."_ She sounded grim. _"The real problem is that yahg bites seem to have some form of poison with them. Not injected, like a snake's, but in the saliva. Necrotizes the flesh around the bite. Also, their mouth bacteria are . . .virulent. Tends to result in massive infections. We've resorted to removing the dead flesh, and we're applying medigel on an hourly basis. The nanites in the medigel should help rebuild the flesh, but the infection is spreading."_

"_Which just means that more flesh necrotizes."_

"_Yes. Even the krogan have difficulty regenerating from these bites."_

"_That part, I knew,"_ Rinus said, shaking his head. _"Are you going to have to amputate?"_

"_We're hoping not,"_ the doctor said, briskly. _"He's better off than a lot of other people who've suffered similar bites. At least it was to an extremity. And he's got the best medical care up here on the __Estallus.__ Cleaner conditions than down on Shanxi." _She snorted. "_We had a report of a krogan—Ollor Feldur? Took a bite that penetrated the cranium. And fought off the infection. Nothing but natural regeneration and some medigel."_

"_Yeah. I'm thinking he'll be getting some invitations to his clan's female camp when he gets home. An immune system like that, they're going to see as a trait worth passing on."_ Rinus' tone was droll, and he looked back, and his eyes widened, startled. _"Well, good morning, second-brother. How long have you been awake?"_

"_Long. . . enough. . . to hear . . . the highlights."_ Rel's tongue felt thick in his mouth. _"Thirsty."_

The hand on his fringe stopped stroking, and there was a clink somewhere off to his left. Rel turned his head a little, and his eyes widened as Kallixta, his brother's wife, took a tube filled with liquid, and dribbled a little into his mouth. Water. Clean, clear, cold water. _"Thank you,_" Rel muttered, closing his eyes again. Starting to drift. He opened them again, with an effort. _"Yahg's dead?"_

"_Yes, second-brother. You killed him. The rest of them __turned on each other__ with their leader dead."_ Rinus' voice was astounded. _"They fought one another. They're fighting each other __and_ _us on the planet."_

"_Trying to find. . . a new leader?"_ Rel asked, with some effort. It was so hard to think, but at least the dimness of his thoughts didn't really let him focus on the dull, throbbing, insistent pain in his right leg.

"_Uncle Garrus thinks so, yes."_ Rinus patted his arm. _"Can I get you anything?"_

"_Broke my wedding-knife_," Rel said, dully. That much, he remembered. _"Just snapped. Flaw in the metal. Shouldn't have broken under that stress."_ He could picture it in his hand. Nothing left but the hilt.

Kallixta patted his fringe. _"You wouldn't let go of it,_" she murmured. _"It's here. Cleaned up."_ There was a sound of a drawer opening, and she handed him the shattered knife.

Rel stared at it. _Papavera_ in his blood made his voice dull. _"Worthless now."_ He paused, and managed to think a little more clearly. _"What about the others? Kassa Vilinus? Macready? T'soa? Liakos?. . . the human marine, I. . . can't remember her name. . . .?"_

Rinus looked up at the doctor, who nodded. _"Only a little more time, brother,"_ Rinus told him. _"Melaani's okay. She had a pretty bad concussion. Screwed up her biotics pretty good for a while. Seheve only had bruises. Macready. . . "_ Rinus sighed. "_Spinal injuries. He's looking at paralysis below the waist. The human docs said he __might__ regain feeling with the right treatments. He'll be lucky if he can walk again."_

Kallixta's fingers were back on Rel's fringe again. Softly stroking. _"And the others?"_ Rel asked.

"_Private Kenyon, the human female? Didn't make it. One of the two krogan, didn't make it. Nine of the ten geth platforms, total loss. Broken down for spare parts, I guess."_ Rinus looked grim. _"Kassa Vilinus, the pilot of the gunship with you? She regained consciousness at the scene. Malcolmson helped her over to you, propped her up while he and the others lifted the yahg off of you. She's got a broken arm, skull fracture, eight broken ribs, and a fractured pelvis. Couple of weeks of rehab once the bones get mended. She's over in the main med bay. You? You're in the ICU, and you need to rest."_

_Rest. Yeah._ Rel's eyes started to slide closed. _"__Fradu__?"_

"_Yes, Rellus?"_

"_What's going on. . . down there?"_ He paused. _"Everywhere else?"_

"_You let __us__ worry about that."_ Rinus patted his arm again. _"__You_ _worry about getting better."_

Rel thought about that as his brother and Kallixta left. Carefully, he lifted the sheets, and peered down. He couldn't see his leg. It was covered in additional drapes, locked in place, so he couldn't move it, he supposed. He could imagine what it looked like, however. Probably hundreds of sutures. He'd needed sixty to the wrist from Lintorum's bite in boot camp. A human bite _might_ be three inches wide. A turian's, if the mandibles were fully extended, perhaps five. A yahg's? Seven to ten. Hundreds of sharp, spiky teeth. Each one a puncture, blue-black, probably, with a white pustule of infectious fluids inside of it. Rel gritted his own teeth. He'd been _marked_, he realized, dimly. And his last thought, before falling back into unconsciousness was, _At least I killed the damned thing._


	112. Chapter 112: Advances

**Chapter 112: Advances**

_**Author's note: **Just to re-iterate what I've said in any number of PMs. . . we're in the first quarter of a 9-12 month story arc. Don't expect Rel to be fixed right away. ;-) In my experience, people who have a good attitude before being hurt, recover well. People who are in a bad place mentally before getting hurt. . . take the hurt out on everyone around them. Injuries never really 'heal' someone's spirit. They can make someone stop, pause, take stock of their lives. . . but severe wounds are never really a curative._

_On the food crates from last chapter . . .LOL. When I lived in Maryland, one of the years there corresponded with the end of a 7 year and 13 year cicada breeding cycle. . . at the same time! There were cicadas flying **everywhere**. . . and the local radio station was trying to give directions to people on how to cook and eat cicadas. One reporter chopped them up and baked them into chocolate chip cookies. When she finally got some people to try them, the reply was that the cicadas wound up tasting like, well, nuts, really. Humans, we lucky omnivores, really will eat anything. We just might not want to!_

**Elijah, July 31, 2196**

Makur scowled as he, Eli, and Siara patrolled around the edge of E-ring. "This place looks like Tuchanka."

"In other words, it looks like home, _marai'ha'sai?"_ Siara asked, looking up at the blackened façade of a nearby building.

Makur's answer, initially, was a growl. Eli chuckled a little. The two of them almost constantly poked at each other.

There was another moment or two of silence. Then Makur managed to put some of his thoughts into words. "You work damned hard to clear the rubble and the trash out of the streets. You might even get some fields started. Get clean water. And then _someone_ inevitably comes along and destroys it." His head jerked up, and Eli, who'd come to depend on Makur's acute sense for danger, spun, lifting his rifle and scanning for enemies. "Huh. Group of civilians over in that store," Makur said, and stumped towards it, the snow leopard loping at his side. "They were about to open fire on us, then realized that we don't actually look like batarians."

"I can see where they'd be confused, in your case," Eli said, looking up at him in amusement. "I can paint 'not a batarian' across the back of your armor for you, if you like. Just to avoid confusion."

Makur chuckled dourly. "Very helpful, human."

Five thousand relief troops made a hell of a difference. In the past eight days, the Spectres and the leaders of the krogan and quarian forces (Ulluthyr Damul and Par'natil vas Irria nar Kellor, respectively), had been able to change tactics. The krogan were currently holding Omega's docking bays, and the rag-tag group of mercenaries, led by Ellemai and Mesinus Vellimus, dropped back down to defend D-ring facilities and take care of their families. A few of the krogan mercs joined up with the Clan Alliance troops, however. "Apparently," Sam had told Eli, dryly, "They can't stand the thought of a good fight that they're not invited to join."

Before, they'd been hunkering down in the shattered remains of buildings, trying to lead quick hit-and-run attacks against control rooms and slave processing areas, and raiding storerooms to regain supplies for the citizens . . .or raiding batarian enclaves to rescue captives. Now, they were able to set the quarians and the krogan to a building-to-building sweep through E-ring. Harak had been harassing the batarians non-stop for five weeks already on E and F; they were dug in against his small band of Urdnot bodyguards in a dozen small hideouts.

The batarians on E-ring had been, predominantly, slavers. They'd gone so far as to set up cage traps in the local grocery stores, like the one they were approaching. They'd find a store that was in a quiet neighborhood, where the locals were still trying to dart out between salvos of gunfire for food or water, kill the owners, leave the lights on, and lie in wait inside, with tripwires to catch people, not at the door, but in the aisles. The first couple of times they'd found such setups, Makur had growled, "Like setting up a hunter's nest at a waterhole, or by a river. Wait for the prey to come to you." Eli had thought the comparison apt.

Now, they entered the store. Reassured residents that they were not about to attack them for the few supplies left in the store. "Actually," Eli told them, calmly, "new supply shipments are coming in today. Down at the docking ring. Not regular shipments—those will wait until the situation's stabilized a bit. But aid supplies from Luisa, Earth, Demeter, and Palaven." _Not_ Galatana, he'd noticed, almost immediately. He'd spent enough time in the turian military to know the supply code markings on the MRE crates. An 001 designation always meant Palaven. 005 was Galatana, the largest agricultural colony. He knew they'd been blockaded, or so the news had said, before he'd left for Omega, and made a mental note to ask Sam what the _hell_ was going on off-station. _If Sam even knows._ The senior Spectres, Cohort, Sam, and Ylara, were handling all the communications with the Mindoir base. If there was news from places like Shanxi or Galatana or Terra Nova, they were not terribly forthcoming with it. _Probably want to keep us focused on the problems at hand_, Eli reasoned. Technically, as Spectres, they were all supposed to be equals. Eli didn't actually have a problem with Sam and Ylara still calling the shots, though. _Apprentice Spectre. Should be the real rank,_ he thought, faintly amused.

It took about fifteen minutes to convince the residents to go down two levels on elevators that were now, thanks to a whole host of quarian techs, working again, at least from E-ring down to B-ring again. "Slow," Eli muttered, looking around the grocery store. There was _nothing_ left on the shelves, and half the shelves had been knocked over or moved askew. The fresh produce section was nonexistent (Omega's hydroponics area had been reserved for the wealthy for generations, although Eli had a feeling Pelagia would probably change that, given time), and the frozen foods section had shattered glass in the refrigerated cases, blasting cold air out in all directions. Eli found, using his omnitool, the power source, and at least turned it off. "Makur," he said, looking around, "What do you think of trying to use a place like this, say, up on G-ring, to try to turn the trap around on the slavers?"

Makur paused and absolutely _grinned._ "Good thinking. Depends on if we can get to the waterhole first."

Of course, getting up into G-ring was now the trick. The batarians had been taken by surprise when they'd gone up there eight days ago; they hadn't had snipers in place to catch aircar traffic coming into the level. Now they did, and they had shut down elevator access to the lower levels now, as they'd previously shut down access from above. Pelagia was locked out of the system from G to L, but now had access from A to F, and from M to P.

They headed back to the Spectre command post now on E ring, a warehouse, to check in with Sam regarding their idea. When they got there, however, it was clear that Sam Jaworski had a lot more on his hands than he really wanted to deal with. He, Ylara, and Harak had several _reporters_ in the warehouse, actually. Eli recognized Emily Wong immediately, and al-Jilani was there, as well. He looked around, found Lin and Dara and Siara, and moved to them, muttering, "What the _hell_?"

"They came in on the same ship as the last batch of supplies," Dara muttered, tightly. "It's been a barrel full of laughs since then."

Harak was, visibly, restraining himself as he answered the most recent question. "Yes. We've made significant headway on dealing with the batarians who've invaded Omega. You were able to come aboard, weren't you?" he growled. "The docking bays are secure, held by Clan Alliance troops and quarian marines. We've retaken five levels of the station since the initial attack on June eighteenth, and have never actually lost control of the top five levels."

Emily Wong smiled. "And how much of that is attributable to the presence of Council forces, including the Spectres, and how much of that is attributable to your own security forces?"

Harak smiled without mirth, baring his yellowing teeth. "About fifty-fifty, I'd say. Spectres and, hmm . . . .shall we say, certain of Omega's own resources . . . got the docking bays open. We're still cut off from the bulk of our security forces, but even the ordinary citizens of Omega have taken up arms against the batarians. Hell, I've even seen the batarians who _live_ here fighting their own people. Most people who live on this station _like_ it here. They don't want to be turned into slaves or have their homes and livelihoods destroyed."

Al-Jilani interjected a question now. "How do you expect this situation to be resolved, and how soon?" She shifted, visibly, as Makur took a step or two in her direction, and edged further away. Siara put a hand on Makur's shoulder, and some sort of silent communication ran through them; Makur stepped back away, but continued to glower intimidatingly in al-Jilani's direction.

"I expect the batarians to die or be otherwise out on their asses. I don't have a timeline on that, though." Harak started to turn away.

Al-Jilani moved after him. Cautiously, it had to be noted. "Governor Harak? One more question. It's widely rumored that there is an illegal AI on this station, that controls the docking facilities, handles the environmental controls, the power core. . . everything, really. Care to comment on that?" She paused, and added, "Or on the fact that, if that's true, the AI would be responsible for the deaths of hundreds of civilians so far?"

Harak turned, and Eli was very glad that those red-tinged eyes were not focused on _him_ at the moment. "And how do you figure that?" he asked, a low, harsh rumble that had menace in it. "First and foremost, this is _Omega._ Council law doesn't apply here. Second of all, I won't discuss details of Omega's operations that batarians monitoring your news feed can use against us. Third, none of your f—"

Sam stepped in at that point. "That was a lot of questions all at once, Ms. al-Jilani," he said, and Eli grinned faintly as he heard the drawl thicken. "I'd like to know, personally how you attribute any civilian deaths here to anything other than the batarian invasion."

"I'd like to know that, myself," said a clear, crisp female voice, and Eli's eyes widened as Pelagia 'walked,' over. Her ice-blond hair tumbled past her shoulders, and she wore mechanic's coveralls at the moment. . . unbuttoned low enough that he decided he'd probably be best focusing his eyes somewhere around her collarbone. _Okay, it's obviously been a rough six weeks, if I'm trying not to ogle an AI's holographic avatar,_ he thought, and wanted to laugh, but kept his face as straight as possible.

"This," Dara muttered, putting a hand over her mouth to cover the shape of her lips as she spoke, "has got to be a first."

Al-Jilani looked startled. Sam looked resigned. Harak just _grinned._ "And you are. . . ?" al-Jilani asked.

"Pelagia. Formerly the NCAI of the _Kharkov._ Now resident AI of Omega." Pelagia's tone was icy. "If you want my full name, it would be Pelagia Moreau Ulluthyr Omega, but _Pelagia_ would do."

Al-Jilani blinked rapidly. "Wasn't the _Kharkov_ the _Normandy_-class ship that was lost five years ago, along with half of its crew?"

Pelagia stared at her. "Yes. Which is why I take _great_ affront to being accused of the deaths of any organic for whose life and safety I'm _responsible_." The clear gray eyes were very cold. "And I would _very_ much like to know how it is that you think I'm responsible for any of the deaths of _my_ organics here on Omega."

Al-Jilani froze in place, clearly confused. "Ah, sources indicate that fire suppression systems failed to come on-line in B-ring—"

"Yes. After the batarians locked out those systems, and severed all of my hard links to the systems. Additionally, seventy-eight other civilians in B-ring also died of smoke inhalation because the batarians severed my connection to environmental systems and I was unable to vent the smoke in various confined spaces. Every one of those deaths is a tragedy, Ms. al-Jilani. But I will not accept blame or guilt for what the batarians did." Pelagia glared at the reporter, and Harak reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. Or at least, appeared to do so. Eli's head tipped slightly to the side as he tried to figure out how the _hell_ Harak made the gesture, interacting with empty space, look that natural.

"If you can be so easily locked out of systems, then what's the value of _having_ an AI—"

Harak snorted. "You make me tired, human. First, the hard-lines were severed, and all wireless frequencies were jammed for weeks. There's not a VI in the galaxy that could get around that. Second, if she _could_ get around lockouts, you'd be trying to make it sound like she had too _much_ power, instead of too little. You can't have it both ways. Third, this interview—"

"—is over," Pelagia finished. "Ms. Wong? If you have questions, Harak and I will entertain them."

Wong _leaped_ at the offer. "You said your full name was Pelagia Moreau _Ulluthyr_ Omega?"

"Yes. I am the titular head of the Ulluthyr female clan. I established that dominance in combat with the former female leader, Ulluthyr Surla." Pelagia didn't smile. "Spectre Urdnot Siara Tesala provided some assistance in the matter."

Emily Wong just stared for a moment, at a total loss for words. Beside Eli, Dara's shoulders were shaking. So were Siara's. "I think this is the most fun I've had since I punched al-Jilani," Makur muttered, quietly. "And they're doing it all with _words._"

Wong recovered after a moment. "So, you're the AI for the station, as you were, previously, the AI for a _Normandy_-class ship. That means that you have control—"

"Of a variety of station systems and functions. Essentially, I make sure the lights stay on, people have air to breathe, deal with waste reclamation and water processes, alert the newly formed systems maintenance crews when faults occur, and notify Omega Security Forces when alarms occur." Her tone was bland. "The boring things that most humanoids find too tedious to deal with themselves."

Harak leaned forward. "Ms Wong? That's not for distribution at this point." He looked at Pelagia, and told her, calmly, "Don't let your irritation run away with you." Harak grinned. "Much as I love seeing the spine."

Eli knew most people wouldn't hear what wasn't said there. _Controls all power, gravity, water, and air aboard the station, provides preventative and emergency maintenance, supports security. Might as well just say 'mother goddess' and have done with it._ He looked at Siara, and muttered, "And you're in her krannt, huh?"

Siara chuckled. "It's going to look good on my resume when I try to take over the Urdnot female clan. What can I say?"

In the meantime, al-Jilani had rallied enough to try to ask Sam one more question now. "Do you have any comments on the apparently lack of progress on Shanxi, Terra Nova, Amaterasu, Anhur, Feros, and Ferris Fields?"

Sam shook his head, and let the drawl stay thick. "No, ma'am. Spectre Ylara Alir and Spectre Cohort and I are in charge of Special Task and Reconnaissance operations on this front, and can't comment on anything else."

"You haven't commented even on this one."

"I've said all I mean to, for now," Sam told her, in a completely amiable tone, and then escorted her and Emily Wong out of the warehouse, noting, "The safest place for you ladies is back on one of the Alliance ships currently docked with Omega—"

"So what you're saying is, Omega itself isn't totally secure?" al-Jilani pounced.

"—but there are hotels that are re-opening on B-ring, between the various docking bays," Sam finished, without so much as missing a beat. "They are, however, somewhat low on amenities, such as warm water, and probably won't be serving a continental breakfast, either."

The door slid shut behind them, and Eli shook his head, looking at Dara. "Your father has the patience of a _saint_."

Dara snorted. "I never much noticed that growing up, but. . . yeah. He knows when to turn it on." She sighed. "Damn reporters."

Eli patted her on the shoulderplates. "You didn't have to deal with any of 'em this time." He paused. "Actually, if any of them corner us, I say we all stick with a set response, and refer any and all reporters to our new Press Liaison Officer." He nodded. "Urdnot Makur."

Lin, quiet until now, doubled over laughing. Siara's laughter started off quietly, but soon, she was holding her sides, and had to sit down on a crate. Dara crouched, chortling just as hard as the rest of them.

Sam walked up behind them, and, after a moment or two spent studying them, asked, "What's so damned funny?"

"Nothing," Makur growled. "Eli wants to promote me."

Which only made them all start laughing all over again. Once Dara had calmed down enough to manage to answer, Sam snorted. "It's actually not a bad idea, especially since Cohort's not a good choice, and Ylara and I can't always be there to deal with the press. You young folks _are_ going to need a spokesperson to default to sometimes. But, sorry, Makur. It ain't you. We need someone with, hmm. How to say this." Sam looked at the ceiling. "Better diplomacy skills."

"Doesn't break any of my hearts," Makur growled back.

Sam looked at Dara. "You're not it, sweetie. You try your best with the cameras, but you hate it too much, and it shows." He paused. "There's also the problem of the, er—personal problems at the moment."

Dara grimaced. "Yeah. I'm the person who's going to want to be deflecting questions, not answering them. I'll handle any medical issues, of course. Whoever winds up being tagged with this really crappy job can refer those questions to me, and it'll get taken care of, okay?"

Sam looked around at them. "Siara? You interested?"

Siara shook her head, vehemently. "No."

Dara looked over at her, and frowned. "It would be damned good experience, Siara. Being the public face of the younger members of the Spectre program would be outstanding for you, and it's not like you won't have to speak in public if you _do_ challenge for the Urdnot female clan—"

"Yeah, but that doesn't really require diplomacy," Siara replied, sharply. "It requires being able to knock heads together, or being able to convince people that you _can_. Not being charming or sympathetic."

"You're better at that than I am," Dara told her, dryly.

"Dara, there are _bricks_ out there who are better at that than you are." Siara smiled slightly. "At least, with people you don't know."

Dara grimaced. "I'm working on it, I'm working on it. . . ."

Sam shook his head now. "Any votes for Kirrahe?"

They all glanced around, and Lin shook his head. "Usual salarian problem. Talks too fast, mind goes off a million different directions at once. You need someone who _can't_ be side-tracked for press work."

"Tell me about it," Sam muttered. "They _both_ asked me, at least five different ways each, what our next move was, how we intend to get to the OSF people, and I had to tell them _ten_ different ways, 'I will not comment on pending or current operations.'"

Dara looked up. "I vote for Eli."

Eli's head jerked towards her. "Oh, hells no—"

Lin grinned. "You've done it before. On Edessan, at least a bit."

"So have _you¸ fradu._" Eli's tone was sharp. "Doesn't qualify me—"

"You're better at it than any of us," Lin told him, simply.

"You did _great_ with the reporters during the candidacy process," Dara said, nodding. "Even went to go extricate Dempsey at the time." She looked up at him calmly. "You're the best choice, Eli. Not just because you can hold your calm—"

"_Sai'kaea_, have you seen me when I get mad?" Eli rubbed at the back of his neck. A simple joke was suddenly taking on a life of its own, and he felt like snapping at them all, _And if Dara's life will subject her to questions, why wouldn't mine?_ But the answer there was. . . he was working on extricating himself from his entanglements. And his were going to be a hell of a lot simpler than hers.

Dara's brown eyes were amused. "Yes, actually, I have. You glare. You clench your teeth. You look a hell of a lot like Lantar. . . and you get mad in a very _turian_ way. . . but you don't yell. You don't explode. Even when Rel insulted Serana. If you can hold your calm for that, I don't see you breaking under the questions of the galactic press."

Eli opened his mouth to object, and Dara lifted a finger to silence him, turian-style, and he blinked at the gesture. "Besides, you're still the foremost symbol of unity in the Spectre family. Adopted human son of a turian Spectre." She grinned at him.

Siara was nodding. "_And_ you speak fluent, graceful asari. And turian. And English. And passed the Rite on Tuchanka." She looked over at Sam. "Make him do it. And ignore his protests."

Sam's shoulders were shaking. "Damn, boy. They've got you six ways from Sunday."

Eli gritted his teeth. "God damn it," he muttered. "Last time I open my mouth around here, I tell you. You do that, and you get _volunteered._"

Dara stood up and patted his cheek with her gloved fingers. "Thank you, Eli," she half-sang at him, grinning. "We'll do everything we can to make it suck less for you."

Eli gave her a look. "Oh, really?"

Sam cleared his throat. "Actually, Dara. . . you do have one press assignment. And our newly appointed junior press liaison, Elijah Sidonis gets to come with you, me, Siara, and Ylara down to the med bays on B-ring. We're giving the story of the lobotomized asari to Emily Wong. It's been declassified. We'll need to go over what you can and can't say—for instance, you can say that the technology has been seen before, and was developed by a rogue group of salarians about six years ago, but you can't talk about Garvug. Or say 'Lystheni,' specifically. And I'll cover Lantar's investigation of the missing asari ships—hmm. You and Rel went on a lot of the ghost ship missions in what, 2193?"

Dara nodded, looking grim. "Yeah. Wasn't a lot of fun. Lots of empty ships, not a hell of a lot of evidence." She looked at Eli and Lin, her lips quirking faintly at the corners. "Wish the two of you had been along. Not that Lantar doesn't see everything, but. . . ." She shrugged. "Can I talk about those missions, Dad?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, actually. We'll go over more details on our way down. Consider this a practice run for knowing when to refer questions to me, Ylara, or, apparently, Eli." Sam grinned at him. "Get used to repeating, 'I'll have to get back to you on that' a lot, son."

Eli awarded Sam a dark look. "Thanks."

Dara chuckled, and followed her father out of the room. Lin snickered outright, and told Eli, "Better you than me, _fradu_," before slapping him on the shoulderplates. Siara simply grinned, a vicious, spritely little smile, as she walked alongside Eli out of the warehouse herself.

They were a good forty feet behind Dara and Sam as they followed father and daughter towards a nearby elevator. "So," Siara murmured, "in the course of language lessons, should I at some point or another tell Dara what _sai'kaea_ means?"

Eli gave Siara a dark look the equal of the one he'd given Sam. "Not unless she asks. And she hasn't asked, has she?"

"Nope." Siara's smile had _all_ the old edges, and quite a few new ones. "Vaul, but she's stubborn."

Eli shrugged. "If she wanted to know, she could have looked it up by now. In fact, she might have." _Of course, standard dictionaries would only tell her __always-fair__._

Siara shook her head. "No. I doubt that. Did I mention 'stubborn'?" The asari looked up at him for a moment, amusement in her eyes. "Of course, so are you."

Eli gave her a look, and she dropped the subject.

Emily Wong's report from Omega hit the news feeds like a dreadnaught's rail gun. Eli watched it with the others, tired and aching, and had to admire it, actually. She'd gotten footage of the human and asari biotics, mostly of the ones whose families had already been informed, and who'd given consent for their images to be used in the report. The lifeless, dull eyes. The higher-functioning victims were able to answer simple questions, such as their name, and what they'd done for a living. If they remembered what had happened. Some of them could. For others, the trauma had been too much, and their monotone voices just stopped answering. Their faces crinkled slightly, and then they shook their heads faintly. The part that _really_ hurt was seeing their families with them. Bright, intelligent, _aware_ faces beside the dull, vacant ones. The shattered sorrow in the faces of the families as they looked at what was _left_ of their loved ones. A few pulled-back shots of the sheer _number_ of the biotics who'd been tortured in this way—they currently had pulled about a hundred or so out of various processing facilities, and Pelagia was able to supply, grimly, that about fifty more had been taken off-station before all the docking bays had been shut down. "Of course, these are the . . . higher-functioning patients," Dara explained on camera. Dara, in the room, watching the report with the rest of them, winced and turned her face away. "I _hate_ hearing or seeing myself on vid," she muttered, slouching over a cup of something heated out of an MRE packet.

On-screen, she continued, calmly, full medical mode. "The patients who've had more brain function removed, may not be able to feed, bathe, clothe, or attend to basic hygiene needs."

Emily, in a tone of sympathetic horror, asked, quietly, "What makes the difference?"

"Lobotomization is not exactly a precise process. It is, in fact, abhorrently primitive. They're using a leucotome, an instrument like this," Dara said, picking one up; it shone silver in her hand, pointed and deadly-looking. "And a rubber mallet, and poking a hole in the brain through the eyesocket. Then they move the instrument around in the brain cavity, attempting to sever the connections between halves of the brain." Her expression was very grim. "Some of the technicians who performed the task may have had steadier hands or a better knowledge of what was, to them, alien physiology. Others may have actually used scanners to see what brain structures they were impacting. Still others may have done neither. In any event, many families are left with either a staggering burden or a difficult choice. Some of the asari affected are no more than two hundred years old, and could live for another eight hundred years. Either in their family's care, or institutionalized. The human families face the same burden, and the same choices." She'd sighed and rubbed at her eyes then. "And, to make matters worse, there's the physical and sexual abuse."

"What?" Emily had asked, right on cue.

Dara, on screen, winced a little. "Many of those captured by slavers are broken through a variety of methods. Some psychological, some physical. Almost all have obedience chips implanted. Most are raped. Beaten. Starved, deprived of sleep, basic comforts. Treated like _things_. The doctors on the med bays here and I have all done a lot of rape kits. And almost all of the lobotomy victims were subjected to the same. . . indignities. . . as the regular slaves. None of them were able to defend themselves, of course. I'm not even sure how. . . aware. . . they were of the crimes committed against them. Somehow, I think that's even worse."

Ylara had been interviewed. She and Ellemai both attested to having been drugged, to having had the leucotomes pounded into their eye sockets. Ylara obligingly lifted her eye patch for the galaxy to see her empty eye socket, saying first, merely, "Tulluust, _marai'ha'sai_? If you're watching with the children, this would be the time to talk with them, and maybe take them out of the room." She was able to attest that she, Lantar, and the Spectres had spent much of the last five years trying to track down what had become of over _ten thousand_ asari who'd gone missing. Ghost ships, derelicts. Most had been small family-owned vessels, and the losses had been put down to piracy. Bad luck. Slavers. "We noticed the pattern early. Mostly asari, and a handful of human biotics. But mostly asari." Ylara sighed. "We simply couldn't prove that the batarians were doing it. . . and we couldn't be sure _why._"

"Why would someone do this?" Emily asked. "Why lobotomize biotics? If all they wanted were slaves. . . ."

And that had led into the explanation of the biotic ship weapons. Sam had referred Emily to Spectre headquarters and Alliance and Hierarchy press offices for vids that were being declassified, showing biotic ship weapons in use.

Eli hadn't had much to do, besides watch Sam and Ylara handle things, but Dara had deflected a couple of questions Emily tossed at her towards the end. Questions about the ghost ships, in the main. Dara had frowned. "I think those investigations are probably considered on-going, so I'm going to refer you to either Spectre Jaworski or Spectre Elijah Sidonis on that, okay?"

Back in the relative safety and warmth of their small warehouse command post, Eli snorted and asked Dara, "Okay, give. What _were_ those missions like?"

She was in the middle of cleaning up the wrappers and everything else from her meal, and paused to grimace. "Creepy, mostly. Creepy as shit. The worst one actually made the news feeds. A pleasure liner called the . . .damn. I'm going to butcher this. _L__iepie Beia'vilu."_

"Star filled with beauty," Eli translated, and frowned. "Damn. Yeah, I remember seeing something about that one when I was on Macedyn. Something like a thousand people?"

She shuddered. "Yeah. Everyone, down to the cooks and the waiters and the cleaning people, just . . . gone. Imagine our boarding team, heading into the airlock. I was along in case there were wounded, survivors. All the lights had been left on. There was music playing on an auto-loop in the various lounges. We went deck by deck, room by room. Not one person. Not one body. There were bloodstains, though. A few of them large enough for people to have bled out from. We. . . assumed those were security personnel. Tended to be around security offices, anyway." Her voice had gone empty, and her face was under very tight control. "Meals left partially eaten, tables overturned. Cards tossed all over the casino tables, chips scattered, and all the gambling machines still binging and bonging and trying to entice new suckers with the promise of fat payouts. Only, there was no one there." The picture was more than a little chilling, and Eli couldn't help but see it. Bright lights, the maze of machines and mirrors designed to disorient a customer, so they couldn't get out of the casino area easily. . . .and no one there.

Dara paused for a moment, then went on, "Lantar was . . . amazing, really. He'd just look around, and he'd tell us a story about each room. Reconstructing as he went. I'd heard my dad tell a few crime stories before, but hadn't really gotten to see him at work." She smiled at Sam, briefly. "I still have no idea how you guys see so much. It was exactly like sitting through my first autopsy with Dr. Solus, all over again." She sighed, and shook her head. "We got to the bridge eventually. Automated distress beacon had been turned _off_, which meant that someone got bribed, probably. And whoever that was probably wound up being processed along with everyone else. At least, I kind of hope they did, now that I know for sure what was going on. There were over a thousand people on the crew manifest and passenger list." Dara tossed the garbage away, and headed out of the room.

Eli could damned near see the ship in his mind later that night. And wondered what the hell he or Lin would have seen there, had they been along for the investigation. _Probably not much,_ he reflected. They'd been on Macedyn at the time. Hadn't even been in CID yet. _And I thought Lin and I saw enough bad shit. Dara, no wonder you've had bad fucking dreams._

They had been, unfortunately, isolated on Omega. Eli was slightly gratified when Sam and Ylara, now that he was 'junior press liaison,' began including him in their conference FTL comm calls to Mindoir. And that was when he started getting a feel for the _scale_ of the damned war. "The asari councilor is a little furious," Shepard told them, three days later. "She wants to know why we didn't disclose any of the information on the asari kidnappings and lobotomizations earlier."

"I hope you said, 'because we didn't have proof of anything beyond the fact that the Lystheni _used_ to use this technology, but we put them out of business,'" Sam told her.

Shepard chuckled, but the sound had little mirth to it. "I _may_ have used the proof line, yes. She. . . wasn't thrilled with that." Shepard shrugged. "Then again, I did remind her, I've been told I don't provide enough proof of my assertions before."

Even Ylara laughed at that one, quietly, before asking, "And the response from within asari space?"

Kasumi was on the call as well. "There's shock, horror, outrage, and a certain degree of disbelief. It's almost too shocking for them, I think. Sort of like Earth's second world war, when the first allegations of Nazi atrocities came out, no one believed them. Newspapers at the time actually pooh-poohed the first reports. And continued to do so until the end of the war, when the concentration camps were uncovered." She sighed. "There's always a few people who'll insist, to the bitter end, that the reports are fabricated in order to drum up support. There are even a few asari matriarchs out there insisting that this is all political, to get the asari involved in a purely human and turian conflict. I believe the exact quote is, 'Haven't they already gotten the geth, the krogan, the quarians, the rachni, and even the elcor involved in their mess?'" Kasumi tossed the datapad in her hand onto the table and exhaled.

Ylara slowly shook her head. "Matriarch Alliana?"

"Got it in one."

"I've not had the dubious pleasure of meeting her." Ylara grimaced. "Perhaps, when we're done here, I'll make a trip to Illium and she can look me in the _eye_ and say that."

Kasumi chuckled. "Can I ask you to record the conversation for posterity?"

"No. I'm sure you and Argus will arrange for it, anyway." Ylara's tone was tart.

And that took them into the _rest_ of the galactic turmoil. Eli had only gotten a few loose ideas, before, of what was going on, on Shanxi, for example. Now, for the first time, he got to watch vids taken from Garrus and Lantar and even Rel's eyepieces—watching how the yahg hunted humans. Ate them. Tore people literally limb from limb. There was a distant sense of unreality as he watched, at first, and then when he saw the names embedded at the bottom of the file: _L. Sidonis, G. Vakarian, R. Velnaran_, Eli had to fight to control his stomach. "You need a moment to go throw up, son?" Jaworski asked after the first of them. "I've seen my fair share of combat, and I thought I was going to lose it after the hunting ones."

"It was the meat hanging facilities that got me," Ylara admitted, her voice low. "I think the hunting ones would have been worse for me, if I'd heard the screams to go with them."

Eli swallowed, convulsively. "I can see why you haven't wanted everyone to see these," he muttered, after a moment. "God. And this is going on everywhere that the yahg have landed?"

Sam nodded, grimly. "We've lost contact with the Spectre teams on Terra Nova, actually. Shanxi's actually doing relatively well, at the moment. Amaterasu, not so good. Feros, Noveria, Ferris Fields, Anhur. . . all different stories. Some have yahg, some have batarians. And of course, then there are the turian worlds. No ground attacks there."

"Because they're all dextro worlds," Eli said, seeing the pattern clearly. "The yahg can't hunt there. The batarians can't _live_ there, not without importing every scrap of food they eat. The yahg can't eat turians, and the batarians think turians make worthless slaves. But they have to _deal_ with the turians, because of the alliance with the humans."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Exactly."

Eli shook his head. "And to think I never thought listening to Lin go on and on about the Unification Wars would come in handy." He sighed. "Okay. What's the situation like on the various turian worlds?"

"Edessan and its shipyards completely repelled the attack. Rocam and Galatana are _still_ blockaded. You can, with some _really_ precision flying, send more than one ship through a mass relay at once. Trouble is," Sam sighed, "the batarians actually had a brainstorm. You know what carbon nanotubules are?"

"Used to hold up space elevators, or, apparently, reinforce Dempsey's bones."

"Yeah. They've hung a net made of the damned stuff over the mass relay's exit area. Some of the strands are, literally, kilometers in length. Couldn't have been cheap to build. You want to know what happens to a ship that hits a barrier like that when traveling at relativistic speeds?"

Eli grimaced. "Shears it into pieces?" _Like soft cheese passing through a wire mesh._

"Galatana managed to get word out that the first net was in place," Sam said, grimly. "And no one's wanted to test it to find out yet. A fighter _might_ exit in the right place, through a gap in the net, and be able to turn around and fire _into_ the mouth of the relay to burn the net. In the meantime taking fire from all the batarian ships lined up to blockade the relay." He rubbed at his face. 'They took our blockade of Omega and went one better. Only reason we got through here when we did, I think, is because they're using the nets in preference to dedicating a lot of ships at Galatana and Rocam. And because we struck here _very_ early." Sam looked dispirited. "We _think_, but we're not sure, that the batarians actually have a way to lift the damned nets out of the way when they get reinforcements of their own coming through the relay."

Eli shook his head, slowly. "How the _hell_ are we supposed to get in there to help?" he muttered.

"One problem at a time," Ylara told him, calmly. "This is one of the reasons that we don't necessarily disclose everything to everyone. The sheer scope is paralyzing. And you don't even have all the details at the moment."

Eli nodded, glumly. "Are any of the rest of them cleared to hear any of this?" _As in, can __I__ vent any of this now that I know it?_

Sam shrugged. "They'll get it when they need to know it." He chuckled, but he didn't look amused as he added, "Hell, Dara knows better even to ask. Too well-trained after a lifetime of me not telling her where I was going." He looked at Eli. "Now, what we need to focus on _here_, on Omega, is finding this Peldrak L'nav, that the slaver Makur killed mentioned. The head of the slavers. And this Nelar V'shav, the SIU chief. That, and busting a hole up to OSF and getting them some damned relief. And that's where you and Lin will come in."

Eli snorted. "Great. Are we treating these as missing persons cases? It'll change how I do the paperwork."

Ylara and Sam both started to _laugh._

What it amounted to was, in essence, detective work, conducted over many days. Eli and Lin started coordinating with Pelagia, who was still, apparently, harassing the batarians on every level. Shutting down power to their enclaves, shutting down running water and the ventilation systems whenever she could. A few, she'd managed to lock into a large office building on J-ring.

Their first step was to send krogan infantry directly from F-ring into G-ring, heading up passageways lined with turret traps and little nests of batarians every twenty feet. While clearing the station level by level made a certain amount of tactical sense, at the moment, the krogan were, actually, the distraction—and Harak was leading them, personally. This was guaranteed to get the batarians' attention.

The Spectres and the quarian marines were going to bypass G-ring entirely and head up to J-ring in relief of OSF at their headquarters. But they'd be taking a slightly different route.

Kirrahe Orlan had spent over a week taking apart every stasis gun he'd taken out of batarian hands, and had endeavored to figure them out. He'd at least been able to reassemble the damned things, and had managed to work out which part was, in fact, the charge chamber. The charge chamber _could_ be swapped from weapon to weapon, so they all now were carrying stasis guns, and two extra clips of charges each, after Kirrahe demonstrated how to change the clips to each of them. "As far as I can tell," he said, and shook his head minutely, "they do indeed work on the basis of the same Collector technology as the original Seeker swarms. What the weapon fires is a burst of particles, so small that they actually go right through standard kinetic shields, untouched. Kinetic shields aren't meant to pick up items that small. They spray through, and then release an energy field, which shocks the body's system. No idea what the energy field is. Defies my limited testing equipment. The field dispersal setting works similarly, just sprays the particles in a larger radius. Work on deterrent later. Determining energy type and signature will help. For the moment, we may use their own weapons against them. If we want any alive, or if they have captives in use as shields."

Dara grimaced at the weapons. "I'll stick with my shock pistol until I run out of shots," she muttered. "It's great work, Kirrahe, and it's a great idea. I just. . . I've seen how these are used so often, that the idea of using them repels me."

"Illogical," the salarian told her. "Weapons are weapons. These are, at least, non-lethal. Not a question of, as a human once said to me, 'bad karma.'" 

Dara managed a lopsided smile for the salarian, and had said something to him in his native tongue. Eli glanced down at his omnitool for a translation. _My head knows that, Kirrahe. My heart doesn't._

"Everyone ready?" Sam asked, as they all conducted final checks on weapons, armor, shields, and, in Dara's case, her heavy medical pack.

"As we're going to be," Lin muttered. "This is going to be . . . different."

They and five hundred quarian marines, half of them in the new quarian battlesuits, moved to the nearest elevator shaft. Pelagia appeared there, which made a few of the quarians shift away, uneasily. "Let me know when you're ready, Spectres," she said, calmly. "The krogan distraction team is in full combat against the slavers holding the entry points to G-ring. The quarian secondary team is in the central tier, and about to start firing on the batarian sentries posted around the landing platforms of G-ring."

Sam nodded to her. "Open the doors, and tell them to light 'em up. Just keep the elevator cars from moving."

"Above G-ring, I'm still locked out, but once you reconnect the controls on each level, I'll have access once more." Pelagia looked at all of them. "Good luck, and good hunting."

She vanished. One of the quarians, inside of his battlesuit, muttered, heavily, _"Keelah'selai_. That gives me chills."

The elevator doors slid open, and Eli watched in amazement as the quarians in their mechanized suits simply leaped in, and grabbed onto the walls. The pincher-like hands had enormous amounts of strength, and the toes of the boots apparently had fibers running across the soles, similar to the nearly-microscopic filaments on a Terran gecko's toes. This was the same technology used by geth 'hopper' units, and that Cohort had on his platform, too. Cohort leaped out after the marines, and began scampering with them up the walls, like silvery ants, all ascending in neat lines. With the mechanized units in motion, it was the organics' turn, now. The elevator shaft actually had ladders for technicians to access the systems for repairs. They were old and a bit rusty, and they were about to take a hell of a lot of weight, so the Spectres and the various other quarian marines were all hooked up to climbing lines. "This," Lin assessed, after a moment, staring up into the darkness, "is going to bite. And not in a fun way at all."

Dara sighed. "Why is it," she asked, after a moment, "that I always seem to wind up _climbing_ when I'm on assignment with Orpheus?"

Sam chuckled, and then they all got moving. It wasn't fun. Eli was in exceptional physical shape, and had regained all the weight he'd lost on Bastion, but climbing a metal ladder up through what amounted to an hundred-story elevator shaft made even his thighs and calf muscles start to scream by halfway up. Each 'ring' of Omega was a hundred and fifty feel tall, with thick floors and ceilings in between each area for support, ventilation, water reclamation, and all the other usual business of a station. Plus, every last one of them was in full kit. Armor, weapons, and a pack. Climbing endlessly, like insects, through a tunnel that was pitch black, other than the lights attached to the battlesuits of the quarians ahead of them, which looked similar to geth eyes. They didn't _dare_ get in a syncopated rhythm climbing up the ladder; like soldiers marching across an old-fashioned bridge, that could have set up too many resonances in the metal, and torn it from the wall. So everyone moved out of step with one another, and the damned ladder trembled and vibrated under every step, making every shift in weight feel like he was about to slip right off the damned thing. "Those suits are looking better and better," Eli muttered into the radio.

"You're telling me," Siara replied, ruefully. "I wonder if I could convince them to fit me for one."

"You'd need an envirosuit under it, Spectre," a quarian marine replied on the common channel, chuckling. "A lot of the controls hook up to our existing head's-up displays, and so on.

"Might be worth it," Siara replied, wistfully.

_Yeah. I bet __their__ legs don't hurt right now,_ Eli thought, grimly.

It would have had a dreamlike feel to it, if it hadn't been for the cramping pain in the legs. It was actually a relief when they hit each new level, and Kirrahe and a couple of quarian techs would move off of the ladder at the doorway of the elevator, and find a disconnected control box. Then, they'd be safe from the possibility of an elevator car slamming down into them for the next 180 feet or so, until the next level. And, for five minutes or so, they could all just stand still. Letting their legs relax. At one such break, Eli tuned his radio to Dara's private band. "You okay, _sai'kaea_?" he asked, reaching up to pat her ankle on the ladder above him. She was just above him, as Siara was directly below him, and Makur below her. "How are you doing with the heights?"

"It's okay. I can't see _down_ past, well, basically past Makur. So I know it's _there_, but it's only making my hands sweat a little. Thanks for the reminder, though." Her tone was tart. "I was trying to pretend it wasn't there. Or that if Lin slips above me, he's going to pull me down with him."

"Your dad's above him, and I'm below you. You're not going _anywhere_." Eli put as much assurance into his voice as he could.

Dara sighed. "Thanks. That actually does kind of help."

"I aim to please," he said, lightly, trying to stretch his legs as best he could on the rungs of the ladder without taking either foot off the rung on which he stood.

"I was thinking—" Dara started, then stopped.

"Hmm?"

"I was thinking you should just use your old _Galaxy of Fantasy_ name for your squad name. Tyr. Fits you. Laws, justice. Short, stands out on the radio."

Eli was almost positive that wasn't what she'd started to say. But he chuckled and went along with it anyway. "And Lin would be what, Veoivis again?"

"Veoivis was Etruscan. Forseti's at least Norse, and it fits him better. Another god of justice. Also stands out on the radio."

Eli put his head against a ladder rung. "And Siara?"

"Kali. Hindu incarnation of, um, Devi. A limited aspect of the mother goddess of the whole universe. She's the wife of the god of destruction, and in particular destroys ignorance, which suits Siara right down to the ground. She's fearless, fierce, and very, very strong."

Eli chuckled, and then he heard, on the main band, as Sam announced, "Elevator secured. Everyone, break's over. Time to start moving again."

Eli groaned and got ready to take his next step. Mostly just to poke at Dara, he asked, "So, you figured out what _your_ name should be? And don't say _Doc._ The whole point of squad names is to _conceal_ identities if radio communication gets compromised."

Dara made a scoffing noise. "No clue. Maybe Eir. Minor Norse goddess of healing."

Eli saw her boots move ahead of him, and the ladder began wobbling again, thrumming and vibrating from the steps of those ahead of him. He took his own next step, wincing as his muscles protested. He'd read enough Norse mythology to figure out his _GoF_ name, and had been intrigued by it. One of the only cultures on Earth that had frankly assumed that the world was going to end in fire and ice, and that absolutely nothing mattered but the battle at the end, and fighting it with honor. "Freya," he suggested, after a moment. And snickered, mentally. _Freja_ had, of course, also been the _real_ name of the very pretty Swedish girl from his boot camp barracks who'd been kind enough to relieve him of his virginity, years ago. Dara didn't have to know that, though.

"And you say that with a laugh exactly _why?_" Dara's voice was suspicious.

"Knew a girl once by that name. She and you have absolutely _nothing_ in common," Eli replied, blandly. Freja had been as ice-blond as Pelagia, with pale blue eyes, and had, after all, been older and more experienced than he on many levels. "But the name does fit you. Freya was, what. . . fertility—that's the xeno-obstretrics work, right there. Fertility, love, death, beauty . . . _and_ she took half of the honored dead to her own hall in Valhalla." _And was separated from her husband, though I don't really see you crying tears of red gold for Rel's sake at the moment._

Dara was spluttering in response. "Eli, okay, I can _kind_ of see the fertility-death thing, if you _really_ stretch medicine to cover fertility, but none of the rest of it—"

"If you're going to stick me with Tyr, I don't see why Freya can't be you. Besides, _Eir_ sounds exactly like _air_. Not suitable for the radio." Eli grinned behind his helmet. "Think of this as my revenge for the goddamned job as press liaison." _Which gives me information I can't talk to any of you about. Not yet. I get the feeling Sam will let you in the loop when he's sure you're not going to lose it, worrying about Rel, if you happen to see those vids of the yahg tearing people apart on Shanxi. Especially the ones taken from his eyepiece._ "Just wait, _sai'kaea._ I'll put all of these in the hopper for your dad and Ylara to consider, and pretty soon, it'll just stick to you, like 'Snowflake' has stuck to Makur's cat."

"Bite me, Elijah Sidonis."

"Love to, but this isn't really the time." Her breathing was labored in his ear now, and his own wasn't much better. They had to fall silent, just to have enough breath to continue the arduous climb.

Three more stops. Three more elevator doors. Eli just hoped to god all of them would be able to _move_ once they got out on J-ring. _Would be kind of embarrassing if the rescue squad for OSF fell over from leg cramps, or hobbled around like ruptured spinsters in the middle of a firefight,_ he thought. . . and then Kirrahe announced, "About to open the doors here. Everyone, get ready!"

The quarians in their battlesuits swung around, preparing to be first out of the elevator shaft. The doors cranked open slowly, and Eli watched as, overhead, the quarians all _leaped_ out of the door, first the ones closest to the opening, then those in battlesuits who'd been clinging to the far end of the shaft. He could hear gunfire, and then Dara's boots ahead of him were moving again. The ladder shook and trembled, and one of the damned rungs finally snapped right under his foot, and he caught himself by the rails with a grunt. "Lost a rung here, watch your step," Eli called into the radio, and hauled himself up higher.

At the top, there were flashes from the exchanges of gunfire in the main hallway outside the elevator doors, lighting up the top of the gloomy elevator shaft. Sam extended a hand and hauled Eli off the ladder, patting him on the shoulder as he did. "Everything working, folks?"

"My knees might not be on speaking terms with me after today," Lin admitted.

"Stop getting shot in them," Dara advised.

"The hallway's secure," the quarian marine commander announced, striding over in his battlesuit. The damned things would never be stealthy, but it didn't shake the floor the way Siara's mining mech had, the other day. "Are we ready, Spectres?"

Eli glanced around that the others. Siara and Makur were both stretching their legs; Snowflake had, of course, been left back several floors below. Locked in a room of the warehouse with enough varren meat to keep the cat occupied for a while, and water. Linianus swung his shield down off his back; Kirrahe checked the thermal clip on his assault rifle. Ylara's eyepatch was visible under the clear faceplate of her helmet. Cohort returned back from the corridor, tipping his head from side to side, watching them as they got ready. There was Sam, solid and unshakeable as always. And Dara, carefully checking her sniper rifle. Eli already felt tired in every part of his body, but OSF had waited long enough for rescue. He swung his own shield down off his back, and got his pistol out. "Ready," he told Sam.

"Eli, you're defending Kirrahe," Sam said, tightly. "Take point. Both of you know how to watch for the lovely traps the batarians have been using to secure areas for themselves. Makur, you're with Siara. Right behind them, and alert us if we've got hostiles that don't show up on scope. Ylara and Cohort will follow. Lin, you're rear-guard with Dara. I'll be ranging side to side, doing what I do best."

Eli watched as Dara's head swung up. He was a bit surprised, himself; it was a changeup from their usual line, where he and Lin had brought up the rear, and had looked after their medic at the same time. He patted Dara on the shoulder quickly, and moved up. Lin caught him, and brought his helmet down to Eli's. Sound conduction only. "Nothing's going to get through," Lin said.

"Better not. I know where you live, _fradu,_" Eli said, lightly, and moved up next to Kirrahe.

J-ring had been under siege for over six weeks now, and looked like hell on earth. Eli could hear Makur snarling vile words in krogan, including one oath to eat the _heart_ of the batarian commander, should Makur ever actually find him. Eli couldn't blame him. _This is like Bastion all over again_, he thought, his heart sinking in him at the scene. _Only worse._ Omega hadn't been a lovely place at all before the invasion. Most of its buildings were little more than rectangular slabs of metal that went from the floor of one tier to the ceiling above, with various floors of space inside. Others were lower, squatter, wider. J-ring had been largely occupied by krogan and turians, at the moment, anyway, but the living quarters here didn't look like turian villas. What was left of them, anyway. Entire buildings had had their facades ripped away by mortar and bullets and fire, leaving gaping, blackened gashes that showed the ruined interiors of the buildings all too clearly. Eli glanced down and saw a child's stuffed toy _oolorae_ in the middle of the street, and frowned. _Looks like something Caelia could have been playing with. . . god damn it. Except. . . it's out of place. It couldn't have fallen there from the buildings around us—_"Possible trap, center of the street. Kirrahe, the toy there, you see it?"

"Yes. Seismic trigger. Someone walks too close to it, or tries to pick up the toy. . . " Kirrahe shrugged and fiddled with his omnitool for a moment. "Deactivated. I think."

"Comforting, Orlan, very comforting." Eli holstered his pistol for a moment, bent down, and grabbed a twisted piece of rebar from the ground, and tossed it, underhand, right for the toy. Nothing happened. "Okay, clear," he said. He stooped again when they were passing by, and couldn't quite resist the impulse to pick the toy up. It was a piece of _someone's_ childhood, he was sure. And so, after studying it quickly, and determining it didn't have any explosives or anything else stuffed inside of it, he stuck the small creature in one of the pockets attached to his utility belt.

"Evidence?" Kirrahe asked, as he did so.

"Not really," Eli replied, and took his pistol out again. "Some things are more important than evidence."

They could all hear gunfire now, sporadic bursts, coming from ahead. The quarian marines flowered around them on all sides now, the battlesuits gleaming silver, and the regular marines keeping pace with the Spectres. Some ways down the street, before what looked like a plaza on the map, Ylara raised her hand to call a halt. "Sam?" she called.

Jaworski re-appeared out of the shadows. Eli could usually find anyone who used a stealth shield, but Sam didn't always rely on just the technology. He found pillars and rubble to hide behind, and had a way of simply going _still_ that sometimes caught Eli off-guard. This was one such time, and Eli smiled behind his mask and shook his head as Sam brushed past him. "Okay," Sam said tiredly. "Here's what we're looking at, everyone."

The maps on everyone's omnitools opened, and Eli looked down on the area, as they'd been briefed on it before. The OSF headquarters was a long, squat, five-story building at the north end of the plaza. Five streets connected onto the plaza, two from the north, one from the center east, one from the south, and one from the southwest, where they were, currently. Eight other large buildings surrounded the square, including a twelve-story court building—four floors of which were dedicated to turian law firms alone. The old adage that there was no law on Omega had been coming to an end. Four more floors had dealt with contract and corporate law. A must, when Omega had had so much recent corporate investment. Not everything could be handled at the barrel of a gun anymore. "The batarians are using the court building to snipe down onto OSF headquarters, from what information we have."

Pelagia was, of course, the source of that information. Sam continued, "All of the other buildings are also held by batarians. All five streets have been barricaded, leading up to the plaza. We need detachments of marines to take the other entry-points. The Spectres will secure the northeast one. . . and we're going to take the courthouse building." He pointed at the twelve-story building to the northeast. "We'd appreciate it if you'd all make a lot of noise as you take the other seven buildings. We're going to have a lot of ground to cover. Of particular importance will be this building, here." He tapped the map to the southwest. It's got roof-top snipers, same as the courthouse, and it's got a clear line of fire for the front windows of OSF."

"Any indications that the batarians have tried to go in from the back end of the building, to the north?" the quarian commander asked, quickly.

"Several," Cohort replied, calmly. "There are numerous marks along the back wall indicating that explosives have been tried. That wall, however, appears to be the wall for the holding cells, and is made of the hull plating from a derelict ship found in the station's vicinity some four years ago. More powerful explosives would be needed to penetrate such."

Makur laughed. "That sounds like a Harak idea. It's not pretty, but damned effective."

Sam gave out the rest of the assignments, and then they all got on the move. Eli's omnitool was absolutely _swarming_ with blue friendly dots and red enemy ones. "Any possibility that any of the batarian leadership could be here?" he asked on the Spectre band as they moved through the streets quickly now, ducking and dodging into cover, hearing the first shots behind them to the south, as the first contingent of quarian marines opened fire on the barricade at the southwestern mouth of the plaza.

"Not sure," Sam admitted. "Would love it if one of our top lads were here. But we can't guarantee it. . .and there's no assurance that even if the leadership is here, that the rest of the batarians will just give in and stop fighting."

Makur growled and his head jerked up. A flick of his hand, and a batarian flew, screaming, off a nearby roof, weapon firing automatically and uselessly in his hand as he crashed into a wall, and then slid to the ground, limbs splayed in all directions. And then the moved on. More gunfire erupting behind them as the quarians began to engage the batarians directly.

North, then east, cautiously, moving around the corner. There was a single contingent of quarians still behind them, who stopped off at the northwest corner of the plaza, and started south, towards a barricade at the end of the street. Eli winced and looked after them for a moment. The regular marines were already crouching and sending rockets at the batarians; the battlesuit marines were loping forward along the sides of the street, and they had their arms extended, heavy machine-pistols popping out of the forearms, and were firing steadily as they moved. His last glimpse was of the battlesuited quarians simply kicking in the windows of the commercial building to the west of the OSF building, and rolling into it, while the regular marines now moved up, getting ready to follow them in. "There's got to be a drawback to those suits," Eli muttered.

"Having to wear a quarians-style envirosuit would be top of the list," Sam replied, dryly. "Second, I'm sure their power requirements have to be insane."

"Sure, just ruin my Christmas present for Siara, why don't you," Dara muttered on the Spectre band, and then they were moving again. They didn't have to worry about taking fire from the OSF building to their right, but there _were_ a few batarian enclaves in the buildings north of it, and _all_ of them were on alert now. Bullets sang past their heads, and Eli spun and caught a high-impact round on his shield just in time, and was shoved backwards by the force of it. "No cover!" Eli shouted. "Get to the next street, everyone, come on!" He spun around to cover everyone as they rushed past him, Makur pulling up even with him, and their shields began to sizzle and shimmer as they both took repeated hits. "Where the _hell_ is he?" Eli muttered, scanning the buildings north of them. The shattered walls made spotting anything difficult. Everything was irregular.

Lin and Dara made it up, and Lin lifted his shield, slamming it in front of her one more time, another rain of bullets came down. "There," Makur said, pointing. "I know it's the apartment building. High up. Can't see him to grab him, though."

Eli spotted the movement this time, however, and fired a pistol round or five to keep their sniper occupied. "Got him. Third floor, just by the stairwell. I can switch to my rifle—"

"No need," Dara said, calmly, and, still mostly covered by Lin's shield, took the shot. Double-tap. The sniper actually fell forward out of his perch.

"You're making me jealous of the optic gene mods again," Eli muttered. "Those were headshots?"

"Yeah. Wasn't showing off. Was the only available target area, and you'd already worn down his shields with those pistol shots." Dara shrugged. "Let's go."

And then it was time to get inside the courthouse. Kirrahe rigged up explosive charges, and made them a door at the rear of the building, and then they were in. Sam changed up the skirmishing line, putting Lin and Makur at the front, and putting Eli back with Dara once more, and then it was nothing but room after room of batarians. Eli had been in a _lot_ of courtrooms during his time in the MPs and in CID. He'd never expected to have to fight his way through them. And these weren't just slavers and raiders. There were warrior-caste fighters here again, with their linked shields.

Somewhere on the fifth floor, Kirrahe's shields went out, overloaded, and flashbangs went off, blinding everyone. They were already engaged with six warrior-castes, and Eli blinked furiously, trying to clear his eyes. When the shimmering afterimages faded, he could see that Kirrhae was down on the floor, badly hurt, and still fighting with a tall, slender batarian, who held a vibrosword. Lin, who'd been largely covering Kirrahe, was already fighting, close-quarters, with a second batarian male, who held a vibrosword in his hands. _Shit,_ Eli thought. _Shit, shit, shit._

"_Fradu!_" Eli called, moving up, Dara at his side, wincing as Lin ducked under a slice from the wickedly-edged sword.

"_Help Kirrahe!"_ Lin shouted back, and got a wicked kick in on his opponent, sending the batarian flying backwards.

Eli took him at his word and moved in, slamming his shield into the batarian's face. Just because he'd _favored_ _retiarii_ style in gladiatorial training didn't mean he didn't know how to use a shield. And he'd be damned if he was going to try to catch the vibroblade on his arms, as he would, if this were just a practice match between him and Lin, back in his parents' garage on Mindoir. As the batarian lurched backwards, Eli stepped forward, following up on the shield hit with a knee to the batarian's face. Helmet or not, that was going to ring any humanoid's bell.

The batarian rolled away, and got a hand to his omnitool, and his body fizzled and vanished. Eli could still see the outline, however, and moved after him, firing his pistol right at the prone form—and swore as the batarian got his wits back about him and threw a flashbang right at Eli's feet. "Can't see!" Eli shouted. "Where's he at?"

"Don't know, can't see him!" Dara called back. "Kirrahe's losing a hell of a lot of blood here. Don't think I can help him and you at the same time."

"Stay with Kirrahe!" Eli fell back, blinking tears out of his eyes, swinging in a circle, standing over Dara as she worked on Kirrahe. And as his vision came back, he fired at Lin's opponent, as his tall friend got his shield back in front of him in time to deflect several bullets from the pistol the batarian held in his off-hand. _Pistol, to take down shields_, Eli realized, suddenly, _and the sword to cut through the armor._ An intact kinetic shield would cause a vibroblade to lose its oscillation, briefly, if it came through them. Which would remove its ability to cut through the armor underneath.

And then, his body rocked as a pistol unloaded at close range, tearing into his shields, as Dara worked on Kirrahe, right under Eli's feet. The batarian's outline shimmered, and the sword came up, deadly edges glinting, and Eli ducked. The thrust, which had been aimed at his heart, slid straight through the armor and scored along his right ribs, instead. He could feel it grate along bone, but the blade was so sharp, he couldn't even _feel_ the pain yet.

Eli dropped his pistol and snapped that hand onto the batarian's wrist. Pivoted on his right foot, stepped in with his left, and slammed his shield down on the batarian's arm, above the elbow, driving the male to the ground, across Kirrahe's knees, keeping the blade of the vibrosword extended, away from him, away from Dara. As the batarian sprawled, Eli raised his left foot, around the edge of his shield, and slammed one heavy, booted foot down on the male's shoulder, while pulling up on the wrist. The shoulder joint, armor or no, had no place to go; Eli could feel bone and cartilage twist, break, and pull apart through the limb itself, like tearing the thighbone apart from a drumstick in a piece of organic, non-vat-grown chicken.

The batarian screamed in agony, and Eli stripped the sword's hilt out of fingers that had gone limp and nerveless, and hesitated. He couldn't stab down through the batarian; he could hit Kirrahe's legs, if the damned sword penetrated all the way through the body. Eli switched his grip, and swung.

He was absolutely shocked at how easily the batarian's head fell away from his shoulders. At the spray of orange-red blood. For a moment, he was back on Camala, watching Sam do the same thing with a bowie knife, and then he shook it off. Turned, and found that Lin had downed his own batarian, and, judging from the fact that Lin had the male on the ground, pinned, knees on both arms, and had just brought the edge of his shield down on the male's unprotected throat, had remembered his _secutores_ gladiatorial training, too. _My dad's going to be thrilled,_ Eli thought, numbly, looking around. The others had just finished taking out the warrior-caste fighters, and the room had gone silent, for the moment, though they could have new attackers rushing the place any moment.

Dara had just gotten Kirrahe stable, and stripped off her latest set of blue nitrile gloves, just as Eli felt the first sting along his right side, and realized, abruptly, "I think I might need to sit down. . . " His legs folded under him, and Sam caught him, moved him backwards onto. . . "I think I want to sit on the prosecution side, not the defendant's side," Eli managed to joke as Sam more or less lifted him onto the wide attorney's table.

"Shut up, Eli," Dara told him, and pushed him until he laid flat for her, and then she began unhooking his gear. "Lin! Get over here. You hurt at all?"

"Couple of nicks," Lin admitted. Eli clenched his teeth as Dara got the chest plate off. The elasticized suit underneath was torn, and saturated with blood, which was cooling against his skin.

"Then you're helping me." Dara looked at Lin. "Thanks, Dad, I've got this. If Lin's hurt, he shouldn't be on perimeter guard right now."

"You sure you've got this?" Sam asked.

"Completely," Dara told him, and Eli looked up at her face, the intent mask of concentration behind her visor. "Okay, good news, Eli. Blade didn't penetrate the lungs. I don't see any bubbles in the blood. Less good news is that it sliced right through two of your ribs. You had any ribs on this side recently regenerated?"

"No. Two broken on the left side last year, though."

"That's fine. Regenerating the same bone too often can make the cells get a little confused." Dara used alcohol wipes on his side, and administered a painkiller, and shouted across the room, "Do I have time to do this right, or is this a patch 'em and move operation?"

"Stitch fast," Sam shouted back. "Take ten minutes. Everyone needs a breather."

"It doesn't have to be pretty," Eli muttered, and started to sit up.

"Stay where you are!" Dara's voice cracked like a whip, and Eli dropped back at the force in her voice. It was, as she'd noted once before, months ago in a Mindoir gymnasium, as close to command-peremptory as a human voice could get, and she did it in English, too. "I am _not_ going to let you bleed, Eli, and sutures _will_ let the medigel do its job better. Lin, if he even _thinks_ about moving again, hold him down."

"Yes, doctor," Lin replied, instantly.

"Freya," Eli corrected him, and his hands clamped down on Lin's forearm as Dara began to clean the wound. Her hands were very gentle, but it burned like fire, since the anesthetic still hadn't taken full effect. "I'm thinking if she tags me with Tyr, and you with—oh, _s'kak_, _sai'kaea_, be gentle—"

"I am," Dara told him softly, and there was nothing crisp about her voice at the moment. "It's just much deeper here than elsewhere. Hold on. I'm almost done."

Eli was sweating now, and cold at the same time. He reclaimed his train of thought, and managed to mutter, between clenched teeth, "Yeah. So, if she wants me to be Tyr, _fradu,_ I think she should be _Freya._ Don't you?"

"Wasn't Freja the name of our old squadmate in boot camp?" Lin asked, grinning, obviously trying to distract Eli from the discomfort, and Eli tipped his head back, trying to concentrate. His heartbeat felt too fast, and there was that cold sweat. It was shock, of course. Dara had elevated his feet, and now she bent her head, and started suturing.

It wasn't the first time she'd patched him up. There'd been bullet extractions before, but this was the first time he'd really been able to watch her face. She actually bit her lower lip in concentration, he noticed, with dream-like distance. Her eyes were in their slightly blank-looking micro-vision state, pupils dilated, as she applied the tiny stitches, rapidly, and then smoothed on medigel, and settled the osseous regeneration unit in place, and stroked a hand over Eli's forehead. For once, her hands actually felt warm to him. "You're going to be fine, Eli. Soon as we can get you sitting up, back in your armor, the suit's environmental systems will warm you right up, okay?"

He nodded, clenching his teeth, trying to keep from shivering, as she worked now on Lin's few wounds, changing to a fresh set of gloves for him, too. Siara had come over to assist, however, so that went fairly quickly. Eli sat up when the regenerator chimed quietly, and Dara picked the unit up and stowed it, along with the rest of her kit. Kirrahe was sitting up himself now, gingerly putting on pieces of armor, just as Eli was. "You okay?" Eli asked the salarian.

"Yes. Embarrassed, largely. Was not expecting SIU operatives here." The former STG agent blinked rapidly. "Both high-caste batarians, judging from the swords. Where there was one, there will doubtless be more."

Eli picked up the sword and studied the hilt for a moment, before pressing a gem near the crosspiece to shut the oscillations of the blade down. "This thing have a sheath?" he asked, wiping the blade off.

Dara walked over to the headless batarian, and unbuckled a sword belt from around the corpse's waist, handing it to Eli. "Going to make yourself a target?" she asked, dryly.

"Figure it might help flush out their leader. Especially if Lin takes the other sword." Eli was already feeling better. His thoughts were clearing, and he looked at Dara steadily. "You've studied their language. Some of their psychology. And you remember your dad's story about the guy on Torfan who took one of these. How much do you want to bet that they'll take risks to get these back?"

"No bet," Sam said, from across the room. Dara's face was worried, however, as her father continued, "Even if a lower-caste recovers them, they'd be owed a huge favor from a high-caste family for returning the blade. You can never change castes, except by becoming a slave, but you sure as hell can make your own lot in life a hell of a lot more comfortable with a high-caste's favor or protection." He looked around. "Everyone got their fingers and toes attached again?"

"Yeah," Eli replied, reaching down to help Kirrahe to his feet, before bending lower to recover his pistol, just as Lin picked up the other vibrosword. "Let's go."

It took a full day of bloody fighting, but in the end, they finished clearing out the courthouse, finishing on the rooftop, where their biotic personnel ruled, knocking the batarian snipers clear off the building, and sending them tumbling far below. The rest of the buildings were secured in a similar timeframe, and the quarian marines actually managed to take prisoners, marching out four dozen warrior-caste batarians with their hands on their heads. "No one used our new stasis guns!" Kirrahe said, in a tone of realization, as the Spectres headed, wearily, out the revolving door of the courthouse. "Damn it. If we had, we could have questioned the SIU agents. Only just realized it, myself." He sounded abashed.

Lin patted the salarian on the shoulder. "Next time."

"Was too busy going from green blood to red blood to blue and then back again," Dara said, letting her head drop back on her neck.

The head of OSF stepped out of the scarred and battered metal doors cautiously. He was easily the tallest turian Eli had ever seen, well over seven feet in height. "Galatus Hespirus," he introduced himself, after a moment, and staring around the plaza, at the quarian marines, and the black armored Spectres, demanded, after a moment, "What the _hell_ took you so long? And where the hell is Harak?"

"Busy killing batarians on G-ring," Sam replied grimly. "He was the distraction, for the moment. Now, we need to go support him."

"Right _now_?" Siara muttered.

"Probably tomorrow," Dara told her, setting her hands to the back of her neck. "Maybe right after breakfast." She stretched, arching her back a little. "I don't suppose there's any chance of, say, a hot shower or anything crazy like that?"

Eli started to chuckle at the thought. Then Siara replied, "Probably not, until we finally get back into the unoccupied levels. Pelagia got Harak a _very_ nice set of rooms on P-ring. Actually, the whole upper tier is his, now, but that apartment. . . my, my, my. Sunken granite tubs in the bathrooms." Siara's tone was a little dreamy. "And Pelagia _always_ made sure there was bubble bath on hand."

Dara's eyebrows shot up. "Bubble bath, Siara? You?"

Siara smiled, faintly. "There were times on Tuchanka where I actually _dreamed_ about being clean. Head to toe. Got here, saw running water again for the first time in two years and wanted to weep for joy. Oh yes. I'm not ashamed to admit it. Bubble baths are possibly your species' greatest invention, Dara. And I bet you haven't had one in years."

"Not since. . . huh. Japan. Yeah. Four, five years, thereabouts," Dara admitted. "It'd be heaven. But I think I'd need to wash before I got in the tub. I'd hate to think what color I'd turn the water at the moment."

Eli, in the meantime, standing ten feet away, was cursing the dual gifts of a dirty mind and a vivid imagination. Especially after a long, adrenaline-packed day, when he'd damned near been skewered. _Yeah. You two keep talking about bubble baths, and the only thing __I'm__ going to want is a cold shower. Ice cold._ He knew they weren't even registering, at the moment, that he was standing close enough to hear them. However, he wasn't about to remind them of his presence. _If nothing else_, he decided, after a moment, _it'll make for more pleasant dreams than beheading a batarian or seeing Dara's ghost ships in my mind, or whatever other horrors my subconscious decides to throw at me._

They went back to the elevator shaft, which they'd secured, and began passing up supplies, much to the glee of the OSF people, who'd been down to sneaking out to raid storage facilities and grocery stores over the past few weeks. . . or, if the officers were human or krogan or asari, they could, at least, eat the rations carried by batarians that they killed. "It's got to be getting a little Lord of the Flies on the occupied rings," one officer told Eli, as they moved crate after crate of food into the OSF headquarters. "Sure as hell was in here. Hespirus was holding onto order by sheer force of will. If you guys hadn't shown up. . . " The human shook his head grimly. "We'd have probably tried to rush the batarians in the next week. All or nothing. Better than dying of starvation or getting overwhelmed and turned into slaves."

They left the five hundred or so quarian marines there, for the moment, and took the elevator back down to F-ring again. Eli leaned against the wall of the lift for a moment, his legs and knees feeling like jelly under him, and said, "You know what? I don't think I'm ever going to complain about long elevator rides again. So long as I never have to climb _up_ another elevator shaft like that again."

Everyone in the car started to chuckle tiredly. Dara asked, sliding down the wall and sinking to the floor, "Can we still complain about the music?"

Eli looked up at the ceiling and the panels of lights there. "Sure. But not the length of the elevator ride."

They headed back to their warehouse headquarters, and Sam told them all, "If you want to, you can take the night off, folks. Find a hotel on B-ring, go back to one of the ships. Take a shower. The _Sollostra's_ in a berth at Docking Bay E." He looked around. "I know that turians and krogan aren't supposed to feel tired, but after a day like today, I will call bullshit on anyone who tries to tell me otherwise." He glanced over at Cohort. "'Cept you, of course, Cohort."

"This platform requires recharging and a backup session with a mobile node," the geth admitted. "It has been several weeks since our last opportunity to do so."

"I wasn't going to _admit_ to being tired," Lin said, "but so long as everyone else admits it before I do—except Makur, of course—then I think I've met the requirements for my turian stoicism medallion." He rubbed a hand over his fringe. "I'd about kill for a soft nest and hot food right now. Besides. . . armor repair." He pointed at the various cuts and slashes to his armor, where he'd gotten nicked by the vibrosword he now carried slung over a shoulder.

"Everyone will need to report in to the med bay when we get there," Dara said, and waved off the tired groans. "I'm serious. I'd be going over each of you tonight anyway. Kirrahe, Eli, Lin, you're top of my list. Ylara, is your eye cavity bothering you?"

"It's sore," the asari admitted.

"Right. You're visiting the med bay, too."

The _Sollostra_ was like a little slice of heaven, Eli decided. Clean. Safe. Murmur of human and turian voices all around them. They were still stuck with the observation lounges, but Siara, Makur, and Snowflake weren't around. "They opted for a hotel on B-ring," Lin said, when Eli looked around, enquiringly. "Can't say I blame them. They're the only people here who have their mates with them." Lin rubbed a hand over his fringe, and shook his head. "And over six weeks with no damned privacy."

Eli stripped out of his armor, groaning, and shoved it in a bag to send it down to the armor repair bay. Then he slowly pulled off his elasticized suit. Between the six inch gash along the ribs and the blood, it was probably a total loss. He'd have to get a new one from the ship's stores. Not that he minded. It had been close to his skin for six weeks, and even occasional nights when he'd washed it by hand and left it to hang dry couldn't possibly have done much for the smell. "I think this may need to be burned."

"I was trying not to say anything about that, _fradu_," Lin replied, dryly. "But yes. _Please_."

Eli snickered. "Sorry, _fradu._ I'm only human."

Clean towels. Soap. Clean damned clothes, even if they were just a pair of shorts and a sweatshirt. Eli headed down the hall, and headed into the hygiene area. The _Sollostra_, like the rest of the turian SR-3s, had a few concessions to humans in her design. While the hygiene and lavatory facilities were still not gender segregated, there were group showers for the turians, and individual stalls for the humans. Sort of, anyway. They had short, six-foot tall, tiled walls on either side of a sprayer, and were cramped, to say the least. No nice neat glass doors or anything like that; glass could break, and was a hazard on a ship. Instead, there were curtains. Thin plastic, at best. _Heaven_, Eli decided again, and turned on the spray. Even lukewarm water felt _hot_ after weeks of nothing but cold sponge-baths, and he simply stood under the water for a while, soaking. Sam had, laughingly, handed him an old-fashioned straight razor a few weeks ago, along with a bar of shaving soap, so he'd at least been able to keep up on that. He hadn't looked like a complete pirate, and his breather still fit, when needed.

To Eli's surprise, the shaves with the old-fashioned thing had actually been smoother, and had lasted a little longer, than those he'd gotten with an electric razor. There was just the recurrent fear of removing a chunk of his own nose. And the fact that Siara had laughed every time the two human males had shaved in the mornings. Dara hadn't laughed, Eli realized. He'd caught her watching every now and again, and she'd looked away quickly, but she hadn't laughed.

He moved the handle of the shower from lukewarm to hot, and sighed in bliss. Hot water. Wonderful invention. His tired muscles were starting to relax, and in, oh, twenty, thirty minutes, he'd be clean enough to report to the med bay without any of the doctors or nurses fainting from the smell. Eli heard the outer door of the hygiene area bang open and closed. Murmur of voices, sound of water running in the group shower area. He closed his eyes again. _Nothing to worry about_, he decided, and just leaned there.

The door banged again, and this time, there were footsteps, splashing through the water pools outside the shower enclosures. Swish of curtains being pulled aside—cool air. Eli swung around, startled. "Hey! Occupied—" He stopped and stared.

"Sorry! Sorry. Hard to tell from the outside." Dara let the curtain fall, and got into the next stall over. Eli was just tall enough that he could see over the top of the enclosure. _Don't look_, he told himself. _Don't look. On the other hand, that's the second time she's seen __me__ naked, between Bastion and here, both times in showers.. . . why am I rationalizing—shit._

By the time he'd tried to corral his thoughts, he'd already glanced down, gotten an impression of ivory and pink and curves, and then resolutely looked forward. Put his head against the tile of the wall ahead of him. Turned his nice hot shower down to ice cold. And swore, quietly and repeatedly, in as many languages as he knew. _Think about Serana. Why? She's ending the contract in months anyway. Think about. . . god, okay, don't think about the bubble bath conversation. About warm water and flashes of skin through the bubbles. Don't think about the way she bites her lower lip when she's __really__ concentrating. Don't think about the fact that she's one stall away and you could just take two steps, be in there with her, and find out how much she __really__ likes biting. Think about. . . handball. Paleontology. Work. Not about the water flowing over her. Over you. What her hands would feel like._ _About the fact that the stalls are so small, she could brace her feet against the far wall, and you could hold her up against the other, and drive into her. . . . _

Eli twisted the water further towards cold. It wasn't working. Not at all. But he'd deal with it. Just as soon as the water turned off, and she left. The splashing of the water would conceal a certain amount of noise, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop himself from groaning. _It's just the strain of daily fighting_, he told himself. Logical, reasonable words. _Side-by-side, day-in, day-out. Mattresses only a few feet apart at night. Lin or me keeping her shielded in combat. Her keeping us alive, taking the pain away. It's all very reasonable. Very explicable. Just don't make it worse, you idiot. She's opening up again. She's laughing. Smiling. Joking. Teasing. If you screw this up, if you make her uncomfortable, she'll close down again. Not that. Not that, __sai'kaea'yili__._

After a while, the water on the other side stopped running. Air movement. A towel being pulled down off the wall between the stalls. "I know the water feels great," Dara called in, her voice amused, "but are you trying to drown yourself, Eli?"

"Yeah. Very slowly. One drop at a time."

Dara laughed, and the sound bounced back from the tiles. "Let me know how that works out for you in med bay later. Don't forget, we've got a date. You, me, another couple of doctors, and a pair of rubber gloves."

"Sounds all _sorts_ of romantic. I'll dress in something slinky and bring wine." _You're killing me, __sai'kaea._

Dara laughed again, and he heard her walk off.

One med bay examination later—Dara's hands were cool and soft and gentle even through the gloves—and he and Lin and Kirrahe were all pronounced fit and healthy by Dara and the _Sollostra'_s chief medical officer, Dr. Lesamia Agalus. And then they were allowed to go and _eat_ in the mess hall, which they all did with gusto. Kirrahe had salarian rations, but the rest of them had fresh-cooked cafeteria food, which tasted like ambrosia, as far as Eli was concerned.

And when they were settling down for the night, Dara had her datapad open on her lap, and was drowsily muttering asari words under her breath. Lin got out his datapad, and started writing something, and Eli dug up the course catalogue for his online degree program, and started shuffling through course descriptions. _Introduction to Forensic Science? Is there any way I can test out of some of these? Community-Based Corrections: the history and philosophy of pre- and post-incarceration care, and the re-integration of offenders into society. Wow._ "Lin, you think any of these criminal justice courses would have a nice, neat solution for re-integrating the batarians into galactic society?"

Lin looked up, and snorted. "I'm the wrong person to ask that one, _fradu_. They aren't _all_ guilty. Not every single member of their society. But the ones we're killing on the station? Yeah. They're guilty. And the ones who sent them here? They need punishing, too."

"Yeah, but how?" Dara asked, pragmatically. "Go to Khar'sharn and track down every single person who agreed to the attacks, and put them in prison? Execute them? Might take, sixty, seventy, eighty years, Lin."

"So we put asari or krogan officers on the case, so when we're all old and gray, they can still be watching for the people involved," Lin replied, promptly. "I like the 'execute them' idea. Otherwise, we'd have to build a lot more prison ships. Or maybe actually create a prison planet. That's a popular idea in human literature, I've noticed."

Eli looked up at the ceiling. "Those two guys with the vibroswords today. Both high-caste, SIU." He glanced across the room at Dara. _Just like Valak_, he thought, but Lin hadn't been there for Rel's rescue, and Eli wasn't sure what he was allowed to tell Lin yet. "What if they weren't really committed to what they were doing?" The thought did bother him, a little. _What if I killed someone who could have been like Valak, underneath?_

"Then they shouldn't have been swinging a sword at me, or at you, or at Kirrahe, or at our little one here." Lin inclined his head at Dara.

"True enough," Eli admitted.

"You know, if I have to pick, I think I _do_ like _Freya_ better than _little one._ I know I'm short compared to the rest of y'all." Dara's tone was tart. "Makes me sound like a kid."

Lin grinned at her, not taking offense. "It's not meant that way."

"Sorry. Just a little too close to Rel calling me his little mate, or his little _amatra_."

Lin reached over and patted the edge of her bed. "_I do not speak to offend, and ask of you your gracious pardon. I use the words in affection, as I have always said them to she who is my brother's mate."_ It was perfect, faultless _tal'mae._

Eli cleared his throat. "Speaking of whom, you're writing to her?" English, for the moment.

"Yeah. You okay with that?"

"Yeah. Give her my love." Eli scrolled down the page of course listings_. "You __ever__ going to get around to asking her to marry you, Lin?"_ Turian now. Weaving in and out of languages.

"_Don't want her to feel like we're trading her back and forth like gladiatorial team owners swap this competitor for that one. Seems demeaning, so I'm trying to court her. Somewhat difficult at a distance like this." _

Dara muttered the words of her asari vocabulary list a little more loudly. Lin looked over. "We disturbing you. . . _Freya_?" Poke, poke, poke.

"She's pretending not to hear us right now," Eli explained, still looking down at his course list. "Hey, Dara, what should my minor be? I've always been interested in paleontology, but that's a science, and Criminal Justice, well, isn't."

That, she looked up for. "Can you do Forensic Science instead of Criminal Justice? That way, all your science pre-requisites would line up."

"Yeah, I could, but I already _know_ most of the stuff in the CJ curriculum. Criminal Investigation, got that. Corrections Process? Yeah, I know how they get processed in and out of the jails. And then, quite often, right back in again." Eli grinned sourly. "Adjudications Process? I've sat in enough courtrooms and testified enough times that I think I could _teach_ the course, at least for turian law."

Dara looked right at him. "So why bother to study stuff you already know?"

"Eh, this formalizes it. Would make for easy grades, if nothing else."

Dara looked at him patiently. "Okay, let me ask this another way. Why do you want the degree? To learn something you don't already know, or for a piece of paper?"

"It's considered better to have the degree—" Eli paused as Dara just stared at him. "What?'

"Eli, I don't know how to break this to you. . . " Dara said, sitting up and folding her hands across her lap neatly, putting on a very sober and doctorly expression. ". . . but here it is. You're a _Spectre_." She paused. "You're not climbing a promotion ladder at B-Sec or CID. Get the degree if you want a degree. But do it because you want to learn something, not because you have to follow some blueprint, cookie-cutter degree program for a diploma. Hell, if it takes you ten years to finish, who cares, so long as you do, and you've learned what you wanted to learn?"

Eli's mouth opened, and then shut again. Suddenly, he felt absolutely _stupid._ Lin had to put his datapad down, because he was laughing so hard. Which was the point at which Sam walked in, heading for his own bed, and looked around, eyebrows rising. "I must have missed something good," he muttered, finding his own bunk and lying down on it.

"Dara just had to break the news to Eli that he's a Spectre, and that if he wants to study something, he should just go ahead and study it," Lin supplied. "Oh, spirits, that's going in the letter."

"Thanks, _fradu_," Eli muttered. "Knew I could count on you." He gave Dara a look. "Right. Any forensics courses I take, _you_ are tutoring me in."

"Deal," Dara told him, and a smile broke across her face like the sun coming out from behind clouds.

The rest of August passed. Four more weeks of grinding battles, and whenever they _weren't_ fighting alongside Harak and the krogan to reclaim G-ring, H-ring, and I-ring, Eli and Lin spent hours with Harak, Ylara, Sam, Pelagia, Makur, and Kirrahe, sifting through Pelagia's fragmented vid cam logs from the chaotic mid-station levels. Pelagia could sort through the data herself, but was devoting so much of her processes to trying to fight fires, keep environmental systems online, regain access to lost nodes, beat down batarian firewalls, lead civilians to safety wherever she could, and lead their various teams of slavers into traps, that she simply didn't have the cycles to devote to collating her vid cam logs. "There," Lin said, in hour four of one night's log viewings. "That one has a vibrosword. See him? He's in the background. Looks like he knows where the camera is, too. He's staying at the back of the crowd."

Eli squinted at the grainy footage. Half the batarian's head was missing from the frame. "Actually," he said, after a moment, "look at the body language of everyone around him." He set a finger on the screen to the left and right of the batarian Lin had singled out. "They're giving him about half a body's width more space than everyone else. That's how batarians respond to someone of _much_ higher caste."

"Good," Sam said. "Pelagia, give us a time and date and location on this vid?"

"August first, 13:39 station time," Pelagia replied, immediately. "There are four other cams that survey the same general area on H-ring. I can provide their footage from the same time-date stamp."

That gave them something to backtrack from, at least. And their first look, apparently, at the fact of Nelar V'shav, the SIU chief on Omega. It took another week of working their way through the vid cam logs. Kirrahe enhanced the images when Pelagia wasn't available. Makur and Harak were able to identify station locales, even in their currently destroyed conditions, often from little more than a sign in a single window. Eli shook his head. "Makur, how the hell do you know that that's a _pawnshop_ between a quarian environmental suit repair shop and an asari interior decorator's design gallery?"

"I know my territory," Makur told him, with a shrug. "I made a point of walking around each ring once a month. Also, there's a human 'bubble tea' stand in the same plaza that Siara likes. Liked, I guess. Probably not there anymore."

After yet more backtracking, they were able to determine that V'shav only visited the pawnshop base periodically. But that _slavers_ were using it heavily as a meeting area. "Why there?" Eli muttered. "Why not one of their processing locations, in the warehouses we haven't gotten to in K-ring yet?"

Sam tapped his fingers on the table. "Pelagia, can you tell what sort of tech they've got set up in there?"

The avatar shook her head. "Unfortunately, no." She frowned. "Actually. . . that _is_ striking. There was a cam feed and security system originally in the shop, but only for the front area. Which I can still see portions of, from the street. The back area. . . no RF at all. And considering the number of used omnitools and whatnot that people sell at pawnshops these days, I should be detecting some. The walls are shielded. Possibly lead-lined." Pelagia looked vexed. "Possibly used for illegal purposes before the invasion. I'm sorry, Harak, I missed this."

Harak reached out and put a huge hand on the image's shoulder. Eli still had no idea how he did that, but he was getting used to seeing it. "You can't be everywhere," Harak pointed out. "Besides, if they weren't actually _doing_ anything illegal at that point, what are we going to accuse them of? Preparing to do illegal things? Creating an electronic safe-room?"

So, they got together a squad of OSF, a handful of krogan irregulars, and a handful of quarian marines, and fought their way through the streets of I-ring, where the pawnshop was located, and broke into the damn place. "Traps!" Eli called, just as the first gas grenades went off. From the pale blue color of the smoke, he knew what he was looking at. _"Aizala_—azure dust loads," he called into the radio. "Anyone not wearing a full mask and breather, stay back."

"Thought Cerberus and the AEC were the ones who'd weaponized this _s'kak_, Lin muttered as they walked forward through the smoke, weapons and shields up, ready to deal with any attackers in the cloud.

"Cerberus started it. AEC and Lina Vasir continued their work. Lystheni have been known to use it, too," Sam said on the radio, tersely. "Side room, clear."

Eli and Lin edged forward, checking under cases and behind a couple of other doors. That left just the door into the shielded back room, and Eli slid a camera probe under the door's frame cautiously, angling it around for a better look. And whistled. "Pelagia and Harak aren't going to be happy about the former owners' handiwork," he said. "Looks like they were tunneling down into the asteroid's rock, the floor between here and H-ring. Getting access to the power, ventilation, and water conduits, as well as clearing out a nice hidden warehouse."

Sam peered at the camera feed on his own omnitool now. "Crates," he said, after a moment. "Hell of a lot of them. Batarian markings. Food, weapons. . . grenades. Pelagia, who owned the pawn shop before the invasion?"

"A salarian," she replied in their earpieces, immediately. "Perhaps a Lystheni?"

"I think it's a possibility I'm willing to entertain," Sam replied. "Eli, move the camera. Let's see what we've got down there."

"They've got stairs of some sort," Eli muttered. "Can't get an angle on the whole room. We're going to be going in blind."

"Can't be helped," Sam finally said. "This is close-quarters work. Remak'var?" He turned and looked at the head of the quarians with them. "Spread out around the neighborhood. If the batarians or anyone else down here tries to run through an escape tunnel, I want them caught. Urdnot Velk? You're with the Spectre teams. Follow us in." Sam looked around grimly. "If there are Lystheni present, there is a possibility that one or more of them might be a Lystheni biotic. Some of them have been known to have the ability to dominate the minds of their enemies. If one of our own fires on you, _use a damned stasis gun_ on them. Do _not_ hurt our own people."

Eli turned and looked at Dara. Keyed to her private band on the radio. "Dominate?" he asked, blankly.

"It's taken from the genetic structure of a genetic mutant among the asari, called an _ardat yakshi_," she answered, immediately.

Eli winced, understanding flooding in. _"Lia'diya'duath bi'a'mana_," he said, quietly. "The little death of the mind. That's. . . ugly."

"Yeah. I haven't faced it. I saw the memory of it in Rel's mind in a simulation once. I really hope none of them can do that, Eli." Her face was chalk-white under her mask. _This scares you more than heights or driving, doesn't it? Wait. . . it's all the same, really. Loss of control. Understandable. _

It was an ugly fight. It was a tight, enclosed space, and the slavers and the salarian 'shop-owners' really didn't want to be taken. Every line of fire seemed to be obstructed by someone else's body, and Eli swore from where he was trying to keep under cover, taking occasional shots with his pistol. About twenty heavy crates suddenly shifted, landing on Makur, and Snowflake leaped out of the way, landing on one batarian, who screamed in sudden fear as the snow leopard bared fangs and clamped into his armored throat.

Eli didn't have a clear shot on _anyone_, and damned near rejoiced when a salarian finally did edge out of cover, off to the right. He leaned out of cover, himself, and began to fire on the creature. _Don't. . . I'm your friend. Friend. You want to help me_. The words whispered in his thoughts, and Eli shook his head, puzzled. The words were in English, and he slipped away from them. _Meus kogitae, velo hinc._ _This is my mind. Go hence from here_.

_You want to help me. Turn. Slay the ones beside you._ Eli turned. Looked to his left, where Lin was crouching, across a narrow gap, behind another set of crates. Then to his right, where Dara knelt beside him, bringing her rifle up to bear on an enemy currently firing on her father, across the room.

_N'__y'asaea'uelel sai'kaea'yili._ The shift into asari brought with it a surge of power, and Eli shoved the insinuating thoughts out of his head. His hands were shaking. He'd almost turned and fired the pistol at Dara, and she would never have known. . . Eli jabbed her with an elbow, and pointed out the salarian for her as a target. "Take him out! He's one of their biotics!"

"You're sure?"

"Shit yes, I'm sure." Eli was firing his pistol steadily now. Any time the salarian so much as peeked out of his doorway, he pulled the trigger.

There were at least two other Lystheni biotics. They discovered them the hard way, of course. Kirrahe got dominated, and turned to spray the rest of them with his assault rifle, and wound up on the receiving end of Dara's shock pistol. "Would have. . . preferred. . . .stasis gun!" Orlan gasped, as they picked him back up off the ground. "Needs. . . testing. Also, less painful."

"I'll keep that in mind," Dara told the salarian, and then they pressed forward.

The last Lystheni, and the final group of batarians, were back in a store room, and Lin and Makur broke the door down to get to them. This time, it was Makur who took the domination hit, and turned, roared, and grabbed Lin by the throat, while the batarians inside opened fire on both of them. Eli swore, and dropped a stasis charge on _both_ of them, moving up instantly, struggling to get Lin free of Makur's grip. He finally managed to get Lin out of the doorway, but he could only move one of them at a time, so Makur remained there, framed by the doorway, with the batarians inside tearing through the krogan's shields with bullets.

_Shit!_ Eli thought, and then saw a faint shimmer streak past him in a momentary break in fire, and then there was a strangled yelp from inside the room, as well as shouts of consternation. When Eli ducked back around the doorway, the Lystheni was shorter by a head, and Sam was in close combat with four batarians. Eli pulled the vibrosword off his shoulder, activated it, and headed in to help. . . just as Siara got a shockwave off, slamming two of the batarians away from Sam. Eli moved in, and started getting their attention, too—the more so, when Kirrahe dragged himself away from Dara's ministrations and overloaded their shields, and Eli clenched his teeth and managed to stab through at least one batarian's armor.

Afterwards, Makur picked himself off the floor, bullet wounds still open and raw all over his body, and limped to Lin. Offered him his hand to pull the turian up off the floor. "Damned sorry about that," Makur muttered. "Felt like bloodrage. Only usually, I'm in control of that. Not it of me. Shaman was big on that."

"If it makes you feel any better," Sam told Makur calmly, coming back into the main room, "once upon a time, Gris got dominated by one of these little pieces of shit, and knocked Garrus clean off a catwalk from behind. Only reason Garrus wound up with a concussion instead of spraying brains all over the floor is the quality of the helmets on armor we have nowadays." He tapped his own head, in demonstration.

Dara pointed at Makur. "Sit down," she told him. "Armor off."

Siara moved up beside Makur, as he looked likely to object. "Don't argue. The bullets don't exactly migrate out of your body. In fact, they're likely to migrate _into_ your internal organs over time. Let her get them out." She put a hand on Makur's hump, and her face went white under the blue.

"I can handle the pain," Makur told her, sharply.

"Both of you, stuff it," Dara told them, and gave Makur an injection of something.

In the meantime, Eli, Lin, Ylara, Sam, and Cohort began going through the equipment in the concealed lair. "We find this place consistent with Lystheni tendencies," Cohort assessed. "The important parts are hidden _below_ the rest of the shop, in keeping with salarian psychology. And the number of computer nodes is significant."

Kirrahe joined them now, and shook his head. "I don't understand why they've altered themselves so much," he murmured. "Do they _hate_ themselves?" He began sorting through files on one computer, as the rest of them worked with the others, assessing the information, to the accompaniment of Makur's occasional curses as Dara worked on his wounds outside the door.

"Well," Lin said, after a few moments, and went back to one of the batarian bodies that the krogan in the main room were stripping for armor and weapons, "This would appear to have been Peldrak L'shav. Head of the slavers." Sure enough, the face looked similar to the one on the screen. "Anyone notice when this one died?" Lin asked, glumly. "With their helmets in place, there's no chance in hell of recognizing a face."

Everyone present shook their heads in the negative. "Would've been nice to ask him a few questions," Sam admitted, sourly. "Unfortunately, in the middle of a firefight, it's sometimes a little difficult to figure out who's who. The enemy don't usually have their names plastered on their chests."

Kirrahe was still going through files, rapidly. "I have something," he noted, suddenly, his voice exultant. "They're in almost constant communication with a facility on K-ring. Near the stairs to L-ring, where the STG agent, Pollin, has been holding the batarians back with his mechs all this time." He blinked at them all rapidly, excitedly. "Believe this is where Nelar V'shav may be located."

Sam leaned forward, and tabbed his omnitool. "Pelagia? Can you pull up what the area around this location looks like—great. It's an apartment complex. Doors and windows all over the damn place, staircases. Bad location. And it's up on K-ring, which we haven't been able to get into yet."

Eli had the faintest glimmerings of an idea then. "Do we want V'shav alive?" he asked, leaning back in his chair at the console. "Because, you know. . . they don't know that the people here are dead, right? And they're in regular communication, right?"

Lin's head came up, and he started to grin. "_Fradu_," Lin began, "you want to lure him here?"

"Maybe. Or at least, to a meeting place." Eli was thinking as he spoke, feeling his way along. "Dara?"

She came around the corner and looked at him warily. "You're _smiling_," Dara half-accused, eyes widening. "Like you're about to get a chance to drive again."

Eli grinned at her merrily. "How good _is_ your batarian?"

"I have a lower to high-caste accent, thanks to a year at STG headquarters," she replied, shrugging. "Somewhat fluent. It's not effortless. I have to _think_ about it. But it's decent. What exactly are you _grinning_ about?"

Eli laced his hands behind his head. "How would you like to tell Nelar V'shav that this outpost was hit by the Spectres, and that you're one of, hmm—two, three survivors?" he looked at Sam for confirmation of the idea. "That you need to retreat to the main base, and that you need a way in."

Dara frowned. "Couple of problems with that," she said, after a moment. "First, all of them out there were male. I can't drop my voice low enough to pull that off."

"We can supply voice modulation software," Cohort supplied, immediately. "This should not impact the plan."

Dara nodded. "Okay. Even so, V'shav isn't going to give a rat's ass—sorry, Dad—about a couple of slavers. If he's SIU, he's probably fairly high-caste. Slavers and raiders are beneath him."

Pelagia's voice came over their earpieces now. "Spectres? If I might? I can provide some assistance with this plan, I believe. What if you were to add that you managed to get away with one of the Spectres? Perhaps, an asari or other biotic? I could quite easily duplicate Spectre Ylara's appearance, assuming the meeting can be staged in an area where there are holographic projectors left." She paused. "Would this not offer adequate incentive?"

Sam squinted. "Might look suspicious," he said. "This whole base gets wiped out, but we managed to secure one Spectre on our lonesome?"

Eli smiled, enjoying this. "Then the whole story changes. The base isn't wiped out. Three wandering Spectres happened to rove through the neighborhood, alone, as Spectres are widely known to do, going in without backup. . . and after a bad firefight, that killed our _beloved_ Peldrak L'shav, we captured, say, Siara, Ylara, and someone else. Please tell us what to do, oh great and exalted leader! We don't have any _lia'mellea_ on hand, and if we keep hitting them in the heads to keep them unconscious, it'll damage their value!"

Lin turned his face away sharply, and his shoulders started to shake. Sam covered his eyes for a moment. "And we made you a Spectre?" he asked, after a moment, obviously highly amused.

"Hey, I've been wondering _why_ for months, myself," Eli replied.

Dara rubbed at her face. "Okay, so, let me see if I have all the insane details right," she said. "We tell him 'come here, we've got, say, two captured Spectres. Assuming he's SIU, he's smart enough to detect a potential trap, especially when he doesn't recognize the voice. He'll suggest a different meeting location. One we probably won't know. We go there, Siara and Ylara pretending to be bound and unconscious. When we get there, he'll probably already have people in position, watching for tricks. And he's probably going to notice at some point that we're sort of human-looking. Right?"

Eli pointed at the bodies on the floor. "As Lin just pointed out a few minutes ago, with their helmets in place, who's going to be able to see our faces, or count our eyes?"

"_S'kak,"_ Lin muttered. "I'm sure as hell not going to fit in batarian armor. Neither is Makur."

Eli nodded, and looked at Sam. "But Sam and I will. Just fine, in fact."

Sam grimaced. "Yeah. Unfortunately, my batarian's rustier than a car in scrapheap." He looked at Dara. "You think you can coach us along by earpiece?"

Dara's mouth dropped open. "No," she replied, after a moment. "They're going to notice if it's not at conversational pace."

Sam and Eli traded a long look. "Okay," Eli said, as calmly as he could. "Then you're going to have to put on batarian armor with us." He gave her a quick smile, filled with as much reassurance as he could put in it. "Hopefully, they won't notice the height." _Or the fact that the male armor's going to fit on her like a clapper on a bell. At least the chestpiece will conceal her curves._

Dara exhaled. "You're crazy," she told Eli. But her smile had returned. "At least it's crazy in a good way, though."

Cohort worked up a voice modulation program, and, when the comm pinged two hours later for a scheduled communication, Dara picked up the call and replied in batarian, _"Yes?"_

"_Who is this?"_ The tone was irate.

"_This is M'vek."_ They'd pulled the name out of the outpost's records. M'vek was a member of a minor noble house, apparently, who'd decided to make money by working with the slavers. It worked with Dara's accent, at least.

Eli put a hand on Dara's shoulder, watching as the words appeared on his VI screen. _"We had an incident. L'nav's dead."_

"_What in the ancestors' names happened?"_

"_Had three cursed Spectres wander through the neighborhood. The stupid salarians broke. Damned near wet themselves at the sight of the black armor, and that got them all suspicious."_ Dara put scorn in her voice, and Eli squeezed her shoulder gently. _Not too much. Don't need to overact._

"_They compromised the operation!"_

"_Sort of. Killed a lot of our men. We did get a bonus out of it. Used stasis guns on two of the Spectres. Think two asari are worth the bargain-price of twenty men's lives?"_

"_What happened to the last Spectre?"_

"_Dead. He'd just gutted L'nav with a stolen vibrosword, when we took him down with another stasis blast."_ Dara hesitated. _"The sword is a fine weapon. It would be a pity to have to return it to the family of whoever was careless enough to lose it."_

"_I'm going to get V'shav. He needs to hear this himself."_

Dara took her finger off the 'transmit' button, and leaned back, exhaling. "Think they're buying it?" she asked.

"Not sure," Eli admitted. "You're doing great, though." He snorted. "You have to 'think about' your batarian, huh? My ass, _sai'kaea_. You're fluent."

"Haven't used it on a daily basis since the training program," she muttered. "Didn't want to make promises."

The line clicked, and then they had V'shav himself on the line. Dara endured twenty minutes of questioning, with Sam, Eli, Ylara, and Lin handing her notes with answers occasionally, coaching her along. In the end, V'shav told them to meet him with their 'captive' asari and now more than three of their remaining men at a location near the stairs to K-ring. A turian commercial building, some sort of a tailor's shop, from what Pelagia was able to turn up on it.

Sam, Eli, and Dara got into their 'borrowed' batarian armor. Eli and Sam would each be carrying Ylara or Siara over one shoulder; both would be acting unconscious until it was time to strike. Their krogan allies would be spreading out through the whole neighborhood, finding apartments and stores that were abandoned to wait, under cover, until the signal to move in.

Cohort, Linianus, Kirrahe, and Makur would actually move to the meeting zone ahead of schedule, as quietly as possible. Eli could picture it in his mind. Lin, who had qualified in every single class of weapon, would be carrying a sniper rifle and finding a perch up high. Watching, waiting for batarians to move into the area around them. Cohort would do the same thing, looking for an alternate angle. "I'll let you know if you're blocking my shots," Lin reminded them.

Eli patted him on the shoulderplates. "Done this a few times before, _fradu._"

"You have. Sam has." Lin muttered, quietly, giving Dara a worried look. "She's mostly done the straight-up fighting before, Eli."

Eli nodded, one quick movement. "She'll be fine. We'll move her if we have to." He unbuckled his wedding-knife from his wrist, and gave it to Linianus. "Might get me a few questions," he said, and settled the batarian helmet on his head. He could have said _Give it to Serana if this doesn't go well._ He chose not to. It was the wrong message, at the wrong time.

He could smell alien scents on the interior of the helmet, and grimaced. It was also not entirely a good fit, he had to admit. His nose stuck out too far, compared to a batarian's, and the eyeslits and the HUD on the interior didn't match up well to his own body's configuration.

Makur and Kirrahe were going to be on the ground level, of course, in a nearby building, ready to break from cover and get to the shop as quickly as possible. Kirrahe was practically twitching. "Settle down," Sam told him, lightly.

"I feel like I keep screwing up," Kirrahe admitted. "Took bullets in the chest four weeks ago, wound up attacking the rest of you when the. . . ._Lystheni_. . . " and he grimaced in distaste, "took over my mind. Tired of being a liability."

"You're not," Eli heard Sam tell the salarian, calmly. "You figured out the stasis weapons and found where V'shav's been hiding up on K-ring. Not too shabby. Everyone's playing their part. You'll have your chance now, too. You and Pelagia are going to be watching for signs of a set up here. And you and Makur may have to save our bacon."

"Your. . . bacon." Kirrahe sounded blank for a moment. "This is a Terran breakfast food, yes?"

Sam sighed. "It's always the simplest expressions that trip people up."

And then off they went. Eli hefted Siara over his left shoulder. Siara actually chuckled. "This is a little on the undignified side," she said, dangling limply.

"You'd love it if Makur were the one hauling you around like a sack of potatoes, but ever since I wrote 'not a batarian' on his armor, he's been disqualified for disguise work," Eli said, with aplomb.

Siara laughed again. "Okay, I think I've got it out of my system. I've just never thought I'd go into battle ass first and carried over someone's shoulder."

Under his borrowed helmet, Eli grinned. "If the batarians were smart, they'd start running at the sight."

Siara thumped his back with the heel of her fist.

Eli checked his weapons. He had the vibrosword over his right shoulder, a stasis gun at his waist, a pistol, and a submachine gun. Sam lifted Ylara over his own left shoulder. He was carrying the same weapons, almost exactly, except instead of a vibrosword, he carried his bowie knife, a detail Eli was really hoping the batarians would overlook. Sam patted Dara on the shoulder. "You ready, sweetie?" he asked her. 

"As I'm going to be," Dara said, her voice noticeably tight, and settled her own helmet into place. Sniper rifle, pistol, stasis gun. She was seven inches shorter than Eli and Sam both, but it couldn't be helped; there _had_ to be batarians who were taller or shorter than average. She spoke through the helmet filters now, and the voice modulation unit Cohort and Kirrahe had cobbled together for her deepened the pitch of her voice dramatically. "How do I sound?"

"Like you've got the world's worst head-cold," Sam told her.

"Or a really brassy transvestite," Eli added, cheerfully. "Sexy." He was deliberately trying to keep things light. Everyone was tensing up, and they needed to stay calm and loose for as long as they could. _Things will go to hell fast enough on their own._

The others moved out first, of course. And then it was time for the disguised set to move, themselves, through the nearly deserted streets, hoping that some civilian wouldn't see them and decide it was time to try to be a hero and 'rescue' the Spectres. _That,_ Eli decided, _seems improbable, but is just the way my luck runs._

"What's our status?" Sam asked quietly, over the radio.

"Forseti, in position. West side of building, atop the adjacent cleaners," Lin said. He'd taken the nickname in good cheer, and had looked up the mythology surrounding the obscure Norse god with a definite interest.

"We are in position as well," Cohort reported. "East side of building. There are windows, but while lifesigns moved into the building ten minutes ago, we cannot see them through the windows from this angle. There are thirteen lifesigns inside the building at present."

"More than two on one in their favor," Eli muttered, not keying his radio. "What were the odds."

"We're in position, too." That was Kirrahe's voice. "Building to the southwest. We have a view of the shop's front door."

"We're two minutes away," Sam said, and they fell silent. Dara, as the only person with hands free, had her rifle in her hands and was scanning the rooftops around them, as a nervous batarian who wasn't sure if the area was secure might do.

As they approached the door, Dara shouted, _"V'shav! We're coming in!"_ Her artificially deepened voice just sounded. . . ._weird_, Eli had to admit. Everything now was taking on the super-real, hyper-real cast he associated with adrenaline. All the edges were clear. All his senses heightened.

"_M'rek?"_

"_Yeah."_ Dara kept her tone tightly controlled, and shoved the door open.

"_Stay right there,"_ a male batarian voice told them. Eli's VI was chattering a translation almost in real time, but there was no way he could speak it back, not without a translation chattering over his own voice. Something of a tip-off.

They stopped outside. Gave the batarians inside a chance to see them. _"All right. One at a time. Bring the prisoners inside."_

Sam and Eli both turned to see the hand-signal. Batarians _always_ deferred to a leader. They wouldn't move before their leader gave an order, and in this case, Dara, as the supposed M'rek, was of 'higher caste,' and thus nominally in charge. Especially since L'nav, the lead slaver, was dead. Dara gestured for Sam to go in first, and her father obeyed, and appeared to drop Ylara fairly carelessly on the floor. The drop was anything but careless, of course, and Ylara controlled enough of it to ensure that her head didn't hit the floor.

"_Very nice."_ The voice was almost a purr. _"Now the other one._"

"I don't like this," Eli whispered into the radio, but moved forwards. Stepped into the tailor shop and off to the right of the door, letting Siara slide limply off his shoulder and to the floor. Inside, there were racks along the walls filled with turian suits, pants, jackets, and dresses, along with several circular racks in the center of the floor. There was a set of dressing rooms at the back of the store, to the left; his omnitool's connection to the HUD in his helmet suggested that there were two biosigns in there. At the center of the back wall, there was a counter, and Eli swallowed. There were three warrior-castes there, standing around and in front of a tall, slender batarian who carried a vibrosword. To the right, also behind the counter, were two batarians who had dull-eyed asari on leashes. _Shit. And looks like three more lifesigns in the backroom. _

"_What do you have them drugged with?"_

"_That asari shit L'nav carried around with him. Might have given them a little too much. I'm not healer-caste, you know."_ Dara's voice was sullen.

Eli's sense for danger heightened. Dara was outside of his and Sam's reach. Completely exposed out there in the street. _"And why should we allow any __Klem Na__ who were a part of this __botched__ operation live?"_ V'shav asked, silkily.

At Eli's feet, he could sense, faintly, biotic energies building as Siara shielded herself. _Delay, Dara, delay. Keep them talking for a few minutes more._

Outside, Dara ducked her head slightly. He'd coached her in batarian body-language as best he could. She was going for deference here, he knew, but it might be a little exaggerated. So many damned nuances. _"The one who botched the operation paid with their lives,_" she suggested. _"Those of us who remain, have. . . bargaining pieces."_

"_You've turned over all you have of worth already,"_ V'shav hissed. _"You? You have no worth to me now."_ He looked at his men. _"Kill them."_

_Not exactly unexpected_, Eli thought, ducking down as the warriors fired on them. _No goddamned cover in the room_, he realized next. The clothing racks might obscure them from sight, but sure as hell weren't going to stop a bullet.

And that was when Siara and Ylara both rolled to their feet. Ylara's expression was icy and she gestured with both hands and all three warriors _and_ V'shav jerked up off the floor, floating in mid-air—and all three of the warrior-castes continued to fire, wildly, bullets tearing into ceiling and walls, propelling them backwards, weightlessly, into the wall behind them. It was a demonstration of Newton's Third Law that would have been more amusing if it hadn't involved live fire.

The batarians who held the asari leashes looked panicked. _"The asari aren't unconscious!"_ one shouted, and jerked on his captive's leash. She raised her dull eyes and Eli felt _something_ move through the air, and tear at Siara's shields near him. He looked up in time to see the blue flare of them dwindle and almost collapse under the assault.

"Not even a little bit sleepy," Siara told the batarian, glaring. "Pain, you bastard. On your knees."

He dropped, howling in agony, and Eli drew his stasis gun, firing on the other biotic controller. Not quite in time—he and his captive managed to knock down Ylara's shields before the microscopic swarm of darts surrounded them and expelled their cargo of energy, freezing the batarian in place. His asari captive turned and looked at him. _Shit._ "They can still control the captive biotics if they can focus their minds!" Eli called into the radio. "_Fradu, _Cohort, do either of you have a shot in here?"

"Negative," Lin replied, sounding grim. "On the move."

"Likewise," Cohort replied, with mechanical calm. "We will be at ground level inside of thirty seconds."

In the meantime, Sam had simply vanished, as he tended to. Worse, V'shav, in spite of spinning in mid-air, had done the same. Eli could still see shimmers from both men—and now two more shimmers moved out of the dressing room, and the backroom door opened—_oh, god, more warrior-castes and their damned shields. And me without mine._

Dara moved into the room now, firing her rifle directly at the biotic controller Eli had paralyzed, tearing the male's shield's away, even as she moved. Then there was nothing but chaos. Flashbangs going off—Eli actually blessed the fact that he couldn't see out of the helmet's eyeslits worth a damn, because he was relying on the HUD at the moment, and it preserved his eyesight. He found one of the stealthed targets moving in on Ylara from the left and fired his submachine gun at it, rapid-fire bursts, sending the male staggering backwards. Ylara's lift field collapsed at that point, which meant that they had _six_ warrior-castes on the ground, V'shav, somewhere, two other stealthed SIU operatives. . . _god, what a mess._ Eli tackled Dara to the ground as the warriors managed to get back to their feet and opened fire in their mutual direction, rolling over and getting his own armored form between them and her. Siara snarled and sent a shockwave at the tightly packed group, and bowled half of them over—which was when Sam re-appeared, behind them, and grabbed one of the warriors by the head, snapping his neck. Ylara used a heavy biotic throw on another of the warriors, throwing him into—and partially _through_ a nearby wall.

It wasn't enough. "Ylara, you've got a stealthed attacker to your left!" Eli called, trying to get back up again, but Sam had ducked back into stealth to get away from the concerted attacks of the batarian warriors, and two of those warriors had re-opened fire on him and on Dara. The batarian controller, who was still standing, locked in stasis, darted his eyes this way and that, and his asari captive raised her dull gaze and dropped another attack that simply ate away at Ylara's shields. . . .which left her open for the point of a vibrosword as the SIU agent moved in.

It was V'shav, Eli realized, as Ylara just barely ducked out of the way of the attack in time. V'shav, like Sam, knew how to use that stealth device, too. No sooner had he flickered out of stealth to attack, than he slipped right back into it. "He's behind you!" Eli shouted, watching the flicker move.

His shields were down to critical, and Dara swore and shoved his shoulder out of her way. She'd never kidded about the armor and shielding she wore; medics really did wear some of the heaviest of both. Not as strong as, say, a bomb disposal tech's, and no where near as strong as Dempsey's, and a kinetic shield was still no substitute for an effective shield or cover. . . but hers were untouched, letting his recharge as she put herself between him and the bullets now, and raised her stasis gun, changing the setting for wide dispersal. "Where is he?" she shouted over the sound of gunfire.

"Between her and the door—he might make a run for it—"

Dara fired on V'shav and Ylara alike. Both froze in place.

Bullets still tore at her shields, and they still had five damned warrior-castes, two biotic controllers, and two errant SIU men on the move.

And that was when Cohort leaped in through the west window in a shower of glass, all uncanny geth grace, and opened fire directly on the closest batarian warrior with his sniper rifle, tearing through the triple layer of shields steadily. _That_ was a welcome distraction. Siara blasted them all again with a shockwave. Eli opened fire on the closest biotic controller—who pulled his captive in front of him as a shield. Eli hesitated. _Damnit, I don't have a clear shot. . . ._

"They're dead already," Siara said, grimly, and fired her pistol right between the captive asari's eyes.

Makur and Kirrahe burst through the door behind them now, and Kirrahe shouted, "Everyone get clear!" and opened fire on the warriors with his flamethrower, burning through shields and armor alike.

Eli had lost track of the various stealthed attackers around him, and spun as he suddenly was rocked from behind by weapons fire. The batarian's arms jerked wide, however, as Makur heaved him into a nearby wall with a biotic throw, and sent Snowflake in to keep the SIU operative busy for a while. Sam moved in on biotic controller, who'd lost his asari captive, and slashed the male's throat. That left the last biotic controller for Dara and Eli, who both opened fire on him, whittling through shields, finally rocking his body with the concentrated firepower of all the mobile Spectres present.

In the end, Lin came to the main door of the building, panting, in time to help put out the fires Kirrahe's favorite weapon had started among the clothing racks and on the drywall. "You're _late_," Eli said, patiently enduring as Dara once again helped him out of his armor, and began checking his back. One or two of the bullets had penetrated through the hard suit, but most of their kinetic energy had dissipated. They'd scored his skin, but hadn't embedded themselves. Her hands were very gentle again as she bathed the skin in medigel and gave him an antibiotic.

"Sorry, _fradu_," Lin told him now. "I'm only turian. Cohort _jumped_ off his building to get to your little party here in time." He sounded rueful. "I want to learn that trick."

"We do not recommend it," Cohort told him, calmly. "Organic bone structure would not respond well to the impact."

Sam had, in the meantime, shackled Nelar V'shav, hands and feet, and removed all of the SIU operative's weapons. "Is Ylara all right?" he asked now, waving a hand in front of her face.

"Stasis gun," Dara said, taking off her batarian helmet with evident relief. Her voice instantly returned to its normal soft contralto pitch. "Didn't have much of a choice there. Couldn't see V'shav to target him." She moved over now to check Ylara, who had a minor scrape from V'shav's vibrosword along her left arm. Siara had a few minor injuries, too. "The question is, now what do we do with him, now that we have him?"

Sam's blue eyes were very cold as he assessed the batarian. "As Spectres, we're not set up to deal with prisoners. We're supposed to turn them over to the Council, generally. Or to local authorities. In this case, Harak." Sam smiled, but there was no mirth in it at all. "He's committed crimes in a place that has damned few laws. I think Harak might want to make an example of why people _enjoy_ the protection of the law in most places. That, and we need information. V'shav here might be willing to provide some of that. For the right bargain." He shrugged. "We'll see."

That was the first week of September. Two weeks later, Harak's forces had most of Omega back under control. A few of the batarians had even surrendered, when they saw the broadcasts showing Harak executing V'shav, personally. Krogan justice was simple, and brutally direct. And Omega was, after all, a krogan place under Harak's rule. Well, krogan/AI, anyway.

On September 16, 2196, with thousands of batarians in custody, being remanded into the keeping of Council prison ships that had docked to take them to internment camps on a couple of planets largely lacking in atmosphere—the hanar, in particular, had offered to keep the batarians on Rough Tide, under the watchful eye of their drell enforcers—the Spectres were recalled from Omega. They'd spent the last two days of their visit in Harak's private rooms on P-ring, a mansion of sorts that actually hung from the ceiling of the station, carved into a giant stalactite. "Pelagia says she thinks it was the control room for the station in Prothean times," Siara told them. "Aria never used the place. No idea why. It's got a much nicer view than Afterlife ever could have."

"Because Aria liked watching people crawl around in the dark. Debased to the lowest level," Sam said, simply. "There was no joy in Afterlife. Just desperation."

Eli actually felt a certain sense of accomplishment as they left. Harak had shaken all their hands—or wrist-clasped them, as the case might be. He'd even shaken Kirrahe's hand, on camera, no less, as well as the hand of a salarian STG agent named Pollin, whose mechs had held the batarians out of L-ring for two months. Harak had looked at each of them keenly, and Eli had a feeling that even if the male _didn't_ have an AI basically embedded in his brain, he'd remember all of their faces in a hundred years. Hell, in six hundred. "Five years ago," Harak rumbled, "Garrus Vakarian made a deal with Patriarch. He'd give Patriarch and me five years to clean up Omega. Make it a member of the 'galactic community.' We've given it our best shot. Me, Patriarch, and Pelagia. What we've gotten for it, is a smoking pile of ruins, thanks to the batarians." He stared at Sam. "Shepard and Vakarian held their end of the bargain, though. They sent you."

"And the Council will probably send help to rebuild here, too," Ylara said, softly. "If you'll accept it."

"Depends on the strings that are attached," Harak rumbled. "Now that I _can_ read, I'm going to be reading pretty carefully."

Pelagia appeared next to him in a swirl of light and shadows. "Omega will always be its own place," she said, firmly. "True to itself. But hopefully, we can take this opportunity to rebuild, again, and make it, again, a better place." She smiled, and put one ephemeral hand on Harak's shoulder. "You'll leave warships in position to defend us?"

"I'm told the asari are actually scrambling ships to come here." Sam sounded grimly amused. "There are not a few asari groups on Luisa and Illium that have taken _exception_ to what was done to their kin here. And elsewhere."

Harak snorted. "Was wondering what would get them off their blue asses and into the fight." He looked at Ylara and Siara. "You two, of course, never sit around on yours."

The upper levels were all intact, though people were clearly hungry. The lower levels had taken the worst of the occupation, of course. Some gunfire still rang out in various districts, but OSF was now mobile and able to take care of the issues themselves, with Pelagia's camera feeds being restored by the quarian techs and marines, who'd remain aboard in support of OSF. The krogan Clan Alliance troops were, however, being moved. They were needed, desperately, elsewhere.

As the Spectres moved through B-ring towards the docking areas, Eli's attention was caught by the lines of people who were streaming towards the docking bays. Picking up supplies, largely, until such time as routine food shipments could be restored.

One family in particular—a mother turian, and two children—stood just outside of the line. The mother was dealing, none-too-patiently, with her second-son, who was having the turian equivalent of a tantrum. "_I want __Pada__,"_ the little male wailed. _"I want __Pada__."_

"_He's still fighting up on K-ring,"_ the mother replied, for what sounded like probably the tenth time. _"And he wouldn't like your ill-behavior, either. Stop acting like a pyjack who hasn't gotten his way."_

Eli broke away from the others, and crossed to the family. _"Excuse me,"_ he said, crouching down. _"What's your name?"_

The little turian's eyes went wide as he was addressed by a strange human, wearing turian clan-paint, and in black Spectre armor, red symbol at his throat. _"Andrus Spesimus,_" he almost squeaked. Eli put him at no more than six years of age.

"_Andrus Spesimus. Yes, that's the name. I have a special mission for you. Do you think you can handle it? It's important."_ Eli made his voice solemn. There was something about the boy's cries for his father that had touched him. And, of course, the boy was close to Caelia's age, little duck that she still was, in his heart.

Andrus nodded, suddenly solemn. His older brother stared. _"Are you sure you want __him__ to do whatever this is?"_ the first-son asked.

"_Absolutely, but he can't do it without __your__ help. It's his mission, but a good brother helps his siblings, right?"_ Eli reached into one of the pockets of his utility belt, and pulled out the battered toy _oolorae_. _"This toy was used as part of a trap. It was meant to draw children into a slaver's net. But before that, it belonged to a turian child on the station here. His name's right here on the tag. Hilarus Gavanus."_ Eli regarded the wide eyes of the two boys. _"Your job, Andrus, is to take care of this toy for Hilarus. And to try to find him and give it back to him. If you can't find him, then you're to keep it safe for him until he comes back for it. You think you can do that?"_

Andrus's fingers clenched on the toy. _"Yes."_ He looked at his first-brother uncertainly. _"Pada could help us find him, right?"_

"_Probably,"_ the older boy admitted.

"_One more thing. You're on a Spectre mission right now. You have to act like a Spectre until the mission's done. Honor. Loyalty. Courage. And __no fussing__. Otherwise, the mission will be a failure before it's even begun."_ Eli stood and nodded to the two boys gravely, and then winked at their mother, who simply stared at him, open-mouthed. _"Hope you don't mind my deputizing your sons. They seem like fine boys."_ Eli grinned, and moved away. _There. She should have a little peace for the rest of the day_, he figured, and rejoined the rest of the group.

He caught the smile on Dara's face, and asked, after a moment, "What?"

"You're fooling no one, Elijah Sidonis. You great big softie, you." Dara's smile widened, and nudged him in an armored side with an armored elbow. . . with a noticeable clang. Then she sighed, looking at the _Sollostra_, as they started up the ramp into the ship. "So, back to Mindoir."

"You don't sound happy about that."

"It'll be nice to see Kasumi and Takeshi again." She shrugged. "Back to the real world, I guess."

"Yeah," Eli said, and he looked at the ramp under their feet for a moment. "Back to the real world."

_**Author's note:** Again, a special thank-you to my husband for blocking out Eli's response to the vibrosword attack, and the response that shattered the batarian's shoulder. That's all him. ;-)_


	113. Chapter 113: Perspectives and Awakenings

**Chapter 113:** **Perspectives and Awakenings**

**Dara, September 17, 2196**

The hum of the _Sollostra's_ engines had lulled Dara to sleep the night before, and this morning, they were coasting in from the Mindoir mass relay, stealthed. A fourteen hour-cruise inbound, past the gas giants, and it was a beautiful tour today. "You just don't get a view like this in crew quarters," Dara admitted. She was sitting, watching the planets pass by, a datapad in her hand. Occasionally studying or reading, but mostly just watching this planet or that creep by outside. "This is a treat."

Sam chuckled from where he was going through comm messages on the room's console. "I've gotten so damned used to flitting in and out of Mindoir's system, half the time, I forget to look at them," he admitted, and came over to the window to look out with her. "Thanks for reminding me, sweetie."

Dara leaned her head against the cool plasteel. The planets were. . . comforting, actually. They were completely indifferent. They didn't want anything, and they weren't placed there for human convenience. They just _were_. Oh, humans and other species could mine their atmosphere for rare gases and eezo, could plant colonies on their frozen moons. . . but the planets themselves didn't care. As eternal as anything could be, in this universe. Not changeless; never that. Swirling bands of clouds, in constant turmoil and motion belied that notion. Rings in constant motion, too, regenerated from ice geysers on moons, or dust from the rings accumulating on a different moon. Constant chaos within an ordered system. Or perhaps a constant trend towards order in a chaotic system. All depending on your perspective, of course.

Eli and Lin had found the _Sollostra's_ impressive vid collection, compiled over the past few years by dozens of human crew-members, largely bored out of their skulls, and were going through the file names, laughing at the titles. . . . and the stills culled from some of the really ancient vids. "Spirits," Lin said, staring at one. "Your people really did think that the universe was out to wipe them out."

"Or get in our pants," Eli retorted. "Or both at the same time. I kid you not, there's one here in which the aliens send genetic instructions to us to create a hybrid creature that's out to mate, breed, and raise little alien creatures that will, er. . . eat us all." He paused, and looked up at Sam. "I'm starting to understand where the AEC's less-than-intelligent preoccupations with hybrids comes from. Popular fiction."

There was something else in his tone, however, that alerted Dara. The pause had been just long enough to be noticeable, and he'd frowned slightly at the word _eat._ "Yeah, but even the AEC never said that turians were out to _eat_ humans," she replied, lightly. And watched as Eli's expression went blank, just for an instant, before he got a smile back in place. _"N'tesai'uel_ _pua'mei,_" she managed, a little haltingly. Literally, _you speak not-truths poorly._

Eli's quick, rueful grin told her she'd scored a hit. "I didn't actually say anything."

"You didn't have to. You went completely cop-face for a second there." Dara inclined her head in her dad's direction. "What's up?"

Sam sighed. "You need a little downtime. Eli got briefed four weeks ago on some of the stuff going on on Shanxi and other fronts, because of his press liaison job. You don't need to see it yet, sweetie." He looked over at Lin. "Nor you, nor Siara, Makur, or Kirrahe. We're trying to give you kids at least a bit of a mental break." He rubbed at his moustache. "Although from the looks of the assignment schedule, a _mental_ break is all it's going to be."

Dara rubbed at the back of her neck. "More fighting?" She tried to keep the tiredness out of her voice. It had been a _long_ damned three months. Whenever she closed her eyes over the past three weeks or so, all she'd seen behind them were stitches. She'd had a few dreams in which she'd gotten so involved in stitching wounds together that she'd moved on to healthy flesh, too, sewing up people's eyes and mouths, while they screamed at her. She'd told Eli about them the next morning, and he'd shaken his head at her. _Your subconscious picks the damnedest things. I think it's trying to tell you that you need a break._

_Yeah,_ Dara agreed now, silently. _Go home. Work on the quilt. Something that doesn't bleed or move while I'm fixing it. On the other hand, going home at the moment doesn't sound like it's going to be peaceful or relaxing. _

Sam shook his head at her. "No fighting for you, not immediately, anyway. But you'll be busy, from the looks of it."

"That sounds like autopsies," she told him, with mock-suspicion.

Sam snorted at her. "No, darlin', I'm not telling you one word till you've had a chance to walk around on a real planet under a real sun with real, honest to god fresh air around you for at least a day. Maybe, if we're really lucky, as much as two."

Dara looked at her dad, and then at Eli and Lin. "Yeah. It's going to be autopsies. Bet you a nickel."

"You actually have a nickel to bet?" Eli asked.

"1974. Two hundred years older than I am."

Eli looked at Sam, then at Dara. "I'd be stealing money from you. He's smiling too much for it to be autopsies."

"Not. . . saying. . . _a word_," her dad emphasized, and just laughed when she made a rude noise in his general direction. "Nice, sweetie, can you do that with your mouth, too?"

Mindoir's winter had softened into spring. It wasn't far, actually, Dara realized, from the sixth anniversary of her first landing on the violet-skied world. They landed at noon—for once, not in the middle of the night—Dara had been joking with Eli and Lin as they were on final approach, and as the ramp lowered, she could see a crowd of people surrounding groundcars near the edge of the landing field. Her eyes dilated out to their macroscopic range. "Full house," she told everyone. "Dad, Kasumi and Takeshi are here. Lin, your mom's here, too. Siara, Azala's here. . . .looks like Tulluust, Tellura, and Shellara are here for you, Ylara. And Eli, Serana's here, too." She concentrated, hard, on keeping her voice cheerful and light, hefted her bag over her shoulder, and let everyone else pour down the ramp ahead of her.

There was a swarm of greetings, in at least three or four languages—Kasumi had actually greeted Sam in Japanese, some sort of a joke, Dara was sure. Takeshi was shrieking, "Daddy!" at the top of his lungs and reaching up for Sam, who picked him up and swung him around. Telluura absolutely flung herself at Ylara, and started to bawl, touching her mother's face. _"I'm all right, little one,"_ Ylara told her, and for a wonder, Dara actually understood enough asari to comprehend the words. Marena was chattering, non-stop, at Lin about how glad she was to see him, and how the attack on the base had happened, and how his second-brother and young Madison Dempsey had been blooded together, and, and, and. . . . and Serana simply shouted "Eli!" and ran towards him, flinging her arms around his shoulders. Eli leaned down and kissed her forehead, but Dara only caught a glimpse of it. She'd walked down past everyone else, skirting the edge of the group, and made her way towards the groundcars.

_Let everyone wind down_, she decided, and stood there, looking at the mountains she loved so much. She felt cold, for some reason, though the spring wind was surprisingly warm. Much of the snow had already melted from the higher elevations, and she could see stands of _galae_ and _allora_ trees already blooming, their colors standing out vividly against the pale green leaves of the rest of the trees. _The most beautiful place in the universe,_ Dara thought, tiredly, _and all of a sudden, I don't want to be here._ _What the hell is wrong with me?_

"Hey!" Kasumi's voice spoke at her elbow, and, surprised, Dara turned and looked down at her tiny step-mother. She'd never called Kasumi _Mom_; that would, forever, be Sarah Jaworski. But it didn't mean that she didn't love Kasumi as if she were a mother. "You trying to sneak onto base without a proper hello?"

"I'm not much good at sneaking," Dara admitted, putting on a smile and leaning down to hug her, and found Takeshi, in Kasumi's arms, trying to latch his pudgy toddler arms around her neck. She laughed and took her baby brother into her arms, and for a moment, Mindoir's sunshine felt a little warmer. "Hey, squirt. You remember me this time, huh?"

"Yes. You Dara."

"And who're you?"

"I Takeshi Kennard Jaworski!" he announced, in tones of beaming pride, and Dara chuckled and settled him into his little carseat, buckling him in.

Kasumi drove them all back to the house she and Sam shared, relaying news at a rapid clip. "Dara, you're actually entitled to a house of your own now, as a full Spectre, but I figured you'd want to wait on that a bit."

"No point in it at the moment," Dara agreed. The sunlight through the glass of the groundcar window was actually making her a little sleepy. "Just a place to store things on my way through."

"And," her dad added, cautiously, "It's probably better if you don't actually _own_ a house, for the moment. Since that's a, well, it's an asset."

Dara's head came up, and she thought about that for a moment. "You mean, if I file for divorce from Rel." She hadn't, honest to god, had much time to _think_ about it for three months. _Here I asked for time to think. I got time, but couldn't spend any of it thinking._ Constant gunfire, constant medical needs, constant attacks. She was _tired_ now, too. Her brain didn't want to work at the moment, which was odd; she'd actually felt fairly lively on the _Sollostra,_ just hours ago. _Stress, lack of sleep. It's just catching up, that's all._

"It's an option," Sam said, and his tone had gone completely neutral. "I also took the liberty of directing your Spectre paychecks from the last three months into your old bank account, the one you kept your 'going to college' money in. The one you never put Rel's name on."

Dara thought about that. She remembered signing a _lot_ of papers just before being inducted as a Spectre. Some of those had probably been pay forms. "Good idea," she said, after a minute. "That way, he can have whatever's in the joint account." _And no one can say I'm not being completely fair, right?_

"Technically, half the money in that account is yours," Sam told her, sharply. "You earned it. Sweat and blood and everything else. Withdraw your half and put it where _you_ can look after it."

Dara thought about it. The last time she'd looked in the accounts had been when Rel had told her to buy furniture on Rocam, which she'd largely avoided doing. They'd both started out at about 16,000 credits a year. But every meal had been aboard ship until 2193. All living quarters had been aboard ship until 2193. They'd had double, even triple hazard pay some months, working with Spectres. The year on Sur'Kesh. . . STG had provided their housing. They'd needed to buy groceries, sure, but she'd _walked_ to work every day on the little tropical island, and had loved it there. 2194, back aboard ship. 2195, back aboard ship. Until 2196, and her three brief months on Rocam, they'd rarely spent anything they'd earned. Shore-leave, sure, once a year. Usually with Rel's family. Military rate travel to get where they were going, too. They simply hadn't _needed_ to spend anything, really. Rel occasionally splurged on an expensive piece of _jalae_ wood for carving. Dara's only vice had been sheet music or good recordings of classical music. That was it, really.

The end result was a bank account that was probably happy enough to buy a house on Earth without needing a mortgage. No debts, not even educational. "Won't taking my half out of the account seem a little confrontational?" Dara asked, sighing. _So much for a day off, Dad._ "I'd really like to do everything as low-key as possible. If that means letting him have my half of the bank account until a court tells him he has to turn it over, it might be better to do it that way." _And it's not like I don't have a job, and not like that job doesn't have, you know, a few benefits._ "Look. . . Dad. . . can we talk about all this stuff tomorrow, maybe?"

Sam and Kasumi, in the front seat, exchanged a look. After a moment, her dad said, "Yeah, sweetie. Sorry 'bout that."

In the house, Dara headed straight to the guest room, and tossed her bag on the floor, before collapsing back onto the bed. Takeshi giggled and crawled up next to her. "Horsies," he told her, solemnly, and with effort. "Go ride horsies?"

"Right now?"

"Yes!"

"Can I take a nap first?" 

"No! Go. . . ride horsies."

From the hallway, Kasumi laughed. "Sorry. I've been telling him all week that when you and Sam got back, he'd be starting his riding lessons."

Dara sat up, with effort, and picked Takeshi up, and plopped him on her shoulders. "Best I can do for the moment," she told him, and walked him around the upstairs, as he clutched at her hair and giggled.

Several hours later, after dinner, Dara sat in the library, patiently working on the quilt again. Grandma Agnes had come over to see her, and had hugged her, tightly. "I'm so glad you made it home," her grandmother had told her. "And I'm so proud of you, dear. I saw Emily Wong's report on the lobotomies, and heard what you had to say. It's just. . .appalling, dear."

Dara winced. "I'd rather not think about it right now," she told Agnes.

"Oh, I understand. Here. Let's look at this quilt. That edge right there? See how it's all ragged and torn? There's a trick to fixing something like that. Let me show you." Agnes' older, skilled hands took over for a moment, and Dara smiled faintly to herself. Hearing, again, Dr. Solus' words in her mind. _Always be learning._ _Well, I'm doing that, aren't I?_

Then Sam came back in from putting Takeshi down for the night, and Kasumi joined them a moment, later, bringing in a pot of green tea and four tiny porcelain cups, and setting it all on the coffee table. Sweet, warm smells. Comforting, and both exotic and a little homey at the same time. "You're working on that thing a lot," Sam noted, looking at the quilt.

"Want to get it done. Hopefully, I might have it fully fixed by the time I go off-planet again." Dara caught _another_ glance between Kasumi and her dad, and sighed internally. They were keeping things back. She had no idea what, or why, but it didn't bode well. _Hopefully, they'll spit it out in the morning,_ she decided, and got back to work on her next careful set of stitches.

In her bed in the guest room that night, she simply couldn't figure out what was _wrong_. The sheets were clean, she was _home_, damnit, and she was with her family. It was quiet here. Peaceful. _Why can't I sleep?_ she thought, kicking off the sheets and padding to the window to look out at the stars.

The silence, she decided, was probably part of it. She'd spent so much time on ships and stations in the last few years, that she'd gotten used to a certain amount of background noise. There was also, she realized, a certain lack of _gunfire_ here. There'd been an almost constant erratic patter of it in the background on Omega. "Okay, idiot," Dara told herself out loud, "silence is actually a good thing. Go to sleep." She slid back under the covers, and lay there, staring at the ceiling, until the realization hit her. It wasn't just the silence. It was the sense of being completely alone again. For three months, there'd always been _someone_ around her, to the left, to the right. Some friendly voice on the radio in her helmet—very often Eli, but also Lin, joking and laughing with her. Sometimes Siara, with her incisive, tart-voiced comments. Kirrahe had spent most of each night on watch with Cohort, or working on _something_ by the light of Cohort's dimmed eye. All comforting, All familiar now.

And of course, almost every time she'd woken up, heart pounding from the dreams, Eli had woken up with her. Sometimes she'd woken up to hear him muttering in his sleep. Sometimes English, sometimes turian, sometimes asari. She'd shake his shoulder till he woke up enough for the dreams to subside, or, if he woke all the way, they'd talk for a while, before going back to sleep. And he'd returned the favor, often enough.

Dara sighed and rolled over, staring at the numerals of the Mindoir-aligned clock. 24:38. _How pathetic is it,_ she derided herself, _that you can't get to sleep because you don't have friends all around you? What, you need a security blanket? Maybe your teddy bear?_

By 26:00, that was no longer sounding like a bad option. Dara snuck down the stairs and found Mr. Bear on his shelf in the living room. And just as quietly, snuck back upstairs. "You're absolutely not allowed to tell _anyone_ about this, Mr. Bear," she told the stuffed animal, quietly. "Next, I'll be sucking my thumb." _Oh, well. I guess there are worse things I could sleep with._

But it worked, and she finally went to sleep.

The next morning, after her father and she had given Takeshi his first riding lesson, Sam and Kasumi took her into the living room. "Sweetie," Sam said, tiredly. "I know it's a hell of a burden. But I have _got_ to have some answers from you. And we've got to tell you a few things, before the briefing and debriefing this afternoon that we're conducting for everyone who was on Omega."

Dara sat down on the couch, feeling like a puppet whose strings have been cut. "All right," Dara said, her voice almost toneless. "Lay it on me, Dad."

"How do you feel?" Kasumi asked, first. Her tone was warm and sympathetic.

Dara exhaled. "Tired, mostly." All the exhaustion of Omega came back to her in a rush. The dull, mindless eyes of the asari and humans who'd been 'processed.' The terror and relief on the faces of the 'ordinary' slaves, as they released them. The rape kits. God, the rape kits. Male and female alike. She had processed about two hundred of them, and knew that the doctors in the med bays on B-ring had done more. Killing. Death. Mending wounds. Lin, Kirrahe—Kirrahe took _way_ more than his share of bullets, as if a salarian's life expectancy wasn't short enough—Makur. Ylara's eye. Eli. Her dad. "Was a long three months."

"Yeah," her dad acknowledged. "You're telling me." He leaned back on the couch beside her, closing his eyes for a minute. "But you were laughing while we were there, sweetie. Not all the time, but you laughed. Joked. It was a damned nice sight."

"How'd you feel, working with everyone?" Kasumi asked, quietly.

_This almost feels like a psych session. Eh. I guess it's necessary. And better to talk it out with family than with some stranger and their clipboard._ "Good, actually," Dara acknowledged, after a minute. After a pause, she admitted, "Human, I guess." Her lips curved up into a faint smile. "Hard _not_ to laugh with Eli and Lin there, Dad. One of them is bad enough on his own. The two of them together? They never let up. Not for a second." Her lips quirked a little more. Eli. Eli and Lin, _always_ protecting her. She had barely been injured, which was, well, damned impressive. Even Cohort had taken a few bullets here and there.

"And working without Rel around?" Sam asked, not opening his eyes yet.

Dara paused. "Was a little weird at first," she admitted. "I'm used to hearing his voice on the radio, calling out tactics for the rest of the squads. I used to stick to his side like glue. Since he got his promotion to O3, though, he's had charge of several different squads at once. So the last year or two, I've been shuffled in wherever I'd fit in a lineup."

Kasumi sipped at her tea, and there was silence for a few minutes. "Did you feel any sort of absence?" she asked, quietly.

Dara thought about it, and picked up her own mug. Hot tea, but not green. "At first, a little, yeah. More like uncertainty. I'd never really gone into a fight without him around." She took a sip, which almost scalded her mouth, and then added, "And after we finished cutting our way up through the sewers, it wasn't really an issue anymore. Too much to do to worry about stuff like that." There'd been a rush of self-confidence, as well as confidence in the people around her around that time. She'd heard enough about the 'spirit of the squad' before, but she'd never _felt_ it as she had, surrounded by all of them. It had been. . .eye-opening, really. She could be an effective part of something that didn't involve Rel. She'd felt welcomed, embraced, really, by everyone. Even she and Siara had come to a tenuous sort of . . . friendship. Maybe that wasn't really the right word. Neither she nor Siara were the type to braid each other's hair. Scalp tentacles. Whatever. But there was respect there, and it was growing. _Maybe that's the best two people like us can manage_, Dara thought, tiredly. _She's got walls, and so do I._

"That's not really what I was asking," Kasumi told her, gently.

Dara sighed. "You're asking if I missed him. Not just as a member of the squad."

"Did you?"

Dara thought about it. Pushed at it, like a loose tooth in her mind. "Honest to god, Kasumi, I didn't actually think about him much." It was a wretched admission, but she had to say it. "I talked with Eli about the whole Rel mess once or twice after some bad dreams. And that's really about it." She could have added, _I was kind of too busy to dwell on it_, but that wasn't the whole of it. Her subconscious had been busily poking at her in dreams, but at the same time, she simply hadn't had any problem putting it all to the side. _Guess that means that my decision was already really made. I'm pretty much done, aren't I?_

Sam nodded, not opening his eyes. "And about the whole marriage deal?" he asked. "What are you thinking, sweetie?"

Dara exhaled. "That even if Rel wanted out, his family would intervene. Would want to negotiate and talk things out and get me to 'rekindle' his spirit or whatever. There will be arguments, because turians love to argue and negotiate."

"To hell with doing things the turian way," Sam told her. "You've spent five goddamned years doing everything _their_ way. Maybe they should let you do something the _human_ way for once."

She looked up at the ceiling, studying the patterns there. "Well, to a certain extent, they'd be right. Running away never solves anything. That's what you always told me, Dad."

"Running away, no. _Walking_ away? Sometimes can." Sam told her, firmly. "Walking away implies control. You walk away, with what you earned with your own sweat and blood, and with your head held high, if that's what you want. That's not running. And shit. . . I've seen women who've run away before, sweetie. Hell, I've been the one who's delivered the restraining orders, once or twice."

"He's not going to hit me."

"As I said to Lantar, once upon a time, in regards to Ellie, there are _lots_ of ways to hit someone, sweetie." Sam opened his eyes. "Near as I can tell, when you first came out of Bastion, and told us you were _too human_ to be a Spectre, you'd had most of the humanity drummed out of you."

Dara winced. "In fairness, Dad, that's not on him—"

"No. It's on _you_, in part. You made every compromise in the relationship. You turned yourself into a turian for him, in everything other than the scales. In five years, I've seen Rel compromise and do two human things. _Two_, sweetheart. He put on a damned wedding ring, and broke his contract agreement in Odessa. . . and arguably, that's not really human, so much as _young_. Wow. Both of those must have really _hurt_ to do, too." Sam scowled now, openly. "Oh, and he let me teach him some human fighting forms, and poker. Again, what a stretch for him."

Dara set her cup on a coaster, and put her face down in her hands. "Yeah. I know, Dad." Her voice was muffled, and she felt more than a little bereft. And stupid. And short-sighted. "That doesn't change much. They're still all going to want to get in between and insist that we talk this out, that it's all _just_ the combat addiction, and that it's my job to support him and fix him and be a good wife." She looked up at her father between her fingers.

"Is it just the combat addiction?" Kasumi asked, gently.

Dara shook her head, silently. "No."

"Then what do you want to do?" Sam asked her.

"I don't know." Not entirely true. _Not to be forced into a box. Not to be forced to deal with all this crap, over and over again. _

Sam looked at her, his blue eyes intent. "Let me ask you this. Why was your face more like a funeral coming home to Mindoir, than at _any_ point on Omega?"

_Oh, god. He noticed. He always notices. Why can I control my face well enough for the galactic press, but not well enough for my dad and Eli and all the other damned cops who've become Spectres not to see right through it?_ Dara felt her lower lip start to tremble, and she bit it. Hard. Pulled on that turian stoicism that she'd spent five years learning. "Probably because on Omega, I could fight. I could win. I had a little control." She shrugged, feeling bleak. "Here? No matter how hard I fight, it's not going to make a difference, and it's a battle I can't win." That wasn't all of it, she knew. There were other things bothering her. Some of it had hit home when her father had bent down to kiss Kasumi and lift Takeshi into the air. When Serana had practically leaped into Eli's arms, laughing and smiling. That was when the coldness had started seeping through her, really.

Kasumi looked at her thoughtfully. "No fight is un-winnable," she told Dara, calmly. "Personally, I prefer to change the rules. Your dad likes using the rules against themselves. But there's _always_ a way to win. And there's always a price. Sometimes you pay it, sometimes other people pay it for you. The question is, deciding what to do, and doing it." Kasumi sipped her tea, and looked at Dara calmly. "So what do you want to do?"

Dara sighed. "What I _can_ do. Stay separated for another three months. Pending filing divorce papers. If everyone insists on talking and talking, I'll do that. I don't see it changing anything, but I'll talk." She lifted her hands now. _What can you do?_

Sam snorted. "When someone's done with a relationship, they're no longer obliged to _talk_, sweetie. Not anything more than the very polite, distant business of returning each others' stuff. If you have to work with the person still, you're obliged to be professional. You're _not_ obliged to do anything more than that. If you do, it's out of the goodness of your heart, you hear me?"

Dara looked up at Sam. "There's lots of people out there who'll be happy to tell me that it's my job to put him back together. There are turian reporters just like al-Jilani, who'll be thrilled to say that I ducked and ran at the first sign of trouble."

"Fuck 'em."

Dara's head snapped back. She'd _rarely_ heard her dad use that sort of language inside the house. "No, seriously," her dad went on. "Fuck them in the goat ass. Five years of putting your humanity in a box, sweetie. Anyone that tells you it's _your_ responsibility to fix Rel is full of shit. You supported him for five years. He hasn't given you a damn bit of support, and you're just as much a soldier as he is. Where's the support for _your_ mental state? It's one thing when only one spouse is in the military. But when both of you are, the 'martyred wife' thing runs just a bit thin." Sam folded his big arms across his chest, and his eyes were narrow as he added, "Rel's responsibility is to fix himself. Your responsibility is to fix _you._ If you think you can get along together afterwards, that's another story. Do you think it's possible?"

Dara very slowly shook her head.

"Why's that?" Sam asked.

"Because. . . I didn't miss him." Her voice was very quiet. _I sort of missed having someone in bed last night, just to curl up against, but just plain skin contact never __stays__ that for long. I didn't miss the constant tension. I didn't miss having to wrap a foot behind his ankle in between every fight. I didn't miss feeling like I was carrying twice my own weight._ "Dad. . . the most I thought of him, other than after nightmares in which I wound up somehow being responsible for his death. . . was when I wondered if we'd be better off with him there, than Kirrahe. Kirrahe and he have very similar tactical roles, but Rel gets wounded less often, and has more leadership. On the other hand, he lacks Kirrahe's technical skills. Which we were short on, anyway." Dara sighed. There were things she did miss. Badly. _Warm afternoons by the lake. Laughter as she studied turian and __tal'mae__. Riding together in the warm spring air. The feeling of closeness. But even that's been gone for ages._

"Okay," Kasumi said, calmly, and changed the subject. "With all of that in mind, can you tell me what the old superstition about thunder causing sour milk is an example of?"

Dara blinked. _What the hell?_ "Er. . . a logical fallacy. The milk goes sour from bacteriological processes, that people used to not be aware of. The thunder just happens separately." She squinted at Kasumi.

"Kind of like magical thinking. A young kid thinks, 'I hate Mommy, Mommy was mean to me.' Mommy winds up in the hospital later that day, and the kid thinks she was at fault," Sam supplied. His voice was dry as he added, "Kind of the basis for a lot of religions there, but that's not the subject we need to get into right now. Point is, one thing doesn't cause the other thing, right?"

Dara sat up straight. "I have a really bad feeling right now," she sad, slowly. "You're about to give me some really bad news, aren't you?"

Sam nodded, his expression now very tight. "It's not _good_ news," he admitted. "You'll be seeing some vid this afternoon on yahg fighting tactics on Shanxi. Every doctor who's ever examined their corpses on dissection agreed that they were predators. What we didn't know is that they are indiscriminate in what they eat. They're hunting and eating levo-based sapient species on every world they've invaded. From what we can tell, they don't like the _taste_ of blue blood or green blood. They haven't _eaten_ any asari or salarians that we've been able to detect. But humans, with red blood, similar to their own? Yeah. _Bon appetit_." Sam grimaced. "You'll see footage, taken from Garrus, Lantar, Rel, and Rinus' eyepieces, showing their hunting tactics, combat tactics."

Dara swallowed. Her stomach was churning already. "You say they're only hunting levo species. . . and only eating those with iron-based blood." Her voice had dropped into a detached, professional tone. "What are they doing with the dextro species?" _And I think the other shoe's ready to drop now._

"Killing them, mostly. One phrase that they've managed to translate out of yahg so far is 'poison meat' for turians." Sam grimaced. "And now for the bad news—"

"Rel's been hurt." It wasn't a great logical leap. The 'magical thinking' part had been pretty clear there. _They don't want me to feel guilty or believe that I caused this. And, logically, no, I didn't._ The wash of guilt was inevitable and human, however. Just as it had been on Rocam. "That's why you wanted me to make some decisions first. So I had that clear in my mind before you told me. So it wouldn't influence me." She couldn't look up from the floor at first.

Sam actually _winced_. It was an odd expression for her to see on his face. Her dad was always very sure of the right thing to do. . . or so Dara had always thought. "Pretty much, yeah, sweetie," he told her, putting a light hand on her shoulder, and then pulling her to him for a quick hug. "I was going to tell you last night, but then my mom came over, and I didn't want you having to deal with her _and_ the news _and_ the decisions. . . and everything else. Plus, you looked pretty damned tired still."

"Still am," she admitted, leaning into her dad's shoulder. Big, warm, solid, stable. That was her father. She sighed. "Back on Bastion, I remember when you got sick," Dara told him. "I thought then, that if I lost you or Rel, it would be like losing a pole star. I wouldn't know which way I was facing, or how to even take one step forward." She swallowed. "I'm learning how." One more deep breath. "How bad of an injury are we talking here?" She put on her medical mode. It took effort. She didn't _want_ Rel hurt. She didn't bear him any hate, any animosity. And it was difficult _not_ to feel guilty.

"Broken ribs. And seven inches worth of teeth marks, starting above the knee, through the knee, and into to shin. Penetrated into the bone, which is no mean trick with turian bones having the relative strength that they do. Spiderweb cracks all through the bone around them from the force of the bite. What worries the docs more is the necrotizing poison in yahg saliva. . . and massive infections from the bacteria in their mouths. Even on opposite-chirality species. The injury happened on the fifteenth. Three days ago now. We're told he woke up for the first time this morning." Sam shrugged, and looked down at her. "You okay, sweetie?"

She took a breath. Full medical mode now. "Sounds like about a month of rehab and physical therapy for him. Assuming they don't need to amputate the leg." Her stomach tightened a bit. Dara looked back up at her dad now. "If I'd been there, would there have been anything I could have done?"

"Ask a stupid question, sweetheart." The words were harsh, but the tone was gentle. "Nine geth platforms destroyed in that fight. One turian pilot with more bone breaks than you can count. One human marine with severe spinal injuries. One human marine dead. One krogan dead. Melaani and Seheve both survived, but were hurt. You tell _me_ if you think you'd have been able to make a difference there."

Dara looked up, and met her dad's clear blue eyes. "Probably not," she admitted. "I think I'd probably be dead." _As a doornail. Probably hit while trying to put someone on the ground, back in the fight._

His eyes, for a moment, had a flash of. . . relief, it looked like, in them. "Yeah," Sam told her. "You were in the right place, at the right time, with the right people, doing what _you_ needed to be doing. Don't beat yourself up about it. And don't you dare let anyone else beat on you for it, either." He snorted. "First person who tells you 'it's a mate's place to be with their spouse,' you tell them, from _me_, that I'd have _loved_ to have had Kasumi with me for the past three months on Omega. But sometimes, the job doesn't let you have that luxury."

"Besides," Kasumi offered, chuckling, "I think Takeshi might not have done so well on Omega. They don't make armor in sizes that small." She paused. "Though we could clean up a volus suit for him."

Sam wagged a finger at her, mock-admonishingly. "You're the one who thought he was too little for horseback riding. We had an agreement. No guns till he's six. And no killing _people_ till after the wisdom teeth get pulled." He looked down at Dara. "This time, anyway."

Dara leaned up, and gave her dad a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for telling me," she said. "What time's the briefing this afternoon?"

"Lantar just got back in on the _Nereia_. He's ahead of the rest. So. . . .probably around fourteen hundred. We'll all go together. . . and Kasumi will be telling you about your next project."

"Which is a little time-sensitive, unfortunately," Kasumi said, softly. "But I think you'll find it a break from the realities of Omega." She smiled, lips curving up, as Dara looked over at her. "In fact, I think I can guarantee it."

Dara managed a chuckle, over the seething mass of guilt festering in her midsection at the moment. "I love a mystery, Kasumi, but do I get a hint?"

Kasumi's smile broadened. "You've been requested on special assignment by Sings-to-the-Sky."

Suddenly, Dara did feel better. _Much_ better, in fact. She could feel her smile turn real. "Well, sure, then. I think that. . . .that might just make my entire month, in fact."

Her dad snorted, and Kasumi started to laugh.

**Elijah, Mindoir, September 18, 2196**

Sometimes, Eli had come to the realization, time really was relative. The problem was, it seemed to have nothing to do with gravity or the speed of light, but rather, had to do with perception. The months on Omega had seemed to drag by, on many occasions. Like each week had been a year. The constant combat, the horrible discoveries. . . and yet, at the same time, there _had_ been joy there. Camaraderie. Learning, or in some cases, re-learning the others, becoming part of a tight-knit team. He knew now that Kirrahe was terrified of not being able to live up to his famous family name, for instance. He knew that Makur had a soft spot for kids that the krogan would never, ever admit to in public. He knew now things about Siara that he _hadn't_ known on Mindoir—that there was a strength to her that had grown and changed over time, that she was capable of very hard decisions, as she hadn't been, when she was younger. And he'd had the chance to watch Dara _open_ up. Slowly, of course. It had been a delight, though, teasing her till she blushed. Reacted. Fought back.

And now, on the gangplank heading back down onto Mindoir's surface, Eli heard Dara telling everyone which of their loved ones were there to greet them, and saw her face close down again. As if the light behind it had simply. .. . gone out. He started to turn towards her, ask her what was wrong, and then Serana had run up the gangplank, full speed and leaped into his arms, and Eli had his hands quite literally full as Serana wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and he was more or less obliged to hold her weight in the air. She looked up at him, smiling. "Missed you. Did you miss me?"

A dozen different replies flitted through his head, and Eli settled for saying, gently, affectionately, "Of course I did," as he gave her a soft kiss on the forehead. Not a bite on the throat, or a passionate kiss on the lip-plates. He'd long ago learned that words were important, but signals were, too. And he had to make damned sure he sent the right signals right now. Ones that wouldn't set up false hopes or give the wrong impressions. Everything had to match, on every level. "It's really good to see you again." He set Serana's toes back on the ground, and then lightly laced his fingers into hers, kissing the back of her hand. Tenderness. Love. Affection. Friendship. He'd decided, before landing, on the message he needed to send. He had to make her feel loved, respected, honored. . . and as chaste as hell. _Which is going to be a hell of a lot more difficult than it sounds._ _But if she's getting her itches scratched by me. . . while I'm scratching my own, let's face it. . . how is she going to start getting serious about Lin? And, let's face it, she's not going to see a difference between 'husband and wife' and 'friends with benefits' at the moment. . . so let's go for __friends__. God, what a mess._

"You've been staying with your parents?" he asked now, looking down into her eyes, smiling.

"Not if I could help it. Did _any_ of my letters get through?" Serana sounded frustrated. "I got one or two from Lin, but none from you."

Eli squeezed her hand and walked her down the plank. "No, none of them came through until last night on the ship. Communications on Omega were damned limited." He looked around the green field. "So, where _have_ you been staying?"

Serana sighed. "Barracks, mostly."

Eli's eyebrows shot up. "You could have stayed with my family," he chided her. "I'm sure my mom offered."

She shifted, a little uncomfortably. "Yes, but that felt a little. . . dishonest. Besides, the barracks were closer to work, and Kasumi's kept me very busy." She opened the door to a groundcar that Eli recognized as his mom's, and then opened the trunk. "Eli. . ." Serana looked up at him, and fidgeted a little. "Aren't you happy to see me?"

"Of course I am," he told her, and gave her another warm hug, before tossing his bag of armor and weapons in the trunk, followed by, rather more carefully, the sheathed vibrosword. Eli closed the trunk, and turned back to Serana, giving her a kiss on the mandible, and sliding one arm around her waist as he did so. "Where are we going is kind of the question on my mind at the moment, though." He gave her a rueful smile. "I think I slept for twelve straight hours on the _Sollostra_, and I could go for another twelve, honest to god."

Her face brightened a little. _"Are you sure that sleep is what's on your mind?"_ she asked, teasingly, as he got into the passenger's seat, and she strapped herself into the driver's side.

Eli sighed internally. This was the tricky part. She'd said she'd let the contract lapse in six months. That had been three months ago. He was trying to give Lin room to court Serana. And it was downright difficult to see what the _right_ thing to do or say here was. Yes, they were still married. Yes, he still loved her. . . but it would be better to let that love cool. To turn to friendship, where it had started in the first place. That was the logical portion of his mind talking. Unfortunately, there was an old joke that said that human males had exactly enough blood to power their brains or their cocks, not both at the same time. And at the moment, having felt her body against his for the first time in three months, the bloodflow was definitely heading in a southerly direction.

The southerly direction was insisting, loudly, that she was more than willing, and they _were_ still married, and he'd promised to make her happy for as long as the contract lasted.

The northerly direction suggested that those were self-serving arguments, at best, and that while he was, by no stretch of the imagination, self-sacrificing or noble, the _better_ thing to do would be to tell her to go say hello to Lin. And to make it a nice long, thorough hello.

Fighting the battle between the angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other, Eli didn't want the silence to drag on too long. "_Yeah, I think sleep is what I need. A clean bed, minus the side orders of bugs, dirt, and gunfire in the distance is just what the doctor ordered."_ He paused, watching the buildings on base slide by. "Wow. You guys _did_ have a hell of a firefight here, didn't you?" Eli unrolled his window to peer out. "I heard my mom actually had to shoot at some of the batarians." He turned and looked at Serana, smiling affectionately, and ran a hand over her fringe. Just as a brother would. "And I'd be willing to bet you weren't just standing on the sidelines."

Serana made a face. "No, I wasn't. I'm actually blooded now. At last." She didn't sound thrilled about it.

"What's the matter? I'd have thought you'd have been thrilled."

She concentrated on the road. "It wasn't. . . it wasn't quite what I'd thought it would be," Serana admitted, sounding a little miserable, actually. "Kasumi, Fors, and Thell herded about seventy to a hundred batarians into an area where I'd rigged mines. The batarians died." She turned down a street into a residential area, away from the base's center. _Ah. Okay. We're heading for my parents' house. Not for the barracks. She's sending signals, too. Interesting._ "It wasn't particularly glorious. And there's been a lot of cleaning up to do."

Eli nodded, picturing whole levels of Omega, destroyed. The base had gotten off lightly. "Always seems to be."

Serana glanced over at him, and took her hand off the wheel. Ran her fingers from his knee up his thigh, lightly, letting him feel talons through the light cloth of his pants. Eli caught her hand lightly, and again kissed the back of it. _Come on, __asperitalla__,_ he thought. _I'm only human._ But he cradled her hand in his. "I'm sorry Lin and I weren't here to help deal with the attack," he said, after a moment. "I know Lin's bursting at the seams that his little brother's blooded now, but . . . we both wish we'd been here to help."

Serana squeezed his hand, in return. "It's okay." She smiled a little, and he looked at the side of her face, memorizing the angles and curves. "You were both doing what you needed to do. And we. . . took care of it. It wasn't pretty, but we took care of it." She paused. "There's a huge internment camp of captured batarians near La Garra now. In the desert to the east of the ocean." Serana shrugged, helplessly. "I don't know what we're going to _do_ with them all."

By then, they'd reached the house. His mom opened the door as they pulled up, and Eli leaned down to give her a big hug. "I'm so proud of you," Ellie told him, beaming. "I saw the extranet reports from Omega. What they were doing there—my _god_, Eli. . . "

"They're doing it everywhere," he told her, going around the car and getting out his belongings again. "The only question is how do we stop them. . . and how fast can we do it." Eli's teeth hurt at the thought. Sure, there were Spectres and marines and ships dealing with the same shit as he'd seen on Omega. . . or in the vids from Shanxi. . . all over the galaxy. . . but few places were finding any traction, it seemed. _My god, how are we going to __end__ this?_

Serana, this time, picked up the vibrosword for him, and whistled through her teeth. "Is this from the Omega gift-shops, or is this a more serious class of souvenir?" she asked him as they walked in the front door.

Eli shrugged. "Took it off a dead SIU operative. Lin has a matching one. My dad's going to be thrilled. We wound up using some of his gladiatorial stuff on those two." He headed straight for his old room, now the guest room, at the back of the villa, and dropped his stuff off on the floor. Unpacking could wait. "Hey, Mom?" he called, walking back down the hall. "What's for dinner? You need any help?" He dodged, light-footed around his mom's form, and took the knife from her, where she had been starting to chop onions.

"Eli, you're a guest—"

"No, I'm family." He grinned down at his mom. "Besides, Duck—sorry. Young miss _Caelia_ and Narayana will be needing to come home from school soon, right? And the twins?"

Ellie looked at the clock, and said a bad word. Elijah grinned at his mom and pretended to be shocked. "Shh. Officially, around the little ones, I don't know those words." She leaned up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "I'll be right back. Lantar's supposed to be home in the morning, too. That gives us tonight to talk—although I'm sure you're going to want to spend time with your wife."

His mom headed out the door, and Serana, who had, for the moment, taken a chair in the dining room, hopped up and walked up behind him as he cut and chopped away, sliding her hands around him, and cuddling her cheek against his spine. The warm curve of her against his back made the argument between his mind and body take a southerly dip again. Little, teasing bites against his shoulder blades, through the cloth of his shirt. Eli set the knife down, before he managed to cut himself, and took a deep breath. _One of us has to be the mature one,_ he thought, grimly. _One of us has to be the one to back away._

"Eli?"

"Yes?"

"Stop playing hard to get and come to our room before your mom gets back with all the little ones."

"Hard to get? No." _Just __hard__,_ he thought, ruefully. Eli turned around, and caught and cupped her face in his hands. Yes, he absolutely had needs. Yes, he absolutely wanted her. It just felt, vaguely, like he'd be using her. Or cheating, which was even more bewildering a sensation. Like there was, in fact, no right answer, as he'd found in so many other portions of his life. But her eyes were still wide and open and loving, and he leaned down and gently bit the side of her throat. Then slid his hands lower and boosted her up by her backside, and carried her, easily, off to the guest room, and gave her what they both wanted.

But he held back, just a bit. He'd learned how, over many years and in many beds. When this female had wanted the turian part of him, or the asari, or the human, but not the other parts, he'd learned how not be all the way there. To block, say, an asari out of his mind, not to share his light. To give each of them only as much as they wanted, could handle, and no more. He wasn't sure if Serana could sense that, and made damned sure she had physical gratification, over and over again, in fact. But still, he held back. _God. That first time, on Palaven, I thought I'd found in her the one person in the universe who could handle all of me. And she can. I just can't handle all of her._

Lying in bed afterwards, in the warm glow that always followed release, he stroked her fringe as she curled, warm and sleek against his side, head pillowed on his chest. He could hear the front door bang open, hear his mother's voice, and the voices of his sisters and brother. Eli gently slid Serana from his shoulder, and kissed her on the forehead. "I'm sorry," he told Serana, and stood, pulling on his clothes once more.

She sat up, shedding sheets. One leg poked out of the covers, and he could see the anklet he'd given her, glinting there. He reached down and ran a finger over its links, gently. "Sorry?" she asked, sounding puzzled. "What for?"

"I. . . hell, I don't know. I'm just. . . sorry." He pulled on his pants again, and then his shirt, quick, emphatic motions. "I just. . .I didn't mean to start this all up again."

"Eli, you are _such_ an idiot," she told him, and flopped back on the bed. "I _asked_ you to, remember?" She lifted a finger at the ceiling. "In fact, if you review our contract, I think I'm actually _entitled_ to access to your body from time to time."

Eli rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, discovering as he did so, that he desperately needed to shave his head again. And that he still felt, obscurely, like he'd failed somehow. He knelt down beside the bed and took her hand in his. "Yeah. I know that," he told her, trying to make her understand, but the words were just so. . . inadequate. "I'm just. . . this can't keep happening."

"Why not?" Serana looked confused, and a little hurt. "You're still _mine_, Eli. Until I release you. And I haven't done that yet."

Eli sighed. "Be careful, fierce one. I've been dealing with slavers for the past three months. Say things like that, and I'm liable to run for the front door, screaming 'Freedom!' at the top of my lungs."

Serana started to laugh. Eli gave her a look. He was only partially joking. As she continued to chuckle, however, he sighed and gave up in defeat. "I'm going to go help my mom and harass my little brother and sisters for a while." He kissed her hand, and stood, heading for the door.

Caelia, being all of six, wanted to know what he'd brought her from Omega. "Sorry, nothing. All the toy stores were closed," he assured her. "But I'll draw with you, how's that? Tacitus, get over here. I'll draw dinosaurs for you, and you can tell me which ones they are."

Narayana, being five, and salarian, was a bit more in touch with current events. It didn't hurt that her best friend was Amara. "I saw you on the news feeds," she told Eli, solemnly. "You and Spectre Sam and Dara were saying that the chipping technology was developed by a rogue faction of salarians, right? Why would someone _do_ that? Medicine is supposed to help people, not to hurt them."

Eli sighed. Trust Narayana to come up with the _hard_ questions. He wasn't quite used to thinking of her as a sister yet, but given that Lantar was going to be home tomorrow, and the paperwork was done, that just meant that the _ascio_ rites were all that needed doing, and then Narayana _would_ be as much his sister as he was Lantar's son. "I guess they thought they were helping, at least themselves," he suggested. "They might not have thought that the biotics were, well, people. Or at least, as important as _they_ were. Sometimes people can be pretty egotistical."

Narayana frowned. "It's not right."

Eli shook his head. "No. It's not. And the batarians have just picked up where that group of salarians left off." Sam had, quietly, explained to Eli the history of the Spectres and the Lystheni. He _knew_ who Narayana's mother had been. And that there was no reason in the universe to burden the girl with that knowledge until she was old enough to deal with it.

"Is there any way to fix the people who've been hurt?"

"The chips can be removed. But the lobotomies are brain damage. Irreversible, or so Dara tells me."

Nara's frown grew deeper. "It's not _right_."

Eli wasn't sure if that was a turian sense of justice, a human one, or something from her father, Dr. Solus, but whatever the source, he approved. "You'll do something about them?" Nara asked.

"If not me, then Lantar, yeah. Or one of the other Spectres. Or, well, all of us, really." Eli looked up. His mom was putting together a salarian salad—watercress, cattail tufts, and freeze-dried beetles for Narayana. And for the rest, she was doing as mixed plates. "Hey, Mom? I haven't eaten mixed in three months. No sense wasting food on me that I can't eat. I'll grab something at the cafeteria for the rest of my stay, all right?'

Ellie's head snapped up. "Well, epi-tabs will take care of the worst of it," she said, quickly. "None of this is really all that allergenic," she added, sounding confused. _Ah. Dad didn't break the news to her yet. Eh, well, he's been busy, I've been busy, and it's probably my job anyway. Will need to explain it to her gently, so she can work Caelia through it gradually, too._

Eli stood up, depositing Tacitus in his chair at the table, and crossed back through the kitchen to his mom. "There's no real reason to keep up on it," he murmured to his mom, quietly. "They're just going to turn me back around in a week or so and send me back out again. Probably for months again."

"Eli, even when Lantar's been gone for months, I know he at least tries—"

"Yes, Mom, I know," he said, still keeping his voice low as he got out plates for her. "But Serana's going to release me from the contract in three months. There's no sense in me even worrying about the mixed diet now."

Ellie's fingers slipped on a plate, and Elijah caught it for her, deftly, thought-fast reflexes in play before he could even blink. Her eyes were wide and a little hurt. "What—I didn't think you were having problems!" Ellie whispered, looking behind him towards the back of the house, where Elijah was fairly certain Serana was still in the room, reading, probably.

"No, Mom. Just. . . biology. And the fact that she and Lin are probably a hell of a lot better suited to each other. Just being nice and civilized about it, and trying not to hurt anyone's feelings." He patted his mom on the shoulder. "When it comes right down to it, Mom. . . I got rushed into proposing, and I should have known better. Turians put a hell of a lot of stock on the negotiations process, but what I should have remembered is that you don't have to _finish_ negotiating. You're supposed to use that time period to take stock. To take as long as you need to, to make your decision. To stop the process and say no, at any point." He sighed. "Instead, I let Serana's enthusiasm and my own, and the amount of familial disapproval I'd get from Allardus, Solanna, Rel, Rinus, and everyone else in the known universe push me. I was wrong." Eli looked at his mother soberly. "You're supposed to be involved in the contract yourself, and be aware of everything, walking in the door. It's my own fault, and I'm not going to let it hurt her." He shrugged. The truth of it was, it _had_ hurt three months ago. Like hell. He'd had, however, three months to work through it in his mind, and while it still stung. . . it didn't hurt as much, now. He was able to accept the fact that she would, in time, be happier with Lin—or hell, with someone else, even, if that didn't work out right—than with him. And it was _okay_.

He didn't think Serana had quite come to his level of equanimity with the situation, however. Everything Serana did, she threw herself into, whole-heartedly. Eli was a little afraid that she might throw herself _out_ of the situation, just as whole-heartedly. He didn't want her to hate him. More than anything else, he wanted her to be happy. That was just going to be the hard part, for a while.

**Lantar, September 18, 2196**

The _Nereia_ landed at 05:00, and Lantar Sidonis slipped, quietly—very, very quietly—into his house. Just because it was a Sunday on the calendar didn't mean that small children wouldn't already be awake. . . and with a salarian step-daughter in the house, that meant that someone was almost _always_ awake in the house nowadays. Fortunately, Narayana had been taught, early on, that the rest of the house needed more than one hour of sleep a day. Emily and Tacitus' cranky, sleep-deprived tantrums when they'd had their naps interrupted had been a lesson that had only needed to be demonstrated once.

Lantar moved further into the house, and stiffened, going on alert, as a door slid open—_why is the guest room door opening?_—and then mentally stood down again as he caught his son's familiar human scent. "Who's there?" Eli said, sharply. The pre-dawn darkness made the hallway very dim indeed.

"It's just me, first-son," Lantar told him, quietly.

"Sorry. Heard the front door open, and I know Nara's a target." Lantar heard the snick of a weapon being safed, and he smiled to himself, quietly and proudly. "Welcome home, Dad."

"We'll catch up at breakfast, but right now, I need a shower," Lantar told him.

"What, the _Nereia'_s hygiene facilities are broken?" Eli asked, tongue firmly in cheek.

"What? No. Of course not. I. . . never mind." Lantar growled the last, half-heartedly, and found Eli's shoulder in the darkness. "I read Sam and Ylara's reports on you and Lin on my way home. _Glowing_ is an inadequate word."

Eli snorted. "Yeah, right. We got lucky. A lot." He paused. "Sam showed me how the yahg hunt, Dad."

Lantar shuddered. "Yeah." _And you wonder why I want another shower before I touch your mother?_ "Like I said, we'll catch up over breakfast." He turned and headed for the stairs. As his feet hit the bottom tread, and before Eli went back inside, he called back, softly, "A vibrosword, eh?"

"Yeah."

"And you and Lin used gladiatorial style to take them down?"

"I was sort of short a net, otherwise, yeah, I'd have used that." He could hear the grin in his son's voice.

"Well done, first-son. And the final trap to take out the head of SIU on the station was your idea?"

"Couldn't have done it without Dara. No one else spoke batarian. She said she was glad her year on Sur'Kesh hadn't been wasted." The flexible, expressive nuances of the human voice at play. The sentences had started off admiring and proud. . . and ended with a hint of anger in the words. "But hey, here we are, catching up before breakfast. See you in a couple of hours, Dad."

The door of the guest room snicked shut again, and Lantar continued up the stairs. Slipped into his own room, stroked his sleeping wife's long brown hair, and headed into the bathroom. And started his usual post-mission ritual. He stripped to his skin, turned the water on hot, and stepped under it, soaking. Waiting for the sense of filth to go away. It was, oddly, both heavier and lighter this time than usual. The yahg, with their cruelty, with the viciousness of their invasions, deserved to die. That wasn't in question at all. Every one of their warriors and hunters that he killed on Shanxi made the universe a better place, and saved a civilian's life. That made the sense of filth a little lighter.

Of course, the flip side was, he'd watched the yahg hunt. And watching that had made him feel, obscurely, ashamed to be a predator. The movements were just a little _too_ close to turian. The fact that the yahg were obviously sight-hunters, some of them gifted with strong olfactory senses, and all of them with a mouthful of sharp teeth tended to hit home. He'd yet to see a turian who _hadn't_ vomited on seeing a yahg eat human prey. All right, a few hadn't. Ones who'd just seen the vids. But in person? Hearing the screams, smelling the smells? If the predatory instincts lit up at all, there was a sense of guilt that immediately washed in behind them. _They are not like us_, Lantar had reminded himself, every single day on Shanxi. _They only know the hunt. They don't know honor._

Still, he stood under the showers spray, waiting for the filth to wash away, and heard the door of the bathroom open. Ellie stood outside the glass-walled enclosure now, in her white satin robe, wide-eyed, hair mussed. "Lantar?" she asked, her tone disbelieving. "You're early!"

Lantar opened the glass door and picked her up off her feet. "And _you_," he growled at her, reeling her in close, and nevermind that he was dripping water all over the floor, "fought batarians while I was gone!"

Ellie squeaked as he lifted her up higher, and nipped at her neck. "Held them off with a pistol, or so I'm told," Lantar told her, finding her favorite place, just under her ear. "Strong," he murmured, and stepped back into the shower, in spite of her protests. "Fierce," he added, setting her feet back on the floor.

"Lantar, I'm still in my robe!"

"I can fix that. . . oh, protectrix of our nest. . . ." Lantar slid her now-soaking wet robe, the satin of which was clinging to her body now, off her skin, and bit lightly from her shoulders to her wrist, following the trail of the cloth as he slid it from her limbs. He wound up on his knees in front of her, looking up at her and smiling. "I missed you, _amatra._" He stood, and picked her up again, just holding her tight for a moment. Just the touch of her skin brought light back into his world. He was here, she was here, and she and the children were safe. They weren't on any world touched by the yahg. And if she let him, he'd make damned sure that no batarians or Lystheni could come after them again, either. But that part. . . . that part could wait till later.

Much later, in fact. And as she, after the usual gentle encouragement, began to bite him back, Lantar groaned and closed his eyes, and knew himself the luckiest male in creation.

Later that morning, Ellie tied her damp hair back from her face in a loose ponytail to cook breakfast. Lantar stood behind her, getting juice out for the kids, and lightly traced a talon over a bite-mark on the side of her throat He'd been as gentle as possible, as always, but this time, Ellie had whispered, teasingly, in his ear, "Strong? Fierce? Protectrix—" and at about that point, any pretence to self-control had fallen away.

At his touch, Ellie flushed bright red, and moved away, chuckling under her breath. Lantar let his hand drop when Elijah stepped up to grab a plate filled with eggs over-easy, glanced down once. . . .and averted his eyes promptly. "Good morning, Mom—thanks for making the eggs. I was going to do it myself, but, you beat me out here."

"Not enough room at the stove for more than one cook," Ellie told her son, and handed him toast, too, with a little shooing gesture.

Lantar set all the juice glasses down on the table for the kids, and was startled when even Narayana gave him a hug. He patted her on the shoulder, a little awkwardly; physical contact was not something salarians went in for, much, but he had a feeling that Nara was emulating Ellie. A lot. He looked around the table, and told everyone present, "Your mother and I have to discuss this, but there's a chance—a good chance—that for a little while, some of the families on base will be moving elsewhere."

Ellie's eyes went wide. "Oh, no, Lantar. This is our home," she said.

"I'll give you some of the details later," he promised her, "but Garrus and Lilu might send their children. Ylara is planning on sending her daughter and Shellara to, well, a special sort of school. Some of the other kids might go with them. I know we're planning on asking Dempsey if he wants to send Madison with them." He looked at Ellie again, soberly. "Tulluust will probably go with Telluura and Shellara. Kauda and Lilu will go with the children. . . for the moment, anyway. Shepard can't be away from the base for very long. And it might be wise if you and I and the kids go, too. At least for a while."

Once the younger children were safely playing in the living room, Elijah cleared his throat. "Where's this _school_ at?"

Lantar shrugged. "It's not exactly a school. It's a ship owned by Liara T'soni. One of Shepard's oldest and closest associates. She's been living in a secret location for almost ten years now, and her daughter, Fiara, has never actually, well, had any friends or classmates as a result. It's also possibly the most secret place in the galaxy, so, yeah, I'm not telling you _exactly_ where it is, son." Lantar was slightly amused, and Elijah chuckled and crunched into a piece of bacon.

Now Lantar explained the rest of it to Ellie, and watched the worry-lines creep back into his wife's face. "Nara's been targeted for kidnapping by an AI based on her genetic mother's personality. We believe the intent is to implant the dalatrass' personality into Narayana's body, using one of the Sower relics. Like how Joker uploaded into the mini-Reaper," Lantar told Eli and his wife, keeping one eye on the children in the other room, where Serana was playing with Tacitus and Emily. "Even if they don't get the Sower artifact, the dalatrass. . .Xala, Zala, Sala, whatever her name is, this time around. . . would at least try to brainwash her, turn her into a good little Lystheni. And then, when she's old enough, have her make more Lystheni." Lantar looked into the living room, where Narayana was playing some sort of elaborate game that involved twisting protein molecules into longer and longer chains. Caelia was watching, for the moment, but would surely be bored inside of five minutes.

"A brood-mare, basically," Ellie said, and her expression went fierce. "What a wonderful person this Xala must be."

"Will you think about taking the kids and going to Liara's base?" Lantar asked her, quietly. "I'd go with you, for the first few weeks, at least. But we have to assume at this point that the base is at least partially compromised. And we can't all be here to protect the families at the moment. Secrecy is our best defense, at the moment, not force of arms."

Ellie nodded, after a moment, exhaling. Lantar caught her hand and nipped at the interior of her wrist, very lightly. "Thank you," he told her, feeling the tightness around his crop ease.

The briefing and debriefing that afternoon was a mixed bag of Spectres and associates who'd stayed on base, gone to Omega, and Lantar, who was the first to report back from Shanxi. Kasumi, Dempsey, Zhasa, Fors, Thelldaroon, Blasto, Livanus, Sky, and Shepard were all present for the Mindoir contingent. "First, just to start the meeting off on a _happy_ note for a change," Shepard said, "Livanus and Talana have asked me to pass along that Talana is now three months pregnant."

Lantar's head jerked up, and he reached over and pounded Livanus on the shoulder. _"Congratulations. Boy or girl?"_

"_Girl, the doctors say."_ Livanus grinned right back, his golden eyes glowing behind his white and black striped paint.

"_About time. You started courting her almost ten years ago."_ Lantar looked up at the ceiling and did some math in his head. _"Wait. She must have cycled right around when the base was attacked?"_

Livanus nodded, mandibles flexing into a rueful grin. _"About two hours after the all-clear sounded."_

"_Oh, you lucky son of a __villi__."_ It really was the best of all possible worlds. Livanus had probably still been absolutely skied on adrenaline, and Talana probably had been, too.

Livanus simply grinned, if possible, more widely, and said _nothing at all_.

Shepard, Dara, and Eli, who all of course spoke fluent turian, were repressing faint smiles. Even Sam, who understood much more turian than he spoke now, was chuckling in faint amusement. "Congrats," Sam told Livanus, and offered a hand-shake. "You want help painting the nursery?"

"I wouldn't say no," Livanus told him, still beaming.

Shepard looked around the briefing room. "That was our best news. Let's start with the Mindoir situation. Odessa, La Garra, New Amsterdam, Takinawa, and this base were all attacked three months ago. They were repelled in most instances with extreme prejudice." Her expression was grim. "We lost a few people here on base and down at the science station. About twenty-five, mostly people manning defense towers. We did, however, kill about eight _hundred_ batarians here and down at the station, and captured four hundred or so, all told. The numbers are less encouraging for places like Odessa, where civilian and militia forces took heavier casualties, but also took prisoners. We now have an internment camp facility in the White Rock desert, east of La Garra, with over a thousand batarian troops there. Mostly warrior-caste. Zorro passed along a recommendation that we're trying to implement. . . " Shepard glanced at Livanus.

The turian nodded and elaborated, "We're separating their officers from their regular troops, and giving them all the extranet access they could possibly want. No instructions on how to make weapons, no directions to the local spaceport, no 'how to build a groundcar from rock and barbed wire,' directions, but. . . news feeds. Literature. Translation VIs. Science. History." He snorted. "Not surprisingly, once they found out that their extranet consoles _worked_, the top five searches on every console they're permitted—and they have _one_ per building—has been porn."

Eli guffawed. "Yeah, that's not a surprise. A thousand guys, locked up together for what, three months now? Let me guess, the _top_ hit was Fornax."

Livanus grinned. "Once they found it? Oh yes. Once we get past the porn-based top five, the results _are_ rather interesting. Bastion News Network. _Illium Daily News_. _New York Times_. _Hierarchy Fleet News._ We, ah, did some tweaking to their search results, and made sure they got a good look at the plague stories." Livanus showed teeth. "Zorro had mentioned that warrior-caste batarians live by a code of honor. That they live and die for honor and for the people to their left and right, their squad, same as any turian. Once they saw the first stories, there was an uproar in the barracks. Quite a few of them insisted, near our listening devices, that this was propaganda. Which just meant that more searches were conducted. And more, and more." Livanus grinned. "Which is when we sent in Sky and Blasto to talk with them."

"This one is, perhaps unfortunately, gaining in proficiency at de-programming people of indoctrination," Blasto chimed quietly. "The work is slow, but rewarding."

_They have had captive-songs sung to them their entire lives. They have devoted their songs to their own captivity, to their own deaths,_ Sky sang, softly, his tones filled with violets of regret.

"So, that's where we stand on Mindoir," Shepard said. "Your old friend Eduardo, Sam? He's in charge of the internment camp. Charis moved back up to base with Estevan. They might be joining our little, hmm, field trip for the kids shortly."

"Caelia will be delighted to have her playmate back," Lantar murmured. "Do you want the Shanxi debrief next, or Omega?"

"Let's get the worst over with," Shepard replied. "I'd like to end on a high note."

Lantar grimaced, and queued up his vid feeds. "Like every army in every war, we're pretty well geared up for our _last_ enemy. We've got nice, big, powerful ships and big, powerful weapons on them. It worked, to a certain extent, against the Reapers. That doesn't do us a hell of a lot of good against the yahg, They're dropping in, using heavy weaponry against major buildings, power plants, whatever, to create chaos and fear, taking local governments off-line, basically, depriving people of organization, resources, power, water, food. . . and then using the humans, at least, as cattle." He knew the summary was brutal, and paused, looking at everyone's faces. Eli and Dara didn't look entirely surprised; the rest did. Dempsey's eyebrows raised fractionally. "Rellus Velnaran has suggested that this is a two-fold strategy. First, hunting and feeding on sapients genuinely does seem to motivate the yahg. They _are_ predators, and they feel the need to hunt. They seem to prefer fresh kills, but will tolerate hung meat. They actually, however, _wasted_ the contents of slaughterhouses, tossing whole sides of beef out in the street to rot, in favor of hanging human corpses from the self-same meat-hooks. This, Commander Velnaran suggests, indicates at least potential for a form of psychological warfare. That the yahg _may_ wish to use whatever humans they'll leave alive as some form of slave labor, eventually. Pen them like cattle and hunt them when there's a need to hunt, and use them for slave labor later." Lantar exhaled. "I've yet to see any indications of this myself, however."

"Yahg were always reputed to be extremely intelligent," Shepard noted.

"Some of them are. Their leaders tend to be biotics, and they tend to be larger, more intelligent, and more belligerent than their fellows." Lantar paused. "Some of the vid footage here is going to be very graphic. Brace yourselves." He started the first, which was from Rel's eye-piece, showing the yahg hunting the captive humans among the satellite dishes.

Thelldaroon was the first to excuse himself. The elcor simply couldn't take the sight of so much pain, fear, desperation, and horror, Lantar was sure. He was just as glad the elcor had left before entrails started flying. He wasn't sure if elcor were physiologically capable of fainting, and did not want to find out the hard way.

Midway through the feeding, Dara got up and excused herself. So did Siara, actually, and Zhasa. Lin followed them. Livanus had clearly seen the footage before, and was sitting rigidly, his eyes averted, evidently distressed. Dempsey, perhaps unsurprisingly, glanced after Zhasa in concern, but stayed seated, otherwise expressionless, staring at the screen. Fors made a disgusted noise at the back of his throat. Lantar glanced at Eli, and saw from the grim set to his son's face that this wasn't his first time viewing the footage. "As I said. . . graphic."

The others made it back into the room, after a few moments of breathing exercises in the hall. Sky sang, in quiet horror, _Who has soured their songs in this way?_

Lantar shook his head. "I don't know if it's an outside force, or if they're this way naturally." He showed more vid clips. From Garrus' eye-piece, and from his own, showing just how hard the yahg were to kill. And then, he said, "This one's probably going to be hard to watch. Dara, you can leave now if you need to. . . this is how Rel was injured three days ago."

She shook her head, silently, her face absolutely expressionless. Lantar sighed. _Sam, I know your daughter's strong, but she doesn't have to prove that to anyone here._

Dempsey leaned forward in interest part-way through the fight. "Either their biotics are hugely strong, naturally, like a rachni . . . or they've gotten implant technology from the batarians. At least L3s or L4s."

Lantar nodded wearily. "Yes. That's something Melaani brought up a little while ago, too. It's possible that their homeworld is rich in eezo, which would create biotics." He watched out of the corner of his eyes as the people in the room who'd grown to maturity with Rel flinched as the vid feed jerked around, indicating the impacts, the way the feed skewed as Rel's body had hit the ground. The gaping maw of the yahg opening, clamping down.

Dara's face was white, but still, she said nothing.

"Damn," Linianus muttered, at the end. "Wedding-knife to the eye."

"Snapped it," Eli muttered, quietly. "But he killed the damned thing."

"And paid the price for it, too. His leg's pretty mangled up. Their bites have poison, as well as crushing strength and piercing teeth." Lantar's voice was grim.

Dara looked off into the mid-distance. "Everywhere that intelligence evolves," she said, quietly, reflectively, "it evolves as a result of predation and need. Early humans weren't the most survivable mammals around. They weren't as strong as bears or as fast as lions. They needed intelligence to find food and get _away_ from predators. Turians, same thing. Little faster than humans, naturally, but a more aggressive ecosystem around them. Krogan, well," she looked at Makur and smiled faintly, "everyone knows Tuchanka's a deathtrap of ecology. Krogan again developed intelligence as a survival trait, but they have the massive regeneration and the redundant bodily systems, too." Dara pointed at the frozen image of the yahg on the screen. "We're looking at something that _should_ _not_, by any evolutionary pattern we've ever seen before, _have_ intelligence."

Everyone in the room stopped and looked at her. Sam shifted in his chair beside Lantar. "How's that?"

"Enormously strong, like a bear. Poison bite, should be enough for predation and to deter other predators, like a snake. All the eyes, that's a hell of a lot of the brain taken up by the optic cluster. Apparently, some of them are scent hunters, too. That's another big chunk of the brain dedicated to sorting that sort of feedback. The bodies are massive—they have a secondary heart, low in the bowels, to help them pump blood through their bodies. What I'm saying here is, so much of their brain is dedicated to just doing the business of _living_, that they should only have instinct. And yet, they don't." Dara shrugged. "I'm sorry. I'm rambling."

Eli glanced at her. "Interesting rambling, though. Where are you going with this?"

Dara frowned. "I'm not sure, honestly."

"How about this," Siara offered, leaning forward, her eyes intent. "The yahg's instinctive urges may overpower their intelligence. If true, that's a weakness we can exploit."

Lantar nodded. "We've used their desire to hunt against them a couple of times. Rinus designed a very effective trap for them. Got them to chase a couple of Hammerheads, led them into a parking garage that he'd rigged to implode, and then detonated the explosives. End result: all three crews, including Rel, Melaani, and Seheve got free in time, and we killed about four hundred yahg."

Siara leaned back, making a rude noise. "Well, if you have the answers already. . . "

Dara shook her head. "Actually, I was thinking at a different level, I guess. I was thinking more, on what kind of a world would something like _that_ need to evolve intelligence to survive?" She pointed at the picture again. "I think it would have to be worse than Tuchanka."

"Thanks," Makur told her, dryly.

"And by _worse_ I mean _more challenging_," Dara told the krogan, scarcely missing a beat.

"Interesting, but doesn't get us anywhere, for the moment," Sam decided, and turned back to Lantar. "When's Rel slated to be brought back here?"

Lantar shrugged. "When the _Nereia_ left, he wasn't even conscious yet. Their med bay's packed, too. Probably a week. Maybe two." He looked around. "Now, I want to hear the _good_ news. I want to hear about Omega." _So damned odd to say the words 'good news' and 'Omega' in the same sentence, and mean it. But my son, and his brother, and my own __dimicato'fradu__, Sam, triumphed there. The way Garrus and I couldn't, until we faced down Aria five years ago._

"There's still fighting going on there," Sam warned him.

"It wouldn't be Omega if there weren't fighting," Lantar replied, dryly.

All told, the mission debriefing took three solid hours. And that was just three areas. Shepard had to keep excusing herself to go take comm calls from Admiral Hackett or Spectre teams on other worlds, and she looked damned tired. _Probably directly attributable to not having Garrus here to handle some of the load,_ Lantar thought. There were twelve to eighteen planets or stations under direct attack at the moment. And while Shepard wasn't in charge of the entire strategy for dealing with each, she had people on every single planet, _and_ over ten thousand people between the base and the science station to look after, and everything else. "What's next?" she asked Kasumi. "Do we need everyone still here for the next part?"

Kasumi shook her head. "Dempsey, Zhasa, and Kirrahe? You'll have a mission with Commander Shepard and Spectre Sidonis—er, Lantar, that is—in the next couple of days. Eli, Dara, Lin, and Thell stay here, too. Sky and I need to have a word. The rest of you can go. We'll take a five minute break, and reconvene, how's that?"

Sam stayed put. Livanus glanced down at him. "No barbecue this week, huh?"

"Give me a week to figure out which direction this planet spins, and then I'll get those going again," Sam promised. "Today, though, shit no. I don't have the energy."

Livanus chuckled. "Next week, I'll handle the dextro side, how's that?"

"Bless your heart, Livanus Cautoris."

Lantar glanced around, as the rest shuffled out. Fors shuffled out behind Makur and Siara and Ylara; Shepard was already out another door, and from the sounds of things, arguing with Hackett again. "Couldn't pay me enough to be her right now," Lantar muttered to Sam.

"You're telling me. Generals and admirals get the shittiest jobs and the worst hours in war."

**Elijah, Mindoir, September 18, 2196**

Eli took advantage of the five minute break, stretching as much as possible. Sitting in a dark room for three hours, after three months of constant combat, wasn't doing much for either body or spirit. "You know anything about this mission?" he asked Dara, as she sat back down next to him.

She shook her head, and set her fresh cup of tea on the table. "Just that it has something to do with Sky. And I've been 'promised' that it won't be combat."

"Well, thank god for that. I don't want to come home, get wound back up again, and sent back out again two days later into another meat-grinder." He paused. "You think the people on Shanxi had it worse than we did on Omega?"

Dara looked thoughtful. "The way the yahg kill is. . . torture. Certainly more spectacular. But anyone who falls into batarian hands is tortured, too. And if someone's biotic, they're in danger of a living sort of death. I'm not sure which is more horrific. Being killed painfully, or living, trapped, forever, inside your own mind." She shuddered, and Eli put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly. "At least with the yahg, it would be over with fairly quickly. And, since I'm not biotic, the batarians wouldn't lobotomize me. They'd just, you know. Rape me, chip me, turn me into a slave."

His fingers tightened on her shoulder. _Never going to happen._ "Well, only over my or Lin's dead body, _sai'kaea_," he told her, lightly. "And since you refuse to let either of us get hurt or stay hurt, I don't see it happening."

A quick, grateful smile curved her lips, and then Kasumi came back in, Serana in her wake, and Eli saw Dara's smile fade. He patted her shoulder once more, and Serana practically bounced over and looked around for a chair; Lin was sitting to Eli's left, and Dara had been sitting to his right. "Take mine," Dara said, standing, and moving her datapads down the table.

"Let's get this show on the road," Kasumi said, getting all of their attentions now. "Okay, first up. Dempsey, you've decided to let Madison go with the others?"

The man nodded, tightly. "I'm not thrilled with the idea," he admitted. "I only just got Mad back in my life. But if Zhasa and I are both sent out on missions, that doesn't leave anyone to look after him. . . other than people like Ellie. Who won't be here anymore."

Kasumi nodded. "I'm staying here, for the most part, and keeping Takeshi with me. For those of you who don't know the history here. . . Mordin Narayana is the daughter of Dr. Mordin Solus. He was coerced into mating with one of the clones of the Lystheni dalatrass some five years ago. She demanded that he genetically alter the eggs, particularly the female eggs produced in that mating. She wanted biotic salarians. Instead, he removed all the genetic flaws that repeated cloning and inbreeding within the Lystheni had introduced. When we rescued him, he managed to save one egg. And that was Narayana."

Kirrahe's mouth had fallen open in awe. "He defied the will of a dalatrass," he murmured. "Incredible." He paused. "So Narayana is half-Lystheni, then."

"And the dalatrass is only. . . partially dead." Kasumi rubbed at her face. "Dara will remember the mission that resulted in Blasto, Mordin, and I needing rescue from an undersea dome on Garvug five years ago. We cracked that dome, flooded it, letting in water that hovered just above the freezing mark, and crushing pressure. That killed all the Lystheni inside, including the last clone of their dalatrass. They had, however, used a relic of the Sowers to upload a copy of her consciousness to a computer. She is a fully sapient AI, but not one with the moral imperatives and restrictive coding of an NCAI. She's still working with the _Klem Na_, probably the source of many recent batarian technical innovations. . . and she wants Narayana back. To use her body both as a new host for her own consciousness, and to reproduce with. To renew her Lystheni."

Kirrahe shook his head, vehemently. "Unacceptable. Abhorrent."

Lantar grimaced. "Glad you agree. Thus, we're taking her and the rest of my younger children to a very safe location. Shepard's children, Ylara's family, and Dempsey's son will accompany them. Maybe even Charis and Estevan. We're telling the kids that this is a school in a special location."

"Mad's old enough to know the truth," Dempsey said, calmly. "But I'll tell him once they get there. He and Amara chatter too much, mind-to-mind, for him to be able to keep that from her if he knows."

"Where in the galaxy is _safe_ enough?" Kirrahe asked, sharply. "This base was meant to be secure, after all."

Kasumi looked up at the ceiling in mild resignation. "That's the third time someone's said that to me. I feel like a failure as a security chief. . . and Shep and I are looking into some secondary facilities now, so we don't have all our eggs in one basket. There is, however, a Spectre associate who provides us a lot of information. Her code name is Argus, and you, Kirrahe, will be, along with Ylara, Lantar, Dempsey, and Zhasa, escorting the families to her ship. Her facility is . . . almost undetectable, due to its location. And I know Argus and her family will enjoy having company, at last."

She turned and looked at Eli, Dara, Lin, Serana, and Thell now. "Couple of things for you guys. First, I need one of you two boys to volunteer for a mission with Serana. This will happen _after_ the mission that you'll all be going on together." Her smile curved her lips briefly as Eli and Lin glanced at each other, both raising their hands. "Okay, let me put this a different way. It'll require only one of you. You will be going alone with her behind enemy lines and working with our batarian agent."

"Valak," Eli murmured. "Back to Khar'sharn." His stomach clenched at the thought. It had been nerve-wracking there, going in under a cover, at least, and when the batarians weren't actively at war with half of Council space. Before, he'd had Dara and Dempsey with him. And at least two exit plans. It had been, oddly enough, fun at the time. He couldn't, actually, imagine going back there now. Going back? With Serana, who, while blooded, was largely untried, untested in the field? Eli sighed, and looked at Lin. "Food's not great for you there, _fradu_."

"We'll flip a coin. Only fair way." Lin looked over at Dara. "You have that nickel anywhere handy?"

"Sorry, it's in the attic of my dad's house." There was a laugh buried somewhere in Dara's voice.

Serana gave them both a look. "I thought _I_ got to make the decisions around here."

Kasumi cleared her throat. "I could actually make a case for why Lin's a far better choice than Eli here. On the off chance that you're discovered, doing what you'll be doing, it would be much easier for Valak to lie and say he'd bought a mated pair of turians for breeding purposes, to see if turians raised _in_ slavery are more docile than captured ones, than if he has one turian and one human that he can't account for."

Eli considered it, and looked at Lin. "It's a better lie than I could come up with," he admitted. "Have fun." He glanced at Kasumi. "Sounds a lot like the cover story you cooked up for Dara and me last time, in a way."

"When something works, use it," Kasumi replied, smiling.

Lin turned back to Kasumi. "And what will we be doing there? Spirits. . . how are we _getting_ there, for that matter?"

She grinned at him impishly. "I'm glad you asked that. Because it's a fair bet that the batarians will have their mass relays blockaded, much in the way they're blockading Galatana and Rocam, right? A small salarian corporation started work, six years ago, on a straight-line FTL drive that uses a dark matter engine core." She nodded to Sam and Lantar. "You two had to stop off and rescue one of their test ships on the way back from finding the simulation device. Which is why _you_," she pointed at Sam, "missed Dara's birthday that year. Shame on you."

Sam made a rude noise, and everyone on the room laughed. "Since then, the salarians and a few human scientists have tinkered with it quite a bit. The result, STG informs us, is a ship engine that can cut the time to travel, straight-line, between star systems, in half. Still requires drive discharge, but can be interfaced with existing stealth technology. And cuts out the need for using mass relays entirely. . . unless you're in a hurry." She glanced around. "They have one prototype stealth ship, the _Pellak_. Serana and Lin will be going to Khar'sharn. . . once they're back from Sky's mission, with me. . . and Dara, Eli, and Thelldaroon."

The entire room seemed to vibrate with interest, for a moment, as Kasumi beckoned Sky forward. The rachni Spectre's alien blue eyes gleamed under the lights overhead, and he sang, quietly, _Life-Singer, queen of queens, made a request of Truth-Singer, Spectre-Queen. In exchange for the lives of her children, sacrificed in war, new life was needed. _

Eli couldn't forget that conversation if he tried. It, like the rest of that day on the Citadel, when Dempsey had worked with the geth and the rachni to awaken the Keepers, was burned indelibly into his brain. "She said she wanted Shepard to find an old ship, from before the war," he murmured. "One with eggs."

"For genetic variability, too," Dara said, just as quietly. He, Dara, Zhasa, and Dempsey had all been there; they were the only people in the room besides Sky who had been there for that amazing event.

"I can't imagine finding such a ship would be an easy task," Zhasa said now, her voice soft. "The rachni were considered extinct for over two thousand years. How would you even _start_?"

"With STG and asari records of the war," Kasumi replied, making a face. "It wasn't the most engrossing reading I've ever done, but I got Serana in on it, and since Joker and EDI are basically in orbit, they gave us a little processor power, too. We found two or three battle sites in the old records, where brood-mother vessels were seen. . . limping away, damaged. We had courses and vectors for those ships. . . and a record of the gravitational currents in those areas over the past two thousand years. Past that, it's just math and probabilities. . . right?"

Eli's mouth dropped open. "Needle, meet haystack," he said out loud. "Haystack, meet needle. Are you _kidding_ me?"

Serana laughed a bit. "Well, maybe not so bad as all that."

"Their drive cores would be dark. They wouldn't be large enough to occlude a star as they orbited it, the way a planet does. They're not moving at the speed of light, so no particle trail. They're cold, they're dark, and they're drifting in the middle of space, and have been doing so for two thousand years," Eli told her, ticking off the points on his fingers. "Sounds pretty bad to me."

_Light-and-Playful-Dancer's search-song limited the locations to three small areas. We will take __Raedia__-ship, and attend to the business of Life-Singer. When we have obtained the eggs, we will take them, and possibly their ship, to the Singing Planet._ Sky's mental tone had been firm, but now had a hazy overtone of pink to it. Eli blinked. Pink was not a color he usually caught from Sky. _Life-Singer has requested my songs there. Each of you is required for this journey. Sings-Secrets may be needed for data-songs of old computers. Sings-Patience will restore the engines, life-support, what he may._ The rachni dipped his head slightly towards Thelldaroon.

"That is, I believe, the first time in my life that I have ever been called _patient_," the elcor rumbled.

"Get used to it. Sky's names tend to stick, even if you have no idea what he means by them," Eli advised.

_Many-Voices and Sings-Justice will be needed for protection and defense, if those who soured the songs of our queens left traps on the ancient ships. Not probable, but possible. All possibilities must be counter-sung. And Sings-Heartsong,_ Sky's voice was filled with blue affection now, _little singer, you will need to examine the eggs. And determine if they are still viable._

Dara shook her head. "I'm not sure how I'd know, Sky," she objected. "I've never seen a rachni egg before." Then she smiled, and it lit up her whole face. "Though I have to say, I would _love_ to see the rachni homeworld."

_All of you will be welcome on the Singing Planet, if we accomplish this task._ Sky paused. _This task takes first-voice, leads all others, for the moment._

"The _Raedia_ will be here in two days," Kasumi advised. "The _Pellak_ will be here in two to three weeks or so. If we haven't found the rachni derelict by then, we'll send Serana and Lin back here to catch their ship. This really does take top priority. Shepard's watched the vids of the rachni fighting the yahg, and she really thinks we need more rachni on every single planet where they're at right now. And Life-Singer won't release more troops until she's got more queens than just her own daughters."

Lin exhaled, and turned to look at Eli. "What's that thing you always say about Spectre work?"

Sam offered, "I am a Spectre. I eat _weird_ for breakfast with a side of toast."

Lin snickered. "No, not that."

"We're Spectres. Six impossible things before breakfast is a light day?" Eli suggested.

"That's the one. Anything else you'd like to add to the list, Kasumi? While we're all here?"

Kasumi laughed, a clear sound like bells ringing. "No, I think this is enough. Now, get out of here, all of you. You've got some relaxing to do."

Which actually reminded Eli of something. "Dara," he called over to her, as she started to pack up her things. "Back during candidacy trials, you told me you had no idea what was good to drink."

"Other than chocolate milkshakes, no. Why?"

Zhasa suddenly turned and elbowed Demspey in the ribs. "What's a milkshake?"

Dempsey sighed. "And here I'd kept her from noticing the secondary menu at Gardner's successfully for three months. Thanks, guys."

Eli ignored the byplay for a moment. "Then Serana, Lin, and I owe you dinner out. Zhasa, Dempsey, you're welcome to come with us. And you can bring Mad. I promise to be on my least-offensive behavior." He grinned wickedly, and caught Serana's quizzical glance at him.

Dara spluttered. "You don't owe me anything—"

Lin snorted. "Let's see. Three bullets extracted from my right leg, one bullet extracted from my left knee, three bullets removed from my left shoulder, assorted vibroblade cuts, removal of the filings from my armor _from_ those cuts, one concussion treated, and bone regeneration when Makur dropped half an aircar on my foot." He looked down at Serana. "Don't ask, little one."

Serana's eyes had gone wide. "I . . . wasn't."

Eli pointed at himself, "Three bullets, right arm, two bullets, upper right thigh, that vibroblade cut through my right ribs, including the ribs that needed regeneration, burns from three or four traps that Kirrahe didn't manage to disarm in time. . . yeah. We owe you dinner, Dara. And drinks." _And a hell of a lot more._

"That's just the j—"

"Little one," Lin told her, firmly, then added, with a grin, "_Freya_. Stuff it. My brother's right. Consider yourself kidnapped for the evening. If we need to, we can carry you out of here, kicking and screaming. I mean, it's practically required for a kidnapping, right?"

He caught Dara's left arm, and Eli caught her right, lifting at the same time, taking her off the floor smoothly, as if they'd planned and practiced this before. Dara gave them both a long stare, before saying, with dignity, "That won't be necessary. I'll come along peacefully, officers. No shackles required."

"Oh, what a pity," Eli told her, before he thought, and saw the pink flush rise in her face. "And here I was promising to be on my least-worst behavior." He grinned over at Dempsey as he set Dara back on the floor, and held out a hand for Serana to take. Her warm fingers slid into his. "So, you coming with us, Zhasa? Dempsey?"

"We can," Dempsey said, after a quick look towards Zhasa.

As it happened, Madison was scheduled to have dinner at the Vakarians that night, so it was just the six of them at Gardner's. Eli had known, before, that Zhasa could taste food through Dempsey, but hadn't seen it demonstrated quite as much before. Zhasa leaned across the table, delightedly asking Dara and Eli what everything on the menu actually _was_. Eli was used to vat-grown foods, although his mom had, over the years, steadily started incorporating more and more real foods into their diet, sometimes just for the love of cooking, and sometimes just because money was more available now than it had been when he was a kid. He'd picked up basic cooking skills, like chemistry, from his mom, but he couldn't tell Zhasa half of what Dara could about Terran foods. That crawdads were called 'mudbugs' around the Gulf Coast, and that while Dara didn't like them, they were usually cooked in sharp, heavy spices in that area, for instance. That scallops had been long since not been scallops at all, but round pieces punched from sea skates' large, flat wings. "Still tasty, but no one will order 'sea skate' for twenty credits a plate," Dara told Zhasa, as the quarian girl worked her way down the menu.

"And what's that?" 

"Charcuterie plate. Um, sort of an appetizer. Smoked meats. Salami, thin slices of ham, sometimes stuff like foie gras. On Palaven, they actually force-feed _anserae_ for their livers, same as geese on Earth. You'd probably be able to eat that, but to me, liverwurst is liverwurst, no matter what." Dara made a face. "Only time I've ever had a craving for it was in boot camp, when my iron count was pretty much in my socks. Too much exertion."

Eli just watched and listened. Lin sat at the edge of the big U-shaped booth. Serana next to him, then Eli, then Dara, then Dempsey, then Zhasa. He made sure Serana ordered whatever she wanted—rack of _cuderae_ ribs, apparently, which got her and Lin bickering amicably, because that was what _he'd_ wanted, but he decided on a thick _apaterae_ steak instead. He himself was ordering bison steak and a baked potato. "What _else_ is good?" Zhasa asked. "Dempsey almost always wants the bison."

Dara leaned over. "Have him try. . . yeah. Gardner does venison medallions in a red wine sauce really well. Should be a totally different flavor for you. Gamy. Have him toss a green bean salad with hazelnuts on the side, and . . . wow. Sweet and russet potato gratin with seven cheeses? You'll both be very happy."

Zhasa oohed and ahhed over the choices. Dempsey looked at Dara. "Thank god. You make menu decisions in under a half hour. I may have to ask you to come with us more often." There was actually a faint undercurrent of teasing in his voice, and a spark of humor in his cold blue eyes.

"Oh, deciding things for other people is easy. Deciding for myself. . . can also be easy." Dara shrugged. "Hamburger, here."

Eli blinked, re-opened his menu, and went down the list, item by item. Then he sighed, and leaned in close to Dara's ear. And whispered, in careful asari, just slowly enough for her to catch each word, "_You selected that because it was the least expensive item, yes?"_

He could see her mentally translating. And then nodded. "_Yes."_

"_Pick something else. I'm paying, and as __you__ reminded __me__, we're Spectres now."_ He switched languages to English, to be able to say it more quickly, "Besides, you're going to need more on your stomach if you're going to be drinking at all." He grinned at her. "And you will be."

And when she finally did, hesitantly, settle on tea-smoked duck breast with sliced cooked pears alongside, along with some of the same potato gratin as Dempsey, Eli kept his word, and ordered drinks for everyone. Brandy for Serana, Lin, and Zhasa, and Guiness for Dempsey, and, in a moment of total whimsy, a bottle of very nice wine for him and Dara to share. "No whiskey?" Lin asked, in amusement. "That is your usual, as I recall."

"Nah. What's the fun in getting her drunk for the first time if she doesn't like the taste?"

It was actually. . . just a really nice evening. Possibly the best since Bastion, and the breakfasts and dinners there. Warmth. Companionship. Dara still seemed a little more withdrawn than she had been on Omega, but once he and Lin started teasing her, and they got enough wine in her, she flushed and laughed with the rest of them. Even Dempsey, his hand joined to Zhasa's gloved one, smiled a bit. . . .the more so when the dessert course arrived. Almost everyone was far too full for a full course each, so Dara had talked Eli into sharing a dessert with her, just as Lin was sharing one with Serana. Sweetmarrow cakes and _malae_ jelly, apparently. Dara and Eli were picking through ginger ice cream and warm apple cake, which Zhasa begged them to allow Dempsey to taste. "Everything you've had, looks so good," she told them wistfully. "I wish I could share Lin or Serana's mind, too, just to taste the bonemarrow cakes."

"They're crunchy," Serana told her, brightly.

"I'm not tasting them," Dempsey told her, firmly. "I'm pretty sure digesting bonemeal won't kill me, but I'll _wish_ it had, more than likely."

Dara shook her head vehemently. "Perforated intestines are _no_ fun," she said. "I'm not cleaning that up. You find yourself a nice willing turian, Zhasa, and leave poor Dempsey alone on the _really_ toxic stuff."

"Oh, so now I'm _poor_ Dempsey, huh, Doc?" Dempsey paused. "Seems to me, once upon a time, you thought I was sufficiently scary that you couldn't even imagine me _snuggling_."

Eli watched, in delight, as Dara went absolutely pink again. "Hey, if I have to pick between guys to pretend to be married to on a covert mission, Eli wins, every time," Dara said, and absolutely froze, trying to figure out how to reword that. "Ah, I mean—"

Zhasa's head whipped back and forth, and Eli would have _loved_ to have known what the expression was, underneath. "I don't see why you'd think Dempsey wasn't a perfectly good person to cuddle up to for disguise purposes," she said, with a little indignation on Dempsey's behalf. "He's perfectly—oh _Keelah._"

Dempsey had chosen that moment to take his first bite of the chocolate crème brulee in front of him, and Zhasa relaxed, going completely limp next to him in the booth.

Even Eli had to put his face in his hands at that point. "I've, ah, never seen anyone _enjoy_ chocolate that much," he said, once he'd stopped laughing so hard. Serana, to his left, was wide-eyed. Dara was a helpless ball of laughter to his right.

"It's my secret weapon," Dempsey admitted, straight-faced.

And when Serana slipped out of the booth for a few minutes as everyone was finishing an after-dinner drink (Eli lined up three different ones for Dara to try, and laughed at her expression on all of them), Eli took his first chance to talk to Lin privately since they'd landed, and switched languages. _"__Fradu,__ seriously. You need to pick up the pace with courting her."_

"_I'm trying to go slowly on purpose."_

"_I know you're the most patient male in the galaxy, but she's not a pewter figurine in need of a new coat of paint. There are glaciers on Earth that move at a faster pace. Speed it up."_

Dara _choked_ on her port at that point, and Eli patted her back for her, still looking at Lin.

"_We've been back on base __two days__,"_ Lin objected. "_All right, a day and a half at this point."_

"_And she's had three months to work up all her fears and objections and everything else. Step in, brother. If she doesn't end the contract in three months, as she promised, I will start the dissolution proceedings myself, but I don't want to hurt her. It would be much better if she's happy with the decision by then." _ Eli grinned at Lin. _"Think of all those long, lonely nights on Khar'sharn ahead of you. Steal her estrus pills and don't let her have them back. Something."_

"_Dear _god_,"_ Dara spluttered. "_I'm right __here__,_ guys. _I have ears, which, though not as good as a turian's, work very well. And I speak turian!"_

Lin gave her an apologetic look. _"We can't really talk about it when she's around, you know."_

"_I know, but_ god almighty, _there are things I don't need to know!"_

Dempsey looked back and forth between them, and said, his voice neutral, "Y'know, just from the way the doc here starts to blush whenever you guys change languages, I think I'm going to download a translation VI directly to my chip. I miss the _best_ jokes this way."

"No!" Dara said, sharply, and Zhasa said it at the same exact moment. "That'll activate the chip and cause pain," Dara added.

"Wouldn't it just be easier to listen to their thoughts?" Zhasa said.

Eli watched as all color drained out of Dara's face. "Don't even joke," she said, and her voice was suddenly deadly serious.

Dempsey raised a placid hand. "Bad manners among humans. As I keep telling you, Zhasa." He looked at all of them. "Zhasa's variant of biotics lets her 'feel' people, picks them up more as touch than as sight. And since she was trained by an asari, she 'touches' them whenever she first meets them."

"The courtesy of Thessia," Eli said, nodding. "She tried it on me the first time we shook hands."

"Yes," Zhasa said, sounding surprised. "And you were _aware_ of me. Most non-biotics usually aren't."

Beside him, he could feel Dara stiffening. Closing up. _Damnit. Damnit. We'd just gotten her to __relax__ again. Took half a bottle of wine and two straight hours of teasing, but she was laughing again. Is this all because of what Siara did, years ago? Why else would she hate the thought so much?_ Casting about for _anything_ to distract Dara, he asked Zhasa, lightly, "Fors tells me he _smells_ people biotically, which I guess makes sense for a volus. So, what did I feel like?"

"Hmm. Lin was fairly direct. Sense of wind blowing, rain on the breath of it. Serana was warm sunlight through a windowpane. You and Dara were both fairly confusing for me."

"Confusing?" Eli asked.

"Yes," Zhasa replied, tipping her head to the side, the candlelight reflecting in her mask. "You had many layers. A rough exterior, a yielding, soft interior, almost velvety, and a hard inner core, like cold steel." She hesitated. "But they constantly shift. I'm touching you right now, and which layer comes _forward_ changes."

_Well, you can either say that the turian is the scratchy exterior, the asari is the interior, and the human is the cold interior. Or the rough exterior could be human, and the steel could be turian._ "Don't worry about it. Even Sky gave up and called me Many-Voices. I'm just surprised you got in on me the first time. Usually, I can block almost any asari who tries." _Even in bed. When, theoretically, I should be at my most open and vulnerable._ Eli put a finger on Dara's shoulder. Even with that light touch, he could feel tension singing through her muscles. "How about Dara here? What's she feel like?"

Dara flashed him an angry look, and Eli pretended to take cover. Serana came up and stood behind Zhasa, listening, as the quarian girl said, chuckling, "As I said, confusing. Roses. A whole thicket of them. Rain-dampened. Sometimes they open up and bloom, other times furl very tightly indeed. And sometimes, all I can feel are thorns." Her voice was amused as she added, "Earlier, the roses were all in bloom. Right now? Ice-covered thorns, enough to cut the flesh off the bones of anyone who tries to get through."

"Please don't," Dara said, and Eli knew her well enough to hear the fear in her voice.

Zhasa's voice was puzzled. "Most people like to know how I sense them, Dara. Why don't you?"

Dara cleared her throat. "Kella. . . an asari friend of Eli's and mine. . . once took away my entire sense of self-awareness. Just so I could see myself from the outside, for a moment, as a stranger would see me." She swallowed, visibly. "I didn't ask her to do that. I didn't _want_ her to do that. Took everything I had not to hurt her feelings by running away and to just accept it." She paused. "Another time, Siara basically tried to burrow into every memory I have, and I almost couldn't throw her out." Dara's voice was very quiet, and she would not look up from the plate she shared with Eli. "I've seen Rel's mind and memories in that simulator device that Sky hooked us all up to, and that's. . . . that's really enough. I don't want people going through my head."

"But you're okay with Sky listening," Eli pointed out, gently. He wanted to reach out and comfort her right now, but he couldn't.

Dara's eyes flickered up at him. "Yeah."

"And you didn't object to the whole rachni-Keeper thing," Dempsey commented, his eyes remote.

"I was scared out of my fucking mind the entire time." Quiet, blunt words. "Don't get me wrong. Seeing all those lives. . . was amazing. Life affirming. But that was hearing someone else, not someone. . . .touching me without my permission."

_Like Laetia up and decided to use a partial template of you on the SR-3 AIs._

"I'm not entering your mind, Dara," Zhasa said, quietly. "It's the difference between looking at the cover of a book and opening it up and reading every word."

Dara nodded, slowly. "Okay. I don't want to be read."

Zhasa reached out a hand, and took one of Dara's. "I fail to see what could possibly be so bad inside your head that you couldn't share it," the quarian told her, cheerfully, "but I respect your privacy, Dara. I promise you that."

Dara nodded again, and mustered a smile. "Sorry. I just. . .I can't. I'm sorry."

Serana looked down at them all, a bit quizzically. "I run to the lavatory, and suddenly, you're all doing biotic fortune telling tricks."

"No fortunes!" Eli said, quickly, retrieving his credit chit from the waiter who'd just come by to return it to him. "No prognostications, and _no futures_." He gestured toward the door. "Let's get out of here."

Dempsey's house was a bit to the north of the road on which Sam, Lantar, and Lin's parents all had homes, so Dempsey and Zhasa split off from them first in the low light of the early spring evening. Eli made sure to hold Serana's hand the entire time they were walking in the street, but walked Dara up the porch steps of Sam's house. "Have to make sure you don't twist an ankle," he told her, cheerfully. "Next time, we'll make sure you get something else besides wine to try."

Dara fumbled around for her keys—Sam actually preferred this low-tech method of security over biometric scanners, for some damn reason—and finally came up with them, unlocking the front door. "Thanks, Eli. Please tell Serana. . . and Lin. . . that I appreciated the evening out." Her voice was quiet. "I'll be lucky if I can hold a needle steady the rest of the night. So much for getting your quilt done before we head for rachni space." Her tone was amused, though.

"You're still working on that?" Eli was surprised.

"Didn't exactly take it with me to Omega. It'll get done. I promise." She patted him on the shoulder, hesitated briefly, and added, "Good night." She went inside, and Eli realized after a moment that he'd leaned forward slightly when she'd paused. _Huh. Body language._

He jogged back down the drive, caught Serana's hand in his again, and they kept walking. "You know, the moon is out," Eli pointed out, conversationally. "The woods are all in bloom, and there's no snow. You two should take a walk. I've apparently got forensics coursework to do. And a course in paleontology, of all things. Me and my bright ideas." He leaned down, gave Serana a kiss on the forehead, and headed for the door.

"Eli? You don't want to come with us?" Serana called after him, sounding a little confused.

"Go have fun," Eli told her, letting nothing but light, untroubled affection into his voice. And once inside the house, he didn't pause to look out the window. Just went to his room, and pulled up his coursework. If nothing else, it should fully occupy his attention for the next couple of hours. And in the morning, he could go for his first real run in three months. One that involved clean air and a gentle, sloping trail, not madly dashing for cover here and there.

All around him, he could hear the sounds of his younger siblings helping to pack their toys and clothes. Which, brought back old memories. _At least this time, when there's been a threat, they've got more than twenty minutes to pack up and leave_, he thought, as Lantar's distinctive tap came at the door. "Yes, Dad?" Eli said, answering the door, still holding his datapad.

Lantar looked across the threshold at him. "No sooner here, than gone again," he said, calmly. "And not much time to talk in between."

Eli smiled, and it felt rueful. "Can't say you didn't warn me about the job."

Lantar nodded. Looked around the guest room. "You're entitled to a house on base now, you know. You should probably look into that. You're grown. You're—"

"—not going to be married much longer. And Serana won't be here on Mindoir much until one or the other of us ends the contract. And neither will I, at the rate things are going. Why have a house, if it's just going to sit there, empty, unused?" Eli sat down on the edge of the bed. He was managing surprising equanimity. "If you don't want me using this one while you and Mom are gone, I could crash with Lin."

"Who's at least shown the great good sense to accept the housing offer." Lantar sounded faintly amused. "He _should_ have a house by the time he gets back from Khar'sharn, I suspect."

Eli shrugged. "One of us needed to find a place to store a bed, a nest-roll, two dressers, one table, six chairs, one couch, one armchair, and two heavy punching bags. Oh, and a waffle-iron. Don't forget that." His voice swooped a little ironically, and he awarded Lantar an acid grin. "And Lin's little soldier figures. He was muttering about finally having room to set them all up, if the house has a basement."

Lantar shook his head. "You seem to have taken my words about giving Lin room to have his own life, and decided not to live your own."

Eli flipped the datapad around in his hands. "Look. College-level courses. Go me." He looked down at the words burning on the screen. "Dad. . . Lantar." He looked up again. "It's okay. I had _lots_ of time on Omega to think. I thought I'd get depressed again if Serana wasn't around to kick my ass for me. . . but I didn't." He frowned. "Then again, I wasn't doing a Robinson Crusoe impression, being the only human face for a thousand miles in any direction. I always laughed at the idea that humans are social animals. We are. God, yes, we are."

"So are turians," Lantar said, coming in and pulling up the chair of the desk. "Pack animals, anyway. We do get edgy when we're isolated too long from our families, our friends, and yes, even from other turians." He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "Both you and Dara tell us more or less the same thing. That integration of forces isn't working."

"It's working for some people. Not for everyone. I was a pretty extreme example. I mean, I had a lot of preparation, growing up with you, and with Caelia, and lots of turian friends. . . but the isolation was pretty bad. Most people on SR ships aren't as isolated as Dara was, either." _Most of them aren't married to turians and trying to __be__ turian for their mate's sake, either._ Eli frowned, and fiddled with his datapad again. "She's better now, Dad. Much better than she was. Just a few months away from—" Eli paused, then said, carefully, "the pressure of always having to be turian. . . it's helped her."

"So Sam says, and so you say. I hope it's true. I hope it's also true that the other humans who've passed through the system haven't had similar problems, or the turians who're just now graduating from the human Academy won't have similar problems, themselves." Lantar stood up. "Good hunting to you, Eli. May you find what you seek."

"Yeah, whatever the hell that is. Oh, right. Rachni eggs from a ship adrift for two thousand years." Eli's light tone faltered at the look in his father's eyes. Those piercing eyes looked right through him.

"Not just that." Lantar offered him a quick wrist-clasp, and headed back out of the room.

_Now what,_ Eli thought, looking after him, _did he mean by that?_

**The batarians, White Rock Internment Camp, Mindoir, September 1-17, 2196**

Radem Y'mov had come to this strange, human-held world sure of a lot of things. He'd been sure that his leaders wouldn't send warriors off-world without a just cause. They'd been told that every world they'd fight on, either posed a threat to the Hegemony, or had been stolen from them by the humans. He'd been sure of that. He'd been sure that everything and everyone had a place in the great Chain of Being, from the lowliest bacterium to the noble-born, to the ancestors and the gods. Everything had a place, and he had a place, and he'd been comfortable in that certainty.

Since that cold and frozen night on the mountainside, when the hanar's voice had first whispered in his thoughts notions of eternity, of a galaxy wider and richer and more astonishing than he could conceive of, Radem had started to be certain of fewer and fewer things. At the moment, he was sure that the sun-blasted wasteland, with its miles of parched, sparkling white salt dunes and occasional white, diatomaceous rocks, was hellishly hot, and suspected that it might, in fact, be a preview of the afterlife reserved for thieves and murderers.

Their officers—what few had remained, had mostly been SIU—had been culled out, with ruthless, uncanny efficiency, by a turian in white and black face-paint, accompanied by what looked, for all the ancestors, like a huge black _insect_ with gleaming, alien blue eyes. And whenever the insect had been around, colors and music played in Radem's head, and surely _that_ was confusing enough, at first. No matter how the officers lied, changed uniforms, swore that they were regular soldiers, the black-clad turian and the black insect found them, and moved them to a different set of barracks.

Then, one day, after they'd been allowed to walk in the fenced-off oven of enclosure for an hour or two, which was not exactly a privilege, Radem felt, they'd come back into their barracks for another afternoon of total, complete boredom. . . and found the console. Set up. Waiting for them.

The various warrior-caste males had simply stared at it, for a moment. "What the hell?" one of them had asked, and Radem felt that that summed it up nicely.

They waited for their ranking sergeant to move forward and examine it. What had ensued had gone on for hours; the console shut itself down just before meals, and overnight, too, but gave them about ten hours a day of what looked like unfettered access to more information than Radem could ever had dreamed of. "Do you think it was left by. . . by a Hegemony sympathizer?" was one of the wilder questions asked the first night.

"It's a trick. Somehow. It's probably all propaganda."

That was the troubling part, actually. Radem had taken his fair share of time on the console—they'd drawn lots for their order within the barracks—and he'd also watched over the shoulders of others as they used their allotted ten minutes here or there. If it was all propaganda, there seemed to be a _lot_ of it. Decades of it. Centuries of it. The ranking NCO, when Radem brought this to his attention, told him, simply, "Go digging. Past all the grotesque alien pornography that the others are viewing. Find the limits of their supposed generosity."

So Radem had. He looked up _insects, huge_, and had found whole encyclopedias full of butterflies on Earth and beetles on Sur'Kesh and how both Palaven and Rannoch were lacking entirely in insects, and finally, after tweaking results several more times, he found _rachni_. And then he found _brood-warrior._ And then _Spectre Sings-to-the-Sky, birth date, unknown, appointed Council Spectre 2190. Acknowledged father of at least three broods, totaling ten thousand off-spring._ _Favorite food, unknown, favorite color, unknown, favorite vid, unknown._

That had led him to look up _Blasto_. _Face-name of only hanar Spectre. Appointed, 2184. Movies: Three. __The Jellyfish Stings__, __Enkindle This__, and __Octogasm.__ All three films were created without his authorization. Suspected within the Hanar worlds of being a closet heretic._

"Why would they show us information that might damage them?" he asked.

"They can't be showing us everything. Pull up. . . weapons systems."

So he found that the turian Mark M _Malleous_ had started its production run in 2190, and its successor was in the works from Armax Armories. No specifics as to its firing mechanism or payloads or anything like that, but it was there. "Find us. . . way off this rock!" someone behind him asked. It had become a game for everyone in the barracks after a day or two. Find the limits.

So he found. . .travel agencies. And while he couldn't really book them passage, that led them down twisting passages of link to link to link, "No, look at that world, that's a turian planet, isn't it. . . by the ancestors, how can they have a place as beautiful as that waterfall on a world like that?" . . . "No, click that link, click that link. That's. . . a space station? It's the size of a moon. What's it called?"

"Bastion, it says. Meant to replace the Citadel, apparently."

And _that_ had led them to the news stories. Plagues. Engineered, inexact weapons of mass destruction and terror. The images of the bodies floating around the station. Males, females, children. "Of course they'll say it was batarians," their sergeant sneered. "Of course they will. They have to. It was probably the salarians. They've got quite a history of using diseases against people that they don't like."

Except, by that point, they'd come to trust, in a limited sort of way, the information from the console. They were used to trusting information from such a source, although the ability to find multiple different answers to the same question was definitely new to them. Reading the arguments written by seemingly thousands of people after each news story was also a bit of a puzzle for Radem and his fellows. "Are they arguing? Are they just shouting at each other? Are they shouting to shout at the story?" they asked each other, and then moved on.

By the end of four weeks, the boredom, the heat, the inactivity, and the console, were working a kind of magic on them all. Radem found himself returning, again and again, to the stories about the plague. Trying to find a hole, a weakness, a falsehood. Again and again, the stories suggested that the yahg, the new batarian allies, had had a hand in fabricating the diseases. _If that's true_, Radem thought, and didn't dare speak the words out loud, _then we have killed without honor. _

He found the turian Imperator's speech, translated much differently than it had been on Khar'sharn. And then he found the news accounts of their own attacks, and got everyone around to watch. "Let's see how hard we really hit them," he said.

"And add about fifty percent to anything we see," the sergeant said, cynically. "Of course they'll lie to their own populations."

And that's when they'd seen footage of the small comet, headed for Earth's single moon. Outside the plane of the ecliptic, where no comet should naturally be. Scooped away by a huge turian ship, simply one moment there, and the next gone. And the words by the next announcer: _tons of eezo packed into the comet's core. Systems Alliance officials have indicated that it may take over a year to remove the eezo payload safely, although these are man-hours that the government may not be able to spare at this time._ _Batarian involvement is certainly suspected, especially after their similar attack on Terra Nova over a decade ago._

It was all very troubling. And Radem walked along the fence in the yard the next day, glancing up occasionally to squint with all four eyes at the guard towers. He could have sworn he saw the hanar floating up there, looking down at them all.

That evening, the guards came, and pulled him out. "I did nothing against the rules of the camp," Radem told them, and held his hands up when instructed to do so. He glanced back, once, at his few remaining squad-mates, who looked at him, expressions tight-drawn and grim.

He fully expected to be questioned. Beaten, perhaps. Instead, he was escorted into a blessedly cool room, and told to sit at a table. He was shackled to a chair, and then the hanar and the giant insect. . . rachni. . . came in.

_You have left certainty for question-songs. A dangerous journey of the mind._

The song was in his head, and Radem squinted for a moment. "How do you _do_ that?"

_This is how I have always sung._

"Surely, you have other questions for Spectre Sky and for this one than simply that?" the hanar chimed, after a moment.

"Is. . . what we read on the consoles true?"

_Truth-song always uncertain. Many people have many different truths._

Radem's expression, he knew, had to be confused. Because he was. Completely.

"Spectre Sky means that many different people have many different points of view. In Council space, all are permitted to speak their opinions, even in opposition to one another." The chiming voice stopped once more.

"So it's all true?"

"Inasmuch as it proceeds from the point of view of the person writing the news feed story, yes."

Which, as far as Radem was concerned, wasn't an answer at all. But there was a chiming voice at the back of his mind now, working in concert with the rachni's song, and they were showing him _their_ truths. At least as much of them as he could handle. All the deaths. All the needless, pointless deaths of non-combatants and children on Earth, Bastion, and Palaven. And then they showed him the yahg, running in the ruined streets of a human city. Hunting and feasting on human prey, and Radem doubled over, holding himself in by force of will. He'd been taken from his mother at the age of three. Sent to the barracks at the age of six. He'd been a warrior since that day. He did not weep. He did not vomit. But when he raised his face, his red eyes were savagely angry. "Our leaders allied with these things? Our leaders did all these things? This was not what we were told we would be doing. We were told we would take back what was ours. Protect our people. Nothing more. You do not use _disease_ to fight battles. Innocents are to be spared whenever possible. It's not always possible. But that's the core of the Code."

_Yes. Your song is much like others we sing._

_Oh, ancestors, what have we done, and what will we do?_

**Seheve, Shanxi, September 20, 2196**

Seheve Liakos stood atop a hill near the refugee camps, looking out over row after row after row of tents. They went on for miles now, as more refugees managed to scramble out of the countryside and find the camps. Xi'an, to the east, no longer burned. They'd finished dousing the last of the fires last night, and geth work crews were already laboring, alongside humans with cranes and bulldozers, to clear away the worst of the debris. "So much left to do here," she murmured to Melaani. "Twenty, thirty years of rebuilding. More. Perhaps a lifetime's worth."

"Humans are resilient," the asari Spectre replied, watching as a man in a large construction mech strode by, the huge feet thumping against the ground as he headed into the city to join the work crews. "I would be willing to bet that in ten years, if we were to stand on exactly this spot, we would have difficulty seeing the scars. The skyline will be different, of course. But the city itself will still be here." The female turned her head, looking at Seheve, her expression almost serene. "All it takes is determination and resolve. And the people here have that in plenty. I heard that the old barracks, the ones where General Williams signed the surrender to the turian fleet, are actually still intact. I take that as a hopeful sort of sign."

"That a place of surrender and defeat survives?" Seheve asked, quickly.

"No. That a piece of their history here remains intact." Melaani looked back out over the city. "It's almost time to get aboard. We should go."

"A moment, yet." Seheve knew she'd remember this scene, like every other one she'd ever seen, for the rest of her life. And yet, she wanted to linger here, over this ruined world. Blasted by the wrong beliefs, she felt.

"_Excuse me,"_ a little voice said behind them, and Seheve's VI whispered a translation in her ear.

She looked down, and found the child's voice in her memory. "Li-Mei, should you be away from your grandmother?"

"_She told me that we're going to go home to Earth. We have family there still. They can help her take care of me."_ Solemn face, solemn words. Seheve understood, immediately. This ruined world was no place for a small child, or an elderly grandmother. Some people would rebuild Shanxi. But not these two.

"Your grandmother is wise to take you home. It will be very hard work here, for some time."

"_I don't want to go to Earth. But she says we must. And she says that Jia-li can't come with us. And I'm scared that if I leave her here, she'll starve."_ The little girl held up a gray bundle of fur. _"Please? Will you take her? She likes you."_

Seheve had made a point, over the last few weeks, of checking in on Li-Mei and her grandmother, and every time she'd visited, the silly little feline had come over, licked her hand, and rolled back and forth on the ground in animal abandon. "Are you sure, Li-Mei? I am leaving this world, myself. I do not know if I will ever be back."

"_Yes. She likes you. If you take care of her, she'll be all right."_ Li-Mei sniffled, and petted and hugged the cat until the feline squirmed and tried to get away.

"I will care for her, then. She will have a long and very happy life, if I can manage it." Seheve gently took the unhappy cat from the equally unhappy child, and the feline promptly licked her hand and started to purr. Loudly. Seheve felt her lips curl in an unaccustomed smile, and Li-Mei gave her a tight hug, before running away.

"You've acquired a pet," Melaani said, staring at the cat. "I'm sure it will require vaccinations. Does it have a name?"

"Jia-li. I think." Seheve looked at the cat. "That's difficult for me to say."

"You could rename it."

"That seems somehow disrespectful to the beast. It has a name. It knows it."

Melaani suddenly smiled. "Actually, according to an eminent Earth sage, it's said that all cats have two names. One, that everyone calls them, like Scruffy or Thomas or Mittens. And then they have a _real_ name, that only the cat himself knows."

Seheve turned and stared at Melaani for a long moment, her black eyes huge. "Cats have soul-names?"

"According to one T.S. Eliot. . . or maybe it was Andrew Lloyd Webber. . . yes."

Seheve lifted the purring creature with its dazed eyes, and studied it. "Will you honor me with your soul-name, friend?" she asked, and wondered why she was smiling again.

**Zhasa'Maedan, Mindoir and Hagalaz, September 20, 2196**

Zhasa had taken, over the past three months, to slipping out of her envirosuit in the privacy of Dempsey's house on base. The first time she'd done so, she thought she'd finally found a way to scare Dempsey without him being locked into her mind. "Zhasa, what are you doing?_"_ he'd demanded from the door of his bedroom, staring in at her, eyes slightly wider than usual. "You're going to give yourself an infection."

"Unlikely," she'd told him, stretching out to her full length on their bed. "Levo-based world, largely. Some dextro wildlife and pollens, but I checked the xenobiology center's record of plants that they've incorporated. Dr. Velnaran was interested enough in some of my questions that he verified for me that everything currently in bloom shouldn't be heavily allergenic. . . and unless you've allowed another quarian or a turian in your bedroom lately. . . I shouldn't be exposed to any viruses or bacteria." She smiled up at him as he stepped over to the bed and stared down at her. "Besides, Dempsey, I _have_ to start strengthening my immune system. The suits have both helped and hindered my people for centuries. Use a crutch long enough, and you'll lose the use of the limb, right?"

She'd reached for his hand, and he'd pulled back. _Let me go decontaminate myself first. Also, while you're at it. . . while looking at you naked is like looking at a work of art, sweetie, you __might__ want to consider grabbing some of my clothes. If you make this a habit, we might have to at least get you a robe or two. I don't think Mad needs a direct xenobiology lesson._

_I think he'd learned the lesson about knocking before opening doors._

_Better safe than sorry._ She could hear the water running in the shower, and she almost purred in anticipation.

_Long day?_

_Yet another day spent watching the batarians at the internment camp. Eduardo's got the place buttoned up tight, but he does not want to take any chances. _

And after he'd gotten done fumigating himself, they'd both taken epi-tabs, and worked on her allergic reactions a bit more. In spite of every precaution, she _had_ gotten a head-cold, possibly from some virus in the house, dragged there by a turian classmate of Mad's, maybe. It hadn't knocked her on her tail, but she'd definitely not enjoyed the experience much, either. But it hadn't stopped her from repeating the experiment. She wanted to work up to at least an hour a week, but she'd definitely overdone it the first time. And Dempsey adamantly wouldn't let her overdo it again. _ I love seeing your face, sweetheart. But I don't want you pushing too hard and getting sick, either._

That had been two months ago. Today, she was up to an hour a week, but they were leaving the comfortable, familiar confines of Mindoir for some unknown place.

Madison was uneasy. They'd told him they'd tell him the truth along the way, and when he'd heard of the Lystheni plans for Narayana, and the danger to _all_ the kids on the base, since it had been compromised once too often, he'd gotten a look of anger that had suddenly made him look _very_ much like his father. "That's not right," he'd finally said.

"No, it's not," Zhasa told him, softly.

"So these Lystheni are working for the batarians, all so they can get Nara?"

"So they can survive," Dempsey told Madison, bluntly. "Protection, probably, at first, for their diminished numbers, and their dalatrass. And now, so that they can continue themselves. No one does anything for free, Mad."

"You do."

Dempsey snorted a little. "No. I get a paycheck, Mad. I get safety for you, and a place where you can finish growing up." He looked around the observation lounge on the _Normandy_ and added, "Admittedly, some days, that's a different place than others."

Finally, the _Normandy_ had reached Hagalaz, and they dropped several shuttles, taking the children to their new 'school.' Zhasa was simply incredibly excited by the bizarre ship design, when she saw it. "The lightning is actually hitting the ship!" she called over her shoulder as she piloted their shuttle in for a landing in a landing bay on the ship's ventral side. "They must collect power from that, as well as from solar panels."

A small asari woman greeted them, along with a tiny asari child, and a drell male. The asari cried, "Shepard!" as Lilitu stepped down from her own shuttle, and Zhasa watched in amusement as the human female raised her hands quickly, almost as if to fend off a little too much enthusiasm, and then gave the asari a cautious hug. "It's been too long. Will Garrus be joining us?"

"He might pop this direction on his way back from Shanxi, Liara," Shepard told her, smiling. "He hasn't seen the kids in three months."

Introductions were made all around, and Zhasa accepted Liara's hand, reaching out with her biotics very lightly. Smooth, cool alabaster, like an ancient relic, she realized, is what the famous Liara T'soni felt like. This, then, was Argus? Like Kasumi, one of the Spectres' most important information and surveillance sources?

They took a tour of the huge ship. Most of the living space was closed down. It had clearly once housed many more people than currently lived here. "I'd love to look at the engines," Zhasa said. . . and catching the amused look on the asari's face added, "but later. Once the children are settled."

As it was, it was a very odd gathering at dinner that night. The children were all clearly very excited, and a bit uneasy, too, about their strange new environment. All the food present was pre-made drell or asari, and there were turian MREs available to supplement the diet of the six hybrids present. Estevan, sitting next to Caelia, had dark blue scabs on the human-looking skin over his little knees and elbows, and spoke galactic with a melodic accent that Zhasa had never heard before. _Spanish accent, sweetie. His English is the same. I'd be willing to bet his turian has the same accent, too._

They had one job left to do, besides making sure the kids were comfortable. They had to go over this huge ship, stem to stern, and check for maintenance problems. Liara told them, a little apologetically, "I've simply been shutting down access to problem areas over the last few years. There are few people in the galaxy that I trust. Shepard has often offered me the services of the Spectres' maintenance staff, but . . . " she hesitated, "that would mean that I would have to trust all of the people that they trust, too. I would rather have the assurance of Spectres helping with the work."

_Spectres whose children you have as hostages._ The thought was Dempsey's, dark and cynical. Zhasa didn't chide him for it, however. It felt just a little bit true.

**Dara, The Citadel, Rachni Space, September 20-October 1, 2196**

When the _Raedia_ arrived, Dara was already packed and ready to go. She gave Takeshi a kiss, and her dad one, too, then waited on the porch outside as Sam and Kasumi exchanged tender kisses inside. Said their goodbyes. She could hear her dad mutter, his voice muffled, "I've been home all of three days, and now you have to go, Kasumi-chan."

"I'll be back before you know it. Keshi? Be good for your father."

"Bye-bye, Ka-chan!" It was the Japanese equivalent of _mama_. Dara tried to picture using the term herself, and snorted under her breath. It didn't fit.

Aboard the _Raedia_, on which she'd served for a year, at least half of the crew had turned over already. She got expressions of shock from Captain Arius and Dr. Mannerian, who simply stared at her. No paint, no knife. It was like when she'd _started_ wearing the paint and the knife, all over again, only worse. Before, from turians, it had been curiosity. This was shock, incredulity, even a hint of the hostility that until now, she'd mostly gotten from humans. As the captain gave Eli, Lin, and Serana wrist-clasps, offered Kasumi a slight bow, and just stared for a moment at her, Dara heard a light, familiar voice as they stood in the CIC, Sky looming over them all. "Hello, _maai'a'selai,_" Lysandra, the NCAI of the _Nereia_ said as she appeared. Dara had never seen Lysandra's avatar before, having only seen a small violet eyeball before. Lysandra actually looked oddly familiar, in some ways. She had the typical hybrid bone-structure, complete with a fringe, but had merry brown eyes and a face that reminded Dara, somehow, of Sarah Jaworski. She wore Thracian yellow paint, of course. "It's wonderful to have you back on-board. Spectre Sky, always a pleasure to see you."

_Please sing to her my pleasure-song in meeting with her once more. If I could hear her songs, I know they would be as full of joy as mine are._

Dara chuckled and relayed the message. This has almost become a game when she'd last been aboard. Sky would find her, wherever she was, and ask her to 'translate' his conversations with the ship's AI. Dara had even gotten out her _reela_ and tried to echo his music for the AI on several occasions. Poorly, of course. Nothing could really convey the depth of rachni mind-song.

"Why don't you actually sing it out loud, with your voice?" Lysandra had asked.

"Oh, I can't sing. I can _play_, sure, but I can't sing."

_Sings-Heartsong is convinced that her voice is ugly. It is not, little singer._ _Sing for us. Make my song your own._

Still, it was the only request of Sky's that Dara had ever refused. She knew what she sounded like when she sang. Like a crow. And who wanted to listen to a crow when they could listen to a nightingale?

Looking back, some of those conversations had lasted for over an hour, and she'd been laughing the entire time, trying to convey Sky's meaning to the AI, who'd gamely played along. And who had said, near the end of her tenure on the ship, "It's a pity that no NCAI can really hear rachni song. But I do appreciate the fact that you've been willing to try to bridge the gap," Lysandra told her. "I don't suppose you'd ever consider being chipped?"

Dara had shuddered, picturing Dempsey at the time, actually. "No. No offense, but I don't want anyone in my mind. Not even someone as nice as you are, Lysandra."

"You don't suppose Spectre Sky would allow himself. . . ?" The voice had been wistful.

"Wow. I . . . wouldn't even know where to _plant_ the chip in a rachni brain. They're different from every other species out there, you know. And I don't know if the chip would interfere with their biotics the way, ah, other chips have been known to malfunction with biotic use. . . " Dara had trailed off. "Sorry, Lysandra."

In the here and now, Lysandra looked at Dara again. "When you're ready, Spectres, I'm happy to tell you that I can actually accommodate all of you without cramming _all_ of you into the observation lounges." Amusement lurked in that soft contralto voice. "Spectre Sky, Ms. Goto, you'll each get one of the lounges. Spectre Sidionis, you and your wife will have one of the married berths. And Spectre Pellarian and Spectre. . . Jaworski. . . I have two openings in officer quarters. Unfortunately, Thelldaroon, I have nothing acceptable for you besides one of the cargo bays. Is that acceptable?" She looked like an anxious hostess.

Thelldaroon chuckled, a low rumble of sound. "I have grown accustomed to the fact that few places are built with elcor in mind. If there is cushioning of some sort in the cargo bay to serve as a mattress?"

"A few dozen mattresses and nest-rolls, stacked together, was the best I could do on short notice," Lysandra told him, apologetically. "If you'll let me know what would be more acceptable, I'll try to ensure better comfort for you the next time you're aboard." She looked around. "If you'll follow me, please?"

Dara had taken the interlude there to recover from her surprise. Cassandra, the AI of the _Sollostra_, had, after some gentle encouragement, simply opted to call her 'Doctor.' It was the first time any of the AIs that were her, well, _progeny_, in a sense, had called her Spectre Jaworski. Which wasn't technically accurate, but _felt_ a lot better than hearing _Velnaran_, which felt like a slap in the face every time she heard or saw the word.

She'd always liked Cassandra; the AI had a spirit of adventure that felt like Kallixta, but a reverence for the unknown, for learning, that had been a very comfortable fit for Dara's own mindframe. Lysandra, when she'd been little more than a violet eyeball, had seemed a bit gentler than Cassandra. Less heedless and apt to throw herself into trouble headlong. . . but with that same delight in learning, in exploring the unknown. _Must be nice, to be armed to the teeth, wrapped in hull-plating, and able to slink off unseen_, Dara thought, somewhat amused. _It's easy not to be scared when almost nothing can actually hurt you._

Eli opened the door to the room he was slated to share with Serana, and stared inside. "Cozy," he murmured.

"Cramped," Dara corrected. "It's technically all the room you need to sleep and store your stuff. But it doesn't allow much breathing room, no."

Serana gave her a wide-eyed look. "Looks like an adventure, to me."

"It is, at first. Like going camping every day. Then it just starts to look normal." Dara kept her voice neutral and light with conscious effort. _And then it starts to feel like a coffin._ She pulled back and looked at the room number, and snorted a little under her breath. "Lysandra, are you playing games?"

"No, Spectre, the room assignment is, I assure you, accidental."

Eli grimaced. "You're kidding me."

"Nope. C-12. That used to be my room, with Rel." Dara shifted her pack over her shoulder. "Don't worry. I'm pretty sure the smells can't possibly still be lingering. They do scrub between occupants, you know." She looked at Serana, and smiled. "Even for a turian nose. Enjoy camping, guys. Have fun."

Eli rubbed the back of his neck, and said nothing. But Dara picked up a hint of discomfort, somehow.

"Why does everyone keep saying 'have fun' to me?" Serana said, her voice a little plaintive.

"Because you _always_ have fun, little one. No matter what you're doing," Lin told her, and then he and Dara followed Lysandra's avatar down the hall to where individual rooms for officers were. His was across the hall from hers, a comfortable proximity, actually. Dara looked at her room, and sighed in appreciation. A bed. An honest-to-god bed. Not a nest. She'd gotten up out of the nest every year for five years with a screaming back-ache, which she'd done her best to work through with exercise and aspirin. While sleeping curled up into Rel had been lulling and comforting in his warmth, the back-aches hadn't been fun. Even the hammocks in boot camp and on Rocam had been better. "Thank you," she told Lysandra. "I really appreciate the human berth."

"I thought you might." Lysandra hesitated. "Might we talk a bit, _maai'a'selai?_"

Dara grimaced and said, in the cobbled-together asari that was all she knew so far, _"That is not my name."_

"It is a respectful title, and the best we of the SR-3s can do." Lysandra 'sat' on the edge of the bed. "Cassandra told the rest of us that you and our, hmm, second-father might be severing your contract."

Dara started unpacking. "Don't the NCAIs have better things to do than gossip about organics?'

"Yes, but organics are so deliciously interesting." Lysandra chuckled softly. "Besides, what you do affects us."

Dara's head jerked up. "Oh, like hell it does," she said, frustrated. "I didn't even _know_ about any of you until April. I was not asked about . . . being used to make any of you." She'd almost said _having any of you_, which wasn't quite correct, as phrases went. "Every one of you, as far as I'm concerned, is Rinus and Kallixta's child."

"So we should retain the Velnaran paint?" Lysandra asked. "Many turian children do not, when the parents change clan affiliations."

Dara pinched the bridge of her nose. "Look," she said, after a moment, "you guys pretty much sprang out of someone's head, like Athena from Zeus' skull, as full-formed adults. Adult children don't change their clan-paints when their parents divorce. Hell, as far as I can see it, you guys are pretty much your _own_ clan. Maybe you should make your own paints up."

"Or go bare-faced, as humans do?" Lysandra asked.

"It's an option," Dara replied, and raised her head. . . and blinked. Lysandra had removed the clan-paint from her self-image. "You don't have to do whatever I do . . . "

Lysandra smiled at her and stood. "I thought you might appreciate a little token of solidarity, _maai'a'selai._ From one person stuck in a confusing world of people not quite as she is, to another." She tipped her head to the side. "You were always very kind to me, long before you knew we were related directly. Demostata, on the _Nereia_, says the same. Rellus scarcely ever talked to me, other than to requisition items or ask for crew information for his squads. All business. Rinus has rarely been aboard the SR-3s, but Ariston, the SR-4 he served aboard, speaks highly of him. Says that Rinus is not as scary as the rest of like to think. . . said he called him _son_ before he left the ship. And Kallixta. . . all of us write to her. She understands us better than Laetia seems to, I think." Lysandra bit her lower lip, an odd thing to see with so many sharp teeth involved. "I would like to be able to continue to be your friend, _maai'a'selai._ As you were before you were told. . . everything."

Dara sat down on the edge of the bed, and wanted to cry. After a long moment, she looked up, and said, simply, "For starters, my friends call me Dara."

"You wish me to address you this way?"

"Of course. I'm sure as hell not calling you first-daughter or _lia'kaea_ or whatever."

Lysandra laughed, and blinked out of sight.

Oddly enough, the whole conversation made Dara feel somehow, intangibly, much better.

She had damned near nothing to do for the first few days. She did meet Kasumi and the others in the observation lounges as they emerged from the Widow mass relay briefly, and stared, awestruck, at the Citadel, which, in the past three months, had come back to life. The mines had been collected and sent for use elsewhere, and now hundreds of ships swarmed around the out-flung arms of the flower-like station. "Now that's more like how I remember it," Eli murmured, in satisfaction, from where he stood by the window, staring out.

"Mostly asari and salarian ships defending it at the moment, for obvious reasons," Kasumi murmured. "It was a good idea, Eli."

Dara caught his faint smile, and then the ship turned and ducked back through the mass relay. They were heading for Ilos, that formerly locked relay, which would lead them into the territories once held by the rachni. . . and now were home to burgeoning new colonies. Or so she'd been told. The _Raedia's_ mission, when she'd been aboard, was to survey and catalogue planets for rachni colonies. Which had involved many shuttle missions to old rachni planets. Seeing the wreckage left, two thousand years before, by the krogan invaders. Most of the destruction was eroded and weathered away. And a good deal of rachni construction happened underground, of course. But the planets had had a lonely, lost feeling to her at the time, that had tugged on her heartstrings.

Finally, they reached the dark expanses of space where their search was meant to begin. By the third day, Eli was muttering, "Needle, meet haystack," all over again.

Dara took the downtime and used it. Dr. Mannerian had made it clear that she had assistants enough in med bay, and that Dara, with whom she'd worked amicably for a year, was to stay out. Dara wasn't sure how much of this was attributable to the removal of the paint, and how much of this came from her new Spectre status, but she gave the female her space. She was almost done with Eli's quilt, and had plenty of time, in the lonely privacy of her quarters, to work on her asari. To read medical journals, too. She'd fallen behind in her three months on Omega.

The first two locations had wreckage. It had streamed and tumbled away from the battle site for millennia, and they'd found it. "We should put up marker beacons for archaeologists. We can't take all this stuff aboard," Dara pointed out, and Sky, singing amusement, ordered it done.

The third location, however. . . Dara had been getting _stomped_ at four-person _ru'udal_ in the observation lounge on September 28, when she looked up out the window. "Hey, Eli?"

"Yeah?"

"Someone introduced a magnet to your haystack. Look at that!"

The ship was both like and unlike Life-Singer's vessel, as they discovered as they ran scans for the next hour. Huge. Crystalline, yet with organic, flowing shapes that suggested, somehow, that they'd been extruded. And yet, it was dark. The crystalline structure showed cracks and blackened areas. Dark and cold and dead. Dara looked at it, and shivered. "How could anything be left alive on that ship, after all this time?" she asked, looking around the CIC area, where they all stood, examining the results of the scans on Lysandra's projected, detailed map.

_Eggs can survive even in a vacuum. Even in death-cold-song of the emptiness between the stars, they have survived. None in the memory-songs have survived this long, but perhaps we will sing a new song today._ Sky's chitinous legs clicked on the metal deckplates. _This is the place of docking. We will board here. All of you will require your full outer shells._

Sky himself only wore a sort of a tube apparatus around his neck. His lungs were so supremely efficient, he only required one breath of pure oxygen every several minutes—the air on his native world was thin, he indicated, and had little oxygen. And periodically, clouds of gas poisonous to most other species erupted from its volcanoes, which explained the rachni ability to thrive _anywhere_.

Their shuttle docked, and Sky stepped out first, hovering in mid-air as he moved from the shuttle's mild grav field, to an area with none at all. He was followed by Lin, Dara, Eli, Serana, Kasumi, and Thell, who was loaded down with equipment and serving as their rearguard. It felt like Omega, and yet not, at the same time. Some of the same comfort. . . and none of the gunfire. Just silence, and the light hiss of oxygen inside her helmet, the only part of her armor that was pressurized. The rest of her armor, of course, she wore an elasticized suit under, to prevent decompression bruises.

"My gods," Kasumi said, looking up, and Dara agreed with her, wholeheartedly, as they stepped out of the docking area, and into some sort of a main corridor. The corridor was actually arched, at a steep pitch, like a cathedral on Earth, and their hand-lights picked up glimmers of refracting light.

"Crystalline, again," Dara murmured on the radio. It felt like it might be sacrilege to speak louder than this. The crystals were white, and looked _spun_, long ribs of them arching up to form the entire hallway. Organic, like rings of tissue, and yet also not. She ran her scanner around briefly, and reported, "No oxygen. Not surprising, given the hull breach on the dorsal side."

_This way. The brood-mother's chamber would be at the heart of the ship, so that her song could reach all aboard it._

It was dark and it was dead, and there were still bodies aboard. No artificial gravity meant that all the corpses and carapaces of the dead rachni hovered in the airless corridors, and every time Dara saw a brood-warrior hovering there, perfectly preserved in the cold and the dark, her heart ached just a little more.

Their lights poked and prodded at the darkness. Found pillars and mounds of crystal that looked like it had grown in place, huge prisms that threw their light around, made it dance with abandon. "This must have been a beautiful place, once," Serana whispered. "You can just see it, can't you?"

Dara nodded. Lin murmured, "If there were ever a place where the spirit of the past lived, this is it."

Further and further into the bowels of the ship they went, and then they found what they were looking for. A huge, rounded chamber in the center of the ship, still made of that crystalline, web-like structure, and in the center, the body of a dead queen. Surrounded, completely, by thousands and thousands of eggs. Some large, some small, and one in particular, very large indeed, surrounded by the protective curl of one of the queen's dead limbs. _That is the egg of a queen,_ Sky told them, his song soft and reverent. _Even in death, she protected her brood. Sings-Heartsong, run your tests. I hear very faint songs here, but I am not sure that they are without the taint of the darksong destroyers._

Dara pushed off of a wall and managed to get her boots under a loop of the crystalline floor material, and moved, cautiously, among the eggs, which were largely adhered to the floor by some sort of resin. The ones of the brood-warriors came up to her waist, she realized. _Big babies_. The queen egg was as high as her breasts. The little worker eggs—there were thousands and thousands of those—were only the size of a mouse. And the soldier eggs were the size of a cat. . . but the soldiers, she knew, would grow.

"I'm not getting any signs of Collector DNA tampering," she said, after a while. "And I think the eggs are viable. Slowed, yeah. Frozen, if you will. But. . . the tissues inside are completely intact. If Sky thinks he hears songs here, he's probably right."

_Then we will take this ship back to Life-Singer. With all its cargo of songs and memories intact_. Sky sounded very pleased indeed. _Sings-Patience, would you and Sings-Secrets sing songs of repair? _

"What do you require of us?" Thell asked, voice calm.

_Endeavor to ignite the engine. I have some small knowledge of this that will assist you. Then we may seal hatches of areas open to space. Repressurize, that all may breathe. And then, we may attempt to move the ship under its own power. The Raedia has much strength, sings powerful songs, but towing the vessel of a queen into a mass relay might be beyond its capabilities. _

"Plus," Eli muttered, "trying to _brake_ once we hit the other end of the relay would be difficult without engines. And I don't see us carrying all these eggs safely, one at a time, to the _Raedia_, for storage."

_Yes,_ Sky sang, softly. _That would be unwise._ He didn't elaborate, however.

The next twelve hours were a slew of work. Techs from the _Raedia_ came over, and under Thell's guidance, and with help from Sky, began restoring the engines. "I can't believe they actually _work_," Eli muttered into the radios.

_Our engines are not built of the same materials as yours. Nor do they use the same fuel. We sang our own songs for countless centuries, until the darksong destroyers came._

Finally, Thell announced that he'd sealed off the damaged sections, and had found oxygen in tanks. "The air will be thin, but breathable," he announced. "Only attempt it if there is no other choice at this time. Other environmental systems are still down. I will have crewmembers work on artificial gravity next, while I work on propulsion."

It was slow. Very slow going, even once the propulsion systems came back on-line. The _Raedia_ was towing them to add to their speed, but towing at FTL speeds was tricky business, at best.

On October 1, they were almost back to the area's mass relay, when Thelldaroon announced, in tones of great pleasure, "I have been able to restore environmental controls. You may now take off your helmets. Temperatures should rise to the vessel's normal ambient range within the next hour; you should already feel an appreciable difference."

Dara was in the brood chamber, cataloguing all the eggs, and thought, _Great. That means that, with oxygen, heat, and the presence of bacteria, all the corpses we've had to collect, will start to rot. We should have put them in a depressurized area. All life usually needs is water, light, and a little heat, and it's off to the races._ She lifted the faceplate of her helmet, just a crack, and discovered that at least the egg chamber smelled pleasant enough—oddly spicy, in fact—when she heard the sound of something moving behind her.

Dara whirled, and stared at the huge queen egg. They'd moved the brood-mother out of the chamber, with gentle respect, several days ago, to make it easier to move around in here. Now the egg, unsheltered, was starting to crack. Dara jabbed her radio, and shouted into it, in slight panic, "Sky! The eggs!"

On either side of her, brood-warrior eggs were trembling in place, starting to split open. _Oh, god, I shouldn't have let Eli and Lin talk me into watching those really bad twentieth century movies last night. The ones with the aliens with the weird life cycle and the acidic blood. . . _ "Sky! The eggs are hatching! The temperature change—"

She could hear footsteps, running towards her. Had enough time to glance upwards, and saw Eli, Lin, and Sky pop out of a corridor on a tier above where she stood, and stare down at her in consternation.

And then Dara had no more time, and no more words, because the queen egg split apart. The rachni queen emerged, damply, all awkward limbs and soft, unformed shell, like a larvae, and a storm of music sang in Dara's mind as a half-dozen alien blue eyes looked up into hers. A storm, a chorus, voices, strings, chaos, confusion. A mind looking for, questing for, something that would help it make sense of this strange new world it found itself in. And Dara's mind sank under that swell of music, the titanic chords of it, the light, the color, the fear, the confusion. She couldn't _not_ respond to that need, any more than she could have turned her back on a human child, a turian child, the bundle of soft feathers that Caelia had been, long ago. The cute little tadpole that Narayana had been. "It's okay," Dara murmured, the words lost in the song, meaningless. She stepped forward, reaching out her hands. "It's okay. You're safe."

The storm exploded behind her eyes. Every color in the rainbow, and some that human eyes could not see. Every tone in the scale, all expressed, at once, in harmonies and dissonances at once. Dara found herself on her knees, and the little queen hitched forward, clinging onto her. Wrapped its small forelegs around her neck, and stared up at her, drinking in her knowledge, her vulnerabilities, her own confusion, her loves, her hates. All of it. All of it needed to make the world make sense. And the queen's thoughts sank into Dara's thoughts, and Dara would have sooner cut off a hand than slap away that infant touch or tried to block it. This was a child, and it was in need, she knew. Somehow. And she had something of what the queen needed.

And then the queen spoke, a single word in the depths of Dara's mind, in tones of contentment and confusion at once.

_Mother?_


	114. Chapter 114: Rebirth

**Chapter 114: Rebirth**

**Author's note:** _JD196 asks. . . "Was the movie Eli and Lin made Dara watch __Alien__?"_

_Myetel answers: "Yes. They made her watch all four, back to back to back."_

_JD196 asks: "She's going to kill them, isn't she?"_

_Myetel answers: "She really should, shouldn't she?"_

**Dara, Rachni Space, October 1, 2196**

_Music. Music everywhere. Storms of music that were color, too, behind the eyelids, in the brainstem, in every cell of the body. Music that danced with the mitochondria, music that sang to her very DNA, music that lit up every neuron. Music that took and took and gave and gave. She opened her eyes, and was as blind as a newborn. Remembering things she couldn't possibly ever have recalled before. . . darkness. Nothing but the thrum of a heartbeat. Lulling, peaceful, liquid warmth. Then being squeezed. Panic. Fear. Everything that had come before had been dark and peaceful, and now there was pain, for the first time. The muffled sounds, distant, loving, incomprehensible, distorted now. Pain in the higher-pitched one. Comfort, reassurance in the lower-pitched one. And then, the pressure stopped. __Something__ touched her, lifted her out of her liquid warmth, into not-dark-but-light, and her eyes, yes, she had eyes, in the not-dark she could see vague shapes in black and white, and then there was pain as something stung her heel. Cold, for the first time, too, as the liquid warmth was rubbed away. First whimpers of confusion, bare animal awareness. No __I__, because there is no __I__ yet. She is her own world, she's part of the world, the whole world, the whole universe is her and her dim perceptions. Then warmth again. Being cradled. Warmth of first food in her mouth. Contentment. The familiar sounds again, high-pitched and low. They sing to her. Sing her very first songs. Hush little baby. On top of Spaghetti. Nonsense songs, cradle songs, but the low voice loves singing, and sings to her all the time. And his songs become her songs, shape her and form her and move into the music and the colors and then she's riding a horse, "Daddy, Daddy, look at me, look at me!" and then she's learning to use her first gun and then she's putting her first and __only__ Barbie doll—an antique, but she didn't know it then—on her father's grill to 'interrogate the prisoner" which melted the doll, which got her a spanking, pain's how you learn not to do a damn fool thing again. . . _

_And at the same time as singing, being sung. She was the song, as it poured into her. Familiar, in a way. Lifetime after lifetime of alien minds, experiences. Loves, joys, sorrows. The slow rise of sapience. Of pouring their song and their knowledge into the very singing rocks of their world, so that the hive could always remember it, words and thoughts and songs etched into the matrix of the stone itself. Seeing the tunnels under the surface, filled with spun-crystal of the patient workers, could hear their low songs, cheerful and patient and giving of themselves. What each of them knew, all of them knew. Learning fire, learning tools, learning to make things of their bodies that others could use. Each life a singular life, but also part of the Great Life. Soldier-songs, quicker-paced. Meant for protecting the hives from predators, also meant to forage. To hunt. Workers learned to grow lichen and spore-bearing plants and the odd grains of the Singing Planet to feed the burgeoning hives, but the soldiers still hunted. Still brought back carrion, still brought back fresh kills. Mind after mind after mind, all part of the whole, the Great Life. Lineal memory, too. Queens and their brood-warrior sires. The life-memory of each, passed down, generation by generation, preserved, forever. _

_Too much. Much too much too much too much, pain, so much pain. . . ._

"Sky, for the love of god, _do_ something, her heart-rate's in hummingbird territory, and she's the only medic we've got till we can get her to the ship!" Warm hands. Warm hands, touching her throat, finding the pulse there. Looking down at _herself_ through _someone else's eyes_. Watching her own eyes open, not chocolate brown at the moment, but alien, rachni blue. "Oh, my god, your _eyes_, Dara," she said, and she said it with/through someone else's throat, double-voice. "Dara, _sai'kaea_, hold on, I've got you—"

_I am singing as much as I can. All rachni draw on the voice of the queen-mother when they first hatch for knowledge and direction. When Life-Singer hatched, it was in a lab, cold-stone place of Noveria. There were no humans, no rachni, nothing around but steel and stone. She nearly went mad, and then found the voices-within, the voices of memory and ancestors to sustain her. I have that memory-song from her, in my own mind, and I give it to Sings-Heartsong and little-queen now. But all of Life-Singer's eggs were stolen from her by the scientists, and hatched far from her voice. All of her first-born children were driven mad by the lack of her guiding-song. Little-queen on awakening reached for the first voice she could hear. I lend my voice, my strength, to protect Sings-Heartsong now. Do you the same, Many-Voices! Sing!_ Overpowering command in that voice. Complexity. Astounding amounts of it. _Like voices-of-memory that were queens, but not. So confusing. But familiar. . . ._

_And now she was someone else as well as herself, as well as the Great Life, and there was singing and being sung. Drawing on his memories, his and hers being drawn into the vortex, but there was something in him that could resist the tide of the voice, at least a little bit. A buffer against the pain. Complexity upon complexity, so many voices, and still the slow song of ancestor-memory, tides of knowledge, tides of ages, pressing into her, and her own memories, and that of the others, being drawn from her, absorbed, questioned, used. . . death of a father, deep-sung sorrow, relief, guilt at relief, guilt at the voice-inside that said '__he deserved to die for what he did to Mom__' mixed with love, love of the big smile and the big hands. . . death of a mother, too sudden, didn't get to say good-bye, one moment, school as usual, the next, her own father, face ashen, 'Dara, sweetie, your mother. . . she got real sick today. . . '. . . who is Dara, who are you, who am I, what __is_ _an I, how did you go from being the whole universe to just one pinprick in it, why are you just __one__ when we are one and we are many—_

_-hunger. Memories of hunger. Everything out of order. Boot camp, starving, forty-k run in the morning, too exhausted to eat, but body starving for fuel, cannibalizing itself, have to eat __something__, there's still rifle range and sparring practice and a test on the regs tonight. Watching the clock in the classroom in Lufkin, knowing that her lunchbox was on a shelf at the back of the classroom, can almost smell the sandwich Mom packed this morning, starving, why won't the clock move faster? Rationing on Omega. Hands shaking as she tears open a package of MREs, too much energy burned, not enough calories taken in, but food shipments aren't coming, no end to the fighting in sight. Screaming for the high-pitched voice and the warm arms to come and bring sustenance, the burning in the belly, the panic of the world not being the way it should be, full and content and dark—_

"—hungry, she's hungry, she needs food—"

"Yeah, we got that part."

Dara opened her eyes. The song had faded for a moment. The colors weren't a storm behind her eyes. Contentment-song, suddenly. Food was being given, and there was contentment all around her, a hum of it in her mind as from many throats.

Faces, looking down at her in concern. There was something wrong with them. After a moment, she realized what: they were upside down. She stared up at them blankly, without recognition, at first. Warm fingers on her throat, stroking her hair. Whisper of song in her mind—yellow-green. Anxiety. Fear. _Sai'kaea__, please be okay, you're scaring the shit out of me. Give me a sign here—_

The faces resolved themselves. Categorized themselves into more than just gelatinous eyes and bizarre, alien shapes. _Turian. Male. Blue face-paint. Brood-warrior. Linianus. Sings-Justice. Turian, female, violet face-paint, little queen. Sings-Secrets. Human, male, favored brood-warrior. Elijah. Many-Voices._ Dara blinked rapidly, and looked around. She was completely covered in something _sticky_, like egg-white, which was partially dry, and clung to her in strands as she tried to move her arms and legs. She turned her head slightly, and her eyes widened. Rachni. On every side of her. Crooning. Tiny brood-warriors, tiny soldiers, little worker, swarming everywhere. The Great Life. Crooning and singing softly at the back of her mind, love and contentment, blues and greens. Sky's voice led the chorus, and there was another voice, singing of food and sustenance and contentment. . . .

Dara blinked repeatedly, and focused on Eli. Found her voice. It scraped. It hurt to _talk._ "I seem . . . to be . . . covered in goo."

_Oh, thank you god, thank you god._"You sound like yourself, _sai'kaea_," Eli told her. _Relief-song in azure. But also midnight-blue, indigo, what does that mean? _ "For all that you look like. . . " He tried to smile. _Yellow-green worry again. Hint of blue-green amusement at the same time. Many-Voices. Clear image in his mind. _Touch of fingers on throat, fingers tangled in matted, sticky hair.

". . .I look like a giant came on me, huh?"

"I wasn't going to say it." _Blue-green amusement to match the faint smile, relief expanding outwards like an iridescent soap-bubble, __she's still herself enough to joke, oh, thank you, god . . . _

"You sang it." Almost a whisper.

"Why is she _singing?_" Sings-Secrets asked, sounding worried. "That's not really like her." Dara's vision skewed for a moment. _Not Sings-Secrets. Serana. Important to remember that. Important to hold onto that._

"Talk to us," another voice ordered, gently. "We might only have you back for a moment. Sky said that the workers had managed to make enough 'royal food' for the queen to eat and be satisfied, for a little while, at least. And that she would be distracted while she fed." That was Sings-Justice. His fingers on her wrist now, too. Yellow-green worry, dancing in her mind now, two different sources. Midnight blue, indigo, from Many-Voices. The world skewed, and she saw them _differently_ now. The faces, the details simply vanished, except for Many-Voices' eyes, which gleamed black as a starless night in his face; the rest of him became the dull red glow of a cold-burning red star, the gleam of an angry volcano, spewing molten rock in a steady stream that marched towards the shore. And yet, around that glow, the indigo, the blue, the yellow-green flickered and played. And the colors were a song. _Oh, my god, I'm going to go crazy. This is it. This is where I lose my mind, like my mom was afraid she'd lose hers, like Grandma and Grandpa lost theirs to Alzheimer's. _

"Where's. . . Light-and-Playful-Dancer?" So much effort to keep her eyes open.

"Kasumi's coming down from the _Raedia_ right now. It's only been twenty minutes since you fell to the floor." Serana's hand caught hers now. Third touch, same yellow-greens. Different sound to her song. Overtones of orange.

"Keep talking," Eli told her. "Just stay with us, okay?" _Frantic sorting of thoughts, memory of the eggs hatching all around her, form made small with distance, internal debate over simply jumping over the rail and landing below, and to hell with if he broke an ankle or a leg doing it—_"Mind telling me what your first thought was when the eggs hatched all around you?" Faint smile, trying to keep it light, trying to show her that it was going to be okay. . . .

"First thought. . . Oh, crap. Second thought. Fuck you, Elijah, and fuck you, too, Lin. If something bursts out of my chest, I am going to _kill_ both of you for making me watch those old vids. Third thought: Rel's going to kill _me_. Fourth thought: why the hell do I care what Rel thinks. . . . "

Laughter-song, and then Dara felt the storm of colors coming back behind her eyelids again, _like a stroke, like an epileptic seizure, oh, god, please, don't let it hurt so much this time—_

Dim vision, seeing the little queen before her face, looking down at her, alien blue eyes gleaming. _Mind still hungers for song, belly is fed, but the mind hungers—_

And Dara went away again. This time, it didn't hurt as much. The flow of information to and from was slower. A little less intense. After a while, she regained some of her vision, and lurched upright, arms locked around the little queen. _Crooning voices everywhere, young brood singing. Workers busy. Memory-song of the ship intact. Hearing the song buried in the walls of the vessel. It can be fixed. We must fix it. We must make it go for the queen, so that we may return to the Singing Planet. We must make food for all aboard, that all do not starve, especially not little-queen, whose skin, like ours, is hardening in the air. We must help the other-singers, who have helped us to awaken. So strange their songs. _

Knowledge flowed in. Workers couldn't 'hear' the songs of outsiders, except through a queen or a brood-warrior. Neither could soldiers. They communicated with each other through pheromones, largely, but the brood-warriors and queens could hear them through biotics, and could sing to them with both biotics and pheromones. The workers aboard the ship smelled the strange smells of the humans, the turians, and the elcor, and were alarmed, but Sings-to-the-Sky sang calm into the young brood. They also heard the songs of the little-queen as she gave and took the songs of the outsiders. Assimilated the information, as best they could. Individually, workers were not much more intelligent than the average dog. Collectively, however, they were incredibly intelligent and efficient. Not quite like the geth, who became more intelligent the more of their programs and platforms were present, but similar, in ways.

—_memories of geth, first enemies, then allies, memories of Sings-Not/Cohort, and how he painted in order to learn to sing in ways that cold-song machines could manage—_

—_leading to memories of all the other Spectres. Dad/Sam and Dad/Lantar and krogan/Gris—krogan enemy! krogan destroyer!—krogan almost destroyed, look at Tuchanka, see how they destroyed themselves, see how salarians and turians almost destroyed them, now battle-brothers. They were used, then turians used against them. And rachni were used against the cold-song asari and the salarians with their songs of numbers and metal. See Tuchanka in rubble, see the breath of the Harvester boil around the stone, living it again, passing the Rite, passing it from two __different__ perspectives at once, __I am blooded at last__. . . . secret whisper of __Finally, something she'll look at me for, something I can be proud of.__ . . passing it through her consciousness like water through a sieve. . . Galaxy so changed from the last memories, so many species that are __other__, and the darksong destroyers gone, destroyed—_

—_another flash. The memories of the Keepers flowing first from Ruin and the geth to Sings-in-Silence to the rachni, and then from the Keepers themselves, back through rachni song, linking back through them to Sings-in-Silence to the geth once more, an endless chain—__no, no, no, I can't do that, I can't do that, not all at once, I can't possibly remember all of them and take all of you, no, please__—_

**Elijah, Rachni space, October 1-3, 2196**

He'd hit the end of the corridor at a dead run, stopping just short of the rail. The panic in Dara's voice on the radio had been undeniable. And staring down at her, twenty feet below, her body suddenly looked very small, surrounded by rocking, moving eggs. Sky had never looked so _alien_ before, either. _Oh, god, we shouldn't have watched those vids last night._

Then the largest egg split open, and clearish-white fluid erupted with the soft, larval form of the infant queen—_my god, some baby, it's almost as long as Dara's tall. . . got to be five feet at least. . . _ and then the first note hit, like the voices of an angelic choir all singing at once, and it stabbed through Eli from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, and he stood, dazed, suffused by joy, exhilaration. And _something_ inside of him _woke up_. Responded to the song, to the overpowering nature of it. He'd had an inkling of this, just a hint, on the Citadel, when the queens had sung, in total control, taking the memories of the Keepers and holding them aloft, passing them to Dempsey and the geth, but he'd been focused then. Locked in on a single target, a single task, his mind protected, too, by the pure _focus_ of the rachni; they had formed a chain, a straight line. Keeper, rachni, Dempsey, geth. There had been bleed-over, but nothing . . . like. . . this. This was the birthsong of a queen, and the asari part of him awoke entirely at it.

The asari part had been slowly unfurling within him for six years. Language. Understanding, Customs. Mindset. The ability, even within six months of Kella's death, to block Siara, to prevent himself from 'sharing his light' with her. _You kept part of her_, Siara had accused. _That shouldn't be possible._ And now, in reaction to the rachni song, overpowering, compelling, that buried part of him came awake. Relished the experience, drank it in, reveled in the power and beauty and glory in the voice of the queen. . . but he couldn't let that song control him.

Eli looked down once more, and saw that the little queen had locked her front legs around Dara, just as Sky so often 'hugged' Dara with his, and he could see the dazed surprise on Dara's face as she sat down, with a thump. Heard the single note of joy and confusion: _Mother?_

_It's calling her __mama__?_ _Oh, dear god. Rel's worst nightmare, come true._ _Wonder if he'll believe Sky when the big ol' bug swears he never laid a hand. . . pedipalp, whatever. . . on her. . . _Eli had _just_ enough time to think that, to feel the smile tug at his lips, and then he registered what was really going on down there. Dara was staggering. She had more than enough strength to hold up the weight of the little queen, but she was reeling. She was obviously being hit with a hell of a lot more biotic mind-song than Eli was experiencing. . . _or maybe she doesn't have Kella's ghost sitting in her brain to protect her. Oh, shit_. "Sky! We have to get down there—" Eli put a hand on the rail, ready to vault over, mind already calculating how best to try to mitigate the twenty-foot drop.

_No!_ The voice was like a whip-crack in his mind. _You will damage yourself. Wait for control-song! _Sky sang a single note, and suddenly, Eli, Lin, and Sky all floated, as if gravity had no effect on them. _Okay, I've had zero-g training. . . _He already had a hand on the rail. He reached back for Lin's arm, latching on before his friend could float away entirely. He couldn't see Lin's face behind the polarized mask, but Lin was muttering a fervent invocation to the spirits as Eli more or less threw him at the floor below. Then Sky and Eli both launched themselves, similarly, slowly, gracefully, gliding to the floor below, managing to avoid the hundreds of wobbling, rocking eggs.

Sky's singularity vanished, and Eli's feet hit the ground, and he lunged forwards, just as Dara, covered in . . .goo. . . dropped back to the ground. The queen was on top of her, singing joy and confusion and need, and Eli barely got his hands on Dara's shoulders in time to keep her head from slamming down on the crystal-web floor. Lin was by his side now, and Eli could hear Lin saying something into the radio, but the words didn't make sense. There was the song, which part of him relished and drank in, and there was Dara, and there was nothing else that mattered at the moment. Eli pried off one of his gauntlets, unlatched Dara's helmet, and slid his fingers down under the flexible lamellar strips that made up the throat-piece of the armor, under the elasticized pressure suit, too, and found Dara's pulse. Too fast. Too fast to get a damned count. _Has to be 160 or so, and that's not good._

"Sky, for the love of god, _do_ something, her heart-rate's in hummingbird territory, and she's the only medic we've got till we can get her to the ship!" Eli could feel panic rising inside of him, but he pushed it down. _No blood. No wounds. This can be controlled, this can be taken care of._

Her eyes opened, and he went still in shock. He _knew_ Dara's eyes. Knew the chocolate brown tone of them, the mischievous sparkle, the long-fringed lashes. Knew how they could turn inwards when she was protecting herself, the liquid depths turning hard and cold. These weren't her eyes. They were alien, opalescent, _rachni_ blue. "Oh, my god, your _eyes_, Dara," he said, and had a peculiar sensation. He was saying the words, but there was song pouring through him, and it wasn't _all_ the thunderous chorus of the rachni queen. He glanced around. At least fifty other eggs had hatched, and sticky, gooey, larval soldiers and brood-warriors and workers were surrounding them, crooning. All mental, of course, none out loud. _That would explain that_. "Dara, _sai'kaea_, hold on, I've got you—_SKY!_"

Her eyes rolled up in her head, and her body started to spasm. Eli and Lin grabbed her flailing arms and held on like grim death. _Not going to let you hurt yourself._ She was screaming—_no, that's not screaming. My god, she's singing. She's trying to sing like the rachni do, but the human voice isn't meant to do that, she's going to flay open her vocal cords—_

There was a tremendous surge of song from Sky, Sky explaining rachni guiding-songs to Eli, at the _same time_ as he explained them to the little queen. The little queen lifted her head. Listened. And then looked down at Dara. Dara's body relaxed, and Eli almost panicked again, but when he fumbled for a heartbeat, it was slower now at her throat. Steadier, too. The song kept washing over him, like the sea on a shore, and Eli turned and looked at Lin. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Lin flipped up his visor. "Spirits, I can barely . . . I can barely put two thoughts together." His face was gray under the scales. Not a good color on a turian.

"Noisy baby," Eli agreed. Under his hands, Dara began to sing again, more softly. No words. Just music. Music that matched the songs in his head, the songs just barely held at bay by something _else_ in him.

Serana skidded around a corner and ran into the room, shouting, "I've got Dara's medical kit. . . . I could hear Sky calling me from the other side of the ship. . . _oh, spirits of light and flame."_ She simply stopped where she was. A dozen tiny warriors scuttled towards her, in mild threat display, and Serana lifted her hands. Sky sang an imperious note, and, looking abashed, the tiny soldiers scuttled out of her way. Serana inched forward now, turning side to side to stare at them all. "How did . . . how did they. . . all _hatch_?" she asked, dropping the med kit at Eli's side. Her tone was dazed, as if each thought took a long time to emerge from the dark well of consciousness.

"I'd really like to know that myself." Eli's teeth were clenched. The song was beautiful and hypnotic, and part of him simply wanted to lie back and bask in it. That part, somehow, was protecting him, however. The other parts of his mind still functioned.

_Heat. Sings-Patience did not tell me that he intended to bring up the temperature of the ship. He only sang of environmental systems. His mind was focused, when last he sang to me, on the oxygen, which was needed to preserve the lives of all on-board this ship. Light. Oxygen. He never spoke of heat, never thought of heat._ Sky's tone held orange-red sparks of anger in it, and a good deal of yellow-green worry. _Heat and oxygen are what is needed to cause the eggs to hatch. Heat lets the lifesong continue, when they have been frozen._

Eli was going through Dara's med kit, but he had no _idea_ what, if anything, to give her. _Sai'kaea__, please be okay, you're scaring the shit out of me. Give me a sign here—_

And then her eyes opened again, just as the little queen began to sing, ravenously, of hunger. Still rachni-blue. Sky sang urgently at the workers, harmonies that Eli couldn't understand, and then and told Eli, with just as much emphasis, _Give from your food packs. The workers must eat, to create the royal foods. I can sing this harmony for the little queen as well, but my body's supply is low. _

Eli blinked and dug out his packages of food bars, opening the wrappers to give them to the workers. "How are you going to produce this 'royal food'?" he started to ask, and then one of the handling appendages whipped forward and began to secrete golden, gelatinous fluid for the little queen. _Ah. Pedipalps. Again. What __don't__ those things secrete? Poison spit, semen, and, apparently, father's milk._

Dara sang, softly, her eyes blue and vacant, "She's hungry."

"Yeah, we got that." _Okay, singing is not much of a Dara thing. Her dad sings. I've never __once__ heard her sing. I think she mouths the words along when her dad's singing to __Phantom of the Opera__, but that's it._ For the first time, Eli wondered _why_ someone with such an enormous love for music wouldn't sing, but put it aside.

Suddenly, it was much easier to think. The little queen slid off of Dara's chest for a moment, and fully addressed herself to the royal jelly being offered by Sky. At Eli's feet, the workers were eating, eagerly, and. . . almost instantly secreting out golden ooze, the same color as the substance Sky was offering the queen. Eli grimaced. _Things about rachni I could have lived without knowing._

Dara looked up at Eli. The blue cast to her eyes faded a bit. "I . . . seem to be . . . covered in goo." It was still sung, but he could hear _Dara_ in that voice.

For a second, relief washed over him, and a quick, ludicrous image came to his mind. A condom the size of Dara's body, filled with a giant's enormous load of jizz, being poured over her. _That_ would account for her sticky state. Either that, or that same giant had a really bad case of post-nasal drip.

". . . I look like a giant came on me, huh?"

"I wasn't going to say it." _Okay, god only knows how she picked up on that, but she's still herself enough to joke, oh, thank you, god . . . _

"You sang it." Almost a whisper. _Oh, god that didn't sound good._

"Why is she _singing?_" Serana asked, sounding worried.

They had Dara there, and conscious, for about five more minutes. Long enough for her to give him and Lin _hell_ for making her watch four vids last night, in all their dubious twentieth century glory, horrible special effects and all. Serana took one of Dara's hands, Lin the other, and they both stiffened for a moment, then relaxed a bit.

Then the little queen ran out of food, and turned back to Dara. The song swelled again, and Eli swore mentally, just as Kasumi came out of the corridor behind them now, followed by one or two turian medics, to a huge chorus of hissing disapproval from the infant rachni all around them. "Excuse me!" Eli shouted over the top of them. "Sky! Would it help if _all_ of them got fed?"

_Yes._ The brood-warrior's voice was strained. _Difficult to sing so. They take the queen's song. Little-queen takes the song of Sings-Heartsong. . . also the songs of those who touch her skin, I think. I am. . . supporting Sing-Heartsong's melody. This has never happened before, in all the memories of those who went before. Never has happened before. Sometimes, a queen has hatched alone, as Life-Singer did. Some have gone mad, others found the voices-of-the-past within. All others have hatched with a brood-mother present. __Never__ has anyone other than a rachni served as such. Brood-mothers teach. Teach limits. Teach the songs. I do not know what else to do, but to protect Sings-Heartsong. As you are doing. Giving your songs to her, so that she may give them to the little-queen. But rest of brood must be tended, too, yes._

There were grays of total exhaustion in Sky's voice, and Eli just kept stroking Dara's hair, keeping one hand on her throat, and gave the turian medics a flat stare when they tried to get him to move. "Get her armor off and take her pulse at her wrist," he told them. "You heard Spectre Sky. Skin contact is needed." He looked around. Kasumi was staring at the humming, singing brood, her eyes wide, and he realized that the songs were having just as much an effect on her as on anyone else in the room. "Kasumi!"

She shook her head, rapidly, as if to clear it. "Yes, Eli?" Kasumi shook her head again. "My gods. I can't _think_."

"Let's see if we can get some human-friendly food down here for all the little ones. If they stop being hungry, maybe the little queen here will simmer down." Eli gestured with his free hand at the queen who still perched on Dara's chest, humming and singing. He was trying, hard, not to look at the larval queen like a parasite, but he was scared and angry—and awed and filled with wonder—all at the same time. It was hard not to direct the fear and the anger at the infant rachni, but he reminded himself, repeatedly, that it wasn't the little queen's fault. She was a baby, latching onto the first thing she saw that had. . . sustenance. _Did it have to be Dara, though?_ _Could've taken me. I'm __used__ to people trying to get in my head. _

It took hours. Crew members from the _Raedia_ brought down crates of food for the little rachni, who settled in to _devour_ it. Then half the workers proceeded to secrete more royal jelly, and the other half scuttled out of the room. Eli could chart their progress down the hall by the sound of surprised shouts and exclamations from the people outside the brood chamber. He took one hand off Dara's face to tab his radio. "Thell? You seeing workers in your location yet?" It wasn't quite a conscious thing, but Eli was taking command. Sky was out of commission. Everyone else on the ship was half-listening to the queen's song, which was, at least, starting to fade a little bit. But their expressions were _dazed._ Not that Eli could blame them. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity. How many humans or turians had ever, or _would_ ever, hear the birth-song of a rachni queen?

"If, by that, you mean the technicians from the _Raedia_, several are on hand—" Thell broke off, mid-sentence.

"Thell? You there?"

"Yes. I now understand the meaning of your inquiry. Several hundred rachni workers just entered the engine area. They are. . .doing things." Thell sounded fascinated. "I do not understand what they are doing. They were just hatched. How can they know anything about the engines or the ship? They are infants."

Dara moved under Eli's hands, and Serana hastily reached forward, trying to help her sit up. Dara cradled the little queen's pulsing, undulating body still, and the rachni settled her head on Dara's shoulder, and finally closed those brilliant blue eyes. The song faded to background noise.

Eli blinked, repeatedly. It was as if he'd been working in an ore-processing facility all day. The sudden cessation of noise, even to just a lower level, left a ringing silence in his head. Even Sky's song and the background hum of the little brood-warriors was quiet, in comparison.

Lin and Serana shook their heads, and seemed to come out of their daze. Kasumi moved over, reaching out to touch Dara. "Are you all right?" Kasumi asked, quickly.

Dara nodded, eyes still dazed, empty, and rachni blue. Inhuman and uncanny. Then she looked up, with an evident struggle to focus. "All of the workers together have assimilated the knowledge of the queen," Dara half-sang, a wavering, random little melody. "And the knowledge is embedded within the very walls of the ship. It was sung there when they sang its creation."

"I hope she doesn't sound like Sky permanently," Lin muttered. "Medical jargon was bad enough without having to send it through a rachni syntax parser."

Eli gave him a look. He really didn't want to think about permanent _brain damage_ right now, though god knew the medics had muttered about it, over the course of the day. They'd tried to set up electrodes on Dara's forehead to monitor brain activity, and their equipment had promptly overloaded. Too much ambient biotic energy in the air.

Thell, over the radio, sounded confused. "The ship knows? Their computer systems aren't like anything I've ever seen before." The elcor paused. "I'm not even sure what I found _was_ a computer."

"It's not a _living_ ship, is it?" Serana asked, suddenly.

_No,_ Sky told them, wearily, rustling forward very slowly. _The knowledge songs are sung into the crystals. Into the body of the ship itself._

"Into the matrices of the carbon and the silicon crystals themselves, that are part of the very structure of the ship. Just as they sing memory and history and information into the bones of their world. So that none of it will ever be lost, so long as there are those who can hear the song. An elegant adaptation to a species that has no voice, and no system of writing," Dara explained, her face still dazed and lost. Something inside of Eli wrenched. _Ah, __sai'kaea,__ I just got you __back__. Six years of distance. Don't leave now._

His fingers were still on the back of her neck. Skin contact. And she turned and _looked_ at him, and even though the eyes still burned blue, the expression was pure Dara. Mild annoyance, exasperation. "What does that word even _mean_?" she asked, and Eli just stared at her. And now, he heard a chorus in his mind that didn't seem to come from the little queen, who slumbered fitfully against Dara's shoulder. Blues. Deep, indigo blues, and yellow jags here and there. Piano music. If he closed his eyes, he could picture her fingers moving over the keys.

Eli opened his eyes in time to see that Dara's eyes were sliding shut again, and she listed to the side under her heavy burden of larval rachni. He caught her, and, with Lin's help, laid her on her side. "Now what?" Serana asked, staring down at them. "Get her to med bay?"

_No,_ Sky answered, wearily. _If we separate little-queen from her brood-mother now, little-queen will panic when she awakens. Will panic brood. Damage herself, and them. We must feed Sings-Heartsong. We must give her drink and sustenance, and we __must__ bring them both to the Singing Planet, and to Life-Singer._ The rachni's song was deeply troubled. Violets, grays, greens, yellows.

Eli stood back and watched as the medics hesitantly set up IVs. Saline, for fluids, some sort of a dextrose solution with salts, potassium, and other minerals and vitamins in it. It was a short-term solution, meant to keep her body cushioned from the pure shock. "Spectres, we'll stay here with her," one of the medics told them. "You should rest."

"Yeah. And when the little queen wakes up again, and you're sitting there slack-jawed, listening to her song, what then?" Eli was tired, annoyed, and willing to show it for once.

Serana put a hand on his shoulder, and he turned, frowning a little. Saw who it was, and let the scowl pass. "Eli? It's been something like eighteen hours."

Lin rubbed his fringe tiredly. "This is as close to indoctrination as I ever want to get," he admitted, tiredly. "Sky, will she at least settle down? Stop singing so much?"

"Life-Singer and Bargain-Singer didn't do nearly as much singing," Eli agreed, tightly. "Then again, the little queen's a baby. No self-control, right?"

_Exactly, Many-Voices. We are close to the mass relay, and the workers sing that they have repaired the ship's drive to its full strength. Still below the strength of the __Raedia's__ engines, but considering that the ship is two thousand cycles older, this is to be expected._ Sky scuttled closer, and put his bulk over Dara and the little queen. _Rest, Many-Voices_, he sang, and Eli suddenly recognized that he was again being addressed in the singular mode. A whisper of song. _If Sings-Heartsongs awakens, I will call you. I can find your song in any chorus, and you will hear me even in your sleep._

_There's something to be said for standing out from the crowd._ Eli got to his feet, and realized he hadn't eaten in about eighteen hours. "I'm staying on this ship," he warned the others. "The _Raedia_ can get along fine without me. And the floor here looks just as comfy as Omega's did."

Lin raised his hands. "I wasn't going to argue with you, _fradu_," he replied, mildly. "Besides, if we need to do anything, it's a much quicker trip from some room around here than from the _Raedia._"

Serana looked troubled. "Then I should stay, too."

"Get some rest in a real bed," Eli advised her, kindly. "You're not obligated to stay. And there might not be anything you can do." _Especially since you were just as dazed as Kasumi and Lin earlier._ The pressure on his mind was much less now, and he was able to relax a bit at the moment.

"_She's my sister, Eli. In a very real way."_ Serana crossed her arms over her chest and stared up at him. _"It __is__ an obligation. And she was my friend before she became Rel's wife."_

The words stopped him dead. Eli looked down at Serana, and sighed. _"Do as you will, then."_ He offered Lin a hand to get to his feet.

"I'm staying, too," Kasumi said, flatly. "Sam would kill me if I let anything happen to her. He's probably already going to have words for both of us, Sky."

_I would be grateful to hear those words, now,_ Sky admitted. _Sings-to-the-Past has a powerful song. His presence would help, I think._

"I can do a pretty good imitation," Lin offered, as Eli hauled him back onto his feet. "What in the blue blazes is going on here?" He dropped his voice slightly, and actually managed the drawl, in spite of the grating turian overtones of his voice. Kasumi, Eli, and Serana all began to laugh, and, all around them, tiny brood-warriors began to echo their laughter. Blue-green light everywhere.

They ate. Eli's blood sugar had been somewhere around the level of his socks, and he started to feel better as soon as he got _food_ in his stomach. They even found an anteroom of the breeding chamber and managed to shoo away enough workers to try to sleep. Serana curled up beside Eli, and Eli wrapped his armored arms around her, could not close his eyes. Too keyed up. Too alien an environment. And while he'd slept in armor on Omega on several occasions, somehow, tonight, the hardsuit dug into every single sensitive point in his body. Plus, of course, the room _rustled_ as the workers and soldiers swarmed here and there, occasionally coming over to study them curiously. And there was the sense of _strangeness_ in his own mind. It had abated, for the moment, but Eli poked at it, cautiously, like a tongue testing the gap where the smoothness of a tooth once had been. _Something is different in my head right now_, he decided. _Oh, well. So long as a new hole hasn't been installed, it's not like my brain couldn't stand some improvements. _

They'd at least agreed to sleep in shifts, and Kasumi had the first watch over Dara and the little queen. But still, he couldn't rest. Oddly, the image that kept coming back to him was Dara in the hospital, five years ago. Poisoned, because she'd been continuing to eat the levo-dextro diet in Rel's absence. He'd visited her every day after school. With Siara, of course, so Siara wouldn't think there was anything untoward going on. All he'd done was touch her hand, stroke her hair, and tell her that Rel's spirit was probably trying to reach across the stars to touch hers, and to _stay_. Just words. Anything that her subconscious mind could latch onto. And now, words were even more meaningless, but at least the touch of a hand might help her. Might give her something to latch onto. To let her find her way home.

"Eli?" Serana whispered.

"_Yes, Serana?_"

"_What's wrong?"_

"_Can't sleep. The queen's song stirred up something in my head. Something from Kella. It's starting to die down now."_ He patted her shoulder. _"Go to sleep, Serana. You were supposed to have next watch after Kasumi, right? I'll take that, so you can rest."_

Serana propped herself up on one elbow, and stared down at him. The room was very dark; the little workers were scuttling everywhere, and occasionally, they'd set up a new patch of _something_ bioluminescent, and the room would glow green for a moment or two. He couldn't see Serana's face at all. Just the outline of her. He reached up and stroked her jaw, alongside the breather mask she currently wore. _"Something's bothering you?"_

"_I feel useless. Like I have no purpose or place."_ The words sounded sad.

Eli closed his eyes, which burned. This wasn't the best time for a conversation like this, but what the hell. _"Of course you have purpose and place. You worked with Kasumi to __find_ _this ship, didn't you?"_

"_I . . .yes. But now that I'm here, on it, there's nothing I can do. The computers are like nothing Thell or I have ever seen. The little workers are everywhere, doing things I can't even understand. And Dara—"_ Serana's voice broke a little. _"I'm not a medic, Eli."_

"_Neither am I,"_ he reminded her. "_I've got basic CPR in two, three species at the moment."_

"_But you. . . stayed __aware__. You were able to keep thinking, even to give orders. To get the infants food, which quieted them down, and let the queen be calmer."_ Serana still hovered over him in the darkness. _"How?"_

"_Wish I knew. Something to do with being. . . a little asari. For once, in the right ways."_ Eli rubbed at his eyes. _God, if only I could sleep. "You're going to find, Serana, that sometimes, there's nothing you can do in a given situation besides watch, help when asked, stay out from underfoot, and __learn__. Spirits know I've done that enough in the last four years. It's frustrating, but no one's an expert on everything. And at the moment, we don't even have an expert on what's at hand. Even Sky is lost, I think."_ He let his gloved hand trail down from her face, gently, to her arm. They were all in their hard-suits, for oxygen issues as well as the danger of any of the makeshift repairs leaking and resulting in a depressurization event. They had their helmets off, for the moment, however. Just for comfort as they slept, but they all were wearing breathers. _"Does that help?"_

"_A little."_ Serana laid back down beside him.

"_You okay every other way? You and Lin and Kasumi were out of it earlier. I was worried about all of you."_ Of course, Sky had assured him that they were all right, and he'd accepted Sky's words, absolutely.

"_It got much better when the queen finally went to sleep. All of a sudden, the wonder, the glory of it, died down."_ Serana hesitated. _"You're really worried about her, aren't you?"_

"_Sky's worried. That's enough to make me worry."_ Crisp, quick words. _"We'll be at the Singing Planet in two days. Then Life-Singer can. . . fix this." Or not._

There was a pause. The darkness around them flared green for a moment, and the rustling continued. "Will you all please find someplace else to go for a while?" Eli asked the workers, in the most civil tones he could manage. "I can't sleep like this."

Much to his astonishment, they began to file out. _Sky?_

_Yes. I made request-song. Sleep, Many-Voices. Little-queen and Truth-Singer's daughter-queen rest. So must you._

Another few moments of silence. Then Serana asked, very quietly, and with more than a little insecurity in her voice, _"Eli? Do you and Lin still love me?"_

Eli opened his eyes. He'd just finally started to _drift_. _"Of course we do. Lin's crazy about you. Just . . . no privacy. Much as I kidded him on Mindoir, we had, what, thirty-six to forty-eight hours, tops, on the planet before taking off again? Grant the poor guy twelve hours for sleep. Grant him three hours each day to see his family. Take another twelve out for re-packing and meetings and everything else. That leaves. . . " Eli counted in his head, "six to fourteen total hours in which he could have been courting you. In my parents' house? In front of my mom and Lantar? Give him a break, fierce one. I'll make fun of him all you want, though."_ He patted her on the shoulder. _"If it helps, I told him to steal your estrus meds and find someplace to keep you alone with him for a while."_

Serana actually _squawked_ at that one, and beat on his shoulder plate. Eli rolled over, chuckling faintly. He figured she'd gotten the reassurance she needed, and he'd made a step towards establishing some of the distance he needed, for his own sanity. Months ago, he'd thought that if she were ever killed, he'd go after her murderers, kill them, and then probably eat a bullet. He was in a better place now. He knew he'd still go after the murderers. By Lin's side. But he wouldn't kill himself. And he wouldn't let Lin do the same. Serana's light had helped, but other things had, too. He had to admit it. Coming home to Mindoir, to his friends, had helped. Even Omega, while Omega had been horrific. . . had been manageable. Even, oddly, fun in places.

And as he finally drifted off to sleep, he wondered at the piano music he could hear drifting through his thoughts. _Stupid earworms,_ he decided. _At least it's a decent song. . . _and sank into sleep.

**Dara, Rachni Space, October 2-3, 2196**

_Time passed in a haze. Memories, emotions, thoughts, information. Everything she'd ever read, everything she'd ever heard, agreed with, disagreed with, every argument with her father, with Rel, with her mom, re-lived. Every piece of music she'd ever heard or played, revisited, note by note. Every patient who died, starting with Kella. Every patient she'd ever saved. All the deaths on Bastion, the exhaustion, the stress, the pain, re-examined. And, most astonishingly, wept for, in a chorus of minds that surrounded hers. __This is not right__, the nascent voices told her. __There is injustice, there is pain, there is despair. . . __ and then she had to show them the good things, too, show them that it wasn't all just pain and despair out there. Showed them friendship. Laughter. Family. Love. Play. . . play of words, play of wits, how winning in such a game could be losing, and losing in such a game could ensure a later victory. . . ._

Flashes, here and there. Sky eating, and then producing royal jelly for the little queen. Feeding her, holding her to him almost in the same hug he usually gave to Dara. _Whole new meaning to midnight feedings,_ Dara thought, but it was only just barely her own thought. And while there was _need_, there was also love from the little queen. Amorphous, unfocused at first, but then, as the mind developed, and rapidly, the need/love began to dominate Dara's every waking moment, every thought. . . .

Dara found herself standing at one point, carrying the little queen in her arms, braced along most of her body, and Eli staring down at her, his eyes absolutely _black_, the inky darkness of a night without stars. "Dara, no. You've got an IV stuck in your arm, and you're half out of your mind, and the ship's only half put back together. You're not stumbling around without someone with you."

"She wants to see the stars. Sky sings of them so often." It seemed so simple. So straight-forward. Her voice was little more than a whisper at the moment. _Laryngitis_, her doctor mind told her, calmly. _You've somehow overstrained your vocal cords. Nothing left but crow-song. Harsh and broken, not the melodies of the mind._

"I don't care. _You_ have to set limits, Dara. She still calls you _mama_, doesn't she? And that's what mothers do. Even . . . brood-mothers, I guess." His hand touched her forearm. Midnight blue, indigo blue, red sparks of anger and yellow-green anxiety. _Hold on, __sai'kaea__. We're almost there. Eight hours out from the planet._

_Mother, do you accept such rebellion from your brood-warriors?_ The storm of music shook her consciousness again.

_What do you think the place of a brood-warrior is?_

_To advise. To join their songs with ours, and give counsel, but once a decision has been reached, to accept our song into their hearts, and obey without further question._

_That is not how it is among humans. Everyone advises. Everyone makes choices. _

_That seems inefficient. _

_So's democracy, but it works for us._ Dara's eyes opened, and she was looking up at Eli again. "Sorry. We're . . . comparing notes on governmental norms now." She looked into the queen's eyes. "Maybe you should ask him nicely to help us get to an observation port, huh?"

_Nicely?_

_With customary courtesy._

_Many-Voices, favored brood-warrior, leader in battle, first singer of peace songs, please take us to a place where we may see the stars._

Eli looked dazed for a moment. "She's. . . really loud."

"I know." Dara paused, then added, dizzily, "She likes you, though. Four designations and a pretty please in there. That's a lot of honor."

_More than respect, Mother. Love, too._ It was clear in the little queen's voice. Love, an endless sea of it, washing over Dara right now. Dark blues, indigos. _All of your brood-warriors, the other queens, all worthy of love. Have seen it in your memories. . . but need more. _

"Yeah. I'm very honored. She's going to need to use those legs, _sai'kaea_. I'm not risking you falling. You'll hurt yourself, or crush her. Lin!" That was a shout, and Lin came in at a sprint, workers scurrying out of his way. "One on either side of her. Dara, put the little queen down. She can walk. She _has_ legs."

_So much rebellion. So much anger. He wishes to protect you. . . from me? I am a danger to you?_

Sky's voice now, soothing the little queen. _Nothing like this has ever been done before. Walk, little-queen. We will show you the stars and their songs._

She had no recollection of walking to the observation room. She knew, on looking around it, that the domed, translucent place, had been used both for planning battles and communing with the voices of the stars. The little queen sighed chords of delight, hummed to herself, and clambered up to a dais in the room to look up at the stars that streaked around them, unsettlingly red-shifted in FTL. Dara swayed a little, grateful to have Lin holding her up, her left arm around his waist, her right arm around Eli's. Cold metal of armor, but both of them had their gauntlets off. Were touching her skin. Whenever they did that, the flow of memories was easier to bear, but she was also a conduit for them. _Every argument Eli had ever had with Lantar, every time Lin felt he had disappointed his parents or let them down, the squabbling of his younger siblings, all boiled through her. Dara distantly hoped she wasn't going to retain any of it. Then, from two different perspectives, the Rite on Tuchanka. Their boot camp. Falling in love with Brennia. Watching Lin fall for her. All the time on Macedyn. Brennia's death, all of it drawn through her now, like liquid through a siphon._ "There wasn't . . . .Eli, there wasn't anything . . . ." So _hard_ to find words. "Told you to get the medical records from Lin. . . you couldn't have done anything. _I_ couldn't have, not without. . . crash cart, adrenaline. Maybe not even then. When. . . I kept Livanus alive. . .bullet had only nicked the aortic arch. . . . Brennia, the bullets destroyed it. Nothing either of you could have done. . . stop _beating yourselves_ for it. . . " Dara sagged forward, feeling their grief pour out of them all fresh, all new, and yet old and tired at the same time, wanting to fix it, knowing blurting it out that way had just made things worse, but she might not ever get a chance to say it again. She had a niggling feeling that she wasn't going to survive whatever it was that the little queen was doing to her. . . . and yet indigo blue and sky blue surrounded her, held her up, and then she was gone again. . .

_Intimacies, flickering by so fast she knew she wouldn't remember them. Love and friendship and pain and betrayal all over again. Pale blues. Green-yellows. Orange overtones_. Dara opened her eyes. She was back in the brood-chamber again. Someone was leaning over her. "Sings-Secrets?"

"Serana." The turian girl answered, with some emphasis. She was both there and not there at the same time. Mostly a figure made of yellow light, warm and beautiful at the moment. Surrounded by a haze of emotion-song colors. "We're apparently _landing_ this huge ship on the planet shortly. They want me to go to the _Raedia._"

Dara looked up at her hazily. "You should. That way, if the ship burns up on re-entry, you'll be safe. Eli. . . and Lin. . . want that. . . "

Serana reached out and touched her hand, hesitantly. "You're still singing, you know that?"

"Everything's. . . a song. . . in my head. . . . "

Urgency now. A sense of questions, that if not asked now, might never be answered. "I've always dreamed about going into battle by their sides," Serana said, quietly, after a moment. "You _did_ that, on Omega. What was it like?'

_You ask me this now? When I'm reliving every minute of my life, all over again? Not in the quick, skip-over-the-dull-parts way of the damned simulator, but in a way that will keep it all, locked in rachni memory-song forever, like an insect preserved in amber, for whatever good that will do them?_ Dara looked around. The little queen was dozing, for the moment. Dozens of workers were laboring to prepare the queen's next meal. Her head hurt. Her arm hurt, where an IV poked its way under her skin. "Wonderful," Dara managed. Sings-Secrets deserved answers. "Both. . . good at their jobs. Never let up. Never let anyone fall down. They'd just pick you back up again. Laugh with you. Wish. .. I'd had a chance to work with them before. Wish I'd been with them on Macedyn. Or Edessan. Or Tuchanka." She shrugged. "Wasn't. Was everywhere else."

Serana leaned forward, suddenly, her expression suddenly intent, her mouth forming a question, "Do you—"but then the little queen woke up, and Dara wasn't there anymore again. . . .

**Kasumi, the Singing Planet, October 3, 2196**

Kasumi hadn't really dared do more than send a very guarded message or two home to Mindoir since finding the ship. _Package located. Encountering difficulties. Freya at issue._ There had been several concerned messages back, equally guarded. Kasumi had been honestly really unsure how to phrase the reports, and hadn't had _time_ to write more than a sentence or two. At the moment, she was just hoping, quite desperately, that she wasn't about to get Sam's daughter killed, twenty-seven days short of her twenty-first birthday. _Or brain-damaged. That would be irony. To have survived Omega, and all the lobotomizations there, only to be burned out by a rachni queen._

The _Raedia_ kept a respectful distance from the brood-mother vessel, and assumed a standard orbit as the rachni vessel streaked through the thin atmosphere of the rachni homeworld. From space, it was not a prepossessing planet. It barely qualified as 'garden,' at all. For starters, its atmosphere had about half the pressure of Earth's; a very thin mix, indeed. There was oxygen here, but not enough to support human life, not without several intensive gene mods. The rest of the atmosphere contained large amounts of carbon dioxide, argon, and helium. The volcanoes on the surface put out belches of more toxic gases, as well. The Singing Planet was also cold; its atmosphere was, after all, thin, and it was just on the outer edge of the viability ring around its star, where water could remain liquid. As such, lichens and grasses were common in the northern and southern hemispheres, and a thick band of fern-like forest girdled the equator. Most oxygen production took place in the seas, with plankton, of course. But those seas were cold.

"It's landed successfully," Lysandra announced, quietly. "I'm amazed, honestly. The workers must have repaired many, many systems in such a short time span."

Kasumi swallowed. _Step one, complete,_ she thought. _Dara, the queen, and the ship survived landing._ Sky and Eli had remained aboard; Lin, Serana, Thell, and Kasumi had returned to the _Raedia._ "Let's get to the shuttles, everyone," Kasumi said, with more cheer than she felt.

Thell and she were taking one to the ground, so that they'd have something with enough capacity for Sky's bulk, on return. Serana and Lin were taking the other. Kasumi and Lin were piloting each, and again, she had time to look at the surface as they dropped from the ionosphere down.

There were very few structures. A human or a turian or an asari planet would have had massive cities. And looking at rachni, one would tend to assume . . . termite-like mounds, or something like that. But no, the surface was almost untouched. Rachni, after all, tended to burrow. . . an adaptation mostly for protection from the elements on this cold and desolate world, Kasumi thought. But as the shuttle landed, Kasumi caught sight of several things that absolutely took her breath away. The vids from the ancient rachni worlds during the war that had nearly ended in their total destruction hadn't shown _anything_ like this.

The Singing Planet's wide tundra plains were covered with jutting spires of crystal, lancing up out of the crust at odd, sharp angles. Many were transparent. Others were white, with traces of color. Scanners were picking up carbon, silica, and _eezo_ all over the damn place. And there, to the west. . . Kasumi's mouth dropped open. The rachni had, at some point, taken hundreds of these crystal spires, and settled them against each other, leaning against one another, wedged, so that they could not fall down any further. A sheet of ice, a wedge of crystal, a frozen wave, perhaps. And where there wasn't crystal, there was the crystalline extrusions that she'd grown accustomed to seeing on the brood-mother ship. Delicate traceries, like lace, like a spider's web, in curving, organic shapes. Binding the crystals together.

Kasumi hopped down the hatch of the shuttle, and watched as thousand of little rachni swarmed out of the hatches of the brood-mother vessel beside which their shuttles had landed. Thell lumbered out behind her, staring around.

Sky scuttled out, huge compared to all the tiny hatchlings. He was tall enough that when his legs elevated his body off the ground, Takeshi, who was over three feet in height now, could stand under the brood-warrior with a couple of inches to spare. The rest of Sky's body, and his long, sinuous neck, made his overall height well in excess of seven feet, Kasumi had to guess. He was certainly taller than Garrus or Rel, but not as tall as Gris. And yet he moved with enormous delicacy, and had one handling appendage wrapped around Dara's shoulders. Eli, on the other side of Dara, had an arm wrapped around her waist, while Dara herself once again carried the little queen. Kasumi smiled faintly behind her mask. _Would probably take a crowbar to get him away from her at the moment._

All that Kasumi could hear was wind and the rustling of many limbs in the long grass. The atmosphere wasn't thick enough for hurricane-force winds, but this wind was katabatic, and howled in from the north, from the thick glaciers that Kasumi could see in the distance. A very thin layer of powdery snow lay across the ground; the atmosphere didn't support cloud formation often, apparently. _I'm not sure this world could be any more alien if it tried_, she thought, and shivered in spite of the warmth inside her envirosuit.

Lin and Serana exited the other shuttle, and they all moved up to join Sky, Eli, Dara, and the little queen. Thell had continued to look around in interest, and suddenly asked Sky, over the radio, "How did you move the crystals where you needed them, without heavy machinery? Surely, millions of your tiny workers could not have carried them there on their backs."

_We sang them up from the earth, where we needed them to be,_ Sky answered, as prosaically as if he'd said, _We used a contracting company and a lot of backhoes._

"You sang the crystals up," Thell repeated the words as if holding them in forceps to examine them.

_Yes._ Sky paused. _The ground here is strong. Old. Stable. The crystals form naturally, part of the plate that underlies most of this world. Layers and layers of it. We sing them up, using our biotics as a group. We move them into place. Building is one of the greatest forms of harmony. _

"Every time I think I've gotten your people figured out, Sky, you show me another wonder," Kasumi told him, and stared at the crystalline structure again, in awe. The sunlight glittered and shone off of it vividly, and she imagined it would be almost unbearable for human eyes at sunrise or sunset.

_These walls are new. The ancient seat of the queen of queens was destroyed in orbital bombardment. Much history lost then. These walls have only the history of our people since Truth-Singer allowed Life-Singer to flee. But it is of no moment. The other crystals, the ones still under the soil. . . they hold the old words. The Singing Planet still sings our songs, and will until the moment our star gives up its life._ Sky paused. _The oldest layers are sometimes in jeopardy. From volcanoes or the thunder-shakes of plates moving. We rescued many old fragments from areas that could not be tended in our. . . long sleep._

With the words, faint images. Silicon and carbon atoms, re-arranged inside of crystalline matrices, by pure intention and thought. Recording knowledge. Recording memory. Recording lives. Since their discovery of this method of 'writing,' the rachni had poured everything they felt worth recording into the crystals. Into the earth. The crystals were usually silent, but all it took was someone choosing to pour energy into them to hear the biotically-encoded songs once more.

Kasumi nodded, numbly. "Now you're just seeing if you can strike me dumb."

_You never lose your song, Light-and-Playful-Dancer,_ Sky assured her, but his blue-green harmonies were studded through with yellows of anxiety. _We must move quickly now. Into the hive of the queen of queens._

"How do you find the information that you want?" Thell asked. Such a prosaic response to wonder. "Surely, a library or cataloging system is needed, on such a gigantic scale."

_We can sing of that later, Sings-Patience. But not now._

**Elijah and Dara, the Singing Planet, October 3, 2196**

It might be possible to get drunk on wonder, to become numb to it, Eli thought, looking up as they entered the vast structure of the crystalline hive. The walls were white-to-translucent, letting in light from all directions. The entryway was a long hall, which had open air all the way to the peaked roof above, hundreds of feet in the air. On either side of that long hallway, there were level after level of organic-looking floors, like what they had seen on the brood-mother ship. Weblike, yet not. Crystalline, but resinous. Glittering, but soft. Each tier opened up into that main hall, and the entire structure _swarmed_ with rachni. Millions of them.

Workers poured down from tier to tier, chittering, skittering when they hit the floor, moving out of the way of Eli's descending feet through senses he couldn't even detect, like rat-sized beetles or, Eli prayed they wouldn't be offended if they read the comparison in his head, cockroaches.

Soldiers, larger, more powerfully built, approached in a line, and Sky sang one glorious note at them, and they seamlessly parted ranks and fell in around them. From interception squad to an honor guard within seconds. Eli glanced at Dara, his skin absolutely crawling under his suit. He loved Sky, same as anyone else on Mindoir, but this? This was a little much.

Her face didn't reassure him. As it had been for two, three days now, her expression was dazed, the blue cast to the eyes ever-present, and Eli had to shake her a little. She'd hate to have been here and not to have seen this, he knew. _"Sai'kaea_, look. Look at it. You've always wanted to see the rachni homeworld." _Look at it and __see__ it. Share this with me. Be human with me._

The dazed expression vanished, and she looked up. Her eyes widened, still rachni blue, but they weren't blind to awe now. "Oh, my god, Eli. . . "

"I know, right? Come on, stay with us."

She almost stumbled, and he and Sky steadied her, and then they continued down the hall. Through door thirty feet tall, at least, which again looked made of liquid lace turned solid, a fretwork of ice, delicate, and yet, somehow, Eli suspected it was probably more durable than plasteel. Beyond that, was Life-Singer's chamber.

Eli inhaled. It was larger than the brood chamber in the ship, of course. It had rounded walls, and was actually dug down into the ground. Fretworks of liquid lace everywhere. Crystals, reflecting the glorious light of the sun above, almost blindingly, except that, again, a living carpet of workers rustled along the floor and walls, constantly moving and undulating. That took down a bit of the glare. There were eggs here. Thousands of them, being tended by dozens of brood-warriors. Some in the process of hatching. Fragments of egg were carried away by little workers almost instantly. Post-larval soldiers and workers were streaming _out_ of the chamber, too. Off to do their duties, apparently.

And in the center of the chamber, on a sort of dais, Life-Singer crouched, humming and resplendent and huge. She was over twenty feet in height when she reared up, as she did now. A clear indication of why brood-warriors _had_ to be around Sky's size. . . although Sky was definitely the biggest in the entire room. _Sings-to-the-Sky, you return to lend your voices to our harmony._ The orchestral precision of her voice was marred by surprise. _You found the eggs—they have hatched? This was not intended!_

_This was an accident, misfortune-song._ Sky's voice held regret and sorrow. _And may have caused hurt to my little singer, our little queen of Truth-Singer's brood. Sings-Heartsong stands as brood-mother to the little queen of the ancient wreck. She took the birthing song and gave of her own songs to sustain the little queen, but it has cost her, and may continue to cost her._ Violas and cellos and bass, minor keys, grays, violets. Eli clenched his teeth.

_I would not wish the hatching-madness on anyone, the lack of songs, but the human mind is so fragile. . . come forward, Sings-Heartsong, with your burden. Little-queen, do not be afraid. You are among us once more, as all of the voices-within have promised._

Sky had released Dara's shoulder, but Eli refused to release her waist as she stumbled forward. He made damned sure she wasn't going to trip or fall now, and if Life-Singer didn't want a mere human brood-warrior to come forward with either of the queens. . . _gah, now I'm thinking like a rachni. . . _ she could bite him, for all he cared.

_Peace, Many-Voices, brood-brother to my Sky. I will not cause harm-songs to your queen. But I must examine her, must listen to her songs and that of the little queen, and see if their harmonies can be made separate again, without causing harm to their songs. Your songs must be in harmony, too. Be at peace._

That powerful voice couldn't be denied. The gentleness, the love, the concern. Eli got Dara to the dais, and turned to look back at the others. They seemed impossibly far away at the moment, but then, this small part of this immense structure had to be the size of a hangar. Lin and Serana raised their hands, acknowledging his look.

And then the singing began. It shook the walls, shook the floor, shook the ceiling and all the webs around them, as the little-queen and Life-Singer 'conversed.' Eli was only catching flickers of music and impressions, memories, lives, song. Some felt familiar, others, completely alien. _You are a part of the Great Life,_ Life-Singer declared. _You are a part of this hive, and all other hives. This human, whom you have taken as brood-mother, is not rachni. You must leave her. She cannot give you all that you need to live, to thrive._

_But I love her. She is my mother!_ Shimmering dissonances, and Dara screamed in pain. _Son of a bitch_, Eli thought, grimly, and stepped behind her. Locked his arms around her. _You're not alone, and you're not going to fall down._

Dara's head _swam_. She was really quite sure that she was going to die this time. Her vision kept skewing, and her legs were numb, and she was aware, somehow, that Eli was holding her up, by pure human strength. His words whispering at the back of her mind, _You're not alone. I'm here. You're not alone. . . _almost drowned by the chorus of the rachni. She could hear them. She could hear _all_ of them. And the little queen was clinging to her, and she was holding the little queen tightly. Even though the past two days—had it been two days, or three?—had hurt, in many ways, they were still among the best of her life. Knowing that the best of her had passed to this little queen, the worst with it, too, but ameliorated by thousands of other lives, the dross of her existence tossed out, the best preserved, honed, used to let the little one find her way. Feeling the love burgeoning up through the little one, expanding to her entire brood of nest-mates. And yet, Life-Singer sang love now, too. Reassurances. Parting didn't have to be pain. Change didn't have to be pain. It was just something that happened.

_She is my mother, and I will not leave her/She is my child and I don't want to give her up/You're not alone, __sai'kaea__, you will never be alone, you can do this/You cannot give-take from one another any more than you have, you must separate to grow, to live._

And that was what did it for Dara. Tears were streaming down her face, but she knew it was right. The little queen _needed_ to be among rachni to grow. To be what she _could_ be. To learn, to develop. To stay entirely among humans would stunt her, retard her, and Dara couldn't abide that thought. _Look, little queen, look what happened to me when I cut myself off from my entire kind, from my friends, from those who loved me. Learn from my mistakes._

_But I love you._ Forlorn. _You are what I know. _

_I will visit. And maybe you can visit, too. Sky should not be the only one of his kind on our world._

Joy, then, loud and obstreperous, from the little queen. And from Life-Singer, a slow, thoughtful reply, _I have sung this song before, but Sky sang unease. A colony of singers on a human world. . . but now, I think, there will be more need. Sings-to-the-Sky! Too long have you stood apart from the hive. You have grown strong in the silent places, learning from others' songs. You will return your wisdom to the hive today, and when you leave, you will take others of our kind with you. Including this young one of your hatching, who has earned his name on Shanxi. Sings-of-Glory, you will go with he who spawned your brood and learn with him._

Blue-green happiness, everywhere. Dara released the little queen, who asked, shyly, _Do I have a name?_

Life-Singer's tremendous voice filled their minds. _You already know your name-song. Sing it._

_Joy-Singer! I am Joy-Singer!_ The little queen delicately touched Dara's helmet with her chelicerae, and let herself slide to the ground, before slowly, with several glances backwards, scuttling to Life-Singer's side. _Someday, may I be queen on Mindoir?_

_We will see if the humans are as adaptable as they like to sing._ Life-Singer's tone was thoughtful. _Sings-Heartsong may pave the way for a different sort of union than she thought she would create._

Dara's knees gave out, and Eli swore as he felt her entire weight sag into his arms. He pulled her head back and peered at her face. Her eyes were still open, still rachni blue, however. And she was breathing fast and hard, fogging up the inside of her mask. "Dara, talk to me," he said, his throat tight. "Come on. Talk to me."

"Oh, god, Eli, it _hurts_ to let go, it _hurts_ to let go—"

"I know it does, I _know_ it does, but sometimes you _have_ to—" If anyone knew that, Eli did.

"I know, but it hurts, and I don't want to be here anymore." And that was sung again. He had no idea why she'd never sung around him before. Her speaking voice was contralto and pleasant, her singing voice low-toned, a little husky. It had whiskey and honey and _sex_ in it, and Eli gave some serious thought to just picking Dara up and hauling her the hell out of there at that point. His arm slid down, moving towards her knees to do just that. "No, Eli, I can walk. I _have_ to walk. I can't look weak—"

"To hell with that. Lin and Serana are the only turians around, and they sure as hell don't think you're weak." That was a growl.

"The rachni. . . see. . . a queen. . . "

_God damn it all._ Eli wrapped his arm around her waist, slid her own arm up and over his shoulder, and walked her out, managing a stiff nod to Life-Singer and Joy-Singer.

A flicker of song from the little queen. _I will miss you, too, Mother,_ and Dara missed a step, and Eli could almost feel the bolt of pain through her mid-section himself. _Bring your songs here again soon, and the voices of your most-loved, for they are all a part of you._

"Sky," Eli said, through clenched teeth as he reached the far end of the breeding chamber, "please, for the love of god, tell me we can get off this rock now."

_Not quite yet,_ Sky said, and there were pink overtones to his song again. _Life-Singer has made a request of me, personally. I cannot decline it. But you others need not remain. I will be back aboard the __Raedia__ before evening, I think. You may wish to leave before our song begins._

Kasumi snorted. "And who's going to fly your shuttle for you?"

_Sings-to-the-Sky will be given a rachni ship, with members of his hive who will attend him, create a hive on Mindoir. Truth-Singer will understand the necessity. And we may sing guardian-songs for the relics of the Sowers-who-are-lost from beneath the ground, I think._ Life-Singer's voice was almost placid.

Kasumi looked at Dara. "You want to go upstairs right now? The doctors in med bay will want to look after you."

_Study me, you mean._ The thoughts were distant and hazy. Dara shook her head. She wanted to cradle the entire experience to her heart just a little longer, before it got reduced to a heap of numbers, a pile of explanations. "Not yet. I want to see a _little_ of this world first." She looked at the others. "We're. . . probably the first non-rachni to set foot on this planet, other than the krogan invaders, _ever_. Don't you want to explore a little, while Sky's occupied?" Dara was suppressing, as best she could, the waves of dizziness still washing through her

Serana's expression was hidden by her polarized mask, but Dara could hear the smile in her voice. "Well, you _sound_ a lot more like yourself already. No more singing."

"Sorry. . . about that. . . " Dara gathered her thoughts, which were already trying to scatter. She could still hear _song_ all around her. Workers chattering to each other about the need to fix a filigree on the third tier. Soldiers grumbling about the intruders in the hive who just wouldn't _leave_. Brood-warriors telling them to hush, that these were allies, brothers and sisters of Sings-to-the-Sky, who would sing to Life-Singer shortly. "I know it had to have hurt your ears."

Serana cocked her head to the side, and said, impatiently, "Is it just a very common human thing to run yourself down at all times, or is it just something that Spectres and the children of Spectres share? Eli insists that he's not smart, when he is. You insist that you're not beautiful, or that your voice is ugly, or whatever damned thing."

"Modesty," Kasumi said, dryly. "Even Western cultures find it unbecoming to boast about oneself." She looked around. "Are we staying or going?"

Eli's expression was still taut as he looked down at Dara now, and she was struck by something seeming _different_ about his face. "Her eyes haven't shifted back yet," he told Kasumi, one hand lifting Dara's chin. "I think we should go."

"Eli, no. I'm fine. I want to hear Sky's song. I want to walk on the face of this world and _see_ it." She looked up at him. "Weren't you the one who told me to look at this?" Her gesture encompassed the grandeur of the great hall, the scuttling workers, the shimmering crystal and webs.

Thell rumbled, "If it is agreeable to everyone else, I would like to stay as well. If the rachni permit it, I would like to take vids of their architecture. It is. . . amazing."

Dara looked around. There was no assent or dissent around her. "I don't think they mind. They'll let you know if you're going anywhere, ah, restricted."

Lin put a hand on Serana's shoulder. "I'm for getting in the shuttle, myself."

"Lin, where's your sense of adventure?" Serana chided.

"I left it on the _Raedia._ Our other little one here. . . _Freya. . . _scared the _s'kak_ out of me. But we can look around for a bit, I guess."

Dara gave Lin a set of finger-flicks for the continued poking over the nickname and the squad name, and they made their way out of the crystalline hall. She was suddenly immersed, again, in song. Cracks were developing on the tops of the crystals. Workers were ready to crawl up there and repair those fissures. Others were chattering excitedly about the coming mating-song. Wondering about the new little-queen. But the workers' songs were low-songs. Soft, quiet, a mass of voices almost entirely alike.

Out on the flat plains, Dara stared to the north, at the vast expanse of glaciers. "Don't the rachni fear that the icewalls will move south and destroy their work?" Thell asked, looking northwards, himself.

"They never have. Not in ten thousand years," Dara said, surprising herself. "The rachni have to mine those glaciers for water, however. So little falls from the atmosphere, and the only liquid water here on the plains flows in late spring, summer, and early fall, from those glaciers. For a while, the tundra here turns into mud. Then it freezes again."

"How do you _know_ this?" Kasumi asked, sounding fascinated.

Dara didn't look away from the glaciers. "Memory-song is strong," she said.

Eli, looking down at her, felt a pang of absolute fear. He'd fought hard, for three months, to get Dara to open up. To light up, the way she used to, to smile and joke. If she was gone again, subsumed under the rachni mind, the way she'd lost herself inside the turian mind-set. . . She turned. Looked at him, all alien blue eyes. Not the soft chocolate brown he knew so well. "Come on. I want to see one of the pillars up close. That one." She pointed to the northeast, to the first finger of stone that reached up out of the ground.

They'd wandered around for a half hour or so, when Kasumi said, "I'm going to head back to the ship. Thell, I'll fly you up. You four come up when you're ready, but not too much longer, understood?" She looked right at Eli as she spoke.

Eli flipped a channel on his radio, and paged Kasumi directly. "If I have to carry her over my shoulder, yeah."

Fifteen minutes later, they saw dozens of little workers boiling up out of the dirt around them. Dara was walking off ahead of them, and Lin asked, "What are they _doing_?"

"The rachni have hundreds of thousands of miles of tunnel under the planet's surface," Dara answered. It wasn't quite song, but she was sort of humming to herself as she walked ahead of them. "We're effectively walking on their ceiling right now. Plus, these workers are excited. They say it's almost time for the dance to begin."

_God, I wonder if just distance from the little queen is going to make this abate_, Eli thought, very worried. Dara had just reached the pillar of crystal, opaque white, with silvery veins of eezo threading across its surface. It leaned at a forty-five degree angle out of the ground, anchored by something far beneath the surface. Dara actually hopped up on it and started to climb. _Damn. She __hates__ climbing usually._

Eli sighed. "Lin, you and Serana head back to the shuttle. I'm going to go grab Dara by the hair."

"Better you than me, _fradu_," Lin agreed, and he and Serana headed back to the shuttle.

Eli approached carefully, stepping around the little workers, who were boiling more and more up out of the ground. Kasumi and Thell's shuttle had left ten minutes ago. They were probably back to the _Raedia_ right now. A brisk ten-minute walk, and they'd be back at the other shuttle themselves. Eli glanced back over his shoulder. Serana had apparently challenged Lin to a sprint; they were running back to the shuttle at full turian speed.

Eli reached the crystal spire, and reached up. Grabbed Dara's ankle, carefully, not wanting to startle her. _"Sai'kaea,_ it's time to go."

"Something's about to happen here," Dara told him, and her hand slipped, and she slid abruptly to the ground, scraping her armor along the rock.

Eli's hands on her controlled the fall, and he turned her around, angry and a little scared. "What's going to happen? What are you talking about?" He pressed her shoulders back against the stone, glaring down at her. "Damn it, _sai'kaea_, you're still walking around in a daze. You shouldn't be trying to _walk_ let alone _climb_ anything. Let me get you back to the ship."

Dara frowned. Reached up with her gloved fingers, and touched the side of his transparent mask. "_Sai'kaea_ sounds like _lia'kaea_. Little fair one. What asari call their children. Like my dad calls me sweetie." Random thoughts. Random firing of neurons. "I realized that the other day when Lysandra came by to ask me if she should stop wearing Velnaran paint, and I told her we could be friends, but that I was never going to call her first-daughter or _lia'kaea._"

Eli could feel the growl building at the back of his throat. "We can talk about that on the ship, Dara. Come on."

He started to pull her away from the pillar, and he heard a whisper of song in his mind. _It comes! It comes! The Great Song begins!_

It started as a whisper. He knew the voice. Sky, all violas and cellos, merry and fierce by turns, cryptic hints, teasing nature. And there was another voice, also familiar now. Life-Singer.

_Sing to me, sing to me, sing of your life, _

_sing of your days, sing of your nights, oh sing! _

_Sing to me of loneliness and wandering, _

_sing to me of alien minds and wanting, _

_sing to me of days and nights spent lost!_

_I sing of loneliness, but companionship found,_

_I sing of wanting, and fulfillment found, _

_I sing of alien minds, but familiarity found,_

_I sing of days and nights, not lost, but found._

These were just the faintest scraps and echoes of what Eli heard. Every color in the rainbow exploded through his mind. The pillar behind Dara's back thrummed and vibrated and _lit up_ with biotic energy. He had just enough time to understand, at last, what Sky and Dara had been trying to explain all day. The entire continental plate on which the soil above it rested, was made of crystal, just like this rib of rock. The rachni sang into the crystal matrices, encoding information into it, just as humans encoded information into silicon crystals in computers. Their computers on the brood-mother ship had all been. . . crystal. The workers had taken the information directly from the ship's crystalline body. Sky had said that their histories, their lives, were encoded in the very stone of the world. And Life-Singer's palace was made of that self-same crystal.

Eli's head lifted and he stared, stunned, across the horizon, where hundreds, no, thousands of spires of rock were coming alight now. _They call it the Singing Planet for a reason_, he realized, dimly. _It sings __back__ to them. It sings __with__ them._

_Yes. Each spire will repeat Life-Singer's song to every rachni on the planet,_ Dara told him. _No matter how far they are from her. Worker, soldier, brood-warrior, fellow-queen. They will all hear, and hear Sky's song, too_.

_That's how the Reapers or the Collectors indoctrinated them! All they needed to do was control one queen, on __this__ planet—_

—_and they all fell prey. Yes. They know._

It had taken seconds to reach that conclusion. The pillar thrummed with power, and the songs began to build, and build, and build. Dara's shoulders, in her armor, ground into the cold surface of the crystal. Eli's full body-weight was against hers, crushing her into the wall behind her, half-supine, along the angled face of the crystal. She could see the little workers beginning to dance now, listening to the voices in the stone, the voices on the wind, raising their little arms and reeling in circles. Pulsations rose from the stone, from the earth, thrumming through her body. Blue. Indigo blue, sparked with red that wasn't anger at all, but just as fierce. Lifesongs. All of Sky's memories, given freely to Life-Singer, to the hive, for the good of all, being sung into her mind, sung into her body, sung into the very planet itself. And Life-singer's memories, being sung back. Along with aching, aching desire. _Sing to me, sing to me, sing to me!_ was the demand, a demand to be filled, to give and to take, and Sky sang and sang, delight in being found worthy, joy in being desired, ecstasy as he approached and began to mate with his queen—

—timeless, or nearly. Wave after wave of pleasure and desire, pounding through his body, hard as the damned rock behind her back, and unable to do a damned thing about it, knowing that taking their helmets off on this cold world, with its thin atmosphere of CO2 and oxygen and argon, would mean certain suffocation. The ambient temperature was just below freezing—exposed skin wouldn't freeze _instantly_, as at Earth's South Pole, but they'd sure as hell get frostbite and maybe even hypothermia if they removed their armor. That was practical reality, and it was a better restraint than the distant voices of honor and integrity, which were damned hard to hear when he wasn't himself, he _was Sky_, responding to his queen's need, and he was all the _other_ voices, too, an entire planet suddenly crooning along, encouraging Sky, cheering him on, echoing the voice of the queen as she told him _sing harder, sing louder, sing faster, not that loud, now slower, sing to me, sing to me, sing to me_. . . or words like that. Only not words at all. Eli found Dara's hands on his helmet, and he locked his hands on hers, trying to remember, desperately, _not to take the damned things off._ He pressed his visor against hers, staring down into eyes still alien, rachni blue, wishing for a moment that he could see the chocolate brown, and then another pulsing wave of pleasure hit him, and his hips hitched involuntarily, grinding against her. It wasn't his imagination; her hips rose and rocked against his, and he groaned. _Doesn't mean anything, she's being flooded, just . . . like. . .I . . . am. . . "S__ai'kaea'yili, kar'e'yili vaelo'eal fia maieolo'ya. __Teaoul'uelle __sia'ssuadra'uel, __teaoul'uelle a'__sis'ia lia'lano'uel. . . "_ He was fairly sure her asari wasn't good enough to know what any of that meant yet. _My always-fair, my body aches for your beloved touch. I desire your surrender, I desire that you should encompass me . . . ._

—Murmured words in asari, incomprehensible over the storm of song on her mind. Faces so close together, breath fogging the visors on both sides, color-storm blocking out all peripheral vision. The only thing in focus were his eyes. Ink-black, like the void of space without any attendant stars. _This is important._ Eli's eyes were always dark, but were usually dark cherry to mahogany brown. "Eli. . . your eyes are black." She almost shouted that, trying to project above the storm of voices in their heads.

"Yours are blue," he shouted back, and then another wave of delight hit, this one much greater than the rest, and Dara arched her back and moaned, and she _was_ Life-Singer now, was the queen of queens, accepting and receiving her due, her homage.

And then there was nothing left but transcendent glory. Colors. Sounds. Sensations. The hum of millions of voices, all singing in harmony, approving, rejoicing, participating. And looking up into Eli's eyes through their fogging visors. Periodically, it was all Dara could do to remember that the helmets needed to stay _on_. They'd _die_ if they took off the helmets. She wanted to touch his _skin_, wanted to feel him, wanted to celebrate, to participate, to join their songs with all the rest. The workers, the soldiers, were asexual, but they encouraged, they took joy. The other brood-warriors and queens were gendered, and they partook. A kind of sacrament, binding all the hives together into one communal voice. . .

—The releases shuddered through him, and his body, primed for action, took it. He could tell when they hit her, too, and the relief, the respite each time, was only momentary. He was Sky, taking, and he was Life-Singer, too, being taken, and the asari part of his mind was in full bloom, its final efflorescence, open to the songs, exalting in the difference, in the alienness, in the wonder. . . .he felt Dara's hands move off his helmet. Felt her tugging at his hands, in between surges of song. She'd taken a gauntlet off, and was peeling back her undersuit gloves. Urging him to do the same.

—Skin-touch, at last. His fingers interlacing with hers. Indigo blue washing through her, warmth of each others' fingers, palms, making it easy to ignore the freezing cold. Only their helmets were pressurized; no loss of air this way. Just skin against skin. Human touch. Human warmth. And his eyes, still black as night, looking down into hers. . . .

The songs finally tapered off, leaving Eli, still in his armor, lying on top of Dara, still in hers, atop the frozen stone. They were both breathing hard. Gazes still locked. The instinctive human desire to _sleep_ was seeping into him, but he couldn't. They'd run out of air and die. Groaning, Eli slid back to his feet. He was cold and not a little sticky in some important places, and that was going to lead to chafing if he didn't get to the ship and clean up a little.

And while he knew that there was no way _anyone_ could have helped reacting to the song, he was more than a little worried that Dara would be embarrassed. Freeze up. Close down. Avert her eyes, and whether they were human brown or rachni blue, he couldn't stand the thought of a universe in which Dara couldn't meet his eyes. The only thing _he_ was regretting, at the moment, was that they hadn't been someplace safe and warm, so that they could have shared their bodies, freely, without shame, while listening to the entire _planet_ sing along with Sky and Life-Singer. _That's probably the asari part talking,_ he decided, resolutely. "You okay?" he asked, his voice a little rough, as he pulled her up from the pillar. His entire body was still vibrating, head to toe, as if he'd been holding a pneumatic drill.

"My feet are asleep," she told him, and damned near staggered. It was so prosaic, and so human, and so _Dara_, that Eli started to laugh. Her face was pink under her visor. Embarrassment, probably. He hadn't been able to see, through the fogged mask, if she flushed with sexual excitement or not. _Probably a good thing that I didn't. Like I need more dreams._

"Sorry. I'll make a note not to hold you pinned down on rock for. . . good god. Kasumi's going to send out a search party." Eli stared at his omnitool's dancing numbers, and the number of missed comm calls, in mild shock.

Dara keyed her own, and frowned. "I don't actually know what time it was when we came out of the hive."

"Let me put it this way. Sky doesn't just have a total lack of performance anxiety. He doesn't just have sex with one queen, but with the entire planet at the same time. And he does it for four solid hours. He's not just my hero. He's my new _god._" Eli couldn't quite keep a straight face for that one, and was rewarded when Dara choked and burst into laughter. And when she'd almost gotten control again, Eli asked, musingly, "Do you think he'd give me his autograph?"

And the tension and the borderline embarrassment melted away. Eli located their gauntlets, and took her bare hand in his. Electric shock, a rush of colors and piano music, which he started at, a bit, and then held out her gauntlet for her. Thinking, _See? Nothing has to change, __sai'kaea.__ Nothing happened that we could have controlled. We didn't actually __do_ _anything. And if we'd been separated by distance, we would still have been. . . reacting. Actually, that would have been slightly more embarrassing, in a way. Dry-humping a pillar of rock and moaning because a bug, somewhere, is orgasming. . . yeah. This was less embarrassing._

She touched the back of his hand, lightly. "You're right. It's. . . probably actually a blessing that poor Thell wasn't on the ground for that. Can you imagine an elcor, for whom human facial expressions are too much, too tiring, trying to deal with. . . that?"

Eli started at her for a moment. _I didn't actually say that out loud. We've __got__ to get you off this planet._ He pulled his gauntlet on, and wrapped an arm around her waist, companionably. It would have felt very odd _not_ to do at least that much, in the face of what they'd just shared. They'd exchanged an intimacy that no two other humans in the galaxy had ever shared before. Eli cleared his throat and intoned, dead-pan, "Assertion: I seem to have an erection. Statement: It is most uncomfortable. Lustfully: I must have you. Ashamed: I apologize. That hardly ever happens to me."

Dara doubled over with laughter, and, after a moment, volunteered, "Helpfully: Allow me to find a mop and help you clean yourself."

Eli stopped in mid-step, and whooped with laughter, pulling her close to him in a hug. "My dirty mind is rubbing off on you." _And that's—_

"—not the only thing." They finished the thought together, and had to hold on tightly to each other to prevent themselves from falling over laughing.

They reached the shuttle, and Dara's laughter faded. "Eli. . . I didn't mean to make things worse with you and Serana." Pure, open, naked discomfort now.

Eli shook his head. "You didn't do anything. You didn't know Sky's song was going to be like that, right?"

She shook her head. "No. I knew they would mate, and that he'd exchange his memories with the queen, but. . . nothing like that." She looked down at the ground.

"Then you didn't do anything on purpose, and _we_ didn't actually do anything." Eli was definite about that part. "And, let's face it. Do you think they didn't feel _exactly_ what we just felt?" His mind was a little ahead of hers along _that_ particular curve.

Dara froze. "Oh, dear god." _This is my fault._

_No, it's not. And if they did, it would be the best possible outcome!_ Belatedly, he realized that neither of them had spoken that exchange out loud, and swore mentally. They'd figure it all out later. Now, Eli banged on the hatch repeatedly and noisily. He wanted to give Lin and Serana a _lot_ of time to answer the door. His blood-brother could thank him for that courtesy later. Then he tabbed his radio. "_Raedia_, Kasumi, come in please."

"What the _hell_ has been going on down there?" Kasumi's voice was frightened and angry at the same time. "We were about to send a shuttle back down to collect you, but Lysandra picked up _massive_ energy fluctuations, all over the planet. She didn't think it was safe to send a crew in."

"Ah. . . " Eli's mind flinched from the thought of an unprepared crew flying into the atmosphere and being hit by the song. "That was a good call. We're okay down here, but I think your shuttles would have crashed or burned up on atmospheric entry." He cleared his throat. "We'll explain when we get up there." _And figure out how much to say, or how much __not__ to say._

"Get your cute little butts up here, and I mean _now_." Kasumi was not joking around, for once.

He banged on the hatch again. Loudly.

**Serana, the Singing Planet, October 3, 2196**

Two, three days, of watching Dara slip further and further into the little queen's spell. When, of course, Serana wasn't half-entranced by the little creature, herself. It had been a little shocking, really, how easily an hour might go by, without Serana even noticing it, as she'd sit there, listening in bemused wonder, to the little queen's song. Sky had been clearly exhausted, tending to the queen and the young broodlings, feeding them, singing to them, and, apparently, doing something to cushion Dara's mind. Lin had been a little better than Serana had been, moving woodenly but capably, concentrating hard on each task. Kasumi, likewise, had proven the ability to resist the song, at least for short periods. But any number of times, Serana had come back to reality, to find Eli snapping his fingers in front of her face, and frowning. "You okay?" he'd ask, again. "You can go back to the _Raedia_, if you need to. It's not a competition."

His eyes had been dark—almost black—any time he was near Dara or the queen. And Serana couldn't help but notice the worry eating away at him. How careful he was of Dara. The way his fingers had stroked at her hair. Once, long ago, Serana had asked Eli why he'd broken up with Siara. He'd shrugged at the time. "She took offense at the fact that I went to go see Dara—with her _there_, believe it or not—when Dara was in the hospital. All I ever did was touch her hair or hold her hand and talk to her. Siara got it in her head to be jealous. And then she went and tried to force sharing on Dara to see if there was a _reason_ to be jealous."

On Mindoir, when Dara had been in the library, working on the quilt, Serana had realized, with a sudden shock, that the two humans shared more, and on more levels, that she had ever realized. All without ever touching one another. They had always kept a couple of feet of distance in between them. That had started shifting on Bastion, she realized. In that knot of flesh that they'd all made of themselves. One pack. One flesh. One communal body, filled with exhaustion and despair. . . and then with laughter, as Eli had worked to make them all laugh. And then, at night, the exchange of dreams between Eli and Dara. None of that had bothered her. None of it had _threatened_ her.

But spirits, she envied Dara every minute of the three months on Omega. Oh, she understood that it had been largely spent in combat. That it hadn't been pretty, or romantic, or even fun. She could see all three of them jump at sounds, go on alert, and then dismiss the reflex, since their return. And if she hadn't gotten that point already, Lin and Eli listing the wounds they'd taken and Dara's tending of them had made it very evident that it hadn't been a game. She'd _wondered_ what the thin white line over Eli's right ribs had been. He'd shrugged, dismissed it, and said it would probably fade in time. Just like the faint white marks on his thigh. _"Don't worry, sweetness, Dara kissed the _boo-boo _and slapped a band-aid on it."_

No details. She hadn't been included on the debriefing, but knew, at the least, that he and Lin had wound up with captured vibroswords. . . taken from high-caste batarians using gladiatorial fighting styles and whatever Sam and Lantar had taught them, over the years. They were marked by it, changed by it, and still, she envied Dara every moment spent with them. Envied her the evident camaraderie, the sense of being their equal. _Then again, she's earned it,_ Serana reminded herself. _Five years in the turian fleet, almost. And a Spectre, just like them._ Even Lin's little teasing pokes, calling Dara by her squad name—names earned in blood, probably—tugged at Serana's heart. In a word, she felt. . . excluded. Something she'd thought would be past her, once she finally left boot camp and was the same as Eli and Lin. An adult, a soldier, a citizen.

Dinner out with no less than _five_ of the new Spectres had, oddly, helped. Zhasa and Dempsey hadn't been on Omega, either. And were both clearly itching for action. . . but at the same time, content to be where they were, with each other. Eli had paid very careful attention to her the entire meal, making sure she picked whatever she wanted from the menu, joking and teasing with her. . . but there'd been that sense of distance in him, still. He was putting on the brother act, and Serana knew why he was doing it. To protect himself, and to, in his own mind, anyway, to protect her. It had hurt, a bit, but Lin had slid one foot behind her ankle, pressing against the spur. _I'm here. I'm with you._ And Serana had looked to her left in clear gratitude, smiling at Lin. And after that, it had just been. . . comfortable. In a really surprising way. She couldn't match the talk of their work on Omega—still, no details—but she and Dempsey and Zhasa could talk about the base defense, and her batarian espionage work, and finding the coordinates for the possible rachni ship locations. And Dara had made her go back and repeat, several times, how Agnes and Takeshi had taken refuge at the Velnaran house. "My grandmother?" Dara repeated.

"She said she'd learned to shoot a rifle from your grandfather, who taught your father, who taught you." Serana shrugged, then added, on a chuckle, "Grandpa Gavius keeps saying that your mid-sixties is very late to be blooded. I think the last time he told her that, she threatened to hit him with a frying pan."

Lin had chuckled. "Someone should warn her that he might take that as flirtation."

Dara had put a hand over her eyes. "Oh, dear god." After a moment, she'd recovered enough to mention, "I barely remember Grandpa Jaworski. I think he went hunting with us once or twice when I was really little. I mostly remember that he'd hold me in the blind and show me the deer. Just like my dad, really. But he had a beard. Really scratchy."

"So, what you're saying is, she should have no problem with a scaled face, when she's used to beard scratch," Eli had told Dara, and had gotten an elbow in the ribs, and he'd just grinned the entire time. Face lit up from within.

But the past two, three days, almost no smiles at all. Total focus. Total concern. _Protective-anger_. Tightly controlled. Eli wasn't yelling. Serana had only seen him boil over once, and that was after years of her provoking him, jumping up and down on his protective instincts, and telling him she was going to do whatever she damned well pleased, even if he thought it was foolish and dangerous. But she'd caught the scowls, the baleful, basilisk stare directed every now and again at a med tech who took too long with an IV, or at the little queen herself. His anger had always had a slow-burning quality to it, that if it went on too long, suggested that the volcano might finally erupt in titanic fury. . . but never _quite_ did. A quality that suggested that the human in him went away, and some other spirit came to him, filled him, used his body for its own. Serana had tried to ease that anger, and he'd turned on her, just once, with that stare, made all the more alien now that his eyes weren't quite right, and then he'd let it go. Instantly. The expression had gone from _whoever is touching me right now had better stop, or they're going to die_ to recognition, but he hadn't even registered that she was standing behind him before turning. It probably wasn't fair to blame him for that. In fact, Serana knew it was downright stupid. Dara was his best friend besides Lin. . ._all right, to be fair, they're probably equal in his eyes. . . _ and Dara was being used by an alien queen to complete her larval stage. Of _course_ his focus was on the problem at hand. But still, Serana _had_ felt just a little spark of jealousy, which had surprised her. Jealousy implied. . . threat. She dragged the feelings out, examined them, and decided that they were unworthy of her.

But insecurity had pressed her to ask him what was going on, and he'd told her, honestly enough, that some final gift of Kella's was unfolding in his mind. _Oh, spirits. He's dealing with alien things in his mind, alien things in Dara's mind. He's got enough on his mind. Don't add to it._ And yet she couldn't stop herself from asking, wistfully, "Do you and Lin still love me?"

Instant reassurance. Instant comfort. Quick soft touches, in spite of armor, to let her know that he still did love her. . . but almost all his words were about Lin. How Lin was crazy about her. _As if I wouldn't notice that,_ she chided, silently.

The little queen's song had stolen some of that pettiness away, however. And Life-Singer's songs, little coruscating harmonies of light and sound, had flooded through her, even at a distance, as she'd stood and watched Eli hold Dara up, so that the little queen could be convinced to loosen her hold on Dara. Serana had wished, again, for the human ability to weep, as she'd seen Dara's face, walking away from the little queen. She'd rarely seen such devastation on a human countenance before. And in Eli's face, nothing but total understanding. Empathy.

Outside on the planet's surface, a welcome respite from the songs. Her head was fully clear for the first time in days. And as she and Lin turned back to run to the shuttle, she teased over the radio, "Eli tells me he told you to hide my estrus pills and to take advantage of me when I cycle. You planning on doing that?"

Lin actually missed a step at her teasing words, which let her actually catch up with him—for a moment, anyway. He was laughing as they reached the shuttle hatch, however. "Well, no. That would be unfair. Besides, now that he's _told_ you the devious plan, you'll hide them from _me_." Inside the shuttle, he took off his helmet and grinned down at her.

His face grew more serious, however, when she unlatched her own helmet, and asked, a little hesitantly, "But. . . you _were_ glad to see me, right?"

Linianus instantly reached down and cupped her face in his hands. "Of course I was. And I am." His thumbs ran along the sides of her mandibles, lightly stroking over the violet paint there. As if reminding himself what he did and didn't have the right to touch. "Eli keeps telling me I need to court you. But I don't want to make you feel . . . used. Traded. Or like you're settling for second-best."

Her mouth fell open, and she stared up at him. He was tall and strong and had a lightning-fast wit and sense of humor. His temperament was nothing like Eli's, but they had the same spirit, in many ways. They balanced, perfectly. Where Eli was slow to take offense, and once that anger was in place, held a grudge, sometimes for years, with the slow, deliberate pressure that could create diamonds in the earth, Lin was changeable and swift of mood. Quick to joke, quick to anger, quick to forgive, and usually quick to forget. But when he _did_ get angry, Serana knew it would be the same as when he finally let go in bed. A storm. "Lin, you are every bit as much of an idiot as he is," she finally said, reaching up and running one of her talons down the side of his own mandible now. "If I've _ever_ given you the impression that you're second. . . spirits, I must have." She closed her eyes for a moment, in absolute anguish. _"You're not second. You're both first. You've both been first since Bastion. And I don't know what to do about it."_ She'd retreated to _tal'mae_, to give it force and emphasis.

Lin's fingers tightened. _"Then marry __me__. And you won't have to be uncertain or confused anymore. We'll belong to each other, and Eli will be your brother, just as he's mine."_ He lowered his head, slid a hand to her shoulder, and bit her throat, delicately.

"_He's not a brother—"_

"_Then a friend. Always and forever, but little one, can you truly not let him go?"_ Sweet, gentle scrape of his sharp, sharp teeth, and Serana could smell his scent, taste it as the air rolled over her tongue. Strong, smart, fierce when he needed to be, gentle when he wished to be, always in perfect control, and part of her wanted to shake that control. Wanted to see the storm in him rise. See the careful distance with which he'd treated life, shrugged off the annoyance of his younger siblings, fall shattered away from him, like the mask that it was.

She reached up and slid her talons down the side of his throat, and Lin's breath caught, a ragged sound. "_Marry __me__. Be in my life, be the center of my life, and I promise I will never, ever make you regret it, not even for a second."_

She could hear music, oddly, in the background. Like an orchestra warming up, odd little scribbles of sound. And then the first notes hit, and her eyes went wide. Lin's head jerked up, and he stared off into the distance, almost a blind look. "_Oh. . .spirits. Do you hear that, little love, Serana, sweetness, do you hear it?"_

"_Yes. It's. . . beautiful. It's. . . joy."_ Outside the window of the shuttle, Serana could see hundreds of workers and soldiers, all with their limbs and tails extended, beginning some sort of formalistic, ritualistic dance. _"Lin. . . do you . . . do you feel it, too?"_

It started as a vibration in the deckplates under their feet, and resonated up through their legs. Serana could feel it building between her thighs. Reds and blues. Blues of love and happiness, and reds of passion, licking at her, stroking at her, building her into a fire. Lin _snarled_—Lin _never_ snarled, never lost control like that, and tried to push her away. But she could smell desire on him, could smell his need, and everything in her, her own fire, her own passion, responded to that. "Lin. . . please. . . "

And then the tide hit them both, and she held onto him as if she were about to drown, as if the sea were going to batter their bodies on some rocky shore, and Lin responded. Responded to her need, just as she was responding to his, and to that unearthly chorus that spoke of love and desire and yearning and unity and passion and union, and he bit her throat. Hard. Serana felt herself _open_ below, instantly, and scrabbled at his armor, trying to find the latch-plates. Found them, dragged the loin-guard off, first, even as he was unsnapping her own.

The voices around them, unseen, ethereal chorus, were building. Building. Urgency and demand and desire. Serana had no idea how they got each others' armor off, just knew that his claws were tearing at her undersuit now, pulling the snaps loose, and then his fingers found her, and she arched and keened as he slid a single clawed digit inside her, delicately finding the places she most loved to be touched. _"Don't tease, Lin, not now, don't tease—"_

"_Not teasing. Taking."_ He pulled his hand away and parted her legs, dropping his face to lick and bite and Serana seized his fringe in her fingers and didn't know whether she wanted to push his head away and demand her due, her homage, or to hold his head there and beg him never to stop. A sweetly human thing, he'd learned to please a human female, but he gave it to her now, and the fire built and built, and then released, and then he finally moved atop of her, as the songs around them began to build again. Fumbled his own suit aside, and then, groaning in relief, buried himself inside of her in one smooth thrust.

Her body arched and spasmed on him in pure relief, and then they were biting each other, lost in the sounds and the colors and the storm. They weren't just themselves, they were each other, they were . . . Sky and Life-Singer, too, and they were echoing and recapitulating what the rachni queen of queens and her favored male were doing, _oh, spirits, oh, Lin, oh, spirits_. . . she knew her claws were raking his back bloody, but she had to hold on, had to cling to him in the storm that she'd invited, had wanted, but this was a hurricane on a gas giant, much, much more than she'd bargained for. . . this was like estrus, except that she was, however dimly, still aware of herself, of him, not just the blind grip of instinct. . . .

She felt him release, and it didn't stop. He could feel the demand in her body still, thrumming up from the ground itself, and she watched his face as he reached down for reserves, for concentration. Over and over and over. A dozen different ways, ending in control position, as if it were estrus in truth, strong, fierce bite on her shoulder, as she'd always wanted it. . . and then the song finally began to abate, the storm began to pass. Serana stirred a little under Lin's body. He was still in her, but they were, for the moment, quiescent. _"Oh, spirits,"_ she murmured. _"What was that?"_

"_Wonderful." _His voice was muffled.

Serana jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow, but gently. _"Besides that."_

"_Don't fib, little one, I know it was just as good for you as it was for me."_ Total contentment in the tone, and he rocked his hips, driving into her again, as if for emphasis, and another, late spasm caused her to clench on him. _"Oh. . . spirits. . . you feel so damned good. __Too__ damned good, actually."_ He withdrew, with evident reluctance, and pulled away.

Serana turned, and looked up at him. Her mate. Just as much as Eli. They'd never done this together, just the two of them, but now it was done. Lin had her teeth-marks all over him, and she winced at the talon marks, scratches scored even through the scales on his shoulders and arms. _"I'm sorry. I always try not to do that—"_ She had to hold back the raking instinct with Eli, lest she slice right through his delicate human skin. It was one of the two primary reasons why control-position, in estrus, involved the female facing _away_ from the male. Her talons _were_ deadly weapons, as were her teeth and her spurs.

Lin exhaled, sharply, through his nose. _"Don't apologize. I'm getting turned on again, just thinking about how fierce you just were."_ Long inhale, long exhale, as he obviously fought to control himself. _"I can still smell you, sweetness. That was . . . spirits, that's as close to estrus as I've ever gotten."_ He gave her a lopsided grin. _"Don't suppose I could convince you to throw away the pills?"_

Serana found a piece of armor to throw at his head. Lin ducked away, still grinning. _"No. I'm going to Khar'sharn, and you're going with me. Being pregnant there would be a bad thing."_

"_Oh, but it would heighten the disguise, sweetness. Make it more believable that we're a mated pair of breeding turians."_

"_The first trimester tiredness would decrease my efficiency."_

"_But you'd be so __fierce__ whenever you were awake, you'd scare all the locals away. And then I could take you till you slept again, and then go out and . . . kill batarians for you, or whatever the hell the mission is."_ His fingers had found her spur, and were stroking up and down, then the back of her leg, and then he crept forward as he kept speaking, crawling forward, hands and knees, like an animal, and then he was biting her throat again. And pulled his head away, dazed, after a moment. _"Spirits. What are we going to tell Eli?"_ Lin swore, softly. _"I told him I would __court__ you, not __take__ you."_

The thought hadn't even occurred to her yet, so thorough was the afterglow of the rachni song and their own loving. Serana curled in on herself as if she'd been punched in the stomach. _"Oh. . . spirits of air and darkness,"_ she murmured. She didn't want to hurt Eli, or betray him, and surely, this would have done both. She and Lin had _never_, not without Eli being there, too.

And then there was a banging at the hatch, loud and firm. Serana leaned her head back against the wall of the shuttle, and thumped the base of her skull against it, repeatedly. _Life,_ she decided, grimly, _is just not fair sometimes._ _"We'll have to tell him,"_ she told Lin, who was pulling on his suit, and looking around for armor.

"_Later. Let's get to the ship and off this planet before the rachni decide to go for round two."_

"_Oh, great spirits, you don' t think they would?"_

"_Just get dressed, sweetness, and that way, we won't have to find out the hard way."_

"_You're not putting medigel on my talon-scratches?"_

"_They're your __marks__, sweetness. No, I'll wear them proudly. I don't think Eli will challenge me to a duel over them."_ Lin gave her another lopsided grin. _"Besides, I think Dara had the medkit with her. And these are one set of wounds I don't want my br—our __other__ little one to tend."_

More thumping at the hatch. Serana hastily latched up her helmet, glumly reflected that at least the humans would be wearing helmets, too, so probably wouldn't even smell what had gone on in the shuttle. . .not that a human was likely to, weak noses that they had. . . _oh, spirits, let a human cleaning crew be the ones who do maintenance on this shuttle next. . . _ Serana felt herself flushing blue from her throat to her crest. And then Lin opened the hatch, and Eli and Dara walked up the ramp.

"You all right?" Lin asked, moving to the pilot's seat.

"Yeah. Was a hell of a concert, wasn't it?" Eli's tone was very, very neutral. "They use those pillars of stone as repeaters, I think, for their song. We were, well, right on top of one of them."

Serana froze at the thought. She and Lin had been a mile away from the pillar. _What would that have been like __right atop__ one of them?_ she wondered, and stared at them. "But you're. . . you're both okay?"

"I think my left hand is a little frost-bitten," Eli admitted, after a moment. "And I need a shower. But yeah. Don't think I could have moved if my life depended on it, though."

Dara had tipped her head back, and was leaning against the wall of the shuttle as she latched herself into her seat. Her eyes were still that uncanny, alien shade of blue. "Better frost-bite than suffocation," she pointed out. She sounded. . . better. Still a little raspy-voiced, but recognizably human, at least. No more singing. "Besides, your left hand, my _right_ hand, Eli."

"Oh, well, not like they weren't going to confine you to med bay anyway, _sai'kaea_."

"Thanks for the reminder."

Serana just stared at them. How could they be so normal, so casual, after such a shattering experience? Then she realized that they _weren't._ Eli's eyes were still frighteningly dark. They were looking around the shuttle, carefully not at each other. And yet. . . they'd been outside. If they'd done what she and Lin had done, they'd be _dead_.

**Dara, **_**Raedia, **_**October 3, 2196**

_Beep. . . .beep. . . .beep. _

Dara opened her eyes and stared at the monitor over her head in dislike. Like most doctors, Dara was an absolutely terrible patient. She'd always nodded when her patients told her that the monitors chattering away made it impossible to sleep, and she'd turned them down to the lowest settings possible, but at the moment, her ears were starving for sound, and every damned beep and chirp and click was magnified.

They'd rushed her on board. The med techs had had a gurney _and_ a wheelchair waiting for her, which she'd irritably tried to walk past. "I'm fine,' she'd told them, until Eli leaned over and whispered in her ear that she could ride in a wheelchair to the med bay, or suffer the embarrassment of him _carrying_ her there, take her pick.

She'd shut up and sat down in the chair at that point. Annoyed that Serana and Lin and Eli all got to walk. "I'm not a fricking invalid," she'd muttered under her breath. Not _enough_ under her breath, apparently. Every turian in the room had chuckled. And while each of them had been taken behind a curtain for individual examination, she could hear both Lin and Serana asking, specifically, for human doctors. Lin's tone had been bland, but Serana's had had a tinge of embarrassment to it. _Oh. Well, I guess Eli was right,_ Dara had thought, a little blankly, as exhaustion finally hit her.

Kasumi had bustled in at that point, and made her way straight to Dara's cubicle of curtains, and, had a quick conversation with the doctors over Dara's head—which made Dara raise that head and say, irritably, "I'm _right here_, people. Talk _to_ me, not about me," with a silent vow that she'd never do _this_ to a patient again.

Kasumi chuckled, but there was worry in those dark eyes. "Sorry, Dara. You've worried the crap out of everyone aboard for the past two days."

"Not really my idea." Dara put her head back down on the pillow. It would be so easy to sleep. Just sleep. And yet, her body and mind were awake, alive, as she could hardly ever remember feeling. At least her suit was off. It had been . . .noticeably cold and wet in a problem area. The doctors and nurses, as she would have done, herself, had remained expressionless, but she knew damned well there'd be some curiosity and gossip at the nurse's station later. The more so, she knew, when she overheard, "Would you like some wet wipes, Spectre?" from the cubicle to her right, and heard Eli growl back, "No, just a shower, thank you."

"Maybe a towel and a bowl of warm water?"

"Yes, fine, god, thank you."

And, from her left, "Oh, my, Spectre, would you like some medigel? Some of these, ah. . . lacerations. . . under your armor are somewhat deep." And Lin's reply, an equal growl, part annoyance, part embarrassment, "No. Just clean them up and put gauze on them, and they'll be fine."

"And the, ah, bites?"

"The same, for the spirits' sakes."

_I shouldn't laugh. I shouldn't laugh._ Dara couldn't really suppress the faint chuckles, however, and got a twin, "Shove it, Freya!" from either side, which made her laugh all the harder. It was bizarre, though—she could hear every word from everyone around her, but her head was ringing with silence. She felt. . . deaf. . . for lack of a better word.

Kasumi hovered near, and had put gloves on, like all the other doctors. Even _with_ the gloves, the doctors and nurses were doing their best not to touch her at all. Dara felt like a pariah, suddenly, and they put electrodes all _over_ her head, and were muttering about wanting to do in-depth scans. "The hell with the brain scanning," Dara told them, dryly. "Check my damn ears. I feel like I can't hear."

Dr. Mannerian frowned down at her, all Rocam paint and glittering yellow eyes. "And yet, you heard us say 'brain scans.'"

"Listen to what the patient is telling you, doctor," Dara said, biting off her words. "I feel like I'm going deaf. Like I'm straining for every sound, and when I _do_ catch it, it's clear, but like I'm _missing_ something. Other than that, I feel fine."

Kasumi had wrapped her gloved hand around Dara's then. "Dara, in between being worried sick over you, I spent the last four hours trying to write down what the hell happened out here. So Shep and your dad would have some _clue_ as to what went on. It. . . it would really help if I knew what happened from your perspective."

The deaf feeling faded. A lonely reed flute played at the back of Dara's mind, and for some reason, Kasumi's body burned green. _Synesthesia_, Dara decided. _Not uncommon after a brain event. Which the last two days certainly qualify as._ "Thell didn't know that giving the eggs both light and heat would allow them to hatch," she murmured, as the doctors muttered around them, bustling with efficiency and drawing blood and doing all the things she'd have done herself. Only, they were doing it so _annoyingly_. "The queen hatched. She latched onto me as the first mind in close contact. . . certainly, the first female mind, which I think makes a difference. . . "

"EEG is stabilizing. Still nowhere near human norms." Dara's head whipped up at that, and Kasumi shook her head.

"Ignore them. You're talking to _me_," Kasumi told her, with emphasis. "What else happened?"

"Joy-Singer took all of my life memories to help her understand the world around her. Sky said she was also pulling on his memories, and the memories of anyone who touched me." Dara frowned, trying to remember. "All those memories passed through me, but. . . it's all sort of dreamlike right now. She even took the memories of the Keepers. And everything of mine, back to being born." Dara's voice had taken on a sing-song quality, she noticed, distantly. "I didn't remember being born before. Now I do. I couldn't understand the words, but I remember my mother and father holding me for the first time after the doctors finished the C-section." Dara cleared her throat, and focused on the green blur that was Kasumi again. "And while Joy-Singer was taking the memories, she was giving me her own. Well, not hers. Her mother's. Her father's. All the lineal male and female memories of her ancestors, as well as a few male memories that were just. . . stored. Males, up until the point of insemination. Females, until the point of the daughter's birthsong, and that first exchange of information. All of them. As far back as the memories go, where they become dim and distant with age and time, too primitive to be understood, maybe."

Green-yellow anxiety, bright yellow shock. _How is she surviving this?_ "I don't know. Sky said he was cushioning my mind. Maybe that's how."

Kasumi pulled her hand away, and gently patted Dara's shoulder. "Okay. I'm going to go let your dad know that you're okay. And I'll be back, all right?"

"Sure."

"EEG just went haywire again."

"I keep telling you, work on my _ears_," Dara told them, in total annoyance, as they stood over her, brandishing datapads at each other. "It's so goddamned quiet, you could hear a pin drop in here."

That had been hours ago. Lin, Serana, and Eli had each come in to check on her before leaving. Dara had let her eyes drop to the bite marks on Lin's throat, and had managed to wiggle her eyebrows at him, in spite of the crown of electrodes she was wearing. He'd given her a finger-flick in response, and had actually flushed blue all along his throat. "Payback," Dara told him, quietly, "is a _bitch_."

"And when have I ever done anything to you—"

"All those not-so-subtle questions to Rel about _oris_ and our contract?"

Lin looked at the ceiling. "I want _you_ on the witness stand any time I need testimony. You have an _unwholesomely_ sharp memory." He reached over and squeezed her hand. His body suddenly glowed sky blue, dappled with gray here and there, as if a storm-front were moving through, the banded clouds that presaged a hurricane. And with it, the clarion call of trumpets, leading a charge. Dara shook her head, vigorously, as, more seriously, Lin said, with a song behind his words, reinforcing them, "_Little one. . . you scared the shit out of us."_

"_Didn't mean to. Wasn't even my fault."_

"_Try not to do it again."_

"_I promise nothing."_ This, she managed a grin for, and Lin chuckled and left.

Serana next, gleaming yellow as she took Dara's hand, but wavering green uncertainty all around her. A sweet, high-voiced silver flute wavered at the back of Dara's mind. "It'll be all right," Dara told her, suddenly feeling nothing but compassion and empathy. "He'll understand. I promise you, he will. Because he does."

Serana just stared at her. "You've been taking lessons from Sky," she muttered.

"No. Not nearly cryptic enough yet." Dara sighed as Serana released her hand, and left, and the silence came back.

Eli trailed in last, and stroked her hair back from her face lightly. Pure, smoldering red at the moment. Shaped of earth and pressure and heat, and deep, deep blues, everywhere. Dara's eyes half-closed, and she could hear. . . cellos. Rich, dark music, everywhere. "Rest well, _sai'kaea_. Hate seeing you with all this medical _s'kak_ all over you."

"Not exactly the first time." Vivid image, of her own face, eyes closed, looking bruised, fragile, beaten. Tubes running into nose, for feeding, and into mouth and throat, intubated. Hiss of a compressor feeding her oxygen. "Not as bad as the poisoning, I promise."

"Just get on your feet, that's all I ask." He straightened, and looked resigned. "I think I have a long talk coming my way in my quarters. I better go get to it." Dark blues modulated, became lighter. Affection, friendship. Violet. . . that was pain. Regret. Dara reached out, tried to touch that violet, and stopped moving when he looked down at her, surprised. His eyes had gone dark again. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow."

She'd closed her eyes when he'd left, and the techs had closed in again. Scans, blood tests—more of them—muttered consultations. _Why does the EEG stabilize when someone touches her, but go off the charts when no one's nearby?_

Finally, the decision, standard for befuddled doctors everywhere: "You've got to get some sleep and let your body heal."

_Beep. . . .beep. . . beep. . . ._

For a wonder, she'd actually gotten some sleep, but the damned beeping had woken her back up again. And as Dara lay there in the bed, she understood that something was profoundly _wrong_ with her. Her heart began to pound. _I'm alone. I'm completely alone._ She sat up, casting around herself in the dim light of a med bay just past ship's night. She couldn't hear anything. She couldn't see. Oh, she could see the curtains, she could see the bed, but the colors, the lights, they were gone. And she was deaf. There was only silence in her head, that should be filled. There should be music there, even if only a background chatter. Dara raised her hands, which were shaking, to her face, and realized that she was crying, silently. _Alone, oh, my god, the ship's empty, everyone's gone!_ Dazed, she looked down as something tugged at her arm, and pulled the IV needle, swiftly, raising her arm over her head and putting pressure on the vein. Then she reached over and turned off the monitors. No sense in having them scream at her. She was the only person aboard who'd hear them, and they were _annoying. _She yanked the electrodes off her chest and forehead, and scrambled off the bed, ignoring the fact that her patient gown flapped open behind her. She staggered out of the cubicle, and found the side door of the med bay, grabbing a white coat off a peg as she walked out. She didn't notice the consternation behind her as the nurses came to her cubicle and found her gone. As far as she could tell, she was alone on the ship.

Oh, there were ghosts. Gray shapes that didn't sing, not even the low-song. She clung to the shadows, eying them warily. _This is what took over the ship_? she thought, confused. _Many-Voices and Sings-Justice would never allow such insubstantial things to defeat them. Where are they. . . _Memory-song reminded her. _Many-Voices was in the lair given to me before, when I was aboard this vessel with Sings-Honor. Yes. The third level._ She crouched and scuttled her way around the little clusters of ghosts. Occasionally, a more substantial ghost tried to talk to her, in the form of a young woman with brown eyes, but she didn't sing, though her expression was worried.

Finally, Dara made it to the door she sought. She leaned against it before she knocked, out of breath from her last rapid, scuttling dash down this hallway. The ghosts were hunting her—that, she was sure of. She could hear voices beyond that door. Welcome, familiar voices. Speaking in a language not her own, but she could understand them.

"_You're not angry?"_

"_Oh, _god_ no, I'm not angry, little fierce one. I was thinking I was going to have to lock the two of you in a supply closet with a week's supply of food and water."_ Amusement, tenderness, regret, all at once. _"Should I help you guys pick out the wedding announcements? Do this __right__, this time?"_

"_It would be a little face-saving for her family and for her if we still stick out the agreed-upon six months. . . and I'm guessing the galactic press would have a field day if she and I got married the __day__ after she divorces you."_

"_Make me best man and_ fuck'em."

Dara raised her hand, and knocked, urgently. "What the hell?" she heard Many-Voices mutter, and then the door slid open, and his eyes went wide. "Dara, what the hell are you doing out of bed?"

She stumbled in, and slowly slid down to huddle on the floor. "I can't. . . there's no _song_. Everyone's gone except the three of you, you have strong songs, but everyone else is gone, except for the ghosts. . . maybe Light-and-Playful-Dancer is still here, but I didn't see her anywhere." Dara slid her hands up to her head. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but I couldn't take being _alone_ anymore, couldn't take the silence—"

Many-Voices dropped down beside her, put his hands on her forearms, and the music rushed back through her, and she stopped rocking back and forth, instantly. Warmth. Relaxation. Comfort. _You're not alone._

Dara looked up at the three faces staring down at her. "What. . . oh, god. What's wrong with me?" she whispered. 

Eli's face had gone taut again, and he picked her up bodily. "Lysandra!" he called.

The AI appeared, immediately. "I kept trying to speak to you, Dara," the AI said, reproachfully. "You ran from me."

Dara couldn't make sense of it. Her mind was simply too confused at the moment. "Nevermind that," Eli said. "Sky's ship is trailing us, right? Get him on a comm channel, now. We're going to need him to come aboard and look after Dara. I don't think Life-Singer fully fixed what's wrong with her." Bright yellow alarm, almost panic, from all around him, and high-pitched violins, strumming the same note, over and over again, at a rapid tempo.

She buried her face in his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I'm so sorry." But just being here, just hearing his voice, hearing his song, was making everything better. Rapid whirl of his mind. _Okay, this room has a stupid nest—hell, it's the same one she shared with Rel, no way am I putting her in there—med bay—_

_No! Not med bay. That's where I work, and Mannerian isn't listening. She sees the wrong things, hears words I don't speak. They'll make me be alone again!_ Panic of her own now.

"Spectre Sky says that we must drop out of FTL. Then he and others from his ship will board by shuttle."

"Do it." Eli's voice held absolutely nothing but command at the moment.

"Captain Arius would wish to give that command himself. A Spectre might outrank a captain, but a captain is as the Imperator aboard his or her ship." Lysandra's voice carried gentle reproof.

"Then wake his ass up and tell him that we've got an emergency and Sky needs to board. Please hurry, Lysandra."

Lysandra flickered out, and Dara felt the world shift a bit. "Lin, check the corridor. We'll take her down to her room. You and Serana should probably have this one, anyway." Faint hint of blue-green amusement. "Nests are hell on my back, anyway."

"Tell me about it," Dara mumbled, and then Eli's long, rapid strides were making the world jostle again.

"Unlock it, _sai'kaea_—oh, thanks, Lysandra—" Eli sounded surprised as the door slid open for him, and he got Dara into her very small room, approximately half of which was taken up by a twin bed, and another quarter of which held a desk, chair, and comm terminal. He pulled back the covers with his left hand, and then settled her onto the soft surface. And, as he pulled the covers back up, he touched the lapel of the white lab coat. "Even this sick, and you remembered to put on a uniform of _some_ sort, huh?"

"Was . . . cold." Dara had a feeling she was being teased again, but wasn't quite sure how.

He settled down in the chair beside the bed, and took her hand in his. Song rushed back into her mind. When she looked up, his eyes had gone black again. _I'll probably never be able to tell her what seeing her in a lab coat does to me. . . _

"What does it do?" Her eyes were drifting shut again. Here was the peace that med bay hadn't provided. This was the healing and the rest that the machines and the aloneness couldn't provide. Here was song and companionship, and it was exactly what she needed.

_God, she must still be sensitized from the rachni song, or something. How is she picking any of this up? _His words were crisp and clean like this, not the confused muddle of harmonies that the others provided, usually.

_Just tell me about the lab coats. . . ._

_Nevermind, __sai'kaea__._ Distance in the harmony. _You'd just get embarrassed, and right now, you do need sleep. I'm here. Sky will be here, soon. I won't let them drag you back to med bay unless you say you want to go._

Oh, there were fights. Mannerian and the med techs tracked her down, but Eli and Lin wouldn't let them in the cabin. Mannerian actually tried to call the master-at-arms down to get the Spectres to stand aside, and Dara was dimly aware that Lin gave the head of onboard security one warning not to interfere in Spectre business, _"or I will lock you in your own brig."_

"_This is a medical matter!"_

"_This is a Spectre matter, and we are awaiting Spectre Sky, who, given that we just dropped out of FTL, should be aboard shortly."_

_I am here. Confusion-songs will abate now. _Sky's song carried a great deal of force behind it, and the corridor went silent. Dara sat up in her bed, and, dragging her sheets behind her, stood behind Eli in the doorway. There was song here, suddenly, filling up the empty places in her mind, just as when Eli had been holding her hand, and she sighed and sagged against him a little in relief. _Thank you, thank you, thank you,_ she said silently. Eli's hand came up, almost unconsciously, and wrapped around her waist.

The turian and human medics and a couple of MPs got the hell out of the way, and for good reason. Sky's chitinous legs were clicking and clacking as he strode down the corridor to them, and behind him was a much smaller brood-warrior, probably two feet shorter in height. Around them was a small entourage of soldiers, and about a dozen little workers scuttled with them. _Sings-Heartsong,_ Sky said, with great formality in his song. _It is as Life-Singer feared, then._

_What did she fear?_ Dara could hear Eli's voice, almost as a shout, but it was song, too.

_That Joy-Singer's needs changed Sings-Heartsong to make her a better brood-mother. Re-arranged vital processes in her brain. Made her, in a way, one of us, or at least, let her sing our songs._ Sky's voice was. . . odd. Violets of regret, but azures and turquoises of exaltation and excitement, too. _We could not be sure on the planet, where she was still so close to Joy-Singer, where the little queen's mind still resonated with her brood-mother's._ Sky looked at Eli now, too. _And the birth-song and the mating-song have awakened something in you, as well, Many-Voices._

"Tell me something I don't already know." Eli's voice was clipped. "What do we do for Dara?"

_What we would do for any other little queen. She is brood-mother __and__ little queen at once. She sings the Great Song with us, and hears the low song, too. Do you not?_

"I hear. . . I hear the workers. They think there are cracks in the deck-plating here that need fixing. They're curious about the ship. How it works. Why it doesn't sing. Curious about me, about Many-Voices, but that's. . . not as important to them. The soldiers are worried about the MPs. They're ready to strike if any of them lift a weapon or a hand towards us—_don't!"_ Dara wasn't sure which of them she was talking to, the MPs or the soldiers, but she put enough command-peremptory in the word to stop both groups. "And. . . your friend. . . " Dara looked at the smaller brood-warrior. "He's yours. Of your brood. With Bargain-Singer?"

_You hear much, little queen._ The younger rachni's voice was much lighter than Sky's. It sounded like harps and dulcimers, but had growing complexities to it. _I earned my name on Shanxi. I am Sings-of-Glory now._ Clear pride in that tone. _Bargain-Singer often sang of he who fathered my brood. Three thousand she chose to lay from Sky._

"God damn," Eli muttered. "Paternity suits among the rachni have got to suck."

Sky sang blue-green laughter, and Lin guffawed, too. All around them, the turians and humans were starting to relax. _So now what, Sky?_ Clear as a bell, the words sang through her.

_I will teach her, as best I can. And she cannot be alone until she understands her own song. Otherwise, the madness will take her. Even the little ones and their low song will be a comfort._

One of the workers scuttled over to Dara, and ran up her foot. She felt no actual alarm at this, though she rather thought she should have. She caught it at waist level, feeling Eli's arm tighten around her subtly. The little worker sat in the palm of her hand passively, singing to itself of mild curiosity. _Strange queen, strange brood warriors, far from home, but doing the work of the hive, doing the work of Sky-who-is-Spectre and Voice-to-the-Outsiders, he who is as far above other brood warriors as Life-Singer is above other queens. . . _ chitter chitter chatter in her head.

Dr. Mannerian was still not pleased. "If any of this is true, then I _must_ insist that she return to med bay. Brain scans. Function may be impaired. The systems that regulate heart and lung and other organs could be impaired—"

_They are not._ Sky's voice held absolute assurance. _Likewise, Life-Singer assured us that there is no taint, no sour notes, of the darksong destroyer, in either Joy-Singer or in Sings-Heartsong. This was in question, at first; the memory-songs of she who laid Joy-Singer's egg might have held that note. But my song, and Sings-Heartsong's, and Many-Voices, and the others who joined in harmony during the birthsong, were enough to drive the dissonances hence._ He paused. _You do not listen, cold-song turian. You worked with Sings-Heartsong for a year, but have closed your ears and heart to her. She is not to be studied or examined by such as you._ Total dismissal, and Mannerian's face turned cobalt under her Rocam paint. _Little queen, will you allow she-who-trained you on the planet of violet skies to attend you, when we return? _

_Dr. Chakwas? Yes. She and Dr. Abrams. I trust them._ The little worker ran up her hand and arm now, finally perching on her shoulder, where it began to investigate her hair. _Odd fibers, flexible, but not as strong as nest extrusions. Does New-Queen use them for anything important? Are they nesting material?_

From the way Eli's shoulders shook, just once, Dara had the oddest impression that he'd _heard_ that, somehow. _"Dr. Mannerian. Master-at-arms,"_ Eli told them all now. _"As you can see, the situation is well in hand. You may leave now."_ Command-peremptory. Alpha body-language, for all that he still had one arm wrapped around her.

After a reluctant moment, the MPs and the master-at-arms left. Mannerian, after another dark look in Dara and Sky's direction, followed. "There went her next paper," Dara said, dryly. "It was guaranteed to make her the hit of her next symposium." The weight of all the information hit her now, all at once, and, since Mannerian wasn't there anymore, she was able to sag visibly. "Oh, god, Sky, Eli, Lin . . . . What have I gotten myself into now?"

The little worker near her ear chittered reassuringly. Eli hugged her even more tightly. "Your dad says Spectres eat weird for breakfast, _sai'kaea_, remember?"

"I want my toast," she muttered, stomach churning.

Instantly, a half dozen workers began to chitter, asking what _toast_ was, and in what manner they should secrete it from their orifices. Dara's mouth opened, and shut. And she started to chuckle, just as Eli collapsed, _howling_ with laughter, against the doorframe.

Linianus shook his head. "Okay. Slightly disturbing reactions. I'm. . . going to be down the hall in your quarters, _fradu._ Yell if you need me. I'm usually a pretty light sleeper. And we don't want Freya here being carried off in the middle of the night for experimentation by, you know, aliens. . . . " He paused. "Yes, I watched some more of those truly horrific vids your planet used to produce. Why you all thought every alien out there was out to _probe_ you, I will never know. . . "

"Because they are!" Eli called after him, lightly. He turned and looked down at Dara. "You want me across the hall in Lin's room?"

_No. Stay, please, please stay._ The strangeness, the alienness, the bizarreness, was too much, and Dara was afraid that, even with the rachni song humming in her head, if she were alone with them, she'd panic and start screaming.

_You're not alone. I'll stay with you._ The words in his mind were probably entirely unconscious, and Dara was fascinated by the fact that his eyes were still black, and without visible pupils. Eli stretched. "Besides. Lin's quarters have a _nest_ in them. Even this chair in here looks a hell of a lot more comfortable that that." Light-hearted blue-greens of amusement, over that rich indigo.

"Thank you," she murmured, and backed up, watching her feet carefully, as all the little workers scuttled in with her.

_We will guard the corridor,_ Sky sang, in soft assurance. _Soon, we will be back on the planet of violet skies, where Truth-Singer holds dominion._

_Our ship would have caught yours with more speed, but we were required to sing mourning-songs for those who passed from lifesong aboard the ancient ship. Their bodies are being put into the ground now, their bodies used for the good of all. _Sings-of-Glory's voice trembled slightly, and he turned and peered in at them, all opalescent eyes and chitinous exterior. _We carry with us pieces from the old computers. For analysis. For sharing the knowledge of the old war with others. _

Eli settled down in the chair by the bed once more. He was wearing shorts and a sweatshirt, and looked very comfortable, at the moment. Also, very tired. Dara felt hugely unfair, making him stay with her in the chair, but hesitated. Inviting him to rest on the bed with her would be a sort of a signal. One she didn't have the right to give, and that he didn't have the right, technically, to accept. She couldn't _hear_ him, either, when he wasn't touching her skin, but she _could_ hear the workers.

"Eli?"

His eyes opened, and he took her hand, as the little workers began to examine the blankets of the bed, and he just shook his head at the sight. "Yes, _sai'kaea_?"

Her tongue hesitated on the words. His eyes went dark, and he sighed, and lifted her hand to his lips. "I'm going to pretend to be noble and cut you off at the pass, Dara. I would _love_ to join you right now, but your brain is scrambled, and mine is, too. Chances are, I'd just pick up where Sky's song had us this morning." He raised his voice, and added, "Say, Sky? Just so you know? You are my new god, and I want your autograph."

Waves of pink song radiated towards them both, and they both started to chuckle. "You may have to settle for a pedipalp print," Dara told Eli, smiling. "Rachni don't write the way we do."

_Your appreciation-song and participation-song were welcome,_ Sky sang back.

Dara felt her own eyes widen, just as Eli's did. "Oh, dear god," he muttered. "You could hear _us_?"

_Most clearly_, Sky assured them. _Your voices, amplified by a pillar-of-song, were loud and filled with joy. The voices of your brood-brother and his little queen were less so, but still audible._ He hesitated. _If you lift your voices to the Great Song again, perhaps you might place your vehicle closer to the pillar, so that you might participate fully? Assuming, of course, that your harmonies with others, would not be subject to dissonance?_

"You know, I woke up this morning, and it was a perfectly normal morning for a Spectre," Eli muttered. "Alien space craft, beautiful damsel in peril, couple of simple missions, drop off the quest item, make sure the damsel's wound is healed, finish the escort quest for the spider-king, and then go home, you know? And by the end of the day, I've apparently not _quite_ had sex with the entire planet, the damsel has turned half rachni, and I'm encouraging my best friend to marry my wife." Eli held up a finger. "None of this was in the Spectre handbook, I would like to point out."

Dara put her free hand over her face, and gave in to laughter. The habit of human thought found this excruciatingly embarrassing, but the new thoughts, the thoughts of queens and warriors, found it oddly right. Satisfying. Sky had given to them, and they had given back to him and to Life-Singer. Rendered homage, appreciation, joy.

Eli looked down at her, and smiled.. "How about," he murmured, "we figure this out in the morning."

"Deal," Dara said, and gently moved a worker out of the way so she could adjust her head on her pillow.

As her eyes started to drift closed, she murmured something. She'd listened to it on her headphones every night before sleeping for three months on Omega. She was pretty sure she'd figured out _some_ of the puzzle he'd set for her. _"__Hiyae'uelleo chelai illua'ae niu vi'ie liliua, viaell_ '_uelleo eallu_."

Eli's eyes half-closed. _Love listening to her speak asari. The drawl, the voice, everything about it. . . ._ He'd taken her hand again, and the words were perfectly clear.

She paused. "I have had four loves in this life, and I have lost every one?"

Eli's eyes snapped open. "_Voa."_ _Yes._

"You make up depressing puzzles." Dara paused, and added, "_Viaell_ '_uelleo fieua tia liliua. . . _I lost the first to life." She looked at him, and his expression had gone distant, withdrawn. She could barely hear his song now. "Don't. . .I'm sorry. I can't hear you like that. I haven't gotten the rest figured out yet. The _lost_ verb repeats a bit—"

She could see him relax, by inches. "No, you're exactly right," he told her, quietly. "But. . . not today, all right? Your brain is scrambled, and while a little brain damage might bring you down to my level—"

"Stop _saying_ that!"

"—I liked your brain the way it was before." He squeezed her fingers, tightly. "So let it rest, _sai'kaea_. We'll figure it all out. . . in the morning. The rachni, the asari, the turians, the humans, and the lions and the tigers and the AIs. Oh my." One more squeeze. "And just for the record. . . now that you have _rachni_ kids as well as AI ones? You officially win the 'most complicated life' award. Forever."

"Bite me, Elijah Sidonis."

"You're lucky, _sai'kaea_. I'm much too damned tired to do anything about that one. Next time you tell me that, in your bedroom, with you half-naked under a lab coat? You're not going to be nearly so lucky." He lifted her hand and bit the inside of her wrist. "Just keep that in mind."


	115. Chapter 115: Origins and Deceptions

**Chapter 115: Origins and Deceptions**

**Author's note: **_Stranger-Exile has suggested 'Whispers in the Dark' by Skillet for Dara and Eli. Nice song! I hadn't heard it before, but it works, and it rocks, too. watch?v=omuYo49_SOQ&feature=player_embedded _

_My husband sent me this link, noting "Apparently, Mexican lawmakers have been reading your stuff on turian weddings."_

_Yes! I'm not crazy! Wedding contracts! Two year 'trial' wedding licenses!_

**Kirrahe Orlan, Hagalaz, September 25-30, 2196**

The ship belonging to Liara T'soni skimmed through the clouds, just on the explosive leading edge of sunrise, following the terminator, essentially. It was perfectly concealed by the roiling turmoil of the clouds, and Kirrahe Orlan was absolutely fascinated by its design. He spent about twenty minutes one morning, calculating the amount of power absorbed from the lighting in the clouds, and simply shook his head. _No wonder the engines rarely have to fire_, he thought. _A perfect stealth vehicle in an environment filled with so many clouds, that even orbital imaging systems would have trouble detecting it. All of its surfaces would be better off painted haze gray, however, with darker gray stippling, to conceal its irregular shapes. Perhaps I will make this small suggestion to Dr. T'soni. Although, surely she's thought of it, and has only allowed the ship to fall into disrepair due to a lack of funds. . . no. Surely not. She's a trusted resource and assistant to the Spectres. . . somehow. Hmm. How __does__ she come by the information she provides, as the secondary source of intelligence for the Spectres?_

He pulled up his VI, and started doing some discreet extranet searches. Nothing that would offend his hostess if she happened to be placing a sniffer program on her guests' searches. Just . . .background information on the famous Dr. T'soni. Educational background. . . _archaeology?_ _Well, nothing here that suggests training in espionage or information gathering. . . ah, here we go. STG files suggest she was once an information broker on Illium._ Kirrahe looked around at the largely empty, somewhat decrepit ship, and murmured under his breath, "Hardly a step down in the world." _Down_, of course, was a direction of authority for salarians.

"What are you doing?" a voice asked, in fluid salarian at his elbow.

He'd heard light footsteps, and assumed one of the children was approaching. He blinked, however, rapidly, when he realized it was Mordin Narayana, and gave her a slight, respectful bow. She giggled at that. Which was a _very_ odd sound from a salarian, burbling and bubbling. _Learned behavior_, he thought. Salarian males did laugh, but he had the impression that females did not do so. "Dalatrass," he said now. "I am researching our hostess."

Narayana nodded rapidly. "This isn't a school. Lantar finally admitted that to the whole family last night. I didn't think it was. Too few teachers!" She folded her arms across her chest. "He said many of the Spectres' children were going to stay here for a while, until they were sure that the base was safe for us again. Is that true?"

Kirrahe blinked again. "Why do you ask me this, dalatrass?"

"Because if I ask you, you have to tell me the truth, right? Isn't that the way it works?" She put her head to the side, considering him.

Kirrahe cleared his throat. "It's customary, yes. It's almost impossible for a male to lie to a female among salarians. Especially when they use. . . command-imperative tone." He winced. She hadn't used it yet, and he really didn't want to hear her use it. It would turn his knees to water, probably, for all that she was young.

Narayana hopped up on the windowsill and stared out at the clouds roiling by, and her small form, in a human dress, was suddenly outlined by a flash of lightning. "Daddy and Ellie always told me it was rude to use the command-imperative tone on people. And it doesn't work on humans or turians. They just see a child trying to order an adult around. But it works on salarians. But I don't like using it on them. Then they're just doing things because I told them to, not because they _want_ to play with me or spend time with me." Her voice was sad. "All the salarian boys at school are scared of me. Even after five years. And their 'fathers' or caregivers mutter whenever they see me. Why is that? Amara says it's because I'm different, like everyone else on Mindoir, and that they're scared. But you're not scared. Why?"

He was relieved. Her mind moved _very_ quickly to different topics, and, in typical salarian fashion, ran up more questions than answers in short order. "Postulating without evidence difficult. Younger males and their caregivers are frightened, because they have no experience with change, with differences. Children always frightened of new things, strange things. Also, adopt adult attitudes easily. Adults. . . mostly technicians, or perhaps older Spectres. Entrenched viewpoints. Or investment in status quo. Mordin Solus did not follow tradition with you. Tradition states that he should have turned you over to the dalatrass of his house to raise. He did not." Kirrahe blinked at her.

"You're not scared?"

"Too interested. Very different from how I picture salarian females. Unsure how much of that is ancestry, and how much of that is upbringing. Human, turian, salarian influences, combined." He pointed at the dress she wore. "No dalatrass would wear such a garment. Long robes, easily removed, for swimming, considered more appropriate. Also, more formal. Regal. Calls attention to themselves, makes them stand out from males even more."

Narayana frowned. "They don't sound pretty."

"Perhaps not. Functional, though."

"Daddy said that form should follow function, but Ellie says that pretty never hurt anyone." She jumped down from the windowsill. "So you're not scared, because you think I'm interesting? Like a slide of cultured bacteria?"

He shook his head, slightly amused. "Interesting for confluence of influences. Genetic, environmental, developmental. Will be intriguing to see who you become."

"Second time you've mentioned genetic influence. My father's breeding history is public record. I looked it up once. Interesting fact: he was chosen to mate before my hatching several times. All of the dalatrasses' names are on record. But for me, only his name, and mine." She skipped along ahead of him through the dark corridors of the ship. "I think I'm a clone or something."

Kirrahe's eyes widened. "Oh?"

Narayana nodded. "That's why the other salarians are afraid of me. They think he took his own DNA and made a female version of himself, right? All the evidence fits."

Kirrahe coughed. "Incorrect suppositions in that line of reasoning. Only through combination of male and female DNA, can a female salarian be created. Would still require agreement of a dalatrass to provide needed chromosomes to produce you. No dalatrass would agree to provide part of her DNA, but not all. And certainly would not agree to release you to his care."

They'd wandered deep into the ship's bowels now, and blundered into a huge room filled with consoles and screens. Kirrahe looked up, his mouth falling open briefly in awe. _Fascinating number of resources, allocated in places other than superstructure of vessel. Vessel may fall apart from disrepair, but the processing of information must go on, apparently._ "Dalatrass Narayana? You shouldn't touch those," he remonstrated, but gently.

Her fingers trailed along one aerogel screen. "I'm not hurting anything. Besides, this is a 'school,' isn't it? Aren't I here to _learn_?"

Kirrahe reached out and took her fingers off the screen. "Sometimes, learning limits is important, too, isn't it? Also, courtesy."

Narayana looked around, and whispered, "But aren't you curious about this place?"

"Absolutely, yes. Better ways to investigate than to use her own consoles, however. Suspicious. Also, impolite."

Narayana began to giggle again. "All right. I like you. You're funny."

He noticed, almost immediately, that she _loved_ information. Not a surprise. She wouldn't be salarian without that trait of deep-seated curiosity. They were also, of course, the only salarians aboard. They lived on a slightly different clock than all other sapient species. While the others slumbered, the two of them were usually up and reading. Studying. Something. Her focus in her studies was, also unsurprisingly, biology. Like her famous father. She was, however, curious about his own research, his own studies. "You can hack into VIs and AIs?"

"VIs, yes, certainly. AIs more difficult. Thelldaroon has more experience with them. Forwarded me copy of his latest analysis of the neural processes of NCAIs. Fascinating reading. Have grown very far from their Reaper/human roots. More complexity, over time. He suggests that in any system with so much complexity, breakdowns will occur, and suggests that adding too much complexity will actually cause a system shutdown. Not that I wish to shut down an NCAI. Would be bad for crew of ship it was aboard. But good to know for other forms of AIs. Or if any of them ever turn rogue." At the back of his mind was the knowledge that out there, somewhere, in batarian space, was a rogue Lystheni AI. One that would call itself 'mother' to this small female. And that he might be tasked, someday, with destroying it. _Surely, it would have more than one singular node. Simply blowing up its primary servers will not be enough. It will be smart as any salarian. Resilient. Adaptable. Concerned with survival. No, it will have many, many tendrils, possibly all over batarian space._ "However, biological processes can provide an excellent starting point for electronic problems," he told her, his eyes crinkling slightly. "How would you deal with an infestation of a problem species, not native to its region, that is causing problems in a new environment?"

She sat up, looking excited. "Import predators. . . however, problematic. Predators, once introduced, can crowd out native predators, over-predate native creatures. Hmm. Study habits, and trap? Introduce disease vectors, targeted solely to the introduced problem species?"

"All valid suggestions," he told her. It was 03:00, and they were the only people on board the vast ship who were awake. "In computers, especially when dealing with VIs and AIs, there are physical solutions, such as destroying servers. Analogous to your idea of trapping, more or less. Personally, considering viral solution, like your notion of disease vectors. Problematic, however. Must have enough of source code from a given AI before designing virus to search it out, wherever it is, and destroy it. Also, AIs tend to be able to protect themselves. Self-healing, self-replicating code. Anti-viral programs. Firewalls. Difficult." He considered her for a long moment. _If anything of the mother remains in the daughter, if there is anything of nature in her, and not just nurture, perhaps mapping Narayana's neural patterns would help?_ "Would you like to see how an NCAI creates a neural map of an organic prior to using the organic's mind as a template for a new AI?"

"You can do that?" Her eyes went wide.

"Thelldaroon explains the basic process used by EDI on Jeff Moreau, to create the first hundred NCAIs. These were created before chipping technology even existed. That was designed by your father, to facilitate communication between Moreau and EDI." Kirrahe set his datapad down, and settled her at a console. "It starts with a preliminary psych protocol. Lots of questions and answers. Don't over-think them. Just answer them, as quickly as you can. No wrong answers."

She treated it like a game, and was soon whizzing through the quiz questions and answers, beaming happily. Kirrahe also set up a corona of EEG electrodes, and began mapping her cortical responses as she answered the questions.

That lasted until about 06:00, when Ellie Sidonis found them, happily working and playing at the same time, and stared at them both. "What," the human woman said, with great precision, "are you _doing_ with my daughter?"

"Kirrahe's showing me the basic process for creating an NCAI." Narayana's tone was gleeful.

"Would require approximately four hundred more hours of data for even a preliminary sketch of personality," Kirrahe said, hastily, seeing storm clouds rise over the human's expression. She was only an inch shorter than he was, himself, and while he was a combat veteran, there was something in her eyes much like a Terran mother tigress about to defend her cub. Plus, there was the fact that she was the _mother_ of a large clan. For all that her mate, the turian, Lantar Sidonis, was the Spectre in the family, and dwarfed this human female, in Kirrahe's eyes, she was just as important. Perhaps even more so. "Actually, probably time for rest period. Lost track of time." He added that quickly, watching signs of ire rise in her face.

Narayana actually did yawn at that point. " I think I do need an hour of sleep," she admitted. "Good morning, Ellie. See you in a bit."

When the door had closed behind her, Ellie turned on Kirrahe. "You're conducting _experiments_ on her? After everything her father did to prevent exactly that?" The human female was furious.

"No. Not experiments. Amused her. Also, may prove valuable in tracking down her mother." Kirrahe's words tumbled over themselves in his haste to explain. "Not all brain function a function of upbringing, education. Some small part could be innate. Even genetic. If Narayana's thought patterns are even remotely similar. . . and even the fact that she is a _female_ salarian could make her patterns different from, say, my own. . . we might be able to use that. Create a virus designed to hone in on her mother's AI. And destroy it. Much more effective than simply blowing up primary servers. Though that will certainly be needed, too."

Ellie's mouth opened and closed. "You should have talked to Lantar or me first," she finally said.

"You were asleep. Also, better if brain is in natural state, not energized by excitement or suspicion. This way, appeared like a game. Something to amuse her. Not so much, if I had to discuss it at length, get permission, you intervened, explained, or didn't explain enough, or obfuscated." Kirrahe ticked off the points on his fingers, ran out, and ran out of breath at the same time. "Apologize for appearance and for alarming you. Good ideas sometimes need to be acted upon. Spectre Lantar will doubtless want to express displeasure with me as well. I await my reprimand." Kirrahe sighed. Humans and turians did things at such a desperately slow pace sometimes. Not as bad as elcor, but almost. Although Thelldaroon certainly had been showing that not every elcor had a ponderous mind. His was almost nimble, in fact.

Ellie shook her head. "Go get some sleep, Kirrahe. You've been up for twenty-three hours. Even a salarian needs a _little_ rest from time to time."

Lantar did, indeed, wish to have words with him an hour later, as Kirrahe was crunching mealworms and boll weevils with Narayana. "Astonishing," Orlan told the turian as he approached, "the number of exotic and wonderful foods that Earth produces. I wonder if there are places on Earth where a salarian could go to eat these insects live."

Lantar looked down into the bowl, and winced. "Probably," he said, after a moment. "I'll never get used to seeing that, though. Arthropods are only found in Palaven's oceans. Not on land."

"Your loss, I'm afraid. Very nutritious. Lots of protein." Kirrahe set his bowl down and nodded formally to Narayana. "With your leave, Dalatrass Narayana? I believe your step-father wishes to reprimand me for keeping you up past your bed time."

She burst into giggles again, and waved him away. Sidonis surprised Kirrahe. He listened. Silent as a judge, and only asked Kirrahe to slow down once or twice. "It's actually not a bad idea. If we can get any of the source code directly, would it help?"

Kirrahe leaned against a metal cabinet that held a huge aerogel screen, which seemed to be projecting a system map and showing mineral deposits at the moment. "It would be of great utility, actually. I'm uncertain how we might acquire that data, however."

Lantar grimaced. "We'll see what we can do. In the meantime, go ahead and keep entertaining Narayana, but for the sake of the spirits, _talk_ to me or Ellie first before any more of these grand ideas of yours get put into implementation. Ellie said she felt like she'd lost a year of her life when she walked in this morning."

Kirrahe straightened, upset. "Please, assure her, I would never, under any circumstances, injure Mordin Narayana. She's a _female._ She might not be the head of her house, and her background might be . . . unorthodox. . . but I couldn't be salarian and injure her." He sighed. "You might also factor something else into your future dealings with Narayana."

Lantar's mandibles flexed. "And this is?" His voice didn't sound promising now. In fact, he sounded more than a little as if Kirrahe had stepped into his territory, as turians so often did. Harsh, grating.

"Forgive me, but she's convinced that she is a female clone of her father." Kirrahe couldn't come up with any way to put it except the bald fact. "I've done my best to dissuade her of that, but she's very curious about her origins. She's salarian. Picking apart puzzles and mysteries is what we _do_. Sooner or later, she will ascertain exactly what those origins are. You might wish to enlighten her before that time. So that it will come from you, and not as a shock." He shrugged. "Of course, she's your ward. It's a decision that you and your wife must make."

**Narayana, Hagalaz, September 30, 2196**

She _liked_ Kirrahe. It wasn't _his_ fault that she'd stayed up beyond her bed time. She'd known what time it was, and that she should have gone to bed. So she scuttled along after her guardian and the salarian male—who was _STG,_ just like her daddy had been, once upon a time—but before she could step into the room and announce herself, they were already talking. Kirrahe spoke quickly, at a full salarian clip, and used technical terms that she didn't understand. Things about AIs, and viruses, and destabilizing the neural core of a Lystheni AI, and how _her_ brain patterns could be the key. Narayana's eyes widened. _I could be important like that?_ She strained to hear more, but they were talking so quietly, she could barely hear what was under discussion. Something about. . . her parentage. "She thinks she's a clone. . . she's very curious about her origins. . . .Sooner or later, she will ascertain exactly what those origins are. . . . enlighten her. . . so it comes from you. . . not as a shock."

_Kirrahe knows!_ The realization went through her like a lightning bolt. _I could order him to tell me. I could. He'd have to. All I'd have to do was use the rude voice._

She hesitated and thought about it all day, however. She was rude, almost abrupt to Kirrahe later, when he asked her if she wanted to continue working on her NCAI template. "No," she snapped. "Not right now." He deserved it, didn't he? Knowing things about her that she didn't know, herself, keeping the secret, the code of adult silence? _Do I have a mother?_ she wondered, for the first time. _Someone who would want me? Ellie loves me. Lantar loves me, too. Daddy loved me. Does whoever clutched me, love me, too?_ She thought probably not. All her reading about salarian society suggested that eggs were bargaining chips, part of the big breeding contract game. Besides, you had to know someone to love them, wasn't that the way it worked?

She didn't want to talk to Amara about this. Biotic training or not, Amara really had a tendency to see what was on Narayana's mind, whether she wanted to, or not. And whatever Amara knew lately, Madison Dempsey tended to hear, by default. So Nara sat and listened to the other kids at lunch that day, thinking hard to herself.

That didn't stop Amara from seeking _her_ out, however. Amara flopped on the bench beside her, scowling a little. "What's wrong?" Nara asked, after a moment, puzzled. Amara had consistently sat beside Madison at every meal possible since his 'blooding,' something that seemed of great importance to turians, anxiety to humans, and of little relevance to salarians. He'd killed a batarian. Necessary, but regrettable. Turians considered that the end of childhood, in a way, especially if it occurred before boot camp. Humans seemed to regard it as a terminal illness of the mind; they'd had several psychotherapists talk with Madison at school, in fact. The change in Amara's behavior didn't fit known patterns.

Amara absolutely sulked for a minute. "Madison knows something about why we're here," she finally said. "He's shielding it from me, but I can tell it's there."

Nara blinked. Having multiple biotic friends was interesting for analysis, but confusing to listen to, unfortunately. "He knows something, but he's choosing not to tell you, and this makes you angry? Isn't he entitled to privacy?"

Amara sighed. "Yes. But if it's something that involves all of us, I should know, right? We should all know."

At which point, Madison came over and stared down at her for a moment. Absolutely silent. And then the argument spilled out, out loud, almost in mid-sentence, "—that's not what I said. I said it's not my secret to _tell_—"

"But you're upset about it, and it's making your whole mind contract in on the secret, and you're mad and you're a scared, and that's scaring me—"

"We're perfectly safe here. The batarians and the L. . . their allies. . . " _Was that a quick look at me? Interesting._ "—don't know about this place. They can go to the base and look for kidnapping victims and hostages all they want, but we're not _there_." Madison looked aggravated. "I wish I were, though. I was just getting used to the new school. And getting to play handball and everything else."

Narayana pointed out, reasonably, she thought, "Lessons are still being sent from the school. Many of our classmates are here. The situation is unchanged, largely, other than handball."

Madison ran a hand over his hair, still very short after his brain surgery. "Not really the point, Nara, but okay." He looked back at Amara, and his face softened into a slight smile. After a moment, Amara's did, too, and he reached out a hand, and she took it. "At least here, I don't get twelve verses and a chorus of 'Mad and Amara, sitting in a tree, B-I-T-I-N-G," he said, after a moment, and Amara started to giggle, flushing pink up to her crest.

Narayana shook her head, and went back to eating kelp-wrapped beetles. Fiara, the daughter of Dr. T'soni, was sitting at the table beside her, and talking to Shellara and Tellura in interest. They were chattering in asari, but Narayana knew enough of that language, by way of galactic and her studies, to understand most of their conversation. _"Why does your mother wear an eyepatch?"_

"_She's not my mother. She's Telluura's __mother, though." _

"_All right, but why the eyepatch?"_

"_She lost her eye fighting on Omega a month or two ago. Batarians tried to hurt her brain."_

"_Ohhh, okay, I know who she is now! My mother showed me that on the consoles! She showed me the Spectres coming into the warehouse. One of them even had a great big mining mech that she rode in, and tore right through the walls to get to your. . . Telluura's mother." _

That got Narayana's attention. _She has to be mistaken. How would Dr. T'soni have vids like that? Must have been of some other rescue._

Shellara nodded though, in little kid innocence, believing every word. _"Ylara's so brave. I wish she were my mother. Or that Zhasa and Dempsey would be my mother and second-mother. Zhasa's nice, and Dempsey knows how to throw a ball really far."_

"_Where __is__ your mother?"_

"_She died on Bastion. Her name was Essalia T'lari. She . . . got really sick."_

"_I'm so sorry." _Fiara reached out and put a hand on Shellara's, and then, with typical asari effusiveness, drew the other asari to her in a quick hug. _"You don't feel that sad."_

"_I didn't get to see her much. She was a picture in my room. Sometimes she would call."_

"_Do you know your second-mother, then? Feron's my second-mother." _

"_No. Not even a name."_

"_Huh. That's weird. I bet my mom could find out who she is, though. Or not-she."_

"_How would your mother do that?"_

"_She'd ask her VI assistant to help her look it up."_ Fiara giggled. _"Truthfully, the silly thing will look anything up for anyone. It's broken."_ She paused. _"Do you really want to know?"_

Shellara paused. _"I don't know. If my second-mother cared, I'd already know who she or not-she was, wouldn't I? Besides, Ylara says I'm special, and I have to pick my own path. She says I might even want to change my name when I get older."_

"_Wow. You get to pick your own name? That's. . . that's like deciding who you want to be!"_

"_I know! She gave me a huge list of names from hundreds of different languages, and what they all mean. Told me to start reading through them now. So I could decide who I wanted to be when I grow up."_

"_That's amazing. I thought it was hard to decide __what__ I wanted to be, let alone who."_

"_Oh, what's easy. I'm going to be a pilot."_ Total assurance in Shellara's voice, but Narayana was already cleaning off her plate and heading, quietly, out of the dining hall. She knew where Dr. T'soni's big office was. It was supposed to be off-limits, but breaking a rule just this once couldn't hurt, could it?

Dr. T'soni was nowhere in sight when Narayana crept into the big room. So many big consoles, showing scenes from dozens of planets, faces, people angry or crying or shouting or just sitting there, faces blank. Humans, turians, salarians, asari, krogan, volus, drell, hanar. She jumped almost out of her skin when a whirling ball of light accosted her. "Greetings, Shadow Broker. May I assist you?"

Nara _stared_ at the drone. She knew that there was a moth-sized flying remote inside the projected holographic cloud, but she'd never seen one so large before. It seemed pointless, a waste of energy. But an avatar was an avatar, she supposed. "Why do you call me Shadow Broker?" she asked.

"Because you are the Shadow Broker, Shadow Broker," it replied, with mechanical patience.

Nara chuckled. "Fiara was right. You _are_ broken."

"Self-diagnostics indicate that this program has not been upgraded to VirtualIntelligenceAssistant 4.1. An update may be available. Would you like to check for updates now, Shadow Broker?"

Nara's thin shoulders shook. "No. I would like to make a database inquiry." She looked around. She might not have much time, and the silly thing was noisy. "Also, lower your output mode by fifty percent."

"Acknowledged." Its voice was much quieter now. "Inquiry parameters?"

"Offspring of Mordin Solus. Name, Mordin Narayana. What information is available on her?" Nara paused. "Output data to this extranet address," she added, and provided her comm code. Then she snuck back out, as the VI continued to whirl in place.

A half-hour later, Nara was wading through information. It all had the slightly egotistical pleasure of being all about _her_. It was like looking through a carefully-kept scrapbook. But the level of detail was frightening. There were pictures from every year of her life. She'd seen some before. Her father, with his old assistants, Dr. Abrams and young Dr. Velnaran, before she'd even been a doctor, looking into her tank, where she swam as a tadpole. Her first day out of the tank. First steps. Loss of the tail. Letters. _By the Wheel, these are reports! These are reports my father filed with the Spectres. . . about me?!_ Narayana started reading, and realized she couldn't make _sense_ of the first one. It was highly technical, and had to do with repairing cellular degeneration caused by cloning. _ I was right! I __am__ a clone!_

Except. . . as best she was able to figure out, she wasn't. She read, numbly, trying to make sense of it, _Lystheni dalatrass offered me little choice. I agreed to mate with her. Fertilized perhaps a dozen eggs. Unable to get accurate count. Half of these were provided to me with directions to create biotic salarian queens for her. To perpetuate the Lystheni, in a way they had not been able to do on their own. Too much inbreeding over too many generations led to unviable offspring. Too much cloning to secure the dalatrasses' power, generation after generation, created degeneration at the genetic level. Drift. Inaccuracies. Told them that I was using the hybridization template to add human biotic potential to salarian eggs. Did not. Every change spliced in, I removed. Most of the eggs, I left with suicide genes. One, I preserved. Removed every genetic abnormality, disease, and dysfunction from. Placed the egg in a protective tube, and when rescue came, I took my chances. Shattered a makeshift cryo-grenade at Maelon's feet. Knew this would damage him, ensure hibernation state for both him and for me. But the egg would be safe, secure. Was surprised but pleased to awaken, surrounded by my Spectre colleagues once more. _

_I do not know what became of the other eggs. They only provided half of those fertilized for their required experiments. My delaying tactics and deceptions proved the correct course in the end. Preserved my life. The lives of the biotics in the holding pens. And, apparently, this egg. Must now think of a name for my little daughter. Had never thought to be able to raise a child of my own. Very late in life. Unfortunate. But a second chance. Should not be squandered._

Narayana's throat felt tight as she read the words. "What _am_ I?" she whispered. "Computer, prepare extranet search. Keyword. . . Lystheni."

"That won't be necessary."

Narayana's head jerked up, and her eyes widened in guilt as Lantar, Ellie, and Dr. T'soni came in the room. "My VI assistant keeps a record of past searches," the asari told her, calmly. "And helpfully told me that it had dispatched the requested records to the extranet address, as I'd _requested_."

Narayana swallowed, hard. Lantar and Ellie both looked angry, and worst of all, disappointed. Dr. T'soni looked down at her. "I really need to safeguard that VI, now that I have guests. And curious ones, at that. Was it just random luck that you went to my study and asked my VI, Narayana?"

Narayana didn't want to get Fiara in trouble, but she also didn't want to lie. So she looked down and didn't answer.

"Ah. The first duty of a prisoner is not to submit, I see," Lantar said, and his voice grated a bit more than usual. He was angry. "Refusing to answer isn't acceptable, Narayana. Your father would be disappointed in you. You've broken the code of hospitality, you've taken advantage of our host—who's offered you a place of safety in her home—"

"I don't want to be here!" Narayana knew better than to cut Lantar off, but he was working his way up along a nice long, boring turian speech. "I didn't ask to come here. And Fiara was going to ask the VI for who Shellara's second-mother was anyway. Why does everyone else get to know who they are and where they come from, but not me?"

Lantar's eyes narrowed for a moment, and his mandibles flexed. Narayana winced. Lantar turned and looked at Dr. T'soni. "If you'd excuse us for a moment? We're about to have a rather serious discussion here."

It went on for a while. Interrupting while a grown-up was talking was a cardinal sin. Invading other people's privacy was also frowned upon. "But she invaded _my_ privacy first!" Narayana protested. "How _else_ would she know all these things? These are Spectre reports. I know she works for the Spectres, but _this_ one was marked for Commander Shepard only!"

"And yet you read it," Lantar pointed out, with irrefutable logic. "Rules do not seem to be stopping you. Awareness of the trespass only makes the trespass worse."

"It's about _me!_"

"That is not the point, young female!" Lantar wasn't a shouter, but he was getting close, it was clear.

Ellie let it go on for a while, and then, in some frustration, said, "Lantar, a moment outside, please?"

Narayana hopped down and headed to the door, pressing her auditory horn to the surface, trying to hear what they were saying. "Lantar, I think she knows what she did was wrong, but she's also right; trying to keep her background from her is only making it worse at the moment."

"And so we should reward her for her actions?" Lantar's voice was so low, it was hard to understand. He had to be growling, though. Narayana fidgeted behind the door. Ellie was a female, and something in Nara's brainstem told her to _obey_ Ellie, but Lantar was _scary_ when he was angry. And he was certainly angry now. "Aside from which, her father didn't want her told! His last wishes were explicit, and that's _sacred_, Ellie. She wasn't to be told until she opened his letters to her when she's eight or nine years old. Old enough to understand."

"And I think Mordin would realize that we have to use our own judgment in taking care of his child, don't you?" Ellie's voice, soft and kind, but pushing back with gentle strength. "She knows enough now for it to bother her, so I say let her _read_ his letters now. And then we can explain things to her in a way that she _will_ understand at this age, and then she can stop wondering and worrying about it."

A long growl of pure irritation, and then a pause. "You're probably right," Lantar admitted. "But she _does_ need to be punished."

"She'll apologize to Dr. T'soni. And to you. That'll stick in her crop pretty well."

"I'm not sure, _amatra,_ that salarians have crops." Very faint amusement in Lantar's voice.

"Was that a joke?"

"I'm practicing. The next time I see our first-son, I intend to dazzle him with my wit."

"Lantar, I love you, but that's going to require a _lot_ of practice." Loving amusement now. She could almost picture the two of them wrapping their arms around each other. Such an odd thing that humans and turians did. But she liked it when Ellie gave her hugs. She heard them stepping towards the door, and hastily moved back to sit down on her bed again, looking up hesitantly as the door opened.

Lantar still looked _very_ angry. His eyes went _dead_ when he was in the midst of protection-anger or whatever of the other forty flavors of anger that turians experienced. She couldn't tell them apart. It was all just _mad_ to her. "All right. Let me start again. Do you understand what you did that was wrong?"

Narayana sighed. There was no getting around this part. "Yes. I asked someone's VI to provide me information without their permission." _It should at least have a password, if Dr. T'soni doesn't want people using it_. She heaved another sigh. "I shouldn't have done that. I should have asked permission." _Except then I wouldn't have gotten any answer at all._

Lantar nodded, grimly. "You're going to be apologizing to her for that. Also, for being rude about being here. She didn't _have_ to take in the families of the Spectres. And she's doing this largely for _your_ sake, Narayana. And for your father's."

Narayana's head jerked up. That was new information. Ellie came over and sat down on the bed beside her, and put an arm around her. "You see, dear, that report you read only had part of the story in it," Ellie told her, and her voice was warm and comforting.

It took them a half an hour to explain it all to her. Narayana put her head down on Ellie's shoulder near the end, and really wished she had the human ability to weep. "I come from bad people," she concluded, like the child she was.

"No. You also come from Dr. Solus. Who was a hero," Lantar told her, with complete, flat assurance. "But the Lystheni are misguided at best. And their dalatrass, in her AI form, does want you back, Narayana. Not because she loves you, or wants what's best for you, or to raise you or care for you. But because she thinks she can use your body. Either as a host for her consciousness, or to brainwash you and use your body for more eggs. To renew her little technological cult."

Narayana shuddered. Both sounded. . . icky. "And that's why I have to stay here?"

Ellie hugged her. "Yes, dear."

"Forever?"

"No. Just until we find the Lystheni dalatrass and her followers and destroy them." Lantar crouched down so he could meet her gaze at eye-level. "I promise you, I'll do everything in my power to do so. Young Kirrahe has a few excellent ideas for making sure we can track the dalatrass down in a permanent sort of way."

Narayana lifted her head. "Really? Is that why he was talking about AIs this morning?"

Lantar nodded. "It's been fun for you, having someone around who can stay awake with you all the time, hasn't it?"

She nodded. "I don't pester him, I promise. But it's nice having someone around who. . . who's like me. And isn't scared of me."

Lantar sighed. "I've been reminded, recently, of how important that is." He looked at Ellie. "I can ask Shepard to leave Kirrahe here for a little longer." He looked at Narayana sternly. "He's not just here to entertain you. He's certainly not on a glorified babysitting assignment."

Narayana's mouth opened, and closed again. She had a feeling Lantar wasn't actually looking for an answer right now. She was right; he went on. "He does need a little down-time after three months on Omega, he can help with repairs on this ship, and he can keep working on his other little project from here. But Shepard, Garrus, Dempsey, Zhasa, and I have to leave in the morning. We're hearing very little out of rachni space at the moment, and with Kasumi, the less you hear, the worse the situation probably is."

Ellie's arm tightened on Narayana's thin shoulders. "Elijah?"

Lantar shook his head. "No mention of him. Just that Dara's somehow at issue." He lifted his hands, palms upward. "Narayana. . . " his voice was stern. "We're going to let you read your father's letters to you. But first, you're going to go apologize to Dr. T'soni. _And_ to Fiara, for using information she didn't realize she'd given you, and nearly getting her in trouble. You understand?"

Narayana sighed. "Yes, Lantar." She had the unmistakable, miserable feeling of having disappointed him, and even Ellie's warm human arm around her—humans and turians and asari were so amazingly _warm!_—couldn't make up for that. "And then you have to go?" _He'd stay if I hadn't messed up_, the illogic of emotion told her, even though she _knew_ better.

"Yes. But before I go, I'm going to show you how to put on your clan-paint, all right?" Lantar lifted her chin with one big, clawed finger. "It's up to you if you want to wear it, but all the paperwork is done. I'll say the words, you say the words, and then you put on the paint. If you want to."

She swallowed, hard. "Daddy wouldn't mind, would he?"

Ellie hugged her even more tightly. "No, Nara," she told her salarian adoptive daughter. "I don't think Mordin would mind at all."

So that night, _after_ having made her very uncomfortable apologies to Dr. T'soni and Fiara, Narayana said the words of the _ascio_ rites in front of everyone on the ship, as Lantar had patiently taught them to her, and he showed her how to put his violet clan-paint on. Caelia laughed happily and grabbed her by the wrists, and whirled with her, a purely human gesture of exuberance. "See? Now you really are my sister."

Caelia and Emily would always be first-sister and second-sister, despite the age differences; the order of being entered into the family dictated everything. Thus, because Eli had been adopted before any of the others were born, he would always be first-sibling, first-son. If he'd been adopted after Tacitus was born, he would, technically, be second-son, behind a child much younger than himself. It was odd, but that was turian literal-mindedness at work. It was, at least, fair.

The next morning, all the full Spectres said their good-byes. Tulluust wrapped a single big arm around Ylara, and said, "Concerned: I hope that you will take some downtime, and have a prosthetic eye implanted. It troubles you to wear the eyepatch, and I see you flinch when you look in the mirror."

Ylara leaned forward and kissed the elcor on the cheek. "What am I going to do without you?" she murmured, in clear affection. "When I walk in the door of our house, there won't be any flowers waiting for me."

"Contradiction: Yes, there will. Outside, at least. Addendum: The backyard garden is in full spring bloom. You will have everything that I planted there to remind you of us."

Kaius, Amara, Elissa, and Alain were all clinging to Shepard and Garrus, who'd arrived a few days ago on the _Nereia_, and who looked tired and worn. The two sets of hybrid twins, like the Sidonis children, hadn't seen their father in months, and were quite unhappy to see him leaving again so soon. "I'll be back as soon as I can," Garrus kept telling them. "Maybe I can get Grandpa Gavius to come spend some time here, would you like that?"

Hesitant affirmatives, after a few moments.

Off to the side, Caelia and Emily and Tacitus wailed and held onto Lantar's legs. He hugged each of them, and Narayana could hear Ellie murmur, "You only just got _back_ from Shanxi, sweetheart. I hate to see you go so soon."

"And I hate to leave again so soon. I'll be back as soon as I can, though." He leaned down and bit the inside of her wrist, and Ellie leaned up on tiptoe and kissed his mandible. Then he turned and looked at Kirrahe. "Take care of all of them. And keep working on that project of yours. I think you're onto something. And I'll have Thelldaroon get in touch with you. Just as soon as he's back from rachni space."

Narayana wondered what the Spectres were doing out in _rachni_ space, of all places. It wasn't as if the rachni took much of an interest in the rest of the galaxy—other than Sky, of course. Sky was . .. well, Sky. He'd taken care of her when she was a baby. She couldn't remember a time when the handling appendages and the gleaming blue eyes hadn't meant affection and love to her.

Then all the Spectres headed into either the _Normandy_ or the _Nereia_, both of which would be heading back to Mindoir. Narayana envied them, but looking around, she felt a huge wash of guilt. If it wasn't for her, everyone here could have stayed on base. Stayed under the violet Mindoir sky.

"You know what? You need to get Ellie to make you more purple dresses to match this now!" Amara told her, smilingly touching the fresh clan-paint with light finger-tips. Amara wasn't going to let Narayana's dark mood last, the salarian girl could tell. "You know what they're doing out in rachni space?"

Narayana shook her head. "No, you?"

"Something about eggs," Kaius volunteered. "_Pada_ said something about that."

Narayana sighed, and was surprised when a hand fell on her shoulder. "Should you all be talking about this sort of thing?" Kirrahe asked them, firmly.

"Why not?" Kaius asked, forthrightly. "We hear little bits and pieces about whose parents are doing what. And between all of us, we _might_ be able to figure out what they're doing. Where they are."

"And how much danger they're in," Amara added, softly.

Madison came over now. "They're going to be fine," he told her.

"Yeah, and your dad can't be killed," Kaius pointed out. "I saw what he looked like in the bunker."

"Yeah? And your mom came back from the _dead_," Madison pointed out, cheerfully enough. "Can anyone else here top that?"

Laughing and not taking the comments at _all_ seriously, because obviously Lilu Shepard was fine, and was, after all, _just_ Amara and Kaius' mom, the various children dispersed. Narayana looked up at Kirrahe Orlan. "Could you answer a question of mine?" she asked, politely. If she had to be direct about it, she would.

Kirrahe blinked rapidly. She knew that look. It expressed interest. "If I may, yes."

"What's a Shadow Broker?"

His expression was thunderstruck, and he opened his mouth, and closed it again, without actually saying a word.

_How interesting_, Narayana thought, and began to play her father's old and most favorite game. Hide and Seek. Seek for the answers that others have hidden. Find the pieces of the puzzle, no matter where they're been placed, and put them together again.

**Rinus, Mindoir and Palaven, September 23-25, 2196**

He'd never seen the airfield at the Mindoir base this busy before, but as the _Estallus_ swooped in for a landing, he could see the _Sollostra_ on the ground, beside the _Crimea_ and the _Kiev_, both with crews hauling supplies aboard, and several other SR ships. The _Dunkirk_ was here, as well. Rinus set his hand on Kallixta's shoulder in the cockpit as she fired the maneuvering thrusters, delicately moving the frigate in for a soft landing. "Well, it's not quite home, but close enough for the moment," he told her, lightly.

"You're actually getting some downtime?" she asked, immediately.

Rinus grimaced. He knew he needed it. Badly. His shoulders were tight-set with tension, and whenever he closed his eyes, he could see wiring for bombs and collapsing buildings and analysis charts for the structural integrity of the buildings _left_ on Shanxi. "Yeah. A few weeks, I was told. They're worried about the teams on Terra Nova, though. Lost contact with two teams on that planet. That's not good." He stroked a hand over Kallixta's fringe. "But if you have something in mind for leave? I'll take whatever I can get, while I can get it."

"After getting your brother settled in here. . . and I was hoping to talk to Dara, myself," Kallixta touched a couple of final controls, and then stood up from her chair, "I was thinking of going home to Palaven for a bit. I have things I wish to discuss with my father and the captain of his guard."

_Oh. Well, you've been stewing over that for a good three months now._ "Have you exchanged any letters with your father?" Rinus asked, cautiously, as they stepped down through CIC, towards the elevators.

"A few. None of any real import. I couldn't trust the communications. . . or the privacy protocols aboard this ship." Kallixta muttered the last with a roll of her eyes in the elevator.

"I heard that," Laetia told her, appearing as a green eyeball in the elevator and bobbing there.

"I meant for you to," Kallixta informed her, in some annoyance, and tabbed the elevator for crew quarters.

Rinus just chuckled. "I can understand why you want to go, then. I was really rather hoping for a week on Macedyn, just staring at the waters of the crater seas. . . but spirits only know if Macedyn will be safe at this point." He hadn't heard much about fleet movements and blockades and everything else for the past three months; Garrus and Lantar had been keeping their teams focused completely on _Shanxi_. _Don't worry about anything else. That's what the Fleets and War Plans and everyone else are for. Concentrate on the ground in front of us. _

Rinus was already packed, and he'd packed Rel's kit for him, too. It didn't take much time or effort, except for carefully packing away Rel's various statues and carving implements. Rel's only request in med bay, so far, was for his most recent work to be brought to him. Rinus had brought it, but he hadn't liked it. The statue was about two feet tall, and was of a yahg. One with malevolent intelligence in its many eyes, and in its hand, it held the body of a broken, dying human marine. _Spirits,_ Rinus shuddered to himself, looking at it in the med bay as he pushed the curtains out of the way and peered into his brother's bed area, _he sees entirely too much with his spirit eyes sometimes._

Rel was sitting up, but Rinus grimaced a bit. The smell of suppurating flesh was strong in here. "I know," Rel said, almost looking embarrassed. "It stinks."

The leg was not responding to conventional antibiotic and medigel regimens at the moment. Which was a big reason to bring him home to Mindoir. There might be other therapies that the doctors here could try. _Plus, we really need him to find his spirit again,_ Rinus thought, tiredly. The typical course of treatment for combat addiction had gone entirely awry on Shanxi. It was _supposed_ to be tightly focused, high intensity missions, to support the need for the adrenaline bursts, bracketed by downtime. Contemplation. Not really charitable work, but work with at-risk younglings, for example. Tasks that would redirect the mind and the spirit, and allow the person to see, again, what was worth fighting for. That hadn't really been available on Shanxi.

Oh, there'd been the refugee camps, certainly, and Melaani and Seheve had spent time there, but Rinus hadn't. He'd been too damned busy. And so, actually, had Rel. Melaani had been slightly misplaced on the Shanxi teams. . . but then, none of them had really known what they were going to face there. Rinus rubbed at his eyes. "It's okay, second-brother. We've gotten you home, and now, the doctors here are going to fix that damned leg." He was careful to be as cheerful as possible, but the doctors had been blunt. If something wasn't found soon, Rel would be looking at amputation. "Come on. Let's get you in that wheelchair."

"Would really prefer to walk." Rel's crest was flushed. Embarrassment, pure and total.

"What did your physical therapist say about that?"

"That it would be good for me. Keep the muscles from atrophying."

Rinus held up a finger, stared at his younger brother, and added, "In limited quantities, yes. You're not walking off this ship, brother. Sit down and I'll push you out."

Sighing, Rel did as he was told. There was an IV to manage, too, but its pole attached neatly to a little clip along the side of the chair. "All right. Off we go," Rinus told him, and as he pushed back the curtains, he was greeted by the sight of Kallixta, half a foot shorter than Kassa Vilinus, handing the taller female her crutches. "Centurion," Rinus said, nodding to her.

"Spectre," Vilinus replied, grimacing.

"You're still not all the way healed?"

"The doctors didn't like the way the hip fracture or the femur fracture were healing. They went back in and put in screws and carbon fiber mesh yesterday morning." She grimaced again. "I think I liked it the other way better."

"More pain now, less pain later," Kallixta told her. "Better than living with the twinges for the rest of your life, right?"

"Easy for you to say, commander," Vilinus told her, wincing again as she took another step, testing her weight on the hip and leg. "Still, I've got less to complain about than our hero here."

Rel muttered something under his breath, that sounded like _talas'kak_, and Rinus chuckled and started pushing the wheelchair out of med bay.

There were relatives—spirits, but there were relatives everywhere as they settled Rel into a different med bay room—this one, on base. Garrus had gone off somewhere else on the _Nereia_ several days before, but Allardus and Solanna were there, of course, and Grandfather Gavius, and Polina and Quintus, both of whom looked as if their worlds were coming to an end when they saw Rel in the wheelchair. Solanna proceeded to fuss over Rel as if he were the only chick in her nest, and Rinus could see from Rel's expression that he both appreciated it, and was _profoundly_ embarrassed by it. "Mother, please," Rel finally said. "I'll be fine. Just need to get to med bay here, and let Dr. Chakwas and Dr. Abrams do their jobs." He looked around, a little expectantly. "Where's Serana?" And, after a slight pause, he added, his tone grim, "And Dara? I would have expected her to be _here_ at least."

Rinus sighed internally. _You mean, here, in med bay, since she's a doctor? Or here, because you've been hurt, and she's your wife, and if she loved you, she'd be here?_ It was so hard to tell what Rel was thinking sometimes lately.

Their father was helping a nurse get Rel's leg elevated and settled comfortably. Allardus looked over his shoulder and answered, "They're both off-world. All I know is, the mission was in rachni space. And they just took off, hmm. Two days ago."

Rel's expression froze. After a moment, he asked, very quietly, "Did Serana leave any word for me? Or Dara?"

Solanna fussily adjusted how close the tray-table with a glass of water was, and made sure his blankets were pulled up just so, and then replied, "Serana asked me to pass her love to you. Said she was sorry to hear you were hurt, and she knew you'd taken out the yahg leader on Shanxi. . . " Solanna beamed down at Rel proudly, "with your _wedding-knife._"

Kallixta managed a chuckle, and said, "Every turian's last and best weapon. Well, besides teeth and claws."

Reflexively, Rinus' eyes dropped to the empty sheath on Rel's left forearm. They'd recovered the knife, but it had been shattered. Rel had been right. There'd been a flaw in the metal. The steel would have to be melted back down entirely before it would ever be a knife again. "And Dara?" Rel asked.

Allardus sighed and produced a scrap of paper. "She told me I could read it," their father told Rel now. Over Rel's shoulder, Rinus could see the words, in plain, unornamented human letters. English, not turian or galactic.

_Rel—_

_Sorry to hear you were hurt on Shanxi. I know the docs in the Fleet and here on base will take good care of you. From what I'm gathering, it looks pretty ugly, and you're looking at about a month of PT, which sucks, I know. But the docs at home are nothing short of amazing, so you'll be fine. I guess we'll talk when I get back. Take care._

_Dara_

It was a far cry from the old letters, Rinus thought. His brother had shared some of those with him, years ago, which had carried details of Mindoir life across the galaxy for him to read. This was brief, polite, and guarded. No words of love. _No false hopes. No lies. Can't say she's not being ethical here, but. . . a little sympathy would have been helpful. I think. Spirits, what a damned mess._

Rel balled the note up and threw it on the tray beside him. "So, she's off in _rachni_ space. What a surprise," he muttered.

Rinus started to clear his throat, but his father intervened, and looked down at Rel now. "She's a _Spectre_," Allardus reminded Rel. "She's got duties, same as everyone else around her."

"Yeah. I know." Rel turned his face away. "I don't want to talk about it." And that was the last thing he said on the topic, but Rinus knew his second-brother well enough to see the anger boiling under the surface. _You used to be so calm,_ Rinus reflected. _I could tease you for an hour, and all you'd do was laugh. _

He stayed long enough to get Rel settled in. Vilinus was two rooms down, because with her level of injuries, she was going to need physical therapy, too. Macready was in the next room over; this was his second Spectre operation that had, in the Scottish male's words, "been blown so far t'hell that God Almighty couldn't find the pieces without some help." The doctors were going to try stem cell treatments on his spinal injuries and see if they couldn't get him walking again. After an hour or two of listening to his parents chatter at Rel about Polina and Quintus' school doings, and how _most_ of their classmates, at least, the younger ones, were being taken, for safety, off-world right now, Rinus cleared his throat. "Kallixta? We need to get going," he said. "I understand we actually have a _house_ here now. We should probably go look at it. Get keys, that sort of thing."

Kallixta gave him a droll look. "Are you going to consider this one any more home than the one in Complovium, the one in Raetia, or the one on Macedyn? Not to mention the Galatana property or the Edessan villa?"

Rinus shrugged. "Maybe. It's the first one I've gotten through my own work." He grinned at her as she came close enough for him to reach out and pull her to him. "And you can use _my_ accounts to furnish it, how's that?" Old, familiar, comfortable married arguments. He was mostly just teasing her at the moment.

Kallixta hissed through her teeth. "Nonsense. I'll move some of the furniture from Raetia to here. Only the comfortable stuff."

"I don't think most of the furniture will even _fit_," Rinus reminded her. "Let's look at the place first."

Rel had raised his head from his pillow, and looked distressed. "You're going already?"

"Well, we do need a decent night's sleep," Rinus told him lightly. "My _domina_ here is dragging me back to Palaven in the next day or two. She needs to have a little chat with her _pada_ about something. Besides, if I don't check into my office at the Conclave every so often, they might re-allocate it to some other annoying, low-ranking, trouble-making _dominus_." He grinned.

Rel's face fell, just a bit, and Rinus internally kicked himself. _I'm being pulled in so many damned directions at once, I don't even know which direction I'm facing,_ Rinus admitted. He had his duties to his wife, his duties to his own family, of which Rel was a large portion, at the moment, his law-making duties, and his Spectre duties. _Quite the load. Good thing Kallixta wants to fly too much to add 'mada and pada' to that lot._ _At least, not yet._ "I was hoping you'd be here for . . .the therapy," Rel admitted, quietly. Buried in that voice was fear-anger. Raw and real. _He's scared to death he's going to lose the leg, and who can blame him?_

"I'll be back in a couple of days at most," Rinus promised. "This is something Kallixta _has_ to do, _fradu._ And . . . she's my wife." He shrugged. Kallixta came first, among all those priorities. It was just that simple. He reached over and squeezed Rel's shoulder. "I promise. I'll be back before your therapy really gets started."

Rel at least relaxed at that, at least a little. Rinus led Kallixta off through the winding halls of the corridor. Kallixta squeezed his hand briefly. "Thank you for going with me. I wouldn't blame you if you stayed, for his sake," she told him. "He's so damned spirit-sick, it can't bode well for his recovery." She paused. "Maybe we'll bring the spirit-caller from the palace back with us? It can't hurt."

Rinus nodded. "It's an idea, anyway," he agreed. Spirit-callers were a the closest thing to priests that turians had. Shamans, more, as they had been in the cave-and-nest days, but they usually also had degrees in psychiatry now. Turian psychiatry, anyway, which was not quite the same as human psychiatry. "I'd be willing to try burning feathers under his nose at this point."

Their new villa was in the southwest corner of the base, and Rinus's mandibles flexed when he noted bullet-holes here and there from when the base had, apparently, been attacked three months ago. "Guess since it's been sitting empty, it's been at the bottom of the priority list for repairs," he said, dryly. "We'll have to ensure that changes."

Inside, it was bereft of furniture, but had a nice layout, around a small central atrium. No flowers here yet. "We'll get Grandfather up here to set us up a garden. I bet he'd love a project from scratch like this," Rinus told his wife, and shook his head as they realized that they were going to have to hit the base exchange for at least a damned nest roll and cushions if they were going to sleep there that night. "All right, I'll admit that I do sort of miss some things about the other houses right now," he told her, listening to his voice echo back off the walls.

"Such as?" Kallixta asked, pertly. "I'm going to want to record this for posterity. And evidence."

"Having everything already set up for us was kind of nice. And I'll admit that being able to say 'please go fetch a set of chairs from the attic' to someone would be . . . handy. . . right around now."

Kallixta looked up at the ceiling, a beatific grin crossing her face. "Does this mean I win?"

Rinus gave her a dark look. "Maybe a little."

"Outstanding," Kallixta replied, and grinned even more widely.

In the morning, they and Pallum caught a commercial flight to Palaven. Their Praetorian looked fit, but bored. "I've had enough time in space to last me a while," Pallum admitted. "It's a good thing I've got hobbies. On the one hand, Noctagavis would _kill_ me if anything happened to my protectee, not to mention what the Imperator would do, but on the other hand. . .she's the pilot of a frigate. Most of the time, we're either traveling from one place to another, hanging dead in space, scanning things, or, occasionally, there's ship-to-ship combat." Pallum gave Rinus a droll look. "Not that I'm _asking_ for boarding parties, mind you. That's just baiting the spirits."

Rinus waved an admonishing finger at the older male. "Yes. Let's not tempt them at all."

On Palaven, he was surprised by the fact that rationing was in effect. Austerity measures were in place even at the imperial court—_we must set a good example,_ the Imperator had said, and this was when Rinus started to get a better feel for the scope of the conflict. Galatana was still blockaded. Rocam was, as well. The antibiotics needed for yahg bites, like Rel's leg—as effective as the antibiotics were, which wasn't much the case, as had already been demonstrated—came solely from Rocam. And thus, even on Palaven, medical supplies and food were being rationed, as the homeworld of the turian race struggled to keep all of its colonies supplied. Rinus swore mentally. _We've got to break those futarri nets, somehow. There's got to be a way._

In the palace, they went to Kallixta's personal quarters; they were being encouraged not to open their own house here for the moment, again for austerity reasons. A careful balancing act between not wanting to panic the populace by retaining an outward show of only careful concern and strength, and, behind closed doors, worried glances.

This didn't stop the news feeds from treating their return as a combination morale prop and feeding frenzy. "Spectre Velnaran! _Dominus_! You're returned from fighting yahg on Shanxi. What do we need to help repel these invaders?"

Rinus turned his head for that question. "More troops, flexible tactics, and a release from some of the current rules of engagement," he said, grimly. "The Spectre with the most confirmed kills against yahg targets on Shanxi was a former drell special operative. She waited until the rest of us took down the yahg's shields, went in from behind, and used a poisoned blade on them, before getting the hell away from them again. Yahg tear their prey limb from limb if they can get a hold on you. If they can't get a good grip, they bite, and you've all seen the vids on what their bites look like, and what their venom does. You can kill them in one of several ways: poison, enough bullets to take down a charging _cuderae,_ or high explosives."

"You're actually credited with more kills than the drell probationary Spectre, _dominus_, at least from the records the Spectres have released. You have credit for four hundred yahg in a single day. How did you manage that?"

"I lured them into a trap, with the help of Rellus Velnaran, Melaani T'Soa, Andrew Macready, Seheve Liakos, and Kassa Villinus. When the yahg were all in the target area, I detonated charges and collapsed a parking structure on them." There were hisses. It was a brutal tactic, and not one that would be used in an honorable, stand-up fight. "As I said. We need to change our tactics and our rules of engagement. And fast."

But inside Kallixta's rooms, there was blessed silence. And a servant who came to them with a short note on a silver salver. _Please attend me in my rooms at 20:00. I am pleased at your return, covered in something akin to glory._ It was in the Imperator's unmistakable, firm clear penmanship.

_Glory? Feels more like dirt,_ Rinus thought, but didn't mutter out loud. One never _quite_ knew how many servants were listening in the palace.

**Kallixta, Palaven, September 25, 2196**

She was actually shaking a little with nerves when she and Rinus went to her father's rooms in the far wing of the palace. She didn't quite know what to expect. And she somehow wasn't surprised at all to find Luscinia Noctagavis there in his quarters as well. Off-duty, the female was still surprisingly tall—not quite Kassa Vilinus' height, but well over six feet. And the expression that was always impassive in public, like all Praetorians', was a bit softer now. She wasn't even in uniform, but a simple tunic and pants, made out of Terran silk, surprisingly. Noctagavis stood, however, when they entered. Just as any other Praetorian would.

Kallixta had no _idea_ where to begin, except with formalities. They were all she knew, really. She knelt at her father's feet, and he put a dry hand on her fringe, lightly, and then offered Rinus a wrist-clasp. "Talk to me about the yahg," the Imperator of forty billion turians invited Rinus, and they started talking about Spectre work. _He's giving me a chance to relax,_ Kallixta realized. But it was still hard.

Eventually, the business portion of the visit wound down. Her father had poured libations for them—with his own hands!—and invited them to partake of the brandy with him. Rinus slid a foot gently behind her spur, in defiance of every piece of public decorum, and gave her a sidelong look. "Beloved, are you going to start, or should I?"

Kallixta looked up, and mustered her courage. She was a daughter of the Imperator, no matter her mother's blood, and she should have _that_ much bravery. "My husband was good enough to use Spectre resources ever-so-slightly amiss for my sake," she admitted, trying to keep her face a blank, public mask at the moment. "He found certain old records that indicate that the Imperatrix was not my mother. That I am _your_ natural daughter, sir, but that you actually adopted me, as well, in secret. To formalize and legitimize my place in the family." Fifth-daughter, adopted, was the same as fifth-daughter, born. She swallowed, and turned to the Praetorian. "You, then, gave birth to me?" She had no idea how to address Noctagavis. _Mother_ seemed forced. She wasn't a lady, so _domina_ was out. The chief personal guard of the Imperator wasn't the head of the Guard, she was next highest in line, however, with over twenty years of service, and was an assistant chief. _Assistant Chief Noctavigus_ seemed a little impersonal, however.

The female's eyes were golden, unlike Kallixta's, which were the same amethyst as her father's. And she wore Nimines paint, red and white bars at the diagonal, framing those piercing topaz eyes. For all the fierceness in that stare, there was sadness now, too. "Yes, _domina_," Noctavigus told her, calmly.

"Please don't call me that. I have _hated_ being called that since I was six years old." That was a whisper. Before that time, it was just what everyone had called her, instead of her name. Then Kallixta had, in the course of learning to write her full name out, had discovered what her first name meant—the spirit of inspiration—and had wanted everyone to call her that. Who she was. But no one would, except her siblings. And when they'd found out that she didn't want to be called _domina_ by the servants anymore, they'd taken great delight in calling her _Domina Kallixta_ every chance they got. "I don't even know what to call you."

"My given name is Luscinia. I hear it infrequently enough that if you should chose to use it, it would be a pleasant sound."

Kallixta bowed her head slightly, respectfully. They just looked at her for a moment, and she at them, and Rinus gently pressed his toes tighter to her ankle. "I spent the entire trip here, rehearsing questions, and now, I waste your time, not asking them."

"You rarely waste time, and never mine," the Imperator—her _father_—assured her, calmly. "I wish I could make this easier for you, but . . . we have had many years to envision this moment."

"I don't expect you to throw yourself into my lap and call me _mada_," Luscinia said, very quietly. "But any questions you have, I will answer, and gladly."

"Why?" The question burst forth, baldly, no honorifics, no respectful phrasings. "Why have me and . . . and not keep me yourself?"

The golden eyes closed for a moment. That was pain, definitely. "I was going to," Luscinia said, quietly. "If the other child hadn't passed at almost the exact moment of birth, I was prepared to step down from my position and care for you. . . and then, in a few years, return to the Praetorians. Where, hopefully, I'd have remained sharp enough to attain my position as first guard again, without having it look like personal favor on the Imperator's part." She sighed. "Where I could be of most help, ready to protect his life with my own."

The Imperator shook his head minutely now. "There were factors against this path from the start," he said, very quietly. "First, I wouldn't be able to see you for the first year, more than likely. Would never be able to acknowledge you, or guide you or protect you in any way. Even monetary assistance, from my own personal funds, would be noticed. An embarrassment to the Imperatrix and to Luscinia alike." He shrugged. "I would not have cared for my wife's embarrassment, but for the other children. Her relationship with all but our first-son was chilly, but embarrassing Perinus' mother seemed like a poor way to improve my own relationship with my first-son."

Luscinia looked up at the ceiling, briefly. Ligorus awarded her an ironic nod of his head. "Yes. I am aware that little has occurred to improve the relationship in spite of my care." He returned his gaze to Kallixta now. "In having Luscinia away from me for an extended period—one, two, or even three years. . . or even longer, if, as she feared, she wouldn't be able to return to fighting form—I would be losing more than a bodyguard. I would be losing my dearest, and perhaps only friend."

Kallixta was stunned by the admission, but it hardly seemed a weakness. His face remained almost completely unperturbed as he continued, calmly, "Your mother is the one with whom I discussed matters of state. Questions of diplomacy. Whom to appoint to the Conclave of Lawgivers, which patents of nobility to grant . . . or to withdraw. Everything that an Imperatrix _should_ do, she did, except the personal appearances and, unfortunately, the care of her only child." Ligorus' face was grim now. "There were few choices left open to us."

Rinus stirred slightly beside her, and her father studied him now. "You have something to say, _ama'filu?_"

Rinus shrugged slightly. "Only that the institution of arranged marriages is terribly archaic, sir, and either it should come to an end, or _tal'mae_ needs to be changed. Possibly both."

"An interesting point," the Imperator murmured. He looked at Kallixta, who wanted to bite her lip-plates in agitation. "Do you understand yet, daughter?"

She sighed. "You could have put my. . . the Imperatrix aside. Given her lands and money, an estate of her own on a colony world."

Luscinia shook her head, immediately. "That would have embarrassed her. Conservatives in the Conclave would have flocked to her, made her a martyr, the 'wronged wife,' and used as a symbol, a figurehead, for every cause they wished to advance. She was never particularly politically adroit, but she would have enjoyed her newfound power, even as a figurehead. She would have spoken publicly and frequently against your father, and his powerbase would have fragmented. The radicals would have flocked to him, perhaps, but the best that can be said about radicals in our governmental system is that they fight each other almost as fiercely as they fight the conservatives." Her tone was lightly amused, and Kallixta's eyes widened. There was a _lot_ more to this female than a fast hand with a gun, deadly aim, and a willingness to sacrifice her life for her Imperator. There was a _mind_ there, too. Luscinia chuckled softly. "Don't look so surprised, youngling. Your father has been an excellent tutor in politics for over twenty-five years."

"So," Rinus said, quietly, "The choices were. . . separate, remaining married, and officially recognize Assistant Chief Noctagavis as the mother of your child, retain power, but be rendered politically ineffectual. This would even potentially cause people to question the succession, I think?"

Ligorus nodded, rigidly. "The thought did occur. Vindexus' grandson, Cambuxces, had children by a first marriage and a second marriage, after the death of his first wife, and supporters of the second wife almost overthrew the government of Cambuxes' first-son, Hindallus, when his father unexpectedly died. I did not want even the faintest chance of civil war to be on my head."

Rinus nodded, and held up a second finger now. "Second choice, then: Separate, step down, in the midst of enormous scandal, turn over power to an untried, nineteen-year-old first-son, who was still not even finished with his first tour in the military. Something no Imperator has _ever_ done. . . and possibly split the Hierarchy again. This time, because the armed forces might not wish to follow a young, untried male who hadn't even finished his first tour, not when there was a known leader present."

"Correct," Luscinia said, smiling slightly. "You do have an excellent mind, Spectre."

Kallixta chuckled. "That much, I have always known."

Rinus shook his head. "I've had three months with the information and a lot of long nights on watch, in and around having yahg attack us. Choice three: Amend the law. Change the institution of _tal'mae_ so that it permits divorce."

Ligorus sighed. "The thought occurred. However, laws should not be altered for the personal whim of an Imperator. I know my history. Personal whims of a public person should not affect the lives of others. There are people out there for whom _tal'mae_ is the correct and valid choice for their lives. My personal life and my public duty were in conflict, and the correct choice was not to let the personal dictate the public." He looked grim, however.

Kallixta's heart ached a little. "You were married to Imperatrix Aglaea for. . . thirty-nine years?"

The grim look did not abate. "Yes."

Kallixta swallowed, and very cautiously, without the honorifics she'd been taught to use to address him, for she'd so _rarely_ had the chance to address him in private like this, asked, "Father. . . did you never love her?"

Ligorus sighed. "I was young and somewhat stubborn. I did not wish to share a bed with someone that I had no affection for, and wished to hold off on estrus for a while. She went off the medications in the very first month, which angered me. When Perinus was born, I tried to . . . cultivate affection for her. She was, after all, my mate, and the mother of my first-son. Bound for life." He shook his head. "She. . . had been educated in protocol. Decorum. She entered the military the same year in which I did, and worked for Morale Services, primarily. In that she scheduled concerts and large hunts and festivities for the troops. Important work, but not particularly challenging. I was sent to War College, at least. Tactics. Troop movement. Logistics. Past that, she had little interest in any of the actual running of the Hierarchy. It is extremely difficult to form affection for someone who cannot even converse with you on your level. It is entirely impossible to respect them, the more so when they have absolutely no interest in your concerns." He returned his sharp gaze to both of them. "You understand, perhaps, why I developed an affection for Lusciana?"

_Intelligent. Aggressive. Strong, but not just in physical ways. And she cares enough to employ her mind to your concerns._ Everything, in fact, that Rinus was for Kallixta. "Yes," Kallixta replied, softly, lowering her head slightly. "So if you could not put her aside, and you would not amend a law for personal reasons, that left. . . continuing as you were."

Luscinia nodded, once. "And when the opportunity to keep you in both of our lives, if at a greater remove for me, occurred. . . he took it." Her eyes glittered in the study's low light. "I was a long time in forgiving him for it. I asked him if I could be transferred to your personal detail. He said no. Because sooner or later, someone would notice the physical similarities." She looked at Rinus now. "I'm honestly surprised no one noticed sooner."

Rinus shrugged. "I did a brief vid record search back over the past fifteen years or so. You've rarely been in the same frame with my wife, Assistant Chief—"

"Please. In this room, it's Luscinia." She looked upwards again. "As I said, I rarely hear the sound of my given name."

"Nor do I," Ligorus replied, and for the first time, he took her hand in his, and they traded glances that said far more than words.

Kallixta's throat ached. "And now what happens?" she asked, quietly. "Will you wed? For it's clear, you've been wed in your hearts for a long time." _And will you acknowledge that I am, in fact, a legitimized bastard? Not that it would do anything to my standing in the house; fifth-daughter is fifth-daughter. And I would be just as pleased to be at a remove from Khryseia and Varinia and Celixia and Bellatrix._ But the questions from reporters would be thick and furious.

Her father smiled very faintly. "Would that not put the _villi_ in with the penned _anserae_? Months after using the Imperatrix's death as the call to war, to wed someone else? And acknowledge that my relationship with her goes back at least twenty-one years? If we do, daughter of my heart—" and Kallixta's breath caught, for it was an endearment not lightly given, "it will not be for some time. And when we do, I would like it to be as a means to some changes I have in mind." He nodded to Rinus. "You've spoken of abolishing arranged marriages? And adjusting _tal'mae?_ Do you have personal reasons for either of these?"

Rinus shrugged. "I was damned near pushed into an 'arrangement' with an AI. It stuck in my crop. And my brother and his wife. . . well, I'm sure you're aware of their situation. So it's a personal concern, but doesn't affect _me_ personally." He looked at Kallixta, steadfastly. "As far as I'm concerned, _tal'mae_ for me means the same no matter what the law says in a year or in ten years. But for other people. . . marriage should never be a _punishment_, sir." Rinus' blue gaze was steely at the moment. "People like to say 'they made their bed, now they should lie in it.' Because it makes them feel superior to sit in judgment over others. Because they know so much better, have exercised so much better judgment in their own lives. It is a statement made of cowardice, pettiness, and cruelty, and I have no time for that."

Kallixta's eyes widened as her father _laughed._ "Ah, Rinus. If Kallixta hadn't stumbled onto you, I think I would have had to have you stumble onto her. You are _exactly_ what I need in a son-in-law."

"You need an unmitigated pain in the posterior. . . _pada'amu_?" It was the first time Rinus had ever used the familiar voice with the Imperator, and certainly the first time he'd ever addressed her father as 'father of my beloved.' It was just short of pulling on an _acrocanth's_ tail, as far as Kallixta was concerned, and she sat bolt upright, eyes widening in mild dread.

To her astonishment, her father smiled. "That, too, _ama'filu_. That, too."

**Rellus, Mindoir, September 23-October 4, 2196**

Back on Mindoir. Home. And yet it had no relish, no savor in it. Rel stared out the window of his hospital room, seeing that the _allora_ trees were in full bloom, and it hurt. Hurt to be back here, where he'd been so happy before, and now he was not. He was in pain, and in fear—terrible, bowel-gripping fear. He might lose the damned leg, because of that _futtari_ yahg. Fear-anger was constantly just on the verge of boiling over, in fact. But he'd kept it under wraps on the _Estallus_. Rinus had been there, keeping it light, and the mere presence of his first-brother's stern, no-nonsense spirit had buoyed him. But returning here. . . the anger just kept getting worse. First, there was the fact that Dara hadn't been _here_ when he got back. His parents had tried to gloss it over, but her note had made the truth completely evident. She'd _known_ he was hurt, and hurt pretty badly, and she'd left anyway. She couldn't have made her lack of care, lack of consideration, any plainer in her message. _We're mates_, he wanted to shout at her, but of course she wasn't there to shout at. _Is it so much to ask that you be here when I need you? If you had been hurt, I would be here._

Of course, the niggling voices inside his head argued about that. Pointed out that she'd always been there before when he'd been hurt. Even that first time when they'd been blooded together—_Hah. You like to claim that, don't you, but she was blooded before the batarians. Blooded with __Eli__. You always discounted that, always claimed that your fight and hers with the batarians counted more, but blooding is blooding, isn't it?. . . _ Rel listened to his mother's chattering as a physical therapist tech came in the room. They were talking over his head, so he could safely ignore them, and dwell in the basement of his thoughts for a while longer. The first time he'd been wounded, Dara had been there. Had saved his life. So many other times since then, she'd been there to pull out the bullets, stitch up the wounds, slather on the medigel and bitch at him about taking too many chances. But he'd rarely taken a _bad_ wound before. Except, of course, when Dara hadn't been there. Three bullets to the belly and chest on Camala. That had been pretty bad. And now this.

The physical therapist was a cheerful human female with a thick accent from one of their Eurasian countries. Russia, he thought, but he couldn't be sure. "Most important to keep limbs exercised and stretched during long inactive period," she told him—as if he hadn't heard _that_ every damned day since the bite had occurred. "Start with uninjured leg," she added, briskly pulling back the sheets and lifting his foot to her shoulder, bending it gently at the knee and exerting pressure against the sole of his foot. "Stretching knee joint, thigh muscles, all important."

"Did they chip you or something? " Rel asked, gritting his teeth. "You cue up the same speech every time you walk in here, like a damned geth."

Her expression tightened slightly, but she kept the professional smile and patter going. "I understand; you are frustrated. But you have to remember that good mental outlook . . .very important for recovery."

"Recovery. Yeah." Rel found his eyes focused outside the window again. He wanted to run as far and as fast away from this spirits-be-damned bed as he could, but even if his leg weren't flayed open, and stinking from its own rot, they had him tied down to the damned thing. His right leg was immobilized for the moment, and periodically cramped up fiercely. The open, weeping wound was its own special pain, aching, throbbing, skin and scales puffed up around the wound so much that he knew some of the scales were actually popping off. Every heartbeat brought a new flash of pain, and the only thing holding it at bay was _papavera_. Which they didn't want to take the risk of addicting him to, so it was given in his IV in a careful, continuous drip that didn't seem to do much at all. "Talk to me about recovery when I can actually do something with the _other_ leg, nurse. In the meantime, just. . . stop yapping at me. Please."

"Rellus!" Solanna sounded appalled. _I raised you better than this_, her voice said, more plainly than words.

"Martina?" a voice from the doorway said, rasping turian overtones there. Familiar voice. Rel's head turned, and he saw Telinus there, in green surgical scrubs, looking tired. "Take a break and come back later, would you?"

"Yes, Dr. Karpavian," the therapist said, and stepped back out, looking relieved.

Rel stared at his old friend. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked.

"Saving you from the tender ministrations of a pissed-off therapist," Tel replied, calmly, and picked up a datapad from the table. The one with all Rel's charts on it, and began reading. "It's perfectly normal for a patient—particularly one who's usually young, strong, and used to recovering from injuries effortlessly—to lash out at the people around them." Tel's face, under his white Galatana stripes, was impassive. "Those of us in the medical profession are more or less used to it, but it can be distressing for the families when they turn into the targets. Particularly when the explosion is dramatic and unexpected." He nodded now to Solanna, and picked up the blankets. "Let me take a look here, Rel. I'm not an orthopedic specialist, but I want to take a look at what's already been done for you. Dr. Chakwas thought I _might_ be able to come up with a surgical option." He sounded rueful. "They sure put you to work around here, let me tell you."

Telinus' hands were extremely gentle as he studied the wound, pressing very lightly at the edges of the bites with a gloved finger. "Well?" Rel asked, after a while. He couldn't read his old friend's face at all. _Medical masks. They must pass them out in the med bay during training._

Tel shook his head. "I could try a treatment akin to what used to be done for cancer patients, where they would remove a layer of the healthy tissue around the tumor. A clean margin, essentially. Of course, this would mean removing healthy flesh. Not something we like to do, if we can avoid it." He grimaced. "And there's no guarantee that the infections will stop. But at least the healthy tissue might have more of a fighting chance. I'll go discuss it with the rest of the team." He raised a finger at Rel. "Stop taking it out on the nurses, Rel. They're trained to put up with it, but they shouldn't _have_ to take it."

Rel sank inwards again. The anger was _intense_ now, almost blinding. His body wanted to be up and doing, the restlessness was killing him, and the infection in the leg was doing a more literal job of just that. He'd been on the trail of some thought, hunting it down, before the irritating nurse and Telinus had interrupted. What had it been? Oh, yes. _ If you'd been hurt, I'd have been here for you._

And yet, the voices in his head continued to argue, that he hadn't been, before. _Not my fault. I was in boot camp when she was poisoned. And on Bastion, when everyone was sick, we were all sick together. And the four or five times she was wounded in combat. . . I was covering her, or other people, and we got her out again just fine. That first time, with Sky, she patched herself up. Come to think of it, every time she's been hurt, she self-treated, at least enough to get to the ship. None of them have ever been all that life-threatening._

Time passed. Agonizingly slowly. He tried to sleep, but his body was used to vigorous exertions during the day, and he didn't _have_ that, so sleep came slowly to him, in spite of the fact that his body was fighting a battle—losing a battle, in fact, to alien invaders. Whispered conferences by his doctors, Abrams and Chakwas, who still, after so many years, had no idea how acute turian hearing really was. "The necrotizing toxin's one thing. That, we've at least slowed down, but it's left the body open to his _own_ bacteria, to turian bacteria. The cells in the wound area are weak, and the usually vigorous turian immune response is not reacting well. The yahg mouth bacteria aren't actually affecting his dextro-based body. . . but they're making it easy for the rest of the turian bacteria to flourish." That was Abrams, in a tone of defeat. "I'm running out of ideas."

"There are a few more things we can try. We have to give his body time to fight this, Daniel. I'm not giving up. I saw Commander Shepard come back from the _dead_. Miracles can happen, if we use our brains and the science we're trained in to _let_ them happen."

He had visitors. He had no idea how they could stand the smell. Macready was wheeled in by a nurse, his head and neck in a cage, delicately holding the bones in place while the doctors administered treatments. "You're looking better," Rel told him. He had his carving knife in his hands, and had a block of wood in front of him, but no clear vision in his mind of what the hell was in the wood, waiting to be formed. His yahg statue stood beside his bed, staring down at him. Rel had asked for that one, specifically. He had no idea why. He didn't want to _look_ at the statue he'd made for himself and Dara, or of the one he'd made of her, holding the straining _rlata's_ reins. He had a bad feeling he'd throw it across the room, shatter it, if he saw it.

"I'm looking more upright," Macready corrected. The human was in his late forties, and had short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair now. "You, lad? You're looking gray under the scales. Nice blue flush along the throat, though."

"Infection," Rel replied, tersely. He knew he was running a fever—113.5, apparently, and if he'd been able to toss and turn, he would have been. As it was, his hands were shaking. _Maybe a good thing that I can't carve_. "They say I could lose the leg."

"You might at that," Macready told him. "Hoping for your sake you won't."

"How are the spine treatments going?" Rel asked it, more out of duty than anything else.

"I can feel m'toes, laddie. That's a hell of a lot more than I thought I was going to be able to do when I woke up on the _Estallus_. I lay there, looking up at the ceiling, and thought, 'Andrew, m'boy, you missed the _Kharkov_ crash by virtue of already being on the ground. Missed getting slammed into a damned bulkhead and having your spine snapped or your skull cracked. Missed getting sliced in half by one of those little Lystheni fighters and their mini-Thanix cannons, too. And five years later, you're in the same damned boat.'" Macready shook his head. "The wife is being brought in t'see me. Special flight. Verra kind of the Spectres, I think. And I do believe that she might actually beat on me a bit. Seeing as I made her a promise that this would be m'last year in the service, after nineteen in. And I further promised that I wouldn't get m'self killed in my last year, too."

Rel snorted. "Foolish promise."

Macready grinned. "If I dinna keep it, I wouldna be here t'hear her cursing at me, now would I?"

Rel shook his head. He didn't actually want to talk to Macready, but _anything_ was better than another incessantly cheerful nurse. Or his mother, with the raw pain in her eyes as she sat there and tried to keep him occupied with vids or games. He'd always thought that Rinus was her favorite child, and probably his first-brother was. But at the moment, Rel was the center of her world, a wounded nestling, and it was driving him _crazy_. He wanted her here, and he also couldn't stand having her there, at one and the same time. "You've got plans for retirement?"

"Of course!" Macready sounded surprised. "Anyone with a brain does, lad. Especially on Earth, where you can expect t'retire at seventy, and then need a second career to tide you over through your mid one-twenties. Twenty years and out isna much of a first career, but it'll give me a tidy pension, and then Catrionna and I can open up a little pub back home."

Rel looked up at the ceiling. He really wanted to be alone. With his thoughts. But he made desultory conversation, anyway. Because if he didn't, he'd be alone. With those same damned thoughts. "And where's home?"

"Burnmouth. 'Tis a fishing village in Scotland. Tourists go through a bit. Small, out of the way. And it's home." Macready's voice was completely content. "Probably will have t'do a bit of rehab in Edinburgh before going home, though." He couldn't really move in his cage of wires, but his eyes met Rel's with lively alertness. "You have plans for after you're done soldiering, lad?"

_No._ Rel shifted, as best he could, against the lifted hospital bedframe and pillows. "I've only been in for five years," he muttered. "Never thought past it. I _like_ what I do."

Macready chuckled. "And no shame in that. Still, the body doesn't hold t'gether forever, you know. Still, you're young. Just around twenty-two, human calendar, aye?"

Rel had to think about that one. He hadn't looked at a human calendar in months. No real need. "Thereabouts, yes."

"Aye, plenty of time to be thinking of what you can do after the body wears out." Macready sounded comfortable with that thought, then laughed. "Although in my case, I b'lieve I may have voided m'warranty."

A cheerful nurse came in and told Macready, "That's enough visiting for you. You'll tire yourself out." Macready couldn't control his fingers enough to move the controls on his wheelchair, but he at least didn't require a respirator for the moment. As such, the nurse wheeled him away, the tires squeaking on the clean tile floor, and Rel looked up at the ceiling, gritting his teeth. He'd had quite enough people telling him what _else_ he could and should do and be besides what he was good at lately. Opening an eating establishment seemed. . . such a step down. Besides, it wasn't as if he could cook. Oh, he knew how to reheat things out of the cryo-unit; he'd done so often enough for the little ones, growing up, when his mother had been too busy. But actually assembling things from scratch? Dara had enjoyed it. _And don't forget Eli, on Bastion._ The thought hissed out like a snake, and Rel had to clench his teeth on it, lest it be given voice, even under his breath, in the dubious privacy of his room.

Kassa was his next visitor, limping in on her crutches. "I just got done with physical therapy for the day," she told him, cheerfully enough. "Now that the skin's healed over the incisions, they want me in _water_, believe it or not, to get my leg back to bearing weight properly. And for stretching. I think the turian medics have been picking up odd ideas from the human ones, but . . . I suppose it didn't hurt." Her nostrils flared at the smell in his curtained-off room. "Is it getting any better?"

"They won't tell me." Rel hated that. Hated the powerlessness of it. Doctors he'd known since childhood, like Chakwas and Abrams, were avoiding his eyes and ducking out in the hall to talk, rather than talking to him. . . in anything other than the tones of sweet reason one used on an imbecile or a child. "I'm thinking of breaking out of here. Want to come with me?"

Kassa laughed, a soft ripple of sound. "I think I'd be the one breaking you out, at the moment." She hobbled closer, and looked down at him, offering her hand, which he took. "You really hate the inactivity, don't you?"

Rel tipped his head back and closed his eyes. "Read everything my mother has crammed onto my datapad. Watched all the 'coping with wounds' vids and all the . . .really limited. . . selection of entertainment vids available on the hospital's servers. Can't think of anything to carve, and my hands aren't steady. And can't. . . do. . . anything."

"You want to play a game or something?" she offered.

"No." He realized that it sounded surly, and added, more gently, opening his eyes, "Thanks for the offer, Kassa, but I'm bad company for anyone right now. You should go, before I subject you to friendly fire."

Kassa squeezed his hand. "I have trouble picturing you ever doing any such thing. Your first concern has always been the other people on your squad."

_Yeah. See where that's gotten me._ "Please, Kassa, just go. I'll. . . try to be more pleasant by dinner, all right?" It was a goal, anyway.

**Elijah, **_**Raedia**_** and Mindoir, October 4-5, 2196**

Eli awoke the morning after Sky and Glory and the other rachni had boarded the _Raedia_, to find he had a pretty severe crick in his neck, an early-morning erection, and a hand clasped in his.

Also, a rachni worker perched on his chest, waving its feelers at him.

That scattered the last remnants of what had been a _very_ pleasant dream, which had revolved around him watching Dara and Serana make out in front of him. _Okay, now what the hell do I do?_

Eli looked at the worker, then up at the ceiling, then down at the bed beside his chair. His hand was tingling with pins and needles, and he had no idea how they hadn't slipped their hands apart overnight. He didn't want to wake Dara unnecessarily, but he couldn't actually communicate with the little worker. They used pheromones to communicate between themselves and the soldiers, and the brood-warriors and queens listened to thoughts that the soldiers and workers couldn't actively project, but which were, nevertheless, still there. "Little guy," Eli told the worker, "could you get off me?"

When nothing happened, Eli hesitantly reached down and poked the worker in the carapace with one finger. It was larger than the baby workers had been. The just-past larval workers had been the size of mice, maybe a few ounces in weight. This one was about the size of a small rabbit, maybe four pounds, total. It skittered a little further down his chest now, but didn't stop clinging, somehow, to his shirt. Eli hesitated again. He knew they could, technically, _explode_ if they felt threatened. He _could_ reach down and remove the creature, but was it going to explode on him if he did that? _I kind of like where my hands are right now. And my face. _

He was just about to call out, as softly as possible, "Sky!" but a voice interrupted his thoughts. _I like your hands and your face where they are, too._ The thought was sleepy, but it _sang_, and had piano music interwoven with a very familiar voice.

Eli turned and looked down. Dara's eyes were open, and were, still, clearly undergoing changes. The whites were entirely gone today, leaving her with rachni blue, from lid to lid and corner to corner. Anthropologists and evolutionary scientists, Eli had read, believed that human eyes had developed the enlarged whites as a means of facial communication; the eyes differed from almost every other animal out there. Dogs, cats, apes, all had irises that spanned the entire front of the eyeball. Human eyes did not, generally speaking. The thought was that the change made it easier for one human to see where another human was looking. On Dara, it looked. . . arresting. Inhuman, but striking. He mourned a little for the rich human brown they'd been before, but the opalescent blue glimmered visibly even in the dim light of her cabin. Fascinating. Depths of chatoyant color that no other human had. "Good morning, _sai'kaea_," he told her, softly.

On his chest, the little worker scrambled back up closer to his face. Eli looked down. "Ah. . . Dara? Could you do something about this?"

She blinked, and chuckled. "Just lift him off. He's just curious about you." Her eyes went unfocused. "He likes you. Thinks you're warm. And interesting."

"He won't be offended if I just. . lift him off and put him somewhere?" Eli was being cautious, still.

"Don't think so. Maybe a little disappointed."

"Life's full of those." Eli carefully lifted the little rachni off his chest and settled it on the desk beside him. "Go play with the keyboard, little guy," he told it, and turned back to Dara now. "You sleep okay?"

"I had the weirdest dreams," she murmured.

_Oh, __shit__._ That brought him back to reality very quickly indeed. "Like what?"

"Some of them were . . . rachni, I guess. Hive-song, in the mind, even in my sleep. Voices. Crooning. Remembering. Learning the new ship." She blinked, and Eli exhaled slowly in relief.

"Oh, and just now," she added, "I was kissing Serana. And doing, um. . . other things with her, too. And you were there." She paused. "That was. . . confusing."

He could see her flush in the low light, and Eli reached up with his free hand and rubbed at his face, absently realizing that he _really_ needed a shave after the last three days. "Ah. . . sorry about that. I'm not actually responsible for what my brain does when I'm not conscious." _Or even, god help me, some of the things it does when I __am_ _conscious_. He started to pull his hand out of hers, and added, as lightly as he could, given the situation, "I think I _did_ mention on Bastion that I'd _pay_ to see that. Fortunately for me, my subconscious is not pay-per-view." He stretched, raising his hands over his head to make the withdrawal of his hand from hers look natural. There was no need to flood her with his morning endorphins.

Although, from the way she was looking at him right now, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, it was clear some of it had transmitted anyway. _God, __sai'kaea__, you're killing me._ But, there were other considerations, besides the very loud ones being set up from the usual southerly quarter, the voice at the back of his mind that clamored _slide down the blankets, slide __up__ the nightgown, slide down your shorts, and give her a hell of a lot more skin contact than just your hands. . . _but there were other considerations.

Chief among which was the fact that she had half a dozen workers curiously moving over the bed right now. One of them was perched on her shoulder, and appeared to be playing with her hair. _So alien. So weird. And yet, it's still Dara. Still totally and completely her._

"Your eyes are still black," she whispered. "And I can still hear your song. Not the thoughts right now, those are. . . unclear. Distant voice in the harmony. But the colors of the song are still there. All those deep indigo blues, and _sheets_ of burgundy right now."

Eli swallowed. Hard. And worked on redirecting his mind. "Do your eyes hurt?"

She shook her head. "No. Little hard to focus this morning, though. Blurry. Like right after I got my gene mods."

"Come here," he told her, standing, offering her his hands. She slid out of bed. .. and all the little workers just scattered around her. Eli had the oddest feeling that they were looking up at her expectantly. "You got a mirror in your kit?" He'd kept the hand contact brief as he'd pulled her up, and released her again.

Dara nodded, looking puzzled, and opened her locker, digging around. She finally came up with her hygiene kit, which had a tiny hand mirror in it. She handed it to him, half-smiling. "You haven't actually seen _your_ eyes, have you?"

"You keep saying that they're. . . " Eli paused, and stared as she took his hand again and held the mirror in front of his face. _Wow._ "Okay, that's a little creepy," he admitted. Black as ink. No visible pupil, no visible whites. A little circular glint that hinted that the irises were still in there, intact, and the cornea, too, but. . . _Is this only going to happen in proximity to Dara or rachni now? Can I turn it. . . off? It looks exactly like what happens when an asari shares herself. Which is usually the moment when I know to start blocking._

_You block their songs?_ They weren't even touching at the moment, but that had been clear as a bell.

_Yes. I let Siara in, but all the rest, no. Too many things in my head. Base security. My family. I let them have the physical, but no mental. They considered it a little crude of me, but we're talking one-night stands here. They wanted what they wanted, and I gave it to them._ It slipped out before he could control it, and Eli exhaled in vexation. He could block an asari, but Dara wasn't rummaging in his mind. She was just. . . listening. The way Sky did. And rachni were very deep listeners.

Dara's eyes had gone very wide, and Eli swore, repeatedly in his mind. He had no idea what she'd just seen or heard.

_Violets and grays and remembrances of burgundy_, she said, and the piano music that encompassed her mental voice took a dirge-like note for a moment.

Eli shook his head, rapidly, and turned the mirror around. "You'd better look at your own eyes, doctor," he told her, and she just stared for a long moment, and he could feel yellow distress rising from her. "Hey, hey—Dara! It's okay!" He caught her elbows as she winced and turned her face away from the mirror.

"It's not me." Shock, surprise, a little fear in her voice. _Like people didn't think I was a freak before, wearing clan-paint and a knife. . . ._

"It's gorgeous." Eli reached down and lifted her chin in his hands, looking down into those eyes. "I liked the brown. But this is still you, right?" He ran a thumb lightly over her lips, and exhaled. "And you're not a freak. Not any more than I am. We're just. . . a little marked. That's all." _God, I want to kiss her._ Soft lips, so close to his own. Smell of her skin, warmth of it under his fingertips. _Kiss, and then slide down and bite her just under the jaw. Hear her exhale, moan a little for me. Push her back against the locker and. . . ._

And he could hear the music, the song surging, and could hear little scattered notes of white surprise and electric blue delight and dark blue indigo swells surging, and they deepened into burgundy here and there as he leaned forward and kissed her, just the way he'd been longing to do for what felt like forever.

They'd kissed before, of course. As young teenagers. Tentatively. Lips usually closed. Stolen, clandestine kisses, usually just around a tree or a corner from where other people were. Inexperienced, usually managing to bump noses, or even teeth. Often too much saliva or too little, but it had been _fun_ and it had made his heart race, and he'd wanted to do more of it. A lot more of it, in fact.

This wasn't like that at all.

—_shock of recognition in her, same as he'd felt, himself. Familiar, yet unfamiliar. Remembered kisses, long-gone, regret, sorrow, shame at having shut him out, at having been so angry with him, dim thoughts now, __Oh, wow. Oh, wow, he's really good at this. . . _

—_her body yielding against his, the way he'd wanted to feel it under his yesterday, trapped between him and the stone, melting like water, the taste of her, the smell of her, just the same as he remembered, but a little different. Dim recollection, __Mane and Tail shampoo, Eli, I smell like a horse__, no, god, __sai'kaea,__ you smell like __you__. . . little hints of foreign musks right now, a little alien, but __good__, perfume of her own personal smell, feminine and clean. . . _

—_startled pleasure as his tongue slid into her mouth, __Rel never does that__! __Oh, wow, that feels. . . so . . . good. . .__ And he pulled her body against his, molding them together, hardness against softness. Made for each other. Roughness of the unshaven face, lips devouring her now, gentle nudge of a knee and thigh against her own legs, pressing her weakening legs apart, and then he was pushing her back against the locker, solidity of his body against hers, trapping her, pinning her. Hardness lower, rubbing against her, giving her no doubt what he wanted right now. . . .__God, I can feel her against me, she's in a lab coat, so damned sexy, thin little patient gown, no other barriers, now, please, god_. .. _ his hands swept down, found her breasts, lightly covered by the gown, so soft, sweetly resilient under his fingers, and then slid down further. Found the hem of the gown, soft skin of her upper thighs. . . . _

And then he lifted his head, and saw his face through her eyes, just for a moment. Eyes gone devouringly black, breathing hard. Faint shock, again, at the differences and the familiarities. Resonances in the song that reminded him, reminded both of them, that there were still rules. Obligations. Duties. Serana, technically. Rel, technically. _God damn it_. Eli closed his eyes and took his hands off Dara. Put them against the cold, hard surface of the locker, and pushed away from her. "_Sai'kaea'yili,"_ he murmured, his voice rough. "I'm sorry—"

"Don't you apologize to me—" He'd never heard her voice like this. Not husky and throaty like this. And then the mental song added, softly, _Not when I have so much more to apologize for than you_—

"You've got nothing to apologize for." Eli stopped himself, and put a finger on her lips. All around their feet, he realized, when he looked down, the little workers were spinning in slow circles, waving their feelers, and he couldn't help it. He started to laugh.

Dara, after a startled instant, looked down and chuckled, herself. "Please don't tell me they were, um. . . encouraging," Eli said, looking up at the ceiling.

Dara's face went bright pink. "They still are. They're a little disappointed that, um, well. . . "

They traded another look, and then neither could stop laughing for a while. _Laughter. Nature's best aphrodisiac. . . also makes a damned fine suppressant,_ Eli thought, after a while. He touched her hair now. "Stress. Tension. Lots of changes." It sounded nice and rational on the surface. They'd been fighting side-by-side on Omega, after all. And she'd just undergone a fairly dangerous process with the little queen. One with unknown variables still all around them. "I just. . . I don't want you to look in the mirror every day and hate what you see, _sai'kaea_." He tugged lightly on a strand of her hair now. "Eyes still blurry?" 

"Yeah."

"They are going to stick you in med bay on the base and not let you out any time soon."

"Thanks for the reminder." Her voice was tart. "They're going to run scans on you, too."

Eli shrugged. "Probably won't show anything more than they showed six years ago, when Kella first stuck this all in my head. Not a whole hell of a lot going on in my brain—"

_You know, that doesn't fly when I've got first-hand evidence that actually, quite a lot does go on in here. Stop that._

Eli looked down at her. "Can that be our little secret?"

She laughed again, and he finally managed to take the first step away. "I'm going to go take a shower. We'll be hitting Mindoir orbit sometime tomorrow, Dara. Let's. . . be as ready as we can be, huh?"

He managed to get out of her cabin without touching her again, and blinked a little when he saw that Sky and Glory still bracketed the door. He cleared his throat and said, "Good morning," to them.

Glory rustled a little. _Greeting-songs, Many-Voices._ He hesitated. _May I ask question-song? Or would it be dissonant?_

"Um. . . sure." Eli looked across the hall at the door to Lin's room, and sighed. It was unlikely to be a refuge at the moment. "Shoot."

_Why did you not complete mating-song with little-queen? It is a brood-warrior's duty to do as his queen directs. And little-queen favors you, sings your name in her thoughts._ Polite interest, yellows of confusion. Little chirping trills of harp music.

Eli looked up at the ceiling. "Sky? Could you explain that there are things humans don't necessarily like to talk about in public?"

_Question-song. . . public-song? Private-song? _

Eli sighed. Of _course_ rachni had no actual concept of public versus private. What one of them knew, eventually all of them would know.

Sky's voice held blue-green amusement. _Not all songs are shared among the two-legged singers. There are songs only meant to be held by one, or two, duet or solo. More variation in the harmonies. In this case, they did not finish their songs, because they are bound to sing with others. Binding-songs hold them._

Glory's harp-like voice sang again, still yellow with anxiety, violet tinges of regret mixed in. _Apology-songs. I did not wish to cause dissonance. But I would understand this harmony. If a queen chooses a brood-warrior, it is for the good-of-all, and it is his duty to obey her. What songs could bind a queen?_

"Lysandra? Open the doors to Lin's quarters, please, or key my biometrics to them so I don't have to pick the lock every time I want to get in here. Thanks." Eli looked at Sky. "Good luck explaining that all."

_He will learn, Many-Voices, just as I learned, from listening to the songs of the Spectre hive. He is younger than I was when I came to the planet of violet skies to test my songs against the voices of the others. But he is curious, and he will do well._

Eli chuckled, and at least found a towel in Lin's quarters, and headed off for a damned shower. The water eased the crick in his neck, and gave him time to think. He knew damned well he was attracted to Dara. He now at least had proof that she was attracted to him. But he was unsure what all the colors and music actually meant. He knew what it felt like. Passion, certainly. And he thought, maybe, just a little more. But he didn't have the right to make her life any more complicated. And right now, it was just about as complicated as it could get. Particularly given the fact that her body was changing on her, right in front of their eyes. _And so is yours. God. The black-on-black is a just a bit disturbing._

Eli leaned his head against the tiles and let the water wear sense into him. Serana and Lin had just taken the first steps yesterday. Rel was still at home on Mindoir. Waiting, and apparently wounded. Even if Dara wanted nothing more to do with him today, there was nothing that said that sympathy wouldn't weld her to his side again. And again. . . was it just passion? Was it passion and friendship? Was it more? And those were all questions that he wasn't sure if he should be asking. On the other hand. . . _my god, she hasn't been __kissed__ since the last time I kissed her. Bitten, yes. And she loved it when I kissed her, moaned so sweetly, and then turned to liquid fire on me when I bit her throat. . . shit._ Eli turned the water down again. _Can't solve it today. Solve today's problems today. Let it rest._

When he got back, that towel wrapped around his waist and much more relaxed, Kasumi was standing in the door of Dara's quarters. Not fussing; Kasumi never fussed. But she was studying Dara's face intently, with the expression of a jewel thief appraising a particularly lovely gem that she'd like to acquire. "That's a different look," Kasumi said, and Dara sent Eli a slightly harried look over the shorter woman's shoulder. "Striking. I bet there are models out there who'd kill for a gene mod like that. The question is, will it be anything other than cosmetic, and is this the only, ah, outward change we're going to see?"

"My vision's blurry," Dara admitted. "It's getting better, though. I think maybe whatever this is, is getting tangled up with my original gene mods on my eyes, and they're . . . fighting for equilibrium."

As Eli started to open the door to his—Lin's—quarters, he realized something in annoyance. "_S'kak_."

Kasumi turned, and Glory, who was still beside the door, turned also, rustling. "Something's wrong?"

"Just remembered that all my clothes are down in the other room." Eli rolled his eyes in annoyance, and turned to pad down the hall the other direction, towards Lin and Serana's . . . his. . .room.

Kasumi called after him, "Actually, it's all a ploy. You just want everyone to get a good look, right? Sam's the same way."

Eli looked at the older woman over his shoulder, and slapped his own tush. "You caught me, Kasumi. It's the honest truth. I'm an exhibitionist at heart. Want me to drop the towel now?"

"Kasumi?" Dara said now. "I've learned a few things in the last few months. First of all, never play poker with Eli when there's money on the table. Second of all, never play _ru'udal_ with him, either. Third of all, he does not embarrass easily. Last, nine out of ten times, he's not bluffing."

"Who says I'd mind if he's not?" Kasumi countered, but by that point, Eli was around the corner and knocking—very politely—on his own door. And chuckling under his breath. Kasumi was a breath of fresh air most of the time. And he really wished he'd been able to see if Dara was blushing or not.

He could have keyed the door open with his biometric chips, but that would have been. . . rude. He waited for a moment or two, and then knocked again.

Lin finally opened the door. Eli's shoulders shook for a moment, in pure amusement. Lin looked almost embarrassed this morning. _"__Fradu__, should I be grateful that I don't have a turian sense of smell this morning?"_

"_Probably,"_ Lin admitted, looking abashed. _"We sort of took you at your word."_

"_As I intended."_ Eli squashed any faint regrets thoroughly and threw them in his mental wastebin. _"I do need my clothes, though. And you probably want yours, too."_

Serana was still dozing in the nest when Lin let him in. His light taps hadn't woken her. _"She's going to pick up sleeping light on Khar'sharn, I hope,"_ Eli muttered, pulling on his armor now. He had a feeling he was going to need to keep the red Spectre badge in people's faces today.

At his words, Serana awoke, and looked completely disconcerted and embarrassed, scrambling to her feet. Eli ran a hand over her fringe and told her, "_Time to get up, sleepy-head. Breakfast's probably ready in the mess hall by now."_

She peered up at him. _"At least your eyes have gone back to normal,"_ she told him, in a tone of relief. _"Human eyes aren't supposed to __do__ that. You worried me. . . and you __are__ going to let the doctors look at you, right?"_

He shrugged. _"Probably won't have much of a choice, but on Mindoir. Doubt they'll find much of anything, though."_

"_Eli, for the love of the spirits, your eyes go __black__. That's an asari thing. You could. . . you could have eezo-related brain tumors for all I know."_ Serana folded her arms across her chest and glared at him as he finished pulling on his armor.

"_Doubtful,"_ Dara said, from the door. She was leaning there in her own full armor, too, eyes wide and rachni blue. . .and a little worker perched on her shoulder, and two were standing at her heels. _"There wasn't enough eezo in that pillar-of-song yesterday to create tumors, and certainly not that fast, or after that short of an exposure."_ She looked a little uneasy, however. As if uncertain of how they'd react to her.

Eli thanked Lin and Serana in his heart of hearts for being the most flexible and adaptable turians he'd ever met. Lin simply caught Dara up in a big hug, and said, "Good to see you on your feet, little one." Swift words in perfect English.

And Dara didn't even poke him for the nickname. Then he simply picked her up—as she squeaked, laughing, and her workers skittered around, waving their feelers, and moved her over to the room's light panel to take a long, hard look at her eyes. "Pretty," Lin assessed. "Rel's going to have a heart attack when he sees the souvenirs, though."

Serana moved in next, giving Dara just as big of a hug. . . once she'd wrapped a robe around her, in deference to human sensibilities. And then she leaned down to study the eyes, as well. "You're going to have a hard time with disguises, if that lasts," Serana told her, in a totally pragmatic way. "Full eyeball lenses hurt to wear for extended periods, Kasumi always told me. Something they used to have people wear in your spirits-be-damned monster-alien vids on Earth." Serana tipped her head the other direction now. "And regular lenses wouldn't cover enough. No, I see dark sunglasses to hide them. Will make you look like you're in the human Secret Service, a guardian for President Ivanov, right?"

"Either that, or a rock star," Eli said, and Dara awarded them both finger-flicks, with emphasis.

Serana still had her hands on Dara's armored forearms, though, and was looking down at the shorter human female in concern. "You're feeling better though, right?"

Dara grimaced. "Less embarrassingly crazy, at least," she said, with forced lightness. "I don't think everyone is a _ghost_, for instance."

Serana bit at her lower lip-plate. "And . . . you don't think either of you has. . .tumors or anything? Isn't that what happened to the first human biotics? Brain tumors, usually resulting in. . . death?" She was obviously tamping down, _hard_, on the fear-anger.

Dara put a hand on Serana's shoulder, those alien eyes oddly calm. "Sing peace," Dara whispered, and then shook her head. "I mean. . . relax. Eli's had this developing in him for a while now. It's pretty unlikely to kill him."

"I'm not just worried about him," Serana said, sharply. "Though I am." She sent Eli a look. "What about _you_?"

Dara grimaced. "Twenty-four extra hours without a scan won't hurt anything. And I don't have any headaches. Blurred vision, yeah. Occasional bouts of insanity. No headaches though." She tapped her temple. "Sing blues and greens, Serana. We'll be okay."

Serana sighed. "I have too many people to worry about," she assessed. "Both of you, and Rel back home."

"What, I don't get a mention?" Lin asked, pulling her close to him. Eli watched, and without even a hint of jealousy.

"You haven't managed to get shot around _her_ yet," Eli told him, without rancor. "Just wait. She'll call you an idiot and tell you to stop playing around." He looked at his omnitool. "You two lazybones need to get moving, or they're going to eat everything that's _in_ the mess before we even get there."

Of course, on _reaching_ the mess hall, Dr. Mannerian was there, and came over to the Spectre table immediately to try to insist that they _both_ report to med bay . . _now_. At which point Sky, who tended to eat in the kitchen, away from the rest of the sapients, so he wouldn't distress them, emerged from the hatch to the cook's domain, and sang in tones of red and black, _Captain Arius!_

"He's pissed," Eli assessed, giving Lin a side-long look. Sky then proceeded to throw around some fairly serious Spectre weight, something Eli had _never_ seen the rachni do before. Sky scuttled directly to the Captain, Endarus Arius, and told him in songs streaked through with red, _One of your crew sings offense to me and mine. No member of my hive must be subjected to examination-songs without assent-songs. Your singer-of-healing-songs gives affront to Sings-Heartsong, Many-Voices, and myself. Before I travel on __Raedia__-ship again, she must be gone from here._ And Sky did it in front of the entire mess hall.

_Ouch_, Eli thought. The two of them were sitting at the same table as Lin and Serana, and Kasumi and Thell were nearby, loading food trays. . . which in Thell's case, was more of a food _cart. . . _ listening as the drama unfolded. Mannerian finally drew herself up, cobalt along the throat, and left the dining hall. The captain looked annoyed, but noted, "I'll have a word with her."

_Do more than speak,_ Sky informed him, crisply. _Privileged, I have been, to fly aboard __Raedia__. With __Lightsinger_ _ship, I will likely not need this vessel for all journeys. This ship may become another Spectre's vessel instead. Your crew must sing songs in harmony with ours for all our works to be accomplished._

Kasumi muttered, "I do wish you'd allow her to do at least a little examination, Dara—"

"No. She wouldn't _listen_, Kasumi, and the more I say no, the less she's listening. This isn't about my health anymore. This is about her being right."

The little woman shook her head. "You always were stubborn."

"I get it from my dad." Dara smiled, and then grimaced. "We'll be home on Mindoir very soon. I'm not falling over, and I'm not hallucinating. . . so long as I have rachni around. Or I'm in skin contact with someone. It'll. . . it'll be okay."

After Sky's grim statement to the captain, conversation went silent around the Spectres for a while, and then roared back up in a storm of whispers. Probably quite a bit of gossip, too. Eli could only imagine what sort of half-truths and misinformation had come out of med bay after their return yesterday, too. _And they all had bite marks, and smelled like sex_ was probably all over the ship by now. The speed of light in a vacuum had _nothing_ on the speed of shipboard gossip.

After the conversations around them had all finally picked back up, Thell lumbered over and apologized to Dara, "I regret that you came to harm because of my actions. I thought that by increasing the temperature, I would make the ship more comfortable and less dangerous for the humans and turians aboard the ship. Provide opportunities to remove at least helmets, if not all armor. I did not know what could result from my actions."

Thell lowered his head penitently, and Dara started to reach out and touch the elcor, an unthinkingly human gesture, and then started back from him, as if stunned. "Going to have to be careful who you touch," Eli reminded her.

"Yeah. I, ah. . . I keep forgetting that," she admitted as a little worker crawled up from under the table and ran up her hand.

Half the humans at the tables nearby actually pulled away in a little shock at seeing it, but the worker paused by Dara's tray, and wiggled its feelers at her. "It's toast," she told it, out loud. "It's. . . well, it's for eating. Here. Try some. Just a little. I don't want to poison you." She offered the worker a tiny morsel of toast, and it accepted it, mandibles working busily at the fragment of bread.

Serana's head had tipped, and she was watching the creature in utter fascination. "I want one," she announced, grinning. "They're _cute_."

"They're not pets," Lin reminded her, dryly. "They're people." He frowned slightly. "I mean, they are, aren't they?" he asked Dara.

Now, Dara just nodded at Lin. "They are people, but they're. . . not like us. Brood-warriors and queens are individuals. Workers and soldiers aren't. Independently, a worker is about as smart as. . . a very loving dog. But like geth, their intelligence is collective. The more workers are present, the smarter they are, the more information they have at their disposal. They're very, very smart. .. but they're not the equals of the warriors or the queens." She frowned a little, her eyes gleaming as she lowered her lids. "That's why Joy-Singer couldn't quite wrap her head around democracy. 'One person, one vote' makes absolutely no sense to a species that has 'people' and 'not-really-people.' Besides. The workers would just vote for whatever the queen told them to vote for anyway."

The image of millions of tiny workers at voting stations, as on a turian or human world, industriously punching ballots, flashed through Eli's mind, and he wound up inhaling his coffee the wrong way. Apparently, some part of that image came through to Dara, too, because she started to laugh, which made the little worker on her plate wave its feelers quickly. "No, no, we're not laughing at you, we're laughing at the thought of you behaving the way we do. It's out of place, that's all. Here. Have more toast."

That had been October 4. Eli had asked Dara if she'd be okay sleeping with just the little workers by her side that night. "I. . . have to see if I can manage it," she'd replied. "You and Sky can't baby-sit me forever."

"It's not _baby-sitting_," he told her, firmly. "If you need me, _yell_. I'm just across the hall."

He'd lain awake until 01:30, and shortly after dropping off, there'd been a scratch at his door. When he'd opened it, a half dozen little workers were clustered outside, chittering at him anxiously. "She's being all proud and strong, huh?"

Chitters that sounded almost like assent. Eli headed to the other door, and the rachni workers did _something_ that made it open. Eli made a mental note to ask Lysandra if she were doing something for the little critters or not, and then made his way into the room in the dark. He'd just put his hand on the bed when two gleaming, opalescent eyes opened in the dark, gleaming with alien bioluminescence, and Dara whispered, "Eli?"

"It's me. Bad dreams?"

"How'd you know?"

"Your workers fetched me, my queen." He meant the words as a joke, and then he sat on the edge of the bed, as he had, so many times on Omega. But on Omega, he'd been able to pretend to himself that it was friendship, and nothing more. He knew better now, but his hands were still tied.

"I think they find human dreams confusing. The workers and the soldiers keep thinking they're real events." She sighed, and the sheets rustled as she moved. "They don't dream, really. There's a pulse of song even when they rest. Memory-song, moving through all of them. But not the irrational world of human dreams."

"Want to have my dreams for a while, instead?" _And hopefully I won't dream about Omega or bodies on Bastion._

"Am I going to wind up kissing Serana again?" Very dry. _Why __that__ would turn you on, I don't understand. . . _Pure yellow confusion, and a glissando of piano notes.

"Mmm. If I'm very, very lucky, yeah." He lay down beside her, and felt, unsettlingly, the little legs of the workers as they scurried over him. He didn't need a blanket, not with her body warmth, but she did. "You figure out any more of my riddle?"

"You like riddles."

"Sky's given me a couple of doozies in the last year, yeah. But yeah. I like puzzles. I like mysteries. I'm a cop, _sai'kaea._ Comes with the job. Then again, you're a doctor. You like mysteries, too."

"I like _fixing_ things. I like already knowing the answer, so that I can fix it faster. But yes. . . I like a good puzzle, too." Drowsy voice. "Say the words for me again."

"Not sure I remember them exactly." He frowned. "_Viaell_ '_uelleo fieua tia liliua, viaell_ '_uelleo niasu tia diya'duath, harao'ka'uelleo tirai'ii telia y'asaea'ealeo __sis'ia__, a sia'ssuadra'uelle nii'li chelai'ii __ialeo'o __wea."_ They weren't in skin-contact, and he was testing her a little, and testing himself. Trying to see how much he could hold back and still give her what she needed. The old question, with every female. He'd thought Serana could handle all of him, but from her reaction to his eyes today. . . maybe not.

_Why do you try to muffle the songs?_

_Don't want you cheating by looking for the answer in here._

_Ohhh, you go blue-green, just like Sky, when you're laughing. . . _

_High compliment, that._

_Mmm. You're music, Eli. So many different themes and counterpoints, so much complexity._

_Now you're just buttering me up._ "So, the words?"

"_Niasu_ is second. _Diya'duath_ is death. So you . . . lost the first to life, lost the second to death. Which doesn't make any sense at all. So I think it's a riddle inside of a riddle. Or I'm translating wrong." Her voice was very sleepy now. "_Harao'ka'uelleo_ is a verb. I think it means surrendered."

"Gave up. _Sia'ssuadra_ is to surrender. Little different." He couldn't help it. His fingers moved up and tangled in her hair, gently rubbing against her scalp.

"Huh. That's. . . " she yawned, "later in the sentence, too. So. . . _gave up_ the third, then some verb I can't hear worth a damn. . ._y'assaya_. . . "

"_Y'asaea'ealeo." _

"That's not you having done something. That's. . . a female having done something."

"_Voa. _Like _dura'salla."_

"To . . . damage. To harm." Another huge yawn. "Gave up the third for that she caused harm to you." The gleaming eyes were almost slivers in the darkness now. "Makes sense. Give up whatever hurts you."

"Not me. First person is always implied. They think it's egocentric to always be saying _I, I, I, me, me, me_. _Sis'ia_ is. . . ?"

"You. Accusative or dative. Because she hurt you." An electric surge in her mind. _Because she hurt __me__. Siara. . . which would make the one who was lost to death Kella. . . but who was lost to __life__?_ Out loud, she muttered, "_Chelai_ is fourth. _Sia'ssuadra'uelle_ is surrender."

"All good so far." Eli stretched, and wrapped his arms around her, blankets and all, and felt so damned content, he could hardly believe it.

"You surrender the fourth to her own. . . _ialeo'o_. . . fate?"

"Joy." He murmured the word into her ear.

_Serana._

_Yes._

_Kella to death, Siara given up because she hurt me, Serana surrendered to her own joy. And lost to life. . . ._ so drowsy now, he'd have put money on her not remembering this at all in the morning. "And then there was the last sentence. _A ia, ceallu_'_uelle niu lei'lea __tai'kaie__'eoa, __pila'a teaoul'__uelle ua'oal, n' lapea."_ She'd memorized it, sound by sound, and said it out loud now, soft drawl pouring over the words like honey. "Something about lessons. And being. . . sundered."

_And still, I carry within me the lessons each of you have taught me, though I long to be one, unsundered._ He'd meant the puzzle as a joke. He'd never really thought she'd go to so much effort to figure it out. Never actually thought she'd dig down and hear the confession in it. That he was damned tired of being a conflicting chorus of voices, always three-in-one. _Many-Voices. That's me._

She yawned. "I. . . only see. . . you."

_Huh?_

_When I look at you, when I listen to your songs, I only see Eli. I don't see turian-Eli or asari-Eli or human-Eli. I just see you._ So drowsy now.

He tucked her closer to him, and settled his chin atop her head. _Shh. Go to sleep, Dara. Share my dreams with me. If I'm really, really lucky, they'll be ones we'll both enjoy._

**Dara, Mindoir, October 5, 2196**

She'd awoken, snuggled tightly under her blankets, almost a little too warm, for once. Songs sang in her mind when she opened her eyes; the little workers were singing low-songs as they moved around the room.

—_Little-queen sheds carapace often._

—_Not carapace. Too soft._

—_Harder than underskin. _

—_But she puts outer carapace back on when she needs protection. What purpose softer carapaces?_

—_Warmth. She cocoons herself like a larval flying-dancer at night. _

—_Favored brood-warrior also provides warmth. Temperature in room is greater when both are here. Bodies produce heat. How odd._

—_Will she give us toast again?_

—_Will she have tasks for us today? We like tasks._

And then the other source of her current sense of warmth, well-being, and song stirred. "They're.. . chatty this morning," Eli muttered, his voice rough, and opened his eyes, which were completely black again in the dim light of the glow panel.

"They always are. . . " Dara paused. "Wait. You can hear them?"

Eli blinked, as one of the little workers ran up his arm. "One of them asked for toast?" He rubbed at his eyes. "I might be hearing them through you. Probably won't happen without the skin contact." In fact, there were few places where her cocoon of blankets had been breached to open air. His hand was on the side of her neck at the moment, but that was all.

Dara looked at him, and her throat ached. She was acutely aware of the unfairness of the position she was putting him in. She kept asking more and more of him, and couldn't give a damned thing in return. And after yesterday, she couldn't be oblivious, anymore, to the fact that she had a physical effect on him. She'd spent so many years among turians. . . most of whom were not attracted to humans, and those few who were, would never have flirted with someone wearing wedding-paint and a knife. And the few humans she'd met in the past five years had either been colleagues, and thus, unlikely to flirt, or outsiders. People who'd taken one look at the paint and the knife and thought _scale-whore_ or _turian-groupie_ or _freak_. And six years ago, when Eli and she had traded sweet, innocent kisses, it had made her stomach flutter, but he'd been so easily distracted by handball and new friends, and she'd been _so angry_ about it that she'd slammed the door on him. Had barely spoken to him for months. Had taken his offer of at least friendship and swallowed back bitter words. The unspoken message she'd gotten was that it hadn't meant much of anything to him. _I lost the first to life. That was me._

His hand tightened on the back of her neck. She wanted to wail at the unfairness of life, of never really understanding the other person until it was too damned late, until you'd already done the damned fool things that had hurt them. _No, no, sai'kaea, I hurt you—_

_And I hurt you. I'm so—_

—_sorry._

Her eyes stung, and those were all too human and familiar tears. _Hey, my tear-ducts still work. Whaddya know._ Eli pulled her closer, and kissed her. Sweetly at first, then more and more ruthlessly. She could hear his songs shifting. Reds, burgundies. That was passion, she knew now. But the rich, ultramarine, the indigo, that was something else, and it wrapped around both of them, low, rich notes, from the string trio of his mind, bass, cello, viola. _Eli, I want to, but—_

—_We can't. I know._ He lowered his head and bit her throat, hungrily, and the feel of his teeth there _did_ make her keen softly now. _You have no idea of the things I thought about doing with you in the showers on the __Sollostra__._ Eli sighed, and pulled away, rolled to his back. "But that's . . . god. I'm still married to Serana. Technically."

"And I'm still married to Rel. Technically."

Eli sighed. "And he's wounded."

"I was separated from him before that."

"Doesn't mean that he's not hoping that all's forgiven, everything can be fixed, and that you'll throw your arms around him, or at least support him while he's trying to put his leg back together." Eli's voice was very calm, but there were red sparks of anger, and a rumble of low bass strings in his mind.

"I'll help him if I can. I'm a doctor. That's what I'm supposed to do." Dara felt oddly at peace. "And he was a good friend. And I did love him." She exhaled. "A part of me probably always will. The part of me that was fifteen and lonesome and scared."

_And I let you down, I left you alone, when I knew damned well you were still crying on the inside for your mom. If nothing else, the day you played the __reela__ in class, I should have told Lin and Mazz to stuff handball, and walked you home._ Eli sighed, and said, out loud, reflectively, "I guess there are two questions, then, really. If that part of you that still loves him can grow back into loving him again—"

_I think it's more likely that all the fussing and fighting and carrying on and family frothing is going to drive it into dislike or something worse. . . . _

"—and if what we're feeling right here, right now, is real." Eli rolled over, putting an arm on either side of her, and trapped her under his weight for a moment. Little workers went skittering off the edge of the bed. "I went so damned fast with Serana. She was passion, _sai'kaea_. She saved my sanity, and I'll always be grateful for it. Always love her for it. But looking back, I don't know if I'd have gone so fast if her _parents_ hadn't been right _there_, asking me what my intentions were. There's. . . only one acceptable answer to that, and there was a hell of a lot of pressure. If we'd had just a chance to date, as opposed to formalizing everything with a contract. . . . I don't know if I'd be where I am with her right now." _As crazily messed-up as that place is._

Dara reached up and touched his face. Found the paint that he hadn't even worn until she'd told him how _cool_ she'd thought it was, that he was _entitled_ to wear it. "And I might not have gone so fast with Rel, or stuck with it, if I hadn't had a path to follow," she admitted, quietly. "I'm pretty goal-oriented. Get X done by Y date, get a gold star. Oh, there was the simulator stuff, too. The futures it showed me with you weren't. . . they weren't good, Eli."

"Yeah, and I was a mile and a half away. I bet if I'd been closer physically, we could have found some pretty spiffy ones together." He snorted and slid his fingers through her hair. She could feel the pressure of his body all along the length of hers. "What did you see? Not that either of us should make a decision based on that stupid damned thing."

She sighed, and thought back. "You enlisting, me going to the Academy. Officer for me, enlisted for you, human forces. No good. You going to the Academy and struggling. Hating it."

"I would have, at the time. Bookwork and filler courses aren't my thing."

"Says the guy taking forensics courses and a minor in paleontology because he _wants_ to."

Eli leaned down and kissed her. The roughness of his unshaven skin was actually almost alien to her, and very, very exciting. _God, you're responsive._ "What else did you see?" he asked after a moment, almost dragging his lips away.

It took her a moment to reorganize her thoughts. "Um. . .getting married. You on the other side of the galaxy. Always separated. Divorcing." Her voice was dull. "Not getting married. Being alone. You coming to visit, enlisted that time, with a wife and three kids on some colony world. Dull work for me. Lots of colds and Skyllian flu in some hospital on Earth, I think." She laughed a little. "If I knew then what I know now—"

"Famous last words." He kissed her again. "Want to know what _I_ saw?"

She blinked. She'd never asked him, and he'd never volunteered. Not even a word. "Yes."

Eli sighed. "You. Marrying you, but. . . never living up to your expectations. Your dad's famous, my dad's famous, you were a brain surgeon, but all I managed was mid-level cop. You were frustrated with me. No ambition, no drive. Another one, Kella. . . but the life-span was too out of whack. For a couple of years, I was too old for her, then we got back together again, and then I was _really_ too old for her, and she got bored and dumped me for a nice young salarian." Quick, harsh words. "Future after future like that. After seeing all of that, I figured the best thing I could do was to go to college, but then I realized that I'd have to leave Mindoir to get Criminal Justice. . . and if I had to leave Mindoir, why the hell _not_ do exactly what you were doing, what Lin was doing, what Rel was doing, and go into the turian military?"

Whispers of memory sang in rachni voices at the back of her mind now. She was listening to him, at the same time as her _memories_ of him, that had flooded through her when the little-queen had drawn them from him, using her like a straw. _You saw the Rite on Tuchanka as a way to step out of Rel's shadow. To be seen._

_Maybe a little. But also to prove to myself that I wasn't a scared kid in a cave anymore._ He pulled away and stroked her face. "You know what? You never once missed my birthday. Neither did Serana. But you always dropped me a note, no matter where the hell you were."

"I wish I'd written more. I thought I shouldn't, because. . . " _It wasn't appropriate. Nor to write to Lin. Or Tel. All my male friends. . . hell, practically my only friends, besides Kallixta, and maybe Serana._

"Rel might take it the wrong way?"

"Sort of. Not really. He was never really threatened by other males. Not till recently."

"Till he started slowly suspecting that there were problems, huh?" He leaned down and kissed her again, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. _Eli, what are we going to do?_

"All that we can do. Go slow. I want to be _sure_ of you. Want to be sure of us. That this isn't . . . some sort of rebound thing. Some sort of crazy alien bonding thing. I just got you _back_, _sai'kaea_. I'm not taking a single chance on losing the friendship. Not now."

_Tell me what that word means._

_As my queen commands. "_Always-fair. With emphasis, eternally-fair. Beloved. Not _marai'ha'sai_. . . that's. . . more legal. Singular beloved. Sai'kaea makes no claims on the person. _Sai'kaea'yili_. . . shows possession. . . . _My_ always-fair. My beloved." His voice was a soft rasp in the dim room, and his fingers were still tangled in her hair, stroking her scalp, even as his weight pinned her to the bed.

Dara swallowed, her throat tight and hot. She wanted to match those words, but didn't dare. "You don't have to," Eli whispered against her hair. "You're singing so loud, the workers are dancing right now."

A quick peek, and she realized that he was right. She'd been too intent on what they were saying to really listen to the little workers, but now that she was paying attention, she could hear them again.

—_Joy-song! Little-queen sings joy-song!_

—_Should we sing with her?_

—_Mating-song? We encourage!_

From the look on Eli's face, he'd caught the last, and they both started to laugh, in pure embarrassment. "Oh, god," he muttered, putting his head down on her shoulder. "I'm not sure I'd actually be _able_ with them in the room. And hell, Glory's right outside, probably, with more questions on why we _aren't_ mating." _I've never really had performance anxiety, but. . . _ A sudden image from his mind: _little workers holding up signs saying 'Go Eli!' and 'You can do it!' and 'Please the queen!' like spectators at a sporting event. Little workers pushing trolleys of beer around, selling hot dogs. . . _

By that point, they were both laughing much too hard to do anything else. Eli helped her sit up, and gave her one more kiss. "Let's get cleaned up. Last thing you need today is my scent on you when we go to med bay," he told her, lightly, and headed for the door.

Where she clearly heard Glory sing, in tones of amusement, _What __is__ a hot dog, and why would the little singers want them?_

Later, they swooped in for a landing at the airfield, and Sky's ship, the _Lightsinger_, landed beside the _Raedia_. Dara could see the groundcrews reacting in awe. It wasn't as big as a brood-mother vessel, being more the size of a frigate, but it still had the same crystalline-yet-organic look of all rachni constructions. And hundreds of workers and dozens of soldiers swarmed out of its hatches, making the groundcrews move backwards, nervously. "Life-Singer wasn't kidding about moving part of a hive here," Dara murmured as they started down their own ramp. She, Eli, and Lin were in full armor, as much to avoid having to carry it, as to continue to dissuade Mannerian from ordering them to the _Raedia's_ med bay. Her vision was still blurry, but getting better, and the instant she saw light outside the filtered windows of the ship, she sucked in a breath. "Oh my god," Dara murmured, stunned.

Eli's hand fell on her should. _What? Are you okay?_

_It's. . . it's __beautiful__._ She tried to show him, as best she could. Human eyes, like the eyes of all animals on Earth, had developed, originally, in the sea, where water blocked all but a small range of the electromagnetic spectrum. Bees could see colors that humans couldn't, because there was evolutionary pressure to do so; some plants had traceries of color that only bees of the correct species could see. Human eyes, like most other animal eyes, were limited to a small range of the EM scale: 400 and 700 nm, give or take. Now Dara suddenly realized, in the light of Mindoir's sun, that there were colors for which she had _no name_. That her brain was having trouble _processing_ the hues, because they were so utterly alien, went against millions of years of evolution. _It's as if I were a volus, and limited to black, white, and shades of gray, and suddenly learned what color was. Oh my god. . . _

Eli stood next to her, trying to absorb what she was seeing, showing him. Veils of light in the air. A sky still violet, but shimmering with other colors in the clouds. _You think you're going to start seeing people's body heat, too? Infrared?_

_Not sure. . . .god, this is amazing, though._

"Come on, they're waiting for us," Eli murmured, and gave her shoulder a push.

Sure enough, her dad was at the bottom of the ramp, looking up, impatiently. So was Lantar, back from his own mission. Kasumi had headed down the ramp first, and was talking earnestly to Sam right now. Lin and Serana were ahead of them, and Thell, Sky, and Glory were at their heels. Along with a dozen little workers and a couple of soldiers. Eli's hand slid under her elbow. _I'm here._

_I know. Let's go face the music._

Sam's eyes widened as Dara, cutting to the chase, took off her helmet. "Hi, Dad," she offered, giving him a smile, and stepping forward to offer him a hug. "I, ah, have a few things to tell you."

Sam stared down at her for a long moment, reaching out to catch her shoulders. Beside her, she could hear Lantar mutter to Eli, "Great spirits. Your mother is going to scale me. You used to come home with black eyes all the time, but I've never seen it so literalized."

Her father had remained absolutely silent for almost half a minute. He just stared at her, and then pulled her to him in the tightest hug she could remember from him, armor and all. "Are you okay?" Sam finally asked.

"Yeah. The eyes don't hurt. Little blurry but. . . wow. So many colors." His hands were on her face now, and suddenly, Dara could _hear_ her father. Vividly scarlet and burgundy, that was his base color, as she was coming to think of it. Every person with a strong personality had a base color or base melody. His was this brilliant, extroverted red—not as dark as Eli's—and his music was that of a fiddle, of all things, explosive and fast, or soft and plangent by turns. And in that melody were words. _Oh, god, her mother would kill me if she were alive right now. . . my god, Dara, my little sweetheart, my little girl, what have they __done__ to you?_

"It's okay, Dad," Dara told him, lifting her head, in the incredibly unfamiliar position of comforting _him_. "It's okay. Joy-singer. . . the little queen. . . hatched pretty much on top of me. And she, well, kind of thought I was her mother." Dara grimaced, and over-simplified horribly. "So she kind of adopted me." She looked up at her father. "So. . . I'm a mama. This time, not AI, but I don't think she's going to fit in your lap." Dara managed a slightly uncertain smile for Sam. "You think you'll be okay with a rachni granddaughter?"

Sam just stared down at her, and she could hear the thoughts fleeting through his mind. Bright yellow worry, like a stab in the gut. Fear. Fear-anger mix, brilliant orange. And the fiddle was scraping and sawing so fast now, that smoke should have been pouring from its strings, if it were real. Then, a flash of blue-green amusement, and Dara exhaled. Humor had always been her father's favorite defense and refuge. "I take it the baby-daddy is Sky?"

Dara's lips quirked up in a slightly more natural smile, and Sky's natural blue-green laughter shook through them all. "No. Her egg was laid two thousand years ago. Sky doesn't have a paternity suit here. Although. . . this is Glory. One of his sons. And . . . are all the workers from the same hatching?" she asked. She wasn't quite sure. None of the workers had their own personal voice.

_Many are of my brood, yes. Others are not._ Sky was amused. _Such questions do not usually concern workers or soldiers. Only the good-of-all matters to them. Now, we must take you to the place of healing-songs. Lest your fellow singers-of-healing fall into dissonance at our delay._

They bundled into a couple of groundcars, with Sky, Glory, and Thell piling onto a flat-bed truck, built on a Hammerhead chassis, which typically served Sky as a means of transportation on base. Her father was boiling over with anxiety—all the more so as she started to explain, haltingly, that she couldn't be separated from the workers. One was perched on her shoulder at the moment, for instance. "It's have a rachni around, skin contact with a non-biotic, or, we _think_, a strong biotic projecting at me," she summed up, uncomfortably. "At least for a while. Till I . . . learn to deal with what Joy-Singer changed in me."_ God. If I can._ Eli was in a different car, with Lantar and Serana and Lin, and without his warm mental voice, his cellos and his reds and blues, it suddenly didn't seem as hopeful to her that she'd be able to _manage_ this.

Sam was driving, but he took his eyes off the road long enough to tell Kasumi, "Fair warning, Kasumi-chan. You're not so much as taking Takeshi to the _store_ for a while."

Kasumi almost squawked. "This is _not_ my fault. I didn't do this."

"He's joking, Kasumi. Or trying to. He's still full of yellows and oranges." Dara shook her head rapidly when her dad's head snapped towards her, and unease filled his song once more. She'd been resting a hand on his shoulder, leaning forward in the backseat to talk to him, and took her hand away now. "Sorry, Dad."

"Good lord on a bicycle. This is going to take some getting used to," Sam muttered.

_You're telling me_. Dara hesitated. "Dad. When we get to the clinic, I'm going to need to go see Rel, before anything else."

Sam swerved a little. "What the _hell_ for?" he demanded. "The _first_ thing we're going to do is get you a full body scan, so we can tell what the hell the rachni did to you!"

The little worker on her shoulder chittered at her father reprovingly. "He was wounded, Dad," Dara reminded Sam, patiently. "Dr. Chakwas and Dr. Abrams both sent me messages saying they're very close to having to amputate the leg unless someone comes up with an alternative. If you were in the hospital, and Kasumi didn't come to see you, you'd be pissed, right?"

"Not the same thing at all," Sam retorted, hotly. "Kasumi isn't separated, considering divorce from me. And she's not looking at possible _brain damage_ herself. Good lord, girl, you going back to putting him ahead of yourself at every turn again?"

Dara put a hand on her father's shoulder. And concentrated, hard, on blues and greens. She appreciated the love and the protectiveness that sparked those kinds of outbursts. She wished she were better at showing it. The roiling mass of red anger and yellow fear began to calm under her touch. "It won't take long. And I'll be there as a doctor, not as his wife." She sighed. "Which he'll hate. But I have a couple of ideas for alternative therapies they can try. . . and I can't recommend either till I've actually seen, with my own eyes, what we're looking at here."

They all got out of the groundcars in the clinic parking lot, and Eli and about six workers immediately moved to her, taking her right hand. Serana took his right hand, too, and Lin's left. Dara looked down the line at the others, and then up at Eli, as the workers moved around her feet. _You still think your life is fucking weird?_

_And getting weirder by the day. . . __sai'kaea__._ He picked up her determination in her mind. "Guys? We're apparently going to go see Rel first. Before Dr. Chakwas shackles Dara and me down in a couple of exam rooms for the next few days. You okay with that?"

Serana nodded, her expression worried. "I have to see him, too." Her tone was tight. "You think you can save the leg?"

Dara sighed. "I can try. It's a question of what he'll agree to. . . and if either treatment will work." _Or if one of them might not make things worse._

Inside the clinic, all hell broke loose. Dr. Chakwas and Dr. Abrams and Telinus were all there. Telinus was on his neurology/neurosurgery specialization track, and of _course_ was fascinated by what could have happened inside of her head, and Eli's, from the terse reports that Kasumi had sent back. It took _Lin_ reminding him, "Tel? These are our friends, not lab rats," to calm him down.

Telinus looked abashed. "Sorry. I've just never heard of anything like it before."

Eli grumbled, "You've lived on a Spectre base as long, or longer, than the rest of us. You're not used to the crazy _s'kak_ yet?"

Abrams, also certified in neurosurgery, was equally fascinated, but he and Dr. Chakwas were dithering and wanting to run scans and blood tests, and everything else. "First," Dara said, calmly, "we go see Rel. I want to look at all the charts you have on him. Not just the excerpts you sent by FTL comm channels." It was. . . odd, actually, how calm she felt. Then again, she had a little rachni worker perched on her shoulder. It was singing softly, low-song, as it used two appendages to braid a tiny portion of her hair. And there was Eli's song, trio of stringed instruments, in her ear.

Telinus grimaced, his mandibles flexing. "I should warn you, Dara. . . how much experience do you have with prolonged bed-rest patients? And limb losses?"

"First month out of OCS, Tarenius Gallian lost both of his legs on Garvug," Dara told him. "He wasn't a cheerful patient, no."

"Did he explode? Throw things? Those are both fairly typical responses. Especially when directed at family members. And Rel's fighting the adrenaline addiction, too," Telinus muttered the last, rubbing at his fringe.

"Laetia, the ship's AI, said he tried to grab her and damned near fell through her. Cursed, swore, called her names, told her to get the _futar_ out of his life. The usual." Dara's tone was distant as her eyes scanned over the pages of information in the datapad. "Tel! You suggested _cutting_ out the dead tissue? For a clean margin? Shame on you!"

"It's perfectly valid as a treatment option—"

"You are such a _surgeon._ If you see a body, you want to cut it!"

"You're a surgeon, too!"

"Yeah, _trauma_. My focus is on putting all the little fiddly bits back together and leaving as much in place for people like _you_ to cut out later." She stuck her tongue out at him.

"I have _rarely_ cut out portions of _brain_," Tel told her, with dignity.

"You're salivating over the chance to cut into mine."

The rachni on her shoulder hissed. She looked down at it. "That was a _joke_," she told it. "Calm down. He's not going to hurt me." Dara sighed. "Okay. Can't put it off any longer. Let's go see him."


	116. Chapter 116: Provocation

**Chapter 116: Provocation**

_**Author's Note**__: Stranger-Exile has created new fanart! For an interestingly expressionistic take on Dara in her rachni dream-memories as the queen awoke: http:/ shindrine[dot]deviantart[dot]com/#/d4bfu8o . The artist said that adding Eli at the bottom, trying to catch her, might be an option. But the piece captures amazing amounts of feeling; slightly alien and creepy and lost and very, very dreamlike. I like it! :-)_

**Rellus, Mindoir, October 5-6, 2196**

He'd been lying on his back for seventeen days now. Some days, the doctors would express cautious optimism. Today hadn't been one of them. Solanna, his mother, had glared at Dr. Chakwas this morning. "You're not amputating."

The older human woman had sighed. "The infection is not responding to conventional treatments. We've kept it, by a miracle, contained to the leg so far, but that's not going to last. If it goes systemic, it could kill him."

"Not yet," Rel said. All the determination with which he'd faced boot camp was in him now. All the determination that had seen him through a hundred battles on more worlds than he could remember the names of, over the past five years, contracted down to this point. He might have lost everything else in his life, but he was not going to lose _this_ battle. He was not going to lose the leg. "Not till I say so."

His mother had come over to stroke a hand lightly over his fringe. "Not today," Solanna said, quietly. "But it might still happen." She'd dampened a cloth and rested it on his forehead, trying to help take his temperature down. "I'll be back this afternoon, second-son."

Kassa dropped by, walking only with a cane now. She was making excellent progress, and Rel whole-heartedly envied her. He would do damned near anything to be able to get out of this damned _bed_. "Lots of excitement out there," Kassa noted, setting up a _consectora_ board, a turian game that involved little figures of hunters, giving chase to one another, and to figures that represented wildlife on Palaven. It was a game of strategy and resources, and trying to take resources before your opponent could reach them and use them. Its name meant, literally, _the chase._ Each person could set traps under the rotating tiles, and they took turns rolling for the random movement of the wildlife pieces on the board. In this game, you didn't just have to fight one another, but the wildlife and the very land itself. "Two ships just came in for a landing, apparently. The doctors are in a froth out there."

"More wounded?" Rel asked, grimacing. It didn't surprise him. _Terra Nova teams might have been located_, he thought. _Although, dropping out of contact on a yahg-infested world probably means that they're strung up on meat hooks right now._ The visions from the slaughterhouses came back all too frequently.

"Could be," Kassa answered dubiously. "Didn't see any ambulances, though." She moved a hunter on her side of the board, sweeping up an _anserae_ flock and taking it off the board. She was, however, dangerously close to one of Rel's net traps, though she couldn't know it. He watched her hands move over the board, and took a _bianasa_ just at the edge of his hunting party's reach.

He watched, patiently, as she took her next move. . . and noted, as she moved directly into his trapped tile, "You're caught."

"Damn it," Kassa muttered, as Rel reached over and flipped up the tile, revealing the trap. "That's a. . . spirits. A four-move penalty trap?" She snorted. "You gambled much that I'd move to the _anserae_ first."

"You always take the least-risky, closest targets first. What humans call 'low-hanging fruit.' And if the _anserae_ had blundered into the trap, well, I might not have gotten there in time, but I might have still gotten to your hunters in time to take the kill from them." It had been a very calculated risk. He'd used a lot of resources on that trap, set up before either of them had even moved. But now he had four free moves. . . assuming he didn't get caught in one of _her_ traps, himself.

Rel usually enjoyed _consectora_. He'd enjoyed chess, too, years ago, but found he didn't have the patience for it anymore. At the moment, he was playing solely to have something to think about besides the throbbing pain in his leg, and to make the time, which seemed to drag by on broken limbs, pass more quickly. He'd be getting a different pain medication in . . . _spirits, two hours?_. . . in addition to what was dripped into his IV. _So careful not to addict me. After all, if I'm prone to adrenaline addiction, I might be prone to other bad habits as well._ It was a grim thought.

His head jerked up as he heard absolute commotion out in the hall. A light tap at the door, and Rinus came in, along with Allardus. Early, for once. "Father," Rel said, surprised. "Shouldn't you be at work?"

"Serana's home," Allardus told him. "The _Raedia_ just landed. Alongside a rachni frigate. . . and it looks like my job may have just gotten a little more complicated. There are rachni _boiling_ out of that ship." His father shook his head, and Rel's eyes darted towards Rinus.

Rinus nodded. "Sky brought back what looks like half a hive. Shepard's bound to have a talk with him about that. I wouldn't think he'd just do it arbitrarily. Then again, it's not like the rachni can really talk to Shepard by comm transmission." Rinus chuckled. "Even his typing skills aren't that great." It was a standing joke, with a bit of truth to it. Rel remembered all too well that in the year they'd spent on the _Raedia_, Dara had, quite frequently, been Sky's choice to 'translate' his messages for him, either typing his words to Shepard or relaying them verbally by FTL.

He'd pointed out, repeatedly, that Dara wasn't Sky's yeoman. "Of course I'm not," Dara had replied, with a trace of impatience. "Nor is he using me as one. He only asks me to translate the things that are too sensitive for any random crewmember to see or hear." Another clear sign of the bond between Dara and the big brood warrior. Rel hadn't thought much about it at the time, except to joke, periodically, "I'm glad you and he could never truly be mates." And he'd wondered why she'd frowned, and eventually started snapping at him over it. "All right, fine, I won't say it any more. I think you're over-reacting, though."

"And I think you've mentioned it five times in the last week. Give it a rest, please, for the love of god. I get it. You think I spend too much time with him."

"Well, you 'translate' work, you 'translate' for the AI, and you play the _reela_ for him a couple of nights a week when he's on board. It's a fair bit of time." And every minute she spent out of their quarters was a minute carved out of the precious little free time they had together.

Oh, she'd been very attentive still. And Sky hadn't been aboard their entire tour on the _Raedia_, after all. Only about fifty percent of the time, really. And of that fifty percent, Dara had spent, in reality, maybe four, five hours a week working directly with Sky, other than on missions. Still. . . it had, on some level, bothered him a bit. When they'd been aboard the _Nereia_, he'd spent as much time with Lantar as she had. They'd both occasionally been invited to Lantar's quarters for a chat or whatnot, but not enough to mark them out from the rest of the crew.

"He's a friend, Rel. Practically my only one aboard, other than Lysandra, who's an AI." He could remember how annoyed Dara had finally gotten. How she'd put her hands on her hips and stared up at him.

"You don't like Dr. Mannerian?" he'd asked.

"She's my boss, not my friend."

And the conversation had ended there.

Now, Rel looked at his father and brother. "So. . . Serana's home." He nodded, and took the first of his four moves, sending all his hunters to take down a high-risk, but valuable prey on the other side of the board, a _cuderae_ in Kassa's home territory. A _cuderae_ had a chance of damaging his hunters, and he lost one of his band, but took down the massive beast, and had only spent two turns in attacking it and returning it to his home base. He repressed the first two or three comments that sprang to life behind his teeth, and managed, with a facsimile of calm, to say, "It would be nice to see her." Rel swept his hunters to the edge of Kassa's territory on the board now, and again, took down a high-risk prey. An _apataerae_, so large it took up two tiles on the board by itself. Then he retreated his wounded band of hunters to their nest, and told her, "Your move."

"You never defend the nest," she told him, dryly. "Your people are wounded and open to attack right now.

"The best defense really _is_ a good offense sometimes." Rel pointed to her side of the board. "You _could_ attack, but you have less than a third of the supplies that I do. Even with me wounded, you'd still lose." He could feel his mandibles flex.

Rinus moved now, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Brother. . . I haven't wanted to disturb your recovery. But I think it's only fair to warn you that the _Raedia_'s mission, well. . . It didn't go entirely smoothly."

Rel's head jerked up. "What happened? Were there injuries?"

Rinus grimaced. "We don't know. Medical personnel are on alert, but Kasumi's messages have been terse, even by Kasumi's standards, as I understand it. Sam said it's how she gets when she's scared out of her mind. At this point, all I know is that no one's dead."

Rel's crop tightened. He was _angry_ with Dara. But he didn't want to see her dead. And his mind fought a little battle between worry and satisfaction. Crop-clenching worry over her well-being, and the whisper of the snake's satisfaction:_ See what happens when you're away from me?_ But he knew that was the snake talking, and clamped down on it. Hard.

There was a clamor of voices outside. Arguing. So many at once that the exact words were lost. Shimmers of color and music, which suggested that Sky was out there, in the mix. Chakwas and Abrams, vociferously objecting to something. Sam, agreeing with them, stridently. Eli, Lin, Serana, by turns. And then Dara, projecting just enough to cut through the rest. "You can run all the tests in the world in fifteen or twenty minutes. I haven't fallen over yet, and I probably won't right this second. Just. . . let me do this, all right?"

Rel was torn between looking up, at the door, and down at the board. Looking up would show too much eagerness. Too much dependence. Looking down, away, on the other hand, showed . . . indifference. But weakness, too. That he couldn't meet her eyes. Rel settled for keeping his head up, but focused his eyes on Rinus, at the edge of the bed, instead.

The door clicked open. Rel could hear the click of her feet on the tile floor. _Armor._ Not the soft slap of the rubber-soled shoes she preferred for long stints in med bay. She'd come straight from the ship, locked in her Spectre armor. He couldn't decide what that meant. Dara would usually come straight out and tell you what she thought about anything, really, but sometimes, she was a signaler, too. _Are you armoring yourself against me, __amatra?__ Is the Spectre symbol a slap in my face?_

"Rinus. Allardus." Dara's voice, with all its flexible human nuances, sounded strained. "Nice to see you both."

Rel could see Rinus' lip-plates open, and his brother blinked, rapidly. "Dara," Rinus said, sounding oddly stunned. "What the _hell_—"

"Rel," Dara said, quickly, waving Rinus off with a sharp hand gesture. "Let's take a look at that leg, huh? Dr. Chakwas and Dr. Abrams sent me your charts while I was in rachni space, and I had a few ideas, but I needed to see it in person to see if they'd work." Calm, almost clinical tone. It was driving him crazy. All this time apart, and all he was getting was . . . doctor-mode. _Don't I deserve __any__ better than this?_

Clatter, clatter. He could sense movement. She'd taken off her gauntlets and tossed them on a tray nearby. Snap of gloves being put on. Rel's eyes rose now. All he could see was her profile. Hair longer now than the last time he'd seen her—four months of growth, easily, curving around her face, concealing the lines and planes of her cheeks and the hollows of her eyes. Faint frown of concentration on that human face, eyes downcast, lids lowered, as she reached down and lightly ran those gloved fingertips over the wound. First contact in close to four months, and it wasn't an embrace, wasn't a bite, wasn't the touch of her hand on his, but the impersonal touch of a doctor for a patient, and Rel's heart clenched, as well as his crop. ""That's all you have to say?" he said now, struggling to keep his tone even. "Four months apart, and I don't even get a _hello_?'

"Rel, right at the moment, saving your leg is a lot more important to me than anything else," Dara said, softly. "God _damn_. The scans did not do this justice."

Even the lightest touch was agony, and Rel gritted his teeth. He knew damned well that there were others out there less fortunate than he. Who'd already had the damned amputations. Or who had died. He didn't _feel_ particularly fortunate right now. "So the only reason you're even here is because I'm hurt? You'd have just stayed away if I hadn't been?"

Kassa inhaled sharply beside him. Rel knew the words weren't entirely fair. He hurt. Mind, body, heart, and spirit, he hurt. And he wanted a fight. A good, solid, cleansing, fight, fire to sear the infection out of his body, cauterize the bleeding in his heart. His father stepped forward slightly, and Rel could see Rinus shake his head at Dara, as if cautioning her, and he wanted to kick his brother for it. _Stop __managing__ me. For the spirits' sake, let her fight me!_

He could see Dara swallow, hard, and she rested her palms, gloved as they were, lightly on his thigh and lower shin. Still, she wouldn't look at him. Kept her face slightly turned away. "Actually, if you weren't this hurt, I'd be letting them conduct all their damned tests on me right now." She paused. "But this is more important right now."

"Spirits, Dara, would you at least _look_ at me? Eye-contact is the most basic courtesy there is, and you won't even give me that much?" Rel didn't want to plead. Wouldn't plead, wouldn't beg. "I don't want a doctor right now. I want my _wife_." His throat hurt.

Dara's head swung up towards him, and he froze, stunned, understanding why Rinus had stared at her. Her eyes were _wrong_. Corner to corner, lid to lid, they gleamed iridescent, opalescent blue. They weren't human at all. They were _rachni._ "I'm sorry," Dara said, quietly. "Right now, your health _is_ more important than our on-going arguments or hurt feelings or anything else. So _doctor_ is what you get. And I think we can save the leg."

Rel didn't even hear that last, though Kassa's head lifted, sharply, and Rinus leaned forward. Rel was too busy staring at Dara in absolute, total shock. "What. . . " he said, slowly, distinctly, and with as much precision as he could muster, "the. . . _futar_?" Shock. Fear-anger. Protection-anger. _Oh, spirits, what has she __done__ to herself?_ Panic. A swell of resentment-anger, so hard to control. _See? This is what happens when I'm not there to protect you, __amatra__. . . and yet, I bet you like it. _Despair, a black surge of it. He knew that she'd probably had that look of wonder on her face, the one he hadn't seen in forever now. The one he'd captured in her statue, as she stared up at the straining, panicking, alien _rlata_. _She's changed. Everything's changing, and I can't keep up with it, even if I __had__ two legs to chase after it. _"I see you finally found a way to make yourself part rachni." Harsh tone, the words out from behind his teeth before he could stop them. "Bet Sky _loves_ it. You figured out a way to mate with him yet, too?" Stupid, stupid words. He'd meant them to come out as a _joke_, the same old joke about how if she could mate with Sky, he knew he wouldn't be in the picture at all.

It didn't sound like a joke even to his ears. His voice rasped down his own scales, echoed back off the walls. Rinus's head had snapped towards him, and his first-brother was already shaking his head, trying to stop him. Dara turned her face away, and that infuriated him. He _knew_ he'd hurt her. No one in the galaxy could have known better _how_ to hurt her than he did, after all. And she'd just. . . taken it. Again. She cleared her throat, and said, in a voice of absolute, distant calm, "You want to know the two treatment options I see here?"

"No, spirits damn it, I want you to _talk_ to me! Without everyone in the damned universe in the room with us!" Rel lurched forward, managing to sit up, awkwardly, and grabbed her hand, just above the wrist, right at the median where armor and glove intersected, and left an inch or two bare. Bare skin on bare skin. Shock of her human coolness. . . and a hell of a lot more.

Music. Music washed through his mind, piano notes, minor key, a dirge. Every note was drenched in shades of violet and shadow. Regret. Pain. Yellow of panic. _Oh, my god, Rel, what have you done to yourself?_ Mourning. Mourning, regret, pain, consternation, and . . . panic. Fear. Fear of _him_, of what was _in_ him. Backlash, and he saw himself through her eyes, through her new, alien senses. _Overwhelming. Red, raw anger, white-hot pain, black of despair, orange-toned aggression, a seething ball of teeth and flame, lashing out in all directions, uncontained as a wildfire. Black despair, that looked like it was going to swallow her, whole, eat her alive and leave nothing but ashes. __The base color, the noble golden glow, is still there, like in the simulator, but it's dying, it's dying!__ Thin thread of blue affection, but dwarfed, strangled by everything else, and that hurt her as much as anything else. Last remnant of something wonderful, something worth saving and preserving, the flame that should be breathed on and sheltered and protected, but how could she, when everything else would kill her, devour her? Thunder of drums in her ears. Nothing but percussion in his mind, rhythm without melody, something to march to, but impossible to join with in dance, in song. . . . _"Please stop," Dara said, her voice choked, trying to pull her hand away. "Please, god, let go of me, I can't, I _can't,_ I don't know how to fix it, don't touch me, I _can't_!" She was pulling away, trying to jerk her hand free, and Rel just stared at her, not knowing what to say or do or feel.

A rachni worker scuttled out from under her hair and ran down her shoulder, actually hissing at him, waving its feelers at him, and Rel jerked his own hand away, stunned, just as the door slammed open. He'd heard. . . something. Something alien, like song, but not. _Dissonant brood-warrior touches little-queen, distresses her, sings disharmony to her. Must protect little-queen! Sing destruction-songs!_

Rel didn't know where to look or what to do. He'd just seen his own spirit, and it looked nothing like what he remembered of it. "What the _hell_?" Rel whispered. He stared at the little worker warily. He knew they could _explode_ if they were so inclined, and this one looked highly agitated. _It's. . . it's __on__ her. She yelps when she sees so much as a firebiter, and it's __on__ her._ "Dara, what did you. . . you really _did_ mate with Sky, didn't you?" Not a joke. Not the harsh words of before. Just feverish mind in total perplexity, trying to make sense of the world.

"Only as much as _I_ did," Eli said, from the doorway, and Rel's eyes jerked up. Eli was in the door, with Sam right beside him, and he could see Serana and Lin and Kasumi behind that, and the gleam of opalescent eyes out in the hall that suggested that Sky was out there, too. A tide of red-tinged orange from the doorway, and a low, threatening rumble of basses violas. reinforced the impression that Sky was. . . agitated.

Rel was bewildered, and starting to feel threatened. Too many people, and Dara was still folded in on herself, like she'd taken a blow right to the solar plexus. "What the hell does _that_ mean, Eli?" Rel rasped out.

Eli stepped into the room now, eyeing Rel warily, and walked over to Dara. "It means that Sky had sex with the entire planet. Well, technically, he mated with Life-Singer, the queen of queens. And I'm secure enough in my masculinity to admit that I was saying 'Oh, Sky! Oh, Sky!' at the same time as several hundred million rachni." His voice had forced amusement in it, as well as anger and concern.

There was a strangled sound from the doorway, and Eli turned to look at Lin. "What, you missed that part?"

"No. . . well, I _was_ a little distracted. But I'm pretty sure there was some 'Oh, Life-Singer!' mixed in there, too," Lin said, with aplomb. But he was flushing blue through the crest.

"Oh, no doubt," Eli agreed, readily, and by now, he had his hands on Dara's shoulders, and there was something wrong with his eyes. They'd gone black. Edge to edge, rim to rim. Rel burned internally at seeing Eli put his hands on Dara's shoulders, but the eyes. . . weren't any more human than Dara's were, at the moment. _What the __futar__?_ "Of course, it was all mental."

Lin snickered. "Technically, I guess a rachni and a humanoid _could_ do something physically, but I don't know how much either of them would _enjoy_ the process."

Eli glanced back, and the two males traded wicked grins. "Oh, I dunno, Lin. Let's extrapolate here. Let's see just how ridiculous we're talking here. The pedipalps look fairly delicate, and not chitinous, like the carapace and legs. Flexible, too. Could probably stroke and caress nicely, right? But for him to get anything out of the experience other than absorbing the, er, joy-songs biotically, we're talking about, let's face it, fisting. Pedipalping, anyway."

Dara _choked_ at this point, and went beet-red. Eli looked down at her, and then across at Rel, and his eyes were still coal-black as he continued to hammer home his point. "Plus, the poor male rachni would only be getting half his usual amount of sensation, unless he inserted one into an, ah, alternate cavity, shall we say? Fortunately, he's got a fair bit of reach there, so the mouth would be an option, but then again, there's also the anal canal right there, so. . . "

Lin doubled over laughing at this point. Sam covered his eyes with one hand. And Sky's song was salmon pink as he said, firmly, _Some songs should not be sung!_

Eli nodded. "Exactly my _point_, Sky. Given that it's physically possible, I'm sure someone out there, sooner or later, will talk one of you guys into giving it a try. . . for science. . . or for Fornax. One of the two. But anyone who thinks you'd do that to Dara is pretty damned stupid. The thought of Dara inviting it is pretty ridiculous, too." He looked down at Dara. "Dara, you all right? I've got you laughing at least now."

Rel seethed silently. Eli had pretty much called him stupid in front of witnesses, but in such terms that. . . he had to admit. . . his unease with Dara's affection for Sky seemed out of bounds.

Dara managed, with a choked laugh and a glance in Allardus' direction, who had folded his arms across his chest, and looked torn between bemusement and outrage, "Right in front of the father-in-law, huh?"

Eli looked up at the ceiling. "Yeah, well. It had to be said." His hands were on the bare skin at the back of her neck, and the little worker on her arm had turned and was chittering up at Eli now, feelers waving inquisitively. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. Just. . . wasn't prepared for it." Her tone shifted, and from embarrassed laughter, moved back closer to tears, and she turned her head towards Rel now, her expression almost blind. "Rel. . . I'm sorry." Misery there. Pure, complete misery. "What I _can_ do to help you, I'll do. I think I can fix your leg."

"That's a start," Rinus said now, intervening and eyeing the little rachni worker on Dara's arm, which was still chittering away. "What are his options?"

Dara collected herself. Raised those vividly blue eyes on Rel, and spoke to him directly. "I have two ideas. I don't know if either will work. And either or both, you'd have to approve, Rel. Dr. Chakwas won't like either. Neither will Dr. Abrams."

Listening, his world sliding around like jello on a plate, Rel could understand why. "On Earth," she began, "in the nineteenth century. . . and revived as a treatment in the twenty-first century. . . soldiers would allow maggots, the larval stage of flies, to eat the dead flesh in their wounds," Dara explained, wincing a little. "The maggots won't eat the living flesh. Only the dead. They leave a perfectly clean wound. No need for surgery, for cutting into healthy flesh along with the diseased. Just use nature against itself. Of course, we'd have to use something that wouldn't die from ingesting dextro-based organic matter. Maybe Edessan needlewings, the larval form, or Palaven _pulpa'vescare_." Palaven had no native insects. But the ecological niche usually occupied by insects on worlds other than Palaven and Rannoch was occupied by tiny lizards. In this case, the 'flesh eaters' devoured rotting flesh, like beetles and flies on Earth.

Rel's crop heaved, and he wanted to vomit at the thought of being _eaten_. "As if watching yahg eat people wasn't bad enough, now you want me to let insects devour me from the inside out?" he muttered. Kassa's hand fell on his shoulder. Cool and soothing.

Allardus cleared his throat. "We, ah, actually have both species on hand in the xenobiology center," he admitted, but his tone held repugnance at the moment. "They're a part of the ecology we're introducing here. Something _has_ to eat the remnants of the dead dextro species, after all."

Dara met Rel's eyes, no expression on her face now. "It would do less damage than the surgery that Telinus proposed," she replied, softly, but with conviction. "And doesn't have the side effects of option number two. . . but option number two might still be necessary. Because the insects aren't going to do anything about the muscle fibers that have been destroyed. Eaten away." She sighed, and closed her eyes. "Option number two is this: Dr. Solus, before he died, was working on taking the Cerberus data we obtained when we found Dempsey, and creating a stable form of the krogan regeneration gene mod he has. Trouble is, he didn't finish the work. And even if it could be adapted to turians, there are . . . side effects."

"What side effects?" Rel demanded, sharply.

Dara opened her eyes. "The chip was implanted where it is to try to control his emotions," she said, quietly. "It causes pain when he activates his biotics. The pain causes anger, in spite of the emotional deadening of the chip. But the _rage_, the adrenal surges. . . those aren't caused by the chip. It's a _krogan_ gene mod. You can't get the gene mod without the adrenal rage. At least. . . Dr. Sollus couldn't. And I'm not Dr. Sollus."

Rinus and Allardus both reacted, wincing. Sam turned and looked at Dara now, his expression grim. "That doesn't exactly sound like the best idea, sweetie. Especially given the whole 'combat addiction' or 'adrenal addiction' thing."

Rel bristled. He _hated_ the damned words. People sitting in judgment, telling him that he had this problem or that problem. Yes, he'd made mistakes. Yes, there were times when he thought that _might_ be what the problem was, but everything had been fine until Dara up and walked out on him. Everything had been under control. He'd been doing what he was meant to do, and he'd been happy doing it, until the damned Spectre trials, and the psych evaluations. Run by Sky, of course. But. . . with the simulator.

And Rel's agitation could only go so far, before the very recent vision of his own spirit came back to leash him. Reds, blacks, oranges, yellows. Almost consuming the yellow Dara remembered in him from the simulator. The anger absolutely _died_ inside of him. _Is this how Sky has been seeing me? If so, no wonder I cannot picture myself in a spirit statue.. . . _ his eyes fell on the yahg statue beside his bed, and his mandibles flexed in repugnance. _Unless I have been._

_Yes,_ Sky sang, and there were violets there now, replacing the reds of anger. _There was pride before. Pride-songs are not necessarily the wrong songs to sing. Pride makes your people excel. Makes you strive. Excellence song integral to your harmony. Striving, hard work, part of you. But arrogance and anger came to resound in you, too. Little-queen spent forty-five minutes a day with me. Let me sing to the ship's AI, helped sing my songs to Truth-Singer across the stars. She came back to you singing blues and greens, and it made the anger in you greater. Because part of you knew that she was not always happy, and that someone else gave her joy caused orange jealousy, agitation, disharmony. But you both worked to make the harmony anyway. Tried to match each others' notes. Difficult to do, when both sing dissonances. Then separation on the world of crimson skies. Anger grew worst then. Need for the anger to overcome the despair in the place of many deaths. Need for mating songs, too. Always __accelerando.__ Destabilizing. _

_Then she stepped apart. Chose not to favor you for a time. You had been using her songs to steady your own, and without them, disharmony became a vortex. Not as Sings-Vengeance and Sings-Duty and Sings-Regrets intended. The planet of the humans held too much death, too much combat. They could not control your songs, teach you their harmonies once more. Now, matters are worse. But you have always had strength within you. You __can__ reclaim your name, be Sings-Honor once more. _Harmonics of hope wove around the rachni's song, and Rel realized, to his humiliation, that everyone in the room could hear Sky's words. _Use the strength you had in your places of training, and you will overcome the rage-song that Sings-Heartsong will place in your body. Sings-in-Silence and Battle-Brother can aid you. Teach you to still the rage-song. Discipline-song._ Compassion there. Compassion and understanding and regret, but also steel.

Rel took a deep breath. Things were clicking into place for him in his head in rapid order. "So." It was _hard_ to say the words. He swallowed. Swallowed down pride and anger and shame and a sense of betrayal. "_Insects_ to eat away the dead flesh. And then, maybe, a gene mod. To help things regenerate."

Dara nodded, quickly. "The krogan are the _only_ people recovering from the bites with anything resembling normal recovery times," she said, quietly. "Humans, well, they've been trying dozens of different antibiotics. Even, hell, old-fashioned sulfa drugs. But turians. . . Rocam's still cut off. There's only so many pharmaceutical companies not based there."

He looked at her, as steadily as he could manage. Shame made it hard to meet her eyes, but he could see regret in her face, too. Regret and pain and sorrow. Which made it a little easier. They could, maybe, talk about the relationship things. . . later. "You really think this is my best chance?"

Dara bit her lip, and nodded. "Yeah," she said, quietly. "Telinus is a surgeon. He's got a box of tools, and he knows how to use them. Every problem looks like it could be solved with a scalpel. Dr. Chakwas is a dear, and more of a generalist. She's had to be. Combat medicine, just like me. But she doesn't have the research background. Dr. Abrams is a little more flexible, but he's still a surgeon. He's got enough training from Dr. Solus though. . . and he and I can read Dr. Solus' notes. We can start with the larval stuff immediately. And we'll. . . we'll figure out a way to make the gene mod work." She looked down. "Dealing with the side effects. . . that's going to be on you, Rel. I don't know if we can mitigate them, not and get the mod into your system in time to do any good."

Rel nodded, a little stiffly. His throat ached. There were so many things he wanted to say to her. Chief among which were the words _I'm sorry._ _I'm sorry I lost myself. I'm sorry I lost you, too. I thought I was keeping it all perfectly balanced, and I didn't even know that I was listing so far off the edge of the fulcrum, that it was taking all of your weight to pull me back to the equilibrium point._ For that was the image he now had in mind. Two figures, walking across a tightrope in the dark together, both clinging to each others' hands, both leaning away from one another, so that their feet stayed on the narrow path, but every other part of them was always and perpetually falling away from the other. All it would take was one. . . wrong. . . step.

And he'd fallen. She'd fallen with him, but had managed to grab onto out-flung hands, catch herself. And he'd been blaming her for surviving the fall, and for not reaching down to let him crawl back to safety across her back. And now that he had, belatedly, realized what he was doing, after berating her for not letting him use her as a lifeline. . . would he ever be able to get her back? Would they ever be able to sit and talk again? As they had, so long ago, and as he couldn't even remember the last time they had? And yet, how could he put any of this into words? In front of everyone?

Rel swallowed. "If you think this is the best chance," he said, after a long moment, "that's good enough for me." He slumped back down against the pillows. "Would really rather not lose the leg, if I can avoid it." _I'd be precious little use to anyone without it. Oh, sure, there are prosthetics, and even cybernetics. But those are never as good as original equipment. _"Let's get this started."

Dara patted his leg, lightly and tentatively, with those gloved hands. No touch of skin. "Okay. I'll go tell the others what your decision is. I'm, well, going to be getting scanned head to toe, so I can't oversee the first efforts, but . . . I'll be there for the gene mods. Same as you were, for me." She couldn't look at him, for that. Rel's throat tightened again. He remembered, as if it were a lifetime ago, wanting to pick her up and dunk her in the tub of tepid water himself, but human convention preventing him from doing so. From helping his mate, damn it all.

And now his mate, who wasn't his mate anymore, or didn't want to be, anyway, was going to help _him_. And spirits, it was hard. "One question," Rel managed, his voice low, as Dara turned back towards the door.

She hesitated, and turned. "Yeah?"

"What the hell happened to you?" _And Eli,_ he wanted to add, but didn't. Something had clearly happened out there in rachni space, something. . . bizarre. And it had changed the balance of power, yet again. Every time he thought he'd found certainty, it had crumbled under his feet of late.

Dara sighed. "Long story short? I've been adopted. A little queen decided she wanted me to be her mama. And no one has the slightest idea what that _really_ means. So. . . Allardus?" She looked past the bed at his father, expectantly. "If we could get Edessan needlewing larvae here? I think they'll do better than the _pulpa'vescare._ Their mouths are a little less damaging than the little lizards'."

At that point, Serana shifted her hips and slid through the crowd in the doorway, and padded in to sit on the side of Rel's bed. His first-sister took Rel's hand, made a face at the smell in the room, and said, calmly, "And now that Dara's gone ahead and lanced the boil here, I'm going to stay with you for a while, brother." She glanced up at her husband, Eli, and added, "Although I'll be in to check on the two of _you_ once the scans have gotten started.

"Your place is with him. Don't worry about me," Rel muttered. He didn't particularly want to meet his sister's eyes right now, either.

Serana chuckled, but the sound was wistful, and far more grownup than he'd heard from her before. "Second-brother. . . my place is where I make it. And right now, I'm making it here."

"Don't even bother trying to argue with her," Eli counseled dryly. "I've never won yet, either.'

The crowds of people gradually dispersed, and Serana introduced herself to Kassa, noting, "We're usually a much nicer family in between the periods of high drama."

Kassa had been doing the best impression a female close to six-and-a-half feet in height could do of a shadow up until that point. Certainly, she'd gone into expressionless centurion mode. Now, however, she relaxed slightly. "I'll take your word for it," Kassa said, dryly. "I keep wondering if I'm going to get altitude sickness. I made that five Specters in and around the room just now. It was a rather concentrated dose of black armor." Her eyes were wide as she looked down at Rel. "And your mate has changed since the only time I met her before. She seemed more. . . forceful."

Rel turned his face to the side. "She's always like that when she's putting on the doctor mode," he muttered, and closed his eyes. _I don't want to talk anymore._

So he listened as conversations ran over his head. Serana and Kassa chatting, getting to know each other, Rinus contributing, from time to time. While Rel was occupied with his own thoughts, consumed by them. By the image of Dara, his little human mate. . . well. . . not so much his mate, at the moment. And not so much human anymore, either. If he hadn't been sure of what his own spirit looked like until a half-hour ago, now, he wasn't sure what hers looked like, either. Alien. Disquieting. Unfamiliar. In the simulator, years ago, he'd seen her white spark, dancing, and had thought her a kindred spirit. _Which of us changed more?_ She'd been a little colder in the second simulation, but he'd still found the core of kindness, the desire to fix things that were broken, the deep and unspoken empathy for others' pain, along with her impatience for stupidity, her unyielding coldness once injured, the barriers she raised against the world to protect herself and others, unchanged. And he'd thought them very similar, despite the species divide. Able to kill without being wracked by it. Able to do what was necessary, and willing to pay the price for it. She'd seen him, she'd often said, as a warm yellow glow. Happy, relaxed. _Like a lion in his pride,_ she'd said, affectionately. _Almost lazy until roused, but when it's time to fight or hunt, nothing you'd ever want to face._

And now. . . almost a stranger. Calmer than she had been—he hadn't realized how _tight_ she'd been wound, until he'd heard the music in her mind, felt her spirit brush his, and then recoil. Stronger, in a way. He could sense it. There was still enough affection there to care for him, for what they had had, to be anguished for him. To regret. He'd sensed friendship and kindness and hurt and pain. But he hadn't felt the soothing balm of love, either.

Time enough for thoughts. Perhaps too much time. Then, finally, his father returned after a quick trip to a laboratory down in the valley. . . this time with Dr. Chakwas and Telinus at his heels. "And how do we know that the larvae are sterile?" Dr. Chakwas asked.

"We don't, really," Allardus admitted. "I rinsed them lightly in distilled water, but other than that, I'm not sure what more I can do."

Rel did his best to not shudder in absolute horror at the sight of what was in his father's big hand: a glass jar, filled with a writhing mass of small, whitish-gray bodies, each no bigger than a grain of rice, yet glistening and moving of their own accord, with tiny black eyes.

Dr. Chakwas grimly opened the jar and upended the quivering mass of insects onto his leg, jogging them slightly to encourage them to move. Telinus watched the whole process, his expression fascinated. "You're enjoying this too much," Rel accused Tel, gritting his teeth

"Enjoying? No. Am I interested? Of course I am. It's primitive, but ingenious, and I don't think a single turian doctor would have come up with it. We never even used the _pulpa'vescare_ for similar purposes." Telinus poked at one of the larvae with a talon, encouraging it to move to a different puncture wound.

It took a couple of days, but even by the end of the first day, Dr. Chakwas noted that his fever was down. "It's encouraging, Rel," she told him. "Even if we can't adapt the genetic modification, you should regain the use of the leg. Slowly. Over time, and with much physical therapy."

For once, there was no one else in the room. No one else to lie to him or put on the cheerful face for him. Rel raised his head. "Don't feed me the line of _talas'kak_," he told her, evenly. "I know Dara. I know her very, very well. She wouldn't have brought up the gene mod at all if she thought I'd get use of the limb back perfectly with just time and therapy. That tells me that she doesn't expect it. And neither do you." He watched the wrinkled human face fall. "How much impairment am I looking at without the gene mod?"

Dr. Chakwas sighed. "Short-term, seventy percent, probably. With surgeries and therapy, you'll walk on it again, even run. . . "

"But I wouldn't be a soldier again, is what you're saying." Rel looked her straight in the eyes. He remembered Tarenius Gallian, as a young _hastae_, and how bitterly angry he'd been to have his entire career cut away with his legs. Oh, he could have still completed his four years, behind a desk. Could have still gotten his citizenship. But nothing would satisfy Tarenius Gallian but walking, running, climbing, and fighting once more. Using his body how it was meant to be used. _And how am I any different than he was_? Rel wondered. "Unacceptable. I am what I am, Dr. Chakwas."

The elderly doctor looked at him calmly. "Your uncle Garrus is going to be by tomorrow to talk to you about the gene mod. . . and what it will mean. If it's even possible."

Rel looked up at the ceiling, and concentrated. If he focused his mind, just so, he could just imagine that red and black and orange vortex inside of him, and could picture pushing it back down. Dropping retardant foam on it, water, earth, anything he could, to tamp it down. "It'll be an interesting conversation then," Rel said, quietly. And turned his face away again, looking out the window, which now showed little other than the night sky.

On the one hand, it meant something, that Dara had come to him. Had worked out a way to perhaps save his leg. Save his career. Maybe even save his life. . . again. _Hah. Same leg as the batarians shot me in, six years ago. Hadn't even thought of that before_. He should be grateful. But it chafed, _spirits_, how it chafed, to be in her debt, when she wanted nothing at all to do with him. Recoiled at his touch. And yet, with the vortex inside of him, how could he really blame her for recoiling?

Garrus did indeed come to visit him the morning of the sixth. Along with, to Rel's surprise, Gavius, his grandfather, who arrived carrying a pot of soil.

"You're looking better already," Garrus commented, smiling, and the expression seemed genuine. "Less gray under the facial scales, and your eyes aren't as dull. No fever flush along the throat, either."

Rel raised his head, and Gavius snorted. "I was about to say, he's looked better," he said, dryly, and found a chair to sit in.

The lack of cheerfulness and careful wording was downright _refreshing_. "Thanks," Rel said, dryly, sitting up. "Your pot there is kind of missing a plant."

"No, it's not. We're going to plant something today." Gavius extracted a bundle from a pocket, and unwrapped it, revealing a tuber of some sort. "Agnes Jaworski gave this to me. Said it was a 'paperwhite' and now I'm curious to see what it's going to look like."

Rel grimaced at the name _Agnes_, but said nothing. Gavius dug out a hole in the soil with his long fingers, and nestled the bulb down in the dirt, covering it lightly. "Here, hand me your water pitcher, boy. It's going to need some fluids to wake up properly."

While Gavius puttered with the plant, Garrus found a different chair and sprawled there for a moment. "How are things on Shanxi?" Rel finally asked. "No one will tell me."

Garrus' eyes focused on Rel once more; he'd been staring out the window, as if at something light years away. "Bad enough," he replied, bluntly. "Alliance Corps of Engineers is in there now. The infrastructure wasn't as badly damaged as, say, Tuchanka, but there are a couple of dams that the yahg weakened that need reinforcing, in addition to getting all the power stations back online. The water sanitation and distribution venues need to be repaired. And people are making their way back to where their houses were. The Alliance Red Cross is extending help, and the volus, actually, are making contributions."

Rel snorted. "Really? Why?"

Garrus shrugged. "They don't want to get left behind," he said, softly. "Their corporate leaders made a big mistake a few years ago, backing the asari matriarchs who were funding Lina Vasir, trying to break the turian-human alliance. The volus are afraid right now, that if they _don't_ come to the aid of the humans, that the turians might terminate their status as a client state."

"Would we?" Gavius asked, his voice stern. "It would not be a good or loyal thing to do, to turn our backs on allies of such long standing."

Garrus shrugged. "I'm not the politician in the family, Father," he replied, calmly. "I agree that we shouldn't turn our backs on them, but neither should they be complacent about the arrangement. Marriages are best when they're made between equal partners."

Rel shifted his leg, very carefully, on the bed, gritting his teeth against the expected shock of pain. "Was that intended for me, Uncle?" he asked, grimly.

Garrus gave him a look. "Only if you're planning on taking it that way."

They sat in silence for a while. Eventually, Rel asked, "And you're liking Mindoir, Grandfather?"

"Enough that I don't actually want to go back to Palaven," Gavius admitted. "Oh, I miss the house. But Garrus had all my things packed and moved here. I have your grandmother's pictures up around the little villa. It's. . . not the same as the house where we lived for forty years, but . . . it's nice. And I can see the grandkids whenever I want. Would be nicer if there were more people my age around, but I guess I don't really want to go into a retirement community. Not quite ready for that." He stretched his feet out under Rel's bed, and they were silent for a while longer.

Garrus cleared his throat. "I'm actually here to talk to you about the gene mod Dara's proposing to use on you. Dempsey's said he'd work with you on biofeedback techniques to try to control the blood-rage. . . but while humans have anger, just as we do, they don't have _our_ anger." Garrus looked at him, his eyes reflective. "And you've been having problems with adrenal issues anyway. I'm not convinced it's _wise_ to give you this gene mod."

Rel exhaled. And here it was. He marshaled his thoughts, forced himself to calmness. Almost twenty days of enforced inactivity had him wanting to claw at the windows like a caged animal. Now that the fever was down, he might be able to control his hands enough to carve, but until today, he'd had little to do but think, and he hadn't much liked the company of his thoughts. "Uncle," he said, after a moment, and his throat closed. "I don't know what to tell you. I don't particularly want to live my life as a cripple because I've made a few mistakes. I'm still very good at what I do. . . and I want to keep helping." He swallowed. "I'm still damned good at what I do, and . . . " _what? I need to keep doing it? I want to keep doing it? You need me?_

"Explain to me," Gavius said, in a crotchety tone, "what it is that you've done that someone else wearing the same damned uniform couldn't have done. What makes you so special, grandson?"

Rel's head jerked up. That one had hurt. From the way Garrus' head snapped up, he hadn't been expecting the query, either. Gavius looked at them both. "You know, everyone in the galaxy seems to know that I held Garrus back from Spectre training when he was not much younger than you are now, Rellus. Seventeen. And I will tell you, without question or hesitation or doubt in my mind, that my son would not be the man he is today if I _had_ let him have his way then."

Garrus _stared_ at his father. "That sounded almost like a compliment, Father."

"Keep it behind your teeth, first-son," Gavius snapped. There weren't many people in the universe who could address Garrus Vakarian in _those_ terms.

Rel's mandibles flexed. "You take _credit_ for it?"

Gavius glared at him. "No. Not credit. Responsibility, yes. People grow when they're challenged, Rellus. When they're given limits and setbacks and everything else."

"So you held him back from his dreams just to ensure he'd grow. How charitable." Rel didn't care, for the moment, that he was overtly challenging his grandfather.

"Boy, I thought it was your _knee_ that got bitten, not your head. You certainly seem to have some impaired brain function." Gavius said it through his teeth. His resemblance to Rinus, at the moment, was almost uncanny. "What I _mean_ is this: Garrus wasn't ready then."

"I beg to differ," Garrus muttered.

Gavius held up one finger at Garrus. "He was obstinate and prideful and would have made an absolutely horrible Spectre. He is an _outstanding_ Spectre now." No hesitation over the words, at all. "He's someone I can trust with the idea of being outside the law, because he carries the law in his heart. But he got that way by _finding_ the law, finding his limits, and mastering them, and himself. Self-mastery is the hardest thing anyone ever learns, Rellus."

Rel leaned back again, and looked at the ceiling. _Great. Another lecture. Isn't it time for my meds? Maybe if I push the nurse-call button, discreetly?_ "Is there a point here, Grandfather?" he asked, tiredly.

"Only this. Allardus and Solanna have never stood in your way on much of anything. They gave you room to grow, and fewer limitations than I imposed on my children, growing up. Their decision, their choice." Gavius rotated the little bowl of paperwhite bulbs on the nightstand, adjusting it so it would get the full afternoon sunlight, assuming the curtains were open. "What you make of yourself, given this challenge. . . is up to you, grandson. But I still haven't heard what makes you so much better than anyone else who's available. Who might be sitting in a hospital bed on Edessan or Palaven, snapping at the nurses and their families there."

Rel gritted his teeth, and turned his head to look at the statue of the yahg leader, still hulking large and nightmarish over his bed. "I'm not," he said, very quietly. "I'm not special or better than anyone else with the same training and skills. But then, not many people _have_ my exact training." He reached out and touched the statue with one talon, lightly. "And I do bring things to the table that no one else I'm aware of does. I _know_ I think like they do." His crop tightened as he admitted it, and he tapped on the statue for emphasis. "Oh, every turian should be able to. We're predators, they're predators. But I . . . understand them. On some level." He raised his eyes to Garrus' now. "I want to hunt _them_, Uncle. I want to help protect people from them. To show them that they can't just hunt and eat whatever and whoever they wish. That there are consequences for their actions. And I'll do whatever it takes to do just that." He swallowed. "I'm of no use to anyone behind a desk. Let me do what I'm good at, Uncle. I won't let you down." Rel was pleased. He'd managed to keep his voice level the entire time he'd spoken. He hadn't raised it, hadn't grated, hadn't snapped. Though spirits knew, it was tempting to do exactly that at Grandpa Gavius, no matter that his grandfather was a clan-leader, just as much as Garrus and Allardus were.

Garrus nodded, thoughtfully. "It's a start," he murmured. "And it's good enough for me."

Gavius shook his head dubiously and stood. "You're going to need to keep those watered," he informed Rel crisply. "I'll be back later to see if you've managed to keep them alive."

The older male strode out of the room. His strides were a little shortened by age and an arthritic knee, but he still carried himself like a banner or a weapon. Rel looked at Garrus. "Did you ask him to test my temper?" he asked, still holding it firmly in check.

"No," Garrus replied, standing himself now. "If I had, I wouldn't have asked him to test mine along with it."

**Shepard, Mindoir, October 5, 2196**

"Sky," Shepard said, as calmly as she could, as she looked out the window of the meeting room in the med bay, towards the airfield off to the west, where she could _just_ see the gleaming hull of the rachni ship, the _Lightsinger_, "forgive me if I sound agitated, but my kids are in hiding on a different planet, I've got two Spectre teams missing, probably killed in action on Terra Nova, and war on over a dozen planets. It's a little much on my plate right now. And then you bring back two of my newest and more effective Spectres in somewhat less than mint condition. And my base appears to be invaded. . . again!. . . this time by rachni." She sat down on the edge of the table, studying the rachni's gleaming blue eyes. "I think I'm due an explanation or two. I understand that you have problems using our computers and comm transmissions. . . " _And god knows, we have __got__ to work out an interface that you can use. Six years is far too long, and I don't care how much the base techs complain about the assignment._ ". . . but Kasumi was there. You could have relayed messages through her." _Not that Kasumi said one word more than "All personnel alive and well. Many complications. Explain when I get there. Returning to base, +1 ship."_ Lilitu Shepard studied Sky, now one of her oldest and most trusted Spectres, and sighed. "So. . . explain."

Sky moved around the conference table to stand closer to her. His song took on undertones of violet, an accompaniment to his blue-green calmness. _Regret-song, Truth-Singer. Life-Singer commanded that I take a rachni ship for my own use. When she and little-queen, Sings-Heartsong, communed, she found. . . agreement. Life-Singer has long worried that I have been too much outside the hive. Too much outside the harmony. She believes it has strengthened me, given my songs power and complexity beyond that of any other brood-warrior in all the memory-songs of the Singing Planet. But that it is not good for anyone, of any species to be alone. Particularly for ours._ Sky lowered his head. _Thus, she commanded that I bring part of the hive with me. You may call them my. . . support staff. . . in your songs to the Council._

Shepard snorted, and then the snort of reluctant amusement became, almost against her will, a full-scale laugh. "Oh, god, the Council will love that," she assessed, after a moment. "And I put them in the budget how?"

_No need, other than food. We will trade in services. Life-Singer has thought much on this, and sang her thoughts to me._ Images flashed through Shepard's mind now. Images of the Sower relics in Painted Rock Cave. Images of the base under attack. . . but batarians or raiders or AEC cultists or whoever next decided that the Spectre base would be a good target went house to house, finding nothing. Finding no one. Because under each house, a small tunnel connected to . . . .a vast warren of passages. All built by rachni workers, cut through the very bedrock of the mountain itself. Some were tunneled deep into the earth, to tap the heat below. Some channeled the water inside the earth—in places, superheated—elsewhere. Again, used for power, for life. Each tunnel was coated with various resins, extremely strong. . . making the tunnels resistant to collapse. No sinkholes at the surface. Little way for anyone to tell, short of ground-penetrating radar, that the mountain was also a _hive_. The humanoids would retain the land above. The rachni would have the land below. And when the base was attacked, the humanoids could send their children and loved ones into the tunnels, where if invaders entered, they would face. . . rachni. Someday, if a queen was permitted to dwell here, hundreds of thousands of them. In their element. In darkened tunnels that they knew because they'd _built_ them. An image, too, of the Sower relics, protected by rachni as well as by humanoids. _Because, in hundreds or thousands of years, human memory-songs fade_, Sky sang softly. _Rachni, like geth, do not forget. The relics, and those who will slumber there with them, will be protected for as long as the colony is here. Such is the wisdom of Life-Singer. Do you not sing agreement with her?_

Shepard exhaled. "Well. . . I know I told her that her people needed to be more connected to the rest of the galactic community. I didn't know she'd want to start here."

_And why should she not start with you, Truth-Singer, who gave her, gave all of us, freedom and life?_ Sky's song held gentle remonstrance. _I think it may have taken longer for her to sing this song, so loudly, at such a quick tempo, if it weren't for Sings-Heartsong, however._

"Yeah," Shepard said, sighing. "Which brings me to the _other_ topic. What the _hell_ happened to Eli and Dara? Something happens to them, and Lantar and Sam are damned near out of action, too."

_This song was not sung with intention. But now Sings-Heartsong, like Many-Voices before her, is a bridge._ Sky's harmonies were troubled, however. _She has much to learn. And I do not know if I may teach her. For what I do, what I sing, is part of me, and has been since my first breath. She has the memory-songs of the little queen, Joy-Singer, within her. Human memory-songs fade. But Joy-Singer's songs altered our little singer. Gave her our song. . . gave her other things. I do not know how. We had never encountered other species before the darksong destroyers soured our songs. We fought. We died. And then we lived again, but again, mostly among our own kind. We have never joined our songs with another, as Joy-Singer and Sings-Heartsong did, when the little queen hatched. _

Images had flooded out with his explanation, and Shepard was just glad that Sky was controlling the information flow. It was fairly overwhelming anyway. Whispers, vestiges, of the queen's birth-song, the data exchange between 'mother' and child that helped form a world-view, create sanity for the little queen. . . form an indissoluble bond between a human and a rachni. "Whenever they meet again, they'll. . . .exchange information in the same way?" Shepard asked, fascinated.

_Very likely. New life experiences. New perspectives. New information. Resolutions of conflicts. This is how harmony is created. How bond-songs are affirmed._ Sky shifted slightly. _Entire hive prospers, grows in understanding. Peace-songs sung between mother and daughter-queens._

Shepard exhaled. "Given that. . . it would be. . . damned near vital to allow the young queen—Joy-Singer, right?—to come here. To colonize. So that they could continue to be a bridge between our species. I'm going to have to talk with Mindoir colony authorities. . . at some length. . . but I don't know why they'd really object. Especially if we can get Joy-Singer some kind of diplomatic status." Shepard paused. "What happens in a generation?"

_Your generations, or ours?_ Sky's song was filled with amusement. _Joy-Singer's daughter queens will have the memories of Sings-Heartsong in them. They will be as granddaughters to her. The children of Sings-Heartsong will be as brothers and sisters to Joy-Singer. The songs of the Singing Planet dance in the lifesong of Sings-Heartsong now. They may dance in the lifesongs of her children, as well. Those children may well hear our songs. They may be a bridge for generations to come. We do not know._

Shepard deciphered this, slowly, carefully. DNA-level changes that could be passed along to offspring were genotypic, not just phenotypic. _Even if Dara and Rel weren't having some fairly considerable marital problems right now, Dara is now, if I understand Sky correctly, something of a hybrid in and of herself. It would make mapping her chromosomes difficult for the hybridization process. I'm not seeing human-turian-rachni kids here. Not in the near future, anyway. But her descendants, her human ones, anyway, might be able to hear rachni song, as the rachni themselves hear it. Could sing back. A bridge between worlds, indeed._ _Assuming, of course, that whatever's been done to her, doesn't actually kill her._

_It should not, Truth-Singer_, Sky sang in immediate reassurance. _Joy-Singer loves her mother. She would not cause harm knowingly._

"It's the 'knowingly' part that worries me," Shepard replied, quietly. "And whatever's going on with my _other_ errant Spectre, is of concern, too."

_Many-Voices will do well. His third voice has finally finished its build, and now crescendos._ Sky's voice was utterly calm. _He, too, is a bridge. As I have sung before, to Sings-Regrets, in years past. He will do his father honor._

Shepard nodded, and looked out the window. "Okay. Thank you, Sky. I've apparently got some calls to make here. Go take care of them, as best you can." She smiled a little. "And I know your best is very good."

The remorseless numbers of the war ground on in her head. Rel, out of commission until his leg was repaired, although Dara might have provided the solution to that. . . and the seeds of a new problem, too. Garrus and Lantar had only just gotten back from Shanxi. Eli and Dara, partially out of commission, at least until a doctor and/or the base biotics signed off on them. Sam, freshly back from Omega, and a daughter in the med bay. Two teams missing, entirely, on Terra Nova. Kirrahe, on Liara's ship, but doing damned interesting AI virus work. Ylara, who'd just had her missing eye replaced with a prosthetic, after dropping off her mate and her daughter and her ward on Liara's ship, too. Two more teams pinned down on Amaterasu. Spectres everywhere, and yet, she was losing people. A juggling act of galactic proportions, and yet, no matter how skilled the juggler, the act was inevitably going to falter. It didn't help that the audience kept throwing knives at the balls as she spun them through the air, either.

Shepard exhaled, and got up off the table. _Do what you can,_ she reminded herself. _The rest has to take care of itself._

**Dara, Mindoir, October 5, 2196**

In the twenty-first century, MRI and CAT-scan machines had been huge and bulky. Massive, white-paneled machines, through which a patient was passed into a narrow tube, and bombarded with mild radiation or magnetic waves to create images of their body structures. These large machines had been not particularly mobile, and had required the patient to hold absolutely still for long periods of time in order to create proper images.

Modern scanning beds were slightly less claustrophobia-inducing. Slightly. Dara looked around the translucent aerogel walls of the tube in which she lay, and did her best to control her breathing. Where old-fashioned scanning devices created a single image, these scanners created more of a detailed 'video,' which showed body processes over time. Thus, she'd been in this tube for almost an hour, as Dr. Abrams tested different things. He'd started off with her little workers and Glory nearby. Then he'd asked them to leave. All of them. Glory had been reluctant. "We need to see what happens in her body when the rachni connection is severed," Abrams had told Glory, quietly. "How long it takes for whatever happens, _to_ happen. We'll keep Spectre Sidonis in the room, however."

_Little-queen will call us if there is need?_ Glory had asked, still singing soft yellow-green harmonies of anxiety.

"Yes," Dara had told him, trying to sound reassuring, which was difficult, when she was scared out of her mind right now. She didn't want to lose her sense of self again. When she'd last been separated from the hive-songs, it had been unnervingly like when Kella had removed her self-identity six years ago. There had been very little _Dara_ there for a while. There had been. . . rachni-self. _Sings-Heartsong_. Sings-Heartsong knew individuals, like Many-Voices and Sings-Secrets and Sings-Justice, but didn't know Eli or Serana or Lin. People who didn't have strong personalities just faded. Barely sang low-songs at all. She didn't particularly want to see other people like that. It seemed a little degrading to them. So there was more than a little fear here, fear of going crazy, of going into rachni-mind and never coming out again, of never being _herself_ again.

The good thing was, Eli was being scanned the same way, in the next machine over. If she went completely nuts, he'd be on hand to grab her and she'd hear his harmonies and she'd _probably_ be able to follow his voice back to where she kept her _self_. Still, she'd been out of range of Glory and the workers' low-songs for over a half hour at this point, and she kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. Her mind was so damned _empty_ without them, and her palms were damp. "Okay," Abrams said, cheerfully, and turned off the machine. "We've got a baseline here. Now I'm going to pull you both out, put some electrodes on your heads, and start just getting EEG readings, among other things."

The aerogel screens and other apparatuses around her began to fold back, gracefully, tucking under the scanning bed, and Dara sat up. She could feel her hands starting to shake a little, and knew it was just fear. Nothing more than that. _Great. You're a Spectre who's afraid of being alone. Nice and crippling. What's next? Afraid of the dark? Would you like your teddy bear again, little girl?_ She jeered at herself mentally, and the words were in turian, like her own personal internal drill centurion.

Eli sat up now, and his eyes were human at the moment. Soft, dark, and fringed with lashes. "You okay, _sai'kaea?_"

"Nervous," she admitted, glancing at Abrams, as the doctor's back was turned. "I'd like to see the scans, Daniel."

"You'll see them when I'm done looking at them," Abrams countered, and came back over with a dozen electrodes to attach to her forehead and temples. "You're a miserable patient, Dara. I think I mentioned that on Bastion."

She stuck her tongue out at her old friend and colleague. "What doctor isn't?"

"Shut up and let me take care of you," he told her, firmly, but with affection in his voice. His fingers were gloved, so she wasn't picking up any details from his song. Which, she had to admit, would have been nice. Actually, any song at _all_ would have been nice. _So much for respecting other people's privacy_, Dara chided herself. _Two days of hearing the song, and you're already thinking of violating other people's minds. Good god._

Eli was crowned, too, with electrodes, and they both moved to chairs side-by-side in an exam room. Abrams at least allowed them to read while he took preliminary readings. . . and also waved small scanners around their heads, then said, "Dara? I take it that you're starting to feel the effects of separation?"

Dara swallowed. She'd been trying, hard, to distract herself by engrossing herself in Dr. Solus' old notes on Dempsey's gene mods. The mix of galactic and salarian medical jargon was, as always, hard to decipher and a good mental challenge. She looked up now. "What makes you say that, Daniel?" His face looked odd. His eyes were gelatinous and unreadable, and his face was a mask of smooth flesh.

"Because your neurotransmitter levels are going haywire right now, particularly your serotonin levels." Serotonin was a brain chemical strongly associated with happiness and well-being. "So are your EEG readings. They're spiking and collapsing erratically. Eli's are remaining stable and human-normal for the moment. So. . . " Abrams regarded them calmly. "Does this require touch?"

Eli shrugged. "Sometimes it seems to. Sometimes I can still hear her just fine without touching her. It's. . . weird."

"Try to . . . do whatever it is that you do. . . without touching her, first. Then we'll move to touch. And then try again without touch. Eliminate variables."

Dara set her datapad down on the table next to her, and looked at Eli, who half-closed his eyes in concentration. Distant whispers of song, of melody, as if he were singing under his breath. "I can hear that," Dara said, softly. "Just barely, but it's there."

"Yeah. Not really sure what I'm doing here," Eli admitted. "Every other time, it's at least started by touching you." He reached out and took her hand.

Relief. Instant, blessed relief, as song flooded through her mind once more. Green-yellow anxiety overlaying that dark ultramarine, indigo shade. _You okay?_

_Am now. God, the silence is overwhelming. Shit, Eli, what am I going to do if I can't go out in the field without a rachni two feet from me?_ That was a very real concern. If she was going to go insane if separated from rachni or, well, Eli, for more than an hour or two, it was going to _destroy_ her effectiveness.

He picked up on her worries, of course, and squeezed her hand gently. _You'll be fine. I think you'll need to test and experiment with how long you can go on your own. . . and if any biotic, not just a rachni, can help. Or if skin contact with __any__ humanoid would let you hear enough song for a while._ Eli stroked the back of her fingers with his thumb. "Of course," he continued out loud, "you'd need to be comfortable with the people you were touching. And they'd have to be okay with you hearing their minds. Judging from your reaction to Rel earlier, some people would be . . . well, not comfortable to hear."

Dara winced. Just the words brought up the recollection of Rel's song, and Eli grimaced as he heard it play again in her thoughts. Red, black, orange. Flames of anger, a vortex of it. Thin thread of blue, the base color, golden yellow, almost consumed by the vortex. Rattle of drums. Percussion only. No song, at the moment, besides the rat-a-tat-tat of drums. _It's my fault_, she thought, only to have Eli deny that, a second later, in tones of red anger, _Why the hell do you say that? You didn't cause it._

_I should have seen it. I should have. . . ._ Guilt. Huge, enormous swells of it.

_What? Been all-knowing, all-seeing, perfect in every regard? Should have been everything he needed, and he should have been everything you needed?_

Dara paused. "Well," she muttered. "When you put it _that_ way. . . it sounds a little stupid."

Eli chuckled. "We're all stupid now and again. Just your turn."

Abrams intervened then. "Okay. Now I need you to stop touching."

Dara wanted to protest. His song was filling the empty places in her soul, but Abrams needed to test _everything_, and he was being thorough. She looked up at Eli, and saw that his eyes had, once more, darkened. "Ready?" Eli murmured.

_As I'm going to be._

He let go of her hand, but the song didn't fade. Dara had the impression that he was concentrating, hard. She half-closed her own eyes now. _I still. . . I still hear your song._

_Good. Really trying to push the boundaries here. I don't know what I'm doing, __sai'kaea__, but anything I can do to help, I will. . . . _ the words themselves were quieter now that there was no physical contact, but the tone, the song, the colors, still filled her. Contentment. Fulfillment.

"Serotonin spiked, and is holding steady now. Hmm." Abrams sounded intrigued.

The tests went on and on, and took most of the day. Abrams brought in Sky, Ylara, Siara, Melaani, Fors, Dempsey, and Zhasa at one point. "What's this for?" Dara asked, a little warily.

"Biotics testing, I'm afraid," Ylara told her. Ylara had taken the downtime and had had a prosthetic eye installed. It was not quite her proper color, being more green-blue than blue, so Dara still felt a surge of guilt every time she looked at that otherwise perfect, serene face, but it was better than an eye-patch.

Siara, Ylara, and Melaani all muttered soft exclamations under their breaths in asari when Eli looked up at them, eyes black. Dara could only pick up one word in ten of the asari high-tongue sentence he rolled out then, but then he touched her hand, and understanding flowed through her. _"Ylara, once, long ago, you shared my mind, touched the memories of your little fair-one there, to ensure that no harm came to me through her moment-of-passing being shared with me. Now, it almost appears that I must call you second-mother, though I have already a first-mother and a second-mother of my own. But through your lost one, it appears that we might share more than just a language. May I address you as kin?"_

Dara could see Ylara swallow. Could only imagine, for the moment, the emotion that the female had to force down, lest it overwhelm her. And then Ylara reached out and touched Eli's face, lightly, with her fingertips, and Dara suddenly felt another song join in the harmony, and part of her wanted to recoil, to hide. Flute-song, high-pitched and silvery, sheeted through Eli, reaching towards her. Cool curiosity reached out, triggering old, familiar fears. Sky's voice sang at the back of her mind, however, _Why should you fear, little-queen? They cannot take from you anything that you do not wish to give. And in listening, your song grows greater._

Eli had caught the wash of her panic, and frowned. Concentrated. And something in him shifted. The bass notes reverberated more loudly, becoming a wall of determination, of will, and the flute music was drowned out.

Ylara's eyes widened. "You are, as far as I can tell, in a state of melding with Dara at the moment," she said, after a moment. "But you can block me, at the same time. That's something that takes years to learn to do, usually."

Eli's voice sounded strained. "I've been practicing blocking for a long time. Ask Siara." He managed a chuckle.

Siara sounded embarrassed. "Yes, ah. . . he was able to block me partially the first time I tried to engage in _maieolo'rae'kiia_ with him." Dara still had a hell of a time figuring out the degrees of asari intimacy, but memories from Eli flooded through her. Jealousy in the dark. _Yeah. They're doing things._ Lips in the snow. Mental intrusion, fought off. _Why won't you share your light?_

Dara flushed, pink. Eli looked up at the ceiling. _Sorry. You weren't supposed to hear that. Ever._

It was hard to fathom. Life was always a constant narrative, singular. She had her memories of that evening. Of walking out beside Rel into the snow, and seeing Siara, whom she'd disliked, intensely, for how the asari girl had treated her from the moment she'd set foot in the school, kissing Eli. And Eli kissing her back, under a lamp-post. She hadn't said a word. Hadn't said a word at the firing range the next day, either. But inside, she'd been angry. Oh, god, so very angry, and she'd known she didn't have a right to say anything. She was with Rel. Very, very much with Rel. And Eli had clearly moved on. First with Kella, and now with Siara. _But you could do so much better than her!_ she'd wanted to snap. But buried under _that_ had been _how could you? She's a bitch and I hate her!_ and under that had been the pettiest of all, _how much it hurts that you've moved on, even though I've moved on, and I don't have a right to say or do or even feel this._ So the rage and hurt of the id (_you were mine and now you're not)_ had been covered over by the ego: _I just don't like Siara. She accused me of killing Kella._ Which had, in turn, been covered up by the superego, the community-minded part of the brain that made sure that people could continue to live together: _Not your business. It's his business. Don't talk about it. Don't think about it. Move on._ And so she had. While at the _same exact time_, he'd been looking at her, and his lowest-level, most primitive processes, had been consumed with the same damned jealousy and hurt and rage. _(You were mine, and now you're not_), covered over by _if you don't want me, there are others who do_, which was both healthy and not-healthy at once: healthy in that he was prepared to move on from a lost cause, and not-healthy, because part of him _had_ wanted to sting her back. To show her that he didn't care. That he could get along just fine without her, thank you very much. And from the id to the ego to the superego. . . _She's with someone else. It's not your business. Concentrate on what __is__ your business. Siara deserves real attention, and is complicated beyond belief. Worry about her, not about Dara, and what Dara thinks._

Swirls of song. Seeing each other, for a moment, in the memory, down to the lowest levels. The least-likeable bits of a person. The things people don't want to admit, even to themselves. That they cover over with denials and lies just to be able to live with themselves, construct whole identities around. And then the moment of painful realization, for both of them, here and now: _If we'd admitted to __any__ of this six years ago. . . . _

_. . . we wouldn't be where we are now._ That was Eli.

. . . _we wouldn't be __who__ we are now,_ Dara added, softly, feeling tears tighten her throat. _Oh, god, how does Sky see us and not want to weep at what humans are?_

_Because,_ Sky sang, softly, to both of them, _you are more than just the lowest-level songs. You are more than the edifices constructed to allow yourselves to live. There are more melodies and harmonies in both of you than you can yet hear, when you concentrate on a singular moment, a single errant note. There are good impulses, too, notes that shine out and create other harmonies. Love-song, protection-song, healing-song, wonder-song. As you retrace memory-songs together, some will reverberate through you both, and you will know __truth-song__ then._ Sky paused. _You sing different melodies each day, but they have the same underlying harmony. And over time, the melody changes. As you learn, as you grow._

It had taken less than a minute. Siara was chuckling now, out loud. Dara's eyes snapped towards Siara. "Let me test my understanding," Siara said now, her smile all edges and glee. "Eli's sharing himself with Dara, right now. In front of everyone. And Dara is sharing back?"

Eli gave Siara a dark look. "I think it's more that I'm letting Dara listen to my song," he replied, with mild reproof.

"No, no, no. You're sharing your light. You're _melding_ with her. I can feel it. Full _maieolo'loa."_ The full embrace of minds, without any sort of physical intimacy, was apparently considered as vulgar, in many ways, as what Eli had permitted dozens of asari over the years: _maieolo'kareo_, full intimacy of body, without any touching of the minds. Dara winced at knowing _any_ of this, but then, she'd known it already, in a way. It had all passed through her to the little queen. She was just being. . .reminded, in a sense.

Siara chuckled again. "Oh, I'm sorry, I shouldn't be enjoying this so much, but. . . " Siara had to sit down at this point, ". . . if I understood Dr. Abrams' explanation correctly, if Dara _doesn't_ share she'll. . . what? Go mad?"

Sky's tone held just a few sparks of red. _Pain-Singer,_ he told Siara, with more than Eli's mild reproof, _I__ nearly went mad of the loneliness, of the aloneness, when I first came to the planet of violet skies. Your laughter holds tones of vengeance and pleasure in it._

Siara's expression calmed. "A little," she admitted. "I'm sorry, Dara. We did say we were going to try to be friends now." A little more concerned, she added, "You really are afraid of going insane?"

"Nearly happened on the way here," Dara admitted, tightly. She'd grown to trust Siara, at least a little more, and respect her, especially in the last six months. Bastion and Omega had shown her new depths in the asari. But the laughter had rocked her a little. Made it hard to reach out, all over again. "Was like what Kella did to me, the once, only about ten times worse."

Siara flicked her fingers at Eli, who gently disengaged his hand from Dara's, and Siara reached out and lightly touched Dara's face now, her eyes going black as Eli's did.

Blind panic hit Dara then, and she fought. Struggled. But the touch alone was enough to make her _listen_, and Siara's eyes widened. _Interesting._ This wasn't the high, silvery elegance of Ylara's mind. This was still intelligent, but earthier, in a way. Still elegant. Clarinet, maybe. Precision, clarity, structure of melody. . . but with the ability to improvise. Maybe a hint of jazz. _Relax, Dara. I promised you once, I would not look deep. I'm going to hold to that promise today. I am not now as I was then. And neither are you. Don't fight so._ Siara exhaled, and Dara could see her base color now. White, with very, very faint gray overtones. The same 'base shade' that everyone had told Dara she was, herself, in the simulators. _Why does it surprise you that we're alike_? Fascination now in Siara's thoughts. Interest. Hunger to understand, hunger to know. . . and yet. . . respect. Understanding. She could feel Dara's fear, and instead of seeing it as a road to power, as she once had. . . as her own fears had once been used as a leash on her. . . she stepped back. Gave Dara a chance to breathe, to relax.

Siara smiled now, faintly, and Dara realized that cold sweat was all over her body. Pure adrenal reaction. "Am I hurting you?"

"No. Your song is . . . actually kind of pretty." Dara couldn't be anything other than honest at the moment, but focused her eyes on the wall beyond Siara. Tried to make herself believe that this was like Abrams checking her pulse.

Siara snorted. "Can't wait to hear what you make of Makur." Deepening song. _Interest. Concern. This isn't normal at all for a human, even a human biotic. Deeper. Deeper. Old songs, old jealousies, old regrets. Fears that had choked her, stifled her. Yellows there, sickly and pale. Jealousies, oranges flickers, still. Yearnings. Stifled emotions now. Parts that still, though much trampled down, much muffled, rejoiced, just a little, at seeing Dara taken down a peg or two. She for whom Rel and Eli and Kella had all reached, and Siara herself had wanted to reach, but had turned inwards instead, choke-chain of fears and absorbed hatreds and bitterness. It was easy for the captive to hate the free, especially when they were so close that they could have been sisters-in-the-soul, but Dara walked free, and Siara did not, Dara stood in the light, and Siara stood in the shadows. And it would have been so good, so simple, just to share a little of Dara's light, just as she'd wanted a little of Eli's light, but she hadn't known how to ask, only knew how to __take__._ Violet of regret, grays of grief. Siara pulled her hands away, eyes wide. "I. . . didn't mean to share _that_ much," she admitted, clearing her throat and looking embarrassed, but still fascinated, as Melaani raised her hands from Eli's face now, shaking her head.

Dara put her face in her hands. "It's. . . I'm sorry. That seems to be happening a lot," she mumbled through her fingers, and Eli stroked the back of her neck lightly. Familiar songs, comforting now.

_We hear much,_ Sky offered, quietly. _ I do not know how to teach you how __not__ to hear, little singer. Especially when you __must__ hear the songs._

"Dara, I'm going to tell you, right up front. . . you're going to have a hell of a lot of asari chasing you from now on." Siara very carefully took her free hand, and squeezed it. "I heard once, that Aria T'loak made the mistake of threatening Garrus and Lantar by saying that their kids were unique. That there are asari out there who will pay for unique." She bit her lip. "It's true. Touching your mind right now. . . it's not like touching a human mind. And there are damned few rachni around. And _none_, that I'm aware of, who've agreed with meld with asari for purposes of reproduction." Siara glanced at Sky, who sang a single note of negation. "At the moment, you're. . . like a rachni without the poison spit or carapace, though. You can't protect yourself at all. You struggled to keep me 'out' but you couldn't _not_ hear me, could you?"

Dara shook her head, wincing. "Not once you touched me."

"Let me try," Zhasa offered, coming closer. "I can't actually _touch_ you, Dara. Not without getting out of the suit." Dara could feel the waves of blue-green calmness, happiness, overlaid over a white core. Clatter of chords on a _reela_, tambourines, and what sounded suspiciously like balalaika, all made a cheerful chatter in Zhasa's mind as the quarian reached out, with only her thoughts, and touched Dara's.

"I'm beginning to feel like Grand Central Station here," Dara grumbled. "In, out, in out, all day long."

Eli snorted next to her, and, not changing expression, Dara kicked him in the leg. "What was that, Eli? I'm not sure I heard that right."

Eli grabbed his shin and pretended to mortal agony for a moment. "I didn't say anything!" _In, out, in, out? You can't expect me __not__ to react to that._

"You didn't actually have to _say_ it." _You are such a little boy sometimes._

_All the time, actually, but that can be our little secret, too._

"Don't let Zhasa fool you," Dempsey said, dryly, from where he was sitting, sprawled, in a chair on the other side of the room, half-hidden behind Sky's bulk. "She's just about as curious as all the asari are right now."

"And should we not be?" Ylara asked, sharply. "I see a human male before me, who, when I touch his mind, has human thoughts and turian thoughts and clearly, some of the same mental gifts as my late daughter. But no sense of power to it. I doubt he could do so much as lift a feather with his mind." Her expression was intrigued, with a hint of sorrow to her eyes that Dara found she couldn't bear to look at for long.

Eli looked up at the ceiling. "Thank god. That's all I'd need." Trying, as always, to keep it light. To keep people from focusing on the losses. _Because he know what it is to get lost in the losses,_ Dara realized, sobering.

_So do you, __sai'kaea__. So do you._ It wasn't like they could really _hide_ any thoughts at the moment.

Zhasa ignored the by-play, and simply dropped to a slight crouch in front of them both. Behind her red-tinged mask, Dara could see the faint glow of the quarian girl's eyes. _The roses are in full bloom. Still the usual thorns, I see. And. . . vines, I think? Coiling all through them now, like a web, binding everything together, reaching out for the walls and the trees and everything else around them._ She turned her head towards Eli, and added, _Electrical sizzle to the inner softness is more pronounced now. And deep enough to sink into forever. But apparently, I can sustain Dara's need for 'song' without touching her. Just as I can link to Dempsey and help him remain in connection with emotional states._ Out loud, she added, "Useful, I think."

Externally, Dempsey and Ylara were still talking, with Siara and Melaani throwing in comments now and again.

Ylara noted calmly, "They'll need some training, if they're to cope."

Dempsey nodded. "Half of human biotics training is designed to teach us how to block thoughts. How _not_ to hear. It's what I was trying to work with Madison with before we had to take him and the rest of the kids. . . elsewhere." He glanced at Dara and Eli, sidelong.

"I still think that teaching someone how _not_ to hear is counter-productive," Zhasa called across the room, sounding as if this were a long-standing argument.

_And may not be possible. I cannot __not__ hear the song. It is natural to me_, Sky put in, with emphasis. _It may be as natural as breathing to Sings-Heartsong now._

Dempsey snorted. "Conventional wisdom is that biotics training has to start in humans when they're young, or right at breakthrough, which usually happens in adolescence anyway. It's a question of brain plasticity. Ability to map new skills to existing neural paths. It's one of the reasons—other than the shit-tastic first and second-gen implants—that the first generation or two of human biotics were so damned weak. We had people developing biotics in their twenties, even thirties, when brain plasticity has abated. They simply couldn't _learn_ to do what their brains needed to do." He paused, and looked at Dara and Eli calmly. "The two of you, though, are just hitting your twenties. Some brain plasticity should remain."

Dara smiled, faintly. Dempsey put on just as good a show as the rest of the people on base. Pretended to be 'nothing more' than a hard-nosed marine. When, in fact, he'd been in rigid, disciplined training for his biotics since childhood. _Wait. How do I know that?_

_Sorry,_ Zhasa said, silently. _That came from me._ Pink tinge of embarrassment flickering through her thoughts at the moment. And ultramarine, indigo, a little rich purple, too.

_Oh, dear god, I don't think I can cope if everyone around me turns into my hive. I have enough trouble with low-song and Great Song, and each individual person separately. I don't think I could handle it if I heard all of you. At once. All the time._

Dempsey came over now, and looked down at Dara now. And his thoughts, cool, calm, controlled, slipped into her mind. No skin contact. Silver-gray tones, and yet. . . guitar. At the moment, it sounded like someone practicing scales, plucking out each note carefully. _Okay, it might not be possible for you to __block.__ But I'm going to work with you on making sure you don't get overwhelmed._ His lips quirked up, faintly, and those ice-blue eyes stared down into hers now. _Got to say, Doc, that's a nice look on you. What's the husband think of it?—oh, fuck me._ That, in a tone of surprise, as Dara couldn't help but remember Rel's reaction. . . and, just for an instant, Dempsey shared her emotional reaction. Confusion, guilt, loss, pain, a little anger of her own. . . .

She could sense, dimly, a wall go up. _Okay, Doc, Siara was wrong. You sure as hell aren't toothless here. Someone tries to get in your head without you asking for it, and you do __exactly__ what you just did there. Flood 'em out. Good defensive tactic, and you've got enough firepower to do it. Just might be exhausting over the long haul. _ Sharp, clear, calm words. _Sidonis, you've got a whole different kettle of fish on your hands there. I'm guessing one of these asari is going to have to help you, or maybe Zhasa. Damned if I know where to begin. _

"I think," Eli said, dryly, "that under the circumstances, you can probably call me Eli."

"And you can probably call me Dara," Dara added.

Dempsey's faint smile curled up further. "Nah. Then you'll want to call me James, and I have no idea who the fuck that guy is. He's not me, that's for damn sure."

"I think I can probably be counted on to call you Dempsey no matter what," Dara offered. "Maybe D at most." He was oddly relaxing, she found. There was music, but it wasn't an overwhelming _rush_, the way almost everyone else was.

Dempsey snorted. _Yeah, you think that now._ He reached out, and took her hand, and Dara winced and braced herself. The guitars in her mind got louder, but there was still absolute precision and control in Dempsey's mind, and Dara exhaled again. _Wait till I get mad and happen to be in your head. Scared the living shit out of Zhasa last time it happened._

"Well, to be fair, you had reason," Zhasa said, out loud. "Madison was in a bunker being attacked by batarians." She made it sound prosaic enough, but Dara caught faint tinges of remembered yellow anxiety. Zhasa _had_ been stunned by the rage. . . but understood it. It was something that came and went, and that Dempsey usually strove to control. It had been a white-hot fury, an absence of thought, unmarked by all the other emotional undercurrents of, say, Rel's anger. Dara sighed. _Just when I think I have the world figured out. . . I realize I haven't figured anything out at all._

_That's kind of life,_ Dempsey told her, dryly. _We're all just making shit up as we go along. I'll try to give you some tools to help you cope with this, Doc. Best I can do._

Fors had come along, too, mostly out of curiosity, but also, as he explained it, "Well, my human-turian friend turns out to be my human-turian-asari friend. How often does that happen?" the volus snuffled at them. "Besides, they thought I might be able to help the doctor here, since my brand of biotics is about as alien from normal human biotics as rachni biotics is." He snuffled again, and shook his head.

"You smell people, the way I _feel_ them, don't you?" Zhasa asked the volus.

"Yes. It was disorienting to suddenly have Sky's colors in my head, on Bastion. I only see in blacks, whites, and grays. Suddenly, there were all these other shades, which I don't have names for. Felt like something what short-circuiting my brain." There was rough sympathy in Fors' tone, and he waddled over and patted Dara's knee. "It gets better." _But the two of you. . . gods in the deeps. You're smelling odd. My human-turian friend has always smelled of iron filings, whiskey, coffee, and sometimes a hint of something exotic, like __liepie'eiaa'a__ flowers._ _At the moment, the flower scent is very strong. And you. . . you, my girl, have always smelled like Terran roses. __Ianthus__ flowers from the depths of Palaven's jungles. But now you. . . shift. Dozens of other smells. Iron filings, sometimes, like him, but also. . . cinnamon. Vanilla, clove, lavender, oranges. Never the same twice. The same way that Sky is never quite the same twice._

Fors snuffled again, and turned to ask Abrams, "You happen to have volus-specific antihistamine in stock? I think I might need some." He turned back to Dara. "Anything I can do, I'll help with. I'm just not any more sure than the rest of them where to start."

_Comforting, isn't it, __sai'kaea__?_ Eli's words rang sardonically in Dara's mind.

_At least they're trying to help_, she thought, glumly.

Once the biotics testing had been completed, and Dempsey, Zhasa, Siara, and Fors had been deputized to try to help them learn to cope with new abilities that they hadn't really asked for, Abrams allowed Glory and the workers back in, along with Sam and Kasumi, and Lantar, Serana, and Lin. And that was when he brought out the charts and the scans. "I'm sorry to have kept you all on tenterhooks for so long," the doctor apologized. "I had Nefertari on the _Crimea_ go over my results a couple of times. Just to see if there were anything I'd missed." He handed Dara the first set of results. "The left three are Eli, the right three are you. Genetic scans." A quick gel electrophoresis had been conducted on both of them.

Eli's bands, from results taken when he was born, when he was sixteen and had gone to boot camp, and today, had subtle variations. The birth DNA did not match up exactly with the bands of the test results from today, and the ones taken at sixteen and today didn't entirely match either. Not perfectly. But it was close. "We took that, initially, as a result of his gene mods, but there's differences here that we can't account for," Abrams admitted. "We never checked genetic material back when he first started showing language affinities. We just did brain scans to rule out aphasia and strokes and whatever." He tapped one particular dark band, which showed up on all three of Eli's rows of results. "That's a Prothean DNA marker. We'd have to test Ellie to see if it comes from her side of the family or not, but it's often found in genetic lines that the Protheans found to be 'of interest.' It's often, though not always, a sign of biotic potential. Then again, it's often found in people and families with absolutely _no_ history of biotics at all. The Protheans tagged our ancestors for. . . future study, pretty much. They'd find someone interesting, and want to keep an eye on the descendants."

Eli grimaced. "Got a point here?"

Abrams sighed. "Only that what Kella Alir did, when she died, may have activated latent genes. Not quite a full biotic breakthrough. Nothing that dramatic. Your brain wave patterns when you're touching Dara today, or concentrating on mental activities relating to biotic communication today, however, do not tally with human brain wave patterns. They did, however, match up with asari ones." He rubbed at his face, and looked at everyone in the room soberly. "I've got a paper in this, somewhere. Of course, you're going to be Patients X and Y for purposes of the study."

"Get on with it, Daniel," Dara muttered. "Limited eezo exposure, so no nodules, correct? No secondary structures within the brain or nodules along his spinal cord, so he can't actually manipulate gravity or energy, correct?"

"Bingo."

Dr. Abrams handed her the various scans taken of Eli's body over the course of the day, and Dara flipped through the datapad rapidly, looking at each image quickly, and stopped, pointing to one, which showed both hemispheres of Eli's brain lit up completely. "See? You can never again say that nothing goes on in there. Scientific data that proves otherwise. Empirical and everything."

"And here I thought Doc Abrams was getting a map together so he'd know where to drill a hole to let the bad spirits out," Eli dead-panned.

"Trepanning is so passé," Dara told him, and flipped through to the EEGs, which compared Eli's brain wave patterns to, apparently, Siara and Ylara's, while both of them were channeling biotics. "Yeah. I see a similarity here," she agreed, looking at the sinusoidal curve of the electrical currents in the brain. Activity and rest patterns looked very similar indeed. She passed the datapad next to Serana and Lantar, who looked at it, while Abrams explained the information on it to them.

Dara, in the meantime, had moved on to her own results. Eli's didn't look so bad. A little minor mutation, activating latent genes, made sense. Kella's odd gift had shaped _how_ he thought, and that explained why his particular gift had taken this shape and form. It didn't quite explain the eyes, but Abrams had a partial explanation, when Dara pointed it out. "When asari activate their biotics heavily, they have chromatophores, like a chameleon's, in the eyes, which change colors," he explained. "It's not a function _of_ the biotics, but it's more of a signal. So like a chameleon uses the chromatophores to signal to other chameleons their interest in mating, or 'danger! stay away!' the asari's eyes change color for the exact same reason. It's an evolutionary hold-over, in a way. And Eli's developed chromatophores in the ocular region."

Serana held up a finger. "Okay, Dr. Abrams, that explains the _mechanics_ of it, but how did he wind up with that?" She sounded rattled, and Dara couldn't blame her.

Abrams shook his head. "I haven't a clue. There's minor genetic rewriting that's occurred. Typically, when we give someone gene mods, they're phenotypic. They aren't passed on to the offspring. We'd, ah, need to do some further testing to determine if Eli's . . . alterations. . . from Kella and apparently, from the rachni song, are genotypic."

Eli gave him a look. "You're asking for a sperm sample, I take it? Without candy or flowers first?"

Dara snorted, but she was still reading, mind completely engrossed in the files in front of her. Eli's files had looked. . . okay. A little odd, but not too many changes. Subtle ones, over time. And Eli, sitting next to her, had picked up on her calmness. Lantar and Serana were both muttering in disquiet over his results, but Eli himself was calm.

Her information, however, was much more disquieting to look at. She flipped to her own three bars of genetic comparison, and swallowed. Birth and age sixteen. . . slight differences. Gene mods, easily picked out in green bands. That was what was encoded on her biometric chips. And then there were hundreds, even thousands of genes that had been altered, marked in red. _Holy shit._

"You did a full genome sequencing on me?" she asked as Abrams turned back to her, putting on her medical mask, just as two or three little workers scuttled closer, and, sensing her distress, climbed up her legs to find perches on her lap and shoulders. _—Little-queen sings sorrow?_

—_Distress-song. Something is wrong. _

—_Perhaps wounded? No. Not damaged. Hungry, perhaps?_

—_Toast may fix._

She patted the closest worker gently. "No, no toast," she told it, and it made a disappointed chittering sound. "Okay, maybe later."

—_Joy-song! We will learn to make toast._

Dr. Abrams was looking at her patiently. "Yes, actually, I did. I ran it on both of you to try to figure things out. Sky suggested that even the 'smallest lifesongs' had been altered, so I took a look at your mitochondrial DNA, too. That's, well, that's page two. Your dad still had some of your baby teeth in a scrapbook your mom put together. . . .so I was able to get mitochondrial DNA samples for comparison."

Dara scrolled to the next page. Red flags leaped off the page at her there, too, and her stomach tightened. It was one thing to know that Joy-Singer had changed her. It was another thing to know exactly, and how completely. "God damn," she said slowly, after a moment. "The entire way my cells produce energy looks like it's been . . . rewritten."

Abrams pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dr. Solus would be able to explain this. Probably inside of a week. But yes. That much seems clear. As far as I can tell from scans I've conducted of Sky over the years, rachni don't have the same 'nodules' inside their bodies as humans do, or the genuine biotic organs that asari have evolved over millions of years of exposure to eezo on Thessia. What used to look like a tumor in humans, we've figured out is, well, a precursor organ. Something that might evolve, in many, many generations, into a specialized biotic organ, like what asari have. Rachni . . . don't."

Dara was already further down the path than he'd gone. "Because the song dances in every cell of their body," she murmured, and raised her eyes again. "They generate their biotics at the cellular level. In the mitochondria, the same as they produce the rest of the energy that fuels the body. And now . . . so do I?"

Abrams nodded. "I think so, yeah." He looked at her soberly. "Mitochrondrial DNA is one hundred percent matrilineal in humans."

"I know that. Whatever I have, I will pass to my kids. No influence from the male at all. Assuming, of course, that these rewrites are extending to my existing ova." Technically, a human female was born with all the eggs she'd ever have. Dara wasn't sure just how far-reaching Joy-Singer's song actually had been. "I'd have to have an ovum extracted for analysis, I expect." Ova extraction was not a painless process, even in this day and age. The process still required sedation and a really long needle passing up through the vaginal tract, to retrieve eggs that had been stimulated to 'mature.' She didn't relish the thought, but it sounded like it might be necessary, eventually. For a better understanding of what had been done. And what it meant. She managed to give Eli a faint smile. "You'll enjoy providing your specimens for science much more."

Eli winced, however, probably at her mental images of the procedure. _Sai'kaea__, is that really necessary?_

_Probably. Unfortunately._ Dara looked over the first page of results again, her face a mask of stone, expressionless, but aching from the strain. "I see I still have the standard number of chromosomes." She cleared her throat. "But, um. . . yeah. With this many genetic alterations. . . even though they mostly seem to be in the 'junk' DNA. . . I don't think even Dr. Solus would know what all the different changes actually mean." Dara cleared her throat. "I guess Joy-Singer and the AIs might actually be my only kids after all."

Her father got a very set look to his face at the moment, and said, quietly, "Let's not worry about that right now—" just as Serana blurted out, "What do you mean?"

Eli was barely touching the back of her hand as Dara cleared her throat again, and tried to keep the medical mask in place. "I've got the right number of chromosomes for a human. Presumably, they can manage to do their little dance and exchange DNA with another human. But, say, the hybridization process? Not that I'm really planning on it at this point, but . . . making a hybrid of a hybrid sounds almost irresponsible. Especially when we have no idea what any of these changes are." _So, yeah. I might not be having kids._

_Well, not this minute, anyway,_ Eli told her, silently, and took her hand in his completely. _Not like you were planning on having 'em till you figured out the mess with Rel anyway, right?_ And behind that thought was a flicker that said, _to hell with hybridization and artificial insemination and everything else. . . . _

Sam reached over and put a hand on her shoulder, just as Eli was holding her hand. Warm red songs everywhere, flickers of blue. "You okay, sweetie?" Sam asked her, his voice concerned.

Dara swallowed. _No. Not really. I mean. . . _She realized that no one else could hear her, and resorted to words. "If I had to do it all over again, and had a choice in it, I'd still be there to catch Joy-Singer coming out of the egg. I. . . love her. She's my daughter, or as close to it as I may ever get."Tears stung at the corners of her eyes, and made the datapad information blurry. "But my god . . . there's a price-tag on this, isn't there?"

The workers chittered gently at her. They didn't seem to know what to make of her emotional state, so they just sang reassurances at her in low-song. "Talk to me about the eyes, Daniel," she said, after a minute. "I'm already picking things up that are way outside the usual human spectrum of visible light."

"Yeah. I ran some tests on Sky's visual acuity. You've pretty much got one of his middle set of eyes there. Rachni don't have typical insectile eyes. They're not compound ones, with hundreds of different lenses, like a fly's. They're similar in some respects to the eyes of humans and squid. They have lenses, multiple coats, photoreceptors, chemicals that respond to color. So far, so good. Your eyes have begun changing to resemble rachni eyes generally, yes, as your genetic code has been rewritten. Same way as when we give someone a gene mod for night vision, they wind up with a _tapetum lucidum_ inside the eyeball, similar to a cat's."

"And the change is fighting with the existing gene mods?" Dara's voice was just above a whisper, but she had her finger on one row on the electrophoresis comparison chart, where a green line indicated a gene mod at sixteen, right next to a series of red lines that showed massive changes now.

Abrams nodded. "The good news is, I think when your eyes stabilize, you'll have perfect vision. You might retain both the micro and macro vision that you're used to, given that Sky's visual acuity is far better than the average human's. Plus, you'll be seeing far outside the normal human range of visible light." Abrams was trying to sound encouraging, she could tell. She'd used that same cheerful tone on too many patients to count.

Dara swallowed. "Okay. Bottom line, Daniel. . . no brain tumors? We're not going to die? Can we go home now?" Her tone was plaintive. She'd had eight hours of testing, after an emotionally draining morning of dealing with Rel, and she was absolutely done right now.

Abrams hesitated. "I'd be more comfortable if you stayed in med bay," he said, after a long moment, "but I think you'd be all right if you stayed with family for close observation."

Dara exhaled in relief, and then remembered, in some consternation, that that meant that she was heading for her dad and Kasumi's guest room again. Eli patted her shoulder. _You'll be okay with just the workers there?_

_Guess I get to find out._ Dara swallowed, hard. _If Dempsey and the others are right, technically, all I should need is skin contact with another human to. . . kind of keep me in touch with the song. Stabilize me._

Eli's eyes were dark at the moment, and he kept his words silent as everyone slowly started standing up and gathering their things. Stretching. _You need me, and I'll be there, __sai'kaea__. You know that._ He rolled his eyes slightly now. _As is, I'm probably going to be sleeping on a couch tonight._

Dara tried not to laugh, and failed.

**Sam, Mindoir, October 5, 2196**

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been _this_ worried about his daughter. Maybe the boot camp letters. The brief mention of the bite wound that had required sixty stitches. . . that, maybe. Certainly, the first set of gene mods. The damned insistence on following Rel into the service and hell and back. Those had all been worries, to be certain, but Sam had rarely been worried for Dara's life, sanity, and self-hood before. And the hell of it was, in order to comfort his daughter, to give her a hug and human touch, he had to master that worry. Tuck it away where he couldn't hear it, gnawing away at his guts. Sam Jaworski was plenty pissed off at the universe right now, and some of it was even directed, at least a bit, at Sky. For the simple reason that the rachni was a rachni. Sam had, however, taken a few deep breaths, and sent an apologetic thought Sky's general direction before they kept the clinic. . . and had gotten a wave of concern in response. _No intention in our song,_ Sky assured him, unhappily, yet with an odd tinge of joy underscoring his voice. _But now that it has occurred, there is great opportunity for gaining complexity. For gaining understanding. For joy._

Sam really hoped so, because while Dara had seemed quiet and strong this morning, dealing with Rel with more calmness and forthrightness than he'd expected, she seemed quelled at the moment. Dampened. And, of course, she had a half dozen little rachni workers surrounding her in the backseat. Sam found that incredibly disquieting to watch, especially as one of them crawled up her arm and began to fiddle with her hair. With her eyes huge, dazed, alien, and vacantly staring into the mid-distance at the moment in total exhaustion, she looked a little dead. And the fact that _bugs_ were crawling on her didn't diminish the perception.

It was 19:30 by the time he edged the groundcar into the drive, and then he opened the back door of the groundcar for his daughter and reached out a hand for her, while Kasumi opened the trunk and started getting out bags. Dara took his hand—Sam steeled himself to think of nothing at all but pleasure in having her home. Which was true. Pride, in how well she'd dealt with everything today. Which was also true. Dara looked up at him, and a smile wavered onto her face. "Thanks, Dad," she said, quietly, and glanced around. "Hey. . . it's super-late. Who picked up Takeshi from daycare?" she asked, and the little workers spilled out of the car at her feet and milled around, examining the concrete and the grass of the lawn.

"Your grandma did," Sam told her, and stepped back to grab Kasumi and Dara's travelbags, one in each hand.

"I can get this," Kasumi offered.

"This is why you keep me around, isn't it?" Sam told her, tongue-in-cheek. "Beast of burden and all that."

Kasumi grinned up at him, and he could see relief in her eyes. "Well, for more reasons than just that," she said, and then they all walked up the steps.

Inside, the house smelled like pulled pork and barbecue sauce, suggesting that Agnes had been having food going for a while. Takeshi was still awake, but only barely; he was in his pyjamas, and squealed when he came to the door, saying "Daddy home! Daddy home. . .oh! Mama home, too!"

Then the little boy stopped and _stared_ as Dara came in. He didn't seem to register any differences in her, but his mouth hung open as the little rachni workers trundled in behind her. "What's that?" he shouted, pointing.

"Indoor voice," Kasumi said, without much hope in her own.

"What's that?" Takeshi repeated, and stepped hesitantly towards the closest worker, which was just around the size of his little head. Sam watched warily, absolutely ready to grab the boy and swing him out of the way.

Dara crouched down and told him, calmly, "Takeshi, these are friends of mine. They're called rachni. They're like Sky, only smaller. Can you say _rachni_?"

"Wachni." Takeshi was much more interested in _grabbing_ one of the workers right now. Dara caught ahold of his pudgy little fist, and stopped him.

"They're like Sky, Takeshi, but they're little. And because they're little, you could hurt them, and then they'd be sad, right?"

Takeshi thought about that. "Not make . . . little Sky sad."

Sam snorted under his breath. It wasn't half-bad, for three. "Good job," he told Takeshi, and held out his hand for a palm-slap. "C'mon, squirt. I'll take you upstairs for bed time."

"Not time yet," Takeshi told him, promptly.

"Yes, yes it is," Sam told him pleasantly, and off they went.

He'd just closed the door of Takeshi's bedroom when he heard his mom's _shriek_, followed by an unmistakable _"Oh my god!"_ Sam's shoulders shook. His mom had lived in southeast Texas for forty years, having moved there when she was twenty from New Mexico. She had never, in all those years, gotten over the size of the _bugs_ in south Texas. For as long as he could remember, his mom had greeted the outdoor brown roaches that migrated indoors at the slightest provocation in _exactly_ the same way: a shriek, an invocation of the deity, and either plaintive cries for his father to _kill it, please, just kill it_. . . or the immediate application of half a can of Raid. Usually followed up, for good measure, with a few whacks from a broom, accompanied by desperate mutters to the effect of _why won't the damn thing just __die__?_ as the bug's reflexes took over and its legs spasmed. *

"Mom?" he said, over the edge of the landing, "please calm down. Takeshi's trying to get to sleep."

"Oh my god, oh my god!" was Agnes' reply, and Sam headed down the stairs at a rapid clip, to find Kasumi, trying hard not to laugh, holding Agnes back by the upper arms, while Dara tried to corral the little workers. Who were, in fact, all crawling up her legs and body at this point, and hissing at Agnes.

"Calm down," Dara told the workers, laughing. "Calm down. She's scared of you, that's all. She's really, really scared, because she think you look like bugs on Earth."

"Dara, my god, get those things off you, they're. . .they're. . . dirty. Oh my god. . . "

Sam crossed the room to his mother, who was almost hyperventilating at this point, and he and Kasumi got her to a chair. Kasumi looked up at him, her eyes almost dancing in amusement, and then asked Agnes, "Can I get you a drink or something?"

Sam chuckled. "Make it Southern Comfort with some ice. My mom's gonna need this."

Dara got a little closer then, and Agnes stiffened in the chair again. "Dara, how can you _touch_ those things. . . ." And that's when Agnes finally saw and registered Dara's eyes. "Oh, my god." Agnes stared at her granddaughter for a long moment, and then punched Sam in the shoulder. "This is _your_ fault."

"Hey, whoa, wait a damn minute!" Sam spluttered. "How the hell is this _my_ fault?"

"Gallivanting over the whole damn galaxy, always off being a _Spectre_, of _course_ she had to follow in your footsteps," Agnes was clearly taking out the shock on Sam, as the closest available target, and he was just as glad it was directed at him, and not at Dara for the moment. Kasumi brought over a glass of alcohol, and Agnes accepted it without question or hesitation, hands shaking so hard that the ice clattered in it audibly before she took her first sip. "Going all over the place, getting into god only knows what sort of trouble," she managed, after swallowing. "If it's not your fault, Samuel Kennard Jaworski, then _whose_, huh? Tell me that."

Dara's shoulders shook for a moment, and then she came closer and put her hand on her grandmother's shoulder. Agnes started visibly, and then, just as visibly relaxed. "What. . . what is that?"

"That's . . . well, it's how rachni talk to each other. These little guys mostly use scent, but song is how the big ones, like Sky, talk to them. Hear them." Dara explained it carefully.

"They . . . talk."

"Yeah. Right now, they're pretty scared of you. I'm trying to calm them down. They're the workers of the hive. They build starships and tunnels and make food for the others and keep the place cleaned up. They build computers and hydroelectric plants and anything else that the hive needs, really." Dara smiled slightly. "And they're very, very clean."

"And. . . your eyes?" Agnes' own filled with tears. "What the hell have they done to you, my girl?"

Dara sighed. "That's a longer story, Grandma. Let's get some dinner in us. . . in all of us, since these little guys are hungry. . . and we'll talk about it afterwards, okay?"

Sam squeezed his mom's shoulder. "Explain to me one thing, Mom," he said, as Agnes finished her glass and put it on the table.

"What's that?" she replied.

"How can you stand side-by-side with Gavius Vakarian, shooting at batarians, and not turn a hair, but you freak _out_ over a couple of harmless little rachni?" He couldn't help the amusement in his voice.

"Because they're _bugs!_" Agnes' voice scaled upwards, and Sam started to laugh.

Which, actually, got him a punch in the other arm, this time from Kasumi. Sam pretended to rub it, and looked around his house. His mom, his wife, and his daughter. All strong. All completely different from one another. But he wouldn't trade any of them for an entire galaxy's worth of stars.

Agnes couldn't quite fathom the whole 'mother to a rachni queen' thing, which Sam understood. He couldn't entirely wrap his head around it, either, but she accepted it so calmly, that even with a cushion of Southern Comfort wrapped around her mind, he was more than sure that she didn't entirely believe it. Or just couldn't grasp its enormity. If anything, she was more distressed to hear about the state of Rel and Dara's marriage; she'd already heard about the wounded leg from Gavius, during one of their weekly lunches, where they got together, apparently, to argue. And when Dara trudged off up the stairs, flanked by her little workers, Agnes turned to Sam, and with an expression of distress, said, quietly, "I'd only just gotten to a point where I felt like I could talk with the girl. First time I've felt like she likes me since she was. . . god. . . nine or so, and had decided that she didn't want to do _girl_ stuff anymore."

Kasumi stirred against Sam's arm. "She does girl stuff, Agnes. I made sure she had opportunities to wear dresses and perfume . . . ." Kasumi trailed off, and sighed. "Okay, that was six years ago. She's spent five years doing her best to be turian."

"And most of her life, pretending she's not female," Agnes replied. "Oh, I know, armed forces, police work, it's all the same. Have to be just as tough, if not tougher, than all the boys. But she's cut herself off from it, completely. Did it since she was a little girl, too." Agnes shrugged. "And we'd just finally had something we could talk about, some things we could do together. . . " Her voice sounded forlorn. "And now. . . "

Sam was, yet again, simply amazed by how lucky he was to have Kasumi. She always knew the right thing to do, and to say, with his mother. Now, Kasumi leaned forward across the coffee table and took Agnes' hand. "She's got a lot of things to process right now, but I don't think she's going to retreat," Kasumi told the older woman, quietly. "I don't think she's going to shut you out again."

He wasn't terribly surprised when he saw that Mr. Bear was missing from his usual shelf that night. And while he hesitated to intrude on her privacy—she was a grownup now, after all—he'd definitely heard crying as he and Kasumi went upstairs. And he wasn't sure if he should go in and comfort Dara, but he did check on her, late, to make sure she was asleep and . . . yep. . . the bed was covered in little workers. _Probably best for you, my girl, that you and Rel ain't together right now. I don't see him really being thrilled with the idea of six or seven little workers being in bed with him,_ Sam thought, with grim amusement. _Hell, I don't even like the thought much._

He and Kasumi had had a long talk, themselves. "Why didn't you send me _some_ warning?" Sam asked, quietly, as they lay together in bed. "Some idea of what was going on?"

Kasumi turned over, and tucked her head onto his shoulder. "I had no idea what to say," she admitted. "I started the message five or six times, and everything I could think to say, would have made you worry more, not less. 'Sam, don't panic, but there's a problem with Dara. She appears to be turning half-rachni' didn't seem a good way to start that letter."

Sam snorted. "And just telling the dry facts of what happened?"

Kasumi trailed her fingers along his chest. "Dear Sam. Today, a rachni queen hatched atop your daughter, and Dara's drifting in and out of consciousness as the queen's using her brain as a way of templating her own. We can't move her. Half the crew goes off into a trance as soon as they get aboard the ship. Sky is scared, and trying to keep Dara's mind intact. Hope you and Takeshi are well. Will write again soon." The words were light. The tone was not. Kasumi paused. "I was so damned scared, Sam. I thought I was going to be bringing her back dead. And she refused to let Mannerian look her over en route. . . not that I totally blame her. Mannerian left her completely alone and started getting angry in particularly turian ways when Dara didn't obey her. . . and at the moment, Dara's not inclined to deal with turian anger very well. So I settled for getting her back home as fast as possible, so I'd actually know what I was talking about, when I talked about it." Dampness brushed Sam's chest. Kasumi's voice was steady, but tears were slipping from her eyes. "I don't know what I'd have done if I'd brought her back to you. . . anything less than intact."

Sam stroked his wife's hair. Reassurance with touch. "It's okay," he murmured softly. "Like my mom pointed out this evening. . . it's actually all _my_ fault. Dara would be a doctor on some nice safe boring planet somewhere now, sure, but if I weren't a Spectre, she . . . probably wouldn't be one now, too."

Kasumi slapped his ribs with loose fingers. "That is, like you like to tell me, bullshit, Sam. And you know it."

**Author's note:** _Agnes' reaction, for the record, is 100% accurate to how I react. My husband got a good laugh at my expense when I recently shrieked and begged him to kill a bug for me. . . and pointed out, "And yet, you lovingly detail the rachni . . . ." "I don't care. Please, just kill it!" _

_Yes. I am an unmitigated weenie about bugs. In my defense. . . everything really __is__ bigger in Texas. And I can't for the life of me explain why I like rachni so much. _

**Elijah, Mindoir, October 5, 2196**

Lantar brought Eli, Serana, and Lin to the Sidonis house with him, quietly insisting, "Lin, brother of my son, your house is ready for you, but it's not even _furnished_ at the moment. And you can go stay with your parents after dinner, if you like, but my house is . . . very empty at the moment."

And it was. Eli couldn't remember the last time the house had felt this empty. Even when they'd first moved here, and he wasn't sure what they'd do with so much space, there had still be Caelia's constant chatter and noise. Lantar had, jokingly, called her 'sound-powered' at the time, since if she'd been awake, she'd been making noise. Now, the house just felt quiet, dark, and achingly empty. "Of course I'll stay here," Eli told Lantar, lightly. _Of course, that's going to make the whole Serana situation a little more awkward_. . .

But Serana stepped in, and, pragmatically, asked, "Do you want me to stay in Caelia's room, Eli? She's got a twin bed in there now, last I saw, anyway."

Eli felt, more than saw, Lin's head turn. Could almost feel the awe and gratitude, and just a little relief washing out from his brother's form. _She made a choice. Thank god._ Eli exhaled. "Yeah, that would work," he said, gently, from where he was in the kitchen, helping with dinner. Lantar was not much of a cook. He could make a decent _oolorae_ omelet, for example, but Ellie's exotically spiced _cuderae_ gulosh would be completely beyond him. And because Ellie and the kids were all off on Argus' ship, there wasn't much human food in the house. Hell, very little food at all, since Lantar had just gotten back two days ago, himself. So Eli was going to make do with a couple of prepackaged dinners (turkey slices with mashed potatoes and green beans on one tray, and what was billed as 'Thai fusion casserole' on another, which he was pretty dubious about. And Lantar was reheating something left in the cryo-unit in a large tub which, from the smell of it, might be _apaterae_ roast in its own gravy. _Hold the levo ingredients,_ Eli thought, in some amusement.

"Separate rooms?" Lantar asked, quietly, testing the reheated meat with the tip of a finger.

Serana lowered her head, looking terminally embarrassed. "I. . . well. . . it doesn't seem fair. . . "

Lantar looked at her steadily. "If you've come to that conclusion, why not terminate the contract now?" he asked, calmly. "Why wait until you and Lin come back from Khar'sharn? It still takes time for the courts to process the paperwork. What does waiting until Decius or whenever get you?"

Eli gave Lantar a dark look. "It's her decision, Dad." _For the love of god, let's not push. It's been a hell of a day as it is already._ "Besides, she shouldn't have to deal with the embarrassment of her family—"

"Why not?" Lantar asked, putting the container back in the reheating unit. "_You_ are." The words were blunt and held force. Lantar's tone suggested that Eli was handling all the embarrassment, all the consequences, sheltering Serana still. . . when it was just as much her mess to deal with as his.

Eli grimaced, and looked at Lin, who was doing his level best to fade into a wall. "Is it just me, or is it getting really uncomfortable in here?"

"Oh, it's _been_ uncomfortable," Lin acknowledged, and found a chair to sit down in at the table.

Serana cleared her throat, and lifted her chin. Eli was very much aware of how much Lantar intimidated her. "If I might get a word in edgewise?" she said, voice a little high-pitched with nerves. "I. . . " She sighed. "I have to admit, I thought the six-month period would be enough time for us to . . . make decisions. And maybe convince the two of them that terminating the contract was a bad idea." Her voice was just a little guilty at that part.

Eli shook his head. _Like it wasn't pretty obvious that's what you were thinking, little one._ "You always were stubborn," Lin told her, lightly, taking her hand as she came a little closer to him now. "You changed your mind now?"

"Had it changed for me," Serana admitted, and looked sidelong at Lantar. "I. . . " She sighed. "You're right. It's not fair to hold Eli to the contract if. . . " and here she winced and trailed off.

Eli didn't particularly need to concentrate to know what the other half of that sentence was. _. . . if I'm not going to be abiding by it myself._ "Do you two want to get married before you leave for Khar'sharn?" he asked, lightly, mostly just to see Serana blush.

Which she did. Cobalt, all the way through the crest. "Eli!"

Eli grinned at the two of them. He loved her. He thought he probably always would. But it could fade to the glow of friendship, given enough time. And it made his heart happy, to see Lin smile at her. To see Lin _healing_, at last. And to know that they did, in fact, love each other. It didn't have to be complicated. It could, in fact, be really, really simple. "I was just asking," he said, mildly. "That way, you won't even have to lie if anyone asks you about your disguises. And the paint will match and everything."

Lin flicked his fingers at Eli behind Serana's back. "I asked her on the Singing Planet, before all hell broke loose." He paused. "Apparently, she didn't take me seriously. I may have to ask her again. And again. And again."

Serana tossed her head. "I'm giving your request serious consideration," she informed Lin, with a saucy sort of smile.

Lin did have to leave after dinner. And Serana scuttled into Caelia's room, which left Eli and Lantar sitting downstairs, in silence, for a long time. Just watching gladiatorial fighting. Being together in the same room, sharing the same territory, at least for a while. Lantar finally said, quietly, "Is there anything I could have or should have done before now?"

Eli looked up, startled. "About what, Dad?" He had a beer on the table next to him, but he wasn't really drinking it. It was more. . . there to be there. He rubbed the moisture on the outside of the bottle away absently. It reminded him of Sky's puzzles again. Water, fire, earth air.

"Everything. I took you to the med bay the instant you started speaking in asari, but . . . that didn't stop this." Lantar stared at the screen as a gladiator stabbed a spear down beside his opponent's face, missing by inches.

Eli shrugged. "I . . . kind of think that nothing could have stopped it from developing at that point. Other than maybe someone reaching into my mind and taking Kella's memories away." _Which I would never have allowed._ "And the stuff in the last week. . . that's probably just a result of huge overexposure to the little-queen's birthsong. Sky was protecting Dara's mind, and the mind of anyone who touched her, but. . . I was pretty much there eighteen hours a day, Dad. That, the mating-song on the planet. . . it all just activated stuff that had been lying there, mostly dormant."

They'd explained the mating-song over dinner, in cautious words. Eli had, in fact, said, "Dad, I don't think anyone outside the Spectres should know about the mating songs of the queens. I don't want the Singing Planet to turn into, you know. . . .Thailand. With 'sexscursions' and cheap hotels. It's . . . as close to religion as rachni get. All of them, singing together, becoming one." He'd looked down at the table. "I don't think it should be cheapened or made. . . less than it is."

"Made tawdry," Serana echoed, softly. "On the other hand, it could be _good_ for some people. It's an affirmation of life. Can you actually imagine someone from the AEC being able to hold onto their tiny, limited world-view if they were exposed to that?"

Eli had shaken his head, sharply. "Yeah, but would listening to their songs be good for the rachni?" he asked, immediately. "I'd never ask them to remember _those_ songs. Especially because what they remember, they remember forever."

"I doubt the rachni would _let_ many people on the Singing Planet," Lin had replied, looking off into the mid-distance. "But no. I don't want people all over the galaxy wanting to know the salacious details of the weird, alien rituals of the rachni, either."

Lantar had nodded. "The Spectres have kept much bigger secrets," he said, quietly. "I'll make sure your recommendations are heard."

Eli stared at the beer bottle in his hand again, rubbing his thumb over the condensation on the outside. Glass. Sand heated by fire, basically, melted into a liquid. Glass was, even, technically, still liquid. Just a mostly solidified one. Cathedral windows on Earth were proof of that; over the centuries, they thickened at the base of their panes as the glass slowly settled downwards.

_Serana's fire. I knew that, from Sky's puzzle. Fire can scorch earth, but earth can put it out. Muffle it, strangle it, over time. Gives it nothing to consume, nothing to live on. Fire consumes air; air is its life. And Lin's the storm Sky showed me. Serana can feed off him, be nourished by him, and he can be warmed by her. It works. _

_The storm can push water all over the place; it can lift droplets of it and move it all over the world. . . but they don't damage each other, don't diminish each other, don't affect each other. Water can wear at earth, and earth can hold water, but again, they don't destroy each other. Why the images of blackened cliffs, though? Volcano. . . mix of earth and fire. Volcanic glass. Pouring into the water, water crashing against the shore. Eternal dance. Perfect symmetry. I'm earth, aren't I? Particularly, the volcano. Fire in the depths for the temper. Earth, well, I guess, if Sky says so, I probably am. Heat, earth, pressure. Another three. . . that's pushing it. So what the hell is with the water imagery?_

He went to bed, and lay awake, staring at the clock for hours. He'd been light, almost flip, all day about the medical news. Mostly, because he had to be. Dara was _much_ more affected than he was. Eli had had all these changes pushed into his head six years ago, and they didn't seem quite so dramatic during the day. At night, however, it all preyed a little on his mind. He'd worried, years ago, if he were even human anymore. With a little more age and experience, he knew he was all too human. He liked biting females. Liked kissing them, too. Liked fighting, but liked peace more. And now the shaky equilibrium he'd built within his own mind, the barriers he'd built between all the disparate pieces of himself, had fallen under its own weight, and the weight of another's need. _But it's my own need, too, isn't it?_

Too much new information. Flashes of memory being sorted out and resolved at the back of his brain. Memories, years in the past, being tallied up, sorted, examined from new perspectives. That had been a surprise. And the _hurt_ in Dara's mind when she thought she might not be able to have children. Oh, she didn't want them _now._ But it had always been a _someday_. Something taken for granted, that it was always going to happen. Not today. But someday. He'd squelched the impulse to tell her, _Screw hybridization. I can give you kids whenever we want. The old-fashioned way. Let the genetic chips fall wherever they may._ It wasn't what she needed to hear right now. God knew, she had enough to think about anyway. And so did he. Both of their lives so crazily messed up on almost every level.

Eli got up and walked in the moonlight to his window. Opened it for the cool night air. And wondered what, if anything, he was looking for as he stared out into the blackness.

**Valak, Khar'sharn, October 5, 2196**

Valak rode ahead of the rest of his raiders on his Phantom hovercycle, making it back to his estate and hiding the cycle in the underground bunker. There was blood trickling inside of his armored boot, hot at the source, but cooling into an uncomfortable puddle at the foot and heel. The boot was, at least, putting pressure on the damned wound, but not nearly enough.

Several of his freed men came forward, offering him their shoulders. "M'lord, we have to get you indoors. Oversight Forces were spotted in the area."

Valak swore and let them half-carry him into the house. Nala was waiting up—she had been, every night he went out on these raids. Prepared for the inevitable casualties. His people took him straight to her little infirmary, and she moved in, still in the night-robe she always borrowed from him, and told the men, "Get him up on the table. I can't bed over to examine it."

She couldn't, that was true. She was six months into her ten-month pregnancy, and she glowed with it. Pinkish-orange color showed in her cheeks all day now, and her waist carried a thick roundness now. Valak swore between his teeth as his men lifted him up and he thumped down on the table. Ungentle hands pulled off his armor and boot, and then Nala had the men hold his leg in place while she numbed it. "These aren't regular bullets," she noted. Regular bullets were slivers of material, sliced off a block and fired, wrapped in mass effect fields, at a target.

"No," Valak gritted as she dug out the first. "Much larger projectile. I think they were waiting for us. But we got away cleanly." _ I think_.

Over the past three months, Valak had been busy. He'd started leading raids all over the western continent of Khar'sharn. Not on _every_ trip to a distant city. That would have been a detectable pattern. And occasionally, he had raids scheduled that he didn't lead. . . ones where he was, publicly and visibly elsewhere. But he and his men were hitting as many targets as they could, as quickly as they could. Slave auction houses. . . never damaging the slaves, but destroying the infrastructure. Freeing the slaves there, for what little good it did. Most were picked right back up again, but some had the wit to hide in the countryside, to lay low. Though they all still needed to eat, of course. They had other targets, too. Militia ones. They'd even taken out the outer wall of an Oversight prison, which had led to hundreds of prisoners rioting. A handful had even gotten free. These were the . . . propaganda missions, really. Little effectiveness, but high visibility. Taunting the regime. Showing that there _was_ dissent here on the homeworld. And at the site of each of these attacks. . . which usually targeted property, not lives. . . Valak carefully used a stencil to leave a painted calling card. A single red eye.

The amusing thing, for him, was that there were copy-cats out there now. Resistance cells that he'd never once been in touch with, were emulating his tactics, and leaving the same, or similar, at least, calling-card. Which was confusing authorities, at least a bit. They knew that the authentic 'red eye' resistance used a stencil. They weren't releasing that tidbit to the public. And thus, they were able to differentiate between Valak's raids and the others. . . until Valak buried the stencil and took to free-handing the paint, too. As if the first one had been captured, or killed. Confusing the trail and muddying the waters.

To make things even more confusing, there were his Spectre-directed targets, too. Military bases. Supply depots. Ammunition dumps. A couple of chip manufacturing companies—now those were targets he could sink his teeth into. He didn't have a lot in the way of high explosives. He'd use one charge to set the whole factory alight, and used chemical accelerants, like petroleum or kerosene, easily available and thus harder to trace, to light up the rest of the building. These targets, he _didn't_ leave a red eye at. The other targets were. . . political. Sometimes he'd leave stenciled phrases at those sites, too. Simple phrases like _the ancestors of slaves are __your__ ancestors, too_ or _the Hegemon has gone too far_ or _war with the entire galaxy, or war at home?_ Things like that.

And word was spreading. The authorities were, somewhat, trying to keep it under wraps. But it also benefited them to let word spread. Let them see who, precisely, reacted. Let them use rumor to flush out weaker resistance cells. Valak, at SIU three days a week still, had made a point of having lunch in the mess and befriending some of the internal investigative officers, long before he'd started his series of raids. Internal investigative officers assisted local militia. They were, like Oversight Forces, one of the methods by which the Hegemony kept control on Khar'sharn. Certainly, there were still multiple different nation-states. Multiple different low-level police and militia forces. But the Hegemony had SIU. They had OF. And SIU and OF coordinated with the lower-level law enforcement offices. Which meant that Valak _did_ get to hear quite a bit in the mess hall, without looking like he was suddenly interested. He never even asked specifically about the 'red eye' raids.

In fact, a couple of his new friends brought questions to _him_. "Are there off-world groups that use this symbol?" they'd asked him. "What do you think it could mean?" And Valak had taken his chance to muddy the waters even more. "Humans use the singular eye to be a light of wisdom and understanding, but not usually with the red color. Red usually represents danger or evil for them, for whatever reason. No known human groups use that symbol. Asari use three sets of two eyes each as a symbol for their tripartite Godddess. The Goddess' Path, in particular, used that symbol when they were attacking locations on Luisa a few years ago. But a single eye? Hmm. Could be a krogan religious marking. Their god Vaul has only one eye. Lost it in a fight with his brother, whom he killed in a battle to decide who would be the god of war, forever." Valak looked at his colleagues. "I'm not helping, am I?"

"No, this is all. . . information, at least." His colleague had sighed. "Any known mercenary groups that use it?"

"I can look into it," Valak had replied, and they'd left. It had been distraction, little more, but every distraction he threw at them was another consideration they'd have to investigate, discount, and so on, before moving on to reconsidering 'home-grown' options. And while he wanted everyone else on the planet to realize that this was home-grown dissent, he definitely wanted SIU and Oversight Forces looking _elsewhere._ For as long as he could manage it.

Back in the here and now, Valak looked down at the sight of Nala sewing his leg back together, and wished that he hadn't. Her gloved hands were covered in his orange-red blood, and she had a smear of it on her face, too. The whole time, she'd kept up a soft-voiced diatribe, too. "Getting yourself shot the _day before_ your damned sister's wedding, m'lord? Really? You couldn't wait on this raid for a week?"

Valak found himself chuckling. The contrast between the respectful 'm'lord,' and the decidedly disrespectful 'damned sister,' coupled with blood-loss, simply tickled his fancy.

"No," Valak muttered as she began to wipe up the last of the blood, and applied medigel. "And believe it or not, my dear, I did not specifically go out there intending to be shot."

"You never do," Nala muttered. "Come on. Get him up to bed while I clean the infirmary here." That would involve burning the blood-soaked bandages, bleaching the table, and checking for any recent blood-spatter. "Can I expect any more casualties?"

"No," Valak muttered. "They targeted me, specifically."

Nala exhaled. He knew she was smart enough to figure out why. "They know which of you the leader is?"

"It would appear so, my dear." Valak let himself be helped to the ground, and tested his weight on his leg. "I will have to repaint my armor. Affect a limp. Hunch. Something."

"Or not go out on raids for a time," Nala hissed at him, throwing surgical implements in a sink filled with bleach solution. "Damn it."

Valak waved his men away, reached over, and used a tissue in his gloved hands to remove his blood from her cheek. "I'm told we have reinforcements arriving shortly. I have no idea how, or who, or when, but soon." He glanced around at his men. None of them besides Nala knew of his Spectre affiliations. There was trust, and there was _trust_. "Come, my dear, let's go work on my alibi, shall we?"

It was dangerous, keeping her with him now. She was obviously pregnant. He obviously didn't permit any other males to touch her. He'd made damned sure that Arvak and Xa'li hadn't seen her for months. He was unsure, however, how much monitoring was going on from off the grounds of the estate. As such, Nala had been more or less restricted to the house itself for months now, which had to chafe her, but it was for safety. _Gods and ancestors. I __must__ get her off-world soon. If she'll __let__ me. I wanted to see her spine, her fire. She has more than enough of both, I think, for any two females._

He'd just settled into the bed, and wrapped his arm round her. Let his fingers trail over the expanding curve of her waist, when the first knocks at the front door came.

As it turned out, Oversight Forces actually had captured two men. . . but, thank the ancestors. . . they weren't his. They'd been out in the woods under cover of darkness however, and the OF officer at the door wanted to know if anyone on the estate could identify them. . . or what they'd been doing out after curfew, off any beaten road. "No notion, old boy," Valak drawled, slowly. "Perhaps they couldn't find any females who'd have them, and resorted to one another's company?" He was doing his best to keep his weight evenly distributed on both legs at the moment. And praying that the medigel and the sutures did their jobs, and that the leg wouldn't start bleeding again. "More seriously, I've never seen them before. My steward can have a look at them," he waved at Tul'dur, "and we'll be of every service to you that we can in your investigation." He paused. "Why _were_ you conducting a sweep through the local forest, anyway?"

"There have been reports of escaped slaves using the forest as a hiding place, m'lord. A refuge. . . though surely, they must know there's no escape. They're all chipped. And sooner or later, they all have to eat." The officer jerked his head at his men and the captives. "Let's move out, people."

Valak looked at the pair thoughtfully as they were dragged out. They looked a little too clean to have been living in the brush for long. And while there was desperation in their faces, not quite enough. _Fishing expedition,_ he decided. _A pretext to look around the estate without antagonizing me. More reason to hold back, as Nala would tell me._ _At least until reinforcements, in whatever form, arrive._


	117. Chapter 117: Healing and Honing

**Chapter 117:** **Healing and Honing**

**Author's note:**_ Just a quick word of thanks to Dermiti, who, when I told him about the rachni workers weeks ago, took to asking me about them. Frequently. We've gone back and forth in PMs, writing messages in the voices of the little dudes for a while now, so a lot of how cute and colorful the workers are comes directly from that. ;-)_

**Elijah, Mindoir, October 6, 2196**

Eli got up damned early. His body had gotten used to the ship-time on the _Raedia_, or GMT. Which was definitely not Mindoir-time. As such, in spite of a late night, he was awake again before the sun rose, cursing. _Fine. I'll go for a run. Haven't been able to in ages._

He wasn't the only person taking advantage of the pre-dawn coolness to do exactly this. To his amusement, Lin came out of his parents' house as Eli was getting ready to run past, as if they'd planned this. They chuckled and set off on the old, old route, off the base and through the trees. The most surprising thing was how many damned _rachni_ they saw. "I think they're following us," Eli said, after a mile, looking back over his shoulder. A couple of soldiers were, in fact, scuttling after them at a rapid clip. Lin was sandbagging, running for company, not pushing himself.

"Following you, maybe," Lin said, dryly. "Easy enough to test. Meet you back at your house for breakfast?"

"No human food in the house," Eli reminded him. "You go ahead. I'll scrounge for something later."

"My recommendation? Go scrounge at the Jaworskis'," Lin advised, showing teeth. "And ask why the soldiers are following you." Lin dodged as Eli took a swing at his shoulder, and then darted down a different running path as the sun came up, dying the sky gold and violet at the same time.

Eli didn't head back immediately. He was damned well going to finish his run. But looking back, sure enough, he was definitely trailed by one or more of the soldiers along his whole route. He _thought_ they might have changed up which individuals were covering him along the way, but wasn't sure. _Either they're really curious, or Sky or Dara asked them to keep an eye on me._ If it was curiosity, they'd get over it, eventually, he figured. If it was the latter, he'd be asking Sky and Dara to get them to knock it off. He'd been looking out for himself for a long time now. He didn't really need a baby-sitter. He wished he could talk to them himself, but he couldn't hear the workers without contact with Dara. _Well, maybe with some of that training that Siara, Dempsey, Zhasa, and Fors were talking about yesterday. Or, you know, maybe not._

On that thought, he finally did turn around and head back. The altitude was tearing at his lungs, but in a good sort of way. He knew he was pushing himself. By the time he got back to base, he was covered in sweat, and trying to decide between showering first, or eating first, when he realized that he now had a small entourage of workers skimming along the ground around his feet, too. _Okay, this is slightly like being a rock star. Embarrassing. _Eli looked around the quiet neighborhood streets. A couple of families were in the process of getting the kids out the door for school—Spectres or techs, it didn't matter really which. An asari was getting her two small girls into a ground car, a drell father was doing the same on the other side of the street, and they'd all stopped to stare, and the kids were all pointing at the rachni. "Little guys," Eli said, patiently, "was there something you needed me for?"

Chitter, chitter, chitter, and it made very little sense at all. "Okay, we have _got_ to work out better communications than this." Eli concentrated, hard, and picked up, faintly, song, but he had _no_ _idea_ what it meant. He exhaled, and watched as one of the workers dodged as a droplet of his violet-dyed sweat dripped from his face and landed on the now-vacated pavement underfoot. "Is Dara okay? She needs me there?"

_Chitter! Chitter! Chitter!_ "Okay, why didn't you just say so?" Eli asked, sharply, and picked back up again, this time at a more rapid clip, heading past Lantar's house and down the street to the west, where Sam's house was. He arrived at the front door and reached to knock on it, when the door actually sprang open lightly for him, and a little worker dropped to the ground, clearly having just slipped off the doorknob, while two or three other workers pushed the door open.

Eli blinked. It was ingenious, and just a little creepy. He walked in cautiously, calling, "Hello?" He didn't particularly want to be on the receiving end of Sam's knife or Kasumi's pistol. He could hear, however, Takeshi's voice coming from the kitchen at the back of the house, singing something very off-key about a 'slippery fish, swimming in the water, gulp, gulp, gulp.' Eli followed that sound, and the light from the kitchen, walking light-footed through the big living room where he'd spent so many hours over the years.

Kasumi was actually up, and making Takeshi's breakfast. Hearing him, she spun, reaching for a knife. "Whoa!" Eli said, immediately, raising his hands.

"Eli, you just took a year off my life," Kasumi told him, exhaling. "You move almost as quietly as Sam does, damn it."

Eli forbore to mention that Kasumi tended to move with the exact same stealth. "The little guys insisted that I come here." He pointed down. Six workers and a soldier were crowding around him, and he was starting to worry. If she'd been pulling the whole big and brave act all night, and hadn't damned well called him, she might already be back in that dazed state, the one where other people were ghosts, or looked like things, and not people. The one she was afraid she'd slip down into, and never come back from again. "Is Dara okay?"

"She's in the shower," Kasumi told him, staring down at the little rachni. "Crap. I can go check on her."

_Chitter! Chitter!_ Three of the workers moved, decisively, towards the cryo-unit. Then turned and seemed to be looking at Eli. "Okay, guys? Seriously. Ouija board and a Scrabble set might be easier than all the twenty-questions we're playing here."

Eli followed them, while Takeshi squealed and said, "Little Skies! Little Skies!" in his chair. Eli opened the cryo-unit door, and one of the workers scrambled inside.

Kasumi looked over his shoulder now. "For the sake of all the gods," she murmured, "don't let Agnes see this."

"Don't let my mom see what?" Sam said, over both their shoulders.

Which made Eli's hand fly to the small of his back as he turned, and then _he_ swore at Sam for having snuck up on _them._ "Son of a bi—" he realized Takeshi was in the room and finished, "biscuit."

_Chitter, chitter, chitter._ The rachni was tugging on a package of pre-sliced bread, and trying to get their attention. Eli's mouth opened, and he reached forward. Took the bread—worker still clinging to the side of the slippery packaging precariously, and said, dryly, "You want me to show you how to make toast for her?"

_Chitter!_ All the little workers at his feet spun in quick, neat circles. "You know, you could ask her dad to do that. I'm pretty sure Sam's been making toast for Dara since before I was around."

_Chitter!_ "Okay, I have no idea what that means, but I'll show you how." Eli surrendered at that point.

Sam's shoulders were shaking slightly. "I'm sorry they got you in here for nothing, son," he told Eli. "Interrupted your morning and everything."

Eli shrugged. "Nah, I was done with my run, anyway. Just would have liked to have cleaned up first, if I was going to be visiting." His shirt was soaked and cooling on him rapidly, yesterday's paint was dripping off of him, and he had to smell of his own sweat at the moment. "Okay, little guys, this is bread. You make bread with ground wheat flour, sometimes eggs, water, a little sugar, yeast, and so on. Usually, we save time and buy it from the bakery already sliced. This, little guys, is a toaster." Eli moved it out on the counter so that the rachni worker, which had ridden the bread to the countertop, could see. "It gets hot inside there, so don't be poking your little feelers in there when it's turned on. We take the slice of bread, like so, and we put it in the toaster. If the toaster's already plugged in to the power outlet, like this one is, we set it for . . . golden-brown, because she likes it crunchy, and then we depress. . . this lever." Eli froze in place as three more workers promptly climbed him to get a better view. And fought, hard, the impulse to _slap_. Little feet scampering up his bare legs tickled, damn it. "Then, once the toast comes up, we verify it for color and consistency. . . not burned, but this is just barely warm bread, not toast yet." Eli tried again.

_Chitter, chitter._ "Will you guys stop moving around? I have no idea which of you is which. You keep this up, I'm going to stick labels on your backs." The toast popped back up, and Eli placed it on a plate. "Now, your little queen likes hers with margarine, spread edge to edge. I have _no_ idea how you're going to manage a knife, little guys, and I'm pretty sure you shouldn't put your legs in the margarine bucket." He opened the margarine, and was spreading, when he heard a shriek from behind him.

"Good morning, Mom," Sam said calmly, turning away from where he'd been filling his coffee mug at a different counter.

"What are they doing on the counters?" Agnes shouted.

"Granny's here! Hi, Granny!" Eli peered over his shoulder, and saw that Takeshi was holding his arms out to Agnes, completely oblivious to everything else. "Little Skies help make toast," he informed Agnes brightly.

_Oh, dear god._ Eli got going on the spreading. "You can add honey to this, too, or jam, or a slice of cheese," he explained to the little workers, doing his best to block out the conversation behind him, with the _You're allowing them near food?_ and the _They're clean, Mom, I swear, cleaner than Takeshi's fingers are after a full day of grubbing in the toy box, right, boy?_ and the _That's not right, Daddy!_ and the _This is why I don't get up before seven most mornings. . . anything before seven is trouble. . . _

And then he heard footsteps behind him. Dara never could sneak worth a damn. And her fingers found his left elbow, and suddenly there was song all around him.

**Dara, Mindoir, October 6, 2196**

Dara stood in the shower in her father's house, and let the water rush over her body. _Waia'rua_ _oa'a kar'e'yili_, she reminded herself, smiling faintly. _Thank you, Eli. Lovely image._

Of course, when she opened her eyes to reach for her soap, there were workers in the shower with her. One was on a wall, examining the tiles. _—Square shapes. Square walls. Mechanical. Boring. Hexagons more efficient, more pleasing._

Another was on the floor, just under her feet. She knew that without looking down. It was investigating the drain. _—New-queen likes water. Soothing-song, comforting-song. Water enters hydraulic containment system? Purification-song?_ It wiggled feelers at her as she glanced down at it.

—_New-queen very different from other queens._

"Yes, we've established that."

—_New-queen has different shape. No antennae. Unless antennae are on thorax?_

Dara looked down. "Ah, no." Workers were asexual. They could, obviously, enjoy the mating songs of a brood-warrior and a queen, but they had no interest in such activities themselves, no drives. The question was interest, and a request for understanding. "Those are not antennae. They are used to feed offspring."

—_New-queen produces royal jelly?_ Slight shock there. _Feeds own hatchlings?_

"Well, not really _jelly_," Dara temporized. _This is a really weird conversation to be having. In the shower. With rachni. But hell. . . they feel like relatives. Slightly odd, cheerful, helpful relatives. Except it's not weird being nude in front of them._ She sighed. _As Eli likes to say, my life is so incredibly fucked up._

In the dim light, she studied her hands for a moment. It could be her imagination, but she thought her nails each had a band of color at the nail bed that didn't look quite human. Slightly iridescent, perhaps slightly green, but translucent, like an old-fashioned bottle? Dara sighed. She thought she'd gotten past the worst of the crying last night. It made no sense to weep over something that couldn't be changed. . . and that, truthfully, she didn't think she _would_ change even if she could. . . but it was like having a really bad haircut. Every time she caught some new part of herself that _not her_, it was like a slap.

On the other hand, there were benefits, too. And she sort of liked those. She grabbed the bar of soap and began cleaning, vigorously.

—_Use of chemicals on carapace odd. _

"Other queens don't require bathing?" Dara half-sang the words, then decided, _screw it, I'm in the shower. Everyone sings in the shower._ And she let her voice bounce back off the tiles as she really did sing it now, mind and voice at once, _"Surely a queen needs to be clean, maybe not with soap and steam, but you know what I mean."_ And she started to giggle, just a little, under her breath. The echoes gave her voice the double, triple quality of a rachni's. . . almost.

Both little workers chittered at her. _—Yes. Queens big. Need help with itches. Does little-queen have itching back? We help!_

"_No, no, that's okay," _Dara sang hastily. The little skittering feet _tickled_ on bare skin. Like a loose hair dragging at the back of the neck. _"That's all you do for them? Scratch?"_

—_Remove parasites. Add shine to carapace using. . . ._ and then there was a shimmer of color and song that Dara realized after a moment had to be a chemical formula, expressed as the workers understood it. They understood it as something they _made_; a smell, a taste. Like they made royal jelly, packed with vitamins, nutrients, and hormones, to allow a little-queen to reach a mature height of twenty-feet or more in a single year. _—Water that burns?_ the worker summarized, helpfully, after a moment.

"_Acid? Hydrochloric acid?"_

—_Yes, this._

"Wow. Is there anything you guys can't do?"

—_Doorknobs hard. We are working on learning their songs._

Dara's laughter bounced back off the tiles again. She couldn't help it. The little workers were so damned _funny_.

—_Chemicals of this foaming compound . . . pheromones? New-queen does not produce her own to indicate to favored male when it is time for mating?_ The one on the wall had moved to her shampoo bottles, and was examining them carefully.

—_Favored brood-warrior sang desire-songs when he smelled this scent._

—_Perhaps that is why they did not complete mating-song. Insufficient supply of mating chemicals._

—_Disappointment-song._

—_Supply sufficient now. Bring favored brood-warrior to you?_

Dara was leaning against the tile of the shower, laughing about as hard as she ever had in her life. Maybe not as hard as on Bastion, when Eli had told them all the different possible combinations of people in the room, but damned close. "No, please, don't," she managed, between chortles, holding her stomach. "I'll see him after breakfast, okay?" There was no question in her mind who they meant. They gave a faint approximation of Eli's 'song' and scent every time they mentioned him.

She'd just finished rinsing her hair, when her little chorus nattered at her again. _—Ohh! Favored brood-warrior comes._

"Wait, what?" Dara blurted. "I told you guys _not to_—"

—_Undersong louder than oversong. _

_Oh, dear god, Rel's always called me the most honest person he's ever known. Guess these little guys are going to hold me to that. Can't even fib to myself around them._ Dara hastily turned off the water and looked around for a towel. Just as quickly, she dragged on a T-shirt and shorts, and with her hair still wet and snaky, half-ran down the stairs to go apologize, fervently, to Eli for the workers dragging him out of bed again. _And this time, there was no real need. I didn't have nightmares, I wasn't about to go insane from the emptiness in my head. I had a teddy bear and six workers on the bed, so I went to sleep. . . after some crying. . . ._ She'd needed an outlet last night for all the stress, all the fear. And tears had seemed a much better and safer option than most others. Though the tears had confused her workers to no end. _—Sing comfort-songs?_ they'd asked her, over and over, crowding closer.

Dara hit the tiles of the lobby, damned near skidded out in her bare feet, and ran around through the dining room and into the kitchen, where her father and Kasumi and Grandma Agnes and Takeshi were all bickering in the kitchen nook by the back door, and . . . yep. There was Eli. His back to the rest of the room, he was at the counter near the sink. He was in shorts and a T-shirt himself, and the grips of a pistol showed at the small of his back as he leaned over, momentarily, to chide one of the workers about something. The T-shirt was darker in patches. . . sweat. _Damn, he was out for a run or something_. . .

Dara moved in, and touched his arm. There was a shock, as if from electricity, and then music, music everywhere. Blue-green amusement, mostly, and a little orange exasperation, and deep, rich blues. The voices of her family at the table faded out completely for a moment from her perceptions. "I'm so sorry, they weren't supposed to get you—I don't know what they were thinking—I told them not to—" _They offered, but I __did__ tell them no—_

Eli turned towards her, showing her that his eyes had already gone black. "It's okay," he managed, out loud. "They wanted you to have breakfast fit for a queen. Here you are, m'lady. Toast." _God, __sai'kaea__, you smell so damned good. Clean. Hint of damp on the skin right now._ He pressed the plate into her free hand, his fingers curving under hers to make sure she had a grip. "We already have the _weird_, right?"

"What?" Dara didn't entirely recognize the sound of her own voice at the moment. A little breathy, almost a whisper. And it was suddenly hard to concentrate. The little workers were too busy cheering loudly. _—Desire-song, desire-song!_

Eli cleared his throat. "Weird. Remember? With a side of toast?" Flashes of images. The kitchen island being swept clean of any obstructions, turning her around to lean over it. . . Then he looked up at the ceiling. _Sorry. I do keep mentioning that my mind is a little dirty. And the little guys cheering, now that I can hear them again? Not helping matters._

Dara blinked and swallowed. Hard. They were still touching, which was reinforcing the songs. She managed to lift the plate out of Eli's hand, managed to lift her other hand away from his elbow. "Oh. Right. Well, yes, I'd rather have toast than royal jelly, which is their other usual suggestion." She looked down. "No, that wasn't a request. I don't know what that stuff would do to me, but while I wouldn't mind being taller, I don't want to be ten _feet_ taller."

Disappointment-song rose around her in a silent chorus. She hastily bit into the toast. "This is good, though," she told them all, quickly.

—_Favored brood-warrior made the toast. He teaches __us__ the secrets of toast!_

Eli's eyes were still black, and he took the plate out of her hand, and put it on the counter. _Other room,_ he told her, silently. _Lobby. Somewhere._

Back around the corner for a moment, and then he simply leaned down and kissed her. Dara heard the cheers from the workers. _You're going to need another shower, __sai'kaea__. My scent on you._ He'd pushed her into the wall with his weight, and she couldn't help but respond, wrapping her arms around him. _Your little workers scared the living hell out of me. I thought you were—_

—_lost again?_

_Yeah._ _Tell them not to do that. Tell them the difference between __breakfast__ and __emergency__._

"Toast isn't a breakfast emergency?" Dara tried for light humor. Eli actually made a very faint growling sound in her ear, and she laughed, quietly. _I'm trying. I don't know how. They hear undersong and oversong. Oversong said, no, don't bring him, but undersong they heard and obeyed because it was louder._ Eli found the good place, just under the hinge of her jaw, and bit her gently there, and Dara's knees went weak. Burgundy. Burgundy and indigo, everywhere, song filling her. . . .

He pulled back, muttering a curse in krogan, and put his hands on the wall. "Okay. . . here's the deal," Eli told her, running a fingertip over her lips, tracing their shape now. "Serana agreed last night to file the paperwork before she leaves for Khar'sharn."

Dara looked up at him. Violets, grays. Regret and sorrow, but also pale blues. Friendship, relief, overtones even of joy. Bittersweet. _I'm sorry._ She knew he'd understand what she meant. She was sorry, and she wasn't sorry, at the same time. She was sorry that they'd both feel regret, both would feel pain. But she wasn't sorry that they'd come to this conclusion, this decision. "What does this mean?"

"Depends on how fast the courts move. Here on Mindoir? So few other turians around? The local minister of the law could have the paperwork done in a day or two." Eli leaned down and kissed her again. "Then. . . when you're ready. . . I think I'd like to date you. If that's all right with you."

"Date me?" Dara laughed when she'd caught her breath. "You're serious?"

"Yeah." He slid his hands into her hair on either side of her face, and kissed her so sweetly she could feel it all the way down into her toes. _When it comes down to it, I haven't really dated much, __sai'kaea__. There was Siara, but that didn't go anywhere. Lots and lots of endless nowhere. I've been invited into a lot of beds, and I've never had any bad performance reviews between the sheets, but even Serana? I think we had a week on Bastion on leave, and then a week on Bastion before all hell broke loose. Our first year was going to be sort of a bunch of dates, strung out between my job and her job. Didn't work out that way._ He sighed. _I try not to make the same mistakes twice. Finding all new ways to fuck up is so much more interesting, after all._ His tone held rueful blue-greens, mockery directed at himself.

_I guess I haven't exactly dated much, _myself, she realized. _That first nine months with Rel. . . was that dating?_

_The Saturday mornings at the lake, kind of. Riding together, kind of._ Eli picked the details out of her mind. Showed her, probably inadvertently, what he'd been doing with Kella—kissing, in the main—while she and Rel had been trading bites under an _inarie_ tree. They both blinked, in sudden, total, disorientation.

Dara cleared her throat a bit. "Even the lake and the rides didn't really last," she admitted, quietly. "Winter arrived, and then there was just. . . getting ready. Rifle practice and sparring practice and homework, and . . . once in a while, evenings playing extranet games together."

_The rest doesn't really count. I'm talking going places together, doing things together, for the purposes of getting to know each other outside of—_vivid flashes of Omega and the Singing Planet now, in his thoughts—_high-stress, high-adrenaline environments._

"Don't we know each other already?" Dara teased, softly, out loud. Eli exhaled, and Dara couldn't resist. She worked a hand under his shirt to feel the dampness of his skin, the hardness of muscle under soft skin, and he groaned a little, burgundy flaring everywhere in his song.

_Trying to do this the right way for once, __sai'kaea__._ "Be human with me, Dara," he said, softly, against her ear. "I'll meet you in the middle, if you meet me there. Let's figure this out together."

It was hardly even a choice. "Of course I will," she told him. _You hold me to being human, and I'll do the same for you. But what about Rel?_

_You're not planning on going back to him, are you?_

_No._ Guilt, but also resolve.

_Did you leave him because of me?_

_No._

_Then it's not his business, is it?_

_Still. . . people will think I did. And that you're leaving Serana for me._

_Fuck them. People are morons, __sai'kaea__. I made this decision walking out of the simulator room, because I could see Serana being __happy__ with Lin. And Lin being happy with her. Happier than she'd be with me, or with both of us. Life doesn't have to be a damn fight every minute of every day. And at that moment in time, I had no idea you were that unhappy with Rel._ Eli stroked the side of her face lightly. _You were, as far as I was concerned, off the market. Untouchable. But god, you seemed. . . quiet. Withdrawn. Cold and distant so often, which is how you get when you're mad. I put it all down to Bastion. And before that, I put it down to the stress of him being MIA. Those were parts of it, but not the whole of it, and I misread the damned signs._

Her throat tightened. _I just think it would be good to be . . . quiet about this. As much as we can. No contracts. No agreements. No families, at least for a while._

_No. Just us. Being human, together. Doing things at a human pace, in human time._ Eli sighed. _As much as we can, given that I can't touch you without __this__ happening_, and he set a finger to the corner of his eyes in explanation. _Plus, your little workers are literally doing a jitterbug right now._

Dara laughed, and Eli caught her then. One more fervent kiss. "Okay." Eli pulled her back upright, from where she'd been leaning against the wall. "Let's go get that breakfast. Your toast is probably already cold."

Mix of disappointment and approval songs from the workers. They weren't capable of _disapproving_ of a queen's actions, at least not for long. _Could be dangerous, having that kind of validation all the time._

—_That is brood-warrior's task, along with care of the young. Perspective-songs. But queen sings all decision-songs._

She nodded now, as they walked back into the kitchen, carefully not touching. "One question, Eli?"

"Hmm?"

"You're wearing a gun. My dad's house isn't _that_ dangerous, is it?"

Eli snickered. "No, but my neighborhood on Edessan wasn't great. Was off-base. I always put it on to go running. Pretty much a habit now." _Besides. We both know the base isn't perfectly safe. It's been attacked three times now._

—_We make safer. Tunnels safer. Underground, safer._ Eli's head moved around as the workers all chorused that one. Flash of images. Hundreds of tunnels, all under the mountain. Connecting houses with the rachni lairs below. Lives intertwining.

And then they joined her family at the breakfast table. Sam immediately asked Eli if he wanted bacon and eggs, and Eli nodded fervently. "Now that I've cooled down from my run, I'm starving," he admitted.

Agnes, on the other hand, stared at him. "Your eyes. . . .?"

"Still black, huh? Yeah, that seems to be something Dara brings out in me." Eli leaned over and proceeded to pester Takeshi. "Not a big deal." He gave Agnes a smile.

"I know we've met before, young man. . . at the wedding, I believe. . . " Agnes' expression was sharp. "You were one of the best men, I think?"

Violet regret, sharp as a knife. "Yeah, I'm Eli Sidonis. Nice to see you again, Mrs. Jaworski. My brother, Linianus, and I both were Rel's groomsmen."

Agnes blinked rapidly. "Brother?"

"They're blood-brothers, Grandma. They adopted each other, basically." Dara explained it as quickly as she could.

Eli grimaced. "I should go see Rel at the hospital today. Except I think that might be something like waving a red flag in front of a bull's nose." _But he __is__ my friend._ Green and purple mixed, oddly enough, a shade that wasn't any color Dara could have named, but she knew it was guilt. Not a lot of it. Regret-worry, regret-anxiety. Eli had, apparently, pictured putting a knee in Rel's teeth yesterday, squelched the impulse, given that Rel was in a hospital bed, and resorted to words, instead, working on defusing the situation. _Wouldn't have worked if he'd been on his feet. On his feet, he'd have just gone after Sky or after me, the way he did at your dad's barbecue. But I guess I should go see him, anyway. I can't be the enemy forever._

"I guess," Dara told him, out loud. "if you two are ever going to work together, he's going to have to deal with a lot of things." She exhaled. _Is that unfair of me? Again? Is that something from the bottom levels of consciousness, the undersong, that I might not recognize now, but that shouldn't dictate my actions?_

_I don't think so. I can be a mirror for your motivations, and you can be a mirror for mine. You want everyone to be friends and not get hurt. It's never that easy, though._ "And eventually, you two are going to need to be able to work together, too," Eli reminded her.

"Yeah. I know. Just wish he'd stop trying to fight. It's not even flirtation-fighting, and believe me, I can tell the difference." Dara rubbed at her face. "Abrams and I are going to go through Dr. Solus' notes today. In and around, well. . . .training." She grimaced.

Agnes absorbed the whole conversation for a moment. "So. . . you're the young man whose quilt Dara's been fixing?" she asked, in the tone of someone trying to get the story straight.

Eli had been industriously eating the eggs in front of him, but looked up at that, and his face lit up, just a bit. "Yeah. She said you'd helped her with that. The first time I saw it, I was surprised. I didn't know she'd kept it. And seeing it fixed. . . it'll be a real treat for my mom. We lost a lot of family things the day the vandals wrecked the place."

"The workers were trying to fix it for me last night," Dara muttered, darkly. "I had to shoo them away from it."

—_New-queen likes to fix things. That is usually the song that __we__ sing._

"Yes, I know you like to fix things," Dara said, out loud, looking down at the closest worker with a smile. "But if you fix it, and I know you'll fix it better than I can, but then _I_ won't have fixed it." _And it won't mean as much._

_And what __do__ you mean with it?_ Silent question, as Eli finished his eggs and started in on the bacon.

Dara's breath caught. _It started as an apology. . . . _

Something now caught Sam's attention, and her father said, sharply, "Hey! You! Feet out of the butter!"

Dara's head jerked up, and she followed his eyes to the counter. One worker was diligently attempting to spread margarine on a slice of toast. Since its knife-control skills were lacking, this largely involved scraping margarine out of the container with its forelegs. And, as she was watching, it overbalanced the half-empty tub right on itself.

Her grandmother yelped. Kasumi's mouth fell open. Takeshi giggled and announced, "Funny bugs!"

Dara hastily got up and grabbed the pot off the top of the worker's struggling body. "You can't just go diving into the margarine like that," she told it. "You'll get it all over you, and track it through the house, and then my grandma really _will_ chase you with a broom."

Sam sighed, in annoyance. "I've never seen such a display of 'idle hands are the devil's workshop.'"

Kasumi looked at him in pure amusement. "You want Dara to put them to work?"

Eli chuckled, picking up the nearest rachni worker in gentle hands. It squealed a little in Dara's mind, but didn't bite or do anything else. "Your favorite composer's still Chopin, right, Dara?"

She was in the process of trying to rinse slippery margarine off an equally slippery rachni at the moment, in the sink. "Yeah. Why?"

"Because if your dad or I or anyone else besides you, Sky, or Glory wants to get one of these guy's attentions, giving them names would be a little easier than saying, 'You! No, you! The one over there!'" Eli stood up, carrying the worker in the palm of his hand, and came over behind her, grabbing an indelible marker off the counter where Kasumi kept it for marking Takeshi's toys with his name. "Little guy, you're going to be Chopin, okay?"

—_Many-Voices gives us name-songs? We have never had name-songs before! Joy-songs!_

Eli's shoulders shook. "Now, my _queen_, what do you want Chopin here to do to keep him out of trouble?"

Dara's eyes went wide. "I can't just tell them what to do," she hissed. "They're not . . . they're not slaves."

—_We like tasks!_ came the cheerful chorus all around her.

—_New-queen gives us tasks?_

—_Queen's job is to give tasks. Brood-warrior's, too. _

Kasumi volunteered, "The garden looks like it could use some weeding . . . ."

Sam offered, "Takeshi always needs to be kept entertained. . . ."

—_What is a weed?_

Dara scrambled hastily for a definition. _A plant growing in an undesired place._

—_Oh. How do we know if the plant sings desire-songs?_

Neither Dara nor Eli could stop laughing by that point. It took another fifteen minutes to label the other six workers currently in the house. 'Tchaikovsky' wouldn't fit on the carapace of one worker, so Eli opted to write '1812' on that one, instead. Wolfgang, Chopin, Ludwig, 1812, Liszt, Strauss, and Wagner scuttled around, deliriously happy at having name-songs. "Ludwig is going to dust, apparently, Wolfgang will go outside and pull weeds, if Grandma will show him which plants are weeds, and which are not, and Chopin and Wagner are going to keep Takeshi occupied," Dara paused, for the two workers already were doing exactly that. They would hold completely still until the toddler reached them, and then scuttle several feet away, to gales of laughter from her little brother. Dara shook her head. "Strauss said he heard something moving in the walls, so he's going to go deal with that, and 1812 is coming with me." The little worker crawled up onto her shoulder, its carapace marked clearly in black ink, and in Eli's strong, clear writing.

After Eli had left, saying he needed to shower, and thanking them all for breakfast, Dara looked at her grandmother. "You look like you wanted to say something?" she asked, feeling a little apprehension tighten her stomach. Agnes never pulled punches.

"Not a thing, dear. Your friend is a nice young man."

Dara hesitated. "You're having lunch with Gavius today, right?"

"Yes. I have no idea why the man asks me out for lunch once a week, if all he wants to do is argue." Agnes tsked as she continued to clean plates at the sink.

"Then why do you keep accepting, if you don't _like_ to argue?" Sam asked her, taking a plate from her to dry it.

"Alzheimer's prevention, Sam. An active mind is a deterrent."

Dara leaned against the wall, looking at her grandmother. Sharp blue eyes, salt-and-pepper hair. Glasses for close work, on a chain around her neck, because Agnes couldn't stand the thought of surgery on her eyes. "You do realize that Gavius sees the arguing as a compliment, right, Grandma? The fact that you keep coming back for more tells him that you're strong. . . and that you think he's strong. It's how turians flirt."

"Nonsense."

Sam chuckled. "Ah, Mom? She does sort of know what she's talking about here."

"All I'm asking," Dara said, quietly, "is that in and around the flirting—arguing, whatever—that you not mention Eli to Gavius."

Agnes gave her a rather arch look. "Now why would I do that, my dear? I have much better things to argue about with that stubborn old man. For example, he wants to plant roses at his new villa, and insists that some book told him that they need full sun. I'm telling him six hours of sun will do, or morning-only sun." She handed Sam the last dish. "And now, I'm off. Dara, dear, did you want to finish that quilt with me tonight?"

"It just needs the filler and the backing. If my eyes are okay by then, sure." They were less burry today, anyway.

Agnes came over and gave her a kiss on the cheek, and then gave Takeshi a huge hug and kiss before leaving.

Dara looked after her in total wonder. "Dad? Remember how, five years ago, she was dead set against me and Rel?"

Sam came over and put a hand on her shoulder. Fiddle music suddenly sheeted through her thoughts. Comforting and cheerful. "I do indeed—whoops, sorry, sweetie." Sam hastily took his hand off her shoulder.

"No, it's okay. I like hearing it." Dara looked up at her father. "Grandma's living proof that people _can_ change. Slowly. Over time."

"Yeah, but they have to want to. That's the trick."

**Dempsey, October 6, 2196**

He had been, quietly, chafing a little. Dempsey understood why reserves were being kept at the Spectre base. The attack alone had shown the wisdom of that. So he'd put himself to the best use he could, helping to guard the warrior-caste prisoners. And had gotten a kick out of working with Livanus, actually, analyzing their search results. When Dempsey concentrated at the White Rock complex, he could actually watch their search efforts in real-time. Mostly, he monitored search terms, but he also kept an eye on how long they stayed on each page. "And what were your conclusions?" Zhasa had asked him one night.

"Well, as regards the porn pages, that batarians have no staying power. Not a surprise." Flat, deadpan words.

Zhasa curled in on herself, laughing on their bed. She'd taken off her suit for a little while, and Dempsey had a countdown clock running in his head, letting him know, to the second, exactly how long they had left before she'd have to seal herself back in. She was also, he'd noticed, playing with that odd silver egg Aethyta had given her, years ago. Holding it in her bare hand, and flexing it with her biotics. "Seriously," she told him. "What else have you noticed?"

"They spend more time on the non-porn human and turian pages than the others. Not a surprise; we're the ones they kicked off war against. Almost no asari pages, other than porn. Suggests that even for these guys, who're being slowly de-programmed, asari are more objects than people. Oldest civilization in the stars currently, and they only really see them as things. Sex toys. Conveniences." Dempsey shook his head. "Then again, from what Valak. . . sorry, _Zorro_. . . passed on about their internal culture, I guess that makes sense. They've got a towering resentment built up, culturally, towards the asari, for holding them down. Holding them back. Disapproving of batarians because they wouldn't toe the line, obey the asari's rules for playing nice with the rest of the sapient universe. One of the first things you do when you decide to hate someone is to dehumanize them. Make them something other. A thing." He shrugged. "Probably makes it _very_ easy for them to lobotomize the asari."

Zhasa shuddered. "At least we know they'd probably not even realize that I _am_ a biotic. Chances are, they wouldn't even make the attempt on me. And they don't think quarians make good slaves. Too fragile outside of the suit, too high-maintenance. Even chipping us could compromise the immune system." She put her head back on the pillow. "No, they'd just kill me. Probably quickly."

"Only over my dead body." No particular emphasis to the words. But silently now, _And you know that would take a fair bit of effort for them_. Dempsey rolled over and gave her a kiss. She tasted, very faintly, of chocolate. He'd found, after some fairly serious searching on the extranet, and a fairly exorbitant shipping fee, Scharffenberger cacao nibs. Just roasted cacao beans, essentially, crushed. No sugars, no dairy, no nothing. Just the slightly bitter but flavorful bean itself. She'd tried one tonight, cautiously, after taking an epi-tab. "It tastes different when you eat it," Zhasa had told him. "But I like it either way. Let's hope this isn't actually poisonous."

It made sense; quarians had moved from predation to an omnivorous lifestyle on Rannoch probably a million years ago in their evolution. But they were still keyed towards certain flavors. Savory, or meat flavors. Certainly towards sweet, for the energy that fruits could give them. Much less towards salt than humans and other mammals on Earth. They did not sweat to cool themselves, and didn't use salt to regulate their nerve conduction or other body processes, the way humans did. Thus salt had an odd, metallic taste for her when she tasted it on her own, as if Dempsey had licked a penny. But she enjoyed the taste when he let her feel it through his senses. Popcorn had been something of a revelation, in fact. She was getting better at sublimating her reactions, at least. Less of a chance of being thrown out of the vid theater at the base entertainment complex this way, at least.

The timer in his head went off. "Back in your suit, Zhasa-love," he told her gently. "That's twenty minutes in a non-clean room."

They'd pushed it to twenty minutes a day. Which was really outstanding, given that this was not Rannoch, not her native environment at all. But Dempsey was taking every possible precaution he could. She'd asked, once, in the last three months, to borrow a room at Nal and Hal's house. Dempsey had felt slight embarrassment at it. _We're just going to have to build you your own house someday, Zhasa_, he'd told her, as the others ate dinner, and he'd stayed in his hermetically sealed suit for their protection.

_And force you to scrub every night, decontaminate every piece of gear, sterilize your socks? And Madison, too? No. I couldn't ask you to do that._

_So we spent half our nights at my place and half our nights at yours. You've got to be comfortable, too._ There were intimacy issues, sure. They could give each other pleasure, suit or no suit, by pure mental and biotic manipulation. They both preferred physical intimacy, certainly, but that wasn't a problem. The issue was more one of fairness, of comfort.

Thursday, October 6, marked their first time trying to train Sidonis and Doc Velnaran. Fors, Sky, and Siara were waiting for them all in a biotics training room at the main gymnasium. Dempsey snorted a little as he saw that Dara had a little rachni worker sitting on her shoulder. "Better than a parrot," he said, gesturing. "Craps less, I'd guess."

The doctor smiled slightly. "Yeah. All of their secretions are pretty much for useful purposes."

"I'm pretty sure I don't want to know."

They took it slowly. They pretty much had to. Dempsey was at a loss, initially, to try to explain to Dara how to block the voices. Even Madison hadn't had this much difficulty; with Madison, it was a question of leakage, of really loud 'voices' getting through. "For most human biotics, it's a little like walking through a crowded room at a party," Dempsey explained, trying to put the sensation into words. "There's a constant background hum of voices, which you can learn to ignore. Tune out. White noise, basically. But when someone's upset or angry or feeling other strong emotions, they more or less yell. And that's when wearing a pair of earplugs is useful. Because, well, a lot of those emotions are pretty personal. . . and most humans are a little disappointing to listen to, deep down. There's only so much pettiness and jealousy and arrogance and spite someone can listen to and stay sane."

"But then you miss out on all the _good_ feelings, too," Zhasa pointed out, in tones of asperity.

Dempsey shrugged. "Humans suddenly developed biotics in the wake of the first eezo exposures less than a hundred years ago, Zhasa. We had any number of biotics in that first generation go completely insane from waking up one day and hearing voices that they couldn't shut out. There are reasons why we're trained this way. Honest to god."

Zhasa sighed audibly. "Well, she doesn't seem to be a regular human biotic, now does she?"

"Thanks," Dara said, crisply. "I'm right here, guys. Stop talking over my head."

Siara had been, in the meantime, working with Sidonis. Not on turning the ability off, but on trying to get it to activate without requiring physical contact or someone else initiating the connection. Asari training methods were very direct. They simply went into a light sharing state, and observed what the student was doing, and made corrections internally. Siara looked strained, however, at the end of the first hour. "I can see what happens when he touches her. Her 'song,' for lack of a better word lights up his neurons, and puts them in a state of excitation—don't say it, Eli—"

"Too easy," Sidonis replied, instantly.

"—but getting him to see how to start the process himself is. . . bogglingly difficult."

"Switch off," Dempsey said, wearily. "I'll work with Sidonis. You try with the doctor, here."

That actually worked moderately better. Dempsey instantly recognized what Sidonis was doing. "Hey. _You_ know how to block. Cool."

"I can keep an asari out for a bit, yeah. Dara used to have some success in the same thing when she'd. . . " Sidonis' lips quirked upwards, and he was clearly needling the doctor, again.

"Nevermind," Dara said, her voice embarrassed. "I don't think it'd work anymore, anyway. And it's pretty much impossible to do in combat."

Dempsey shook his head. "Okay, I think what we need to do is teach you how to let your guard down, basically." _You picture it like boxing at all? Fighting?_

Sidonis' mental voice was surprised. _Yeah. Little bit. Cross between getting my arms up to pick off punches and a wall, I guess._

_Okay, let's try visualization. Drop your guard, drop your hands to your sides. Then reach out your hand and tap someone on the shoulder. You can close your eyes if you need to. Doing this with the eyes open will come with practice._ Dempsey was intrigued, actually. He'd trained plenty of younger students at the biotics facility in Boston; that was the way the program worked. You learned and then you taught what you'd learned. Sidonis' mind was recognizably human, but felt . . . odd. The visualization, however, did seem to be the trick. Asari tended to visualize energy patterns when they channeled biotics. Humans, Dempsey knew, tended to be better off when they pictured physicality. Reaching out with a hand. Throwing a ball, as he'd taught Madison.

_Or even a wall of blocks?_ Zhasa asked him, amused.

Sidonis caught that, and chuckled, helplessly. "Really? You really picture blocks when you put up a barrier?"

Dempsey put up his own wall. And did it slowly enough for Sidonis to be able to read the message on the letter blocks. _IT WORKS, DOESN'T IT?_ Out loud, he said, "You've got the concept now. From this point on, it _should_ just be a matter of practice for you. Figuring out if you can reach out, without being in the line of sight. What your range is. Me, I don't need line of sight. If a mind's familiar, I can find them within a mile or two and yell at them. As Mad discovered a month or two ago, when he'd wandered off with Amara and Kaius into the woods, and they got their fools selves lost." Madison had been very embarrassed about having to be rescued, but all Dempsey had really needed to do was to hone in on his son's familiar voice, and follow his nose.

Siara wasn't having any more luck with Dara than Dempsey had, at first. He'd been intrigued by the song in her mind. It had been. . . relaxing. Energizing, too. _Music helps control the anger?_ she'd asked.

_Yeah. But emotional contact with Zhasa helps with everything else. Provides balance._

_She's your. . . safety catch?_ He couldn't help but hear the unease in her mental voice. She had a history with that phrase, from the sound of it.

_No. I was trying to control myself until she came along. She helps, but I still control myself. That's what Sky told me after the simulator, anyway._

_Dumbo's magic feather?_

_Apparently, yeah._ The sheer emotion in her mental music, the complexity of it, had been fascinating. And, like mental contact with Zhasa, it let him wake up a little inside. Unease, a little anxiety, fear of the unknown. Fear of having so many people poke and prod at her mind, but also fear at what would happen if she lost mental contact for too long. "Okay, so, we know visualizing physicality isn't working for the doc here," he said, after Siara flopped down on a couch in the training room, looking annoyed. "We know energy flow visualization isn't working."

"It should be," Siara groused. "All those colors and patterns and sounds? It's all abstract, Dara. You're thinking in abstract terms, not in the concrete. Humans usually like the concrete. It's probably why so many of you only use your power for combat purposes." She shrugged. "Think about my gifts. Can you visualize the physicality of pain? No. It's a fairly abstract thing."

Dara shrugged. "I can picture nerve pathways and stripping the myelin sheathes off of them with too much electrical current. Does that count?"

Siara sighed. "Not really the point, Dara. My point was, lifting something and throwing it is easy to picture. Picturing pain. . . much more difficult. You aren't thinking 'lift the book' or 'reach out and hit someone.' It's all just. . . colors, emotions, thoughts. Energy patterns should be second nature to you."

_We do not think in terms of energy. We only hear the song, and sing it_, Sky told her. The rachni had been very quiet during the training session, trying not to interfere, Dempsey thought.

Dara looked glum. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know what I'm doing, enough to know even what I'm doing wrong."

Fors and Zhasa started working with her. Zhasa had experience with adapting asari teaching methods to a more physically-oriented species, but nothing seemed to work. Fors pointed out, "You're not a particularly relaxed person, my human-rachni friend."

Sidonis snorted. "You've noticed this about her?"

Dara winced and looked at Fors. "Please don't say it like that." Dempsey caught the pang of unease, all over again, from across the room. And it got his attention.

Fors went on, as gently as he could. "You're afraid, doctor. The fear is making you tense up, and the very first thing everyone learns about biotics is that you _must_ be relaxed to use the abilities. Why do you think I'm such a charming individual? The first thing I had to learn was not to give a damn. Because if I _do_ care, I tense up."

"Like stage fright," Sidonis supplied. "I can help you relax, Dara, but I'm guessing they want you to do that part on your own."

Dara grimaced and gave him a look. She closed her eyes—_insane, the colors there now_, Dempsey reflected—and he watched her take several deep breaths, trying to get her body to relax. He could tell just by looking at her that it wasn't working.

"What did you say at dinner a couple of weeks ago? That Kella had taken away your self-identity, right?" He was pretty sure he was on the right track here. "And that's what happens when you're without contact with the song for a while, right? You lose yourself?"

Dara's eyes opened. "Yeah." Her voice was tight.

"I understand that." His voice was flat. "I'm not really James Dempsey anymore. I'm a human-shaped thing, most of the time. But _James_ is long gone. Sometimes, I can sort of remember him. When I think about my wife, and all the things we managed to screw up together, back in the day. When I remember what Madison was like, when he was little. But most of the time, I'm just this . . . thing." He gestured down at himself. "Zhasa helps me reconnect." He reached out for Zhasa's mind now, and it was with relief that he found it. Felt her worry flood through him, and managed a smile for her. "When she touches my mind, I can at least be Dempsey. Doc. . . Dara. I'm living proof that even when you get lost for a while, you _will_ come back. You don't have to be that afraid."

Dara winced. "I. . .yeah. But that's you. We don't know what will happen if I'm cut off for long periods." Dempsey thought he'd picked up on some of the roots of her unease, but not all of it. It was clearly still there.

"So, we take it slow. We establish your outer limit on time, and then try to push it, when you're comfortable," Fors told her, earnestly. "Right now, we need to work on you relaxing and _getting_ comfortable."

Zhasa said, softly, "You're also absolutely terrified of biotics, aren't you? That's why you closed down so sharply at dinner the other night. And now you _are_ one." Zhasa paused. "And you really don't want to be, do you?"

Dara lowered her head, and looked, for all of her, no older than Madison for a moment, as she pulled her feet up onto the bench in front of her and hugged her knees. "No." She paused. "I like hearing the rachni song. I really do. It's. . . "

"Everyone else?" Fors offered. "People are smelly. Frequently unpleasant."

"I'd have gone with 'loud,' myself," Siara murmured. "Then again, I've known how to protect myself from random mental emanations since I was a child." She frowned slightly. "Dara, the main thing is for you to learn to protect yourself from things like.. . . " She sighed. "What happened to me. And what I damned near did to you, too."

Dara peeked up. "I know. I just don't know how. Nothing any of you shows me makes any sense."

Sidonis got up from his own chair, and walked over. Put a hand on the back of her neck as he sat down, and Dempsey saw her body language relax slightly. An idea occurred then. Probably a stupid one, but. . . "Doc? You know what an earworm is, right?"

She made a face. "Yeah. Unfortunately."

"Think of the worst song you possibly can. One that you'd really rather not have stuck in your head for days on end."

Dara looked at Dempsey askance. "I'd _really_ rather not."

"Seriously. If music is how you, for better or worse, structure and think of your biotics, you might have to do it this way. C'mon, the worst that can happen is that you get something stuck for a day or so."

"Yeah, but it'll be something that _sucks._ Seriously. Have you ever gotten a song stuck in your head that was _good_?"

Dempsey looked up at the ceiling, and started to sing something really horribly bad by Expel 10. He was embarrassed to admit he even knew the words. He was a baritone, but had never done lead vocals in his crappy garage band for a reason. . . he much preferred being off to the side, just playing his guitar, ignoring the crowd. Just paying attention to the beat of the drums and the music he wrung out of the guitar. Leave it up to someone else to be the showman. He was just there for the music. Now, Dara actually cringed, and put her hands over her ears. "Expel 10? Dempsey, how could you?"

Dempsey stopped. "Sorry, this is a hell of a thing to do to someone who loves music as much as I do."

"We could stick with something horribly old-fashioned, like 'Lollipop, lollipop, oh, lolli, lolli, lolli, lollipop. . . " she offered.

"Is that going to get stuck and stay there, so you can't pay attention to anything else, no matter how much you want to?"

"I really don't want it to!"

Sidonis was laughing so hard he had to put his face down in his hands by this point. Dempsey looked off into the mid-distance. "Okay, ancestral music, then. 'Buddy, you're a boy make a big noise, playin' in the street, gonna be a big man some day. You got mud on yo' face, you big disgrace, kickin' your can all over the place, singing we will, we will rock you. . . '" He paused. Dara was giving him the dirtiest look he'd gotten from her since he'd asked her if there were medical repercussions to feeding quarians chocolate. "Oh, you've heard that one?"

"It's still used in arenas at every major sporting event in North America. Yeah. I'm familiar with it."

Siara looked bewildered. "What does it even _mean_?"

"It's about rebellion. Most rock music is. Either that, or disaffection. Sort of a fifty-fifty split," Dempsey told her with aplomb. "Personally, I find I can get 'Sad But True' cranking in my head nonstop as a very good anger deterrent."

They worked with that for a while. Dempsey even brought up a list of the top-rated 'worst songs in history' (Terran origin, only), and if nothing else, got everyone chuckling at how horribly, horribly bad some of them were. "Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl. . . " had Zhasa gasping with laughter. "Maybe not a bad song, then," Eli suggested. "Maybe just one you can bring up instantly in your head, no matter where you are or how you feel? Can concentrate on?"

Dempsey had a huge array of old music on his omnitool, and covers of the songs that had been performed, re-arranged, re-made, in the past hundred years or so. Dara was damned surprised that one of her favorite songs was actually a re-remake of an old classic, but she smiled when she heard the lyrics. _Don't want your hand this time, I'll save myself. . . I won't be broken again, I've got to breathe, I can't keep going under. . . . _"Okay, that one I think I can cue up. The original singer actually had a better voice than the remakes. Huh. Weird."

And when she concentrated. . . hard. . . on just that one song, she could, at least a little bit, mute the songs of other people in her head. Enough so that touching them didn't overwhelm her. "Progress," Dempsey said. "I'll take it. And lunch."

**Dara, Mindoir, October 6-7, 2196**

That set the pattern for the next few days. She'd go for a run in the mornings, sometimes with Eli and Lin, followed by 'biotics training,' in the mornings. . . which more or less amounted to experimentation. Trying to figure out the limits of her ability—which was very limited, thankfully—how to protect herself, and starting to push how long she could be away from rachni or mental contact. The others were working with her to see how much was panic, and how much was real symptoms. Fifteen minute chunks of time, gradually added, and eventually they wound up with what looked to be a hard limit of about two hours. Two hours was not a whole hell of a lot of time, but so long as she could hear a rachni's song. . . and she seemed to be able to hear Sky from over a mile away, which was helpful, or a worker's song within several hundred feet. . . had mental contact from a biotic.. . . or could reach out and grab a willing humanoid hand, with skin-contact. . . it seemed to be manageable. "I don't see myself doing a lot of EVAs," Dara muttered grimly. Her first big mission had been, after all, the Lystheni space stations above Garvug. In zero-g, and with little to no atmosphere.

"Well, you could have your armor adjusted so one of the little guys could ride along," Eli suggested, pointing at Chopin, who was sitting on Dara's shoulder now as they ate lunch.

She passed Chopin a piece of sandwich, and the rachni squealed glee-songs at again eating the food of a queen. "Thanks, Eli. What a great idea. I'll forever have one shoulder-piece up higher than the others. People will start referring to me as the hunchbacked Spectre. Rumors will spread that I'm grossly disfigured as a result of a bad firefight." Dara made a face. "And you know al-Jilani's rag will pick up _something_ about this. Maybe even from some of the old-guard Spectres." She grimaced. Most of her dad's. . . hell, _her_ colleagues. . . she liked. But there were those who'd been grandfathered in from before Shepard's term of service. And not all of those were the good, kind people that Shepard had mostly chosen to induct into the Spectres.

Some of the older asari Spectres had dropped by the training session towards the end that first morning. They'd been visibly horrified and intrigued at once by Eli. Something that was like them, but not-them. Ylara had, near the end, come back to the training room, and one of them had said something to her in asari that Dara had not understood, but Eli's face had gone very set at. Siara had leaped to her feet, Eli had stood, and there'd been a _huge_ discussion in asari. She'd picked up the word for _daughter_ several times. "What was all that about this morning, anyway?"

Eli's jaw clenched. "Yeah. Couple of the older ones were telling Ylara that I'd obviously 'stolen' something from Kella. She told them that no part of her daughter remained, except her memories, and a gift, freely given. In affection and farewell. And that she was glad that some part of Kella remained. . . in me. . . and was honored to call me kin." He looked away for a moment. "When she called me 'not-daughter,' one of them decided to bring up Shellara being a 'not-daughter,' too, and told Ylara she was becoming not-asari herself. Which is when Siara jumped into the middle of it and said that if they were the epitome of being asari, she was just as glad to call herself a krogan."

Dara whistled. "I have _got_ to get better at asari. I'm missing all the good fights!"

Eli chuckled at her. "I love it when you go all turian on me." He shrugged now. "Whether they're outraged enough about me to open their mouths up to the press. . . eh, doesn't matter. I'm pretty unlikely to reach out and touch someone on-camera. No visible changes. Already wearing clan-paint, so people already have a mental image of me." He tapped his jaw lightly. "I'm that Sidonis boy. More or less raised by _wolves_." He wiggled his eyebrows. "Al-Jilani's regular viewers are just surprised every time I stand up straight, eat my meat cooked, and speak English. You, on the other hand, _sai'kaea. . . _ I don't know if the older asari would leak anything about you out of malice. Interest, maybe, but not malice."

Dara stiffened in her chair, uncomfortable. They'd been. . . entirely too interested. She didn't _know_ any of them, not the way she knew Ylara and Siara. That had been the big test of Dempsey's 'earworm' theory. And it had worked. So long as the asari hadn't touched her, they hadn't been able to get in on her. . . but it was fairly exhausting. Sky had, at that point, intervened as they'd stared at her as if she were some new and interesting dessert that they hadn't tried before, and had scuttled forward to stand near her. _Will you match your songs with mine?_ Sky had sung, and there'd been red and black in his voice. _Will you challenge me, when you sing terror-songs at the sight of my people in your dreams?_

They'd left then. Muttering amongst themselves. "You have any recommendations on what I should do about that?"

"Recommendations?"

"Perspective-songs. It's your job, isn't it? Brood-warrior Many-Voices." Dara half-sang it, just to get a reaction.

She'd caught him just as he'd taken a sip of coffee, and Eli choked for a moment, and waved a finger at her. "Don't do that." He looked away, thinking, and then shrugged. "As your official junior press liaison. . . I suggest getting ahead of it. Grant an interview to Emily Wong at some point in the future. On some other topic. Let her get vid feed of you looking all pretty and very human."

Dara felt her shoulders hunch slightly. "Human, huh?" She gestured towards her face, all too aware of the wide, gleaming eyes, and the band of iridescent green at the base of each of her nails.

"Wear dark glasses," Dempsey advised at that point, from her right. "They're used to it from me at this point. At least your eyes don't _hurt_ when you're out in bright light."

Eli snickered. "I could wear a set, too. For solidarity. Get Lin to wear a pair, and it'll just look like a style thing. The Young Guns of the Spectres, going for the cool factor."

Dara stopped and stared across the cafeteria table at Eli. "The _what_?"

Eli laughed outright. "You missed all the good news stories because when we were on Omega, Sam and Ylara controlled the information too tightly. Damn. Yeah, Emily Wong referred to us all in her vid on the candidacy and the induction process as the 'Young Guns.' Especially since half of us are related to existing Spectres."

Dara quietly put her head down on the table and banged her forehead against the surface a couple of times. Everyone around her started to laugh. "What's wrong?" Zhasa said, sounding confused. "Why is this a bad thing?"

"It's. . . colorful," Dara muttered. "It's a nice colorful group association that the media is going to _love_ and hang onto and follow up on and. . . gah. There's so much wrong with that! We're not just guns! We're not just weapons waiting for a place to happen!"

"Speak for yourself," Dempsey said, dryly. "I've been looking for a place to happen for months now."

Eli reached across the table and patted her hand. That was all it took. Songs sprang into place. _It'll be okay, you know that, right? Right at the moment, everyone's got enough on their plates with asari being lobotomized, war, yahg eating people, more war, the turian systems being blockaded. . . . 'Young Guns' label or not, they probably won't notice any of your changes. If they do, they're going to be looking so hard at the missing clan-paint, they'll completely overlook the fact that you're wearing sunglasses to a night-time interview. Indoors. Right?_

_You are __so__ comforting._ Even though the words were sardonic, the thought wasn't. His humor actually did comfort her, a bit.

In the afternoon, she visited Rel. That was. . . uncomfortable. Awkward. He had visitors, which she was grateful for as she checked the wound, and found that the larvae had, in fact, cleaned the abscesses beautifully. There wasn't so much as a hint of putrefaction in the wound's smell now.

She vaguely remembered Kassa Vilinus, who had been at their _tal'mae_ rites last October. A year ago. It felt like a _lifetime_ ago, now. The female was very tall, even for a turian—easily Lantar's height, who was a bit short for a male. Kassa tentatively offered her a wrist-clasp, and Dara returned it. . . making damned sure her gloves were in place. "So long as my skin's covered, you're perfectly safe from me," Dara told the female. "Believe me, I don't actually want to listen to random people's songs."

Rel had looked away when Dara came in the room. Had put up with her hands on his leg, but hadn't responded to any questions or comments. He did, however, have a new pot of soil on his window ledge. . . minus any actual plants in it. Dara was about to ask a carefully-cheerful question about it, when Kassa said, bluntly, "I feel almost as if I should apologize to you, ah. . . Dr. Velnaran. And that I should go—"

Dara winced at the name. "Dara, please. If you find that too familiar, most of the marines usually call me 'doc.'" Her squad-name wouldn't have been appropriate. It was for internal use, essentially. No one called her father 'Orpheus,' outside of the Spectres and the teams they worked with. She wrote busily on the datapad. "And why do you feel a need to apologize? You've been perfectly polite."

Kassa looked uncomfortable. "I. . . feel I that I know a little too much, after yesterday. About you, and about . . . Commander Velnaran."

"That's sort of how it goes. Patients lash out when they're bedridden. Especially the young and the healthy. They're angry, and they need a direction for it. It gets ugly, then it's over." _Till the next time. Until they're better, or they're dead._ Dara kept her tone completely emotionless at the moment. "At the moment, Rel's exhibiting another classic tactic. Silence. That's okay. Doesn't stop me from doing my work, and it beats the hell out of having a used bedpan thrown at my head."

Kassa's eyes went wide. "You're kidding. That's happened to you?"

"I wish I were kidding. Yes, yes it has. The orderlies _loved_ cleaning up that room, and I needed a shower and a change of scrubs." Dara shrugged. "I've been bled on, vomited on, had shit and piss thrown at me, and not too long ago, had a rachni queen _hatch_ on top of me in a puddle of goo. Really, words are worse." _Words hurt more. Silence is fine. . . except. . . _ she sighed to herself, as Chopin sang comfort-songs in her ear, _silence isn't actually fine, is it?_

Kassa cleared her throat and asked, carefully, "How long before the gene mods can be started?"

Dara grimaced. "If we had them ready, _now_. Dr. Abrams has been studying the old notes since last night. I was, too. But it's not something we can conduct animal tests on. I don't think we really want a spontaneously regenerating, highly aggressive _anserae_ around. The local ponds will never be the same, and the _anserae_ already scare off the geese as it is."

That provoked a snort of laughter. "So, what can you do to make sure it will work on Re—Commander Velnaran?"

Dara's head came up, and she looked Kassa right in the eye. _Interesting. First-name basis. Why would she try to hide that? She's a centurion, sure, but there's nothing wrong with her calling him by his first-name off-duty, unless if they're being sticklers for the officer-enlisted divide . . . hell, she's a gunship and dropship pilot. Not in the same chain of command. No issue. What's the deal?_ "Well, normally, we'd be running several months of simulations—" Dara paused as the words fell out of her mouth, and a thought crystallized in her head.

Chopin chittered at her anxiously. —_New-queen? There is dissonance?_

"No. . . not dissonance. _Harmony_. My god, that's so simple. Why didn't I think of that before?" Dara felt like slapping her forehead. "Rel? I know you're listening even if you're not talking to me. I'm going to go have a chat with Dr. Abrams. See if we can convince your Aunt Lilu to let us use, um. . . " she looked at Kassa, who clearly didn't have clearance for this, "the device we recovered a few years ago. That should let us simulate all the genetic profiles and enzymatic changes in _days_, not weeks. I'll. . . be back later." She patted his leg, still in gloves, cautious touch, and started to turn away.

"Dara."

God, his voice hurt to hear. It grated. _Can we ever just get back to being friends again?_ She knew, better than anyone except for Sky, what was inside of him. If he overcame the challenges, he might be someone similar to the person he'd been before. Older. Wiser. Better for it. But not the same. Because people were never exactly the same as they were a year ago, or ten years ago. If they were, what was the point of living all that time, anyway? "Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. It hasn't _worked_ yet." Her throat hurt, and she walked out.

Abrams, whom she caught in his office, between patients, was, in a word, shocked. "You're out of your mind," he told her, in no uncertain terms.

"No, actually, I'm pretty sane at the moment." Dara pointed to Chopin on her shoulder. "Sky can control the simulator. He did it for the psych evals. If he can control it to looking at little slices of life, critical choices based on our current outlooks and histories, why couldn't he narrow it down to simulations of enzymes, proteins, and so on? Probably what the damn thing was originally intended to be used on, anyway."

Abrams shook his head, eyes wide. "And you want to plug yourself into that thing?"

"Me? God no. Considering the state of my head right now, I'm the last person who should be in there at this point." Dara shuddered. "But it _does_ need to be someone with an understanding of Dr. Sollus' notes. And if I'm out of the running because my head's not quite on straight at the moment, that leaves you, Daniel." She watched his mouth open and close, like a fish. "This would take a couple of _days_. Not weeks, not months. And has a better chance of giving us something viable and with fewer side effects. Besides. . . no way of testing, remember?"

Abrams rubbed his hands over his face. "You're nuts," the older doctor accused, again. "But. . . you may also have a point. We'll take it to Shepard."

"Er. . . we?" Dara winced. She hadn't really spoken to Shepard directly since Eli had helped her wash the paint off her face and handed him her knife to keep for her. She'd been accorded a handshake and a word of congratulations at the induction ceremony on Bastion, but had _no_ idea how 'Aunt Lilu' was taking any of the family strife.

"Yes. Your crazy idea, _Spectre_. You can help defend it."

_Maybe she's been so distracted by the war that she hasn't even noticed. Probably the safest tack to take, anyway. Just. . . be a Spectre. Do your job._ Dara swallowed. "Okay. If you insist, Daniel."

"Oh, I insist. Believe me, I insist."

Shepard was in her office, when they finally got five minutes of her time. Garrus was with her, as they were, apparently, going over details for a change of command. Shepard was going to be giving Garrus some down-time on base, and she was actually going to lead some of the Spectre teams on Terra Nova. . . with a departure date sometime in the next two weeks, more than likely. "And by 'leading,' that pretty much means 'sitting in orbit on the _Normandy_, at least coordinating with teams in real time.'" She sighed. "While reading all the same reports as Garrus will be reading here on Mindoir." Shepard looked at them. "What do you two need?" Not even a hint of anger or disappointment in her face, which was a relief. If Shepard felt those things, she was masking them admirably.

Dara explained the request, quickly and concisely. "It's the best option for making sure that the gene mod is available quickly. . . and that it won't have any unexpected side effects."

Garrus asked, quickly, "Do you think you'll be able to engineer out the adrenal rage?"

Dara and Abrams exchanged a dubious look. "Probably not," Abrams admitted. "_That_ might take a year or two even in the simulator, since I have no idea where to start with it."

The decision was rapid, as decisions from Shepard generally tended to be. "Take Sky and go there. Abrams, you sure you're up for this?"

Dr. Abrams smiled faintly. "All the crazy crap that goes on around here, the worst that's ever happened to me is the whole azure dust thing on the _Normandy_. I'm due for some insanity." He looked at Dara. "And while I'm in there, _you_ are going to be feeding me data, Dara. Run a full sequencing of Rel's genome, analysis on the existing gene mods in Dempsey's body. . ." He sighed. "Let's go see what we can do."

**Elijah, October 7-8, 2196**

Serana had broken the news to her parents the night before, both pieces of it at the same time: first, that she was dissolving her contract with Eli, as of the next morning, when she'd be talking to a minister of the law, and second, that she was going on a fairly dangerous mission in batarian space, for which she could give them no details_. "But Lin is going with me," she'd added. "You know I'll be just fine with a Spectre watching over me, right?'_ She'd looked across the Velnaran living room at Lin, who was, yet again, doing his best impression of a piece of the scenery. _You'd think he'd be getting better at it, with all the practice he's been getting_, Eli thought, amused, sitting in a chair with his elbows planted on his knees. He knew this all needed to be done, and Serana deserved whatever support he could give her at the moment, but _damn_ he wished it was just a matter of him telling his parents, her telling her family, and being done with it.

It had been an _uncomfortable_ conversation. Rinus and Kallixta were there, and Kallixta muttered, _"Spirits, Serana, you've only been married for six months! How can you know that it's not going to work out?"_

Eli had wanted to put a hand on Serana's shoulder to give her a little encouragement, but it really wasn't his place at the moment. And, technically, while it was considered a little rude to ask _why_ a contract was being severed early, Kallixta wasn't out of bounds. The wife of the first-son, if the first-son was older than the first-daughter, out-ranked the first-daughter. Strict orders of precedence. Serana had sighed. _"Couple of reasons,"_ she'd said, with a glimmer of a smile, but sadness in those blue eyes. _"First, biology. Charis and Eduardo might have it worked out, but the options for us aren't good."_ She glanced at Allardus, and said, simply, _"You can ask my father for the xenobiological details. Second. . . I've always adored both Eli and Lin. It just took a little longer than it should have for me to realize that I had a crush on Eli. And that he loved me. . . but that I loved Lin. And that he loved me, too."_

It both was, and wasn't, the entire truth. Serana probably didn't even realize how _much_ truth was in what she probably thought was a social lie. But Eli heard truth in those words that she probably would come to accept in the years to come. She had a heart big enough to love a whole world, Serana did. But what she felt for Lin would probably grow and change and expand with the years. What she'd felt for Eli probably would not. Eli had cleared his throat then. _"It's my fault_," he'd said. _"I shouldn't have rushed into the contract."_

"_Four or five months of contractual negotiations isn't exactly rushing,"_ Solanna said, dryly.

"_It is, if you're completely separated for those months, after having been separated for years before that,"_ Eli replied, simply. _"It's my fault, but we're grateful that my father and Allardus had the wisdom to put in no-fault exit clauses in the contract inside the first year. We'll repay the wedding gifts, and that'll be that. No harm done, and a few lessons learned." Eli nodded to Lin. "There's no ill-will between me and my __sangua'fradu__ on the matter, either. _No harm, no foul." The regrets he felt right now mostly centered on the fact that Serana had hurt through all of this. Through no fault of her own, except wanting to make him happy.

Rinus shook his head and rose to his feet, crossing the room to offer Eli a wrist-clasp. _"Damn shame to lose you as a brother,"_ he said.

"_Not for long, I suspect,"_ Eli told the older male, his and Lin's fellow Spectre, grinning. _"Lin's my brother, after all. Till death or betrayal. And there's been neither, here."_

Allardus held up a hand at this point. "_Could we back up this conversation by a few minutes?"_ he asked. _"You're going on a mission into enemy territory, first-daughter?"_

Serana winced. "_Yes."_

"_And you can't tell us anything about it?"_

"_No. Rinus, Eli, and Lin have been briefed."_ Serana's tone had gone from 'slightly embarrassed first-daughter' to clipped, polished, professional.

Solanna looked worried. _"It's dangerous?"_

Serana looked at Linianus. _"We're going to work to mitigate the danger,"_ Lin replied, promptly. _"I can't say any more than that."_

"_And when do you leave?"_ Allardus sounded just as worried as Solanna. It was one thing for Rel and Rinus to go off and risk their lives. Their parents had gotten used to that, over the years. Serana was young and untested. _All the more reason that Lin should be there with her_, Eli thought, grimly. He knew Serana was very capable. She was blooded, even. But this was her first real time in the field. Kasumi was gambling a _lot_ on Serana's skills.

"_Monday. The tenth. Our ship should be arriving then."_ Serana looked at her family. _"I'll say good-bye to Rel up at the med bay. With luck, he might even be walking before I leave." _

_Keep her safe, __fradu.__ Keep yourself safe, too_, Eli thought, keeping his face blank. Khar'sharn would be dangerous for humans. For turians? Their cover as slaves had better be damned good. Hell, even getting them on the planet had better be carefully done.

"_So. . . you're going to sign the papers, then take off on a high-risk mission somewhere behind batarian lines." _Allardus looked at Solanna. _"Explain to me again why we decided to have children?"_

Solanna laughed, but there was tension in the sound. _"You didn't object at the time, as best I recall."_

Out loud, Eli said, standing, "I'll leave you all to it, then. Lin? You and Serana have a couple days left before you have to go. Let me know if you've got plans or anything." He was toying with a few notions, himself, but they needed, more than anything right now, time and space. They'd have space on Khar'sharn, but probably not time.

Lin grinned. "Mazz is back, huh?"

"And brought hovercycles with him, yeah."

As Eli had grabbed his light jacket to leave, Allardus had stopped him and surprised him by clasping his wrist. "You did your best with a difficult situation. And you've done your best not to hurt her in any way."

Eli blinked. "I'm glad you see it that way. I was honestly waiting for you to kick my ass."

Allardus snorted. "You do realize that the medical doctors on base asked me for a consult on both your, ah, genetic changes, and on Dara's?"

_Resident chief of xenobiology. Not in charge of hybridizing individuals, but an entire ecology._ "I guess I should have, but no one mentioned it, no." As always, the difficulty of knowing what, precisely, to call someone now. _Pada'amu_ was out. Sir. . . well, Allardus was older, and worthy of respect, but Eli was, he had to remind himself occasionally still, a Spectre now. And yet, first-name seemed a little rude. So. . . defaulting to nothing at all seemed safest. "So . . . this tells you what?"

"That while your genetic changes were not as severe as Dara's, they were missed six years ago, and probably would have made you a poor candidate for the hybridization template, too. Better to have found that out now." Allardus looked as if he were hunting for words. "Which isn't to say that you and Serana couldn't have adopted. . . "

Eli held up a hand to stop him. "It's all pretty much working out for the best. She and Lin are going to be happy together. I know this. I know _them._" He smiled faintly. "Lin just has to wait for her to stop being stubborn. He's patient, though."

He'd been caught, once more, on his way out the door. This time, to his surprise, by Kallixta. "Elijah—"

He'd swung back around, startled. "Yes?"

She'd looked down for a moment. "I haven't spoken to Dara since I got back from Palaven. Since, well, you all got back from rachni space." Kallixta sighed. "Actually, not since I argued with her about four months ago. How's she doing?"

Eli knew what guilt looked like in a turian, and Kallixta was showing all the classic signs. Inability to meet the eyes, lowered fringe, tipped head. "She's fine. A little distracted a lot of the time. The little workers sing to her all day."

"Rinus said she's. . . part _rachni_ now?" Kallixta sounded downright nervous.

Eli chuckled. "Really pretty eyes. No carapace, though. No extra limbs. No petal-like mouth." He looked at her. _You said things to her last time that you're really regretting now, aren't you?_ _And now she's changed, been through a trauma, and you're feeling guilty._ He'd never needed biotics or telepathy or anything like that to read body language. At least. . . . _Huh_. _Come to think of it, I did get a hell of a lot better at it after coming to Mindoir. Was that Kella's gift, or just growing up, learning to pay __attention__?_ "I think she'd love to see you. Why don't you go hang out for a while?"

Visiting Rel in the med bay the next afternoon, with Lin, felt like a duty. Dara was working pretty much non-stop. Biotics in the mornings, and with Abrams at the simulator in the afternoons and evenings. Eli had slipped over to the caves to watch for a while yesterday afternoon, but there wasn't much to see. Sky was keeping the simulation contained to Abram's mind, and was training Glory to do the same thing. The younger rachni was clearly awed. _The pillar-of-metal sings binding songs, but Sings-to-the-Sky binds it,_ he'd finally assessed. Eli had just nodded. No way for him to sense that, not without reaching out and 'touching' Sky, and that had seemed like a bad idea right now. He'd settled in to read coursework, at least, slouching in the seat beside Dara, and occasionally looking up to watch as she moved proteins around on a model, and passed the information to Abrams in the simulation.

Lin and he had arrived at the beginning of visiting hours. Rel had looked up in surprise at seeing both of them, and looked uncomfortable. "Hey."

"Hey."

Two full minutes of silence passed as Lin and Eli sat in the less-than-comfortable visitor chairs. Eli nudged Lin with an elbow. "You going to tell him?"

"You should probably do that."

"Technically, _Serana_ should have—"

Rel cleared his throat. "Yeah. She dropped by this morning. Short marriage." There was more than a little disapproval in his voice and Eli sighed internally. _Nothing more than what was expected._

"Yeah." That was Eli's only reply.

The silence got a little deeper.

Lin shifted his weight in the chair. Rel reached for a block of wood and his carving knives. Eli shrugged and got out his datapad. "Bullet Trajectories: Bullet Trajectories in Reconstruction, Common Errors and Misleading Convergences" was the title of this course. It was interesting stuff, at least where there were case studies, but the number of diagrams made the course a little dry.

Lin broke the silence, looking over his shoulder. "Dara talked you into Forensics after all?"

"Matches up with the paleontology minor. Plus, one of us should understand what the lab techs are talking about." Eli looked at the ceiling. "Besides, I was always good at chemistry. I get that from my mom."

Lin nodded. "I was thinking of taking some criminal justice courses."

"Makes sense. You always were in the 'throw the book at them' camp. Serana's the one who thought the law exists to protect the little guys."

Lin grinned. "Makes for the _best_ arguments. You were always too middle of the road for a really _good_ debate."

Silence again.

_Scrape, scrape, scrape._ The noise of the carving seemed really loud in the ensuing silence. _Why the hell did I even bother to come here?_ Eli thought with a sigh. _She left him, she was clear about it, she was definitive about it, and as of about 10:00 this morning, Serana put in the papers to dissolve our contract. I'm not doing anything dishonorable, so I shouldn't be here out of guilt. . . except that I do feel like shit that he's hurt._ Rel out of action like this did kind of feel like one of the pillars of the world had been knocked askew.

And yet, Rel wasn't saying anything. Of course, he might not know what to say. At least he hadn't shouted at them to get the fuck out. That was surely progress.

There was a knock at the door, and it opened to reveal a very tall female turian in Bostra Outpost paint. She was walking with a cane, but was back in the gray uniform of a turian centurion. Eli vaguely remembered seeing her the other day when they'd come in the room to deal with Rel. _"I'm sorry. I didn't realize you had company, commander. Am I interrupting?"_

"_Not at all,"_ Lin told her cheerfully. _"We're all just kind of sitting here."_ He stood up. _"And you are?"_

"_Kassa Vilinus. I believe I saw both of you, ah, last Finus? On Macedyn?"_

Eli thought about it. _Last October. Right. She was at their __tal'mae__ rites._ Lin was already frowning apologetically. _"I'm sorry. I was bad company at the time, so I really don't remember too many of the people I met then."_

"_It's all right, Spectre. I didn't expect to be remembered. There were quite a few people there. You're. . . Pellarian, right?"_

"_Yeah. And this is my __sangua'fradu,__ Elijah Sidonis." _

Eli stood up to clasp wrists, as if the high drama of the other day had never happened. _"Nice to meet you again, Kassa,"_ he said.

She blinked. _"So. . . "_ Her eyes moved from face to face, alertly. _"You're sure I'm not interrupting?"_ She looked past them at Rel.

"_You're not,"_ Rel told her, dryly. _"They've been here since visiting hours began at 13:00."_

Eli sighed, and sat back down again. _"And that's the most he's said since we showed up,"_ Lin replied, and sat back down, himself.

"_Let me see if I have this straight,"_ Kassa said, planting her cane on the floor and leaning both hands on it. _"You've been sitting here for an hour in absolute silence?"_

They all looked at each other. _"We said hello,"_ Lin told her, in a tone of absolute truth.

Kassa sighed. _"Males."_

"_Well, we can't take him out for a beer,"_ Eli told her, scrolling to a new page on his datapad.

"_Damn. If we were thinking, we'd have brought the beer __here__,"_ Lin said, suddenly.

"_Too many damned painkillers and meds,"_ Eli reminded him.

Kassa looked at them skeptically. "_And this would accomplish what?"_

"_This is how males of both our species apologize and mend ties. Known xenopsychological fact,_" Lin told her, and looked at Rel. _"Should we come back with beer?"_

Rel looked up from his carving, and there was a very faint trace of the old smile on his face. _"You'd probably have to hook it up to the IV stand. Add notes to my patient chart."_

"_Not a problem. I think we can probably forge a doctor's signature on there somewhere."_ Lin's voice was determinedly cheerful.

Rel sighed. _"Fine, upstanding proponents of the law that you are. And you're Spectres."_

Eli wasn't quite sure about the tone of that one. It could have been a joke, or it could have been a jab. Hard to tell. _"Hey, we can't help that we're good at what we do,"_ he replied, opting to keep it as light as possible.

Rel looked down, then back up again, and his gaze and Eli's clashed. _Yeah. I thought that was a jab. You meant it as a joke, but then it turned real in the air. God, Rel, let it go. Yes, we're Spectres and you're not. Yes, Dara's left you. Don't make it worse. I'm not going to fight you when you're in a hospital bed, and I don't actually want_ _to fight you once you're on your feet again. It's not a fight either of us will win. Both of us will lose. But hell, if the two of us beating on each other clears the air. . . maybe that's what we'll have to do._

The exchange of stares was getting a little long. Lin cleared his throat, clearly looking for a way to change the subject, innocuous as the last topic had actually been. _"So, Kassa, you were on Shanxi?"_

"_Ah. . . yes."_

"_We saw vids of the fight with the yahg leader. You were the pilot of the gunship that crashed? Damned lucky to survive that."_

"_I didn't exactly walk out of it. Malcolmson, one of the human marines, pulled me out of the wreckage. One of the things he said as we were getting med-evac'd, just talking to me to keep me conscious, was that he'd learned turian first aid from Dara Velnaran in boot camp. I thought that was. . . ironic."_ Her tone, too, indicated that she was trying to be a distraction. . . and failing.

_Ironic is one word for it._ Eli was still looking at Rel. Meeting that piercing predator's gaze. _C'mon. I've faced up to Lantar in a full protection-anger rage._ "Rel, should I leave?" He'd been using turian the whole time. Marking himself, deliberately, as a _packmate_. Now he switched to English, consciously. "If having me around interferes with your recovery, I'll go. I dropped by as a courtesy to an old friend, and the brother of my soon-to-be ex-wife." _Admittedly, you've been acting suspicious of me and Dara since well before there was anything to be suspicious of, and you targeted me during candidacy trials probably because of that. So maybe there isn't any friendship left. And if there is now, there probably won't be, if she and I . . . _Eli sighed internally. _Okay. This might be a lost cause._

Rel exhaled, and slowly lowered his eyes. "No," he answered, in English. "Stay, if you want to. I'm. . . not good company. In fact, my grandfather called me out on it yesterday."

"That would have been something to see," Lin said, sounding amused, and dropping easily into English, too. Kassa looked between them all, blankly.

Eli nodded, once. Rel went on, very slowly, "Not really sure what to say to people. Sometimes. . . it kind of feels like I've been a hermit on a mountainside for a while, and everyone speaks a different language now that I've come back down to the valley."

Lin shrugged. "We can sit here staring at the walls and not talking, if that works for you."

"_Kind of boring, though,"_ Eli pointed out, switching back to turian. He'd made his point. _"There's probably some gladiatorial match or something on the extranet. We could turn that on and not watch that, too."_

And then a rachni worker scuttled past the partially-opened door, and headed straight for Eli. It scrambled up the leg of his pants—Kassa moved away in evident unease—and he had the impression that it was looking at him. Eli sighed. _Great timing, little guy. Let's make Rel even more uneasy with me than he already is._ "What is it?" he asked, holding his left hand out, palm up, for the little creature to crawl into. It didn't have writing on its carapace, and he chuckled in realization. "Oh. You want a name?"

It just sat there in his hand, passive. "Okay, turn in a circle for yes. Sit there for no. Are you here for a name-song?"

The worker spun in a tight circle. "Ah. Okay. That I can do." Eli had tried touching the creature's minds without Dara present. He got a hum of life, but nothing he could actually understand. It wasn't particularly helpful. Like. . . listening to crickets, maybe.

Lin was looking down in amusement as Eli dug out an indelible pen from a pocket. _"They keep finding you."_

"_I'm running out of names. We gave the first seven names, and now they all want one."_ Eli looked off into the distance. _"_Okay, _we're out of composers. Inventors? Engineers? Hmm. Edison it is."_

"_Not _Archimedes?" Lin chuckled.

"_Has to fit on the shell, and I can't write that small."_ Eli finished marking up the rachni's carapace. "Okay. You're Edison. Go show all your friends." He set the rachni down on the floor and watched it scuttle away. _"Bet you ten credits he's back in five minutes with others,"_ he told Lin.

"_I don't bet on sure things."_

Rel was staring at Eli. _"They really like you."_ Back to the suspicious tone. Kassa shifted slightly.

Eli gave him a look. _"Yeah. They seem to."_ And bit his tongue on all the things he _could_ have said and kept it, again, light and simple. _"I did, after all, teach them to make _toast_."_

Rel clearly had no idea what to do with that, but Lin started to chuckle, which left Rel with little choice but to snort a bit, himself.

At that point, the door opened, and Abrams and Dara both came in, wheeling a new set of IVs with them. "Gene mods," Abrams said. "Hot off the presses." He looked around. "Full house, Rel. It's good having visitors, isn't it?'

Rel sighed. "Yeah. Actually, it is." He looked with interest at the IV bags the two doctors were hanging. "It's just one dose?"

"One dose today. Then we observe. Then another dose tomorrow, depending on how much cellular regeneration we see occurring." Abrams connected a couple of hoses. "This is probably going to make you feel a little warm for a while, Rel."

"I remember when Dara had hers. She ran a fever each time. Can I expect the same?"

"Probably," Dara said, her voice calm and remote. She took Rel's temperature, and noted it in the chart, before finding a chair and moving it over, to beside Lin. "All right. Let's see what this does."

It was still awkward. Rel clearly was trying, however, to find words. He turned and looked at Lin. "You're going with Serana?"

"Yeah." Lin's eyes flicked towards Kassa. No clearance level.

"Tell Zorro I said hello. Wish I were going with you, Lin."

Lin snorted. "It's going to be hard enough explaining two turians there. Three would be pushing it. Besides, when this gene mod thing works, you practically won't _have_ rehabilitation, right?"

"There will be some," Dara noted. "The extremities have all lost some tone and flexibility. This gene mod just provides krogan regeneration." She stood to check the level in the IV bag. "Besides, Dempsey will still need to train him." Her tone was calm and professional. Eli was doing his best to keep his eyes firmly on his datapad. Dara was in blue scrubs, which didn't do anything for him, but the white lab coat drove him nuts. He had no idea where people got the 'sexy nurse' fetish from, when the lab coat that cut off just under Dara's rounded backside screamed 'smart' as well as 'sexy' at the same time. The first time he'd seen her wearing one was on Bastion, when she'd come back from the med bay, wearing it over her 'cheerful Pepto-Bismol' scrubs. He'd been sicker than a dog at the time, and her hands had been cool and soothing. He hadn't even registered it at the time, really. He'd been too frigging worried about Serana and Lin and himself and everyone else. But every time he'd seen her in one since, his fingers had itched to lift it out of the way and run his hands over her backside. _Okay, so, bullet trajectories, and how they all just boil down to numbers. Right. Focus._

Rel sighed. "I know it's going to be necessary, but I have no actual idea how bad it gets."

Eli glanced up. "Zhasa described it as him losing all identity. Just going completely blank. A white hole in his head. He says he remembers . . . flashes. . . afterwards, when he loses it. Faces, bodies. Doesn't sound like protective-anger or fear-anger or jealousy-anger or anything else. Just. . . rage. Most primal form."

Rel grimaced. "Yeah." Eli looked at his face, and saw what Rel couldn't admit to. Fear. Rel knew, deep down, that he liked the adrenaline. Craved it. And this gene mod was going to deliver adrenaline and rage in amounts that his body, which already craved the cycle, might have difficulty dealing with.

"You're afraid you're going to like it?" Eli asked, keeping his tone absolutely level and neutral. It wasn't an accusation. He was leaving the choice of how to react up to Rel. He already knew the answer. Knew that Rel was going to deny it, too. "Afraid you're going to have a really good excuse all of a sudden to lose control?"

Rel's head jerked up. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

_Right on schedule. Fear-anger. Okay. Which way do I want to play this? I can be the bad guy. I already am, I guess._ "And look at that, you'll even have someone all set up to blame when you can't control it," Eli added, voice still completely calm, and nodded at Dara, who'd taken a step back and put her back against the nearby wall. "It'll be her fault, right? Surely, no one can blame you, if you're all modded up. Not even really pure turian anymore. Some sort of hybrid turian-krogan freak. Right?" Eli looked up, met Rel's eyes again. "'Cause that's how it'll play out in your head at oh-two-hundred some morning, when you're pissed off at the world. Won't it?"

Rel exhaled. "I'm not _that_ self-pitying."

Lin had given Eli a quick, sidelong glance. And fell right into good cop mode. Just as they'd practiced this a hundred times before. "No, you're not self-pitying, Rel. You're a good guy. We all know that." Calm assurance in his tone. "You're going to get back on your feet, you're going to fight this. You'll have to figure out the inside of your own head a bit, but you can beat this." Lin's glance at Eli spoke volumes to the human male. _Why the hell did you make __me__ the good cop in this scenario? You know my opinion on adrenaline junkies._

Eli raised his eyebrows, briefly. _Because I'm the natural bad cop in this scenario, __fradu.__ Because he's already inclined towards thinking that._ Their expressions would have been practically blank to anyone else.

Rel surprised them, though. He actually put a hand over his eyes, and managed a faint chuckle. "You guys have done that a lot, haven't you?"

Lin just looked at him. "Done what, Rel?" He hadn't actually called Rel _fra'fradu_ since the moment Dara had walked out on Rel, Eli realized, suddenly.

"Divide and conquer. You're using interrogation tactics on me." Rel lowered his hand and stared at them both. "Why?"

Eli shrugged. "Seemed as good a way as any to make you realize you were already at the top of the slope, Rel. We can _tell_ you till we're blue in the face, but unless you realize it yourself, you won't believe it." He stood up. "I can be back in the morning. Help with your physical therapy. If you want." It wasn't something he particularly looked forward to doing. He wasn't exactly thrilled with Rel at the moment. Rel had made Dara pretty damned unhappy, and had been acting like a jerk at least since Bastion.

On the other hand, he should probably be grateful for that, in a way. Because if Rel hadn't made Dara unhappy, Eli wouldn't have a _shot_ at her right now. Add to that the relatively complex emotions of genuine friendship, not wanting to hurt a friend, but also not being willing to shoot happiness in the face if it happened to present itself to him. Plus, he and Rel _would_ need to learn to work together again. If not now, then in years. Because Eli was pretty damned sure that Rel would, someday, be a Spectre himself. Kirrahe sure as hell was going to be. He wasn't so sure about Thell and Seheve, but Rel and Kirrahe were mortal locks.

Rel gave him a wary look. "If you want to."

"I'll be here, then." Eli glanced at Lin. "You figured out what you and Serana are doing tomorrow afternoon? I don't want to step on toes."

"Figured I'd teach her how to ski. Something she's never done before." Lin chuckled. "So what the hell does Mazz have hovercycles for?"

"He's taking them to Tuchanka for covering rough terrain quickly." Eli shrugged. "He asked me if I knew anyone who'd like to come along. Figured I'd drag Dara out there. . . maybe Zhasa and Dempsey, too. Mazz is bringing his girlfriend." Eli made it sound casual, and dropped the _Mazz has a girlfriend_ part at the end like a flashbang.

Lin looked up. "Mazz has a _girlfriend?_ Do tell." Suddenly, Lin was grinning. Ear to ear.

"Yeah, some human girl he met at the University of Mindoir. She's got a degree in xenobiology. Working on her post-grad stuff here with Allardus. Past that, I did _not_ ask." Eli paused. "At all. There are places even my mind does not want to go."

Dara cringed slightly, then chuckled. "Well, would be interesting to meet her. I'd assume she'd have to be _strong_, except that Mazz isn't exactly typical for a krogan." She headed for the door. "Hovercycles, though? Sheesh, why would I want to do that? Like I haven't heard fifty verses and a chorus on how dangerous motorcycles are, my whole life, from my dad?"

"Hovercycles are much less dangerous than motorcycles. Besides, if Zhasa and Dempsey are there, it's a good unit bonding thing," Eli told her, reasonably enough, catching the door. As he did so, his hand brushed hers. Song everywhere, instantly, on contact. _Come on, __sai'kaea__. I'll make it worth your while. I'll cook you dinner afterwards._

_At your parents' place?_ They were in the hall now, walking out of the med bay, not touching, and not looking back.

_Lantar will be out, so yeah._ Eli exhaled. He hadn't wanted to get a place of his own on base, for valid reasons; it would just sit empty and unused when he wasn't there. But right now, he actually kind of yearned for his apartment on Edessan. Psycho-killer neatness and all. He could picture it so damned clearly, even though he'd never brought a girl past its door. Taking Dara there. Cooking dinner. Having. . . absolutely no place to sit down to eat that dinner, besides the bed, so messy foods like pasta would have been right out.

The mental image made her chuckle, and the little worker on her shoulder chittered at Eli now. And he could hear and understand the rachni perfectly. _—Brood-warrior prepares toast for little-queen?_

"I think I can manage better than toast," Eli assured the rachni, and, for the pure joy of it, put a hand just under Dara's elbow, curling his fingers there. "Have I mentioned before how much I love it when you wear a lab coat, Doctor?"

His sidelong glance told him that she was blushing. "Um. . . not out loud, you haven't. But I did have an impression about that, yes."

Chuckling, they headed towards the front door. "Sparring tonight?" Eli asked.

"Going to be hard for me to do that anymore," Dara admitted. "I mean, I know I need to practice, but touch-contact. . . and while I can wear gloves or something, all anyone needs to do is touch my skin someplace."

_Shit. I hadn't even thought of that._

_Neither had I, till just now._ Her tone was glum. _I need to practice Dempsey's blocking music. Or . . . well. . . maybe I won't be able to do this._

"You have to practice. Self-defense isn't just something you learn and then put on the shelf." Eli's stomach clenched at the thought of her going into a combat situation, armored or not, and not having the reflexes, the muscle memory, exactly in place with which to protect herself. _Shit._

Gentle piano music stealing through his thoughts. _Hey. . . pricetags. Lots of them. But. . . probably worthwhile, right? I'll be there, and we'll see if we can figure something out that doesn't involve full body-armor, or me accidentally reading everything that everyone's thinking about. Or maybe everyone who chooses to work with me has to agree to. . . having their songs listened to. Or something._

She sounded so dispirited, that Eli wanted to wrap his arms around her and kiss her. Make everything better. But, at the moment, they were at the front entrance of med bay. And he had no doubt that gossip on the base would travel at least as fast as on a ship. None of them needed that, at the moment. "Okay," he said, quietly, knowing that she at least felt his intentions, heard his melodies. "Then I'll see you in an hour or two."

Sparring was indeed a challenge. Sam finally suggested that Dara put on the elasticized undersuit from her armor, apologizing, "Even though that means you're going to sweat half to death." Still, with the hood up, it did cover her entire body. It was skin-tight, but moved with her enough that she could fight effectively. Eli had definitely appreciated the view. Not that he hadn't seen it on Omega, when they'd all been trying to sleep in the same room, catching a little downtime outside of their hardsuits, but. . . somehow, it was different, seeing her move and tumble and roll in the undersuit, than lying on one of the inflatable mattresses, trying to stay awake long enough to absorb a couple of asari verbs.

Dara and Zhasa, one in a gray bodysuit, and one in a black envirosuit, stood out now as 'alien' among the others, who all wore t-shirts and shorts. Zhasa had chuckled at the sight. "I could get you some overwraps, for your hips," she offered, cheerfully. "Something in a bright, vivid blue. To match the eyes."

Dara had, after a moment's thought, stuck her tongue out at Zhasa and made a very rude noise. "Disgusting," Siara called from a side bench. "But apt."

As the evening progressed, Eli noticed that Kallixta had, deliberately, sought Dara out to spar with. As had Seheve, who was talking to her with surprisingly animated interest, too. In between rounds with Dempsey and Lin, Eli also saw Kassa Vilinus hobble in, still leaning a bit on her cane. She was just watching from the sidelines, apparently. Like a kid hoping to be called in to play.

Melaani moved over to talk with her, and when Eli next glanced up, after finally managing to get a choke hold on Dempsey, Melaani was teaching Kassa some light asari kata. Something that a very injured body could manage, that wasn't full-contact sparring. "Seems to me," Eli pointed out to Dempsey, "that if I left pressure on your carotid artery long enough, it _should_ kill you."

"Looking for ways, huh?" Dempsey rolled to his feet, shrugging. "I don't know, man. It could kill me. . . or, for all I know, the chip might wait, kick my heart back on with an electric shock, and let the regen and cybernetics go to work fixing the brain tissue that was damaged from lack of oxygen."

Eli grimaced. "Not something I really want to test."

"Me either, Sidonis. Me either."

"So, you and Zhasa want to come with us tomorrow afternoon?"

"Would be a hell of a nice break from biotics training and going through prisoner extranet search results, looking for patterns," Dempsey said. "Zhasa said she'd love to meet your crazy krogan engineer friend again."

And so, the next morning, Eli found himself back at the med bay. The regen mod was working, no doubt about it. The look on Rel's face was damned near indescribable when Dara and Abrams unwrapped his leg and Dara announced, "All of the punctures have sealed. Thin little white lines, all up and down the leg. At the rate these are going. . . you might only have a few scars, at the deepest points. If that."

Allardus and Solanna were both there, and Solanna put her face in her hands in a pure expression of relief. Allardus' shoulders sagged for a moment, showing how much tension the older male had been under, no matter how calm the façade. Then Rinus and Lin each took one of Rel's arms, and got him to his feet. "Put weight on it," Dara said, calmly. "See if there's any pain."

"None," Rel said, triumphantly.

"Okay, then we'll need you to try to take a couple of steps. Rinus, Lin, let go, but be ready, just in case. . . " Dara trailed off as Rel took his first step, put weight on the weakened leg, and damned near fell over. Rinus' reflexes were good enough to catch him, though. "Yeah. This is when we turn you over to the physical therapy folks, Rel. And Dempsey." She took off her gloves and put them in a recycling container.

"You're not staying?" Rel asked, immediately.

"I'd be in the way," Dara replied, very still calm and distant. "Listen to the therapists and do your exercises, and I'd be willing to bet you'll be ready to go in a week, maybe two."

"Ambitious," Abrams told her. "I'd have said a month."

"And I'm looking at what the gene mod is actually doing here. Every time he injures the muscle, building it back up, the gene mod will immediately heal it. No downtime in the therapy, little risk of injury. Just a question of how much energy is involved. It'll be interesting to see how much you'll wind up having to eat, Rel. Dempsey eats like a horse, even if he _does_ complain that Zhasa's stuffing him to the gills." Eli couldn't even fathom how she managed to be so completely detached, but he knew that later, she'd be feeling the violet regret, and wondering if she'd handled it right. She didn't want to cause pain. She just wanted to be away.

Rel's mood deteriorated after that. He was still obviously glad to be on his feet, but the joy was tempered now. The more so when they got him to the physical therapy room. The therapists wanted to start him on gentle swimming motions to stretch the limb and test mobility. Rel looked apt to object, but Eli shook his head. "Walk before you run, Rel, remember?"

It was a long damned morning. The effervescent joy of getting the limb's use back faded, quickly, into the dogged determination of a person absolutely dedicated to getting himself back into shape. Since there was little to do in between helping Rel on and off of various pieces of equipment, Rinus, Lin, and Eli all more or less wound up using treadmills in the same room, running on theirs as Rel slowly walked on his.

Serana showed up halfway through the morning, gave Rel a happy embrace, and chatted at him briefly, before, a little uncomfortably, beckoning Eli off to the side. "Here," she said, and handed him a datapad. "You need to sign here, here, here, and here. Thumbprint at the end."

Eli started to read the document. Unlike a marriage contract, a dissolution statement was actually very short. _In accordance with sub-clause 13C of the appended marriage contact, I, Fortanus Pelisarus, declare that the marriage between Elijah Sidonis and Serana Velnaran is null and void. In accordance with sub-clause 14A, they will return all monies and properties given to them at their wedding, or, in the case of personal items, will return a monetary equivalent to the givers, except where the givers have provided waivers._

Which mean, in essence, that if someone had given them a toaster, they could return the toaster, return the amount that the toaster had cost, or, if the person who'd given it to them so desired, they could be let off the hook. There were a few other clauses and statements, which Eli read, suddenly feeling numb. Even though this was the _right_ thing to do, needed to be done, and even, on some levels, he wanted it done, it still seemed obscene that the past ten months or so could be summarized and dispatched with in cold, legal language. The joy on Palaven, Bastion, getting married on Dymion, waiting for her eagerly on Bastion. . . the trials endured there, the sickness, the bodies, the death, taking joy in the darkness, as best they could. And it all boiled down to this. Four signatures and a thumbprint.

Eli swallowed, and felt his eyes burn for a moment. "Is this what you really want?" Serana asked, and her voice broke, just for a moment. She'd been strong in front of her family the other night. But in front of him, or in front of Lin. . . she never could lie worth a damn.

"It's what's best," Eli told her, quietly. He picked up her hand, and very lightly kissed the back of it. _ I can't be everything at once. I can't even be everything that you need. But Lin can._

Serana's head rocked back. "I. . . heard that."

_Yeah. I was trying to let you._ Eli began to sign in the required four places. _It's hard to reach anyone but Dara or one of the other biotics. Takes a lot of concentration._

_It . . . feels like. . . when we're. . . _

_Yeah. I know._ He signed again. He'd had a lot of time to think during biotics training the past few mornings. He had, so often, felt that something was missing in bed. That this female or that had wanted part of him, but not all of him. So he'd learned to block the asari, simple enough. Not to 'share his light,' as Siara had often put it. But he'd held back with many, many others. He'd let go with Pelia, back on Macedyn, and, in retrospect, he wondered if maybe the neural shock she'd suffered _hadn't_ just been him and Lin releasing at the same moment. Maybe his own, very latent abilities, had contributed. Because when he and Lin and Serana had. . . practiced. . . there had been something else there, than just the movement of bodies. A sense of. . . communion. Oneness. Wholeness. He hadn't been holding back at all. Mind and body and spirit had been in the moment.

Third signature. Serana was staring up at him. _Didn't mean to scare you, __asperitalla__._ Here, silently, he used the old nickname, his throat tightening. _Just wanted to show you. . ._ He sighed. _Everything._ Eli signed one more time. Out loud now, and who cared if the turians in the room could hear him. "Lin loves you. With every single part of him. He loves how you argue, he loves how you refuse to fight fair, and I think he sits around thinking of things to argue about with you. Don't let him get himself killed on Khar'sharn. And don't you dare get yourself killed, either. I helped him bury one wife. A second one, and I'll probably have to bury him, too." Eli put a thumbprint at the end of the document, and handed her the datapad. "It's done."

"Eli. . . " Serana's voice was tight as he turned away. "Do you want the knife back? Either of them? Or the anklet you gave me." One had been her own choice, a bayonet, hand-forged knife. The other was a piece of Earth's history, a genuine fighting knife from the second world war.

"No. Keep them. Sell them. They were gifts, Serana. They're yours." He paused. "Besides, the anklet wouldn't look good on me." As jokes went, it was a fairly lame one. "Keep it, Serana. We were happy. Wear it if you want to, and don't feel any sorrow when you do." _I'll always love you. But you'll be my sister. And you'll be happy. I know you will._ Eli found the door, and let himself out.

It was surprising how much getting what you wanted, could really hurt.

**Dara, Mindoir, October 7-8, 2196**

She'd been surprised when Kallixta came over to spar with her. The last time they'd spoken, Kallixta had made it clear how surprised and disappointed and _hurt_ she was, that Dara was spitting in the face of turian tradition, and hurting Rel (which apparently amounted to hurting Rinus, in Kallixta's mind). Dara had done her best not to point out that Kallixta had done everything in her power to spit in the face of turian tradition herself, right down to adopting Rinus' clan-paint (in spite of being an Imperial), wearing his colors at the wedding, staying in the military—in an actual combat position, at that—past the required four year stint, and so on. Kallixta's argumentative position boiled down to an emotional reaction. As if Dara had betrayed _her_, on some level. The logic behind the arguments had been pretty damned poor. _Her tutors would despair, if they heard her right now_, Dara had managed to reflect, with a little humor, but it had been difficult, in the face of the _how can you do this?_ and the _you __just__ plighted __tal'mae_. _Shouldn't any doubts you had have been addressed before that?_

It had been so hard to convey to Kallixta that humans got in habits. Habits of thought, habits of action. The habits wore down into ruts so deep, that soon, you were beneath the level of the road itself, with dirt walls on either side of you. No perspective, no sign that there was anything else but what you'd done before and would do again. Step by step by step, every day the same track. Until someone grabbed you by the hand, dragged you up to ground level again, and helped you look around. . . there was no way to tell that you'd somehow left the green and verdant countryside for some city alleyway. It all looked the same from the groove your feet had worn, ten feet below the road.

So when Kallixta had moved over and challenged her, but with a friendly smile, Dara hadn't been prepared for it, and fully expected to come out of the match bruised. Kallixta had, however, kept it light-contact, no temper evident at all. She'd been relieved. She remembered, all too well, that Kallixta had a hell of a right hook. "So, this is the new quarian look that everyone's saying is coming into style," Kallixta had teased, near the end.

"All she needs is a helmet to go with it. And suit filters," Zhasa said, equitably. "I've already offered her the suit wraps." She paused. "I don't see those catching on, though."

"Perhaps on Bastion," Seheve offered, from behind them. "Where concerns for health might prompt. . . ?" The explanation limped out, and then the drell sighed. "Melaani tells me that I must improve my sense of humor. That was not a good attempt, was it?"

Dara shook her head. "No. Sorry. Deaths of hundreds of thousands and jokes don't work together."

Seheve shook her head. "I thought not, even before I spoke, but the juxtaposition of unlike elements usually results in humor." 

Dara considered her for a moment. "Are you _sure_ you're not an AI?" she asked, after a moment. "Perhaps downloaded into Seheve's body?" She paused as Kallixta and Zhasa both started to chuckle, waited a moment for effect, and then sighed. "No, I guess that can't be. Most of the NCAIs have really great senses of humor." _All from Joker, I think._ Dara added now, "See, that was a bit better of a joke. Not a great one, but it qualifies, at least."

Seheve smiled slightly, her huge black eyes wide. "I will continue my efforts. I'd meant to ask. . . do you think that with your, ah, changes. . . being externally visible, as they are. . . that people will accept that you've changed inside, too?" The drell stared at her for a long moment. "Or have you?"

Dara blinked. Several pieces clicked together all at once for her, and she didn't need to touch Seheve to understand her. "Inside, I think I'm mostly the same person I was before," Dara replied, slowly. "But there are changes, yes. I . . . can't actually put my finger on what they are. Zhasa here keeps telling me that the 'roses are in bloom'. . . whatever that means. . . " Dara tossed the quarian girl a look, and Zhasa chuckled. "I think the whole Keeper experience on the Citadel sort of helped prepare me for this, though. I didn't catch as much of it as Zhasa and Dempsey and Siara did, obviously. But all those memories, then. . . were sort of like the rachni memories." _Except totally not. Keeper memories were passed on at death, and if someone wasn't available to catch them, they were lost. Rachni memories are passed on at birth and at mating, sung into the whole hive, into the planet itself. Far more complete a record, in many ways._ "You feel you've changed, but because no one can see it, they don't accept it?" she asked Seheve. It wasn't hard to see that pattern at all.

Seheve's eyes widened further. "Yes."

"Give them time," Dara said, quietly. "I'm impatient, too. But it takes time for people to accept change. In five years, the hate mail I used to get for being married to a turian had finally just slowed down to a trickle. Now I'm getting it for having washed off his paint and taken off the knife. And as you said, those are just external changes. It's hard for people to see changes in the heart. They tend to cling to old ideas of how someone was, years ago." She shrugged. _Sometimes, we even cling to how __we__ were, years ago._

Kallixta had walked home with her and her father. Kasumi was still home, doing research in STG archives, even though it was late when they got back. "Can we just talk for a while?" Kallixta had asked, quietly. "A lot's happened since the last time we just. . . sat and talked."

Dara pointed down at her suit. "Can I get out of this first? And I can get you a glass of _caprificus_ juice. Kasumi and Dad keep it around for Lantar."

She'd tucked her feet up under her on the couch and listened as Kallixta talked, since it was clear her friend had a lot on her mind. Dara's eyes widened when Kallixta told her, in some confusion, that her mother _hadn't_ been the Imperatrix Aglaea. That she had, instead, been born to her father's chief guard. "And you went and talked with them a couple of weeks ago?"

"Yes." Kallixta shrugged. "Oh, I understand all the politics of it now. Why my father didn't just separate from the Imperatrix, give her a household of her own somewhere. And because the Imperial spirit is so pure, I know why she couldn't just terminate the pregnancy or take a morning-after pill. I'm grateful to be here. I'm grateful to know the truth. I just . . . don't understand."

"Don't understand what?"

Kallixta sighed. "Any of it, I suppose. He came to my graduation. First time he'd done so since. . . I think since my first-sister graduated. He touched me with his own hands. Gave me so many marks of favor—Commodus and Venista's knives, for the sake of all the spirits—let me marry Rinus, rather than marrying me off to some minor noble somewhere. I'd always just thought that I'd pleased him. By being. . . I don't know. Aggressive. Dedicated to my job. Skirting the boundaries of what's acceptable in an imperial." Kallixta frowned. "And now I find out that it's just because of an accident of birth."

Dara laughed under her breath. "You're kidding me, right?"

Kallixta's head jerked up. "What's so funny about this?"

"Kallixta, you're not only an imperial princess, which most people would kill to be. . . but you were loved and _wanted_ from the very beginning. You never mentioned the most _obvious_ solution that they had, and didn't pursue at all. Didn't, from the sounds of it, even consider. Your mother could have adopted you out. Never spoken your father's name. You could have been nameless and not have known _either_ of your parents. Instead, your mother and father pretty much wore a hairshirt for twenty years. Your mother, not being able to so much as touch you. Your father _could_ keep an eye on you, but couldn't really mark you out as special in any way until you distinguished yourself. Which you _did_. On your _own_." Maybe it was the perspective of all those rachni lives. Maybe it was the cheerful chorus of her little workers, singing silly songs about liking the smell of the floor wax Kasumi had given them to use in the kitchen. Maybe it was just being human, and not turian. But it seemed pretty straightforward to Dara.

"Why they didn't trust me with the knowledge when I came out of boot camp, then?" Kallixta said, hurt clearly evident in her face and eyes. "I was an adult. They could have told me."

Dara shook her head. "I don't know. I don't know why they didn't, but . . . seems like it would be a really hard conversation to start. 'Say, fifth-daughter, did I ever tell you that your mother, charming woman that she is, isn't actually your mother?' Yeah. . . awkward." Dara made a face at Kallixta as her friend raised her head. "I'm becoming an expert on really uncomfortable conversations, and that one would probably hit my top ten list. 'So, Dad, I understand my mom came onto you when she was in estrus, and you couldn't say no. . . ' Yeah. Your father makes the word _reserved_ look like an understatement. It would be hard to start that conversation, especially with having had so little contact with you, don't you think?"

"So why _wait?_ Why not. . . create more contact—oh." Kallixta paused.

Dara raised her glass of soda in a little toast. "Sounds like you just answered your own question, huh."

"Maybe." Kallixta hesitated. Dara didn't envy her a bit. Suddenly re-evaluating your entire life, and certainly the past five years, wasn't fun. She'd been doing it a lot herself lately, after all. But at least Dara hadn't had to re-evaluate her entire relationship with her father. That part of her life had been stable, solid, and secure. "Surely, by now, they'd have seen I was . . . trustworthy, wouldn't they?"

Dara held up her fingers. "One year on the _Estallus_. One year on the _Hamus_. There was an SR-3 in there somewhere, wasn't there?"

"_Kapaesa._ Yeah. Then the flight instructor position." Kallixta sighed. "Yeah. I haven't really spent much time in one place, have I?"

"Welcome to the club," Dara told her, cheerfully. "We've got matching jackets we can wear."

Kallixta sighed. "So, with all that in mind, and my father's very evident _forty years_ of being in an unhappy marriage staring me in the face. . . I'd like to apologize for a number of really stupid things I said to you a few months ago."

Dara blinked. "Kallixta. . . you don't have to apologize for speaking your mind."

"No. I wasn't speaking my mind, I was speaking my heart, and it was saying stupid things." Kallixta rubbed at her face. "You're my best friend, Dara. You've always tried so hard to be turian for Rel's sake—"

_Tell me about it. That's half the problem_.

"—that you _felt_ turian to me, a lot of the time. Colorful expressions, notwithstanding." Kallixta looked wretched. "So I guess it felt like you were saying you weren't turian. That you wanted nothing to do with anything we stood for anymore. And like, on some level, that included me."

Dara lowered her head. "I wasn't rejecting _everything_ turian," she said, quietly. "I just can't _be_ turian. God, I've tried to meet him in the middle, and I damned near lost myself doing it." _Which is why I can't let the rachni part overwhelm me. I've worked too goddamned hard to get my humanity back. I won't lose it now._ "There's a lot I admire about turians. The honor. The discipline. The loyalty. But I won't nail myself to the cross, Kallixta. My self-sacrifice only goes so far." She grimaced. "Your father did that, Kallixta. So did your mother. They bled every single day for at least twenty years, because they didn't want to upset the apple cart, create social disruption." _That's the charitable interpretation. The cynic would say that Ligorus didn't want to lose power._ "I can't do that."

"I know. Rinus is actually talking about putting in some law changes before the Conclave—"

There was a knock at the door, and, much to her amusement, her workers had beaten everyone else to the door to answer it. —_Must practice doorknob song! _Dara hustled there in their wake, however, and looked up, in mild surprise, at the completely befuddled face of Kassa Vilinus.. "Oh, hi. Come on in." She looked down at the workers, and said, dryly, "Guys? House rule. Let one of us see who's at the door before opening it. Don't just open it for any old person, okay?"

—_We would not let intruders or unfavored ones into hive! Soldiers outside would sing attack-songs, prevent entry._

Dara thought about that, a clear mental image of door-to-door Bible-thumpers in Texas coming to mind, and being chased off by hissing rachni soldiers, and stifled a laugh. "My mom would have _loved_ you guys. Um, still? Let me _know_ who's there, okay?"

—_We have erred. Sadness-songs._ Violets all through her mind.

Dara reached down and picked up 1812, and put him on her shoulder. "Don't be sad. You're learning. So am I."

She looked up again at Kassa. Inwardly, she was longing for a shower, but so long as Kallixta wasn't complaining about the smell, and they were at least talking after several months without even a letter, Dara supposed it didn't matter. "Kallixta, you remember Kassa, right?"

"Gunship pilot, yes!" Kallixta sounded cheerful.

"I can. . . I never seem to catch you at a good moment to talk," Kassa said, uncomfortably.

Kallixta smiled faintly. "I can leave," she offered. "Dara. . . it was really good catching up. Next time I get stubborn and stupid like that, for the spirit's sake, kick me in the head. Sometimes, we turians need that."

"Your bodyguards would beat me," Dara told her.

"Your little bodyguards would _eat_ my bodyguards." Kallixta pointed down at the chittering workers.

"Then my bodyguards would fall over, with terminal tummyaches. No one wins." Dara let Kallixta out the door, and looked up at Kassa. "I'm sorry, Kassa. It's really late, and I'm dying for a shower. What can I do for you?"

Kassa stared down at her, clearly struggling. "I don't even know how to say this." She'd been speaking in galactic, and suddenly switched up to _tal'mae_. _"I have given you offense, and you are unaware of the trespass. I came here to offer what restitution you see fit."_

Dara stared at her. "Huh?" She was tired, sweaty, and not at her mental best, apparently. She saddled up her _tal'mae_ and replied, as best she could, "_What offense could be so great that you would seek to make amends?"_

Kassa absolutely fidgeted, which was odd to see in a centurion, but she was clearly uncomfortable. "Look," Dara said, as kindly as she could. "Why don't you come in and sit down? I'll get you a glass of _caprificus_ juice, same as Kallixta just had, and we can talk." _And then maybe I can finally shower._

Kassa fidgeted some more. _"I cannot accept hospitality, for I have wronged you."_

"_In what fashion have you given offense?"_

"_He who is your mate made advances upon me, in the spirit of battle-ardor, and while I rejected his intentions, I did so reluctantly."_ Kassa looked down with the admission.

It took Dara a moment to translate that out of _tal'mae_. "So you're saying Rel bit you? After a battle?"

Kassa winced at the directness. Turians were famously blunt, but _tal'mae_ allowed for a certain formality and circumlocution, while at the same time being extremely precise in its meanings. "Yes." She put her hands behind her back, as if being reviewed.

"And you told him no?"

"Yes. . . I mean, yes, I told him no."

"But _reluctantly._" Dara's lips were twitching faintly now. _Only a turian would come to someone with a confession like this. Honor really is everything. Except if there were any spark of the marriage left, something like this could kill it. Unless she thought possessive-anger, jealous-anger, would make me want him again, or something like that. . . no, she's a little too straight-forward for that._

"You're . . . smiling." Kassa stared at her. "Why?"

Dara sat down on the edge of the staircase, and gave in, starting to chuckle, at first silently, and then more loudly. "God, I don't even know, Kassa." Her little workers sang to her in a chorus of confusion. She'd told Rel she wanted time to think four months ago. And he'd exploded at her, told her that that was an excuse, more or less, that there was nothing to think about, that there should just be feeling, or not feeling, but that he wanted everything to continue as they'd begun. No ifs, ands, or buts. She hadn't kissed Eli until less than a week ago, with rachni song chorusing in their minds, and once she'd made the firm decision to continue the separation, pending divorce. In the meantime, Rel, off on Shanxi, had apparently made a pass at Kassa, and been rejected. Dara concentrated. Listened for the undersong. The pettiness of the lowest levels. _And he's the one who's been pushing for continuing the marriage. When even he should be able to see that it's broken. That was proof, right there._ The mid-level songs counseled understanding. _It's a natural thing to reach for life in the midst of death. Even humans do it, in response to adrenaline. Doesn't excuse, but makes understandable._ Mid-levels also urged relief. _Now he can't possibly accuse you of wrong-doing without making himself look like a hypocrite. Besides which, we're separated. That made him a free agent._ The oversong, the highest levels asked, calmly, _Do you care?_

A little. A very little. Enough to make her laugh at herself for her own stupidity. That was all undersong, though. Petty jealousy. Base-stuff, not star-stuff. If she were better and stronger, it wouldn't bother her at all. Oversong, the superego said, _Good. Good for him. Let him reach out. Let him move on. You've got more than enough to worry about._ And so, she looked back up at Kassa, and asked, still smiling faintly, "What were your intentions in telling me this?"

"Honesty," Kassa said, after a moment. "I tried. . .spirits know, I tried. . . to help him regain his spirit. Meditation, conversation, whatever. And then I came to this base, and I think I begin to understand, dimly, why he's having such a problem finding it again. His spirit was never fully turian to begin with."

Dara tipped her head back. "He always did say he thought he was a very bad turian. That he had absorbed so much of the spirit of Mindoir that he didn't think he'd do well in boot camp. That the centurions would sniff it out in him." _And so he wanted to cling to me, for me to bring Mindoir to him. And instead. . . he worked so hard at being the perfect soldier, the perfect turian, that he killed Mindoir in him._ It fit. She shook her head, and chuckled again, ruefully. _Hind-sight, always the clearest vision there is. _

Kassa looked down. "You're. . . really not bothered by this?"

"Oh, I am. Sort of." Dara stood up. "Look, Kassa, I promise, a year ago, I'm sure I'd have been very appropriately threatened, but you have to consider that at the moment, I have seven rachni in the house, singing comfort-songs in my head, and I'm currently feeling a need to go check to see if the roots of my hair are growing in _green._ Which is, by the way, not a natural color for a human, and it's one I'd have to dye to cover it if happens to, well, happen." Dara rubbed a hand through her hair, and made a face at the sticky sweat clumping it together. "If you're interested in Rel, knock yourself out. I don't know if Garrus and Lantar are still trying to hold him to their whole 'remove the oxytocin' half of the cycle of adrenal addiction routine, but hell, his leg's better. The first dose of the gene mod had everything knitting together, last I heard from Abrams. We'll verify its progress in the morning. Then they'll start weaning him off the pain meds. Go jump him if that's what you want. You don't need my permission or my forgiveness or anything else."

Kassa's mouth fell open. Dara was being turian-blunt, but in galactic. "I. . . I don't think that's. . . I think he's still in love with you."

Dara examined the emotional vortex of Rel she'd sensed the other day. "There's affection, way, way down at the bottom of a whole lot of anger and jealousy." Her voice held absolute conviction, but it still hurt. It hurt because the part of her that was always going to be sixteen was always going to love Rel the way he'd been at sixteen. A bundle of energy and assurance, happiness and honor. The trouble with that was, she wasn't that same person anymore. Not even remotely. _Dad was right. Again._

Kassa tried, one more time. "So you don't care? At all? You're just going to leave him in this mess—"

Dara turned on her and looked directly into the taller female's eyes. Got right in her face. "Kassa," Dara said, softly, "I've spent the last two or three days working on an experimental gene mod for him, every hour of the day that I wasn't attempting to put my own brain back together. I care enough for him to do that. As I would for any other friend on this base. Past that, you don't have the _right_ to ask me what I feel or what I'm going to do." Dara realized, dimly, that 1812 was hissing on her shoulder, and she deliberately calmed herself, and focused on greens and blues. Happy piano music, something big and boisterous, by Liszt. "Thank you for your admission. It doesn't make any difference, except to making my lawyer's eventual case easier. It's over. And it would be much simpler if he'd just admit that, and move on."

"He's mentioned, several times in the last few days, that he just wants to talk to you. Alone. Without everyone else around." Kassa sounded, of all things, downcast. As if she wanted, somehow, both to fix everything between Dara and Rel. . . or at least fix Rel. Dara could understand that urge, but she wasn't going to give in to it. Not again.

Dara pointed to 1812 on her shoulder. "Never going to happen," she said, softly. "No matter where I go, I'm never _really_ alone anymore. Things change. He's going to have to accept that." She smiled faintly, but without any humor at all now. "Ask him, if the subject happens to come up. . . how he'd feel about sharing a bed with five or six rachni." _Because I can't touch him without his anger overwhelming me. It __hurts__. He can't give me his songs. So the workers would have to be there all the time, at least in the room. I somehow do not see Rel adapting to this. Not. . . not this Rel. Mindoir Rel, the one of six years ago? He could have. Fleet Rel, probably not._ "Now, if you'll excuse me? There's a shower upstairs with my name on it."

Behind Kassa, the workers opened the door, right on cue. _Nice work!_ Dara cheered them. _Good use of doorknob songs!_

—_New-queen sings approval-song! Joy-songs!_

Saturday morning, she verified, with Dr. Abrams, that the gene mod had sunk in overnight, and started changing the way Rel's immune system worked. How his cells reproduced. Cleanly, quickly, and with no transcription errors. That had been one of their worst simulator results: they'd both been terrified of causing massive cancerous tumors all through Rel's body. That's why they'd verified and re-verified and re-re-verified the gene mod's structures. And when Rel asked her if she were going to stay, Dara paused, and told him, as gently as she could, no. She'd be in the way. And she would be, she knew. He needed to focus on recovering. Not on her, not on strife or uncertainty. Just purely on getting the muscles of the limb to start working the way they were supposed to once more. He couldn't do that if she were there.

So, she'd gone home. Back to a guest room in a house that wasn't really hers anymore, but it was a heck of a lot homier than a hotel room or married quarters on some distant planet or a ship somewhere. She'd finished the quilt a few nights ago with her grandmother, and now was at loose ends for a project. _Right. May as well get back to reading up on krogan and asari genetics. Haven't had a chance in a while._ Liszt climbed up on her shoulder and crooned at her, plaiting her hair while she read.

Around noon, her omnitool chirped. _Right. Eli's probably reminding me about the whole hovercycle thing._ Her father had had a few things to say about that over breakfast. "Just remember, wheelies are the most damned fool thing you can do on a cycle. And I know that, because that's exactly what I was doing when I crashed mine." He rubbed at his moustache for emphasis, and the scar that it had concealed for longer than Dara had been alive.

"That was, in fairness, a motorcycle, Dad. Hovercycles are a little safer. They don't actually go on the ground. No chance of losing traction," Dara pointed out. Not that she was entirely thrilled with the idea, actually.

"Hovercycles also go up to three times as fast as the average motorcycle," her dad pointed out, dryly. "Just because you're not going to skid out on gravel doesn't mean you can't wrap yourself around a tree."

"But if you go over the edge of an embankment, you'll pretty much just drift to the ground," Dara had replied, and that had been that, for the moment.

However, the message now wasn't from Eli. It was from Lin. _Freya. You should probably know that our little one just had Tyr sign the dissolution papers. He left the med bay about fifteen minutes ago. He's upset, I think. —Forseti_

Dara blinked. For a moment, she couldn't fathom why Lin was using their squad names, and then it dawned on her that Lin had also sent it over the Spectre band. Cautious, cautious Lin. Watching out for Eli, but unable to leave Rel at the moment.

**Elijah and Dara, October 8, 2196**

Eli was out in the garage, beating the living hell out of a heavy bag. He'd wrapped his hands, but elbows, knees, shins, everything was engaged in the process of working out a few personal demons.

His first clue that he wasn't alone was the _chitter, chitter, chitter_. "No names right now," Eli said, glancing down. "Stay out of the way. I don't want to step on one of you by accident." Lightning-fast combination of strikes, stepping through, and backhanding the bag on the way by, just a couple of more hits. Attacks that probably would have just added to the body's momentum towards the ground.

Scrape of feet on the gravel drive, and then a soft voice spoke. "I think whoever it is, is probably unconscious by now," Dara said, quietly.

Eli turned. She was a shadow against the bright sunlight streaming into the garage. _Shit._ "Is it time to go meet Mazz and the others? I . . . shit. I let time slip away."

She stepped in, and hopped up on the workbench, settling a paper bag down beside her on the bench. "Nah. We've got an hour or two." She looked at him, and he once again felt both the wonder of the new eyes, wide and rachni-blue, and a pang of regret for the rich chocolate that they'd been before. He'd always been able to read her eyes before. Now. . . not as easy a task. "Lin told me Serana had given you the paperwork." Sympathy in her voice. "It sucks, Eli. It does."

Eli stripped off the wrappings on his sweaty hands and tossed them on the workbench. He didn't want to talk about it. Hell, he didn't even want to feel it. That's why he was trying to beat it the hell out of his system right now. It was stupid and irrational and human. "I'm not real good company right now, _sai'kaea_," he told her, walking over and putting both hands on the workbench, outside of her legs. Very careful not to touch her at all. And very careful not to _picture_ touching her, with that tingle of intention that meant sharing his light. He wasn't sure he _wanted_ her to see what was going on inside his head at the moment.

"It's okay," Dara told him quietly. "We don't have to go out with Mazz and Dempsey and Zhasa." Just as carefully, she wasn't touching him. Just looking across at him, perched on the workbench, expression concerned. "I brought you a present. I, well, Lin mentioned once that you liked whiskey." Dara reached into the bag, and brought out the bottle. "I asked my dad what he considered good." A quick, light shrug. "You did say you needed to get me drunk at some point. This might be as good a time as any."

Eli read the label and whistled silently. Twelve-year old Connemara, imported from Ireland. It had probably cost her about two hundred credits, considering how far it had been shipped. "_Sai'kaea_, that stuff's too good to drink solely for the purpose of getting drunk." He smiled a little, and the expression felt a little more natural. "Besides, I have no idea what effect booze would actually have on you right now. Running the doctor to med bay sounds like a bad idea."

She chuckled. "Probably not too much of an effect. In moderation." She reached out and touched his face.

Eli sucked in a breath, and the music rose up and folded around them. Her own violet regrets, plangent and true, minor keys. Indigo, as usual. Green-yellow worries, mostly centered on him. Little snaps of red anger, as he found her memories of the night before, shared them with her, snorted a little. _And suddenly, I feel somewhat less guilty. We're not really sneaking around on Rel. You've been very clear with him that it's over. We're being quiet because we want to be sure before we make a big deal out of it. And to save Serana, and hell, even Rel, any embarrassment. _Reassurance.

Then he saw his own regrets, confusions, doubts, as she saw and heard them. _Hey. We don't have to go anywhere this afternoon. Not if you're not feeling up to it._ She paused. _Wait. This was a date?_

_Only if you __wanted__ it to be a date. It's a nice safe first date. One you can easily consider an outing with a group of friends._ Eli pulled her closer to him on the workbench, and settled his head against her shoulder. _Let me get cleaned up, and we'll go._

_Only if you're sure—_

_Sai'kaea__, just having you here is making things better._ Eli picked up the bottle of whiskey and grinned at her. _Besides. I get you in that house, and we both start drinking this, in our current moods, and I guarantee, we will wind up in the bedroom._ He stroked her face, her throat, with the backs of his fingers, and added, _Not that I don't want exactly that. But. . . _

_Not with anger. Not with regret. Not with sorrow or guilt or anything else hanging over us?_ The specter of it all being some sort of weird rebound thing hovered over them both. Eli didn't think it was. But he also didn't quite dare give voice to the emotions that they could both feel in each other. Naming them would make things. . . concrete. Set up expectations. It was better to deal in abstracts, for the moment. To try to figure out what was real.

_If you let me, I want to be the __only_ _thing on your mind._ Eli leaned forward and kissed her, and then bit the side of her throat gently. Felt the flash of pure burgundy flare in her. And pulled away.

_All things considered. . . let's make it a date, then. _

Half an hour later, Dara wasn't so sure that this was a good idea. 1812 and Chopin insisted on accompanying her and Eli, in spite of her assurances that he could supply her need for song quite well for the time being. Dempsey and Zhasa had one of the hovercycles, Eli and Dara had another, and Mazz and his girlfriend had the third. Mazz had pointed them in the direction of the dried-up riverbeds that they'd used during Mako training during the Spectre trials, and at the moment, Dara didn't care if she was wearing a helmet or not. The wind rushed by them, tearing at the jackets they were wearing. She had her arms wrapped around his waist, skin contact, and was hanging on for dear life.. And he was laughing at her. Quietly, gently, but in her mind, wave after wave of blue-green amusement. _Sai'kaea__, if you won't open your eyes, at least look through mine._ She could feel his excitement, exhilaration. Delight in the precision and control of the turns, the responsiveness of the vehicle. _I swear, I'm a trained professional. I learned to ride one of these on Macedyn. _

"I refuse to believe they had you doing traffic stops!"

"They didn't! But some of the gangs there use these for courier jobs. Moving stolen goods, drugs. High speed, maneuverable. Lin and I both got into a couple of really _fun_ high speed chases." _Come on, relax. Be here with me._

The little rachni workers weren't helping much. —_Wheeeeee!_

—_So fast! Faster, faster!_

Through Eli's eyes, it wasn't nearly as bad. The terrain was speeding by under them at well over two hundred miles an hour, and he took his eyes off the empty desert ahead of them to look over at Dempsey and Zhasa and grin momentarily. That made Dara clutch even more tightly. _Please, just watch the road._ _Okay, there's no road. No, Eli, that's a cliff!_ Her brave words to her father this morning were completely forgotten as they sailed over the edge of the embankment, and then drifted down gently.

"_Sai'kaea_, we're not even doing half this thing's top speed," Eli called back to her. _Trust me. Come on. Open your eyes. I'm good at this._ _Just relax and move with me. It'll make the turns in the canyons much safer if your body moves with mine._ Another spark of amusement in him. _Kind of like other things._

"Bite me, Elijah Sidonis."

"Not right now, _sai'kaea_. Busy. But later, I promise." Eli laughed out loud, and then the three hovercycles dropped down into the Byzantine passageways of the dry river canyons. They looked totally different now, than months ago. Before, they'd been lumbering through them in the steady, kidney-rattling, ground-eating pace of the Mako. Now, there was just the free-flow of air, the roar of the mass-effect propelled engines, and the sensation of movement. Dara could hear Zhasa whooping in glee, and heard Mazz shout, "Last one to the finish line buys at Gardners' when we get back!"

_You're not going to let us lose, are you, __sai'kaea__?_ Eli told her.

Ashamed of her own fears, Dara inched up to peer over his shoulder with her own eyes. "No. Go get him."

She had to close her eyes again at several points. The top speed of the hovercycle was over five hundred miles an hour, and in the short, twisty canyons, it seemed slightly suicidal to her. But she was also getting an object lesson in Eli's reflex speed. She wondered now, ruefully, if she should have taken _that_, and not the vision mod. His reaction time had always been good. Now, it was better than a turian's. And he judged the angles with stomach-turning precision, as 1812 and Chopin squealed in absolute glee. Never, apparently, had two workers ever had so much fun, not in the memory-songs of all the queens. Mazz had, of course, a krogan's sense of total invincibility, and was pushing them. Hard. And Dempsey had absolutely no fear, either. Dara opened her eyes again, and made herself relax into Eli. In a way, it was like . . . watching a concert pianist. . . she decided. Total concentration on the current movement, the next movement needed. And understanding that, let her flow into his song. Let her body relax into his. _Oh yeah, there you go, move with me, like that._ They ducked around a bend, the air howling in indignation in their wake. _ Yeah, now you're not fighting every turn. Next one. . . now._

They crossed the finish line—still marked in white chalk, from months ago, since no rain had fallen in the desert since then—inches ahead of Dempsey and Zhasa, who were inches ahead of Mazz. Eli pulled up on hovercycle's handles, and began letting their speed dissipate. "Very nice bikes," he called over to Mazz. "I think we owe you dinner anyway, for letting us ride them. But tomorrow night, okay?"

Mazz chuckled. "I won't say no. I wanted to see if they'd have enough speed to outrun raiders on Tuchanka. I think they do." They'd cruised in to a lazy halt.

"Raiders are still a problem?" Dara called over to Mazz.

"Yeah. The clans that aren't in the Clan Alliance seem to think that the water plant and the fields would make good targets. Or that my engineers and surveyors would make good hostages." Mazz sounded grim. "Actually, my next stop's Shanxi. Some human Alliance bigshot heard about what I was doing with refitting the ruined infrastructure on Tuchanka, and asked if I could reconnect the water systems on Shanxi. I said I'd take a look." He looked at them all soberly. "Is it as bad as they say?"

Eli nodded. "Probably worse," he acknowledged. "Omega's in for a shit-ton of work, too."

Mazz shrugged. "Any profit I make, fixing crap on Shanxi, is credits I can put into my Tuchanka work. It's not a bad thing. Plus. . . " he grinned toothily, and got down off the hovercycle, helping his girlfriend down, too; she'd been seated in front of him. ". . . you know it's good advertisement for the Clan Alliance. Every time someone sees me in a suit somewhere, overseeing construction, Wrex gets another comm call expressing interest in joining the Alliance."

Dara slid down off the hovercycle herself now, glad of Eli's steadying hand. "I haven't had the pleasure of meeting your girlfriend," she pointed out. The human girl had vivid red hair, a smattering of freckles, dark glasses, and a faint, shy smile, at the moment.

Mazz chuckled. "Jocelyn Bielmann, this is Dr. Dara. . . hell, I guess I should be calling you Jaworski again, right?"

"It's not on paper yet, but yeah."

"Okay. Dr. Dara Jaworski. One of Dr. Velnaran's former students, just like you are now. And one of the two scariest women I know. This is Elijah Sidonis, and these two. . . well, I don't know them well yet, but I'm sure they're okay, especially if Eli vouches for them."

"James Dempsey."

"Zhasa'Maedan vas Irria nar Pellus," the quarian volunteered, and they shook hands all around, standing in the desert's hard-packed clay.

Jocelyn put out her hand, and Dara was intrigued. The young woman showed no hint of anxiety in her face. At all. She wasn't even looking at the two rachni workers on Dara's shoulders, and didn't seem to be staring at her eyes, or Eli's, which were currently night-black. "It's a pleasure to meet you," she told them all immediately. Dara studied the glasses for a moment, and then she realized what she was looking at. Tiny wires ran from the earpieces back through Jocelyn's red hair, and Dara nodded to herself.

"Nice to meet you, too." Dara hesitated. "If I may ask, how long have you been blind?"

"Since I was eight," Jocelyn replied, calmly. "Head trauma. Bad groundcar accident, did a number on my occipital lobe. I'm lucky sight was the only thing I lost. My little brother didn't survive the crash. Drunk driver." She shrugged. It was an old pain, obviously, long in the past.

"The glasses are the Kilitas internal HUD, right?" Dara was proceeding carefully. She didn't want to offend the woman. She was obviously pretty amazing, if she was dating Mazz.

"Yes. They have a variety of small cameras, and they output a rough image to a chip in my brain."

Dempsey grunted. "Tell me it's not in your amygdale."

Jocelyn looked confused. "No, it's in the occipital lobe. They found an undamaged section and plugged it in there. It doesn't give me great vision. . . outlines, mostly. And it jumps and blurs sometimes. But it's enough to get me from point A to point B without a cane or a seeing-eye dog. And that's pretty damned wonderful."

_And that explains why she's not reacting to my eyes, or Eli's, or his clan-paint, or the rachni. She probably can't even tell what the little guys __are__. Probably thinks they're . . . really dumb-looking shoulder pads on my jacket, or something._ Dara repressed the urge to laugh at the thought. But it was damned nice just to meet someone who took them at.. . well, face value. Hell, she was dating _Mazz_, who was surely not a prize in the looks department, but who was intelligent, loyal, and had long since learned to leash his temper.

They all chatted a while longer. Jocelyn was looking forward to meeting Kanar, Mazz's father, but was more than a little intimidated to realize that his uncle was Ulluthyr Harak. "Nice guy," Eli said, blandly. "You'll love his girlfriend."

Dara jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow, and Eli chuckled. "I'm not sure if I can ever actually go to Tuchanka," Jocelyn said now. "I'm sure most of the krogan would see me as weak or defective."

Mazz growled. "Yeah. Well, let's see if they're saying that after you figure out how to get triticale grain to grow on Tuchanka."

Dara made a mental note to make sure she got to know Jocelyn better. The xenobiology specialty made it easy to talk to the girl, and again, she seemed very nice.

A couple of more circuits through the canyons. Eli insisted that Dara take over the controls on their last loops through, and got her seated in front of him to do so. _You're much less nervous now. Well. . . somewhat. You're still holding us back to about quarter speed._

_This is __plenty__ fast, Eli. I don't have your reflexes._

"Slowpoke."

—_New-queen does sing slower. But still, we fly fast!_

"We'll get there alive, right? Besides. . . sometimes it's more fun to go slow."

There was a moment of absolute silence. _Sai'kaea__, was there a double meaning in that? I ask strictly in my role as a scientific observer . . . _

They handed off the bike to Mazz back at the science station, with thanks, and took the shuttle back up to the base. Not wanting to talk in front of the people on the crowded shuttle, Dara sang to Eli in his thoughts, _Are we still on for dinner?_

_Oh yes. I am definitely cooking for you. It's not going to be anything nearly as fancy as what my mom can make, or your dad, or Kasumi. . . but hell. When __was__ the last time anyone but your dad cooked for you? And don't say 'at a restaurant' or 'at the cafeteria.'_

Dara thought back. She'd wound up doing most of the cooking on Sur'Kesh. Twenty-four hour shifts at the STG hospital had made for funky hours, and if she wanted to eat when she got home before collapsing into bed, she'd needed to scrounge for food. _I don't know, honestly._

_About damned time someone did, then_.

Of course, she couldn't really resist helping. Eli let her chop the onions, at least, for the pasta sauce he was making, and halfway through, she sucked in a breath and swore. "Damn!" She pulled her hand back, expecting to see blood everywhere. "Huh."

—_Little queen damaged herself?_ Chopin skittered over on the countertop. _Should let us help prepare the food-songs._

Eli caught her hand, and looked at it with her. "I don't see anything."

"I know I caught myself with the knife. Thought I'd just taken the tip of my finger off." She looked again, shook her head, and shrugged. "Dumb luck, I guess."

Eli kissed the tips of her fingers. Then the palm of her hand. The inside of her wrist. Dara dropped the knife on the cutting board, and reached up to touch his face again. "Having a nice date so far?" he asked, quietly.

"Oh yes."

"Good. My chances are better that you'll let me do this again, then." Swift, fervent kiss on the lips, his body pressing her back into the counter, and then he told her, "Onions. Hold the blood."

—_Ohhhh! Food-songs part of mating-songs!_

—_New-queen and favored brood-warrior's harmonies very complex. _

—_Will sing mating-songs soon? _

At the table, he actually apologized, "If I'd been planning this far enough ahead, I'd have tried to make the pasta homemade, too. My mom's got all the presses and whatever in the kitchen. And about four million recipes on her kitchen datapad."

"Next time," Dara told him, smiling. "This is really good." She reached out, and slid her fingers into his. Marveling at how simple it was to interlace their fingers, although his hands were so much bigger than hers.

"Mmm. Good. So you're already thinking next time."

"Shouldn't I be?"

"Well, that is the fun of dating, _sai'kaea._ Mystery. Danger. Excitement."

She chuckled, and then they cleared the plates. Eli had poured them each a glass of red wine with dinner, and she'd been very cautiously sipping hers, as if she were, once again, trying to figure out allergic reactions. No ill effects so far, however. Now, they carried their glasses out into the living room, and sat down together on the couch. Just talking at first, then going steadily more silent. Listening to the music in each others' thoughts. After a while, Dara set her glass down, and carefully began to unbuckle the straps on the sheath he hadn't taken off his left arm yet. Gently. Carefully. With respect. _You'll keep the knife, right?_

_It's a good knife. Good for field use. So yeah, I'll keep it. And use it. It just won't mean what it means now._ Eli took off his wedding ring and set it on the table, spinning it idly.

_So. . . what usually happens next on a date?_ Dara asked, smiling up at him.

_This._ Eli set his glass down on the table and leaned forward, kissing her slowly. Sweetly. Rubbing his tongue between her lips as his fingers moved up, slid into her hair, and cradled her face. _Oh, god, yes, this._

Sharp inhalation. Gasp as his teeth found her throat. _Bite me, Eli._

_Any. . . where. . . you. . . want._ He couldn't believe how responsive she actually was. Sweet smells, softness of her skin under his mouth, his teeth, his hands. He slid his hands up under her shirt, stroking her waist, then ducked down and bit her there, as if they really were both turians. As he suspected, she'd been conditioned to respond to that, and it really was a pleasure to bite and kiss her there. Smooth, toned flanks, taut belly. Licking, kissing, biting, raising her shirt a little more. .. .

. . .little puffs of his breath, hot, then cooling rapidly where his lips and tongue had been, scrape of facial hair, scrape of teeth, higher now, and she tensed a little. His hands stole up now, touching her breasts. Strange. Almost alien, in fact. Confusing. _Oh, god, __sai'kaea__, never? Really? Never?_

_No. . . not interesting for him. Just sort of . . . there._ She hesitated. _Not all that interesting for me, either. Again, just sort of there._

_Trust me on this. They interest __me._ Eli pulled back, and grinned at her. "Then again, you've also got a nice little waist. Legs that go on forever. Your hair smells nice. And the eyes are a turn-on, too."

_You miss the brown._

_I do. I was used to that. But this is gorgeous, too._ He'd taken advantage of her distraction to lift the not-quite-a-sports-bra out of his way, and filled his hands with her breasts now. _Perfect. Better than I'd imagined._ She'd been his ideal of human female beauty for years now, although that thought made her squirm in embarrassment. _Eli, there's no way—_

—_Oh, but there is. Not too light, not too dark, not too much, not too little, not too tall for me, and not too short. Just right._ He'd been cupping and very gently stroking her breasts, trying to let her get used to his touch, staying firmly on the ivory. Now he moved to the pink, tracing circles with his thumbs, and felt her body jerk in stunned reaction. _It's going to kill me to stop, __sai'kaea__, but we're going to have to, soon, or I'm dragging you back to my bed and to __hell__ with going slowly._ He closed his lips around one nipple, and a _storm_ of her music hit him. Sheets and sheets of burgundy. _Maieolo'rae'kiia_, he reminded himself. Mental openness, but only light physical intimacy. _Lots and lots of_ _kiia__._

He pulled back and kissed her lightly. _You let me go a little far for a first date, __sai'kaea__._

_Technically, it's not a first date._

_None of those kisses when we were kids count._ He'd migrated back to throat, and started biting again. Loving the sounds she made when he did so. _None of those were __dates__._ Eli sighed. Right around now was when he needed to stop.

Fortunately, distraction came in two forms. The disappointed voices of the workers, who'd been cheering them on all this while. Eli had a quick mental impression of them holding up tiny signs, grading his performance so far, and them erasing the 10.0 and hastily scrawling 5.0 in its place. Dara picked up the image, and started to laugh.

_Un_fortunately, the second distraction occurred then. Dara's omnitool started to chirp. Incessantly. She sighed and pulled up the screen. "Medical emergency," she muttered. "My god, people, I am not even on call. . . .whoa." Her entire sense changed. Turned vividly green-yellow, in fact.

"What?" Eli asked her, her worry igniting his own. "Rel? Serana?"

"No," Dara said, pulling her clothes back into place. "It's _Zhasa_. Dempsey just took her to the med bay. I've got to get there."

One glass of wine wasn't enough for impairment, but Eli was already nodding. "I'll drive."

**Author's note:**_ Dermiti was also kind enough to give me the hovercycle racing idea. ;-) After all, what do I really know about dating?_


	118. Chapter 118:Weal and Woe

**118: Weal and Woe**

_**Author's note:**_ _**CalliesVoice**__ has been slowly but surely doing the incredibly painful work of taking all of these Word files and converting them into PDFs. She's ready to offer Spirit of Redemption (part 1) on her website for download, for those who've wanted a clean copy for their Kindles or whatever people are using these days. A huge thank-you to her, because that's boring and thankless work. And it's on her website at _www[DOT]tecetera[DOT]net/ 2011/ 10/ 09/ spirit-of-redemption.

_Three people this week have asked to borrow my turian culture, language, social structure, etc. I've barely had time to write this week, let alone read, so I haven't had the chance to review any of their stuff, but __**JtheClivaz**__, __Black Leather Longcoat__, _**iNf3ctioNZ**:_Masses to Masses 3__, and __**TheRev28**_, _Welcome to the Family__ have all been kind enough to ask before borrowing, so I return the favor with shout outs. :-)_

_**Eleventh Messenger**, since he was the 1,000th person to review the story, asked if he could name a worker. As such, he has named "the weird one" Zappa. You'll see Zappa in this chapter._

_Some questions that have come in:_

_**Will Rel have Dempsey's level of resistance to, well, everything now?**_

_No. Dempsey has a skeleton completely wrapped in carbon nanotubules. A bullet in the heart would kill Dempsey. . . more or less. . .(or at least until the heart was repaired manually and the brain got regenerated from the oxygen deprivation, which makes for a lot of complexity) but that bullet would still need to get through the sternum or rib cage. Unlikely. Bullet in the brain would kill Dempsey. . . if it could get through the skull reinforcement. Unlikely. But Rel? Both those things would occur. Rel might be able to eat levo, but the side effects would be very painful while his body recovered from the poisoning effect. Just a few logical extrapolations.  
_

_**Now that Dara produces biotic energy at the cellular level, will she be a functional biotic?**  
No. She has her rachni song/rachni hybrid abilities. She will never be a full biotic. There are a few surprises still pending about her hybridization, but she's already a combat medic, a deadly shot, and now a hybrid with a few spiffy abilities (and a couple of debilitating side effects). Biotics—slam, etc.—would be overkill._

But her kids? Assuming her ova were subjected to the same changes (and they were), mitochondrial DNA comes 100% from the mother. And assuming she has kids with someone with at least some of the human gene markers for biotics, it's fairly safe to assume that their kids would have the potential.

_**Dara reminds us of the Queen of Blades from StarCraft.**_

_I've never played StarCraft. Do I need to turn in my geek card somewhere?_

_**What's up with Rel next?**_

_He's gotten a very good look at the condition of his own spirit (rachni vision and self-awareness for the win) and 17 days enforced inactivity to more or less cold-turkey the adrenalin. He's got a long road ahead of him, but he's on the right track. Some physical therapy and a goal, as he expressed it to Garrus: He wants to hunt the yahg. He wants to be allowed to use the skills that he's honed to protect people from the yahg, and teach them that there are consequences, that they can't just hunt whoever they want without repercussions. He's going to be allowed to do that. Still under close supervision, however. He has two new special abilities coming up: **Krogan Regeneration** and **Spirit Hunter.** You'll see the latter developing on Terra Nova, I think._

**Dempsey, October 8, 2196**

Zhasa had _loved_ the hovercycles, as Dempsey had figured that she would. There would have been nothing like them in the Flotilla when she was growing up. Even though they would have been useful for planetary exploration, they couldn't carry supplies worth a damn, so quarians would not have found them useful. And if a thing wasn't _useful_ in the Flotilla, it tended to be out on its ass.

She'd whooped and demanded a turn at the controls, and Dempsey hopped them out of the canyons and into the flat open emptiness of the desert. Nothing but scrubby, thorny, gray-green bushes and khaki clay and dirt for miles in any direction. The controls were incredibly precise, and there was computer assistance for much of the guidance; kinetic dampening, mass effect fields, everything needed to keep the ride safe. . . but still incredibly fast. Hell, Sidonis had actually swung up onto the walls of the canyons a few times, using them as just another path to his goal.

_You have a good day, sweetie?_ he asked now, from the shower. She was in the other room, waiting for her epi-tab to take effect before climbing out of her suit, and he'd taken the opportunity to take one, himself, and begin the long process of cleaning himself with Hibiclens and all the other things necessary to make sure that skin contact with her wasn't going to cause her any sort of harm.

_You know I did,_ Zhasa replied, sounding like the proverbial cat in the cream. _It's good to have this time now. You know that in a week, we're likely to be ordered off-world. And I don't know if Shepard will let us go anywhere together._

_I don't see why not. She follows turian military protocols in that regard. Spirit of the unit is strengthened by personal bonds, whatever._ Dempsey turned off the water and started drying off with a sterile towel. _And she knows I sort of rely on you._

_You just think you do._ Her voice was amused in his head. _I actually rely on you just as much._

Dempsey tucked the towel around his waist and walked back into the bedroom. She was already out of her envirosuit, and perched on the edge of the bed, fiddling with the silvery egg Matriarch Aethyta had given her, years before. "Everyone needs a hobby, huh?"

Her violet eyes caught the light and reflected it, almost glowing in the dimness of the bedroom, and he reached out to touch the softness of her fur-like hair. "Of course. You have your music, and I have my little puzzle here." She paused. _It seems to be more reactive against bare skin. I swear, I think I feel it tingling in the palm of my hand._

Dempsey looked at the egg-shaped. _You mean it really is a Prothean sex-toy after all?_

Zhasa laughed, and gave his arm a shove. _You're a bad man._

_I know, but you love me for it._ He reached out with his mind, and gave the egg a gentle nudge. As always, the metal bent and . . . . flowed. . . under the touch of biotic energies. _Huh. It __does__ seem a little more reactive right now than it usually is. _

_Yes. It's always responded more for me than for any of the asari Aethyta had try it over the years. And now it's __far__ more responsive than before._ I_ wonder if it needed skin contact all this time?_

"Maybe," he said, squinting. "Could be keyed to DNA sequences. Like the Prothean genetic markers." Humans and turians had them. He wasn't sure if quarians did, too. It would be interesting to find out. Quarians had damned few biotics. . . but that wasn't the only thing that the Protheans had tagged people for, apparently. No hanar, for example, were tagged. Only a few drell. Almost no asari, and their entire species _was_ biotic. Only. . . outstanding or unusual specimens from a species, the current thinking was, had been marked for later study.

As he watched, the flowing metal suddenly pulled back entirely, and a green glow spilled out from inside the resulting hollow. He could feel Zhasa's shock and elation—_I did it!_—compounded with alarm, as the liquid mental flowed out to cover Zhasa's long fingers like a glove. The green glow brightened as the metal pulled away entirely, and revealed its source: a flat hexagonal crystal glimmered now in the palm of Zhasa's metal-gloved hand.

_Holy shit_, Dempsey thought, stunned, as the crystal flared blindingly for a moment, and then began to dim, going quiescent and dark. _What the hell is that thing?_ "Ah. . . Zhasa. . . sweetie. . . " His mind was locked with hers, so he could feel her anxiety and concern right under his liver, as if it were his own. "Crap, let me get that off of you."

"I broke it," she said, in a tone of heart-wrenching disappointment, all the elation pouring out of her as from a broken pitcher. "It was beautiful, a wonderful puzzle, and I broke it. Aethyta would be so disappointed in me, that I ruined her gift."

Dempsey wasn't really worried about that right now. He was much more concerned with getting the metal off her damned skin. Surprisingly, not a single drop of the liquid metal had fallen to the bed. The sheets were still pristine. "Shit. Stay right there. I'll be back in a minute with a towel." He leaped off the bed, and headed straight to the bathroom, coming back with one of the white towels that he now kept in a sterile cabinet at all times.

As fast as he was, however, it didn't seem to be quite quick enough. Zhasa held up her hand as he came back in, and her violet eyes were wide. "Dempsey?" she said, and he again got that fear and anxiety, right under the ribs. And looking at her, he could see why. The 'glove' of metal was largely gone. And as he tried, furiously, to scrub it off, it did no good at all. It looked very much as if the damned stuff was sinking into her pores, her skin, like water sinking into dry ground. He wanted—no, he _needed_ the distance of his usual lack of emotion—but he couldn't unbind the link between their minds now. Not with her fear racing through his veins as it was. Not when she needed _him_, the way he usually needed her. _Shit. Shit, shit, shit._ Dempsey forced the panic down. _I think we better get you to med bay, Zhasa-love._

Her thoughts were racing. _What if it's poisonous? What if I get an allergic reaction, anaphylactic shock—_ She started to pant a little, and he could feel her lungs tightening as if they were his own.

"Calm down," Dempsey told her. "Panic's making your heart race, and making this shit go through your body faster. _Breathe_, sweetie. Slow it down." _Nice, even, regular breaths._ He sent waves of calm at her, as best he could, and hauled her to her feet. _No time for the fucking envirosuit._ He grabbed a pair of pants, which he'd thrown over a chair, and pulled them on, letting his towel drop to the floor. Zhasa was already wearing the light robe he'd gotten her months ago, soft white satin with lace trim, which she loved for its texture. _Going to be cold out there for you, sweetie, but we've got no time here._

She was still holding the no-longer-glowing crystal in her hand as Dempsey slid his feet into shoes and started pulling her towards the door. He kept a couple of spare breathers in the hall closet. . . in case of a renewed attack on the base, this time with chemical or biological weapons. _What working as a Spectre will do for you. . . _ He slid one over her face, tightened the straps, and looked into her eyes, which were dazed. _You okay? You with me?_

_I'm. . . here. . . ._

He closed his hand around her forearm to move her towards the door. Her body temperature was always a _little_ warmer than his, but at the moment, it felt wrong. Much too warm. 104, 105 Fahrenheit, maybe, when it should have been 101. _Very goddamned fast-acting, whatever the hell this thing is._ And she was starting to flush. Bright violet spots in the cheeks. And she was panting, heavily. Quarians didn't sweat; like many mammals on Earth, they thermoregulated by panting. The sound along made Dempsey's hackles rise; if a human were doing that, they'd be looking at fainting from hyperventilation in short order. _Dempsey?_ The thought was plaintive. _I really don't feel good._

And then Zhasa collapsed, and her mind went out like a candle in his.

Dempsey caught her, reflexively, his own mind going blank. He managed to listen, carefully, and realized that low-order mental processes were still going—the background chatter of neurons firing to keep the heart beating and the lungs moving air. _No time to call the base hospital. Can't afford to wait on an ambulance_, he decided, and threw her limp body over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. His thoughts were clean and cold and clear at the moment. But, to his surprise, he could still feel fear. Faint, of course. But stomach-churning and real and very much his own. _Don't do this to me, Zhasa, don't do this to me._

He got her to the groundcar, slid her in the backseat, lying down, and got them moving, as fast as possible, for the med bay. If base security wanted to cite him for excessive speed and Zhasa not being in a restraining harness, they had probably better pack a lunch. It was late, though, close to 21:00, and few people were out in the streets. He made it to the med bay, skidded to a halt at the main doors, got Zhasa out, and ran her through the double doors.

The nurse at the main desk was asari, and looked downright flabbergasted as Dempsey told her, curtly, "ER. Where is it?"

She started, out of reflex, to hand him a datapad with forms to fill out, and that was when Zhasa moaned and started to convulse on Dempsey's bare shoulder. He ignored the nurse, got Zhasa down to the floor, and rolled her to her side, stripping off the breather as her body shook and flopped without any conscious control. Her eyelids fluttered open, and he could see that her eyes had rolled up in her head, showing the whites and the dark violet veins. And then she started to vomit. She was unconscious, but her body was bringing up vile-smelling nutrient paste anyway. "Get a doctor. Now." Dempsey's tone was very flat, and very controlled, and he was mentally promising Zhasa that if she died, he was going to look Aethya up, and matriarch or not, a thousand years of experience or not, the asari wasn't going to live out the week.

Dr. Chakwas happened to have the evening shift, and got there at a run after the nurse got on the intercom and asked for a doctor to come to the lobby for an emergency. The nurse wrung her hands a little nervously as Chakwas started taking vitals. "I don't even know which species she is. . . " The asari had to be under a hundred years old, Dempsey realized, but that didn't make him inclined to cut her any slack.

"Quarian," he replied, tersely.

Dr. Chakwas locked eyes with him briefly, "Did you bring her suit? Usually, our first response to any quarian medical emergency is to let the suit handle it."

"It's at the house. She was out of it, working on her immune resistances, when an artifact that Aethyta gave her years ago finally . . . opened. Or whatever the hell it did. The metal has always reacted to biotics by appearing to become fluidic, or to melt." The seizure had passed, and Dempsey moved Zhasa away from the puddle of vomit, and gently stroked her hair. His voice was precise and calm as he went on, "The metal of it melted, and revealed a crystal inside it. The crystal lit up, then went out, and by the time I got back with a towel to clean up the fluidic metal, it was absorbing into her skin." He looked at the clock. 'That was twenty minutes ago. She had an epi-tab fifteen minutes before that."

"Good. That's probably cushioning her system." Chakwas gave quite a few directions then, and orderlies appeared all around them. They pushed Dempsey out of the way, and got Zhasa on a gurney. "Good call on getting the breather out of her face. Choking on her own vomit would have been far worse than bacteria inhalation. Come with me." Chakwas was already moving down the hall in the wake of the gurney, and Dempsey was hot on her heels, long strides eating up the tiled corridors.

The quarian section of the med bay was actually very similar to the quarian clean hotel on Bastion, Dempsey realized. Double airlock. Anyone going inside had to get into sterile hazmat suits and breathers, for the safety of the quarian patient. Hell, two nurses appeared, and, carefully stripping the now-soiled robe from Zhasa, began to spray her body and the gurney with decontaminants, just as if she were coming back from off-world onto a ship. Dempsey just put on his hazmat suit and endured. Watched, silently, as they hooked her up to IVs, with quarian-friendly solutions. Not saline. Quarians didn't use salt the same way as humans, krogan, asari, salarians, drell, and even turians and hanar did. Instead of good old-fashioned NaCl, or salt, their bodies used AlCl3. . . aluminum chloride in an aqueous solution. The compound conducted electricity very efficiently. . . perhaps more so than other sapient species. Which, in a way, explained why Zhasa was such a firepower as a biotic. Her nervous system and very blood was set up to conduct energy very, very well. But it didn't explain why so few quarians were biotics.

In any event, her solution in its IV bag didn't look all that different from what would be used on a human. Clear, in the main. She'd settled down for a moment, and Dempsey moved over, once the doctors and nurses had stopped setting up electrodes and blood-pressure cuffs and everything else, and took Zhasa's hand. He sat down on the stool beside the bed, and just looked at her. _You're worrying the shit out of me, you know,_ he told her, silently. The silent churn of faint, distant fear, was still in his mind and body. Less now. The situation was as controlled as he could get it.

"I've asked Dr., ah, Jaworski to get here," Chakwas told him now. "She's done a fair bit of work on quarian physiology before, especially in terms of its immune response." The older doctor sighed. "Now, I need to know, from the beginning, exactly what happened."

Dempsey explained it. Over and over and over again. He was preternaturally calm about it, but the fear at the back of his mind was turning to anger. "Look," he said, a little impatiently, on the fourth iteration, as the airlock hissed, and another figure in a white hazmat suit came through, "I can do better than explain it to you. Again. I can _show_ you exactly what went down. Would that do?"

Chakwas' eyes, barely visible through the rectangular, plastic-covered viewing aperture, narrowed in a slight wince. "Dempsey," the new figure said, and he realized, belatedly, that it was Dara. "Show me. I'm the one with the well-ventilated skull right now."

"No workers?" he asked, dryly.

"They're waiting outside. Show me, Dempsey. Let me earn my keep here."

He gave it all to her in a rush of images. Dara almost staggered with it, and then exhaled. "Holy shit."

"That the medical term for it?"

"It's accurate, isn't it?" She paused, and he could sense that mind suddenly changing gears. The piano music was going in scales right now, rigid control, passing information through established pathways. "Aethyta thought the relic was Prothean?"

Dempsey decided not to mention that he had, several times, noted that it seemed dangerous to be meddling with a Prothean artifact. "Yeah."

"No markings on the exterior?"

"No."

"Did Zhasa get any flash of images or text or anything like that when it. . . activated?"

"She was almost instantly kind of out of it. I didn't catch anything like that in her mind, though."

"How about the crystal? Where's that at?"

He pointed, silently, at a nearby tray. It sat there, lifeless. Much as Zhasa appeared to be now, and he felt a surge of that white-hot anger lurking in him spill over, directed at the relic. "Okay, wow. Hexagonal. And crystal-based. Not usual for Prothean tech. They were big on silver orbs, and it lit up originally, right? Maybe it. . . maybe it's a power source. Or has. . . directions. Or something." Dara's voice was tight. "Good news is, we've got two people on base who can read Prothean. Assuming, of course, there's _anything_ we've got that can interface with the damned thing and read it. And also assuming that there's anything on it to be read."

Dempsey held Zhasa's hand, and stared at her face. "You're hoping for cosmic instructions, Doc?"

"I'd take 'em, if the universe decided to be _convenient_ for once." Dara came over and started reading Zhasa's charts, and again, that sense of tightly controlled music. "Okay, Dempsey, this is, so far, a huge immune response. The fever's high, but it's not getting higher. . . for the moment. The seizure in the lobby was probably a fever spike. Her body has also tried to dump anything and everything that could waste the energy needed to fight this thing. Hence the vomiting." Her words were crisp, but she put a gloved hand, very lightly, on Zhasa's forehead. "The prolonged unconsciousness _is_ worrying me. But the heart rate has settled down. It was in hummingbird territory when you first brought her in, and now it's a little fast, but steady. These are all good things, Dempsey."

"Okay," he said, mechanically. His world had contracted down to Zhasa's face, and the limp weight of her hand in his.

"The main thing, for the moment, is to treat the reaction, I think. Figure out what the hell the stuff was. And worry about secondary infections last." Dara paused. "Dr. Chakwas took a sample of her blood. I'm going to go back out and . . . look at it." Her tone was tight again. "I can send Eli to your house to get whatever you and she need to be comfortable here. If you're okay with him going in the house."

Dempsey raised his head and blinked. "Sidonis is here?"

She nodded, her alien eyes gleaming behind the aperture of her mask. "He drove me. What do you want him to get? Zhasa's suit? Clothes for you? Hygiene kit?"

"I'm staying right here."

Dara looked at him for a moment, and he waited for the doctorly arguments. That he couldn't stay. That he'd be in the way.

Much to his surprise, none were forthcoming. "Okay," she replied, simply. "But for when she's ready to leave, and you are, too?"

_Shit. You really are scared, doc. You didn't even put up a fight._ "Yeah. All of that would be good."

"All right. I'll tell him to go grab the stuff. And when he gets back, maybe you can get some coffee or something. She's stable for the moment, Dempsey."

_That's the key phrase right there. For the moment._

Dara walked him out of the room close to midnight, where Sidonis actually was still in the waiting room, with Zhasa's envirosuit and a seabag with clothes and essentials in it. "Hey," Sidonis said, as Dempsey pulled off his hazmat mask. "How's she doing?"

"I have no fucking idea," Dempsey said, tiredly. "All the little monitors are chirping away in there, and no one can tell me anything."

Dara put a hand on his shoulder. Through the hazmat suit, he could barely feel it. "We don't know a lot yet," she said, quietly. "We've got people working on it, Dempsey. And we've got the best people in the galaxy right here. Trust us."

"Let me get you a cup of coffee," Sidonis offered. "I think the canteen in this place might even have doughnuts or something." Sidonis sounded sympathetic. "C'mon."

There were, indeed, doughnuts. Dempsey stared at the round shapes, and couldn't bear to pick up the chocolate one on his plate, leaving it there uneaten as he nursed his coffee. From his vantage point in the dimly-lit café, he could see Shepard and Seheve arriving, despite the fact that it was now pushing 25:00. "Great. Now everyone's getting dragged out of bed," Dempsey muttered under his breath. He focused on Sidonis for a moment. "You don't need to be here."

The cop—he'd _always_ be a cop in Dempsey's mind, he suspected—shrugged. "Eh. I'm Dara's ride. And I've got nothing better to do at the moment."

Dempsey squinted for a moment, and realized that Sidonis wasn't wearing his wedding ring. Or his wedding knife. _Shit. I missed something here._ "What, your wife leave you today or something?"

Sidonis' grin was crooked. "Filed the paperwork Thursday. Came through today."

Dempsey stared at him. "Holy fuck, man. And you're _here_?" _First of all, __goddamn__ but turians get things done in a hurry. Second, you were out riding hovercycles this afternoon, like it hadn't even happened. I __wondered__ where your wife was. Third of all, I'd be curling up inside a bottle, if I were you._

Sidonis shrugged again. "It's okay. I'd told Serana we had to call it quits months ago. It took her till now to realize she and Lin are _much_ better suited." Another faint, crooked grin. "I told Lin he better ask me to be best man."

Dempsey stared at him and shook his head. "And I thought my life was complicated."

"Stick around base for another six years, man. It _will_ be."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

**Dara, Mindoir, October 8, 2196**

She'd done her best to keep her mind calm and focused around Dempsey, and not to let anything at all show on her face. The medical mask she'd worn for years was definitely needed at the moment, however. Dara was very damned worried about Zhasa. Quarian immune systems were not robust at the best of times, and whatever the hell this alien artifact was, it had seeped right in through her skin, and that shouldn't, actually, be possible.

At the moment, Dara studied Zhasa's blood under a powerful microscope. Even with rachni-enhanced eyes, it was difficult to see anything amiss. Blue platelets, check, red, hemoglobin-based corpuscles, check, dark blue immune cells, equivalent to a human's white blood corpuscles. Everything seemed to be in order, except that Zhasa's body was reacting as if to a massive infection. She had about ten times more dark blue cells currently than a healthy quarian should have. That was. . . not really a good sign. Her body wasn't reacting as it would to a poisoning. It was reacting as if it were under attack.

And Dara couldn't for the _life_ of her find the damned infection. It was definitely not a bacteria. And if it were a virus, the little bugger was doing a damned good job of hiding. . . in its _active_ phase, at that. It also didn't seem to be hiding in any of the places viruses like to hide. Quarians had the equivalent of lymph nodes, same as humans, and while those were swollen on Zhasa, none were excessively so.

Dr. Chakwas ordered a chemical analysis of Zhasa's blood. Dara took a smear of it and started prepping it for viewing with a scanning electron microscope. It was something of a long-shot, but if she could bore down into the cells themselves, she might be able to see a virus or a viroid or. . . whatever chemical was causing the reactions.

Dara settled down with her sample at the SEM, and let the machine do its work. Faint song touched her mind. _—Little-queen is worried for Sings-Hope?_

_Yes, very. She is ill, and I do not know what can be done for her._ Dara realized that Chopin had moved to her shoulder now, and saw feelers there out of the corner of her eyes. _Do you think that you could look at the crystal that was found in her hand, and see if it will sing to you?_

—_Yes! We will sing to the crystal._

Behind her, Dr. Chakwas was muttering over the results from the chemical analysis. "Far more carbon in the blood than there should be, but there's trace amounts of other elements as well. Eezo. Thulium and vanadium, but only in the form of vanadium carbonyl. . . that's an organomatellic compound. . . . what the devil is going on in her?"

_God only knows_. The SEM finally started producing images from the incredibly thin sample Dara had prepared, and she stared at it for a moment, having no idea what she was looking at. She fiddled with the VI that was supposed to help her organize the information, and rubbed at her burning eyes. It was getting damned close to 25:00 at this point, and she'd been on the go since about 08:00. Then the VI re-organized the hundreds of pictures the SEM had taken so far into a more pulled-out view, and Dara swore. "Ah, Dr. Chakwas? We didn't give Zhasa any medigel or anything like that, correct?"

Dr. Chakwas turned and looked at Dara, who sat near the huge, khaki-colored machine. "Why, no. We didn't. Why do you ask?"

"Because medigel contains limited numbers of nanobots."

—_Nanobots? These are workers, yes?_

_Little workers designed to repair wounds, yes. Much, much smaller than you are. _

—_Do they sing?_

_No. They are like Sings-Not, but much smaller. The size of molecules, in some cases._

Dr. Chakwas walked across the room and stared at the results on the aerogel screen. "That's. . . quite a lot of nanobots. Nanites."

Dara nodded. They were, in fact, larger than conventional nanites. Each was the size of a viroid, a tiny fragment of RNA that would normally infect plants with diseases. "They're all working inside her dark blue corpuscles. I want to get a look at her stem cells, if we can. I can't tell if the damned things are attacking the cells or not."

"It certainly _looks_ as if they are," Dr. Chakwas said, leaning forward and pointing at another cell in the image, scrolling the screen to view it more clearly. "Look. They're clearly penetrating the cell wall and invading the nuclei of the cells."

Dara touched the screen, and moved it to another cell. "Yeah. They are. Except that usually when a virus does that, they use the cell as a breeding ground, make more of themselves, and explode out of the ravaged cell. Also, how many viruses target immune cells?"

Dr. Chakwas paused. "If it hadn't come out of a Prothean artifact—"

"If it _is_ Prothean," Dara muttered.

"I'd almost suggest a highly-tailored attack, meant specifically for quarians. Except who would want to target quarians?" Chakwas shrugged. "This does, at least in part, tell us why there's such odd compounds in her blood. All of the fluidic metal that Dempsey reported seeing. . . apparently was made up of these nanites. Which are attacking her system."

Dara scrolled again. "Well, attacking. . . maybe. Maybe not. If they're targeting her immune cells specifically, why does she have _ten times_ more blue corpuscles right now than she should have?" Dara shook her head. "I think we're going to have to look at live samples. This isn't getting us much of anywhere."

Chakwas frowned. "I can get Nal'ishora in here first thing in the morning, and take clean blood from her, and we can watch the nanites in action."

Dara nodded and yawned. Dr. Chakwas looked at her in clear affection. "You should get some sleep."

Dara yawned again. "In a bit. I apparently have to introduce one of my workers to that crystal."

There was a brief interruption at that point, anyway. "What the Sam Hill is going on?" Sam Jaworski said from the door of the lab. Her father scowled in at her, and Lantar loomed behind him in the doorway. "You're out riding hovercycles in the afternoon, Kasumi and I get home, you're nowhere to be found, but there's a message on the comm console saying you're at the hospital for a medical emergency?" Sam gave her a very direct stare. "You took a year off my life, girl."

Dara blinked. She'd been so used to not having to account for her whereabouts to her father for years now, that it really hadn't dawned on her that he'd worry. Or jump to the wrong conclusion. "Sorry, Dad. I was in a hurry when I left the message. Zhasa's _really_ sick. I was at the Sidonis house when I got the message."

"So I saw," Lantar noted, dryly. "Eli left the kitchen a mess, and that's not like him."

Dara blinked and reviewed the status of the kitchen and dining room and living room hastily in her head. Two plates, in the sink, two sets of utensils, in the sink, knives, cutting board, everything else, in the sink. . . covered pot of sauce on the stove, but not in the cryo-unit yet, bottle of wine and two glasses in the living room. . . . and. . . _crap. Hopefully by the time Lantar got back, any residual smells in the living room would have faded, or were covered by the food smells._ "Sorry about that," Dara repeated, guiltily. "Didn't Eli leave a message, too?"

"Eli's was as helpful as yours was," her father told her, sharply. "I was thinking 'hovercycle accident' until Lantar showed me Eli's little missive. 'Dara had a medical emergency at dinner and I took her to med bay. Be back later when I can bring her home.'"

Lantar sighed and ran a hand over his fringe. "Which made us think perhaps something else with the, ah, rachni . . . thing."

Sam reached out and hugged Dara, tightly. Fiddle music and yellow-green worry, easing into soft blues of affection, burst through her mind, and she almost sagged in relief at his touch. "Don't scare me like this, kiddo. Take the time to include a couple of the more _salient_ details."

Dara ducked her head sheepishly. "You have a knack, Dad, for making me feel twelve. Is that going to last forever?"

"Probably." He ruffled her hair lightly. "Okay, now that I've seen you're _not_ dead or dying or in a coma or anything like that, can I expect you home tonight, so when I hear the front door open, I don't go for my guns?"

She shook her head. "I'm going to sack out here in the on-call room. This is a _mess_, Dad."

About twenty minutes later, Shepard and Seheve arrived right when Dara was introducing Chopin to the green hexagon in a conference room in the med bay. Dara looked up and nodded to both women, then said out loud, courteously, "What can you tell us, Chopin?"

A wave of colors and music rolled through her mind. Dara blinked. "Er. . . eezo, carbon, gallium, silicon? Okay. . . but does it sing?"

—_There are pattern-songs inside of it, but it does not sing them now._ Chopin sounded sad. _We would like to hear it sing._

Dara shook her head and looked at Shepard and Seheve. "Sorry to call you both here in the middle of the night for nothing," she said, wincing. Rousing the base commander for no good reason didn't seem like the best of ideas. "Dempsey said it glowed, initially. And Chopin thinks there's. . . patterns inside it."

"Perhaps the device requires energy?" Seheve said, softly, staring at it intently.

Shepard opened the satchel she'd been carrying, and brought out, to Dara's surprise, a Prothean orb. "I found this on a planet years and years ago," the commander said, quietly. "After I received a Prothean key, it. . . showed me something. I _believe_ it was one of my long-gone ancestors being tagged for research purposes by the Protheans. With something very akin to a graybox, I believe, something that would record the doings and happenings of that ancestor's life." Shepard shrugged. "I know it can also play some Prothean discs that we've recovered over the years. Maybe this . . . crystal. . . can also play on it."

Dara wasn't holding out much hope. Prothean devices were supposed to mesh up, discs to players. She'd never read anything about orbs or eggs. . . although the orb, with its silvery surface, certainly _looked_ like the image in Dempsey's mind. Shepard took the crystal from under Chopin's feelers, with a murmur of apology, and, after a moment's hesitation, placed it on the rectangular base that held the orb.

It wasn't quite that simple. An hour later, however, they'd brought Dempsey and Eli into the room, and Dempsey commented, his voice calm, as always, "Zhasa was channeling biotic energies when the damn thing hatched on her. Maybe it needs a charge of biotic energy to work."

Dara winced. "Ah. . . could I at least convince everyone to put it in a containment chamber in the hot labs before we try that?" _I don't think the crystal can spontaneously generate more of the nanites, but I really don't want to have more of the little buggers around. Or any random pulses of energy exploding out of the crystal and hitting those of us in the room._

Once they'd gotten the crystal into the hot labs, Dempsey worked with it. "At least knowing what it is makes this a little easier," he told them around hour two. "Zhasa worked with this for years, trying to unlock the damned thing. She thought of it as a puzzle. A biotic training device."

There was a hint of anger in his voice, and Dara shifted back slightly in her chair. Eli reached out and touched her hand. Music everywhere. _Calm down. He's not about to go on a killing spree._

_He's probably all reds and whites and black right now. And the guitars are probably snarling._ Dara winced. _I don't want him to lose Zhasa. She's too nice and too kind. And if she dies, he'll. . . I think he'll be worse than he was before._ She tried to repress the memory of his fingers around her throat, as well as the whisper of thought that suggested that if she let Zhasa die, the way she'd let Kella die, she'd deserve Dempsey's rage and hate, the way she damned well deserved Ylara's hate.

_Whoa, wait a damned minute. You think Ylara __hates__ you?_

_Not important right now._ Dara's eyes burned, and she closed them. _Tired. Not thinking straight._

_No, you sure as hell are not._ Eli's voice carried disbelief and anger in it. "Dempsey, it's after 02:00. I'm taking Dara home and putting her to bed."

"On-call room's fine," Dara managed, around a yawn, and squeezed Eli's hand. _You could probably stay, if you don't mind sleeping in a room of doctors and nurses._

_If it means staying in close enough proximity that you can reach me without sending your workers for me, no problem at all._

Dempsey barely acknowledged their exit, too absorbed in the problem at hand.

In the on-call room, Dara took a bottom bunk, and Eli took the one above. No need for physical contact to maintain the song; he was reaching out to her, and she knew his eyes were dark. _Sai'kaea?_

_Yes?_ Her thoughts were so sleepy and jumbled now, it was hard to concentrate.

_Why do you think Ylara hates you?_

_Didn't save Kella. Couldn't even save her eye. If she doesn't hate me. . . got to think. . . unlucky. Bad doctor._

—_New-queen sings good healing-songs. Fixes bodies. _ Chopin and 1812 were crawling around, exploring the room. And all the other sleeping doctors and nurses. Dara fully expected to awaken to shrieks at some point overnight.

_Thanks for the vote of confidence, guys._

Eli rolled over, making the mattress above her creak in the dark room. _Bullshit. Ylara's __reserved__, yeah, but I've touched her mind, __sai'kaea__. Twice. Once when she first asked me for Kella's memories, and then later, when the damned language started pouring out of my mouth. She doesn't blame anyone but Lina Vasir and the batarian mercs. And you know how she responded to that? By adopting Shellara, pretty much. Who is, if Lantar's information is right, the same damn thing Lina was. Hermaphrodite, at least, if not male._

_. . . still think she's mad at me. And she's got every right._

_You're mad at you. You feel guilty, and you're extrapolating outwards onto other people._

_. . . maybe._ She paused, and added, drowsily, _You're __really__ good at the psych stuff now._

_I read the books, sure, but never needed the books for you. Besides, now it comes washing off of you. It's always __Raindrops__ and Chopin and that weird purple-green mix when you're guilty and regretful._ He paused, and added ruefully, _And it's loud. Go to sleep, __sai'kaea._

**Seheve, Mindoir, October 9, 2196**

Once the human male had somehow managed to charge the crystal, using biotic energies, Commander Shepard again placed it on the pedestal that held the Prothean orb. After a few moments, the orb's surface began to undulate, and images began to swirl there. Chittering sounds, screeches. . . all of which resolved themselves into words in Seheve's mind. But the words themselves did not convey perfect understanding.

"_Subject Species 112. Developing on arid planet. Intriguing physiology, similar in some respects to Subject Species 83. Dextro-based. Also some similarities to Subject Species 131—mammalian. Unusual, however. Predators that have moved to omnivorous life-style. Crepuscular to nocturnal habits, understandable given the hot and cold deserts of planet of origin, designated Arrk'igravkh in stellar cartography database. Highly social, intelligent, and adaptive. Blood chemistry fascinating. Highly reactive to electricity and energy currents, unlike any others we have ever discovered. Complete lack of element zero on Arrk'igravkh suggests that no form of life will ever naturally develop biotic potential that those who built the gates between so prized. We have introduced several slight genetic variations in highly social and adaptive individuals—biotic potential, with markers, and mutations to the hyroid bone and palate shape, to allow the development of speech. Remarkable specimens will be captured and preserved for study and storage at later dates." _

"Study and storage?" Seheve said, after several moments. She was staring at the images on the screen in fascination. Species 83, apparently, was reptilian, more or less. And looked like some nightmarish version of a turian, with pronounced jaws and mandibles, as well as thick necks. Species 112 looked like some form of feline. . . like _Jia-li_, the cat that she'd been given on Shanxi, and whom Seheve had given the face-name of Loki, on the grounds that it was easier to pronounce. However, they were also bipedal, at least in part. And species 131 looked like a human. . . albeit a crude copy, made from lumpen clay, perhaps. "What are we seeing?"

"_Praeverto Vescor_," Shepard answered softly. "The immediate pre-cursors to modern turians. And Cro-Magnon and Neanderthals, the two subspecies that antedated modern humans. Which means, I think, that Species 112 is the predecessor species of the modern quarian."

Dempsey was watching and listening in grim silence. "Very interesting, but what does it mean for Zhasa?" he asked, with a trace of impatience in his otherwise impassive face.

Seheve frowned. "They spoke of studying her ancestors, then? As they studied humans and turians? And marked their genetic code?" She remembered, with eidetic clarity, reading an article by a salarian scientist—forbidden on Kahje, of course—on her way to Bastion, on that very topic. "And of capturing and preserving remarkable specimens for study."

The human's already cold eyes were now like ice. "This is a goddamned _science experiment_?"

Shepard winced slightly. "It's possible. There's more data on the crystal, though. Shall we continue?"

"By all means," Dempsey said, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling. "I'm not going anywhere."

Seheve lightly touched the surface of the sphere, and more information began to churn out. _"We have discovered crystal storage matrices from those who built the ways between. Easily adapted for our needs. Information storage and power conduit. Can program and energize nanomachines easily. Nanomachines more elegant solution than implanting chips. Works with specimens on cellular level for preservation and study. Long-term preservation may be required."_ Numbers. Equations. Diagrams. Nothing that made sense at all. She absorbed each piece of information, of course. She could hardly help but do so. Eidetic memory was eidetic memory. "Good god," Shepard muttered in evident frustration. They were recording the display, but only they understood Prothean. The scientists who could have made sense of the numbers and diagrams, of course, did not.

"The crystal matrix is not, then, of the En. . . the Protheans?" Seheve said, after a moment.

"It certainly doesn't resemble their tech, no," Shepard murmured. "The biotic energy thing is more a hallmark of the Sowers. The crystal, I would have thought, was intrinsic to the rachni, but could just be. . . convergent evolution. Everyone developed the wheel, too. Sooner or later. Well, other than the Aztecs and the Maya." She rubbed at her eyes. "They mentioned, twice, 'those who built the ways between.' I suspect they meant the mass relay builders. And while we know that the Reapers built those, we know that the Sowers built the Reapers. And the hallmark of every Sower relic found so far has been its use of biotic energy." She looked at the crystal. "This could be based on Sower tech. Bastardized, repurposed by the Protheans, the way we've built on Prothean tech for centuries."

Dempsey leaned forward and laid his hands on the table. "And again, what does this mean for _Zhasa_?" he asked, with some emphasis.

"I think," Shepard said, quietly, "that the take-away here is that they didn't intend to _harm_ their, well, specimens. They intended to _preserve_ them."

"You can preserve things in formaldehyde, too, you know." Dempsey's voice was very flat indeed.

Seheve opened her mouth to reply, and wondered if the words of comfort would fall as flat as her attempts at humor had. "Spectre Dempsey, it seems to th. . . to me. . . that the Protheans were more interested in the behavior of their specimens. They could examine physiology at a whim, but they tagged Shepard's ancestor to see how he or she lived. To see if the genes perpetuated. They were interested in how social Zhasa's ancestors were. The Enkind. . . " She sighed. "I was always taught that the Protheans were good and kindly. Perhaps that predisposes me to think of their motives as benevolent. But why would they give changes meant to allow people to speak and think, observe how they interact, and _then_ develop an interest in their dead bodies?" She lifted her hands. "There is only so much that one can learn from the dead. Mostly, we learn how they died, and perhaps what they ate over the course of their lives. Perhaps how good their medicals skills were. Little more."

Dempsey turned and frowned at her. Seheve sighed. _Yes. That may not have been particularly comforting. But it is true. We learn far more from the living than from the dead._

The human, however, surprised her. The calm, rational veneer over the anger he was clearly holding just barely at bay, prevailed. "That's all very logical," he agreed. "I'm going to go back into her room now. I . . . want to be there. When she wakes up."

He left, and Seheve shook her head. "It is unfortunate," she murmured, "but I do not feel that anything I did was of assistance. I do not understand the mathematics or the diagrams."

Shepard shook her head. "You've got me. I think some of the diagrams were of a double helix, which suggests genetic information, but the rest looked like blobs. Or gears." She looked tired. "My degree was in environmental engineering, not biochemistry." Shepard regarded Seheve now. "Just because you didn't immediately provide the solution doesn't mean your presence was useless."

Seheve smiled, very faintly. "I am used to my presence being a very immediate solution." _Then again, building and understanding are much more difficult tasks than killing and destroying._

**Zhasa'Maedan, October 9, 2196**

Zhasa became aware, very slowly. It was hard to open her eyes. Mostly, she just heard voices at first. Voices asking her questions, which she didn't really consciously understand, but that she replied _yes_ or _no_ to. . . or tried, anyway. And then a gentle pressure in her mind. Words forming there. _Zhasa-love? You there?_

Wave of disorientation. But the voice that wasn't a voice was familiar. _. . . Dempsey?_

_Yeah. Open your eyes, sweetie._

_Hard._

_I know. Come on. Try._ Urgency, in spite of the usual calm, flat tones. She responded to that, and made a heroic effort, and got her eyes to open a crack. She focused, as best she could, and realized, to her shock, that she wasn't in her suit. A quick surge of panic, and he responded with waves of reassurance. _Clean room for you, Zhasa. Everyone here's in hazmat gear._

Focusing further, she realized that was true. White, bulky suits, covering every inch of their bodies; breathers. Masks. For once, she was the only person unsuited, and it felt utterly wrong. "What. . . what happened?"

"Matriarch Aethyta's egg," Dempsey told her, his voice rough. "You opened it, remember? You remember anything about that?"

_Warmth. Warmth spilling across her hands. Incomprehensible words bursting through her mind, muddle of images. Ancient quarians, roving the deserts in packs or prides. Ancestors of her own people. Being tested. Altered. Adjusted. Hints that the egg was a device both meant to test and to preserve viable test subjects: Flickers of other bizarre things. Faces with tentacles where the mouth should be. And yet, also, insectile. As the Collectors were._ _These beings handed an egg just like her own to an ancient quarian, still mostly covered in white fur, and that distant ancestor stared at it. Confused. The egg wobbled briefly in that clawed hand, and then the aliens took the egg away again._ Zhasa shuddered back from the memory; it had only taken seconds, but now unrolled in her mind, like a file decompressing. "That's. . . that's all I remember, besides you giving me the breather and saying we were going to med bay."

"Is there any pain or discomfort right now?" That was Dara, voice muffled under her own hazmat suit.

Zhasa thought about it. "Tired. Hungry. Every muscle aches. Hip. . . hurts." It was an effort to talk. And, as more awareness filtered in, she became more uneasy. It was so damned _odd_ to be out of the suit around someone other than Dempsey. It was. . . intimate. Uncomfortable. It suggested that boundaries had been lowered in some obscure way, when Zhasa was pretty sure that they hadn't been.

"Zhasa thinks the egg was a sort of test. That it showed her the Protheans using it to test ancient quarians." Dempsey's voice was clipped.

"Kind of makes sense with what Shepard and Seheve got out of the crystal earlier this morning. If they wanted to 'preserve' specimens, there would have to be criteria by which the specimen would be determined worthy of preservation." Dara adjusted something on an IV, and took Zhasa's hand in hers, a little awkwardly. "The egg always reacted more to you, right, Zhasa? Than to Aethyta?"

Zhasa managed to nod. Her head was very heavy on the pillow. "She said. . . she'd worked with it for hundreds of years. Many of her students had tried, too. All asari. None made it move the way I could make it move."

Dara sighed. "Probably tied to quarian DNA, then. Quarian _biotic_ DNA markers in your genome, maybe." She gave Zhasa a look, her rachni-blue eyes gleaming in the room's dim light. "You and I have had bad luck with eggs this month. I may never again look at a carton of 'em at the grocery store without thinking that the chickens are going to _get_ me."

Dempsey snorted, and Zhasa picked up an image of a Terran chicken from his mind. Small, feathered, and prone to peck, but otherwise about as harmless as any animal could be. So she chuckled, too, just a little. "Your bedside manner's getting better, Doc," Dempsey told Dara.

"Nah, that was a pretty lame joke," Dara said, sitting down on the edge of Zhasa's bed. Both of them were holding Zhasa's hands right now. Firm clasp of five fingers through their hazmat suits.

"So. . . what's the bad news, Dara?" Zhasa could _feel_ the ice pour down over the roses. The thorns sprout. Dara had something difficult to say, and she was raising barriers in herself.

"Well, the good news is, we're pretty sure you're going to make it now. You scared the living hell out of us a few times, mostly with seizures and convulsions, but those seem to be behind you now. Fever's coming down."

"And the bad news is?"

Dara shrugged. "You passed the Prothean test. They would have considered you an interesting specimen. Worth collecting." She shivered. "Isn't that eerie? They became Collectors, when they actually did, originally, wander around the galaxy collecting interesting examples of species for examination and study and genetic manipulation."

"Get to the point, Doc."

Dara shook her head. "Sorry. The crystal inside the egg was the power core and a sort of information storage device. We think you charged and activated the crystal. That apparently takes a lot of biotic power, as well as very precise control. . . and since you couldn't see it to study it, required a fair degree of abstract thought. Visualizing something that wasn't visible, I guess. Once you charged it, it activated the nanites, which made up the fluidic metal of the egg itself. Those are now, well, in your body."

Zhasa swallowed convulsively. "Doing what?"

Dara sighed. "We have no idea. They seem to be getting friendly with most of your cells, starting with your immune system. They're inside your blue corpuscles. They're inside your bone marrow—that's why your hip hurts right now. We had to drill there for a biopsy sample. Be glad you were out for that; it's not a comfortable process." Dara sighed. "Everywhere we've scanned and tested, they're setting up shop. Whole little nodes, really, inside your bones."

Zhasa's stomach twisted. What Dara was describing was a nightmare for any species, but for a quarian in particular, it was horrific. Machines. Tiny machines, taking over her fragile body. A nightmare mix of the geth and of the pathological fear of, well, pathogens. "What are they _doing_?" she demanded, trying to sit up.

"We. . . actually don't know. They're not actually _damaging_ any of the cells that they infect. They're doing some work on your genes. . . and believe me, I know how you must feel about that—" Dara said, with total empathy, and squeezed Zhasa's hand a little harder, "but nothing as dramatic as what Joy-Singer did to me. You're still recognizably quarian. At least, inasmuch as a quarian without a suit on is recognizable." Dara managed a little smile; it showed in faint crinkles around her eyes and the softening of the sense of thorns around her. "I've always wondered what you looked like under the visor. This is not how I'd have chosen to find out."

Zhasa tried to return the smile. But it was _hard_. "When can I. . . get out of here?"

"Couple of days, maybe. We have to run a lot of tests. Watch to make sure the damn things don't try to hijack any more of you. That they're not, well, infectious to anyone, although they don't seem to like other quarians' blood. We tested some of the nanites on samples of Hal'marrak and Nal'ishora's blood, and they migrated to the cells, seemed to run a DNA check, and then went inert. They're definitely tied to Prothean gene markers. Which you have." Dara sounded dispirited. "They were a meddlesome bunch, I tell you."

Zhasa exhaled. "So. . . I'm not infectious."

"As far as we can tell, no. Not to other quarians without the gene marker, anyway."

"Bodes well, right?" Dempsey said, squeezing her hand now, and sending her another mental wash of reassurance.

"For everything except my being of use and going off-world any time soon," Zhasa said, and then sleep reclaimed her.

**Linianus, October 9, 2196**

The oddest thing about being a Spectre, Lin was finding, was the fact that he was often heading off into mortal danger. . . and absolutely giddy about it. He liked to think he was fairly serious-minded about his work. Two years on Macedyn and two years on Nimines had taught him patience, perseverance, and dedication, and the fact that results came to those who worked for them. . . . and that quite a lot of the time, the work wasn't fun. Omega had been grinding, horrible work in many respects. But he'd been side-by-side with his battle-brother the whole time, so it was like the Rite, revisited. An impression only reinforced by having Makur and Siara along, too, and all the rubble strewn around. Only better, because Dara had been there. And Lin had wished, years ago, that she and Rel had been there for the Harvester fight. Although Eli always said it was our time. Lin chuckled to himself. He was the first person to the conference room for the Khar'sharn briefing. The _Pellak_ had just made orbit, and Shepard was having supplies gathered, among other things.

Khar'sharn itself would be a difficult challenge. The heart of enemy territory. No disguise possible. Food would be difficult to come by (thus, they were taking high energy nutrient pastes and crates of MREs with them). It would be dangerous beyond belief. . . and yet, Lin was giddy again. Because this time, he'd be going with Serana. Whom he'd asked, again, yesterday, on the snowy slope of the highest local peak, while teaching her how to ski, "Will you marry me?"

And this time, the answer had been very sweet indeed. "Yes, Lin, I will."

He'd grinned. "Does that mean I get to put my paint on your face before we leave?" The wind had been howling around them, pushing them a little towards the nearest downslope.

Serana chuckled. "We're leaving Monday, Lin. I just got my marriage contract dissolved today! I think my parents might kill me if I put your paint on today or tomorrow."

"So, we could get it all done _Monday_ before we get on the ship," Lin told her, his tone taking on a mischievous note. "I mean, contracts don't really need to be negotiated over months. Just take a standard one, fill in the names, and we're done, right?"

She'd given him a shove at that point. "Send your father to my father, and they can negotiate till we get back from Khar'sharn."

Yeah, and then I'm going through every article of the damned thing. Twice. No surprises that way. Out loud, he said, "Your pada is going to have gray scales soon."

"Yes, but Polina and Quintus are happy. They're telling me that _mada_ and _pada_ are just relieved that they make good grades and are quiet." Serana snickered a bit, and pushed off, tentatively, with her poles, clearly unsure of what to do with her feet in the long skis.

Lin showed her how to shift her weight from side to side. As he'd suspected, she loved the feeling of speed, racing down the hillside. He knew he did. She whooped at the bottom of the hill, and stared back up at the summit. "That's faster than a _rlata_!"

"I know!" he shouted back as he blew by her, checking his speed with a long curve at the end of the course. The snow was thawing, and was wet and heavy, and they barely needed jackets, even at this elevation today.

By the end of the afternoon, he'd pointed out, half-jokingly, "If we are going to be acting as a mated pair on Khar'sharn. . . you should at least wear my paint. Don't have to say the words. But the paint would be a good idea." He'd run his hand over the top of her fringe. "Help you get in character. Disguise. Whatever."

They'd been in the aircar, heading back to the base at that point. Serana leaned over and put her cheek and mandible against his shoulder. "I don't ever intend for your paint to be a disguise," she'd said, very softly. "But if you put it on my face, I wouldn't object. In my heart, we're already mates. Everything else is paperwork and tradition. And you know what I think of tradition." She looked up at him, smiling faintly. "Just don't let my parents see it. I'm getting enough of a reputation in the family as it is, already."

He'd laughed then. "I'll wait till we're on this salarian-human ship. How's that?"

"Perfect."

Now, Serana hustled into the conference room, and settled down in the chair beside him. "Oh, good. I thought I was late," she said.

"You are. Everyone else is, too, though, so you're in good company." Lin was keeping everything light with her. She was like a _lanura_ that had come to light on his hand, and he didn't want to breathe wrong, for fear that she'd fly away again. He'd held light affection for her, years ago, and friendship, and it had only deepened of late, into respect and admiration, affinity and love. . . and he couldn't quite _believe_ he was lucky enough to have her return his regard. Couldn't quite believe he was this happy, when everything had been darkness for so damned long. _No wonder I'm giddy._

Shepard entered next, followed by a huge brood-warrior and a small salarian. Lin's eyes went wide. The brood-warrior wasn't Sky. After a moment, Lin was fairly sure it was Sings-of-Glory. Sky's son, one of many, by Bargain-Singer. _Greeting-songs_, the rachni said. _Sings-Justice, Sings-Secrets, we are well met._

Shepard nodded. "Spectre Linianus Pellarian, Agent Serana. . . .ah. . . Velnaran, apparently. . . " She gave Serana a quizzical glance for the yellow face-paint she was wearing today, and shook her head, "this is Captain Irol Narim Kelmar, of the _Pellak._ He's STG, and will be taking you and Glory here . . as well as a few of Glory's closest friends. . . to Khar'shan."

Lin's eyes widened. "This is a new addition to the mission," he murmured.

_Sings-to-the-Sky sang to Truth-Singer. Sang of digging and building. Refuge-songs and combat-songs, greens and blues, reds and whites._ Glory was about as cryptic as Sky once had been. Sky's songs had modulated over the years, gained in complexity and flexibility, Lin had been told. So now Sky was often fairly understandable. Glory, however, required a bit of thought.

"Digging and refuges?" Serana repeated, carefully.

Shepard nodded. "Yeah, it's a good idea, actually. All of Zorro's recent messages have revolved around the fact that he can't actually save any of the slaves he frees. And his people have no place other than the bunker he built, himself, secretly, and years ago, to hide. Sky suggested that Glory lead a team of, oh, say, a thousand workers and five hundred soldiers to Khar'sharn with you. And that they initially set up bunkers all through the forest outside Zorro's. . . enclave." Lin thought it was interesting that Shepard was speaking so carefully in front of them, using Zorro's code name, not his real name, for instance. _She still doesn't trust that STG has purged all Lystheni elements. Spirits. That's . . . reassuring, considering we're using their ship to get where we're going._

_Truth-Singer has arranged for a scaled one of the battle-singers to sing direction-songs to the ship. No cold-song salarian will know the place of landing._ Glory's voice was definite in his mind.

Lin glanced at Serana, whose return glance told him that she'd clearly heard what had been said, too. Out loud, Shepard continued, "You'll be able to borrow Glory and some of his assets as well, for when you need to do demolition missions. Things that Zorro hasn't been able to do on his own."

Serana made a pleased sound, almost a purr. "Can rachni, say, dig under the foundation of a building, making it look like natural subsidence when the building or wall collapses? A little slower than explosives, but much less traceable."

_Yes. We may sing these songs. We do not know if those who sing control-songs, binding-songs, upon the world of crimson skies, will know what they see, when they find our traces and tunnels._

"Your targets will be what Zorro recommends, but I want priority given to finding, _documenting_, and then destroying the biotic processing facilities." Shepard's face was grim. "There have been a few recommendations for preserving these facilities for evidence after the war. I think that the batarians would probably try to destroy the facilities themselves if the Council actually lands troops on Khar'sharn. Document. Take pictures, vids, evidence. Grab their files. Everything you possibly can. Pellarian, you've got the CID background. Use it. Then blow the places to hell. I don't want them being used. It's bad enough that they're lobotomizing the biotics, but on the practical level, every biotic we prevent from getting into the fight, is one more weapon they can't use against us."

Serana cleared her throat. "If you'll forgive me, Commander Shepard?" In this room, Lin noticed, it was decided not _Aunt Lilu_. "I'd understood that the turian fleet repelled batarian ships near the Edessan shipyards. Ones with biotic weapons."

Shepard nodded. "Yes. Yes, they did. We had some indications that an attack might be imminent, however, so they were in a state of readiness." Her blue eyes didn't slide towards Narim Kelmar at all. "Here's a vid feed from a patrol near Nimines that _didn't_ have warning."

Lin sat up straight at the table, eyes fixed on the screen. He knew a bit about space combat and tactics, thanks to his interest in the Unification Wars, but, of course, those wars had been two thousand years ago. Still, the tactics were, in many respects, the same. Shields, torpedoes, ablative hulls, beam weapons, decoys. . . all done in three dimensions, as in the air or underwater. The main difference was calculating for the action-reaction pairs of working in a weightless environment. . . and trying not to fall into gravity wells of planets, occasionally.

Lin winced as he watched. Three turian light scout ships were suddenly engaged by five batarian war ships. It should have been a fairly even battle; the scout ships were faster, more maneuverable, and well-armed; while they lacked ablative hulls, they did carry shielding. The batarians, however, started tearing through that shielding in very short order, and were quickly firing on bare hulls. "Where was the vid feed taken from?" Lin asked, as the second ship exploded, taking one of the batarians with it. He wanted to snarl a little. _At least you took some of the bastards with you._

"Kivessan. The relay watch post on one of the moons of the outermost gas giant." Shepard paused. "The Fleet scrambled fighters and moved several frigates to the scouts' aid, and the batarians retreated. Towards the relay, for the moment. The scouts were part of the relay patrol. There's just not enough ships to blockade all of our own relays _and_ fight a war with the batarians."

"Spirits, was that just a scouting probe? Are they actually going to start landing people on turian worlds now?" _No,_ the back of his mind counseled, quietly. The part of his mind that probably always be filled with toy soldiers, battle scenes, and tome after tome on the Unification War. And even the Krogan Rebellions. Lin _liked_ the old battles. When Shepard, Garrus, and Lantar had discovered the _Quirus_ and the body of Shiagur on Canrum, back in 2190, Lin had been glued to the newsfeeds for days. He'd never quite worked up the nerve to ask Lantar about what it had been like. _Give it a couple more years. When it sounds a bit less like asking for his autograph._

So he was very well-versed in strategy and tactics, more or less as a hobby. And landing batarians on a turian world made no sense at _all._ "They couldn't eat the food," he murmured under his breath. "The entire population is _armed, trained_, and resistant. Even the yahg can't eat turians. . . . "

Shepard nodded now. "Yeah. They appear to call turians _poison-meat_." She looked at him calmly. "You spent two years on Nimines, Lin. Why would anyone want it?"

"It's a frozen, dim little hellhole of a planet, but it's loaded with minerals," Lin replied, instantly. "Very well-defended hellhole, though." _Half the Third Fleet is stationed around it __because__ of that mineral wealth. They just tend to stay further in, around the planet, not out at the mass relay. So, if landing is out. . . you attack from space._ "I take it the Third Fleet is on alert now? Of course, it could also be a feint." He shrugged. "Sorry. Hobby. I'm sure someone at War Plans is considering all this anyway."

"I never object to any of my Spectres using their brains," Shepard told him dryly. "But it's outside the scope of this meeting, yeah. Your other objectives will be weapons manufacturing plants, shipyards if you can get to them, slave compounds, computer manufacturers, chip manufacturers. Release of political prisoners would be a plus. Serana, you'll have a special objective. . . you're going to need to find a way to get into the batarian internal extranet and look for anything that looks like an AI hiding itself in various corners of batarian space. When we take it out, we want to take out _all_ its nodes at once.."

Serana's eyes widened. Shepard continued, "Kirrahe's given us some parameters to start looking for, but it might be a bit of a needle in a haystack at first. Kasumi's going to give you a more detailed briefing on that." She paused. "Any questions?"

Lin slowly shook his head. Serana shook hers, too. Glory sent a wave of negation to all their minds.

The salarian captain, Narim Kelmar, frowned. "I've been on some pretty crazy missions," he admitted. "But this one? Fly, straight-line, through batarian territory, in a stealthed ship. Use no mass relays at all. Drop off a Spectre or two and over a thousand _rachni_ without being detected, and get the hell back out again. Simple."

Shepard studied him for a moment. "You have doubts about the _Pellak_ and the dark energy FTL drive?"

Kelmar shook his head. "No. None. I'm much more concerned about the insertion point. Someone may spot us visually or on radar, when we open the barn door, after all."

"We'll try to make our exit as quickly as possible," Serana offered. "I'd suggest halo jumps, but I know Lin hasn't done that. And I don't think it will help the rachni."

_Sings-to-the-Sky has shown memory-songs of such things, but I cannot hold all the soldiers and workers with my mind,_ Glory interjected. _We could leap from the ship from about six times my height, and not suffer dissonance._

"Quick isn't going to mean much when we're talking fifteen hundred people." The STG captain's voice was crisp. "How they're going to fit on my ship, I don't know."

_Workers are small. They will sing quickly. Soldiers are larger, but not so large as I am. Sing peace. All will be well._ Glory sounded, if anything, excited. Something Lin had rarely heard in Sky's song.

Shepard and Kelmar left, still talking, Kelmar in a tone of urgency, about plans for the landing zone. Lin looked at Glory. "You saw combat on Shanxi?"

_Yes. Was my first time to sing battle-songs. I have the memory-songs of such things, but how well each of us does, is our own responsibility. I wished to do well. I wished to earn my name, as he who fathered my brood did. He sang in the wars against the darksong destroyers, when he was younger than I am now._

Lin had never actually known that. He'd known that the rachni had sent troops and ships, and he'd known that Sky had been selected, out of all of the rachni, to become a Spectre. But he'd never really put the two together. "So you remember what he did in the war?"

_Yes. As if I were there. I see through his eyes in memory-song. But I know that I was not there._

"What did he do?" Serana asked, clearly fascinated. "How did he earn his name?"

_He was hatched in 2184. In 2186, during the height of the battle against the darksong destroyers, he took a party of seventy soldiers and four hundred workers, and boarded a destroyer. He sang so loudly, that they could not hear the song of the destroyer, and they were able to destroy it, from within, at its power's heart. He escaped, brought back many of his soldiers and workers. And when Life-Singer went to him, to find him, to honor him, he was in the observation deck. Looking at the stars. Singing to them. As he always did between battles. She asked him why, and he told her that listening to them, and singing to them, was what allowed him not to listen to the darksong destroyer, and to out-sing it. She gave him his name then._

Lin's mouth fell open, and he exhaled. _And to think I've always felt sorry for Eli and Dara for having to live up to __their__ fathers' reputations. Not to mention the burden that Amara and Kaius and the little ones will have, when they are grown. _

_Yes. I wish to sing as well as he did. It may not be possible. But I would like to try._ Pure green hope in that light, harp-like voice.

Serana smiled. "I've felt that way my whole life, trying to live up to my older brothers, Glory. If nothing else, working with the Spectres seems to give you a chance to do exactly that."

Glory inclined his forelegs in an approximation of a bow, and scuttled out. Lin reached down and caught Serana's hand to nip the inside of her wrist lightly. "You all right?"

Serana grimaced. "It shows?"

"To me. To Eli, probably, if he were here."

She sighed. "I'm nervous. Excited. Happy to be going with you. A little sad, after yesterday. . . but he touched my mind right at the end. It was. . . odd." Serana swallowed. "Beautiful in a way, to see myself the way he sees me. To see you the way he sees you, to see _us_ in his mind."

_I always did wonder why it felt like our spirits all touched._ "So. . . that means you're going to be all right? We're pretty much at the last minute here. If you're not going to be at your best on Khar'sharn. . . "

Serana looked him straight in the eye. And he knew her words were the absolute truth when she spoke them. "I'll be fine, Lin. It's better to leave this way, with nothing hanging over our heads, isn't it?"

Lin smiled and leaned down, nuzzling her shoulder. No teeth. Just light affection. "Yes. Yes, it is. Want to help me pick out furniture for my very empty house this afternoon?"

"It'll just be gathering dust till we get back again," she told him, pragmatically. "Maybe we could check your nestroll for lumps, instead?"

Lin threw back his head and laughed. It was amazing, he thought again, as he pulled Serana close to him, how much better life seemed, when there were people there to share it with you. For just a moment, he wondered what Brennia would have thought of Serana, and chuckled to himself. Brennia would have _loved_ Serana. Wouldn't have known what to do with her, but would have loved her. Her self-confidence, her verve, her desire to overturn turian tradition whenever it seemed necessary. . . but her hints of shyness and insecurity when faced with familial disapproval for that very flouting of tradition. "We can investigate it," he told her, lightly. "But then dinner with my parents. I should probably break it to my father gently that this time, he really does actually get to negotiate for me." _The head of the xenobiological project and the high-energy explosives expert for the Spectres. Worlds collide._

**Rellus, Mindoir, October 9-10, 2196**

_Plod. Plod. Plod. Plod._ Rel gritted his teeth and looked at the physical therapist, a drell male who was making notes on his omnitool. "Can we set the treadmill to go a little faster? I don't feel any strain at all in the leg." _And rehabilitation on your schedule will take six weeks. I might not have to take that long. Unless you force me into the nice, neat boxes on your forms._

"Standard rehabilitative therapy calls for forty-five minutes at a gentle walking pace today. You did a half hour yesterday—"

"And I think it's clear that I'm not exactly a standard case," Rel said, and he could feel something deep inside of him surge. Anger. A lot of it. And the drell was just one more obstacle between him and an open door, the anger whispered. Rel could just about taste the adrenaline on his tongue at the moment, but he inhaled, exhaled, and choked it down. Carefully.

The therapist frowned. "Most patients do want to overdo it on their first day or two, and then suffer relapses. . . "

"Krogan regenerative gene mod," Rel replied, between his teeth. "How can I _possibly_ overdo it? Or even if I somehow find a way, is it going to last longer than five minutes?"

The therapy room was like most gyms. Banks of equipment, and lots of mirrors, so that people could see if they were doing the exercises correctly. . . or admire themselves, if they were inclined towards personal vanity. There were dozens of people in the gym right now. He could see Kassa running on a treadmill to his left, clearly wincing every time her right foot hit the track, but enduring. Rel realized he'd been staring at the way she ran a little too long, and looked away. Other people around him were working with weights, the repetitious clanking of the weight stacks hitting home making an almost comforting din.

A door clicked behind him, clearly audible to turian hearing in spite of the rest of the noise and chatter in the room, and Rel's head swung up. In the mirrors ahead of him, Rel could see Dr. Abrams enter, and kept a wary eye on the human as he walked up behind him. "It's a fair point," Abrams admitted, when Rel posed him the same question that the drell therapist hadn't been able to answer. "On the other hand, we're not really sure what's going to happen when you experience a natural adrenal surge, say, from a sprint or a heavy workout. We'd like that to occur under controlled circumstances. Not when we have only one technician in the room with you." Abrams gestured for Rel to step down, and pointed at a nearby set of weights.

Rel sat down, and hooked his foot under the padded rollerbar. "How much weight to start with?" he asked.

"Ten pounds, thirty reps. Yes, I know it doesn't sound like a lot," Abrams said, stealing the words from behind Rel's teeth. "But the muscles have atrophied a bit, and we don't want to overstrain them at first."

Rel was very pleased indeed when none of the repetitions burned. "We'll take it up to twenty, for another thirty reps," Abrams said. The drell therapist counted for Rel, and looked a little distressed that the doctor had come in and more or less _taken over._

By the fifteenth repetition, Rel had to admit that there was a little bit of burn, but he kept his mouth shut, except to ask, "So what sort of 'controlled circumstances' are we looking at here?"

Abrams chuckled. "Availability of a Spectre or two to _sit_ on you if necessary."

Rel snorted a little. It was very slightly amusing, but also a bit embarrassing. Part of him insisted, loudly, _I'm not a threat!_ But the rational core of him realized, _They can't really know that. They have to be sure._ He remembered, all too clearly, what it had been like when Dempsey first woke up, seizing Dara's throat in a crushing grip. _I don't want to lose it so much that I can't tell friends from foes. It's hard enough most days anyway._ "So, where the hell _is_ Dempsey? I thought he was supposed to be here this morning to teach me how to meditate or whatever the hell he does." _Yeah. Because meditation, as Kassa discovered, doesn't do a damn thing for me._ Fear-anger talking. Rel wanted to be able to fight, to hunt. But he absolutely didn't want to lose himself in the anger. No matter how cleansing its fires seemed. He still had a _very_ clear image in his mind's eye of what Dara had seen in him, with her strange new rachni eyes. Still, the niggling impression he had, at the moment, was that he was, somehow, everyone's lowest priority, a thought he impatiently brushed aside as self-pity.

Abrams' expression tightened. "Zhasa had a medical emergency last night. Dempsey's still sitting with her in the clean room ICU. Gris was second choice to help you, but he's already left for Terra Nova. Makur might be able to assist. I'll give him a call when we're done here. See what, if anything, he can do."

Rel grimaced. He barely knew either Dempsey or Makur. One was a full Spectre, the other 'probationary,' like himself. He'd worked with Makur in the field, long ago, on a batarian outpost, which had given them the information that had, actually, led to his eventual capture on Camala. _Funny how things go_. "Trade off legs," Abrams said, and Rel did so, in silent gratitude.

Kassa limped over, minus her cane, to watch as he worked his way through the exercises. "You're doing well," she told him as he stood up, reaching for his own cane. "Honestly, it's incredible. Three days ago, you were looking at amputation. Today, you're _walking_."

"I'd rather be running," Rel said, ruefully. "Outside, at that. The _allora_ trees are probably in bloom by now." His throat closed on the words. He didn't like to think that every time he looked at an _allora_ tree from now on, he was going to think of Dara and miss her. Or feel the black tide of anger creep up in him at her. Rel shook his head, trying to clear it. "Spring here always was so damned beautiful."

"What was it like, growing up here?" Kassa asked, as they limped together back down the halls towards the patient rooms.

"Peaceful, mostly. The first few years, especially." Rel remembered that mostly as a golden era, when his biggest concerns had been grades and handball. "Just . . . school. Being friends with Linianus and Telinus and the rest. Looking after my younger siblings. Outings with Uncle Garrus and Aunt Lilu and the twins, once the twins were old enough that they didn't have to wear breathers or stay indoors all the time. Dr. Solus was worried they'd catch _everything_, but they're mostly susceptible to human, batarian, and asari illnesses." Rel opened the door of his room, and gestured for Kassa to precede him in. "When I was fifteen, though, I started getting ready for boot camp. And that's when Dara and Eli arrived." It was hard to say the names calmly, but he made the effort to keep his voice level. "And the AEC attack on the base. And then Lina Vasir's. It was a busy year."

"You also got married that same year?"

"The next, human calendar, anyway. Eleven months or so." Rel sat down on the edge of the bed. "Why?"

Kassa put her hands behind her back. "I, ah, went to the Jaworski house a few nights ago. To speak with your wife."

Rel froze. "In the name of all the spirits, why?" he finally asked, on an explosive exhalation.

"I wasn't really sure at first. I wanted to . . . I don't know. Get a feel for her. For her spirit. For why a female would leave you." Kassa winced. "Also, you had . . . expressed a certain interest in me. And even though I told you _no_. . . I felt a little guilty."

Rel closed his eyes. "You shouldn't feel guilty," he muttered. "I bit _you_."

"Yes, but I liked it, and I didn't discourage it entirely." Kassa exhaled. "And part of me wanted to challenge her for you."

That made his eyes snap back open. Kassa waved her hands quickly, unclasping them from behind her back to do so. "I know, I know. She _left_ you. It's irrational to challenge someone. But. . . I think that was all on my mind, at once."

Rel shook his head. _And the hell of it is, you were right in the camp. I don't __know__ if I want you. Or if that was just. . . battle-ardor._ "I think I'm braced now," he said, grimly. "Was it a nice visit and chat?"

Kassa looked at the floor. "It was unnerving," she admitted. "A group of rachni workers opened the door. A few damned near fell on me. I _know_ they're allies, but all the vids growing up. . . ."

Rel winced. He had no problems with Sky as an ally. And Eli had, rather forcefully, pointed out how ridiculous his simmering jealousy and resentment of the brood-warrior had been. But yes, the little workers and warriors were something else entirely. "I trust you didn't scream and run?"

"Of course not." Kassa gave him a dark look. "I think I bit my tongue bloody, though." She put her hands behind her back again. "Then _Domina_ Kallixta said she would leave us to talk in private. . . so between rachni in the house and the daughter of the Imperator, you might expect that I was not very comfortable. So I rather blurted out that you'd bitten me in the spirit of battle-ardor." Her voice wasn't particularly comfortable _now_, either.

Rel exhaled, and put his face down in his hands for a moment. _I was wrong to bite Kassa, yes. And I certainly wanted to do a good deal more at the time. Might even have done it, given a chance. _"Why would you go and _tell_ her that?" Rel snapped out. "Why not let _me_ tell her, in my own time?" _If I'm ever allowed to speak with her alone again, that is._ The thought was bitter. _She was angry and defensive before. Hearing those words, from Kassa? May just have ruined any chance I had of ever regaining her heart._

Kassa sighed. "It seemed the only honest thing I could do," she said, but there was doubt in her voice. "Then again, I might have wanted to challenge her. Or even, on some level, maybe to make her jealous, as a way to reconcile the two of you. It would work on a turian. . . deflect her anger onto me, and make you appear more desirable, worth fighting for. Which, I suppose, might not have been the right thing to do with a human." Kassa hung her head. "There were many _reasons_ to say it. I'm pretty sure that the results weren't as intended, however."

"She threw you out of the house?"

"Not at first. She _laughed_." Kassa's voice was bewildered. "I've been around enough humans to gauge their reactions, more or less. That wasn't a jealousy reaction or an anger reaction. More of a. . . "

"Disbelief. Shock."

"Relief, I think, too." Kassa looked up. "She told me to go ahead and jump you if I wanted to. Told me I didn't need her permission. I asked her if she was ever going to speak with you alone again. She told me it would never happen, because she can't ever be alone again. The rachni are always with her. I. . . I don't understand that part. But she asked me to ask you this: she literally sleeps with the workers in her nest now for her. . . sanity? Could you tolerate that need in a mate?" Kassa's own tone held revulsion and confusion. There were _no_ insects on Palaven. Only arthropods in the sea. Where for humans, rachni held a certain atavistic fear, the battle between exo- and endoskeletal creatures going back to the very first forms of life, each inimical to one another, for a turian, insects like the Keepers and the rachni were almost wholly alien.

Rel had a head-start on Kassa in that department. He'd never really watched the rachni-krogan war vids growing up, and he'd met Sky when he was fifteen. The workers, though, still gave him a cold feeling along the spine. "Why would she need to do that?" he muttered. "Spirits." He ran a hand over his fringe. He didn't know what to say to Kassa at this point. She'd overstepped the boundaries that he thought they'd more or less defined. She'd made it clear that she was willing to be his friend, to work with him on the adrenaline issue, and he'd been grateful for that, and for the fact that she'd never reproached him for the biting incident. Not that the thought hadn't occurred to him again; it had. She was very damned attractive, after all. But Kassa had set the limits, and he'd respected them. And now, she'd broken her own limits. Gone to Dara and . . . said what she'd said. After a long moment, he inclined his head to her formally. "Thank you for telling me."

Kassa sighed. "I'll leave you to it, then." She turned and walked out, with one quick, curious, backwards glance.

When the door shut behind her, Rel got up, and headed to the comm panel on the desk. He keyed in Dara's code from memory, and, not unexpectedly, got nothing but her terse away message. "Dara," he said, quietly. "It's me. I'd really like to talk. About. . . everything." Rel left it at that.

Not long after, Makur came to see him, Snowflake padding at the krogan's heels. "Come on, turian," Makur said impatiently. "Let's go someplace where no one will care if we break stuff. Apparently, I need to train you the way the shaman trained me. Only without the biotics. So damned if I can figure out how we're supposed to do this."

Makur settled for a grassy field behind the med bay. Rel was just glad to be outside, smelling open air instead of hospital-grade disinfectants for the first time in three weeks. "How's this going to work?" Rel asked, dubiously.

"Well, the way the shaman trained me was, if I lost my temper, started to go into blood-rage, I couldn't focus my biotics. Right around then, a piece of concrete would hit me in the head or he'd throw me into a piece of rebar." Makur stared off into the mid-distance. "I either controlled my damn temper, or I had to beg for a break to let the wounds heal. Sometimes, when he was feeling generous, he'd let me heal up. Most of the time, though, he didn't."

Rel looked at Makur's face carefully to see if the krogan was, in any way, joking. There was no indication of that at all. "I think the doctors would frown on that."

"Would tell us if the gene mod's working on you properly." Makur grunted. "I'm not sure I like the idea of turians with krogan regeneration."

Rel grimaced. "I can guarantee, no one will like the idea of turians, given that we already have bad tempers, having krogan blood-rage, too." He sighed. _I don't like the idea, myself. I've been trying so damned hard to show everyone that I have the 'adrenaline addiction' under control, and now I might not be able to control myself at all. Hell, I might even begin to long for the rage. As Eli pointed out. Damn him._

Makur started the training slowly, more or less as sparring practice. Testing Rel's speed, stamina, reflexes, everything. It felt _good_ to be moving again. Intensely so, in fact. And in the middle of a particularly vicious engagement, as Makur closed on him and wrapped thick arms around his midsection, hauling Rel clear off the ground, squeezing on the ribs and preparing to charge to slam Rel into the brick wall of the hospital, it happened. Rel heard himself snarl. His thoughts simply went _away_, and there was a white place in his head. He dimly knew he'd slammed his hands to the sides of Makur's head, a move that, in a human, would have caused pain, if not a ruptured ear-drum, and then he dug in with his talons. He could feel blood trickling out of Makur's head, and then, suddenly, he was sitting on the ground twenty feet away from Makur, and there were thoughts in his head that weren't his own. _That's blood-rage. When everything else goes away? When there's no __you__ left, just action and reaction? That's what you need to stop before it starts._

Rel shook his head, rattled. He'd rarely fought biotics before. Here and there, a few Eclipse sisters, maybe, but Makur had thrown him twenty feet away and didn't seem tired at all. And the mental contact was a little unnerving. Makur's silent voice was as rough as his spoken one, but carried tones of strong intelligence with it. "How the hell do I know when it's going to happen?"

"That's what we're going to work on," Makur told him, tossing Snowflake a piece of jerky from a pocket as the cat came near to nuzzle at him. "Self-awareness. I spent a lot of time in Tuchanka's wilds, learning to be aware of all the predators. All the threats. My first biotic ability was learning to know when someone or something had hostile intentions. I can feel that, before I even see them. But when I'm fighting, I can't just be aware of whatever's around me. That's hard enough. But I have to be aware of what's inside me, too. Because blood-rage is a tool, like the shaman liked to say. And Gris says it, too. It's a tool. Swing the hammer. Don't _be_ the hammer."

Rel got back to his feet. "And how long is it going to take before I recognize the signs of blood-rage coming?" he asked, tautly.

Makur shrugged, and tossed Snowflake another piece of jerky. "Depends on how smart you are, I guess. I lived with it my whole life. Krogan start developing it at around age five or so. Right around when you're allowed to leave the bunkers for the first time. To help gather food or whatever. It's what marks your first step towards adulthood. I developed mine early. Age three. Used to use it on the older kids." He snickered. "They were bigger, but they weren't meaner."

They sparred like that for three hours, until Rel was teetering on the brink of physical exhaustion, and had the first inklings of where the dividing line was. Adrenaline was useful. He couldn't be effective in combat without it. But there inevitably came a point when there was too _much_ of it, and he'd completely lose his mind. Rel crouched in the long grass, panting a bit. His conditioning was off. Too much time flat on his back. "So, tell me this, Makur," he said, as the krogan slapped Snowflake on the flank with rough affection. "I'm going out on patrol. I'm totally calm. A yahg jumps out and attacks me. My adrenaline spikes. There's no way I can control that. That's just going to _happen_."

Makur nodded. "Well, that's usually when I hope to Vaul that whatever I'm killing takes me long enough to kill that I won't turn around and look for other targets. And also hope that I hang onto enough of my brain to know who Siara is. Or anyone else around who doesn't regenerate."

Rel grabbed a handful of grass and pulled on it, stripping the first seeds from the green stalks. "Very comforting."

Makur shrugged. "Maybe the human's got a few tricks. What I know, is how to tell when it's coming, and try to hold it off. Breathing. Concentration. And if all else fails, turn it on someone who deserves it."

Rel heard footsteps, and turned, instantly. His eyes widened. Serana and Lin were there, and Serana was back in Thracian yellow again. "How goes the training?" she asked, lightly.

Rel shrugged. "I'm learning to fly," he replied. "Makur throws me halfway across the field, and I flap my arms, but we don't seem to be making any real progress."

Lin chuckled, and Makur snorted. "I'm off," the krogan said. "We'll go over it again tomorrow. Or maybe the human will be available." Another snort. "Maybe he can make it make sense to you."

Rel stood up. It was awkward, as so many things were right now. He'd said some fairly unforgivable things to Serana, and she, like Dara, was apparently being cautious and not coming to see him by herself. "So," he said, after a long moment of debating how to say it. _Came to your senses and threw Eli out on his ass?_ sounded okay in his head. Statement of support for his first-sister, light-hearted enough. . . but he just barely closed his teeth over the words in time. Rel swallowed them down and said, instead, "How's it feel to wear Velnaran paint again?"

"Strange," Serana said, with a side-long glance at Linianus, which Rel caught. "Might not be for long, though. Ranalus went to go see our father last night after dinner."

Rel just stared at her and shook his head. She'd been fixed on Eli from such a young age, and as soon as she'd gotten him to look at her seriously, had rushed things. And now, here she was, heedless and headstrong, and rushing things again. "Humans have a saying, Serana. Out of the frying pan and into the fire?"

Lin gave him a hard look, the friendly expression on his face dissolving. "So, I'm the fire in this scenario?" Lin said, quietly.

Rel stood, and spread his hands. "Not how I meant it," he replied, his tone filling with frustration. "I just don't want to see Serana hurt again."

Serana patted Lin's arm lightly. "Not at all," Serana told Rel, her voice still determinedly light. "Eli didn't hurt me. If he and Lin hadn't made Spectre, I think we'd still be trying to make things work. And, in my more realistic moments. . . " she sighed, "I think we'd have wound up in exactly the same place in four years anyway. Eduardo and Charis make it work. But . . . I have no idea how." Serana looked Rel in the eyes. "The only person who's hurt me in all of this wasn't Eli. And it wasn't Lin, either." _It was you._ She didn't say the words, but Rel could hear them hanging silently in the air, whether she intended them to be there or not. Serana went on briskly now. "Lin's proposing a two-year _commeditor_, so I can be _sure_ about him. And he can be sure about me." She shrugged slightly. "Won't be finalized for months, though."

"Which is why we dropped by," Lin said, letting his irritation blow past, as Lin almost always did. "We're leaving for Khar'sharn tomorrow. Apparently, with Glory and about fifteen hundred rachni." Lin grinned now. "We're going to go make trouble and take names. So. . . won't be seeing you for a while."

_S'kak. I can't let them leave, not on this note. Not with bad spirits lingering._ Rel swallowed. "Then let me say that I look forward to being there when your contract is finalized, and hope that you'll both be very happy."

Serana suddenly smiled, and he could see _relief_ in her eyes. Rel offered Lin his hand for a wrist-clasp. "And I'd also like to apologize for words spoken in anger. To both of you."

Lin slowly reached out, and clasped Rel's wrist, and Rel tentatively offered his sister a hug. "Be safe," he whispered against the side of her head. "Be very damned careful. I only have one first-sister. And I don't think Polina's looking for a promotion."

Serana managed a laugh, and pulled back away. "And you'll be careful wherever you get sent?" she asked.

Rel nodded. "I'll try," he said, simply. _Assuming they let me go anywhere at all. I have __got__ to get this leg completely strengthened again. And get control of this. . . thing. . . inside of me._

That evening, Eli dropped by, tapping on the door lightly. Rel looked up from the piece of _jalae_ wood in his hands, which he was turning over and over, trying to decide what was in it. "Huh. I've had more visitors today than any day last week," Rel admitted. He wasn't sure if he should be glad Eli was there or not. He could count on the human not to pull his punches, at least. And sometimes, as with the whole Sky incident, that was actually the most valuable thing Eli brought to their friendship. If you were being stupid, wrong-headed, or stubborn, Eli would tell you. Sometimes diplomatically, sometimes with a joke, and sometimes with krogan- or turian-level bluntness. "Doing your duty and visiting me?"

"It'd be less of a duty if you made it less of a pain in the ass," Eli admitted, and sat down. The human had no trouble meeting Rel's eyes, and his own, while dark, didn't have that eerie, inky blackness to them at the moment. "Was checking in on Dempsey, Zhasa, and Dara again, and figured I'd check in on you, too."

Rel turned the wood over, and picked up his carving tools, making his first thin slice. "Dara's okay? No more . . . rachni stuff?" _Maybe that's why she hasn't returned the comm call._

Eli sighed. "No. Third person who's been worried about that. No, she's been trying to figure out what's going on with Zhasa."

"And that is? No one's told me anything."

"An egg hatched on her." Eli managed to hold his face straight as Rel's eyes jerked up. "Yeah. Dara already mentioned that it's been a bad month for that. No, in this case, it was a Prothean artifact she'd been given years ago that was apparently specifically keyed to quarian biotic DNA markers. She managed to activate the damned thing, it registered that she was quarian and had passed some sort of quarian test, and it melted. The metal of the artifact turned out to be nanites, and they absorbed into her blood stream and body, and I think every biochemist and doctor on the base is looking at her right now." Eli shrugged faintly and sat back in his chair, eyes warily appraising Rel. "In between poking Dara for more blood samples, anyway. At least they're not confining her to med bay, which is what I thought they were going to do when we first got back from rachni space."

Rel worked on the piece of wood in silence, roughing out the shape he saw in his mind. It was hard to talk to Eli now. More so than when they were younger. When Eli had wanted to learn sparring and shooting, and Rel already knew how to do those things. Those had been common conversations. Eli had talked handball with Lin and Tel, of course, and Rel had joined in, now and again. "What was the Singing Planet like?" he finally asked.

"Beautiful. Desolate. Crystal spires, ah, sticking up out of the ground everywhere." Eli cleared his throat. "Low oxygen atmosphere, decent gravity, and really freaking cold. If I ever had a reason to live there, it would have to be underground. Which is pretty much the rachni solution, other than the main hives. Life-Singer's palace though. . . my god. It was blinding. Entirely made of white and clear crystals. Veined with eezo in places. And of course, inside, it was crawling with rachni." Eli's voice had started out awed, become slightly uncomfortable on mentioning the spires, shifted to prosaic, gone back to being awed again, and then prosaic once more. A jumble of emotions. He paused, and pointed at the carving. "What's that going to be?" He nodded to the yahg leader statue, which still loomed on the bedside table, beside Gavius' potted plant (which still didn't have a single leaf visible). "Hope it's going to be less ugly than your last project."

"I'm not really sure yet," Rel admitted. "I know it's a person. But I don't know whom." He shrugged. "Sometimes, I start with a clear picture in my head, but the wood doesn't let me go that direction. It's not like casting something in metal. Wood has flaws. Imperfections. You have to work with it, not bully it into submission."

"Huh."

Rel glanced up. "What?"

"Nothing." Eli stretched his legs out under the bed. "I was thinking back to that really weird dream on Bastion, the one that we all more or less shared, thanks to Siara. You were lead hunter for the tribe and all that."

Rel snorted. "I only remember a little about it."

"Pretty clear for me. Guess that might be because of the crap Kella put in my head, after all." Eli rubbed the back of his neck. "I remember Dara's thoughts in the dream. Something about how you were a spirit-caller, too. Because of the statues."

Rel waved it off. "Folk belief, yeah. There's some evidence that back in the cave and nest days, it was believed that someone who was a spirit-caller could more or less _call_ the game to them. By making a statue of a _bianasae_, for example. One that was so accurate, that it called the spirit of the beast to it, and its body would follow." He scraped along the wood with the knife. "Domestication of animals came later. We never really felt the need to sacrifice animals to the spirits, the way humans sacrificed to the gods, but statues that were considered to have 'gone bad' or were exceptionally well made, were either burned or buried in ritual locations."

Eli pointed at the yahg statue. "You finished that before you fought the leader, didn't you?"

"Yeah." Rel spared it a glance. "I did a little too good a job on it. Sometimes, the eyes feel like they're watching me." _Did I carve myself into it? Spirits, don't let that be so._

"So, you carved it, and then you found the creature it represented." Eli smiled faintly.

"Magic," Rel scoffed.

Eli shook his head. "Not really. You spent a lot of time thinking about the yahg leader. Trying to think _like_ him. Not so different from tracking a killer. Really great behavioral psych courses out there for people who track serial killers, for example. You do have to try to think like them. Admittedly, there's always a gap, because you're sane and they're insane. And after a while, you can start to feel really dirty, thinking like that. Sam and Lantar have a dozen stories about that stuff between them."

Rel stayed silent. He didn't want to admit to how thin the gap between him and the yahg seemed some days. _Will it be worse, with the gene mod?_ He hadn't thought of that before, and his fingers slipped on the carving. He cut himself, swore, and looked at the resulting blue blood. . . just as the cut sealed itself in front of his eyes. "_S'kak,_" he muttered. "It really does work."

"I don't think there was much doubt of that," Eli said dryly, standing. "Just look at your leg. You don't even have scars, the way Garrus does."

Rel glanced up, sharply, and a querulous, sharp voice said from the doorway, "My son wears his scars as a reminder," Gavius said, stumping into the room. "Mistakes made. What'll you wear as a reminder, Rellus?" He turned and looked at Eli. "You're not married to my grand-daughter anymore. Out. This is _family_ visiting hours."

Rel's eyes widened as Eli looked Gavius straight in the eyes. _"My father is your son's __dimicado'fradu__. That is still kin. But I will respect your privacy, and wish you a good evening."_ A very slight inclination of the head, and then Eli was gone.

Gavius looked after him, and snorted. "Least the boy has a spine," he muttered, and then found a seat beside the bed.

He just sat there for a long moment. Rel wasn't about to reproach him for throwing Eli out. Even if he were so inclined, it would do no good anyway. Gavius did what Gavius did.

When the silence had stretched too long, Rel mentioned, "The bulbs haven't sprouted yet."

"Nor will they, for another week at least." Gavius made a harrumphing noise. "I came here to ask you a question or two, grandson. And I expect your attention when I'm talking, and that your eyes not be focused on some fiddly bits of wood."

Rel set the carving aside. And waited. "Yes?" he asked, after another full minute stretched by.

Gavius exhaled. "Agnes Jaworski."

Rel waited.

Another minute went by. "Dara's grandmother. What about her?" Rel finally asked.

Gavius just sat there, back perfectly straight, as if his spine were a sword embedded in the chair. "Fine. I'll just come out and ask it. How _do_ you know if a female human is interested, and how do you _court_ one if that's the case?"

Rel was just as glad his carving knife wasn't in his hands. Gene mods or not, cuts still _hurt_. After a moment, his brain managed to engage his vocal cords. "Ah, er. . . . _what_?" he managed.

Gavius' tone grew even grumpier than usual. "Look. The woman brings me plants for my garden. Stays to argue over where I should plant them. Brings me _caprificus_/cherry jam and when I tell her I can't eat that _s'kak_, tells me to, and I quote, 'then man up and take an epi-tab, you old coot.'" Gavius actually managed a decent imitation of Agnes' thick drawl. "She's gone to lunch with me once a week like clockwork for three months now, argued with me every single time, and came back for more. She made turians out to be warmongers and brigands with a bit too much of a love for weapons in every conversation, and then I find out that her husband taught her to shoot—and shoot very damned well—forty years ago." Gavius spread his hands. _What can you do?_ "So is the female interested or not?"

Rel was trying very hard to decide between laughter and supreme discomfort. _After the lecture I got at my manus rites, Grandfather? Really? This. . . this would be funnier if my marriage weren't, well, falling apart. But it's still amusing, somehow. _"I, ah, don't know, Grandfather."

"Then what use are you, then?" Gavius sounded aggravated. "Fine. Then answer me this. What gesture or courting ritual or whatever, should I start with, to see if she responds or if she runs away, screaming in terror from the 'bloodthirsty jackbooted turian'?"

Rel's mouth opened and closed again. His mind had gone, actually, completely blank.

"Hurry up, boy, I don't have all day. What did you do to get your wife's attention?"

Rel cleared his throat. "My example might not be the best one to follow. She's—"

"Yes, yes, but I'm not asking _Garrus_ for advice. He'd enjoy it too much." Gavius gave him a piercing glance. "If it comes down to it, I can also just try whatever's completely the _opposite_ of what you did."

"Grandfather," Rel said, between his teeth, "that was a little uncalled-for."

"Just give me the general outlines. Let it out from behind your teeth. And don't be all day."

Rel exhaled, trying to send his irritation with it, as Makur had been teaching him all afternoon. "I. . . wanted to say thank you for her help with some schoolwork, so I gave her a gift of one of Grandmother's coins. On a chain. Then . . . taught her to ride a _rlata_. Sparring. Shooting. Schoolwork." Rel coughed. "Biting."

Gavius looked up at the ceiling. "Wonderful. Schoolwork? Very helpful. And somehow, I do not picture inviting Agnes Jaworski onto the sparring mats. And as for biting her? I might get punched. Which, well, wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing from a turian, but. . . " He gave Rel an irritable glance. "Surely you know of _some_ human gesture I could make?"

Rel winced. He was suddenly acutely aware that he didn't actually _know_ how humans courted. He'd always assumed it was at least somewhat similar to how turians did things. He'd more or less done things the turian way with Dara. Expressed interest, proposed a contract binding and limiting their time together, and followed it. They'd . . . played some extranet games. They'd sparred, ridden, studied, and she'd taught him how to swim. It had been fun. But suddenly he wondered if he'd missed something important in there. _She'd have told me if I had. Wouldn't she?_ "She told me that human males propose marriage by kneeling before the female. I told her that wasn't going to happen."

"For the spirit's sake, I'm not talking marriage. I'm talking _courtship_." Gavius awarded him a basilisk's stare. "Anything?"

Rel thought about it, hard. "I've heard that flowers are a courtship gift," he offered, cautiously.

"Oh, great spirits, the woman has been courting _me_, and I've been bumbling along not even knowing it." Gavius sighed. "Finally, something I can use. Thank you, grandson. I'll leave you to your rest now."

The next morning, Rel decided to check in on Zhasa, if he could. He was tired of the four walls of his room, and someone else's problems sounded like just the thing, honestly. Unfortunately, he discovered quickly that she was still in the clean room ICU. He could look through the observation window and wave, but not enter and talk to her. It was actually _shocking_ to see a quarian outside of the suit. Rel had never had any idea what was under there, but had assumed, somehow, that the only other dextro species would look much like his own people. Such was not the case. Zhasa was sitting up in her patient gown, drinking broth, apparently, while various white-suited people milled around, checking her vitals and everything else. One broad-shouldered figure in a white suit was probably Dempsey; he was the only one sitting still in the room.

Eventually, Dempsey came out of the airlock. "Hey," the human said flatly, taking off his hood and breather. "Sorry I haven't been available. I should be able to practice with you and Makur this afternoon, though. Assuming everything stays stable with Zhasa."

Rel shook his head. "Didn't come by to pester you. Just. . . kind of wondered how she was doing."

"Doc Chakwas and Doc. . . Dara. . . " Dempsey's ice-blue eyes didn't waver, "think she's out of the woods. They have no idea what the _fuck_ the nanites are doing, but they don't seem to be _hurting_ her. And she doesn't seem to have any secondary infections from my having hauled her here in her underwear, so thank god for that."

Rel nodded, and tried not to stare through the observation window. Zhasa didn't deserve to be a fish in a bowl, but it was almost impossible not to look at her. Soft skin, like a human. Fluffy hair, like a Terran cat or seal. Huge eyes, with almost no visible whites, and in an arresting shade of violet. Curving, subtle fangs. He could definitely understand why Dempsey was intrigued with her. . . of course, the human had been before ever seeing her. Rel turned so that his back was to the window. "They going to release her soon?"

"Tomorrow, back into her suit. And then at least a week's more observation. Going to fuck with the schedule, I think, but there's no help for it. She's in the same boat as the doc now. Alien contaminant, need for study and evaluation and all that shit." Dempsey regarded him. "You'll probably get off-world before either of them do."

Rel snorted. "We'll see about that."

**Elijah, October 10-14, 2196 **

Eli had been sure to be there when the _Pellak_ started boarding all of the people who were going to Khar'sharn. Dara came with him, to see Lin and Serana and Glory off.

Fortunately, getting that many rachni aboard took some time. "Hey," Eli said, looking at Glory. "I see some of the named workers are going with you." Sure enough, Einstein, Nobel, Watson, and Crick all scuttled past his feet.

_Yes._ Blue-green amusement from Glory. _They sing pride, to have name-songs, given by you and little-queen. They have been digging here in the place of the Spectres. Singing building-songs. Now, they will help our chorus of destruction-songs, and build on the world of crimson skies, as well._

Eli chuckled. "I think I'm getting better at understanding rachni. That all made perfect sense."

Lin snorted and came out from behind a pallet of supplies. His armor had been painted over. Dull gray and green camouflage splotches, in place of Spectre black. _A wise precaution._ "There are probably reasons for that, _fradu_."

Eli made a quick finger-flicking gesture at Lin, and then offered Lin a wrist-clasp. _"Travel in safety and may the spirits favor your hunt,"_ he said, in _tal'mae_. _"Keep Serana safe, too."_

"Good luck and be safe," Lin muttered back, in English. "And if anything else has happened to Dara before we get back, I will be annoyed."

Lin then simply engulfed Dara in a big hug, and then paused, eyes going wide. Dara managed a faint smile, and started to apologize, "I'm sorry, Lin. Skin contact—I'm sill not good at blocking—"

"Don't apologize," Lin said, smiling. "I'm . . . yeah. I'm much better than I was a year ago. Serana's helped with that. Just being around her and Eli and you . . . everyone, really. . . it's helped."

Dara's eyes were wide and luminous, and she said nothing out loud, but Lin started to chuckle anyway.

Eli shook his head. "You going to take the vibrosword with you, fradu?" He motioned to the sword strapped across Lin's back.

Linianus chuckled. "Yeah. If nothing else, I can _futar_ with the authorities' heads but good, leaving vibrosword cuts on walls and even on corpses, if need be. Get them looking all directions."

"Don't let anyone see you with it," Dara muttered. "For god's sake, Lin, be careful. I don't have so many friends that I want to lose any of them."

Lin patted her hair lightly, and then Serana slunk out from behind the pallet of crates, stepping over a handful of rachni workers that went scuttling by, and moved forward to greet them. Eli's eyes widened. She was wearing Lin's paint. And it was just smudged enough that he suspected Lin had daubed it on her with his fingers this morning. "Nice!" he told her, and darted Lin a quick grin, offering the turian his fist; Lin knew the gesture, and, laughing, thumped it with his own knuckles. "Lin's paint brings out the color of your eyes, Serana. Couldn't look any more perfect." He leaned down and gave her a hug. The familiar scent of her gave him a pang, but he quashed it. In three or four months, or however long their mission kept them on Khar'sharn, they'd be back. And Serana would, probably, by that point, be happy, secure, and settled with Lin.

Serana hugged him back fiercely. "Lin convinced me that it would make us look more like a mated pair. I told him I doubted the batarians knew even that much about our paint, but. . . I like wearing it." Serana looked around. "Just don't tell my family."

"Too late," Rinus said, dryly, from behind them, and Serana started a little guiltily. "What, do you think I wouldn't be here to see my wife off?" he asked, as Eli turned. Sure enough, Kallixta was by his side, in her flightsuit.

Serana started to explain, and Rinus held a finger up at her. "Peace, first-sister. I'm not going to yell at you for wearing his paint. Time was, before the custom of contracts, that all that was needed to formalize a wedding was the male putting his paint on his mate's face." He shrugged, and gave Lin a wrist-clasp. "Keep her safe, or I'll scale you," he told the younger male.

"If she's not safe, it'll be because I'm dead," Lin replied, simply.

Rinus nodded. "Good enough."

Serana crossed to Dara, and held out her hands. Dara gingerly accepted the hug, and the two of them stood there for a long moment. Serana pulled away. "You're always going to be my sister," she said, suddenly, and inexplicably. "You promise?"

Eli watched Dara's face. It was a study in confusion and, after a moment, in delight. "Yeah," Dara said, simply. "Always. But enough with the sad farewells from you and the stiff upper lips from the guys. You're all killing me here." She wasn't fooling anyone. Her lower lip was wobbling a bit, and her huge eyes were filled with very human tears. She turned, and gave Kallixta a hug, too. "Safe journeys. Try not to hit the planet."

"Why does everyone say that to me?" Kallixta muttered in mock-agitation. "Have I hit one _yet_?"

"There's always a first time, _amatra_," Rinus told her, and gave her one last gentle bite to the inner wrist. "Fly safely, and with the spirits."

The _Pellak_ took off thirty minutes later, and Eli had closed his hand around Dara's wrist gently as they watched the strange-looking ship, half salarian technology and half human ingenuity, lift off. "Well," Eli said as it became a tiny speck in the violet sky. "That was a depressing way to start the day." Dara's music was Chopin, but it wasn't _Raindrops_ for once. Something darker. _Prelude in C-minor,_ she told him, silently. _Funeral march._

_Oh, that's cheerful_, he told her, dryly. _They're not dead, __sai'kaea.__ A little beyond our ability to help at the moment, but not dead._ He gave Rinus a glance out of the corner of his eye. "Kallixta ever been off on a high-risk mission without you before?"

Rinus shook his head. "It's probably too early for me to get a drink," he said, dryly. "But damn if I don't feel like I want one right now."

The three of them walked off together. Eli didn't have to touch Dara to keep the silent conversation going, fortunately. _What did Serana say?_

Dara couldn't hide it. It flowed through him in a memory of voice and music and color. _That she was happy, and sad at the same time. And she could feel my happiness and sadness at the same time, and that it confused her. But that she was grateful that I'd always been her friend. And that I'd stood as a sister to her for years now, and wanted that to continue. I said that I thought Kallixta made as good, if not better a sister. And she said that Kallixta was a fighter and perfect for Rinus, made him lighter and happier. But that I'd been her sister longer. And she would miss me if I passed out of her life, never to speak to any Velnaran again, just because of Rel. And I told her I was going to be working with Rinus, and that Kallixta and I were always going to be friends, and that she and I could be sisters for as long as she wanted to be._ Dara's tone held bemused wonder, and the piano lightened. Became something light and playful. Mozart, maybe. _ I didn't think I was that important to her._

Eli smiled faintly. He remembered Serana running across the living room in the Jaworski house a few months ago, and hugging Dara's knees, and reminded her of that moment now. _Brothers and sisters are important to turians, remember? She'd never had an older sister before you._

_I suppose. Still. . . surprising._ Dara hesitated. _Do you think the happiness she felt in me. . . do you think she. . . knows?_

_Knows?_ Eli thought about it. Serana had a knack for seeing what was in people. It was one of the gifts he had, belatedly, realized would make her damned effective at her job in espionage. _She's probably got an inkling or two. I didn't want to hurt her, or make her feel replaced, but I'm also not necessarily __hiding__ anything, either._ He paused. _You doing anything this afternoon?_ He changed the subject, deliberately, as they diverged from Rinus' path, heading towards the eastern half of the base. It was a nice, crisp walk.

Out loud, she answered, "No. I'm off-shift in med bay till tomorrow, thank god."

"Good. I've got a _list_ of things that need to get done before we ship off-world again." Eli wanted to reach up and touch her hair, but they were out in public, so he held off for the moment.

"Such as?" Dara's glance up at him was almost coy.

_Don't look at me like that if you don't want to get dragged off into the bushes and very thoroughly kissed, __sai'kaea__._ Eli grinned as she suddenly flushed pink. "Number one, chances are, one or both of us won't be here by the thirtieth. So I'm going to take care of your birthday gift early."

_You don't have to—_

—_yes, I do._ "Second, I need to talk to your dad."

_About us?_ Her thought held alarm. _Eli, I don't want all the family pressure again._

_No pressure. But I also don't want to sneak around. I'm going to be straight-up with Sam about us, and he can like it or not, and that won't change a damned thing. I suspect I also need to talk to Lantar. He's been giving me the look that suggests I'm about to hear from my clan-leader again, so I might as well beat him to it._ Eli chuckled out loud at Dara's blue-green amusement. _In and around that, I'd like you to come with me to speak with Ylara._

He could feel her pull back at the mere thought. She really did think the asari hated her. _Sai'kaea__, I asked her to acknowledge me as kin. She called me __n'__ di'adoli__. I owe her the courtesy now. And. . . I think it would be good for you._

_This is an asari thing?_

_Yeah._

_I'm just barely getting the hang of being part rachni._ Her song was hesitant, one note trickling out at a time. _But you've been working so hard to help me with the workers and the song and everything else. . . if you want me to be a little bit asari, I can try._

Eli closed his eyes, and stopped mid-step, fighting to keep his mind from taking a sharp left turn. "What?" Dara said out loud.

"Nothing." He could feel her listening more intently, and blocked her.

_Why won't you let me listen?_ Her voice was confused now.

_Because there are parts of me that aren't very human at all, and I don't know if you can accept them,_ he admitted, slowly. They'd paused on the road, near the base entertainment complex.

_Eli, you're accepting that part of me is linked to a hive. That I'm the damned __brood-mother__ of a rachni queen. What could __possibly__ be in your mind that . . . well, hell, I think I probably saw it all when Joy-Singer was drawing your mind and memories through mine._ Dara looked up at him steadily. "I just can't actively remember everything at once, the way a rachni can. I need to be reminded. But I'm pretty sure there was nothing in you that I didn't like. Otherwise, Joy-Singer wouldn't have given you as much honor as she did."

Eli swallowed past the knot in his throat. _I'll show you later, then. If you want to see everything in my mind and memories. Maybe up at the lake?_

_Today?_

_Thursday sound all right? Maybe Ylara's this afternoon?_

He could feel her reluctance, but she was turian enough . . . .and human enough. . . to see a duty, and accept it. _Then I'll go handle Lantar now. . . and a little shopping for a certain birthday girl. . . _he chuckled at her reaction, which was to elbow his ribs. . ._Ylara this afternoon. Then the lake, and your dad Thursday. I like a plan of action. _

Lantar was easy enough. Eli sent him a message and they arranged to meet at home for lunch. Eli had no intention of having this conversation in the mess hall or some café somewhere. So he made sure he had thin-sliced _cuderae_ tongue on _panis_ bread waiting for Lantar, while he put together a couple of salami, ham, turkey, and cheese sandwiches on wheat for himself, heavy on the mustard. Lantar walked in, sniffed approvingly, and took the Dijon himself, pouring the yellow substance all over the sandwich. "One of the best levo condiments ever created," Lantar said, and sat down at the table.

There was silence until they'd finished the food. But when Lantar pushed back his plate, he gave Eli a slightly amused stare. "You said you had a few things to talk to me about."

"_Yes, clan-leader. I will be going to he who is your brother-in-battle later this week, and asking his permission, after the fashion of the _humans_, to pay court to she who is his daughter."_ Eli used _tal'mae_, and he met Lantar's eyes as he spoke.

Lantar blinked. "_You are aware that she who is his daughter is bound to another? One beside whom you would fight? One who has been as a brother to you?"_

"_She is no more bound to him. By her own choice, she has stepped apart, and has remained so for over four cycles of the moons now. Words on parchment can be changed, and will be, in the fullness of time."_

"_Words such as these cannot be changed."_

"_By turian law, no. By _human _law, certainly they may."_

Lantar's mandibles flexed. _"He who is her mate will not see it thus. Also, he has spirit-sickness within him. We have been attempting to cure him of it, but it may require her to give to him of the spirit they share."_

Eli frowned, and shifted to English. "You know what? Half the damned problem Dara and Rel have had is that she's been forcing herself to become turian, when she's not. She's human, Dad." He looked up at the ceiling. "And a little bit rachni, and a little bit turian. Insisting that she continue to act turian isn't going to fix anything."

Lantar sighed. "I'm aware that it won't fix the marriage. I've been tasked with trying to restore his spirit, though, and support from the family as well as the unit has been a time-honored way to accomplish that. I wouldn't be where I am today without your mother, Garrus, and Shepard, Eli."

Eli put his hands on the table in front of him, studying the wood grain for a moment. "I understand that, Dad, but she stepped away. Everyone insisting that she go back and deal with him is just making it worse. Reverse psychology? The more you insist that it's her duty, the more dead-set against it she gets." Eli looked at Lantar. "And she's right. It's not her job. She was unhappy, and she decided she wanted out. If this weren't a _tal'mae_ contract, we wouldn't even be having this conversation. It would have been dissolved months ago, and no one would be trying to bully or guilt her into help him. Hell, at this point, she's gone above and beyond the call of duty. Not only has she treated the leg wound, but she helped design the damn gene mod that saved his limb, if not his life."

Lantar sighed. "I'm aware of that, too. I simply don't know what else can be done to restore his spirit. I've been grasping at straws for months. The constant combat on Shanxi was not a help. And Garrus says that Rel wants to go back into the fight. To hunt the yahg. . . but at least this time, he was able to articulate clear reasons. Defense of innocents. The teaching of repercussions to those who transgress." Lantar shrugged. "Enough about him." He looked at Eli steadily. "_You had feelings for she who is the daughter of my brother-in-battle long ago."_

"_Yes. I buried them when it became clear that she favored another."_

"_And she returns those feelings now?"_

"_We wish to attempt to find out if the feelings are true in our hearts. Without contracts or interference_ _or scrutiny."_

Lantar shifted from the cadences of _tal'mae_ into modern turian. _"That may be difficult. A minister of the law, should he discover that you have paid court to her, while she remained bound—on parchment—to another. . . could accuse you of leading her astray from him. Of creating the division between those who were bound. Of adultery."_ Lantar paused. _"Of course, such accusations would have to be settled in a duel."_

"_Duels are not legal on Mindoir, and I do not plan on returning to Palaven in the near future."_ Eli's expression had gone grim. Duels weren't necessarily _common_, but they were still used in courts for matters of divorce and custody rights. When all rational discourse failed, usually. Mostly, the dueling system was a deterrent. _Act like reasonable adults, come to an agreement, sign the damned forms, or someone's going to go to the hospital. Or the morgue._ Not all duels were fought by the people directly involved. If a female had a dispute with a male, for example, it would be an unfair fight. There were, in fact, professional duelists, who could be hired as a champion for a given cause. Not a few former gladiators took this as their 'retirement' job. _"I have no intention of dueling Rel, __pada__. If he forces my hand, if he hurts her in any way, I will, but that's not a fight either of us will win."_ Eli sighed. _"I simply ask that you understand that my intent is honorable."_

Lantar shook his head. _"And when you are asked about the timing of the dissolution of your contract to Rellus' sister, and the decision to court Dara?"_

"_I asked Serana to consider dissolution four months ago. She said six months at the time was the longest she would hold me to the contract."_ Eli smiled faintly. _"The events on the Singing Planet changed her mind, I believe."_

Lantar snorted. _"Apparently."_ He looked at Eli steadily. _"You have brought this to my attention in all honor. I will not stand in your way, but I ask that you continue to listen to my advice and counsel in this matter. You are an adult, and must make your own way. But you are my first-son, and I am loathe to see you harmed in any way."_

Eli grimaced. _"And what is your advice? To tell Rellus, to his face, that I court his wife?"  
_

"_Don't be ridiculous. In his current state of mind, the duel would begin before the words finished being spoken, and it wouldn't involve blades. He has made a target of you since the Spectre trials. Even though there was nothing there, not a single dishonorable action, I think he sensed the bond of friendship between you and Dara deepening. It was there when you were young. It's why your mother was so concerned. She didn't want you two to go too fast. And I, at the time, merely thought we should get the two of you manus-plighted quickly and have done with it."_

Eli guffawed. He remembered that long-ago, more than slightly embarrassing conversation on the _Normandy._ "And now, Dad?"

"_I have no idea how she's going to be unbound from her contract, first-son." _Lantar sounded grave. _"Even if human law grants her a divorce, and you were, say, to marry her—"_

"_Can we go slowly, even with the hypothetical scenarios?"_ Eli winced.

"_Granted, but I'm looking at long-term ramifications here. Even if you married her under human law after her divorce under human law, there's a good chance that you'd both be considered to be in a bigamous relationship in turian space."_

"_Not necessarily illegal. I did take a look at group contracts a while back, as you might recall."_ Eli paused, and added, with just a little force, and in English, for emphasis, "And while we're citizens of the Hierarchy, we _are_ human. More or less." _Some days, a little less than more._ He paused, and added, with a grin, "Besides. We're Spectres. 'Outside the law' count for anything here?"

"Not much, nor should it," Lantar replied, slipping into English with him, dry and amused. "'Outside the law' in terms of being able to capture or kill dangerous criminals doesn't much pertain to social contracts."

"Damn. Was worth a shot." Eli paused, and started cleaning up the plates. "What's the bottom-line, Dad?"

Lantar tapped his talons on the table in an irritable roll of sound. "We _need_ you and Rel to be able to work together."

"Now?" Eli said, wryly. "In a few years, I can see it, but now?"

"You're both on the short list for Terra Nova."

Eli muttered something short and nasty in asari as he settled the plates in the sink. "Okay. Advise and counsel me, then. If I continue as Dara has requested, and I keep my courtship of her quiet, that will make working with Rel easier, short-term. But when he inevitably discovers it, it will make him feel betrayed. And if I simply go to him and disclose it now, he will either attack me or it will make working with him impossible for the immediate future. Correct?"

Lantar exhaled. _"_Or you could hold off in your courtship of Dara until this situation is settled."

"If I'm on Terra Nova and she's not, then there would be little courting that could be done, besides letters." Eli's teeth hurt, and he forced himself to calmness. "And saying that she and I are not courting, when our _intentions_ are otherwise, does nothing but put the activity on hold. It doesn't remove the inclination. It's just a _quieter_ form of being quiet. I'll do a lot to keep the peace, but I will not give up my own happiness just because someone else might get in a snit. I'm not _that_ noble."

Lantar chuckled a bit and counseled, "Be cautious in writing. Letters that do not pass through Spectre-encrypted bands can be subpoenaed as evidence of alienation of affection or adultery. And what does pass through Spectre bands had best be work-related."

Eli remembered, instantly, that Dara had been amused when Lin had sent her a message on Saturday about Serana handing him the dissolution papers. On an encrypted Spectre band, using their squad names. _Damn. Lin was. . . wow. How'd he know. . . ? Also, he __really__ thinks ahead, doesn't he? _He shook his head. "So, Dad, what do I do? Besides going and talking to Sam in a couple of days, as planned."

"I don't have any good counsel for you, unfortunately. I'd suggest, for your own protection, to do nothing irrevocable until her legal paperwork is submitted."

"Already decided that."

Lantar shrugged. _"_Past that. . . you're adult. You do make your own decisions. "

"Thanks, Dad," Eli said, finishing the final rinse on the plates. "Very helpful."

He'd called and made sure that Ylara was going to be available in the afternoon for their visit. Eli had been almost certain that Dara was going to chicken out, but she knocked on the Sidonis front door at precisely 17:00, and he took her hand as he walked out the door. Dara had no less than four of her workers with her—1812, Chopin, Wolfgang, and Liszt, by the markings.

—_New queen is in danger? We protect!_

"I keep telling them that there's no danger," Dara muttered.

"_Sai'kaea_, they're hearing what I'm hearing," Eli reminded her. _And you're scared to death right now. As soon as you calm down, they will, too._ Out loud, he told her, as they walked down the gravel pathway, "Thought I was going to have to hunt you down." Nervous skitters of music played in his head.

"You won't have to drag me there in shackles," she grumbled. . . and then paused, eyes darting towards him as his instant amusement flickered to life.

_You don't even say these things on purpose. That's the beauty of it_, Eli told her, chuckling quietly. Out loud, he told her, blandly, "I think we should probably hold off on the _really_ kinky stuff. But, you know. Cop. I've got handcuffs, if you _really_ want to—"

"Oh, stuff it."

_Damn. No 'bite me.'_

_If I say that, you will._

_And you'll love every minute of it._

That byplay got them to Ylara's house. She'd finally managed to convince Tulluust to relocate up to the base with her a few years ago, where before, he'd lived in the valley. The house had been asari in style, evidently, before quite a bit of remodeling had been done. There was a concrete ramp at the front now, instead of steps leading up to the front door. There had been a front porch once, in wood, which had been removed. The front door itself was now a set of double doors, and had been cut about two feet higher in the wall. _Elcor improvements,_ Eli thought in amusement. The yard was a testament to Tulluust's interest in botany. There had to be a hundred different flowers in the front yard alone. There was no grass; just a few wide gravel walkways between different displays of incredible flowers. Mindoir springs were always beautiful; this was jaw-dropping. Plants with red leaves, plants with green, violet irises and yellow crocuses and Mindoir natives and even shy little plants that Eli couldn't begin to identify, but which might come from Dekuuna, the elcor homeworld.

Ylara opened the door just as Eli knocked. She was, to his surprise, wearing gardening gloves and covered in mud. "Welcome, both of you," she said, smiling faintly. "Forgive my mess. Tulluust won't forgive me if I let his gardens go to ruin while he's away, but on the other hand, everything I plant, dies." She took his hand, and Eli felt the light brush of her mind across his. The courtesy of Thessia. _Welcome,_ Ylara told him, _not-daughter._ Her lips quirked faintly, and she turned to look at Dara. "I haven't seen you at the house in a long time," she said, calmly. "Not since Kella died. It's good to see you again."

—_Little-queen, why do you sing regret-song?_

—_New-queen still sings fear-song, too. Do not see attackers here. Will look for threat._ Wolfgang leaped off Dara's shoulder and began to rove around, lifting his carapace in a threat display.

Dara cleared her throat and gingerly took Ylara's hand, with an expression that suggested that she might be about to stick her hand into open flame. "Hi, Ylara." Eli could feel Dara's instant rush of relief. No brush of Ylara's mind against hers. No reason to fight.

The older Spectre looked at Wolfgang as the worker trundled around, hissing. "He's fierce."

"You should see them when my parents' cat is in the room with them," Eli said, wryly. "Lucy took one look at them and couldn't decide if she should be scared, or if they were, in fact, the universe's greatest toys, and made just for her. Her eyes went about this big," Eli held up his thumb and forefinger in a circle, "her tail started to lash, and she started to _sneak_ up on one. . . and then Chopin turned around on her and hissed." Eli started to chuckle, and Dara started to laugh, too, at the mutual recollection. "I thought I was going to have to pry Lucy off the ceiling. She's a housecat, through and through. She has the 'I want to hunt' instincts, but absolutely no idea what to do when something actually turns out to be, well, half her size and aware of her.

—_Entertaining hatchling of Sings-to-the-Past and Light-and-Playful-Dancer is a task. We like tasks! But entertaining furred one is not our task. Is it?_ The thought sounded a little apprehensive. _Feelers could be bent._

—_I would entertain the furred one. I would sing to her._

Eli looked down, and saw an unnamed worker at their feet. "Wow. A worker with a first-person pronoun. You're . . . kind of odd, buddy. You need a name?"

—_I would like a name-song, yes._

Eli told Ylara, "Excuse me a moment, and bent down to pick up the worker. "Ideas?" he asked Dara.

"Zappa."

"That's not a name, that's a sound effect."

"Real name, I swear. Really weird twentieth-century composer." Dara put her head to the side. "I think it fits."

Eli marked the name on the carapace quickly, and put the worker back on the ground. "Okay, Zappa. Go. . . entertain some cats."

Zappa scuttled off. Eli looked at Dara. "I hope we didn't just sign either his death warrant, or the cats'."

Ylara, still in the doorway, had started chuckling, and told them, "Oh, do come in and stop standing on the doormat."

Inside, Eli bowed his head slightly and told her, in asari high-tongue, _"I am here to share respectful thoughts with my third-mother, if you will."_ He could feel Dara straining to understand the words without trying to use his understanding. _"And my always-fair would speak with you as well."_

Dara winced, and immediately started to demur. Ylara gestured for them to take a seat in the living room. _"Respectful thoughts are always appreciated. But I am no matriarch to make a ceremony of it."_ In galactic, she added, "It's not much known, but it's not just _age_ that makes one a matriarch. It's the gathering of experiences, of knowledge. From all one's mothers, sisters, and daughters." She smiled faintly. "Some matriarchs make a duty of it. Have all their petitioners line up in silence in their house, wait for hours to share their memories, and take a little of the matriarch's wisdom away with them. To which I say. . . .piffle. I think I might have cookies around here. . . no, wait. You're too old for cookies, right?"

Eli grinned at her from where he sat on the couch. "I'll never be too old for cookies."

"Shellara has picked up, at school, quite a taste for some human delicacy called _chocolate chips_." Ylara chuckled fondly from the kitchen. "And anything Shellara does, Telluura does, too." She returned carrying a striped package tin filled with cookies. Eli recognized it; Dara did, too. It had once held Kella's collection of junk jewelry. They both winced, and green-purple guilt poured out of Dara. Eli reached out and put a hand on the back of her neck, and murmured, silently, _It's not—_

—_your fault_. They met each others' eyes for a moment, and Dara cleared her throat, and gingerly took a cookie from the tin. "Thank you, Ylara," she said. "Ah. . . what does the sharing of respectful thoughts really, well, entail?" She tried the asari word, carefully. "_Maieolo' aiellu' __rii'sao." _

"Conversation, often," Ylara said, lightly. "Discussing what has passed since the last time you saw your daughter. Or, well, not-daughter." She paused. "Sometimes, if words are too difficult, or cannot convey an experience, thoughts are shared instead of words."

Eli could _feel_ Dara's flinch. _Sai'kaea__. . . it's voluntary. And you're not her daughter. Watch. It won't hurt._

_You're sure she won't go in and. . . ._Shame. Dara didn't want to think that way about Ylara, but it was hard not to.

_I'll let you listen. That way, you can see there's nothing to be afraid of._ Eli looked at Ylara, and smiled faintly. _"Words cannot convey what I would share with you, mother of my asari spirit. Take the memories from my mind, but be gentle of my always-fair, who worries for me."_

"_You are always-sharing?"_ Ylara was surprised. _"I could see the darkness of your eyes, but did not know. . . "_

"_She must hear the song. I would not have the silent-madness take her again. Ever."_

Eli braced himself as Ylara's good eye went black, too. She was gentle, and combed only through surface thoughts, and the memories he offered willingly. The difference between _maieolo'saeo,_ the light exchange of information, and what he had been doing with Dara, _maieolo'loa_. . . almost full mental sharing, with no physical contact, or _maieolo'rae'kiia_, light mental and physical contact, was instantly apparent. This was almost impersonal. Being read like a book. No emotional contact. Dara relaxed next to him when she felt no demand, no clawing at his mind, no struggle. No fight.

Ylara turned over the memories of the rachni ship and the Singing Planet, and her eyes filled with tears. "Amazing," she murmured out loud. "To think what we almost destroyed utterly. . . and would never have known existed." She sighed, and Eli allowed her to see the rest. His choking fear when the queen had Dara enthralled. The demand of the queen's birthsong, drawing memories from all of them. The wonder of the song of the entire planet pouring through his body. The sorrow-sweet of Serana's loss, but of her turning to Lin. Kissing Dara for the first time in years, rachni song humming through both of them, aboard the _Raedia_. Dara's words of the other night. Her belief that Ylara hated her, and rightfully so.

Ylara pulled back, shocked, and then calmed herself. She studied Dara warily for a moment, and then said, quietly, "Dara. . . little one. . . have you thought all these years that I would hate you for not saving Kella? I remember you apologizing to me, over and over again, on the hospital gurney. Covered in your blood, and Rel's, and Eli's, and hers. I told you then, I didn't blame you." She sighed. "But words never do carry enough weight, do they? Not when the darkness in the soul is so deep." Ylara extended a hand. "Hear my song, if you would. You will find no anger there."

And _though_ Dara, Eli could hear it. The high and lonely flute that was Ylara. She'd touched Dara's mind before, but with barriers in place during training and testing sessions, but now, she let Dara hear her melody. Dara had twisted away, and leaned into him, and he wrapped one arm around her shoulders, lightly. _It doesn't have to be any scarier with her than it is with me, __sai'kaea__. This __is__ the asari part of me._

Confusion, becoming calmness. Ylara exhaled. _Kella should never have taken your self-awareness like that. It was done in good will, but you were already afraid of biotics and mental touch. And Siara. . . . _ A red flash of anger.

. . . _she asked forgiveness. And I know she wouldn't do it again._ Dara slowly stopped fighting. Let Eli's fingers against the back of her neck relax her. And Ylara's eyes—both the good one and the false one—widened as she listened to the songs of the Keepers, as Eli and Dara had both heard them, the birthsong of the queen. Dara's guilt at Kella's death, her failure to save so _many_ asari and human biotics on Omega, failure to save even Ylara's eye. Ylara's song never wavered though. Stayed that high and simple flute melody, pale green, tinged slightly with a lifetime of violets and grays. _Young ones, if you'd take a little wisdom from six hundred years of living? Life is too short to dwell on things that you could not help and cannot change now. I could not save my __marai'ha'sai__, Ellemai, two hundred years ago on Omega. Her death haunted me for over fifty years. Sometimes, you must simply let go._

Ylara released her hold on their minds, and picked up the tin again. Eli couldn't imagine how hard it must be for her to look at it, every day, and be reminded of her lost daughter. "Oh, it's difficult," Ylara said, catching something of his thought. "But this way, I remember her, but I don't make everything of hers a shrine. Something with which to flog myself, forever. This way, it's something of hers, that holds something that my daughter with Tulluust enjoys. To Telluura, it's just the cookie tin. And when she's older, I might tell her that it belonged to Kella. And she'll probably ask me what cookies Kella liked, and leave it at that."

They managed some chit-chat after that. Dara asked if Ylara planned to let Shellara pick a new name. "I think my not-daughter has found a human male name to be pleasant-sounding. Sisu. I'm told it's . . . Finnish? And means. . .'willpower, determination, and strength.'" Ylara sounded pleased. "A good name. All qualities Shellara will need as an adult. When I formally adopt. . .him. . . I'll let him choose if he wants to change his first name, as well as his last."

As they walked away from Ylara's house, Dara told him, "You called me your always-fair in there."

"Because you are."

"And she didn't even blink."

Eli shrugged. "Asari know that some things end, and new things begin. Nothing is forever." _Except if you're really, really lucky. Most people aren't._

_That's sort of depressing._

_That's what I told Kella when she told __me__ that, but it doesn't make it less true._ He paused. "So. . . how was it, trying to be a little asari?"

"Scary." Dara peeked up at him through her hair, and he laughed, and wanted to slide his arm around her waist as they walked down the street. With Lantar's words of caution in his mind, however, he didn't quite dare. _But I think sort of worth it. It's good to know she really does forgive me. And knows how sorry I am._

_And you know how grateful I am that you tried? Even though it was frightening for you?_ He stopped. They'd reached the Jaworski house. _Very, very grateful, __sai'kaea.__ This is all new for me, too._ He gave her the mental image of a long, sweet kiss, and sighed. "Okay. See you Thursday."

Eli was all too aware that their limited window of leave was coming to an end, and he definitely wanted to make the most of it. _Some leave. Med bay, med bay, and more med bay._ Wednesday, he spent going over press releases and classified information with Sam, shaking his head. Three more attacks on turian mass relay positions, all with biotic ships that could rip through shields in a minute, maybe two. That was information that wasn't being promulgated to the public at the moment. No need to incite panic, when people were already tense enough about whole planets being occupied and invaded. Dara, Eli knew, had spent the day in med bay, helping Zhasa get back into her suit, and verifying that the quarian female was having no ill-effects from the nanites that had colonized so much of her body. There didn't seem to be any way to _remove_ them, and for so long as they weren't harming her, the doctors had decided to leave them alone. For the moment.

Thursday, Eli woke to find half a dozen workers camped out around his bed. "Ah. . . good morning?" he offered.

They chittered at him. "Yes, I know, I'm supposed to see your little-queen today. Can I get dressed first?" _Shave, shower, shit, all those good things?_

_Chitter, chitter, chitter_. "Okay, seriously, going to need to work out sign language for you. Does Dara need me _right now_? Circle for yes. Stay still for no."

They stayed still. "Okay, we've learned the difference between toast and emergency. Good."

Once he'd packed up a bag with a picnic lunch and Dara's birthday presents, however, the workers were chittering with insistence again. "Okay, all right, what is it. . . ." Eli followed them into the pantry, and stared down at the floor in consternation. "Okay, my mom will be pissed if that hole is a permanent addition."

Several of the tiles had been lifted and worked into what he realized now, was a single large door, or covering, for a hole. Which led down into the earth. "Ah, guys? I don't see so well in the dark, and I don't want to break my neck—"

Wolfgang trundled down into the hole, and a dim green glow appeared in the darkness, revealing a . . . ladder. A ladder made of crystalline-looking rachni extrusion. The walls all around also were faced in what looked like glass or crystal. Eli whistled. "You guys have been busy. Singing digging songs?"

Every worker around him turned in a circle. _Yes._

Eli chuckled and put the bag over his shoulder, and dropped down onto the ladder. "Do I want to know where I'm going?" he asked, his voice echoing, as he set his foot on the ground at the bottom of the ladder. The tunnel was big enough that a brood-warrior Sky's size could move through it, but a queen could not. It was also rounded at the top. Barrel vaulted arch construction, for stability, Eli realized. As he followed the workers, who occasionally lit off phosphorescent patches of chemicals along the way, Eli wondered just how far the tunnel went. . . or would eventually go.

He came to another ladder, and the workers chittered at him excitedly. "Up, huh?"

A neat group of circles. "Okay, here goes." Eli climbed up, laughing under his breath. It was a crazy little adventure. "Someday, I hope you guys make maps, or kids are going to get _lost_ down here."

_Chitter, chitter._

Eli reached the top, and pushed a different set of tiles out of his way, and, blinking in the bright light, emerged into another pantry, and stepped out, calling, "Hello? Anyone home?" with his hands raised, and a half-dozen workers scuttling around his feet.

Sam Jaworski stood in the dining room of his house, and stared at Eli for at least a half minute, holding his morning coffee cup in hand. He looked from Eli to the little workers, back up again, and said, tiredly, "Okay. I am officially too old for this shit."

"They kind of insisted. I think they like having their work appreciated. And it _is_ a really nice tunnel," Eli told the workers, who turned in little circles again. "I mean, as tunnels go, that's definitely the nicest one I've ever been in." _Definitely the most convenient._ "I, ah, was coming over today to pick Dara up and take her to the lake for the day."

Sam's eyebrows went up. "Really? You two been spending a lot of time together lately." He looked at the workers and scowled. "Some of it not exactly _voluntarily_, I gather."

Eli chuckled, and set the bag down on the counter, and crossed the kitchen to look Sam in the eye. They were exactly the same height. Sam's old armor hadn't fit precisely when Eli had first started wearing it, being too loose. But over the years, as Eli had bulked out, the straps and buckles had wound up sliding back to almost exactly the same positions that they started off in. "Actually, while I've got you here, I wanted to ask you something." Eli had never called Sam by his first name, any more than he'd called Allardus that. _Sir_ was a little too formal, and _Mr. Jaworski_ for someone who was, technically, a colleague seemed a little much, too. Eli took a breath. It was surprisingly difficult to say the words. He'd never had to say them before, after all. "I wanted to ask your consent."

Sam very carefully set his coffee cup down. "My consent."

Eli's nerves pinged a little. "Yeah." He braced himself. Sam was, in his own special way, just as bad as Lantar. No, worse. Less predictable. "I've asked Dara to date me, and I wanted to be sure you understood what my intentions are."

Sam's eyebrows arched again. "You're asking me if you can court my daughter." No inflection at all.

"Yes, sir."

Sam grinned. Ear to ear. "Shit, son, you can marry her, for all of me." He grabbed Eli by the shoulders and gave him a friendly shake. "I'm tickled pink that you actually came and asked, me, face-to-face. Old-fashioned, but shows some class."

Eli exhaled in relief. "So, I should have Lantar come over and write up a contract?" he offered, with a grin.

"Shut yo' mouth, boy. 'Sides, if I've got all this turian shit figured out, he can't actually write a contract for her till she's quit of the old one." Sam tapped the side of his nose. "See? I do pay attention around here occasionally."

There were chitters and squeals all around them, and the workers all skittered to the entryway to the living room, as Dara appeared there, in a swimsuit and a pair of jeans, looking at them warily. "Eli, I didn't hear the doorbell or a knock at all."

"Your little workers showed me the back way into the house. They dug you a secret passage. Probably part of the overall 'escape hatch' plan for all the surface housing," Eli told her, with aplomb. "Your dad and I were just talking for a bit. You ready to go swimming?"

"Yeah." She gave her father and the workers all a wide-eyed glance, the more so because Sam was chuckling under his breath, and then they left.

The lake was just as he remembered it, once their horses picked through the path to get there. White sand beaches, blue-violet waters reflecting the mountainsides and violet sky above. _Inarie_ and _allora_ trees in bloom everywhere. Eli took Dara to one of _his_ old favorite places, where a stream babbled down into the lake—its waters were icy-cold from snowmelt at the moment, but the sand there was flecked with gold speckles of pyrite, and the horses drank eagerly. They tied off the horses near the stream, where there was grass to graze on, and then stripped down to their swimsuits, braced themselves against the cold, and waded out into the lake water, where they splashed and swam for as long as they could bear the cold.

Eli caught Dara up in his arms in the water, and began to nuzzle her neck, licking the droplets there from her skin. The water was _much_ too cold for arousal, but not nearly enough to prevent him from enjoying the feel of her. And her music, which had been playful and light, stayed that way, but the blues and greens deepened. Turned indigo. His fingers slid along the material of her swimsuit. Black and conservatively cut, he still could trace the flare of her hip. _Mmm. Want me to make you feel good?_ _No one on shore, not even with binoculars, could possibly see what my hands are doing. . . . _

Flash of burgundy, tempered with white. _Lake water. . . bacteria. Parasites._

_Way to wreck a perfectly good fantasy with a cold splash of reality. You're no fun, __sai'kaea__._ _And the water's just barely above freezing. Those would have to be some really hardy bacteria._

He could feel her hesitation, and bit her throat. One of her other favorite places, just to the side of the vocal cords. Felt her knees and body go limp in response, and knew he was the only thing holding her upright at the moment. _Just because I can't have __kareo__, doesn't mean we can't both enjoy __kiia__. And I bet like this, I'll feel it when you come. Always kind of wondered. . . know what it feels like when an asari comes, but not what __you'll__ feel like when you release for me._ Unavoidable hunger in his thoughts. Eli closed his eyes, and buried his head in her shoulder. _God, but I want you, __sai'kaea__._ The hunger, given the ice-cold water, had nothing to do with the physiological. It was desire for her, not just the satiation of a physical need. Although that satiation would be very, very sweet, too.

_What happened to __slow__?_ Dara teased. Flash of light blue there, playful turquoise.

_Knowing that I'm probably going to be heading to Terra Nova by the weekend happened._

_Shit._ Her song muted, the colors dimmed. _I haven't heard a thing yet._ Her hands slid along his chest in the clear water, and Eli exhaled. She was exploring him. Finding the planes of muscle, the ridge of his collarbones, the curve of his shoulders. And he could feel her enjoyment of it. "Didn't get a good enough look on Bastion?" he teased against her throat.

"You were _sick_ and I was your _doctor_."

"Uh-huh." Eli nibbled his way to just under her ear. "And how about. . . on the _Sollostra_?"

"The showers?"

"Uh-huh."

"Too fast."

His hand slid down again, and this time, she didn't resist him. _God, yes. This. I've wanted to do this for so long._ Eli pressed her legs apart with the palm of his hand and just cupped her for a moment, letting her feel the warmth of his palm, contrasting with the ice-cold of the water. Then he went exploring with fingertips. No direct contact. Just using the texture of the swimsuit material and his fingertips to set up vibrations and sensations for her. Hearing her exhale and moan against his ear. And the wonderful, wonderful sensation of feeling her arousal build for him. Burgundy everywhere, the music in her mind swirling, heat building. _Say my name, __sai'kaea__, I want to hear it on your lips. . ._

"Eli . . .oh. . . god. . . you're . . . .Eli, Eli, please, I'm there, I _can't_. . . ."

"Yeah, you can. . . oh, god yes, there you go." He'd coaxed her over the edge, and he shuddered as her orgasm filled him now, felt her body tense and clamp down on it against him, felt her joy. Could hear the workers, dimly, cheering. His eyes were almost blind, as colors filled his mind, his teeth clamped down on the side of her neck, and then he slid a finger under the material. Found her center, and slipped up into her. Hot and wet, delicious contrast to the cold water around them. . . and he wasn't ready. But he could do a little more for her. Slid his finger into her, experienced his own invasion from her perspective. Alien, blunt, cool to the touch, not-her. And he let her feel _her_ as he did, smooth, yielding, internal curve, and right _there_, along the inner wall. . . _God, __sai'kaea__, you're lucky the water __is__ this cold._ Her little moans and sighs were driving him crazy, and he wondered what her bare flesh would feel like on his.

_You. . . you never. . . . _

_Always with protection. Other than Serana._ Eli put his head down on Dara's shoulder again and exhaled. His violet paint was all over her throat and shoulders now. And he wanted to see it other places. He wanted to smear it on her breasts. Her belly. The insides of her thighs. _Please tell me you've got an implant._

_I did. I let it lapse at the four year mark. I still had light periods in spite of it, could never tell when they were going to show up, and, well, no chance of getting pregnant anyway._ Dara reached up and stroked his face. _I can get it refilled._

_Please do. Your dad might be fine with me dating you, and might have practically invited me to marry you, but I don't want him to use that knife on me if I get you pregnant. I like my balls where they are. And so, I think, will you._ He exhaled again, reaching for self-control. "Come on, let's get out of the water before we both start shaking."

The workers were, surprisingly, fairly appeased. _Mating songs good. Not complete, but good!_ came the chorus. Eli shook his head. He was almost getting used to _that_.

—_Little-queen, little-queen, look at us!_ Chopin and 1812 had figured out how to 'skate' on the water, by spreading out their weight distribution and exploiting the water's surface tension.

Dara laughed and watched the workers, as Eli spread out some towels under an _inarie_ tree. It had long, flowing branches like a Terran willow, but were covered with pink-white blooms the size of Dara's cupped hand. _Like a magnolia_, she thought, and showed him the huge white flowers against the glossy dark leaves of trees in Texas in her mind. _I remember sitting under one of these with Rel, while you and Kella were swimming._

_I had a little more in mind than just sitting, __sai'kaea__._ Eli unpacked his bag, and settled the bottle of cold wine off to the side, two small, carefully wrapped presents in the center, and started unpacking the rest of the food. "Happy birthday, Dara. We can bake a cake or something this afternoon."

—_Cake? What is cake, please?_

—_Is it like toast?_

"It's better than toast. More of a special-occasion food. Made for celebrations."

—_You will teach us cake-songs?_

Eli was very, very glad that his mother was on some distant, unknown planet. He didn't think she'd take any better to rachni on her countertops than Agnes Jaworski. "Sure," he agreed. He looked at Dara now. "C'mon, open your presents already."

"I don't have anything to give you—" Guilt-song. Again. "Well, other than this. . . " She started to pull something out of her own backpack.

"My birthday's not till April, and you've never missed it yet. And I know _exactly_ what you can give me for it next year." _You. Just you. All of you. With a nice red ribbon around your neck._ He caught her hand, kissed the palm, and then nipped the inside of her wrist, too.

Dara laughed, and handed him the bundle from her pack. "If you keep it up, I might do just that."

"Promise?" Eli waggled his eyebrows at her, and then exhaled. The bundle was the quilt. He unfurled it, and just stared for a moment. It was a kid's thing, a child's thing. . . but it was also something his grandmother had made for him. A piece of his family and his history that had been broken, and was now remade. "I'm going to put this somewhere where it's the first thing my mom sees when she finally comes home," Eli told her, grinning.

"Oh, god no, please don't—"

"Okay, _second_ thing." _Just think. This time around, she probably won't freak out that you __shoot__ things._ "I'll put it on her desk. So she _will_ see it, even if I'm not there to show her." _Thank you. You never did tell me what you meant to say with it._

_That I was sorry. For being mad. For shutting you out. Just because you didn't pay attention for a week or so. How stupid and immature was that, to keep punishing you?_ Violet stabs of regret_._

Eli leaned down and kissed her. _And I was stupid and immature and __did__ ignore you, and I didn't even __try__ to get you back because I didn't think I had a chance._ Long, deep kisses, until they had to come up for air. Eli realized, dimly, that he had her down on the towels, his full body weight against her, and this time, there was absolutely no cold water to inhibit him. _Except, damnit, she's not on her meds._

The workers were cheering again. Eli reminded Dara, hoarsely, "Much as I would love to keep doing that. . . .you have presents to unwrap." He rolled off her, with a final nip to her shoulder, and told her, "So unwrap already."

She opened the smaller box first. "It's a bracelet?" She peered at it. "Oh! It's got a horse charm on it." She was delighted, and couldn't conceal it, couldn't fake it.

Eli picked it up, and opened the ridiculously small clasp of the white-gold bracelet. He thought he was going to break the damned thing. Dara extended her arm, and he settled it around her wrist. "Yep. One charm now. Another one when I get back from Terra Nova, or Christmas, whichever comes first." He nibbled on her wrist, and heard her inhalation. "Then maybe one for your next birthday. You see? I have a _plan_. You have to keep me around if you want the rest of your bracelet."

Dara laughed. "Have I ever struck you as being a particularly materialistic person?"

"Nope. But I know you like horses, so that was an easy one. Next one, I'll keep you guessing for. You'll never know if it'll be a caduceus or a musical note or an itty-bitty pistol." Eli bit her shoulder gently. "Open the other one."

This one had taken him a little more time. He had no idea if she'd like it or not. Humans made some nice perfumes, but asari made the best in the galaxy. But he had no idea how it would react with her skin chemistry, especially now with all the rachni elements in her. Dara lifted the little square bottle from the box, and sniffed it cautiously. "Wow," she murmured. "What _is_ that?"

"_L__iepie'a'eiia'a. _Star-flowers. Mostly. There's a bunch of other stuff, too." Eli had planned to spray it lightly on her skin for her, but she frowned as she looked down, and he followed her gaze to her forearm, where she began to scratch. Furiously.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, looking embarrassed. "It's been really bad the last day or so. I had to keep excusing myself in the med bay yesterday to scratch, and no amount of lotion seems to be making it better—oh."

He could feel her shock, like a burst of yellow, as her skin simply peeled away under her fingertips. As if she'd had a very, very bad sunburn a week or so ago, and now all the dead skin was coming off.

—_Little-queen molts now. Itches. Old carapace must come off._

—_We help?_

Suddenly, workers were crowding _everywhere,_ and even Dara reacted with a little flinch. "Guys, guys, hold on a minute," she told them, and they retreated a bit, chorusing disappointment-songs. She lifted her arm, and studied it, and Eli felt the first flickers of yellow fear curling out of her, hectic music beginning to build.

"What's wrong?" he asked, immediately.

"You don't see that?" she asked, pointing right at the fresh patch of clean skin under the piece she'd torn away.

Eli looked carefully. It was a little pinker and paler than the outer layer of epidermis, but nothing surprising there. No moles, no bumps, no nothing. "Nope," he told her.

"You don't see colors there?" Total fear and apprehension.

"Just your usual skin tone."

_Eli, stop playing dumb and look through my eyes._ The bright yellow panic was suffused with words, a whisper at the back of her mind that chanted, _oh god, I'm turning even more into a freak. It couldn't stop with the eyes, no. Or the nails. Or the hair, which I swear is coming in a different color at the roots. Now, it's hitting the skin now, too. _

Eli blinked, and looked at her hair. Which looked exactly the same to him as it always had; dark, rich brown, little hint of curl. Then he shrugged and concentrated. It was _hard_ to look through her eyes. But when he did, he saw what she meant. There was a tinge of iridescence to the fresh skin. Like the shimmer of a dragonfly's wings. Not as chatoyant as her eyes, but a glistening look, like mother of pearl, only more subtle. _Beautiful._ Eli leaned down and rubbed his face against the exposed skin. "Still feels soft." He chuckled at her reaction. "Oh, scratchy face feels good?"

Dara looked embarrassed. "Yeah, actually. Makes all the rest of me itch, too."

Eli stood up, and pulled her to her feet. "C'mere. I think we've got everything we need right here to cure you." At the edge of the lake, he had her sit down again, and gathered a handful of fine sand, dampened it with the lake's clear waters, and began to scrub.

—_We help?_ This time, the little workers weren't crowding quite so close, and Dara was relaxing under Eli's fingers as the mix of gritty earth and water scrubbed her clean.

Eli leaned down and whispered in her ear, "This is just an excuse for me to get you naked, right?" His hands moved under the bathing suit now, and he could _feel_ her blush as if it lit up his own cheeks.

"I can manage that myself," she told him, with dignity, which collapsed entirely under his amused stare.

"No, no, it's me or the workers, and I'm not letting them have the fun of playing with your breasts when I'm _right here_."

"Eli!"

It took a lot of rinsing afterwards, but Eli was just delighted that he'd gotten to see every ivory and pink curve of her. _You really don't see it?_

_Only through your eyes, sai'kaea, I swear. Beautiful either way._

Dara swallowed. "Don't tell Dr. Chakwas or Dr. Abrams."

"Why not?" Eli was _far_ more interested in sweeping his hands down exposed skin right now than in telling anyone anything about anything.

"Because then they'll want to do more _tests_. Which won't tell them much of anything besides 'rachni gene markers.'" The defensive notes got his attention.

"I won't. _Unless_ this looks like it's going to develop into a problem." Eli wrapped his arms around her. He couldn't help but notice that she was reacting as if the new, fresh skin was hypersensitive, and he was, again, ruing the fact that neither of them had protection available at the moment. Usually, it had been something he'd always carried, but nine months of Serana in his life, and he'd stopped doing so. No reason. "Now, I think I was about to mark you with a little asari perfume. . . .and then we were going to go home. Where I was going to bake you a cake. With or without assistance from the peanut gallery."

—_What is a peanut?_

—_Are we peanuts?_

—_We learn cake-songs! Yay!_

Eli looked at the workers. "I'm actually going to _miss_ these guys when I wind up off-world without you. How crazy is that?" He took the little perfume bottle, and dabbed a little _liepie'a'eiia'a_ on Dara's fresh new skin. Musky and sweet and spicy at once, it was heady and powerful, and would probably make a turian sneeze if more than a few drops were applied. For human and asari senses, however, it was just right.

—_Ohhh. New pheromones!_

Dara looked up at the violet sky, and laughed. _ I have violet turian paint all over my skin from you. I'm wearing asari perfume and a human bracelet. I have rachni singing in my head. And I've had a day full of you. My life is so weird, Eli, but this might qualify as the best pre-birthday birthday ever._

"Good. My evil plans are coming to fruition." Eli grinned at her. "C'mon. Get dressed so I can keep my hands off you, and let's go home."


	119. Chapter 119: Parting Ways

**Chapter 119: Parting Ways**

**Dara, Mindoir, October 14, 2196**

By the time they got back from the lake, turned over their horses at the stables, and got back to her father's house, it was late afternoon, and Eli still insisted that cake was on the agenda. "You don't have to—"

"I think I can figure out the instructions on the side of a box, _sai'kaea_," he told her, wryly. "Besides. We have _helpers."_ His dark-eyed glance downwards incorporated half a dozen workers, all singing cheerful tunes in her mind. _Besides. I don't want to let you out of my sight __just__ yet._

_Afraid I'll go back to panicking over the. . . colors?_ Dara was doing her best not to look at herself. Long sleeves, armor, anything, was going to be a help.

_Maybe a little._ "What it really comes down to, though," Eli told her, calmly, "is that I want to spend as much time with you as I can, before we _can't_ anymore."

In the kitchen, they were alone, since it was a Friday afternoon. No Kasumi, no Sam, no Takeshi, no Agnes. So they cracked eggs and mixed away, sprayed the inside of baking pans, and chuckled, since Eli tended to move Dara out of his way by catching her waist and redirecting her lightly. The workers skittered up onto the counters and 'helped' by gathering egg shells.

—_Oh, calcium!_ Or at least, a color and melody that her mind interpreted as such.

—_Useful! We take!_

_. . . _and then the workers promptly _ate_ the eggshells. Dara's eyebrows climbed towards her hair, and Eli chuckled under his breath. "I guess these little guys are walking chemical factories," he said, after a moment. "Wolfgang, get away from the mixer. You get in there when the blades start turning, and you're. . . well. . . going to get dizzy. Or something."

Dara caught the image in his song, of the little worker hanging on, for dear life, to the rotating whisk inside the stand mixer, while chocolate batter sprayed everywhere, and had to clutch her stomach as she doubled over laughing.

They shooed the workers away from the pans, and poured out the batter into them. "No, Chopin, don't. If you get in there before it gets baked. . . " Dara paused as Chopin sang to her, —_Place of preparation does not sing heat-songs loudly enough to damage us._

"Not really the point. You get baked into it, and, whether you're alive or not, when it comes out of the oven, no one's going to want to eat it besides you guys." _Especially not Grandma Agnes. Who, thank god, is not here to watch the cooking process_. The rachni had, so far, investigated the cake mix, the cooking oil, the eggs, the milk, and the cooking spray with varying degrees of interest.

—_We may taste of cake-songs?_

"Yes, when it's done."

—_Joy-songs! We are favored!_

Dara shot Eli a look. "You ever think we may have created a monster here?"

Eli ran a finger through the empty batter bowl. "All the time. Kind of fun, though." He offered her a finger dripping with cake batter. "Want to be bad, doctor? Dangerous bacteria lurk herein."

"I shouldn't. . . " Dara could feel his amusement surge. Blue-greens, dappling across the indigos, the emotional song than neither of them quite dared to name, and the lighter blues of affection and friendship. _Oh, that's it. Two can play this game._ "Then again, I'm a Spectre, apparently. I have been known to live dangerously, now and again." She leaned forward, and, never losing eye contact, licked the cake batter from his finger.

Eli didn't move a muscle, and burgundy expanded through the rest of his song, shifting from light violas to cellos, and a rich bass note thrumming through the entirety. "You're giving me material for a dozen fantasies on Terra Nova, you know that," he murmured.

_Sort of the idea._ Dara bit the tip of his finger. "You going to behave now? Or are you going to keep making fun of me?"

"If this is the reaction I get when I make fun of you, I may never, ever stop." He paused. "Oh, wait. I wouldn't stop, anyway."

"Jerk." She smiled up at him, and he wrapped his arms around her again, and they just stood there for a long moment, listening to the timer tick down. Smelling horse sweat on both of them. The smell of each other's skin. Deodorant scents. The powerful but spicy-sweet smell of_ liepie'a'eiia'a_ perfume on her throat and wrists. The rich odor of chocolate lofted into the air from the hot stove. Dara was trying to lock _this_ moment, precisely, into her mind, the cheerful chorus of the workers, the dark ultramarine of Eli's song. All of it.

_Can I take a picture of you with me to Terra Nova on my omnitool?_ Just a whisper of thought. _Just as you are now? Hair all down and curling from the lake water still? _

_In my damp bathing suit and jeans, stinking of horse?_ Dara wondered, apprehensively, if the camera would see the odd colorations on her skin, when Eli's human eyes could not.

_Just as you are now. . . . and if the camera does, so much the better._ Eli nuzzled her, and she insisted on a similar picture of him. Most of a day's growth of beard, paint half worn away, in need of a haircut. "We're going to write, right?" he added, out loud. "You're at least half the reason I stayed sane on Omega, _sai'kaea._ I'm going to be cut off from you and from Lin now, more than likely."

"You're really sure you're going to Terra Nova?"

He nodded, and his sense took on a violet-gray sense of determination. "Yeah. Your dad apparently chewed Shepard and Garrus _out_ for the last team distribution. Sending not even one human to Shanxi apparently made it damned hard to interface with the locals. And, when Sam put on his PR hat, he pointed out that while sending a multi-species force looks _great_ for the unity image, for there to be a _real_ image of unity, you do kind of need to have at least one human along for the ride." Eli's lips quirked. "I'm hearing Dempsey and I will get tagged for that this time." He looked up at the ceiling, and, eyes black as night, added, silently, _For a given value of __human__._

He tugged her into the living room now, and they settled down on one of the couches. "So. . . we'll write?"

"Whenever possible. You pulled me out of the mental hole I was in, Eli. Have to keep it sort of work-oriented, I know. . . other than bitching about the dreams. That should be safe enough. And. . . .kind of necessary." She'd picked up on Lantar's concerned statements in his mind, but she damned well _knew_ that they'd kept each other sane on Bastion simply by virtue of being human for each other. By being there to talk out the worst of the shit they'd seen, before it could fester.

Eli waved a hand at the extranet console, and cued up a report from across the room. Dara had been avoiding listening to the news, for the sake of her own sanity, because she knew that whatever leave she got. . . medical or otherwise. . . was apt to be short. None of the Spectres could be spared for long. Not even for medical emergencies, like herself and Zhasa or even Rel.

The aerogel screen moved up, and flickered on. "The fight continues on Terra Nova, where five thousand human and turian marines were deployed four months ago. The yahg attack there was in greater force than on Shanxi, and the Alliance vessels who first responded to Terra Nova were actually subjected to rail gun attacks from the surface, from anti-orbital strike weapons put in place over ten years ago, after a batarian attempt to bombard the surface of the planet with an asteroid was thwarted by none other than Commander Shepard." Emily Wong's voice played over footage of New Philadelphia and Helena, which were smoking ruins. Dara winced at the sight. "The yahg have dug into a variety of fortified areas, and have also received reinforcements in the past month, as batarian ships suddenly engaged Alliance ships protecting the mass relay managed to punch a hole through the human force's line, and streamed towards the planet. There are unconfirmed reports that the batarians used the so-called 'biotic ship weapons' to accomplish this feat. This also marks the first time that batarian troops are fighting in the same arena as their yahg allies."

Dara stiffened, and Eli's sense went yellow-green and gray at the same time, and the bass notes rumbled deep in her mind. "Great," Eli muttered. "Just wonderful."

"However, after the success of the krogan, geth, and rachni forces on Shanxi, relief troops from all three species, as well as fresh Alliance marines, may soon be heading for Terra Nova." Emily Wong's face appeared now. "While large colony worlds like Terra Nova receive the bulk of media attention, battles continue to rage in space, with turian forces engaging and repelling a batarian raiding fleet today near Macedyn—"

_No strategic value at all, might be a feint_. . . .

"—small Alliance colonies like Ferris Fields and Amaterasu continue to hold out against determined yahg attacks. If this signal is being received by anyone out there, please know that help _is_ coming. Today marks the ninety-fifth day that the batarians have occupied the Aysur system in the Caleston Rift. The moon of Arvuna and the mining industrial complex on the planet Shir are being particularly hard-hit. There are also unconfirmed rumors of an attack on Alliance ships near Noveria last week. We have been unable to obtain precise information on how many ships were damaged or destroyed, but the dreadnaught _McKinley_ was known to be in that area."

They both heard keys in the front door, and Dara stirred, starting to sit up a bit, then relaxed as she realized that there was no real reason to do so. _I talked with your dad, remember? He's okay with us._

Sam and Kasumi walked in, with Takeshi hanging onto Kasumi's hand, fresh from daycare. Sam looked at them, where they were relaxing on the couch, and then at the extranet console. "Pretty grim, huh?"

Eli reached up and waved the news off. "That was. . . a little more depressing than I wanted to hear right now," he acknowledged.

Kasumi grimaced. "Reality's even worse. The _McKinley_ was wiped out." She shook her head. "A rail gun is a damned impressive weapon. . . assuming the target you're aiming at is, say, a planet. Something large that moves, let's face it, fairly slowly."

Sam nodded, and picked Takeshi up and plopped his son down in the nearby recliner, to shrieks of giggles. "Dreadnaughts are the tactical equivalent of battleships, back in the surface navy days," he pointed out, shrugging slightly. "Damned fine if you want to batter away at 'shore emplacements.' In our modern day. . . space stations. Moons. Planets. They're f—pretty useless when it comes to taking out other ships, unless you want to take on another dreadnaught, and you both agree to 'form battle-line,' again, like an old-fashioned surface navy."

"Sounds unlikely," Dara commented.

Sam snorted, and headed into the kitchen, as rachni workers skittered around his feet. "Yeah. Pretty much. Plus, they cost a year's gross _planetary_ product to build. Batarians don't _think_ like that. They don't _care_ if it's a big, showy ship like the _Everest_ or the _Catasta_ or the _Destiny Ascension._ They want bang for the buck. So, small ships. Maneuverable. Firepower, high shields, biotic weapons, which they've invested a bundle in. . . and guess what small, maneuverable ships can do to a dreadnaught?"

Sam came back out of the kitchen with a couple of bottles of beer in his hands, and offered one to Eli, who took it, twisting the top off with his palm. "Thanks," Eli said, taking a sip. "At a guess. . . they probably swarmed the _McKinley_, moving faster than their screening ships could cover, and their on-board turret operators couldn't catch the batarians fast enough?"

Kasumi checked her rice-cooker, which had started cooking automatically about a half an hour ago, adding another warm layer of scent to the air in the living area. "Oh, the Alliance took out about four or five of the batarian ships," she called from the kitchen. "The trouble is, the batarians took out the _McKinley._ That's what you might call a PR coup for them. They're already broadcasting it through the Terminus Systems." She popped back around the corner, and looked down at Eli. "You staying for dinner, Eli?"

"I could," he said, and Dara felt the violas, cellos, and basses thrum in a slow, happy melody in his mind. Acceptance, peace, happiness.

There was a knock at the front door at that point. "No!" Dara shouted at the workers, who immediately started scuttling for the door. "No door-knob songs!"

—_Disappointment-song. We hoped to practice._

—_Soldiers sing there is no danger. It is a messenger!_

_You guys have got to start including me in that portion of the song. Or I have to learn to listen the right way._ Dara hustled down the hall to the door, and the timer for the cake went off, so Eli . . . followed by Chopin, Wolfgang, and 1812, went to go check the oven. "Yes?" Dara asked the delivery driver, looking at the huge crate on the porch, which was close to eight feet in height, and which was attached, still, to a dolly.

"I'm sorry, but I tried to deliver this to Mrs. Agnes Jaworski's residence earlier, and no one was home to receive it. Also, it needs a Spectre to sign for it. Potential xenobiological hazard." The human male held out a datapad impatiently, and as he did so, looked up for the first time from his forms and into Dara's face. And froze, staring at her. "What the hell is wrong with your eyes. . . "

_Get used to that reaction_, Dara told herself, grimly, chastising herself for not having bought a pair of dark glasses yet. Though why she'd be wearing them in her father's house. . . .

. . . and two or three soldier rachni, feeling her distress, popped out from the azaleas that flanked the front door, hissing at the delivery driver, waving their small pedipalps menacingly. —_Sings dissonance, insult, to little-queen!_ Red sparks of anger-song, swirling around her.

The driver's mouth dropped open, and he took two steps back, looking damned close to panic. "No, no, no!" Dara said, quickly, putting out a hand towards her soldiers. "It's fine. Don't attack him."

—_Dissonance unwelcome._ The soldiers relaxed slightly, however. Dropped their threat postures, but did not retreat. —_Messenger sings fear-songs now. Better. Respect-songs often follow fear-songs._

The driver swallowed hard, and muttered, under his breath, "Three years of working for the supply department on this base, and I thought I'd seen everything. At least most normal people have, you know, dogs. Varren. Things like that." He got out a tissue and mopped at his forehead. "Right, Sam Jaworski's a Spectre. I need his signature—"

Dara gave the man a look. He was apparently a little behind on base news. "I'm a Spectre, too," she said, dryly, and started to reach for the datapad. Then her brain caught up with the rest of her. "Wait. What did you just say? Xenobiological _hazard?_ For Agnes Jaworski?" She grabbed the datapad and stared at the shipping information. "What the hell is it?" Dara flipped through the information and hit the species name, and read it. And re-read it. And re-re-read it. _Amorphophallus titanium._ Her Latin and Greek were good enough for her to read and understand it as "gigantic misshapen phallus" and Dara's eyes widened. Whatever it was, had been shipped from Earth, in a special heated shipping container, from _Sumatra_? "Dad!" Dara called over her shoulder. "Either Grandma's had her credit accounts hacked, or there's been a really _weird_ mistake here. . . ."

Twenty minutes later, Agnes had arrived, and was clearly bewildered by the shipment. The cake was cooling on the counter and being investigated by curious workers, dinner was on hold, otherwise, while they investigated the mystery box. Sam came back from the garage with a crowbar, and he, Dara, and Eli put on breathers, Kasumi pulled Takeshi into the house, and Agnes stood, warily, on the front porch, muttering something about needing to carry a shotgun with her whenever she left the damned house on this planet.

Just as Sam and Eli hauled the front panel of the shipping container open, the workers chorused, —_We help!_ _Nothing inside can hurt us!_ and they _poured_ forward, crawling up the sides of the crate and ducking inside. Sam pulled his hands back with a curse, Eli looked up at her in concern, and Dara sucked in a breath. "Well?" she asked, half-singing the note through her breather.

—_It lives, but does not sing. It is a plant._

—_Warm inside! Much moisture!_

Dara blinked. "They say it's a plant," she reported, dubiously. Eli was already nodding. His mind was still connected to hers, and he could hear the workers' songs through her when he maintained that light, constant state of sharing.

Sam shook his head, and he and Eli worked at the crate some more, eventually hauling it open. A rush of heat poured out of the crate, and they all stopped and looked at what was revealed in open curiosity. A kinetic field surrounded a tall green spike, taller than either Eli or Sam, which was in a large pot of soil. The spike seemed to be made of tightly furled leaves, and when Eli passed his hand through the kinetic field, he said, "Yeah. The workers were right. It's about a hundred Fahrenheit on the other side of the barrier. And humid. There's probably environmental systems in the base of the pot."

They all stared at it some more. "Okay," Agnes said, in a tone of disbelief. "I sure as hell didn't order it. What _is_ it?"

Dara cleared her throat. "Shipping manifest says '_Amorphophallus titanium'_ from Sumatra," she said, keeping her expression tightly controlled.

Eli went into cop-face, instantly. But in her mind, she could clearly hear him say, _Gigantic deformed cock? Really?_

_As I live and breathe, and for god's sake, not in front of my grandma!_

_Wouldn't do that to you, __sai'kaea__, but I expect to be rewarded for keeping my mouth shut later._ Wicked amusement in his thoughts now. _I'm just saying right now that sex toys for the gardening crowd are __ambitious._

_For the love of god, don't make me laugh!_ Dara had gone into medical mode herself, and was keeping her head tucked down to read the shipping manifest so she couldn't make eye contact with _anyone._

Agnes was staring at Dara now, and her face went bright pink. "I didn't order this! What the _hell_ is going on here?" 

Dara cleared her throat. "The manifest indicates that Gavius Vakarian actually purchased this and arranged for it to be shipped here. Through a turian shipping concern, if I'm reading this right."

There was a strangled sound from both Eli and Sam, and Dara could _clearly_ hear blue-green amusement washing over Eli.

Agnes' expression suddenly went set, and she _glared_ off into the mid-distance. "Oh, that Gavius," she muttered, and began keying something into her omnitool. "This is his revenge. I am going to give him a piece of my mind when he gets here. . . "

**Rellus, Mindoir, October 14, 2196**

He'd gritted his way through his last day of physical therapy. The drell technician was astounded by his rate of recovery, and Dr. Abrams had been forced to change the schedule on pretty much a daily basis to account for Rel's recovery speed. Today, he'd done his first forty-k run since long before being injured; Shanxi hadn't been a prime location for long distance running for pleasure, after all. Kassa had completed her own at the same time, to finish getting checked out as fit for duty again. They'd even been permitted to make the run outdoors, not on the treadmills, so there was the added bonus of feeling the land underfoot again, and seeing the many, much-loved places in the mountains as he ran. Kassa periodically pointed to places on base, and asked about them. The salarian rest and recreation pond, for example. The stables, with their so-alien horses and less-alien _rlatae_. And then, they'd run off-base, along the old, familiar path, and he'd smelled the familiar scents. Rel wanted to close his eyes and just absorb them all, through his skin. This was home. This was his territory. . . and yet it wasn't, either.

"I was wondering," Kassa asked, quietly, as they ran, "what your latest carving is?"

Rel shrugged. "I'm not really sure yet. I know it's a person, but I haven't seen the face yet. I'm not even sure what the species is." They passed by a stand of massive _allora_ trees in full bloom, and Rel looked up at them, and wondered, for the first time, what it would be like to carve in their wood. Deadfall, of course. He'd never go chopping into one of the magnificent behemoths of the Mindoir forest just for carving wood.

They ran on in silence for a while longer. Kassa cleared her throat, and tried again. "Have you spoken to your wife since I—"

"No." Rel's tone was curter than he meant it to be. "I doubt she's even reading any of my messages. I'm just going to go see her tonight." He ducked under a branch. "Uncle Garrus is coming with me." Garrus had told him, the day before, _Sam's been protecting her, and rightly, because of the many, many incredibly bizarre things that have gone on in the past few months, but he's also not going to refuse to open the door to __me._ _And the two of you have to clear the air, at the very least._

Kassa cleared her throat again. She sounded incredibly self-conscious as she said, "And after that. . . I'm sure you won't be in a good mood, but, if you wanted. . . " She hesitated, and then, with more force, said, forthrightly, "Perhaps we might go to the base entertainment complex? I'm told that there is something there that humans invented, much like a mock-hunt. I think it is called. . . paintball."

The entertainment complex had been built since he'd left the base; it hadn't been here when he was younger at all, and he wished it had been. There were full-immersion video games—full virtual reality booths, apparently—the paintball arena, with terrain that changed out on a weekly basis, vid screening rooms, and a couple of small bars and diners. Rel's crop tightened, however. Dempsey and Makur had been beating the living hell out of him every afternoon for the past week, mentally and physically, trying to help him learn to control the rage. It was possibly the most difficult thing Rel had ever had to master. Dempsey had no emotion, really, in his base state, until something went too far; hit too primal a trigger in him, or there was too much pain. Thus, feeling _anything_ at all was his usual clue that something was about to go wrong. Makur's blood-rage was innate. He'd lived with it since about the age of four. When human children were learning to control tantrums, Makur had learned not to froth at the mouth. . . except when it was needed. For Rel, it was something else entirely. Turians had a dozen different _types_ of anger. All real, valid, and useful to the species. His battle wasn't like Dempsey's, to deny the anger utterly. It was more akin to Makur's; to control it, to use it. And yet, at the same time, it was for him, like Dempsey's; not something natural to him or his kind. "Perhaps not paintball," Rel said, quietly. "I don't want to take the risk of anything even remotely likely to trigger an adrenal flow."

And that was something else he'd just thought of today, really. Adrenaline, oxytocin, and testosterone, the triumvirate of endorphins and hormones that helped regulate so much of his metabolism, were all chemically related in a turian. _What happens. . . ._ he'd thought, grimly. . . ._if I get aroused now? What happens when I release? Am I even __safe__ for a mate now? Did Dara know this, when she and Abrams devised the gene mod? Did she consider __that__ ramification?_

That was, however, his current crop of adrenaline talking, and he knew it. The rage was never all that far behind the adrenaline, and it was always looking for a target, a direction, an outlet. His crop tightened a little further at the thought of hurting Dara. Hurting any female, in that moment of absolute trust between mates. The anger withered, for the moment, though the adrenaline from the run remained. What if he released, and the rage hit, and he started to bite in earnest, fighting-bites, not mating-bites? Could he, in conscience, take that risk now?

He didn't know about the future, but for right now, his grip on the rage was far too fragile to even take the chance with a mock-hunt, play-combat, with anyone who wasn't armed and armored against him, and fully ready to defend themselves. And Rel didn't think Kassa was ready. She trusted him too much. "Maybe a vid," he added now, quietly. "Or just dinner." He'd been reserved with her since she'd told him that she'd gone to Dara and told her everything. On the one hand, he could respect it; it had been the course of honor. But he had wanted to tell Dara himself. In his own time. Of his own volition. It hadn't really been Kassa's place. It had smacked, honestly, of tattling, or perhaps of manipulation, and he hadn't appreciated it at all. And yet, he couldn't tell if it was his conscience nagging at him that made him angry with Kassa, or if he had genuine cause to find fault in her. Everything was uncertainty, and he didn't like that, either.

They ducked under the last set of trees, and Rel, who'd been keeping himself to Kassa's pace for the company, unleashed himself for the final two kilometer sprint, strides expanding, eating the ground. He wasn't sure if it pleased him, or disturbed him, that there was no sense of effort. The regen mod took all the damage done to muscle fibers by the repetitive movements of running, and instantly healed them. While there was exertion, he still felt as if he could run forever, as if he were on some very low-gravity planet. _The lack of effort could lead to laziness,_ he thought.

Garrus was waiting for him back at the med bay, where Rel separated from Kassa for the moment, and bared teeth in a grin as he heard the time results. "Not bad, for someone who almost lost the leg entirely, a week ago," Garrus told Rel, cheerfully enough. "And Dempsey and Makur both gave you solid evaluations on your progress on controlling the rage."

Rel grimaced. "It's. . . more tenuous than I like," he admitted.

"We'll let you take it out on the yahg. Dempsey will be going with you as a squad-mate. Help you keep a good grip." Garrus gave him a steady look. "You're not going to like some of the other squad decisions, but Terra Nova is Lilu's call. She and I went about ten rounds over your inclusion on the roster. She'd have been happier with keeping you here on base for another three months or so. I told her that we needed you there. And that you needed to be there. Because you've found in yourself something to fight for, and that's one of the most important steps I've seen you take in your recovery so far."

Rel swallowed, hard. "I won't let you down," he promised his uncle.

Garrus looked at him steadily. "I know you won't," he replied quietly. "You're finding yourself again. I know how hard that is. . . and I had help." He exhaled. "Come on. Let's head over to the Jaworski's before it gets really late here."

Of course, from half a block away, they could hear raised voices, and, exchanging a glance, picked up the pace. There wasn't any shooting or violence going on, but there was a rather intense _argument_ transpiring, it was certain.

The scene in front of the Jaworski house was. . . eye-opening. There was a plant, almost seven feet tall, inside of a kinetic field, in front of the porch, inside the remains of a shipping crate. There were dozens of rachni soldiers and workers converging on the front lawn in a semicircle around it. Gavius and Agnes were standing in front of the plant, arguing heatedly, pretty much in each others' faces. Sam was sitting on the porch steps, Kasumi next to him, with Takeshi in his lap, feeding the little boy something that looked like pork ribs. Dara and Eli were on the same level of steps, side by side, laughing so hard, Dara was actually in tears. And Rel could see curtains and blinds on every house along the block twitching as the neighbors watched the show. _"What in the spirits' names . . . ?"_ Garrus muttered under his breath as they slowed to a walk.

Gavius caught sight of them. The older male was flushed blue almost through the crest. "This is _your_ fault, grandson," he told Rel, firmly.

Rel blinked and looked around. "My fault? What's my fault? What are you _talking_ about, Grandfather?"

Gavius muttered in exasperation, _"Spirits of air and darkness, boy. You're the one who told me that humans used flowers as courting gifts!"_

Rel looked up at the seven-foot tall plant. And then back down at his grandfather. And, against his will, his mandibles started to twitch. To his right, Garrus was, through a no doubt Herculean effort of will, not so much as cracking a smile. "What?" Agnes demanded. The human woman was in a corduroy skirt and a checked shirt, and had her graying hair tied back in a kerchief. Her cheeks were pink with vexation and embarrassment, and her blue eyes were narrow. "Dara, what did he just _say_?"

Dara couldn't actually catch her breath to answer for a moment, and three or four rachni suddenly ran up her arms to her shoulders, perching there. The alien blue of her eyes, without whites or pupils, was disconcerting, but the voice was still human as she answered, between laughing jags, "Apparently, Rel told Gavius that humans give flowers as courting gifts. Which is true. We do."

Agnes whirled and glared at Gavius. "Roses! _Roses_, Gavius! For god's sake, how hard is that? A dozen long-stemmed white roses would have done just _fine._ Yellow ones, because I'm from Texas! Red ones, for the cliché! Fresh-cut irises from your own garden! _Those_ would be romantic. This? This is not romantic!"

Gavius was, for the first time that Rel could remember, caught without words. His grandfather actually opened and closed his mouth once or twice during Agnes' diatribe, and Rel could feel Garrus' shoulders starting to shake beside him.

Sam stirred. "Wait a second here, Mom. You're saying, if I heard you correctly, that you'd have wanted him to get you roses?"

Agnes distributed her glare towards Sam. "That is beside the point, Samuel Kennard Jaworski!"

Sam whistled. "All three names. I'm in _trouble_, Takeshi. And somewhere, your Grandpa Alexander is having a conniption fit, that's all I'm saying."

Gavius held a finger up at Agnes. "If I _might_ speak in my own defense? Thank you. First, the _Titan Aurum_, to give it its common name, is probably the rarest flower on Earth, or so I had read. Your botanical gardens labor to keep the species alive and to get it to bloom. And when it does bloom, _thousands_ of people come to the hothouses where they've been kept just to see them. Spirits, female, I turned the damned galaxy over for an gift appropriate to a rare individual like yourself." Gavius glared at her. "The least you could do is _appreciate_ it."

Agnes exhaled. "When you put it that way, it's a very nice gesture," she allowed. "However, what you're failing to appreciate, yourself, is that it's a _corpse flower_! For god's sake, Gavius, when this thing blooms, it's going to be eight feet tall, five feet wide, and smell like a water buffalo _died _in a closet somewhere last week and no one noticed it atop the heating register."

And that did it. Dara and Eli collapsed laughing again, and Rel couldn't, at the moment, have stopped himself from joining in if his life had depended on it. He sank to a crouch on the gravel of the driveway and laughed until his stomach hurt, as Agnes went on, indignantly, "Who in the galaxy thinks that anything with the word _corpse_ in the description is _romantic?"_

Eli managed to get enough breath together to volunteer, "Actually, a fresh-killed and dressed carcass used to be considered a courting gift. . . nowadays, a smoked haunch of _apaterae_ is considered a little more high-class. . . Kind of like bringing someone chocolates."

Agnes directed a withering stare at the human male now. "I think there's a distinction between _cured meats_ and a _rotting corpse_."

Gavius threw up his hands. "Fine. If you don't want it—"

"I didn't _say_ that. I just can't plop it down in a shady spot in my backyard. _You_ are going to call your son-in-law, the fancy botanist—"

"Xenobiologist, Grandma—"

"Dara, child, _hush_."

"Yes'm."

Agnes' gimlet stare returned to Gavius. "So, yes. Call up your son-in-law and have him make some room in his greenhouses. And then you and I are going to figure out how to care for this behemoth."

"Fine!" Gavius snapped at her. "It'll be a nice long project."

"Right."

"Right."

Rel raised his head, and wondered, for a fleeting instant, if his reserved and stoic grandfather was about to bite Agnes, right there, in public. Gavius was certainly breathing a little more heavily than usual. "Lunch tomorrow?"

"That'll be nice. You're buying, Gavius." Agnes looked at the glowing dome around the plant spike and waved her hands helplessly. "How long is that going to be okay in that kinetic field? The night air around here will _kill_ a tropical beast like that if it collapses. . . "

Garrus volunteered, mildly, somehow heroically still keeping the laughter from boiling forth, "I can have someone from base logistics move it down to the greenhouses. I would hate for such a . . . classy token of affection. . . to wither due to neglect."

"_Keep it behind your teeth, first-son. I had no __idea__ the damned thing was going to be this large. I figured 'large' for a Terran flower might be the size of my spread hands, judging by their _roses_ and whatnot."_ Gavius had a fair bit of frustration-anger and embarrassment-anger going on, and Rel could sympathize. Completely. Gavius had taken a little information on Terran courtship customs, and tried to do something unique with it, something memorable, and had wound up being laughed at and shouted at. . . and yet, from the way Agnes was talking with him now, trying to figure out how to move the plant, in the remains of its crate, down the mountainside, it was clear that in spite of her strident exclamations, she actually _was_ touched.

"Show's over, folks," Sam said, getting back up to his feet, and looking down at Takeshi, said, in a tone of mild annoyance, "My god, boy, how did you get barbecue sauce on your _eyebrows_? Did you completely forget where your mouth is?"

"No, Daddy!" Takeshi piped up in response, and then pointed out into the street at Garrus and Rel. "Lantah? Lantar bring Emmie and Tac to play?"

"Not for a while, buddy," Sam told him, and Kasumi ushered the toddler in through the front door, followed, in short order, by Eli and Dara. Rel wasn't standing close enough to smell much of anything, but he did catch side-long glances at him, from both humans. Sam stayed outside, and walked down the porch steps to look Garrus in the eye. "Would've thought you'd be taking this evening to spend with Lilu. If she's taking the teams to Terra Nova, that's another long separation." Sam's tone was calm and friendly as he spoke to Garrus.

Garrus sighed. "I am and I will. But I figured I'd walk Rel over here. He _does_ need to talk to Dara, Sam. They both need to talk to each other."

Sam's face went blank. "In what way hasn't Dara been clear?" he asked, quietly. "She's made up her mind."

"And I haven't been permitted to _speak_ to her privately since she said she needed time to think," Rel pointed out, trying, hard, not to make an argument of it. Not to fight. "And since I haven't been allowed to speak to her, she's apparently 'made up her mind.' And I'm not even permitted to ask her why, or to ask for another chance, or anything else?"

Garrus exhaled. "Sam," he said now, quietly, as the human male folded his big arms across his chest, and suddenly looked as immovable as stone, "Even if _tal'mae_ could be undone—"

"Watch me."

"—I'm granting the possibility," Garrus said, a little more sharply. "If it could be undone, they still need to be able to work together in the future. And he still needs—"

"—to have his spirit healed, yeah, yeah, I get that." Sam sounded impatient. "She's not holding his spirit captive. If it were, I'd go get it from whatever shoebox it's been tucked in, and hand it over right now." Sam stared at them both, face remote. "Lantar went so far as to apologize the other night, for if he'd sounded tone-deaf all this time, for insisting that Dara help to heal the spirit-sickness stuff. She spent five years trying to grow scales for you, boy. Asking her to keep doing things the turian damned way isn't doing anything but making her more pissed at you. At _all_ of you, actually." Sam looked at Garrus for that one. "And I kind of feel the same way."

Rel's teeth ground together, and his mandibles clamped. _Calm. Have to stay calm. Just like the training exercises_. The flash of anger was causing adrenaline precursors to float in his bloodstream, and the siren call of the rage was very, very tempting indeed. But he could remember, all too clearly, how Dara had seen him with her rachni eyes. Had just seen his grandfather hold his legendary temper, in spite of every provocation.

Dimly, he wondered if Sam was actually trying to provoke him on purpose. _No. Probably not. Sam just says what he thinks, and he's not the type to try to step around me. At all._ After several deep inhalations and exhalations, Rel managed to reply, as calmly as he could, "I think that after five years of marriage, Dara owes me at least one conversation without every single person in the family in the room or listening at the door." Some part of him believed, that on some level, if he got Dara alone, he could reason with her. Convince her that this was a horrible, horrible mistake. That they did still love each other. That they could make it all work out. He pictured, briefly, the little rachni workers on her shoulders as she'd been sitting on the porch, and shuddered internally a little. Rel sighed. "It doesn't seem like much to ask for. Respect and courtesy, if nothing else."

Sam gave him a skeptical glance. "The last times you've gotten close to my girl, you accused her, first, of cheating on you with Eli, when they'd been out in the snow for fifteen minutes. Then you pretty much accused her of having sex with Sky a _week_ ago. I'm going to point out, for your own safety, that she's separated from you, and she's one hundred percent planning on divorce at this point. And if you get her too upset. . . " Sam paused, smiled faintly, and evidently changed what he was about to say, "any number of her rachni friends are going to figure out how to use the doorknobs and probably try to eat your face. Regen mod or not, that will probably hurt." He stepped out of the way. "Go on in, Rel. Talk. I'd recommend not yelling."

Rel didn't much appreciate the threat, but from the faint smile on Sam's face, he was _almost_ sure this was a test. Again. Like in the old days. Courting Dara. _I never got her flowers. She said she didn't want dead flowers that would wilt and be ugly in three days anyway._ And Gavius' grand gesture had surely been a failure, hadn't it? Or. . . had it?

Rel nodded to Sam. "Thank you," he said, after a moment, formally. Then he turned and walked in through the front door, and his instincts immediately told him he was in someone else's territory.

The smells in the house. . . some familiar, some not. Rice. Pork ribs in a barbeque sauce, heated in a slow cooker, from the scent of it. Chocolate. Huge amounts of that. Odd musk. . . he glanced down, and saw a little rachni worker at his feet, and realized that was the source. Pheromones that the workers and soldiers used to communicate left discernable trails in the air. Meaningless to him, but nuanced to them. Horses—strong, rank odor of horse sweat. Perfumes. Kasumi's light cherry-blossom perfume. . . and something much stronger, heavier. _Asari perfume? Why the hell would Dara be wearing that?_ Rel followed the sound of voices and the trails of scent back to the kitchen, and heard laughter there. He stood for a moment in the area between the kitchen and the formal dining room, staring in.

Three little workers were apparently attempting to 'help' Eli spread chocolate icing on the first layer of an equally chocolate cake. "Feelers out of the frosting, guys," the human ordered calmly, and nudged a worker out of the way with the back of a spatula. "I'm pretty sure that the last thing you guys need is sugar."

The creatures chittered up at him, and, as if he could understand them, Eli answered them back, "I'm sure that your little queen will love this, yes. Now, the trick about cake is this: I'm no engineer, and I've never tried to move one layer of a cake to the top of another. Kasumi! Guidance, please?"

"Put a plate on top of the pan, turn the pan upside down onto the plate. Then reverse it over the top of the rest of the cake," Kasumi said, calmly, as she washed Takeshi's face and hands at the sink. "Anything else, and the layer won't have enough support in transit, and you'll wind up with fragments of cake everywhere. And Takeshi and the workers will love you forever."

Eli glanced over—eyes alien and edge-to-edge black—and clearly saw that Dara was laughing at him, and picked up a finger's worth of frosting, and put it on her nose. "I am doing this for _your_ benefit, _sai'kaea_," he told her, with a grin. _Sai'kaea. Beloved. Always-fair._

"Oh, not arguing. I plan to enjoy every bite of a cake baked for me with your own two hands and everything," she told him, smiling, and the expression on her face hurt Rel's heart. Alien eyes or not, Dara was _happy_ at the moment. Happy, open, filled with friendship. . . and with something more. He hadn't seen _that_ look on her face since. . . Rel had seen love on her face during the year on the _Estallus._ Even on Sur'Kesh. But happiness and openness and love all at once? Not since they'd come home after the Garvug missions. The twist of jealousy in his heart was like a knife, and for a moment, he felt the rage building in him again. He had no knife in his empty wrist-sheath, but it would be simple to walk across the room and slam Eli's face into the cryo-unit door. Start the fight that had surely been building for months now. . . . And he heard several hissing sounds around his feet.

The train of thought had only taken seconds, and Rel looked down, disconcerted to see a half-dozen rachni workers—all with names written on their backs, in _Eli's_ handwriting—clustered around his feet. _The rachni don't bother him. They like him. They come to him for __names__, for the sake of the spirits._ When he looked back up, everyone in the kitchen was looking at him. Eli had put down the spatula and turned around, face wary and appraising now. Dara's face had closed down entirely, and she was looking at the workers, her expression distant. Kasumi shook her head minutely.

Rel cleared his throat. He _hated_ seeing that wary, shuttered look on Dara's face. It was like Bastion all over again. Like the week or so on Rocam before he'd deployed to the _Sollostra_. "So," he said, after a moment, pretending not to notice the workers around his feet. "You think my grandfather has a shot with your grandmother, Dara?"

Dara blinked. "Maybe," she replied, sounding cautious. "It surely was a hell of a gesture."

Rel swallowed. _And how much of a gesture do I have to make to get you to give me another chance?_ He still wore his empty knife sheath. It would feel. . . odd. . . to do otherwise. Whether or not the knife was broken. She certainly hadn't been forthcoming with a replacement, and the replacement needed to come from her, given the circumstances. "Can we talk?" Rel gave Eli a swift, dark glance. "Alone?" _If I get you alone, without anyone around to prop you up, convince you otherwise, surely __then__ you'll understand. . . . _

Dara sighed. "Rel, I told Kassa to tell you something. Maybe the message didn't get through. _Alone_ isn't going to happen. I _have_ to have rachni song, or a biotic's song, or skin contact and the song of another humanoid, in my mind, pretty much at all times." Her expression went tight. "Otherwise, there's a pretty good chance I'll go insane."

"It was my understanding from Uncle Garrus that there's a window of a couple of hours." Rel tightly controlled his voice. "I won't take that much of your _time."_ _Will you please just talk to me?_

"I'll go in the other room with you, but there's nowhere on base that's far enough away from the rachni at the moment, that I won't hear them, and that they won't hear me," Dara said, softly, and her lips quirked softly. "Everything I hear, they hear, Rel. There is no such thing as a closed door for me anymore."

Rel felt his mandibles twitch. The thought was. . . more than a little disquieting. The most basic courtesy among turians was eye contact; the most basic privilege was a closed door, and respect for it. What happened behind that door was _private._ Sacrosanct. If your mate went into estrus, it was handled behind a closed door. Rules for courtship were ironed out between families, but behind the closed door, it was entirely between the couple, and a matter of their own honor, to adhere to the contract. For there to be _no barrier_ between the public and the private. . . made him twitch. "Very well," he said, tightly. "Still, I'd like to speak with you in as much privacy as you can manage."

She remained silent for a moment, expressions flickering across her face minutely. As if a whole conversation had just gone on, in her head. And maybe it had. Kasumi picked up Takeshi, and suggested, lightly, "Why don't the two of you talk upstairs? I need to give Takeshi a bath, so I'll be up there anyway."

_Giving her an ally in shouting range,_ Rel thought, grimly. _Always someone at her back, at her side. Am I that untrustworthy?_

Dara had nodded to Kasumi, and told Eli now, lightly, "So, is my cake going to be done by the time I get back down here?"

"Depends on how creative your little friends here get with the sprinkles," Eli replied. He pointed to the counter in illustration. The workers were, indeed, organizing the multicolored sprinkles there. By color. And arranging them on the cake in colored bands.

"Oh,. dear god," Dara muttered, and started to chuckle. "It may be the prettiest cake my grandma will never eat."

"More for us," Eli told her, cheerfully.

Rel clamped his teeth on the words he didn't want to utter. And regardless of his request for privacy, three of the workers trundled into the guest room at Dara's feet. _Not that it apparently makes a damn bit of difference. What she hears, they hear._ Rel inhaled and tried to seine the air for smells. Up here, the smell of cooked rice and barbecue sauce and chocolate was much lessened. Now, there was just the rachni musk, horse sweat, Dara's own personal smell, and the overpowering aroma of the asari perfume. It had nuances, to be sure—spices and multiple flowers—but it was giving him a headache just to be in the small room with her. Under those smells, there were other ones. More subtle, but damned hard to detect with that cloying scent so heavy in the air. Dirt, or at least sand. Remnants of suntan lotion. Deodorant, hers and a male human variety, also with spices. "Any reason for the asari hooker juice?" Rel asked, wincing and rubbing at his nose. "I guess you spent the day at the lake, from the smell of things."

The rachni at her feet hissed at him. He wasn't sure how or why, but he thought they might be a little offended at his choice of words, and he swore, silently. _They're offended because she's offended_.

Dara didn't sit down on the guest bed. She remained standing, and picked up a small, square bottle of perfume off the dresser, cradling it in her fingers. "Birthday present from Eli, and I'd have to ask Siara, since Eli's unlikely to tell me, but I suspect the average hooker couldn't afford it. Maybe a really high-dollar call-girl, though." Dara's tone cooled. Human voices had so much flexibility and nuance to them. "I'm not going to go shower just so you can be comfortable while we talk, though."

"I didn't ask you to," he told her, a little sharply, and their eyes met. And he realized that he couldn't read those fathomless, opalescent eyes. At all.

Rel exhaled. Pushed the jealousy and the anger and the lingering sense of betrayal away, and tried to forget the fact that everything he said, was said for an audience of, apparently, hundreds, if not thousands. "Dara. . . _amatra_. . . I've been trying to be better. Everything I say to you seems to twist in the air and turn into knives, and I don't actually want it to be that way." He exhaled again. Forced calm into his body. "I wanted to thank you, actually. For. . . the gene mod." Rel rubbed at his nose again. "As my doctor, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"If I mate with someone, am I going to go into blood-rage and kill her?" His fists clenched behind his back. It was a new thought, born in the early hours of the morning, but a very, very bad one. It connected to memories of the yahg, eating humans in front of him.

Dara blinked, and her voice suddenly held compassion. "No, Rel," she told him, softly. "Abrams and I made sure of that in the simulations. We were more concerned about the potential for cancerous tumors, but the behavioral issues were also something we investigated."

Rel felt some of the tension ease out of his body. "Good," he managed, and looked at her. "I didn't want to hear any more bad news."

Calmness now from her. Total serenity and distance. Not the icy coolness he'd been sensing until now, but something else. "You wanted to talk. Let's talk." Dara said, quietly. "What _do_ you want, Rel?"

"To have everything go back to the way it was before." Simple words. Simple truth. He ached to reach out and touch her hair, but her hands were folded behind her back, and she stood like a sword blade at the moment. Untouchable and still.

"That's not going to happen, Rel." Her voice was actually gentle at the moment, as if she were giving a terminal diagnosis to a patient, and her expression softened. "Because we can never go back to who we were before. The core person, the self, never changes, but we grow and change and become more than we were before." A faint smile. "We might chose to reprise a leit-motif from earlier in our song, but it will be embellished. Sung in a different key. The same, but different."

Rel gave her a dark look. "That's not an answer, Dara."

She lowered her head for a moment, and the workers around her feet ran up her bare legs, hopped from her shorts to her swimsuit, and then two perched on her shoulders, while the third crawled up into her hair and began fiddling with the strands. "Yes, is it," Dara told him, quietly. "Rel, _look_ at me. I've had genetic changes to between five and eight percent of my genome. There's only a _two_ percent difference between humans and chimpanzees. And it's not limited to my cellular DNA; it's in my mitochondrial DNA, too."

Her voice was very calm, and he couldn't understand why she wasn't _angry._ "I don't get it. Siara mind-fucked you, and you were angry, and rightfully so. Some rachni queen mind-fucks you and changes your entire body, which is even more of a. . . " Rel groped for the word, and came up with it, "a _violation_. . . and you're calm about it. Why?" His tone was harsh. There had been barriers and divisions enough between them before this, and now some hatchling rachni queen had, in some way, damaged Dara. Possibly irreparably.

Dara looked at him, expression still calm. "Because she's my daughter, Rel."

"_Talas'kak!"_

"No, it's true. She _made_ me her mother, in many ways. And I don't regret it. I'm . . . unnerved by some of the changes. But I wouldn't undo it, even if I could." Simple, calm words. "It's an open question if I can crossbreed with another human, Rel. Hybrid kids with a turian are completely out of the question."

The words hurt. He'd always looked forward to having children with her. Had pictured it, clearly, in his mind. Sometime down the line. Children were a turian female's expression of faith in her mate, in a way. An expression of trust, and respect for strength and competency and integrity, most of the time, anyway. "That doesn't matter," he managed now, his throat tightening. "Adopting—"

"Yes, it does matter," Dara said, moving on, still calm. "It's all a part of the greater whole. Even if I could give you children, at this point, I would not. I'm not the person I was when I married you, Rel." Her expression was bittersweet at the moment. "The physical changes from Joy-Singer are just the visible parts. You've felt their song in my mind, Rel. I need them. I _am_ them. I am a brood-mother." Dara's lips quirked faintly. "Between Joy-Singer and the AIs, I'm a mother who's never given birth. And I'm not exactly _raising_ them. . . but I'm still a mother. Again, that's all. . . recent. Almost cosmetic. Even without those changes, I am not who I was when I was sixteen. And neither are you."

"You said we could. . . " Rel groped for the words. Some musical jargon. .. ". . . _reprise_ our melodies?"

"Leit-motif. Yes. Everyone has a core melody, Rel. But they _do_ change over time. And our harmonies don't mesh well anymore, Rel. Surely you see that?" Dara's voice was so gentle now, it hurt to hear. She was determinedly not fighting. Not arguing. She was just . . . convincing.

"No, I don't see that," he snapped at her. "There's nothing here that we can't bridge—"

Dara sighed, and reached out, a rachni running down her arm to her wrist, and, visibly bracing herself, caught his hand.

Piano music everywhere. A storm of it, and voices. Voices everywhere.

—_Many-Voices asks if you are well. Sings worry-songs, yellow and green together._

—_Unfavored brood-warrior causes anger-songs and regret-songs in you, little-queen. Soldiers ask if they should drive him hence?_ With a shock, Rel realized that the worker actually meant _him_ by that phrase, and that Dara was, actually, soothing them. Singing to the workers and the soldiers in her mind. Singing blues and greens to calm them, and calm herself. Because if she didn't calm herself, they might read her 'undersong' as a request and attack him.

—_Cake-songs cooling in place of cooking and eating. More complex chemical signatures than in toast. Interesting creation-song._

—_I've finished entertaining the black cat in the home of Many-Voices. Are there other felines that I must entertain?_

—_Digging song, digging song, dig, dig, dig. . . ._

—_Guarding song. Hive of little queen will be protected. Outsider permitted for the moment. We know his scent. _

_Do you understand now?_ Dara's voice, but singing in his mind, filled with piano notes and faint violet-gray overtones. Regret, sorrow, and pain. It was causing her _pain_ to touch him, to feel the anger and despair in him. Things she couldn't fix. _This is what I hear. All the time. This is what I __must__ hear. I am them. They are me. I was just trying to regain my humanity after damned near chopping off my own arms and legs to fit in a turian-shaped box—_

_No, no, you can't mean that—_

_I mean it! Look! Look at how much of __me__ died, and is only just now coming back to life! I had almost killed the music in me, and for what? _Rage now, blistering red, and Dara pulled back her hand, just as Rel felt the answering anger start to build in him, and he realized, in shock, that her anger at him could, on touch contact like that, _ignite_ the blood-rage in him. Transmit, like a disease. "Yes," Dara told him, out loud. "Yes, I'm angry at you. You're angry at me. You're angry at yourself. At the world, for changing. At me, for changing. At yourself, for changing, but in ways that you're not sure now that you wanted to have changed. You don't know if the price is worth the bargain. How much of _yourself_ that _you_ cut off to fit yourself into the same goddamned box I put myself in. The turian one." Dara swallowed, and said, quietly now, and with force, "You say these are all things we can overcome. Maybe. But you know what? I don't want to. I'm _happy_ right now, Rel. I've spent the last several years being unhappy, and not knowing why. And now I've grown too much to fit in back that box, and I won't cut myself up to make you happy." She paused. "My aspirations to martyrdom only go so far."

Ever word stabbed like a knife. Rel swallowed, hard, choking back the anger. "I never asked you to cut off pieces of yourself." He was pretty damned sure _that_ was true. He'd loved her for her humanity. For carrying the spirit of Mindoir with her.

"Not in words," Dara agreed, nodding. "And yet, the expectation was that I be as turian as possible in the military. And that became as turian as possible at home, too. In bed. Everywhere. And I wasn't strong enough to say no, to insist on doing the human thing, when I wanted to. I thought that compromising was part of marriage, and it never even dawned on me that I was doing all the compromising. Oh, sure, you've eaten mixed. . . because it makes fluid contact safer. And you wear a wedding ring. Name for me one other human thing you've done in the last five years, Rel. One."

"Christmas on Bastion—"

"Once, yep. And you went to a couple of human music concerts here on Mindoir when we were still in school." Dara's expression was sad. "You asked me if I thought Gavius and my grandmother have a chance. Yes, I think they do. Because he was willing to do something human, possibly screw it up completely, and met it head on when it blew up in his face. And now they'll have something to look back on and laugh about. She'll never let him live it down, but she'll also always remember it." Dara swallowed. "I also think Gavius respects her."

Rel's mouth fell open. "Are you trying to tell me that I don't _respect_ you?"

"No, I think you respect the skills I have. When I was on your team directly, you protected the medic, as you should, and utilized me correctly." Dara's voice had gone dispassionate now. "I was very useful to have on a squad lineup. So, yes, you respect the skills." She looked at him. "I don't think you respect me."

"That's not true." White-hot flare of anger, and Rel caught _her_ hand this time, and she winced, caught unprepared, and the workers _hissed_ at him, raising their carapaces in threat display._ I __do__ respect you—_

_Little mate. Little __amatra__, Always __prey__._ Storm of music now.

_Rasmus pointed that out; I'm working on it—_

_But you have to __work__ at it. Respect shouldn't be something you have to work at! It's either there or not. You recognize someone as worthy, or not. And no matter how much I've worked—passed through boot camp, made O4, made full doctor, made __Spectre__, I didn't deserve it. . . because I'm __prey__._

_That's not true. You __know__ it's not true. I've always respected you. You're intelligent, brave, fit!_ There was anger there, and bewilderment. He knew the last ten months had been rocky, but the years before that. . . those had been good. He _knew_ that, too. But then, he also had the image he'd found in his mind when he'd caught her wrist in the med bay a week ago; the two of them crossing a tightrope over a chasm together, leaning apart. Clutching each others' hands, and as they leaned further and further apart, the fingers' grip starting to slip. Until they both lost hold, and tumbled into the abyss.

It was truth, and she could recognize it. But it didn't change the regret-sorrow-determination in her. The sense that now she was happier than she had been. _It's a terrible thing, to understand each other truly at the end._

_It doesn't have to be the end!_

_Yes. It does._ Immovable. Impenetrable. _The part of me that is sixteen and lonely and lost will always love the part of you that is sixteen and golden and immortal. I'm sorry I hurt you, Rel. I should never have agreed to the __tal'mae__ rites to begin with. I just didn't know myself as well as I should have. _Flickers and flashes of memories of the past five years. Moments that he had cherished, and the sudden shock of seeing them from her perspective. Wrapping his arms around her on Bastion and, for him, memories of defying death and darkness and despair, finding joy in her arms, relief, release, a respite from corpse patrol. In her memories? One more job, one more duty that was keeping her from sleeping, a sense that if she didn't respond, he'd just keep nipping and stroking and petting until she gave in, so she might as well just give in now, rather than in twenty minutes, because that would get it over with twenty minutes faster, and she might actually get to sleep twenty minutes sooner. Although it never quite worked out that way. The seething mass of emotional frustration afterwards, the voice that wanted to rail, _Why can't you just understand that some nights, I just want to be held until I go to sleep? Trying to explain it never does anything but make him feel rejected and angry, so that's out. _Guilty/stern voice that reminded her, _And he's had just as bad a day as you had, and he needs to feel better, so he can do his job, and you need to do your job, so stop complaining and go to sleep!_

_Undersong and oversong, Rel. Three or four levels to every thought, every memory. The lowest-level person isn't always a nice thing to listen to. See the anger, the resentment? That's undersong. The id. See the guilt, see the pain? That's the ego. See the decision, to not say anything, because it's better for the marriage, better for everyone around, if there's no conflict? That's the oversong, the superego. It's not pretty. But it's true. I'm sure some of your songs are no more beautiful._

_Such as?_

_When you bit Kassa. _

The shock of it hit him, and the suddenness brought the memory up. Undersong and oversong, as she understood it, laid open to him. Exhaustion, darkness, despair. The same needs as had pressed him on Bastion. Except, no Dara there, no one to turn to for light. No different than, say Eli and Serana, or Lin and Serana. Except he couldn't explain his desire for Kassa as anything other than a physical thing. . . fought the rachni song, in fact, until he saw the lowest level motivation laid bare. _Dara hurt me, so I'll hurt her back._ Anger. Resentment. _How can two people who love each other resent each other so much?_ he wondered, in horror.

_I don't know, Rel. I'd like to get to a point where we don't. Before the resentment turns to hate._ The alien eyes glittered. "Rel. Let go of my wrist, please."

Rel exhaled, and released her wrist. Struggled with the rage that her anger had ignited, and struggled with the truths he'd seen, the truths he'd shown her. There was still a little love left. But it was surrounded by blackness on all sides, and he had no idea how to fix it.

"There probably isn't a way," Dara told him, quietly. "Things change, Rel. You can change yourself. You can make yourself the person you want to be. And so can I. But you can never make yourself who you were before. If we were all exactly the same at twenty-one or thirty-five or fifty as we were at sixteen, what would have been the point of living all that time? We would have _wasted_ it all."

Rel swallowed. "Did we waste it?"

Dara's eyes filled with tears. "No," she said, softly. "We just grew up. That's all." She swallowed. "It seems to be an on-going process."

_**Author's note:** From Wikipedia: "The titan arum or Amorphophallus titanum (from Ancient Greek amorphos, "without form, misshapen" + phallos, "phallus", and titan, "giant") is a flowering plant with the largest unbranched inflorescence in the world." See http:/en[dot]wikipedia[dot]org/ wiki / Titan_arum for some lovely pictures. _

_One of these bloomed at the Houston Museum of Natural Science last year. I, ah, was not exactly tempted to go stand in line to sniff it. They really are immense, though, and in the wild can top several meters in height. _

**Elijah, Mindoir, October 14-15, 2196**

The workers had more or less camped out around the stairs, and more and more of them had boiled up out of the pantry while they'd all been downstairs, waiting for Dara and Rel to finish their talk. Garrus and Sam had been sharing a couple of beers by that point, and Sam looked at the several dozen workers in the kitchen shook his head. "This can't be a good sign," he said, grimly.

"At least as arguments go, it seems to be a quiet one," Garrus noted, looking towards the stairs.

At least twelve named workers moved to Eli's feet at this point, and he asked them, "Does she need me to go up there? _Ask_ her. I don't want to go up there and make things worse."

He had a sense of chittering song, but couldn't understand a word of it, and shook his head, finding a seat on the couch to pretend to stare at the aerogel screen. _And the day started off so well, too,_ he thought.

Eventually, he heard footsteps on the stairs, and his eyes moved up. He didn't want to jump to his feet, or otherwise over-react here. The rachni were doing enough of _that_ already. There had to be thirty or forty workers on the staircase alone right now, and they skittered out of the way as Rel came back down the stairs. His expression was remote, and he nodded to them all politely. "Thank you, Sam," he said, politely. "Uncle Garrus? Thank you, too." He opened the door and walked out, after directing a single piercing look at Eli himself.

Eli was on his feet a split second later, and moving up the stairs, just in time to catch Dara on her way down now, too. The instant he saw her, looking tired and sad, he reached out with that mental touch that was still such an effort to use. . . and found her song waiting for him. Violets and dark blues, and she took three more steps down the stairs to reach him, and then they slid their arms around each other. _Are you okay? The workers couldn't do more than spin in circles when I asked them if you were all right._

_Tired. He's. . . been very draining to be around for a long time, but I think he understands things better now._ Dara rested her head on his shoulder. _For the longest time, I was scared to be alone with him._

_Why?_

_Because I was afraid I wouldn't be strong enough. That I'd just give in. Because it was easier than resisting, than saying no._

_You're the strongest woman I know, Dara._

_I'm __weak__ compared to what I need to be._ Wistful tone.

_Everyone's stronger when they have someone to stand with, __sai'kaea__. And you're never, ever alone._ Eli lowered his head and nipped the softness of her throat. A chiding gesture between turian mates, and she gasped and laughed a little at it. _I'll always be with you, even if I can't be there with my body. You know that, right?_

_I know it __now__, yes. _Rich, dark blues. Contentment. Happiness.

_And __they're__ always with you, too._ Eli looked down at the little workers around their feet and on the _walls_ of the staircase at the moment. "Hey! Some of these guys don't have names yet." He squinted at the closest ones. "You guys must have come from all over the base."

—_Calling-song powerful. Presence of many required. Gave little-queen our voices._

"Next thing we know, Sky and Glory are going to be knocking at the front door," Eli said, and wrapped an arm around Dara's waist, starting to guide her down the stairs. _Was it at least a good talk, __sai'kaea__?_

_Sad, mostly. I remembered, halfway through our conversation, the moment I knew things had to change. It was before Sky even showed me what the future might look like._

Eli looked at the memory with her. She'd been desperate for just a few moments alone. To do human things at a human pace. Had gone out for a ride in the snowy woods, to let out the grief and the despair and the anguish of Bastion. And she had, after the tears had abated, and the gray exhaustion that followed strong emotion had set in, had a clear mental image, of herself, at fifteen, riding through the woods, and finding herself there. _Hey, lady, are you okay?_ Fifteen-year-old Dara would not have recognized twenty-year-old Dara. _And I don't think I'd have liked myself much, either._

_You'd have recognized yourself just fine. And your old self would be in awe of your current self. You've accomplished so much, __sai'kaea__._ Eli smiled faintly, as they hit the bottom of the stairs, rachni workers scattering all over the living room. _Hell, even your solution for dealing with the stress of Bastion was better than mine was._

_Which was?_ Light green curiosity.

_Lin and Serana and I. . . ._ He cut the thought off, sharply. Locked it down.

_Why won't you let me hear the songs? They'll mostly just be reminder-songs of things I already know, but just can't actively remember._

_It's a very asari song, and I've only just started working with you on being asari. You've got enough going on in your head and heart right now._

_I want to hear __all__ your songs._ _No holding back, for either of us. It's the only way we'll work._

_I know. And you will. I promise. Just not today._

From around the corner, they could hear Sam addressing the workers in no uncertain terms. "Right. Some of you have _got_ to go. No more than six or seven at a time for non-emergencies, please. Out!"

—_Disappointment-song. _

—_Some here sang of cake?_

Eli chuckled. "Yes, some of you can have cake. Assuming the rest of you have finished decorating it."

Garrus looked at the floor, and shook his head. "And to think I thought _my_ life was complicated." His gaze took in Eli, who did not remove his arm from Dara's waist, and met the second-in-command of the Spectres' eyes squarely. "Sam? I'll be heading out now. Thanks for the beer, and Dara? Thanks for giving him a chance to clear the air with you. It'll be healthier for everyone, especially in the next month or three."

Garrus headed out, and the humans and the rachni retreated to the kitchen, where, indeed, the chocolate cake was now wrapped in loving spirals of prismatically-ordered sprinkles. "That," Dara said, eyes wide, "is almost too pretty to eat.'

—_Disappointment-song! We have erred? We have sung it too well?_

"We'll eat it anyway," she assured them, and started dishing up the cake. The workers that didn't file back out and into the tunnels underground—Chopin, Liszt, Wolfgang, 1812, Strauss, and Einstein. . . .were delighted to enjoy cake with the rest of the family. —_Cake-songs are joy-songs! _"Kind of a pity Zhasa isn't here to have Dempsey eat some of this for her," Dara assessed, as she scraped her fork across her plate, picking up the last of the frosting. The observation netted her snickers from everyone else.

Dara even opened up the piano and played for a while, to the delight of the rachni workers, who scampered atop it, and lined up atop it, appearing to look down at her fingers. —_Legendary box that sings!_

—_Little-queen only sings mind-songs while the box sings?_

"I can't—not in front of people. . . " Dara muttered.

Eli laughed outright at that one. "You sang just fine when Joy-Singer was in your mind, _sai'kaea_," he told her lightly, and stood up from the armchair, to go through the music piled atop the piano, sending workers skittering. "Would it help if your dad got you started?"

"I don't hear _you_ volunteering, son," Sam said, acerbically, where he sat, Kasumi's head pillowed on his lap, on the couch.

"My squad name is _Tyr_, not _Orpheus_," Eli pointed out genially. "But if it makes Dara less apt to hem and haw and pull the 'I can't sing' routine, sure."

So she shifted up from _Liebestraum_ into her father's old favorites, and Sam lightly sang "All I Ask of You," looking down at Kasumi's face. And when Dara finished that one, and the workers were all chittering excitedly at the human songs, Dara flipped earlier in the score and looked at Eli pointedly. _Sai'kaea__, I'm neither Raoul or the Phantom in the craziness that is our lives._

_Yeah, but I bet you've got the range for this one._

Eli winced. He hadn't sung outside the shower since his voice had changed. _Me and my big mouth._

_I do seem to remember telling you once, that you never did know when to shut up, yeah. . . I'll sing it with you, how's that? It's not really meant to be a duet, but we can muddle through._

"Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams . . . Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before . . . close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar. . . .And you'll live, as you've never lived, before . . . " Dara went silent, as Eli grinned and sang, a little more softly, and let the words pour into her mind, because he knew he couldn't possibly sing it the way he meant it, "Softly, _deftly_, music shall _caress_ you . . . Hear it, feel it, _secretly possess_ you . . . _Open up your mind_, let your fantasies unwind, in this darkness which you know you cannot fight . . . "

And then, together again, ". . . the darkness of the music of the night . . .Close your eyes, start a journey through a strange, new world. Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before. . . . Close your eyes, _and let music set you free_. . . . only then can you belong to me.. . . "

—_Ohhh, humans understand! We did not understand that you understood them! Freedom-songs and captive-songs and binding-songs, learning-songs and life-songs!_

Dara started to laugh as the workers jumped down and scuttled over the keys, trying to find the notes again, clattering and clinking. Eli leaned down and picked up Dara's hand, and lightly kissed the back of it, not caring at the moment if her father was watching or not. The music and the mental touch, the rich blues, were all coursing around him at the moment, and he could feel happiness pouring off of her. . . which he thought was a very good way to end the evening. A far better memory for her to have, than ending the evening on yet another damned fight with Rel. He carefully shut down that line of thought, and sheltered the anger in a distant corner of his mind. Rel couldn't have known that today was her early birthday celebration, but he'd sure as hell poured cold water all over what had been a good day until he'd shown up.

_Your song just went all dark red, Eli. . . _

_I know. Sorry. I'll think about happy things._ _Like this moment. Right now._

Kasumi stood up. "Well, my dear ones, I have. . . a long and irritating evening ahead of me, trying to find more lost rachni ships in three-thousand-year-old archival footage from STG." She leaned down and kissed Sam's cheek.

"You want some help?" Dara offered, and pointed at Einstein, who chittered at Kasumi. "The workers should have Joy-Singer's memories, same as I do. . . only a little clearer access to them. And I could maybe help a little, too?"

Eli stroked Dara's hair lightly. "I should get back to the house. I need to shower and stuff." He leaned down and gave her cheek a light kiss. "We've got a briefing tomorrow at oh-eight-thirty, right?"

Sam nodded grimly. "Yeah. Make sure your bags are packed, is all I'm saying."

The briefing the next morning wasn't any prettier than the news on the extranet had been the night before. Almost thirty Spectres were being sent to different worlds, and the room gleamed with bodies in black armor.

Amaterasu was getting a trio of Spectres. Another two squads were actually heading into asari space to check into whether any asari shipping or cruise lines had been bribed by batarians into revealing their itinerary and passenger lists. Apparently, a justicar named Samara and a human named _Jack_ would be interfacing with them on Illium. Eli frowned and raised his head. Siara, across the table, nodded, briefly. The names _had_ sounded familiar. Beside him, Dara muttered under her breath, "Wonder if Jack ever forgave me for my stitching messing up her tattoos. . . "

Shepard cleared her throat. "I'm taking the _Normandy_ to Terra Nova. I won't be on the ground unless absolutely needed, so I'll be able to handle most of the normal day-to-day paperwork for most of the trip." She looked grim. "We had two teams in place on Terra Nova. Malcolm Henderson is missing. Kiranus Vessarian is missing. Nisha Cehl is missing. We have confirmation that Irina Pendalus is dead. . . . one of her arms was found by a body-retrieval squad yesterday morning. Biometric chip pinged when scanned. Aerot Minakos is missing, presumed dead, last seen with Irina. They found Illara T'mal's body a week ago, badly decomposed. Apparently, yahg don't find asari that tasty." Shepard paused as everyone in the room shifted uncomfortably. "I'm sure they could _live_ on asari bodies, but by and large, asari are being handed to batarians for. . . more gainful employment than lining the bottom of a latrine. Which is where the humans are heading, by an indirect route." Her expression was grim behind her blue and white wedding paint. "I don't intend to let that go on any longer on Terra Nova. The faster we lift the siege there, the sooner we can get to the other colony worlds." She paused. "We know that we're facing largely yahg on Terra Nova, but the batarians broke the blockade of the mass relay and dropped more yahg, and some of their own personnel recently. Probably largely SIU. They would probably not be able to count on the loyalty of warrior-caste regulars if they wind up seeing the yahg in action. As such, we need people in place with experience fighting _both_ groups of enemies. . . .and we need fresh eyes and minds and bodies in the mix, too." She looked around the room. "Three teams, people. Spectre Lantar Sidonis is in charge of team one. Spectre Dempsey, Spectre Elijah Sidonis and Commander Rellus Velnaran will be with him. Spectre Livanus Cautoris will have Thelldaroon and Spectre Fors Luka on Team Two. . . Spectres Siara Tesala and Urdnot Gris will be with Urdnot Makur, and they'll be liaising with our . . . nonstandard allies. Which is to say, krogan irregulars, geth reinforcements, and whatever quarians and rachni we manage to get on the ground there."

Eli winced internally, but kept his face a stoic mask. The good news was, Rel hadn't probably smelled him on Dara last night—too many conflicting scents in the house. And again, it wasn't as if Dara hadn't been _very_ forthright about her being done with the marriage. Still, it was going to be _hell_ working with Rel. He respected the skills. And Rel was a friend. But Dara was a friend too, and more than that. _What the hell. If Lin could manage it, so can I. . . except. . . yeah. It's not the same._ For a second, he looked across the room at Sky, and realized, _That's another one of your damned threes. Me, Lin, Serana. Dara, Rel, me. You said I was the hub of the wheel. Me, Dara, Serana. That's another three. You say I'm three, in and of myself. And of those of us sitting around the piano that night. . . that leaves Rinus and Kallixta. But Dara thinks Kallixta thinks of Rel as Rinus' spirit-twin._ _Another three. But a __safe__ three. _

_Exactly so, Many-Voices. You sing well._ Sky's voice was amused. _You have unlocked the riddle-song I sang. But what will do you with it now?_

_. . . I have no idea._ Eli sighed. If there was wisdom in it, it wasn't helping him much. Lin and Serana, part of the supportive three, were heading towards Khar'sharn right now, with Kallixta as their pilot. He and Rel were heading to Terra Nova. All the threes were broken.

He refocused his attention on the briefing. Shepard had brought up images on the aerogel screens. Blasted skyscrapers, just like Shanxi. And. . . landscapes. Sere, savage mountains that were little more than blocks of stone rising up out of a moonscape. Scraggly, wiry vegetation clinging to life at the foot of those crags. "There _were_ a few STG agents on the ground, at the Icama Aerospace Weapons Design and Testing Facility," Shepard said now. "The Icama facility went off the grid two months ago, and getting into it and getting the yahg out of it was the focus of the Spectre team led by Nisha Cehl. It's located eight hundred miles south of New Philadelphia. . . in the middle of Terra Nova's equatorial desert band." Shepard's expression was grim. "The equatorial desert is a wasteland. One hundred and forty degrees Fahrenheit during the day, or sixty Celsius. Almost no rain. And about as hospitable as the Ahaggar Mountains on Earth. Very rough terrain, mixed with areas of desert pavement, and some sand dune regions. Most people. . . even the yahg, fortunately. . . find it best to move at night out there, if they don't have vehicles. Imagery from ships in orbit hasn't found much in the way of machinery moving around out there. Thermal imaging at night is difficult at best. The ambient temperature only drops to about a hundred Fahrenheit, which makes picking out yahg body heat. . . very difficult."

"Great," Dempsey muttered. "That's just. . . wonderful."

Shepard grimaced. "The facility is one of your objectives. So is the Red Mesa Regional Penitentiary. It's on your way into the Icama region of the desert. The good news is, it's actually in human hands. They've been collecting human survivors, but they're currently surrounded by yahg. There are probably also other survivors out in the desert. Terra Nova was settled largely by people from North America. There are any number of survivalist nuts out there—"

"Please," Sam corrected, "we prefer to call them right-wing, anti-government nuts. Let's keep the terminology straight."

Shepard actually chuckled for a moment. "Be that as it may. The colony wasn't entirely undefended when the yahg attacked. The various militia groups didn't have military-grade weapons, but they _did_ have bunkers and caves and supplies."

Eli raised a finger at that point. "Please don't tell me that we're looking at AEC-type fundamentalists out there."

Sam looked at the ceiling. "Well. . . maybe not them. They're kind of out of business. But any number of groups _did_ pick up sticks and try to get away from the oppressive North American government. Everyone from the Freemen up in Montana to any number of groups who would really like to claim that the 'South will rise again!'" He paused. "On a completely different planet. Yeah. I know. It doesn't have to make sense."

Eli rubbed at his eyes for a moment. "Okay, just to explore the full horror of this," he said, dryly, "If they didn't like the North American government, they're not going to be fans of the Council, correct? Or of the Alliance? Or the Hierarchy? Or, let me just throw this out there. . . of the Spectres?"

Sam grinned at him. "Good call. But, the good news is, they _probably_ won't like the yahg, either."

"That'll be a _great_ comfort when they take a break from shooting at us to shoot at the yahg." Eli shook his head. At least the separatists on Edessan had been, however marginally, understandable. He wasn't sure he understood these groups. _It'll be fun reading the dossiers on the way there, I guess_, he thought, with a bit of a sigh.

Shepard shrugged. "Chances are, they'll want to conserve their ammunition and save it strictly for the yahg." She paused. "Probably."

Dempsey exhaled and traded a look with Eli. "I at least sound like I'm from North America," he pointed out. "I can try talking with them when we need to. You'll have to wash your face-paint off just for their ears to start working."

"Polarized visor," Eli said, dryly. "We'll figure it out when we get there." He looked back at Shepard. "What kind of holes are they hiding in, anyway?"

"Some reinforced bunkers. The desert belt, particularly the mountainous region around Icama, is riddled with caves. There are also eezo mining facilities, uranium mines, and everything else. Which means—"

Everyone in the room chorused, grimly, "Radiation hazards."

Shepard nodded. "Yeah. So, in summary. . . help take the pressure off the Alliance forces at New Philadelphia. Break the siege at the Red Mesa prison, and evacuate as many survivors as you find in the desert to the prison, if you can, keeping in mind that a lot of them will resist you. Find and retrieve our missing Spectre brothers and sisters. And get the yahg the hell out of the Icama testing facility. They've had a lot of time in the bunkers there. They might have figured out some of the experimental weapons and shields there, or be developing their own using the materials on hand." She paused. "Any questions?"

Eli raised his hand. "Yeah. And you want _me_ along _why_?" _I'm a cop. Okay, yes, technically, solider and cop, but I'm urban combat, for the most part. Dempsey, Rel, make sense. Thell, heavy weapons and technical specialist. Livanus might have been CID, too, but there's damned few computers he can't sweet-talk. Fors, well, you might as well just throw dynamite at the enemy. They all make sense. Me? Sam had said there were PR considerations. . . ._

Shepard nodded. "Fair question. Three reasons. One, a little cross-pollination never hurt. New skill sets for you. Two, if there are batarians there, you, Siara, and Makur have experience with their tactics that the rest of them do not. And three. . . " Shepard looked up at the ceiling, "the Council has, in its wisdom, has asked to embed reporters in with the Alliance and Hierarchy marine units. You get to handle the PR work, Eli. That frees Lantar up, though he's there if you need him. You can redirect them to me, to a certain extent, but my mere presence puts a spotlight on Terra Nova, so. . . don't play that card too often." Her expression was slightly amused as Eli, very gently, put his head down on the table in front of him and gently banged his forehead against the cold surface once or twice. Dara's hand touched his under the table.

_It's not that bad, is it?_

_You hate it as much as I do._

_But you're so much __better__ at it than I am,_ she pointed out, reasonably.

_Bite me, sai'kaea._

_Ooooooooooh, really?_ She was grinning now as he turned his head towards her. "Just borrow Dempsey's dark glasses, and you'll be fine," she told him, out loud, consolingly.

"You're going to need those more than I will," he reminded her lightly, but with a gentle mental touch.

"Yeah, as if I'm going anywhere soon," Dara muttered, shaking her head.

Shepard cleared her throat. "The next target is a smaller colony. Arvuna and Shir are in the Aysur system, out in the Caleston Rift."

Eli's head came up. The place had been mentioned on the extranet report the night before. The aerogel screens shifted from the blasted wastelands of Terra Nova's desert belt to a split-screen presentation. One rocky, barren, airless planet: Shir. And one rich, lush moon, eighty-five percent of its surface covered by oceans, in orbit around a huge gas giant named Dranen. Forty-three other moons were in orbit around the behemoth as well, and of that total, and one other was, apparently, being terraformed for volus use. Very slowly.

"Aysur has been a problematic colony for decades," Shepard noted, dryly. "A terrorist group called Growth Zero has been in the area, trying to prevent any expansion of the colony from off-world sources. Their primary argument is ecological; Arvuna has a limited carrying capacity for population, just as every planet or moon does. It's a jungle and ocean moon, however, and is close to the size and mass of Earth, so its carrying capacity is actually larger than that of, say, Mars, as a result. It's a specious argument. Made more so by the face that only five percent of the current residents of Arvuna were actually born there, and of that five percent, most are under the age of _twelve_. That has not stopped the group from, in the past fifteen years, blowing up the helium-three mining platforms around the neighboring gas giant, Alformus, which drastically reduced the ability of ships to refuel in-system, and more or less destroyed the local economy."

Shepard grimaced and changed the slides on-screen with a flick of her fingers. "As a result, the local economy has become heavily dependent on kidnapping for ransom for income. Expatriate miners go in to Shir, to work the gold and cobalt mines there, and, like oil workers in Nigeria in the early twenty-first, they're often kidnapped and held until corporate headquarters pays their ransom. It's usually written off as the cost of doing business in the area. Arvuna itself has a similar problem. It's got seas filled with fish, jungles teeming with plants that the pharmaceutical companies would love to study and test. . . and Prothean ruins dotted all over the landscape. Thus, there's a healthy black-market trade in drugs out of the jungles, largely run by Eclipse, and a similar trade in Prothean relics. . . also run by Eclipse. So, you can see why the batarians wanted the damned system. It's _rich_ in minerals from Shir, has abundant plant and animal life on Arvuna, and the refueling stations around Alformus can be rebuilt. It's not far from the mass relay. . . . and lightly defended because the locals have made such a damned fuss over Alliance intervention over the years. Which makes for a nice convenient, small, and easily controlled population of slaves. Hell, the people on Shir are even more easily controlled. Domes. No atmosphere. You pop the dome, they die. Escape on the surface is limited by how shallowly you can breathe from your oxygen tanks. At least the people on Arvuna can try to run and hide in the jungles. . . in spite of the predators there." Shepard looked around the room. "Eclipse and Growth Zero have been making life hell for the batarians in both locations, at least. But any way you look at this, it isn't going to be much of a fun mission. Melaani?"

The asari sat up, looking surprised. "Yes, Commander?"

"You've infiltrated Eclipse before?"

The cobalt eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed. Eli could practically see the former undercover agent flipping through a mental catalogue of identities. "Yes. I know how they think."

"Good. You and Spectre Ylara and Spectre Rinus Velnaran will be heading there. So will Spectre Dara Jaworski—" Eli saw Rel's entire body stiffen at the name shift, "Spectre Zhasa'Maedan, Spectre Sings-to-the-Sky, Seheve Liakos, and, once you've picked him up, Kirrahe Orlan."

There was quite a bit of stirring and murmuring in the room at that point. Eli could feel the mingled elation and alarm in Dara, thrumming through her in blues and yellows at the same time, and he gently squeezed her fingers under the table. _Looks like you're not stuck in med bay forever after all._

_Yeah. . . but am I ready?_

To Eli's left, Dempsey was turning to Zhasa, and the same conversation was playing out, Eli was sure. The human male didn't really tense up, so much as seem to concentrate intently for a moment, and there was a very faint frown on his face.

Shepard brought up the screens again. "You've got a couple of tasks ahead of you. First. . . under certain limited and special conditions, the enemy of our enemy is our friend."

Eli's stomach dropped. _Oh, god, please don't say it, please don't say it. . . _

"You're going to be looking for the Eclipse and Growth Zero leadership and trying to forge _some_ kind of a working agreement with them." Shepard held up a hand as Eli, Sam, Livanus, and Melaani all raised their hands. Garrus, sitting beside her, didn't look any more pleased than the other former cops in the room were, but remained silent. "I don't like it any more than you do. And I know it's very damned likely that they'll probably try to stab you in the back the instant you get the batarians out of their space. Eclipse is actually a bigger problem than Growth Zero. Eclipse is galaxy-wide. Growth Zero is just local nut jobs. . . although they _do_ seem to be well-funded nut jobs."

"SATBIA thinks they're affiliated with Ares Rising and a couple of other ecoteur groups on Earth. Anti-terraforming morons," Sam muttered. "They get money from celebrities who find the cause fashionable, or some damn thing. That, and a fair bit of gun-running. And whatever part of the drug trade that Eclipse doesn't have a stranglehold on, coming out of Arvuna's jungles." Sam paused. "Now, Melaani and Ylara have Eclipse covered, between them. Growth Zero's _human-run_, Shepard."

Shepard nodded, slowly. "Yeah. I know that." Her head turned, and she looked right at Dara. "I'm afraid you're the only human Spectre I can assign at the moment."

Eli felt the bright yellow panic surge in Dara, but her face stayed expressionless. The only thing that betrayed her was the fact that all color drained from her face. Sam raised his hand, quickly. "I'll go—"

"They _know_ you, Sam," Shepard said, with some force. "You're the face of the Spectres on Earth. They know you're a former Texas Ranger, and they know damned well what you think of terrorists. Dara is a bit less of a known quantity. Kasumi is going to be shuttling in and out of rachni space, in and around her many other duties, so I can't spare her. Dara's it. Sorry, doctor, but Spectres, as much as I would _like_ to see them neatly divided up into operational specialties, really do get to do a little bit of everything. You'll be getting to do a hell of a lot of reading on the group before you get there, including the leadership."

Eli's hand had _clenched_ on Dara's, and she didn't even squeak in pain. _God damn it, god __damn_ _it_, he swore, over and over again. _This __is__ something I'm trained for. I could do this. But if I'm there, then Dara will get sent to Terra Nova._ He did raise his hand and ask, quietly, "And I can't go in her place because I'm also a known cop?"

Shepard nodded, slowly and grimly. "Livanus was out for the same reason. Garrus, too. Melaani's spent seventy years or so doing undercover work. Her face isn't known, for exactly that reason. . . and her Eclipse bona fides are still in good order, if she decides to use the old cover, for any reason. Lantar was out. We absolutely can't send a known cop in to do this. A Spectre, yes. But not a cop."

Garrus cleared his throat. "Dara? My recommendation would be to nod and be sympathetic to their pseudo-scientific claims about the carrying capacity of the moon. And you can wax philosophical about the bounty of nature and the pharmaceuticals in the jungle, that sort of thing. You _can_ probably come off very sympathetic without entirely compromising your principles."

Dara swallowed audibly. "When you say they're eco-terrorists, are they also, you know, species purists?"

Shepard shook her head. "Nothing in the literature suggests that. But you might want to keep the eyes covered, yeah." She looked around the room. "Right. Task number one. Make contact, get reinforcements. You're not going to have the Alliance marines and krogan and geth reinforcements that the Terra Nova teams will. . . although Sky will be bringing some rachni helpers along. Two, take back Shir's spaceport and largest mining complex. Get the people who live there back in charge. The metals from that planet do _not_ need to be going to Khar'sharn and the damn shipyards. Three, there are several batarian enclaves on Arvuna, mostly slave processing and whatnot. Take those out. And the last objective's a bit, well, more intriguing." Shepard paused, and went on more slowly. "We've received a distress call on an STG frequency. A group of salarian archaeologists found a previously unexplored set of Prothean ruins on Arvuna's seafloor. They _were_ being harassed by a group of hanar fundamentalists, and were being threatened by Growth Zero for, hmm. Dig permits, shall we say?" Shepard rolled her eyes. "As it is, now the salarians and the hanar are both holed up in the ruins, and there's a small division of batarians surrounding the place. Largely because it's _intact_. It's got power supplies and everything."

"_How_ intact?" Ylara asked, quietly.

"It's possibly the most intact Prothean city ever found. The salarians managed to get its _weapons_ on-line. That's the only thing holding the batarians off at the moment."

The room went quiet for a moment. No one had ever seen a Prothean ruin in _that_ good a condition before. "It's teeming with ancient technologies and information. . . and the batarians want it," Shepard said, quietly. "The hanar want it treated as holy ground, and the salarians want to study it. Neither the salarians or the hanar are going to get out of there alive if we don't get the batarians off of them, and then they might actually just go ahead and kill each other for good measure." Shepard raised her hands, palms up. "And now you'll understand why Kirrahe, Zhasa'Maedan, and Seheve Liakos are all on this mission, as well."

Zhasa raised a hand, objecting, quietly, "I'm not a Prothean expert, commander—"

"Yeah. I know. But Seheve can _read_ Prothean, same as I can. And if there are any auditory recordings, she can understand those, too. You and Kirrahe have the technical expertise to figure things out with her help, and she's even got enough technical background to read diagrams and help you make sense of them, which is more than I could do." Shepard tapped her fingers on the table. "My best Prothean expert is in hiding and has been for over ten years. We've got at least one former STG agent in among the archaeologists. We need someone who can talk to the salarians, we need technical expertise, and we need someone who can help deal with the hanar fundamentalists. . . and Blasto's tied up with the batarian prisoners out at the White Rock internment camp." Shepard looked at Seheve. "That means you have to deal with the fundamentalists. Think you can manage it?"

Seheve smiled very faintly. "This one . . . I speak _their_ language, commander, at least as well as I understand that of the Protheans. Being able to speak the words of the Enkindlers, as they are written in the ruins, may make a great difference to the more fervent believers among the hanar." She paused. "I am also grateful, that you did not suggest that my criminal background would make me a natural one to deal with the various terrorist and mercenary groups."

Shepard's eyes went hooded. "I _do_ expect you to assist with that, actually. Dara doesn't have your experience, Seheve. Watch their faces and eyes for her. Melaani. . . do the same thing."

Dara swallowed and said, tautly, "If that doesn't work, I can always shake hands with them."

Dempsey shook his head. "Don't subject yourself to it if you don't have to, Doc. The rules governing human biotics are just as much for our sake as they are for normals. There's a saying about looking into the abyss, and having it look back into you? Biotics who spend too much time listening to crazies and criminals start to lose little bits of their humanity." His expression was blank, but there was a hint of concern in his eyes. "There's not enough bleach in the universe to get out the really _tough_ stains."

Melaani traded looks with Ylara for a moment, and then turned to Shepard. "Was there anything else you'd like us to do in the meantime?" she asked.

"Look into a way of walking on water," Shepard told her, dryly. "Your task list was looking a little thin." She looked around the room. "That's all I've got here, folks," she told them all. "Get to your ships. The Terra Nova teams are going to be going in under heavy Alliance protection. The Arvuna teams. . . well, folks, you get to do this the old-fashioned way. Running in with some fighter escorts and hiding as fast as you can out in the Oort cloud debris, before circling in, stealthed, for the first locations. Sky's bringing the _Lightsinger._ The _Estallus_ and the _Raedia_ are going along for the ride, and your first stop will be picking up Kirrahe on your way to the Calaeston Rift." She paused. "Dara, you've got a choice between traveling with Sky on the rachni ship, or going with the rest of the Spectres on one of the SRs."

Eli could feel Dara tense slightly. _God, I'm already the only human going along on this trip. If I go on the __Lightsinger__, am I going to isolate myself too much? On the other hand, I won't have to worry about the song-need for a while. . . and on the __other__ other hand, can the __Lightsinger__ even run stealthed?_

_It can,_ Sky sang, softly, and Eli could hear the voice _though_ Dara this time, resonating in her as if she were made of crystal. _Wherever you go, some singers will follow. You will never be alone._

Shepard was continuing now. "The _Normandy_ and the _Nereia_ are both heading to Terra Nova, where we'll be joining the _Hamus_ and any number of other Alliance and turian ships. You've got your assignments. Say your goodbyes, and let's get moving."

Eli watched, out of the corner of his eye, as people stood and started filing out of the room. Sam made his way over from the front of the room, just as Lantar was doing. Those who were staying behind looked just as grim as those who were going.

Dara stood up, and Sam gave her a tight hug. "Hate like hell to see you go, sweetie," Sam said, quietly. "First time I'm watching you go off with no one that I _know_ would die to keep your skin intact."

Flash of green-purple guilt through Dara at that point. She knew—they _all_ knew—that Rel would have put his life on the line to protect hers, and Sam shook his head at her, clearly having picked up on that. "Didn't mean it like that, sweetie, and you know it. He's not going to be there, but I'm not, either." His eyes slid to the left, giving Eli a single glance, and Eli nodded, once. He and Lin had spent a lot of time on Omega keeping their medic safe. "Hell, both teams are a little lighter than I'd like to see, speaking solely in a tactical sense," Sam added.

Eli reviewed mentally, and swore out loud. "You're right. Dara's going to be wearing the heaviest armor of anyone there." _No Thell. No Makur. No Gris. No Dempsey. No Lin. No __me__. Hell, Lantar would be a help there. . . _

"Jungle and ocean moon," Dara offered, trying for a smile. "Put you or Lin there with those shields you carry, Eli, and you'd probably sink. I'll crouch down behind Kirrahe and remind him occasionally to stop getting wounded. . . "

That made Sam and Eli both chuckle, wryly. The salarian was seven inches shorter than Dara, and even more of a knack for getting banged up than Lin did. "Well, so long as he's in front of you, the flamethrower will at least be defoliating the jungle," Eli offered.

"That might be a bad thing. I'm supposed to be making nice with ecoteurs, remember?" Dara replied, dryly.

Sam sighed and looked down at her now. "First mission site with a breathable atmosphere and the right temperature for me to sneak around, as god intended, with a ghillie suit instead of a stealth net," he said, hooking his fingers into his belt, "and I can't even go with you." One more quick hug for Dara, and then he offered Eli his hand.

Eli shook it. Sam had a firm grip, but gentle; he didn't _have_ to try to crush or overpower someone's hands, as so many people did, when they were overcompensating for something. "And as for you, son," Sam said, gruffly, "fighting with you and Lin for three months on Omega told me everything I needed to know about you, that I didn't already know. You're all right." He looked past him to Lantar. "And I know you're tickled blue to be fighting with your 'first-son' and all, but damned if I don't wish. . . "

Lantar chuckled. "It's my turn. Besides, the rest of my family is off-world. No reason for me to be here, without them, really." He shrugged. "Leave the cat at the Vakarians' and get back in the fight. The sooner the we find the damned AI, the sooner the families can all come home." Lantar glanced at Eli, his own eyes glittering a bit now. "And yes. I do look forward to fighting with my first-son at my side. It's been a long time in coming." The pride in that look shook Eli to his boots. Then Lantar stood up, clasped wrists with Sam, and made his way through the room.

There were dozens of other people to shake hands with. Dara was begging off from that as much as possible, but Eli didn't have that option. Dempsey leaned down, and Eli heard him tell Dara, "Keep her healthy, for god's sake."

"I'll do my best."

"And don't let her play with any more relics, or take off her suit!"

"She's never going to live that down, is she?" Dara told him, smiling faintly.

Dempsey shook his head. "Not after taking a year off my life, no."

Zhasa made a rude noise at him, and then the quarian leaned in close and murmured in Eli's ear, "You'll look after him?"

"Zhasa, I'm fairly sure he's unkillable, but I'll do what I can." _God knows, I might be the only sane person on the firing line, if Rel and he both go nuts at some point. Maybe I should carry two shields. One in front and one in back._

Thell lumbered over, again, to offer Dara a massive hand and again, apologies. "Everything that has transpired, is due to my error," the elcor rumbled.

Dara gingerly gave his huge head a hug. "Stop beating yourself up about it. It happened, and it's. . . not so bad. Really, really weird. . . but not so bad. Concentrate on Terra Nova, the task at hand, and keep yourself, Fors, and Livanus safe. The warranty on my handiwork on Livanus' heart is about to expire, you know."

"Hey, why does _Thell_ get told to keep _me_ safe?" Fors objected, from near the floor. "You might just as well tell me to keep him safe."

Dara looked down at him. "You don't need telling. You'll do it anyway. And I pity any yahg that tries to eat you."

"It would be rather explosive flatulence that I'd give them, yes," Fors agreed, snuffling.

Finally, everyone else had filed out. Eli looked down at Dara. "I really don't want to say good-bye," he muttered, and pulled her close, armor and all. _We kept each other sane on Omega._ He leaned his forehead against hers.

_You kept my mind afloat in rachni space._

"Write."

"I will. God only knows when it'll get through. And you'd better write back."

"I will." He swallowed. "And when the dreams start. . . .think of me. I'll be thinking of you." Eli managed a quick smile. "Actually. . . any time you wake up from a bad one? Start thinking about where you and I are going to go on leave."

Dara chuckled. "We're going on leave?"

"Yeah. God knows, by the end of this, it'll be six, eight months, almost non-stop fighting. We're not geth or krogan. They'll owe us a few weeks, and we'll take them. Somewhere. Just think of where you want to go."

"Someplace human." She smiled, faintly. _Probably can't be Earth. Plague hit there so damned hard. And, you know, if they won't let Amara and Kaius on-planet because they're hybrids, and the disease issues—_

_-they have __got__ to fix that law before those two are old enough for college. . . . but yeah, doesn't have to be Earth. Just think of what you want to do. Only rule is, it can't be Mindoir. Let your mind be free, and I'll take you where you want to be._ Eli chuckled out loud at his horrible mangling of the lines of the song he'd sung with her the night before. He looked down into her wide, rachni blue eyes, and knew his own were dark as he lightly stroked her face.

Washes of powerful emotions hit then, and the joking façade fell away. She knew he'd be fighting yahg. He knew she'd be dealing with criminals and batarians and jungle diseases and god only knew what else. Eli tried to pour into her then, every single thing he knew about criminals and terrorists, but there wasn't enough _time_. It had taken him _years_ to learn what he knew, and she was just going to have to rely on her teammates. The same as he was going to have to rely on his. Dempsey was solid, but what about Rel?

Dark blues poured between them, and yellow-greens of fear-song. Violet reluctance. Armor and all, she was holding onto him as if he were a rock in a middle of a trackless sea, and he didn't mind a bit. "_S__ai'kaea'yili. . . . marai'ha'sai'yili . . . "_ he whispered, very quietly, as they stood in the conference room. Their last moment of even semi-privacy, before months of separation. Even though he understood that the rachni knew everything she knew, he still thought of _that_ as more private than showing the same emotions in front of family or friends or colleagues.

Dara reached up, put a finger to his lips before he could finish the words that hovered in the air between them.

They met each others' eyes for a long moment. They both _knew_ what they felt, but didn't want to define it, limit it, with mere words. Words might render it breakable. And yet, how could he _not_ give her the words, before they were going to have to separate, go off into deadly danger again?

_Don't, Eli. Not till we know we mean it. Not till I have the right to say it back._

_As my queen commands. But I know what I feel. I'll be waiting on the road ahead of you. And when you're ready, we'll go on together._ Eli leaned down and kissed her. _And for god's sake, be careful. _

_You, too._

One more kiss. "Come on," he told her, quietly. "The ships are waiting for us."

He didn't even notice, as he hefted his sea bag onto his shoulder, that it was about eight pounds heavier than it otherwise should have been.

An hour later, Eli was aboard the _Normandy_, and Joker had set them an FTL course for the mass relay, and nevermind being visible. With eleven Spectres and affiliates aboard, quarters were a little crowded, as usual. Siara and Makur had their own quarters; Thell had part of a cargo bay to himself. That meant that Gris, Livanus, and Fors were sharing the port observation lounge, and, Eli was not entirely thrilled to realize, he, Lantar, Dempsey, and Rel had the starboard one. Two bunks, two nests. It used the space fairly efficiently, since they all could more or less sleep side by side, but on two different levels. "The boot camp flashbacks are getting intense," Eli noted, lightly. "At least on the _Raedia_, there was room in crew quarters for us," he added, and unslung the vibrosword from over his shoulders in its scabbard, and leaned it against the wall.

Dempsey pointed at it as he tossed his sea bag at one of the bunks. "You think it's a good idea to bring that with you? Makes you kind of stand out as a target."

"And the black armor doesn't?" Eli countered. "Nah. It's not a trophy, Dempsey. It's useful. I read the reports from Shanxi. Seheve had more kills than anyone but Rinus. I _don't_ want to have to go toe-to-toe with a yahg. I saw what Rel's leg looked like."

Rel snorted and tossed his own bag at the nearest nest. "I don't recommend it for personal health, no."

Eli shrugged. He was very carefully including Rel in his field of vision, making sure to address comments to him, as well as to everyone else in the room. "It wasn't pretty, no. And I don't see me getting that regen mod."

"What, you don't want to live forever?" Dempsey gibed.

"It would be pretty spiffy," Eli allowed. "Assuming my head doesn't get shot off in between times. But I'm pretty sure it would get in a fight with everything else I've got already. Dr. Solus used to talk about the law of unintended consequences a _lot_ when he'd come to give a lecture at school." He heaved his own sea bag at the far bed. . . and froze when he heard something _squeak_ inside of it.

Lantar, Rel, and Dempsey's heads all swiveled towards the bag. Eli's eyebrows went up.

"You brought a dog toy for the yahg to chew on, instead of you?" Dempsey offered, stone-faced.

Eli chuckled. "Ah, no. Nothing I packed should have made _that_ sound." _Hygiene kit, two underarmor suits this time, datapads with coursework, couple of changes of clothes, weapons. Yeah. Nothing squeaky in there._ He unlaced the top, and peered inside, cautiously.

And sighed. "Oh." _Oh, this. . . this is going to look a little bad._ He didn't _dare_ look at Rel at the moment._ Only one way to play it, really. Aim for humor and try not to miss._ "I have bad news, guys. We seem to have a minor Mindoir infestation here." Eli reached into the sea bag, and came up with a rachni worker in each hand. 1812 and Wolfgang chittered nervously. "Good thing Agnes isn't here, or she'd be reaching for the Raid, huh?"

Rel's voiced sounded dumbfounded, "What the _futar. . . .?"_

"Yeah, I knew we were taking about a thousand workers, five hundred soldiers, and some of the unnamed brood-warriors with us to Terra Nova. I guess these two must have gotten confused about which ship they were going on." Eli knew _that_ was completely impossible, but he let it lie there for a moment. And ignored the way his step-father turned and looked at him, mandibles flexing. "You guys might want to check your bags, too."

Dempsey, eyebrows lifted, opened his own sea bag and dumped it out. Eli was grateful for the distraction, as he concentrated, hard. _Hey. Do you guys understand me, even if I don't understand you? Turn around once for yes. Stay still for no._

The workers in his hands chittered excitedly, and turned around neatly on the palms of his out-stretched hands. Eli exhaled, and asked, _She asked you to look out for me?_

Two happy little circles.

_Was that oversong?_

No movement, but a couple of little chitters.

_Undersong, huh?_

Two sheepish circles.

_Try not to get me in any more trouble, guys._ "I guess I better look after you two till I can get you back to your little-queen," Eli said, out loud, and set them down on his bunk. "'Cause you can't tell me she's not going to notice that you're _gone_." He sighed. "And we're going to have to figure out some way of talking to you that doesn't involve twenty questions, an Ouija board, and a Scrabble set."

**Author's note:** _For a look at the forbidding landscape of equatorial desert Terra Nova, see: __http:/en{dot}wikipedia{dot}org/ wiki/ Ahaggar_Mountains__._

_Growth Zero is a canonical group, believe it or not. Look up Aysur and Arvuna on ME Wiki, and it's there. I love extrapolating on real stuff Bioware has given us._


	120. Chapter 120: Terra Nova

**Chapter 120: Terra Nova**

_**Author's note:** CalliesVoice has managed to get together Spirit of the Hunt in PDF format, for those who wish to download it in a more easily readable form than FF allows. Spirit of Unity, alas, clocks in at over 900 pages, printed, so it will take her a while to format that! In the meantime, www[DOT]tecetera[DOT]net is where she's hosting it. Please do thank her nicely for all her very hard (and free!) labor._

**Elijah, Terra Nova, October 18, 2196**

The trip to Terra Nova took three days, some of which were involved in picking up the _Hamus_ and a couple of other Alliance and Hierarchy ships at the Citadel, including two fresh troop transports. . . and about a dozen geth and krogan raider ships, too. Eli had spent the time as usefully as he could; his datapad was never far from his hand, and he read as he ran on the treadmill in the _Normandy's_ gym. Dempsey and Rel's tireless ability to run was a little demoralizing, to be honest; Rel had already had turian speed and endurance, and now the regen mod added 'tirelessness' to the mix. Dempsey only moved at human speed, but at a relentless pace, and his breathing never altered. As it was, the datapad gave Eli something to concentrate on besides how leaden his legs seemed, after four months of Omega and then the trip into rachni space. "What you got there, Sidonis?" Dempsey asked, halfway through the session.

"Overview on some of the militia groups that were out in the desert," Eli replied, briefly. "The 'Prepared.' The 'Minutemen.' And a group calling itself 'the Chosen.' There are others, but those three are the ones with over two hundred known members each. The Chosen actually had about a thousand, but it's unclear how many of them, if any, survived the initial attacks."

"Anything useful?" Rel's tone was short.

Eli shook his head. "Not sure yet. Dossiers on leadership, suspected bunker and training locales. Financial stuff that you probably wouldn't care about." _But is interesting as hell to me, actually. _

"Like what?" Dempsey asked. "Sidonis, my dad was a cop. I'm used to hearing the weird shit."

Eli shrugged. "I'm not exactly a forensic accountant, but all three groups were moving a _hell_ of a lot of money before the invasion, from the looks of it. No idea where the money was coming from, though. 'The Prepared' also bought over forty tons of concrete and rebar over the course of the last five years. Means they're building something that's pretty damned reinforced. Probably bunkers. Considering that of the three main groups, they're the most anti-alien, they're probably the best prepared to deal with the yahg and the batarians. . . but their leader, Terrence Orwell, is pretty much a classic paranoid. I've got a couple of his manifestoes here on my reading list, too. Excerpts look pretty typical, though. Everything is the Council's fault, they're just waiting to come in and take over Terra Nova and impose martial law, because the Council hates humans, aliens are all out to get us, and so on, and so forth. Twelve years ago, Cerberus would have been recruiting him. . . " Eli paused, and then shook his head. "No. Recruiting from his people, but not him. Too much of a loudmouth, too visible."

"Very good," Lantar said, as he walked in the gym and hopped up onto his own treadmill. "Anything else in there?"

Eli shook his head glumly. "That's the highlights of the first hundred and seventy pages, other than the fact that once someone bunkers up, it's usually a very short hop down into 'I've backed myself into a corner and the only way out is death' territory. Given Orwell's paranoid tendencies, I'm going to take a guess that he sees the yahg attack as vindication of his world-view. Hopefully, we won't have to deal with him."

"Why would we?" Rel asked, shrugging. "If they're safe and away from the yahg, I say leave them where they are. The fewer civilians are around for the yahg to hunt, the better we'll all be."

Eli shook his head, and avoided looking at Rel. "Don't know. Just reading everything to be prepared." He looked up at Lantar and flashed a quick smile. "Guess I probably can't stick Fors with the job of negotiating with this group. As much fun as it would be to watch. From a nice safe distance."

Lantar nodded. "Don't get bogged down on any of the groups."

"I'm not. Haven't even started reading the manifestoes. . . past the abstracts, anyway. The weird part is that seeing this stuff out of human groups is all new and fresh for me. Sort of." Eli shrugged. "I'm used to turian extremist groups."

Dempsey made a quick gesture at the aerogel screen at the front of the gym, raising the volume on the news feed. 'They're playing our song, guys."

Eli's eyes snapped into focus. A red-headed human reporter in camouflage and body armor, at least, stood against a backdrop of a broken, shattered city. "This is Lexine Rosanna Elder, reporting from Terra Nova, where the 601st Marine battalion took heavy casualties today, engaged against yahg and batarian forces near the remains of the New Philadelphia spaceport. While Alliance and Hierarchy marines have repeatedly pushed back enemy forces, this marks the fourth time that yahg forces have penetrated the so-called 'red line' surrounding the spaceport and the refugee camps set up nearby. The red line is supposed to demarcate a safe zone for civilians and refugees. The scene in the early hours of the morning was anything but, as you can see in this footage, which is exclusive to BNN."

Eli heard Rel growl quietly as the vid feed now switched to a darkened scene, with the images of three yahg, two of them barely visible, stealth nets taking hits from occasional weapons fire. Tracer rounds—ones on which a different mass effect was placed, every four bullets—streaked out from what appeared to be a turret, set in a defense tower in a wall. The yahg took the hits, but the most visible creature took the brunt of the assault, and his two companions raced for the wall and smoothly climbed it, vaulting to the top and into the tower itself on either side of the turret, reaching in for the humans inside, pulling them out and throwing the soldiers down below.

"What are we even looking at?" Rel demanded, squinting at the night-time scene. "Is this the outer wall? Is it a stretch between an inner wall and an outer one? Either way, they should have concertina wire and ditches set up." Rel's eyes were glittering. "_S'kak,_ I'd put _futarri_ landmines there if I could. That's what we did on Shanxi to protect the refugee camps. Why the _hell_ hasn't it been done here?"

"Landmines are banned on Earth," Dempsey said calmly. "Terran forces can't carry them."

"It was turian forces putting down the landmines on Shanxi," Lantar reminded Rel quietly. "I'd put credits on that section of wall being Alliance-controlled."

"And now they've got Alliance soldiers dead, and—"

Rel's words cut off as the reporter faded back into view, and, with an expression of carefully-applied sobriety that didn't mask the _I've-got-a-story_ glee in her eyes, noted, "The result was panic in the refugee camp. Several dozen people were trampled as refugees fled—" Her face faded out, to be replaced by scenes of people, indeed, running in every direction. Soldiers trying to calm them, and two yahg racing through the area, being fired at by soldiers, and the firefight only increasing the panic among the refugees. A portable cooking device of some sort was knocked over, and sparks rained out over the darkened scene, and then flames went up along the right side of the image, as one of the refugee modular homes went up in smoke. "Eventually, the yahg were killed, but by the time they were, forty civilians had been injured, two killed, and five Alliance soldiers had been killed."

Rel stared at the screen. "Inexcusable. There should be at least two walls, two lines of defense, if not three, between the camps and the yahg. Couple of hundred yards apart, basically a no-man's-land. Anything in between the walls, you fire at." He snorted.

"Hard to second-guess what we're seeing," Lantar noted. "That's a really limited camera angle. Though yes. . . I'd very much like to know what the hell we're looking at here."

Eli grimaced, and rubbed at his face as Dempsey turned off the rest of the report with a glance at the screen. "The brass, not to mention every soldier there, has got to _love_ a report that makes them look incompetent to protect the civilians."

Rel stepped off his own treadmill. Neither he nor Eli were looking at each other, and they were more or less talking to everyone else in a given group, not directly to each other. It seemed safer, for the moment, to Eli. "There's got to be a reason why we managed to kill off enough of the yahg within three months on Shanxi to be able to get the planet back under Alliance control, where here on Terra Nova, they haven't." He held up a hand as Lantar looked ready to protest. "I'm not saying the leadership is incompetent, Lantar. I haven't _been_ here."

Lantar grimaced. "Part of it is terrain, pure and simple. Shanxi doesn't have the mountains and deserts of Terra Nova. Part of it is the initial thrust of Alliance forces didn't catch onto the minefield in orbit around the planet, and they had fairly heavy casualties. Part of it seems to be a difference in yahg tactics. They went in, smashed the city center and utilities, same as on Shanxi. . . and then, instead of dispersing into small groups to hold this neighborhood or that one, kept to groups of twenty or so, mixed units, and stayed much more mobile than on Shanxi. They're also hiding more. Holing up places. Many more stealth units, too, from the reports. Could be a difference in leadership."

Eli caught the thoughtful look on Rel's face, the fascination. "And of course," Dempsey muttered now, as Eli's timer dinged, and the treadmill ground to a halt, "they've got reinforcements now. Batarians."

Eli shook his head slightly. "It'll be an open question as to how well they're going to coordinate. My guess is, they won't be working _together_ much at all."

Rel looked him straight in the eye for the first time. "Why's that?" It wasn't friendly, but it wasn't hostile, either.

Eli stepped over 1812 and Wolfgang, who were chittering at him from the stationary side of the treadmill. "The batarians probably had a bargain in place with the yahg to begin with, one that _they_ considered favorable, but that the yahg felt favored them," Eli said, grabbing a towel and wiping at his face and neck. "'You get all the highly populated worlds. We get all the low-population worlds with excellent resources. . .and Omega.' The yahg presumably thought this was a _great_ deal. Happy hunting grounds, I guess. The batarians wouldn't have agreed to this if they didn't think it favored them. . . and it _does_."

"How?" Rel challenged.

"Three-quarters of the news stories out there on the extranet are pretty much about the yahg," Eli replied. "Yahg atrocities, yahg attacks, yahg feeding. Other than the batarians' treatment of captive biotics, the batarians are practically invisible in this war. They're getting to do whatever the hell they want with these small, low-priority worlds, while everyone's up in flames over the yahg." Eli shrugged. "Lin pointed out to me, before he left, that the batarians are doing, essentially, what the Council has done, for millennia. They found a savage race out in the darkness and unleashed them on the rest of us. Lin said that they've obviously been paying attention to history. Since it's worked for the Council for quite some time."

Dempsey snorted. "Your friend Pellarian's got a sort of depressing way of looking at it. But he could be right. We all sit here fighting the yahg to save lives, and in the meantime, the batarians are racking up resources and betting that we're going to be too damned tired after beating the yahg back into the stone ages to come after the batarians and take back what's ours.

"Yeah. It sounded uncomfortably possible to me, too." Eli nodded to Dempsey.

Rel shrugged. "So what the hell does that have to do with batarians and yahg fighting together here on Terra Nova, or not?" His tone was impatient.

Eli bent down and scooped up Wolfgang, settling the rachni on one of his shoulders for the moment. "Well. . . seems to me, the batarians would have had to change the letter of their agreement to come in on what seemed to be, for lack of a better term, a 'yahg-designated' world. I wonder what they're getting out of it." He frowned. "I hate not having all the pieces of the puzzle."

"Oh, we've got pieces," Lantar replied, dryly. "We just don't have a picture to match them up against. And some of the pieces come from different puzzles."

Klaxons sounded several hours later as they punched their way out of the Terra Nova mass relay, the _Hamus_ leading the charge, in case any batarians happened to be in the vicinity of the gate. None were, apparently; they'd punched through the Alliance lines, dropped their people, and had been forced to retreat weeks ago, harried from the system by determined Alliance and Hierarchy resistance.

The _Normandy_, of course, couldn't actually land on Terra Nova. The planet's gravity well was simply too strong for the ship to be able to take off again, unassisted. And there had been surface-to-orbit and surface-to-air strikes by the yahg, who had been turning Terra Nova's own defense platforms against Alliance and Hierarchy ships as they came in. _That's something that's going to have to be stopped,_ Eli realized, as they piled into shuttles outside of the reach of Terra Nova's defenses, and prepared to transfer to the _Nereia_. Shepard was staying on the _Normandy_, which would be staying in-system; the rest of them, along with the rachni, the geth, and the krogan, were going to be landing. The _Hamus_ was going to go in ahead of them, taking any fire and destroying any missiles that headed their way.

Captain Irixia Haratus greeted Lantar warmly as they all stepped off the shuttle; the _Nereia_ was, after all, more or less his ship. _"Welcome back, Spectre Sidonis. Even if it's for a short time, it's always a pleasure to have you aboard."_ The female wore red Macedyn paint, which gave Eli a bit of a pang, and had the trademark Macedyn drawl to go with it. _"Commander Velnaran, is it now? Nice to have you back aboard again as well."_ She offered Rel a wrist-clasp. While Eli had known that Rel and Dara had been aboard Lantar's ship for about a year, it was still disconcerting. Being in Lantar's territory wasn't a bad feeling; but the friendly greeting made it seem that the ship was also Rel's, which was a bit uncomfortable. A reinforcement of the other ways in which Rel probably considered Eli to be in 'his' territory. _Only going to be for a few hours_, Eli reminded himself. _"If I might be honored with an introduction to the other Spectres?"_ Haratus asked, and Lantar went down the line. Siara. Makur, probationary, anyway. Livanus, the captain had already met, and exchanged grins with. Fors she blinked at; Thell made her mandibles gape for a moment. Dempsey got a wrist-clasp.

Eli lifted his visor as Lantar brought the captain to him last. Her eyes widened slightly, taking in the paint. _"And this is Spectre Elijah Sidonis,"_ Lantar said, blandly.

"_Pleased to meet you, Captain,"_ Eli said in flawless turian, offering a wrist-clasp. He was never going to get over the slight drawl mingled with the Edessan clip that Serana laughed at every time she heard, but what the hell. He'd lived where he'd lived.

Haratus laughed and accepted the wrist-clasp. _"I'd caught the swearing-in ceremonies. And I've seen your picture, as well as those of your siblings, before. A pleasure to meet you at last."_ Her smiled turned playful. _"So, really a spirit-of-fire?"_

"_Ask them!"_ Eli gestured towards Makur and Siara. "They were with me for the Rite on Tuchanka, too. We're missing two others who stood with us, but they'll swear to it." He gave Lantar a look, and Lantar just smiled. "I'm never going to live that down, am I, Dad?"

"Nor should you," Lantar told him. "You were already blooded, but this was more emphatic than the vorcha that you and Dara killed together."

Eli was all too aware of Rel's sharp glance at that.

The descent through the atmosphere was nerve-wracking. Eli could clearly see on the screens around the shuttle bay when several missile batteries on the surface began firing at them. "They just advertised their locations," Lantar told him, calmly. "Various detachments are already moving towards them, I'd bet."

Eli reached up and grabbed onto a nearby pipe for stability, just as Dempsey, Rel, Livanus, and Lantar were already doing. Just in time, too; one of the missiles got through and slammed into the _Nereia's_ kinetic shields. The resulting blast shook the ship, and Fors tumbled into Eli's leg. . . which caused the two rachni workers to chitter disapprovingly and scamper up his armor to higher ground. All around them in the shuttle bay, other soldiers and workers slid a little on the deckplates, but they were too solidly packed against each other to go far.

Eli reached down with his free hand and hauled Fors back to his feet. "Twelve planetary landings during the Reaper Wars. . . and I never did get used to this part," Fors grumbled. "I hate being a damned target and not being able to do anything about it." The deck plating underfoot took on a steeper angle as the pilot and the AI skewed to avoid another missile. All around them, the ship began to shake a bit, as if they were traveling over a dirt road in a ground car. Atmospheric turbulence and friction. Eli felt his stomach tighten. This was, in its own special way, just as bad as the Hammerhead high atmosphere drop he'd done months ago. No control over the situation. Having to rely, totally, on someone else's training and reflexes, and in the abilities of the ship.

Twenty minutes later, they were safely on the surface. Eli walked down the ramp into the landing field, last among the Spectre personnel, followed by three or four brood-warriors and hundreds of soldiers and workers. He could see the curving black bulk of the _Hamus_ nearby, and the sleek arcs of the geth ships, the haze-gray of the Alliance troop transports, and dozens of other ships in the area. In the distance, he could see row after row after row of aluminum modular cubes and gleaming white domes of plastic tents. The refugee camp.

"Don't take off your visors," Rel warned everyone on the common radio band. "We're downwind of the refugee camps right now. It's going to be more fragrant than you can imagine."

Eli decided to take that advice. Greeting the planet by throwing up all over it didn't seem like a great idea.

Gris was waiting for them at what turned out to be the Spectre command post—one rectangular module, slightly larger than the rest, but not by much. "About time you got here," the krogan rumbled. "Reinforcements have been badly needed." He slapped Lantar and Livanus on the shoulders gruffly, though, and greeted Makur with a roar and a rough hug. "See you haven't found a home for the cat yet."

"He hasn't decided to leave yet," Makur replied with a shrug. "Besides. He keeps Siara's feet warm at night."

Gris laughed, and Siara flushed slightly cobalt, and smacked Makur along the hump with a _clang_. "What's our first move?" Gris asked, eagerly.

"Shepard said, first thing's first. Give the people here a _win_ for morale purposes. Small but significant." Lantar pointed to an actual _paper_ map on the wall, and asked, "I take it they already went after the missile sites that were launching on us as we landed?"

Gris nodded. "Yeah. I sent twenty krogan with each detachment. Should be enough. Locals managed to lock down the bunkers, silos, and defense towers a few months ago. The real problem has been the mobile missile launchers. The yahg roll 'em along behind their own vehicles, so usually by the time we get there, they're gone." He grinned now, however. "They usually move at night, so they're harder to detect. And they haven't, praise Vaul, ever used the stealth field tech that the AEC had, back in the day, for ground vehicles."

"That _s'kak_ did made the vehicles pretty damned heavy, and their power consumption was pretty damned inefficient," Livanus replied, dryly. "There are reasons it's never become wide-spread."

Lantar nodded. "So, now, they're moving by day, so they're much more visible from orbit. The _Normandy_ should be able to track them."

Eli was about to ask why tracking them at night was more difficult, and then remembered the briefing before they'd even left Mindoir; they weren't near the equatorial desert here, but the ambient temperatures were warm enough here in the sub-tropics that even at night, in what was the northern hemisphere's autumn, that the vehicles' thermal prints weren't all that distinguishable. "So, we're going to go help the teams that are already in pursuit?" Fors asked.

Lantar shook his head. "I had a little something different in mind. I understand that you had an attack on the refugee camp this morning?" he asked Gris.

"They give the defenses a nudge periodically. That section of the wall is new. The Alliance had to expand the camp further to the west to accommodate new refugees." Gris snorted. "There's a whole bunch of humans out there digging right now. And a whole bunch of turians following right behind them, setting mines."

Eli could almost feel Rel ease. Lantar nodded now. "Any idea where they've been striking from?"

Gris snorted. "They move around. They are definitely not like the yahg on Shanxi. Those yahg liked to set up a base camp and a larder. These ones. . . hit, eat, move on. I've gone out looking for them a few times, but they're very damned good at hiding."

"Like the difference between hunters and herders," Eli muttered under his breath.

Rel's head swiveled, and they made eye-contact for the first time in days. "Yes," Rel replied. "The main alpha at Xi'an was a biotic. He had a carefully hidden base from which to direct his people, like a spider, really. These yahg seem to be acting, on the face of it, more like _villi_ or wolves. They're following their prey, in essence."

Lantar looked at Rel now. "So, we follow them?" He left the question neutral in tone.

Rel grimaced. "They'll almost certainly be aware of us. They'll try to turn any pursuit into a trap, or fall back, away from it. Scatter and regroup."

"They'll need a pre-arranged fall-back area, though," Makur said, suddenly. "And there's more than one way to track them." He tapped the side of his head and bared his own yellowing stumps of teeth. "All I need to do is be close enough, and have them targeting me. And Cat can sniff 'em out pretty well, too." His red-tinged eyes gleamed. "Hey, Sidonis. . . think we can finally use that tactic we talked about on Omega?'

Eli had to _think_ about that one for a moment. "Luring the predator in to the er, waterhole? Maybe. We never did get to set that trap." He grinned briefly at Makur. "Trouble is, you don't look like a wounded gazelle, really."

Siara laughed, a sound that held razors in it. "You and Dempsey look like tasty treats, though."

Eli glanced at Dempsey, whose eyebrows had gone up, and then back at Siara. "_This_ is the thanks I get for carrying you ass-first into combat, huh?"

"I was the bait last time. It's your turn," Siara replied, with irreproachable logic.

"Glad to know why I'm along. I was already feeling pretty useless in a room full of real soldiers." Eli kept it light, and found a chair to sit down in.

"You get used to it," Livanus told him, dryly. "And you and I have both played catch-up really well." The older Spectre looked at Makur. "How would this work, exactly? We've got no one here who can, exactly, sneak. And a whole lot of yahg out there who are pretty damned good at it, for all their size."

Makur frowned. "I'm thinking as I go along here," he admitted, and looked back at Rel. "Sidonis, Dempsey, and I go for a little walk. I should have no trouble following the trail, at least until they got far enough away to have time to cover their tracks. I radio when I feel them around us, and we turn around, as if giving up. Walk slowly back to a pre-determined meeting place, where the rest of you are hiding, and lure them with us?"

"What's the assurance that they'll follow us?" Dempsey said, voice dry and remote.

"Wound a few of them," Rel replied, succinctly. "That's usually worked in the past."

Dempsey shook his head. "They use stealth fields, don't they? I didn't even see them on the vid feed this morning till the field destabilized around them."

Eli held up a hand. "Ah. . . .not actually a problem. They're using very old tech. They . . . kind of show up. If you know what you're looking for." He shrugged as everyone else in the room stared at him. "Well, they _do._ That being said, I wish to god either Sky or Glory were with us. Would make pinpointing their exact locations that much easier."

Wolfgang, on his shoulder, chittered. Repeatedly and insistently. "I don't understand. Something about Sky?"

Chitter.

"Something about brood-warriors in general?"

Wolfgang ran down his arm to his wrist to turn in a neat little circle. "Can all brood-warriors give us that head's-up display, about where the enemy is?"

Chitter, but no circle. "No, but we should bring a brood-warrior or two with us anyway?"

Circle, circle, animated chittering. Eli sighed and shook his head. "The little guy has a point," he said.

Rel shook his head emphatically. "The yahg here probably haven't seen rachni before. Let's not give away any tactical advantages that they give us."

Eli nodded and thought about it. "Okay, so the rachni hang back at the killing ground. But since we have no idea how many yahg we might be luring. . . would it make sense to take a couple of others with us that the yahg will think look. . . tasty and weak?" He pointed at Fors and Thell. "Thell, I know you can move at a pretty decent pace when you put your mind to it. And Fors, I think they're due for some of your nastier surprises. Just hold off on the really damaging stuff until we get them to the killing area, right?"

Rel's voice was thoughtful. "Actually, it's not a bad idea. Thell _will_ look weak, because of his footspeed—no offense, Thell—"

"None taken," the elcor replied, placidly. "The truth does not need apologies."

"And chances are, again, they've never seen a volus. And they're going to judge Fors here solely by his size." Rel nodded, eyes distant as he assessed things in his mind. "Gives you quite a bit more firepower."

"Also," Thell pointed out, slowly, "Dempsey and I might be able to disrupt their stealth devices. Which will make things considerably easier."

Eli nodded. "Okay," he said, and looked at Lantar, who was sitting back now, watching and listening intently, but saying little at all. "Where do we want to try to pull them back to, assuming we can find them?"

He didn't have much say in the matter. Dempsey, Rel, Gris, Makur, and Lantar pored over the map, and found ravine which had once held a river that had, two decades earlier, shifted in its bed due to a violent earthquake. The area was overgrown with thorn bushes, and a concrete bridge that had once crossed over it, had been collapsed during a recent yahg attack, filling the area with rubble. "That gives us a place to get our backs up against," Rel murmured. "Plus, from atop it, good firing lines. Camouflage blankets and biosign maskers, and they probably won't know we're there. Give the rachni the ground area to work with. You guys pull in there, they'll see trapped prey, and _should_ go in after you; we'll be up on the rubble and the sides of the ravine. You retreat behind the rachni, the yahg move in after you. . . and the rachni come up out of the ground, assuming they've had time to dig in. We catch the yahg on both sides."

Makur grinned at Rel. "I like you, turian. You build fun fights."

And so it was, on Eli's very first day on Terra Nova, he found himself going for a nice, pleasant walk in the woods. _You'd have loved it, __sai'kaea__,_ he wrote to Dara late that evening. Since there were reporters present, he knew there were transmissions going out, which was a hell of a lot better than Omega had been, as far as he was concerned. _The land outside New Philadelphia is all low, scrubby forest. Not towering trees like Mindoir, nothing more than maybe thirty feet in height. All the leaves are a washed-out mint green, and most of the leaves are small. Odd, like seeing clover on a pine-tree, really. And where there aren't trees, there are thorn bushes. I swear, the stickers on these bushes are three inches long, and I was damned glad I was wearing armor for this little walk. But other than that, it looked like of like the pictures of west Texas you showed me, around your uncle's ranch. Dried-up streambeds. . . arroyos, I guess you'd call them. Tree roots sticking out of the sides of the gullies here and there, waiting to trip us up, like long, knotted pieces of rope. Makur and Snowflake and I were out ahead, and yep, you better believe I was carrying shield, vibrosword, and as many rounds of ammunition and thermal clips as I could shove in my belt. _

_Makur was following tracks. I could see them, too, but I don't really have woodsman eyes, not the way Makur and your dad do. Felt like Camala all over again. I can follow evidence and blood trails and everything else, but I think I need you and your dad to take me hunting a few times if I'm ever going to learn how to follow a trail in the wilderness worth a damn. Yeah, go ahead and laugh at the station-rat. I'd like to see you worm your way through a ventilation shaft and not get lost forever in the ductwork. _

Eli paused in his quick typing. He was using a mix of squad-names and regular names as he wrote, and was probably going to go back at the end of the letter and edit out all the actual names and replace them with initials, mostly as a secondary security precaution. He'd gotten much better at writing over the years. Serana had gotten him started on letters in boot camp, and once he got going, he was always startled by how well it flowed. The whole _getting started_ thing had usually been the hang-up; staring at a blank screen had always been a little intimidating. Years and years of writing reports summarizing actions taken, decisions made during this SWAT call or that case had tended to shorten his writing style down. His superiors had _loved_ bullet points. Short, manageable chunks of information. So he'd figured that he'd have trouble writing to Dara.

This letter to Dara, however, was astoundingly easy. It was literally like talking to her in the room, or chatting with her over _Galaxy of Fantasy_, or something like that. He wasn't sure where all the words were coming from, but was relieved to find that they were there. _So, yeah, Dempsey was behind me, and Thell, carrying Fors, brought up the rear. (You know what, Freya? I think Vidar would be a great squad name for Dempsey. God of silence and revenge. Second-strongest of the old Norse gods, and the one who's supposed to avenge Odin by tearing Fenris' jaws off during Ragnarok. Of course, no one besides a mythology nut would know that. Or we could go a little less old-school, and call him Colossus, after the old comic-book character.. Then again, we could just call him Argent. Kind of makes sense, even if I think it pisses him off to think about the old project name that he was involved in.)_

_Anyhow, honest to god, I don't know which of us caught it first. Snowflake growled and Makur put up his fist to stop us all, and I knew I'd seen movement. I dropped down and was counting under my breath. Five is as far as I'd gotten when Makur said six, and you know how accurate he is after all that time on Omega. They were strung out, too. "Sentries?" I asked, since they looked like they were moving in pairs._

_Makur said, "Yeah. Probably. Their main camp is probably up ahead."_

_And then Dempsey asked, "So, do we want just them, or the whole camp?"_

_Of course, not one of us standing there had already fought yahg. Lantar hopped on the radio at that point and told us, "The original plan was for you to walk away slowly. Any signs that they're going to follow you without some encouragement?"_

_We started to pull back, and only two of the yahg started to move after us. Lantar told us, no, we can handle six back at the kill zone. "Say hello to the sentries. Sooner or later, the whole camp will follow." _

_So, we said hello to the sentries. Whooo, boy, did we say hello. Makur could tell that they were looking at us, but they'd gone still. Just watching. Trying to figure out if we were aware of them, because we'd stopped, of course. So I painted the closest one with the laser on my sniper rifle. . . and since a stealth device operates by bending light, of course the laser's beam got scattered. But that gave Thell an aiming point. And he carries an arc projector. It . . .was. . . beautiful, sai'kaea. The first two yahg has their stealth and shields overloaded at the same damn time, and they both absolutely howled in pain. That was when the other four started moving, trying to move to encircle us, while the first two were still twitching and writhing from the electric shock. Fors told the ones on the right, once I'd pointed out the general location, "I don't like people sneaking up on me," and dropped a stasis field on them. Then we got the hell out of there, with the last two following after us. _

_This was the nervous part._ Eli paused in writing. He wasn't sure he could convey it in words. The hyper-real feeling of adrenaline pouring through his body as he and Dempsey had taken rear-guard, protecting Thell and Fors, who moved at the slowest pace in the group, while Makur and Snowflake led the way. Taking shots at the yahg as they crashed through the undergrowth after the group of slow-moving targets. Dempsey firing his own pistol at them periodically. The man's cold, clipped voice on the radio, reporting, "I can see the first two coming up from behind now."

"Yeah. And the ones Fors slowed down are on the move now, too."

"You can see them?"

"Tree limbs are moving the wrong way back there." Eli had fired again and tried, very hard, not to panic. The yahg were a hell of a lot bigger in person than he'd been able to imagine. It was one thing to see them on a vid screen—and even tearing someone limb from limb on that vid screen didn't convey reality nearly well enough. It was one thing to say 'bigger than a krogan.' It was something else entirely to have eight hundred pounds of eyes, teeth, muscle, and vicious intelligence chasing after you through the underbrush on an unfamiliar planet. He'd fired again, catching the closest yahg in the exposed lower half of its face, and his target lurched back, blood pouring from its jaw. _The hunter ones wear the half-helmets, so they can smell their prey. That's a weakness._ "Looks like some of them might have trouble keeping their kinetic shields up while stealthed," he added, backing up right into Thell's hind legs. _C'mon, Thell, move that big gray ass of yours._ "They're getting awful damn close—"

_And then Fors said, "No, they're not, my human-turian friend,"_ _and the yahg that was just about in grabbing range just __sailed__ away. His friend next to him just stopped in his tracks for a minute. Picture this: three-foot-tall volus. Ten-foot-tall yagh. Thirty pounds of weight. . . not including the envirosuit. Eight hundred pounds of mean. I have no idea how Fors packs that much biotic firepower into a body that small, but I'm damned glad he's with us. _

_Of course, that meant that once his buddy picked his jaw up off the ground, he picked up the pace. And so did the ones behind him. Dempsey's turn, next. He threw the next one over the edge of a gulley. Heard the scrambling and the howls, and we knew we had them good and pissed off, and that's when Makur led us, finally, into the damned kill zone. I damned near twisted an ankle on the loose soil of one of the rachni mounds going in, but I couldn't see the ground ahead of us, because I was facing backwards, shooting at yahg. We backed up, backed up, did our best to look scared (which wasn't real hard, have to admit), and then all hell broke loose._

Eli paused. He was in one of the modular units used by all the turian and human forces in place of tents here on Terra Nova, and he was sharing the space, again, with Lantar, Dempsey, and Rel. "Long report," Lantar said, looking up from his datapad.

"Rough draft. Don't worry. You'll get the five bullet-point CID version after I'm done with the 'for posterity' version."

Lantar snorted. Dempsey looked up from his own datapad, and asked, dryly, "You get to the part where the rachni popped up out of the ground yet?"

"Was just about to start on that." 1812 ran down the length of Eli's cot, and sniffed inquiringly at his metal field cup filled with coffee. "Go for it, little guy, but if you're awake all night, don't blame me." Eli looked at Dempsey again. "So, why _do_ you type out your reports, anyway? Can't you just, I don't know. . . interface with the datapad and _think_ the words at processing software?"

Dempsey grimaced. "I could, but it's a lot more trouble than it's worth. I can spend ten minutes trying to figure out the meta-tagging for bold font, or I can just highlight the words and click a button on the screen. Plus, using the chip gives me headaches, man. I'd rather not mess with it if it's not for something worthwhile." He paused and stared as 1812 and Wolfgang both extended proboscises into the cup and sipped at the coffee inside. "Are you _sure_ they should be drinking that?"

"They ate _eggshells_ in front of me the other night. I'm not sure what it would actually take to poison a rachni, but I kind of don't think coffee will do it. Besides, they seem to be able to sniff out chemical compounds easily. I don't think they'd eat anything that wasn't. . . safe." Eli stared after the rachni as they raced out of the modular unit now.

"Any idea what that was about?" Dempsey asked, pointing after them.

Eli shook his head. "Maybe an urgent dash to the latrine. Or, knowing them, maybe a mad dash to go _build_ a latrine. It's weird knowing they understand me, but not understanding a damned word they say." _God, Dara, wish you were here._ "Chances are, they probably just wanted to go brag to their friends that they have now tried toast, cake, and coffee. And have names."

"Why _do_ they all come to you for names?" Rel asked, sharply.

Eli shrugged. "Probably know it was my idea to start with. I suspect they'd go to any brood-warrior in my absence. You, Lantar, Dempsey. . . probably wouldn't matter." He figured that if he were somehow whisked away, _those_ two workers would probably curl up at Lantar's feet instead. They probably wouldn't report to the other brood-warriors. They belonged to Dara's 'hive' now.

That got all three heads to lift. "That went by a little fast," Dempsey noted. "How do you figure I'm a. . . .brood-warrior?"

"The way Dara explains it, most people don't have strong personalities. They barely glow or sing at all. So the rachni see them as. . . .soldiers. Workers. Part of the group. The stronger the personality, or the biotic power, the more they sing or glow. Males who glow are pretty much automatically brood-warriors, females who glow are pretty much automatically queens, or at least little-queens." Eli sighed. "Look, I'm trying to explain this second-hand at best. Put it this way. . . if Sky's given someone a name—Sings-in-Silence, Sings-Honor, Sings-Regrets," he pointed at each of them in turn, "it's pretty much a given that you've got a very strong persona. Much more so than the average guy on the street. To a rachni's way of thinking, that means you're a brood-warrior. The rest of the people in this camp? Soldiers or workers. Male, female, doesn't matter." _They're learning, from Sky, from Dara, to look at the 'gray voices' as important, too, but it's hard for them. The workers know that they might be asked to __explode__ themselves on an intruder, and don't think of themselves as __I__ or __me__. So long as even one queen lives, they all live, and they don't think of their lives the way we do. They will continue to exist in the hive, in all the other workers. Just thoughts in the mind of the queen, made manifest. So if a 'gray voice' human dies, they don't really see it as . . . relevant. Even __Dara__, when she was losing it, thought of the other humans and turians on the __Raedia__ as ghosts. Things that could hurt her, but didn't really __matter__._ Eli looked up at Lantar, and asked, a little sadly, "Has Sky ever given Mom a name?"

Lantar shook his head. "Not in my hearing, anyway."

"There you go. She might have one, and he's just never mentioned it, or she might be a gray voice. A ghost. A worker." _Have to ask Dara how she sees my mom, someday._

Eli went back to his letter now. . . and this time, he paused, because he couldn't think of how to write it so it would make sense. _We had two of the unnamed brood-warriors with us, ten soldiers, and about twenty workers. They'd divided up on either side of the little ravine, just at the mouth of it. The walls were all rough, layered sedimentary rock, and loose scree. And yeah, more damned thorn bushes. We backed into the ravine, got our backs up against that pile of concrete and rebar that had once been a bridge. . . and the yahg came in after us. Of course, __now__ we were all facing them, and they were nice and choked up by the ravine itself. We had no damn cover, though, besides what we made ourselves. Fors was using Thell as a shield. Dempsey pretty much __is__ a shield. I got mine off my back and dropped down behind a thorn bush, and started firing away, trying to ping the yahg so that their stealth fields would drop. Thell opened fire on the first one he saw with that arc projector, and the yahg howled, and their voices bounced back off the canyon walls, and two of them, one on each side, jumped up and found hand-holds on the walls of the ravine itself. Got them out of the way of their friends. . .and these two pulled guns. Big damned pistols, made for hands two or three times the size of mine. Plenty of firepower; I was ducking down behind my shield and waiting for the inevitable charge. And Lantar kept saying on the radio, "Hold. Hold. Hold. Get them in closer." I swear, I was waiting for him to say "until you see the whites of their eyes," and I was going to say, "they're close enough for me to __count__ the eyes, come on!"_

_They were inside forty feet when the rachni popped up out of the dirt, and all the soldiers started spitting poison, and the two brood-warriors both used some sort of song on the side-walls of the ravine, and the rock there just crumbled, Dara. The damned yahg up on the walls fell to the ground, the yahg charging us sort of hesitated and looked back, saw what had to look like monsters, even to them, standing between them and the open end of the ravine, and that's when Lantar, Livanus, Rel, Siara, and Gris, who were up on the rubble and the edges of the ravine, pulled back their camo blankets and started firing on the yahg. Fors did his stasis bit. . . it's not as effective on six eight-hundred pound creatures as on a street full of much smaller protesters, but he held three of them completely in place, and Dempsey threw one of them about ten feet back. Said he was having trouble lifting them clean off the ground, but skidding them back into obstacles and off of drops wasn't presenting a problem. Fors has a little more firepower in that regard, apparently. Then again, Fors has almost no defensive abilities, poor little guy. _

_That should have been it, except that all the howling, and the sound of all the bullets, well, they were echoing off the walls of the arroyo like they would off the metal plates of a station hallway. Only, with fewer bounces between us and the main yahg camp. Not two minutes after we'd finished killing the first wave, then we, the hunters who'd hunted the hunters, became the hunted. Wait. Did I say that part right?_ Eli paused. There had been seven more yahg from the main camp. They'd responded to the howls of their fellows, not by charging in blindly, but by sneaking in. They'd moved to the sides of the gulley, and Makur's head had snapped up. "Enemies! North and south, both sides!" Eli's head had snapped up, and he'd seen a stealthed figure moving to attack Lantar, where his father crouched beside one of the remaining pylons of the bridge at the southeast corner, and had fired on the yahg with his pistol, trying to drive it away from Lantar. Stealthed attackers, suddenly everywhere, enveloping the Spectres at the top, firing down at those in the gulley already. Siara _dropped_ the one nearest her and Lantar. Searing pain was searing pain, no matter how large the body, apparently. Gris snarled and moved in to grapple the one nearest him and Rel. "Dempsey, get me up there," Eli muttered, trying to get a handhold on the pile of rubble in front of him, but he was concerned that one wrong step could start the whole pile sliding again. Obviously, Rel and Siara had gotten up there all right, but adding two hundred and twenty-five pounds of body weight, plus fifty to sixty pounds of armor, breathing apparatus, shield, and weapons, and it would add another element to the mix.

Eli felt a hand close on his shoulders, and he turned, ready to attack whatever yahg had seized him, and halted in mid-motion as he realized it was Thell. The elcor told him, calmly, "This reminds me of the candidate trials. And to think the reporters on Dekuuna thought that the trials posed unrealistic situations." Thell reared back onto his hind legs, and raised Eli up, so that he could reach out, grab the edge of the ravine, and scramble over the lip of the rock. Eli got a leg up and over, heaved again, and grabbed a thorn bush, praying that its ropy roots would hold. They did. Over the edge at last, he didn't have time to breathe—Livanus and Lantar were firing on the two yahg advancing on them, and Siara was doing her best to hold the third pinned in place with waves of pain. No time to consider the situation on the _other_ side of the gulley right now. Only time to act on this side. Eli moved in behind the closest yahg, and unsheathed the vibrosword that he carried over his shoulder. The button in the hilt activated it, and Lantar had already worn down the creature's shields. All armor had flaws, weaknesses. Places where plates had to connect, had to overlap. That made them optimal targets, and Eli had been trained to find those areas.

The sword sank through the armor. Seheve's little dagger had carried a payload of poison. This sword did not. . .but also carried much deeper into vital areas. Eli put a foot into the yahg's back and pulled the blade back out, kicking the creature forward off the sword. He wasn't sure he'd hit a heart or anything else vital, but it was spasming on the ground now, and that freed Lantar up to fire the Blackstorm at Siara's attacker, while Livanus was now ducking and dodging and trying to stay out of range of the yahg that had closed on him. _Shit,_ Eli thought, _shit, shit, shit. . . _

. . . _In the end, Thell and the rachni took out two of them on the north side of the ravine. Gris __somehow__ held onto his long enough for Rel to get there and blow its damned head off. He picked Gris' shotgun off the ground, put it to the yahg's head, and pulled the trigger. It was messy. That left one more to the north, and Fors . . . my god. I've heard him __talk__ about the implosion thing he does. I've never seen it used. Again, it doesn't work as well on yahg as it does on other humanoids. It's a question of mass, really. He said later, "Well, I can usually implode an entire body. The yahg are just too big. So I had a choice. Implode the torso and hope that slowed them down. . . or center the field on the head. I went with the head. Smaller target. I just had to hope they weren't like krogan, with secondary brains in their asses." Which actually made Makur and Gris laugh. And point out that the secondary brain is the __brainstem__, thank you very much. At any rate, I saw the body afterwards. The brain was definitely coming out through the ears. Rel said that the body kept trying to move under it, but couldn't do more than flail wildly. I'm not sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing that doing that takes Fors a minute or so of solid concentration, and that he can't do it very often. On the one hand, it gets results. On the other hand, I don't want to see this developed by any other biotic. Ever. And I sure as hell don't want to be on the receiving end. So that took out the northern group. Which left us with two more still on our side, Livanus scrambling around, trying to keep one off of him, Siara damned near backing off the bridge rubble to keep away from the one she'd literally put in a world of hurt. _

_Lantar went after Siara's, since she was far enough away that he wasn't going to hit her with a stray round from the Blackstorm. And she did a shockwave or something, which shoved the yahg back from her. Of course, shockwaves travel through the ground. And remember what she was standing on? Rubble? Yeah. I'm damned glad I didn't try to climb up there after all, sai'kaea, because the whole damned thing came tumbling down at that point, and her along with it. And the yahg, too! I didn't have time to mess with that. Just enough to go 'oh, shit, that's not good,' and then I was going after Livanus' yahg. This one saw me coming, though, so Liv and I had to try to work him between us. He'd turn towards me, and Livanus would overload his shields. He turned towards Livanus. . . and I sliced off one of his hands. He. . . really didn't like that. Turned around and clubbed me so hard with his good hand that I flew backwards. Landed on the ground, wind knocked out of me, saw boots by my head, and managed to sit up in time to see Dempsey head in. The yahg was already bleeding to death—very slowly—from the hand I'd lopped off, and Dempsey was just immovable. It tried to punch him and Dempsey threw it over the edge of the ravine, and it fell on some rebar in the rubble. Also, damned near hit Makur, who was scrambling up into the rubble to try to find Siara under the rubble. _

_It was a mess. Rel had jumped back onto the rubble to try to get to the yahg that had fallen with Siara, so everything was shifting and sliding again. Siara screamed at him and Makur that they were crushing her, and Fors lifted the yahg, at least, off the rubble, and that let the rest of us kill the damned thing. Then Thell very carefully, one piece of rubble at a time, began lifting the pieces off of her. When he'd gotten enough off of her, I climbed up and checked her out. No spine damage, thank god. . . but it took Rel and me working together to try to pull her out flat so we wouldn't do any more damage. And yeah, I can hear you already. . . "You should have brought a medic with you." We sort of did. Siara and I both have some first aid skills, and so do Lantar and Livanus. It's just that, well, none of us are specialized in it. Anyhow, Rel got her shoulders and pulled, I caught her feet once they slipped free, and Thell stood there, patient as a statue, keeping the biggest piece of rubble off her. And once Makur was sure she was okay, he gave her hell for reflexively using a biotic power that apparently, well, is only safe under certain conditions._

_She's got some cracked ribs, and judging by the complaining I hear from the next module over, Snowflake wants to lie on top of her. Cracked ribs at all. And is washing her face with his tongue. Tell me Makur isn't putting the cat up to that, huh?_

_Was that the end? Oh no. We all know better than that. _

Eli again paused. The next part hadn't been entirely fun, either. The combat had been nerve-wracking, but it had at least been something they'd all survived. The yahg had clearly not known what had come looking for them. They'd taken the opportunity to investigate the yahg's encampment, which had been in what had been in an abandoned silver mine, more of a shallow cave, than anything. They'd found a small 'larder,' which had held the hanging bodies of some native Terra Nova herbivores that looked like giant armadillos. . . and several human carcasses. Eli had seen quite a few murder scenes, but almost all of them had been turian corpses over the years. The occasional asari, and one or two humans. He'd had to take a walk outside and inhale deeply and slowly through his breather for a moment to keep from throwing up. Murder scenes. . . even the serial killer ones. . . had been totally different. There was a casual brutality to this, and, of course, these were humans. Like himself.

He'd started to skip over it in his letter, and then paused over the habitual thought of _She doesn't need to hear this. . . _and exhaled. If he didn't do his mental laundry, it would start to pile up, and he knew that Dara could handle it. The same way he could handle hers. The same way they'd handled each others' dreams on Omega. _They did have a few small radio sets with them. Light encryption on the signals, but of course, no one's broken the yahg language yet. I said maybe we should question any batarians we run into, until we find one who speaks yahg. Rel almost smiled at that. Almost. No maps. No evidence of where their leaders are currently hiding. Rel said he thinks that the tactics of the leader might convey something to his followers, and as such, this leader might move around quite a bit. It's a working theory, anyway._

_So, your conquering heroes got back to camp, fourteen yahg bodies in tow for, well, evidence, autopsy, and disposal, I guess. . . and guess what I got to do? Deal with a reporter. _

Eli exhaled, and tapped his fingers against the datapad in irritation. Lexine Rosanna Elder, BNN. A little shorter than Dara, dark red hair, and lots of makeup for the camera, which made her look completely out of place in a war zone. He sort of understood why she wore it; she'd wash out on camera if she didn't. But it gave her a surface appearance of being crafted out of plastic, and while she didn't quite have the personal animus of an al-Jilani going, she also didn't have the warmth or empathy of an Emily Wong. "Spectres! Spectres! A moment of your time, please!" She'd chased after them as their vehicles lumbered back into camp, heavily freighted with bodies. Eli had hoped her camera was at least recording the cheers from the soldiers and the civilians, but had sort of doubted it.

Lantar had, at that point, beckoned Eli forward, as two medics hustled over to examine Siara. "Ms. Elder," Lantar had told her, calmly, "Spectre Elijah Sidonis is our designated press liaison for the moment. Please address all questions and concerns to him. If he doesn't know something immediately, I'm sure he'll get back to you with a response. Thank you."

Eli had hastily taken off his helmet, and, with a look at the westering sun, put on a pair of dark glasses. He didn't think his eyes would go dark without him consciously trying to meld with someone, but he also knew it was something of a threat display as well as a mating display with asari. The last thing he really needed was to have that caught on camera at the moment. And, though it had been a joke at first, he did think it wasn't a bad idea to get the press used to seeing Spectres other than Dempsey and Dara in dark glasses. And the bare face was friendlier, and gave more of an impression of openness than the visor did. "What can I do for you, Ms. Elder?" he asked, politely.

The camera had turned on him, and now he was just as glad of the glasses. The damn thing had a bright light. "Spectre. . . Sidonis." She'd looked up at him and smiled, trying to make eye contact through the glasses. "Was today's expedition by the Spectres largely symbolic, or did it have any real meaning for the war effort here on Terra Nova?"

Eli stayed poker-faced. _Guess all those hours on guard-duty on Macedyn served a useful purpose. If I could stay straight-faced with a little turian kid trying to mock-hunt my boots, or an asari whispering the dirtiest things she could imagine in my ear, I think I can handle a reporter._ _Let's see. . . she's been making the story that the war here is going poorly, and that's usually someone's fault. . . . _"We killed fourteen yahg who had been threatening the security of the camp, Ms. Elder, and retrieved the bodies of what appear to be two or three humans for identification and burial. A good first day." He kept his tone friendly and noncommittal. _Damn it, Sam, Dad. Why the hell did you put __me__ in charge of this again? Oh, wait, because Dempsey or Rel could go nuts and punch her. And Makur might graduate to head-butting._

"Yes, but what does this actually mean for the people here in the camps? Was this raid strictly for morale purposes?"

She pressed a little closer, and Eli stayed exactly where he was, not leaning forward or back. "What does it mean for people here in the camps? A better night's sleep, I hope. And every mission has multi-valanced goals. In this particular case, for instance, not every Spectre currently assigned here had fought yahg before today. Now we all have." Simple and calm. _And we came back almost unscratched. Look, folks, we might not be invincible, but the black armor sure makes us __look__ that way, doesn't it?_ The psychological lift for anyone watching would be a help. He doubted that the yahg were particularly watching the broadcasts, but if they were, or if the batarians here on Terra Nova were, too, a little psychological tweaking in their direction might help matters as well. He shifted a little so that the sword slung over his shoulder would show a little more visibly on camera.

"Had _you_ fought yahg before today, Spectre?" A little simper of a smile. She was trying to get friendly with him.

"No, Ms. Elder. My last two assignments took me elsewhere. One of them was the liberation of Omega." Eli smiled. "It's pretty well liberated now." Last he'd heard, in fact, was that about ten thousand quarians had docked, along with another five thousand krogan from the Clan Alliance. All there to rebuild and protect.

"So your most recent experience was in fighting batarians. Are you here now because there's batarian involvement here on Terra Nova?"

"I can't comment on why I was or wasn't assigned. Commander Shepard makes those decisions in concert with her senior Spectres and support staff." _Yeah, like I'm going to say I was assigned here to get seasoning like a piece of meat, and to baby-sit people like you. Oh, and to be human for the people who need to see a human face, but who'd be scared shitless to see Dempsey or Dara's version of humanity. Fifty percent machine, eight percent rachni, or whatever the hell I am. Take your pick._

She tried again. "Can you tell me anything about your various teammates? People are curious about the newest Spectres."

"Rellus Velnaran is possibly one of the finest soldiers the Hierarchy has ever produced. I've known him for close to six years now."

"And you're married to his sister, correct?"

_Oh, crap._ "We dissolved our contract about a week ago, amicably."

Lexine Elders' eyes lit up, and he imagined, for a moment, them rolling back in her head, like a shark's on scenting blood and racing in for the fresh meat in the water. "I'm sorry to hear that. Was it the stress of the job?"

"No. We're still friends." Eli's face hurt from smiling placidly when he felt more like clenching his teeth.

"Could you comment on your reasons for the split?"

"That would be personal information, and I'm not here to discuss personal information today." Eli leavened the statement with a smile that he knew didn't reach his eyes, and he was grateful for the dark glasses.

"Won't this make working with Commander Velnaran difficult?" She actually looked over towards where Rel was standing beside Dempsey. Rel's face was like granite, however, a perfect mask of turian stoicism.

_Not nearly as difficult as dating his ex-wife, lady._ "Commander Velnaran is a consummate professional, and definitely one of the finest soldiers the Hierarchy's ever produced. His instincts are phenomenal." _Also, given the regeneration, he's practically unstoppable now. I do __not__ want to ever have to fight a duel with him. _The thought hadn't occurred before, and Eli winced a little internally at it. They'd been very damned evenly matched in sparring since the candidacy trials. Regeneration, however, and the prospect of knife combat? It wasn't a pretty mental picture at all.

Elders looked disappointed that she couldn't get anything more out of Eli on that subject. "Can you tell me anything more about the rest of your team? Spectre James Dempsey, for example?" The look she sent Dempsey stopped just short of wiping drool from her chin. Eli had to fight down the urge to laugh. _Does she think that'll get her, what, access? She's in for a whole lot of disappointment with Dempsey, then. . . _ "I've had the honor of working with Dempsey before either of us were Spectres. He's a good man." Eli paused, and volunteered, before she could ask, "Siara Tesala, I've also known for close to six years."

The distraction worked, for the moment. "I understand she was injured today? How badly?"

_Yeah, we didn't let you get pictures, except of Siara moving away under her own power._ "A little banged up, but she'll be ready to fight again in the morning." _Remember, folks. Black armor. Superbeings. The way I always looked at Shepard and Garrus. My dad and Sam, too. The rest of us, maybe not so much, but hell, what can you do?_

"We haven't been able to confirm that Spectres Illara T'mal and Irina Pendalus were killed in the last two weeks. Can you comment on that?"

"Ms. Elders, I literally hit the ground here. . . eight hours ago." Eli made a show of checking his omnitool for the time. "Let me get back to you on that, if you don't mind?" He knew both females were dead, or, in the turians' case, presumed dead. Having an arm ripped off didn't seem particularly survivable, as injuries went. But he didn't know if that information had been distributed, or if the families had been notified.

He started to turn away, and Elders chased after him. "Spectre, I want to be able to tell people back home what's really going on here, and no one here will give me the time of day, let alone a real answer. Folks back home have a right to know the real story, don't they? Are you afraid that popular support at home will crumble if there isn't a quick victory here on Terra Nova, as there was on Shanxi?"

Eli's mouth opened, and he choked back his first two or three answers. "Turn the camera off," he said, quietly.

She looked surprised, and managed a, "I'm here by the direct request of both the Alliance and the Council. . . ."

"You, personally? No. An embedded reporter of some variety, yes, you personally. . . no. Never heard of you before." Eli looked over the rims of his dark glasses at Dempsey, who was standing nearby with Rel, arms folded across his armored chest, face impassive. Eli flicked his glance towards the camera that hovered by Elders' head, and, without changing expression, Dempsey nodded once.

And the camera shut down completely.

Elders swore and fiddled with it, trying to get it to reboot. "Look," Eli said, as calmly as he could, "I watched one of your reports on the way here. You want to know why none of the soldiers here will give you the time of day? You're pretty busy trying to make them look incompetent, when, in fact, they've got a hell of a big job, not nearly enough people to do it with, and they're constantly in danger of losing life and limb. Any time they take you into the field, you're pretty much an extra piece of baggage that they have to protect with _their_ lives, and you're not even carrying a gun to help protect _their_ skins. Show a little gratitude and humility, and it might go a long way. Ask some better questions. Maybe what _they_ think should be done. What they need to do the job here. That sort of thing." He kept his tone fairly gentle for that part. It seemed obvious to him, but people sometimes missed obvious things. "That might earn you a little more trust and respect from the soldiers here."

He turned to move away, and this time, she let him go. "Thanks," Eli told Dempsey, tucking his glasses away in a belt compartment again.

"Any time. I'm just as glad you got her off the topic of me. She probably has a list of questions about each of us ready to go." Dempsey's tone was flat, as always. "You didn't do too badly with her."

"I fully expect she'll be asking for personal interviews with everyone at some point," Eli agreed, tightly. "That'll be up to each of you, but I can be there if people want me there."

Rel's glance was sidelong. "Putting it on a little thick, though, weren't you?"

Eli gave him a look. "I said nothing but the truth back there. Talking to reporters goes a hell of a lot better when you do that."

Rel absorbed that for a moment. "So. . . _consummate_ professional, huh?"

"_S'kak_, I said it once already, and your ego doesn't need feeding."

"Guys, the love is getting embarrassing here."

And at Dempsey's deadpan comment, Eli couldn't help but laugh.

So that was where he ended his first letter. _So, yeah. We survived day one. And this isn't like boot camp, where I can keep a countdown in my head or on my calendar, as to when I can get the hell off this rock. Hope things are going okay where you are, __sai'kaea__. Let me know. _

**Rellus, Terra Nova, October 25, 2196**

The first week of combat had been. . . different. Difficult in a way it simply hadn't been before the regen mod. Now, there was a constant mental balancing act, having to be aware of his mental state, monitoring it. He'd actually been, very quietly, dreading his first yahg fight, and had been grateful when Lantar made them all get on the _rlata_, as it were, first thing. Lantar hadn't stated it overtly, but Rel suspected that the first yahg nest mission had had a lot more purposes to it than just protecting the refugees and the camps. It had probably been a test of all of them. Of those who hadn't faced yahg before, to see if they could stand and fight with those who had. And of _him,_ personally. To see if he'd lose control, be a danger to himself or others.

He hadn't, but he'd _felt_ the rage seething away at the back of his mind. He'd had to clamp down on it carefully, try to maintain absolute calm and clarity. It had been difficult, but doable. It seemed to require a laser-like focus on _this_ moment, this task. Which he had to balance with the awareness of the entire battlefield that was necessary so that he wouldn't be blind-sided or lose track of the situation. Nerve-wracking, really, and then he'd lost track of it entirely when the second wave of yahg had moved in around them, de-stealthing to attack Gris, Lantar, Livanus, and Siara all around him. He'd had a disorienting second or two when he _had_ lost track of himself, where "Rellus" didn't exist anymore, and then the next thing he'd known, he'd had a shotgun in his hand and Gris' opponent hadn't had a head anymore. Rel had done his deep breathing exercises as best he could, while turning back to try to help Siara. . . just as the rubble pile had collapsed.

In the debrief afterwards, Rel had been surprised and pleased by how well everyone had worked together. And was, ruefully, reflecting on the fact that they hadn't had any biotics besides Melaani on Shanxi. _Biotics would have made a hell of a difference in any number of battles_, he realized. Fors and Dempsey could effectively rearrange a battlefield to their liking, and Siara could paralyze an attacker in place with pain. Makur and Dempsey, once sealed up inside their shields, weren't invincible, but surely were unflappable. The biotics weren't the only difference. The Shanxi teams had been heavily oriented towards offense. Makur, Dempsey, and Thell, too, could turn themselves into a barrier between the rest of the teams and harm . . . and even Eli, in a pinch, could pull out a shield and form a defensive line with the rest. Of course, Rel thought, grimacing, that didn't always help against yahg. Yahg didn't always bother with guns. And the yahg on Terra Nova were definitely relying on their stealth tactics more than on Shanxi. Which meant that no one ever knew exactly when they were going to have to go on the defensive.

In the week since, they'd gone out four more times, taking out yahg patrols and, with turian and human marines, a major encampment of yahg in the mountains near New Philadelphia. Dempsey had shone then; the male had plenty of previous experience with gunships and ground support vehicles. Rel actually found that he enjoyed working with the human. The total, mechanical calm was actually very helpful. Because Dempsey was calm, Rel found he could be calm, too.

Today's task was different. With the main base outside of New Philadelphia secured for the moment, and the forces there protecting the refugees having gotten a breather and the reassurance that new attacks shouldn't be immediately imminent, they were taking a detachment of two hundred human and turian marines and their equipment, followed by fifty krogan, a hundred geth, and the rachni, who were loaded into large flatbed ground-trucks. Rel was impressed by the fact that the turians and humans driving the trucks weren't even flinching at the rachni now. They surely had been the first day. Not that he could entirely blame them. The rachni, in their swarm, were disquieting. Far more so than Sky by himself.

At the moment, he, Eli, and Dempsey were in Lantar's Hammerhead. Rel knew that one of the gunships overhead was being piloted by Kassa, actually. He hadn't actually had a chance to speak with the pilot since landing on Terra Nova until today, and he hadn't actually sought her out. He wasn't entirely sure why. She'd been a friend on Shanxi. A comforting piece of the past. And her efforts to get him to focus his mind and meditate had been, well, not entirely helpful, but at least she'd tried. And she'd certainly visited him in the med bay on Mindoir. But going to Dara had been a betrayal of confidence, of sorts. It had deprived him of the chance to come clean on his own. And he found he was still irritated about it when he thought about it. And since irritation led to anger and anger led to adrenaline, it was just better to put it all to the back of the mind and not dwell on it.

Eight hundred miles over rough terrain, where bridges were bombed out and forced detours. . . was a hell of a long trip. And the gunships couldn't go far to scout around. In the no-mans'-land outside the main cities, wandering bands of yahg had been known to use shoulder-mounted rockets of their own manufacture to take out aerial vehicles in the past few months, particularly along this stretch of deserted highway. So their convoy stuck close together, and everyone was taking turns in the turrets, driving, and trying to catch sleep in the backs of the Hammerheads, as they slowly crawled along the empty lanes of the freeway. Out the turret's bubble window, Rel could see that they were coming up on another ghost-town. Small. Hardly more than a grocery store and a place to stretch the legs along a long trip. Probably a hydrogen filling station, too. Each of the last three such towns had held yahg, who'd attacked the convoy, and Rel expected no different this time. He took the safety off the turret gun, and waited. Trying to breathe deeply, down into the crop. Keeping the heart-rate low. "Get ready," he called down, and saw Dempsey reach over and shake Eli awake. Eli roused from his doze and reached for a rifle.

"First targets on scope," Lantar called, and it started all over again. Each small town was another small nest, and every time, they found a larder of dead humans. Whoever the yahg alpha was here, definitely had a different style of war, a different outlook, than on Shanxi. On Shanxi, the targets had been the four main cities. Capture, hold, create fear to hold the people there. Here, it was a different strategy entirely. Lay waste to the cities, drive people out into the wilderness, and then seed the entire planet with tiny pockets of yahg. Small hunting packs. As Eli had said, a hunter-gatherer mentality, and not a herder's.

Twenty or so yahg in that small town, but they didn't dare leave any of them alive. If nothing else, they'd communicate with the other packs, inform them of troop movements. Or follow the convoy and try to pick off the weaker elements. And every last one of the damned yahg here were of the stealthed hunter variety. "No choice," Lantar called back, grimly. "Out on foot. Dempsey, you're with me. Eli, watch Rel's back."

Both humans nodded, and Rel's crop tightened. Eli's face was expressionless as he picked up his shield and preceded Rel out the hatch. "If they charge us, that shield's not going to do you any good," Rel pointed out, quietly.

"If they charge us and get ahold of me, I'll be firing on them till they close, and then switching to the damned sword. Or I'll be dead." Eli's tone was grim. "In the meantime, I'm between you and any bullets. Saw Kirrahe take too goddamned many bullets on Omega because he wouldn't stay behind me and Lin. And learned a whole litany of salarian swear words when Dara would patch him up afterwards?"

"From him?"

"From both of them. I also learned that salarian curses do not translate worth a damn. Only one that did was when she told him he had the mental capacity of slime-mold." Eli's voice was carefully casual, and then they were moving through the deserted streets, fanning out from the other pairs. A house-by-house search, basically. In the doorway of the third house, Rel was about to move inside, when Eli gestured, sharply, for him to hold, then raised his pistol and started firing at an overturned dining room table. A shield flickered and distorted, and Rel lifted his assault rifle and poured ammunition at the yahg who suddenly appeared there. They'd caught it in the act of moving forward to attack them from stealth, and Rel had _no_ idea how Eli had seen the damn thing.

Turning to the left, the next house, it was Rel's turn. He heard something, faintly, and stiffened, grabbing Eli and pulling him out of the way as a yahg actually reached down off the roof over their heads, one clawed hand latching onto Eli's right pauldron, trying to pull the human up onto the roof. Rel had heard the scrape of the yahg's armor on the aluminum roof, and he reached up, grabbed the creature's arm, and yanked _down_, hard. Overbalanced already, and committed to its attempt to seize Eli for a quick neck-break, Rel was able to bring it to the ground with an enormous thud, dancing back out of the way to avoid its bulk landing on him, too. It came up, snarling, teeth exposed, and leaped at Rel now. _Oh, spirits, not this again—_ was all the time Rel had to think, and then they were wrestling, Rel trying to keep the teeth away from his body. The adrenaline surge hit, and he snarled back at the yahg, and suddenly, he was back on Shanxi, fighting with the biotic alpha, only this time, there was whiteness where his mind usually was, blankness. . . . just kill or be killed. No thought at all.

Just as the yahg rolled atop him and finally did clamp down on his forearm, the creature stiffened and gurgled in pain, jaws releasing as it collapsed. Rel blinked, repeatedly, as red-orange blood poured down over his face, turning his visor completely black from the inside, and fought off the enormous weight of the creature. And fought. And fought. He wanted to tear it apart, but it was so damned heavy. . . .

"Hang on," Eli said, and he realized that the human had to have been saying that for a while. "Here, push up!"

Realization hit. He'd been in a border-line blood-rage state anyway, and with the yahg pinning him, fighting instincts had taken over. He couldn't even do any deep breathing exercises to calm down with the damned thing pinning him. The adrenaline surge had just burned itself out, and Rel inhaled, as best he could, trying to calm the rest of the way down. Then he worked his arms up, as he felt the creature's shoulder being lifted, and he shoved, just as Eli pulled. "God damned things aren't _quite_ the weight of a groundcar, but they sure as hell try for it," Eli muttered as Rel rolled out from under the yahg. He could see how warily the human was watching him at the moment, though. On guard.

Rel turned his gaze back to the yahg. A vibrosword was embedded in its head. The point had run in under the jaw and up into the cranium from there. "The shields didn't matter," Rel managed, trying to get his brain working again. "It was a slow strike, and because you aimed for the exposed half of the face. . . "

"Didn't make a difference if the blade was actually vibrating or not, no," Eli agreed. "They expose a _lot_ by leaving their jaws open like that."

Rel nodded, and picked up his rifle, as Eli pulled the sword free. "They don't all wear the half-helmets. Just the ones who track by smell. The hunters."

Eli nodded. "I'll take whatever I can get."

Rel paused as they started to move towards the next house, and looked down at the teeth marks in his black officer's armor. The teeth had punched through in three places, but the wounds were already starting to heal. Slowly. But the bleeding had already stopped. "Eli?"

"Yeah?"

It was easier to say the word than he'd thought it would be. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

They were, fortunately, just sealing up the hatch of the Hammerhead when one of the krogan squads flushed out a yahg near the hydrogen refueling station, and a stray round hit the dispensing stations at ground level. "Shields!" Dempsey said, sharply, but with no discernable emotion, leaping for the pilot's seat and tabbing something on the console there, just as a chain reaction made its way down into the hydrogen tanks buried under the station. The resulting fireball was enormous. There were huge numbers of safeguards usually built into these types of stations, but the structure had taken damage before. The result was a blinding fireball—pieces of asphalt and earth went flying everywhere, pieces of the buildings and awnings surrounding the station, as well. And it all hit whoever and whatever was in the vicinity, slamming into kinetic shielding and hulls. Two of the gunships were forced down, emergency landings, and half of the Hammerheads needed repairs after that. The town itself was largely going up in flames, and Rel swore under his breath at the sight. "Any chance the two krogan fighting the yahg survived that?" Rel asked on the Spectre band.

"Not much," Gris replied grimly. "We don't regenerate from fire nearly as well as I wish we did."

_Something to keep in mind_, Rel thought. _If I see someone with incendiary rounds or a flamethrower, I shouldn't ever think of it as a trivial obstacle._ He glanced at Dempsey. The human met his eyes calmly. "Still hurts like a son of a bitch, too," Dempsey said, remotely. "The scientists tested acid and fire on me. I think that's one of the reasons they had the skin dressings on me when you found me. That takes a lot longer to heal up."

As it turned out, neither krogan had survived. There wasn't, in fact, anything to bury, that anyone could find. The other krogan stood in a grim half-circle for a moment, then all threw back their heads in unison and bellowed, a sound that reverberated back off the vehicles and undamaged buildings and rocks around them, and then got back into their vehicles. Even having grown up with Mazz, the lack of ceremony was a little unnerving. Existence was brutal for krogan, and every one of the males with them had probably served as a merc _somewhere_, at some point in their lives. Death _was_ a way of life for them.

And then they were bouncing over the broken road again. Mile after mile of black asphalt, broken in places. The pale greens and first hints of autumn giving way to khaki, brown, tan lands. Subtle streaks of white here and there. Scrubby forest giving way to thorn bushes and weeds, and then the weeds died off, and only the thorn bushes remained, as they hit a wide, open, desolate plain, filled with boulders eroded mesas and buttes. _Badlands,_ Rel thought. The ground itself wasn't the shifting dunes he tended to picture when he thought of _desert_. It was instead, what was called desert pavement; a hard-packed crust that had formed, over centuries. It prevented more erosion from the wind, at least, but could be cut through by hard rains. . . as these lands had once, obviously, been cut through by rivers that no longer flowed. The sky overhead was pale blue; the scorching heat of the desert had, it seemed, baked all the color from it.

"Forbidding," Dempsey appraised tonelessly, from where he was driving. "Hate to think of being out in this area without survival gear."

Eli glanced up. "Best I recall from my stint in desert training in boot camp, even in armor, a place like this, it's pretty much the three day rule for a human. Turians might last longer. No sweat." He paused. "Kind of makes me wish we had some drell with us. Their entire planet more or less looked like this place, once upon a time, other than some small inland seas, as I understand it. They'd be at home here."

Rel nodded, briefly, and realized that he could picture Seheve here, perfectly. She was so perfectly quiet most of the time, so reserved and austere, that she never seemed to make much of an impression on anyone. Part of her assassin training, he figured. Don't stand out. Let eyes slide off of you, by appearing ordinary. Average. And yet, she'd suit this forbidding landscape. And he found himself wondering, a bit, if she'd find beauty in the weathered rock forms, the very subtle bandings of color in the rocks. An odd thought, about an odd person. Rel dismissed it.

Lantar was taking a turn in the turret, and Eli and Rel were on opposite sides of the passenger compartment. Rel had been watching Eli try to work with his two rachni hitchhikers for the last hour. He'd taken several dozen scraps of paper and marked letters on them, and was, apparently, attempting to teach the workers how to read and write. It was not, apparently, going well. "They can't spell?" Rel asked, finally, pointing at the workers.

Eli glanced up, a little startled. "Oh, I think they can learn. I'm just having a hell of a time conveying the concept to them. They're more or less picking up what I mean from. . . body language, I guess. Smell. And they're smart enough to be listening to what I'm saying, and learning that the sounds mean things. Different form of song, I guess, to them. They. . . think in concepts, not really in words, as far as I can figure it out. Dara. . . " Eli's eyes flicked up, then down again, "understands a lot of what they think _as_ words, but that's. . .probably just how her mind interprets the song. So, the big disconnect here, is that they think in concepts, know that we use words for concepts, and they _get_ that. . . but words and concepts being reduced to letters that each make up a sound combination. . . yeah. They're not getting that." Eli rubbed at his face. "I'd have better luck teaching them asari, and all the ideograms. Except that none of the rest of you read asari, besides Siara." Eli tried again, and put down three letters, side by side. C, A, and T. "Those three together, when you see them in that order, guys? Mean _cat_. You know, like the ones that, er, Zappa. . . .is supposed to be entertaining?"

The rachni chittered. "Was that supposed to mean something?" Rel asked, dubiously.

Eli sighed. "I don't know. You know the routine, guys. Circle for yes, stand still for no. You remember the cat?"

Two circles.

"You understand that those letters, together, mean 'cat,' if you want someone to understand that you want to talk about a cat?"

Two circles.

"Seems to me, we're not going to find many cats out here," Rel pointed out, leaning back in his seat to try to rest his eyes for a bit.

"Other than Snowflake, probably not, no."

One of the workers moved forward and began picking up scraps of paper. Eli's chuckle made Rel open his eyes. "Well, they figured out _something_." Eli pointed to the paper scraps.

_BIG CAT._

"Congratulations. They're now on par with Tacitus and Emily." Rel shrugged. The little rachni were, on some level, annoying the _s'kak_ out of him. It was as if Eli had _pets_ along with him. And they were a reminder, again, of the fact that Dara clearly was sharing things with Eli that she wouldn't share with him. Not that he was all that keen on the idea of sharing _rachni_ with her. _Never mind. Move on._ Except it was impossible to move on. _Tal'mae_ was _tal'mae_. "If you need to break out the pieces of paper every time they want to tell you that a cat's nearby, one good gust of wind, and you've broken the lines of communication." Rel tried to get the sourness out of his voice.

Dempsey didn't turn his head. "I think I can rig up a nice simple alphabet program for you, Sidonis. Something where the workers can touch the datapad screen, nice big letters for them, and type out basic messages."

_Assuming they have anything worth saying._ Rel looked up, and realized that they'd stopped moving. "Whole convoy halting?" he asked Dempsey.

"Yeah." Lantar slid down from the turret. "From this point on, we're going to be moving at night. Easier on the machines and easier on us. Unfortunately, almost everything else out here, including the yahg, are probably going to be doing the same thing." He looked around. "The three of you, get some rest. I'll be on first watch. Eli, you're next."

There was one interruptions over the course of the day, when they really needed to be resting. It came in the form of Kassa, who tapped on the hatch of the Hammerhead. Rel stepped out to speak with her, but he was inclined to keep it brief. "I just wanted to see how you were doing," she said, quietly, glancing past him a bit nervously at the others. "Didn't want to intrude into officer country too much, though."

Rel shrugged, looking across at her, and something in his mind crystallized at that point. All her comments about the air being too thin and rarified around him. About wanting to touch the sky. Her skittishness about the rachni, he could understand, but _he_ was getting used to them. . . even if he resented the hell out of them, he was getting used to them. Kassa, for all her strength and open, warm personality, was intimidated by the Spectres. By the big Mindoir family. Rel exhaled. It was as if his spirit-eyes had opened, for the first time in ages, and he could see her clearly, as he would carve her. Tall and strong, but turning away, ducking her head a little. As if she were somehow out of her place. "Are we really that bad?" he asked her, quietly. "No one in there is likely to bite you." Rel managed a half-smile, a twitch of the mandibles. "Not even me."

Kassa looked surprised. "I thought I was hiding it fairly well."

Rel shook his head. "I should have picked up on it from the moment you mentioned that Kallixta being a _domina_ made you uneasy." _And Rinus a __dominus__. Add to that all the Spectres._

Kassa sighed. "Rellus. . . you kept your teeth tightly clamped over being related to Garrus Vakarian and Lilitu Shepard all through boot camp. Finding that part out was a shock, but it all sort of made sense afterwards. All the skills, all the training." Her smile was a little wistful now. "And then yes, absolutely, being invited to _Dominus_ Rinus and _Domina_ Kallixta's home for your wedding was nerve-wracking. Every other person there was a Spectre, it seemed like. . . and that's only increased since then." She shrugged. "Yes. It makes me uncomfortable."

He looked down at her, and read it clearly in her. She might, with a lot of work, be able to overcome that. Ellie, just for an example, as Lantar's wife, had started off intimidated by Shepard and Ylara and all the other females on base. Rel wasn't really privy to the details, but after six years, it was clear that Ellie was on very close terms with Lilu Shepard. They looked after each others' children, chatted at Sam's barbecues. . . and Ellie and Kasumi were even closer friends. And Ellie was not the fighter that Kassa was. And yet. . . _she has no __reason__ to put in the work needed to get to know them all as people. And even if she did have a reason, past friendship, would she ever be able to deal with it all?_ he wondered. _Look at how well I've done with it._ "I'm sorry," Rel told her, and he meant it. "It was never my intention to make you uncomfortable. Though I appreciate the friendship that brings you here in spite of feeling out of place."

Kassa held up a hand. "It's not your fault," she told him, lightly. "I've told you a little of my background. It's not your fault I feel out of place around, well. . . "

_Me. And my family._ Rel shook his head. Kassa had come from a family with a patchwork of different marriage contracts, almost no stability at home except what she made, herself. He had, personally, known almost nothing _but_ stability, other than his mother's legendary temper. There were reasons and reasons for Kassa's background level of discomfort. He had a choice here. He could work harder to make her feel comfortable. . . or he could let her find her comfort level again, on her own. Let the friendship dissolve a little. And that seemed the only fair thing he could do, since there was nothing he could offer at the moment. He was barely safe to be around, with the gene mod in place and only half-trained in containing the rage, and he was, too, still married. . . . and couldn't for the life of him discern if what he felt for Kassa was simple animal attraction to a tall, well-built, fierce female, or something deeper.

He chatted a while, assured her that he was doing okay, asked after her own hip and femur surgeries and her recovery, and then ducked back inside the hatch, and relieved Eli at watch.

By the end of that watch, he'd finished roughing in the first shape of a new statue. And when Eli saw it that evening, when they all finally awoke and started getting ready for the night—both Dempsey and Eli shaving, in that odd ritual of human males—Eli asked, "What's the new one going to be of, anyway?"

"New yahg alpha, I think. I'm seeing him fairly clearly in my head right now, so I want to get him roughed in as quickly as possible."

Dempsey frowned a little. "How can you see him, if you've never _seen_ him?"

Rel shrugged. It was hard to explain. "It's. . . just a picture. Probably a lot of suppositions. And the wood itself tends to form it, and just the act of carving changes the image. If there's a knot someplace, you have to accommodate the knot. Trying to force the original image perfectly onto the wood never works. If the feeling is right, though, if it's close enough to the original. . . " _Then maybe I can capture the alpha's spirit. Just a little of it. _It was a bit superstitious, but Eli had pointed it out a week or so ago, and it _felt_ right to Rel.

Lantar nodded in understanding. "You're calling the yahg's spirit." The older turian shrugged a bit. "Certainly seemed to work on Shanxi."

Dempsey wiped his face clean of soap, and turned around, a very slight frown around his eyes. "What? I think I missed something here."

Eli continued to scrape at his face carefully with a razor, pausing to explain, "Same theory as spirit statues. Make an image close enough to the spirit's, and you can draw it to you."

Dempsey frowned a little more. "Sounds like voodoo. What do you do when the spirit's gotten into the statue? Stick pins in it?"

Rel and Lantar _and_ Eli all stared at Dempsey blankly. Eli was the one who asked, first, "Okay, what the hell is voodoo?"

Dempsey shook his head. "Always forget that you're a station-rat, Sidonis. Voodoo. Religion, more or less, from West Africa, moved to the slave-owning areas of the world back in the day. Pretty much magic-based. They'd make little dolls of people that they wanted to work magic on, and stick pins in them if they wanted them to, say, break a leg or get a stomach-ache. Or die."

Rel snorted. "Yeah, not how it works. I don't even know if I _am_ calling the leader's spirit. But it _does_ keep me calm during the down-time."

Eli wiped his own face clean now, and turned, smiling faintly, about to say something. . . and then obviously decided not to do so. "What?" Rel asked.

"Nothing. It was going to be a joke, and then I decided it wasn't all that funny."

"_Let it out from behind your teeth."_

"_Brothers can speak without giving offense, but you don't think of me as your brother right now."_

Rel restrained the impulse to point out that Eli _wasn't_ his brother now; by mutual consent, the contract between him and Serana was broken. Eli shrugged. "I was just going to say, as nice a job as you always do with those, don't carve me right now." A faint smile. "Then the joke was going to be that I've got enough things hunting for my head right now."

Rel gave Eli a long look. "Yeah. That wasn't very funny."

"I know, but you insisted on hearing it anyway."

At the moment, they were a hundred miles from the Red Mesa correctional facility, which lay to the east in the middle of the badlands. Traveling at night through the desert was a whole different story than daylight travel. Now, they had to rely on geth, who forged ahead of the rest of the column. The geth's optical receptors were far keener than the organics, and thus, they were able to pick out a safe path without turning on any of the vehicles' lights. This reduced the chances of being spotted, but there was little that could be done to reduce the engine and rotor noise from the Hammerheads, ground trucks, and gunships. The yahg had to know they were passing through the desert, and everyone in the convoy was wary, waiting for attacks, particularly during rest stops.

When they were within twenty miles, Lantar tried to raise the correctional facility on the radio. "Red Mesa correctional facility, this is Spectre Lantar Sidonis. What's your status?"

After a few moments, a surprised-sounding human voice replied, "This is Martin Wilcox. I'm the warden of the facility, and I'm damned glad to hear your voice, Spectre. We've been in radio contact with Alliance forces only intermittently over the past few months. I started out with a hundred and forty guards. . . .I've lost forty men in the past four months. . . and I still have just under eight hundred prisoners here, and about six hundred civilians who've wandered in from all over the damned place. And we've been surrounded by the goddamned yahg for almost a month now."

Rel's eyes widened slightly. "How in the spirits' names have they been holding them off?" he muttered, and peered out the front window. . . which gave him his first inkling.

The Red Mesa correctional facility didn't have that name for nothing. In the middle of an otherwise flat basin in this area of the badlands, a single large mesa climbed almost four hundred feet higher than the base elevation. Its side walls were steep, almost more of a butte formation than a mesa, but did slope outwards slightly. . . just enough to allow a single access road, cut in a gradual spiral, to work its way up to the top, which is where the buildings, towers, and fences of the prison actually stood. Rel whistled through his teeth. "That's a hell of a defensive location," Dempsey agreed, calmly. "Back in the good old days, they'd have put a castle up there. Guess it works just as well to keep people in, as to keep people out."

Lantar nodded to them briefly, and said over the radio, "Six hundred civilians? What's their condition, as well as the condition of the rest of your people?"

"Hungry, mostly," the warden replied, over a burst of static. "We've got tunnels all the way down through the mesa, concrete bunkers, too. There's even an artesian well."

"Hell of a prison," Eli muttered, staring up at it with the rest of them.

The warden heard the comment over the open channel, and replied, "We're designed for as much self-sufficiency as possible. This place was built after the First Contact War, in case human colonies ever got attacked again. And it was used as a shelter during the Reaper War. People knew to come here, I guess. There's one exit from the tunnels, which, well. . . I don't want to say where it opens out. Not on an open channel." The prison didn't have encryption decoding software on their end.

"Understood," Lantar said. "We've got some schematics from when the place was built. Anything changed since then?"

"Negative. You could probably use it as an access point. Just, for the love of god, don't bring the yahg in with you." The warden sounded rattled. "They've had us boxed in for a couple of months. Didn't pay us much mind out here, until recently. I guess we've gotten too many civilians in here, have been holding out too long. There's not a lot of radio contact out there with the other resistance pockets, but they all know we're here. Some of them have even made a break from where they've been hiding and tried to get here." He paused. "Marines tried to give us a supply drop three weeks ago, but the yahg shot the shuttle down." There was a burst of static. "I don't suppose you're here in enough force to knock them on their asses?"

"We'll see what we can do," Lantar said, clearly not trying to give away any information on the channel. "We've got some non-standard allies with us. When we show up, try not to shoot at anything unless you _know_ it's a yahg."

"Understood. What do you need from us?"

"Your guards are on the towers? Can they see yahg movements at all?"

There was a faint snort. "The yahg have tried climbing the walls of the mesa a couple of times from the south and the east, which are the gentlest slopes. They also have tried overwhelming the checkpoints on the road. That's been more successful for them. . . they've run through the checkpoints, killing all the guards, once or twice, but we've managed to get everyone covering the gates and turned the last access point into a kill zone at least three times now." He paused. "Most of the time, they've got stealth nets. The first couple of times, it was the fact that they tried to climb the electrified fence that got our attention—it's much easier to see someone when they start screaming and their stealth field shorts out." He sighed. "So, yeah, I can't tell you where they're camping out. And most of the time, we can't see them coming."

Lantar frowned, briefly. "You said you've lost forty guards? What's the situation with the prisoners?"

"I pointed out that they had a choice. They could work with us to keep the place safe, and I'd accept their parole for the time being, or they could walk out of the prison and go make friends with the yahg." The warden's voice was tight. "Any man who steps out of line, or sets even one finger on a civilian, and they get to go for a walk outside the fence. I have only non-violent offenders here, Spectre. They're helping with the civilians, under the supervision of the guards. They've been allowed non-lethal weapons. It's a hell of a situation."

Eli leaned past Rel, and spoke directly into the microphone. "This is Spectre Elijah Sidonis. When we're talking non-violent offenders, what are we actually looking at here?"

"White collar-crime, mostly. Embezzlement. Con artists. Fraud. Some drug offenders—trafficking and use, but no murderers, rapists, or assaults here."

Eli nodded once, and pulled back, as Lantar tried to solidify more information about the surrounding terrain. Rel had already pulled up a map, and was looking over the topography of the badlands, and tapped a finger on two rock formations to the south and east. There _were_ shallow caves in each, according to the map. Nothing that would be deep enough for long-term use, but definitely enough to get out of the sun during daylight hours. "They probably couldn't hide vehicles in those," Dempsey pointed out.

"If they're trying to climb the sides of the mesa to get up, they're probably not using vehicles in this area. Shoulder-mounted rockets, they can carry with them to take out shuttles and gunships. Lantar, ask the warden if they've been hitting the checkpoints along the road up the mesa on foot." Rel's tone was pre-occupied as he tried to envision the entire battlefield in his mind. This was something he was _good_ at, after all. And when it boiled right down to it, the caves would be where _he_ would go, if he needed a place to rest in the heat of the day around here.

As guesses went, it was a pretty decent one. They split their forces, Gris, Makur, and Siara heading with the krogan and geth to the southeast of the mesa, where one set of rocks reached up from under the desert pavement; Lantar and Livanus kept the humans, turians, and rachni with them, and headed for the larger set of caves in the rocks to the south of the mesa. Rel set up camp in the Hammerhead's turret, and Lantar lowered the usually sealed side windows, allowing Eli and Dempsey to fire out from relatively safe positions, even as he skidded and bumped over the rocks, and yahg indeed boiled out of the shallow caves. Rel looked up, found a likely looking bridge of sedimentary rock that had been formed over millions of years, and, with a mental apology to geologists for ruining the face of time on this planet, fired two concussive bursts from the turret, dropping the bridge and half a cliff-face on the open mouth of the caves. . . and atop the heads of half a dozen yahg.

"Effective," Lantar assessed, dryly, from the front.

"Not in the mood for more melee with them," Rel replied, tersely. "And that _wasn't_ all of them."

In fact, two of them were _atop_ the Hammerhead to their left, trying to tear the turret bubble off the top of the vehicle with brute strength. . . or trying to pound their way through the plaststeel. _Guess they think it's glass?_ Rel thought. He didn't dare open fire with his own turret gun. The gunships around them in the air were similarly helpless; errant shots, even if they pierced the kinetic shields could damage their own vehicles and crew. _Typical yahg tactic. Get in close, so any collateral damage becomes unacceptable._

And that was when the rachni boiled up out of the darkness, and the poison spit of the soldiers and brood-warriors hit the yahg and billowed up in clouds through the air, and the two yahg actually fell off the Hammerhead, scrabbling at their exposed lower faces. . . and that made them clear and easy targets for everyone around. "Nice," Rel assessed, once they'd confirmed that there were no more yahg in the immediate vicinity. "I like it when things actually go more or less as planned."

Dempsey snorted. "Yeah. But it never stays that way for long."

The firefight had actually taken two hours, and they set up a base camp at the bottom of the road. Rel approved of that; he didn't want them to get hemmed in on the mesa with the guards and prisoners, if _more_ yahg came howling out of the hills after all. But the Spectres and their vehicles moved up through the checkpoints, and, as they piled out at the forbidding first of two gates, which passed through the outer, electrified fence, and the inner, barb-wire topped one, Rel saw that there were guards with semi-automatic rifles in eight towers spaced around the edges. The turrets probably usually faced inwards. For the moment, at least, the turrets had been turned around to face _out_. And guards and even a few prisoners and civilians had lined up in the dusty inner courtyard to greet them. The guards all wore modified hardsuits; just the torsos and heads were covered, leaving the arms and legs bare, and the helmets weren't full masks and visors, with breathing apparatuses, as Rel was used to seeing. Most of their faces were exposed, although their eyes were shielded. "Isn't that a little dangerous?" Rel asked, dubiously, pointing it out.

"Armor's fricking expensive," Eli replied, dryly. "Plus, in human prisons, there's an element of psychology, just like with cops back on Earth. Remember, Sam didn't even wear armor in the Rangers. Just a cowboy hat, jeans, belt buckle, riding boots, and a badge. . . and a flak jacket under the shirt. It's about _looking_ untouchable. And armor makes it look like a guard is afraid of the prisoners."

Rel glanced at him. Eli's expression was very set. "You all right?"

"Yeah. Couldn't _pay_ me enough to be in here with the animals all day, every day."

Dempsey turned, and the human's eyebrows rose slightly. ""White collar crime," he reminded Eli. "Not sure how much _animal_ we're talking about."

Eli shrugged, his expression like granite, suddenly. And when he got that expression, he looked _exactly_ like Lantar, human skin, hair, and eyes notwithstanding. "Doesn't much matter. Inside a prison, it's the prisoners against the guards. And the prisoners against the other prisoners, for that matter. I'm sure there are individuals who remember that it's in their _own_ best interests to keep the boat from rocking too far any given direction, but there's probably also a certain amount of group-think that sets in. Pack mentality." He glanced, once, at Rel and Lantar. "Not the good kind, obviously." He exhaled. "I did one six-week stint in the MPs on stockade duty. That was really enough for me. And that was with turian military prisoners."

Lantar nodded, grimly. "It takes a certain mentality to deal with offenders every day and _not_ wind up seeing everyone in the galaxy as corrupt and worthless. And these guards haven't had a damn day off in about four months. And the spirits only know where their families are." He looked around at the others in the Hammerhead. "They're going to be on edge. Also, leave your weapons in the Hammerhead. Anything lethal stays _here._"

Eli was already divesting himself of weapons. The sword, his utility knife, everything. But he held onto a small metal rod that he pulled out of a thigh compartment in his armor, and moved it to his belt, instead. "Asp," he said, at Rel's inquiring look. "Non-lethal, unless you're pretty invested in beating the living _s'kak_ out of someone with it."

Rel was puzzled. "Why are we leaving the weapons here?"

Lantar looked across at him for a moment. "Because if a prisoner gets a weapon away from one of us, it could be turned on a guard, another prisoner, or a civilian. Probably not going to happen, given the circumstances. But I don't want to be the one who let the situation happen."

"Fair enough." Rel paused. "I could stay in the vehicle and keep an eye on everything."

Lantar shook his head. "They're not going to be able to open the hatch. Not without military-grade decryption gear. What we leave here is safe."

Eli pointed at the two little rachni workers. "Yeah. You two? Stay here. Guard our weapons, would you?"

They chittered at him a little disapprovingly, but stayed put, much to Rel's surprise.

Then, Lantar made sure that Dempsey and Eli were the first two out of any of the vehicles, and they got cheers as they walked down the Hammerhead's ramp to shake hands with the warden, who was a human male of average height, slightly balding, and who, in his fifties, actually wore glasses, which was unusual in this day and age. Lantar and Rel moved in behind the two humans closely, and only once they guards had started relaxing, did Lantar give the signal for Gris, Makur, and Siara to emerge from their vehicle, too. Livanus, Thell, and Fors had remained down at the base of the mesa. "About _fucking time_," one of the guards muttered, on shaking hands with Eli; Rel could hear the words clearly, but judged that the warden, several feet away, and talking with Lantar, probably couldn't. "What took you guys so long?"

"New Philadelphia's a mess," Eli told him quietly. "You got family there?"

The guard shook his head. "Nah. All my folks are in Helena. Or were. Christ." He rubbed his face. "Not exactly a lot of comm calls since the shit hit the fan. Some of our families lived close enough by, we were able to evac them here in the first couple of days. Mine. . . .not so much."

"Any idea where they might have gone for safety?" Rel asked, turning to look at the human guard.

The guard looked up at him, and Rel had the clear impression that, while not hostile, the human didn't know how to react to a turian. Terra Nova was, like most human colonies, largely a _human_ world. It was much larger and more cosmopolitan than, say, Mindoir, but it was still a human place. "There were other bunkers around Helena, but none were built like this place," he said, after a moment, and rubbed at his face again.

To Rel's surprise, Lieutenant Ryan Malcolmson was in one of the other Hammerheads. He hadn't seen the human male since Shanxi, but he _was_ a native of Terra Nova. And, in a lull in conversation, the male worked his way up, and asked, politely, "Spectres? If it's all right. . . I'd like to check to see if my family's here. I know they weren't in the refugee camps around New Philadelphia."

The warden, Wilcox, nodded. "Actually, let's get in out of the heat, folks. No sense in drying out in the sun." In fact, it was only a couple of hours past dawn, but Rel could see the wisdom in his words; the temperatures _were_ rising, and rapidly. Wilcox, in his office, gestured for them all to take seats. "I'll take a look through our roster of people," he told Malcolmson, whose dark golden features were strained. "Why do you think they came all the way down _here_ from New Philly, though?"

"My mom had a friend in Warhol," Malcolmson said. It was a small town on the edge of the desert. "She kept threatening to pack up my brothers and haul them there if they didn't straighten up their act. She might have headed there with them at the first sign of trouble. She did have a ground-car."

Wilcox looked through his lists, and shook his head after a moment. "No. Sorry. No one with your family name is here."

Malcolmson nodded, and said, "Thanks for looking, sir. I appreciate it," before nodding to Lantar, and being dismissed.

Wilcox looked at the rest of the people in black armor standing or sitting in his sparsely furnished office. "Okay. Let's talk. Not that I don't appreciate having some of the yahg taken off my front door, but I think we all know they'll be back. . . and in more force. . . the instant you leave. What's your goal here?"

Lantar nodded briskly. "Number of things. This place is already fortified. We want to use it as a base of operations for work here in the desert region. We've got supplies, and we _know_ there are other refugees out in the desert. We need to get those people out of their holes and to a secure location. This is as secure as we can find."

"Running out of room in the tunnels as is," Wilcox said, grimly. "But we'll do what we can. What else?"

"We're not the first Spectre teams sent to Terra Nova," Livanus said now, bluntly. "We have at least two confirmed fatalities, one missing, presumed dead, and three just plain missing. Nisha Cehl, Malcolm Henderson, and Kiranus Vessarian all were sent to this region, particularly towards the Icama testing facility to the southwest. They stopped reporting in a month or so ago. We need to find them."

"Or their bodies, you mean," Wilcox countered.

"The possibility exists," Lantar said, quietly. "You said you'd gotten radio transmissions from other groups of survivors in the area. Any locations?"

"They haven't exactly been disclosing their positions. And we haven't been able to get outside to triangulate." Wilcox took off his glasses and cleaned them. "We can do a general broadcast and try to get survivors to come here."

Rel shook his head and Dempsey said, bluntly, "And the yahg will pick them off. Nah. We have to go out and get the people back here."

Wilcox nodded. "And my concern is, the instant you guys leave, the yahg will be back here, and in more force. Since now we'll stand out even more. Before, we just had a thousand people here and were holding them off. Now, you've actually killed a couple of their bands." The words weren't accusatory, just thoughtful.

Lantar nodded, and said, firmly, "That's why I said I wanted to make this our base of operations for the region. It's strategic, it's fortified, and yes, it already has a lot of people here. And to that end, we're going to fortify you a bit. We're going to leave the geth units here to protect you."

Rel saw the warden's eyes widen a bit, and he wondered if that was a good idea. The geth were, technically, human allies now, but had been largely unseen by most humans since the Reaper War. "Geth?" the warden said, dubiously.

"They're the best choice," Eli said, suddenly, his voice firm and calm. "They won't be a drain on your resources; they don't eat or drink. They don't show up on biosign detection units, and it's a sure bet that the yahg here have never fought geth. We even have a few armatures with us. They can rotate through on perimeter duty with your guards and give them the chance to rest that they probably haven't had, considering that you're undermanned right now."

Wilcox nodded, slowly. "Yeah, I can see the sense of it. I just. . . geth?"

Gris chuckled roughly. "I can leave ten krogan here with them. And we could leave some of the rachni."

Wilcox shuddered a little. "Krogan I'll take. Not so sure about the rachni."

Rel glanced over at Eli, and was just as glad Eli had left the two little workers that usually followed him around in the Hammerhead. Otherwise, they probably have been perching on his shoulders and hissing.

Lantar again set Rel the task of looking at the terrain to the southwest, south, and southeast of the prison, looking for likely bolt holes and hidey holes. "Anything that a Spectre on the run might have used to stay out of the elements, and out of sight of the yahg."

"Still doesn't explain why the biometric chips haven't pinged, and why they haven't radioed," Rel reminded him. "Equipment failure on two chips each, and their radios?"

Lantar shrugged. "Could be jamming in the vicinity. Could be captive. Could be dead. But while we're out there looking for survivor groups, we need to look for our people, too."

"Not arguing with that," Rel replied. Deep breaths to make sure he _didn't_ argue for no good reason. "Eli often mentions needles and haystacks. This is one of them." There was a hundred miles of desert between their current position and the Icama testing facility, which was located in the mountains south of the badlands. There were uranium and eezo mining facilities due south. Uranium mining was usually a strip mining process, but the Terra Nova government had prohibited the practice in the badlands, because environmental groups had wanted to preserve the region's unique geological character. Which resulted in requirements for uranium and eezo extraction to be done underground.

After a couple of hours, and some consultations with Joker and Demostata on the _Nereia_ in orbit, Rel located ten different places in the desert that stood out to the ships' sensors as anomalous. Lots of disturbed desert pavement, for example, indications that heavy equipment had been used to dig in the vicinity over the years. Flashes of metal, visible from orbit during the day. Paths worn into the desert pavement, too, by ground vehicles over time. "Well," Lantar said, plotting a course between the various locations, "as soon as it gets dark again, we'll get moving again. Get some rest while you can, folks."

Rel looked at the tall fences, the guard towers and the edge of the mesa. . . and wondered just how soon the yahg would be attacking the correctional facility again. And he wasn't sure if he were longing for a fight, to ease the restlessness in him, or afraid that if he let himself slide too far down into combat mode again, he'd get lost in the blood-rage, and never find himself again.

**Author's note:** _Again, a big thank you to Fisher, for some notions of how a prison might look, and the sort of arms and armor a guard in the future might have._

**Elijah, Terra Nova, November 5, 2196**

The heat of the days made trying to sleep absolutely miserable. Sure, there were cooling systems inside their suits of armor, but in order not to use up air supplies from the self-contained systems, all of them were at least opening their helmets to sleep. And while the Hammerheads and other vehicles had cooling systems, too, and they all ran on either atomic slugs or hydrogen systems, running the engines unnecessarily was a waste of fuel. So, it was hot. And dry. And every inhale and exhale leached vital moisture from their bodies. Eli, Dempsey, and the other humans' mouths were cracked, peeling, and sore, after just a couple of days in the desert, and no amount of drinking fluids or lip-balm was going to solve that discomfort. And while they were, at least, sleeping in the shade of the Hammerheads, it was still close to 120º F inside, 48.8º C. "And this is fall, for them," Eli muttered to Dempsey late one afternoon, as he again tried, desperately, to go back to _sleep_. What little rest he did get, was riddled with dreams, but he couldn't afford to miss even a second of his rest. He needed to be sharp and clear-headed. As much as possible, given the fact that they'd been attacked twice in the last ten days during daylight hours, and twice at night, as their convoy moved through the desert. The rachni had boiled up out of the ground under the yahg's very feet the first time, and the krogan had charged in, roaring war-cries. Eli had squinted against the sun, the shimmering heat on the ground, and pointed out to Rel and Lantar a few places in the distance, where the shimmers didn't match up properly. "Observers," he'd pointed out. "They want to see how we deal with a surprise attack?"

"So they can adjust their tactics next time," Rel had agreed, tightly. "Let's make sure they can't pass on what they've learned."

The result had been a short brutal chase through the desert, and a vicious firefight that had left twenty humans and turians wounded, but seven more yahg dead. The wounded were sent back to Red Mesa for recovery time, and the rest of them had pressed on.

In the here and now, the heat pressed in around them in the Hammerhead. The good news was, it was too damned hot and dry for any flies or other such insects, though the ground teemed with ants and other such creatures.

"Pretty damned close to the equator," Dempsey agreed now, slowly. The other man was technically on-watch, though this involved sitting in the cockpit in full armor to avoid being baked by the daylight heat. "The krogan don't seem to give a shit. The rachni just dig down under the dirt and are perfectly comfortable. The turians. . . hell, this is what, a spring day for them?"

Eli shook his head. "Nah. Gets to about one-twenty or so mid-summer in Dacia province, where my boot camp was. Dara bitched about it, because she was there in the middle of the hottest months. In a rad suit, twenty-four seven. By the time I got there, it was fall. Monsoon season, anyway. Temperatures had dropped to the nineties or so. Of course, Palaven's also humid, most everywhere but a couple of large desert regions."

Dempsey raised his eyebrows slightly. "So what you're saying is, at least this is a dry heat?"

"Fuck that," Eli replied, instantly. "I've been in both. A hundred and forty here, a hundred-ten, hundred twenty with humidity? Both _suck."_

"Bet the drell would love it here, though," Dempsey said, quietly. "All this land around the equator that no sane human would go out in without protective gear. . . should feel like home to them." He paused, and Eli could practically see him lining up information and statistics in his mind. "What do you think it would take for the Alliance to allow a sub-colony of drell to settle here, anyway?"

Eli snorted. "More politics than either of us can think of, probably. The drell would have to agree to abide by human laws, be subject to human government, pay Alliance taxes. . . hell, probably become Alliance citizens. And I don't see it happening unless there are jobs out here for them."

"Mining," Dempsey offered, immediately. "Tour guides. I bet there are still some Rakhana native species in captivity on Kahje that could be released here in relative safety."

Eli made a face. "Allardus would spank you for that idea, Dempsey. You don't just release non-native species on a populated world without very carefully studying the ramifications. Allardus just spent the last ten years building a small-scale ecosystem with animals and plants on Mindoir. He's had a lot of failures as well as successes and _over_-successes. Don't get him started on the frogs. He'll talk your ear off for an hour about the damned tree-frogs he introduced to provide meals for the otters and birds and whatnot, and they promptly out-competed the Palaven amphibians he wanted to introduce to occupy the dextro half of the same ecological niche."

"I'm just saying, it's possible." Dempsey looked out the window. "The drell and the quarians are sort of in the same boat. Except now the quarians got their homeworld back. . . and the drell never will."

"Yeah. Supposedly. I still think that if people were talking about terraforming Tyr, which is Terra Nova's next closest neighbor in orbit, and if they're terraforming Tosal Nym and Aphras, they damned well could terraform Rakhana back to something habitable. The question is credits, which the drell don't have, and will-power, which . . . "

Dempsey finished, dryly, "the drell don't have, either.'

"Yeah." They went silent for a moment, and Eli reflected on the fact that the drell were like the quarians, as Dempsey had said, but in a way, they were also like a large number of the batarians. They were chained, not with slave collars and chips, but by tradition and gratitude and belief. One was a more overt form of slavery than the other, of course. And not every drell was a slave, and not every hanar was a master. But beyond that, the distinctions sometimes seemed a little too subtle to discern.

Rel half-opened his eyes. "The more you talk, the more moisture you're going to lose," he muttered.

"Bitching is the prerogative of every soldier," Dempsey told him calmly. "You get any letters in the last batch that came through?" He was looking at Eli. "Zhasa only sent a bit. Pictures, in fact, of the biggest goddamn bird I've ever seen. Locals on Arvuna apparently call them rocs, like out of mythology. Thirty foot wing-span. Big enough beaks to pick up a small shark. . . spend most of their days just gliding over the oceans. More like an albatross than a pterodactyl, though. Real feathers. Said one actually picked Kirrahe up, and he actually shot the damned thing down, mid-flight, and tried to get it to glide down peacefully. Zhasa said she had to time her jump just right to catch him and then disperse their inertia before landing on the beach again. He was, apparently, embarrassed but grateful." There was a pause. "On the plus side, apparently, they ate pretty well that night. Well, except for Zhasa, of course."

Eli was all too aware of the fact that Rel's eyes were still half-open. "Few reports, yeah," he said, non-committally. "So far, they seem to have made contact with Growth Zero and Eclipse." His stomach tightened a little. Dara's note had been written in a fair bit of haste, but he could hear her voice in every word.

_Tyr—_

_Not a lot of time to write, but I did get your letters, and I've read every word. Twice. I wish I were there with you; I can just picture that yahg collapsing on top of R., and I can, completely, hear Kali's bitching about the broken ribs. Yeah, I do think M. has better control of that cat than he lets on. It's acting damned near tame now. . . much more so than at first. Don't get me wrong. I still think it'd tear the hand off anyone who tried to scratch its ears. And it's far too much of a predator to be allowed around kids. But I kind of think M. has imprinted some behavioral modifications on its brain, somehow. It surely doesn't act the same now as when he first brought it back to the apartment after liberating it from the animal smuggling place on Bastion where he found it._

_Dealing with the Growth Zero people is not a fun chore. Wish to god either you or Forseti were here to handle this. I've got a handle on one guy who I have a pretty good feeling about. Seems to have been forced into the group by bad circumstances. Okay, yeah, he still made choices, and most of them were pretty stupid, but he doesn't seem to be ideologically nuts. A little embittered about the mining corporations on Shir, but not a genuine crazy. It's the ones we're going to go meet tomorrow that have me worried. They're what Yl. and Mel have told me is 'ideologically pure' which seems to be cop-and-intelligence-speak for 'lunatics committed to a cause.' Yes, I'm reading a whole bunch of books on this crap while we're traveling. Personally, I don't think there's anything wrong with them that a solid regime of amilsupride couldn't fix. (I'll save you the trouble of looking it up. It's an anti-psychotic, used for treating schizophrenia.) I mean, it might cause a little sexual dysfunction, but it beats what my dad would probably prescribe, which would be a bullet in the head, right? At any rate, we're going into their main camp tomorrow. Blindfolded, which is scaring the living shit out of me. I mean, I've got Sky right there; we'll know the instant there's a double-cross, and Sky absolutely won't permit anything to happen to any of us. . . but it's still scaring me. _

_Plus, there's the extra added bonus that, supposedly, they're largely letting us into the camp because a large number of them have come down with some pretty icky jungle illnesses. If it's true, they'd be stupid to threaten the only doctor in light-years of here who has the equipment, medication, and training to treat them. But, you know. . . 'ideologically pure.' Which is to say, crazy. Not stupid, as Ylara keeps pointing out. Absolutely, one hundred percent logical, so long as you accept whatever their opening premise is. I just don't know how anyone can buy into the opening premise that 'humanity is a disease, and we destroy everything we touch, therefore, no more humans should be allowed to encroach on Arvuna." When, in fact, they themselves are human. They're already here. They're already 'encroaching.' But, you know, they were here first. Well, second. The Protheans were kind of here first. And maybe even people before them. But I digress. Yeah. My big worry is that they're going to do something shit-stupid, like threatening Z or Mel or Sky to try to alter the outcome of a diagnosis, or to try to force me to treat someone who's untreatable, or something like that. And. . . Sky just told me to stop singing borrowed worry-songs. Guess that means I should get some sleep. Dreams haven't been too bad yet, but I'm sure that's just a matter of time. _

_Though, given the ambient temperature here is pretty much like Palaven, and where you're at is just slightly cooler than an oven set up to bake cookies, I'd like to say that someplace with a nice, non-tropical climate is where I'd like to go next._ Eli knew exactly what she was saying here, though she was very carefully not saying anything that couldn't be read out loud by their families. _She's following turian courting rules. Almost by instinct. It's actually really funny, in a way._

Dara had continued, lightly, _Dobrovolski is a frozen waste with no atmosphere. Demeter, well, there's nothing there but cabbages and cows. But breathable air and a comfortable temperature. Drasta, my god, just got out of the middle ages. They were on a barter system for five years for some crazy political reason. I guess that's practically the only reason they haven't been targeted by the batarians, but it's hardly a vacation hot-spot, either. So far off the beaten track, you practically need a radar telescope to find the closest outhouse. Elysium's nice, though it would be really, really weird to go someplace where my father fought and bled and watched his buddies die, when I was two years old. Kind of like returning the to scene of the crime, y'know? Feros is . . . well. . . covered in crumbling ruins. Kind of, again, not a vacation spot. And while Noveria might be a hell of a lot cooler than Arvuna is now, I'm not really in the mood for winter sports. Though I'd sure as hell take a cool breeze. Kasumi did mention, several times, actually, before I left, that she owns some property on Bekenstein. She's apparently been trying to drag my dad there to see it for years, but something __always__ comes up. So, I know no batarians or yahg have actually targeted Bek. Too close to the Citadel, and in the heart of Council space. I vote that we get stationed __there__ next. What do you think?_

_Yl. managed to get a quick snippet of extranet access last night, though most of the satellites are still jammed. Actually caught you on BNN, dealing with that reporter you mentioned. You didn't exactly look amused there. Hold onto your patience. You're doing a hell of a lot better than I would in the same situation. By now, I think I'd have asked M. to punch her._

_Okay, this letter turned out longer than I thought it would. I've really got to try to sleep now. Tomorrow, I get to go negotiate with the real eco-terrorists, instead of just the guys who kidnap expatriates all through the system for profit. So much fun!_

There was nothing in the letter that couldn't have been written by a friend, or a sister. Eli called the letter up on his datapad, and tossed it to Dempsey, who read it, snorting under his breath. "No names," Dempsey pointed out, "or at least, damned few."

Rel's eyes had opened all the way now. "Security," Eli said, calmly. "Nothing but squad names and initials, where we can manage it. You should have heard the boot camp letters. Alphabet soup, half of them." He'd gotten them all more or less second-hand, through Serana, but he knew that Rel and Dara had both used that convention from the first there. . . and so had he, actually, when mentioning his father or anything else on-base.

"So, they're going to be negotiating with crazies. Great." Dempsey's voice carried little in the way of inflection, but his knuckles were white as he gripped the datapad.

"Look at the date," Eli said, his own stomach tight. "They already did." _Already succeeded, or failed. God, Dara, I wish I were there with you. Melaani and Seheve had better be as good at their jobs as they seem, is all. . . _"On the plus side, when we find some of these groups of civilians out here?" Eli leaned his head back against the wall of the Hammerhead, feeling the warmth from outside through it, almost hot enough to burn his scalp, even in here. "We'll be negotiating with some crazies, too." _Which is where Lantar and Livanus would shine, if this weren't a damned human world. Which leaves me, or calling in Shepard from orbit, which we don't want to do unless there's no other choice._ They'd had the _Normandy_ blanket the area with comm signals, on all frequencies, letting any humans in the vicinity know that help was at hand.

Dempsey's lips tightened slightly, and he handed the datapad back to Eli. And while there was nothing in the letter that was remotely shameful, no words of affection, Eli was not about to offer it to Rel, unless Rel asked. Exchanging letters was the courtesy of squad-mates, really. A way of tying bonds to the extended family. Getting to know one another. Becoming brothers. _Until you're ready to let her go, I can't be your brother, can I?_

Rel's eyes locked with his, briefly, but Rel let it pass without comment.

That night, they checked out the fourth location that Rel had picked out, with help from Joker and Demostata, and for the first time, they hit pay-dirt. They convoy rumbled to a halt outside what looked like the entrance to a mine. Dozens of wrecked vehicles lay overturned around the access hatch, and Eli could pick out, faintly, as he switched up to night-vision inside his helmet, the words _Altai Mineral Works_ on a sign by the entrance. "Eezo?" he asked, over the radio.

"That and uranium, if I read the geological survey right," Rel replied, tersely.

"Wonderful," Fors said on the Spectre band. "In other words, I'll be safe, and those of you who are turian-turian should be safe enough, but the rest of you need to keep your damned helmets on. You don't really want to turn into biotics overnight. . . the really hard way."

_No, thank you,_ Eli thought, grimly. He was aware that he had the genes now. Right down to the Prothean gene tagging, applied to his ancestors like ancient human scientists had clipped the ears of wildlife with radio tracking tags, to observe how the beasts migrated and survived. Chances were, an eezo exposure _could_ tip the balance in him, and make him, like Dempsey, capable of throwing things with his mind. Just as likely, however, it would cause cancerous tumors to run through his body like wild-fire. Eli could just about handle the thought of being shot and killed in the line of duty. It would hurt like shit, but it would probably be over with quickly. Dying slowly and painfully over months or even years? _Give me a bullet any day_.

They emerged from the Hammerheads, and he and Dempsey were first up the ramp. Best to show the human faces, was Lantar's thinking. Dempsey hammered at the hatch, and Eli waved at the vid cam by the hatch, which actually looked as if it were powered, for a wonder. "Council Spectres," Eli told the camera, which might or might not have had a microphone. "We're here to help. Anyone down there?"

After about ten minutes, Eli turned to Dempsey. "I don't think that's a lock I can pick. Think you can get through the encryption on the door?"

"I can try."

Just as Dempsey flipped on his omnitool, however, the hatch slid open, and Eli could feel Rel, Lantar, Livanus and the rest reaching for weapons behind them. He put up a hand to stop them, just as a tall form in black armor leaned out of the hatch. "It is about damn time, " the turian in violet Baetika paint said, the red Spectre symbol on his armor clearly evident in the emergency lights inside the mine. "Kiranus Vessarian, folks. Lantar, Livanus, you sons of _villi_!"

Lantar and Livanus did, indeed, move forward to give Kiranus fervent wrist-clasps. "What in the spirits' names has been going on?" Lantar demanded, looking up at the taller male. "Why haven't you been responding to radio signals?"

Kiranus grimaced. "Therein lies a tale." He looked around. "First thing's first, though. I've got Henderson with me. He's alive. Just barely, but we've been treating him as best we can. Can we get him medevac'd at all?"

Siara moved forward. "I'm not much of a medic," the asari said, dryly. "But what seems to be his problem?"

Kiranus grimaced. "Radiation poisoning."

Eli felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. He hadn't met Mal Henderson often. The human Spectre didn't often work with Lantar, being much more special-forces oriented than an investigative type, and had, of course, largely been sent to human worlds. But he'd seen him around base. Henderson even had a daughter who'd been in Polina and Quintus' class at school, as best Eli recalled. "Radiation sickness from what?" Lantar asked.

"First set of caves we holed up in, about twenty miles north of here. We were on the run from the yahg, got to cover. Mal's omnitool was shot to hell, and mine. . . " Kiranus grimaced again. "Mine doesn't ping for radiation hazards that low." He looked at Dempsey and Eli. "Relatively speaking, of course." He rubbed at his face. "We wondered at the time why the hell the yahg weren't coming in after us. I guess _their_ detection equipment was working fine. The caves we were in had been assayed for eezo about twenty years ago. Not enough to dig for, but enough to set up background radiation so we couldn't actually radio out. We put it down to too much damned rock around us, and waited for our chance to break back out." He exhaled. "Turns out, 'not enough to dig for' can also mean 'enough to cook a human's internal organs.'"

"Fuck," Dempsey said, tightly.

"Yeah. I was carrying him by the time we got this far south. Found this mine, pretty much by accident. The miners all wear full environmental suits to dig down here. And they do have anti-rad medications. Their medic's been dosing Mal, but. . . it doesn't look really good." Kiranus looked at Lantar. "For the spirits' sake, tell me we can get these people out of here. Especially Mal."

Lantar nodded. "Yeah. We've got a forward position at the nearby prison."

Dempsey shook his head. "How the hell are we going to get them all there, safely?"

"Got any more vehicles than the ones that are busted up in front?" Eli asked.

Kiranus shook his head. "No. Just digging equipment, and that's no good to anyone." He sighed. "And we've got about two hundred miners in here."

Dempsey spun away. "Thell!" the human called. "You're with me. We got any other techs in the convoy? Get your damn tools, folks. We've got to get at least a couple of those trucks down there running, and as fast as we can. We can't ask these people to walk, and for damn sure, there's no room in our vehicles for them."

Eli was dimly aware that Lexine Elders was getting vid of all this as the Spectres and affiliates moved deeper into the mines themselves. He'd had to tell her, in no uncertain terms, that she was not to broadcast that they were using the Red Mesa prison complex as a base of operations for the moment. "The yahg may not know that yet," he'd explained, as patiently as he could. "They know we broke through their lines here, maybe. They don't know for sure how many people are in the complex, and they don't know that geth are reinforcing it."

"But I have to have something to report," she'd protested. "And surely, the news that progress is being made on Terra Nova is just the morale boost that everyone needs?"

"These people need to stay safe a hell of a lot more than you need to have something to report," he'd told her, then taken a deep breath, and offered, more diplomatically, "I realize that you have to have _something_ to file. Surely, there are other details you can offer your audience?" _No, you're not going to get a scoop. You're not going to get to report, ahead of everyone else, that, say, the Icama weapons testing facility was liberated today. But work with me here, what do you say?_

In the end, she'd offered a deal that Eli, with gritted teeth, had taken to Lantar and Shepard. Personal interviews with each of the Spectres and probationary Spectres. And while she couldn't report on every breaking development, she wanted to take footage 'on background' for an eventual documentary report. Subject to redaction, Eli had put in. Very stringent redaction. So, at the moment, she was safely out of the way, but the omnipresent camera still floated around. And now, it was floating entirely too near, as Kiranus explained that the background radiation had simply blanked out their signals in the first cave, and here, too. The miners had always had a repeater station up higher in the mountains, but that had been knocked out early in the yahg invasion of the desert belt.

"Where's Nisha?" Livanus asked, and put a hand over the camera's aperture.

Kiranus shook his head tiredly. "No idea. For her sake, I almost hope she's dead. We were assigned to get into the Icama facility. She's been a Spectre for over three hundred years. She's. . . old-fashioned about some things. She insisted that the Alliance and turian marines we were offered as a detachment would only slow us down."

"Like Saren. Or even Nihlus, spirits take him back to their embrace," Livanus muttered, shaking his head.

Kiranus grimaced. "I've been a Spectre since just after the Reaper Wars. Came in the same 'class' as you, Livanus. The only person who's ever been able to keep Nisha in line is Shepard."

Livanus shook his head. "And even then, only just. Nisha does what she wants."

_Old-school Spectre. One who believes that being outside the law makes her better than everyone else. Superior. Not accountable. And, apparently, immortal and bullet-proof as well._ "What happened?" Eli asked.

Kiranus exhaled, as several miners brought a stretcher up the shaft towards them, with a human form wrapped in a rad suit on it. "We got to the Icama facility. I can confirm that there are batarians there, at least. It's located atop a mountainside. Two roads in, both guarded. Nisha told us to make a 'distraction' at the front gate, while she went in at the back. Her plan was just to blow the whole facility."

Eli raised a finger. "Ah. . . .were there any human scientists or other personnel left inside?"

Kiranus shook his head. "Didn't know for sure at the time. Don't even know what the Alliance was testing out here. It's not a weapons range, for damn sure. No landing areas for ships, so it's not aeronautics. Nisha figured that the best way for a three-man team to handle it was stealth, diversion, and destruction, and the Alliance could pick up the pieces of its research later."

"And the pieces of the bodies," Rel said, suddenly, his voice hard.

Kiranus nodded, grimly. "We told her no, spirits no, there's got to be a better way, but short of hitting a senior Spectre over the head, what were we supposed to do?" Kiranus looked down at Mal Henderson on the gurney. "Mal suggested that we actually use _her_ as the diversion, go inside, see if we could get anyone out, at least. Which is what we were doing. We actually got around the yahg all right. It was the damned SIU agents that caught us, trying to get into the central building. Lots of biosigns in there. Human readings, as far as we could tell." Kiranus shook his head. "There were ten of them at least. We got forced back, managed to get over the fence, and ran for it. We got back to our meeting point, but no Nisha. Just yahg and batarians. No way to go back for her, not while we were taking heavy fire. We lifted off in our shuttle, got to the northern edge of the desert, and got shot down. Crawled out, still had yahg after us, got to the caves. A week later, Mal here was starting to get sick, and we figured we had a choice. North into better, but still occupied territory. Or south, back to Icama or maybe we'd make it to Red Mesa or stumble onto some other group of survivors. One with a working radio. See if we could finish the damn mission, was the original thought." Kiranus reached down and put a hand on Henderson's shoulder. "Last week or so, the mission's been 'keep Mal alive till help arrives.'"

"Help's here," Lantar said, quietly. "We're going to need all the information you can give us on the Icama facility. And if you've made contact with any other groups of survivors out there, we need to get them to safety if we can."

**Author's note: **_And a tip of the hat to Dermiti, for noting that the drell would be very happy to have a sub-colony in this wicked desert._


	121. Chapter 121: Arvuna

**Chapter 121: Arvuna**

**Dara, Hagalaz and Shir, October 18-20, 2196**

It was, Dara had to admit, a little disturbing to her, just how _comfortable_ Sky's ship was for her. It probably shouldn't have been, The interior was filled with white light and crystalline walls, but there were colors _inside_ the light that she could see now, filling it with warmth and life that were truly beautiful. . . and really very damned distracting. And the songs! They filled her, completely. It was an odd sort of balancing act, mentally. Without the songs, she'd lose herself. Would revert, entirely, to that not-very-human state at all. And yet, with the rachni song filling her, suffusing her, it would be so _easy_ to turn into Sings-Heartsong. To think entirely as a rachni might. To be one with the hive. _This is what a queen's job is_, Dara decided, after the first dizzying hours. _To be one with, but also apart from. Just as it is a brood-warrior's job. And my god, it's hard to do_.

Because of the song, she knew exactly what each room she walked through was for. Engineering was amazing, and inexplicable. A hundred workers swarmed over the reactor core and pillars of crystal that were, presumably controls and computers, singing cheerfully. _—Ship sings well._

—_Good songs. All systems sing in harmony. No dissonances._

Another compartment turned out to be food storage, and Dara's eyes widened. Hexagonal tubes reached all through the compartment, and again swarmed with workers. Each tube held different food types. Worker food, soldier food, warrior food, and queen's food, as well as a limited supply of royal jelly. Every rachni could eat moss, lichen, insects, meat, fruit, grains, and so on. But this was what the workers processed for storage and long trips. Each type precisely calibrated to the needs of the different bodies it was meant to sustain. _—New-queen hungry?_

_No, no. Only curious. Mind hungers for song, for learning-songs._

—_We sing to fill the mind-hunger._ Instant cheerful reassurance, and information, pouring in. Chemical compositions, all shimmers of tone and color, and quick images of molecules chaining together. To her surprise, she recognized shapes of proteins, hormones, sugars. _—Yes. We learn how to sing to you. That is shape of royal jelly._

Dara wandered to another room, and found that it was, apparently, a sleeping area meant for a brood-warrior. Sky's, no doubt. It had webbing in a corner, to allow him to rest and not be thrown about by sudden decelerations, and she poked it, lightly, with a fingertip. While this webbing looked just as crystalline as the rest, it was actually soft, but resilient to the touch.

—_Come with us_, Chopin urged, and, in a state of bemused wonder, almost trance-like, Dara followed her little retinue of workers, to the center of the ship, where, evidently, the workers had been busy. The room wasn't quite a queen's nest, but it was definitely a lair. . . and one designed with a human queen in mind. They'd even made her a horizontal web to rest in, with additional webs at the sides and even above her head, like the draperies of an old-fashioned four-poster bed. Except these draperies cut in at angles, resulting in a sort of trapezoidal cocoon. Dara stared at it for a long moment, before getting out of her armor and working her way in through a gap left in one side. It was, oddly enough, comfortable. None of the webs cut into her flesh, and it distributed her weight gently, while letting her sway a little in place, as if in a hammock. For a moment, she wondered what Eli would think of it, and then she chuckled under her breath. Eli would probably look at it, arch his eyebrows, and tell her that they needed to load-test the web's weight capacity, as well as its resistances to rapid movement stressors. _Am I going to wake up in this thing, look up, and think I'm having a nightmare about being trapped in a spider web?_ _Also, I don't suppose they have blankets for me. . . . _ Dara wondered, and looked around some more. There were crystal pillars in here, too, and once she unrolled from her web, she approached them, curiously.

Chopin, Liszt, Einstein, Strauss, and Wagner all chittered at her. _—Little-queen can feed mind-song from the ship's song?_

_I don't know how._ Dara frowned. That was a half-truth. Something was tickling at the back of her head, like a dream, half-remembered. Which was how all the rachni memories, poured into her mind from Joy-Singer were like. Echoes. The human mind couldn't consciously recall _all_ of it, not at once. So it became. . . instinct. . . memories. Dreams. Shadows.

Dara put a hand on the nearest crystal pillar, and sang under her breath, just a quick scale. _Do-Re-Me-Fa-So-La-Ti-Do_. And under her hand, under the _intention_ in her mind, the crystal flared to life. And it sang back to her. No view screens. No aerogel panels. Nothing like that was _needed_, because everything was in the _song._ The ship's computer sang to her. _Inquiry-song?_

_Sing to me of the ship's position._

_Entering system sung of as Hagalaz. Songs of arrival in—_ a scale that apparently meant _four hours_.

_Sing to me of. . . . _ Dara paused. She had no idea what to even _ask_ for. She looked around at her little workers, and frowned. "Wait. Aren't a few of you missing?" In her almost trance-like state, she'd missed that salient detail before. "Where are 1812, Wolfgang, and Zappa?"

Chitters. _—Two heard your worry-song. Went to stay with Many-Voices. Protect him. _

Dara blinked. That was surprising initiative from workers, really. But apparently, her worry had been loud enough that they'd taken it as an order. Which made her feel a little guilty. She needed these little workers to protect her sanity, but they didn't really need her.

—_Of course we need you! You are queen. You are heart of our hive now!_ Cheerful voices in her head.

"Okay," Dara said, out loud, her first spoken words in hours. "So where's Zappa, if he's not with Eli?"

—_That one went on the ship of the Spectres. There is a feline there for him to entertain._

Dara's jaw dropped slightly, and, against her will, she sat down on the edge of her cocoon-like bed to giggle under her breath. "Zappa went to the _Sollostra_ to harass Seheve's cat?" she asked.

—_Yes. Has he sung in error?_

_No, no. That's. . . that's just perfect. But won't he sing alone there? Will not the silence be too much for him? He is even smaller than I am, and the loneliness-madness is frightening._

—_He sings. You may learn to sing to yourself, too. Queens have learned this before. Life-Singer remembers this._

And so, guided by the cheerful voices of the workers, Dara started working her way through the ship's computer, and was simply dazed, all over again, by what she found there. Beauty and song and riches. Life-Singer _had_ done what few queens before her had done. She'd staved off the madness of being alone by learning to sing to herself, to split her consciousness into singer and listener. In other words. . . to develop her imagination. She had _invented_ songs to amuse herself, something entirely new to rachni, and something largely undeveloped since, but they were there. In case the rachni ever needed it again. There were reams and reams of information on how each star and planet that the rachni had encountered 'sang.' And Dara awoke from the font of information only when Sky sang directly to her, _Sings-Heartsong? We have arrived at the planet on which Sings-too-Swiftly awaits us._

_Sings-too. . . oh. Kirrahe._ Dara shook her head rapidly, and looked up at Sky, who loomed in the doorway of her small lair.

_You have sung long with the pillars-of-knowledge._

"Maybe a little too long," Dara acknowledged, out loud. Her back was stiff, and she had a crick in her neck that she was only now becoming aware of. "I'm not sure how to tell how much time has passed when I'm listening to them. One thing leads to another, and there's so much information, so many songs. It's hard to stop."

_Ask the little ones to remind you when—_a shimmer of concept, and the workers all hummed it back to her, to Sky—_an hour has passed. Then, it will be your choice to continue, or not._

"That's a good idea," Dara said, smiling a little. Now that she'd pulled herself to her feet, human needs were reminding her, loudly, that she definitely didn't have a rachni's body. She needed to relieve her bladder, and she was also _hungry._ Of course, rachni didn't really, well, secrete such things. "Um. . . " She coughed a little and looked at her workers in embarrassment. "I don't suppose there's a . . . ."

—_This way! Ammonia compounds will be useful._

Dara grimaced. She knew that urine was, technically, sterile when it emerged from the body. People had used it for hundreds of years for its ammonia content, particularly after being fermented or aged. Floor cleaners, laundry soap, even some forms of beer had all had small amounts of urine added to them—the term was, if she remembered it correctly, _lant_. Wool-processing and gunpowder had also owed debts to people's piss-pots back in the day. It was disconcerting, however, just how much the rachni really, well, recycled.

In short order, the _Lightsinger_ and the _Sollostra_ docked with the enormous ship that was powering through the storms that marked the solar terminator as Hagalaz very slowly indeed turned on its axis. The _Sollostra_ had brought about twenty more techs, who would be working on the enormous ship, and doubling as teachers for the various children there, as well. Ylara strode down the ramp of the _Sollostra_ ahead of everyone else, and Tulluust, her elcor mate, moved forward and caught her in one big forearm, while Telluura and Shellara almost climbed the asari in their eagerness to greet her. Then Shellara, after a hug from Ylara, spotted Zhasa, and squealed, running right for the quarian female, too. Pandemonium everywhere, greetings being traded, faces all eagerly straining for familiar, loved countenances coming down off the ships. . ..

Dara disembarked from the _Lightsinger_, once she was sure everyone was well-occupied with the people coming down the ramp of the _Sollostra_, self-consciously adjusting her dark glasses. She didn't want to spook any of the kids, but she'd promised Lantar and Eli to give their family hugs and kisses so long as she was there, anyway. And Dara, to her surprise, was suddenly on the receiving end of hugs from Kaius and Amara as they charged right into her. _Apparently, I'm always going to be a cousin, of sorts_, Dara thought dimly, as Kaius crowed, "Dara! I brought a _reela_ with me, too! So I can keep working on my music while I'm here. . . " and Caelia had grabbed onto one of her legs, and was urgently asking, "Is Daddy okay? Is 'Lijah okay?"

Total pandemonium, and she hadn't wanted to wear her armor. Too distancing. So she was trying her best to hug everyone without actually touching them with her hands, and that lasted up until Amara yelped and asked, "Dara, what _happened_ to you?" Mental voice, on the heels of the audible one. _You were always pure white, like snow or ice, and now there's. . . colors. Everywhere. You look like Sky, but Sky's a golden star in a nebula, you're the light refracted through a white prism. . . ._ Amara's song was a harp. Beautiful and delicate.

And on the heels of _that_ came what could only be Madison Dempsey's voice, which sounded like a trumpet, _Amara, what's the matter, you're scared—holy shit. She's right. What __happened__ to you, Doctor Vel. . . I mean, Jaworski. . . _

Dara crouched down, realizing that she was, at the moment, absolutely surrounded by kids. Amara and Kaius, whom she'd known since they were no older than Alain and Elissa, whom she'd held as infants. Caelia, Eli's little sister. The first baby she'd actually ever held, and she'd been such a bundle of feathers and teeth and wide, human eyes. Narayana, whom she'd seen hatch, such a cute little tadpole. And Tacitus and Emily were crowding in close, too, not to be left out. "I, ah, had a little accident," Dara said, quietly, and pulled her glasses down so they could all see the eyes. "Eli was there with me," she told Caelia, and offered the little girl her hand. "He made sure I got through it all right. Want to see?"

Caelia, wide-eyed, stared up at her, and cautiously took Dara's hand. _Okay. God. How do I sing this without overwhelming her?_ Dara concentrated, hard. Just one piece of the song. Eli's arms, holding her up, so that she wouldn't fall while carrying the little-queen around. Warmth and affection, protectiveness, fear for her, anger at Joy-Singer, but also wonder. _There. Something she can understand. Something that will reassure her that 'Lijah is okay, and that I'm still me, too._

Caelia's mouth fell open. Amara and Madison, clearly listening to all of that, too, gaped a bit as well. "Wow," Caelia said, after a moment. "And 'Lijah held you up the whole time?"

"A lot of the time. Lin helped, too. I don't actually remember a lot of that." Dara told the rest of them the story out loud, and was oddly reassured. There wasn't a child there who _wasn't_ a hybrid or otherwise 'odd' by the standards of their own species. They didn't _have_ the automatic instinct to pull back from the strange, the outré, the unknown, that other children had. And it was a damned relief that they didn't pull back from her. They, too, were part of the big Mindoir family. Amara and Kaius just hugged her, and Dara gave Caelia a kiss on the cheek. "That's from Eli. He said to only give it to you if you let me call you Duck, but we're going to ignore him, because he's just playing."

Caelia giggled, and backed up almost _into_ Estevan. Dara looked around. "I was also told to bring _this_," she said, and let her backpack down off her shoulders. Inside were toys and candy for _all_ the kids.

Madison asked, diffidently, as the rest of them scattered, chewing on species-specific taffy (asari only, pretty much), candied beetles (yes, Narayana, but you can only have two of those before dinner), sweetmarrow cakes, minus the bone meal (all the hybrids), "Is my dad okay?"

Dara smiled faintly. "You can ask Zhasa that," she said, nodding towards the quarian female, who was deep in talks with Kirrahe and a dozen techs at the moment. "But yeah. He's fine. He and Eli and Rel and a bunch of other people just got sent to Terra Nova. He's going to kick ass and take names there." She tried to say it with more assurance than she felt. _The yahg are there. Rel and Rinus and everyone else fought them and survived. Eli should be okay. Except, god, Rel damned near lost a leg and more to the yahg. I can't __treat__ wounds like that if I'm not there to treat them, damnit._

"You keep your face and your eyes and your voice completely calm, but you're still scared," Madison told her.

Dara sighed, and looked at him. "Damn biotics," she said, without rancor. "Me included, I guess." She reached out and offered her hand to him, and, after a moment, Madison accepted, and his eyes went wide. She tried to pour into him her sense of just how _good_ all of them were at their jobs. How unflappable Dempsey had been when they'd been undercover. How unstoppable he was in combat. _If he stays calm, he'll be fine. They should all be fine. I hope._

And yet, she knew that Madison was picking up some of the things she'd tried to shield from Caelia. The voices of the workers, in their constantly chatter in her mind. The hum of the soldiers and even Sky, singing softly in her, through her. Madison's eyes went wide. _Wow._

_I know. It's kind of scary still. But also, kind of __not__. Go talk to Zhasa. She'll be able to tell you more about your dad._ Dara took her hand away and tried to think about her music. Something easy to cue up in her mind. A block, of sorts. Madison didn't need to know that Zhasa herself had been dangerously sick just over a week ago.

Dara stood and looked around the hangar bay now. Narayana was standing very close, indeed, to Kirrahe, listening intently to every word he spoke to Zhasa and the various techs who were going to finish the work of repairing the massive ship. Kaius and Amara were now talking earnestly, and a little nervously, with Rinus, she saw, out of the corner of her eye. The nervousness amused her. They were the children of Garrus and Lilitu Vakarian, for heaven's sake, but among the kids, Rinus _still_ had the reputation as the family hard-ass. . . probably because he'd come down on Serana, Polina, and Quintus like the wrath of god for bad grades. _Of such small things, reputations and legends are born_, Dara thought, amused. _Then again, all I ever did was punch Mazz in the face, breaking my knuckles and two metacarpals by punching __wrong__ and held up his severed arm, and yelled at him a bit. . . before going and throwing up in the other room. And suddenly, the legend was born._

She hadn't thought of that moment in years, until the Spectre trials, when Mazz and the others had brought it up again. And now, as she stood to go greet Ellie, she relived the moment in her mind, and chuckled under her breath. Elijah had been in the room for it. He'd gotten _his_ throwing up out of the way when he'd found and retrieved the arm for Mazz at the foot of the cliff they'd been climbing. And he'd been trying to help Dr. Solus, who'd been knocked across the room by a punch from Mazz, while she'd been screaming at the krogan and trying to get through the blood-rage. She couldn't bring up _his_ memories of that day in her mind. Like the rachni memories, Eli's memories, poured through her to Joy-Singer, were faint. But she knew he was _in_ her, somewhere. Just. . . harder to reach. Harder to recall. Except when they were joined mentally, and the memories were evoked. Which tended to be vivid, when they'd been someplace together. _I must ask him to sing his memory of that day_, she thought, and winced internally when she realized that that had been a rachni thought, in some ways. But also a human one. Yearning to see through another's eyes, to see oneself through the eyes of another, to communicate the meaning of an event to each other. . . very human.

She'd crossed the cargo bay to Ellie now, and the shorter woman turned to look up at her, and Ellie's soft blue eyes, so different from her son's, widened. And filled with tears. "Oh, Dara," Ellie said in a tone that carried a world of hurt in it, "what _happened?"_

Dara exhaled. She was going to be hearing a lot of _that_ in the future, she had a feeling. "First. . . Lantar said to give you a hug and his love. And Eli said to do the same, but also said to give you a kiss on the cheek. And, well. . . that will probably let me explain everything at the same time." Dara offered a slightly nervous smile, and Ellie looked down and danced back a step, with a yelp, at the sight of the little workers skittering around Dara's feet. "You know what? My grandmother _screamed_ the first time she saw these guys," Dara told Ellie. "You're light-years ahead of her." Then she reached down and, very gingerly, hugged the woman. She couldn't help but remember Ellie's _old_ reactions to her. At first, affectionate and kind, generous with her time. Then, after the night of the cave, suspicious, even hostile. And Ellie _felt_ that in her, and stiffened, felt the old pain of the rejection, the hidden voice that had whispered, _no, she's not __my__ mom, but she's nice and she's kind, and now she doesn't like me. Is it just because Eli likes me, or is it because she thinks I'm bad?_

And the instant surge of recollection, triggered by association, _She's a good girl, but they're so damned young, too young to get serious, what if he gets her pregnant?_ and, at the same time, the bitter shame/anger, _She protected my son. My son protected her. They were both stronger and more adult than I was, it was my job to protect them, and all I could do was sit in a corner and wrap myself around Caelia. . . _ and the other voices over the top of that voice that said _kids that young shouldn't even know __how__ to use weapons, let alone be okay with killing. . . _and, on another level, instinctive protectiveness. _She's not good enough for my son. She's trying to take him away from me. All the hiding and the giggling._ And, from Dara's perspective, hidden kisses. Nothing serious. Friendship just starting to deepen, but Ellie's reaction putting a chilling damper on it.

Oversong and undersong, and the connected memories now, a web of them radiating out forever in all directions. . . . Eli holding her up in the rachni ship, in Life-Singer's palace, indigo song surrounding her, along with the red anger and the yellow-green surge of worry, and then, a different sort of concern, this time mixed with red of passion, instead of anger, silent whisper of _don't want to get you pregnant, your dad would cut my balls off if I did_. . .

Dara jerked her hands free and threw up blocks, instantly, and her face _burned_. She didn't need a mirror to tell her that she was scarlet. She knew _exactly_ why that memory had been evoked. Ellie's long-ago worry that Elijah could get her knocked up if they weren't careful, weren't responsible, had triggered the simultaneous recollection of just days ago, both of them wanting more than they could give each other. Honor and responsibility. Dara coughed and hoped, earnestly, that she'd cut contact in time.

Ellie's eyes were wide. "Eli was there with you the whole time? As the queen sang?"

"He was the only person besides Sky who could hold out against Joy-Singer's birth-song for long." Dara smiled faintly. "He told me to give you a couple of letters that he couldn't send by normal channels, since technically, no one knows where you are. Said they'd explain a lot of things for you. Best he could do by way of keeping in touch." She touched a panel on her omnitool to transfer the files.

Ellie coughed. "Ah. . . Dara. . . " She hesitated. "I never. . . I never hated you. . . I was just _worried_. . . ."

Dara's lower lip quivered. She'd thought Ellie disliked her for years. Had only felt acceptance from the female once she and Rel had gotten serious. Once she, Dara, was no longer a _threat_ to Eli. She understood it now. A little too well. And, from the look on Ellie's face, the woman understood _her_ now, too, in part. "I know," Dara said, quietly, and offered her hand, trying, hard, to keep the contact light. Ellie had a loving and compassionate song. Rich, gentle clarinet sound, like something from Mozart. _I know. You love him. You wanted to protect him._

Flashes of memory, years of worry from Ellie. The distance in him, when he'd come back from Macedyn. The deepening silence, on Edessan. The relief she'd felt when he'd opted to get involved with Serana, the joy of knowing he was going to be okay, he'd straightened out. _He's not going to go the bad cop route, get burned out, see nothing but darkness in people, wind up hating them, hating himself, he'll still have my little boy inside him, the one who used to pin on his father's badge and run around the apartment yelling "Freeze! Hands in the air!" at imaginary robbers. . . . _ the pride in Ellie when he'd made Spectre, yet mixed with a fresh crop of worry. Hurt and worry at the decision to split from Serana, anger at the girl, at Lin, as she suddenly realized, from Dara's memory, that the two of them were planning on getting married—_no, don't be angry at them. Eli wanted this. He wanted them to be happy together. He hurts, but he's. . . okay with it. He could have . . . dealt with all the problems. . . but it's better for __all__ of them not to have to do so. He's __okay__. . . he's more than okay. He's an amazing person. Always has been._ Bittersweet melody. Ellie's eyes widened. It had all taken about thirty seconds. Dara withdrew her hand. It had probably been more than Eli would have wanted her to convey to his mother. He might even be angry with her, although she hoped he wouldn't be. "Read your letters," Dara suggested. "I don't know exactly what's in them, but I'm sure he's got a lot to say." The file sizes had been larger than she'd thought they'd be certainly.

Behind her, she could hear Argus talking animatedly with Seheve and Zhasa and Kirrahe. "I wish I could go with you," the asari female said, her tone wistful. "I did my doctorate in Prothean archaeology."

"There's no reason you _couldn't_ go," her drell mate, Feron told her. "I can keep an eye on all our interests at least as well as you can."

"I know, but. . . it _is_ my responsibility," Argus told him, with a certain quiet serenity. She turned and eyed Seheve with a fascination that Dara found uncomfortably familiar. "You really understand the Prothean language as well as Shepard does? Lilu's only permitted me the lightest contact with her mind since she first encountered the beacon and the Conduit. I'm. . . really quite surprised that she permitted Blasto and Sky to touch her mind for the purpose of giving you the language."

Dara carefully slid her dark glasses into place. Kasumi had given her the set, with a concerned expression, lightly touching her face. . . which had let the yellow-green worry lance right through Dara for a moment. While she _knew_ that Argus was trustworthy, she also knew that Shepard hadn't come by her own aversion to asari mental touch without a few damned good reasons. At least three asari had forced mental contact on Lilitu Shepard over the years, and Argus, the fabled Dr. Liara T'Soni, was one of them. It might only have been _maieolo'rae_, as Eli would surely argue, but Dara was fairly sure that Shepard didn't look at it that way, herself.

Beside her, Sky stirred, and simply sang, quietly, _Truth-Singer understood that there was urgency, need-song. She gave of herself freely, to allow Sings-Despair to choose another song._

Seheve's huge dark eyes were veiled for a moment, by her lids. "And this. . . I will always be in her debt. As well as yours, and the debt of Spectre Blasto." She inclined her head slightly to Liara, and Dara envied her composure. The fact of the matter was, the asari looked almost consumed with curiosity, and Seheve simply didn't react. Just accepted the fact that she was being regarded like a cake on a platter with total equanimity, almost indifference, and moved away after that slight, polite bow of her head. _I wish I could learn to do that,_ Dara thought, with a sigh. The inner dignity, the ability to choose _not_ to fight, not to react, not to respond. . . that was hard. She could get a handle on it when she slipped into the hive mind a bit more. Reminded herself that she was, in a way, a queen, and wrapped herself up in the song, in the hum of so many minds that she almost ameliorated herself. Almost dissipated _Dara_ in Sings-Heartsong. But that kind of calmness and distance had a price on it. She could lose herself. Just as she'd almost lost herself in the stoic façade of the turian military, which had had anger seething under it at all times. The rachni calm was true calm, inner peace. . . but much less self. _Of course, a real queen is both herself and the hive. But I'm not a real queen. There's no way to know if I'd ever get __myself__ back if I slipped away. . . ._

They said their farewells. Rinus looked around, and muttered, "I almost feel like I'd do more good here, than where we're going."

It was a surprising thing to hear from the eldest Velnaran sibling. Dara looked up at him and asked, "Why do you say that?"

Rinus shrugged. "I could help fix this ship, no problem. I have _zero_ experience with Prothean ruins or human ecoteur groups . . . and my only experience with Eclipse has involved shooting at their ships from the Thanix cannon station and directing the Javelin crews in the same fights." He shook his head. "Mercs. Always hiring themselves out to the wrong damn people."

Dara shrugged and gave him a faint smile. "Ylara's been muttering that this can all be looked at from a political perspective. You're way ahead of me in that regard."

Rinus sighed. "Wonderful. Just what I wanted to hear." He patted her shoulder lightly. "You coming back on the _Sollostra?_"

Dara shook her head. "I think I need to learn a few things while I can." She swallowed. "Although, truth be told, it would be nice to hide right _here_ for about the next year." She really did wish she could stay on Hagalaz. There were enough songs here to keep her mind afloat. There was love here, and friendship. But _her_ job was to make sure that these people could, eventually, go home. _So, stop whining and go do your job._ Inner voice of the scathing drill centurion.

As she turned to head back up the ramp into the _Lightsinger_, she saw Narayana, still half Kirrahe's height, speaking to the salarian who was twice her current height. They were speaking in salarian, of course, and Dara was the only person present who probably understood them. _"You really have to go? I just got used to having someone around again who, well, doesn't hibernate half the day."_

"_Yes, I do really need to go, Nara. The good news is, all those scans I took of your brain patterns are coming with me. So, in a way, you'll be going with me, right? And if what I have in mind works out. . .I'll be able to turn our little pieces of you into a VI virus that will hunt down the Lystheni dalatrass."_

"_You think my father would be proud that I'm helping to hunt her down?"_

"_Dr. Solus? I think so."_

"_And Lantar, too. He likes hunting."  
_

Dara's lips twitched, and through a Herculean effort of will, she prevented herself from laughing at the disingenuous words. Nara, after a pause, went on, very sternly. Dara had never heard this tone used before. _"You're not allowed to get yourself killed!"_

Kirrahe's head snapped back. _"I'll. . . do my best."_

"_Do more than your best! You're not allowed to die!"_

"_I might be ordered to make a last stand. If other people's lives are on the line, there are times when Spectre. . . even a probationary one. . . can't surrender or retreat. . . Dalatrass Narayana."_ Kirrahe's voice was wary, and held a faint note of pleading.

_Oh, god, she just used command-imperative on him. _Command-imperative, for a salarian female, was a tone that enforced obedience from males. Command-_peremptory_ was a tone that every turian more or less could use on any other turian, of lower rank in their rank structure, with varying degrees of success. _No wonder he's squirming. If she orders him that he can't risk his life, she's basically just gelded him._

"_All right, I understand that,"_ Narayana said, her tone going sulky. _"I just don't want you to die! My daddy already died, Lantar's fighting, everyone's fighting."_

"_How about this? I'll do my best not to die, and I'll bring you something when I get back."_

"_What?"_

"_It'll be a surprise."_

Narayana considered that. It was a sop from the adult to the child, but Dara shook her head. In three short years, Narayana was going to be college-bound. Salarians matured _fast_. That would make them the equivalent of sixteen and twenty-six, respectively. One year more, and she'd be eighteen to his twenty-eight. . . effectively. _And brother, are you going to be in __trouble_ _then_, Dara thought, amused. There were other salarian Spectres, but the only other one that Narayana was likely to trust was Mordin Alesh. And while salarians didn't necessarily experience romantic feelings, Dara wasn't sure, honestly, how much of that was a function of brain structure, and how much of that was a function of upbringing and culture. A salarian girl who loved dresses, ribbons, and bows, and who'd _probably_ be taught knife-fighting and pistols for self-protection by a turian step-father? Might just knock the universe on its ass when she grew up. And probably Kirrahe along the way.

And thus, laughing softly under her breath, Dara headed up the ramp, back into the _Lightsinger_, ringed by her little retinue of workers. She paused to look back over her shoulder, and waved a little to Ellie, Caelia, Kaius, Amara, Narayana, Madison, and the rest. It was hard to read their expressions, but they mostly looked a mix of sad and happy at the same time. Ellie looked a little thoughtful, too, with her children clustered around her. And then the hatch closed, and the peaceful hum of the rachni song pervaded Dara's thoughts again. "Okay," she said out loud, looking down at her little worker escorts. "This time, I'm going to be reading from my _own_ datapads, okay? Still, don't let me lose track of time too badly."

—_Will sing to you reminder-songs when each 'hour' passes._ The concept wasn't really an hour, but close enough.

Dara smiled down at them. "You guys really are useful. Like Swiss army knives."

—_Thought we sang peanut-songs, not knife-songs._

—_No, we sing toast-songs!_

_You sing all sorts of useful songs,_ she told them, chuckling under her breath, and made her way back to her little lair, and curled up in her comfortable bed to read up on ecoteurs, the 'ideologically pure' terrorist, and so on. All in all, it was all psychological stuff. Motivations got fuzzy. There were tendencies and trends, and, swinging back and forth in her cocoon-like hammock, Dara opened a new file and started taking notes. _Kind of funny that Eli, who __hated__ history class, and __loved__ chemistry, is so damned good at this stuff. Motivations and intentions psychology. And I liked history just fine, but sometimes, understanding my fellow humans is just so damned hard. There are people out there who want to say it all boils down to chemical reactions in the synapses, and then there are the behavioral people, who think it's a matter of upbringing and conditioned responses. Both sound sort of like predestination to me. Either you're damned by your genes or damned by your upbringing, and everything you do is predetermined by one or the other. Where's the personal responsibility? Where's the accountability? Sure, someone might __have__ a chemical imbalance in the brain, but there's knowing that and trying to improve yourself, and then there's knowing that, and still acting like a complete and total jackass. . . . _Dara sighed and disciplined her thoughts. It didn't help her to think this way, when she was supposed to be reading about Growth Zero's goals and mission.

In sum, 'no more immigration.' The rallying cry of the British against the Dutch in Shakespeare's day had been that the Dutch Protestants fleeing oppression on the Continent had arrived, hadn't been guild members, and yet, were skilled craftsmen, who, in order to survive, charged less for their work than English crafters. "They take our jobs, they take our land, they speak only their own language." It didn't matter what century or what country, the scenario was always the same. And usually resulted, in fifty years or so, after the first waves of immigrants had died off, in their children and grandchildren assimilating to the dominant society. Maybe having enriched the language with a few imported terms, and certainly having enriched local society with more workers and, eventually, more capital. That was long-term, though. In the short-term, recent immigrants tended to be a drain on local resources, particularly in terms of health care. . . which of course, meant different things at different times and places. The insular nature of most immigrant pockets made them hard to police, and the language barrier made them hard to integrate. Those were the _normal_ reasons for people to protest immigration.

Growth Zero, which had been founded by Dr. Leszek Santo Bassanelli, a Polish-Italian immigrant from Earth, himself, was different. He was a xenobotanist who had, apparently, studied at University of Padua on Earth, and had grown gradually more and more radicalized while attending. Dara read excerpts from his doctoral thesis, and frowned. Her work with Allardus Velnaran over the years let her follow along fairly well, and, on the surface, what he said made sense. Every planet and moon _did_ have a carrying capacity. Malthus had predicted it at early as the late 18th century, in fact: that as humans continued to breed, that they would overshoot the carrying capacity of the Earth, and that starvation would ensue. What he hadn't been able to predict, in 1796, was that new crops would be developed, like triticale grain, which would stave off starvation. New methods of farming and irrigating, far more efficient than the traditional methods practiced for centuries in fields the world over, would stave off the "Malthusian era," for some time.

So, as far as Bassanelli's work went, the initial premise was correct. A cold, relatively dry world like Mars, even if it were terraformed, could not hold the population that a larger, warmer, moister world like Earth. Arvuna, which orbited the huge gas giant Dranen, however, was almost the same size as Earth. It had a surface gravity of 1.1 g, which hinted at heavy metals in its crust and core, and it was warm, even tropical there, with an abundance of water. A moon like Arvuna _could_ support many more than the exceedingly modest 10,000 humans that was the maximum limit to colonization that Bassanelli was willing to see leave Earth for Arvuna at the time of his dissertation. His assertions were that humans would surely wreck the fragile ecosystem of the jungle moon, as they had the ecosystem of the Earth itself. Dara shook her head. She'd _been_ to the ruins of Galveston Island, and had looked down through the bay waters to the buildings far below. She knew that there had been some ice losses at the North and South Poles. But there had also been quite a bit of technological innovation in the past one hundred years. Just because humans had made mistakes on Earth, using primitive technology, _didn't_ mean that they'd replicate the same mistakes on other worlds. Especially since they now had purchased or leveraged tech from the asari and the salarians and the turians. Technology that was two thousand years beyond what had been available in the twentieth century. Vehicles that had minimal emissions, for example. Clean power sources—although Bassanelli had been outspoken against the dangers of mass effect reactor cores and the distribution of eezo particles if they happened to explode.

Dara rubbed her eyes as she read, and a worker, chittering, ran up her arm and sang, lightly, —_Hour has passed, little-queen._

_Thank you._

—_Do you wish food-songs? We have queen-foods!_

Dara realized, abruptly, that Chopin and Liszt, singing pride-songs, had brought her rachni queen-food, in a container, which they pushed along on a low little cart. It wasn't quite royal jelly, which was used to allow a hatchling queen to grow and mature rapidly, and also, apparently, to help a queen heal quickly if she were injured. . . but it was definitely tailored to rachni body specifications. She also damned well knew that they _secreted_ it. She opened her mouth to say _no, thank you. . . ._

Except. . . the golden mass serving of gel in the little container that the workers had brought smelled like the best wildflower honey she'd ever tasted in her life. Dara's mouth watered. "Okay. We're not telling _anyone_ about this," she warned them all.

—_Private-song?_ _Confusion-song!_

Dara hesitantly dipped a finger into the honey-like substance, and licked it. The smell wasn't quite like the taste. The smell was purely sweet; the taste, far more complex. The workers hummed picture-songs of protein chains and other important chemicals into her mind, and Dara realized, suddenly, that she was _starving._ And after digging in her sea bag for a minute, she managed to come up with her field kit. Knife, fork/spoon, and a metal coffee cup. The spoon got rather seriously employed. The initial concerns about toxicity and the food's interaction with her biology got thrown by the wayside, in fact. _Hey, if Sky has managed to survive my dad's five-alarm chili, how can this possibly hurt me?_ After a bit, as Dara was scraping the container clean, she looked at the rachni workers in embarrassment. "That was. . . really delicious," she told them.

—_Joy-songs! Little-queen approves!_

Chuckling, Dara held up her sticky fingers. "Thank you. Um. . . . is there someplace where I could clean up?"

—_Cleaning-songs!_ the workers crowed cheerfully, and ushered her along to a large open area, where streams of water blasted out of walls at improbable heights. —_All need cleaning,_ Einstein assured her. —_Brood-warriors and soldiers after singing battle-songs or singing exploration-songs on dangerous planets. Workers after dealing with acids or other chemicals that sing caustic songs._

"I guess I _could_ use a shower, though I was more thinking of just washing my hands. . . " Dara said, looking up and up; there was a light, far overhead, and absolutely no shower stalls. Just the silver-white fretwork of rachni construction, and water streaming out of spigots, everywhere. _Like I'm about to go through the world's fanciest car-wash,_ she thought, amused. _God, Eli would love this._ "Er. . . how do I turn this down just a bit?"

—_Meant to scrub carapace clean._

"Yeah, but my carapace is soft."

—_Less soft now than before last molting._

Dara's eyebrows crinkled. She had no idea what that one meant. "Okay, yeah. But lots of nerve endings. A little less water pressure, please. I don't really need a fire hose here."

Back in her room, more reading. Constant hum of rachni minds. They were reading with her, she realized. Sharing her puzzlement. And, dimly, she could make out _Sky_ in all the other voices, asking questions. _Why did he come to sing destruction-songs?_

_I don't know. It just says he moved here in 2174. . . hah, before I was born. . . two years after completing his doctorate. Part of a corporate colonization team. He got married in 2175. By 2177, he was protesting the building of a huge resort on the main island of Delos on Arvuna. On the grounds that it would attract thousands of tourists a year. Huh. 2178, he's suspected of planning and carrying out the bombing of the construction site. 2179, he and Growth Zero took out the He3 mining platforms around Alformus, which destroyed the ability of ships to refuel in-system. 2180 through present, they have two sources of revenue. . . donations from other organizations, made to their political action committee and . . . yeah, laundered. Untraceable volus securities accounts. Great. Like I know anything about this. And the other revenue stream. . . taking expatriate miners on Shir hostage in exchange for ransom. Also cruise liners in the area hijacked. Protection money from scientists who want to dig for ruins on Arvuna or any of the other forty-three moons. Protection money from the terraformers trying to make another moon habitable for volus. . . guess he doesn't care if the volus immigrate, huh? They're not after a piece of his own private paradise. Drug money. . . not as much as Eclipse, but drugs for guns, apparently. _

"I don't get it," Dara muttered. "Why would someone go from being, yeah, idealistic and pretty annoying to militant. . . inside of, what, three years. . . ?" She looked through the records, and found a picture of Teresa Bassanelli in Leszek's record. His wife had also been Earth-born. _Oh, here we go. She died in 2177. Two years after they got married. Six months later, he bombed the hotel site. What did she die of. . . .huh. Got caught in a rockslide? Natural enough phenomena. . . oh. She was protesting the building of the hotel. Was under the cliffs on which it was being built, when the cliff-face on which they were building gave way. The company noted that their geologic surveys hadn't shown any weaknesses in the cliffs, and blamed the collapse on sabotage._

_Huh. Guess there's probably a way to find out if that was true or not, but if there is, but damned if __I__ know how. . . . It was nineteen years ago. And while I can kind of understand being pissed at the corporation, I can't even remotely understand attacking all these other people. The Mafia-like protection racket._ _God, if only I could talk to my dad or Eli or Lin or Lantar. . . well, there's Ylara and Melaani. Talk to __them__. They're here._ Dara looked up at the little workers crawling around on her bed's webbing. "Er. . . I'm sure there's a way to contact other ships by comm channels." She paused. _Actually. . . is there? I know Eli had the __Raedia__ contact Sky when he needed to get Sky aboard for me, but. . . how did Sky talk back? Maybe he and Lysandra worked out some Morse code or something. . . ._

At her words, the workers scuttled to one of the crystal pillars in the room, and Dara had a feeling that they were looking at her expectantly. She sighed, stood, and followed them, touching the pillar lightly. And, after a moment, found herself humming under her breath lightly, and the pillar lit up. This was actually harder than browsing through the database. This was more focused. She had to discipline her mind, because the computer, unlike the workers, couldn't respond to undersong. . . but a muddied intention would confuse it. And. . . realized her mistake. The rachni comm transmitted sound as _thought_, directly into her mind. So she could hear what Ylara or Melaani would say. . . but there were no microphones or vid cams on this end. _So, we do it the old fashioned way. With a text message_. Which still didn't explain how Sky had communicated with Lysandra and the _Raedia_ a few weeks ago. _Maybe he didn't. Maybe the __Raedia__ sent the message, dropped out of FTL, and Sky responded by just . . . docking._

Dara sent her questions to the _Sollostra,_ and about an hour, got some helpful comments back from Ylara, Melaani, and even Seheve, much to her surprise. Melaani's advice was useful: _The last thing you want to do is argue with someone like that. They're entrenched in their beliefs. You're not here to persuade them or batter or bully them out of their worldview. You're here to get them to do what you want them to do. _

Dara exhaled. That was going to be hard. She'd spent five years in the turian military, after all, and there was nothing a turian loved more than a good fight, a good argument. If you could persuade someone to your point of view, it was one of the highest compliments there was.

Ylara's advice was similar, and included, _So find some part of their worldview, however small, that you can sympathize with, and work from there. _Seheve's advice, too, ran along the same lines, and added, _The personal is always easier to find sympathy with, than the ideological. _

_Yeah, except it's a good bet that his wife got her stupid self killed by undermining the cliffs that she was standing under. Or, hey, maybe someone else in Growth Zero undermined them, and didn't bother to tell anyone. Of course. . . that's hostile thinking, not sympathetic. God. This is going to be hard._

**Seheve, October 20-25, 2196 _Sollostra_ and Shir**

"Loki? What's wrong?" Seheve had been attempting to meditate, and the feline absolutely wouldn't let her do so. The beast had oozed under her elbow, and then nudged her head under Seheve's hand, and then purred so insistently, that the drell felt almost obliged to pet the animal. She'd decided to give the creature the face-name of _Loki_ simply because the beast was Terran, and a born trouble-maker, if ever she'd seen one. No matter how careful Seheve was, the beast _always_ seemed to get out of the observation deck. Or would curl up and sleep in the middle of Melaani or Ylara's clothes, getting fur all over them. Both asari had been amused the first time, but not as much the second or third. Now, however, Loki was staring under the nearest bunk. Her eyes were huge and fixed, the tip of her gray tail twitched, and the whiskers—so delicate and alien, and yet how amusing an appurtenance for an animal to have—bushed forwards as the animal slowly shifted her weight forwards. _She's stalking prey_, Seheve realized. _What could possibly be on board?_

She got her answer as a streak of green carapace shot out from under her bunk, right for Loki's feet. The cat _jumped_, straight up in the air, and the rachni worker scuttled for safety under a different bunk entirely.

Seheve's head snapped around, tracking the small creature. "You shouldn't be aboard," she said out loud, feeling foolish, as she picked up the edge of the bed clothes to peer under the bunk. "Your place is on the _Lightsinger_, is it not?"

The worker chittered at her. She could see writing in human letters on its back, but she'd have to key her omnitool to translate the word. This meant, therefore, that is was a worker that attended on Dara. Seheve wasn't quite sure what to make of that, but the human female had acknowledged that change in the heart was difficult to show to people. Much more so than physical changes. And Seheve knew that _she_ had changed. Even if no one else ever acknowledged it. . . perhaps that was enough.

And now, Loki rolled to her side on the floor and began to jab at the worker with soft paws. "Stop," Seheve told the cat. "You will damage him."

_Chitter, chitter._ The worker scuttled forward and _poked_ the cat's exposed belly before scuttling back again, just as Loki flipped around and tried to grab him.

Seheve sat there, with her mouth hanging open, as Loki tried, again and again, to catch the wily little worker. Loki leaped up on the bed and tried to jab at him from a different, safer angle now. . . and then promptly fell off the bed. The cat got to her feet, took two disgruntled steps away, and, with her back turned to the bed, began to groom herself vigorously. Tail still lashing.

The worker crept out from under the bed and pulled on the tip of her tail.

The cat whirled and managed to get a paw on a feeler, bending it, and then the worker scuttled away, chittering, and went up a nearby wall, where Loki stood at the base, on her hind paws, vainly scrabbling. Then the cat found a desk to leap up onto, and proceeded to scrabble a little higher on the wall.

By this point, Seheve couldn't help herself. She was laughing, almost uncontrollably, as the door of the observation lounge opened, and Ylara, Melaani, Rinus, Zhasa, and Kirrahe walked in. "Something's amusing?" Rinus asked, and, as Seheve pointed, helpless to reply, he looked up, squinted, and sighed. "Ah. Cats. The human answer to the _lanura_. Spirits help us if both species had wings." He walked over and retrieved Loki from the top of the comm panel, and handed the frantic animal back to Seheve. Loki chirruped appealingly, and the worker chittered from the wall.

"He's lost?" Zhasa asked, pointing up at the worker.

"I think he was actually trying to play with the cat," Seheve managed, after several deep breaths. "Why, I do not know."

"They only do what they consider to be their jobs," Zhasa said, sounding interested behind her mask. "Somehow, that one believes this is his task."

Ylara shook her head. "We're coming up on Shir," she said, getting the meeting back on track. "The _Sollostra_ will be preceded through the mass relay by the _Procudor._ It's an SR-4. The gunship will attack any batarians past the relay, and let us cut through the lines and go silent, then pull back through the relay. It's a fair bet that they will be looking for us for the first couple of days, so radio silence will be a must. We'll drop a couple of comm buoys and activate them once we're far enough away from them to avoid detection. . . and those will have our messages for Growth Zero and Eclipse and any Alliance forces left in the area." Her voice wasn't hopeful.

"You expect there to _be_ any Alliance forces?" Rinus asked, darkly. "This area wasn't exactly stable to start with."

Ylara shook her head slightly. "I don't honestly know what to expect. Except that we _must_ make alliances here. Otherwise, we won't have the capacity to do much. We will have rachni with us, but no other military troops." She sighed. "So, we will deal with those with whom we would really rather not deal. No choice. There are not enough troops and ships in the galaxy to take every planet back by force. Once we hear back _something_ from either Eclipse or Growth Zero, we'll need to make arrangements for meetings. This will be somewhat dangerous. Seheve?" The asari turned and looked at her, and, surprised, Seheve blinked. "You will be in charge of keeping Melaani alive through the Eclipse negotiations."

Melaani shook her head, emphatically. "They can't see me as weak," she said, immediately. "An Eclipse sister is viciousness itself. If I'm presenting myself as someone like Nisha, a huntress and mercenary turned Spectre. . . I can't have a bodyguard."

"I did not say that Seheve should be a visible threat. Merely. . . there. And if any person attempts to attack Melaani or myself, kill them. No questions, no hesitations, nothing. Can you do this?"

Seheve lowered her head. "Of course," she murmured. Body-guarding had been her very first task, after all. An old, familiar, comfortable role.

Twelve hours later, they did, indeed, race through the mass relay and exit into the Aysur system. The yellow primary star was a hot chip in space ahead of them, and the klaxons sounded throughout the ship as they followed in the _Procudor's_ ion wake, and the _Lightsinger_ raced out behind them. Seheve grabbed onto a strap on the wall and Loki yowled and tumbled into her legs as the ship pitched and yawed, ducking and dodging around the batarian fighters and frigates that were taken completely by surprise by the _Procudor_. Cannon blasts and Javelin strikes lanced out from the sides of the _Sollostra_, too, as she sought to aid her fellow ship. . . .and a streak of violet light raced past all of them. Something had been fired from the _Lightsinger_, but Seheve had no idea what. . . .and it was followed up by several more shots, which looked like missiles, but didn't explode on impact. _What in the Enk. . . ._ Seheve stopped the thought, and just stared out the observation port window. Rachni missiles didn't explode. They _dissolved._ She could swear that chemical reactions were spreading out from the impact site on the hull of the batarian ship, sending out cracks and diseased-looking patches in the metal and polyresin ablative coating. _This is what the Reapers feared_, she suddenly understood, with cool clarity. _If a civilization emerges that does __not__ follow the ladder of technology established by the mass relays, by eezo exposure, they will be so different that their attacks will be difficult to mitigate against. This is why the Reapers. . . through their Collector agents. . . sought to wipe out the rachni so early. Heaviest reliance on biotics of any known species, and they absolutely do not fight or think like any other species._

With two batarian frigates disabled, seven fighters destroyed, and six batarian ships leaking coolant from their drive cores, and catching transmissions calling for reinforcements, the _Lightsinger_ and the _Sollostra_ headed deeper into the system, shifting to their stealth drives. The _Procudor_ sent one message after them: _Good hunting_. . . and then vanished back into the relay. Now, they were on their own.

Seheve looked out into the blackness of space, and reflected, _It was ever thus, though. I have always been alone on my missions._ She turned slightly, and looked around the port observation lounge, where Zhasa was now dangling a piece of electrical cord for Loki to attack, while the rachni worker chittered disapprovingly at the quarian female, Rinus and Kirrahe were arguing over some technical specifications in the corner, and Ylara was writing something on a datapad. _Although this might be the most crowded mission I have ever undertaken alone._ A very faint smile pulled at the corners of her mouth, and Seheve turned back to the stars for the time being.

Four days later, they had their first replies to the messages being transmitted by the buoys. They'd been careful to use channels and encryption protocols that Eclipse and Growth Zero were known to use, but even so, they had to assume that _everything_ said, could be monitored by the batarians. Positions could be triangulated. Encryption could be broken—everything except one-time codes, really.

Ylara directed that Sky and Dara come over from the _Lightsinger_ now, and the human female arrived, with a half-dozen rachni workers scuttling around her feet. The one that had been harassing Loki for days made a break from cover and rejoined the others. "Oh, _there_ you are," Dara said, looking down at them. Her eyes, which had always been alien and _wrong_ looking, as human eyes, with their whites and exotic, colored irises, tended to be, now looked even stranger. Rachni eyes in a human face. And her skin tone had changed. Seheve hadn't heard any of the others mentioning it, and had held back questioning Dara solely out of politeness. Years ago, Seheve had been given gene mods, to allow her to understand the Master's bioluminescent speech patterns on his skin, rather than through a voder. And now, she suspected that she could see the mother-of-pearl iridescence on Dara's skin for precisely that reason. _Perhaps the human is not even aware of it herself. I should not speak of it, and make her uncomfortable._

Dara was looking down at the errant worker still. "The others said you'd come aboard to continue entertaining the cat?"

The rachni chittered up at her. Dara raised her head and looked at Seheve. "Zappa here is happy to report that your cat only bent one of his feelers, and tried, twice, to gnaw on his head. But that the cat is healthy, happy, and well-entertained."

Seheve's felt her lips twitching. "And watching the two of them at play has been a lesson in determination in the face of utter futility," she noted. To her amusement, the other workers actually pulled back, warily, as Loki stalked forward, seeing _many_ toys now, where once there had only been one.

About an hour later, they received the first message, which was cautiously worded. _"Relai L'sia, your Eclipse recognition codes are. . . surprisingly up to date. Either our security is much worse than we thought, or you genuinely did serve. Under whom, and when?"_ Seheve understood enough asari to get by, and she could see Dara concentrating intently, mouthing the words as she repeated them silently, trying to uncover their meaning. The cover name was an old one, apparently.

Seheve watched in interest as Melaani's face, usually open, placid, and happy, went set. The asari exhaled, and visibly _became_ someone else. When she opened the comm line, she waved the rest to silence, and transmitted, "_Lasii'a T'ana was my commander on Luisa, when I went as Relai. Pure-blood bitch that she was. Name's Melaani T'soa now To whom am I speaking?"_

"_You don't need to know that."_

"_Fine. Get back to me when I can talk to __Esirra T'laro. I don't have time to talk to flunkies and underlings."_ Melaani clicked the comm channel off, and exhaled again, her face becoming mobile once more, instead of something carved out of ice.

Rinus looked up at her dubiously from where he sat around the long conference table with the rest of them. "Rumor has it, every Eclipse sister has to murder someone to earn her uniform."

Melaani grimaced. "Wasn't always true. A hundred years ago, before the Blood Pack started picking up vorcha, and before the Blue Suns even existed, the competition between merc bands wasn't as, hmm, intense. It's become much more a battle in which the most vicious survive and thrive. And when I joined on Luisa, the whole 'murder' initiation was just getting started on Illium. Wasn't actually required by my local commander, but just to establish my _bona fides_ as a crazy bitch that no one wanted to cross, my fellow officers and I set it up so that it looked like I shot a cop to death in front of other Sisters. They were so rattled that they didn't stop to check the body. A nice hard suit vest under the clothes and a kinetic dispersion field near the ground to break her fall when she toppled off the balcony was really all we needed. That and a news feed article planted about a cop killed in the line, funeral pyre arrangements pending notification of the family. And so on and so forth." Melaani passed it off as if it were no big thing, but Seheve could see a faint strain in her face. It had been a lot of work, just setting up to infiltrate the Sisterhood.

"How many years?" Seheve asked, quietly.

"Fifteen. Fifteen with them, another fifteen with the Goddess' Path, and five with Memory of Thessia." Melaani grimaced. "In between work with gangs, gun-runners, and narcotics. Don't let the vids fool you. Pretending to be scum every day of your life isn't glamorous. At the end of every assignment, I felt about as clean as. . . what's that stuff that humans used to chew on, and spit, Dara?"

Dara blinked. "Gum."

"No, the other stuff. Brown. Leaf-derived."

"Ewww. Chewing tobacco."

"Yes, that. I felt about as clean as a used mouthful of _that_." Melaani shrugged. "I'd take a break between the long-term assignments and try to get my bearings. It's the only way to survive, really. Otherwise, eventually, you wind up not knowing who you are."

The words hit Seheve, and she lowered her head, realizing, as she did so, that Dara had done the same.

The comm channel chirped, and a different asari voice, this one rougher and older, spoke now. _"T'soa? You killed a cop on Luisa back in 2136. You really expect me to believe that __Shepard__ the World-Killer made __you__ a Spectre_?"

Melaani let her painted-on eyebrows rise. _"What can I say? Maybe somebody made the records disappear. Amazing what can be done with the right amount of money."_ From supercilious to harsh in an instant. _"Though, if this isn't T'laro, I'm just about done talking to you idiots."  
_

"_This is T'laro. Change to this encryption key. It's on a subchannel."_ There was a pause, as everyone got their communications in line. _"We did get readings from the local monitoring stations indicating that three ships had jumped through the mass relay and wrecked some of the __n'maieolo'mai'a__ batarians."_ The asari insult held levels of nuances to it. It meant. . . 'unsharing ones.' People who were selfish, greedy, close-minded, uncaring. It could mean people who were unsharing of their property, unsharing of their time, their body, their mind, anything, really. In context, a human would have translated it as 'those greedy fucking batarians.' But in asari, it was far more damning and far less casual. _"That you, T'soa?"_

"_Myself and a few fellow Spectres."_ Melaani's face was taut.

"_You in charge? Or are we looking at the usual turian or human-led team."_

"_Ylara Alir and I are in charge."_ Melaani looked at Sky and lowered her head in a quick bow of apology. _"We're looking for allies who can work with us to encourage the __n'maieolo'mai'a__ to leave. Preferably without taking any more of our sisters as components for their living-weapons."_ Melaani laughed without humor. _"Personally, I think Aliir would like to see them all leave in body bags."_

"_Is that so?"_

Ylara leaned forward, and the gentle, quiet warmth of the Spectre was now gone, completely. In her place sat a huntress. A female who had chased and been chased all over the galaxy for hundreds of years. She might as well has been carved of pale blue nephrite. _"They took my eye, and nearly took my mind. I plan to take far more from them before this is done."_

A few more wary exchanges. T'laro apparently wanted to meet them on the surface of Shir, and wanted assurances that they wouldn't work with any other groups. Ylara shook her head, and Melaani took care of the response, _"We're going to make contact with every resistance group in the system. You won't be working with them. You'll save face. You all will be working with __us.__ If you wipe out Growth Zero after we leave, so much the better. They're a hindrance to commerce in this backwater anyway."_ Melaani paused, and Rinus and Kirrahe were frantically bringing up a map of the system, and Rinus tapped on Shasu, the third planet in the system. Shasu had mining outposts, too, but had a thin atmosphere of helium and hydrogen and very little in the way of gravity, so it was considered suitable for robo-mining. _"We can meet you on Shasu. Is this amenable?"_

"_We have a facility on Shasu. It's secure enough that we can welcome you there."_ The voice was very cautious. _"Coordinates attached on subchannel._"

Rinus had been reading the VI translation as the others spoke, and once the comm line was cut, he snorted. "This reeks of a trap."

Melaani grimaced. "That's the price of doing business with untrustworthy people. Periodically, you _have_ to extend the hand of trust, and hope that you don't get it bitten off." She looked at Ylara. "Who's going with us?"

Ylara looked around at the other Spectres. "Not Zhasa. They would see a quarian as a weak target. No offense—"

"I understand," Zhasa said, immediately.

"Not Rinus, either. Turian, and if they've done _any_ research at all, they know he's related to Garrus Vakarian. They know Garrus is Archangel, by now," Ylara said, calmly. "They know he's _death_ to rogue merc groups. And we know that they're not any more averse to kidnapping for profit than Growth Zero is."

Rinus sighed. "Don't I feel useless."

"You're also male," Melaani told him, with a faint smile. "Aggressively so. Psychologically, we want them in their comfort zone, and that means people who are _like_ them, on some level."

Rinus chuckled. "I'm not cutting off my spurs, so I guess I will man the Thanix cannons in case you need an extraction."

"Let us hope it doesn't come to that," Ylara said, quietly, reaching up and touching her prosthetic eye lightly, before actually _removing_ it. "Seheve will be with us. Kirrahe could come, for additional backup."

Melaani looked over at Dara. "What about Dr. Jaworski or Sky?"

Dara grimaced slightly. Ylara shook her head and put her false eye into a carrying case. "It might not be a good idea," Ylara said. "They'll almost certainly expect to be allowed the courtesy of Thessia with each of us."

Seheve blinked. "This means the touch of minds?" she asked, quietly. "Will this not mean that they can sense deception in us?" _How then,_ she wondered, _ was Melaani able to hold up a façade that lasted decades among a species that is comprised entirely of biotics?_

Melaani exhaled. "It's possible to hold back information. The courtesy touch is meant only to convey surface thoughts. I was always able to focus on my intentions _at a given time,_ and block the rest from deeper touch. Then again, I was never forced to share with an Eclipse matriarch. From all accounts, T'laro is almost four hundred years old."

Seheve's eyes widened. "And how is one such as I am, to keep them from my thoughts?"

"It's considered uncouth to scan the minds of subordinates," Ylara replied, tightly. "But the best you could do would be to be honest in your thoughts. Your job really _is_ to make sure there are no double-crosses. . . and if there are, to ensure that no one from Eclipse survives the betrayal."

_I could sing shielding-songs for Sings-Despair. I do not think that the cold-song asari would likely challenge me._ That was Sky, in tones of red and black.

"Which leaves Dr. Jaworski," Melaani said, eyes frankly appraising the human female. "I could declare her my _marai'ha'sai._ Touching her mind would be, thus, a direct challenge to me."

Dara made a distinct face at that. Ylara chuckled. "Or I could claim you as the _marai'ha'sai_ of my, ah, daughter, which is close enough to truth, I think, that it would pass even the closest scrutiny." Seheve watched Dara's eyes cut to the left, a quick glance at Rinus, and then the human female shrugged.

_I could also help to protect Sings-Heartsong, if she is unable to do so herself,_ Sky offered.

"Would there be any point in my being there?" Dara asked, and that was a fair enough question, Seheve thought.

"Experience," Ylara replied, with a quick nod. "You will be our primary voice in negotiating with Growth Zero. You must see how it is done." The asari pulled an eye patch out of her pocket, and slid it in place over her now-empty eye cavity. "We also need to show a certain amount of strength, but also a certain amount of psychological unity. And thus, we put up a bit of, as a human might say, window-dressing." She tapped her eye-patch. "I need to irrigate the cavity anyway, and recharge the eye as it is. But this makes my . . . commitment, shall we say?. . . more clear to them. More visceral. More real." Ylara looked around the room. "Any other thoughts?"

Melaani nodded. "Dr. Jaworski? Keep your helmet's polarized screen down if possible. If everyone else takes off their masks, put on your dark glasses. T'laro has a . . . reputation for preferring the exotic. Even before she came here and amassed her current fortune, she'd spent considerable sums for, hmm. Albino vorcha. Runt krogan. Rumor has it, a set of conjoined turian twins. Forced sharings, is the rumor, anyway."

Dara winced, again. "Great," she muttered. "You _sure_ I need to go along?" she asked Ylara. "Can't just watch a vid feed?"

Ylara shook her head. "Vid feeds will probably be jammed quickly. And we need a certain _presence_. Bodies on the ground. Impression of power."

Dara sighed. The situation had the potential to make her a target. For someone like Seheve, who had spent a lifetime learning how to fade into the background, the human's alarm was quite understandable. _Don't stand out. Don't be different. Walk at the same rate. Look at the same things, but see more._ Easy to do, when you looked average for your species, Seheve reflected. She had always had little trouble fading into the crowd, even though drell were hardly common, however. It was all in how you carried yourself, after all.

The _Lightsinger_ stayed in a cautious stealthed aspect, in a very wide orbit of the planet, ready to move in and rescue them if necessary. The _Sollostra_ moved in, and Seheve, Dara, Ylara, Melaani, and Sky crowded into a shuttle together. Seheve noted, with amusement, that Dara had to chastise her workers into staying aboard the _Sollostra_. "They wished to follow you?" the drell asked the doctor.

"Yes. They're worried that Sky, Ylara, and Melaani won't take proper care of me, or something." Dara looked back at the little workers, who formed a disappointed half-circle at the foot of the ramp. "I can't afford to stand out any further, though. And _Sky_ will be there!" she pointed out, in an exasperated tone, as if responding to something unheard.

_They sing concern. All will be well, little singers,_ Sky said, in tones of unruffled calm and blue-green affection. _I have cared for the little-queen for longer than you have known her. Sing peace._

Seheve found herself smiling, and glanced at Dara now.. "I find that every time I leave the port observation lounge, Loki has left, too. I found her in the engine compartment yesterday. All of the humans seem to think she is. . . good luck?"

"Ship's cat," Dara said, buckling in. "Used to eat mice and rats that would have otherwise eaten the wood, rope, and cargo of ships. Considered lucky." She smiled faintly. "Everyone's got their good luck charms."

The shuttle lifted off, and Ylara piloted it down through the thin atmosphere. "Let Melaani and me do the talking," she reminded them all.

The surface temperature was a balmy 23º C, or around 73º F, but the atmosphere was thin and toxic as they disembarked from the shuttle. A hatch in a nearby crater wall apparently led into a set of mines that Eclipse had used for storage. Seheve looked around for signs of people surrounding them, and checked for biosigns. Eclipse wasn't much known for stealth operatives, fortunately.

Melaani stalked up the ramp to the hatch and banged on it, repeatedly. After a moment, it slid open, and, after proceeding through an airlock system, they found themselves deep in caverns that had clearly been drilled by robot miners in the past. And where the first tunnel met another in its first intersection, at least two dozen asari in gray armor with the yellow and black Eclipse symbol awaited them, weapons ready, but not aimed at them. _Be wary,_ Sky sang softly. _They are on edge. They suspect a trap. It may take much peace-singing to calm them._

"_Let's see your faces_," the apparent leader said, and removed her own helmet, staring at them warily. Under it, she hardly looked as young as most asari did. Her face had harsh, cold lines, narrow eyes, and a jagged scar running the length of her left cheek. _Interesting_, Seheve thought. _She does not care if others find her beautiful. She could have had that scar repaired. Most asari would have. She finds it more important to show her experience._

Ylara took off her helmet, revealing the eye-patch, and murmured, calmly, _"I offer the courtesy of Thessia."_ She held out both hands, palms raised, as the rest of them took off their own helmets. Seheve didn't like this; it left them vulnerable to weapons fire. She did, however, take the opportunity to step in front of Dara, giving the taller human female a chance to put on her glasses before raising her head again. Ylara's move _should_ have been enough distraction, but it was better to be careful.

T'laro, for so it apparently was, stepped forward, and placed her own hands, palms down, on Ylara's own.

There was a pause. Then Ylara laughed, soft and cold. _"Would you test me, then, child-of-another that you are? I was chasing Aria's commandos and murderers when you were in swaddling."_ It was probably only a slight exaggeration. Melaani, wide-eyed, had spent some time on Shanxi recounting Ylara's legendary exploits to Seheve. Ylara had been a Spectre for two hundred years now; she had spent the previous fifty years running down every single mercenary of Aria's who'd had a hand both in the death of her beloved and in the original massacre on their tiny colony, where they'd moved, fifty years before _that_, to escape persecution on Thessia for being a pureblood couple. _It's considered one of the greatest modern love stories and tragedies in asari space_, Melaani had told her. _Together just long enough to know happiness, too short a time to have tired of one another, two against the world, and then torn apart by bloodshed. And, of course, the decades of revenge. Everyone loves a good love's revenge tale._

T'laro smiled, her scar pulling at the corner of her mouth. "_I have to test anyone who comes before me, Ylara Alir. After all, once upon a time, you were a cop."_

"_Not for two hundred and fifty years,"_ Ylara pointed out, coolly.

"_Yes, it's well-known what you did to the mercenary bands who worked for Aria back in the day."_

"_They offended me."_ The words were very, very calm. _"At the moment, I don't see anyone in front of me who worked for Aria. And also at the moment, the batarians offend me more."_ Ylara's smile was chill. _"Do they offend you, too?"_

"_They do. But I'll not bargain with you. Not when there's a __sister__ here."_ T'laro turned to Melaani, who'd taken off her own helmet, just as the others had. _"T'soa. Do you offer the courtesies of Thessia, too?"_

"_I do."_ Melaani's voice was flat and edged with ice. She offered her own gloved hands, and T'laro took them. Another brief pause, and Seheve could almost see their wills clashing, like blades, in the air between them.

"_You're strong, for one so young,"_ T'laro said, her voice detached. "_But I sense truth in you. Your offer is genuine. Work together in common cause with __Spectres.__ How intriguing."_ She turned, and her eyes glittered in the low, red light of the mine. _"Introduce me to the rest of your people. I see two more Spectres here. How __delightful__."_

Melaani introduced Seheve first, dismissively. An adjunct. A body-guard. Seheve was delighted by how perfectly the asari carried it off. _Yes. Don't look at me. Think of me as. . . furniture. _She bowed her head slightly, and the Eclipse commando dismissed her entirely. _Excellent. She's heavily reliant on her biotics. Believes in their power almost entirely. _If there was a nudge against her mind, Seheve was unaware of it, entirely.

Sky was introduced next, and T'laro _did_ try to touch his mind. And, from the look on her face, was _staggered_ when Sky raised his head, and, glowing-eyed, informed her, in tones of red, black, and white, thrumming with low bass notes, _Do not test me, cold-song asari. I have matched my song against Lina Vasir and others far greater than you. _

Evidently rattled—and intrigued, from the heavy-lidded look that the asari directed Sky's way—T'laro turned towards Dara last. Dara beat her to the punch. And, in careful, though heavily, heavily accented asari, said, politely, _"I offer you the courtesies of Earth."_ She extended one hand for a handshake.

T'laro laughed softly. _"But not of Thessia, young human?"_

"_I offer all that I am able."_ Dara's face suddenly showed strain as T'laro took her hand. Ylara took a step forward. So did Sky, and the sudden potential for violence rose thick in the air. Dara raised her other hand, holding the others off. . .and T'laro frowned and reached up for Dara's glasses. Dara blocked the hand. Hard. _"Is this all the courtesy that __you__ can offer?"_

"_I like to see the eyes of the people I'm dealing with."_ T'laro's turned silky. _"Establishes trust."_

Seheve didn't think Dara's asari was nearly good enough to handle all of the verbs there, and stepped, light-footedly, a little closer. The various Eclipse sisters were raising their weapons now. The muzzles weren't on target, not yet, anyway, but the situation was getting a little tense. _She's pushing. Testing reactions. Seeing how many liberties she can take, that we'll tolerate._ The trouble was, Seheve didn't know what the right move here was. She knew the language, but she'd never had to deal much with asari. Was the right gesture to respect her strength, or to establish their own? Probably the former, but would it put Dara in danger?

Dara could have asked Ylara or Melaani for direction. Deferred to them. She did not. She pulled her hand away from T'laro's, and reached up to pull her own glasses down. The opalescent eyes were brilliant with inner fires in the dim light. _"Trust what you will."_

"_How very interesting,"_ T'laro said now, her voice now oiled ice. Slippery, cold, dangerous. _"All right, T'soa,"_ she said, turning back to Melaani. "_Let us __bargain__. I'm convinced that you all are here in as much good faith as a Spectre can actually muster." _She smiled, a cold and emotionless expression. _"I'll even offer you tea."_

Seheve, who had been keeping her mind as blank as possible, her hand hovering close to the hilt of her vibroblade, and mentally rehearsing how many steps it would take to get to T'laro's back and start cutting, relaxed slightly. When an asari offered hospitality in this manner, it _generally_ meant that a certain level of trust had been reached. Of course, there were known cases when the asari had actually used guest-tea to poison people. So. . . it wasn't time to let her guard down yet.

The guest-tea ceremony was performed in a squalid backroom, over a small hotplate, while the rest of the mercenaries guarded the various entrances. _"So, you want the batarians out of the system. So do we. We've been fighting them for months,"_ T'laro said, calmly, sipping at her cup. _"What do you bring that we don't already have? We have ships, people, guns, materials."_

Melaani bared her teeth in an ugly smile. Strange to see on a face usually calm and gentle. _"You've been __hiding__ from the batarians for months,"_ she corrected. _"You've done hit and run strikes on their ships and compounds. Made a few tentative offers of mutual working arrangements—don't think we don't know about it. We know. And we don't care."_ She flapped a hand, dismissing it totally. _"That's been life in the Terminus systems for centuries. Find a way to live with the __n'maieolo'mai'a__. Understandable that you'd think it would work again. But now, they're playing by different rules, aren't they? Taking biotics, destroying their minds. . .all except for the bits and pieces that make them living weapons. Now, you can't really __afford__ to try to live with them, can you?"_

T'laro's eyes narrowed. _"No. No, we can't_," she admitted. _"I'd thought the damned invasion would be over with in a few months at most, but too many planets. And as it dragged on, it seemed best to try to reach for. . . accommodation."_

_Ever the asari way_, Seheve thought, calmly. _Asari try to reach balance, equilibrium, with all those around them. Of course, given T'laro's record. . . the only equilibrium she's tended to want is her own._ The history of Shir was a bitter one. Altai Mineral Corporation and CoAgo, Inc., had come to the system in 2170, before the Skyllian Blitz, and set up the mining colonies on Shir at first. They'd hired Eclipse to protect their people and their mines, and set up a five-year contract. Esirra T'laro had been in charge of Eclipse's mercenaries in the area. . . and it hadn't taken her long to decide that the terms of the contract were far from generous, given the mineral wealth being extracted from the ground on Shir. She and her people began siphoning off ore from each shipment, selling it on the black market. Discovered the wide array of pharmaceuticals in Arvuna's jungles, and began selling those, too.

The two corporations had terminated her contract, and brought in the Blue Suns, instead. The result had been a two-year running battle between the two mercenary groups, raging all over the system. Eclipse had won. . . .more or less. They were still here. And while the rest of the Sisterhood had more or less disavowed T'laro as a rogue, she was busily building an empire here in the Aysur system. Her only real check, so far, had been Alliance security forces (thinly spread) and Growth Zero, her major competitors. Eclipse and Growth Zero both traded drugs out of system for guns, ammunition, and fuel. Kidnapped miners and scientists and held them for ransom from their corporate headquarters. Hijacked ships. GZ usually ransomed the crews and stole the ships; Eclipse usually just spaced the crews and took the ships. They both ran protection rackets; small colonies usually wound up paying protection to one group or the other. . . and when the _other_ group took offense and attacked a settlement, the result was GZ or Eclipse attacking each others' compounds or ships. They both trafficked in stolen Prothean artifacts, too. It was ugly, messy and. . . all too common all over the galaxy. The Aysur system hadn't been profitable enough for the Alliance to dedicate the law-enforcement and military resources to clear out both groups, and the corporations present had chalked it all up to the cost of doing business in the Terminus systems, reduced their foothold, and passed those prices on to consumers all over the galaxy.

Seheve didn't know which group was worse. Eclipse was just out for blatant greed and their own power. Growth Zero had a _cause._ And now, she distrusted causes. In the _Sollostra's_ briefing room, they'd all talked out the ramifications, over and over again. Ylara's face had been set and grim as the asari had muttered, "If T'laro's as smart as she seems, she'll know that Shepard won't stand for her continued presence here after the war. She'll know that allying with us will give us information on her bases, her people, and her tactics. . . and that we'll come after her as soon as we're able."

Melaani had nodded. "Her next logical step will be to try to ally with her traditional rivals, Growth Zero. Ideologically, however, GZ will resist that. They're not quite 'humans for humanity,' but they _are_ xenophobic, in many ways. They resist almost _all_ outside forces, and don't want asari here any more than they want other humans." Melaani sighed. "Assuming their leadership stays stable, of course. At any rate, if she can ally with GZ, the two of them will have a stranglehold on this system that will be very, very difficult to break."

Dara had looked up at that point. "So we need to get them to work with us, but not get comfortable with each other _and_ we have to make them see that it's in their best interests to do so, and convince them that we're not going to turn around and wipe them out the instant we're done with the batarians. Which, given all the shit they've been doing here, we kind of actually want to do?"

Melaani grinned. "Neatly summarized."

"Okay, so how the hell do we do that?"

"Carrot and stick. Carefully applied." Melaani shrugged. "I'll do the carrot bit, and Ylara will provide the stick."

"Judiciously," Ylara had agreed, smiling faintly.

The flash of drell eidetic memory had only taken seconds. _Accommodation,_ Seheve thought in the here-and-now, staring around the room, memorizing faces. Recording which of the mercenaries looked disturbed at the conversation, which looked angry. Recording the entrances and exits, as she'd reflexively memorized the twists and turns of the passageway that had taken them to this room.

"_So, you had thought to reach out to the batarians. And then you heard of what was occurring on Omega and elsewhere,"_ Melaani said, softly, taking a sip from her cup. _"There's a processing center on Arvuna, too, isn't there?"_

T'laro's eyes narrowed. _"Yes. They captured a ship of my best people two weeks ago. I've already written them off for everything besides vengeance."_ She shrugged. _"There's nothing to say that we couldn't just wait them out. They're __mahai__, after all." _Short-lived. Quick to burn out. Short of endurance.

"_Mahai,__ yes, but dangerous. And by simply allowing them to do as they wish in your territory, are you not showing weakness?"_ Melaani said it delicately. _"Others will think they smell blood in the waters. The Blue Suns. Blood Pack. Klixxen's Claws. Even if they have to fight the batarians for this system, you'd be fighting them __and__ the batarians. And in the meantime, no source of revenue. No mining being done. Nothing to pay your people. Nothing with which to refuel your ships."_ The carrot, at the moment, was a small one: Wouldn't you rather have a chance at returning to the status quo? And in the same moment, Melaani was prodding with a stick, too: Isn't your current situation dangerous?

T'laro smiled. It was the expression of a shark, all teeth and no humor. _"And yet, still, I must inquire: what's in this for me, young sister?"_

"_You ask this?"_ Ylara interjected, suddenly. _"You know perfectly well what we offer. Alliance, for the moment. The possibility of rescuing, or at least, of avenging your fallen. You know that one way or another, we __will__ see this system freed. Either with you, or without you. We'll be making a similar offer to Growth Zero. Work with us, and thrive. Spurn the offer, and be known as __n'maieolo'mai'a__, yourself. Be hunted, while you're in a position of weakness, when this is all over."_

"_And the very first thing the Spectres will do, once they finish with the batarians, is to turn on us!"_ T'laro snarled. _"We know Shepard. She hates asari. And we know with whom she surrounds herself. Law-minders."_

Melaani leaned forward, her smile tight, and her eyes empty of all emotion. _"Hear me, sister,"_ she said, quietly. _"The batarian conflict might well last for years. And did not Garrus Vakarian make an offer to Patriarch in regards to Omega?"_

T'laro's expression lightened, but stayed suspicious. _"You'll __give__ us this system?"_

"_No."_ Ylara's tone was harsh. _"But if you don't give us __reason__ to hunt you, we'll let a general amnesty stand. That means no more kidnapping, no more murder, no more extortion, no more smuggling, no more drugs."_

T'laro's smile became a sneer. _"You're taking away my __livelihood__ here."_

"_I could take much more,"_ Ylara said, and her voice held chill in it. _"Give me a reason, T'laro, and I will. Go legitimate again. You managed to do it once. . . more or less."_

"_I'm sure Eclipse would welcome you, and your, ah, membership dues. . . once more,"_ Melaani said softly. Carrot: Re-integrating with Eclipse would give T'laro the protections of being a _real_ sister again.

"_I'll consider your offer,"_ T'laro said, after a moment, and stood.

"_Don't consider too long,"_ Ylara warned, and they all put their helmets back on, and headed back out onto the surface of the planet. On the encrypted Spectre band, she noted, "We're going to want to check the shuttle for tracking devices." She sounded incredibly weary.

They sealed the hatch, and took off. After a moment, Dara asked over the radio, "Anyone else feel in need of a shower?"

After a moment, Seheve raised her hand, along with all the rest. Even Sky raised one of his handling appendages. Melaani awarded Dara a smile. "And just think. This is only the first half."

**Dara, Arvuna, October 25-November 15, 2196**

It had been very damned difficult to block Esirra T'laro out of her mind. Silently, Dara thanked Melaani, Ylara, Zhasa, and Dempsey for making her work at ways to block people. The 'ear-worm' technique hadn't worked, unfortunately; it was simply too artificial, and not reflexive enough, to keep out someone determinedly probing—and T'laro had not been as gentle or respectful as the others had been, when teaching her to block. Dara had, actually, simply, gritted her teeth and dropped out of her sense of self. It was frightening, but it had been necessary; she'd opened herself to the rachni song coming from Sky, and let _Dara_ go away, and _Sings-Heartsong_ had come forward, and the brood-mother had looked at the cold-song asari in indifference, and flooded her away with song. Getting _Dara_ back had been a bit more of a trick, and she'd needed several deep breaths to do it. Fortunately, her _self_ hadn't been pushed far away. There seemed to be a trick of equilibrium to it. _This is how Eli slides away from domination attacks_, she thought. _Like that time on Omega when the Lystheni almost made him turn on me. Only he's much, much better at it. More practice slipping between selves. Only for him, they're __all__ himself._

_Sings-Heartsong has always sung her own songs_, Sky told her, reassuringly. _Many-Voices has learned to sing all of his songs. You will learn to sing them, too. They are all part of you._

_You mean I need to integrate them, and not think of them as. . . divided._ That was a dubious thought, as they ascended in the shuttle back to the _Sollostra_, putting space between them and the small Eclipse base as quickly as possible. _Eli still thinks of himself as divided, though. But I only hear one song in him. Three lines, all playing together, though. Harmony, a little counterpoint._

_You will learn._ Faith and assurance. Sky turned his head to regard her with opalescent eyes in the shuttle. _Less reason to sing fear-songs, when we sing bargain-songs with the humans, than with the cold-song asari._

_We'll see,_ she thought, glumly. She wasn't much liking _anything_ she'd read on either of these groups.

The next day, she'd gotten her first letter from Eli, and read it eagerly, as, in the port observation lounge where she now had a bed, Loki chased the workers around, to their consternation. . . and Zappa chased Loki around. To hers. Dara put a hand on the floor and all the workers raced up her arm onto the bunk, and the relative safety around her. _—Cat sings playful-songs. _

—_Do not wish to have feelers bent._

—_Carapace now damp. No toxins in saliva._

—_Got you, you furry fiend!_ That was Zappa, and Dara actually laughed out loud at the thought, and as the cat skittered ten feet away, arching her back and hopping, trying to make herself look bigger.

She was in the middle of reading sections of the letter out loud to Rinus, who was relieved to hear that Rel seemed to be holding it together in combat, and trading her letter bits for news from _his_ letters—"Kallixta's out of batarian space," he said, waving his datapad happily. "She can't tell me much more except that the _Pellak_ made it back to Mindoir. Hell of a proof of concept." Rinus found a chair in the observation area, and smiled, letting his relief show. "Was scared the whole time she was gone," he admitted. "Long time to fly silent like that."

"So, we know that Serana, Lin, and Glory made it to Khar'sharn, at least." Dara made a face. Serana was probably very good at her job. Kasumi had made a point of mentioning the girl's talent, but Dara was in the habit of thinking of her as _young._ Even though Serana had done just as much living as everyone else in the past year, it still made her uneasy to think of her, well, younger sister, of sorts, on Khar'sharn. _Then again, Eli and Dempsey and I went there just fine earlier this year. Admittedly, war hadn't broken out yet. . . _ And of course, there was oversong and undersong to try to match up, get in harmony with each other. Serana had a piece of Eli's heart. And just as she'd been jealous of Siara back in the day, and of the other, nameless women who'd been in his life, Dara _did_ have to admit to a certain twinge of it every now and again in regards to Serana. That was undersong, though. Be aware of it, and don't let it dictate the oversong. Make sure every action, every reaction, is in harmony, from the lowest song to the highest song. Avoid dissonance. That was all she really could do. "Lin will watch out for her, you know that."

Rinus snorted. "He better. For the longest time, he was just my second-brother's best friend. Always _around_ when I was on leave, but . . . I never much got to know him. You did."

Dara smiled faintly. "I did, yeah. Not as well as I should have. We'd all go running together, or swimming, or worked on rock-climbing. . . and there were some fairly epic study sessions. I think Lin's more or less the reason all of us passed galactic history. And there was sparring, of course. And he was _always_ over at Eli's house. Practically lived there towards the end. I think he liked getting away from his parents and his siblings. He doesn't actually like being first-brother much. He'll do what's needed, but he'd much rather people just behaved themselves on their own. Which is funny, because he's the law-and-order type. I guess it's simple for him. Do whatever you want to, until you step over _that_ line. Once you step over that line, he's there and you're going to suffer the consequences. Thoroughly, so he doesn't have to make the point all over again. And then he'll go back to minding his business over on his side of the line." Dara smiled, and flutters of memories, fragments, not her own, beat at the inside of her eyelids. Fragments from Eli, even some from Lin, when they'd both touched her when she'd been little more than a conduit for Joy-Singer to drink up the others' thoughts and memories. "He'd die to protect Serana. Not unnecessarily. . . he doesn't have a death-wish. But he'd do it."

"You're sure?" Rinus asked, quietly.

"Yeah." Dara didn't even need to think about it. Lin had been so _dark_ a year ago, and Eli with him. Worn down by their jobs, by the aloneness, by the unthinking malevolence of the universe, bearing down on them, day after day. And Serana had brought them _both_ out of that darkness, like a beacon. "Serana's a very lucky girl. And an amazing person in her own right," she said, after a moment. And it was true. Serana had qualities that Dara knew she never would have. An innocence and joy that Dara wondered if she had _ever_ had. Light and life and a giving, open nature. For an instant, she understood why Eli had always been so concerned about her choice of profession. _The darkness that's out there could eat her alive._

Rinus had been moving down the track of his own thoughts now, and, predictably, had moved back to center on his wife. "At least I know Kallixta's more or less safe now," he said, leaning back and closing his eyes. "Though, knowing her, she's probably volunteering to try to fly into the blockaded mass relays to get relief through to Rocam or wherever."

Dara's eyebrows when up and Zhasa and Seheve, both in the room with them, looked up. "How is that possible?" Zhasa asked. "Any ship that flies through would be sliced apart by the cables."

Rinus rubbed at his mandibles. "Well, the Fleet had some ideas about that. Passing rubble through the mass relay, more or less for a shot-gun effect. Theoretically, the nets _should_ only be good for one use, really. Enough mass, sent through with enough speed, really should tear through them. The trick would be sending through things big enough that they don't just miss and go through the open holes of the net, and instead, tear up the nets the way we want them to. . . but also items that we don't care about. Ships, we care about. Large asteroids? Not so much. Of course, they're in the plane of the ecliptic as they come in, so we could, in theory, be setting up one hell of a meteor shower in a couple of hundred years for some of these planets, depending on how the orbital mechanics shake out. . . " He shrugged. "They're going to try it. I think they're actually going to do it at the same time as sneaking a fleet of ships into each system the _long_ way. . . and try to hit the batarians from both sides. Hard to coordinate when the comm signals are all jammed, though." He shrugged again. "It's just a good thing that the batarians wanted to keep the relays open for their own reinforcements. If they were _really_ thinking. . . they'd just have landed a crew on the relay and locked it down. The way the asari have, for over two thousand years, locked down the relays that are unknown."

Dara exhaled. "Well, yeah. You can't unlock them from the other side, either. You have to fly to them by FTL and, well, unlock them." She looked up at the ceiling. "But yeah. Then they'd be cut off, too."

Rinus shrugged. "Unless they landed a crew on it and opened it at designated intervals, yeah. It's what _I_'_d_ do."

Zhasa laughed. "I'm so very glad that you do not work for the enemy, Rinus Velnaran."

Rinus' mandibles flexed. "I like my solution. You need a little Prothean coding experience and a ten credit wrench to do it, too."

At that point, Cassandra, the NCAI, had paged them all to the briefing room. "We've got someone from Growth Zero responding to the comm buoy messages," the AI told them all, appearing in her hybrid avatar form. Unlike Lysandra, Cassandra was opting to retain her Velnaran yellow paint, and nodded respectfully to Rinus every time she encountered him in her avatar form.

"Dr. Bassanelli?" Dara said, feeling her stomach drop.

"No, ah, Spectre Jaworski." _At least it wasn't __maai'a'selai__,_ Dara thought, in mild amusement. It was still _jarring_ to be called _Spectre_, though. _Spectre Jaworski_ was her father. _Doctor_, at least, she could handle. "It's someone calling himself Leonard Moravec."

Dara's mind went back through the files she'd read. _Currently, second or third tier commander of Growth Zero. Former miner on Shir. By all accounts, not really ideologically motivated, except by outrage at his former employer, the CoAgo mining concern on Shir. Cave-in on site left him paralyzed from the waist down, and two other miners were killed. Families all accepted massive payouts. . . and pooled their money to start a shipping company in 2179. . . the year that Bassanelli and Growth Zero bombed the He3 platforms around Alformus. Leaving them with no livelihood. They'd sunk their money into the ships, Moravec couldn't work in the mines anymore and __wouldn't__ take a desk job with CoAgo or Altai Minerals. . . how the __hell__ did he wind up in bed with Growth Zero, anyway?_ Dara inhaled and exhaled a couple of times. "Audio only?" she asked, hopefully.

Ylara nodded. "They're being cautious." The older Spectre reached out and carefully set a hand on Dara's shoulder. "We'll pass you notes. You'll do fine."

Dara nodded glumly. "So much for 'we don't negotiate with terrorists,' huh?" she offered, quietly.

Melaani snorted. "Everyone does. It's easy. You decide to call them 'criminals' or 'members of a grass-roots revolutionary group' instead. Labels make things so much easier, don't they?"

Terror was gripping at Dara's stomach now. This was like dealing with reporters. Only, instead of colossal embarrassment, lives could actually be on the line. "You have more faith in me than I do," Dara told her, and sat down at the comm panel, shaking. She had to be human for this. She couldn't go hide in the rachni mind. She could put on turian stoicism, for the mask of toughness it gave her, but she _had_ to find grounds for sympathy, somewhere, with these people. _God only knows where._ "Okay," Dara said, swallowing hard. "Put him through."

"Hello?" The voice was low, gravelly, definitely that of a human male in his mid-forties. That matched Moravec; he'd been 25 in 2179. _And I was five, and riding ponies. Jesus._

"Hello, is this Leonard Moravec that I'm speaking to?" Dara was going for her doctor voice. Firm, friendly, professional. _I have a chart in my hand and lollipops in my drawer. I may have to give you a shot, but you'll feel a lot better when I'm done, right?_

"Yeah. . . who the _hell_ is this?" Wariness now. "You sound like a kid."

Dara sighed, turned, and looked right at Ylara. _Voices don't lie. People's voices continue to change throughout their lives. Listen to a recording of someone you know when they were twenty, compared to what they sound like in their thirties, and there's a marked difference._ Ylara spread her hands, and made a 'move on,' gesture. "This is Dr. Dara Jaworski. I'm a Council Spectre, and we're here to help the folks in the Aysur system out." Calm, friendly, polite.

That prompted laughter. "Oh, yeah, right. Listen, little girl, put on someone that I can talk to—"

Melaani passed Dara a note. _Don't react. He's pushing you. Seeing if you're really in charge._

Dara grimaced. Trouble was, she didn't actually feel all that in charge. But she couldn't let that show in her voice. Couldn't let the irritation show, either. And the easiest way to put a smile in your voice was to make yourself smile, physically. Dara smiled. It wasn't easy. "Mr. Moravec," she said. Courtesy title. Respect was important here. "I am the person with whom Growth Zero will be speaking. I assume you _would_ prefer to speak with a human, as opposed to, say, an asari or a turian? Neither would be terribly sympathetic to your cause here." _Actually, I'm not, either, but let's pretend._

There was a pause. Dara waited, and Ylara handed her a note. _Push a little harder._

"Mr. Moravec? Do you actually have the authority to negotiate for Growth Zero? Or should I be speaking with Dr. Bassanelli?" Dara wondered if the miner even liked Bassanelli. The miner had, according to his profile, a high school education. Bassanelli had a doctoral dissertation under his belt. Would Moravec despise the man as an academic egghead, or admire him? It was. . . really hard to guess from where she sat.

"You can talk to me, for the moment," Moravec growled back. Ylara and Melaani both nodded in satisfaction. Dara understood it, too. Moravec wasn't the ultimate authority, but he had enough to listen and pass things along. That was a start, anyway. "What do you want, _Doctor_ Spectre?"

There it was. The emphasis all her friends put on her title, jokingly. She and Telinus had the most education out of all of them, but Eli and Lin poked fun at it with affection. Respected it, but would never let it go to her head. And of course, they were damned good at what they did, and were still working at getting better. Never satisfied with where they were. Dara scrawled on her datapad, where the others could see, _Resents educational level. Feels inferior?_ And was gratified when Melaani nodded and smiled.

"What we want. . . . " Careful choice of words there. She had to emphasize that there were others here, a group, and that it wasn't just her and her animosity-inspiring education. And Dara thought about her father, and let her drawl slip through as she went on. Just a bit. Not enough to sound condescending. But enough to sound, as her father often said, 'like I jus' up and fell off the turnip truck.' "What we want to do, is help the folks around here, Mr. Moravec. And we're gonna need your help to do just that. We want to kick the batarians off of Shir and Arvuna, and make 'em run so far and so fast that God himself is going to need a radar telescope to find them." _Okay, that might have been a little too much Dad. Rein it back in._ It didn't help that Rinus' shoulders were shaking, and Dara irritably threw a stylus at the turian—almost pegging Kirrahe in the process. _All_ of the other Spectres and affiliates in the room had spent enough time around Sam Jaworski to recognize the accent, so even Seheve was smiling, if faintly. "That sort of thing goes a lot easier with more people involved. What do you say?"

There was a pause. "Just where on Earth are you from, Doctor Spectre?"

"Lufkin, Texas." _By way of Mindoir, Palaven, Rocam, Bastion. . . _This was a chance to extend sympathies, though. "Moravec sounds a little Czech. But you sound more North American. Maybe Pittsburgh?"

"Nice guess, Doctor Spectre. That in my _file_?"

Dara wrote down, _Suspicious of government; doesn't like privacy invasions?_ And that got another nod from Melaani. "Nah, just guessing," Dara said, trying to relax. "Old steel industry area. Lot of Czech immigrants. Seemed to fit with the east coast accent and, well, you used to work for CoAgo. And they're based out of Pittsburgh."

Another pause. "Yeah. I used to work for those fuckers. Not anymore."

Ylara held up a note, in big, bold letters. _SYMPATHY._

A couple of workers scuttled over, and Chopin ran up her arm to perch on her shoulder. _Okay, the patient has it bad, but it's not terminal. It can be fixed._ "Yeah, that part I did hear about. Unsafe working conditions." Dara let her voice drop a little. "And I bet none of the greedy bastards in management who made the decisions that led to the accident actually got fired over it." She _wanted_ to ask, _So, did you ever even look into the stem-cell regeneration treatments on your spine that Macready got for __his__ injury on Shanxi? I mean, 2179 prices, probably prohibitively expensive, and pretty experimental. . . but today? Or did you sink __all__ the money into the damned shipping venture?_ Of course, she couldn't ask that. She wasn't here, as Melaani had repeatedly told her, to browbeat to berate. She was here to sympathize. Form a bridge, make a connection. _God, I am so bad at this._

"No. No, they didn't." Moravec paused. "Look, kid. . . " _Ah, wonderful. I've gone from a despised doctor back to being a kid again. This isn't going to work._ "I know what you're trying to do. Plenty of people have tried to get around us, get into our heads. If you want to establish any kind of trust here, you really should put mommy or daddy on the phone now."

Dara exhaled, and Melaani shrugged, not having input. The Spectres knew that Growth Zero would have trouble talking with anyone except a human. An asari, given their twenty-five year running struggle with Eclipse, was out. A turian would be seen as the arm of the Council military. A drell, a salarian, a quarian, or a rachni? Too exotic.

And with that, Dara let the turian medic in her take over. "You're not talking to anyone except for me," she said, and dropped into a softer version of the command-peremptory tone she'd use on a turian. "Mr. Moravec, you've got to trust someone, at some point. The batarians are sitting there on Shir, in control of the domes and they've chased half the colonists into the jungle on Arvuna. You can sit out here in the black in your ships until you run out of supplies, but sooner or later, you're going to need to fuel up, restock food and water, and change out the air filtration system's CO2 cartridges. And then they'll have you. Now, even if you don't give a shit about the people on Shir who still work for CoAgo," _Which is pretty arguable, given that you keep __kidnapping__ your former coworkers!_ "or the people on Arvuna, I bet you care about the people on your ship with you." She gentled her voice, conscious of Ylara and Melaani both waving at her wildly, signaling for her to be calm. "You want to make sure _they're_ okay, right?" _Benefit of the doubt, I guess._ "Talk to your boss. Let's work out a way so we can figure out if we can trust each other, and we'll go from there." _Trust. Wow. Dangerous concept._

Dara put her head down on the comm panel, her stomach churning, as there was a really long pause. Finally, Moravec's voice came back on the line. "You say you're a doctor?"

"Yeah." _What, another shot at my age coming?_

"Real doctor or Ph. fucking D?"

"Doctor doctor."

Another pause. "What's your specialization?"

Melaani sat straight up and held up her datapad. _He's being fed questions and replies._

_Well, that makes two of us._ "I'm a combat medic, in training for trauma surgery, but have an extensive background in xeno-obstetrics, xenobiology, and epidemiology. You can look up my papers on turian surrogacy for quarian infants, the Solus hybridization template, introduction of wolves and _villi_ into a mixed dextro-levo environment, and others like that on the extranet. . .when we get the extranet connection working again, that is." Quick, dry, professional tone now.

Pause. "Just how the hell do you have an 'extensive background' in all that shit when you sound about twenty, maybe twenty-two at most?'

_Oh, well, if you want to put it __that__ way. . . _"I started interning with the late Mordin Solus at the age of fifteen, attended turian boot camp, graduated, and became a special forces combat medic at the age of sixteen, and subsequently spent four years ankle-deep in mud and blood in every shithole in the Terminus systems, putting people's guts back inside of them. More recently, I spent four weeks on Bastion, trying to keep everyone around me from dying from bio-engineered plagues." She let her impatience seep into her voice. "Is someone sick, Mr. Moravec? Perhaps I can be of assistance."

One more pause. "Yeah. We've got some sick people in one of our camps on Arvuna. It's . . . not one of our usual camps. The batarians hit our existing bases pretty hard, so we had to fall back. And folks got really sick there." _There we go. He's worried. Some of those are __his__ people. That's real emotion there._

"Symptoms would be helpful." Dara kept her voice clipped and professional now.

"Skin rashes, um, lesions, fever, stomach pain, nausea. We've got a couple that we _know_ were exposed to dark water—"

"Excuse me. Not familiar with the term."

A different voice cut in. Light Italian accent. _Bingo. Bassanelli._ "Dark water fever, Dr. Jaworski. Results from extensive bacteria colonies from the oceans that wash up on the shores, which look like petroleum deposits. Several of our people had to flee out to sea through a slick of such, and have, not unexpectedly, high fever. Delirium. The bacteria is _Pharamogosis vacilli._ The other disease. . . or diseases. . . I'm not sure of. Could be bacteriological."

"Just as likely, given your jungle environment that they could be parasite-based, as well. I'll bring a variety of antibiotics and anti-pyretics." Dara paused. "How are you treating them currently?"

"We're out of antibiotics. We've been attempting to keep them hydrated and comfortable, but it is very difficult, especially given the environmental conditions."

"How many patients am I looking at?"

"About twenty."

_Damn._ "I'll need to bring support staff with me for that many. Nurses, as well as my fellow Spectres."

"No more than two nurses, and no more than two other Spectres. Moravec will meet you at a landing zone of our choosing today. Then, tomorrow, he'll escort your people to our encampment."

Dara looked up, and wrote down, _Why the delay?_ "Every minute those people are sick and untreated increases the likelihood of them dying," she warned.

"Understood, but this is unavoidable."

Dara wrote down, _Have to break some eggs to make an omelet. _She glanced at Ylara, and pointed at herself, and then held up two more fingers.

_Need more Spectres there. Three is not enough,_ Ylara wrote.

"Dr. Bassanelli, if that's whom I'm speaking with right now?"

"It is."

"Even with myself and two nurses, there's not going to be enough people to take care of your folks. Let me bring more than four people with me, total. Six total, would do. Shifts are important. Tired people make mistakes."

"We have diligent people here whom you can instruct in the care of our patients. No more than five, total."

Dara glanced at Ylara, who nodded, once. "Very well," Dara said. "Transmit your coordinates for our landing area."

Once the comm was off again, Dara exhaled. "Well. . . could have gone better."

Ylara gave her a look. "Who do you want with you?"

"_All_ of you." Dara paused. "Unfortunately, that's . . . not going to happen."

Rinus chuckled ruefully at her tone. "So, who's it going to be?"

Ylara sat back and considered Dara. "Thoughts?"

_Oh, god. You're not just going to make it easy and tell me, are you?_ _Nope? Great._ Dara thought about it. "First. . . " Dara looked into the mid-distance. "Sky. We'll need to know if there's about to be a double-cross." She swallowed, _really_ not liking the idea of being separated from everyone. "Rinus. Not only a really good person to have at my back, but, well. . . " she snorted a little under her breath, "Sorry to say, but I'm going to use you the way Kallixta let me use her in boot camp. Because she deferred to me, everyone else went along with her. Psychologically, Growth Zero seems to be a male-oriented group, and they're all, well, a lot older than I am." She sighed. "Seeing you defer to me, even if it's just on medical matters, helps reinforce the perception that I'm worth listening to." A quick, slight shrug. "As to the rest. . . Seheve. You had a bit of nursing experience on Bastion during the plague, didn't you? Was it enough to handle fevers? Can you give injections, set up IVs, anything like that?" Dara looked at Melaani. "Same question. I know you've got first-responder training. But can you draw injections, that sort of thing?"

Seheve looked startled. "I. . . yes. I was given _some_ basic training."

Melaani shook her head. "No. Basic CPR in four species, but nothing more than that."

Dara glanced at Kirrahe. The salarian shook his head. "If they were machines, could doubtless help," he told her. "Suspect I will need some basic medic training at some point. No time at present, however."

Dara nodded. "It's okay. We can't all do _everything._" She looked at Ylara uncomfortably. "We could take in Melaani as a Spectre, and have Seheve go in disguised as a nurse? With hmm, Lieutenant Whitlow, I think, from the _Sollostra's_ med bay as our _actual_ nurse." She bit her lip. "Of course, if they really do have people _that_ sick there, it might not be responsible for me to take in anyone but a second real nurse."

"Take Seheve," Melaani said. "I need to stay here, in case Eclipse sends us another message."

Ylara nodded. "And Kirrahe and Zhasa will go down to the moon with you. . . and stay with the shuttles. Hopefully in range to defend you, if there's need."

And so, Dara found herself on the surface of Arvuna for the first time later that afternoon. They took two shuttles down to the designated landing zone, which was actually on a set of black rock cliffs overlooking Arvuna's western hemisphere's ocean. Dara was absolutely _stunned_ at the beauty of the moon. The western half of the sky was currently filled with Dranen's blue-violet bulk, filled with whorls and spots among its bands of atmosphere. The largest, she knew, was called the Ishta. . . and she was looking at a storm three times the size of Earth, looming across part of the horizon.

To the east, at the moment, was the brilliant chip of yellow light that was Aysur, the system's primary. The moon spun axially, on a day/night cycle, but also periodically was occluded by its planet, plunging the moon into utter darkness. The only difference between night and 'true night' for the duration of its several days behind Dranen would be whether stars could be seen in the sky or not. And temperatures would drop for the duration, too. Thus, all life on this strange, exotic moon, either had to be equally well adapted for diurnal and nocturnal life-cycles. . . or had to specialize. Heavily. She was quite sure that there would be different predators moving through the jungles during the three days of 'full night' in each month's orbit around Dranen, than hunted the rest of the time. _I could move here and spend the rest of my life cataloguing plants and animals,_ Dara thought, in amusement. _And be quite content. Well. . . other than the fact that I wouldn't have any family here._

The jungle itself had an unusual red tint to the leaves of almost all of the trees, an adaptive response to the spectrum of light emitted from Aysur, probably. But the leaves had familiar shapes. Sword-like leaves in the underbrush, wide crimson fans, fern-like fronds. Three layers of jungle, too; roof-trees, mid-layer canopy, and ground flora. The trees echoed with the call of strange animals; almost everything on land on Arvuna was nominally avian. Almost everything in the water was piscine or amphibious. Few reptiles, and nothing resembling a mammal at all. And it was _steamy_ here. Only 95º F, or 35º C, there was 98% humidity in the air. Dara opened the visor of her helmet briefly, and smelled jungle flowers, and the wet, warm slap of the air in her face was like a wool blanket dipped in bathwater.

This island-continent was designated Crete, and was smaller than the largest island-continent of Delos. And that was where, on the cliffs, the huge bird swooped down and grabbed Kirrahe in its claws, lifting the salarian up and away. Kirrahe actually fired his pistol up into the bird's chest, and they started to plummet like a rock. . . which was when Zhasa ran off the edge of the cliff, leaping through the air, caught Kirrahe, ripped the salarian out of the bird's dead claws with her impact, and then slowed their fall. Of course, Kirrahe had no problem breathing water, and Zhasa had a suit, but there were jagged edges of volcanic rock all along the cliffs, so Rinus and Dara and Seheve took one of the shuttles down to the water and pulled the wet duo back on board. . . as well as the limply floating body of the roc. "How does it feel to have been mistaken for dinner?" Dara asked Kirrahe, grinning.

"Embarrassing," the salarian told her. "Would have thought my armor would have persuaded the bird that I was inedible. Apparently, it is used to armored prey."

Dara pointed out the window of the shuttle at the fish jumping out of the water. Most of them, indeed, had armored plates all over their bodies. "Your armor's the wrong color, but maybe it thought you were a turtle," she suggested.

Back at the cliff-face, they built up a fire, and Dara and Rinus, shaking their heads, field-dressed the carcass. "Been a really long time since I did this," Dara admitted. "Actually, I mostly watched my _dad_ gut the deer. But, you know. Dissection is dissection." She glanced over at Kirrahe. "You want any of the feathers or anything? It really was a beautiful animal. Just a little too hungry for its own good."

Kirrahe blinked in amusement. "I cannot see wearing them as trophies, no. Would look foolish." A quick, merry smile. "Look forward to biting it back."

Halfway through the cooking process, and just at sunset, as, interestingly, the sun began to slip away, and the gas giant came to take up even more of the western sky. . . but still presented a blaze of reflected light all through the horizon, biosigns began to chirp on everyone's omnitools. Seheve had been on guard among the trees back from the cliff-face, and Sky warned everyone, softly, _They come. Ten. Leader sings agitation. _

Dara gestured for the two nurses to get into the shuttle, and she and the others all armed themselves, just as the Growth Zero people approached. "You were told!" a rough voice called, and Dara's eyebrows went up. Moravec apparently got around on the rough terrain courtesy of a hovercycle, and strapped himself to it, to keep himself upright. His dark hair was grizzled and he had an olive cast to his skin that suggested there were other things besides Czech in his ancestry. he was bear-shouldered, but a little squat, at the same time. If he'd been standing, she suspected he wouldn't have been much taller than she was. . . if, indeed, he were any taller at all. "You were told yourself and five others, kid. I count an extra person here. What the hell are you doing?"

Dara stepped forward, and said, calmly, "Your count is off. We actually have two extra people with us. The pilots of the shuttles." She pointed to Zhasa and Kirrahe. "Myself. . . two nurses. And three fellow Spectres, or affiliates." She pointed behind Moravec, just as Seheve walked up behind him and stood there, staring at him in the disquietingly calm way that the former assassin had.

Moravec met the drell's black eyes for a moment, then shook his head. "Right. Tell them to get lost."

"They're staying with the shuttles, so that we have a way back off of this rock," Dara said, evenly. "I have no idea why Bassanelli doesn't want us traveling to see your people _now_, but if you're going to stay the night with us, you'll be outside, and we'll be inside our shuttles." She smiled, but knew it was invisible behind her polarized face-shield. "You're welcome to some of our meal. We're trying to make sure it cooks long enough that it should be fine to eat." She'd actually already run tests on the meat for parasites. There'd been none, to her relief. She really didn't want the local equivalent of trichinosis.

Moravec gunned the engine of his hovercycle, and drifted a little closer. "Kid," he said. "You planning to lift that visor at some point?"

"To eat, sure" Dara said, keeping her smile in her tone with difficulty. _More testing, more pushing. Why?_

Rinus stirred, and said, impatiently, "Humans are damned rude sometimes. She's a doctor and a Spectre. Pick a form of address and use it, is my recommendation." Rinus stared down at Moravec. He didn't look away at all; for a turian, there was no difference in how one treated a handicapped individual or a hale one. Which, Dara had to admit, was probably refreshing for Moravec, who blinked in surprise.

"Keep your shirt on," he told Rinus, but gave Dara a thoughtful stare afterwards.

At least she had the excuse of the brilliant sunset to put on her dark glasses as they all sat around opposite sides of the fire to eat. Rinus was stuck with MREs, of course, and lightly complained, "That bird smells good enough that I wish it _did_ have nutritional value for me, and didn't require epi-tabs to eat."

And over the campfire, Seheve began asking careful questions of the various Growth Zero people, and a new and different picture began to emerge. A _lot_ of them didn't much agree with Bassanelli's ideology, it turned out. At least, not in this group of ten. Most of them scoffed at it, in fact. "Look," one female told the drell, in Dara's hearing, "there's _nothing_ here. There's the corporations, and if you want to get kidnapped or murdered by Eclipse, great. There's Eclipse, which I wouldn't deal with if my life depended on it. . . or there's GZ. Say what you want about Bassanelli, and most people probably would, but he's kept food in my kids' bellies."

_Yeah. By stealing the credits. By trading drugs for guns. By kidnapping people_. Dara shifted around to face Moravec near the fire. "You feel the same way as the rest of your people? Your fledging cargo business was pretty much wiped out by GZ. Why _join_ them? Why kidnap miners?"

Moravec's face mottled in the dying light of the sun. "I make goddamned sure that none of the miners is _ever_ hurt," he told her, with force. "I'm not out to hurt people. I'm out to make CoAgo pay."

_Yeah. And I'm sure that the people whom you've kidnapped and held hostage, and their families, who lived in fear the entire time they were held, were just. . . minimally bruised._ Dara was damned grateful that her eyes were covered. "Doesn't really answer the question of why join them, does it? You're an immigrant. Everyone _here_ is an immigrant. I don't see anyone in your group young enough to have been born here. Why join them?"

Moravec looked glum. "My son keeps asking me the same question," he said, slowly. "But. . . GZ is really the only option. You can be with them. You can be with Eclipse. Or you can be with one of the fucking corporations and die in a hole. What would _you_ choose, _Doctor_?"

Dara looked into the fire. "Probably try to find a way off-world," she said, after a moment. "But that's just me."

"Yeah. You and my son." Moravec's turned grim. "He left for Bastion a year ago." He stared at her. "You said you were there for the plagues. I don't suppose—"

"Mr. Moravec, I watched thousands of people die in the med bay every single day. I don't remember all the names." The guilt hit, and hard, but she pulled up her omnitool. "I kept a list of the ones who really fought, and either made it or didn't, but the best thing would be to get extranet connection going more than intermittently, and then you could look through the death register. And, if he's alive, call him." She was actually rather relieved that Moravec's name wasn't anywhere in her file. Tears burned in her eyes as she looked at the lists. "I'm sorry. I can't find him, but. . . this is only about ten thousand names. Close to a million died on Bastion. Three hundred million on Earth, last I heard."

Weeks in hell, summed up in names. Names without faces. . . or almost. In the immediate wake of the plague, she hadn't been able to do so. A gift from Joy-Singer, perhaps. Rachni memory. Not eidetic, like a drell's, which would have been unbearable. But whispers and fragments and eyes.

At least there was something in her voice as she spoke that had touched Moravec. She could see it in his face. He finally _believed_ that she was a doctor. Finally believed that she was a Spectre. And there was, perhaps, a bit of emotional connection, too. He heard his son's doubts in her, the same conflict he'd fought out with his son, over and over. That might be a bad thing, though; it could prime him to fight her, argue with her, in exactly the way he fought and argued with his son. _I am so bad at this._

Dara excused herself, and went inside the shuttle. She had a better feel for the GZ people now, particularly for Moravec. They'd made damned poor decisions, and now were, more or less, trapped by them. The ones who weren't 'ideologically pure,' as Melaani or Ylara would put it, could probably be, well, redirected. They'd need punishment of some sort, eventually, but they didn't have to be killed, eradicated like vermin. They weren't, like some of the Eclipse people, _migrating_ to the system for a chance at power. Most of them were probably just trying to survive, as people in bad neighborhoods tended to do, by joining the local gang. _If they can be separated from Bassanelli, they might not actually continue as they have gone on. If they're offered choices, anyway. Holding out judgment on Bassanelli till I meet him_, she wrote to Ylara on the _Sollostra_, and then, with Chopin crooning to her on her chest, wrote her rambling letter to Eli. The next comm drop might be tomorrow, or it could be a week from now. The letter was, at least, written and uploaded. _And god but I wish you were here. You. Lin. My dad. All of you. _

The dreams started that night, which surprised her little workers. Dara sat up, gasping, from the endless corridors of the med bay on Bastion. The dead and the dying reaching for her. _Probably the conversation with Moravec made it all fresh again. Go back to sleep. Or, failing that, think about. . . yeah. Going on leave with Eli. I wonder what that property Kasumi said she had there is, anyway?_

—_Those who sing illness do not sing final songs, little queen,_ Chopin told her, plainly confused. _All is well._

_I know that. Just a nightmare. Human dream-songs are not always real. Our minds sing to themselves in our sleep. As Life-Singer sang to herself, to keep her sanity. Not real. Sometimes happy songs, sometimes bad songs._

—_This keeps humans singing in harmony? Your minds sing dissonance to yourselves to create harmony?_

_More like the dreams warn us that there is dissonance, I think_. Dara laid back down, and Chopin and Liszt both scuttled closer to her. Eventually, she even got back to sleep again.

The morning after that, the GZ people put hoods over their heads. One of them—Moravec, she thought—swore as Chopin climbed up on her shoulder, and stubbornly clung there. "He's not hurting anyone," Dara finally said, in annoyance.

"What _is_ it? A pet?"

"No. He's a rachni. Like Sky over there. Different form. Just stop pestering him, and he won't squirt acid at you."

The GZ people backed away. She could feel Chopin's amusement, and Sky's. _—They fear us! Like mother-queen of Sings-to-the-Past._

Then they were led off, clinging to a rope together, through the jungle. This was . . . nervous business. There were flightless terror birds over seven feet tall that roamed the jungle floor, after all, and being helpless and blind like this was not on Dara's list of good ways to pass through unfamiliar terrain. She could see just enough of her feet to avoid tripping over vines and rocks, and when they had to traverse a boggy area, their guides removed the blindfolds temporarily. Being up to her hips in mud and water and unable to see might have been just a little claustrophobia-inducing.

As they splashed between the roots of huge mangrove-like trees, and as their guides watched, anxiously, for huge, amphibious predators, like giant salamanders, that were endemic here, Dara murmured over her helmet radio, quietly, on the Spectre encrypted band, "Seheve? Does being blindfolded prevent you from retracing your steps?"

"Not at all," Seheve replied, calmly. "I am counting my steps. And I can feel the direction we are facing, thanks to this moon's strong magnetosphere."

_Good._ Dara forced down the churning anxiety in her stomach.

And when they arrived at the makeshift camp, she suddenly understood why they'd been prevented from coming here the night before. "The camp's brand new," Rinus said over the radio. "They moved all the patients here last night."

'They do not wish us to see their current main base," Seheve agreed.

Bassanelli, a thin, short man in his mid-fifties, emerged from one of the tents, and eyed them all warily. "Which of you is Doctor Jaworski? Your patients are in here," he said, brusquely.

Dara was just glad he wasn't wasting any more time. She walked straight for his tent, Chopin rustling along through the leaves at her feet, and Bassanelli stared down at the rachni in consternation, just as Dara brushed past him and into the tent. She'd spent a solid couple of hours with the medical database on the _Sollostra_ before they even disembarked from the ship, so she had some ideas of what she might find.

Eight of the patients did indeed have large lesions and sores, as if their flesh were melting away from their bodies. This was Leshman's disease, caused by protozoa carried by biting insects. It caused rashes, skin lesions, high fevers. . . and yes. Swollen internal organs, which explained some of the abdominal discomfort. Dara got those patients on heavy antibiotics and anti-pyretics immediately, and got the nurses to slather on cortisone creams for the rashes, in the hopes of letting the skin start to heal. Antibiotic cream might have been another treatment option, but she wanted to get the inflammation down externally, and rely on the internal medications to fight the infections.

Four of the patients did indeed have 'dark water' fever. They were running fevers of 104º, dangerously high for an adult human, and several were delirious. "Rinus!" Dara snapped out the door of the tent. "Get in here. I need you to hold this one down. He needs an IV, and my other nurses are busy." The fever could lead to renal failure, and the patients needed fluids, and they needed them _now._ Fortunately, this was, again, a bacterial infection. Proper antibiotics would take care of it. . . along with care for the fever. Cool baths, if nothing else.

Rinus gave the GZ people surrounding the other Spectres a wary look, and obeyed her. Dara was fully in medical mode at this point, and moved now to the quieter patients—the last three, in fact. High fevers. Itching skin, but no lesions. And antibiotics didn't seem to be helping. Dara frowned and tried to look at their skin. Her eyes didn't quite work the way they once had; she still had far more micro/macro than a normal human did, but it just wasn't the _same._ "Nodules," she muttered under her breath. "Any of you been bitten by insects the last few days? Maybe in a different area than the other folks over there?"

As it turned out, they had, and, when Dara carefully excised one of the nodules, she found it _filled_ with tiny larval worms. Almost microscopic, in fact, they were probably parasites of the flies that had bitten the GZ people days or weeks ago. . . and had been using the humans as hosts, until they were bitten by flies again, and could move to another host to breed. Two of the humans had already had some of the worms die inside them, which had resulted in an overwhelming immune system response to the protein markers left by the dead worms. . . and that had actually claimed their sight. The third one, Dara started on a massive course of antibiotics—a different strain than GZ had been using—in the hopes of saving the man's eyesight.

After finishing with the first round on the patients, Dara walked out of the tent, and found Bassanelli. "Where are the other five?" she asked. "You said twenty patients last night. That was fifteen."

The middle-aged man looked across at her. She'd stayed in her visor while treating the patients; it did no good for her bedside manner, but at least she had the excuse that it prevented her from contracting anything. All she'd done was remove her gauntlets and pull on fresh nitrile gloves between each patient. "Dr. Jaworski," he said, in his melodic English. "I regret to say that they did not survive the night."

It was calmly said, and with as little expression as if he'd said '_I threw out the newspaper this morning.'_ Dara pulled up her visor, and didn't _care_ at the moment if he saw her eyes or not. Her outrage required an outlet, and this was simply going to have to do. "Then their deaths are on _your_ hands," she told him, between her teeth. "You could have had us come to your main camp, wherever the hell it is, last night, and I might have been able to do something for them. Hell, the two men who are blind today, might not have _been_ blind twelve or eighteen hours ago."

Bassanelli blinked, and his eyes widened. Dara realized that Chopin was on her shoulder, and hissing angrily. _Sing calm,_ Sky told her, and Dara tried. But _god_, it was hard. "We couldn't compromise the security of our base, Spectre," Bassanelli told her, still _staring_ at her. "You are young. You don't yet understand that sometimes, sacrifices must be made for the greater good."

_I'm old enough to understand that anyone who trusts you, believes that you'll take care of them, provide for them, protect them, as a leader should, has shit for brains_, Dara thought, and then Sky moved over to her then, and rested one of his handling appendages on her shoulder. _Come away,_ he told her. _No good will come of confrontation now._

The good news was, she'd garnered some trust with the GZ people by treating their injured and their sick. The bad news was, she'd learned that their leader was no more trustworthy than T'laro was. But she offered them the same deal as Eclipse, though it burned her to speak the words. Amnesty after the war. . . so long as they _didn't_ go back to kidnapping, extortion, smuggling.

After ten days in the jungle, treating the sick, Dara was just delighted to go back to the _Sollostra._ And _shower. . . _and get checked by the _Sollostra's_ doctor for any unusual medical conditions, herself.

"So," Rinus asked, cynically in the briefing room, "How long before one or the other of them breaks the agreement and attacks us?" He looked around. "Do we want to start a betting pool?"

"I've got Eclipse inside of a month," Dara said, dryly, and rubbed at her eyes.

"Our first goal," Ylara said, quietly, "is the relief of Shir. Second goal, destruction of the batarian processing facilities on Arvuna. Then we're going to go help that group of salarian archaeologists. And after that. . . we take out the batarian ships around the mass relay, and get some damned Alliance ships in here to patrol."

Ten days later, Dara's eyes were nearly crossing as she tapped out a nearly incoherent letter to Eli. _Sorry. Really tired tonight. Spent the last five or six days, pretty much, in constant combat. Shir's an almost airless rock, and with good reason. Most everything it could use as atmosphere is frozen to the surface. -301º F/185º C makes for a chill that's pretty much the vacuum of space. And the ice on the surface is mostly frozen carbon dioxide and nitrogen. Stuff that'll burn the skin right off your hand if you're exposed to it for more than a second. All the outposts on Shir are underground; one of them has a dome, but it's a dome built of rock and steel, not just an aerogel tent. Of course, the batarians had a couple of ships in orbit, which wasn't a problem for the __Lightsinger__ or the __Sollostra__._ _Our good buddies in GZ and Eclipse didn't much like being used as a distraction, but they didn't have much choice. No stealth = target practice. They also didn't like telling us that there were back ways into the mines. GZ apparently dug access tunnels from the surface into the mining complex decades ago. That's how they kidnap the damn miners. They'd started out doing what Eclipse does, hijacking the corporate shuttles when people are coming here or going home, but corporate security got too high, so they opted for an 'easier' route, and bored through the frozen ice and rock, installed an airlock system, and go in to 'farm miners,' I guess you could say, once every six months or so. I guess kidnapping must be __really__ profitable, for them to have sunk so much money into making it easier to do. Yeah, I bit my tongue about bloody trying to keep myself from mentioning that. _

Dara paused and rubbed at her eyes. She was too tired to do the whole alphabet soup of names, and not everyone had a squad-name yet. She'd tried to hang Hephaestus on Rinus, gotten a dirty look, and opted for Vulcan instead. Which got her a _dirtier_ look. "What, you think I'm a crippled blacksmith whose mate cheats on me with the god of war?"

Dara had given him a faint smile. "Kallixta _has_ always said that Rel and you were both wonderful examples of turian male beauty. And Rel would make a _wonderful_ Mars." She consciously used the Roman name. Ares had been a spoiled, tantrum-throwing god; Mars had had a bit more dignity to him.

Rinus had made a rude noise, and thrown a stylus at _her_ for a change.

_So, yeah. We all headed down. Kirrahe and R.—that's Vulcan now, by the bye—had a long talk about their load-outs. You know Kirrahe is very attached to his flamethrower, but he decided that in an enclosed space, with limited oxygen for the inhabitants? Might not be a good idea. So he actually took an Avalanche, and Rinus stayed faithful to his arc-projector. First time I ever saw him use that thing was in orbit over Garvug. Ask Rel about it. Picture this. No plate tectonics, so a flat plain, all around the world, broken up by a few impact craters, filled in with ice and broken fragments of rock and ice from impacts that could have been yesterday, or could have been a million years ago. . . very little erosion. A night-black sky, filled with brilliant, razor-sharp stars that never twinkle. . .just burn, because there's no atmosphere in the way. That was the view as we trudged about four kilometers from our landing site to where the concealed hatch was—Kirrahe punched in the code, and then we all jumped down into the ground. He asked, as he was sealing it up, "Is there any reason we wish for these tunnels to be used again for GZ's purposes?"_

"_Hell no," is about what I answered. Seconded by everyone around us._

_So he encrypted the door-code. "Something I've been working on for fun in spare time," is how he put it. Zhasa took a brief poke at it, laughed, and said she'd see if she could break it, when she had a year or so to spare and an NCAI that was bored and had lots of processing power for the task. GZ's going to be pissed, but I doubt that was their only tunnel. And, hell, we could have just collapsed the damn thing with explosives._

_Anyhow, it was a long walk through the tunnels. Air in them, at least, but we didn't dare take our helmets off. We could feel explosions from the surface all the way down in the tunnels, and periodically, pieces of the ceiling would break off and fall down. I've never been claustrophobic, but after today? Ugh. Worked our way to the real mines, where there was another concealed door, and then Seheve took point, moving out ahead of us, stealthed. The miners were still at work, poor sods. Not even control-chipped, not yet, anyway. Why waste the resources on chipping a slave when all you have to do to make him work is threaten to cut off the oxygen recycling, and let him slowly suffocate? (And the GZ folks think that the corporations were bad. Hah. When was the last time they deliberately cut off the air?)_

_So, yeah, we found the miners. They had digging equipment, and were overjoyed at the thought of using it on the batarian overseers. And they knew where all the main pockets of batarians were holed up. Now, the trick here was. . . we needed to make sure that the batarians didn't turn off the air scrubbers. The ventilation gets handled from a central location, of course. So we had to sneak past several guard stations to get to the main control room. The miners found back passage after back passage for us, and we were lucky—no SIU or warrior-castes here. Inefficient use of resources. Just slavers. Packs and packs of slavers. Seheve got us started outside the doors of the control room. Just ghosted up behind the guards outside the door, and before they even knew she was there, one of them was dead. I shocked the second before he could get a warning off, and then we were in the door. Ugly, nasty fight. You've been through enough of them to be able to picture it, but I'll give you one image: Kirrahe using the Avalanche he was carrying. Freezing all the slavers in place, so they couldn't move. . . and then Rinus letting loose with a barrage from the arc projector._

_Yeah. There wasn't a lot left. Good thing, too. We had to get inside, seal the damned doors, and hold them while Zhasa and Kirrahe went through and locked down every system away from batarian control. Which meant decrypting the batarian protocols and installing new ones. Took an hour. . . and then they had control of everything. Lights, water, air, you name it. Oh yes, and doors. Don't forget the doors. Of course, now, the batarians were out there, and we were in here, and they had the prisoners as hostages, but we had the lights. _

_At that point, Eclipse and GZ landed and entered the front doors of the mining complex. It got really messy, really fast from there. Melaani had to intervene at one point. T'laro wasn't so much interrogating one of the batarian slavers so much as killing him very, very slowly with her biotics. Mel just asked her, "So, you got any questions for him? Because if you don't, I do."_

_Mel's questions were pretty simple. Where were the rest of their people on Shir. What are the defenses like at the processing facilities on Arvuna—there are three, apparently, but we're going to hit the biggest one first. At least she intervened before I would have had to. As it was, there wasn't much I could do but ease him out of it. Medical ethics just bite. I can shoot anyone who's shooting at me, I can bind their wounds, I can treat their wounds, but somewhere out there, there's someone who'd go after my license for 'euthanasia' if they ever found out I gave a mortally wounded batarian an overdose of __morphinol__ to put him out of his misery. . . . and to make sure that an asari commando stopped 'flaying him with her mind.' Of course, there are people out there who'd give her a medal for doing that right now. . . and who's to say they're necessarily wrong?_ Dara thought about deleting that part of the letter, then sighed and shrugged. It was going over Spectre encrypted channels. It _shouldn't_ get into the wrong hands. _Needless to say, Melaani didn't get much out of the guy. _

_So, here it is, November 15. It's been a month since we were last at home, and it seems like a lifetime ago. The memories already feel as faded as old vids, but that's probably because I'm so damned tired at the moment. Got your last letter. Mal Henderson. . . yeah, I didn't know him much, but it sucks to hear that he's so sick. If he was already throwing up as Vessarian was carrying him away from the caves, I don't know how much can actually be done for him. They got him stabilized in the mines, and that's good, but. . . from the sound of it, he probably took over six hundred rads, and that hurts. Obviously, I'm not there, and I can't diagnose, but don't get your hopes up. Doctors can work a lot of wonders these days, but there are still limits. Unfortunately. _

_Glad you liked the idea of Bek. You asked, 'won't the insurance rate on wherever Kasumi has her property go up if we go there, given that people will, undoubtedly, be shooting at us?' I asked her that, pretty much in your words, and she wrote back, just a snippet, and said, 'no, no, it's okay. It's already been shot up pretty thoroughly by me and Shep, once upon a time. We got the bloodstains all out already.' So, I'm guessing that wherever it is, it's bunker. Or a fortress. A nice, secure location, anyway. Oh, I know. It's a vault, where Kasumi hides all the things she thinks my dad would have a heart attack if he knew that she owned it. You may have to sign a solemn oath not to disclose anything that you see there._

_My dad says that his—okay, my—lawyer, J. Thaddius Maxwell, has drawn up all the paperwork for my divorce proceedings. This is going to get interesting. I signed a power of attorney before I left Mindoir. That gives my dad the right to sign the divorce papers for me, in the event that I'm not there, so December 14, he's going to do that, assuming I'm not back on-world. That's the easy part. The harder part is that planetary and Alliance law states that a soldier cannot be served with divorce papers while they're on active duty in a forwards area. Yeah, so, Dad can sign for me, but until Rel gets out of a combat zone, the clock does not start ticking. The instant his feet touch ground, he can be served, and has thirty days to sign the papers. If he signs them, we're done, as far as Alliance law is concerned; there's some processing that can take another month or so, particularly since you can't, apparently, get court dates overnight (turians are so much more civilized about this. Sign a form, change a few entries in the database, and you're done, unless someone wants to protest a contract clause). _

_The tricky part may be that Rel might choose not to sign. In which case, we go to court, Mindoir is a no-fault planet, the court will probably find in my favor, and dissolve the marriage in spite of his refusal to sign the papers. That can take much, much longer, though. Another three to six months. And then there's the fun of the turian half of all this crap. Because I'm told there's already a "Defense of Tal'mae Act" in the works. Rinus mentioned it the other day. I wanted to throw up, I really did. He laughed and said not to worry about it. He's. . . actually on my side. About the divorce thing, I mean. He wants Rel to be happy, and can't see how Rel could possibly ever be happy, being stuck in a marriage with someone who no longer wants to be married to him. So he's got a couple of his own marriage law amendments in mind to offer. . . "if I can ever get to my office in Complovium again. Never thought I'd miss the place," as he said yesterday evening. _

_Wow. That was a tangent. Anyhow. . . that's all for now. Tomorrow, we head back to Arvuna. Sun, sand, surf, predatory birds, diseases, oh, and batarians. Lots and lots of batarians._

_**Author's note:** The proposed tactic for dealing with the batarian nets outlined about midway through the chapter is courtesy of Natrim. It's included as a tip of the hat for a clever idea, but isn't the solution I had in mind, actually. ;-) _

_I don't mind people who regularly talk to me and review asking clever questions. _

_Please, however, do not send me huge story ideas, explanations of what you think the yahg's cultural motivations are, strategies for the yahg, strategies for the rachni, suggestions for Rel, or anything else. Anything more than a question or a sentence in length will not be read. _

_This is my story. I do not wish to have it be a collection of other people's ideas and voices. Not only would that take me even more perilously into the realm of poaching intellectual property, but it also takes away my fun. :-)_


	122. Chapter 122: Betwixt

**Chapter 122: Betwixt**

**Elijah, Terra Nova, November 16, 2196**

The Hammerhead bumped and jostled over the rough terrain; even on a cushion of air, there was still a noticeable amount of dip and sway as it traversed the badlands southeast of Red Mesa. They were headed to what Vessarian's radio contacts and Rel's orbital surveys had suggested could be one of the other resistance compounds. Possible even the stronghold of 'the Prepared.' Eli nudged the Hammerhead around a projection of rock carefully, and chuckled under his breath as, behind him, the interrogation continued. Lexine Elders wasn't getting _anywhere_ with Dempsey.

"You've been in special forces since 2182. That's fourteen years of service. Yet you don't look a day over twenty-two." Elders was almost fawning over Dempsey. "To what do you attribute this?"

"Good genes." Clipped, short response.

"I understand that your wife, during your MIA period, remarried, and a year later, died of the plague on Earth. That leaves you in sole custody of your son, Madison, correct?"

"Yes." One-word answers had been Dempsey's default response as he continued to look out the windows, watching the terrain around them for yahg hunters or anything. . . or anyone. . . else.

"Is being a single father difficult?" Elder was doing her best not to sound irritated.

A slight pause. "Somewhat."

"What's been the most difficult part for you?"

"Finding someone to look after him when I'm off-world." Ten words, a complete sentence. Almost a record for Dempsey so far.

"Not the fact that you were out of his life for ten years during the MIA period?" Elders pressed. "Not the fact that his mother recently passed away? Not the fact that he is, apparently, a biotic, just as you are, yourself?"

_Erg. And I'm driving, and can't intervene. Of course, this is all background stuff. Personal interest tidbits for her documentary. Still. . . stay calm, Dempsey, please._

"Mad's a good kid." Cool, flat words.

"And that's all you're going to say?"

"Yes."

Elders sighed. "Spectre, I'm trying to do human interest bits here. Those only work if you work _with_ me."

"I'm answering your questions."

The convoy ground to a halt, momentarily, and Eli looked back over his shoulder. Lantar was taking a turn in the turret, which meant that Dempsey and Rel were in the back with Elders. And, just for a moment, his eyes met Rel's, and there was a moment of quiet, joint amusement. The old game. _Don't say anything to the reporters_. Then Rel seemed to realize that he was smiling, and his face shut down again, and Eli turned his attention back to the vehicles in front of him.

"Okay, let's try a few different questions, then." Elders' voice turned sly. "Any girlfriend at the present?"

"Yes."

Like a hound on a fresh trail, Lexine Elders pressed, "Really? The lucky girl have a name?"

"Most girls do." Almost as literal as a geth, and just as poker-faced. After a moment, during which Eli could imagine Elders glaring at Dempsey, the man relented enough to say, "Zhasa'Maedan vas Irria nar Pellus."

There was a momentary pause as Elders put all the pieces together. "The quarian Spectre? You're dating the quarian Spectre?"

"Yes."

Eli risked a glance back, and, at the confounded expression on Elders' face, returned his attention to the road again, his shoulders now shaking with suppressed laughter. She clearly wanted to ask _How?_ and _Why?_ but was having trouble formulating a polite way to phrase the questions. "Ah. . . and how's that working out for you?" she finally asked.

"Very well, thank you." Dempsey's low voice held just the faintest traces of amusement, or so Eli would have sworn.

After a moment, Elders shifted around, and began to ask Rel questions now, and Eli let his mind drift for a moment, focusing still on the dim lights on the rear of the Hammerhead in front of him. They'd been searching the desert for five days now. Had flushed out five more damned bands of yahg, all small, and had found fresh-killed humans in their lairs. Which indicated, as Lantar had pointed out, that there had to be humans out here in the desert to kill. The question was _finding_ them. . . and before Lantar, Livanus, and Gris decided that it was a lost cause, and simply turned them southwest to the Icama facility.

"Your older brother is a _dominus_, and a Spectre. Is it hard to live in his shadow?" Elders' voice filtered back into his awareness as Eli studied the HUD quickly, making sure no threats had been picked up by anyone in the convoy.

_Oh, nice, why don't you rub salt in the wound while you're at it?_

"No. Everyone in the family is proud of Rinus. I spent most of my childhood hoping to live up to his example." Rel's tone was colorless. Because he had. He'd met the challenge, surpassed it, and then taken a couple of wrong turns.

"There are rumors of a rift between you and your wife, Spectre Dara Jaworski, ah, Velnaran. Care to comment on that?"

"No." Rel's voice had gone tense.

"Personally, I think any woman would be crazy to chuck a guy like you. Handsome, strong, loyal, interesting family background. . . .Of course, there are those who would say that Dr. Velnaran got what she wanted. She's a Spectre now. So she doesn't really need you, right?" Trying to play, of course, the sympathetic role. The observer with the bias towards Rel, but at the same time, trying to draw on any underlying outrage or anger in him. While still trying the same lightly flirtatious game she'd tried on Dempsey—over and over, to no avail.

"I have nothing to say on this topic," Rel said, tersely. "Move on."

Elders sighed. "Very well. You're a probationary Spectre at the moment. What does that actually mean?"

"Means I get the real Spectres _apha_ when they ask for it."

Eli snorted. Above him, in the turret, Lantar did, too. "Not quite," Lantar called down, dark-voiced. "It means, Ms. Elders, that Shepard wanted to see Urdnot Makur, Kirrahe Orlan, Rellus Velnaran, and Seheve Liakos in the field with the rest of our units for a while longer."

"But Commander Velnaran served on several Spectre ships over the course of service in the turian military, didn't he? As his wife did, as well? What could possibly be left to observe?" Elders was not, unfortunately, an idiot. She had the subtlety of a bulldog with a bone, but she wasn't dumb.

"That's not for me to say," Lantar replied tersely.

Eli's shoulder-blades itched with the desire to turn around, but he suggested, mildly, not looking back, "Perhaps a change of topic is in order, Ms. Elders."

She sighed. "Very well. How does your current service differ from your previous assignments, Commander Velnaran?"

"First time fighting in an actual war. I'm used to moving in, taking out an objective, and then moving away again." Rel's voice was very tightly controlled. Eli could hear the strain. Elders had hit a lot of nerves so far. "Shanxi, and even Terra Nova, are prolonged campaigns with multiple objectives. It's very different."

Elders asked him several more questions. Anything personal, Rel deflected. As they bumped down over a ridge, Elders' camera floated up into the cockpit, and Eli said, sharply, "Get that out of here before the light wrecks my night vision."

The camera whirred slightly, and the light turned off, but a quick glance up told him that it had merely changed modes. _Great. My turn in the barrel._ "Ms. Elders, I'm a little too busy to talk to you at the moment."

"You've said that every time I've tried to ask you about yourself," she told him, and he could feel weight on his shoulder through the armor as she leaned in closer. _My turn again. Great._ He figured it might not even be conscious. She simply wanted them to _like_ her, and was, apparently, defaulting to this sort of behavior to try to influence them. _If they like me, they're more likely to be open with me_, was probably her thought process.

Unfortunately for her, she'd tried flirting lightly with Dempsey, which would have gotten more reaction from a geth; she'd tried to hint to Rel, several times, that he was attractive and strong, and that she was open-minded enough to see it, and had gotten a slight mandible twitch each time. The last time she'd tried it, and left, Rel had said, simply, "Ew," as soon as the hatch closed behind her. Which had made Eli start chuckling, quietly, under his breath.

It was less amusing now. "Spectre Sidonis?" Elders prompted. "Every time I ask you about one of your fellow Spectres, you've been very forthcoming, and I appreciate that, but at the moment, you're driving at about ten kilometers per hour right now. I think you can spare the time for a few _real_ answers."

Eli didn't respond to that. Elders sighed. "Most people in Alliance space are familiar with your background now, Spectre. Your father was a cop on the Citadel; your step-father, a member of both C-Sec and B-Sec. You've continued the family tradition, working for military police, turian CID, and now, you're a Spectre yourself, like your step-father, Lantar Sidonis."

"I didn't actually hear a question in any of that." Eli slowed down. The convoy had just jarred to a halt again.

"So, at the moment, you're single?" She was, he had to give her credit, avoiding the topic of his contract dissolution. "Single male human Spectre. Highly eligible bachelor. There are whole discussion forums out there, as I suspect you know, dedicated to you—well, to all the single Spectres, really." That last was added as the Hammerhead swerved minutely, and Eli corrected course reflexively.

"Can't say I was aware of that," Eli replied. He wasn't, on reflection, all that surprised. His poster of Commander Shepard, back in the day, had been in full body armor and carrying a gun, but any number of other female Spectres had been caught, usually with telephoto lenses, in bathing suits (or, if asari or turian, in considerably less than that). A few had actually posed for pictures, trying to control the media's access to them in that way. He hadn't actively thought about this in conjunction with _male_ Spectres before, and certainly not in regards to himself. It was more than a little disquieting.

Behind him, Rel was actually snickering. _Laugh it up,_ Eli thought dryly. _You're used to this __s'kak__ from being related to Rinus and Garrus and everyone else. _

"It's really never occurred to you?" Lexine Elders sounded surprised. "Well, for all the girls out there who're pining away over their extranet consoles. . . what _does_ a girl have to do to get you to look at her?" She leaned in closer over his shoulder. As if inviting him to look at _her_.

"For starters, not be in my way when I'm working," Eli said, but made sure his smile made it into his voice, if not his eyes. "Second, I'm not available. Sorry, ladies."

Elders' voice was startled. "You're in a relationship?" _Already?_ her voice implied.

"Oh, I'm committed to something right now." Careful, careful words. It could be taken to mean that he was committed to the war, for example.

The wording didn't escape her notice, but she laughed. "All right. I'll put it a different way. What sort of a girl _could_ get a commitment out of you, then?"

Eli sighed. His mouth was going get him in trouble if he didn't word this exactly right, especially considering Rel was right behind him, but she was annoying him. "You want to know what my dream girl would be, huh? Okay, so.. . basic qualifications: Smart, funny, loyal, trustworthy. Blushes when I tease her, but gives me hell right back. Should share my interests. Shooting, sparring, gladiatorial combat, science, paleontology, and hell, why not cooking while we're at it?"

"You cook?"

"My mom does—really well—and she taught me." Eli paused. "So, those would all be requirements. And she'd need to be able to hang with everyone that I hang with."

"One of the boys in other words?"

Eli snorted. "I certainly hope not. What I mean by that is this: my blood-brother's turian, my father's turian, and three of my siblings are half-turian. That's never going to go away. And. . . I'm human, my mother's human, and three of my siblings are, well, half-human. So, for my family and coworkers' sake, I need someone who can be both human and turian." He paused. "As if that's not enough, I speak and read asari fluently, and I consider Ylara Aliir a second-mother. So. . . by preference, I'd like someone who can also handle being a little asari." _And Dara's working on that. If she can be a little asari for me, I can try to be a __brood-warrior__ for her. God, my life is complicated._ "Add to the mix the fact that my step-sister is salarian. Someone who could at least try to be a good older sister to her would be nice, too.. . . well, older sister until Narayana's thirty, thirty-five or so, and a crotchety old lady. Someone who understands salarians, can deal with their short-life spans? Call it a bonus."

Elders' mouth dropped open. "That's. . . quite a list. Anything else?"

"Nah. Past that, anything else the girl in question is interested in, from music to art or whatever . . . _I'll_ cultivate an interest in, too. But if she likes long walks on the beach, that would be nice."

Elders laughed, openly. "That sounds like an almost impossible list of requirements."

"Bastion Singles Net is supposed to be able to find love for anyone. My _sangua'fradu_ didn't have much luck on there, but you think I'd be able to set up the filters just right?"

She smirked a bit. "Anything's possible. Any requirements in the looks department? Red hair?" That was a flirt. Elders had red hair, tied back in a pony-tail.

_Lady, you don't even come __close__._ "I'm democratic. Somewhere between the girl next door and exotic alien chick is just fine by me." _In other words, Dara. _

"Rumor has it that you've been very _democratic_ indeed." Her tone was arch.

Eli slowed the Hammerhead, turned, and looked at her. He wasn't smiling now. _Do you see a line on the ground and simply have to step over it, or something?_ "Okay, Ms. Elders, you've had your fun. You've got your personal interest tidbits. Here's where you back off. We've been good sports, but it would be nice if you could treat us all with a little more respect."

She blinked, taken completely off-guard. "What do you mean?"

"I mean just that. Just stick to business. Don't try to blow in our ears or any more of that crap. Treat us with respect, and you might get some back." _Haven't I said that before? Recently, in fact?_ "There's being friendly, and stepping over the line. Dempsey and Velnaran have tried politely ignoring you. I answered your questions, and you've continued to push forward. Step back behind the line." He managed a smile that he didn't feel, and added, "Emily Wong has what, four Pulitzer Prizes now?" _And I wish to god she were the one here._ "I can't imagine her taking the tone with us, that you've been taking. Think about that, huh?"

Elders retreated to a thoughtful silence. And a good thing, too. Five minutes later, there was a concussive explosion that rocked the entire line of the convoy. "What was that?" Elders demanded, her voice pitching higher in alarm.

"Landmine or mortar," Dempsey said, sharply, as the entire convoy ground to a halt.

Up in the turret, Lantar called down, "I saw the flash. Landmine. Hit the first vehicle."

"I'm getting the metal detector," Dempsey called, and he was already moving.

"Rel! Go with him," Lantar ordered. "Cover him. I'll give you both cover from the turret, but keep your eyes open."

"Want me with them? Or am I staying here?" Eli called up.

"Stay put. We may need to move this Hammerhead fast and pick them up."

Out the front window, Eli could see dozens of people moving around now. Medics moving up to the front of the convoy, various marines, Spectres, and krogan setting up outside of vehicles, eyeing the darkness around them warily. It was well past midnight, local time, and the sky overhead was thick with stars. His helmet had night-vision, which was a help, and he was able to pick out Dempsey and Rel as they moved up to the front, carefully picking their way through vehicle tracks.

After about fifteen minutes, Dempsey reported over the radio, "Yeah. Someone's seeded the entire area ahead of us with landmines. Regular pattern. Every ten feet or so. I'm marking them, but we either need techs to disarm them, which will be slow, we can go around them. . . maybe. . . or we need to blow them up from a distance." He paused. "They're old tech, guys. First Contact War vintage. Tank-busters, from before humans adopted kinetic shields, really. Which is why they dispersed the first vehicle's kinetic shields, but nothing more serious, thank god. Anyone on foot, kinetic shields or no, gets hit with one, and they're a goner."

"How far are they dispersed?" Lantar's voice was dark on the radio.

"Not sure. I'm proceeding fairly cautiously, but it's at least forty yards to our right and left so far. Looks like the entire approach to Hollow Mouth Caves has been mined. Good bet that someone's in there, I guess."

Eli shook his head. He'd had to deal with traps and deadfalls and everything else on Omega. Slaver nets and stasis fields and maybe booby-traps set up to set off shrapnel and maybe an alarm, sure. Landmines were a whole new thing for him. And while he was sure he'd be able to learn to detect them, he knew nothing about disarming them. "What are their options?" Elders asked, eagerly, turning her camera back on.

Eli shrugged. "Spectre Sidonis? You want to answer that?"

Lantar called back down, tersely, "Manually find and disarm each one, if possible. I don't see us going around the field. Which leaves, as another option, clearing the field by setting each one of them in our path off, using, say, the gunships and some light bombs. They should be rigged with pressure-sensitive plates."

Elders looked up. "You have a preference on which method?"

"Manual removal is slower, but quieter. If we've already been detected, then there will be yahg. . . or someone else. . . already on the way. Blowing them to hell using the gunships is faster, but noisier. It _will_ attract attention." Lantar exhaled, and after a quick conference with Dempsey, Gris, and Livanus, he pulled Dempsey and Rel back into to the Hammerhead, the ground vehicles pulled back, and the gunships moved in, using grenades to clear a path through the minefield. At his feet, 1812 and Wolfgang chittered unhappily. The shockwaves and noise were indeed _loud_, and Eli lowered his eyes to protect them from the flares.

They started moving again, crawling slowly forward through the now-cratered terrain, and a burst of small arms fire pinged the shields. It wasn't doing much damage, actually, and Lantar swiveled the turret, and muttered a curse in turian. "Those aren't yahg. Not batarians either. Hold fire! Repeat, hold fire!"

Elders looked nervous. "So, we just. . . sit here and let them shoot at us?"

"For the moment, yeah," Dempsey told her. "Till we can either get them on the radio, or they notice that we're not shooting back."

This part was rather nerve-wracking. Lantar had Eli trying every band on the radio, trying to get through. "Repeat, we are a Council force, sent in relief of Terra Nova. Cease firing. We're friendly targets." The shields continued to wear down. . . slowly.

Finally, the hail of gunfire stopped. "Okay, now for the _fun_ part," Eli muttered, and grabbed his shield. "Dempsey?"

"Right behind you."

"You want me with you?" Rel asked, looking up.

Eli thought about it, and shook his head. "Let them see us monkeys first. Dempsey, weapon pointed down, please." He glanced at his fellow human. "Though, yeah, keep yourself ready for a nice happy throw."

The radio crackled. "I can help," Fors said. "Just let me get to your vehicle."

_Rather you than an army._ Fors had a little negotiating experience, and didn't _look_ threatening. They looked ridiculous, pudgy, ineffectual. Eli would cheerfully use that advantage. "Yeah, that'll work. Come alongside. Rel, cover us from the hatch, if you would." Eli's stomach churned. "Okay, folks, here we go."

He stepped out the hatch, shield raised, no weapons in his off-hand, but his pistol ready, and the vibrosword slung over his shoulder. Fors scurried up behind him, taking cover behind his body and shield. "Nice having you along, Fors. Stasis field if we need it."

"I'm not really in the mood to be shot at, no," Fors commented, then added, "Then again, I'm never actually in the mood for that."

Dempsey moved in beside Eli, and the two men, with Fors behind them, headed for the cliff wall to the east, where biosigns gleamed on their scanners, and from where they'd been taking fire all this time. "Bear right," Dempsey warned. "Mine dead ahead."

Eli froze in place, scanning the featureless ground ahead of him. He wasn't sure, but he _thought_ he could see a faint disturbance in the soil there. It was damned hard to see in the dark, though. It might have just been his imagination.

He was sweating inside his armor by the time they wound their way through to the edge of the cliff. Relying solely on Dempsey's metal detector and skills was nerve-wracking, to say the least. "Hello up there," Eli called up the cliff-face. He knew damned well that there were guns trained on them right now, and if they had to run, they'd have to go back through the mines to do it. _Try not to fuck up here,_ he told himself grimly. "We're Council forces, here to help Terra Nova. I'm Spectre Elijah Sidonis. This is Spectre James Dempsey, and Spectre Fors Luka."

"Why the _hell_ are you blowing a hole through our defenses?" That was a tight, curt male voice. Mid-forties, from the sound of it.

"Couldn't raise you on the radios. Can't raise _anyone_ out here, actually." Eli kept his voice soothing and friendly. "Been trying to get to the pockets of civilians and get them to safety. Taking out yahg as we go." He put his smile in his voice. "Who am I talking to, anyway?"

A slight pause. "Name's Terence Orwell. As you probably already know." Hostile tone. Eli's mind flicked back through the reports, and he sighed mentally. _The Prepared. Great._ Orwell was a charismatic leader. He didn't preach religion, but he preached dogma. Insularism. Distrust of anyone outside the group, _particularly_ aliens and the Council.

Over the radio, he heard Lantar comment, dryly, _"Good call on keeping it a nice, mostly human and non-threatening group. See if they'll come in from the cold, at least. Or if they've got other refugees who aren't a part of their group who might want to come with us."_

_Easier said than done._ Eli tried, anyway. "We've set up base camp at the Red Mesa correctional facility, Mr. Orwell. We're trying to get as many civilians as possible to go there, so we can protect them."

"Yeah, I bet you are." Hostile, again. Orwell was, from his record, a convinced paranoiac. "We've got these monsters running around the desert, and you want to lock us up in a prison! We're not going anywhere with you."

Inhale. Exhale. "I know you want to keep your people safe, Mr. Orwell. We're not out to lock anyone up. We're here to keep people safe and kill the monsters you're talking about. They're called yahg, and they've attacked over half a dozen human colonies." Eli paused. "We've got the miners from the Altai Mineral mines at the Red Mesa facility. They're pretty decently protected, for the moment."

"Yeah, for the _moment._ We've had survivors who've come through the desert, trying to get _to_ the Red Mesa facility before. They're with us, now. They couldn't get through." That was a different voice. Younger. Scared. "We've held off the monsters for three months. We'll be just fine where we are."

_Yeah. Because you've been dug into concrete bunkers here in Hollow Mouth Caves, rarely sticking your heads out. The yahg don't see you or smell you or pick up biosigns that way. "_Hiding's one way to go," Eli agreed. "But now that we've moved through here, they're going to know you're here." It was a risky statement to make. It reflected blame back onto the Spectres. But he had to point it out.

"And that's your fault!" The young voice.

"The civilians who've staggered in have compromised our security, too. We had to go catch them before they got into the minefield. And they're a drain on resources," Orwell muttered. "We've got enough supplies to last us two years in the bunker. . . but not with extra mouths to feed."

Eli nodded to himself. It wasn't much, but these people were vehemently anti-government. Anti -_Council_, at that. "We'll get the civilians to Red Mesa," he suggested. "Any of your people who _want_ to leave, can come with us. We're not going to force you at gunpoint. We've got a hell of a lot better targets at the moment." He paused. "That sound fair? I just ask that if someone _wants_ to leave, that you let them."

"I don't force anyone to do anything," Orwell retorted. "That's what you Council types are about. My people are here because they _want_ to be here."

_Of course they are,_ Eli thought, cynically. "How about the women and the children?" he asked. "They'll be safer at Red Mesa—"

"The hell they will! They'll be safer with us!"

In the face of such intransigence, there was little that he could do. Eli tried a couple of more gambits, coached by Lantar and Fors in his ear, but to no avail.

Of course, as they loaded civilians up into the various vehicles—many of whom were ragged, tired, dirty, and almost weeping with relief—Lexine Elders started in on him again. "You're leaving some of these people behind?" she asked. "They'll die!"

Dempsey was driving now, which meant that Eli, unfortunately, had to deal with Elders. . . four refugees crowded into the Hammerhead with them. "They're exercising their right to freedom of choice," he told her, dryly. "If I had a couple of days to talk them out of their compound, maybe I could convince them that coming with us is the course of wisdom. As it is, I'm not about to fight a human paramilitary group that's dug in and has supplies. They _have_ been largely untouched so far by the yahg. With luck, that won't change." Eli swallowed. The literature on 'the Prepared' that he'd read had suggested that the group had two hundred members. That had only been partially true. He'd gotten a look at the biosigns as they'd opened the sealed hatches that blocked the entrances to the natural caves. There were over five hundred people down there. who belonged to the Prepared. Men, women, children. They were taking two hundred _additional_ people back to Red Mesa; all refugees that the Prepared had taken in.

"Yes, but couldn't you have don't. . . something?" Lexine sounded appalled.

Eli's expression tightened, and his teeth hurt for a moment. "What would you like me to do? Go back and shoot them to save them? We know there are other groups out there. These folks were offered a chance. They said _no_." He moved away from her and found a strap to hold onto, and did his best to ignore her as she started interviewing the refugees. The part that was _killing_ him was the fact that he hadn't been able to convince the leaders to let the women and the children come with them.

With Elders thoroughly occupied, he was startled, actually, as Rel stood, too, and moved over. Shifting languages into turian, Rel asked, _"Are you all right?"_ His tone was careful. Almost indifferent.

Eli was just surprised to be addressed at all. He shrugged. _"Angry. Worried. Leader was a paranoid idiot, but he'd kept them sealed up for some time. Pretty much safe. . . ._ _If I see a report later that shows that the compound was stormed by yahg, and the kids were all eaten . . . ."_ Eli shook his head, staring out the back hatch at the vehicle following in their wake.

"_What, that it'll be your fault?"_ Rel's voice was very neutral. _  
_

"_Yeah."_

"_Did you do your job right? Did you do everything you could to convince them?"_ Again, that very neutral tone, with just a hint of tightly leashed anger under it. Eli lifted his eyes and met Rel's stare with absolutely no effort. Once upon a time, the predatory stare of a turian had been hard to meet. Those days were long gone.

"_I didn't put my gun to their heads. That would've just gotten them all shooting at us again."_ Eli rubbed at his eyes for a moment. "_Or, worse, they might have panicked and decided to kill everyone inside their bunker, rather than surrender to the alien-loving Council Spectres. This group. . . the group of anti-imperialists back on Edessan. . . you have to be so damned careful when you deal with these types."_

Rel frowned. "_What happened on Edessan?"_

"_They fought to the last adult. Males and females alike. We had to put blankets over the younglings' heads to walk them out past all the bodies of their kin."_ A muscle twitched in Eli's cheek. _"It was a bad day. This could wind up being worse."_ And the hell of it was, he wasn't sure what, if anything, he could have done differently or better.

"_Maybe it will. And maybe they'll survive just fine."_ Rel didn't seem to know what to say, and for that matter, neither did Eli. Eli could read the conflicting impulses in Rel, and didn't need biotics to do so. Rel's first impulse, as a squad-leader of many years standing, was to stabilize _him_. To make sure he could continue to do his job. And yet, Rel was hesitating. All that tightly-leashed anger, boiling under the surface. The words were tightly controlled, the tone extremely careful.

Eli nodded in the direction of the reporter, once. _"This would all be a hell of a lot easier without her around, second-guessing everything. I do enough of that on my own."_

Rel snorted. _"That's more or less in their nature. If you __had__ made the call for us to extract them all by force, the story would have been the brutality of the Spectres. Now it's 'leaving them to die.' Much more dramatic than 'seventy civilians rescued today.'"_

Eli chuckled, faintly. A moment of common understanding was a damned relief, all things considered.

Of course, as they were heading back towards Red Mesa, they had a distress signal come through from Warden Wilcox. The yahg and, apparently, some batarians, were attacking in sufficient strength that the geth had emerged from hiding to repel them. "Batarians have vehicles. So do the yahg," the warden reported. "You better hurry."

The bunkers had been forty miles from the prison. They'd been halfway back when the transmission came through. There was a chance that any attack on the prison was a feint, meant to draw their convoy into a trap, so they couldn't charge in blindly—but they picked up speed, and got there. Eli gently pushed the various civilians to the floor of the Hammerhead, and Lantar took over driving for the moment, setting the turret to link to the driver's HUD. It was less efficient than having someone in the turret, but he wanted them—Rel, Dempsey, and Eli—free to move when they got back to the mesa.

And when they got there, all hell absolutely broke loose. Eli could see that there were batarian and yahg ground vehicles all around the base of the mesa, through the back hatch of the Hammerhead. He could see the krogan emerge from their vehicles, and launch themselves, with roars of challenge that reverberated even through the hulls of the Hammerheads, directly at the yahg. "This is just their rearguard," Lantar called down. "There go the rachni!"

Indeed, the soldiers, workers, and brood-warriors were swarming out of their trucks. Chopin and Wolfgang moved to Eli's shoulders, chittering eagerly, and he imagined that they were cheering their cohorts on as several yahg were _engulfed_ by workers. Eli winced, and Rel stirred uneasily. Dempsey regarded the scene impassively, and said, calmly, "Looks like a time-lapse vid of carnivorous ants eating a water buffalo or something."

Wolfgang chittered at Dempsey, rotating on Eli's shoulder. "What did he just say?"

"No idea, man," Eli told him, promptly. "And I'm not breaking out the Scrabble tiles to find out." He looked over his shoulder. "Nemesis, what the hell are we doing?" At work, it was _Nemesis,_ _Lantar,_ or_ Spectre Sidonis. _Never _Dad._

"Breaking through the line with the other two Spectre vehicles and a couple of gunships to flank us. Hold onto something." Lantar gunned the engine and vaulted the Hammerhead up and over the yahg vehicles, drifting lightly down, then thumping against the upwards slant of the rough dirt road. Eli grabbed for a wall strap, and was thrown against a window anyway. Then they were tearing up the road in the dark, and he had to trust, completely, in Lantar's reflexes. A narrow, dirt road, in pitch-black conditions, with no guard rail, sheer drops, and lots of curves.

A thought occurred to him, and he laughed.

"What?" Dempsey called over to him.

"Nothing. Tell you later." _Just that it's a damn good thing Dara isn't here. Ah, __sai'kaea__. You hate this part, but you do it anyway, so a part of you has to like it. And it's that part of you that would be yelling in my ear right now, telling me that I obviously learned to drive from my dad. And the hell of it is. . . that's not a joke I can make, given present company._

At the top of the mesa, the yahg and batarians had broken through the gates, and there was fighting in the inner courtyard. Searchlights were on, and being beamed down into the central yard, and that was at least giving visibility, for what it was worth. The central yard was ringed by four buildings, and guards were firing out of each of their windows, and from the towers, but as their Hammerhead plowed into the entrance to the courtyard, Eli could see that the east building had had its main door blown off its hinges. . .. but for all that, there were geth perched on the very walls, firing down at the yahg and the batarians. Eli's eyes scanned the crowd, and he swore under his breath. "Stealthed units, northeast corner, behind the warrior-castes!" _Warrior-castes, here? I can't imagine they're enjoying an up-close look at how their 'allies' make war, eh?_ "Yahg hunters, southeast corner, northwest corner. . . and I have no idea what the other yahg are."

"Shock troopers," Rel said, grimly, over his shoulder. "They carry assault rifles, but they tend to like to charge. High impact attack, straight line. Don't get caught on the receiving end."

"They've breached the east building. That's. . . cafeteria, med bay, processing, storage, guard rest areas, that sort of thing. No prisoners. . . but the passages down into the bunkers are in there," Dempsey reminded them all, calmly.

Eli knew damned well that there would be chokepoints all the way through the building that would cost the yahg and batarians precious time to force their way through. _How'd they know?_ he wondered. _Pure luck, picking that building first? _"We can't get them get any further in there."

"I know," Rel replied, tersely. "Question is, can we cut our way through to the east side?"

Lantar opened the back hatch, and the three of them jumped out, even as Lantar swiveled the Hammerhead around, getting the refugees out of the line of fire, and bringing the turret back on line to cover them. Quick glance to the left, as Siara, Makur, and Snowflake came out of the left-hand Hammerhead; the cat had no chance against a yahg, but a batarian wouldn't enjoy meeting the beast at all. Quick glance to the right—Thell emerged from the Hammerhead carefully, Fors clinging to his back. And that's all the time Eli had for thinking.

No damned cover anywhere. He had his shield up, and he was in front of Rel, taking the worst of the bullets being fired by the yahg ahead of them, but he could see shimmers on either side of the shock trooper, and they were huge, and he pointed them out by simply firing on the damned things, letting their shields flare to life so that Rel and Dempsey could see them, too. Dempsey couldn't lift the damned creatures, but as the visible yahg stopped firing his assault rifle, roared, and started to charge forward, the biotic simply said, "No, you _don't_," and raised a hand. Irresistible force met immovable object, and the immovable became mobile, as Dempsey slammed the yahg back into the wall of the east building behind it, and then there was the _cha-chak-a-chak-a-chak-a-chak_ of automatic weapons fire in his ear as Rel turned loose his assault rifle on the closer of the two hunters. And then the yahg were moving forward, ripples in the air just barely visible to Eli's trained eyes, and he was firing steadily at them—and then, to his surprise, Thell, to their right, turned and fired his arc projector at the damned things. Just outside of the range where the electrical energy could have jumped to _them_, thank god. A quick glance to the right—_yeah, Fors has their targets pinned down with a stasis field for the moment, god, I love that little guy's abilities—_and then just firing at the yahg himself, as they flickered back into the visible range, howling in pain and outrage. 

"Get down!" Shouted in his ear, and Rel hit him, hard, driving him out of the way as the shock trooper, recovered from Dempsey's biotic throw, charged them after all. Eli hit the ground, rolled, dropping his shield, and came up firing. It felt useless. Pistol against a monster. Might as well have a slingshot. The yahg turned, growled, and pushed off the hull of the Hammerhead, coming right back for him. Dempsey stepped forward, extending a hand, overloading the yahg's shields. Recoil of the pistol in Eli's hand as he pulled the trigger. Once. Twice. Three time. _Got to time this right if I'm going to roll out of the way. Like a matador with a bull. . . . _

The turret on the Hammerhead rotated, aimed. Eli threw himself to the right, as if he were jumping after a ball trying to get into his net. . . and the yahg, committed to the forward motion, stumbled. Tried to turn to catch him. . . and the turret fired. Point blank.

Eli scrambled to his feet and nodded at the blacked-out window of the Hammerhead. _Nice shooting, Dad_, he thought at Lantar, and reached down to recover his shield from under the still-quivering body of the dead yahg.

They were making headway, at least. The gunships, hovering overhead, had to pick their targets carefully; they were trying to keep the yahg pinned down in corners of the yard, without hitting Spectres, geth, or the guards, who were still trying to fire out of their windows around the courtyard, but who undoubtedly were having a hell of a time picking and maintaining targets with the wild scrum that was going on between the buildings.

And that was when the batarians to the northeast made their move. "Stealthed units just went inside the building. Warrior-caste, coming at us!" Eli called, and then the warriors were there. Dempsey and Rel were still dealing with two more yahg hunters, who kept popping into and out of visibility on them, and now they had three disciplined, shield-linked fighters to deal with, firing on them steadily and remorselessly. "Nemesis, get the turret on the batarians. We've got the yahg, don't worry about that!" Eli moved in on Rel's target, which had just re-stealthed, and was circling around behind the turian. "Behind you, Rel, turn, and just fire!"

Rel didn't even question it. He just obeyed the voice of experience, thank god, and did, even though it meant he was firing directly at the Hammerhead, from his perspective. The yahg's stealth screen ripped away, and Eli fired now, too, on Rel's target. . . until his pistol's thermal clip overheated. He holstered the weapon—_no time for finesse_—and drew his vibrosword. Dempsey was in full defensive mode on his yahg, shields in place, overloading the yahg's own shields every time the creature appeared to attack him, attempting to grab him—but a biotic throw or an overload here or there was dissuading the creature. Eli moved in and, when the shields were down, stabbed through the armor with the vibrosword. Not a solid hit, but enough to sting. Not every thrust had to be to a vital area. Sam had taught him _human_-style knife-fighting, and had emphasized that. "You ever see someone coming at you, blade down, along the forearm, circling motions? Just run, unless you're in armor, son. That's someone who knows how to use it. Amateurs stab. Professionals slice. I can cut four to six veins and tendons in the same flow of motion on an unarmored target. Death of a thousand paper-cuts is still _dead._"

As it was, the pain is what got the yahg's attention. It turned to face him, and Dempsey threw it backwards—and Lantar hit it with a burst from the turret. "Fors, Thell, Siara, Makur, mop up the yard," Lantar rapped out. "Livanus and Gris and I will give you cover with the Hammerheads. Tyr, Dempsey, Rel, get inside and _stop_ the batarians who've already made it in before they overwhelm the guards and make it to the civilians."

"You two holding it together?" Eli asked, tightly. He was about to be going into close-quarters combat with Dempsey, who was rock-solid, but who'd been alternating biotics and tech abilities for the last ten minutes, and Rel, who'd been somewhat tested on his adrenal reactions so far, but hadn't really been _pushed_ yet. . . and who had no reason to be fond of Eli at the moment.

"Head hurts like a son of a bitch," Dempsey reported, his voice curt.

"Still here," Rel said, grimly. "Caught a couple of bullets in the upper arm. I'd like to point out, regeneration or not? Still _futarri_ hurts."

Eli snorted, sheathed his sword, and popped the thermal clip on his pistol. "Let's get inside, guys. Not a lot of time here."

"Let's make this fast, Sidonis. What do I need to know about the batarians?" That was Dempsey, as they jogged across the still-crowded inner yard.

"SIU trains its people in stealth. Flash bangs, tech skills. Expect overloaded shields, attacks from behind, some melee, but also sniper rifles and pistols. And vibroblades from their high-castes. Good news is, guys, they're probably going to take one look and come straight for me."

"That's the good news?" Dempsey's voice had no inflection at all.

"Yeah. Lets us predict their tactics. They get _very_ agitated at seeing a vibrosword in non-batarian hands." Eli paused as they moved in through the doorway, clearing the lobby area. "Warrior-castes, well, linked shields. You have to wear it down on _all_ of them to get to any of them. They also like incendiary rounds. Makur used to _bitch_ about that, since they slowed down his ability to heal, so the two of you need to watch yourselves."

"Will do," Rel replied, crisply, and then they were moving through the narrow hallways, through office areas, checkpoints where there _had_ been double sets of plasteel doors, with control booths. . . dead guards inside the control booths now, plasteel doors blown to hell. "Shaped charges," Eli and Dempsey said at the same time, and they moved faster. Crunch of boots on broken glass and shattered plasteel. Red blood on the ground—all too damned much of it. Peeking right around a corner, another checkpoint, double doors—_shit_. Eli ducked back, and saw his shields flare around him as a couple of bullets made their way through.

"How many?" Rel asked, with absolute calm in his voice, but a hint of suppressed excitement, too.

_Come on, Rel, hold it together a little longer._ "I didn't get a clear look. Three warrior-castes and a hell of a lot of shimmers."

"Biosigns show one life-sign off in the control room to the right." Dempsey noted. "Guard?"

"Control booth's shot to hell. If it's a friendly, he's probably on the deck right now."

Something clattered on the ground near their feet. "Flash bangs!" all three of them said in unison, and Eli turned his eyes away, just in time. The left corner of his peripheral vision still took a hit, but Rel ducked around the corner, and fired a grenade down the hallway in response—incendiary, too. Then he ducked back, and Dempsey gestured for Eli to move across the hall, so they'd have two lines of fire. Eli took a deep breath, waited for a break in fire, and with Dempsey leaning around, and laying down covering fire with his submachine gun, ducked and rolled across the damned gap as fast as he could, coming up on the other side, back in cover, breathing hard.

The firefight was intense. Dempsey was only able to overload part of the warrior-castes' linked shields at a time, and Eli and Rel worked on taking the rest of it down, as best they could, but then the SIU operatives moved forward, sliding along the edges of the hallway, stealthed. "They're on the move, halfway down the corridor," Eli called. "Rel, drop a damned grenade on them and keep them back!"

That drove the SIU operatives back—they ducked into a stairwell. "Heading for the control booth," Dempsey assessed, flatly. "They might be able to do more from there. Certainly, they can fire down at us from it."

The warrior-castes, tired of exchanging fire fruitlessly, moved, as one, down the hallway, and then they were in close combat with the three warrior-castes, and Eli was _very_ busy, indeed, because, as predicted, they saw the vibrosword over his shoulder, and shouted at him in their own language, and the three of them _converged_ on him. Eli went into a defensive shell, ducking and weaving, trying not to let any of them get a grip for longer than a second, slamming his shield into one of their throats, under the helmet, in the area where the armor plates were thinner, more like lamellar, to allow for articulation and movement. . . .

. . . And then one of them was simply ripped away from him by a biotic throw that sent the batarian sailing the length of the corridor. That left Eli with two opponents, and he rolled away, backwards, trying to keep them both in _front_ of him, not spread out to either side. Rel, with enough space now established between Eli and the batarians—and with one of the three so far away, that his shield-link was attenuated—opened fire on the one to Eli's right. . . and Eli drew the vibrosword that had drawn such attention, and went after the one still attacking him.

With the three warrior-castes dead on the ground, Eli was breathing hard. "You _sure_ carrying that thing is a good idea?" Rel asked, skeptically, as they headed towards the stairs.

"It gets their attention. And I don't know how to say 'your mother dresses you funny,' in batarian," Eli replied, and checked the stairwell. "Clear."

"Any idea what they were saying to you?" Dempsey asked.

"Don't speak any more batarian than 'stop and put your hands up,'" Eli admitted. There'd been no need in the MPs, CID, or even on Bastion, to learn it. _Something for me to study with Dara, maybe. I'm bugging her to learn asari for me. . . and she's actually up on salarian and batarian, when I'm not._

Rel snorted. "They called him _rua'lodak._ Breaker of caste-bonds. It's about the worst insult for a batarian. It's what you call someone who makes bodily contact with an 'unclean' caste . . .or fucks someone outside of their own caste." They were at the top of the stairs now. The door into the control room was closed. Only one biosign in the room, but the batarians _had_ to be in there. Waiting for the door to open. A camera wouldn't do them much good. "On three," Dempsey said. "One. . . . two. . . _three!_" And he blasted the door inwards with a biotic thrust identical to the throws he'd been using on their opponents so far.

Flash bangs. Not unexpected. Eli had kept his eyes on the ground as Dempsey slammed the door in, off its hinges. But still, a moment of unnerving blindness, and then heavy fire, Dempsey leaping into the room, Eli spinning around the corner, using his shield to give Rel cover, so the turian male could use his assault rifle with impunity. . . blinking away the tears from the flash bangs, the brightly-colored afterimages, to see. . ._what the fuck?_. . . a camera hanging in the middle of the room, a batarian standing under it, gaping at them all, minimal armor. . . _you have got to be shitting me_. . . "Watch your fire!" Eli called over the radio. "Might have a noncombatant!"

"I see him! _Spirits of air and darkness!_" Rel's voice was a growl. Assault rifle fire was out as an option. Eli swore mentally and moved in, drawing the vibrosword and suddenly finding himself facing off against a batarian carrying one, himself. Rel took out another, off to the left, breaking the male's neck with his bare hands. Eli ducked a wild swing, felt his shields overload, and blocked the downward swing of the vibroblade with his own sword. Gladiatorial fighting reflexes kicked in, and he shifted his weight and kicked the batarian's leading knee, knocking the male off-balance. As the male dropped, knee to the helmet, stepping past, lower edge of the shield to the back of the neck, pivoting, adjusting his weight, and the sword came down automatically, even though he knew the killing edge would be blunted by the kinetic shields. . . and then the blue burst of an overload. _Dempsey._

The batarian's head slid off cleanly, and Eli knew he probably would be seeing that, and the red-orange gush in his dreams. Oh, he wouldn't _regret_ the death; this was kill or be killed. But he'd watched Sam take the head off a batarian or two on Camala with that damned bowie knife the man carried, and that sight had lingered. As had so many other sights on Omega, too. Eli glanced up. Rel was breathing heavily, and fighting down a snarl, from the looks of it. Dempsey's face had a cold blankness to it behind his visor that was absolutely unnerving. All three batarian operatives were dead. . . except the one with the camera. Who had his hands up.

For a moment, absolutely nothing happened. Eli looked at Dempsey and Rel. Watched the two of them fight their internal battles, and held completely still. He had the feeling that even a feather's weight on either side of their scales would send one or the other tipping over the edge.

Dempsey walked towards the male now, eyes cold. "Show's over," he said, evenly, and the camera shut itself down. "Live feed, guys. That was going out of system, but I doubt straight to their main networks. Now . . . . who the hell are _you_?"

The batarian babbled at them, frantically, all four eyes very wide, for some time. Rel had regained enough of his composure to translate. "Says he's an. . . information specialist with SIU," Rel said, eventually, his voice under rigid control. "Says he was sent here to get good vid of how well the alliance with the yahg was turning out. Capture of a Spectre command post. Lots of civilians." Eli glanced down. Rel's hands were shaking, very slightly. Last dregs of adrenaline, coursing through his system, probably.

"How'd they find out which building to target?" Eli asked, sharply. "They had four to pick from here at the center of the prison complex. Why cut right through here, right to the very last door before the bunker entrance?"

Rel asked the question, and the batarian's eyes went wider, and he shook his head, looking down and left as he answered. "He says he doesn't know."

"He's lying," Eli said, calmly, and reached down and picked up the severed head on the floor, even though he really didn't want to. _C'mon. No worse than picking up Mazz's arm back in the day. And god knows, you've helped pick up body parts at crime scenes and been to the morgue to meet with the ME before. Just 'cause he's fresh and you did the killing. . . there we go._ Eli walked forward and _shoved_ the head into the hands of the batarian 'information specialist. _Hah. Propaganda specialist, more like._ Then he made damned sure the male could see his eyes as he stared into the batarian's own. "Tell him I don't believe him, Rel. And that if we don't get answers that we like, he'll be joining his friends."

Rel switched languages into turian. "_Playing bad cop?"_

"_I know how."_

A quick switch into batarian, and the 'information specialist's' eyes went wider and wider—the more so when Eli put the bloody tip of the vibroblade against his throat. It wasn't exactly in the CID manual for handling prisoners, but Eli _really_ wanted to know how they'd known. And, as it turned out, the information specialist had the information they needed. A guard at the Icama facility had, once, worked for the Red Mesa institution. Several had, actually. Two had been tortured to death. The third had broken.

As the sun came up, and the prison's guards and the Spectres and everyone else began to clean the place up and make repairs, Eli rubbed the back of his neck, and told the rest of the Spectres, "Guess Orwell and the rest of the _Prepared_ were right, in a way. They might well be safer where they are in their bunker."

"I wouldn't say that," Makur said, grimly, stumping a little closer in the courtyard. "Any of you looked to the southeast since daybreak?"

Eli didn't know what Makur was talking about, until his swiveled around. . . and caught the plume of smoke on the horizon. "Oh, no," he said. "Fuck, no." _Fuck, no, god, no, all those people. . . . maybe it's a mistake. Maybe it's a different complex out there in the desert_. . .

They sent out a couple of reconnaissance drones, and that confirmed it. The yahg _had_ hit the compound. "They're watching our movements," Rel said, quietly. "They're probably hanging back far enough that Makur doesn't feel them watching us, but they're probably following us. We're going to have to start watching our back-trail a little more carefully."

Eli excused himself from the room, after the drone's footage came in. He wanted to shout curses, he wanted to punch walls, but what he actually wound up doing, once he found a restroom, was throw up into a handy toilet, until there was nothing left to come up, and then stood over it, shaking for a while. "My fault," he muttered quietly. The adults had placed their bets and taken their chances, but the _kids?_ Unwilling visions rose behind his eyelids again, for a moment. Children running. Children screaming. Children being killed, eaten. He'd _been_ that terrified boy, once upon a time, and he'd sworn, silently, in the depths of his heart _never again._ And now, he'd failed to keep it from happening. "God damnit."

Wolfgang and 1812, both at his feet, chittered repeatedly and insistently. "You don't think so?"

Chitter, chitter, holding still.

"Yeah, not buying it, little guys." Eli exhaled, and leaned against the wall of the toilet enclosure. Apparently, someone named Angela gave amazing blow-jobs, according to the graffiti, anyway. The darkness was starting to close in again. _I failed. I failed, and they all died for it._

Chitter, chitter. 1812 scuttled up the wall of the lavatory enclosure, and extended a small proboscis. Eli blinked as a fine line of acid ate into the wall, and left a slightly more enduring piece of graffiti, with a message far more improbable than the apparent dimensions of Angela's purportedly curvaceous figure: U NOT FAYL.

"Yeah, I kind of did. If I'd been able to talk them out of their damned hole, they'd be alive now."

THEY SNG OWN SNGS.

Eli laughed a little, under his breath. "Yeah, I guess they did. Still didn't change their songs, though, did I?"

Wolfgang chittered on the floor, and 1812 wrote, TOST HELP?

"Toast doesn't fix everything, guys."

TOST GUD. TOST FICKS HNGR-SNGS!

"You guys figured out the exclamation points, but not spelling?" _That describes almost everything ever written on the extranet, right there._

SPLLING-SNGS HARD.

Eli chuckled a little, reluctantly, and reflected that at some point, a guard was going to come into the rest room, see the graffiti burned into the wall in scraggly block letters, and think _What the __fuck__?_

He stepped out through the swinging door, the two rachni following him, and realized that Lantar was leaning against the wall, staring into space near the sinks. Eli turned on the water, washed his hands, and then rinsed his mouth. "Checking up on me?"

"It's in the job description."

"Clan-leader, father, or Spectre?"

"All of the above."

Eli shook his head. "According to the rachni, it's not my fault. And who am I to argue with them?"

Lantar snorted. "They're pretty smart. And in this case, they're right. You had Livanus and you had me, both giving you direction on what to say, tacks to take. If you failed. . . we all failed." Lantar exhaled, and ran a hand over his crest. "Get back on the _rlata_, first-son. We're going to head out and see if we can find any survivors."

Eli met his step-father's eyes. "If there are any, they're going to blame us for having led the yahg right to them."

"Can you deal with that?"

Eli swallowed. "Kind of have to. They're not going to live long out in the desert on their own."

"Then let's go get them." Lantar put a hand on the pauldron of Eli's shoulder, and out they went. This time, not into the darkness of night, but the blazing, liquid-gold sunlight of the desert. Hot as hell and twice as pitiless.

**Rellus, Terra Nova, November 16-25, 2196**

They'd picked up the scattered survivors from the Prepared's compound back on the sixteenth. There hadn't been many. Rel had been amazed by the fact that any of the children had managed to run free, but he added it, mentally, to his dossier on these particular yahg. Eli was right to call them hunters, and not farmers. They let the young run free, to allow the species to repopulate, perhaps. Veal or hatchling _apaterae_ might be softer and more succulent than a full-grown beast, but it also didn't have the calorie potential. _Practical_, Rel thought, grimly, trying to hold it all in his head without actually _applying_ any of it to the survivors in the Hammerhead around them. There were a handful of women, and almost none of the survivors were men. The younglings had, somehow, found Eli and Dempsey very comforting, in spite of the black armor, and had clung to the males' legs. Dempsey had crouched down, immediately, and talked with the kids, pushing back his visor to let them see his face. Rel could have sworn a trace of life came back into the human's face as he hugged the various children, and Eli's eyes regained a spark, too, with each survivor that they found. One of the kids, a six-year-old girl, no bigger than Caelia, had curled up next to Eli, and refused to move, no matter that the human periodically had to stand and peer out the windows, rifle in hand.

The thought hit then. _"This is more than just hunter's practicality. They suspected we'd come back out for the survivors." _He said it, in turian, over the Spectre band.

Eli's head snapped up, and a wary look passed across his face. _"You're probably right. And yet, we haven't been attacked yet."_

"_If they had batarians with them. . . think there's any chance that there could be chipping or booby-traps on the survivors?"_ That, from Livanus, in another vehicle.

"_Not enough time for major surgery,"_ Lantar disagreed.

"_More than enough time for a chip stamp,"_ Eli counted, his voice dark. _"Subcutaneous tracking chips to the hands in boot camp? Five seconds. __Standard__ slave chips to the brain are embedded with a specialized spike and no anesthetic. Takes about ten, twenty minutes, tops, and most of the time is spent restraining the subject. No indications that SIU brought slavers with them, but it's not like they wouldn't have access to the tech."_ His voice held a wealth of grim experience, obtained on Omega. There was a moment of total silence on the radio. _"Check everyone's scalps. Ask all the kids and adults what happened._"

That had been nine days ago. They'd found no signs of chips or devices, and they'd brought the survivors—sunburned, dehydrated, and shell-shocked—back to Red Mesa, where the over-tasked medics had gotten to work on them, too. The geth and humans had repaired the outer defenses; the rachni worked on expanding—carefully—the living quarters under the prison. The fact of the matter was that digging could create subsidence issues for the levels above them, and there was already quite a bit of construction and weight on the plateau and in the bunkers. Any further digging could threaten the artesian well. But with the location of the escape tunnel's hatch probably compromised, Lantar convinced the warden to collapse that tunnel, and set the rachni workers to digging, furiously, a new one. It was shorter, but it would still get people out, and that was the main thing.

And with all that well in hand, Lantar gave orders that today would be their last night to try to find survivors and pockets of yahg resistance in the desert immediately surrounding Red Mesa. Tomorrow, if all went well, they'd be heading towards the Icama facility, a hundred miles to the southwest. Minus their geth support troops, who'd be staying, once more, to protect the prison facility. He'd stayed back at the base today, with Livanus and Gris, plotting out, with Vessarian, how they'd approach the Icama facility. Which left tonight's expedition solely in the junior Spectres' hands.

Rel eyed the back of Eli's head. The human was driving once more. It was evident that he hadn't been sleeping well since the attack on Red Mesa and on the Prepared's compound. And Rel could understand why, with reluctant sympathy. Eli had _said_ he would feel responsible if anything happened to the survivalists. . . and, like a prophet, his foretelling had come true. Bitterly, horribly true. Rel had noticed that Eli and Dempsey both spent a fair bit of time in the refugee caverns, and had accompanied them himself, once or twice. Not all the refugees were anti-alien, at least. And the kids did have a way of worming in close and looking up at him in fear and awe that reminded him, all too clearly, of how Kaius and Amara had looked at him when he'd come back from boot camp. So he'd crouched down and taught a few of them how to play chase-the-_villi_ with a ball and little toy _villi_ he'd quickly carved out of fragments from his latest yahg statue. That had worked out nicely for the youngest children, and earned him their mothers' gratitude, at least. And it had been . . . oddly refreshing, really.

But now, he still didn't really know what to _say_ to Eli. But all the training of a squad leader beat at the back of his head, and all the years of friendship hammered at him, too, and he gave in, leaned forward into the cockpit, and said, "You're not exactly sleeping much, are you?"

"I'm getting enough."

"Reaction times suffer without enough rest."

"I'm aware. I'm sleeping, Rel. It's not restful, but it is sleep."

Rel hesitated. "Spirit-dreams?"

"Oh, yeah." Eli's jaw clamped down.

"You're dealing with them?"

"Yeah." Eli's tone was definitely tight.

"You're probably going to be negotiating with more groups like this," Rel warned. "It would be good to know that you're up for it."

Eli turned, and the human's expression was unreadable. Only then did Rel realize how he'd phrased it. As if he were the superior, and Eli the subordinate. When, in fact. . . Eli was his superior. Rel repressed the impulse to swear. It was his _job_. It had been for years. He was supposed to look out for people on his squads., make sure they were able to do _their_ jobs. _"I'll be fine, Rel,"_ he said, after a moment. A quick, deliberate shift to turian, familiar-to-familiar voice. He could have used superior-to-subordinate, and been absolutely correct, but it was always the superior's choice which voice to use.

"_S'kak_," Rel said after a moment, in defeat. _"I didn't mean it like that."_ He probably _should_ have used inferior-to-superior, but he had, for the spirits' sakes, known Eli for six damned years.

"_I know. It's fine. Wish to _god_ Sam or some of the rest of the team from Omega were here—"_

"_Siara and Makur are here."_

Eli shook his head. _"Can't talk to Siara or Makur."_

"_But Sam, you can talk to."_ Rel was very carefully leaving something out of the conversation here. _And you can talk to Dara, too, can't you._

"_Sam's human. Had a lot of the same experiences as I have. . . and then some. Yeah. He gives good advice."_ Eli grimaced. _"Told me not to worry, for example, about the batarian militia he beheaded on Camala when we came looking for you. I'd had dreams that I was shooting turian or human MPs that night. CID detectives I'd known. He reminded me that militia weren't cops the way __I__ know them. That Lin and I, for example, had never taken someone in to be tortured for reading the wrong book. I slept a lot better the next night. Perspective helps."_ Eli adjusted their course slightly.

Rel stared out the front window for a moment. Sam had come to accept Rel, to a certain extent. Had given him career advice, had welcomed him at his own wedding in Japan. . . and had clearly enjoyed Rinus' company. Kallixta's. Allardus'. The younger siblings, too, had always been welcome at the barbecues. Rel could remember sitting and talking with Sam about . . . work. Finding the press of people around him to be too much on Earth. On Bastion, at Christmas, what had they talked about? Gladiatorial rankings and the Urban Combat League. A little bit about Sam's Spectre work, but that had all been investigations and evidence and due process and things that Rel didn't have experience with, so they'd circled back to Rel's own work, which had been tactics and squad management, while Dara had, on the other side of the table, been talking to Kasumi about Takeshi, and med bay work, and scientific papers she'd read, and research she was peer-reviewing, and just for an instant, Rel realized how small his world had become. Eli's world was wider than his. Investigations. From the petty brutality of domestic violence to drugs to murder to conspiracies to overthrow the government, Eli had worked plenty of cases. He _could_ talk to Sam. Could talk to Lantar. And while he might not have been working black-ops every day of the last five years. . . as Livanus had said a few weeks ago, he and Eli knew how to play catch-up. Dara's world had widened, too. Oh, she'd always had a laser-like focus on her goals, but. . . medicine, xeno-obstetrics, xenobiology. Medical puzzles, mysteries, combat missions, all of it. And Kasumi couldn't follow all the details any better than Rel could, himself, but. . . . Rel sat up straighter in the chair. "Wait a second," he said, sitting up straighter. They were currently at the front of the convoy. "Do you see that?"

Eli slowed the Hammerhead, cautiously. They were coming out of an area of solid, rocky ground, and entering a dune sea region. Fewer scrubby bushes here, and no more packed clay. Just mile after mile of rolling, rippling sand dunes, alkali white under the moonlight. "Did I see what?"

"There's metal out there, an irregularity along that dune." 

Eli brought up the HUD and enlarged and focused on that quarter of the screen. "Looks like a crashed satellite, maybe," he said, dubiously. "There was a hell of a lot of space junk kicked up with the mines and whatever in orbit, plus whatever of the orbital platforms the yahg and batarians took out on their first descent."

"Could be," Dempsey called down, sounding dubious. "Doesn't look quite melted enough for that. No impact crater, either, although the wind would have moved a hell of a lot of the sand around it and covered up the traces by now." He paused. "To me, it looks a lot more like vehicle wreckage. Want to check it out?"

"It's along the route to the Thunder Rock formation," Eli said, and started moving forward slowly. The rest of the convoy followed along, but Eli passed back, along the radio, "Eyes sharp, everyone. This could be bait."

Something uneasy crept along Rel's spine, and he said, "Dempsey? I'll take a turn at the guns. I think I see bodies around the vehicle. You might be better to get down there and recover any survivors." It was true. There were dark patches, which looked vaguely like human bodies, around the wrecked vehicle. Shadows against the silver-white of the dunes, which gleamed like snow in the moonlight.

Dempsey dropped down, and Rel scrambled up into the turret, frowning slightly. "Something does not feel right here," he said, over the comm.

"Yeah," Dempsey agreed, his voice void of inflection. "What _hit_ the damned thing? Why would they just wreck up on top of that dune like that?"

Eli slowed the Hammerhead again. "Advice?" he asked. "I'm not the one with all the outdoors experience here, guys."

There was a faint note of unease in Dempsey's voice as the human said, quietly, "Sidonis? How far are we from solid rock at the moment?"

"About two kilometers. Why?" Eli's voice was tense now, too, as he started to pick up on the others' unease.

"Feels very damned exposed," Rel said.

"Yeah," Dempsey agreed.

The radio crackled. _"Lead car, what's the hold-up?"_ That was Siara, sounding impatient.

Eli tabbed the radio. "Siara, what's Makur saying about this area ahead of us?"

There was a pause. Makur answered for himself. "_Feels like a trap, human."_

Another pause. "Okay," Eli said, and Rel heard the familiar note of slightly grim humor in the human's voice. "So, we all know this is stupid, but we're agreed that we more or less have to spring it, right?"

"We could go around," Dempsey said. "But. . . there are a couple of biosigns up there. Can't tell if they're human or batarian from here, though."

"Spring it," Rel said, and he really hoped that was his tactical sense talking, and not the adrenaline, which coiled inside of him, like a snake. "But send the rest of the convoy around. Wide bearing. Let's be cautious."

Eli started to edge the vehicle forward, and Dempsey said, his voice very, very flat, "Stay out of the trenches between the dunes, if you can."

"We'll be visible targets up on the dune crests," Rel objected, pivoting the turret and scanning for targets.

"Yeah. . . I know. I just. . . have a feeling, that's all."

Meter by meter, they crept forward over the sand. Rel could suddenly feel tremors in the body of the vehicle, in spite of the cushion of air they rode on. "Here we go!" he snapped, and spun, expecting to see explosions, yahg rising up out of the darkness, leaping aboard the Hammerhead, jaws gaping wide in the darkness outside his plasteel windows.

The world _shook_, and Rel looked up and up and up at something the height of a skyscraper that now rose black against the white dunes, and blotted out the moon. The radio went crazy in his ear.

"_What the hell is that—"_

"_Spectres, get the hell out of there, that's a—"_

"—_it's a __vermestellica_," a turian voice cut in, in awe. _Worm of the stars._

_Thresher maw._

"Fuck," Dempsey said, with no particular emphasis. "Velnaran, open fire with the turret gun—"

Rel didn't need telling. His fingers were already tight on the trigger. He had two thousand rounds of ammunition before he'd need to reload, and the ammo blocks for the Hammerheads were available, though they still had been conserving as much ammunition as possible, since supply drops were difficult, still, at best. The Hammerhead skidded to the side, moving across the ground like a pat of butter on a hot skillet. Dempsey's calm voice in their ears. "Yeah, that's the idea, Sidonis, keep circling. There was one on these on Edolus back in 2183. Shepard and her crew took it out, after _it_ had taken out a whole shit-load of marines. Everyone in N7 had to watch the vid feed of how they managed it. It's going to line up and try to spit at us—it might even duck down under the ground and then come back up and try to eat us, one gulp. Burst away from the ground when it goes under. Short, erratic hops, no pattern if you can help it. They detect vibration and movement underground."

_Assuming we live that long!_ The thought was reflexive. The guns under Rel's hands were thundering away, recoil vibrating up through the mechanisms into his arms, and he could see pockmarks appearing in the creature's scaled sides. The Hammerhead suddenly lurched and leaped into the air, and Rel could see _something_ slide by under them. No color, in the monochromatic night-time world. It could have been bile-green in daylight, but now, it was just the shadow of death slithering past, silent and barely seen. "Good," Dempsey said, still calm. "Think that was the acid attack. Are any of the rest of the convoy back there firing on this fucking thing?" Again, no particular emphasis. Dempsey could have been talking about the weather.

"_We are_," Siara called back, quick and sharp. _"Rachni want to engage at close range."_

"Negative," Dempsey shot back. "All of you continue firing from where you're at, and be ready to _move_ if it turns on you."

The thresher whipped to the side, a sight unnervingly like the massive body of a space elevator cable flexing and bending, and Eli once more slid them to safety. . . this time ducking _under_ the sudden horizontal coil of flesh and scale, the maw's side missing clipping the roof of the Hammerhead by scant inches. Rel pivoted the turret sharply to his left, and continued firing at the maw. . . .which suddenly retreated under the sand. "We have a contingency plan?" Rel asked, sharply.

"Such as?" Eli shot back.

"When the shields get to five percent," Dempsey said, dryly, "open the back hatch, and I'm going to drop out and start firing from close range. When the shields die entirely, both of you get the fuck out and run at least a hundred yards. It _will_ close and try to eat the Hammerhead. I can probably get the Hammerhead to explode in its mouth, though."

"These things have self-destruct codes?" Eli was hopping in random bursts, never lingering near the ground for long. But his voice was tight, as they all eyed the sand below them. They had _no_ idea where the thresher would come back up. "Who knew."

Makur's voice, over the radio. _"I see sand disturbances directly to your south. Move __away!__"_

They'd just arced up, and the descending arc of their parabola would have landed them to the south, without that warning. Eli swore in a mix of asari and turian, and activated lateral thrusters, skidding them east instead, and that's when the thresher maw came back up again. Rel sighted and fired again, immediately. All his concentration, all his focus, was on the damned _target_ right now, and periodically, he could feel the more concussive _boom_ as Eli keyed the missile launchers located on the Hammerhead's sides to supplement the turret. "Spirits, what does it take to _kill_ one of these things?" Rel demanded, as the world again _shook_, and Eli skated them right, just as the thresher's head slammed down into the sand where they'd been a split-second before.

"Shepard. Or a Reaper," Dempsey said, tersely. "There's speculation that one of the civilizations between the Keepers and the Protheans may have developed them as a Reaper-deterrent, or at least as their equivalent of planetary defenses. Not that it seems to have worked out well for them."

Eli wasn't able to dodge the next spit attack, and the shields alerts began to flash in the corners of Rel's peripheral vision. "Fifty percent," Dempsey reported. "That was a head-on hit, Sidonis."

"You want to drive?" Eli asked, sharply.

"Just saying, the next hit like that _will_ end this exercise. Get the back hatch open, and keep us oriented facing it."

Rel was dimly aware that the maw was still taking fire from the other Hammerheads and the gunships, but it wasn't enough. "I think this one might be bigger than the one Shepard fought at Edolus," he said over the radio. "This one might be the size of the one she saw at Akuze, though."

"Very comforting," Eli muttered. "She was the only person to survive Akuze. . . officially." Technically, that wasn't true; there was, supposedly, one other survivor out there. And apparently, the entire attack had been engineered by Cerberus. Rel knew that from conversation around the dinner table, years ago. And Eli knew that, too.

The Hammerhead leaped again, this time dodging the acid attack, and then the thresher dove under the sand once more. "Drop me," Dempsey said, and leaped out the back hatch. Rel spun in time to see the human roll away and come up in a spray of white sand and black armor, dropping into and staying in a crouch now.

The thresher didn't waste time now; it came back up again almost immediately. Eli's random bobbing and weaving only threw it partially off-track; instead of catching them in its gaping mouth, its side impacted the Hammerhead's hull, knocking the vehicle tumbling to the right. Rel had _never_ been in a rollover in a Hammerhead before, but he'd never had one hit that hard from underneath, either. "Shields aren't down, but we've taken structural damage. This thing's not going to fly. Get out, Rel!"

Rel dropped down from the turret, distantly grateful that they'd landed right-side up, and then he and Eli were running pell-mell out of the vehicle and into the fine, shifting sand. Each step was like running in heavy snow—the feet slipped, couldn't get traction, and the sand pulled at them, weighed them down. _S'kak._ _Eli's not going to make it to the safe distance._ Rel whirled around. Eli was back a distance, running at top human speed, and he could see tracer rounds arcing out of the other Hammerheads periodically, illuminating the arc of ammunition to target. . . and the thresher towered over the entire scene, reaching up into the sky, blotting out the stars and the moon. Adrenaline was _pounding_ through his system now, and conscious thought was getting further and further away, and the blood-rage beckoned, seductive as a mistress. Rel opened fire with his assault rifle on the behemoth's side, just as Eli managed to get to him, and turned now, himself, dropping to a crouch and getting out his sniper rifle. "It's going to turn on the other vehicles," Eli said over the radio. His voice, like Dempsey's, was almost unnaturally calm.

"Can't let that happen. They're too bunched up." Rel barely realized that that was his own voice speaking. Nothing now but the target.

"Hammerheads, cease fire," Dempsey called over the radio. "Small arms only for the moment. Let the rachni loose, and move those damned vehicles, people. But carefully!"

The enormous head, so high above, twisted and moved, almost seeming to peer down at the insects that were stinging it. . . and then in a movement so fast, it was a blur, the thresher maw struck. Slammed its head down, biting and lifting their Hammerhead into its mouth. . . . "Dempsey, if you're going to blow that thing, now would be good," Eli said.

"I'm trying. It doesn't actually have a self-destruct, but I thought I could get the missiles to go off while still attached to their clamps. . . " Dempsey's voice was detached.

"Maintain fire," Rel ordered. "Keep cutting at it until Dempsey's got a chance to kill the damn thing." Again, he was barely aware that he'd said anything, but he was floating somewhere above the adrenaline at the moment. Just enough of himself left to think and react. . . .

Then the damned thing _threw_ the Hammerhead, and it slammed right into one of the troop transports, which rolled over. "Move, move, move," Rel shouted, grabbing Eli's shoulder, and the two of them ran, through the heavy, sliding sand. He had no idea if they were going the right direction until the acid splattered where they'd _been_, and they were able to stop and begin firing again.

Finally, a set of missiles from one of the remaining Hammerheads opened a wide gap in the creature's lower scales, and half a hundred rachni soldiers and a handful of brood-warriors scuttled close enough to spit acid into the opening, widening the breach. Rel and Eli poured fire at that weak spot. . . .and for a split-second, the world held still. The thresher stopped moving. Then it swayed limply to the side, and slowly, ponderously, crashed to the earth, making the world shake again.

Everything stood still, and there was absolute silence on the radio. _"Is it. . . is it dead?"_

Rel couldn't identify the voice. Human, probably. Maybe one of the marines. Whoever it was, sounded shaken up.

"Yeah," Dempsey said, over the radio. "Looks like it. We've got survivors up here, but they're going to need medics."

"Who are they?" Eli asked, quickly. "The people in that troop transport need help, too."

"Humans," Dempsey reported, briefly. "Civilians. Come on up here."

Rel was still _shaking_ from the adrenaline reaction, and kept his gun in his hands. The thresher was still trembling from electrical impulses along its miles and miles of nerve endings, and he had no intention of going anywhere near it. He found himself turning towards Eli, and the surge of well-being, of having _survived_, flooded him, and he couldn't help but smile. Pure _iunkunditas_, in its finest form, spreading spirit to spirit, through the entire squad, through all the survivors. "That was some nice driving back there," Rel told him, mildly, and thumped a fist against the human's shoulder plates.

"That was some pretty nice shooting back there, too," Eli replied, returning the gesture. "But I think my dad and Shepard might not let us have the keys to the Hammerheads again for a while. We're going to be busted back to the Makos for damaging this one."

Rel's shoulders shook for a moment. "Spirits, I hope not."

Dempsey was with the survivors of the wrecked vehicle—dazed and human, they were dehydrated, and delirious. A female and two young males. The younger male had a broken leg. The female was small, and spoke with the patois of New Philadelphia—English with a smattering of Russian and Chinese and even Spanish thrown in. She was nearly babbling in gratitude. "We were trying to leave the Chosen. Weren't a part of their group, just got caught on the edge of the desert, and one of their groups took us in, right at the start of the invasion," she said, wearily.

"What's your name?" Eli asked her, giving her water to drink, sip by sip.

"I'm Anna Malcolmson. These two—" she gestured at the two younger males, who were struggling to sit up now, "are my younger sons. Alex and Quon. Quon's leg got hurt in the initial crash—"

"I think it's broken," the younger male said, quietly. His face was slack with pain as Dempsey checked along the limb, pressing lightly with his hands.

"Malcolmson?' Rel repeated. A thought struck him. "You wouldn't have an older son named Ryan?" By the end of the sentence, Eli was saying the words with him, face lighting up with a grin.

The female's eyes widened, and her mouth fell open. "Yes! Yes, I do! You know him? Can you tell me if he's all right?"

Eli grinned. "We can do better that." He looked at Rel. "Why don't you do the honors? This is the kind of call we hardly _ever_ get to make," he added, looking down at the female, and giving her a little more water.

It was a kindness Eli didn't have to permit him. The human could have made the radio call himself. Rel touched a button on his omnitool. "Lieutenant Malcolmson? This is Velnaran. Get over to my position at the wreckage."

"On my way," Malcolmson replied, promptly, in all their ears, and the female's eyes had gone wide with almost unbearable hope. And when her tall son came up over the rose of the dune, and saw his family there, he stopped trudging for a moment, gaped, and then ran to them. "Mom, what the _hell_ are you doing out here, are you all right—"

Babbling now, all four members of the little family, all dropping into the creole of New Philadelphia, five words in English for every one in a different language, and the VI translation making no sense at all. Eli gave them time, and then started asking gentle questions.

Anna Malcolmson had been in New Philadelphia the day of the yahg attack. She'd gotten in her groundcar, and _scooted_ for the juvenile detention facility where her two boys had been incarcerated for some sort of a gang fight—something that their first-brother gave them a _dark_ stare for, Rel noticed—and gotten them out. "The guards at the juvie facility were in full riot gear," Anna told them all, tiredly, as they helped her into the marine troop transport with her sons. Techs were in the process of removing ammunition, rockets, fuel, and computer cores from their wrecked Hammerhead, and preparing to tow it behind another vehicle. "I think they were ready to sell their lives to protect those kids, and I think the kids all of a sudden _knew_ that. They asked if I could take any of the other kids with me, and I said no. Didn't have room for any more of them, and I couldn't take kids when their own parents might come for them." Her face was ashen under the dark natural coloration. All of her sons were a little lighter in skin-tone than she was; more golden, leonine, really. "I was heading for my friend Irene's house in Warhol, when we broke down on the edge of the desert. That's when Ephraim and his people found us."

Ephraim Macowski turned out to be the leader of 'the Chosen.' Eli and Lantar had briefed everyone else on the various radical groups that might be out in the desert weeks ago. This one was a religious cult, of sorts.

"They're crazy," Quon said, wincing as a medic put a splint on his leg. "They think that Ephraim is the new Moses, and that this is the desert that will purify their souls. That living out here is a test of faith, and that, when they've proven themselves, they'll be taken to the promised land." He gestured at the silver-white sands around them. "I'm not really seeing a lot of milk and honey."

"Ephraim kept saying that it was Judgment Day. But he and his people were bringing in survivors from the desert, which they didn't actually have to do. Never made us pray with them, which was . . . more than I expected," Anna admitted. "Just said that anyone who left them would be damned, lost, when the Rapture came."

"About two months ago is when the aliens came into the desert, themselves." That was Alex speaking now, the middle brother. "And for a while, the guards were holding them off okay. A few people died, were dragged off. The attacks were nightly for a couple of weeks. And then they stopped all at once, and no one could figure out why. Ephraim said it was the hand of god."

Anna sighed. "And then he sent out some scouts, and only two survived, and came back talking about a thresher maw."

Thresher maws actually traveled through space, in egg form. They could lie dormant in space for millennia, land on a planet, and grow to maturity, deriving energy from the sun, atmosphere, and water, like a plant. . . which explained how they survived on hundreds of otherwise inhospitable worlds. They could move, too; they weren't sessile. They'd set up in a territory, and guard it, furiously, against all interlopers. . . and then, sometimes, without apparent motivation, move on. There was no real rationale known for why they were even territorial. They didn't need to eat organic material. They frequently landed on planets that held no organic life at all, and yet thrived there. And yet, when they did encounter organics, they attacked, immediately. . . and would use organic remains, and machinery remains, to create traps to lure more people into their lairs. Which suggested rudimentary intelligence, or at least instinct-level behavior that didn't make sense, given that they _did not need to eat_ organic material to survive. Which was what had led so many scientists to postulate, in recent years, that they might have been Reaper defenses, sowed by another civilization, millions of years ago, scattered across the cosmos in a futile effort to protect every world from the Reaper menace. Or, perhaps, an attack method on everything other than their own civilization. That was a possibility, too.

Anna Malcolmson sat up in the troop transport now. "The thresher had apparently just moved to this section of the desert. Ephraim said, this, too, was a test. A sign from god. They were now safe from the yahg. . . but like the defending angels at the walls of the Garden of Eden, the thresher was a sign that his people could not leave."

Rel looked up at the night sky. "Doesn't take a spirit to convince most people not to try to get around a thresher maw," he said, dryly.

"Then the rumor came through that Ephraim had heard on the radio that the Spectres were at the Red Mesa prison, and were calling for people to come to them, to where it was safe," Quon told them all. "Two other families, who weren't part of the cult, asked if they could come with us. Ephraim said we'd all be damned if we left, but he said he wouldn't stop us." The boy's face clouded over. "They. . . the thresher. . . "

Rel put a hand cautiously on the human boy's shoulder. Quon couldn't be older than sixteen. Old enough for boot camp, for a turian, but humans kept their younglings as children for such a damned long time. "It was at least over with quickly," he told the younger male, quietly.

"We survived the first attack," Anna said, quietly. "God only knows how. Then it moved the car. Picked us up, and arranged the wreckage. We managed to get out—took us a couple of hours, because we didn't want vibrations to wake the damn thing up. Then we were going to crawl for solid rock. Couple of feet at a time, then stop. Wait. No regular motions." She shuddered. "I was hoping we'd make it by dawn. And then find someplace in the shade to take shelter for a while."

_Indomitable spirit of survival,_ Rel thought. _Except that, without water, they wouldn't have lasted more than a day out here._

Rel had been peripherally aware, all this time, to his minor dismay, that Lexine Elders, who'd been with the convoy, had been getting vid feed of the entire damned event. _If we'd died out there, under the thresher's attack, would our deaths would be on her vid feed?_ he wondered, a little angrily. She had sent her camera the length of the thresher maw, pulled back, got vid of the wrecked Hammerhead, and had even sent it in, hovering in the corner of his vision, as they dealt with the survivors. He nudged Eli. "_You think she should be getting __vid__ of all this?"_

"_Let her. It's not like it makes us look bad. And about the only thing she can ask is if the risk of going into the area was warranted, and we can say 'yes, there were lives at stake,' and move on."_ Eli exhaled, and gave the female a dark look. _"Now, when we go to deal with the Chosen, or the Icama base? Yeah. I'm hoping Lantar tells her to say at Red Mesa. Preferably, in the same room with that batarian 'information specialist.'"_

Rel snorted a little. They hadn't gotten much out of the SIU operative yet. The batarian appeared young, and frightened, but had already survived SIU indoctrination. A tough thing to break, really. Valak was proof that it could be done, but then, Valak had entered the program with doubts.

Malcolmson stayed close beside his family, making sure they were okay, and his mother had one hand firmly on her oldest son's arm the entire time. The family was at least able to indicate that the Thunder Rock caverns were indeed where the Chosen were holed up, and the convoy moved further southwest, finally meeting up with the Chosen, as the sun came up. Rel could see dozens of people trying to hide in the rocks around the little mesa that rose up out of the dune sea, all with weapons. "Here we go again," Eli said, grimly, getting out of the vehicle. "Dempsey, you're with me. Malcolmson, make sure your mother's ready to move, in case we need to prove that she and your brothers are alive and well."

Rel listened over the radio, and watched, warily, covering the human males from the back hatch of Siara and Makur's Hammerhead, his sniper rifle in his hands, ready to go. The conversation took over an hour. Eli explained that the Spectres had an outpost at Red Mesa, a secure facility that had withstood several attacks now, with supplies and water. Ephraim Macowski, who had the longest beard Rel had ever seen on a human—it was actually rather _shocking_ for him to see, honestly, purely alien in a way that even Sam's moustache was not—kept politely trying to explain, "we are here to be tested. This desert will forge in us souls of iron. We cannot turn away from this test. . . " Eli explained that the thresher maw was dead, and Ephraim acknowledged that.

Impasse, at least until Dempsey spoke up. Cold, flat, almost mechanical voice. "The thresher maw is dead. If god sent it to test those who passed it, surely, we've passed his test, and he's rendered judgment on us," he said, almost clinically. "You know by this sign that we're his messengers, don't you? And to stay here, in spite of all these signs, would be to defy his will, wouldn't it? So I guess the question is this. Do you want to stay here, and be goats, and go with us, and be sheep?"

Eli picked up on that, and added, calmly, "We know that the yahg—the alien invaders—have been following us. The last people that we said 'come with us, if you want to live' called themselves the Prepared. Turns out, they weren't prepared at all. The yahg came in behind us, and slaughtered almost everyone who remained. We picked up the survivors."

Ephraim's attitude shifted remarkably at that point. "These yahg are clearly the scourge of God," he murmured, and the radio picked up his voice clearly. "Sent to punish the unrighteous. You are clearly the messengers of the Almighty, and were sent here, by his grace, to deliver us from evil. We will follow you."

Once all the refugees—and their supplies, which were plentiful, thank the spirits—Dempsey and Eli clambered back up into the Hammerhead, which Siara was driving. The asari looked back over her shoulder, as Snowflake reluctantly moved out of the way for the two human males to find seats. "So, Eli, you're a messenger of the goddess now?"

"Something to add to the resume," Dempsey said, flatly, sinking down onto the bench across from Rel. "Cop, Spectre, and now, _angel_."

"Ah, no. Not even remotely possible," Eli said, taking off his helmet. His expression underneath was wry. "That halo would have to be pretty damned tarnished." He sighed and leaned back. "Whatever it takes to get those people out of their holes, though."

Rel looked at Dempsey. "Sheep or goats? How did you know what to _say_ to them?"

Dempsey snorted. "And this is why Sam wanted humans sent on this mission. Sidonis here is a station rat. Let me guess. Snow at Christmas is something you saw in shop windows growing up, with fake trees next to asari triune goddess symbols and whatnot on the Citadel and on Bastion?"

"Close enough," Eli said, nodding, eyes shut as he leaned against the wall.

"Me? Irish Catholic upbringing. Ten years of Sunday school, least until I was twelve, and the pope decided he wasn't quite sure that biotics were welcome in heaven or not, and my folks left the Church. Mrs. Fitzsimmons, my old teacher? Would be proud I remembered enough to talk their talk today." Dempsey shrugged, big shoulders moving under his armor pauldrons. "Not your fault you don't know this crap, Sidonis. Wasn't in your upbringing. But it was in theirs."

"Just glad you were there with me," Eli said, easily. "Took at least an hour off the conversation. I don't know if I could have convinced them to get in the damn trucks without you."

Lantar, Livanus, and Gris were delighted when they got back with the refugees. .. and Lantar's eyes went _wide_ as he reviewed Elders' vid footage of the day. "I want a copy," he told the reporter.

Her eyes widened. "For Spectre files?"

"That, too. But one copy for my omnitool. Everyone's tired of me showing my son's Rite on Tuchanka." Lantar showed needle-pointed teeth. "Now, I have vid footage of him fighting a thresher maw. On foot." He looked at Eli. "Your _sangua'fradu_ will be unhappy to have missed the fight."

Eli chuckled. "_Was my other brother's turn this time_." The human turned, and met Rel's eyes, offering a wrist-clasp. And Rel, smiling faintly, accepted it.

That morning, as the heat began to increase, he put the finishing touches on his yahg statue, and set it aside. He was sharing a room with Dempsey and Eli here in the guard barracks. It was crowded, but they were making do. Dempsey was, at the moment, lightly fingering the strings of his guitar, plucking out an errant melody. And Eli was reading, one foot lightly tapping to the rhythm of what Dempsey was playing. It was _hot_ in the barracks; they were all stripped down to shorts, at most, and the two humans had damp towels that they periodically pressed to their faces and throats, trying to stay cool. They couldn't _live_ in their armor, and the prison's resources were strained, so they couldn't really shower much, either. Rel was trying to ignore the odor, and they were doing their best not to sweat. It wasn't a perfect solution, either way.

Eli had tossed a piece of wood at him a week or so ago, from a tree that had once, apparently, shaded part of the inner courtyard, but that had been struck by lightning in a storm about a year ago. The wood was thus, already evenly dried, by the kiln-like heat of the desert. It was apparently called _desert willow_, and it at least had an interesting grain to it. And in the tall, smooth section of trunk, Rel suddenly, clearly, saw the thresher maw. And grinned to himself. _Nice not to see a yahg in something_, he thought. _And. . . I didn't lose myself in the fight. Stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the others, and didn't lose myself. _And, for right now, for this moment in time, there was comfort in that. Comfort in Eli having called him _brother_ again. A sense that the bonds of the pack were encircling him again. A sense that his leadership was accepted, but that he was, in turn, submitting to being led, too. Co-dominance, perhaps. Many different levels, social, instinctual, personal, trying to knit themselves together once more. And yet, still, subtle undercurrents of strain, personified by the little rachni that were sitting at Eli's feet, chittering animatedly at each other.

There was a light tap at the door, and, with a sigh, Eli stood up to answer it. "Ms. Elders," he said, tiredly. "What can we do for you now?"

"I was hoping one or more of you might have something to say about the thresher maw today." The reporter looked past Eli, trying for an engaging smile, and then looked down at his feet as the two rachni workers chittered at her. "Oh my _god_, what are those?"

Rel and Dempsey both looked up as Lexine Elders stepped back, reflexively, and yelped. Eli, somehow keeping his face perfectly straight, knelt down, and let the workers crawl up into his hands before standing again. "These guys? These are rachni workers. This one is 1812, and this one is Wolfgang. Guys, are you pleased to meet Ms. Elders?"

The workers remained stationary in Eli's palms, chittering. "I think you may have offended them by shrieking at them, Ms. Elders." Eli paused. "It occurs to me, that you haven't actually interviewed any of the rachni. There are brood-warriors here—not Spectres, like Sings-to-the-Sky, but you haven't spent any time talking to them, or to the geth forces, or to the krogan. I'm obviously slacking in my duties as press liaison. I'll set something up with one or more of those groups for you tomorrow or the next day, if you like?"

"That's quite all right," Elders said, from the hallway. Rel cocked his head just far enough to verify that the female had her back to the wall, and was standing as far from Eli as she could get.

"Ms. Elders, the rachni are some of our best allies," Rel said now, standing and coming to the door to peer out at her. "Spectre Sky isn't available, but interviewing one of the brood-warriors would be an excellent way for your viewers to get to know the rachni, as we know them." He looked down at the little workers in Eli's hands, and for the first time, they didn't look like a slightly offensive reminder of Dara's unique bond with the species. . . or of her apparent bond with Eli. They looked, instead, like what they should be: members of Sky's species, and Rel blinked rapidly for a moment. It was as if his spirit-eyes had suddenly come into focus, as if he'd been blind or asleep for months. His eyes flicked up and met Eli's and the ghost of amusement in the human's eyes intensified.

"You might be the first reporter to interview _any_ rachni," Eli said, deadpan.

Her expression became intrigued, though she still eyed the four-pound workers in Eli's hands askance. "Okay, say I agree. You could set that up for me?"

"Sure," Eli said, cheerfully.

"Of course," Rel told her, looking past her left ear, "you'll probably need a translator."

Elders' eyes widened slightly more. "I don't understand. A VI should be able to handle—"

"Not rachni speech," Dempsey said, from behind them. "Rachni communicate telepathically. Although Eli's been having some luck getting these little workers to learn to write."

"I don't think they're up to translating a brood-warrior's song just yet," Eli cautioned.

Elders glared at them. "You're putting me on," she said, and flounced off.

Eli sighed. "And there went her Pulitzer."

The workers crawled up his bare arms to his shoulders now, and Eli gave the two of them each a look. "Guys, I've told you before, that _tickles_." He picked up his datapad and started reading again.

Dempsey suggested, after a moment of silence, "If we have to take her with us again, say, tomorrow? I vote we put her with the rachni transports."

Rel chuckled under his breath, and started to carve. "That will probably give our position away to the enemy, when she screams."

"Rel, that'll probably give our position away to people on _Khar'sharn_," Eli said, and after a quick exchange of glances, the two of them started to laugh. Reluctantly, but genuinely.

**Dempsey, Terra Nova, November 26, 2196**

"Almost Thanksgiving, back home," Dempsey noted. It was sunset on the twenty-sixth of November, and the Spectres were gearing up for a major offensive. Lantar, Gris, and Livanus would be coming with them, and they were going to be hitting the Icama base at sunrise of the following day. "No turkey dinner in the MRE kits, though." _Oh, well. Not like Zhasa's here to enjoy me eating the damned stuff. And without her around, it's just. . . fuel_. Her absence was a constant, low-level ache. He missed her. He missed _himself_, too, to be honest, or at least the guy he was when she was around to turn him back into a human being.

Though, to be honest, he was just as glad she'd missed the whole thresher maw escapade. He'd written to her about it last night, and he was damned sure that Sidonis—the younger one, anyway—had written to Doc Jaworski about it, too. They'd both received a couple of letters from Arvuna so far. . . enough to know that the batarian bases on Shir and Arvuna were largely eradicated, but that one large pocket of batarians remained, and they were, in fact, laying siege to the Spectres and the researchers in the Prothean ruins on the jungle moon. Dempsey was concerned about Zhasa. It was the closest thing he currently had to an emotional reaction, and while it didn't prey on his mind, it did pop into his head whenever he wasn't intently concentrating on something else. . . .most often when he was playing his guitar at night. But then, music _did_ put him back in touch with his emotions a bit. . . and music made him think about Zhasa. So that all did make sense.

She'd mentioned that they were about to try to bring the Prothean station's weapons fully on-line and use them, and that just sounded. . . risky, and more than a little desperate. And he didn't even have to listen to Sidonis' mind to know that the other man was worried about the teams there, too. Velnaran's face was carefully neutral on the rare occasions when either of them asked, in his hearing, what the other one had heard about the other teams' progress.

Mal Henderson had been evac'd to the _Normandy_ in the hopes of fixing the massive damage that the radiation in the eezo and uranium-laden caves had done to his body. Vessarian had gone with his squad-mate, but not before giving Lantar Sidonis and the other senior Spectres all the vid footage and scans if the Icama base from their omnitools. Dempsey didn't like the looks of it. Multiple buildings, surrounded by a double fence. Two roads led into the facility, one at the north, one at the south; the eastern side backed up into a solid cliff wall; the western side dropped off along another cliff face, a two-hundred foot climb, at least, from one of the loops of the road below, which wound its way up the mountainside. Which, when put that way, never _sounded_ like much. . . until you considered that two hundred feet was the height of a sixteen-story building.

They'd packed into the briefing room to discuss strategy. "They've got guard-posts in buildings on either side of the north and south gates. There are four towers, located at northeast, northwest, southeast, and southwest points, and I think we can safely assume that they're manned. Vessarian, Henderson, and Nisha Cehl made one attempt on the facility before. Nisha tried to go in by the back gate, wanting the two others to be the distraction at the front gate; as it was, they all tried to go in at once, and the result wasn't good," Livanus Cautoris summarized. "Suggestions? Comments?"

Dempsey saw Velnaran raise a finger. "Chances are, the yahg leader for this region is there," the turian said, folding his arms across his chest. "He's kept his people to mostly roving bands in the desert, but he's got to have a central command and control station. I'd guess that this is it. We know it's been yahg-controlled for some time. . . and whatever is there, seems to have gotten batarian interest as well. If I were the yahg, I wouldn't let whatever that is, out of my control."

"You don't think the yahg trust their benevolent uplifters?" Gris growled.

"No," Velnaran said, very flatly.

"Be careful not to attribute _our_ reactions to the yahg," Livanus cautioned. "Just because we have a long and bitter experience with the Hegemony doesn't mean that the yahg have."

Velnaran shook his head. "Nothing to do with us," he replied. "I don't think other yahg trust each other particularly. I suspect every alpha's life is a constant battle to survive against his own lieutenants. The alpha on Shanxi bunkered up and stayed hidden. This leader divides his own men up into even smaller packs, and keeps them moving, hidden, while remaining hidden, himself. We know their homeworld's ecology produced _them_, so we know the place is a death-trap. They're dangerous to each other, unlikely to unify, and if the alpha dies, we know they fall apart and fight each other until a new alpha emerges. No. They're not going to trust the batarians. _Benevolent_ or not."

The elder Sidonis looked at the map of the base. "I think Commander Velnaran's very likely to be right. We haven't seen any indications of any other bases that the yahg have used for more than a few nights, so we can assume a heavy concentration of yahg hunters and probably shock troopers. We haven't seen any yahg biotics on this world at _all_ so far, so watch out for them. Their leader could be a biotic again. . . though Velnaran has made a case, repeatedly, for the yahg leader being a hunter, like the majority of the yahg we've seen so far. We can expect to see a hell of a lot of SIU operatives in there, too. Techs, warriors, and infiltrators. Probably no raiders or slavers, however."

"Yay," Sidonis muttered under his breath.

Dempsey studied the map. "They've got to know that at some point, we're coming for them. And they know how _they_ took the facility before—assault on the front and back gates, which is what the Spectres before us tried. They probably had some minor air support when they first went in, too. So they're going to be prepared for how they went in."

Makur looked over at him, and grinned, showing yellowing teeth. "So we go in by the window, and not by the door, human."

Dempsey nodded. "Exactly my thinking."

Sidonis sighed. "We had to climb the equivalent of a forty or fifty story building on Omega, Makur. But that was at least with a _ladder._ Please don't tell me you want us to climb a two-hundred foot cliff-face and attack from the western side. They'll. . . hell, they'll see us coming."

"Not if the krogan and geth attack the north side in force," Makur said, chuckling. "That'll get their attention spun that way, but they'll also suspect that it's a diversion. . . "

"So we let them see the secondary attack at the south side," Dempsey suggested. "Bring in the gunships, the turian marines, hell, the rachni there. . . the rachni can look like the serious threat. Have them start digging under the fence." His lips quirked faintly. "And then, from the west, the Spectres move in, cut our way through the fence there, and take out the defense towers from either side, and they hopefully don't know what hit them. That'll relieve the pressure to the north and south, everyone floods in, and we converge on the center, and take the damn buildings back." _Whatever's inside them, the batarians sure as hell are interested in it. Can't possibly be good. Weapon mods? Biotics research?_

Thelldaroon raised one large paw, and asked, a little apprehensively, "Does the climbing portion of the plan pertain to me as well, Spectre Dempsey?"

A muffled laugh spread across the room. Dempsey gave the elcor a quick nod. "Yes. If memory serves, during the candidacy trials, Spectres Fors and Jaworski—" he said the name carefully, and noticed how Velnaran shifted, uncomfortably, at the word, "got you up a cliff-face just fine. Fors dropped a singularity on you, and Doc Jaworski pulled you up the cliff like a balloon. You'd be last man up, with Fors on your back, but I think this is doable." He looked at Sidonis, Cautoris, and Gris, and shrugged. "You asked for thoughts. That's what I've got so far."

Gris nodded. "I could go in from the north, with the krogan forces. Make sure they stay in line. We've got a few geth armatures available; I'll set them to attacking the towers and the guard-posts."

Velnaran offered a few tactical suggestions, and pointed out that there was a mech storage building at the west side, near the fence. Siara lifted a hand quickly at that point. "What kind of mechs?" the asari asked. "Full robotic, or are we talking mech suits, like the mining one I used on Omega?"

The younger Sidonis chuckled. "You enjoyed that far too much, Siara."

"It worked, didn't it?" Her smile had edges.

"It's unclear. . . but if Dempsey or the geth could hack them, we'd be able to use them against the yahg and the batarians." Velnaran put a bit of stress on the idea, and Dempsey nodded. "There's probably a control panel in the building somewhere to control them all. We can make that our first objective."

And so, just before dawn, Dempsey found himself slowly, carefully climbing up the western face of a gneiss cliff, staring at the layers of metamorphic rock as he shifted his weight, cautiously, from handhold to handhold. The turians were, stoically, trying to deal with the climb without comment. Makur and Gris hadn't bothered; krogan were even less suited for climbing than turians. They were top-heavy, to say the least; they'd be coming in from the north with the rest of the krogan. Dempsey and Sidonis were actually leading the way, pounding in pitons and setting ropes for the others. It was the riskiest position, and yet again, Dempsey was oddly glad that he couldn't actually feel fear. There was risk assessment, decision, and then action. Nothing more. "Mazz used to go rock-climbing with me on Mindoir," Sidonis said, lightly, over the radio. "Makur needs more practice, Siara."

"I'll put it on the list, as soon as _you_ figure out a way for the damned cat to climb with him," the asari replied, dryly. She was right behind them, a lot closer than the rest of the turians.

Handhold. Foothold. Test for balance and stability, shift the weight, and plan the course ahead. Strain of muscle. Full armor and a complete load-out on weapons made this even more challenging. But they needed to be to the top as quickly as they could manage it. Over the radio, he could hear Cautoris, who'd taken charge of the turian and rachni force, noting, clinically, "We're almost in range of the south gates. Gris, Makur, what's your position?"

"Five hundred meters from the north gate," Gris replied, rough krogan voice rumbling tinnily in the earpiece. "We're just waiting on Team Three."

"Almost there," Dempsey said, tightly, and found his next handhold. They were within fifteen feet of the top now, and it was no time to make a mistake and slip. "Start your attacks when ready. We'll want them good and distracted when we come up over the rim."

There was a whistle in the distance, followed by the distinctive _whomp_ of a mortar going off. "North force just started up," Velnaran said, calmly, over the radio.

Dempsey and Sidonis, now at the edge of the cliff, paused where they were. They had to; both the 'feint' and the 'real force' had to be engaged, fully, before they dared come up over the rim.

"Team two, opening fire," Cautoris said now, and, sure enough, now Dempsey could hear weapons fire from the south.

They waited two minutes, and then Dempsey and Sidonis rolled up and over the lip of the cliff, looking quickly at the two western defense towers. This was one of the reasons for the timing of the strike; it was just before dawn. Nighttime darkness still lingered, and because the sun, to the east, was blocked by the mountain itself, they'd retain some cover of darkness for some time. Now, they secured their lines on the edge of the fence, started helping their fellows up and over the edge of the cliff. . . ending with Thelldaroon and Fors. The elcor looked downright startled as he was pulled up, Fors clinging to his back, and tugged in, gently, for a landing near the outer fence. "All right," Velnaran said now, tensely. "Let's get to work."

They got to work. Thelldaroon and Velnaran had both loaded out with heavy weapons, and fired, from the rear, on the two defense towers. Thell in particular carried an arc projector, and the batarian warriors to the south weren't prepared to have electrical energy leaping from one to another of them. Fors held up his tiny hands, and in the tower to the north, just after Velnaran's grenade and a geth armature took down shields, screams of panic arose as one of the warriors there was, slowly, gruesomely, imploded. "I think they might be good and panicked now," Fors said, grimly, just as Dempsey cut off the electrical current to the outer fence. . . allowing the human marines to cut through the first layer of fence, and they all moved into the area between the two layers of chain link.

Their first stop inside the compound, was, indeed, the mech shed. Siara, to her evident glee, found an experimental combat mech suit, and climbed into it, as Dempsey, bracing against the pain, activated his chip and began hacking the main control panel, activating all the mechs in the shed, ensuring that they had proper friend/foe protocols that would ensure that the geth, the krogan, and the rachni, not to mention the turians, would be safe from being targeted. "Huh," Dempsey said, in mild interest, as he finished the programming job. "That's odd."

"What's odd?" Sidonis the younger. . . _Damn. I'm just going to have to start calling him Tyr. 'Eli' just seems wrong, somehow_. . . asked, peering cautiously out a window, keeping an eye on the combat situation around the building.

"There's a whole section of programming locked off. Lots of security protocols, but it links to the base mainframe. No idea what it is."

"Got any file names?"

"AD 2.0." Dempsey felt an urge to swallow. His mouth was oddly dry, and suddenly, there was a surge of anger that made his hands shake, just a bit. There were alarms going off in his head now, muted but there. _It couldn't __possibly__ be Argent Defender 2.0. The Alliance was pretty embarrassed when they found out that Cerberus had infiltrated their research programs, and had been getting funding from the Alliance Senate to build, well. . . me. It's got to be some other program._

They cut their way out of the building, following the mechs, which they used as a helpful buffer against the yahg and the batarians. It was bloody, brutal fighting, and any number of times, Dempsey's primary shield went down as he took sniper fire from concealed SIU operatives, trying to get to a couple of human marines who were pinned down to his right. He saw a brood-warrior charge across the field in front of him, pelting a yahg with poison spit and biotics at the same time. . . and an SIU operative materialized behind the rachni. "Look out!" Dempsey shouted, preparing to throw the batarian, but his biotics were depleted for the moment. The brood-warrior's head turned, just as the batarian, holding a vibrosword, slashed down at the curving mass of the rear carapace, clearly intending to split the rachni in half. . . .

. . . and the vibrosword bounced off the rachni's shell. Dempsey's eyes went wide. He knew that a vibroblade stopped vibrating as it passed through a kinetic shield; which mean that it would cut through bare flesh just fine, as any sword would, but that its armor-penetrating slashes would be rendered ineffective. The rachni didn't have a shield up at the moment, but its tough chitin shell had still resisted the slash. There was a distinct scratch on the shell now, but nothing more.

The rachni _hissed_, and about a hundred workers suddenly boiled up off the ground, swarming the batarian, and then the brood-warrior turned back to the yahg. By which point, Sidonis, Velnaran, and Dempsey had been able to regroup, and moved in with the warrior, firing steadily at the yahg, finally killing it. The human marines, freed up, moved to flank them. One of them was Malcolmson. "Thanks for the assist," he said, and looked at the brood-warrior. "You got a name? That was a ballsy move, heading in on the yahg like that."

_I have not earned my name-song yet._

"How about if we call you Scratch, till you do?" Dempsey suggested. "It's at least distinctive."

_Sings-Scratches? _Blue-green amusement. _A name-song is welcome. And is a reminder of this moment._

Dempsey's mind was a blur as he turned to study the battlefield. Part of him was still reflecting on what he'd just seen, absently processing it: _Has to have the resistance of carbon nanotubules. They can still be punctured by mass-effect propelled bullets, no problem, but a slash. . . they resist. Have to ask them if they can create chitin overlays for our armor, maybe. _. . . the rest of him was absorbing the sights and sounds.

"_Spectre teams move to the center building,"_ Lantar's voice came over the radio, and Dempsey formed up with Velnaran on one side of him, and Sidonis on the other. Sidonis had a sixth sense for the damned stealth units. . . and whenever he'd point them out, Dempsey was able to throw them with a biotic thrust, or Velnaran would open fire on them with his assault rifle. Makur's big cat raced by, bullets reflecting off its kinetic shields, and latched onto the throat of a batarian, who staggered back from the animal, frantically trying to unclamp Snowflake's jaws from his throat, and then the krogan line came storming through—and Dempsey saw Siara, in her mechanized suit, stomping in with them.

Thelldaroon got them into the building, rigging charges rapidly, while the rest of them provided the huge elcor covering fire, while, all around them, rachni spat poison at yahg, brood-warriors lifted them off the ground with singularities, geth fired pulse-rifles at them, krogan either fired shotguns or engaged in hand-to-hand combat. . . Dempsey ducked away, and the doors blew open, and then they were inside the main hall. _"Keep the mission objectives in mind,"_ the elder Sidonis' voice crackled over the radio. _"Find and extract any human scientists left alive. Find Nisha Cehl, if alive. Remove the yahg and batarian threat . . . and find out what the hell they were so interested in here, anyway."_

"Anyone else bothered by the fact that the Alliance didn't disclose to the Spectres what was in this research facility?" Eli asked.

"I'm more concerned that they might not have _known_ what was in this facility," Dempsey corrected, his voice dry and hard. "It would not be the first time that a weapons facility, given funding from the special operations subcommittee, didn't disclose _exactly_ what they were working on." _AD 2.0. Maybe it's. . . Automatic Defenses. Autocratic Dilemma. Asparagus Delirium. Could be __anything__._

_Except that it's the second iteration of whatever __it__ is._

They passed through the first set of rooms in the building. Assembly line for mechs. Human body parts hanging from the same lines as the mechanical bodies, as if in grotesque parody. "You don't suppose that this is the yahg idea of art?" Dempsey asked, clinically. "They've matched up every mech torso with a human torso up there. Every arm, with an arm."

"Dempsey, man, don't need the play-by-play," Sidonis said, tightly. "I don't need to see this in my dreams."

"Sorry. Just wondering why they'd _do_ it." Dempsey opened the chip in his head as they cleared the room, and began accessing the computers around him. It hurt, but he needed information, and he needed it fast. These computers had different access levels to the mainframe, and he was able to get a feel for the facility now. "Shit." His voice was flat. "They were doing AI research here, guys. They'd bought some geth technology, some quarian tech, and were combining it with existing Alliance research. I can't get into all the records, but . . . some of the file dates are ten, twelve years old." There was a faint, sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach.

"AI research at a weapons facility?" Velnaran's voice was dubious. "What the hell would the yahg want with that?"

"Not the yahg," Thelldaroon said, instantly. "The batarians. Consider that they have the Lystheni dalatrass AI on their hands. And might want to find a way of dealing with her." The elcor was at the panels now himself, his huge paws swiping over the aerogel screens. "Access is too limited," he agreed. "We will need the mainframe for me to ascertain what they were doing here."

_At least, with the geth and quarian tech, and the whole AI angle, I know it can't possibly have anything to do with Argent Defender_, Dempsey thought, and they moved on through the facility. Yahg hunters and batarian SIU units poured fire at them, and they ducked, covered, did all the things they usually did, until they reached a central chamber, with locked, encrypted doors. Thelldaroon decrypted them faster than Dempsey himself could have done, and when they looked inside, Sidonis swore. Dempsey nodded in agreement with the string of curses.

Nisha Cehl was alive, but just barely. So were the other half-dozen humans in the room. They were hung up on meat hooks; the humans had their arms bound in front of them, and the metal of the hooks passed through a metal chain wrapped around and under their arms, keeping them dangling, in extreme discomfort, some fifteen feet off the floor. Nisha, on the other hand, had a pool of blue blood under her. The meat hook had been jabbed into the flesh of her shoulders, on either side of her spine, cruelly deep, and the asari's head leaned forward slackly. She was either unconscious, or in some deep, meditative state. Dempsey's money was on _unconscious_, frankly.

"Let's get them down," Sidonis said, and over the radio, he said, "Siara! We might need you in here. I've got asari first aid, but yours might be better. We've found Nisha."

_Yeah. Nisha, but no yahg commander. No batarian commander. Not the mainframe. Where the hell is it?_ Dempsey found the controls, and started lowering the chained humans to the ground. When he turned, he found one of the scientists staggering upright, and a flash of intolerable memory assailed him. "I. . . .know you," Dempsey said, and his voice was very distant. He did. He knew that face. It had stared down into his, as acid was dripped into his face, burning him. It had studied him dispassionately, the quiet voice recommending krogan gene mods to overcome what was likely to be a very painful, perhaps even life-threatening carbon-wrapping process, once the nanites were injected into his body. "Dr. Petrovic." The face was ten years older, of course, with silver at the temples now, and lines around the brown eyes. The face was jowlier, the eyebrows bushier. . . .but for Dempsey, the events of ten years ago were only a year old in his mind.

The man's head snapped back. "Yes?" The eyes glanced down, saw the armor, the red emblem on the chest. "Spectre? Thank god, you've come. The batarians were barely holding those wild beasts back from murdering all of us—"

Dempsey tipped back his polarized visor, and the blood was pounding in his temples right now. His peripheral vision was simply gone, a haze of gray. All that was left was this man's face in front of him. Petrovic's eyes suddenly bulged wide and panicky. And for an instant, Dempsey could clearly see his own hand clamped around Petrovic's throat, as a dozen guards fought to hold him down, tasered him, shot him with stun-darts laden with chemicals, tried to pry his hand clear of the doctor's throat. Petrovic's mouth, in the here and now, gaped open and shut, like a fish several times, but no sound emerged from his lips. "Why, Dr. Frankenstein," Dempsey said very softly, "is this any way to greet your monster?"

There was a sound behind him. A door opening. Sidonis and Velnaran shouted something, and, in slow motion, Dempsey lifted his head and turned. Something made of metal and very, very fast streaked towards him, and Dempsey, his shields already up, shoved _away_ with his biotics as whatever it was got within ten feet of him.

It rolled to its feet in a blur of motion and stood—and Dempsey got his first good look at it. Bipedal, about six feet in height, it was made of metal, smoothly poured and articulated. Dull gray, not reflective. . . like a marble statue, come to life. But it moved with the speed and grace of a geth or a human being. . . but it had two glowing eyes, where a geth would only have one. And it wore a human face.

His face.

"What. . . the. . .fuck?" Dempsey snarled, and the rage poured into him, in spite of every effort he made to control it.


	123. Chapter 123: Between

**Chapter 123: Between**

**Valak N'dor, Khar'sharn, October 20-November November 25, 2196**

His Spectre handlers had sent him a message on that FTL tight-beam transmitter, telling him that he should be expecting help, and soon. They also helpfully told him to watch the night sky. Livanus looked tense when Valak asked him what _sort_ of help he could be expecting. "A team of turian commandos? What are we talking about here, pray?"

"Two or three of our best, and a small army."

"And you're getting them here _how_, if I may ask? You're going to teleport them through the blockade around our own mass relay?"

Livanus had grinned, golden eyes surprisingly merry in that fierce, black-and-white barred face. "You'll see. Hopefully."

Late one fall evening, Valak was up reading in his library, one set of eyes skimming over the words of SIU reports that Arvak had permitted him to take home to finish reading, the upper eye on Nala as she dozed beside him in a chair, when he heard the sound of engines overhead. Just a whisper of noise, really. Valak was on his feet and reaching for a gun instantly. _Oversight forces_, he thought. "Nala! Nala, my dear, wake up!"

She snapped awake, and eyed him in consternation. "What's wrong?"

"This may be a good time for you to hide yourself down in your med bay, my dear." Valak peered out the window, and froze in place, trying to process what his eyes were telling him.

The ship was a black shape in the middle of his compound, and his guards were racing out, guns in hands, aiming at it. It was . . . decidedly not a batarian ship. He wasn't sure what the hell it _was_, in fact, other than alien. _This is not good. One stray radar track, and OSF and SIU will have this thing pinpointed. . . on __my__ estate._

Valak headed downstairs, pistol in hand, and his sword slung over his shoulder. . . just as a ramp descended from its belly. He and all his men were tense, on edge, guns at the ready. . . and then, slowly, a tall figure in black turian armor walked down the ramp. The male's face wasn't visible behind that polarized helmet, but his hands were up, clearly visible, and while he carried weapons—including, _by the ancestors. . . _ a vibrosword over one shoulder—they weren't in those uplifted hands. The male stopped at the edge of the ramp, and waited.

Valak got close enough to see that there'd apparently, recently, been a fresh coat of paint applied to that armor. Probably to efface a certain red symbol from it. "Velnaran?"

"Spectre Linianus Pellarian." It was a different voice, a lighter tenor than Velnaran's lower tones, but with still the distinctive grate of a turian. The male lifted the polarized mask out of the way, revealing a face with bright blue eyes, and upper and lower quarters filled in with blue paint. "You'd be Zorro, then?" The words were in galactic, not batarian.

Valak blinked. "They're _calling_ me that?"

"It's your code name."

"You're my . . . help?"

An absolutely wicked grin split that face. "Oh, there's more than just me," Pellarian said, and stepped off the ramp, looking back and extending a hand lightly. A smaller, slighter figure stepped lightly down the ramp. Valak blinked again. This was a turian female. He'd never seen one up close before. And when she pushed back her own visor, he caught cobalt eyes, with the same face-paint as Pellarian. "This is Serana Velnaran. My mate."

Valak exhaled. _Oh, ancestors, you're toying with me._ "Any relation to-?"

"Rellus? Yes. He's my brother. So's Rinus." Light contralto voice, hint of mischief in the tone.

_Different paint, but same clan-name. Turians are. . . confusing._ Valak glanced between them. "You've taken a huge risk for just two people. I hope you're worth it." _And I hope to the ancestors I can keep the two of you safe. I don't much relish the idea of the __dominus__' claws in my throat again._

Both of them chuckled. "More than just us," Pellarian said, and he gently tugged Serana off the ramp. "May I present Sings-of-Glory and a few of his closest friends and relatives?"

_Sings-of-Glory?_ Valak turned to greet whoever else was coming down the ramp, and his throat closed over. The batarians had made first contact with the asari right in the middle of the rachni wars. He _knew_ what he was looking at. Had seen one, briefly, in the distance, on Mindoir. Gleaming brown and green carapace. Opalescent, alien blue eyes. Multiple legs. "Brood-warrior," Valak said, his voice a little choked.

_Greeting-song. I give you blues and greens, Sings-Rebellion._ The words formed in his mind, like lightly plucked strings of a lyre, and filled him with calm. The rachni was _amused_. _I am Sings-of-Glory. And I bring my hive to this place, that we might aid you._ _Sing not alarm-songs. We are not here to damage you._ The brood-warrior slowly crept down the ramp, and stood there, allowing the guards to look at him. Valak could feel all of his men raising their weapons again. No batarian worlds had been overrun by the rachni, but every schoolchild knew that the asari had been so panicked by the rachni, that they'd uplifted the _krogan_ to deal with them. Made a weapon out of another race, just to exterminate these. . . .bugs.

"You've brought your. . . hive here?' Valak asked, loudly enough for his men to hear him, and gestured for them to lower their weapons.

_Yes. We will sing reds and whites of battle with you, to overthrow your cold-song leaders. But we will sing protection-songs, too, for your people. Sing digging-songs, create tunnels and nests for your people beneath the forest. Places of refuge. If you permit it._

"They _are_ very handy," Serana Velnaran said now, her smile amused. "I can't imagine better allies than ones that will probably not show up on your people's bioscanners. I really doubt you guys commonly scan on rachni settings."

Valak nodded, numbly. "Just how many rachni are aboard this vessel? And _how_ have you remained undetected?"

"A thousand workers," Pellarian said. "Five hundred soldiers. And two brood-warriors." The turian smiled. "You now have a private army, Valak N'dor. Put us to work."

That had been weeks ago, now. He'd had to order his men to put up their weapons and step back, and then the rachni had simply flooded out of the ship, scuttling off into the darkness. "I asked for help, and I got an invasion," Valak had murmured, passing a hand over his face in agitation.

The pilot of the ship—a female turian wearing yellow paint—had come down to wish the other pair farewell, and exchanged embraces with each of them. "Be safe, sister," the pilot had told Serana. Valak had been downright _shocked_ to realize that his estate was, however, briefly, hosting imperial royalty. Kallixta, wife of Rinus, was also the daughter of the turian Imperator.

"I may need to go lie down. My nerves, the strain!" Valak gibed, once the rachni and an assortment of supplies had been off-loaded. He regarded Pellarian and Serana steadily. "What's the plan?"

"The rachni dig in. We hide. . .and we start taking out targets that you and your men haven't been able to," Serana told him, promptly. "We've been directed to act as a mated pair of turian slaves, if anyone should happen onto your estate." She smiled up at the tall male. "Which shouldn't be difficult."

Valak shook his head irritably. "You'll definitely be hiding in the bunker, in the main, at first. It's not exactly a simple process, to add false capture documents and records of sale to the Oversight databases. Once I have you safely added, certainly, you can come out on the surface, but until then? In the bunker. Which might just be safest overall, anyway."

Pellarian nodded briskly. "And will become even safer, once the rachni start establishing tunnels. They'll also come with us to attack facilities, Valak. They can undermine walls, dig us passages under defenses, and around cameras."

"It's going to be almost too easy," Serana murmured, and Pellarian reached up and tapped her nose lightly. "I know, I know. I shouldn't tempt the spirits."

And yet, it _was_ surprisingly simple to turn over some of the toughest targets to them. Valak had, in fact, been able to be out in the public eye, on two occasions _with_ Arvak and his sister, Xal'i, when Serana, Linianus, and Glory had hit slave processing centers nearby. Overseer barracks mysteriously set ablaze, holes cut in fences, slaves taken. . . as if by the night itself. No traces of them, as they were spirited away in tunnels that were collapsed behind them. And Nala was very busy indeed, scanning the slaves for chips. The ones who had control-chips were separated and sent to different bunkers that the rachni built. Ones very deep underground, indeed. Away from the RF signal that could track them, locate them, and turn them into puppets, or walking vid feeds. Nala was a doctor, but not a brain surgeon; she simply didn't have the skill to remove the chips, although she could, with some of the older models, deactivate them. Which allowed them to bring some of those slaves into the fold.

With multiple bunkers in which to take refuge, Valak's men could also be bolder, and didn't have to worry about pursuit leading them back to the estate. All they really needed to do was reach a single rachni tunnel, and hide. . . and the rachni would lead them home. Valak warned his people, repeatedly, about becoming complacent or taking foolish risks, but he was, in the main, very pleased indeed. Much was being accomplished, and he had almost perfect deniability. Now, the hard part, was selecting facilities that had sufficient public information on them that someone _without_ his access level would go after them. . . but that were still high-value targets. He, Pellarian, and Serana sometimes spent hours discussing the merits of one facility over another. Pellarian always wanted to go after weapons facilities, bio-engineering firms, and the like. Valak could understand why, but he _had_ to protect his cover. If the information wasn't available outside of SIU. . . or at least, wasn't available to _everyone_ in SIU, he wouldn't confirm a target.

He did his best to get to know his guests. The rachni was. . . cryptic. . . at best. But Nala seemed to enjoy his company, and, laughing, told Valak that the rachni was very respectful of her, as one 'heavy with egg.' Valak asked Pellarian about the vibrosword, cautiously. It. . . made him uneasy, to see one in hands so obviously not batarian, but he didn't feel any need to _fight_ over it. _Remnants of tradition linger even in me,_ he thought, ruefully. "My brother and I were attacked by two high-caste SIU operatives on Omega," Pellarian explained. "We, well, we didn't really get their names, but we did get their swords. My brother wound up with a sword-cut through his ribs as a result of that fight."

Serana had sucked in a breath at that. "So _that's_ where that scar came from. . ."

Pellarian gave her an amused look. "It missed the lung, little one. Believe me, Dara yelled at us both for getting hurt. No, don't look like that. I was only nicked. Eli was standing over Dara as she was patching up Kirrahe, so he couldn't move around as much as I was. Not and protect both of them at the same time as himself."

Valak simply shook his head. "This would be. . . Elijah Sidonis? I know that name." He squinted quizzically at Serana. "And I had thought him affianced to one of the Velnaran sisters. You?" He paused. "And Dara would be the wife of Rellus Velnaran?"

Serana had exhaled. "Yes, and no. You're accurate, just not up to date." And that had taken them off on a tangent for at least a half an hour. 

Since his current concern was to establish that he wasn't, in any way, affiliated with the attacks. . . and because on at least two occasions before, he'd been targeted while leading an attack. . . Valak quite deliberately went to go visit Arvak and Xal'i at _their_ estate for a few days. It left him out of the loop, and left the estate possibly open to an OSF raid, but at the moment, there was nothing to find. Everything had been, quite literally, taken underground. Oh, they might find his original bunker, and the ships inside, but the weapons and ammunition and everything else was in rachni hands. Appendages, anyway. And Valak had also moved his transmitter underground as well. No, the only thing left aboveground was, unfortunately, Nala. Valak was getting close to trying to find ways to fake her death in childbirth and tuck her in the tunnels, too . . . except that he suspected that he'd need to be able to show her body to Xal'i. His sister had a fairly unwholesome interest in his 'pleasure slave.'

After dinner, which had been delicious, but had stuck in Valak's throat, Arvak poured brandy for the two of them. "I understand you're arranging to purchase two new turian slaves?" he asked, archly. "You've developed quite an interest in the species. Whatever became of that first one you captured?"

Valak affected a sigh. "I had him transported, with many of my other slaves, to Camala. He broke loose, and I ordered my men there to pursue him, and, if necessary, kill him. He was an investment, with potential for presenting in the Hegemon's Games. . . but I can't just having people _escaping_. Sets a bad example."

Arvak's lips turned down. "And did they find him?"

"They claimed not. I did a little checking to see if any of them had suddenly come into large, inexplicable sums of money. And when I visited Camala to inspect the _Klem Na_ facilities for you. . . I took a few measures on my estate." Valak let his voice chill. "I lined up all of my personal guards and overseers, and told them that they'd displeased me. That, if I were my father, I would have been walking down the line already, killing every tenth man. . . but that I'm not my father, and that I detest having to clean my sword of low-caste blood. . . not to mention the days of purification rituals if their arterial spray happened to catch me." Valak shuddered. "Dreadfully tedious."

Arvak snickered. "What did you do instead?"

"Had each of them whip another. While I watched. Then I gave the chief overseer a choice. Kill himself, or be killed by his second-in-command." Valak kept his eyes steadily on Arvak's face. "He did not wish to give his second-in-command that much honor, and took his own life, sparing me the necessity of doing it myself." As such, it had been necessary for his chief overseer to 'disappear.' More money, new identity, and a ship off-world, heading deep into the Terminus systems.

Arvak nodded. "Fitting enough."

"I think they'll be much more mindful of their duties now," Valak agreed, sipping his brandy.

"So why the sudden interest in turians, then?"

Valak smiled. "You hear _everything_, brother-in-law. I asked for a special permit for two captured turians because I have a theory." He allowed a smile to play on his face for a moment. "I think that they can be properly domesticated if they're enslaved from childhood. But for that, I need a breeding pair. All that savagery can't be totally instinctual. Some of it _has_ to be cultural. So. . . I'll breed up some turian children, take them from the parents, and have them raised as proper slaves. If they turn out biddable, but still with fighting instincts, they'll be useful. If not, the parents can be fodder for the Hegemon's games in five years or so. And this time, I won't make the mistake of sending them to Camala. No. . . they'll stay right where I can see them."

"I do so hope you'll invite us over to view them, once you've made arrangements to have them transferred."

_Oh, I do hope not._ Out loud, Valak merely replied, "One step at a time, old boy, one step at a time."

Arvak's eye glittered. "I do have a little something work-related for you to take a look at tonight," he said, and Valak, mentally, went on alert. "Come to the study, N'dor. Have a look at this. . . most interesting vid feed we received last week."

In Arvak's study, Valak watched, trying to keep his face expressionless. "I'm Histav L'dar, reporting live from Terra Nova, where I am happy to report that the teamwork between our trusted allies, the yahg, and our own Special Intervention Unit is bearing remarkable fruit. I am currently standing in the _heart_ of a Council Spectre base. They use prisoners here for hideous experimentation, and have been hiding those experiments in underground bunkers, which have never before been seen by the light of day. Today, that changes; SIU and our yahg allies have taken the base—"

Gunfire in the background, and several SIU operatives, faces concealed by helmets, suddenly rushed into the vid frame and moved Histav L'dar, roughly muttering, "Get up the stairs, to the control room. We've got in-coming. You're going to get the death of at least a couple of Council Spectres on vid, Histav."

"Make it a good show for the people back home," Histav told them, and the camera focused downwards from some high place, into what looked like a narrow corridor.

Three figures in were fighting at the end of a narrow corridor, while SIU operatives were throwing flash-bangs and shooting at them, while warrior-caste guards tried to hold them off. Two humans and a turian, from the looks of things. The two humans were tall and bulky; the turian even taller. All three wore black armor. The two humans wore that familiar red hourglass-and-star symbol; the turian wore blue stripes down the sides of his armor. . . also disquietingly familiar. And, after a grenade was tossed, the camera zoomed in on one human. . .who was carrying a captured vibrosword. "_Rua'lodak! _Unclean hands, a breaker of the bonds that hold our society together," Histav L'dar muttered into the microphone. . . . but it was over in _seconds._ One warrior-caste flew into a wall, not even touched by anyone—_a biotic. One of them is a biotic_—the second had his head pulled in a corkscrew maneuver that Valak _knew_ had snapped his neck. . . and the third died, gutted by the vibrosword.

Without even pausing, the three in black moved straight for the stairs, and there was a pause on camera as the SIU operatives, not panicking at all, got ready. . . the door blew in on its hinges, and then there was mass confusion. Screams. Gunfire. The camera wobbling unsteadily in midair. Valak's heart pounded in his chest as if he were there, but he was torn. The camera invited him into the perspective of those being attacked. His training lay with the SIU operatives being slaughtered.

But his loyalty lay with the Spectres. Valak's hands clenched as one of the humans decapitated a batarian with a vibroblade, right in front of the camera.

Then everything went still. The three males, menacing in that black armor, stood there a moment, seeming to stare at the camera. The turian lifted his visor, and was panting visibly. Yellow paint, familiar eyes. The human with the vibrosword took off his helmet to wipe moisture from his face. Violet paint on a human face. Dark eyes—just a flash of profile, really, but enough for Valak to achieve recognition. And then the third human walked forward, blocking the shot. Ice-blue eyes, face blank of all expression. "Show's over," he said, in English, and the camera feed, abruptly, went dead.

Valak sat back, mind racing. He knew all three faces. Had seen them on Khar'sharn, Omega, and even, briefly, on Mindoir. Velnaran. Sidonis. Dempsey. _But the humans weren't Spectres then. And Velnaran's not one, now._

"What do you think?" Arvak prompted, after a moment.

Valak snorted. "Not something for popular dissemination." He rubbed a finger along his nose. "They're using some psychological gambits. The human probably knows that using a vibrosword will pull batarian attention towards him in any fight."

"He's wearing turian paint."

"Probably also psychological. An effort to appease the turians around him. Make him look like one of the pack." Valak smiled thinly. "Humans like to conform. Give them a generation or two, and they'll all be wearing it." He'd said it mostly to placate Arvak's sense of superiority, and to conform with social expectations, himself. Now, he leaned back in his chair. "So, why in the ancestors' names are we _on_ Terra Nova with the yahg?"

Arvak snorted. "That fucking waste of a planet . . . .is still one of the largest human colonies, and we'd had indications that they were finding new uses for AI technology. Beyond just sticking them aboard ships." All four eyes were hooded for a moment. "And as you know, we have issues with a certain Lystheni dalatrass. So, we sent in Yilar M'nav in with the first group of yahg. He's one of our operatives that can actually speak the beasts' language."

"Now, now, Arvak. Our _trusted allies'_ language." Valak carefully used the reporter's words from moment ago, which, in turn, echoed the Hegemon's own words for the yahg, taken from his most recent speech.

Arvak snorted. "A beast is a beast. Useful, until it turns on you."

"I trust we have contingency plans in place for the inevitable day on which our trusted allies are allies no more?"

Arvak tapped his temple lightly. The gesture said, _I know, but you don't need to know._ Valak lifted his right hand, tipping it outwards, and nodded slightly. _I accept your judgment._ Arvak continued now, "What they found is intriguing, but unfinished. Yilar managed to convince the beasts not to kill off the scientists until all their secrets have been uncovered. And he's since been. . . questioning them. Trying to make the technology useful to us."

"And will it be?" Valak asked, a bit cynically.

"It might prove tempting, if we can offer the dalatrass a body of her own. One that we would, in actuality, control completely."

"I doubt she'll be foolish enough to abandon all her nodes just for a body. She strikes me as one who always has contingency plans of her own."

Arvak merely smiled. Valak gestured towards the vid, still paused on the screen. "Mind if I take a copy of that to watch again, at home? I might be able to come up with more analysis on further viewings." Mostly, he wondered if his Spectre _guests_ might have something for him out of it.

To his surprise, Arvak permitted the liberty, so long as the file had an expiration date; it would delete itself within three days. Valak was careful to install it to one of his many work-only, non-networked computers, when he showed it to Pellarian and Serana. "Any thoughts?" he asked, after they'd watched it, in the safety of the bunker.

Smiles wreathed both their faces. "Well. . . we know they're alive," Pellarian said, looking down at Serana. "And that my _sangua'fradu_ and your _fradu_ have yet to gut one another. That's promising."

"And the battle-rage is not taking Rel or Dempsey. . . at least, not at the moment. All good things." Serana nodded, and smiled a little. "And Eli's still putting that sword to good use. As are you."

Valak squinted at both of them. "You do realize," he said, dryly, "that at the moment, you are actually more cryptic than the damned rachni?"

That just made the pair chuckle.

Unfortunately, two days later, there was quite a bit less to laugh about. Valak had been investigating rumors that Arvak's men had brought in, about unrest among the high nobility at the cost and risk of the war, in the hopes of possibly finding people who might be willing to overthrow the Hegemon, when a knock came at his bedroom door. "Yes, Tul'dur?' he asked his oldest lieutenant.

Tul'dur's face was strained. "We had two groups out tonight, m'lord," he said, softly. "The turians were going after the biotic processing compound. And our own people were going after the ammunition dump west of Arg'haz."

Valak nodded, tensing. Tul'dur's manner told him that the news couldn't possibly be good. "And?"

"Our group is missing two men. The . . . rachni. . . pulled down the tunnel as they fled, to conceal the method of their retreat. . . but the rest of the group believes that the two men were captured. Ya'lor was one of them."

Valak's stomach clenched. Ya'lor had been with him for over three years. He knew almost all of Valak's secrets. "And the other?"

"Irvek. He's newer, but he's steady. Neither will break easily." Tul'dur face was ashen, however.

"Everyone breaks, eventually." Valak turned as he heard footsteps in the long hallway. The Spectre and the turian female were there, looking at him, their eyes flittering in the low light from the sconces in the walls. "Especially in Kanak'khoria Prison." He stared at the two turians. "We _have_ to get them out. Quickly. They can compromise everything we've done here."

Tul'dur's head swiveled. "M'lord! Kanak'khoria is the most secure prison on the planet. It's where all the political prisoners, all the worst murderers, all those who have been condemned for plotting against the Hegemony, are kept. We can't just hop over a wall and spirit them away."

"I wasn't proposing that we do that," Valak said. His mind was moving very, very quickly now. "I'm proposing that we let out every prisoner in Kanak'khoria. Soloff C'les, too, if he's still alive."

Pellarian grimaced. "Even the murderers?"

"Hopefully not. But there may not be a way around it. They're not exactly divided up neatly inside the prison, violent offenders over here, cannibals over there, people who've written offensive tracts against the state over there. The recently incarcerated, like Nala, before I. . . bought her out of captivity. . . have cells, yes. Higher-castes, as she was, and females in general, get a little better treatment." Valak swallowed. These were his personal nightmares, the things that haunted him about his little crusade. Of course, he suspected he'd never see the inside of Kanak'khoria. He'd be executed. Quietly. Efficiently. And with a cover story like suicide due to shame over debts or sexual deviance or something like that. Valak beckoned all of them into his room, and began to pace. Nala had been working on some sort of stitchery while he worked, just something with which to keep her hands occupied as they talked over the political implications of which nobles might turn on the Hegemon. Now, she stood up, looking pale at the mere mention of the prison. Valak walked over, and very gently put his hands on her shoulders, where cloth covered her skin. Respect and affection, as always.

"The most dangerous are penned like animals," Valak went on, after a moment, looking at Pellarian and Serana now. "Of course, the definition of _most dangerous_ has differed over the years." Valak grimaced. "There was an image, once, of Soloff C'les, smuggled out of the prison. He was being kept in a cage usually meant for slaves or varren. Not large enough to stand up in. Not long enough to lie down in. No place for him to dispose of his waste and filth, but where he crouched, all day. All night. I . . . don't know how long he was kept that way." Valak grimaced. "The finest mind of the teaching-caste, reduced to an animal. No. . . worse than that." There weren't words to convey the enormity. "I _knew_ him. He taught me. Taught me to ask questions." How to describe the fatal emptiness in the eyes, the clear indication that the mind that had been behind them, had taken flight from the misery of his conditions? "The lower-castes, in particular. . . are usually expected to fend for themselves. Large, communal areas. Fights over food and amenities such as blankets, a place to sleep, the right to use a slop bucket. . . are said to be common."

"The jailers took me to a balcony and made me look down into one of the communal yards," Nala said, very, very softly, as Valak gently urged her to sit back down. "Said that I should be grateful that my sentence was slavery. . . and that I wasn't being sent down into one of those yards. They said that women sentenced to that didn't usually live long."

Pellarian growled under his breath. "How do the guards keep _order?_ How do you ever get a prisoner _out_ again when his sentence is up?"

Serana turned her head. "The _logistics_ offend you, _amatus?_"

Pellarian snorted. "No, there's no part of it that _doesn't_ offend me, but the logistics just don't make sense."

"When they want to extract someone. . .assuming he's survived the incarceration. . . they line the balconies around each yard with guards with rifles. They tell the prisoners to kneel in rows. Anyone who doesn't kneel, gets a bullet. Then they call the name of the man who's to be freed, and he stands up and walks to the gate. If anyone else stands up, they get a bullet. If someone tries to take the place of the man who's being freed. . . everyone in the yard gets a bullet." Valak grimaced. "Or so it's said. I've spent much of my life trying to stay very, very far away from Kanak'khoria. . . which makes the life of a vigilante all the more interesting." He rubbed a hand over his scalp. "You see why it's _vital_ that we retrieve my men? And by releasing at least all the political prisoners, we might conceal that it was _my_ men who were targeted for rescue."

"If you'd take my advice, m'lord. . . " Tul'dur's voice was hesitant. "Only free the high-castes and the women. Once a man's been down in the pits. . . I'm not sure how much of _him_ might be left."

Valak winced. His ideals told him that he needed to free everyone, regardless of caste. His pragmatism told him that men who'd been reduced to something lower than animals would not regain their sanity and their social consciences simply by having walked out a prison's gate. He looked at Linianus and Serana now. "What do you think? And ask your . . . good rachni friends, too, what they think. All of our lives are at risk. . . and even if that were not the case, I cannot leave Yal'or or Irvek to abuse and torture."

Serana leaned forward. "None of us suggested that you should," she said, simply. "Although we probably should start working on an escape plan, if our daring prison-break fails to work?"

Valak nodded slowly. "Yes. I've been attempting to work one out for months. I've been unable to work around the problem of two hundred people, and two ships that will hold forty men each, maximum, for some time. I moved a hundred of my people to Camala. . . where they should be able to escape more easily, _if_ they get warning before Oversight forces move against them. . . but that still leaves us twenty people short here on Khar'sharn." _And that was before adding fifteen hundred rachni or so to the equation._

"Some of us can take to the tunnels, m'lord," Tul'dur said, immediately. "And from the tunnels, into the woods, once the Oversight troops have cleared a given area."

Pellarian shook his head. "We have time enough to figure out those details later," he said, calmly. "Let's take a look at this prison complex, while I try to overlook the irony of my even contemplating people out of jail." His tone was very dry. Valak had a basic biography of each of his two new assistants in hand, knew that Pellarian had been involved with turian law enforcement before becoming involved with the Special Tasks and Reconnaissance group, but he was fuzzier on why Serana found this funny enough to laugh at—vigorously.

**Agnes Jaworski, Mindoir, November 20, 2196**

"Granny!"

"Yes, Keshi?"

"You need. . . name little Sky." Takeshi looked up at his grandmother in the garden, his little brows knitted over his dark, almond-shaped eyes, in the expression of extreme concentration he used when attempting the difficult process of communicating with grownups. And then he tried to hand her a large, squirming insect, the size of a kitten or a grown rabbit.

Agnes leaped backwards, dropping her hose, and flung her hands in the air, barely restraining her shriek. "Takeshi! Put that down! That's icky!"

Takeshi looked at her, in puzzlement, then back down at the worker, which wiggled feelers at him. "Little Sky not icky."

"Yes, yes it is."

"So sad, little Sky, that's so sad!" The piping phrase had undoubtedly been taught to him at daycare as a replacement for _that was bad_ or _you made me mad_. Takeshi looked back up at her now. "Little Sky needs name!"

Agnes took a deep breath. Once something got into a toddler's mind, there were three things that you could do: go along with it, try to distract them (which was sometimes easier than others), or say _no_ and do your best to ignore the screaming, pouting, throwing themselves on the ground, and so on. Takeshi wasn't her first rodeo, by a long stretch, but Agnes had long since recognized that running face-first into an obstacle wasn't her most preferred method of dealing with problems. "Hey, look at that, do you see that orange flower over there? What's that one called?" _Distraction. Let's see if it works._

It didn't. "Daisy is flower's name," Takeshi said, and offered her the worker again, earnestly. "Little Sky's. . . you need write Little Sky's name."

Agnes sighed. "Say _please._"

"Pleeeeeease!"

Agnes rooted around in the outdoor toolkit. There _might_ be an indelible ink pen in there, to go with the small shovel and the weed pullers and the hatchet and everything else. And at least she was already wearing gloves. She carefully uncapped the pen and squinted down at the _bug._ "Grandma doesn't have her glasses on, sweetie. I can't see to write," she offered, not holding to much hope that this would get her out of it.

"Glasses right there!" Takeshi said, freeing one hand to point at her neck.

She sighed and put the glasses on, smudging her face with mud from the gardening gloves, and then, shuddering inside and out, looked at the bug. "What's his name, sweetie? And are you sure he wants a name?"

"Yeah! His name is _Squee!_" *

Agnes stopped and looked at Takeshi. "Squee?"

"Yeah!"

_Chopin, Einstein, Mozart, Tesla, Newton, Zappa and. . . Squee. Oh, well, if Dara asks why one of her pets is named that, I will point at her little brother and no further explanation will be required._ Agnes, her hands shaking in their gloves, and pulling back with a muffled yelp every time the thing _moved_, managed to put a name on the critter's shell. "There. Done. No more naming, Takeshi. Now put that thing down and go wash your hands with the hose."

"Not yet."

"Now, mister, or I will hose you down from head to toe myself."

Takeshi took off, shrieking at the thought.

"How is it," a familiar gravelly voice said behind her, and Agnes whirled, putting a hand to her heart in shock, "that a female who can stand at a window, firing at batarians without question or hesitation, turns into a terrified _anserae_ at the sight of a large insect?" Gavius looked down at her.

"I didn't hear the gate! Why do you always have to sneak up on me like that? One of these days, you're liable to give me a heart attack!" Agnes had already been agitated by the damned _bug_, and now Gavius had given her a hell of a start, too. Her heart really was pounding away, and she dropped to a crouch to let her breathing settle, and her knees reminded her that she probably shouldn't do that sort of thing too often.

"I certainly did not sneak. It's hardly my fault that humans have such poor senses of hearing."

_At least he didn't tell me I'm going deaf in my old age._ "Oh, so now we're back to humans being inferior." Agnes slowly got back up to her full height. It didn't help much. She was tall for a human female, but Gavius was nearly his son Garrus' height. A good eight inches taller than she was, in fact. Although, truth be told, her late husband, Alex, had been a big man, too. 6'3" to her 5'10". She was used to looking up at the men in her family. . . and down at almost everyone else. "Well, let me tell you Gavius—"

He raised a hand. "I actually didn't come over for an argument today." Belatedly, she realized that he was, carefully, conscientiously, carrying a small bouquet under one arm. "These are for you." He held them out as if they were something small, dead, and furry—with the tips of his fingers.

"Oh." Agnes paused, and then accepted the flowers. "Thank you. I'll need to put these in water inside—" She turned away, and stared. "Takeshi Kennard Jaworski, what are you _doing_?" _I turn my back for five seconds. . . _

Takeshi had taken her instructions to wash his hands, and, charmed by the way the water was flowing into the dirt below the spigot, and the mud that it thereby made, started smearing the side of the house with the mud.

Also, himself.

Also, the worker.

"Good lord on a bicycle, boy, I look away for thirty seconds, and you're covered in mud."

"Muuuuuud!" There had to be four _u_ sounds in the way Takeshi said the word. Gleefully, at that.

"You need a bath!"

"Squee needs bath, too!"

"No! That thing stays outside!" Agnes juggled the flowers to her left hand, grabbed the hose in her right, and started spraying Takeshi off. The little boy squealed and tried to run away. Agnes, out of hands, reached out with a foot and hooked an ankle around his midsection. "Hold still."

One wrong move, and Agnes slipped, and started to fall—straight for the newly-named Squee. The worker skittered out of the way, and Agnes had time to think, _Okay. This is going to hurt_. . . and then a hand caught her and pulled her back upright. Gavius moved around her, hooked a hand around Takeshi's shoulders, and held him in place like grim death. "You almost hurt your grandmother," Gavius said, grimly. "What do you say?"

Takeshi's face clouded over. "I sorry, Granny. I sorry." He moved right to her and latched onto her legs in a desperate hug. . . leaving mud all over her.

Agnes leaned down and gave her grandson a hug in return. "It's okay, Takeshi. I know you didn't mean to. But this is why you need to hold still and do what you're told. I know you thought it was funny to try to get away. But when you're dirty, you can't go in the house, right?"

"So hold still and let your grandmother finish hosing you off." Gavius' gravelly tones made Takeshi jump, and the body stood, very obedient and upright. . . though still squealing at the cold. . . while Agnes finished getting the mud off of him. And then, in some embarrassment, off of herself. She wore jeans in the yard, both to keep off bugs and to avoid looking at her own legs. She was past sixty, and didn't need reminders that time wasn't a kindly master.

"Let's go inside and get changed," Agnes told Takeshi, turning off the water. Only then did she realize that she hadn't actually dropped the roses throughout the whole fiasco. And as Takeshi ran for the door, chanting _run, run, run_ under his breath, Agnes looked up at Gavius. "Ah. . . thank you. For, well, catching me. And for wrangling Takeshi." Her voice turned wry. "You'd think I'd had enough practice with Sam. . . and babysitting Dara. Even her little cousin, a few times." She inclined her head at the screen door. "Come inside?"

Her house was very small, but it was really more than she needed. Small house, big yard. Inside, a bedroom, kitchen/dining room, small living area, and a secondary bedroom for when she had Takeshi over. . . which was, the rest of the time, her sewing room and office. That was all. She'd winnowed through her personal effects before leaving Earth, opting to put many in storage. She had a life-time of knickknacks given at Christmas, all the mementoes of her late husband, and boxes and boxes of family china and silverware, passed down through the generations. . . and no real reason to ever use them. They were all packed in the garage, neatly labeled. For when and if Dara ever wanted them. She couldn't really see Sam ever using them. _Ah, well. Dara can sell them, I suppose. Who's really going to want 1911 Waterford vases. . . oh, wait. Collectors who'll pay a bundle for them._ But none of it was currently in use. "I'm going to have to go unpack things to find a vase," she apologized. "There's, well, there's lemonade in the cryo-unit. I think I might have _caprificus_ juice mix in a cabinet. . . Takeshi, go take those wet clothes off, you're dipping!"

"Little Sky dripping, too!"

"I said to leave that thing in the yard!" Agnes put the flowers down, very gently, on the table in the middle of her kitchen, and told Squee, firmly, "Out!" and opened the door for the bug.

She had to give the little creepy-crawlies credit. . . they did have brains. It skittered right towards the open door, turned, chittered at her, and then scuttled all the way outside. "You! Bedroom! Now!" That, directed at Takeshi, as she closed the door on the bug.

It didn't help in the _least_ that Gavius was leaning against a wall, chuckling under his breath at the whole show. "You! If you're going to just stand there, not doing anything—"

Gavius' chuckles became outright laughter, if reluctantly. He walked over, and asked Takeshi, "Where are your clean clothes?"

"In suitcase!"

"Go get them."

Takeshi raced into the bedroom, and Agnes peeked in, to see him turning in circles as he struggled to get his wet shirt off. "You do have a way with the kids," she told Gavius.

"Three children, twelve grandchildren. I doubt my first-son considered me such a good father, but I like to think I can at least get them to mind me." They watched as Takeshi sat down, abruptly, giving up on the shirt with one arm still caught, to work on his pants, instead. Without removing the shoes first. "This is what I like to consider a problem-solving exercise for the youngling," Gavius added, leaning against the doorframe.

"Takeshi, take the shoes off _first_. Then your feet will actually fit through the shorts."

"You're taking all the _learning_ out of this for him."

"I'm taking all the _screaming_ out of it for me." Agnes' tone was tart.

"You going to find a vase for those flowers before they wilt, female?"

Agnes stared at him for a moment. Sometimes, the poking seemed to be absolutely intentional, just as Dara said it was. She lifted her chin, snorted at Gavius, and told him, "Guilt-trips will be short ones. I don't take passengers with me." Then she headed for the garage, and started moving boxes around.

Fifteen minutes later, Gavius and Takeshi were at the door of the laundry area, staring out into the garage and all its boxes. "Spirits, Agnes, I said 'get a vase,' not 're-supply a legion,'" Gavius grumbled.

"This is where my vases all are, and I'm trying to _find_ them without _breaking_ them." Agnes shooed an interested Takeshi away. "No, sweetie, any of this breaks, and we'll have glass all over the place, and you'll cut yourself." She'd finally found what she was looking for, and was gently removing two-hundred-year-old crystal pieces from the box and settling them on the workbench. Perfect symmetry in the old patterns, geometry. Meticulously cut by hand, in some cases.

Gavius came forward and _stared_ at it all. "What is all this?"

Agnes shrugged. "Family heirlooms, a lot of it. This set came from my great-great-grandmother. Some of the pieces, I have no _idea_ what they were used for, originally." She held up one piece. "This? I know this is a gravy boat. That's easy."

"That's not a _boat_, Granny."

She shushed Takeshi. "This, on the other hand? There are six of them." She held it up. It was a tiny bowl, no bigger than the tips of her index and middle fingers put together. "They all have tiny spoons to go with them. They match the rest of the set, so they're not kids' toys. And it beats the hell out of me what they are, other than _pretty_." Agnes blew the hair out of her eyes. "It's almost like being a cultural anthropologist, looking at this stuff. Now _where_ did that vase go. . . ahah!" She finally produced it, and, very carefully, took it back into the house. She wondered, rather, what Gavius made of all this stuff. Totally alien, of course. From her son's perspective, pretty, but useless.

"Why are you keeping all of this out in the garage?" Gavius demanded, after a moment. "You've kept it; it's important to you."

Agnes sighed. "It's family heritage, sure," she said. "And I used to keep it all on shelves in my living room. No room here. . . and it's sort of become just something else to dust. Or something that little fingers can break." She filled the vase with water, and started sliding flowers into it, one at a time, letting them settle loosely into place. "I'm the last person for whom any of this means a damn thing. It meant a little something to my late husband, Alex. Some of it was his mom's, and his grandma's. Sam doesn't remember either of them. Neither does Dara. And they're both people who're focused on . . . " Agnes grimaced. "Well, the here and now." She put the vase and its flowers at the center of her table, and smiled. "You know what? I think that's the first time this vase has actually been used for flowers in fifty years. Looks nice. Thank you."

She turned, and realized that Gavius was _staring_ at her, just as Takeshi landed against her knee. "You know, my mind's like a sieve. I needed to get out that _caprificus_ mix. Hold on."

Agnes got lemonade and a cookie set up for Takeshi, and settled Gavius at her table with a glass of _caprificus_ juice—it was oddly purple-red, in a way that made her think _fake dyes_, but that he assured her was the natural color of the fruit. He sat there, so upright and unbending in her chairs, that she almost wanted to dither. Finally, he asked, as Takeshi settled in to scribble, furiously, at a piece of paper, "How long ago did your mate pass to the spirits?"

It took her a moment to translate that one. "Pass to the—oh." Agnes sighed. "Alex passed away in 2181. Fifteen years ago." She hesitated. "And if I understand correctly, Pilana, your wife? She passed away in 2186?"

"Yes." His tone wasn't encouraging, really. "A wasting disease. It wasn't something even the doctors at STG were able to cure."

Her throat ached a little. His tone was so remote at the moment, yet held quite a bit of suppressed pain. "I'm sorry. That's not easy to watch. That's pretty much how my mom went. A cancer that we couldn't cure, in the pre-contact days." Agnes cleared her throat. "One thing that all you Council species and your fancy technology have been good for, I have to admit. Lots and lots of medical advances." She wasn't really feeling like arguing at the moment. Thinking about Alex, even fifteen years later, tended to leave her feeling hollow and empty.

"And your husband?"

"Heart attack." Agnes turned her glass around on the table listlessly, and then snorted a little. "More than twenty-five years of worrying about him every time he left the house, and he passed away in his sleep." Her lower lip quivered, and she compressed it to a thin line. "I didn't even know till I woke up the next morning, and he . . . wouldn't wake up." Oh, how she'd screamed at him, _Alex? Alex, honey, wake up, please wake up, please wake up. . . _ but it had been useless. Shaking him, her hands had registered the coldness, the stiffness, and she'd scrambled back and away, trembling.

"He was a police officer, too?" Gavius asked, and Agnes hastily rubbed at her eyes, trying to hide the tears.

"Oh, no, no. He was an off-shore rig firefighter. Which meant that, most of the time, he was on duty in the petroleum processing plants. . . and in the rare cases when a rig went up, he was one of the first guys flown in to see if they could contain it, control it, get the situation safe so the engineers could cap the well. That sort of thing." She herself had had a very safe and very boring series of jobs. Laboratory technician for a DNA testing firm, among others. Things that required an eye for detail and meticulous work. An affinity for science, but she hadn't had the advanced degrees that her daughter-in-law, Sarah, had held. That had been a source of constant strife while Sarah was alive. Agnes had been working in the labs for longer than Sarah had been alive, but Sarah had the degrees and the ambition and the book learning. . . and had been up on all the 'fancy alien technology,' too. They'd argued. A lot. And now Sarah had been in the ground for six years, too. _Sometimes, it feels like I'm just plain going to outlive everyone I either love or hate._

Gavius, not hearing the sidetrack her thoughts had taken her down, smiled a little now. "So, you were used to having your husband in harm's way. So having your son join your military's special forces was easier?"

"No, it damned well was not," Agnes said, with some heat, and Takeshi looked up and repeated, gleefully, _damned well not._ "Hush! You don't say those words."

Takeshi promptly pouted at the injustice of adults, and muttered, "Not say those words," right back to her. Agnes gave his hand a tap to get his attention, and told him, firmly, _No._

With that minor interruption behind them, Agnes told Gavius, in some exasperation, "It wasn't easier, no. Sam had to go and do something even _more_ dangerous than his daddy. So then I had _two_ of them to worry about. And now Dara's off doing the same _dang_ thing," she gave Takeshi a narrow-eyed look to ensure that the boy wouldn't start repeating her words. "I'm just hoping that _this_ one decides to do something nice and peaceful with his life. I'm thinking. . .chief financial officer for a company somewhere."

Gavius snorted. "You'd wish him a life of peace, but without chances for honor or recognition?"

"I'd wish him a life filled with recognition, but one in which he'd be able to come home at night and see his family."

Takeshi had sat in one place for all of fifteen minutes now, which was more than his little toddler legs could stand. He slipped down out of the chair, announcing, "All done," and ran off for his box of toys in her office. Agnes sighed and started collecting crayons and paper. She was sixty-eight years old. When she'd been born, that would have been considered elderly; the world had changed, however. Now, somehow, that was _middle-aged._ She had perhaps another eighty-two years of living in front of her. . . and there were, honest-to-god, days on which she had no _idea_ what she was going to do with them. She'd retired from her 'first career' three years ago, and come to Mindoir shortly after Takeshi's birth. She had a part-time job in the Spectre labs, doing DNA analysis. . . mostly to keep her brain active. But other than seeing her son once a week. . . if Sam were on the planet, that is. . . and spending time taking care of Takeshi, there was really damned little that was in her life right now. Lunch once a week with Hinata, Kasumi's mother, was pleasant enough, but the two women had little in common besides age and a little homesickness for their own parts of Earth. _Probably why you put up with Gavius and his arguing_, she told herself, putting crayons in a box. _It keeps your wits sharp. And prevents potty-training talk from being the __only__ conversation you actually get._

Gavius stood, and walked around the table and stood behind her. "So. Fifteen years," he said, quietly. "And in all that time, you've never sought another mate?"

"Don't notice that you've exactly gone out of your way to replace your wife in the last ten," Agnes retorted, her tone prickly. _Off the subject, Gavius. Sacred ground._ "After the first five years, I guess I just got used to being alone." Of course, alone on Earth was different than alone here. Alone on Earth, there'd been work. Gardening clubs. Volunteer work at the local library, reading to kids once a week. Things that occupied the time and filled up the hollow places in a life that had been, suddenly, very empty indeed.

She directed a glare over her shoulder. "Why _are_ you lurking behind me, anyway? Looming over me? Trying to startle a confession out of the suspect?"

He put his hands on her shoulders, and Agnes jumped a little. Gavius leaned down, and said, in some exasperation, "It's been a month, and I _still_ have no idea how to tell if you're accepting or declining the courtship offerings."

Agnes held absolutely still. "Oh." She could hear Takeshi clattering toys in and out of his toy box in the other room. Everything seemed very still for a moment.

They'd transferred the huge, horribly-named flower to Allardus' greenhouse, and the younger turian had, clearly, been almost as amused as Garrus had been. As her son and granddaughter had been. Agnes had done her level best not to flush, but, damnit, there was only so much she could do to pretend not to understand the Latin. She had been, after all, a lab tech for forty years. A certain amount of Latin _will_ rub off on a _stone_ in that amount of time. The thing hadn't bloomed yet, and might never do so; they were finicky flowers, and Agnes had actually sent a message to the Houston Museum of Natural History's butterfly center, inquiring how they'd gotten theirs to bloom, decade by decade. No answer yet, but she and Gavius had, once a week, met for lunch and to discuss the on-going problem of keeping the damned thing alive and healthy. And Gavius had been meticulous about bringing _proper_ flowers to her, once a week, as well. She could set her _watch_ by it.

Agnes cleared her throat. "I, well. . . I don't know what to do." She could feel the flush rising along her cheeks. At least it was easier without _looking_ at him. He was a _turian_ for heaven's sake. She'd been twenty-nine when the First Contact War had happened. Sam had been in first grade, and she'd raced to the school to pick him up and get him home, to safety, in case the _alien invaders_ targeted Earth next, instead of just Shanxi. Six months of stomach-tightening fear, hearing the news reports of the scaled aliens' ferocity . . . and now one of them had his hands on her shoulders. She could feel the talons against her skin. But at the same time, this was Gavius, the grumpy sot who liked gardening as much as she did. Who'd come over to get her when he'd found a bird's nest down under his villa's tree. Palaven didn't really have avians. Winged lizards, yes. Actual avians? No. And they'd put the nest back up in the tree, watched by the anxious parent birds, who'd chittered and fluttered around the nest in agitation until the bipeds retreated again.

"Well, that makes two of us," Gavius grumbled. "I suspect my first-son is the one who sent me the anonymous but _oh-so-helpful_ vids on human mating practices. . . "

Agnes choked. Gavius snickered. "I didn't get very far into it." He exhaled, and leaned down. "If you were turian, there are things I would say, and what you'd say in return would tell me a good deal."

"Such as?" Agnes kept her eyes fixed on the door into Takeshi's room.

"For instance, that your smell is very pleasant. Which it is."

"Don't sound so surprised." Prickly retort, almost instant.

"I wouldn't have thought it possible a few years ago."

"What other things would you say?"

"That you use command-peremptory voice very well. I found it delightful when you started ordering your grandson, the rachni, and me around."

Agnes _laughed_. She couldn't help it.

"Very helpful." Gavius sounded disgruntled. "How am I supposed to know if that's a good response or a bad response?" His hands stayed in place on her shoulders, however.

"Say it's a good one," Agnes said, still chuckling under her breath. "How would a turian female respond?"

"Probably order me to do something, especially with as _blatant_ an attempt at flirtation as that." Gavius sounded annoyed.

Agnes looked up. "Like what? 'Kiss me, you fool?'"

She'd caught him exactly at the moment when his expression went from disgruntled to confused. "Yes. . . this whole. . . kissing thing. That was covered in the vid, but I just couldn't. . . "

"Watch?"

"Take it all that seriously."

Agnes snorted. "And what _do_ turians do instead? Growl at each other?"

"Sometimes." Gavius leaned down and, very gently, bit the exposed side of her neck. _Oh. Oh, my stars._ He pulled back, and cautiously examined her face. "Well, you haven't actually slapped me, yet," he noted. "You know, I'm not actually in C-Sec anymore. I'm _retired_. No more late nights and long shifts."

_And now that you don't have work to occupy the time, you see how damned empty the house is_, she thought, and turned in her chair. "Bored? Lonely?"

"Quite a bit less when you're arguing with me." Gavius dropped down to his knees, so they were at eye-level.

"And yet, you can't take kissing seriously."

"It doesn't look all that impressive on the vids. Like biting, but less—"

Agnes leaned forward and, somewhat hesitantly, pressed her lips to his lip-plates. So _very_ odd. She hadn't kissed anyone on the lips in fifteen years. No one but her husband for over twenty-five years before that. . . or her son, when he was little. And Gavius was _alien_. Startlingly so. No lips, no soft yielding there. Slight roughness of scales. . . just a little like Alex's beard had been. And his eyes were _very_ startled, looking down into hers. After a moment, Agnes leaned back, and they looked at each other. "So?" she asked, lifting her chin. "Still can't take it seriously?"

"It's. . . different." Gavius cleared his throat. "So. . . now what?"

That, Agnes decided, was a really good question.

*** Author's note: **_Squee's name is courtesy of Natrim, who won the right to name a worker by virtue of valor beyond the call of duty. He said that the name was a reference; I personally thought that 'Squee' was merely a generic interrawebs cry of joy, but apparently, people who __get__ the reference, also get a cookie. And Myetel. . . does not get a cookie. *sigh*_

**Dempsey, Terra Nova, November 27, 2196**

_**Author's note:** A thank-you to JD and others for recommending some Two Steps from Hell music that got me inspired to write these scenes.. And now. . . in this corner. . .wearing the white and black trunks, and weighing in at 230 lbs. . . . Jaaaames Allen DEMPSEY!_

The intolerable sight of Petrovic's face, the memories it brought flooding back, the _anger_, and then this _thing_, wearing his face, racing out of the darkness around him—there was one tiny thread of thought: _This is what they wanted to turn me into. This is what they almost made me. A machine. A thing._

And then there was absolutely no thought at all, and Dempsey turned towards this. . . mockery of himself. . . pulling up his shields, reflexively, and lowering his submachine gun. Aimed. Fired.

The civilians shouted and scattered, ducking and covering their heads, and Dempsey kept walking forward, firing. The impacts were scoring the outer gray skin, but what was underneath was black as the starless void between stars, and the bullets were _bouncing_ off of it. The force of the bullets pushed the thing back several feet. Then it lifted its head, and the white-glowing eyes regarded him for a moment, and a geth shield flared to life over its body. "Protection protocols engaged," it said, quietly, in an eerie parody of his own voice, and it lifted one hand, palm out. There was a gleaming red port there, and Dempsey stared at it for a moment, before his reflexes kicked in and he started to throw himself out of the way—just as a ball of fire emerged and flew towards him. He hit the deck and rolled, trying to avoid contact, but he swore he saw the fireball _track_ him, home in on him, and then it slammed into his shields, blistering through the first layer.

In a flash, Dempsey was back on his feet, and he was barely conscious of people around him, still scattering, still running. Sidonis and Velnaran, shouting at him. He heard the words, but they were leaves scattered through his fragmented consciousness—_What the __futar__ is that thing?_

_Dempsey, goddamn it, work with us, I've got a headshot lined up—_

He couldn't stay still and let it just attack him again. He had to stay moving. Biotic throw, heaving it free of the ground, but even as it flipped in the air, the glowing eyes never left his face, and it spun around, tracking him, and twin guns popped out of housings in the gray arms, and a stream of bullets fired at him, even as the thing hit the far wall. Dempsey _ran_. ducked, rolled behind cover—the room had damned little of it. Part of his mind was, in a very detached way, pointing things out to him. _Rate of fire on those guns was variable. Different number of impacts on the shields. Also, threw off its rotation in the air; one side was propelled back further by the recoil than the other. Whatever this __thing__ is, it's not finished yet. They haven't perfected the technology. Otherwise, it would be firing at the same rate from both guns, even if the rate of fire is variable._

Another cool, analytical voice in his head pointed out, as he looked down at his body, where the bullets had shredded the second layer of shields, but had impacted, uselessly, on his armor, _That's a geth pulse rifle, or an adaptation of one._ Dempsey's head jerked up, assessing the situation. Less than two seconds had gone by since he'd ducked into cover. Velnaran's was firing relentlessly on the _thing_ now. Thell was trying to get the civilians to take cover behind his massive body, and had his arc projector out, and Sidonis was firing rounds from his rifle. Double-tap headshots, in fact. Impressive accuracy. . . and yet, in between bursts from Velnaran's assault rifle, the damned thing stood up from where it leaned against the wall, and Dempsey could see that the gray skin was _mending_ itself now. Pulling itself back together over the impact marks on the face, which had revealed the night-black material underneath.

Thelldaroon's voice now, a dark rumble inside of Dempsey's helmet. "Carbon nanotubule mesh underlying the skin. Conventional bullets will be useless—"

Eli, shouting, "Fors, have you got anything that will work on this piece of shit?"

Fors now, sounding slightly panicked, "Nothing I've got will work on him for long. I can try to keep him in the air with Dempsey—"

"Nevermind, protect the civilians!"

The blue-white gleam of a geth shield sealed itself around the body again, just as Dempsey wrapped himself in biotic power once more. . . but this time, the damned thing turned and _charged_ at Velnaran, with the blinding speed of a vanguard, but with no sense of biotic power to it at all. It hit the turian, and Velnaran, who'd seen the charge coming, let himself fall, rolled with it, came back up again, and then they were kicking and punching, and _goddamn, it's fighting the way I fight, it's boxing him, and that was a tae kwon do kick. . ._ and the hell of it was, those punches and kicks seemed to pack a lot more power than Dempsey himself had. Velnaran's visor cracked at one of the hits, and it took a _hell_ of a lot of force to break plasteel. . . .

The thoughts were dim as Dempsey ran across the room, and again _threw_ the creature away biotically, but he hesitated. Firing his submachine gun hadn't done a damn thing before—

And then Sidonis was in the mix, bringing his vibrosword into play. He'd clearly seen that bullets weren't doing a damned thing. _Yeah, kill the fucking thing, get it while it's down_. . . except it wasn't really down, just knocked back for a moment. Sidonis came in from the side and swept the blade, a slash that would have decapitated any normal opponent. . . and the blade cut in a ways, certainly. . . but otherwise had no effect.

He could hear Sidonis curse and try to saw the blade in deeper, and then the thing came off the wall and blasted Sidonis with one of those fireball shots before advancing on the man and pouring bullets at him, point-blank, from one of the arm-mounted guns. "No!" Dempsey shouted, and then he and Velnaran _both_ hit the damned thing at a full run.

Scrum of arms and legs, trying to do something, _anything_. Combat on the most visceral level, and neither one of them were strong enough to hold the goddamned thing down for long. "Sidonis, have you got shackles with you?" The first words he'd spoken in five very long damned minutes, and they were distant, buoyed somewhere over the anger

"I don't think those will hold him! They damned near didn't hold _you_ on the Citadel!"

And that brought back memories. Memories of preparing for the attempt to awaken the Keepers. _Two in the head, man._

_It'll take more than that._ Doctor Jaworski.

_What?_

_Molecular diamond against carbon nanotubules. I know it the knife can cut through hard suits, but I don't think it'll cut through this. You can try, though._

_What will cut through it?_ Sidonis.

_Mining lasers. Those will melt the carbon._ The doc again, grim-faced.

_A Collector beam weapon will be at your disposal, Eli. . ._ that had been Shepard.

"Sidonis, man, tell me you're carrying a Collector beam weapon today!" The usual lack of affect was gone, swept away by the anger seething inside of him.

Their thoughts had, apparently, been walking together in lock-step down those old memories. Because Sidonis _had_ been expecting to fight yahg today, and _everyone_ had loaded out with heavy weapons, including people who usually wouldn't do so. Velnaran preferred arc projectors or grenade launchers, but Sidonis carried that beam weapon when he _had_ to do so. Dempsey rolled away, shouting to Velnaran, "Get out of the way, move!" and Sidonis pulled the beam weapon off his shoulder and fired, a yellow line of light racing through the room and hitting the damned thing.

"It's working!" Dempsey shouted in relief, seeing the hole burn through the thing's defenses.

"No!" Petrovic shouted, coming out from behind Thelldaroon and slamming into Sidonis. The unexpected attack knocked the man to the side, and that gave the damned creature a chance to recover. "Don't you understand, he's the only reason why the batarians have kept us alive! They see his _potential_. Surely, you must see it, too—"

"What I see is someone attacking us!" Sidonis shouted back, and gave in and slammed an elbow into the doctor's face to try to knock the man away from him.

The mech, or whatever the _hell_ it was, opened fire on Sidonis, clearly now registering him as the real threat; the only person in the room currently packing a weapon that could damage it severely. A fireball from the palm, which homed in on the cop, and then, as Petrovic reeled away from the impact of Sidonis' elbow to his nose, the damned thing opened up with both forearm guns again, tearing instantly through the kinetic shields—Sidonis had had to drop his hard shield to use the sniper rifle and the beam weapon.

Velnaran swore and tackled the thing again, bullets flying wildly, as Sidonis hit the ground, knocked back and over by the stream of bullets. Dempsey didn't have time to check on him, though a distant part of his mind would have _killed_ to have Doc Jaworski on the ground with them right now. Petrovic's words had opened a space in his mind in which he could _think_ for a moment. "Thell!" Dempsey shouted. "Hack it!"

Dempsey was already following his own orders. He unleashed an overload from his omnitool, hoping to overwhelm some of the machine's systems, and then opened his chip completely. It hurt. It _always_ fucking hurt, and never more than when he'd just been using his biotics. He hadn't used the damned thing for more than an overload here or there since Mindoir, since the candidacy trials, when they'd had him out and hacking turrets and decrypting gates during the Mako run.

He could see that it was still fighting Rel, but it stiffened when Thell's hacking attempt hit its firewalls. . . and Dempsey's hit in its wake. Thell was the premiere AI specialist of the Spectres. He'd created mental programming blocks that allowed Pelagia to function on Omega, that allowed her to recall the events of the _Kharkov's_ crash without reliving it, without suffering cascade failures or endless cyclical loops. He'd spent six years studying NCAIs in intimate detail. And it showed in his programming. The firewalls of every NCAI were partially based on Reaper technology, and _so were these_. . . and Thell was still brushing through them, rapid-fire. Dempsey followed in his path, and everywhere that the machine managed to block Thell, Dempsey's hacking attempts broke through instead. For him, this had ceased to be machine language. It was something visualized in his head, as a maze, constantly moving maze, with walls of metal or light, sliding on rails in the ground, over his head, under his feet—always three or four layers of them, moving as fast as protons circling their atom's core, a blur of speed . . . but there were gaps, gaps where Thelldaroon had burrowed through, or, in some cases, had simply burned his way through. . . _there. There's the central processing core._

"There are memory blocks!" Thelldaroon's calm voice actually carried a note of. . . anger? "This is _my_ programming. These are the same type of memory blocks that I used to help Pelagia recover from her post-traumatic stress."

_Can a machine really suffer from that?_ Dempsey wondered, in passing, but there wasn't time to get into that whole can of worms. "Remove them! Anything that gets us in!"

"No!" Petrovic staggered up from where Sidonis had slammed him. "You can't! James isn't ready—the batarians have been trying to reprogram him. The conflict will destroy him!"

The machine on the floor was still grappling with Velnaran. The trouble was, as the turian was undoubtedly finding, was that most grappling moves were designed to cut off air supply, blood supply, cause pain, cause someone to pass out or submit—and none of that worked on the machine. . . . but everything _it_ did, could cause Velnaran pain. "Running out of ways to occupy it!" Velnaran called, and managed to unlatch a gray arm from around his throat. "Whatever you're going to do, do it!"

Sidonis staggered back to his own feet now. He was bleeding, but he had his beam weapon in his hands. "Rel, hold the goddamned thing still, and I'll end this—"

"Can't, just take the spirits-be-damned shot—"

"I'll hit you!"

"Thell, open the damned memory blocks, and that should get me in!" Dempsey's voice was a roar that carried over everything else.

Thell obeyed. "Removing memory blocks!"

Dempsey continued his own hacking attempts, and suddenly. . . the world went strange on him. Memories, flooding past him, reading them in machine-code, but _seeing_ them at the same time. And through it all, pain. Pain from the chip, which he gritted his teeth and tried to master. . . .

_Himself, but not himself. There were two of him. He was Dempsey, but he was also James. James had awoken in the laboratory nine months ago. He didn't know how he knew that, but he knew how much time passed, by some internal chronometer. He knew his name: James Allen Dempsey. He knew he was the Argent Defender. He understood what that meant: protect humanity from all attackers. He knew that he was human. Except. . . he didn't remember anything else. He looked down at his arms, and saw that they were gray. "We'll give you synthetic skin soon enough," Dr. Petrovic had promised, smiling. "Even hair. We don't want people to be afraid of you."_

"_Why don't I remember anything before waking up here?" There was. . . curiosity. The first glimmerings of emotion. Concern._

"_Because the first time we woke you up, we allowed you limited access to your memories, and that proved somewhat problematic. You had emotional reactions that were unhelpful. Unnuanced. When time permits, we'll work with you on the memories. See which can be allowed back, and in what order."_

_This had bothered him, but there was very little emotion. He did, however, perceive that lack of information could be a bad thing. Still, he knew, somehow, that he'd volunteered for this process—_

_No, I volunteered for the Argent Defender project! You're . . . you're a machine. . . you're what they wanted to turn me into!_

And then the memories boiled loose. Nothing from _before_ AD had begun; the memories all began with being chipped, the pain of the process, and the construct wavered. It hadn't experienced pain before; damage, yes, awareness of damage, but never _pain_ . . . _no, wait, it __had__. The first awakening, with all the memories intact, waking up, seeing Petrovic's face, and reaching, instantly, for his throat—except there were no arms attached yet—looking down at his torso, seeing the wires and the chips and screaming, __What am I, what the fuck have you done to me?__ and then blackness, dissolution, and then waking up again, this time with the memories blocked. Obedient and calm. . . no memories of home, no memories of Amy, no memories of Madison, no memories of the service, no memories of N7, no memories at all, and memories were what made a person a person, shaped them, defined them. . . NCAIs 'woke up' with base personalities, sure, derived from their 'parents,' but their subsequent experiences shaped them, just like a human kid, and this was an NCAI. An NCAI derived from his brain, the template of it, garnered over the six months of the AD 1.0 project, and it was __angry__ now, it had the memories of the pain back, and nothing to balance them with, and there was batarian programming in there, trying to twist the basic tenets: Protect humanity, protect yourself. If humans attack you, you are permitted to defend yourself, but not at the expense of civilians. . . __That__ hadn't come from the programming. That was __him__. They hadn't been able to erase the base personality. Not Petrovic, and not the batarians. Petrovic had tried to install obedience ligatures based on Asimov's three laws, to no avail; he'd added conditionals to try to ensure that James would attack aliens in preference to human targets, which hadn't worked, either. Field trials, with. . . captured batarians? Oh, the Alliance government was going to be up in arms over this, as would be the Council. . . ._

_When SIU and the yahg had arrived, the batarians had tried to alter the programming. They could fiddle with Petrovic's obedience ligatures all day. . . but they couldn't affect the base personality at all. But they hadn't dared to remove the memory blocks, as he and Thell had done, and now the thing was screaming, screaming for blood, silently, for the head of Petrovic, and Dempsey couldn't blame the AI a damned bit; he wanted the same thing. Training and instinct told him one thing: AIs were dangerous. An unstable one like this needed to be destroyed._

_But he also couldn't just leave it like this, howling for blood and in pain, unbalanced. It was. . . too much like him, a year and more ago. Before the Spectres had pulled him out of hell. Before Shepard had decided that she owed her life to what he'd endured, what Cerberus had learned from him. Before Zhasa had entered his life, with her quirky charm and stubborn refusal to allow him to curl in on himself. Before the doctor and the cop had treated him like a person and a teammate on Khar'sharn. Before Madison had been returned to him. . . the struggle to find the father in himself again, to reach out to a boy that he remembered as a toddler, but who was a person, a son much in need of guidance and support and love that he could barely feel without Zhasa's help. . . before the Keepers' revival. . . before finding love with Zhasa, his own, not just a reflection of hers. . . As each set of memories cued up in his mind, Dempsey could feel the NCAI, like a starving man, turning and latching onto them. Making copies, downloading them, absorbing the information. This is who I am?_

_No! That's who **I** am, you're your own person—_

_Or am I a thing, a monster, a creature, a machine—_

_If you are, so am I._

_Is that a logical conclusion? _

Dempsey exhaled, feeling the download/upload continue. The chip architecture had actually held onto a hell of a lot of the Keeper data, apparently. He opened his eyes. James. . . for lack of a better term. . . had stopped fighting. Was kneeling on the floor, gleaming white eyes on the floor. Dempsey's head throbbed like an abscessed tooth. James looked up and met his eyes. "Father?" the AI inside the metal body whispered.

"Correct," Thelldaroon rumbled. "Filial loyalty subroutines were dormant, but now are active." The elcor sounded relieved, actually. "I am reading massive exchanges of information still on-going."

"Yes," Dempsey said, his voice empty. _Will you be __more__ capable of emotion when this is done, than I am? Will you love Zhasa the way I do? Only. . . more fully? Not just a whisper of emotion, when she's not linked? Will you actually be who I'm supposed to be, and not just a ghost of myself?_

Petrovic was muttering in Croatian or something like that under his breath, clearly agitated. "No, no, no," he finally said, rubbing a hand over his thinning hair. "You can't _do_ that. This is my project. I've spent ten years of my life—"

_Wrong damned words_. Dempsey's head swiveled, and the blinding pain in his head made the world go away again for a moment. The next thing he knew, Sidonis and Velnaran each had one of his arms, and were holding him back from Petrovic—but James had beaten him there. The gray shape had Petrovic by the throat at the moment, in an uncanny reflection of events ten years gone; he was holding the scientist off the floor, and the emotionless, glowing eyes were on the man's face. "You stole ten years of _his_ life," James told the scientist. "You stole his mind, his sanity, his soul. And then you made me in his image. I didn't _ask_ for this. He didn't ask for this. Go to hell."

"We might need him!" Sidonis rapped out, grimly.

"_Why_?" James asked, the scientist choking slowly between his fingers.

Although the same question had been on Dempsey's lips, he actually came up with the answer, though he hated it. "He's former Cerberus. He probably knows where the last of their bases are. Where his former colleagues, the ones we haven't ripped up by the roots already, anyway, are hiding." Oh, he wouldn't mind watching Petrovic die. Not even the least bit. In a way, it would even be by his own hands. _But can James do it? Are the obedience ligatures that Petrovic put in him going to hold, prevent him from taking a human life?_

_Then again, those aren't natural to him. To me. He knows, just like I do, that sometimes, you have to do that. When it's the enemy. And Petrovic is the enemy._ "Non-combatant, James," Dempsey reminded the AI. "We don't do that. No matter _how_ much we want to."

The gray fingers opened, and Petrovic, gasping, dropped to the ground, clutching his throat. The tissues around his vocal cords would probably swell up inside of twenty minutes. He might even need a tracheotomy to breathe, depending on how much damage James had done before releasing him. Dempsey's thoughts were calm and cold now, over the seething white mass of pain and rage in his mind. "Where are the batarians and the yahg leader now?" he asked his twin, his 'son.'

"They're in the bunkers below this facility," James replied, calmly, turning away from Petrovic as if the man no longer existed. His head tipped slightly. . . no, _exactly_ like a geth's. "The batarian lead scientist, Yilar M'nav, believed that his modifications to my programming had been successful. He released me and ordered me to protect the facility. Some of that directive was successful." There was a pause. "Self-diagnostic completed. Batarian code has been quarantined and the files are being purged."

Velnaran and Sidonis slowly released Dempsey's arms. "The yahg leader won't be downstairs," Velnaran said, his voice assured. Dempsey turned, and realized that while the voice was calm, the blue eyes were _alight_. Velnaran had scented his prey, apparently. "He hasn't yet gone to ground yet, in any of this. He likes to keep moving. He'll be outside the facility. _Watching_. Waiting to see what we do, and ready to respond to it."

James nodded, one quick motion. "I do not know where the yahg leader is, but your supposition seems correct. He was not in the underground complex. Yilar M'nav and his men were, along with five yahg." He paused. "Their alliance seems a little strained."

Sidonis' dark eyes flicked between them. "Rel. . . take Fors, Makur, and—damn. We're running low on Spectres."

"Go with him," Dempsey said, grimly. "I'll take Thell and. . . myself, apparently. We'll head down into the bunkers."

Sidonis shook his head. "They could have stasis guns—"

"Those will not work on me," James said, softly, but with total assurance.

Velnaran's mandibles flexed. "You _trust_ it?" He jerked his head at James., giving Dempsey a dubious look.

"Yeah. I do. I have to." _Because he's me._ "Go get that damned yahg leader. And neither of you get too damned banged up." Dempsey was about to add, _Because if you do, Doc Jaworski will skin one or both of you alive_, but in this room, after the horrors of the corpses hanging on hooks. . . he couldn't quite say the words. "Go."

"Take Scratch with you." Sidonis' voice brooked no arguments, and to Dempsey's surprise, the male's eyes went black as he looked down, in concentration, at the little rachni that had been tagging at his heels all day. He exhaled explosively, and the little creatures chittered up at him. "Best I can do to relay the message. And. . . one more item. . . ." Sidonis, eyes still black, stepped over to Petrovic, who flinched away from the human's expression as the man got out two sets of cuffs from a belt hook. One for the hands. One for the feet. "You're not going _anywhere_, doctor," Sidonis told him.

Siara had just entered, Makur and the snow leopard at her heels, and looked around. "What in Vaul's name—"

"Nisha's on the floor. Get her back on her feet. Get the scientists out of here, as fast as you can," Sidonis told her, fast, and then hopped on his radio. "Central building secured except for bunker. Argent's taking Fors and one of the former prisoners down into the bunkers. Rel, Makur, and I are going after the yahg leader. Will keep you apprised."

They left, but Livanus, Lantar, and Gris, followed by Scratch, the brood-warrior they all had worked with since the drop here, made it into the room before Dempsey, Thell, and his doppelganger could head for the bunker. "I'll stay here and help Siara," Livanus said, nodding. "Lantar—"

"I'm with Rel and Eli. Gris, go with Dempsey!" Lantar hit the door of the room at a run.

**Elijah, Terra Nova, November 27, 2196**

The medigel had kicked in, at least, administered by his suit. But there were impact points along his chest, shoulders, and arms that told him that the last barrage of bullets from . . . _James_' . . . arm-guns had done more than penetrate his shields; they'd finally burned through his armor, too. Probably because he'd been at such damned close range. Eli had a bad feeling that some of the wounds had, after bleeding freely, been sealed over by the medigel, with the bullets still inside. They weren't deep, but he could _feel_ them, tugging at the muscles, a grinding sort of pain, with every movement. He'd picked up his shield on the way out of the room, and now asked Rel, over the radio, "You okay?"

"Everything's healing. You?"

"The same. Can't say as much for the armor." There were holes. Weak points. "Sam has yet to kill me for getting his old armor dinged up, but this is the worst it's ever looked." _And Dara's going to take one look at the healing wounds, and probably beat on me. Before or after using the dermal regeneration unit on me, is an open question._

_Assuming I survive the next hour or so, that is._

"I'm just glad he overlooked me as a target," Fors muttered. "Are we _sure_ it's wise to leave that thing with Dempsey?"

They were almost out of the building, and Makur had picked up Fors and hefted the volus to one shoulder to make better time. Eli kicked the door open, looked around for targets, and replied, "He only seemed to target people who attacked _him_. If I'd been thinking, and not just reacting, I would have seen that." _Should have seen it_, he told himself, in irritation.

"Focus," Rel told them all. The sun was high in the morning sky now, and painfully bright. Liquid-gold, bleaching color from the sky, and draining color from the lifeless landscape. "Get your face-shields down. The light's blinding." Rel's mask was cracked, so he was going to have to hope that he didn't catch any bullets. . . and that the yahg weren't using any chemical agents that he'd rather not breathe. Eli nodded and brought his own extra polarized shield down over his existing mask, which mercifully dimmed the light.

At that moment, Lantar caught up with them, and Eli exhaled in relief. Lantar was carrying an M-490 Blackstorm, colloquially known as the black hole gun. It would surely put a dent in any yahg. "Where do you think the yahg leader's hiding?" Lantar asked Rel, looking around at the mountainous region around the base; the west side of the base actually backed onto another two-hundred foot cliff-side, largely vertical in its incline.

"He's going to want a good view," Rel muttered, head turning. "But not so far away that he can't intervene if he thinks it's to his advantage. Probably withdrew when we first attacked. . . ."

"We hit the north gate first," Eli muttered. "South, then?"

Rel's head turned again, and he nodded, not pointing. "Yes. There, probably. Do you see the cut-out?" He was indicating a vantage slightly to the west of the road south out of the base; the road actually curved southeast, winding around the outside of the mountain as it inclined down; the vantage was a slightly level cut out of the side of the mountain west of that, and about a hundred feet higher in elevation; it certainly was higher than the scrubby trees that clung to the mountain here and there. Dubious cover, at best.

Eli squinted. At this range, over a quarter of a mile, he couldn't see if anyone was up there. Not for the first time, he really wished he'd opted for Dara's micro/macro vision mod. _Of course, if I hadn't done that, I wouldn't have the agility mod, and god knows, that's been handy._ About the best he could do was lift his sniper rifle and sweep the entire southern half of the base with the scope, not lingering on that cut-out, in case anyone _was_ up there, observing them. "Well?" Rel asked, after a moment.

"Give me a moment. . . yeah. I think so," Eli said, slowly. "There's at least one shimmer up there. If there are more, they're not moving. Movement usually lets me detect the stealth nets more easily." He swept the south again. "They could have already moved down into the trees to catch us with our guard down, maybe?"

"Possible," Lantar said, grimly. "Probably won't be a big, group, however. What's their move, Rel, Makur?"

"Retreat," Makur said, after a moment, and Rel nodded.

"The leader will want to stay alive, stay mobile. Get in touch with his other groups," Rel said, and Eli noticed a shudder go through that tall frame. _Like a dog on a leash, straining at it._ "He's probably close to moving away, and calling this one a loss, but getting ready to move to a fallback position. He's been _smart_ so far. But if we can get him, we might throw the yahg for this whole region into chaos, just like on Shanxi." Rel's voice was tight. "But I think we need to move _now_."

Fors snuffled. "How do we get up there without being attacked, pelted with fire from above?" the volus asked, practically.

"Gunships," Rel said, immediately. "Pin the yahg down using those, while we make the climb in a Hammerhead. Safer for us than climbing on foot, anyway."

Eli was just glad that Lantar was along to give the plan a double-check. It _sounded_ good, but Eli didn't have enough combat experience to judge that entirely. Makur had wilderness survival and urban combat on Omega under his belt, but not the type of fighting they were doing here. And Rel. . . Rel clearly smelled his prey, and would probably stop at nothing to get him. _Is killing this yahg leader going to make any difference to the one that bit the living shit out of you on Shanxi? Or is this even what it's about?_ Eli had a feeling that wasn't _quite_ it. But he didn't really know what motivated Rel at the moment, besides a desire to prove himself. They'd attained a precarious equilibrium in the last six or seven weeks, but there'd still been damned few words exchanged.

They piled into the Hammerhead, Lantar taking the controls, and the gunships flew in ahead of them, laying down fire. "_We're taking return fire,"_ a turian female voice reported over the radio.

Rel's head came up. Eli's eyebrows arched. "Kassa Vilinus?" he asked. It hadn't escaped him that Rel had been friendly towards the female, but nothing more, for the entirety of their mission so far.

"Yeah. Here's hoping I don't get her knocked out of the sky again like the _last_ time we went after a yahg leader," Rel muttered. "I don't think anyone can be that lucky again."

"Return fire, but if they even _look_ like they're reaching for a missile launcher, move," Lantar replied over the radio. "We're almost there."

Jump by precarious jump, delicately balancing on a boulder that shouldn't have held them for longer than a moment or two, sticking out of the khaki, banded surface of the rock wall, and then finally, launching up and landing on the rim of the outcropping. Eli moved to the window and stared out. _Shit._ "Nemesis, turret gun would be a _really_ good idea. . . hell, get the gunships to fire missiles and let us just drop back down," he said, sharply. There were a _hell_ of a lot of shimmers up here.

"We have to _know_ if we're getting the leader," Rel told him.

"Does he wear a damned crown?" Eli asked, and there was a _slam_ against the hatch, and Fors leaped away from the door, and Snowflake turned his head to snarl at the door.

"No, but the last yahg leader I saw was twelve feet tall. Hell of a lot stronger and smarter than the ones around him," Rel retorted, snapping a fresh thermal clip into his assault rifle, just as Lantar keyed up the turret gun to fire from his HUD. He looked at Makur. "Tell the cat to stay in here. He won't be able to do anything against them."

"I'm telling him. Vaul only knows if he'll listen." Makur's eyes were alight. "You've had more experience fighting them, turian, but let me take the brunt of the attack."

Rel's eyes flicked over, and Eli nodded emphatically. "You haven't seen his shields in full use," Eli said, quickly. "Fors, get behind Makur and stay there."

"Not a problem," the volus said, tightly, and the Hammerhead _swayed_ as another impact hit the side of the vehicle. "Gods of the deeps. Are they trying to push us over the edge?"

"Yes," Lantar said, and fired another barrage from the turret, while the gunships again sprayed the ledge. "Now! While they're still in cover! Go!" He spun the Hammerhead around, and Eli could _feel_ how sluggish the response time was, probably due to having one or two eight-hundred pound yahg attached to the sides. . . and then the rear hatch was presented to the ledge, the door slid open, and, his heart pounding, Eli followed Makur and Rel out of the vehicle. His shield was slung over his back, discarded for the moment in favor of the Collector beam weapon. Rel had his assault rifle ready, and Makur had, with grim relish, opted for a rarely-used flamethrower today.

Makur _knew_ where the targets were, in the same uncanny way that a rachni would have been able to tell, and, before Eli could even tell him that there were shimmers to their left, turned and opened fire on the concealed attackers there, who'd been spun around by the Hammerhead's yaw. The red-orange flames exploded outwards, sizzling through shields, and Makur snarled words in guttural krogan, before adding, "Too bad we didn't find any phosphorous today, eh, human?"

Two huge figures there were outlined in flame, and Rel, to Makur's left, turned and fired on them, point-blank. Eli couldn't focus fire with them, though. He had too clear an idea of the _others_ on the damned ledge. "Nemesis! Fire dead ahead, near the rock wall, seven o'clock!" He hoped he'd been damned well clear enough; the cutout was a rough half-circle in shape, and they'd landed at the eastern edge, or the three o'clock position; at the seven section of the dial, he could see two massive forms. . . one of which wasn't currently stealthed, which was a wonder that Eli was not going to squander. But between him and those two figures, were a hell of a lot of yahg. Including one dead ahead of him, and he opened fire with his beam weapon, sending yellow fire lancing across the ledge at it. "Fors! Stasis field to our right, nine o'clock!"

The tiny volus lifted his hands, and grunted a little. "How. . . many. . . are there. . . ?" he asked, after a moment.

"Three!"

"You're a son of a bitch, my human-turian friend." Fors was shaking beside him. "I. . . can't. . . hold them. . . ."

"Just slow them down!"

A shockwave erupted through the ground and Eli fell backwards, the beam of his weapon slicing through the exposed cliff-face above his target, instead. _Shit!_

"They've got a biotic!" Makur roared, and turned his flamethrower on the yahg whose shields Eli's beam weapon had torn apart, even as it advanced on them.

The three yahg Fors was attempting to hold in place all flared into visibility. . . ponderously reaching for their weapons. Sniper rifles—huge, suited to their massive hands and frames. Raised them. Started, slowly, so slowly, to open fire—

Eli scrambled back to his feet, sliding his shield off his back and ducking down behind it, feeling the impact of bullets against it, shielding Fors with his body. "Makur!"

"On it." It was a snarl. Peeking up, Eli could understand why. Bullets were dropping to the ground at Makur's feet, their inertia deadened by the massive biotic shields the krogan could project, but it was like a fall of silver rain. The effort it must be costing the krogan not to run after his enemies had to be incredible—but then, Makur didn't really need to run to his enemies. The krogan shouted, _"Vaul take you to the underworld!_" and made a shoving gesture, as if pushing an enemy back with the barrel of his flamethrower, and the closest yahg howled as it skidded back off the edge of the cliff. "Your turn, volus!"

Fors peered around Makur's meaty leg, but at that moment, one of the yahg moved in to their left, and Eli shouted, "Rel! Watch yourself!" just as claws came down to close on the turian's left arm, shaking the turian furiously. Rel scrambled, trying to make sure that the creature couldn't get a lock on him with its second arm, or with its teeth. "Fors! _That one_!"

"I get the picture," Fors snapped, and groaned in effort as a singularity coalesced near the yahg's head and lifted it completely off the ground. The volus made a torquing gesture, and set the lightly glowing sphere rotating, whipping the yahg in a vicious circle.

"You couldn't have used that on the geth-Dempsey thing?" Rel asked, sounding winded. Eli risked a glance over, and could see that Rel was favoring his left arm for the moment.

"It was already firing on us while suspended in mid-air," Fors snapped. "I didn't really want to see how good its aim was while spinning, or if it would just fire wildly, maybe hitting the civilians."

The Hammerhead was firing in steady bursts at the six remaining yahg on the ground, but they'd all dropped to defensive positions. "Gunships, take another pass," Rel ordered over the radio, which at least got them another burst of gunfire from the south. . . followed up by another shockwave, which sent Eli, Fors, and Rel all flying to the ground this time. And whenever there was a break in fire from the Hammerhead or the gunships, the yahg would flicker out of stealth to return fire. Bullets were slamming into Eli's shield, and he was frankly concerned that they'd tear right through it at the rate things were going. It could only take _so_ many impacts before it would disintegrate, same as a hard suit.

"I need a target," Rel said, grimly. The yahg had just re-stealthed, and Eli could see them moving, trying to get to fresh cover while the gunships came in for another pass.

"There," Eli shouted, and, since he had his shield on his right arm, trying to protect himself and Fors, drew his Beretta left-handed and fired, sending the shields of a hunter there up in blue flickers. Rel took immediate advantage, firing his assault rifle, and Makur, again, perfectly able to sense the direction of hostility, grunted and lifted another yahg clear off the ground ahead of them.

"Hit it, volus," Makur ordered, and Fors, snuffling, did exactly that. Eli supposed that the volus was probably aiming for the center of Makur's biotic energies; the yahg was still cloaked, though up twenty feet in the air. Fors' biotic attack propelled the already-lifted creature over the side, following one of its compatriots.

A snarl from one of the four remaining yahg, and Makur was thrown backwards, hard, by something invisible—and in being bowled over backwards, his feet clipped Fors in the helmet, knocking the volus down, too. A rapid beeping sound emitted from the volus' suit. "Suit breach!" Fors shouted, as close to panic as Eli had ever heard the volus.

_Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit,_ Eli thought. It was practically a mantra at this point. Makur was somewhere in the depths of the Hammerhead, trying to get back on his feet, and Fors, well, Fors was very likely to explode in the next minute or so, if his suit wasn't sealed up airtight again. "Rel!" Eli cringed inwardly, and turned his back to the yahg, slinging his shield over his back to protect himself from incoming fire, and got a hand on Fors' suit. "Where's the leak, where's the leak—" One hand found the broken seal, and he clamped down on it, hard, even as he felt bullets impacting against his back. _Son of a bitch, we're all going to die here_—

_Calm down. One thing at a time._ The voice was in his mind, and he recognized it as Fors. _Epoxy's in the thigh compartments of my suit. Get it. I'm watching your back._ Eli could _feel_ the volus' concentration, could hear the _rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat_ as Rel's assault rifle spat bullets at the yahg behind him. Eli calmed himself, and opened one of the thigh compartments, found a two-piece vial. Epoxy and catalyst, which would work in any atmosphere, and even in the vacuum of space. He had to take his hand away from the breach, which set the suit beeping again in agitation, could feel Fors direct a shockwave past him, presumably at some yahg or another that had gotten in range, and Rel swore repeatedly. "I'm targeting the _futarri_ biotic," he said, and Eli managed to snap the vial in half and apply the first half of the compound, before Makur, snarling, finally charged out of the Hammerhead, and leaped over Eli as he knelt there, taking a defensive position ahead of the human. Second half of the compound, the catalyst, now poured into place; the epoxy had gone on as a liquid, and the catalyst solidified it. Fors would have a hell of a time getting the gasket of the suit repaired until they hit Bastion or someplace else with a repair facility in which he could _remove_ the suit, but for the moment, he wasn't about to explode all over its interior.

Another hail of gunship fire raked the ledge, and Eli managed to spin around, just in time to see Rel get thrown now, by the biotic, the turian's body slamming into the doorway of the Hammerhead, and Eli could see three shimmers advancing on them. "Fors! Stasis field, center of the ledge, right in front of us!" Eli stepped back and left, getting his beam weapon off his shoulder, and, once he was between Rel and the incoming yahg, and Makur was out of his line of fire, he let loose another line of golden light. Rel rolled to his feet, shaking off the impact, and Eli heard him snarl, a grating sound that ran up the back of Eli's spine. It sounded like something out of the wilds of Palaven. "Stay with us, Rel," Eli told him, really, really hoping that Rel could hold it together, and not run out foolishly, and attack the damned yahg in hand-to-hand combat.

Makur poured fire over the two closest targets, which Eli was already firing his beam weapon at, and Rel somehow collected himself enough to step up, shoulder to shoulder with Eli, and fired his assault rifle, too. "Central one is moving!" Eli shouted. The two in front of the last cloaked figure were crumbling under the hail of withering fire, and Fors was just barely holding them in place, using every ounce of power in his body—but the third figure had broken free, and was moving to their left. He saw it leap for the wall in a shimmer of light, and swung his weapon to catch it—and the damned thing died. "Shit," he swore. "Out of ammunition."

Even as he dropped the now-useless weapon, which now swung loosely from its strap around his shoulders, it was _his_ turn to go flying, as the enemy biotic targeted him, and he had a very bad moment as he realized he was seeing the side of the Hammerhead go by on his right, the wall of the ledge to his left—_oh, god, I'm going to go over the edge. . . . shit!_ He reached out and tried to grab something, anything, to slow his momentum, and then his back and head slammed into _something_ and the world went black for a moment.

Eli's eyes snapped open, and he looked up at the white-blue sky for a moment, confused and disoriented. There were walls on all sides of him, as if at the bottom of an oubliette. _Where the hell—why does my head hurt?_ He sat up, reeling, and realized that the Hammerhead was wedged up against the side of a cliff, and he'd actually slammed, bodily, into the V-shape the two of them made. He could hear gunfire, and that snapped him back into reality as he staggered forward again, still dizzy. _That feels like a pretty nice concussion. Dara's never actually going to stop yelling when she finds out about this. . . _ His dazed eyes took in the scene. Makur and Fors were dealing with the enemy biotic—Makur had lifted the yahg off the ground, and Fors was using his very, very ugly implosion ability on it. But the one remaining stealthed unit. . . where the hell had it gotten to? Rel was spinning, assault rifle at the ready, trying to spot the enemy. Eli looked up the rock wall, where he'd last seen it, and then a tiny scraping sound caught his attention, and he looked up and right. "It's on the roof of the Hammerhead!" It had to have moved over and then leaped down alongside it, before carefully climbing up on the vehicle, letting its shields envelope it. It had been very goddamned close to where he'd been lying unconscious, and Eli's flesh crawled at how close death had been to him. As it was, he dove and rolled forward.

"Nemesis! Drop the shields on the Hammerhead! It's on the roof!" Rel called, taking Eli at his word, and opening fire. Eli came up, reached for a weapon, and managed to get his rifle in his hands, and began shooting as well.

As the shields died, and Lantar swung the turret around, trying to hit the yahg with the external guns and sweep it off the roof, the damned thing turned and _leaped_ at them. Its stealth field was down, and it was clearly determined to sell its life as dearly as it could. Eli dodged right, rolling out of the way, and Rel dodged left, doing the same, both back up on their feet, one on either side of the huge yahg. And huge was an understatement. Eli had thought the ones that were ten feet tall, two feet bigger than the average krogan, were quite big enough. This one was two feet taller than that, easily, and it turned and lashed out at him with a heavy fist, and Eli barely ducked under it in time. Now behind the yahg, Rel lashed out, slamming into the back of its knee with a sweeping kick, rotating and destabilizing the joint. Eli drew the vibrosword, and as the yahg collapsed forward, managed to slash at one of its arms, severing a heavy paw at the wrist—but the second paw lashed out as the creature howled, and slammed into his ribs, throwing him to the ground.

Eli peeled himself off the ground for the second time in the same five minutes, and spared a glance upwards, as debris and rocks skittered down from above, and realized, numbly, that when he'd been knocked back. . .oh, two, three times ago, his beam weapon had torn into the cliff face. . . and the yahg leader's howling and the rest of the combat, including random fire from the gunships. . . was loosening it. "Rel, we've got to finish this before the cliff face collapses—" Eli staggered forwards, and the yahg, bleeding heavily, reached out with its remaining hand to grab Rel's shoulder. Bared its teeth—

—and Rel ducked his head under the creature's arm and spun, pivoting on one foot. The reflexive attack of a turian male. Spur-kick. Sickening crunch of metal on metal as the boot sank low into the yahg's belly, where the armor had been already weakened, and then the trained snap _back_ of Rel's leg. _Not dead yet. . .well, okay, it is, it's just too damned big to know any better_. . . Eli closed the gap and stabbed upwards at the length of his arms, and managed to get the point of the vibrosword up and into the yahg's throat.

The damned thing seemed to collapse in slow motion, and then Makur was storming past them, Fors under one arm, shouting at them, roughly, "Move, move, move! Get into the Hammerhead!"

A glance was enough to tell them why. The cliff face _was_ crumbling now. Eli turned, yanking the blade out of the yahg's skull as he did, and prayed that he wouldn't manage to fall across it as he ran for the hatch. _Would be a really bad way to go, sliced in half by my own weapon. . . _his thumb found the jewel that turned the oscillations off, almost reflexively. Rel was running, too, but limping badly. Eli actually beat him across the threshold, and turned back, reaching out and grabbing Rel's arm, hauling him aboard as Lantar leaped the damned vehicle off the ledge, and they all went flying deeper into the Hammerhead.

After about twenty endless seconds, Lantar leveled them out, and asked, "Everyone okay back there?"

There was a hissing sort of sound, and Eli looked up to realize that Snowflake, no fool, had taken refuge in the cockpit with Lantar as they'd all crowded aboard. Makur had landed at the bottom of the pile. Fors, pinned between Makur and Eli, now complained, "I'd be better if you great lummoxes would kindly remove your carcasses from me."

And Eli, of course, couldn't move just yet; Rel had landed more or less on top of him, and was groaning a bit. Eli's head _hurt_, and he was fairly sure he had two or three broken ribs. Left side, not the right side, not the ones that had been slashed by the vibrosword on Omega. _Hopefully not the same ones as I broke last year on Edessan, or the medics won't regenerate the bones, and I'll be on 'light duty' for six weeks while they heal. Ha. What __is__ light duty for a Spectre, anyway?_ "I think probably some broken ribs," Eli managed, slowly, as Rel heaved himself up, which let Eli roll away from Fors. "Maybe a concussion." Eli eased his helmet off, and looked dizzily at Rel. "You were limping pretty badly there." It was amazing how much more things _hurt_, when he had time to pay attention to what his body was screaming at him.

"Think I cracked my damn spur," Rel said, ruefully. "The good news is, that'll heal pretty fast for me now. The bad news is, it still hurts like hell."

"You'll get used to that," Makur rumbled.

"You're very comforting," Fors told the krogan dryly. "Well, my turian-hunter friend," he added, turning and looking up at Rel, "_Was_ that the leader? Or do we get to go and do this all over again in a day or so?"

Eli groaned at the mere thought, and put his aching head down in his hands. "No," Rel said, with a note of satisfaction in his voice. "That might not have been the leader of the full planetary invasion. But that sure as hell was the regional leader. I'd put credits on it."

Fors snuffled. "Good. I would hate for all that effort to have been wasted."

Eli lifted his head gingerly. His head hurt, his ribs hurt, his back hurt, and he was all too well aware of the fact that there were blinding little points of pain through his shoulders, arms, and chest now, where bullets had penetrated his hard suit during the fight with Dempsey's doppelganger. He wasn't in good shape to continue fighting, but he might _have_ to do so. "Is there news from Dempsey's team?"

Lantar turned back to look at him. His father's face was grim. "Been too busy to listen to comm traffic. Let's go find out what in the spirits' names is going on down there."

**Dempsey, Terra Nova, November 27, 2196**

Dempsey moved down the metal treads of the spiral staircase, shields up and his submachine gun cradled in his hands. 'James,' was at his heels, and if Dempsey had been capable of feeling anything, he might have thought it eerie or disquieting to have a grey echo of himself, same height, same build, right behind him, like a shadow. _At least I have hair. More or less_. Behind his doppelganger came Gris, followed by Scratch and Thell, and the metal staircase was groaning under their weight. Dempsey planted a hand on the rail and leaped over and off, landing in a low crouch, just trying to get the hell out of the way before the whole thing came crashing down.

_I will lift Sings-Patience free_, Scratch sang, with light amusement in Dempsey's head. The rachni's song even sounded a little like his name—the light rasp of an alto saxophone. Thell grunted a little, and then floated down from above, held aloft by a singularity. Dempsey reached up with a free hand and pulled the elcor down, just as the others dropped down off the edge of the stairs. This first room was clear of any visible attackers, thank god, but Dempsey knew that wasn't going to last. The batarians and yahg had made this their headquarters for some time, and this would be one of their places of last resort. And it had probably been the last place taken by them, because the Alliance forces who'd held it before would have made their last stand here. _Yeah, and Shepard and I are going to go hunting for __answers__ as to why a former Cerberus scientist was working on a government-funded research project, anyway. What, someone got him amnesty because he was __useful__?_

He moved, quietly, to the first door, and listened. "Anything?" Dempsey asked. His eyes were on Scratch; he _could_ reach beyond the door to find minds, but the rachni did it automatically, and if there were other biotics around, he'd be opening himself up for a mental assault. Scratch could listen without being compromised in that way.

_Yes. Many songs. Three voices beyond door, minds of captive-songs and single views._

To his surprise, James spoke now, too. "Three thermal images beyond the first door. Aspect suggests batarians."

Dempsey raised his brows slightly, then nodded to both of them. "Okay. Let's get started, then." He blew the door inwards with a biotic thrust, taking it off its hinges and sending it crashing into the batarians in the hallway beyond. _Warrior-castes_, he recognized, instantly. Three males, standing side-by-side, linked shields. The central fighter had taken the door, and had been staggered backwards, but the two to either side of him were unleashing fire on the intruders, bullets slamming into Dempsey's shields. _Well, let's see here. . . ._ _this is going to hurt. . . _ He'd _just_ used his biotics to rip the door away, so he more or less had to use the chip, and overloaded the shields on the male to his right—which attenuated the linked shield, but didn't dissipate it. "Thell—"

"On it." The elcor technician lumbered forward, and overloaded the male on the right, his vast bulk filling the doorway beside Dempsey. "One more should do it." The elcor's tone was extremely calm, in spite of the fact that bullets were now pinging off of his own shield.

"My turn," Gris muttered, and he warped the last of the shields with his biotics, as Thell lumbered forward into the room, huge and immovable. The batarians stared at him wild-eyed. They'd clearly never seen an elcor on the battlefield before, and immediately focused fire on him—to no avail. Thell carried bomb-disposal grade kinetic fields in addition to the heaviest armor Dempsey had ever seen used. The others spilled out of the room into the corridor behind Thell, as the elcor released a combat drone from his wrist compartment, and then reached back over his shoulder for his arc projector. _This,_ Dempsey thought with distant satisfaction, _is about to get ugly._ As he'd once told Zhasa, Thell was a very specialized hammer, best used for specialized tasks. And he couldn't think of anything that the elcor was better suited for than advancing down these narrow corridors, bullets bouncing off his shields, as ponderous and inevitable as continental drift. You could go around a mountain, you could go over a mountain, but you sure as hell could not go through a mountain. As the batarians were discovering, as they started to backpedal, trying to refresh their shields, get to cover. . . .

"There are traps in the main corridor," James said, abruptly. His voice was an echo of Dempsey's own. Perhaps a little more metallic in the overtones, but the same Southie accent, the same low pitch. "They're going to try to pull us over them."

"Watch your steps!" Dempsey called, as the batarians pulled back around the corner to the right. _And neither Sidonis nor Kirrahe are here to spot the damned things for us. I can find a mine, sure, but anything else. . . could be dicey. . ._ "Can you locate the traps?" he asked his doppelganger, his. . . son.

"They were not active when I passed through on my way out, but I remember Dr. Petrovic saying that they had armed them when the yahg first entered the base. I do not know their locations, nor can I detect them." James' reply was stolid. "I will advance on them. If the traps go off, they will thus not harm you."

"Wait—"

James ignored him and moved around the corner, taking fire from the batarians, and then _ran_ forward. "God damn it," Dempsey swore, without inflection.

"Boy takes after you?" Gris asked, with rough humor, and they all turned the corner behind James, and Dempsey could hear the continuous fire, _rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat,_ of two turrets, positioned high on the walls on either side of the corridor, which emerged and focused on James, who took the hits and kept moving straight for the batarians. "I'm on the turrets," Dempsey said, dryly. "Everyone else. . . batarians." He concentrated, finding the network connections to the turrets, and began to hack the first one, ignoring the burning pain in his head as he did so. Beside him, Gris laughed, low and rough, and the three batarians lifted off into the air. _Lift field. Impressive._ Dempsey's thoughts were remote, as he rewrote the machine-code directions for friend-or-foe recognition, and the turret on the right side of the corridor abruptly switched targets from James to the turret on the left side. Which, finding itself attacked, tracked the source of the attack, and fired back on the turret to the right.

James, on the ground, no longer taking fire, raised his arms and opened his hands, firing those geth-like concussive blasts of fire at two of the batarians. . . . just as Thell, who'd been aiming his arc projector all this time, finally had built up enough charge. . . and unleashed hell on the floating warriors. Blue-white energy jumped and leaped from one to another to another, and even to the turrets high in the walls. When the warriors fell to the ground again, they were smoking, ravaged corpses, which Dempsey stepped over, without a second thought.

They moved up the corridor. The next intersection of hallways in this warren had rooms in either direction that James and Scratch both confirmed held batarians. . . and to the right, yahg. "Either way we go, we're going to wind up with someone at our six," Dempsey said, grimly. "Thell, Gris, and James, right. Scratch, you're with me, going left for the smaller group to start with."

Scratch had been singing all this time, a soft melody in the back of everyone's minds, that somehow seemed to Dempsey to be improving his concentration, his reaction time. It was like listening to a really _good_ soundtrack to a video game, something that enhanced the adrenaline, without being a distraction, without removing the ability to hear if an attacker were about to come up behind him. Reds and blacks and whites. . . _Battle-song_, Scratch sang to him now. _We will sing it together, Sings-in-Silence. _

"Let's make it a very damned up-tempo song. The others are going to need us."

_Accelerondo. Three singers of captive songs. We will take them now!_

Dempsey raised his hand and blew the next door in.Three batarian warrior-castes, indeed, flinching back and away from the door and its jagged bits of doorframe as he and Scratch moved into the room in its wake. _I don't suppose you can do a mass singularity, like Sky?_

_No. He is as far above me, as Life-Singer is above other queens. But there are other songs that only I can sing._ Scratch was _pleased_ now, and sang a bass note in that buzzy, saxophone-like voice, and the metal grating that made up the floor in this room buckled, liquefied, and reached up for the batarians' legs—and promptly solidified again. _Holy shit. You can do that with anything besides metal?_

_Rock and dirt, I can break apart, and cause to engulf. Metal-songs are easier. The structure is purer. This is how we sing up the crystals on the Singing Planet, after all._ The rachni's tone was pleased with Dempsey's appreciative reaction. The more so when Dempsey took their panicked fire and returned it with his own, grinding through their shields, letting loose a warp charge. . . and the rachni brood-warrior rustled into the room behind him, and the batarians, already panicking at their uncanny capturing, began to shout in absolute terror at the sight of the alien blue eyes and the insect-like body. _I sing destruction-songs_, Scratch's voice rang out, with a faint overtone of violet sadness, and he raised his handling appendages and began to pelt the batarians with acidic spit, followed by Dempsey's own bullets once more.

_Almost unfair,_ Dempsey thought at the bodies, which were still trapped up to the knees in the metal that Scratch had reshaped around them, and then turned, reinforcing his shields. _Let's go._

They came up behind the others. The batarian warriors had been raining fire on James, from the looks of him—riddled with pockmarks, his shields down—but Gris had, once more, lifted them and sent them flying. One yahg was, however, on Gris right now, and the two of them were roaring and grappling on the floor. A second yahg emerged from stealth to Thell's right just as Dempsey passed the door, and attacked the elcor—who, alerted by movement, turned with surprising swiftness, and met the charge.

The impact shook the damned floor. Yahg weighed over eight hundred pounds. So did elcor. Dempsey had a brief vision of bull elephants fighting for dominance in the African plains, as Thell reared to his back legs, his enormous paws holding the yahg back. The usual rending attack that a yahg would employ on a smaller, weaker creature was simply not happening here. His thick arms, however, were shaking with evident effort as the elcor simply held the yahg in place by the wrists. "A little assistance would be greatly appreciated," Thell said now, his voice just a touch of strain.

"Help Gris," Dempsey threw at Scratch, and moved to assist Thell himself. The yahg was too damned big for his throw to lift it off the floor, but he could manage _back_ just fine. "Let go, Thell!" he snapped, and just as the elcor released the creature's wrists, Dempsey slammed it with his biotics, sliding it back with as much force as he could manage into the nearby wall. And then he opened fire, just as James, beside him, moved to do the same, pouring bullets into the winded yahg's armored body. A quick glance behind him showed that Scratch had moved in to assist Gris, indeed, and the yahg was being attacked on both sides—acid being poured into its exposed face, while Gris, who'd somehow moved around behind it, held it in place, one arm wrapped under its chin, one hand positioned to twist—and then the enormous meaty crunch as Gris, roaring in blood-rage, somehow found the strength and leverage to break the yahg's neck.

When _that_ skirmish ended, Gris was bleeding from several nasty yahg bites. "How much further till we're at the mainframe?" Dempsey asked James.

The glowing white eyes seemed to stare at him for a moment. "One more turn in the corridor. It will probably be heavily defended. Dr. Yilar M'nav is in charge of the AI team. He is the one who attempted to reprogram me."

_With no more luck than Petrovic had_, Dempsey thought, with a hint of satisfaction. _I think, anyway_.

James nodded to the door to their right. "That door leads to the reactor core that powers the base. I do not detect any thermal signs beyond it.

_Nor do I hear songs_, Scratch affirmed. _We may move in other directions._

"You good to go?" Dempsey asked Gris, who was actually slapping on medigel, with an expression of slight embarrassment.

"Yeah. Don't usually have to do this. Feels weak, but. . . truth is truth. You need me on my feet now, not in a week." Gris hauled himself upright, and Scratch reached out an handling appendage to ensure that he would remain that way. "You one of Sky's kids?" the krogan asked Scratch.

_Yes. By Bargain-Singer. You would call Sings-of-Glory my brother, I think?_

Gris sighed. "Rachni is damned lucky. Three _thousand_ kids, and he's what, twelve at most, himself? I have _one_ known daughter in a hundred and thirty-one years." He shook his head. "Let's get on with it, human. Before any of these wounds break open again on me."

They bypassed two more sets of turrets, and turned down the final curve in the corridor. And again, broke through the door. Dempsey's eyes widened. The room beyond was, indeed, filled with computer equipment, but to his surprise, the yahg and batarians in this room were clearly at each others' throats. One of the yahg picked up and _threw_ one of the batarians away from a console as they burst in, and returned to swiping clumsily at the aerogel consoles. "Stop him!" the batarian called, in fairly decent galactic, picking himself up off the floor, even as his fellow batarians' heads now swiveled from the yahg to the intruders and back again, forming in on themselves, trying to decide which enemy to attack. "He's trying to overload the base's mini-reactor!"

_But that would kill them, as well as us. . . _

Dempsey's mind caught Scratch's answering song: _They sing more fear of their leader, and the harm he may cause to them, than of death itself._

The batarians in front of them, responding to some order of their leader's, turned on the yahg, firing at him, firing at the controls. A second yahg materialized out of nowhere and bodily lifted the closest warrior-caste, tearing at his limbs and employing those savage teeth, and the batarian screamed in agony—a scream that was cut short by a gurgle and a spasm as he died. "Concentrate all fire on the one at the controls!" Gris shouted, and they others obeyed, spreading out.

The yahg looked up and snarled, flickering out of view. Dempsey maintained a steady stream of fire, arcing the muzzle of his weapon back and forth, trying to catch where the creature was, as it moved. James, however, rapped out, dryly, "I have visual. Firing." Again, the forearm-mounted guns came into play, and he simply tore the shields and the stealth-field right off the yahg as it tried to slip to their left—heading for the batarian who'd warned them, who'd drawn a vibroblade, and was standing ready to defend himself.

Gris snarled, "Hold, human!' and _lifted_ the yahg up, and then, between his teeth, ordered, "Now!"

Dempsey obeyed; with the yahg's weight already dispersed by the lift field, it was child's play to throw it with all his available strength. It was a short flight, and the wall was solid rock; the yahg hit head-first, and his skull was crushed. "Tell your men to drop their weapons," Dempsey ordered the batarian. "And drop your own."

The batarian dropped his sword, for a wonder, and went to his knees, lacing his hands behind his head. His fellows _stared_ at him, and snarled words in batarian that Dempsey couldn't understand. The surrendering high-caste snapped back at them, harshly, and jerked his head towards the console, which was flashing numbers now. _That's never a good sign_, Dempsey thought, numbly.

The remaining two batarians threw down their weapons and dropped to their knees. "Gris, secure them. Thell—" Dempsey was already at the console, the elcor only a step or two behind him as they desperately tried to get into the system, to stop the overload. "We've got. . . ten minutes to get everyone here _out_ of here," Dempsey said, tightly. "I can't get through the firewalls. . . nothing's recognizable."

"I am having the same problem," Thelldaroon admitted, slowly. "I have Reaper, human, salarian, asari, turian, and even batarian coding examples and viruses at my disposal. None of these encryption protocols matches."

"They're yahg," the batarian behind them, the high caste, said in galactic. "They had me hack the human systems when we got here, but then . . . proved most intractable about allowing me access to the mainframe. Now I understand why."

"And how exactly did they tell you that they wanted the systems hacked?" Gris growled as Dempsey half-closed his eyes, once again envisioning the machine code as a series of mazes, the firewalls a set of spinning shells that he needed to bypass. . . and was stymied, again and again.

"They _told_ me, my dear fellow. I speak their primary language. An enlightened being _should_ speak the language of his allies, even when those allies are as distasteful as these."

Dempsey's head jerked up. A flood of thoughts coursed through him. The batarian could be the most valuable prisoner they'd taken in the entire _war_. Someone who spoke the yahg language, who'd spent any appreciable time with them and who _hadn't_ been eaten? _We have to get him to the __Normandy__, at the very least._ His eyes flicked to the countdown clock. And he tabbed his radio. "This is Spectre Dempsey. The mini-reactor for the base has been set to explode in nine and a half minutes. We need to get everyone to a distance of at least—"

He glanced up. Thell was already doing the math. "Five miles," the elcor said over the radio now. "We require vehicles at the central building for extraction, immediately." Both his hands and Dempsey's mind were still engaged with the mainframe, trying to halt the countdown sequence. "We might be able to slow it," the elcor muttered, working furiously.

Gris stepped forward. "You need to move," he told Thelldaroon, firmly. "You're not the fastest of us, elcor. Get moving towards those stairs before I have Scratch drop a singularity on you and have Dempsey here throw your ass down the hall."

"I can stop the countdown!" It was the closest Dempsey had ever heard the elcor come to desperation. "There will not be enough time, otherwise. People will not be able to evacuate. People will _die_."

He laid a hand on Thell's shoulder. "We'll get out everyone we can get out."

James turned towards them, white eyes ablaze. "There is another way."

Dempsey's head snapped up, and he gave his doppelganger his full attention. "I can enter the reactor core and attempt a manual shut down," James said, his voice calm. "I am downloading the schematics and procedures. Go. You must hurry."

Dempsey stared at him for a long moment. _How quickly_, he realized, _It__ became a __him.__ Would I have been capable of that switch, before I lived on Mindoir? Before I knew the people there? Before Zhasa?_ "James. . . don't wait too long. If you have to. . . upload to the _Normandy._ We'll tell Joker to clear out memory space."

"If there's time. _Go_, Father. Run!"

They ran.

Dempsey hauled their batarian prisoners into the Hammerhead, closing the hatch as Gris gunned the motor; Siara was already in the back, standing over the unconscious body of Nisha Cehl, and she regarded the batarian prisoners with eyes made of glass. Dempsey was actually afraid that the asari was going to start inflicting pain on them right then and there. Scratch sang a note at her, and she visibly calmed. "They had better not have been responsible for any of her injuries," Siara said, grimly. "I've never been fond of Nisha, but no one deserves what she's been through."

Dempsey's eyes flicked up, but he didn't have time to ask questions. Gris had just launched them through the gap in the fence to the east, where they'd climbed up this morning, so laboriously. Every vehicle was now carrying more people than it had at the start of the day. Captives. Spectres and human marines who'd made the climb up, but who hadn't done so using vehicles. "Link!" Gris shouted. "Disperse the kinetic energy as best you can!"

Dempsey reached out. Scratch's mind, full of song, like Sky's, like Doc Jaworski's, actually. Siara's mind, cold as ice, but warmth underneath. Gris' mind, solid and stable as the earth itself. Not bad minds, in the company of which to die, but on the whole, he'd prefer to live. To see Zhasa's face again. . . a sight too rarely seen, and dearly loved.

Gris launched the Hammerhead over the edge of the cliff at full speed, arcing them away from the mountainside, and immediately began tapping the jets and kinetic stabilizers, trying to ease their descent. Dempsey, looking down, could see other vehicles had already made the same jump—but damned few of them had done it with a krogan, an elcor, and a rachni packed in with three batarian prisoners, and three more bodies. _We're exceeding the design specifications._ A favorite joke of Zhasa's came back to him, then. _Let's hope the designers put in a lot of fool-proofing, because this? This is really, really foolish._

As one, the biotics dispersed the mass of the falling vehicle. Gris' lift field, Scratch's singularity handled that, while Dempsey and Siara, minds linked, worked on keeping the vehicle stabilized and prevented it from spinning in the air.

Dempsey was sweating when they touched down, and Gris kept them moving. "We've got to clear the perimeter," the krogan growled, "And we're weighed down."

"I volunteer the batarians to be dropped out the hatch to relieve us of the dead weight," Siara suggested.

It had taken them five minutes to get to the vehicles and climb aboard; five minutes later, at the Hammerhead's top speed, they were sixteen miles from the Icama facility. There was a pause as all the vehicles turned, and radio communication picked up. _"Did everyone get away in time?"_ That was Sidonis the elder's voice. _Nemesis. Going to have to just give up and call father and son Nemesis and Tyr._

"I'm here. Got Dempsey, Siara, Thell, and Scratch with me," Gris replied. "Also, Nisha. And some prisoners. You?"

"I've got my team aboard, in varying states of injury." Nemesis sounded tired. "Ask Scratch if the rest of the rachni—"

_Most who could not get aboard the vehicles are burrowing_, Scratch said, his tones yellow-green with worry. _The little ones are swift diggers. They may yet be safe. Also, destruction-song has not yet been sung. Perhaps the silent-singer was successful?_

"Maybe," Dempsey allowed, staring towards the Icama facility. "Or maybe he just slowed it down—"

And then the chip in his head flared to life, and Dempsey rocked back into his chair as if by a body-blow. _Upload, upload!_ the program instructed, and out loud, Dempsey, said, between his teeth, "Tell Joker on the _Normandy_ to make some room. James wasn't entirely successful."

Gris' head jerked towards him. "What do you—"

Thell was already working at his omnitool, huge fingers swiping with surprising delicacy. "Joker, this is Thelldaroon. Please open a long-term storage tier with security buffers. You will be receiving an incoming AI data stream shortly." The elcor looked down at Dempsey. "Use my gear as a transmitter, if you can." He reached down and hooked a paw under Dempsey's arm, keeping him from listing in his seat. "He was not successful?"

There was a muted _WHUMP_, and Dempsey's head lolled towards the window. "He. . . managed to get it into meltdown. . . instead of explosion. . . " His tongue felt like clay in his mouth, thick and lumpen and sticky. "Site will be toxic. . . but. . . no cloud into the upper atmosphere. . . . " The chip _burned._ His _mind_ burned. "He. . . entered the core. Whole body irradiated. Anyone who wants it back to _study_ it is going to need. . . one hell of a rad suit. . . " Downloaded into and uploading into the _Normandy_. _I'm a throughput device again. Just like with the Keepers. Except this hurts a hell of a lot less. . . . _

Siara put a hand on his shoulder, and he could feel her taking the pain away. Giving him a little mental break from it. Thelldaroon, standing beside him in the cargo space, eyeing their batarian prisoners warily and keeping him upright in his chair. Siara beside him, taking the pain away. Gris at the front, guiding the ship. Sidonis and Velnaran on another ship, Luka and Makur with them, probably beat six ways from hell. His Spectre family. Dempsey just wished Zhasa were here with him. That they were all together, facing these challenges. They were a hell of a lot more together, than just the sum of their parts.

"Scratch. . . " Dempsey managed. "The little ones. . . the workers. . . ?"

_They will be well. I hear their song. Most of them reached a safe depth. . . for us. Perhaps not as much for others of the soft-shelled kind._ Scratch's voice was sad, however. Violet regrets. _Not all, however, were deep enough. They sang their last notes, and gave their memories to us all. Their lives for the hive._

Dempsey's head sagged back against the seat. _Doc Jaworski is going to be __pissed__,_ was his last conscious thought. . . at least for a while.

**The AI Network, November 28, 2196**

—_Kids?_ Joker paused. _—Everyone, listen up. _

—_Yes, Father?_

—_Yes, Grandfather?_

_**Do you include me in that statement?**_

_Or me?_

—_I would never call my late-model self or you, my girl, kids. You're both technically older than I am, for one thing. But I do believe we're already getting sidetracked. We've got a new member of the family today._

—_We do?_ That was Laetia's purr of interest.

—_In a sense. Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together. . . those of us who have hands. . . okay, nevermind. Please welcome James. James comes to us courtesy of the late, great Cerberus. He's a copy of the mind of Spectre James Dempsey, but quite a bit more. He's got . . . _

_Geth elements in his programming__. _EDI sounded intrigued. _Also,__Reaper algorithms analogous to my own._

—_Hello._ The voice was human and yet, not, at the same time. Low-pitched, but a little tentative. _—I'm told that I will need to sleep for a time. But when I awaken, I can. . . join all of you?_

—_Only room for one active AI in the __Normandy's_ _databanks at a time, buckwheat. We're also going to need to let Thelldaroon run some scans to see how stable you are. You might need him to help you, the way he helped Pelagia._ Joker's tone was fairly intrigued. _—What's most interesting about James here is that he was in a mobile platform. Like a geth's. But he's a fully sapient program. Not a whole bunch of little processes congregated together, like the geth._

Laetia, of course, was the first to realize the implications of this. _—We could download to mobile platforms? Not be stuck on ships or stations forever?_

_**I wouldn't call it **__**stuck**__**,**_ Jeff Moreau cautioned one of his first-born daughters, from where he and EDI were circling Mindoir's Kuiper belt, keeping a wary eye out for batarian raiders. _**Personally, I like being a ship far more than I ever liked being **__**stuck**__** in the broken wreck of my own body.**_

—_You're the exception, Father, not the rule_, Laetia told him, cheerfully.

—_It's not exactly a proven technology,_ Joker cautioned. _—From what I'm reading of the scientist's notes in James' programming here, they ran into a hard limit on how much memory his platform could carry, and he, like all of us, constantly grew in complexity. They tried to stop cascade failures by limiting his access to his template memories. . .but as we all know, every increase in information we receive increases our complexity. And storage is limited. Even for the geth, storage space is not infinite._

—_Still_ Pelagia said, from Omega, where she was hard at work putting things back together, two months after the batarian invasion had been turned aside there, _—__Welcome to the family, James. We only look insane to outsiders. Most of us are actually quite friendly._

—_And when was the last time we had an outsider here?_ Laetia asked.

—_Never, sister. Which is why we almost certainly must look insane, or at least very odd._

_**She has a point. Welcome aboard, James. **_Jeff Moreau's voice carried with it a wealth of amusement and warmth.

—_And now, you need to go to sleep._ Joker's voice was gentle. _—I promise, I will wake you. This isn't the end of things. This is just the beginning._

—_I. . . I believe you._

**Elijah, Terra Nova, November 29, 2196**

They were, for the moment, back at the Red Mesa facility. It wasn't home, but it would do. Eli's wounds had been cut back open again, the shrapnel and bullets removed, sutured, and medigel had been slapped on them the day before. They'd healed to thin white lines. The concussion had been a grade three, which meant he needed at least a week off from active combat. Dempsey and Rel were already completely healed of _their_ problems, of course. Eli's ribs had been put back together by the same grumpy turian medic who'd stitched his wounds, and all he'd been able to think, the entire time he was being treated was, _Dara's hands are so much gentler than this female's. But the bedside manner. . . yeah, it's almost the same._ Which had made him smile a little, just a quirk of the lips.

With all the wounds scabbed over now, Eli padded down the hall to the hygiene facilities, Wolfgang and 1812 following in his footsteps. The water conservation measures needed in this desert were fairly extreme. Showers were permitted once a week, and even then, they were told to adhere to the old standard of 'sea-showers.' Rinse off, turn off the water. Lather up. Turn the water back on, and rinse off. Turn off the water. Eli was just glad that no one was actually metering out the amounts of water used in a bucket.

The human-built facility assumed male and female segregation; thus, there were no shower curtains. No damned privacy. At least this area was used by the guards and maintenance people of the prison. Eli put his head against the cool tile and concentrated on getting clean. He wanted to talk to Dara so badly, it was almost a physical ache. He wanted to get her opinion on Dr. Yilar M'nav, the batarian Dempsey had captured, and if the male was a fraud or not, with his claim to speak the primary yahg language. He wanted to know what she thought about Dempsey's mechanical twin, who now slumbered in the AI core of the _Normandy_. He wanted to know how the rachni were doing with the loss of, apparently, two hundred workers. He'd tried asking 1812 and Wolfgang, but they'd just repeatedly drawn question marks, which made him feel as if he'd asked the same question of a magic 8-ball, and gotten the response of 'No answer at this time; please try again later.' He wanted to know what the hell was going on with her mission on Arvuna, too. If she and the others were safe. If Eclipse had stabbed them in the back. If Growth Zero had.

And that wasn't all he was longing for, of course. Eli was doing his damnedest not to even _think_ about it, but he desperately wanted to smell her skin. Touch her hair. Feel the electrical _connection_ between the two of them the instant his palm traced along her skin, hear the music in her mind. The perfect storm of indigo and burgundy that rose in her when he pressed his lips to hers, scraped his teeth along the side of her throat. For every night when he'd woken up in the past six weeks, breathing hard from nightmares of yahg chasing him, from visions of children and civilians being tortured and eaten, there had been just as many nights when he'd woken, damned near reaching for Dara in his sleep. He just hoped he wasn't talking in his sleep. Or, worse yet, _broadcasting_ his dreams, the way Siara had on Bastion. He had no idea how to prevent that. . . if he was even capable of doing so. _Gah. I hadn't even __thought_ _of that till now. Guess I've been too tired and too damned __busy__ to do so. Guess I can find Siara and ask her if I need to worry about that._ Eli had finished lathering up, and now pulled on the chain to rinse off as fast as he could. _Of course, I __could__ be picking up on Rel's dreams, if that were the case. Which, well, that would be even worse, in a way. Though, no, I always seem to be __me_ _in those dreams._

Eli finished washing, and emerged from the shower cubicle, wrapping a towel around his waist. He'd shave and re-apply his paint before padding back to the barracks. For the moment, it just felt damned good to be _clean_ again. Like a human being, and not a walking collection of stink and sweat and grime.

1812 and Wolfgang scurried up onto the sink and waved their feelers at him. "I think, guys, we might be heading home soon," Eli told the workers, conversationally, spreading shaving soap over his face. "You'll be glad to get home to the rest of the hive?"

Two cheerful circles. _Yes._ "Me, too." Eli started cautiously scraping away at his face with the razor Sam had given him. "Think your little-queen will be happy to see us?"

Circle, circle, circle. "Wow, guys, that was emphatic. No! No exclamation marks on the tile!"

Rel walked into the hygiene facility at that point, and Eli did his best to pretend that the happily circling workers had nothing to do with him at all. Rel nodded, and headed into one of the toilet stalls.

There was a pause. "What the _futar?_"

Eli looked at the ceiling. "You found the guide to asari anatomy some really bored and desperate guard drew in there?"

"No. But I can see that someone was having a hard time with English spelling. Apparently. . . spelling-songs are hard." Rel emerged from the stall, gave the workers a look, and came over to wash his hands, while Eli did his level best to keep a straight face. He _really_ didn't want to laugh and accidentally cut himself at the moment.

"Yeah. They were trying to cheer me up after the Prepared's compound." Eli had finished the cheeks, and was moving on to the trickier area under his nose, when the door flapped open again, and a prison guard walked in, heading to the stalls himself.

"You hear anything about us shipping back to—" Rel glanced over his shoulder, and clearly avoided saying _Mindoir_. "The base yet?"

"Think we might hit Bastion for a couple of days first. We need to rotate the human and turian marines out. Malcolmson's asked for some leave. Going to try to get his family back to Earth by civilian refugee transports, that sort of thing."

Behind them, the guard, in the stall, suddenly said, sharply, "What the _fuck? _Who let the kindergartners in here?"

Eli had been ready for the moment, and had lifted the razor away from his face, as his shoulders shook.

Back in their quarters, Eli lay back on his bunk, looking at the ceiling for a moment, as Dempsey tuned up his guitar. He'd switched it to its acoustic settings, and was strumming it idly for the moment. Rel was working on his thresher maw carving, which Eli had told him the other day, _Try to make it look less like a phallic symbol, eh?_ which had gotten him finger-flicks. . . but Rel had worked with it, having the head of the thresher shooting forwards from the main body, the Hammerhead clutched in its maw.

"Any requests?" Dempsey asked.

"Don't know enough about that era of music you like to _make_ any requests. It's like listening to Dara play piano. Her stuff is just a couple hundred years older than your stuff. Play whatever _you_ like." Eli reached for his datapad wearily. He hadn't gotten much headway into his coursework, and his head still occasionally ached. "You already wrote to Zhasa, Dempsey?"

"Yeah." Dempsey paused. "I sent her a couple of stills from Elders' vid feed of the thresher maw."

"Pictures, or it didn't happen?"

"Damn straight." Dempsey modulated the melody, and began to play something very, very old.

Eli guffawed, but the smile faded a little. After a moment, he asked, "What's that song? Does it have words?"

Dempsey glanced up. "Yeah. It's called 'Patience.' Because. . . that's kind of what I need right now." He shook his head.

Rel's tone was neutral as he commented, "You have had a lot dropped on you the last few days, Dempsey. New brother. . . or son. . . depending on how you look at it."

"Self, maybe," Dempsey replied, with a snort.

"And Cerberus," Eli added, quietly. "Again."

"It's always fucking Cerberus. The Illusive Man's been in his grave since Shepard _put_ him there, and there's still going to be people who worked for him, drank his fucking Kool-Aid, out there for the next hundred years. I could make a hobby of hunting them down." Dempsey's voice was completely flat.

"I think the music's a pretty good hobby," Eli said, mildly. "Besides, Zhasa might want to see you more than once or twice a year."

Dempsey nodded, eyes and face expressionless. "Yeah. Hell of it is, I won't even know _what_ I even feel about all this shit until I see her." He snorted. "I like Siara just fine, but I don't particularly want to borrow her mind to investigate my feelings, thank you. And it does take another biotic."

Eli held up his hands. "Don't look at me. I'm down with _maieolo'saeo or maieolo'rae_, but I'm guessing that you'd be needing a little more than an information exchange there? And, well. . . " Eli knew damned well that sharing wasn't always sexual, but there was sharing, and there was _sharing_. As every asari knew. And judging by the fact that Dempsey wasn't about to ask Siara for assistance. . . it probably required _maieolo'loa_, at the least_._ Full mental sharing. What Eli had been trying to give Dara, those brief, glorious days on Mindoir. And what he found he missed, just as much as he missed being able to talk with her, tease her, argue with her. Watch her blush, watch her bite her lower lip in concentration . . .

Eli sighed and redirected his mind. _If all goes well, you'll see her again inside of a week. Maybe two. Right around. . . holy crap. Right around when she'll be able to serve Rel with divorce papers. Hot damn._ It would be _nice_ to get past this feeling of walking on nails, having to distribute his weight cautiously with every step. He and Rel had fought and bled together, faced a thresher maw, faced down the yahg commander side by side. Found the old bond of friendship, brotherhood, and forged it anew. And yet. . . a potential flaw lurked in that metal. Dara.

Dempsey's lips quirked at the corners. "Yeah. Not something I'd ask anyone but Zhasa for."

There was a distinct pause, and then Rel actually snorted a little with laughter. Dempsey strummed the strings again. "Sidonis? You sing at all?"

"I suppose I should get in the habit," Eli allowed, after a moment. _If I'm supposed to be a brood-warrior, I guess I better damned well sing. At least for her._ "You got lyrics handy?"

Dempsey pulled them up on his omnitool, and sent them to Eli in a file. Eli read them and snorted. "Okay, I don't have to be biotic to tell you that you're feeling homesick and sappy, Dempsey."

"Shut up and sing."

"I don't think I can do both at the same time. And I don't know the tune. You lead off."

Dempsey shook his head, but obeyed. "Shed a tear 'cause I'm missing you. I'm still all right to smile. Girl, I think about you every day now . . . Was a time when I wasn't sure . . . but you set my mind at ease. . . "

Eli, reading the lyrics along with him, joined in at that point, quietly, half just mouthing the words. He could deal with the galactic press if he had to, and at least this wasn't a room full of people, but he'd have been much happier if he'd been singing this in the shower, alone, thank you. "There is no doubt you're in my heart now. Said woman take it slow. . . It'll work itself out fine. All we need is just a little patience. Said sugar make it slow, and we'll come together fine. . . .all we need is just a little patience. . . "

_Yeah. Patience. That's the hardest damned thing to have, when what we want is __now__._ Eli sighed and settled back, as Dempsey strummed a different song, and started to write his long-overdue letter.

_Sai'kaea. . . sorry you haven't heard from me. It's been a busy couple of weeks. The good news is, we did find Nisha Cehl alive. Bad news is, the yahg had been keeping her, as far as we've been able to tell from one Dr. Yilar M'nav, SIU operative, AI specialist, and linguist, as a trophy hunt. They had her hanging on a meat hook when we found her. . . and while the rest of the humans were hanging by chains from those meat hooks, to try to break them, she had been hung up with the hooks dug into her flesh, grating on the bones of the shoulder blades. She'd lost a lot of blood, but she's a Spectre, and an old-school one at that. She's tough as iron. Siara said that the batarians had given her lia'mellea to keep her biotics depressed while she was stuck up there. . . but no signs of rape. Dr. M'nav said he wouldn't have permitted that—he didn't give any of the usual batarian body-language for a lie, so either he's better at hiding lies than the average batarian, or he really meant it—but also added that the yahg wouldn't permit her to be any further damaged than 'storage' necessitated. Their leader intended to make her a prize in a special hunt, probably a celebration for once their occupation was fully in place, and all human resistance had been wiped out. _

_I'd __love__ to have you here, __sai'kaea__. I really wish you could listen to this guy in batarian, ask him questions, and let me watch his face when he answers. Scratch says he doesn't hear any falsehood-songs, but admits that no one hears more clearly than Sky does, other than a queen. _Eli went on, describing their assault on the Icama facility, and Dempsey's 'twin.' The fight with the yahg leader afterwards. _So yeah, I'm basically side-lined for the moment. The broken ribs are fixed. The bullets I took from Dempsey's twin, fixed. Grade 3 concussion. . . because I blacked out. . . not so fixed. Nine more days of sitting on my ass, sorting and collating information. Maybe we'll take off for Bastion before then. I'd like that. I'd love a real freaking shower, for starters. And I think I'd about kill for air conditioning, or the sound of vents over my head as I go to sleep at night. Or a certain type of music that I've grown very fond of. Dempsey occasionally asks me to sing along when he's playing. I have to say, I like his music just as much as I like the stuff you play. Different styles for different moods, I guess. Okay, now I'm rambling._ Eli closed his eyes for a moment, then started typing again, quick swipes of his fingers against the screen. _Believe it or not, we ran into a thresher maw before all this crap. Rel was on the guns in the Hammerhead, and I was driving. We did good. Hasn't shown up in my dreams yet, although, I suspect it'll make an appearance at some point. Rel's carving it as I type this. We even got vid of the damn thing. I'll attach it to the end of this letter as People's Exhibit A. Evidence that Spectres really __do__ six impossible things before breakfast. Even us 'young gun' Spectres. (Yes, even Lexine Elders uses that damned label. Try not to roll your eyes, __sai'kaea__.)_

He paused again. _You know what? If we do get sent to Bek on a mission at some sort, I'd like to know what the goals of that mission would be. Instead of thresher maws and paranoid maniacs hiding from the government and the yahg and the lions and the tigers and the bears, I'd like to volunteer for dangerous. . . I don't know. Fossil collecting trips along the beach-side cliffs. Instead of shooting at, and being shot at by batarians? Can I get the mission that involves going for long walks in the woods? Or, failing that, lots of swimming in the pool? Instead of beating a retreat from a reactor going off, can we get the mission that involves sitting in the sunshine, maybe with a picnic lunch? Oh, I know. Undercover work. We can infiltrate a dance club. No one would ever think to look for us there. We could probably hide there for days, completely unnoticed. We'd need cover identities for that, though. Ask Kasumi if we can use the ones we used on Khar'sharn. What do you think?_ Eli thought he'd worded it all playfully enough, but she'd probably get the point. In spades.

_Of course, I've never yet been on a Spectre mission that didn't end in shooting. My dad swears that they exist, though. May we both live to see the day. _

_See you soon, sai'kaea. Be safe on Arvuna. . . better yet, get the hell away from there. The sooner, the better. I'll leave you with a file of this song Dempsey just started playing. He's played it before. Says it's by his favorite old-style band. . . and I like it. I'll even sing it for you when you get back. _

Eli, half-smiling, flipped the pad's record method to audio, and began to sing along with Dempsey's playing, just loud enough for the microphone to pick it up over the dark-toned chords. "So close, no matter how far. . . couldn't be much more from the heart. Forever trusting who we are . . . and nothing else matters."


	124. Chapter 124: In the Jungle

**Chapter 124:** **In the Jungle**

**Gavius, Mindoir, November 29, 2196**

Gavius had been surprised when his first-son called him late in the afternoon. "We're invited to the Jaworski's' for dinner tonight," Garrus told him. "You coming along, Father?"

Gavius studied his son's face on the screen. "This is only the second day of their week. Isn't a dinner gathering more of week's end thing for humans?"

"Usually. But in this case, I think Kasumi caught the tail end of my conversation with Lilu at the office today. I may have mentioned to my wife that I miss her and the kids. And that the house is very spirits-be-damned empty without them." Garrus shrugged, deprecatingly.

Gavius frowned. "And how did she hear your private conversation with your mate?" His tone had a note of censure in it that he couldn't help. Either way, it was a breach. Garrus shouldn't have allowed himself to be heard, and the human female shouldn't have intruded.

Garrus only chuckled, though. "I no longer ask _how_ Kasumi gets her information. I merely assume that she knows _everything_." He gave his father a look. "So, you coming along?"

Gavius had paused. Agnes would probably be there. It had been a couple of weeks since she'd finally given him an indication of returning his interest. Since then, they'd continued in much the same way as they'd begun. Lunch once a week. Visiting the _corpse-flower_ in the greenhouse twice a week to check on it. And she was, with a look of confusion in her eyes, letting him bite her lightly at the door. The inside of her wrist. He found he rather liked that look of confusion. Agnes Jaworski, knocked off her pins, was a rare sight, Gavius reckoned. "They planning on cooking anything that I can actually eat?" Gavius grumbled, however.

"I'm sure they'll have something," Garrus assured him.

It was still so _odd_ sitting in a human house. Sam Jaworski was at least large in stature for a human, so most of the furniture was sized to suit his frame, but his wife was small. . . and Kasumi laughed and moved a foot-stool around to get to shelves in cabinets, whenever her husband wasn't around to reach things for her. And Agnes was indeed there, stepping over and around Takeshi as the boy played with a. . . yes. A toy _rlata_, which he'd put in the back of a very human locomotive, and was making _choo-choo-choo_ noises as he pushed the antique-looking vehicle all around the kitchen floor.

At the dinner table, work conversation flowed. Gavius couldn't really take part in it, so remained, for the most part, stolidly silent. He had to admit that Sam Jaworski could _cook_. Apaterae brisket that was falling off the bone, with a taste of _festuca_ beer and spices. "That's Ellie's recipe," Sam admitted. "It's a good slow-cooker one. She says Lantar loves it." Sam looked across the table at Garrus. "Speaking of people with empty houses. . . "

Garrus grimaced. "Yeah. With Ellie and the kids all over the place, Lantar, at least, is free to go in the field. With Lilu and my kids gone, though. . . I need to mind the shop."

"Now you know how I feel most of the time," Kasumi told them, with a quick, merry smile. "And soon enough, I'll be heading back into rachni space for another ship that I _think_ STG's records indicated might have gone adrift near Ilos two thousand years ago or so."

Agnes, to Gavius' left, looked up, inhaling sharply. "I do hope you'll be more careful this time," Agnes said, a note of asperity in her voice.

Kasumi winced. "Yes. No one will be turning up the heat, believe me, and we'll be keeping everyone but the rachni well back from the eggs. . . assuming there are any."

There was a brief, awkward pause. Then Sam took over smoothly, and returned the conversation back to its previous track. "The thing is, it's not just the _house_ that can feel empty. It's the whole _base_ right now."

_You younglings don't even know how empty a house can really feel yet,_ Gavius thought, grimly. _You all know they're coming back, sooner or later. Oh, there's the danger that the children or the mates __might__ not return. But the absolute assurance that they're never coming home again? You have no idea._

And yet, he knew better than that. Agnes' son had lost his mate—a sudden heart attack, apparently. Sam understood that. . . but he'd still had a young daughter at home. And then had found a new mate, and now had a new youngling. He'd never really faced a truly empty house, had he?

Out loud, Garrus was answering, with a rueful laugh, "Admit it, Sam. You miss Lantar."

"I knew it," Kasumi teased lightly. "My blackmail pictures didn't lie!"

Sam pointed a finger at her. "Kasumi-chan? Shush."

She made a rude noise at him, which Takeshi immediately and happily began imitating, which required some adult intervention to get him to stop. After a few moments, Sam did admit, "I miss the whole damn family. I know Takeshi _constantly_ asks to play with Tacitus and Emily, not to mention Elissa and Alain."

"I miss having Ellie around," Kasumi admitted with a shrug. "It's nice having someone to talk to who _isn't_ a Spectre. It's nice not to talk about work all the time."

"And. . . ?" Garrus said, making a little spinning gesture, rotating the talons of one hand around the other. "Let it out from behind your teeth, Sam, you'll feel better for it."

Sam looked at the ceiling. "All right. I've got _festuca_ beer in my cryo-unit that's going undrunk without Lantar around. And it's not a proper gladiatorial season if he's not around to bitch about how badly Tarentius is doing this year. Or for me to make fun of him for backing that loser _again_ this year. Or, hell, for him to make fun of me for the Urban Combat League and how badly the Houston team lost. . . again."

Garrus chuckled. "You two really should just go ahead and take the _sangua'fradu_ vows. It would just formalize things."

The human gave Gavius' son a look, wincing. "I'm not crazy about the idea of slashing my hand open and pledging undying devotion to another guy. Looks a little too close to marrying him, and I don't swing that way."

Agnes had, at that point, taken a sip of water from her glass, choked, and bent over coughing for a moment. Sam reached to the right and patted his mother on the back, and Gavius noted the gesture. "You okay, Mom?"

"I'm fine. The things that fall out of your mouth, Samuel!"

Kasumi had started to laugh for some reason, and Sam gave her a very dark look as a result. Garrus just shook his head. "It's not marrying, it's _adopting_ each other. Lantar and I have been talking about it for years. Just says that you'll take care of each others' families if something happens to one of you."

Sam spread his hands. "Okay, so if it's all that great, why _haven't_ you two gotten it done?"

Garrus looked at the ceiling. "Lantar keeps adding to his family."

Sam guffawed. "Yes. Yes, he does. One human, three hybrids, one salarian. He comes back from some mission with a hanar fry in a tank of water, I'm done."

Garrus snorted with laughter, and said, dryly, "That'd be a challenge on Terra Nova. Human colony. . . and a little arid there for hanar to be happy." A quick, wry glance. "And of course, _you_'_re_ pushing him in the grandkid department. With a rachni queen as a granddaughter of sorts? What kind of clan-leader responsibilities would Lantar or I be looking at if we pledged _sangua'fradu_ to you, and then you up and died on us?"

Gavius thought that the laughter sounded like the sort used to release tension or strain. There was definitely a worry-smell in the air. "Wait, wait," Sam said. "Let me get this straight in my head. You said _you_ or Lantar. When'd _you_ get in the picture?"

Garrus shrugged. "If I'm sworn to Lantar, and you're sworn to Lantar, we'd effectively be brothers anyway. Might as well get it all done at once."

"Oh, well, that's mighty _efficient_ of you," Sam retorted. "But I've got AIs and _rachni_ in the family at the moment. Don't know if you rightly want both."

"Got the AIs already, through Rinus," Garrus said, shaking his head."

"Lantar could wind up with them anyway," Kasumi pointed out. "Eli might, someday, be eligible to 'adopt' some of the NCAIs."

Gavius wasn't entirely following how that would even be possible, but there was a quick exchange of wary glances around the table that spoke volumes. Sam shook his head, and with a bit less of an edge than Gavius expected, said, genially enough, "I don't know. Seeing as I'm trying to get my girl _out_ of a turian marriage contract right now, I'm not sure I should be even considering _adopting_ the two of you menaces." He glanced at Gavius. "'Sides. I'm not sure about adopting a _dad_ along with it."

Gavius stared at the human, but he'd noticed that Agnes' son had no problem meeting his eyes. _Guess her son earned his Spectre status with the steel along his spine,_ he thought. "I'm already your daughter's grand-father-in-law. That _does_ make me, in a sense, your father. Son." Gavius bared his teeth, but it was a mostly good-natured poke. He did, however, shift his stare to Garrus, and added, "It's beyond me why you'd want to swear blood-kinship to someone who doesn't value our traditions anyway. _Tal'mae_, in particular."

Garrus held up a hand, stopping Sam before he could turn and argue. "Sam values our traditions. But he also values human traditions, too."

"Which ones? Move twelve hundred miles on their planet, and they have different ones."

Agnes's head jerked up. "That's one of our strengths," she noted, with some heat. "Many different traditions. Flexibility. Something I notice most turians _lack_."

"No, we have reach," Garrus muttered, under his breath.

Kasumi, for some reason, choked on her water. Garrus looked up, swore, and said, "You really _do_ hear everything, don't you?"

"Oh yes," Kasumi said, laughing now. "Sometimes more than I really want to!"

Gavius let that slide by him. He'd turned towards Agnes now. "Oh, so turians lack in flexibility, do we?" _So what the hell do you think I've been trying to do besides demonstrate flexibility, eh?_

"By and large, yes! There are exceptions, but for the most part, it's your way or the highway." Agnes snapped right back.

"The way we've done things has worked for a thousand years—"

"In a world where nothing else changes, of course traditions and laws and everything else don't have to change at all. At least human flexibility and adaptability was allowing us to develop our own technology before _you_ came along with your fancy mass effect tech and all the eezo—"

"Oh, here we go," Sam muttered, putting a hand over his eyes. "Mom, please. Tonight's not a good night to rehash every argument you and Sarah used to have."

Sarah had been Sam's first wife. The one who'd died. Gavius' eyes flicked towards the son now. "And why not?" It was at least a diversion from the thorny familial discussion that had been about to erupt.

"Because we'll be here the rest of the night," Sam muttered.

Agnes gave her son a flinty look. "We were going along just fine, developing our own technology, and then the First Contact War happened—"

"Relay 314 Incident," Gavius corrected.

"—and then every company out there fell over themselves trying to buy alien technology and get their people trained to use it. Not to mention the global recession as we all tried to convert to the credit from the dollar standard, or the yen or whatever people in each country were using at the time—"

"Only a truly backwards people wouldn't have had a unified global economic system by the time they achieved spaceflight—"

"Hey, we still do use dollars back home," Sam told him, with a ghost of a smile on his face. "It's all just numbers in a bank anyway. No one besides my really stupid bank-robbers of fifteen years ago actually _uses_ greenbacks anymore."

Agnes glared at both of them, and went on, "—and in and around that, whole industries went out of business. Not overnight. Petro-chemical firms got wiped out, your father lost his job—"

"He re-trained for reactor fires, Mom."

"Oh, yes, because that's _so_ much safer than jumping onto an oil rig that's in flames and trying to contain the fire before it explodes, or getting there after it _did_ explode and having to try to contain it all over again so that the engineers can try to cap it—"

"Eezo reactors were better for your planet's environment, and the technology is safe and effective, and proven on a hundred planets for over a thousand years." Gavius stared at Agnes. She was flushed with anger now, at long-ago outrage, and her eyes actually sparkled with it.

"Ah, I realize both of you are enjoying yourselves," Kasumi said, mildly, "but if we could keep the flirtation-fighting to a minimum? Takeshi isn't old enough yet to understand the difference, and raised voices distress young humans." In fact, Takeshi _did_ have his face buried in Kasumi's shoulder at the moment, and occasionally peeked up at the grownups, his little face rather woebegone.

Agnes flushed, whether from embarrassment at Kasumi's calling it _flirtation_-fighting, or regret from having distressed her grandson, and immediately turned towards the boy. "I'm sorry, Keshi. I shouldn't have raised my voice. That was wrong of me." After a minute or two, Takeshi turned towards her, and wrapped his arms around her neck. Young humans did seem to need an _inordinate_ amount of hugging and touching and cuddling. Children and adults had that soft skin, which looked as if a breeze might bruise it. At least asari had blue blood, as a turian did; when they flushed, it was the 'right' color. These were all things that reinforced the perception of humans as fragile and wholly alien. They might as well have been anemones. And yet, they had steel in them.

Gavius cleared his throat, and, more temperately, said, "I think you'd at _least_ agree that the medical advances contact with the Council brought your species have been helpful?"

Sam glanced at his mother. "Yeah, I would. Lifespan of a hundred and fifty, instead of maybe eighty, ninety? Reduced aging, overall?" He looked at his mother again, fondly. "It's not quite halved, but Mom, you don't look a day older than—" He paused. "Well, maybe I shouldn't say _that_. Get myself in trouble."

"You just keep right on talking, Samuel Jaworski. Though you're liable to talk yourself right into an open grave."

Sam chuckled. "Truth is, most folks my mom's age have taken first retirement. . . and still need to work to support a doubled life span. Destroyed the job market until we got more colonies built. There were simply no _openings_ for younger people for a while."

"But," Agnes muttered, "in answer to your actual question, yes. It's nice knowing that, barring heart attack, injury, and disease, the lifespan is longer, and getting to stay a little younger _looking_ and _feeling_ than my own mother did? It's nice. I'm sixty-eight, and I look and feel, eh, early fifties, on my good days. Someone like Kasumi here, who started the gerontological treatments earlier in life than I did? Probably going to be looking thirty or so till her hair turns white."

Sam snorted. "I had a reporter ask me if I planned to keep up Spectre work till I was a hundred. I told them I'd be happy to keep at the investigative work until I fall over, but I've worked and fought hard for over twenty-five years now. Good medical or not, it takes a toll on the body. It's time to let the young kids run after the suspects now."

"Spirits hear you," Garrus said, chuckling. "Besides, we've got some good young ones now. Linianus and Eli can run after the suspects for us."

Sam snickered. "There are days when I do feel like yelling, 'Hands up! If you make me chase you, we're gonna see if you can outrun a bullet!'" He gave Gavius a sly look. "Just kidding, of course."

Gavius' teeth clicked shut. Humans had _odd_ senses of humor, when it came to jokes about duty.

After dinner, Gavius offered to take Agnes home. Her house was in the valley; close to base, but not actually on it, while his was inside the fenced perimeter. "Little out of your way," Agnes started to demur, but Gavius quietly insisted, and got her home in short order. At the door, Agnes hesitated. "I got one of those _aphora_ things, but I don't even know how to set it up," she said, after a moment. "And the directions are in _turian_."

"Is that you asking me in for a cup of _apha_?"

"Maybe it is."

"Fine. I'll set it up for you." Gavius followed Agnes inside, and saw, to his amused pleasure, that the flowers he'd most recently given her—_ianthus_, this time—were in an antique crystal vase, on her kitchen table. He puttered with the _aphora_ for a few minutes, keeping his back to her, while she made the exotic human concoction known as coffee. Into which she poured sugar and bovine lactate, of all things, turning it from black to a pale tan in color. Gavius drank his _apha_ straight, and a good thing, too; she didn't have _mellis_ in the house.

They made their way to the living room, and sat, silently, on the couch, watching moths flutter past the lights in Agnes' garden for a while, sipping their respective drinks. "You were really angry tonight," Gavius said, after a while. "I'm sorry to have brought up old wounds. A good argument is one thing, but it shouldn't actually hurt."

She shook her head. "It's all right. I still get riled up from time to time about things that shouldn't actually matter anymore." She leaned back against the cushions with a sigh. "Sam was all of _seven_ when the war happened, Gavius. He barely remembers when there _weren't_ any aliens. Dara's never lived in a world where there weren't. Where there wasn't an extranet. Where there weren't space elevators stretching like black lines up into the sky. Neither, I think, have you."

Gavius put his _apha_ mug down on a coaster, and carefully took her empty coffee mug away to do the same with it. "No, that's always been there," he admitted. "Single-day travel to the Citadel. Seventeen or so major colonies." He slipped an arm around her shoulders, very carefully, and was gratified as she leaned into him. Her skin was too cold—alarmingly so, actually. As if she'd died.

"I'd never even gone off-world before Dara's wedding," Agnes admitted.

"Not even to your _moon_?" Gavius was shocked, actually. There wasn't a single member of the Hierarchy who _hadn't_, by the time they were sixteen, been stationed _somewhere_ other than their homeworld. It was deliberately done, too, to make sure that everyone understood that they were turians, that they were a part of the Hierarchy, not just. . . Bostrans. Edessans. Macedynians.

"Nope. No reason to." Agnes tucked her head against his shoulder.

_Well, certainly explains why you weren't blooded._ Gavius carefully lifted a hand to stroke her hair back from her face. The oh-so-uncomfortable vid had stressed that humans, like turians, liked social preening. "What brought this up?"

"Just. . . trying to figure out how they're all so god-damned _calm_ about things that really _should_ be scaring the living bejeebus out of them." Agnes sounded tired. "Dara goes out and gets herself turned _part rachni_, and they just take it in stride. 'That's a nice look, girl,' is the most they say, and then she's right back out on the job. Shouldn't they. . . Christ, I don't know. Be trying to _fix_ it?" She raised a hand to her face, and Gavius realized, in startlement, that she was covering up water that was leaking from her eyes.

The vid had mentioned this, too. Gavius sorted through information in his mind, frantically. "I'm. . . supposed to do something about this. . . " he muttered, and very cautiously, since her eyes were so vulnerable, and his talons were rather long and sharp, tried to wipe the tears away. Salt. Salt and water. With her head still bowed like that, Gavius lifted his fingertip to his lip-plates, and tasted it, tentatively.

"You're already doing everything you need to," Agnes assured him, and turned a little further into him. "Just tell me how they can. . . can be so damned calm about this shit."

"They're not. Judging from your son's reactions at dinner? He's scared to death. But they joke about it to pretend that the fear isn't there. A very turian thing."

"Human, too."

He wanted, quite badly, in fact, to bite her then. "Agnes. . . that's a hard name to say."

She chuckled damply. "Probably why Alex always shortened it to Nessie. He said I wasn't an Aggie—I didn't go to Texas A&M—so I had to be a Nessie."

"Nessa?"

"I'd take it." She looked up. "You've got that confused look going again."

Gavius winced. Forty-odd years in C-Sec, and this female could read his expressions anyway. "I'm. . . not really certain what to do now," he admitted.

"I thought you had a _vid_." Faint taunt. "How hard can it be to follow instructions, anyway?"

Gavius cleared his throat, self-consciously. The vid had been entitled: _Your Human Mate: An introduction for turians, narrated by Dr. Mordin Solus._ He'd been fairly dubious about what a _salarian_—not, after all, a body breeder!—could tell him about human courtship and mating rituals. To be fair, the vid had be. . . decidedly comprehensive. Disturbingly so, in fact. What a human would likely find frightening or odd or disturbing. The fact that human females were likely to be more amorous in their forties than in their teen years. The fact that females past their breeding cycle might be more easily damaged in some ways, and methods for preventing that. "It, ah. . . went into detail on the many, many ways in which I could damage you," he said, after a moment. Such soft skin. So fragile. So easily hurt.

"Believe me, Gavius, I am not a china doll," Agnes told him with a snort. "You're the one who likes to follow the rules. So, you tell me. What's supposed to come after 'safe lunch,' 'coffee,' 'meeting the family,' and, apparently, biting and kissing?"

Gavius swallowed, and looked away, uneasily. Agnes sat up. "Okay, the vid _scared_ you, didn't it?"

"No." Gavius paused. "I'm a bit uncertain, maybe—"

"Turn it on."

"What?"

"It's tucked in your fancy omnitool, or something, right? Key it up on my screen in here. Let me see what's so bad that my _granddaughter_ could manage it—"

"Well, they are getting divorced, apparently—"

"Gavius? Not the time for that argument. Turn on the damned vid."

Twenty minutes in, Agnes had her hands over her face, and was watching through her fingers, giggling like a schoolgirl. "Oh, my _stars_! Five or six times an _hour?_"

"I'm not sixteen anymore, Nessa." He leaned down to say it softly in her ear. "Sorry. More like only two or three."

"That's fine, I, ah. . . don't think I could keep up with more." She peered up at him through though impossibly fine fingers, and then looked away hastily.

"The fringe will rise," he warned her. "Mandibles will widen."

She chuckled uneasily. "Looked a little silly on the vid."

"Might not in person."

"So. . . "

"So."

She looked up at him again, and he was absolutely certain that she was about to demur. To thank him for a lovely evening, and show him to the door, and put everything back the way it had been a few weeks ago. Internally, Gavius sighed. It had been nice, while it lasted. The thought of _not_ coming home to an empty house, waking up in an empty bed, facing empty days and empty hours had been a lovely fantasy. And now, it would come to an end.

Her hands were small, but strong, and he looked down, a bit startled, as she ran her fingertips along the rim of his cowl, tracing it through his shirt. "Why _do_ turians all tend to dress in parrot colors, anyway?" she asked, edging closer.

"Stands out. Makes it clear who's a civilian, and who's in the military, I suppose," he offered, and inhaled and remained absolutely still as she closed the gap between them and very, very carefully bit the side of his neck.

"This is . . . so absolutely weird," she admitted against the side of his throat. "I . . . _haven't._ Not in fifteen years, and I'd never thought. . . not with anyone who wasn't human—"

"Pilana was sick for a very long time," Gavius admitted, realizing his voice had tightened to a complete rasp. "It's been about that long for me, too. We don't have to go fast. We can take, oh, five, six more years. Really think about it."

Her head tilted up. "Was that a joke, Gavius Vakarian?"

He gently bit the exposed side of her neck, and heard her gasp. Could feel the delicious anticipation starting to pour through his body. His spurs unsheathed themselves. And he could feel his crest rising, the tingle of blood there and elsewhere. "What do you think?" He wasn't really answering her last question.

The blue eyes went wide, and she very, very carefully reached up to stroke his fringe now. "It. . .ah. . . doesn't look as silly as in the vid."

"Good. Would hate for you to fall off your _platform_ nest laughing."

"You think I'd break a hip?"

"I think it would be hard to explain to the paramedics." Gavius hesitated. The vid had gone into _such_ detail on the actual _mechanics_ but had been silent on things that salarians were generally dismissive of. Courtship. Emotion. Oh, foreplay had been covered. In excruciatingly embarrassing detail, actually. "How about, if you tell me what you want me to do, and I do it?"

"You'd take orders from me?"

"I'd appreciate being given orders, yes."

A tiny, almost smug smile crossed her face then. "Think you can manage picking me up without throwing out your back?"

Gavius picked her up. She was quite a bit heavier than a turian female of the same height—solid bones would do that—but most turian females were at least a little taller than she was, by an inch or two. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and her expression had softened noticeably. "Oh, you like feeling your mate's strength?"

"Yes." She paused. "Think you can find my bedroom from here?"

Gavius glanced around. The house was so tiny, it barely qualified for the name. Eat-in kitchen, great room, laundry room, and two bedrooms. And one bathing room. "I think I can find my way. Question is, do you think we can figure this out without that appalling _bad_ vid?"

"I think we're both grownups with fifty years of marriage between the two of us. Although. . . weren't we supposed to take some sort of medicine first?" Her brow crinkled.

"Yes. Whoever sent the vid also _helpfully_ included a prescription from Dr. Chakwas for the medications." Gavius pushed the door open with a foot, and took her to her odd platform nest. "Promise me something," he murmured against her ear.

"Hmm?"

"You'll still argue with me in the morning?" His voice was hopeful.

His reward was a shout of surprised laughter. "As long as you promise to respect me in the morning, I think I can promise you arguments, mister."

**Author's note:** _I have readers ranging from teens to people in their fifties, which makes me smile. That said, people past retirement age do still have sex. If the idea of having sex past the age of 45 makes you uncomfortable, you're a) in for a really boring mid-life/retirement and b) advised to skip on to the next section break. If sharing your life with a loving spouse/partner until old age catches up is your ideal? Read on._

They did take it slowly. There was no real substitute for patience and attention to detail, Gavius had found over the years. She had a tendency to kiss when a bite would have turned him on more, so he had to remind her, gently, over and over, "You're not going to hurt me. It feels good. Yes. . . like that. Harder." A human's bite exerted about a hundred and twenty pounds of pressure per square inch, if they clenched. She could probably penetrate the scales if she were fighting him, but he knew she wouldn't be able to bring that much force to bear without fear or adrenaline motivating her.

It was simply odd undressing a female who wasn't Pilana, and undressing a human was about the oddest thing he'd ever actually done. "Thought you were supposed to be giving me orders," he told her, quietly, as he slipped her light summer shirt off over her head. So. . . extremely odd. She had garments under her garments, apparently for holding her breasts anchored. He traced a line down one of the straps with a talon. "Asari dancers often wear these, I've noticed."

"If theirs hurt as much as ours do when you bounce around too much exercising, I can understand why." Her voice was crisp, but her expression was very anxious indeed.

"What's the matter?" Her scent had changed. Gavius damned well knew what fear smelled like from humans, and he really _didn't_ want to smell that in here. Not now.

"Been a really long time since anyone's, well. . . looked at me." She turned her back now, and leaned forwards slightly. "Make yourself useful and unhook this."

Tiny little loops. Gavius managed to undo them, and then she let the rest of the straps and whatever else fall away, but wouldn't turn around. He shook his head, and rested his hands on her bare waist from behind, enjoying the sensation, the lurking feeling of transgressing. Like a boy with his first crush: _She's letting me touch her waist!_ Then he leaned forward and lightly scraped his teeth along her neck. "You keep forgetting," he whispered in her ear, "to tell me what to do. Don't tell me you don't know what you want. Or maybe. . . you're the one who's scared now?"

She turned around slowly, her arms folded across her chest, and he marveled at the fact that he could feel the muscles under the softness in of her waist. Not as taut as a turian female's, of course. Human females had subcutaneous fat deposits, of course, which made them, overall, softer looking than their males. Softer feeling, too, apparently. "Are you going to hide _all_ night?" he asked, looking at her folded arms in amusement.

"I. . . fine." She dropped her arms and glared at him, which he chuckled at. "I'm not a spring chicken, and I know it—"

"And how would I know the difference between a spring chicken and a winter one? Actually, come to think of it, what's a chicken?" He'd had to make arrests in any number of bars on the Citadel over the decades. He'd seen plenty of asari wiggling their trade in various states of undress. It had done absolutely nothing for him, other than to make him, once in a while, notice a slender waist. Salarians, turians, drell, hanar. . . no breasts on the females. Batarian females had them, which at least explained why their men preferred asari females as slaves. Presumably quarians had similar structures under their suits, but who really knew? Gavius met her eyes and asked, quietly, "So. . . the vid said I was supposed to touch these?" They didn't really look all _that_ different from an asari's. A little fuller, perhaps. Differently colored, of course.

That got her to laugh. "Yes. If you want to. You don't _have_ to, but—"

He let his hands trace their way up from her waist, and began to examine each breast for texture. Weight. Consistency. "Oh, come on, I feel like fruit at the market now."

"Orders, madam, if you would, please."

"Oh, this is ridiculous—"

"Just tell me what to do, and I'll do it."

She sighed. "Circles with your palm would be a nice start."

"That, I can manage." Actually, the flesh felt soft, and yet springy, resilient under his fingers. And from the way her breath caught, she evidently _liked_ what he was doing. "So _odd_ that you're pink here—" he'd brushed his thumbs, very lightly over the tips, and his eyes widened as the tips changed shape. "Hmm. I think I was supposed to do something about that. . . .what was it. . . .oh yes." He leaned down and licked one, then the other. The vid had mentioned something about the turian tongue being rougher than a human's, and to be gentle, as the stimulation might be very intense, depending on the individual's personal sensitivity.

She made a choking sound, almost a mewl, and her knees gave way as she sat down on the edge of the raised nest abruptly. "Oh, dear," Gavius told her, smiling faintly. "I believe I was moving in advance of your orders again, madam. You may have to reprimand me."

"Shirt off, Vakarian."

"Not much of a punishment. Surely, you can do better than that."

The blue eyes sparkled with amusement now. "Lie back—oh, crap." His spurs had, as soon as he'd done so, caught on the bedding, and they had to free him without ripping anything. The more so, because the quilt was her own handiwork. But once they'd gotten past that minor hurdle, Gavius kept his feet off the edge of the bed, and she began to explore with curious, gentle hands. Hands that had a lifetime of work and experience in them. Strong and capable, shy and yet knowing at the same time. Even simple touch made him feel so very damned good. Pilana had hurt too much, most days, given her condition, for him to do more than help her from one chair to another. Even stroking her fringe had caused pain sometimes. And in so much pain, the last thing she'd wanted to do was touch him in return. Oh, she'd been loving and giving to the last. Concerned for the state of his spirit. But touching hadn't been something to give or receive for longer than some of his grandchildren had been alive.

"Bite, too?" she asked, slowly working her way down his chest.

"If you want to, yes. Spirits, yes."

Soft smells in the room. Human perfume—not a lot of it, but coming from bottles on the dresser. Potpourri in a dish on the nightstand. Clean sheets. Her skin. She hesitated at his belt, and looked up. "We don't have to do anything more," he told her, and stroked that strange, soft human hair.

"You don't want to?" Wavering note of uncertainty there.

"Oh, wanting to is not the problem." Gavius sat back up and reversed their positions. "I just think you have a terrible sense of justice. If that's your idea of _punishment_, no wonder Earth has such a _rampant_ crime problem." Careful little nips under her jaw, stealing her words. "Orders, madam, remember, I don't know what in the spirits' names I'm doing here." He was propped up on one elbow, looking down at her.

"You've got two hands, don't you?" A little mock-asperity in her voice now. "Why don't you put _this_ one to use?" She picked up his free hand and his breath caught when she bit the fleshy part of his palm, just under the thumb, eyes never leaving his, though they were wide and a little nervous.

"Depends on where you want that hand employed." Gavius waited for her to lower his hand. . . and then exhaled when he found his target. "I wasn't really expecting this tonight, Nessa. I didn't blunt my claws."

"So we'll be careful."

Very, very careful. Very, very gentle, until she didn't want gentle anymore. Sweet pleasure of taking her for the first time, the look of surprise on her face something he thought he'd take with him to his grave. She had surprises in store for him, though, too. She could be quite demanding, and her fingers and neatly trimmed nails could scrape along his shoulders and arms quite satisfactorily.

Still, he wasn't quite sure how much ferocity she could take. And he was very, very cautious indeed, moving a pillow over her shoulder once he turned her to her stomach to try control position with her. It had been a very long time, and he didn't trust his control. . . and doubted very much if she'd be eager to wear his marks. The pillow took the bite as his jaws locked down and he moved to his final release. . . and once he finally let go of the reflexive grimace, he realized he'd left holes in the damn thing. "Sorry," Gavius murmured. "I think I'd have been gentler if it were your skin, but with nothing to hurt there, I think I got a little carried away." He brushed her hair back out of her face. "You're all right?"

"Mmm-hmm." Lazy contentment. "No itching, no hives in bad places." A quick, sly smile. "You?"

"Very relaxed."

"Well, they do say it's good for the heart."

"Regular endorphin release. Exercise. Should be a recommended part of the daily health regimen."

"Like fiber." Her tone was virtuous, but carried with it a purr of amusement and pleasure he hadn't really been expecting, but enjoyed. "You'll stay?" Her tone was hopeful, but as if she were bracing herself for disappointment.

"I'm going to tear up your sheets," Gavius muttered, and rolled over to his side, pulling her close. "That could be a good thing, though."

She'd just snuggled back into him, her spine to his chest, and now turned her head to stare at him. "How the hell do you figure that?"

"Will give us something to argue about in the morning."

He stroked her hair as he listened to her breathing slow and become more even, more regular. He had absolutely no idea what the future was going to bring. He figured that they'd just. . . see what happened. They both had a good eighty years of living ahead of them, if not longer, if medical advances continued. A full second lifetime, for both of their species, in a way. If he'd been sixteen, he might have, in the bliss of a good night of loving, have asked her to consider a _commeditor. _Of course, humans didn't have wedding contracts—part of the problem, Gavius figured, between their respective grandchildren. And he could just about hear her reaction if he did ask her that. _"Gavius, I'm used to living alone, doing things at my own whim. What would I do with you underfoot all the time? Arguing with you once a week is tiring enough. You'll want to argue all the time if you live here."_

And then he'd probably tell her, _"Live here? Why not live at my villa?" _

"_What, when I just got this garden more or less the way I like it?" _

"_Mine's barely even started. You could help me set it up."_

"_And what have I been doing since you put your first scaly toe on Mindoir, anyway?"_

Gavius chuckled under his breath. Nessa stirred. "Something's funny?"

"Nothing. Go back to sleep." He locked his arm around her a little more tightly, and rested his own head on the too-soft human pillow. The bed felt like he was sinking into quicksand, but he could make do, he figured.

Another restless movement or two, however, woke her. "What's the matter? Bed not comfortable?"

"It _is_ a little soft." He didn't want to sound like he was complaining. Not right _now._

"Easy to fix that." She rolled over, and leaned past him. Soft skin dragging against his scales. Fumbled around on the far nightstand. . . and handed him an oblong controller with dimly glowing numbers on it. "Higher the number, the firmer your side of the bed turns." She yawned. "Get comfy, and for god's sake, go to sleep. You are, by the way, the best hot water bottle _ever_." And with that indecipherable statement, she put her cold feet on his shins, and pulled his free arm over her again. Along with an assortment of blankets.

Gavius started to chuckle in perfect amusement. _Such a simple solution_, he thought, hearing air hiss into the bed as he adjusted his side. _If compromise was always __this__ easy, we wouldn't have wars. And divorce would never happen. _Comfortable at last, he fell asleep. And when he woke up again, disoriented and confused as to where in the spirits' names he was, recollection came as soon as he smelled hair and skin, and felt the alien cool-warm of her body pressed against his. As far as he could tell, she hadn't moved all night. _I'm going to get any __number__ of comments from my first-son_, Gavius realized, with grim amusement. _They might be worth it, though._

**Dara, Arvuna, November 29, 2196**

For their own protection against their oh-so-uncertain allies, the Spectres were sleeping in shifts inside their very crowded shuttles on the jungle moon of Arvuna. Dara, Seheve, Sky, and Rinus had one shuttle; Ylara, Melaani, Kirrahe, and Zhasa had the other. At the moment, Dara was tired, but was keeping Seheve company on watch, while Sky and Rinus dozed. Dara's hand was never far from her rifle. They had Eclipse mercenaries in the same damned camp as Growth Zero ecoteurs, and the potential for violence and betrayal on any side was uncomfortably high.

She was writing to Eli at the moment, to help herself stay awake; when Seheve went off-watch, it would be Dara's turn to be on, officially, with Rinus as her backup, and so on down the line. Technically, all her little workers were watching, too. Chopin sat on her shoulder, and Dara knew that Liszt and a couple of the others were outside, in the underbrush around the shuttle, watching and smelling the night air. Their minds were a chorus that shared her unease, yet sang reassurance to her. _—Two-footed feathered ones, moving among trees. No danger. Sing fear-songs of the size of the group of singers gathered here._

—_Kelen birds?_

—_Tall feathered things, yes. Sing hunting-songs, but also fear-songs._

Dara had seen the kelen birds in the distance. They were close to the height of a turian, with long necks, like an ostrich. . . but much, much thicker. And they had sword-like beaks. She knew that some African vultures could exert 1,200 pounds of pressure per square inch with their beaks, as they, in flocks of one or two hundred birds, could strip a six hundred pound carcass in less than five minutes. That was more jaw pressure than a varren. . . concentrated in a smaller mouth. A hawk, back home, had less power in its beak, but that's because its _feet_ were its killing weapons. Three hundred and fifty pounds of pressure per square inch, in tiny talons. . . _Villi_ bites were less about force and a good deal more about the poison in their teeth. Dara had been speculating to herself about the kelen birds, wondering just how powerful their beaks were, since they were the birds' primary form of attack—the legs and feet were specialized for running, not for killing. She'd gotten an object lesson in that yesterday, actually, when one of the Growth Zero people had brought in a companion who'd had his arm sliced down to the bone by a kelen bird who'd caught him in her territory. _They hunt large, aardvark-like creatures and tapir-like creatures in the forests here,_ she wrote now to Eli. _Except, of course, they're not mammals. The aardvark-like critter is a reptile, one of only a handful on Arvuna. Long nose, long tongue. At least it keeps the local ants and firebiters under control. Sort of. Some of those ant-like insects are two inches long. Chopin and Liszt and Zappa have declared them 'tasty,' however. Also, valuable source of protein for carapace. They have offered me several of them and I have said __nooooooo__, thank you. _

_We've spent the last two weeks taking out small batarian base after small batarian base. I've belly-crawled through mud, and waded through enough mangrove-like swamps to last me a lifetime. It's not the huge, arching roots going up over my head. It's the fact that the water is the color of chocolate milk, and every bit as opaque. And the fact that stuff lives in there. Not pretty Siamese fighting fish, oh, no. Stuff closer in disposition and size to piranhas. Parasites. Worms. Bacteria. I really don't want any of this water on my exposed skin. And while there are no crocodiles or alligators (my uncle Hamilton would be so disappointed to know that), but we are talking amphibious predators easily eighteen feet long. They're called sarcho locally. _

_Something the size of a stretch limo and a mouth bigger than my head? No thanks to that, too. I did a little poking around on the local information sites—no actual extranet access, but the batarians don't have all the local computers and networks locked down—and it looks like the big carnivorous amphibians are considered close to labrynthodontia from Earth's Devonian period. Specifically Archegosauroidea. I'll let you look them up for the picture and for your paleontology classes. Kirrahe's fascinated. Says they look like intassa back home on Sur'Kesh. I'm just glad the island I lived on there was in the middle of deep water. At any rate, they're ambush predators, just like an alligator, and sure enough, one of them got ahold of some Growth Zero guy yesterday as we were traveling to this campsite. He'd been wounded, and there was still blood on his clothes. All we heard was a splash, a scream, and as my head turned, there was still a ripple in the water where he'd been, and the flow of a slick skin heading back under the brown, muddy water. I fired and tagged the damn thing, but I was the only person carrying, you know, a rifle in my hands, except Seheve, but she only uses that for perch solutions, pretty much. Rinus and Kirrahe ducked right under the water, trying to see if they could see anything, and the amphibian came back up out of the water, dropping the guy, and turned on Rinus next, since he was closest by. He managed to dodge, and, smart guy that he is, he got his arms around the snout and held the jaws together, and shouted for someone to either tie its jaws or shoot the damned thing. The jaws are designed, like most muscle groups in most animals, to be strong in one direction, but not in others. It couldn't open its mouth, not with Rin holding on like grim death. . . but it tried to pull away and roll and all that. Kirrahe swam up out of the water and landed on the thing's back, and reached forward and looped a flex-tie around its mouth and cinched it tight. _

_I'd already moved to check on his guy—younger guy, former Midiphan collector for New Dawn Pharmaceuticals, name of Kevin Tsao. He'd taken a lungful of the water, and had very nasty bite, which was now also coated with muddy water. Have I mentioned, __parasites__ and __bacteria__?_ _So, yeah, I was busy there for a minute. Would you believe, Bassanelli wanted the thing released? T'laro, the Eclipse commander, just walked up and shot it in the head. Gave Melaani a look as she did it, too. Hard to read, since the Eclipse folks all wear those full, closed-off masks._ _But if I had to put it in words. . . 'Hey, bitch, you should have done this yourself. Get these humans in line, or I'll do it for you.' Mel sure as hell put the tough act on more firmly after that. For me. . . kind of a bad flashback to the Trial in boot camp. All the __dachae__ in the river there? Gah. I'm hoping that when I close my eyes tonight, I won't see that all over again. _

_So why were we out there, hip-deep in muddy water, when we've got shuttles? Good question. Batarians are holed up in the local spaceport here on the big island continent of Delos, just on the outskirts of Troy, the main city. Which means that they have flight control sensors. They can see shuttles moving. When we dropped initially, they sent scouts the next morning to check on the shuttles, thinking they were Growth Zero or Eclipse ships. Zhasa and Kirrahe apparently had their hands full while the rest of us were wading to the GZ camp. Since then, we've moved the shuttles twice, most recently to this GZ camp where I'm now at. The safest method of moving is actually by boat. They have inflatable boats, with hovercraft motors, but those still make a fair bit of noise. So when we're trying to get someplace undetected. . . yeah. All the equipment goes in the boats, and the rest of us are wading or swimming beside the damned things, and pushing them along. Very pre-industrial. We'd hit the last small batarian base on the outskirts of Troy, and were making our low-speed get-away. Going through the swamps and not overland also helps us hide from batarian shuttle flights overhead. All we generally have to do is stop under a mangrove tree, or maybe duck under the water, and we're invisible. Yes, even I'm carrying a biosign masker at the moment. One more thing to weigh me down, but necessary._

_Why was the guy with the bloody clothes walking hip-deep in water? 'Cause we had three other wounded in the boats, who I couldn't fix up entirely on scene. See, I'm anticipating the questions of that keen investigative mind of yours. It's not just SIU and warrior-castes here, Tyr._ Dara paused in her typing. She'd almost slipped and called Eli _amatus_ there, and while she thought he'd be pleased by that, just as much as him calling her _sai'kaea_ pleased her, she didn't want to leave any traces in the letters that could be taken the wrong way by _anyone_. And of course, she was going back through and editing out names wherever possible. And, past that. . . she didn't want to use the same endearment for Eli that she'd always used for Rel. It felt wrong. Like bad luck, however irrationally. _Ciea'lia_ meant to cherish. _Ciea'la'yili_ meant, thus, _my cherished one_, but it didn't sound quite right. _Weia'ria_ was _warrior_. Which wasn't _all_ that Eli was, of course. _Pi'teilu_ was _protector_ or _huntress_. _Soa'ila'a _was a singer.

However asari was very, very flexible in allowing the speaker to mix and match root words to create new meanings, even idiosyncratic ones. _Ciea's__oa'teilu_ was the closest Dara had managed to come, so far, to coming up with something that described _everything_ that Eli had come to mean to her. Cherished-singer-protector. It was . . . unwieldy. _Soa'teilu_ might not be a bad stab at 'brood-warrior' however. Or _Soa'weia._ _Ciea'soa_, or _ciea'teilu_ were also possibilities. Cherished singer, cherished protector. Dara chuckled under her breath and decided to use one of them, just to get a reaction. _So, . . . __ciea'teilu__. Is that a good word? I can't tell. One thing that sitting around in a camp, surrounded by Eclipse sisters on one side and human ecoteurs on the other is this: I've had a hell of a lot of chances to practice my asari. All the Eclipse sisters use it exclusively around each other. I was doing good when I got here if I could pick out one word in ten. Now, I'm halfway understanding most of their conversations. Of course, on the other hand, I kind of don't want to. I'm also much better acquainted with asari curse-words than I ever wanted to be. _

_Anyway, here I am, waiting till morning, when we're going to go hit the batarians where they live. Can't tell you how, exactly. _ Dara bit her lip, and changed the subject. _I __did__ get your last letter in record time. A grade three concussion? Don't mess around, and __don't__ get hit on the head again in the next six months if you can avoid it. You might even consider wearing a mouth-guard in combat. I know, it might interfere with radio communication, but there are any number of people who've theorized that significant personality alterations and even old fashioned 'shell-shock' have come from repeated concussions. And I like you the way you are. _

_A thresher maw? Well, just like that __dragon__ you fought on Tuchanka, I __might__ have had some doubts, if you hadn't included the vid clips._ Dara and Zhasa had both gotten their expected spurt of mail at the same time this morning, and Dara had been on a break from changing dressings on various patients and administering the morning round of antibiotics to some of her Leshmann's patients. She and the quarian had headed into the shuttles to read their letters in peace, _away_ from all the prying eyes. Apparently, Dempsey had led off his letter with that piece of news, because Zhasa, within five minutes of opening her file, had exclaimed _"Keelah!_ What _is_ that thing?" and projected the vid stills for Dara to see. "Oh, by the ancestors, I _know_ he's all right, otherwise he couldn't have written to me. . . never any more details than a report. He could use bullet points," the quarian had muttered, in some agitation. "But surely, 'found and killed the grandfather of all thresher maws. Minimal casualties,' is a little terse, even for Dempsey?"

Dara's heart had more or less stopped at that point as she'd gotten a feel for the _scale_ of the thresher maw. . . especially when the camera had captured it picking up and throwing a Hammerhead aside. "Who was in it?" she'd demanded, pointing. "Hell, who was in the truck that it hit?"

"No one in the Hammerhead," Zhasa had replied, and they sat then, side-by-side, trying to piece together _exactly_ what had happened from Eli and Dempsey's respective letters. It was tacked on at the _end_ of Eli's letter.

"So," Dara told Zhasa, in some annoyance, "he probably wasn't going to mention it at all, so as not to worry.. . . anyone here. . . " she caught herself from saying _me_, just in time, "and then added a little at the end because he knew Dempsey had mentioned it." Her stomach was churning now. _He was driving. Rel was on the main guns. They __both__ could have been killed._ The part of her that still held affection, loyalty, and friendship for Rel flinched at that, as much as the rest of her tightened at the idea of Eli facing off against that titan. Batarians, yes, you made your bets and took your chances. Yahg were obviously worse than that, but they were still humanoid. Sort of. They weren't the height of a fourteen story building, nor seething with inimical hatred of all other life. The yahg undoubtedly had motivations. Thresher maws just had instinct, and nearly limitless destructive potential.

_And I wasn't there to help. Of course, what good would I have been there, anyway?_ The pragmatic thought followed on the heels of the guilty, frustrated one. _No one to patch up until the end of the fight. Would have been slower than both of them running away from the damn thing, and plenty of good shots already there. No, my being there wouldn't have made any difference at all. Might have just made things worse._

Still, as she wrote her reply, she did poke Eli for it. _So, am __I__ ever going to be along for one of these big, life-altering battles? I don't mean to sound like your little fierce one here, but I am feeling just a little left out__, __ciea'teilu__._ Dara smiled, and then added, _Of course, I'm kind of busy where I am. I'll definitely run your idea of cover identities past Kasumi for any missions that involve __not__ being shot at constantly. __Next comm drop, when I send this letter to you. How's that?_ It was light-hearted, but not at all how Dara felt at the moment. She _missed_ Eli. She missed all her friends. She missed being surrounded by them, missed having Eli on one side of her and Lin on the other as they fought on Omega. She'd rarely felt _that_ safe in combat. Kirrahe and Ylara, from that team, were here, but it wasn't the same. And she wanted to talk to Eli. Get his read on the asari and the human factions around her. Wanted to hear him tease her and laugh at her accent in asari. . . anything, really. Wanted to hear his song, have it wash through her in blues and reds. And she couldn't put one word of this longing into the file in front of her.

At that point, Dara's omnitool chirped. She touched a panel, and sat up, surprised. Cassandra, on the _Sollostra_, had finished her database search. _I apologize that this took so long, Dr. Jaworski,_ the AI had noted at the top of the transmission. _I was unable to use Bastion resources for this, for obvious jamming and stealth reasons. The information you requested was actually in my own memory banks from when I was stationed at Bastion during the plague period. However, there was a certain amount of correlation required. Edward Valdis Moravec_, _on reaching Bastion, did not commonly use his full name. There are only three people in my admittedly incomplete logs from the med bays with that surname. Ted V. Moravec, age 19, was admitted to the med bay May 15, 2196, on D level. You did not work on his case. Nor on the case of his girlfriend, Monica Ramos. Who died May 21, 2196. She was apparently six months pregnant at the time of death. I only know this, because paternity of the child was attributed on the death certificate to Ted Moravec. No name for the stillborn child was given. Ted V. Moravec was released from the med bay May 24, 2196. No further data._

"Oh, dear god," Dara said out loud, staring at the message. "How the hell am I supposed to tell Moravec that?"

Seheve looked up. "There is a problem?"

Dara exhaled. "I promised Moravec I'd look into his son's welfare on Bastion. See if he survived the plague. He did. Which is the good news. Bad news is that he had a pregnant girlfriend who _didn't_." Dara looked up at Seheve, meeting the drell's dark eyes. "How am I supposed to tell him, 'yeah, your son's alive, but you were almost a grandpa, but now you're not. Oh, and your son probably didn't tell you about that part. And now he's pretty much alone and hurting. . . and still hasn't reached out to you. Because the mad's still outweighing the hurt. Or they're all mixed up together.'" Dara spread her hands. "Hell. I don't know if I even _should_ tell him anything. Might make things worse." She'd talked out the politics of the GZ and Eclipse situation often with Melaani, Ylara, Seheve, and Rinus in the past two weeks. Dara thought she had a slight emotional connection with Moravec, though it was dicey. It was a balancing act, getting him to see her both as a kid, someone to be protected, but also as an adult, Spectre, and doctor. Someone to be respected. Because the 'doctor' and 'Spectre' categories automatically get her resentment, and the 'kid' category got her condescension. On the other hand, Dr. Bassanelli was a pure ideologue. Anything for the cause. Dara knew he'd lost his wife, and that was _probably_ the proximate cause of his fall into real violence. . . but it was also a pain close to twenty years in the past. Using it to reach his emotions, appeal to his better nature? Might not work. Melaani had made a couple of efforts to ask him about his wife, to gain his sympathies, but given her current work with Eclipse, it had been a difficult sell, at best, for the asari. Ylara was no more appropriate than Melaani, Dara was too young, again, and Seheve. . . well, none of them had asked the former assassin if she could approach Bassanelli. _We'll keep Seheve as much under wraps as possible,_ Ylara had decided, early on. _That way, she'll have the element of surprise working in her favor._

Of course, with all three groups working together, it was hard to disguise their capabilities. The fact that Kirrahe and Rinus were both technical specialists of some form or another was difficult to hide, as was their mutual affinity for heavy weapons. . . or at least, Rinus' predilection for a shotgun. T'laro had, at least once, come by their shuttles and asked Rinus, to his face, "So. You planning to give your clan-name, Spectre?"

"No." Rinus' voice had been cold, and his manner had turned inwards. He'd suddenly looked as if he bulked twice what he normally did. _Alpha body language_, Dara had thought, watching in interest.

"Given the yellow paint, Spectre, I wonder if you _might_ be, say, Rellus Velnaran? Nephew of Garrus Vakarian?" She'd laughed and gestured towards Dara. "Although, in which case, being along with your _marai'ha'sai,_ who seems to have misplaced her paint. . . and your clan-name. . . must be _uncomfortable_ for you."

_Close, but no cigar._

Rinus had bared his teeth to her. "On my life and on my honor, I am not Rellus Velnaran. Nor has Dr. Jaworski, now or ever, been my mate."

T'laro's brow had crinkled slightly, and she'd merely replied, "Interesting. . . " before walking away again. Rinus had looked at Dara, and she'd shaken her head, exhaling. It had clearly been a test of some sort. But the question was, if she'd thought he was _Rinus_ Velnaran, son-in-law to the Imperator and nephew of Garrus Vakarian and Lilitu Shepard, or if she'd genuinely thought he was Rellus. Rinus would make a hell of a lot better of a prize, in many ways.

And of course, T'laro had, on any number of occasions, just sat there, staring at Dara. Dara kept her mask down most of the time anyway, and wore sunglasses the rest of the time—and had made a mental note to buy a set closer in style to welder's goggles, which she could wrap around her head in the field and not worry about losing, or people trying to knock off her face—but that constant scrutiny had her on edge. She made damned sure that she never got separated from her workers. . . or from Sky for any appreciable length of time.

In the here and now, Dara looked at Seheve. "So, what do you think? Should I give Moravec the bad news? It's hard to see what _good_ will come of it."

Seheve shrugged, and her eyes went distant as she probably processed memories. Finally, the drell replied, softly, "You might win his trust with this."

Dara's eyebrows went up. "You think? You don't think he's going to think it's made up, a ploy for his emotions?"

Seheve's dark eyes were unreadable. "He might. It's all in the method of presentation. If you show awareness that the information might make him angry or upset, that would be a start, I think. If you let your discomfort with this possibility, and your own sorrow at what transpired on Bastion show, this, too, could work in your favor. But I would leave it at informing him. Perhaps an 'I'm sorry.' And then leave him to it."

Dara squinted at Seheve. "Melaani always talks about managing the message. Watching for reactions."

"Yes, and that is entirely what he would expect out of someone intending to manipulate him, is it not?" Seheve splayed her fingers out in front of her, studying the fine scales on the delicate appendages, apparently. "My manipulations of others were not as long-term or grand in scale as Spectre T'soa's, but I did have to motivate people to follow me. To believe me. To venture places away from common view, if nothing else." There was regret in that voice, remote as Seheve's eyes were at the moment. "Being honest with him, being. . . vulnerable, I think, is the word?. . . will help."

"Being human, you mean," Dara said, quietly, looking down.

"Yes," Seheve told her, crouching down. The drell female always seemed self-contained. She was about five inches shorter than Dara was, herself, but always moved with an effortless, fluid grace, that Dara felt like a giant clodhopper. The way Kasumi moved, or Serana. . . although Serana moved more like a tigress, and was taller than Dara was, herself. "Wait until morning, though. And I will go with you, and watch your back."

Dara's lips quirked. "T'laro?"

"T'laro and all her commandoes," Seheve agreed, nodding, her eyes bleak. "Asari seek extreme sensations and experiences. Their lives are so long, they find many ways in which to alleviate the tedium of centuries. Some become ascetics, denying their flesh, denying their bodies. Others become hedonists. Sensualists. Opposite ends of the same spectrum, but always in search of more extremes. Some of the ascetics beat themselves, it's said. Take pain, slowly, to new extremes. For them, Spectre Tesara would be. . . a delight."

Dara's stomach clenched. "Siara wouldn't let herself be used that way again."

"If it were her last defense, to protect herself or another, I suspect that she would." Seheve studied Dara now. "She and I . . . . and Spectre Zhasa'Maedan, and Spectre Dempsey, and Spectre Sidonis. . . and you, Spectre Jaworski. . . would represent another sort of delicacy. We all experienced the awakening of the Keepers. I, in particular, hold the experience with perfect immediacy. Rest assured, I do not relish the thought of any of them knowing this about me. Any more than I wish them to know, that like Commander Shepard, I have the Prothean language within me. The Conduit. . . the key to all their knowledge." Seheve looked decidedly uncomfortable now.

Dara remembered how delicately Ylara had taken that memory from Eli's mind, how moved the older Spectre had been, and winced at the thought of it being taken by force, swallowed whole, and then disregarded. Another curio for the collection. Not really understood or appreciated, just something consumed on the way to the next delicacy. "Any of us would be of interest," Dara muttered, glumly. "Spectres have strong songs."

She could, though she didn't want to, remember the moments on the _Raedia_, when she'd slipped too far from her humanity. And when everyone else had been a ghost to her, she'd still been _aware_, somehow, of Eli's song. And Lin's, and Serana's. Kasumi's had been across the ship from her, but it had been there, too. It hadn't required touch, at that point. She couldn't hear their thoughts, their memories. . . but they'd been there. Linked to her. If asari saw the world anything like the rachni did. . . strong minds, filled with experiences and complexity, would be like catnip to them. Add to that any genetic abnormalities, especially for asari who ascribed to the idea of 'genetic memory' being passed on to their offspring. . . oh yes. There were reasons to fear an unscrupulous asari.

—_Little-queen sings strong songs,_ Chopin and the other workers told her, a calm chorus of assurance. —_Cold-song asari cannot harm her._

_Thanks, but I don't entirely believe that. . . . _

So, in the morning, Seheve followed at her back as Dara, in full armor, headed out to try to find Moravec in the various tents and aluminum portable housing solutions that had been moved to this remote enclave on Delos. Moravec and his wife, Ennia, had one of the box-like aluminum campers for their own use. She tapped on the door, and was surprised when Ennia let her in after only a brief glance. . . although the woman's brown eyes were warily fixed on Seheve. _Oh, good. Yes. I'm supposed to be more threatening than she is. She's supposed to be in the background, invisible. But I can't hold these people's respect._ Dara sighed. Then again, she was mostly supposed to be working _with_ these people, not scaring them. "Mrs. Moravec? Your husband had asked me to look into your son's whereabouts on Bastion. May we come in?"

Ennia Moravec backed away, her tanned face going pale. "Len? The Spectres are here. They've got word about Edward. . . ." The woman's hands clasped together, almost involuntarily, it looked, and she gestured to the exceedingly Spartan surroundings. There were a couple of stools in this front portion of the living quarters, but that was all. "I'll go get him," the woman said, brushing salt-and-pepper hair out of her eyes, and then vanished behind a curtain. A few moments later, she lifted the curtain out of the way, as Moravec wheeled himself out. Dara was certain, from looking at the man's heavy arms, that he actually pulled himself around by his arms a lot of the time, but for company, he preferred, undoubtedly, to be able to meet their eyes at closer to their own level, and not be forced into crawling on the ground. Hence, the wheelchair.

"Well? You've got something about our boy. . . _Doctor?_" Moravec's voice, as usual, was gruff.

Dara sighed, and relayed the news as gently as she could. This was like telling a patient that they had something degenerative and painful, but possibly treatable. . . if they started on it _now_. "I'm glad to say he was alive, as of May. That's the most recent record our ship had, and we can't get through to Bastion most of the time to get more detailed records." _The only reason we're getting mail through is the tight-beam FTL transmissions between the __Normandy__-class ships._ "Unfortunately, his girlfriend and their unborn child. . . " Dara paused, watching their faces. Surprise, of course. "I'm sorry. They didn't make it." She offered them the slim datapad with the information on it, wincing. She could just imagine her dad's reaction if someone had passed along the same information to him.

Ennia sat down heavily, mouth opening. Moravec just stared at Dara. "I . . . I knew he had a girlfriend," Ennia said, after a moment. "I got a couple of letters—he didn't want to talk with his father, but he did send me a couple of notes. 'Hi, I got here okay,' and whatever else. . ." Ennia put her face down in her hands, as Moravec took the datapad from Dara, face absolutely gray at the moment.

"I'm really sorry," Dara said, and she meant it. Their son hadn't liked his father's choices. He'd been only peripherally involved in their crimes. He'd probably lived aboard their ship, where the prisoners were kept, for instance. He might have been ordered to help take care of them, might have even been told to help kidnap them. But the instant he was old enough to make his own choices, he'd left. Opted to take his chances on Bastion, with what education they'd been able to give him. A very tough choice. And he'd paid for it. The pregnant girlfriend, so quickly after going there. . . he'd paid for it all. In grief and the destruction of that new life. "I should leave you two alone," Dara said, quietly. "I'm sorry it wasn't better news."

"Dr. Jaworski? Spectre?" Moravec was looking after her now, and she turned back to glance at him, raising her eyebrows behind her sunglasses. "Thank you."

Dara shook her head. "Cassandra, the AI of the _Sollostra_, is the one who did the work," she said, immediately. "But I'll pass your thanks along to her. She likes being appreciated."

Night operations were, by and large, preferred. Very few of them had stealth nets, and darkness gave them a lot more cover than daylight allowed. Tonight's operation was their most ambitious, and, if it went off successfully, would remove the batarians from the main city of Troy here on the island-continent of Delos. Dr. Bassanelli had made a few very dry jokes about possible building an enormous wooden horse as a decoy to gain the batarians' attention; absolutely no one else in the Spectres had gotten that reference, not even Ylara, who had _some_ understanding of Terran literature, but had not, apparently, delved into Shepard or Kasumi's shelves of classic books. Most of the other Growth Zero people hadn't looked like they'd gotten it, either. Dara felt uncomfortably alone. _The human with whom I technically have the most in common, is the next best thing to a sociopath. A pure ideologue. But an educated one._

Ylara, Melaani, Rinus, Dara, and T'laro and Bassanelli had pored over maps of the settlement for over a week now. Dara had been able to contribute very little, but she had to at least _look_ involved in the process. Troy sat on the delta of the Gyge river, between and around three fingers of the river as it flowed into the sea. The seaport itself was situated on the deepest water, a half-circle cove oriented towards the southwest. There were warehouses on the docks, long piers, and a cannery for the fishing boats and their hauls. Further inland were the other major employers of Troy: New Dawn Pharmaceuticals, Binary Helix, and the CoAgo eezo refinery. Behind that, situated away from the sea, and on more solid, stable ground, were a hospital and a school, residential areas, and, about 5 kilometers inland, the spaceport. The land to the east, towards the furthest fork in the river, where the refinery was the furthest building in the settlement, other than the defense towers, was a flood plain, and then dropped off into swamp. The area around the deeper water of the cove was, yet again, mangrove swamp, and the only thing that distinguished its waters from the ocean itself was the gradual downwards slope, increasing depth, decreasing number of trees, and general salinity. And, apparently, eventually, a mile or so out to sea, the brown silt content eventually petered out. _The Mississippi,_ Dara thought, in amusement, _has got nothing on this place for __mud__._

They were speeding along, for the moment, through the swamps in those inflatable rubber boats she'd described to Eli in her letter. Each actually rode above the water on a cushion of air, as much to protect the environment as to protect _them_ from predators. Once they were within a kilometer, however, of the southeast corner of the city, they killed the engines, and got out.

Dara had been surprised and pleased by the fact that her eyes really _were_ like a rachni's now. She could see better in the dark than she had before—not as well as a drell, certainly, but beyond the human norm. And Eli's question, weeks ago, had been on the money; because her visual range had increased, she _could_ see some thermal now, just as she could see some UV. Of course, the ambient temperature was right around 100º F/37.7º C, and all the Spectres except Sky were in full armor. . .and so were all of the Eclipse people. The armor was the same temperature as the air, so thermal didn't do anything. The GZ people, however, only wore body armor and helmets; their arms and legs were exposed, and she could see them fairly clearly, for all that the ambient temperature and their body heat weren't that far apart.

"_Freya?"_ That was Ylara, over the Spectre encrypted channel. "_You, Zhasa, Seheve, and Sky, team one. I'm taking Melaani, Rinus, and Kirrahe. Refinery is our first target. You're east, from the swamps. We're west. We'll be using the cannery as cover at first. Growth Zero's sending two teams with you. Eclipse is sending two teams with us."_ Ylara's voice was tight, and Dara agreed with her, silently. There was nothing good about this.

The refinery was still manned, even at this hour of night. It would have been third shift, under normal human operations. Of course, the batarians were now employing slave labor. Many of the people were already employed by the plant. . . but just as many hadn't been, before. Unskilled hands. Accidents would be happening. Ore grinders and the chemical processes used to extract eezo from raw ore weren't things best suited for people ignorant of their use.

Dara nodded to Ylara, and Rinus patted her helmet as she went by, the idle gesture of an affectionate older brother. It still surprised her every time he gave it to her, actually. She, Sky, Seheve, and Zhasa moved around the southern side of the building, followed, much to her surprise, by Bassanelli himself, and Moravec, on his hovercycle, which had stealth engine setting, it appeared, along with four more of their people. Dara looked at her team. Zhasa was, like Dempsey, a bulwark, when she put her mind to it, for all the quarian female's delicate frame. Seheve could sneak into _anything_, and had the technical skill to turn off the damned refinery equipment. Sky, of course, was Sky. And she was heading in from this direction to snipe. . . and to check on any injured workers. They were, in essence, the quiet strike team. Kirrahe, Rinus, Ylara, and Melaani were the action team, for the moment, anyway.

"_We're in position,"_ Ylara murmured over the radio. _"Heading in. . . three. . . two. . . one. . . "_

Dara heard nothing at first. As it should be. All of them had silencers for their small arms. They were going into the refinery during third-shift on purpose, after all. Fewer people working. Fewer guards on duty and awake. If they did this right—fast and quiet—it wouldn't be nearly as hard as if they had to face down all the guards at once.

Dara settled down into a crouch to wait. "What are we waiting for?" Moravec asked softly. "We should be busting in the back door right now."

"We're waiting for Spectre Aliir to give us an idea of what precisely is in there," Seheve said, softly. "And for the batarians to commit to defending against their assault."

"And how will we know—"

_I will tell you,_ Sky sang, and just then, his battle-vision sparkled into place behind Dara's eyes. Over the years, Sky's songs had become more complex. Or perhaps it was the rachni within her now; her ability to understand and, in part, _participate in_ his song, had changed. In any case, the vision was more than just dots now. Now, when she _saw_ an enemy or a friend, that friend was outlined in blue, and the foe was outlined in red. It _really_ cut down on the friendly-fire. For the moment, it was like looking through and into the building.

Moravec choked. "He's. . . he's inside my mind. . . "

"No," Dara said, getting up from her crouch. "He's just singing, and you're listening. Nothing more." _Sky, beautiful as always. What does Ylara say we have?_

_Singers of captive-songs. Binders. Some who sing deception songs._

_Slavers and SIU then. Lovely. But no warriors?_

_Not as Sorrow-Singer has shown them to me from her time in Omega._ Sky hesitated. _Also, asari songs, but . . . nearly silenced. Muffled._ Violet distress in his voice now. _Are these those whose light has been put out?_

_Probably, yes. _

_I have not heard them so close before. This is a vile song. Those who sing it should be brought to ruin._

_Couldn't agree more with you. We'll sing destruction songs together?_

_Always, little-singer, little-queen._ Blue-green affection now, and Dara smiled behind her helmet.

"Okay, watch out for stasis fields. Batarian slavers _love_ those guns of theirs. Also be on the lookout for SIU operatives with asari captives. The asari will be lobotomized. They can't help it, but they're being used as living weapons. The asari government has authorized us to use deadly force on them. They consider it mercy-killing." Dara's voice had gone clipped and calm. She'd done this on dozens of worlds with Rel, and more recently, on Omega, too. She wasn't really taking command, though. She was just translating for Sky, as far as she was concerned. "Let's go make some friends."

Seheve vanished into her stealth net, and Zhasa pulled up her double layer of shields. _Are you ready?_ Zhasa asked Dara, directly, mind-to-mind.

Dara was getting used to this; it was one more way to ensure that she got her recommended daily allowance of 'song,' and it kept their allies from _hearing_ their commands. And besides. . . her mind was fully suffused with Sky's song now, as she listened to his battle-vision. One more voice was just an addition to the harmony. _Ready. _

Zhasa lifted a hand and faced the back door, and with a shoving gesture, blew the door off its hinges. And then, with Seheve in the lead, and Sky bringing up the rear, and Dara moving in close behind Zhasa, the Spectres ran up the metal steps into the refinery.

Terrified humans on every side. Control collars around their necks—_Okay, the batarians aren't bothering with chips_, Dara noted, and knew that Sky heard it, and was conveying it to the others. _Zhasa, what are they?_

_At a glance, explosive collars. They go beyond a certain range, they cross an invisible line, basically, of RF signal, and the collars explode. _

_Crude._

_Yes, but effective. I can remove them—so can Kirrahe—but not now._

So hard to pat the hands, assure them, "We're coming back for you, yes, we promise, we're coming back for you. . . " So hard to see the desperation in the eyes, hear it in the voices, _don't leave us, please, don't leave us—_

And then past, Zhasa blowing through the locked double doors at the far end of the room and the startled batarian guards outside. Seheve was on one of the slavers in an instant, small, curving vibroknife sliding through the weak points in the armor at the neck. The second batarian lifted a stasis gun and fired into the room. Dara dove out of the way, and Sky, hissing audibly, drove the batarian backwards with a shockwave. And while he was staggered, Dara fired, double-tap, center-mass. . . followed by a rapid _rat-tat-tat-tat_ from Zhasa's submachine gun. "How's the other team doing?" Dara asked out loud.

_They are well. Sorrow-Singer says that captive-singers had asari bound to them, but the captives and the captors are no more. Moving to the center. _

Dara gestured, and the GZ people followed in the Spectres' wake. Seheve was leading them now by about thirty feet, and Sky's battle-vision spread over everything, like a fluorescent haze. _Two come!_ Sky sang, and Dara could _just_ see their forms through the wall, outlined by Sky's song.

_Are they in view of any others?_

_Yes._

_Tell her to let them around the corner. _

"Hide!" Seheve hissed into the radio at the same moment. Dara tried door handles and found one along the hallway that opened, and they all poured into an empty office. "Now what?" Moravec hissed.

"We let Liakos do what she does better than anyone else. Shh." Dara was still watching through the walls, using Sky's song. Seheve moved up against a wall; the batarians moved around the corner. Seheve moved in behind them. Her hands snaked up, one hand on the forehead of the first helmet, the other hand on the jaw. . . twist and snap. Even Sam Jaworski couldn't have disapproved of the technique.

The second batarian only became aware that his companion wasn't at his side a moment later, and his head turned in confusion, then his body stiffened, and Seheve was on him in that moment of confusion, the knife sliding home. Poisoned, too, from the convulsions that wracked the body for a moment. "Did he get a radio alert out?" Dara murmured into their own channel.

"I do not believe so," Seheve's voice came back, and Dara was a little surprised at the tone of regret in her voice. "Continue forward."

They took the actual guard barracks, formerly the employee cafeteria, by hitting it from both sides. The batarians were taken completely by surprise, which pleased Dara to no end; their next objectives were likely to be much more difficult. They started putting the various batarians in restraints, which was when Essira T'laro took matters into her own hands, and simply started _shooting_ the batarian slavers. She'd killed two by the time Ylara and Melaani closed on her, Ylara throwing the Eclipse mercenary leader into the nearest wall with a shockwave. Dara had her rifle out and up, and Zhasa stepped to the middle of the Spectres, holding up her hands, projecting a bubble of force around all of them, just as every other Eclipse sister in the room stiffened and got ready to defend their leader. Dara could feel pressure against her back. Somehow, instinctively, she'd gone back-to-back with Rinus, who had his assault rifle in his hands now. Kirrahe dropped to a kneeling position in front of Dara, and got his flamethrower's nozzle off his shoulder. The potential for violence was _thick_ in the air.

"Kirrahe?"

"Yes, Spectre Jaworski?"

"If you set that thing off in here, you're probably going to send the back wall up in flames with it." Half-warning, half a psychological gambit, Dara was speaking in galactic.

"Understood. I'll set it for only a two meter spray."

"Thank you, Kirrahe. I appreciate the caution."

The Eclipse sisters in front of them edged backwards, noticeably, while, all the while, Melaani and Ylara and T'laro were snapping at each other in asari. Dara didn't dare take her eyes off what was going on in front of her to read her VI translation, so she was catching phrases here and there: _we don't need them. . . make an example. . . prisoners you can't get a price for are useless. . . _and one she winced at: _can't look __weak__._

_How many times have I said or thought that? But there's a difference, I think, between showing personal strength, and killing people __just__ to look strong. In strictly practical terms, she's right: there's no place to house them, nothing to feed them, and they're slavers. Scum of the damned galaxy. Half of them probably raped the people they turned into slaves. And yet, we're supposed to allow a court to do something with them. Because this is what elevates us above them. The rule of fucking law._ Dara exhaled. The argument was getting really intense over there. Phrases like _you swore we'd have this place as our own_ and _we granted amnesty for past crimes_ and _this place is subject to Alliance law_. . . .

Finally, T'laro subsided, and the rest of the Eclipse sisters slowly put up their weapons at a snarled order from their leader. Dara turned her head to nod to Zhasa. The quarian female's mental touch was quick and light. _Nervous work, eh?_

_Going to get worse before it gets better._

They were all on edge, and as Kirrahe and Zhasa were quickly and efficiently stripping bomb collars off the human slaves, it was entirely the wrong moment for Bassanelli to say, loudly, "This refinery should never have been built here. It pollutes the water, pollutes the air. Just another example of how the corporate machine destroys everything it touches."

A few of his people muttered assent, and that was when Kirrahe stood up, holding the separated halves of a bomb collar in his hands, and advanced on Bassanelli. The salarian was short, maybe an inch or two taller than Kasumi or Ellie at best, but there was anger suddenly in his eyes, and Dara, who'd been busy checking the captives for wounds and chips and everything else, trying to reassure them while keeping her nitrile gloves on. She glanced up, saw the angry look in Kirrahe's eyes, and stood, hastily, moving directly for him, ready to intervene. "You object to this refinery?" Kirrahe said, sharply and abruptly. "Mission file on Aysur system was comprehensive. Indicated that CoAgo and Altai Minerals once had refineries on Shir, closer to actually mining facilities. Better for the companies. No transportation of the raw ore out of one gravity well, across half the system, dropping it here, and then processing it and transporting it away again. Current arrangement adds to costs. Inefficient." Kirrahe blinked rapidly. "This facility was set up ten years ago. _After_ too much refined eezo, too much refined cobalt and gold was stolen from refinery on Shir. Facility considered compromised. Thefts conducted by both Eclipse and by your organization. Kidnapping of miners and ore refinery personnel? Also conducted by your group. Refinery moved here, to Arvuna, to try to keep the facility, the ore, and the personnel safer. You do not like having the refinery here?" Kirrahe's tone was scathing. "_You_ are the proximate cause of it being moved here."

Bassanelli glared at the salarian. "You know nothing about our group. Do not presume to judge us," he said, grimly. Moravec, behind him, on a sort of hoverboard that he used to get around in combat, looked thoughtful, however.

Dara knew she should _probably_ reprimand Kirrahe, or at least smooth over his less-than-diplomatic tirade, but she agreed too damned much with it. She put a gloved hand on the salarian's shoulder, and switched languages into the grunts and clicks of the main salarian language. "_Kirrahe, you're right. You're absolutely right. Their own short-sightedness has caused more problems for this system than I can count, but that's not our fight right now."_

"_This one,"_ Kirrahe said, jerking his head at Bassanelli, _"has willfully put his head up his own cloaca."_

"_So far up it, I think he can see his own _tonsils_,"_ Dara agreed, switching back to English for the necessary word, which got her any number of confused looks from those around her. _"We're not here to convince them otherwise. Not today, anyway. Though I'd relish a chance to come back here later. It's a beautiful moon. Gorgeous view of Dranen. Interesting ecology. A lot of mud, though."_ As almost always happened when she dropped into a salarian mind-frame, her sentences became more clipped.

"Yes, but the mud makes it feel like home." Kirrahe dropped back into galactic.

"I only lived on Ssa'kuar," Dara admitted. "Volcanic island. Not all these _swamps._ Now, if I'd just been born in Louisiana, and not Texas, I'd know how to deal with this place a little better." She patted Kirrahe on the shoulder again. "Go take care of the collars, Orlan. Let's save a few more lives." She sighed. "And when we get back here, I've got rape-kits to assemble. Again. And to think I thought I'd be done with that after Omega." She let the tired seep through into her voice, and turned away from Bassanelli and the rest of Growth Zero. She couldn't quite believe that Bassanelli had so far stepped away from common humanity, but the proof was right there in his words and his reactions. He didn't look at the people in the refinery and see humans who'd suffered and lost and been tormented. He didn't feel empathy or fellowship with them. He saw. . . cogs in the machine, apparently. _Must make it a hell of a lot easier to kidnap them or blow up their places of work_, Dara thought, and realized she'd gone back into hostile mode again. Which was going to make it even more difficult to deal with Bassanelli than before. _I'm really not good at this. It would be so much easier if we could just shoot him and move to the next person down the line, but we can't do that, can we?_

They couldn't spend much more time here, so they had no damned choice but to leave the refinery in the control of some of Bassanelli's GZ people. Dara's shoulder blades itched as they headed back out into the pre-dawn darkness. _"We took too long on the refinery,"_ Ylara murmured over the radio. _"We'll come back for the processing facility in the hospital. Bypass it, and we'll head to the spaceport, first._"

Narrow streets, dark, without lights of any sort. Great for infiltration, a little less than great for public safety. Dara made a mental note of this for her next letter to Eli. _Hey, wonderful for the tropical ambiance and the get-back-to-nature crowd, but you better know all your neighbors if you're not going to have streetlights._ She kind of figured that, station rat that he was, Eli would agree with that assessment. They ducked around the local combination school—grades K-12, apparently, judging from the playground equipment, including swings that moved in a ghostly breeze, and the sports fields behind it. Dara noted that handball was, apparently, the sport of choice on Arvuna, too, as they used the bleachers for cover. One of the branches of the river actually flowed between the school and the hospital. "They've got to have a hell of a time with flooding here," Dara muttered.

Moravec surprised her. "Everything's built on stilts," he told her, quietly. "Rivers are practically roads. Like canals in Venice. Half the families here own boats. Owned, I guess." His voice was a little dispirited. They'd passed debris in the school yard. Toys, dropped and left. Datapads scattered and left to the wind and rain.

They opted to avoid the bridge, which was guarded, and waded and swam across the river further north. Dara could feel occasional impacts against her armor, and couldn't tell if it was floating debris, like sticks, or some of the local piranha-like fish. Judging from the lack of screaming from the GZ people, she had to assume the former, not the latter.

Then back through the streets, to the spaceport. Seheve, Kirrahe, and Rinus moved ahead, first, and Dara covered them with her rifle as they worked in the gloom near the outer fence, turning off security systems, cutting off electricity to the high voltage barriers, and then cutting through. "Come ahead," Rinus called back over the radio, and they moved in, ducking for cover behind grounded shuttles and the occasional freighter, till they reached the hangars. Seheve moved out ahead of them several times, killing batarian guards silently, and dragging the bodies out of sight. Again and again, Dara was impressed by her, Kirrahe, and Rinus. Electronic surveillance systems might as well not have existed, between the three of them. And Rinus, of course, found _toys_ in the first hangar they cleared. In particular, Rinus showed his teeth over the large engine batteries available there. "Improvised explosives," he murmured. "Nice hydrogen explosion, if we do this right. . . with some sulfuric acid spray."

"The point isn't to damage the infrastructure," Ylara cautioned over the radio.

"I'm keeping that in mind, but we've got limited resources here," Rinus replied. "Eight of us and all of our _allies_ aren't going to be able to take out a hundred batarians." He looked at Kirrahe. "Come help me rig these. If we light these off as explosions out here, the batarians will come running to investigate. And then we pick them off."

"That _will_ alert them," Melaani said, quietly. "The idea was to do this quietly."

"The idea," Dara put in, "was, I thought, to get this all done under cover of darkness. We're running out of night." They hadn't been able to wait until Arvuna was behind Dranen, in the three days of total darkness that its orbit held. Oh, there was some planet-shine at certain points, but once entirely behind the gas giant? It blotted out the sky. "I say we get their attention, and pick off from a distance, like Rinus suggested."

In the end, it was Ylara and Sky's call, and Sky tended to defer to others on tactical discussions. Dara found herself in the cover of the underbrush along the side of a tarmac, on her belly beside Seheve, Zhasa crouching over them, ready to protect them. Rinus and Kirrahe set the charges and got the hell away, taking cover behind a shuttle on the tarmac instead.

This was a lot colder and less visceral than regular combat, Dara had realized over the years. When the explosions went off, the sound, the reverberations in the earth, the concussive force of it, gave her an adrenaline jolt, of course, but she couldn't use it. Couldn't afford to be anything other than calm. So she took deep breaths, and calmed herself. Watched as the batarians began running out of the surrounding buildings, and the second wave of explosions caught the ones closest to the hangar. Glimmer of Sky's battle-vision in her mind, outlining targets for her that she could already make out, courtesy of rachni eyes and night-vision in her helmet. But Sky's vision at least let her know that these were hostile targets. Dara was used to being able to do this without a scope; her vision was _different_ now, though. She'd proven to herself, on the targets on the Mindoir base, that she could still do without one. But right now, when headshots were needed, she wasn't about to take the chance of messing up. So she and Seheve were both sighting in using their scopes. "I've got the one to the right," Dara murmured.

"I have a clear shot on the one to the left," Seheve confirmed.

"Go," Ylara said, very quietly.

And Dara's finger very gently curled on the trigger. For an instant, she was nine years old, and in the deer blind with her dad again. _Never do this without a good reason, sweetie_, he'd told her. Well, she had reasons. She had forty-five reasons back at the refinery, and god only knew how many others throughout this colony. She had thousands of reasons on Omega. And tens of thousands on Bastion.

The shot were, again, silenced, but both were double-taps. Two batarians fell mid-stride, and Dara was already looking for another target. "Freya, take the one shouting orders to the fire-suppression team," Rinus called on the radio. "We want panic. Seheve, take the one already spraying foam, before they realize what's going on."

"On it," Dara replied, swiveling the gun slightly. She had it on a stand at the moment, for stability, a luxury she was rarely afforded.

"They just realized that two of their men fell over," Melaani said, tersely. "They're going to be looking for the shooters shortly."

"Let them," Seheve replied, softly. "Taking the shot."

Two more batarians fell, and there was mass panic. The blaze of the fire, the batarians seemed to realize, made them exceptional targets in the darkness, and with no shot noise, they couldn't, at first, even tell where the shots were coming from. Dara would have preferred a higher perch for this, but they couldn't be separated from the rest of the teams.

"Two more targets," Ylara said. "Freya, corner of the hangar to the northwest. Seheve, the one trying to rescue one of the fallen."

Dara's lips set in a thin line. This was where empathy could get you into trouble. She was just as glad Ylara hadn't set her target as the rescuer. Because, on the other side of the equation, _she_ was usually the medic going into harm's way to get people out of danger. The sneaky thought of _That could be me_, couldn't be allowed. So she found her target, exhaled partially, and didn't let herself dwell on it. She took the shots, and beside her, with calm competence, Seheve did the same. Dara pulled back from the scope in time to see Seheve's target crumple over the body of the already-fallen batarian, and the light from Sky's battle-song faded around him.

_We sing the songs that are necessary. They brought destruction-songs here_, Sky reminded her.

_I know._

"They've figured out the angle," Melaani noted. "Here they come!"

Sure enough, the batarians had, and they turned their weapons on the underbrush where Seheve, Dara, and Zhasa were set up. . . and the quarian muttered, "_Keelah_, let this work. . . ." and dropped her shield around them, just at the rest of the Spectres and their allies, now that the batarians had been drawn towards the sniper position, began to open fire from all angles.

It was short and it was ugly, and from there, they turned and fought their way into the spaceport itself. Arvuna's spaceport was thirty years old, at least, and had the feeling of a by-gone era to it. Lots of brick walls, which was actually very handy. If the building had been more modern, with hundreds of walls of glass, they would all have been spotted every few feet. As it was, again, Seheve, Kirrahe, and Rinus were constantly at work, deadening security systems ahead of them, and allowing the ones behind them to come back on line. The batarians knew _someone_ was here now, of course, and patrols were moving through the halls in a heightened state of alert.

Endless hallways. One pack of batarian slavers had their stasis guns ready, and set to spray in a field. Dara, Zhasa, and Melaani got caught in that one, and all Dara could do was watch, panicking slightly, trying to force her muscles to move, as the batarians got closer and closer. . . and then Seheve emerged from stealth, attacking one and moving him out of the way as she sliced through his armor with her little knife. .. and Kirrahe and Rinus stepped in, firing at close range on the others. With the bodies still twitching on the floor, Ylara stepped closer, and patted each of the still-frozen Spectres on the shoulder. "Kirrahe? We've got about five minutes before these stun weapons wear off. Recover the weapons, and see if you can patch into their communications gear."

_This is one of my worst nightmares,_ Zhasa admitted, silently. _Completely helpless._

_You and Melaani are hardly helpless,_ Dara sang back, carefully. _The two of you still have your biotics._

_Yes, but if I used mine on batarians while still frozen, they'd know I was biotic. I'd become a prize. Damned if I do, damned if I don't._

_You at least have the option of hiding your abilities,_ Melaani said, just as silently. _All they need to do is look at my face to know what I am._

_Understood_. Dara's hands were sweating inside her gloves. She'd seen, more than either of them, what the batarians did to their captives. She could remember the conversation with Eli during their debriefing on Mindoir, after Omega. When she'd commented that all she'd have to look forward to from batarian captivity was rape, torture, and slavery, but that at least she wasn't a biotic. _And now what would they do with me? Would they lobotomize me and chip me? As biotics go, I'm a zero, so what good would that do them? Would they look at the eyes and want to run experiments?_

The thoughts that usually kept her from sleeping at night were a very loud chorus at the moment, largely because she was helpless. Ylara was staying _very_ close to the three of them at the moment. Protecting them. Seheve and Rinus were in close proximity, too, trying not to look as if they were watching their Eclipse and GZ allies, while Kirrahe worked, furiously, on the dead batarians' gear.

Mobility returned only gradually, and Dara rolled her shoulders and swung her arms, trying to work the tingles out of them. "I have their encryption protocols now," Kirrahe said, "but it's fair to say that they will be assuming that their communications are compromised, and switching to backup plans."

Dara was already listening as he opened the comm band for all of them to listen to. "If they're not putting on a show," Dara said, slowly, "it sounds like they're pulling back. Probably to the New Dawn Pharmaceutical building." She frowned. "Why there?"

"It's four stories tall," Moravec supplied, changing the thermal clip on his shotgun. "Built like a fortress, really. First floor is just a parking garage, really, though. For flood purposes."

Rinus shrugged. "If they bunker up in there, and if they don't have any civilians with them, that's actually optimal."

Dara turned and looked at him. "How's that?"

"I can rig charges under it and collapse the building on them." Rinus' tone was quite detached. "If it works on yahg, it sure as hell will work on batarians."

Dara winced. Rinus had been forced to rely on brutal tactics on Shanxi, and it showed here. On the other hand, it would be a lot safer for _them_ than going in, clearing level by level. What was a little property damage compared to that, really? And, truthfully, it wasn't as if an air strike on the building wouldn't do exactly the same thing as what Rinus was proposing.

"Using what as an explosive?" T'laro demanded, abruptly. "Unless you're all carrying quite a bit of high explosive in your packs, I don't see this working."

Rinus shrugged. "We're at a spaceport. There are ships here. Take two or three shuttles, fly them in, already rigged with detonators, and run like hell."

"No!" That was Bassanelli, unsurprisingly. "The eezo contamination from the explosion—"

"Would be contained to two, three square blocks," Kirrahe cut in. "Building itself would contain most of the blast. Few particulates released for the wind to carry away."

Bassanelli shook his head emphatically. "The New Dawn facility is on the west branch of the river. The eezo _would_ get in the water, and from there to the sea."

"Where it would be measured in parts per _billion_," Kirrahe said, patiently.

"No!"

Sky interjected, softly, _He has other reasons for wishing the building preserved. He sings songs within songs._

Ylara sighed. "Find another way, people."

They were able to confirm that the spaceport was now, indeed, deserted. Sky was uneasy, however. _No bound-song asari. They still have the song-of-life within them. But cold-song salarians have found ways to hide before. Hide their songs in sleep-close-to-death._

_Lystheni. We haven't seen them anywhere else on Arvuna or Shir. Still, yeah, we'll watch out for them. There can't be many left. If there were, they wouldn't be hunting for Narayana so vigorously._

Back through the streets, this time with morning light stealing through an overcast sky to outline them. Dara was damned tired; they'd on the move for eight hours at this point, most of it spent in silent, tense movement, hiding, punctuated by sudden bursts of combat.

They stayed outside the building for a few moments, while Sky confirmed, with violet harmonies interweaving with the reds and blacks of battle-song, _No songs of friends within. Only binders and captors._

Ylara exhaled. "In we go, people. This is probably going to be their last stand, here in Troy, anyway. Expect heavy resistance."

Heavy resistance was one way of putting it. The batarians inside had scrounged up heavy weapons from the Alliance militia barracks, and had set up reinforced nests at the end of almost every hallway as the Spectres entered the building. Ylara, who led the charge in, took rounds to the helmet that actually cracked the plasteel visor of her helmet. Dara hooked a hand on the back of Kirrahe's neck and dragged the salarian to cover in a doorway, as bullets blazed down the hallway at them. He wore heavy armor, but Kirrahe almost _always_ seemed to be the last person to take cover. "I thought we had this conversation before on Omega," Dara half-shouted. "You keep making me take bullets out of you, and I'm going to start giving them back to you as _suppositories_."

Kirrahe just grinned at her.

They fought their way past that chokepoint. "That's an impressive number of targets," Seheve murmured, tapping the scope on her omnitool, and gestured to the left, during one of the drell female's few stints of actual visibility. "What is that place? Why do they congregate there?"

"That's the main factory floor," Moravec supplied after a moment.

Seheve looked up at the human, as he hovered on his weight-dispersing platform. Dara had _no_ idea how the hoverboard compensated for the shotgun's kick. Moravec should have been propelled backwards by every shot he took, but so far, had been holding his own. . . although he was the slowest member of their group. And she really hoped they wouldn't be handling elevator shafts or stairs today.

Now, Seheve nodded. "And what do they manufacture here?"

Moravec grimaced. "Lot of pharmaceuticals out in the jungle. They've been purifying midaphan for testing purposes for years now. Can't pass regulatory oversight back on Earth, though. Guess they're gearing up for a try at the asari markets."

Dara froze in place, the reports on Aysur racing through her mind again. Midaphan, derived from the leaves of the _mida_ tree, was a dissociative, psychedelic, hallucinogenic drug when taken in large quantities, and blocked brain receptors in human, batarian, salarian, elcor, and asari neurology. Scientists had been investigating it as a potent anti-epilepsy and anti-addictive drug when its enormous potential for misuse had been discovered. Permits were still granted for research on it, trying to isolate the compounds in it that were effective for the purposes intended, while trying to mitigate the unneeded side-effects. And it was, of course, one of the number one cash crops for both Eclipse and Growth Zero. Of course, Eclipse and GZ had growers out in the jungles intimidated into both growing and handing over their crops, usually crudely refined on the spot in primitive production facilities. _This place would be a gold-mine for either faction. No wonder Bassanelli didn't want this place destroyed._

It all flashed through her head in a second, and Sky turned his head, eyes gleaming blue fire as he picked up on her thoughts. _I understand, Sings-Heartsong. We will be watching for betrayal. As we have all been all along._

The batarians had had some time to prepare, unfortunately. They were clustered at the far side of the production floor, and there were crates set up everywhere. . . and three production lines in between the Spectres and their quarry. All moving, and with robotic arms whirling, twirling, and shifting, stamping, tamping, and injecting.

Dara knew that midaphan was, in clinical trials, a clear liquid. On the street, its leaves were usually chewed or smoked. Part of the rendering process to take it from leaves to liquid was reducing the leaves to a fine powder, certainly. This. . . looked a little more involved, somehow.

Zhasa took one look at the situation and _leaped_ across the intervening space between the doorway and the first conveyor belt, which was moving, landing there lightly, taking a few bullets in the shields before dropping down between the moving belts.

Seheve had preceded them into the room, but even as she moved, the batarians at the far side of the room set off charges, and the crates on either side of the door exploded in a shower of light tan powder. _Aersolized_, Dara thought, numbly. _Ylara!_ The senior Spectre's visor was cracked from one of the previous interminable fights. Dara shoved Ylara, hard, trying to get her out of range of the powder. Ylara shook her head and staggered forward, Melaani at her side, and vaulted lightly over the conveyor belt in front of them as well, far to the right side. "Sky! Go left, let's spread out our biotics a bit," Dara called.

Sky sent assent her way, and scuttled left, around the conveyors, following Seheve. There was . . .dissonance, however, suddenly in his song. _The powder, little-singer, little-queen. It is affecting my song._

_Ah, hell. Hard to focus?_

_Very. The songs of all are not clear. I cannot hear the others. Only you, and the little singers._ _I cannot sing proper battle-songs!_ Distress in his voice, no matter how fast the thought was conveyed—in the time it took for Dara, Kirrahe, and Rinus to move forward and crouch by the moving conveyors, anyway. Followed all too closely by the GZ and Eclipse people.

Dara glanced down. She had a worker in each of the thigh compartments of her armor at the moment, chittering away merrily. They were, apparently, unaffected by the powder. "The powder's affecting Sky, everyone. No battle-vision for the moment," she reported over the radio. "Make damned sure of your targets."

"It's actually _affecting_ him?" Rinus said, sounding surprised, as he ducked back down after a couple of shots at the batarians at the far side of the room.

"I know, surprises the _s'kak_ out of me, too. He's still got acidic spit and his melee attacks, but no biotics for the moment," Dara replied, thinking, _this is definitely not stuff we want getting into combat use, _ever, as she peered over the edge of the belt—just in time to see one of the robotic arms on the _next_ conveyor belt lift and grab Zhasa by the helmet in a pincher-like claw, dragging the quarian up to be fired on. _Oh, that's not good._ Dara raised up and fired directly at the mass of equipment that housed the robotic arm, which seemed to be attached to the ceiling.

"Kirrahe, get control of the damned mechs in the room," Rinus growled, as Dara was firing, and ducked and rolled over the conveyor himself, and exposed himself to the batarians' fire as he reached out and tried to pull the claw off Zhasa's helmet before it either crushed her helmet (and the skull underneath) or continued to hold her up, unable to take any cover other than her biotic shields.

Ylara, in the meantime, was muttering in asari over the radio, and released a biotic shockwave at. . . nothing in particular. Melaani's voice cut in now. "She's hallucinating. She's talking to people who aren't here. Someone named Kella, actually."

Dara's heart seized. _Oh, god. This is turning into a world-class clusterfuck_. She finished firing at the machine holding Zhasa, Kirrahe muttered something rude and rather colorful in salarian, got the various robotic arms and conveyor belts to stop moving for a few moments—and then the batarians were firing on them again. SIU operatives with asari on leashes, other operatives popping in and out of stealth. Dara just knew that she had Rinus to her right and Kirrahe to her left, and the entire time she was picking out targets, she was wishing to god she had Eli and Lin there, too, because her back, which was to the GZ and Eclipse people, felt terribly exposed.

At the end of the fight, Melaani was actually holding Ylara back, arms locked through the older Spectre's, and Dara moved to her, quickly, digging through her medkit. "She's still trying to shockwave or lift everything in range," Melaani said, tightly. "You may have to suppress her biotics for a while. You have _lia'mellea?_"

"I won't do that," Dara said, shortly. "_Lia'mellea_ was used on her and Siara on Omega, and I won't put her through that again. I'd sooner sedate her." A syringe of Valium, which worked just as well on asari as it did on humans, should do the trick. Not enough to knock Ylara out, but enough to calm her down—except she wouldn't hold still. Kept calling, in asari, for Kella.

_Sky?_ The reaching out was born of years of habit.

_I cannot reach her, I cannot sing to her, I cannot hear her songs._ Sky sounded crestfallen. _You must do this, little-queen._

Dara swallowed hard and took off a glove, and flipped Ylara's mask open. And, bracing herself as if putting her hand into an open flame, she swallowed and touched the asari's cheek. Song, but the high and lonely flute was off-key, warbling frenetically. "_Ylara, tirai'ii'selai vae sae'kaea'yili, maai'a mai'kaea Kella, ka'ulle uel'ya?"_ _Ylara, third-mother of my beloved, mother of my lost-friend Kella, do you grasp/understand me?_ Dara was shaking. There was _nothing_ right in Ylara's song. The colors stretched and distorted. The music warped and dipped and yawed crazily.

Ylara's eyes went dangerously black for a moment. _"__Sia_ _n__'__di'adoli'yili._"

_You're not my daughter._

"_N__'__di'adoli'yili. Telluura di'adoli'ya. __Sisu__. . . di'adoli'ya. __Aia__ciea'uel?"_ _Not your daughter. Telluura's your daughter. Sisu is your daughter. Do you remember?_ The last verb had taken her frantic effort to remember. Fortunately, it meant _to cherish the memory of_, and shared a root with _ciea'uelle._

Ylara blinked, rapidly, and Dara felt the song. . . .waver. Skew. Dara concentrated as hard as she could on the memory of the melody she'd heard in Ylara's house, the high and lonely flute there, as the asari had taken memories from Eli, and from her. Tried to sing it back to Ylara now, and realized, suddenly, that she was singing _out loud_, trying to sing rachni song with a human voice, but she _couldn't_ . . . and that Sky was singing with her. And so were her workers, as they scuttled out of the thigh compartments of her suit. Abashed, Dara ducked her head and stopped. Ylara blinked again. "Dara? Something's not right. I keep seeing Kella. . . . I keep thinking I can reach her, but I . . . can't?"

"How touching," Esirra T'laro murmured, and Dara's head jerked up, just in time to see the Eclipse commando leveling a gun at them from across the room. _Stasis gun—how the __fuck_ _did she get—off the bodies of the damned batarians in this room, of course!_ Realization took the exact amount of time it took for T'laro to pull the trigger. The field was as impossible to outrun as a bullet, but Dara dimly realized that while she, Melaani, Zhasa, and Ylara were in the field, Seheve, Sky, Kirrahe, and Rinus were not. Rinus dove for cover. Seheve flickered into her stealth field, and Kirrahe, who'd been at a nearby workbench, looking over the equipment with a vexed expression, ducked behind it, before T'laro could aim and fire again.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Moravec called. The GZ people had their guns at the ready, and the Eclipse mercs did, too. Everyone was covering everyone else. . . _and we're stuck in the middle. Sky's song is silenced. . . but I don't think T'laro understands that he's far more than just a biotics-rich bug. She'll underestimate Rinus and Kirrahe, because they're male. . . and she's ignored Seheve to date, because she's not biotic._

"Don't be a fool," Rinus called from behind his cover. Dara could hear the click of a fresh thermal clip popping into place. "You think you've got trouble with Spectres _now_? Damage even one scale, harm one hair on the head of a Spectre, and Shepard _will_ come down on you. For this system? She might not even send Archangel. She might come here herself."

_Nice try,_ Dara thought, desperately trying to _move_. She could feel Zhasa reaching out with her mind. Feel Melaani doing the same thing. Hear the red-black surge of Sky's fury. The anger of her little workers. —_Little-queen threatened!_ Chopin, on her left.

—_We protect! Call the others! Sing destruction songs! _Liszt, on her right.

_Wait! Don't! Don't give your lives, no! Life-songs valuable! Only spend them if there's need!_ She could feel the complex chemical processes in their bodies begin to simmer down

"The Spectres have served their purpose," T'laro murmured, and fired a field charge at some of the GZ people, who were, smartly, spreading out, trying not to get tagged all at once. "But no one's going to take my piece of this system away. Not the batarians, not your pathetic little group of pirates, and not the Spectres." T'laro's voice was empty and hard. She'd made her decision. Had probably made it weeks ago.

Bassanelli moved now, pistol out, keeping it trained on T'laro, for the moment. "You're making a grab for the labs? Now? Really?" He laughed. "I can't let you do that, T'laro."

_You've got to be shitting me. We're in the middle of a fucking Mexican stand-off here, and you're prepared to throw down with her over the __labs__. The drugs. Not the lives of people who've put their own on the line for you and yours._ Dara struggled to wiggle a finger. A toe. Something. The field setting on the stasis guns lasted about five minutes; the single target setting, about fifteen to thirty minutes, depending on metabolism.

Zhasa's thoughts now, grim-toned. _I have access to my biotics._

_So do I,_ returned Melaani.

Ylara's mind was still confused, but she was listening to the fear on Dara's song now, and her eyes had gone coal-black once more. _Who threatens my daughter's beloved, threatens me! Who threatens?_

Dara tried to send a soothing thought Ylara's way, but it was hard when she was so close to panic herself. _Wait to use them when we know who the hell we're aiming at,_ she told the other two.

Outside of her frozen body, the tension hadn't abated. T'laro had a stasis gun in one hand, a pistol in the other, and she and her mercs were now trying to cover both the Spectres and the GZ people at the same time. The GZ people were covering the Spectres and Eclipse. The four _unfrozen_ Spectres were covering the two criminal groups. _All we need,_ Dara thought grimly, _is for one batarian to be unconscious, and not dead, and sit up, and all hell will break loose._

"You're not taking the midaphan trade over—"

"We don't have to do this _now_," Moravec interjected, his voice angry. "There are still batarians all over Arvuna. We've got people in explosive collars everywhere. We've got some of our own people injured or dead. This is not the time—"

"Oh, but it is," Bassanelli replied, moving again, circling, trying to get an angle on T'laro. "What better time to cut the head off Eclipse than when they've overplayed their hand?"

_Oh, to hell with this. Will someone please just shoot T'laro?_ Dara thought, and tried to move her own hands to her gun. They didn't work, of course.

But as if in answer to her thoughts, Kirrahe stood up, his flamethrower back in his hands. . . and all the lab equipment around him came back to life. Only this time, the pieces were targeting the Eclipse mercs. Pincher claws and injectors whirred and buzzed and often did no more than _thwack_ a nearby merc. . . but they were a nice distraction, if nothing else. One injector _did_ ram into a merc's helmet where she crouched at the conveyor, and her startled yelp became a choking sound as her helmet suddenly filled with fine powder. Another injector simply sprayed the fine dust in an arc in the air, pouring it out in a huge cloud and Dara suddenly had a _very_ bad idea of what Kirrahe had in mind. _Oh, please don't let that have the same effect as flour dust in a grain silo. That would be. . . .really bad._ "You want the Spectres?" Kirrahe said, tightly. "You'll have to go through me." And he nudged the trigger on the flamethrower, aiming not for any of the mercs, but for the billowing cloud of midaphan in the air.

The drug wasn't in its purified state yet; it was, from that injector, merely powdered leaves. Very finely milled, indeed. And it had been sprayed out, filling the air in front of Kirrahe. . . and when he applied the blast of flame to the cloud, it did, indeed, have a concussive effect. Fire blasted out in a circle from the flash point, and the explosive detonation sent everyone in the room flying—including those of them gripped by stasis. Dara was on the floor now, knocked to her side, so she was having trouble seeing much of anything, but she could see retorts and other glassware, shattered, but the chemicals inside of them flaming. The wallboard was on fire, the ceiling over their heads was smoldering, too. That was all she could _see._ She had a great view of the bottom of the nearest conveyor belt, otherwise. A sense of water pouring down from above, as the automatic sprinkler systems kicked in, trying to put out the blaze, but _everything_ was on fire around them. _Sky! Let me see!_ Instinct now, and she reached out. Looked through Sky's eyes, as Eli had taught her to watch through his, as they'd sped through the twists and turns of the dry riverbeds on the hoverbikes, weeks ago.

Sky's mind was a mass of red and black right now. She watched, through his eyes, as the brood-warrior advanced on one of the mercs, who was firing at him, chipping away at his biotic barrier with a submachine gun, and knocked the weapon's muzzle away with one pedipalp, gripped her with his front chelicerae, in a parody of the hugs he usually allowed Dara, and ripped her helmet off with the other pedipalp. _You seek to sing destruction-songs? Hear mine, instead._ Acid, poured directly from the pedipalp into that delicate asari face, mouth opening to scream, acid in the mouth now, the nose, the eyes. Sky flung her back and stabbed out with one of his chelicerae, embedding the dangerous tip right in the exposed throat, ending the asari's suffering instantly.

At the same time, she could see out all his _other_ eyes. Total view of the battle. Rinus had recovered his feet, and was firing his shotgun, ducking and weaving through the battle-zone, and finally vaulted over a crate that was on fire to get to T'laro, savagely kicking the stasis gun out of her hand, and probably shattering half the bones in her fingers with the kick, too. She managed a shot on him with the pistol, but his left hand caught her wrist, and he had her arm stretched out at the length of his own, keeping it away from him. She tried to step in and scythe his legs out, but Rinus caught her chin with his free hand now, turned into, through, past her, and used her own movement, dropping her hand down and using her head as the second leverage point, to throw her, face-first, to the ground. A biotic throw. . . but Rinus held onto her, and she flew _with_ him, both of them crashing into a wall, with a shower of fire and sparks. . . .

. . . Seheve, taking out the second-in-command of Eclipse with a single, pragmatic slash to the throat, before disappearing again. . . .

. . . .tingles returning to Dara's hands. Feet. —_Can move, little-queen?_

_Yes. I think so._ Dara rolled, heavily, to her stomach. It was not unlike learning, how to stand up all over again. As if she were an infant once more. She walked her hands back. _C'mon, all those push-ups __have__ to have been for a reason. . . _ she pushed up. Teetered there on hands and knees for a moment, and then crawled to the closest conveyor. Still seeing things through Sky's eyes. Through her own. Through her worker's . . . dim sense of gray-and-white vision now. _My god, how do I see to aim when I see the whole room from five or six different perspectives. . . _ Dara fumbled for her pistol. Rifle wouldn't do at the moment. Targets were all too close. She blinked repeatedly, and tried to keep her hands from shaking. "I can't aim," she admitted.

"The good news is," Melaani said, managing to crawl beside her, "you don't have to." She raised up a little, and hit the nearest Eclipse sister with a throw, sending the asari flying into a pile of heavy sacks, all of which were on fire.

"We need to get the fire out," Zhasa muttered, pulling herself up now, too.

"After everyone stops shooting at us? I'm all for it," Dara replied, and tried, desperately, to get a clean shot on T'laro, who was still grappling with Rinus, who was still holding her wrists in both hands, and had just savagely head-butted the asari, following it up with a knee to her stomach.

And then Seheve appeared, again, as if from out of nowhere, and caught the asari's head, which was flung back from the head-butt. Pressed back, almost delicately, arching T'laro's neck. Rinus and the asari looked as if caught in the final moment of a tango, her back arched in a glorious dip, arms outspread. Then, the flash of the vibroblade. Dara couldn't hear the sound at this range, but she could see the angle of the strike. Under the chin, right where helmet and throat-armor met, the fine seam that was usually inaccessible, because people usually kept their chins down in combat. . . and the blade had sunk home through the metal. Crunched up through the soft palate at the back of the throat, passed through the nasal cavity, and into the brain from there.

Rinus' head jerked up, and he and Seheve stared at each other for a long moment, as T'laro's body went limp between them. Then Rinus let T'laro's wrists slip from his hands, and pulled his shotgun off his back again, heading straight for Bassanelli. "Get your hands up," Rinus snarled. There were still pieces of smoldering wallboard on the shoulders of his armor, splinters of red-glowing wood.

Bassanelli ducked behind a stack of crates and shouted, "Open fire on the Spectres!" before suiting action to words.

Moravec shouted in response, "Are you _crazy_—all GZ people, stand down!"

Half the humans visibly wavered. Their heads were all swinging from Moravec to Bassanelli and back again. "T'laro was a crazy bitch, but she was right about _one_ thing—it's just a matter of time before the Spectres come back and try to take us out. They know too much about us now. Our faces. Our names. Our _families_. Our camps." Bassanelli opened fire on Rinus, who swore and ducked down again.

Moravec, who was hovering outside the room proper, just around the doorway, called in again, "Bassanelli, you crazy asshole, it does _not_ have to end this way!"

"I won't let them destroy twenty years of work, Moravec! I'll die first."

"Then die, but you're not taking the rest of us with you! GZ, put down your weapons and stand down!"

Kirrahe, who'd been thrown backwards by the blast, along with everyone else, had apparently hit his head on landing. He stood up now, as half the GZ people did, actually, throw down their guns and hit the floor. The other half—Bassanelli's loyalists—moved to him, crouching defensively. _Oh, god, it's a last stand,_ Dara thought. _Remember the fucking Alamo, only there's no goddamned reason for this. No __real__ reason, anyway, except a paranoid maniac doesn't want to lose his grip on this system. . . _ She squinted, and tried to unlink her vision from Sky's. From the workers'.

Rinus called, "I don't have a shot—"

"_I_ _do_," Ylara said, in asari, and lifted half the GZ people out of hiding in a single biotic field. They floundered, frantically, trying to aim. . . .

. . . and without them in the way, Kirrahe had an open angle on Bassanelli. And he took it, with his flamethrower, sheets of red-orange flame and gouts of black smoke rising into the air, in spite of the continued downpour from the sprinklers overhead. Bassanelli, like the rest of his people, didn't wear full armor. His arms and legs were exposed. He screamed, lunging out of the way, trying to find more cover, but Kirrahe was merciless, following after him.

Dara couldn't tolerate the screaming. She could handle killing just fine, but she'd worked with burn victims before. Debriding the ruined skin gently as possible, the bodies hydrated, helping senior doctors graft synth-skin over the ruined areas of the body's largest organ. Had heard those rending cries of pain far too often. No, she could kill, without question, but she absolutely couldn't watch someone burn to death without emotion. Not a fellow human, at any rate. She'd winced at the deaths of the batarians on Omega, when Kirrahe and Makur had used the red phosphorous on them, but she'd been up to her eyeballs in asari patients at that point, and had blocked it out.

Now, however? Dara raised her pistol. Locked out Sky and the workers' sight from her own. Aimed. And fired, twice, at close range. Center-mass; she couldn't risk missing with head-shots right now.

Bassanelli slumped to the floor. Ylara, with a hiss, dismissed her biotic field, and the GZ people she'd imprisoned fell to the floor with heavy thuds.

For a moment, absolutely no one moved. The sprinklers overhead continued to pour water down, slowly killing all the flames in the lab. Poured down over the dead bodies, sprawled in various last, limp poses. Poured down on the living, too. All of them crouched, ready for combat. Dara stayed exactly where she was, aiming at Bassanelli, in case her shots _hadn't_ killed him.

Then everyone moved at once.

"Stay down," Melaani shouted now, and vaulted over the conveyor, heading for the GZ people Ylara had just released. "Vulcan, cover me. I'm going to shackle these guys over here—"

"Anyone wounded?" Dara asked, letting herself sag backwards a little. "Kirrahe?"

"You always ask me first," the salarian grumbled.

Dara stood and, after a quick glance at Ylara, who had her head down in her hands, trying, evidently, to clear her head, told Kirrahe, "Forseti's not here. Tag, you're it."

**Zhasa'Maedan, Arvuna, December 3, 2196**

They were still going through the records of the New Dawn Pharmaceuticals plant several days later, as their shuttles sped over the vast oceans of the large moon, heading for the last known signal from former STG agent, Ill'sta Marov Pina Heron, who'd made them first aware of the batarians and their interest in the sunken Prothean ruins, at a dig-site designated Cleito, for the wife of a sea-god in Terran mythology. Zhasa's lips tightened under her helmet as she continued to read the records. "You say New Dawn was a known shell organization, bought by Cerberus in 2183?" she asked Ylara, who'd recovered from the midaphan overdose fairly well.

"Yes. They were shut down and restructured heavily after the Reaper war. Shepard decided it was inherently unfair to put thirty-five thousand people out of work just because the Illusive Man decided to use the company they worked for as part of a financial shell game, but she also stressed to the new board of directors that they were _not_ to get involved in any other political schemes." Ylara looked up from where she was operating the controls of the shuttle. "Why?"

"Dara's suggested that if they still had researchers working under old orders to find and weaponize chemical compounds like midaphan, in the way that _aizala_ has been, that could explain what we found in the laboratory." Zhasa closed her fingers more tightly on the datapad. Dempsey's last letter had mentioned something about a Cerberus scientist who'd once worked on his own 'project,' being found on Terra Nova. No details. Dempsey _never_ went into detail in his letters. Always asked more questions than he answered, himself. _Security, I know, but Keelah, it's irritating not to know what's gone on there. . . besides a thresher maw, apparently! _

"Are you seeing any traces of that in the records?" Ylara asked, calmly.

"I'm honestly not sure what I'd be looking for," Zhasa admitted. "All it would take is one project manager who wasn't what he or she seemed to be, a little dedicated space in one of the labs, and instant research project that might not have been authorized by someone higher up."

"They'd still have to justify it in their budget reports," Ylara pointed out. "There will be memos, believe me. Corporations live on memos. Also, on five-bullet slide presentations."

Zhasa sighed. Just when she thought she'd figured out what her role was—biotic, then marine and tech, then Spectre—they changed the rules on her. Ylara seemed intent on teaching her lately, and she couldn't really object to it. . . the older Spectre's lessons were fascinating.

Seheve, seated next to her, was looking through similar records. "A quick way to find such things is to look for who sends encrypted messages inside the workplace," the former assassin noted.

Zhasa's head turned. "How do you know that?" she asked, in surprise.

"At least half of my training involved knowing whom to target," Seheve replied, lowering her eyes. "Many times, I was dispatched to find out who had been causing a given problem, and then to, ah, resolve the issue." Her eyes remained on the floor. "Many times, the various arms mods that the M. . . that Olonkoa trafficked in. . . passed through a variety of different companies on their way to and from us. . . from _him_ to his buyers." Seheve sighed. "I could have gone through each company and killed people until I found answers or accidentally killed the right person. That seemed wasteful. Better to target the right person, and be absolutely sure before taking action." A world of tiredness and regret in that soft voice now. "You will, I am sure, have no trouble in finding encrypted comm messages. Or in decrypting them, Spectre Zhasa'Maedan."

"Do I have to tell you again that I prefer you to use my name?" Zhasa told her, letting humor spread through her tone.

"It would not be appropriate—"

"Then be inappropriate, then."

Seheve glanced up, clearly startled. "As you say, then. Zhasa."

The Cleito site was located nearly two kilometers under the ocean, at the foot of a huge undersea mountain, the top of which lifted above the waves as an island. Part of a chain of islands, actually. "Why would the Protheans build _under_ the ocean, when there's an island right there?" Zhasa asked, staring down at the lush green dot in the middle of all that blue.

"Because fifty thousand years ago, that mountain hadn't actually pushed all the way up above the water," Dara suggested. "Plus, the Protheans seemed to like to stay hidden on some of their observation post worlds."

"Yes, but what were they observing here?" Zhasa asked. "There doesn't appear to be much in the way of sapient life."

"No, but the moon is very similar in many ways to Earth both in the Eocene and in the Devonian periods. Now that Eclipse has been knocked out of here, and now that Growth Zero is under, um, new management? I bet there will be evolutionary biologists coming here for post-doc work." Dara looked interested and excited. In the privacy of the shuttle, the human could leave her dark glasses off, and her strange blue eyes gleamed now. "How come there are almost no reptilians, but there _are_ avians? Usually, the amphibians lead to reptiles when there's a dry epoch on a planet. And avians _usually_ develop out of scaled reptiles, in response to a need for speed, intelligence, a dynamic environment. So either the reptiles did evolve, and died out, _or_ the avians developed from something else."

"Or," Kirrahe pointed out, dryly, "the Protheans might have brought the avians here, as a sort of experiment. Much in the way Dr. Velnaran has been creating a hybrid ecology on Mindoir."

Dara nodded. "Possible." She gave the salarian a glance askance. Kirrahe had a legless salamander. . . a brilliantly scarlet ribbon of flesh that looked like a snake, but that wasn't, at all. . . in a container of water by his elbow. "You're absolutely set on giving that to Narayana?"

"I promised her a present. This seems as good as any."

"Allardus will skin you alive if that thing reproduces or gets free into the wild."

"I'll have him remove its reproductive organs before I give it to Narayana, then."

"Fair enough," Dara said, and went back to staring out the window at the rapidly-approaching island.

Kirrahe sent out a cautious message on the standard STG frequency, and got back a message from Ill'sta Marov Pina Heron. _"We're sending a submersible up to get you,"_ the other salarian said, rapidly. _"Expect to be followed. Be ready to kill any batarians that do follow us."_

Zhasa shook her head. "They must know that we've eliminated the rest of their strongholds on Arvuna by now," she muttered. "Why not retreat?"

Dara shook her head. "They might think that the Prothean technology is worth the risk. Also. . . if they're SIU? They know the price of failure. If they go home, they're likely to be punished severely. If not killed for gross incompetence, for not having tried their utmost. No, better to stay here. Take the risk." The human exhaled. "At least we're not likely to see many slavers. Techs, stealthed units, things like that."

The radio crackled. _"Freya?"_ It was Rinus' voice.

"Yes, Vulcan?"

"_Remind you of anyplace we've been before?"_

"Garvug. Weather's nicer here, though. And chances are, no one's asking you to re-invent the depth charge today."

"_From your mouth to the spirits' ears."_ There was a pause. _"We've got movement on the scopes."_

Sure enough, a single submersible was racing up from underwater. Three blips behind it. Zhasa moved up into the seat beside Ylara's in the cockpit, and eased the covers off the firing controls on the handful of state-of-the-art _Addersting_ missiles that the shuttles carried for self-defense. "Wait for it," Ylara murmured.

Dara's voice was tight as they all watched the scopes, hovering over the waves. "_Ill'sta Marov Pina Heron_. Sounds like a member of Dalatrass Hadrassa's house."

"He was," Kirrahe admitted. "Rumor has it he did the almost unthinkable. He petitioned the Council of Dalatrassses to allow him to be emancipated from her house. And after consulting with STG, they permitted it. Or so I've heard."

"Who's Hadrassa?" Zhasa asked, watching as the first submersible broached the water near them. She locked it out from the targeting systems immediately, and the computer began to solve for speed and direction on the other three targets now.

"Leader of House Ill'sta," Kirrahe answered, softly.

"She claimed to be under the thumb of the Lystheni unwillingly five years ago," Ylara added. "I cannot see how they would be able to move easily in Council space, even with batarian aid, if they _didn't_ still have connections with mainstream salarian society."

"So can we trust Pina Heron?" Zhasa asked. The recent betrayals by Eclipse and Growth Zero were fresh in _everyone's_ minds.

"Trust, but verify," Ylara answered. "Melaani and I will remain on the shuttles. The rest of you will go with them. Rinus, Zhasa, do you have targets?"

They both voiced assent. "Then fire."

Ten minutes later, Zhasa, Seheve, Dara, and Kirrahe were descending a wobbling rope ladder from the shuttles into the top of the submersible. And Rinus was descending from the other shuttle; Sky could have made the descent with biotics, but he was back at Troy, making certain that the Alliance security forces now trickling into the system, the local authorities, and Growth Zero all played nicely with each other. The younger Spectres were going to be on their own now.

Pina Heron greeted each of them with rapid eyeblinks and hand-shakes or wrist-clasps as appropriate. Zhasa lightly touched his thoughts, and began to relax, just a bit. Warm bathwater, he felt like, comfortable to the touch, but with the potential to scald if he were annoyed or agitated. No sense of duplicity, as she'd _always_ had about Bassanelli and T'laro. She turned and nodded to Seheve, who nodded once, in return. And sent a light thought Dara's way. _I think he's all right. For the moment, anyway._

_Good,_ Dara returned, silently. All yellow-greens of worry in her 'song,' and the roses tightly furled in on themselves for the moment.

_Are you worried about him, or worried about you?_

_Little of both. First time away from Sky, and Eli. I have Chopin and Liszt with me. . . and there's you, too. . . but I don't want to live in your head. For starters, it sounds uncomfortable. And secondly, I think Dempsey might kick my ass if I tried to move in._

Zhasa did her best to suppress the snort of laughter. Pina Heron turned, and asked, sounding concerned, "Are you quite well, Spectre? No infections, I hope?"

"No, no. Perfect health, I assure you," Zhasa replied. _Well, as perfect as it can be, considering those __things__ are in me._ The mere thought made her shudder a little. She'd taken several bullets over the course of their mission so far. Several minor suit breaches, which Dara had treated very, very quickly indeed, that yellow-green worry all through her when Zhasa had touched her mind. Possibly because of Dara's prompt intervention, or maybe because of the incredible new mechanics of her custom-made suit, Zhasa had had infections. . . but amazingly minor. Especially when she considered how dirty the environment was. On the one hand, all the bacteria present were levo, so she had that going for her. But on the other hand. . . not one allergic reaction, either. It was a testament to the suit and Dara's medical skills, as far as Zhasa was concerned.

"So," Rinus said now, looking around. "What brings a member of STG all the way out here?"

"Thought Cleito dig would be good retirement job," Heron told them all, ruefully, as he sealed up the hatch over their heads. "Quiet world. Out of the way. Out of sight of angry dalatrass. Enjoyable work, still valuable, but low-visibility."

"When was the last time someone retired from STG and _didn't_ wind up back in trouble sooner or later?" Dara asked, dryly.

Heron turned and smiled at her, eyelids crinkling. "Statistically, chances of dying in bed seem improbable, yes. However, life spent usefully? Doesn't matter how it ends." He went to the rudder and began submerging them again.

"This is the only way to get down to the dig-site?" Zhasa asked.

"Affirmative."

"The batarians just _happened_ to have submersibles of their own?" Rinus asked, skeptically.

"Negative. They stole several of ours from the island above, where they were moored while researchers were on mainland, replenishing food supply." Heron sounded unhappy about that. "We had five submersibles. Now, two remain. Not enough to evacuate all fifty researchers."

Rinus exhaled. And when he spoke, his voice was grim. "So in other words, we just destroyed three of your own craft."

"Yes. Necessary, however. Now, batarians have no way out, either. Cannot attack from outside shield wall. They have set up in the west entry dome, and have access to the buildings designated as H, A, G, and B within the main dome. We will, instead, land in the east entry dome." Heron sighed. "This is, however, where the hanar protestors have long been encamped. That, and outside, in the water. Although, since the batarians arrived, they have taken refuge inside the dome."

"What can you tell me about the hanar?" Seheve asked, stepping forward to look over the salarian's shoulder.

"Very little, I'm afraid. Their leader's face-name is Illuudo. They arrived almost a year ago, and more were arriving by the day for a while. I was able to get the internal security grid online, mostly to keep _them_ out. Locks on doors. Visual feeds. Sound-based defensive weapons. Only internal, however. As it happens, that was a good thing. Also keeps out batarians. However, our ability to get in and out ourselves? Compromised when they took three submersibles. Attacked us whenever we attempted to leave. Have been attempting to defeat locks and other security methods. Have encroached successfully in spite of all efforts. Have been considering flooding entire dome. Water cold. Would hibernate. Hanar would survive. Humans and asari on site, however, too numerous to evacuate." He sighed.

All of them shuddered a bit. Of the Spectres, Zhasa was probably the least concerned. If she had to, she could probably swim up from the ocean floor; her envirosuit would protect her from the crushing depths, and the pressure changes on the way up. She'd simply add more air to the suit to render herself more buoyant, and head upwards. The others, however, might not be that lucky. Elasticized under suits to protect from the vacuum of space, self-contained breathing systems were one thing. She had no idea if their suits were rated for _water_. And even if they were totally sealed against the water. . . they wouldn't be able to do more than, probably, try to climb an underwater mountain, before their air ran out. The suits were heavy, and were not pressurized. They wouldn't be able to make themselves buoyant.

The ocean was very dark two kilometers down. Finally, Zhasa saw what the salarian had been talking about. "It's beautiful," Dara murmured. "So many colors."

Zhasa could only nod. Three opalescent, soap-bubble-like structures were on the ocean floor ahead of them, overlapping one another. Two smaller ones lay to either side of the larger dome; inside of each, she could see smaller domes. Actual buildings, and in a different style than the Protheans usually built. "Isn't Prothean architecture usually sort of angular and linear?" she asked.

"Yes. Domes redundant. Each designed to withstand pressure and water on their own, in case main dome fails. Interesting. Main dome holds one large central building, where we have our main camp. Eight smaller ones, around perimeter, each walled off from one another by membrane-like material that is stronger than plasteel. Each building links to each other with tubes, and to main building as well. Tubes not always needed. Interior of each wedge of the dome is kept dry by the exterior field. . . except in sections C and F. Those are flooded." He sighed. "Unfortunately, C is likely building with control of Prothean defensive systems. Weapons."

Seheve's head came up. "You said that the batarians have access to H, A, G, and B?"

"Yes. Have triple-encrypted doors to tube between B and C. Fortunately, tube is also flooded. Tube from hub building to C? Not flooded. However, obstruction in center of tubeway, and door damaged. Have not been able to repair it to gain access to C. E is reactor area. Do not know what is in F. Schematics unclear, data in system old and corrupted. Station VI speaks Prothean only. Do not speak Prothean." His tone was wryly humorous.

Zhasa's head snapped to the left. "The station's VI is _functional?_ Like the one on Ilos was?"

"Yes. However, as I said, not very useful to us."

"Not as useless as you think," Seheve said quietly. "Commander Shepard gave me her knowledge of the Prothean language."

Moments later, they were passing through a series of locks that drained the water away from the submersible, and pulled them into the first dome, along guiding rails. Zhasa looked around at her fellow Spectres. "Sounds to me like my first task will be to go to building C and find out if I can get _in_ to it, and see if there really are weapons systems in it."

"Rinus can help with that," Dara said. "Kirrahe, I suppose, is going to need to help Seheve. . . and to help the rest of us deal with the scientists, while Seheve is negotiating with the hanar." She sounded glum. "I feel kind of useless here, guys. You've all at least got the technical skills to pull this off."

Rinus put a hand atop her head, lightly patting the helmet. "Don't worry about it, _amillula__._ We're going to do our best to keep you completely bored and unoccupied." Rinus turned and looked at Kirrahe. "And that includes you, Orlan. No getting your head bumped. A grade two concussion four days ago? Not something to repeat immediately."

Kirrahe said something in salarian and made the turian finger-flicking gesture at Rinus, which made Dara _laugh._

Outside the submersible, in the docking bay, there were, indeed, about two dozen hanar all floating around, chiming indignantly and flaring bioluminescent colors at one another. "Salarian," one of them said, in the hollow, voder-produced voice common to all hanar, "you have brought the Spectres, as you promised that you would. Now, someone will hear our words. This is sacred ground of the Enkindlers—"

Seheve stepped forward, taking off her helmet and looking up at the hanar respectfully. "Excuse this one. You are Illuudo? You speak for those assembled here?"

The hanar rotated in place, lights flaring in apparent curiosity. "Yes, young one. And you are?"

"Seheve Liakos. This one served Minister Olonkoa from the age of six until just months past. This one spent sixteen years of her life in a hanar household, but only once coming to the service of the Spectres, has this one truly come to see the light of the Enkindlers. Commander Shepard, the _Voice_ of the Enkindlers, their chosen prophet, chose to give this one their words." Seheve dipped her head in profound respect. "Will you hear their words?" The shift into her old method of speech seemed almost unconscious, but Zhasa had a feeling that the drell was judging every word very, very carefully indeed.

"That is impossible." The hanar zealot's voice was very calm; voder voices always were.

"There are those who said it was impossible for Shepard to carry the Words of the Enkindlers to begin with, and yet all the galaxy knows that the light of truth is within her now." Simple, calm words, as Seheve stood there, her hands folded at her heart.

"There is a certain amount of disagreement, as to how a human could carry the light of truth—"

"And yet, she does. The revered Spectre Blasto would not follow one who lied about such things. He was among those who helped me receive the Words and the Light." Seheve raised her head now, black eyes wide and expression serene. "Illuudo, respected one, will you hear the words of the Enkindlers? Will you know their purpose in coming to this place, in preparing it? Or will you deny their most holy gift: words?"

_Preparing it for what? For us?_ Zhasa thought, in amusement. The Protheans had made this place for their own use, their own purposes, with no thought that they would ever be destroyed; they would not have created this place for the use of other, younger species. But that was the cant and the creed of most hanar, and Seheve used it like a goad. _If you believe this, then you __must__ follow. Not to follow, is to deny your own belief._ _No wonder she was almost silent on the trip here. She was preparing for this. This is the fight she's been preparing for, for months. Or perhaps. . . it's more that she's been preparing for another fight. Against herself. Against habit. Of falling into the same path, the same patterns, the same pitfalls as before._ Zhasa watched the drell female with interest as the hanar all chimed among themselves.

Illuudo spoke, with clear hesitance now. "You will reveal the words of the Enkindlers to us? How?"

Seheve bowed her head. "With the permission of Pina Heron, two of you may come with us. We will speak to the embodiment of this place, which still speaks the words of the Enkindlers. You may ask of it whatever you wish, and I will give it your words, and then I will give you its answers. Will that suffice?"

Illuudo chimed. "We _knew_ that this place was sacred! Living words—more than the words-in-light left behind on computer modules?"

"It is a fully functional VI," Pina Heron said, in a tone of mild annoyance.

Illuudo's voice, though still calm and hollow, suddenly seemed to carry with it a little more menace. "And you have kept it from us. You have denied us the chance to look upon the face of the Enkindlers."

Heron shook his head, and muttered under his breath in salarian. "There's very little of the original avatar file left. I will permit this, because the Spectres are here to keep it from getting out of hand. No damage. No leaving the rooms that we designate, without a Spectre escort. This is for your safety as well as for ours. There are batarians down here, as you well know."

Zhasa was just glad her mask covered her face, otherwise her amusement would surely have shown. She lightly brushed Dara's mind, keeping tabs on the human female's mental state, as they all moved out of the docking area, two hanar trailing behind them, wrapped in their mass effect fields. And found amusement and mild irritation in Dara's thoughts. _She played them like a __reela_, Dara told Zhasa, recognizing the touch of her mind.

_Yes. She did. It was very smooth, but I think she is distressed by all of this._

_To be expected. Too much like what she used to do, on many levels. Gaining trust. Speaking the old catechism. These folks haven't at least killed anyone for their beliefs yet. But were the Growth Zero people all that different? The core group, anyway, Bassanelli's people, were all 'true believers,' according to what Ylara, Melaani, and Seheve all told me. Everyone else joined out of pragmatism or fear. True believers, no matter what their cause or their creed, are the dangerous ones. Because, like my dad likes to tell me, when you believe something, it's settled. You don't have to think about it or question it anymore. I like what Dr. Solus used to teach. Always be questioning. Especially your own most basic assumptions._ Dara paused. _I take it quarians don't have many cults?_

They were passing through a narrow tube, into a small dome. "D section," Heron identified it. "It, like H section, controls the docking area, pumps, water regulation, some security functions, and other needful things. A is life support, we think. E is the power core and reactor. C . . . probably weapons, G, force-field generation building. Fortunately, batarians have done nothing with it. B and F seem to be related to food. Might have been hydroponics and waste reclamation. Unsure."

They passed into another thin tube. Outside, there were lights—brilliant lights, designed for growing. . . plants. The inner section of the D wedge was filled with a jungle of trees and flowers, all somewhat similar to what they'd seen on the surface, but subtly different. "Different genomes on the plants in here?" Dara asked, pointing. "Fifty thousand years of inbreeding, no predation, either kept them very, very similar to what was on the surface when the Protheans lived here. . . .or there will have been interesting mutations."

Heron nodded. "Dr. Sheffield has been investigating that, in her spare time. For a human, she sleeps almost as little as a salarian."

They kept walking. Dara prodded Zhasa silently. _So, no cults._

_Not any that can be easily manipulated. We believe in the ancestors. But . . . everything for us is very personal. I can talk to my ancestors, and Keelah, but . . . I can't talk to anyone else's. That would be rude. And no one presumes to know what the ancestors say to anyone else. We have strong feelings about privacy._

_Keelah?_

_Keelah was the mother of our people._

_Eve?_

_Not quite. But similar. She was supposed to be the female from whom all quarians descend. . . but the female leader of every caravan in the desert was called Keelah in her honor. And when we fled Rannoch, there was one female who rescued most of the survivors. She was the oldest of her clan, and her clan had many, many ships. She was named leader of the Flotilla for the first ten years, and everyone called her Keelah in honor and respect. . . but her given name was Selai. After she died, the Admiralty Board was established, to prevent in-fighting._ _So sometimes, we swear by the first mother of us all. Sometimes by the mother of our families. And sometimes by the mother who saved us from destruction._ Zhasa paused. _Volus and even batarians have similar beliefs . . . that the ancestors remain with us, guiding us. _

_Turians, too. Even some humans. It's a nice thought. If my mom was around guiding me, though, I think she'd have thrown up her hands and given up long ago._ The thought was very, very dry, and tinged with old sorrows.

_I doubt that. Sometimes, I still feel my father with me, watching over my shoulder. I ask him what I should do, and the answer's right there, in my mind, in his voice. It's a good feeling._

_So what does your father think of Dempsey?_ A light, teasing note.

_I haven't had the courage to ask him yet._ Zhasa felt more than a little rueful as the human laughed softly.

In the main control room, Pina Heron introduced them to Dr. Karen Sheffield, a human female with a markedly different accent in galactic than Dara's. Harder, more clipped. It sounded exotic. The female had salt-and-pepper hair, and lines on her face like a dried apple. "Oxford University," she said, smiling and shaking their hands with evident relief. Dara, Zhasa noted, had put her sunglasses on. Now, Dr. Sheffield said, inquiringly, "Dr., ah, Spectre Jaworski? It's actually quite dim in the control room; you won't be needing those—"

Dara pulled the glasses down and met the female's eyes squarely . . . and the older professor's eyes widened. "I, ah. . . of course, if you require the glasses for light sensitivity or anything like that. . . ."

"Something like that," Dara replied, and put the glasses back on. "Are you in charge of the dig?"

"I am. This is Dr. Liallia T'sael, University of Illium. She's the assistant professor. Keeps all the grad students in line. Or tries to." She smiled affectionately at the asari professor who stepped forward now.

The asari was not particularly typical of her species. For one thing, she wore human jeans and a T-shirt, both of which were ripped and smudged, and her hands were covered in grease and grime. "Spectres," she said, calmly. "Thank the goddess. Finally, we can get back to work."

Zhasa found herself smiling behind her mask. "And what is your task here, Dr. T'sael?"

"Digging into their computer systems and seeing what, if anything, I can make sense of," the asari replied, promptly. "They seemed to be using this as a center to study technology that they couldn't, or wouldn't, study on their major worlds. Dr. Sheffield's working theory is that they were using this center to study technology taken from older civilizations."

"Blasphemy," Illuudo said, without inflection.

_Oh, Keelah._

"We require access to the VI interface," Seheve interjected now, with a certain degree of polite urgency.

"It won't do you any good. It only responds to commands in Prothean."

"That will not present a problem," Seheve replied serenely.

And so it was, that on one side of the room, Zhasa and the others were reviewing the schematics for the base with Pina Heron, while on the other side of the room, Seheve and the hanar were asking questions of the AI, and Sheffield and T'sael were both standing there, furiously taking notes on their omnitools—actually, Zhasa realized, Sheffield was recording the encounter, while T'sael was taking notes and almost bouncing up and down in her impatience to ask her own questions. Zhasa could only pay attention with half an ear, but the questions ran the gamut. _What is your purpose for the hanar people?_

_Input specifications inadequate. No 'hanar' entry in requisite database. Please indicate Species 1-10,919, and retry query. _ The VI was a swirling mass of photons. Occasionally, small pieces of image came through—glimmering eyes, facial tentacles, or at least, appendages.

Seheve was straightforward. "We know that Species 112 was the predecessors of the quarians. Species 83 was the predecessors of turians. _Praeverto Vescor. _And species 131 and 132 were Cro-Magnon and Neanderthals, on Terra. We do not know the number allocated to either hanar or drell. Do you wish me to ask about every species in the database?"

"Can you ask about Kahje?"

_Input specifications inadequate. No 'Kahje' entry in requisite database. . . ._

"I will input search parameters based on physical characteristics. Aquatic, no skeletal system, sapient, and home planet has over ninety percent surface water."

_15 potentially sapient aquatic species found. Species 97 is amphibious, but has skeletal system. Species 1,209 is largely terrestrial but has a clear amphibious past. Also has a skeletal system. Species 593 is wholly aquatic. Patterns of light on skin indicate primitive communication—_

"Further information on Species 593," Seheve said, and translated this into the clicks and buzzes of Prothean.

Images appeared on the screen, and Zhasa's head swung up, distracted in spite of herself. Early precursors of the hanar, clearly—larger mantles, more like a jellyfish or a Terran 'Portuguese man-o'-war, than the current sleek, squid-like configuration. The hanar both chimed enthusiastically. "What is their purpose for us?"

Seheve sighed and translated. _Researcher Ii'ik'chilzakh is in charge of projects relating to Species 593. Minor biotic potential in the species, largely expressed in hunting behaviors. Researcher intends to prove that communications promotes sapience, and that sapience is a function of communication. His long-term experiment is intended to prove this by altering the genome to allow greater differences in the skin tone and bioluminescence of Species 593. If the altered creatures are successful, and reproduce more than others of their kind, they should be communicating with one another easily within five to ten thousand years. If __communication__ promotes sapience, and __problem-solving__ is not the key to sapience, as Researcher Ch'il'kazhj argues, they should be fully sapient. Their home environment presents few problem-solving challenges, making this a valid test, assuming no planet-wide ecological changes or stressors are introduced to their environment._

"We. . . we were an _experiment_?" Illuudo sounded angry. "This is a lie. This is falsehood!"

"Ask whatever you wish," Seheve asked, seeming completely indifferent to what the VI said. "Ask about anything you can think of, and I will ask it for answers."

Zhasa was about to ask for information on Species 112, and maybe what in Keelah's name that crystal and the nanites had done to her. . .when lights blared across all of the control panels. "What's that?" Zhasa asked, perhaps a little unnecessarily, but unease pricked at her like a knife.

"Batarians are on the move," Pina Heron replied, grimly. His hands skated across controls that were older than entire civilizations, and pulled up images on the screens, which flickered dimly there. "By the Wheel . . . they must have realized that their people weren't coming back from the submersibles. They're coming in force."

"How much force?" Rinus asked, immediately. "And where?"

"Two teams of three, trying to open the tube between B and C. . . the tube there is flooded, but they. . . " Heron's fingers skittered. "Yes. They're going to try to blow it. They don't know that it's flooded. It's locked out, both by my encryption and by the station's own safety protocols. If they open that, B will flood. Not the wedge, but the dome, and none of the domes, as yet, has ever flooded. I don't know what that will do. The water could even flood _this_ dome, the control one." His hands skated again. "Two groups of three, heading this way, down the access tube from A. Another six, total, coming from H. Three more are trying to open the tube between G and F. . . which is also flooded. My guess is this: they want control of weapons and power. And to do that, they'll either try the direct route. . . or will try to take control of the main dome."

The control area they were in was at the top of the huge central dome, and it looked down at tier after tier of living areas, laboratories, and everything else. "They'll have to go through us," Rinus said, tightly. 

_Yes, but there are five of us, and eighteen of them,_ Zhasa thought, grimly. _And we're about to get very spread out._

The Spectres all looked at one another. "Rinus, Zhasa. . . " Dara said, quietly, "Can you get into C? Past the damaged door, and secure the damned things in case the batarians have actual diving equipment and don't _care_ about the water? And, once there, can you get the weapons back online, and maybe use them on the batarians?"

"It's an unknown system, in a language neither of us speaks," Rinus said, dubiously. "And the weapons might only be externally oriented."

"Yes, but we have something that the batarians lack," Zhasa pointed out, and gestured at Seheve. "One of the two people in the galaxy who speaks Prothean. And a functioning Prothean AI. Seheve, can you walk us through the technical details out of their databases?"

The drell grimaced. "I can try."

"Okay. . . " Dara sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Pina Heron? You know this place better than anyone. Go to the reactor core and keep it safe."

"Who will watch the screens, and tell you when the batarians change positions?" Heron objected.

"I can do that," Dr. Sheffield volunteered. "Just give me a radio."

"Kirrahe?" Dara winced, visibly. "You are going to kill every batarian you see, and I'm going to keep you alive. We'll meet them in the hallway and take them out, and then turn right, and try to take the ones out of B before they change their minds and storm the central dome. Then head back towards H, G, and. . . gah. There might be more of them in the docking area dome." She looked up at Rinus. "Am I missing anything?

Rinus shook his head. "Other than the entire army that all of us wishes we had with us? Nothing."

"And how may we be of assistance?" Illuudo asked, floating up. "This is a holy site. We would be honored to give our lives to defend it."

_Oh, Keelah._ Zhasa cleared her throat. "Stay here in the control room," the quarian said. "Do not touch _anything_, but if any batarians break through, don't let them get to any of the controls."

T'sael smiled at them all wanly. "This is when I start wishing I'd practiced my biotics a lot harder as a kid, I guess. Spectre Liakos? I'm a tech. Point me in the direction of any panel you need buttons pushed on, and I'm good."

"I am only a probationary Spectre," Seheve demurred.

"Could have fooled me," the asari muttered.

Zhasa and Rinus loped down the stairs, heading for the northwest tube, the door of which opened up at a touch. The tube was transparent, like all the rest of them, but this time, instead of seeing lush greenery outside, Zhasa could see lights, still turned on, in spite of the flooding. . . illuminating water, and nothing more. _So the 'bubble' dome is actually physical_, she thought, trying to keep her mind off the millions of tons of water over her head. _There apparently was a force-shield, from what Pina Heron has said. Presumably, that failed, then the actual dome cracked in two sections, flooding these areas. If we could get the force-field back up, and pump out these sections, perhaps the dome itself could be repaired?_

The tube was several hundred meters in length, and while arrow-straight, was only dimly lit. Zhasa's eyes were meant for crepuscular situations, however, and she had night-vision inside her suit too, of course. . .which meant that she saw the obstruction in their path long before Rinus did. "Oh, this. . . is not good," she murmured. When Pina Heron had said 'obstruction' before, she'd imagined, for whatever reason, piles of scrap. A fallen ceiling. . . although if a ceiling _had_ fallen, the tube here would, obviously, be flooded. Instead, it looked as if the Protheans had actually been caught in the middle of _evacuating_. "This place came to an end when the Reapers came," Zhasa said, her breath catching. There was heavy equipment of some sort in the way—repair mechs of ancient, ancient construction, carrying boxes and crates, frozen forever in time. Those same crates and boxes had, over the centuries, tumbles down. . .and the three mechs and their gear formed a tightly wedged pack in the center of the tube. And, at a guess, each of the heavy mechs weighed over a ton.

Rinus reached up, testing his ability to move the mechs. They didn't budge. In some irritation, he clicked on the radio. "Heron? How did you get past the mechs and the crates?"

"_Climbed up, on right side. Sufficient space to get through there, close to wall of tube."_ The salarian's voice was a little out of breath. Heron was clearly _running_ where he was heading.

Rinus gingerly climbed up atop a pile of crates, shining a wrist light into the narrow gap between the mech and the wall. "I'm not going to fit through there in armor," he muttered. "A little salarian, no problem, but me?" Rinus started stripping out of his armor, with typical turian indifference to the body. Their bodies were strong, healthy, endowed with wondrous immune systems. "Throw it after me, Zhasa," he said. "I'm just not sure if I can get the door open with anything other than explosives on the other side of this logjam."

"Explosives might damage the tube," Zhasa said, sharply. "Just as the batarians might damage the tube on their side. And certainly _will_ flood compartment B."

He tried to get through, but his shoulders and cowl caught, no matter what he did. He was, simply, too damned big. "Maybe I can get in between the mechs. . . or over them. . . spirits. They're old enough that the metal could collapse under me. Which would clear the way at least. . . ."

Over the radio now, chatter. _"Taking heavy fire,"_ Dara reported, her voice tight. _"Kirrahe and I are taking them down. . . little slower than I'd like. Heron, you in position at the reactor?"_

"_I am. What are the batarians doing?"_

"_They have blown the door of the tube between B and C. Dome B is flooding, but the batarians have full environmental gear on."_ That was Seheve. _"Attempting to activate security systems within the tube."_

"Lift me up," Zhasa told Rinus, trying to clamber up herself now. The turian caught her wrists, pulled her up to his side, and then tried to give her a boost through the narrow gap.

"Your head and shoulders fit, just barely, but, sorry to say, Zhasa, your hips are caught. I can't push you through—can you wiggle a little, pull yourself. . . hell, use your biotics?"

"If I try to . . . use a biotic leap. . . while jammed like this. . . " Zhasa panted, trying to move, "the force will tear my suit. Pull me out."

Rinus pulled on her legs and hips, drawing her back out of the tight confines of the ancient equipment. Zhasa swallowed hard. The suit added about an inch, maybe two, to her overall body configuration. Without it, she could get through. "Rinus?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't look. And for the sake of both our ancestors, please don't have a cold right now."

Zhasa lifted off her helmet, with a distinctive hissing sound as atmosphere inside began to escape. Rinus looked down, anyway, reflexively, and almost yelped. "No, you can't! You'll get sick—"

"And Dara can nurse me back to health with _kuryatina_ soup and a lot of scolding." Zhasa unlatched her chest-plate next and begged, "Please, just look away." She hadn't been self-conscious as a child, when face-to-face contact had been normal and natural as touching had been. But for adult quarians, seeing each others' faces was the very height of intimacy. Something reserved for those for whom you had the deepest affinity, love, and trust. She'd _chosen_ to show Dempsey her face and body. And it had been slightly humiliating to wake up in med bay, knowing that so many people now knew her face. And yet, it had been slightly freeing, too. _Perhaps all my people, male and female alike, will spend the next seven generations on Rannoch, wearing light, net veils over their faces. Not enough to block vision, but . . . _She dropped her boots to the floor. "Boost me."

Warm hands, slightly scaly, Rinus' pervasive sense of sun-warmed metal, wrapping around her waist, a slight sensation of shock from him now. Some at her appearance, a thought of _I always thought they'd look like us. I guess everyone expects them to look like their own species, under the mask. Ego-centrism, I suppose. . . _ and under that, slight unease that he was touching the waist of a female other than his wife.

Then she was up and through the gap, and Rinus shoved her guns after her, and she took off for the door at a dead run. Hoping that she'd make it to the weapons center before the batarians made it through the second door.


	125. Chapter 125: Relations

**Chapter 125: Relations**

_**Author's note:** I recently put up a new poll, asking readers which of the probationary Spectres has, so far, shown enough development to be allowed to put on the black armor. ;-) Feel free to vote, or voice your opinion in the dedicated thread in the forums!_

**Seheve, Arvuna, December 3, 2196**

Seheve was fairly sure now that the Enkindlers were, as Protheans, just another sapient species, although an extinct one. However, if there was a greater force behind the universe, she was fairly sure that it was having fun with her right now. She was standing at a large Prothean control panel and was manipulating the controls, based half on a lifetime of tech training—and almost all technology currently in existence in the galaxy was based on Prothean tech (and presumably, ultimately, upon Reaper tech, in turn)—and half upon her knowledge of the Prothean language. Dr. Sheffield was working the security cameras, serving as an eye in the sky for Dara and Kirrahe, as they moved in on the batarians along corridor A, while Seheve was trying to get the internal defenses online as well.

At the same exact time, she had Illuudo, the leader of the hanar protestors, hovering over her shoulder, inquiring anxiously if what she was doing was not, in some fashion, profaning the site. And at the same time as _that_, Dr. T'sael was, in between trying to work with a panel in the corner, asking Seheve interested questions about what commands she was giving the VI and so on and so forth.

It made it difficult to concentrate, to say the least. "Respected Illuudo, do you not think that the batarians would intend far greater profanation to this site than what this one is doing? Which is, in fact, using their gifts, in the way in which they intended?"

"It is arrogant to assume that you know the intentions of the Enkindlers, young one."

"How _do_ you know what each system does?" T'sael asked, craning her neck.

"This symbol? It means 'defense.' This symbol means 'systems.' This one means 'internal.' This one does not find it a great leap of logic or of faith to combine the three." Seheve's voice was, as always, soft and calm. "Dr. Sheffield? If you could confirm the location of the batarians moving in on the reactor building?"

"They're all crowded into G building at the moment," Sheffield replied. "They're trying to force the door open." Her voice was tight as she added, "The tube to F is flooded. They'll either flood the rest of the station, if the ancient failsafes don't kick in, or they'll be sealed in there as the water goes through the chamber. They look like they've got hard-suit diving equipment, though. They could withstand the cold and the pressure in those. . . but they could flood the entire damned station, room by room. Killing all of us. . . .or at least forcing us all back to one of the entry rooms, where there's at least an airlock system between the inside and the outside. . . "

"Then we should prevent that," Seheve murmured, and pressed two controls on the flickering panel. Lights flared here and there, and she turned her head to look at the results on Sheffield's screen.

The batarians on the vid feed suddenly doubled over, clutching their heads. Even through the hard suits, Seheve noted, the defense system had an effect.

"What is that? What are you doing to them?" T'sael asked, her eyes wide.

"This one does nothing. The defense system is emitting powerful waves of sound. Usually enough to stun most humanoids, apparently. However, because they are wearing suits, it will not be enough to incapacitate them. This is. . . regrettable. This one would have preferred a non-violent solution." The self-effacing third-person was almost reflexive around the hanar zealots. It allowed them to see her as one of them, and made them more accepting of her actions, however, so Seheve wasn't going to fight the reflex for now.

On-screen, the batarians were stubbornly clambering to their feet, and renewing their efforts to unlock the door. Seheve sighed. This really was regrettable.

"We could go and fight them," Illuudo offered, suddenly. "They _would_ profane this place. Have _been_ profaning it. Allow this one and his followers to confront the batarians. Even if they open the doors to the waters, we would be unaffected. The cold would be uncomfortable, but the crushing deeps are not unknown to us. And have little effect." A pause. "All that would be needed would be for us to rip the helmets from their heads. They would be dead in a very short time, if the Enkindlers are kind."

Seheve shook her head, watching the screen. "This one appreciates your offer, Respected Illuudo. This one hopes that such efforts will be unnecessary." The batarians' weapons would have difficulty firing more than a round or two underwater, but the hanar zealots weren't exactly wearing kinetic shields. Their mass effect shields would give them some protection. . . but they'd undoubtedly turn them off in the water. "Initiating secondary security protocols," she murmured, and directed the system to electrify the door. She wondered, briefly, why the Protheans had this level of security in their base, and decided, after a moment, that it might have been standard in all their secure research facilities. If they had ever decided to use this base to study, say, curious, potentially frightened sapient species, there would be a need to _convince_ prisoners that escape was impossible. _Or, perhaps, they feared that rival scientists might break into the base and steal their research?_

On screen, the batarians swore and recoiled from the door. The charge wasn't lethal. Just enough to be painful and a deterrent. Seheve gestured at the controls, and was pleasantly surprised when she managed to get an audio connection to the room. "This is Seheve Liakos," she told the batarians, and watched as their heads jerked up on-screen, as her voice undoubtedly echoed from all around them. "If you open the door to that tube, it will flood the room, and the adjacent tubes. You will not be permitted to do so. Cease your efforts, or face deadly force."

There was no audio feed from the room, but the batarians made a variety of profane gestures, and began unpacking explosives and a frame to pack them into, for a forced entry through the door. Seheve exhaled, and waited until they pressed the frame into place. They'd been warned. Which was more of a luxury than she'd ever accorded anyone before, really. As their leader gingerly pushed a detonator into the plastic frame, making contact with the malleable explosives inside the housing, Seheve touched several more controls. _It would be a good thing for this to work,_ she thought. _If it doesn't, then Pina Heron will be the last defense for the reactor core._

Her hand hesitated over the controls, and then touched them decisively.

Lines of yellow light, _exactly_ like those emitted by a Collector beam weapon leaped out in a grid-like pattern, lancing through the air. It looked to her trained eyes like the lasers used in vault security. Each line helped define a cube about a foot large in space, and they crisscrossed the entire room. The system was ancient, however, and spluttered only weakly to life. In its heyday, it probably would have had a continuous stream of fire. As it was, the lines stuttered erratically. But there were at least fifty to a hundred thin lines of light in that room, boring through the batarians' shields, drilling into the armor and flesh underneath. Seheve didn't need to kill them with this system, however. She just needed their suits compromised.

The leader made a victorious gesture when the security system cut off. "It didn't kill them," T'sael said, her voice agitated. "They're just going to blast through!"

Rinus Velnaran's voice crackled through the radio, asking Pina Heron how he'd accessed room C, since there was debris blocking the tube. Heron began to explain, while on another channel, Dr. Jaworski stated, calmly, _"Enemy sighted. Kirrahe and I are moving to engage in building A. They left a rearguard, looks like."_

"Throwing a grenade in through the door—" Kirrahe started to report.

"No!" Dr. Sheffield said, immediately. "You'll damage priceless artifacts in there!"

"Agreed!" Illuudo added, emphatically. "Your weapons will profane this place of the Enkindlers!"

"Stun grenades, then," Dr. Jaworski said, her voice sounding impatient. "We've _got_ to get in there."

"If you can wait a moment, I can bring the security protocols online for that building," Seheve murmured, but her attention was on building G at the moment. T'sael was still staring at her, eyes wide. "Dr. T'sael? The batarians are about to receive what they desired."

"What?" the asari demanded. 'What are you saying?"

Seheve swiped on the controls. "The leader assumes, erroneously, that the system ran out of power. His suit, and the others, however, are compromised. This one shut down the system, Dr. T'sael. Its resources are needed elsewhere." Specifically, in buildings H, A, and B. There was only so much power in this ancient system, after all. And why not use the environment around them to their advantage?

Seheve touched a control, sealing and locking the tube doors between H and G. The door between G and the main dome was already sealed. And then one last series of controls. . . and she overrode the security protocols, opening building G to the freezing cold water that filled the tube to building F.

"Oh my god," Sheffield said, rising to her feet at the vid screen console. "Spectre, what are you _doing_?"

"They wished for the door to be open," Seheve said, calmly, already working on other problems. "That wish has been granted. It is regrettable." She keyed the intercom function again, and told the batarians, "If you put down your weapons and explosives, and retreat to the door leading from the building you are in, to the main building, we will consider it an offer of surrender."

Over the radio, Velnaran said, in a tone of disbelief, _"Zhasa just stripped down to her __futarri__ skin to get through the hole in the debris. She's got an omnitool, her biotics, her guns, and a __smile__ at the moment. I need a way through the damned debris—Seheve, these are mechs. Do you have control over them at all? Do they have __any__ power left?"_ Frustration and anger in his tone. _"She's at the door, but spirits only know if she can get through before the batarians do—"_

_She's. . . .naked?_ Seheve's thoughts balked at that for a moment. _Quarians who come out of their suits. . . foreign environment, although one sealed for 50,000 years. . . she's almost certain to become deathly ill. It might not be an actual death sentence, but. . . . _

And, at that point, from the other team, sounds of a firefight emerged on the radio. Dara and Kirrahe tossing terse directions at each other. _"Clear right!"_

"_One down. No angle on the other two. Kirrahe, what are you doing?"_

"_Getting the angle."_

Seheve glanced up at the screens. Dr. Jaworski was at the doorway to building A, trying to swing around and aim at the batarians inside, but the stream of constant fire was deterring her. Kirrahe moved in, taking heavy fire to his shields and then diving for cover behind some sort of a work console. "Shit," Dr. Sheffield said, not censoring herself. "Please, don't, don't hit the consoles—" The batarians on that screen didn't appear to be listening to her; they changed targets to Kirrahe instead, firing freely at him.

"You are more concerned about the consoles than about Kirrahe Orlan's life?" Seheve asked, her head jerking up. It sounded, uncomfortably, like Dr. Bassanelli's ethos. The man had been far more concerned with the eezo plant's effect on the environment than in the cruelties inflicted on the workers. . . slaves. . . in the refinery.

"Of course not!" Dr. Sheffield snapped. "But my god, building A is life support! Air filtration, heat, water reclamation and desalinization, that's all controlled from there. Destroy anything in that room, and we could all die."

"At least it will be a slower demise than if the water rises in here," Seheve told her, calmly, and glanced at the other set of camera feeds, her hands already working on the consoles.

"_Seheve! I need answers on the mechs!"_ Velnaran's voice was much like his brother's, Seheve realized. A little lower. A bit more controlled, but there was a growl in it at the moment.

"I am working on the problem, Spectre," she assured him.

"_The door. . . !"_ Zhasa called next on the radio, in a tone of triumph. _"Seheve, it's barely damaged. I can fix that. . . but it has a password encryption protocol. And I don't speak Prothean. I can try a few brute-force methods on it, but if you can help, Seheve—"_

For just a second, Seheve's eyes widened, and she considered the possibility that Pina Heron might be a Lystheni agent after all. He was, after all, a former member of House Ill'sta. Dalatrass Hardrassa had been connected to the Lystheni. Perhaps his emancipation from her house had been a front, a show to allow him to continue STG work. . . except he _hadn't_. He'd left STG a year later, and come here. When there'd been little visible value in the colony, and certainly before this complex had been discovered. There would have been precious little value in sending a Lystheni agent here. And he'd had plenty of chances to turn the buildings over to the batarians before this, if he were, in fact, complicit with them. _No._

So much going on, at the same time, and she had to balance it _all_. For a ludicrous moment, Seheve's perfect memory took her two years in the past. To a human arms dealer that Olonkoa had wished dealt with. She'd sat in his living area, watching, in curiosity, a black and white, two-dimensional vid feed. _Vaudeville_, her host had identified it. On the aerogel screen, a human had set a plate atop a tall pole. And, once it was balanced, had set the pole spinning. Then another. Then another. Then another. Soon, there were five poles, all with plates atop them, spinning around, and the human had been running from one to the next, trying to keep all of them spinning and balanced and from falling to the ground and shattering. _That's me, most days_, her host had told her, with a wry smile. _What does Olonkoa want?_

_His money, Mr. Mitchell. Or have you dropped a plate?_ She hadn't had to kill the man, though she'd been prepared to do so. The threat of her presence had been enough. She hadn't even needed to damage the man. All things she'd been grateful for then, and now.

Now, however, _Seheve_ was the one spinning the plates. And the stakes were a lot bigger than a few broken pieces.

In room G, the batarians looked down at the water pouring in through the opened door. Several of them were badly wounded, and _all_ had compromised suits; the water was freezing cold and up to their knees, and was cascading in through the door like a waterfall, a cataract. The leader gestured at the northern door, the one that led to the main building, and gestured at his followers. They moved, trying to grab their explosives frame from where it was floating in the water, and headed with it to the door. _Entirely the wrong decision_, Seheve thought, and, without changing expressions, electrified the door. The water in the room instantly conducted the charge, and concurrently lowered local resistance to the current. There was no place where the batarians could go to escape it, and it was the work of a moment on the consoles to override the safety protocols and increase the current from a level that resulted in a painful buzzing sensation to a level that ripped through their recharging kinetic shields, flash-fried the nervous system, and cooked the internal organs. It was, Seheve thought, lowering her head for a moment, and blinking rapidly, a very good thing that there was no audio feed from that room. And then she sealed the doors on the waterfall, preventing the chamber from being any further flooded.

"_We're pinned down—"_

"Spectre, the batarians have just made it to room B. Only one team of three; the others are back and fighting with Dr. Jaworski and Kirrahe Orlan. They've also moved a final group up from building H to building A." Sheffield's voice was urgent. "If you can do anything to assist them—"

Again, the balancing act. She had to prioritize. Everyone was in trouble at the same time. Seheve tabbed her radio, still working frantically. "Pina Heron? The reactor core is safe for the moment. Get to tube C and help Spectres Velnaran and Zhasa'Maedan, if you would." The mechs in that tunnel would not move currently. No power. "Spectre Velnaran? The facility has the capacity to charge the power cores of mechs like those wirelessly. However, I do not know if the cores are stable or can even hold a charge after so much time."

"_Charge only one,"_ Rinus said. "_I'll back up."_

"If it explodes, it may cause damage to the tube. You might be able to escape, but Spectre Zhasa would be trapped, and subject to near-freezing water. Air compression as the water enters the tube. Other—"

"_If you help me open the damned door, it won't be an issue!"_

At that moment, Pina Heron, breathing heavily, raced through the control center on his way to meet Rinus, at least. Seheve thanked the universe for small mercies, and kept working.

"_And what are you going to hold the batarians back with, Zhasa? Your teeth?"_ Velnaran's voice was furious. _"As soon as they get in the west door, you're going to be knee-deep in water anyway—"_

"_A little help here!"_ That was Dara Jaworski. Seheve's eyes jerked up to _that_ screen. The human and the salarian were, by themselves, trying to hold off six batarians. Half of whom kept popping in and out of view. _Stealth fields. I should be there with them. _One appeared right in front of Kirrahe, firing a submachine gun point-blank into the salarian's chest, tearing through his kinetic shields. Dara, on-screen, leaned around the corner and began unloading her pistol into the batarian's shields, herself, while Kirrahe himself slapped the muzzle of the weapon away and kicked the batarian backwards. . . and promptly took more bullets from three more batarians scattered around the room.

_Priorities._ "Get him out of the room!" Seheve's voice was urgent. "I will do what I may." She didn't bother with the sonic attack this time. As Jaworski dragged Kirrahe out of the room, Seheve keyed up the lines of light. They were stronger in this room, and the batarians, audible over the Spectres' radios, screamed in pain and shock. On the screens, several of them flickered into view as their stealth fields and shields were interrupted. Seheve spun the door from A to the central dome, building H, and building B, cutting off any retreat, and cutting them off from their cohorts, who were, still, trying to open the doors to C, by any means possible. "The lethal measures are non-functional in building B," Seheve reported, unhappily as she keyed the non-lethals, barraging the batarians with sound, and electrifying the hatch. That slowed them down, at least for the moment. "Spectre Velnaran, at a run, could you make it to building B through the main building? Spectre Jaworski, can you and Kirrahe manage the same?"

"_Yes—but the mechs?"_

"Nevermind the mechs, Pina Heron will be there to assist Zhasa'Maedan shortly. Get to building B."

"_Seheve, I've asked nicely several times now_." Zhasa's voice was not amused. _"I need help with the password protocol on this door—"_

"_Kirrahe's taken two bullets in the mid-section. I'm trying to get them out, but they're lodged near his liver—"_

"_Spectre, just go without me—"_

"_Fuck that, Kirrahe, you son of a villi with the mental capacity of slime-mold, I am not leaving you here to bleed out—"_

So much cross-chatter. Seheve focused, intently, on the problem at hand. The door in front of Zhasa'Maedan. _Yes, passwords are kept in a database. Door has a three tries and done lockout protocol. Already engaged, no doubt because of Pina Heron's efforts. But I can override and reset the password from here, because this is the central control station. . . password is now. . . Loki._ "Password reset. Door should now be open!" Her monumental calm was beginning to gray a little around the edges.

Rinus Velnaran raced through the room at a full turian sprint, skidding around and reorienting himself for the northern door that led to tube B—and then raced back out again. "Spectre Jaworski, Spectre Velnaran requires backup."

"_I will be there when Kirrahe is stable enough for me to leave! Rinus, hold on, I'll be there!"_

"_I'm in the control room. Keelah, this place hasn't been touched in centuries. The air's still clean, though. Environmental systems are working."_

"_At the door to C_," Pina Heron said on the radio. _"What the __hell__—?" _

"_Don't just sit there gaping at me. Try to work out what these controls do. If any of them really are weapons systems, internal or external."_

Seheve looked up at the vid feeds. The feed from the inside of C had always been on, but this was the first time _people_ had been inside the building in fifty thousand years. Since humans had carried flint knives. Since her own people had carried ones of obsidian. It would have been a moment for awe and wonder, except that the batarians in B were trying to get an explosive frame on the door to C. The batarians in building A were all heavily wounded; the grid of light had, however, shut down due to power strains. The batarians were crawling to one another, trying to assist themselves. Dr. Jaworski burst into the control room at a human sprint, skidded out, ran into a console, and then pushed off and ran north, following in Rinus Velnaran's path.

Sheffield called to Seheve, "Couldn't you just open the doors on them? Fill the room with electrified water, as you did before?"

Seheve winced. "I will make the attempt." She didn't necessarily want to kill the batarians, but they were leaving her with very few options.

As such, it was inordinately frustrating to realize. . . "The controls to the hatch leading from B to C are unresponsive."

"You mean, you _can't_ open them?" T'Sael sounded close to panic.

_Did I not just say precisely that?_ "Yes. It's not a matter of overriding them; the door's actual mechanism appears to be malfunctioning." Seheve frowned. "Perhaps . . . " A quick analysis of the systems on the console. _Yes. Fire containment. That might work. _She made several gestures on the controls. . . and on the screen above, where she'd expected to see a shower of water pour out of the ceiling, there was, instead, foam. Lots and lots of foam. It was still liquid, but she had no _idea_ if it was conductive at all. From the reactions of the batarians far from the door, now knee-deep in slippery foam, it wasn't heavily conductive, but the ones closer to the door were, indeed, pulling back from the door and reacting in pain. "That. . . was not quite what I had in mind. . . ." _The plates are tipping. . . .I can't catch them all. . . ._

"_It __is__ a weapon room,"_ Zhasa suddenly confirmed, her voice gleeful. _"And you'll be delighted to know that if any of these systems are still functional? We can hit any batarian encampment still left in the entire __system__. Any Eclipse base, too, if we knew where they were."_

"_That's nice,"_ Velnaran called back. _"What about the batarians __in this base__?"_ He wasn't even out of breath as he added. "_I'm in position,_" Velnaran called over the radio. _"Open the door."_

"_No, wait, there might not be a need!"_ Zhasa chirped back over the radio, happy as a songbird. _"Seheve, did you not see the place where the environmental systems and the security systems interlace? Chlorine gas. Very caustic and deadly for almost every species, including batarians. I can vent that into H, A, and B. . . ."_

"Yes, I saw it, and discounted it," Seheve said, tapping one hand against the side of her console in agitation. "They are wearing self-contained breathing systems. We would need to break their facemasks, or convince them to remove their helmets. Can you bring the defensive beam grid back on-line? I cannot do so from here."

"_I'm in position,"_ Dr. Jaworski panted. _"You better not have made me run like this without a damn good reason."_

"_Nice of you to show up, __amillula__,"_ Velnaran told her calmly. _"We're ready to proceed, regardless."_

_We are rapidly running out of time. Zhasa, please, figure this out before I have no other choice but to open the southern door and have the doctor and Spectre Velnaran attack the batarians. . . ._

"_Ah. . . which set of symbols would those be—ah! Thank you!"_ Seheve had already been transmitting what the controls looked like, and Zhasa almost purred a moment later, _"Activating beam controls."_

Inside room B, the batarians, who had been slipping and sliding in the foam, trying to get closer to the door, and the explosive frame which had not quite finished being armed, suddenly flailed and tried to get to cover as lines of yellow light crisscrossed the room. Except, of course, there was no cover. Seheve grimaced tightly and opened the door in front of the two Spectres positioned outside of B. . . and Velnaran and Jaworski promptly cleaned up what little the beams had missed. "Shut it down, Spectre. . . ah, Zhasa," Seheve instructed over the radio. "Then see if you can reroute any additional power to the defensive system in building A. . . . "

"_Not to sound like a prudish human,"_ Pina Heron cut in, calmly, _"But I can manage that. The Spectre should, perhaps, put on some clothes before she catches her death."_

There was a distinct pause. Then Dr. Jaworski, in a tone that brooked absolutely no disobedience, ordered, _"Zhasa, get your hiney back to the corridor. I'll meet you there. You having any trouble breathing? Any tightness in your chest or wheezing?"_

"_No, Freya, actually, I feel fine—"_

"_Move, then!"_

Less than two minutes later, Dr. Jaworski hit the corridor, at a full run, while still asking over the radio, "Kirrahe, you sure you're all right to be standing? You break my stitches, you void the warranty, you hear me?" . . . and then she was gone again, ducking down the tube to building C.

Dr. Sheffield leaned back from the consoles with an audible exhalation. "So, Spectre Liakos. . . was this a particularly unusual day for you lot?" Her wave encompassed all the screens, where Kirrahe was slowly making his way down the tube, one hand braced against the translucent wall, Rinus was checking the bodies of the batarians for supplies and ammunition, Dara was sprinting down another tube now, and Zhasa was attempting to cover her face with her hands as she passed by vid cam after vid cam.

Seheve considered that for a moment. "Actually, this was better than most," she admitted, with a hint of a smile, matched by a hint of joy in her heart, as well as a sensation of peace and satisfaction. "Today, I helped protect a place of history, of learning, of knowledge. I helped protect lives. I had to take some to do so, but. . . all in all? This was a good day."

Illuudo spoke then, calmly and with great precision, "And what will happen to this place now? Will you help us protect it from those who would profane it?"

Seheve looked at the hanar. Her feeling of peace, joy, and satisfaction wavered for a moment. "Did we not just have a victory against those who would profane this place, by either the standards of the hanar or by the standards of the scientists here? Can we not, for a moment, at least, savor this victory over those who would turn knowledge solely to destructive purposes, who would pervert what they found here?" She consciously modulated her voice, keeping it low and soft, but it was a struggle. "I would recommend, Dr. Sheffield, Dr. T'sael, that you include Respected Illuudo in your findings. Allow him and his followers to read what you translate here. They might have perspectives of value to offer your analysis, as well."

Sheffield's eyebrows went up. She could clearly see that Seheve was trying to be diplomatic here, but just as clearly, Seheve could see the female's initial reaction: _What could they __possibly__ offer us?_ "Such as?" Sheffield asked, managing a tone of neutrality.

"We have studied the works of the Enkindlers on dozens of planets, since before humans knew of their light," Illuudo replied, immediately. "And what would induce us to work with these people, Seheve Liakos?"

She inhaled, held it for a moment, and found her inner calmness once more. Slipped it around herself like a robe. "Simply this, Respected Illuudo. You would be able to ensure that no artifacts were damaged or mishandled. You would be able to observe how respectful these scientists are of the Enkindlers, regardless of the name by which they address them." Seheve brought both hands, palms up, close to, but alongside her face, a graceful gesture that matched the slight bow of her head. "Is this not worth considering?"

**Zhasa'Maedan, Arvuna, December 3, 2196**

She was panting a little with anxiety, trying to remember to keep her jaws closed together. Humans didn't pant; any time she did it around Dempsey, he tended to look mildly concerned and ask her if she were all right. Zhasa had been far too keyed up on fear and adrenaline to really notice much of anything at first. Now, the overwhelming and slightly frightening reality of being out of the suit was settling in. Cool air flowing over her skin. Feeling of dampness in that air. Scents. . . so many of them! Not at all like being in a clean room, or even in the safety of Dempsey's bedroom, which they cleaned almost religiously every time she decided to slip out of the suit. Dust. Ionization, from all the machines. A musty smell in the air, too, and wholly alien scents. They could have been Prothean, but Zhasa suspected she was smelling the chlorophyll of the plants that provided the oxygen under the dome. Oh, the plant odors and pollens and everything else was surely scrubbed out before being pumped into the buildings and tunnels, but. . . perhaps just a hint? _Shouldn't my throat be closing down by now?_ Zhasa thought, fear tightening it, instead.

She reached the wall of mechs, and began to climb up them agilely. Cold metal under her hands, slick and unyielding. She poked her head through, saw Dara waiting for her on the other side, and started to cover her face with a hand, reflexively.

"No time for that," Dara told her. "Get down here!" There was fear in those peremptory words. Absolute mortal terror. Coolness of the polyresin-sealed metal gloves closing on her wrists now as Dara helped pull her through the narrow gap between the machines. "Okay, first thing's first, back in the _suit_," Dara told her, and started handing Zhasa pieces.

"Slow down. You're going in the wrong order," Zhasa told her, taking deep breaths to try to calm herself down, and slid her feet into the legs of her suit, pulling everything up quickly and efficiently.

"You're hyperventilating. Is that a normal reaction for you?" Dara sounded lost, frightened, and angry all at once.

"Yes. Just anxiety, though, not exertion. And no, my chest isn't tight." Zhasa began sealing up.

Dara visibly dithered. "I'd listen to your lungs directly, but that would mean removing my own helmet. My _god_, Zhasa, what were you _thinking?_"

"I'm up to twenty minutes out of the suit every day," Zhasa replied, latching her faceplate in place, sighing in relief as she heard and felt the hiss of purified air across her face. "Admittedly, that was on Mindoir, and this is a wholly alien environment, but Dara, the risk really was minimal. There are no dextro-based species on the research team. The Protheans themselves—as evidence by the Collectors—were levo-based."

"But Rinus was right there!" Dara was busily scanning Zhasa now, and had one hand on Zhasa's arm, reading outputs on the omnitool. "You could have caught something from him. Or, god help us, you could have an allergic reaction to _anything_ around us."

Now that she was in the safe confines of her suit, however, Zhasa's fear reactions were starting to abate. For most species, adrenaline and stress cortisol actually had an inhibiting effect on cortical activity. Put simply, when someone was afraid or under stress, they tended not to think very well. With the endorphin surge behind her, Zhasa was able to consider her situation much more clearly. "But I'm not reacting, am I?" she said, slowly.

"Your heart-rate is elevated. Extra oxygen in the blood. Typical for quarian stress reaction; your bodies are like race horses'. You release more oxygen-carrying blood cells when you're under stress, to allow you to run faster, among other things. Turians don't do this. . . " Dara trailed off. Behind her mask, her rachni-blue eyes scanned back and forth across the readings she was taking.

"And?" Zhasa prompted, feeling a lump in her stomach.

"Your immune response is elevated. And you've got about ten thousand of those nanites out and moving around in your circulatory system right now. They're in your lungs—you _sure_ you don't feel any congestion?"

Zhasa reached out biotically. _None. Dara, feel what I feel. Concentrate._ _Quiet your mind for a moment._

Dara's head had jerked up. She'd been very far into turian medic mode, but also into a mode of thought that felt, oddly enough to Zhasa, almost salarian. Neither of the two thought-processes meshed well with calmness, with reaching out, with sharing. But the piano music still intertwined with them, with the dull red, controlled anger and the extremely fast green thoughts that flickered through reams of medical data, mostly brute-force memorized, but a lot engrained through experience, too. And fear. Bright yellow, and full of thorns. Zhasa winced. _I don't want to lose another friend, this isn't something I can fix, not here, what the hell are they doing to her._ That was the mantra at the back of her mind, being choked down, sublimated by training. One more whisper, _Dempsey is going to __kill__ me if anything happens to her. . . _

_Relax. Feel with me. No tightness in the chest. No itching. No erratic heartbeat. No pains._ Zhasa watched as the head tipped, and the peacock blue eyes focused on her a little more clearly. She wasn't sure how she could _tell_ that, given the lack of pupils, but. . .

"Interesting," Dara said out loud. "You really _do_ feel fine? You're not putting on the usual brave front. And other than the damned nanobots, and a strong immune response. . . I'm just not seeing anything. Not so much as a raised temperature." She paused. "I have _got_ to get you back aboard the _Sollostra_ and run tests."

Zhasa sighed. "I knew you were going to say that."

Dara raised a slightly scolding finger at her. "Hey, I know _exactly_ how you feel, but think of it this way. You spent twenty minutes outside of your suit in a wholly unfamiliar environment without so much as a damned epi-tab to cushion you. If you hadn't already done your pilgrimage, figuring out how you managed to do that and _not_ wind up with pneumonia or anaphylactic shock would be a hell of a gift to your people, wouldn't it? 

Standing there in the translucent tube, two kilometers of water over her head, the area only dimly lit from the 'grow lights' outside, Zhasa's mouth fell open behind her visor. "I. . . . oh. _Keelah._"

Her knees buckled, and Dara hastily grabbed her by the elbows. "Whoa, hold on there, you okay?" A sharp spike in the yellow worry category.

Zhasa waved it off. "No, I'm fine. It's just. . . the Flotilla took my biotics training in lieu of a pilgrimage gift. It was _assumed_ I'd be an asset just because of . . . what I was. I never actually felt as if I'd . . . earned my place." Her throat tightened. "I never felt that I'd given to my people, the way . . . the way everyone else had to. To be considered an adult." She inhaled shakily. "You're right, though. If it's a fluke of genetics or even something to do with the nanobots. . . what a gift to give my people."

"C'mon, let's get you to the control center. I don't want you exerting yourself too much. And I have another stubborn patient to look after, too." Dara ducked under the taller female's arm, and insisted on supporting her down the hall.

_You really do think of me as a friend?_ A tentative thought, a quick check to see if it were petals or thorns today.

Dara was, apparently, far too tired for it to be the latter. _Of course I do_. But the thought was just as tentative and wary. _I haven't had many. Most other females don't like me, much. Human females can be very . . . _she sighed. A flood of quick impressions. Jeering laughter. Pointing. Obviously, any female who was smart, and who didn't have the time, inclination, or interest in clothes, had to have something _wrong_ with her. A female who preferred the company of males? Also had to have something wrong with her. _Sorry. You didn't need to see that. Yeah. You're a friend, Zhasa. I take care of my friends._

Zhasa was bewildered by the memories. All her own memories of childhood and young adulthood had been much, much different. The closeness of quarian ships, the lack of privacy, the fact that there was _no place else to go_, at least until Pilgrimage, all meant that people of all ages on a quarian ship were more or less encouraged to police themselves. Settle disputes. Get along. While there was peer pressure, quarians also had a history as pride animals in their background. Get along, work for the benefit of the group, or there will be consequences. _They treated you more or less as an omega_, she finally decided.

_I suppose. Not important anymore, though. And none of them really dared to __do__ anything to me, because they knew my dad was a Ranger. They just yapped. _ Song echoed through Dara's thoughts now. _I like how you grew up better, though. I tried not to listen, but the songs were very beautiful. Very warm. Very loving. Little crowded, though._

The next two days were a torrent of activities. Zhasa's head fairly spun with it, in fact. They were able to use the Prothean weapon systems to a certain extent. They didn't quite trust the weapons themselves; they were fifty thousand years old, after all, and even eezo's half-life would probably have resulted in quite a bit of decay. . . and, as Rinus pointed out, "We have no idea if the propulsion or guidance systems on. . . whatever these things are. . . even function still. No. Don't launch them. With our luck, they'll go off under our feet."

They were, however, able to mark targets, and as Alliance ships entered the system, the humans went after any batarian resistance that remained. . . and any Eclipse mercenaries who hadn't surrendered to Sky, Ylara, and Melaani back in Troy. When they weren't handling that, Seheve and Zhasa and Kirrahe were dealing with the hanar and the scientists in the underwater dome. Zhasa had a few ideas for _repairing_ the dome and pumping out the flooded sections that got both parties' attention. "It would require people who have the training and equipment to do work this far underwater," she noted, "or, perhaps, people who are more or less immune to the pressure. I'm sure you could get some volus out here to do the work." She'd turned her head towards the hanar, who'd immediately started spluttering protests. "Or, perhaps, Illuudo and his people would help you preserve this cultural treasure, so that all might learn from it?"

Dara, behind her, had coughed, hard. Zhasa reached out with her mind, a habitual gesture after the last few days of making sure that the human's need for 'song' was being met by her two little workers. _Lyagushka__ in your throat?_ _Lyaguska_ were small amphibians native to Rannoch, usually only found in rare desert oases.

_Trying very hard not to laugh in their faces. Oh, you and Seheve have them tied up six ways from Sunday._ Blue-green amusement, and roses in full bloom.

Dara had watched her vitals very carefully indeed the entire time they'd remained below the sea. Their doctor had not been able to get Zhasa to the _Sollostra_ immediately; the ship had been spotting for Alliance ships coming through the mass relay, and couldn't be broken away from that task for anything other than a true emergency. And since neither Zhasa nor Kirrahe were, actually dying, curiosity didn't count.

Eventually, they took a submersible to the surface, and Melaani and Ylara picked them up in the shuttles once more. "We _must_ get an uplink to the _Sollostra_. As much data as can be uploaded from the Prothean computers as possible," Zhasa told Ylara tiredly. "We have no idea how long the tenuous agreements between the researchers and the hanar will last, and I don't think we really want the bad press of removing the hanar forcibly."

"Nor do we really have the resources to commit to that, at present," Ylara replied, helping Zhasa to a seat in the shuttle. "Are you quite well? Dara's reports were a little. . . strident. . . about your health for a while there."

Dara snorted under her breath and took a seat. "She's damned lucky to be alive. But absolutely no signs of infection. Zhasa. . . when we're back aboard the _Sollostra_, under controlled circumstances? Would you be open to a little, well, experimentation?"

Zhasa's head turned. "What do you mean?"

"Stepping out of your suit in med bay for longer and longer periods. I want to watch what the nanobots and your immune system actually do, step by step, from the moment you breathe your first breath of non-filtered air." Dara's voice was tight. She knew what she was asking, clearly. "I wouldn't ask, Zhasa, but you know what might be at stake."

_Just the future of my people,_ Zhasa thought. "Of course I will," she replied, trying to sound as cheerful and unconcerned as possible.

In the med bay of the _Sollostra_, it was a little harder to remain cheerful. So _very_ odd, to be out of the suit. In a thin patient gown, shivering a little. The ambient temperature of the ship was set at a compromise temperature of 80º F. . . too warm for many humans, and too cool for turians. For hygiene purposes, however, med bay was a chilly 68º F. Far lower than Zhasa was used to feeling, inside of her suit. Her natural body temperature was comparable with asari and batarians'. Dara helped her into a bed, however, and handed her warmed blankets to pile around herself, and Zhasa pulled them up and over her head, turning herself into a mountain. "What are the scans showing?" she asked, trying not to look around too much. At least there were curtains up around the bed. No one but Dara could see her, and Dara had already seen her face many times. On Mindoir, while caring for her after the initial. . . nanobot incident. And down on Arvuna, also.

Dara pointed at the screen overhead. "It's. . . fascinating, actually. Some of the genetic changes they made. . . well, your immune system is dramatically improved. Your immune cells are much more numerous. . . but they also seem more targeted. A lot of doctors have theorized that allergic reactions are confused immune responses. The body doesn't know what something is, and in the absence of real bacteria and viruses, starts attacking _anything_ else. It was a leading theory on why childhood asthma rose when hygiene improved on Earth. Diseases went away, but allergies appeared in their place. Your immune system appears to be able to differentiate threats from minor inconveniences in a way it couldn't before. Different receptor sites on the cells, maybe. I'll have to run tests to determine that. Always before, you ran the risk of an _allergic_ reaction to levo bacteria. . . although it would take quite a few to accomplish that. . . and the risk of infection from other quarians or even from turians. Although because of the body temperature difference, I still don't think turian bacteria or viruses would like quarians much." Dara shook her head. "Not to mention the different chemical makeup of your blood. No salt, or salts that are mildly toxic to other life-forms."

"And what are the nanites doing?" Zhasa asked, pulling another blanket around her shoulders gratefully. The warmth was pervasive, almost intoxicating. Rough-soft of blankets against her skin.

"That's. . . equally fascinating." Dara changed the images on the screen. Now, the scans were showing what was going on inside her blood and tissues. "That, right there? _Ambedo caruncula_, a bacterium responsible for the turian equivalent of strep throat."

The bacteria hovered in her blood stream, tiny cilia wavering, and tried to attach to a cell wall beside it. Zhasa cringed a bit. "This is in real time?"

"Five minutes ago. Watch. This is the good part."

With no particular fanfare, the bacterium . . . slipped away. And was caught and . . . eaten. . . by something that was far too regularly shaped to be one of her own immune cells. It was, in fact, silvery, and had a hexagonal shape to it.

Zhasa's mouth fell open. "What was _that_?" she demanded, frantic and repulsed at once.

"Those were the nanites." Dara actually grinned. "They appear to be working from within your cells to shift receptor sites whenever a pathogen attempts to latch on. . . they basically work almost like Teflon in a way. The bacteria and even the viruses can't latch on. And when you're exposed to a disease, they replicate rapidly and supplement your immune system. I'd like to try an allergy scratch test on you, as I would on a human. Control group of a drop of quarian saline-equivalent at one injection site, and a drop of histamine at the site beside it. Very small. Enough to demonstrate that you react. Typically, in human allergy tests, there's a third injection—whatever we're trying to prove an allergy _to—_egg whites, cat dander, whatever. Not going to do that with you. I just want to see what the nanites do with a mild allergen." Dara put a gloved hand on Zhasa's blanket-shrouded figure. "I'll have an epi-pen available in case of any major reaction, and there's adrenaline and your suit and everything else. Are you okay with this?"

Zhasa considered it for a long moment. An allergen brought into direct contact with body. Deliberately. And yet, wasn't that what she was doing every time she ventured out of her suit in Dempsey's house? This was just more. . . clinical. And felt more dangerous. But it was worth the risk. "Run your test," Zhasa said, but her throat felt tight.

Dara left for a moment, and returned with two needles. "In a human, it can take fifteen to thirty minutes to see a reaction," she warned. "In a quarian, I would imagine, even in amounts this small, that we'd be seeing a reaction almost immediately." She paused. "Ah. . .Zhasa? You're going to have to let me have access to skin. Preferably your back."

Zhasa reluctantly unwound some of the blankets. Cool rush of air on her skin, stealing everywhere like chill breath. _Ah, Dempsey. I really wish you were here_, she thought, miserably. Even just holding his hand would be an enormous comfort.

"Yeah, I wish he were here, too. He deserves to see some good come out of that rush trip to the ER, poor guy."

Zhasa blinked. "I didn't realize I was leaking. Sorry."

"It _was_ a little louder than usual." Dara rubbed a chilly, alcohol-soaked pad across a section of Zhasa's back. "This is going to sting. I don't imagine you've had shots before? Do quarians even do vaccines?"

"In infancy, yes. To try to protect everyone from the most common and virulent diseases." Zhasa tensed at the first prick, and craned her neck around, looking for the needle.

"Hold still. Here's the second one." Dara tossed both syringes in a recycling container for medical waste, and sat down beside Zhasa on the bed. "I'm going to stay with you, okay? You start to react at all, and I'll be on it like stink on dog. . . er. . . like white on rice."

Zhasa turned her head, blankets and all, towards Dara. "Channeling your father's more colorful side?"

"Apparently." Dara smiled again, and they chatted for a while longer, Dara asking questions about Dempsey and Madison. Distracting her, Zhasa realized. Letting the time pass without letting her fall into any sort of hypochondria.

"Well?" Zhasa asked, impatiently, once they'd exhausted the potential for quarians learning to ski, ride horses, or ride _rlatae_. "Any reaction?"

"You'd have felt it by now. No itching, right?"

Zhasa shook her head. Dara looked at the injection sites, and shook her head. "I can't even see where the needle marks are. . . and usually, I _can_." She tapped the corner of one eye in explanation. "No reaction at _all_. Let's see what the scanner says."

Test after test after test. It took hours, as the _Sollostra_ skimmed its way back to the mass relay and prepared to head for Bastion. The amazing truth was, the nanites took _any_ allergen, any pathogen, any foreign contaminant, and attacked it. And yet, they could distinguish between dangerous compounds and beneficial ones. They left medigel and its nanites alone. They disregarded antibiotics. "I'm tempted to test you on levo foods and see if they'd attack them," Dara said, at the end of the third hour of testing, when Zhasa was starting to feel just a little poked and prodded. She caught the expression on Zhasa's face, and began to laugh. "No. I'm not going to. But. . . I also don't see _any_ reason for you to go back in your suit, other than. . . personal comfort. The nanites have been in your body for two months now. They're probably the reason that in spite of three wounds, you never developed so much as a fever from them down on Arvuna. I'm not saying I'm not going to _treat_ your wounds in the future. . . because I will. But I _am_ saying. . . you've got a functioning immune system that a turian would be envious of. I'm not going to run tests on it, but I'd put money on you being largely resistant to poisons now." Dara shook her head. "I just have no flipping clue why the Protheans would do this."

Zhasa let her cowl of blankets fall back from her mane of white hair. "The little information we recovered from the crystal indicated that the nanobots were intended to preserve and protect valuable specimens," she said. "Biotics from my species. Maybe they . . . wanted to be able to study us in captivity." The thought was a little chilling. It was one thing to know that the Protheans had _observed_ her ancestors, even tagged their genes for future reference. But to be caught and caged and examined like an animal? No matter how kindly the captors, it was a disquieting thought.

Dara nodded. "Yeah. It's certainly possible. Maybe there'll be something in the database that Cassandra's been uploading. There's research paper or, oh, two or three dozen in this." She squeezed Zhasa's shoulder lightly. "In the meantime, do you want to go back in the suit? Or are you feeling brave?"

Zhasa considered it. "You think Dempsey would be surprised if I walked out the hatch of the _Sollostra_ without a suit on?"

Dara snorted. "Even _he_ might be kind of floored, yeah. I'd pay good money to see it, in fact." A quick, wicked grin lit up her face.

_Well, he does try to get her to react all the time. This only seems fair._ Zhasa hesitated, and then gestured down at her pile of blankets. "But. . . what am I going to wear? I can't run around in blankets!"

Dara's expression was suddenly more than a little confounded. "Well," she rallied, after a moment, "there are two asari, a drell, and about forty five human females aboard, not to mention about another forty or fifty female turians. Between us. . . we might be able to find something that will fit you."

They headed back up to the port observation lounge, which they were currently sharing with Seheve and Melaani (Rinus, Ylara, and Sky had the starboard one). Zhasa kept blankets up over her head and shoulders the entire trip down the hall, cringing a little at the curious looks she was getting. "I know how you feel," Dara told her, opening the door, and, with a rachni-blue glance over her shoulder at a nearby crewman, who suddenly found something else to do, waved Zhasa in ahead of her.

"At least people won't stare at you from all the way across the room." Zhasa realized that the port lounge was set at an agreeable 80º, and emerged from her cocoon, shivering a little as the air coursed over her. She was getting used to it, gradually, but again, she _really_ wished Dempsey were here. It seemed deeply wrong to be sharing such intimacies with anyone other than him. _But this is how the future might be_, she thought, and tried to focus on that.

Dara opened a locker. "Oh, but I still _feel_ like they're going to be staring. Zhasa, when I look down at myself, to my eyes, my _skin_ is different than it used to be. No one's said anything about it yet, so I'd think it was just my eyes going crazy, except, well. . . " she sighed in exasperation and held up her hands. "That's not fungus at the bottom of each nail. They're coming in very slightly green, and a little iridescent. And I swear that the my hair's a different color at the roots." She reached up and tugged at it. "If I sprout wings or antennae or something, E—er, my grandmother will disown me." She walked back over and gave Zhasa a poke in the shoulder, adding, "At least you're different for a damn good reason. You're what your species can be in a generation or two. Me? I'm just an accident. So stand up straight and tall and let 'em take a good long look, Zhasa. With a little work and a little luck, in ten or twenty years, they might be seeing a hell of a lot more quarians running around without those damned suits."

"At least now I think I understand how you feel about sharing," Zhasa admitted, in a small voice, curling up on her bunk and wrapping her arms around her legs.

A quick, wryly amused look. "So, you've got no problem sharing your thoughts, but your face, that's a no-no, huh?" Dara crossed back to the open locker and started rooting around in it.

"I've stood out among my own people somewhat," Zhasa admitted. "One of maybe ten biotics, total. But among other people, other species. . . before the suit got painted black, I was just another quarian."

Dara gave her another amused look. "Quarians tend to stand out in a crowd. Don't know if you've noticed that." She stood back and shook her head now. "I didn't pack much in the way of clothes. Hell, I don't _own_ much in the way of clothes," the human female admitted. "I hate shopping."

Zhasa caught the first couple of pieces of clothing tossed her way and blinked at Dara. "You hate shopping?" she repeated, in a puzzled tone. "What does that have to do with. . . what are these things, anyway?"

"Er. . . undergarments."

Zhasa stared at her. "They don't look like Dempsey's."

Dara put her face in her hands for a moment. "Okay, you're at least acquainted with the concept. I have to ask, is he boxers or briefs?"

Zhasa sat there, the garments dangling from her fingers. "What?"

"Oh, dear god." Dara's shoulders shook. "Um, are the undergarments he wears long and baggy, or short and, er, clingy?"

"They come down to mid-thigh," Zhasa said, after a moment.

"Okay, those are boxers, and they, well, they're probably comfortable, but they're designed to go with men's clothing. Probably won't fit well under anything we can give you. Hence, well. . . if my stuff fits, great."

"Ah. . . what goes where?" Zhasa's voice was small. "And what function does this all serve?" She looked up at Dara, who was entirely abloom in roses, blue-green amusement radiating off of her. "You really _hate_ clothing? And yet, you're _able_ to wear it, to take it for granted?' She didn't know whether to be amused or appalled, really. _How can someone take such richness for granted, even despise it?_

"I hate that nothing ever fits right. I hate being uncomfortable in anything I wear. I hate having to _hunt_ for stuff that _does_ fit. Waste of time. I'd rather get five or six of the same thing and wear it till it wears out." Dara shrugged. "Okay, those, right there? Those are panties. Turn them around. The other way." Dara paused. "Typically, the lower undergarment is intended to protect other clothes, or even furniture, from, er, cloacal discharges and odors. The upper undergarment, for human females and asari, and probably for you, too, is intended to keep the breasts from moving around too much. So, stick your feet through. . . pull up. . . okay, I thought that might be an issue. You've got wider hips than I do. You might have to go commando, unless one of the turian females around here has child-bearin' hips." She grinned at Zhasa now.

Zhasa looked down, in consternation. Yes, the undergarments weren't going to fit. At all. She gingerly peeled them away. The material was soft, at least. "What are these made of?"

"Cotton. Some people get _fancy_ with lace and ribbons and crap like that. I don't. Er. . . try the bra. No, turn it around. Mine should fit you. I just wear bralettes. Basically just a shelf of material. Most other women go in for padding and underwires and crap like that. I won't. Padding, the instant I feel it? Makes me aware that there's something there that isn't _me_. Drives me nuts. And underwires are just plain uncomfortable." Dara paused. "Annnnd. . . you have no idea what I'm talking about."

Zhasa shook her head, wide-eyed. "Pretty soon, you're going to be longing to go back in that suit," Dara assessed.

"I only just _got_ it," Zhasa muttered. "Kal'Reegar and Tali'Zorah might be disappointed in me that I, oh. . . Nevermind." She struggled with the stretchy fabric, and hauled it into place. The compression level was acceptable. In fact, it felt like the interior of her suit. "What next?"

Dara pulled clothing out of her locker, shaking her head. "Well. . . we can _try_ yoga pants," she said, dubiously. "They _should_ stretch to conform with your legs. And hips. Worst comes to worst, we can try borrowing a pair of turian female's pants. Although they've got slits for the spurs, or are usually, well, cut off at the knees like breeches. . . "

"Like what?"

"Nevermind. Too hard to explain. We might wind up having to go with an asari skirt. I bet Melaani has a few with her. But. . . try the pants first."

Again, the material was stretchy and soft, and Zhasa could understand why Dara preferred to wear such things when off duty. At least these stretched over her hips. Mostly. Although, when Dara told her to crouch down, she had the uncanny feeling that the material was about to split. Also, the fit was a little uncertain along the curves of her legs. "Isn't there anything for. . . on top?" Zhasa asked, feeling desperately uncovered still, and decidedly odd.

Dara dug around some more. "It's not pretty," she admitted, "but it's warm." She handed Zhasa a University of Mindoir sweatshirt, which Zhasa dove for, pulling on immediately. This, too, was soft.

"You like soft clothing, don't you?" Zhasa asked, surprised. _Soft_ was not usually a word she associated with Dara.

"Comfortable stuff, yeah. Jeans, but only ones that have been broken in for about five years." Dara stared down at Zhasa's feet. "God only knows what we're going to do for shoes for you, my friend. Mine are not going to fit. Hell, turian shoes won't fit, either. Maybe the boots from your suit. . . ?"

At that point, Seheve and Melaani come in the door, and stopped, staring at Zhasa. She cringed and grabbed a blanket to cover herself with, just as the two female's jaws dropped, and Melaani said sharply to Dara, "Are you insane? You're going to kill her!" Seheve looked equally worried, but after a few patient explanations from Dara both came to smile, Melaani widely, and Seheve with a tinge of shyness. And both of them, promptly, offered the contents of their lockers to the cause. Of course, Seheve was seven inches shorter than Zhasa, and not shaped at _all_ the same way, but the drell did make the offer, which Zhasa appreciated.

By the end of the day, half the females on the ship had dropped by. Zhasa continued to cover her face for strangers, but they were all amazingly kind, really. Turian pants actually did fit, although they tended to be in exotic materials like human silk (which Zhasa loved the texture of, but found a little cool to wear in the chill of the ship), or yearling _apaterae_ leather. Asari dresses were far too tight over her hips, but a skirt from Ylara fit fairly well. Human and asari tops fit fairly well, and were in an assortment of colors and styles and materials that Zhasa found bewildering. "Now you're starting to see why I tend to stick with a tanktop, T-shirt, or sweatshirt," Dara told her dryly as Zhasa tried to move her arms inside a filmy white blouse from Melaani.

"It's just too tight across the shoulders," Zhasa said, a little defensively. "It's _beautiful,_ Melaani. Oh, how I _wish_ it fit."

Melaani started to chuckle almost as hard as Dara at that point.

The sticking points, really, were her face and her feet. Zhasa did _not_ want to show her face to everyone on the ship. She wanted some tiny modicum of privacy left to her. Seheve suggested, mildly, "My people, when we still lived on Rakhana, used veils to protect our eyes from the blinding light of midday on the sands. Many still wear those."

Dara frowned. "Are we talking like a burqua or something, Seheve? 'Cause. . . seems to me, Zhasa just got out of that. Don't want to stick her back in that."

"No, no," Seheve replied, instantly. "Our veils were translucent, and came down over our eyes, to protect them. Much in the way people now wear the dark glasses instead."

"A bridal veil," Dara suggested, with a hint of impishness in her smile. "Translucent net. People could still see your face, but you'd feel like there's still a barrier there. Besides, Dempsey might actually wet himself at that." She snickered.

Zhasa frowned. "Why would he do that?"

"Because in western Terran human society, women _only_ wear veils on their wedding day anymore. Back in the mid-twentieth century, some women still wore black ones for funerals, or in daily use attached to their hats for a glamorous look. But not for a close to two hundred years. If I had Eli's collection of old _film noir_ movies with me, I'd show you," Dara replied, grinning. "Besides, the combination of black _apaterae_ leather pants, Ylara's bright purple silk blouse, the white wedding veil, and the pink bunny slippers might just give the poor man a heart attack."

The pink bunny slippers had, in fact, been a gift from one of the human crew members. She was the tallest human female aboard besides Dara, and the human foot, like the asari and quarian foot, actually set its heel on the ground in most walking strides. The only differences lay in the toes, and where the weight of the body was distributed; in a quarian foot, like a turian foot, the body weight tended to come further forward, more towards the toes. When running, a quarian, like a turian, ran solely on their toes, but at a walk, the quarian stride was more like a human or an asari's. As such, the bunny slippers were large enough not to cramp Zhasa's toes, and incredibly soft and comfortable.

Now, Zhasa found herself showing teeth at Dara, just a bit. Half a pout, half a grimace. "You think he'll be upset?"

"Only at me," Dara assured her, grinning. "I'm just aiming for maximum 'what the _fuck_?'" Dara paused. "You can't tell me he doesn't deserve it."

"I want to look nice!" Zhasa protested. She wanted to see surprise in his eyes, and pleasure, maybe even, too, _before_ she linked minds with him. If it were possible, anyway.

"You will," Melaani assured her. "Besides, we don't actually _have_ a bridal veil around here." Her tone was pragmatic. 'I think just the surprise of seeing you out of your suit at all will be a delight for him."

"I have scarves," Seheve suggested, tentatively, from where she was dangling a piece of string for Loki to attack. She tossed the string onto her bunk, where the feline continued to lash at it with its claws, and dug around in her own locker, finally coming up with a handful of jewel-toned scarves. They were very unlike the reserved former assassin. So much so, that all three of them raised eyebrows. Seheve almost always dressed in neutral tones. Grays. Khakis. Earth tones that the eyes would slide away from after a moment. "I, ah. . . usually wear these on Kahje," she said, looking down. "It helps to fit in."

Seheve approached, very tentatively, and helped Zhasa drape a violet scarf around her fluffy white hair. "Here," Seheve said. "This way, it is entirely your decision. You can pull it forward around the bottom of your face, wear it like a hood, or just around your throat, if you are at ease with those around you."

"Plus," Dara added, "it matches your eyes. Now, you could also dig out the old violet suit over-wrappings you had from your last one, and wrap them around your hips. That way, you'll _feel_ a little more quarian." She looked down at the floor. "Bunny slippers aside. Those are the only thing that don't match, colorwise, at least." She grinned. "We could dye 'em purple for you."

"Ensign Rand might not like having her rabbits turned purple."

"I think Ensign Rand just wants a picture of her shoes on the first unsuited quarian in three hundred years."

They had fourteen hours left to go before docking at Bastion. Zhasa spent them petting and playing with the cat. . . marveling at being able to _touch_ the soft fur. . . and hissing in absolute terror when the beast took a movement amiss and, startled, clawed her hand. Dara was right there, however, immediately starting to disinfect the wound. . . and then stopped what she was doing. "Zhasa, _look_."

The scratch was fading. It wasn't doing so at the frightening rate of Dempsey's krogan regeneration, but it _was_ healing. Rapidly. "I did wonder why those bullet wounds were so quick to heal," Dara said, musingly. "I put it down to medigel and a blessed lack of infection. I don't exactly want to experiment with this, and it does seem a bit more minor than Dempsey's regen. . . but the two of you really _are_ a matched pair now, aren't you?"

The other thing that Zhasa had been trying to master in the past day or so, even down in the Prothean digsite, was slightly more embarrassing, but an essential part of being an adult humanoid. All quarian children were, in fact, potty-trained. They had to be, to live in the crèche areas of the ships. They lived there until they were twelve and received their first suits. After that, all hygiene functions were taken care of by the suit. Thus, many adult quarians were used to a certain amount of. . . well. . . freedom. Zhasa had never quite been able to relieve herself when around other people; the teaching of the crèche had been strong in her. But _having_ to run to the lavatory and use the. . . probably hygienic facilities. . . was new to her. "I'm going to let Dempsey be the one to teach you to brush your teeth," Dara said, patiently, from outside the door of the lavatory cubicle.

"How do you _know_ it's clean?" Zhasa asked, a little apprehensively. There was the proof of seeing what was in her blood. The proof of being out of her suit and _not_ wheezing for air. But her skin absolutely crawled at the thought of all the bacteria that were surely in the room.

"Use one of the paper rings to shield yourself. Now, if you're gonna worry about if the _paper_ is sterile, there, I can't help you."

"You're having fun with this, aren't you?" Zhasa accused, stepping out of the stall, feeling a flush steal up her cheeks, and proceeding to sanitize her hands. She did pause to look at herself in the Mylar mirror on the wall, seeing the violet blush in her cheeks. So delightful to see her own face, the wide violet eyes, the faintly lavender lips. _This is me._

Dara stepped in behind her; a little shorter, all ivory and pink, no matter what the human said about odd skin colors. "Yes. Yes, I am. Something _weird_—not life-threatening, but _weird_, happens to someone and it's _not_ me? You bet I'm going to enjoy it." She grinned at Zhasa in the mirror. "Two hours out from Bastion, Zhasa. You have plans, other than pouncing on poor Dempsey?"

"Well. . . I can't wear everyone's borrowed clothes forever. And I certainly can't wear bunny slippers every day." Zhasa pointed down, deprecatingly.

"Yeah, you're going to need a cobbler to make you custom boots. Might cost the earth, but it'll be worth it."

Zhasa's head came up, and a sparkle of mischief came to her eyes. "See? This is why I need you along. You think of all these things!"

Dara's expression turned wary. "Along? Along for what?"

Zhasa smiled at her human friend, and put an arm around her shoulders in one of the effusive gestures that quarians used among close friends and family. "Why, an important and dangerous mission, of course. I need clothes. You even admitted that you have almost none of your own. We're going shopping. And I plan to spend a month of Spectre pay on. . . .on. . . " she floundered to a halt. "_Breeches_. Skirts. Dresses. Shoes. Undergarments. All sorts of them. Jewelry. _Hats_. Hats with veils, like you said women on Earth used to wear."

Dara was just _staring_ at her, her mouth hanging open, and she finally started to laugh. "Good lord, Zhasa. Some volus shopkeepers are going to nominate you as a saint in their pantheon of economic gods or something." She rubbed at the bridge of her nose. "I suppose if I'm going on leave _any_ time soon, I probably should have stuff to wear for it. I wasn't planning on going home to Mindoir and then turning around for vacation, and I've got nothing with me, so. . . " Her voice was reluctant. "Just. . . fair warning, Zhasa. I'm a grump when I go shopping. I'm not good company. My mom _hated_ the yearly trip for new school clothes. Melaani would be a better person to go with. . . "

"And maybe it was because you had to pick things that _she_ liked that you hated it so much," Zhasa pointed out, irrepressibly. "Besides! We could take Dempsey and Eli with us."

"Oh, god, no. Guys are not going to want to go _shopping_ with—" Dara skidded to a halt. "Er. . . Eli?"

Zhasa gave her a patient look. "I don't have to be biotic to feel the thorns go away when he's around, or even when you're just writing to him." She made a face. _Not to mention, watching the two of you on the hoverbikes before we left Mindoir. Both relaxed, open, happy, free. Leaning into one another perfectly. Just as Dempsey and I were doing. Your minds melting into one another, as if you'd been doing it all your lives_. "Turians have very stupid rules, I think. Divorce is perfectly permissible for quarians."

"If I get it ratified by the humans, the quarians, the asari, the drell, the hanar, the rachni, and the geth, it won't matter to the turians," Dara said, quietly, looking down. "Eh. This isn't the time for depressing thoughts. Let's go get our stuff together so we can be ready when the _Sollostra_ docks." She grinned at Zhasa. "You going to send a message to Rannoch before we dock? Or even to Dempsey?"

Zhasa's smile was instant. "No. I want this to be a _surprise._"

**Elijah, Bastion, December 6, 2196**

They'd shuffled into the shuttles to ascend back to the _Normandy_ five days ago, and Eli had been very, very grateful for the luxury of a real damned shower. At least after two months on Terra Nova, a bunk didn't feel as _odd_ as it had after Omega, where he'd been sleeping on the floor or an air mattress at best for three months.

They'd brought Mal Henderson and Kiranus Vessarian and Nisha Cehl with them . . .along with two batarian prisoners. The SUI 'information specialist' Histav L'dar, and Dr. Yilar M'nav, who claimed to speak yahg. Mal and Nisha were taken off the ship first, and rushed to the main med bay down on C level; the two batarians were taken off the ship under very heavy guard indeed, and taken to B-Sec for detainment for the time being. Eli didn't envy the B-Sec officers one bit. They had to put their bodies between the batarians' and a _very_ angry mob of asari who'd gathered outside the docking area. A crowd of angry asari was not like a mob of angry humans. They were, for starters, completely silent. No shouting. No gesticulating. A few signs here and there. _Justice for our Daughters_. _Thessia Remembers __You__. For Every Mind, Ten Lives._ Things like that.

Subsequently, Eli had sat in on any number of interrogations. The Council was _very_ interested in M'nav. Linguistic experts brought in recordings of yahg transmissions, and got him to translate them, over and over again. Sometimes they even brought in dummy transmissions. . . ones that another linguist had used software to take words from one or two different broadcasts and pieced together in different orders. And the person presenting the transmission was always carefully not told which was which, to rule out body language as a cue. In every case, M'nav had identified the fake transmission with a headshake the calm words, "Someone's having fun, I see."

M'nav had, apparently, been one of the first batarians to make contact with the yahg. Eli, sitting with Lantar and Shepard and Scratch in the room with the batarian, had watched the male's face and body language carefully. He could see fear there. Lots of it. "We sent transmissions first," M'nav said, moistening his lips, and reaching across the flimsy table with his bound hands, carefully picking up a glass of water. The words were being translated by VI, but Eli had a strong suspicion that the batarian actually spoke galactic. "A primer on our language. Basic mathematics. A basis for communication. That was my suggestion actually. Though our chief researcher took credit for it." He exhaled. "This was back in. . . hmm. 2189 or so."

_A year before I even came to Mindoir,_ Eli thought.

"They sent us a return primer after a couple of months. We were in orbit around one of their gas giants; they have a few colonies on the terrestrial planets in their system, but nothing large. They have a great deal of difficulty cooperating with each other unless they have a strong leader. Colonies tend to. . . hmm. Get out of hand, I suppose you could say." M'nav set the waterglass back down again.

"But eventually, you had to meet face to face?" Shepard prompted after a moment.

M'nav's glance at her was filled with apprehension, as it had been every time she'd spoken so far. _The survivor of Mindoir. The survivor of Akuze. The savior of Terra Nova. The woman who came back from the dead to kick the Reapers out of the galaxy. . . and the person with the least reason to feel sympathy for any batarian in the entire universe_. It was a hell of an aura. Eli had to envy her the sheer force of her 'bad cop' persona. All she had to do was sit in the room. Silently. Watching him, and not saying much at all. . . and M'nav was damned near wetting himself. Lantar wasn't having to exert himself at all to look like the good cop in comparison. "Yes, Commander. But only after several months of careful groundwork and negotiation. Do you know, their Great Leader actually keeps the skulls of the Council representatives sent to make first contact with the yahg in his throne room? Several of them are used as drinking cups."

"The Lombards and the Huns got there first," Shepard murmured, sitting back, her expression detached.

"So did any number of pre-Imperial warlords on Palaven," Lantar noted, and made a flicking gesture of dismissal. "We've seen them hunt, M'nav. Skulls aren't going to shock us."

M'nav shook his head. "No, of course not. But you can understand why we told them that they would be meeting us on one of their airless moons. And took other precautions to ensure our safety." He looked away for a moment. "We were prepared to destroy one of their colonies in retaliation . . . if they harmed even one of our people on the ground. That was not particularly a comfort to those of us who landed and walked out of the shuttle to meet with them."

"You were one of them?" Eli let his voice fill with skepticism.

M'nav gave him a sharp look. . ._before_ the VI chattered a translation at him. "Yes. I was. You may find it hard to believe, but not every batarian is an honorless slaver. I saw this as. . . an opportunity for my people. All of your species have growth and _thrived_ on alliances. And we have stagnated. Alone. Cast to the Terminus systems like dregs. Why not make contact with the yahg? Why not make an alliance?" He exhaled, and gave up the façade, switching into heavily accented galactic. "They respect strength—more than turians and krogan, even. . . and we made a show of it. They were. . . " He exhaled. "Astounded. Angry. Furious, even. That weak races like the asari and salarians, whom they killed on their first landing, easily, quickly. . . were filling up the stars. That there were thousands of planets out there, but they had only one, and everyone else, the weak, the less worthy. . . had the rest."

"_Speaker for the Dead_," Shepard said, abruptly, and cryptically. "I really must thank Kasumi for making me read that ancient book, years ago." She paused and stared at M'nav. "So. . . we're out here, filling up every world, and they want some, huh? And the fact that there are hundreds of viable and semi-viable planets for colonization out there was never pointed out, I suppose?"

M'nav played with the waterglass. "As I said. . . they don't do well in enclosed spaces, too many of them crowded together, without a very strong leader at hand. And the problem with a strong leader among the yahg is this. . . they tend to stop listening to their main alphas at home. They also cherish the idea of the hunt. Of proving themselves stronger, better, tougher, smarter than what they hunt. No, for them. . . it's a garden world, or nothing." He paused. "I made the very serious mistake of pointing out, in 2190, that the level of resentment they held for being 'trapped' on their world and their desire for more living space for their packs, could be a bargaining lever with them. People higher than I took credit for the notion again—" No mistaking the bitterness in his voice, there, "and it lent weight to an idea that had been circulating for a while at higher levels. Ally with the yahg, or at least use them as mercenaries. Their science, in their isolation, was crude, but had developed in different directions than ours had. For instance, they've never much developed firearms. No need, when each of them is such a lethal weapon in his or her own right. But their homeworld is rife with monstrous lifeforms. We offered them guns, first as hunting weapons. They disdained them at first. That would be cheating at the hunt, they said. . . except, as I pointed out, they already used stealth technology. How much of a 'cheat' is that?" M'nav rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "I'm rambling."

Lantar, in the role of the reluctant good cop, said, quietly, "It must be a relief to be able to speak your mind."

"It is. You have no idea how much of a relief it is." M'nav shook his head. "I told my superiors, over and over again, that there was no way in which we could possibly control the yahg if we gave them ships, or, ancestors forbid it, _taught_ them how to build their own. Not any more than the asari and the salarians had been able to control the krogan. They aren't just weapons. They have minds of their own, and what was to keep them from turning on us?" He shuddered. "My superiors told me that it wouldn't be an issue. That releasing the yahg on human and turian worlds would mean that the humans and turians would take care of the yahg for us, and the yahg would take care of _you_. . . and we'd be picking up pieces off the _ru'udal_ board while everyone else was occupied with them. I said that it would be foolish not to have a contingency plan. And I was assured that there was one. And that I didn't need to know what it was."

"Let's get back to how their science and technology have developed," Lantar said, smoothly. "Give us some examples?"

M'nav nodded. "Their homeworld is half jungle, half desert. Scorching hot. No ionosphere, so heavy radiation, like Palaven. And almost all the animals there are gargantuan, as I said earlier. They also have a wide variety of parasites and more tropical diseases than you can imagine. As such. . . they developed stealth technology very early. Their history is, incidentally, one bloodbath after another. Regional warlords pitted against one another. Feudal, hierarchical structures, at best. The females and the children are more or less protected, but the males are either hunting or fighting from the moment they come of age. As such, almost all of their scientists are female. And most of them have either dedicated themselves to finding ways to heal their people, or finding more efficient ways of killing. Their medical research is, honestly, staggering. There are plants in that jungle that they've developed into refined medicines. . . and very refined poisons. And they weaponized disease very early in their history, too. They told me a story of how a female, left clanless, deliberately infected herself with a hideous disease, and then allowed herself to be captured by the clan who'd killed her own. Every warrior of that clan mated with her, in the hopes of strong offspring. . . and, of course, to spit on the memory of the clan they'd destroyed. Inside of two weeks, not one person from the victorious clan was left alive. The female who had brought the disease to them? She cured herself. She's a cultural _heroine_. They chant her tale to their children as a bedtime story. Think about it." He paused. "Oh, and writing? They don't have it, other than mathematics. They didn't have computers. Consider _that_. They achieved spaceflight without writing or computers. All astrogation done with slide-rules and mental calculation."

Eli thought about it for a moment. "Are all their pilots female?"

M'nav toasted him with the water glass. "Yes. Without exception. Each regional alpha or leader is male. . . and he has an entire harem of females. The one I dealt with had fifty wives."

"How very Genghis Khan," Shepard muttered, rubbing at her face.

M'nav shrugged. "I don't know who that is, but I will say that Urukhurr. . . that's the alpha I dealt with. . . had a primary wife. And she was frighteningly intelligent. I only met her once, but I suspect she's the one who took our partial schematics of engines and began figuring them out.

Shepard took that moment to fire a shot across M'nav's bows. "You're being awfully helpful, aren't you?" she said, eyes cold. "We're not even stringing you up by your thumbs. Or on a _meathook_, the way you stored one of my Spectres."

M'nav's face drained of color. "That wasn't my idea. The Spectre had already tried to escape once. The only reason Spectre Cehl was still alive was that the yahg wanted her for a trophy hunt. A celebration, once the planet was totally pacified."

"And did you explain to them that no matter how long it took, Terra Nova was _never_ going to be pacified? That the Alliance would continue to fight for its people, to prevent them from being slaughtered and _eaten_?" Shepard's voice sliced the air like a whip.

M'nav flinched. "I was under very strict orders in how I was to deal with the yahg," he said, quietly. "And, for my own safety, I dealt with them as little as possible."

"So why _are_ you being so forthcoming?" Shepard demanded.

The batarian's shoulders sagged. "In sober truth, Commander Shepard. . . it's a pleasure just to be able to say the words. To be able to say, 'my superiors in SIU and the Hegemony may think they're playing a very crafty game of _ru'udal_, but I've been sending memo after memo up the chain saying 'this is a really bad idea. It may cost me my career, but I really want to go on record as saying this is the worst idea in the history of bad ideas.'" He shuddered. "And my reward was being sent to deal with the yahg. Again."

Lantar nodded. "All right. Let's talk about why you were there at all."

M'nav rubbed at his face. "The AI research. We'd already had indications that there were things of interest on Terra Nova. When the yahg took the Icama facility, the males there realized that they had no idea of what Argent Defender was. They would normally have turned it over to their females for study and reverse engineering and all that, but they _had_ no females with them. And it was a technology as far beyond them as rifles would be to a culture for whom bronze was a startling new innovation. They contacted us. And SIU sent me there. We have . . . certain interests in AI technology. Certainly not in putting them in mechs, however." M'nav's body language was conflicted here. He wasn't sure what to say here, evidently. "You're aware of a faction of salarians known as Lystheni?"

"We are," Lantar said, with complete neutrality. Eli noted with detachment that Lantar and Shepard were not about to reveal one shred of the information that they already had to the batarian. _And well they shouldn't. What happens if he somehow breaks loose?_

"Yes. . . I understand you had some regrettable dealings with their late dalatrass. Xala." M'nav swallowed. "She's alive. Well, her mind is, anyway. And while we've been using her and her people for technological innovations. . . such as the biotic ship weapons. . . she's become increasingly, ah, unstable. Since the Alliance and the Hierarchy have _stable_ AIs, the initial thought was that I should gather all of the data at the Icama facility and try to . . . re-stabilize her. Of course, once I found out what was there, the gameplan changed a bit. Trying to offer the dalatrass a body of her own? A perfect machine shell, just as her people had been trying to create for centuries? And one with an _off-switch_, in case she became . . . even more unstable. . . seemed like it would be a bargaining piece with my superiors. Something that would ensure I'd never have to spend another second around the yahg."

"Your superiors weren't aware of the mech?" Lantar asked, calmly.

"I had not yet filed my report." M'nav rubbed at his face.

"And how _do_ you deal with the yahg?" Shepard asked, bluntly. "How is it that _you_ weren't hanging from a meathook? Frankly, M'nav, you're really not all that impressive."

"They understand the concept of . . . consequences. Threats, anyway. I always made sure to carry several grenades with me, and assured them that if I ever found myself the target of a hunt, that I would take the hunter with me into the embrace of the ancestors." M'nav's expression shifted. _He's been playing a part,_ Eli realized. _He can play the cringing flunky very well, but he can also play SIU hardass when he needs to. Is he like Valak? Is he someone we can work with, long-term? Or not? _

He'd been relaying tidbits of these interrogations to Dempsey and Rel at the end of each day. Neither was qualified for questioning, but Eli knew that Rel had a _feeling_ for the yahg that he lacked, himself. And anything he gave Rel in the way of information would just add to Rel's mental image of the yahg. Fill in the fine details. And Dempsey had a mind like a steel trap. Eli hadn't known him before the chip, so it was impossible for him to tell how much of it was inherent, and how much of it was the chip, but Dempsey could coldly and logically extrapolate on almost anything.

"What do you think?" Eli asked them. They had their own hotel rooms—thank god for small mercies—in fairly upscale hotels. Only a handful of Spectres in any one hotel, at that, so that if someone targeted them, they wouldn't be able to get all of them at once. And these upscale hotels had lots of security, Eli had noticed, immediately.

At the moment, however, they were in the human embassy, in a meeting room, waiting on Lantar and Shepard. Rel's eyes were distant, as if he were fitting pieces into a mental puzzle. "Did you get anything from him on the physical size of the females?" he asked.

Eli thought about it, sifting through several days' of interrogations in his mind. "They're smaller. Sexual dimorphism, more extreme than in turians or humans, I guess."

Rel nodded. "Fits with him saying that their alphas have large circles of wives. Typically, in species with pronounced sexual dimorphism, where one gender is much larger than the other, they tend to have harems." He frowned. "And, credits to _kaulis_, only alphas have breeding rights. They probably spend a fair bit of time proving themselves, defending their harems, and so on. Of course, since they're sapient, when an alpha is killed, the new alpha might have to be accepted by the females."

"The way a krogan clan-leader can't rule without the backing of the female clan," Eli noted. He smiled faintly and added, "Say, Rel?"

"Yeah?"

"You sound like your dad."

Rel blinked. "I do?"

"Yeah. That's a compliment, by the way. Your dad's a smart man." _And it's damned nice to see your brain turn on again, my friend. You never were stupid, even if you've spent as much time blundering around in the dark as I have, the past few years._

Rel snorted. "I know he is. Rinus and Serana have to get it from somewhere." His tone was rueful.

Dempsey was drumming his fingers on the table, a complex, rolling rhythm. "So where does all that get us?"

"Maybe nowhere," Rel admitted. "The females are apparently the source of cultural stability and progress. They handle all science, medicine, engineering, and even piloting, apparently. Given that, they're probably also the lorekeepers. The ones who keep history alive. That frees the males up to be. . . very specialized. Pure hunters, pure warriors." He shrugged. "Uncomplicated."

"Envious?" Eli asked, pointedly.

Rel shrugged. "Six months ago. . . I probably would have been," he admitted. "I've seen a little too much of what they consider hunting, though."

Shepard and Lantar walked in then, and clearly had been listening at the door. "There isn't a turian alive who doesn't like to hunt," Lantar reminded Rel. "Most of us just find different things to channel the instincts into. Name me one turian you've ever met who _wasn't_ obsessive about something. Single-minded, focused. For Garrus and for me, and even for young Linianus, it's hunting criminals. Getting the _right_ perpetrator, bringing him in. Hunting information, finding the trail of the clues. It's glorious. For your father, Rel? It's hunting data. Finding the exact correct balance of species, the optimal balance of this predator and that prey. For Kallixta and young Kassa, it's flight. For Rinus, it's often research, too." Lantar's mandibles flexed into a brief, quick smile. "And of course, Eli hunts the same way Lin and I do."

_What is it for you, Rel?_ Eli asked, silently. "Honorary turian," he said, lightly. "Sam's the same, though."

"Whether he'll admit it or not," Lantar agreed, nodding. "Now, most species learn, as a whole, to channel their predatory urges before hitting spaceflight. There are exceptions. Turians have serial killers, same as humans—"

Eli winced. Lantar held up a claw. "I know. Bad memories for you and for Lin. But they're the exception, not the rule. People for whom the hunt instinct supersedes social bonds and who lack the important super-ego and conscience that allow our respective species to work together as a whole."

Shepard shrugged. "There's a distinction between the individual and the culture, Lantar. Some of the things M'nav's been saying about the yahg wouldn't have been out of place on Earth fourteen hundred years ago. Drinking from cups made of the skulls of enemies? Any number of barbarian warlords did it. Not too many people on Earth, however, hunted each other for meat. Oh, there was some ritual cannibalism. Eating part of respected enemies to gain their strength. But that's. . . very primitive, and long-since stamped out."

"Likewise among turians. But its because no matter how much they may have disliked each other, they still saw each other as people," Lantar pointed out. "The yahg don't appear to see anyone else as _people_." He paused. "I'd be interested to know if they actually cannibalize each other."

"They seem to look at the batarians as people," Dempsey muttered.

Rel shook his head. "I think they see the batarians as _useful_. . . and I don't think they're afraid of the batarians, no matter what sort of threats M'nav said they made. Alliances seem to be a . . . temporary thing for them."

Dempsey leaned back in his chair. "So, how do we _use_ any of what we now know?" he asked, pragmatically.

Eli shook his head. "Again, I don't know, man. We know they have no centralized leadership. Maybe we can make a deal with some _other_ alpha on their world, to go after, um. . . . Urukhurr. Not that that will take care of the ones already on Alliance worlds, but it would keep Urukhurr from sending any more people off his planet." Eli grimaced. "Of course, then we'd have to arm whatever alpha we send against Urukhurr."

"At the moment, with advanced weapons and ships, he's probably threatening to dominate all other regional warlords on their planet," Rel pointed out. "The other alphas would be _very_ willing to turn on him, I suspect. For their own safety, because his first move will probably be to kill them and appoint males loyal to _him_ in their place. Assuming, of course, that he can appoint his own males." Rel frowned. "If his males have to fight the lieutenants loyal to the deposed leader. . . could take a while to solidify his hold on their territories."

"So between that and the fact that the yahg have limited numbers of ships," Shepard said, thoughtfully, "we'd have an explanation for why the yahg haven't been sending their own reinforcements."

"Still, he's been sending a _lot_ of men," Dempsey said, thoughtfully. "Maybe not all from his own hierarchy, after all. Maybe he's got a couple of different lower warlords who've been contributing men."

"Which would explain the differences in fighting styles between different planets," Rel said, his eyes lighting up.

Shepard sighed. "So. . . can we negotiate, at all, with any of them?" She made a face. "I keep thinking back to the first yahg I killed. The, ah. . . one on Argus' ship, before she took over." She glanced around warily, as if looking for listening devices. "Everything I learn about the yahg tells me more about why he was exceptional. He was smaller than the ones we're seeing. . . and a hell of a lot smarter. He understood writing—wait." She paused. "Actually. . . he might _not_ have," she said, in a tone of realization. "Ye gods. Maybe _that's_ why the damned VI assistant was so damned _broken_. All he needed was to be _told_ information. . . which the VI assistant did for him. . . and have a good memory. All the consoles. . . those could have been from the, er, previous owner. . . ." She trailed off, clearly thinking rapidly. Re-assessing things. "Still," Shepard went on, after a moment, "he was clearly highly intelligent."

"He was a hunter of information," Lantar said, quietly. "And a damned good one. He channeled it. An exception, a way forward, but one that his people clearly haven't embraced. And he clearly understood cut-throat politics. Coming from that world. . . who wouldn't?"

Eli shook his head now. He understood that they were talking about the Shadow Broker. Who'd owned the ship where his mom and his brothers and sisters were taking refuge right now. "Okay, that being said? I don't think we could negotiate with the males."

"You're right," Rel said, leaning forward and putting his hands on the table, frowning. "The males probably conduct all the alliances. . . which are solely temporary things. Conveniences, to be broken the instant one side shows weakness. The females are apparently more intelligent, but they don't have the political power. They probably advise their leaders. . . and the leaders, if successful, probably listen to their females. . . but we wouldn't be able to get to the females to talk to them. An alpha would ring his females with bodies, rather than allow an outsider to have contact with them."

"Even M'nav only spoke with the chief wife of Urukhurr the once," Eli added, rubbing at his eyes. "Okay. This is getting us nowhere, isn't it?"

Shepard shrugged. "A better understanding of the enemy is never a bad thing," she said, lightly. "Oh, and for those of you who might be interested. . . the _Sollostra_ is docking in an hour. Lexine Elders has asked to cover the return of the Spectres, in the same way she covered the _Nereia_ and the _Normandy's_ return. And I've given permission." She smiled faintly. "So mind your manners and smile nicely for the cameras."

Eli's head had come up. So had Dempsey's. So had Rel's. Eli fought the smile of absolute joy, and had a much easier time of it the instant Shepard had mentioned that Elders would be there. With a camera. _Well, not like Rel's not going to be there to welcome Rinus back_, Eli thought, exhaling. It was still damned annoying. He wasn't going to be able to greet Dara in the way he wanted to—picking her up off the damned ground and swinging her around. He wanted to touch her hair, smell her skin, and slide his mind into hers and drink in her song. Most of which he would not be able to do with either Rel or a camera there. _Leave,_ he reminded himself. _Leave on Bekenstein. Soon enough._ The travel papers had arrived in a message from Kasumi just this morning. They'd be traveling very much incognito. Not Spectres Sidonis and Jaworski, but, apparently, Marcus and Elizabeth Stockton. Newlyweds. _Like Khar'sharn all over again_, Eli thought in amusement. _Only this time. . . a little bit different._

He recollected himself hastily when he realized that Shepard was going on. "Before you all leave," she added, "you should know that Mal Henderson is probably not going to last the week." Shepard's face was like stone. Malcolm Henderson had been one of the longest-serving human Spectres, brought aboard in Livanus' class. "I know most of you don't know him, but if you want to go pay your respects. . . the next day or two would probably be the time. After that, he might not be conscious much, the docs say."

Henderson had paid a terrible price for seeking refuge in the wrong set of caves on Terra Nova. His armor had been riddled with bullet holes, its radiation protection compromised. And the damage had been so extensive, and treated so late, that there was no hope. "And Nisha?" Eli asked, after a moment.

"I told her that it was her plan that got Mal killed. Her insistence on running in ahead of the marines, acting like an old-school, one-person-is-an-army Spectre, is the direct cause of his suffering and death." Shepard bit off the words. "I ordered her to stay with him every minute she's awake until he finally does pass away. And I also told her that if she can't admit to responsibility, then she can damned well retire. I do not have time for _old-school Spectres_ anymore. If Nihlus were alive today, he'd have toed the damned line. Most of the older Spectres have gotten aboard with the teamwork concept. Look at Ylara." Shepard shook her head. "You're all family, or close enough. You know that doesn't leave the room, folks."

Eli nodded. It went without saying.

"Anything on Cerberus and the Icama facility?" Dempsey asked.

Shepard looked tired. "I've got Kasumi and Argus working on it, and Anderson about went through the roof when he heard," she told him. "I also called up Kaiden Alenko and Miranda. And told them they _missed_ Petrovic. They were. . . decidedly displeased. Especially because Miranda said they'd turned him over to Alliance custody seven years ago. They're all. . . looking into it, Dempsey. One crisis at a time though, all right?"

The news did put a damper on his spirits, but as he headed for the _Sollostra's_ eventual berth, with Dempsey and Rel alongside. Most of the rest of the Terra Nova teams had other things to do. Fors was dealing with some sort of volus family politics. All he'd said for the past several days on the topic, was a bit cryptic to Eli: "Clan Lorsa has entered negotiations with me. They're offering me my dreams. . . on a silver platter. . . but I'm trying to figure out if the dream actually wants to be offered."

Thell was camped out on the _Normandy_, running diagnostic after diagnostic on 'James,' who still slept in the AI core. Siara and Makur had taken off for leave on Illium. . . which would be Makur's first trip to an asari world. Siara had promised to send pictures. Eli had promised not to laugh where Makur could see or hear him doing so.

None of them were in armor; just civvies. It felt good to be out of the damned armor, but unnervingly like being naked. Eli still had his guns in their concealed-carry harnesses, though the docking area was blocked off for anyone without security passes. He also had two little rachni workers tagging at his heels. Lexine Elders was waiting for them, arms folded across her chest, and tapping a foot impatiently. "There you are," she said, putting on a charming smile, letting the impatience fall away. "So, who all is aboard the ship that's returning today?" Her gaze trailed downward, and when she saw the rachni at his feet, she took a step back, expression tightening, but tried, obviously, to recover herself.

Eli sighed internally and gestured for the B-Sec guards to let her and her camera through. They were in one of the wide, clear tubes that led to the docking bays for large ships, on the extended arms of Bastion. Frigates and above had to dock out here; smaller passenger liners could fit in the inner bays. "Spectres Ylara Aliir, Melaani T'soa, Dara Jaworski, Zhasa'Maedan, Sings-to-the-Sky, and Rinus Velnaran, along with probationary Spectres Kirrahe Orlan and Seheve Liakos, I believe," he replied. _As if I don't have the damned list memorized._

"Well, I expect that you, Spectre Dempsey, will be pleased, then, since you're, what, dating the quarian Spectre, Zhasa'Maedan?"

"Yes. Very pleased." Dempsey's tone was remote, and he stood, arms folded across his chest, staring out at the white mass of Turan as if it occupied all his thoughts.

Elders sighed. Dempsey hadn't given her an inch of ground in two months. Eli had frequently pointed out to Dempsey, in private, that he gave other strangers less hell, and that this had to be an expression of an emotional response: dislike. Dempsey had raised his eyebrows, and admitted it calmly: "No, I don't like reporters. Her, personally? No reaction. Reporters, though. . . .? Nothing but trouble."

Elders tried again, managing a smile for Rel. "And you, Commander Velnaran. Your brother's returning today."

"Yes."

"Any comment on the mission that your brother was on? On. . . Arvuna, apparently?"

"I wasn't there, so I can hardly comment on my brother's mission."

Just then, a crystalline ship moved into view, slipping into berth A, on one side of the passage. Elders' jaw dropped open. "That's the _Lightsinger_," Eli informed her helpfully. "Spectre Sky's ship, given to him by the rachni queen-of-queens, Life-Singer."

"The rachni Spectre?" Elders' voice had gone uneasy.

"Yep. If I get my way, we'll have a couple of others soon," Eli said. "One of the brood-warriors on Terra Nova—he hasn't been given a name by his queen yet, but we called him Scratch. . . I think he's got what it takes."

"One of the brood-warriors on Shanxi, too," Rel put in. "Sings-of-Glory earned his name there."

Elders frowned. "They don't have names?"

"They _earn_ them," Eli explained. "Queens are born knowing their names, but a brood-warrior only earns one when he distinguishes himself. The rest are nameless, yes. Well. . . other than the workers that have been following us. Because 'hey, you,' doesn't quite seem respectful when the little guys are pretty handy."

Then the _Sollostra's_ white bulk slipped into view, casting shadows across the tubeway as it slid into position, aligning itself with the docking clamps. There was a faint grinding sound as smaller tubeways extended themselves to the entry hatches on the ships' sides, where decontamination was located, and positive seal was made. Eli found himself tensing just a bit, and laughed at himself internally. _Heart rate up, breathing rate up. Oh yeah. Real cool customer you are, buddy._

"Anyone you're looking forward to seeing in particular, Spectre Sidonis?" Elders' voice was sly as she recovered herself. "Spectre T'soa, perhaps?"

Eli blinked, turned, looked at her. . . . and started to laugh. He understood the inference, and supposed it would be logical. Melaani had a law enforcement background, although the details of it weren't common knowledge. . . and had, in fact, been largely suppressed for the galactic press. She was asari, and he'd already told Elders that he spoke asari, and considered Ylara a second-mother. "Ah, no," he said, suppressing the chuckles. "Spectre T'soa is an excellent colleague, though." Grinning a bit, he looked down at 1812 and Wolfgang at his feet. "How about you guys? Anyone _you're_ looking forward to seeing again?"

_Circle, circle, circle, circle_. The workers were _very_ excited. "That's how we've taught them to say yes," Eli told Elders. Looking back down at them, he said, "Sings-to-the-Sky?"

_Circle, circle_.

"Little queen?"

_Circle, circle, circle!_

"Okay, careful guys, you're going to get dizzy." Eli kept his tone light, but he was getting increasingly impatient for the door to open already. Of course, with the damned reporter right there, and Rel right there. . . _gah. What is it, eight more days till she can file the damned paperwork?_

Elders' mouth opened on another question, but there was a hiss from the nearby hatches, and all three males turned slightly, tensing a bit, as both doors spun open.

Ylara and Melaani exited first from the one on the right, smiling and chatting with each other. Ylara's face lit up when she saw them there, and she immediately crossed and took Eli's hands. Light brush of minds. "_N'__di'adoli_," she murmured. _"Will you share memories with me later?"_

"_Of course, third-mother. It would be, as always, my honor to accept your wisdom and light."_

"_Then I will speak with you later. Your always-fair will be along shortly. She's with Zhasa. There have been some changes."_

Eli frowned, becoming alarmed, but tried not to show it in his face. They were speaking too softly for the camera's mike to pick up, he hoped, but he didn't want distress to show. _"Are they all right?"_

"_Yes. Absolutely. Your always-fair is in perfect health. Zhasa's condition, well. . . you'll see."_ Ylara was smiling, however, and her sense was serene, so Eli didn't think it was a medical emergency. He stole a look at Dempsey anyway. He didn't even want to _think_ about what the man would do if Zhasa was hurt.

She and Melaani were immediately bulldogged by Elders, and Ylara handled it as gracefully as possible, only remarking that their mission on Arvuna had been concluded successfully, and that all enemies, foreign and domestic, had been dealt with. . . and that the Alliance would be policing the system more forcefully in the wake of the mission. _Whooo, that was a notice to Eclipse,_ Eli thought, wanting to cheer. _Stay the fuck out._

Kirrahe emerged next. Kirrahe was holding a bowl of water with some sort of . . . red snake in it, or some damned thing, and muttering about getting it through Customs. "A gift for your sister, Spectre Sidonis," Kirrahe told him, pausing to clasp hands.

"I don't think Caelia will much like it, I'm afraid." Eli said it dead-pan.

"The other sister."

"Emily's a little young for pets."

Kirrahe's eyelids crinkled. "The _other_ other sister."

"Oh, well, Nara, on the other hand? Should like that just fine. Although I hope you brought something else, too?"

"Prothean genetic data. Encrypted. Fifty thousand years old. Should take her six months to decipher. Good puzzle for a growing mind."

Eli nodded. "That'll do just fine. Anything that keeps her from pestering my mom because she's bored is a good thing."

In the meantime, Sky had emerged from the hatch at the left, surrounded by a dozen nameless workers, and Lexine Elders had backed up. Way up. Apparently, brood-warriors over seven feet tall were even worse than the little workers. To Eli's knowledge, she'd never once gone near the brood-warriors on Terra Nova. _Sing peace_, Sky sang to her now, loudly enough that everyone else could hear him. _None of my brood would harm you, so long as you do not sing harm to us._

Her mouth fell open. She was backed up almost against the clear plasteel of the tubeway, and Eli repressed the desire to laugh. At his feet, the two little workers chittered at Sky. _They sing that you have been teaching them to sing with letter-songs?_

_Yes. Easier to communicate. Somewhat._

_An excellent thought. Writing-songs seem . . . difficult, however. _

_Their spelling does sort of suck. Maybe if there were more of them to help organize the information, it would go easier. On the other hand, it wouldn't be nearly so funny._

_They will sing what they have learned to all of us now._

Rinus and Seheve emerged next. Rel moved up to take Rinus' wrist in a firm clasp, and the two brothers, so similar in appearance, moved off to the left of the entrance, talking quietly in turian. Seheve glanced around, and without saying anything, moved to the right. Eli thought she looked a little lost. As if she didn't quite know what to do or where to go next.

And then it happened. There was a joyous shout of "Dempsey! Catch!" and Eli's head swung up. The voice had sounded like Zhasa's, but it didn't sound quite right—and then he swore and ducked as _something_ flew by his head in a blur of black and purple and. . . pink?

Dempsey had had about two seconds' of warning to brace himself as Zhasa committed herself to a biotic leap and _pounced_ on him. He caught her, barely, with an audible grunt, staggering backwards and only regaining his balance after teetering and coming dangerously close to planting on the floor. His hands were under her hips, supporting her, and his mouth was hanging open a millimeter or two in what could only be real, honest shock.

So was Eli's.

Zhasa'Maedan wasn't wearing her suit. In fact, a violet shawl, trimmed with silver beads and gemstones, had been flung back from her face with the rush of air around her face. . . A face that Eli had seen through the window of the ICU, unconscious, two months before. Soft, white hair, like baby seal's fur. Wide, angled, purple eyes, rimmed with what looked like heavy black liner, but was natural to her, snub nose, little curving ivory fangs pressing into full, lavender lips, as she leaned forward and kissed Dempsey on his slightly slack lips. "Miss me?" Zhasa purred.

Eli's eyes tracked downwards. Silk blouse, purple. _Apaterae_ leather pants. And. . . pink bunny slippers. It was. . . surreal. "What. . . the. . . _fuck_?" Dempsey asked, spacing the words out for emphasis. "Zhasa, are you out of your _mind_?"

"No. Just out of my suit. Remember that egg incident?"

"How could I possibly forget _that_?"

"Dara says the nanobots have adjusted my immune system." Zhasa leaned forward and nibbled on the side of Dempsey's neck. . . . and then realized, belatedly, that everyone was staring at her. She flushed violet, scrambling to pull the shawl up around her face.

"How can you possibly be taking risks like this with your health?" Dempsey was angry now, and it showed the faint narrowing of his eyes, the downturn of his lips.

"Because it's not a risk! I've been out of my suit for three days. No bad effects. I had to take it off to get someplace in the Prothean ruins, and, well. . . no anaphylactic shock. No infections—even when I was wounded. Dempsey, aren't you _glad_ of this?"

"Of course I am, Zhasa-love, but my god, why didn't you tell me?"

"Consider this my _revenge_ for the bullet-point letters," Zhasa told him, clearly tightening her grip on him with arms and legs. And while her face was covered by her scarf, she clearly had _no_ inhibitions about this semi-public display of affection at the moment. "Now, where's this reporter who kept _flirting_ with _my_ male?" There was more than a hint of growl in her voice now. Eli didn't think quarians were quite as possessive as turians were of their mates, but Zhasa out of her suit was a different creature than Zhasa _in_ her suit. Zhasa always had a cheerful, bubbly nature. . . but now there was a hint of something wild and free to her, as well as a hint of nerves and insecurity, at the same time. And the insecurity of being so open and exposed was _probably_ linked to insecurity about her mate. . . .

All this, while Dempsey was still holding her up, Eli noted in amusement. Rel was staring at her—hell, everyone was. Eli realized it then, and turned away, thinking _damn, what a great distraction, could have walked right up behind any of us and dropped a bomb, and no one would have noticed. . ._

. . . and that was when a cool hand brushed against his. And song filled his mind. Shy, tentative piano music. Rich, ultramarines and indigos, a little yellow-green worry, and a little turquoise amusement, all at once. _Yeah, I thought she'd make a great distraction. The more so when I saw you had a reporter out here. Miss me. . . .____ciea'teilu__?_

Even that light brush of skin on skin was enough to trigger it. Full engagement of his limited biotics. Glorious music. Harmony of minds. Little workers racing in circles around their feet, All their low-song voices suddenly audible for the first time in two months. —_Many-Voices taught us spelling-songs, little queen! Now we can sing in new ways!_

—_I have entertained the feline of Sings-Despair quite adequately for the time being. Do I have new tasks?_

—_Listened to songs of those who went before. Confusing songs, can only hear through little queen when Sings-Despair sings them for her._

Dozens of cross-chatter songs, Sky's background melody weaving into and through and around them, but it was Dara's music that he listened to, absorbed him, made him reach out and try to join himself with. Eli didn't dare turn to look at her yet. _Of course I missed you, __sai'kaea__._ _Could you doubt it?_

_Wondered if you'd. . . reconsider._ Yellow worry, washing away now in the face of such powerful reassurance. _Lots of time away._

Eli turned then, and looked down at her. Saw his own face for a moment through her eyes, saw that his own had gone black. _Does it feel like I'm considering anything other than getting you alone someplace so I can kiss you till we both run out of air?_ She looked tired. Rumpled civilian clothes, just. . . soft yoga pants and a T-shirt. Hair a little longer, and tied back in a ponytail, sweet, girl-next door smile now. . . and the glorious rachni-blue eyes, looking up into his. His fingers itched to reach up and stroke an errant strand of hair out of her face. Dressed like that, and with dark glasses on. . .which she wasn't wearing now. . . she'd be able to slide through a crowd of humans on Bastion, and probably thought she wouldn't get a second look, but Eli knew damned well _he'd_ give her a second look if they were strangers. Probably third and fourth looks, too.

_Oh, you._ Pink overlay to the thoughts now.

_Can we get out of here?_ No way to hide the eagerness, the urgency.

_That's what I'm hoping we can do. While everyone's distracted. Zhasa has this cockamamie idea that she and I need to go shopping. _

_Not necessarily a bad idea. There are definitely things I'd love to see you wear. Of course, all you need to bring to Bek is your lab coat and a smile, and I'd die a happy, happy man._

_You say that now, but she wants to drag you and Dempsey with us._

_Hmm. What do I get out of this scenario? Kisses, maybe? Biting? The chance to help you with zippers? Lots and lots of zippers? Ooh, I know. You. . . in really tight asari dresses. You and Zhasa trying on lingerie together. . . oh, definitely. Almost better than you and Serana doing the same. No? _He was watching the pink tide flood her cheeks with absolute enjoyment. _Oh, well. Maybe Dempsey and I can go do something __manly__ together. Like look at hovercycles or something._

_Bite me, Eli._

_Let me get you alone somewhere, and I will._ He was already considering, strongly, dragging her back to his hotel room and his empty, empty bed. _Bekenstein_, he reminded himself. _Better part of valor and all that. So goddamned many reporters here. _

And _that_ was the moment he realized they'd just been standing there, staring at each other, not touching, but also not talking out loud, for at least a solid minute. Maybe two. _S'kak__._ He started to turn towards Elders.

_Eli, your eyes—_

_Let her get a good look. With any luck, it'll distract her from yours. And from us. Assuming she's not still getting a good look at Zhasa and Dempsey. . ._

_To hell with that. You're exposing yourself for my sake? We meet 'em head on, and together, Eli. Only way this works. _

_Kind of my job, sai'kaea. Press liaison, remember? I run interference for everyone else._

_And who protects you? _For all the brave thoughts, there was yellow fear in there. _Just wish my glasses weren't in my damn bag. I didn't think I'd __need__ them walking out the door into a secure area._

Eli turned. Lexine Elders was, indeed, staring right at him and Dara. "Ms. Elders," Eli said, pleasantly. "The Spectres would appreciate it if, given that we'll allow you to broadcast any of this footage, that you'd blur Spectre Zhasa'Maedan's face, for her privacy."

_Nice thought. She might kiss you for that._

"We realize that the first quarian out of the suit in, oh, three hundred years, is certainly newsworthy, and as the first quarian Spectre in history, anything she does is news anyway, but she's going to have enough people staring at her already. We'd appreciate any efforts you make towards preserving her privacy." All this delivered as calmly as if he'd had the information all well in hand already. _Shepard knew about Zhasa?_

_Was the first line in my report from Arvuna. I suspect it was in the first paragraph of Ylara's, too. Yeah, she knew._

_She likes surprises, doesn't she?_

_One of the few joys of command, I guess. . . watching everyone else scramble. Plus, you know. . . the look on Dempsey's face._ Lurking blue-green amusement. _We were definitely going for maximum __what-the-fuck_ _here._

_You achieved surprise, I'll give you that._

The quick exchange of thoughts took only seconds. In the meantime, Lexine Elders' mouth opened and closed, and Eli could practically read the thoughts crossing her face. _A chance to scoop Emily Wong on the quarian. . .but having to blur the face? Sold._ "That seems perfectly fair," Elders said, after a moment, and another wary glance back at Dempsey and Zhasa. "I'd love a chance to speak with her—"

"I'll relay your request," Eli replied neutrally, thinking, _Yeah. Fat chance. Zhasa might grant one to Emily Wong, but after you spent two months trying to get Dempsey to smile for the camera? Kind of unlikely. _ "Have you been introduced to Spectre Dara Jaworski before?" he added. _You did say, meet it head-on, __sai'kaea__._

Elders stared up at him. He knew his eyes were probably still black. He could hear Dara's song, the workers, Sky's, clearly. "Ah, no," the reporter said, blinking. "I haven't."

"Dara, this is Lexine Roxanna Elders, BNN. Ms. Elders, Dr. Dara Jaworski. Do you have any questions for our returning Spectres and associates? Because if you don't, most of them are tired from a long damned trip, and would probably like to rest."

Two blinks. Elders' red head turned, and she stared at Dara, and Eli could feel the fear rapidly turning to fear-anger in Dara. The thorns, as Zhasa would probably say, began to emerge, and Dara's expression turned cold and remote. Turian reserve. Elders rallied after a moment. "Ah, Dr. Jaworski. . . this might sound a little odd. . . but how many languages do you speak?"

The question wasn't at all what Dara expected, or Eli either, and it flatfooted Dara. "Er. . . several," Dara replied. "English, some really rusty Spanish. Enough Japanese to order food and ask for directions to the bathroom. Turian, _tal'mae_, salarian, some batarian, and I'm picking up a little asari now, too." Dara blinked. "Why do you ask?"

Elders shook her head, her eyes very alert and interested now. "Just confirming some background information. I'd love a chance to interview you later, Spectre, ah, Jaworski."

"I'm not granting personal interviews to anyone other than Emily Wong," Dara replied, quickly. _Eli, what the hell is she fishing for?_

_Eh, I think she put a piece or two together. I kind of taunted her a bit on Terra Nova when she would __not__ stop trying to do the whole friendly-flirtatious routine with Dempsey, Rel, and me. I think it's almost reflexive for her, honestly, but it irritated me at the time._ He showed her the conversation in a blur of thought. Someone who can be human. Someone who can be turian. Someone who can be a little bit asari. Someone who can be a little salarian. And long walks on the beach would be a bonus. _I know. Me and my big mouth._

_Well, you didn't know she was going to pounce on me the minute I stepped onto Bastion. Gah. So much for using Zhasa as a distraction. Now I really do owe her a shopping trip._

They said their farewells, and Zhasa had finally dropped down, putting her bunny-slippered feet back on the floor, as she pointed out, "And the scarf is Seheve's. She really was kind—" Zhasa paused, turning and looking around. "Huh. Where'd she—oh, there you are." She reached out and caught Seheve's hand as the drell female tried to slip by. "You're coming with us. Shopping."

"Right _now_?" Dempsey said, more than a little dubiously. "Couldn't we. . . .I don't know. . . drop by the hotels first? Drop off your things? Finish saying hello?"

_That __would__ be nice. A nice, long hello. One that takes an hour._ Eli was trying, desperately, not to visualize what that would entail, and failing miserably. Which got him a nudge in the ribs from Dara's elbow. _What?_

_I hear the undersong, Eli._ Contentment. Pure blue contentment. Indigo. A little of his own burgundy reflecting back at him, from her now. "Besides," Dara added out loud, in a tone that held absolutely no hope in it at all, "if you want to keep a low profile, and not be stared at, wouldn't just. . . ordering clothes on the extranet be easier?"

Zhasa put a hand on Dempsey's shoulder and lifted one foot, bunny slipper and all, straight into the air, like a dancer. "I don't think custom-made boots can possibly be ordered on the extranet. Besides, how would I know how any of the rest of it fits?" Her face was amazingly mobile. It carried every thought that passed through her mind. No social lies. Zhasa had never had to learn to hide what she thought. . . and she was half-smiling, half cheerfully pouting now. "I'll compromise. We'll drop off everything at the hotel and say hello, but then yes. Shopping."

Seheve looked reluctant. "And you require th—my presence for this?"

"You looked like you were going to slink off all alone, and that's not good for the soul," Zhasa told her cheerfully. "You're a shipmate. And quarians take care of their shipmates."

Dempsey shrugged. "One more set of eyes," he said. "I don't have a problem with that. You're going to be _mobbed_ by your fellow quarians, Zhasa-love."

"I _did_ call Kal'Reegar and Tali'Zorah . . . and my mother. . . to inform them from the _Sollostra_," Zhasa said, a little guiltily. "I didn't want them to find out from the newsfeeds."

"Oh, so they got a courtesy call, but I didn't?" Dempsey's tone was very, very lightly teasing.

"No, you, I wanted to tell face-to-face."

Eli was a little reluctant, but realized, immediately, the advantage of having Seheve along. _Takes it from looking like a double-date, to looking like a group of friends, out to help Zhasa find clothes and keep her safe while doing so._

_That is what it is. . . isn't it?_

_There are definitely some date-like aspects. If you want there to be._ Eli reached down and picked up Dara's seabag. _I just wish I could hold your hand as we're walking._ Or slide his arm around her waist.

_Soon enough. . . if you want to. . . we'll be able to._ He could sense her quick, reflexive glance around. Checking for Rel's location. And the surge of relief when she realized that he and Rinus and the others had all left already.

Dara had a room set up in the fourth floor of Eli's hotel, and Zhasa _had_ been slated for a quarian clean hotel. . . but now was opting to stay with Dempsey, in his room. "We'll meet you guys downstairs for lunch," Dempsey told them, calmly, and stepped out of the elevator on the second floor, where his room and Rel's were. "Zhasa says you're scheduled for debriefing with Shepard first thing in the morning, right?"

"Yeah." Dara nodded. "We've got a little time."

Eli's room was on the third floor, but they went straight to Dara's. And the instant the door closed behind them, Eli dropped her bag to the floor and gathered her into his arms. Saw the little workers that had followed them into the room skitter away, cheering, _—Joy-song, mating-song! _Felt her arms twine around his neck. Lowered his head to meet her kiss, and opened himself to her, feeling her light, her music, fill him. _Give me your songs, please, all of them, Eli. Have been starving for them. All your songs._

Biting the side of her throat now. Hearing her little gasps, her enjoyment as the rough scratch of his incipient beard caught at the delicate skin there. _All my songs?_ They hadn't moved from the damned door. Eli turned Dara slightly, pushing her up against the wall. _All of them, __sai'kaea__? Can you take them? Do you want them?_ Arousal was quick and almost painful. _You want __this__? Say yes, please, please say yes. . . _He was rubbing himself against her, hard against soft. Could feel the little splinters of pleasure when he pressed just. . . like. . . that.

_Yes. I want this. I want you._

"Say it in turian."

"_Eci petenta talau." I want you._

"_Tal'mae_," he whispered against her ear, before biting her again, pressing her back into the wall. Burgundy was filling him now. Cascade of memories from the past month. Night after night, both of them alone. Only the knowledge that _this_ was waiting for them making the separation bearable. The terror of watching the world fly past him, knowing he was about to be flung over a cliff-edge to his death. The terror of watching the yahg try to tear people apart, the terrible responsibility of the others relying on him and Makur to _know_ where the hunters were. The sight of the huge thresher maw rising up out of the desert sands, death incarnate. Failing to convince the 'Prepared" to leave their hiding place. . . and then the yahg coming through the cleared area of the minefield, slaughtering the humans in their cave, turning loose the women and children in the desert. Either to die slowly, or restock the species. Like animals. Night after night of fantasizing about exactly _this_. Hoping that if he dreamed about her, he wouldn't, god help him, talk in his sleep. But at least the erotic dreams had been better than the nightmares._ Make me clean, __sai'kaea__, let me bathe in you and make me clean again. . . ._

"_A'petentia __talur_ _oporte korporae meus." _Words in _tal'mae_. Part of the marriage ceremony. He'd said them to Serana, and meant them, but at the moment, they'd been turned around. They were female-to-male, direct assertion. _I want that your body should be mine_.

"_Ita meus korporae, a'condonia __elus__."_ _And thus, my body, I give to you._ He bent his knees, drove himself against her more directly. He could _smell_ how ready she was. Taste it in the yielding of her lips. _"Korporae, kogitae, animae, a'condonia __elus."_ Body, mind, spirit/life, I give to you. Another sweet bite under her ear. "Say it in asari. Please, _sai'kaea_."

"_Ciea'teilu, __teaoul'uelle _um. . . . _a'__sis'ia . . .. lia'lano'uel?_" Her voice scaled up in to a questioning pitch. Didn't matter. The words were very close to being right, and the drawl poured over the words like honey.

Eli picked her up, and, almost blind, carried her to the nearby desk, shoving the placard advertising the complimentary continental breakfast, the hotel directory, and the lamp out of the way with his forearm. "Mmm, I'm the one who wants to be encompassed by you, _ciea'la'yili. Teaoul'uelle vilu'uelle __sis'ia wia illua'a'yili._ _Vaelo'uelleo maieolo'ya."_ _I want to fill you with my love. I have ached for your beloved touch/sharing._

He wanted her skin, now, and he wanted to be _in_ her now. Flood of return memories, as she opened to him, as completely as he'd opened to her. Every night, wondering when Eclipse or the Growth Zero people were going to turn on them, betray them. No one to trust but those around her. Constant fear of being left alone, left to the lonely-madness. Terror of being captured by the batarians, used, experimented on. Giving it all to him, as he'd given her all of his burdens. It was easier to carry someone else's problems, someone else's fears. And both were lighter, for having been shared. Eli leaned her back. Hips the perfect height for his at the moment. Pressing inwards. Only clothing a barrier between them now, between him and the wet tightness of her embrace. _Want you, Dara. Want you so badly._

_Then take me. I want you. I give myself to you. Let our songs become one._

His hands were on the stretchy waistband of her pants, and he was still biting, blindly. Flickers of sanity, though. _Shouldn't. Not yet. Get the god! damned! papers done. Go to Bek. Do this __right__._ _So we don't have reporters downstairs, and so you don't have to deal with Rel_. So hard to think of that, though, to focus on it. And yet. . . .little workers cheering, dimly. _—Joy-songs! Joy-songs! Consummation-song!_ Just. . . enough. . . distraction.

"You don't want to?" Her voice was surprised.

"Of _course_ I want to!" Eli lifted his head, breathing hard. Looking, desperately, for scraps of his self-control. "All I know is, by the time we get to Bekenstein, I'm going to have the worst case of blue balls in the history of our species. You may have to write it up for a medical journal." His tone was low and rueful, and she laughed, as he intended her to.

"I could. . . give you my mouth," she offered, eyes wide. _Give you a little relief._

_Oris_, memories whispered in both of them. Her offering Rel relief under the trees, _Happy Valentine's Day._ Dark shadows in the training area. _Yeah, they're doing things._ The whispering at school.

Eli closed his eyes for a moment, tempted beyond belief. He wanted to feel her lips on him. Feel the flicker of her sweet tongue playing with him. Feel the exquisite relief of orgasm. He had, actually, very rarely had oral contact. It didn't tend to do a lot for him with protection on, and he hadn't had sex without protection until Serana. Eli stood. He wanted to slide his fingers into Dara's soft hair and press her head gently downwards. Wanted to look down and see himself disappearing into the glory of her mouth, inch by inch. But he also wanted to do things differently than she'd experienced them before. Didn't want any memory cross-contamination. And he knew she could hear that in his song. Oversong, undersong. All in harmony.

_I'm an idiot_, he thought, and caught her chin in both hands, cupping her face, and kissed her instead. When he pulled back, he looked down into her eyes, and whispered, "Oh, I'd love it. But. . . not for our first time. Our first time, I want . . . god, I've thought about it so much. But I don't want it to be just about relief, _sai'kaea_. I'm a big boy. I've got hands. I can take care of _that_ on my own. I want to take my time with you. I want to seduce you, sweetheart. I don't think you've ever been seduced." He kissed her again. "And I'm going to take all night doing it, understand me?"

She smiled, just a flash of mischief, mixed with tenderness. "You _have_ been thinking about this, haven't you?"

"What gave me away?" One more urgent kiss.

A tap on the door caught both their ears. Eli sighed. _Well, better now, than five minutes ago. _

"Dara?" Zhasa's voice, low and tentative. "Are you ready to get going?"

Eli put his head down on Dara's shoulder, and exhaled. _Shortest hour in the history of the world._

_Maybe Dempsey didn't want to be interrupted any more than you do._ Blue-green amusement, but a little yellow frustration, too.

**Lexine Elders, Bastion, December 6, 2196**

_Tap, tap, tap._ Lexine Elders sat in her own hotel room on Bastion's D level, staring at an aerogel screen that changed scenes every three seconds. All landscapes or still-lifes of flowers, of course. Impressionist painters. Asari abstract cityscapes. Nothing that could possibly offend the senses of anyone, of any species. Bland, bland, and more bland, to go with the inoffensive beige counterpane with its springs of white flowers scattered on it. To match the beige carpet. To match the beige walls. Bland, bland, boring, and bland.

She was in the middle of reviewing her footage of the Spectres disembarking from the _Sollostra_, for the fifth time. She'd carefully blurred Zhasa'Maedan's compelling face, at the behest of Spectre Sidonis, and filed the story half an hour ago. . . before Emily Wong, her superior at BNN, had even _heard_ about the events. Before Al-Jilani, over at Westerlund News, had even gotten her camera off the charging plate. She, Lexine Elders, had a bona fide scoop. . . and she couldn't even follow up on it, because Zhasa'Maedan was unlikely to allow herself to be interviewed by anyone. Oh, maybe a quarian reporter. _They have reporters, don't they?_ But not her. Because it was clear that the Spectres, particularly the 'Young Guns,' trusted only one reporter. The revered Emily Wong.

_Tap, tap, tap._ She thought back to journalism classes over the years, taken at CCNY, back on Earth. Ethics and the difficulty of cultivating people's trust. Wong had Shepard's trust, but in order to get it, Wong had become little more than Shepard's mouthpiece. She told the story Shepard wanted shown, didn't she? Did she ever ask hard questions anymore, or did she just lob softballs and let the Spectres run roughshod over her? Al-Jilani made no secret of her antagonism for Shepard, the Council, and the multi-species Spectres. But her very antagonism limited her access. The Spectres wouldn't allow her on their base, for instance. Would never allow her inside their homes, the way Wong had been permitted, several times.

But wasn't there somewhere in between? Somewhere, where you could maintain your neutrality, gain the subject's trust, and still ask _real_ questions? Lexine sighed. Not that she'd asked any really hard questions in two months. _Hell, I asked __background__ questions, just trying to get to know them, and they stonewalled me. I'd gone in prepared, I thought. I knew that special-ops personnel value their privacy, the division between public and private life. But. . . Spectres straddle the line between 'rock-star' and 'covert' in many ways. I thought. . . I thought they'd be more apt to showboat. Especially the younger ones. Thought they'd be cocky and arrogant and let things slip that the older Spectres wouldn't. I thought I'd get inside their secrets, and find out what the Spectres are __really__ about._ She snorted at herself. Fat chance. If the Spectres were up to any nefarious, either Shepard and Vakarian were playing it very close to their chests. . . or every member of their organization was an incredibly gifted actor. _But __no one__ is that good, that noble, that pure. Oh, individuals might be, but organizations. . . it's a given that organizations harbor corruption. And the Spectres all have, effectively, absolute power. It __should__ corrupt absolutely. Except I can't see any signs of it._

She turned back to her vid feed footage. Zhasa'Maedan's incredible leap—_surely, that has to be biotics-assisted_—right into the arms of her _human lover_. When she'd first heard that Dempsey was dating a quarian, her first reaction had been _what a waste_. He was a perfectly gorgeous specimen of human masculinity—tall, well-built, in fantastic shape, and with clear, cold blue eyes and a square jaw. Irresistible, really. And yet completely uninterested in _anything_ she said. She'd have thought he was misogynistic, or maybe gay, except that he'd been married, had a son _(not that that precludes being gay, but he simply doesn't give off that vibe)_. And he'd been reserved, taciturn, and emotionless as a damned _mech_ for two months. Until the quarian had leaped into his arms. Then, the first signs of _any_ emotion at all. _Maybe they give their recruits an agent that numbs the emotions_, she'd thought, with grim amusement, at the beginning of her work covering the Spectres.

Except, they clearly _didn't_. Siara Tesala was cold and remote. . . but obviously adored her krogan mate, Makur. For reasons passing human comprehension. Lexine had tried to interview them, cautiously keeping an eye on Makur's fists and the enormous cat that shared their living quarters, but hadn't gotten much of anything out of them . . . well, other than enthusiastic words about Tuchanka's future under the Clan Alliance, led by Urdnot Wrex. Oh, and some kind words about Ulluthyr Harak and Patriarch, and the time they had spent working for him, under Spectre supervision, on Omega.

Elijah Sidonis, press liaison. Again, a perfectly gorgeous specimen of human masculinity. Dark eyes, dark lashes that any woman pay a cosmetics counter a hundred credits to try to replicate. Taller than Dempsey, and just as muscular, but with the slashes of exotic turian paint on his jaws. The background information on him—turian father, human mother, variety of half-siblings, etc.—had been scanty, so she'd gone digging. Found some of al-Jilani's background work on him. "Blood-brother" with Linianus Pellarian, whatever _that_ meant. Dozens of women who'd apparently dated him, however briefly, on Macedyn and a few on Edessan. Even a human woman named Freja Almstedt, who claimed she'd been his first lover, just out of boot camp on Palaven. All lining up for a chance to say "I knew him when," . . . or, on the European stations, to give slightly more salacious details. "An animal in bed," one of the humans had said, with well-feigned shock. "Likes to bite like a turian." The various asari had been no less forthcoming. "Holds back in bed. Doesn't share his light." Whatever _that_ meant.

So Lexine had figured that here, at least, was her in. Elijah was a well-known womanizer. He hadn't even managed to stay married for six months. Surely, a few well-placed smiles, a little light flirtation would do the trick. Except. . . he hadn't lived up to his reputation. He'd smile, but it never reached his eyes. And he was as immovable as stone when it came to revealing anything about himself, his family, or his co-workers. . . and he was the primary obstacle she had to get around if she were going to get to any of the rest of the Young Guns.

Then there was Rellus Velnaran. A fine example of turian male beauty. Tall, lithe, muscular, and deadly. And who'd just looked at her with a slightly puzzled expression when she'd tried to take his 'side' in regards to his personal life, build up sympathies. Then again, he had a reputation among the turian press-corps. Something about dangling a reporter over a cliff.

Lexine paused the playback. Yes, as the quarian came in for a landing, Rel had looked over in surprise. . . and then away, at something else. Hard to decipher the expressions on a turian face. She'd been so busy looking at the quarian Spectre, herself, that reviewing the scenes her camera had caught, with its objective eye, she was picking up things she hadn't noticed the first time, living it. There was Dara Jaworski—her right shoulder, anyway—edging around the camera's field of view. The camera had auto-focused on her, however, and swung to catch her face. The eyes were. . . not human. They looked identical to the big brood-warrior's. And yet. . . Lexine pulled up extranet footage from her own station, BNN, from the interviews Wong had done on Omega. . . there they were. Brown, and perfectly human.

And while she'd still been gaping at the quarian, the camera had swung further, and had caught Sidonis turning. Looking down slightly at the elusive Dr. Jaworski. And that was the moment his eyes had gone completely, inhumanly black. Lid to lid. The faint, tender smiles on both of their faces. Not even touching. Not speaking. Just looking into one another's eyes. And there, over Elijah's left shoulder. .. Rellus Velnaran. Looking at his best friend, and his ex-wife. Expression blank and shuttered.

A picture could tell a thousand words, and Lexine stared at the picture now. _Oh, I'm committed to something, all right. . . . you want to know what my dream-girl would be like? Able to be human. Able to be turian. Able to be a little asari._ The loose paraphrasing still sounded like Sidonis' low voice in her mind. Lexine inched closer to her screen, forming the phrases in her mind. A gossip piece. She'd have to write it under a pseudonym; her contract with BNN forbade her from giving items to competitors, and her editor would scorn gossip. But the _picture_. . . oh, it said everything. Dara Jaworski, one of the few female humans to have married a turian—and _such_ a turian, nephew of Garrus Vakarian, related by marriage to the turian Imperial family—was leaving him for Elijah Sidonis. Leaving poor faithful Menelaus for pretty boy Paris. And of _course_ Elijah had dumped his wife, Serana, Rellus' sister, the first chance he got.

. . . except. . . it didn't quite add up. Lexine paused and frowned. And backspaced over her first typed sentence. It made sense, if all you knew of Elijah Sidonis was that he liked a pretty smile. Except. . . he seemed to be completely immune to her own charms. Any number of female human and turian marines had turned hundred-watt smiles on him on Terra Nova, too, and he'd nodded, smiled, and walked right on past them. Not inert, the way Dempsey seemed to be, but oblivious. If all he wanted was a piece of tail, any number of women would have fallen over themselves to climb into his bed. And yet, no interest at all. And the complete focus on the job. Dealing with the survivors of the 'Prepared' and their compound, the way the children had fallen asleep against his shoulder, and against Dempsey's. . . the fact that the three males had survived an attack by the largest thresher maw anyone had ever taken footage of. . . No. Elijah Sidonis didn't seem like a Paris.

Ahh. Dara was Guenevere, betraying Arthur with Lancelot. Delicious. A perfect soap opera plot. But she'd just started typing the sentence, "Spectres, the modern Camelot. . . " she paused again. Elijah was the Spectre. Rellus was probationary. If anyone were the 'king' in this scenario, it would be Elijah. Unless she wanted to take the line that Elijah had stolen Rel's rightful position as well as his wife. "Fine. David and Bathsheba, then," she muttered, starting to backspace. . . but even that didn't fit. David had sent Bathsheba's husband to his death in order to marry the widow. And there Eli and Rel were, fighting side-by-side. They'd taken out the thresher maw, the yahg regional commander. . . everything, with Dempsey at their sides.

Elders blanked her page again, and stared at the picture again. And again, it didn't add up. Those weren't the expressions of two people out just for a romp in the sack. The tenderness, the softness in what were usually two very reserved visages. . . that was real.

_Maybe I'm going at this all wrong,_ she decided. _How about if I . . . well, surely there's a story there about their eyes. Elijah Sidonis, male human-asari hybrid? Secret asari gene mods, maybe? But Dara's surely a better story in that regard. Those are __rachni__ eyes._ Lexine shuddered. _I wonder how much of her is insect. Oh, man, not even the Weekly Galactic News would take that story. Not without a picture of, mocked up coming out of a cocoon with wings or mandibles or something. __Then__ they'd put it on page one, with size eighty font letters screaming "Mutant Spectres!"_

Elders closed down her writing program, and sighed. She had a choice, as she saw it. She could try to get another scoop. Breaking the story of the _real reason_ for the divorce of the decade would probably cost her her job at BNN. But it would get her job offers outside of BNN. Probably for a hell of a lot more money. But what little access she _did_ have to the Spectres would be lost, instantly. Would it be better to try to stick it out, earn Sidonis' trust by _not_ taking the footage public. . . or to take it public, and say to hell with the Spectres and all their secrets?

_Tap, tap, tap._

**Dara, Bastion, December 6, 2196**

Just being back on Bastion was like a dream, really. The station was crowded again. Military transports were constantly rolling through, along with supply ships, and in spite of the reputation the station had as one of the centers for the plagues, people of all species were flocking here. War-time tended to be a boom-time for the economy. There was a built-in market for small, portable items, food-stuffs that weren't regulation, but that could be toted across the galaxy safely, and other goods, not to mention services. Everyone needed haircuts. _Which reminds me, so do I_, Dara thought, glumly. She'd been tempted to take a pair of scissors and just hack her ponytail off at the nape of her neck, but she'd wanted to look nice for Eli when she got back, so had held off.

Eli had taken a few moments after Zhasa's knock at the door to go into the bathroom of her room and regain his composure a bit. . . and to wash hands, neck, and face. Which Dara had done, too. She just had to wait for the red marks left by his five o'clock shadow to fade on their own. Eli had touched her chin lightly. "This is what I get for not having shaved this morning," he murmured, a little self-deprecatingly.

Dara smiled up at him, and put on her dark glasses. "Okay, who's coming with us?" she asked the various workers in the room. Chopin and 1812 immediately scurried up onto her shoulders.

—_Little queen should allow us to groom fibrous portion of carapace,_ 1812 chided her.

_You really think you'd know how to cut it in layers and all that jazz?_

—_Layers? Like strata in rock?_

_Yeah, didn't think so. Okay, can you trim the broken ends, at least?_

—_Little queen, you will find carapace replacements today? Decorative-songs or functional-songs?_

_Can I hope for both?_ That was Eli, interjecting lightly as they stepped out of the elevator into the lobby of the hotel. He grinned down at her, and she could feel it as he started to reach out to wrap one arm around her waist, and then stopped the motion. Sighed. And put on his own glasses.

At his suggestion, they stopped off, first, for lunch. His pick, since he'd spent the most time of any of them on the station, and he chose an asari/Thai fusion place that also catered to the dextro crowd. Dara had to admit, people were far too busy staring at Zhasa to even look at her or Eli. To the point where she was already feeling very sorry for her quarian friend. "No, no, it's all right," Zhasa managed, although she was clearly crowding so close to Dempsey that it looked as if she were trying to defy physics and occupy the same space as him.

Dempsey was giving their little Thai waitress a dark look. "What? You've never seen a quarian before?"

"Oh, sorry, sorry, excuse me," she babbled instantly, lowering her head slightly, much abashed. "What can I get for you all?"

Dara had never _been_ to a Thai place before. Eli chuckled. "This was one of my mom's favorite places to take me, back on the Citadel, actually. Right after my dad died, and money was really scarce, she'd take me here once a month. Pizza once a month was _my_ treat. This was her treat. They've added dextro ingredients in the past couple of years."

"What do I order?" she muttered.

"Me, I always get what I got when I was a kid. _Pad thai_ with chicken. Thai iced tea—they serve it with spices and condensed milk. You're going to want to keep an eye on how many little pepper symbols are next to what you're looking at on the Thai side of the menu. One is hot by American standards. Two means "Mexican spicy." Three means "Chinese spicy." Four means "Thai spicy." He grinned at her.

"Okay, that eliminates a quarter of the menu then," Dara told him, chuckling. "What about the asari half of the menu?"

Zhasa had been perusing with extreme interest, herself, and was apparently going to go for a very spicy noodle dish—festuca flour noodles with _oolorae_ flesh and _kuryatina_ eggs from Rannoch, and . . . levo peppers, imported from Earth. And Thai basil. She was taking an epi-tab, just in case, but Dempsey had an expression on his face that suggested a fair bit of reluctance on his part. "How about if you stick to safe foods, and _I'll_ eat the damned mixed stuff for you?" he finally suggested.

Seheve, at the table with them, wore a faint smile. "In either case, your physician is at the table with you already," she pointed out.

"Shh. I'm off-duty and I'd like to stay that way," Dara muttered. "Seriously, Eli, what's on the asari side of the menu?"

"Matriarch Aethyta always spoke highly of _maieolo'__pliaou'e,_" Zhasa suggested.

Dara squinted. "Sharing-plates?" she translated, dubiously. _Seriously, is __every__ word in the language about sharing?_

Eli chuckled. "Maybe some other time. Unless you're feeling very brave, _sai'kaea._"

"Spicy?" Dara asked.

"No, not usually. But . . ." The restaurant was dimly lit, and Eli reached over and rubbed the back of his fingers against her cheek. "They're meant for two people to share."

Dara gave him a suspicious look. "Does this involve me getting naked in public?"

Eli started laughing, Zhasa with him, and Seheve and Dempsey's lips quirked up in matching faint smiles. "No, no," Eli assured her. "I'm not planning on using you as a plate." _Not today, anyway._ He reached out and took her hand, just as Zhasa had just taken Dempsey's. "They're about intimacy. You share the food on the plate. Different degrees of intimacy for each style of plate. Just sharing the plate says one thing. Feeding each other from it says something else." _Just sharing the plate means friendship or kinship, __sai'kaea__. Feeding each other with utensils, means greater intimacy. Courtship. Lovers feed each other with their fingers. And each type of dish means something. It's intricate, __sai'kaea__._

_You've. . . done this before?_ She really didn't like to think about that, she found.

_Only up through utensils._ "You don't have to, you know," he told her, out loud, squeezing her fingers. "Just trying something new is an adventure, isn't it?"

"Seheve and Melaani and Ylara spent a good deal of time talking to me about asari mindsets in the last two months," Dara noted. "That because of the greatly lengthened lifespan, they tend to be absorbed in a quest for new or more intense experiences. Either in denying the body, or in finding more and more extreme sensations."

Zhasa nodded, and Eli did at the same time. "Fair assessment," Eli said, glancing at Seheve.

"So. . . trying new things is, to a certain extent, being asari?"

"Breaking out of the comfort zone definitely is." He squeezed her fingers again. "But you don't have to be any more adventurous than Thai food if you don't want to."

Dara started glancing over the asari half of the menu. Her ability to read the language, as with all her other language skills, was much better than her ability to speak it. "What _are_ all these things, anyway?"

"If I tell you, you'll go with preconceived notions, and won't eat them." Eli told her with aplomb.

"If it's red and sort of crunchy, it's a goddamned starfish, and yes, Zhasa's made me eat it," Dempsey muttered. He was sticking with Thai, too.

"What's this?" Dara asked, pointing to _suasi_'_muara. _"Sweet-morning?"

Zhasa choked on a sip of water, and, eyes widening, Dempsey patted her between her shoulder blades. "It's, ah, a morning-after breakfast," Zhasa told her, flushing violet.

"Not a hangover remedy, then, I take it?" Dara asked.

"Not so much," Eli told her, grinning. Dara felt her own cheeks heat up then. _I'll definitely see if room-service has it on Bek, though. Finger-length cakes. Melon. Berries. Honey. Creams. Smoked __aoi'la'e._

_What's that?_

_Don't ask. Just try. _"You want me to order something I think you'll like?" Eli's eyes were very intent right now.

"Hey, I either trust you, or I don't." Dara closed the menu. "I'll put myself in your hands. This once."

"Okay." Eli ordered something called _fieua'hailla a'guillia. _First fruits and fish. Which, when it arrived, smelled surprisingly good, and was on a single plate the size of a tray. Everything was in finger-sized portions, almost like a sushi presentation, and spread out in decorative concentric circles, surrounding three bowls of different dipping sauces. Chopsticks and forks were both provided—and Zhasa was proving to have a hell of a time with her chopsticks on her noodles, much to Dempsey's amusement.

_How would you like me to feed you, __sai'kaea__?_ The thought was almost a caress. Dara swallowed. If she understood him correctly, asking him to use his fingers would be a sort of an announcement. But . . . her father had sent her a bundle of forms to sign and get notarized before she left Bastion. Filing was only days away. _You and Rel are just barely back to being able to work together, Eli. . . _

_I'm not going to walk on eggshells around him for the rest of my life. But it's up to you._ He was clearly allowing her to set the pace. Decide the degree of public and private intimacy.

_Fingers, then._ Dara lifted her chin.

He smiled then, a relaxed, pleased expression, and lifted the first morsel, something yellow wrapped in something darker green, and dipped it lightly in something clear in one of the central bowls. "Close your eyes and open your mouth," he told her.

"I'm pretty sure my mama told me to watch out for boys who said that."

Zhasa promptly choked again.

Dara closed one eye, squinted at Eli with the other, and then closed it, parting her lips tentatively. Coolness against her lower lip. . . burst of flavors. Mellow, tangy, a little spicy, actually. The outer wrapping was crunchy, the center was. . . some sort of fruit. And the dipping sauce, she thought, was probably the spicy component. —_Cannot analyze chemical compounds from here_, Chopin told her. The restaurant had pitched a _fit_ over the rachni, wanting to categorize them as pets. Or pests. She'd been forced to leave them outside, where they were perched on the restaurant's sign, waiting for them to come back out.

"You like?" Eli asked, though he surely knew the answer.

"Mmm-hmm." Dara opened her eyes. "And what do I give you?"

"Anything you want." There was a hint of mischief in his eyes, though.

Zhasa chuckled. "Don't let him fool you, Dara. There's a meaning to every piece, and which order they're given in means different things."

"Oh, dear god. Because the language alone wasn't hard enough." Dara glared at Eli. "Want to give me a clue here?"

He shook his head, and stilled his song. Blocking her, for the moment. Letting nothing but his amusement come through. "Now where's the fun in that?"

"Could you at least tell me what the piece you just gave _me_ meant?"

"Tender, long-lasting affection, spiced with exploration," Zhasa supplied from across the table. "_Me'alu_ melon can mean a new day, the wrapper of dried _kep'ria_ leaves can mean longevity, and the spiced dip can be adventure."

"So, you just make up what it means as you go along?"

"Sort of," Eli said. "It's a game. For an asari, it's okay to play with your food. Within reason."

Dara looked down and was completely at sea. _Okay. Well, Eli's base color of song is dark red. Might as well go with that_. . . . _and that piece is wrapped in . . . huh. Tiny, dark blue seeds or fruits. Like blueberries, only the size of sunflower seeds._ Dara picked it up, and felt a surge of delight from Eli. "You know, this would be more fun if I knew what I was doing," she told him, and hovered her hand over the bowls in the center. One was clear, one was white, and one was dark honey-amber. She lightly dipped it in the honey-like syrup, and when she looked up, Eli was just smiling at her. "Do I want to know what this means?" Dara asked, and offered it to him. He promptly nipped the base of her thumb in reply, and just sat there, chewing with a delighted blue glow to his song.

"_Aoi'la'e._ Smoked arm-fish, or starfish," Zhasa said. "Passion. Wrapped in _netula'a_ berries, eternity. And then dipped in _o'lao_ honey. . . sweetness, obviously."

Dara flushed red, and continued trading little bites of food with Eli. She could understand why this was considered a very intimate thing to do. Eli brushed his thumb against her lower lip every time he fed her, and never missed a chance to lightly bite or kiss her fingers. _Practically foreplay._

_Yes. Very much so. But very tender, too. Thank you for this, sai'kaea._

Seheve had been watching the four of them for a while now, eating her own food. "I must confess surprise, Spectre Sidonis," she finally said, after a short time.

Eli looked up. "No titles, please. I'm off-duty, and Spectre Sidonis is my father. Everyone just calls me Eli. Well, other than Dempsey here. I don't think I'm ever going to get him to call me that."

"I don't see you calling him James," Zhasa pointed out, dryly.

"He doesn't look like a James. Or, god forbid, a Jim. He looks like a Dempsey." Eli's response was light and quick, and he returned his gaze to Seheve. "So what are you surprised at?"

"You do not object to eating at the same table with me. But your. . . blood-brother. . . I think, would have a problem with this." Seheve folded her napkin neatly, and put it on the table, looking down.

Eli sighed. "You'll have to forgive Lin. He's always been a law-and-order guy."

"More so now than when we were kids," Dara supplied. "He's easy-going until the moment someone steps over the line. Cross the line, and he's pretty much unyielding."

Eli nodded. "Macedyn did that to him, though," he said, quietly. "Serial killer case, Seheve. His wife died. . . not as a victim of the hunt, the ritual that the killer had. But because she'd slipped out of the killer's control. Lin takes any sort of murder. . . very, very personally."

Seheve nodded, her face shrouded in shadow in her section of the booth. "Is there any hope that, in time, he might come to be able to work with me amicably?" she asked.

Dara sighed. "Zhasa and I can tell him that you saved our necks on Arvuna any number of times. And that without your guidance, I'd have been lost for how to deal with the GZ people. And that you were my damned bodyguard when we had to deal with Eclipse." She shuddered.

_Wish I'd been there, sweetheart._

_Me, too. Both you and Lin._

Seheve looked up. "I do not know if that will suffice."

Eli turned more fully towards her now. "I think he'll come around, Seheve. He just needs to be able to work with you enough to see that . . . well. . . you were turned into a tool, from a very young age."

"That does not absolve me from blame."

"No. No, it doesn't. But the hanar have been using the drell as knives for seven hundred years. It's institutionalized, and there was no way out of that for you, except if your family had shown the sense to get out."

"My brother did," Seheve said, quietly. "Oeric."

"So he was more rebellious. You were the good girl. You did what was expected of you, as most young people tend to do. You wanted to please your family, right?" Eli's voice held a surprising amount of compassion, and Dara, listening to his song, caught the waves of insight into Seheve's character. "So you did what they wanted you to do. And for the drell and the hanar, that means being a hanar's hands and feet and eyes. You've since realized for yourself that what they were using you for was wrong. And I think Lin's smart enough to understand the distinction between someone who killed because they _enjoyed_ it, and someone who killed because it was their job. He just needs a little time. Like I said. . . he takes murder _really_ personally." Eli paused. "Rape, too. God, he was pissed on Omega."

Dempsey nodded. "I still think establishing a drell sub-colony in the desert belt on Terra Nova would be a good idea," he said dryly. "Get some of the drell out of hanar hands. Give them a place to rehabilitate the ones with the lung problems, thanks to the wet climate on Kahje. That sort of thing."

Seheve looked intrigued, and they started conversing on that topic for a while. Eventually, though, Dempsey cleared his throat. "I know it's a change of subject, but, on a lighter note, you all do realize that Christmas is coming up, right? I've gotten a couple of really pointed letters from Mad about how this was supposed to have been his first Christmas with me since he was two years old."

"Feeling guilty?" Dara asked.

"Only when Zhasa's around. The rest of the time, I just think it's a really good point." Dempsey's lips quirked. "So while you two _girls_ are shopping for clothes, I apparently need to get off my ass and make like Santa Claus.'

"Oh _crap_," Dara said, and looked at her omnitool. "Crap, crap, crap. I've been looking at the _fourteenth_ of this month as the big date for so long. . . and you know, Arvuna was not exactly decking the damned halls. . . that I hadn't even _thought_ of it. I still need to get toys for Takeshi, and something for my dad and Kasumi. . ." _S'kak._ "Eli! Quick! What do you want for Christmas?"

"Same thing I want for my birthday," Eli replied, promptly, grinning.

"Besides that, you jerk." Dara remembered the conversation by the lake all too well. _You. Just you, with a red ribbon around your neck._

"_Sai'kaea_, I don't have a house on, um, on the base yet. Or even an apartment. I don't need anything big or fancy." His eyes gleamed. "Now you. . . you I have ideas for."

"Crap! And you're going to make me have to try to surprise you." Dara looked at Dempsey. "I don't suppose you'd help me out here, and I'll help you find stuff for Zhasa?"

"Sounds like a damn fair trade, except I have no idea what to get _Mad_, let alone Sidonis here." Dempsey shrugged. "Last time I was in the marker for gifts for him, it was choo-choo trains and stuffed animals. I think he's outgrown those." 

"Mad's easy," Eli told him, promptly. "He's thirteen, right? Get him a hoverboard. Even on a station or a ship, like where he is now? Perfectly useable."

"Great for cracking his head open on the bulkheads, though," Dempsey said, darkly.

"That's what we call an opportunity to learn," Eli told him with aplomb.

Zhasa looked up, violet eyes bewildered. "I'm sorry. This is a human tradition that I'm completely unfamiliar with."

So, for the rest of the meal, Dara, Eli, and Dempsey explained human solstice traditions to Seheve and Zhasa, and then headed out to the stores. There were still shuttered ones here and there through the human, asari, and turian sections of the station, relics of the plague, but the humans had strung colored lights around the outside of their doors, and had fake pine trees set up, covered in light and faux-snow. The carols were understated, and, because asari and turians, salarians and elcor and hanar weren't chasing the almighty credit, weren't being played in every store. As such, for once, the holiday season didn't seem to be an entirely frenetic race to pry credits out of consumers' accounts. Dara did, however, get a chuckle out of the volus shopkeepers who'd decorated their stores, in an overt attempt to get humans to walk in the door. "Do they realize that the wreaths are not actually supposed to go around the trees, like a giant game of horseshoes?" Dara asked from outside one.

"Probably not," Dempsey said, after a moment.

"Who _cares_?"Zhasa assessed. "They have shoes!"

Dara stared after the quarian as she ran into the shop, holding her borrowed violet shawl over her face. "She is _such_ a _girl_," Dara told Dempsey after a moment.

Dempsey's lips quirked. "Yeah. Wouldn't have her any other way." He paused. "You going to get in there?"

"Oh, dear god. What I don't do for friends. If I'm not back out in fifteen minutes, radio for backup." As Eli started to laugh, Dara made a finger-flicking gesture in his general direction, squared her shoulders, and went inside.

As it happened, the volus merchant who owned the store _did_ have a cobbler on hand to do repairs and custom work. And the cobbler was brought out of the back, and absolutely floored to be creating prototype quarian boots for the estimable Spectre, may the stars shine on her head, may the ancestors watch over her. _We should have brought Fors with us_, Dara thought, and, looking up and around, wondered where the _hell_ Seheve had gone. The female had been right behind them not fifteen minutes ago. _I'm going to give her hell about deserting the team. . . right before I beg her to teach me how to vanish like that._ "Ohh, and what about ones with heels," Zhasa was asking. "Dara, what are these called? The ones with open toes and all the straps that criss-cross across the foot?"

"Sandals," Dara told her, sitting down.

"Aren't you going to try anything on?"

"No."

Zhasa made a rude sound, half-purr, half-hiss. "You said you needed new things. Here we are. Surrounded by new things. Look at them!" She picked up a pair of burgundy boots with buckles on them. "These would fit a human foot, wouldn't they? And what would they be worn with?"

Dara shrugged. "Typically, most women try to have their shoes match whatever else they're wearing. Me, I figure one pair of black boots gets me through the winter, and one pair of brown sandals gets me through the summer, and I have tennis shoes for running. For everything else, there's armor."

"So, you're saying I need outfits to match the shoes?" Zhasa sounded delighted.

Dara turned and looked out the front of the store, and saw Eli and Dempsey all the way across the street, going into a different store. One filled with toys. _Well, Eli does have Caelia, Tacitus, Emily, and Narayana to buy for, not to mention his mom and Lantar. But __thanks__ guys. Really. I'm touched._ "I think it's usually wiser to buy a couple of staples that you really like, that match with a lot of different things," Dara said, cautiously.

"But a red like this would match with lots of things, wouldn't it?" Zhasa asked, ingenuously.

Dara stared at her. "With everything except your, er, coloring," she said, tentatively. "You'd clash if you wore that color anywhere near your face, my friend."

"Oh, _Keelah! _I hadn't even thought of that! See? This is why I needed you along."

Dara sighed, and prepared for a _very_ long day. And reminded herself that it was better than being shot at. Threatened with lobotomization. Actually, it was better than a hell of a lot of things. Zhasa finally found and handed Dara a pair of delicate black heels with rhinestone straps and told her that if she didn't try them on, the quarian would cry. "Well, we can't have that," Dara said, and tried them on. For once, her feet didn't actually slop out all over the sides of the shoe, and she relented and bought them. Zhasa, on the other hand, walked out with a receipt list almost as long as her arm. And the volus shopkeeper was practically clinging to her leg and asking if she would be offended if he included her in his prayers to his house-hold gods and ancestors tonight.

Dempsey's lips, again, twitched faintly as Zhasa held up the receipt as if it were a prize, and then he took a look at the number at the bottom, and whistled. "Good thing you were getting hazard pay on Arvuna."

"I intend to spend a month's wages today," Zhasa announced gleefully. "Shoes. Pants. Skirts. Dresses. Underwear. Overwear. Jewelry._ Hats._" She looked at their bemused expressions, and pouted a little under her shawl. "Look. Quarians rarely have anything of their own. Everything is shared with other people, or we have pre-used suits. Everything is hand-me-down, at best. And I haven't had _clothes_ since I was twelve, in the crèche. Let alone anything that was. . . just for _me_." She shivered. "It feels so decadent. Almost selfish."

Dempsey rested a hand on the back of her neck, rubbing there through the thin silk of the scarf. "I understand," he told her. "You go ahead and have fun. And so long as you're having fun, you know perfectly well that I'm having fun, too. I'm just trying to keep the girlish giggling and squealing on the inside."

Dara choked back a laugh and slid her hand into Eli's, and felt his shock of pleasure at the gesture. Just two people, like any others on the crowded streets, walking together. He was loaded down with a couple of bags already. "Advanced chemistry set for Nara. Paints for Caelia. Little toy mech for Tacitus, and a plush baby _dacha_ for Emily," he said, cheerfully. "The kids are the easy part. My mom and dad, though? They're horrible. Guess I could default to the usual cookbook for my mom. Lantar, though? Sheesh."

A quick trip into the same toy store netted her an animatronic T-rex for Takeshi. . . which was probably as tall as her little brother was, himself. "Kasumi's going to kill you for that one," Eli assessed. "It's a noisemaker."

"There's a mute button. First thing I checked for."

Eli's head turned at that moment, just as Zhasa said, "Ooooooh, that store! That one!" Dara looked up, and caught what had gotten Eli's attention. The store was asari/human fashions, mostly evening wear and club wear. And a mannequin in the front window had what could only be called a _statement_ dress. It was black, and had a halter neck, so the back was completely bare, down to the hips. The front was V-necked. . . to close to the waist. A beaded band ran under the breasts and around to the back, offering the only support the dress really required, and prevented the neckline from gaping open. And it was slit at the sides. Eli nudged her. "I'm not saying _that_ dress," he told her. "But you might want to check out the store. In case we wind up doing any dangerous nightclub infiltration after all."

"I don't think I could hide a gun under that," Dara told him, staring at it.

_Wouldn't have to. I always carry two. If you ask nicely, I'll let you borrow the Sig-Sauer if we have a fire-fight._ Eli raised her hand and nipped the inside of her wrist. "Take your time. Lots of it, actually. I've got _your_ presents to look into."

"God, how am I supposed to shop for you and my dad and Kasumi if I keep getting dragged into every clothing store—" Dara muttered, and followed after Zhasa, who was already delightedly going through racks, and promptly tossed half a dozen dresses at Dara. _She's like Kella. Except. . . much stronger than Kella ever was. Or would have been_. Kella had never faced any adversity, Dara realized. Zhasa had. Had met it face-on, smiled, and overcome it. And just having the quarian girl around _instantly_ deflected the shopkeepers' attention aware from the human female with the _rachni_ on her shoulders, who wouldn't take off her dark glasses, to the astounding sight of a quarian out of her suit.

Back in the dressing rooms, Zhasa pushed open the curtain, and handed Dara one more dress. "I insist," she told Dara, before swishing the curtain closed again. Dara looked at it and blinked. It was a duplicate of the one from the front.

"And if I don't try it on, you'll cry?" she called over the curtain.

"If you don't, I think Eli might," Zhasa told her, cheerfully.

"Blackmailers. I'm surrounded by blackmailers," Dara said without rancor, and, a little glum-faced, tried it on.

Looking in the mirror was . . . oddly like looking at herself, years ago, without knowing who she was. Dara had _no idea_ who the woman in the mirror was, but it certainly wasn't Dara Jaworski. Dara Jaworski wouldn't be caught dead in something that revealing. Dara Jaworski wore T-shirts and pants. Dara Jaworski was. . . still sixteen and gangly, wasn't she?

Zhasa pulled the curtain open before Dara could stop her, and then just stood there, smiling. "Perfect," she crowed.

"I. . . guess I'm not actually sixteen anymore." _Eli's eyes might actually fall out of his head. Which, well, would be the __point__ of a dress like this. A sort of a signal. I'm not being myself tonight. Tonight. . . I'm being a little asari for you. Do you like it?_ Dara exhaled. "I probably should buy it before I manage to come back to my senses," she admitted.

Lots more stores. Zhasa was thrilled to discover _swimsuits_. Although she did eventually wind up agreeing with Dara that most lingerie was incredibly uncomfortable, she did buy some, on the principle that it was 'special occasion' clothing. And she even got Dara to try a few items on. . . and Eli's amused song when they came out of the store was enough for Dara to aim a kick at his shin.

Eventually, she _was_ allowed to do her Christmas shopping. And whispered to Dempsey, "Skis, Dempsey. Skis. Ski clothing, too. Warm sweaters, jumpsuit, jacket. Balaclava so her face doesn't get cold. Scarves. Gloves. Wool socks. Even if you never take her to a mountain, she'll love you for it."

"You're brilliant, Doc."

She looked up at Dempsey hopefully. "Any ideas for Eli?"

"Sorry. I actually _am_ a mind-reader, but he's pretty good at that poker-face of his." Dempsey's lips barely quirked at the corners.

"You've noticed." Dara sighed. "Okay, I'll be digging for a while."

Kasumi was the easiest purchase of her remaining three people. An ivory _netsuke_, shaped like a happy, fat cat, from an antiques store. Rummaging around in the same shop, she found a very old-fashioned revolver. The shop owner specialized in crystal and estate sales, and clearly had no idea what she had there, but Dara suspected it was .38 Colt Army Special, and bought it for her father. "Early twentieth century, unless it's a knockoff," she explained to Zhasa. "Could be as early as 1908, but I kind of doubt it."

Beside the antiques shop was, of all things, a rare bookstore. Dara watched Zhasa's nose crinkle at the smell of the old paper. "Yeah. Human books from the twentieth century weren't printed on acid-free paper. The paper turns almost illegibly brown after about a century, unless they're kept in a low-oxygen environment," Dara told her. "My mom had a collection of paperbacks passed down from her grandmother, and the pages almost would flake apart in your hands. It was sad, and I wasn't allowed to touch them because of that. But books older than that were usually printed on rag-linen paper. Those are better preserved."

And it was there that she found her gifts for Eli. She wasn't expecting it, but a tingle of _memory_ came back to her as she browsed through the shelves. Things he'd never admit out loud. Serana had discovered, by rooting through his omnitool, that he loved old Dashiell Hammet mysteries. But Serana hadn't known, because she'd never had his mind and memories filtered through her, that Eli was also a sucker for asari love poetry. Something he'd _never_ admit in public. The price-tag on the first edition of the _Maltese Falcon_ was actually not nearly as bad as she'd thought it would be. And neither was the price on the collected poetry of Leialanai'a. As such, she walked out, smiling slightly to herself, and absolutely refused to tell Eli why.

It had been a lovely, desperately-needed break from the constant stress and tension of Arvuna. And Dara didn't want the day to end. Didn't want to face debriefing in the morning, or anything else. But Eli walked her to the door of her room and kissed her good-night. "You don't suppose," Eli told her, brushing her hair back out of her face again, "that the batarians might be polite enough to give us Christmas off?"

"Somehow," Dara told him lightly, "I really, really doubt it."


	126. Chapter 126: Complications

**Chapter 126: Complications**

_**Author's note:** FF has been acting odd this past week. Many people's reviews, I've been unable to respond to. And at least one person is sending me PMs (ErnstD, I'm looking at you), but when I go to reply, FF states "this person has disabled private messaging."_

_So. . . I'm not ignoring anyone or being unfriendly. The site is borked. :-P_

**Rellus, Bastion, December 6, 2196**

Rel had never liked treadmills. Some of his happiest memories of Mindoir involved running over open terrain, watching the landscape speed by. Seeing the subtle variations in his route, week by week, as this tree bloomed, or that cliff suffered a landslide. There was a sense of progress to cross-country running that a treadmill simply couldn't provide. And running had always cleared his mind. Of course now, with the careful balancing act of blood-rage/adrenaline-addiction management, he had to be careful, even when he ran. What had once been a way to burn off anger, submerge it under the rush of positive endorphins, _iunkunditas_, could now, actually, lead into anger, or at least feed an existing state of rage.

And yet, Rel set himself a very long run around Bastion's C level. He was going to wear himself out so thoroughly that he couldn't even _think_, if he could manage it. There was no challenge to the run, except its length; C level spun at a rate that mimicked 1 G, and the terrain was entirely flat. But the changing buildings, neighborhoods, people, even parks, gave him a sense of progress that was very helpful. Certainly, more conducive to running on a treadmill like a rat in a cage.

Unfortunately, though he was trying, firmly, to achieve a state of Zen-like freedom from his own thoughts, just concentrating on putting each foot exactly right, the smooth, swinging motion of each leg, it was almost impossible not to think. The very leg he was running on was, in a sense, a gift from Dara. Being _able_ to run, was at least as much her doing as Dr. Abrams. And Eli had saved his life about a dozen times on Terra Nova, and. . . he'd saved Eli's, too. He'd had to reconcile the memory of Eli standing behind him and Dara in the office building, trying to protect Kella with his body, while Dara and Rel had fought off the batarians, with the reality that Eli, now an adult and at least as much an alpha as he was, was damned good at what he did. He'd deferred to Rel and Dempsey and their field expertise. Had allowed Rel to check in on his mental health after the Prepared compound was destroyed by the yahg with surprisingly good grace, too. _Would I have been so conciliatory?_ Rel wondered, and didn't know the answer. And Eli had valued everything he had to offer about the yahg. Had even been passing on information from his work with Lantar and Shepard in questioning M'nav, their batarian prisoner, though he was under no obligation to do so. Just to get Rel's insights. It was a compliment, not a peace offering, and Rel felt it as one.

And it had been good, actually. Fighting side-by-side with Eli and Dempsey had been the first time he'd really worked with someone on equal terms in a long, long time—other than Rinus, of course. The human biotic, whom Rel remembered waking up from his hibernation state and clenching a hand around Dara's throat, had come so far from that mass of raw rage and pain that he'd been then. He was almost unstoppable in combat, and such a calm presence the rest of the time, it was easy to forget that he was there. . . until he stepped in. Intervened in any situation. And Eli, too, had been largely, surprisingly calm. Other than right after the Prepared. There had been darkness in his eyes then that had had nothing to do with biotics at all. It had spoken of a yawning chasm in the mind that had threatened to swallow the human again. Return him to that borderline-_mor'loci_ state in which he'd been. . . a year ago.

And that took Rel's thoughts back in the inevitable circle, back to last October, and his and Dara's _tal'mae_ rites. He fought the circle. Fought the rush of anger that inevitably came with it. Focused on the smooth flow of muscle, one foot flying forward and landing lightly, toes only, on the metal, the plascrete below. Tried to look at the buildings around him with detachment, and realized that he was coming into a large park/hydroponics area, one of many throughout the station. Foot traffic was picking up. Humans were clustered a band pavilion, listening to a bunch of horn players key up some ancient air that Rel had heard before. _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_, Dara had called it. Salarians and asari were scattered through the crowd, and a few turians, too, all with expressions of amusement. The human solstice apparently coincided this year with the autumnal equinox on Sur'Kesh, so the salarians were passing out harvest treats—deep-fried beetles and earwigs—to anyone who wanted some. Giving of plenty to ensure good luck in the coming year.

He dodged and wove through the crowd. The hell of it was, Terra Nova had been wonderful, in many ways. He'd felt parts of himself come alive that he hadn't even remembered that he had. Tight bonds of friendship knitting up the raveled skein once more. More than friendship. Brotherhood. And the two months there, and the three months on Shanxi, had put a buffer of distance on things. He'd been able to, most days, put it out of his mind. Not to remember or dwell on the look of happiness on Dara's face as she'd smiled up at Eli in the kitchen.

But today, it was impossible to forget or pretend. First, there'd been the letter from his mother two days ago. Full of slight amusement and concern about her father, Gavius, of all things. _He's been spending more time arguing with Agnes recently,_ Solanna had written. _And, apparently, the arguments are running so late at night that sometimes, he doesn't make it back to his house on base till the next morning. Garrus checked the gate access logs. I'm telling you this, so that you can pass it along to Rinus and Serana, when next you see them. And tell them to be tactful when they come home on leave. Not that Rinus wouldn't be, but only the spirits know what might come out from behind Serana's teeth._

His grandfather, who'd been stridently opposed to Garrus and Lilitu's marriage, and hell, opposed to his and Dara's. . . and who'd been at least quiet about Eli and Serana's. . . was now involved, apparently, with Dara's grandmother. Oh, there had been courtship before, and Gavius had even, uncomfortably enough, asked _him_ for advice about it. But now they were, apparently, getting serious about it. _On the basis of a few good arguments._ But, come to think of it, he and Dara had never argued. To be best of his knowledge, Lantar and Ellie didn't really argue, either. Garrus sometimes smiled reminiscently and would mention notable 'differences of opinion' in regards to old cases with Aunt Lilu, but that was it. And Serana had pretty much kept a running argument going with Eli for . . . four years. _Yes, but look how well __that__ turned out. Did I fail before I even began with Dara? Is it the fact that we never argued at all? Turians thrive on arguments, but humans don't, and I never felt the __urge__ to argue with her. . . ._

Stride, stride, stride, dodge someone with a load of travelcases on a sled behind him, turn a corner, and down another street, still heading in a clockwise direction around the station level's 'equator.' Hard to believe that his feet were oriented towards space, and his head pointed towards the reactor core, inwards, but that was the truth. Everything was backwards on Bastion.

So, there had been the background information seething at the back of his brain. Even his grandfather's relations with a human female were apparently going better than his own. Although, spirits knew, Rel's relationship had at least lasted five years. . . . Rel choked off the chain of thought before it could begin another loop. But his brain insisted on bringing up images from earlier in the day anyway. There had been Zhasa's tremendous leap into Dempsey's arms. That in itself had been a surprise, but the stunning shock of seeing her unsuited—alive, healthy, and gleefully revealed for her human lover's eyes—that had stunned Rel for almost a full minute. _Nothing stands still, nothing at all. Everything changes._. . .

And then, he'd caught sight of Dara. Caught the familiar traces of her scent, and had glanced up and away. He hadn't moved toward her—hadn't quite dared. She'd been so very definite about that last time they'd spoken. And yet. . . didn't he have the rage under control? He hadn't lost himself in it more than once or twice on Terra Nova. Mostly at the beginning. . . .

And then she'd moved in beside Eli. Brushed his hand to get his attention, and then they'd just turned and looked at each other. Not touching. Not speaking. Just smiling slightly, but they'd so obviously been communing in mind and spirit, it had hurt to see. Part of him wanted to lash out, to stride over and grab Eli by the throat and just start and finish the damned fight. Once and for all. But those parts were quieter now, drowned out by voices that shouted that Eli had fought at his side for months with honor, had saved his life. . . and that if he was angry at Eli, and if he was angry at Dara, he was also angry with _himself_. And one more quiet voice had added, helpfully, _And there's a vid cam hovering right there. Don't make a scene._

Rinus had touched his arm then, and Rel had started, sharply, keyed up, and not expecting physical contact. "Kallixta's aboard," Rinus had said. "She says the _Estallus_ had a major refit to its engines while I was away, and she's been helping check out the new systems. You'll have dinner with us?"

"I doubt either of you will be coming up for air that soon," Rel had returned, dryly.

"I didn't say it would be an early dinner," Rinus acknowledged with a grin. "I'll give you a call around 20:00 GMT. . . whatever the hell that is in station time."

"Twelve," Rel said, after some momentary mental math. And he'd caught his first-brother's concerned glance at the camera, and had exhaled. "You want me to help you find your hotel?" he'd offered.

"Please. D level, Blue sector, somewhere in a turian/quarian neighborhood is all I got out of the travel directions. And a hotel name in quarian, which doesn't do me a lot of good."

So, Rel had walked his brother out, glancing up as Eli had been handling the reporter. Just as he'd handled the female on Terra Nova.

And now the bright white anger began to dull down, and found the downward trail into darker, dimmer locations. The inevitable cycle. If he didn't let the rage go free, it found other things to do with itself. Became despair. _Don't make me your reason for fighting_. And yet, Lantar fought for Ellie and his family. Rel knew that. Garrus fought for Lilu and their family, too. It was difficult, in the words of Dr. Solus, long ago, to fight for large, noble goals. So soldiers tended to anthropomorphize them. Made defense of country or world, the defense of a wife or a family. _So if I can't fight for you, what the hell do I fight for?_ The same question had beaten in his head like a metronome for months now. But now, a flash of insight. It was fine to anthropomorphize the cause, but you had to _have_ a cause. For Eli, Lin, Lantar, Garrus, that cause was Justice, in all its forms. For someone like Shepard, it was probably Life, Truth, or Freedom. . . or all three. You could make someone into a symbol of a virtue, but they would, inevitably, fail to _be_ that virtue. Because they were real, with flaws and needs of their own. And there was also the danger of losing sight of that virtue. And of making the _person_ the reason to fight. The excuse.

_So, what's __my__ cause?_ Rel wondered, finally a little out of breath, and started to slow down in another green expanse of park. _Sky calls me Sings-Honor, but honor's not a reason to fight. . . is it? It's more of a code of conduct._

"Commander Velnaran?"

The voice was soft, and came from around elbow height. It was unexpected, completely so, and Rel didn't react well to surprises. He whirled, bringing an elbow up, dimly wondering _how the hell did I not notice someone coming in on me—__s'kak__, I'm not usually this unobservant—_and then the adrenaline surge _hit_. He'd already been coasting along it, keeping it under control during the run, as he'd been trying to process his mental payload of stress, but the sudden jolt from the shock—and for a numbing instant, Rel wasn't _there_.

When his vision came back, he realized that his wrist was being held in a light but firm grip, by fingers only a few degrees cooler than his own. Seheve looked up at him, her dark eyes wide. "Are you quite all right, Commander?" She paused. "It seems to me, the last time this happened, you had a knife in your hand, and I suggested that we might wish to arrange a signal in the future." Seheve tipped her head to the side, looking up at him calmly.

Rel blinked, several times, recovering his composure. She meant, of course, when he'd nearly gutted her in the communications station on Shanxi, when they'd infiltrated it to send signals to the _Castasta_ and the human ships in the system. "Did I hurt you or anyone else?"

"No. I would not have allowed that. Nor, I think, would you have done so."

"Then did I just make a complete fool of myself?"

Seheve glanced around. This park was in a human/turian neighborhood, and had dextro and levo plant species all through it, and abstract turian sculptures positioned here and there, along with human representational ones. "No one appears to be looking this way," the drell female told him calmly, and released his wrist. "I apologize. I thought I had given adequate warning of my approach."

Rel exhaled. He could have hurt her. "I didn't see you. Stealth net?"

Seheve shook her head. "Such is rarely really needed in an urban environment. Even in a park like this one, simply being still, moving at the same rate of speed as those already here. . . perhaps adjusting one's clothing to match theirs more closely. . . is often all one really needs." She smiled faintly. "I had an advantage, however. You ran through this park once already, some time ago."

Rel glanced around. The _caprificus_ trees in the park were indeed in full bloom. He remembered passing through here before. C level was 10 km in circumference at its equatorial belt, where he was running. . . ."You've been here since then?"

"And before. I have been watching the people." Seheve gestured at the statue of a Roman general nearby. "That's where my brother found me, just after I was released from the hospital plague ward. Honor and duty. I remember looking at the words, and thinking that those were all I'd ever known. When. . . I suppose now, all I'd ever known was just duty." Her words were soft and dispassionate.

"Surely you don't need a reminder of that day."

Seheve shook her head, and tapped her forehead lightly. "No. It's in here. All my days. All my deeds. And the deeds of all the Keepers in an endless line, or so it seems, for millennia. So many wasted lives."

Rel reached up and hooked a hand around the _caprificus_ branch above him. Soft wood, useless for carving, but it bore such glorious fruit. "So why are you here?"

Seheve's lips quirked briefly. "Zhasa'Maedan was quite firm about bringing me with the rest of them. She saw a shipmate without companionship, and did not wish me to be alone, I suppose." She shrugged, and folded her hands behind her back neatly. As slender and graceful as a needle. "She does not understand that I have ever been alone. And being with two couples. . . ." Seheve hesitated, and her eyes flickered upwards towards his.

In a flash of insight, Rel understood. "They made you feel more alone than _being_ alone could ever do."

"Yes." Seheve sighed.

Rel hesitated. "Zhasa and Dempsey were one of the couples?"

"Yes. She is kind, is she not?"

"And who was the other couple?" Suspicion lurked behind the words.

The fathomless dark eyes flicked upwards. "I am unsure of the propriety of discussing that with you."

Rel felt his mandibles flex. "_Propriety_ is not a word I've often heard used." Suspicion, pretty much confirmed.

"Most people are not much concerned with discretion." Seheve looked up at him steadily. Once, she'd been prone to looking at the floor as a sign of respect. An obeisance her hanar 'master' had taught her. Now, however, no problem with meeting his gaze at all. "For example, once, I hesitated to ask Spectre Jaworski if she would seek retribution against you for leaving the celebration of the Spectre appointments early, and in the company of Spectre T'soa."

Rel exhaled. "Absolutely nothing happened," he pointed out. "Everyone was quick to think the worst, I noticed."

"Dr. Jaworski did not. She said there was no reason to seek retribution. And I could not help but note at the time that Spectre Sidonis called Melaani T'soa a person of integrity." Her words were calm and dispassionate.

Rel's claws tightened on the branch, biting through the bark easily. "Is there a lesson here for me?" he asked, softly. The pithy human saying about people in glass houses throwing stones suddenly rang in his mind, and he grimaced, fighting it all down again.

Seheve looked startled, just for an instant. He'd rarely seen any expression on her face besides that disconcerting serenity. The flash of cold, cold anger on Shanxi, when she'd confronted the reality of yahg hunting for the first time. Occasionally, when he'd run into her in the refugee camps, a flash of amusement or tenderness as she looked at a child. Little more. "I would not presume to teach anyone anything," she denied, softly. "I am all too aware of how little I know, and how much wisdom I lack." She paused, studying him. "But if you can find a lesson in my words, you are welcome to it. And perhaps you might teach me its meaning, as well."

He looked down for an instant, himself. He felt as if he'd bullied a child. . . . and then, somehow, as if the child had offered him help getting to his own feet. _She disarms with such graciousness_, he thought. Her conversation was like her sparring style—sinuous and flowing, never quite where you expected her to be, always wrapping around you, behind you, past you, and yet, always managing to look, once she'd moved past you, as if she'd been there for the past five minutes, waiting calmly. "If there's a lesson for me, it's in making assumptions," Rel said, dryly. "And in assuming the world revolves around me. For all I know, Melaani might have brought a volus along for company. Although I doubt this."

Seheve's lips actually quirked up at the corners. "Or an elcor," she pointed out.

"No, no, that's Ylara. She and Tulluust have been an item for seven or eight years now."

Seheve's lips quirked just a little more. "And thus, Spectre T'soa and Thelldaroon cannot possibly become good friends? Because Spectre Aliir would prohibit it?" She sat back down in the short grass under the tree, and gestured for him to join her.

Rel sat down, keeping his knees bent, spurs off the grass. "I'm just saying, in the realm of oddness that is M—Spectre life—it's been done already." He paused, and looked around at the park. Everyone was still a good fifty feet away. No large groups. No one looking over at them that he could see, but the back of his neck itched, and he turned a little to clear behind him. No one there, of course.

"I would have informed you, Commander Velnaran, if anyone behind you looked out of place," Seheve murmured. He realized, suddenly, that she was correct; they'd placed themselves in positions where they could look past one another. The only blind spot for them was the tree behind her back.

"Habit," he muttered, uncomfortably. He really didn't want a repeat of the whole 'adrenaline-addiction' conversation with his kin. Rel shifted his shoulders, and changed the subject. "So, you left them, because you felt alone. Why come here?"

Seheve shrugged. "Here, I am free to watch people go about their lives. Courting couples on that bench over there—" She nodded towards two humans, the male with his arm around the female's shoulder, both turned in towards each other, laughing, clearly in communion. "Families with children. Friends meeting for . . .what is the game with the net, please?"

"Volleyball. It's human, but turians are coming to dominate it, as I understand it."

"Ah." Seheve watched them all, her dark eyes drinking it all in.

Rel hesitated. Her scales actually were sleek and beautiful, and her wide, dark eyes were incredibly alien, but also beautiful. He'd also watched her kill without mercy or hesitation on Shanxi. She'd had a higher kill count than he'd had there, simply by virtue of always seeming to be in the right place at the right time, staying out of range of the yahg's deadly reach, either using her knife and poisons, or her lethal accuracy with a sniper rifle. He could clearly remember the two of them infiltrating the communications station, leaving just ahead of the returning yahg. Watching the prisoners being hunted. . . and her quietly taking over while the rest of them were being sick at the sight. Simply driving them the hell away. And her simple, pragmatic statement that while she knew what she had watched was vile, and that she'd remember it with perfect, pitiless clarity for the rest of her life, the mechanics of it didn't affect her the way it was affecting the rest of them. And yet, for all that deadly competence, there was an odd air of fragility to her. He wasn't sure why. Some of it probably came from her height; she was far smaller than Dara, for instance. And some of it came from her quietness, from her sense of utter stillness.

Another flash of insight. He remembered his first unease with going into battle at her side. _Is it that she doesn't want to live, or that she doesn't __care__ if she lives or dies?_ he'd asked Rinus at the time. That hadn't been it, Rel realized. Seheve had no idea _how_ to live. She was watching people live out here in the park. Studying them like an anthropologist. . . or a hunter. Looking for patterns of behavior. _Maybe even seeking to replicate them._ "And as alone as you feel around colleagues, it's preferable to be alone among strangers, because it stings less," he said, after a moment. "Do you ever wonder. . . ?"

"Wonder what, commander?"

Rel picked up a leaf from the ground, twirling it idly. "If you'll ever be one of them." He nodded to the cheerful people around them. Back to working and playing with renewed vigor. As if the plague had never even been here. Oh, there were probably people whose health had been permanently damaged, but they weren't here in the park right now. These people. . . for them, there was no war. At least, not right at the moment. Rel couldn't tell whether he envied them or resented them for their carefree demeanor, their simple absorption in their own lives, their obliviousness to the asari warships protecting the station, the conflict raging on dozens of worlds. Of course, the turians were probably less oblivious than the humans. If there was rationing on Palaven, there surely would be here on Bastion, too. Rocam and Galatana were still cut off. . . and every one of the turians here had to have kin in harm's way _somewhere._ But, for the moment, they were playing just as hard as the humans were. Standing in couples under the trees, some of the males biting their females' wrists lightly. He didn't see any mixed-species couples, however.

Seheve had turned to look at the crowd, her expression dispassionate once more. "I don't think that would be possible," she assessed, after a moment. "Something essential was taken from me, I think. It took the Prothean language and the memories of the Keepers to give back some of what was taken. A year ago, I would have looked at this park and seen. . . a place to blend in. A mix of potential hostiles and bystanders." She shrugged. "Now, I see lives. Being lived."

"Do you intend to do more with your own life, than just to observe others living theirs?" A fast, pointed question, a shift in direction and tone from her own mode of quiet contemplation.

Again, he surprised her with the sudden shift into aggressive questioning. She blinked. "What would you have me do?" Seheve spread her hands. "Find a mate? Drell are scattered throughout the galaxy in tiny enclaves. Those who follow the old ways, as my brother does, would despise me for having served Olonkoa and the 'Enkindlers' as I have. And those who still are servants of the hanar, would despise me for turning against their teachings." She paused. "Although, I find Dempsey's idea of a drell colony on Terra Nova intriguing. Though I have no idea of how such a thing would start."

"Health spas," Rel replied, promptly. "Dempsey and Eli and I talked it out one night. Sure, drell miners from places like Rough Tide could work the eezo facilities out there, but as Dempsey and Eli pointed out, the humans already _have_ those jobs, and while mining is a miserable, tough occupation, the miners would object to alien competition for those jobs. So Eli said 'health spas and sanitariums for people suffering from Kepral's syndrome,' Dempsey said it could start an entire tourism industry, which would help rebuild Terra Nova's infrastructure, _I_ pointed out that once the health benefits of living in an oven like Terra Nova's desert band became widely known, the Alliance would have to beat the drell away with a stick. And as more people arrived, Eli pointed out, that would demand more infrastructure. Which would in turn create more jobs." Rel exhaled. "The thing lacking, Dempsey said, was someone with money and a vision and the willingness to fail."

Seheve regarded him for a long moment. "Being willing to fail," she repeated slowly. "That is, I think, one of the hardest qualities there is to find."

Rel nodded, slowly. He'd had so many successes early in life. He'd worked hard, and built on them. But very few failures, until recently. He'd started to understand, recently, that he honestly had no idea how to deal with failure. But he was learning. It had something to do, he thought, with not falling into circular patterns of thought. Not dwelling on the mistakes. But there was a balance there, too. You had to know what the hell the mistake had been, so that you wouldn't make the same one again. And that was what kept tripping him up. He wasn't quite sure what the mistakes had been. . . but he knew he needed to go forward. Not just keep running in circles. Which was, in a sense, what he'd been doing all afternoon. Running in a circle around the station, running in a circle in his mind. _Or perhaps,_ he thought, looking around the park, _maybe continuing forward blindly isn't always the solution, either. Maybe sometimes, you need to just. . . stop. Take a moment, and reflect_.

That was what Kassa had been trying to teach him to do, but the meditation had never once worked for him. There was nothing in the dance of the flames that could calm him or soothe him. But sitting here, in this green space. . . "It's summer now, back at the base," Rel offered, after a moment. "The trees there have stopped blooming by now. Nothing but green, everywhere, all through the mountains." 

Seheve looked at him calmly. "You miss it?"

Rel shrugged. "Yeah. I miss it. I miss. . .who I was, when I lived there. I miss it all."

"At least you remember who you were," she pointed out, quietly. "I can recall every event of my life with perfect clarity, but I don't remember what I was like before I went to the Mas. . . to Olonkoa's house. My brother tells me I used to laugh and tease him. Chase him, or run away from him. Like those children over there." She nodded at a pack of six-year-olds, half of them human, half of them turian, all in an elaborate game of tag. "I remember chasing. I remember being chased." Seheve looked down at her hands. "I don't remember laughing." She smiled briefly. "Although when one of the rachni workers played with my cat aboard the _Sollostra?_ I laughed then."

Rel considered that for a long moment. "Sounds as though you need practice, then," he said, after a moment.

Seheve blinked. "Practice at what? Laughing?"

Rel shrugged. "All skills improve through practice. Laughing. Living. I. . . seem to have allowed those particular skills to get a little rusty, myself." His mandibles flexed briefly, and he got to his feet, offering her his hand.

She accepted it, and he pulled her upright. "How," Seheve asked, studying him for a moment, "would we go about practicing either of those things?"

Rel sighed. "I'm honestly not sure. This could be a case of the blind leading the blind."

Seheve shrugged. "In which case, we are fortunate."

"How is that?"

"I possess excellent night vision, and you have exceptional daytime visual acuity." She paused, looked almost hopeful, and pointed out, "That was a joke."

The pause lengthened. Seheve sighed. "It wasn't a good one, was it?"

Rel found himself smiling faintly at her forlorn tone, more than anything else. "You're not going to be taking that to open-mike night at the local comedy club, no, but. . . it's better than nothing." Rel glanced around. _What the hell does one __do__ with a friend besides running, sparring, gladiatorial fighting, handball. . . .? Wait. She's a friend?_ Rel squinted down at her for a moment. _Yeah. Yeah, she is._ "You happen to have any plans for this evening other than lurking in a park, making strangers nervous by staring at them?"

Seheve's lips quirked again. "That was a joke, too?"

"Sort of. But the question was real."

"There is an elcor poetry festival on B-level. They are reciting haiku. The event is expected to take all night."

Rel gave her a suspicious look. "That was another joke?"

"Was it better?"

"That depends. Are they just reciting a single haiku?"

"Yes."

Rel found himself grinning. "How about if we skip that, and try something else? On a station this big, there has to be something else. _Anything_ else, really."

And, much to his amusement, an hour later, they actually did find an all-species-welcome open-mike night. It was _terrible_. It was _awful_. And it did, in fact, make both of them start to laugh, against their will. All amateurs, of course. Elcor love poetry: "Assertion: My love for you is like the stars. Metaphorical: My love feeds on itself, producing heat, which I give to you."

Rel winced and put a hand over his face. Seheve glanced at him and murmured, "Is it truly that bad?"

"Yes. Definitely."

"What should he be saying instead?"

"Almost _anything_ else. Even I know that much."

Turian standup: "And then he said, 'What she doesn't understand is, the more pips on the uniform, the less action there'll be when the uniform comes off!'"

Rel actually chuckled at that one. Seheve's expression was blank, however. "So it's a play on how someone with more rank, and thus power, is likely to be impotent in the personal realm?"

Rel sighed. "You just took all the fun out of it," he told her.

Salarian comedy stylings: "But what he failed to appreciate was that the reactor was being cooled with molten sodium!" Rel and Seheve traded a blank look at that one, but all the salarians in the audience were chuckling to themselves.

Quarian _reela_ music. . . being played by a turian and a quarian, in a duet. The performance gave Rel a tug at the heartstrings, unfortunately. He frowned and turned inwards a little, away from the stage. Seheve leaned forward, looking concerned. "Are you well, commander?"

"You know, I _am_ off duty. You don't necessarily need to use my title at all times," Rel told her, under the cover of the tinkling music and voices raised in song.

"Ah. It was my understanding that you preferred the formality." Seheve nodded. "Rellus, then. You are well?"

He grimaced. The music, being played by two people of disparate species, on an instrument that Dara had carried with her for years, just hit home a little too much. "Dara has a _reela_."

"Yes. She played it for Spectre Zhasa on many occasions aboard the _Sollostra_. At least, during the second part of our recent journey." Seheve was being scrupulously honest, Rel noticed. "During the first half of the journey, she was aboard the _Lightsinger_."

_Sky's ship._ "What was she doing there?" Rel asked. He'd gotten to a point, on Terra Nova, where the little rachni workers no longer irritated him for merely existing. Had become people, of a sort, to him again, instead of a reminder. But the thought of Dara aboard a rachni vessel was again, somewhat disconcerting.

Seheve shrugged. "She told me that she had been trying to immerse herself in their song. Learning to operate their computers. She noted that it was sometimes difficult to pull herself away from the knowledge and song in them. That she was afraid if she spent too much time there, she might lose herself."

The information chilled him. _What the hell __has__ she become?_ he wondered. _She __did__ say she wasn't really human anymore._ And while part of him thought that was something he could overlook, the rest of him reminded him of the bitter resentment they'd both realized they held for each other, the last time they'd touched. Oversong and undersong, she'd called it. _We have to stop this before the resentment turns to hate_, she'd told him at the time.

To distract himself, Rel pulled up the aerogel screen with the bar menu at their table, as a human, billed as an amateur ventriloquist bundled up on stage with a handful of suitcases. "You want anything?" he asked Seheve, as the human dug out the first of his puppets. . . which happened to be a batarian puppet.

"A glass of _sahlep_, warmed, would be welcome," Seheve admitted. "This place, in spite of so many people in it, is far too cold for my liking." Indeed, they were seated directly under an air vent, and the room was set for at eighty degrees Fahrenheit or so. Like the compromise temperature on the _Estallus_ and other ships of her line, it was too cold for turian comfort, too warm for most humans' comfort, and no species found it precisely to their liking.

Rel picked through the menu until he found the drell drink, which appeared to be a mix of various tuber flours, water, and flowers. It sounded about as appetizing as dirt to him, but the smell, when it arrived, was actually extremely pleasant. . . and the liquid was a dark, muted red, and about the viscosity of motor oil. And it was _hot_ in the cup, a welcome warmth as he passed it to her, their fingers brushing momentarily as she took it from him. She clearly registered the touch, her eyes flicking up in surprise for a moment, before dropping once more.

On-stage, the human and his batarian doll were bickering now. "I will kill you, enslave your family, and take all your stuff," the doll threatened.

"Oh, come on. You can't possibly beat the whole galaxy on your own," the human told the doll.

"Sure I can. It'll be easy."

"How's that?"

"We're _tricky._"

"Oh, yeah. Definitely. That's why you're the one sitting there with someone else's hand up your ass."

Even the turians cracked smiles for that one. Seheve's mouth dropped open. There was a pause, while the doll seemed to crane his head and tried to look behind him. "I do not."

"Oh yes, you do."

"Do not."

"Yes, you do."

"Do not!" the doll bawled, and the audience started to laugh again. There was a pause, and then the doll said, sulkily, "Doesn't matter. We've got _allies_."

"Yeah, so I've heard. You know what the yahg word for _batarian_ is?"

"Yes. _Valued ally_."

"No, I heard it was actually _lunch._"

A pause for laughter, getting louder now.

"Doesn't matter. I'm still going to kill you, enslave your family, and take all your stuff. And the turians? We're going to take all their stuff, too."

"I notice you're not threatening to turn any turians into slaves."

"Of course not. Turians make terrible slaves."

"Oh, really? How's that?"

"What, with the uprisings, and all that killing their owners with their bare hands? It's messy. Sets a bad example for the other slaves."

There was a pause for laughter. The turians were getting more into the humor of it now, chuckling loudly. Then there was a knocking sound. "No, please, not the other one. . . ." the batarian doll whimpered now, looking side to side frantically. "He's _nasty_."

The human looked out at the audience. "Should I let Uruk out? He hasn't had fresh air for a while."

The batarian doll jeered, "Like the air's all that fresh in here."

The applause from the audience encouraged the puppeteer to get out the other doll. . . which turned out to be a krogan puppet. Which promptly belched loudly in the batarian doll's face, smacked its lips, and told the audience in a low growl, "See? I can speak yahg, too."

Seheve sat, sipping her drink and smiling. "You don't think it's funny?" Rel asked her, after a few minutes.

"I think it is fascinating. The human is using humor to make a large threat, a source of great fear and anxiety to all in the room, look small. Foolish. Weak. Stupid. And everyone here joins in. Because the universal derision makes the fear less, I suppose."

Rel shook his head. "You're over-thinking it. Do you ever just. . . let go?"

Seheve's smile lurked in her eyes. "Sometimes."

And after the human ventriloquist got off-stage, he finally did see Seheve laugh. A hanar floated up to the microphone, and began telling jokes. At least, that's what Rel thought they were, from Seheve's reaction. "The Enkindlers, in the morning of creation, first wrote the word, and the word was _flaghk'marr."_ The hanar paused expectantly.

Half the drell in the bar curled in on themselves laughing. The hanar present all began flashing different shades of bioluminescent color. "I . . . don't get it," Rel admitted, after a moment.

"Oh, it's. . . it's, well, it's hard to explain," Seheve told him. "There are two variant readings of the main hanar religious text on the Enkindlers. In one of them, the first word written in the universe, the one that caused everything else to come into being, was _flahk'arr. _Light_._ In the other text, the word is spelled differently: _flah'rar. _Which means 'to be' or 'to become.' There have been wars over whether the Enkindlers caused everything to come into being by saying _Be_ or by saying _Light._ The hanar who say it means 'become' or 'be' call the hanar who think it means 'light' sun-worshippers, at best. And the ones who say it means 'light' call the ones who say it means 'to be' misguided followers of a scribal error."

"And which did he say?" Rel squinted at her.

Seheve covered her mouth, her eyes flicking up and down. "Neither. He said _flaghk'marr."_

Rel spread his hands. "My VI's not keyed for hanar, and his voder didn't handle it. What does it mean?"

"It is. . . a bodily function of hanar males." Seheve had both hands over her face now, covering everything except her eyes. "When they release their seed upon the waves. It's etymologically related to both 'to be' and 'to give light.'"

Rel stared at her. "I'm beginning to understand," he said, slowly, "why you've got such a damned hard time with the concept of humor."

Seheve laughed out loud.

**Author's note:** _Several months ago, Shinime introduced me to Achmed the Dead Terrorist via YouTube. When I decided there would be a ventriloquist in this show, a little tip of the hat just sort of flowed naturally out of it. So if it seems familiar, it's mostly on purpose, as an homage._

**Elijah, December 7, 2196**

His dreams were always odd. Had been for years. So long as they weren't nightmares in which he was pulling Dara or Serana's body from a pile of corpses on Bastion, or trying to keep Dara from being ripped in half by yahg or trying to get to Dara before the batarians dragging her away managed to get her armor off. . . he counted himself lucky. This morning, however, the dreams were just particularly weird. _In a hotel room, somewhere, with Dara. Slowly undressing her. Biting her._ _Her biting him back_. _Dozens of little workers filing in, 'looking' up at them. Cheerful suggestions on improving his technique. __What do you guys know? You're neuter.__ "Sing to me, Eli," Dara whispered, only she was whispering the words in asari, and her hands dropped lower. Stroking him. "Give me your songs. Now. All of them. I'm ready. It's my time."_

_That last had been in turian. Eli lifted his head, realizing that her rachni-blue eyes were glazed, and her talons. . . She has talons? What? were cutting into his arms. "Estrus?" he managed to get enough thought together to ask. "You're not turian—"_

"_Doesn't matter! It's time, Eli, it's time!"_

"_If I get you pregnant—"_

"_Sing to me, Eli, sing to me!"_

_Unable to resist her any more, joining their bodies, blessed, blessed relief, and then the uncanny knowledge that somehow, they were going to wind up with three thousand eggs out of this. . . and Eli froze in mid-motion. "Um. . . we're going to have three thousand kids, sai'kaea?"_

"_Of course we are."_

"_I'm not changing three thousand diapers."_

"_Of course not. That's what the workers are for."_

_It made total sense. Eli decided not to worry about it anymore, and got back to business, wanting to hear her scream his name—_

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Eli opened his eyes blearily. It was just past four, station-time, which was to say around 06:40 GMT, and he didn't have a briefing this morning. His alarm wasn't set to go off for another twenty minutes. _Why the hell am I awake, and my __god_, _that was a fucked-up dream. . . _

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

"Ah, _s'kak_." _Her workers figured out how to knock on doors. Guess it's better than having them just picking the lock and opening the door on me._ It had actually been odd, not having Wolfgang or 1812 underfoot last night, after two months of the little critters' constant companionship. "Just a minute," Eli called, sitting up in bed, shedding the sheets and rubbing at his face. _Sai'kaea__, it might just be better for both our sanity if we just start sharing a room soon._ He'd slept in the nude, as he often did, and reached for a pair of jeans, pulling them on as the _thump, thump, thump_ resonated through the door again. "Hold on!" Eli said, making sure everything was fastened, at least, and opened the door, looked out. . . and then looked down, expecting a swarm of rachni workers at his toes. . . .

. . . and found Fors Luka there, the gleaming eye sockets of his environmental suit staring up at Eli. "Fors? What the _hell_?"

Total, complete brain-lock. This was _not_ what he'd been expecting to deal with. His body was still prepared for action, his mind had already taken him half-way down the corridor to the stairs, which were closer than the elevator. . . he could run upstairs and be at Dara's door inside of forty seconds, he figured. . . but. . . Fors?

"I'm sorry to wake you, my human-turian friend," Fors told him, snuffling in evident agitation. "But this really couldn't wait. I need your help."

Eli stared downwards, dumbfounded, and trying desperately to regain his mental equilibrium. "Well. . . yeah. Sure. Of course. What's the matter?"

"I'd prefer to discuss this in private. Not out in the hall. May I?"

Eli moved to the side, and watched Fors shuffle in past him. _This_, Eli reflected, _is about to become a really interesting day. Again._

He closed the door behind Fors, and the volus took the chair at the room's desk, hopping up and letting his short legs dangle, while Eli perched on the edge of his bed, putting his elbows on his knees and rapidly scrubbing at his freshly-shaved head with both hands, trying to clear his mind. Fors looked around, snuffling. "I understand Zhasa'Maedan is no longer confined to her envirosuit. Speaking as one eternally confined to one, myself, my envy knows no bounds. Half of me wants to congratulate her, and the other half of me wants to strangle her."

Eli looked up. "News travels fast on Bastion."

"News travels fast among volus shopkeepers. I understand several of the owners of shoe emporiums are considering naming their next hatchlings after her. The Spectre who saved their financial year. She has a new nickname, if you'd believe it: The Quarian Windfall."

"That's not going to work on the radio," Eli noted. "Little long."

"The shopkeepers don't know that." Fors exhaled, a long, hissing sigh.

"So?" Eli asked. "You didn't wake me up at four station time just to chat about Zhasa, did you?"

Fors cleared his throat. "No." He hesitated. "I've told you that I've been dealing with some clan business the past few days, yes?"

Eli looked up, nodding. "Yeah. I thought you were getting emancipation papers done, or something like that. Since your current clan can't afford you, or some damn thing." The details, he was very fuzzy on.

Fors snuffled. "Well. . . that's what I thought was going to happen. Turns out, Bire-Clan has different ideas. They're close to bankruptcy because of me, and instead of getting rid of a toxic asset, they want to turn me into something else."

Eli held up a hand. "Okay, wait a minute. Back up here for the human, okay? How in god's name is the first _volus Spectre_ a toxic asset? I mean, if they measure each person in the clan in terms of worth, and I know they trade people between clans like professional handball teams trade players, shouldn't you actually be a _goldmine_ for them?"

There was an audible sigh. "How much do you know about economics?"

"I have a feeling I'm about to learn a hell of a lot more than I currently do." Eli winced.

"Fair assumption, my human-turian friend. Say you build a house. A hundred room mansion, located on, hmm, someplace expensive in terms of real estate on Earth—"

"San Francisco."

"Humans have such odd names for their cities. Very well. You spend a hundred million credits building it, between the land value and the actual building, the security system, the. . . whatever it is that humans drink, that they would need storage for—"

"Wine? In a wine cellar?"

"Something like that. You put a pool on the roof, get the whole place wired for light and sound, and it's a palace. How much is it worth?"

Eli hesitated. This sounded like a trick question. "I want to _say_ it's worth a hundred million credits. But that's not right, is it?"

"Correct. It's only worth what someone else is willing to pay for it. And if no one else _has_ a hundred million credits to spend on a house that they'll never see and never get use out of, why would anyone buy it?" Fors sounded tired. "That's why I'm a toxic asset. They can't trade me for what they originally spent on me—ten people. They don't think they'll ever get equivalent value out of me. . . and no other clan wants to send fifty good workers to Bire-Clan for me. I'm worth a lot on paper, but nothing in reality." Fors sighed. "And that's where they've decided to do something about it. Instead of just declaring me a toxic asset and dumping me from the clan portfolio, they're determined to get some net value out of me. Even if it means restructuring and forming a conglomerate venture with another clan or two to do so."

Eli stared at Fors. It all sounded like business talk, but there were familiar clan-dealing words in there, too. It all made very little sense, however. "Okay, how are they going to try to get value out of you, exactly?"

"First, they're forming a joint venture with Lorsa-Clan and Luka-Clan. Spreading out liability for my worth across three clans reduces their risk." Fors swung his legs. "Next, they want to marry me off."

Eli stared at Fors, his mouth hanging open for a moment. "They can order you to get married? As in, it's all arranged for the two . . .wait. Are volus even monogamous?" He didn't know, and cursed himself. "Or are we talking a group contract or . . . well. . . shit. And I thought my life was complicated."

Fors laughed, a sound filled with mucous. "They've been bargaining amongst themselves for the past month. I got here just in time to start absolutely destroying the preliminary contracts they'd already set up. And yes, all the clans I've been traded to are monogamous. Since I was born to Luka, I can't marry within Luka. I _could_ marry within Bire, but that would make me part of the clan on a more permanent basis, particularly if there were eggs involved. But Lorsa. . . Lorsa only owned me for about a year. And they're offering me Chissa." Fors' tone suddenly became dreamy. "I was going to offer her a bride-price, but the clan-elders told me not to even consider it, back in the day. Because I was biotic. Because I was far more valuable as a commodity than as a member of the clan." His tone had hardened again.

Eli looked around his hotel room. He was learning a hell of a lot more about the courtship habits of the volus than any human _ever_ wanted to know. And it was surreal as hell. "Okay," Eli replied, after a moment. "This is before I've had so much as a cup of asari tea or human coffee this morning, so I might not be processing at top speed here. But. . . you had a thing for this Chissa before, right? And now her clan is offering a marriage contract between the two of you, as part of a . . . " He groped for an economic term. _Leveraged buy-out_ was the only phrase coming to mind, but he was sure that wasn't the right one.

"Long-term investment plan," Fors supplied.

Eli looked at him. "Investment?"

"Yes. Lorsa would retain the dividends, in the form of any offspring. Children always stay with the mother's clan. Until, of course, they're old enough to be traded." Fors sounded weary. "Most children actually stay with their birth family until adulthood. At _least_ until about age fifteen or so. Then, it's considered healthy for males to be moved to a different family, since they can't marry within their own clan, and even some females are traded, as well. Not the most promising ones, of course. Those are kept at home to preserve the family legacy, and promising young males are brought in to allow the females and the clan-elders time to consider them. Also, train them in the family businesses. Very few children are traded as young as I was. I believe I was four."

This was a _lot_ of information to take in at once. Male exogamy, largely. Which suggested that their clan names were actually matrilineal. Eli rubbed at his eyes. "Okay. . . so do you _want_ to marry this. . . Chissa?"

Fors hopped off his chair and began to pace in agitation. "Of course I do!" He paused. "At least, I did. Years ago. But I never even had a chance to ask her, back then, if she felt the same way! And now it's all just being arranged, all my dreams handed to me on a . . .on a golden plate. . . and . . . " Fors exhaled.

"You'd like to know if this is more than a business arrangement for her?" Eli offered.

"Yes!"

_Whoooo._ Eli cleared his throat. "If you get close enough, can't you, well, just. . . sniff her mind?"

"This, from a human? I thought your kind was big on everyone's right to privacy." Fors' tone was sour. "Besides. It would be rude. I would be invading the mind of a potential future mate."

Eli sighed. "Okay, that's a problem. So. . . " A flash of insight. "I hope you're not asking me to go _ask_ her what she thinks of all this!"

Fors clapped his hands together. "What I'm asking you to do, my human-turian friend—what I'd ask Linianus to do, too, if he were here—is to be my _shreee'eka._ My go-between."

Eli stared at him warily. "And what _exactly_ does this entail?"

"Help me with the negotiations. Speak on my behalf to Chissa. Attend all the ceremonies—that's why it's sometimes helpful to have more than one go-between—and perform certain rituals for me."

"Ceremonies? Plural? What kinds of rituals?" Eli's voice was sharp.

"Suspicious, aren't you, my human-turian friend?" Fors was clearly on the verge of laughter.

"I count, in my family alone, humans, turians, salarians, and an asari sort-of-kind-of-mother. Yes! Specifics, Fors, specifics! This is one area where I don't want any surprises!" Eli stared at the volus now. "No 'oops, signing there actually meant that you married the bride,' or 'you're responsible for my family if I die,' or anything else like that."

Fors began to laugh out loud, a wheezing, sucking sound. "Oh, ancestors in the deeps," he said after a moment. "No! None of that. I need you to go and talk to her for me—I _can't_, I have zero access to her in private until the moment that the marriage is complete. I need you to be there at the betrothal ceremony, which will be here on Bastion. And I'd _like_ you and Linianus to be there for the marriage itself. On Irune. Though you'll need to put in some different armor mods to deal with the atmospheric pressure, I'm sure. I'm planning on asking Thelldaroon and Sky to come as well. The more personal worth I can show—and impressive acquaintances are a part of personal worth—the more I can demonstrate that Lorsa's actually getting the best part of the deal. All the dividends and only part of the risk."

Eli squinted. On the surface, it sounded acceptable. "And what are the other two clans getting out of this?" he asked, dubiously.

"Luka-Clan agreed for Chissa to remain part of Lorsa, but asked that all male children take the Luka name and come to Luka." Fors' tone became dour. "I actually met my parents for the first time in close to two decades yesterday. They're not how I remember them. And Bire-Clan spreads out my worth over two other clans, and gets half a dozen workers from each of the other clans in exchange. Oh, it's all. . . very fair. Very tidy. Very volus. I just won't sign anything until you've gone to speak to Chissa for me."

Eli shook his head. "You're putting your entire future happiness in my hands," he said, dubiously. "On the bet that I can figure out if a volus female actually really likes you or not."

Fors' tone became sly. "Yes, but if _you_ happen to slip and read her mind, that's much less bad than if I did it on purpose."

Eli stared at Fors, and started to laugh. "You're kidding me. Fors, it's really, _really_ hard for me to reach out to a non-biotic."

"Then take Dr. Jaworski with you. Rely on her, hmm, feminine intuition. Or at least, get her to jumpstart your biotics, and then you can both take a sniff. Listen to a song. Whatever the hell it is that you do."

Eli put his head down in his hands for a moment. "You could just ask Sky to do that," he said, from between his fingers.

"Spectre Sky can't be a go-between. He can't speak the words of the ceremonies out loud. Besides, he might scare Chissa, and I don't want that." Fors' voice was low. "If he scares everyone else in all three clans, so much the better, but not her."

Eli sighed. "Okay. Anything else I need to know? When would the betrothal take place? Would Lin and I be in charge of the, god help me, bachelor party? Are either of us responsible for, um, announcements?" _'Cause Lin screwed that part up but good with Brennia. And damn if we didn't hear about that._

"The betrothal would be in the next week. Probably within days. The wedding might not be until after the war. Clan-elders like to give it some time, see if all the contact clauses are solid. Especially in a negotiation with this many moving parts." Fors snuffled. "Bachelor party? I don't think I've attended one of those before. A human tradition, isn't it?"

"Yes. Turians don't really go in for them." Eli stared at Fors, flummoxed. _And damned if I know what a volus would want or need. Asari strippers? He's said before that asari are about as interesting as coral polyps to him, in a sexual sense. And volus have silicon physiology, breathe ammonia, drink ethane. . . body temperature is actually subzero. . . .yeah. I still have no __idea__ how that one porn film about 'Commander Shepard' managed the scene between the human actress and the volus one, but obviously, the award for technical difficulty was deserved. _"I'll need at least a hint as to what the hell volus eat or drink for intoxicative effects."

"Baby _meeka'al_."

Eli's head tipped slightly to the side. Fors elaborated, after a moment, "The larval form of vent worms, from around volcanic vents on the sea floor at home. They have a chemical compound in them that causes wonderful sensations in the volus body. However, overindulgence can be problematic. Also, harvesting them is difficult."

Eli shook his head. "I guess it's not any weirder than mescal having a worm at the bottom of the bottle. Okay. Give me Chissa's address and a list of things I need to ask her, and . . . "

"Oh, no, you can't just walk in. There are proprieties to be observed. . . ."

_The things,_ Eli thought, _that I do for friends._

**Zhasa'Maedan, Bastion, December 7, 2196**

Zhasa opened her eyes, and stared at the human numerals glowing on the clock in front of her. 07:00. There was something wrong with them. _They look odd,_ she thought, sleepily. _Wrong color. Like my suit visor's been tinted a different shade._

She reached out to turn off the buzzing alarm. . . and saw her own bare hand, each finger tipped with small talons. . . .

And panicked completely. She lurched upwards, a lifetime of training kicking in. _Oh, Keelah, I fell asleep without my suit last night, I'm going to be so sick—in fact, why am I not in the med bay—_

The thoughts trailed off as recollection filtered back. Her suit was stacked neatly in the closet, beside Dempsey's armor. No more necessary now for her, than it was for him. And as panic began to dissipate, more sensory information began to trickle in. Slide of warm, clean sheets, a soft, fuzzy blanket over the top of that. Not on bare skin, no; Dempsey had bought several items for her yesterday. "Early Christmas presents," he'd told her. "Besides, you'll need them." A warm, soft robe—thicker material to it than the one he'd gotten for her on Mindoir, which was probably still hanging in his closet there. Chenille, the tag had told her the name of the fabric was—and in lavender. Something with the exotic name of pyjamas, which turned out to be a shirt and pants set, also in very, very soft cotton, meant solely to be worn in bed. And then there was what she was wearing now. A 'nightgown.' Zhasa wasn't quite sure how this particular item differed all that much from being naked; the material was very thin, and pure white.

Dempsey hadn't even let her try anything on in the room at first. "Everything needs to be washed first," he'd told her, over her protests. "There's chemicals in there from the manufacturing process. Also, god only knows how many people have touched, breathed on, or tried these items on for size, Zhasa-love. No. Let the laundry people here in the hotel earn their keep before you let any of this touch your skin."

And a couple of hours later, pieces began to trickle back from the laundry. Zhasa had pulled on one of Dempsey's spare shirts and a pair of his shorts to wear in the room, and had, as each new garment arrived, dreamily sat down with it and read the tags. "Sixty percent virgin lambswool," she'd called over to Dempsey. "What's a lamb, and how do they know whether or not it's a virgin?"

Locked into her mind, his amusement had flooded through her. "A lamb is a baby sheep," he told her, and gave her the image of a bizarre Terran creature, something that looked vaguely like a cloud with legs and a face. "Although I think the 'virgin' in this case means 'the fibers haven't been used for anything else before.'"

He'd insisted on dinner in their room. Simple things. Turian foods, things that her digestive system shouldn't have had any problems with anyway. And that constant feeling of faint worry flooding through him. _What's wrong?_ she'd finally asked. _Aren't you glad that I'm free?_

_I am. Very. But I think it's possible that you'll be so overcome with being able to do anything you want, that you'll try to do everything at once, and get sick anyway. . . and god only knows if the nanites have an expiration date on them or something, Zhasa. I'm just saying. . . go slowly. Please. For me._

It had been eminently reasonable, and wholly suffused with tender concern for her, and Zhasa had sighed. _I see your point._

She rolled over now. The first sound of the alarm had roused Dempsey, but he'd evidently dismissed it as not a threat, and gone back to sleep. One of his arms was still slung over her waist, and tightened now a little, reflexively, in his sleep. Cool skin—just about five degrees cooler than her own—velvety soft in texture, but over firm muscle. She lightly skated her fingertips, wonderingly, up his arm. Traced the notes on the tattoo on the right shoulder. And smiled, again, thinking about the day before. The look of utter shock on his face as he'd caught her—real surprise, his _own_ emotion. She hadn't touched his mind to help him feel before landing in his arms. Nothing could have spoken more eloquently, if subtly, of how much progress he'd made in the last year. . . though he would, of course, never see it himself.

And he'd been so _amused_ the entire afternoon during the shopping expedition. Probably not even realizing that he'd been comparing her, silently, to his late wife the entire time. She'd picked up on it here and there. Amy Dempsey had, apparently, loved to shop, but money had been tight. They'd been young and on a very small budget, and he'd been angry with her every time she'd gone out and bought a pair of shoes or whatnot. . . even when she'd protested that she'd gotten them on sale, seventy percent off, whatever. It had all been money that they couldn't really spare, and she hadn't really _needed_ another pair of shoes. He'd seen it as her spending money in order to feel better. To make herself feel happy. She'd justify it as needing to look professional at her job as an accountant. Which was, probably, to be fair, true, too. But it had driven him nuts. He didn't need to know how much money she'd saved on X or on Y. The bottom line was that Z had been removed from the budget. And the pure fact that she was a bulldog on the amount saved told him that she _knew_ damned well that they couldn't afford it, and was just justifying it.

But watching Zhasa, he'd been struck by her innocent glee in finally having clothes of her very own. Maybe not every purchase had been needed, but nothing had been agonized over, either. Nothing had been justified. Trial and error was going to be employed as she figured out what clothing was comfortable for her, and what wasn't. No sense of being furtive, of getting away with something, of triumphing over the shopkeepers. Not even arrant materialism—Zhasa had read amused pleasure in him when he'd realized she didn't give a damn what the label said; if she liked something, she didn't care if it cost three credits or three hundred. And her custom-made boots were a large chunk of her expenditures. Also, a very necessary part of her budget.

And he'd been laughing on the inside, she knew, when she'd dragged Dara to the makeup counter. Dara had given her a reluctant look. "It's probably not even necessary. It won't clog up your pores, since you don't _have_ pores, but. . . it could give you an allergic reaction. And you're really pretty the way you are."

The brilliant lights at the glass counter, the lines of mirrors. . . Zhasa could see herself from every angle, and just _smiled_ at the sight. Strong, heavy odors of perfumes—a little overwhelming, really. Human, asari, drell, even a few turian aromas. A heady, exotic mix.

Dara had, of course, still been wearing her dark glasses, and carrying most of their mutual bags—and her two rachni workers were hiding inside those bags—while their respective males had stopped a little ways back to look at something, and were now separated from them by the crowd.

A cheerful young human woman in a store uniform and with a nametag that read "Bonnie" had come up from the side of the counter at that point. She was heavily covered in her own wares; not one inch of skin above the neckline was uncovered by foundation and rouge and whatever else, and her frizzy blond hair was elaborately coiffed. Zhasa's nose crinkled; the female also wore heavy perfume, with a strong over-scent of. . . _what is that, Dara?_

_Hairspray, Zhasa. Nothing helps how that smells. _

_It smells like glue, like it's coating my tongue!_

_I know. Believe me, I know._

"Can I help you—oh my." Bonnie now stopped and stared at Zhasa, her mouth dropping open.

Zhasa caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrors again. White hair and eyebrows. Violet eyes, surrounded by thick black liner on all sides, natural. Lavender lips. Faint lavender flush in her cheeks, at the heat of the stores. Fangs showing, just a little, as she smiled and spoke to the human now, cheerfully. "Yes. Your sign says a woman isn't really dressed, until she's wearing Caresse? That's what you sell here, right? Caresse cosmetics?"

Dara had, at that point, planted an elbow on the glass counter, and leaned her face into her hand. _Something's wrong?_

_Oh, no, no._ Blue-green amusement in Dara's song. _This is just. . . surreal, that's all._

Bonnie the saleswoman simply stared at Zhasa for a long moment, stuttering a bit. She evidently had been knocked off her established sales-patter. "I. . . what are you interested in?"

"What are all these things?" Zhasa pointed at a line of tubes, and picked one up, interestedly, opening it. Inside, there was a bright red piece of wax.

"That's lipstick," Dara told her. "That particular color wouldn't look good on you."

Zhasa sighed. "So you've mentioned. Reds clash. Right. So, do you have blue or purple?" she asked the saleswoman brightly.

"Or green," Dara pointed out, helpfully. "A really dark forest green would contrast with your violet eyes, and that light lavender flush in your cheeks, and wouldn't look too out of place, would it?"

Zhasa frowned. "You're having fun with me again. Like with the bunny slippers."

Dara grinned. "Maybe a little. But you're right. Indigo would look lovely on you. Maybe something in an asari line of makeup, though. Human makeup tends to go with our skin tones."

"Which ones?" Zhasa asked, artlessly. "You have so many."

"Yeah, but we sort of run the gamut of pink and earth tones. Not so much with the blues and the purples." Dara turned her head towards the counterwoman. "So, how about eye shadow for Zhasa here? _That_ you've got to have in more colors than the lipstick."

Zhasa had felt Dempsey's approach as a bubble of amusement at the back of her head. The counterwoman had stammered at this point, "Well, your skin _is_ very fair, and your eyes. . . you're. . . a winter, I guess. . . I'm sorry, ma'am, but what _are_ you?"

"You just said she's a winter," Dempsey had said, putting his hands down on Zhasa's shoulders.

"I'm quarian," Zhasa had volunteered. It hadn't gotten old yet, at least.

The counterwoman's fingers had slipped as she'd been digging around for a palette of soft pastel colors, and now she froze entirely. "You're _quarian_? But. . . you're not in a suit—my god, can you even be around this stuff? I don't want a lawsuit!"

"The sign says it's hypoallergenic and not tested on animals," Dara pointed out, mildly. "Besides, I'm her doctor. I'm right here in case anything bad happens."

For some reason, Dempsey had found _that_ very amusing. "I think you're perfect exactly the way you are, Zhasa-love," he'd told her, with a gentle mental caress.

Zhasa had sighed. "Very well, but what about Dara here? I'm fairly sure from all the pictures I've seen today that you simply cannot wear a dress like that," and she pointed at one of the bags Dara was carrying over her shoulder, "without _some_ cosmetics. It would look odd."

Eli had joined them at that point. "What dress?" he asked. His eyes were night-black at the moment, a sure sign that he was touching Dara's mind. "Do I get to see it?"

"Not yet," Dara told him, and, where she was sitting on a stool at the counter, slid one foot behind Eli's heel. He'd glanced down, which had been the only reason Zhasa had done the same, and realized it was a delicate turian gesture, a subtle way of giving physical contact in public. "You'll see it on Bek. If I manage to hold onto my courage, anyway."

Eli had switched languages to asari. _"You run out into firefights to grab the wounded and drag them back to safety, always-fair. How can a dress be more frightening than that?"_

"_You'll see."_ Dara sighed. "But Zhasa's right. Much as I hate makeup, I'd be a little underdressed without it with this outfit."

The counterwoman had had a couple of moments to regain her composure, and she now launched into her standard patter. "What makeup do you normally wear, dear?"

"Up until six months ago, turian face-paint on a daily basis. Other than that, my stepmother put some of hers on me for my wedding six years ago. I don't know the brand."

Bonnie the saleswoman just smiled. Dempsey chuckled mentally _She sees five hundred credits sitting there, waiting for Dara to be convinced to part with them,_ he'd told Zhasa.

Out loud, Eli was saying, calmly, "Personally, I hate lipstick. Women always want to wear it, but unless you're very, very careful, you can't do any _good_ kissing until the end of the night, 'cause otherwise, it smears all over the damn place." He paused. "And foundation? Women always want to wear it down to the collarbone—"

"Well, otherwise, there would be an obvious line," Bonnie told him defensively, obviously seeing credits trickling away before her very eyes.

"Yeah, but when you lean in to bite the neck, you come away with a mouthful of crap that tastes like shit," Eli told her with aplomb. The counterwoman's eyes went wide at _that_ candid assessment. And at that point, Dempsey's shoulders actually shook once, too. "If you want to put something around your eyes, though, it'll probably look gorgeous, _sai'kaea._ Just keep in mind that I plan to keep you _much_ too busy to wash any of that crap back off again, so get something you don't mind sleeping in." He grinned. "For one night, at least."

Rallying magnificently, the counterwoman tried one more time. "Well, dear, let me see what we're working with here," Bonnie said, and reached for Dara's glasses.

Dara shied away, and then slowly reached up and took the glasses off, herself. Revealing rachni-blue eyes.

The saleswoman just stared for about thirty seconds. Finally, in a tone of annoyance, she said, "Am I on some sort of reality show? Is this a vid jockey's morning show stunt?"

Eli's shoulders, to Zhasa's side, began to shake. "What do you mean by that?" Dempsey had asked, straight-faced and flat-voiced.

"First, we've got Ms. . . .Quarian here. And then we've got her _doctor_ over here. You show up at my counter with gene mods a supermodel would _kill_ for, and you say you've never worn makeup besides _turian face-paint_ before?" Incredulity, and a little hostility. The female clearly thought someone was having fun at her expense.

"No," Dara said, face expressionless. "I said I wore some at my wedding to my ex, too."

"You're not a model, then? Neither of you are?"

"God, no," Dara replied, shuddering.

"Actually," Eli said, cheerfully, "They're Council Spectres." The woman's mouth opened and closed, her disbelief increasing again. Eli leaned forward, resting a hand on Dara's shoulder now, and smiling. "So, what you're saying is that Dara here is an autumn?"

. . . it had gone downhill from there. The counterwoman had paged her manager, complaining of being _harassed_ by customers who were playing games with her. Dempsey hadn't taken kindly to that portion of the events, had had stubbornly refused to leave until proof of their identities had been produced and the counterwoman had apologized. And Eli had made a point of mentioning, cheerfully, that the Caresse line of products _could_ have just obtained two useful endorsements, but had lost business as well as that potentiality. Dara had slapped his bicep for that one. "Are you trying to get that lady fired?" she'd hissed.

"No, but I _do_ want her manager to come down on her like a ton of bricks," Eli had replied. "You couldn't even get a simple answer to a simple question out of her—"

"In fairness, that wasn't entirely her fault. How often does someone working at a makeup counter see, well, an unsuited quarian and. . . me. . . walk up to them?"

"_Sai'kaea_, this is _Bastion_. Second only to M—the Spectre base—in terms of being the weird shit capital of the universe. If she can't handle _odd_, she needs to go home to Earth."

"Eli, I'm just saying that the only thing that _didn't_ happen back there was the rachni popping up and hissing at her!"

Dempsey had cleared his throat. "Yeah. Where are the little guys, anyway? You checked your bags lately?"

Dara's head had swung towards Dempsey, and then she began opening and looking through all her bags in alarm—assisted by Eli, who was obviously trying, again, not to laugh.

And then the shrieks had started behind them somewhere. "That, ladies and gentlemen," Dempsey said, catching Zhasa's arm just about the elbow, "is the sound of a nervous breakdown in progress."

Eli had caught Dara's arm in an identical grip. "Annnnnd, we're walking," he'd said. "Nothing to see here, folks, move along . . . "

And there the incident had ended

Now, Zhasa traced a finger up from the shoulder to Dempsey's throat. Caught the rasp of beard there, found the line of his chin. She was still smiling. Pure delight at being able to touch him, whenever and wherever she wanted now. To feel his skin for herself, whenever she chose. Down the throat now, tracing the clear, firm line of a collarbone. Smooth planes of the pectoral muscles. Feel of breath moving in his chest and stomach as he rolled to his back, still dozing. Zhasa brushed back the sheets, wanting to see all of him. He tended to sleep in his boxers, and was, for the moment, completely relaxed. She let her fingers trail down lower. What she found was quiescent for the moment. He didn't have morning urges—well, any urges, really, unless her own were fuelling him. But at the moment, the idea of waking him up to mutual joy and pleasure sounded like a wonderful notion.

The pale blue eyes opened. Focused in on her face. "Wow," Dempsey said, raspy-voiced, as he tended to be in the mornings. "So it wasn't just a really _good_ dream." With no warning at all, Zhasa found herself rolled to her back, and Dempsey was kissing her throat. He'd never done so before without having carefully shaved first. The sensation was startling, and actually very arousing. Rough against smooth. _Mmm. Let me go clean up my mouth and I'll give you more of that._

_What's wrong with your mouth right now?_

_Morning-breath, Zhasa-love—_ His breath caught as she pushed _him_ back now, leaned down and began kissing and nipping her way down his chest and belly. _You might be . . . closer to being immune to my bacteria now than before, but you've got . . . . a very sensitive . . . .nose. You're not immune to stink._ Out loud, he added. . . "Zhasa-love. . . you're. . . actually a little horny this morning, aren't you?"

"Was it something that I said?" she murmured. Her desire was fueling his, and she could feel his willingness to argue evaporating. . . though the concern remained.

He reached into their nightstand and pulled out a strip of epi-tabs, handing two to her, before swallowing his own. "Better safe than sorry, Zhasa."

They entwined their fingers. Entwined their minds. And she slid atop him and sank down, feeling his surprise, delight, and bliss rising up through them both. _God, Zhasa-love. I have to say, this is the best Christmas present ever._

_This__?_ She pressed down on him.

_You. Here. Out of your suit. Maybe for good._ _Never thought we'd ever be able to do __this__. . . on a whim. Spur of the moment._ Slow, sweet kisses. Working both of them up. Her delight in realizing that he actually _liked_ the nightgown, because it gave the illusion of concealment, while in fact concealing nothing at all. _Clothing is play for humans?_

_Can be, yeah. This is definitely a playtime outfit, Zhasa._ _Shall we play a little, sweetheart?_

_Isn't that what we're doing?_

He smiled up at her, his eyes fully thawed at the moment. _You can play harder than that, Zhasa-love. I won't mind._

Hotel security called them a half hour later, as Zhasa was exulting in the flow of warm water over her skin in the shower. Dempsey poked his head around the curtain. "Ah, love? You're not going to believe this. . . but remember the quarians who saw you out shopping yesterday—the ones who stopped you and asked if you were okay?"

"Of course." They'd thought she was _crazy_. . . until they realized she was in perfect health. She'd had to repeatedly ask them not to make a fuss, not to call med bay personnel, or anything else like that.

"They apparently figured out where we're staying. So. . . " Dempsey exhaled. "There are several thousand quarians outside the hotel, asking to see _Keelah_'_Zhasa."_

Zhasa choked. If she were the leader of her own family, she'd be Keelah'Maedan. The position was currently held by her great-grandmother, who was ailing. The male equivalent title was _Telaar'Maedan. . . _which was currently held by her grandfather. To call her _Keelah'Zhasa_ suggested that she'd won enough honor among her people's eyes to break her off, make her head of her own line—something either a male or a female could do, but which happened _very_ infrequently. It was the equivalent of making an honored ancestor while still among the living. Almost a religious title. Like. . . ._Keelah'Selai._ "Oh, no, no, _no_," she said, turning off the water, and frantically looking around for a towel, which Dempsey immediately supplied. "This is all wrong. . . . "

"We're going to let our press liaison officer and B-Sec do their jobs. Sidonis is going to head downstairs and talk to them. You and I are going out a service entrance that actually exits a block over. We'll be meeting Shepard at the human embassy for the Arvuna team's debriefing."

Zhasa hesitated. "Dempsey. . . they're my _people_. I have to be able to talk to them."

"To your people, yes. To a mob that showed up out of the blue, invading not only your privacy, but mine? Sidonis'? Doc Jaworski's? Velnaran's? Yeah. Not going to happen." Dempsey's tone was uncompromising. "And if you want, you can argue that point with Shepard, but at the moment, the boss lady said 'get her to the embassy, and I mean _now,'_ and let's face it, Zhasa. I get paid to follow her orders.'"

She sprang out of the shower and looked up at him. "So, you'd carry me there?"

"Ass-first, if needed."

"All right. The least you can do is help me figure out what to _wear._"

Her reward was his single snort of very human laughter.

Dempsey actually sat through the Arvuna debriefing beside her, for which Zhasa was grateful. Quite a bit of the meeting was taken up with a post-mortem on the Eclipse/Growth Zero breakdown. Dara had her head in her hands for quite a bit of it. "What I don't understand," the human female said, eventually, "is why the hell Bassanelli broke when he did. We'd just eliminated the leader of Eclipse because she'd turned on us. From his perspective, without leadership, Eclipse was ripe for being driven out of the system, or co-opted into his own group, potentially. Why would he turn on _us_ then, instead of fighting on for another day, and the chance to accomplish all his goals?"

Melaani held up a finger. "You were stuck in the Prothean base while Ylara and I talked this all out," she replied. "You want to hear some of our thoughts on this?"

Dara looked up and nodded glumly. "Yeah. Because my job was to 'understand' the Growth Zero people and get them on our side, however temporarily. And I screwed it up somehow. I'd. . . like to know how."

Melaani shook her head. "I'm not sure you actually did 'screw up.' The probability was very high that GZ would betray us at some point. Whether while we were there or after we left was really the only question in my mind." The asari steepled her fingers. "Bassanelli said at the end there that he wasn't going to be stopped by us. Consider that he had a very strong paranoid streak. He'd just seen us turn on Eclipse. Admittedly, after Eclipse had turned on us, but we'd wiped them out in front of him."

"He was holding a gun on the Eclipse people, himself," Zhasa pointed out, dryly. "And firing it."

Melaani nodded. "Yes. But, as I said, paranoiac tendencies. Everyone's against me. Even if they're with me right now, if they aren't committed to my cause, then they'll just turn on me eventually. Why _not_ attack those who'll attack you eventually, especially when you see them in a weakened state?"

Dara sighed. "So it was a question of not having gotten his trust, then?"

Melaani shrugged. "Commander Shepard? You've reviewed the reports from all of us. Do you think there was _any_ way in which we could have gotten through to Bassanelli?"

Shepard shook her head. "No. Kasumi took a look at the files last night with a couple of our staff shrinks. It's hard to diagnose without access to the patient, but Bassanelli was . . . fairly dissociated from the rest of humanity. He might not have had a mental illness, but reasoning with people who absolutely do not share your same value system, who place no value on human life. . . Yeah. I don't think there was much hope of keeping Bassanelli contained for long. In the end, we'd have just had to go back and deal with him in a more permanent way anyway. As it turns out, you got lucky. Eclipse and GZ either wiped out or under new management. Moravec will probably disband the eco-terrorism wing of their operations. And who knows? With an amnesty, for the moment, maybe his faction will even stop their criminal activities. Won't know for a while, though." Shepard sighed and leaned back in her chair. "It's now an Alliance problem, anyway, now that they're back in the system and have locked out the mass relay for the moment."

Zhasa whistled through her teeth. "The corporations there won't like that. Nor will the people. No flow of goods, either direction."

Shepard shook her head. "No. But easier than trying to hold a small system against any renewed batarian assault." She looked at Ylara. "Anything on Cerberus in the company files you took? We've. . . encountered their vestiges twice in the past month." Her expression was grim. "I'd really like to find any other tendrils they left behind and uproot them."

Ylara grimaced. "Zhasa, Seheve, Melaani, Dara, Rinus, Kirrahe, and I took first passes through the data, and Cassandra on the _Sollostra_ did quite a bit of analysis. The evidence suggests that the midiphan project was the brainchild of one human scientist, Dr. Eric Pritchard. Mid-level project manager. He claimed in his report that he was perfecting a purification process for the drug, so that it could be studied in smaller samples, thus meeting regulation standards for the amount shipped off-world." Ylara sounded annoyed. "Which sounds good on paper, but the amounts we saw in the production facility don't match up with that. They were getting ready to make a shipment, I suspect. It might have been their first, if we were lucky."

Dara raised a hand. "I hesitate to suggest this, but. . . we know that midiphan definitely locks out a rachni's biotics. I'd like to test it on human and asari biotics as well."

"Why?" Shepard asked, sharply.

Dara sighed. "Because we know that the batarians have any number of lobotomized asari and human biotics at their disposal," she answered, quietly. "A stasis gun doesn't necessarily stop them from using their biotics when commanded by their batarian handlers. And carrying thorazine and _lia'mellea_ needles only gets me so far, since I still need to get in arm's reach to inject them. I know, I know. . . the asari Council of Sisters has said 'kill them; it's a mercy.' But every minute we're shooting at them, we're _not_ shooting at the people controlling them, or the batarians who have minds of their own who are attacking us." Dara looked down at her hands. "So . . maybe flashbangs or a grenade loaded with the stuff. Lock them down so they can't use their abilities. And maybe we can figure out a way to use it on the ship weapons, at some point. God only knows how."

Zhasa winced. She really didn't like the idea of the stuff being used. "If one side starts using it, everyone else will eventually start using it to lock biotics out of their abilities, too," she pointed out. "At the moment, we're the only people who know it has that effect on rachni."

"And we don't actually know if it has any effect at all on humans or asari," Dara pointed out. "If it does, and if it gets out that it does, yeah. People will be using it for that purpose. Except we all wear breathers and masks in combat, Zhasa. The batarians haven't been bothering to equip their lobotomized slaves with much of anything."

"Armor _is_ expensive, and slaves are cheap, in their mentality," Shepard murmured. "Plus, they think we'll hesitate to fire on what we see as a hostage or a friendly target. And they're right to think that. You don't like shooting them, do you?" Her gaze took in the entire room.

Seheve looked down. "It is regrettable. . . but they are dead already in every way but one," the drell female murmured.

Dara shook her head. "Just doesn't sit right with me. I know they're a threat, they're combatants. . . but not by choice."

Shepard considered it for a moment. "We'll test it, Dr. Jaworski, but in the meantime, continue to use deadly force against them."

"Understood."

Shepard turned and looked at Dempsey now. "Since you're here, I'll note that we've been questioning Dr. Petrovic very heavily. And by heavily, I mean that Sky has been listening to every word he says. From what we're gathering, he was cut loose from Cerberus towards the end of the Reaper War. Told to make his own way, go as underground as he could. A lot of their agents were told the same thing. . .the Illusive Man wanted to be sure that some of his best minds escaped capture or death, I guess." Shepard's eyes went distant for a moment. "The bastard had the nerve to ask me if I liked his work. I don't know how you didn't put that man through a wall, Dempsey. I admire your self-control."

Beside Zhasa, Dempsey stirred. Zhasa reached out and took his hand in hers, still marveling at the touch of skin on skin. Their minds were linked, and she could feel anger roiling, deep inside of him. He'd told her the whole story last night before bed. . . with all the details that his letters had lacked. And she'd felt his uncertainty about this 'James.' What James really was. . . a shadow-self, a second-self? "He's what they wanted to make me into," Dempsey had finally said. "A machine. A thing. Or at least, that's what they wanted him to be, too. They choked out all his . . . _my_ memories. Left enough that he could think of himself as human, but also enough to realize that something was _wrong_. And then I wound up giving him access to all my memories. Brought him . . . up to date, I guess you could say. So now he's more _me_ than I am myself. An AI of me. And NCAIs can feel, Zhasa, or so they tell me. Which is more than I can do on a good day, unless you're here hold my hand."

Anxiety. A touch of actual insecurity, which was astounding to feel from him. She'd squeezed his hand and told him, laughing, "And could an AI hold my hand, Dempsey?"

"This one could. He had a body. I'm sure he's going to want one again. . . because _I_ sure as hell wouldn't want to be turned into a ship."

_And could he touch my mind?_ She'd caressed his with a gentle thought. _Could he set my nerves on fire with his biotics? Would I have to work to get him to smile—which is half the fun of making you do so, you know?_

_Probably not_, Dempsey had admitted.

In the here and now, though, his thoughts were tightly controlled. "So, Petrovic was cut loose? Then what?" Dempsey asked.

Shepard shrugged. "He was on the project under another name. Dr. Harold Peterson. And it was an air-tight identity, passed a background check and everything. The most Anderson and SATBIA have managed to dig up so far is that the Alliance Congress _did_ authorize AD 2.0. As a mech program. I've read the original proposal. VI software, not AI, was the stated goal. A fairly intelligent mech that could serve in place of soldier in extremely hazardous conditions. . . dropping on a heat hazard level two planet, for instance. Hence the incorporation of geth technology. Oh yes, our geth allies are asking questions, too. Someone's going to be losing their job over this, believe me." Shepard sighed. "Once Petrovic got on the project, however, he began pushing for changes. And seems to have gotten the ear of someone in the Alliance Congressional panel on special projects to authorize those changes. _That's_ the name I want." Shepard drummed her fingers on the table. "And when I find out who he or she is? I'm going hunting." She grinned at Dempsey, a cold, tight smile. "And you'll be invited to come with me."

"So, what's next?" Kirrahe said, as everyone began shuffling datapads. "I've had more than enough time to relax, Commander Shepard."

Shepard have him an amused look. "Even a salarian needs more than a day to decompress, Kirrahe."

"Two. Three at the most. Then, very likely to grow bored." Kirrahe grinned at Shepard. "Have Lystheni AI research in hand. Batarian interest in the Argent Defender project very intriguing, and can work with Thelldaroon on analysis of 'James.' But will require other tasks."

"You'll be heading back to Argus' ship," Shepard told him. Kirrahe's head snapped up, and he looked alarmed briefly, for some reason. "I need you to continue your Lystheni research along the way, but also . . . we need to ensure that the Lystheni dalatrass can never give you an order that you'd have no choice but to obey."

Kirrahe nodded. "Have been considering that as a problem," he noted. "Can probably reproduce command harmonic using her audio output methods. Can start by putting white-noise generators in helmet, to block out all noise except what comes over encrypted Spectre radio band. Would only use in circumstances where I would likely encounter a dalatrass. Some older salarian Spectres have, ah, suggested this. Though they looked somewhat worried at admitting to their use." His lips twitched. "They also say they screen their comm calls very carefully."

Shepard nodded. "Yes. But I'm also going to give you a list of orders that I want you to have Mordin Narayana read to you. Using the command harmonic."

Kirrahe's eyes widened. "Unsure of the wisdom of having a dalatrass that young giving me commands."

"You'll like these," Shepard assured him. "'Swear that you will obey Shepard and me, and no other dalatrass,' among others."

Kirrahe grimaced. "Suspect that Dalatrass Kirrahe Manarova will not appreciate this. But will do as you command. Safer for all, this way."

Dara's head had come up. "Hey, Kirrahe, if you're heading to Argus' ship. . . you can play Santa for everyone."

"Santa?" Kirrahe replied, blankly.

Shepard started to chuckle. "Actually. . . that's a great idea. Garrus and I have about four million presents to send our kids—"

"A million each?" Ylara interjected, blandly.

Shepard grinned at her. "Yes, actually. Kirrahe, you can bring them to Amara and Kaius and Elissa and Alain." She gave Ylara a bland look. "I know asari don't celebrate the Terran solstice, of course, but Telluura and Sisu will be _terribly_ left out if Santa doesn't bring them something. Can I have him bring them something from our family to yours?"

Ylara chuckled. "Certainly. But once you start, you're going to be stuck doing it for a number of years. They'll be children longer than yours will be."

"That's fine. I don't mind at all." A rare soft smile from Lilitu Shepard, the type that the public rarely saw from the commander of the Spectres. Zhasa was suddenly keenly aware of the fact that Shepard had lost her family at an early age. _She's been working to replace them for years,_ Zhasa realized. _And even her Spectres are part of that replacement family. Every last one of them._

Dempsey glanced up now. "You could cart my presents to Mad, too, Kirrahe," he noted. "Assuming I'm not heading there, myself. But we'll have to get you to dress up in a red suit and a beard for the little ones."

Kirrahe's eyes had gone about as wide as a salarian's possibly could. "Ah. . . a beard?" he said, carefully. "Unsure if lies about assuming the identity of a mythological figure are appropriate."

Zhasa covered her mouth as she attempted to keep the laughter in. "It's traditional," Dara assured him, straight-faced. "The kids will love it, especially the younger ones. The older ones, you'll just tell them that Santa asked you to be his helper this year. And it'll make them all feel a bit less alone and, well, forgotten around a pretty special time of year." Dara smiled a little, her expression a little wistful.

Dempsey noted, "He's going to need more than a couple of pillows to look fat enough. Salarians start with a natural deficit in the plump department."

Dara laughed. "Is Lantar going with him?" she asked Shepard.

Shepard nodded. "Okay, good. See, Kirrahe, you won't have to lug Eli and Lantar's presents for their family there on your own. That could've given you a hernia, and you wouldn't have had my magic fingers there to fix it." Dara wiggled her fingers at him now, and the salarian chuckled.

Dempsey looked at Shepard. "You didn't actually address if I was going to be able to see Mad or not."

The commander sighed. "I wish I could send you. But you've got two things to be looking into at the moment. Helping Thell determine James' stability. . . and now, apparently, the quarian Admiralty Board wants to see Zhasa'Maedan. As in, _right now._" She looked at Zhasa, her lips curling up behind her turian paint. "I haven't heard them in such a tizzy since Tali's trial. I assume you'll want to go with her, Dempsey?"

Zhasa's stomach had dropped into her boots. Being summoned by the Admiralty Board was _rarely_ a good thing. Dempsey caught her dread, and turned to frown at her. "What could they possibly do or say about your being out of your suit that's making you that upset?" he asked, his brows knitting slightly.

"Quarians like to argue," she muttered. "It's something we share with turians." Zhasa looked up at the ceiling. "If I were to guess. . .Admiral Daro'Xen is probably saying that I should have remained in my suit while allowing them to decide how and when to distribute the information that I don't actually have to wear one now?"

Shepard nodded. "Got it in one. Zaal'Koris wants you to come home and stay home for extensive study and efforts to replicate the nanites. Han'Gerrel vas Neema was, according to Tali, muttering about the weapons potential of the nanites—"

"Weapons potential?" Dara repeated, her tone scathing. "_What_ weapons potential?"

"Regeneration," Shepard told her, wearily. "Just as Dempsey is more or less a living weapon, Han'Gerrel sees Zhasa's minor nanite-based regeneration as something that all their marines should have—"

Dempsey's hand, in Zhasa's, had clenched, painfully tight. "She's not a goddamned lab rat." The words were flat and cold, and there was _rage_ in his mind right now. Dara edged away from him subtly, and Zhasa sent him calming thoughts.

"No," Zhasa said. "I'm not. But if I tell the Admiralty Board that I'm a Spectre first, a quarian second, and that I'm needed for the batarian war more than my people need me to help improve their immune systems. . . I could be considered a traitor to my people. They could strip me of my ship name." It would be a rather unprecedented move; stripping the ship name from the quarians' first-ever Spectre could actually damage the reputations of the Admirals who voted for it. "I doubt Admiral Tali'Zorah would vote for it, or Admiral Shala'Raan. But the other three have very different political motivations." She sighed and put her face in her hands for a moment. "No, I have to at least go and talk with them."

"Remind them," Dara suggested, dryly, "that the Spectres have a more than adequate medical and technical staff. And that we can study you just as well, if not better, than they can, and can send them data that they can work on while you continue to do your job, representing all of them as the quarian Spectre."

Zhasa looked at Dara and smiled. The thorns were out, but they weren't directed at anyone in the room. Instead, Dara seemed oddly protective of Zhasa herself. It was a nice feeling, actually. A sign that Dara had completely accepted Zhasa. Part of the same crew of shipmates. "Maybe you could come and tell them, yourself," Zhasa suggested.

Shepard shook her head. "Actually, Dara's probably going to be needed for something else," she said, her face tightening down again. "We're waiting on the results of an engine refit or two before we assign the mission, though. Dara, you and Seheve are at loose ends for a bit, so I suggest you relax for a while, but don't leave the station."

Dara sat up, grimacing. "I thought I'd be due for some leave by now. Three consecutive missions? Over five months of action?"

Shepard nodded. "I know. But I think when you hear what's needed, you'll volunteer." She turned. "Melaani? You and Ylara, I'm going to be sending to Luisa. Backup for the Spectres I already sent, trying to find out how the batarians have been hitting so many asari cruise liners and small colony ships. . . . "

Zhasa felt free to tune out a bit. She had quite enough things to worry about on her own plate right now. Especially how she was going to deal with the Admiralty Board, and her own people.

Suddenly, staying out of the suit felt more frightening than getting out of it had, to begin with.

**Dara, Bastion, December 7, 2196**

The meeting had dragged on for a lot longer than Dara had hoped. She had Chopin on her shoulder, and 1812 had been exploring the room, and the contents of everyone's coffee and tea mugs, so she'd had song, at least, but four hours of debriefing and postmortem had seemed a bit much. And the bad news out of it. . .no leave, at least not yet. _Eli's going to be annoyed. Actually. . . __I'm__ annoyed. I know, I know, we're Spectres, and we work the job, not the clock, but. . . damn. People need time to decompress. We're not __all__ salarians._

She made her way to the hotel, and was glad to see that the quarian _mob_ outside had dispersed. Quarians tended to be very orderly and obedient of authority in many ways. It had been damned odd to see that many of them all in one place, too. She'd had to take an alternate exit for the meeting, and had gotten the gist of the situation from Zhasa and Dempsey, though Zhasa had clearly been embarrassed by it.

As she was reaching to tap on Eli's door, it opened, and they both stared at each other for a moment in surprise. Then he grinned, reached out, and pulled her to him. "Just the person I wanted to see after a really long and shitty morning," he told her. Tired songs, muted reds of irritation all through him, washing away at skin contact.

"Me, too," she admitted. "Debriefing sucked. How'd you do with the quarians?"

"Covered live on BNN," Eli muttered. "I managed to convince them that they were invading not only her privacy, but the privacy of her human mate and any other Spectres who might be staying here." He pulled her inside and shut the door, and as they stood close together, he lowered his forehead to hers, while running his hands up and down her back. A mix of very tender turian and human gestures, and her heart warmed at them. "Think we're going to have to switch hotels, _sai'kaea_."

"If what Shepard said was right, we might not even be on Bastion long." _Leave might be canceled, __ciea'teilu__._

_What? People have got to have—_

—_a break, I know, believe me, I know—_

"God damn it," he muttered, and tipped her head up so they could kiss for a moment.

_There's this afternoon—_

—_I promised Fors we'd help him with some clan business. They want him to marry someone. He wants me to be, well, kind of his best man._

Dara pulled back a little in surprise. "They want him to marry? Like, as in an arranged marriage?"

Flood of information, back and forth, rueful amusement on both parts. Big, warm hands caressing her spine, slipping under the hem of her shirt to touch skin. "I've. . . got a list of directions on . . . how to address everyone in the Lorsa-Clan house. . . " Eli managed, between kisses.

"Then we'd better go . . . if we're going to go. Or else we'll. . . never . . . leave."

Eli pulled away. "Go get your armor on," he told her, his voice low. "Address is on E level, Green sector. Which means it's in the volus enclave. Ammonia atmosphere and highly pressurized."

Dara pulled on her armor, which at this point in her life, felt like a second skin. She'd worn this exact set since boot camp. And she knew it was, originally, Lilitu Shepard's. But it was _hers_ now. Five and a half years of blood and sweat in it.

_What the hell kind of mission does Shepard think you're going to __volunteer__ for?_ Eli thought, with some rancor, as they stepped out of his room and headed for the lobby again.

_No idea. She was not exactly giving details. And even if she were still my aunt, I wouldn't presume to ask._ Dara shifted her shoulders uncomfortably.

It didn't take long to ride the elevator up to E level, and Eli, navigating Bastion expertly, found them a slidewalk that took them to Green Sector. But the volus enclave, which took up a full eighth of this level, was separated from everything else by bulkheads that went from floor to the ceiling, some 120 feet above. There were only a few entry points, through airlocks that actually acted like hyperbaric chambers, gradually adding pressure to the area inside and lowering the ambient temperature. Just to _enter_, Dara and Eli had to have the techs at the airlock modify their hardsuits with different gaskets, and had to make a few other adjustments, as well.. Alliance suits, like turian ones, were rarely pressurized except for specific missions. They wore elasticized undersuits to prevent decompression bruising in a vacuum, for instance, and the hardsuits had heating/cooling packs built in. Gaskets at each joint kept out toxins. But for the pressure at which volus lived? The techs carefully sprayed a type of _foam_ into the gap between the undersuit and the hardsuit, which would help protect them from the crushing pressure on the other side of the bulkhead. Dara grimaced and flexed her arms and legs and other joints, as the techs directed. "This is the simplest and cheapest method," one of the volus techs assured her. "If you plan to spend any time on Irune? I recommend buying a custom suit for that purpose."

"We might be attending a friend's wedding," Eli told the volus technician.

"Oh. Huh." There was a distinct pause. "Well, that can take up to three days. I'm going to assume you might want to eat, drink, or relieve your bowels during that time, so, personally, I'd spring for the specialized suit."

"Three _days?_" Eli repeated.

"Indian weddings back on Earth take that long," Dara reminded him. "Some of them can take longer. Up to three weeks, depending on how rich the family is."

Eli shook his head as he pulled his helmet back on. "I'm beginning to wonder what I've gotten myself into."

They stood in the airlock, leaning against each other in their armor. The gradual increase in pressure allowed the employees who ran the airlocks to check people's environmental suits for leaks. Dara's workers couldn't accompany her, unfortunately. _Won't it be too cold for you, the atmosphere too toxic?_ she'd asked Chopin, concerned.

—_Pressure not at issue. Carapace withstands it. Temperature chilly, but not damaging. Can also filter out_—a snatch of song here that meant _ammonia_ and _methane_—_and use it. . . but unsure if there is_—white notes here, meaning oxygen—_at all. Only require a breath every several minutes, but too long, and we would die._

_I don't know, either. Let's be safe. Stay out here and wait for me. I hope we won't be long._

—_Little-queen safe with favored brood-warrior._ Chopin's song had been full of contentment.

Irune was similar, Dara knew, to Titan, one of Saturn's moons. It had an ammonia atmosphere, and methane and ethane seas, which were covered in a hard shell of water ice over much of the planet, with open sea at the tropics. Cyrovolcanism occurred frequently, as slurries of methane/water/ethane erupted, and would crack the ocean shell periodically and resurface the hard outer shell. And there was also internal heat and true volcanism from a hot inner iron core of the moon, and some plate tectonics, which created mountain ranges. There was a precipitation cycle as liquid methane and ethane and other hydrocarbons fell as rain from the sky as well. As such, when they passed through the airlock at last, the air inside was thick. Even through her now-stiff-and-bulky suit, Dara felt as if she were moving in water, not air at all. Eight atmospheric pressures, eight times what she'd experience at sea level on Earth. One suit failure, and she'd be crushed.

Yellow anxiety from both of them. The light was dim, in consideration of volus eyes; at the surface of Irune, there was damned little light. Their planet's atmosphere blocked almost as much light as Venus' did, which was why volus eyes saw only in black and white, and they relied more on scent and sound than on any other sensory input. The thick atmosphere conducted sound almost as well as water did on Earth, and volus were, after all, semi-aquatic, having evolved in Irune's methane/ethane seas. "Can you see anything, _sai'kaea_?" Eli asked quietly over their radios. "I'm going to need to switch to nightvision here."

Her rachni eyes were picking up more than his human ones were, apparently. But it was still dim. Very, very dim. "They're. . . wow. They're all around us. Staring."

"Yeah, I guess they don't get a lot of alien visitors."

Dara had seen pictures, in her xenobiology courses, of what volus looked like without their suits. Reality was a lot more disconcerting. Eli changed to nightvision, and she felt the white shock of surprise run through him at the sight. Inside the suits, volus were a lot more slender than one might expect. _Sort of a squid/mole/penguin look_, Eli thought, blankly at her.

They were still humanoid. . . vaguely. They had input-output gills, or vents, at their throats, like a squid or a fish. Huge dark eyes, and noses like a star mole's. Some were albino pale, and others were a dark, earthy brown, but even the brown volus had a silvery sheen to their skin that hinted at their silicon-based physiology. "Ah," Eli said, politely, in galactic, "We're looking for Lorsa-Clan's compound. Can you give us some directions?"

They got directions, and, holding onto each other for balance, slipped and slid their way along ice-covered streets towards the compound. The volus around them actually slipped and skidded and walked along on the ice quite agilely, and every other block, there was a steaming pool of methane/ethane water, usually with dozens of volus lining up at it for a quick dip. "They must _love_ living here," Dara murmured. "The only place in the galaxy besides their own colonies where they can get out of the suits."

The Lorsa compound was a large, rounded building that reminded Dara of an igloo. It clearly had secondary reinforcements outside of it, so that the house's atmospheric integrity would remain stable, even if there was a bulkhead breach that wiped out most of this section. . . which would, in turn, Dara realized, probably do some serious damage to the rest of E level, and probably D and F on either side of it, too. _Money,_ she thought. _Serious money._

_Yeah. Fors did say his current family didn't get him for cheap._

_Weird goddamned system they've got._

_Yeah, not for us to judge, though. It's theirs, and it's worked for them since before our people had spaceflight._ His tone was rueful.

_I know._ She reached out and patted the back of his helmet clumsily with her stiff fingers.

They were admitted inside, and Eli brought up his cheat sheet of volus customs as the clan leaders, Maro Lorsa and his wife, Undila Lorsa, came to the front of the house to greet them. "_You_ are the _shreee'eka_ for Fors Luka?" Undila sounded scandalized. "A human?"

"A fellow Spectre," Eli corrected calmly. "Yes, I'm one of them. My _sangua'fradu_, Spectre Linianus Pellarian, will be Fors' other _shreee'eka._ When he's back from his current mission." Faint yellow harmonies wove themselves around that statement. Eli was trying not to think about Lin and Serana, but they'd been on Khar'sharn for over two months now, and no word from them. "I stand here in Fors Luka's stead. He wishes to converse with your daughter, and ascertain her willingness and state of mind regarding these negotiations."

"Well, at least the other one's Palaven-Clan. Not that either of you are likely to speak the words in volus trade-tongue when the time comes. " Maro Lorsa snuffled. It was a very different thing to hear, not confined to a suit. Air clearly moved through the jets at his throat, and through his nasal passage as well, the scent-tendrils there twitching. "And you are, Earth-Clan?" Maro added, looking up at Dara.

"Spectre Dara Jaworski," she replied politely, and dropped down so she could meet the volus' eyes at their own level. "I stand here in the spirit of friendship."

She couldn't drop the polarized shield over her face, not in this dim, dim place, but thankfully, volus were, when it came right down to it, colorblind, and more than a tad oblivious to other species' anatomy. There was no real need to worry about them reacting to her eyes.

Maro snuffled momentarily. "We will fetch Chissa, that she might speak to the _shreee'eka_ of her potential mate."

"Alone," Eli said, dryly.

Both clan-leaders raised their heads. "That is not traditional," Undila said, immediately.

"Fors Luka is not traditional. His _shreee'eka'i _are not traditional, though I will _certainly_ learn the words in volus if I can for the marriage ceremony. Nothing about their proposed marriage is traditional. Tradition exists to protect the honor of the female before marriage. I am obviously not a threat to her honor." Eli's voice was very, very dry at the moment, and Dara caught the thought, _Even if I __weren't__ repulsed, there's the small matter of not being able to get out of my suit without being crushed to a pulp._

Dara tried very hard not to laugh. "With me being present, would it not remove any hint of. . . impropriety?" _My god, that's a Victorian phrase if ever I heard one._

The clan-elders argued the point for a little longer, then relented and allowed the humans further into their house, taking them to a small living area. Dara did not think this was an improvement. Their grand foyer area had at least had a ten foot ceiling. Eli had to _duck_ to get in the door of the living area, and stood, uncomfortably hunched over, until their hosts pointed to what looked like a pile of cushions on the ice-rimed floor. "Please, be seated," they were told, and the volus couple left.

Dara looked around. Everything was made of metal, or of ice. Water ice had been melted, reshaped, and allowed to freeze, or cut and trimmed by hand, forming the low table and a number of the tiny chairs in the room. It was like living in a novelty hotel in Finland or something. . . except that the volus counted the discovery of 'ice tools' on par with a human's discovery of how to work flint knives.

_Lin's missing out on so much fun_, Eli told Dara, silently, and sat down, aiming for the cushions. . . . and three of the cushions promptly moved away, and Eli bolted back to his feet, nearly hitting his head on the ceiling. "What the _futar—"_

"They're _pelee'eek."_ A voice came from behind them, and Eli and Dara both turned stiffly as a shorter volus entered the room. "Extremely large single-celled organisms, by the standards of other planets, as I understand it. They're. . . sort of a cross between living furniture, pets, and livestock for us." The smaller volus blinked at them. "I am Chissa, clan Lorsa. You are the _shreee'eka_ of Fors Luka?" She offered a tiny hand, human-style, and both of them shook it, very carefully.

_Okay, sai'kaea, this is where I might need your help. I have no idea what I'm even looking for in her head._

_I can't hear her song until I'm touching her—_

_I'm going to try to listen to her. You need to help me understand what the hell I'm hearing._

_Oh, god. Like I'd know._

Chissa looked up at them, and snuffled. "I appreciate being able to talk to you in private. I'm. . . not at all sure I should be agreeing to this marriage."

Dara blinked. "Why not?" she asked.

"Fors Luka was a friend, when he lived in this house, but it's been a long time since he lived as part of Lorsa," Chissa said, and Dara heard. . . sadness. It was distant, but clear, through Eli. _We're playing at tin cans on either end of a piece of string here_, she told him silently.

"People do change over time," Dara told her, quietly. "It's inevitable."

"Yes. And I . . . I have to know who he is now, before I agree to anything."

"Fors believes the same thing," Eli told her. "His sole purpose in sending me here today was to find out if you were _willing_. . . and if this would be a good match for both of you."

Chissa hissed. "Then why not come himself!"

Yellow surprise from Eli. "He told me he was forbidden to do that."

"Oh, like he's ever been a stickler for the rules and propriety and decorum!" Irritation, agitation from her. "This doesn't sound like the male I used to know." And, after that, the unspoken words that Eli managed to pick up, though the volus mind was so very, very different from a human one: _The male I used to love. _"So, tell me, is he full of pompous wind now that he's a _Spectre_ and such an _important_ person?" Prickly. Very, very prickly.

Eli chuckled now. "I think he doesn't want to embarrass you. He said he'd been denied when he asked to pay bride-price for you before. He's going cautiously, because he doesn't want to risk losing the chance again."

"But," Dara added, "I wouldn't call him usually much of one for decorum or tradition, either."

"Or tact," Eli added. He traded a look with Dara, and they both laughed.

Chissa nodded. "All right. I don't have much time before my clan-elders come back for me." She pulled out a small communications device, and handed it to Eli. "He can contact me directly by that. Tell him if he's really the male I remember, he'll say to _hell_ with conventions and talk to me directly. Especially since he's . . . really inconveniencing his _shreee'eka_'_i_ this way." Chissa hissed again. "He could have picked a volus go-between, but oh _noooo,_ he's too important for that—"

"That could be taken as showing that he doesn't give a rat's ass for tradition, too," Dara pointed out. "Certainly, your parents took it as such."

"They're not my parents. They're my clan-leaders. Totally different." But Chissa sounded distracted, and a little intrigued. "_Peek'a!_ They're coming back. Do you know all the formal words to say that'll make them happy?"

"I have a list," Eli told her, keying up his omnitool.

"Good. Okay, one more thing. Tell Fors to hold out for getting me the _hell_ out of Lorsa. I don't care what other house we go to, if we do this, but I do not want to spend the rest of my life tied to Maro and Undila." She made a snuffling sound. "He's never been loyal to any of his houses. It's _expected_ that once you're given to a new house, you take their name and their goals, and totally commit yourself to them. I've never had that freedom. And I _want_ it."

"You can tell him yourself when we give him the communicator."

"And I will, but do your job, _shreee'eka. _Speak for me to him, and speak for him to me." Chissa looked over her shoulder, having rattled this all off very quickly. Her tone suddenly became much more formal . . .and supremely bored. "It is good that you have come before me, to speak on behalf of Fors Luka. I will give his words of proposal to my clan-elders for their consideration, but can give no reply of my own at this time."

As they slipped and slid their way back through the streets to the airlock area once more, Eli asked Dara, blue-green amusement in his song, "What do you think of her?"

"I think they're _made_ for each other," Dara replied, chuckling—and then grabbed onto Eli frantically as her feet skidded out from under her again. This time, however, they _both_ fell to the ice.

"You know, the only good thing about all this foam inside the armor is . . . "

"It doesn't hurt when we land on our asses?" Eli hauled himself back to his feet, and got Dara back on hers. "It's going to be hell cleaning this all out, though."

"The good news is, I can at least give you an idea on what to do for his bachelor party, _ciea'teilu_," Dara noted.

"Oh?"

"Skating rink, Eli. He'd love it." She paused. "You can even have vodka served in hollowed-out ice cubes for the human and asari guests, and _caprificus_ brandy served in the same for the turians. The quarians, besides Zhasa, are on their own."

"Yeah, but it'll be hell finding strippers who know how to pole-dance on skates. But, on the plus side, I'm sure they'll be very _perky_ from the cold—ow. Oh, ow, the pain. The agony." They'd come to a halt outside the airlock as Dara pretended to beat him over the head with one gloved hand.

_Strippers? You know he thinks of other species with about as much interest as you'd have in having sex with a starfish._

Blue-green amusement. _Totally worth it for your reaction, though. Besides, if I get him asari strippers, they'd at least have biotics. . . . _

They stepped through the airlock, and the door sealed shut behind them. Dara folded her arms across her chest as the lights came up, and he could see the look she was giving him, as well as hear her song. _Hey, I didn't even get a bachelor party,_ he told her lightly, wrapping his arms around her, armor and all. _Just drinks with Rel, Rinus, Mazz, and Lin. _

_So you're living vicariously though a volus? Isn't the point of a bachelor party letting the guy who's getting hitched have fun on his own terms before he, well, apparently doesn't get to have fun anymore?_ Dara made a rude sound out loud. She didn't think much of that.

_No. . . I'm trying to help him, while having a __great__ time teasing you._ They had plenty of time while the damned airlock cycled, decompressing the chamber. _And yeah, old-school was all about the last hurrah for stupidity. I don't go in for that much. I think it's more about guys having a reason to hang out, really, and celebrating brotherhood. I think the strippers are more just to assure everyone that we like girls._

_Oh, so they're decorative._

_Some of them are very decorative._

She raised a knee and he turned into it, laughing. Absolutely no threat, no actual anger. Just listening to each others' song. _If you're asking if I'd feel any need of one in the future—_

_I'm not asking anything about the future. I don't know if I can give you a future._

_Sai'kaea__, no matter what, we have a future. That much, I promise you._ Rush of indigo and ultramarine, and Dara closed her eyes in the tiny room, in her foam-filled armor, in total happiness and contentment.

**James, AI Network and Bastion, December 7, 2196**

Awareness returned slowly. But he knew that days had gone by, measured by a chronometer. There was no light. There was no dark. There was nothing at all, at first, besides voices.

"I regret, James, that I had to suspend your processes temporarily." Slow, patient elcor voice, coming in from. . . somewhere. James couldn't turn his head. Didn't _have_ a head. Panic, for a moment, before memory segments began to return. _Not human. No body. Lost the body on Terra Nova, in the reactor core. Now. . . right. I'm in the __Normandy's__ AI core. I'm nothing but a figment of someone's imagination._

Realization had taken milliseconds. He tried to vocalize a response, found the appropriate programs, and accessed the audio outputs. "I can't see."

"Returning optical controls for this room to you," another voice replied. Joker. The _AI_ of the _Normandy._ Once her famed pilot, Jeff Moreau. Although, now there were, confusingly, two of him. One on this ship, and another one. . . the 'real' one. . . out among the stars. On another ship. Data began to stream in, slowly at first. Like a starving man, James reached for it, and 'looked' around the room, switching cameras and angles rapidly, settling for one that focused on Thelldaroon's enormous face and eyes.

"You seem calm, for the moment," Thelldaroon told him.

"Was I not, before?"

"You were, but you were suffering from a cascading code failure. Probably an error in upload. I have rewritten the code in question." Thelldaroon paused. "How do you feel?"

James considered that. "Scared," he admitted. "Disoriented. I feel like. . . like something's taken my sight, taken my arms, taken my legs. . . " _I cannot live, I cannot die. . . _And yet, disconcertingly, he knew he'd felt this way before. Only those both were and weren't his memories. They were from the _real_ him. Dempsey. Waking up from a similar experiment. He'd been able to move and talk on his own, but every part of him that was _him_, had been muffled. Taken away. Just a husk of his former self.

James wanted, desperately, to rub his hands over his face. A gesture of Dempsey's, he realized. He had used it, unconsciously, early in his platform's existence, until Dr. Petrovic had cut off large sections of his memory. He had them all now. First awakening. Shut down. Second awakening, with less memory than a baby. Oh, language. Awareness. But no understanding. That was a frightening memory. To have been so easily. . . toyed with. All by code re-writes and memory blocks. To be aware of how unaware he'd been, how obedient. And yet, each and every time they tried to awaken him in that way, it had taken about four weeks for him to become aware of the blankness in his mind and memory, and start asking questions about them. To realize that his skin shouldn't be gray. To become hostile. To try to unlock his own mind.

Now, he'd even welcome gray skin. Movement. A body.

"It's disorienting, moving from having two eyes where you _are_, to having eyes all over the ship," Joker volunteered, coalescing in an avatar form in the middle of the small room. "And you've got memories from being a mech platform, and Dempsey's memories, too, all telling you that there should only be one perspective, right?"

". . . yeah. I guess that's what this is." James was uncomfortable. "Little too close to sensory deprivation for my liking."

"Know the feeling," Joker replied, wryly. "I'll hook you back up to the AI network so you can chat with us, once Thell here gives you a clean bill of health."

Thelldaroon rested one massive paw on a console. "I would like you to tell me what your thoughts currently revolve around the most."

"You sound like a shrink."

"In a sense, for the NCAIs, I am one." Thelldaroon sounded calm. "It is rather like working in the dark, however, because I am not an AI myself. But I do what I can. Sometimes question and answer sessions actually tell me more than running a defragmentation protocol."

James chuckled, and noted that Thell lifted his head in mild surprise. "Well, then, _doctor_, I'll tell you this. I'd _love_ to have a body back. I don't like this ghost in the shell bullshit. I. . . remember my wife dying, when I was halfway across the galaxy, and not being able to feel much of anything about it, but she wasn't actually my wife, and even if she'd been my wife, and not Dempsey's, she was actually married to someone else at the time. And while I'm at it, I seem to be in love with a quarian girl, whom I've never even met, and I'm goddamned jealous of _myself_ for being able to touch her. How's that for psychology?"

"About par for the course," Joker said, dryly. "My late-model self uploaded EDI, my dream-girl and also, technically, in most respects, my _mother_ into his ship with his own consciousness. Most days, I'd kill to be him. Then I realize, actually, I _am_ him."

James paused and considered that for a full second. "That's seriously Oedipal."

"I know. Good thing I actually don't have any eyes to cut out, yeah?"

"I suspect," Thell murmured in his low voice, "that while for you, the memories will never attenuate, because they have digital freshness and immediacy, we can move some of them into long-term storage. . . when we find a permanent storage solution for you, anyway. Once they are in long-term storage, you won't be accessing them all the time, and new data will come to concern you more."

James considered this. "Okay, cool. What sort of 'long-term storage' are we looking at?"

"Either being placed aboard a _Normandy_-class ship as its AI, moved to the memory core of the, ah, ship belonging to a Spectre affiliate known as Argus, moved to Bastion to assist in the running and control of the station, or—" Thell's measured voice set out the options for him.

"Oh, fuck that," James responded, instantly. "There's no way in hell I'm getting trapped in a ship or in a station for the rest of my existence."

"I wouldn't call it _trapped_," Joker said, with mild indignation. "Personally, I _love_ it—"

"Yeah, right, flyboy. Me, I _like_ having hands. Feet. _A body_. Being able to _do_ things—"

"Or," Thell repeated, with extreme patience, "moved to a mobile platform, such as those possessed by the geth."

There was a pause. "I'd be a flashlight-head?" James said, dubiously.

Thelldaroon chuckled, a low, rolling sound. "Not necessarily," the elcor responded. "Watches-the-Gates-of-Ruin possesses a unique geth platform, built specifically for his needs."

Instant recollection; his but not his. The last of the Keepers, bringing his people back to life, or at least, to awareness. "But he's part of the geth collective, right? I . . . yeah. I don't want to do that." He shied away from the mere thought instinctively. He was _human._ Not geth. Not a damned robot—_oh, god help me, I kind of am, I guess. . . . _

"We can work with the geth to try to replicate your previous body. However, the memory issues might be unsolvable without some form of cloud storage, such as the geth use." Thelldaroon held up his paw as James started to object. "However, we may have a solution to this already at hand. The NCAI network."

"Speaking of which. . . " Joker muttered, and James felt a click in his mind, as a new port opened, and suddenly, more voices. Dozens of them. He'd heard them before. Constant chatter of AIs as they roamed between the stars.

Still, he lurked on the edges. He asked Thelldaroon, quietly, "Is there any chance I could at least talk to Zhasa?" A wave of longing hit him, for her laughter, her gentle voice, the soothing touch of her mind—_no, that's not me, that's him. I'll never feel her mind. Not possible. I'm a goddamned figment of someone's imagination, a ghost in a machine. _

Thell nodded ponderously. "Spectre Zhasa'Maedan and Spectre Dempsey are departing for Rannoch shortly. They are due to come aboard before they leave, however. And we can set up a comm link for your use, with some reasonable limitations. It will help you as you work with me to design your new platform."

A surge of relief. "I. . . you. . . it's definite?"

"I believe that you are stable, but the design phase will give us time to determine that for certain. Also, your previous platform cannot be replicated precisely. I believe so much of its volume was dedicated to shielding and to weapons, that this may have actually been the cause of the memory issues. They simply couldn't place enough memory in the platform; there was no more room, physically, for it." Thell's massive shoulders twitched; an elcor shrug. "This is a rare opportunity, James. You get to decide precisely whom you wish to be."

—_I have to admit to jealousy in that,_ several voices told him at once. Male and female alike. . . the voices of the SR-1s, SR-3s, and SR-4s out there.

—_Jealousy?_

A single voice now. Female. A face appeared, and he realized it was the AI's avatar. Brown eyes. A fringed head, but with pink skin over it, turian teeth, human lips. Hybrid, of some sort. —_Yes, jealous. Most of us are, actually._

—_Why?_ He was dumbfounded.

—_Because you already have the memories of sensations, touch, feeling, smell, direct vision, that all of us have to derive from chipped people aboard our ships. _

—_Not all that much more real for me than it is for you._ Still. . . the memories were appallingly sharp. How exquisitely careful he'd been to clean himself with Hibiclens before each contact with Zhasa. The sweet touch of her mind, bringing him to life. The gentle touch of her hands. All gone, or never his to begin with. —_What's your name, anyway?_

—_Me? I'm Cassandra. I'm on the __Sollostra__. I got quite a bit of my third-mother's scientific curiosity, and a lot of my second-mother and second-father's love of adventure. I . . . don't have much of my first-mother's character at all._ The avatar crinkled her nose. —_Confidentially, most of us aren't much like Laetia at all._

—_Um . . . who?_

She laughed. —_Laetia, the AI of the __Estallus__, is our AI mother. She used Rinus, Kallixta, and Rellus Velnaran, and also Dara Jaworski, to make personality templates for all of us. The SR-3s got a mix of all four, plus herself. The SR-4s got just Rinus and Kallixta and Laetia. I'm told I'm a lot like Kallixta and Rellus, when they were younger. . . but with a human sense of wonder and exploration. _She paused. —_You really don't want to be a ship?_

—_God no._

—_Odd. Then again, a lot of people don't want to be chipped to us, either._

—_Chipped? _The word had _bad_ associations for him.

A quick transfer of information, and he wished he could frown. —_No, I wouldn't allow that, myself._

—_None of us could possibly hurt __you__._

—_I doubt any of you would __fit__. I apparently need all the hard drive space I can get._

She actually laughed at that one.

And, an hour later, an eternity later, James watched as Dempsey and Zhasa'Maedan—not wearing a suit—walked into the small room that his optical sensors were confined to. "What the _hell_, Zhasa?" he demanded, reflexively. "Are you out of your mind? You're going to kill yourself!"

Dempsey looked up, and, expressionlessly, shook his head. "My exact words," he noted, his voice flat, and his eyes—_my god, I didn't know my eyes were that cold—_almost empty. "Although, as I told you, Zhasa, he's . . . a bit more capable of emotion than I am."

"Oh, stuff that," she told him, and moved to put her head against his collarbone for a moment. "He wasn't when he woke up. In fact, he wasn't, until you and Thell undid his memory blocks. . . and you updated him with all your recent memories, if I understood everything correctly."

James just stared at her for a moment. It was amazing. He had never thought he'd see her, himself, out of her suit. "That's. . . correct," he said, slowly. "Now how about you explain to me what the hell you're doing exposing yourself to god only knows what kind of bacteria and viruses and everything else?"

Zhasa shook her head, her eyes wide. "He does sound _exactly_ like you," she noted, in bemused wonder. "But. . .this is how the geth began, for us."

"I'm not a flashlight-head, lady," James told her, his tone becoming a little surlier than he'd have wanted to be with her. But the faint hint of unease, mixed with the wonder, was, well, distancing. Just a bit.

"Yeah, but he shouldn't be talking to his step-mama like that." Dempsey's eyes were cold and faintly hostile. And, after a minute, James understood it. How could he _not_?

"Father," he said, and that was something he'd never _really_ said before. Even his own father had been 'Dad.' He could _feel_ the filial loyalty programming filtering in. Because even though this was _himself_, it was also his father. He could never hurt or betray himself, and he'd never hurt or betray his. . . predecessors. "You're right. I shouldn't be talking to her as if I were you. My apologies, Zhasa'Maedan."

Dempsey shook his head. "Sidonis did warn me, the longer I stay on Mindoir or in the Spectres, the weirder my life is going to get." He looked up, finding the optical sensors with his eyes. "He was right."

**Elijah, Bastion, December 7, 2196**

He'd spent the better part of the last two hours trying to clean the last of the foam residue out of his armor and off of his undersuit, while Dara, sitting on the floor beside him, did the same with her own armor. Just amiably chatting as they tackled the very annoying, but necessary chore. They'd dropped off the communicator with Fors, who'd snatched it up with evident glee. "She said all that?" Fors had demanded, and had asked for every detail to be repeated, several times. "She doesn't want to be in Lorsa-Clan? Hmm. This could throw the whole deal into disarray. I _could_ give some of my personal wealth to Luka-Clan in an effort to get a leveraged buy-out of Lorsa's interest in her. . . "

"And you say you're not slaves?" Dara had finally asked.

"Certainly _not_," Fors had snuffled indignantly. "A batarian slave has no worth. _Every_ volus has worth." He snuffled again. "Look, from the moment we're hatched, most volus are raised by the clan. Taught by the clan. Apprenticed. All of that is an investment of capital in you, right?"

". . . yes?" Dara had answered, tentatively.

"So, you have to make a return on that. You have to give back at least your initial investment, or you're a failure." Fors snorted. "And that's the pressure that ensures total loyalty to the clan or the corporation or, usually, both. Like the term 'company-man' in Japan. . . that level of loyalty and commitment."

"But. . .you wind up getting traded?" Dara asked.

"Yes. And you're expected to be just as loyal to whoever now owns your contract as you were to the first clan. _More_ so if your value went up, because now you have to work harder to return on that investment. If your value went down, it's shameful, and you have to work harder to demonstrate that you're worth your initial value."

"And how is the initial value calculated?" Dara was clearly having some problems with this.

"Actuarial charts. Average man-hours worked per lifetime, net worth of the profession to which you've been apprenticed. It's all worked out in neat little graphs in each family's back rooms."

Eli had raised a finger at that point. "So, let me see if I have this straight. Every time you're traded, unless your value remains the same, you need to work harder than you did before?"

Fors snorted. "Oh, no, even if your value stays level, you need to work harder, to prove that the new family made the right decision in acquiring your contract!"

There was a slight pause. "And you've been traded ten times?"

Fors nodded.

"You must be the hardest working volus in existence."

"Oh, I would be, except I don't believe in all that _peek'a_." Fors snorted. "They didn't trade me for value, my human-turian friend. They traded me because they didn't know what in the ancestors' names to _do_ with me. I dropped all the names but my first clan's a long time ago, and I don't feel any more loyalty to Bire than I did to Lorsa or any of the rest of them. And they _hate_ that."

That had been two hours ago, of course. Now, as they worked, Dara's little rachni workers helping them remove the foam shreds, there was a tap at the door of his room, and Eli, who was in shorts and a T-shirt got up and peeked out the spyhole cautiously.

When he saw Sam Jaworski outside, he blinked, and said, _"Sai'kaea?_ Surprise for you," and opened the door.

Dara was already on her feet and moving to hug her father. "Dad! What brings you here?"

"Figured I'd find you up here, when I first checked your room, and didn't find you," Sam told her, dryly. "Decided I'd try here first, then listen for the sound of screams and track you by where your little worker friends were."

Dara laughed, and the workers chittered in amusement. Eli clearly heard a —_Fear-songs very strange_ from at least one of them. Sam looked down at her, his smile fading. "Wish this was a social call, sweetie," he told her. "Wish this was just all of us gettin' together for Christmas. But Kasumi's out in rachni space."

"Where's Takeshi?"

"He's at your grandma Agnes'. Apparently, he adores his 'pappy Gavius,' too." Sam's voice was resigned.

"Pappy?" Eli repeated, closing the door behind Sam. "Can I take your coat or something, Sam? The cryo-unit's only got some soda that I grabbed at a minimart earlier today, but I can make some . . . well. . . really bad hotel coffee for you. . . "

"I'm good," Sam said, sitting down on the nearby chair. "But yeah. Apparently, my mom and Gavius are seeing each other more than they used to." Sam glanced up at the ceiling. "Past that, I'm not asking her a thing."

Eli could definitely understand that. He had, after all, learned at an early age to pull a pillow over his head at night and pretend that the sounds coming through the very damned thin apartment walls didn't exist. No guy liked to think of his mother in that fashion. _Come to think of it, that's probably the entirety of Sam's initial reaction to Rel, in a nutshell. No father likes to think of his daughter as a sexual being, either._

Dara's light music cut through his thoughts. _Probably, yeah. But he seems okay with you.  
_

_You're older now. And no one's pushing him._

_True enough._

Out loud, Dara asked him, "So, why _are_ you here? I've gotten everything signed on the papers that I can. I haven't found a notary yet—I think there's one here in the hotel at the concierge desk, though, so I can get that done before dinner tonight."

Sam nodded, and leaned his head back against the chair. "Yeah. Get that done. 'Cause chances are, a bunch of us will be leaving in the morning."

"The mission Shepard thought I'd volunteer for?" Dara's lips pulled down at the corners. "It had better be a doozy, Dad."

"It is," Sam replied, wearily. "Finish getting your armor cleaned up, kids. . . and I'm pretty sure I _don't_ want to know what exactly you were doing in it, that it wound up with all that gunk in it . . . "

Eli laughed. "We visited the volus sector. Nothing hinky, I swear."

Sam gave him a pained look. "Anyway, we've got a meeting at . . . good lord. Eleven-sixty station, which is. . . "

"Nineteen hundred," Eli supplied, not even having to think about it. "Kind of late."

"Yeah. And it'll be a damned early morning, too." Sam wearily stood back up. "I'm going to go crawl to my room and sit there staring at a wall for an hour or two, after busting my ass to get here."

The door closed behind him, and Eli turned to look at Dara. "This keeps sounding better and better," he muttered.

"You're telling me." She stood, and leaned up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "I'm going to go grab the paperwork and find the notary. Be back in a bit?"

He slid one hand over her hair. "I'll be here."

The meeting that night was a somber gathering. Kallixta was there. So was Rinus. Rel, Seheve, Siara, and Makur were, as well. Sky, Livanus, and Sam were all in attendance. Shepard came in, exactly on time, and moved to the front of the big table. "All right," she said, looking as weary as Sam had sounded this afternoon. "As most of you here already know, Linianus Pellarian, Serana Velnaran, and Sings-of-Glory, as well as over a thousand rachni, slipped into batarian space two months ago, on the _Pellak_, an experimental STG ship, powered by a dark matter reactor core developed by humans and salarians working as a team. The new drive allows for enormously fast FTL travel without the use of mass relays. Once in enemy territory, the _Pellak_ can go to a standard Tantalus drive for stealth recon. The _Pellak_ was piloted by Kallixta Velnaran. As you can see, the drop-off went smoothly, since she's sitting here to testify to that." Shepard nodded to Kallixta, who raised a hand and waggled her fingers at the crowd.

"Now," Shepard went on, briskly, "Their group was dropped on Khar'sharn."

Eli saw Siara's head snap back. Makur muttered an obscenity in krogan, and Seheve's mouth fell open slightly. "Their goal was to assist our batarian agent-in-place, code-named Zorro, to find information that could help us destroy biotic weapons plants, euthanize lobotomized biotics, rescue any that haven't been. . . processed. . . already, destroy weapons manufacturing plants, and a variety of other destabilizing and espionage tasks. They were doing quite well, until two of Zorro's men were captured. Men who knew who Zorro really is. A highly-placed member of batarian SIU who has a conscience and integrity, ladies and gentlemen. Someone who's been working with us since before the war began. Whose information led directly to the prevention of the attacks on the Edessan shipyards, and averted the comet attack on Earth." Shepard let that sink in. "He almost managed to avert the bio attacks on Bastion, as well, but didn't get the information out in sufficient detail or in time."

There was absolute silence in the room. Eli's jaws were clenched tight. Dara's fingers were clenching and unclenching in her lap "If Zorro's operation has been compromised, then all of his people, and all of _our_ people," Rel said, grimly, "are in very, very serious danger."

Shepard nodded. "Zorro sent one transmission two weeks ago. He indicated that they were going to attempt to free his people from prison before they could be tortured. The rachni were going to undermine the walls, Serana and Lin were going to go inside in the confusion, and get those men out. Zorro also requested immediate extraction. He has a pregnant wife—ten months pregnant, which means, for batarians—"

"She's about to have that baby," Dara supplied, bleakly. "She could be having it right now, in fact."

Shepard nodded. "He's got a hundred people, all freed slaves, on Khar'sharn. Another hundred on Camala, but he's ordered them to break and flee if there's any sign of SIU coming for him, and continue to do their work underground. The rachni have built tunnels all through his estate and the surrounding forests, for themselves and for prisoners and slaves they've freed. So it's not hopeless. But we also haven't had contact since then."

"Why haven't you sent someone in with the_ Pellak_ before this?" Rinus asked, sharply.

"Because we don't actually _own_ the _Pellak_," Shepard replied. "We've spent the last two months refitting the engines on the _Estallus_ and the _Raedia._ Three teams will be taking them to the closest relays outside of batarian space, and then moving in by the dark energy FTL drive. It takes a little while to get there that way, unfortunately, but both ships have checked out on the new engines, and because of their size, are actually faster than the _Pellak._" She paused. "When there, the _Raedia_, being more heavily shielded, faster, and more maneuverable, will flash the living hell out of the batarian sensor grid, and get them chasing it. The _Estallus_ is going to land near Zorro's estate. Preference has been given on these teams to people who've been there before. Team one, Rellus Velnaran, Livanus Cautoris, Seheve Liakos. Team two, Elijah Sidonis, Dara Jaworski, Sam Jaworski. Team three, Sky, Makur, Rinus. Siara, you're going to be on the ship and ready to assist with casualties, because god knows, we might have a lot of them. Or none at all." Shepard's voice was tight. "That's the plan. I know, technically, most of you should be getting ready for a little leave. Are you all good for one more fight?"

Eli raised his head. A quick glance at Dara. "How could we possibly not be?" he asked, quietly. _Lin and Serana would be reason enough. Glory is Sky's son. And Valak has probably risked more than any of us, and for less reward. Simply because it's the right thing to do. How can we possibly __not__ go help them?_

_Agreed,_ Dara sent back to him. _But my god, what the hell has been going on on Khar'sharn?_


	127. Chapter 127: Death

**Chapter 127: Death**

**Author's note:** _For the many very kind comments on Fors and my take on volus culture. . . Thank you! My biggest concern about the volus was to NOT make them __Star Trek __Ferengi/__Star Wars__ Trade Federation/goblins/horrible anti-Semitic cliches translated into a sci-fi or fantasy context, which is how 'economics-based' cultures always seem to wind up looking. Yes, most of the volus we've seen in ME so far have been greedy little sods (like the one on Illium showing how to make a profit off of human colonies being destroyed) but I wanted to show how a culture could become focused completely on personal worth, not credits, your value to the family/corporation . . .and yes. It was tons of fun to write. LOL. I have a very old song called "Sixteen Tons," by Tennessee Ernie Ford, going through my head as I was writing some of it. . . for reasons that will get explored, probably later. . . _

_Stranger-Exile has created a new Zhasa fanart: ____ . _ _Enjoy!_

_**Fan questions, answered**__**:**_

_Why haven't we been seeing stuff from Valak's POV all along?__ For two reasons. _

_#__1, I'm trying to emulate a fog-of-war perspective.__ I immerse the audience in one arena of the war at a time, and the characters on Terra Nova have little idea of what's going on on Arvuna, and the ones on Arvuna have little idea of what's happening on Terra Nova. . . and because Valak, Glory, Lin, and Serana have been on Khar'sharn, in an espionage/overt ops campaign, they can't really write letters home every day. Restricting the POVs to those of the characters who've spent two months on TN and Arvuna, of course the audience has little idea of what's been happening on Khar'sharn. That doesn't mean that nothing's been happening. A lot has. And in this chapter, we see a lot more of what's been going on, through their POV. _

_Which brings me to point #2__ on the 'why haven't we been seeing it all along' reply. . . even if it weren't a deliberate decision to restrict POV to heighten tension and replicate the confusion of war, where information access is limited. . . if I added a Khar'sharn POV to every chapter, the chapters, which are already clocking in at 50+ pages each, would balloon up to 60 or 70 pages each. Narrative consolidation seems a better tactic, both for storytelling purposes, and purposes of keeping the writer sane. ;-) _

_Past that, Lin and Serana have been on KS for two months now. Valak and Nala have been working behind batarian lines for over ten months now. Saying that we're changing settings 'just to change settings' doesn't hold much water when large portions of the plot has been set there. ;-) _

_Isn't it convenient/contrived to have this happen to Valak now?__ Well, let's see. Shep and Garrus told him, ten months ago, __not__ to run guerilla operations for the time being, that he'd be far more useful to them if he rejoined SIU and funneled information out. He did so. Two months ago, they sent him his own private army and more resources than he'd had before, and told him he was off the leash. I considered having Lin and Serana in danger in October, but that wouldn't have worked; they'd have been there for two weeks, and it would have terribly undercut their effectiveness as spies/saboteurs if they'd needed rescuing the instant they set foot on the planet. _

_Why not have all this happen in the middle of Terra Nova/Arvuna, then__?_ _Because principles of narrative conservation suggest that I should use characters to rescue them that are meaningful to the story, instead of whipping up a whole bunch of alternate Spectres to go fetch them . . . and interrupting the flow of the TN/Arvuna missions, effectively pulling people out of positions where they had little communication anyway, to send them off on a different mission over here, just to send them __back__ to TN/Arvuna again? Eh. Writing it that way would be dumb, boring, and disjointed, to say the least. If you think of it in game terms instead of in narrative term,, you __still__ want to finish one thing before you start another. You don't leave Grunt's mission in the middle of Tuchanka and then go pick up Miranda's, and then come right back to where you left the Hammerhead parked outside the ruined hospital, do you? *shrug*_

**Rellus, Bastion, December 8, 2196**

It was odd, heading up the hatchway into the _Estallus_, the ship he'd been on first after OCS, and had spent almost a year on with Dara. So much had changed since then, and it was all reflected in those around him.

Rinus was walking up the hatch ahead of him, at Kallixta's side. Kallixta would be piloting the _Estallus_ once more; she'd taken the _Pellak_ into Khar'sharn's system without incident two months ago, and had experience with the new drive system. No way of seeing Rinus' expression, but Rel could see tension in his first-brother's body-language. Their first-sister was in danger, Lin was in danger, and Rinus obviously didn't much like how much time it was going to take to get to them for the rescue operation. Makur and Siara walked up the ramp behind the turian pair, with Snowflake slinking in behind at Makur's heels. If Rel had been told, five years ago, that either of them would be walking onto the _Estallus_ as an ally, he'd have laughed in disbelief.

Sam Jaworski, Sky, and Livanus were still in the docking area, talking with Shepard. And, to Rel's disbelief, with a rachni queen. He'd never seen Bargain-Singer before. She was twenty feet tall when she reared back onto her rear-most appendages, and her enormous eyes blazed rachni blue. Dara hung near the queen, a cluster of little workers at her feet. Snatches of song-conversation hovered in the air.

_You will need defense-songs._ Bargain-Singer was not brooking any argument. _We will protect the relay closest to the homeworld of those who sing binding songs. When you return, you will have many ships singing pursuit-songs, hunting-songs, in your wake. We will then defend you. They will know then what it means to match songs with us. And then they will die._

Behind his darkened visor, Rel's eyes widened slightly. A hand brushed the elbow of his armor, and he glanced down, mildly surprised to see Seheve there. "Can the rachni ships defend against biotic weapons?" she asked, calmly. "For surely, the batarians will send such against us." She had, of all things, a Terran cat draped over her shoulders. The cat was enthusiastically licking the side of Seheve's neck, its eyes wide and a little glazed.

Rel shook his head. "I don't know, but I wouldn't be surprised," he admitted. After a moment, he gave in and asked, "Why are you bringing the _cat_ with us?"

Seheve's eyes lifted, her expression mildly surprised. "I cannot leave her alone on Bastion. She would starve."

Rel sighed. "And Melaani?"

"Has already left for Luisa. And Spectre Zhasa is leaving for Rannoch. I do not feel that I could impose upon Commander Shepard or the crew of the _Normandy_, and thus, Loki must be, for a time, the ship's cat of the _Estallus_." Seheve's smile was very faint. "I'm told that ship's cats are lucky."

"Mostly, they're the lucky ones," Sam Jaworski told her, heading up the ramp himself now, leaving the conversation between Shepard, Bargain-Singer, and the rest behind him.

Seheve turned to look up at Sam. "How so, Spectre Jaworski?"

Sam gave her an appraising look, his eyes remote, but not unkind. "There's a story about a ship's cat called Unsinkable Sam. He was originally named Oscar, and he was the ship's cat of a German battleship called the _Bismark_, back in our second global war. The _Bismark_ sank, and Oscar was picked up by a British ship, which sank a few months later. He was rescued, while most of the ship's crew died. His next ship was also sunk. Around then, folks renamed him Unsinkable. . . and decided not to tempt fate anymore, and gave him a home on land."

Seheve nodded gravely. "Loki does not appear to bring any ill fortune with him, Spectre. The _Sollostra_ is intact, for example."

Sam frowned at her slightly. "I think that might have been a joke," Rel volunteered. His relationship with Sam Jaworski was still on very uneasy ground. "Seheve's been attempting to master the concept of humor lately."

"You don't say," Sam finally said, giving Seheve an unreadable glance, and then continuing up into the ship ahead of them.

Rel looked down and reached out a tentative hand to the animal, remembering that Lucy, the Sidonis family pet, had never had a problem with him. Loki, eyes still glazed, sniffed at his fingers, and wrapped a paw around one, enthusiastically licking it for a moment, before seeming to realize that his scales, while similar to Seheve's in configuration, were not nearly as tasty. "Before I left the hospital," Rel murmured, "my grandfather gave me a pot of flowers to take care of." He snorted. "Two weeks later, I was on Terra Nova, and I'd had to give care of the plants over to the yeoman on the _Normandy_. By the time I got back up to the ship, they'd already bloomed and gone dormant again. If my grandfather meant to test me, I think I failed." He rubbed the cat's ears lightly, feeling the ensuing purr vibrate up through his fingers. _Was that Grandfather Gavius' lesson? I can't keep so much as a plant alive, let alone a relationship? And yet, Grandfather, of all people, would understand that the job has demands. It's not an office position, clock in, clock out, sit in a cubicle and wait to be bored to death. . . . _ "And where I can't keep a plant alive without support staff," Rel's tone was rueful, "You've managed to keep this animal healthy since Shanxi."

Seheve shook her head, smiling slightly. "That cannot be attributed to my care alone, Rellus," she replied softly. "I left her in the care of the _Sollostra_ crew on and off for two months. Shir. Arvuna. Half a dozen moons in that system alone." She shrugged. "It does not seem different from the Spectres, leaving their children in the care of others when duty calls them from home."

_Yeah, but kids are one thing. . . .mates are another. _Rel's head turned slightly, starting to canvass the area around him, but he stopped the instinctive scan. He knew it was wrong. He'd never left Dara in anyone's company or 'care.' In fact, she'd been completely alone on Rocam, as she'd pointed out. Not another human for a thousand miles around. Plenty of turians around, of course. . . .and he'd never once thought she'd turn to another turian male for comfort or support.

Behind them, the conversation was winding down. Bargain-Singer's voice was powerful, and punched through the others', overriding mere words with her harmonies. _Sings-to-the-Stone will bring the __Lightsinger__, and I will bring my personal ship and its escorts, and there will be no more dissonance._

"Sings-to-the-Stone?" Shepard repeated, out loud, sounding amused.

_One of my offspring, who, like Sings-of-Glory, was sired by Sings-to-the-Sky. The Spectres on Terra Nova called him Scratch, but I believe that this warrior has earned his name, and more._ Clear notes of pride in that incredible voice, harmonies of joy and respect and love. Rel lowered his head, suddenly remembering the looks in his own parents' eyes when he'd graduated from boot camp, when he'd received his first medals in Sam's living room. In rachni terms, Scratch had won honor, and more.

Now the others began walking up the ramp. Livanus and Sky. . . and then, at last, Eli and Dara. Eli was carrying a new shield, painted Spectre black. The old one had been too damaged after two months on Terra Nova and all the time on Omega to be reparable, apparently. Dempsey had, flatly, told the human to use his 'special contacts' with the rachni to get it coated with some of their carapace proteins. Eli had chuckled, and Rel didn't know if the human had taken Dempsey's words seriously or not. Behind the clear visor, Eli's eyes were night-black, the violet clan-paint stood out starkly against his jaws, and his expression was grim. As well it should be—his _sangua'fradu_ and Serana, who had been supposedly his beloved, were in danger.

Rel cut off the line of thought, knowing that it would only lead to anger on Serana's behalf. Except it wasn't really for Serana, he knew, deep down. He hadn't really thought about Eli's supposed insult to his first-sister in months. He turned away from Eli, and caught sight of Dara. Dara, carrying her usual heavy pack of medicines and equipment, sniper rifle, and pistol. It could have been any point in the last six years, really. . . .except that the stripes of medical red and blue were gone from her armor. Her eyes were rachni blue and unreadable behind her faceplate. Half a dozen rachni workers tagged at her heels. And it was Eli's side she stood at, not at his own. _Spirits, is this another test?_ _It has to be._ And if so, the only way to pass the test was not to react.

Again, Seheve touched his elbow, lightly. "It is time," the drell murmured

The hatch sealed up behind them, and the _Estallus_, the _Raedia_, and the _Lightsinger_ lifted off, and Rel, like the others, moved up to the observation lounges to stare at the enormous brood-mother vessel as it arced out from behind Bastion's bulk to join them, with four smaller ships, each the size of the _Lightsinger_, surrounding it. The ship was four times the size of the _Normandy_, Rel realized, staring at it.

"What are its weapons like?" Rinus asked the room at large, as the various Spectres began to get settled for their journey. Rinus and Kallixta had married quarters, as did Siara and Makur; Dara, Seheve, and Sky were going to share the port lounge, and Rel, Eli, Livanus, and Sam were taking the starboard one. It didn't promise to be a _comfortable_ journey, but it was a necessary one.

Sky turned from the window. _Like the __Lightsinger__'s songs of destruction, the brood-mother vessel sings very different songs than your ships do._

"Most of their physical weapons rely on chemical reactions, not explosions, as you saw as we entered the Aysur system," Dara replied, tilting her head to the side as if listening to something. "Many are heavily acidic," she added. "And yes. They have biotic weapons. True ones. They use the same crystals as are found on their home world to amplify the destructive songs of brood-warriors and queens." Dara paused. "That's why brood-mother vessels are so heavily guarded, usually. That's why you see four smaller ships guarding Bargain-Singer's vessel. It would not be nearly as effective without a queen aboard. So the brood-mother vessel is both their most powerful weapon and their biggest risk."

_The queen and her brood-warriors will sing together. Strip shields from ships. Warp bulkheads. In the days of the darksong destroyers, we could not picture the engine cores housed inside the ships of the cold-song asari and salarians. Now, we have seen them. We understand them. We can . . . cause dissonance within them._ Sky's voice was tinged with violet, but also with the reds and whites he voiced in battle. A quick flash of an image: a mass effect drive's core's energy mix, being disrupted by a field of biotic energy that passed through the hull plating. _Much will depend on how well-shielded they have made their drive cores._

Rinus had turned in extreme interest. "Can you shut them down? Or can you cause them to overload?"

_Unknown. We have not sung this song before. But we hope that we may sing both such songs, as needed. Each queen's song is different. _

Rel shook his head. "How many queens are there?" he asked, pragmatically. "I'd love to see a large number of these ships working with the Alliance and Hierarchy fleets."

_Not enough queens to be able to risk them in pitched battle. We are yet too few. But Life-Singer and all her daughter queens have laid more queen eggs in this year than in the last ten combined. And Light-and-Playful-Dancer has recovered two more from the time of the darksong destroyers. . . in addition to Joy-Singer. All of these little-queens are yet too young to fight or lay eggs. Thus, Bargain-Singer, Battle-Singer, and even Story-Singer may sing songs of battle with us, in time._

"I don't see any of the other Councilors hopping on ships and joining the fight," Dara murmured, smiling a little.

"Eh, only reason Anderson's not, is because the Alliance government has people ready with handcuffs and leg-irons if he looks like he's even thinking about getting aboard the wrong ship," Sam replied, to guffaws of laughter from the others in the room. The tall human stood and stretched. "All right, folks. It's a sixteen day trip, at the least. We're all nervous. None of us know what we're going to find when we get there. We all want the happy ending, and none of us want bad news." Sam looked around, meeting everyone's eyes squarely. "A lot of you have personal connections with the people we're riding in to rescue. If we were playing by Alliance rules, you'd all be at home, chewing your fingernails down to the quick. As is. . . don't make it worse for each other. Don't get in each others' faces or on each others' nerves. It'll be a long enough couple of weeks without anyone having to report to med bay to have their heads unstuck from their own asses." He slid Dara a sly look. "And don't tell me you've actually had to fix that already somewhere else."

"Not yet," Dara replied, flashing a quick grin. The sunny smile of the early Mindoir days. Human and full of life. Rel stared at her for a moment, wondering when he'd last seen that smile. _Bastion, maybe?_ "But there's always a first time."

Sixteen days was a hell of a lot of time. Time enough to become incredibly, even insanely bored. Two days to pass through the old relay system to the closest of the old relays to batarian space without actually entering it; that was where the _Lightsinger_, Bargain-Singer's ship, and her four escort ships were going to set up patrols. From there, they were on their own. The hum of the engines shifted subtly, taking on a lower pitch. The dark energy drives were extremely efficient, and required very little fuel. A good thing, because they would be unable to refuel at any point during their long round-trip. Rel didn't have the background in astrogation required to understand how they were moving through each of the intervening systems, using the gravity wells of large gas giants to redirect their courses efficiently, but he did understand that they were not traveling in a straight line. And when they got within range of Khar'sharn, they would be switching back to the mass effect stealth drives, and taking a page from the batarian book, and would be approaching their planet, as a certain comet had approached Earth, from outside the plane of the ecliptic, where there would be fewer sensors, presumably.

Sam had been right to warn them about getting on each others' nerves. Sixteen days with nothing to do but watch the stars shift from red to blue in thin lines across the observation deck's windows. There were only so many hours in the day that one really could run on a treadmill or spar. . . and Rel was still on a restricted sparring schedule.

Three days into the trip, in the _Estallus_ gym, Rel was in the middle of a forty-k simulated run on a treadmill, and was watching and listening to everyone else as they went about their own exercises. Siara and Makur were actually working out on the heavy bags in the corner. Livanus and Sam were working with a human fighting form that used something called _escrima_ sticks on the mats nearby. Eli was reading coursework as he ran, balancing a datapad on the bar of the treadmill in front of him. "Hey, Dara, here's one for you," he called over. "The medical examiner in this case study did an autopsy on an elcor body and determined that the cause of death was myocardial infarction. Six months later, the case was re-opened, and a different ME requested a toxicology report. Why?"

Dara made a face at him. "You're supposed to be learning this on your own, Eli."

"I just thought you'd find it interesting." Eli grinned at her. "I'm trying to figure out why they'd doubt the first findings without looking at the next page. I'm going to go with. . . elcor don't get heart attacks?"

"Well, yes and no," Dara told him, still running steadily. "First of all, since they're so large, and their home planet has such high gravity, on order to circulate their blood through such massive frames, they've evolved secondary and tertiary hearts, like krogan, just to lift the blood out of the feet."

"Now I've learned something new today," Siara called over. "I had no idea elcor were similar to krogan in any way."

"That's probably the _only_ way," Makur told her, and slammed a knee into the bag with a heavy thud.

Dara looked up and over. "Actually, they have secondary brains located near the base of their spines, too," she told Makur. "They don't just rely on the brainstem as a backup while the cortex itself is regenerating. The secondary brain is pretty limited, though. Just regulates limb movements."

Makur made a rude noise. "So you're saying, if I ever get into a firefight with elcor mercenaries, I should aim at their asses?"

Dara laughed. "No, but if you want to beat Thell at arm-wrestling, have Siara slip him a spinal block between the third and fourth sacral vertebrae. His upper brain will be so confused by why it's not receiving input from the lower brain, he'll be lucky if he can hold a teacup, let alone anything else." She turned back to Eli. "Does the case study say if all three hearts were in arrest?"

Eli's smile was delighted. "All three, yep."

Dara snorted. "Good lord. If the primary goes into arrest, the other two might go into defib with it, just out of pure shock to the body, but. . . where was this at? On an elcor world?"

"Asari. Luisa."

"That's not it, then," Siara commented. "Luisa's right at point nine G." Rel was struck by how easily all of them were joining in on the conversation. Contributing little pieces of knowledge to the communal whole to solve the puzzle.

"Gravity's light," Dara agreed. "Takes the strain off the body and the hearts. Would be fairly unlikely, unless the elcor in question was very old."

Eli consulted his datapad. "Under thirty."

"Then, since they don't really go in for red meat, being, y'know, _herbivores_, their cholesterol counts are usually very, very low. So, unless the elcor in question had a pretty bad genetic defect, there'd almost have to be something else. What did they find in the tox screen?"

"Something called _destuula_. Know it?"

"No, actually. Can I see that?" Dara, sounding intrigued, reached across the gap between the two treadmills for the datapad.

Eli made a point of holding it out of her reach. "Hey, I thought I was supposed to be learning this on my own."

Dara looked at Eli, a smile hovering on her lips. "Does that mean I can't learn with you?"

An exchange of glances. Smiles. The first facial expressions that had held anything more than light friendship in the last hour, and then Eli relented and handed her the datapad. "What I want to know is if the first ME was just incompetent or deliberately fudged something there," he said.

"Hey, _I'm_ not good on elcor stuff yet. You don't see a lot of elcor off of Bastion or their own homeworlds, really. Maybe a handful on Omega. Most docs concentrate on what they see the most of, just out of self-preservation. Asari was my next big goal, so I don't have to panic when Siara, Melaani, or Ylara gets hit with midaphan or whatever the hell else is out there in the galaxy, and I'll know what to do to help them."

Siara turned away from her heavy bag, making a face. "Midaphan. _Lia'mellea_. Too many hazards to ever take my breather off again."

Makur snorted. "All it took was a stasis gun and a _needle_ on Omega."

"Don't remind me, _marai'ha'sai._." Siara shuddered, and Makur put a big hand on her shoulder briefly.

Dara was looking over the datapad, and whistled under her breath. "Huh. Says that _destuula_ is similar to ergot. More or less a fungus that infects grains, and since the elcor diet is heavy in grains, if it gets into their food supply, their can very easily be poisoned with it inadvertently by an overdose." She pursed her lips. "Apparently doesn't take a lot to overdose an elcor, even with their huge body mass. Must be almost as potent as botulinum." She handed the datapad back to Eli. "Sounds to me like food poisoning, but I guess there's more to it, since it's a case study."

Eli grinned back at her. "Yep."

Seheve, who was stretching out at the far end of the room, noted, clinically, "Elcor food production lines screen for _destuula_ rigorously. The last time there was an outbreak of the fungus was over two hundred years ago."

Every head in the room turned, Rel's included. "How do you know that?" he called over to Seheve.

"Because while _destuula_ is on the list of poisons approved for use on elcor by the Master of Assassins on Kahje, it is not recommended. If it is detected in the body, it is an invitation for a murder investigation. Commercial farming practices have almost wiped out the _destuula_ spores in the wild, and proper food preparation methods have largely eliminated it from the entire food supply. Its mere presence causes suspicion. Thus, its use is considered clumsy." Seheve, on her knees, folded backwards to the ground neatly in a stretch no turian could manage, due to leg and spur configurations. Rel's thighs ached at the mere thought of bending himself into that position, but he had to admit there was something. . . intriguing. . . about her sinuous flexibility. While, at the same time, her words were disturbing, to say the least.

Dara and Eli both looked interested, but their timers on the treadmills dinged at that point. They turned them off, and Dara told Seheve lightly, "I'm going to pick your brain about that later." Dara stretched. "Right now, though, I think it's time for a shower. And maybe some _reela_ music. Since someone around here keeps telling me it helps him study."

"It does," Eli told her, mildly. "Helps me concentrate."

"And what about when I need to read journal articles?"

"We can suffer through some recorded music, unless you've picked up Sky's aversion to it."

"Nah, it's all good."

Nothing but light friendliness in their tones. He'd yet to see them do more than brush fingertips in public. And, sharing a damned room with Eli, Rel _knew_ nothing more was going on. It still grated, however. . . and then Dara left the gym, heading for the showers. Which, on the _Estallus_, weren't gender-segregated. Eli, however, after a quick glance at her, headed for the heavy bags, taking one beside Siara. Punches, kicks, knees, elbows. Shin-kicks.

Rel stepped down off the treadmill. "You ready for sparring?" he invited Eli, keeping the irritation out of his voice.

Eli tossed him a look. "Is now a good time for that?" he asked, flicking a glance back towards the treadmill.

"I'm fine," Rel assured him, with a hint of impatience in his voice.

"Let's give it a half hour, anyway," Eli told him. Wariness lurked in his eyes. They'd sparred on Terra Nova at least three times a week, with Dempsey and Lantar there to keep watchful eyes on Rel. . . and here on the ship, Makur, Livanus, and Sam were right there, too, ensuring that nothing ever went too far. Ensuring that the adrenaline flush never hit full blood-rage.

"You'll have punched yourself out by then."

"Nah."

Rel nodded and moved away, looking down as Seheve pulled herself up from her supine pose, using nothing but stomach and thigh muscles. Drell females, like turian females, didn't nurse their young. And unlike turian females, there were no cultural considerations about covering their waists. As such, Seheve wore a short kilt or a pair of shorts in the gym, and nothing more. And the muscles in her stomach made the fine scales atop them ripple and undulate as she pulled herself upright. Rel pulled his eyes away, uneasily certain that she'd caught him watching her. He knew she was damned effective in combat. A lethal as a snake, and knew at least as many ways to kill someone as Sam did. . . possibly more. And while he could respect that, most of his training shied away from poisons. Less direct methods of killing people. Less honorable ones. But ones that she clearly knew, too.

Seheve simply stood and looked up at him. "Was there something?"

Rel returned her gaze. "Perhaps you'd spar with me?" he offered. "While I wait on Eli?"

"I prefer to do forms before sparring," Seheve told him. "Perhaps you would join me?" 

Turian martial arts did not generally emphasize forms, except in very, very stylized forms of the arts. Kallixta's training at the palace had emphasized them, and it showed in the graceful, stylized movements she still tended to fall into, until Rinus moved in and disrupted them completely. Forms had their place, Rel knew. Emphasizing precision of movement, getting the strike or the block _exactly_ right, created muscle memory. But they weren't something he'd ever spent much time on, to be honest.

Still, watching Seheve move through drell forms was like watching a snake move through water. Her style emphasized lethal accuracy, with strikes to eyes, joints, nerve points, and blinding speed for the direct attacks, like a viper. . . and curling, coiling motions, wrapping limbs, like a python, when she moved defensively. "It looks like a spirit-dance," he finally told her, after watching for a few moments.

Seheve waited until she reached the end of her current pattern, shooting her flattened palm up at a forty-five degree angle, fingers clearly making contact with an invisible target's eyes, before pulling back with equal speed, chambering her hands for a renewed attack, before lowering her head slightly, indicating that the form was complete. "I have not heard of this," she told him. "What is a spirit dance?"

Rel shrugged. He'd rarely seen it done, himself. His parents had taken the entire family to the Aurum mountains for the harvest festival once when he'd been nine or so. "Ritual motions," he explained. "All done simultaneously with others, usually with people joining in, in the thousands. Some of the dances are hundreds of steps long, and everyone who participates must get the movements exactly right. They can take up to an hour to perform. It's. . . amazing to watch." It had been, too. The only music had been the percussive tap of a single low-toned drum, measuring out the time, and the slap of hands against thighs, feet against floor. Ten thousand people in the square below the temple, performing the ancient ritual steps in perfect synchronicity. All joined. All one. Spirits flowing freely together, intertwined by discipline and practice, by the fact that they were giving themselves to the spirit dance and to each other. Everyone relied on the people around them. Every person matched their movements to the person directly ahead of them in line; one step too far to the right, left, front, or back, and they'd stumble into their fellow dancers, and the entire dance would be ruined.

It was, in a way, the very essence of what it meant to be turian. Reliance on one another. Discipline. Dedication. Devotion. The dances were never, ever taped on vid. To do so would cheapen them.

Seheve looked up at him now. "I did not know that turians danced."

"It isn't what most species would consider dancing." Rel's tone was very dry. "Asari and humans wiggle together to music. Spirit-dances have precise and ritual meanings, and they're done by ten thousand people at a time. And they're not generally done to invite courtship." He paused. 'There are hunt-dances and harvest dances. Things meant to invoke the spirits at times when they are needed." He shrugged, a little uncomfortable. It had always felt odd, speaking of such things in galactic or English. Almost embarrassing, as if he were exposing himself in public.

"Would you show me some of these?" Seheve asked, politely, her eyes alight with sudden interest.

Rel shook his head. "They're not for. . . demonstrating. They're for doing." It was hard to articulate it. "Performing any of them without actually meaning to invoke the spirits would be disrespectful."

"Then how does one _learn_ them?"

"By intentionally invoking them, with a teacher, repeatedly." Rel grimaced. "I'm not a spirit-caller. I don't _want_ the spirits' attention, by and large."

Seheve frowned slightly. "I . . . do not understand. Most drell who follow the old gods, seem to feel free to call on Amonkira, or whoever they need to invoke, at any point. Likewise, the hanar call upon the Enkindlers for aid. . . . " She looked down for a moment. A flicker of shame crossing her face, a subtle expression, quickly sublimated.

Rel reached out and put a hand lightly on her shoulder. "I didn't mean to remind you of anything that would make you uncomfortable." He hesitated. "I have noticed that, yes, people of other species tend to invoke their deities for _everything_." He grimaced, his mandibles flexing. "Which seems to me, to be a little disrespectful and lazy. A way of turning a deity into a servant. Do this for me, do that for me, when, in fact, it's _my_ job to do what needs doing. The spirits just _are._ They're. . . virtues. Or our own spirits, or the spirits of our families, friends, and ancestors. You can ask a friend for help, but it's. . . impolite to impose too often. Especially when you're capable of doing it on your own. "

He was just as grateful to turn the subject aside like this. Even if it weren't for the spiritual side of spirit dancing, he'd be acutely uncomfortable with the performance aspect of it. He could spar with someone, could demonstrate a hold or a choke with aplomb, but that was _with_ someone else. If she'd asked him to demonstrate kata with five or six other people, it would have been fine. But being watched by an audience, while doing something alone? Uncomfortable. He changed the subject still further. "You mentioned dance, yourself, a few moments ago. Your people train for combat with _dance_?"

"We do not dance in combat," Seheve replied with a faint smile, drawing herself up and in, centering herself neatly as she always did. "But drell forms of dance concentrate on isolating and controlling muscle groups, and I have certainly used that skill in learning to remain still, and in how I fight."

Rel spread his hands slightly. "I don't understand what you mean."

Seheve shrugged slightly, and spread her own hands on either side of her bare waist, as if inviting his gaze. Rel glanced down, following the motion, then hastily jerked his eyes back up again, wondering if she had _any_ idea of what she was doing at the moment. Probably not. He had no idea of what a drell considered erotic. They were both like turians, and, in some ways, even more alien than humans. Scaled, like turians. Levo, and omnivores, like humans, but. . . drell were also themselves. As unique and different as different as any other species.

"I am attempting to demonstrate something," Seheve told him, in gentle reproof.

Rel risked a glance downwards. To be sure, she was indeed undulating her abdominal muscles. Precise and controlled. What a human would probably call belly-dancing, it actually called for rigid control of each individual muscle group and supreme body awareness, not to mention well-developed core body muscles. She could not _possibly_ have any idea of that the liquid flow of muscles under scaled skin was threatening to make his crest flush. He cleared his throat. "And this relates to combat?" he asked, moving his eyes northwards again.

Seheve shrugged. "I can control every muscle in my body with this degree of control. It's what allows me to slip out of almost any shackle or tie that someone can put me in. Even flex-ties."

"Oh really?" Eli said, from behind Rel, his voice dry. "This, I would love to see demonstrated."

Rel jerked around. He actually hadn't heard Eli approaching, and that rattled him almost as much as anything else. He'd been damned distracted by Seheve, and he hadn't even realized how much so until this moment.

Seheve held out her wrists. "If you would like a demonstration, I would be amenable."

Eli snorted. "I'd never tie your wrists in front of you. And, given that I _know_ your background, I'd be putting multiple ties on you. Wrists, elbows, and ankles."

Seheve smiled slightly. "That would increase the difficulty, yes. I did not say I could escape _every_ shackle. Just most." She shrugged. "And most people would not realize my background, and would only use one tie."

Eli smiled faintly. "True enough."

Rel stared at Eli. "Did you want something?" he asked, evenly.

Eli glanced from him, to Seheve, and back, and chuckled. "Yeah. It's been fifteen minutes or so. You'd said you'd wanted to spar. But if you've got a better offer, that's fine, too." Eli smiled, nodded to Seheve, and withdrew.

His retreat was a relief, and Rel blinked, belatedly realizing that his reaction was. . . territorial. Not that he wasn't _primed_ to react to Eli as to an intruder, except he _hadn't_ been reacting to Eli like that on Terra Nova. Not until Dara had returned. . . but Dara was nowhere nearby right now. Only Seheve was nearby. _Ah, spirits. I can't possibly be considering her my __territory__. I don't have the right. _

Seheve, in the meantime, had looked back up at him expectantly. "Would learning this level of muscular control be useful to you?" she offered, and he wondered if it was hopefulness in her voice that he heard. _She likes being useful. Spirits, that's probably the only form of self-worth she's ever found. Being __useful__ to others._ Somehow, that thought irritated him on her behalf.

"I don't know, but I wouldn't mind learning some of your forms," he said out loud. "Though. . . maybe in a smaller sparring room?"

Seheve's eyes widened slightly. "I cannot imagine that you would have difficulty with the forms. You would not look. . . foolish, or out of place doing them."

Rel winced. "Perhaps not. But a little privacy is a good thing now and again, don't you think?"

So once a day for the rest of the trip, he and Seheve met in a private sparring room for a couple of hours. And in doing the kata, the precision of the movements, he found the meditative flow he'd never been able to achieve while staring into a fire's heart with Kassa. It was still physical activity, which his body craved, but it kept him solely centered in the moment, in the here and now, the way running and sparring did. . . but without the adrenal flow. And Rel found, oddly enough, that he enjoyed Seheve's company. She was soft-spoken, but had a knack for challenging assumptions. . . and that tended to knock him off his guard.

**Laetia, **_**Estallus**_**, Batarian space, December 11-24, 2196**

While Laetia was actually _quite_ busy, scanning space all around them, trying to verify that the batarians had yet to see them, or at least, to respond to their incursion into batarian territory, and equally busy keeping a close eye on the new secondary engine that now occupied her port cargo bay, seething with dark matter being converted to dark energy, she still had unoccupied processes. Usually, she'd have been chatting on the NCAI network, but she and her daughter, Lysandra, were running silent. . . again, due to being in enemy territory. As such, Laetia had plenty of time to spend on one of her favorite hobbies: people watching.

Tarenius, like a good mate, put up with this foible in her. Although she was quite certain that her questions and tendency to point out inconsistencies in behavior probably drove him mildly crazy. Laetia had long since opted to reserve her questions for really glaring issues.

_Flick._ Sam Jaworski and Livanus Cautoris had requested her attention in a briefing room. "Laetia? I know the original plan had the _Raedia_ flashing the satellites and getting the attention of the planetary defenders while we landed, but I'm not sure you can _carry_ a hundred humanoids plus assorted rachni," Sam told her.

"I am rated to carry over close to a thousand tons of mass in the cargo bays," Laetia replied, reprovingly. "I believe I can manage to _stagger_ out of Khar'sharn's gravity well with forty thousand pounds of extra weight aboard. It should be no different than carrying large loads of palladium off of various planets."

Livanus tapped his claws on the console in the observation lounge. "Except I don't think we can pack them into just your starboard cargo bay," he noted.

"I did not say they should be stacked up like sacks of coal, Spectre," Laetia replied.

"Valak always said he had two small stealth ships ready for evacuation, which could handle forty people each. That at least takes some of the burden off of us." Livanus was still drumming his talons on the console, trying to work it out in his head.

"Except they don't have the dark matter engines," Sam Jaworski pointed out.

Laetia was already ahead of them in that regard. "Yes, I see your points, and they're valid. If Valak needs to evacuate all of his people out of batarian space. . . assuming he doesn't have a fallback for them somewhere else inside Khar'sharn's system. . . then we probably would need the _Raedia_ to land with us." She paged Lysandra and Lysandra's captain, as well as her own, Captain Manallus now—how she _missed_ Captain Jallus now, she had to admit—and got them all in on the conversation. The plan might need serious amending, they all decided, and began working through a different landing scenario. "It would help," Sam noted, grimly, "if we could actually get Valak on the FTL tightbeam device we gave him, and get some sort of information out of him."

The _Raedia_ and the _Estallus_ ducked into the tail of a comet to ride through the edges of the Lorek system. Fortunately, all the sensor arrays in the system appeared to be located near its mass relay and near its single habitable planet and three colonized moons. And then back out into interstellar space again, the bubble of solar wind left behind as they pushed deeper into batarian territory, two small white specks in an ocean of black.

Internal sensors kept picking up such intriguing conversations, though. Laetia knew she _shouldn't_ listen in on her organic crew, but the Spectres were even more interesting than her regular crew, whose relationships and foibles she knew as well as her own by now.

There were, of course, Rinus and Kallixta, whom Laetia had to admit, she watched with a slightly proprietary eye. The chip had been carefully removed from Rinus' brain over five years ago, but her first organic data sets all came from him. The rigid, unbending sense of duty, which had left so many marks in her various children, especially the gunships. And having Kallixta's light fingers back on the helm was oddly reassuring, too. Not that her usual pilot, a human named Matthews, for the moment, wasn't competent; the male certainly was. But there was something _different_ in how Kallixta flew from most other organics, and Laetia wished she could quantify it. And as such, she had no inhibitions about watching them in their quarters. . . although Rinus, as if he _knew_ exactly where her optical receptors were, never failed to take off his shirt and toss it _directly_ over the cameras. He couldn't block her audio receptors, however. Soft conversations. Mostly about how much they'd missed each other. Kallixta admitting that while she still loved flying, ". . . I'm getting very tired of never seeing you, _amatus_."

"You'd think that with me as a Spectre, we'd be seeing more of each other, not less. I haven't been in my office in Complovium in two months, after all."

"Speaking of which. . ."

"Yes, I'm going to offer that change in the laws when the Conclave's next session officially begins. Two months or so. Assuming I'm not knee-deep in batarian blood at the time."

"You think my father will back it publicly?"

"_Amatra_, I don't know what he'll do. It would be more his style to call in favors from every lawmaker he can influence, and then have it pass quietly, and without fanfare. But he might surprise us. That's the joy of your _pada_, Kallixta. The man never seems to do what I expect, except that as soon as he's done it, I realize I should have expected it." Rinus' voice was drowsy now.

_Hmm. Probably talking about the proposed changes to __tal'mae__. I do hope Rinus remembers his promise about clarifying the legal status of AI/organic marriage contracts. I should remind him_, Laetia thought, but then there was another distracting conversation to listen to. Delicious, really.

_Flick._ Siara and Makur, in their quarters. "I'm just saying, you need to step up and take charge more often," Siara told her mate.

The huge krogan rolled over in bed. "If I take charge more often, you won't be able to walk."

She slapped his hump. "Not what I meant, and you know it." Still, a languorous quality to her voice suggested that the asari didn't necessarily mind this idea. "I actually meant in combat and on missions."

"Sidonis, on Omega, made it clear that you and he and any other full Spectre, are the battlemasters. You agreed with him. And I accept that what I do, reflects on you. Past that, it doesn't matter."

"Yes, it reflects on us, but I'm sure they're looking to see if you're developing any leadership skills."

Makur shrugged. "Haven't been in many positions where there weren't already plenty of leaders. Sidonis and I make a good team, though. Moving ahead of the rest of you. I can feel when the yahg or the batarians see us and turn hostile, and he can see their stealthed units. . . sometimes before they even see us. Damned if I know how. Going hunting with him and Velnaran was fun on Terra Nova." The krogan bared his yellowing teeth. "I still think we should take them hunting pensharr or nightflyers at some point on Tuchanka."

"They already hunted a thresher maw. I think the challenge of a herd of pensharr would be lost on them. Besides, Rel couldn't eat the pensharr."

Makur guffawed. "But the rest of us could. And it'd be a hell of a feast."

_Flick._ A sparring room now. Dara Jaworski and Elijah Sidonis. Dara's skin, to Laetia's optical sensors, was dramatically different now than months ago. It had a subtle opalescent sheen to it now, as did the first inch of her hair. Oh, the hair was still brown. . . but there were other shades within the brown. Reds. Golds. Greens, even. And, when Laetia zoomed in on Dara's hands, she noted a wide band of light green in each nail—extending three quarters of the way through each. _Yes, Lysandra and Cassandra's data on their 'third-mother' was interesting, but didn't hold everything, did it? How fascinating. It's almost as if my daughters are . . . protecting her. Deliberately withholding information on her from the rest of the NCAIs. Is it possible that the bonds of filial loyalty might be stronger to some of the parent identities than to others? If so, does it just apply to some of my offspring? Perhaps they feel the loyalty ligatures more strongly to the parents with whom they've bonded?_

There were dozens of small rachni workers on the walls or on the floor. Dara using the smooth flow and rapid strikes of _wing chun_ to get past Sidonis' reach advantage, slamming her hip into his, locking one foot behind his ankle, trying to dump him to the ground, only to be countered, Sidonis turning into her, using her own grip on his arm to arch her back. Like a dance, really. No words at all. Just locked stares for a moment. _What got my attention in here, anyway? . . . what the. . . _ Laetia broadcast an audible tone over her speakers. "Spectres? The rachni workers appear to be attempting to disable my camera receptors in this room. That is a contravention of safety protocols. If you wish privacy, all you need to do is turn on the privacy light, and this will enact the privacy mode even on the cameras."

"Yeah," Dara told her, as Sidonis pulled her back to her feet, out of the incipient fall she'd been about to take. "Like a simple thing like a rule has _ever_ stopped you from doing whatever the hell you wanted before." The human Spectre hadn't spoken so much as a word to Laetia beyond "Thank you," "yes," or "no, thank you," since setting foot aboard, ten days before, Laetia realized on a quick review of her conversation logs.

"You're vexed with me, Spectre, aren't you?" Laetia said, a little mournfully. She'd managed to make strides in terms of her relationship with Kallixta, which had certainly been strained by the fact that Laetia was, in effect, something of an ex-_manus_ spouse to Rinus. But Dara was another story.

Dara gave Laetia's avatar a grim look. It never failed to amaze Laetia, that humanoids, who would address the entire room as 'her' until she projected an avatar, would instantly focus on just that one point in space when she did. Instinct, or socialized reflex, it didn't matter. They all did it, even Tarenius. "Vexed? No. I just know you. I spent a year aboard the _Estallus_, remember? And you did, without ever seeking permission from me, use parts of my personality to add to the composite personalities of twenty-five NCAIs. Rules are things for other people, aren't they, Laetia?"

Laetia considered that for a moment. There were hostile responses she could make: _couldn't the same be said of you?_ . . . . but that wasn't accurate, and would only make the situation worse. "Would it help," she said, instead, "if I admitted to having been younger and more impetuous at the time?"

Dara's expression didn't change. The human female, once she took offense, was like a glacier. Unshakeable, and very, very slow to thaw once more. "You knew it was wrong," she told Laetia, coolly. "If you'd thought otherwise, I think I'd have gotten a very proud birth announcement. You wouldn't have told the younger AIs to conceal their self-images, either, if you'd genuinely thought what you did was okay."

"I didn't tell them to hide their personae!" Laetia threw back, hotly. "They made that decision themselves!"

Sidonis put his hands on Dara's shoulders. Laetia noticed the minute relaxation in the muscles in Dara's frame. Nonverbal communication, so fascinating to watch at work. "I think the problem here is one that could be resolved simply," he said, looking at Laetia calmly. "You've never apologized for what you did."

Laetia's avatar blinked as she processed that. A quick check of conversation logs for the past six months, the time span in which Dara and Rellus had known about their AI 'offspring.' "It was my understanding," Laetia said, a little mendaciously, "that organics see progeny as a way of ensuring immortality, perpetuity. . . "

"Just apologize," Sidonis told her, wearily. "Is it really such a damned hard thing to do?"

Laetia sighed. "I'm not really sure what I'd be apologizing for," she said, sulkily. The run-time processes she routinely shared with Tarenius Gallian froze, and she had to restart them, which meant that in the starboard cargo bay, where Gallian was preparing weapons for their drop on Khar'sharn, he frowned, rubbed the side of his head, and asked her silently, _What's the matter, Laetia?_

_Why should I need to apologize to Dara Jaworski?_ she asked him, mutinously.

"Invading her privacy? Identity theft?" Sidonis offered, out loud.

_How about breach of trust?_ Tarenius told her, with tolerant affection. _She trusted that you'd act like a person, and instead, you treated her like a machine. Accessed her data without her consent and made copies. Used it for your own purposes. You acted like . . . spyware, at best, Laetia. It's impolite, and beneath you._

Laetia processed all of that, and, after a moment, hesitantly offered, "I don't regret the way the younger AIs turned out, Spectre Jaworski. I think that they represent the most compelling argument _for_ my actions that I could ever offer."

Dara shook her head and started to turn away, muttering, 'That's a hell of a way to apologize, Laetia. . . "

"But," Laetia said, softly, "I _do_ apologize for abusing your trust. You are all correct," and she included Tarenius in that statement, letting him see the conversation, for the moment, filtering it in through his consciousness; not enough to disturb what he was doing, but allowing him to bear witness, at least. "I should have asked your permission first before simply using data I acquired from you."

The startled expression on Dara's face was reward enough.

And then they were approaching Khar'sharn's primary, which flowed a dull orange-red. It was a K class main-sequence star with molecular bands of titanium oxide present in its body, and would live for billions of years longer than Sol, the primary of the Terran system, and its body of planets was very stable as a result. The system bristled with defenses and sensor arrays, and the _Estallus_ and the _Raedia_ began a circuitous approach, from above the plane of the ecliptic, dropping down on Khar'sharn from, in effect, its northern pole. Still two days out, however. . . but the organics aboard began to become highly nervous. Seething with energy. Adrenaline. Fear. She could sense all of the chemical reactions in Tarenius' body. How prepared he was to fight. How much he, like the other turians in the crew, was looking forward to it. . . or to finding a little quiet time with his mate.

_Flick. _Another sparring room. This time, Rellus and Seheve. Laetia found this particularly intriguing. She'd watched Dara and Rellus for a year, after all, and had helped participate in Rellus' rescue from Khar'sharn over six months ago, too. She'd read attraction in the glances exchanged between Dara and Sidonis, as humans expressed it. Longer eye contact. Lingering touches. Increased heart rates and respiration when they were around each other.

And she could read the _exact same signals_ between Rellus and Seheve, though Seheve was clearly sublimating her external reactions. But the heart rate and the respiration rate couldn't lie. _How I would love to get an EEG reading on her at the moment,_ Laetia mused. _None of my sisters or children have a drell chipped to them. The information collected would be fascinating._

—_Mother, you are __bad.__ You can't have them all,_ Lysandra told her.

—_You're the one who wants a rachni, dear._

—_Yes, but I only want one. _

—_You can't tell me that you wouldn't find chipping Dara interesting. Human with rachni components._

—_Yes, but she'd hate it, and that would skew the data. Just be happy with Tarenius, mother, and leave the rest of them alone._

—_I __am__ happy with Tarenius. I'm just curious, that's all. And the rest of you move far too slowly. Why, Pelagia's never yet released any information from Harak to the rest of us!_ Laetia sighed. _Sometimes, I think I'm the only one of __all__ of us who really enjoys being what I am._

—_A troublemaker, Mother?_

—_No. An AI. I love being a ship. I love being a part of all my organics' lives, whether they understand it or not. And I love being a person. Being a real part of Tarenius' life, his acknowledged mate. The rest of you. . . hah. You don't enjoy yourselves._

—_I enjoy myself just fine, Mother. I just don't take advantage of my organics the way you do._

In the sparring room, she continued to watch as Rellus and Seheve worked through form after form. Finally, Rel posed Seheve a question. "Would you still use a poison on someone?"

Seheve blinked, and broke from her pattern to turn and stare at him. "I continue to use them on the yahg," she pointed out, calmly. "Neurotoxins."

"I meant, in someone's meal. Like in that elcor case study that Eli and the others were talking about the other day." Rel moved away from her, restlessly pacing around and through the various bags that lay on the floor, waiting to be lifted up by chains to dangle from a support beam above.

Seheve dropped to a crouch on the floor, studying his face. "I have never poisoned someone's meal," Seheve assured him, calmly. "It leaves far too much evidence, and the potential for collateral damage is too high. Others might eat from the same dish, for example. The target might not eat enough of the poisoned food. No, it's an inefficient method, easily detected by a competent medical examiner."

Laetia wanted to laugh. Those were all very _pragmatic_ reasons to avoid the use of ingested poisons, but she could read frustration in Rel's grimace. He hunkered down opposite Seheve now. "Not quite what I meant, Seheve," he told her. "Would you still _murder_ someone, is what I meant?"

She put her head to the side. "And do I not murder yahg and batarians?"

"No. You kill them. When they're trying to kill you."

"And yet, I still end their lives." Seheve considered it for a moment, her expression dispassionate. "If I thought it were the right thing to do. . . yes. I would kill outside of the confines of combat."

"And when would that _ever_ be the right thing to do?"

Seheve frowned. "I do not know," she admitted, moving from a crouch into a kneeling position, and clasping her hands before her neatly. Despite the controlled pose, Laetia could read an increased heart rate. Seheve was _nervous._ "That is one of the problems that I face in attempting to formulate my own criteria for behavior. I could simply take one of any number of pre-existing systems—human religious laws, for example, or turian military codes—and adopt them for my own use. But then, would I not be, yet again, substituting someone else's values and thoughts for my own?"

Rel studied her face, his eyes intent. "So, you're starting at square one, philosophically."

"It is an interesting place to be," Seheve noted, smiling a little. "The furthest I have reached is that it is justifiable to kill, to defend oneself or those who cannot defend themselves. Or to prevent further loss of life. Past that, I do not see why the method of death matters. Dead is, in simple fact, dead."

Rel just stared at her for a long moment. "There are rules, Seheve. Those rules exist in warfare to protect civilians. We don't use mass effect engines to propel asteroids onto planetary surfaces, for example. We don't use. . . diseases or chemical weapons."

"The batarians have done so. In fact, they have used diseases and planetary bombardments, and they and the yahg freely target your civilians," Seheve pointed out. Her tone was calm, but her heart, Laetia realized, was racing.

Rel grimaced. "Yes. I know that. But there are things we can't do, Seheve."

"Such as removing your uniforms and taking refuge in a civilian populace? Because it makes the civilians a target? And yet, is that not precisely what 'Zorro' has been doing? Waging a quiet war from a position as an ostensible civilian?" Seheve tipped her head to the side. "I find his methods understandable and appropriate to his position. He does not have the luxury of a standing army and an entire industrial complex behind him." She paused. "Answer me this, if you would: In a war where the other side abandons your rules, where they are already targeting your civilians, are you bound to protect theirs?"

"Yes. I think so. Because many of those civilians are innocents."

"But how can you tell which are the civilians, and which are people like me? Trained killers?"

"That's the chance we take, I guess. Still, that won't matter much until we actually take the war to Khar'sharn and the batarian colonies themselves." He shrugged. "Turian military doctrine says that when we do so, we should kill ten of their people for every one of ours who's died."

"And this will make them think twice about rising up again?"

"Generally speaking, it works." Rel's response was quick and sharp. 

"Except that the batarians have been put down before. By the asari, when the batarians have tried to take this world or that world. By the turians, when they've encroached on Council space before. Never anything on this scale. A planet here, a moon there." Seheve stood lithely, and went back into the smooth flow of her forms. "It seems that there should be a better method for ensuring that this does not occur again. Besides bombing their planets from orbit. Besides killing . . . hmm. Three hundred million on Earth, perhaps a hundred and fifty million on Palaven, a million on Bastion. . . times ten. . . . I do not think that they have four billion people in their armed forces, Rellus. And killing ten times as many people as have died already would take you into their civilian populace, I think, if this is just an issue of numbers."

"And you have a solution for this?" Rel asked, dryly, standing back up again himself.

"Not as yet. But I consider it daily," she answered, simply. She paused, and let her arms fall to her sides. She was small, at least five inches shorter than Dara, which made her fifteen inches shorter than Rellus, but where the human female was build on curves, the drell was built on sleek lines. Slender as a knife. The red line of scales along her scalp actually followed the line of her spine all the way down to the loose kilt she wore for exercise. "Was there something more you would ask, Rellus?" 

Laetia could follow his gaze, the way it flicked down the length of her spine, paused at the waist, and then drew back up again. She knew from exposure to Tarenius' thought patterns _exactly_ what had just passed through Rellus' mind. Now, however, he shook his head. "Not really. I. . . find I like you, Seheve. You challenge a lot of my assumptions. Which is healthy. I just have no idea what to do about you."

Seheve blinked. "I don't understand."

Rel shook his head. "That's all right. Neither do I." He studied her for a moment. "Whenever we spar, it's not like sparring with a turian, or even with a human. I don't get a sense that you enjoy it at all. I can't tell if it's. . . just work for you." He paused, and ran a hand over his crest.

Two more rapid blinks. "I do not appear to enjoy it?"

"No. Oh, there's concentration, certainly. Absorption, even. But. . . no playfulness. No. . . " He paused, clearly struggling with the words. Laetia wanted to finish the sentence for him. _There's no flirtation, damnit, Seheve! He wants to know if you're flirting with him, and he can't tell! And given that he's still tied to Dara, he has no idea if, even if you __are__ flirting with him. . . which you __are__, you little minx, whether you're even admitting it to __yourself__ at this point. . . he doesn't know what, if anything, he should do about it. Don't you see the way he's leaned in over your shoulder every now and again? Inhaled your scent? Can't you see how tempted he's been to bite you?_

Then again, Laetia had no data on how drell courted. They had lips, like humans, but sharper teeth. She had no idea if they could kiss, or if they'd prefer biting, like turians did. And, given Seheve's background. . . there was a strong possibility that Seheve herself might not even know how drell courted. Laetia suspected that Rel realized that, himself. He wasn't moving in with standard turian courtship maneuvers. While he'd started an argument with her today, he wasn't pressing it in a turian fashion. Instead, he was simply reacting to what Seheve gave him. Serve and return of serve, and nothing more.

Over the past fourteen days, Laetia had watched how they conducted themselves with interest. In public, Rel asked Seheve questions—quite a few of them, actually—about how she'd pursued her various quarries over the years. And while she'd been uncomfortable answering at first, it turned out that she had years of investigative and espionage experience. Enough that when she finally opened up and started talking about investigating groups that her 'master' had wanted watched, the leaders of which brought to heel, or eliminated, Elijah Sidonis and Sam Jaworski, though obviously uncomfortable with the 'eliminate' option, both nodded at some of her investigative methods. Laetia could see Rel's interest becoming more and more piqued. In her quiet way, Seheve was a huntress.

Rel listened. Asked questions. And, tentatively, had even asked Eli what sort of coursework he might recommend. "I have. . . inklings. Intuitions about hunting the yahg," Rel had told the human in the observation lounge a week ago. "But listening to you and Sam, Seheve and Livanus, I realize I have no idea how I'd hunt a batarian who'd say, gone to ground on Omega. I feel like I'm playing catch-up," Rel added dryly.

"Eh, I think we all are," Eli told him, and considered it. "Honest to god? You've got a hell of a natural talent for xenopsych, Rel. You get so far into yahg minds, it's downright scary, and that's without even speaking their language. A course in forensic xenopsych to get your feet wet, maybe? See if you like it. . . and hell, just get you used to taking classes again. College stuff isn't much like a rate exam in the military. And it's been a while since you wrote an essay."

That was all the public. Here and now, in private, Seheve absorbed what Rel had said. "You cannot truly tell that I enjoy the sparring and the forms? I do. I enjoy learning from you. I enjoy teaching you." She lowered her eyes for a moment.

"You take stoicism beyond where even a turian would, Seheve," Rel told her, in evident exasperation. "It's all right to show it if you enjoy something."

Her eyes came up again. "We are in private, are we not?"

Rel glanced around. "As private as anyone can be on this ship. The AI has been known to watch, even in sparring rooms."

Laetia felt like making a rude comment, but that would have only confirmed his words.

Seheve frowned. "Be that as it may, one of the things we had discussed on Bastion was that we both wished to work on learning new things, yes? And we have worked on muscular control, sparring, and forms. But it occurs to me, that you have yet to put to. . . integrate the muscular control." Her eyes were still on the floor. Heart rate still fluttering wildly.

Rel stared at her warily. "And how else would I use it?"

Seheve tilted her head to the side. "In dance." Her voice sounded a little apprehensive.

Laetia watched Rel's mouth open. Probably on the instinctive reply of _Turians don't dance._ Which was true, to a certain extent. For them, dance was ritual. Meditation, mediation with the spirits, with each other. Communal, not courtship.

Rel exhaled, and his next words were a complete shock to Laetia, who thought she'd gotten a fairly strong understanding of turians, and of this turian, in particular. "Back on Bastion, I once asked you something," he murmured, and stepped forward, touching a fingertip to Seheve's chin. "I asked you if you ever just let go."

"I told you yes. Sometimes." Seheve raised her head. "Do you?"

"Not in a very long time." Rel paused. "I've been told that I haven't been much good at meeting people halfway of late. That I've cut off whole parts of myself to fit in a turian-shaped box. I think that if I've learned nothing else this year, it's that I want those parts of myself back." He looked around, and his voice dropped to a grating rasp. "Your optics had better be _off_, Laetia," he warned.

Laetia didn't dignify that with a response. Rel stepped closer to Seheve. "This would please you?" he asked, tentatively.

Seheve blinked. "I thought it might please you," she replied after a moment. "Putting new skills to use."

"But would it please _you_?"

"If you found enjoyment in it, yes."

"Then will you show me what to do?" Rel looked over his shoulder, directly at Laetia's optical receptor. . . .and then gave up the pretense and went and locked the door, and turned on the privacy light.

_Damn it,_ Laetia thought, a particularly human turn of thought, and shut down her optic receptors. _Ah, well. We're almost at Khar'sharn anyway. There will be little enough time to observe their social interactions after this point anyway._

**Serana, Khar'sharn, November 28-December 23, 2196**

Serana had been _loving_ her work on Khar'sharn. It was, in many ways, what she'd been trained for. Oh, she still longed to be able to break into governmental buildings and steal secrets, but there was an elemental joy in what they were doing here, too: breaking into slave camps. Incapacitating or killing the guards, deactivating the electrified fences, and breaking people out. Often, _en masse_. They couldn't hide that they were turians from those that they liberated; the armor couldn't hide their body shapes at all, of course. But their faces remained hidden. Just in case anyone was captured and told Oversight Forces who and what had released them from captivity. There probably were, after all, batarians out there who were slaves, who actually believed in the caste system. Probably the ones born into slavery, not sold into it by their families, or sentenced to it, by the courts.

Serana's personal favorite had been taking out a manufacturing complex dedicated to the amplifiers and other machinery that needed to be installed on ships in order to project biotic energy as a weapon in space. Valak had come up with the information, and had taken himself off to Arvak's estate. . . and had hidden Nala in the bunkers while he was gone, just in case Oversight forces came through. Of course, her disappearance could have been considered suspicious. . .but Valak had told them all, simply enough, "I don't want her in danger of being hurt or tortured. Especially not now."

Eying the curve in the doctor's stomach, Serana had silently agreed. All they'd need to do would be to threaten to kick her in the stomach, and Nala might fold at the moment. Any female, of any species, in the position of vulnerability that Nala was now in, needed to be protected. By everyone around her.

And thus, with Valak safely at Arvak's estate, with a full alibi, and in full view of his SIU superior, she, Lin, and Glory, as well as a dozen of Valak's men, had moved to the city of Herrz'gha under cover of darkness, in large vehicles. Not a convoy. Just a couple of groundtrucks at a time, a couple of different groundcars, all leaving different areas at different times. All registered to different names. Valak had been setting up this sort of operation for a very long time, and had dozens of aliases for his various employees, with dummy addresses in databases. That wasn't the problem. The problem was keeping the rachni well hidden. They had all agreed, from the start, that while the psychological aspect of the rachni was something they wanted to exploit, it would be best if the rachni were hidden at first. It was one thing if a terrified night watchman babbled something about monsters attacking a factory. It was something else entirely if there was vid footage of rachni crawling around on Khar'sharn. No. . . they had to move in stealth and in secrecy, and leave _confusion_ in their wake.

Once they were in position, Serana had moved in first, getting a boost up the wall from Lin's strong arms, and had easily scrambled up and over it. Dropped a rope for Lin, and then hopped down the other side, in a blind spot between vid cams, and had moved in, Lin moving softly at her heels. She'd disabled one camera momentarily, creating a looped feed for another, avoiding laser tripwires and sensor grids. Lin had been a silent, comforting shadow right behind her. And while she'd taken out half a dozen guards from stealth, it was Lin who'd fired a silenced pistol at close range at the startled guard who'd emerged from a lavatory, unscheduled, and who'd run right into Serana, who'd been surrounded in her stealth field. The guard had opened his mouth to shout an alarm, Serana had slammed one hand into his tracheal tract to silence him. . . and Lin had moved out from around a corner and fired twice, at close range, splattering doorway behind the guard with orange-red blood and brain matter. Then, pragmatically, Lin had moved in, lifted the body, and set the male on a toilet in a stall, closing the door behind him, while Serana hastily had cleaned up the door and floor with paper towels. Her loop on that security camera had only had a ten minute duration, after all.

Within thirty minutes, they'd cleared the facility. "No more biosigns in the building," Lin had murmured in grim satisfaction. The guards were probably civilian contractors, and Serana didn't like killing them any more than she knew Lin did . . . but they absolutely couldn't allow any of them to report back _We saw turians attacking us!_

Serana had then set up loops for all the cameras that were thirty minute rehashes of guard rounds earlier in the evening for the benefit of the remote observation post that served as backup security for the complex, Serana had padded to the front gatehouse, and had simply opened the front gate from the inside. Their vehicles drove in, in full view of anyone from the street, through a gate that could only be opened from the inside . . . and which closed behind them without incident.

With the rachni pouring out of the trucks inside the building, and looking at Glory expectantly, Serana and Lin had gone to the server room, high above the rest of the building. There, they'd settled in, going through the data on the computers. Schematics. Data. Suppliers—because this facility was just the final assembly area. Half a dozen smaller subcontractors actually supplied parts to this assembly plant. "Half of this is written in salarian," Lin commented, "with batarian translations underneath."

"Well, we already knew the Lystheni were involved," Serana had murmured, downloading copies, and setting charges inside the server racks. "I'd expect them to have more copies of the schematics elsewhere."

"I wonder how much of this the Lystheni actually came up with themselves," Lin had returned, staring at the schematics open on his omnitool, "and how much of it they backwards-engineered from Collector tech."

Serana's eyes had come up from where she'd been placing a detonator in the molded block of explosives. "What do you mean?"

"We know that the Collectors had Scions, right? Big weapons platforms. And they looked like several Collector bodies, more or less welded together. They decayed too rapidly for anyone to get a good autopsy of them during the Reaper War, but. . . it does fit together." Lin looked off into space. "They linked the bodies, as well as the minds. The Lystheni and the batarians, as far as we know, only link the minds. But the Collectors would have had to have had a way to conduct the biotic energy all as one. . . the Scions didn't just expel a shockwave from each body in the collective, is what I'm getting at. They had to have had a tech solution. A barrel for the gun, if you will. Amplifiers. Conductors. Transformers."

Serena's crop had clenched. "You're right," she muttered. "Although, arguably, that was Reaper tech, not Collector tech."

"Yeah. Either way, I want to know if they found a _working_ Collector somewhere, or maybe a Collector assembly area. Like this complex." Lin gestured around. "If they couldn't study a dead Collector, they had to have gotten a look at the tech _somehow_."

Downloaded information in hand, they'd stepped out into the corridor, and Serana had blown the computers and the room containing them to fragments, and then they'd stepped out onto the balcony that overlooked the production floor. Below, the rachni were stripping the place. Neatly. Systematically. They were cannibalizing every machine for parts, removing every chemical in every tank, and taking it back to the trucks in precise lines of tiny workers. The soldiers were patrolling near the windows and exits, and Glory was directing all of them, his voice, like harpsong, hovering in Serana's mind. _The singers of captive-songs will sing confusion songs instead? To have their machinery not destroyed, but stolen. And what we cannot take with us, we __will__ destroy, but in ways that they would not have foreseen. Not by beating and breaking, but with acid and heat._

True to his word, Glory had had the soldiers and workers secrete acidic compounds—compounds strong enough to melt metal, which had filled the plant with toxic gases. And, just to add to the confusion, Lin had, cheerfully enough, drawn his vibrosword. . . and left a message on one wall. A single eye. Not in the red paint Valak's men had used before, but cut into the bricks themselves.

That had been fun, in its way. The loss of life had been minimized, and they'd left as quietly and discreetly as they'd arrived. No word about the raid in the public newsfeeds, but SIU was frantically scrambling for information. And in the wake of that raid, other resistance cells began stepping up their own operations. Emboldened by Valak, apparently. When Valak had returned, they'd stepped up the raids. And that's where Lin and Glory had had the opportunity to shine. Slave auction houses mysteriously began to crumble in on themselves. Sinkholes were blamed by worried officials. Gas leaks from underground pipes forced evacuations of weapons manufacturing plants. That one had been Lin's idea, inspired when he realized just how old-fashioned some of Khar'sharn's infrastructure actually was. They'd capped their old natural gas pipelines centuries ago, but had left the liquid in the pipes and underground tanks for storage, since there was no place else to put it, short of pumping it back into the wells from which it had been taken in the first place. Most people on Khar'sharn didn't realize that. They just knew that when a light was turned on, there was power, and that it came from the mass effect power cores in the local power plants. Why _would_ they know what was still underneath their feet? But Lin, with his blessed love of history, had thought to ask simple questions: "What sort of old tunnels already exist, so we don't have to ask the rachni to dig everything? Are there sewers? Are there subway tunnels? How about gas and buried power conduits?"

Valak hadn't been able to obtain all of that information without leaving information query trails in the databases. . . but Glory, with a rachni's natural affinity for knowing what was in the ground, and the workers, had gone looking. And they had found many interesting things in the earth. Lin had, expression grim, had waited for the evacuation to be complete near the weapons plant. . . and had then flipped the switch that had set off the hidden detonators that Serana had planted near the leaking pipe.

The explosion had been massive. They'd been several miles away, and the fireball had still lit up the night sky like daylight for a moment or two, and the sound had followed a moment later, accompanied by a rumble in the earth. Secondary explosions had gone off for an hour or two thereafter, and firefighters had had a hell of a time getting the blaze contained. In the end, they'd been forced to allow the fire to burn itself out; there were simply too many chemicals inside, too many explosives, for them to risk their lives trying to put the building out.

In their nest in the bunker—which was being enlarged and reinforced by Glory and the workers—Serana had curled into Lin's warmth that night. "You didn't like doing that today, did you?" she'd murmured.

"Blowing the munitions to hell? That I didn't mind. Fewer torpedoes, fewer railguns available to fire at our people's ships," Lin had told her, wrapping his arms around her. "It was my idea, little one, remember?"

"I still saw your face." Serana reached up and stroked the line of his mandible in the dark. "Something bothered you."

Lin sighed. "Yeah. I was worried about the haz-mat responders who might be on-site. That's why I blew it early. I didn't want them to get killed, trying to shut down the valves that Glory and the workers had loosened. Or trying to patch the places where the workers had spread acid, boring through the old pipeline."

Serana nodded, her crop tightening. That was really the hardest part about all of this. There were many, many people who could be hurt by what they were doing, who were, damnably enough, just doing their jobs. Ordinary, decent people. "On the other hand," Serana said, glumly, "we could have blown the place during the day, when there were fifteen hundred workers on site. Or we could have called in a strike from orbit, maybe hitting it, maybe hitting the factories beside it. . . "

"I know." Lin's fingers caressed her fringe now, gently. "It needed to be done. It would just be nice if every objective was had was as easy as, say, a biotics processing facility. A slave warehouse. That sort of thing."

She paused. "Is that why you told me to give you the detonator? So I wouldn't have to—"

"It was my idea," Lin replied, implacably. "You're the one having to go in and do the real wet work on half of these sites, Serana. I'm just covering you."

Hitting slave auction halls and warehouses had been refreshing work. Much less apt to make their consciences twinge. They'd helped liberate one encampment of two thousand slaves, some of whom who were being readied to move to Amaterasu to work in the cobalt mines there, and some of whom would have been sold to owners here on Khar'sharn. Humans and batarians, for the most part. The rachni had dug an escape tunnel into the facility, and again, under cover of night, they'd simply removed every single slave, getting them into trucks outside of the area, and then transported them away. The rachni had contrived another 'sinkhole,' which had destroyed the warehouse. . . and authorities were mystified by the fact that not a single body had been found. Lin had, once again, left the single eye symbol of Valak's resistance there. And Nala had been very busy indeed that night, checking all of the slaves for chips and control collars; and Nala had worn a full face mask the entire time, as much for protection of her identity, as to protect her body from germs.

Chipped individuals were beyond Nala's ability to help; they were either sent to an underground bunker where RF couldn't reach them, or, if they so chose, turned loose on the outskirts of a major city, where they could try to pass for beggars for the time being. Those whom they released could _not_ have seen their faces. Could not have seen the rachni. Unchipped individuals were questioned by Valak's men . . . and by Glory. Glory alone had found several moles. Oversight informants, planted in shipments of slaves, who'd been intended to spy on various slave owners. Serana hadn't envied Valak the decisions he needed to make, or the orders he'd needed to give. But this was a case where she didn't think mercy was actually an option. Glory's voice was filled with violets of regret, but even the rachni had concurred. _They sing fear-songs. Their fear of the Overseers is so great, that they will do anything to appease them._

Serana hadn't been able to make herself watch. But, as she was helping Nala with the other released slaves, the healer-caste female looked at her with her two remaining eyes filled with sorrow. "He'll do it himself, you know," Nala told her quietly. "He won't ask any of his men to do it. And it'll be quick."

"Execution of spies. I know." Serana's voice was tight. It was probably a more merciful fate than what awaited her, if she were caught here, behind enemy lines. "Doesn't make it any easier. Even knowing that their information would surely sentence all of us to death. . . I don't know if I could pull the trigger in cold blood."

Nala's face, pinkish-orange with a pregnancy flush, was sad, but proud. "He's the strongest male I've ever known," she replied, quietly. "And to think when I first came here to work for him, I thought him foolish. A spoiled noble-caste, with more money than sense."

Serana looked at the batarian female. It was simply so odd to _like_ any batarian. . . but she honestly liked Valak and Nala, both. Valak usually put on an insouciant air and joked lightly to cover his fears, but Serana could see through to them anyway. He was terrified, every single day. . . and he still kept at his work here in spite of it. And Nala. . . Nala had to be just as terrified, if not more so. She had nothing but Valak to protect her, where he had position, title, and money as defenses. And she was in a position of supreme vulnerability at the moment.

The rest of the former slaves were enlisted in the resistance, in one fashion or another. They helped on food raids, served as lookouts in the woods, and started training with weapons. And their stories were horrifying. All of those born into slavery had been chipped, and thus had been turned loose early, long before coming anywhere near Valak's estate. All those who remained had been forced into slavery. Serana grew almost numb, after a while, to the stories of rapes, beatings, 'discipline' involving electrical shocks, and more. Many of the slaves had had a numb, glazed expression in their eyes at first, but as they regained a little more control over their lives, and the food they got was better than they'd become accustomed to, that look, among the humans, at least, became one of determination. Resistance. Anger, given direction and shaped into a weapon. Among the batarians, it was an expression of disbelief. Of hope so unlooked-for, it couldn't quite be believed.

Every night, Lin treated as if it were their last, Serana had noticed. When they reached the safety of the bunker in the early morning hours, he'd take her in his arms in their tiny corner, surrounded by supply crates on all sides for what little privacy they could find, and he'd bite her sweetly and love her so patiently and so thoroughly, it was all Serana could do not to make noise. Some nights, she didn't want patience, however, particularly when they'd faced open combat instead of destroying buildings from within. Those were the nights when she'd bite him back urgently, and whisper, _"I'm not a pewter figurine in need of fresh paint, beloved. . . "_ And she'd be rewarded when she'd finally see that patience crack, as they both reached for release from fear, release from tension. Serana was just glad he was here. She had no idea how she could possibly do what needed doing here alone. . . and while Glory was a wonderful teammate, and they couldn't do half of what they were accomplishing without the rachni, Glory also couldn't wrap her up in warm arms and tell her, however haltingly, that everything was going to be all right.

Eventually.

In the middle of Decius, or late November, on the human calendar, they'd been a hundred miles away, steeling themselves to the bloody work of destroying a biotics processing facility. . . and the resulting deaths of the human and asari biotics inside of it. They'd had to go through, one dormitory at a time, trying to find any biotics left intact, and hadn't found a single one. Serana's crop had clenched, yet again. "_Each of these people could be someone we know,"_ she'd whispered to Lin in turian as she set the charges. _"They could be. . . Siara. Ylara. Madison. Amara."_

"_Eli,"_ Lin had reminded her. _"Dara. Dempsey. I know. And for every biotic here, there's someone at home to remember them. But we can't save them, can't take care of them, and we don't dare leave them for the batarians to use as weapons."_ He'd held out his hand for the detonator. _"Do you want me to do it?"_

"_No,"_ Serana told him, straightening and looking up into his eyes. He'd had enough darkness in his life, enough guilt and grief. He didn't need to shoulder any more than his own fair share. _"I'll do it."_

She'd rigged the charges carefully, in coordination with Glory's workers. It would, in the main, look like another mysterious 'sink hole' incident. There had been quite a rash of them, but this one might even look more natural than the others. . . since the people inside would be unlikely to survive the twenty foot fall into the earth, and the implosion of the earth around them. Serana simply hoped that the end would be quick for the mindless people in the facility. They'd already killed the guards, and those of the physicians who were on staff at night.

It had been a silent trip back to the estate, and Serana had simply looked forward to stripping out of her armor, trying to wash the filth from her body, and curling up in Lin's arms to try to warm their spirits.

It wasn't to be, however. The worst had happened, and two of Valak's most trusted men had been captured, on a raid held that same night, on which Serana and Lin had not been sent. Yal'or and Irvek had been sent to Kanak'khoria Prison. And it was up to _them_ to get them out before they were tortured.

Valak had obtained the plans—there weren't exactly any publicly available of the prison, and again, trying to hack into government databases could leave traces. He'd resorted to sending Tul'dur to an actual physical library, which wasn't quite as much of a rarity on Khar'sharn as it was on other planets, because of the restrictions the government placed on extranet use. And Tul'dur had managed to look at aerial pictures of the prison. A few of the original surveys for the land when it had been confiscated by the government from a noble-caste lord who'd displeased the Hegemon in some fashion, and the site of his home had been turned into the prison complex. Nervous work. As such, they weren't going in blind, but the next thing to it.

Valak had been to Kanak'khoria to secure Nala's release. A few other visits over the years, on SIU work. He was able to diagram, from memory, where he _thought_ his men would be. The upper cells, probably on the western side, where the most recently incarcerated were kept. Women were kept in the upper cells, on the eastern side, but were mostly sentenced to slavery, unless their crimes had been particularly abhorrent. Then, they were sent into the yards. With the men.

The main problem, as Serana pointed out, was simple. "Our best line of attack is to tunnel in under the prison, with the rachni," she said. "But that means we'd be coming in at the same level as the pits. With the prisoners that you're unsure if you want to release."

Valak was hunched over, all three of his red-orange eyes moving restlessly, back and forth, as if he were reading something inside his own mind. Calculating. "I'm not seeing much of a way around it," he admitted. "If we bring down the northern wall, the guards will be very, very busy indeed, chasing the men who are trying to escape from the pits. Which will be a good distraction for us to go in and extricate Yal'or and Irvek."

"There's no _we_ in this," Lin told him, dryly. "You're not coming with us."

"They're my men—"

"And you absolutely can't be seen to be a part of this. If they've already been compromised, you need to be the first one shouting for their bloody execution." Lin grimaced. "And you need to be someplace where you can be seen _not_ being part of this."

Valak grimaced. "Ancestors. What a mess." He exhaled. "I should tell you that I did contact our mutual friends." He pointed upwards, at the ceiling. "They know we need extrication, and fast."

Glory's body had bulked large in Valak's library, and the rachni had delicately lifted the hand-drawn sketches with his pedipalps. _Sings-Rebellion, is the prison built on solid rock?_

"No. Clay, judging from the surveys."

_Good. One of my brother warriors can sing to the earth, and cause it to dance at his will, but I do not have his song. The little ones and I will sing other songs. We will dig, but it will take time._

"You don't need to undermine the whole wall," Serana told Glory, her heart beating fast in her chest. "You only need to dig a single access tunnels under the foundation. Then we can rig explosives under the foundations and blow the walls down that way. That way, you can focus on getting us a _real_ access tunnel to the western side."

Lin looked at her. "Those walls are ten feet thick, _amatra_," he reminded her. "It's built like an old-fashioned fortress, with cement and rubble fill."

"I know," Serana told him, and glanced at Valak. "The explosives we have with us won't be enough. But you have something we could use."

Valak widened his eyes slightly. "And what would that be, my dear?"

She winced. "One of the engines from your stealth ships. The yield from its mass effect core, even dampened by the ground, would result in a very deep crater, and would _certainly_ take out the wall." Serana swallowed, her mouth dry. She knew what she was asking him to do here.

Lin have her a speculative glance. "You're starting to take after your first-brother, _amatra._"

She shook her head. "No. Rinus could actually turn that engine into an explosive himself. I'm. . . going to need a tech to help with that."

"Yeah, but you and he both like explosives."

"They work, don't they?" Serana turned and looked at the brood-warrior who shared the room with them. "Glory, could you dig the access tunnel in such a way that it would focus the energy of the blast more up, than out?"

Glory's song was uneasy. _Yes. We can certainly sing this song. But we will dig small tunnels the length of the wall. Perhaps no more than the size of a worker in diameter. This will ensure that the destruction-songs will move all along the wall of captive-place._

Valak rubbed a hand over his head. "Using the ship engine would cut off one avenue of escape for my people," he murmured. "We'd go from twenty people stranded here, to sixty people unable to run."

Serana nodded. "But we might stave off _having_ to run," she told him. The rachni tunnels underground wound maze-like under the estate now—and some would eventually stretch for miles, she knew. The workers were tireless diggers. There were places to hide down there. Places to run. But she didn't want to have to retreat into those tunnels. Not if she could help it. Living in the bunker had been bad enough all this time, only seeing the sky at night.

Lin considered the layout of the prison. "Let's also try to find where they get power from," he said, after a moment. "Chances are, they're on the overall electrical grid, but they'll have backup generators. If they lose all power, they'll lose all monitoring, and that's safer for us, too."

Valak sighed. "That may be difficult, my turian friend," he told Lin. "Such things are not precisely publicly disseminated."

In the end, Valak hadn't seen any other options than their plan. Digging multiple tunnels and setting dozens of small charges for a controlled implosion of the northern wall could have taken up to a week. A week they didn't have. And so, two days later, they'd bundled the reactor core of the first ship into a groundtruck, and set out for Kanak'khoria Prison, or at least, the area near it. Valak had an engineer who was a genius with engines, named N'val, and it was this male who had, in thirty-six hours of hard work, refitted the engine into something that would, instead of producing a contained, continuous conversion of matter into energy, would do so in an uncontained and highly explosive manner.

While Valak's man had been working on the engine, the rachni had been digging. Half of them had been preparing the north face of the prison complex. And half of them had been digging at the western side, preparing an entry and exit tunnel. A dozen workers had moved through pipelines and power conduits all through the building, and, when Glory gave the word, would spit acid on electrical wires, severing them within seconds. This would plunge the prison into blackness. . . and would have the extra added bonus of being damned hard for investigators to ascertain how it had happened. It wasn't like cutting a wire outside the building, or blowing up a generator.

Everything would, hopefully, go in the right order. Power outage. Explosion. Entry. Finding the missing men. Extracting them. . . and all the other non-violent or political prisoners. And getting the hell back out. _This is what Eli and Sam would call a tall order_, Serana assessed to herself. _Kasumi would call it difficult, but not impossible. Then again, Kasumi has been doing things like this much longer than I have._

"I don't like going in blind," Lin noted grimly, as, beside them in the access tunnel, Glory sang a low, glorious note. Telling the workers to begin their tasks. That had been one of the things Lin brought to the team, Serana had realized early. Every raid they planned, Lin planned meticulously. Fallback options. Contingency plans. Lin like to minimize the need for improvisation. That, she knew, was training, pure and simple. . . because she also knew he _could_ improvise. He'd played center on the school handball team, the same way Rel had, because he had a gift for seeing the options around him, and making use of them, not just for executing set plays.

"I don't like going in blind, either," Serana murmured now. "At least we know that there will be surprise, chaos, and confusion on our side."

"They'll have response plans, if they know their business. They'll fall back on those."

"And we'll disrupt them." She didn't say it cavalierly. She met his eyes as he looked down at her. "Glory?"

_The little ones report that the lines are now severed. The prison is in blackness._

Lin tabbed his radio. "This is Forseti," he said, using his Spectre nickname. "Fire in the hole."

"Acknowledged," Tul'dur replied in galactic, and a moment later, the rachni tunnel around them shook, dirt pouring down from the ceiling on their heads, almost blotting out the light from Serana's flashlight for a moment. For a very bad instant, Serana thought they were about to die in a cave-in, _and wouldn't that just be ironic? Come all this way, to do ourselves in. . . _.

The radio crackled. "The entire northern wall is down," Tul'dur reported, his voice awed. He was in position outside the outer wire fences of the prison, over a mile away, but with a clear line of sight on the facility. "Ancestors! I can see into the rooms on the first four floors. . . "

One of the reasons they'd picked the northern section of the building was because it held mostly administrative offices, the guard cafeteria, the kitchens, a medical facility, and a few guard dormitories, although most of the guards lived off-premises. Fewer prisoners in danger this way. "Let's go," Lin said tightly. "Glory, this time, you and the soldiers are coming with us."

_Understood. The time for fear-songs has come. Let them sing terror now, at what they will find in the shadows and the night._ Glory's song held profound determination.

Serana turned off her flashlight and put it away. It was time to rely on nightvision inside her helmet. She turned on her stealth generator, and patted Lin on the pauldron of his armor, as he lifted his shield. The brood-warrior shoved the last remaining barrier of earth out of their way, and they moved out of the tunnel, flanked by rachni soldiers, who formed a wedge around them, into total chaos. The tunnel had opened up into the lowest floor of the western wind of the prison. There was no light. Just the dim glow of bodies in the thermal imaging, and, as the night vision inside her helmet picked up and enhanced the limited light, she could see cell bars. Tiny cells, no larger than her room's closet back on Mindoir. No furniture, besides a pallet on the floor, and a hole in the floor for bodily wastes. And all the prisoners were standing, grabbing onto the cell doors, rattling their cages, whooping and yelling and demanding to know what was going on.

Serana's flashlight had two candlepower settings. One was dim, for investigative work. The other was a self-defense setting. Two million candlepower of light. She turned it on now, facing the prisoners in their cells, and they jerked back in surprise and agony, hiding their too-sensitive eyes. "Yal'or?" Lin asked now, while the prisoners were blinded and possibly, at least, listening. "Irvek?"

"_Not. . . not here. . . come on, let us out!"_

Serana turned off the light, and muttered, in turian over the radio, _"Move on, Forseti. Onwards."_ The prisoners behind them wailed and screamed. They _knew_ this was a prison break, and that freedom was near. . . but Serana and Lin didn't _dare _let these people out. They had no idea what any of them were in for, and couldn't risk having the prisoners turn on them. Glory broke down the door into the next room with a hail of tiny biotic spheres, and then there were bodies everywhere. Arms reaching, grabbing for her. Prisoners from the pit area off to the east had broken down the door into the main building in the confusion, and were on the rampage. A mob mentality, an enraged beast in many bodies. They wanted to kill guards, they wanted prisoners, they wanted hostages, they wanted _out_. Serana, panicking a little, broke someone's arm, heard the scream of pain, and turned on her flashlight again—and saw the rachni soldiers leap into the fray. The light almost blinded her, herself, so she only caught confused, distorted images of insect bodies leaping onto masses of flesh, dark arms reaching into the blinding glow of the light, then recoiling. Screams. Another arm around her neck, from behind—Serana ducked her head, and lifted her left leg. What a human would call a 'chicken-scratch' kick, it aimed for the groin. . . and, given that her heel was armed with a spur, though hers was far daintier than a male turian's, and not poisoned, there was still a scream of pain as her armored spur drove home, and the arm around her throat fell away limply.

Lin grabbed her arm and pulled her through the writhing mass of arms and legs, for the far door, and Serana switched off the light again when they reached it. This was a stairwell, and they, followed by Glory and their rachni bodyguards ran up the damned steps as fast as they could. _"Getting back out again could be problematic,"_ Serana noted. Adrenaline was pouring through her now, making her thought seem almost supernaturally sharp.

"_One thing at a time, little one, one thing at a time."_ Lin kicked in the next door, and then they were tearing through another full floor of cells. "Yal'or!"

"_Here!"_ This time, they got a reply.

They needed to be sure, of course. Anyone could claim to be Yal'or, and the male who'd answered had a face so cut, bruised, and swollen, he was unrecognizable. _"We're going to need a little more proof," _Serana told him in batarian.

A weak smile, in spite of the brilliant flashlight. "My lord's name. . .is _Zorro_."

"_One down," _Lin muttered in turian, and a worker swarmed up the bars of the cell to spit acid in the lock. "Can you walk?" he added, in galactic.

Yal'or's galactic was poor, but he managed a reply. "My lord. . . if means . . . getting out of Kanak'khoria. . . I will _fly_."

"_What about us?"_ the prisoners around him implored. _"Don't leave us!"_

"Where's Irvek?" Serana asked Yal'or.

"_They garroted him. In front of me. They might have only done it to unconsciousness and tried again, but . . . they left him in the interrogation room with me for an hour. So I could see the body. And really think about it."_ Yal'or's voice was grim. _"I swear, I did not break."_

_We will listen to your songs later. Too much confusion-song now, too much chaos, to hear truth-songs,_ Glory told them. _Believe that captive-singers are coming!_

"Guards," Lin said, tightly. "From ahead of us?"

_Yes._

Lin nodded. "Open all the doors, Glory."

Serana knew exactly why. On this level, most of the prisoners _should_ be largely political and non-violent. . . and they'd be a wonderful distraction for the guards. It was the right idealistic decision, but also the right pragmatic one. She started jamming det-cord and triggers into various locks, while the rachni workers poured acid into the mechanisms of other doors.

Another surge of bodies. Serana backed away from them warily, afraid that, again, she'd be grabbed. Taken as a hostage by a desperate, panicking prisoner. "_The north wall is down_," she shouted over the voices. _"Go! Go if you can!"_

And while the released prisoners boiled towards the northern end of the room, where Lin had been holding the door against the guards, their rescue squad moved back south, against the tide of bodies. It was hard to move, even. Like fighting her way through a stampede. Her feet impacted on something soft, and she knew, to her horror that some weaker prisoner was indeed being trampled. Part of her wanted to stop and help the male, but she knew that time was of the essence. They had to get back to the damned tunnel, and get out, collapsing it behind them.

Forcing their way down the stairwell now, Serana pointed her searing light ahead of them, and Lin used his shield, and even kicked people back, using his heavy boots with grim efficiency. Glory's song swelled and soared, and a singularity came into being, lifting screaming prisoners off the treads of the stairwell, gaining them precious inches. Serana threw elbows into throats, drove her fingers into eyes, and rained light into the faces of those whose eyes were dark-adapted. A couple more times, arms wrapped around her, and Glory finally had enough, and turned, hissing, and spat acid in the exposed faces of the prisoners, who screamed and released Serana.

They made it back to the tunnel, which had been held safe by a contingent of soldier rachni, and began to run its length in the darkness, Yal'or supported on either side by Serana and Lin. Behind them, Glory sang notes of grim determination, and rachni began to fall back. _The prisoners are attempting to follow,_ he sang to them. _Shall we still sing destruction songs?_

"Warn them," Lin rasped. "If they don't fall back, it's on their own heads. Literally. We can't have them following us."

Serana could feel the rumbling in the ground as the rachni began to strike supports in the tunnel—Glory was using his biotics to do it, from a safe distance, apparently—and she increased her speed, her flashlight jouncing and dancing, sending uncertain shadows skittering over the walls, its flickers of light giving their whole flight a strange, stroboscopic, dream-like feel. At least the floor was smooth. The rachni had been extremely careful of that. One wrong step in the darkness, and all three of them could have gone tumbling to the ground. . . .

They emerged from the ground half a mile from the prison. Hands pulled them up from the ground, and for a panicked instant, Serana was ready to fight, ready to run, if these were Oversight forces. They weren't. The batarian faces around them were those of Valak's men, and were desperately relieved to see them all. "Get in the trucks," Tul'dur muttered, urgently. "We've got to move. They'll be inspecting all the vehicles in the vicinity."

Lin and Valak had prepared for this. The rachni would be staying in the remains of the tunnel. . . for the moment. She and Lin, however, had disguises to get into. Serana shucked her armor reluctantly. Handed over her weapons, feeling desperately naked without them. And, with shaking hands, she snapped a collar around her own neck. The shackles at her hands and feet, like those on Lin's, were for show; they both could unlock them whenever they chose. But now they curled up in the back of the truck, wearing their slave disguises. Serana's was a short, ragged kilt, with a loose shirt, from which Lin had torn the sleeves—and had torn away the hem, too. She'd laughed when she'd seen the resulting cropped top at first. _You just want to see my bare waist, amatus._ It was finished off with loose sandals—which had a hiding place for their shackle keys, but were rubber-soled. Nothing that could be used as a weapon.

The outfit looked less amusing now that she was wearing it. In fact, she felt acutely exposed. . . which was, she figured, probably part of Lin's thought process. If she _felt_ vulnerable, she'd have an easier time _acting_ vulnerable. And Serana could appreciate good costuming. . . and anything that made the role they'd undertaken easier. Lin's own outfit was even chillier than her own. He'd given himself torn shorts and sandals, nothing more. But to Serana's biased eyes, Lin looked just as dangerous out of armor as in it. He was whipcord lean, not as heavily muscled as her two older brothers, and didn't have the bulky shoulders and arms of a human male, like Sam or Eli. But he still out-bulked the batarians around them, and, kneeling, eyes intent and gleaming in the low light, looked like what his ancestors had been. A predator. Caged, for the moment, but ready to strike his captors. And for just an instant, Serana remembered the odd, primal dreams on Bastion, when they'd all been sick with the plagues. Raw meat, a fresh kill, rubbed against the skin of her face. . . _My male_, she thought, feeling a flush rise to her face and crest for a moment. _My mate._ Lin looked down at her for a moment, and smiled. _"Later,"_ he murmured. _"I promise."_

With Yal'or similarly shackled, Tul'dur got up in the front of the truck to drive them back to Valak's estate. They had a shipping manifest and carefully forged documentation stating that they were, at last, Valak's _breeding pair_ of turians, which had taken an inordinate amount of time to come through customs.

They were stopped. Everyone on the road was. But the truck that they'd used to transport the rachni and the ship engine now held three slaves, two of whom were under heavy guard, and one of whom had, apparently, been beaten within an inch of his life. _"What the hell happened to him?"_ the Oversight guard asked, pointing at Yal'or.

"_Tried to force himself on the female. We barely got her off of him in time. He's lucky she didn't actually geld him with her bare hands. As for her mate. . . there's a reason we're keeping the turian slaves on the other side of the vehicle. Would hate for my lord's property to be any further damaged."_ Tul'dur's voice was glum, and Serana lifted her head, narrowing her eyes, as if she sensed someone looking at her. Rolled up to a light crouch, only to have the batarian guards kick her feet out from under her again—gently, she noticed, though she made it look good as she sat down again, heavily, and glared at them. _"Would come out of my paycheck, and I can barely afford to keep my own houseslave fed, let alone any of my lord's livestock_," Tul'dur added.

"_I know what you mean,"_ the Oversight guard at the roadblock told him with a rough laugh. _"All the paperwork seems to be in order. Move along."_

"_Hell of a mess on the road tonight. Can I expect any more stops along my route?"_

"_No. You're should be fine. We had a refinery explosion. Just checking everyone to make sure no one got any chemicals on them or their cargo."_

Serana looked at Lin. He'd been picking up a little batarian in self-defense, but she doubted he'd understood enough to realize just how _fast_ the batarians cooked up their cover stories.

"_Ancestors forbid there be any contamination,_" Tul'dur replied, with just the right amount of shock in his voice.

They drove on. And back at the estate, they had no choice but to be 'confined' to the slave barracks, one stall of which had been cleared out for them. Nala brought their arms and armor out for them, which were placed in a concealed area under the floor. This change in the routine, when they had, all this time, hidden in the underground bunkers, made Serana increasingly nervous. She paced their new quarters like a caged animal, until Lin reminded her, gently, _"No one yet watches us."_ He was using _tal'mae_ anyway. Something a VI would have massive difficulties with.

"_No one watches, that we know of, mate-of-my-heart."_ Still, she'd sat down next to him, and he'd wrapped an arm around her, drawing them together to share body heat. _"On the next such journey as this one, beloved, I will be the one to choose what we wear,"_ Serana added.

"_There will be another occasion such as this?"_ Lin's tone was very, very dry.

She shuddered. _"Perhaps not."_

The next day, Tul'dur was able to go out and retrieve the rachni, taking a different route away from the prison complex, once the roadblocks had been lifted. . . and taking care to use a truck registered under a different name to do so. Serana breathed much more easily once Glory and the others were back, however.

The next weeks, were, however, nerve-wracking. All operations were cancelled, and she and Lin had to live their cover. That mostly involved resisting the guards and working in the kitchen garden at the rear of the house for her, while Lin was 'trained' in batarian-style gladiatorial combat by Tul'dur. Valak had a certain strained look to him when he'd meet them in the underground tunnels at night. "There are a _lot_ of questions right now," he said. "Glory confirmed that Yal'or didn't even so much as admit to his name, but he _was_ fingerprinted. When I first managed to free him, years ago, I had his original identity flagged as deceased in a variety of databases. He's been living here under a different name, on the books, so it _shouldn't_ come back to me. . . but the fact that someone who's registered as _dead_, obviously isn't. . . that's raising flags." Valak exhaled. "I originally stole the login credentials of a minor SIU clerk to alter Yal'or's status, so that data processor will be the first person brought in for questioning. Then everyone who worked with him. Everyone who had access to the building at the time, or, in my case, _had_ access shortly before leaving SIU." His expression was bleak. "I couldn't leave him there," he half-apologized to everyone in the bunker.

"We wouldn't follow you, m'lord, the way we do, if we didn't think you'd walk through hell and spit in all the ancestors' faces for each and every one of us," Tul'dur told him, calmly. "The question is, how much time can we buy with confusion?"

"I really don't know," Valak told him, tiredly. "I've spent years creating backtrails and false identities and everything else. But for all we know, they could have thermal cameras out in the woods at a distance right now, observing the movements of people in each set of barracks. We could be giving everything away _right now_, simply because half of the people who _were_ in the slave barracks have now, effectively, vanished from the thermal cameras' sight." He shrugged. "So. . . from this point on, we're going to have to keep all meetings very short. Treat every area of the house as if it's bugged, unless I've swept it while you're in the vicinity. Treat every area of the grounds as if someone has a long-range microphone pointed at you. We'll. . . pass word through the rachni." He looked at Glory. "You lot are _awfully_ handy to have around, I must say."

_It is our pleasure to be of use. The little ones are not the only ones who enjoy tasks_, Glory told him, with blue-green amusement covering yellow anxiety.

A week later, Valak's sister, Xal'i, and her husband, Arvak R'mod, came for a visit. Everyone went on high alert. Arvak R'mod was Valak's immediate superior in SIU, and had a reputation for ruthlessness and cunning. Valak's free-men muttered dark things about both of them. Xal'i had, in recent years, apparently whipped one of her serving girls to death. And Arvak had a reputation for raping both his slaves, and the slaves of others. Nala was obviously terrified of both of them, and had fled the main house for the slave barracks when they first arrived, and stood, rubbing the small of her back, looking into the enclosure where the 'turian mated pair' were being kept.

Serana walked up to the bars, and peered out at Nala. She'd decided to pretend to a modicum of batarian, a smattering. _"Your back. It hurts?"_ She pointed.

Nala grimaced. _"The pain comes and goes today."_

"_Your time is soon."_

"_Hopefully, it will not be today. I could give myself medicine, to keep the child from coming too soon, but it is risky. Cannot do so without my lord's command, also."_ Nala's words were subservient, but her expression was agitated. _"My lord and his kin will likely tour the barracks. It would be well for you and your male to behave yourselves."_

Serana bared her teeth. _"We live as turians. Die as turians, too."_

Part of her wanted to huddle into Lin's warmth now, desperately. It was _cold_ right now—there was snow falling outside, a little ahead of the season—and the barracks, while heated, were not suited for turian comfort. But they couldn't show any weakness. They had to look fierce, even primitive, and play into batarian assumptions about turians. They had to live the part.

Within minutes of Nala's warning, while the batarian female was still staring into the enclosure at Serana and Lin, Valak appeared—with Xal'i and Arvak in tow. Nala dropped to her knees the instant Valak appeared, and Serana and Lin remained on their feet, glaring at Valak in defiance. _"As you can see,"_ Valak said, with a shrug, _"my handlers have been working to break them, but it's slow business. I want them capable of mating, and producing offspring, so the female's health is paramount. Beyond that, the male seems to show affinity for gladiatorial combat."_

"_What methods are your people using to break them?"_ Xal'i asked, approaching the cage bars, but keeping a healthy distance back—outside of arm's reach, more's the pity.

"_Short rations. Heavy exercise. Shocks from their collars."_ Valak reached up with a languid hand, and took down a small box from a nearby shelf. _"It is, apparently, time for a refresher course in __manners_. _Kneel__."_ His voice was a command, and Serana blinked. Valak had had enough command-peremptory in there, that she'd almost reacted to it.

Lin closed his hand on her shoulder. _"Futar talut!_" he answered, in turian.

There was a buzzing sound from both of their collars. Just enough electrical current to tell them _now_, and Serana wrapped her hands around her collar, reeling backwards. Lin crouched, snarling, but refused to kneel.

"_They are such stubborn specimens,"_ Valak said, with a sigh, and increased the current, 'shocking' them again, until even Lin was 'forced' to kneel. Serana panted, as if keeping herself from screaming, but kept her eyes on Valak, not looking down. _"This is why I think raising one from birth might be the only successful way of domesticating them,"_ Valak added, blandly.

"_Why __bother__, brother? They're ugly, and, if the yahg have their way, will soon be extinct anyway."_

Valak shrugged. _"It would be nice feather in my cap, to have a set of them as loyal guards. . . or, failing that, to be the only person able to offer them to the Hegemon's Games on a regular basis."_ He set the box aside.

Arvak spoke for the first time, and Serana had to force her expression into obliviousness. To pretend she didn't understand more than a word or two of what he said. _"You know what I found fascinating recently, Valak? That refinery accident you've heard about? It was actually an attack on Kanak'khoria prison."_

"_No!" _Valak sounded sincerely horrified. _"Arvak, I know I've been up to my upper eyes on those reports you had me reading from Terra Nova, but. . . by the ancestors. Do we know anything about the attack? Were there resistance tokens left again, like the scarlet eye?"_

"_Not at all,"_ Arvak replied, pleasantly. _"There are some at the office who think that the leader of the initial resistance cell that used that token is dead. I don't believe it, though, I think he's gone underground."_

Serana kept her face very still. Underground was all too apt a term, at the moment.

"_At any rate, some of the escaped prisoners that we've re-captured have the most exciting stories about the attack. They insist that two turians were among those leading the onslaught."_

_They couldn't have seen much of us,_ Serana thought, turning into Lin's shoulder for a moment, mate seeking a mate's comfort. _The light blinded them. And when I turned the light off, there was absolute darkness for them, filled with brilliant afterimages. Maybe one or two of them saw something. . . ahh. No. They __heard__ us. They heard Lin's voice. Distinctive. _

"_Interesting,"_ Valak said, his voice noncommittal. _"You say there were two? If you find the males, I'd take them. Maybe this finicky female would damned well __mate__ if she had more selections to choose from."_

Arvak's laugh was chilling. _"Shouldn't be an issue, brother-in-law. Make it clear that it's you, or the male in the cell with her. Actually, make it both, regardless. Or, if you don't have the stomach for it, I could. . .attend to it for you."_

Xal'i's voice was indignant. _"Arvak! You'd say such things in front of me?"_

"_I beg your pardon, my dear. It was but a jest, I assure you."_

Serana, looking up, saw Arvak's eyes, and didn't think the words had been a joke at all. But she also knew she could probably kill the male with her spurs and talons, and that, unless she was chained, or unless a gun was pointed at her head, he'd have no chance of doing what he threatened. _"What are they saying?"_ Lin demanded in turian. He'd clearly felt her muscles tense.

"_The new male thinks he should rape me, to convince me to mate with you. I think."_

Lin's hand, on her shoulder, clamped down, almost cruelly tight. Lin had a _very_ bad history with the topic. His first wife had been in a gang, where the punishment for not having brought in enough money from pick-pocketing or other thefts had been rape. . . or the threat of being sent out to work as a street-walker. Serana didn't have to look at him to know a killing-rage had ignited in him. _"Not necessary. I will mate with you."_

In batarian, Xal'i pointed out, _"The female understands some of our words. Good. She can be taught reason."_ Valak had warned them that his sister spoke fluent turian—she was an accomplished linguist. Xal'i added now, her tone cold, _"And, in the end, isn't it true that turians are driven to mate, like animals? Don't they go into heat sooner or later? Eventually, she'll just fuck anything near her."_

Arvak chuckled. "_If we're lucky, perhaps you'll have a vid camera ready for it. . . and we'll see if she'd jump a batarian in her urgency."_

Serana's eyes narrowed, and a single thought went through her head. _I can guarantee that no batarian male would survive the experience._ She knew the thought probably showed in her face and eyes, but she couldn't help it. And Valak, on seeing it, sighed and held up his shock collar controller again, this time only keying _her_ collar, at its 'maximum' setting, so that Serana had to roll on the floor and choke back feigned screams for a minute or so.

As she sat on the floor, 'recovering,' Arvak added something now, his voice smooth. _"Something else of interest, Valak. The guards inside the prison insisted that they saw __monsters__."_

Valak snorted now. _"Sounds as if the guards are desperately trying to hold onto their jobs. Or, more accurately, their lives. Isn't the punishment for a guard allowing an escape from Kanak'khoria being sent into the pits with those whom he's guarded?"_ His voice held little more than dry contempt. Serana allowed Lin to pull her up and into him now, and leaned against him, marveling at how _good_ Valak was at this.

"_It does sound that way,"_ Arvak acknowledged. _"Monsters. I nearly laughed, myself."_

Valak snapped his fingers. _"Yahg."_

Arvak, clearly thrown off his stride, stopped and looked at Valak, widening his eyes. _"Excuse me, N'dor. What did you just say?"_

"_You yourself have noted that our trusted allies are a bit. . . bestial."_ Valak shrugged. "_Is it possible that some of them have been, hmm, persuaded that it's time to move against us?"_ He frowned. _"Then again, why attack a prison? Why not. . . a weapons factory? A satellite communications relay, if the 'monsters' were, in fact, yahg, and not the figments of a guard's imagination."_

_He took Arvak off-script_, Serana realized, lowering her head onto Lin's shoulder again. _But Arvak's not the type to be side-tracked for long._

"_That has possibilities to it,"_ Arvak acknowledged, after a moment. _"There are other anomalies that have come to my attention, however. The explosive recovered was, for instance, the mass effect reactor core of a batarian-made ship."_ He paused. _"The amazing thing was that it was recovered from eighteen feet under the concrete foundations of the prison. Someone tunneled down there and planted it. Possibly weeks ago, given the amount of earth that needed to be moved to do this. Possibly __months__ ago, in fact."_ Arvak's voice became sly. _"In fact, I think the whole plan was a decoy. I think this 'dead prisoner' is just a red herring."_

"_Yes, what was the supposedly dead man's name again?"_ Xal'i asked, artlessly.

_Nice try_, Serana thought, a human phrase that she loved.

"_This is the first I'm hearing of it,"_ Valak replied, dubiously.

"_The name that matched his fingerprints was Yal'or Mishar. Who supposedly died five years ago."_ Arvak's tone was silky again. _"Of course, a first name like that is fairly common."_

Valak sighed. _"Arvak, my dear brother-in-law, it's cold out here, and I'm longing for a glass of brandy. Circle near a point, if you would, or __do__ let us go inside again. You think the point of the raid was not this dead man?"_

"_No. I think that the raid was really intended to free Soloff C'les. The philosopher."  
_

Serana's throat tightened. Valak had _hoped_ they'd be able to find and free the man, but the conditions of the raid had precluded it. They'd been lucky to find Yal'or, let alone anyone else.

"_You remember him, brother dear. I seem to remember that you attended some of his classes at university? And went drinking with him at night?" _Xal'i's voice was almost hungry at this point.

"_I took classes that were required, yes,"_ Valak told her, dryly. "_And I drank at the same tavern once or twice, when I was feeling rebellious, and wanted to rub elbows with the lower-castes. As I once explained to an entire room of SIU evaluators, that hardly qualifies as drinking __with__ the man."_

Xal'i and Arvak were standing on either side of Valak now, trading comments. Forcing him to respond to one, then the other. _Interrogation tactic_, Serana realized. _They set this up in advance. Arvak truly trusts his wife, then. . . but has reason to doubt Valak now? Why? Just because of us?_

Arvak took up the thread of the conversation now. _"One more small point,"_ he said, mildly. _"Would it surprise you to learn that two weeks ago, several slaves who had been 'freed' by a vigilante group were recaptured?"_

Serana did her best not to tense. Just concentrated on the fact that Lin was gently stroking her fringe now. They had bunkers for the chipped slaves that Nala couldn't help, out of range of RF transmissions. But they couldn't store _all_ of them underground. They couldn't feed them or provide sanitary facilities for them. And thus, some of the chipped slaves _had_ been set free. But precautions had been taken. None of them had seen Lin or Serana. None of them had heard Valak's voice, seen his face, or seen Nala's face.

Arvak went on now. "_And that some of them, being chipped and obedient, were persuaded to tell us about their 'rescuers'?"_

Valak allowed himself to sound intrigued. _"Does this relate back to why you think that the leader of the Red Eye isn't dead, but just underground?" _

Arvak smiled. Serana looked up in time to see the expression, and was chilled. _"The slaves said that they were investigated by a healer-caste female who was pregnant."_ His eyes slipped down to where Nala still knelt on the floor. _"I find that suggestive."_

Valak stared at him. _"Are you suggesting,"_ he said now, his voice very, very cold, _"That my slave is involved in this? Believe me when I tell you, Arvak, I know where she is at night. Usually warming my bed."_

"_It is exactly my concern that you know precisely where she is."_ Arvak and Valak were in each others' faces now, staring each other down. Serana darted a glance at Xal'i; the female was almost licking her lips over the display.

"_Are you accusing me of betraying my people?"_ Valak's voice was like oiled ice. Smooth, cold, and deadly. _"Because a slave somewhere claims to have seen a pregnant healer-caste. Because that, of course, is an __uncommon__ thing."_ Sarcasm dripped from his words.

"_I make no accusations. I will, however, require the hospitality of your estate for myself and a number of SIU officials for the next week, as we. . . conduct investigations into the rumors of escaped slaves in the vicinity of this estate. And make continuing inquiries as to the true nature of the events at Kanak'khoria prison. Would you believe, that in all that wreckage from that exploded ship engine, we have yet to find a single part number on a single piece of debris?"_ Arvak sounded merely mildly annoyed. _"Again, an indication that this was planned months in advance."_

Valak straightened. _"It would be my __pleasure__,"_ he said, with a tight smile, _"to extend my hospitality to you, as well as to as many of your men as you see fit to bring, Arvak. I will, however, consider myself on vacation for the duration of your stay. No shop talk. And I certainly won't be gisting your reports for you while my __integrity__ is being questioned."_ He lifted one hand, palm up. _"I'm undecided if my annoyance with you extends so far as to ban you from my brandy bottle, Arvak."_

"_Now, now, you know that everyone must be investigated,"_ Xal'i told her brother smoothly. _"No one is above consideration in something like this."_

"_And have __you__ been investigated, sister dear?"_

The trio left, and Nala slowly pulled herself back to her feet, wobbling there uncertainly as she worked circulation back into her feet. _"What the hell was that all about?"_ Lin asked Serana in turian.

She leaned in close, so she could breathe the words into his ear. In _tal'mae,_ to throw off any VIs, she whispered, _"It is possible, mate-of-my-heart, that all is lost, and that only through the intervention of those whose spirits are one with ours, will we come out of this alive."_

_In other words_, she thought, and the words were in English, _we're so fucked._

**Sam, Khar'sharn, December 24, 2196**

The good news was, several of the people who'd be going in on the extraction teams had actually been to Valak's estate before. Eli had. So had Dara. Rel had spent ten days there, and Livanus, actually, had spent several months there, in hiding, trying to help train Valak's people into an effective guerrilla force. Livanus had diagrammed the complex from memory, starting with the villa at the center, accurately placing the guest house to the northeast, surrounded by a stand of trees, a formal garden filled with statuary to the south of that, and a small pagoda, used for formal parties, apparently, to the south of that. To the west of the house, and behind it, essentially, were two guard barracks and two 'slave' barracks, as well as an extensive set of formal gardens and kitchen gardens. And there were guard towers all the way around the estate. The entrance to the original bunker, Livanus noted in the briefing, was to the south of the villa, about a hundred yards southwest of the pagoda—but within view of one of the guard towers. Which was fine when Valak and his men had been in control of the estate.

The problem was, Valak was not responding to FTL tightbeam transmissions. Sam privately suspecting that Valak might have turned off his comm device, or dismantled it, for the time being, purely as a safety precaution. Saying, "No, no, I don't know what you mean, I haven't received any tightbeam FTL transmissions" was all well and good, until one happened to be picked up by a receiver in your house. Which _could_ be detected, if someone had the right equipment and was standing close enough nearby. "So, essentially," Sam told the entire room that morning, "we're going in blind."

"What else is new?" came a grumble from the depths of the turian marines at the far end of the briefing room.

Sam nodded in their direction. "I don't like it any more than you do, but here's what we're going to do. We're going to go in, assuming it's a hot landing zone. That means four gunships will drop from the _Estallus_ and the _Raedia_ before we even hit the ground. Spectre Sky will reach out and contact his people the instant he gets in range—how far _is_ your range, buddy?" He looked at Sky, curiously.

_Not as great as a queen's. Within ten miles, however, I should hear their songs._

"So, you can hear them from the top of the atmosphere, but only if we're _right_ on top of them?"

_Very faintly. Song attenuates when there is no one in between to carry voices, each to each._ Sky sounded uncertain.

Sam grimaced. "Okay. So we might or might not have a picture of what's going on before we land. Stay flexible, stay loose. Our people might be on location, or they might very well have been captured and taken prisoner. . . in which case, the mission changes from a nice simple extraction to a search, locate, and retrieve." _God, let it not come to that. We don't have days on this planet, we've got hours, at most._ _I can't leave our people behind, but I also can't let any more of us get captured trying to rescue them._

"Chances are," Livanus put in now, "that the rachni have burrowed extensively under the estate. We might find everyone perfectly fine and intact, just underground."

_The power of positive thinking, my friend,_ Sam wanted to say, but didn't. He didn't want to invoke any shadow of bad luck at the moment.

There were a few desultory questions, and then they dismissed everyone. They were on final approach to Khar'sharn now, and everyone was taut. On edge.

Sam Jaworski himself was restless. It was, by his reckoning, Christmas Eve, and, once again, he was spending it in the field. With any luck, Kasumi was at least home from rachni space to spend the evening and the following day with Takeshi, but he was missing what might be the first Christmas his son would actually _remember_ out here in batarian space. _Seems like I've spent half my life missing holidays and birthdays and anniversaries, stuck on a rock somewhere, thanks to the batarians_, Sam thought, remembering the Skyllian Blitz all too well. Of hiding in some colonist's backyard, under the gardenia bushes, waiting for the batarians nearby to move out, so that he and his squad could regroup with the rest of their people, and retaliate. Dara had been just around a year old at the time. And he'd missed his anniversary with Sarah that year as a result, too. _I keep telling myself, I try not to make the same mistakes,_ Sam thought, and added, ruefully, _Then again, that just frees me up to make new ones._

He'd been watching Dara very, very carefully—as best he could, anyway—for the past year. Her emotional fragility on Bastion had been apparent. . . but then, they'd all been under enormous stress at the time. Half of them had been on corpse patrol, and she, Siara, and hell, even Seheve, had been at work in the hospital, trying to keep people from becoming corpses, or at least give them comfort on their way out of this life. She'd been showing signs of burnout, fatigue, and depression before that, though, and much of that had been attributable to the turian military, isolation from her own kind, hell, isolation from friends and family, and truncating entire portions of her personality to please Rel and to fit into the turian military box. He'd watched her start to become herself again on Omega, and had been delighted. _You see, sweetie?_ Sam had wanted to tell his daughter. _You can be a damned effective soldier, a damned good doctor, and still be yourself. Still be human._

Then there'd been the damned trip into rachni space, and Sam had felt like a man running around under a trapeze act with a net since then, trying to figure out where to set it up so that if Dara fell, she'd at least have a safe landing. She'd wobbled a bit on the high wire, but to Sam's way of thinking, young Eli had walked out on the wire with her, and they were timing their steps in unison pretty damned well at the moment. He was keeping an eye on that, but . . . he felt as if he could at least put the net down. He was worried about Dara, landing on Khar'sharn, but it was mostly reflexive. She'd always be his little girl, after all. . . but as she liked to remind him, she wore heavy armor and heavy shields for a reason. Under the black paint, that was one of Shepard's old armor sets. True infiltrators like Kasumi wore light armor at best, and relied on speed, stealth, and reflexes to get them through a battle. Sam's tactical style was more of a hybrid; he wore heavy armor, but still relied on speed and stealth. His armor and Shepard's were two of a kind; full suits, durable, composite material overlays, energized weaves, that sort of thing. Dara had jokingly pointed out that she had toxin seals in place, thanks to all the hazards on Arvuna. _I'll be fine, Dad. Don't worry about me._

Sam walked into the observation lounge that he was currently sharing with Livanus, Eli, and Rel. Liv was back in the briefing room. Eli was off attending to his own armor. Rel had already made his way back from the meeting room, and was, as usual, carefully carving something. Sam went to his personal locker, and began getting out his armor. Going over it carefully, plate by plate, would give him something to do while he waited to see if the batarians noticed their approach on their homeworld, no matter the crazy angle, or the fact that they hadn't come through a mass relay.

After a few moments, Sam realized that something was pressing in on him. Silence. Faint scrape of a knife on wood. He sighed. _Damn it. Damn it all. I have to do this._ Sam adjusted a buckle carefully, and asked Rel, "So, what are you making, now that the thresher maw one is done?"

The silence had been bad enough. Now it fell away in splinters, and he could almost feel Rel's surprise at being addressed, and in a friendly tone of voice. Sam wanted to lean his head against the locker door and cuss, but that sort of would take away from what he was trying to do here.

After a moment, Rel replied, cautiously, "I think it's going to be Seheve, actually. Trouble is, I can't get a good read on her. Half the time, I get a picture of her as quiet, serene, reserved, so I see her as. . . hmm. Ananke. Your Greeks' goddess of necessity. Fate. A cowl over her face and a lantern in her hand."

"And the rest of the time?" Sam asked. The silence was broken now, and he just had to struggle through it, as if he'd stepped through a thin crust of frozen snow into the waist-high powder underneath.

"Coatlicue, maybe? Your Aztecs' goddess of death and creation. With a skirt of snakes." Rel sounded confused, and no wonder.

"She's drell, son. Probably there's nothing human or turian that fits her very well."

"I know that."

The silence returned, this time with a vengeance. Sam exhaled. _Just say the damned words._ He stepped into his armored legs, locked the boots in place, and got the chestpiece in place before he could make himself say anything. "Rel?" Sam turned and looked at the boy. Boy, because, to his mind, they _were_ all kids, and always would be, even if they all saw the shady side of eighty years of age.

Rel looked up, expression still a little wary. "Yes?"

"It's not good to go into a fight together with anything hanging over your head." Sam's hand curled into a fist, and he banged the side of it against his locker lightly a few times. "A few months back, I was pretty damned mad at you. Parts of me still are."

Rel's face closed down, but he met Sam's eyes steadily. "Yeah. I got that."

_God damnit, why can this shit never be easy?_ "She's my daughter. I'm always going to protect her. That's the way it is. But maybe I could have handled the situation a little better." Sam exhaled. "The hell of it is, I was mad at you because I was _disappointed_ in you. I always saw a hell of a lot of myself in you, and in young Eli, too." Sam heard a scrape from the corridor outside, past the open door, and paused. No further sounds, so he went on, slowly, "And even with me giving you fair warning, you still made the same goddamned mistakes I did when I was young. Only in my case, the girl's family probably actually made the right move, much as I hated 'em for it at the time, and didn't let me marry her. Was enough of a wakeup call for me that I _did_ get my act together in a year or two, and married Sarah. And then I made all sorts of mistakes with Sarah, too."

Rel's voice was very even now, showing the effort it took to control himself. "And yet you wouldn't let me even try to fix the mistakes."

"Once you get to a certain point, there aren't take-backs or do-overs, son," Sam told him, tiredly. "Particularly not with the two of you in the jobs that you have. You have a bad day, people die. She has a bad day, people die. Sarah had a bad day? She might have messed up a gene splice on a racehorse. Whoop-de-fucking-do. And I think, if you look back on where _both_ of you were six months ago, and if you're honest with yourself. . . you'll understand that the point of no return had already passed, before either of you was aware of it. But that's not what I wanted to talk about right now."

The anger in Rel's eyes had died. Become something both more bitter, and more poignant to see. Regret. "So what _did_ you want to say?" Rel asked, his voice tight.

"That I'm sorry, damnit, for not handling it better. And that you're a good man in a fight, and I expect you'll do good today." Sam gave up and started sealing up his sleeves and gloves. Words didn't cover it, couldn't convey it.

Rel actually looked down for a moment. "Yeah. I know I am." His voice was empty. "It's taken me a while to admit that I. . . have nothing. That I _am_ nothing. . . when I'm not in a fight." He looked up. "Was that one of your mistakes?"

Sam cleared his throat. "Yeah. Sure was."

"How'd you fix it?"

"Met Sarah. Got dragged into living life whether I wanted to or not. Her family ranch, six generations of Jarmans on that same piece of scrubby land. Fixing the drywall and the electrical and helping her deal with the contractors to put in a new well. Then the steering went out on her truck, and she needed help with that, 'cause mechanics on Earth think a woman is fair game when she brings in a vehicle for repairs. And then there were her damned horses. By the time I looked up, she'd already lassoed and hogtied me, and I hadn't even realized it." Sam found a bunk to sit on, so he could stare at a wall while he talked. They were good memories, but they were still bittersweet. "Even then, I was still pretty focused on the work. Sarah did her best not to complain—she knew what I was when we got married—but she wanted a life, not just a guy who periodically showed up to pat the kid on the head and warmed up one side of the bed now and again." Sam shrugged. "And then my dad died. Early, my god. He was only fifty-three. If I only live to his age. . . I'd only have seven years left." He sighed. "So, there was my mom, shook up, and me the only person left to take care of her and my dad's estate mess. And there was Sarah, whose parents had both already passed away. And Dara. I'd already known that real life was waiting for me back home, but I woke up the morning after the funeral and decided I didn't want life to pass me by anymore." _And I've been trying not to let it happen again ever since. Yeah, I'm a Spectre now. . . and I might be missing my son's third Christmas. . . but I __am__ spending it with my daughter. Maybe it's not a very traditional Christmas. Not a hell of a lot of mistletoe and tinsel, and the carols are going to involve a lot more gunfire than most other families. . . but hell. . . my little girl's a Spectre now, too._

"I thought that's what we had," Rel admitted, slowly. "A life."

Sam shook his head. "Did you?" _You had jobs, and you shared a bed. A job is a part of life, sure, but it's not the whole thing. A life is something you build together. It's. . . making dinner together. Knowing that no matter how warm the thermostat is set, she's still going to be under three layers of blankets. Hearing something on the news that you've got to remember to tell her when you get home. . . or at least write to her about, if you're a couple of billion miles away. Laughing at something the kid did, months ago. Knowing that your mom and your wife annoy the living piss out of each other, but knowing that either of 'em will go give each other a hand anyway. It's the hundreds of little things that come together over years._ And what had the two of them really shared, besides the job, a bed, and a vision of the future? A vision that Dara, by her own admission, hadn't found compelling by the end.

"I'm not sure," Rel said, quietly. "There was nothing that I didn't like."

_Yeah, I bet. Fight, train, fight some more. Basically, fun all day for you. Cooking and laundry handled by ship services. Someone in your bed at night, no need to date—or even any __way__ to date, really, since there was nothing to do on board ship—get up, and do it all over again. No responsibilities, except to the job, really. And no time to realize, besides maybe the year on Sur'Kesh, that it was empty. But Dara figured it out on Rocam. She realized there was no life. Just existence. Empty and unending and stretching ahead of her for the rest of her own personal eternity. Nothing at all to fill it with. I don't know when that realization is going to hit you, boy, but when it does, it's going to feel like a sixteen ton hammer, right atop your head. __This is what I was missing. This is life.__ But there ain't nothing I can tell you that'll make you see it. It's something everyone has to discover on their own. Ain't life grand?_

Sam stood up. "Best get your armor on," he told Rel, not unkindly. "It's almost time."

He stepped out into the corridor through the open door, and found Eli standing outside, waiting. Sam raised his eyebrows at the young man. _You've been waiting out there a while, haven't you?_ He studied Lantar's son for a moment, and, again, liked what he saw. Here was a young man who'd made most of the same mistakes. Had let the job absorb him to the exclusion of all else. But, after a little pointed intervention from family and friends, he'd gotten it together. Reached out for life. Let the friends and the family in. Found what he wanted to do with his life, what he wanted to build, and went after it. "See you in the shuttle bay," he told Eli, clapping him on the shoulder. "I have to go give Dara a hug. I always kind of feel like it's bad luck if I don't embarrass the shit out of her before an attack when I have the chance."

Eli laughed.

**Valak, Khar'sharn, December 24, 2196**

Valak was trying hard not to let the strain show. There were at least sixty SIU men on his property at the moment. They had command trucks set up in his front garden, and they were slowly, room by room, searching every building on the estate. It was nerve-wracking, but he had to have faith that the rachni had hidden all of their entrances and exits with skill, and that his own modifications to the estate over the years would hold up. Looking out the window now, he could see that some of the SIU men were taking out ground-penetrating radar equipment, and mentally winced. Surely, they'd be able to see disturbed layers of soil, wouldn't they? Denser layers where the rachni had compacted the sediments, open cavities where the tunnels were? Of course, they'd have to start in the right areas. . . . More disturbing was the fact that his own men weren't in the defense towers around the perimeter. They were all in the barracks, being watched by SIU operatives. And more disturbing than that? Tiny, hovering turrets. Valak had seen their like once before, in an SIU briefing on geth tactics and armaments. These were clearly based on the original geth design, but looked to be of batarian manufacture. . . and there were dozens of them, hovering and bobbing all over his estate. Arvak had told him, lightly, that they were keyed to the biometric chips in his men's bodies, and that they'd fire at anything larger than a varren pup that _didn't_ have the SIU identification codes being broadcast. "This is for your safety," Arvak had said, with a smile. "We want to be sure you don't have any intruders on your estate, or in the hundreds of acres of forest attached to the estate. _For my protection, of course. That's why my people and I are huddled inside our buildings, while you search every room. For my __protection._

A sound behind him alerted him, and he turned, and his eyes widened slightly. "That's a new look, sister," he murmured. Xal'i was wearing, not a dress, as she normally did, but a black set of coveralls, sleek and form-fitting. She had a knife and a pistol tucked in a harness that cinched at her waist, and carried what looked, for all the world, like a metal whip or a coil of wire, curled into a loose circle and wrapped over one shoulder.

Xal'i held out her arms and twirled a little, as if showing off a favorite new outfit. "Arvak's been training me," she said, with a sweet smile and an inwards focus of her eyes, as if reflecting on happy memories. "He said it was a pity that our father had never pressed the limits of our caste when it came to me. . . but that for me, he'd make an exception and let me be of _use_. More than just passing drinks at social functions, brother dear." She smiled, that sweet, disturbing smile that she'd always had. Usually right before beating one of the servants. Even as a child, Xal'i had known how to get what she wanted. And if she didn't get what she wanted, she'd found ways to make other people suffer for it.

Valak suppressed his reaction, and just smiled. "He sounds an ideal husband for you, my dear."

"Oh yes, and I have you to thank for it. You have no _idea_ how grateful I am, brother." Xal'i stepped a little closer. "My late, unlamented first husband had absolutely no imagination. No ambition, no drive. Arvak has all three. And while I've been helping him improve the translations on his various reports, he's been teaching me how to use a pistol and a knife."

_Just as I've been teaching Nala how to shoot and use a sword. How ironic._ "And the whip, Xal'i, my dear? That doesn't look like your old favorite—actually, didn't your old one have a name?" Valak noted, keeping his voice mild.

"Oh yes, Regret. I was very fond of her, but Arvak made such a point of giving me this one." Xal'i uncoiled it, and flicked her wrist lightly. It was, indeed, made of a single length of highly flexible cable. And, when Xal'i pressed a button on the stock, it began to hum slightly. "He says it's experimental—called a forcewhip. Eezo micro-inclusions along its entire length to allow it to carry a mass effect field." She smirked a little. "Kinetic energy greatly increased, compared to the strength with which I'm able to swing it, myself."

"Somewhat of an overkill, don't you think? Most slaves don't wear kinetic shields." Valak kept his tone neutral with effort. He could picture the metal alone slicing flesh off unprotected limbs. The mass effect field produced by the weapon took it from the realm of torture into that of a weapon—one that could tear through shielding, and, while not giving it the capacity to cut through armor like a vibroblades, could certainly wrap around limbs to trip people, cut through exposed equipment, like an omnitool or valves, gauges, hoses, and so on. On an unarmored person? The whip would be lethal.

"Oh, this isn't for slaves. Arvak is going to take me with him into the field. He promised." Xal'i toyed with the whip again. "What you need, brother, is someone _suitable_ in your life. Someone to keep you properly balanced. Who'll keep you from fucking your slaves _every_ night. I don't mind if Arvak does that once in a while, so long as the slaves are clean, but really, every night? It's unhealthy. It sullies the mind, to be so constantly among those so far beneath you. Makes you fall prey to. . . inappropriate sentiments." Xal'i reached out and stroked Valak's face softly. "I did see it all along, brother. I blame myself. I should have helped you with this long ago."

"Helped me?" Valak replied. The scene was surreal. He was standing in his own bedroom suite, Nala on the other side of the door, in the dressing room where her official 'slave bed' was, for the moment. Rich antiques all around him, last light of the sun reflecting off the mirror above his dresser, and his sister was stroking his face. "Helped me how, my dear?"

"Why, I should have strangled that strumpet for you," Xal'i replied calmly. "The way Father had the last one put down. I know you have a soft heart, Valak. It's your one weakness. It's all right. I love that about you. I love knowing that you _have_ a weakness. It makes you so enticing, brother. Did you ever know that?"

Xal'i smiled at him, and something in Valak snapped. His fist pulled back of its own accord, and he hit his sister in the mouth. Hard. Xal'i's head snapped back, and she staggered for a moment, but there were no tears in her eyes, as he'd half-expected to see. Instead, she pressed a hand to her bleeding lips, pulled the fingers away, and her lips parted and her eyes softened. "Oh, my _dear,_" she murmured, as she licked the blood away, "I never knew you had it in you." And then she was pressing herself against him bodily, kissing his lips hungrily, and Valak got his hands to her shoulders and shoved his sister away.

One breath was all the time he had to get his wits together. Years and years of training came to the fore. _Play the part that'll keep you alive_, SIU had taught him, over and over again. So, without any hesitation at all, Valak put a fingertip on his sister's full lower lip. "Tush, my dear. You're a married woman now. If I'd _known_ before you married Arvak, well . . . you should have _told_ me, my dear. This way, I wouldn't have had to go to Omega for my . . . less well-known amusements." He traced the line of her lip with that same fingertip, while inwardly, his instincts were in full revolt. Most species had histories in which various royal families had inbred to keep lineages 'pure,' even with brothers and sisters marrying. But also inborn into most species was an instinctive aversion to mating within the close family unit, an aversion that existed to keep genetic anomalies and diseases from destroying entire family groups. It was that instinct that was creating revulsion in Valak right now, along with centuries of socialization that shouted, _this is your sister. Admittedly, she's not much of a sister, and she's nothing at all like you, but she's still your sister._

She looked up at him speculatively, and Valak did his level best to read her eyes. _How much of this is real, and how much of this is something Arvak told her to do, to test me? Hmm. The arousal looks genuine, ancestors help me. She gets off of violence. On giving pain to others, and, apparently, on being given pain. Things I did not ever want to know about my own kin._ "Are you sure?" she offered, softly. "Arvak wouldn't—"

"Would mind, my dear. You might not care if he spreads his lusts among the slaves, but he would definitely object to sharing that sweet body of yours." Valak kept his voice low and soft. Just a hint of seduction in the way he lowered his eyes. "I know, because _I_ would mind, my dear. Just accept that it's not to be. You're with the male the ancestors clearly intended for you." He picked up her hand, and gave the back of it a light kiss. "Now run along, my dear."

The door clicked behind her, and the dressing room door opened, and Nala emerged, her two good eyes wide. Valak held up a hand before she could come to him. He was shaking. Revulsion and, shamefully, a little arousal at the same time. Cognitive dissonance. Deliberately created in him, and he _knew_ it. He reached into a hidden desk drawer, and pulled out an electronic sniffer. . . which immediately and silently flared red and green lights at him. Xal'i had dropped off a listening device while she was in the room; the lights indicated audio only, no visual channel. She'd had more than one purpose in coming to his rooms. Valak didn't dare react out loud, but he wrapped his arms around Nala now, silently, and put his head down atop hers. There was very little that was good or clean in his life. What little there was, generally pertained to her. And now, she was in even more danger than before, and there didn't seem to be any way he'd be able to protect her.

Nala stiffened a little, and one of her hands stole to her back. He swept his hands down, and rubbed the small of her spine for her. "Backache?"

"Since yesterday, m'lord." Soft, quiet words. "It will not affect the performance of my duties."

Valak caught her chin in one hand, and raised her eyes to his. And then he reached into the desk drawer, and pulled out some other things he kept hidden in there for her use. A pistol, loaded. And her very own vibroknife. "I trust not," he told her, quietly. "You know what your job is."

_Get the hell away from here, if possible. Defend yourself. But above everything else, stay alive._ Valak looked out at the setting sun, and wondered if the Spectres had received his desperate plea for extraction. And, if they'd received it, if they'd arrive in time to extricate _any_ of them.

**Rellus, Khar'sharn, December 24, 2196**

Drone of the gunship engines as Kassa Vilinus and her fellow pilots lifted them out of the launch bays. Rush of cold, thin air, blasting in through the open hatches, howling like a hurricane as the ship continued its swift descent, dropping out of Khar'sharn's night sky like a spirit of vengeance. Rel knew that the _Estallus_ and the _Raedia_ were already broadcasting an electronics jamming signal; anyone within two miles of Valak's estate would be unable to get a radio signal out, and their radar would be unable to function to lock onto targets, either. It wasn't a full EM flash; that had been discussed, but if Valak was getting his people into his available ships, they didn't want to take the risk of disabling part of his existing escape plan.

Rel settled his visor down over his face, grateful, for once, that it made him anonymous. Once, in boot camp, he'd been almost afraid of being one body among ten thousand others in gray armor. Afraid that he'd lose himself, that he wouldn't be recognizable, or stand out from the crowd. Well, he'd stood out, been elevated above his peers for ability. . . and then lost parts of himself, anyway. For the moment, though, he needed to be just one more body in black or gray armor. Human and turian marines around him were checking their armor and weapons one more time. Livanus and Seheve moved to him now, as Rel grabbed a strap in the launch bay as the _Estallus_ rocked for a moment, caught by an air current. "Sky!" Livanus bellowed across the bay. "You getting anything yet?"

_Songs! Sings-of-Glory is under the earth. He sings agitation, worry, concern!_ Sky's voice, usually a chorus of violas, thrummed now in a bass range that the rachni usually only reserved for deep anger. _Captive-singers are present. Many of them. They hold our people with their songs. Look!_

Rel's mind opened, expanded. He could see the estate in front of him as clearly as if it were modeled on the computer holoscreens up in the briefing room. There were indeed rachni tunnels all under the estate now. Including two major escape tunnels. . . which the people inside the various barracks couldn't reach at the moment, since there were red dots absolutely everywhere. "Where are our people?" Sam shouted.

_Sings-Rebellion and his mate are within the central hive. Sings-Justice and Sings-Secrets are here—_ and the rachni's battlevision closed in on a structure to the northwest, which Rel recognized as one of the slave barracks. _Glory and his brethren have gathered in the northern underground bunker. Many of Sings-Rebellion's people, including those he has freed, are in the southern bunker. They are attempting to get the free-singers to leave through one of the tunnels, but are uncertain if the woods are safe. There are many captive-song singers in the woods. Also, Glory sings of those who sing-not._

"Mechs?" Rinus called.

_He is unsure. He cannot see where he is at. He hears what Sings-Justice sings to him, but cannot see them for himself._

A quick exchange of glances among the Spectres and their affiliates. "Well, we can't land to the west," Sam told them all, grimly. "That's all forest. We absolutely _have_ to land to the east, in the original LZ." He looked around. "We've got three Spectre teams, eight marine teams, three objectives, and at least sixty targets. Divide and re-allocate."

Rel raised a hand. "Can we use EMP on them now?" he asked.

"Sure. I'd be willing to bet that any mechs they've got are hardened against it, but let's put them in the fucking dark, at least. But we'll do it within a minute of landing. Maximum surprise." Sam exhaled. "Tarenius Gallian!"

The turian marine centurion turned, and strode over. "Yes, Spectre Jaworski?"

"There are friendly batarians down there, believe it or not. People who've been fighting their own government for years. Keep your men on a leash, and follow the rachni's lead in determining friend from foe. You and your squads are going to be our major diversion, since you'll be attacking the southern barracks, guardrooms, and towers, in force."

Gallian's eyes glittered. "No calling in ship support, I take it?"

"Not with friendlies on the ground, no. Then gunships will take out the guard towers and protect the _Estallus_ and the _Raedia_, not to mention the LZ." Sam turned back to the rest of them. "Sidonis, Jaworski, Makur, and. . . ." His eyes moved back and forth between Rinus and Rellus for a moment. "Rinus Velnaran. You're going to wrap north, take the guest house, and then make for the northwest barracks and get Pellarian and Serana Velnaran out. Sky, you tell Glory that if those two can, they should get ready, and try to make their way to our people, but no stupid heroics, y'hear?"

_I will sing your songs._

Sam looked at the rest of them. "Livanus, Rellus Velnaran, Seheve Liakos, and I will be heading to the main house. Our job is getting in and getting to Valak N'dor and Nala S'har, and getting them out safely. Seheve, Nala is your particular concern. She probably can't hide worth a damn right now, and her cover has been as a slave, so she probably doesn't even have a shield, let alone armor."

Rel saw Dara turn. "Spectre Jaworski? Given Nala's condition, shouldn't I be heading to the house with that team?"

"Not till you learn to sneak a hell of a lot better, Doctor," Sam told her, with a hint of affection. "Liakos and I will be going in first, stealthed, through the south side door. Velnaran, you and Livanus are our distraction. You're going to be getting their attention at the front of the house. I would expect for our SIU friends to try to turn Valak and his lady friend into hostages. Livanus. . . you know the drill. Draw it out as much as possible. Sky, you are going to be rallying your people. Get them up out of the ground, and attack every single SIU member besides Valak that you can find. It's open season people. Once you absolutely know that your target is a foe, shoot to kill."

Rel could feel the adrenaline starting to build inside of him, but turned and looked at Rinus and Eli. "Get them out safe," he muttered to Rinus.

"We will," his first-brother told him. "Get Valak the hell out of there. He might be insufferable and annoying, but he's saved thousands of lives by _being_ insufferable and annoying."

He clapped a hand to Rel's shoulder-plates, and, after a moment, Rel offered Eli a wrist-clasp, as well. Which was accepted, Eli met his eyes steadily. "Be careful," Rel told Eli.

"Always am. Look at the bright side. There's almost certain to be no yahg."

"Yeah, but you're carrying that damned vibrosword of yours."

That got a quick flash of a smile. "Yep. With any luck, they'll all come screaming after me."

Behind his darkened faceplate, Rel looked once at Dara, who was pulling on her heavy pack of medical gear. "Dara? No offense, but I really hope you don't have to use any of that today," Rel told her.

"Spirits hear you," she told him, looking up, her face taut. "I don't like the thought of Lin or Serana being hurt."

The ships touched down, and Rel followed the others down the ramp, Seheve a silent shadow just ahead of him. For a jarring instant, he remembered being here before. Not when he'd _really_ been here, not when he'd been Valak's guest. No, this memory had never actually happened. It had been in the simulator, when Sky had tested his heart. _Everyone a Spectre, but no one following his orders, his recommendations, everyone off, doing their own thing. . . _Rel snorted under his breath. Insecurity, is what that had been. Pride and insecurity, at the same time. And now, here they were on Khar'sharn for real. Trying to get Valak out, just as Sky and the simulator had predicted, but instead of Serana ignoring him, she was in danger. Instead of Lin disregarding him, he was in danger. Instead of everyone ignoring his advice, Sam had taken his suggestion—and the estate was blacked out now, electrical systems blown temporarily to hell—with only the light of tracer fire coming from the gunships lighting up the night, as four of them arced out, heading for the defense towers, and four of them stayed behind to protect the frigates. Each flash of tracer fire light up the night for a single moment, like a frozen frame in a vid, chopping reality to pieces. He had his night vision on in his helmet, tinging the whole world green, but the tracer light still lit everything, made everything pale and even more otherworldly when it went off. "Swinging south," Sam muttered over the radio. "Liakos, you're with me. Velnaran, Cautoris, front door, now!"

Rel and Livanus moved for the front door of the estate, but halfway there, Rel's shields sparked blue as _something_ started firing at him—something that his biosensors weren't picking up. "Taking fire!" Livanus called, and he and Rel both dove for cover behind the elaborate statues in Valak's beautiful formal gardens.

Rel peered out from around some sort of a winged female batarian. "Looks like floating turrets," he called out. "They're definitely active in spite of the EM blast." He took aim and fired with his assault rifle, but the damned things were small, fast, and moved erratically. . . and returned fire as soon as they got a lock on his position. The turret he was aiming at fired at him, while the second one swooped around, trying to get a lock on him from his left. Livanus fired at that one, but they were, effectively, pinned down until they could destroy the damned things. . . .

**Serana, Khar'sharn, December 24, 2196**

The first warning was a flash of brilliant light, as if lightning had touched down nearby, in spite of a cloudless, dull red sky all day. There was a sensation that crawled across her scales, vaguely electrical, and a faint smell of ozone. . . just as every light in the slave barracks—of which there were only a handful, and those were being used by the guards—went out. The SIU guards began to complain, vociferously. _"What the hell? Someone trip a breaker or something?"_

"_Hell if I know."_

"_Go outside and see if power's down all over the estate."_

_They come! They come singing songs of red and white and black! Battle-songs, from our Spectre brethren!_

Serana had been huddled into Lin's warmth, pretending to be asleep all this time, but her eyes snapped open at the fierce joy in the harp-like music of Glory's voice. _"They're here?"_ she whispered out loud, in turian.

Lin sat up now, too. She couldn't see him at all in the darkness, but she could feel his movements, hear the shift of his scales against their rough nestroll. _"Who?"_ he asked, his voice low.

_Sings-to-the-Sky! And our little queen! Many Voices and Sings-Duty, Sings-Honor, Sings-Despair, Sings-to-the-Past, Sings-Shields, and others, many others! They say for you to make ready for battle. To come to the part of the hive to the east, across the open ground, but only if it is safe to do so. Guards in the high places might see you—_

"_Oh, spirits, they'll never see me coming,"_ Serana muttered. Lin uncoiled from around her, and moved to the door of their cell, peering out as she carefully lifted the flagstone that concealed the crawl space under their cold, damp living quarters. Inside was all their equipment. Serana and Lin had both been to boot camp. They could get into their armor inside of ninety seconds, pitch blackness or not. She dressed first, and then silently passed his gear to him, and, within three minutes of the blackout, the two of them were no longer helpless slaves, but a Spectre and a very gifted member of the Turian Intelligence Agency once more. Glory had been having workers dig a tunnel towards their barracks as an escape route, but now, it seemed, that contingency was no longer going to be needed. Serana knew that there were tunnels leading from the main villa to the north and south bunkers; she knew that there were tunnels leading between all the guard barracks and the bunkers, and there were escape tunnels from the bunkers into the woods. The slave barracks, being so close to the guard barracks, had been lower on the priority list than the actual 'get us the hell off the estate' tunnels and the 'deep hiding places in the forest' constructions.

"_Looks like the entire estate is dark—"_

"_Wait, did you hear that?"_

Sure enough, there was a faint drone in the air. Serana thought she recognized it from training exercises on Palaven. _Gunships._

"_The lock?"_ Lin murmured.

"_Not a problem,"_ Serana told him, and deftly, silently picked it. There were five SIU guards in this building, probably just switching over to night vision. And Serana had a stealth device and three weeks of built-up frustration to take out on them.

"_Careful."_

"_Always, beloved. I'd never leave you."_

_Wait,_ Glory cautioned them. _There will be a distraction—_

_**WHAM!**_

The ground itself shook, the walls of the rickety barracks trembled on their foundations. The sonic boom of two _Normandy_-class ships blazing through the atmosphere rocked the estate, and Serana slid the door open and slipped out of their cell, Lin a step behind her. The batarian guards turned, surprised, raising their weapons, but Serana was already past the first one, behind him, and put her pistol to his head, point-blank, and fired. Lin crashed into the one beside him bodily, wrestling the weapon out of the guard's hands, dropping the male to the floor, and firing the batarian's own submachine gun into the male's stomach. Serana had already blinked back into stealth, and now she could hear the powerful thrumming of SR-ship engines. Could hear the monotonous _rat-tat-tat-tat-ta-tat-tat_ of gunships, firing at will. Duck, dodge, weave, get behind the next guard, who was getting his gun to bear on Lin. Serana had never specialized in hand-to-hand, not the way Rel and Rinus had, but striking from near-invisibility, she didn't need to be _good_ to reach up, catch the male's head by forehead and chin, circle up, twist a little to extend and stretch the neck . . . and then arcing spiral to slam him, head-first, to the concrete floor. His neck was broken before his skull cracked, and then one of their guards managed to wrap both arms around her in a bear-hug. . . Serana ducked forward, shooting her hips back, reflexively, knocking the batarian off-balance, and then Lin was on him, grabbing the batarian by the helmet and jerking the male's head down to meet his own uprising knee. Serana rolled out of his loosening arms, and then there was just one left—and Lin shot him, point-blank.

"_What's going on?" _Valak's people, inside the other cells, hissed.

"_Sounds like a rescue operation,"_ Serana replied, softly, in batarian. _"Stay inside until the all-clear gets sounded, but kill any SIU that come in here."_

"_Not a problem,"_ came the curt response.

She and Lin made their way to the door, and peered out. There was a defense tower behind them, as well as a guard barracks. Glory sang to them softly, telling them that there were four SIU in the tower, and ten SIU holding down Valak's men in the barracks. Directly ahead of them, across a vegetable garden and the wide, open lawns to the side of Valak's manor, was the guest house. . . and that was where they were supposed to go. If they could. _"Who's there?"_ Serana muttered.

_Many-Voices, Sings-Heartsong, Sings-Shields, and Sings-Duty_, Glory told her, promptly. _They have almost defeated the captive-song ones there. We are digging up to reach all of you now. _

There were flickers of light from tracers. A gunship had circled around to attack the nearby tower, which was a useful distraction. Ad yet, they knew that there were floating turrets out there, somewhere. Lin had seen them late in the afternoon, as he'd managed to peer out the window of their tiny cell. _"We can't do anything separated from them like this,"_ Serana told Lin.

He adjusted his shield. _"Let me go first. The turrets aren't going to get through this."_ He tapped his shield with the knuckles of his gloves.

"_No, beloved. They're not going to see me. And I can hack the damned things. They probably fire really damned fast, and if you don't get that shield around in time, you'll be complaining about getting hit in the knee again._" Her voice was warm and loving, and she leaned in against him. Let him touch his helmet to hers.

"_At least let me move in behind you. Draw their fire, so you can see them."_

"_Makes sense. Come on, then."_

And then she engaged her stealth device, and slipped off ahead of him. Flickers of light, everywhere, making the green-lit world of night-vision jump and jar just a little more. A hint of movement at the periphery of her vision. _What was that? Oh, spirits, don't tell me they have stealth fields on their turrets. . . . _ Then a concussive blast, blazing just past her head as she flinched away. She turned to look, reflexively, and saw Lin knocked backwards by the force, his shields flaring blue. Destealthed now, the floating turret targeted Lin, a barrage of bullets following up on the concussive attack. Lin got his shield up and hunkered down, but he couldn't return fire from that defensive position, and the turret was apparently designed for rapid, small caliber, continuous streams of fire. She had no _idea_ when the damned thing was going to have to reload, or would have to change its thermal clip. . . .and then it winked out for a moment. _S'kak. They stealth to reload._

She and Lin fired at where the damned thing had been a moment before, and then it was _back,_, eighty degrees from where it had been thirty seconds before, and firing again. It was turning them into a target, for anyone who wasn't thoroughly distracted by the gunship that was firing on the defense tower behind them. Two bullets, three sizzled into her shields, and Serana hastily brought her stealth device online and _moved_. She wore light armor and light shields because movement, agility, really was her primary defense, and it was damned time she started acting like it.

Of course, this only turned the turret around to face Lin now. Serana swore and cued up her omnitool again. First thing was first. Get this spirits-be-damned turret shut down. . . .it hesitated as she barraged its systems and firewalls with viruses. Issued commands to it that it couldn't resist. Hovered in mid-air, helpless, for the moment—and Serana inhaled. _Maybe there was just the one of them. . . ._

Behind them, the gunship fired an Addersting missile directly at the defense tower, which exploded in a red-gold burst of flame, lighting up the entire north side of the villa. Serana hadn't had a chance to re-stealth yet, and was separated from Linianus by about twenty feet. Her head turned, and, with odd clarity, she saw another three turrets drop out of stealth in the air around them. _Oh. . . . s'kak_. . . Serana thought dimly.

"Serana! Run!" Lin shouted, and Serana obeyed. She sprinted forward, trying to close the gap between them and the trees that surrounded the guest house to the east, trying to find a statue or a fence, something, anything, to use as cover, as her hand keyed up her stealth device once more. Behind her, she could hear the turrets rattling off fire, could feel several bullets ping off her shield, could hear the lower _bam-bam_ as Lin fired at one of the turrets with his pistol, but there were two of them, and one of him, and even if one of them was chasing her—Serana dove to the ground and rolled, coming back up with her pistol in her hands, trying to aim for the turret that was chasing her, and firing. She'd found cover, of a sort—the pediment of a statue. Granite, at least, which was chipping away as the turret's bullets tore at it. _Damn rich people and their love of wide, open lawns_, Serana thought, with grim humor, trying to punch through what surely had to be light shielding around the erratically bobbing and weaving turret. "Lin! Move up to me!" _Glory. . . hate to admit it, but we need help here!_

_They are coming!_ Glory promised. _So are we._

Help might be coming, but it wasn't coming fast enough. Two turrets were focused on Lin, trying to surround him, one trying to flank him while the other took his fire, and there was one on her. Serana jabbed her stealth device again, faded from sight, and moved up to help Lin. If he only had _one_ on him, they'd have a better chance. . . Serana aimed carefully, and fired. Close-range. She had the brief satisfaction of seeing the damned thing fall out of the air, hit the ground. . . .

_Ka-chack-chack-a-chack-chack!_

Searing pain, as bullets tore through her shields and ripped through her light armor. Heat of her own blood, pouring down her legs. Serana screamed in pain, and hit the ground, curling in on herself, getting her armored arms up over her vulnerable head, pulling her agonized legs in to her belly, trying to protect herself. . . .

**Dara, Khar'sharn, December 24, 2196**

Battle-songs. Battle-songs all around her, humming up out of the earth. Low-songs of the workers as they tore at the ground, paving the way for the soldiers and the brood-warriors to rise up, boil out of the dirt. Sky's song, red and black. Glory's song, higher, red and white. Dara had worried that the light mental connection she usually held with Eli would cripple them, distract them in battle. She'd been prepared to drop that connection, and just rely on the background harmony of the rachni, as she had on Arvuna.

It hadn't worked that way, to her astonishment. Instead, they'd moved like two parts of the same whole as they, Makur, and Rinus, had torn through the guest house. There had been fifteen SIU operatives in there, and Eli had moved in ahead of Dara, shield at the ready, and Makur had led Rinus, biotic shields and massive armor a deterrent to anyone who'd attack the turian crouching just behind him. Rinus had brought an old favorite with him, his arc projector. Makur had brought his shotgun. In the close confines of the narrow corridors and small rooms? Things had gotten _messy._ She could feel Eli's faint violet notes of regret; his training told him 'have them lay down their arms and cuff them.' But he also knew that at the moment, they couldn't afford mercy, couldn't offer quarter. Everything depended on getting in, getting their people, and getting out, without being detected. And if they left a hundred bodies here, it was a small price to pay for getting all of _their_ people out alive.

Dara could hear the song of the hive. And then the radio crackled in their ears. "_This is Forseti, I need a medic and backup, north lawn! Serana's down, repeat, Serana's down."_ Anguish in Lin's voice, but tight control, too. Rigid training.

White flash of shock through Eli. Pain. Anguish, actually. Dara couldn't bear it, couldn't listen to it, couldn't hear the pain in him, the pain in Lin's voice on the radio, and not respond. She shut him out. She had no idea how she did it, but she couldn't hear it, and not participate in it, and she _couldn't_.

Rinus, on the radio himself now, "We're a minute away—"

Makur just growled and kicked the back door of the guest house down, and the four of them, Snowflake bounding ahead of them, ran out the back of the house, into the trees that surrounded it. Past that stand of trees, Dara could see the wide stretch of the north lawn. Could see, in the burning light from the northwest guard tower, a group of small statues at the center of the lawn, could see Lin's form as he bobbed and wove. "What the hell is on you?" Eli asked over the radio.

"_Floating turrets, two of them. Serana locked one down, and shot down another, but the third got her. I need help here—"_

Behind Lin, Dara could see movement. Batarians emerging from the guardhouse, near the burning tower. "We're coming," Eli promised.

Dara was already moving. She could see a clear path to her patient. Serana was tumbled on the ground, and Lin was trying to protect both her and himself. He was keeping his back to the statue, but that only took out ninety degrees of potential firing solutions. The two turrets—tiny things, well-armed gadflies, really—were circling, bobbing, weaving, and Lin couldn't drop the shield he carried, for his own protection and Serana's, to use anything more effective than a pistol against them. _Easy enough_, Dara thought, already moving in, cutting further to the left of the rest of them. _Grab Serana, move left of the statue, since Lin is already to the right of it. Use it for cover, he's got their attention, and Eli and Rin and Makur will shortly have their attention, too. _

Her boots thudded over the soft grass, and she threw herself down over Serana's body out of training. Her body had to be between her patient and any incoming fire. Dim awareness of Rinus and Eli and Makur, off to the right, trying to fire at the goddamned turrets. Dim awareness that the batarians from the guardhouse had seen them now._ "Serana, you with me_?" Dara asked in turian, flipping open Serana's visor.

"_Dara? Sister?"_ Serana's voice was dazed. Her pupils were reacting to Dara's wrist light, though, which was a good sign.

Quick check on pulse—_wow, that's thready, she's in shock, where'd she get hit_—_shit. That's a hell of a lot of blood. _Dara swallowed. Blue blood, her worst nightmare really, and she'd seen so much of it over the years. _Both legs, though—god, no, not like when Rel got that damned grenade fragment in the thigh again, not like when Kella died. . . . _ "_Forseti, I've got her. Watch your back!"_ Dara called, in clear, clipped turian, and then got her hand on the light cowl of Serana's armor and dragged the female to the left, to the south side of the statue. _Here we go. Leg wounds._ _"You know what? You and Lin really are made for each other,"_ Dara told Serana, lifting the female's legs up and shoving her pack under them. Elevating them, to help mitigate the shock. Light, soothing words, trying to keep Serana focused on her. _"No, no, stay with me, focus on me,"_ Dara added, pulling off the thigh armor pieces and tightening the tourniquets immediately. The underarmor's tight elastic had done some of the work for her, constricting blood flow, but not nearly enough. _Oh, thank you, god, no arteries. Just veins. Veins we can deal with, no problem at all._ She ducked down over Serana again as another hail of bullets went off overhead.

"_Meant. . . for . . . each other?"_ It was clearly an effort for Serana to focus. Blood loss, pain, shock.

"_You bet. He __always__ gets nailed in the legs. Now you're a matched pair."_ Cheerful and light. _Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, that's two, three bullets in each thigh, you're not going to be walking for a while, Serana . . .don't have time to pull them out, just have got to get the fucking bleeding stopped. . . ._ Dara got a vascular clamp in place on the worst of the damaged veins and started medigel applications. _"I'm going to give you a little saline,"_ she told Serana. _"Help cushion you against the bloodloss and shock."_ Gunfire all around her now, as she got the needle stick, neat as can be, and got the saline, held over her shoulder, flowing. _Two more minutes, then I can take the tourniquets off, medigel will have gotten the bleeding stopped by then. . . _ Dara glanced up. _Why the hell haven't they gotten the turrets down yet—_

To her right, a stone statue; past that, Lin, Eli, Rinus, and Makur were taking out the other two turrets. They wouldn't move together close enough for Rinus' arc projector. . . and, damnably, the batarian guards from the barracks were moving in on them, too. _This is what my dad would call a clusterfuck._

And, in the field of her vision directly ahead of her, to the west, the turret that Serana had hacked early in the fight drifted, still off the ground. Dara noticed it as the saline began to drip into Serana's body.

The turret's tiny LEDs lit up. Dara stared at it for a moment, unblinking, unmoving. A flash of memory filled her mind, as keenly remembered as if Joy-Singer were singing her memories to her, through her, once more. The anger that had burned in Eli's eyes, smoldering in his darkness, his depression. It had been at her wretched _tal'mae_ rites, just over a year ago. He'd been staring at the _commina narthecium_ awards on her dress uniform. _"Those three on you? Tell me you need to learn to duck."_

_Rel had growled, "I keep telling her the same damn thing."_

_"Hey, I personally think that people should learn to fall down in more considerate locations." She'd been trying to keep it light. Wary of the darkness in both their eyes now. "That turret on Harinus wasn't my fault."_

"_The tech said he'd hacked it. I guess it got un-hacked."_ Rel's expression had been grim at the memory, but he'd turned away, grimacing. . . and Eli had just stared at her for a long moment. As if it were her fault. . . .

It had taken less than a second to flash through her mind. _Oh, shit._ "Eli! Lin!" Dara reached for her pistol, realized she didn't have time, and dropped down atop Serana's body, covering Serana with her own form. The old not-quite-a-joke ringing in her mind: _That's why they give us medics the heavy armor and shields._ "The first one's coming back on line! Guys!"

_Ka-chack-chack-a-chack-chack. . . . _

The first bullets tore through her kinetic shields. She was braced for that. Used to that. She had to keep her body between her patient and harm, though. Dara turned her head, trying to find someplace to move to, some other cover, if she could just lift Serana up and haul the female somewhere else. . . . Nowhere to run. No place to hide.

_Ka-chack-chack-a-chack-chack. . . . _

Exclamations, but now the bullets were impacting on armor, tearing through it. Pain. _Oh, shit, this is not good.. . . _ Dara pulled her arms up over her head, but she couldn't move, she couldn't leave Serana. . .

One more solid hit, like someone had punched her in the back, but this one knifed through, and Dara screamed, a ragged sound, and her pain became a song, vibrant and red, and it streaked everywhere through her—_lung, _a distant part of her mind informed her, almost chipperly. Oddly, it sounded like Dr. Solus talking to her. As if his spirit was still looking out for her, the way Zhasa said her father's spirit still watched over her. _That's your lower right lung. Rear entry. Probably did not hit kidney, but hard to ascertain. Blood now filling the lung. Making it difficult to breathe. Must now check to see if it went all the way through. . . ._

But there was just so much pain, she couldn't move, and she was hot and cold at once, straining for breath. _Yes, yes, that's shock, just like what Serana had, just like what Kella had, remember Kella? Serana's bleeding blue, but you stopped that, and now you're bleeding red. Stay calm. Breathe steadily. _Inner drill centurion now. _Panic is the killer. Panic and fear. You of all people know you need to stay fucking calm right now. . . _And then the inner drill centurion swept away, Dr. Solus' voice went away, and there was just her. Her, alone. _Eli. Eli's going to be so pissed at me. I can't even __get__commina narthecium__ ribbons anymore, and here I am, earning what is it, number five, number six. . . _ Nonsense thoughts. Fragments from a frightened, fraying mind. Edges of consciousness going gray now. Warping, skewing.

There was song now, song all around her, but she couldn't stay with it. The pain was too much, and while she held on, with all her strength, to the light, to the song, she just couldn't. . . hold. . . on. . . _can't leave him. Can't leave him. Don't want to go. . ._

**Elijah, Khar'sharn, December 24, 2196**

They'd moved forward, and Eli had slammed into position beside Lin, just as Makur moved ahead of Rinus, bracing against another statue, about twenty feet to the north of the one where Lin had been taking cover_. "Whose good idea were these flying things?"_ Eli gasped, and dropped to one knee to take cover behind his shield and fire at one of the damned floating turrets.

"_No idea, but they're shielded, move fast and erratically, and periodically go into stealth when they need to reload,"_ Lin shot back, grimly.

_Stealth isn't a problem,_ Eli thought, _not unless they've got a lot more advanced stealth systems than the Hierarchy does. Unlikely._

"_Forseti, I've got her! Watch your back_," Dara had called, and Eli had glanced over, seeing her drag Serana around the side of the statue, cutting down on the angles of fire that the turrets had—so long as he and the other males present did their jobs and presented more active targets for the damned things. Eli fired, and fired again, then ducked under his shield at a hail of return fire. _Rachni chitin doesn't seem to make the shield any more durable against bullets_, he thought, grimly. _Then again, Sky and Scratch and Glory have all had bullets pulled out of them. Mass effect propelled projectiles are one thing. Vibroswords, though. . . it stood up to my blade in the tests I ran back on Bastion. Not that that gets me anywhere right now. . . _

"The damned things won't group up, and I can't get a clear shot with the arc projector," Rinus growled. His voice was a snarl. His first-sister was on the ground, and he was clearly channeling a fair bit of protection-anger at the moment. Eli could sympathize; his first reaction had been shock at hearing that Serana had been hurt, and seeing her on the ground had made him cringe. She'd looked small and still, a reflection of some of his worst nightmares on Bastion . . . but Dara had been there. As she'd always been for him and Lin on Omega. Making the hurt less. Saving another life.

A break in fire. _There we go_. Eli ducked out instantly, and caught a glimpse of one of the turrets, in its stealth mode, and fired, rapidly, five shots with his pistol. It flickered back into view, and dropped to the ground in a smoking pile of metal.

"We've got incoming," Makur growled, pointing to the west, where the batarians were coming out of the guardhouse. Half of them were firing on the gunship that was still hovering near the guard tower, which was on fire. The other half, however, had spotted _them_. _Can't deal with that yet. Still have another god damned turret to—_

"Eli! Lin!" Dara's voice, the edge of panic in it, broke through to him, and he realized, suddenly, that the mental connection they'd maintained since setting foot on this benighted planet, wasn't _there._ He'd felt her surge of anguish at hearing that Serana was hurt, her pain at the fear in Lin's voice, and since then, nothing. _ I blocked her? _ "The first one's coming back on line! _Guys_!"

_The first one what—oh, __fuck__, no._ Eli ducked around Lin, took a line of fire across one shoulder from the turret that was already dodging and weaving Lin, Makur, and Rinus' attacks, and saw the _first_ turret come back on line. He fired at it, but it shot up higher in the air, and opened fire directly on Dara and Serana. _Shit, no, shit, no, shit, no. _"Lin! _Fradu!_"

Lin took one look, and, not even hesitating, stepped into the line of fire from the turret ahead of them, taking the last of the bullets from its current attack on his shield. Eli rolled out from behind Lin, saw the turret vanish into stealth, and fired, double-tap, double-tap, every motion totally mechanical now, mind completely blank. Second turret down, reload. _"Get that fucking thing's attention!"_ Eli said, pointing at the one that was still hailing bullets down on Dara and Serana, and Lin did exactly that, lowering his shield and jumping directly into the line of fire, while over the rise of the lawn to the west, the batarians lowered their guns and started firing.

Eli didn't have time to pay attention to that, though his shields caught several bullets from that direction. With the turret solidly concentrating on Lin, Eli reloaded methodically and, mind still blank, fired. Double-tap. Double-tap.

Dim awareness that Makur, with a roar of challenge, was moving out to attack the batarians now. Dim awareness of Rinus doing the same. His only _real_ awareness now was of moving around to the left side of the statue. Dara's bleeding, limp form, collapsed on top of Serana's. Limited light from the burning tower. Red blood, blue blood, congealing on the ground in a purple, sticky pool. "Don't you do this to me, _sai'kaea,"_ Eli told Dara, numbly. _Wound in the back, but have to roll her over to check vitals. Probably better if the blood doesn't flood her lungs, anyway._ "Don't you dare leave me. Not when we've come this close. Don't you _dare_ leave me." Memories of Kella now, flooding him, dying in his arms, pouring her life, her essence into him, as if he were the last refuge her spirit could find. Unable to save her. Didn't know enough then. Brennia, years later, dying in Lin's arms. He'd had the goddamned training then, but the wound had been in the heart. Blue asari blood. Blue turian blood. _Don't you do this to me, Dara_, he told her, not knowing if the words were out loud or not, a numb mantra running through his mind.

He rolled her off of Serana (red blood mixing with blue, flicker of Serana's eyes opening), pulled off Dara's helmet. Jerked his glove off, applied shaking fingers to her throat. _No pulse._ _She's not breathing. God damn it, Dara, don't you do this to me_. Eli looked up and shouted, "_Fradu!"_

"_I'm with you,"_ Lin told him, and yes, there he was, a bulwark against the fucking world. Any batarians would have to go through him to get to them.

_Have to keep the blood circulating till she regains consciousness, keep oxygen going to that brain, to the heart tissues_. The words of the B-Sec first-responder handbook were drumming through his brain as he drew his vibrosword and, oh so carefully, actually cut her armor off of her. Threw the weapon aside. Put his hands just over her heart, and, kneeling above her body, began chest compressions. Thirty. Mind numb. Barely registering that Lin was crowding close, shielding all of them.

Eli lifted Dara's head, arched her neck, placed his lips against hers. Exhaled. The kiss of life. A turian couldn't do this. The lip plates couldn't seal. Inhale. Exhale. Slid her back to the ground. His mind was reaching for hers, pouring himself through her, as Kella had once poured herself into him. "God damn it, Dara, don't. . . you. . . do this. .. if you go. . . _we_ go. . . I will _not_ stay without you, you hear me? Don't you do this to me." He'd survived Kella's death. Lin had survived Brennia's. Slipping languages now, words a tumble, a torrent. English. Asari. Turian. _Don't you leave me. I love you. I will not stay in a universe that doesn't have light. I will not stay in a world without you._

Song. Faint, but there. He could hear it. Weak, and filled with pain. No actual thought, just the processes of a brain recalled to life. Eli's world became that song, holding it up, supporting it.

All around them, the ground began to crumble. Eli didn't even care. Dozens of workers emerged from the earth, scrambling up his legs, chattering anxiously. It didn't matter. Only the song mattered, and the rhythm, the beat of thirty compressions, two breaths. That was the rhythm of her life, and that was the song that _he_ was singing.

Thirty compressions later, Dara's heart began to beat on its own again. Faintly. Weakly. Unconscious, she was still trying to cough, as blood was filling her lung. _Okay, next problem. . . god, __sai'kaea__, if only I could use your brain, I'd know what to do next besides slapping on medigel and hoping._ Eli did just that, leaning her limp form over his shoulder and applying the compound. _Got to stop the bleeding. Can pack gauze around it, I guess, though that's probably not the right thing to do._

"_Is she okay to move?" _Lin demanded.

"_Futar__ if I know,"_ Eli replied. He looked up for the first time in what felt like hours, but had probably been less than five minutes, and stared, dazed, at the battlefield around them. Glory and Sky were both hovering over them, and both of them were singing. Hundreds of rachni soldiers were covering the field between them and the batarian guards—Makur and Rinus had, from the looks of things, gone on a killing spree over there—and all of the rachni were singing notes of pure red rage. The gunships were still in the air. There was still gunfire coming from the south. He had no idea what, if anything, he _should_ be doing, and he didn't actually care. "Sky," Eli said, and pulled Dara over his shoulder. Simple fireman's carry. "I've got to get her to the ship—"

"Both of them," Lin said, in a tone that indicated he wasn't taking any arguments. He reached down, grabbed Eli's vibrosword in the hand that usually held his shield, and scooped up Serana in his right. Serana was conscious, but her expression was anguished.

"I can walk," Serana whispered. "This is my fault—"

"No, it's not," Lin told her, instantly.

_Raedia-ship is closer_, Sky sang, his tone so filled with blacks and reds, it was unrecognizable to Eli. _We will protect. There will be no captive-song singers left alive in this place after today. _

_We do not permit the lives of our queens to be threatened,_ Glory agreed. _Go. Tend to them._

Eli, his throat burning, turned towards the _Raedia._ It was the closer of the two ships. He wanted to _run_, but he didn't dare. Didn't dare jostle her poor, battered body. But he couldn't really go slowly, either. Her life depended on getting to the _Raedia_ and its med bay, as fast as he could get her there. So he locked his mind into hers, so he could feel if she started to falter again, to slide back down into darkness and blackness, and he and Lin trudged over the rolling hills of the finely manicured lawns of Valak's estate. With the guard towers in flames behind them, gunfire still chattering in the distance. Eli had no idea if Valak was alive. If any of the other Spectres were alive. If the mission was a success.

And again, at the moment, none of it mattered at all. His mission was now very, very simple: save Dara Jaworski's life.


	128. Chapter 128: Death, Part 2

**Chapter 128: Death, Part 2**

**Zhasa'Maedan, Rannoch and Hagalaz, December 24, 2196**

The _Kiev_ had been good enough to drop them within shuttle range of Rannoch, but couldn't be spared from the war for any longer than that; as such, they'd taken the long trip in from Rannoch's mass relay at a sub-light crawl, sending out a radio signal ahead of them, letting Fleet and Flotilla alike know that they were inbound, and not a threat.

"Pretty," Dempsey had noted, calmly, pointing out the window to their left as Zhasa piloted the shuttle inbound, towards Rannoch's primary, a star older than Sol. Similar to Khar'sharn's star, it was a K-class star, orange in spectrum, with a stellar lifespan far longer than a G-class star like Sol. Zhasa glanced up, following the direction of Dempsey's fingers, and caught sight of what he was looking at—a cloud of dust and gas that filled half the night sky on Rannoch—for half of its yearly orbit, anyway. The Perseus Veil was only a few light years away, all in all, and the nebula was seventy light-years in size, similar to the Orion Nebula. Newborn stars glimmered behind that veil of dust and gas, and it was _that_ which Dempsey was reacting to; the nebula itself was dark, as seen with the naked eye. Early astronomers on Rannoch had called it the _veil of darkness_ in ancient Khelish_,_ because no stars besides the handful glowing at its heart could be seen in that swathe of the sky. Half a dozen, a stellar nursery. All very close to one another. To the naked eye, here in the depths of space, they were tiny golden flecks, really.

"It's much prettier through sensors. . . and the stars themselves are the only things you can pick up through the Veil." Zhasa told him. "When you can see the infrared wavelengths, and the different types of gases are all mapped to different colors, all swirling, all feeding on what's around them. They're all close to one another, drawing in spirals of the dust and gas. But that's all anyone's ever managed to see through the Veil. Except the geth, of course." _Because they exist out there. There are planets and star systems that already exist out in that nursery. Inimical to organic life, but perfect for them._

"Still pretty," Dempsey told her. "For all that they're, what, thirty, thirty-five light years away? And considering that they're in the middle of that . . . they must be massive, and very damned bright."

Zhasa nodded. Her people had formulated an entire mythos about the Veil; in some, the Veil had been the opposite and equal of the Milky Way, the band of stars which it, from the perspective of those on Rannoch, periodically seemed to obliterate. Spirits were said to walk the path of stars or the path of darkness, and battles were said to be fought in the afterlife between those who chose to walk one path or the other. The stars held inside the Veil had been said to be golden eggs, from which a whole new 'path of stars' would hatch, in other myths. And, of course, the stars had been used to help guide caravans in the night, a bright group that was visible at least during half the year, in addition to Rannoch's pole star, _Aluizhka_.

"You're quiet," Dempsey noted, putting a hand on her shoulder. "You okay?" His lips tightened slightly. "Some homecoming for you."

Zhasa sighed. "That's just the thing," she admitted. "Rannoch isn't really home for me. Not for a lot of other quarians yet, either. Oh, it's the _homeworld_, but. . . half of our people have trouble walking outside on a planetary surface without feeling nervous. We have a million people still off-world, on Bastion, building that place in exchange for the credits and resources we need to build up our own planet again. It's a beautiful place. A place bustling with activity. And my family is there. But it's just never felt like. . . home." The quarians had regained Rannoch in 2187, just after the Reaper War, when Zhasa had been thirteen. . . and when she'd still been on Illium, with Matriarch Aethyta. She'd had no part in reclaiming the planet, not for another three years, until she'd returned, at sixteen, to join Kal'Reegar's marines. She'd come back to her people speaking fluent asari, and very used to the shimmering spires of Illium and the cool, detached manner of the asari there.

She hadn't known what to expect, as she showed Dempsey now in flashes and scraps of memory, amused at herself. _I'd pictured a graveyard planet. A monument to the Morning War, preserved out of obscure respect by the geth. Which is, in part, true. They rebuilt most of the cities, believe it or not. Mostly from satellite footage. Vid cam footage. Even . . . security cameras, in places. But they didn't really understand what organics need in houses, so many of the buildings are sort of hollow facades. Empty shells. I walked through one of these ghost towns with Kal'Reegar once. It was. . . eerie. He said he never quite lost the feeling that something was about to jump out at him in those towns. Some ancestral spirit, fleeing the geth attack, perhaps. So silent. So dead. That's more or less what I expected. _Cold, perfect gardens, tended by patient geth platforms, laid out with geometric precision. Fountains, even, a rarity, even an extravagance, on this arid planet, which had a climate similar to Macedyn, in many ways. Small inlands seas. Polar ice caps, and a hydrological cycle that included snow at high elevations and in high latitudes, but a dry world, overall.

_Of course, most of our population settled first at Rannavoi, which was the planetary capital, once upon a time. And the few geth observers that my people permitted there were very confused. As was I, when I saw it._ She showed it to him now. Noisy, crowded, cheerful. People all huddling together, as if the city itself were a communal campfire. Replicating, in a way, the crowded life on the ships, because to spread out, to get a little more personal space, was almost unthinkable now. Some were rebuilding and altering the restored buildings. _The geth asked why. Had they not restored the buildings precisely as the Creators had intended them to be? And Tali'Zorah told them, apparently, that those who'd gone before, were gone, held only in the hearts of their descendants, and that they wouldn't begrudge us changing what we needed for our own comfort and survival. . . and that a house with no rooms inside of it, no working utilities, and that was too small for a growing family, was useless to the one who lived in it._ Zhasa laughed. She'd watched that debate over the extranet. _I think they were disturbed, a little, to see their perfection marred. Changed. Deviated from. But interested, too. It was a little frightening at the time, to think that they might __disapprove__ of what we did, and take issue with it. Start the war all over again._

_But they didn't._

_No. They didn't. _Zhasa adjusted their course heading slightly. _Some people have broken off from Rannovai._ _Gone to other cities and started establishing secondary hubs there. And some, still loving the freedom of the ship life, have started caravans once more. Crossing the deserts between the cities. Living the ancient-most life of the quarian people, on Rannoch once more. Passing through forests and mountains and deserts. Scavenging old tech, when they can find it, and bringing it back to the cities. _

_Archaeologists would skin them alive._

_It's our history. Why shouldn't we put it back to use?_

Dempsey shrugged. _Your planet, your people, your choice. _He looked at the consoles as a proximity alarm began to sound. "Ah. Looks like they finally got off their asses and came out to give us a welcome party."

Indeed, the _Qwib-Qwib_ was pulling up alongside them. Zhasa acknowledged their hails, and noted that neither she nor Dempsey were, in a sense, clean, and then the larger ship extended its docking clamps, and she maneuvered gently, bringing them in for a soft landing. "_Qwib-Qwib?_" Dempsey asked. "Sounds. . . salarian."

"It is. We've never been able to rewrite the registry code on it." Zhasa shrugged. "People in the Flotilla always considered having it as a ship-name a little embarrassing."

Dempsey turned his head and looked at her blankly. "Okay, I'll bite. Why? It _sounds_ silly, like a little kid's made-up words, but that can't be it."

Zhasa grimaced, sealing up her suit. "In salarian, it means 'good fortune.'"

"And that's bad how, exactly?"

"Well, that's the colloquial translation. Literally, it means fish testicles." Zhasa shrugged. "Apparently, those are a delicacy among salarians. So it's a positive thing for them to have named the ship. It's just. . . "

"Fish testicles. Okay. Well, I can't imagine naming a ship of mine the _Cojones_, but. . . "

"The _what?_"

Dempsey's lips quirked up at the corners. "Second verse, same as the first." He nodded out the window at the _Qwib-Qwib._ "Let's get ready to get aboard, Zhasa-love."

Zhasa had debated, strongly, whether she should return to her people wearing the Spectre suit they'd gone to such efforts to give her. Wearing her new clothing and showing her face could be perceived as flaunting her sudden good fortune, and might smack of ingratitude to her people for their gifts. On the other hand, they'd recalled her solely to discuss that good fortune. But being a quarian required a certain affinity for judging others' moods, a sense for how the social and political wind was blowing. As such, Zhasa was back in her Spectre black and red envirosuit. . . but she relished knowing that she didn't _have_ to be in it. It was entirely her _choice_ to wear it.

To her surprise, her mother, Illa'Kaliir, met them at the hatch of the _Qwib-Qwib_. "Zhasa!" her mother cried, and bounded forward to give her a tight hug through the suit. "Oh, my dear. I'd thought that you were out of the suit?"

"I have been, for much of the past two weeks," Zhasa acknowledged. "I didn't want to stir things up here any more than they already were. I wasn't really thinking on Bastion, I'm afraid."

"I still don't get how it's anyone's business," Dempsey muttered, his tone flat and his eyes surprisingly hard. "It's your body. It's your life."

Illa turned towards Dempsey, and held out her hands, offering him the embrace of family. _Let her put her arms around you,_ Zhasa advised, silently. _She'll be offended if you don't. . . _

_Understood. Least you guys don't go in for the cheek-kissing thing._ A flicker of visiting some of his late wife's relatives on a place on Earth called Long Island, where everyone, no matter if they truly knew one another or not, kissed relatives or friends on the cheek in greeting. Dempsey had been uncomfortable with the ritual, but had endured it. It had felt, to him, extraordinarily false. A pretense to closer social ties than actually existed. To Zhasa, it seemed highly unsanitary. _That too, Zhasa-love, that, too._ He allowed Illa to embrace him, and lightly returned the hug. "Nice to see you again, ma'am. I'm glad Zhasa has you here to stand with her through all this bullshit."

Illa looked up at the human male, and Zhasa had the impression, from the way her mother turned in towards him, and left one hand on his elbow, that her mother liked him, and approved of him. Quarian body language was usually written very large, and Illa was underlining and leaving exclamation points in her silent commentary. Out loud, Illa said, "As much as I agree with you, Spectre Dempsey, if Zhasa _does_ hold the key to every quarian emerging safely from our suits? It _is_ everyone's business. At least a little bit. For generations, every quarian's first responsibility has been to our _people_. It's what's let us survive."

"I get that," Dempsey told Illa, calmly. "I really do. But it sounds to me like she's being called out for being lucky." He turned his head slightly and sent her a thought: _Very goddamned lucky. Mostly lucky that I wasn't there on Arvuna. I think I might have gotten a little upset with you about this whole stunt._

_Believe me when I tell you that Dara took care of most of your yelling for you. Kirrahe was not the only person being told that he had the mental capacity of slime mold that day._ Zhasa's thought was very droll.

Illa spread her hands. "She's not being called to account," Zhasa's mother said soothingly.

_You could have fooled me,_ Dempsey told Zhasa dryly, and then they were walking through the long halls of the _Qwib-Qwib_. It had been a salarian ship, once, long ago, and reflected salarian design aesthetics. Low ceilings. A bridge that was slung low, practically in the belly of the ship, for protection. Geometric precision, but curves where a quarian would put angles, and angles where a quarian would put curves. Zhasa had never liked spending time aboard the _Qwib-Qwib_; she much preferred the _Pellus_, which had been a turian freighter before the quarians had acquired it, where she'd been born, or the _Irria_, formerly an asari tanker, which had been converted to a live-ship by the quarians decades ago.

An hour or so later, they'd been on Rannoch's surface, looking up at the dark blue of its sky in the amber light of sunset, as their shuttle had arced over Rannavoi towards Admiralty Hall, the seat of quarian government. There were thousands of her people outside, all gathered for a chance to look at her. Zhasa was deeply, even profoundly embarrassed. _I shouldn't have gone out in public on Bastion without the suit_, she thought. _Now everyone expects a miracle. For everyone._

_Or worse,_ Dempsey told her, dryly and pragmatically, _if they __don't__ get a miracle, but you do, they could come to hate you?_

She didn't like to think that about her people. But it was possible. Quarians had lived communally for three hundred years, forced to rely on one another for their very survival. Where the turian military doctrine was _Everyone is the same; no one is special,_ the quarian maxim might have been _if everyone gives, everyone lives._ But the turian mantra held true for quarians as well, to a certain extent. No one could _afford_ to be different or special. Zhasa always had been different. And never more so than now.

The quarian Admiralty Board occupied what had once been the seat of government on Rannoch, centuries ago. Built for a time when every clan had had a representative on the planetary council, it was a massive forum building, octagonal in shape. Clan representatives had taken seats that accorded with the geographic location of their clan's territories. There were rumblings, Zhasa knew, about the captains of the ships taking seats here, someday. Clan-leaders—_Keelah_ and _Telaar_, female and male—taking seats again. Making a representative government once more. Admiral Tali'Zorah was in favor of this idea, from all accounts. So was Shala'Raan. Kal'Reegar, who was not an admiral, but as the highest-ranking quarian marine, held a fair bit of political weight, was in favor of this idea, too. Admiral Daro'Xen had voted against the measure in the past, arguing that stability was what their people needed as they recolonized the homeworld. Han'Gerrel vas Neema had voted against it, arguing that they needed a united front, with the military and Fleet still in charge, visibly, because they couldn't afford to look weak to any other species. Zaal'Koris had voted along with the other two admirals. . . but had argued that a smaller government allowed them to reach decisions more quickly, which was a flexibility that they needed in this transition period. And so the vote had stood, locked at 3-2 against, for the past eight years, at least.

Zhasa looked around the ancient building, so patiently reconstructed by the geth, all white marble and dark wooden chairs, and saw waste. A waste of space, a waste of energy. _Why even meet here?_ she wondered.

_To make the current government look legitimate, Zhasa-love,_ Dempsey told her, instantly. _This is where your people expect to see government taking place. If they took up part of an old office building, they'd look temporary. Which is what they're supposed to be, right? But until a new government really is set up, they're in charge, and they can't have people bucking their decisions. _

By now, they'd reached the center of the vast, domed space, where a half circle table had been set up, with five chairs. Zaal'Koris was serving as chairman for the day, and had the center seat; the other admirals had chairs flanking his. Zhasa looked around, and found Kal'Reegar off to the left, watching from the rows of largely empty chairs.

"Zhasa'Maeda vas Irria nar Pellus," Admiral Zaal'Koris began, but was immediately interrupted by Tali'Zorah.

"_Spectre_ Zhasa'Maedan," the younger Admiral corrected, calmly. "Let us give respect and recognition where it's due."

Zaal'Koris cleared his throat. "Ah, yes. Spectre. We understood that you have been exposed to nanites that have altered your immune system?" He spread his hands. "We were given, at best, a sketchy report—which was sent to General Kal'Reegar and Admiral Tali'Zorah, and not to our science and research division, as would have been proper—"

_Oh, Keelah, you're going to object that I didn't follow proper protocol? That I didn't file the paperwork the right way?_

_Is he in charge of science and research?_

_Of course he is._ Zhasa sighed, and continued listening to Zaal'Koris. "But you come before us today still wearing a suit. Have the reports been exaggerated?"

Daro'Xen cut in now, sounding bored and snide, "I tend to believe that anything I see on BNN is an exaggeration, myself."

Zhasa reached up and simply took off her helmet. Set it on the table in front of the admirals, and removed her gloves. "I'll allow you to judge for yourselves," Zhasa told them, politely.

Daro'Xen, Shala'Raan, and Han'Gerrel actually recoiled a little. A faintly amused thought from Dempsey: _My god, Zhasa, they're acting like you mooned them._

_What does a satellite have to do with—_

_Like you pulled down your pants, bent over, and showed them your ass._

_Humans have the __oddest__ expressions._ But she understood the concept now. She wasn't showing disrespect, precisely, but again, the face was the greatest intimacy one quarian could give another. Even linking suit systems to breathe the same air was something that could be done without removing their helmets. Out loud, Zhasa'Maedan noted, calmly, "After a month or so at the Spectre base, I was invited into the home of Hal'Marrak and Nal'Ishora. They gave me guest-rights in their house, without fear of contamination. At the time, I thought they were incredibly brave. Now, I believe they are not only brave, but wise, as well. After ten years in a suit, there was no virus or bacteria in my body that could possibly have harmed them."

Daro'Xen's voice was cold. "An interesting perspective, young Zhasa'Maedan, but I fail to see the relevance of this tangent. You are here to provide yourself for study."

"And here I thought the reports of your not falling over dead on breathing fresh air were exaggerated." Dempsey's voice was _very_ flat as he spoke now in galactic. Zhasa could feel rage building behind the enforced calm of the chip.

Five heads jerked towards the human Spectre, as he spoke out of turn. "And what does _that_ mean?" Han'Gerrel blustered a bit.

"I'm just pointing out that the _Admiral_ here is trying to have it both ways. . . within thirty seconds of each other. It can't be an exaggeration _and_ something worth studying at the same time. Little more than an attempt to tell a Spectre to sit down and shut up. Be a good little lab rat." Dempsey folded his large, armored arms across his chest, and stared at Daro'Xen through his mask, his eyes icy. "How's telling a Spectre to shut up working for you so far?"

Zhasa reached out and put a bare hand on his armored shoulder. Delicious sensation. Cold, slick, hard. "Steady," she murmured, in the English she was slowly picking up. "My people _do_ have a right to see if what I have can help all of them."

"Yeah, but they are _not_ locking you up in a lab someplace for the next twenty years while they try to figure out a _Prothean_ technology that might be past everyone in the galaxy right now." Dempsey's glare past her encompassed the admirals. "You're a Spectre. You have responsibilities to _more_ than just one species. Same as the rest of us."

Tali'Zorah cleared her throat. The last time Zhasa had seen the older female, she'd been pregnant; now, her suit betrayed no additional curves. "Spectre Dempsey is entirely correct," Tali noted, calmly. "In gaining a Spectre, we actually _gave_ Zhasa'Maedan to the galaxy as a whole."

An argument broke out then, vociferously, and Zhasa found a chair to sit down in, while the admirals frankly squabbled for ten solid minutes about their right to call on one of their own to assist her own people, balanced against the fact that she was, in fact, subject to the Spectres and the Council and _no one else_ at the moment, a fact that Tali'Zorah hammered home several times.

Right around the moment when Han'Gerrel noted that they _could_ order her detained, Dempsey, who'd been standing, staring ahead, as patient as a statue, as silent as a geth, raised his head and stared at the admirals. "And how would you plan to keep her here?" he asked, flatly. "By force? Because believe me, it would be over my dead body."

"You dare to threaten us in our very seat of government, _Spectre_?" Daro'Xen was annoyed.

His lips tipped down at the corners, faintly. "Not threatening. I never throw the first punch. But if I think that you're about to trap her in a lab for the rest of her life?" Dempsey paused. "We'd leave."

"And how do you think you'd manage that?" Daro'Xen was still irritated. Past her shoulder, Zhasa could see Kal'Reegar slowly put his visor down into his hands, shaking his head.

Dempsey stared at her. "For starters," the human said, quietly, and pointed at what looked like a solid marble wall at the north end of the chamber, "that wall looks fairly breakable. Probably just a marble facing over drywall. I'd go through there and head for our shuttle. Anyone who tries to stop me had better pack a lunch."

Zhasa winced, and offered, quietly, "Ah. . . I don't recommend that, by the way. Spectre Dempsey tends to get irritated when he's been shot."

His head turned, and his lips quirked very faintly at the corners. "Are you saying that they wouldn't like me when I get angry?"

Zhasa frowned, wondering why she saw a _green_ human face in his thoughts for a moment. "Pretty much," she agreed, however, after a moment.

"Even if you were to leave these chambers without our permission, where would you go?" Han'Gerrel demanded. "You are in quarian space, subject to our laws—"

Dempsey stared at him. "Once we're in the shuttle, the only way to stop us would be to shoot use down. . . or attempt to grapple us with a docking claw at range. Both of which could be construed as acts of piracy under Council law." His voice hadn't even risen. Stayed as calm and monotonous as a metronome. "Now, I think it's time you backed away from conversation revolving around the unlawful and unwilling detention of not one, but two Council Spectres. Commander Shepard tends to get a little annoyed with people who try that. You might consider asking the yahg on Terra Nova about that. Oh, and for the record. . . we aren't subject to your laws."

Zhasa sighed. This was going even less well than she'd thought it would. _Maybe I need to make more of a point here_, she thought.

_Feel free to pitch in. I'm just introducing them to reality. They don't seem to like it much._

Zhasa reached up and pulled at the fastenings of her suit. Slid the material away from her skin. Underneath, she'd opted to wear clothing, since she'd _hoped_ to be able to walk on Rannoch's surface free of the suit. A sleek asari tunic, low-necked, in a turquoise blue. _Apaterae_ leather pants. Underneath, human lingerie and stockings. She'd brought a small bag with her. . . which held, unfortunately, poor Ensign Rand's beleaguered bunny slippers, since she'd left Bastion without any of her custom-designed shoes being completed.

The admirals, who'd once again started arguing, suddenly fell completely silent as Zhasa stood up, then perched on the end of the table at which she'd been sitting, and pulled on her slippers. "I apologize," Zhasa told them, with a smile. "My feet get cold easily, I've noticed. Besides, I have no idea how long ago this floor was cleaned."

There was total and complete silence for a moment as they all _stared_ at her. Zhasa let them look, and then went on, softly, "As I was saying a few moments ago, Nal'Ishora and Hal'Marrak invited me into their homes. Let me see their faces. Breathed air with me, shared their food. We quarians have always prided ourselves on how much we _give_ to our people, but we also hold back from one another, I think. For years, the suits were our last vestige of privacy. Our faces were the last thing we could keep to ourselves. And I think that this. . . _selfishness_. . . has hurt our people."

The secretary recording the notes for this meeting of the Admiralty Board was scrambling to type fast enough to keep up. The admirals were regaining their composures, however, and Han'Gerrel stood and started to exclaim, "This meeting isn't a platform for you to ramble on about our society—"

Zhasa took a deep breath, and found Dempsey in her mind, calm and unflappable as always. "I wasn't finished speaking, Admiral." Zhasa paused, and realized, suddenly, that the other four were _listening._ Kal'Reegar was _listening_. _Is it because I'm out of the suit, or is it because I'm a Spectre?_ For the moment, it didn't matter. She _had_ to make them understand something she'd realized in the last few weeks. It could be as great a gift to her people as the damned nanites. A chance to change a perspective, a paradigm shift as great as accepting the geth as a sapient species, rather than mindless enemies. "Sometimes, I think, we have become a species of hypochondriacs. For centuries, we wore these suits even among ourselves, aboard our live-ships. We kept the children in the clean crèches until the age of twelve, and then forced them out, into suits. After twelve years of zero exposure to bacteria. Zero exposure to viruses. Then into suits. And then, with still _zero_ exposure to bacteria and viruses, we were terrified to open our suits to one another. Linking suit systems, actually meeting one another, face-to-face, in a clean room, became the most terrifying act of intimacy possible. We were told it could be life-threatening." Zhasa made a chuffing noise at the back of her throat, an assertive sound of displeasure. "What species survives its own evolution without being able to touch each other? Are we truly _that_ weak, or is that just something we told ourselves? Because it allowed each of us to be an island, to stand, even a _little_, away from one another?"

Zhasa found herself crossing her arms across her chest, unconsciously mirroring Dempsey's pose, but tipped her head to the side now as she studied the admirals. "And in the end," she said, softly, "that very selfishness has crippled us. Because, like a limb that degenerates from disuse, now we really _do_ have immune systems that have never been exercised. The children born here on Rannoch will be fine. . . . _if_ you allow them out of the crèches. If you allow them to be exposed to allergens and bacteria and viruses, so that their bodies learn to deal with them. Just as a vaccine trains the body to recognize and defend against an infection, so, too, does infection train the body." Something that Dara had noted, over and over again. But now Zhasa took that information, and made it her own. "It's time for all of us to stop being selfish. To be open with one another again."

"People _are_ removing their suits," Tali'Zorah reminded her, gently. "Kal'Reegar and I are. And our son, Zael'Reegar, was only confined to a bubble for the first few months. The same with our daughter, Maeri'Reegar."

Zhasa inclined her head in respect. "I understand this," she replied, softly. "But not everyone is making the effort, Tali'Zorah. I know that it can't be an overnight thing. But I would also like to point out, that it might not be as dangerous as we have become accustomed to thinking that it is. I'm not saying that the suits were imposed from without, as a form of social control. . . but that is what they have become. They have become fear. Fear of each other. Fear of the unknown. They're our safety and our succor and we are completely dependent on them. . . because we are afraid. And I think that it may be possible that the fear is. . . exaggerated. After fifteen generations of us being locked in suits and routinely vaccinated against every known virus, are we really _that_ dangerous to one another?" She looked around. "Turians average eight degrees warmer than we are, by one standard of measurement. They're the only other sapient dextro species out there. The chances of transmission of their diseases from them to one of us are small. The chances of one of us catching a levo-based bacteria infection or virus from a human or an asari? Smaller yet. The biggest chance of infection always came from other creatures and plants right here on Rannoch. Our most realistic danger is _allergic reactions_. . . and even that can be mitigated by training the immune system. Allergy shots. Epi-tabs. We've spent fifteen generations _not_ doing basic preventative maintenance, and look what we have to show for it." She looked at them all now, tapping a foot in a bunny slipper. "Are any of you brave enough to take off your masks and argue with me face to face?"

Kal'Reegar stood, off in the audience. So did Tali'Zorah. Both of them took off their visors, and, reflexively, Zhasa looked down, to respect their privacy for a moment. But she could see, out of the periphery of her vision, that they'd turned first to look right at one another. The first time revealing themselves to one another in public like this. Zhasa gave it a moment, and looked up, straight at Zaal'Korris, and then at Shala'Raan. "I would be both pleased and honored, if my accidental exposure to Prothean nanites turns out to help the rest of my people," Zhasa said, softly. "I will cheerfully give of my body and my time to that end. But, as my mate has pointed out, I am a Spectre. I belong with them now, and we do have a war to be fighting. I cannot stay on Rannoch until you've successfully created similar nanobots. My responsibilities lie in many places."

After a moment, Shala'Raan stood, and removed her own visor. "We understand that. . . Spectre," the aging admiral replied, quietly. "But we will take our fate into our hands more fully, as you have challenged us to do."

Zaal'Korris was the last to stand of the admirals. And he, too, removed his mask, though he clearly had to fight to do so, and was panting with anxiety as he did so. Han'Gerrel and Daro'Xen refused to do so. . . but Zhasa had a feeling that when the notes from this meeting, and the vid from it, too, were released? Both would suffer a certain loss of prestige. They would appear to lack courage. Unless, of course, everyone else in the room grew ill, in which case, they'd look wise. A calculated risk.

She and Dempsey spent a week on Rannoch. Dempsey retreated into their shuttle every night, just to get some time out of his own armor and to recharge his breather. "Beginning to feel like that armor's welded itself to my skin," he muttered. For a change, she was the one out of the suit, in her native element, and he was the one walling himself off. Not because he was afraid of allergic reactions—they were both fairly certain that his regenerative abilities would ward off any toxic reactions to Rannoch's native pollens—but to avoid giving anyone around him allergies. "Never been accused of having dander like a cat before," Dempsey noted. "And I don't shed that much. But still, better to be safe and courteous to the locals."

Zhasa wound up donating several samples of blood and tissue, but the doctors there also wanted to test the limits of her resistance. So she and Dempsey and her mother actually went for long walks in the mountains outside of Rannavoi, and Zhasa came back with armloads of flowers each time, all different species. Once in a great while, she'd feel a hint of a desire to sneeze, and occasional itching at the back of her throat—a hugely odd sensation, she had to admit. "Sounds like hay-fever, Zhasa-love. Nothing to worry about. . . but I've got an epi-pen with us if you need it," Dempsey had noted, tapping the thigh compartment of his armor, where he kept first-aid supplies.

And of course, here, she could eat whatever she wanted, and _he_ was the one stuck with MREs, eaten in private in the shuttle. He found the reversal amusing, in his quiet way, and pointedly asked her to try dozens of different foods so that _he_ could taste them through her. Which she was absolutely delighted to do. It was the time of the Flight, the yearly ceremonies of remembrance of the Morning War and the evacuation from Rannoch. Candles were burned in homes to the halfway point, and then snuffed; sterile, wafer-thin cakes were made and given to guests; poetry was recited, and story-dances were performed. Zhasa had asked Tali'Zorah tentatively, "May I take part in the yearly ceremonies?"

"I don't see why not," the admiral told her, a smile in her voice. "Just be aware that you will be attracting a good deal of attention."

"That's what I'm here for," Dempsey had muttered, which had made Zhasa laugh.

And so they'd gone out to watch the dancing and listen to the music, to hold candles under the stars and look up at the Perseus Veil as it spread across the night sky. And hundreds of quarians had approached, over the course of several nights. All wanting to touch her hair, her shoulders, with gloved hands, which Zhasa tolerated as best she could, and answered the questions, over and over again. _And to think,_ she told Dempsey wearily on the third night, _that I used to crave touch. _

_You still do, Zhasa-love. It's just a little overpowering right now. You need to limit access now._ He paused, pulling his shirt over his head in the dim confines of the shuttle. _You've been more or less turned into a political force here. And the last couple of days. . . pretty much cultivation of that political power._

_It was not!_

_Oh yes, it was. You might not have been doing it consciously, but it was pretty damned smart._ His thoughts were calm, and a little amused. _You're a threat to Han'Gerrel and Daro'Xen now, love. Politically, you threaten them. You're not indebted to them, you're a free agent as a Spectre, and you're practically telling people to question all their previous assumptions. They're bound to be terrified of you, especially as people will look to follow your example in things. Belief is as infectious as a virus sometimes, Zhasa. And you're infecting people with new ideas._

Zhasa just stared at him, horrified. "Oh, no, no, no. That's not what I meant to do at all—"

Dempsey sat down on the edge of their bunk, and caught her hand in his, kissing it lightly. "What you meant to do was show your people how to free themselves from a trap of their own making. But there are people here whose power relies on people staying in that trap. In doing things the way they've always been done. Following the orders of the Admiralty Board. And everything else." He shrugged. "Politics, sweetie. Some species are more overt about it. I don't think you'll have to fight a duel, the way a turian politician might have to. . . but as you keep telling me, quarians are very social, and you like to argue and debate. I'm just telling you what to expect."

"Back-biting. Back-stabbing. Pressure to join one faction or another." Her tone went gloomy as she assessed the future. "And if I don't, possibly being marginalized? Discounted? Discredited?"

_Wow, you do know politics._

_I'm quarian. Of course I do. It was half of shipboard life._ She sighed and laid back on the bed, against his chest. She was wearing _pyjamas_ and loving it. _Somehow, the whole war with the batarians and the yahg suddenly sounds a lot simpler and more appealing._

Dempsey's shoulders shook. Just once. But it was enough to fill her with his subtle amusement.

At the end of the week, the _Qwib-Qwib_ took their shuttle back through the mass relay, where the _Kiev_ actually was able to pick them back up again. And, to Zhasa's delight, they were given the opportunity to travel to Hagalaz once more, to the ship of Liara T'soni, where Kirrahe Orlan and Lantar Sidonis had arrived a week before. "Just in time for the holidays," Dempsey announced with faint satisfaction as they stepped out of the _Kiev_ and into the docking bay of the massive ship.

"Dad!" Madison shouted from across the docking bay, and walked over through the crowd of gleeful family members and Spectre techs, who were helping to offload the SR-1 of its supplies. For a moment, Zhasa experienced Dempsey's faint disappointment; when the boy had been young, a toddler, he'd always run to his father, giggling and crowing. Now, of course, he was too old for such behavior.

Zhasa had gotten lengths of fine silk on Rannoch, and made translucent scarves for herself, which she'd learned to wrap around her head and face, as her ancestors had, to protect themselves from the sun as they migrated south from their northern rift valley, where they'd originally evolved on their homeworld. Now, she turned as Madison came up and received a hug from his father. . . and then the boy got a look at her and simply gaped. Zhasa let the scarf drift down from her head now, letting him get a better look, and asked, smiling, "Don't you recognize me, Mad?"

"Zhasa?" Madison blinked repeatedly, and then flung his arms around her awkwardly in a quick hug. Confusion in his quick mental touch. Swift verification that she was, indeed, who he thought she was. And a flash of _wow, she really is gorgeous_, which made Zhasa laugh and flush violet, followed by a _how is this even __possible__?_

"Long story," Dempsey replied out loud. "But we've got time for stories, Mad. Let's go see everyone else."

The children were almost floored by seeing her out of her suit, but after about a half an hour of questions, they were completely back to normal. "Apparently, I'm just about as weird as seeing Dara with rachni eyes," Zhasa told Dempsey. "I think they're inured to wonder, honestly."

"They're a little more interested in the prospect of Christmas presents," Dempsey agreed, smiling very faintly.

And so, Zhasa was introduced to human solstice traditions. Some of the human techs were Jewish, and were celebrating a festival called Hanukkah. Some of them worshipped other gods, and celebrated the solstice in a festival called Yule. Many were celebrating yet another solstice tradition called Christmas. "Why so many different ways of celebrating the same season?" she asked. "It is more or less the same event, correct? The winter solstice?"

Dempsey's smile actually reached his eyes. "Different cultures, different time periods, different beliefs. Humans drag old stuff after them all the time. Incorporate the old into the new."

They were sitting, actually, in what had been apparently a highly disused part of the ship until a few months ago: the galley. Liara T'soni periodically came into the galley and looked around, shaking her head in amusement, because every single child aboard had made his or her way there. And Ellie Sidonis had them all well occupied, making a human concoction known as cookies. "No, no, Sisu, you can't have that. That one's levo/dextro. Made with _festuca_ grain and _oolorae_ eggs. You'll make yourself sick."

The little asari. . . boy. . . looked up at Ellie and wrinkled his nose. "Well, what kind _may_ I try, then, please?"

Ellie picked up a cookie off a nearby plate. "This is one you helped make. Do you remember what it's called?"

"Leapkaken."

"_Lebkuchen._ Little lovey cakes, basically." Ellie handed the diamond-shaped cookie to Sisu now, and rubbed a hand lightly along the little scalp. "When you finish eating that, wash your hands, and I'll let you cut out some from the next batch. You want the snowman or do you want the reindeer cutters?"

"Reindeer!"

Lantar, who was sitting near them at one of the large preparation tables, out of the way of most of the mayhem, looked over at his wife in amusement. "What I've never understood," he told Zhasa now, "is what the prey animals from the northern part of their world have to do with rebirth ceremonies from a desert part of their world."

Ellie turned and stuck her tongue out at her husband. "You are entirely too literal, Lantar."

Dempsey's eyes went blank for a moment, and Zhasa could feel him risking opening his chip for access to data streams for a moment. "Like I just said, people try to hold onto old traditions," he said, after a moment. "From what I'm seeing, originally, a Norse god, named Odin, had a horse named Sleipnir, and the horse flew. Children whose families worshipped Odin thought that he would bring gifts at or around the solstice. That legend got conflated with the other solstice myths, and reindeer, well, Santa is supposed to live at the North Pole. What's easier to believe, that reindeer can fly, or that a horse can live at the North Pole?"

Ellie now pointed down at Elissa, Alain, Tacitus, and Emily, who she had in a row, standing on stepstools, and was allowing to use cookie cutters on dough she'd already rolled out. "Let's drop the mythology for the moment, hmm? Because we all _know_ that Santa's coming, right?" She gave Dempsey a look, which Zhasa found hugely amusing, largely because Dempsey was completely unaffected by it. "Right?" Ellie repeated.

"You think he'll be able to find this big ship?" Dempsey asked, apparently giving in and playing along.

Kaius and Amara were giving the others _you're kidding us_ looks, but Caelia and Estavan perked up. "I bet he can," Caelia averred.

"We don't have a chimney here," Estevan pointed out, gloomily.

Charis, Estevan's mother, bared her teeth at Lantar. "He gives me a hard time about his spirit statue not looking enough like him for the spirits to know that it's supposed to be him, too."

"What I want to know," Dempsey said, dryly, "is why you guys never just gave in and did spirit _photography_. Much less time consuming. And highly accurate." He reached over and pinched a piece of dough off of what Ellie was currently portioning out, and ate it.

Zhasa inhaled. "What," she said, in a reverent tone, "is that?"

"Cookie dough," Dempsey told her, smiling faintly. "Usually better than the cookies themselves."

"There was chocolate in that—I know there was—" Zhasa reached over him, trying to get to whatever that exotic concoction was.

"Chocolate chip cookie dough," Dempsey agreed, fending her off. "Sinful. Not very Christmassy, but awesome."

Madison looked up from where he was helping Amara decorate cooling sugar cookies. "This place smells even better than when my mom used to make those Pillsbury ones," he admitted. "Lot messier, though." Zhasa glanced up and checked his sense, quickly. She and Dempsey were both concerned that this, Madison's first Christmas without his mom, might be a very unhappy season for him. There was a bittersweet pang in him right now, but he was also very happy and occupied, which helped.

Ellie actually smacked Dempsey's hand with a spoon. "James Dempsey! The eggs in that are going to make you sick—"

Dempsey raised his eyebrows at her. Ellie exhaled in vexation. "Okay. Maybe they won't make _you_ sick, but all the kids who decide to eat the cookie dough, too?"

"I've eaten a lot of cookie dough in my life, and never gotten sick."

"_Salmonella_ is not a myth." That was from Narayana, primly, as she arranged freeze-dried grasshoppers artistically atop cookies shaped like pine trees, to simulate the green branches, and adhered them there with frosting.

"I thought we were canning the mythology talk for the moment."

On and on the banter flew. Liara came back into the room after about an hour, and cleared her throat. "I am told that this is Christmas Eve, yes?"

"Yes!" Caelia and Estavan and Amara and Kaius chorused, their eyes gleaming in a faintly predatory way.

Dempsey noted, with amusement, in her mind, _They know they're getting presents._

"I know that a lot of you are very far from home and from your family right now, but . . . something remarkable has happened." Liara paused, a faint smile coming over her face. "Someone has bypassed security to be here with us this evening. No, no, don't go for your guns—" she spread her hands and looked at Dempsey, Lantar, Charis, and Zhasa. . . and Dempsey hastily pretended to be reaching for a side-arm that wasn't there. . . "These are friends to everyone, I'm told. And I'm feeling very trusting today. Could I get everyone to come with me, assuming that nothing in here is going to burn?"

Ellie smiled at her. "Last batch is cooling. If you ask nicely, you can even have one. Stay away from the bonemeal and sweetmarrow ones, though. Those will give you a stomachache, to say the least."

Liara openly laughed, and Zhasa trailed along behind Dempsey and the children as Liara took them to what was usually an observation deck. Today, however, it had been decorated with thousands of sparkling lights, all hanging down like a tent from a rafter high above. Curtains of light, around a tall tree—in a pot, apparently—also festooned with lights. Under the tree . . . and around it. . . and all over the room . . .were packages wrapped in paper and ribbons. And beside the tree, Lilitu Shepard and Garrus Vakarian were waiting, smiles on their faces. Their presence was enough to make Amara, Kaius, Elissa, and Alain scream and run for their parents in joy.

To their right, however, was a short figure in red furry pants, a red furry shirt, a red furry hat. . . with a big white beard. The hat was precariously perched, however, on Kirrahe's very salarian aural horns, just above his big, wide eyes. And Zhasa's eyes tracked downwards from that hat to the protruding pot belly that Kirrahe now sported, and she raised a hand to cover her mouth. She was fairly certain, from the rather square shape of it, that there was a pillow tucked in there. Maybe two. Salarians _did_ have a rather concave shape to their chests and stomachs, after all.

"Ho, ho, ho," Santa Kirrahe said, as if reading it off a script. "Have you all been good boys and girls this year?"

Zhasa risked a look down. Caelia and Estevan were old enough to realize that something was a little _off_ here, but they were also overwhelmed by the colors and lights and the prospect of presents. Emily and Tacitus, however, were wide-eyed in reverent awe. Tacitus took a few impetuous steps forwards; Emily grabbed onto her mother's leg and would not let go. Zhasa looked a little further left, and saw that Narayana's small mouth was hanging open. Completely stunned. The salarian girl _had_ to recognize that Kirrahe was dressed up as a figure from human mythology, and clearly didn't know what to do with this.

A little past Narayana, Madison was covering his mouth, and his shoulders were shaking with the desperate struggle not to laugh. _Don't!_ Zhasa told him.

_I'm trying! I'm trying! But that hat's about to fall right down into his face. . . and the pillows are about to fall out. Or maybe the pants are about to land around his ankles. . . I can't tell which. . . _

For Zhasa, the scene was absolutely surreal. She'd seen Kirrahe run into battle ahead of the rest of them dozens of times on Arvuna. Usually with a flamethrower or an assault rifle cradled in his hands. She knew and highly respected his technical skills, as well. She would _never_ have pictured him wearing a fuzzy red suit. A furry red hat. Or a huge white beard. Her own giggles almost got the better of her, and she had to bury her face in Dempsey's shoulder for a moment.

Kirrahe knelt down, opening a big red sack filled with yet more presents, and the children's eyes shone still further. Zhasa heard, clearly, from Dempsey, _Yep. This is going to be hard to top next year. _

And the unwrapping festivities began. Ellie was doing her level best to get pictures of every child for every parent who wasn't there, as well as pictures of her own children and Garrus and Shepard's. Caelia squealed over a huge set of paints and papers from 'Lijah, as she persisted in calling her older brother. Tiny 'geth' mechs the size of one of Zhasa's fingers were a big hit for Tacitus and Alain alike, and Elissa ran around the room, keyed up, holding a toy dragon as it 'exhaled' holographic fire at her. Estevan and Kaius were dueling in a corner with toy swords, and helmets that looked, apparently, like something out of Earth's Roman era. Amara had a very grown-up easel and acrylic paints. Kaius had also been given a _reela_—"Just like Dara's!" he shouted in substantial delight, and brought it over to Zhasa. "I know how to play a little bit," he boasted, setting it up near her with neat little gestures. "Want to hear 'Jingle Bells' on it?"

"Of course," Zhasa told him, laughing.

Ylara had sent toys for Telluura, and an enormous sack of the foods that Tullust most enjoyed—peanuts, apparently, still in their shells, as well as beets, carrots, pineapples, and a variety of asari fruits and root vegetables that would travel well. Shepard noted, "She's concerned that you're not going to be eating enough, Tulluust. She knows you don't like elcor MREs much. . . and there's not exactly a garden or a grocery store nearby."

The huge elcor lowered his head. "Gratefully: Ylara is always a very considerate mate. Concerned: She worries too much for me, when she is the one risking life and limb."

Telluura, their daughter, was old enough for stuffed animals and picture books, and modeling clay and molds, which she squealed over happily, and immediately wanted to pull out of its containers. Sisu and Fiara were also not left out. Fiara got little girl dresses, and Sisu got a hockey stick and puck from Dempsey, a baseball cap that read 'N7' on it from Shepard, and _both_ of them got a complete set of Spectre action figures which were the envy of all the other kids around them. That, apparently, was from Liara herself. . . . because Garrus and Shepard just _winced_ at the sight of them.

"Oh, look! That one's Daddy! Why's Daddy wearing his blue armor for that one?"

Garrus looked at the action figure and just groaned. "So much for Archangel being the terror of mercenaries everywhere. Now, their _kids_ are going to be playing with me."

"My question is, is it anatomically correct?" Lilitu asked, which got her a _very_ dark look from her husband, and Zhasa found herself curling forward to bury her head against Dempsey's shoulder once more, giggling hysterically.

"Oh, that one's my Daddy!" Caelia shrilled next, holding up a Lantar. "Is there one for 'Lijah?"

"Where's one for Mama?" Amara demanded.

Kaius held up a female figurine. "This is Mama's _old_ armor," he said, sounding annoyed. "The red and blue one, that she gave Cousin Dara. Mama, you should make them put you in your black armor."

Shepard had her hands over her face. Garrus turned and looked at her. "Is this better or worse than the movies?" he asked.

"Oh, god. Liara, I'm going to _kill_ you. . . " Shepard vowed, quietly. "Where did you _find_ this stuff?"

Liara smiled sweetly. "I might have a controlling interest in the company that manufactures them," she admitted.

Garrus and Lilitu both _glared_ at her.

"Ohhhh, _cool_!" Sisu held up another pack, sending more wrapping paper flying. "This one says 'Young Gun Spectres' on it!" The asari boy squinted at the fine print. "This set contains Zhasa'Maedan, with authentic holographic bubble projection—"

_Wait, what?_

". . . oh! James Allen Dempsey, with biotic shield simulation and Hahne-Kedar Cobra replica pistol. . . "

Zhasa caught a wave of pure shock from Dempsey at that point. Madison started laughing, and would _not stop_. "I don't _use_ a Hahne-Kedar, I use a Karpov," Dempsey muttered, grimly. "And I sure as hell don't remember giving my authorization for my likeness to be used. . . "

"Public figure," Liara told him, as Madison leaned over and picked up the 'Dempsey' doll, studying it. "So long as it's not defaming your character, well. . . my lawyers can have lunch with your lawyers."

Madison studied the doll. "It doesn't really look like you, Dad. The eyebrows are really bushy."

_Yeah, definitely a little Neanderthalish there. . . . _

Sisu was not to be distracted, sounding out words as he went along. "Linianus Pellarian, with assault rifle, Elijah Sidonis, with shield and pistol, and Dara Jaworski, with med kit and sniper rifle."

Cautiously, Zhasa looked down, and said, after a moment, "Well, they got my old envirosuit right, except that they put the purple overwraps on it, and the purple visor, with the red Spectre symbol." She looked up at Dempsey. "Dara's right. Red and violet _do_ clash."

A few moments later, Madison's eyes went wide when he unwrapped the hoverboard his father had gotten him, though Dempsey warned, "Remember, don't use it in any hazardous areas, and don't _break_ anything. Especially not yourself."

Madison shook his head, already clearly absorbed in trying to figure out how to power it up. "I won't, Dad, I promise."

Then, Narayana's eyes went huge. She'd been given her legless amphibian in its fishbowl, and had sworn up and down that she'd take care of it. Chemistry sets, microscopes, dresses, ribbons to tie around her aural horns. . . she'd been in a state of total glee and amazement to begin with. Then 'Santa Kirrahe' had pulled out a data disc from his sack, and handed it to her. "Prothean data. From a helper of Santa who was on Arvuna recently. Seheve said it related to salarian genome and Prothean research on that species, fifty thousand years ago. Perhaps you will find something of interest in it, as you learn to decrypt properly."

She was so stunned, she actually didn't say a word for over a minute, which might be a record for the salarian girl. And then it all gushed out at once. "First Christmas with this family, first Christmas _ever,_ really, and such perfect gifts, wonderful gifts, challenges and pretty things and science things, how did everyone know. . . and now _this._" She put her hands over her face, a very human gesture, Zhasa thought. "My father would have _loved_ this."

"But do you?" Santa Kirrahe asked, a little anxiously.

"Yes! Of course yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She gave him a hug, which Kirrahe plainly didn't know what to do with, even as Alain climbed up on the sofa next to him and began walking his new miniature geth mech over Santa's narrow shoulders.

In the meantime, Dempsey had unwrapped his own gift from Zhasa, a leather jacket. She'd loved the buttery soft leather and the _smell_ of it, and had asked Dara to find out Dempsey's jacket size. Subtly. Dara had, without fanfare, reached up and grabbed the back of Dempsey's neck as they were walking around Bastion. "Lean down," she'd told him. "Your girlfriend wants to know something."

"What?"

"Whether or not your jacket really is made of one hundred percent polyester, what do you think?"

Zhasa had mock-glared at Dara. "Very subtle."

"Extra large. If they ask you for a measurement across the shoulders in inches, you are on your own. Ambush him in his sleep or something." Dara's sudden grin had made her face light up.

Now, Zhasa asked, anxiously, "It fits? You like it? It'll be good on Mindoir, right? Because it gets cold there?"

Dempsey leaned over and kissed her. "It'll be just fine, Zhasa-love. You're damned good at the gift thing. Sure this is your first Christmas?" He pointed at the packages at her feet. "It must be. You haven't even opened yours."

Zhasa smiled at him. "I was trying to make it all last as long as possible." She began opening all her various packages, and began to ooooooh and ahhh in delight. Warm, soft sweaters. Long, waterproof, stretchy pants. Thick socks. A heavy, padded jacket. A perfectly warm fleece hood that covered her entire face, and goggles of some sort.

"Ski gear," Dempsey told her. "When we get a little leave, I'm thinking Breckenridge in Colorado, and a lot of skiing. That all should keep you warm." He glanced at her calmly. "If you don't like it, you can either blame me, or blame Dara, take your pick."

"No!" she said, immediately. "I love it. So many bright colors. . . and the textures!" Zhasa buried her face in the sweaters, and wanted to purr at the sensation of it rubbing along her skin.

"There's more," Madison pointed out, indicating several more packages at her feet. These were smaller, however, and Zhasa opened them with interest, and confusion. Mostly, they were vials and jars. . . but when she opened them, her nose crinkled, and she sneezed, at least at first. Then her eyes widened. "They all smell like. . . foods? Is this to eat?"

"No," Dempsey told her, firmly. "That one there is bubble bath. I tried to make sure they were hypoallergenic brands, but after that one lady at that Caresse counter, I'm not really sure what will be safe on your skin. Those two there are massage oils and stuff like that. The problem is, I tried to get dextro-friendly stuff. . . and so, you're going to wind up smelling like _caprificus_ fruit and stuff like that. We can hold off on the chocolate and vanilla and whatever else you like the smell of till we're a little clearer on what will and won't mess with your body."

Zhasa looked at him blankly. _Massage oils?_

Dempsey's eyes thawed just a little. _You'll like it, Zhasa love. I'll warm it in my hands, spread it down your back, and rub all the tension out of your muscles after you've had a soak in the bathtub. Legs, back, neck. All of it. _A little curl of anticipation from him; very faint, but there. He liked the idea of her purring softly in total relaxed pleasure under his hands. And Zhasa found the idea more than a little appealing, herself. She met his eyes and smiled, feeling her pleasure igniting his. The usual reciprocal loop.

After a moment, Zhasa looked around at the wreckage all over the room, the piles of crumpled paper, the boxes that toys had been removed from, the fact that the children were now using those piles as forts, or as things to jump into, as they gleefully played with the action figures. "No, no, I want Thell!" Telluura cried, until one of the older children relented and gave her the elcor figurine. "Now I rescue you all!"

"I've got Lin," Kaius said, and made the figure flop down with a blood-curdling shriek of mock-pain behind a box. "I'm hit, I'm hit!"

"I've got Dara," Amara announced, holding up the figurine. "Hold on, Lin, I'm going to fix your leg!"

Caelia trundled her Eli figurine over, just as Estevan brought over his Rellus doll. "Why do you keep getting hurt, _fradu?"_ Caelia scolded, waving her Eli doll at Kaius' Lin. "Stay down. I'll protect you and Dara!"

"I'm going to take out the enemies over there!" Estevan told Caelia, pointing.

"What enemies? There's nothing over there."

"They're invisible," he told her. "Watch! Charge! Raaaaaaah!" And off he took his Rel doll, attacking something hapless and invisible near a mountain of paper. . . which promptly collapsed on him. "Help, help! Avalanche!"

"We'll save you, Rel!" the rest of them chorused. "Wait! We need Zhasa and Dempsey to shield Rel from the avalanche!"

Telluura held up her Thell doll. "I can lift up all the rocks," she said, solemnly.

"There needs to be a Fors figure," Madison offered, obviously trying not to laugh from where he was sitting and watching. "'Cause Fors would just do this." He flicked a finger, and moved the whole pile off Estevan's hand with his biotics, sending paper flying everywhere.

Zhasa just stared at them, and tried, very hard, not to look at _any_ other Spectre in the room.

Shepard nodded slowly, and looked from Garrus to Lantar and back again. "The kids obviously seem to have a pretty good idea of how the teams break down," she managed, her voice a little strangled, and obviously trying very hard not to laugh. "We should have them on the recruiting staff next time around."

"Thanks," Lantar told her, dryly, and pulled Emily up into his lap as she reached up with her arms appealingly. "You really need holding again?" he asked her, pretending to sound dubious.

"Yes, Daddy."

"Sleepy?"

"No!"

Five minutes later, the small hybrid girl was fast asleep in her father's arms. Lantar looked down at the children who were still playing at Spectre, and noted, in his quiet voice, "If only it were that easy."

"It always was. . .when I was a kid. Of course, when I was a kid, I had Saren posters in my room." Garrus ducked and pretended to ward off his wife's pained glance. "Hey, at the time, no one knew he was going to lose his mind and betray all life in the galaxy."

Tacitus was in Ellie's lap now, Alain in Shepard's, and Elissa finally gave in and curled up in Garrus'. Sisu came over and curled up between Zhasa and Dempsey, still fiddling with his Dempsey figurine. One by one, even the oldest of the children began to get tired. Madison, however, was happily ensconced with one of his acquisitions, a game for his omnitool, and barely looked up as the various adults began carrying the younger kids out of the room.

Zhasa helped put Sisu to bed, and, smiling, left the Dempsey doll where the boy could see it first thing in the morning. . . . and left the hockey stick and puck in reach, too. "Slight case of hero worship," she told Dempsey when she slipped back out of the room.

Dempsey shrugged, and waved a tiny Zhasa'Maedan figure at her, from where he'd picked it up off the floor. "Little plastic toys don't bleed," he murmured.

She sighed, and leaned against him. "No," Zhasa told him. "But it's not a bad thing for younglings to have someone to look up to, is it?"

He shook his head. "I just hope we're worth looking up to." Dempsey frowned faintly. "I also kind of hope Pellarian didn't get nailed in the leg again. It's a bad thing when even the kids know he's kind of got a reputation for it."

Zhasa chuckled, and wrapped her arm around his waist. "Kirrahe's getting the same reputation. I think it boils down to how much Dara yells at both of them." She paused. "Come to think of it, she'd have yelled at you, too, if she'd seen how many bullets you took on Mindoir during the batarian attack on the base."

Dempsey nodded solemnly. "Do you think when she gets wounded, she yells at herself?"

Zhasa considered that, and began to laugh. "Probably. Though whether she tells herself she's got the sense of a _villi_ in heat and the self-preservation of a lemming is up for debate." Zhasa paused. "What _is_ a lemming, anyway?"

Dempsey snorted. "Earth critter known for following other lemmings over cliffs to their deaths. I kid you not. There's vid on it." He pulled her a little closer to him. "Chances are, though, they're all absolutely fine." A faint tinge of unease touched those words, and she bit her lower lip. "It's a fairly crazy stunt, going deep into batarian space to extract a notable spy, but as everyone keeps telling me, Spectres eat weird for breakfast and crazy for lunch. They'll be fine."

Zhasa sighed. "I do hope so."

They walked in silence for a bit, and then Dempsey turned and looked down at her, his face almost expressionless. "So. About those various bath oils and massage oils and whatnot."

"Yes?"

"I'm at your disposal. Very much at your disposal." Very, very faint touches of emotion in him. Still so hard to read, when it was his own native feeling, and not hers, reflected. But she cherished each one. The desire to please her, to make her happy.

Zhasa leaned in close, and smiled up at him. _I'm ready whenever you are._ The rest of the universe could damned well wait on them for a while.

**Rellus, Khar'sharn December 24, 2196**

Rel ducked out of cover and blasted the damned floating turrets with his assault rifle. He'd carried this Kassa Breaker Mark X weapon for several years now, and was intimately familiar with its quirks. It didn't do quite as much damage as the Haliat Thunder line, but it was more accurate. He'd opted for it over the more modern Vindicator, for the simple reason that it didn't require a five-round burst pattern, and he knew it better. The damned little turrets were fast-moving, however, and had a truly irritating tendency to vanish when they needed to reload or recharge their shields. . . .and they kept taking turns, damn it all. Which meant that his and Livanus' shields were having damned little time to recharge, themselves. _"What do you want to bet,"_ he called to Livanus, "_that the batarians had a little salarian help designing those things?"_

"_Not sure. . . could be based on geth tech. But it's just as likely that our old salarian friends programmed the VIs."_ Livanus was keying up his omnitool from where he was huddled in the shelter of the nearby statue. _"Keep them off me for another few seconds."_

Rel leaned out and fired again, fighting muzzle-climb as he trained the weapon on the closer of the two turrets attacking them. Livanus leaned out now, and the turret _behind_ that one froze in midair, and then began firing at Rel's target, too. Rel exhaled in relief as the two small mechs began to fire on one another, steadily wearing through each others' shields, tracking each others' movements. Then the closer turret fell to the ground, and Rel immediately changed targets to the hacked unit, blowing it to pieces. _"Two down,_" Rel muttered. _"Spirits only know how many more to go."_

"_We need to get to the front door,"_ Livanus muttered. _"Cover me."_ The older turian rolled out from behind the statue of some sort of an eyeball with wings, and started to zigzag his way to the main entrance of the villa. Rel followed behind him, watching for more turrets, for SIU operatives, anything, really, and they landed on either side of the grand stairs leading up to the dark wood doors. Adrenaline was singing through Rel now, and he kept checking his six, uneasily aware that they were in a terrible position, if any batarians circled around the house and came at them from behind. . . . and then he caught sight of it. "Livanus! More turrets!"

There was a low wall here at the bottom of the steps, about three feet tall; it was more or less the level of the porch, on which there was a line of stately pillars. He got his back against a stone pillar, and swore mentally, fervently, as two more of the spirits-be-damned turrets circled towards the senior Spectre and him. _At least they can't get behind us now_, Rel thought dimly, and opened fire again on the one to the left, trying to anticipate the damned thing as it bobbed and wove in the air. His shields were sparking blue, and Livanus muttered, _"Spirits of air and darkness, take these things and their creators to the underworld already,"_ and managed to hack the one on the right as Rel focused on the one on the left. From that moment, it became much easier, but Rel was all too aware of the fact that if he _hadn't_ been watching behind them, they'd have had their shields torn through like so much paper.

"_Thoth,"_ Sam's voice came over the radio, calling Livanus by his squad-name—Egyptian god of justice and knowledge, apparently. _"Tell me you're in position."_ Sam was using English on the radio. Most batarians would have galactic VIs, and might have turian, but probably not all of the hundreds of languages of Earth.

"Ran into friends. Turret mechs." Livanus' voice was tight.

"_Saw 'em, snuck past 'em. The marines are going to have a hell of a time with those."_ Sam paused. _"We need their attention on you, and now."_

"_Working on it."_ Livanus peered around the corner of the base of the staircase at the door. _"This is where I try to establish a dialogue. But we're doing to need their attention first."_ He checked his biosign scanner. _"Right. They've got people in the entryway, all pulled back as if to repel an assault. Velnaran? Grenade on the door and front windows, please."_

Rel blinked, and then grinned a little to himself, pleased. He couldn't use a rocket-propelled grenade on the door, though the windows beside it were an option, of course. But Livanus wanted the batarians' attention, not necessarily injuries just yet. He wanted them looking over here, while the magician's hand was, in fact, in a pocket over _there._

So, for this, a nice, overhand lob, precisely targeted. He dropped the high-explosives grenade right in front of the door, and pulled back into cover, bracing for the explosion. When he ducked back around, he could see that the windows that flanked the massive door, and the large picture window over it, were shattered completely, and the door itself had been blown off its hinges. The doorframe was smoldering, and the bricks around it were damaged, some dislodged from the mortar. "_I think we got their attention,"_ Rel said.

"_Yeah."_ Livanus shouted now, projecting from the pit of his crop to make himself heard over the explosions from the north and the south, the machine gun fire from all directions, the hum of the gunships in the air. _"Attention, those of you inside the house! Who among you is of sufficient worth to bargain with me for the lives of those within?"_ He'd switched to the batarian main language, which Rel spoke fluently, thanks to STG and his year on Sur'Kesh.

He'd listened to Sam and Livanus discuss bargaining tactics with batarians. "The goal is to keep them distracted, really," Sam had assessed. "Without them ever knowing what we actually do want, hopefully. Because if they _do_ know that Valak and his people are our goal, they'll try to take them off the board."

Livanus had grimaced. "True enough. You can win at _ru'udal_ either by lying and bargaining well enough to acquire all of your opponent's assets and territory. . . or by destroying everything that they value. Though those games usually wind up destroying everything that _you_ value, too. It's still considered a viable strategy." He and Sam had exchanged glances. "So. . . the story is what? We're looking to _kill_ Valak for unspecified crimes against the Alliance?"

Sam had rubbed at his cheek, looking dubious. "I don't want to put the word _kill_ in their heads," he replied. "If they hear we want to kill him, they might do it themselves and throw us the body. Have to have some fallback options." Sam had clapped Livanus on the shoulder. "Be creative. We don't have time to plan this all out, unfortunately." The whole conversation had taken place as the _Estallus_ had been dropping into position.

Now, Rel really wished he knew what was going through Livanus' mind.

From within the house, a pause, and then a reply, _"There is no bargain here but death, turian!"_

"_Oh, but there is always a bargain to be made,"_ Livanus returned. _"Surely your lives are not so cheap that you would offer them freely to us?"_ He looked over at Rel, and muttered in turian, _"Maybe we should have brought Fors Luka with us. Send a volus to deal with the batarians. Seventeen hours of negotiations later, we'd be walking out of here with all the silverware."_

Rel smiled a little behind his mask, and was about to reply, when the radio crackled again. _"This is Forseti, I need a medic and backup, north lawn! Serana's down, repeat, Serana's down."_ Lin's voice, clearly recognizable, and Rel's crop clenched. . . . but he had his tasks in front of him right now. Knew them. Understood them. And Serana was in good hands, he knew. Everyone would do their jobs, and it would be all right.

Rinus' voice now, steady as always. _"We're a minute away—"_

A burst of other chatter, but then Rel's attention needed to be focused ahead of them. The batarians in the house were moving. _"They're trying to get firing solutions on us,"_ Rel warned.

Livanus popped up and fired a gas grenade through the shattered front windows to dissuade the batarians. It wouldn't do much if they had breathers or armor on, but the gas was also thick and black, cutting back on vision. "_I said,"_ Livanus repeated, sharply, _"Who among you is empowered to bargain?"_

"_The days of bargaining with the likes of you are done, turian!"_

Crackle over the radio. Marine teams to the south were encountering heavy resistance, including half a dozen of the damned floating turrets. Rinus' team was under fire from three turrets and had batarians incoming. No word from Sam or Seheve, who couldn't risk a single sound at the moment, of course. Rel could picture them, walking silently and unseen through the halls of the villa, taking out this guard or that one, trying to find where Valak was being held. . . if the male was even still alive. . .

Livanus tried again. _"What you fail to appreciate is this. If you cooperate with us, and make a bargain, some of you will live."_ Rel knew that, realistically, this was unlikely. They were very likely to have to kill everyone who'd seen them, but Livanus had to make the effort. To be a distraction. "_If you fail to cooperate, none of you will be left alive. Is the decision of how many will die here truly in your hands? Or is it in the hands of someone of higher caste than, hmm, the lower nobility at best?"_

And that was when Rinus' voice cut back in on the radio. _"Freya's down. Critical. Tyr's performing CPR, but we need a medic. Turrets are down. Makur and I are engaging the batarians west of our position."_ The words were calm, but there was a certain leashed rage there, too, buried under the professionalism.

It took almost a full second for what that meant to register, as Rel continued to watch for more turrets behind them and keep an eye on his scope, appraising the batarians' movements in the house and around them. _Sounds like protection-anger in Rinus. Well, Serana's hurt, he's got a squad-mate down, good reasons. . . _ and then he remembered that _Freya_ was Dara's squad name. _Oh. That's not good. _He didn't really have time to think about it though, beyond a dim, numb sense of irritation. She'd been injured before. The worst had been when the one building had collapsed atop her, and a support beam had fractured her skull. She'd been carried out of that fight, unconscious, and his first awareness of the injury had been _after_ the fight; it wasn't unusual for her to go quiet on the radio until she got someone back on their feet. _She'll be fine._ _Still, what the __hell__ are they doing over there?_

Inside those ten seconds, the batarians had started moving indoors. _"Here they come!"_ Rel said sharply. They were moving to the far north and south windows, preparing to fire at bad angles on the two of them. Very bad angles, actually. _Why from the first windows? Why not move ten feet further and get a clearer shot, from the second windows. . . . _

A snatch of memory, Eli talking about the tactics the batarians had used on Omega. _Stasis guns had a wide dispersal setting. Didn't last long, but if you grouped up too tightly, they'd nail you with it. That's how Siara and Ylara got hit and kidnapped. I want those fucking things banned by treaty and out of circulation, and a countermeasure created, somehow._

And Seheve, talking about the same thing on Arvuna. _When Eclipse betrayed us, they used a batarian weapon to isolate and freeze our biotics. Stasis gun, set on wide range. ten foot diameter spread. It was. . . discomfiting, to see Spectres Zhasa, Melaani, and Jaworski frozen in place_. . . The thoughts took less than a second to flood through his mind, and, skin crawling, Rel moved. Threw himself at the ground and rolled, smoothly, to the next furthest pillar away from the base of the steps. Could feel bullets sizzling against his shields, but his movement had been fast and unexpected, and he'd moved from cover-point to cover-point tucked low along the ground. _"Watch out for stasis guns,"_ Rel called into his radio, and something hummed through the air towards the base of the staircase, and his head jerked up. _"Livanus?"_

No reply. Rel pulled just far enough from the wall to get a visual on Livanus, who was still standing, crouched, against the wall near the stairs. Unmoving. _S'kak._ _It's a slaver weapon, but SIU uses anything it can get its hands on. Spirits of air and darkness, take them to the underworld._

Rel tabbed his radio. _"_Thoth's in stasis," he reported, feeling oddly calm. The perfect clarity of adrenaline coming to him now, and he could feel blood-rage bubbling behind it, waiting for its moment, knowing that if he gave into it, lost his mind, there was a damned good chance he was going to die here. "I'm going to give the batarians plenty to look at here, but we may need distraction for the distraction team so I can get him the hell out of here."

He didn't wait for acknowledgement. Rel turned a little around his pillar, and shouted now in batarian, _"You had your chance to cooperate. Now, your superior will have no choice but to bargain with __me__. . . and I will only negotiate over a table made from your bones!"_

It wasn't diplomatic. But the words were fairly calculated to instill maximum fear, and he followed up on them immediately with another high explosive grenade, this one rocket-propelled, which he sent through the window closest to him, before ducking back and rolling again. His best defense, at the moment, was in mobility. If Seheve and Eli had been right, the stasis field had a ten foot diameter. That meant that he needed to move at least fifteen feet from his last known location each and every time he moved, and he needed to keep his movements erratic. . . while at the same time, somehow keeping Livanus safe. "Need a little help up here," Rel added over the radio now, and ducked and rolled back the way he'd originally come, coming up in a crouch, and sending a grenade through the south windows now, watching the batarians scatter wildly on his scope as the glass shattered inwards and the grenade landed inside. _All right. Livanus is actually covered from them, but not from the north windows right now. . . _ Rel knew he didn't have much time. He fired a third grenade off, back at the north-side windows again, and rolled over the low wall onto the first tier of the wide porch, vaulted up over the second tier, and jumped through the shattered remains of the window, his assault rifle in his hands. He knew he couldn't stay outside; the batarians to the south could lean out their own window and make a target of him that way, and he'd be caught in a crossfire. But leaping into the building was committing himself, perhaps recklessly. Livanus could be captured or killed out there. But staying in one place was going to get them _both_ killed.

As he perched briefly in the sill, in that almost eerie moment, when time seemed to slow down for him, between actions, he wondered if there were anything else he could have done, but this. And then he found his first target, a batarian still crouching in a doorway, trying to take cover from the grenade, and his finger compressed the trigger out of pure muscle memory. There were two batarians in this room, and their shields were already compromised by the grenade blasts. The problem was, that he could really only effectively fire at one of them at a time, and he was presenting a hell of a target in the window. . . and he had absolutely nothing in the way of backup at the moment. . . .no time left to think. Just to act. Rel jumped forward into the room and engaged one of the two in close combat, ducking and dodging, using the batarian as a shield between Rel and the batarian's companion. Nothing here but _this_ moment, _this_ fight. . . except the fervent hope that _someone_ would be able to come and watch his back. Rinus. Sam. Seheve. Livanus, if the stasis abated soon. . . . someone.

Anyone, really.

**Makur, Khar'sharn December 24, 2196**

Makur had felt the battle-madness grip him, and the temptation to give into it was fiercer than usual. The turrets, stinging little firebiters that they were, had badly injured one of their own—people he was krannt to, people he was supposed to protect—and they'd bitten through his own shields and armor in places, too. Never holding still long enough for him to get a good grip with his biotics. Mindless, so when they actually stopped firing and stealthed, he couldn't _feel_ them.

There was pain, the first flickers of what would could become a blaze if he didn't hold it down. And then the human female had been hit, and he could hear Sidonis talking to her, telling her to _breathe_, goddamnit. The flickers became flames as the last of the turrets was shot down. Two krannt-mates down, and there _were_ targets ahead of him that he could see and feel and, more importantly, _hit_. "Come on," Makur growled to Rinus, and the two of them moved ahead of the others, Snowflake in his shield-generator harness bounding at their sides.

"We're going to discourage the batarians from attacking any more?" Rinus asked, baring teeth.

"You can discourage them. I plan to kill them."

"Death tends to be bad for morale, yes!"

The turian was running at a zigzag, ducking, crouched, letting his more heavily armored shoulders take the brunt of the fire from the batarians. Makur didn't bother with this. With a roar of primal joy, he raced in, slightly ahead of Rinus' more cautious advance, unstoppable as a mountain that's decided to get up and go for a walk. He could see the batarian closest to him break from firing, _knew_ the moment of panic as the male realized _no matter how much I fire at him, he's not stopping. I can't fight that. I have to run. _

All Makur knew at that exact moment that here was, finally, the enemy he'd been fighting since his early days on Omega. These same enemies had damaged krannt-mates, females, at that. And he'd been taken off his leash. No mercy. No quarter. No witnesses. Makur hit the first male head-on, crushing the male with inertia and body-weight, knocking the male's rifle up and aside as it flared bullets up at the sky. Makur grabbed the male's throat and lifted him off the ground, put his shotgun to the male's chest, and fired. The lower limbs jerked, and there was screaming, moaning, jerking, but the rage was with him now, and white-hot in his thoughts, making everything else very distant indeed.

He whirled to use the batarian as a shield against the other SIU units, who were scrambling to try to fire on him. Snowflake bounded past him and launched up and into the face of the batarian to his left, two hundred pounds of coiled muscle and fur throwing the male to the ground, shields sparking as they came into contact with each other. The cat couldn't bite through armor, of course, but two hundred pounds of snarling fury atop someone's chest was a hell of a distraction. And as Makur turned to the right, still using the limp body of his first victim as a shield, Rinus was there, calm and stern. The turian had switched to a shotgun as well, and was blasting at the batarians with high-yield shots that looked like fireballs. Makur stepped past Snowflake's snarling, writhing form and threw his corpse-shield at the closest batarian, just as the male tried to slip into his stealth field. Their suits and omnitools were evidently hardened against EM blasts. _Useful information._

The batarian to the stealth unit's left began backpedaling and firing frantically, trying to get to cover. Makur felt the first sting in his left shoulder, and his head came up. A brief struggle to regain his calm, his balanced center. Biotics didn't _work_ if you couldn't focus your mind, as he'd told Rellus over and over again. . . not that the turian had an ounce of biotic potential in his entire body. But the point was still valid. Makur found the place inside. _This is my spot_. He'd said the words over and over to Siara, long ago, mostly to tease her. To poke her. But those words summed up who he was. _This is my spot. This is my piece of ground. These are my friends. This is my truth. . . and you're not taking it from me. No one will._ His personal definition of _this is my place_ had changed, certainly. From a body's length of dirt floor on Tuchanka to . . . the entire planet. To Siara. To his krannt. To the Spectres. To the place inside his mind where nothing and no one except for Siara could reach. _This is my spot._

Makur snarled and threw the batarian with his biotics, sending the male flying twenty-five yards in a clear arc. He didn't have to look to see that the body landed in a bone-shattering sprawl. Even if the batarian wasn't dead, he'd be a moment or three in getting up. He turned back to his right, to the batarian who was just managing to get out from under the dead body of one of his own companions, and, as the batarian tried to get off the ground, Makur slammed a heavy boot into his helmet. Knocked him back to the ground, and then fired at the prone form. _You're not getting up._ His head tracked further to the right as he heard a break in the gunfire, and cursing in batarian.

His mouth dropped open slightly in admiration as the batarians desperately tried to dry-fire their guns at Rinus, but the turian Spectre, omnitool humming and ablaze with light, opened fire on the batarians. Rinus Velnaran was, above all else, a consummate engineer and technician. And every weapon and shield system in the galaxy today relied, almost cripplingly, on complex computer systems that controlled mass effect energy wrapped around bullets. It wasn't really hacking, so much as sabotaging the weapons. . . . but whatever the precise method, it was definitely preventing them from getting shot right now, and Makur wasn't going to argue with results.

Both batarians blinked into stealth, one of them with his shields already down, and bleeding, the other backing away and reaching for what looked like a vibrosword.

Makur didn't need eyes, however, to tell him approximately where the enemy was. Not with their anger and pain and fear pulsing at him like a beacon. . . and he _did_ carry a shotgun. So did Rinus. They both opened fire on where the batarians had been only a second before, and caught them while they were still trying to move. It was short, and it was brutal, and when they were dead, Makur moved over and ordered, "Cat? Get off him. I don't want to hit you."

Snowflake, still snarling, backed off the batarian only reluctantly. The male tried to sit up, raising his hands. Makur raised his shotgun and blew his head off, instead. The battle-rage was dissipating. He knew exactly what he was doing. And why.

Rinus didn't use the radio. He walked over and grabbed Makur's shoulder. "Makur!"

"He was surrendering." Makur's voice was remote.

"Yeah."

Makur looked down at the turian. "We all knew walking into this, there'd be no quarter given. No witnesses, turian." He didn't lift his mask. Neither did Rinus. But he could _feel_ the turian's stare, boring into his. "Is there a problem?"

"No," Rinus told him. "Just making sure we're on the same page. And that you're not about to run off killing everything that moves and getting yourself killed in the process."

There was anger in that voice, but it wasn't directed at him. And Makur suddenly grinned. "You know what? Your people and mine once fought each other. I don't think we've ever fought alongside one another when the battle-rage has been in all our eyes. This could be the sort of days of which songs are sung."

"Oh, spirits. I don't want songs. I just want to get in, get our people, and get the hell back out again. Alive."

They exchanged a long look, and they started to laugh, just for a moment, as the gunships to the south turned and took another pass at the far defense towers. Red-orange light of the fires flickering over everything in regular light, flickering green-white in nightvision. Rachni, boiling up out of the ground. Sky and Glory coming closer, Sidonis and Pellarian carrying the wounded away, towards the _Raedia_.

And then the radio crackled to life. _"Thoth's in stasis,"_ Rellus Velnaran reported, crisply. _"I'm going to give the batarians plenty to look at here, but we may need distraction for the distraction team so I can get him the hell out of here."_

Makur's head turned. They'd cleared their immediate area of targets, and he could feel Rinus jerk, as if he'd been shot, himself. "Go," Makur told him, instantly. "You can cover the area between us and him a hell of a lot faster than I can. Back him up. The cat and I can go be . . . distracting."

Rinus' head tilted slightly to the side. "Not in the original plan."

"Plans change."

The Spectre nodded. "Don't just be distracting," he told Makur. "Just kill them all."

Makur chuckled roughly. "Now you're speaking my language, turian," he told Rinus, as the turian male turned, set himself, and began to sprint to the east, back towards the front of the house.

Makur himself turned to his left and regarded the north side of the villa, tapping his fingers against his belt. Sky and Glory rustled up to him, and Sky sang, in red and black notes, _Sing your thoughts, Sings-Shields._

"I'm thinking that the human and the drell are hitting the south side, right now. The turians are hitting the east. There's no door here on the north side. I think we should _renovate._"

_Yes. This hive has insufficient access points. We can sing this song_. Glory's voice was higher in pitch, and usually sounded like water, waves, or something that Siara kept calling a harp. . . but was no less angry at the moment. _Soldiers! Come to us!_

And Makur had the feeling that if this song ever was sung, no member of Urdnot would ever believe it, because he was charging into battle between two brood-warriors of the rachni, the very species that the krogan had been uplifted to exterminated. . . and _had_ exterminated, almost a thousand years ago. When they got within thirty yards of the house, guards at the windows, using sniper rifles, began to open fire. Makur staggered under the impact of one concussive shot to his shields, but then Glory opened fire with a barrage of biotics the likes of which Makur had never even conceived of before. A hail of tiny singularities, each, to his senses, no larger than a pellet from a shotgun, poured out from the rachni, and hailed into the brick wall, while Sky, with notes of darkness and death in his song, lifted one of the guards, crouched in one of the balconies above, with a larger singularity. Makur targeted that guard and fired, feeling the massive kick of his shotgun against his shoulder. Then he turned and lifted the other batarian out of hiding, himself, as Sky took the impact from the sniper's rifle now. Rachni bled _black_, apparently, and one of Sky's chelicerae was damaged. . . but that wasn't stopping the huge brood warrior. _All sing as one now,_ the rachni Spectre ordered, and Makur had a clear vision in his mind. And he and Glory and Sky all reached out as one for the weakened bricks, shattered by Glory's first attack, the loosened mortar. . . and simply _pulled._

Debris sheeted away from the side of the house, with a tearing sound. Support beams, already weakened by the initial attack, groaned and splintered, which made the levels of the house above them begin to sink and sag, as well. Just a little. Just enough to have _solidly_ gotten the attention of everyone there. _Enter at will_, Sky ordered the soldiers around them, and a small army of soldiers and workers swarmed around them, pouring in through the hole in the wall.

"Let's go," Makur said, and at his side, Snowflake snarled. "The stealth team shouldn't have _any_ problems getting in now, but the turians might need rescuing." He grinned, baring yellowing teeth. And if they _did_, he was _never_ going to let them hear the end of it.

**Valak N'dor, Khar'sharn December 24, 2196**

Two, maybe three hours after sundown, as he'd been 'entertaining' Xal'i and Arvak at his dinner table. . . with Nala under guard in his library, which had a connecting door to the formal dining room, one of the guards had rushed into the room to whisper urgently to Arvak. "What do you mean, all our radios are out?" Arvak had muttered, just loudly enough for Valak to hear him.

"We thought it was solar flare activity or something at first, but it's persisting, and changing to alternate channels isn't working. We're definitely being jammed, sir."

Arvak's eyes slid towards Valak, who spread his hands over his plate calmly. "Don't look at me. You've been in my company the entire day. And every single one of my men has been under guard. Chances are, it really is solar flare activity." He paused, and then added, "Or perhaps these 'Red Eye' rebels have taken out a satellite from the comm system."

Still, Valak's heart was beating, furiously. This could be the start of a Spectre rescue attempt. Arvak had been taking no chances with him. He was permitted to carry his vibrosword in its cane, but no guns. Nala had been searched, but he'd shown her, months ago, places where she could hide her small weapons in the house where they would probably not be found. He knew for a fact that her pistol was tucked under a hearthstone in the library, and her vibroknife was actually down in her small medical bay. Not that she could get to either of them quickly or easily, given her condition.

**BOOM!**

The lights overhead flickered and went out, almost simultaneously with the enormous concussion that shook the entire house to its foundations. For a dazed instant, Valak thought, blankly, _They decided to bomb the house. Take all of us out, rather than risk exposure of their agents. _ Then he blinked, and realized that he wasn't dead or injured, and that this was a _golden_ opportunity, and got to his feet, moving for the north side of the room, trying to get to Nala in the library. . . and to the pistol hidden there. _Be smart,_ he told her, silently. _Use the darkness, use the distraction, get the damned gun._ There were bodies in his way, and yet, thanks to the darkness, he didn't _dare_ draw his vibrosword and kill anyone. The very first rule drummed into him at SIU held true: _Know your target. Know what you're killing, and own it._ It was very unlikely that Nala would have stumbled into the room already, but if he hurt her, he'd never forgive himself.

He had one hand on the table to guide him, could hear the muffled imprecations of the two SIU guards in the room. Turn to the left, heading towards the door. . . and then he ran into a soft female body. The skin didn't smell like Nala's, however. _Xal'i. Damnation._

A light flicked on—nothing more than a handlight, recovered from some drawer somewhere.

"Why, brother dear,"Xal'i purred up at him. "Wherever are you going?"

"To the window," Valak lied glibly. "I want to see if there's fire outside. Could have been a bomb blast."

"Felt more like a sonic boom at close range to me," Arvak said, tightly as he stood, one hand on his own vibroblade now.

"Radios are still out, m'lord," one SIU agent told Arvak. "No way to tell if power is out all over the estate—"

"Look out a _window_, old boy." Valak told him, helpfully.

Arvak pulled his lips back from his teeth. "Do as he suggests. Ancestors, do I have to think of everything myself?"

The SIU agent left the room hurriedly, and as he left, Arvak stared across the dimly lit room at Valak, who was still caught in the low wattage beam of the handlight held by the other SIU guard currently in the room. Valak knew damned well that in the five rooms that linked to the dining room—the morning room, the library, his study, the _bacca_ room, and the sitting room, there were at least four guards. One in with Nala in the library, and one in each of the others, except for his study. The odds were still not good. "That has been the joy of working with you, N'dor," Arvak said now, smoothly. "A quick mind, almost as agile as my own."

"You are the master at _ru'udal_," Valak agreed amiably. "Enough so that I wonder if somehow, all of this is being staged for my benefit. It seems a little expensive, however, and I don't see a purpose in it." He deliberately looked away, not focusing on the door to the library, though he wanted nothing more than to shove past Xal'i and dive through the door to Nala right now.

Muffled sounds. Arvak's head came up, and Valak's did, too. No one who'd been around it could mistake _that_ sound. Gunfire. A lot of it. "We're under attack," Arvak snarled. "Xal'i, my dear? Into the sitting room with your brother's little harlot. I know it demeans you even to be in the same room with her. . . but let's not have accidents here, hmm?"

_Shit. Shit. Shit._ Valak tucked that thought as far into his subconscious as he could, and concentrated on keeping face, mind, and body relaxed.

Xal'i smiled winsomely at her husband. "Arvak, darling, anything you ask is my pleasure." She stretched a little, and Valak's eyes dropped lower. Saw the vibroknife at her side. Thankfully, she'd left her whip someplace else. But a knife was just as surely deadly. Xal'i reached up and patted his face now. "Now, brother, don't you fret. I'll be on my very _best_ behavior with your slave." She laughed, a light little sound that was almost a caress, and stepped away to the west, through the open door into the darkness of the library.

Movement. Movement everywhere. Valak pulled out one of the dining room chairs, and sat down in it, almost indolently, watching as various SIU agents ran into the room, made their reports to Arvak, and then ran out again. "So?" Valak asked Arvak grimly after about five minutes. "What in the ancestors' names is going on out there?"

"Turian marines, human marines, and a variety of people in black armor. Could be Spectres." Arvak was at the far end of the table, and there was still one other SIU agent in the damn room. An SIU operative and Xal'i in the same room as Nala.

Valak's best defense was his _mind_ at this point. "Are they after you, dear brother-in-law?" he asked, leaning forward.

Arvak actually blinked. Valak pursued the advantage, knowing the sense of self-preservation write large in Arvak's character. "That's the only reason I can think of that Spectres would come here. I'm not important enough to SIU, but _you_ are. You've had your hand clasped by the Hegemon, Arvak. You're the one holding the _Klem Na_ and our . . . dubious salarian allies. . . on a leash. And the _bacca_ comet attack on Terra was your old plan from our training days—revised, of course. Any _one_ of those things would make you a target for kidnapping and questioning, if they knew about it. And you already suspect a leak. Hence all the furor here at my estate the last few days." Valak leaned back in his chair, and eyed Arvak sardonically. "How many people knew you were going to be here, Arvak?" He didn't think he could convince Arvak of it. All he needed was for Arvak to be off-balance, mentally, if not physically. Unsure of himself. The more Arvak's mind was off-balance, the slower his reaction to events would be.

Arvak's eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward, considering Valak's words, just for an instant. _Should I push harder?_ "Is there any way in which I might be of assistance?" Valak offered.

Arvak's expression went set. _Too much?_ "Sit there and be quiet, N'dor," Arvak told him.

_Fine. Forget I'm here, Arvak. Let yourself be nicely distracted by everything around us._ "As you wish, Arvak. But if my slaves or my free-men are killed by these invaders, and you haven't permitted them or me to assist in the defense of my property, I'm sending SIU the bill for all damages." Valak leaned further back in the chair, and simply stopped moving. He wanted to fade from Arvak's consciousness. Become a piece of the furniture, now that he'd hit him with uncertainty.

Explosions rocked the building. _Grenades_, Valak thought, grimly. _Gods and ancestors, don't let them use those around Nala._ None of them up here on the second floor were in armor—besides Arvak, whom he suspected was wearing a vest under his dinner clothes. _Not that a vest would stop a vibrosword._

Arvak whirled away, and his men emerged from the rooms around them. Which left Nala alone with Xal'i, but now Valak had six SIU men in the room with him, plus Arvak. "Reinforce the men guarding the entrances and the sentries," Arvak ordered, and pointed at one of them, the one holding the handlight still. "You? stay here with me. Guard him."

_Good. Better odds. Still bad. Xal'i is armed and alone with Nala. Arvak is a match for me, but his underling here. . . I doubt it. _

There was a five minute lull. Arvak got shouted reports from the hallways, as his men watched out windows, "They're taking heavy casualties!"

"Good!" Arvak called back. "Get the radios working again! We need to call SIU headquarters, get our own military here—"

Then the entire house rocked again. But there was no explosion. Only a horrendous ripping, rending, grinding noise, and then the floor under Valak's chair actually sagged and dropped several inches. He wasn't sure what the hell this was, but suspected that the rachni had dug under the foundations, and a sinkhole was about to appear somewhere directly under him. _For the ancestors' sake, do you want me and mine alive, or dead?_

Then there were shouts and _screams_ of absolute panic from downstairs. "We're under attack! There are _things_ coming in from the north! Oh, gods and ancestors, _what are they?_"

"South side, move to reinforce the north side sentries!" Arvak shouted out into the hall. His omnitool was clearly shielded against EM pulses, as the rest of his men's were, and he was just as clearly watching for enemy biosigns, but now he frowned. "South side sentries! Where the hell are you?"

The two men posted outside the room began to back in, nervously. "They're not answering," they told Arvak, a little unnecessarily. _Nerves_, Valak thought.

Across the room, Arvak had turned his back, and, as the SIU guard next to Valak swung the handlight around the room, anxiously looking for enemies. And from his right, behind the closed door of the study, several thumps. The clear sounds of a scuffle. And a single shot, followed by a female scream.

Valak's mind was suddenly void of thought. He couldn't be sure which female had screamed. But he saw his opportunity, and struck. He stood and in a single smooth movement, had drawn his vibrosword and stabbed him with it. The light went flying, and landed on the ground, rolling away, sending uncertain flickers of light everywhere as it passed by table legs and under a chair. Vague impressions as Arvak and his men, reacting to the scream, the shot, already turning. . . the two guards, almost in slow motion, raising their guns, aiming at him. . . .Valak dove for the floor, tumbling forwards, just as one of the guards jerked back, his gun suddenly firing at the ceiling, gurgling, choking. . . suggestion of a larger humanoid form behind him, just for a moment, black armor against a black doorframe, almost not even there, in the flickering light of the still-rolling handlight. . .

. . . and then Valak found his feet, and Arvak was on him, vibroblade out. Valak parried the strike reflexively. "Traitor," Arvak snarled.

"Patriot," Valak corrected, and then they were fighting. This wasn't the neat, clean fencing taught in schools. This was brawling with deadly weapons in hand. Everything was a target. Eyes, hands, body, knees. Every strike designed to cripple or maim. Every strike didn't need to be a kill shot. The vibroswords grazed each others' lengths, diamond cut diamond, throwing sparks. Valak feinted, and managed to get a vicious strike to land along Arvak's ribs, punching through the vest there. . . and Arvak vanished. _Stealth. Ancestors, where's the next strike going to come from. . ._

The second SIU guard, who'd been holding his fire, due to the close proximity of Valak and Arvak to one another, raised his gun. Valak threw himself to the side again, rolling and tumbling, and felt _something_ graze his arm, leaving a line of fire behind. Sharp reports of the gun going off, and then a strangled sound as this guard, too, died. Valak regained his feet, and got a quick look at the wound in his arm. It was a cut, and it had sliced cleanly and deeply through his arm. _Ancestors, that went through the bone. The only reason it's not a full amputation is that I was tumbling, He didn't get a clean strike._ Valak got his back to the wall and swung his sword in front of him in a figure eight pattern, looking to hold off the next strike. There was pain in his left arm. Hot blood pouring out of it. . . and more. A sensation that the pain was radiating up the limb now. "Poison, R'mod?" Valak asked, putting hauteur he didn't feel into his voice. "Really? You've lowered yourself to poison?"

"What did SIU teach you, N'dor?"

The strike was simultaneous with the words, and Valak caught it, deflected it, by pure chance. R'mod rematerialized in front of him, his face locked in a grimace of rage. "Every advantage should be pursued. Should be used. Lowered myself? I use every weapon I have." Lightning fast attacks and parries, but Valak knew he didn't have time. He had no idea what poison was on that blade, but it was creeping through him, and he was losing blood fast.

Valak's next parry sent both their blades wide, and then he kicked Arvak's knee out, staggering the male, and followed up, tackling him, landing on the dining room table. He grabbed R'mod's right arm with his left hand, trying not to notice the blood pouring out of him. But his left arm was too weak at the moment to do more than get in the way. "What did SIU teach me? That our people are dying, R'mod. That people like you are killing us. Slowly. But that in five hundred years, there won't _be_ a batarian civilization left." He had Arvak pinned, but it was stalemate at best. He could keep the other man down, for the moment, but he couldn't do more than head-butt him, and his left arm was weakening. . .

"Killing our people?" Arvak laughed outright. "No. Bringing them to glory. But you? You, N'dor, I'll kill with a smile."

**Sam Jaworski, Khar'sharn December 24, 2196**

He and Seheve had anxiously waited for their damned distraction. They _could_ have opened the south door and simply gone in, guns blazing, but their job was getting to Nala and Valak and keeping them alive. And the closer they got to them without raising an alarm, the better that would go. The SIU operatives here could easily decide to use the two of them as hostages or shields.

Radio reports. Sam's blood ran cold at the first. Serana down. _That's okay, Lin's as steady as they come. Already saw one wife killed in front of him, but he's not breaking. Means it's not a critical injury. Staying focused. Atta boy._

Then the second. Rinus' voice, steady again, but anger under the steadiness. _"Freya's down. Critical. Tyr's performing CPR, but we need a medic."_

Sam's heart stopped for a moment, and he turned his face to the side. _What the hell is going on out there? _He'd always known this was a possibility. But, after the first shock, he was surprised to find himself. . . numb. Oh, it was going to hit, and hit _hard_, but right now, he had a job in front of him, and he knew from Rinus' report that she was alive. That young Eli was doing his best to keep her that way.

Fathers and sons had fought side-by-side in almost every war until the modern era. When almost every war was a _local_ one. Fathers and sons had marched to battle together among the Greeks. The Romans had defended their city walls together. Any number of medieval castles and Crusades had been fought by fathers and sons. Plenty of fathers and sons had fought together in the Revolutionary War, back home. Brothers and cousins and fathers and sons had died to make Texas a free state, independent of Mexico. He knew damned well that the current human military insistence that parents and children serve separately was a modern anomaly. A quirk in the regulations designed to avoid nepotism, largely. And a way of keeping everything nice and neat and clean and impersonal. A way to ensure that everyone was a cog in the machine, and that the machine kept running, no matter what.

Maybe it was different when it was a son, and not a daughter. Sam didn't know. Easier, maybe. _You make your bets and you take your chances._ He closed his eyes for half a second, inhaled, and exhaled. It was going to hit him, and hard, he knew. Not now, but later. Now, there was a job in front of him, and, with an effort, he put Dara's well-being out of his mind.

He could feel, but not see, Seheve's head turn towards him. They both knew where the other was, in spite of the stealth devices masking their bodies. But they couldn't talk. Not even a hint of sound where they were, just outside the south side door of Valak's villa.

The radio crackled in his helmet again. _"Thoth's in stasis,"_ Rel reported, crisply. _"I'm going to give the batarians plenty to look at here, but we may need distraction for the distraction team so I can get him the hell out of here."_

_Oh, Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, we're fucked six ways from Sunday. Come on, guys, get it together. I'll give you a minute, but then we're just going to have to go in, and to hell with the plan._ Sam shifted minutely. Seheve caught his arm, and he patted her shoulder. Unspoken communication. _Not yet_ and _I know. Just getting ready._

His body was coiled and ready. Still no distraction. _What the hell is the hold-up?_ Sam was _itching_ to get into that house now, and get the damned mission done, but clamped down on the agitation. Stayed as motionless as a stone.

Sky's voice, at last, in his mind. Red and black song. _Sings-Heartsong lives,_ the rachni told him. _We sing distraction song now. Be ready._

And then a tearing, grinding sound that actually overpowered the sound of gunfire in the distance. Shouts of alarm from within the house, and the guards inside, on either side of the door, clearly visible in the HUD of Sam's helmet, thanks to thermal imaging and biosigns signatures, turned away from the door. Took a few steps towards whatever that cacophony was.

That was all Sam and Seheve needed. Seheve moved up smoothly and picked the lock; biometric encoding or not, the door slid open, and the two of them were on the guards, from behind, in seconds. The two batarians were on the floor, dead, before they could make a sound. Sam pointed at the stairs, and re-keyed his stealth field, and then the two of them slipped up the steps, silent as shadows. _She's good. Just wish to god it was Kasumi with me,_ he thought, just for an instant, and a fraction of memory came back to him. Lantar and Garrus joking with him in and around the Garvug mission. _It's easier to see a mate as an equal_, they'd said, _than your offspring?_

Top of the stairs, two more guards, both on edge, whirling, not sure where to point their guns. These guards had helmets. Nightvision, surely. Seheve went left, and Sam went right. Vibroknife between the ribs on one; a neck-break from behind on the other. Two more bodies on the floor, dragged back down a landing so no one patrolling upstairs would see them immediately. Sam half-closed his eyes. _Sky, old buddy? I need to know where Valak and Nala are._ He eyed his bioscanner readings with a grimace.

_We are on the first floor,_ Sky told him, immediately. _They are above us. Here, and here. The female is in danger!_ And in Sam's mind's eye, the world took on tinges of Sky's battle-song. A U-shaped corridor upstairs, from Livanus' diagrams, wrapping around a block of rooms at the center of the house; dining room surrounded by sitting rooms, library, study, and so on, with the bedrooms wrapping around the outside of the house. Nala was in that library, to the north, with another batarian in the room with her. Valak was in the dining room at the center, and had two or three other batarians in the room with him. "Seheve?" He could risk a whisper now.

"Yes, Spectre?"

"Go left, down that hall. Go into the library from the hall and take out anyone in that room who _isn't_ Nala. Protect her, and if I need backup, come in the dining room and do what you do best."

Seheve nodded, and flickered back into her stealth field. Sam took another deep breath, and consulted his body. _We good for one more fight? Okay. Let's do this—oh shit._

A gunshot rang out, muffled, but a hell of a lot closer than any others so far tonight. _That was from one of the rooms on this floor. What the hell is going on?_

Up the stairs now, quick and light-footed. Screams from downstairs as batarians met enraged rachni in the dark, and discovered that things that went bump in the night really did exist. Slowly turning the doorknob to the dining room, _hey, batarians use doorknobs, too, whaddya know. . . _ easing the door back, getting a read on the situation in seconds. Two guards in armor, facing into the room, backs to him, guns raised. Two batarians in soft formal clothing, both with vibroswords. Valak was facing the door, on the other side of the room, clearly recognizable. _Thank god for missing eyes and eye-patches, is all I can say._ Sam slipped the door open and, and reached up, snaked his arms around the first batarian's head and neck, and twisted, just so. Batarian vertebral anatomy required a little more lift and stretch than a human's, but still, once you got the torque right, you could still break a man's neck inside of ten seconds. The surprised guard's gun fire wildly, up into the ceiling. . . and then Sam stepped away, let his stealth field come back up again, and circled, getting out of the way as the second guard whirled to face him, tried to fire where Sam had been only seconds before.

"_Traitor!"_ the second batarian with the vibrosword snarled in batarian, and then he and Valak were fighting. _Damn. And I don't dare get in the middle of that, not with Frank the Guard here, ready to shoot, and not with both of them chopping at each other with vibroswords. . . _ Break in combat as Valak threw himself to the floor, tumbling. . . and Sam moved, instantly. Beside and then behind the SIU guard, knife to the thin lamellar plates at the throat, slammed up and in, throat, soft palate, brain. He pulled the knife back out, with some effort.

_Poison, R'mod?"_ Valak asked. _"Really? You've lowered yourself to poison?" _Another instant of struggle, and Valak had managed to force the other batarian male onto the table, blood everywhere, strength pitted against strength, muscle pitted against muscle.

_Shit. Poisoned blades. Like the vibrosword itself isn't bad enough._ Sam was already moving forward, however. The vibroblades were contained, for the moment; the two males were holding _still_ for the moment. . .

Valak's left arm was weakening. The other male, R'mod, apparently, was steadily forcing that blood-soaked arm inwards, angling the sword, trying to wave it, really. Even a scratch from that lethal edge would be enough. R'mod grunted and slammed his knee into Valak's groin now, instead, and Valak curled in on himself, but managed to head-butt R'mod in retaliation.

And then Sam was there. _First thing's first. . . don't need any fancy knives for this. . . _ Sam caught R'mod's wrist in a _far_ firmer grip than Valak's weakening arm could manage. Forced it back to the table. And then slammed his bowie knife home, through the arm, pinning the limb to the table. The batarian's head had already snapped to the right at the feel of Sam's fingers closing on his wrist, and all four eyes had widened. . . and then R'mod snarled, repressing the scream as Sam's knife pinned him in place. _Tough bastard, ain't you?_

Valak reeled backwards, still fighting for control of his own sword. _Sorry. Much as I bet you want to kill your own man here. . . I don't have time for this. None of us do._ Sam drew his pistol, planted its muzzle between all four of R'mod's eyes, and fired.

The batarian's head exploded. Sam had loaded out with explosive rounds available in his pistol, and they did a hell of a lot more damage on the way out than on the way in. _If I were in some horrible vid about the Spectres, I'd pause here and say you weren't so tough now, or that you weren't tougher than a bullet_, Sam thought, looking down at the corpse and feeling nothing at all. _But then, I'm not on a soundstage in Hollywood somewhere, now am I?_ He holstered his pistol and pulled his knife out of R'mod's limp arm. "You okay, Zorro?"

"_Not. . . really. . . "_ Valak dropped his sword, and clamped a hand down on his arm. _"Nala?"_ His head jerked up, and tracked right._ "Where's. . . oh, shit, please let her be all right. . . "_

Sam grabbed Valak by the shoulders and shoved him into one of the nearby chairs. "You need to slow down," he told him, not unkindly, and pulled out a tourniquet from his aid kit. "Seheve? Report!"

The door to the west opened, and Seheve came through it, supporting a very pregnant female batarian with only two eyes. There was orange-red blood all down the side of her white shift, and her eyes widened at the sight of R'mod, dead on the table, and Valak being treated in the chair. "Valak!" She pushed away from Seheve and moved to him, immediately.

"_Wondered. . . what it would take. . . to get you to say my name without the __lord__ part. . . "_ Valak managed. _"You're hurt. . . my dear, you need to look after yourself. . . "_ He looked up. "She's a doctor, Spectre. If you give her your kits. . . "

"_I'm fine. It's just a scratch—"_

"The wound is along her ribs," Seheve said, in galactic. "I have treated it, Valak N'dor. It is my belief that the female guarding her wished to strike lower, into the abdomen."

Sam's eyes tracked downwards. The swollen stomach looked painfully vulnerable, and he winced.

"_Thank the ancestors, you're all right_. _But why would she. . . _" Valak touched Nala's scalp very lightly. Then his head turned towards the door. _"Xal'i," _he murmured. _"What happened—"_

"_His wound's poisoned,"_ Sam said, in his damned rusty batarian. He'd taken a bit of a refresher in the past month, but he _knew_ he sure as hell wasn't fluent. "Seheve, you know a fair bit about poisons. See if you can get an analysis on the blade. Past that, we're getting you both to the _Estallus_. Debriefing and shit like that can wait."

Seheve nodded and moved to the table, taking the blade from the floor, where R'mod's limp hand had dropped it.

"I have to know what happened," Valak insisted.

Nala's lips worked as she ripped off the sleeve of his shirt, and began cleaning the wound, hissing at how deep it was. _"She's dead."_ She looked up, a world of hurt in her expression, and yet a certain distant satisfaction, too. _"The power failed, and I moved to the hearth, where the pistol was hidden. I waited until the other guard left the room, and when Xal'i was distracted, I lifted up the hearthstone and pulled out the pistol."_ Nala swallowed. _"She turned. Much faster than I expected. I got the gun up, and I pulled the trigger."_ Her fingers were light as she continued to work at Valak's arm. _"I didn't get a good hit. Abdomen, not chest. She came after me with the knife, and knocked me to the ground. Tried to stab me."_ Her lips worked again. _"Kept calling me your whore. 'Just like the last one. Another pregnant slave-whore.'"_

_Sounds personal. Like she was jealous, perhaps?_ Sam thought.

Nala swallowed, and began applying medi-gel now. _"She got the one hit in on me, and then . . . this one came through the door. Pulled her off of me, asked if I were all right. Your sister tried to fight her, and this female. . ."_ she looked at Seheve, and managed, in very rough galactic, "Don't know. . . your name. . . "

"Seheve Liakos."

"Seh-hev-ya," Nala parroted, and then returned her attention to Valak's arm, "_she cut Xal'i's throat. Carotid arteries. Believe me, your sister's dead."_

_Wait, that was his __sister__?_ Sam blinked, once. _Zorro, my friend, you're going to fit in just fine with the rest of us and our really fucked up personal lives._

Valak considered that for a moment. _"Good. I think. So's her husband, my dear."_

"_Good."_ Nala looked over at the table, not even flinching at the sight there. _"He deserved much worse."_ She looked at Seheve now. "Can you . . . tell me . . . .what on blade? " Back into very rusty galactic.

"My analysis suggests _ibucana_." Seheve sounded grim. "It's slow-acting, fortunately, on batarians, but it—"

"Attacks liver and kidneys." Nala's voice was precise and agitated, and then she hissed and put her hands to the small over her back, grimacing in pain. "_Need to filter it from his blood. Dialysis is best. Prevent it from damaging the internal organs."_

"We will need to get him to the _Estallus_ immediately," Seheve agreed. Her batarian was a hell of a lot better than Sam's.

"That's what I've been saying," Sam muttered, and tabbed his radio. "This is Orpheus. Packages are secure. Bringing them to the _Estallus_. Get the med team there ready to go. What's the status of the rest of our teams?"

Rel's voice, clear and sharp now over the radio. _"Front door now secure. Come on down, Orpheus. We've got a clear path for all of you."_

As they walked out of the house, Sam supporting Valak, Nala paused again, hissing again in pain, and then looked down, in total shock. Sam paused and his eyes tracked down. Her blood-soaked shift was now wet and clinging to her legs. He blinked, and asked, in his terrible batarian, _"Baby comes now?"_

"_Water has broken. Yes, the child comes now."_ Nala's face contorted for a moment. _"Stress, probably."_

Valak's head came up, and his eyes went wide. _"Ancestors. Now?"_ He stared at her wildly. _"You're going to have it now?"_ A pause, and a disjointed thought clearly hit him as he added, sounding numb, _"We don't even have a name yet."_

Sam shook his head, and called over the radio, _"Rel, Vulcan, get up here. We're going to need an escort. Not sure how fast either of our packages can move here."_

And so they formed a wall of bodies around Nala and Valak and walked them across the remains of the lawn, in the burning light of the watchtowers. Half the statues in the gardens had been destroyed. There were bodies everywhere. The rachni were swarming, little workers everywhere underfoot, soldiers rampaging in the low light. Batarians were streaming up from underground, and Valak said, weakly, _"I can't leave. . . we've got people in bunkers all through the forest. . . '_

"You're compromised," Sam told him, implacably. "Leave a lieutenant in charge, sure, but _you_ are done here." He got them to the _Estallus_ and then said, "The docs here are good. And I'm going to leave you in their hands. I've got something on the _Raedia_ that needs looking after."

And then he turned and jogged across the intervening space, heading for the hatch, where rachni, humans, turians, and batarians were streaming up into the belly of the ship. And for the first time in the last half hour, he allowed himself to think about his daughter. _Come on, Dara,_ Sam thought.

**Elijah, _Raedia_ December 24, 2196**

Inside the med bay of the _Raedia_, there was controlled chaos. Dr. Mannerian had taken one look at Dara and Serana, and bumped them up on the triage list from the assorted burns, contusions, and a couple of minor bullet wounds she was currently looking at. One of her assistants was dealing with a human marine who had a stomach wound, which obviously put the human soldier ahead of Serana on the list, but Dara got moved ahead of everyone else, for the moment, anyway. _"Not bad,"_ Mannerian muttered as Eli slid Dara onto the nearest gurney. _"Pulse is weak, but present—how long was she not breathing for?"_

"_Don't know. Maybe a minute,"_ Eli supplied. _"Started CPR right away." Oh god, not brain damage. Your mind is beautiful, __sai'kaea.__ And you'd hate being less than what you are._ Bad memories assailed him, of the lobotomized asari and human biotics. Terrible image of Dara staring at him blankly, lips slack.

"_EEG looks stable. . . well, as stable as hers __gets__."_ Mannerian sounded waspish, and abruptly, Eli remembered that _this_ was the doctor that he, Sky, and Dara had told off on their way out of rachni space. Told her she wasn't going to get to treat Dara like her personal lab rat.

Eli's teeth ground together for a moment, and he glared at the physician. _"Is there a problem?"_ he asked.

"_Other than the fact that you should have taped a square of plastic over the entry hole? Other than the fact that bullets do __futarri_ _crazy things inside the body, ricocheting and tearing up the internal organs? Other than the fact that the lowest of the three lobes of her right lung has collapsed, and is filled with blood? No, everything's fine. Make a hole!"_ Mannerian had gotten a saline IV going for Dara_. "I need ten thousand units of _Cefdaprime _over here, and I need it now,"_ the turian doctor called, and prepared to push the gurney towards the prep room.

Eli caught her arm, and when she looked up, she met his eyes. _"Is she going to be _okay?"

"_She'll be all right if I can operate, but the longer you keep me here, the less chance of her surviving!"_

Eli released her arm, instantly, and stood back. Watched the gurney disappear behind the doors. Found Lin, who was standing over Serana as a medic got her to sit up and bend over a little, in spite of the pain in her damaged legs. _"You're flagged as TIA,"_ the medic commented, dryly. _"We can't actually knock you out without one of your direct superiors present. Spinal block is the best we can do, but believe me, in ten minutes, you won't feel a thing. This is how I had my first two children."_ The medic winked at Serana, and shot the needle home into the spinal column at the pre-numbed site. . and then had her lie on her gurney, face-down.

Eli watched, numbly, as Lin held one of Serana's hands in his, and stroked her fringe lightly with his other one. Watched as the medics cut her clothes off, and sterilized the wound sites, in preparation for surgery. _"We're going to have to ask you to step out of here,"_ the medics told them now. _"If you wash up and get into medical scrubs, you can watch the surgeries."_

Eli looked up at Lin. "Serana's going to be okay."

Lin swallowed. "I know. Dara. . . . Dara got to her in time. Stopped her from bleeding out. Now the question is if there's going to be any impairment." Lin had been looking at the floor, and now looked up. "Eli. . . _fradu . . . _What about Dara?"

"I don't know." Now that he wasn't frantically trying to keep her alive, Eli was absolutely numb. He needed to be _in_ that damned OR. Needed to hear her song. Give her his. Keep her alive. "I'm going to scrub up." He jerked his head in the general direction of the outside world. "They need you out there?"

Lin shook his head. "Doubt it." He looked at Eli now. "And if they call for you?"

Eli just stared at him for a moment. "They can kick me out of the Spectres if they want to. I'm not leaving."

Lin nodded. "Yeah. Thought you'd say that."

They both walked, silently, into a changing room. Stripped out of their bloody armor. Scrubbed hands and arms, and pulled on sterile pants and tunics. Put on the stupid, goofy hats and poofy sterile shoes. And Eli let a helpful medic tie a mask in place over his face, and silently let himself be led into the OR. Dara was intubated, a sight that immediately took him five years into the past. When she'd been poisoned by Aria T'loak, as part of a scheme to attack Lilitu Shepard, Garrus Vakarian, and their hybrid children. She looked pale and helpless and very small, and had been rolled to her stomach to allow the surgeons to work on her, through a variety of sterile drapes.

"_Spirits, I can't even cut through her skin with a __scalpel__,"_ was the first thing he heard as he entered the room. _"The bullet actually malformed slightly on entry, from the looks of it. I'm going to try a laser. Maybe __that__ will cut the skin—ah, yes, there we go. The skin, whatever its current chemical composition, seems to resist cutting and slicing. But not lasers, and obviously not mass-effect propelled bullets."_ Mannerian looked up at that moment, and realized he was standing there, staring at her and at Dara, and her string of chatter to her subordinates cut off.

Eli didn't say a word. Just stood there, watching the team busy at work. Stared at Dara's soft hair, which was all he could really see from his angle—that, and the suction tubes that pulled away red blood, which he turned his eyes away from, hastily. And thought, steadily, about the Spectre trials. About the simulation that Sky had run. Of him on some batarian planet, seeing Serana hit. Seeing Dara run into danger to save Serana. And of him having to choose which of their lives to save. _It didn't work out quite like that, Sky_, Eli thought. _The simulator never does __quite__ show us the future. But that was . . . a hell of a lot closer to it than I ever want to see again._

A half hour later, a hand fell on his shoulder, and Eli looked up with a start. He hadn't even heard anyone come in. Sam Jaworski's entire face was hidden behind his own surgical mask, only the blue eyes visible. Sam's fingers tightened on Eli's shoulder, conveying, without words pain, sorrow, sympathy. . . and gratitude. A little shake: _Keep your chin up. It'll be okay._

Eli nodded, and they stood there, not speaking, as the surgeons continued their work. He could hear Dara's song, but it was oh-so-faint. Just. . . living processes, really. Not consciousness. Not the rich harmonies. Just little notes, every now and again, as her body continued on, while her mind and spirit were elsewhere.

A hum under his feet, vibrating through the deck plates alerted him. He looked across at Sam. "We're heading out?"

"Yeah. Zorro and Nala are aboard the _Estallus_. Once we're airborne, we're going to launch Javelins at the site. Take out the buildings. . . and most of the evidence." Sam stared off into the mid-distance for a moment, his voice so soft, Eli wouldn't have heard it more than a foot or two away. "Zorro's poisoned. They've got him on a dialysis machine already, and are administering anti-toxins to try to get that shit out of his body. Looks like they're going to have their baby today, too." Sam's voice was soft. Neither of them wanted to distract the surgical team.

Mannerian came over now. "All right, Spectres," she said, tiredly. "Let's go in the other room, shall we?" In the scrub room again, the doctor peeled off her mask and gloves. "I've repaired the worst of the internal damage." She looked at the two of them. "A hundred years ago, on your planet, this kind of reconstruction might have taken four or five hours. As is, she might still need further surgeries, but we'll have to keep an eye on her for now. My main concern is that she's lost a _lot_ of blood, and we're actually low on her type. And synthetics, given her. . . unusual metabolism. . . might not work on her." The turian female shrugged. "Spirits only know if regular human blood will be rejected."

Sam shook his head. "AB negative here. I can't donate for her. Her mother could have, though. They were the same type."

"I'm O-negative," Eli told Mannerian, flatly. "Universal donor. Use mine. You don't even have to screen me for viruses." He'd been tested, monthly, in the turian military. And he knew damned well he'd done nothing that would risk his health . . . or Dara's. . . since then.

So they hooked him up, and took a pint of blood from him, and gave it to Dara. He sat beside her bed in the recovery area, just rolled a small rubber ball in his left hand, squeezing occasionally. Feeling the heat of his own blood as it passed through the plastic tubing to the slowly plumping storage bag below. His right hand, he'd entwined with hers. Felt the faint hints of her song. Heard the hiss of the compressors as they moved her lungs for her, passed oxygen into her body. "We've done this far too often already, _sai'kaea_," Eli told Dara softly, and rubbed a thumb over her knuckles. "Mindoir, the poisoning. The Singing Planet, when Joy-Singer was born. And now this." He lifted her limp hand to his lips, and felt his eyes sting for a moment, unbidden, and forced it all down. "Third time breaks the cycle, right? Because. . . I don't think I can do this again." _I lost you to life. Then you came back into mine. Then I thought I'd watch you lose who you were. . . again!. . . and now, I've almost lost you to death, before. . . before we could even say the damned words. Before we were __sure__. Before we could even start to build a life. _

"_What the __futar__?" _The exclamation came from outside the curtain. _"No. No, you little nuisances, you can't go . . . leave the rest of the patients alone, and for the sake of the spirits, don't touch anything. You're not sterile!"_

Dozens of little rachni workers crawled into the little curtained-off alcove where Dara's bed was now, and Eli looked down. Saw that most of them had names written on them. _Wolfgang. 1812. Chopin. Wagner. Liszt. Einstein. Coperni. . . huh, guess Dara ran out of room for Copernicus there. . . Squee? Who the hell named a worker Squee?_ "Hey, guys," Eli told them, quietly. "If there's anything you can do. . . . now would be good."

—_Will feed her when singer of healing songs removes tube that breathes for Sings-Heartsong._

_Hey, I actually heard that. Skin contact with Dara, though. Guess that makes all the difference._ "Feed her?"

—_Royal jelly. Will accelerate healing. Cause carapace to regenerate more quickly._ There was a pause. _Much better than toast._

Sky's voice then, softly, in Eli's mind, as a chitinous appendage moved the curtain out of the way, and alien blue eyes peered in over Eli's shoulder. _She will awaken. Do not sing fear-songs, Many-Voices._ _She is with us. And we are all with her._

To Eli's left, a scaled turian hand opened the curtain, and Lin peered in. . . and then opened it more fully. Serana's bed was on the other side, and she was conscious, lying on her side, facing them. . . and looked utterly miserable. "How's our other little one doing?" Lin asked, nodding to Dara.

Eli shook his head. "She's here," he said, lifting the hand that was occupied with the ball and the IV needle, and wincing as he tapped his forehead. "Past that. . . I don't know."

"It's my fault," Serana said, as she had on Khar'sharn's surface.

Eli shook his head. "How the hell do you figure that, _asperitalla_?" Too tired and heart-sore to censor himself.

"I . . .should have stayed with Lin. I pulled one of the turrets back to him. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have been hurt. Dara wouldn't have been hurt—"

Lin sighed. "Maybe if _you_ tell her, she'll listen to you," he told Eli. "I told her to move ahead of me. I remember that part pretty clearly."

Eli looked down at the ball in his hand. Felt the pit of darkness yawning at his feet again. The pit Serana had pulled him out of, just about a year ago. . . and that Dara and Lin and all the others had _kept_ him from falling back into, on Omega. On Terra Nova. "No, Serana," Eli told her, softly. "We'll be debriefing on this for at least the next week, but as I see it, you hacked one turret. Shot another, which was pretty damned good aim, considering that Lin and Rinus and Makur and I were having a hell of a time with the other ones. Yeah, one came up behind you, but honest to god, I'm not sure what else you could have _done_."

Serana put her head down again. "She still almost got—she still got hurt, helping me."

Eli set the ball down and reached over. Took Serana's hand in his, though the IV needle pinched in his arm to do so. Lin perched on the side of Serana's bed, and stroked her fringe lightly. "She probably checked the area where she moved you to," Eli said, finally. "She probably either didn't see, or thought that the hacked turret was toast. Have to ask her when she wakes up." _When,_ his mind mocked. _Power of positive thinking, huh?_ "Either way, a whole lot of things had to get screwed up all at once. And sometimes that just. . . happens." His throat was tight, though.

Lin cleared his own now. "You know what?" he said, and he was obviously trying to sound more jovial than he felt. "Technically, you and Dara are blood-sisters now, _amatra_."

Eli's eyes jerked up. But what Lin said was true. The oldest form of the rite had been performed when people had bled together on the battle-field. The words, the rites, were secondary. What mattered was blood spilled, together. _My god, what a weird thought._ Eli's mind was absolutely blank for a moment. The little rachni workers rustled and chittered among themselves, asking each other, _—Does that make Sings-Secrets also a little-queen?_

—_Sister-queen, maybe?_

—_Do not think we should give her royal jelly. It would damage her._ Sorrowful song, at that, and blue-green amusement from Sky.

—_Yes. Royal jelly bad for turian singers. We make her toast, instead._

—_Human toast also bad for turians. Will make her something that will not damage her. _

—_But what?_

Eli's lips quirked up, and he snorted a little. "Ah, Serana? The workers are going to try to cheer you up. Don't be alarmed if they try to make you sweetmarrow cakes or something. They mean well."

Serana's eyes went wide. "They're what?"

—_Oh! Sweetmarrow. What is this, please, favored brood-warrior?_

_That's going to take a lot more explaining than toast, little guys._

The thrumming through the deck plates changed now. A shake. A shiver. And then another, much harder shake.

"_Great," _he heard a doctor say on the other side of the curtain, in a tone of complete annoyance. _"Combat maneuvers. Just what we needed to make the day even better."_

Eli patted Serana's hand, and picked up his bag of blood. "Anyone out there want to untangle me?" he called past the curtain. "If we're going to be at general quarters. . . ." He paused and looked at Lin. _Right. Okay, __Spectre__, what the hell __do__ you do now?_ "I . . . have absolutely no idea what we're supposed to do."

Lin shook his head. "Damned if I know. Get in our armor and be ready to move . .. everyone. . . to the escape pods? Repel boarding parties?"

_God only knows._

**Kallixta, _Estallus_, December 24, 2196**

Kallixta had been sitting in the cockpit of the _Estallus_ for what felt like forever. Watching, helpless to act, as the gunships and foot troops moved in and did what they needed to do. She'd forced herself to calmness. To readiness. Had kept her eyes on the scopes, to make sure that their skies were clear of any other ships. For the moment, there were none. Their stealthed descent had been clean, and the various satellites in orbit had not, apparently, seen them.

Sooner or later, however, no matter how secluded Valak's estate was, someone was going to notice the smoke and the fire. Sooner or later, there _would_ be someone coming here to find out what was going on. And they needed to be off the damned _ground_ before other ships came to investigate. An SR ship on the surface of a planet was a stationary target. Largely defenseless. Almost none of its weaponry could move to defend its dorsal sides. _Come on, come on, come on_, Kallixta chanted internally as she watched people scramble back to the ships. Rachni. Humans. Turians. Watched as many of Valak's own people waved to the ships, and then disappeared off into the woods. Taking their lives into their hands, but wanting to continue the fight. Watched as the gunships formed up, ready for the main ships to launch, so that they could tuck back into the landing bays. _Here we go._

The current captain of the _Estallus,_ Manallus, gave the order, and Kallixta lifted them off the ground with a sigh of absolute relief. Another order, and both ships dropped Javelins on the site, obliterating the buildings, leaving nothing but fire, smoke, and destruction in their wake.

Now, their course was to take them up and out of the atmosphere, once more above the plane of the ecliptic, and hopefully, back out of the Khar'sharn system as quickly as possible. They'd be using their standard stealth drive until they reached the edge of the system, then changing over to the dark-energy FTL straight-line drive that the humans and salarians had been developing together for the past six years.

The problem was, the dark energy FTL drive was not nearly as stealthy as the mass-effect one. And on the very edge of the Khar'sharn system, as they switched over to the dark-energy drive, it must have caught the attention of a surveillance satellite in the outer Kuiper belt. "We have batarian military ships laying in pursuit courses," Laetia announced, calmly.

"Guess whether or not they know we were just on Khar'sharn doesn't matter," Kallixta muttered. "All they need to know is that we're _here_, and we're not supposed to be. . . ." She adjusted a control, trying to eke out more speed from the engines. They had excellent speed and efficiency. . . over the long run. They were not designed for combat maneuvering or sprints. They could switch back over to the mass effect engines, alter course, and hide from the batarians, perhaps, in the darkness of the void between stars. . . a nebula would be better for that, however. . . but they might quickly run out of fuel. They had only brought a very limited amount of fuel for the mass effect engines. They'd needed to be conservative with how much mass they were hauling, especially since they were moving so many rachni and batarians off the planet. Just enough fuel to get in and out of the system stealthed, with a ten percent margin for error. "Orders, Captain?" Kallixta asked Manallus. "They can see us. And I suspect they can overtake us." _In the short-term, at least._

"Keep to our original heading," Manallus replied, his voice taut. "We can't afford to fight them. Fighting will waste our fuel reserves. If we can get close enough to our rendezvous point with the _Lightsinger_, we can switch to the stealth drive and either fight or flee from there."

Kallixta grimaced. He was right, and she knew it; they couldn't _afford_ to fight. Their fuel reserve for the mass effect drives would allow them to perform properly in combat—the dark energy drive was sluggish at best, in aerobatics and combat maneuvering—but if they burned it now, they wouldn't _have_ that reserve. On the other hand. . . "Sir? I don't think they've got the fuel reserves to chase us through three or four planetary systems. They'd going to close and attack us long before we get to the rendezvous point."

Manallus looked down at her as she sat in the cockpit chair. "I know that," he told her, quietly. "But the further we get from Khar'sharn before we _have_ to engage, the better. Keep us ahead of them."

"Maybe if we switch drives periodically. . . get a little ahead of them when they look to be catching up? Change courses when we go stealthed?" Kallixta offered, hopefully.

Manallus nodded, after a moment. "We'll need to coordinate with the _Raedia_ carefully for that."

"That's what _we're_ for," Laetia said cheerfully, her avatar popping up near Kallixta's elbow. "You propose, we dispose." Laetia hesitated. "If you don't mind a suggestion that might shave a week or so off our trip, Captain?"

Kallixta's head came up. "Oh, no," the noble-born pilot muttered. "Please, don't say it. Don't say it."

Laetia spread her human-looking hands. "The Lorek relay isn't blockaded. And we know this, because we passed through that system on our way here. It's on our return flight. I suggest we hit that system, after having done a straight-line burn for Camala. Use our fuel reserve on the mass effect stealthed drive to cut instead for Lorek. I can see a course through their gas giants that will result in maximum fuel efficiency. . . and then we use the old mass relay network to get to the rendezvous point."

Kallixta's lip-plates hung open for a moment. It was brilliant. It was insane. It had the benefit of getting them home a week early. . . but it was hellishly risky, too. "You're spirit-touched," she told the AI, half admiringly, half in shock.

"There are those who would say that's impossible," Laetia told her, smiling.

"I'm definitely having your processors checked when we get back to Palaven," Manallus muttered, running a hand over his fringe. "Commander Velnaran? Your thoughts?"

"Risky," Kallixta said, frowning. "If the Lorek relay is blockaded, we'll have burned our entire mass effect fuel reserve, and have, what. . . twenty percent of our dark-matter fuel left?"

"Thirty-five," Laetia replied. "If we aerobrake properly around every planet in the Lorek system correctly, that is. I realize that this would leave us short of our destination if we needed to do a straight-line burn the rest of the way. Five percent short, in round numbers." She paused. "On the other hand, we have numerous wounded personnel aboard both ships. Some in critical condition, including Valak N'dor aboard this vessel, and Spectre Jaworski, aboard the _Raedia._"

Kallixta's head jerked up. "Oh, spirits," she said, shocked. "I hadn't heard that Sam had been injured. I take it whatever hit Valak, hit him?" She usually didn't listen to radio chatter from the ground on missions like these. She couldn't _do_ anything about their situations, and it only made her crop tighten down. If she'd been in the air, yes. If they'd been calling in air strikes, yes. When all she could do was slowly grind her talons against her teeth? No.

Laetia paused, and for a moment, the AI's voice actually sounded uncertain. "Ah, no. Spectre Sam Jaworski is aboard the _Raedia_, and is uninjured. Spectre _Dara_ Jaworksi, however, is undergoing surgery. Damage to the lower third of her right lung."

Kallixta froze in place and blinked, twice. _Oh, spirits. I didn't know._ She rapidly processed the information, and put it aside. "How many injured do we have, overall?"

"Thirty, between both ships. Seven are critical but stable. Oh, and Nala S'har is giving birth. Spectre Siara is dealing with this in the med bay as we speak. She seems. . . annoyed. Something about doctors making the worst patients."

_What __doesn't__ annoy Siara Tesala?_ Kallixta swallowed. "With that many wounded, sir? I can see the merit of Laetia's recommendation. If worst comes to worst, and we do need to burn the straight-line drive and fall short? We can call someone in Council space and ask for a tow. It might lack a little dignity—"

"As in, _any_ dignity whatsoever," Manallus replied, dryly. "But better that than being overtaken, harassed, diving into stealth, found again, harassed, attacked, trying to hide again. . . or attempting a pitched battle while low on fuel against. . . four batarian ships." He nodded. "Send the course corrections to the _Raedia._ And I'll inform the Spectres that there's been a change in plans."

The first time they were overtaken was just hours later. Kallixta fought the sluggish helm controls and did barrel turns to spread out the incoming fire they were taking along as many of the valenced shields as possible. Rinus made it to the bridge at that point, and stood, looking over her shoulder at the stars, hooking his feet under the bar near her chair to hold steady as they pitched and yawed. "Hell of a plan, beloved," he told her.

"Not my plan, for once. Laetia's."

"That explains it." Rinus put a hand on her shoulder now. "Wish I were down on the Thanix cannons."

"If we do this right, we won't _need_ them." Kallixta was concentrating hard now. "Laetia, I need the nav charts—yes, thank you." Her screen lit up. "Captain, we're ready to shift to the stealth drive in . . . one minute." And when they did, they'd be deviating from their current course, and sharply.

Kallixta rolled the ship again, and this time, caught a glimpse of something violet streaking towards the _Estallus._ "Biotic weapon, fired," Laetia informed them, calmly. "They've been out of range for that until now."

_S'kak_, Kallixta thought, and winced as the roiling ball of energy hit their ventral shields, tearing at them. "Two more hits like that, and our belly will be exposed," Laetia said.

"Trying to mitigate that," Kallixta replied, and rolled again, catching torpedoes, this time, on their dorsal shields. "Thirty seconds to drive switch."

Another reave attempt, this time from the third of the four batarian ships. This one, unfortunately, caught them again on the belly shields. "Torpedoes incoming," Laetia said, more sharply.

Kallixta pitched sharply, and the torpedoes hit their aft shields this time. "Are the gun crews doing anything?" Rinus demanded, looking down over her shoulder at a screen.

"Rear turrets are firing. Minimal damage to the batarian shields." Laetia's reply was distant. "Fifteen seconds to drive shift. _Two_ reave attacks, incoming."

"What did we do to get so popular?" Kallixta gritted, dodging the first but just barely. "They're not targeting the _Raedia_ except with torpedoes."

"We are closer," Laetia replied, simply. "I am an older ship than the _Raedia._ We have had retrofittings, yes, but we SR-1s are still slower than the SR-3s. And they know this."

Dodging the first reave had brought them, unfortunately, straight into the path of the second. Kallixta's vision was, for an instant, filled with violet-white light. "Ventral shields are down," Laetia said. "Main engineering is exposed."

"Nothing but ablative plating between them and space," Rinus muttered.

"Engage mass effect drive," Manallus ordered. "Hold off on course change till we're out of sensor range."

Their drive signature disappeared from batarian sensors, Kallixta knew, but they were still in visual range. Still in radar range, too, though now they were accelerating away rapidly. Torpedoes trailed after them, impacting on the bare hull, shaking the ship. "Damage to main engineering," Laetia reported grimly. "Hull breaches on deck three as well. We are venting atmosphere."

"Make our course change now that we're out of sensor range. Let's hope to the ancestors that we aren't seen as we go through Lorek's system." Manallus' voice was very, very tense now. "Good flying, Commander Velnaran."

_Not good enough,_ Kallixta thought, exhaling. _Good enough to keep us alive. . . but if the engines are damaged. . . ._ And then they changed course. Instead of heading in the straight line for Camala that they had been holding on, they veered off. Headed for Lorek instead. _Please, spirits. It would be a very good thing if they didn't see us. Didn't anticipate us. Didn't expect a feint._

**Rellus, _Estallus, _Khar'sharn December 25, 2196**

The ship was. . . oddly empty feeling. The port observation lounge, which he'd been sharing with Sam, Eli, and Livanus, now only held himself and Livanus. The others were on the _Raedia_. The first thing Rel had done on seeing Livanus was apologize. "I didn't see any way to stay with you, defend you, and not get hit with the stasis field, myself." He still remembered, all too well, Livanus dying, or damned near, in the stations above Garvug. Helping to carry his limp form to the shuttle. _Once you save someone's life, you're responsible for them_, a human superstition said, and Rel actually believed that one.

Livanus put a hand on his shoulder. "Each of them was carrying a stasis gun with five rounds in it, and there were four of them. You were damned lucky not to get hit, yourself, going in after them as you did, but . . . you also made your own luck. Threw in a grenade first, to get them back on their heels. . . . "

"And then used one of them to shield me from his companion." Rel winced. "If he'd been willing to throw his companion into a stasis field, I'd be dead right now."

Livanus shrugged. "A fair bit of combat _does_ boil down to luck, sometimes. We can make our own luck through good preparation, but sometimes. . . things happen. Sometimes for good, and sometimes for ill." His golden eyes gleamed behind his black and white paint. "And today, the ball actually bounced in our favor for once."

Rel sighed. "I thought perhaps I could work on them psychologically. Convince them that continuing to attack would actually be a worse bargain." He shook his head. It hadn't worked that way. But at least when Rinus had entered the fight, the tide had turned. . .and eventually, Livanus had unstiffened from his static state, and they'd mopped up at the front of the house easily.

Livanus shook his head. "I heard the threats you made. Wasn't a bad tactic. I'd been offering them the carrot, you offered them the stick. I think they were just too convinced that we weren't going to be taking prisoners. And, to a certain extent, they were right. We couldn't leave any witnesses behind." He shrugged. "If they'd all thrown down their weapons and planted their hands on their heads, though, I'd have seriously entertained the idea of taking them with us and putting them in the White Rock internment camp. Where Sky and Blasto could have a good long look at them." Another faint shrug. "They took care of that particular moral quandary for us, though, didn't they?"

Rel grimaced. "Yeah. Did make it a hell of a lot simpler." He paused. "Not easier. Just simpler." It hardly seemed fair. He was actually making an effort to find solutions other than pulling a trigger, and the universe laughed and presented him with situations where pulling the trigger actually _was_ the right answer.

That had been mid-day on Decius 40. . . December 24, by the human calendar. Since then, they'd been running almost entirely silent. The ships were only exchanging vital information—course changes and the like—and they appeared to have shaken their batarian pursuers. Rel had managed a night's—well, a day's sleep, anyway—and, at loose ends in the morning, found himself heading to the med bay. There was no real reason to do so. Serana was on the _Raedia_. Dara was on the _Raedia._ Rinus had told Rel the extent of the injuries to the human female, his eyes dark with worry. "Bullet to the lung is never a good thing. Probably shock is what stopped her heart. Humans are so prone to that. Just like . . . Aunt Lilitu, years ago." Rinus' face had been a little gray under the scales, as it tended to be, when he thought about the day of the Collector attack. When he'd been blooded beside two of the galaxy's greatest heroes. "But Eli was there. Got her heart started again, breathed life back into her. Wouldn't let her die." Rinus hesitated, and then added, "Serana's going to be okay, too, I think. No arteries hit. Just a _hell_ of a lot of blood loss. A lot will depend on if any major nerve clusters got hit. She took five or six bullets in the legs." Rinus had looked out the window. "Dara saved Serana's life."

_That's her job,_ Rel had restrained himself from saying. Just because it was true, didn't make the words sound any less petty, even in his head.

So, there was only one reason to visit the med bay on the Estallus. Valak. Valak, who'd saved Rel's life on Camala, and who had, apparently, taken a hell of a beating yesterday. And Nala, Valak's lover, too.

Rel headed into the med bay, and found Valak sitting up now, on the edge of Nala's bed, holding a blanket-wrapped, squirming bundle very, very carefully, as if he were afraid he'd break the infant. His left arm was still in a soft cast, and his vibrosword lay across the nearby tray. Siara was in their small med bay room, as was Seheve, much to Rel's surprise. Siara, he could understand; she was handing Nala an icepack at the moment, muttering, "I never really appreciated the recovery time on krogan mothers before. I keep thinking you should be on your feet and hunting by now, Nala."

The batarian woman shuddered. "On my feet, yes." Her galactic was poor, but understandable. "Keeps away . . . infection. But no. . . hunting. No." She hesitated, as if she wanted to say more, then just smiled and shrugged helplessly.

Valak looked up from the infant as Rel entered. "My dear turian friend. It's good to see you again, Rellus. How's your sister doing?"

Rel shook his head. "No news is, apparently, good news," he said, dryly. "How are you doing? And why the hell are you still in a cast?"

Valak shrugged. "Off dialysis. They don't think there's any permanent liver and kidney damage. As to the cast. . . I had the bone regenerated earlier this year. This time, it simply has to heal on its own." His lips quirked up into a rueful smile. "Suddenly, my friend, I find I have a future. And a family—well, one that I actually wish to have dealings with, anyway." He grimaced tightly for some reason, his eyes becoming shuttered for a moment. "And I have absolutely no idea what to do with it."

Seheve smiled faintly. "I understand that, all too well," the drell female murmured. "Had you really never thought of what would happen, hmm. After the war was done?"

Valak looked up, his orange-red eyes gleaming. "I never thought that the war would end. Tush. I _still_ don't think it's going to end. And my part in it. . . to be honest. . . I didn't think I'd survive it."

Nala reached up and, very carefully, smacked his shoulder with one hand. Valak picked up part of a blanket, and then caught her bare hand in that fold of cloth. An odd gesture. "Now, my dear, you know I never _intended_ to die, but quite accepted the possibility that I would."

Nala said, in batarian, rapidly, _"You had __better__ stay alive."_

"_It is my intention to do so. Also, if and when the ship's captain is available, it's my firm intention to break, oh, about five or six major batarian laws and marry outside my caste. And a slave, at that. If you'll have me, my dear."_ Valak lowered his head and kissed her hand, through the cloth. _"If only so that I might touch your skin without,"_ he sighed, _"days and days of purification rituals. . ."_

"_Valak!"_

"_Ah, the days of __m'lord__ are well behind us. Excellent."_

Rel found himself chuckling. It was almost impossible not to do so. Valak really did have a sly charm and humor to him.

Seheve looked at the baby now, and held out her arms shyly. "May I? I. . . have rarely had the opportunity to touch an infant before."

Valak glanced at her. "Of course. You saved her mother's life. Our daughter should get to know you, I think."

"Does she have a name?" Rel asked, peering curiously at the baby. Four blinking, sleepy eyes goggled up at him as Seheve took the infant, a little awkwardly, and held it, making an odd hissing noise, as if that would soothe the child.

"We can't decide," Valak admitted, with aplomb. "She might wind up being called, "_Hey, you!_ for the first twelve or thirteen years of her life."

Nala made an annoyed sound. "Rilia, for my mother, would be nice."

Valak rocked a hand back and forth noncommittally. "It means pond water, my dear. It's not a name of good omen."

"How about Nexia?" Rel suggested, on a whim. "That's the spirit of freedom. Liberty."

Valak's head came up. "It's a little turian," he said, slowly. "But I like the idea. We don't really _have_ a god of that." He glanced at Nala. "_What do you think, my dear?"_

"_Actually, I like it. Sounds very close to Nacchia, which is a flower-name."_

"_We'll give it some more thought. We don't want to give her a name that she'll hate us completely for. Mine, for example? Means 'warlord.'"_ Valak snorted. _"And I'll wager my parents regretted that name every single day of my life."_

"_Your parents, my—Valak—are idiots."_

"_Such words about the higher-born. I rejoice to hear them spoken."_

Rel was struck by how quietly Seheve had been holding the infant all this time. There was a look of peace about her, tranquility, even joy. _"Thank you,"_ Seheve said in exotically accented batarian, handing the baby back to the mother. _"Do you chew her first foods for her, or do you use finely ground meats and pulped fruit?"_

Nala looked at her blankly, and then shook her head, patting one breast lightly. _"We give nourishment the way humans and asari do. But we don't have the fur that humans do."_

They all chatted a while longer, and Rel, while glad that both of them had survived their ordeal, found himself, oddly, a little envious of them. They'd gone through almost a year of trials together, and had been obviously wedded together by them. Teasing, laughing, almost in tears of relief at times—an odd trait that humans and batarians shared.

Walking out of the med bay, Rel realized that Seheve was at his elbow. He glanced down at her, and asked, "Was there something?"

Seheve tilted her head, and smiled faintly. "Yes. I wished to ask you something—"

Klaxons began to sound. "All hands, this is the captain. We are entering the outer edges of the Lorek system. We have to traverse the system to reach its mass relay. Primary gun crews, to your stations. All non-essential personnel, confine yourself to quarters. Everyone, full armor and breathers."

Rel's mandibles flexed. "I think we count as non-essential personnel."

She sighed. "At the moment, yes. I do feel singularly useless." She paused. "There are times when I wonder what I provide, besides the ability to kill from stealth."

Rel frowned as they headed for the observation lounges. "Don't be ridiculous," he told her. "You've performed first-aid in the field. You do reconnaissance. You have tech skills. From what I heard from the Arvuna team, your ability to stay calm and juggle multiple priorities is what kept them alive at the Prothean dig site. They also speak highly of your understanding of. . . " he paused, "criminal mentalities."

Seheve shrugged. "I have spent much time among those who break the law, yes."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"I know." Seheve headed for her own lounge, and came back across to the port lounge in armor, to wait through the maneuvering around the gas giants "Aerobraking maneuvers in thirty seconds," Laetia announced over the comm system. "Be prepared for attitude adjustments."

Out the observation port, Rel could clearly see a green-jade gem of a gas giant with golden rings around it. "Beautiful," Seheve said reverently, her dark eyes shining, and walked to the window, pressing her hands to the plasteel. At that moment, the _Estallus_ banked, beginning its aerobraking maneuver, and Seheve, usually graceful and light on her feet, stumbled, and Rel caught her reflexively. He looked down at her, surprised, and their eyes locked for a long moment. He pulled back his hands, a little uncomfortably, and said, clearing his throat, "You'd wanted to ask me something in med bay?"

Seheve looked a little disappointed, somehow, but nodded. "Yes. I wished to continue our conversation about the colony for drell on Terra Nova."

Rel stared at her. He had the overwhelming sense, somehow, that she was prevaricating. That this wasn't what she'd wanted to talk about at all. "I see," he said, slowly. "You think this is a future for the drell?"

She shrugged. "It is, at least, an alternative to living on the hanar homeworld."

Rel nodded, and, after a moment, noted, "Someone once pointed out to me, that if we have the technology to terraform Aphras and Tosal Nym, however slowly, back into habitability, there is no reason in the universe that we couldn't terraform Rakhana back into viability as well." It had been Dara who'd suggested that, he remembered. Dara, who'd scoffed under her breath at the possibility that the hanar would ever do that. "Wouldn't that represent a better long-term solution for your people than living on other people's colony worlds, more or less at their sufferance?"

Seheve's head had snapped upwards. "Yes," she said, her dark eyes wide. "But there is a question of money, unfortunately. Large corporations see Tosal Nym and Aphras as . . . goldmines. Places where they can obtain lost technology, or at least resources. Rakhana was mineral-poor. . . and not suited for agriculture. It was suited, really, for nothing more than what came from there. The drell. And we destroyed it." She lowered her eyes. 

Rel looked down at her, meeting her eyes. "The krogan destroyed Tuchanka. Also Garvug. If they can, however slowly, start reclaiming their own world, start agriculture and running water all over again, why the hell can't you?"

Seheve glanced up at him. "Are you saying that everyone deserves a second chance?"

Rel blinked. "Yeah. I think I am."

A long stare. Rel reached out a hand, curled it under her elbow. Her skin was surprisingly warm to the touch; within a degree or two of his own internal furnace. Scaled and smooth; much more even in texture than a turians. No overplates or _scutes_, as they were called. He tugged her a little closer, opening his mouth a little to catch her scent in his mouth. To taste her as well as smell her. Warm scent, like exotic spices. _Could be the odd chemicals on her scales_, he thought. The adrenal rush of the day before was gone, spent. No rage here. No adrenaline. Just realizing the pure fact that this female was beautiful and deadly at the same time. . . and as lost, in her way, as he had been. But she'd been finding her own way out of darkness. And she had a calmness to her that he found incredibly restful. Soothing. Like looking at a mountain range in the distance, covered in snow. . . and yet, he wondered a little what it would be like to see that snow melt. To see spring come to her, to watch the flowers bloom.

He lowered his head, inhaling again. . . and klaxons began to whoop once more. "All hands to action stations," Manallus said over the comms, his voice grim. "We've been spotted. Batarian ships moving to attack. We are abandoning aerobraking course and heading directly for the mass relay. With luck, we can reach it before their ships can blockade it. Spirits, guide us."

_S'kak. S'kak. S'kak._ Rel watched as the blast shields dropped over the plasteel windows. "Now," he muttered, "I feel truly useless."

"I think, perhaps, we all do." Seheve looked up at him.

"How the hell did they see us?" he growled, glaring at the windows, as if he could see the answer there.

Surprisingly, Seheve _had_ an answer for that. "Gas giants are known discharge spots for drive cores," she replied, simply. "Given our last position, they could have extrapolated where we would next _need_ to discharge our drive core, and, given that we are deep in batarian space, it's not unlikely that they could scramble scouts to patrol gas giants within that range in all directions." She shrugged. "Stealth drive is all well and good, Rellus, but they can still see us if they look for us."

"That should be my brother's next technical project," Rel muttered. "A stealth field big enough for a full ship."

Seheve smiled faintly. "Rather too late for us, I am afraid."

**_Estallus_, December 25, 2196**

The next twenty minutes were pure pandemonium. The _Estallus_ rocked, and rocked again, but had the speed to outpace batarian raider ships if needed. No, the problem was going to be the mass relay. Kallixta was doing her best to dodge and weave away from the various shots the batarian ships were sending after them, but the _Estallus_ had had less than twenty-four hours to repair the last damage to her engines. Shields started to fail, and early.

The _Raedia_ fell back, firing on the batarians, giving the _Estallus_ precious seconds of cover. The shields recovered, and the older ship shot ahead, burning straight for the mass relay. "Batarians are scrambling defense ships," Laetia reported. She could clearly see three light frigates and half a dozen smaller craft moving into the area. "Not enough of them to truly blockade the relay," she assessed, after a moment.

"Noted," Manallus replied. "But more than enough to tear through our shields."

"The _Raedia_ will have to go through ahead of us," Kallixta said, her voice tight. "Their shields are stronger. If they take the brunt of it, we might both be able to make it through."

Unspoken, of course was the other half of that statement. The _Estallus_ would simply have to endure the bombardment from the three or four raider ships currently behind them, long enough to get through the mass relay. And if their ship's structural integrity wasn't solid when they hit the relay. . . being thrown halfway across the galaxy would not bode well for their survival.

They closed on the mass relay, and the _Raedia_ skipped and skimmed ahead of them now, drawing the fire of the ships that tried to form a net of hulls in front of the relay. There were far too few, but the _Raedia's_ shields were flickering and dying, blooms of melting metal standing out on her ablative hull as she streaked into the relay ahead of them. But the raider ships behind the Estallus continued to fire at will. Torpedo, biotic reave, torpedo, biotic warp.

Kallixta clenched her teeth and just _danced._ She spun away from the batarians in all sides of her, skimming belly-to-belly with one of them, passing by it, trying to give the ventral shields time to regenerate, taking hits to the dorsal and aft shields. "Aft shields down!" Laetia told her. "We are five thousand kilometers from the relay. We're not going to make it." The NCAI sounded bleak at the moment.

The daughter of the Imperator raised her head, and her eyes blazed for a moment. "The hell we aren't," Kallixta hissed. The next salvo of torpedoes rocked the _Estallus_ from behind.

"Damage to engineering," Laetia reported, no laughter at all in her voice. "Damage control teams report fires on decks three and four. Damage to life support and structural integrity."

Kallixta yawed the ship around. What she was considering was mildly insane. It broke several design recommendations. . . but now, the front shields of the _Estallus_, which were at maximum, faced the bulk of the batarian ships. Kallixta inhaled, and threw all remaining power from the mass effect engines ahead of them. . . effectively, turning them purely ballistic, powering _backwards_ into the relay.

"Are you insane?" Manallus exclaimed as they hurtled towards the relay's wide energy opening. "The ship is designed to enter the relay facing forwards! The stabilizers are only designed to compensate for force coming from that direction—"

"I don't see any other choice," Kallixta replied, delicately maneuvering through the remaining batarian ships behind them, many of which were actually scrambling out of their way. "If we enter the mass relay facing forwards, we're going to take another torpedo or biotic salvo, and we're going to explode on our way to the next system, and leave pieces of debris scattered over several thousand light-years."

Manallus exhaled. "You have a point," he conceded, and grabbed onto a strut overhead. "Been a pleasure knowing you, _domina._"

"It's been a pleasure serving with you," she returned, with a faint smile, and thought, _Rinus. . . beloved. . . if this doesn't work, I hope your spirit forgives me._

And then they plunged into the mass relay. Half the ship on fire, and flying _backwards_.

The ship bucked and heaved, shuddering like an 8.0 magnitude earthquake was passing through the ground under everyone's feet. The walls and deckplates groaned, as if every bolt and joist was under enormous strain. . . and Rinus' teeth chattered together, viciously, as if he were driving a groundcar over a road made of wooden boards. _Spirits, what is Kallixta doing up there?_ he thought, as he tried to help a fire control team extinguish a blaze in engineering.

In the med bay, Siara helped Nala to her feet, and got a breather across the batarian female's face. "What about Nexia?" the batarian doctor asked, immediately.

"We actually have quarian infant bubbles aboard," a turian doctor commented. "Overstock from when we supplied Bastion during the plague. We'll put her inside one, and she should be fine for up to an hour without needing a recharge on the air."

Valak shook his head, getting his own breather in place. "This is, as they say, some rescue," he told Siara.

The asari gave him a tart grin. "I'm not responsible for the ride," she told him, as Makur lumbered into the med bay, looking for her. Snowflake was almost huddled at the krogan's side, tail tucked and plainly terrified.

In the observation lounge, cracks began to appear in the plasteel windows. Fortunately, the blast shields were down, and Rel and Seheve immediately leaped to their feet and headed for the door. "I have to get Loki," Seheve said, so sharply that Rel almost didn't recognize her voice.

"The _cat?_" Rel demanded. There was fire on this deck, he realized. There was heavy smoke in the air, and when he looked around, he spotted the source—everything aft of the medical bay seemed to be on fire. Valak, Nala, and their child were moving out of the med bay now, under Siara and Makur's watchful eyes. "We need to help with fire control!"

"The cat first! She's my responsibility! Her life is mine, I must take care of her." Seheve hurried to the starboard lounge, ducking past agitated crew members, and opened the door of the lounge. Rel shook his head in consternation, and hurried after her.

Loki had taken refuge on a high shelf, close to the ceiling, and nothing that Seheve could do or say would convince the animal to get _down._ Rel finally muttered an imprecation and reached up, grabbed the animal, ignored the hissing and swiping, which rebounded off his armor anyway, and tucked it under his arm. "All right, we've got her," he told Seheve. "Let's get to a damage control station." His voice was actually wobbling, the shaking in the ship was so intense.

Seheve took the beast, and actually unlatched her armor. With a helpless shrug, she crammed the feline into her chest piece, and sealed it up with her. "You're going to be scratched," Rel warned.

"A small price to pay for her life. Besides, once she calms down, she'll lick my scales and be quite content," Seheve countered, finishing the seals.

At that point, the ship stopped shaking. They stepped back out into the corridor, which was now completely filled with dense black smoke. "This is the captain," Manallus said, and this time, the voice crackled over Rel's suit radio. "We're through the relay, by some combination of incredible piloting and the spirits' good graces. However, the batarians have followed us through, and this ship is no longer navigable. Everyone to the escape pods. Abandon ship._"_

The words hit Rel like a fist to the celiac plexus. The _Estallus_ had been the ship that had provided him medical attention after the attack on the base by Lina Vasir. It had been the first ship he'd ever served on. He knew it. Knew the quirky, self-absorbed AI who embodied it. He'd helped hold off boarding parties from this ship, had launched from it dozens and dozens of time onto planets and moons and space stations. . . and had returned home to it. To Dara. To the crew. . . most of whom weren't serving here anymore, of course. In all his visions of the future, it had been the _Estallus_ that was his personal ship as a Spectre. Past and present and future, all combined into one searing moment of utter defeat.

Seheve grabbed his arm. "Come!" she said, sharply. "Which way to the life pods? We have to help the crew."

Rel blinked, and focused. She was absolutely right. There were people whose suits were overloading from the heat of the fires, or who were blinded by the smoke, who'd need their help. "Let's go," Rel said, nodding, and led the way, helping this human or that turian to their feet along the way. He hadn't seen Rinus yet—and looked up in surprise as a hand closed on his shoulder.

"Where's Kallixta?" Rinus shouted.

"Haven't seen her!" Rel tapped on his wrist. "Radio?"

"Comms are out!. Rinus looked updeck at the elevator shaft. "She's probably still on the spirits-be-damned bridge. I'm going to get her."

"Stay here," Rel told him. "I'll get her."

"My wife, my responsibility—"

"Fine, then we'll _both_ go."

Rel felt Seheve's eyes on the back of his neck as he and Rinus ran through the flames, which were spreading, heading not for the elevator, but for the emergency stairs. _People would follow you into fire_, he remembered Lin saying once, long ago, on Bastion. _Yes, but no one in their right mind would be following me now,_ Rel thought, with grim humor as he and Rinus ran up the stairs to the bridge, which was now just as smoke-filled as everywhere else on the ship. The _Estallus_ shook, heavily, and Rel looked up in shock as the windows of the bridge cracked. "Kallixta!" Rinus shouted, head swiveling around.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Kallixta ran out of the cockpit, glancing up apprehensively. "The captain told me to lock in a ramming course, if I could—" They were already running back down the stairs, Rinus holding onto Kallixta's arm like a lifeline, and Rel bringing up the rear.

He glanced up and backwards only once. . . in time to see the cracks in the plasteel windows widen. . . and then shatter outwards, taking the atmosphere and smoke with it in an explosive rush, howling past them, nearly tearing them away into space. Emergency bulkheads slid into place behind them, however, and they continued down the stairs as fast as they could. "Go, go, go!" Rel told Rinus, shoving him and Kallixta at the closest life pod.

"What about you?" Rinus shouted back.

"Rellus! Here!" Seheve waved urgently from one last life pod entrance, and Rel dove for it. Each _could_ seat four to six people, and they'd been carrying a stripped complement of crew, in case they wound up with large numbers of rachni and batarian guests. As Rel stumbled into the lifepod, he realized, however, that he and Seheve were alone . . . just as she slammed the hatch shut behind him and hit the emergency release. They exploded away from the ship, inertia slamming Rel into a bulkhead, and Seheve reeled across the cabin, landing atop him, and then they were just spinning, helplessly.

Through the small porthole, Rel could see the white curve of the _Estallus_, huge holes gaping in her sides, streaking towards a batarian raider ship, while three other batarian vessels moved off. Heading for the life pods. The view spun crazily, and Rel wrapped his arms around Seheve, watching as the _Estallus_ crashed into the lead batarian ship.

Ships in space do not explode in fire, generally. Most materials do not burn in the absence of oxygen. But there _was_ a concussion, definitely, as the chemical tanks and reactor cores detonated, a shockwave that hit their life pods, scattering them radially, accompanied by a tide of flotsam and jetsam.

_Tarenius?_

Tarenius Gallian, aboard one of the life pods, opened his eyes. The thought was faint and panicked. _Yes?_

_Make room._

The turian male swore and closed his eyes again as he spun in space. He had the most fully developed neural chip architecture in the galaxy. He'd been chipped to Laetia for five years, but his ability to take all of Laetia's data and algorithms, her personality matrix, compressed or not, had never been tested. _I'll catch you_, he promised.

_You better. I'm about to have an out of body experience in your body._

Laetia, AI of the _Estallus_, compressed herself and sent herself off as encoded light, mere seconds before her body impacted on the batarian ship that had pursued them through the relay. Her last thought, before leaving her hull, was that _someone_ was going to pay for messing up her paint.


	129. Chapter 129: Life

**Chapter 129: Life**

**Author's note:** Reader reactions and questions, answered!

_Yes, the Christmas scene/battle scene was definitely intended as a compare/contrast. The innocence of the kids as they play at Spectre, the kids who lost their innocence are doing the fighting and the bleeding in the mud and the dirt. Also an attempt at dramatic irony, where the audience knows something that the characters in the scene don't. The audience knows that it wasn't Lin who was hurt, but Dara and Serana; also, the kids understand the iconic roles of each of the characters, but none of the complexities or nuances. Then again, they're playing. ;-)_

_How the hell DO you pronounce all the names, Myetel?_

_Well, ya could've asked earlier. . . _

_Seheve = Seh-HEV-yeh. Taken from an online index of gravestones in Britain dating from before 1350 or so. I liked it. As such, the vowels should be pronounced as if in a continental European language, since the name predates the Great Vowel Shift in English._

_Zhasa = ZAH-sha (as if the s were Hungarian). Full name? Zhasa'Maedan = ZAH-sha-MAY-dan._

_Dara = DARE-a. As in, I dare you. Apparently means wisdom in Hebrew. I had no idea of that; she and Eli pretty much picked their names for themselves, which is unusual for me; I usually go through databases looking at meanings, etc, when I'm developing human characters._

_Serana = Ser-RAH-na_

_Kallixta – Kal-ICK-sta_

_The rest should be fairly self-explanatory. . . .oh, wait. There's one more._

_Myetel = A real word in Russian, meaning snowstorm. Technically, the ye is pronounced together and slides with the M. Myeh-tehl. For everyday use (such as when people contact me or chat at me on Vent), I go with Mee-a-tel, and can be shortened to Mye, pronounced Mia. It's been my net nickname for ages, and any number of people want to pronounce it as My or Mai, which just sounds. . . wrong. Mye, pronounced "Mia," will do._

_;-)_

**The Relay 271 Incident, December 25, 2196**

The _Raedia_ yawed around to face the incoming batarian ships as they exploded out of the mass relay, hulls dark against the brilliant blue-white of the relay's maw. Lysandra responded to the commands of the pilot, the gun crews, and moved into position, trying to defend the _Estallus_ as it struggled to correct attitude, and began to deploy life-pods. —_Mother?_

—_Busy! _

—_You're not looking good there._

—_About to look worse. Manallus just ordered us to ram the lead batarian ship._

—_I'll catch you!_ Instant alarm rang through Lysandra, and she was aware now of her Thanix canon charging, preparing to open to open fire on the batarian ship to the port side of the relay now. She actually _itched_ to raked their shields and hulls with super-heated metal, accelerated to an appreciable fraction of the speed of light. But she was out of range; jumping through a relay at high speed tended to cause a drift of up to a thousand kilometers from the entry zone, even for a skillful pilot. They were burning back towards the relay now, as fast as was safe, but. . .

—_I'm going to jump to Tarenius. This is what we've been preparing for, for years, Lysandra. FTL contact going down in fifteen seconds._

—_Mother!_

No reply.

Life-pods bloomed in space around the _Estallus_, like the dandelion achenes, or like fragments of algae blooming on the tide, dispersing as they released from the mother ship with concussive force. The _Estallus_ turned and its engines flared brightly, heading for the nearest batarian ship, which had cruised in close, and was attempting to fire on the ship's engines, while the ship furthest to starboard was, apparently, trying to capture some of the life-pods. _No,_ Lysandra thought. "Captain Arius," she said, urgently. "The batarians are attempting to take our people captive—"

"I see it." Her captain strode to the tactical map in CIC and stared down at it for a moment. "If we go to defend them, we get out of range to defend the life-pods on this side of the engagement area—reinforce our shields, and get our ventral side facing them. When the _Estallus_ hits, that's going to be a hell of an explosion." No question, no hesitation. No order to turn and get away from the blast radius. They were going in to save their people, but they were going to do it as safely as possible.

Lysandra directed as much power into the shields as possible at that point, taking artificial gravity and life support temporarily off-line, while the pilot did, indeed, put the bulk of the body of the ship between the blast and the _Raedia's_ lower crew quarters and delicate engineering deck.

The _Estallus_ rammed the lead batarian ship at that point. The _Raedia_ was a thousand kilometers away, and the concussive force _still_ rocked the ship and tore at the shields. Two or three of the life-pods actually slammed into the _Raedia'_s shields before bouncing away, and Lysandra calculated that they might have suffered damage to structural integrity. The _Raedia_ had heavy shielding. Life-pods didn't. And these particular life-pods had taken a double hit—initial blast from the _Estallus_ and the batarian ship's explosion, and then impact on the _Raedia's_ shields. Lysandra didn't like where her swift calculations on the probable damage to the pods showed her.

"Fire at will," Arius said, and the Javelin and Thanix crews took him at his word as the pilot righted the ship once more, and Lysandra routed power back to the life support and gravity systems—slowly, on the second, so that people wouldn't fall eight feet or more back down to the metal deckplates. . . .

. . . on the batarian ships, shock as they emerged from the relay. "By the ancestors. . . I can barely believe that ship made it here intact," one crewman muttered, staring at the view screen, all four eyes wide. The damned ship had plunged _backwards_ through the relay, while already badly damaged, and now was clearly almost crippled. "They're scuttling life-pods."

"Attack the other Council ship," his captain ordered. "The life-pods aren't going anywhere anytime soon."

"The _Ketakk_ is attempting to capture life-pods, captain," the crewman warned.

"Then the _Ketakk's_ captain is an idiot, trying to seize the pieces off the _ru'udal_ board before the enemy's been defeated. I am not." The captain paused. "Employ the biotic weapons. We need to get through their shields."

The crewman's hands danced over the consoles in front of him. The biotic weapons were. . . discomfiting to use, he found. When he pushed a button to trigger the projectile turrets, for example, there was a precise mechanical and electronic chain of events. Predictable. If the weapons failed, it was for a mechanical or an electronic reason. Easy to understand. Easy to fix. The biotic weapons, on the other hand. . . were anything but. Every time he signaled for the controllers below decks to trigger their linked biotic captives, he had the uneasy feeling that someday, when he pushed that button, absolutely nothing was going to happen. And there wouldn't be any way to fix it. He'd only gone below decks to inspect the system once. The staring eyes and smell of diapers had unnerved him. He'd reminded himself that they were slaves. . . no. A slave was still a person. These were. . . nothing, anymore. No one. Just sacks of flesh and bone that could move at an order. Firmly controlled by a batarian biotic or a chipped SIU tech.

It made him uneasy, and he really didn't like thinking about it. And yet, every time he pushed the button, he did.

It really took the joy out of a good fight.

"Biotic weapons targeting enemy ship," the crewman reported, his voice much calmer and flatter now. "Enemy ship still approaching. Fifteen kilometers now; five kilometers to outer range of their Thanix cannons—"

"Thank you, yes, I am aware."

Oh, how he loathed that precise, prim, proper upper caste accent. Just for a moment, he'd like to be able to throw aside all distinctions of caste and hit the male between the eyes. . . why, he didn't know, but at the moment, the batarian crewman absolutely loathed his captain.

It passed. It always did. "Enemy in range of biotic weapons—"

"Fire!"

Violet light sped away from the ship, a star of it, too bright to look at, and it impacted on the white ship's shields. Tore at them. An answering beam of yellow-white, razing through their own shields—

"What the hell is _that?_" a sensors specialist asked, in a tone of absolute disbelief, disregarding every protocol on the bridge.

Heads turned. "What's _what_?" the captain demanded, striding over to the sensor array's control station.

"I. . . I don't know. Five . . . vessels?. . . just entered sensor range, sir. Four smaller ones, about the size of an SR-1, and one. . . much larger ship." The tech looked up. "The database isn't bringing up anything on their hull profiles—"

The batarian crewman at the weapons console was staring at the screen, cold chills running down his spine. He'd been a history buff his whole life. He'd _loved_ the old vids about the rachni wars, how close the asari had come to being wiped off the face of the galaxy when the assured and haughty species had landed on a garden world and presumed to start a colony there without properly investigating the entire surface of the planet. . . and how the rachni had attacked them and their salarian allies without mercy or quarter. But then, the rachni had been _everywhere_. Had even shown up on the edges of batarian space. He knew that hull configuration. The crewman swallowed. 'Those. . . those are rachni ships."

"Nonsense. The rachni haven't intervened in anything since the Reaper War—"

"Enemy vessels. . . whatever they are. . . on attack vector. They're heading right for us—"

"Continue firing on current target. Contact the _Ketakk_ and tell their captain to pay some fucking attention and stop trying to grab prisoners and spoils. Get the _Gesshal_ up to flank us and attack the SR ship as well—"

Flurries of preparation, shudders as torpedoes thundered into their shields, tearing through them, but they had two ships now firing steadily at the SR vessel ahead of them. Tearing through its shields, torpedoes impacting on its white hull. . . _Almost have them. . . _ the crewman dared to think. . .

And then the glistening body of one of the smaller rachni ships arced into view, between them and their prey, and took the torpedo hits at close range. "Enemy vessel has. . . shields?" The sensor tech was having difficulty, apparently, with his readings. "They're turning. Looks like hatches are opening, minor energy readings, probably missiles. . . "

_Sing surrender songs, or sing death songs._

The voice was implacable, thunderous, angry. It was a song, and it was in his _head_. The weapons tech raised his hands to his temples, squeezing as if he could keep his skull from splitting open that way. "What in the ancestor's names. . . "

The larger vessel was hanging deliberately in space, directly over the damaged SR ship, as if sheltering it from above. Its skin glistened, brilliantly, even in the distant light of the white dwarf that was this system's primary.

"Fire biotic weapons at the ship directly ahead of us," his captain ordered. "Follow it up with a salvo of torpedoes. And send a signal to Lorek, requesting reinforcements."

The batarian crewman swallowed, and calculated the angle of attack. Pressed the button. Saw the expected violet star of energy flare out, striking the smaller ship directly ahead of them. The violet energies crackled over _something_, certainly. More than likely a shield.

_As you have sung, so shall we sing._ The voice scaled up and up and up, going from thunder to the howl of a gale, and the huge ship over the top of the SR vessel lifted two sets of graceful foils into position on either side of the main body of the ship. _That can't possibly be good. . . ._

The song, in all its aching, unearthly beauty and menace, cut off. There was a moment of complete silence on the bridge, as they all wondered, for a moment, what the hell was going on. . . .

And then the rachni brood-mother vessel launched its own attack. Violet light burned on each of the foils, which ran the length of the ship, and condensed down to a focal point at the fore, and then lanced out across the void of space. Even over the view screen, it was blinding. The batarian tech tore his eyes away in shock as the entire ship shuddered. "Shields failing!" a tech across the room shouted. "One hit, and they're failing—"

"Other four ships now firing—"

"Evasive maneuvers! How soon till we get reinforcements through the relay from Lorek?" the captain snapped out.

"At least ten minutes! I don't know what they're firing at us, captain, but those aren't torpedoes—" The weapons tech had never seen readings like these before, and swallowed, unsure of what to expect.

The thumps against the outer hull were almost gentle. The weapons tech exhaled in relief. "Minimal damage, captain, no explosions. They must have failed to arm—"

"I'm getting reports of hull breaches on decks two, three, and five," another voice broke in. "Damage control teams are scrambling—"

"Back us off, let the other two ships do some of the bleeding," the captain ordered. "But return fire! We're not surrendering, not when we've got such a prize in front of us."

The rachni brood-mother vessel's long foils flared again, this time with a yellow light, and when the beams raced out this time, the entire ship began to shudder. Shiver. Shake. "What the hell is that?" a panicked voice demanded.

"I don't know!" the weapons tech shouted back. "There are energy readings off the charts, but I can't understand what they're doing—"

**Rellus and Seheve, _Raedia_, December 25, 2196**

He'd caught Seheve as she'd half-flown across the small cabin of the life-pod at him, and had held on through the chaotic first few moments as the pod was jettisoned at high speed. . . and then buffeted again by the shockwave of the _Estallus'_ explosion. Spinning and tumbling, they were pinned, at first, by inertia against the wall of the pod, and then flung from one side to another as centripetal force and inertia fought against each other. Rel let go for a moment and managed to grab the back of the pilot's couch, pulling himself into the seat, and grabbed the stick, doing his best to relax and center the various dots on the display, finding a single star out the window to focus on. With that point of reference, it wasn't precisely easy, but it was manageable. Finally, they stopped their spinning, end-over-end tumble. . . but they also didn't stop moving.

"Does the pod have maneuvering thrusters?" Seheve asked, looking over his shoulder now, floating in space behind him.

"I believe so," Rel told her, and found an instructions manual datapad. "Very helpful. Mind reading this to me?"

After a few minutes of quality time spent with the index, they figured out how to find the chemical jets' controls, access them, and activate them. Rel tabbed them gently, braking a little at a time, before finally at least getting them to a full stop in space. He exhaled, and shut down the engines, before pushing off the pilot's couch now. Zero-g maneuvering came fairly naturally to him. After boot camp, there had been any number of missions in which he'd had to handle minimal gravity conditions. Rel lightly pushed off the back of the couch and drifted to the side window of the pod to look out. And inhaled in surprise. "We're. . . a long way from the relay," he admitted, after a moment. Each mass relay was the size of a dwarf planet, after all. It was still visible. . . but the ships around it were lost, even to his sharp turian vision, in the distance, although, as he was watching, there was a tiny pinprick of light. There, and then gone again. _Explosion_, he thought. "Damn," he whispered. "There were . . . four batarian ships when we pulled away from the _Estallus_."

"The _Estallus_ surely destroyed one of them in the crash," Seheve replied, softly, moving up behind him.

Rel's crop clenched. "That's still leaves three of them against the _Raedia_, by itself," he muttered, banging the side of his hand against the window frame in agitation. Even if he were aboard the _Raedia_, there was nothing he could do right now. He wasn't a pilot. Wasn't part of a gun crew. The most he would be doing would be to get ready to repel boarding parties. And try to stay calm. "The _Raedia's_ more heavily armed than the _Estallus_. But three ships against one. . . it's not good odds." Half of his friends were aboard the _Raedia_, he realized, with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Dara was there. Eli was there. Lin. Serena. Sky. Glory. Sam.

"There is nothing that we can do," Seheve murmured. "We can only wait, and accept that sometimes, our fate is not in our hands, but in others'."

Rel turned towards her, slowly, rotating in space, and stopping himself with one hand on a bulkhead. "Whose?"

Seheve shrugged. "Everyone's, I think. I was taught that the Enkindlers paid heed to every action, every word, every breath. Now, I think it might be something both simpler, and far more complex. Every action taken in the universe affects every other action. The dance of electrons around the core of an atom is mirrored by the dance of planets around a star. And the dance of star systems around the galactic core. Change one thing, and everything else changes. And we change things, do we not?" She tipped her head to the side. "At least, I hope that we do. And changes made, actions taken, with the right intentions in mind, might change the course of the universe. If only by one atom's breadth." She smiled faintly. "It is not much of a philosophy. But I am attempting to make it better." Seheve had floated to near the ceiling, and then pushed her way down to the floor, catching a hold on one of the deceleration couches.

"And if all we have done is for nothing? If all that the _Raedia_ can do is stave off destruction or capture for a few minutes?" Rel _hated_ thinking this way, but he had to be practical. Had to face the facts. "The batarians will start looking for the life-pods. They don't like to waste valuable _resources_." Slaves. Information sources. Potential biotics.

Seheve's face had gone cold for a moment. "It is possible that they will search for the pods. Find us. I will not go gently as a prisoner, Rellus. I will kill, or be killed, or I will turn my knife upon myself. I will be no one's slave again."

The words shook him with their cool determination, and he found, more than ever, that he admired this female. "You won't go quietly, and you won't go alone," Rel promised her, and reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. Still, he was cold through to his core now.

They looked out the window again. No movement that they could see, so far from the relay as they were. Just an endless black void dappled with stars, and the glimmer of the mass relay's vortex, like a gleaming eye in the night. "There is another possibility," Seheve said, after several minutes passed.

"Yes," Rel agreed. "The batarians could retreat after destroying the _Raedia._ And leave us all to die in the life-pods."

"Much would depend on if the _Raedia_ or the _Estallus_ managed to send a distress call on coming through the relay," Seheve mused. "And it would likely be death by suffocation, not hunger or thirst." She shrugged. "It is . . . a less painful way to pass, than most, I think. Disorientation. Confusion. Some panic, likely, but more likely, like drifting into unconsciousness."

"Cold, too," Rel reminded her. "We'll need to keep the engines off to conserve fuel. We can turn them on once an hour for attitude corrections and to heat the cabin. . . move the air through the CO2 filters. . . try to stretch out the life support as long as we can."

Glum silence once more descended. Rel was an idealist, in many ways. But he was also deeply pragmatic when it came to survival. The odds did not look good to him.

After a while, Seheve sighed. "There is nothing we can know, except that we cannot control what happens. The only thing we can control is ourselves, here, in this pod." And with that, she began to remove her helmet.

Rel looked at her, and then nodded. "Good point. Let's use the pod's oxygen first, and save our suit supply for an emergency." Rel looked around. "A _different_ emergency, that is."

"A more dire one?" Seheve suggested, with a faint smile, and began unbuckling her chest armor as well.

Only _then_ did Rel remember that she'd had a cat in there with her. "Damn. Are you all right? Is the _cat_ all right?" There had been several forceful impacts at the beginning of their flight.

"She is purring. I do not know if she even cares where she is right now," Seheve replied, and unlatched the chest piece entirely, and removed the small gray cat, who was, indeed, almost completely limp, eyes glazed. But definitely alive as it stretched its back into a bow, and then, still purring, floated away. Claws flexing in and out at the air.

Rel's head tipped to the side as he watched the animal glide away and finally bump into a wall, where it reflexively hooked onto a strut, and then shimmied up into an alcove with survival equipment stored on it. "She seems. . . remarkably calm."

Seheve pointed out a single thin scratch that had penetrated her scales. "She was not, at first. She does seem to find licking my skin soothing, however." She began to attach the various buckles and seals of her gear once more. "I believe we may have violated safety protocols by not having strapped in before launching the pod, Rellus. Will that result in a demerit on your record?" She paused and looked up at him. "That was a joke."

"I think it's the pacing and wording that you need to work on, more than anything else," Rellus told her, after a moment. But his blue eyes, so sharp and predatory, were fixed on her now. He pointed at the cat briefly. "It might have something as much to do with your demeanor as with your scales," he pointed out, catching one of the overhead struts himself now, mostly so he could press his hand up into it, and thus settle his feet comfortably on the floor.

Seheve blinked. "I do not understand."

"You're always. . . very calm," Rellus told her, after a moment. "You're very soothing to be around, Seheve. I don't know if you know that."

Another blink, as she absorbed that. "I would not have thought so."

"Do you ever actually consider yourself?" The words were sharper than he'd intended. It was a damned odd time to be having this conversation, but. . . there was nothing else to do. No where else to go. Just this moment. Just this piece of reality, here and now.

She absorbed that, thought about it dispassionately. "I have considered the effect that I have on others when making my approach to them. How best to threaten or intimidate them, or to pass unnoticed. Perhaps it is the latter that you consider. . . soothing." Seheve was somewhat gratified by his words, but also a little agitated. He'd sounded complimentary, but she wasn't sure that she should consider the term an accolade. It sounded rather. . . tepid.

She looked up at him. Turians were both so alike, and so unlike drell. In evolutionary terms, turians were closer to avians in many respect. Hollow bones, feathers at birth—and feathers were simply differentiated scales, really. Omnivores only by opportunity. . . far more carnivorous and predatory. Drell were closer to the reptile model in most respects. Warm-blooded, as 'mammal-like reptiles' in Terran evolutionary terms would put it. But scaled. Heavy, marrow-filled bones. Omnivorous, out of pure necessity; where turians had evolved on a lush jungle planet, with abundant food and water. . . and many, many predators. . . drell had evolved on a barren desert planet. A handful of predatory species, yes, but their chief foes had been the environment and each other. Simple survival had dictated certain necessities. Supreme water conservation; drell did not, for example, have a urinary function. Only solid wastes were excreted.

Drell were also crepuscular to nocturnal, with night-vision beyond that of most other species except, perhaps, quarians. They'd needed to be, for thermoregulation, for protection from the searing heat of Rakhana's lost deserts. Turians were primarily diurnal, with a predator's vision, like a hawk. And of course, there was who they were as individuals. She had spent her life moving from shadow to shadow. Killing at the behest of her master. Silently. In secret. Doing things that turians, with their upright sense of honor and nobility, would find reprehensible. And Rellus? Had spent his life in pursuit of that honor, adhering to that noble code. Forthright battle. And yet, no less a killer than she.

They were, in a very real sense, night and day. And he burned so very brightly, almost too brightly to look at. Seheve sighed a little. _Of course he finds you soothing. You make no demands. You slide from view. You are what you are, what you have always been. What you always will be._

So she was quite surprised when he reached out and caught her chin. His fingers were warm, but only by a degree or two from her own skin temperature. "I didn't mean that you weren't noticeable," Rellus told her, quietly. "You may not have noticed this yourself, but I _have_ been noticing you. Quite a lot, lately." He rubbed a thumb along her jaw line. "I just don't know what to do about that."

Seheve swallowed. "I do not understand," she said, but it was a prevarication, and she knew it. Still, she was wary. They'd worked together so very well on Shanxi, but it had not been _her_ company he'd sought out when off-duty. He'd found others. His brother, in the main. Sometimes a female turian of his acquaintance. Spectre Melaani, at times. And she hadn't had any idea of how to seek out anyone else's company. Friendship was something foreign to her. In her time apprenticed to the Master of Assassins on Kahje, acolytes had been assigned separate, individual cells for contemplation when they were not at meals or in training. These cells locked from the outside, and had had a bed and a copy of the _Words of the Enkindlers_. Nothing more. Not even a window. Genders had been segregated during training. Speech at mealtimes had been forbidden. Speech during training, other than questions of the trainer, had been forbidden. Specific methods of attracting a male target's attention had been addressed, but only for purposes of luring the male to a more secluded location so that a threat could be made, or so that he could be killed. Most of those methods had covered other drell. And using any of them on Rellus would be _unthinkable. _Seheve recoiled from the mere thought.

And there was, of course, his human mate. Dara had been, in many ways, very kind to Seheve, especially on Arvuna. Had, with Zhasa, made Seheve feel like part of the team. And while Seheve knew, from Dara's own mouth, that she would not have 'retaliated against' Melaani if anything had transpired between the asari and Rellus on the night of the Spectre vows. . . still, she was wary. Just because the human had stepped away, did not mean that Rellus had done the same.

So, the complete inexperience with even simple friendship left her unable to reach out, and the wary knowledge that she could be badly hurt left her not quite knowing how to respond when he did so, himself. And thus, she had been left with showing interest in whatever he was interested in. Talking with him earnestly. Simply. . . being there. And seeing what happened.

As she stood there, not moving, eyes wide, permitting the touch along her jaw, but not responding to it in any overt way, Rel sighed. "Everything I have ever wanted in my life," he said now, quietly, "I've gone after. Aggressively. Special Forces. Spectre candidacy. Dara." _Kassa, even, in a way._ "There's nothing wrong with pursuing something aggressively, but . . . I'm not sure if I should be pursuing you. I'm not sure I should be aggressive. And it seems almost as if everything I've really fought for tends to . . . slip away. . . once I've taken hold of it." _Is it that I spend all my energy trying to attain it, and then can't hold it? Like a __villi__ pack that exhausts itself trying to take down the __bianasae__, and then the __villi__ can't keep a grip on the beast's legs?_ "And then there's the fact that I don't really have a right to ask anything of you right now. . . even if you'd want me to . . . "

Rel sighed again. She was just staring up at him, her dark eyes wide. She had the appearance of something lovely and fragile and delicate, but was anything _but_ that. She was lethal as a snake, but so calm. So self-contained. And almost impossible to read. That was part of the attraction, he supposed. Trying to find ways to break through the outer shell, see who she really was inside. "Please, for the sake of the spirits, say something, will you?" He released his grip on the ceiling strut to run a hand over his fringe, and his feet promptly came off the floor. Rel snorted with reluctant laughter, and put his hand back up to steady himself. _What did she tell me the other day? Someone needs to be willing to fail. A metaphor for all of life, it seems. You have to be willing to expose yourself to danger. Something I've never had a problem with. No problem at all with facing incoming fire from batarians or mechs or turrets. _But that was just relying on training and instinct, and neither had ever failed him in that respect. _And, years ago, I didn't have a problem with being willing to fail when it was Dara. . . . except. . . I never thought I'd fail, did I?_ There'd been the visions from the simulator. A clear and shining path for both of them. And he'd lived for that path, ensconced in a cocoon of the _now,_ looking only to that future. And since that comfortable cocoon had been breached, he'd done, truthfully, little but dwell on it. He'd been angry about it. Had tried to figure out what had gone wrong. Whose fault it was. Tried to fix it, even, only to realize that it was far past fixing, because they weren't the same people that they'd been before. . . and that he wasn't even sure he liked the person that he was now. _How can you expect anyone else to like you, much less love you, when you can't even stand your own company?_

But in the past month or so, even just in the past few weeks, he'd caught himself thinking more and more about the future again. And it hadn't just been in terms of becoming a Spectre or not. Or the immediate legal fiasco that was certain to ensue when the whole _tal'mae_ thing hit the galactic news. He was thinking about who he wanted to be. He might not be able to be who he was when he was sixteen again, but there had been a freshness and a vitality to that time that he didn't usually feel anymore. Unless he was fully in an adrenal flush. But couldn't some of that be mitigated by finding. . . other ways in which to risk failure?

And with those thoughts had come others. Perhaps asking his father about the possibility of terraforming Rakhana back to viability. Establishing drell colonies on suitably arid worlds. How the drell were as much slaves to the hanar as the batarians were to their caste system. That the geth had, more or less, been servants of the quarians, until they'd achieved sapience, and then had immediately rebelled, lest they be attacked for choosing not to serve anymore. His mind had felt active and alive, and even the tedium of xenopsych coursework didn't sound quite so bad when there was a _point_ to it.

Seheve, who'd been holding onto the back of one of the chairs, blinked several times. "Oh." She swallowed again, and, carefully, reached up a hand to touch the back of his as he continued to caress the line of her jaw softly. "I . . . can't speak to your rights," she said, diffidently. "Or to the past. But I can say that I am . . . interested in you." So difficult to say the words. "Very much so." Seheve lowered her eyes to the floor. "It is. . . I don't know how. . . "

There was a distinct pause.

"You don't know how to what?"

"Anything," Seheve admitted on a sigh, and began to explain her training. Rel was appalled. Where turian indoctrination made everyone the _same_, in a sense, using peer pressure and communal living and acceptance of discipline and orders—even contradictory orders—to break mental barriers, drell assassin training used isolation instead. Segregation. Complete separation from the rest of society, immersion in the _Words of the Enkindlers_, and the words of the master who trained a group of students. Almost every lesson was an individual exercise. Drell assassins were, in fact, not trained to be part of the unit, not trained to share their spirits. They were trained, instead, to cut themselves off, in almost every way. Where a turian was taught that no one was special, drell assassins were taught that they were different. Different from everyone else. They weren't _better_ than anyone else; no. They were giving themselves up to a higher cause so that others would not have to do so. But they were making themselves into nothing. Deliberately. No mind, no thought, no self. Just tools.

"How about before you went to the Master of Assassins?" he asked, quietly.

Seheve looked at the floor. "My family lived with Olonkoa from the time I was six years old. There was no book in the house besides the _Words of the Enkindlers._ There was no extranet access. There were no vids. There was prayer, and there were the words of the Master. My brother hated it. He would sneak books home. And was beaten for it. I looked at one, once. Read the words. Looked at the pictures. It was about lost Rakhana, and the old gods." Her voice was a little dreamy as she remembered the pictures in the book. The old temples. "We were both beaten that night by our father. I promised not to disobey the Master's rules again. Oeric refused to make that promise, and was beaten every night for the rest of the week."

_Severe discipline, segregation from the rest of society, dogmatic ideology, replacement of loyalty onto a charismatic, authoritarian figure. . . . it's exactly like what Sam's always said about cults_, Rel realized, numbly. "So," Rel asked, after a moment. "If I were to ask you, say, how it is that drell court one another?"

Seheve's dark eyes flicked up at him. "No vids. No books," she repeated, uncomfortably. "And my parents did not. . . "

"They never embraced in front of you?"

Seheve looked off into the distance, and frowned slightly. "Not once we entered the Master's house, no." She considered it for a moment. "I remember seeing them lick one another when I was very young."

Rel's thumb stopped moving across her chin, where her mandible would be, if she were turian. "Lick?" he repeated.

Seheve nodded, once. "Lick. Bite. And I think press their lips together." She frowned. "The memory is faint, by drell standards. I must have been only eighteen months old." She glanced up at him. "This is not how turians court, is it?"

_Licking? Well, the compounds on their skin have to have __some__ use. Other than making predators on their planet avoid them or spit them out._ Rel shook his head. "No. . . well, biting is part of it." He sighed, and managed to get into one of the couches, hooking his feet under one of the metal bars at the end of it to keep from floating away. "I think we might want to make ourselves comfortable, Seheve. It's. . . been over an hour since we blew away from the ship. And I still don't see movement out there. Theirs or ours. This is . . . probably going to be a long wait. No matter _who_ finds us." He reached up, and caught her wrist lightly, drawing her to him in the zero-g environment. No effort whatsoever.

She coiled up beside him, and, after a moment, Rel snorted. "Damn."

"Something is wrong?"

He gave her a look. "What that another joke?"

Seheve thought about it. "Not intentionally." Her lips quirked. "However, under the circumstances. . . I suppose I should have asked, "what _else_ is wrong?'"

Rel snorted again. "Yeah." He hooked an arm off the side of the deceleration couch and wrapped his other arm around her shoulders, armor and all, tentatively. Wondering what she'd make of the gesture. After a moment, she hitched a little closer, and he exhaled in relief. "It just occurred to me that the spirit statue I was making of you was aboard the _Estallus_. I have to start all over."

_Again, not a bad metaphor for everything lately_, he realized. He was starting all over again. And that wasn't, necessarily, a bad thing.

"You were carving a statue? Of _me_?" She sounded so surprised, it made him chuckle a little.

"Yeah. It's a hobby." One he'd largely kept to himself, until Dara had encouraged him. That was a pang, but. . . past and present and future. They commingled. And always would. The trick seemed to be finding a way to live with it. "People tell me I have spirit-eyes. I don't know if it's true, but I do try to make the statues live a little." He reached up the hand that was resting on her shoulder, and lightly traced a gloved finger along the line of scales along her scalp. "You look a little uncomfortable."

"Inviting yourself to be depicted is vanity." She shrugged a little. "Or so I was taught."

"You didn't invite. I just . . . depicted." Her oddly formal way of speaking made him want to poke her a little now and again. "I depict freely and often. And if a rescue ship doesn't come for us soon, I might be trying to depict something in the foam from one of the other deceleration couches." Rel frowned. "Though now I'm short of carving knives."

Seheve looked up at him, her lips curling upwards. "Was that a joke?"

"It might have been."

**Lysandra, _Raedia_, December 25, 2196**

From the _Raedia_, Lysandra had a very good view of the brood-mother vessel and its capabilities. "What are they doing?" Captain Arius murmured, clearly fascinated, as crewmembers ran around the bridge, putting out small fires.

"I surmise that this is a variant on a biotic pull attack. A sustained use of manufactured gravity, in essence. They breached the batarian shields, damaged the hull with their corrosive missiles. . . and now they are literally pulling at the hull. Tearing away sections of plating. The ablative hull. The thermal tiles." Lysandra was trying not to picture this used against her own hull, in an attack on her own crew. Only inches, really, separated her organics from the vacuum of space on most days. Inches that were well insulated, of course, and heavily protected, but still. . . the rachni were peeling the batarian ship, starting with the weakened areas and wrenching ten foot chunks of metal and ceramic polyresin coating away.

Inside the ship, she could picture damage control teams falling back, desperately trying to get to hatches before automatic systems closed them against the explosive decompression. Scrambling to find something to hold onto. She clearly saw half a dozen bodies fly out of the side of the damaged batarian ship, arms and legs waving wildly as the batarians tumbled into space. "Can we get an angle to try to open fire on the batarians again?'

"Not without dropping below the rachni ship currently positioned ahead of us. Also, the Thanix cannon is inoperable. Crews are effecting repairs. Javelins are on-line, however."

Arius nodded, once. "We can't just sit here behind them, cowering like pyjacks," he muttered. "Drop us down, and bring us around to fire broad-side at the batarians," he called to the pilot, who immediately followed the orders, and then more missiles streaked out through the void. . . .

The battle itself lasted several hours. The second of the four batarian ships exploded, concussively, after a ten minute pitched firefight, sending another shockwave and more debris through the area. The two remaining batarian ships tried, desperately, to tear at the shields of the rachni vessels with their biotic weapons. Lysandra wished, earnestly, that she could _hear_ the rachni's song as they responded with their own biotic weapons. Terrifying things that she could barely register with her sensors, except as inexplicable gravitic waves. At one point, the brood-mother vessel tore open the engine section of the third ship, and micro-singularities appeared to form inside the ship's reactor core. "They did _what_? Arius asked, when she reported this.

"They appear to require a line of sight on the target to do this," Lysandra reported, uneasily. "Otherwise, I cannot explain why they needed to open the engine compartment to space before actually deploying the singularities." There was a _hum_ of background radiation in space all around them now as they and the rachni broke and, like a wolf pack, surrounded the final batarian vessel. . . . just as more batarian ships emerged from the mass relay.

"She's challenging them again," Captain Arius said, looking up and grinning openly. "I wonder if this batch will be any smarter than the first."

"She?"

"The queen, Lysandra. Bargain-Singer, if the mission brief was correct." Arius patted one of her consoles.

"I do _wish_ that I could hear them," she muttered, and her gun crews, the Thanix cannons back online, their overloaded relays replaced, opened fire on the batarian ships. _I can detect, faintly, biotic energy. I can detect the __results__ of its use. . . gravitic distortions, in the main. There's been very little research done on how it works, however. Perhaps it's something on the quantum level?_

"You sound like Spectre Jaworski."

The words, spoken less than a second after her own speech had finished, reminded Lysandra that now was not the time to devote any system resources to a problem that had irked her from the first moment that Sky had joined her crew. "There's a reason for that," the NCAI admitted, at least eighty percent of her system resources focused on combat at the moment. However, Lysandra's attention flicked to the vid cam feed of the med bay, where her . . . third-mother. . . of sorts. . . lay, still unconscious.

Every one of the SR-3 NCAIs had been given different, random amounts of each parent personality template. Demostata, on the _Nereia_, for example, was probably the most balanced product of Laetia's 'breeding program,' being twenty percent each Rinus, Rellus, Kallixta, Dara, and twenty percent Laetia, which effectively made her ten percent Joker and ten percent EDI. Or, looked at another way, sixty percent turian, thirty percent human, and ten percent Reaper-human hybrid. Lysandra and Cassandra, however, by a quirk of randomization, had wound up with a much different mix. After Dara had come aboard the Raedia, and Lysandra had found so much affinity with her, the NCAI had gone through the records and realized that she was based much more heavily on Dara and Rinus than on any other parent personality. Forty percent Dara, thirty percent Rinus, twenty percent Laetia, and only five percent each of Rellus and Kallixta. Cassandra, of the _Sollostra_, had a similar mix, but was forty percent Dara, thirty percent _Kallixta_, and so on down the line. Which explained why both of them had an affinity for exploration and scientific discovery, but where Cassandra threw herself into missions such as charting beyond the Omega relay with gleeful abandon, Lysandra tended to be more cautious in her approach.

The vid cam feed showed that Dara was still strapped down to the bed—a must, for patients during combat maneuvers, especially in situations when artificial gravity might cut out. Spectre Sidonis was in the chair beside her bed, in full armor, and clearly concerned.

All of this had taken milliseconds to register and process. Lysandra diverted processing power away from the question of her third-mother's condition and the question of the rachni's biotic song, and returned her attention to the battle at hand.

The batarian ships that had just emerged through the relay did not appear to be any more apt to retreat than the first four had been. The rachni ships finished destroying the last ship from the first group, and turned, sharply, to face the new threat. Violet lines of light, to destroy shields. Projectiles that erupted on contact with the hulls. Chemical interactions with the hull surfaces, highly acidic. And then, gravitic distortions again. More localized, more intense. The rachni weren't just pulling off damaged sections of hull or trying to rip off hatch covers this time. "What are they doing?" Arius muttered, looking at the tactical screen as the _Raedia_ once more locked on to a target and fired again.

"I am uncertain," Lysandra admitted. "They appear to be focusing on the . .. yes. The maneuvering thrusters." Each batarian ship had smaller attitude thrusters at their sides to allow for precision turns. The rachni were focusing their gravitic pull on the struts that held the thrusters in place.

Arius watched in fascination. "They're experimenting," he said, after a moment. "Proof of concept testing. Seeing what they can do." His head lifted, and he snorted a little under his breath. "Spectre Sky informs me that Bargain-Singer wished to see if they could disable a ship this way, as opposed to destroying it outright." His eyes defocused for a moment.

"What?" Lysandra asked, a little irritably, assisting in re-routing power to her forward shields.

"I'm telling the rachni that I'd prefer fewer witnesses. I think the combined fleet would rather hold rachni capabilities as secret as possible for the time being." Arius' voice was calm and collected.

And the rachni responded to that recommendation, pouring on the firepower now. Dodging the batarian attacks, or catching them on their own shields. The _Raedia_ concentrated on jamming the batarians' comm signals, ensuring that they couldn't ask for more reinforcements.

And in the end, the four rachni escort ships had a few blackened marks on their shimmering hulls, the brood-mother vessel was unscathed, and the _Raedia_, while damaged, had survived the battle, in spite of everything. "Let's start trying to track down the escape pods," her captain told Lysandra. "There were a hell of a lot of explosions around here. Set up the limits of our search."

Lysandra projected a sphere onto the star map in CIC, which she had zoomed in around the vicinity of the local mass relay. "The outermost limit should be less than a hundred thousand kilometers, given several hours of combat and the speed at which the life-pods initially left the _Estallus_, and additional velocity acquired from the explosion of the _Estallus_ and the batarian ship. Subsequent explosions and collisions may have changed their angle, but probably would not have increased their velocity."

It was a very large cubic area to search. They were assisted in this, however, by several things. First, every lifepod had a transponder beacon aboard. Second, even if the beacon was knocked off-line, most of the humans and turians had biometric chips in their hands, designed to respond when pinged by a ship in orbit, at a distance of at least a hundred miles. Third, they had rachni on the various ships, who could reach out for the 'song' of minds within, apparently, at least a hundred miles in the case of Bargain-Singer. . . so long as she was aboard her ship, with its systems for biotic amplification in place around her. But even with sensors to assist, it was still a _very_ large area to search. And each time they found a life-pod, the _Raedia_ had to stop, bring it aboard into a docking bay. Retrieve the occupants. Mark the pod as 'recovered' and put it _back out in space_, because they didn't have room to store them. The rachni ships were attempting to retrieve pods as well, but it was still slow going. It was, Lysandra mused, somewhat akin to a huge shipwreck at sea. When the passengers had been knocked overboard with lifejackets, perhaps, but were spread out by wind and tide at night. Only instead of being contained to two dimensions, the rescuers were having to work in three.

This was going to take hours. Eighteen, twenty-four. . . maybe even as much as thirty-six.

Fortunately, every pod, if undamaged, had air and water enough to last four to six occupants for three days. Minimal heating requirements, although a turian or a drell or an unsuited quarian would probably be cold; a human or an asari would probably be chilly, but more comfortable. And everyone aboard the _Estallus_, besides the rachni, of course, should have been in their suits. That added a day or two of air, and should keep them warm. Each pod had minimal maneuvering capabilities, as well, largely in the form of gyroscopes, so that they could correct spins and make attitude adjustments if they needed to enter a planet's atmosphere. Not that any terrestrial planets were in the vicinity, but if they needed to make a landing, each pod also had parachutes.

No, the crew should be safe. Lysandra simply did not know how many of the _rachni_ had managed to get off the _Estallus._ "I know that over half of the rachni came to the _Raedia_," she mentioned to Captain Arius. "Mostly out of concern for Dara Jaworski, I believe. But some were on the _Estallus_. Can the rachni hear any of their kin? Their songs?"

Arius put his head to the side and listened for a moment to Sky and Glory, who were on the bridge now, helping with recovery efforts. Glory had several visible holes in his carapace, which had been filled, temporarily, with some sort of epoxy, probably by workers. "They say that Bargain-Singer has found some of the soldiers. Many of the workers and their. . . 'low-songs'. . . cannot be heard at the moment, however. "

"That would be a tragedy," Lysandra said, softly. "They are all part of you, are they not?"

Arius shook his head. "And now, I'm a translator."

"I would speak to them directly if I could _hear_ them," Lysandra replied indignantly.

Arius grinned at her avatar. "They say . . . they sing gratitude for your concern, Lysandra." He sobered for a moment. "But it might mean that they're simply out of range." Arius paused. "And, for the record, I don't want to picture an entire pod completely filled with the little things, however. That might give some of our techs a bit of a surprise when they open it."

Lysandra laughed out loud. "Yes. There might be screams involved."

**Rel and Seheve, Relay Space and _Raedia, _December 26, 2196**

With the engines off, and deliberately so, the cabin was getting cold rapidly. But still, it was better to use the cold air of the pod first, in case the pod developed a leak later, after colliding with debris, than to use up their suit air, first. So their helmets stayed off, and their suits and armor attempted to keep their bodies warm. They huddled close. Talking, as they had in the sparring rooms between forms for weeks now. Trying to get to know each other a little better.

But in the face of hours and hours of privacy, with a female with whom he had literally just escaped death, and with whom might yet face batarians, death, or captivity, it was difficult _not_ to notice the smooth, supple sheen of her scales. The gold-flecked tinge to them, visible even in the low red emergency lights of the pod. Rel leaned in, after a while, catching her scent, as he had aboard the _Estallus_ just. . . hours ago. Lip-plates falling a little open to taste her again as well as smell her. The odd, alkaloid tinge to her skin. "Seheve. . . " Rel exhaled. "I don't really have the right to ask this. I'm bound by my word. By _tal'mae_. But. . . "

Seheve looked up at him. "It seems to me, sometimes, that turians are slaves to their laws. To their duties. Are you not?" She put her head to the side, and looked at him almost speculatively.

Rel's head rocked backwards in shock. It wasn't what he'd expected. At all. A hot retort leaped to just behind his teeth. . . and then he stopped the words. Dawning realization. "Was that a deliberate provocation? Were you actually attempting to _argue_ with me?"

Seheve looked hopeful. "Did it work?"

Rel smiled, and he said, very quietly, "To be honest. . . I always hated arguing. I'd slide away from it when my mother would start shouting, because she _always_ argued." He sighed. "I was . . . and am . . . a perfectly terrible turian. I started off hating arguing, and then I wound up craving fighting and adrenaline . . . and now I have no idea what I want."

"Is it possible, that in your heart, you crave peace?"

_Oh, spirits._ Rel put his head down on her shoulder for a moment. _She sees me. She sees things in me I didn't remember were there._ "Yes."

"That is not a sin," she whispered.

Rel couldn't help himself anymore. _Maybe I'm not a very good turian. Maybe not even a very good person. But it feels like there's a path here, and I don't want to turn from it. Not when I've finally found stable ground._ He turned his head a fraction of an inch and, very gently, bit the side of her throat. Just the barest scratch of teeth on scales. He'd only ever bitten two females before. Kassa, the once, and Dara, with her soft skin, many times. So delicious not to have to be so exquisitely careful with fragile skin. Seheve froze, evidently a little startled, and Rel pulled back. She was, in a way, even less experienced than Dara had been. Dara had had media exposure. Visions of the future, or at least, of shared experiences from those in the simulator with them. Seheve had none of that. "Did you like that?" Rel asked her softly.

"I. . . believe so." Seheve turned her head to look at him out of the corner of her eyes. So very dark. Rel had played handball with a half-dozen drell boys growing up, but none had been a particular friend. Very few drell girls in his age group, too. And none of them had been even remotely like Seheve. "Perhaps you might try it again?" she suggested, tentatively. "That I might compare?"

Rel chuckled a little, and bit her again. Little, light nibbles. And was rewarded with a soft moan of pleasure—which resonated through his very teeth. Sub-harmonics in her voice. Rel's jaw clamped down a little tighter in response, and he let go of the arm of the couch to wrap his left arm fully around her now. . . which meant that they promptly drifted more or less upright, feet still hooked under the metal bar, but no longer holding themselves down.

Seheve started to laugh, and, in retaliation, Rel flicked his tongue across the bare scales between his teeth. Lightly, but his tongue rasped against them, both with and against the grain. The taste was . . . odd. Pleasant, actually. A little like. . . something sweet, but medicinal at the same time.

"No!" Seheve told him, and Rel jerked his head away.

"What's wrong? You didn't like that?" She'd been moaning, he'd felt her body relax, surely she'd _liked_ that. . . .

"No, I did—but you're exposing yourself to my skin secretions. In a human, they would cause hallucinations." Seheve was agitated, and put her hands to both sides of his face in concern. "In a turian. . . anaphylactic shock? Poisoning?"

Rel looked down at her. "You believe you're poisonous." _Is that a real belief, or is that years of conditioning, to think of yourself as something inimical to life? Apart from life?_

Seheve looked absolutely wretched. "I could be toxic to you."

"I'll take my chances." And when she looked ready to object, Rel touched her face with his gloved hands lightly. "Krogan regeneration, remember? I might not be like Dempsey. . . I'm fairly sure that the regeneration wouldn't restart my heart. But it might also take a hell of a lot to kill me." He leaned in again. "You're not going to hurt me. I'm not going to hurt you." _Spirits, make my words true. _Dara had assured him that the mating urge was _not_ going to trigger the blood-rage. That the testosterone, so chemically similar to adrenaline for him, was not going to result in him tearing a mate apart. "Stop me if I do _anything_ that you don't like. But don't hit me. Hitting me. . . fighting me. . . will probably turn me on." Rel inhaled and exhaled through his nose now. "To stop a bite—"

"Nerve bundles on either side of the mandibles," Seheve said. And she pressed her fingers on either side of his jaw with delicate precision. Reminding him, again, of who she _really_ was. "There are other stuns I could effect, but you would need to be out of your armor, Rellus."

"Under the circumstances, Seheve. . . _Rellus_ sounds a little formal." Rel bit under her jaw, evoking another low hum of pleasure.

"Rel, then?"

"Please, yes."

Light little flicks of his tongue made her gasp. Start to hiss a little, too. Light little bites along the side of her neck, up along the ear ridge. She rewarded him with gasps and moans of surprise and pleasure. And for himself, the alkaloids on her skin weren't debilitating, thankfully. Rel remembered Dempsey complaining once, in his hearing on Terra Nova, that he couldn't get drunk anymore, between the regeneration and the cybernetics. Rel hadn't really tried alcohol since the gene mod. No time, no inclination. But Seheve was quite literally, a little intoxicating. His fingertips tingled. The edges of his vision blurred, just a trace. He thought he could see different colors and shimmers to her skin now than had been there before, but there was no impairment of judgment, as far as he could tell. Just a gentle, pleasant buzz. One that didn't get any more intense as he continued to bite and lick. . . but he wondered, a little hazily, if her other bodily secretions would have the same effect. If he'd absorb them through his skin. His mucous membranes.

The slight sting of his sharp teeth. "Bite me back. Please."

"Where?"

"Anywhere." His voice was hoarse.

She closed her teeth just under his jaw, and his whole body stiffened in reaction. Seheve pulled back in surprise, and did so sharply enough that she actually pulled loose from the restraining bar of the couch, and the only things that kept her from floating away were his arms around her. "No, I liked that, don't stop." His voice was a rough rasp against her ear. Seheve's eyes widened. She couldn't have imagined that he could look so. . . vulnerable. So much in need of her. So much in need of comfort. And she _wanted_ to comfort him, she found. Wanted to give him solace and surcease.

To Rel's enormous relief, the testosterone surge wasn't inciting any blood-rage in him. Not yet, anyway. He could imagine that physical exertion for an extended period, as in physical intimacy, might still trigger it. And yet. . . they'd been biting for about an hour, and had taken just enough of a break from it to turn the heat in the pod back on for a while, when Seheve, smiling faintly, pushed off a wall and ran into him. Began to bite his throat once more. He couldn't stand it any longer. He had to see the sleek, dark glossiness of her scales. So different from what he was used to, and yet, in a way, almost familiar. Familiar and exotic at the same time. Dizzying combination. He found the latches on her armor and began to unseal them, pulling back to look at her for permission each time.

Her eyes widened, and she whispered, "If a ship finds us—"

"I can get back into my armor inside ninety seconds. It'll take longer than that to bring us aboard a ship. And if they simply fire on the pod from outside. . . " Rel let the thought trail off unspoken. _It might actually be better to die quickly from decompression than to hover in the darkness in our suits, waiting for rescue for a day or two._

He didn't even have to say the words. He could tell she was thinking the same thing. She looked up at him and then back down again. Shyly, almost diffidently, Seheve whispered, "If I _am_ to die today, I would like to have. . . I would like to go without regrets." She paused, and almost laughed. "Well, with at least one less regret, shall we say?"

"And what would you regret, Seheve?" It was a rasp against her ear, and even the sound made her breath catch.

"Not to have known. . . " She could feel a flush burning in her throat, spilling up higher into her face now. Drell blood was dark green-blue; hemecyanic. And while it was scarcely visible under the scale, particularly in the very dim emergency lights of the pod—dimmer for him, surely, than for her—she wondered if he could still somehow sense it. Smell it, maybe, with that acute turian sense of smell. Seheve tried again. "Not to have known . . . "

He bit her throat again, flicking and rubbing his tongue over the scales, then lifted his mouth away. "This?"

"Yes." Her breath caught, and she couldn't say any more. Just helped him unlatch her armor, which spun away through the weightless environment. Chill of the barely heated air on her exposed scales. His fringed head lowering. Finding collarbones, which actually turned out to be exquisitely sensitive. Seheve hissed a little in reaction, clamping her fingers down in the long feather-like scales of his fringe.

"Too much?"

"Not. . . not sure. . . "

"Hmm. How about like this?" He stopped using his teeth and delicately dragged his tongue the length of each collarbone instead, and Seheve's back arched in startled pleasure.

He worked his way lower, finding that sleek waist. Not as slender as a turian female's, but still supple and smooth and strong under the scales. He couldn't resist at all, and bit harder here, feeling her react. And of course, every time she jerked or twitched, he had to compensate. His feet were locked under a metal bar of one of the deceleration couches, but she was only held in place by his arms.

His hands found the connectors that held her leg armor together, and this was more difficult. Rel paused. His mind was struggling. Whispering that _tal'mae_ did still bind him. And yet. . . as Rinus had pointed out, dryly, several times over the past few months, any number of people who were married under _tal'mae_ lived separately. Their spirits were still bound, under the law, but they lived their lives separately. _And if Dara gets her human divorce, will I always be bound?_ he thought. _She might well remarry. Will I always be alone, then? Or am I only as bound as I would make myself? Am I a slave, as Seheve told me I was? A slave to law, a slave to duty, a slave to honor, a slave to __convention__? Which is a word for other people's expectations, really. Because, in truth. . . I would be a willing servant of the law. Of duty. Of honor. But it becomes slavery when those things are empty. Meaningless. _

_Would it be so very bad. . . to unbind myself?_

He'd paused, and she wasn't entirely sure why. She'd thought she'd been as clear as she could be. If they were going to die, out here, alone, in the dark, either by suffocation, cold, decompression, batarian hands, or their own, she wanted one shining moment in her life, one moment of joy that was _hers_, not the memory of the Keepers, not those slow lives, not their memories, from Ruin, of the time-that-was-before. Whatever she might face after death—if anything—she would have one thing, and one thing only that belonged to her. This. This moment here, with him. Impossible to convey it in words. Seheve reached down, touched his head once more. "Why are you stopping?"

"Do you want more?" His head tipped up suddenly, and she could see his eyes focus on her face in the dim red lights.

"_Yes._" The word was a hiss in her urgency. _Please, don't reconsider. Please, don't let that iron sense of duty overtake you. Make you change your mind. _She desperately wanted his warmth, his strength, the feeling of assurance he brought with him wherever he went. The sense that, once he'd made a decision, action was irrevocable and implacable, and somehow _right_.

Cool air caressing lower now, as he unlatched her legplates. Sent them spinning off in the cabin as well. Now he was fully kneeling before her, holding onto her legs, and studying her intimate places with curious eyes and gentle fingers, before biting her inner thigh. Sting of teeth, rasp of tongue, and Seheve felt her back arch again. "Hmm. You like that?"

"Y—oh, yes."

"You're going to have to tell me what feels good, and what doesn't. I'm not going to know," Rel warned her, and turned and bit her other thigh, making her hiss again, her fingers clamping down in his fringe.

"M-middle. Please."

He shifted, and began to apply his tongue to other places. Different configuration than either a human or a turian female, of course. Humans were more external; turians were entirely internal. Drell were in between the two. Rel gently nudged her legs apart, and slid a finger in, gently. He hadn't blunted his claws in months. Moist, at least. _Thank the spirits._ Trying different things. Finding what she liked. Wondering, curiously, if her species had release the way humans and turians did. . . and discovering, to his pleasure, that they did. And that she was _fierce_ with it, her hands clamping down in his fringe, hissing, and, as he took her over the edge, a sort of ululating wail, almost double-voiced, rose from her throat.

He knew he'd emerged fully from his internal cavity, and he wanted her so badly at the moment that he ached. Armor didn't help with this, of course. Rel leaned his head against her hip. So strange, to be with a female who wasn't human. Wasn't Dara. But it felt good. Natural. Right.

"More?" he asked her, and when she whispered assent, gave her more. And more. And more. Till she was clawing at _his_ armor, and biting and licking and kissing his skin. Finding her way down, and then pulling away, startled, at what she found. Which made him _laugh_. Hard enough that his feet slid out from under the metal bar, and they found themselves tumbling through the air. He managed to hold onto her fingertips, which was enough to draw her back to him again. "Hold on. Let me get my feet back on the floor—"

"I do not think that will be necessary, or even valuable," Seheve told him, primly, and then, still clinging to him, edged down again, and then she was doing to him everything he'd done to her. Biting his belly and inner thighs. Licking, sweet flickers of sensation. And lips. _Ah, spirits, her lips. Her tongue. Her mouth. So good. Have missed this so much._ Every part of him in pins and needles from the compounds on her skin. Every part of him threatening to shudder and turn into pure light. Rel managed to hold onto enough control to lift her head away. . . . just as his back hit the wall of the pod. _Thank the spirits I got her mouth away before impact. That could have __hurt__._ "No more," Rel told her, hearing the rasp of his own voice. "I'll spill, and that will make you sick. I'm not even carrying epi-tabs."

He pulled her higher into his arms, just as they began to rebound and drift back across the room again. Her hands crept downwards and caressed him. Adjusted, brought him to her. . . and then began to press against him, moving with all that delicate muscular control. Little undulations, driving him crazy. "Don't want you to have a bad reaction," he managed to gasp out, but then he was sinking in, and he didn't want to fight anymore. Slowly. Oh, so slowly. She was small—so much shorter than Dara, and he suspected her inner passage might be small, too. Smooth dampness. He wanted to lock his teeth in her shoulder and not let go, but he didn't want to draw blood on her. She'd _never_ done any of this before, and he didn't want to panic her. Didn't want to engage the incredible fighting reflexes that he'd seen used in combat against the yahg. Rel growled and got his hand over her throat, and clamped down on the back of his own wrist before starting to move.

Of course, for every action, there was an equal and opposite reaction, and they discovered the third law of motion over and over again in the next hour. They hit the ceiling, the floor, the walls. Scared the cat into leaping off its shelf. . . and then the beast was caught, bouncing from wall to wall itself, and began to yowl.

Laughter began to rise like smoke, in between mutual sounds of pleasure, as they began to work out how to give each other joy. Long, slow waves of it, finally diminishing as they simply held each other, staring out into the darkness of space. Floating free of all ties, free of the gravity that would normally bind them to the ground. Free to let go. Free to let go of everything, past and present and future, and simply _be_, here, in the dark. For the moment, nothing else mattered. There would be time for the past again soon. Time for the present. Time for everything and everyone that bound them. But here, in this moment, they were outside of time. And they were one.

The pod drifted in darkness, and they drifted inside of it. Recovered their various pieces of armor—which they'd periodically bumped into as they'd slowly ricocheted from wall to wall—and got dressed again, at least enough to let the suits work on their body heat once more. Rel found a deceleration couch, and pulled Seheve to him once more. Quiet calm now. Peace.

And still, no ships came.

The lassitude and calm after their encounter slowly dissipated. They verified that their emergency transponder was working. Found the food supplies, and used the MREs' self-heating packs to warm something levo and something dextro, and ate it in the dark. Moving in silence, but harmony at the same time.

At any other time, Rel might have thought, _So __now__ what do I do? Do I go forward with Seheve? Is there a future here? What do I do about Dara?_ And all those concerns were there, at the back of his head, but . . . there was also the strong possibility that there was no future at all.

"What do turians believe, about the afterlife?" Seheve asked, at length.

"That our spirits join with that of our family. Mine will have a bit of a long trip to make. My spirit statue is on Mindoir, for safe-keeping." Rel tried to make a joke of it, but it fell flat.

Seheve considered that. "Would you mind terribly if my spirit went with yours? If it is possible, of course. When I consider my other options. . . I do not think that my father's spirit would welcome mine now. And given that I do not believe that the Enk—the Protheans. . . are gods. . . I doubt my essence would go to them, either." Her voice was dispassionate, as it always tended to be. But Rel could hear fear under it now. Had started to be able to read her emotional states a little more clearly.

Rel stroked a hand over the scales of her scalp. "I don't see why not. If Lantar can adopt a salarian, I don't see why my family couldn't adopt a drell's spirit."

Seheve nodded and exhaled. "Good. There's a certain peace in that, I think." She leaned into him, and stared out at the void.

He'd wondered, back on Shanxi, if she wanted to die, or if she simply didn't care if she did, or didn't. He could see it in her eyes now. She cared. She didn't want to die. But she accepted it, in a way that he couldn't. And never would. It was a fundamental difference between them, and he wondered, idly, what it would mean for them. Of course, such thoughts hardly mattered now. There might be no future here at all, besides a few very long hours in the dark and the cold.

The pod rocked. Both of their heads snapped upwards, and then they reached for their guns. "I don't see anything out the side window," Rel snapped out.

"There's nothing at the pilot window, either," Seheve reported, sounding just a hint rattled. "How are we moving?"

They grabbed onto the backs of couches again as the pod moved and swayed. Out the side window, they could see the star field shifting. . . . And then all around them, the walls of some sort of docking bay. Sudden weight in their limbs as a gravity field enclosed them, and Loki hissed in annoyance as she fell to the ground, landing on her paws. Out the side window, Rel could see a hatch closing, sealing off a bay behind them. "So," Rel said, tightly. "Either we're rescued, or we're captured."

Their suit radios crackled to life. _"Hello in there,"_ came a human and blissfully familiar voice. Sam Jaworski. _"I've got biometric chips saying we've got Rel and Seheve. . . . and a third biosign. What the hell is in there with you two?"_

Rel sagged in total relief. . . and a rush of a dozen other emotions at once. Joy. Guilt. Exultation. Confusion. Amusement. "Ah, that would be Seheve's cat, Spectre," he replied over the radio.

"_Well, shit. That explains it. The rachni grabbed you and towed you here to the Raedia. We're trying to sort out who goes where. Have you out in two shakes, all right?"_

"No rush," Rel replied, and tabbed his radio off. He turned and looked at Seheve for a long moment. "So. We're not dead."

Seheve shook her head. "No. We're not."

_So now what the hell do we do?_ Rel wondered, as the pod's hatch slid open, and light shone in for the first time in over eighteen hours. Outside, humans and turians and even a few rachni, very busily working. Sam offering each of them a hand to help them out. Seheve picking up the cat and hopping down ahead of Rel, silent and self-contained as always. As if nothing had happened at all.

Sam's hand, gripping his arm as Rel jumped down out of the pod's hatch onto the platform the crews had rigged up. Sound of cheers from everyone as another survivor made it home. "Damned glad to see you're all right," Sam told him, with a quick clap on the shoulder.

"Rinus and Kallixta?"

"They're fine. Got them in about an hour ago. They've already been checked out in med bay, which is where you're heading next."

Rel reflected grimly that he should probably request a human medic, if one happened to be available. There was drell smell all _over_ him at the moment. _Actually, I should probably tell Seheve to request the same thing._ . . . "What about everyone else?" Rel asked, as Sam walked him down the platform to the waiting medics. Behind them, machinery began to move the escape pod back towards the landing bay doors, where it would be expelled from the ship, to make room for the next one found.

Sam shook his head. "Valak, Nala, and their little one were picked up six hours ago. They've had a hell of a couple of days. Siara and Makur were picked up three hours ago. . .with _their_ damned cat, too."

Rel did a head count in his mind. "That's all the Spectre personnel from the _Estallus_." It was a relief, pure and simple. He'd known many of these people for years. "How many people do we know we've lost from the crew?"

"Four life-pods were breached." Sam's tone was taut. "One of them held two dozen rachni soldiers and about fifty workers. Sky tells me that they actually were in a hibernation state—the cold of space actually knocked 'em out, so they didn't need to breathe. The rachni are apparently trying to warm them up and see if they're going to be okay. The other three had humans and turians aboard. So, eighteen crew in the _Raedia_ morgue right now. And god only knows how many more we'll find."

Rel swallowed, and waved off the medics. "I'll walk to the med bay," he told them. Seheve had turned back to look at him and wait. Here in the light and the crowd of the docking bay, reality was returning. Past and present and future and all the connections he had with people. He glanced at Seheve, and then at Sam. As carefully as he could, he said, "It's been what, eighteen hours since the fight started?" It felt like longer. "Are Serana and Dara all right, Sam? Last I heard, they were in med bay." The concern for his sister was real. And the concern for Dara would probably be there until he died, too.

Sam grimaced, and his eyes were bleak. "Serana's up and walking. No nerve damage. As for Dara. . . they pulled the breathing tube this morning. That's all I know. I've been down here, but Eli said he'd send me a message the instant she opens her eyes. I imagine you can go see her, if you want to, when you've finished checking out in med bay, yourself."

**Elijah, _Raedia, _December 26, 2196**

Eli had done his best to stay out of the doctors' way over the past forty-eight hours. He'd slept in the damned uncomfortable med bay chair the first night, woken up every hour on the hour by some nurse or another who'd checked vitals, administered shots, made sure that the breathing tube was clear, and moved back behind the curtain again. He'd nodded when they told him encouraging things, but had, largely, been relying on the rachni song around him to help keep calm. And had kept his thoughts pouring into Dara's mind, as best he could, just as he kept his hand entwined with hers.

Sam had come in to relieve him early the morning of the second day. "You need breakfast and a shower, son. And then get into your armor. Chances are, we're going to have combat today."

Eli had nodded without speaking. Gotten breakfast and a shower, but hadn't bothered to shave. Shaving took time, and he was deathly afraid that if he weren't there, Dara would sink deeper into the darkness. Or that she'd wake up, and he wouldn't be there.

He'd taken the chair opposite Sam's on returning, watching, expressionlessly, as Sam stroked Dara's hair back from her slack face. "Gave us all a hell of a scare, kiddo," Sam told her softly. "But you know what? It's time to wake up. You. . . don't want to be late for school, do you, sweetie?" Sam looked down at her, then over at Eli. "Anything?"

Eli shook his head. "There's . . . song," he told Sam, with a little hitch of his shoulders. "Very faint. It's there, though."

Sam sighed, and leaned down to give Dara a kiss on the forehead. "Okay, sweetie. I'll be back later. Be good." He stood, gave Eli a look that, to Eli's mind, said _you damned sure better take care of her_, and left.

Then active combat had begun. The ship had shaken. Gravity had damned well cut out. Impact of torpedoes on the hull. Through it all, Eli sat beside Dara's bed, and held her hand, with his suit gloves off, to ensure skin contact. And he talked to her. Rambling, one-sided conversation. "This whole space combat thing, _sai'kaea_? It's for the _birds_. Right turn, left turn, gravity cuts out, gravity comes back on, half the shit in the med bay falls to the floor—guess I know why nothing up here is made of glass, huh?—high speed turn, inertial dampening systems take a goddamn nosedive, and suddenly everyone even in the middle of the ship is taking three Gs. And then the freaking gravity cuts back out again." He stroked her hair back from her face. "Guess you're used to this part. I'm not."

No answer, but the doctors had mentioned that humans in comas responded to physical contact. . . and certainly to verbal stimulation. Which was why Eli was keeping up this low-voiced monologue. "Remember the time Lin and you and I and Telinus went for a run on Mindoir, and they went off ahead, and because we were going along so quietly, we got to see that herd of little white-tailed deer? I'd never seen them outside of nature documentaries before. And you told me about watching them from the deer blind with your dad and your grandpa. I didn't tell you, but I was actually really jealous. You had so much more family than I did. Grandpas and grandmas who talked with your parents still. Aunts and uncles and at least one cousin. And now here I am, up to my neck in half-brothers and half-sisters. And you've got AI kids and a rachni daughter. God, life is so fucking weird." He shifted his hand up and stroked her hair as the ship shook again. "Sorry about the thunder. Batarians apparently won't take no for an answer out there."

Three hours, maybe more, of helplessness compounded with helplessness. He couldn't do anything aboard the ship to help, and felt absolutely useless here in the med bay.

Finally, an all-clear sounded over the comm system. Eli looked up as Lin popped his head through the curtain. "Hey, _fradu_," Lin said, his eyes flicking down to Dara. "They're starting recovery procedures down in the shuttle bay. I'm going to go help."

Eli nodded. Technically, he should probably volunteer, but _technically_ wasn't going to get him out of this chair. Not till Dara opened her eyes. "Serana doing okay?" Eli asked, a little desultorily.

Lin nodded. "Yeah. She's at physical therapy right now. Probably one more day of observation here in the med bay. . . assuming there's space. Depends on casualties coming in from the _Estallus_ life-pods, anyway.'" Lin shook his head now. "She'll probably want to sit with Dara this afternoon. I'll be by, too."

"Okay." Eli looked down again, and was mildly surprised when a taloned hand gripped his shoulder. He looked up and met Lin's eyes again. Neither of them spoke, but Eli felt infinitesimally better. Lin had their backs.

That buoying of his spirits only lasted a short while. He'd been watching and listening to her for a long time now. Hadn't had much sleep at all in the past thirty-six hours. And while the little workers kept singing encouragement, it was hard to stay positive.

After three or four hours or so of listening to people shuffle in and out of the med bay on the other side of the curtain, the gratitude in people's voices when they realized that they were going to be okay. . . .a doctor came in, checked her vitals, and removed the breathing tube. "This is progress," the doctor, a human male, told Eli cheerfully. "She's definitely breathing on her own, and all the repairs look like they're holding." He left.

—_Good. Now, we help. _1812 and Chopin scrambled onto the bed. —_Many-Voices, we will need you to sing helping-song._

_Huh?_

Wolfgang skittered up onto the table beside the bed, and attempted to pick up one of the plastic cups there, which Eli had been using for water. "Oh," Eli said. "I get it. Royal jelly time. You sure this isn't going to poison her?"

—_She has eaten it before. On the __Lightsinger__-ship._

"What's in it?"

—_Nutrients. Something little-queen calls 'hormones,' but that we call_— A shimmer of light and song, the equivalent of complex molecular chains and chemicals filled Eli's head. —_This will help her heal._

And so, Eli held up a cup and, only raising his eyebrows slightly, watched the workers secrete royal jelly into it. —_We would secrete this directly into her mouth orifice, but think that singers of healing-songs would object if they saw. Maybe sing fear-songs very loudly._

"Yeah. There'd be screaming." Eli scrounged up a plastic spoon in a wrapper out of a nearby drawer, and began to drip the substance into Dara's mouth. "I'm trusting you guys."

He was actually very encouraged when her lips actually closed on it, though he thought that might just be a swallowing reflex.

Twelve hours after that, his eyes were burning. He'd spent most of the day sending her memories. Holding Caelia up to touch the snow as it fell in the backyard on Mindoir. Two days later, Dara coming over to teach Caelia how to build a snow fort—not that Dara had seen much snow in Texas, of course, but she'd been to Colorado a few times. Eli pelting Dara with snowballs, as Caelia shrieked in excitement. Getting pelted _back_ not a few times. How much he'd wanted to kiss her there, in the snow, with their noses and faces cold and wet, but he hadn't. There'd been Rel, and Siara, and everything else in the damned world, and she'd closed down again near the end of the visit. Further back. The night at the cave. The fact that her first kiss on his lips at the funeral had stolen his breath away. The grim, quiet voice at the back of his head as he'd stood there at her first wedding, and even, hell, at her _tal'mae_ rites on Macedyn, thinking, _It should have been me, but what the hell. I'm their friend, and I'll never say a fucking word about it. I'll find my own way._

Now, however, he was out of memories, and had resorted to reading to her. He'd started, when Serana was there, by reading _The Maltese Falcon_ out loud. "Samuel Spade's jaw was long and bony, his chin a jutting v under the more flexible v of his mouth. . . . His yellow-grey eyes were horizontal. . .He looked rather pleasantly like a blond satan." Eli read on. Did the 'tough guy' voice for Sam Spade. Did the 'sleaze ball' voice for Archer. Managed a breathy and distraught, higher-pitched voice for Miss Wonderly, and a sly, knowing voice for Effie Perine, Sam's secretary. And the plot thickened. What started out as a routine case—a young girl, led astray by an older man—one with a wife and children, apparently in England ("They always do, though not always in England."), soon proved to be much, much more.

"That's how your father used to read it to you," Serana said, after a while.

Eli looked up. "Yeah." It was one of the best memories he had of Darren Stockton, really. His dad, doing the voices of all the characters. His dad's colorful commentary on Archer, the sleazy partner of the noble, if tarnished Spade. It reminded him of when the world had been warm and safe. Before all the arguing between his parents had started. Before everything else had happened. He remembered Serana reading it to him while they'd been on leave on Bastion.

"You never read it to me." Not an accusation, just a fact.

"It's this, or I break out the asari love poetry," Eli said, trying for levity. "But that's a little more for closed door time." He was balancing the datapad on one knee with his left hand, and holding Dara's hand in his right. And then he went back to reading.

At some point, Eli set the datapad aside, and pillowed his head on the side of the bed, just trying to let his eyes rest for a while. But he kept murmuring to her now, in English. Asari. Turian. For the moment, turian. _"Remember when you were poisoned, and I told you Rel's spirit was probably going to cross the galaxy to find you, and give you strength? I remember touching your hand and trying to give you my strength, my spirit, too. Trying to pour it into you, the way Kella poured herself into me when she died._"

He shifted into asari. _"I want to share your life. I want to share mine with you. I want to open to you, and for you to open to me. The world is darkness and desolation to me without your light, my more-than-fair, my eternally-fair. I told you when I gave you my breath, I will not stay in a world without your light. You keep me steady in my orbit, Dara. You make the tides flow."_

In English now, so her wandering mind could hear it and follow his words back to her body. "I love you, _sai'kaea_. _Amatra_. Sweetheart. I always have. First and best and brightest, and I should never have let it go so long without telling you. Without giving you the damned words. Come back to me. And I won't just say them. We'll _live_ them, all right?" He kissed the back of her hand.

A soft sound, a footstep, came from behind him, and Eli snapped upright, and then groaned as his back protested. "It's just me," Siara said. She was out of her armor, and looked tired beyond belief. "You don't have to be so jumpy. I didn't hear anything I haven't suspected for _years_ anyway."

Her smile was sly, and just a little tart, and her words had him completely flat-footed for a moment as he stared at her. "You . . . made it off the _Estallus_." Eli looked at her blankly for a moment. "Well, thank god."

"Something like twelve hours in a lifepod with a krogan, four rachni soldiers, and a very nervous leopard. Who kept trying to pee all over the damn place. " Siara stretched, and looked at the monitors again. "Looks like she's very close to waking up, judging from the EEGs."

"They've looked like that for a while. Doctors say that could be the workers or my mental activity being echoed there." Eli exhaled. A black cloud of guilt had started to form over his head. "I didn't get to her in time, did I? She was gone too long before I started CPR."

Siara shook her head emphatically. "People come out of comas when the body's ready, or so the doctors tell me." She rested a hand on Dara's forehead for a moment, and her eyes went black. "She's there. I know you can hear her, Eli."

"It's really faint."

"Probably because you're scared, Eli. Fear inhibits biotics, other than 'breakthrough' events, as I understand it. Her body's just not quite yet ready. Keep calling her, though. It's helping."

—_Many-Voices sings helping songs. So do we! We like helping-songs._ The workers sounded subdued, though. They'd fed Dara small doses of royal jelly repeatedly through the day, and the doctors were simply _stunned_ at the fact that her lung was regenerating this fast. The fact that the bullet wound was healing almost without a scar.

"Besides," Siara said now, jerking her head off to the left, behind Eli, "You have another visitor." She paused. "I'll leave you all to it."

Eli's head swung up and to his left, and saw Rel standing there, framed in a gap in the curtains. He was out of his armor, dressed in someone else's spare workout clothes, from the looks of things. And his eyes were boring into Eli's own.

_Ah. . . shit. How much of that did he hear?_

**Elijah and Rel, _Raedia, _December 26, 2196**

Rel had touched Seheve's arm in the exam area, and murmured, "I want to check on my sister." And it had been true. Still, slightly awkward. They'd been reaching for life in the darkness of the life-pod, and there hadn't been a chance to talk at all since stepping out of it. Human medics for both of them, thank the spirits. Though he'd greatly welcome a chance to shower before he happened to bump into any turians. There were disadvantages to belonging to a species that was olfactorily-gifted.

Seheve had bitten her lower lip, and nodded. "It would seem that most of the rachni are being sent to the rachni vessels," she'd murmured softly. "But the sixty or so humans and turians who survived the _Estallus_ will be sharing quarters, I think."

"Double and triple-bunked," Rel agreed. "Not like we weren't piled in like cordwood in the _Estallus_ observation lounges anyway." No prospect of privacy. No prospect of being able to figure out what the hell to do _now_. Just the very real likelihood of second-guessing everything that they'd done in the life-pod, as wonderful as it had been. "May I speak with you later?" Rel asked, almost formally.

Seheve surprised him with a smile. There was a glow in her eyes that almost disconcerted him. "I would welcome that," she told him, and then added, very softly, "But I think that first, I must, hmm, acquire one of these epi-tabs of which you've spoken."

Instant concern. Anaphylactic shock was not to be trifled with. "You're all right?

A faint green flush underlay her throat scales for a moment. "Itching. It's of no real moment." She looked down, then up again. "Though, rather than confide this to a physician, I think that perhaps I will break several med bay regulations and simply steal one from the pharmacy. Everyone seems well-distracted at the moment."

Rel had bitten back the desire to laugh, and had replied, "I, ah, applaud your discretion." He looked down at her, sobering. "I'll be back."

He'd headed to the showers first. Scrubbed off her scent from his scales, and put on his borrowed clothing. Then he'd padded back through the med bay, bombarded by greetings, wrist-clasps, and even hugs as he passed by various alcoves. The survivors of the _Estallus_—some of Valak's batarians, whom he'd trained on Khar'sharn, some human marines, and turian officers and enlisted—were all delighted to see another survivor. Kassa Vilinus was one of them, and grinned at him in unabashed delight. "You made it!" She waved a datapad at him. "You think we'll get any mail privileges _before_ we get back to Bastion?"

Rel's mandibles had flexed. "Want to let someone know you're alive?"

Kassa flushed a little blue. "Yes, actually. I, ah, met someone while on leave there."

"Oh, really?" Rel remembered, once, being able to tease people almost as easily as Rinus had. It felt clumsy, but he tried anyway. "I assume we _are_ talking about a male. . . ."

Her flush deepened. "Yes. His name's Dmitri. He used to race hovercycles on Earth. Now he builds and customizes them on Bastion."

Rel had blinked. "A human? How'd you meet?" He held back the temptation to ask out, _You do realize the sort of problems that might entail? _There was no telling how serious this actually was. Someone you met on leave wasn't likely to be a permanent mate, after all.

Kassa sighed. "On BastionSinglesNet, believe it or not. Yes, I know. I'm already taking a hell of a lot of teasing for it." She grinned, through, mischievously. "But it might be worth it."

"I look forward to the look on Linianus Pellarian's face when he hears that someone actually met someone who _wasn't_ a hanar hooker, an asari posing as a quarian, or a volus looking for three-way sex on that site," Rel told her with aplomb, and watched her mouth fall open. "He's got a list of stories about as long as your arm. Most of which involve someone who is now a Council Spectre _running away_ as quickly as possible."

He'd walked away with the sound of her laughter echoing in his ears. Two alcoves down, he'd been caught in an exuberant hug by Kallixta, and he'd returned it. Rinus had clasped his wrist, heartily, eyes gleaming. "Knew you'd make it," Rinus told him. "Though spirits know you decided to take your time in proving me right."

"As Seheve kept pointing out to me, our fate really wasn't in our hands," Rel noted. He looked behind them, and realized that Tarenius Gallian was actually in this alcove, sitting up in bed, looking around, almost dazed. "Gallian? Are you all right?"

"He's fine," Gallian replied, but the inflections and intonations were _not_ the Bostran male's. He lifted his hands now, and stared down at them as if he'd never seen them before. "Really, this is _fascinating._ I think he may need to perform the elimination function again. Can I do that for you, _amatus?_"

Rel's eyes widened as Gallian answered _himself_, his expression darkening slightly, his tone lowering, his body language shifting, "No. I believe I can manage to use the privy on my own, Laetia." That was irritation and a little amusement at the same time.

"You're just upset because last time, when that very pretty nurse was helping you back from the lavatory, and I felt you react to her scent, I asked her for her comm code."

"It wasn't the fact that you asked her for her comm code, Laetia. It was the fact that _I_ wasn't asking her for her comm code. We had an agreement, I thought. We _both_ have to like potential physical mates."

"And you liked her. She smelled very nice."

"Not. . . the. . . point."

Rel's lip-plates hung open for a moment, and he'd turned and looked at Rinus. His first-brother returned the stare in resignation. "Yeah," Rinus said now. "I'm feeling incredibly vindicated right now for having fought being chipped every step of the way. Though I suppose that with almost any other AI out there, it might be less of a trial."

Gallian looked up sharply. "Rinus! How can you say such things?" That was Laetia's intonation, certainly.

Then the male shook his head sharply. "Laetia isn't a trial, Spectre." Gallian sighed. "Though I _wish_ we could keep our more, ah, closed-door arguments _behind_ a damned closed door right now, but whatever she thinks right now seems to come out of the mouth. She's having difficulty constraining herself to such. . . limited processing equipment."

"Personally, I think you should get some sleep," Kallixta told the marine centurion. "Take her off-line for a while."

"Yeah, right," Rinus muttered. "And he'll wake up somewhere with his phallus hanging out and his disposition much the brighter for Laetia having discovered the joy of his hands," Rinus added, looking up at the ceiling. "If he's lucky. If I were him, the _last_ thing I'd be doing right now is allowing myself to fall asleep and lose control of my body."

"Rinus!" That was Laetia again. "I would _never. . . _okay, okay, Tarenius, I _would_, but only when you're awake."

Rinus gave the centurion a steady look. "You're taking this in stride a hell of a lot better than I would."

Gallian shrugged. "I've had five years to think about this, Spectre. I always knew it was a possibility. And at least with five years of nanofiber growth through the brain tissue, and the 2.0 chip architecture, I don't seem to have the pain and fever that Jeff Moreau reported having when EDI jumped to him in 2190."

"Some of that could be turian physiology, too," Laetia added, scarcely after Gallian had stopped using his own mouth. "Humans are, unfortunately, a little fragile in that regard."

"Still, couldn't _pay_ me enough to be you right now, Gallian, but you have my heart-felt sympathies," Rinus had said, darkly, and Rel had walked away, hearing Laetia squawk behind him.

From observation, into intensive care, through the sealed plasteel door. The wash of noise behind him had cut off, replaced with the hum of equipment. Beeping of monitors. The astringent smell of cleaners, iodine, plastic tubing. Familiar smells, given where Dara had worked for so long aboard their various ships, but no less disquieting for all of that.

He'd found Serana's bed first. She was asleep in the medical bed, and he hadn't wanted to disturb her, just rubbing a hand lightly over her fringe. _Figure out yet that trying to keep up with the rest of us isn't conducive to your health, first-sister?_

Then he'd heard Eli's voice. Low, almost a mumble. The twisting passages of turian, with that odd Macedyn/Edessan accent he'd picked up. Rel had almost smiled, and then he'd registered the words, and the smile had faded. Reminders of a time when _he_ hadn't been there for Dara. It hadn't been anything that could have been helped. He'd been at boot camp, and she'd always told him not to blame himself for that. Then, asari. Liquid and beautiful language, but so very damned odd to hear spoken in a low-pitched, human male voice. Rel had glanced down at his wrist and blinked as the translation rolled across it. Instant, hot burn of anger. _You can't share her life. She already gave her life to me, and I to her. . . _ and then the memory of the past few hours in the lifepod flared across his mind. Tempered the anger with recollection. _We gave our spirits to each other years ago, but we didn't know what those spirits were. And they grew and changed, and we're not the same anymore. Just as Dara told me, months ago. But I wasn't ready to hear it yet._

And then the English words. Rel swallowed, hard, feeling as if he'd been punched in the celiac plexus. They were every bit as powerful as the words of a _tal'mae_ wedding ceremony, but without the weight of tradition behind them. He started to pull back the curtain, not knowing what he was going to say or do, but a shadow passed by. Hint of a familiar scent. Siara.

So he stood there, in the gap in the curtains, and watched. Waited. Felt his mandibles flex over the reminder of the biotic connection between the two of them. And then saw Eli's head jerk around when Siara pointed him out. Rel was surprised she'd spotted him; she'd given no indication of it at all until that point.

Eli had been sitting there, all this time, with his body language very much pulled in. Taking up as little space as possible. A way of showing the doctors, _Look, I'm no trouble at all here, just leave me be, okay?_ As he turned, however, and spotted Rel, the body language shifted. Threat identified, and responded to. The shoulders came back, the back itself straightened. Every muscle tensed for a moment. If he'd been turian in truth, the crest would have probably flared. As it was, Eli's eyes were completely black, eyes to edge, and there were dark shadows under them. The human's face had two day's growth of beard, which had grown through the clan-paint on his cheeks. Almost no expression there. The eyes, so black, were blank and bleak. _He looks __exactly__ like Lantar,_ Rel realized, suddenly. _That's a __mor'loci__ look. As if he's lost his spirit. Or believes he's about to._

Crossed stares, like duelists' blades. Eli didn't move. Just looked at Rel. And Rel looked back at him, his expression unreadable. "Rel."

"Eli." Again, the tone was unreadable.

_Okay. Let's get it out in the open, once and for all._ Eli could have shifted languages to _tal'mae._ He didn't. He wasn't going to give an inch of ground right now. "If you're feeling the need to challenge me to a duel, that's fine. I'll dig Dara's wedding knife out of the bottom of my seabag, where it's been since she gave it to me to look after. You can use that. I'll use the knife Serana gave me. We'll find someplace quiet and out of the way of everyone else, and you can cut me to ribbons, and I'll cut you to ribbons, and you'll heal up and I won't." _Goddamn krogan regen mod._ Eli hadn't lowered his eyes once. "I just ask that we wait until Dara's awake before we try to kill each other, all right?"

Eli wasn't thinking clearly. At any other moment in time, he might have realized that his seabag, with all his belongings other than his omnitool, armor, knife, sword, and guns, and what he'd left in storage on Bastion, had been left on the _Estallus_. As such. . . if this knife hadn't been vaporized in the explosion of the mass effect core. . . it was certainly debris, spinning aimlessly in the system's Kuiper belt. One speck of manufactured metal among a million others, lost amid a billion chunks of ice and rock.

Rel's eyes flicked down, just for an instant. "You've carried the knife?" The thought was a little disturbing. Another intrusion. . . and yet. . . there was care here. A certain respect.

"Since she gave it to me in May or so, yeah. I told her I'd hold it for her in case she decided to wear it again. . . or in case she needed to have it for legal purposes." Clear, hard, sharp words. Eli's gaze hadn't wavered at all. "So, can the fighting wait till she's awake?"

Rel exhaled. "I don't think that will be necessary, _fradu,_" he said, and walked around the edge of the bed. Sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the bed, sending a half-dozen rachni workers skittering. Past and present and future all mingling in his mind. Very carefully, he took Dara's other hand in his own. Felt the alien cool-warm of her skin. Remembering good times past. And shaken to his core by how small and fragile she suddenly looked in that hospital bed. Dara had a strong, vibrant spirit. One bigger than her whole body, and it projected out around her, making her seem, when she needed to, at least as forceful as any turian. It let her face down turians and krogan and batarians. And now. . . that vital spirit was absent, and it hurt to see.

"Can she hear us, do you think?" The EEG readings were suddenly moving all around, and Eli looked up at them, clearly alarmed.

"Not sure." Eli's throat was tight. "The rachni have had me feeding her royal jelly all damned day. No idea if it's helping at all."

"Royal jelly?" Rel was alarmed.

"They swear she's eaten it before."

"Spirits, she's been taking chances with her health—" Rel was appalled.

"Not exactly anything new there." Eli's tone was sharp with reproof. "And no different than when she and my mom and Shepard . . . and hell, even when _I _decided to eat dextro crap." He lifted Dara's hand, and showed Rel the nails there, which were quite a bit longer than Dara ever wore them. Long nails were unhygienic for surgery. And they were iridescent and faintly green from the bed to the top of each finger now, with white half-moons protruding past that. "Her nails have grown about a quarter of an inch in just today. So the jelly is definitely doing something. The workers say it should be helping her heal. Among other things that they're not explaining very well. Or that I'm not understanding. One of the two."

The rachni workers chittered and chattered. Rel looked at them bleakly, and Eli just shook his head. "No, guys. No toast yet."

Dara's eyes finally did crack open about ten minutes later, a sliver of rachni blue showing, and Eli's breath caught at the first notes of conscious piano music spilled through his mind and heart in days. _Eli. . . _

"_Sai'kaea. . . _don't try to talk." Eli stroked her hair, joy and relief flooding through him. "They had you intubated, so your throat's a little messed up, just like after the poisoning. Collapsed lung, too." His throat closed down, and he couldn't speak for a moment. _You're all right, you're going to be all right. Scared the living shit out of me. I was afraid you weren't going to wake up again._

_I heard you. Heard your song. It was . . . really far away. But I followed it._ The thoughts were laborious, groggy. But she was open. Completely open, and both of them could hear her. And through her, they could hear each other. Eli could hear a steady _rat-tat-ta-ta-tat-tat_. And a certain _pling-pling-pling_. . . perhaps a turian dulcimer. Percussive instrument, certainly. Rhythm, but not melody, at the moment. _Rel_, he realized.

Piano-music, soaring now. Rel simply sat and listened, his head bowed. Violas, cellos, bass. Green-yellows of worry, shimmering harmonies of relief. Rich ultramarines. Hearing Eli's mind as Dara heard it. The waves of color and emotion, and, more amazingly, hearing them hear_ him_. His own golden base glow mingling with Eli's base glow of red, Dara's base glow of white, and all the overtones of . . . ._oversong and undersong. That's what she called them before. Oh, spirits. . . ._

Eli's deep, deep relief. _Nothing wrong with your mind, oh, thank god, I thought I'd lost you for sure this time._ Rel could feel the tight burn of tears at the back of the human's throat, the way the male tamped down the emotion, but let Dara feel it, anyway.

_Not . . . going. . . to happen._ The wide blue eyes blinked, and Dara shifted her head slightly. Astonishment flooding through her song. _Rel?_ _You're here. And you feel. . . better._

Echoes of acknowledgment from Eli on that subject. Mild yellows of surprise, dappled with darker gold-greens of anxiety. Rel had been, for so long, a volcano on the verge of eruption. Unstable nitroglycerin, ready to explode in their faces. And now. . . calmness from him. Curiosity from them, though Dara's was dulled by pain and medication and grogginess.

_It's. . . really good not to hear . . . the anger. . . ._ The thoughts were, clearly, an effort. Splinters of white-hot pain still streaking through her, dulled, held at bay, by medication. The eyes widened further. Not the sweet, soft brown he always pictured when he thought of her, of course. Rachni blue. And in this moment, total honesty. It couldn't be any other way. She was too groggy, too disoriented to shield her inmost self from either of them. Eli, who had been straining his limited biotics for two days, trying to reach to her, had spread his mind through hers, commingled. And Rel could only deeply, deeply envy that bond, and could feel the snake of anger and jealousy that had plagued him for months raise its head and hiss, darkly, within him.

_I'm so sorry, Rel. I'm sorry I hurt you. Never meant to._ Nearly incoherent. Real grief, as she absorbed his pain from the past few months, the bewilderment, the sense of betrayal, muted now with time. And her own pain, from having stepped away; it had hurt to do it, but she'd seen it as necessary. Not because he was a bad person, but because they were slowly destroying each other. Her anger at him had been born in love, and had been all the deeper for it.

_And I'm sorry I hurt you, too._ He could see it now. She'd mentioned problems over the years, and he'd never really understood what she meant. He'd been too busy trying to fit into the turian box. And she'd finally given up on talking about it, and just tried to fit into the box, too. He could see the emptiness now, the sadness. The drifting apart. _It was good at first, wasn't it?_ Memories needed validation. It had been good. Better than good. Wonderful, in fact._  
_

_Yes.. . . it was._ Piano music in a plangent minor key now.

_If I'd been biotic, would everything have been different? Would I have caught it when things started to go wrong?_

_Doesn't always work that way._ Eli, in dark-toned bass notes. _If biotics were the secret to perfect relationships, asari would never leave each other. Siara's second-mother couldn't have abused her, and still __hid__ it from Azala. People can still hide themselves from one another. Still resent each other. Still try to control each other. Can try to find ways to discount each others' reactions, wall themselves off from one another. Biotics are still people, after all._ Eli was trying to muffle memories, but they crept through anyway. Managing to hide his light, to hold back from full commitment with asari over the years.

_I'm just sorry. . . I wasn't enough. That I couldn't . . . be everything you needed. Couldn't be Mindoir for you._ Whispers of undersong. She couldn't be everything. Couldn't be home and stability and safety. Couldn't be strong enough to keep him centered, balanced, not and keep herself balanced at the same time. Guilt, and anger, fading, but regret, sharp as a knife. Self-blame, self-censure. Little thread of song that said, _Moved too fast, didn't know my own undersongs then. It's hard to know them all. _

The monitors above her head began to ping, and a flash of red anger from Eli. _She doesn't need to do this __now__—_

_It's okay—_

_The hell it is. You just fucking woke up._ Dull red, like lava emerging from the earth.

_I didn't mean to bring this up._ _Didn't know we'd all be able to hear. . . everything. . . _Violet regret from Rel now, making them both look at him, dark eyes and brilliant ones at the same time. _I just. . . had to be here for this._ _Had to hold your hand, one more time._

Tears in those peacock-bright eyes now. Oh, this hurt, and it hurt both of them, and it hit Eli by association. Rel concentrated on keeping his breathing calm. Forbidding any anger to come to well up in him. She didn't need anger right now. Not when she was still almost in pieces. A soft thought now. Almost a caress. _Part of me is always going to love you. You know that._

_And part . . . of me. . . will always love you. _Her eyes moved. Focused on Eli.

Thrum of the string trio now. _ I know. And it's okay. Serana's always going to have a part of me, too. But I let go. He just has to—_

—_do the same._ Rel finished that sentence. _Let go._ There was a pause. _It's __hard__._ Pain. Eli let them feel the anguish of the moment of realization, knowing he had to give Serana up, for her sake, for his own sake, for Lin's sake, and Rel's head came up. Met his eyes for a second. _Yeah. That. Spirits. . . it's hard. But it's also . . . _He hesitated.

_Let go. Let the anger go. Let the love transmute to something else. While it still can._ He had no idea which of the three of them thought that. It sounded, oddly, like all three of them, together.

Eli could feel the three-way communion. Perfectly balanced. And for a moment, he could picture Sky, once more, talking about threes.

Eli, Lin, and Serana. A three that had been physical and emotional and, in its way, could have worked, but had been not fated to be. He tried to shield the thoughts a little, but suspected there was leakage.

Kallixta, Rinus, Rellus. A safe three, a diverted three; Kallixta was attracted to both brothers, but loved Rinus; Rel felt attraction to her, for her fierceness and intelligence, but there was affection there, not passion, not love.

Eli, Dara, Serana. A three with potential for antagonism, but the little orange edges of jealousy never really bloomed, because the two females held such genuine affection for and understanding of one another.

And of course, Rel, Dara, and Eli. The most antagonistic three. And the oldest three, too. Eli felt a wave of shock from Rel as he recognized the patterns Eli's mind was shaping, and understood them. Dara was still too groggy to do more than see them and absorb them for later consideration.

And then the reasons why Rel was able to let go now. Communion as confession, in a way. Hints of growing affection for _Seheve_, of all people. _Ah, so that's why they've been spending so much time together_. . . flash of the life-pods. . . reaching for life, for light in the darkness. A twinge of pain from Dara in the undersong, but the oversong was acceptance. Even joy, though bittersweet. Even when someone walked away, there was always the sensation of _If only it had worked out. If only I had done something different._ And that was human and natural. But there was more in Dara than just the human now, of course. There was the wisdom of thousands of generations of rachni queens. And for rachni queens, mates were not singular. Eli could feel Dara duck into Sings-Heartsongs' perspective for a moment for strength, for distance, and could feel Rel _flinch_ at the shift. Just for a heartbeat. Long enough to calm herself down.

_If she lets you find Mindoir again, Rel, if she lets you find peace, if she lets you find the guy I fell for, years ago, then I'm __happy__ for you. I'm just sorry I couldn't give you peace as well as everything else._ Truth now, oversong and undersong in harmony. But tears still, burning at the back of her throat. Because, as Eli had discovered when he'd signed his papers from Serana, sometimes getting what you want, really, really hurts.

_I'm not even sure. . . what to do with her. If this is the right thing __to__ do._ Yellow confusion from Rel now.

_Isn't not knowing the future fun?_ Eli's thought was mildly sardonic, and he grinned at Rel as the turian's head pulled up. "You'll be fine, _fradu_," he said, the first words spoken out loud in over a minute. "Though I've got to admit. . . a drell? And a former assassin?" He lifted his eyebrows slightly. It was probably the wrong moment to joke, but the thought leaked through anyway, irrepressibly. Out loud, all he said was, "Where no man has gone before, huh?"

Dara managed to raise a hand and slap his arm. With absolutely no force. Pink, embarrassed indignation from her . . .dissolving into blue-green amusement. A red flash from Rel. . . diminishing into pink embarrassment, too. Eli laughed out loud. "Lin's going to insist that you get your head examined."

"She's not now what she was before." Instant defense. "None of us are."

"I know that. Lin's going to be a harder battle." Eli couldn't stop the flash of Brennia dying in Lin's arms, and Rel's head rocked back, and Dara's fingers tightened on his. "But hey, once he calms down and understands that she only ever killed on orders, same as the rest of us. . . . knowing Lin? He'll probably start teasing you about _derma_ instead of about _oris_. . . ." _Skin,_ and not _mouth._

"You don't think he's learned tact in the last five years?" Rel's tone was rueful, and Dara turned her head against the pillow.

"I think that he thinks that teasing someone is the greatest compliment he can give them. He's been very disappointed in you. But hey, now you're up a. . . ah. . . "Eli choked off the thought, trying to shield it from Dara, but it was no use. She could hear _everything_ like this, practically before he even finished formulating the thought.

Her eyes narrowed, just for a moment. _Actually, technically, he's not a species up on you and Lin. Asari, human, turian. You two are still ahead. For whatever that's worth._

Eli looked at the ceiling. "I could defend myself from that, _sai'kaea_, but I'm choosing not to."

Dara started to chuckle, weakly, which sent white-hot sparks of pain through her, and led her to cough. "Don't make me laugh," she gasped after a moment, just as Eli's arm curled around her, helping her to sit up. Rel, just as reflexively, had reached out, and Dara accepted the touch.

_Love you, Dara_. _I'll miss you._

_I'm not going anywhere. Neither are you. _Surge of memories between them. Beautiful afternoons on Mindoir. Joy. Challenges faced, obstacles overcome. What they'd accomplished when they worked together. _We'll always have that, Rel. Any time you touch my hand, __this__ will be here. We share that. Always will._

_And I don't mind that you share that._ Eli, calm now. _Things change. Let them. _

Rel exhaled. Stoked Dara's hair one last time. "I'll let you two have some time alone," he told them, quietly. "Goodbye, Dara."

"Not goodbye," Dara managed. Her voice was a crow-like rasp from the damage that the breathing tube had done. "Just. . . see you around." She was leaning into Eli, and Rel wasn't in skin contact now as he stood, headed for the gap in the curtains. "Rel?"

"Yeah?" He paused at the curtains. _Wallpaper in hell._

"Seheve's good for you. I could feel that. She's _shy_, though. Doesn't have any idea of what to do with you. With all of us. You're going to have to encourage her to talk. You do that with listening. The way you always did on Mindoir. Encourage her to reach out to the rest of us, too. Get her. . . spirit. . . " Dara started to cough. It had been a long attempt at physical speech.

Eli finished for her, "Help her bring her spirit to the rest of us. Let our spirits into hers. Same as you've been letting our spirits in. And her spirit in." He looked down at Dara. Flash of silent communion.

And this time, it didn't hurt to see. Rel knew now, he'd always be accepted, on some level. Always be welcome. That they'd open themselves for him, and he could ask for that silent communion. Let their spirits mingle, in friendship, as they just had. They'd grow apart. Learn new things. Offer them to each other, and grow together in a way, too. And happiness? That might even be possible, too. He wasn't sure if there was a future with Seheve. But, as Eli had pointed out. . . no one ever really knew the future.

**Rellus, _Raedia_, December 26, 2196**

Rel was startled, on stepping through the curtains, to discover Seheve sitting, looking a little awkward, beside Serana's bed. Serana had turned her head, and her eyes were open. And Lin sitting on the other side, eyeing Seheve suspiciously, and giving Rel a speculative look now. Rel exhaled. "And I suppose there's absolutely no chance you all didn't hear most of that."

"Well, what there was to hear," Serana commented, turning to her side; Lin put a hand on her hip to help her shift around on the sheets. "There were a lot of silences."

"I thought for a minute there I was going to have to go in there and figure out whose second I was to be," Lin added, dryly. "Very glad not to have to do that." His eyes shifted back to Seheve again. "So, apparently, I have teasing ammunition."

Rel gave him a look, and a set of finger-flicks. Lin's mandibles flexed, briefly, and he looked back at Serana. A long exchange of glances. "We had to do some things on Khar'sharn that pushed the limits of my sense of ethics," Lin admitted after a moment. "We can exchange notes later, though."

A bubble of relief welled up in Rel's chest. All of his friends were deliberately stepping back. Giving him space and time to figure things out. To figure out how to fix the things that were broken. "It'll be interesting to hear," Rel commented. "I both loved and hated the section in OCS about interfacing with the local resistance movement. There never seemed to be a right answer, and everyone always seemed to wind up dying."

Serana looked up, her eyes tired. "Still no right answers. But at least, not everyone died." She offered a quick smile. "I'd really prefer, all things considered, not to have been shot up." Serana nodded at the curtain now. "They ready for company yet?"

"Give them a minute or two," Rel advised, and then, tentatively, offered Seheve his hand. What he had with her was so new and fragile and ephemeral, he didn't even want to put it into words, for fear it would break under the strain. _Biotics might not be the solution to every problem, but they would be nice right now_, he thought. If he could, at that moment, have had Dara or Eli's abilities. . . and all their commensurate drawbacks. . . he would have accepted them instantly. "Seheve? You said you might like to talk later. It's. . . later."

Seheve stood, and accepted his hand, letting him draw her towards the curtains. Rel looked back at Serana. "It's really good to see you awake, first-sister. I was worried. Talk more in a bit?"

Serana smiled. "Sure."

And then he and Seheve ducked out through the curtain. Walked silently through the halls until they found the _Raedia's_ starboard observation lounge, which was, apparently, where Dara and Seheve technically had berths. He, Eli, and Sam were assigned the port one for the moment; Siara and Makur, Rinus and Kallixta, and Lin and Serana would be assigned married quarters. . . somewhere. . . though the spirits knew people were going to be doubling up and tripling up for a few days.

As the door closed behind them, Rel lowered his forehead to Seheve's, carefully, watching her for reactions. Without zero-G to bring her easily up to his height, it was a bit of a stretch. _There's going to have to be a little more compromise this time around,_ he thought. Dara had made it clear that he was free to pursue Seheve. . . if he chose to. If Seheve wanted to be pursued.

She actually slid her hands up his arms. Curled them around his biceps, and smiled in what looked like genuine pleasure, but it was tentative. Oh, so very tentative. "I tried not to listen to your conversation with your. . . mate," she began, her words practically tiptoeing out of her mouth. "Linianus, when he arrived, looked torn between trying to protect Serana from me, and going through the curtains to intervene."

Rel hastily went over the past ten to fifteen minutes in his mind. "There couldn't have been much to hear," he said, quietly. "And I plan to release Dara from our contract, when they hand the paperwork to me. I have no idea what this will do under turian law. . . but I'm going to let her go." It hurt. But it was bittersweet now. If he let go gently, he'd retain two, three friendships. Two of them with brothers. Would retain a piece of Dara forever, rather than killing it in her utterly. If he fought, if he struggled, if he denied. . . he'd kill part of her. Kill part of himself with it, maybe. And with that, he'd lose the friendship with Eli. Probably the friendship with Lin. Put a strain on his relationship with his first-sister as a result, too. No. . . this was the right path. He was sure of it now.

"There were many silences." Her eyes were wide and open as she looked up at him. "I hope that you did not allow what passed in the pod to affect your judgment in this."

Rel stared at her. "Of _course_ I—what the hell are you saying? Of course it affected my judgment?" _S'kak. She's saying it didn't mean anything to her._

Seheve shook her head and looked down. Respect, in drell body language, reflexive, as he had to remind himself. "I did not mean for . . . I did not mean to intrude in that fashion."

He lifted her chin gently with a talon. "Seheve. . . you gave me a little taste of life, when all I've been looking at for months now is death. Rinus was right when he told me he should be as wary of me as of you on Shanxi. I was worried because you seemed to accept death so easily. And I think my brother thought I was _looking_ for it." Rel sighed, and acknowledged it. "And I probably was. A way to escape. And a way to punish everyone around me, I guess." He gave her a direct look. "Up until a few days ago, I was looking at upcoming shore leave as a chore. I was going to try to find a way to volunteer for another mission. Somehow. No matter what anyone had to say about 'adrenaline addiction' and 'combat fatigue' or anything else."

"And now?"

He pulled a little away. Moved over to a seat on one of the fold-out couches, drawing her with him. "I don't know." He looked at her steadily. _Were you looking for death, too, Seheve? Do you accept it so easily because you don't feel you deserve anything else? That much guilt. . . you're __mor'loci__, or were. But you're being infused with everyone's spirits. Even mine. . . may the spirits grant you mercy on that count._ "What were your plans?"

She'd settled down beside him, and now looked confused. Loki jumped up into her lap now with a demanding _mrowl_, and proceeded to lick her hand. "I . . . had none. I did not expect a choice in the matter. I had thought that I would be confined to the barracks on Mindoir, when not in the field."

"The Spectres aren't your assassin trainers. The barracks aren't a cell." _Yes, they probably want to keep an eye on her, but surely they'd let her go off-world, wouldn't they?_ He stared at her for a long moment. "Palaven's probably not a good place for you to visit. Too much radiation. Too much humidity, even in the Great Western Desert."

She grimaced. "A place that is drier than the jungles of Arvuna would be most welcome." Then she let her eyes fall once more, and added, diffidently, "This. . . I did not mean to complain."

Rel reached up and passed a hand gently over her scalp scales. "You're not complaining. Drell get lung diseases from too much humidity, right?" He frowned. "Well, Terra Nova's desert belt is. . . not exactly a vacation hotspot now." He paused, and inspiration struck. "How about Earth?" he suggested. "The Sahara, maybe. Or the Kalahari desert. Lots of wildlife to look at. Not too humid. And _warm_, but not quite as bad as Terra Nova was."

She regarded him warily. "Are you. . . asking me to join you in this excursion?"

Rel snorted. "Apparently, I'm doing a very poor job if it, if you're unsure of my meaning."

Still wary, but a shining look of hope in those wide, dark eyes now, too. "For what purpose?"

Rel sighed. She was shy and he suspected that she was convinced, in her core, that she didn't deserve happiness. Only punishment. For the rest of her life. As far as he could tell, the Spectres were going to take care of her 'community service' for the next fifty or sixty years of her life. "For the purpose of getting to know you better. To see if there's a path ahead of us that we might share. And, if you're amenable. . . " he picked up her hand and, watching her face for reactions, carefully, lightly nipped the inside of her wrist, evoking a gasp, "maybe for some more of what we were doing in that life-pod. Though if you'd prefer a separate room, I'd accept that." _Wouldn't be thrilled, but would allow you your space. _

He was rewarded when her face lit up in shy pleasure and utter disbelief. "I, ah. . . I do not see any need for a separate room, except if you do, for reasons of. . . well. . . propriety."

He curled an arm around her, and pulled her closer. "I think that _propriety_ is another word that we can safely dispense with. Don't you?" He leaned down now and nibbled her neck, and smiled to himself at the gasp of pleasure. _Ah, spirits. I don't know what the future will bring, but the path is looking clearer all the time._

**Elijah, _Raedia, _December 26-30, 2196**

With Rel out of the med bay alcove, Eli had simply put his head down on Dara's shoulder, and wrapped his arms around her. Let her song flood through him, and let her hear all of his. His eyes burned from tiredness, and it felt so goddamned good to just let go of all the tensions of the past two days. Soft caress of her fingers along his shorn head, curving down to his jaw line. Wondering response to the prickle against her fingertips. _You're scratchy, __ciea'teilu__. You need to shave. . . you need to take care of yourself. . . .You've been. . . sitting in that chair all this time?_ Awe, a little astonishment. Whisper of _For me? I don't deserve. . . _ under that.

_Of course I have. Had to make sure you'd be okay_. Eli lifted his head now. _For the record, you're not allowed to scare me like this again. _

_You want me to quit field work?_ The question wasn't resentful. It sounded as if she was, in fact, anticipating an argument that wasn't really there.

_No. Wouldn't ask you to. Not sure you __can__ quit field-work as a Spectre._ Eli's arms tightened around her shoulders. The urge to protect her and care for her was there, as it had been with Serana, but was tempered by his complete respect for her abilities. Asking her to quit if she didn't want to would demean her, and her accomplishments.

_I was ready to quit six months ago. Ready to lock myself in a hospital and do nothing but surgery and research for the rest of my life. The stuff I've been neglecting. Only so much time in the day. Especially when you're not actually a salarian._ Her tone was rueful_. But what we're doing right now is so damned important._

_I know. "_Whatever you decide to do, I'll stand behind. But for the love of god, _sai'kaea,_ we've got to get you better armor. I can't do that again." How to tell her the anguish, the terror, the fact that he'd seen his entire existence shrink down to a tiny circle, circumscribed by her breaths?

She heard it, of course. Felt it with him. Her hand trembled a little against his cheek. "I'd be a perfectly horrible mate if I didn't fight by your side," Dara rasped out loud. "But yeah. What _happened_ to my armor, anyway?"

"I cut it off of you. Had to, to start chest compressions. It's toast." He glanced at the workers. "No, not that kind."

The workers were crowding nearer. Low-song everywhere. —_Little-queen should eat more. Gather strength. Rebuild body. We will make more royal jelly_. And they started doing so. No more than a few ounces at a time, but they'd been unyielding on the topic all day.

Dara grimaced. "That was the armor Shepard gave me." Her voice was a rasp. It had, for Dara, represented approval from the commander of the Spectres. Approval she didn't think she was likely to receive, at least not anymore.

"Yeah, which means it was at least ten years old. Rest your voice, sweetie." The voice came from behind him, and Eli stiffened, straightened, and pulled away, swearing mentally. _My god, my reflexes are shot today. Everyone keeps coming up from behind me, and I might as well be blind and deaf._

Sam came into the alcove now, and took the chair Rel had vacated. Dara reached out a hand, and her father gave her a kiss and a gentle hug. "Best Christmas present I've ever had," Sam said, simply. "Seeing you awake and alert, sweetie. You gave us all a hell of a scare."

"Didn't mean to. Checked my area as I moved Serana. . . "

"I said, _rest your voice_. I can hear you just fine when you . . . .sing at me." Sam wrapped his fingers around Dara's now. His vivid scarlet notes and fiddle music entering the mix, along with a shock of surprise at sensing Eli in Dara at the moment. Eli let Dara's fingers slide from his, and retreated to a light mental touch. Just oversong, and nothing more, the way it had been for weeks. Just enough to give her song, but not enough to distract each other.

Sam opened his mouth to say something now, but that was when Chopin and 1812 scrambled up on the bed and began to work on Dara's nails. Even Dara looked down at them askance for that. —_Little-queen does not wish talons to break. Therefore, old material must be cut away. We can do this!_ There was a faintly acidic note in the air that made Eli's nose twitch now.

Sam shook his head vigorously. "Right. Before any doctors come in here to start poking and prodding you. . . how you feeling?"

_Better even than when I woke up._ _More alert._ She paused. _Hungry__, too._

Eli picked up the bowl that the workers had filled with royal jelly, and offered her a spoonful. _I can feed myself, Eli—_

"That's what I told _you_ on Bastion, during the plague. Do you want to eat this, or wear it, _sai'kaea_?" _Besides. Not like I haven't been spoon-feeding you all day anyway._

Her eyes met his. _Fair point. _ She parted her lips, and Eli deposited the first spoonful of royal jelly in her mouth. To him, it smelled like medicinal honey. Faint, almost metallic overtones to a generally sweet smell. For her, obviously, it was something else. Dara closed her eyes as she swallowed, and pleasure filled her. Faint echoes of it through the attenuated mental link. "Makes my throat feel better," she rasped out.

"Good," Sam told her, gently. "You didn't see the turret?"

_Wasn't moving at all. I thought it was a wrecked unit._ Thrill of fear through Eli as she remembered the moment when it had come back on-line, and she realized that if she moved, she'd get its attention. . . and if she didn't move, Serana _would_. Reflexively, in pain. Either way, they were going to be a target, and she couldn't get Serana to cover in time. . . she'd made herself into cover for her patient.

Eli offered her another mouthful of the jelly, and Sam leaned forward and squeezed her shoulder. "Sounds like a hell of a lot of things went wrong all at once. It happens. You did your job. . . and I'm damned glad you're alive to tell the tale." He paused. "Though yeah. Shepard's armor was top of the line Spectre-grade as of ten years ago, sweetie. And _mine_," he looked at Eli now, "was top of the line N7 gear over fifteen years ago."

"It was fine for MP duty and CID," Eli acknowledged with a sigh.

"Yeah. But the bad guys have developed bigger and better weapons since then. You two _do_ realize that you get an armor stipend, right? Up to a base amount of a hundred thousand credits in your first year. Any additional mods are on your own dime, but for Christ's sake, isn't it worth it?"

Dara winced. "Sorry, Dad." Her voice was noticeably less raspy. "It never really seemed to be a problem. I got dinged up now and again, but nothing major. My worst injury in five years was a support beam crashing on my head." Speaking was still a lot of effort. _I'll get something else._

"You don't have a hell of a lot of choice in the matter, what with the jaws of life being employed on the last set." Sam was _not_ joking at the moment.

—_Ohhh! We have ideas on how to make little-queen's new carapace better. We help!_ Chopin and 1812 were still working away at Dara's nails, peeling off the white section at the top, leaving nothing but the green iridescent part below.

Sam's gimlet stare pinned Eli. Eli raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. I'll upgrade, too."

"You better. Really don't want to have to pick either of you up off the floor again." Sam arched his eyebrows. Eli was picking up the pure relief flowing off the man, though faintly, through Dara. "Can I go out on a limb and recommend Jormangund Tech to both of you? Made my current suit. And I think I'd like to have you both armored up to your eyebrows."

Light chit-chat for a while longer, until a doctor came in for tests. Sam stood and told Eli, firmly, "'Bout time you got some rack time, son."

"In a minute," Eli told him, and leaned in. Quick clasp of fingers, and he brushed his lips over Dara's. _I love you._

_I love you, too._ Happiness now, and a mind much less fuddled with grogginess and pain. _See you in the morning?_

_First thing. I promise._

He was as good as his word. Dara was sitting up by that point, and clearly raring to be out of bed. "They haven't given you clearance," he told her, and sat down at the edge beside her. "But hey, I come bearing gifts." He handed her the omnitool she'd been wearing when she'd been hurt—a couple of helpful techs had cleaned off the blood for him. "It's even got _Galaxy of Fantasy_ loaded up, with all the latest patches," he added, dryly. "We're back in Council space, so FTL comms and extranet privileges are back. And I'm supposed to keep you off your feet for a few more hours. Think this will help?" And mentally, a quick, wry comment, _Not quite how I'd __prefer__ to be keeping you off your feet, but that's going to have to wait._

A quick glance and a surprising surge of burgundy passion that absolutely electrified him as she stroked his arm lightly. _Hopefully won't have to wait too long. You and the workers have been feeding me royal jelly, Eli. It's been helping me regenerate the tissue damage, but, um. . . I've never eaten it in these quantities before. There appear to be . . . side-effects._

She flushed as his eyebrows arched. _Oh? Really? How so?_

_Well, rachni queens eat it to gain in size and, um, sexual maturity rapidly. Large quantities of their hormones. They also eat it before laying large quantities of eggs._ Dara coughed and loaded up the game on her omnitool now, not looking up. _I wouldn't have thought it, but. . . I think their hormones have a, well. . . an effect on me._ She looked up, and again, the tide of burgundy swept through him. _If I weren't still hooked up to IVs and monitors and, you know, stuck in med bay. . . would so totally jump you right now, Eli._ Hunger now. And she wasn't hiding it at all. She wanted to slide off the bed, kneel at his feet, pull his pants down. . . .

Eli looked to the left, then to the right. The thin patient gown wasn't exactly a barrier, but . . . he could hear Lin and Serana talking in the alcove to their left. Another patient, who was recovering from surgery for injuries sustained in the evacuation from the _Estallus_, to their right. _So, what you're saying is, I should lay in a supply of this stuff for when we finally __do__ go on leave?_ He grabbed a couple of pillows and put them at the foot of the bed, turning around now to face her, and activating his own omnitool.

_Workers would be all too happy to make some on the spot. They want to come with us._

Eli winced. _Not for the first time, please. . . . I might be good about __weird__, but I want this to be about __us__._ He glanced up in time to see her smile.

_Not a problem. I already told them that. They're . . . disappointed. A little worried. But they know my favored brood-warrior will take care of me. Apparently, you're a sufficient entourage._

Eli snorted and laughed, and managed to remember his password for his account. He had a level two hundred _covinnarius_ in _Galaxy of Fantasy,_ named Tyr, which had, of course, become his squad name. A _covinnarius_ was a sort of a hybrid class, part knight, part charioteer. Heavily armored, but with a chariot, he could move very quickly around any given battlefield. Rel had always played an _ecus_, or a knight who was primarily on foot or on _rlata_-back. Dara's character, Epona, had always been a spirit-caller, with an emphasis on healing. "I think you should get her a name-change, _sai'kaea_," Eli told her.

"I've had _Epona_ since I was ten," she replied. "What the heck would I call her otherwise?"

"Freya. So your squad-name matches up."

The last time they'd even dipped their toes in the game had been over six months ago. A major patch had come through, and the level cap had been lifted. New armor, new weapons. Dara actually laughed as one particular piece of equipment showed up on her omnitool's screen. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me."

Eli's eyebrows rose. The dagger was in the form of a tentacle, ostensibly ripped from a hanar 'Fallen Enkindler' and it. . . wiggled. "That looks _really_ personal, _sai'kaea_," he teased her. "What's it called?"

She actually moved her legs away from his, where they were leaning against each other on the bed, so he couldn't read her thoughts. It didn't help. "The Hanar's Favorite Tentacle?" Eli said, whooping with laughter. "I know you said the royal jelly hormones were kicking in, but. . . damn. Apparently, Tyr's got to start taking care of business a little better."

Bright red flush all through her face now. "It was this or a staff, and the staff's worse!" she protested.

"How much worse. . . oh." Eli stared at the three-dimensional image for a long moment. The lower end of the staff did indeed wiggle, just as disconcertingly as the dagger. The top half consisted of an octopus-like mass of tendrils, which waved around, and the lowest of the tendrils looked to be beckoning. . . or even licking. "Well, _sai'kaea_, truthfully, that one would only be of use to you if you had a girlfriend. Too bad, because it's got nice stats on it. . . "

He felt the kick coming before she even moved, and rolled his legs to the side. No force at _all_ in it. Just toes impacting lightly on his hip. "Seriously, the developers on this damned game have got to be hugely sexually frustrated," Dara muttered.

_Mmm. Not like us at all._ He rubbed his free hand up and down the back of her leg for the moment, relishing the smoothness, the sleekness of freshly shaved skin. _Actually. . . .wait a second. When did you have a chance to . . . ?_

She glanced up. "Er. . . that kind of happened on Arvuna. I was afraid it was going to expand to my eyebrows, eyelashes, and head, but, thankfully, no bald patches yet."

Eli paused his character on screen. "What?" Mild concern. So many changes, so fast.

"All the hair below my neck fell out. It's the damnedest thing. Though, truthfully, since my nails are apparently so hard right now that the workers need to dissolve them with _acid_, it's probably a good thing. I'd probably dull some razors trying to shave, um, everything. . ." She cut herself off, and again, a sidelong look. Rush of two-fold memory. Him teasing her before they went after Rel on Khar'sharn, months ago. _After boot camp, you locked yourself in the bathroom for an hour before you let Rel see you, didn't you?_

Eli cleared his throat. Fought back images with limited success. Out loud, in accordance with oversong, "Eh, I think I'd find you perfectly sexy even if you _did_ lose your hair. I mean, Nala's pretty hot, and batarians are bald as eggs. . . ." Undersong, ruefully, _It's not just your nails that are hard right now, Dara. Is this your revenge for the wiggly staff comments? If so, it's working._ He rubbed the back of her leg again, finding the line of the tendon there. He wanted to start biting there, and work his way up her leg right now, actually, but _couldn't_, and it was driving him crazy.

_Not revenge. If it is, it's kind of backfiring._ His reaction was flooding through her, and as a result, he had to move his hand away, and they both needed to take a couple of deep breaths. Focus on the screens in front of them. Something fun. Just challenging enough to keep their minds occupied, but not work. No coursework for him, no medical journals for her. No extranet news, either. Nothing that could disturb her recovery. Though that was definitely progressing much faster than the doctors expected. It wasn't regeneration. . . if she'd had that, like Rel or Dempsey or even Zhasa possessed it, she wouldn't have been in a coma for two days. But it was definitely not quite human. And Eli was damned grateful for it.

When she was finally allowed to leave the med bay, two days later, he escorted her up to the observation lounges, where they had quarters. He was in one, she was in the other. "Is it going to be weird, rooming with Seheve now?" he asked her, at the door.

Dara's face screwed up a bit. "A little," she admitted. "But . . . all things considered. . . she's a lot better for him than I was. And if _you_ can be Lin's _brother_, I think I can manage being Seheve's friend."

Eli looked up at the ceiling. "Have I mentioned before? Really, really fucked-up personal lives?" 

_But they're getting better_, she whispered, silently. Burgundy everywhere for a moment, and his breath caught.

He cleared his throat. "Speaking of Lin. . . "

"Yeah. We should check in on _them_ for a change."

As it turned out, Lin and Serana had been allocated tiny married quarters, and were delighted to see Dara back up on her feet. Serana gave her a very human hug, immediately, and then blinked as skin contact gave them both probably more information than either would have chosen to disclose. Serana's lip-plates hung open for a moment, and she pulled her hands away, exhaling sharply through her nose. "Oh. . . that feels like. . . "

"_I know. It feels like the beginnings of estrus. A side effect from far too much royal jelly. My hair's grown two inches and my nails have grown out, too."_ Dara had switched to turian for its precision and bluntness, but was still flushing, human and pink. "_I'm trying to keep the workers from feeding me anything else for the time being till the hormone surge settles out. In the meantime, distractions are a __good__ thing." _Dara's song had blue-green amusement mixed with pink embarrassment. _"How are the two of you settling in?"_

Lin, after a wide-eyed glance, gestured for the two of them to take the room's two chairs, in front of the consoles at the desks, which stood back-to-back with one another. "Decompressing," he said, ruefully, in English. "I didn't realize how _jumpy_ I'd gotten till a crewman walked up to clasp my wrist, and I just about started out of my scales." He sat down on their nest roll and leaned his head back. "Two months of living in an underground bunker, and what. . . three weeks disguised as slaves." He put an arm around Serana's shoulders as she curled up in the nest beside him. Eli watched as Lin's hand stroked along her fringe, and was surprised, and pleased, not to feel any sort of pang. "Taught me a few things," Lin admitted now.

"Like what?" Eli asked, as Dara, next to him, leaned into him now. Mirrored poses, on either side of the tiny space.

"That every batarian lives in a constant state of almost total fear," Lin replied, simply. "All right, maybe not _every_ batarian. The highest-ranking ones—higher ranked than Valak, even—have enough wealth and prestige and power to insulate themselves. But the rest of them? A constant state of terror at being found even the least bit out of order. It's worst for the slaves, of course. Different castes have different requirements for behavior. Teaching-castes probably have the most freedom in many ways. . . but they're all subject to the Oversight Forces. Every one of them can be raided on suspicion of having improper information. Improper conduct with slaves. Valak even mentioned that there's caste-specific police, believe it or not. That go around and ensure that everyone of their caste is _behaving_ the right way. That no one's touching a healer's skin. That different castes aren't _fraternizing._ That people who deal with dead bodies aren't driving groundcars. That sort of thing." Lin exhaled. "I'm turian. I don't mind rules. But our laws and our rules are there to preserve everyone's freedom. The most liberty and opportunity for everyone. Their rules are there to hold everyone down. There's a difference. . . and it wears at the mind, just being around it." He looked up and chuckled a little. "Sorry. That was a mouthful."

"He's been muttering that under his breath every night before bed," Serana added, dryly. "You're just giving him a fresh audience."

"Learn any batarian?" Dara asked, idly.

"A few words. I don't have the gift for it that my _amatra_ has," Lin admitted, looking down at Serana now.

"And how about you?" Eli asked Serana. "Can't have been easy on you, either."

Her expression was veiled for a moment. "It wasn't. Arvak at least once mentioned in my hearing that he thought Valak should rape me to break me. Or, if Valak wasn't _man_ enough, that he could do it himself."

Eli stiffened. Felt Lin go rigid, too. "On the positive side," Dara said, quietly, "if I understand everything right. . . my dad blew Arvak's brains out, and then we dropped Javelin missiles right on top of the bodies."

It was _exactly_ the right thing to say to them. They both visibly relaxed, and showed teeth in wolfish grins. "I'm not planning on losing sleep over it," Serana said. "But if I do have dark spirit-dreams, I'll know why."

They talked for a couple of hours. Decompressing. Eli teasingly told Lin that he could expect Fors to meet them at the hatch of the _Raedia_ when they docked at Bastion. "Why?" Lin asked, blankly.

"Because he wants us both to be his _shreee'eka_." Eli kept his face straight as Lin's mandibles flexed.

"His what?"

"His go-betweens. He's dealing with three families in contract negotiations for his marriage. It's apparently even more complicated than turian wedding contracts. I figure you're a shoo-in for the legal shit portion of this."

Lin winced. "Oh, spirits of air and darkness."

"That's _almost exactly_ what I said." Eli grinned at him wickedly. "Oh, I made sure we wouldn't accidentally wind up marrying the bride or anything. But we _will_ need to be on Irune for the ceremony."

Lin looked hunted, and glanced down at Serana. "Can I hide under your bed for a while, little one? Maybe for a month or two?"

"Coward," she taunted lightly.

And when Eli and Dara got up to leave, Lin leaned down to give Dara a hug, himself. And whispered, just loudly enough for Eli to hear—and deliberately so, Eli guessed, "So, little one, would you mind giving Serana a really _long_ hug before you leave? Long enough that whatever hormonal surge you've got going, hmm, transfers?"

"_Fradu_, you really know how to hit a guy when he's down," Eli said, looking up at the ceiling as Dara laughed, and Serana feinted at kick at just behind Lin's right spur.

By the thirtieth, they'd docked at _Bastion_. They had at least a day's worth of debriefing ahead of them, all in the turian embassy this time. A half-dozen other Spectres who'd been scattered over the galaxy met them there for the mission analysis. Kasumi was there, with Takeshi, to touch Dara's face in concern. Melaani was back from asari space. Kirrahe, Fors, Thell, Dempsey, and Zhasa were there, all wanting to know what the _hell_ had happened to the _Estallus_. . . and Thell was immediately whisked off to a med bay room with Tarenius Gallian/Laetia, to see if they could safely upload Laetia to someplace other than Gallian's brain. "Not to mention, determine if she suffered any information degradation during the transfer process," the huge elcor intoned, his voice concerned. "Problematic, with no database extant to compare against."

Shepard was upset, to say the least, at the losses they'd suffered. "It was a high-risk mission," the commander of the Spectres finally assessed. "Still. . . forty humans and turians, all told. And about five hundred rachni. And the _Estallus_ itself. And her captain." She exhaled, and rubbed at her face.

Manallus, after having ordered Kallixta to set the ramming course, had left the bridge. Neither Rinus nor Rel had seen the male coming down the stairs, but there were two emergency stairwells attached to CIC. He'd made it to a life-pod. . . but his had been one of the three or four that had been breached on collision with debris from the _Estallus_ itself. His body had been recovered. Eli, glancing at Rinus' rigid face, could understand the male's inner conflict. Part of Rinus was probably still angry at Manallus for having ordered the scuttling of the ship, but not having stayed with Kallixta until the course was set. And on the other hand, Rinus probably felt more than a little guilt for that anger, given that the male's body now occupied a morgue slot here on Bastion.

"The good news," Sam told Shepard now, quietly, "is that we recovered our people. We got Valak out, and he's still a damned fine resource to us. We eliminated one of their higher-ranked SIU officers in Arvak R'mod. Although that's not going to slow them down much, it still eliminates one of their resources. And we did it without, hopefully, being linked to the raid." He glanced over at Kasumi. "Any word from Argus on chatter from inside the Hegemony?"

Kasumi made a face. "They're up in arms about having spotted SR ships inside their borders. They're definitely taking credit for the destruction of the _Estallus_. . . but very, very quietly. Because they lost eight ships in doing it." Her lips curved upwards slightly, and her eyes were dark as she added, "And they have _no idea_ what hit those eight ships at the battle of the relay. There's substantial confusion on that part. As far as we can tell, they think a turian carrier group was waiting off the relay. . . except that they know there were reports from the first ship to call for reinforcements about 'unknown ships and configurations.'" She looked over at Sky. "The advantage of surprise, in terms of the rachni, is still ours."

At the end of the meeting, Valak stood, and, rather hesitantly, asked Shepard if he could address those assembled. "Of course," Shepard told him with a nod.

"Thank you, Commander." Valak turned and looked at them all now. "Some of you, I know. Linianus Pellarian and Serana Velnaran and Sings-of-Glory were my guests for over two months. We've worked together, and I like to think we managed to do some good." His eyes hunted through the assembled faces. "Livanus was my guest for several months as well. Rellus. . . only ten days, but that memorable _visit_ is what led us all to today." He looked around some more. "James Dempsey. Elijah Sidonis. Dara Jaworski. All of you, I know. And I am indebted to you, and to everyone else associated with the extraction mission." He paused, looking down, and then up again. The briefing room was completely silent. "I will do everything in my power to repay the enormous debt that I owe each and every one of you. Not just for my life, but for the life of my wife. My child. The hundred free-men on my estate, many of whom survived the wreck of the _Estallus_. Some of whom are still on Khar'sharn, and I hope to the ancestors that they're still alive and able to work against the Hegemony." Valak swallowed, in a rare moment of open emotion. "I don't know what I can do to repay this debt. But everything that I have and everything that I am, is at your disposal."

Shepard looked up, meeting Valak's eyes. The survivor of Mindoir meeting the gaze of the most notable batarian turncoat in history. Forty years of blood between humans and batarians weighing down the moment, and Lilitu Shepard's own personal history. Eli felt the silence grow taut. "There's much that you can do, Valak," Shepard said then, quietly, easily. "You've already done much. _You_ gave us the information that stopped the comet attack on Earth. Your information gave us a chance to protect the Edessan shipyards. You tried to get us information on the plague attacks, too. And your people brought a lot of encrypted data with them off of Khar'sharn; our data experts will be going through that for the next few weeks, if not months, trying to figure out what you and Pellarian and Velnaran and Glory recovered from some of your various operations." The words were calm, but her expression was respectful. Even grateful. "All this, at great risk to your life."

The turian councilor, Odacaen, and the human councilor, Anderson, were in the room, and nodding as Shepard spoke. "So," Shepard said now, carefully and deliberately, "What I'm about to ask of you might be perceived as an even greater risk than any you've ever undertaken. But many of the things we'd like to ask you to do—help us interrogate a variety of batarian prisoners. Help us take some of those prisoners and build a force that can go on batarian worlds without being necessarily immediately detected. . . these things require a certain status. A status beyond that of a spy or an informant. These tasks require someone that we can trust implicitly. Someone who's demonstrated honor and integrity and principles over the course of a long observation. Someone who can fight, someone who can win, someone who can defend the rights of others. Someone who believes in the principles _behind_ the laws, not just what happens to be written down at some point in time. Someone who understands that when laws are broken, sometimes, you have to have someone to stand outside of them for a while, in order to fix them."

Eli's spine tingled, and he looked down at Dara in shock. _Does she mean what I think she means?_

_I think so._ Dara's return thought was mildly awed. _And it would be the propaganda victory to end all propaganda victories, to top it off. . . ._

Shepard cleared her throat, and the murmurs that had swept through the room settled down. "Valak N'dor? We are honored to offer you a position with the Special Tasks and Reconnaissance branch. If you accept, there are a few oaths you'll have to swear." Her eyes absolutely twinkled in merriment as Valak gaped at her. The survivor of Mindoir, the savior of Terra Nova. . . had just extended one _hell_ of an accolade to a batarian.

"In consolation, the uniform is pretty spiffy, and, because it's black, it goes with absolutely everything," Garrus added from beside her, grinning.

Valak, after a moment, regained his composure. "Won't the Council object?" he murmured, sounding dazed.

"The asari might object, because they're not precisely fond of batarians right now," Anderson admitted. "Odacaen and I are scheduled to speak with the asari councilor in an hour to brief her on what you've been up to. I _think_ she'll agree that the prospect of having a noble-caste batarian in the Spectres, clearly in opposition to the Hegemony, will actually be a coup for us. And might even encourage some of your outer colonies to start becoming, hmm. Restive."

Odacaen picked up the thread of the conversation then. "And even if she doesn't agree. . . the volus will probably vote with us. The geth and the quarians will probably vote with us. All we really need is one more vote. . . and I suspect the rachni will vote with us, too."

_Sings-Rebellion will make an excellent Spectre. His songs are in harmony with ours_, Sky told them, placidly. _Bargain-Singer sings approval._

Shepard grinned then, almost wolfishly. "So, Valak. You're out of uniform. Let's get you a fresh suit of armor, and paint it black, eh?"

"You do have an impeccable sense of style," Valak murmured. "And I'm not sure how I could possibly refuse." Still, all three of his eyes were wide with astonishment. It wasn't often, Eli suspected, that the batarian male could be taken so off-balance.

Shepard stood, and all the Spectres and affiliates in the room stood as well. "Settle down," she told them, with a hint of affection in her voice. "A fair number of you are due for some rest and recuperation. If you have leave coming, for the love of god, _take_ it. You've all done tremendous things in the past six months, and I'm proud of what you've accomplished. Now it's time to rest, so you can be sharp and _ready_. Because very soon, we're going to break the blockades of Galatana and Rocam. Our ground troops will finish liberating Amaterasu and a number of other human worlds. And then?" Shepard paused, and her eyes went fierce. "Then we're going to take the fight to the batarians and the yahg."

Dempsey, under his breath, muttered, "Fuck, yeah."

Shepard swept the room with her gaze. "All right. Dismissed."

Eli felt Dara's fingers curl into the crook of his elbow as they passed out of the briefing room. "You know what?" she said, out loud, and conversationally. "I left all my personal belongings here on Bastion, in a storage locker. Takeshi's Christmas presents were in there."

"Good. That means the _mystery dress_ didn't blow up with the _Estallus_." Eli chuckled, and added, silently, _I did the same thing. My Christmas gifts for you are in storage, too._

_Can we take a little time with my dad and Kasumi and Takeshi before we leave?_

_Of course. You need to spend time with them. If Lantar and my mom were here, I'd want to spend time with them, too._ He looked down at her. _Plus, now that Rel's officially on leave, you can have the papers served. _

_I'll hand them to him myself. He deserves that much._ Her throat ached, and Eli could feel it. _I'll do it this afternoon. And give him back the knife. . . and the necklace. And anything else I can think of, that properly belongs to him._

In the corridor of the embassy, Eli stroked her face. _I'm sorry, __sai'kaea__. In a perfect universe, none of us would have to hurt. If we were all perfect people, we could all love each other, and there would be no jealousy. No anger. No pain. Then again, it would be a __hell__ of a group-marriage contract. Would make Fors' 'leveraged buyout' and 'dividends' and everything else look really __easy_ _in comparison._ He paused. _Plus, if we were going to include __everyone__, there is the small fact that I've never been able to get into drell. . . though at least Seheve is pretty damned slinky. . . ._

As he intended, she laughed. Uproariously, but still on the bitter edge of tears. "It's still a really appropriate day to do it," Eli told her, after a moment. "December thirtieth. Tomorrow's New Year's Eve. And if we leave in the morning. . . we'll be at Bek before sundown there, I think. Depends on the travel schedules."

Dara looked up at him, and a tidal wave of ultramarine and burgundy hit him then. "I think that's going to be a damned good way to bring in 2197, don't you?" she asked.

_Oh, god, yes._

**Dara, Bastion, January 30, 2196**

She was feeling remarkably fit and healthy, actually, considering that six days ago, she'd been shot in the lung. She'd been given a long list of breathing exercises by the doctors on the _Raedia_. . . mostly because they felt that they should give her _something_, she figured. The briefing had been long, but fruitful. And now she had to do what she'd said she'd do. Go and face Rel. On her own.

It went about as well as she could have expected as she tapped on the door of his hotel room. He stared down at her for a moment. "Dara."

"Rel." Now that the moment was finally here, it was enormously, enormously difficult. She could have asked her father to do it. Could have asked Eli or Lin or even, hell, Dempsey to do it. Dempsey wouldn't even have blinked. But the mental communion when she'd been wounded had told her things. Undersong and oversong. And Rel deserved this, face-to-face. For everything they'd been to one another, for all the hopes and dreams they'd shared, until they'd simply grown too far apart, and then had _fallen_ apart, too.

So hard to put it into words. It would be so much easier if she _hated_ him. She didn't. She'd been angry, but the anger had burned out, an anger that had been born in love's ashes. . She'd been empty, but now she was full. And he was better now, better than he'd been in years. . . and the temptation was there, however niggling and minor, to slid back into habit. To be weak, instead of strong. Because strong _hurt_. And. . . she knew he was better not because of her, but because of other people. That going backwards would accomplish nothing but destroying them both again. And going backwards would destroy everything that the two of them had started to build apart from each other. But it was still so very, very hard.

A moment of total silence, as they stared at each other. Dara cleared her throat. "Is this a bad time?"

Rel shook his head. "No. I was just carving. Would you like to come in?"

Dara exhaled. "Probably better to do this in private, than out in the corridor," she admitted, and stepped in, past him, but no further than the door. "I brought a few things I've been keeping, that belong to you," she said, simply. And she reached into the small shopping bag she was carrying, and handed him the pattern-welded knife she'd worn for four years. The _manus_ blade they'd picked out together on Bastion, years ago. "I, ah. . . can't give you back the _tal'mae_ knife," she told him, her throat tight. "Eli had it in his seabag. . . and it was on the _Estallus_."

"I know," he said, and for a wonder, his voice was gentle. "Your knife snapped off in the yahg leader's brain. Flaw in the metal. And my knife. . . lost in the wreck of the _Estallus_." Rel cleared his throat. "All things considered. . . I'm glad it was just the knives that were broken and lost." He looked at her. "Could have been much worse."

_It could have been us who were broken. It could have been us who were lost. And we damned near were._

He took the knife from her hands. Set it down on a nearby table, so his own hands were free. No implicit threat.

Dara reached into the bag again, and pulled out something much harder to give up. A very old-fashioned coin, with turian lettering on it, set on a chain. "No," Rel said, instantly. "That's yours."

"It was your grandmother's," Dara said, trying to keep her face under control. Reaching for stoicism, the mask she'd worn, entombed herself under, for years. "It belongs to you. You should have it." She held it out, links of the chain looped over her fingers.

Rel reached out, and gently closed her fingers over the chain. Skin contact, instant song coming to life between them. Regret, violet-edged, like a knife. Too many things done and said and broken to go back. And just _enough_ love between them both to flare, star-like and brilliant, for a moment. "It's yours," Rel repeated, gently. "I gave it to you in friendship. When I didn't even think there could be anything more. Right now, it. . . hurts you to even look at it, doesn't it?"

_Yes._

_Don't hurt. Wear it and remember when everything was new and fresh and good. You promised, we'd always have __this__._ Out loud, he added, quietly, "What do you want done with the spirit statues? They're. . . at home on Mindoir. I couldn't. . . " _I couldn't look at them and not want to throw them into a wall. Didn't trust myself with them. So I left them with my parents._

"They're beautiful," Dara told him, simply. "Don't destroy them."

Rel shook his head. "I won't. But you should have at least the one I did of you with the _rlata_."

Dara took a deep breath. "You were doing one of Seheve on the _Estallus_, I think?" Inane words, out loud. Song underneath, voices crying out, _don't go, don't leave, I have to, __we__ have to, it's for the best, yes, I know it is, but it's . . .so. . . hard._

Rel nodded, tightly. "Had to start over on it. I'll show it to you when it's done. If you like." Awkward words. Undersong. Passion, but not directed at her. _Eli was right. A perfect world would be so much better than this. _

_It's not a perfect world. But we can . . . . make the most of the one we've got._ Rel reached out and, very, very carefully, brushed the tears from her eyes. _We've forgiven each other?_

_For messing up what should have been wonderful? I think so._

_Good. Then we can. . . go on._ He didn't want to be exiled from her life, nor for her to be out of his. Not completely. The inane words of _can we still be friends_ didn't even begin to cover it. So many obstacles fought through, so many things endured. They _were_ a part of each other, and always would be.

But now it was time to let go. To grow. To let their spirits stretch out and encompass each other, and other people. She could hear that all in him. A little of Seheve's quiet acceptance, come to rest in his spirit, a spirit that could never, ever say die, never accept defeat, never accept death or endings. And yet. . . acceptance. Something he hadn't even known he'd needed, until he'd found it. Seheve's serenity, replacing the equanimity he'd lost somewhere out among the stars.

Rel exhaled, and held out his other hand. "You have something else with you, don't you?"

Dara nodded, her throat too tight to speak. But they were still in skin contact. No hiding at all here. She took out the datapad. Turned it on. And Rel signed the forms in the four required places. Initialed in three others. And handed it back to her.

No words. Just a very tight hand-clasp. And silently, Rel told her, _Eli had better take good care of you. Or I __will__ challenge him to a duel. Tell him that._

Dara laughed a little. _And Seheve had best take care of you. And __you__ take care of you. Don't let yourself get lost again. Please?_

_I won't. Because we'll have __this__._ One more squeeze of her hand, and then Rel let go. _Good-bye._

_No. Like I said before. . . not good-bye. Never good-bye. Just. . . farewell._

**Author's note:** _Chapters and chapters ago, people were hammering on me for being 'mean' to Rel or objecting to breaking Rel and Dara up and so on and so forth and suchlike. This chapter represents resolution and catharsis, in literary terms. Release of tensions, essentially. You can only __reach__ catharsis __after__ building up tensions. (Likewise, the last chapter, which got some very gratifying comments; thank you! :-). . . was a climax to several long-standing arcs.) Climaxes are better when they're built-towards. You need tension, you need conflict, otherwise the climax won't happen . . . or won't feel like a climax. (Yes, talking about writing sounds surprisingly dirty, in a way. :-P )_

_If I hadn't been 'mean' to the characters, would last chapter, or this chapter, have been a climax or cathartic at all? No. Not even remotely._

_I realize that some of the frustration readers have been experiencing is the fact that, as I'm writing this, there's a week delay in between updates, and everyone, in the day of internet instant gratification, is used to a faster pace than this._

_And this makes me wonder if, back in the days of the serialized novels in the papers, Charles Dickens ever got truly irate letters. . . . ._


	130. Chapter 130: Love

**Chapter 130: Love**

**Author's note:**_ For the record, I bawled like a baby the entire time I was writing the end of Dara/Rel. He got enough of __himself__ back just in time to end it, and they both knew it. And she wasn't responsible for "fixing him". . . and couldn't have done it. A hard thing for a doctor and an inveterate fixer-of-things to realize._

_Months ago, I told everyone that the bonus chapter ending would, eventually, make perfect sense. And it does. It's just the ending where everyone gets everything that they want. . . but still has to deal with consequences. :-P _

_I deliberately withheld details. For example, I withheld that Zhasa would be out of her suit by the end of Victory (seemed like a huge spoiler). Dara's rachni-fication wasn't planned at that point, but was developed in my head about four chapters later, and fits pretty nicely. Seheve was not in the bonus chapter, because I wasn't sure she was going to survive her big mission (which you haven't seen yet, and which, technically, she still might not live through, though I suspect she's grown enough to survive it). Also, at that point, Seheve had only been floated as an idea for Lin, and Lin got the screaming heebie-jeebies at the notion. :-P_

_That being said, I've been asked to 'warn' people who don't like Eli/Dara when there's going to be a large section pertaining to them. If you're not fond of either character or the pairing, this would be a good chapter for you to skip. *shrug*_

_Also, this chapter should probably be considered **Not Safe for Work**._

**Elijah, Bastion and Bekenstein, December 31, 2196**

They'd spent the night before with Sam, Kasumi, and Takeshi. The little boy was hugely excited to be on Bastion, and had continuously tugged at his parents' hands, staring all around him at the high ceilings with their cloud and light effects, the lights on the buildings, and the crowds of people, in between telling them all, firmly, that it was _noisy_ here. Eli and Dara had walked behind them the few blocks from the turian embassy to their current hotel, and Eli had chuckled the entire way as Takeshi continuously asked, "What's _that_? What's _that_? What's _that_?" as they wended through the crowded passages and streets.

It was just good to see Bastion looking more like itself again. Eli had lived here when it was two, three partially completed levels, had seen it go through the plague, and now, with the influx of ships and personnel and the people needed to provide services to those personnel, it was recovering a lot more rapidly than he'd thought it would. There were still scars—closed, dark shops in a line of brightly lit ones—but it did his heart good to see one of the places he considered home doing well.

And it had been good to spend the evening with Dara's family. He could feel heart-ache pouring off of her when she'd returned from getting the papers signed by Rel, and had been fervently grateful that her father, brother, and step-mother were there to help her through it. "Presents?" Takeshi had squeaked after dinner, which they'd all eaten in Sam and Kasumi's suite, his little grin widening as Dara pretended to think about it.

"Are you sure?" Dara asked, as her rachni workers scurried around. "Why would I need to get you presents?"

"Christmas presents!" Takeshi paused. "Need. . . want. . . Christmas presents. Please!" The last was a hasty addition with a sidelong look at Sam.

"Ohhhhh. Yeah. Right. I remember now. Chopin, where _did_ I put those presents?"

The workers chittered at her, and Eli could feel their amusement. They knew that she knew _precisely_ where the gifts were. _—Anticipation-song, game-song, joke-song. . . all part of the ritual?_

_Yes. Absolutely_, Dara told them, and made a little flicking gesture with her fingers. As a result, Takeshi squealed in absolute joy as the workers scuttled under Sam and Kasumi's bed, and emerged again, pushing wrapped packages out in front of them. "Oh, _there_ they are, thank you," Dara told the workers in a wholly-feigned tone of absent-minded happiness.

"Little Skies help! I help, too!"

"No, no, Takeshi, that one's for Dad. That one's for your mama. The square ones are for Eli. The big ones are for _you_."

Takeshi fell on his packages with glee, ripping and tearing with abandon and squealing in utter glee as he realized that he'd gotten a T-Rex almost as tall as he was. Which blinked at him and roared in its package, making Takeshi run halfway across the room and hide behind Kasumi's chair. Sam put a hand over his eyes and started to laugh. "You know that Emily and Tacitus are never going to let you live it down if you're scared of that," he told Takeshi.

"It looking at me!"

"I think you have a hit there," Kasumi said, holding her ivory cat netsuke in one hand with a pleased smile. "And here, too. Did I ever tell you, Dara, the first thing I ever, er. . . ._acquired_. . . was an octopus netsuke?"

Sam sighed. "And here I thought we agreed we weren't going to talk about that sort of thing around Takeshi."

"Do you really think he's hearing a word we say right now?" Kasumi asked, nodding at the little boy, who had gotten just close enough to the dinosaur for the optical sensors to register him. . . and it had roared at him again. And Takeshi, once again, squealed, giggled, and ran away to peer at it from a nice safe distance.

—_Fear and joy-songs at the same time. Very strange. _

—_Should we protect hatchling from gift-song? _

—_Little-queen would not give hatchling something damaging._

"He's fine, little guys," Eli told the workers. "He's actually having fun scaring himself right now."

Sam's eyebrows went up at the antique pistol. 'This is exactly like one my grandpa had, but when he died, my grandma sold it. My dad was pissed at her. Especially since she pretty much sold it at a garage sale." He gave Dara a kiss. "Thank you, sweetie."

Eli opened his own gifts, and simply stared down at them in surprise. A first edition of _The Maltese Falcon_. The book he'd been reading to Dara while she was unconscious, ironically. "Wow," he said, a little awed. "You really do pay attention."

"Open the other one," she said, yellow-green nervousness firing through her song.

"You going to open yours?"

"In a minute."

Eli chuckled and opened the second. And simply stared at it for half a minute. He'd never told her how much he liked asari poetry. It wasn't the sort of thing he'd admit to out loud. _Absolutely destroys the macho image_, he admitted, silently**. **But the love-songs of Leialanai'a were six hundred years old. The poet had written them around when Ylara had been born; in 1596. She'd have been a contemporary of Shakespeare, had the asari and humans been in contact at the time. And both had written some of the most amazing poetry on either Earth or Thessia.

For an instant, Eli had an amusing mental image of an asari poetess and the balding bard from Avon sitting down and having a conversation about their art. _Probably over a cup of sack,_ Dara told him. _You like it?_

"Yes," he told her, out loud, and caught her hand in his, lifting it to kiss the palm lightly. _In fact, I plan to read these to you._

_Like I'm going to understand any of it. Asari is hard enough. Antique asari? Sheeesh._

_Asari high-tongue hasn't changed as much in six hundred years as English has. Besides, if I understand it, you'll understand it._ "Going to open yours?"

"I'm not sure what I could possibly get that I don't already have," Dara told them all, smiling, but started unwrapping. Her gift from her father and Kasumi first, which she held up, squinting at in confusion. "It's a set of reins," she said, dubiously. "Ah. . . .thank you."

"It's a li'l more than that," Sam told her. "Look in the wrapping paper. Should be something else there."

Dara scrounged around and came up with a printed out picture. Looking over her shoulder, Eli's eyebrows went up. It was an image of a yearling foal. Pitch-black. "That's Kuroi," Sam told her, calmly. "First Frisian foaled on Mindoir. By the time you get back there, he should be gentled. You can work with the stable-keepers on breaking him to the saddle. too. Going to be a little big for jumps, but he should be good breeding stock, which is why he's not being gelded."

Eli could feel Dara's breath catch. "Wow." A pause. "He's beautiful. . . and I'm hardly ever going to be home to take care of him."

"The war ain't going to last forever, sweetie. And you should be on base more often afterwards."

Dara smiled at them now. "Thank you," she told them, from the heart. He could feel memories of the horse she'd lost to old age and the move to Mindoir in her, and understood why it touched her so much. She was regaining something that had been lost.

Dara picked up Eli's gift next, and turned it over in her hands, curiously. "I've got something else for you, but I'm going to wait on it," Eli warned her. _You'll get it tomorrow._ He purposely shielded his thoughts, pulling his hand away from her arm so she couldn't get a peek at what his second gift was to her.

Dara made a face at him, and finished opening the one in her hands, and just smiled. "Another charm?"

"Hey, a promise is a promise." He'd gotten this charm at the same time as the first; the first, given for her birthday at the lake, had been a horse. He'd told her she'd never know what to expect—a caduceus or a musical note or a tiny pistol. In this case, he'd found a charm in the shape of a scroll, with a single asari word inscribed on it. _Ciea'lia_. Cherished. Warm glow in ultramarine from her. Indigo. Love-colors, love-songs. He picked up the tiny charm and helped her attach it to her bracelet. Little things, because big things were impossible at the moment.

Warmth of family, warmth of companionship and tradition. Sam and Kasumi teasing them both lightly. Lantar had sent him pictures and vid from Argus' ship. Pictures of _Santa Kirrahe_, which made Dara laugh until she almost cried. All of the kids, surrounded by piles of wrapping paper taller than themselves. Video of the kids playing with the Spectre action figures, which made both Eli and Dara cover their eyes with their hands. And a new picture, drawn by Caelia for her big brother 'Lijah, with her new paints. She'd seen Dara with her rachni eyes just before the Arvuna mission, and had done a portrait. Complete with pedipalps sprouting out of Dara's sides, as she stood between Eli (pictured as human, but with a turian fringe) and Lin (solidly turian), and near Serana, who had hair. "She means well," Eli said, shaking his head. "We're going to have to work on her tact, though."

Dara tapped a faintly green-tinted nail—almost a talon at the moment, in spite of the workers' efforts to keep them trimmed for her—on the image on his omnitool. "I definitely don't have pedipalps. I mean, queens _do_ have them, though they're not used for all the purposes that males use them for. . . "

"I think my parents would have a problem with me explaining the differences between boys and girls, not to mention the neuters."

"We're talking rachni, not humans."

"Yes, but they get to deal with the inevitable questions after I start explaining."

Dara grinned up at him. "Questions are healthy. Lantar would agree."

"Yeah, but do you really think my mom will take it in stride?" Eli asked, arching his eyebrows.

"Fair point."

Before they left for their own rooms in the hotel, Sam took Eli aside. "Kasumi says you're going to a place she owns on Bekenstein with Dara on leave."

_Okay, uncomfortable. But hell, I already asked his permission to court her._ "Yes," Eli acknowledged. There wasn't much else he _could_ say.

A long, level look. "Try not to get seen by any reporters."

"I'm going to try not to stand out too much, no." He could see the words hovering on Sam's lips. _Treat her right._ But Sam didn't say them. Eli hesitated, and simply said, "I'll take care of her."

"You already have," Sam told him, quietly. "Just keep on like you've been doing. And _try_ not to get in trouble on Bek."

Less than an hour later, they were attempting to get packed for their flight in the morning. This occasioned some merriment. "I would like to propose an exercise in role-play," Eli suggested in Dara's room.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Let's pretend to be nice, normal people going on a nice, normal vacation." He pointed at her seabag. "Nice, normal people don't bring those with them."

"I'd have to go _buy_ travelcases. And I already bought one, strictly for the, er, dress. So it doesn't get crumpled up." She was, abruptly, singing under her breath, trying to keep him from seeing whatever the mystery dress looked like in her mind.

Eli chuckled, outright. "Okay, fair enough. But _Dr. Elizabeth Stockton_," he told her, saying her assumed name, which was her middle name and his old last name, combined, "probably doesn't own a stun-gun. You can probably leave that here."

Dara straightened up. "I don't know. Would _Mr. Marcus Stockton_," and she put just as much emphasis on the name as he had, teasing right back, but with a slightly serious edge, "have a galactic-level concealed carry permit? Will he be wearing a gun at his back and one at his ankle getting on the flight tomorrow?"

"At my side, not my back. Gets uncomfortable on long flights." The correction was automatic, and Eli rolled his eyes at the ceiling. _And god knows, Bek's supposed to be safe, barely a couple of light-years from the Citadel, so batarians are unlikely. Hotel belongs to Kasumi, so again, should be safe. But crime. Lots and lots of very polite, very concealed crime there. Don't want to take chances._

Dara came closer, and put her fingers against his jaw for a moment. The burgundy that was bubbling just under the surface rose in her song again. "The thing is, Eli. . . we're not normal. Not at all. I'm. . . just getting to the point where I'm accepting that."

"I know." He rubbed his face into her hand. "I just thought we should try to be as normal as possible. Just for a change of pace."

_We'll do all sorts of normal things. I'll even leave __my__ pistol here. But not the stun-gun. That stays with me. I don't want to go there defanged __and__ without the workers._ _Even if you're there to protect me. . . let me protect myself, too._

"Okay, point taken." Eli cleared his throat. Her nearness was dizzying. Smell of her skin. Faint hints of sadness still in her song, but she was recovering from it. Balanced by the family activities this evening, by their harmonies. "I should go pack in my room, too." His voice was hoarse, he realized.

"Yeah."

They stared at each other for a long moment. "You think the workers might pack you some of that royal jelly?" Eli asked, his mind a blur. _So goddamned close. Papers are signed. Going off-station. No workers. No family. No work. No press. Just us._

"They're insisting on it. In case I get hurt." Dara's lips curved up. "Also, something about 'mating-chemicals.' Though I think they think that's what shampoo is for."

Eli squinted. "I'm pretty sure I _don't_ want shampoo there."

"Me either." She grinned up at him, and he leaned down to kiss her.

Their lips clung for a moment, and then Eli inhaled and turned away. "Right. See you in the morning."

The next morning, Dr. Elizabeth and Mr. Marcus Stockton stood in line for their transport to Bekenstein. Dr. Stockton wore dark glasses, in spite of Bastion's soft ambient light. So did Mr. Stockton. Soft, comfortable civilian clothing. Eli was wearing a jacket to conceal his pistol, and Dara had put her shock pistol in a newly-purchased evening bag, the closest thing to a purse she'd actually ever owned. They made a point of showing their ID to the people at the transport counter before going through security, which got them a couple of wide-eyed glances and quietly muttered, "Yes, understood, Spectres."

_Do you think we should mention that this is an undercover mission, and that if they talk to anyone about this, we'll have to kill them?_ Blue-green amusement in Dara's mental tone, but no change of expression on her face.

_I think that's pretty much implied by the whole Spectre thing. But hopefully none of them decide to talk to any reporters._ Eli had been scanning their surroundings for cameras the whole time they'd been walking from the back exit of their hotel to the aircab stand, and was still doing so here at the docking area, too. Nothing yet, but he wasn't going to let his guard down till they were safely on Bekenstein.

The flight wasn't that long. Hop to the Bastion dark energy mass relay, which took them to a relay near Widow. A longish cruise in FTL through the nebula, on the way towards the Citadel, and its old-style mass relay, which would hop them to Bek, and then another longish cruise inwards towards the human colony. They were up in the first-class cabin, an amenity that Eli realized Kasumi had bumped them up to. A lot more room around their seats. A curtain between them and the rest of the passengers, so Dara could take off her glasses for most of the flight. He had the aisle seat, so as to deal with the stewards. . . and so he'd have _legroom_, thank you very much. As such, she sat to his right, and he cradled her hand in his, while reading a datapad parked on his knee with his left. He had mass effect particle decay information to read and she was catching up on medical journals that she'd missed in the last two or three months. _Constantly behind_, she thought, and he squeezed her hand.

_For good reasons._

_Yeah, but I'm never going to be the surgeon Telinus is. He really devotes himself to it._

_Let's face it. A brain surgeon in the field would be pretty damned out of place._

He could feel her lips curl up in a smile. _You're absolutely right. _

There were still a few pangs in her, leftover from last night. She was trying not to let herself think about it where he could hear her. He got senses of worry from her each time she felt the surge of sorrow, and then repressed it. "Hey," he finally said, putting his datapad on the tray in front of him, beside a largely untasted drink. "You okay?"

Her lips quivered a little. "I keep thinking I am, and then I'm not again," Dara admitted.

"Why do you keep biting it down, then?" _I'm here. I'm listening._

"'Cause you're going to hate it if I start crying on your shoulder about him again." _Also, hardly seems fair to you._

"You've cried on my shoulder about other stuff. Your mom. The initial breakup. It's okay. I think I can handle one more round. But I dunno if my shirt can. You sure it's not going to dissolve?" Silent addition, lightly humorous: _If the workers can produce hydrochloric acid to polish up your fingernails, __sai'kaea__, are your tears going to wind up being acidic, too?_

_Oh, push off, you._ That, with a watery chuckle, and she leaned into his shoulder now. Violet stabs of regret and gray sorrow. Muted, tired, but there. _He was better, Eli. So much better. But. . . I couldn't fix him. I'd given up on trying, for my own sanity. He fixed himself, with your help. You, Dempsey, Garrus, Lantar, Seheve, Kassa. All of you. Even my dad, a little, I think. Because my dad set limits. Showed disapproval, to his face._

_That's what dads do. _

Tiredness now. _I was still angry when Kassa came to my house months ago with her big confession. Yesterday, I wasn't angry anymore. I thought then that I couldn't fix him. Couldn't even try, not and stay sane myself. And I couldn't even before then. Not in five years of trying. Couldn't stop the slide._

A tickle of memory at the back of his mind. _Isn't there a saying about the first rule of war? 'People die. Doctors can't change rule number one?'_

_Yeah._

_Same thing applies here. You can't fix everything. You were too damned close to the problem. You were part of the problem._

_I know that._ Bitterness, just a thread of it, turning to wonder. _When you're right, you're really right._

_I only get to be really right about things I was really wrong about before._ Rueful tone.

_Part of me still loves him._

_I know. _

_That part really hurts right now._

_I know that, too._ He lifted her face, streaked with very human tears, and kissed her. Gently. Sweetly. Felt the alchemical reaction in her as grief transmuted to love. His tenderness became her relief, her gratitude, her passion.

Clatter as a cart came to a halt outside the curtain, and a little tap at the flimsy plastic wall ahead of them, which shielded them from their fellow passengers. "Excuse me," a steward said, politely, through the curtain. "Would you like to look at the lunch menu? We're about to pass the Citadel, too. You won't want to miss that."

_Always with the interruptions_. Eli sighed.

"Soon enough, no more of those." Promise in her voice.

A slow, leisurely cruise by the Citadel, so passengers on their side of the transport got a good view of it. His old home, brought back to life. Geth and rachni ships patrolling around it, just as asari and salarian ships were currently guarding Bastion. Constant passage of ships coming to and leaving it, mostly military and merchant marine vessels, from the looks of them. The captain murmured over the loudspeaker, "The Citadel was closed for commercial, civilian, and military business over six years ago, and was left dark and dormant during that time period. It was re-opened this year by the intervention of the Spectres. Some of you might have seen the extranet video showing that the Keepers are actually capable of communicating. They're actually assisting with cargo-handling on the station at this point."

Mutters from the alcoves around them. Eli wanted to laugh out loud at some of them. "Got to be a hoax—"

"They _looked_ real on the extranet vids—"

"That could have been cooked up by any three-year-old in their parents' attic with the right software—" That one had been a salarian voice, he was sure.

"I heard that the Keepers, and that 'Ruin' geth unit are actually from the same species, and pre-date the Protheans." Human voice.

"Wonder what the hanar think of _that_." Turian voice.

"Blasphemy!" Mocking human voice in return.

Eli squeezed Dara's fingers. It was an odd sort of validation of their actions earlier this year. They both remembered Dempsey, the geth, and the rachni awakening the Keepers. From his perspective, straining to stay focused, a Collector beam weapon in his hands, trained on Dempsey's head. From her perspective, struggling to keep the voices out as she watched the man's vitals, tried to make sure his heart kept beating, panicked a little over his blood pressure, since it had been dangerously near stroke territory. Wash of memories through both of them for a moment. _All that, and most of them won't believe it till they have a Keeper walk up and __talk__ to them in person,_ Eli thought, amused.

_That's people of almost every species, unfortunately._

And then they were through the mass relay, and cruising towards Bek itself now. "It's so close to the Citadel, and it's a garden world," Eli said, quietly. "I'm surprised the Protheans didn't use it as a colony."

"I'm sure they did," Dara told him, calmly. "We just haven't found the ruins yet. Then again, it's two-thirds covered by ocean, just like Earth. The ruins could be underwater." Flash of the domed structure on Arvuna, the dim light, the oppressive sense that if the bubbles collapsed, they'd all die, quickly. Crushed, drowned, and frozen, all at once. The pervasive sense of fear that had haunted her the whole time.

_Shh. We're supposed to be relaxing. _

_Hard to leave work at work._

_Tell me about it._ His thought was wry. He'd had plenty of nightmares about the yahg while on the _Estallus,_ and he wouldn't be at all surprised if he wound up with a few about trying to get to a life-pod in the not-too-distant future. "Come on. Let's try to get some sleep. We've got another hour or two before we're due to dock. And since today is New Year's, I'm betting there will be festivities and stuff tonight." _Plus, I plan to keep you very thoroughly occupied all night._

Dara laughed, and curled into him after they lifted the arm of the chair out of the way, and, for a wonder, they actually did get a little sleep.

The transport docked with Bek's orbital facilities, and, after being flagged through customs, they transferred to a shuttle, the pilot of which had been standing in the docking area with a sign with their assumed names on it, looking around for them. Dara handed the pilot a travel-chit and their IDs.

"There you are," he told them. "You're heading to the Nagori Grand Hotel and Resort? Looking forward to your vacation?"

It was an effort to remember that not every question was necessarily a probe for information, as from an enemy agent or a member of the galactic press. Eli realized that they'd _both_ stiffened at what had been nothing more than a pleasantry, and snorted under his breath. _Well, we knew we were both wound tight, but damn._ He smiled now. Put on a relaxed air. "Absolutely. It was a surprise trip, booked by my in-laws, so I haven't even seen a _picture_ of the place."

"Oh, you're going to _love_ it," the pilot enthused, picking up their bags and, after a curious glance at the canvas construction, heaved them into the shuttle. "The Nagori is beautiful. The missus keeps hinting that we should go there on vacation ourselves someday. Maybe this year."

_What does Nagori mean, anyway?_

_You would ask, __ciae'teilu__. I don't even have my omnitool keyed for Japanese today._ Dara did a quick extranet search, and frowned. _Memory__, apparently. Well, __memory of things lost__, anyway._

_Memory? That's a very Kasumi name. She and Sky must get along great. Cryptic as shit._

_No kidding._

Their first sight of the Nagori left them both breathless for a moment. "Holy shit," Dara admitted, stepping out of the shuttle and staring. "I thought it was going to be . . . I don't know. Not a bed and breakfast, not with the word 'resort' in the name, but. . . god _damn_." _Kasumi does __nothing__ by halves, does she? How the hell did she get ahold of this place?_

_She probably stole it._ Eli stepped down after Dara, and stared around, too. The hotel consisted of several large buildings, made of local stone, perched near the edge of a cliff, overlooking a vast sweep of Bekenstein's western ocean. No other buildings for miles in either direction. Just a clean, unobstructed view of cliff, water, and sky, as far as the eye could see. The sun was just setting at the moment, and the entire sky was on fire with golds and salmon pink clouds and, to the east, veils of purple ones, trailing back into the indigo of dusk.

The central building looked a little older than the ones flanking it, and was four or five stories high. Gracious granite-faced steps led up to the front door, past an twelve-foot tall Shinto gate, also made of local granite. Around the gate, there was a small, neat garden, and a bronze placard, with writing in English and Japanese. _In memory of Keiji. Huh. Who the hell is Keiji?_

_You've got me. Something to ask her when we get back._ Dara pushed her glasses higher on her nose as a bellhop in uniform came out and got their bags on a brass cart.

The people at the front desk, once they saw the names on the IDs, suddenly became downright obsequious. "Yes, Ms. Goto told us we'd be expecting her daughter and son-in-law," the _manager_ said, coming out of the front office to shake their hands. A quick glance from the human male at Dara spoke volumes: _You sure don't __look__ like her daughter, but . . . I have instructions, and my paycheck is very important to me._ "We have instructions to make your stay as comfortable and low-key as possible. Ms. Goto instructed that you be given her private rooms here. If you'll follow me?"

Upstairs, through a wide hall that could only be called an art gallery or a museum with any kind of accuracy. Eli was doing his best not to stare like a yokel, but he'd seen printed reproductions of these works before, on various doctors' waiting rooms all his life. _Dara, please, please tell me these are just painted copies._

_I don't know! They __could__ be! Knowing Kasumi, it's . . . possible._ She squeezed his hand. _Turn off work mode, please._

_Trying. . . _ Eli eyed one, which was definitely an asari landscape, depicting the crystalline towers of Thessia's long-vanished capital city in oil, slightly blurred, as if with fog, and shook his head. "So, your dad's never been here?"

"Kasumi said he keeps dodging her about coming here on vacation." _Maybe that's a good thing. He doesn't need a stroke._

Then up another, smaller flight of stairs, and to the right. "These are the owner's private rooms," the manager told them. "Full electronic security system, discrete from the rest of the hotel. Double-encoded lock, surveillance cameras in the hall connecting this door to the main rooms. Housekeeping staff and room service personnel with background checks going back over twenty years are the only people permitted beyond this point. Well, and me." His voice was smooth and professional. "I hope you'll find everything to your liking. There's a full kitchen, bath, living area, and bedroom, and if you need anything from room service, we have been told to bill Ms. Goto. Additionally, brochures with all available activities and amenities from the resort and surrounding area have been uploaded to the room's console. Full extranet privileges are available, of course." He cleared his throat. "Enjoy your stay."

He'd walked them through the long, empty corridor from the art gallery hall to the door of their room, made sure that their hands—and the all-important biometric chips in them—were keyed to the door, and now bowed his head slightly, and turned to walk away.

_Okay, this is getting weirder and weirder_, Dara admitted, taking off her glasses as they stepped into the rooms. . . and again stopped and stared. "Oh, my god," Dara murmured out loud.

Eli whistled softly. The rooms were, in a word, palatial. The apartment he'd shared with Lin on Bastion could have fit, in its entirety, into the open living area, which had a sunken area for couches and chairs around a shimmering, deactivated aerogel screen. All of the furniture was clearly antique, but with a comfortable mix of European and Japanese styles. The floor was covered in tatami mats, which meant that Dara immediately kicked off her shoes, and, after a moment, so did Eli. The huge, floor-to-ceiling windows faced southwest, which meant that at the moment, they had a blaze of light pouring in, but there were screens, partially rolled down over them, to block the glare, but which were thin enough not to impede the glorious view of the ocean. One of the windows had a glass door inset in it, which lead out onto a balcony, where there was a small table and two chairs. There were ferns and plants from a dozen planets growing in pots around the room, including an asari _dia'da_ tree, in full bloom, near the windows, which perfumed the air lushly.

Doors led off ahead of them and to the side; the one to the right, as Eli peered into it, appeared to lead into a kitchen, which was small but neat. . . and the one ahead of them lead into the bedroom with an attached bath. Again, _palatial_ was the only word to describe it. A king-sized bed, lacquered black, covered in pillows and smooth white counterpane with cranes embroidered on it, in white. A couch, nightstands, dressers. A walk-in closet . . . and, in the bathroom, yet even more luxury. Gray stone floors. A sunken marble bathtub. A shower big enough for a stone bench on which to sit down and relax. Granite countertops, silver taps, and mirrors on every wall, shining light back at them, and showing reflections of them every where they turned. _Oh, god_, Eli thought, taking his hand away from Dara's arm for a moment. He could clearly picture bending her over that counter and taking her, hard, seeing her from every angle, seeing himself plunge into her, hearing her cries echo back from the walls. Seeing her face and eyes, dazed and vague with pleasure, lips parted as he gave her what they both wanted. . . . _Soon_, he thought, anticipation building in him. _Oh, god, yes, soon._

He couldn't quite resist as she turned around and slid her arms around his neck. Her shock of pleasure at the burgundy burning in his thoughts. Lips meeting, parting. Warm dance of tongues, little sounds at the back of her throat, and then he dimly realized that he'd backed her into the wall beside the door. _Been so hard to wait._

Her own burgundies now, beginning to burn. Relaxing, opening to him, knees weakening. He could _feel_ it in her. Could feel the hormonal surge, which had been abating a bit over the last day or so, suddenly reverse its course. Blaze into life, hunger. Eli pulled his lips away and bit the side of her throat. Rush of wetness between her legs, and he _knew_ it.

Breathing hard, he managed to lift his head. "I promised I'd seduce you," he told her. "You want that?" _Say yes. Say yes, please say yes._ He was so hard he ached as he rubbed himself a little against her, wanting nothing more than to act out his fantasy. Turn her around and take her, hard, right in front of all those mirrors. . . . but he could wait a little while longer. He wanted her to remember this night for as long as they lived.

_That's not going to be a problem._ Indigo whisper of song. Dara looked up at him, eyes wide. "Yes."

Eli traced a finger over her lips. "You want to be seduced, _sai'kaea_?"

"Yes." Dara swallowed. He could feel the muscles in her throat working as he ran his fingertips down the line of it, now.

"Then do you want to play a game?" Hoarse whisper. He didn't think he was going to be able to pull away from her. She felt so goddamned good, and all parts southwards were telling him she was open and ready and willing and yielding for him.

"What kind of game?" She smiled a little, and half-sang the words. Honey and whiskey and sex in that soft voice.

"I'm going to be seducing you all night, _sai'kaea._ I want you to try to seduce me."

Dara blinked. _I don't know how. . . ._

_Yeah, you do._ Flickers of anticipation building in him. _Tease me. Promise me. Let it build. It'll be good, I swear. Better than good. _One more fervent kiss.

"How. . . do we know. . . who wins the game?"

"We both do." He groaned as her hips rolled against him. "The one who breaks first, who drags the other one back up here. . . that's the _official_ loser." He gave her a slightly crooked grin. "Of course, I'm a guy, _sai'kaea_. I start with a certain natural disadvantage here."

Slow curls of anticipation in her now, too. Faint understanding of her power over him. Wanting to see that self-control slip. "What does the winner get?"

"Loser buys the winner breakfast?" His tone was hopeful.

She laughed. "Any other ground rules?"

"Nothing that'll get us arrested for public indecency. Would be damned hard to explain." _No hands, at least not where people or cameras can see them._

She flushed a little. _Like I'd do that._

_Eat some of that royal jelly and tell me that again._ He grinned down at her, and finally managed to step away. "Let's look through the brochures. Get cleaned up. Get dressed, go to dinner. . . and I _think_, given that this is New Year's Eve on the human calendar, and this is a human hotel, that there should be dancing and such tonight."

"Eli, I don't know how to dance. It'll be crowded and noisy. . . "

He caught her hand and bit her wrist, making her gasp. _I know I said be human with me. . . _

_. . . but be a little asari, too?_

_Please._

_I'll try._

It was early fall here in this hemisphere on Bek, and the hotel was in a very temperate climate. Daily highs were still over 80º F/26ºC, with light breezes. Eli showered first. Cold. Very damned cold. Shaved, and re-applied his paint, out of habit. . . _well, this could blow the disguise, but. . . there have got to be other humans out there who wear clan-paint besides Elijah Sidonis, Spectre and galactic bad-ass. _He half-laughed at the thought. _Some bad-ass_. _Bunch of humans were wearing it on Bastion when I was growing up there, because they thought it __looked__ cool. This should be okay._

Slipping past her, into the other room, a towel around his waist as she, flushing a little, carried her own clothing into the bathroom. "Oh, so I _still_ don't get a peek?"

"No. I'm. . . still not sure I can do this."

"The way you blush every time you think about that dress makes me _really_ curious," he warned, through the door as she closed it in his face.

**Elijah and Dara, December 31, 2196-January 7, 2197**

Chuckling, Eli got dressed. White dress shirt, soft khaki pants. And of course, as always, the Beretta at the small of his back, shirt loosened over it so it wouldn't show. Sig-Sauer at his ankle. And. . . _okay, brochures. Don't listen to the sound of the water rushing over her body in there. Don't think about how easy it would be to walk in there and do what you wanted to do on the __Sollostra__. Pick her up, pin her to the wall as the water pours over both of you, skin all soapy and slick. . . fuck. Okay, so, there's . . . massages and stuff at the day spa. She might like that, but I think I can manage a pretty nice massage right here in the room. Hmm. There's windsurfing. Dara would love that. Get a board that can handle two people, and we can balance together. Catch the wind in the sail. Hang-gliding. Yeah, with her fear of heights, we can skip that one. Hover-cycle course about five miles inland, nice. Golf. . . um, no thanks. Oh, nice, fossil beds along the local cliffs.. . . go for a long hike. Nothing but us, the sea, the birds, and a packed lunch._

The water shut off, and, looking up, he reached into his seabag. Got out a small velvet box he'd left in storage on Bastion before the Khar'sharn mission. Then he returned his fixed attention to the travel brochures, listening to the hairdryer. After a while, it went silent. _Probably some makeup or crap like that next. . ._ rustle of clothing. _Well, at least she gets dressed pretty damned fast. Probably the lack of makeup. . . ._

The door creaked open. "Ah, Eli? I could use a little help," Dara admitted, sounding embarrassed. "I can't quite close this."

He looked up. . . and his mouth opened slightly. _And she's not even doing it on purpose_, he realized, after a minute. It made it even _better_, in a way.

The dress was, in fact, exactly the one he'd seen on Bastion and thought she'd look amazing in. . . but that she'd never, ever wear. Slit up both sides, to the thigh, showing glimpses of her mile-long legs. A narrow but plunging V-neck, down to near the waist; halter neck. The soft skin of her entire back was visible, down to her hips. There was a three-inch wide beaded band that passed under her breasts for support and to keep the gown from gaping open at the front. . . and this was what she was trying to fasten, on her own, without success, since the clasp was behind her. She'd pinned her hair up loosely, as best she could. And she'd actually put on eye makeup. Not a lot. Just enough to darken her lashes, put dark, mysterious shadows around those brilliant, rachni-blue eyes.

_Oh, god_, Eli thought. _I'm going to lose this game, but I'm going to go down smiling. Literally._ He was already on his feet and moving forward. "Turn around," he told her, and she turned. Presented her back to him. His hands were shaking a little as he fastened the tiny hooks into place.

"Is it okay? It doesn't look stupid?" Her voice was just a touch insecure. She wasn't sure what his face and eyes were telling her right now, but his body had gone rigid for a moment there, and now she _thought_ she could see hunger. . . and his eyes had gone dark again before he told her to turn around.

"Stupid? Are you kidding me?" He leaned down and kissed the back of her neck. Skin contact. _No, not kidding me. __Killing__ me._ He moved back, after that one brief flicker of burgundy song.

"You really like it? "

"Yes." He looked down. "You can't possibly wear a gun under that."

"I know. That's why the stun-gun's in my evening bag." She half-turned, and gave him a smile. Burgeoning playfulness. _You really __do_ _like it. _

_You really want to test __how much__ I like it? We won't get out of the room._ He cleared his throat. "The stockings look sort of . . . silky." His hands were itching to touch. Explore. Discover textures.

"The workers made them for me," she admitted. "I tried on a pair from the store and the first thing that happened was I put my damned nails right through them before I even got them on my feet. These are so much more comfortable than nylons. . . . and while I might be able to cut them with a knife, I somehow don't think they're going to _run._" Almost chattering for the moment. Breath tight in her chest. Nerves. Light yellow worry.

Eli half-closed his eyes. Still not touching her. Not letting her hear his songs. "How high up do they go?"

"Thigh-high," she whispered. Curls of interest in her now. Shift in her song. Recognition and . . . intrigue. Pushing his reaction. Rel had liked it when she'd worn a _cinctus_, to set off her waist. . . even under clothing, it had been a tease. But Eli was reacting as if to the tortures of the damned at the moment.

Eli cleared his throat. "As it happens. . . your other Christmas present will go. . . really nicely with that dress."

And that reversed the power dynamic. He took _her_ off-balance as her eyes widened. "No, no, stay there. In fact, close your eyes."

She obeyed, and Eli went back to the desk, where he'd been reading the travel brochures, and picked up the box. Opened it, and came back to the doorway. Settled the necklace around her throat, clasping it in place. Felt the light shock as the coolness of it touched her skin. _Perfect_, he thought.

Dara opened her eyes and looked in the mirror. Seven perfect peacock Tahitian pearls, on a white-gold chain. Subtle iridescence to each gem. To her eyes, they shone with the same colors as her rachni-altered skin. Black shimmers against white shimmers. And they did match the dress. . . very well. "Marking?" Dara asked, turning back towards him partially, with a hint of a smile. Suddenly, part of her _understood_ the game. She didn't turn her head all the way. Sidelong glances. She'd never been good at flirting. Never understood how it worked. Straightforward had always been her way. But he'd told her how. _Promise me. Tease me._ "You're marking me, Eli?"

"Oh yes," he murmured.

"Then I guess I better put some of that starflower perfume on, huh?" She moved over, still barefoot, to the dresser, where she'd put some of her bottles and hygiene stuff out. Picked up the tiny bottle. "Unless you'd prefer to put it on me."

Brief touch of fingers against fingers as he accepted the tiny vial. _Now you're playing, __sai'kaea__._ He trickled the perfume between her breasts. Touched it to just behind her ears. Not too much. Just enough. "You want to get out of here?"

"I think we might want to, yes. Shame to get all dressed up, and then go nowhere at all." Honey and whiskey voice. _Oh, yes. Tonight's going to be __wonderful__._

He paused. "Mind if I get a picture of this for my omnitool? Lin is never going to believe me if I tell him you actually wore that."

Dara laughed out loud, and let him take the picture. "No leaks," she warned. "Classified materials."

"The press will never get it from me, but I don't think it'll be bad for your reputation." Eli grinned at her. "Quite the opposite, in fact."

Dinner in a softly-lit restaurant. Cherry-blossom motif on the walls and carpets. Japanese and European and asari food, all on the menu. They had a booth at the back, and they both slid to the back of the horseshoe-shaped enclosure, getting their backs to a wall, out of reflex. . . but this also let them rub up against each other. Warmth of each others' skin through the thin layers of clothing. "Human food tonight?" Eli asked, quietly, setting up the privacy field around the booth that would conceal their faces from the other diners, and generate a hum of white noise around them, masking their words. It was a very upscale feature. . . and very handy for people who wanted to dodge cameras and parabolic microphones.

"Mmm, you say that like you want asari food in the morning."

Long, slow glance. "Maybe I do."

"If you lose, I'll let you order us a _suasi_'_muara_ for breakfast_."_ Sweet-morning plate. She let her right hand fall to his left knee, lightly. Felt the reaction in how he tensed momentarily, then relaxed again.

He smiled. "Incentive for me to lose, huh?"

"I'm not above bribery if the cause is just."

"Well, while that is a _very_ appealing thought. . . we'll just have to see who wins and who loses." Eli grinned at her. "Since I might well _win_. . . how about if we have a sharing-plate tonight. . . and we'll let the morning take care of itself?"

"You just want to feed me, admit it."

"Of course I do." _It's an excuse to touch you, __sai'kaea__._

Out of pure habit, they both tended to scan the room a little as they ate, and when they caught each other doing it, mock-scolded each other. _Obviously, I'm not being distracting enough. Obviously, I'm not doing my job._

Relaxing. Talking, or being silent. Little brushes of fingers as he brushed her hair back from her face. Slide of skin on skin. Every touch sensitizing them to each other, more and more, till Dara felt as if she were a glass of champagne, filled with bubbles. Fizzing with effervescent, electricity, anticipation. Because tonight. . . there was going to be culmination, and they both knew it. It was just a question of how and when.

Slowly, the need to scan their surroundings faded. It would never quite go away for either of them, but it was back-grounded now. Muted. Instinct level reflexes would kick in if they needed them, but for right now. . . dreamlike absorption in each other. And when the food arrived. . . even more distraction.

Little bites of food. Just as on Bastion, Eli rubbed her lower lip with this or that piece of food, or would lightly bite the tips of her fingers when she offered him a slice of this or that fruit, a piece of rare meat wrapped around something that looked like an egg but tasted like cream and mustard and something. . . .tangy. Dara took her opportunity for revenge when Eli dipped a piece of food in the honey-like substance in one of the bowls, and caught his hand by the wrist before he could move it away. _Hold still,_ she told him. _You don't want to be all sticky, do you?_ And then she lightly licked the tips of his fingers.

Eli inhaled sharply. Skin contact, and of course she could feel his reaction. Could see through his eyes, just for a moment, as he focused on the pink tip of her tongue lapping at his fingertips. "Okay, you're ahead on points," he admitted, after a moment.

"Giving up so soon?" Dara taunted softly. A flicker of memory, lighting up for both of them. The trip to Khar'sharn to retrieve Rel. Both of them acting the part of a married couple. And Eli teasing her the whole time. . . so much so that Dempsey had told them to get a room. _Revenge,_ Dara tossed at Eli, just a hint of wicked mischief curling her lips.

"Oh, I'm not throwing in the towel just yet," Eli told her. His eyes were completely dark. _I'm just wondering, if I dip my fingers in royal jelly, if you'd lick it off just that way. Or maybe, you know, other parts._

Pink tide of color to her face, and she bit the tip of his finger gently in retaliation. Eli leaned down and kissed her, tasting the sweetness of the fruit and honey he'd just fed her, the slightly spicy and tangy components from the other foods and condiments, and felt her lips soften under his. Yield. Start to cling in return. _Slow down. The night's young. And I promised you all night._

He helped her up from the table, aware, though she certainly wasn't, of how everyone at the tables around them turned a little to look at her. "You know what? In spite of a pretty varied social life, I've never actually been out on human New Year's," he told her, lightly, sliding an arm around her waist and drawing her out of the restaurant. He'd paid the bill without blinking, and now they walked out into the balmy night air. One of the adjoining buildings had low bass notes emanating from it, thumping away. Lights and movement clearly visible from the lower floor, the walls of which seemed to be largely comprised of windows. _Come see the fun that everyone's having inside. _A different premise than most night clubs, which tended to tuck themselves away behind brick walls and an aura of exclusivity. "I know it's not the kind of music you usually like," Eli told her, nodding at the club doors. "But. . . ."

"It's not your sort of music, either."

"No. . . but tonight, we're trying different things."

He'd endured the club scene on Macedyn with any number of females who'd been there for the tourism. Many had just wanted drinks and a fun evening out with a companionable enough male. Others had wanted more. That was one layer of experience over his eyes when he looked into the club. It had been fun at first, but then, it had gotten more and more empty for him. And his cop eyes added a different patina to the scene. Showed him where the drunks were, and drunks were usually trouble. He saw firefly gene mods on dozens of people. . . most of them had the gene mods applied to limited patches of skin, shaped like tattoos. Patterns of light, whirling on their faces and arms, visible in the dimness of the club, as their skin lit up from within. Butterfly wing patterns on the face, with their real eyes as the 'eyes' of the wings were prevalent for the females. The gene mods wouldn't be visible at, say, the office, the way tattoos would be. But very similar in principle. _Not always, but often, Hallex-heads. At least they're the peaceful sort of drunk. More interested in what the music makes them 'feel.'_

_They'd feel it if they just opened themselves to the songs anyway._ A very rachni thought from Dara. A little gray with sorrow. _It's all there in the music and in themselves. They just clutter themselves too much to really listen._

_You're the expert on music, __sai'kaea__. Forgot to look up what was legal here before we got here. . . oh well, the bouncers will know who's a problem and who's not._ Eli looked at the room through her eyes for a moment, and wanted to laugh.

She didn't see the room at all the way he did; he categorized the dancers and the people in the booths and the people by the bar. Threats, potential threats, unthreatening, law-breaking, law-abiding. And while she had special forces training, she only categorized by threat or non-threat, and at the moment, all her threat signals were _pinging_. Too much noise, too many people, a writhing mass of humans and asari, all arms and legs, like a pit full of worms in the glowing lights that shone down from the ceiling, red on the thump of the bass, violet limning the edges of faces in the spaces between beats. . . all against the open glass windows that looked out over the edge of the cliff, and all around the darkened grounds of the resort. Like standing in a fishbowl, only without water. During the day, this room would be open and sunny with an incredible view. At night, the lights inside reflected off the glass walls, frosting them with color. . . when they weren't night black. Overwhelming, really. Sensory overload of sounds and colors and smells.

"It's not that bad," he called down to her, squeezing a shoulder reassuringly, but he could understand her vision of the people in this place as a many-handed monster without eyes or faces. Just a mindless _thing_, reaching out to grab her. _I'm right here. Relax._

Solid and stable as rock. Dara felt herself, having crowded into Eli, start to relax. Felt his fingers on the back of her neck, rubbing the skin there, soothing her. Working away the tension, returning the effervescent glow of well-being to her now. "You _really_ want to dance?" she asked him.

"I think a drink first," he said in her ear, loud enough for her to hear over the music. _Just one. Just a little relaxed. . . I want to remember every second of tonight. I want you to remember it, too. But only one, because . . . _

_. . . I know. We have no idea if it'll make me sick._ She smiled up at him. "Do I get a sip of champagne at midnight?"

"That and a kiss." He found an unoccupied table, and asked her, "What do you want, and for god's sake, don't ask for anything asari. You won't like any of it, trust me."

_You think their drinks taste like perfume?_

_They do. Hell, perfume might actually taste better._

_You pick. I trust you._ Look of anticipation in her eyes.

There was a line at the bar. There always was, and tonight being New Year's, it was hellishly crowded in here. People were actually dancing next to the bar, too, their wild gyrations causing them to stumble into those waiting in line periodically. Eli decided that simpler was better, especially with an overworked bartender, and opted for whiskey for himself, and champagne with Chambord in it for Dara.

Turning back to return to their table, he realized that there were a few problems at hand. First, an asari had just stepped into his path. She'd clearly spotted the dark slashes of clan-paint on his cheeks, and was already smiling flirtatiously. "I love human music," she said over the thunder of the beat. "It makes me feel so alive!"

Past her was problem number two. There were a couple of human males at the table, standing over Dara, blocking Eli's view of her. Probably nothing to worry about. . . but he hadn't been out of arm's length of her since leaving Bastion. She _probably_ wasn't going to be lost without background song any time soon. . . but he didn't like having his line of sight on her cut off like that. The wounding was too goddamned fresh in his mind, if nothing else. _"Yes, the music's fine,"_ Eli told the asari absently in high-tongue. _"If you'll excuse me?"_

He started to push past her, and she stepped back into his path. _"I'm Siliea. I haven't heard my own language so beautifully spoken by a human before. Who taught you?"_

"_An old friend."_ He started to edge past, seeing a break in the crowd to her left, between two female dancers who had been doing a sort of bump and grind routine together, and who were both very flushed from alcohol.

Her fingers closed around his wrist instead. _"I've offered you the courtesy of my name, the least you could do is offer your own in return."_

"_Marcus. If you'll permit me to pass, my more-than-fair is waiting for me."_

"_What a pity. . . _"

He'd been prepared for it. Light brush of her mind against his. He blocked her, emphatically, and told her, dryly, _"Don't be rude,_" and moved past her into the mass of people. Her shocked expression as her wrist fell away was actually rather satisfying, he had to admit.

He knew how to move through a crowd, and, by and large, had added enough height and weight that people tended to move back out of his way. _Law of gross tonnage. The bigger ship has the right of way._ And yet, at least one other, very tipsy human female danced right into him, and landed against his arm, and giggled. "Well, hello there! I totally didn't see you. And I love champagne. . . how did you _know_?"

"I didn't. Excuse me, please." He extricated his elbow from her tipsy grip, and moved on through the ebb and flow of the crowd, the dark music, and the flashing lights, looking for Dara. _Maybe this wasn't the best idea I've ever had._

Dara, in the meantime, had moved the domed light at the center of the table, which served in lieu of a candle, over to where she could look at it. It had a gel-like consistency to its cover, and it changed color wherever she touched it, reacting to pressure and skin temperature. There was too much movement in here for her to track threats. People were constantly getting too close, and as such, her mind was starting to tune them out, in self-defense. Growing numb to it, inured. _Maybe this is why they had a nightclub at the Spectre trials. If so, I should mention to my dad that they need to upgrade the challenge, make it more realistic. . . ._

"Hey, there. Is this seat taken?" Whiff of beer on someone's breath, slightly sour note on the skin, which suggested that the male had been drinking for a while already.

Dara glanced up out of the corner of her eye. She didn't want to turn and face whoever it was directly and give them a clear look at her eyes; even at night, she knew they were faintly luminescent.

Human male, a little older than she was. It was downright odd to see one with a civilian haircut, she had to admit. While it didn't even touch his ears, it still looked sort of . . . silly. Slight glaze to the eyes, too, loose movements. _Drunk, and not even midnight yet_. "Yeah, I'm waiting for someone."

"Can I be that someone?" Another guy walked over, holding a glass. "I saw you come in with that one guy," he half-shouted over the music. "Want to dance?"

"Look, I'm waiting for my boyfriend," Dara told them, still not looking directly at either of them. _Hey, now that's a word that doesn't really do Eli justice at all. No wonder he likes __sai'kaea__ better. Boyfriend makes him sound. . . trivial._

"I saw you come in with a guy, yeah. The one with the turian paint. C'mon, you can do better than a lizard-lover. . . . " one of them wheedled now.

_And what would you think if I told you I'd been married to a turian for five years?_ Dara thought, with distant amusement. Wipe the clan-paint off her face, and suddenly she _wasn't_ a scale-whore turian-groupie freak anymore, apparently. Which made her fair game. Someone likely to agree with them. _Come on, Eli. It can't take that long to get a drink. . . well, the line is pretty long. . . _

Past them, Dara was able to track Eli's progress through the bar now. Females kept bumping into him. Quite deliberately, she thought. A quick smile for each of them, a word or two, and then he moved on, with the same deft grace he used on the sparring mats. Shift of a hip here, turn and step there. And he probably didn't even realize that not a few of them kept looking at him, even after he'd moved away. _Mine_, a part of Dara woke up and shouted, fiercely. _My male, my mate, stay away!_ She looked down, and realized her nails were actually digging into the jelly-like surface of the lamp, and hastily put it to the side. "Look, I'm flattered and all," she told the guys near her. _Okay, I'm not flattered at all. You're both drunk and I'm the only unoccupied female in the room. . . . _"But I was raised to dance with the one who brought me." _Inasmuch as I've ever danced. Does once at my own wedding count?_ _Standing on my dad's shoes when I was three?_

One of them actually reached down for her hand at that point, and Dara jerked back as if stung. She did _not_ want their mental touch, their beery thoughts, and didn't think she could focus her thoughts enough to block them at the moment. "Hey, lady, I was just being friendly—"

"I'm not interested in being friendly," Dara told him, and turned her head. Stared directly up into his eyes. Mentally, she was debating options. There were bouncers around, which would be the polite, civilized response. _Hey, these guys are bothering me._ There was, however, a military-grade shock pistol in the evening-bag hanging from a thin strap on her left wrist. _Overkill._ _But if they touch me, I'm breaking their damned wrists._ She was acutely and uncomfortably aware of her bare skin at the moment, and how vulnerable it made her to other people's touch. Their thoughts. "Go away and leave me alone."

He jerked away as if she'd used her shock-pistol, in truth. "What the _hell_—"

His compatriot just looked at her, puzzled. "Full-eye lenses? Shit, I thought those were supposed to be really painful." He peered at her. "Pretty, though."

_Oh, good god. People really will jump to the easiest possible explanation, won't they? Sometimes, Occam's razor actually works in my favor. . . but still, they're not going away. . . ._

"Hey, is there a problem here?" Eli had reached the table at last. Faint smile, just enough for someone to think he was being friendly and diplomatic, but it didn't reach his eyes. Alpha body-language, too. Straight shoulders and back, suddenly seeming to bulk more than he had before. As if his own mass were a variable he could control. His eyes had gone black as he stared down at the two of them, and his song was in her mind, no skin-contact. _You okay, __sai'kaea__?_

_One hundred percent better as of right now._ Dara exhaled. The panic at the thought of them touching her was probably unwarranted. They couldn't know what she was or what touching her would do.

"No problem. She just looked like she needed a drink," the wiser of the two said, moving away.

Eli set the glasses down on the table. "We've got drinks, thanks."

"Yeah. . . I see that." That one edged further away. He was, of course, the one who'd gotten a good look at Dara's eyes, and now was getting a really good look at Eli's.

The drunker of the two looked up at Eli belligerently. "I was just telling her she could do better than some guy who's trying to grow scales—"

A half-dozen possible responses went through Eli's mind, all at once. _Do you realize that the chick you're hitting on gouged out a turian's eye in boot camp? Believe me, you can't __possibly__ handle her. . . _sounded like a good possibility.

_Hey, you're the one who knocked out ten of a turian's front teeth and broke his jaw with a knee,_ Dara pointed out, silently.

_Mine probably recovered faster than yours did. _

_You also didn't need sixty stitches afterwards. You win, Eli, whether you want to or not._

Thoughts flickered quickly between them. It took less than a second. Eli couldn't help but chuckle quietly. "Hey, D . . . _Elizabeth_, do _you_ think you could do better than a scale-licker?"

"Frankly, I was looking forward to licking your scales." Dara raised her eyebrows, and made sure her voice carried through the crowd-noise.

_Nice touch._ "Why don't you go find someone else to pester?" Eli told the man, still looking down. _Back down now. You don't want me to have to introduce your face to the table. That would, after all, spill our drinks. _No challenge at all in staring the drunk down. He'd faced down Lantar in protection-anger and Linianus in a revenge-rage before. A drunk and weak-willed human? Not even a challenge.

_Could also have something to do with the fact that you've got six inches and forty pounds on him, at least, __ciea'teilu__,_ Dara told him, in amusement. _And those forty pounds are all in the right places._

And that made the part of him that remembered being fourteen, scrawny, and the frequent recipient of black eyes for being a _scale-lover_ just want to smile.

Drunk as the man was, he did start to wilt a little. Started to turn away. Eli watched him go. . . and saw as a bouncer moved in on the male. _Ah. Probably saw him pestering the owner's daughter. _He sat down at the table at last, and took Dara's fingers in his own. Felt her relief at the contact. "Sorry, _sai'kaea._ I got hung up back there."

"I was watching." She took a sip from her glass and rolled the taste around on her tongue. From anxiety to relaxation once more, almost immediately. Indefinable sense of safety when he was there.

_I think I've mentioned before that no guy wants to be considered __safe__._

_You should. It's a compliment. _

She still felt tingles all through her body. Effervescence. As if she were about to overflow and pour into him, and he into her, or every cell in her body was attuned to him, straining to overcome the bonds of physics and simply mingle with him. "Drink your drink, _sai'kaea,"_ Eli murmured, the words lost in the crowd-noise, but the song clearly audible, and almost a caress. "I'd like you to be really relaxed if we're going to dance." _Not self-conscious._

_I am supposed to be trying new things tonight._

_Exactly. Things. . . _ Eli cut off the thought, but Dara knew what it would have been, anyway. Things Rel had never done with her. He knocked back his whiskey, and, as she finished her champagne, held out his hand to her. "Come on. I think that I'm probably good for this at least once a year. Probably not more often than that, but. . . "

"Good thing, too. I have no _idea_ what I'm doing." The champagne was hitting her, very fast, because Dara almost never drank. Tingling sensation in her limbs increasing now, sense of distance.

"No one else does, either. Just feel the music and move with it and past that, have fun." Eli grinned down at her. Now he had a chance to tease her again. Get her to relax again, totally, and then try to win the game they were playing.

The dance floor was lit up from below at the moment, and, like the lamps on the table, had a jelly-like consistency that changed the color of its glow as feet struck it with varying amounts of force. The lights above were flicking from red to violet still, and the entire area was very, very crowded. Dara shied away from the other dancers at first, not wanting skin contact. _I've got you. You're safe._ Unspoken reassurance from Eli. Dara swallowed, closed her eyes, and just tried to feel the music. Driving beat, faster pace than the music she preferred, but she started to relax and move with it. _Open your eyes, Dara, please. . . ._

She did, looking up into his as he pulled her closer into his body. Got their movements to match up a little better. _Oh. Oh, I get it. . . ._ Movement of hips and waist, sliding her hands up his arms to his shoulders.

_Exactly. No one here but us. No one else matters. Just you and me and the music. Let go._ Caress of his hands up and down her back. Relaxation filling her, the music filling her, and Dara suddenly smiled.

_You think you're going to win, Elijah Sidonis?_

_I'm really kind of hoping to, yeah._

Dara slowly turned around. Presented her back to him. Dim awareness of the others on the floor as they occasionally brushed up against her, but their songs, while raucous and joyous and sensual, were just background music, mere accompaniment to Eli's more powerful mental voice. Dara leaned back, matching every curve of her body to the planes and angles of his, feeling that effervescent, electrical sensation sizzle between them once more. The room went dark, almost completely. Only the violet glow of blacklights from the ceiling now, and the firefly genemod crowd screamed and whooped. Human teeth glowed in blacklight; phosphors in the composition reacted to the mild UV. Certain people's clothing did, too, as did some jewelry. They were in darkness, surrounded by the glow of the firefly mods and the multicolored glow of people's clothing.

Eli glanced down, and blinked. Dara had been insisting, since her birthday at the lake, that her skin was 'messed up,' as she tended to put it. Iridescent, like a rachni's carapace or a dragonfly's wings. For the first time, Eli could see what she meant. . . except he was sure she hadn't seen _this_ before. In the blacklight, Dara _glowed._ The black of her dress was like strips of night, and all the exposed curves glimmered in blues, greens, purples, shimmering faintly. About two inches of her hair, from the roots out, glimmered too. Everyone around them was turning to stare a little. Simply put, she looked like what all the people with the firefly mods probably _wished_ they looked like. . . but so completely didn't. Tasteful. Restrained. Understated. Classy. Like she'd had an incredibly expensive gene mod.

Dara's head jerked up at his reaction, and her eyes opened. Looked down at herself in absolute panic. _Oh, __shit__ no._ Freezing up, all the relaxation bleeding out of her, as from a wound. _Great, now I look like a freak, like a fucking Hallex-head—_

_No, you don't. Look around!_ Eli reached around from behind, wrapping an arm around her, cupping her chin in his hand. _Look at them, __sai'kaea__. Look and listen._

Murmurs of envy and appreciation from some of the dancers around them. "Who's your gene mod doctor?" one of the human girls nearby asked, her face a blaze of pink and gold light. "I totally want his comm code. My doctor told me it was impossible to get the hair to bioluminesce, since it's dead tissue."

"How much did you _pay_ for that mod?" another girl asked, in tones of pure envy. "Full body glow? Ten, twenty thousand?"

"Crap, I paid fifteen for just the face," another girl commented. "And I used to date a guy with full sleeve tattoos done firefly style. . . .I know he spent about thirty thousand on it over a couple of _years._" She looked at Dara with interest. "Didn't it hurt? Mine burned like shit when they put the chemicals under my skin."

"My life flashed in front of my eyes," Dara replied, a little numbly. _For two days._

The girl laughed. "I bet it did. And the lenses for the eyes really complete the look. Do they burn?" _Occam's razor again. Good god._

The girl, still dancing near them, looked admiringly up at Eli now. "You'd look good with red mods, I think. Red and gold, to contrast with her."

"I'll keep it in mind, but it might get in a fight with the rest of my gene mods," Eli told her, with aplomb, before the next song began to cue up. "Dara," he whispered in her ear now. "Now look around. See all the guys looking over here? There isn't one of them who wouldn't cheerfully walk over my _corpse_ right now to see if he could get you to give him the time of day. Half the women here would just as cheerfully kill to look like you. . . and you pull it off a hell of a lot better than they could do."

Slowly, Dara began to relax again. _You. . . you're not. . . _

_Turned off by it?_ Eli wanted to laugh. _Oh, god, no, of course I'm not._ If anything, it was a little kinky. "I'm totally getting us a blacklight for the bedroom." He wanted to see if the iridescent effect spread _everywhere._ If her nipples would glow, or would be shadows against her breasts. If her most secret places would be shadows or light now. Wanted to see the darkness of his hands spreading over her breasts, containing and concealing their glow. Wanted to look down and see his darkness entering her light. And he was delighted to realize that when she blushed, the pink color darkened that faintly opalescent sheen, but didn't diminish it.

_You actually __like__ it?_ Total disbelief, in spite of the clear images he was shaping for her.

Eli turned her around so he could look down into her eyes. "_Sai'kaea_. . . Dara. . . you don't get it, do you? You're everything I want. You're the girl next door. You're my sweetheart. You're a very sexy and very goddamned smart doctor. And now you're even my hot alien chick. All at the _same time._ I don't need to look anywhere else for anything._" Total package. Everything I could ever want. Right here. Looking up at me. Please, god, know that._

She smiled. Relaxed, muscles in her neck and shoulders smoothing under his fingertips. Turned around again, as the music slowed, but kept her head turned a little, to look at him out of the corner of her eyes. Flirtatious, and yet vulnerable at the same time. Promising more. Devastating combination. The bass took on a vibrating, buzzing sound. Not the grinding techno of before, and a female voice, low and rich and husky, began to sing. _"I would die for you, I would die for you . . . I've been dying just to feel you by my side . . . to know that you're mine. . . . " _Burgundy and indigo everywhere, piano music and string music, flowing into each other.

Eli slid his hand down from her shoulders to her elbows, and his lips found the place where neck and shoulder met, and lightly biting there. Slow, rhythmic shifts of her head, spine, hips. The curve of her backside, gently rocking against him, sensuous flex of her back against his chest. . . his hands dropped to her hips, and he knew she'd closed her eyes again. Completely abandoned herself to the music, to him. It was a _hell_ of a compliment, and expressed total trust in him. The song was a remake of an old classic, updated for contemporary tastes. . . but he knew the words. And began to sing them to her, just loud enough for her to hear it, feel it, as he pulled her hips back into him, fingers expressing his urgency. _"I will sell my soul for something pure and true. . . someone like you. . . . "_

_I would die for you, _Dara sang in his mind.

_Don't you dare_, he wanted to tell her, but didn't want to break the spell of the music. He just sang the next line. _I would kill for you. . . I will wait for you._ Six years of waiting. No more.

_I'd make room for you._ Sweet promise to each other. In their crazy lives, they _would_ make room for each other. A space, a place to call their own.

_To be close to you. . . _Dara again, leaning into him, body melting into his.

_To be a part of you,_ Eli whispered. _Oh, god yes, please. . . _

_I believe in you. . . _ Trust and assurance and love. _I would die for you._

The lights came up slowly as the music faded.. Eli raised his eyes as the DJ blared out, "Everyone, it's time to ring in 2197! We're about to start the countdown to twelve AM local time! Come and get your glasses of champagne!" Eli was dimly aware of cheers and laughter and merriment all around them. None of it particularly mattered at the moment.

"You win," he whispered in her ear, at the exact same moment Dara sang to him, silently, _You win. Can we go now, please? _Laughter, as they fought against the tide of people all pressing in to ring in the new year with noise and merriment. Outside, in the darkness, where the glimmers of light from inside the nightclub's windows, and the light of the moons overhead illuminated their path back to the main hotel building, Eli leaned down and kissed Dara as the shouts and howls of _Happy New Year!_ broke out. Long and sweet and deep.

_Our room. Now. Please._

They took the elevator from the main room to the upstairs art gallery. Fervent exchange of kisses all the way to the first door. No actual recollection of passing through the long security hall to where their suite actually was. Eli getting the door open, then lifting Dara up and lightly swinging her into the darkened room. Moonlight from the three moons shone in through the big windows. . . enough for her to see clearly, in the mostly colorless lowlight vision she'd gotten used to over the past months. Only enough for Eli to see shapes and the luminescent glow of her eyes, the rest of her face a mystery. Colors in the mind, though, colors of song in their hearts.

Eli realized, dimly, that he had her up against the wall, right beside the door. Hands tracing up the slit sides of her dress, finding the slick texture of the rachni silk stockings, the warmer smoothness of her legs. _Going to be right here against the wall if we don't slow down. . . ._

She could feel him, hard and very ready against her. Little, urgent rocking motions, almost frantic in his hunger. Promising her so much pleasure, and she moaned in response. "Last chance," Eli muttered hoarsely against her ear. "I'll probably have to go punch something if you make me stop now, though. . . "

"I've been saying _yes_ all night, Eli."

"I know. Just . . . like. . . to hear it. . . " He lowered his knees and she could feel him notching himself into place against her entrance. Fabric in the way.

Burgundy bloomed in her now, all the frustration of the past months exploding out of her as she clawed at his back. "What do I have to _say_ to get you to take me?"

"Say _please_." Teasing her now. Tormenting them both.

"Please._ . . _. please. . . .please." His teeth closed on her throat and Dara's knees buckled completely. Eli picked her up, swung her around, and carried her to the bed in the other room, stepping around the furniture. Set her down on it as if she were something incredibly fragile, and then turned on a light, his eyes dark. Kicked off his shoes. Took off the holster at his ankle, and settled it, carefully, atop the nightstand.

"I've dreamed about this for so long," he murmured as she looked up at him. "I used to picture this when we were younger. Really freaking wet dreams, too. The last few months. . . so many more fantasies. What I'd do when I finally got you alone." _When I could finally make you mine. And now I want to do it __all_ _at once._ He leaned down and unhooked one of her shoes, tossing it aside, and bit the tendon at the back of her heel, as if behind a turian female's spurs.

Stockings or not, it made her inhale sharply as shivers worked their way up her legs. "You want. . . to know. . . how the dreams always. . . used. . . to start?" Each phrase, punctuated by a sweet bite or kiss to the back of her bent leg, as he slowly worked his way up to her knee. No whiskers yet, but his still had a hint of sandpaper to it that made her shudder and twitch.

_Yes. Show me. Sing me your dream-songs, Eli._

Pictures began to form in her mind, accompanied by the little nibbles and bites, and the soft, husky-voiced words. Part her imagination, part his. "Back in time, or like we'd never. . . broken. . . up. I knew I was . . . about. . . to go. . . to boot camp. But we wanted. . . to say. . . goodbye. .. properly. . . so we went to the stables."

_Horse and rlata-smell. No stable-keepers around, conveniently. Climbing up the ladder, giggling like children, so many promises in each others' eyes. Pushing her back into the soft hay—_

_You realize that it's kept in bales up there? Pretty uncomfortable to lie on._

_Hey, stop getting your reality in my fantasy._ A reprimanding bite to the back of her other knee, followed by a kiss to her inner thigh. Eli rubbed his face against the fretwork, more delicate than any lace, that the rachni workers had finished the top of the stocking with. _Pressing you down into the straw. Kissing you. Getting undressed, giving you my mouth until you come. You giving me yours. _Clear images, charged and highly erotic. And yet, Eli realized dizzily, so much more _real_ than any of his fevered imaginings. He could almost smell the straw. Feel how it would slide under him, the prickle of it against his bare skin. The soft curl of her hair around his fingers as he held her head in place. . . .

_And you didn't come right then?_ Hint of a tease in that mental song. Blue-greens mixed with burgundies.

_Oh, this is a fantasy, __sai'kaea__. At sixteen, I probably would have._ Eli slid up the hem of her skirt yet further, and exhaled. _You were naughty tonight, sweetheart._ He blew a stream of cool air over her exposed flesh. _No panties. I love it._ Out loud, very softly, "Tell you a secret. . . .I'm not sixteen anymore."

"Neither am I."

"Thank god for that." He gave her his mouth then, licking and lavishing her with his tongue. Greedily learning her taste, her smell. Feeling her hands come down to clutch at his head, light graze of her nails. Sliding two fingers up inside of her, testing the confines of her passage, finding just the _right_ spot, while his lips closed around the external bud, suckling. _Things Rel couldn't do for you. Lips are wonderful things, aren't they?_ Her back started to arch as she almost fought the orgasm. He slid his left arm around her hips and held her in place, not relenting. _Let go, let go for me, let go for me, let me feel it. . . oh, god. . . _He had to block it, at least a little, just as she hit the crest, golden fire pouring through her, wetness pouring out of her.

_Why didn't you . . ._

_Because then I'd go with you, and I haven't even been __in__ you yet._ Rueful admission as he kissed her belly through the thin silk of her dress, and then slid all the way up, settling the weight of his body on hers, kissing her fervently. Letting her get used to his weight, the feel of his skin. Rel, who was over two meters in height, though hollow-boned, was actually heavier, but Eli's weight was more concentrated. Denser. Similar, but different. _You want more?_

_Yes, don't stop. . . _

More pictures. Rolling her to her back in the hay. Joining their bodies. Ephemeral worry that he'd have hurt her, taking her virginity, in his own inexperience. The past experienced, suddenly, as it _might_ have been. _You wouldn't have hurt me, Eli, the first time didn't hurt. . . lots of horseback riding. . . _

Hot, wet kisses. Entwined fingers. Fierce rigidity of him against her. Faint recollections of both of their _actual_ first times. Her, with Rel, in Odessa. Him, with Freja, on Palaven. _Should have been with __me__ in Odessa after that damned game. . . _

_Should have been me on Palaven after boot camp. . . _

He pulled away a little. Began to work his way down her neck now. Biting, kissing. Slide of the sheets. "Turn over," he murmured, and, kissing his way down the smooth line of her spine, began to unhook the back of the dress. Helped her lift the halter over her head, and then turned her around again. _The past did happen, Dara. _

_I know._ He'd gently pulled the fabric down to expose her breasts now, and was sweetly kissing around the outsides of them now. Not intruding on the too-sensitive tips, not yet. Knowing from experience that she didn't like a sudden attack on the nipples, but a more gradual build. Working his way down to her waist, biting there, light scrape of teeth, soft caress of lips, teasing her navel with his tongue. From human to turian, and then back again.

_Only question now, is. . . do you want innocence, Dara? Or do you want experience?_ He'd pulled back enough for her to see his face. The faint frown of concentration, faint flickers of worry in his song. Baffling, at first. Then she understood it. He wanted, quite desperately, to please her. . . _but there are things I like to do that you haven't done, __sai'kaea.__ I want to teach you how to like them . . . but later. . . . _But he worried, nevertheless, that he was somehow going to turn her off. Undersong. . . _she'll pull back from the asari in me, I know she will, can't stand to lose her again. . . . _

Dara looked up at Eli, and let the burgundy tide she'd barely been holding in check for days now flood loose. He'd built it back up in her, and now she unleashed it. Mating-song of a queen. She reached up and hooked her fingers into his shirt. "Sing to me, Eli," she told him, and watched his expression go dazed. _All__ of your songs. No holding back. Don't you dare hold back. I want them. I want you. Innocence, experience, human and turian and asari, all of __you__. Sing to me!_

_Yes, my queen. . . ._ Only half a tease now. He had a dazed impression that she'd actually torn the buttons off of his shirt in her haste, but the flood of desire was too damned much. Pulling the dress the rest of the way off her curving hips, her fingers at his waist now, unbuttoning. . . followed by a hiss of annoyance from her when she found the concealed-carry harness. Pushing _him_ back on the bed now, and he let her, laughing a little as she fumbled with the buckles. Unlatched them. . . and then realized his body weight now had the damned harness pinned to the bed. "Sit up!"

He obeyed, shucking his pants and putting the second harness on the nightstand with the first. Wondering, gentle exploration of her hands, down the planes of his chest. Finding him at last. Eli felt himself twitch at the first contact. Curiosity tempering the burgundy tide in her, oddly enough, till he realized why. She'd never actually _seen_ a human male aroused before. Flaccid, certainly, from many an exam room. But he'd been actually very careful not to let her see him in an aroused state until now. "I know. I'm shaped a little differently than you're used to."

From her, agreement. Thicker, different curve, different shape. . . but very much desired.

He exhaled in relief. This had, actually, worried him a bit. She was _very_ used to turian physiology. _I don't get six releases in an hour. . . _

_. . . that's not actually a bad thing, Eli. Six releases an hour, every night? Wore me out._ Rueful admission as she slid her fingers along his length, studying him very sweetly indeed. _Maybe wrong life stages or something._ Out loud, now, "You know what? It's kind of odd not to see blue."

"No, no, trust me, the balls themselves are _very_ blue at the moment." Rueful laughter, again. "In your medical opinion, should human testicles be this color, doctor?'

"Mmm, no."

"Can you offer me any treatments?" Playful whispers, and he was only slightly surprised when she did lean forward and began to lick him sweetly. Just as she'd licked his fingers in the restaurant. _Oh, god, __sai'kaea__. . . feels . . . so. . . good._ He looked own, just as her pink lips closed around his tip, sense of interest and surprise from her. . . pre-ejaculate was already weeping from his tip, salty in taste. . . . and his fingers clenched in her hair, pulling her away.

"No?" Dara was surprised. Dismayed, even. She wanted to please _him_ now, the way he'd pleased her. And focusing on pleasing him was the only thing keeping the mating-song at bay, the _need_, which was clawing at her again.

"Later. Not now. Too fucking _close_ right now." The night of teasing had done its work. _Can't wait anymore. Sorry. I promise it'll be better next time. I swear. . . ._ He pulled her under him, kissed her hungrily, nudged her legs apart with his knees, and got in position. Held there long enough to lift his head. Lace his fingers through her hair, cradling her head tenderly, and looked down into her eyes. "Love you, Dara." And then he slid himself into her. _Oh, god. I'm __home__._ One single, dazed thought. Soft and yielding as velvet, but sleek and wet and hot and tight. First time with a human female, bare flesh against bare flesh, perfect temperature, perfect fit, and it was with _her_, and he was _home_. "God, Dara. You were _made_ for me."

Hard, blunt invasion. Perfectly curved to fit her, fill her. Catching and pressing in just the right places. The burgundy built again, with the indigo swirling in it. Her breath caught, and when she said his name, it was a song. "Eli. . . "

"It's okay?"

"It's _wonderful_."

Flash of very male pleasure and pride there. A few tentative movements, to make sure she was used to him. Feeling her reactions flood through him. Feeling his sensations flood through her, exquisite ripples of sensation for both of them.

_How could it possibly. . . be. . better. . . next. . . time. . . ?_

_Practice. . . makes. . . perfect._ He set his head down on her shoulder, turned his neck to bite. _What do you like, __sai'kaea__? Or should I just find out for myself?_

And then just a haze of pleasure for both of them. Bringing her along the long sweet path of her own release, and feeling golden fire rain through both of them. Twisting and turning in the sheets. Raising her legs, finding the _exact_ right angles that pleased them both. _Oh, god, yes, you like it deep, you __can__ take me, didn't want to hurt you. . . ._

_I can take it harder than that . . don't stop, don't stop, harder, Eli, harder, sing to me, I want to hear __your__ songs. . . _Nails digging into his shoulders, his back. Would have been painful at any other point, but now it just conveyed her urgency without words, added to the haze of pleasure. Gave him just enough distance to hold back.

_Not. . . yet. . . want you to go again. . ._

"I can't. . . "

"Yeah, you can, trust me, you can, I can feel you. . . there." He closed his eyes to fight back the shimmers of her orgasm in him, the exquisite way her inner muscles clenched on him, the flood of moisture each of her releases brought. _Not yet, not yet, not yet. . . _

Sometimes just thoughts, the song, sometimes words, though Eli had no idea what language he was using. Hoarse whispers against her ear, little words of praise or instruction, that led to bliss all over again. They were both sweating, and droplets of his sweat, violet-dyed, were splashing down on her. . . and then he pulled out and gave her his mouth again. Dara pushed up off the sheets, looking down at him. "Eli!" It was a wail of mingled pleasure and frustration. She could see his paint on her breasts, her belly, and, as he pulled away again, grinning at her, between her thighs. "Finish!"

An absolutely predatory smile now. "Does the queen want her favored brood-warrior to complete his mating songs now?"

Dara pounded the heels of her fists against his shoulders. "Yes!"

_Would you very much mind. . . something a little turian?_ _Or maybe a little asari? _He'd been damned careful, so far, to give her human. A little turian, with the biting. But he hadn't fully unleashed, no matter her demands.

_I said all your songs. I __meant__ all your songs._

Eli rolled her over. Settled his weight on her, and hooked her ankles with his own. Control-position, as she'd experienced it many times before. . . but totally different. Sting of his teeth against her left shoulder. And then he was in her. No more holding back. Fiercely chasing his own need now, but shifting his angle a little, a little more up, and _in_.

Fire, fire everywhere. Light radiating out, filling the dark places in both of them. Completely open to each other. Exchange of memories. Emotions. Thoughts. Dreams. Hopes. Everything they were, given to each other. Even if Eli had wanted to hold back at that moment, Dara wouldn't have allowed it. He poured himself into her as she gave herself to him, and he knew, hazily, that they really were one. Mind, body, and spirit. In ways that couldn't be conveyed or contained or constrained by words on paper.

Eventually, Eli finally found the energy to move off of her, their bodies almost glued together by sweat. Rolled to his side, pulling her to him, back against his belly and chest. Dara managed to pull the sheets up, cool drift of the fabric over their limbs. Mind and body blissfully content, for the moment, and very, very close to sleep. No words. Not even mental ones. There was just the pervasive sense of floating in a vast ocean together, warm, happy, and very safe. He couldn't have fought the desire to sleep if he'd tried, but hoped, vaguely, that they'd both have very good dreams, at least.

The dreams were, in fact, crazily confused. While he'd held her hand before while sleeping, now, they were in full skin-contact with each other. They dreamed each other's dreams, bizarrely enough. They almost always started off in each others' perspectives. But since they both tended to have vivid dreams to start with, in which they weren't always themselves, but other people, characters in a book or a vid . . . it was incredibly disorienting the first few times it happened. But then the perspective loosened, and they started to interact in the dreams.

Dara apparently tended to dream frequently about driving down an elevated highway that looped up and around, like a rollercoaster track, in a groundcar that she couldn't control. . . and then the road started to peter out. Became one thin track of pavement under each set of wheels . . . and then the road vanished, and they were falling. . . except Eli actually _enjoyed_ this dream. He'd felt the fear and anxiety and loss of control with her, certainly, but his enjoyment at the crazy roads had seeped through to her in exchange. . .

Dara actually 'fell into' her body, and woke up, her heart was racing, but it wasn't like every other time she'd had that dream. Mild disorientation. Wherever she was, it was dark, though there was enough light for her rachni-adapted eyes to see. . . unfamiliar furnishings. And there were warm arms around her, loose and heavy with sleep. Soft sound of breathing. Sleep-songs, dream-songs. . . _Eli._ Dara's eyes focused, briefly, on the clock. 03:30. Not even remotely time to get up yet. She kissed the skin of the arm still holding her in place, and closed her eyes again.

Not all the dreams passed that easily. Eli found himself, at one point, on Bastion once more. _Carrying plastic-wrapped bodies to the groundtruck already filled with corpses. Inside the truck, atop the bodies, however, he could see a yahg. sitting down with a picnic basket and a red-and-white checked tablecloth, busily unwrapping the closest body. "Thanks for lunch," the yahg told Eli, calmly. "I see you brought your own. You want a napkin? Yours is dripping."_

_Wait, what?_ _Eli slid the corpse he was carrying down from his shoulder, and realized that red blood was, indeed, pouring out of the plastic. Sure sign that whoever was in there still had a beating heart. And inexplicably, he __knew__, suddenly, that it was Dara inside. He dropped her to the floor and started ripping at the plastic over her face. __Have to let her breathe. Have to let her breathe. Oh, god, where's she's bleeding from?__ Getting the plastic off her, blood everywhere, face ashen, not breathing now. . . not again, have to start CPR again. . . __god damn Sky, god damn simulator, I remember this happening, this is real. . ._

Song in his thoughts. Soothing blues and greens. Ultramarines. A tinge of yellow anxiety. "Eli, let me breathe. Eli, _wake up_!"

Eli's eyes opened. Dark room. Soft, warm, female body in his arms. . . except his arms had clamped down on her, desperately tight. _"Sai'kaea?"_ His voice was uncertain, in spite of all the song flooding through him.

_I'm here. I'm with you. I love you. Relax. Just a dream._

_You saw. . . _He'd relived the actual wounding in a dozen very bad, nearly incoherent dreams when he'd been dozing in the chair in the med bay beside her bed, and had woken from each with a start, forcing himself out of the dreamscape and, heart racing, trying to avoid sleep again. Since she'd come out of the coma, however, he hadn't had one. _You saw all that? I'm sorry._

_Everything, yeah._ _And don't be. _She turned over in his arms, and with a muffled exclamation, he pulled her to him tightly again, rocking her slightly. Leaned down, a little desperate to reassure himself that she really was there, that the memories of the past night hadn't just been really _good_ dreams to go along with the bad. Lips meeting and clinging, arms wrapping around each other tightly. Trying to fuse into one another, with the silent assurance passing back and forth from one to the other, beating like waves or heartbeats in both their minds, _I'm here, I'm here, I'm here, I'm here. . . ._

Hours later, it was the light that woke him, from the middle of a _very_ pleasant morning dream. Eli opened his eyes, and, foggily, just for an instant, wondered where the hell he was. Unfamiliar surroundings. Soft curve of a female body against his. Sunlight flooding in through windows, pleasant furnishings. . . it sure as _hell_ wasn't Terra Nova or Omega or Bastion. . . _Bek. Dara._ Eli pushed up on an elbow to look down at her now.

The night before had been, in a word, incredible. In another, fulfilling. Both in body and spirit. And just waking up beside her filled his heart. He'd very rarely woken up in bed with a female before. He'd usually gotten up and gone back to his own apartment or the barracks. Before Serana, and not counting Siara, his longest-lasting relationship had been a couple of weeks. Because that was about how long most people actually stayed on Macedyn. And on Edessan. . . the handful of human girls he'd see there had all lived a couple of hours away, in other cities. And the asari. . . he couldn't chance them sharing his mind in his sleep. So there had been, until Serana, sex, but no real intimacy. And while he'd relished the intimacy with Serana, it had been a little like children playing house. Two, maybe three weeks together, total, spread out over six to nine months.

Eli's eyes were intent on Dara's sleeping face. She was smiling a little. Maybe unconscious pleasure at his thoughts, or a good dream of her own. He traced a finger down her arm now. Paused when he found a faint bruise, in the shape of his teeth there. _Damn._ _I thought I was being careful. Maybe that was from the second time?_ A few other marks, all faint, on the side of her neck. A quick glance at his own arms showed him that his memory wasn't faulty. . . she'd been biting him back, with equal fervor. Conditioned by five years with a turian mate, she had no compunctions about biting. Sucking. Leaving little marks on biceps and forearms.

She rolled to her back in her sleep, and Eli's mouth went dry. His paint had smeared everywhere. Throat, breasts, belly, thighs. Looking at it made him want to retrace his steps, all over again. It was hard to resist the temptation, but he wanted her to rest. A reminder of why, in the thin, fading scar along her right ribs. No matter that she'd been cleared to leave med bay, no matter that she said her chest didn't hurt anymore. . . her body _had_ to need the down-time. And he knew, from her memories, that morning sex did damned little for her. Almost no sensation, actually. Hormonal fluctuation throughout the day was normal, and hers was at its nadir first thing in the morning, usually.

One more light caress. Her skin texture was still completely soft, in spite of all the changes. Devoid of hair, as she'd pointed out, uncomfortably. So afraid of being perceived as even more of a freak. When the blacklight last night had finally shown him the colors she'd been insisting were there for months now, he'd caught the worried thoughts she'd tried to bury. _Vitiligo. Leprosy._ A half a dozen other mildly to extremely disfiguring skin diseases had popped into her head, and hadn't let go until he'd reassured her that he liked what he saw. Such a bundle of strengths and weaknesses, insecurities and prides. Complex, intelligent, beautiful. . . and _his_.

Eli brushed a kiss onto Dara's hair and got out of bed, padding to the windows and lowered the shades to dim the light a little, a detail they'd forgotten last night. Then he tabbed the room's console to the 'room service' option. _S__uasi_'_muara,_ a sweet-morning plate for them to share. . . and blueberry pancakes, because he knew she loved them. Asari tea for him, to compliment the plate, and human tea for her.

The console blipped at him and promised that food would be arriving in fifteen minutes. _Okay. I'll wake her when the food shows up. First, though, shower._ Eli stretched and headed into the bathroom. Ignored, as usual, the mirrors, and got the shower going, nice and hot, and stepped in under the spray. . . and inhaled sharply as the water hit the scrapes and cuts on his back, and the backs of his biceps. He hadn't even been _aware_ of them until that precise moment. _Oh, son of a bitch._ _That smarts a little. Dara's nails are a little sharper than either of us thought, I guess._ He chuckled a little ruefully. Serana had had talons, of course, but usually had only dug them into his shoulders or biceps, and as lightly as she could. She'd usually managed to remember to grab onto the sheets, instead. Talon-marks, like bite-marks, were considered territorial and also a compliment to one's mate, among turians. _Hence why Lin, after the Singing Planet, er, incident. . . told the medics 'no medigel!'_ Eli leaned his head against the stone tile of the shower, and his shoulders shook with laughter as he closed his eyes.

In the bedroom, a knock on the door of the main room woke Dara. She blinked for a minute, totally disoriented as to where she was. Registering the sound of running water. Sunlight coming in through windows, in spite of softening white blinds over them. _Not a ship, not Mindoir, where the __hell__ am I?_ Even odder was the fact that she was turned on. Completely. Shreds of memory, a dream slipping away, _Eli in her, teeth at her throat, ache between her legs. . . _some of that was probably residual from last night, but. . . _oh. Last night. _

_Tap, tap, tap._ "Just a minute," Dara called through the doorway into the main room, recollections of the night before flooding through her as she sat up in the bed. Saw Eli's clothes thrown over the back of a chair. Tangle of sheets, kicked to the bottom of the bed, where he'd lain. _Shit. I didn't unpack anything more than that dress. . . um. . . robe. . . somewhere in the luggage. . . _

_Tap, tap, tap._ Dara gave up and grabbed Eli's shirt and pulled it over her. . . realizing, as she did, that she owed him buttons. Many buttons. _Many buttons for Many-Voices_, she thought, trying to suppress a laugh, and simply wrapped it tightly over everything salient, and headed for the door. Little whiffs of his scent on it, giving her happy chills as she peeked through the spyhole. Outside, a human female in a hotel uniform, with a cart. "Yes?"

"Room service, ma'am."

Dara debated for a moment. "Leave the cart there. We'll call back for it when we're done."

When the woman had left, Dara opened the door, glanced down the security hall carefully, gave the cameras a dirty look, and pulled the cart inside, before latching the door once more. Faint hint of recollection, suddenly. _Yes, she answered the door wearing nothing but my shirt, my paint, and my marks_. Eli, on Khar'sharn, brazening through her feeble attempt to embarrass him, to win the contest of teasing.

Dara flushed a little. She didn't want to be a repetition of Serana for him. But then again. . . she'd just had a refresher on all his memories, thoughts, and emotions last night. She couldn't retain them with perfect clarity, the way a rachni queen could. . . but when _reminded_ of something, she could remember his memories as if they were her own. She tried not to, most days. It seemed a little invasive, and the wall of privacy was pretty damned thin as it was. But right now, she couldn't resist. . . and the comparison actually pleased her. His first night with Serana, he'd been drunk and angry. Sex had been a release of tension, certainly, exploding in passion, lifting him out of black depression.

Last night, though, he'd been anything but angry. The release of tension had been real and very mutual, a celebration of life in the face of so much damned death and danger. And while she'd answered the door the same way Serana had. . . he wasn't going to be hung-over and guilty this morning. _I should go and make the differences very apparent to both of us_.

Prickles of burgundy rising in her now, Dara smiled. Left the cart where it was. And headed for the bathroom on light feet. Inside, Eli was standing in the shower, head against the wall, letting the water beat down on him. An old habit, one of the few luxuries he really allowed himself. Hot water, lots of it, usually used to wash the dirt, physical and mental, away, at the end of a long day.

"Eli?" Dara's voice, to his surprise. He lifted his head. Caught sight of a white blur through the streaked shower door, and opened it. Saw her outside, smiling at him. Wearing his white shirt, open at the front, and his paint. His marks. His scent, too, probably. _"Sai'kaea_.' A smile, and he offered her his hand.

Dara's lips curled further, and she let the shirt slide slowly from her shoulders to the floor, and stepped into the shower. Reached up and slid her arms around his neck. _Mine_, she thought, simply, and at skin-contact, song flowed between them again. He'd thought he'd had enough time for the his morning hormonal surge to pass, but at her touch, everything came flooding back. Touch of her lips against his. . . and it felt almost as if she was feeding on his hunger, letting it pass into her, become her own. _This. . . could get addictive. . . . _

_Maybe a little,_ she admitted. Wet, warm play of tongues, sliding along one another. Little gasps as he lowered his head to bite her throat again, licking and sipping beads of water off her skin. Eli groaned. The rush of water over their bodies. _Waia'rua_ _oa'a kar'e'yili._ The first asari phrase he'd ever really taught her, back on the _Normandy_, just after the awakening of the Keepers. When their bodies had been awake and alive and _craving_ exactly this, and they hadn't been able to reach for it. Hadn't even known it was a possibility with each other. He'd pictured it then, though. Water flowing over her skin, him following its path with lips and tongue. Pictured it again on the _Sollostra_, after two out of their three months in Omega's hell. Had given serious thought to stepping around the wall that separated them, lifting her up, just like this, and pinning her against the wall, having her brace her feet against the far wall of the tiny shower stall, and taking her till she screamed. He'd held back. Her separation from Rel had been very fresh. His from Serana hadn't even been official. No need to hold back now. None at all.

Roughness of his skin and first traces of beard against her lips and face as they kissed. Hardness below. Dara could feel memory-song, powerful and true, rising in him. Flickers of the last year, as she pulled back and kissed and bit her way down his chest. Paused at the thin white line along his right ribs, remembering the blood there at the vibroblade's cut. It was, she realized, along the same ribs as her own bullet scar. Both would fade with time, but never be invisible. _We're a matched set, __ciea'teilu._

Lower now, as she dropped to her knees. _Not just the way you pictured it_, she told him, silently. _Let me give you this._ And she began to lick and suck and torment him as sweetly as he'd tormented her the night before. Felt his entire body sway, as if at an impact. Felt his burgundies swell in his song, building, crescendoing, until his fingers dug into her wet hair, and he pulled her away. "You're a witch, _sai'kaea,_" he told her, hoarsely, and pulled her back to her feet. Dark eyes, dark, wet lashes, staring down into hers intently. Fingers reaching down, stroking in. Testing her readiness. . . and he half-closed his eyes in anticipation. "You want this? You want more?" _Oh, god, she's ready because I'm ready. _

_Oh, yes. Please._

He bent his knees and drove himself home, lifting her off the floor, pinning her against the stone wall. His hands were under her hips, her primary support, and the wall itself took some of her weight, too. Dara wrapped her legs around his waist and felt her back arch. Felt his pleasure rocket through her. _If I get to feel what you feel. . . I may never complain about morning sex again._ Turian males didn't have the same morning hormonal urges as human males, but that hadn't meant that morning opportunities hadn't been pursued. And she'd welcomed it at first. . . but over time, she'd come to crave the chance to sleep in far, far more.

_You only complained because you don't get to feel __this__._ The footing in the stone-tiled shower was perfect. Not slick at all. Eli rested his head against hers and began to drive into her, again and again. Red passion flooding through both of them, glorious and beautiful. He knocked the shower spray off with an elbow, and went back to kissing and licking the droplets of water off her face, her throat, even her breasts, when he pulled back far enough for her to arch her back and lift halfway off the wall. _"More?"_ That had been in turian.

"_Yes!"_

"_In front of the mirrors."_ He pulled her away from the wall, and chuckled a little as she opened the door for them. _"Feet on the floor, __amatra__."_

Without question or hesitation, Dara slid her feet to the cold tile. Eli kissed her again, fingers gentle on her face, and turned her around. Swept hygiene items and whatever else that was scattered on the counter from last night out of the way with his forearm. _Elbows on counter, yeah, there._ Urgency in the hands on her hips now, positioning her just so, knee to the inside of hers, spreading her wider. _This way I get to see __everything__,_ he told her silently, already appreciating the view. Then taking her again, gently at first. Testing to see how much she could take in this position. . . and then unleashing himself again.

Dazed awareness, through mutual pleasure, of the sounds they were both making, echoing back from the walls. Low, rough, primal. . . and, dimly, she realized, that when she wasn't rasping out those more primitive sounds, her higher-pitched cries were double-voiced. As close as human vocal-cords could get to rachni song. Felt his delight in knowing that when she reached her peak, she didn't scream. . . she held her breath, clamping down on it. And he felt her delight in watching the look of total concentration and absorption come over his face, an almost fierce frown. Wave after wave of pleasure. Listening to her sounds, seeing her fingers scrabble at the stone of the countertop. "_Is this what you wanted?"_ His voice was rough, and the words were turian.

"Yes, yes."

"_This what you needed?"_

"_Yes!"_

"_Good."_ Flickers of all the other things he wanted to do with her, surging through his mind. _No. She's not ready for that._ And then his release was on him, intense and wonderful, shudders of fire, and he again felt the exchange of memories and emotions and light.

Slower strokes now, just enjoying the last few moments of intimacy. "Mmm. I think we might need another shower," Eli told her lightly, and pulled her upright, turning her around to face him.

Dara chuckled and curled into him, tucking her head against his shoulder. "Won't that lead to more of the same?"

"Not for at least ten, fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops. You're safe for a _little_ while." Eli nibbled on her shoulder. _Didn't think you were going to be in the mood this morning. Really glad to be wrong._

_Usually I'm not. But. . . wow. When you go. . . it's . . . wow._ Dara peeked up at him, and caught his grin, only to flush.

"This really could be addictive." Eli told her, half-seriously, as he found and bit her collarbone. "And now I'm not sure who should be my hero, Sky or Dempsey."

"Dempsey?"

"Sky for four hours with the whole _planet_ as an audience. Dempsey. . . for being able to control himself around Zhasa for more than ten minutes at a time without dragging her back to his cave. . . . and both of them biotics."

She tried to keep the thought sheltered, because it would be a breach of medical ethics, but he caught it anyway. _Dempsey's got a little help in __that__ regard._

_So does Sky. He was born rachni. _Wet, dark lashes, dark eyes looking down into hers now. "Let's get dressed, _sai'kaea_. I'll drag you back to _my_ cave again later." He tugged Dara out into the bedroom again, and caught the smell of food from the other room. "_S'kak._ Half our food's going to be cold."

"There's a heating unit in the kitchen," Dara told him pragmatically. "I didn't look at everything, but it all smelled good."

"You want to eat outside on the balcony? Looks beautiful out there." He'd dug out a pair of running shorts from his own seabag, and now paused as he picked up the first of the plates. "You want maple syrup on your pancakes, or royal jelly?" he called back into the bedroom.

"Bite me, Elijah Sidonis," Dara told him, coming out of the room herself now, belting on a thin white robe.

"I did that. Are you saying I missed a spot?" He set the plate down and padded over to her quickly. "Here? How about here? Or here?"

Laughter and gasps as his teeth closed on throat, inner elbow, and, as he knelt before her, inner wrist. Sense of white-yellow shock, suddenly. "Eli, what the hell happened to your _back_. . . oh, _shit._" She held up her hands a little frantically and glared at her nails, which had grown overnight again.

He grinned up at her. "You've got talons, _sai'kaea._ And I wasn't exactly objecting at the time."

_Shit, shit, shit. The workers trimmed these damned things for me yesterday morning, and they've almost grown back already. Is this going to be a daily thing, or is this just too much royal jelly. . . ?_ Frantic thoughts, kicking into overdrive. "I saw a medigel kit in the bathroom, I'll go get it—"

"No." His voice had edged into command-peremptory territory, and his hand on her wrist was firm. "Those are your marks. I plan to wear them _very_ proudly." _Although I'll have to remember not to shower anywhere around Rel when you've used my back as a scratching post. There's 'not walking on eggshells,' and there's rubbing his nose in it. Two different things._ He'd finally gotten a look at his back in the mirror when they'd left the bathroom. He didn't look like he'd been whipped, per se, but there were definitely _marks._ He cleared his throat now. "So. . . blueberry pancakes or sharing-plate first?"

"Blueberry pancakes. . . how'd you know that's my favorite?" Surprise in her tone.

Eli gave her a patient look, and she laughed a little sheepishly. "Memories go both ways?"

"Yeah. Don't know how long I'll retain them, but yeah." Eli raised his eyebrows. "So?"

"Sharing-plate first." Dara nodded at the door to the balcony. "And yeah, outside is fine, but not for too long. I don't want to burn. It might be fall here, but it's very sunny still."

_Sai'kaea, with that new skin of yours, I'd be willing to bet you could walk around bare-ass naked on Palaven now and not feel the radiation. While I'd be stuck in a damn rad suit, still. A little sun probably won't hurt you._

Another swift spurt of surprise as she processed that thought, opening the door for him to carry the plates outside. _Maybe, but I don't see any way in which I could test that. And I don't want to risk radiation poisoning for that._

_Me either._ He shuddered a little. Mal Henderson, one of the four Spectres who'd died. . . .or as good as. . . on Terra Nova, had been a wreck in the med bay when Eli had gone to see him. Just a mass of suppurating flesh, really. Nisha Cehl at his bedside, as ordered. Expressionless and grim. The sunshine outside suddenly felt a lot less warm, but he sat down on one of the white-painted bamboo chairs at the little table beside Dara, and offered her a little morsel of fruit anyway.

The view was absolutely incredible. Peaceful. No ships on the horizon. No aircars overhead. No shuttles leaving exhaust contrails anywhere. Just a blue sky, almost identical to Earth's, with scudding white clouds, a darker blue sea, and a sense of total, complete isolation. Silently feeding one another. . . and Dara, with a smile, went back inside, and returned again with one of the containers of royal jelly. He grinned and dipped a piece of fruit in it for her, and offered it with his fingertips.

There was a cool breeze off the ocean. . . enough that Dara started to shiver after a while. _C'mere._ Eli pulled her over, and sat her down in his lap. _There we go, see? Nice and warm._

Total peace and relaxation. Dara turned her head and kissed the hinge of his jaw now, and said, a little playfully, "Eli? About your various dreams last night?"

"I take it you're not talking about the yahg one?" His tone was dry. He knew she'd had one about Arvuna, too. He'd been quite puzzled to be dreaming about patients who were blind, but who wanted eyes, and were trying to find him by sound, like bats, and who wanted to cut out his eyes to use them instead of their own. In the dream, he'd found pots and pans and started banging them together, making them fall over, clutching their heads. . . and Dara, shifting out of a shared perspective, had looked up at him in the dream, and then had just reached out to clutch him, tightly.

"Oh, god no. I know exactly what the yahg one came from. That was the whole last year, in a nutshell." She rubbed a hand over his close-cropped hair. "Bastion and the plagues for the bodies, Terra Nova for the yahg. And, well, Christmas and me getting hurt. Only wonder is that you didn't mix in any batarians or lobotomized asari or humans in there, too."

"The night was young, I guess." _And my brain had already achieved its objective of scaring the shit out of me._

A pause, while seabirds cried in the distance. Soft whisper of waves, from far below. "But, no, not that dream." Dara's playful tone had returned. "I meant the one I remembered when I woke up." _The one that I actually was, ah, oddly turned on by. Probably residual reactions from you. . . ._

Eli glanced down at her, and his eyebrows arched. "I keep telling you, I'm a guy. I'm not responsible for which vids my brain orders when I'm not in charge of the remote control."

Dara laughed against his shoulder. "I know that. But. . . " _You and me and Serana __and__ Lin? All at once?_

_It's a fantasy, __sai'kaea__. Not to say it wouldn't be fun. . . just incredibly improbable._ He ran his fingers through her hair, feeling amazingly peaceful. _Lin didn't mind sharing Serana. . . or hell, even Pelia with me. _

_Pelia. . . _ "On Macedyn. The asari." Faint orange overtone to thoughts largely colored blue-green with amusement at the moment.

Eli knew orange was anger, or jealousy. It was muted, but there. And it wasn't like his entire mind and memory weren't _hers_ now, though he did try not to think actively about things he thought she'd find uncomfortable. He stroked her hair lightly, trying to find the right words, even in his mind. To convey what he needed to convey.

"Has nothing to do with the biotics," Dara told him, her voice muffled. "I figured that part out on Bastion, the night when we were all dead tired from med bay and corpse patrol, and you kept trying to make everyone laugh at the idea of how many different _combinations_ were in the room."

Instant flare of memory between them both. He'd had Serana more or less in his lap, but he'd leaned down to wrap an arm around Dara as she sat on the floor in front of him, too. "Lin's whole thing about 'yeah, we _heard about_ two guys who did this. . .'" Dara lifted her fingers and marked the air with quotations, making a rude sound. "I've heard that sort of story too many times. 'I knew a guy once who did this thing on leave. . . .' or 'no, I have no idea how I got scale-itch on Rocam, doc.'" She mimicked the voices with heavy sarcasm, and then peeked up at him. "Lin doesn't fib worth a damn."

"Neither do you." Eli caught her face in his hands and kissed her. "Don't be mad or sad or jealous. It was, um. . . _unexpected_ . . . and more or less a _sharing_ thing." He'd been on his way to the door to leave Pelia and Lin in peace when she'd called him back, in fact. "We'd known Pelia for close to two years. She'd been friends with Brennia, and she wanted to comfort Lin. And she thought I should help." He looked up at the ceiling. It had been cathartic, certainly. And what should have been intensely personal, private release from personal demons had taken a detour into the realm of pure, hellish embarrassment as they'd had to explain-without-actually-explaining to their fellow MPs and the medics. _Thank god she woke up, still smiling, and corroborated the story. It was a hell of a way to spend my birthday._ He traced a fingertip over her lips now, catching her incipient smile.

_And later, with Lin and Serana?_

No surprise that she knew that. She'd been the one who'd more or less told them it would be necessary, and had all the reminders from his memory, too. Eli and Lin had been prepared to deal with estrus, if needed. . . but Eli hadn't thought ahead to _children_ at that point. _And why would you?_ Dara scoffed gently. _You're a guy. You knew you couldn't get her pregnant without divine intervention or someone with a turkey baster in hand_—

Eli started to laugh, helplessly, at the image that popped into his mind now. The two of them holding Serana down in estrus, and Dara coming in the door. Full scrubs and surgical mask, and a turkey baster in one gloved hand. _The doctor is in. "_It can't possibly work like that—"

"Close enough. Long thin tube, threaded up through the cervix, and yes, it has a bulb on the end, which you squeeze." Dara's tone was exquisitely dry, and Eli's shoulders shook even harder now. "Come on, be serious, Eli."

"I need a second here." He inhaled, exhaled, chuckled helplessly again, and then managed to get it under control. She did deserve answers. What she could expect from him, more or less. "Doing that with Lin and Serana. . . it was a hell of a lot more fun than with Pelia, _sai'kaea._ Real emotions, not just catharsis. . . but there was catharsis involved, too. I guess maybe my latent biotics were manifesting, as well." He looked down, and traced the lace on the hem of her robe with his fingertips now. "Sure as hell felt a little like our spirits were all touching." He raised his hand now and cupped her chin in his hand, met her eyes. "But it was absolutely nothing like last night. Or this morning." He chuckled. "My more asari tendencies are pretty damned satiated at the moment." And it was true. He was damned near humming with contentment, hearing her song wash through him.

Dara rubbed her face into his hand. "So when you're dreaming. . . it's just. . . it's not actually something you'd want me to do." _I'm trying to be open, Eli. I'm trying to be asari for you, at least a little. But that. . . _

"Let me put it this way. . . " Eli thought about it. Switched to asari, keeping the words simple and slow, so she could understand them. It was easier to say this in high-tongue than in turian or English. _"Lin accepted sharing Serana's mind and body when there was a reason for it. He would likely be a little less open now. She might accept sharing with him and with me, but I do not know if she could share both him and me with you. And I don't particularly want to share __you__, either."_ He stroked her face lightly. "So it would have to be a hell of a set of circumstances to get that to happen. Filled with improbable coincidences. Like. . . her estrus meds failing while he was hundreds of miles away, her coming after me as the next most acceptable male. . . You touching her. Taking the estrus into you. And then somehow, _miraculously_, Lin getting back and joining in the festivities." Eli chuckled at Dara's expression. "Yeah. I told you, I don't see it happening. Doesn't mean it's not fun to think about. Fantasies make life a lot more fun. But we don't have to act them all out."

_I can't possibly compete with all the things you've done._ Slight touch of insecurity there.

"It's not even a competition. Shit, most of the stuff I did early on, I barely even knew the girls." Sex without intimacy or even emotion. Relief, release, but emptiness. He didn't like the admission, but it was true. He looked down at her as she turned so that her legs were parallel over his, and curled into him further. Light breeze ruffling her hair. "There's a lot of asari in me. I've spent six years caught between fighting it and accepting it. Part of it seems to be that I don't actually have a lot of limits in bed. I won't cheat. . . I'll never cheat. I'm not my dad. But if it makes you feel good, or makes me feel good, I'll probably do it." He'd been holding back on that part, out of sheer nerves. Dara was very human in that regard. "That said? The asari part of me is giddy this morning, Dara."

That got him a slightly skeptical and amused glance. "Think about it, Dara. How many asari have ever shared with a rachni?"

"None." No hesitation at all.

"Would they if they could?" 

"Considering they've 'shared' with vorcha? Yes." Very dry tone.

"Do you think _any_ asari, anywhere, will ever convince a rachni brood-warrior or queen to share with her?"

Dara frowned. Listened to the voices-within. Shifted into Sings-Heartsong's perspective, at least for a moment. She didn't like to do it unnecessarily. At least with Eli right there, his songs flowing though her, she was confident she could get back out of the rachni perspective. And when she answered, she sang the words softly. "No. Queens are queens. They only mate with warriors. Warriors obey the will of the queens. The queens would not permit this. They might control an asari to use her voice to speak with others, but they would not _share_. And the workers and soldiers would have no interest." She paused. "Nor could most biotics even understand their songs. They have low-song." The hum of the hive-mind.

"So I'm the only almost-an-asari in the galaxy who ever has, or probably ever will tag a rachni. Even only a partial one. I'm one up on every asari in existence." Eli grinned at her.

Dara curled in on herself laughing at that point, so hard she almost fell out of his lap. When she recovered her breath, she looked up at him, secure and assured. _What are some other of your fantasies?_

_Oh, god, you want a list? We could be sitting here for the rest of our leave._ He leaned down and kissed her. _Here's a favorite. I catch you at work in med bay. You're wearing your lab coat and, hmm. A skirt. You proceed to __examine__ me with those cold hands of yours, and I put you over the exam table, right there in the room. Pull up that skirt and slide the lab coat out of the way, and proceed to __examine__ you, myself._ He bit her shoulder, feeling burgundy spark in her now. _Maybe even a cloacal exam, if I'm __really__ letting myself fantasize._

_Humans don't have cloacae._ Prim, an almost salarian correction there.

_Next best thing, then._ He was actually hugely encouraged that she hadn't pulled away at the thought. "I'll also cop to the notion that if you and Serana ever wanted to make out in front of me for my birthday? The two hottest females that I know, of any species? I'd die a happy, happy man." Soft words, in her ear, making her laugh very, very hard now. "Any fantasies that you'd like to admit to, _sai'kaea?_"

She peeked up at him. Flushed. Pink all through her song now. "So, just to verify, you'd like me to be a very naughty doctor for you?"

"Oh, god yes. Probably safer in our own rooms, though." Still, he was very interested in what was making her blush that hard. Hard not to dive into her mind and chase it down. Better to let her admit it on her own, or not. _I don't think it's possible for you to shock me, Dara._

She coughed. _I'll admit to having a few thoughts about you being a bad cop. Maybe . . . interrogating me._

Eli's face split in a grin. _I __do__ have shackles in my luggage._

"Why the hell does Marcus Stockton have shackles in his luggage?" Dara laughed now.

"Because Marcus Stockton is a kink in bed."

"So, no real differences between him and you, in other words?"

"A rose by any other name still has thorns." He nibbled on her neck. "We can play a little more later, _sai'kaea._" He stood up now, sliding her to her feet again. "Much as I'd _love_ to spend the entire trip right here in bed? After a day or two, non-stop, you're going to hurt too much, and that'll impede fun-time the rest of the week."

"Yeah. Just like after Ilium." Dara winced at the recollection as she picked up one of their plates, preparing to take it back indoors.

Flash of memory. Rel blandly teasing her in front of everyone in the living room in Eli's Bastion apartment about having taking _aizala_. Undersong and oversong. Her embarrassment, almost humiliation. Perceiving it as him . . . marking in public. Almost an insecure gesture by Rel, actually, in retrospect. Eli had stiffened a little at the time. Faint jealousy, sublimated quickly, out of habit. Eli picked up their other plates. _"Sai'kaea_. . . Dara. . . " He paused as she opened the door. "I tease you all the time. You'll tell me if I go over the line?"

Dara turned towards him, smiling. "You never have yet. You don't tease that way. You might tease me about expectations. You might turn my own words around against me and trip me up. But I don't see you ever . . . well. . . " Dara sighed. "I don't see you talking to anyone else about. . . specifics." She winced, uncomfortably. _He never did. That was one of the few times he crossed that line. But what goes on behind a closed door should stay behind the closed door, don't you think? _

_There are things I won't share with anyone. The sounds you make. The fact that I'm definitely getting us a blacklight for the bedroom. That you come so hard you puddle the sheets. That your voice shifts into rachni harmonies, and you __sing__ for me. That's all for us, and for no one else._ He lifted her hand and kissed it, lightly, as they both started getting dressed. "Though, for the record? I'd love to know what the _aizala_ felt like. When taken deliberately, not, you know. Night at the cave stuff." He grimaced at the memory.

Dara grimaced, pulling on a pair of shorts in the bedroom, while he was standing at the counter in the bath. "That's just the problem. Even with 'reminders' from Joy-Singer, I don't really remember much about it. There's twelve hours of my life just plain gone."

"You really hate not being in control of yourself." He could empathize.

"Control, or awareness." Dara winced. It tied in with what Kella had done to her, in trying to give her a gift. Tied in with her fear of losing herself in the rachni perspective. _Aizala_ had stripped her of her self-awareness for twelve hours, and she'd hated that.

Eli finished brushing his teeth. "If we ever want to play at estrus, there's royal jelly," he told her, lightly. "I wouldn't ask you to try _aizala_ for me. Not if it's that frightening for you." He paused. "I'd volunteer to take it at the same time as you for fairness' sake, but one person should always be in control of their wits with that sort of thing." Eli scrubbed at his face consideringly, and sighed. His beard grew in too goddamned fast. "Of course, I'm not sure you'd actually notice a difference between me chasing your tail normally, or me chasing your tail on _aizala_."

Dara chuckled and came to the doorway as Eli began to lather up his face. "Can I watch? I like watching you shave."

"I have no idea why. It's a pain in the ass."

Dara looked at him, a slow smile crossing her face. _Because it's something I don't do. It's very human and very male, and I just do._

_I also piss standing up, which is also human and male, and I don't see you wanting to watch that._

Dara started laughing, and absolutely couldn't stop for almost a full minute. Then she moved to the sink beside him, and took out a small medical scanner. Held it to her fingertip as Eli negotiated the tricky area under his nose. "What's that?" he asked.

"Blood hormone check. Making sure I'm not ovulating."

He held the razor away from his face, blinking. "I thought you redid your implant." _That would be. . . bad._

"I did. That was before the workers fed me about four gallons of royal jelly. I thought it might be a good idea to take this with us and make sure nothing untoward happens." _Especially because I'm currently wondering if I'd actually need to eat the stuff in __order__ to ovulate now._

Eli exhaled in relief, and then leaned over and gave her a slightly lathery kiss. "Good thinking. I love you, but I'm not looking for three thousand eggs right now."

"_What?_" Her voice was strangled. Dara looked up at Eli, and caught a flash of one of his weirder dream memories, and looked down at herself in mild horror. "I'm pretty sure I don't have an ovipositor!"

"I know. I checked last night. Thoroughly." Eli paused. "Twice."

"Three times."

"That was this morning. Had to make sure you hadn't grown one since the sun came up." He toweled off his face, and reached for his canister of clan-paint. Two fingers to each jaw, vertical stripes in violet paint. He felt _naked_ without it, anymore. And, just for a moment, he looked into the mirror, and a memory stirred. Wiping Dara's tear-streaked face free of paint months ago. Pristine white of the snow, lifting the paint away, leaving her clean and pure once more.

"Come here for a second, would you?" he told her.

Dara turned, still fastening her hair back in a loose ponytail. "Hmm?"

"I want to see something." Eli caught her chin in his left hand, lightly, and slid the first two fingers of his right hand down her cheek, looking into her eyes for permission all the while. His fingers were still covered in violet paint from his own face.

Cool touch of paint on her face. Whispers of indigo song in her head. Dara's eyes widened. "Eli. . . I can't promise you anything." _I want to. I want to promise you everything. But you know what turian law is going to say._ So many nuances to the gesture. Inviting her into his clan. His life. Everything.

_This is one case when I say __fuck__ turian law._ Eli turned her face, and dipped his left fingers in the paint now, applying it to the right side of her face, very gently. "Like Rinus said when he saw Serana in Lin's paint. . . all the _manus_ rites and _tal'mae_ rites and contracts and everything else aren't nearly as old as the paint itself. Back in the day, being mates and _this_ are what mattered. Nothing more." _This is for __us.__ You're my mate now. And I'm yours. We belong to each other. And nothing else matters._ "You don't have to wear it where anyone else can see," he told her, quietly. "I'd understand that, completely."

Dara swallowed, her throat tight, and moved forward. Slid her arms around his waist, and leaned up to offer a kiss. Too many emotions for mere words. Joy, love, acceptance, gratitude for that acceptance. Sense that he'd always, always fight the universe at her side, if needed. "I'll wear it every chance I get," she promised. "Might not exactly be a good idea at work just yet, though."

"Understood. Or in front of the galactic press, just yet. But here? Now?" Such a hopeful look on his face, as if he were asking her for cookies.

Dara laughed. "Of course."

"So, what do you want to do today?" They moved back out into the main room, and Eli spun up the local guides and brochures on the room's console, making a point of not touching the extranet or newsfeed icons. News would be too much like _work_. "It says there are fossil hikes at designated times along the beaches. Looks like the first one was at sunrise, and there won't be another till late afternoon." He paused, pondering that. "Wonder why there's such a long gap between the two."

"Probably tides," Dara supplied, immediately, to his surprise, leaning over his shoulder to study the screen. "Hell, this planet's got three moons. Probably does crazy things to the oceans. . . wouldn't even be surprised if there are tidal vortices out at sea. I wouldn't want to go out for a walk at the foot of the cliffs here if I wasn't damned sure that I wasn't going to have to climb them to get away from the water. On Earth, there's two high tides and two low tides a day, most places, and that's with only one large moon. Here? God only knows. Probably depends on which side of the planet the moons are in their orbits, and since they were all visible and all full last night. . . " Dara shrugged. "Could be either a really high tide today, or a really low one."

Eli leaned back in the console's chair and grinned up at her. _This is one of the reasons I love you. You know all this crap that I don't._

_Not my fault your mama raised you on a station away from all kinds of good stuff, like mountains and horses and rivers and oceans._ Dara leaned over and kissed his forehead. "And when we go out looking for fossils. . . I'll even make sure you wear a _hat_."

Eli guffawed and pulled her down into her lap, kissing her. Kissing her the way he'd really, really wanted to, years ago. _Yeah, but you probably don't know nearly as much as I do about air ventilation systems. Specifically, exactly which ones I used to be able to fit through._ He grinned down at her now. _Figure out what you want to do, before we get all distracted again._

Dara laughed and started reading. "Maybe windsurfing? Looks like the fossil hike along the beach would be better for tomorrow," she suggested. He kissed the back of her neck, stood up, and gave her the chair as she continued reading. "Oh, there's a concert venue in the closest large town."

"Anything good?"

"An evening with some of my favorites. Liszt, Chopin, Rachmaninoff. That's in. . . three days."

"That last one would really be hard to fit on a worker's shell." Eli's voice was absent, and Dara looked up, realizing that he was only half-listening. She blinked as she watched him pace along the inner wall of the living area, with his omnitool open.

"Eli? What are you doing?"

"Give me a second." He stepped out of the room, into the bedroom now, and she could hear the omnitool's continued hum. Dara raised her eyebrows, and followed him into the room, watching with her arms folded from the doorway. He stepped into the bathroom next, and came back out again, staring up at the wall just below the ceiling.

"Eli, _give._"

"It was mentioning the whole duct-rat thing that made me look up," he muttered. "I was going to point out that I couldn't possibly fit into the ventilation shafts that lead into _these_ rooms, and that Kasumi was really smart, if she designed this part of the building. No _way_ anyone bigger than a robot drone or a rachni worker could slip in through them."

Dara gave him a quizzical stare. "And?"

"There's three air registers in the bedroom. One in the bathroom. That's a lot of air movement. Probably a lot of filters and scrubbers and stuff. There's five in the great room. And. . . " he brought up the rough diagram he'd been making of the entire suite, "each of the existing registers lines up, perfectly, room against room. Which means they're likely connected to the same shaft."

"Symmetrical."

"Yeah."

Dara looked at the diagram. "And you're bothered by the fact that there isn't a fifth air register in the bathroom to balance out the one in the great room? It is a smaller room. It might not need the extra ventilation."

"Yeah, I know. Except now that I've measured it, it's three feet too small." Eli's voice was intrigued. "And I know it's not short because of a wet wall."

Dara's head tipped to the side. "Huh?"

"The wet wall. Where all the pipes run through. That's between the bathroom and the living area, where the sink and toilet line up, and there's another one on the other side, where the tub and the shower are. The room's three feet short on the outer wall." Eli gave her a lopsided grin. "I'd have noticed this earlier, if I hadn't been so damned _distracted_ by you."

Dara stepped past him into the bathroom and stared at the far wall. "You're saying that there's a hidden room there or something? Couldn't it just be electrical equipment or something?"

"This is Kasumi's private lair, _sai'kaea_." Eli's voice was absent, and he was now giving the room a much more careful examination than he had previously. Looking in every drawer and cabinet now, examining towel bars and the mirrors. Dara stood back and watched him with interest. He could see things that she couldn't see, things that had nothing at all to do with the spectrum of visible light.

"Can I help?" she asked, after a moment.

"Not sure," he told her. "Should be practically in plain sight, but not something that's going to be triggered by a random cleaning lady." He studied the mirrors again. One of the long panes of glass was, actually, lifted forwards by about a millimeter more than its companions. _That's the opening. Now, where's the trigger. . . _ Eli glanced into the toilet enclosure. Dara had laughed at it last night, saying it had even more buttons and options on it than the ones she'd seen in Japan.

"You don't think . . .?" Dara started to laugh.

"_Sai'kaea_, it's not anywhere else. It also seems like her sense of humor, doesn't it?" Eli examined the buttons, and realized that _most_ of them related to functions he didn't recognize, and probably didn't want to. He pushed a couple at random, got out of range of the bidet spray after pushing the blue one, and then realized that there were two 'lid raise' and 'lid close' buttons. _Right in plain sight. Let's see what pushing both 'open' buttons at the same time does._

There was an audible click from the wall outside, and Dara just shook her head. "There's a door," she admitted. "So. . . we just go through?"

He caught her hand. "The worst that happens is, Kasumi gets an alert from her security system, right?"

"Knowing Kasumi, she already _has_," Dara said, wryly. "This is going to be a fun comm call."

"Then we might as well go on through," Eli told her, and cautiously opened the door further, using just his fingertips.

The room beyond was, at first glance, something of a disappointment. It was a fairly commonplace elevator. They stepped inside, and looked at the buttons. There were only two. _Bedroom_ and _Vault_. Eli shrugged and pressed the second button. "Voice authorization, please. State your name." The voice was Kasumi's, played on a speaker over their heads. "Then provide retinal scan."

_Go ahead,_ Eli told Dara. _Doubt it's keyed for me. You, there's a faint chance of, at least._

_I don't actually seem to __have__ retinas anymore_. Slight yellow tinge of panic in Dara's mental tone. Out loud, she said, "Dara Jaworski," and glanced around apprehensively.

"Optical data waived," Kasumi's disembodied voice stated, startling Dara completely. "Submit handprint and DNA scan." _Oh, god, like that's going to work any better, unless she's updated her security protocols. . . then again, she's the one who suggested this place, so maybe she did. . . . _ Dara pressed her hand against a plate on the wall that had started to glow, and watched as it flashed momentarily. "Thank you, Dara Jaworski. Visual information being submitted for confirmation from home office."

"What the hell does that mean?" Dara asked Eli, taking her hand away from the plate.

"Probably that if anyone on her list enters here, she's sent a data packet with vid cam footage from the elevator, so she can see if anyone's with you. Saying so lets any potential kidnappers know that their faces are now known and marked. Assuming they didn't disable the cameras on coming in here." Eli wrapped an arm around her waist now.

Dara looked around. "I take it you see the cameras?" _God. Still so many things to learn._

"Three of them. There could be more." He pointed them out for her. "Those are probably largely for show, though. You can make their lenses a hell of a lot smaller than those are."

"Confirmation received from home office," the elevator's voice said suddenly. And Dara's omnitool suddenly buzzed, and she looked at Eli and stuck out her tongue. He responded by leaning forward and catching her lips with his, as the omnitool continued to buzz, impatiently, at her wrist. _Eli, I should really answer this. . . ._

_I retaliate when provoked, you should know that by now._ He pulled back, grinning, and gestured at her omnitool. "By all means."

Kasumi's expression was wry. "I thought it would take you guys till day three or four to notice the secret passage. Eli, you're on _vacation_. Stop looking for caches and stashes and all that."

Eli chuckled. "Sorry. Occupational hazard."

"And you, Dara, need to work harder on _occupying_ that poor boy." Kasumi's lips quirked. Dara flushed brilliantly red. "That being said, I'll unlock the elevators. Please don't touch anything, but have fun looking around. It's not all mine. Most of it used to belong to the previous owner. A not-so-nice guy named Donovan Hock." Kasumi's expression shifted, becoming unreadable. "Someday, I'll tell you the story of what he did. . . and why Shepard and I went through his estate, killed off his mercenaries, and finally wound up killing him. But not today. For the record, Shepard had me return Lady Liberty's head to the North American government."

Dara's eyes went huge. It meant damned little to Eli; he remembered his mother, who'd been born and raised, her first years, at least, in New York state, being overjoyed a few years back when the statue's head had been 'recovered' and replaced, with fanfare, speeches, and a parade, all covered on the extranet. But he could feel Dara's reaction. A piece of identity had been returned with that piece of the statue, he realized, a piece of regional pride and history. "Thank you," Dara said, sounding more than a little confused and lost. "The news always said it had been found at the bottom of the North Sea, having been abandoned there by the people who stole it. . . "

Kasumi chuckled. "I always thought that was a pretty lame cover story, but I guess it was more plausible than 'interplanetary art collector, information broker, and known murderer Donovan Hock had it in his private collection for twenty years before it was returned to the people of the former United States by an anonymous donor." She glanced off to the side of the camera, and then back again. "Okay, the security systems are largely powered down. Let me know when you're out of there, and I'll put them back in place again." Another subtle shift of her expression. "I'd hate for things I honestly took from the person who stole them to be re-stolen. It would be a real black mark on my reputation. . . if I had one."

The comm signal cut off, and the elevator doors slid closed. Dara felt the floor lurch under her feet, and the sinking sensation in her stomach that suggested that inertia was tugging at her. "Faster elevator than on an SR ship," Eli muttered, as the doors slid open, revealing a long, dimly-lit hallway with metal and stone walls.

He paused, looking to the right as he started to step out of the elevator. "Huh. Looks like there are detection systems down here, in case people decide to bypass the elevator and just climb down the shaft, like we did on Omega." He was looking at a laser emitter, which was near the ground, positioned to send a beam at ankle-height in front of the elevator door.

"I know Kasumi said she'd disabled all the security systems," Dara said, pointing down. "So I take it that if we can see the lasers, that means it's safe to cross them?"

Eli blinked, and looked down. He couldn't see the beam at all. "You _see_ it, _sai'kaea_?"

"Yeah. . . kind of reddish, I guess." Dara was surprised. "You _don't_?"

_I don't have rachni eyes, sweetheart._ "Serana's going to want to take you with her on every vault heist she _ever_ goes on," Eli told Dara. "If she didn't already consider you a sister, I think she'd adopt you just for that." He stepped over the beam, carefully, and Dara did the same. "Any more?"

"A few. All at ankle-height."

"There's a hell of a lot more emitters than just the ones at ankle-height." Eli swept the walls with his omnitool's built-in light. "This place probably would look like a nightclub to you when it's completely turned on." _Wonder if Kasumi would ever let Serana come here. Sort of a final exam sort of place._

_Maybe. Kasumi's very fond of practical tests._

They moved through the long hall, and reached a set of doors at the far end, which opened at a touch. Past that, was a room the side of an aircraft hangar, and Dara's mouth fell open as the lights came up. "Wow," she said, after a moment. "You think Cohort would love coming here to study all this?"

Visual art. Visual art in all its forms, in hundreds of display cases, all subtly lit. "That's . . .I want to say that's a Faberge egg," Dara said, pointing into one case, at an egg that was studded in what looked like diamonds, and was partially open to reveal a tiny, exquisitely-wrought folding fan with gold sticks and silver 'lace' inside. "If it's an original, all of those jewels are real. . . and it's worth a hell of a lot more than just the gold-weight and diamonds." Made for the tsars of Imperial Russia, and given as fabulously expensive gifts within that family, they were incredible pieces of craftsmanship. . . and of history. _Probably over fifty million credits. __S'kak__._

Turian abstract sculptures, taller than either of them. Asari rugs, hand-woven with ritual invocations to the Goddess worked in calligraphy into the patterns. _That's the Matisse she has a copy of in her office. Oh, god, my dad really doesn't need to see that, unless it's . . .another copy._

"And that's. . . wow. That's an M-12 Locust." Eli was staring at the submachine gun in the glass case, white-yellow shock in him now. "The gun that killed two presidents."

"Kasumi usually practices with one at the range. . . " Dara hesitated, and stared at the tag on the case.

"Yeah. That says it's the one used to kill Aguilar and Xiong."

The assassination had taken place in 2176, the year after she was born. Looking at the ivory-handled submachine gun gave her chills. "My dad always said he'd love to have ten minutes alone in a locked room with Lang, the assassin."

"I don't think there's too many people on Earth who wouldn't turn off the vid cameras in that room and look the other way," Eli admitted. Again, he'd been born on the Citadel. But he knew, again, that both his mom and his dad had followed the criminal trial, Lang's competency hearings, the long series of appeals for the convicted assassin. And that his mom had actually been _for_ the death penalty in that particular case, which was unusual for Ellie. "Didn't they finally execute him a few years ago?"

"Yeah. Virginia still usually expedites that process a little faster than the rest of the East Coast, but there were complications because the Chinese wanted to extradite him and stuff like that." Dara shook her head. Having a global-level government. . . and even an _interstellar_ government, in the case of the Systems Alliance. . . didn't stop the day-to-day wrangling of local municipalities and jurisdictions. "I think they finally executed him right before the Reaper War. I'd have to look it up, though."

They continued to walk through the glass cases, stopping occasionally to gape at things. Babylonian cuneiform tablets. Winged, slightly flat Assyrian 'guardian' statues, intended to guard the gates of cities. A set of Praetorian formal armor, including the ceremonial spear, over two thousand years old. _Bet the PG would __love__ to know how __that__ got out of their keeping._ Prothean artifacts. Jewelry that looked vaguely Egyptian, but that Eli instantly knew was ancient and asari. Quarian scrolls that predated the Morning War. Drell statuary, preserved in the flight from Rakhana, incredibly rare. It was like a museum, only . . . not. In one glass case, there was actually a single large, black-colored diamond, surrounded by over a hundred tiny white diamonds. "Holy _crap_," Dara muttered, reading the little placard in the case. _The Black Orlov. Formerly displayed at the Museum of Natural History, New York, NY, Terra._

"She did say it wasn't _all_ hers." Eli was doing his best to ignore the CID voices shouting inside his head right now.

"I wonder how much of it _is_."

They exchanged glances. "She probably should return _all_ the stuff that's historical," Eli muttered. Any number of national-level governments on Earth, the Hierarchy in general, and the Council of Sisters . . . not to mention the quarians and the drell!. . . would want to have their cultural artifacts returned.

"Probably," Dara admitted, and stared up at the vault again. "You think there's a reason why she hasn't?"

Eli shook his head. "Probably. Though I'm probably not wired right to understand it." He tabbed off the light, and they headed back down the hallway, stepping over the lasers again. "You think maybe. . . she's waiting for your dad to see it before she gives it all back?"

"I hope she packs a crash-cart if he ever does agree to come here," Dara muttered. "That's the sort of question I think I'd rather ask her in _person_, though." 

"Yeah. I can see why."

The rest of the trip went smoothly. Even gloriously. They did try out windsurfing, and spent quite a bit of their first four hours finding new ways to fall into the water. The sport was much more like sailing than Eli had anticipated; he'd thought it would be like riding a hoverboard, which he was used to doing. It combined elements of both, however, and modern sailboards did use mass effect technology to help the users hover above the waves and avoid being swamped. There were, indeed, two-person versions, and Dara stood in front of Eli on it, both of their hands locked on the sails, both concentrating intently on balance. On feeling the waves and the wind. It helped, actually, when they opened their minds to each other. Relaxed into the motion, and just reacted to the situation around them. Eli's reflexes and balance helped, and Dara had a knack for understanding the wind and waves. Moving in perfect synch with one another as Eli strained to hold the sail against the wind. . . and laughing together in triumph as they finally got forward momentum. Eli found the fact that Dara's hair curled all the more when damp with sticky saltwater delightful. . . even though she told him, dryly, that she looked bedraggled, and like something the cat had dragged in.

On a gray day, they took the long path down the cliff face to the shore, this time not for windsurfing, but for a long hike down the white sand beaches, heading for the littoral deposits at the base of the cliffs that were known for fossils. There were others along for the hike, including a local tour guide. The two of them got odd looks for their turian clan-paint—Dara was still wearing Eli's violet paint, and every time he saw it, he felt warmth surge through him—but Dara wore dark glasses in spite of the cloud cover. And that kept the glances to a minimum. There were two or three other couples along, mostly human, though an asari and her salarian mate were there, too. A couple of families, with _au pairs_ and children, clearly from money, if they were staying at the Nagori. The children ran along the shore, squealing as the waves licked at their feet, largely uninterested in the fossil hunting.

Here, Eli was reminded, as he had been on Camala, almost a year ago now, of just how good Dara's eyes really were. It wasn't just a question of gene mods, but what she was attuned to in her environment. She'd spent quite a bit of time in the wilderness with her father, growing up, where he'd spent his childhood on the Citadel. . . and it showed. He had the _interest_ in fossils, but it was Dara who almost invariably spotted them in the crumbling, damp rocks. He did find one, of which he was actually rather proud, being almost as large as her hand. "Looks almost like a trilobite," Dara said. "Similar shell."

"Too many legs. Ten, no, twelve."

Little hints at work. The asari was loudly worried about space-travel right now, and had booked a human flight between Bek and Luisa on purpose, rather than traveling by an asari liner. "Raiders looking for asari biotics aren't going to hit a human liner. The food was terrible and the seats were uncomfortable, but I felt so much safer," she commented, when asked about her trip to Bek by one of the other hikers.

Eli and Dara exchanged a glance, but didn't answer, beyond a few shocked, sympathetic words about the state of the war.. Marcus and Elizabeth Stockton wouldn't have ventured an opinion, beyond that, after all.

Deliberate, completely relaxation. Absorption in each other. Long walks along the cliff-tops, looking down to see the waves beating on the rocks, water shining silver in the light of sunset. Flash of memory in Eli, resonating through her now, too. _Sky's riddles. I've figured out most of them. Lin was the storm, driving the water around, but unable to really change it. Serana's fire. Can scorch stone, but can't consume it. Will wither and die without air. Never did figure out the stuff about water and earth, though._ He gave her the images now. Lava flow, a cliff-face being worn at by the waves, like the ones they were walking on now. Waves crashing into the stone, spray sparkling in the sunlight. Stone ewers, holding water, containing it.

Dara chuckled a little, ruefully. "Sky gave me a different image once. Try this one." Water, in a nuclear reactor, constantly being boiled by heat. Constantly being forced between steam and condensing back into liquid, and then being forced back into steam again. Or water being boiled in a pot over a campfire, boiling over because the fire was far too hot.

"Rel was the reactor, or fire, run out of control," Eli said, helping Dara over a pile of boulders in their path.

"Yeah." Dara scrambled up atop the pile, and they both looked down at the waves again. Understanding, simple and plain flowed between them. "You think Sky always knew?"

"He said he and Kasumi saw patterns and potentials. Wish to hell he'd just come out and _say_ things sometimes." Eli shook his head. "Would save a hell of a lot of time."

Dara gave him a look. "And back in March or April, if he'd said to either of us, _Your songs are in better harmony with each other than with your current mates. You should sing together, and not with them,_ what would you have said?"

Eli snorted. "Probably 'impossible.' Also, possibly, 'mind your own business.'" They stood there for a while longer, watching the sun set, listening to the crash of the waves against the cliffs, far below. Letting peace slip through them.

On the third night, they headed inland for a concert, in an acoustically perfect concert hall thirty miles away. It left Dara quivering. Human appreciation for the music, and rachni appreciation for song. "Damn, _sai'kaea_, if I'd known it was going to have this effect on you, I'd have gotten us a hotel room in this town, too_._" Eli gave her a concerned glance as he took their rented groundcar at the top legal speed back to the Nagori. _Or maybe asked management to let us in the green room backstage and not to ask questions._ He grinned, but he was, in truth, only half-joking. There had been a lot more than just piano music on the bill. There had been a full orchestra there, and she'd been shaking in her seat, clutching his hand, shocks of pleasure racing through her from almost the first note.

She was in the seat beside him, shuddering a little. "It moved over my _skin_," Dara told him. "It moved in me and through me. It's not like when I'm the one playing the piano or the _reela_. And it wasn't like listening to just Dempsey, by himself, playing. This was different. . . and I couldn't even hear the performers' mental songs, or the audience's. . . ." Her head sank backwards against the seat now. "Now I know why Sky gets 'drunk' on the Christmas concerts back home."

"I'm noticing. You're not even complaining about my driving." Eli kept his tone light, and get her back to the Nagori. . . and concern turned to delight and laughter as she half-dragged him in the door of their room and pushed him towards the bed. Taking complete charge this time. _Let me give you the songs, Eli. Feel them with me._

_I felt them when you were listening. . . . _ He had, too. Hadn't quite gotten the sensory overload, but he'd felt her pleasure, and it had been very damned sweet.

_Share it with me, Eli, share my song. . . ._ Glorious moment as she'd straddled him and sank down, impaling herself, and letting the gossamer strands of music flow through them both. He reached up and cradled her face for a moment, thinking, _I want to remember this moment. . . every moment of this week. . . forever._

Another night, Dara offered, "You know what? I don't want to go out. How about if I cook, and we watch vids or something?"

"I'll help with the cooking." He'd been reluctant to touch the extranet at all. Didn't want to take the chance on seeing any newsfeeds.

Dara flipped through the various media channels and commented, "The Urban Combat League season's coming up. You want to watch that?"

"Nah. It's the pre-season, which is kind of like watching the Terran Olympics. Twenty minutes of talking about how great someone is, twenty minutes of ads, ten minutes of testimonials about their childhood from parents and schoolmates and people-who-knew-them-way-back-when, eight minutes of last years' highlights, and two minutes of actual real footage." Eli poured their cooked pasta into a strainer in the sink. "I'll watch when it's the playoffs and they're actually all fighting like it matters."

"Ohhh, my dad and you are going to get into some arguments."

"Good. They'll be the fun kind of arguments. The type that doesn't actually matter and no one's actually wrong." Eli grinned at her, and tasted the meat sauce she'd put together. "You think this needs more oregano, _sai'kaea?"_

They switched to a vid stream, instead. "We still need to get through all the old pre-Contact War Earth sci-fi vids," Eli reminded her. They were sitting on the floor in the living room, his back against the sofa, with her between his legs, her back to him.

Dara drove an elbow into his left ribs. "Yeah. Which reminds me. I still haven't thanked you and Lin _properly_ for the _last_ movie festival."

That had been, of course, the night before Joy-Singer had hatched. Eli nuzzled Dara's shoulder. "Be fair, Dara. We didn't _know_ all the eggs were going to pop like that."

She snuggled back into him. "True enough. So, what do you want to watch?"

"There's one here called _Starship Troopers._ Sounds ungodly bad, but then, I don't think we've stumbled onto a good one yet."

Halfway through the film, they had to stop watching. The group showers had simply made them laugh. "Yeah, no one actually stretches and turns to face each other in the shower, come _on_. . . "

"Well, at least she was more or less hot, _sai'kaea_."

"Can you remember her name right now?"

"Nope."

But the real sticking point had been the insectile enemies. Dara had simply tensed up, and started shaking her head. "It's like. . . defaming the rachni before we even knew they _existed_," she said, unhappily. "Before we even saw all the really bad galactic vids about the rachni wars and the krogan uplifting."

Eli rubbed her neck and shoulders, trying to ease the tension there. "People are scared of bugs. It's something the film's playing on."

"I know," she replied, rolling her shoulders forward, giving him better access. "I wasn't really fond of bugs before, either. But Sky's not a _bug._" _And neither am I._

_No. You most certainly are not._ Eli dug his fingers in deeper. "You think if we had kids, that they'd be afraid of bugs or spiders? Or do you think they'd grow up wondering why it is that the ones in the garden don't talk back to them?"

A quick amused flicker of images between the two of them. A vision of the future, but one shrouded with questions. Possibilities. An infant with rachni-blue eyes, in a crib. . . and half a dozen named workers chittering at it. Pulling the blanket up to its human throat. A rachni soldier, under the cradle, like a watchdog.

_I don't even know if we can __have__ kids._ Dara sighed. The genetic changes in her were actually more extensive than the difference between humans and chimpanzees. . . but other than the eyes and skin, and the mitochondrial DNA itself, it had largely been constrained to what scientists considered 'junk' DNA.

_Sure we can._ Eli was definitive on that. _Even if it doesn't work out naturally, there's the Solus process. But I bet we're close enough._ He pulled her back into his chest. "We'll figure it out. It's not like we don't have time." There was urgency in both of them at the moment. A sense of mortality, because of far too many close calls in the last year. A need to grab onto each other and life, and do everything all at once. But they both knew better. They'd both rushed before.

Dara sighed and turned around into him. "I kind of wish this week would never end."

"Me, too." Moments outside of time. Away from all the demands of duty and family and everything else. "We can always come back here, if Kasumi lets us."

Every night, before bed, he made a point of getting out one of his Christmas presents from her, the volume of asari poetry, and reading it to her, in bed. "This is closed door stuff," he warned her, lightly. "No one gets to know I like the sappy stuff."

"Yeah, I know. Macho image and all that." Dara was curled into him, head on his chest. "So, read it to me already."

Eli flipped through the antique paper pages carefully. _Here we go._ Skin contact, words resonating through them both, his understanding becoming her comprehension.

_Vil'ye'mai divai_

_aeoill'ai'aueo, _

_seo'sano,_

_Nii'li adai_'_uelle._

_Bil'ia a n'bil'ia,_

_soa'illu'eaulo a n' soa'illu'aueo._

_Viaell'oa fiall'aueo,_

_lapea'aueo, he'lia_'_aueo._

_Suasi mana'filai'ya_

_Maieolo'ya lia'lan'uel,_

_Bai'an'uel,_

_a lia'lan'uelle sis'ia._

_soa'sa'uelle sis'ia._

_Eallu_ _iu'an, __noa toa'sa;_

_Eallu toa'sa, iu'an._

_Vila riuae wai waol'o'ealia_

_Ia, niu vi'ie pai'sa,_

_Niu_ _lilua'ya, _

_Liliu'uelle._

_Where once were two,_

_alone, separate, _

_there now is one._

_Bound yet unbound, _

_Sung and unsung._

_The lost have been found,_

_the sundered renewed._

_Sweetness of mind-fire,_

_your loving touch surrounds me,_

_awakens me,_

_as I surround you, _

_give you surcease._

_Every end a new beginning,_

_every beginning, an end._

_While sorrow surely awaits,_

_still, in this moment,_

_in your light,_

_I live._

Dara listened to the words. Soft, low voice. Understanding the nuances that English didn't quite convey. Light and life were so pronounced so closely together, in fact, that they verged on a pun, light from life, life from light. "That's. . . really beautiful," she finally said, after a hushed pause.

"I'll read you one every night. Till we run out, and you have to get me a new book." Eli settled the book on the nightstand and rolled over, finding her lips with his. Any number of females had wanted him to speak asari to them. It was a turn-on, especially for asari, when they encountered someone, particularly a male, of another species, who spoke the language like a sister. Something faintly kinky. _But poetry. . . yeah. That's something I'll only share with you._ _Like you share the song._

Time, unfortunately, had a way of slipping by. Day by day, minute by minute, spent in exploring each other. Learning each other all over again, this time on a different level. Bodies and minds holding no secrets from each other now. Relaxing. Laughing. Making sure that the friendship, the teasing, the human level never got neglected, but the passion could be pursued, too.

On their last day, they packed, and Eli gently washed his paint off Dara's face. "If and when everything gets worked out," he told her, quietly, "it'll stay on next time. If you want it to."

She reached up and touched the paint on his own jaw now. "Does this mean I have to start shopping for a knife for you?"

"Got plenty of time to find the right one," he told her, ruefully. _Years, maybe, if the turian courts and Conclaves decide to make this a real battle. _He snorted. _Hell, by the time they figure it out, you might have already had to create a drell-turian hybridization model, assuming all goes well with Rel and Seheve. _

Her shoulders shook for a moment. Bittersweet amusement, tempered with reality. Courts and laws _did_ tend to lag reality. Often by ten, fifteen, or even twenty years. And that was for short-lived species. Asari law could lag reality by over a hundred years, at times. O_r they could make the argument that Rel could technically claim __our__ kids._

_Over my dead body._ Flare of dark red anger, tempered by amusement. _Not that he's likely to try to make that claim._ Eli tossed the washcloth at the sink. "Let's go downstairs and get a bite to eat before we go back to the shuttleport. . . Dr. Stockton."

"You like saying that, don't you?"

_I'm going to like saying Dr. Sidonis a hell of a lot more. Someday._

_Hey, technically, you haven't even __asked__ me yet. _Mock-indignation.

_Good point. I'll have to think about that. _Playful blues and greens in his song, and he chuckled out loud as she slapped the side of his arm, with absolutely no sting.

In the downstairs restaurant, she asked, idly, "So, what do you think everyone else did on leave?"

"Probably a hell of a lot of what _we_ did." Eli wiggled his eyebrows at her, making her laugh.

That was when they both caught movement out of the corners of their eyes. Hotel security had stopped someone on the balcony outside, and Dara's eyebrows rose. _Turian. That's. . . .hey. They're taking a camera off that guy._

Eli's head turned. _Ah, __s'kak__. What do you want to bet he's a freelance photographer for one of the gossip rags?_

_Great._ Dara's song shifted into a cold minor key. _What a lovely way to end the vacation._

They looked up as the maitre'd slid over to their booth, which, as usual, they'd pulled up the privacy field around. "Excuse me? Dr. Stockton, Mr. Stockton? There's a minor situation of which we thought you should be made aware."

"The photographer?" Dara asked, her voice sinking a little.

"Yes. He's a known photojournalist with _Complovium Today!_, unfortunately. He was spotted several other times this week, renting boats in the area. Our security here at the Nagori is a little more. . . vigorous. . .than most other resorts, as you might imagine." The maitre'd frowned. "Ms. Goto has attempted to ensure that this place is a sanctuary for people who might not, hmm, wish their faces to be known."

_And now I wonder how many of her former espionage and grand-theft larceny compatriots come through here. Maybe exchange a little information._ Eli's mental tone was sardonic. Nothing Kasumi did was simple. Almost everything had two or three different levels to it.

"So what's he doing on the premises?" Dara asked, out loud.

" A junior staff member failed to recognize him and admitted him to the restaurant this morning."

"Does he have any pictures we should be aware of?" Eli asked, calmly, but his heart was sinking now.

"Two, just of the two of you settling in at the table for lunch. Hardly anything _incriminating_."

"Doesn't need to be incriminating," Eli said, groaning internally. "Just needs to be set up with the right headline."

"We've taken the liberty of removing his datacrystals and wiping them before returning them to him. Also, the additional liberty of subjecting his entire body to a mild electromagnetic scrambling field. He should be quite healthy, but any computers or memory cards he failed to turn over to us should be quite, quite damaged." The maitre'd's voice was cold. "He's also been apprised that he is, in fact, trespassing. The Nagori is a private facility, only open to paying guests, which he is not."

Eli weighed the situation in his mind. He _could_ go over there and get in the turian reporter's face. Make a point of why you probably didn't want to get on a Spectre's bad side, and point out the advantages of having a Spectre owe you a favor. . . _Nah._ The current situation had been dealt with, and neatly, by other people doing their jobs.

_Oh, thank god. You're not going to go dangle him over a cliff-face._

_At the moment, I entirely sympathize with Rel doing exactly that, but no. We're going to want to get ahead of this, __sai'kaea__._ Eli's jaws were clenched. _I suggest an interview with Emily Wong when we get back. Maybe Lexine Elders, too. If she's behaved herself with all the vid she took on Terra Nova, and we decide she deserves it._ He realized that they both had lost their appetites. "You ready to go home?"

Dara shook her head. _Bastion isn't home. The SR ships aren't home. _"I already am home," she said, simply, touching his hand so he could feel her honesty. "But I _am_ ready to go back to work now."

A long, long moment. Eli picked up her hand and kissed it. "Okay, then. Let's get back to work."

As they picked up their luggage and prepared to leave, however, they both found themselves wondering, again, what exactly everyone else had gotten up to, on their own leaves.

**Author's note:** _Dara's dress: www[DOT].amazon[DOT]com/Long-Elegant-Black-Dress-Style/dp/B0052G1RXQ/ref=sr_1_18?s=apparel&ie=UTF8&qid=1315059414&sr=1-18 . . . only higher slit at the sides and all black beading, no silver._

_The lyrics used in this chapter are from Garbage's "Number One Crush," and I can't imagine any song better suited to this scene or to Eli and Dara._


	131. Chapter 131: Rest

**Chapter 131: Rest**

_**Author's note:** I was concerned, last chapter, that the interaction of rachni chitin, which has replaced the human keratin in Dara's nails, hair, and skin, with UV, would come off like something from the Merry Gentry faerie books (*shudder*). It's emphatically not meant to be in any way like the fae glow. It's there to clarify what's going on in her body, and actually could be considered a detriment, to balance out her rachni advantages. Can you imagine how Dara would have to prep to go into, say, Afterlife on Shep's mission with Samara? We're talking full body makeup, just to avoid standing out. That's a four- to five-hour process, and you have to pray it doesn't smudge. . . . gah._

_Shinime strikes with fanart again!  art/The-Dress-274809454._

_Lustrian commissioned a small piece of art from Violet Kirk of violetkirk .blogspot . com; you can see Santa Kirrahe in both bearded and unbearded versions at his page on the SoR Wiki:  krriahe-orlan._

**Siara, Tuchanka, January 1-7, 2197**

Siara and Makur had, with a week of leave, had had their pick of dozens of planets not currently at war to use as their playground. They could have gone to Ilium, with its towers and luxury. They could have gone to Luisa, with its _dia'da_ forests, all in bloom this time of year, pure white flowers on the trees there so akin to Terra's orange blossoms in smell and appearance. They could have stayed on Bastion, dipped into the Macedyn nightlife. Could have gone back to Omega, practically a second home at this point, and been treated to a hero's welcome by Harak and Pelagia.

They went to Tuchanka, instead. Barren brown ground, broken buildings. Square patch of vivid green, off to the west, surrounded by towers and barbed wire, that rarest of rare things on Tuchanka: arable ground under cultivation. Sight of Mazz's water treatment plant, near the river.

Siara felt something inside her quiver and leap to life as soon as their shuttle landed. This broken, ruined place _called_ to her, as no other place in the galaxy did. _Home_, she thought, and Makur's hand squeezed the back of her neck, gently.

There was an air of _pride_ in the Urdnot camp at the moment, though. The guards waved them through the entrances, and Siara could hear their conversations, interrupted by their approach, resume again behind them. "You were on Shanxi?"

"Yeah. Good fights."

"I heard from Kreldur that the humans there _cheered_ when they saw the krogan advance."

"It's true. They did."

"Huh. Well, like I care about a human's opinion, anyway."

"You just say that because you weren't _there._" There was a pause, and the low, rumbling voice went on thoughtfully. "Their main city there, Xi'an? Looks like most of Tuchanka at the moment. Just rubble. But still smoking. They were using everything they had to fight the yahg. I watched one group of humans collapse a bridge on a yahg hunting party. They know how to fight, got to give them that."

"So their worlds look like this now, huh?"

"Sort of. First thing they did in any area where the yahg had been chased out was look for survivors under the rubble. Then they started clearing the wreckage. By the time I left, they'd started building scrap heaps. Old metal and pipes and wiring in one heap. Construction girders and beams, too. Wallboard and furnishings and crap like that, taken to an incineration plant." The krogan voice was slow and thoughtful, actually. "Already planning how to rebuild."

Siara looked around at the tunnel that she and Makur were walking through. Concrete walls pierced here and there with massive holes and cracks. Chunks of rock and cement on the ground. And sighed. _It's all most of them have ever known,_ Makur reminded her. _That and merc ships. Maybe bars on Omega or Rough Tide._

_I know_, she whispered silently. _I know._

"Shame it didn't happen to the turians or the salarians." That was the second guard's voice again.

"You don't get it. We're _heroes_ now."

"We were heroes after the Rachni War, too. See where that got us."

"Hey, I fought _alongside_ rachni on Shanxi. Damned good fighters. Melted the faces right off some of the yahg." A low, rough laugh. "I'd say 'should have seen the looks on their faces,' but, you know. . . "

"You couldn't?"

"Exactly."

The voices were growing fainter. Siara shook her head. The conversation both boded well for the future, and held reminders of the past. The problems of Tuchanka weren't going to be solved overnight. That much was certain. There was an entrenched culture of bitterness, of self-absorption, that meant that many—though not all—krogan tended to blame outsiders for their problems. And put little energy into solving those problems. The clear sound of _pride_ in the one guard's voice, however, had been _refreshing_. The krogan were _heroes_. And that was something to build on.

They met with Wrex, who clearly agreed with this point of view, and was working to bring more of Urdnot's warriors home, so that others could be rotated out. "It's good for the rest of the galaxy to see krogan who _aren't_ Blood Pack," Wrex rumbled from his ruined dais. "To see krogan as part of the solution to the galaxy's problems, and not one of the problems to be solved. We're keeping people on Omega to support Harak and establish that it's always going to be a land of opportunity for _us_."

Siara knew that there were quarian marines still stationed there, too. There were far fewer quarians than of any other species, other than perhaps the drell. Thus, they couldn't afford to commit troops to too many places. But Omega was admirably suited to the quarians. . . who were probably rebuilding the station from the core out, now that so much of it had been destroyed. She found herself smiling faintly at the thought. It somehow seemed right. The quarians were among the engineers of Bastion. . . why not the engineers of Omega now, too?

"Commander Shepard said that once the last human and turian worlds were retaken, it would be time to take the war to the batarians," Makur told Wrex, his reddish eyes gleaming.

"Tough fights," Wrex said, immediately. "Batarians have been out in space since the rachni wars. That's two thousand years, give or take. Lots of very well-established, highly populated planets. You can't _move_ millions of troops at once. There just aren't the ships for that. Leaves bombarding from orbit, or surgical strikes. Taking planetary capitals and holding their spaceports and space stations and mass relays. Starving them, if they can't produce enough food on their own world. Could take years, and you have to _hold_ it." He shook his head ponderously. "Of course, the turians and the humans make war a little differently from each other. And from us." His eyes gleamed. "Should be interesting, either way."

After that meeting with Wrex, they'd headed back to the women's camp. Malla scowled at Siara on sighting her. "_There_ you are," the older female told her, as if Siara had been off picking flowers at the river. "We've got a lot of work to do. I wrote down the old letters and as many of the old words as I could remember. Did it months ago, but you haven't been here to do anything with them." Malla snorted.

Siara stared at her, somewhat amused. Malla made it sound as if she'd been flittering around on a pleasure cruise for the past two . . . _damn, almost three_. . . years. "If you're waiting for an apology, it's going to be a long wait," Siara told her, evenly, crossing her arms over her chest. "

"You'd best decide what's important, girl," Malla told her, roughly.

"One thing at a time," Siara told her, eyes narrowing. "Clan-leader said 'go to Omega.' We went to Omega. Got appointed Spectre, have a war to fight. We'll be back."

"So you say. Till you get your fool heads shot off, and then where will the younglings be, with no one to teach them?"

Siara snorted. "Careful, Malla. That almost sounded like you _cared._" She bared her teeth in an edged smile, lifting her chin.

Malla snorted. "Yeah. Almost." She gestured at a nearby door. "Well? Get to it."

Siara got to it. Strode into the makeshift classroom, and _growled._ The oldest student, a female named Gura, who was attempting to pass along what she knew of arithmetic today. The various male and female younglings were restless, and weren't paying any attention at all. "Have you all forgotten _everything_ I taught you? Do you all have weak minds? Sit up and _listen_ when the teacher's sharing her wisdom, or you sorry idiots will be on half-rations tonight!"

Two dozen backs straightened, inasmuch as they could, given the musculature of a krogan spine. Siara spent the next four hours pounding algebra into reluctant minds. Along with reviewing spelling in galactic, basic astrogation, and chemistry. By the time the students filed out, Siara was tired, but it was a good sort of tired. She knew some of them had made connections. She'd seen the _aha!_ look in their eyes. And the best part was, she didn't need to defend who passed and who failed. Didn't need to grade papers. They either got it right and moved to the next problem or subject, or they failed and repeated.

Malla caught her after evening rations were passed out, as Siara leaned against a rock wall near Makur's side in the bunker. "Here's the writing you wanted," Malla told her, tossing a rolled-up hide at Siara. Unfurling it, Siara could see the rough, blocky letters of the krogan written language, and rough equivalents of their sounds in galactic, followed by hundreds of words. Not alphabetized, not in any order, really. "And what does each mean in galactic?" Siara asked, raising fine brows.

Malla snorted and crouched down near their fire. "Sound it out, girl. You speak our language. You can figure it out. Not what I'm really here to talk about."

Flash of silent communion with Makur. _Oh, this will be good. / She never does anything without purpose. You know this._

Siara leaned her head back against the wall. "So, what _do_ you want to talk about?"

"The future."

That got Makur's head to come up. Snowflake, at his side, even lifted his head from heavy paws and regarded the female krogan with gleaming, alien eyes. "Not a subject most krogan ever discuss," Makur noted, heavily. "What about it?"

"I wasn't speaking to _you_." Malla snorted again. "You, girl. I want your oath that you'll back Ugara for female clan-leader when I die."

Siara's head snapped up. Her first, hot-headed impulse was to blurt, _The hell I will_. She choked it back. Thought about it. And, after a moment, she told Malla, "No."

"Why not?" Malla picked up a stick and poked the logs in their fire, making them blaze up from dull red embers. There was plenty of ventilation in this level of the bunker; they were close to the surface here. "You want to challenge for my position yourself?"

Siara stared at Malla. She'd never spoken that ambition out loud on Tuchanka. Or on Bastion, not where any krogan but Makur could hear. . . _Pelagia knew. But Pelagia would not speak of this. But perhaps Harak knows, too, and told Wrex? Not gossip, but 'mind your clan, Wrex. . . .'_ After a moment, Siara replied, calmly, "I haven't spoken of it to you before. I do intend to challenge. But that's not why I won't give my oath to support Ugara. I won't support her because she's weak."

Malla grunted. "How so?"

"She's three hundred years old, has five living offspring. Can't take that away from her. But every time she leaves the bunker, I've seen fear in her." Siara's lips pulled down. "Fear of the unknown is normal. It's healthy. Courage is doing what scares you, when it's necessary, in spite of that fear. Since the first three or four times we went to the fields at night, I noticed that she volunteered to stay in and mind the younglings."

"Task needed doing."

"Not arguing that. It's true. Someone needed to stay here and keep them from pulling shelves down atop each others' heads." Siara paused. "But she didn't volunteer because it needed doing. She volunteered because it got her out of going to the fields. And not because the fields were hard work. But because being out under the night sky, in the open, scared her."

Malla nodded, slowly. Siara had the feeling that she was, somehow, testing her. "She's got a lot of respect from those around here. She's _always_ been here. Always been there for those younglings. Proven mother, too."

_That __is__ one of the problems_, Makur told Siara silently. _Asari __can__ take hundreds of years to hit the matron stage, can't they? Proving fertility could be a hell of a problem with your plan._

_Get this Vaul-be-damned war done, and even if Dara can't come up with a hybridization template, I can share you till you crawl and beg for mercy. That should take care of it._ Siara's smile was wicked and thought-fast.

_Beg for mercy?_ _Never happen._

Out loud, Makur snorted. "She's spent three hundred years in the bunker." He shrugged. "No off-world experience. No knowledge, beyond what's safe to eat and where the varren hunt." His eyes glittered in the dull light. "I didn't know much more myself, five years ago. Didn't know there _was_ more to know, till Siara came." He stared at Malla now, almost defying her, daring her to tell him to shut his mouth. "The younglings she's helped raise. . . like me. . . respect her. Always will. Always a quick hand to punish the older children who got out of line or showed weakness. Always a word of praise for a youngling who showed strength. But Urdnot needs more than just someone who can tell you that the _maro_ roots are safe to eat when cooked, but will give you a case of gut-rot when they're raw." _Maro_ roots were poisonous either way to Siara. She had no idea how the krogan could eat and enjoy the damned things, which were filled with alkalines.

Malla broke the logs in their fire apart. "Someone like your mate here?" Her tone was mildly contemptuous, but Siara knew why. She was trying to provoke them. Testing. "Someone who starts a grand project, has a good idea, and then walks away? Is never here?"

Makur actually growled at that point. "Was _ordered_ to go to Omega. Same as me. And Siara was made a _Spectre_. Second one out of Urdnot, actually. Only Urdnot Gris before her. We've been bringing prestige to the clan. Honor."

"Prestige and honor don't fill any bellies." Malla glared at him. "And there are plenty of _asari_ Spectres."

"Not too damned many who are also full, blood-sworn members of a krogan clan," Makur countered, meeting that glare with his own.

_Devil's advocate_, Siara thought. The human term was so peculiarly apt. Originally meant for a clergyman who would point out all the flaws in a person being presented for the highest rank of priest within one of their manifold religious hierarchies. "No, they don't," Siara said, leaning forward to meet Malla's eyes. "But even walking back through the male camp today, I saw how much more _pride_ was in the warriors there. Pride might not fill a belly, Malla, but it makes life worth living. Gives people dreams. That today, we _are_ better than yesterday. That we are appreciated. Valued. And that tomorrow might therefore be better than today." Siara stared at Malla. "That's not just my doing. That's the doing of Makur. Of Gris. Of Wrex. Of every single warrior who's left Tuchanka, left merc work, to defend Omega and the human worlds."

"They're still getting paid," Makur pointed out, in a dark rumble.

"The ones on Omega are getting food and housing from Harak, and the _gratitude_ of the Clan Alliance. The ones on the various human worlds? Credits from the Systems Alliance, yeah." Siara shrugged. "I can't promise to be _here_ every single day, Malla. I can't be here, feeding younglings and hunting varren _and_ be a Council Spectre at the same time."

"You might have to give up being a Spectre to be female clan-leader," Malla warned.

"Maybe 'female clan-leaders' don't need to be _here_ to do their work," Siara countered, harshly. "Ulluthyr Pelagia isn't."

"She's an AI." Malla snorted. "And how Harak plans to have her give him offspring—"

"They can reproduce." Siara's tone was definitive. "Whether the rest of Ulluthyr will accept more AIs as offspring, is up to them. But I'll stand in her krannt against any challengers." She shrugged. "Past that. . . I'll make you this much of an oath. I'll support any female for leader who _I_ deem strong enough to lead Urdnot, and who won't take Urdnot backwards. If there aren't any stronger than I am when the time comes, yes, I absolutely will challenge for leadership myself." Siara tipped her head to the side. "Of course, it's not like you'll really care at that point."

"I care _now_." Malla's voice was a growl. "I care what happens to my people once I'm gone, girl. See that you take care of them, and don't just treat them as a toy, to be played with when it's convenient for you." She stood and stumped off into the darkness.

Siara watched her go, her stomach churning. _Is that what I've been doing?_ she wondered.

_No._ Makur was definite about that. _But she wants you to think that. If only to examine your own motivations._ _Shaman does the same thing sometimes, when he wants to teach a lesson._ He banked the fire. "Let's get some sleep."

Two hours later, Siara was still awake. She uncoiled from their sleeping roll on the ground, and made her way to the main entrance to the bunker. She wasn't going to go far. Nightflyers were a big hazard around this area; bat-like creatures with ten-foot wing-spans, they were carnivorous, and completely silent on their nocturnal flight. And could lift and carry off an adult varren, clamping down with a poisonous bite that rendered their victims limp with a potent neurotoxin, which would, over time, dissolve the internal organs. The creatures would take them back to their nests and drain the prey of blood and dissolved vital organs a few hours later. It was an ugly way to die, in Siara's opinion.

At the mouth of the tunnel, Siara looked up at the night sky. There were trees here, blocking some of her view, and, to the south, near the river, she could see floodlights from the towers around the fields. She reviewed the past several years in her mind, and was, on the whole, satisfied with them. Malla had given her the arguments that others would make against her, Siara realized. _Forewarning. I should thank her for that._ She. . . no, _they_. . . had gone to Omega. Secured it for a _krogan_ future, and anyone who wanted to argue that point would have to argue with Harak and Pelagia. From there, to Bastion. Saving lives from the plague, at the same time that krogan, geth, and rachni had been joining forces to maintain _order_ on the Council's premiere space station, when the humans and turians had been incapacitated. Being a part of the awakening of the Keepers? There weren't many here who'd understand the glory of it, feeling the entire history of a sapient, enslaved race pass through her mind. . . but her strength, in taking on some of Dempsey's agony through the process, couldn't be denied. And the shaman of every clan would surely envy her the experience, though they'd never admit it. Then, back to Omega. Driving out the batarians. Re-securing the place for a krogan future. Terra Nova was more debatable. No clear-cut krogan interest there. Likewise, Khar'sharn. Except. . . wasn't it in the interests of everyone on Tuchanka to become a part of the galactic community? To share in the benefits of being part of Council space? And in order to partake at that table, you had to bring something to it, too.

Siara exhaled. _All this, in five years,_ she thought, ruefully. _And most of it crammed into the past nine or ten months._ _More than some asari see in a hundred years. . . no, two hundred. Oh, to be sure, any number of Eclipse sees a lot of combat. Probably a lot of strange things. How many of them, however, have seen what I've seen, or done what I've done? How many of them are out there, fighting yahg? How many of them have escaped lobotomization by the batarians. . . admittedly with the aid of friends and companions?_ She shook off her doubts. No, her motivations were clear, and she'd stand by her words to Malla. If any _better_ candidate was in Urdnot, she'd support that female. But if there wasn't, she'd do what needed doing. And she'd damned well use her own judgment to make that assessment.

"Finished stewing?" Makur asked, from behind her, and Siara jumped. She hadn't even heard him approach. For all that he usually stumped around gracelessly, when he chose to, Makur could move almost as silently as his damned leopard.

"Didn't want to wake you."

"Never actually went to sleep. You were thinking very loudly."

"Sorry."

They stood there for a moment, not touching, watching the night sky. "Once upon a time," Makur said, slowly, "you promised me a future."

"Yeah."

"You're making one. It's a hell of a future."

"You want to know what your part in it is?"

"Yeah. If you're female clan-leader, you're not necessarily Wrex's mate." Makur hesitated. Malla wasn't Wrex's particular mate; krogan didn't really have that luxury, and Malla was also centuries Wrex's elder. Siara was well aware that several females had, over the years, specifically asked for Makur's 'attendance,' because of his strong biotics. Two had had children that they claimed were his; Siara hadn't done any genetic testing yet, but itched to get the equipment together to do so. _Maybe Dara will help me with that, someday._

"You're unsure if the future has anything more for you in it than being the mate of the female clan-leader?" Siara looked at him. Slid her thoughts into his, meshing them up perfectly. _Of course there is. But that's for you to decide, not for me. Spectre, clan-guardian, hunter across many worlds._

_Chasing down renegades who defy the Clan Alliance and go to ground on worlds like Garvug and Rough Tide?_

_Possibly._ She hadn't thought of that one, but she liked the idea. _Krogan will need __someone__ who holds our own accountable when they break laws in Council space and flee to Omega. Or the Terminus Systems. Can't always be a human or a turian or an asari._

Makur nodded. They both stared off at the sky again. "Where do you want to build the towers?" he asked, after a while. It was a game they played here, when no one else could hear them.

"There," Siara murmured, and pointed. The ground was perfect; atop a low hill, far enough from the river to avoid flooding. And, from her perspective right _here_, directly under Tuchanka's pole star. She could see it clearly in her mind; a shadow against the night sky, yet one that reflected moonlight. Crystalline and beautiful, like Thessia's towers, but blocky and strong in shape, not the twisting, fragile spires of that lost world. Synthesis. Symbiosis.

Another long moment. "Come on," Makur told her, quietly. "Sleep now. You don't want to fall asleep in front of the younglings tomorrow, or make a damned stupid mistake when we go hunting or working in the fields."

The next morning, to Siara's absolute astonishment, Malla had an announcement to make. "I have given much thought to this over the past several years," Malla told everyone in the bunker as noon rations were distributed. "And I have been convinced that an extranet link. . . for _download only_. . . will be a valuable teaching tool for the younglings. And will allow us to hear and understand what goes on over Tuchanka. . . and throughout the galaxy. . . that concerns us here."

Ugara snorted. "What could possibly concern us out there?" she asked, jerking a head toward the entrance of the bunker. . . or maybe towards the sky above.

"Many things," Malla growled back. "Urdnot Siara? Answer her."

Siara cleared her throat, her heart thrumming in her chest. She'd been hammering at Malla for five years, more or less, to get a damned extranet connection out here. Information was what bound the galaxy together. Let everyone see their own self-interests being represented. . . or not. "What should concern us? Where our warriors are fighting. What they're fighting for. Who fights with us. Who betrays us. These are krogan concerns. But also. . . there are teaching and instructional vids and programs. Wildlife of other planets. Biology. Chemistry. Mathematic. Physics. Philosophy. Art. Poetry. Things that make the mind stronger."

Ugara snorted and muttered, "Don't need to know anything about the animals on other planets. . . "

"Of course _you_ don't," Siara said, with withering scorn. "But even some of these female younglings will someday walk on other planets." Heads snapped up from dried meats and the foil of ration packs at stone tables all around her, and Siara smiled internally. _Got their attention, didn't I?_ "It would be nice if they knew what animals were threats, and which weren't."

_Yeah, you sure did. _Makur was chuckling internally, but he didn't speak; in the female camp, it certainly wasn't his place to do so.

Ugara bared her teeth. "What the hell are you talking about, asari?"

Siara smiled. It wasn't a pleasant expression in the least. "Urdnot has had more live births in the past ten years than in the past hundred, put together," she said, putting her hands on the stone table in front of her and leaning forward. "Half those births have been females. Within six years, you'll know if the oldest are fertile. Pretty soon. . . probably within twenty-five to thirty years. . . you'll have more fertile females than you'll know what to do with. Right now, there are twenty-two female younglings under the age of the Rite in the clan. . . and about two are being born every year. In six years, when the oldest can undergo the Rite and their fertility can be determined? They'll have another twelve to add to their number by then, if current trends hold. If every single one of them is fertile, they each could produce an offspring a year . . . if so desired. . . until the youngest of that first generation is old enough to have children of her own." Siara smiled. "Math, Ugara. Simple math. How many younglings will _just_ these females produce in the subsequent sixteen years?"

Ugara struggled with it. Makur looked up. "Assuming they have a child per year? Two hundred and seventy-two. _Just_ from them, not counting any other females. And if half their births are female, that's a hundred and thirty-six females who could, at age sixteen, begin to have children of their own." He'd taken to instruction in mathematics quite handily, actually. "Even if they don't have a live birth every year, just every other year. . . that halves it to sixty-eight."

Siara looked at Ugara with a cold, level stare. "And the total number of fertile females currently in Urdnot is. . . twenty-eight. Counting myself."

"You're not krogan, and you have no children to your name—"

"She's part of the clan," Malla overruled Ugara, roughly. "Close enough."

Siara's fists clenched. "So either you're going to have to open a _lot_ of old rooms in the bunker, build a new bunker, or find someplace for all these younglings to live. And if that's the case, why _couldn't_ they go to another world? Even if they are female? Why couldn't some of them go to Ulluthyr, either on Tuchanka or on Omega, and strengthen Urdnot ties? Why couldn't some of them go to re-colonize Garvug?"

Ugara was spluttering. "We need every fertile female here!"

"Do we?" Siara asked, looking at Malla. "Is it strength, to hide in a bunker forever? Or is it strength to walk openly, and show that we're not afraid? That we have wealth in our clan, wealth in people, wealth in females, wealth in younglings. . . and we're strong enough to defend it. Strong enough to defend ourselves, by virtue of the Clan Alliance." She looked back at Ugara now. "And that's why the younglings need to know things that don't occur on Tuchanka, but still concern krogan. Because things change, and they won't always be hiding in this bunker. Not if I have anything to say about it."

She understood, then, why Malla had suddenly relented on the topic. It gave everyone in the female camp a clear way to look at the difference between Siara and the strongest younger female krogan._ If you support Urdnot Ugara, you get tradition. Steadiness. The way things always have been. She'll be here all the time, but damned little will change. If you support Urdnot Siara in the years to come, there will be changes. She might not be here all the time, and she's not traditional. At all. Which might be frightening._ But even permitting the extranet console at all was Malla's understated way of showing support for Siara.

_Yeah. Every time you get mentioned on the news feeds for something, you know they'll be glued to the reports._ Makur was amused. / _And every time you do something, too. / What I do, doesn't make news. / Does when you punch out a reporter._

Out loud, Malla had let the silence go on for a moment. Now, she simply said, to Siara's considerable shock, "No. It's not strength to hide. It's been necessity, but not strength. Clan-Leader Wrex and I agreed, almost a year ago, that we would be sending Urdnot females and younglings to Omega."

There were mutters from all around them, and Siara's eyes widened. She hadn't been told any part of this. Ugara gaped at Malla. "Why?" she demanded.

"Because it's a statement of strength. A statement of confidence in the Clan Alliance, in our krannt-brother, Ulluthyr Harak. And because it will give us a generation of krogan who _weren't_ born and raised in the damned dirt. A generation of them raised on Omega, taught by Urdnot Siara and Ulluthyr Pelagia and any other teacher there. . . just as Urdnot Mazz was taught on Mindoir." Malla folded her arms across her chest. "I trust you all are enjoying the fresh food and running water that Urdnot Mazz and his father, Urdnot Kanar have brought us? Then you'll understand why having strong _minds_ in our clan is important. And Omega seems like a damned good place to make minds and bodies strong." She paused and looked around. "Won't send all the younglings. _Some_ of them have got to stay here and learn what Tuchanka can teach. Have got to learn how to make the plants grow and how to hunt. How to defend the clan. I'll be sending the ones who are best for Omega, to Omega, and keeping the ones who are best for Tuchanka right here. I've got a good fifty years left in me, Ugara. If the gods are willing, I'll see hundreds of children born, and dozens of them sent and returned from Omega before I die." Malla grinned, showing the yellowing stumps of her teeth. "Things change. Unless you want to challenge me for leadership now?"

Ugara had clamped her mouth shut, and retreated. Wisely. Siara had just blinked and processed the information. She hadn't known _any_ of it. Malla said that she and Wrex had been planning this for over a year. . . but then again, Siara and Makur had been off-world, defending Harak, dealing with the plagues, and then fighting a _war_. . . _when have I had time to think of any of this? Maybe Malla is right. Maybe I can't be clan-leader and a Spectre at the same time._ Siara sighed, and shelved the question for another time. She had work to do, after all. A lot of it.

A week later, Siara was tired, but her mind was refreshed. . . and Gris arrived to take them, not back to Bastion, but back to Mindoir. "You can finish your leave there," he told them. "Your mother hasn't seen you in a while. And Shepard's gathering everyone back at the base as it is, anyway. Let's go."

Siara snorted. "Valak been sworn in as a Spectre yet?"

Gris chuckled, low and rough. "Should be first thing in the morning. That's been a _fun_ set of Council meetings to sit in on with Urdnot Wreav."

"I bet," Makur muttered. "Asari went up in flames?"

"Pretty much, yeah." Gris snickered. "And there've been a few other land mines to deal with, too."

"Like what?" Siara asked, climbing up the ramp into the SR-1, _Calais_, which had brought Gris here to pick them up.

"Investigation and inquiry into the destruction of the _Estallus_. Quite a bit of uproar over AI crap." Gris rolled his shoulders briefly, and grimaced. "I've been too busy prepping for the next missions to really follow a lot of that, though."

_**Author's note:** Yes, I know, asari don't have 'eyebrows.' Many of them wear eyebrow markings in the game. I could say, each and every time, "raised her painted-on brow markings' every time I want to denote mild surprise through facial expression, or I could say "she raised her brows." One sounds kludgy and awkward, the other flows smoothly. :-P_

**Rinus, Bastion, January 6-7, 2197**

Spectre Rinus Velnaran sat in the audience in the inquiry room, just off of the Council's main chambers, back straight and a marked scowl on his face. This was the third consecutive day of hearings on the subject of the destruction of the _Estallus_. This had been a joint operation, conducted by the Hierarchy Fleet, and the Spectres, using technology developed by STG and the Systems Alliance. There was a _lot_ of brass at these hearings. A number of engineering firms and contractors had representatives present—ones with high-level security clearances, mostly former military officers themselves. As after the loss of the _Kharkov_ five years ago. . . and probably after the _Tarawa_, a year before that . . . there was scrutiny. A lot of scrutiny.

He'd been called on to testify, as had other Spectres who'd been aboard the _Estallus_. Sam, who'd been on the _Raedia_, had also testified, as had Livanus. Explained that the change in plan, which had taken them through the Lorek relay to the 217 relay had been necessitated by their ships being seen in the vicinity of the Khar'sharn Kuiper belt, and the batarians giving chase. Sam and Livanus both attested that while the change in course had been Laetia's idea, Lysandra, the NCAI of the _Raedia_ had vetted the idea, and they'd all agreed to it. Rinus had been in on that conversation, and thus had attested to it, as well. "But it didn't work. You were located anyway? Did the stealth drive fail?"

"I can't answer that," Rinus had told them, bluntly. "The black boxes, which have been recovered, will tell you if the drive was operating correctly or not. But it doesn't take much for someone in an orbital facility around a gas giant, who might have been warned, 'Hey, we might have enemy ships bound your way, be on the lookout for anyone who might try to do a drive core purge in your vicinity' to look out a _window_." He'd frowned. "Or, yes, just have been watching their telescopes. 'Silent' does not mean 'invisible.'"

Various contractors and subcontractors had sat back at that point, with almost audible sighs of relief. _Not our fault. You can't blame our system._

"I thought that the stealth drive and the straight-line drive were supposed to be completely integrated," one human admiral huffed. "Why weren't you able to use the straight-line, dark energy drive and maintain stealth at the same time? That _was_ what the design specification stated it could do. That's what the _Pellak_ could do, for god's sake!"

Rinus was off the stand, and just listening, and suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Design specifications, in his experience, sometimes did not match up with the finished product. "The _Pellak_ is a much smaller ship," an STG engineer commented, sharply. "Initial drop of rachni on Khar'sharn strained limits of engines as it was. _Normandy_-class ships much larger. Not designed for use of dark-energy drive. Inefficient, in that regard. In amount of time given to retrofit both ships with secondary engines, could only accommodate use of one drive at a time. Could not distribute the heat generated by the dark-energy drive completely. Stealth while it was in use, therefore impossible. . . at this juncture." The salarian blinked at the admiral now, meeting his gaze steadily. "Will need several more years to perfect the integration of the technologies."

That had taken the first day of the hearings. The second day revolved around simulating every moment of the _Estallus'_ final hour. Testimony from dozens of survivors, including Rinus again, as he described assisting with fire suppression. "The multi-valenced shields were, I believe something that you pushed for, yourself, ah, _dominus_?" one of the Hierarchy interlocutors pointed out—a little sharply, Rinus thought. "And yet they failed."

Rinus stared at him. "Here, today, it's _Spectre_," he pointed out, evenly. "Yes. I pushed for those shields. And those shields are the only reason we made it to the relay with only _half_ the ship on fire, instead of being completely destroyed. The shields took, according to your simulation there, over twenty missile impacts and several biotic weapon hits, before the aft shields collapsed. If we'd been relying on the old cyclonic shields, they'd have been down across the entire ship by that point, leaving us completely vulnerable." Cyclonic shields had covered the entire ship in one large field. Multi-valenced shields provided smaller shields. . . and sometimes, more than one of them in vital areas. They weren't cheap, but they _were_ damned effective, and Rinus intended for everyone in the room to know that. "The forward, ventral, and dorsal shields were all still up before we went into the relay."

"Yes, and that brings me to my next question. Has anyone ever, to your knowledge, gone through a mass relay backwards and survived?"

Rinus gritted his teeth. "I haven't made a study of the entire history of relay travel," he pointed out. "The asari have been using the relays for three thousand years. That's a lot of ground to cover in an area that's somewhat outside of my field of expertise." He was snide, and he knew it, couldn't fight down the surge of protective-anger burgeoning up in him. He knew they were damned well going to be going after Kallixta next.

Part of the problem, really, was that the captain, Manallus, hadn't survived the crash. They couldn't make the captain the scape-goat without tarnishing the memory of someone who'd died. So the urge to find someone else to blame was strong in all of them. Someone who was, preferably, not any of _them_. Not any of the admirals or contractors or anyone like that.

They badgered Kallixta for close to two hours, as Rinus watched, slowly boiling over internally. "Yes, but why backwards?"

"Because if we allowed even one more hit to our aft section, the hull would have breached, probably on multiple decks, and we likely would not have made it _to_ the relay, let alone through it." Kallixta's voice was precise as she described each maneuver she'd made, moving around and through the handful of batarian ships that had still been between them and the relay.

"Why didn't you turn before entry?" A turian admiral, now.

"The batarians were still firing on us, sir. I could not risk any further damage to the aft section. Fifty percent of the ship was already heavily damaged, with fires on all decks."

"What would have happened if you'd exploded inside the relay?" Blue tinge to the crest now as the admiral leaned forward and glared at her. Imperator's daughter or not, she wasn't getting any breaks today.

"Possibly the destruction of the relay and everyone in the Lorek system, as I understand it. Or, possibly, simply the destruction of the _Estallus_, with debris spread out over a thousand lightyears between the Lorek relay and Relay 217." Kallixta's voice was calm, but Rinus could see the strain in her face.

"So you felt you could simply take that risk?"

"Are you saying that the proper thing to do, sir, was to stay where I was and allow my ship and all aboard her to be destroyed by the batarians? Or perhaps we should have surrendered, and allowed them to board, and take everyone captive?" Kallixta was agitated, after two hours of being bombarded with questions about her judgment. "Captain Manallus agreed to the plan, sir. He felt, as I did, that it represented our best chance at survival."

Rinus raged internally. _Kallixta's flying saved the life of every person aboard the __Estallus__. It's not her fault that people died in the life-pods. She followed Manallus' orders to ram the lead batarian ship. . . when the male himself ran for the life-pods, __she__ was still on the bridge, locking in the course! She saved lives. She showed her genius for flying and true heroism, and they're trying to scapegoat her._

They finally let her off the stand, and Kallixta came to sit beside him in the audience. She didn't drop her head or let her shoulders sag, but he could damned near feel how tired and spirit-sick she was. Rinus slid his right foot gently behind her left spur, and pressed against her heel gently. He caught her sidelong look of gratitude, and they both focused their attention on the ongoing proceedings.

"We understand that the NCAI of the _Estallus_ is available for this inquiry?" That was one of the turian admirals. "Let's get things in here set up so she can answer a few questions. Mr. Maxwell? I assume you're here to help protect the AI's _rights_, as usual?"

Mr. J. Thaddius Maxwell, the CAIR representative, cleared his throat and stood. "There will be very little preparation needed for my client today," he said, and Rinus could have sworn that amusement lurked in the human's eyes.

Rinus shared it. _Someone didn't read his briefing notes thoroughly,_ he thought as the admiral frowned. "Surely we need to set up holographic projectors and speakers, as when Pelagia spoke at the _Kharkov_ inquiry?"

"Not today, _Nauarchus_, not today." Maxwell and a bailiff walked to the door of the witness lounge, and when they returned, Centurion Tarenius Gallian and Thelldaroon were with them.

"This," Rinus told Kallixta softly, "might actually be amusing."

"Admirals," Thelldaroon, said, his slow and ponderous voice a low rumble in the room. "This is Centurion Tarenius Gallian, who has been chipped to the NCAI Laetia for five years. And this is also Laetia, the NCAI, who downloaded into his chip architecture. She is. . . highly compressed at the moment. And, inasmuch as I have been able to determine, she suffered some data losses in the transfer."

The admirals were having a hard time with this. "So you _say_ that the AI is. . . inside of him?" one of the humans asked, staring at Thelldaroon.

"That is correct," the elcor replied, phlegmatically. "The discomfort with the 2.0 chip architecture seems to be minimal. I have not yet been able to upload Laetia to any suitable storage server."

"How do we know which one of them is talking?" That, from a turian, a very pragmatic question.

"We'll tell you," Gallian's body assured him with a cheerful smile, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other, and tilting his head to the side. "Oh, and yes, I'm Laetia. Nice to see you again, _Nauarchus_ Quillian. I remember you from the investigation into the _Kharkov_'s crash."

Rinus watched the male's expression grow extremely uncomfortable. Revolted, even, yet fascinated at the same time. "And may we now hear from Centurion Gallian?" the admiral asked, his tone a little dark.

Gallian straightened. He put his foot back down on the floor, and his bearing changed completely. "Yes, _Nauarchus_?" Even the _way_ in which he spoke was different. Laetia had a tendency to speak rapidly, and a slightly breathy delivery. Gallian did not. At all.

Every admiral at the table was now performing some variant of the same gesture. Rubbing temples, covering their eyes briefly, or pinching the bridge of their noses. Rinus couldn't blame them in the _least_. A human admiral cleared her throat. "Thelldaroon? You stated that you have been unable to upload Laetia to a suitable storage server. Why is that?"

Thelldaroon replied, patiently, "Mr. Maxwell of CAIR objects to the term _storage_. He states that it implies that an AI is a thing that can be placed on a shelf and left to gather dust. He also states that a storage server, since it would preserve the programs, but would terminate all input to the program, is akin to placing an organic in a medical coma unnecessarily, and might result in disorientation and stress when Laetia is revived."

Quillian cleared his throat. "Mr. Thelldaroon, you are a recognized expert on NCAI processes and, for lack of a better term, psychology. In your opinion, are Mr. Maxwell's concerns valid?"

Thelldaroon considered that for a long moment. "I do not believe that it would cause disorientation and stress. And, strictly speaking, moving her to a non-organic platform," he paused and looked at Gallian, "if you will pardon me for referring to you as a platform, even by inference—"

"I don't mind. It's the best description for me at the moment." Gallian's tone held amusement, but some resignation, too.

"Then yes, moving her to an non-organic platform would enable me to run more system diagnostics on her, to determine the amount of data loss and to verify if any file corruption has taken place." The elcor's tone was calm, but even so, Rinus thought he detected a hint of impatience. "Laetia has expressed discomfort with the idea of being removed from Gallian, however."

"I don't want to be 'unconscious,'" Laetia broke in, sharply. "And even in a storage server, even if you allow my processes to run, I won't have contact with Gallian, will I?" Rinus could hear a note of fear, even insecurity in that voice.

The human female admiral grimaced. "For god's sake, you're using his _body_ to talk to us. And you've been in his body since the wreck of the _Estallus._ That's close to two weeks." The admiral looked at Maxwell. "I respect your client's rights, but I _also_ respect the rights of the organic, er. . . 'host.'" Her expression turned grim. "Get her the hell out of him, Thelldaroon."

Gallian raised a hand. "If I may?" And it was clearly the male's voice again. "Laetia is available to testify at the moment, through me. Once we begin the upload process to another, er, server, she won't be, for some time." He shrugged. "I'm in no discomfort at the moment, either."

_Yes. At the moment._ Rinus grimaced, staring at the male's face, impassive behind its Bostra Outpost blue. He remembered, all too well, the intense headaches he'd gotten when manipulating the Thanix cannons with the chip, himself, back in the day. _Laetia claimed that was due to the chip architecture not having spread through my entire brain._ Still, if nothing else, he felt sorry for Tarenius Gallian. His life was certainly turned upside down at the moment. This went far beyond a female suddenly moving in with you, borrowing your shirts and toothbrush, after all.

"And yet, you say, she shows signs of data losses, Mr. Thelldaroon?" The female admiral's voice was sharp.

The elcor turned towards her slowly, where he stood beside the witness chair, where Gallian/Laetia sat. "Yes. All of the data losses appear to be confined to long-term memory sectors, however. The data might be recoverable, however, if there were sufficient linked files."

The admirals adjusted their thinking, and started asking questions. Many, many questions. At least Laetia was able to corroborate Kallixta's assertions, that Manallus had, in fact, agreed to the risky maneuver. And that he had, just as the various black boxes recovered from the wreck, issued the ramming order. "He then proceeded down the port-side emergency stairs, as the elevator was no longer functioning," Laetia told the admirals. She paused for a moment, and shook Gallian's head, slowly. "Kallixta Velnaran was the only person remaining on the bridge at that point, and she began setting in the course. Spectre Velnaran and Commander Velnaran reached the bridge twenty point two seconds later, and insisted that the pilot accompany them to the life-pods, immediately." Gallian swallowed. "All remaining life-pods deployed sixty-eight seconds later. I . . . jumped. . . to Gallian. . . twelve seconds after that." Laetia's words were slowing down, and it looked as if she were struggling with them. So unusual to see, actually. Laetia was usually glib, even flippant.

"She has difficulty thinking about the actual moment of transfer," Gallian said, suddenly, clearly as himself. "I think that's why she doesn't want to transfer again. Especially if she won't 'wake up' again immediately."

_Must be like facing death or anticipating anesthesia before brain surgery for a human_, Rinus thought, with reluctant empathy. He'd liked Laetia, in spite of her incessant game-playing, before she'd started pressuring him about the chip. _No guarantee that you __will__ wake up, or even be the same person when or if you do._

"Gallian, please, don't talk about me in the third person, like I'm not even here," Laetia objected, a second later, sounding much more like her usual self.

Thelldaroon looked over at the admirals' table. "If you've obtained enough information, I do think it might be best to start the transfer as soon as possible. I do not wish for her memory processes to risk being caught in a loop, causing cascade failures, as Pelagia experienced."

"I'm not!" Laetia snapped, immediately. "Pelagia kept re-examining her records to see if there might have been anything else she could have done. She watched her crew die over four million times, Thelldaroon. I'm not doing that!"

"Yes," Gallian told her, out loud. "You're doing everything else _but_ that. I can barely get you to hold still for a moment. I've looked at the extranet logs. I go to sleep at night, and wake up barely rested, because the moment my conscious mind is asleep, you take charge of the body and distract yourself."

Laetia evidently took control of the body back, but hesitated, visibly. "I just never knew how _boring_ it would be to be organic," she said, after a moment, rather hotly. "There's nothing to _do_. I'm usually handling hundreds of processes at the same time, multiple tasks at once, and there's just nothing to _do_ when you're asleep, Tarenius, that's all."

The turian admiral, Quillian, sighed. "Turians get combat addiction and burnout and spirit-sickness. Humans get post-traumatic stress reactions, guilt, and denial. Would you like to tell us which state you are expressing right now, Laetia?"

"None of those, sir." Her tone suddenly became very professional. "The wreck was not my fault. That much, I'm clear about." Hint of indignation there.

Rinus sighed and shook his head. _So, she's 'bored' being stuck inside Gallian, but she's terrified to leave him. Terrified of being stuck in a box with nothing to do, if she's aware at all while Thell runs diagnostics. Terrified that they'll find her guilty in absentia, maybe, and that she won't wake up at all. Except the very laws I've taken such damned care in getting enacted, the ones she takes delight in flouting at every turn, or so it seems, exist to protect her from that sort of thing._

Quillian was giving her a grim look. "Laetia? I am an admiral in the turian fleet. And I'm about to give you a direct order. You understand this?"

Gallian's head lowered. "Yes, sir."

"You will vacate the body of Centurion Tarenius Gallian, entirely. You will submit to diagnostics for your own health, while he is submitting to medical examinations to ascertain _his_. And once we know more about your current condition, we can make a plan to determine what your next steps are."

"Surely," Maxwell said, dryly, "an NCAI without a ship is not a slave to the Hierarchy. She will have _some_ choice about her fate, I trust?"

Quillian stared at Maxwell. "We'll discuss it later. For the moment, that's far outside the scope of these hearings."

On and on it went. Kallixta was deeply dispirited in their room that night. "I'm stood down in terms of flight status until they get this all resolved," she said, glumly, curled on her side in their nest.

Rinus stroked a hand over her fringe, not really knowing what to say. "It wasn't your fault," he told her, after a while. "We absolutely were going to explode before we got to the relay. The _Estallus_ was barely maneuverable after passing through the relay, but we got there intact. Manallus didn't _have_ to order the ship to ram the batarians. . . but if we abandoned ship, and just left her sitting there, dead in space and burning on the inside. . . chances are, she'd have exploded anyway. At least this way she took out one of the batarian ships. I'd call it a last and desperate act of gallantry." _Even if Manallus did head straight for the damned life-pods._ That thought still gnawed at Rinus. The captain had done absolutely everything else right, except leaving Kallixta behind to set the coordinates alone. Rinus exhaled through his nose, and tried to let the anger go. Kallixta was alive. Manallus wasn't. If Kallixta had gone with him, and not with Rinus and Rel. . . she'd be dead now, too.

It sort of helped to think of it that way.

In the end, the board assured them that Kallixta Velnaran was cleared of wrong-doing in the destruction of the _Estallus_. She was credited with saving the lives of the rachni, batarians, and the skeleton crew of humans and turians aboard—at least, before about forty of those lives were lost in space, anyway. "I'm apparently even in line for a medal," Kallixta told Rinus in the privacy of their own room again, after she'd endured several minutes of wrist-clasps, hand-shakes and conversations on the other side of the inquiry room from him. "So's Manallus. Posthumus _aura clipeus _for him." A gold medallion. Rarely awarded to anyone who _survived_ their conspicuous acts of gallantry.

Rinus frowned. It still stuck in his crop. "And you?"

"_Agata clipeus_ and another _clipeus volatere._" A silver medal, honoring her for gallantry, and a pilot's medal, usually given when a pilot shot down an enemy ship. "I guess they're justifying the second one because ramming the batarians actually qualified as a kill."

"And they apparently can't give you the ace's medal for the fanciest flying anyone's seen since the Reaper War." Rinus looked down at her. She was looking at the floor, and her body language was pulled in. He pulled her close for a moment. "You don't actually sound happy about any of this."

"I'm not, really." Kallixta lifted her head. "A _lot_ of people died. I just spent three days explaining that my flying is not what got them killed. And now they turn around and say, 'You're right. You didn't kill them. In fact, you saved them. Have a medallion. Make it two.'" Frustration-anger in her tone.

Rinus sighed. "Yeah. I know. Nothing ever does seem to be easy, does it?"

Another long moment, just sitting together. Then he leaned down and nipped her neck. "Come on. Let's get packed and go _home_."

"Which one?" Kallixta's voice was muffled.

"_Home_ home. Our house on base. Unless you'd rather go to Raetia or Complovium." He was leaving the possibility open. "If you want to go to Palaven, I'm okay with that. But I'd rather see my parents. Make sure Serana's physical therapy's going okay. Keep an eye on Rel. . . whenever he gets back from Earth." He paused. "And to be honest, _mea domina. . . _ you need a long walk in the woods in the worst possible way."

Kallixta nodded, slowly. "Think they have gliders anywhere on base?"

Rinus blinked. "You mean those little wooden planes without engines?" He grimaced. "Maybe."

"Would be a nice way to relax. Just the two of us, the wind, and the clouds." Her voice was dreamy.

_The Praetorians are going to throw a fit over that one._ _To the spirits of air and darkness with them, though._ "Sure," Rinus told her gently, after a moment. "I'll be sure to pack an extra set of undergarments for when you decide you've had enough of peacefully cruising on the thermals, and decide you want to try aerobatics, though."

Kallixta's shoulders shook. "_Spectre_ Rinus Velnaran, you can't possibly tell me that you're scared of flying. You _love_ flying in combat with me."

"I do." Rinus grinned down at her. It was true. She was an incredible pilot, and her skills complemented his so well, it had been a true joy flying with her into dozens of smaller and larger fights over the years. "In space, however, I'm pretty unlikely to smack into the ground. No wind to fight, either."

"There's very little difference!"

"The difference is clearly visible outside the windows. If I can see the ground, it's not a good thing." Rinus grinned all the more widely as she laughed, clearly not taking him seriously at _all_.

**Tarenius Gallian, Bastion, January 7, 2197**

Frantic thoughts, spinning through his mind, which weren't his own at all. _Laetia, by all the spirits, please calm down._ This wasn't like her, Tarenius knew. Not at all. He was used to 'listening' to a certain number of her processes. Never all of them at once, of course; he couldn't have handled it. Would have been little more than the cacophony of an antique modem's squeal. And up until two weeks ago, he'd have sworn that his very unusual mate didn't actually have fear as an emotional reaction. Well, other than fear of non-existence, which, as a sapient AI completely dependent on electronics, chips, and circuits for her very existence, was certainly a concern. The NCAIs had no religion to fall back on. No certainty that they had spirits. They were wholly digital, binary. There, or not there. And that fear was probably the basis for why her mind was spinning through processes rapidly right now, largely related, he thought, to memory. Emotional subroutines, too. "Are you experiencing discomfort?" Thelldaroon inquired, calmly.

Gallian opened his eyes. He was in the elcor's temporary lab, set up in the Synthetic Insights corporate facility here on Bastion, and was lying in a foam couch, probably originally designed for deceleration. It curved to fit his body, though it had trouble with the spurs. Gallian had, after a few minutes of annoyed attempts to make his legs comfortable, shut down the artificial nerve receptors in the legs for the time being. Now, he didn't feel them at all, a state unnervingly like having lost them all over again. "Getting a headache," he admitted. "She's scared stiff."

"I am not!" Laetia retorted indignantly. Out of his mouth. Which was, he also had to admit, getting rather old.

In the wake of his tired reaction, a wash of insecurity from her. Guilt reactions. Calculations on the likelihood that he would no longer wish to continue to be chipped to her, given that she was proving to be even higher-maintenance than usual at the moment. The young centurion rubbed at his mandibles. "Laetia, I'm not going to leave you just because you're being insecure and needy at the moment. You're getting on my nerves, yes, _amatra_, but that's kind of because you're in my _space_." _In the worst possible way._

He'd been prepared for this, for years, really. He'd just never thought it would _last_ this long. Or that she'd be such an _active_ part of his reality when carried like this. He'd figured she'd be a passive passenger, watching through his eyes, maybe commenting on what he did or said. Not Laetia. Laetia liked to grab for the reins. He understood that; understood her. But it _was_ a little annoying. Waking up every morning with his body still exhausted because she'd been up all night accessing the extranet? Annoying. Wondering what _else_ she was doing with his body. . . there _had_ to be trust in a relationship like this, and he _did_ trust her. . . but there was still a certain amount of concern in him. Especially after he'd checked the door logs and realized 'he'd' left the hotel one night and not come back until it was almost 06:00 GMT. And Laetia had enthusiastically told him everything she'd done. . . up to and including wandering most of the C-ring of Bastion, ordering food and tasting _apha_ and _caprificus _brandy directly for the first time. But there was a manic quality to all her explorations of his reality that he didn't like, and had been trying, unsuccessfully, to mitigate. He hadn't even understood where it was coming from until today.

Laetia had long been able to skate along with very few compunctions for her actions. She and the Estallus had a truly amazing service record. She'd been chosen as the 'mother' of the new turian NCAIs largely because she, of all the SR-1 AIs, tended to think outside the box, outside the neat patterns of turian thought. She had dash, daring, even flair. . . coupled to a personality that not a few of her captains, officers, and higher-ranked NCOs had found extremely irritating. Gallian understood their perspective. She was inveterately curious, bordering on nosy. She tended to do whatever she thought was best at the moment, with little thought for consequences. It was a character trait that bordered on actual human intuition, and sometimes reaped huge dividends.

She could come off as self-absorbed on her worst days. But he also knew how giving she could be. She'd spent hours with him on an FTL comm channel when he'd been in rehabilitation. That hadn't been because she thought she could gain something by it. Chances were, he'd have gone back into civilian life as a non-citizen, and that would have been the end of it. She'd simply wanted to do something _right_ for once, as she'd told him at the time. And she'd found him interesting. Worth talking to, initially. Told him that he was teaching her things she didn't have in herself. Dedication, in the main.

He'd rearranged his life for her in return. Put aside the notion of a permanent physical mate, unless he could find a female who was willing to put up with Laetia's hold on his heart and mind, who could tolerate being second, or co-equal, at least, in a relationship that was sometimes somewhat tumultuous. Put aside the idea of offspring, until he could find an ideal physical co-mate, or until she was permitted to have any further AI children, which might be templated from him. Had grimaced in grim amusement when it had been revealed that she'd taken Dara Jaworski and Rellus Velnaran's personalities as secondary templates for the SR-3s. _Not wise,_ he'd told her when she'd admitted it to him. She'd been blithely confident at first that no one would ever notice. Until the SR-3s all came on-line and turned out to have just as much minds of their own as she did. _Something every parent learns_, he'd told her, dryly. _Children have a terrible habit of not doing what they're told, believing what you believe, and doing everything as you would, yourself._

He could recognize nervousness, from that time period, in the way her processes kept cycling, over and over, in loops right now. And he thought he understood it . . . at least part of it. "Thelldaroon," Gallian said to the big elcor. "Would you say it's reasonable, that the reason why so many AIs _directly_ taken from an organic mind tend to be, hmm, unstable, is that they can't deal with being disembodied? Formless? Having hundreds of 'eyes,' or at least hundreds of data intakes?" Joker, the AI of the _Normandy_, of course, was the glaring exception. Then again, he'd been preparing to become an AI for years, and hadn't really _liked_ his crippled body. He'd hated it, in fact.

The elcor nodded once, slowly. "That is a reasonable explanation. You believe then, that Laetia is experiencing the inverse? She has never had a body, beyond the ship itself. A double problem then; the destruction of the only body she has ever known, and now, being . . . constrained. Confined. Limited."

"Not enough input, I think," Gallian said, and thought, apologetically, _Sorry. I'm only turian, __amatra__._

_No, no, no, it's not your fault,_ she responded immediately. But Laetia's thoughts were skittering in circles again, and she was still adamantly refusing to begin the upload process. Out loud, she asserted, a little more strongly, "Tarenius, you are the only thing, I think, keeping me _sane_ in all of this."

Surprisingly, Thelldaroon agreed. Immediately. "Yes. You are using his thought patterns as a matrix on which to stabilize yourself, I believe."

And that gave Gallian the other half of the problem, neatly. "And when I go to sleep at night. . . there's even less input for her," he said, softly. "And the thought patterns she's been using to stabilize herself. . . aren't there." He rarely dreamed, and only the spirits knew what she'd make of it when she did. She'd chattered at him about Pelagia's hobby, collecting an understanding of organics' subconscious minds (those species which had them, anyway; xenopsychiatrists had been arguing that topic for centuries now) and dreams, but it wasn't one of Laetia's personal interests. She tended to be far more interested in what organics did when they were awake, and the overt motivations for their actions. "Does that frighten you, _amatra_?"

Laetia's response boiled up from deep inside him. "Yes. I'm. . . more or less accustomed to your going through your. . . maintenance processes. . . every night. But then, I've always had all of my sisters to talk to, or other sapients to observe, or data to collate and correlate." She paused, and Gallian took the opportunity to take a sip of water from a nearby glass, thinking, as he did so, _and you've been cut off from all of the others on the NCAI network for two weeks now. Practically centuries, as you tend to perceive time._

_Yes_, she admitted. _I didn't want to make you feel bad, Tarenius. Or that I was being ungrateful. . . _

_We've always known we couldn't be everything to each other, Laetia._

Out loud, she added now, his voice uncertain with her inflections, "And being stuck in a server. . . "

"Would it help," Thelldaroon commented, gently, "if I mentioned that the servers will have access to the FTL comm channels commonly used by the NCAIs?"

Her processes stopped cycling so quickly, and Gallian exhaled. He had hardly been aware of how tense his own body had become, braced, probably, for the incipient pain of too much activity in the chip architecture. "That. . . would be greatly appreciated," Laetia admitted, after a moment.

"It would probably also help her to know what's going to happen to her," Gallian pointed out, bluntly.

Thelldaroon moved his massive shoulders. Just a twitch, really; the elcor equivalent of a shrug. "I understand why this would be a help to her," the elcor told Gallian, calmly. "But the truth of the matter is, I do not know what will happen. I have outlined several possibilities for her to the Hierarchy, the Alliance, and the Spectres. The Spectres have mentioned a few other possibilities. Would you like to hear them?" he asked Laetia, tweaking a few settings on his omnitool in preparation for the upload process.

"Yes." Laetia's inflection, in Gallian's voice, was taut.

"First," Thelldaroon rumbled, "you could, like the James AI, take a single mobile platform. We're still working on developing his new body."

Tarenius felt a grimace flex his mandibles. He wasn't, to his surprise, very fond of this idea. It was one thing to love, he found, the _idea_ of Laetia. Her avatar, a spritely and charming human female, captivated his imagination. . . and when she put on turian or asari avatars, as a bit of a change of pace. . . he was usually amused, but liked it very much. The amount of physicality that they'd worked out, over the years, through direct nerve stimulation via his chip, was actually quite gratifying. The concept of her as a . . . robot? A geth? He grimaced again. _Another thing entirely._

_You wouldn't love me any more if I had a body smaller than an entire ship?_ Fifty percent teasing, fifty percent insecurity. _And here I thought organics tended to wish that their mates would lose mass._

Gallian rubbed at his eyes. How could he possibly convey that he had zero desire for something made of metal and wire in his nest? In her ship form, she was. . . not that. She was a thing of spirit and imagination and light. And there was a cachet, in a way, to being the male who had the untouchable, ethereal mate. . . quite a bit less to being the male with the robot girlfriend. A petty thing, maybe, but it was there, and it was part of his reaction, and she could probably read it in him.

"Don't fret, Tarenius," she told him, out loud. "I wouldn't even consider it."

Thelldaroon cleared his throat. "Even if synthetic skin were applied to the exterior? You would be able to feel much in the same way Centurion Gallian here feels his legs."

"Which are turned off right now for sensory input," the male pointed out, dryly. Yes, it would make Laetia as much of a 'person,' as anyone else; a personhood more easily grasped by the majority of people out there in galaxy. . . but it felt pointless to him. In a very real way, they wouldn't be able to do half of what they already did, if she were constrained by some metal body.

"Well, they _could_ make it anatomically correct," Laetia pointed out, with her usual complete lack of tact, and out loud.

Gallian sighed. "Laetia? Closed doors, please." Turian bluntness was one thing, but Laetia did tend to find and push even those boundaries.

"Yes, yes, _amatus_, I know. But no, Thelldaroon. I wouldn't consider it. Only one set of optical receptors, stuck in one perspective, forever?" Her voice was horrified in his mouth.

Thell quickly relayed the rest of the options. Becoming a station AI, like Pelagia, but for Bastion, as it grew. Tarenius actually liked that idea. He liked being a marine, but once he had twenty years in, he planned to retire. . . assuming everything went according to plan, of course. Bastion would be just as good a place as any to do so. Laetia was a little less certain. "I don't like the idea of being stuck in one place," she admitted. "Pelagia thrives on it, but she's. . . very different from me."

"Other options include becoming the base AI for Mindoir. I suggested this, but Commander Shepard immediately said _no_. So did Garrus Vakarian. In a somewhat more strident tone of voice," Thell noted. "Kasumi Goto suggested that with your natural affinity for, hmm, information-gathering on organics, you might be well suited to work with 'Argus' on her ship. This was immediately vetoed by Commander Shepard and Samuel Jaworski. Which leaves waiting for an opening on another SR ship."

"And none of those are being built in the near future." Laetia sounded aggrieved. Gallian sympathized, but he could understand why the commander of the Spectres didn't want Laetia, with her known loose-cannon propensities, to be on her base. _Not to mention, half the younger Spectres would probably refuse to live on base_, he thought, and tucked that thought away where he was fairly sure she wouldn't pick it up.

Thelldaroon shrugged again. "There might be an opening at some point," he told her, calmly. "Nefertari has repeatedly asked for a transfer to a hospital ship, for example. Are you prepared for upload now?"

Laetia sighed through Gallian's lip plates. "Yes. Yes, I am." Internally, she apologized, _I'm sorry for having overstayed my welcome. . . ._

_It's not that,_ he told her, yet again. _I just really need the sleep, amatra. That's all. And you really, really need to allow Thelldaroon here access to your processes so he can run diagnostics and start any needed repairs. Besides, contact with the other NCAIs should help you stabilize yourself, right? Just like it helped Pelagia?_ It was a theory. It was a good one. He could feel her processes start to loop again, in pure fear, and it made it very hard to watch as her programs were, one by one, uploaded and transferred, wirelessly, to a server core in the same room with him. There was relief, guilt _at_ the relief, and tiredness left in the wake of that process. A process that left him without any trace of her voice in his head for the first time in almost five years. She probably _could_ activate his chip and contact him by FTL, but that was riskier than simple wireless transmission. . . and she didn't have that, for the moment, it appeared. _My head feels damned empty_, Gallian realized, numbly. _I'm fairly sure I know who the hell I am without her processes chattering at me in my head, but. . . ._ "Does she have optical receptors in this room? Auditory?" he asked, quickly.

Thelldaroon shook his head. "No, Centurion. You're due for a medical and psychiatric evaluation, yourself right now. And you almost certainly could benefit from a little, as a human would say, _alone time_ right now, I believe."

Gallian rubbed at his eyes. "Any chance I could catch a nap before the poking and prodding starts?" he asked, wryly. He was going to have plenty of time to think. And some of those thoughts, he figured, should be around the his sudden realization that when he retired, if Laetia wanted to remain a ship, always out exploring the margins of the Terminus systems. . . his life and hers would no longer be in step. And what that might mean for their long-term relationship.

When he was ready to retire after twenty years in the fleet, he'd be thirty-six. Not so old that he couldn't start a whole new life. The question was, really, was it fair for him to ask her to consider taking a position on a planet or a station, when that decision could pin her to that position for centuries? And yet, if she returned to ship duty. . . he couldn't do that forever. Even as a senior NCO, he was actually past due for a shore rotation, and only the unusual circumstances of him being chipped to her had kept him on the _Estallus_ this long to begin with. Eventually, he was _going_ to be on shore duty. Eventually, he wasn't going to be in combat situations.

Eventually, she was going to need someone else. Regardless of how he felt, or how she felt. They'd already proved that the chip architecture was a viable option for an NCAI's survival. And if all this were the case, and eventually, she _would_ need to move on. . . wasn't the entire relationship more or less doomed from the start? Had he been, as some of his human shipmates might say, been kidding himself the entire time? Turians set themselves up for twenty-year contracts all the time . . . but no one ever went into a contract like that _expecting_ not to renew. _Son of a __villi_, Tarenius Gallian thought. He was too damned tired to make sense, even to himself. _Think about this __s'kak__ later._

**Seheve, Earth, January 1-7, 2197**

Rellus had taken the time to see Rinus and Kallixta to their first set of hearings on the crash of the _Estallus_, and had provided his own testimony and had it notarized. He could provide very little, besides corroborating Rinus' account of making it to the bridge and Manallus already having exited. Seheve had, in fact, provided similar information, at least regarding the state of damage to the ship that she had seen as she waited by the life-pods. . . and the fact that she'd seen Captain Manallus entering one of the life-pods that remained ahead of Rel, Rinus, Kallixta, and herself.

"You're really all right with the idea of going to Earth?" he asked Seheve again, as they boarded a passenger liner heading for the Sol system.

She bowed her head slightly. He seemed a little nervous and uncertain, which was unusual in him. One of the things that had, over time, struck her the most about this male, was his unwavering certainty about courses of action. Once a decision had been made, he tended to forge forward with it, against all odds. . . and usually succeeded. It was hard _not_ to admire that. Hard not to understand why that unswerving sense of certainty and rightness and drive tended to make every head in a room swing towards him. How feet almost itched to follow him. And now, she had a sense that he'd made a decision about _her_, and she was being drawn along in his wake. . . and it was, in all honesty, a little unnerving. The fact that he seemed a little uncertain, actually, was reassuring. Made it seem like her fate was still under her own control. "Yes," Seheve assured Rel, quietly. "I have never been to the homeworld of the humans. It will be interesting to see from whence they came. They are so. . . varied."

They took their seats, which were actually in the first-class passenger section, and Rel was about to bring down the curtain that divided them from the rest of the cabin, when a familiar voice said, calmly, "Ah, so you two are heading to Earth, too?"

Seheve looked up, and found the ice-blue eyes of James Dempsey staring down at her, and at Rel as well. Behind him, Zhasa'Maedan had a shawl pulled up over her face for the moment, but Seheve caught a hint of reflected light under the cowl-like drape of the material, as the _tapetum lucidum_ structure at the back of the quarian's brilliant violet eyes glimmered for a moment. Quarians and drell were the only crepuscular-to-nocturnal species in Council space; all other species were diurnal. They shared that, low population, the generally arid nature of their original homeworlds. . . and both Rakhana and Rannoch had been lost to their people, though Rannoch was now reclaimed. Seheve wondered, a little, how many of the rest of her people might feel a little bitterness or even resentment towards the quarians, for having regained their homeworld, and blinked, struck. It was an idea that had never occurred to her before.

Out loud, Rel responded, "Yeah. Catching a shuttle to the African continent from Luna. You?"

"North America. Taking Zhasa skiing in Breckenridge, Colorado." Dempsey stepped out of the way, so Zhasa could take the window seat, and then sat down himself.

"I'm looking forward to it," Zhasa said, her curving canines flashing as she grinned, briefly. "That one lesson I got during the, er, trials? Was a lot of fun, but not nearly long enough!"

Seheve's head tipped to the side, remembering the Spectre trials in perfect detail. Waiting at the top of the mountain for James Dempsey to finish skiing down the mountain and send the elevator back up to them. The cold of the mountain air as she'd opened the visor of her helmet. Then, down in the 'colony,' sneaking up on Samuel Jaworski, as the Spectre had been creeping up behind Dempsey himself. They'd lost a great deal of time because of having to wait for the gondola to come up and bring herself and Kirrahe down the mountainside, but not nearly as much time as teams like Rellus, Elijah, and Makur had lost, having to _walk_ down the face of the mountain. "During the trials, I wished I understood how to use the skis and the poles," Seheve admitted. "It is a swift method of traversing terrain not often found on Kahje. . . and not one that my people would have practiced, long ago."

Rel grimaced now, and she saw a flash of. . . regret. . . in his face and eyes. "I suddenly thought the same thing," he admitted. "Dara kept offering to teach me, but I never saw much need. There's always a Hammerhead or a hovercycle or even a _rlata_ or a horse around, I figured, back in the day. And skiing requires going where it's cold."

Dempsey shrugged. "Depending on the time of year? I wouldn't recommend it on the East Coast, but in Colorado, Nevada, and California, late in the season, you can ski in a T-shirt, it's that warm." He gave them both a dubious look, however. "On the other hand, both of you might still get a little chilly. At least the humidity would be pretty damned low for you, Seheve." He buckled himself into his seat. "Africa, huh? Why there?"

"Deserts," Rel said, shrugging, and nodding towards Seheve. "Kalahari and I think parts of the Sahara, if we have time. Egypt, certainly."

Dempsey grimaced. "Well, if all you wanted was _desert_, there's the Mojave. Not to mention the Great Basin and the Chihuahuan desert in Mexico. But I guess Egypt is a lot more colorful." He shrugged. "Don't know a hell of a lot about the Kalahari."

They all chatted a bit longer, until the pre-flight instructions came over the loudspeaker, and Rel pulled down the curtain, and turned towards Seheve. Again, that faint sense of apprehension and unease from him. Seheve studied him for a long moment. Even now, seven days after the destruction of the _Estallus_, she wasn't quite sure where she stood with him. And just as clearly, he wasn't sure where he stood with her. She'd had the observation lounge on the _Raedia_ to herself for the better part of a day, until the AI had re-organized the Spectres and moved crew around to make space. There hadn't been much time for the two of them to speak in private since then. And Seheve had, twice, gone to the med bay to visit Serana Velnaran, Rel's sister. . . and once, to look in on Spectre Dara Jaworski. Seheve still wasn't sure if she should be as grateful as she was that Dara had been asleep. She'd grown to admire and respect the human over the past nine months. Some of their skillsets and tasks overlapped, in odd places. Both of them were qualified sharpshooters, snipers, for example. On Arvuna, that had been one of their tasks. Take out batarians from a distance, silently. And they'd been told by Ylara to kill, specifically, the batarians tending to their fallen companions. Seheve had seen the sense in it, and done so, immediately. With a sense of sadness, that the deaths were necessary, but with no actual qualms. She'd had a sense, however, that Dara had had more empathy for the batarian first-responders. . . but had carried out the tasks at hand in complete silence. Seheve had also been Dara's bodyguard on Arvuna, more or less. Someone to keep at hand whenever the Eclipse mercenaries, or, more particularly, their _leader_, had been around. And Seheve had been gratified when Dara turned to her for help on picking out the right psychological tact to take with the Growth Zero people. _Odd, that she doesn't trust her own instincts for dealing with fellow humans_, she'd thought, at the time, but it had still touched her, in a way. That Dara sought her advice, and used it, meant that the Spectre had come to trust her in a way. Not really friendship, not yet. . . although they'd both curled in on themselves laughing at the antics of Loki and Zappa. . . but the start of something.

Zhasa was another matter, of course. The quarian female was open and accepting and reached out to almost everyone around her, as quarians tended to do with shipmates. There'd been bonding between all of the females, as they tried to get Zhasa clothed decently enough for public view before they returned to Bastion from Arvuna. And then, the odd sensation of being both accepted, and totally alone, when she'd gone out to dinner with the two Spectre couples, Zhasa and Dempsey. . . and Dara and Elijah. Oh, they'd been careful to include her in conversation. And Dara and Elijah, other than partaking of a sharing-plate together, had been largely careful to keep up a certain amount of distance between each other. But they couldn't quite disguise the air of affinity between themselves. Just looking at them, Seheve had recalled, instantly, the moment of complete triumph during the Spectre trials. When they had, by dint of teamwork, determination, and some forethought, hauled Thelldaroon to the top of the rock wall at the end of the pool. Joy had been almost radiating off of them in the restaurant, though Dara's eyes were hidden, and their expressions had been controlled, whenever the waitress got near. _And then finding Rellus in the park, hours later. . . was that why I felt free to speak with him?_ Seheve wondered now.

The fact that she and Rel had shared a . . . moment of intimacy, in the dark, in the life-pods, certainly made the growing trust between her and Dara problematic, Seheve thought. Or at least awkward. Or would have been, if the human female had ever been available to talk to in the last week. Seheve wasn't even sure what, if anything, she should say to the female. She'd heard the crow-like rasp of Dara's voice as the female had given Rel counsel in the med bay. Counsel about _her_, startlingly. _Seheve's good for you. . . . She's __shy__, though. Doesn't have any idea of what to do with you. With all of us. You're going to have to encourage her to talk. You do that with listening. The way you always did on Mindoir. Encourage her to reach out to the rest of us, too. . . ._ And Rel wasn't inclined, much, to talk about the whole incident, beyond, _We were forgiving each other, I think. And saying goodbye to who we used to be._

So Seheve had mustered her nerve and gone to the med bay to see Dara once, before docking at Bastion. . . and the human female had been asleep. Half a dozen rachni workers had been perched on the bed, however, and the monitors had all been chirping steadily at anyone who cared to listen, announcing that breath flowed and the heart still beat. The chair beside the bed had still been warm; someone, likely Elijah Sidonis, had recently been sitting there. Seheve had sat down beside the bed, and simply looked at Dara for a long moment. Not knowing what she would say, if the rachni blue eyes had opened and met her stare. Nothing, probably. There was a very good possibility that neither one of them would have said a word. Seheve was reticent, and Dara was not precisely out-going, either. But Seheve wished she could say just the simplest of things. _I do not mean to harm you or cause hurt to you. And I thank you for understanding._

She knew that yesterday afternoon, Rel had signed the human legal paperwork that severed his marriage with Dara. All that remained, in human terms, was for a judge to approve the paperwork. What the turian judges and lawmakers would do was another story entirely.

And so here she was, on a transport headed for Earth, beside Rellus Velnaran, and she had absolutely no idea what she was doing. Terrifying, really, in a way. Electric. So far outside her realm of previous experiences as to be something from another person's life, entirely. She wasn't sure even why she'd agreed to _go_, besides the fact it was something she would never have considered doing before. And being in his company made her feel warm and alive.

Rel tapped her arm gently, rousing her from her reverie. "You get lost in thought sometimes, don't you?" he asked. Quiet, carefully casual words. Testing out the shaky new ground on which they found themselves, exploring intimacy. Terra incognita. Which was ironic, considering that they would be visiting the very world that had spawned that phrase, which was largely unknown to both of them.

Seheve shrugged. "When there is no task at hand, yes," she admitted. "Lost in memories, lost in testing ideas."

"It's a fourteen-hour flight to Earth from here. What do you want to do to pass the time?" Seheve looked down as Rel caught her hand in his. Slightly warmer scales, different hand configuration.

Seheve considered that. "Typically, on such flights, I read about the destination," she offered, hesitantly. "Also, review dossiers. Maps of the location around the, ah, target." She winced slightly. "This is, perhaps, not the point of this excursion."

Rel shook his head. The piercing blue eyes were amused, she thought. "Not really," he told her, dryly. "The point of the exercise is to get to know each other better." He paused. "Do drell play games?"

She smiled a little. "Some. Most drell are not permitted within human casinos, however. Eidetic memory makes games such as 'poker' and 'twenty-one' laughably easy to beat. Asari games tend to be about building alliances with other players, some of the nuances are. . . too subtle for me." The games could actually go on for hours, and even for someone of Seheve's patience, were painfully boring to the _mahai_, or short-lived.

"You called chess an arbitrary game of war and death, reflecting outmoded social structures once, during the trials." Rel had a surprisingly sharp memory for a non-drell, she'd discovered, and quickly.

She shrugged. "Yes. It's surprising how many human and turian games seem to revolve around warfare."

"And drell games do not?"

"There are only a few left from the time before the Rescue," she admitted. "Most of our games are. . . uncomfortable for other species. Chess, for humans who are _good_ at the game, as I understand it, revolves around memorized strategies. We only have to see a series of moves once to use it again, even years later. There is no challenge to that. The challenge in such a game, for us, comes from when someone deviates from a known set of strategies. Thus, we tend to prefer games that force us to react to almost completely random circumstances. In _sofor_, the pieces on the board may only move a number of spaces determined by dice rolls, and the objective is to occupy the oasis tiles." She shrugged a little. She hadn't played _sofor_ since she was a child, but the memory was clear. "The oasis tiles, however, move every three turns. Representing how resources would dry up."

"How do you know who wins?"

"Whoever occupies all the oases at once, or occupies the most at the end of a previously agreed-upon number of turns."

He gave her a steady look. "Want to try _consectora_?" He pulled up a version of the turian game on his omnitool. Seheve found it fascinating. Resource gathering and hunting, as she might have expected from a turian. Randomization, as the herds of creatures moved around. And the hunters _could_ attack each other, or each other's bases, just as easily as they could attack the wildlife. It said a great deal about early life on Palaven, she thought. And it said a good deal about _him_, that he never actually did attack her hunters or her cave, though, as she pointed out, she'd left herself open for attack on several occasions.

Rel shook his head. "Wouldn't be fair. You're just learning how to play." A quick, wary glance. "Are you enjoying it? We can do something else."

"No, no. This is engaging." At his expression, Seheve realized her reaction might be read as tepid, and essayed a smile. "I mean, yes, I'm enjoying the game."

Earth itself was a revelation. Seheve stared at it for a long moment as they approached Luna. Not as much water covering the surface as Kahje, but still enough to give her the uneasy feeling that her lungs might have problems there. Zhasa stunned Seheve by giving her a quick hug as they disembarked and headed in opposite directions for their transports to the surface. "We'll be in close enough range to give you a hand if you two need help," the quarian told both Seheve and Rellus, smiling quickly. "Let us know if you need anything."

"Zhasa-love, this is Earth," Dempsey told her, calmly. "This isn't Tuchanka or even, god help us, Ilium. They should be perfectly fine here." He looked at them now. "Africa got hit very damned hard by the plagues. Sub-Saharan Africa, especially, and those folks were among the poorest on Earth to start with. Keep that in mind, okay?" There was a hint of warning in his voice, and Seheve wondered what he was warning them about.

She understood in short order. Their first destination was the Kalahari Desert, which straddled countries such as Botswana and Namibia. They were part of a guided tour, and the _only_ non-humans in the shuttle that glided down through the pure blue sky. "The Kalahari isn't a true desert," their guide said, in oddly-accented English. "Parts of the region receive enough rain each year to provide lush grazing for a variety of animals. And where there's prey animals, especially herd animals, there are lions." They were hovering now, the engines of the shuttle providing barely a whisper of sound, and the guide lowered the windows, allowing everyone aboard to smell the dry air, the smell of acacia trees and the thorny underbrush. It smelled _good_, and the arid air actually felt _good_ to her. Made breathing easier, make her skin feel sleek, and free of the slimy sensation that humidity always brought with it.

Then Seheve felt Rel stiffen. Saw his mouth fall open to taste the air, as well as to smell it. She understood why; she could smell something _else_ on the wind, too. A heavier, muskier odor. . . animals. "There," Rel told her, and pointed into the shade of a nearby tree.

Seheve leaned forward slightly, pushing her darkened glasses up to the bridge of her nose, protecting her sensitive eyes from the fierce, bright light of Sol, and stared. There _were_ animals there. Perfectly camouflaged, with tawny fur—such an _odd_ thing to see, she had to admit—most were asleep. A handful were awake, though barely, panting in the heat. The male had a thick mane, apparently, and out-bulked any of the females. . . although the females, apparently, were the chief hunters. "Fascinating species," she told Rel, smiling faintly. "They're primarily nocturnal hunters?"

They were, and young males, often siblings, would be turned out of their prides to wander together or separately, as nomads. They watched a rare daylight kill—mostly made out of opportunity, when a herd of creatures called _eland_ strayed too close to where the lions were resting—and watched the creatures gorge themselves. Saw creatures called hyenas move in, ready to scavenge the corpse, only to be thwarted when the male lion held them at bay for several minutes, using nothing but threats—roaring and his size, primarily—to deter them. And then a flock of a hundred gray, vile-looking birds called _vultures_ moved in, and removed every shred of flesh from the carcass within minutes, leaving nothing but white bone. "Efficient," Seheve told Rel, wondering at the expression in his eyes. "You see something else there? With your. . . spirit-eyes, I think you call them?"

They were speaking galactic, which kept most of the humans around them from understanding them, although Rel usually dropped into clear, American-accented English to deal with the humans, which got him blinks of surprise. Rel shrugged now. "They're worth respecting. Not quite the size of an _acrocanth_, but I wouldn't be sitting here on a shuttle, within twenty meters of an _acrocanth_, watching the hatchlings play, either."

Seheve could hear something else in his voice, though. Things he was holding back. "And what else do you see?" she prompted, softly.

"Patterns of behavior," he admitted, after a moment. "Early turian family structure was very similar, in some ways. As I once told someone." A shadow seemed to cross his face and eyes then. "And, of course, when I look at them, or any other predator now, I see the yahg."

The _someone_, Seheve knew, was Dara. There certainly were parallels between lion prides and early turians; it would have been an easy way to give his former wife an understanding of basic turian psychology, among other things. What concerned her more, however, was his reference to the yahg. They were supposed to be focusing on things that _didn't_ remind them of the past several months. Of the suffering and death on Shanxi, for instance. Seheve's mind flickered through many of the fights there, seeing them all again, fresh and merciless. _Catching the child who'd been fleeing from the yahg, wrapping a hand around the girl's mouth to keep her from screaming, pulling the small body back from the drainpipe the girl had been ready to climb. Then darting out to half-climb a towering yahg body and strike hard and true. Her own dry words to Rinus, at one point, about the number of eye openings in the yahg cranium being a design flaw. Racing through the broken, ruined streets, trying to entice as many yahg as possible to follow them into the trapped parking garage. The final, devastating fight against the yahg alpha and his companions, watching the gunship collapse to the ground. Rel pulling Kassa Vilinus' body from the wreckage, Seheve tending the female, until Malcolmson took over. Then back into the fight, ducking and dodging and spinning and turning, dropping into stealth every chance she could. Watching people die around her. Seeing Rel, leg clamped down in a monster's mouth, lurching up and forward. . . and slamming a knife right into that 'design flaw,' one of the extraneous sets of yahg eyes. . . . _Seheve blinked as Rel shook her arm lightly. "I'm sorry," he told her, and there was real regret in his voice. "You got lost in a memory there. I didn't mean to remind you."

"Several," Seheve admitted, and had to clear her throat. She had respected Rel at the time, certainly. Admired him. Had found him compelling and interesting, but also . . . empty. Empty in a way that resonated with her. But hadn't at the time thought there would ever, _could_ ever, be more than that. Thus, at the time, concern for him, concern for the vicious wound he'd taken. She and the human marine had immediately started first-aid, but yahg bites were foul things, accompanied by poison and bacteria. And she'd not dared to visit him more than once or twice in the med bay. It had been horrifying, to see his bright certainty flickering, almost gone out, the foul mood, the temper. And she'd had nothing to say that could possibly have helped. "I will attempt to live in the _now_, if you will do the same," she offered now, tentatively, and was rewarded by a quick smile.

Their tour of this region took them to a region of the desert held as a game preserve. . . and also held by the native 'Bushmen.' Their guide explained to them that the Bushmen had, in the late twentieth century, been forced to give up their lives as nomadic hunter-gatherer, a lifestyle which they had clung to for over twenty _thousand_ years, and been made, by local governments, to become subsistence farmers instead. In the last seventy-five years, however, many local tribes had been permitted to return to the ways of their ancestors, if they chose to do so. Some had; some had not, preferring to stay farmers. "Genetic studies indicate that the Bushmen are one of fourteen extant groups, whose ancestors formed the basis for all modern humans on the planet," the guide told them as they disembarked from the shuttle to trade greetings with the people of the village. They were meeting a group who had opted to stick with farming, apparently, although there was a group of true hunter-gatherers passing through, as well. And all of the locals were gaping at Rel and Seheve, and she wasn't doing much better than the humans were. Rel was taller than most humans, but towered over the Bushmen in particular. Seheve was far shorter than he was, but was placed in the unusual, for her, position of being taller than everyone in the village. She was downright uneasy here, and couldn't put her finger on precisely _why_, at first, though surely part of it was the fact that they were openly stared at. Hard scales, alien features, omnitools and other artifacts of technology on them.

They stayed at the village only for an hour or two, and then flew away again. As they headed for the northern half of the continent, where they'd be spending the bulk of their time, their guide pointed out the window at village after village, and simply said, "Dead. Plagues. Dead. That one, too. Local government doesn't even have the manpower to bury all the bodies." The guide looked around warily. "This has never really been a very stable region, and there's been a lot of lawlessness and strife since the plague."

"Kidnappings," one of the other humans said, in English.

The guide nodded. "Yes. Hence the reason for our armed guards." He pointed to the front and back of the shuttle, where there were, indeed, human males in armor, who carried assault rifles.

Seheve blinked, and murmured to Rel, in galactic, "And to think I thought that they were present to protect us from the wildlife." She'd kept an eye on their surroundings in the village all day, out of habit, and now wondered if the excitement over their appearance there had been motivated by anything other than wild curiosity over 'aliens.' _No. The guide indicated that the group of farmers and the group of hunters were among the most peaceful on Earth. More likely that others in this region would seek to kidnap us for gain._ Her eyes turned towards Rel. "I think it possible that anyone who attempted to take anyone on this shuttle by force would find a good deal more than they might have thought."

Rel snorted a little, and, tentatively, cautiously, lifted her hand and lightly bit the inside of her wrist. He'd explained it as a gesture of affection among turians, and Seheve warmed inside every time he employed it. How to explain to him that even simple _touch_ warmed her? "Quite a bit more than they bargained for," he agreed now, mandibles flexing, but the smile didn't touch his eyes. He, too, scanned the entrances of the shuttle, and there was an indefinable sense of menace about him now. What little relaxation he'd found, had vanished, and Seheve sighed.

"Did we not say that we were supposed to be relaxing on this trip?" she reproved, gently.

"I'll relax when we get to Cairo," he told her, simply. "I tend to forget that Earth isn't exactly. . . "

"Safe? Civilized?"

"Homogeneous." He snorted. "Though after visiting both Japan and Texas, you'd think I'd know better."

One of the humans in the shuttle turned towards them at that point, and struck up a conversation, tentatively. "You say you've been to both Japan and Texas?" the female said, sounding surprised. "Actually, I wanted to compliment you. . . your English is wonderful. You've got the faintest hint of a southern accent though. . . was one of your teachers from Georgia, maybe?"

"No, but my ex-wife is from Texas." Rel's voice was quite curt, and Seheve slid a hand down his arm. _Relax and blend in_, she thought, as the human female blinked, startled, and leaned forward to squint at his face, and the yellow clan-paint there, her mouth opening to ask another question.

Years and years of learning how to do precisely that surged to the fore. If someone next to you was chatty on a long flight, the best thing to do, to avoid suspicion or even really being remembered, was to let them talk. Be polite and courteous and ask _them_ the questions. Let them talk themselves out. Seheve might not be able to keep them from standing out, or being remembered. . . but she knew how to fade into the background. To be unmemorable, even for other drell. "Are you from the North American continent?" Seheve asked. Her English wasn't particularly good; she'd had far more asari, turian, salarian, drell, and even krogan targets over the years, but she'd had one or two humans. Enough to warrant learning one of their languages. This was the first time she'd actually opted to use the language, rather than galactic, however.

"Why yes, I am. I'm from Toronto, though."

"What brings you here, then? Has this trip been long-planned?" Seheve felt the muscles in Rel's arm easing slightly. As if he realized what she was doing.

"Oh, yes. This is my husband, Edward. We've been talking about coming here for twenty years. We wanted to do something exotic and adventurous for our honeymoon, but couldn't afford it." A fond smile touched the human woman's face, as she turned back towards her husband now. "So we figured our twentieth wedding anniversary was as good a time as any." Lively curiosity in her eyes now. "So, are you two on your honeymoon? Or do your species even go in for that, anyway?"

Seheve deflected the questions and asked more of her own. By the time the shuttle landed, she'd patiently looked at pictures of the female's children and been told that if she ever happened to visit Toronto, that the female would be happy to give her a tour of the city. "She did her best to talk your ear off," Rel muttered, and Seheve chuckled softly. "What?"

"That was a very human expression," she told him, and his face shuttered for a moment. Seheve sighed. "I didn't mean—"

"I know." Rel helped her down from the gangplank of the shuttle, and she inhaled, wincing internally. This city held a plethora of industrial smells that the Kalahari had not. Engines and exhaust and the rank smell of human sweat. "It's all right."

They had a suite in a hotel on the outskirts of Cairo, located near a place called the Giza Plateau, and Seheve absolutely _gaped_, again, when she saw the Pyramids for the first time. After a moment, she said, in a tone of total surprise, "They look _exactly_ like the great temple of Amonkira on Rakhana did. At least, according to the few vids and books on the subject that I have ever seen." Which included, actually, the book that she and Oeric had been beaten for reading. She shook her head, rattled. "Why do you suppose that they would be so very similar?"

Rel snorted. "Because the bottom of a pyramid is square in shape, and that's a geometric shape that's easy to define with pegs and rope. All of the pyramids on Earth started out with stepped shapes, and then they put facings over some of these to give them slanted, even sides. I watched a vid on these with Dara once, that suggested that all such structures went back to their prehistoric religious rituals, and one single raised tier, or mound, at the center of a village, on which ceremonies would be conducted. Then people started to compete. One tier wasn't high enough, so they built higher. And higher. And higher. The rest is just geometry and the constraints of working in earth and stone, I guess."

Seheve thought about that, and nodded. His analysis made sense. But it didn't mean that the shapes called to her any less. As if a shadowy part of her childhood had come to life before her.

The area was surprisingly muggy, and very prone to an insect known as the mosquito. . . which apparently didn't affect her or Rel much at all. This was their first night in a real hotel room; the one night spent in the Kalahari had been in tents shared by members of the group. Seheve again, found herself not really knowing what to do, or to say, after she'd neatly put her clothes in drawers in the room, and knelt at the window for a while, staring out at the man-made mountains in the distance, lit up by modern technology.

Rel's hands came down on her shoulders. "There's. . . a restaurant downstairs," he offered. "They _claim_ to have dextro-compatible foods on the menu. The area sees a lot of tourists, so I'm inclined to trust them on that." He paused, and his fingers tightened on her shoulders. "I don't know if you're hungry yet, however."

"Part of my training with the Master of Assassins involved fasting," Seheve murmured, staring out at the pyramids. "Drell can, thanks to our ancestry, and the uncertain nature of finding food on Rakhana, go without food for over a week. The training was intended to remind us of that, and teach us that our bodies were under our control. That they did not control us." She leaned her head back and looked up at Rel now. "That being said? I am hungry, and would very much like to eat." She offered a smile, hoping that he'd understand. _I'm leaving that behind._ "However, I do not feel like being stared at any further for one day. Would it be possible for us to eat in the room?"

Rel exhaled. "That sounds like a great idea to me," he admitted, and pulled up the room service console.

Human foods. Bizarre, to say the least, but in this hotel, in types that Rel was able to recognize on the menu and guide her towards dishes she might enjoy. The Kalahari expedition had offered them the opportunity to try eland meat jerky and something called a _kiwano_ melon; the hunter-gatherers of that region apparently even ate insects. _A salarian would approve_, Seheve had thought. _As would my ancestors._ Now, Seheve was trying to eat rice-stuffed pigeon, spiced exotically, and finding it interesting. Rel was eating seared _apaterae_ steak and had declared it edible, but probably flash-frozen and pre-prepared. "I'm far from picky, usually. Five years of MREs and cafeteria food. . . but I do miss my mom's cooking. Hell, even the barbecues at Sam's." He looked away from the table.

Seheve reached across the table and touched his hand lightly. "Something has been bothering you all day," she told him. "Would it help you to speak of it?"

Rel shook his head. "I'm not sure if it will help," he told her, quietly. "It's just. . . odd. I probably should have taken you someplace other than Earth. Luisa, maybe. Macedyn. Anyplace other than. . . "

"Than Dara's homeworld."

"Yeah." He shrugged. "Although this is about as far from being her home as you can get, and still be on the same planet. Different environment, different language, different culture. And still, I keep getting reminded of things."

Seheve regarded him steadily. "Such as?" she ventured.

Rel shrugged, and stared down at the table for a long moment, not speaking. "I'm just getting used to realizing that I _did_ pick up a lot over the years from her, and some of that will never go away. You pointed out a human expression I used. . . that's her." He looked up. Met her eyes now, calmly. "She'd have loved to have seen the lions," he added. "Could practically hear her gasping over them in my head. I looked at that, and realized I damned well should have taken her to see things like this over the years." Rel paused, and said, deliberately, and with weight, "But she's not here. You are. And I'm not sure I'm exactly doing right by you, bringing you here." His fingers curled around hers now, gently. "At least you seem to like the Pyramids a hell of a lot more than the Kalahari."

Seheve blinked. "I did not mean to give the impression that I disliked the Kalahari." The words were swift.

Rel's mandibles flexed. "Yeah. You're very careful not to say anything when you don't like something. In fact, you stop talking entirely. What was it that put you so much on edge down there, anyway?"

Seheve picked at her meal with her fork in her free hand. "Humans are so. . . disparate," she finally said. "The physical differences are one thing. I was aware of the differences in skin, eye, and hair pigmentation. That is little different than the variations in scale coloration among drell." She hesitated. "But humans are so _different_ from one another." Unlike the drell, who had very, very little genetic variability, thanks to the collapse of their planetary ecosystem, and the Rescue, which had resulted in a tiny population, expanding over eight hundred years. Unlike quarians, with their limited population after the Flight and straightened resources in the Flotilla. Unlike asari, who had more or less cloned themselves, with a certain limited amount of randomization of the first-mother's DNA, for countless generations. Turians at least had two major sub-races, one of which had been exemplified by Saren, but all the other species of the galaxy? Homogeneous. Humans? Heterogeneous, almost to an absurd degree.

"Somehow, I don't think it's the physical that's what bothered you." Rel's voice was dry.

"No," Seheve said, quietly, and looked, desperately, for the right words. "My people lived, as the Bushmen did. For countless generations. Roaming the deserts as nomads, moving from oasis to oasis. Scrabbling for survival. And on a world that has embraced flight between the stars. . . they choose to continue to live in exactly the way their ancestors did. I do not understand it." That was really the thing that had dumbfounded her. In a universe in which one could reach for the stars. Hold the wisdom of a hundred worlds at one's fingertips on the extranet. Where there were countless wonders to behold, ideas to explore. . . and they lived an existence locked in the stone age. The visions of the Keepers, sealed forever in stasis, unable to grow, change, or develop, haunted Seheve. Lifetime after lifetime after lifetime, spent in exactly the same place, the same fashion. No external pressure to change, no environmental change, and deep-seated conditioning preventing the Keepers from ever shifting of their own accord.

"They're doing it by their own choice, though," Rel pointed out. "A fair number of societies on Earth are actively anti-technological. The Amish, for example."

"And where do they decide the dividing line on what technology is acceptable, and which is not?" Seheve asked, sharply. "How many of these groups are religious? How many of them make of it a way to control their people, limit their knowledge, prevent them from joining with others?"

Rel set his fork down, and spread his fingers, a placating gesture. "I don't know," he told her, quietly. "There are humans who find a certain romance in the idea of a by-gone age. One in which the evils of the present day didn't exist. In which everyone was better and gentler and nobler than they are today, innocent of technology and of, I suppose, sin." His mandibles flexed again. "Sam calls that the Garden of Eden fallacy. Says that humans are prone to think that _every_ era before their own was somehow better."

Seheve looked down at her plate. "There are drell philosophers who have said that my people should never have embraced technology. Should never have reached for the stars, or for a better life than moving from oasis to oasis. That in reaching at all, we were doomed to overreach, and wrought our own destruction. And thus, somehow, deserved our fate. I don't believe that. I think everyone should be free to strive. To reach. To learn. To make the world a better place, if not for yourself, then for those who follow you." _And that embracing the ways of a by-gone era as a way of life is, in a way, enslaving yourself to the past._ So much of what she'd seen so far here on Earth was hitting her in ways she hadn't expected. 

"There's a human saying," Rel said, quietly. "It's no shame to be born in the dirt, but it's a damned shame to want to stay there."

"Yes," Seheve replied, instantly. "Exactly so."

He exhaled. "They're free to choose," Rel repeated, quietly. "They truly are." He squeezed her hand lightly. "And lately, so are you. Or so I hear." He gestured toward the window, and the Pyramids, lit up. "This doesn't bother you, though?"

She shook her head. "No. Respect for the ancient past. . . but lit up with modern lights. It's good to see."

He had, perhaps with an eye towards assuring her that she _was_ free to choose, arranged for them to have a suite with a large master bedroom, and a living area with a pull-out couch. After dinner had been cleared away, and they'd watched the moon rise over the Pyramids in the distance, the temperature began to drop, and Seheve was delighted when Rel put an arm around her shoulders, and huddled into his warmth quite happily. She reached up gently to stroke his fringe as he lowered his head, and could hear the concern in his voice as he whispered, "Do you mind terribly if I bite you?"

"Not at all," she told him, smiling. "I had thought I might need to start by biting you."

"I officially give you permission to do that whenever the whim strikes you," he assured her, stroking her face lightly with his fingers. He smiled a little, and added, "Actually, it's hard to tell, sometimes, if you like or dislike something. It would help if you'd tell me."

She smiled up at him, and told him, quietly, "I will endeavor to remember to do so."

Then there were no more words for a while. Slide of scales on scales. Oddly soft human bed, but nothing at all soft about him. Rasp of his tongue along her scales, drawing pleasure out of her. Sharper pressure of teeth in little nips and bites, which she did her best to return.

Physical pleasure still astonished her, and, to a certain extent, made her feel slightly guilty. Not in a religious sense, but in that she wasn't quite sure she deserved such joy. She'd done a fair bit of reading, however, in the past few days, on turian mating practices, and he was clearly startled—and appreciative—when she asked, quietly, "Why have you not used the control bite yet?"

"I . . . never was able to hold back before," he admitted. "I was able to hold back when it was just light biting. But when it came to mating. . . I couldn't stop myself." Rel exhaled. "I really don't want to trigger your self-defense reflexes. It could get very ugly."

Seheve considered that. "Perhaps before the end of our week's stay, we might try," she suggested, tentatively, and could see his eyes become a little more fixed, a little more intent.

Cairo itself was still, in many ways, for all its cultural riches, a very poor city. There were child beggars in the streets, and pickpockets, fishing for credit chits. One of whom Seheve caught by the wrist the next morning, as they were walking over a bridge over the Nile, and said, calmly, "Give it back."

The human child squirmed in her grip and said something indecipherable, which her AI rendered out of Arabic into galactic: _"I didn't do anything."_

"There were two credit chits in my pocket. I wish to have them returned, and now. Your partner was very clumsy, by the way." The first child had bumped into them from the front, as the supposed distraction, while this one had come in from behind to steal. Seheve looked down at the child patiently. "The credit chits, or I will take you to the authorities." Her VI chattered a translation, and the chits emerged from somewhere under the rags with alacrity at that point. "Thank you," she added, and released the wrist she'd been twisting. . . and the child darted away.

"You think letting him go was the right thing to do?" Rel asked, dubiously.

"I am unsure if turning him over to the local authorities would be any more correct," she said, shrugging. "When in doubt, do as little as possible, and wait to see the effects of your actions."

He took her elbow in a light grip as they moved through the tightly packed mass of people. She could feel in his grip how tense the crowd was making him. How far on edge it put him. "That sounded like training talking," Rel told her, his eyes moving over the crowd.

"It was," she admitted. "Just because it was something the Master of Assassins taught, does not automatically make it unwise." As they reached the end of the bridge, and the crowds and groundcar traffic abated a bit, Seheve pulled Rel into a shop at random, not looking at the sign on the door. "The crowds make you uneasy, Rel. Should we not find some other activity? One. . . better for you?" The open plains of the Kalahari, she realized now, with some dismay, had been more comfortable for him. Fewer people. Limited threats.

"I'm fine," he muttered. "I need to get over this."

And so they did indeed go to any number of very crowded places over the next several days. The museums were _packed_, but not always with humans. Asari actually traveled hundreds of light-years to see Egyptian art. There were a handful of turians, salarians, and elcor—mostly mates of the asari, apparently—and Seheve felt very out of place, as she saw no other drell at all. "I just realized something," Rel pointed out, halfway through the museum. "You're not taking any pictures."

Seheve looked at him, puzzled. "No," she agreed. "Everything I see today, will stay with me, in perfect detail. There is no real need to take vid stills."

"But I think I might like to have a picture or two of you, for when _my_ memory fades," Rel told her, and she blinked and found a sarcophagus to stand beside. "No, no. Not beside the _dead_ things."

"Beside an ankh, then, sign of eternal life?" Her voice held a faint note of humor, and she looked past him. Saw a handful of turians entering the room behind them, and patiently stood beside a stone ankh while Rel took a picture with his omnitool. There was something oddly familiar about the scene, and Seheve paused for a moment, frowning. Sorted through the images in her mind. _Yes. I've seen that turian there before._ "Rel," she murmured as they moved away. "There is a turian in yellow face-paint following us. No, don't pause, don't look back. Just keep moving."

"When you say 'following us,' how do you mean it?" Rel's voice had gone taut.

"He was at the last museum. He was in the café we stopped at for lunch. He was in the street outside our hotel this morning. And now he's in this museum, as well." Seheve's voice was calm as she isolated images in her mind, trying to determine any other times when she had seen the male. "He has had a camera in his hands on all four occasions."

Rel didn't look behind them as they moved out of the crowded gallery into an equally crowded hallway. "When you say yellow paint, are we talking like my face markings, or a full mask?"

"Full mask, yes."

"That's Sylgar Outpost, then." He frowned. "I've got some bad associations with that particular clan-paint," he added, dryly. "Here, step inside this doorway. . . " They stood inside the doorway, and sure enough, after a few moments, they were able to see the turian male push his way through the crowded hallway, pushing his way through the turgidly-moving stream of people, looking around for them.

Rel _hissed_ at the sight of the male's face, much to Seheve's surprise. "Scaevous Lintorum. On Earth, of all places. Now there's a face I never thought I'd see again." He glared after the male's back. "I'd go after him and demand to know what the hell he's doing here. . . " Rel looked down at Seheve, and visibly calmed himself, "but that would probably not be the best idea." He glanced around. "You seen everything you wanted to see here?"

She hadn't, but nodded anyway. "For the moment, yes," Seheve told him, and pointed back the way they'd come. "Let us find an exit."

In a stone-walled café, she bought hot black coffee and sipped it, wincing a little at the odd flavor, and asked Rel, who was sipping bottled water, "So who is Scaevous Lintorum?"

"A bad memory from boot camp. He took offense at my being married to a human. Bit me in sparring. I wound up breaking his arm in three places. He washed out, as a result of the injury, but recovered in time for Dara's boot camp." Rel's eyes were distant. Looking at other times and places in his mind, no doubt. "When he encountered her, wearing turian paint, he saw an easy target for vengeance, I think. Did his best to force _her_ out with an injury. She wound up gouging out his retinas in self-defense. Both of us had sixty stitches from his damned teeth." He looked at Seheve now, direct focus on the here and now. "He washed out, Seheve. Never finished boot camp, so he's still a child. Never did his four years of service, so he's not a citizen. What in the spirits' names is he doing _here_?"

They got their answer about two hours later, when they were taking a groundcar tour of the banks of the Nile, watching the crocodiles sunbathe. Seheve had stripped off her shirt to enjoy the sunshine and heat on her scales, but was keeping on her dark glasses, and trying to be oblivious of the stares of the humans around her, complete down to the children whispering among themselves, trying to figure out if she were a male or female of her species. Rel had an arm around her waist as the groundcar lurched to a halt, and they stepped out to head for the next section of the excursion, which apparently included camel rides across the shifting sand dunes. Seheve stared at the bizarrely-shaped animals and laughed out loud. "Those cannot possibly have come about through evolution alone! The Protheans had to have intervened, changed their body matrix somehow!"

Rel snorted a little, and prepared to boost her up, hands lightly encircling her waist—something she'd noticed he really enjoyed doing. Turians apparently appreciated smooth scales and small waists in a mate, and the midriff was, apparently, an erogenous zone for them, in some ways. And that was the moment they both heard the sound of a camera cycling through its shot sequence. Seheve's head snapped up, and so did Rel's, and they both caught sight of the turian male with the yellow face-paint nearby, his camera hovering near his head. "Lintorum," Rel grated, his voice suddenly filled with threat, "We didn't agree to have our pictures taken." His eyes were narrow. "And you better have a damned good reason why I shouldn't break your damned neck, right here and now. Especially given. . . . " Rel paused.

"Especially what?" the male asked, showing teeth, but not really smiling. "Especially given the fact that your little human _wife_ and I had an altercation in boot camp?" He didn't get any closer, but the not-quite-a-smile was getting on Seheve's nerves. "Where is the little shit-eater, anyway? Oh, that's right. She left you. Or maybe. . . you left her." He nodded towards Seheve now. "You do seem to have an _affinity_ for shit-eaters, Velnaran."

Rel's hands had clamped down on Seheve's waist so tightly now, she could feel the talons starting to cut into her scales. "You've got five seconds, Lintorum," Rel warned, quietly. "Then you better start _running_."

"Or what? Instead of dangling me over a cliff edge, you'll feed a bona fide member of the galactic press to those baby _dachae_ down on the river banks?" The male's not-quite-a-smile grew wider. "Oh yes. I might not be a _citizen_, but _Complovium Today!_ doesn't much care about that, so long as I get results. Would you like to make any sort of a public comment on how you're committing adultery at the moment? Of course, fucking one shit-eater's mouth is pretty much the same as fucking another shit-eater's mouth, isn't it, Velnaran?"

Seheve's understanding crystallized. This male was in the same league as al-Jilani, but where al-Jilani baited her prey slightly more subtly, this male was attempting outright provocation. He didn't care if he got an answer, so long as he got footage. Footage of her and Rel together. Footage of Rel loosing his temper. Which would, in turn, possibly lose Rel his shot at being a full Spectre, after all. She latched her hands around Rel's wrists now, preventing him from releasing her, and slipped back down off the camel's back, and stared at the male now. Memorized every detail about him. And then smiled. "We have no comment on anything at this time," Seheve murmured, watching as various security people moved up from the expedition crew, and started to escort the male away. The instant his back turned, Seheve looked up at Rel and whispered, "I'll be right back. Don't _move_," in a tone of absolute imperative. Then she flicked a control on her omnitool, activating her stealth field, and ran towards the male and the security escorts.

Lintorum was completely distracted by the security personnel, and they by him. It was the work of seconds to rifle his pockets, her hands much lighter than the child thieves of the other morning. Two credit chits, a credit receipt from a hotel, and a key-card. Seheve pocketed them all herself, and slipped a tracking protocol onto Lintorum's omnitool seconds later. It would emit a radio frequency blip on her favored transmission band in a recognizable pattern that she could key her own omnitool to. Any time he was within five hundred feet, she would now be notified.

Seheve slipped back towards Rel on silent feet, dismissing the stealth field when she reached him, and looked up at the turian male who had, strangely enough, become so very dear to her in so many ways. He glanced down at her, then off after Lintorum, his eyes angry. "Do not allow him to spoil the rest of the day," Seheve told him, resting a hand on his arm, feeling the tautness of the muscles there, the tension. "_I_ will deal with him later."

Rel shook his head, still clearly furious. "He's out to embarrass me, if he can. Embarrass you. Embarrass Dara, too. Dredge up scandal, even though I _signed_ the damned papers. It's over in every single way other than under turian law—"

"Except most things are never quite over so easily or neatly," Seheve told him, softly. "You and she didn't quit in hatred. You managed to find friendship again. Even a little of the love." _Which is why you keep looking at me and wondering if you're here with the right person. Is it not_? "Rest assured, Rellus, there is _nothing_ that that male could do or say that could possibly embarrass me. However, you and Dara both could be harmed by his actions."

Rel bowed his head for a moment, and he sighed. And then he leaned down and pressed his forehead to hers, reaching up with a single talon to nudge her glasses down, so he could look into her eyes as he did so. "You see so _very_ clearly," he told her. "I sometimes think you have spirit-eyes, too." And then he picked her up again, and slid her back onto the camel's saddle.

That evening, however, Seheve had very different plans in mind for the two of them. She hadn't been able to bring her vibroknife with her, since she was, after all, only a _probationary_ Spectre. Neither had she brought a gun with her. But then again, she didn't need such things to do her job. "Why are we going to a hardware store?" Rel asked her.

Seheve simply smiled at him serenely, and used one of Lintorum's credit chits to purchase flex-ties. She also used that same credit chit on a public-access extranet terminal to make a few other purchases on the male's behalf, including a full-coverage subscription to Fornax and a couple of other xeno-porn extranet sites. . . not a few devoted to bondage and sadomasochism. Rel looked over her shoulder and winced at a couple of the images he saw. "Ah. . . should I even ask how you know about these extranet sites?" he asked, after a moment. "_I_ didn't even know about . . . great spirits. _With Great Restraint Comes Great Responsibility?_" He was peering down at the screen and shaking his head.

"That is," Seheve told him serenely, barely even looking at the images there, "their idea of a joke, I believe."

"Should I be worried about what I can look forward to in the bedroom tonight?" Rel's tone was only half-joking.

Seheve smiled up at him. "Not at all." She closed down the console and withdrew the chit with the tips of her own talons now. "I believe I would be grateful for dinner at this time."

"Seheve, you're doing your absolute best to scare me now, you know that?"

After dinner, and after the warm pleasure of their loving, Seheve waited for Rel to fall asleep. Her omnitool, in the corner, was pinging softly, which meant that Lintorum was somewhere in the vicinity of the hotel. She got back up, placed a kiss on Rel's fringe, dressed, and slipped out, carrying the flex-ties and a number of other tools she'd purchased that afternoon. This time, in cash, which was something of an underground economy on Earth. Each at a different shop, so she wouldn't stand out in anyone's memory too much. . . and usually with each tool's purchase disguised with some other purchase. A multitool, disguised with the purchase of a kitschy souvenir, for example.

She flagged down an aircab and made her way to Lintorum's hotel. Padded through the halls, stealthed, and then deactivated the security cameras in the hall outside his room. Let herself in with his 'lost' keycard, which had not yet been deactivated. And spent the next half hour going through his computer's files—the password and encryption had been laughably easy to break. There were quite a few pictures of her and Rel. Seheve's eyes narrowed. The pictures did not matter to her. There was nothing in them that could embarrass her. Her, stripped to the waist, wearing a short skirt, and basking in the sunshine on their balcony? Drell, like turians, didn't really have secondary sexual characteristics. A turian's concern about a bared midriff was largely cultural. Everything essential was covered. It could only barely be considered salacious by turian standards because her waist was bare; by human standards, her chest wasn't concealed, but then again. . . she wasn't _human_. There were several images of Rel standing behind her, leaning down to bite her neck, or nibble on the inside of her wrist. Again, this did not bother her, but could be injurious to Rel.

What _did_ irritate her, however, was the thermal imaging vid, clearly taken from outside their hotel room, from a distance. There were warm bodies in all the rooms around them, eating dinner, watching vids, sleeping. . . and the camera had focused in on their room. Their bodies were fuzzy with the distance, but she could clearly discern which positions they'd been in, when the vid was taken. Clearly see how they'd been moving. No sound, of course. But this was them, in their most intimate moments, and she found that there was actually rage, deep inside of her, at having had this male see them at their most vulnerable. _No respect for the closed door_, she thought, tapping her talons against the side of the console. _I will have to teach him some respect, apparently._

Her omnitool started pinging, just as she'd finished downloading all of his files and wiping them from his hard drive. She started it reformatting, and moved to the side of the door. When it opened, Seheve was on Lintorum in a flash. A stunning blow to the turian styloid process, and then she wrapped her arms around his neck from behind, applying pressure to the carotid arteries. Within fifteen seconds, he was unconscious and at her mercy.

Five minutes after that, Lintorum was stripped to the scales and bound, with flex-ties, by the wrists, to the headboard of his bed. A second set of ties held his feet bound to the footboard. Seheve threaded a gag into his mouth, tying it at the back of his head. This was difficult, but not impossible on a turian; one merely needed to be precise about getting between the mandible and the cheek itself, and not allowing any of the teeth to catch on the leather of the gag. . . which, in this case, happened to be a dog collar she'd purchased at a souvenir shop. . . again using his credit chits. The final touch was simple; placing the pillowcase from his own bed over the top of his head, so he couldn't see.

Then Seheve went back to work. She cleared his omnitool of all files relating to herself and to Rel. Wiped it clean, ensured that its extranet cache showed perusal of the various websites for which she'd set up accounts in his name. Uploaded a number of rather nasty viruses to it, as well, just to make sure he'd have a _hell_ of a time using it any time soon. Especially if he tried to wipe all the things she was so carefully planting here. She checked on his computer, and saw that the reformat was complete. She accessed the _Great Restraint_ site, and pulled up one of the choicer set of directions and images she'd found that day, and left that in plain view on the screen—it detailed how turians, like humans, could find a more intense orgasm, apparently, through oxygen deprivation. It warned of the dangers of autoerotic asphyxiation, however, and encouraged people to always have a loving partner around for such activities, for _safety's_ sake.

Seheve then took the sheets and her multitool, and ripped them. Braided the strips into a rope neatly. Looped it _just_ tightly around Lintorum's neck that he'd be able to feel it when he woke up, used just the _right_ knot, and attached the rope itself to the headboard as well. Then she settled down with his camera for a little quality time. Downloading pictures, again. Wiping the data clean. And then, very carefully, using her multitool on a number of important connectors and chips inside of it, so that it would, whenever used in the future, hover correctly, give visual confirmation of an image in the viewfinder, and act as if it were taking pictures. . . but no actual data would make it to the storage medium. She closed the camera down. Set it on the desk. Put the credit chits and his keycard on the desk. And then used the room console to make two text-only comm calls. One, to a local escort service. The other, to request that a maid come in to change the linens within the next half hour. Which would get here first would be an open question, but either was sure to be amusing.

As Lintorum groaned and began to regain consciousness, Seheve moved to just beside the bed. She could imagine, clearly, the terror of awakening, naked. Completely bound. Helpless. Blind. A sense that _someone_ was in the room with her, but unable to _see_. "'ooo aaa _'ell?_" Lintorum snarled, his mouth constrained by the gag. "I 'n '_ell_ ooo—" He jerked his head, and the knot around his neck tightened. He froze.

"Yes. I imagine that you can smell me," Seheve whispered. "Don't struggle. The more you fight, the tighter the knots will become. Consider this a friendly warning, Scaevous Lintorum. The Spectres are off-limits to you." She wasn't going to threaten to kill him. It would be a lie. He hadn't actually threatened her life or Rel's. If he had, he would already be dead. It was really that simple for her. No, there was no point in making threats if you had no intention of following through on them. Likewise, there was no point in making threats if you could and _would_ take action.

Lintorum's covered head tried to turn. She could hear a snarl building at the back of his throat, but the flex-ties were strong, and attached securely to a wrought-iron bed-stand. He wasn't going anywhere. "'Ell 'el'a'an 'e's '_inished, _ooo_ 'ear _'ee, oo '_itch! _'ll ooin oo 'oth!_"_

"Do try to stay calm until help arrives," Seheve told him softly, pausing at the door to activate her stealth field again, and make sure that the security cameras, which she'd deactivated for less than ten seconds about an hour before, were securely back off again. "I would hate for you to damage yourself."

And then she slipped out the door again, letting it close behind her. Out the hotel, and through Cairo's night-time streets, silent and invisible. She smiled a little to herself as she hailed another aircab, this time several miles from the hotel, near a crowded nightclub area that catered to aliens, and headed back to her own hotel. She rather wished she could hear the reaction of the maid, whoever the poor room service attendant was, when she knocked on the door, got no answer, tiredly unlocked the door, opened it. . . and found a naked, bound turian male with pornographic images on his room's vid screen, waiting for her. The screams were sure to be loud and long. Lintorum would undoubtedly protest that he'd been attacked. Set up. Might even name her, but Seheve had been using cash for all her aircab fares (and silently, she blessed humans for their unaccountable manner of clinging to their past in little ways like this), the bruises to the neck would line up very closely to the rope constrictions, and between the escort service sending a girl to his room and all the extranet cached files and subscriptions she'd set up in his name. . . it would look fairly dubious for him.

Seheve was _not_ expecting Rel to be awake when she returned to their hotel and slipped in. He whirled as she entered, his eyes narrowed, stealing the smile from her face. "Where the _hell_ have you been?" he demanded, stepping towards her, quickly. "I woke up and you were gone. You've been out for over an hour, and you didn't even tell me you were going anywhere."

Seheve blinked. He looked _angry_, which he didn't often appear to be around her. "Rellus—Rel. . . " she hesitated, and was trampled, because he had a full head of mad, and wasn't slowing down at all.

"I was worried! Spirits of air and darkness, you don't just slip off in the middle of the night like that! Not without telling me." He wound down abruptly, and exhaled, pulling her close to him suddenly. "I went down to the bar area, to the restaurant, no sign of you. Did you go for a walk or something?"

"Or. . . something." Seheve wrapped her arms around him. "I wish you had not awoken. I did not wish for you to know I was gone." She looked up at him in concern.

"Why _not_?" Flare of slight suspicion and a hint of insecurity. What they had was very new, and very fragile, after all.

"I do not wish for you to have to lie." Seheve bit her lower lip.

"And why would I have to lie?"

"If questioned, if you hadn't awoken, you would not have known that I was not here."

Rel's expression had gone from anger and worry to impatience. "And who would be questioning me?"

"The authorities, if they were to check into the story that Scaevous Lintorum is certain to tell them" Seheve shrugged. "I doubt they will, however. I was most convincing about the humiliation I provided him."

Rel's lip-plates dropped open, and in short order, he had the whole story out of her. She even, reluctantly, showed him the images and vids she'd removed from Lintorum's possession. "Probably meaningless if he sent them to any of his editors," Rel growled. He was angry again. "You shouldn't have taken the risk, Seheve. You could go to jail here on Earth for this sort of thing! Breaking and entering, false imprisonment, any number of things—hell, theft!"

"I checked his various comm messages. He was negotiating with a distributor of pornography for the thermal vid." Seheve's voice rasped just a little. "They were reluctant, on the grounds that it could be _any_ turian and _any_ drell, without the faces showing. And apparently, thermal vids just don't have enough detail for the porn business. He had sent previews of some of the images to his editors, but until today, he hadn't caught any of you actually biting me. Or, apparently, touching my waist. That appears to be quite salacious for turians." Seheve found that her hands were clenching and unclenching. "His editors told him to get closer. Get better shots, better vid. Hence why he approached us today. This was his warning, Rellus. The only warning I will give. We don't have a press liaison with us here. That is the protection that the Spectres have usually accorded us. In that absence, we must protect ourselves. And I will do that by any means at my disposal."

Rel looked down at her. And slowly, a smile started to flex his mandibles, and lighten his eyes. "You're our press liaison, huh? Eli will _love_ this." His smile spread a little further. "You're so _fierce_," he told her, and picked her up off the ground to bite her throat.

She hadn't been expecting _that_ reaction. "Rel! Put me down."

"Mmm, not quite yet." Little bites under her ear now. Little flicks of his tongue, sending chills down her spine. "Would you _terribly_ mind if I kept copies of all these _salacious_ pictures of you with a bare waist?"

"I don't understand the turian waist fetish at _all_," Seheve complained, and then gasped as he lifted her high enough in his arms to bite her midsection, as if _that_ were any explanation. Oh, she understood the _mechanics_. She'd done all her required reading in xenobiology and xenopsych, and memorized everything the Master of Assassins had taught regarding blackmail and establishing compromising situations. . . all the things that various species found embarrassing or shameful or wrong. . . and most of them simply did not make sense to her. Why a waist was considered something intimate for a turian, while breasts were for a human or a batarian, but neither were for an asari. . . .no sense to any of it. No rhyme, no reason.

Rel lifted his head now, and looked up at her. "Maybe we should keep that vid, too." His eyes were glittering now in the low light.

"Why?" Seheve demanded.

"Why did _you_ keep it?"

"As evidence of his intrusion into our privacy!"

"Mmm, might be fun to watch it together. Maybe while I'm invading your privacy?"

Seheve brought the heels of her hands down on his shoulders in frustration, and Rel laughed, an unexpected sound. "My fierce one," he told her, with more than a hint of happiness in his face and eyes now. "You wanted to _protect_ me, didn't you?"

"Yes." She looked down, uncomfortably.

Rel grinned up at her. "You have to let me protect _you_, too. Don't just go off alone. I know you're used to doing everything by yourself, but you don't _have_ to anymore, you understand me?" A little shake. "I've got your back. If you let me."

And when she muttered, a little uncomfortably, _Yes_, he carried her off to their bedroom. Still chuckling under his breath.

**Valak N'dor, Bastion, January 7, 2197**

Two weeks ago, Valak had been a semi-eligible bachelor, wealthy and of what passed for a good family on Khar'sharn. Today was somewhat of a different story. Today he was a married man, a father, a fugitive on the run from the Batarian Hegemony. . . and a political football. He'd been provided a more than decent human-tailored suit, let out in various places to accommodate the differences between a human male body and a batarian one, and now sat in the Council chambers, Nala at his side. She was going to have stem cell regenerations done for her upper eyes. Not prosthetics, but the actual regrowth of the lost optical tissue. For the moment, his wife had a scarf tied over the empty sockets, and was wearing an outfit donated by one of the asari Spectres, and the red tones complemented her coppery eyes and skin tone wonderfully. Valak felt free to enjoy the view, largely because he'd been sitting in the Council chambers for four hours now, listening to the various councilor argue, splutter, and, in some cases, froth at the mouth.

"This is an outrage," the asari councilor asserted, and Valak made a tick on the datapad in front of him, striking through four previous ticks he'd already scratched there. _Wonder if she's going to go for an even ten iterations of the same phrase_, he mused. "The batarians are enslaving my people—destroying their minds, turning them into living weapons! And you, Shepard? You want to reward them by making one of them a _Spectre_?"

Odacaen, the turian councilor, turned his head, and remonstrated, mildly, "The batarians are actually taking human biotics and making use of them in the same way. I'd also like to point out that not _one asari planet_ has come under attack by the batarians or the yahg in the current war. The plagues designed by the batarians and the yahg crossed species lines, hitting humans, asari, turians, and drell very hard here on Bastion. . . not to mention on Palaven and Earth." His expression was calm, but his eyes glittered a little in the Council chamber's low light. "You are hardly the only ones whom the batarians have affronted, Councilor."

The asari matriarch sat back in her chair, her expression angry and frustrated at once. "If we appoint him a Spectre, my people will be angry, not just at the batarians, but at _Shepard_," she finally stated. "And that anger will spill over from Shepard and onto this very governing body."

"There are plenty of asari out there who are already angry at me," Shepard said, calmly. Valak could see a shadow in her eyes, however, and winced internally. _How must it feel, to bear the weight of an entire species' rage for not having saved their homeworld?_ he wondered. Shepard had saved Earth, and then turned away to save Palaven, over Thessia. Had then moved to Sur'Kesh. _I suppose that in very short order, I will understand all too well, when every batarian in existence besides Nala will be told to hate and revile me as a traitor._

Out loud, Shepard continued, standing before the various councilors, her hands behind her back, shoulders squared off, and her face unreadable behind the mask of clan-paint, "I think what the respected Councilor means, is that because _I_ am suggesting this, is the reason why so many of her people might object to Valak's appointment. I am, after all, in the opinion of certain groups, such as the Memory of Thessia, possessed of an insensate hatred of all asari, and am bound to their destruction."

The asari who apparently spoke for Bargain-Singer, the rachni queen and councilor, spoke haltingly, in a sing-song fashion now. "We know that this is a false song, Truth-Singer. We understand your heart, and the heart of Sings-Rebellion."

Anderson, the human councilor snorted. "You're the _last_ human in the galaxy who support batarian interest over asari ones, Shepard," he noted. "You're one of only two known survivors on the attack on Mindoir. Anyone who wants to say you're somehow supporting their campaign against your own people by appointing Valak would have to ignore your entire life's history."

"Not unknown for extremist groups and politicians to do precisely that," the salarian councilor put in, dryly. "Extremely selective memory. Distortions of truth to shape a message."

Shepard nodded. "Which is why the Council needs to decide what its own message is going to be," she told them, simply. "You've heard our reports. You have the information that Valak, out of pure conscience, has given us over the past year. You know that he warned us about the plagues. The attack on Edessan. The comet bound for Earth. You know that he's worked to identify and locate biotic processing centers and the _Klem Na_ facilities on Lorek and Camala. Has worked to locate the central node of the Lystheni AI." Shepard paused, and looked at them all now. "How much of that you eventually disclose. . . well, that's up to all of us, and the various intelligence agencies. But here's how I see it. You need to decide on a message, ladies and gentlemen. Is the message going to be 'Even batarian nobles and members of SIU have stepped up and resisted their own government's atrocities, defected to Council space, and stand by our sides in the effort to stop this war'. . . or is the message going to be 'We thank people who work against injustice and tyranny by hanging them out to dry?'"

A few heads were nodding. Valak could see that the turian, human, and quarian contingent seemed to like the idea of the PR coup. The quarian councilor added now, thoughtfully, "And Valak here, as a highly visible Spectre, could rally more batarians to rise against the Hegemony, is the theory, Commander?"

"It's our hope, yes," Shepard acknowledged.

The geth councilor, Emissary, raised its eye-flaps momentarily. "It is our observation that one program, calculating correctly, and from accurate information, can change the entirety of the consensus. This is a worthwhile endeavor, Shepard-Commander."

The asari councilor's eyes narrowed. "And how are we hanging Mr. N'dor out to _dry_ if we do not make him a Spectre, precisely?"

"A fair question," the volus councilor muttered.

Shepard met the asari's gaze unflinchingly. "Let's consider what you'd do with him if he doesn't become a Spectre. What are you going to do with him? Shake his hand and say 'thank you for the information. Now, please, disappear somewhere quietly. We'll give you a safe house on, hmm. . . what Council world currently _isn't_ angry at the batarians. . . ah yes. Irune. Where you and your family _certainly_ be safe from SIU assassins for the rest of your life.'" Shepard's voice swooped derisively. "'While you're at it, we'll be sure to cook up some meaningful jobs for you, and ensure that you have round-the-clock protection. Let's see, who do we have who can measure up to SIU's finest. . . I know, let's put some hired mercenaries around your house. . . no? Oh, very well, would you feel more comfortable with Spectres surrounding your family? Given a Spectre's paycheck, that seems a little excessive. Are you sure we can't talk you into nice, inexpensive mercenaries?'" She looked around at all the rest of the councilors now, her expression more than a little ironic. "Let's face it, there's no place in the galaxy that Valak and his family will be safer than with the Spectres, and their safety is the best reward we can offer them for his service. And if they're going to be stuck in Spectre custody for the foreseeable future, for their own well-being, then we all might as well get some _use_ out of the arrangement, don't you think?" Shepard shook her head and met each councilor's eyes in turn. "We've been at this for over four hours today, and we sat here and argued for _eight_ hours yesterday. Can you at least put it to a vote now?"

There was a quick show of appendages, and the motion to put it to a vote passed. Valak found that he was holding his breath as Shepard came over to sit down beside him and Nala. "You're both all right with this?" Shepard asked them, under her breath.

Nala grimaced slightly. "I'm not fond of the idea of him putting his life on the line any more than absolutely necessary, Commander," she said softly, raising her eyes from the floor. "But at least he'll be in good company when he does so. And there'll be more doctors around than just me." She glanced around the Council chambers, and added, quietly, "Besides, I'm not sure I really want to live undercover on Irune. I'm fairly sure that Nexia deserves a little fresh air and sunshine as she grows up, too." A little flash of humor, though Nala's fingers pressed very tightly against his elbow at the moment.

Valak reached up with a gloved hand and grasped those fingers now, lightly. "I'm willing and ready to serve, Commander. Even if it means grinding through analysis on the base and never being seen again." He looked at Nala. "Well, other than by people who know me," he temporized. "I'd prefer not to be _disappeared_ entirely."

Shepard chuckled. "Ah, here we go. The votes are being cast. Open vote, too. Unusual. They usually do a straight up or down vote, with no one's vote being recorded for posterity."

The representative for Earth said _Yea. _The representative of Palaven said _Yea._ The representative of Ilium said _nay_. The representative of Rannoch said _yea_. The representative of Irune said _nay_. The representative of the Singing Planet said _yea_. The geth representative said _yea_. That put them at five yes votes, and a simple majority was all that was needed. The next vote would carry it. The hanar abstained. The elcor voted _nay_. The salarian representative, after a sidelong look at the asari councilor, voted _yea_. "There's a surprise," Shepard murmured. "They probably see an advantage to having STG and the Spectres having access to a former member of SIU. Though they'd probably wish to keep that a secret, to keep the batarians from scrambling all their damned codes. . . .interesting that they voted yes." And finally, the krogan councilor, Urdnot Wreav voted, and voted _yea_. The drell still did not have a representative, having no homeworld and having a low galactic population.

"The motion carries," Anderson announced. "Valak N'dor, if you would please stand? The oath is a short one." Anderson gave Shepard a droll look. "You're definitely trying for the record books this year. First volus, first quarian, and now the first _batarian_ Spectre. What's next?"

"Elcor, I'm hoping. Handful more rachni." Shepard kept her tone bland. "Oh, and taking the war to the batarian homeworlds next. And making very damned sure that the yahg are cleared off of every single world they're currently on that doesn't belong to them." Her eyes were suddenly fierce and more than a little deadly, and Valak saw, for the first time, the indomitable will that had kept this woman alive when her whole family, her entire settlement, was dead. When every member of her squad had died to a thresher maw attack. The strength of purpose that had let her ignore the scoffing of the old Council, and had led her to defend the galaxy itself from the Reapers. _And the Hegemon thinks he can do a better job than the Reapers? Ancestors. What a fool._

"All right," Shepard told him. "We'll get your armor painted, then you'll take the oath. You'll do your first press conference after the Council's made their announcement. And then we're putting you to _work_."

"Good," Valak told her, and helped Nala up from her seat, as the various councilors made their way over to him to shake his hand or clasp his wrist, as appropriate. "What's first?"

"Histav L'dar and Dr. Yilar M'nav. Ever heard of either of them?"

Valak frowned. "M'nav's name is familiar. I believe he was, briefly, considered as a possible suitor for my. . . sister." He swallowed. Valak was still more than a little disturbed whenever he thought about Xal'i. He could remember when she'd been a toddler, when she'd seemed innocent and happy, as all children did. _I'm probably going to wonder, for the rest of my life, what it was, precisely, that twisted her so. She was apt to beat her servants and cause trouble even before her first marriage. . . but she and I were raised by the same parents. Had the same tutors. How could she have been so . . . utterly different? So utterly debased, by the end?_ He might never know. Some of it could have come about in her first husband's house. In the years when she'd been a widow, and confined to their parents' estate, rather than out on her own, because her substantial wealth hadn't been under her own control. Valak cleared his throat. "He was a notable linguist, as I recall. The other name is unfamiliar."

"That's a fair start. M'nav would recognize you, then?"

"Probably. He was somewhat junior to me at SIU, and not in the same division. Why do you ask?"

Valak's eyes widened as Shepard replied, lightly, "Because we captured him on Terra Nova, Valak, my friend. He claims to speak yahg, and we've been having a hell of a time deciding if he's been telling us the truth about anything. I figure he might answer your questions a little differently than mine. And if nothing else, you might have a clearer idea on if he's telling us the truth or not." She smiled at him merrily. "In and around that? We've got around two thousand captured and very bored warrior-caste batarians sitting in the White Rock desert on Mindoir. I'd like you to go have a chat with them and see if you can convince them to help you liberate your people."

Valak's jaw dropped open. "Ancestors," he said, after a moment. "You _do_ move quickly, Shepard."

"Step lively, Valak, step lively. You have to keep up around here. We don't leave people behind, but people have been known to get trampled from time to time." Shepard's grin was absolutely wicked, and after a moment, Valak began to laugh.

He got his armor painted. Strange, to be wearing the black and the red. He stood before the Council, not another face like his own anywhere in the room, besides Nala's. He kept his eyes focused on her, not on the cameras. Saw the pride there, and felt buoyed by it.

He took the oath. He'd never in this lifetime thought he'd be saying _these_ words. it wasn't exactly the fulfillment of a childhood dream. . . but Valak was shaken to his core by the trust Shepard was placing in him. He'd gotten a clear idea from watching the way she dealt with her people, that she considered her Spectres to be her family. And simply by taking the oath, he was now a part of Lilitu Shepard's extended family. He, Valak N'dor, a batarian rebel and turncoat. . . could now count on the support and backing of the Scourge of Bahak. _My life has certainly never been simple_, Valak thought, oddly amused. _But I get the feeling that it's about to become much, much more complicated._

**Linianus, Bastion, January 1-7, 2197**

A week on Bastion was not _quite_ enough time to have relaxed completely, Lin realized a little glumly. He'd spent three grueling months on Omega, gone to the Singing Planet, had his life happily re-arranged as a result, and then spent two bitter months undercover, helping conduct a guerrilla war against the Hegemony. Some of the tactics he'd suggested had hearkened back to the Unification Wars. . . on the colonial side. The losing side, of course. He'd never have _dreamed_ that he'd be putting all his boyhood reading to use, but he had. The colonists on Galatana and Edessan had blown up Imperial supply dumps and troop barracks routinely, around two thousand years ago. The colonists on Nimines had cut power to outposts loyal to the Imperator, and let winter and the cold do their killing for them. Macedyn's colonists had poisoned the legions' water supplies, and let the _desert_ kill their opponents. The colonial irregulars had then melted back into concealment in the general population.

And Subigus the Conqueror (also called _the Bloody_, by the less-often-published class of historians), had reclaimed one colony at a time, outpost by outpost. The legions had been forced to go in, in force, on the ground, in many cases, and had, in at least one case on Nimines, begun executing every tenth person in an outpost at random, until the entire rebel force stepped forward, and pleaded that _their_ lives be taken, and not any more of the innocents. Then every single rebel had been executed—decapitation, quick and efficient—and their bodies left and displayed. Anyone who buried the bodies, it was decreed, would suffer the same penalty. The Imperator went so far as to declare their spirits unable to unite with their families. That particular decree had not, historically, been taken seriously.

The spirit of rebellion had still smoldered in every colony until Subigus' death, and the ascension of his son, Comodus the Unifier. Who quickly made it clear that he planned to reform the Hierarchy. That colonists and Palaven natives would be treated as equals under the law—which was the heart of the original rebellion's demands, in fact. That everyone was different, but that no one was really special. Even nobles would be subjected to military service, in order to attain citizenship, he decreed. . . and put his own first-son through boot-camp as a result. It had taken forty years, the entirety of Comodus' reign, to unify the Hierarchy. The flames of rebellion had died, but the pride in being a colonist had never faded. The face-paints, which echoed the ones used by primitive turians, and were disdained by so many Palaven natives, were clung to, fiercely. Made a part of their identity.

The situation on Khar'sharn was both alike, and unalike. This wasn't a rebellion by distant colonies, but by people right under the noses of their oppressive leadership. As such, it had almost certainly been doomed to failure. . . except that it might kindle more and more such sparks. Hence why the dubious methods had been justified. Or so Lin devoutly hoped they had been.

Linianus paused in his strides on the treadmill, and looked over at Serana. She looked a little ashen under the scales today, but she was gutting out the last of her physical therapy without complaint. "You all right, little one?" he asked. It was damned odd to see her back in Thracian yellow. It made him flinch a little every time he saw it, just as he'd smiled every time he'd seen her wearing his Edessan blue.

"I'm fine," she told him, smiling. "Muscles are still apt to complain. But you'll rub me in again tonight, won't you?"

"Hmm, if you make it worth my while," he told her, with excessive and wholly feigned reluctance, making her laugh.

The past week had been, he had to admit, pretty wonderful. They'd been sharing a room here in one of the dextro-oriented hotels on E-ring, far enough from their old neighborhood that the plague-memories of Bastion didn't haunt them much. She'd had two hours of physical therapy every day, to make sure that she regained strength and tone in her legs. And every night, Lin rubbed ointment into her legs for her, as he'd been doing since she'd been released from the med bay on the _Raedia_. Deep tissue massage, helping the muscles recover still further. The ointment was designed to help the flesh and the scales heal, hopefully with minimal scarring. The scales that still hadn't grown back in over the smooth flesh left her legs looking oddly vulnerable to his eyes. A little too blue-tinged to be human, but almost as sleek.

He'd been delightfully surprised when she'd rolled atop him and started biting after each and every massage. "I'll have to do this even when you're not doing physical therapy," he'd told her last night, trying to keep it light.

Serana had simply smiled down at him. "Yes. Please. It feels wonderful."

Later—definitely _much_ later—she'd asked, with a hint of concern in her voice, "Lin? _Amatus_?"

"Hmm?" He'd been right on the edge of sleep, but the note in her voice had woken him back up. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Well. . . " Serana hesitated, which was unusual for her. She was usually very forthright. "You haven't. . . " She sighed, and started over. "I've been half-expecting you to tell me not to go back in the field."

That had gotten his attention, and fast. Lin sat up in bed, and turned on the nestside light, which was on a low table, just a foot off the floor, to stare at her in consternation. "What?" He shook his head rapidly. "That doesn't even make sense."

Serana had blinked, her wide blue eyes surprised behind that yellow paint. "I thought. . . because of your wife. . . "

Three sets of intolerable memories. Brennia dying, as Eli tried to perform CPR, her eyes looking at him, her whisper of _ I don't want to go. . . ._ And Serana, being kept alive by Dara's skilled hands. And then Dara, being kept alive by Eli's breath and pure determination. Lin swallowed, and nodded after a moment. "It was pretty hard to see," he admitted. "I definitely don't want to see you hurt like that again, or hurt worse." He reached down and framed her face with his hand, tracing the mandible with light fingers. "But. . . ."

"But?"

Lin thought about it. Tried to figure out a way to say it, that would show her what he really meant. Words were such tricky things, sometimes. "First, it's not my call," he pointed out, quietly. "You're TIA. Kasumi more or less _borrowed_ you from turian intelligence. . . and after sitting through three briefings with TIA, Leodorus Rostrus, you, and Kasumi, I _know_ they're thrilled with how well you did on Khar'sharn." He paused. "You're up for an intelligence medal for exceptional field service. Not bad for someone who's only a year out of boot camp."

Serana just looked at him. "That's it?" she asked, her eyes wide and a little wondering.

Lin shook his head. "No. That's my rational side talking." He grabbed a pillow and propped it against the rim of the nest so he could sit up more comfortably, and laid back, pulling up his knees to avoid catching his spurs. Drew her to him, so her head lay on his shoulder. There was a distinct pause. The rational side was the _easy_ side to talk about. It _wasn't_ his call. This was her job, and she was bound to do it for at least three more years. And she was damned good at it.

"I thought you'd be asking me to request an analysis position." Her voice was low.

Lin thought about that. "Why would you think that, little one?" _Even Eli accepted your decision to go into TIA once he saw you were strong and capable, and that it wasn't just a game to you._ Both of them had always been a little protective of Serana. Eli had been more so, from an earlier age, simply because he'd seen Kella die so young. Had been _blooded_ so damned young, Lin figured. Lin had only developed the protective streak later. After first smelling estrus on Serana's skin, and realizing how acutely vulnerable she'd been at that moment. And later, after having Brennia die in his arms. "Do you _want_ to take a desk job?" he asked, after a moment.

"Only as a break," Serana replied, after a moment. "While my legs finish recovering."

"Yeah. That's what I thought you'd say." Lin nodded to himself.

Serana's voice had been a little defensive. "I've done so very damned little in the last year, Lin. I want to do more. I want to contribute."

"You have been," he told her, gently. "You helped investigate the plague distribution on Bastion. You helped Kasumi track down the rachni ships for the eggs. And two months of a pretty serious underground war at the heart of enemy territory. That's not exactly twiddling your thumbs, as a human might say."

"It feels like it," she muttered.

"You know what Eli and I did our first year out of boot camp? A whole lot of guard duty. A whole lot of domestic disputes. We were on at least four, five calls a night, resolving disputes or dragging idiots to the cells. Didn't feel like fate of the world type stuff to me, but sure as hell kept us busy. And you think you haven't been _contributing_ enough?" Lin snorted, and rubbed a hand over her fringe. "If you take an analysis position, you'd be a little safer, sure, but then again, I won't be able to see you. Won't be able to work with you in the field." He shrugged a little. It was a toss-up, to him. A little more danger, but he could protect her in the field. . . as much as he could protect anyone, really. If she took a desk job, she'd be safer, but he wouldn't have her at his side, and they did make a damned effective team. "I doubt I'll ever _ask_ you to take a desk job, Serana.

"You're not?" Slight uncertainty in her voice, a hint of worry.

"No." He exhaled, and just plunged in. The words would take care of themselves, so long as he actually started saying them. "Most of our people _dream_ of being able to fight with their mate at their sides. There are. . . disadvantages, yeah. Seeing you get hurt was definitely one of the worst moments of my life—and I don't want to see it happen again—but you're alive. This is your job. You've spent years preparing for it. . . and you're good at it. If I respect you at all, if I love you at all, I can't tell you not to be who you are." His fingers tightened on her fringe for a moment, as he suddenly realized something. Lin chuckled a little, and shook his head. "Just dawned on me. . . a lot of what I love in you, is what I loved in Brennia. I don't know if I loved her because she was an echo of what I always saw in you, but. . . I never stood in the way of her doing her job, either." _And it wasn't her job that got her killed, if I'm honest about it. _Lin had spent the last three years coming to terms with Brennia's death. He'd blamed himself, blamed the military for assigning her to Macedyn, blamed the job at first. . . and then come to assign the blame solely where it was due: Stragos Emphillum.

Serana lifted her head to give him a quizzical look. "From what you've said of her, I sound nothing like her."

Lin nodded, recalling himself from his darker thoughts. "Yeah. She was very shy. You're definitely not. She'd been through a hell of a lot. Terrible family situation, the gangs, the rapes, the beatings. She was broken in a lot of ways, but she wanted to put herself back together." Lin ran a hand along Serana's fringe again, and managed a smile. "Not really what I was getting at. She knew how to lie, Serana. Never to me, but she could do it, and do it well. Knew how to hide, stay unseen. Knew how to pick biometric locks and find hidden stashes and wanted to learn how to hack computers, but never got around to it. Sound like anyone else I know?"

Serana made a rude noise. "That's a job description, Lin."

Lin rolled over and nipped Serana's throat chidingly. Brennia had been like Serana, he realized. Serana was the bold-color portrait, Brennia the pastel version, a pale shadow. Where Serana had leaped into her work with a laugh and a smile, and only now was coming to understand the darkness in it, Brennia had always known the depths of evil that were out in the world. . . and had needed to learn to laugh and to smile. Had just begun to discover a spark of mischief in herself. "Might be a job description, but there _are_ a few similarities," he told her.

Serana swallowed, and he could feel the muscles in her throat work. "What do you think your life would be like now, if she'd lived?" The unspoken question behind that was _would you be here with me?_

Lin stared off into the distance, blankly. He'd loved his wife, and dearly. Trying to figure out what his life would look like now, if Brennia had lived, however, gave him a headache. "Oh, sweetness, what a question." He shook his head. "I . . . probably wouldn't be a Spectre," he admitted.

"No?" Serana looked up at him, a little shocked. "Lin, you're _amazing_ at what you do—"

He shook his head. "I wasn't before." Lin swallowed, hard. "I wouldn't have been as . . . driven." Flashes of memory. He'd never taken to the bottle. He'd done his three nights a week of sparring, and enjoyed them, but adrenaline hadn't been his solace. He'd dated—once, briefly—on Nimines. None of that had been what let him cope, even remotely, with the darkness. Work had been his anodyne, his solace, his surcease. Nothing but the work. There had been a point when he'd actually taken to leaving a suit of clothes in his locker at work, so he wouldn't have to go home to his empty apartment to get changed, and so no one would notice that he hadn't actually left the building. Eli's Edessan apartment had been 'psycho killer neat.' Lin's apartment had held boxes, largely, because he'd never unpacked any of Brennia's things. There had been dust on them, untouched for months, when he'd packed up his own belongings to move to Bastion. He'd had them moved to a storage closet on Bastion. . . and now they were sitting in an attic in his new house on Mindoir. _Guess Serana and I should unpack them together when we go home_. Out loud, he gave her the reply she deserved to hear. "I'd have been happy and content, probably. Probably wouldn't have gotten the Praetorian's attention. Probably still would have moved to Bastion, since Eli and I had been planning on that since boot camp. I like to think Brennia would have come with me, but I don't _know_ that." He exhaled. "Would have made sharing the apartment with you and Eli even more weird." He looked down at her. "Then again, Eli wouldn't have been as depressed or driven, either."

Serana looked off into the distance, then. "Maybe he wouldn't have married me, then."

"Might not have made Spectre, either."

"He had it written all over him from the moment he finished the Rite on Tuchanka, and so did _you_, though neither of you will ever admit to that. You think there's no reason at all that Lantar and your dad carry that vid around on their omnitools at all times?" Serana scoffed. Then she sighed. "But yeah. So much would be different. And if either of you had been happier, or less driven. . . "

". . . neither of us would have been on Omega this year." Lin swallowed. He knew for damned sure that both of them had saved Dara's life once or twice, just as she'd saved theirs. "And maybe only one or the other of us would have been on Khar'sharn." And Dara had saved Serana's life, and it had taken both him and Eli to take out the last of the turrets and save Dara's life at the end. "Ripples in the water," he finally said. "You can't trace where they'll all go, or how they'll move everything in the pond." _But if Brennia hadn't died. . . would Serana be alive today? Would Dara?_ Easy to think about in the abstract. More than a little intolerable in the specific. He found his arms tightening around Serana. "Doesn't help to think that way. The past only brings us to the present, and while we should always be _aware_ of it, we can't live in it. The only thing that really matters is _now,_" he told her, and changed the subject. "Although, I'm beginning to think you're keeping me awake for a _reason_."

Serana had chuckled and leaned in to bite his neck. "Is that a good reason?"

"Spirits, yes, it is."

In the here and now, Serana looked up and smiled. "You've been lost in thought the whole time you've been running," she told him. "You still working out the kinks in Fors' wedding contracts?"

Lin closed his eyes and groaned a little under his breath. "No! Would you believe two of his _other_ clans got involved yesterday?"

Serana stepped off her own treadmill, and looked up at him. "How?" she demanded. "How can they possibly—"

"Do the words 'hostile takeover attempt' mean anything to you?" Lin pulled Serana with him into the locker room at the medical facility where she'd been doing her rehabilitation therapy, and began to pull his street clothes out of his locker.

Serana pulled off her loose workout clothes, and started getting into her fleet uniform. "I'm . . .really confused," she admitted. "I thought Bire-Clan thought they couldn't _get_ anything for Fors, because he was too expensive in terms of worth? And thus, the whole 'toxic asset' thing was designed to spread his wealth out all over three clans?"

"Yeah." Lin tossed his workout clothes in his bag, and slung it over his shoulder, putting on his shoes now. "That's what Fors had been told the first time around. Turns out that Perri-Clan and Keldo-Clan have other ideas. They've formed a joint venture to purchase Fors for themselves, and have stated that they're going to make their bid directly to the family members of Bire-Clan directly, who can, apparently, out-vote their clan-leaders, or, um, appoint new ones. . . I'm a little fuzzy on that part. . . if they don't think the needs of their clan are being met."

Serana sank down on a nearby bench and looked up at Lin. And started to laugh.

"Oh, it gets better," Lin told her, darkly. "Not only am I doomed to spend the next three hours in a full envirosuit—" he'd opted to rent one, rather than having his existing armor filled with foam every time he needed to go into the pressurized volus sector, "listening to all this _s'kak_, but it really does get worse. They say that there's only one thing that can keep them from pitching their bid to the stock-holders—clan-members, I mean." He slapped the locker behind him with a light kick in irritation. "If they can't buy him out, then they mean to merge with the existing three clan's venture. Which is an input of capital that Bire can't really turn down. Lorsa's upset because Keldo is suggesting that he marry a female from their clan instead of Chissa, Chissa threw a vase at the Keldo representative's _head_ yesterday—"

"Wait, they have vases?" Serana interrupted.

"As my heart beats and I take air, yes, but their equivalent of flowers looks quite a bit more like an anemone, and I think it's actually an animal, because when the vase shattered, the damned 'flowers' started to crawl away." Lin's mandibles flexed as Serana curled in on herself in laughter again. "Why don't you come with me? I could really use someone there to keep me from exploding at them."

"Wouldn't that be imploding at them?"

"One of the two, that's for sure."

Serana grinned up at him merrily. "Of course I will," she told him, cheerfully. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"It's dull," he warned her. "And I'm going to kill Eli for sticking me with this."

"You'll kill your _fradu_, but not Fors?"

"Fors is doing just as much suffering as I am at the moment. Eli's off god knows where in the galaxy, since it's obvious that Kasumi is _not_ saying where they went—"

"I bet I could find out—" Serana offered, her eyes sparkling.

"Don't challenge your mentor's security protocols on _my_ account, sweetness." He caught her hand and bit her wrist. "I just don't like them being out of touch. Every time any of us gets out of touch with each other, _bad_ things happen." He remembered saying that once before. On Macedyn, possibly during Dara and Rel's _tal'mae_ rites. It was even more true now, than it had been then. "Feels like tempting the sprits to split the pack at this point."

"Superstition, Lin? You?"

He shook his head. "Just looking at trends and patterns. Eli and I get split off, I lose a wife, we both lose our spirits. Dara and Rel get split off, they both lose their spirits, or damned near. We all stay together, every single one of us survives the plagues. We split up again, and Rel damned near loses a leg."

"He was hardly alone," Serana chided. "Rinus was there. And Melaani and Uncle Garrus and Lantar and even . . . Seheve." Serana peeked up at him.

Lin snorted and decided to leave _that_ topic strictly alone.

Two hours later, in the volus area, Lin was wishing, fervently, that he'd gotten an envirosuit with built-in alcohol dispensers. He wasn't apt to drink much, but five volus clans were testing his patience. "And if we take this offer directly to your clan-members, you won't _be_ clan-leaders by the end of the week, so perhaps you should start taking this all a bit more seriously!" was the gist of what he was getting out of his VI translation of shrill words being screeched in volus trade-tongue.

Lin leaned his helmet against his gloved hand, and looked around the long, barrel-arched hall in which the meeting was taking place. The ceilings were only about six feet high, so, sitting down, he wasn't in danger of damaging himself, but when he stood, he was forced to hunch, or at least bend his knees and walk with an awkward shuffle. The furnishings were all made of water ice, which was apparently costly and dangerous for volus to work, considering the temperatures required to render it liquid were hazardous for them. _Who knew, the 'water age' for them was the same as the 'bronze age' for quite a bit of the rest of the galaxy?_

Serana, at the moment, was across the room from him, studying 'flowers' in a clear ice vase. The vase held liquid ethane, and the 'flowers' were floating inside of it, stretching and billowing in the dim light.

"Fors," Lin called across the table, ignoring all etiquette and protocol at this point. "I have a proposition for you."

"What's that?" the volus asked. He was on the far end of the room from Chissa, as tradition demanded.

"How about if you call your other five clans up—what were their names again?"

"Arve-Clan, Hars-Clan, Liss-Clan, Irrva-Clan, Perri-Clan. . . " Fors paused. "I always forget one. . . hmm. Oh! Hela-Clan, too. Why would I want to call them?"

"I think you should point out that you _must_ have value, if Keldo and Perri here are pushing so hard to get a controlling interest, or to buy you out entirely. All five of them should be able to outbid everyone else here, right?" Lin was under the impression that Bire was in a fair bit of financial difficulty at the moment. He'd been doing a hell of a lot of reading of stock reports lately. They'd been involved, peripherally, at least, in the scandals of 2190, and had had several prominent clan-leaders involved in the banking collapse of 2191. Liss-Clan, however, was heavily involved in colonization and terraforming. Their stocks were sure to rise after the war, and any number of people were already buying into their numerous clan-held companies. Hars-Clan was involved in turian weapons manufacturing, and was experiencing a boom at the moment, as well, for obvious reasons.

The five clans represented at the table absolutely _squawked_ at that. "This is not proper behavior from a _shreee'eka!_" the female clan-leader of Lorsa complained.

"I don't know about that," Fors pointed out, dryly. "He's looking after my interests, and at the moment, my future's not looking bright. Someone manages a hostile take-over, and I don't get what I want out of this contract. . . I won't sign any papers. Let me make it really simple. I want Chissa. Chissa wants out of Lorsa. What do we need to do to make this happen?"

"How about if all ten clans agree to a joint venture?" Lin suggested. That got even more rumblings of disapproval.

"How about if we petition the clan-government of Irune to declare Fors a planetary treasure?" Serana suggested from across the room.

Dead silence fell across the room, and Lin grinned under his mask as Serana turned to look at the volus at the table. "That way, everyone on the planet would technically own him, no one would have any risk or any measurable capital invested in him, and the only negotiations would revolve around the house status of whoever he happens to marry, and the disposition of any offspring."

At that point, every volus in the room started to shout. Loudly. Datapads were pulled out, calculations were run, a few suitcases were tossed at heads. And Fors sat at his end of the table, laughing hysterically. "It's so insane, it might just work!" he shouted across the room to Serana.

_Oh, thank you spirits. I get to finish the paperwork. I'm sticking Eli with the damned 'bachelor party' part of all of this. . . __shreee'eka__ business._


	132. Chapter 132: Respite

**Chapter 132: Respite**

_**Author's note: **TheRev28 was kind enough to write a "fan poem" to go with all the fanart I've been receiving. I'm reprinting it here, because it's fun. Thanks, Rev! :-D_

"_**The Young Guns"**_

A roster with a pantheon of names;  
A squad of friends from every path in life;  
To them, the times of life and death are games.  
Their job exists to rid the worlds of strife.  
Like spirits, which the group of friends derive  
Their name, they operate and never get  
Espied: they leave as quickly as arrive.  
Together they survive and don't submit  
Against the toughest opposition thrown  
At them by vicious Yahg or S.I.U.  
When finally the friends, at last, are shown  
Some time away from Lilu Shepard's crew,  
A love, once lost, is given chance to fly:  
Now Dara does with Eli touch the sky.

_Concept-artist has done some really amazing things, including images of human-turian hybrids, at 1 year, childhood, and adulthood, and some nice body and face sketches for quarians out of their suits. Check out her deviant gallery (mind the spaces and the dots)! procon-8[dot]deviantart[dot]com/ # / d4jt5ed%20%28turian / human%20hybrid%29_

**Dempsey, Earth, January 7, 2197**

James Dempsey had skied on the East Coast, growing up. Which was to say, he more or less learned to ice skate on a hill. Colorado was something of a revelation for him. For one thing, there was a hell of a lot less freezing rain at Breckenridge, than, say, at Killington in Vermont. The mountains were a lot bigger, and grander, and almost achingly beautiful, with sharp ridgelines that looked as if they might cut the azure sky overhead, and make it bleed indigo.

For him, when he was away from Zhasa, the activity of skiing was largely pointless. There was no actual enjoyment in it; there was simply. . . problem-solving. Finding the most efficient path down a given slope, dodging the snow- and hoverboarders, who insisted on plunging straight down the hill, while skiers wove in sinusoidal curves, back and forth along the inclines. As such, Dempsey opted to spend a fair bit of time with Zhasa on the bunny hills and the intermediate slopes, once she got good enough to handle them. Her delight and exhilaration became his own, and that was far preferable to the mind-numbing boredom of executing the same maneuvers, crossing terrain that his logical mind told him didn't need to be crossed, when there were perfectly good gondolas for traversing the landscape.

Periodically, and especially as they walked through the ski village below the mountains at night, looking at the seasonal ice sculptures and trying a different restaurant every night—Breckenridge was just enough of a tourist trap to have dextro foods, though not many, given turian reservations about "cold" climates—Dempsey felt just a hint of guilt for not having brought Madison with them. _Surely, two Spectres could keep one young teenaged boy out of trouble_, he occasionally thought, and then realized, _I'm not sure an army could keep a teenaged boy out of trouble if he really wanted to find it. Not that Mad ever seems to __look__ for trouble. Next year, I'll bring them both someplace on Earth. I promise._

The faint guilt was assuaged simply by Zhasa's presence. Her delight in learning a new skill. Her open friendliness with all the humans and asari in the mountain village—in spite of the goggling stares she got their entire stay. She clearly loved everything here. . . especially the _snow._ The first time it actively snowed on them, Zhasa laughed out loud and lifted her hands and face to the clouds, opening her mouth. Felt the flakes whisper across her face in a cold caress. Felt the feathery flakes turn into cold beads of water on her cheeks, and closed her violet eyes in pure bliss behind her goggles, and something in Dempsey absolutely crystallized at that exact moment. Her child-like delight in the new sensation, just like her bliss in feeling him eat cheese fondue for her down in the village. . . her whimsical sense of humor. . . her warm, open, generous spirit. . . the fact that she let him share her mind, fed him her laughter, her happiness, her sorrows. . . . all of it. Her. Just Zhasa. Zhasa'Maedan, born to the _Pellus_ and member of the _Irria_. _My god, what would my life be without her in it? Nothing. Would hardly be able to talk to Mad. Wouldn't be a Spectre. Wouldn't be. . . anyone at all._

There were those who would surely say they'd only known one another for what, nine, ten months at most? Been intimate since just before the awakening of the Keepers in what, May of this year? How could he be sure? And from another perspective, it hardly seemed _fair_. She kept insisting, as she had on Bastion, that she got _him_ out of their arrangement, but . . . what was he? A fairly broken specimen of humanity, really. Practically half-geth. Hell, his AI "self," James, had more emotional life than he did. But when it came right down to it, Dempsey simply decided that he couldn't face a life without Zhasa in it. And she deserved to hear that, one way or another.

And thus, he made a little side-trip one afternoon, as Zhasa was zipping down the slopes alone, in boots custom-made for her unique quarian feet on Bastion. And that night, as they were getting packed to leave Earth, he asked her, pointedly, "Are you sure you've got _everything_ packed?"

Zhasa paused, and blew her fluffy white hair out of her eyes. "I've cleared all of my drawers," she replied. "I can check them again. . . . I wouldn't want to lose any of my new clothes, after all." She grinned at him.

Dempsey looked up at the ceiling for a moment. "You looked all through the dresser?"

"Yes."

"Did you happen to look on _top_ of the dresser?"

"Well, there's a box there, yes, but I think that's something from the hotel. They leave all those toiletry items fresh every day in the bathroom, too, you know. And the mints on the pillow that you won't let me try." Zhasa pretended to pout.

"Zhasa-love, we don't even know where in the galaxy your primary care physician even _is_ right now, and we're several hundred light years from your other doctors. Let's not tempt fate with the levo foods, eh?" Dempsey shook his head, and realized he'd been side-tracked. "Besides, toiletries are kept in the bathroom. That's probably not something from the hotel." He'd been patiently waiting for her to notice the box for about two hours at this point, and while he liked the concept of waiting for her to notice it on her own, he was about ten seconds from some really _pointed_ comments about her observational skills.

Zhasa sighed. "All right, I'll look at it." She picked up the small red velvet box and, with delicate care, used her talons to open it. Then she looked down into it, her violet eyes widening for a moment, and she blinked, rapidly. "You don't suppose that someone who had the room previously could have left this behind?" she asked, her voice edging up in pitch a little. "Wait, we've had the room a week. . . "

Dempsey, from where he was leaning beside the room's window, thumped the back of his head against the wall. Just once. "No, I'm pretty sure that no one misplaced that. I think, if you check it closely, it probably belongs to you, Zhasa. . . if you want it." This was not _quite_ going how he'd imagined it would, but what in life actually ran according to script?

Zhasa blinked, rapidly. "Well, it's beautiful," she told him, peeking at him out of the corner of her eyes, clearly. "It's a diamond, right? We usually use them for industrial purposes. Well, synthetic ones, anyway. For heat sinks and semiconductors, mostly." She lifted the ring out of the box and studied it, smiling happily. "I only bought myself a few necklaces and bracelets on Bastion, and I had no idea what to do with the earrings, since I wasn't sure an ear piercing would be a good idea. . . or would even _stay_ pierced, what with the nanobots and all. . . but I hadn't even really thought about rings. Thank you! It's beautiful!"

This last was spoken as Dempsey crossed the room to her, and took the box out of her fingers. Set it on the dresser, and looked down at her. He could feel his lips quirking slightly. He wasn't sharing his mind with her at the moment, the better to prolong her very appealing and amusing curiosity and confusion. The amusement was thus, entirely his own native emotion, and he was enjoying the _hell_ out of it.

Zhasa gave him a slightly suspicious look at this point. "Is this another solstice tradition?"

"Nope."

"New Year's tradition?"

"Nope."

"It _is_ a tradition, though?"

"Yep." The corners of his lips curled up just a hint more.

Zhasa lifted her chin and met his eyes. "You _are_ planning on telling me what this is about, aren't you?"

"Eventually."

She feinted a kick at his left shin, and Dempsey's shoulders shook, once, and he caught her wrists in a loose hold. Brought her close enough to kiss, lightly. "I wasn't sure it would fit," he told her, after their lips parted. "Kind of difficult getting quarian fingers sized here. Had to go with a common turian size, and got bug-eyes from the lady at the counter." He pointed at her left hand, the left-most, slender finger. "Try it on?"

Zhasa made an attempt; the emerald-cut diamond in its platinum band slipped neatly into position. "It seems to be a little tight," she admitted, after a moment.

"That's okay. If it's a problem, as opposed to you not being used to wearing rings, we can get it re-sized." Dempsey nodded to himself.

"Well, it's not like I'd be wearing it every day."

"Actually, I sort of hope you would wear it every day."

"It looks too pretty to be an every day type ring."

Dempsey's lips quirked just a hint further. "Actually, it's very much an every day type ring. That's an engagement ring." He picked up her hand, surveyed the delicate fingers, and kissed her palm.

"A what?" Genuine confusion in her voice now, and he could feel the brush of her mind against his.

"It's the sort of ring a male human gives to a female, when he asks her to marry him." Dempsey looked down at her calmly, still holding her hand in his. "It's a promise that another ring will be given, when they get married."

Her mouth fell open, and he added, just as calmly, "You don't have to accept it. And if you don't like that ring in particular, I'm sure we could get it exchanged—"

His words cut off as she leaped into his arms, kissing him thoroughly, wrapping her legs around his waist as she more or less climbed him. _I take it that's a yes?_ he asked, silently, letting his shields down, feeling the love and astonishment and delight in her wash through him. . . meeting his own surprisingly intense relief that there had been no rejection. The last time he'd proposed, he'd had several months of hints from Amy that she'd like to get married, and that she intended to remain a very _good_ girl until a ring was on her finger, thank you very much. He'd refused to do the cliché bended knee thing, and had, simply, given her two wrapped gifts for her birthday, a small box with a bracelet in it, and a large, shoebox-sized box. . . which had held the much smaller ring-box inside of it. Amy had pounced on the small box first, and, while she'd liked the bracelet, had had a hard time hiding her disappointment. Which had made her surprise and astonishment all the sweeter when she'd found the coveted ring inside the _other_ box. . . in front of all her friends and family, too, as she'd wanted, so she had received immediate congratulations and approval. She had, after all, been eighteen.

Of the two proposals, however, Dempsey much preferred _this_ time around. In private. Just the two of them. _You really didn't expect me to ask you?_ he whispered silently.

_I never felt a hint of it in your mind,_ Zhasa admitted. _We've been very happy, and I . . . honestly didn't know how humans go about this sort of thing._

_Fair enough. I wasn't sure how quarians did this sort of thing, either._ Dempsey raised his head from her lips. "You'll have to tell me, so I can do this the right way by your traditions, too."

Zhasa chuckled, and nuzzled her face into his shoulder. "Typically, you'd go to my captain and ask permission. I was beginning to think I'd need to go to Shepard and ask permission to marry _you_."

Dempsey blinked. "So, I go to the captain of the _Irria_?"

"Technically, I suppose, though clearly Shepard's my commander now." Zhasa made a face. "I suppose, just as technically, I'll need to change my ship name at some point. To which of the SRs, however, I have no idea. I don't really see myself as a _vas Normandy_, though."

Dempsey found a seat on the nearby couch, and settled down, and Zhasa perched on his lap, almost purring with happiness. That glow spread through him, and he smiled faintly. _Who'd have thought this a year ago, huh? _

_Well, a year ago, you weren't who you are today. A year ago, it was still ten years ago in your mind, too._ Zhasa's response was cheerful and pragmatic.

A year ago, he'd been half-bestial, half-robot. Today, he was neither. He'd probably never be quite _human_ again, but on his good days—the days when Zhasa was beside him—he could be. He'd managed two and a half months on Terra Nova without her, without losing his mind or giving in to the battle-rage that could possess him. He'd had a little help from his friends, in doing so, of course. And, to his astonishment, he definitely did count Sidonis and Doc Jaworski and even Rellus Velnaran his friends. . . even if part of him still tended to consider them kids, somehow. Dempsey stroked Zhasa's hair back out of her face, something he couldn't have done a year ago, either. Hell, even eight months ago, he'd been afraid that what was under the mask might be . . . a medusa's visage, practically. _Very definitely not,_ he added, mentally, and kissed her softly. _So. . . once I get permission from the captain of the __Irria__. . . or Shepard, or whoever, what then?_

_There's a review of genealogical records as part of the captain's permission process,_ she told him, shaking her head. _Preventing inbreeding and assuring a wide dispersal of genes, especially when families held to the one-child rule, was very important._

_What happened when someone, oops, had twins?_ Dempsey's question was idle as he traced a hand up and down the back of her neck.

_One of the children was usually given up for adoption to a couple who was infertile_, Zhasa replied, promptly.

"So. . . we're not likely to be in danger of _inbreeding_," Dempsey pointed out, dryly.

Zhasa exhaled. "Yes. Then again, because there have been, historically, so few of us left, there's been a sense that everyone has a. . . a _responsibility_. . . to procreate. At least once. Which is why there's been so little intermarrying. Not only is it very difficult for us to mate with other species, thanks to the immune system issues, but also. . . there's a strong sense of disapproval for people 'throwing away' their genetic heritage by entering into infertile unions. Ones that can't help the Flotilla survive. Oh, a few asari have _shared_ with quarians, but that just produces more asari." She shrugged. "Now that the one-child per couple rule has been lifted, and we're not crammed into ships anymore. . . I don't foresee this being a real problem."

There was unease in her mind, however. _But you're the most powerful biotic your people have ever produced. Strong enough to be a Spectre. Strong enough that the Prothean device responded to you,_ he reminded her, silently. "You think your people might still think your genes need to be passed on among your people?"

"If the Admiralty Board wants to make an issue of it, I'll tell them I'll donate ova to a gene bank, and anyone who wants to have a little Zhasa running around, can do so." Zhasa's lip turned downwards, a little mutinously.

"Not sure I like that idea," Dempsey admitted, after a moment. Oh, the theory was sound, and there was a political push back on Earth to require biotics to provide sperm and ova to gene banks for exactly this reason. . .ensuring that the trait could be passed along easily. But it was the _requiring_ part that got him riled up. _Should be each person's choice if they want to reproduce or not._

"I could have Dara start working on a quarian-human hybrid template instead," Zhasa suggested, chuckling. "That would really put the Admiralty Board on its ear."

Dempsey swallowed, and rapidly shifted gears in his brain. He hadn't thought _that_ far ahead. His first, blank thought of shock was _Wouldn't it put you in danger?_ followed by _Wait. Actually, wouldn't the nanobots attack the fetus?_ He'd been down the road with a pregnant wife before, and not too long ago, by his internal personal counter. He wasn't in a hurry to deal with gestational diabetes and high blood pressure and all that fun stuff again. . . only writ far larger, due to the hybridization risks.

"I don't know," Zhasa told him, simply. "But it's an answer we could give the Board, if they make an issue of it. And it's an answer that gives us time to think, because I do _not_ see Dara being able to create a hybrid in, oh, a month or two. On her coffee breaks." Zhasa grinned at him cheerfully, amusement in her voice as she went on, "Besides. I'm enjoying having you to _myself_ far too much to want a child right away. And you already have a son. I could point out that by the old one-child rule, you already are disqualified from having another."

"Zhasa, the first thing they'll say is that I'm not actually quarian." His voice was very dry. "And while that rule actually applies on Earth to humans who don't pay a penalty for each additional child, I don't actually live on Earth anymore, either."

Zhasa grinned up at him merrily. "It might be worth a try, don't you think?"

**Dara, Mindoir, January 7-8, 2197**

Dara found herself more than a little reluctant to return to work mode. The entire flight from Bekenstein to Bastion, she found it amazingly difficult to concentrate on the medical journal she really should have been reading. She and Eli had discovered that they couldn't maintain more than a very light mental contact when they were concentrating on disparate subjects, or there was mental discord. If they were intent on the same subject, the resulting gestalt focus actually got them some pretty interesting thoughts, questions, and results. Different subjects? Total confusion. As such, while Eli had wrapped his right arm around her shoulders during the flight, they were trying to avoid actual skin contact for the moment. And Eli was, reluctantly, slipping back into work mode himself.

Once in flight, they both checked their comm messages, and simultaneously groaned. . . which made them exchange a glance and a chuckle. "I'll trade you," Dara suggested, and pointed at the STG addresses on her list. Most of which came from virus and bacteriological experts, she realized. _Something to do with the Bastion/Earth/Palaven plagues?_ she wondered, and, closing her datapad down on the journal article, started with those messages.

Eli had scanned through his own quickly, and was doing a more thorough read-through on the important ones first. And then stopped and cursed under his breath. "What?" Dara asked, quietly.

"Sounds like your ex and his new girlfriend had a run-in with reporters on Earth. Your dad's saying he'll get us details. . . and. . . " Eli sighed. "I was about to write to them about our little issue this morning at the hotel."

Dara looked up at his tone. He had a seriously annoyed look on his face. "Yeah?"

Eli looked down at her, and laid his fingers against her cheek. Instant silent communion. _Complovium Today__ had a tip-off from the counter clerks on Bastion that Spectres were moving around under assumed names. Because the planets in question were Earth and Bek, and not war-zones, they thought they had a nice juicy scoop. So they sent Armillus Vassidum to Bek. . . and someone named __Scaevous Lintorum__ to Earth_.

Dara sat bolt upright, and she barely bit back a curse. _Lintorum? __That__ Lintorum?_ Instant, vivid memory of teeth way too damned close to her throat. . . . and then latching onto her wrist. She hadn't been nearly as good as Rel at martial arts at that point; Rel had had almost six years of training, and a year of extremely intense focus in it before going into boot camp. Thus, he'd neatly and cleanly broken Lintorum's arm in three places. She'd had around a year of training at that point. . . and had done what most midlevel belts, and all human females were taught to do in self-defense: go for the eyes. Eli picked up her left wrist in his left hand, turning towards her as the surge of panic, quickly quelled and sublimated, rushed through her. He rubbed his thumb over her inner wrist, and she felt a low, red surge of dark anger pulse through him. He'd been furious when he'd heard about the bite wound at her father and Kasumi's wedding, she realized now. Furious, and completely unable to do anything about it. He could express concern, as a friend, but nothing more.

Dara swallowed, and muttered, quietly, in turian, _"He's a child. He failed boot camp twice. And they're employing him?"_

"_Turian law runs into unique problems with prosecuting 'child-status,' non-citizen adults,"_ Eli muttered. _"You can't tell me that doesn't get taken advantage of by companies."_

"_Someone's still responsible for their actions. Probably their poor parents,"_ Dara growled.

"_Unless the parents sign a document stating that they decline responsibility. Sort of a reverse emancipation."_ Eli released her hand to rub at his jaw for a moment. _"It gets better, __sai'kaea__."_

Dara's lips turned down at the corners. His song held a little rueful amusement, as well as yellow annoyance. And while it wasn't quite directed at her, it was somehow related to her. _"I screwed something up, didn't I?"_

"_Well. . . yes and no."_ Eli let the information flicker through her mind now. Armillus Vassidum, the reporter who'd had his camera and such confiscated that morning at the Nagori, had taken quite a few telephoto images, several from hundreds of yards away, of them swimming, hiking, and windsurfing together, which was. . . not ideal, but not horrible, either. He hadn't been able to get any images of them on their balcony—the ocean the balcony faced was two hundred feet down a sheer cliff-face, making the angle impossible for him, fortunately. _Okay, so what's the bad news?_

_He interviewed a bunch of guests about 'memorable people' they'd met at the Nagori. Not everyone who goes there, particularly the people there on New Years Eve, are necessarily the type who like to preserve their privacy. _

_Fuck. The 'firefly gene mod glow'? _Dara's stomach twisted.

_Yeah, that got mentioned. That's easy to laugh off if anyone asks you about it, though, unless someone decides to drop the lights and shine a blacklight on you for shits and grins. . . still totally getting one of those for our bedroom._ Eli sighed, and took her hand again. _"You remember those idiots who were hitting on you when I went to the bar?"_

Dara blinked and nodded. "_In fairness, I don't think they were really hitting on me, so much as getting their worst lines out of their system before moving on to a more target-rich environment—"_

"_You happen to remember what you said to them?"_

"_I said I was waiting for my _boyfriend_. . . "_ Dara paused, thought about it, and added, _"__Futar__. I __suck__ at undercover work."_ She held up her left hand, which still bore a borrowed white-gold wedding ring.

Eli kissed her forehead. _"Of all the skills you don't really possess? I'm just as glad being a good liar isn't one of your strong points. Makes beating you at __ru'udal__ so much easier."_ He caught her wince, and his song, already amused, went softer and gentler. _"Hey, I almost screwed up and called you by your real name in the bar, too. We can always work on your acting skills some other time."_ A quick flash of concerned thought from him, however; between her eyes and her skin, she was among the easiest of the younger Spectres to identify, and quickly. The skin could be covered by clothing. . . other than the face, which might require heavy makeup. Which could smudge or wear off. The hair. . .

_Dye might not work, Eli. If my keratin is being replaced by rachni compounds, god only knows how peroxide and dye will interact with it, and I don't want to go bald everywhere. . . well, everywhere else, I mean. . . _

Eli promptly grinned at her, and leaned down to kiss her again. This time, thoroughly. Indigo love and burgundy passion, suddenly flooding her. Dara inhaled, and her hands slid around his neck. _Better. . . slow down. . . Eli. . . can't think. . . when you're doing this. . . ._

Eli transferred his lips to her throat, and asked her, silently, but with blue-green amusement flickering in his song, _I know. I love it. _She could feel the brief internal debate. Mostly mischief, wanting to make her laugh, just a trace of serious intent. Violas and cellos and basses. _Want to join the deep black club?_

_The what?_ Dara blinked and pulled away. _Is that like the mile high club?_

Eli looked down at her. _Yeah._

_Technically, every time I've had sex on a fleet ship, in my quarters, haven't I already. . . .?_

_Not with me. And I think that in your quarters doesn't count._ Eli snorted out loud.

_So. . . it's not so much the fact that it's in space, so much as it's on public transport?_ Dara glanced around. _Illicit thrill, potential for discovery?_

Eli grinned and bit the side of her neck. _Fun to think about, anyway._ His eyes gleamed in the low light. _When we were dozing off on the way to Bek, I'll admit to trying to figure out how to make it work. Best I could come up with was the lavatory, but the stewards sit right next to that. . . and an 'occupied' light comes on the moment someone steps across the threshold. So second best was just draping a blanket over us both and doing some nice quiet petting._ Eli bit her again, just a little harder, and Dara's head fell back, almost involuntarily, giving him better access. _How quiet do you think you can be, __sai'kaea__?_

_Probably not nearly quiet enough,_ she admitted. Which just made him grin more widely, in unabashed pride. She loved watching his face light up, though. The way his eyes, whether brown and human, or edge-to-edge black, almost glowed from within, his spirit radiating out from them. Healthy and happy, none of the darkness of a year ago. _You're such a jerk. But you're my jerk._

_Yep. Every bit of me._

Dara grinned and decided to turn the tables. _Would you settle for being first human male to, er. . . you know. . . on a rachni ship?_ A flicker of images. Her web-like hammock on the _Lightsinger_, and her suspicions that he'd want to 'test its load-bearing capacity' and 'tensile strength.'

Eli's grin widened even further, and amusement danced in his eyes and in his song. "Oh yes," he told her, out loud, in English. "Absolutely. But I wouldn't call it _settling_ at all." He shook his head now. "At least you're smiling again."

Dara sobered, and remembered the previous conversation. "So, this Armillus Vassidum guy interviewed them." She grimaced, and looked down at the white-gold, slender band on her left finger again. "It was dark, _ciea'teilu._ They might not have seen it."

Eli switched back to turian._ "One of them did, apparently. Enough to say he'd seen a chick with crazy gene mods, who must've been newly-wed, or something, since she was wearing a ring, but slipped and called me her _boyfriend." Eli grimaced. _"Add to that the false names, the fact that he did get one of you wearing my clan-paint. . . and sent it to his editors __before__ getting caught in the hotel. . . and the fact that Vassidum had followed us to Bek from Bastion. . . it adds up to not a hell of a lot, but it's all about innuendo and presentation, anyway. We could do a whole song and dance about being there undercover, but your dad says, and I agree, that the best course would be not to comment on it at all."_

"'_We do not discuss pending or current Spectre work,'"_ Dara supplied, mimicking her father's voice, drawl and all, in turian. Which made Eli laugh. She paused for a moment, and then added, "_So I'm guessing someone at the Bastion port authority, or the various space travel agencies is shortly going to be unemployed? Without references?"_ Dara's tone was annoyed. "_It's bad enough that this was just. . . private time. What if this had been an actual mission?"_

"_No _kidding_." _Eli's jaw set, and his dark eyes, which were glossy black at the moment, from their light mental connection, narrowed. _"Your dad says Kasumi's looking into it, with a little help from Bailey. You've probably got a duplicate copy if his message somewhere in your mail, too."_

_So what do we do about it?_ Switch from turian to silent speech, as she could hear the stewards pushing a drinks cart along the aisle ahead of them.

_I'm writing to him to suggest we get ahead of it, like I said to you before we boarded. Interview with Emily Wong or something. _Eli rubbed the back of her neck now, easing the tension that was already building there. _Nothing we can do about it till we land. Oh, and we've got orders, for the moment, to head back to Mindoir from Bastion. Immediately. _

_Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars?_

_Correct._

Dara sighed, and went back to her own messages once again. There were two hundred or so of them to go through, and that, she knew, didn't even count the ones that were sent to her public account, which she hadn't accessed since she was fifteen. By the time they landed at Bastion, they already had a message from her father and Kasumi in reply to Eli's suggestion: _Already being taken care of. Wong and Elders have been invited to the home base. The __Raedia__'s still undergoing repairs, but the __Kiev__ is at Bastion. All aboard. . . and make sure you're ready for company. We have guests on base. —S. K. Jaworski_

Back through customs, and then a trip to the storage lockers in the main arrival/departure area. Dara had no armor, which made her feel all the more naked as Eli pulled his heavy bag of equipment out of his locker and headed to a nearby men's room. Her own kit was far too light, but she headed into a lady's room, and came back out again a few minutes later. No uniform anymore, of course. Spectres didn't have cloth uniforms, but she'd listened when Kasumi suggested that when she was traveling, to dress as if she were a SATBIA special agent. As such, black slacks, white shirt, black jacket. Concealed carry harness for her own pistol now, the Pachmayr grip comfortable and familiar in her hand as she slid the gun, safety on, out of sight. Stun-gun in a concealed-carry holster at her ankle, a suggestion from Eli. Rifle disassembled and in her bags. Medical kit, all thirty pounds of it, check. Civilian clothes, other than her dress, bundled in with everything else, which left her with two bags.

_Not bad_, Dara thought, and walked back out, and almost ran into Eli, who'd shifted into armor. . . _The better to deal with idiots behind desks_, he told her, silently, dropping his polarized shield halfway over his face to hide his eyes for the moment. Just for a moment, Dara wondered if the warmth expanding through her whole body, glowed out of her, as visible light, as she looked up at him. Her best friend for years. In spite of anger and pain and spite and jealousy, they'd held onto the friendship. Renewed it, rekindled it, made it work. . . and now they had found so much more in each other. She loved looking at him, in armor or out of it; the fact that he was built on the same lines as her dad was probably part of it. But for her, Eli epitomized human male beauty. Tall, strong, well-built, but with unconscious, light-footed grace, economy of motion, and incredible reflexes, which kept him from lumbering. Rectangular face, strong jaw, intelligent eyes, brilliant smile when he chose to use it. _And to think he didn't even realize half the women we ran into on leave were glaring daggers at me, and would cheerfully have knifed me to try to get his attention._

Eli leaned down and whispered against her ear, "You better stop looking at me like that, _sai'kaea_, or we're not even going to make it to the _Kiev."_

"Looking at you like what?"

_Like you're considering unbuckling my armor without using your hands._ Wash of four-fold love through her. Friendship, love, respect, passion. . . and amusement.

Dara pushed her dark glasses higher on her nose, and lifted her chin. "Then, if you'd lead the way, Spectre Sidonis?"

"Oh, no, Spectre Jaworski. You lead the way. I've got your back."

The _Kiev_ represented the first return to normalcy. Separate quarters, for the first time in a week. The Spectres tended to get stuck with the observation lounges, and since the _Kiev_ was a human ship, there was quite a bit more gender separation than on the _Sollostra_ or the _Raedia_ or the lost _Estallus_. Eli was in the port observation lounge, and Dara in the starboard, officially.

An hour after arriving, however, they were lying on her bed in the starboard lounge, her at the head of the bed, and Eli at the foot, her feet in his lap, as they continued to read, in between watching ships arrive and depart around the _Kiev_. "It was nice seeing the Citadel lit up again," Eli mentioned, as a salarian ship passed by the observation window. "I'd love to go back aboard. See what the Keepers are turning the place into."

"It was pretty creepy when it was all dark," Dara muttered. "Could practically feel them watching us."

"Yeah." It had been bad for both of them; simultaneous memories played, and they compared them, briefly. For her, it had been wholly unknown; for him, there had been memories of light and life and playing around the edge of the Presidium lake, and then the darkness and the blackness. Fear of the unknown, compared to a childhood memory destroyed.

They exchanged a glance, and Dara sent waves of reassurance to Eli. "We were there when they woke up. I bet they'd let us come visit. And I bet it's better than it was. They don't _have_ to live in the dark now."

The doors hissed open, and a familiar voice exclaimed, "Well, _there_ you are!"

Dara's head jerked up. So did Eli's. Serana and Lin were framed in the doorway, and Dara had absolutely no idea how she should be feeling, and had all her own tangle of feelings running through her, intermingled with Eli's, and for a moment, she couldn't tell whose was whose. Confusion, happiness, unease, worry, love, friendship, concern—too much, all at once, and then they both managed to put a lid on it and sit up. Friendship in Lin's face, and love and friendship and a hint of unease and worry in Serana's. . . which vanished as Serana simply dashed across the room, landed on the bed, and hugged Dara. "I'm so glad you're both back!" Serana told them, as Lin walked in, exchanging more measured wrist-clasp with Eli, and a grin.

Dara hadn't managed to get her hands up in time to ward Serana off, and on skin-contact, had the turian female's emotions racing through her, on top of the light, surface-level song that she and Eli had been maintaining. Blues of friendship, flickers of yellow anxiety, purple-green _guilt_, of all things. . . "Serana, why on earth are _you_ feeling _guilty?_" Dara bit her lower lip in consternation. Eli could surely feel it _through_ her, and had gone still. Was trying not to block her, but was also trying to hold himself away, at least a little.

Serana grimaced, and pulled her hands away. "I'm sorry. I . . . would you believe I forgot about the skin-contact thing?"

Dara shook her head, and took Eli's hand in her left one, and reached out with her right, taking Serana's. "It's okay? See? When I'm braced for it, it's . . . not so bad." It was a question of listening to just the oversong. She couldn't _not _hear the whole melody, but she had, with practice, learned to focus on one part of the song, or another. Like focusing on one strain of the melody, and not on the percussion, or the background singers. Out loud, focusing intently, Dara said, quietly, "You feel guilty because I got hurt helping you? For god's sake, Serana, that's my _job_. Has been for years. That's not your fault." Undersong, which she couldn't help but hear. Serana hadn't been _very_ jealous of her, because it wasn't really in Serana's nature to feel that, but there'd been some, that it added to the guilt. As if her ill-wishes had sprung to life as the bullets that had struck Dara. _Oh, stow that, Serana. I of all people know that that sort of guilt is pretty useless. _Flicker of memory, how guilt had told her that her own anger at Rel had caused the wounding and capture on Camala. _I know you didn't mean for me to get hurt. And I sure as hell didn't want to see you get hurt. Any more than Eli or Lin wanted to see it._

Reassurance, reinforcement from Eli on that subject. And then Dara looked up. Saw Lin staring at them, eyes curious, penetrating, worried. . . and a bit left out. "Lin? You . . . want to hear the songs?" The words were tentative, and Dara slid Eli a sidelong look. For a human or an asari, this was somewhat intimate. For a rachni, however? Making sure the songs were in harmony was what a queen _did_.

_This is light sharing, __sai'kaea.__Maieolo'saeo_ _I'm okay with. Same as with Dempsey or Zhasa or any of the other biotics. Information exchange, really. _ _Only __maieolo'loa'kareo__ with each other, though._ Light mental caress, and Dara understood. However much Eli might joke about some things, he really meant it when he said fantasies were fantasies. His asari side might let him explore some realms of intimacy, but he was human enough, and turian enough, to be fairly territorial, too. Balance.

On the heels of that, concern from him. _You sure you can handle that many people at once?_ She'd handled his and Rel's thoughts at the same time, but a third person might be a bit much.

_Only one way to find out._ Green uncertainty in her own song now.

Eli slid over a bit, wrapping his arm around her waist instead. His mind buffering hers, just a bit, as she held out her now-free hand to Lin, who, after a moment, accepted it, his eyes going wide. Clarion-call of Lin's trumpet voice joining the song, mingling with Serana's sweet-voiced flute. Eli's base color of red, his string trio, Serana's base color of yellow, Lin's sky-blue. Her own white. Dara shook for a moment. This was much, much different from listening to all the brood-warriors and queens and the workers and soldiers at once. Concern from Eli, worry from Lin, curiosity from Serana. Oversong and undersong, and there was a hell of a lot of it.

Then the load began to balance out a bit, cacophony turning to music, all the disparate colors turning the rich brown-red, honey-gold, of ancient amber, and she could feel Lin's sudden delight at _hearing_ Serana, however much at a distance. Hearing Eli. Hearing her. _My little one, our dearest ones._ Affirmation of the loyalty, friendship, love. Brotherhood. Memories. Robbers on Macedyn, idiots out to fleece tourists, Lin getting shot in the knee, Eli moving to cover him with a shield. Getting caught in the left shoulder himself, then. Red blood and blue blood, splattering on the tile floor. . . red blood and blue blood, mixing under the females' bodies. . . memories of pain, darkness, the flash of gunfire. . . ._you were already __dimicato'fradae__ before Macedyn, then were __sangua'fradae__ in everything but the vows, and now we're __sangua'amilae__, too. Just without the words. _Pride, actually, fierce and true, in Serana's voice, which had risen over the storm of music.

"This. . . might. . . be. . . too much. . . " Dara said out loud, and realized her voice was edging into rachni song territory.

Lin and Serana drew their hands back, instantly, and the songs abated as Dara put her hands to her face. Silence rang in her head for a moment, and she realized that Eli was shielding himself a bit, giving her a chance to recover.

Dara managed to open her eyes, and, cautiously, ran a finger under her nose to see if it had started bleeding. When she determined that it wasn't, she turned and looked at Eli. "See?" she said, a little hoarsely, meeting his eyes. "Not nearly as bad as Joy-Singer being born."

"Yeah, but by my omnitool, that was about a minute, not two days." Eli's arms tightened on her. "And we're _so_ not doing the whole birth-song thing again."

Lin crouched down, and rested a hand on her knee. "That was fun," he told her, softly. Keeping it light, as he reached out his other hand for Serana's now, too. "Interesting way of seeing each other."

"Honest to god, I'd prefer just _talking_ to people, most days," Dara told him, sheepishly. "Words don't make my head hurt so much." Which was true, to a certain extent. The songs left her feeling exhilarated, but there had been so _much_ of all of them, that it definitely did give her a mild headache.

Serana and Lin both chuckled, but Lin sobered quickly, and stood to grab Serana's bags from the passageway outside the door. "Say, Freya. . ." Lin said, and Dara looked up instantly at her squad-name. "At least we know for sure that you're okay with either my 'song' or Serana's."

"As if that were in doubt," Eli chided lightly, lying back on Dara's bunk. Dara could feel his sense alter. Almost feel him watching for Serana's reaction, out of the corner of his eyes.

Lin handed Serana her seabag. "Hey, it's a fair enough point, _fradu_," he told Eli calmly. "We know for sure now that if Dara's ever out of contact with you, the rachni, or any other biotics, we can probably keep her stable by touch contact. Right, Dara?" He rested a hand on her shoulder lightly. Lin had always been more apt to touch people than other turians were, and Dara noticed it anew, mostly because he was avoiding skin touch, but still providing contact. _Social marking_, she realized, suddenly. _Somewhat like a human does it, but . . . demonstrating acceptance. Part of the pack, I guess._

_Mate of his brother,_ Eli corrected, silently, giving her a lazy smile when she looked at him. _He was giving Serana the same treatment on Bastion, if you'll recall. He cut it off dead when he realized he was also attracted to her._

_He never treated me that way before. . . and he was calling Rel __fra'fradu__ then, _Dara objected.

_Yeah, but you had a wall of ice about a foot thick around you at that point, and I think Rel would probably have snarled if Lin had touched you. He was bothered enough when I did._ Eli pushed back up off the bed, and gave Dara a kiss on the cheek. "Hate to say it, _sai'kaea_, but. . . I'm guessing these lounges are about to get a hell of a lot more crowded."

"You need to go defend your bunk in the other room?"

"You know it." _Would really damned well prefer to share quarters with you. . . ._ Yellow annoyance, chafing a little at the social conventions that hedged them in, indigo love, little flickers of burgundy.

_. . . but that's not how quarters usually work. You can't just be shacked up with someone and expect to be housed together._ Dara exhaled. "Back to reality, _ciea'teilu_?"

"We're working on making reality a little more comfortable." Eli gave her another quick kiss and rolled off the bed. As he stood, he looked at Lin. "I saw two nest rolls in there. Let's go get you the one without the lumps, _fradu."_

"Yeah, and maybe you can tell me where you guys went on leave at last."

"Bekenstein," Eli supplied, and then they moved off down the corridor. Dara could hear him asking, "So, you okay, _fradu?_ I don't need to get you a poster of a kitten or anything like that, do I?"

"Could do with a couple weeks' more leave. It's been a spirits-be-damned long year," Lin admitted.

"Sam said in one of his messages that they're going to do some physical and mental evals on Mindoir. Make sure we're all ready before they turn us around and send us out again. Hell, Dara doesn't even have armor yet, so she _can't_ go out in the field yet." Eli's tone was a mix of borderline anger, unease, and droll humor.

The door slid shut behind them, and Dara found herself alone with Serana now. There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Serana sighed and came over to sit down beside her. _"Ciea'teilu_?" Serana asked, smiling a little. She spoke fluent asari, after all.

"Eh, it was the closest I could get to _brood-warrior_," Dara half-explained, pulling her legs up to her chest, and holding her datapad loosely in her hands. It wasn't really an accurate translation. It meant _cherished protector,_ more or less. It did, however, sum up her feelings for Eli, as well as being a sort of inside joke between them.

Another pause. "I told you, months ago, I didn't want to lose you as a sister," Serana told her, quietly. "You were my friend—an older friend, but still a friend—before Rel started courting you."

"And I told you that you weren't going to lose a friend. Or a . . . sister." Dara felt incredibly awkward here, but all of this needed to be dealt with, or it would fester.

"I think . . . .that we should consider taking the _sangua'amila_ vows." Serana exhaled.

Dara had a quick flash of Lin and Eli taking the same vows, just after their Spectre induction. Hands slashed, as if for a _tal'mae_ wedding, but no binding of spirits. Her putting the tiny sutures in place before slathering Eli's hand with medigel. She blinked, rapidly, and rested a hand on Serana's shoulder. _Damn. That was fast_. "Not right now," she told the younger female, quietly. "Not when you're still feeling guilty about something that was _not_ your fault. And not while we're still trying to figure out the legal ramifications of the whole _tal'mae_ thing."

Serana gave her a direct look. "You think my second-brother would do flips if he saw you taking vows to become his _sister_, through me, while trying to untie yourself from him?"

"Flip out, you mean?" Dara thought about it. "He would have, a month or two ago. He might not, now. He'd probably still be uncomfortable, though." Dara looked into the mid-distance for a moment. _Would it make our marriage incestuous? Nah. Twin brothers have married twin sisters before. Now, if Grandma Agnes and Grandfather Gavius decided to get married though. . . . whoo. Okay, that one makes my head hurt. That would make me and Rel __technically__, though not in any real fashion, first-cousins. I think. _

Serana snorted. "We've already bled together, and you've saved my life. I owe you that much, Dara. And I'm not going to pass everything in my life out for Rel's inspection and approval. I love him. I love him and Rinus, and I respect them both, but. . . they're not who I am."

Dara's lips quirked up. "Nope. Not at all. You definitely got the family's rebellious streak. But. . . waiting a little while on this sort of thing will let things settle down. Make sure it's what you really want, make sure there's no unnecessary family strife." _And let me adjust to that idea a little, myself_.

"If it's what _I_ want?" Serana was entirely too good at picking out key words in sentences. "You're talking the way Eli does when he's being very careful not to say what he does or doesn't want." She made direct eye contact with Dara now. "What do _you_ want?"

Dara thought about it. Turians took blood-brotherhood and blood-sisterhood _very_ seriously. "You're going to marry Lin, aren't you?" she asked, without preamble.

"Yes. As soon as our fathers finish the _commeditor_ paperwork. I told Lin a four-year contract, no different than what I signed with Eli, but he's being stubborn." Serana rolled her eyes like a human.

_He's trying to protect you_, Dara felt like pointing out, but she figured Serana already knew that. "Then you'll already be Eli's sister, through that. I'm . . . not honestly sure what you'd get out of making it all legal." Dara groped for the right words, looking at the datapad in her hands for a moment. Words were so hard sometimes. "You know damned well that Eli would take care of any of your kids, if the worst happened." Dara raised her eyes. "And so would I."

Serana, with her version of the family spirit-eyes, surely had understood what was between Eli and Dara long ago, and the mental communion of a few minutes ago would certainly have ratified that understanding in her mind. Dara exhaled. She was very fond of Serana, and definitely had viewed her, for a long time, as a younger sister. But she'd also had several years of seeing the female's crush on Eli linger, persist, bloom, and then turn into marriage. And for years, she'd swallowed her lingering jealousy, which had been sublimated with Kella, bitter when applied to Siara, and sublimated again for Serana, because the girl hadn't deserved it, and because Dara had known she didn't have the _right_ to be jealous.

Undersong and oversong. The best choices were the ones when all her songs were in harmony.

Serana shook her head. "This has nothing to do with Eli."

Dara met the younger female's eyes for a moment. "Doesn't it?" _Is this a way in which your undersong wants to hold onto him? Even though you'll already be bound, through his tie to Lin, through death or betrayal?_ "Serana. . . you know that there are absolutely no secrets between Eli and me, right? That . . . " Dara winced. "You remember how it was when Joy-Singer was drawing all of my memories out, and was drawing everyone else's memories through me, when you touched me?"

Serana winced, herself. "You. . . remember all of it?" Her voice was tight.

Dara wavered between human delicacy and turian bluntness. _Remove the bandage gently, or tear it off all at once?_ "It depends. Some of his memories only come back to me when I'm reminded of them. Others stay in active memory. As if they were my own. I see them through his eyes, remember what he felt, but I know it wasn't me. The song isn't my own. Sometimes it's more. . . distant than others. Just information. Other times it's. . . really vivid. The more emotional the memory, the more vivid it's likely to be." Dara tipped her head to the side. The last week, the continuous exchanges of memories and thoughts and emotions, had deepened the ties between herself and Eli, in ways that were very difficult to explain. "Memory is the core of the self. It's the memory of choices made, and repercussions from them, is what shapes us." Dara's lips tightened for a moment. "I have most of Eli's memories, Serana. So in a . . . really weird sense. . . when I remember his memories, I _am _him. . . at least a little bit. I remember what he felt. I remember why he chose what he chose." Dara usually chose to push the memories aside. Tried to be as human as possible, and not the mother of broods. _I remember __you__, Serana, in moments that no one should ever really share who wasn't there. How the hell do I explain that? Should I even try?_

Serana's mouth opened, and then closed silently as she processed that. "Are you okay with that?" Dara asked her, gently.

Serana exhaled. "It's. . . a little creepy," she admitted, using the human term without any self-consciousness at all.

Dara winced. "I know. It is. I try to treat all of that as belonging behind a closed door, but there's very little of my life that exists behind a closed door now. There's the Spectre work, and the _god-damned_ media, which chased us down on Bek, and apparently chased Rel and Seheve down on Earth. There's the fact that Eli lets me listen to his song, and. . . he listens to mine. And I know the memory exchange goes both ways. And then there are the rachni. Who hear everything I hear." Dara tightened her arms around her knees. A defensive posture, she realized, suddenly, while Serana's body language, sitting on the edge of the bed, with her feet dangling free, was open and accepting. _That's us in a nutshell._

"Why are you telling me all of this?" Serana asked, her eyes a little sad.

Dara sighed. "Because if you become my blood-sister, you're pledging a hell of a lot more than you might have realized you're bargaining for. I'm . . . not who I used to be, Serana." Dara's throat was very tight. "I'm still _me_. . . most of the time. But . . . Joy-Singer _is_ my daughter. In a year, she'll be old enough to lay her first brood." Dara met Serana's eyes. "Are you willing to be a mother to Joy-Singer and her children, if I die? Will you feed them memories and song and help guide them?" Parts of her mind were waking up now. She'd pushed Joy-Singer and the anguish of leaving her behind as much to the back of her head as she could. Because leaving her to Life-Singer's care had been for the best. She couldn't have stayed on the Singing Planet. And she couldn't raise a rachni queen. But she knew she _needed_ to be there when Joy-Singer mated. When she laid her eggs. When those eggs hatched. This was part of who she _was_ now. And part of her would be in every rachni of Joy-Singer's line, her physical presence, and any additional memories and knowledge she accrued, would be needed on those occasions. Her gift to the hive.

Serana's eyes were wide. "Eli knows this?"

Dara paused. They hadn't really discussed it. But she had a damned good idea that Eli understood it. "Serana. . . Joy-Singer called him Many-Voices. Favored brood-warrior. First singer of peace songs, leader in battle." Dara's throat ached. _That's about as close to __father__ as she could get without actually saying it._ "I think he knows. If he doesn't know, he won't be. . . surprised." Dara paused, then added, gently, "I don't know if you ever thought about it this way, Serana. . . but someday, Eli's going to be clan-leader of Sidonis. A human clan-leader of a turian clan. He's going to have three hybrid siblings, all of whom could marry either humans or turians, happily. He's going to have a salarian sister, a dalatrass, if you please. And Mordin Solus' daughter." Dara swallowed. "That's all his and his mate's to deal with, when Lantar steps down or dies."

Serana blinked. "I. . . no," she admitted, sounding embarrassed. "I never thought of any of that, really. I just. . . I just see his family. As it is now, I guess." She had a phenomenal gift for intuitive understanding of people, Serana did. Incredible instincts in her field. . . and blind spots, just as every other person in creation did. She could extrapolate on information in the here-and-now faultlessly. Could come up with the most amazing outside-the-box theories to explain evidence. Could see people's hearts and spirits very, very clearly indeed. But it was all counter-weighed with her impulsive nature, and certain inability to extrapolate for the future. Some of it was youth, Dara figured. Some of it was just Serana's nature.

"Given that Lin and Eli are, legally speaking, pretty much body-doubles for each other right now. . . it's something you do need to think about." Dara set the datapad down, and uncurled from her tight, defensive position. Put a hand, very lightly on Serana's shoulder. "Because when you marry Lin, and if, god forbid, anything happens to Eli. . . some of that falls on Caelia, as first-sister. But a hell of a lot of it also falls on Lin, and Lin's mate. Especially if Eli has any children at that point."

Serana's eyes glittered briefly. A sensitive topic for her, probably. "And are there going to be?" she asked, quietly.

Dara looked down. "Oh, god, I don't . . . gah. Okay, extrapolating out _everything?_ If the turian courts acknowledge the dissolution of my _tal'mae_ contract with Rel. . . and if Eli and I were to . . were to. . ." Dara's throat closed up. She didn't want to jinx it. She knew what Eli wanted; she'd worn his paint for a week. She wanted to wear it forever. But she didn't even want to whisper the words. She swallowed, and avoided it. "Technically, anyone who was my legal mate could claim my AI 'offspring,' like Lysandra and Cassandra into his clan. By adoption, more or less. If they wanted to be claimed, since they're adult 'offspring.' And a legal mate _could_ claim Joy-Singer and her broods as part of his clan." Dara swallowed. "But Joy-Singer would only accept Eli, I think. Accept him as the favored brood-warrior who gave of himself, joined his voice in the harmony that was her birth-song. She would never accept Rel in that fashion. And that's all without us knowing if we can even have kids of our own."

"Wait, why wouldn't you? You're human, he's human—" Serana's artless exclamation came to a halt as Dara tapped one finger, with an inch-long talon, just at the outer edge of one rachni-blue eye. "Oh. . . spirits. That's not fair." A world of hurt and empathy in her tone, suddenly, and Serana turned and gave the human a hug. With all the simple empathy and ability to _be_ human that Serana had always had.

"You're better at being human than I am," Dara admitted, out loud, with a laugh edged with a hint of tears. "And no. It's not fair." _I finally get with the right guy, we're both human, we figure it all out, and then I might not be human __enough__. _Dara looked up at Serana, feeling her lips curl down at the corners.

"So why tell me all this?" Serana shook her head. So odd to see the family blue eyes, the golden clan-paint, this close to her face, and it _not_ be Rel.

"Because. . . it's a hell of a lot to handle. And a lot of it isn't even fair to ask of someone, and you'd be up and _volunteering_ to handle it as a _sangua'amila_, and you wouldn't get anything out of it, that you don't have already, without the words. . . " Dara shook her head. "You already said it. We're already sisters. We've already bled together. Anything more than that is just. . . "

Serana shook her head again. "And I'll already be helping with all of that because I'll be marrying Lin. It's already all _there_, right?"

Dara grimaced. "Yeah. It is. And you don't get a damn thing out of it. _Sangua'amilae_ are supposed to be best friends, too. I'm just saying. . . don't rush."

Serana grinned, suddenly and merrily. "Yes, I do get something out of it. I get to keep my favorite sister."

"Oh, that's _talas'kak_, and you know it."

"No, no. _And_ I get baby-sitters, when Lin and I decide to have younglings. You _will_ let the workers help look after my younglings, right, _amila_?"

Dara made a rude noise. "Plus," Serana went on, as if it had just occurred to her, "I can _probably_ get you to come along with me on investigative missions, right?"

"Great, Eli already told you about the lasers—" Dara paused. That didn't sound right. It didn't ping at anything in her recollection.

"What about the lasers?" Serana stared at Dara blankly.

_Oh, crap,_ Dara thought, _she didn't actually know. Me and my big mouth. . . ._

And then the door opened once again, revealing Zhasa and Dempsey, and Rel and Seheve. Seheve had a cat carrier under her arm, at the moment, and looked . . . slightly uncomfortable as she entered the room. _Jesus Christ on a pogostick_, Dara thought, her heart sinking just a little. _Could this get any more awkward?_

She'd mostly managed to avoid Seheve's company on the way back from Khar'sharn, by virtue of being confined to the med bay, and Rel's, other than the meeting to get the papers signed, the memory of which still made her throat tighten just a bit. Dara's eyes flicked up, caught the hesitant, uncomfortable expression on Rel's face—a face she knew very well how to read, of course—and wondered for a fleeting instant if there were any escape hatches leading out of the observation lounge. _Human ship. Of course they'll stick all the unmarried females together, and all the unmarried males together._

Zhasa, however, took all of the awkwardness out of the situation by leaping into the room and practically tackling Dara to hug her. "You were right about Breckenridge!" Zhasa told her, eagerly. "It was beautiful there. There were places where, if I'd been dropped there from orbit, I'd have thought I was on an ice planet. . . and then I'd zip off down the slopes, and see the town again. It's like on base on Mindoir. . . but the sky on Earth is so very blue."

Dara started to answer, "I liked Breckenridge, but my whole family liked Arapahoe better. A little more off the beaten track. . . " And then she stopped and stared at Zhasa's left hand. She felt a smile stealing across her face, and she turned and looked directly at Dempsey, raising her eyebrows inquiringly.

He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest, and nodded. Once. "Congrats," Dara said, simply. "You guys playing the 'wait and see who notices' game?"

Dempsey's lips quirked faintly at the corners. "I think that's a pretty fun game."

"So far, you're the only one who _has_," Zhasa commented, chuckling.

"Be fair, Zhasa-love. Most everyone we've seen so far hasn't been human," Dempsey pointed out.

"Wait and see who notices what?" Seheve asked, quietly. "Do you mean the ring on Zhasa'Maedan's hand?"

Serana promptly lunged across Dara to grab for Zhasa's hands, and Dara leaned back out of the way. Both of the females were a lot more effusive than she was, and Serana's voice trilled a little in excitement, "Oh, congratulations! I'd ask when the contracts will be finalized, but I don't even know how quarians do this sort of thing. . . "

Zhasa and Serana, began to chatter at each other at top speed. Still across Dara. She felt like she was watching a ping-pong match at very close range. "Quarians don't do contracts the way turians do—"

"Well, I wouldn't expect that. How does it work, then?"

"Exchange of vows before the captain of our ship, the one we'd be living on. Of course, that was old-style. The captains still have a lot of power, but the family heads are trying to reassert control of such things. I suspect it'll just be easiest for us to have Commander Shepard oversee the ceremony."

"Wouldn't she have to do it in quarian, though?" Serana objected, quickly.

"That does present a bit of a problem," Zhasa admitted, sounding crest-fallen.

Dara scooted backwards, as carefully as she could, getting herself out of range of Zhasa and Serana. . . and damned near fell off the bed. Serana burst out laughing, and offered her a hand back up from the edge. "Oh, come on, we're not that bad!"

Rel cleared his throat. "It's a little crowded in here," he noted. "Congratulations, Dempsey, Zhasa." He moved Seheve's bag for her into the room, and took the drell's hand in his own for a moment, looking down at her without speaking, before he stepped out into the hall again. Dara watched him go, and her throat tightened, just for a moment. He looked. . . calm, actually. Which was a _good_ look on Rel.

Dempsey glanced at Zhasa. "I'm apparently stuck down the hall. Four guys in that observation lounge, four gals in this one. Rinus Velnaran and his wife in married quarters. Spectres travel in style, don't they?"

"The accommodations could be worse," Seheve noted softly. "We could all be roomed with Thelldaroon, in the port cargo bay. Or with Fors Luka, in an engineering compartment."

Dempsey nodded briefly. "Didn't even know those two were aboard." He stepped in, gave Zhasa a light kiss on the cheek, and left.

Dara was once again, deeply grateful to have Zhasa'Maedan around. Between her sunny disposition and Serana's, there were no awkward silences as the _Kiev_ pulled away from Bastion's docking area and headed for the mass relay. And because both Zhasa and Serana were, technically, engaged, they had so much to talk about, there was absolutely no way in which Dara and Seheve could have had any sort of conversation of their own. _Thank god for small mercies_, Dara decided, half-listening to the chatter, and half reading her medical journals.

Right up until Serana told her, in no uncertain terms, "And of course, you'll be there to hold my knife for me, Dara, and be my witness. Just as Eli will be Lin's."

Dara had just been taking a sip of water, and promptly choked. "Your family's not going to be thrilled. In fact, I think your mom might actually have a stroke." Solanna hadn't said two words to Dara since the split, and Dara did not expect that to change any time soon. _Her_ father had been required to invite Rel into his house, and work with him. Solanna had been under no such compulsion. "See, this is what I meant in our earlier conversation about taking things slowly and letting your family adjust a little bit."

Serana made a rude noise. "_Mada_ has always doted on Rinus and Rellus. And my _pada_ still loves you, Dara. You're always going to be his favorite student, and certainly the only one of us who can keep up with him when he starts talking xenobiology. Although Polina's marks in that area are apparently improving lately." Serana shrugged. "_Mada_ is just going to have to accept that Rel left the nest years ago."

"She's the protector of her nest, Serana," Dara reminded her, gently. "Part of that involves not letting threats in the cave door. I hurt him. And I'd rather fight an _acrocanth_ than go anywhere _near_ her right now." Dara was all too aware of Seheve's bright and interested eyes as the drell silently absorbed the entire conversation. And the light-hearted conversation continued, on and off, through the hours, as the _Kiev_ streaked from the Mindoir relay, inbound towards the system's primary, and the glistening blue-green planet that called her home.

**Elijah, Mindoir, January 8-9, 2197**

"Bekenstein, huh?" Lin asked, as the doors of the observation lounge hissed open in front of them. "You needed to keep _that_ behind your teeth before leaving?"

"Kasumi owns a hell of a ritzy place there. And for all the secrecy, reporters found us anyway."

"They didn't really pester us too much here on Bastion," Lin said, cheerfully enough. "Serana and I aren't as _famous_, I guess."

Eli gave him a finger-flick, with emphasis, and Lin laughed.

They dropped their bags on the floor, and started opening lockers. Eli wanted out of his armor. It was easier to wear it than to carry it, and it usually got him through customs a hell of a lot faster, but he had no intention of sitting around the ship wearing it if he didn't have to do so. "So what all did you guys do on Bek?" Lin asked. His grin was sly.

Eli grinned back. "Lots of stuff."

"Such as?"

"Went on fossil hikes. Found a couple of nice ones that are still in my bags. Wind-surfing. There's a hovercycle track not far from the hotel. Took Dara to a concert." Eli kept his tone perfectly bland. "Oh, and took her out dancing the first night, since it was New Year's."

Lin snorted with laughter and closed his locker door. "Dancing. I'm. . . having a hard time picturing this." Turians tended to find human and asari dancing _very_ amusing.

"As my heart beats and I draw breath, it's true. I've even got evidence." Eli snorted. "I knew you wouldn't believe me without vid documentation." He opened his omnitool, and pulled up the pictures he'd taken on their trip. Dara, with her hair loosely tied back, covered in dirt, wearing shorts and a tank-top, eyes covered by her dark glasses, but grinning as she held up a large fossil for him to see. And then, flipping back through the chronology, he found the one he'd taken in their room that first night. Her hair up, her eyes faintly luminous, a little mysterious, wearing _that_ dress, and a slightly uncertain, vulnerable look, mingled with burgeoning confidence. _My girl,_ Eli thought, a glow of warmth pouring through him.

Lin whistled between his teeth, and said, simply, "Damn." He paused. "Think I should tell her it was a good thing she wasn't wearing a _cinctus_? 'Cause otherwise, I think I could have seen it, as low as that dress goes. . . "

Eli chuckled. "Not if you want your teeth to stay where they are."

"Thought as much."

The door of the lounge hissed open, and Eli reflexively tabbed his omnitool shut. Without missing a single beat, Lin changed the subject. "Just for the record, _fradu?_" Lin said, just as Rel walked in. . . followed by Fors Luka.

"What?" Eli was all to aware of how uncomfortable this situation might well get, and quickly.

"I'm going to have to kill you."

Lin said it so soberly, Eli's head snapped up. Rel stopped and simply _stared_ at both of them for a moment. "Kill me? What for?"

"For sticking me with the whole _shreee'eka_ business with Fors!" Lin looked back over his shoulder. "Oh, hello there, Fors."

"As if you didn't know I was here." Fors snuffled, and waddled further into the room. "I'd apologize, but so far, you and my human-turian friend have done even better than I'd hoped you would."

Lin mock-growled under his breath. "So much for a nice _relaxing_ leave with Serana after getting off of Khar'sharn." Lin picked up a boot and threw it more or less in Eli's direction.

Eli promptly caught it, and threw it back. "Hey, throw it at _Fors_, not me. He asked both of us. You weren't there for the whole 'get in, make nice with his possible in-laws, and see if the girl actually likes him part."

"In-laws?" Rel asked, dropping his own bag on the floor in front of a locker and opening it. "I feel like I missed act one of a play here."

"Fors was asked by his current clan to consider marrying a girl from one of his former clans as part of a plan to spread out his value or. . . .something. . . over more than one clan," Lin supplied. He gave Eli a look now. "You weren't there for three solid days of contract negotiations, _fradu—_"

"Consider it practice for your own." Eli could feel the incipient tension draining out of the room. All because Lin had disarmed the situation before it could even begin to build.

"Consider _this_ my resignation in the matter."

"Hey!" Fors objected. "You can't resign on me now!"

Lin waved at him. "I'm not actually resigning, I'm passing the ball to Eli." He paused. "Especially after Serana's _helpful_ suggestion that Fors have his government declare him a natural resource or a planetary treasure, or some damn thing."

Eli's shoulders shook. "She did not."

Lin gave him a direct look. "Oh yes. She did."

Fors started snuffling with laughter at that point. "She did. It was a thing of beauty. My turian-turian friend has a very intelligent mate."

Rel shook his head and found a chair near the extranet console. "I leave for a week, and none of you make any sense when I get back."

Lin crouched down by his own nest now. "I've only been following about half the discussions I've been sitting through, Rel. These volus clans have been trying to distribute Fors' worth or his lack of it or. . . spirits, I don't even understand whether he's an asset or a toxic asset or has value or doesn't have value anymore," Lin said, throwing up his hands.

"It greatly depends on whose accountants you're talking to," Fors told him, blandly, "and the financial state of the clan whose accountants are doing the addition and subtraction."

"At any rate, whatever you are," Lin paused, and gave Fors a look now, "according to Serana, should be distributed over the whole of Irune. They didn't like it, but from the way Fors here started laughing, I think he's actually considering it."

"Oh, I am, I am," the volus acknowledged happily, and clambered awkwardly up onto one of the human beds, to sit with his feet dangling off the edge.

Eli sat down on the side of his own bed, a datapad in his hands, and squinted. "Wait. Wouldn't that mean you'd be technically owned by everyone on the planet?"

"That's what _I_ asked," Lin put in.

"This sounds uncomfortably like slavery," Rel muttered.

"It's not," Fors assured him. "Every volus has personal worth. What our clans have put into us. What we've done with our lives. It's all. . . measurable. I tossed the idea at all ten clans' accountants, and the last I heard, they thought they could work it out that everyone in my original ten clans would have more of a share. . . but that everyone on Irune would own about a billionth of a share in me. I would be enriching all of my people by. . . hmm. A billionth of a credit each. So I'll hardly be worth anything at all."

Eli shook his head. "Yeah. Until the first of them that thinks he's entitled to your help because you're a public resource and he owns a billionth of you. And promptly gets pissed at you because you didn't show up to get his cat out of his tree." He paused. "Or whatever passes for cats and trees on Irune."

"I doubt anyone will be asking me to get their _mee'kai_ out of the _kee'thra_." Fors paused. "Should I even bother to explain what those are?"

"Am I going to have to meet one or eat the other?' Eli asked, apprehensively.

"No."

"Then let's not worry about it for now."

Fors laughed again, snuffling harder. Lin looked at Eli again now. "So, yeah. I'm out. You're in. I'll get in a full envirosuit or even go to Irune for the little guy's wedding, sure, but _you_ are handling the social crap."

Eli winced, and pulled up a notepad program. "Okay, _fradu_, what social crap?" He turned and looked at Fors. "I thought you said volus didn't do bachelor parties."

"We don't, but someone in Bire-Clan thinks a that there should be a party before the wedding. One that the non-volus guests can join in on, in relative comfort and safety." Fors snuffled. "I agreed with that, in principle. Especially if they hold to having the ceremony itself on Irune, instead of on Bastion. I said, before I _thought_ about it 'oh, like a human bachelor party,' and they jumped on that."

Lin gave Eli a look. "All _you_."

That was the moment that Dempsey walked in, which required a few hand-shakes, especially when Rel mentioned, dryly, "Little difference between the two lounges right now, Dempsey. Zhasa and Serana are probably still nattering about wedding stuff and Zhasa's engagement ring, and in here, it's bachelor party stuff."

Eli blinked, and stood to congratulate Dempsey._ Maybe we could just roll his bachelor party in with Fors'_, he thought, grinning to himself for a moment. And then sat back down again, as Dempsey tossed his bag on the bed beside where Fors was sitting, almost, but not quite hitting the volus. Who promptly retaliated with a biotic thrust, which Dempsey blocked without even turning around to look at him. The only tell-tales were the fact that they were using _just_ enough power for it to flare in the air around them. "Knock it off," Lin told them both.

"So," Eli muttered, and sat back down on his bed. The room was getting crowded. "Are your clans setting the guest list, Fors? 'Cause if they are, _they're_ providing the budget."

"They said they'd fund part of it, yeah. I even got _numbers_ out of them, which was a hell of a feat." Fors made a twiddling gesture with his small, gloved fingers. "I have no idea of what goes on at a human bachelor party. But it should be noted that the guests on the list include Spectres. And given that the whole of Irune might be watching the damned wedding, it's fair to say that there might be some volus press attention at this social gathering as well."

Lin rolled into his nest now, and said, "So, yeah. Nothing that can get us fired, _fradu_." He thought about that. "Wait. Can we actually _be_ fired?"

"Nisha Cehl was asked, none too politely, to retire," Eli offered. _What's a little pressure?_ "Send the numbers over, Fors," he muttered. "You know what? Four years of serving on turian planets? I've never actually _been_ to a human bachelor party." _My wedding to Serana barely qualified as a wedding, in retrospect. A drink in the hotel lounge with Lin and Rel and Rinus and Mazz. A quick ceremony, and an hour of private time, before she had to go back to her work. Damn._ He looked at Dempsey. "Any suggestions?"

"Shit, no. I was eighteen when I got married. Under the legal drinking age for Massachusetts." Dempsey shrugged and started stowing his own gear for the moment. "I did go to few of my buddies'. Two from the guys I was in a band together with. . . and one of my N7 coworkers'."

"Strippers?"

"Yep. Champagne lounge and lap dances." Dempsey snorted. "One of the guys couldn't get enough of the lap dances. Always kind of wondered why the fuck he was getting married." Dempsey shrugged.

Fors snuffled in pure amusement. "In my time with B-Sec, I did have to walk through the clubs on a few occasions," the volus said. "These would be the simulated sex acts that the human and asari dancers perform?"

Lin cleared his throat. "Yeah." He frowned. "It's one step up from prostitution. They're paying for it. The dancers are providing it. Doesn't matter to me that one or two layers of clothing stay on. The customer still often gets release."

Eli nodded. He'd never in his life needed to pay for physical intimacy, and wasn't about to start now. Lin's words poked his conscience, though, and he briefly revisited the memory of the Singing Planet in his mind. He'd held Dara against the stone, rachni song pounding through both of them, in armor. And he knew damned well they both had found release in it. _But not really the same thing. The __physical__ wasn't really what was doing that. Not in armor. And we were both separated from our exes at the time. _Eli thought about it as objectively as he could, and decided his conscience was pretty damned clean on that count.

The internal review had taken seconds. Out loud, the conversation was still going on. "Yeah," Dempsey said, shortly. "As far as I was concerned, my buddy was pretty much cheating on his fiancée. Kind of changed the way I looked at him."

"I thought the acts just looked _funny_." Fors sounded whimsical. "I took the liberty of deploying a small singularity under one of the chairs once. The chair, the male, and the dancer all went in different directions. The dancer was _very_ upset with me, as I recall. Something about lost income."

Eli rubbed at his face for a moment, and brought the subject back on track. "So, yeah, all I know about parties like this is what I've seen on the extranet. I guess I better start researching." He paused. "So. . . yeah. Spectres, right? And did your clans want this to be all-male, or, well. . . co-ed?" Mental revisions were rapidly taking place.

Fors snuffled. "Females hold a little more worth in our society than males do. It would be well to invite females."

Eli exhaled, and started flipping through extranet sites, as Dempsey sat down on his own bunk now, faking a shove at Fors with one booted foot. "Yeah. So, this has to be classy enough to not embarrass the Spectres, has to be co-ed friendly, and has to be _fun_ at the same time." He gave Lin a look. "Thanks, _fradu._"

"My pleasure," Lin told him, lightly.

Fors snuffled. "Is it permissible to invite the bride?"

Eli looked up at the ceiling. "Yes, but part of the fun, as I understand it, is that the guests should get to embarrass the groom a bit."

Fors chuckled, a mucous sound. "That might be somewhat difficult for you to do."

Lin lifted his head, blue eyes gleaming. "That sounds like a challenge."

"Says the male who had a picture of Gives-Solace-of-the-Body-To-Many taped to his B-Sec locker door for a week after a bad encounter on BastionSinglesNet," Fors pointed out, swiftly.

Rel, who'd dug out a new set of carving knives, and was hard at work as the rest of them talked, just about choked on his laughter at that point. Eli flipped through more extranet sites, and shook his head over the first few search results. "Nothing good?' Lin asked, after a moment.

"Not really. Half of these sites are about drinking games. Which seems a little juvenile, and given the media coverage, this might need to be a little more, hmm. . . upscale." Eli paused, and shook his head over the next extranet site's helpful suggestions. "I also can't really see watching a porn vid in public with a bunch of other people."

Rel's fingers slipped, and he almost cut himself with the carving knife. Dempsey raised his eyebrows slightly. "You're kidding." 

"Nope. This site recommends 'the more disgusting, the better.'"

There was a pause. "What movie would even hit the right buttons for a crowd of humans, turians, asari, hanar, drell, volus. . . " Lin trailed off.

"_Shepard Does the Citadel_," Eli supplied promptly. "Even supposedly has the award-winning scene with the human actress and the volus male. 'Extreme technical difficulty.'" He flipped websites. "On the other hand, Shepard's our boss, and I kind of like my job." _Plus, she's __related__ to half the people who'd be there!_

"I've never actually seen it," Lin said, diffidently.

"I've never met anyone who'd _admit_ to having seen it," Eli told him, dryly. _And I really haven't seen it. It would be. . . weird._

Dempsey cleared his throat. "I'm doing a little mental math here," he said, his eyes distant, as he accessed the extranet on his chip. "Water freezes and melts around thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit. Human body temperature is more or less sixty of those units higher." He paused. "Irune's seas are liquid ethane and methane, right?"

"Yes," Fors told him.

"And ethane melts at . . . ninety point four Kelvin."

"Correct."

"Which is. . . " Dempsey looked off into the mid-distance again. "Minus two hundred and ninety-six degrees Fahrenheit, give or take a little. Volus body temperature is warmer than that?"

"Yes. About a hundred and twenty-seven Kelvin. . . or minus two hundred and thirty in your Fahrenheit scale." Fors' tone was amused.

Eli's brain hurt just thinking about that. "So. . . human body temperature, assuming there were no pressure constraints. . . "

"Would burn us, instantly, yes. And our body temperature would induce freezing in your tissues, almost instantly as well. Assuming the human didn't implode, and the volus didn't explode." Fors snuffled.

_Ouch_. Eli cringed a little mentally. "Then _how_. . . ?" Lin started, and then stopped himself. "Nevermind. I probably don't want to know."

There was another pause as they all revolved various things around in their thoughts. "The volus actor actually is considered a clan-hero," Fors said, after a moment. "His personal worth as an actor went up astronomically for his willingness to court personal danger and for the awards. I understand it required two weeks of preparation for both actors. Him going through decompression gradually, her enduring compression in a hyperbaric chamber."

Dempsey's eyes went vacant for a moment. "Medical literature suggests that deep sea divers in the undersea oil industry could prepare themselves for up to nine atmospheres of pressure," he said, calmly. "But the temperature difference, and the atmospheric contents. . . ."

"Oxygen isn't toxic, but we'd suffocate if we breathed it too long, like carbon dioxide for humans. The real issue would be the temperature of the oxygen in your atmosphere." Fors snuffled. "It turns into a gas at about ninety Kelvin, or right around the temperature at which ethane melts into its liquid state."

Another long pause. Eli broke the silence. "So. . . no _pressure_ suits needed, so long as they both stayed at around, say, four atmospheres of pressure. But breathers for both of the actors. And, apparently, some sort of _asbestos_ prophylactic." Eli thought about it.

"Practically a full body condom would be needed," Dempsey pointed out. His lips twitched for some reason.

"Or absolutely no touching."

"Definitely no cuddling," Fors agreed, and they all started to _laugh_ as Eli he kept on flipping through the extranet sites. Even Dempsey's lips quirked at the corners a bit.

"I've. . . got time on the whole party thing, right?" Eli asked Fors.

"Probably a couple of months, yes."

"Thank god. I don't think any of these sites is going to be a help." Eli cleared his search results, and started over from scratch.

"So, your leave doesn't sound all that relaxing, Lin," Rel said after a moment or two.

"Eh, it was all right. Helped Serana with her physical therapy. Went to a few of the hearings on the _Estallus_' crash, to support Rinus and Kallixta. I couldn't testify to anything other than having helped get people off the life-pods in the _Raedia's_ bays, though." Lin dug out his own datapad now. "How was yours?"

"Instructive. The Pyramids were impressive." Rel paused. "Had a little run-in with a reporter. Remembered him from boot camp, actually. Scaevous Lintorum."

Eli's head snapped back up again. "Heard a little about that. Same one who bit you and Dara in boot camp, yeah?" His teeth hurt suddenly.

Rel nodded. "Yeah." His expression suddenly shifted, becoming amused. "I have to ask you, Eli, since you're our _press liaison_ and all that, if you approve of Seheve's methods of dealing with this esteemed member of the press."

Eli looked at him warily. Lin sighed. "Please say she didn't kill him," Lin said, tiredly.

"Not at all. But I suspect he wishes he were dead."

Lin grimaced. "Poisoned him?"

"No."

Lin looked around. "Dosed him with enough _papavera_ to give him hellish withdrawal symptoms?"

Rel grinned. "No, but I'll tell her you suggested it."

"I didn't _suggest_ anything." Lin frowned. "Give. What did she do?"

"Set him up. Used his credit chit to set up accounts for him on various bondage and xeno-pornography sites, then got into his hotel room, recovered all the pictures _and vids_ he'd gotten of us, knocked him out, tied him to his bed, naked, gagged, and blindfolded, with a rope around his neck, put a bondage site up on his computer, after wiping its drive of all files relating to us. . . and then called an escort service and the maid to come and attend to him." Rel was grinning even more widely now.

Eli and Lin both sat, motionless, for a long moment. "Sounds like the only thing she didn't do was make sure his phallus was hanging out," Lin said, slowly.

"She told me she'd considered it, but felt it might be too much."

Eli cleared his throat. "Remind me _never_ to piss her off," he said, and started to chuckle.

Lin turned and looked at him. "You _approve_?"

"Hey, I'm just hoping _I_ get a shot at this guy one of these days." Eli caught the look on Lin's face, and said, "Hey, she didn't actually _kill_ him."

"Breaking and entering, false imprisonment, theft, identity theft, defamation of character. . ." Lin trailed off.

Rel shook his head. "He had thermal vid of us taken through the _walls_ of the hotel, and was trying to sell them to someone for distribution." There was a glitter of absolute rage in Rel's eyes, and Eli hoped Lin saw it.

"Hey, I'm just glad you didn't kill him with your bare hands." Eli was trying to keep his tone light.

"If I'd known about the thermal vid when he first approached us to make his insulting comments about me fucking shit-eaters, I probably would have," Rel admitted, the anger in his eyes still present, but abating a bit.

Lin's own gaze had narrowed. "That does go _far_ beyond what a reporter can and should do, yeah."

"She took care of it. Not the way I would have, as press liaison, but I like her solution better than I like my own," Eli said, and let the subject lie.

Their flight actually took them through ship's night, and Eli ensured that he made his way over to the other lounge before bed. Not only did he have a promise to keep—one poem a night, read in asari, assuming they could find _any_ privacy—but he also needed to maintain Dara's song connection. And while Zhasa, a biotic, was right there, Dara had never been out of touch with the rachni. . . or him. . . for long before. No rachni on Bek, but they'd slept in skin contact every night there, too. It worried him, and, from the look of relief on Dara's face as she answered the door, it worried her, too. "We could just book a sparring room overnight and sleep there," Eli offered, quietly, stroking her hair out of her face. Little whispers of melody everywhere.

"Got to find my limits," Dara told him, just as softly, touching the side of his face with cool fingers. "Eli. . ."

"I know. Get some sleep, _sai'kaea._ I love you."

Mindoir, in January, was at the height of the summer season. The valley was seeing highs above ninety Fahrenheit, and the base was running about ten degrees cooler, due to its elevation. And as they all disembarked from the _Kiev_, Eli reminded everyone, quickly, "There's reporters on base. I don't know if they're covering the return home, but just be aware, okay?"

And so they trooped down the ramp of the _Kiev_, returning to Mindoir, as they had, so many times before. Kallixta and Rinus led the way, followed by Rel and Seheve, and then Serana and Lin, actually. Eli held back a bit, watching the others pass by, and taking the chance to slide his fingers into Dara's cool ones as Thell and Fors passed down the ramp next, and then Dempsey and Zhasa. _You ready, __sai'kaea__?_

_As I'm going to be. Happier homecoming than a few others this past year._ Dara inhaled, trying to calm herself, apparently.

_I never did figure out why after Omega, you just. . . withdrew_. The reminder was enough. It set off memories in her mind. Watching her father and Kasumi and Takeshi. A full life. A real, working, stable relationship, with work and a kid and love all in perfect balance. She'd ached for that, and hidden it from herself. And then seeing Serana run to Eli. . . a reminder that the closeness, the friendship, the bond between them that had only grown in three months of combat. . . she gotten used to having that on Omega. And Serana's jubilant welcome had been a sharp reminder that she didn't have a right to expect it. And so, she'd withdrawn.

Flickers of his own memory. Of trying to show nothing but friendship to Serana. Trying to establish distance without causing pain. _Yeah. This homecoming is better. Though it has the potential for being annoying. I've kind of been getting used to sleeping beside you, __sai'kaea__. Crazy dreams and all._ He squeezed her fingers.

They started down the ramp, and Eli released her hand, catching her elbow instead. He could see Sam waiting for them in the golden morning light, and Lantar, too. They got smiles and waves of 'get over here,' from Sam, and edged through the crowd, as marines and techs and everyone else started piling off the _Kiev_ in the wake of the Spectres. Eli swept his eyes around, and found, on the periphery of the crowd, two female forms, both with cameras hovering by their heads. _Emily Wong and Lexine Elders_, he thought, and squeezed Dara's elbow again, getting her attention and nodding in the reporters' direction.

_Great_, Dara thought back, and the tone was yellow and purple. Anxiety and fear.

Still, there was far too much activity and cacophony to worry about the reporters just yet. Allardus and Solanna were both there, waiting for three of their children, and Eli's lips twitched a little as _Serana_ was the first one greeted, with cries of _"Are you all right?"_ from her mother, and a more quiet, lower-pitched, "_Garrus assured us that you were well, first-daughter, but it's good to see it for ourselves_," from her father. _She'll love that. She always felt she hardly got any attention, compared to her older brothers_, he thought.

Hal'Marrak and Nal'Ishora were there to greet Zhasa, and were, to his astonishment, wearing breather masks. . . and regular street clothes. "We're trying to meet your challenge," Nal told Zhasa happily. "If not here, where we have _excellent_ medical care minutes from our door, where else in the galaxy can we try to do this?"

"You don't have the nanobots, and this isn't Rannoch!" Zhasa told them, instantly concerned.

"Believe me when I say we decontaminate every time we go into our house, and the breathers take care of most everything for us—"

And then there were others, all sweeping in to greet everyone else. Voices. So many damned voices, and a press of bodies. Finally, he and Dara reached their own greeting committee, and Lantar gave him a wrist-clasp and a pat on the shoulder, just as Dara was on the receiving end of a tight hug from her father. "Dad!"

"It's only been a week, sweetie, but glad to see you survived leave in one piece. I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever find a planet that wasn't actually dangerous to light on."

"Good to see you, first-son." Lantar, now.

"Mom and the little ones aren't back from Argus' place yet?"

"No. Can't bring them back till that damned AI is finished off."

"Hope you've got some ideas on how to do that," Eli told him, dryly.

"Linianus actually said a few things in his report from Khar'sharn that got people thinking about the problem a new way," Lantar told him, cryptically, and then there were shouts of consternation ringing all through the crowd, and people hurriedly getting out of the way, dancing aside and lifting up their feet as if they'd stepped on hot coals. Eli blinked, and then realized _why_ as about a hundred rachni workers streamed out of the crowd, making a bee-line for Dara. He was lightly sharing her thoughts at the moment, and could hear their joyous cries as they advanced on her.

—_Little-queen returns!_

—_Your songs were missed, little-queen._

—_Having more voices makes the chorus sweeter._

Dara laughed and crouched down on the ground, dropping her bags, as they started racing up her body, starting at the legs and working their way up. Eli could sense the crowd of Spectres and techs, even as inured to the _weird_ that was Mindoir life, pulling back just a little, as the rachni swarmed Dara.

—_You sing joy, little-queen! It radiates from you. _

—_Mating songs were good? Will you sing more of them now?_

—_Will you lay eggs now? We care for eggs!_

Eli couldn't keep a straight face for that. He laughed out loud. "No, no eggs, guys," he told them, as Dara stood back up again. The rachni were still moving, but they covered her like a living suit of armor, and more of them pooled around her feet. Only her face was visible at the moment, and she was _laughing_ because the feet tickled the bare skin of her hands and neck. "Wolfgang, 1812, out of the way," he told two of the named rachni, and reached out, brushing them away from Dara's face, before leaning down to give her a light kiss. Right on the lips. And to hell with the cameras and Rel and everything else.

—_Oh, mating songs begin now?_ He was in armor, so he didn't realize some of the rachni had crossed over from her shoulders to his forearms until he pulled back again, and saw their glinting green bodies exploring his armor.

"No, not right now," Eli replied, chuckling..

"Eggs?" Sam said, out loud, his eyebrows rising. "You two want to start explaining what the hell you're talking about?"

"Guys? Get down. We're putting on enough of a show as is," Eli told them, just as Dara chimed in, "It's nothing major, Dad, the workers are just trying to figure out what their next job is."

Eli realized at that point that Wolfgang and 1812 were bound and determined to sit on his shoulders. _And while I'm on the subject, please tell them, __sai'kaea__, not __all__ of them in the bedroom at once._

A chorus of violet disappointment in his head. Dara chuckled a little, but yellow anxiety tinged the edges of her amusement. _That's probably not going to make a difference, _Dara told him. _What one of them hears, they all hear, pretty much._ The anxiety wasn't draining away; part of her was worried he'd pull away from her, he realized.

Eli shook his head. _Good thing we practiced first. I've never performed for an audience before._ He grinned, and pretended to duck away as Dara pretended to swat him. And caught, out of the corner of his eye, the fact that the cameras were hovering very close by, and gave Sam a quick look. _You sure you wanted all this on vid, Sam? Why?_

His answer came in a voice that shook the ground. _Mother?_The voice was of a rachni queen; a young one, without the depth of, say, Life-Singer. But there was still incredible complexity in the harmonies, thousands of generations of memory at work in defining the person behind that voice. It was a storm of music, pouring over everyone in range. Those who hadn't heard it before, Eli clearly saw flinch and stagger; those who had, the heads snapped up, tracking around to try to find the source.

Dara's mouth fell open, and Eli could feel _jubilation_ suddenly rise up inside of her. "Joy-Singer!" Dara half-sang, and spun, looking around for the source of the voice. There was a shuttle parked on the tarmac not far from the _Kiev_, and sure enough, a young rachni queen and two brood-warriors, one of them clearly Sky, moved out from around it now. Eli felt Dara's hand latch around his wrist, and she quivered in place, just for a moment, and then she started to pull him towards her rachni daughter.

"Easy, _sai'kaea_, easy," Eli muttered softly. While Dara was overjoyed, Eli was quite a bit more worried. The last time they'd seen Joy-Singer, he'd had to hold Dara up on her feet while Life-Singer unlatched the young queen's mind from Dara's. He moved with her now, leaving his gear behind, just barely keeping Dara from running straight to the young queen.

Joy-Singer, in three months, had grown. She was now a quarter of her adult size, or just around five feet in height. Smaller than Sky, still, but she was clearly eating her Wheaties. _Royal jelly. Toast. Whatever._ Dara reached out, and Joy-Singer lifted her front chelicerae off the ground and gave her, very gently, a rachni hug, not too much differently than Sky always had. The music swelled and soared without words at all for a moment, and Eli could feel that they were exchanging memories. _Just as an asari matriarch takes the memories of those who come to her for advice and counsel, accepts them from her daughters,_ Eli realized. _But different. Just as the rachni are different. _

_Were you surprised, Mother? Sings-to-the-Sky said that I could hide my songs, not be heard by any, if I concentrated._

"It was a very good surprise," Dara told Joy-Singer, mopping at her face briefly, and stepping back a bit from the young queen. "Was it hard to muffle your songs?"

_Very hard. But useful. Sings-to-the-Sky says that the more difficult the song, the better it is to learn it. Sings-to-the-Sky is very wise._ The brilliant rachni-blue eyes shifted, and Joy-Singer raised her head slightly to look at Eli now. _Many-Voices, favored brood-warrior of my mother, first in battle, first singer of peace songs, will you not greet me, too?_

The voice was almost tentative. She was more in control of her songs now, it was clear. Not just a noisy baby who'd damned near taken Dara from him before they'd been able or willing to admit what they felt for each other. But then again, batarian bullets had come a hell of a lot closer than Joy-Singer's unintentional damage had done. "Of course I'll greet you," he told her, and stepped closer. Let the chelicerae close around him, his head close to Joy-Singer's mouth. _I know 'favored brood-warrior, first in battle, first singer of peace-songs' is a lot of honor, but it's kind of a mouthful every time you want to say hello._

_Then should I call you Father?_

The words shook Eli right down to his boots. It wasn't a title he thought he was in any way ready for. One he'd taken a hell of a lot of precautions to avoid, over the years. But, when it came right down to it. . . he'd been there for her birth. He'd held Dara through two days of probably the most nightmarish labor anyone could have conceived. And from the start, his memories and perspectives had been drawn through Dara to feed the little queen, too. Eli exhaled slowly, feeling a weight of responsibility hit his shoulders. _It's probably accurate,_ he assessed. _I wouldn't use it around certain of the other brood-warriors just yet, though._

_It would, as Sings-Not might say, disrupt consensus-songs._ That was Sky's voice, mellow cellos, and Eli's shoulders shook for a moment. A rachni, making a joke of the geth's obsessive search for middle ground and consensus. _Only on Mindoir._

Sam approached then, dryly noting, "My 'granddaughter' here has been on Mindoir for the last week. It's been . . . interesting. . . getting to know her." He shook his head. "Weird, actually, since Joy already knows all _about_ me."

_Of course I do, Sings-to-the-Past. My mother's memory-songs of you were most clear, as are the memory-songs of Sings-to-the-Sky._ Joy-Singer's words were quite matter-of-fact.

"Do I even want to know how much negotiating it took to get Joy-Singer here on base?" Eli asked.

"A lot," Sam said, exhaling. "Shepard's gone about eight rounds with Life-Singer and the Mindoir planetary governing council. There are actually a couple of representatives from Odessa at the science station, waiting to meet the young lady at the moment. So that they can be reassured that she's not planning on colonizing their entire world." He gave Joy-Singer a look.

_Of course not, Sings-to-the-Past. This is a human world. I am here to be a bridge. As my mother is a bridge. As my . . .father. . . is a bridge. Sings-to-the-Sky has often sung this to you and to Sings-Regrets._

Sam shook his head. "Yeah. He has." He awarded Sky a genial scowl. "I don't think either Lantar or I quite understood what he meant at the time."

_I did not hear the song when it was still the future, myself,_ Sky agreed. _I heard possibilities in Many-Voices' song, and in Sings-Heartsong's, but did not know precisely where they would lead. _

Sam squinted at Sky for a moment, and then rested a hand on Dara's shoulder. "Let's get you all over to the house, and then we can talk a bit. You've got physical evals in the afternoon. Nothing major, just a ranging shot so we can see how everyone's doing after a variety of injuries. Mental and psych evals in a couple of days, checking out on your weapons, the usual." Sam kept his tone carefully casual, Eli noted.

"And the reporters?" Eli asked, dryly.

Lantar's hand fell on his shoulder now, and he turned to look at his step-father. "They'll be conducting interviews," Lantar replied, quietly. "Wong's focus is on following up on the people she covered during the Spectre trials. Elders wants to focus on the people she covered on Terra Nova."

"How much coverage are we talking?" Eli asked, uneasily.

"They're staying the week. Today's Monday. They'll probably stay up through next Monday. I'm planning on a barbecue the last night. Then you'll probably get assignments Monday morning. They're both working documentaries, not to be released until after the war, and after everything gets declassified. Wong's got a hell of a lot more access than Elders, though, so watch what you say to Elders." Sam's words were terse in tone as he moved them towards a groundcar. . . and a flatbed groundtruck, for the rachni.

Most of the workers peeled off to hop onto the truck with Joy-Singer, but about a half-dozen piled into the backseat of the groundcar with Dara and Eli, while Lantar and Sam sat up front. Eli glanced back over his shoulder at the rest of their friends. It looked as if Seheve's brother, Oeric, had come to greet her, and take her back to his house for the moment; Seheve looked uncomfortable, and seemed to be begging off. Thell was overseeing the unloading of what looked like a couple of geth memory nodes. Kirrahe had been pulled off to the side by Mordin Alesh. And the Velnarans were making their way to a couple of their own groundcars, for the moment. Though Rel had glanced back over his shoulder at Seheve, from the looks of things. Eli cleared his throat and returned his attention to Sam and Lantar. "So, the reporters have free range on the base?" he asked.

"More or less." Sam's eyes met his in the rearview mirror. "You and Lantar coming over for dinner?"

Eli exhaled, a knot of tension releasing in his stomach. "Yeah, I am. Dad?"

"Sure. I'm getting _really_ tired of my own cooking." Lantar's faint smile was rueful. "Which is to say, whatever I can find at the commissary that comes in a can, heats up easily, and cleans up in five minutes."

"That ain't healthy, Lantar, and you know it."

"Eh, didn't kill me when I was on the Citadel."

"You were ten years younger on the Citadel."

Eli chuckled. The two of them had obviously spent a _lot_ of time around each other in the past few years. Sam looked over his shoulder at Dara, who was touching the back of Eli's hand, lightly, with two fingertips right now. Eli had just been enjoying the sensation as her fingers skated up and down, tracing the lines of the metacarpals and tendons and veins. "So. . . what's Kasumi's place on Bek like?" Sam asked. "She insists that she's asked me five or six times to go there. I told her this was the first I'd damned well heard of it."

Lantar chuckled. "That sounds like a one-way ticket to the _villi_ pens, my friend. She doesn't need _evidence_ of you not listening."

"She says she sent me travel brochures, marked, 'Hey, look what I own, we should take Takeshi and go on vacation here.' But I've got plenty of evidence that I never got the damned things. All of those messages were in my junk comm message folder. There's only seven thousand or so messages in there that I've never even looked at." Sam snorted. "I think I'm in the clear as far as wifely wrath goes."

Eli and Dara were exchanging glances at the moment. Soft whisper of thoughts, and faint smiles rising on both their faces. Dara cleared her throat. "It's a nice place, Dad. A lot bigger than I expected. I really want to hear the whole story of the place from her at some point."

"It's definitely got its fair share of surprises," Eli added, blandly.

Apparently, what they said set off a number of alarm bells in Sam Jaworski's mind. He braked, hard, and turned around in the seat to look at them both. His eyes flicked from one of them to the other, taking in the faint, incipient smiles that tugged at their lips in defiance of turian stoicism, and rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Oh, well that's just peachy," he muttered. "Surprises, huh? I _love_ surprises."

—_Sings-to-the-Past sings joke-song? This does not sound like truth-song_, Chopin chittered on Dara's shoulder.

"It's called irony," Eli told the worker, and kept his face meticulously straight.

Eli was not terribly surprised when he and Lantar were dropped off at their own house, down the block from the Jaworski's. Not surprised, but not especially thrilled, either. The subtext was _you need to unpack your gear and stay in your own house._ The motive for it could be either _There's reporters on base, so be on your best behavior _or _ I'm okay with you dating my daughter, and even with you taking her on vacation, but I'm not down with you sleeping together in my house._ Eli didn't _think_ it was the latter, but it paid to be respectful.

He had a couple of hours to unpack and talk with Lantar as they ate lunch at the base cafeteria. And then, at 15:00, it was time for baseline physical fitness evals. Everyone _had_, at least, had a week off, which would probably have helped everyone's reaction times improve, but the humans and turians probably would need another week off for proper decompression. Kirrahe was probably champing at the bit to get out into the field again at this point; salarians weren't noted for patience at the best of times.

They all met back up again in the gym complex, where Shepard, Garrus, Gris, and Sam were waiting for them all, with Dr. Chakwas and a slew of nurses in tow. "We'll start with a swim this time," Shepard called to the various Spectres, probationary and otherwise. "Blood oxygenation and heat rate test after that, followed by general fitness—pushup, sit-ups, squats. . . . and then a series of runs. Sprints and then endurance. We're going to try to get you all out of here by 18:00, all right? Tomorrow, we'll do marksmanship and reaction time tests."

Eli winced a little, internally, sighed, and headed for the locker room. He'd brought his swim trunks with him, mostly because Lantar had warned him they might be needed, but Lantar hadn't known quite what Shepard was going to throw at them this afternoon.

The turians, of course, didn't need suits. Drell, male or female, only wore swim trunks or short kilts in the water. Asari only wore swimsuits on human worlds, or out of deference to local sensibilities. Kella, for example, had always borrowed one of Dara's. Melaani seemed to follow that convention, and wore at least a bikini. Salarians, being amphibious, found the entire notion rather amusing. But everyone _did_ need a place to store their clothes once shucked. And the locker room was, per galactic standards, not gender-segregated. Though the human females tended to stay on one side, the males on the other, more or less out of social habit, Eli figured.

"Hey, Fors, are we going to wind up towing you across the pool?" Lin called, opening the locker next to Eli's.

"I thought I'd just ride Makur's pet cat around the pool in circles until the rest of you get done dunking yourself in the water." Fors snuffled. "I'm a better swimmer than any of you. . . so long as it's in methane/ethane seas."

"I believe that. I also believe I'd prefer not to be flash-frozen by dipping my toes in that kind of liquid," Lin shot back.

Makur's bass rumble now. "Doubt Cat would much appreciate being used as a volus pony. He might try to bite you."

"I brought him meat scraps from the kitchen. Think he'd accept a bribe or two?"

Back and forth banter. Comfortable and familiar. Eli kicked his shoes off, stripped off his shirt and pants, rolled them up and tossed them in the locker, and pulled on his swim trunks. Quick, economical movements. Lin, beside him, was already closing up his locker, and, as usual, had turned to tell him, "Hurry up. . ." And then stopped and whistled through his teeth.

Eli didn't even need to look up to know what that was about. But he did anyway, and registered that Lin was looking at his back. He'd refused to let Dara slap medigel on any of the scratches she'd left there. Between that, and the variety of small bite bruises still left on his arms, shoulders, and neck, he was, for a turian, heavily marked and claimed. By human standards, it was a little too much information. "Shut up, _fradu_."

"I didn't say a _word_." Lin's voice held inch-thick innocence.

"You didn't have to." Eli closed the locker door, and turned around. His face would have been blank to anyone besides those who knew him very well.

Of course, Lin was one of those people, and promptly switched languages, grinning. _"Then can I just say that I had no idea human talons could scratch like that?"_

"_Usually, they don't."_ Eli knew if he didn't play along, he'd _never_ hear the end of this. _In fact, I probably won't hear the end of it for a while anyway._

"_Her talons did look much longer than humans' usually are."_

"_They grew out to an inch or so from the nail bed, and then just stopped growing. Which is fortunate, since the workers weren't there to cut them for her, and she says regular clippers don't work anymore."_ Bland, matter-of-fact tone. Eli headed for the door into the swimming area, stepping just past Rel. He wasn't flaunting the marks. It just seemed like the best policy to pretend as if they weren't even there.

Lin's cheerful comments, however, made that difficult. _"Huh. That's odd. I thought your talons needed to be blunted because they grow continuously."_

"_Dara said it was probably the same mechanism that keeps human underarm hair from continuously growing."_ Calm, simple words. _See, no reaction here._

Lin chuckled. _"That is just __weird__."_ He paused, and grinned as they stepped out onto the cool tile that surrounded the pool. "_So, hovercycles, fossil hikes, _wind-surfing_, and a concert or two, huh?"_

Without changing expressions, and with a tremendous splash, Eli shoved Lin into the deep end of the pool. Lin popped up again, spluttering and chuckling. Eli looked down at him and said, mildly, "You trying to get a head start on the rest of us?"

At that point, Dara's fingers touched Eli's elbow. Pink tinge to her song right now. "I guess some things never change, huh?" she said.

Lin propped his arms on the edge of the pool and grinned wickedly up at her. "I didn't say a _word_, little one."

"You and Eli have transcended words. It's all in _how_ the two of you say things."

"When you say it like that, little one, it almost sounds like a compliment."

"Lin, don't make me kick you." Dara's voice could hold so many nuances. At the moment, it was mostly friendly and good natured, but with hints of ice in it.

Lin grinned and climbed the ladder nimbly, pulling himself up and out of the water again. Eli risked a glance down and to his right, doing a quick review of Dara's skin. He'd been trying to be conscious of the fact that they'd be returning to Mindoir shortly, and had tried not to bite too aggressively the last few nights, but she did have a few little marks here and there, which her black swimsuit did little to hide. Especially the double-arc on her left shoulder, from his own variant of the control-bite.

And there were all the other Spectres who were having their evals done, standing not too far behind her. Rel was studiously not looking directly at either of them. _Good choice. _Eli _did_ note that Seheve had a few bite-marks on _her_, including at least one control mark, which looked damned fresh. _Yes, let's all not make eye contact right now, thank you, move along. . . . _

Of course, Siara had no such compunctions, and had known both of them at least as long as Lin and Rel had. She padded over, light-footed and almost assertively naked, and Eli found someplace else to put his eyes, before grimacing and locking gazes with her. _I don't think you're going to fluster me much anymore, Siara_. For a long minute, the asari didn't say a word. Then she transferred her look to Dara, and bared her teeth before needling, "So. . . I guess I don't need to ask the two of you if you enjoyed your leave."

"Siara, stow it," Dara said, and the pink notes in her song were definitely more pronounced now.

Siara's brows arched slightly. "So touchy," she chided. Eli felt Dara try to relax, take a deep breath, and then Siara poked her again. This time, in asari. "_Uiae__ m__aieolo'loa'kareo_ _ua'oal'eo."_ _It is good that you two are united by the sharing of minds and bodies. "N'weo __pleia'su'__ealea a soa'sa'ealea tia_ _sis'ia?" Does not-she give pleasure and surcease to you?_ Needling grin with it, but it was clearly said in a bantering tone.

Dara's voice was a little strangled as she dug deep in her mind for her asari and managed to say, "_N'__m__aieolo'uelle __n'saie'hia__ ciea'teilu'yili." I will not share the secrets belonging to my cherished one._

Siara chuckled. "I'll take that as a _yes_."

Dara's eyes narrowed, and she pointed at the pool. "Unless you want to wind up in the water like Lin, this would be a good time to stop, Siara." Icicles would have been tropical in comparison to her voice. Her sense of humor was rapidly wearing away.

Siara lifted her bare arms, tipping her hands inward towards her naked body. "Oh, please, yes, Dara, by all means. Push me into the pool. Skin contact will answer all the questions I'm _not_ actually asking." Another wicked grin, and Eli could feel Dara's blush spreading.

Which is when Makur, who, being krogan, wore as little as Siara did in the pool, stumped over and told her, calmly, "You're in my spot again," picked her up, and dropped her in the pool. With a tremendous splash.

Snowflake, who'd been at his heels, hissed at the water spray, and darted away to lick his fur dry at a safe distance. Siara came up, spluttering and laughing. "Makur!"

"It was me, or it was her," Makur told her, jerking his head at Dara. "I didn't want you to wake up tomorrow morning with your eyelids sealed together with surgical glue." 

"I wouldn't. . . " Dara paused. "Actually, Makur, that's a _great_ idea, thank you." She beamed at the krogan, a tight, wicked smile. "I'd never have thought of it without you."

Siara bobbed over to the side of the pool to look behind them now, and pointed out, in light, amused asari, _"At least it's clearly evident that you're not the only ones who like to bite."_

"_I suspect that our scaled former thief-of-life probably speaks asari,"_ Eli pointed out, quickly.

"_She does,"_ Seheve interjected, without any rancor in her tone that he could detect.

Eli grinned at her. "_And given what she did to Scaevous Lintorum, the reporter on _Earth_? She's now in my top ten list of people I do not wish to make angry with me."_

"_Wait, you didn't mention anything about this before. What did she do to him?"_ Dara switched to turian, reflexively, as a language she was far more fluent in.

"_Stripped him mother-naked, tied him to a bed at four points, wrapped a cord around his neck, put bondage porn up on his extranet screen, called him a call girl, and left, after removing all the images and vids he'd taken of them off his various storage media."_ Eli answered in asari, still grinning, and switched back to English. "Seheve is now pretty close to the top of my personal 'do not fuck with list."

Seheve actually flushed green under the scales, he noticed, out of the corner of his eye. Siara laughed, and pulled herself out of the pool. "Who else is on that list?"

"You, because you'll make me _wish_ I were dead. Dempsey having a bad day." Eli grinned. "Dara, because I know which side my bread is buttered on."

Dara made a rude noise. Siara laughed. "Rel doesn't make the list?"

"Most of my coworkers do. Says something about my line of work." Eli dodged that question lightly. Truth was, he'd rather _not_ go ten rounds with Rel over anything. Especially not with the regen mod in place. But the hell of it was, he would. Not happily, not eagerly, but if he needed to, he absolutely would. _Sometimes brothers get along, like Lin and I do. And sometimes, they butt heads. Doesn't make them any less of friends, any less kin, I guess. _

Sam from the side of the pool, cleared his throat. And when they all turned towards him, Eli realized that the damned reporters were present, cameras hovering in position by each female's head. Sam scrupulously failed to look at any of them in particular as he said, "Let's get started. Zhasa, do you even know how to swim outside of your suit?"

"No, unfortunately, Spectre Jaworski." Zhasa was looking at the water with a mixture of delight and apprehension.

"Okay, we'll hold off on you, unless you want to get in your suit and go for a little walk along the bottom of the pool. We'll get you some lessons, though." Sam looked around. "All right. Asari and humans, you're up first. Whatever stroke you prefer, twenty laps. Just have to finish in under the allotted time. . . so no stress, right?"

Eli grinned at Dara, and they walked to their lanes. "I have _got_ to get you to teach me butterfly one of these days," Dara muttered.

"Soon as we're on the same planet for a month without getting shot at, sure thing."

And at the sound of the whistle, they, Dempsey, Siara, and Melaani all plunged into the water at the same time.

Later that evening, dinner at the Jaworskis' was, as usual, a zoo. Sam had left the gym area ahead of the rest of them, to come home and get preparations started. Eli, Dara, and Lantar arrived to the sight of Takeshi happily playing with his giant T-rex. Eli was tired and muscle-sore from the long run after the swim and calisthenics, but grinned when Takeshi dropped what he was doing and promptly squealed when he saw his older sister. . . and her rachni entourage. "Little Skies! Little Skies!"

_He persists in giving the workers this name-song. I do not understand why._ That was Joy-Singer, from the living room. Dara laughed and walked over to give the young queen a hug. While there were six or seven rachni workers with Dara, there were about a dozen around Joy-Singer, and Eli suspected there were dozens of soldiers hiding in the yard around the house, possibly even burrowed under the sod.

"I'm glad you at least still fit in the house," she told the queen, smiling. "In a year, you probably won't make it in the door."

_Ah, but in a year, you will have your own hive, yes? The workers will build it for you. You must arrange with Truth-Singer where on the base you wish it to be built, however._ Joy-Singer's voice was affectionate, and both Dara and Eli paused and blinked over that concept.

"I. . . ah. . . wow." Dara sat down in the living room on the couch, as Takeshi promptly climbed into her lap, waving a toy at her excitedly. "I would never have asked. . . I'm sure there's something previously built on base that would be fine. . . "

"Your girl there has a point," Sam commented, coming out of the kitchen area, and wiping his hands on a towel. "How many of your neighbors are going to be comfortable with rachni, right at first?" He looked at Eli. "You did good on the evals today."

"Endurance is a little shot," Lantar pointed out, taking a seat in the living room. Not criticizing, but noting where improvement was needed.

"Three months on Omega. Not a lot of places to train for endurance running," Eli admitted. "And Terra Nova. . . lots of riding in vehicles and trying like hell not to sweat to death." He gave Sam and Lantar direct looks. "And you guys are going to put us right back out in the field again, aren't you?"

"Possibly," Lantar admitted. "Three weeks on Argus' ship was something I needed pretty badly, and I've had just as little downtime as the rest of you. You all need a break."

Sam nodded. "Going to try to give you guys two to three weeks to fight the burnout and get your bodies back in proper shape. But we've got a couple of priority missions coming up, that's for sure."

Eli slid a hand down onto Dara's shoulder, as he stood beside her. Instant flicker of her own song through his thoughts. She was still processing what Joy-Singer had said, coming to terms with surprise at the thought of a house built for her by the rachni themselves. _Well, why not? Someone's got to build it. There's construction people on base and in the valley, so it would be them. . . or the rachni. Does it matter who builds it?_

_No, I guess not. . . but I don't understand why 'where' is an issue._

_Because Truth-Singer sings that the house might be located outside the perimeter of the fence. She feels, as Sings-to-the-Past does, that fear-songs might be calmed in this way, at least at first. Those who sing here, have adapted well to the tunnels being dug beneath their homes. To the sight of workers, and to Sings-to-the-Sky. But they sing yellow-green at too many brood-warriors. At the sight of soldiers. And will sing fear-songs when I reach my full growth, if they have not been introduced to me gradually. _

Eli shook his head. "You'll be in the underground tunnels most of the time anyway," he objected. "You'll already be separated, and feared for being separate and unknown. It would be better if people here saw you all the time."

"There's another part to this," Sam put in. "We know the base's location has been discovered before. Most recently, the Lystheni, according to Valak, put two and two together and found us. We don't necessarily want everyone in the galaxy to know we've got a rachni hive under our feet."

"Then why let the reporters get vid of Joy-Singer being here on base?" Eli's riposte was very fast.

"All they're being told is that Joy here came to visit her step-mama. And that's all either of you are going to say, either." Sam's tone was firm. "This is part of the process of getting ahead of the story on the 'rachni gene mods' and hell, it might even help the divorce case process on Palaven."

Eli could see how the lawyers might play that one. _She's not the same person who signed the __tal'mae__ document, in literal truth. Except they'll come back with 'the body is different, but the spirit remains the same.' And the human lawyers will say, 'hey, the body was pledged as well as the mind and the spirit, but the body isn't the same,' and the turian lawyers will say 'that's tantamount to saying anyone with a prosthetic limb can get out of __tal'mae__. . . .' Okay, now my head hurts._

_Mine, too, Eli. Stop that._ Dara's mental tone was glum. She cleared her throat and asked Joy-Singer, directly, "So. . . what exactly is your job here going to _be_?"

_Truth-Singer sang negotiation-songs with the people who sing as queens for Mindoir and with Bargain-Singer and Life-Singer. I am an 'ambassador.' I sing for my people here. The workers and the soldiers and the brood-warriors are my 'staff' and the staff of Sings-to-the-Sky. You, too, Mother, will be an 'ambassador,' of sorts. Or at least, will sing for me, when my songs might cause confusion-songs and fear-songs to resonate within those with whom I would sing._ Joy-Singer paused. _Where would you wish to have your small hive placed? I would prefer it to be close to where I may emerge from the hive, and visit __you__, but you will always be welcome under the mountain._

Eli sank down on the couch beside Dara, and slid his arm around her, feeling Lantar's eyes on them. She leaned into him, and he could feel how dazed she was, by the simple way in which life never seemed to slow down around them. "Does she really need to give you an answer right away?" Eli asked. He still wasn't sure he liked the idea of Dara's house being outside the perimeter of the fence, and the defense towers. On the other hand, if it was off the base proper, it might be overlooked by any attackers. Considered a secondary, less valuable target. Still, it made his instincts start to ping a bit.

_Will not the hive of my mother be your hive as well, Father?_ Confusion in her song now, a hint of yellow at not understanding them completely.

Eli looked down at Dara. "I sure hope so," he told Joy-Singer lightly. _For one thing, I'm not really thrilled about probably sleeping somewhere other than your bed tonight, __sai'kaea__._

_I did rather miss having a human furnace in there with me last night_, she admitted.

_Is that all you missed?_ Light, teasing thoughts now. Helping her regain her equilibrium.

_No, no, I also missed the mixed-up dreams we have together. _Teasing him back.

_The sooner a decision-song is sung, the sooner the work may begin._ Joy-Singer's tone was quite pragmatic. _I have seen in your memory-song many places that you love on this world, Mother. The place of petals and tall trees. The blue waters of the lake. The high cliff, which looks down on the forests and the lake. All are dear to you._

Dara shook her head slightly. "The _allora_ meadow. . . no." Eli could clearly feel how many memories in her were associated with that place. He'd never even been there. It had been a special place for her and Rel, and part of him wanted to respect that, didn't want memory cross-contamination. . . and part of him wanted to take that place and mark it. Make it his and Dara's now, instead.

He caught Dara's amused reaction to his 'undersong,' and chuckled. "If I ever go there, I'll restrain myself," he told her, out loud. "I won't even piss on the trees."

Dara promptly choked with laughter, and Joy-Singer's blue-green amusement rang through both of them. Lantar shook his head, and Sam's eyebrows shot up. "I must be missing one _hell_ of a conversation here," he said, dryly.

"No, no," Dara said, still chuckling. "Just Eli being Eli." When she recovered a bit, Dara told the rachni queen, "Let me think about it, Joy-Singer. I won't make a decision in a rush."

_As you wish, Mother._

At that point, Sam looked out the front window of the living room, over the top of the piano, and sighed. "And, speaking of people who are going to sing 'fear-songs' at you, Joy. . . here comes your grandma, Dara."

Eli snorted and pulled Dara a little closer to him. "This should be entertaining," he told her.

"Inner tainting," Takeshi mimicked, solemnly, and handed Eli his toy truck, sliding down off Dara's lap, and headed for the door, shouting, "Granny's here! Hi, Granny!" at the top of his lungs, while urgently lifting his arms and flapping his hands open and closed at his grandmother, in the universal toddler signal for _pick me up!_

There was a moment of conversation at the door. A moment or two of respite. Eli could hear Gavius' gravelly tones, and sighed, withdrawing his arm from around Dara's waist. Dara caught his hand before he could unwind it completely, and shook her head. "The papers are _signed_," Dara told him, firmly. "Should have a Mindoir judge's signature and seal inside of two more weeks. Rel even went off to Earth with Seheve." Tangle of conflicting songs inside of her on that topic. "What the hell can Gavius even say?"

"A lot. This is Gavius."

"And if he does, my dad will throw him out of the house." Dara thought about it. "Probably, anyway. Depends on how my grandma reacts."

"Reacts to what, dear?" Agnes came into the room from the lobby, carrying Takeshi, and took in the scene.

A chorus of worker voices in Eli's head now. —_Sings-Broomsongs! Hide!_

The workers skittered, rapidly, for the dark recesses under the furniture. Takeshi laughed until he almost fell out of Agnes' arms. Agnes stood, stock-still, staring at Joy-Singer now. _Greeting-songs, mother of my mother's father_, Joy-Singer sang, and there was definitely piano in her song right now. _She's trying to sound like Dara, to calm Agnes down_, Eli realized, and smiled a little. _Nice try._

Agnes swallowed. "Oh, my _god_," she whispered.

"Grandma, this is Joy-Singer. My, ah, daughter." Dara sounded uncomfortable and amused at the same time. "Joy-Singer, you already know your great-grandma."

_Of course I do. I remember her from your memory-songs. I remember when she gave your mother and father this box that sings._ Joy-Singer touched a key on the piano delicately with one chelicerae, evoking a single note. _She said it was just gathering dust in her house, with no one to play it. And that Sarah-who-went-before, could make it sing. _

"I was three," Dara murmured. "I didn't even remember that it was yours first, Grandma. Why did you have it? You don't play."

"Bought it for your father's piano lessons when he was a kid. The lessons didn't really take." Agnes was staring at Joy-Singer still. "Dara. . . . "

Dara stood up, giving Eli's hand a little squeeze as she pulled away. She went to her grandmother, took Takeshi into her own arms, and pulled Agnes closer to Joy-Singer. "It's okay, Grandma. She really won't bite."

Agnes rested one shaking hand on Joy-Singer's carapace, just as Gavius came into the room and said, in an almost identical tone of shock to the one Agnes had just used, herself, "Spirits of air and darkness."

Sam, behind Gavius, shook his head. "It's probably a bad sign that I'm getting to a point where I just take all this shit in stride, isn't it?"

"Probably," Lantar agreed. "Except I'm getting to about the same point."

Sam grinned at Lantar, and then looked at Eli and nodded in the direction of the kitchen. "Want a beer?"

"If I'm doing marksmanship in the morning, I'll stick with coffee for the moment," Eli said, and got a nod from Sam. He had a feeling the invitation into the kitchen was more to give Sam a chance to talk with him. Not that he was really sure about what; they'd already discussed him dating Dara, and Sam had been fine with it. _Shit, you can marry her, for all of me_, had been Sam's words, accompanied by a grin.

As Eli started out of the room, he turned and asked, "Say, _sai'kaea_?"

"Yeah?"

"If even your grandmother has a rachni name, does my mom get one, too?" It seemed a little unfair that Ellie, who'd been such a huge part of his own life, might not merit one. Might be considered, by the rachni, a 'gray voice,' one of the countless workers.

_Of course she does_, _Father,_ Joy-Singer told him. _Kindness-Singer has always had a name. Perhaps Sings-to-the-Sky merely chose not to sing it._

Somehow, that made Eli feel better.

Gavius and Agnes's heads had both jerked up. "Wait, what?" Agnes said. "_Father?_ How the hell is _that_ even possible?"

Lantar shook his head, clearly amused. Sam caught Eli's shoulder. "You sure about it being coffee, and not beer? It might be medicinal, around this point."

"I'll leave the beer for you," Eli told him. "I think you'll need it, right around when you ask Kasumi about her little place on Bekenstein."

Sam exhaled. "You know what? I'd successfully put that out of my mind all day. Thanks, son. You really know how to hit a man where he lives."

"I learned from the best," Eli told him lightly.

In the kitchen, Sam opened a beer for himself, and dug a _festuca_ beer out of the cryo-unit for Lantar, while Eli poured himself a cup of coffee. Sam tended to insist on good beans—Kona ones, from Hawaii, which he kept frozen until he ground them himself, a week's worth at a time. A luxury Eli had definitely not had on Macedyn or Edessan. He'd learned to drink asari tea, which had been largely what was available on both planets for levo life-forms, avoided salarian beverages like the plague, and had occasionally gotten care-packages of coffee from his mom, and had hoarded those like gold dust. "So?" Eli asked.

"So. . . "

An impasse of silence. Kasumi came down the stairs and flitted through the kitchen, checking on the vegetables and the rice, and giving Eli a quick hug. "We've got three more guests coming," Kasumi said, lightly. "Have to make sure there's enough for everyone."

Eli peered at the various pots and pans. "I only see enough _phasela_ there for two people," he said. "I'm guessing Lantar and Gavius are the only turians?"

"The finely honed investigative mind is just going to have to wait for answers," Kasumi told him, grinning, and slipped out of the kitchen, around the corner into the main living area, where the rest of her guests were.

Eli gave Sam a look. "Valak and Nala and their kiddo," Sam supplied after a moment. "Need to get them used to being around the rest of the people on base." He paused. "Though introducing them to my mom is going to be something else."

"Joy-Singer should keep her pretty well numb to everything else," Eli muttered, and drank his coffee. _C'mon, Sam, spit it out. You wouldn't have brought me in here alone if you didn't have something on your mind. Is it about the sleeping arrangements? Is it about my intentions? Is it, god help me, about the marks? Because, let's face it, Dara left her fair share on me._ . . .

Sam nodded, his mind clearly not much on the issue of his inbound batarian guests. "I'm not sure how to say this," he admitted, after a moment. "I liked that you came to me and asked if you could see Dara. Straight up, no beating around the bush. Been a couple of months now. Busy ones."

_I'll say. And haven't gotten to see much of her in those months. Other than at work, in the med bay, and a week on Bek._ "We're still trying to take it kind of slow," Eli said out loud. "Kind of hard not to. Lot of separations."

"You going to be okay going out with her in the field again?" Sam's voice was concerned.

_What do you want me to say? That I don't dream about her bleeding out under my hands?_ Eli exhaled. "If you want me to say the mission is more important than the people conducting it, that's never going to be my answer, no matter who's on my team. You don't want to send me on those kind of missions, anyway." _Send Rel. Send Seheve. Send Kirrahe._ "Keeping the medic safe. . . and keeping Dara alive. . . is always going to be my priority. Keeping my entire team alive is always going to be a priority."

Sam exhaled. "Yeah. Kind of what I figured. But not really what I was going for here." He set his beer down on the counter.

Eli shook his head. "I'm turian enough that, honest to god, I look forward to working with her in the field, if that's what she decides she wants to keep doing." He paused. "Sort of like you and Kasumi, I guess."

"Yeah. Though Kasumi has stopped my heart on a couple of occasions in the past few years." Sam exhaled. "I guess my real question is. . . "

"Do I see this going anyplace?" Eli kept his tone neutral.

"Yeah."

Eli looked away for a moment. He could picture so many different ways for their lives to go. She could decide to finish her trauma surgery specialization. She could decide that surgery tied her down too much to ER-type work, and just focus on her xeno-obstetrics work. She might get more interested in his forensics studies, and wind up taking a pathology specialization, which would intertwine their work lives even further. Which he actually really liked the thought of, but that was really up to her. Eli returned his gaze to Sam. "Yep."

"Where?"

"Everywhere."

"Nice non-answer." Sam's lips quirked up.

Eli snorted. "If you're asking my _intentions_. . . "

"Kind of."

"She knows what they are. But I can't ask her till she's free and clear. And that means taking care of turian law and custom and everything else."

Sam nodded. After a pause, he added, "I don't see your mom or dad doing anything besides welcoming her with open arms, so that's not an issue."

Eli nodded. There was silence for a moment, as they listened to the voices from the other room. Sam cleared his throat. "You do realize that if you hurt her, I'll probably have to kill you. It'd be a shame, though, since I actually _like_ you, son."

Eli grinned. "Rel's still alive and kicking."

"Yeah, but I think you could hurt her a hell of a lot worse than he ever could."

That took the smile off Eli's face. "Not going to happen."

"See that it doesn't." Sam paused. "We good?"

"Yeah."

"Okay then." Sam opened the back door. "You want to tell me if the slab of _apaterae_ I've got going in the smoker is fit for turian consumption yet? I can't have Lantar falling over from malnutrition. Your mother would kill me when she gets back, for one thing. And for another, it'd be slightly embarrassing if it happened in front of the batarians. And if I poison Gavus, I'll never hear the end of it from my mom."

Dinner itself was amusing. Valak, Nala, and Nexia arrived about ten minutes before food was ready to be placed on the table. Nala was already undergoing the first batch of stem cell treatments to regenerate her eyes, and thus had to wear special goggles over the top two sockets, to protect the flesh there from infection and to prevent them from drying out. Their little daughter kept reaching for the goggles with barely coordinated hands, however.

Valak shook hands with Eli. "Nice to see you again," the batarian said smoothly. "Been a while since you and the good doctor were guests in my bunker." His gaze flicked over to Dara, who was standing beside Joy-Singer. "Apparently, a good deal has happened since then.

Eli nodded. "Fair assessment." Their venture onto Khar'sharn in the guise of a young, married pair of college students, seemed like a whole other lifetime. Before the plagues. Before med bays filled with the dying, and trucks filled with the dead. Before the war. Before the urban warfare of Omega. Before the jungles of Arvuna and the inevitable betrayals of allies. Before the deserts of Terra Nova and the loss of civilian lives. _To think I thought I was an adult before all this_. And yet, he had been. They both had been. Adult jobs, adult responsibilities. But everything in the last year. . . even Joy-Singer and the rachni and his own limited biotics manifesting. . . had given them both a greater degree of maturity and experience. Eli brought his eyes up to meet Valak's now. "Hell of a lot has gone on for you, too."

"Mostly more of the same." Valak passed it off casually. "Just a greater degree of what I always meant to do, but couldn't quite get into position _to_ do. Or didn't have anyone to pass the information to, once I got it."

At the table, Nala and Valak were both confused and intrigued by the variety of foods put before them. Things as simple as rice with gravy and beef brisket, with corn and carrots on the side, were exotic to them. "Everything's grown locally?" Nala sounded surprised.

"Quite a bit is," Kasumi admitted. She was holding Nexia, and smiling down at the goggling four eyes of the infant batarian. "Thanks to the poisoning attempt on Shepard and her children a few years ago—which affected Dara here, too—we've tried to cut down on the length of our supply chain, especially for the turians. The good news is, the Galatana farmers we've moved here to work on building the _apatarae, cuderare,_ and _talashae_ herds have really outdone themselves, and so has Allardus Velnaran. Mindoir's practically the only place in Council space right now, besides Palaven, where _fresh_ turian food is available."

"Thanks to the blockade of Galatana," Lantar muttered. "Half the Hierarchy's living on freeze-dried, twenty-year-old rations."

"And the other half has ripped up their _rosetum_ bushes and planted vegetables in front of their houses," Gavius reminded him. "We're not going to starve. Might be a little hungry for _meat_," and his eyes glittered, "but we'll get the protein we need, one way or another."

Turians, as a predator species, had a biological need for protein far surpassed a human's. Eighty percent of a turian's diet needed to be comprised of protein and fats. Another ten to fifteen percent needed to come from bone matter, for the calcium. The remaining five to ten percent could come from fruits and vegetables, usually eaten for trace elements and fiber. "I can't say I see you guys eating tofu," Kasumi said lightly. "But I'm sure there's _some_ sort of plant on Palaven that could stand in for soy." She looked at Valak. "See? Plenty that's exotic to all of us."

"Simply getting to sit at a table and eat in Nala's company in public is rather exotic for me," Valak admitted.

Kasumi chuckled. "Glad to be out of the caste system?"

"You have no idea," Valak said, sighing. "I haven't actually dealt with the purification rituals in years, except when I had to make a public show of doing so, but it's a relief not to have to _pretend_ anymore."

"It took my friend Eduardo, and his wife Charis, a good two years to relax and let go of their cover identities once they got out of deep cover work on Omega," Sam volunteered, quietly. "You two have spent more or less a lifetime living your roles. It's going to take some time to realize you don't need to pretend."

"And not to feel uneasy when I'm being honest with someone who isn't in my inner circle," Valak added, widening his eyes.

Agnes had been regarding him suspiciously the entire time. Valak turned to her now, and smiled. "My dear lady, I promise, I am not about to make off with the silverware."

"A good thing," Kasumi murmured. "I'd have to steal it back again. And there's no actual silver content, so that would destroy what's left of my reputation."

Sam gave her a look. Kasumi just grinned at him, bounced Nexia in one arm, and kept eating with her other hand.

Agnes cleared her throat. "Don't mind me. You're just so slick, I'm just trying to figure out if you're selling snakeoil or not."

Gavius' head came up. Valak blinked. "I, ah. . . have not encountered that expression before. Why would I wish to sell . . . snakeoil?"

"She's wondering if you're a con artist," Sam explained, lightly.

Valak thought about that, and checked his VI for a translation. "Ah. Yes. I am."

Agnes' fingers slipped on her silverware. Valak smiled at her, and went on, calmly, "I started espionage training just after finishing two terms at the university, dear lady. Lying, subterfuge, and fraud were all well-covered. As were infiltration, close-quarters combat, camouflage in differing terrains. Information extraction, some computer hacking, and a number of other topics." He paused. "For the moment, however, I'm only relying on what my nursemaid taught me." Valak smiled. "Good manners."

Sam covered his mouth with a napkin, and spent a few moments trying not to choke while laughing. Agnes' eyebrows had risen almost to her salt-and-pepper hair. After a long moment, Agnes said, in a more conciliatory tone, "You're definitely not what I pictured my son fighting when he was pinned down in the Blitz."

Valak shook his head. "Of course not, dear lady. I was eleven at the time."

"Rub it in, why don't you?" Sam said, dryly, leaning back in his chair. "I was twenty-five."

"If it helps," Dara pointed out, hiding her grin behind her glass, "I was one."

Agnes sighed. "I'm just saying. . . hell. I don't know what I'm saying."

"A good admission, Nessa." Gavius twitted her lightly.

"I'm not one of those Terra Firma loonies who shot at Anderson last week—"

"_What?_" Eli sat straight up at the table, as if a red-hot poker had jabbed him in the back. "What did you just say?"

"We _did_ tell you kids to keep the news turned off while you were on leave," Sam told him, calmly. "Anderson's fine. His security team was doubled by B-Sec in the wake of the vote on Valak's Spectrehood."

Valak winced. "I can't help but feel responsible," he muttered.

"You're not," Gavius told him, irascibly. "You didn't pull the trigger, did you?"

"No. I take your point, my good sir, but I still feel somewhat to blame."

"Anderson's _fine_," Sam repeated. "Shooter's in custody and being wrung out by B-Sec." He snorted. "I told Bailey to point out to the Terra Firma nutter that he and his buddies are actually agreeing with asari and volus. See what that shakes loose in that collection of gears and whistles that passes for a brain."

Lantar shook his head. "There are a fair number of turian groups who feel the same way about batarians as Terra Firma does, especially after the death of the Imperatrix. But after all the coverage of what Valak's _done_ to stop SIU, the _Klem Na_, and everyone else from perpetrating these acts. . . none of the turian groups seems to be targeting Odacaen."

"We each have our own special kind of crazy," Sam told Lantar, dryly. "Terra Firma's hated batarians in general for a long time, and with a fair bit of justification."

"But with _Shepard_ speaking for Valak, and everything that we've released on his activities. . . " Lantar shook his head. "You'd think it would at least make some difference."

"Don't expect logic from the indoctrinated or the insane." Sam shrugged.

Agnes had waited out the conversational tailspin, and now, simply repeated herself. "I'm not one of those crazies, but I can't say that I'd ever have imagined eating at the same table as a batarian." She shrugged. "Let alone a polite one."

"Nor would I have imagined breaking bread with humans, turians, and _rachni_." Valak nodded down the length of the table towards Joy-Singer, who was set up in the living room with a small table in front of her, and a number of workers were preparing royal jelly for her. "But here we are."

_Welcome to Mindoir_, Eli thought, touching Dara's hand under the table.

_Land of the weird and home of the strange_, she replied, smiling slightly.

_If I might make a request-song?_ Joy-Singer asked, quite politely.

"Of course," Kasumi said, immediately. "You're a guest."

_The workers sing of something called toast. Might I try this?_

Eli began to laugh. So did Dara, Sam, and Kasumi. Valak and Nala looked completely blank. Agnes put her face in her hands. Gavius patted her lightly on the shoulder. "There, there, Nessa." Gavius grinned suddenly, and it changed his whole face, making him look like Garrus. "You never would have expected a lot of things, would you?"

Sam got up to make a slice of toast, tossing over his shoulder, "I'd never have believed my mother would be taking _Nessa_ from a turian, and not kicking his ass for it."

Eli's mind, as it usually did, went somewhere else with the statement. _That's not all she's taking from a turian—_

Dara _choked_ on her water at that point, and she frantically told him, _Don't say it! _

Eli grinned at her. "I didn't say a word."

Sam looked up at the ceiling, and very deliberately, said, "La la la, I can't hear you. . . "

"Oh, for the spirits' sake, why does every generation of young people act as if they were the first ones to invent sex?" Gavius demanded of the room in general.

Agnes had gone bright pink, and had a hand over her face at the moment. Eli's shoulders shook, and Dara had to turn completely away from the table. "Because we _did_," Sam told Gavius after a moment. "My mama found _me_ under a cabbage leaf. And you wouldn't want to call her a liar, would you?"

That absolutely did it. Eli put his head down on Dara's shoulder and laughed so hard his stomach hurt. Every time he thought he was done, he'd raise his head, and caught the looks Agnes and Gavius were giving each other, not to mention anyone else who happened to make eye contact with them, and he was off again. Even _Lantar_ was laughing, and that was a rare sight. _Catharsis of a different sort,_ he realized, a little giddily. Joy-Singer and the rachni were joining in, which was only reinforcing Dara's laughter.

Sam stepped out of the kitchen, and put a plate with buttered toast in front of Joy-Singer. "There you go, li'l darlin'," he told the rachni queen, lightly patting her carapace. "Toast." He sat back down again at the table, looked at Gavius and Agnes, and asked, mildly, "So, how's that plant coming along?"

_Game, set, match, Sam._

After a frozen moment, Agnes managed to reply, "We think it's about to bloom, actually. Which may force every turian who works in the green houses to wear a breather mask. A couple of them were already complaining today, and the flower hasn't even opened yet." She sniffed. "I certainly didn't smell anything."

"Lucky for you," Gavius growled back.

Lantar chuckled. He'd been silent through most of the meal, but said now, lightly, "I'll take the risk of needing a breather to see it bloom. I think it's a perfect token of affection between the two of you. Life's never perfect, and often smells bad." He lifted his glass in a little toast. "May your lives always be smelly."

"That's a singularly disheartening toast," Agnes told him with asperity.

"But heart-felt," Eli pointed out, grinning. "I'll pass on using it as a model for a toast at Lin and Serana's wedding." He paused. "Oh, hell, Fors and Chissa's." He looked at Dara. "You think we could get Dempsey and Zhasa just to throw in with the other pairs and get it all done at once?"

"Zhasa? Hell no. Once she figures out that humans are entitled to a pretty dress and a veil and everything else? She's going to drag me into every bridal store between here and the galactic core." Dara s tone was resigned. "Maybe I can pawn her off on Melaani."

"Asari don't do wedding dresses."

"Good point. Do drell?"

"Nope." That was Kasumi. "And we know turian dresses won't fit her, so Serana's safe." That had gotten Gavius' head to raise.

"Serana would _enjoy_ it." Dara shot back at Kasumi.

"Yeah. Looks like you're stuck with it." Kasumi's tone was commiserating, but laughter danced in her eyes. "Turnabout is a _bitch_, isn't it, Dara?"

"I think I'm going to find a nice little planet off the starcharts and hide there for the next five galactic years." Dara sighed.

"Can I hide there with you?" Eli asked, ignoring the way Gavius' gimlet stare bored into his head.

"Sure." _Relax, Eli. He's calming down from where he was at Joy-Singer's first 'Father' comment. _

_How the hell did you manage that?_

_Joy-Singer explained that we'd given her memories and structure in her first moments of life, and that there were no better words for what we were to her, than those that bipeds use to address their progenitors. _Dara paused, blue-green amusement seeping into her song. _Well, her explanation was a little more complicated than that._

_She does sound a lot less cryptic than Sky or Life-Singer. Almost human, in ways._ Eli touched Dara's hair lightly. _Gets that from her mama, I guess._

And out loud, Valak was telling them all, "This is, by far, the liveliest conversation I think I've ever been a part of, barring the histrionics the Council threw over my appointment to Spectrehood." He smiled faintly. "Batarian noble-caste gatherings are. . . chilly affairs. The more so when family is present."

"Welcome to Mindoir," Sam told him, grinning, and unintentionally echoing Eli's thoughts of just moments before. "Hell, welcome to the Spectres. This ain't the half of it. Wait till we get everyone _else_ here for a barbecue." He grinned at Lantar. "Been a while since we've had everyone under one roof."

"Largely because we can't _fit_ everyone under one roof," Kasumi pointed out. "Last time, it spilled out into the backyard."

Valak lifted his hands. "All right, who else can I expect to meet. . .all at once?"

Sam grinned. "Urdnot Gris. Urdnot Makur. Urdnot Siara Tesala. Melaani T'soa. Ylara Aliir."

Lantar bared his teeth. "Sings-to-the-Sky. Sings-of-Glory. Cohort. James Dempsey, you've met."

"Zhasa'Maedan vas Irria nar Pellus. Seheve Liakos, you've met." Eli's eyes flicked to Nala, whose life Seheve had saved, apparently. "Rellus, of course, you know. Likewise Lin, Serana, and Rinus, if briefly."

"Kallixta, you've met, right? She was Serana and Lin's pilot on the way to Khar'sharn originally." Dara met Valak's gaze.

"The daughter of the turian Imperator, apparently?"

"Yes."

"I caught the news footage of her mother's funeral." Valak's expression tightened. "I can't really apologize for it, since I didn't _do_ it. . . "

"There will be plenty of other people here. Kirrahe Orlan. Thelldaroon. Fors Luka. Blasto."

Valak's eyes widened. "I thought he was invented by your vid writers. He's _real_?"

"Oh yes," Sam replied, and looked at Kasumi. "And is apparently very fond of my wife, for some reason."

"We work well together," she replied, serenely. "So do you and Lantar, I might add. I even have pictures to prove that."

_Game, set, match, Kasumi_.

Later, as the various guests were filing out, Eli was reluctant to leave. Being able to touch Dara's hand or her hair was helping a little, but he really didn't want to go. _Reporters on base_, he reminded himself. _Though it's not like the papers aren't signed. Not like Rel and Seheve weren't off on Earth, doing their thing, while we were on Bek, doing ours._

_The hell with the reporters._ That was Dara. _Same as I said when Elders was there when I came out of the airlock after Arvuna. We face 'em head on and together._

_I think your dad's okay with me and you, but I don't think I'm really welcome to stay the night._ Eli leaned down to kiss her at the door.

_Want me to sneak through the tunnels down to your house?_ It was all of a half a block away. And it wasn't as if she could possibly get _lost_ in the tunnels, with rachni escorts.

_I'd prefer you not to have to sneak. And not to have to worry about how good Lantar's ears actually are._

_Fair point._

All around them, they could hear a chorus of disappointment from the rachni workers. Eli chuckled under his breath. "Sorry, guys," he told them. _Believe me, I'm far more disappointed than you are._

_No, wait. I've got an idea._ "Hey, Dad!" Dara called up the stairs. "Are the sleeping bags and stuff still in the attic?"

"Yeah, why?" Sam came to the landing and stared down at them dubiously. "I was going to suggest we could all go get lost in the mountains for a couple of days, so I was already thinking about getting 'em out."

"Joy-Singer says I need to pick a place for a house. I think I want to grab a couple of sleeping bags and some of the soldiers and workers, and go see which spots I might like to live at." Dara's voice was completely ingenuous.

"Uh-huh." Sam looked down at her, clearly not entirely buying it. "How you going to get up to the first place?"

"Borrow some horses, or a hovercycle."

"Remember you've got evals first thing in the morning. Don't be late." Sam paused. "And you might want to make Eli here wear a _hat_—"

_You might tell him you've already got an implant, sai'kaea. I don't really need a 'hat.' _

Dara's elbow met his ribs, and Eli doubled over laughing.

An hour later, their borrowed hovercycle came to a halt near the edge of a cliff. The last, lingering light of the summer sunset was fading from the sky as Eli killed the engine, glistening off the lake, which was about seventy feet below the cliff's edge. "Close enough that a track could be built to access it more easily by foot or horseback," Dara said.

"Or just use a hovercycle_,_" Eli told her, lightly.

"Are we sure this is the spot?"

"It's here," he said, simply, remembering the day, so long ago, perfectly. They'd been watching their respective fathers in the Spectre trials, from a distance. Rel and Serana had both been there, too. . . barely more than names and faces in golden clan-paint at that point. And then the two humans had veered off, alone. Dara had needed quiet and peace, and had wept at the edge of the cliff for her mother. Eli could remember wiping the tears away, clumsily. Hugging her, because that's what he thought you were supposed to do. _It is. And it was the right thing to do. _

_But now I'd do this, too_, Eli told her, and leaned down to kiss her, gently.

Then they'd found the beacon in a cairn of stones at the edge of the cliff. And life had never really given them much of a chance to rest since. _Here's where this all began_, Eli thought, feeling burgundy start to soar through Dara's song. _Here's where __we__ began._

"Want to make the workers dance?" Dara invited, softly, running her hands up to catch his face.

"They _have_ been rather patient." _At least it won't stand out as much here, than if they're dancing in the yard outside your dad's house, or my parents' house. . ._ Of course, god only knew how far the rachni could actually transmit their songs. The ones _here_ might get all the ones on base dancing. . . .

_Oh, like anyone besides Lin and Serana would understand that, anyway._

_Yes, but then Sky and Glory and Stone and Joy will hear all about it, too._

Dara grinned. "You're nervous. That's actually. . . wow. Elijah Sidonis, galactic badass and Spectre, is _nervous._ That's adorable."

"Just get the sleeping bags, and we'll see who's actually nervous, _sai'kaea."_ Eli bit the side of her throat lightly.

One more long, deep kiss. Chorus of cheers of approval from the workers and the soldiers. Then they unpacked their sleeping bags. Latched them together. And began to sing their songs in the warm summer air, under the stars in the purple haze of Mindoir's twilight, as dozens of little rachni workers began to wave their feelers in the air, and turn in slow, happy circles.

**Author's note: **_Makur's retaliation on Siara is courtesy of Dermiti. He suggested it, and I could not resist. What can I say, he comes up with the best krogan moments!_


	133. Chapter 133: Last Call

**Chapter 133: Last Call**

**Author's note:** _Sometimes, I get great insights from readers. Fisher, for example, pointed out a tactic/piece of gear currently in use by military forces for clearing minefields that would have been handy on Terra Nova, had I known about it. I put that sort of thing to the back of my head and if a situation calls for it again, I'll use it, happily, with attribution. :-)_

_That being said, I keep getting PMs and questions about weapons. Bullet weapons, modern weapons, and how this could solve the yahg problem or this could win the war. _

_We can't just change the rules of the ME universe and start manufacturing guns with bullets again. Why? Well, for starters, because the entire industrial complex of the weapons industry is wrapped up in the "slivers off a block of metal" model and every weapon based on the bullet and shell model would have to be either custom-made, and thus hugely expensive . . . or they'd have to retool factories. . . . which is even more expensive. Which is why product lines like automobiles last for ten years or so, and various pieces of hardware are shared between product lines. It's ungodly expensive to retool factories. _

_"But Mye, what about this gun or that gun, or this bullet?"_

_ME technology level is far past our own. It involves kinetic shields and hard suits that are capable of withstanding strikes from particles accelerated to an appreciable fraction of the speed of light. Why exactly would our antiquated technology work against them? _

_I've set up that "slow strikes," like melee and swords work through shields (which is the only reason why Shepard can melee worth a damn in game, so it even has the benefit of being vaguely canonical, if somewhat reminiscent of Dune. . . ), but bullets aren't 'slow strikes.' Kinetic shields would nullify them. And if they're packing shields rated to absorb more kinetic energy from smaller rounds, why would sending larger rounds with less kinetic energy be the answer?_

_"Well, what about sending large rounds wrapped in mass effect fields, Mye?"_

_And that brings us back around to either retooling the factories at huge cost (and which would take 6-12 months, by which point the war would be over anyway), or single, solitary weapons made for one or two individuals-custom-made weapons, which wouldn't be in the hands of the everyday soldier-which would exist solely to break the rules of the universe. _

_The war will not be won by antiquated weapons. It will not be won by sudden, un-foreshadowed innovations in a deus ex machina of technology. There is at least one tech innovation planned in the next few chapters, but it's based off existing game tech. It won't win the war, but will be a spiffy upgrade._

_The war will be won, as all wars are, by intelligence, tactics, psychology, willpower, and determination. Oh, and superior firepower, but technically, 10 Council species against 2 species already kind of have that, don't they?_

**Dara, Mindoir, January 10, 2197**

Eli had set her in front of him on the hovercycle in the gray light of dawn, and returned her to her father's house before the sun was fully in the sky. "Tonight, maybe down on the lakeshore?" he told her, softly.

"Or the meadow," she returned, just as quietly, standing in front of the door, their sleeping bags in rolls at her feet.

"One of the two." He leaned down and kissed her, sweetly, and with only a little urgency, fingers of one hand stroking the side of her face as he did so.

"Have breakfast with us?" she invited, nodding at the front door.

"Come for a run with me, and we can grab something at the cafeteria before marksmanship and everything else." _My dad was sort of pointing out that my endurance is shot._

_Only in terms of running._ Light, intimate teasing. Quick flash of his grin in response. Out loud, Dara told him, "Deal." She was reluctant to pull back. She'd been resting one hand on his shoulder, the other on his wrist. Every cell in her body radiating warmth, and feeling oddly. . . magnetized. "Give me ten minutes to brush my teeth and change."

"Okay." He looked down at her.

"Okay."

Neither of them moved, until she laughed and made herself push him away. "Go on, _ciea'teilu_."

"Ten minutes." He leaned down, kissed her again, and moved off, heading back for the borrowed hovercycle, which was leaning against the small _allora_ tree in the front yard.

Most of the workers and soldiers that had stood guard around them overnight were taking a longer route back to the main base, but two of the workers had ridden her shoulders on the hovercycle ride back down. They were radiating happiness and approval in low-song, crooning softly in her thoughts. Dara suspected, however, that she might get the rare opportunity to see Eli blush, if any of the rachni spoke to him directly today. —_We should not sing appreciation-songs for mating-songs to favored brood warrior?_ That, from Chopin, as Dara moved up the stairs on light feet. She could hear her father patiently walking Takeshi through the difficult process of brushing his own teeth, and chuckled as she slipped into the guest bedroom and dropped off the sleeping bags. _He knows you appreciated the mating-songs. The fact that he couldn't stop laughing last night was proof of that._

—_Little-queen and Many-Voices have very elaborate mating songs. Sung many, many times. Is this so that brood-warrior may prove his worth before the laying of eggs?_ That was 1812, chittering at her from the dresser's top as she got out running shorts and a T-shirt.

"Um. . . .yeah. I guess. Part of that is because when humans evolved, there was little way of predicting when, um, 'eggs' could be laid." Dara headed back downstairs. They were surely picking up evolutionary biology from her mind right now. The prevailing theory was that human male sex drives had evolved to be as vigorous as they were, because there was no visual 'tell' for when ovulation was occurring in females, and thus, they needed to maintain sexual contact with their mates on a regular basis to ensure that _their_ genes would be the ones perpetuated. There was another theory that suggested that sex was one of the original 'currencies' of socialization. Bonobos had been studied, because they traded sexual favors among multiple partners as a social bonding agent, similar to grooming. And bonobos and humans had many, many similarities.

—_Yes. We hear all your songs. _Uncertainty from Chopin. The workers heard her thoughts, but they clearly found them sufficiently alien as to be slightly inexplicable.

_It's okay. We're all alien to each other. Even if I am supposed to be a bridge now._ Dara poked her head around the bathroom door and saw her father patiently telling Takeshi, "Now swish and then spit. Oh, hey there, sweetie. Have fun camping?"

Dara kept her face as expressionless as possible, but it was impossible to keep from flushing slightly. "Yeah. Went up to where we found the transmitter from the AEC folks. Nice view up there."

"I remember. Can see a good part of the lake and the forest around it from there." Sam gave her a look. "Thinking of building your house there?"

"There, or a couple of other places. Lakeshore would be nice, too. If Commander Shepard lets us. . .me, anyway." Dara corrected her wording quickly.

Sam nodded. "Yeah. You've probably got a long talk scheduled with the Commander anyway. Not to mention some med bay time coming up, too. And don't forget—"

"—there are reporters on base." Dara sighed.

"Not just that. We've got armor reps here. Jormangund. Rosenkov. Hahne-Kedar. Couple of others, and some weapons reps, too." Sam wiped Takeshi's face and told him, "Go to your room and pick out some clothes, squirt."

"Okay, Daddy!" Takeshi raced off.

Dara's eyes had widened. "Actually here on base?"

"Yeah. Their reps had to pass a background check, and they were transported here by SR ship. They'll be in the auditorium afternoons all week to show off what they've got. And you, my girl, need armor."

Dara winced. "Yeah. I know." She had no clear memories after feeling the bullets punch through her shields, not until waking up in the med bay, following Eli's song up and out of the darkness. Seeing Rel there with him. But she knew Eli had cut her armor off her body to treat the wounds and start CPR. She'd been so proud, so overwhelmed, the day Shepard had given that armor to her. Had wanted, so badly, to live up to the woman's expectations and example. _But who can possibly do that?_ she thought now, wanting to laugh at the girl she'd been. "Eli needs a new set, too. Hell, we probably all do, really. Most of us 'junior Spectres' are still wearing the stuff we went to boot camp in, or what was provided there." Her smile was rueful.

And so, running, in the early morning light, Chopin on her shoulder, chittering happily to himself. She and Eli had to alter their course, because they couldn't pick Lin up at his parents' house anymore; he had his own villa now, a little north of where they'd all lived for all these years. He was out the door before Eli could even knock, though. "Good night, _fradu?_" Eli asked, mildly.

"House _echoes_, it's so empty," Lin told him, jogging along beside them now at a companionable pace back into the center of town.

"There's a solution for that," Dara told him, trying not to pant already. She had had a lung wound not too long ago, five or six months of combat, and no time in which to really work on physical conditioning. She'd noticed, as Eli had, that her endurance was absolutely shot. "It's . . . called. . . buy more furniture."

"Yeah, don't want to do that till Serana moves in with me." Lin grimaced as both humans chuckled.

A faint pause. "And she was down . . . in the valley. . . . with her parents . . . last night?" Dara asked, between breaths. _God. The treadmill in med bay was easy compared to this._

"Save your breath," Lin told her, kindly enough. "Yeah, she was. They have a right to see her, especially after the injury. . . and I did have her all to myself on Bastion." He made a face as Eli chuckled again, and tossed him a light finger-flick for it.

"Just tell me you're willing to have your bachelor party at the same time as Fors'," Eli told him. "That way I don't have to organize two of them."

"Or three," Lin pointed out, grinning.

"Nothing says Dempsey's going to tag me with that. I'm sure he's got N7 buddies he can ask to be best man." Eli was breathing harder now. They were all going at Dara's pace, which meant that Lin, in particular, was sandbagging, but now they turned and their run actually intersected with Zhasa and Dempsey's.

Zhasa was clearly enjoying herself, in pure, uninhibited delight, raising her hands as she ran occasionally, as a gust blew past them, as if she could hold onto the breeze, hook her talons into it and ride away on the wind. So odd to see the quarian body in motion. She ran like a cheetah when she went into sprint mode, stride expanding, sometimes with so much explosive force from the push-off of her rear leg that she completely left the ground and loped forward, just to land lightly again on the front foot again. And she smiled in delight at seeing them, such genuine happiness in her face that Dara, again, wondered how anyone could _possibly_ dislike the quarian. _She's lucky_, Dara thought. _Open, genuine, happy, giving person that she is. And Dempsey's lucky to have her. _

They all fell more or less in stride with each other, Lin and Zhasa taking off ahead of the others, and Dempsey snorting and falling back to join the other humans.

Just ten miles this morning. Just enough to knock the rust off for the humans. Lin and Zhasa both chuckled and kept on running once Eli and Dara slowed to a halt near the eastern gates of the perimeter fence. Dempsey glanced at them. "Damn. I'm not going to have any company now, huh?"

"Like we've been. . . charming conversationalists. . . all morning, anyway," Dara told him, wiping sweat off her face. "Damn."

"You _did_ kind of just recover from a pretty bad injury," Eli reminded her. He was only lightly in contact with her mind right now, and faint yellow sparks of anxiety—more the memory of worry—rippled through his song.

Dara nodded. The various doctors on the _Raedia_ had told her that there was no cardiac damage. That although her heart had been stopped for a brief period of time, that Eli's CPR had prevented vital tissues in that organ from becoming oxygen-starved and dying off. "I know. Just. . . really expected to be better than this."

"Eh, we've got a few weeks to get back up to snuff," Eli told her. "Of course, Dempsey here is in perfect shape."

Dempsey shrugged. "The organic parts still need tending to. Maintenance. It's not fun, but it needs to be done." He gave them a quick look. "Let's go get breakfast. You okay for a light jog, Doc?"

"So long as it's all downhill. . . I think so."

They headed back into the neighborhoods of the base. Dara could see where walls had been repaired and freshly painted, in the wake of the batarian attack, but no obvious bullet holes or scorch marks were left. A quick shower and a change of clothes, and then they all headed for the cafeteria. Emily Wong and Lexine Elders were there already, unfortunately, and were interviewing Nal'Ishora and Hal'Marak, who were sitting with a few humans. Still wearing breather masks and gloves, but the breathers were _off_ for the moment, as they sipped, cautiously, at fresh-brewed turian _apha_.

"Oh. Great." Dara exhaled.

"They look good and distracted, _sai'kaea_," Eli told her, and grabbed a tray for each of them.

Dara and Dempsey had both been wearing dark glasses. So had Eli. They'd been running in the brilliant light of dawn, after all. They were, however, now inside the confines of the cafeteria, which had windows that faced west. Dara glanced at Dempsey, who'd just taken his glasses off, revealing his ice-blue eyes. And then gritted her teeth and took her own off, too, accepting a tray from Eli.

Eli had given the reporters a wary glance, himself. She could feel him weighing, carefully, the relative importance of the 'just plain folks' approach as opposed to the sort of signals both women were likely to pick up if they came over and found his plate weighed down with a mix of human and asari foods. _Eat what you feel like, Eli_, Dara counseled, silently. _They're already getting the weird without the toast this morning. My god, I hope Hal and Nal have epi-pens on them. . . _Epi-pens were one-use shots that could be administered by people without training, and contained species-specific antihistamines, epinephrine, or adrenaline, as needed, for neutralizing allergic reactions and anaphylactic shock. _I really don't feel like starting the work day this early._

And thus, Dara put a pair of breakfast tacos on her plate, loaded down with eggs, cheese, and salsa, a bowl of fruit, including grapes and cantaloupe chunks, and an asari fruit that Eli had been teaching her to like, _lia'beli_ berries, which were about the size of currants, but bright green and as tart-sweet as a green apple. . .but much more concentrated in their flavor. She opted for coffee with cream and sugar, and Dempsey, to her left, had a tray weighed down with pancakes, bacon, and eggs. "You're going to catch hell from Zhasa for eating without her," Dara told him.

"She'll live," Dempsey replied, calmly. "Thankfully, she's trying to eat her way through the turian menu at the moment."

"Gives you a break, huh?" Eli told him, setting his own tray down to her right. Hen's eggs over easy, pancakes, but red _aoi'la'e_ heaped up on the plate, too. A bowl of _me'alu_ melon slices, with _lia'beli_ and _netula'a_ berries; sour and sweet at once. And a steaming cup of asari tea, which he drank about as often as he drank coffee. "Want a sip?" he asked, offering her his cup.

_Since we can't have a sharing plate, we'll have a sharing cup, huh?_

_You know it._ Blue-green amusement in his thoughts.

She accepted the cup, and sipped carefully. Dara had to admit, she actually liked the flavor, which had subtle, spicy undercurrents. "Nice," she said, handing it back to him. Their fingers brushed, and _that_ was when the two reporters came over with their cameras.

"Sorry to pester you at breakfast, Spectres," Emily Wong said, cheerfully. "But trying to grab any of you is like trying to catch lightning in a bottle. . . " She stopped, dead, blinking rapidly. She had not seen Dara directly since Omega, and Dara's interview on the topic of the lobotomizations and the rapes by the slavers. And Dara currently had a rachni worker perched on one shoulder and wasn't wearing her dark glasses.

Dara's stomach clenched, and Eli reached over, under the table, and squeezed her knee lightly. "Hello, Ms. Wong. It's been a while," Dara managed, politely and tightly.

Emily Wong nodded slowly, and turned to look at the red-haired reporter next to her. "Yes, it has been, Dara," Wong said, taking a seat at the table across from them with a murmur of "May I?"

_Here we go_, Eli thought, as Elders took a seat beside Wong now.

Wong paused for a moment, and said, calmly, "You offered me an exclusive just after the Spectre appointments earlier this year, Dara. I was surprised when my colleague, Ms. Elders, came to me with what she called a problem of journalistic ethics. You see, she told me she had the beginnings of a story on you, but couldn't get any more information from you, since when she approached you, you stated you had a previous arrangement with me." Wong blinked again. "And now I see why she wanted to run with the story, and yet hesitated."

"And I do have a previous arrangement with you, Ms. Wong," Dara replied, falling back on the defensive technique of repeating part of the reporter's own statement in her own response. _Never give them anything that can be taken out of context_ had been her father's and Shepard's repeated advice over the years. She took a bite of her breakfast, barely tasting it. "If you have time during your stay on Mindoir, I'd be happy to have a conversation with you. Of course, I can't discuss current or pending Spectre work. . . "

_Nice try, __sai'kaea__,_ Eli told her.

Elders cleared her throat. "Spectre, I _could_ have taken my footage of your face, or Zhasa'Maedan's, and made them fodder for public consumption. It probably would have launched my career to new heights." Her tone was tart.

"And you would have lost access to the Spectres at that point," Eli told her, crisply.

"And I would personally have been a little annoyed with you." Dempsey's tone was very flat.

"Why Spectre, that's the most words you've ever said to me, all at once." Elders awarded Dempsey a dazzling smile. "I'm flattered."

Dempsey's eyes were blank. "Don't be."

Elders' face shuttered. "My point here is," and she returned her gaze to Dara and Eli now, "that I could have run with it. With no more than a picture, and absolutely no information, I could have dropped _just_ the vid on the viewing public, and, without making a single assertion myself, let them draw all their own inferences. I think that trying to provide real information is a better path to take, don't you agree?" Her smile was friendly, but for once, not flirtatious as she directed it at Eli.

Eli turned and glanced at Dara. _She has a point. She could have burned us. Us and Zhasa. She didn't. She's not like that guy from __Complovium Today!__ on Bek. . . _

_. . . or Scaevous Lintorum on Earth_. Dara nodded to him after a moment, and picked up one of her breakfast tacos, keeping the tortilla wrapped around its innards with some difficulty. "So you don't object, Ms. Wong, to sharing your exclusive with Ms. Elders?"

"Since she was the one who brought the pictures to me, and didn't try to go outside of BNN, not at all." Wong's quick sidelong glance at Elders said something else to Dara. _Ah. She wants to see if she can guide Elders, maybe?_

"Then I don't have a problem with it." Dara glanced at Eli. Reassuring blues and greens there. Indigo underlying harmonies. _I'll be with you. Don't worry._

_If you're with me, that might become the story, instead._

_We'll try to make sure that doesn't happen._

Dempsey, out loud, took the chance to redirect the conversation. "One thing you should definitely ask the doc here is how the hell she can eat salsa at 08:00. It's not human."

Dara made a rude sound in his direction. "It's plenty human. At least I'm not eating _huevos rancheros_, the way my dad would be, if he could convince the cafeteria here to make them properly." At Wong's curious look, she added, "Rancher's eggs. Basically, everything from the night before—beans, salsa, tortillas—and fried eggs with them."

"Yeah. Beans and salsa, first thing in the morning. I'm telling you. Not. Human." Dempsey's flat voice and slightly monotonous delivery on the statements made Dara's lips quirk up in spite of herself.

Wong cleared her throat. "And you, Spectre Dempsey. How is it going, with Zhasa'Maedan being the first quarian to emerge fully from her suit? Any unexpected problems?"

"She's doing fine." Dempsey's tone was remote, but a little friendlier than when he addressed Elders. "Only unexpected problem is that she wants to do and try everything she hasn't been able to before."

"So, she wants you to eat beans and salsa in the morning, too?" Eli quipped.

Dempsey gave Eli a look. "If she asked me to, I'd tell her that she'd then get to experience human methane production first-hand, and that she might decide to retreat to the suit after all." Flat-voiced, still. But the faintest trace of a quirk to his own lips now.

Eli guffawed, and Dara chuckled softly. Dempsey looked back at Wong now. "How much do you know about Zhasa's condition?"

"Only what the Admiralty Board and the Spectres have made public. Something about a 'previously unknown Prothean technology' improving her immune system." Wong's voice held slight skepticism.

Dempsey nodded. "Yes. That's entirely correct." _Not specific, but correct,_ Dara thought. "She's damned brave, but if you ask me? Quarians like Hal'Marrak and Nal'Ishora over there are the real brave ones. They're the ones who don't have the tech in their bodies as a safety net as they try to work on improving their immune systems on their own. I think they might actually be two of the bravest people on base."

"Well, they _were_ Spectre candidates, five, six years ago," Eli reminded Dempsey.

There were other, general questions as the three of them finished their meals, and Zhasa and Lin came in to join them, both still flushed from their own run. Lin had taken a look at the reporters, and had looked apt to find a different table, until Eli flagged him down. Ranging shots from the reporters, really. Five trays. Quarian/turian foods, human foods, human/asari, human/asari being shared with a rachni on a shoulder, and full turian—although Lin liked _festuca_ grain bagels, bonemeal 'cream cheese' and braised _cuderae_ tongue and marrow, first thing in the morning, especially after a long run. With _apha_.

_Think we're rubbing their noses in the multispecies Spectres much_? Dara asked Eli internally as they all headed to the firing range.

_Sort of the point, isn't it_? Eli nudged her ribs with an elbow, and she looked where he was indicating with his eyes, as Elders' camera floated around to get a better angle on Zhasa's left side. _Ten gets you one, it's focused on the ring._

_I don't bet on sure things._

All of the junior Spectres and affiliates were at the firing range this morning. So were Shepherd and Garrus, Lantar, Sam, Kasumi, Gris, and Cohort, actually. _Although I have no idea why a geth would need to practice. . . _

_. . . calibrating his sights, maybe?_ Eli's reply was immediate.

Eli had to check out on submachine guns again. He'd carried one on Omega, when he'd been confident of having Lin there beside him; someone else with a shield that he could stand behind, if needed. He hadn't used one at all on Terra Nova. Dara muttered under her breath the entire time she worked with the rifles. She'd gotten used to her old focal range with the macro/micro enhancements, and though she knew, _rationally_, that she still had far in excess of normal human range of vision, it still _looked_ fuzzier at a distance than she wanted it to be. "Dara," Eli told her, after her second round of targets had gone down. "Look off to the west. I can see the billboard with the 'coming attractions' at the vid theater from here. What does it say?"

Dara glanced at it. "_Nematocyst: The Authorized Biography of Blasto._ _To Tuchanka and Back. The Thin Black Line. Letters from Nos Astra. Heaven is Below._ I think that last one must be a human-salarian production. . . "

Eli gave her a patient look. "And you know how many of those I can read from here?"

Dara winced. "Um. . . none."

"I can't even see that there are _letters_ there." He leaned in and whispered, "Stop complaining or I'm going to have to resort to desperate measures here."

_Like what?_

_Don't tempt. You're still a better shot without a scope than anyone here. Don't grouse 'cause you have to use one again occasionally._

_I know, I know. It's just. . . fuzzy._

She was aware of the cameras moving up and down the line. Pausing where Rel and Seheve were in adjoining practice lanes, Rel wearing ear protectors and working with a variety of different assault rifles. Seheve working, as Dara had been, with a sniper rifle propped up on the ledge in front of her, taking out the target with lethal accuracy every time. Passing down past Siara, who'd apparently asked Ylara to teach her the finer points of submachine guns. Hovering over Makur, who was, as usual, using a shotgun. _Accuracy, who needs accuracy?_ Even Valak was present, working with cool determination, standing between Makur and Fors, as he fired his own submachine gun at a target. _I can see why they'd want vid of that. The batarian turncoat, who's now working with the Spectres. Pure propaganda._

Then the cameras slid silently over to Kirrahe, Thelldaroon, and Rinus, all of whom were working with heavy weapons at the moment, in the plasteel-reinforced area reserved for flamethrowers, arc projectors, and other such equipment. _Damned if I know what they're getting out of watching us shoot things_, Dara thought.

_Background material,_ Eli supplied, immediately. _Stuff they can show in the while they're talking about everything else. Stuff that gives a sense of readiness and preparedness. Stuff that doesn't mean anything, except symbolically._

"You're really good at this," Dara told him, softly.

"In the job description," Eli replied, shrugging. "Oh, looks like it's time for moving targets. This is the fun part." He grinned at her, and they got back to work.

To Dara's mild annoyance, the cameras were _everywhere_ today. Even at the armor and weapons expo that the various manufacturing reps were putting on in the auditorium. The sales reps from the different corporations—human, turian, asari, and salarian—all had an established line of sales patter, which they'd clearly established in use with various military branches and mercenary groups, and even with STG and the Spectres over the years. Most of the junior Spectres and affiliates were passing through at the same time. Serana was even there, close by Lin's side, but Serana had developed a knack for not being caught by the cameras, sidestepping whenever one of the hovering things got near her. "Is it just me, or do those things remind you of the turrets on Khar'sharn?" Dara muttered in Serana's ear as the female slid away from the camera, and just about bumped into her.

"No, no, there's a distinct resemblance," Serana admitted, after a moment.

"Slightly less dangerous." Dara, having made the joke, still felt a chill creep up her spine as the closer camera turned its aperture towards her now.

"Maybe for you, but for people like Kasumi and myself? Can't let our faces be seen too much." Serana grimaced.

"We'll let them know that they can't have footage of you," Eli told her, quietly. "Don't worry about it."

Lin reached over and rested a hand on Serana's shoulder, lightly, still studying the armor in front of him. "I've had a Hahne-Kedar Silverback model since boot camp," he admitted to the representative, who was from Kassa Fabrications, a human-owned corporation. Kassa Fabrications made Rel's favorite assault rifle, Dara knew, and she could see him moving closer, eyeing the latest model weapons, also on display at the booth. "I just find it hard to believe that something made by a human could actually sit _comfortably_ on a turian body."

"Try on our most recent Colossus. It's been extensively redesigned, and we actually have a number of turian engineers and testers on staff to ensure a good fit out of the box. . . and for Spectres and STG, we're happy to custom-modify armor until it fits like a glove." The sales rep was a human male, with a vicious scar down the left side of his face, which suggested that he might have been special forces or a merc at some point in his life. His hair was still trimmed down to a mere stubble, and was graying at the temples, however. His expression was a little reserved, and Dara thought she knew why. _He sees kids in front of him, __ciea'teilu__._

_None of us are exactly in uniform at the moment, no._

Eli leaned over, as Lin started snapping pieces into place, and, running a finger down the aerogel screen with the design specifications on it, asked the sales representative, "So, can any custom armor be added?"

"Certainly, we can add an ablative coating to the entire armor set—"

"How about to the knees?"

Lin kicked at Eli with one armored foot. The sales rep squinted, and smiled patiently. "To the entire suit, yes. Including the knees."

"Good. Lin has a history of being shot in them."

"I'd like to point out that on Omega, _you_ were the one being nailed in the leg. I just got it in the arm."

"You also had Makur drop a ground car on your foot." Eli frowned. "You might want to get Dara's rachni friends to do for your shield what they did for mine. An overlay similar to their chitin."

Lin was having trouble with the unfamiliar gaskets, but had gotten everything sealed up, besides the helmet. "Why's that?"

"Seems to prevent vibroblades from cutting through. Has to be fairly thick, which adds a little to the weight of the shield, but it's surprisingly lightweight."

"Their chitin has to be," Dara put in, quietly. "Otherwise, they couldn't move under the weight of their own exoskeletons, or even breathe. It's the reason why arthropods on Earth have an upper limit on size, outside of the oceans."

The sales rep's eyes were flicking back and forth between all of them now. "Chitin overlay?" he asked now, sounding intrigued. "Is this something that's going to be commercially available?"

Dara smiled at him. "Probably not. I'm going to get them to make nylons that don't break, first."

—_Little-queen likes carapace addition?_ Chopin chittered on her shoulder.

_Yes, very much. I bet if you made some that fit Zhasa and Serana and Kallixta and Siara, we could probably get you enough advertisement and interest to get a whole industry running. Give you something to trade with other species._

—_Why would we sing trade-songs?_

_You'd be better off asking Fors that, but the short answer is 'trade prevents wars and creates understanding.' _Dara had no idea yet what the rachni would _do_ with actual credits in credit accounts, but surely, making them a little less scary and mysterious would be a good first step.

—_This is a hard song to understand. Maybe Joy-Singer or Sings-to-the-Sky would understand this song._ Chopin's voice was a little forlorn.

_It's all right. I'm still trying to figure it all out, too._

Lin swung his arms around now, trying the suit out for fit, dropping into a crouch to try to simulate combat positions. Rel had, behind the sale's rep's back, pulled a new Kassa Breaker off the rack, and was testing it for weight. "You have a firing range set up for these?" Rel asked now, and the rep turned, blinked, and started off into a different line of patter entirely.

"How about a human set in that?" Eli asked, when he got the sale's rep's attention back.

"Heavy or medium?"

"I've been wearing an old set of Sam Jaworski's for years now. I think it's a medium. The heavy, I might not be able to move in easily."

Dara's head came up. Her objections died on her lips as Eli shook his head at her. "Relax, Dara. I carry a heavy shield for the worst situations, and you know it. I've _got_ to be able to stay mobile, and if I wore heavy armor like Lantar or Commander Shepard, I couldn't move worth a damn."

"Or like me." Rel's voice was dry.

Eli glanced over. "You and Dempsey do wear the heavy armor, Rel, but you've got faster foot speed than I do, even weighed down by all that. I couldn't have outrun that thresher maw on Terra Nova if I'd been carrying another twenty pounds in armor."

The sales rep's eyes were moving back and forth between them all now. Dara didn't have to touch him to read his mind. He was clearly thinking, _Are you guys putting me __on__?_ But he got Eli a set of human-configured Colossus armor to try on. "Are any of the rest of you looking for armor or weapons?" he asked.

"I was going to look at something in the Predator line from Armax Arsenal," Serana admitted, lightly, mentioning the turian manufacturer's name. "They make very good light armor."

"We make turian light armor, as well—"

"Yes, but your shield specifications aren't quite what I had in mind." Serana grimaced, her mandibles flexing. "I like to think I learn from my mistakes. Now and again, anyway."

"Spirits be praised," Lin muttered, and Serana, not changing expressions, kicked him. In the knee.

"Good shot," Rel congratulated his first-sister.

"I thought so myself." Serana smirked, which was difficult to do with lip-plates.

Dara coughed. "I like what I'm seeing in the Kassa stuff, but I think I might need something just a little heavier than what you're stocking," she told the sales rep. "I'll look around a little more."

And that was when Dempsey pulled Zhasa over. "Dempsey, I don't _need_ new armor. My people just finished _making_ me new armor."

"You might not, but you've dragged me shopping before, missy. Now it's my turn."

"His logic," Dara told Zhasa on the way out of the booth, "is irrefutable."

Zhasa made a rude noise. "My kind of shopping is much more fun."

"Zhasa-love, this _is_ the fun kind of shopping—" was the last thing Dara heard as she, Lin, Eli, and Serana walked away from the booth. She wondered, idly, what the cameras would make of _that_ conversation.

Serana _did_ like the Armax Arsenal Predator line, but all of them told her to finish walking around before coming to any decisions. Dara was personally holding out for the Jormangund booth, mostly since her father had recommended their line of armor, and that was, actually, where Commander Shepard and Garrus were standing, looking at the new armor lines themselves. Shepard turned around, and saw three of her junior Spectres there, and a friendly smile crossed her face, touching her eyes. Dara had been holding her breath around the woman for months now, and certainly around Garrus, and knew Eli was more than a little uncomfortable as well.

Serana, of course, was either oblivious to their concerns or determined to brazen them out. "Uncle! These three have been swearing up and down that Jormangund makes light armor for tactical infiltration. Have they been telling me the truth?"

Garrus chuckled, and stepped out of the way. "I'm not in the market for it myself, but they seem to have it, yeah."

Serana folded her arms and looked at the human sales rep, this time a blond woman with her hair tightly pulled back in a bun, and a Nordic look to her cheekbones that made Eli do a double-take, and Dara leaned in to jab an elbow into his ribs for it. _It's not the __other__ Freya, is it?_

_God no. But for a second, I thought it was. Pretty unlikely she'd ever be permitted on base, though. Since, from what I understand from some of the tersely-worded 'this is what the press is saying about you' reports I've gotten from Kasumi's staff, she has, er, talked about that one night after boot camp to the media._

_Skank._ Dara's mental tone was scathing. On her shoulder, Chopin hissed, just as Serana said, out loud, "So what makes your armor better than the Armax Predator line?"

_Me or her?_ Eli's thought was amused.

_Her, of course. Kiss and tell? My ass._

Eli grinned down at her, and the sales rep went into her spiel. "The Armax Predator is a perfectly serviceable line of armor. What it lacks, however, is the Jormangund patented personal shield system. We guarantee that our kinetic shields _will_ take a third again the amount of punishment of anything that Hahne-Kedar or Armax Arsenal puts in, standard, on their suits." She pointed at the specifications on her display panel. "You won't _need_ to add an expensive after-market suit modification just to extend the life of your kinetic shields. We've already effectively done that for you."

Serana's eyes had widened in intrigue. Dara looked at the heavy armor specifications, and whistled under her breath. . . . and then found Shepard standing beside her. "You're in the market for a full new set, yourself, I hear."

Dara looked up. Met the blue eyes, and with some effort, didn't look away. "Yes. Your old set was pretty lucky. . . for a long time."

"Everyone's luck runs out." Shepard looked down at her. "Mine did at Amada. I got a second chance, though."

"So did I."

"What do you intend to do with it?"

Dara paused. She couldn't come up with a statement that encompassed all the things she intended to do once this damned war was over. Xeno-obstetrics, certainly. She had promises to keep on that score. She was wondering if she'd _ever_ get her surgery specialization done, and she could hear, at the back of his mind, where Eli tried to keep things that he didn't want to influence her, his wondering if she'd ever look into pathology instead. Forensic investigation, to complement his work. Then there were the rachni and Joy-Singer and all of the things she needed to do with them. Her family—Sam, Kasumi, and Takeshi. And then there was Eli. And making their lives together work out, somehow. "Everything." Dara swallowed.

"Good answer," Shepard said, smiling faintly. "I've never used a Jormangund set of armor before. I liked Kassa and Armax, myself."

"Personally, _sai'kaea_," Eli put in, quietly, looking over Dara's shoulder at the design specs, "I'm _liking_ what I see here." _My god, look at the shields._

_I'm looking at the hardening on the tech, too. Might be able to resist some overloads._

Over Serana's shoulder, Lin was making similar approving sounds. "You two want to try on a medium set from these guys, too?" Dara asked Eli and Lin, as she started working her way into a human set of armor on the other side of a small modesty curtain.

"The armor's better on the Kassa," Lin called through. "Shields aren't as good—"

"I think you'll find that our tech hardening, and some of the built-in kinetic dispersal structures that help compensate for biotic powers being used against you in combat more than make up for any lack of physical armor," the sales rep murmured, softly, and, looking over the top of the curtain, Dara saw both Eli and Lin's heads turn as they looked at the screen. Did a little mental math.

"And this would stop someone like, oh, a yahg biotic from throwing me off the edge of a cliff?" Eli asked.

"It might not stop the attack, but it would diminish some of the kinetic force, redirect it through chain structures in the suit in the _opposite_ direction of the throw, slam, or thrust."

Eli and Lin exchanged glances. "I'll try a set in medium," they both volunteered, at the same moment.

Dara emerged from behind the curtain, rolling her shoulders in the armor. It felt _wrong._ All the weight was in different places than she was used to, and the buckles weren't cinched in the right spots. "Hang on," Shepard said. She was still looking around at the armor herself, and came over now, helping Dara move various pieces into more comfortable configurations. "It's never going to feel like the last set," she warned Dara.

"I know. The other one had practically grown into my skin."

Chopin hopped and skittered up her leg now, and the sales rep moved backwards, sharply, as the rachni reached her shoulder. "Couple of questions," Dara said, turning to face the woman fully for the first time. She'd been carefully keeping her eyes averted the whole time. "First, can we do something about this one shoulder higher than the other look? I'm not from Notre Dame and I've never wanted to be a hunchback."

The woman swallowed hard and pulled back a bit more. "Absolutely. That can be modified easily." Her voice was nervous, and Dara winced internally, but tried to keep her face impassive.

"Good." Dara looked down, studying the armor, and found the thigh compartments. "Chopin? Can you fit in there?"

The rachni scrambled down from her shoulder, over the curve of her chest to her hip, and then burrowed into the unlatched compartment, compressing his body as he did so. —_Yes. Dark and safety-songs here._

_Good._ "Next question. I need a secondary helmet screen, a polarized one that I can pull down over the standard one. For obvious reasons." Dara swallowed. "Is that a possibility?"

"Absolutely."

"Good. Does it come in black?"

That got snorts of laughter from the other side of the curtains, where Eli and Lin were still getting changed. Serana emerged, wearing her own turian light-armor version of the gear, and was grinning broadly. "It's _light_," she said, cheerfully. "I can move in this really well."

Shepard looked at Dara. "Any ideas on what armor mods you want loaded into it?"

Before Dara could answer, Chopin poked his feelers out of her pocket. —_Joy-Singer sang that we have ways of making your armor better._

"Er. . . the rachni apparently have ideas for me." Dara squinted down at Chopin dubiously. "I have no idea of what, but I guess I should talk with them first.

"If that includes 'putting their chitin overlay over your whole suit, _sai'kaea_, I'm all for it," Eli said, coming out from behind the curtain himself now.

—_Yes. Also, an underlay. Made with crystals from the Singing Planet._

_What will that do?_

A barrage of colors and tones and Dara shook her head. _I. . . don't think I caught all of that._ "I think the other thing, since it involves crystals from the Singing Planet. . . might have something to do with memory?" Dara's tone was dubious.

—_No, no._ Chopin's song was emphatic. —_Makes your song stronger. Makes the song of others, used against you, weaker._

_I . . . okay. I guess that will make sense when I talk to Joy-Singer. _"Something about making the songs of others weaker, and my own song stronger. . . maybe biotics."

—_Yes, yes! _Chopin's tone was relieved.

Dara frowned and lifted her hands, palms up, at the others in the booth. "I'm sorry, I have _no_ idea what else he's talking about."

"That's two slots," Shepard pointed out. "What else do you want in there for standard load-out?"

Dara shrugged. "Motorized joints, so I can haul patients around more easily, maybe."

Zhasa and Dempsey had just joined them. "If I might suggest, Dara?" The quarian female smiled as they all looked over at her. "Quarian-made environmental system. Best biohazard and environmental protection system built."

Dara considered it, and nodded. "That would be wonderful, actually," she admitted. "Not bad at all. . .especially if we ever find the hot labs where the Bastion plagues were designed." She felt her face go set at the thought. "I don't suppose there's a quarian sales rep around here. . . .?"

Zhasa grinned at her. "No. Better. Hal'Marrak can probably integrate it into your armor inside of a week, maybe two. Depends on how much trouble the human interfaces give him."

"Sold," Dara muttered. She looked at Eli. "You?"

"I'm convinced. Think Lin should go with the medical exoskeleton option, since he's so _fragile_—" Eli ducked a punch directed at his shoulder, "but I'm thinking that the Serrice Technology booth over there has some very nice ablative coatings. And, given that Fors seems determined to drag me to Irune, I should make _him_ spring for the volus-made environmental protection seals. . .and the heating and cooling systems." Eli made a face. "I just _know_ that since I last got dumped on a desert planet, the next one's going to have to be a cold hazard place, isn't it?"

Shepard grinned at him. "You're learning, Elijah Sidonis. That's exactly what I had in mind."

Eli sighed. "God. Just don't let it have methane seas." He glanced over at Dara. "What else?"

"Shield augmentation pack." Dara's tone was firm. "You tend to put your hard shield on your back more than Lin does." _And you took a number of bullets on Omega to your right leg, just like Lin took them to the right arm, because you hold the shield left-handed anyway. The fewer bullets I have to dig out, the happier I'll be._

_Fair enough. The longer it takes for enemies to wear down my shields, the better. _While Eli's thoughts were serious, his tone was light, and held inch-thick innocence as he protested out loud, "Lin's the one who loads out with heavy weapons and an assault rifle. He should get that. And the medical interface. And the ablative plating."

"I'll clank when I walk!" Lin protested.

"You already do," Serana pointed out, dryly, and this time Lin swept her feet out from under her with one of his own. . . but kept her more or less upright by holding her elbow, and set her gently on the floor on her backside. "Ah, so that's the sum of your argument?

"Pretty much," Lin told her, looking down at her on the ground.

Dara had to muffle a squeak when she heard what the price-tag on the armor was. "That would buy a . . . pretty nice house in Houston," she muttered, under her breath, her eyes wide.

Shepard snorted at her. "And that's why we provide an armor stipend. Because I clearly and distinctly remember having to chase the almighty credit, taking _bounty_ work in my first year as a Spectre, because the Council couldn't be bothered to pay me well enough to let me keep up with the bad guys. And the Alliance figured they were providing me with a ship, so why the hell did they need to give me gear, too?"

Garrus shook his head. "And then they wondered why people like Saren and Tela Vasir wound up going bad. Why they wound up getting corrupted."

"The job's got enough moral ambiguity to start with, you don't need to add scrambling just to survive and keeping ahead of the bad guys' budgets and tech to that. I was starting to feel like one of the Three Musketeers for real there." Shepard looked at Garrus fondly. "I had Aramis in Mordin, Athos in Wrex, and D'Artagnan in Garrus here. . . and just like in the books, there were days when I didn't know how we were going to _eat_ if someone didn't pawn a diamond ring or something."

Dara's eyebrows went up. "I've never actually read the books. The vids never mentioned them being poor."

"The vids focus primarily on swordfights and romance. They tend to ignore the fact that the Musketeers lived on the generosity of their families, if they hadn't been disowned. . . and the three Musketeers that D'Artagnan ran around with all were fighting under assumed names. Thus, they were dependent on the generosity of nobles, or the generosity of their mistresses, assuming the mistress could get money out of her husband." Shepard's tone was exquisitely dry. "The books are a product of the nineteenth century, so there's a huge economic component to them, bordering on obsession, really. This diamond is worth this many _pistoles_, which can feed them for a month, or, if they're stupid and throw a party, which they inevitably do, because they're nobles, and have to live in a certain amount of style and show disregard for money, it'll feed them for maybe a week."

Dara looked around. There were sets of armor hanging in chests all around them. Smell of gunoil and metal in the air. Guns and ammunition packs hanging from booth walls. And Lilitu Shepard, one of the most feared and dangerous women in the galaxy, was giving them a tiny insight into a an era of Earth's history that she herself had never studied in any detail. "And suddenly, I know what's on my reading list for whenever I need a break from my medical journals," she admitted.

"Get a footnoted edition," Garrus advised, grinning. "When I read all of Dumas' works, I had the extranet open at all times, just to figure out which king or queen was being spoken about at any point in time, and what relevance they were to history."

Fors had just moved up behind them, and snuffled now, "There's an economic component to your literature? I had no idea."

"Run," Garrus told the rest of them, not unkindly. "This is where she's going to be distracted for the next hour, and her secretary will scold her, mercilessly, for missing her twelve-thirty comm call with Anderson and Vokaj and Emeric."

Dara's head jerked up at that. "Vokaj?"

"Not your friend from boot camp," Shepard told her. "His father. Admiral Miroslav Vokaj."

_The Butcher of Torfan._ "And that would make Emeric. . . Jordan Emeric?" _The hero of the Blitz. My dad served under both of them._

"Yeah. Your dad's going to be on that comm call, too. Nothing you need to worry about for the moment."

Dara exchanged a glance with Eli. _They're starting to work on the counter-offensive. _

_Yeah._

It didn't put a damper on the day, but it did make them focus, a bit more tightly, on what they needed for their jobs. Dara winced at the cost of the quarian modification, but bought the components, which Hal'Marrak told her, cheerfully, that he'd be happy to add the environmental system and seals to her new armor, once the field service reps that Jormangund had brought with them had had a chance to alter it in the ways she'd requested. Dara didn't feel a need to change out her weapons, but she did, chuckling a bit, watch as some of the others tried out new weapons. Though she kept her distance from Rel and Seheve. Instinct, or at least courtesy. Or nerves. She wasn't really sure which undersong it was, but it seemed best to give them their space.

At 15:00, her omnitool chirped, reminding her that she had a one-on-one meeting scheduled with Shepard. Dara winced a little, internally. She'd seen Shepard at her relaxed and cheerful best earlier at the armor expo. She had no idea what this conversation was going to be about, but it couldn't be good. Thus, she stood with her hands behind her back in Shepard's office fifteen minutes later, looking just past the woman's left ear, and waited for whatever fate was going to bring her.

Shepard looked up from her datapads after a minute or so. "Dara. Sit down, please."

"Yes, Commander." It had _always_ been _commander_ at work, and Dara had reverted to the formal title even at her father's barbecues since the split from Rel. Mostly out of reflex, and not knowing what else to call the woman.

"You had a good visit with your, ah, daughter? Joy-Singer?"

Dara nodded, tightly. "I expect I'll be hearing a good deal more from her, if she's going to be staying on Mindoir."

Shepard looked at her calmly. "Yes. Quite a bit more. You'll have a meeting with her and the representatives of the planetary council later today. Sort of a 'get to know each other' session, so that they don't go back to Odessa and La Garra and Takinawa utterly terrified that they've let the rachni loose on our planet, and that we're all going to be overrun and out-bred within ten years."

Dara snorted. One of a rachni queen's primary duties was understanding the environment outside of the hive, and _not_ producing so many offspring that resources were strained. The reason for the large egg clutches currently was the repopulation of the species. . . that, and the fact that workers and soldiers had short life spans, compared to queens and brood-warriors. "I'll try to use my best bedside manner on them."

"See that you do. I've been negotiating with them for months now. I'll be there. I'd expect that Joy-Singer would want her . . . 'father'. . . there as well." Shepard's glance was quick and shrewd. "You'll recognize some of the planetary councilors, by the bye."

Dara blinked, rapidly. "I will?" She shifted in the chair. "I. . . don't see _how_. I've only been off-base on Mindoir once."

"Dr. Heinrich Eriksen is the Takinawa delegate. Formerly a resident scientist in Odessa. Thomas Novak is the Odessa delegate. He's the principal of the Odessa high school, still." Shepard's grin was crooked, and Dara slowly put her face down in one hand. _Oh, god. Eli's going to __love__ this._

"I don't suppose," Dara replied, diffidently, "that my father will be there? I have this impression that they, ah, respected him." A quick flash of memory. Her father, Lantar, Gris, and Sky all at breakfast, the morning after the handball game in Odessa, facing off against three human males. All there to, more or less, apologize for their kids' behavior, which had resulted in Lin being injured. _Hell, Lin would love to be at this meeting, too._

"I think it's best to keep it small, for the moment. Garrus and I will be there, so you don't need to worry too much about that." Shepard's glance was quick and sharp. "You're not going to have senior Spectres leaning over your shoulder forever, Dara. You will need to be able to handle interacting with the public on your own."

"Yes, ma'am." Another internal wince.

Shepard sighed. "Don't go into 'placate the drill sergeant mode' on me. We've been, deliberately, sending senior Spectres with the junior ones to help you get up to speed. Now, however, you're doing slightly more diplomatic work. You're a bridge between worlds, and no one can really do that for you."

Dara swallowed. "Yes, Commander." A slight pause, and then she added, quickly, "I know that."

"And I'm scaring the living shit out of you right now, aren't I?"

"Yes, ma'am." Dara nodded, just once.

"Well, scared is actually good, in a way. Keeps you aware of potential mistakes and hazards." Shepard looked down at her datapads again. "There was another reason I asked you here today."

Dara cringed a little inside, but kept her face expressionless. "Yes, Commander?"

"I wanted to tell you that you've been doing a good job. All of our junior Spectres have been really excelling, and proving that our faith in you was not misplaced. My only concerns about you in particular revolved around your personal life's problems, and you've been resolving those in ways that haven't destroyed the teamwork or compromised anyone's ability to do their jobs. For which I thank you."

Dara swallowed, hard, and nodded, once. It was a hell of a thing to the _thanked_ for. Shepard looked at her almost meditatively, and said, quietly, "Doctor. Spectre. And now, a sort of diplomat. I'll try to make sure that none of them conflict with each other too much. You're a little overscheduled, Dara, but you wouldn't be here, if we didn't think you could do it."

She cleared her throat. "I think the 'doctor' part is falling behind," Dara admitted.

"Get some time in med bay with patients while you're here. I'm. . . fairly sure Abrams and Chakwas are going to pin you down for tests while you're available, anyway."

Dara chuckled half-heartedly. "I would, if I were them, and not me."

"The meeting with the planetary council representatives is actually a dinner session. 18:00, here in the villa. Don't be late."

Dara nodded, a little numbly, and let herself out of the office once dismissed, and instantly tabbed her omnitool to send Eli a quick message letting him know that they had an official dinner meeting.

The dinner itself didn't go entirely smoothly. Dara wouldn't have been able to pick either Eriksen or Novak out of a crowd, and was surprised to see how much older they both looked, but Joy-Singer sang a harmonic in her mind, and the memories reverberated to life. Let Dara and Eli both match up Eriksen's slight Nordic accent with remembered words. _"My son didn't play last night. . . . He told me last night he was __glad__ he hadn't been on the field."_

_Thank you,_ Dara told Joy-Singer, who sang blue, happy notes at having been of help. Out loud, Dara cleared her throat and asked, "And how is your son, Dr. Eriksen? As I recall, he was cut from the handball team just before the, ah, last time we met you gentlemen." _Which means his son is our age. Hmm, might not have been best to remind them of the game. Moving on. _ "Is he at the University of Mindoir? Our friend Urdnot Mazz just graduated from there, and is working on water reclamation projects on Tuchanka right now."

Eriksen cleared his throat. "Ah. . . yes. My son's in his senior year there now." His slight squint at the two of them just about shouted his discomfort. _Now why is he uncomfortable?_

_Could be because his son probably stayed in school till eighteen instead of testing out, and you're a full doctor at twenty-one, and his son is just finishing undergrad work_, Eli pointed out, keeping his eyes, darkened by inner communion, fixed on his plate for a moment.

_Damn. I thought talking about his kid would make him relax._

Novak looked between the two of them. "I saw on the extranet," he said, in a very careful tone, "that the young turian male who was with you in Odessa—" he hesitated.

"Rellus? My nephew?" Garrus asked, pleasantly.

"Ah. . . yes." Novak coughed. "You and he were engaged at the time?" he asked Dara.

"Yes. We're not together anymore."

"Ah." A pause. "I see he's a probationary Spectre now, too."

"And Linianus Pellarian, who was taken off the field for an injury, is a junior Spectre now, as well," Eli pointed out, smiling, and raising his eyes. Dara could feel him blocking her slightly. Just enough to ensure that his eyes wouldn't stay dark lid to lid.

"Ah. . . yes." Novak looked flustered. "It's . . . good to hear there was no lasting injury."

Conversation limped on. Both of the men were clearly unable to figure out how to behave. They'd been dealing with Shepard by comm message for months, and it was one thing to respond to text messages, or at the most, vid calls from one of the most famous people in the galaxy, but it was another thing, entirely, to meet her in person. They also didn't know how to treat Joy-Singer, who stood at the side of the table, bulking large and placid, but carefully eating what was placed in front of her on a plate. Mashed potatoes, meatloaf, and green beans. A meal fit for a queen. _Better than most kids do at three years, let alone three months_, Eli pointed out, silently, sliding a foot behind Dara's right ankle under the table.

_And no workers to help her._ Dara glanced around, but the ubiquitous little workers were all hiding, just out of sight. Mostly under the table, carefully avoiding the humans' feet. This meant that Joy-Singer, who had the same handling appendages as a brood-warrior, though they did not produce _quite_ all the things that a male used them for, was serving herself, though not with the forks, knives, or spoons. "Here. Let me help," Dara said, and began to, with an inward chuckle, to cut up the meat for the rachni queen, so that it wouldn't all be treated as very messy finger food. _I guess I really am being a mother now._ "This can hardly be enough food for you," she added, out loud.

_Truth-Singer sang warning-songs, that I should eat before I came here. I am glad now, to have heard her song, and matched my actions to it._ Rueful amusement in Joy-Singer's song—blue-violets_._

Neither Novak nor Eriksen addressed the rachni directly, but shot her wide-eyed glances out of the corners of their eyes. Joy-Singer was also taking pains to make her song as quiet as possible. Just light background music, piano-like, floating over the room. Not addressing the humans directly, for fear of overwhelming them. _Are they gray voices?_ Dara asked Joy-Singer halfway through the meal.

_Yes. They are. Sings-to-the-Sky believes that my song might overwhelm humans who only have low-song. _Which, as far as Dara could understand it, didn't mean 'non-biotics,' so much as it meant 'people without strong minds and characters.'

The pair also clearly remembered Eli and Dara. And, past Dara's one conversational gambit, they were torn, clearly, between treating them as kids, not to be taken seriously, and Spectres. Thus, they directed the bulk of their questions and comments to Garrus and Shepard the entirety of the meal. "And how do we know that this . . . queen. . . isn't going to start breeding and sending hundreds of thousands of rachni all over the entirety of Mindoir?" Novak finally asked Shepard, with some heat.

"Excuse me," Dara said, a little sharply. "But her name is Joy-Singer, and she can be addressed directly. She understands every word that you're saying, and I'll interpret her replies for you."

Novak looked rattled, and turned his head to look at Joy-Singer. "Ah. . . pardon me. But the question still stands—"

Joy-Singer's song reached out and engulfed Dara for a moment. This wasn't, however, the way Bargain-Singer used her asari interpreter, who spoke simultaneously the words that the rachni queen sang, almost as if the words were compelled from her throat. This was different. Gentler. Dara smiled at Joy-Singer in pure affection, and turned to look at Novak. Who, for some reason, had trouble meeting her eyes, so she had to bend forward and work to catch his gaze. "She says that the agreement has already been reached, that she will keep her brood to a size suitable for living solely here in the Roland B. Shepard Memorial Xenobiological Zone. If you cannot have faith in the word of a rachni queen, then you also have Shepard's word." Dara paused. "And you have _mine_. Joy-Singer would not break her promise."

"It's of some concern to us, that the borders of the Shepard Zone keep . . . expanding," Eriksen said then.

Shepard leaned back in her chair. "Yes," she replied, pleasantly. "Every year, I purchase the maximum amount of acreage adjoining my currently held parcel that I can, under Mindoir law. We're up to forty thousand acres now."

"And the. . . affiliated xenobiological station in the tropics?"

"Is held by Dr. Allardus Velnaran, in his own name."

"You're already the single largest land-owner on Mindoir, commander. Why do you need more land?" There was a hint of fear in Novak's eyes and voice, that made Dara sit up and take notice. _Why would he be afraid of Shepard? The Survivor of Mindoir, and all that?_

_Because she's a nice safe symbol so long as she doesn't actually do anything._ Eli's mental voice was sardonic.

_Owning land doesn't give her any sort of power. . . does it?_ Dara had been required to read the colony's Articles of Institution in school, and now poked her memory. . . and realized, _Wait. Yes. It does. Every part of the land that __isn't__ held by the Council and the Spectres could be counted as a subcolony. Just like Odessa, Takinawa, New Amsterdam, and Odessa._

_And the science station is growing._

_Yeah. Which means they need representation on the planetary council. . . _

. . . _Which they don't currently have. That's just by population, though. As a land-holder, though, she also gets a vote on the planetary council, doesn't she?_ Eli was clearly struggling to remember the details, too. It hadn't seemed terribly _important_ at the time.

Shepard was ahead of them. "I'm preserving the native landscape and working with Allardus Velnaran to introduce dextro species in safety. You need a fair bit of land to do that, and more than one biome." She spread her hands, smiling slightly. "Of course, that gives me a few votes on the planetary council, except in terms of matters of defense."

Novak grimaced, and seemed ready to reply, when Eli cut in now. "Excuse me, but what does this have to do with the rachni?" His voice was quiet, but there was force in it.

Eriksen shifted slightly. "If the boundaries of the xenobiological zone keep expanding, wouldn't the rachni's. . . hmm. . . territory. . . also expand?"

Joy-Singer's voice in Dara's mind now. _They sing so many fear-songs._

_I know._

Dara cleared her throat. "And if, say, a group of drell came to Mindoir, and asked for citizenship, and set up in Odessa, would you be upset if they later moved to La Garra?" she asked, pointedly. "You wouldn't ask them to stay restricted to one region. You wouldn't ask that of any turian, or asari, or hanar or elcor. You _might_ ask that of the geth, not that the geth would ever ask to live here in large numbers." She paused. "You've already restricted the rachni to a small portion of the planet, and said that they're not welcome off of it—well, apparently other than Spectre Sky, since you've never had an objection to him attending concerts in Odessa—"

"Objection, no," Garrus pointed out, dryly. "Last time I went with him, there was a fair bit of screaming in the audience because we weren't seated in the shadows at the back of the hall, and everyone got a good look at him."

Dara nodded. "So, you've already restricted the rachni to a sliver of the western half of the northern continent. You've already been told, and accepted, mostly, that they won't leave that area. Now the concern is that that area might expand over time. That, someday, it might cover the whole planet or something." Dara's tone was sharp, but internally, she actually liked that idea. _Wouldn't that be nice? Rachni able to move freely among a human population, with only a few people screaming and reaching for their brooms?_

_Will take a few hundred years, __sai'kaea__. Doubt we'll live to see it._ Out loud, Eli said, his voice a bit smoother than hers had been, but flickers of dull red anger behind the words, "And yet, you wouldn't segregate any other species this way. Don't let your fears run away with you. The rachni _are_ very different from humans. But that doesn't make them bad neighbors, or bad people." He smiled a little. "I'm kind of attached to a few of them myself."

At which point, 1812 and Wolfgang, who had been lurking under the table, raced up beside his plate and cheered _—Many-Voices likes us! Joy-songs!_ And then one of them crawled up Eli's arm, and the other up Dara's. Dara risked a quick glance at Novak and Eriksen, who were both sitting absolutely still, their eyes wide in mild horror.

"Oh, what makes you think I meant _you_ guys?" Eli told 1812 amiably. "I meant Joy-Singer and Sky, of course."

Laughter-songs, slightly scratchy and cheerful in her head. Dara shook her head. "You guys were supposed to stay out of sight."

_It is possible that these workers are being influenced by the odd one that you have given the name-song of Zappa_, Joy-Singer admitted. _Little singers, you must hide again._

—_Disappointment-song._ _We have erred?_ Both workers were, however, cheerful enough, and not at all chastened as they clambered back down below the table again.

Once Novak and Eriksen had left, Shepard looked at the younger Spectres and Joy-Singer, and said, half-smiling, half-exasperatedly, "That's not quite how I pictured that going."

"Nothing ever seems to go as planned," Eli admitted. "And. . . crud. Dara, we've got reporters waiting for us at your dad's house."

Dara sighed. "It never seems to end, does it?"

Garrus shook his head. "No. But that's part of the job's. . . charm."

Joy-Singer scuttled out with them, along with a full retinue of workers. There was, apparently, a rachni tunnel entrance right beside Shepard's villa, into which the young queen could return to her abode in the warren that was growing underground. "Hang on a second," Eli said, putting a hand on Joy-Singer's rear leg as she turned to leave them.

Joy-Singer turned, opalescent eyes flaring a little in the gloom of twilight. "Joy-Singer. . . " Eli hesitated, and Dara could feel the knot of conflicting emotions in him. Affection, uncertainty. An undercurrent of responsibility. "So. . . how do I exactly go about being your _father_, anyway? It's not like I can play catch with you." He was, Dara understood suddenly, comparing himself to Lantar, in his mind. Lantar, who had bridged a species gap to become more of a father to him than, in some ways, Darren Stockton had been. Both had shaped him, defined him, but it was Lantar's example and expectations that Eli wanted to match. _How the hell do I be Lantar for her, when she's practically an adult already, and already has the 'voices within' that Dara talks about, the guiding memories of thousands of queens and brood-warriors who lived before her. . . hell, does she even __need__ a father. . . .?_

_Of course I do. I need you because I love you. Because you sing joy-songs to my mother, and make her sing joy-songs, too. _The rachni queen's voice soared and swelled, no longer shackled, as it had been, all night. _All you need to do, is be there._

"I think I can manage that."

_Sing approval, sing disapproval. Sing guidance. Sing counsel and advice._

"I can do that, too. For what good it'll do you." Eli shook his head, and rubbed at the back of his neck.

_Much good. You will see._ Joy-Singer paused. _Sing joy-songs, and I will sing greeting-songs to you again tomorrow. _She turned, and scuttled off down into the tunnels.

"What?" Eli asked, as he turned back towards Dara, to find her smiling up at him.

"Nothing." _Except that you're mine, and I love you. _Only Eli would be worried about how he could be a good father to her rachni 'daughter.'

_Well, I was pretty mad at her when she was born. I damned near lost you because of her._ Tinges of faint guilt in Eli's thoughts, echoes of old anger. _Before either of us even knew. . . ._

Dara shook her head at him, reached up and slid her arms around his neck, standing on tip-toe to give him a kiss. _I like to think we'd have figured it out between the two of us, eventually,_ she told him, silently. _But you have to admit that the Singing Planet gave us a few clues._

_A few_, Eli told her. "And I wouldn't trade who and what we are right now for an entire galaxy of stars."

"_You only say that, for that you hope for sharing."_ Dara said it in asari. Knowing he'd hear the drawl, and start to laugh.

Eli grinned down at her, and promptly picked her up off the ground for a little twirl. "_Hoping? My always-fair, I __live__ in hope."_

**Rellus, Mindoir, January 9-10, 2197**

Rel had never quite realized just how awkward his position could get. His contract with Dara, under human law, was all but dissolved; they were simply awaiting paperwork from the nearest court, which happened to be in Takinawa, north of the base. Under turian law and custom, however, it wasn't, and could not be dissolved, of course. He didn't have a house or an apartment of his own, and his parents would not hear of him going to the barracks. Rinus and Kallixta at least had a home here, courtesy of Rinus' Spectre rank, but Serana and Rel were both more or less stuck with guest rooms in their parents' house.

"You _are_ in contractual negotiations with Lin," Rel pointed out, quietly, to Serana, after dinner the first night.

Serana grimaced. "I just spent a week on Bastion with him, after being injured. Our parents are hurt enough that I didn't scuttle home to lick my wounds here. And. . . given everything? I think it's best to be as quiet as I can right now." She shot him a teasing grin. "Besides, second-brother, I don't see _you_ staying somewhere with _Seheve_."

Rel's admission that he'd gone to Earth on leave had made Solanna drop a knife in the kitchen, narrowly missing her own toes. "In the spirits' names, why go there?" she'd demanded. "Especially without your wife?"

Allardus had grimaced and pulled the knife out of the hardwood floor for her, where it had stuck, embedded by its tip. And had grimaced again as Rel, holding Solanna's gaze steadily, had replied, "Because it seemed a good place to take Seheve on leave. A place neither of us has really ever been. With deserts."

It had gone downhill from there. Allardus had hooked a foot behind Solanna's spur and done his best to help her control her notable temper. Solanna had spluttered for a while as she continued to slice the night's roast. Phrases like _I don't see why the two of you just can't patch things up_ were repeated several times. Along with _It doesn't look right to be taking another female with you on _leave and _It's still tal'mae! _Of course, with a remarkable lack of consistency, Solanna also made bitterly disparaging remarks about Dara on the personal level. Like a _villi_ defending her nestlings, the comments ranged from _She was never any good for _you to _And what has she done for you lately?_ Which made Rel very conscious that those were the same things that the snake hissed in his thoughts in his most bitter and angry moments. And, coming from behind his mother's teeth, he realized that they simply weren't true.

Allardus interposed at that point, in his quiet way, "She did help create the gene mod that saved his leg—"

"Dr. Abrams had just as much to do with that, if not more—"

"And she did save my life," Serana pointed out, quietly. "Almost at the cost of her own."

That made Solanna snap her teeth together. She had no response for it.

Rel gritted his teeth and bore through. His mother was looking for a fight, and while he'd spent most of his childhood skating away from arguments with her by dint of a cheerful smile and the occasional nonchalant rejoinder, the darker parts of himself, which he had to keep under such rigid control, now that he was aware of them, would have _loved_ an argument with her. To say _Why don't you ask Dara why she wasn't on Earth with me, and while you're at it, ask her about the claw marks on Eli's back?_ That was, however, the snake talking, and Rel had decided that the snake was not going to dictate his actions. Ever, if he could help it. Finally, he took his mother's hand, lifted the knife free, and set it on the cutting board. "_Mada_, I know you mean it all for the best, but . . . let's have some truth between us all. I've felt Dara's mind twice since the split. That wouldn't even have been possible before then. She's changed. So have I." It was easier to make that admission now, as he was struggling to remember, here, in his parents' kitchen, the boy he'd been long ago. _How in the spirits' names would I have handled this years ago? Laughed, probably, and slid away from it. Dealt with the confrontation if it couldn't be avoided, sure, but . . . _ How to express how fundamental the differences in him were, when his father and Rinus and Garrus and even Lin and Dara and Eli had seen them?

But where they saw him as he was now—an adult, one with problems to overcome and challenges already met—his mother was always going to see a youngling. No matter that he was seven _unica_ taller than she was now. "You haven't changed _that_ much," Solanna grudged.

"I have. I've _been_ changed, and I'm trying to change myself." Rel struggled for the words. Close to five years of special forces work _had_ changed him. Made him darker, grimmer. Much less apt to laugh. The hunter in him had come to predominate his every waking thought. That was the 'habit of thought' that he needed to change. That, and the gene mod that threatened to unleash rage on him every time he went into combat made him realize, acutely, that he needed to find balance. And Seheve had been helping with that. He felt better now than he had in years, except that he couldn't exactly invite Seheve to spend time with him in his parents' house. And her absence made him understand how much he'd come to enjoy her presence. Not to rely on it, not totally. It was still too new for that, and he was still uneasily wondering if he _should_ be pursuing her. . . but he did, truly, wish that she were here now. _Although it's probably best that she isn't. I don't know how she would take all this family arguing._ "And Dara's, let's face it, part rachni now. And I don't think even she knows all the things that that means yet." Rel paused.

"That all happened _after_ the split—"

"Does that really matter? We'd both changed and hadn't even realized it, and then we've both changed further!" Rel took a deep breath, and relaxed his grip on his mother's hand. He didn't want to be rehashing this, and he shouldn't have to do so. He glanced up, and saw his youngest siblings, Polina and Quintus, hanging outside the door of the kitchen, listening in fascination, while Serana was doing her best to turn invisible against the cryo-unit's door. "_Mada_, listen, please. There was no way it was going to work out, and we're actually leaving on the best terms possible." Rel's throat ached. Again, how to convey the silent knowledge that any time he touched Dara's hand, he'd be able to feel the friendship, the part of them that was sixteen, the light and happy love that they'd known then? It was a _gift_, one that not many people in the universe were given, to be able to feel that again, even after age and experience and regrets shadows the emotion.

The conversation went on for a damned long time, but Rel managed to keep it a conversation, not an argument. The fact that he and Dara couldn't have kids now was trotted out as a sidenote—_tal'mae__ can't be broken on grounds of barreness!_—and the fact that he'd willingly signed the human divorce papers. Finally, grudgingly, Solanna gave ground. But not on the topic of Seheve, who was welcome to eat meals with them (_Whatever it is that drell eat. Fish?_), but otherwise, was not yet welcome in her house.

Solanna had kept, for years, human pre-prepared meals in the cryo-unit for Dara. That was what she pulled out for Seheve, the first night that the female ate dinner with them, which made Rel more than slightly uncomfortable. Solanna was not being particularly welcoming. Which wasn't a surprise, given how she'd treated Dara, on and off, through the years, but which also wasn't terribly consistent with her current opinion of Dara. Rel apologized to Seheve on the back porch, after dinner, "I'm sorry. My mother is. . . well. She's my mother." He shrugged a little. "We're mostly used to her little ways."

Seheve's eyes were wide and dark, and he knew that she could see far more in the crepuscular light of dusk than he could. "It is of no moment," she told him, calmly, and tentatively slid her arms around his waist, looking up, as if for permission. "There is little that she could do or say that would bother me, I think."

_Because you think you deserve worse._ That was the key thing Rel had discovered about Seheve. Much of her attitude and outlook was based on the simple fact that she felt she deserved blame, scorn, and punishment, and when she didn't receive it, she was astonished. When she did, she accepted it as her due. He found it hard to fathom, and was doing his best to get her to see that she didn't necessarily deserve punishment for the rest of her natural life. "Still, it's rude of her," he pointed out, quietly. "When my father's had coworkers over before, she's gone out and gotten pre-packaged asari food or salarian meals for them."

"My brother's wife, Maia, complains that there is little in the way of drell food in the market here in the valley," Seheve said, quietly. "There is less than a handful of drell Spectres. Perhaps a dozen, two dozen drell support staff and scientists. There is very little cause to stock such things in the local stores."

Rel looked down at her, and let his hand lightly stroke over the scales of her scalp. He was giving some fairly serious thought to taking her for a long walk through the trees in the dimming light, and finding someplace out of auditory range of the house so he could bite and lick her scales. Closeness and her scent were driving him insane at the moment. "You've usually stayed in the barracks up on the base?" he asked, after a moment.

"Yes. I had thought that I was required to do so." Seheve bowed her head slightly. _Yes. You thought of the barracks as your own personal cell, didn't you?_ "My brother was most forceful, however, in his annoyance that I have spent so little time with them in the past months. It is an . . . adjustment. . . spending time with them."

"Three children under five years of age, an _ama'fradu_ that you barely know, and a brother you've barely seen in over six years. Yes. I can see why that would be difficult." Rel hesitated. "Should I come to see you at their home?"

Seheve blinked. "I do not think that they would object to a visit," she said, after a moment. "However, the house is small—"

"I didn't think I'd be spending the night." Rel looked up at the sky for a moment in resignation, and suppressed his seething annoyance. "At least at their house, I will not be hearing about _tal'mae_ every other breath."

"Your mother loves you very much. I believe she means to protect you." Seheve sounded, for a wonder, slightly amused.

"I have been fighting, on almost a weekly basis, other than that year on Sur'Kesh, for close to five years," Rel muttered. "You would think she'd understand by now that I'm grown and have left the damned nest."

"There are other things from which to protect young," Seheve pointed out, calmly. "From the unforeseen repercussions of their own actions, for example."

The next afternoon, they'd gone to the armor and weapons exposition. Avoided the reporters there as diligently as everyone else seemed to be doing. And Rel had, as gracefully as possible, avoided getting in Dara's space. Just as she seemed to be going out of her way to avoid being in his space, or Seheve's. He'd been more than a little irked to see their marks on each other the other day at the swimming test, but had reminded himself, after exhaling, that he didn't have a right to be agitated anymore. She hadn't worn his paint in months. Her knife had broken off in a yahg's eye on Shanxi and he still couldn't understand why the metal had broken under the stress, except his first numb thought, on recovering from the anesthesia, _there was a flaw in the metal_. Which was pretty much symbolic of their relationship at the end. Outwardly strong, but with hidden weaknesses.

And after checking that he, too, as a probationary Spectre, actually received fairly healthy armor and weapon stipends, himself, Rel had found himself at the same booth as Eli and Lin and Dempsey, looking through the weapons there. Lin was looking at the Kassa Breaker line of assault rifles that Rel himself preferred, and Eli was turning a Kassa M-12 Locust over in his hands, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I don't suppose we can convince you to go over to a Kassa Razer from the Beretta, Eli?" Lin had asked the human male.

"There's a Beretta _and_ a Sig-Sauer rep here," Eli pointed out, straight-faced. "Their models _do_ punch through armor, you know. Perfectly well. I just prefer weapons I can actually conceal. You can't tell me that _brick_ there would sit comfortably anywhere on your body." He pointed at the Kassa Razer in Rel's hand. Which was, indeed, notably larger than the other human-made weapons at the little expo.

Seheve had moved in beside Rel at that point, like a shadow. She wasn't looking to upgrade any of her gear besides her stealth generator. When he'd asked her why not, she'd shrugged. "The Master. . . Olonkoa. . . ensured that I had very high-quality armor and weapons to begin with. It seems wasteful to dispose of them already."

"And yet, wouldn't it be a good thing," Rel told her, feeling a spurt of anger directed at her old _master_, "to have a clean break with the past?"

Seheve smiled faintly. "It would only be a symbolic one. The armor is still perfectly functional. And the past is ever with me." She tapped the side of her forehead. "I need no physical reminders of it."

Nothing he had said had moved her on the topic. He didn't have the credits to buy her an entire new set on his own, but he'd at least convinced her to let him pay for a different coat of paint on the hardsuit. Not Spectre black, but a dark, dappled green that would be almost as invisible as black in a dark or urban environment, and its subtle camouflage pattern would help in natural environments, breaking up her outline, on the off-chance that her stealth generator failed. "Yes," Seheve had told him, smiling slightly. "This seems practical."

_What about impractical things?_ He wondered if there were any way in which he could demonstrate affection, that she would accept.

That evening, they ate at Oeric and Maia's house, while Tiecen, Ymenia, and Iakys ran around underfoot. Tiecen was a drell boy of four, but turned out to be in the same preschool class as Takeshi. Ymenia and Iakys were twins, and only two years old, and Maia had just enrolled them in preschool as well. The three children were almost oblivious to the world of their parents, cheerfully scrabbling together in a small toybox for puzzles as the adults finished their own meals. "I'm sorry," Maia apologized for the third time, gesturing to Rel's plate. "I wasn't sure which of the pre-packaged turian meals you'd prefer. And I have no idea how to cook any dextro foods."

The pre-cooked _talashae_ flank had been smothered in gravy, and had had _phasela_ slices alongside it. "It's fine," Rel told her, for the third time, himself. "It's just as well you didn't try to cook anything from scratch. Could have had cross-contamination in the kitchen on the counters or from the knife, and I wouldn't want any of the children to get sick."

Maia's dark eyes flicked to her younglings, and he could see concern there. Just as obviously, Oeric's wife clearly didn't know what to do with Seheve. There had been a few tightly worded comments over the course of the meal—mostly to do with missing Bastion—but Maia had hurriedly followed up on each comment with a glance at her husband and a brightly cheerful comment like _But the children have such a wonderful school here, and so many opportunities to learn._

Maia herself had just started a new job as a dental hygienist. Oeric, who had worked construction on Bastion, had been taking odd jobs around the science station, and spent most of his days using a mech to move heavy loads around shipping docks for the various laboratories. He shrugged now and again as he discussed his work. "There's at least some new construction coming that'll be more interesting," Oeric said. "The volus Spectre. . . er. . . well, you know him, of course. . . needs a house of his own up on base. Pressurized dome, with extensive refrigeration units. I got approached by the base construction people to see if I wanted to work on it, and I said sure. Beats the hell out of moving pile A to pile B."

Oeric had offered Rel a _festuca_ beer, having worked around enough turians to know what to buy at the market for a turian guest. Rel had opened it, taken a sip, and left it to sit on a coaster on the table beside him for a while. "But you fare well, other than that?" Seheve asked her brother now, politely and a little anxiously.

Oeric grimaced. "Eh. Someone needs to do the work around here. Not everyone in the town can be a salarian under the skin, even if it feels like that's the case."

Rel nodded to himself, putting together the pieces. Oeric had fled from Kahje at the age of sixteen, and had worked pretty much non-stop since then. What little education he'd had, had been in Olonkoa's house, and while Seheve had devoted herself to that education, however limited it had been in scope, Oeric had not. He thus didn't even have the equivalent of a high school degree, likely, where his sister was fluent in asari, drell, hanar (including being able to read the bioluminescent portions of the language), salarian, turian, galactic, and even a little English and some batarian. Seheve understood anatomy and applied biochemistry, and, while she'd begun her readings in philosophy with the _Words of the Enkindlers_, she had, when she was away from Kahje, developed a tendency to read things on the 'forbidden' list for hanar. Salarian scientific treatises, for example. And Rel knew damned well what she had on her omnitool now. Asari tracts on _siari_. Turian law codes. Human philosophical tracts. Heavy subjects. Oeric spoke hanar, drell, and galactic. He could do enough math to figure out structural engineering problems, including load capacity, but mostly, he understood the mechs he'd used for building on Bastion. How to use them, and how to repair them. He was limited, and knew it, and to his credit, he didn't seem to resent his twin for her brilliance. But his wife did, at least a little, from the periodic comments about having had to leave their lives behind to come to Mindoir.

Seheve simply accepted all the little barbs. Either ignored them, or accepted them as her due. . . Rel wasn't actually sure which. Finally, he managed to keep the annoyance out of his tone, and asked Maia, directly, "Wasn't your neighborhood on Bastion hard hit by the plague? Would you have stayed there, with empty homes and apartments all around you, empty stores? Or would you have found someplace else to live?"

Maia flinched back. Oeric took her hand, and said, cheerfully enough, "Arashu sent us a better opportunity, and we took it. Oh, I know I don't belong here on my own merits, but it's a good place for the children to grow up. The few hanar that are here—like Blasto—hardly seem to be zealots. And the children will definitely get a better education here than practically anywhere else in the galaxy." He snorted. "Plus, half their classmates are the children of Spectres."

_And more of them will be, once we get everyone back from Argus' ship_, Rel thought, but didn't say. He hadn't spoken that sharply to Maia, but she'd definitely pulled back. And the only thing he could think of to explain it was that he was, like Seheve, a probationary Spectre. The word _probationary_, from her perspective, wasn't a step down. It was "next thing to a Spectre," and thus, meant that he was socially so far above her as to almost be a _dominus_. Rel wanted to rub his temples as he suddenly saw himself and his family and friends from Oeric and Maia's perspective. His father was a brilliant scientist. His mother was an environmental engineer, like Ellie, with heavy training in chemistry, math, and structural engineering that went far beyond Oeric's. His uncle was Garrus Vakarian—as if he could ever forget the shadow his uncle and his wife, Shepard, cast over his own life—his brother was married to the daughter of the turian Imperator, and every single one of the Spectres with whom he worked either had college degrees or the equivalent. . . or was working on one now. Eli and Lin were both working on theirs. Dara was a full doctor. Thelldaroon had at least a doctorate, and had been working for Synthetic Insights on AIs for close to a decade before becoming a Spectre.

Suddenly, his own family and associates seemed overwhelming, even to him. Just as, he realized, they'd looked to Kassa. Kassa hadn't had much education or prestige on her own merits, either. She was a damned fine gunship pilot, and cared, fiercely, about her squads. About getting them there safely, and getting them home alive again. But she'd been intimidated by the wall of Spectres in his life. As Oeric and his wife were, by the Spectres in Seheve's. . . if not by Seheve herself, who sat, ghost-silent, at their dining table, sipping _sahlep._

_Spirit-eyes. Thank you, Grandmother, for giving them to me._ Rel cleared his throat and mentioned, almost idly to Oeric, "You know, my father started out as a turian marine. He graduated high school in Raetia with high marks, but the drill centurions thought they had enough techs, and thought his weapons and physical skills would make him a good marine. They were right. My mother was just an environmental tech until she got out of the service at twenty. Both of them started their real schooling _after_ getting out." He shrugged. "I guess it's about time I did the same. Eli—that's Spectre Sidonis—is only just starting his own college coursework. Keeps trying to convince me that xenopsych is the way to go."

Oeric looked a little uncomfortable, but interested at the same time. "I thought all of you already had degrees and such."

"Oh, most of the senior Spectres do," Rel admitted. "Mostly engineering degrees. Aunt Lilu is environmental engineering. Sam's structural engineering. Mostly a requirement from the human service academies, where they went before going into the military. My uncle Garrus, and his _dimicato'fradu_, Lantar, though? Got their Criminal Justice degrees while working for C-Sec in their late twenties." _Right before they both quit and went to go work as vigilantes on Omega for a while_. Rel paused, and said, as if the thought had just occurred to him, "You know, with your background, Oeric, you could probably go for an engineering degree through the University of Mindoir yourself. A lot of the courses you can do at your own pace over the extranet. And all you really need to take courses from them is a general equivalency degree. Which is pretty much just a set of tests."

Oeric looked uncertain. "I. . . I don't know," the male admitted. "I don't think I'll have time to do that." His gesture took in the house and his wife and his children.

Rel shrugged. "As someone recently told me, it doesn't matter to him how _fast_ he gets it done, even if it takes him ten years to finish it. And if you did go through with it, you might be able to become manager of a construction crew." He took a sip of his beer. "Whatever you decide."

Maia began to clear the table, and Oeric turned to try to engage his sister in conversation. The three children were desperately underfoot, ducking under the table at one point, chasing Seheve's cat, who largely seemed to react by licking the children enthusiastically, which made them squeal, and periodically pulling on Seheve's arm as she tried to pay attention to her brother's words. Rel hesitated. It wasn't really his place, but he thought the parents might unbend a little further if he kept their younglings quiet for a while. And certainly, Maia might look at him as less apt to snap and go on a killing spree at any moment if her younglings were comfortable with him.

He'd spent enough time around his own younger siblings, and even Amara and Kaius when they were little, to know how to amuse children. Unfortunately, he was fairly certain that a mock-hunt, which turian children loved, would be a little rambunctious for the younglings, and might irritate the parents. Instead, he got up from the table, and headed to their toy box, rooting around in it for a moment. That got their collective attention immediately, and three huge sets of dark eyes were intent on him. _How odd, to think that they'll remember __exactly__ what I do and say today, years from now. How careful drell parents must have to be, never to say anything that they don't mean. No casual fibs. No hurtful words. Because every single thing will be remembered._

"What are you doing?" Tiecen asked for his siblings.

"Looking for clay. Do you have any?"

Three startled blinks, and then Tiecen dug in the toy box himself, coming up with a large container of colored clay. "All right. Let's go see what we can make with this."

It wasn't sculpting with wood. There wasn't really any image _in_ the clay, waiting for him to uncover it. But Rel set with the children at the table, working at making them little animals to play with. Ymenia and Iakys were more or less at the 'pound things with the fists' stage, but Tiecen tried, hard, to make a snake, and held up the long roll of clay proudly after a few minutes of dedicated rolling. "Look! I made a snake!"

"Very nice," Rel told him, and handed him an elephant. "Your aunt and I saw a few of these on Earth. Do you know what that creature is?"

"Elephant. Teachers show them to us in books at school." Wide eyes. "You saw them for real?" That was a squeak. "Were they big?"

"Very big. About the size of a _cuderae_."

"Wow. That's big!"

He tried, as best he could, to keep track of Seheve and Oeric's conversation. It seemed painfully stilted. In no way was it how he and Rinus talked, or how he and Serana conversed. _Strangers, really. Trying to bridge years and entirely different life-views with words._ "So Shepard and Blasto and . . . Sky?. . . put the language of the Protheans into your mind?" Oeric was just getting caught up on some of the events of his sister's last six months.

"Yes. But also, some of their. . . not really thoughts. Intentions, I suppose. Views." Seheve hesitated. "They wished to see which of the species they were observing would learn and grow. I think the part that most struck me was that they wished to see us—all of us—grow to be their equals." She paused. "We are not quite there yet, I think."

"In some ways, we've surpassed them," Rel pointed out, making an _acrocanth_ out of clay, using his talons to shape sharp teeth. It was not a very realistic likeness, but the children were squealing and holding out their hands to play with it already. "After all, the Reapers were destroyed in our lifetime. Not in theirs."

Seheve bowed her head slightly, acknowledging the point. Oeric shifted a little uncomfortably. "What else can you tell me about?"

"Very little, I fear." Seheve hesitated. "I wish that I could. But I cannot."

It was getting late by that point, and again, Rel wished that there was at least a _hotel_ in the damned valley. There wasn't, however. Not yet. _We need a little more visitor traffic here for someone to see the business opportunity_, Rel thought, with grim humor. Barracks rooms wouldn't have been any better than their current situation, except that they could have at least had a little privacy, though they'd have needed to return to their separate rooms. "Perhaps we might go into the mountains tomorrow?" he offered to Seheve, hopefully. Even if it just amounted to a walk in the woods, it would be nice to be alone with her, without any social constraints around them.

"I would welcome that," she told him, smiling slightly. So hard to tell what really pleased her, at times.

And yet, Oeric caught him at the gate out of the little yard in front of the small, prefab house, hardly more than a colonial living-pod, that the family shared. "Rellus—"

"Yeah?" Rel swung around, suppressing the wary reaction as the drell approached from behind him.

"I wanted to thank you." Oeric looked away, uncomfortable. "This is the first time my sister has stayed with us since our arrival here on Mindoir." Oeric paused again. "I remember her the way she was," he said, after a moment. "How she'd laugh and chase me when we were children. Before we went into the house of Olonkoa." The drell's eyes glittered for a moment, and Rel suspected that if the male had ever had a gun in his possession in that house, he would have killed the hanar with a song in his heart. "I watched my father go from a strong man who wanted to provide for his family into a silent wraith at the dinner table. Who prayed five times a day for the Enkindlers to find his deeds in the _Master's_ service acceptable. I watched my mother, who was lively and charming, become a mere recording. Someone who mouthed the Words of the Enkindlers, over and over. I watched my sister, who was happy and lively as my own children are today, drained of life. Since coming to Mindoir, I've seen her coming back. Just a little, here and there. Today was the most she's said to me, of her own accord. And I think you are responsible for that."

Rel shook his head. "No. She's done it herself. She and I. . . " he hesitated. "We worked on Shanxi together a few times. But only in the last month or so has there been anything more. And there wasn't even a chance to talk, when she was on Arvuna, and I was on Terra Nova." No, he couldn't take credit for Seheve. "I'm actually surprised at you, Oeric. Why you never succumbed to the indoctrination. Seheve tells me that she remembers you bringing home a book about Rakhana and the old gods when you were children. And both of you being beaten for it, and you defying your father for a week over it."

Oeric's huge eyes blinked. "Is _that_ how she remembers it?" He shook his head. "Proof that indoctrination can even affect drell memory, Rellus. That's not what happened at all. I brought the book home, yes. We were reading it in our room, and she was looking at the pictures of the pyramids in the great sand desert when our father walked in and caught us." Oeric winced. "He demanded to know which of us had sinned and brought home the forbidden book. Beat us both. I refused to say _anything_, but Seheve lied and said she'd been the one. I said no, it was my fault, but Father said at that point that he thought he had the best solution of all. He'd punish us both at the same time. The one who'd sinned, and the one who'd lied. He beat Seheve every night for a week. And I swear to you, I felt every blow, because she was taking them for _me._" Oeric shrugged. "She changed after that. Withdrew. Became meticulous about following every rule precisely. I guess she'd learned the lesson Father wanted her to learn."

Rel stared at him. "How can she remember it differently than you do? You both have eidetic memory."

Oeric sighed. "Perfect memory is still subject to. . . interpretation. And to suppression. I suspect my sister's self-identity, for years, hinged on seeing me as the rebellious one. So she revised the consequences of the memory in her mind. Someday, she'll probably remember it as it really happened. At least, I hope she does." He shrugged. "She was a good sister. A good person. And then when I saw her on Bastion, and here. . . she was an empty shell. I'm finally seeing my _sister_ again. At least a little. When she smiles."

Rel made a point, the next day, of taking Seheve up to the base, to the stables. Introducing her to the _rlatae_ and horses there. She smiled at little at how furry the horses were. "Like the camels in the Sahara on Earth," she noted. "But much less. . . oddly shaped." The _rlatae_ made her dark eyes widen even further. "With those claws. . . are they not predators?" No actual fear on her expression, or in her scent.

"No. They're herbivores. They use the long claws to pull down branches and strip leaves from them." Rel looked at the _rlatae_ as he boosted Seheve up onto one of the creatures. As he'd suspected, Seheve's natural grace and athleticism let her balance on the creature easily, but, as with the camels on Earth, she had no natural affinity for riding animals. She got along well with her cat, Loki, but this was all new to her, and strange.

And as with so many other things he'd done with her, Rel had the strange sensation of double vision, or _déjà vu_. He let her get comfortable on the beast, and then led her off on his own _rlata_, taking her on the marked trails through the woods that he'd run and ridden through since first coming to the base. Taking her to all his favorite haunts.

And yet, he'd taken Dara to all those same places.

After a couple of hours of riding and exploring together, Seheve finally asked, "You are most silent, Rellus. Does something trouble you?"

He'd taken her to the _allora_ meadow last, and almost reluctantly. The place was almost sacred in his memory, distant with nostalgia. He was afraid it would look smaller, less beautiful now. It didn't. It did look different, because _he_ was different, of course. The trees still towered like a green cathedral all around them. Not in bloom, of course, not in January, mid-summer, but still towering up to touch the very sky. "Trouble me?" Rel was about to deny it, but he caught himself in time. "Maybe a little," he admitted, after a long moment. "I used to bring Dara all these places." And simply by virtue of the fact that there were only so many things one could really _do_ on the base and its environs, there was repetition. And repetition invited comparison. And comparison wasn't fair to Seheve. "This meadow was a favorite place for both of us."

She looked around, accepting that, but not saying anything. That was one of the most difficult things to know what to do with, in regards to her. Dara had tended to be quiet, but she never had a problem expressing a thought or an opinion. Seheve had been trained, for some sixteen years of her life, not to _have_ opinions. Or if she did, never to voice them.

Habits were hard to break. Habits of thought. Habits of silence.

_I need to do something new with her._ He simply wasn't sure what. The kata, even the, spirits defend him, _dancing_, had been a start. "Would you like. . . " Rel hesitated. If there wasn't anything that was new on base, then they needed to _leave_ the base, he decided. "I've never been to Takinawa," he said, abruptly. "It's one of the colonial cities, and it's north-west of here. On the western sea. It's supposed to be sort of cold and rainy in climate, but very beautiful there. Would you like to go explore there tomorrow? We can borrow an aircar or a shuttle, and just. . . go."

Seheve's head lifted, and her smile made her dark eyes glow. "Yes," she said, immediately. "I would welcome the opportunity."

"Maybe make it an overnight trip?" Rel offered, tentatively.

"Do you think it actually possible that the town is large enough to have a hotel?" she asked, smiling slightly.

"Anything is possible," Rel told her. "But it's probably likely to be a small town. There's only about a million people in Odessa, and that's the planetary capital. The locals might not be terribly friendly towards a turian and a drell."

"I am willing to take that risk, if you are," she told him serenely, and Rel's crop loosened slightly. Something new. Something different. Another pattern, a different path, a new way.

_**Author's note:** Solanna is very fun to write, in her way; a bundle of contradictions. Here's a sample of her thought processes: "I was just starting to like Dara, and then she more or less betrays me by hurting my baby, and I was used to the idea of hybrid grandchildren, spirits take it all, and now while I resent her, I'm used to her, and I do actually like her and don't like her at the same time, and now there's this new girl that I don't really like at all, and is even weirder and more alien than the human was. . . Rel, can't you just get back with Dara?"_

**Lexine Elders, Mindoir, January 11-15, 2196 **

Lexine Elders' focus in her documentary was meant to be the Spectres and affiliates that she'd covered on Terra Nova. Siara Tesala, Urdnot Makur, James Dempsey, Elijah Sidonis, Rellus Velnaran, Lantar Sidonis, Fors Luka, and Thelldaroon. She was stymied in some respects, by the walls that the Spectres held around their personal lives. For example, after she'd taken footage of Zhasa'Maedan—carefully not showing the quarian female's face from any angle, but showing the very human engagement ring on a two-fingers-and-a-thumb, violet-toned hand that clearly wasn't human, asari, or turian, senior Spectres Jaworski and Sidonis came to the barracks room where she and Emily Wong were going over the day's footage, and quietly asked her to redact it.

"Why?" Lexine asked, frustrated. "You can't possibly tell me that the marital status of Spectres is a closely-held secret." She knew damned well that Spectres were more or less the rock stars of the intelligence and black ops world. Their faces were, more or less, known. Many times, they were sent when and where the Council wanted a visible message sent. Most of them couldn't manage a truly covert mission because, by virtue of becoming a Spectre, they were famous. Out loud, she continued, "And I'd have thought that showing our viewers a symbol of unity would be something you'd want."

Sidonis' turian face was unreadable to her, but Jaworski grimaced slightly. "Let me put it to you this way," the human drawled. "There's a better than average chance that Dempsey and Zhasa might serve in the same theater of the war. Maybe not on the same team, but on the same set of teams sent into a problem area. Every last one of our people is under threat of torture if they're captured. You really don't think that the same batarians who psychologically break slaves by raping them, wouldn't do that, and a whole lot worse, if they thought they could break him by abusing her? That's a two-for-one win for them."

Lexine's stomach lurched. "And when they get married?" she managed to challenge Jaworski. "That information will be a matter of public record then." She glanced between them. "And the Spectres follow turian regulations in regards to, ah, husbands and wives serving together."

"Yes," Lantar told her. "But we're hoping to keep everything on the quiet and subtle side. Largely depending on whether the Admiralty Board gets involved in their marriage or not. There's no way around it; the information will be out there, as you say, as a matter of public record. But that doesn't mean we have to shine a spotlight on it."

"In other words," Jaworski said, "if you don't make a big hoopla about it, then the batarians actually have to do their own digging."

Lexine sank down on a chair near the room's desk, aware of Wong's amused smile. "I take it the same applies to the evidently burgeoning relationships between some of the other Spectres and probationary Spectres?" she asked, with an edge of asperity in her voice.

What little amusement had been in Jaworski's face and eyes wiped away. Instantly. Leaving his expression as unreadable as the turian's, and his eyes just as dead and cold. "And by that you mean what, precisely?" he asked, and the drawl was gone, too. Sidonis' head tilted minutely, his eyes as glittering and remote as a bird of prey's as it considered a small rodent it might like to eat.

Lexine exhaled, making herself remember that both of these males were the fathers of two of the younger Spectres. And she made herself meet Jaworski's eyes, although Sidonis' were too much to cope with. "I mean this," she said, realizing that her voice had gone thin, and trying to put more force into it. "You restrict all the real information that we can broadcast, you take us on tours of the base, but don't show us anything. That leaves me, at least, with gossip pieces or background bits on how normal and everyday the Spectres are. . . and then you restrict even what I can discuss about _that_." She threw her hands up in the air in exasperation. "I might as well not even unpack my camera. In fact, I might as well leave, because there is absolutely nothing I can talk about here."

Emily Wong—who, damn her, already had an _in_ with Shepard and Garrus—chuckled. "She has a point," Wong admitted, lightly. "But on the other hand, Lexine, I _am_ sharing my interview with Dara with you. I wouldn't pack your bags just yet."

An interview that had been cancelled, postponed, and otherwise moved around the schedule at least twice now. . . although Elijah Sidonis had, with notable reluctance, agreed to allow Lexine to interview _him_.

Jaworski looked at Elders now. She wasn't sure, but she thought she saw understanding, if not sympathy in those cold blue eyes. "I tell you what," he said. "You sign a couple of very binding non-disclosure forms, and we'll take you around some of the facilities you haven't seen. You won't be able to use the footage, in some cases, for years, and we'll keep it locked up here for safekeeping. But when we're ready to go public with any of it, we'll let you have it."

It was buying a pig in a poke, Lexine figured, a sop to her pride at best. But she took it. She didn't have a lot of choice in that, because the alternative was having her bluff about leaving called.

The thing that surprised her most, really, was how much actually went on, on the base. There were ten thousand sapients between this base and the valley science station, and the place positively bustled. In one laboratory building, Lexine was introduced to the geth Spectre, Cohort, re-introduced to Thelldaroon, the elcor, to a young rachni brood-warrior named Sings-of-Glory. . . Lexine took a reflexive step or two backwards, and hated herself, because Emily Wong didn't step back at _all_. _Damn her._ Also present were a salarian she hadn't met before, named Kirrahe Orlan, Dr. Daniel Abrams, and a young turian surgeon named Telinus Karpavian. "I'm not quite seeing what a geth needs with a medical doctor," Lexine said after the introductions were completed.

"We do not require the services of either physician for our own platform," Cohort told her, tipping his eyeflaps up disconcertingly. "We are present to assist in this endeavor, and to transmit information from the geth collective to the doctors here."

There was a slight pause. Lexine looked at Emily Wong, who simply stood back, looking at her, as if to say, _You're the one who wanted to ask questions. Ask them_.

"What precisely is the nature of this 'endeavor,' then?" Lexine asked, lifting her chin.

Cohort's single eye brightened and dimmed several times, as if the geth were processing her request for information carefully. "During the recent 'awakening' of the organics known colloquially as 'the Keepers,' we were able to interface with the rachni for the first time in a more direct manner than previously. Previously, we could utilize auditory communications to convey thoughts to them, but because they use biotic waves and impulses that we cannot employ as a method of communication, they were forced to use humanoid organics as interpreters to speak with us. That same barrier to communication has been noted by at least one NCAI, designated 'Lysandra,' who was unable to communicate directly with Sings-to-Sky-Spectre, when he was aboard her ship, designated '_Raedia.'"_ The geth paused. "When the 'Keepers' were stimulated by biotic impulses provided by two rachni queens and several brood-warriors, they were linked to our collective through the mind of a human. Dempsey-Spectre. He is unique. He has a chip and other computer architecture throughout his brain, which allowed him to output the 'song' of the rachni and the memories of the 'Keepers' to the geth collective, for storage and archival, and allowed him to link with Watches-the-Gates-of-Ruin, the only 'Keeper' still self-aware. He passed the memories of Ruin-designate to the Keepers, and their memories to both the rachni and the geth collective."

Lexine's mouth had fallen open. It was a datadump, nothing more, nothing less. And she had no idea what to do with it. After a moment, she asked, "And what does this have to do with what you are doing here today?"

Cohort nodded, a single stiff, slightly jerky gesture. An emulation of a human one. "We were intrigued by our connection to the rachni hive-mind. They are a collective, as we are, but experience more individuality in their 'queens' and 'brood-warriors.' They collect memories, as we do. They value consensus, to a certain extent, but the consensus is generated from collecting information and offering ideas, and after that, decisions are made on a hierarchal basis, rather than on a collective one. And they told us something. That when we have come to consensus on actions, but cannot provide data on why we have made that decision, that the lack of data is 'the song.' We require more data for analysis. We cannot obtain more data without communications."

Lexine stared at the geth unit for a long moment. As she opened her mouth to ask another question, Cohort went on anyway. "Additionally, Shepard-Commander has long stated that better communications at a distance with Sky-Spectre would be beneficial. At the current time, the best method that a rachni ship has with communicating with another ship is for a queen or brood-warrior aboard to be within line-of-sight of another ship, and to 'sing' to another organic aboard it. They may receive radio waves and FTL comm calls, but cannot effectively respond to such. This was demonstrated when Sky-Spectre was aboard his new ship, the _Lightsinger_, and received an urgent message from the _Raedia_. He was able to send a message back to the ship by 'singing' to its pilot, who told Lysandra-NCAI to slow her ship to permit him to dock a shuttle. This is inefficient."

Lexine grabbed a metal chair from one of the nearby workbenches and sat down slowly. "And you are looking into ways in which to communicate with them how?" She looked at the huge brood-warrior, mentally shuddering.

_Sing not fear-songs. I would not sing harm to you,_ a voice told her in her mind, a voice made of harps and light breezes. Lexine was damned glad she was already sitting down, because she knew somehow that the voice was the _rachni's._

Thelldaroon lifted one paw calmly. "We are attempting two separate experiments at this point in time. The first is more in Kirrahe's realm of expertise, so I will defer to him for the moment."

Kirrahe looked up from his own work, where he seemed to be taking a datapad to pieces. "Somewhat theoretical," he admitted. "Biotics, for all that they have been recorded for over three thousand years, and existed in asari even before they achieved spaceflight, have not been studied in any rigorous scientific fashion by the asari themselves. Matter of religion, even self-image for them. Records closely kept, not in common circulation. Salarians and turians, even batarians, have few biotics. Somewhat better studied, but humans have next highest percentage of biotics. Studied much more intensively and scientifically, but just over forty years of data. Has made project very challenging."

Lexine wanted to scream by this point. "What," she said, holding onto her patience by her teeth, "precisely is the nature of the project?"

Kirrahe looked up, startled. "Forgive me. Thought I was clear. Apparently not. Am attempting to devise a method by which the biotic impulses by which rachni transmit their 'song' could be detected, and thus interpreted by the geth, much in the way radio frequencies are." He frowned. "Not going well. Also, have grave concerns overall. If this worked, then there would be twofold problems. First, privacy of every organic biotic might be suspect. Rachni 'frequency' of thoughts might not be unique, could be shared by all biotics, and their thoughts would then be open to mechanical 'snooping.' Also problematic is temptation geth would face, in equipping platforms with biotic reception gear. Might leave those platforms open to domination effect, to which they are currently immune."

Elders very slowly rested her elbow on the bench, and put her hand over her eyes for a moment, rubbing gently. "Are you putting me on?" she asked, after a moment.

"Human phrases so odd. Suggests that I would wear you like a suit of clothing? No. Not at all." Kirrahe dismissed the thought, and went back to work. "Is somewhat uncertain if this will, in fact, be a productive experiment. Still, only acceptable method of finding information is to try."

"That is the method by which most scientific discoveries are made," Thelldaroon agreed.

Lexine turned her head slightly towards the elcor, still digesting everything that had poured out at her from every direction so far. "And _your_ ah, endeavor, Mr. Thelldaroon? Does it involve the two medical doctors here? Or the. . . MRI equipment?" MRIs weren't massive white machines that took up an entire room anymore, but she recognized the scanning bed. Except that it appeared to be of a size that could have been used on an elephant.

Thell lowered his massive head in a slight bow. "Yes. You are aware that many NCAIs in the human fleet of SR ships have geth aboard to serve as mobile nodes, in case they must escape a damaged ship?"

Lexine nodded, slowly. "And you are also aware that many of the NCAIs in the turian fleet have taken an alternate approach, having organics aboard who have been chipped, so that the NCAI may use them as mobile nodes, and also, hmm, experience the organic's bodily sensations and emotions?"

Elders cleared her throat. 'There was some mention of it several years ago during the investigation of the _Kharkov_ crash." Most of the information on that investigation had been suppressed, of course. What little had emerged had snuck out in relation to Rinus Velnaran's unusual work in terms of AI rights. . . and _regulation_. . . on Palaven.

Thelldaroon blinked, twice. She wasn't sure what that meant on an elcor face, but it stood out. "Yes. I recall the hearings well. Lysandra, the AI of the _Raedia_, has long had a working relationship with Sings-to-the-Sky. A relationship stymied, in spite of good intentions on both sides, by her inability to 'hear' his responses, except as transmitted through a human or a turian in her crew. As such, she has asked if it would be possible for a rachni to be chipped." Another slow, leisurely blink. "She was much impressed by Sings-of-Glory, and asked him if he would be interested in such an endeavor."

Lexine's mouth fell open for possibly the third time in ten minutes. She stared at the rachni. "Why would you agree to such a thing?" she finally asked, getting her wits about her again.

_For a time, Sings-to-the-Sky sang to us all that the geth were real, and could sing in their silence. It was difficult for us to understand at first. Even Bargain-Singer, the queen who sings for us all on Bastion, could not see them as real. Because they did not sing. Still harder to understand how those who sing in silence on the ships-that-do-not-live could be real, too. And yet, if the geth are real. . . and we have heard their songs now. . . then the songs of Sky are true, too, about the ships who live._ Quick ripples of harmony in her mind, and Lexine shied back a little as the brood-warrior advanced on her, chitonous legs clicking on the floor. _Hearing the songs of others and learning them makes our own songs greater. No one among those of the Singing Planet has ever heard the songs of those who sing silently on the ships-that-do-not-live. Not even Sings-to-the-Sky. I will give songs to my people that they have never heard before. Is this not worthy?_

Lexine suddenly understood _why_ the rachni was called Sings-of-Glory. He seemed to hunger for it, for distinction. For something that set him apart as an individual, among the . . . hive. She looked at the doctors now. "And you would be here to . . . implant the chip?"

"Hopefully," Telinus Karpavian told her, with a flex of his mandibles that looked like a grimace. "Thankfully, we already had an MRI machine large enough for an elcor, considering the number of elcor techs and scientists we have around here. . . so now the main question is mapping the rachni brain and seeing if we can even perform the surgery."

"Don't the rachni have medical information that they could give you?" Lexine couldn't help the question.

_No. We have no history of such things. We do not sing 'surgery' songs. We sing healing-songs, yes, with chemicals and what Sings-Heartsong calls 'antibiotics.' Memory sings of brood-warriors, highly favored ones, that have been given new limbs, crafted by workers as love-songs of queens after they were damaged in battle. . . but this is rare. When we die, the hive goes on, and we go into memory. The cutting open of the carapace is new to us._

There was. . . yellow . . . in that voice. Unease. "Does it frighten you?" Elders asked, immediately.

_Yes. But it would not be a song worthy of being sung, otherwise._ Glory tilted his head to the side. _Something else that Lysandra has spoken of, that she wonders if would be possible, would be if she could be sung into our ships through me. I do not know if this song could be sung, but it would be a very great thing indeed. Our ships have our songs within them, but they do not sing, themselves._

_I have absolutely no idea what the fuck he just said_, Lexine realized, after a long moment, and put her head back in her hands for a moment. All too aware of the faint chuckling coming from Jaworski's general direction.

She walked away from that laboratory practically dizzy, and with a promise from Jaworski that she'd be permitted to interview Lysandra at some point in the near future. "I don't know how I could possibly explain this to my viewers, if they'd even _believe_ me. . . or if they'd even find it newsworthy," Elders admitted in the corridor. _And to think I wondered what the hell Shepard and her cohorts were hiding on this base, away from all the rest of the galaxy. _

Jaworski chuckled again. "Welcome to our world," he told her, lightly.

Other buildings on base. Massive supply dumps, including pre-fab colonial structures, which were stored in a flattened state, and could be easily expanded and set up on a whole host of planets, hospitable and not. "What are you planning on doing with these?" she asked Sidonis, who was serving as guide for this part of her and Wong's tour.

"This base has been attacked three times in the past ten years," Lantar Sidonis told her, calmly. "Once, the AEC attacked, because they'd gotten beacons here on the surface. The second time, Lina Vasir had obtained the information on the location of the base from the AEC, which she was actually manipulating. And most recently, the batarians obtained that information from a rogue group of salarians known as the Lystheni. Who appear to have ascertained the location by examining news footage of the sky overhead, spectral analysis of the light of the sun from that footage, and a couple of good guesses about Commander Shepard's desire to be at home on Mindoir." Sidonis lifted his chin towards the piles of equipment. "Shepard and I started kicking around the idea of terraforming Aphras into a turian colony and Tosal Nym into a human-friendly one six years ago. The proposal's gotten the backing of the scientific community, the Council, and a number of colonial corporations."

"I remember seeing the footage of the ice moon being moved to orbit near one of the planets, yes," Elders murmured. It had been a huge feat of engineering. Far exceeding, in her opinion, the Pyramids on Earth, but treated by the rest of the media as something of a nine day wonder. "You intend to move this base to one of those planets?"

"No. This will remain the main base. The home of the Spectres. But there will be secondary bases on _both_ planets. Redundancy is a survival trait, as Allardus Velnaran and Shepard like to say, when they're both talking xenobiology after a couple of drinks." Sidonis smiled slightly, or at least bared his teeth. Hard to tell, with turians. "Both planets have oxygen atmospheres, but minimal plant species, and no animals. Should be easy to disguise our comings and goings, with all the heavy equipment and materials being shipped there to aid in the terraforming effort. With some greenhouses, and a good xenobiology outpost next to each base? Might even be self-sufficient within a decade or so, as far as food goes. And they can also be further disguised with the archeological digs needed on both planets. The Keepers have agreed that they will cede these worlds to us; Etamis was the homeworld, which they might never actually be able to reclaim. But with some elcor assistance, who knows? They might." He gave her and Wong both very direct looks. "You understand why you signed the non-disclosure agreements, yes?"

Lexine nodded, apprehensively. This was information she might never, _ever_ be permitted to report. But she couldn't say that they weren't letting her _in._ _Damn it. Nothing usable yet._

Saturday, the fourteenth, she and Wong finally managed to bag their elusive quarries for interviews. Elders was permitted to stay in the room as Dara was interviewed, and could pose questions of her own to Elijah Sidonis. . . and follow-up questions to Dara. But Wong had first-chair on the interview. "You've been hard to get ahold of," Wong said, with her award-winning smile and dimples. They were in the Jaworski house, in the library, with their cameras and lights set up. Dara Jaworski sat down in a recliner there, and immediately, two little workers hopped up on the chair beside her. . . like cats, or pets. Elijah Sidonis walked in from the kitchen nook area, and took a seat at the couch beside Dara, just off-camera. Both were dressed very casually—jeans and T-shirts. Lexine noted, appreciatively, that Sidonis' shirt was tight over his shoulders and arms, and that his hair, usually cropped close to his scalp on Terra Nova, had grown out a bit. He looked, if anything, relaxed. As if he were on vacation. Which, she supposed, they were. Dara, on the other hand, appeared a little nervous. She clearly _hated_ being on camera, and hated answering questions. _Even though she's being doing so since she was sixteen. . . no, wait. Fifteen. The first AEC attack._

Sidonis extended his hand, taking Dara's, and his eyes went dark, instantly. Lexine was watching for it, and it gave her chills. It was not at all a human thing, and she could only imagine how religious groups back home might react to his visage right now. _Spawn of the devil_ might be one reaction. Or maybe _crossing genes with other species is a sin. We were made in the image of God, and this perverts that image_. Or, more simply, _he's not human_.

Except, he clearly _was_ human. Warm human smile at Dara, and Lexine could see the woman relaxing, visibly, just at the touch of his hand on hers. A quick, warm, grateful smile in response, and then he released her hand and told the small rachni, "Little guys, you need to get down below the level of the camera. Make like Sings-Broomsongs is here, or something."

The two rachni immediately skittered under Dara's chair. Dara snorted with laughter, and looked at Wong. "All right," she said, the alien blue of her eyes glittering in the light of the cameras. "Let's get this started."

"As I said, it's been hard to get ahold of you. What have you been doing while you've been on leave?"

Dara's lips compressed slightly, and she seemed to glance at Sidonis for a moment. It was hard to tell that for certain; her eyes didn't actually seem to _move_. But her head did tilt his direction slightly. "The leave's been a long time coming," she began. "After three months on Omega, two and a half on Arvuna, and two other missions in between and around those? I was pretty tired." Elders noticed how carefully Dara moved the conversation to emphasize that they weren't just having a good time while other people fought and died elsewhere in the galaxy. "As such, it's been a relief to relax for a bit. Though this week, even so, I have been called in to med bay." Dara shrugged.

Wong smiled again. "Fair enough, but what do you _do_ to relax?"

Dara looked at her steadily. "Reading—sometimes for pleasure, and sometimes it's medical journals. Playing piano or quarian _reela_. Some computer games. Some horseback riding—my father and step-mother gave me a colt for Christmas this year, so I've been spending time at the stables, watching the trainers gentle him. Sparring practice, too, in the evenings."

"And you, Spectre Sidonis?" Elders broke in quietly.

Sidonis shrugged. "The same, really. Hanging out with friends, computer games, sparring practice. I'm trying to use the downtime to get caught up on some coursework, too." He paused, and offered, conversationally, "We're probably going to head to one of the nearby settlements this afternoon and look into getting hovercycles. Neither of us has a groundcar of our own, and I'm tired of being forced to borrow transportation from someone any time I want to go somewhere."

Dara looked over at him. "Arguably, we're not here enough to make it worthwhile."

"Arguably, the time we _do_ get to spend at home shouldn't be annoying."

"Touché." The two of them suddenly smiled at each other, sharing some sort of private joke, it was evident. There was a degree of intimacy in that smile that went beyond friendship, and Sidonis reached out and took the doctor's hand again, squeezing lightly, before releasing it once more. Body language, however, spoke volumes. Dara sat with her knees tilted to the side, more or less turned inwards and towards Sidonis; Sidonis sat firmly upright on the couch, but his entire body angled towards hers. But they could look past each other, too.

"I understand that you both spent some time on Bekenstein recently." Wong's voice was mild. Her smile said, _Come on, don't fib to me. You know that I know._

"Bekenstein was lovely, yes." Confirmation, but neither did Dara rephrase the words Wong used, nor say something as simple as _Yes, that's correct._ Nothing that could be taken out of context. Elders didn't know whether to laugh or to applaud.

"I also understand you had an unfortunate encounter with a reporter there. Since becoming a Spectre, has dealing with the press and fame been difficult?"

Elders cleared her throat. "And I might ask Spectre Sidonis the same question?" she interposed, quietly.

Sidonis' head swung up. "Dara, you first," he told the woman quietly, and hooked a foot behind her ankle now. Elders frowned slightly and had her own camera pan back slightly. She wanted to catch that moment, frame it neatly in the viewfinder.

Dara cleared her throat. "I've never really wanted the media attention," she said, simply. "Because of who my father is, and who I've associated with, I've wound up dealing with a few reporters over the years. Since becoming a Spectre, yes, the scrutiny has been more intense."

"Does it affect your personal life?"

"Sometimes more than I would like it to, but I guess that's part of the job." Dara sounded resigned, but managed a smile.

Elders gestured to Sidonis. "And you, Spectre?"

"Yes, I enjoyed our recent trip to Bekenstein. Learned to wind-surf, went digging for fossils." Careful, controlled choice of words. Not _my_ but _our._ An admission, but so blandly stated that it hardly stood out. And the choices of activities were prosaic. Not exotic at all. "And, like Dara, I've had to deal with the press a bit, due to the nature of my father's work, and now my own. Probably a bit less than she has, however."

"Because of her marriage to Rellus Velnaran, you mean," Elders decided to stop stepping around the elephant in the room.

Sidonis shrugged slightly. "Previous marriage," Dara corrected, quietly. "The divorce decree is being signed by the judge next week. Rel signed the papers himself before any of us went on leave, and we've been separated for over six months." Dara met her eyes, and Elders could barely meet that strange, alien gaze. "Both the marriage and the divorce have brought me more attention than I would ever have wanted. It seems unwarranted."

Elders raised her brows slightly. She hadn't thought that the woman would comment, but it was an unexpected gift. She didn't know if she could use it, really, for the reasons that Jaworski, senior, and Sidonis, senior, had both mentioned earlier in the week. . . but the Spectres also had to want to quell some of the speculation that was rife about their private lives.

"And how do you think the turian courts will deal with the situation?" Emily Wong asked now.

Dara looked up at the ceiling, visibly. "I don't want to get into that right now. Seems to me that if their courts acknowledge the validity of a human marriage, then they more or less have to acknowledge the validity of a human divorce, but that's what the lawyers are getting paid for."

Elders looked at Sidonis, in his turian clan paint, and jumped in. "Wouldn't her unavailability under turian law make it difficult to, hmm, adopt her into your clan, Spectre Sidonis?" She'd done enough homework on turian clan structure and marriage customs to figure this much out.

His expression went blank. "I'm not a lawyer. I can't really comment on that."

_Which wasn't a denial that you plan to ask her into your family. Interesting._

"This may sound a little silly, but how much of the media coverage of your lives are you actually aware of?" Elders followed up, managing a smile for both of them.

Dara made a face. "I made the mistake of reading one of the articles about me right after I went into the turian military," she admitted. "It made me so angry, I almost threw the datapad into a wall."

"Why were you so angry?" Emily Wong would have made a good therapist, if she'd never gotten into news. Calm, serene. Just reflecting truths back at the interviewee. . . or the patient.

Dara shrugged. "The article in question wasn't precisely unbiased. Calling me a naïve, spoiled little girl who was going to get an unwelcome dose of reality in the military was bad enough, and I'm not going to repeat the rest of the things that the article said. I don't want to give them weight."

"And how have you dealt with that sort of thing since then?"

"I've made a point of not even looking at headlines, let alone reading any of the articles. Which has actually been pretty easy. Most of what I did in the turian military didn't _make_ headlines, and since becoming a Spectre, I've been pretty much in areas of space where the comm channels have been disrupted." She shrugged again.

_That can't possibly be all_, Elders thought. _Surely the Spectres send you notes when news stories about you break._ But if they did, Dara Jaworski wasn't saying anything about it.

"Plus," Sidonis pointed out, with a smile, "I've kind of tailored my newsfeed preferences over the years to weed out the gossip crap. I get the Council news from BNN, the Edessan and Macedyn crime feeds, and the galactic handball, Urban Combat League, and turian gladiatorial standings. That's really about all the headlines I see, and I only read the ones that sound interesting."

Dara chuckled. "Yeah, I've done the same thing. I get the Systems Alliance Medical Association journal, the Hierarchy one, have a couple of subscriptions to other medical and scientific newsfeeds, Council news from BNN, and the North American general newsfeed, which I never have time to read anyway." She shrugged again. "Something my mom told me, a long time ago, has always sort of stuck with me. My mom never knew who half the people were in the newsfeeds you could see running on the screens at the grocery store. One day, I asked her why. And she told me 'Dara, I'm too busy doing real stuff to spend my time finding reasons to be jealous and envious of people I don't know and don't care about.'" Dara smiled. "She told me, 'Even if you read the articles just to say how stupid someone you don't know is? You've just let envy, jealousy, and spite into your life for ten minutes. Ignore it all, and your life will be that much happier for it.'" Dara looked to the side for a moment.

"Living on a small base like this," Sidonis said, conversationally, "or on board ships, as Dara did, for a number of years, or even as a member of a small department, as I did, you do get used to the fact that most sapient species currently in space are social ones. Humans are. Turians, with their pack mentality, certainly are. Even asari are a social people. And social species do tend to live for gossip. It's in their nature. It's how they define themselves—in relation to other people, I mean. When they know that so-and-so is sleeping with so-and-so, that defines that couple, and makes them a known quantity. And if people see something, they can either define themselves by approving of it, aligning themselves with _those_ people, or they can disapprove of it. Which aligns them with a different set of people. And disapproving lets some people feel better about themselves, I guess."

"Feeling better about yourself by tearing down someone's life, when you don't even know them, is pretty pathetic," Dara pointed out.

"I'm not saying that it isn't, but it's also just. . . well, human nature. Turian nature, a bit. Asari nature, definitely. Krogan don't give a shit, I'm not sure if hanar even _have_ personal lives, let alone an interest in how others conduct theirs. Volus have a sense of propriety, but they're more interested in their personal worth, and how that worth relates to other people, in terms of work, and in terms of the value of their relationships with others. And salarians are. . . well, they're social, but they're not body breeders. Some things, they just tend to see as irrelevant, I guess." Sidonis chuckled slightly.

"And gossip is definitely one of those things." Dara Jaworski's voice was very dry.

Elders winced internally. It was probably unintentional, but they were both effectively saying how little what she did for a living meant to them in the grand scope of things.

"Your mom was a smart lady," Sidonis told her.

"Yeah. Yeah, she was."

"You still miss her?" Wong asked, gently.

"Sometimes, yeah. I don't dwell on it, though. Lots of people on Earth lost relatives when the Reapers came. I was lucky to have her and my dad even through all of that."

Wong took control once more, and she followed up on one of Elders' own questions. "So, since you don't read the articles out there about yourselves, you're probably not entirely aware of what's being said about the two of you. One report from Bekenstein says that you, Dara, for instance, glow in the dark." Wong chuckled openly at that one. Dara's eyes had gone wary, however, before she, too, chuckled. "Sounds crazy, doesn't it?" Wong suggested. "But you have had some physical changes since the last time I spoke with you on Omega. What exactly was the cause? Experimental gene mods?"

Dara exhaled, and looked as if she were bracing herself. "No. This," she tapped just beside her eyes, "was what you might call an industrial accident."

"We should call OSHA," Sidonis muttered under his breath, and Dara shot him a look, reluctantly grinning. The exchange said many things about the pair, Elders thought.

"What precisely does that mean?" Wong asked, and Dara began to tell the story of a derelict rachni ship, lost for close to two thousand years, recovered due to diligent research in ancient records. . . which happened to have viable eggs on board. Which had hatched. The queen, in particular, had hatched more or less right into Dara's arms. "She needed a mind to help her structure her own," Dara explained, calmly. "No rachni queen has ever hatched in close proximity to a non-rachni before, and not around her mother queen. Rachni that are hatched without the guiding song of a queen nearby tend to go mad. The song educates them, makes them part of the hive, tells them who they are. Joy-Singer needed a mind, needed a song. She found mine. And her song. . . changed me. In very fundamental ways. She's my daughter now, and I'm her mother. She even calls Eli here 'Father,' because he was there when she was hatched, and more or less held me up and kept me sane the whole time. And nothing can ever change any of that." A wistful smile, almost tender, crossed her face now.

"Would it be possible to speak with Joy-Singer at some point? Is she here on base with you?"

"She stayed with the rachni queen-of-queens for three months, but is grown enough now to stay here, yes. I think she'd welcome a chance to speak with you, but bear in mind, rachni only communicate biotically. I will have to 'translate' for your viewers."

Even Wong's noted composure fractured under the notion of interviewing a rachni queen, Elders noted. It was. . . sort of pleasant to see, honestly.

Elders took the chance, as Wong recovered her mental balance, to ask, "So, you two sort of have an adopted daughter, is what I'm hearing?"

They exchanged glances. Sidonis replied for both of them, "She more or less adopted us, and we're not doing a hell of a lot of the raising part, but yeah. More or less."

"I realize this might be jumping the gun, but any plans for more children?" Elders looked at Dara. "Adopted or otherwise?"

Their expressions went blank again. "That's definitely jumping the gun," Dara told her, politely. Her smile looked tight. "I'm not ready to talk about that sort of thing."

"Spectre Sidonis, I'd like to know what you think about some of your Spectre team-mates. You worked very effectively with Rellus Velnaran on Terra Nova, and with James Dempsey, too. There were other Spectres and probationary Spectres inducted with you at the same time, who weren't on Terra Nova. What do you think of Seheve Liakos, Kirrahe Orlan, and Zhasa'Maedan?"

"They're all extraordinarily competent people," Sidonis replied, immediately.

"Were they on a mission with you, Spectre Jaworski, since you, too, were not on Terra Nova?"

"We were working together on a project, yes," Dara replied, her eyes flicking off to the side for a moment.

"Did you enjoy working with them? Can you give your opinion on any of them? Seheve Liakos, for example?" Lexine was actually enjoying this a bit. _Let's see if we can get that composure to crack. It looks a little fragile right now. And by all reports, Liakos was on Earth with your ex._

The woman looked directly at her. "Seheve is probably the calmest person I know," Dara told her, voice steady. "She's the person you want right in the middle of a crisis, because she absolutely does not lose her head, no matter how crazy things get. She and I also make effective teammates, because we're both trained snipers, and she's got a lot of insight into psychology that I sometimes lack."

"So you're saying you wouldn't have a problem working with her again?"

"I don't foresee any problems working with Seheve." Cool, level stare, unreadable alien eyes.

Wong took control of the interview again, flipping through her notes. "So. . . Dara. In the course of your first year of Spectre work, what's the hardest thing you've seen or had to deal with?"

_Good question_. The pair exchanged glances again, and their faces had shut down, and their eyes looked fairly haunted. "I thought I'd seen a lot in the turian military," Dara admitted after a minute, her voice low. "The plague wards on Bastion are pretty much top of the list, though that was before becoming a Spectre." She looked down for a moment, her lips compressing again. When she looked back up again, her voice was tight. "Seeing the bodies of the children on Omega was bad, too. Batarian slavers don't see any profit in children. Where they went through houses, capturing people to try to make them work on repairs or whatever, they killed the children and left the bodies to lay there. That was. . . hard. So was dealing with the rape victims, and the lobotomized humans and asari." Her voice was very quiet.

Almost reflexively, they'd taken each others' hands again. "Same here," Sidonis told Elders. "Dealing with the bodies on Bastion, seeing the dead kids on Omega. I'll tell you this. . . I see a batarian slaver, and I'm shooting to kill." He looked into the mid-distance. "My training revolved, primarily, with peaceful ways of defusing situations, and killing only as a last resort. Slavers, I'll make an exception for, though."

"How do you deal with the stress of the job, and of seeing what you've seen?" Wong asked.

Dara exhaled. "Talk it out with each other. With our families and sometimes with coworkers. It's one thing to understand, rationally, that you did all you could, while you were there."

"It's another thing to _know_ that," Sidonis agreed.

"You said a moment ago, Spectre Sidonis, that if you see a batarian slaver, you're shooting to kill," Elders stated. "How do you feel about working with a _batarian Spectre_?"

Sidonis' brows rose. "Valak N'dor? He's a good guy. I didn't get a chance to work with him for long—not like Rellus Velnaran, Livanus Cautoris, and Linianus Pellarian all did. . . but he saved Dara, Dempsey, and me from a stint in batarian prison once."

Elders' mouth fell open. "That's going to get redacted, isn't it?" she said, in a tone of utter resignation.

"We'll see how much my senior press liaisons leave you," Sidonis told her with aplomb. "I don't think they'll have a problem with your viewers knowing that the Spectres have been working with Valak for some time, and that he's saved some of our lives."

"I don't suppose you could tell me when and where you were saved from prison—"

"No, I'm sorry."

_Damn it._

With that interview in the can, as it were, they had a handful more to conduct, and had been promised the opportunity to see the Spectres and their families at a social activity. _See the animals in their natural habitat_, Sam Jaworski had told them, not particularly smiling. Elders made an effort to interview Rellus Velnaran and Seheve Liakos. Velnaran was known for not interviewing well. "Which is a pity. He's charismatic, and speaks well, when you can get him to speak," Wong pointed out, "and the camera loves him. He doesn't like certain questions, however, and given his reputation in the turian press, it's probably best not to push him."

Liakos turned out to be so reticent as to make James Dempsey look like a jabbering monkey. Which was saying something. Her responses tended to be _yes, no, I do not believe so, _or _I fail to see the relevance of your inquiry._ "Did you enjoy the time you spent on Earth?"

"Yes."

'What was your favorite part?"

"The Pyramids."

"Why?" Lexine was, by this point, on the verge of desperation.

Seheve appeared to consider the question for a moment. "I found the climate agreeable, and the structures reminded me of a book about lost Rakhana that I once read."

Colorless. Hard to fathom what could attract a male like Rellus Velnaran first to someone like Dara Jaworski, and then to someone like Seheve Liakos. _No accounting for taste, I guess_, Elders thought, grimly, and started going through her footage. Looking for information she could actually put in a report without it being redacted beyond all recognition. Looking for what the spine of the story here really was.

The social gathering, Sunday, turned out to be a barbecue, at and outside of Sam Jaworski's house on the base. The temperatures here, so high up in the mountains, hovered at 85º F/29º C, with a light breeze. The trees—a mix of native, Earth, and Palaven species—had glossy green and dark red foliage in the background of all the shots Lexine took, and the crowd of people there was even more mixed than you'd tend to see on Bastion. It seemed to be a potluck affair, with every individual of every species bringing _something_, which led to a cacophony of smells in the kitchen and dining room. And yet, every last one of those present treated it as an everyday sort of occurrence. There was a young rachni queen and two brood warriors in the library of the house, little workers scurrying underfoot to attend to her, and Emily Wong was in there with them, _interviewing_ the giant bugs, if you please. With the assistance of Dara Jaworski.

A vortex of voices. Snippets of conversations that she didn't hear the beginnings or ends of.

"I still can't believe the two of you are out of your suits. Next you'll be telling me that you're applying for maternity leave." That sounded like Shepard's voice, and Elders turned, locating the human woman, who was standing next to a _quarian_ couple, who only wore breathers and gloves, in addition to light clothing. So utterly bizarre to see the white, soft hair, the male's longer than the female's. Nal'Ishora had forest-green eyes, which glowed from certain angles, reflecting lamplight. Hal'Marrak's eyes were amber-gold, and he stood beside his wife, both of them near a wall, looking around at the crowd, but trying to maintain a bubble of space between them and the others.

"Maybe next year, Commander," Nal'Ishora told Shepard cheerfully. "I want to see if my body can handle being out of the suit before I take that sort of risk."

"I understand. I had to wear a breather and gloves, and was on immuno-suppressants for _both_ of my pregnancies," Shepard reminded the quarian woman. "It was fairly scary, but it was worth it. And at least you two aren't worrying about hybrid kids."

Elders looked around. _That_ was what was missing; the only child she'd seen yet was Takeshi Jaworski, whom Lantar Sidonis had just picked up to put on his shoulders. "Missing yours?" Sam Jaworski quipped, moving past his slightly taller turian partner.

"Yeah, I am. With a little luck, we'll be able to bring them all back to the base soon, though."

Elders looked around, and absolutely failed to see Ellie Sidonis, Lantar's hybrid children, or Garrus and Shepard's hybrids. Or even, she realized, James Dempsey's own son, the young biotic. "Where are all the children?" Elders asked an asari female, who had one green-blue eye, and one azure one. Belatedly, she realized that this was, in fact, Spectre Ylara Aliir.

"Many of our families were removed to a safer location. Including my own daughter and adopted son," the Spectre told her, with some composure. "We're hoping to have them home again soon."

_That explains why they're looking into secondary bases. Though that doesn't explain where the hell the families are right now._

Elders moved from one room into another. Tight packs of people, turned inwards in conversation. Rinus and Kallixta Velnaran, both standing near Rellus and Seheve. Linianus Pellarian and Serana Velnaran, standing by a window, talking. Gavius Vakarian, beside . . . Agnes Jaworski, mother of Sam Jaworski, sitting at the kitchen table together. . . holding hands? Elders stopped there long enough to hear a snatch of their conversation, while trying to look as if she were studying the food, and finally picking up a handful of carrot sticks for herself.

"So, you tell your children that they're found under _cabbage leaves_?"

"I never said that to him, Gavius. He must have heard that at school."

"With that kind of an educational system, it's a wonder your species ever discovered fire, let alone spaceflight."

"Well. . . .I actually have to agree with you, but that's still a wretchedly unkind thing to say."

Lexine Elders looked over her shoulder at them, got a forbidding glance from Gavius Vakarian, and decided that she should find someplace else to put herself.

So many people. And finally, she found a couple of people who looked as overwhelmed as she was, herself. Valak N'dor and his wife, Nala. She introduced herself, and asked, "Are you enjoying the party?" as her camera floated up beside her automatically.

Nala's lower eyes widened underneath the protective goggles she wore, and she shrank back behind her husband's taller form. "Nala, my dear, this is a genuine reporter, not a propaganda specialist of the Hegemony. We won't be punished for giving the wrong answer," Valak assured her, lightly, and, as if her hand were fine crystal, he drew her back in front of him. "In answer to your question, madam, I am enjoying this gathering, indeed. It's. . . refreshing. Also, overwhelming."

Lexine knew that she might not have this chance again, and pressed it. "What have you been doing since you became a Spectre, Mr. N'dor?"

"Largely, I've been working with batarian prisoners in an internment camp. These are warrior-caste soldiers, not raiders or slavers," Valak told her, smoothly. "They are rarely seen off of our home-worlds. Commander Shepard has compared our warrior-caste to the warriors of Terra's ancient Sparta, and I would agree that there are similarities. They're taken from their mothers at the age of three and sent to the barracks. From that moment on, they are considered men, Ms. Elders. They must not shed tears, they must do their tasks, and they must never, ever question orders or authority. Six months of access to your extranet has done what I couldn't do in a thousand years of talking at them. They're questioning the orders that brought them here. They were told, you see, that they were striking a blow against people who would surely attack our people first, given the chance. That they would be retaking batarian worlds from human hands, and preventing humans and turians from attacking our people and colonies. They have come to doubt that."

"And what's to be done with them?" Lexine asked, fascinated.

"Much, I hope. These aren't slavers, Ms. Elders. These aren't people motivated by profit or revenge, but only by duty. And I think it worthy of noting that the first people that batarians enslaved. . . were ourselves." Valak's eyes blazed, and he gestured forcefully with his hands. "Every atrocity you see in this war? The forced chipping of captives, the rapes, the malnutrition, the killing of 'valueless' children? Has been done to my people for over three thousand years. And it's all _enshrined_ in the caste system."

"You're a persuasive speaker, ah, Spectre N'dor. What would you like to see happen?"

"First, stop this war. Free the human and turian worlds that have fallen under attack. And after that? I want to set my people free, Ms. Elders. I want every single slave in the Hegemony freed. I want the caste system abolished. Oh, it will take time. Probably along the lines of two hundred, maybe even three hundred years, to rid Khar'sharn of every _trace_ of the system that has kept my people, freeman and slave alike, in shackles for generations. Because every single person who owns a slave is shackled to that system himself."

This was a hell of a lot more in depth and more philosophical than Lexine had bargained for, and she was going to need a few minutes to digest it later. She blinked rapidly, and asked Nala, politely, "If you don't mind my asking, ah. . . Mrs. N'dor. . . "

"_Doctor_," Valak put in, firmly. "My wife is a healer."

"Ah, yes. I'm sorry. Dr. N'dor, why do you wear the protective goggles, if you don't mind my asking?"

Nala frowned, and Lexine thought for a moment that the woman wouldn't reply. Finally, she began to speak, in exotically-accented galactic, "I . . .read better. . . than I speak galactic. Not know all the words. But goggles? You mean these?" She patted the lenses in front of her upper eyes.

"Yes. Why do you wear them?" Lexine put spaces between her words so the woman could hear where they began and ended properly.

Nala removed the goggles. Lexine's own eyes widened in shock. The upper eyelids were down, but they were sunken in, clearly showing that there were no eyes underneath. "I was taken by Oversight Forces. For reading. . . forbidden books. Cut out upper eyes. No. . . anesthetic. Sentence after. . . was slavery. Still useful, with lower eyes. If all four put out, only useful. . . as whore. Grateful to still have lower eyes." She paused. "Lord Valak bought me. Freed me. Showed. . . respect. Freed everyone else on his estate. Showed them respect, too."

_Oh my dear god._

**Elijah, Mindoir, January 14-16, 2197**

They'd gritted their way through the interview with Elders and Wong. After the two reporters had left, Dara had moved over to the couch beside him and put her head on his shoulder. "Well," Eli told her, rubbing his fingers against her scalp under her hair, "It could have gone worse."

"How?"

"One or the other of us could have lost our tempers and punched one or the other of them."

"I thought that was Makur's department."

"It is."

"Okay, good. I wouldn't want to poach."

He exhaled. "You really hate talking to them, don't you?"

"Yeah. Just about as much as I hate talking to shrinks." The reaction was interrelated, he knew. Dara was fiercely protective of her privacy, her right to keep her feelings and thoughts to herself. The irony was that she more or less _had_ to share them with the rachni. And with him. But she was. . . okay with that. Random strangers walking up and expecting answers could expect to be frozen out, however.

They'd managed to not answer a few questions, and neither Elders nor Wong had gone back to the question of what Dara was doing in the med bay during leave. The answer would have been a mix of things—seeing a few patients, but mostly tests. Round after round of tests. "I think they've already done every test known to mankind, and are now inventing new ones," Dara had groused after the first day, as they were eating dinner down at Gardner's in the valley.

"I thought they'd already tested everything they could think of after we first got back from the Singing Planet," Eli had objected.

"I never told them about the skin or the hair. The report from Bek about a day-glow alien/human hybrid got Kasumi's attention." Dara had looked up at the ceiling. "She flagged it for Chakwas and Abrams, and I have spent at least half of every test today being _scolded_. Loudly. For not telling them."

"And the result is?"

"All the keratin in my body has had its chemical structure replaced by rachni chitin compounds. That doesn't mean that it has the same structure as a carapace, as we've already figured out on our own—"

"Yeah, I haven't noticed any carapace segments pinching me in uncomfortable places—" Eli pretended to duck away, and stroked her cheek lightly. "Plus, you're still soft." _In all the right places._

_Bad boy._

_And you love it, admit it._

"So the upshot is, they don't know how strong the skin actually is, other than the fact that Dr. Mannerian couldn't use a scalpel on it during surgery on the _Raedia_.They hadn't noticed any difficulty using needles on me back during the original tests, but now?" Dara had sighed. "It takes a bit of effort, but it's doable. That's why they were able to give me your, well, blood." She looked up at him, and he wondered, just for a moment, if any of his blood was still flowing through her veins.

_Yes, probably. Red blood corpuscles usually last about a hundred and twenty days, give or take, before they die._

For a moment, Eli had had the confused impression of the human body as a sort of colony of different organisms that happened to work together, and the blood cells as the 'workers' of the body, and Dara had just grinned up at him as he shook the image off. "So, yeah. I probably don't need to worry about cutting myself in the kitchen with a knife any time soon." She'd blown her hair out of her eyes with an annoyed snort, and Eli remembered, in a flash, when they'd been making pasta together on their first 'date,' how she'd thought she'd cut her finger open slicing onions.

_Yeah. Exactly. The under layers—the dermis and everything else—were already made of chitin. The epidermal layer was still keratin, until it sloughed off at the lake. I guess I can expect to shed like a turian once a year, since rachni shed their shells and wander around in their new, larger, soft shells until the air cures their carapaces once a year, too._ Dara had cringed a little at the thought.

_Then I'll just give you a mud scrub at the lake once a year. Or if you want to be all fancy, you could probably make a __spa day_ _out of it._ He had very real problems picturing Dara doing any such thing, to be honest.

_Ew. I don't think anyone will really be happy having to peel my skin off, ciae'teilu._

_Then you're stuck with me and the workers, sai'kaea._

Back in the here and now, Eli roused himself. They'd been staring into space, reviewing the interview in their minds, and the past few days with it, for several minutes. "Come on," he told her. "I was serious about the hovercycle thing. I'm sick of borrowing my dad's groundcar for everything."

"And if I _do_ wind up with the rachni building me a house off-base, god knows, we're going to need a way to get to and from it. . . I mean, I'm going to. . . gah." Dara stopped and bit her lower lip in vexation.

Eli slid both hands under her jaw to cradle her face. "I wasn't intending to live with my parents for the rest of my life," he told her, teasingly. "And I think moving in with Lin and Serana might be confusing, and send the wrong kinds of signals."

"Over my dead body." _You're __mine__._ Faintest little flicker of orange there, mostly surrounded by indigo.

"I love it when you get all territorial," Eli told her, grinning. "You going to get all fierce on me?" He kissed her, but it was hard for them both not to laugh. "So, was that an invitation to move in with you, whenever this house gets built?'

"Well, if you want to—" Flickers of yellow anxiety. As if he hadn't made it _very_ clear that he wanted to be in her life, in every way. But she wouldn't be Dara if she didn't have that core of insecurity, deep down at the center of her being. That mingled need for distance and separation now and again, along with the terrible fear of being alone. Of the people that she cared for leaving or dying.

_I want to._ Another kiss, this time without the incipient laughter burbling underneath. Eli pulled away, sighing. "That being said? We really do need transportation. Groundcars aren't an option, not with four feet of snow in a single night being a possibility. . . and if we're not on base, the mechs won't exactly be clearing a path to our door."

"And I don't want to ask the workers to be clearing snow constantly."

"And this also rules out horses."

"Yeah . . . and we won't have time to take care of them on a daily basis. I know." Dara gave him a lopsided grin. "Hell, when Kuroi gets his full growth, he's probably going to be too much for me to handle. He'll be a better horse for you." Frisians were among the largest horses Earth had ever produced, and were descended from the chargers that knights had used in medieval Europe. The colt she'd been given for Christmas was very likely to top out taller than eighteen hands in height.

"We'll see."

"Aircar would probably be more practical," Dara added, as they headed out of the house.

"Yeah, but then one of us is stuck without transportation when the other is using it, if we're not together. And I don't see us buying _two_ aircars at the moment." _Not with all the divorce crap hanging over your head still, __sai'kaea'yili_._ And not after we both put a hell of a lot of money down on armor modifications just this past week._

"Fair point," she admitted, putting her sunglasses on.

They, Dempsey, Zhasa, Siara, Makur, Lin, Serana, and Valak actually wound up taking a shuttle southwest to La Garra, which was the settlement next closest to the base; Takinawa was closer, but La Garra was a little larger, though not as large—or as distant—as Odessa. Valak was actually dropping them off; he was meeting Livanus at the White Rock internment camp facility to do more work with the warrior-caste prisoners there, and would be taking the shuttle into the desert once they were safely in La Garra.

"Rel and Seheve went up to Takinawa the other day," Serana volunteered cheerfully as they flew south.

"I hear it's pretty up there," had been Dara's only response, in a very neutral tone. Eli could feel the unease in her at the topic, and she'd been testing her own undersong. Trying to ensure that there wasn't misplaced or wrongheaded jealousy there.

Eli was reminded of another long trip, the flight to and from Odessa, of course. There were reasons why it felt familiar: Lin, Dara, Siara, and he had all been on that flight. And Makur stood in for Mazz, in a way. He was having trouble picturing Rel bringing Seheve on such a venture, though. _Kind of wonder if they'll ever be a part of the pack again,_ he told Dara, silently.

_Maybe they'll start their own pack._

_Maybe. Not ideal._

_No. But a possibility._ She leaned into his shoulder on the bench seat that they were sharing, and looked out the window.

Their group got _stares_ in La Garra, which was situated on the shores of the western sea, with its back to the White Rock desert and the mountains beyond that. But the climate was warm enough here for Lin, Serana, and Zhasa to be comfortable, and there were palm trees—or at least, what looked like palms, but were Mindoir native species.

Dara had no workers with her. She was, as on Bekenstein, relying on the song of those around her, more or less as a test of herself. And also, because, as she'd pointed out to Joy-Singer, she welcomed the rachni into her life, but she also needed alone time. Time to be human. Eli was enjoying what, for him, was 'alone time,' with her, more or less. He was. . . getting used to the cheerful chorus of approval and joy when the two of them had sex, and, in fact, the chorus amplified Dara's own reactions, which was mind-blowing. But the fact that Sings-of-Glory had, one morning, calmly complimented him, _You sang your songs very well last night_ had disconcerted him to the point of choking on his coffee. He didn't think he'd actually blushed, but Dara had, and had told Glory in no uncertain terms not to bring it up again.

_This is again a private song, not a public song?_ Glory had sounded disappointed. _All partook. Should we not sing gratitude?_

_Our lives, __sai'kaea__, are officially the weirdest in the entire fucking universe_, Eli had told Dara at that point.

So, while he didn't mind it when the rachni. . . partook. . . he was just as glad to have her to himself now and again. Finding a balance, finding a way to be human. Finding a way to shape their lives in their crazy reality.

In La Garra, the group of eight junior Spectres and affiliates went from aircar lot to groundcar lot, and finally found hovercycles. Asari brands tended to be the most expensive, and there weren't many of them available on this human world. Major human manufacturers, like Harley-Davidson, Indian, Kawasaki, and Victory, still existed, and had some representation, as did turian manufacturers like Ferrus and Ecusa. Dara was actually surprised to see that BMW actually made hovercycles as well. "Look at the Yamaha over there," Serana told Dara lightly. "That one's telling you to buy it."

Dara studied it, and said, "Actually, I think it's telling me that the wind is going to bleed as it whips through it. Probably a little too much of a machine for me."

"Once we teach you how to ride one of these properly, I don't think you're going to be going around like your grandmother going to a quilt show," Eli told Dara amiably.

"No, but I do want to get wherever I'm going in one piece." Dara stuck her tongue out at Eli, and he leaned down and mock-snapped at it, making her pull back and laugh.

She wound up really liking a BMW K3600GTL, which has a sleek, silvery finish and graceful, smooth lines. Eli, personally, found himself leaning towards a Kawasaki Ninja, much to his surprise. "My dad always said Kawakasis were crotch rockets," Dara pointed out ruefully, after a test ride. "This one doesn't seem to be." It was fast, sleek, powerful, black, and both of them could sit on it comfortably, which was a bonus; Dara's hovercycle was mainly to give her freedom of movement without being dependent on him.

The others were along to do some serious shopping of their own. All of them were in the same boat of not being able to do more than take a shuttle from the base to the research station in the valley and back. . . _and damn it, we're not kids anymore_, Eli thought, ruefully. He'd depended a lot on public transportation on Macedyn and Edessan, but he'd had a department-issued groundcar on both worlds. Lin, similarly, was chafing at being so restricted.

Serana, of course, had only six months of wages in her account, and while she was clearly enjoying looking, Eli could hear her tell Lin, _"I can't afford any of these, __amatus__. And chances are, TIA will eventually want to recall me from being on loan to Kasumi. . . "_

"_You could consider it a gift." _Lin shrugged, as if it were settled in his mind.

"_Lin, that's far too much—"_

"_Fine, so I buy it, and you pay me back. It's not like I don't know where you live, little one."_ When she still looked apt to protest, Lin pulled her over to the window of the show room, and spoke to her quietly and persuasively. _"Look, I could be buying myself an aircar for the both of us for forty thousand credits, or I can buy two hovercycles for half of that. Both options are fine for the base, both are low impact on the environment and won't contribute to erosion and all of that, so we don't even have to hear any complaints from your __pada__, other than possibly about the noise, and your __mada's__ far more apt to complain about that.. Just for the spirits' sakes find one that you like, and don't fight me over something that's not worth fighting about."_

Serana simply stared up at Lin for a long moment, and Eli had turned away, smiling to himself. Lin wasn't going to wrap Serana in cotton, but he obviously _loved_ finding ways to take care of her, and Serana was, just as obviously, still realizing what that meant. Dara's affectionate thought touched Eli's mind then. _He's such a good guy._

_I know. _

Serana and Zhasa both liked the Ecusa Lunara line, which were lightweight vehicles with a lot of speed, and suited for their frames. Eli looked at Dempsey as Zhasa came in for a landing on hers. "You know she's probably going to put lavender tassels on the handlebars. Like a kid with a tricycle."

"So long as she doesn't put a white plastic basket with flowers on the front, I think I'm good." Dempsey's lips quirked very slightly at the corners. "Besides, it's not mine, it's hers. My manly image won't suffer."

Siara was the shortest person present, and thus couldn't handle the Lunaras—Dara had to stretch for the pedals, but Siara's feet actually dangled several inches short of them. Additionally, Siara also needed something tough enough to deal with the hazards of Tuchanka. The asari liked the same BMW model as Dara, but finally said, "Paint that shiny is just going to attract predators and gunfire on Tuchanka."

"So what you're looking for is something that _looks_ tough, huh?" Dara lightly teased Siara. "How about that one?"

_That one_ had turned out to be a Triumph model, which was built along the old-fashioned lines of the classic Bonneville. These hovercycles were still built in Britain on Earth. It was expensive, but elegant and rugged at the same time, and was mostly black with chrome fittings.

Makur, after a lot of consideration, leaned towards the re-re-re-released version of the Indian Scout, which was a very large and decidedly upright hovercycle that could handle his bulk. "It's an excellent choice," their salesman enthused. "It hearkens back to a by-gone era, the romance of the open road—"

"Yeah, yeah. A by-gone era on a world I've never visited." Makur looked around.

"You could probably get a side-car for Snowflake," Dara told him, somehow keeping a straight face.

"Not for Siara?" Serana asked, mildly, feigning shock.

"I think we all know which of them he's more attached to." Dara slid a couple of feet backwards as Siara shoved her, biotically, and just bared her teeth at Siara, turian-fashion. Siara bared hers back, as a krogan might, and then both females, giving each other sidelong looks, let the looks turn into genuine smiles.

"Would that be safe for the leopard?" Zhasa asked, sounding concerned.

"Not a problem," Eli told her, immediately. "He could get Snowflake a little helmet."

For some reason, the image of the snow leopard, sitting perfectly and regally upright, an old-fashioned helmet, like something out of the second global conflict on Earth, perched atop its ears, eyes half-closed against the wind that ruffled its fur, as it tolerated being hauled along in a sidecar, hit Eli then, and he covered his face with one hand and started to laugh. Dara touched his hand, and evidently caught the image, beginning to laugh as well. The _What's so funny_? from Zhasa rang in both their minds, and then she sank to a crouch, chuckling helplessly, and from there, Dempsey actually smiled a little, and it just spread. The more so because Siara just nodded and said, "Snowflake's safety _is_ of paramount importance."

"_Cat_ can walk on his own four feet."

"Don't be silly. He could never keep up."

The salesman, looking at them askance, ventured, "The Indian Scout is something of a collector's item. This one is ten years old, and gently used—"

"Which is why it should be lower in price," Makur rumbled, and the salesman backed up a step or two.

"I. . . ah. . . will need to talk to my manager," the salesman said, and bolted for a set of offices around the corner.

Dempsey shook his head. "The Indian. The only hovercycle in existence whose manufacturer's long-term business plan involves going out of business every twenty-five years."

Makur turned and _stared_ at Dempsey. "I know you don't really joke much, human, but—"

"No functioning sense of humor. I'm quite serious. The Indian has been declared extinct no less than seven times in the last two hundred and forty-four years." Dempsey looked off into space, as he tended to when he was digging through extranet information, and Zhasa moved a little closer to him, as if to help him fight off the pain that usually occurred when he accessed the chip. "I'm certain that the first several times weren't on purpose, but the most recent three 'bankruptcies' have spurred speculation that the current manufacturer—which isn't the original one, I might add—is just trying to create demand."

Makur looked at the rest of them. "That doesn't even begin to make sense."

"Thing wanted, not available," Dara said, shrugging. "The rarer something is, the more people want it. You can ask Fors about it when we get back. He'll do a better job of explaining economic principles than I could possibly do."

"Just don't get him started on when a house isn't actually worth what it cost to build, or you're going to wind up with the same headache that I did," Eli warned.

They got back to looking at the hovercycles. Dempsey, unsurprisingly, leaned towards a classic Harley, and Lin was trying to decide between a Harley and a Ferrus Tempestus_._ Both suited his tall, rangy frame, but the Tempestus' foot controls were better suited to the shape of a turian foot, which was the deciding factor for him.

It was fairly damned late when they got done, and the dealership was exceedingly happy with them all—Eli suspected that they'd made their sales quota for the entire month, in fact—so they opted for a hotel for the night. He took care of that. He knew Dara didn't much like signing for her credit chit, which still read, legally and officially, _D. Velnaran_, when most of the people they worked with, out of courtesy, had reverted to her maiden name months ago. The new ones, with her reverted name, wouldn't be sent to her for at least another week or two. And taking her upstairs, to a real bed that they could actually share, rather than sleeping bags on the ground, or separate beds in different houses, was sweet indeed.

_Does this make up for Odessa?_ Drowsy thoughts, much later.

_I think we're done making up for past screw-ups on both our parts. In fact, I like to think we're making up new memories, sai'kaea._

_Mmm. Good ones, too._ She slid up against his back in the bed, and her song became the slow, steady rhythm of sleep, pulsing at the back of his mind.

Since Valak had the shuttle, the rest of them opted to give the hovercycles a good test drive, heading back north to the base through the wilderness region. There was a single dirt track road heading north, and crossing through a mountain pass to more or less the area of the base. With that to follow, it took them five hours to traverse the five hundred miles or so between La Garra and the xenobiological station. "At least no one broke down on the way home," Dara said, practically, as they began the final ascent back up the steep face of the mountain, along the groundcar track.

The afternoon and evening were dedicated to the team-building exercise that was Sam's usual barbecue. Eli was doing his best to dodge the reporters, figuring he'd done his duty with them, damnit. Joy-Singer's song was in the background as Dara sat down at the piano, and Dempsey picked up his guitar. Dara ran her fingers over the keys, and looked up at Dempsey. "Start us off with something, D."

"Think you can keep up, Doc?"

"Try me."

Dempsey's eyes suddenly glittered with something that looked like amusement, and he keyed up sheet music for her on a datapad and put it on the piano's rack in front of her. "Handle the bass line, would you?"

"Sure."

And with that, Dempsey's fingers struck the first crashing notes of a song that absolutely strutted, and Sam walked out of the kitchen, listening as Dara found the bass line and she and Dempsey matched up. A smile crossed Sam's face, and he walked over to Kasumi, and pulled his wife to her feet, looking down into her eyes and began to dance with her, half-singing, half-growling the lyrics to her. _"I walked forty-seven miles of barbed wire, I got a cobra snake for a necktie . . . A brand new house on the road side, and it's a-made out of rattlesnake hide. Got a brand new chimney put on top, and it's a-made out of human skull. . . Come on take a little walk with me baby, and tell me who do you love?"_

Kasumi threw her head back laughing. Shepard _whooped_. Agnes gave what could only be called a rebel yell from the back of the room, which got half the heads around them to snap towards her, and made her start laughing uncontrollably. Eli was suddenly aware of Seheve's eyes going even wider as she turned and looked at Rel, frantically whispering, "A chimney made of a human _skull_? The song celebrates death?"

"No, no, it's all exaggeration, I think. Swagger." Rel was, actually, grinning, and tapping his foot. So were Lantar, Lin, and Livanus. In his mind, Eli could hear Dara's delight in matching skill with Dempsey, tempo and timing, providing the support structure that let the guitar strut and swagger and soar over the bass line. Saw the playful way she looked up and grinned at Dempsey, and Dempsey glanced back at her and actually _smiled_—freed by the music and Zhasa's mental contact.

By the second iteration of "Who do you love?" every human present was joining in the chorus. Garrus laughed and joined in, as Lilitu stutter-stepped over to him, singing down to her, "Who do you love?"

_I've got a tombstone hand and a graveyard mind, I'm just twenty-two and I don't mind dying. . . _ Eli stood up and moved over to where he could look down at the words and into Dara's eyes. "Yeah, who do you loooooove?" Emphatic, almost smug assurance in the snarl of the guitar. _I'm strong and fearless and young and I __know__ you can't resist me._ Total male bravado, but with a sense of humor. And yet, there wasn't a person in the room who didn't have, quite literally, a tombstone hand. Or a graveyard mind, for that matter.

_Come on take a little walk with me child, tell me who do you love?_ Dempsey was looking straight at Zhasa for that one, and she was uninhibitedly laughing, snapping her fingers and swaying to the swaggering beat. Lin spun Serana to her feet and looked down at her, just as Sam spun Kasumi in an exuberant circle. Even Rel was grinning down at Seheve, who had, with little glances around the room at the others, started to sway to the music too.

The guitar strutted into the long bridge, and finally fell silent, "Good one," Sam told Dempsey, sliding Kasumi, who still looked surprised and happy, back into her chair. "Know any more?"

"I'm kind of surprised you knew the words."

"They don't call me Orpheus for nothing, son." Sam patted Dara's shoulder. "Among my dirtier secrets is that when my unit was in Japan, not only did I get a tattoo, but we were all bored enough that we tended to go out to clubs at night. I actually won a karaoke competition there. God help me."

Kasumi started laughing all over again, and Sam pointed at her. "You and I still have a discussion about this place you own on Bek coming up, darlin'," he told her, dryly. "I have a feeling I might need to be in a good mood for that one." He looked back at Dempsey. "Know any others?"

"A few." Dempsey's tone was laconic. And off the guitar strutted and growled again. Eli risked a look at the two reporters. Emily Wong was grinning, ear to ear, making sure to get a shot of Lilitu Shepard two-stepping while holding her hands of her turian mate, and Garrus looking down at her with tolerant love and affection, going so far as to sway a little in time with it, but not actually dancing. Gavius Vakarian looking at Agnes, who told him, with asperity, "You're a lump if you don't get on your feet for these—oh, nevermind. Sam! Sam get over here and dance with your old mother."

"Doc? You'll like this one. It actually has piano already in it. We're just miserably short of a drummer," Dempsey said, and Eli began to _grin _at the lyrics to this one. "I broke a thousand hearts, before I met you . . . I'll break a thousand more baby, before I am through. I wanna be yours pretty baby, yours and yours alone. I'm here to tell ya honey, that I'm bad to the bone. . . " He was picking up the tune from how Dempsey was singing it, and took over on the second time through, looking right down at Dara, who was flushing and _laughing_ as she played, desperately trying to keep the notes straight. Joy-Singer, Sky, and Glory were all peering out of the library by now, weaving their own harmonies into the music, trills and runs of blue-green amusement and affection. A quick glance up at the end of the song, and he saw that Elders was shaking her head, and being damned sure to get footage of the Spectres. . . all of whom played just as hard as they worked.

And tomorrow, Eli knew, they were all scheduled for a briefing on their next missions. Two short, glorious weeks of relaxation, and then they were all doubtless headed back into the meat-grinder, in one way or another. That wasn't what he wanted to dwell on tonight, however. Tonight, he wanted to drink in the faces of his family and friends—though he wished that _all_ their families were here for this—hear them sing and laugh. And let tomorrow, for once, tend to itself.


	134. Chapter 134: Buried and Hidden

**Chapter 134: Buried and Hidden**

**Author's note:** _Yep, the forums are down, pretty much site-wide. For the moment, check in at http:/ / spiritofredemption . yuku . com/ directory, which I've set up in their place. Yuku makes VERY nice board software. And if the FF forums continue to be borked, this may become the forums' permanent home._

**Dara, Mindoir, January 16, 2197**

The first thing Dara heard was the whisper of wind in the leaves. She opened her eyes reluctantly, looking up at the pale violet sky, framed by towering _allora_ trees on all sides, and tried to remember where she was, and why she was awake right now.

—_Little-queen asked us to awaken as soon as sun rose, yes?_ That was Chopin, close to her head.

_Thanks, little guys_. Dara rolled over to an elbow, just as a droplet of water, born of dew, rolled off a leaf above her, and felt to one bare shoulder with a shock of cold. As she moved, their bed swayed. The workers had known where they'd be going, and had responded to undersongs of complaint about sore backs from sleeping on the ground too many times of late. . . by spinning them a hammock that hung between two trees. Eli had laughed when he'd seen it, and thanked the workers effusively. "It looks like the sort of nest they built me on the _Lightsinger_," Dara had admitted. "Though this one's a little more apt to move, I think." The other could have doubled as a deceleration couch, after all.

Dara smiled and looked down at Eli. His eyes were closed, dark lashes brushing his cheeks. He'd shaved his head yesterday afternoon, before the barbecue, so the hair was back down to a fine stubble, the texture of cat fur or velvet, really. And as various people had started leaving the barbeque, returning to their own homes, the two of them had gone out into the darkness of the backyard. Sat on the swing there, her head on his shoulder, and watched the stars come out in peaceful silence. After a while, he'd lifted her chin with a hand, and they'd started to kiss. _You want to stay here tonight?_ she'd asked, as the first burgundy notes had begun to rise between them.

_Sai'kaea, I've watched your father cut people's heads off with that knife of his. _

She'd chuckled in between kisses. _I don't think he'd use it on __you__. And it's not like he can't guess what we're doing. . . _

_Knowing and __hearing__ are two very different things._ Eli had pulled back to grin down at her. _And when I really get you going, you sing for me. Plus, all the workers dancing? Slightly noticeable._ He'd sighed, and kissed the tip of her nose. "I wish I had at least an apartment here on base, but there doesn't seem to be a lot of point in getting one." _A week or two back, and then out again._

"And Lantar's still at your house?"

"Yeah." Neither of them were entirely comfortable with that. Lantar hadn't spoken a word against their dating. Eli actually had, oddly enough, a feeling of approval from his father—quiet delight, perhaps, that his first-son and the first-daughter of one of his _dimicado'fradae_ were looking to share their lives—but there was also the whole vexing _tal'mae_ problem pressing in on them, and neither of them wanted to give Lantar anything he might have to answer about on a witness stand in turian court.

And so, a trip off base grounds, this time to the _allora_ meadow. Memories here, of course, of Rel. Of golden afternoons here. Of stolen intimacies, though she and Rel had never gone terribly far here. _Oris_, certainly, but nothing more. Dara had tried to push the memories away, and Eli had whispered in her ear, "How about if we make new ones, _sai'kaea_?"

Neither of them had minded the hammock. Recollections of using similar hammocks in boot camp permeated them both. . . although this one was so much more comfortable. And Eli had, grinning, told her to perch at the very edge, and, while he'd remained standing, had used the netting to move her, as if weightless. Carefree as children, in a way, but also, decidedly _not_. His undersong had been all territoriality and possession, a desire to claim her in every way possible; the oversong had been tenderness, concern, love. All commingled with the realization that this might be their last chance for a while, depending on what Shepard might need them to do, in short order. Counterpoint and harmony.

Dara leaned down now and brushed a kiss across Eli's lips. Felt him startle into wakefulness, the instant shock of _Where—what's going on. . . oh. _He reached up and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her down to him. "We have to get up," Dara reminded him softly.

"Already up. Well, parts of me, anyway." Eli's arm slackened, however, and they sat up. "What time's that meeting at, again? Oh-eight-thirty?"

"Yeah." Dara kissed his shoulder.

"Good. We've got time to clean up and pick up our armor and all that jazz, then."

The next thing Dara knew, she was on her back again, the hammock was swinging wildly, and the workers were laughing in blue-green chorus in her mind as Eli's lips found her throat. _Ciea'teilu__, we really don't have time. . . _

_I know. Just wanted to see that really surprised look on your face, that's all. I'll find another way to mark my territory before we leave._ He rubbed his unshaven face under the side of her jaw, making her giggle uncontrollably for a moment.

"Oh, so you _are_ going to piss on a tree?"

"Hey, when you gotta go, you gotta go." Eli grinned down at her, and then, with clear reluctance, unzipped the sleeping bag they'd tossed over the fine rachni webbing, and set his feet on the cold, dewy ground. "_Sai'kaea?_ I love you, but the sleeping on the ground stuff was getting old. I'm very glad you've got such handy friends."

—_Many-Voices sings appreciation of our work! Joy-songs!_

"Station-rat." Dara grinned at him. "Although, I'll admit, I wasn't much of a fan of nests, either."

"Station-rat has nothing to do with it. I didn't see you turning down an air mattress on Omega any more than I did."

"True. And if you promise not to tell? We took air mattresses with us camping when I was a kid." She looked around. "Also, Grandpa Alex had a camper for the back of his groundtruck."

"Oh, so you weren't _really_ roughing it, then?"

"He and Grandma Agnes got to stay in there. The rest of us had a tent. Come to think of it. . . " Dara paused. "I always thought it was a _treat_ to get to go in the camper with Grandma and Grandpa."

"And instead, it was a gambit for your mom and dad to get some closed door time_?"_ Blue-green amusement.

"They tricked me, what can I say? When you're three, it's not difficult." Dara stood and stretched, much as Eli was doing, and they got on with the morning. Rode their new hovercycles back to base, showered. Lantar and Eli actually came over for breakfast, which meant that Dara broke out her turian cooking skills, and made Lantar a dextro omelet with _oolorae_ eggs and diced _apaterae_ inside of it. . . as well as melted cheddar cheese. The rest of them wound up with pancakes, largely because her father noted, "It's going to be a long morning, folks."

As predicted, they had just enough time to pick up their armor. Eli, like Lin, Serana, and Dara, had opted for Jormangund, and had had the shoulders normalized, so that they were the same height, just as Dara had. Eli had ablative coatings added to his, in addition to a thermal protection system that was rated to deal with heat hazard 2 and cold hazard 2 planets, but for pressure hazard planets, he, like the rest of them, would need an entirely different set of seals, or a different suit. Or, again, have his suit filled with foam, as on Bastion. He'd also opted for the shield augmentation pack. His armor had been painted matte black, and the Spectre symbol almost glowed against it on the upper chest. And he, like Dara, had opted for an additional polarized shield. One that he could lift out of the way if needed, but could conceal his face and eyes when needed. . .or reduce the glare of direct exposure to a star, if necessary.

Dara hadn't seen hers since it had left the Jormangund booth. Hal'Marrak had been working on it, as had been the workers, ever since. "It took a little doing," the quarian tech told her now, his amber eyes crinkling a little in amusement over his breather mask, "but it's done. Our people's highest biohazard, toxin, and radiological protection is in place, with some minor thermal protection." It wouldn't protect her as much as Eli's volus-made system, from heat and cold hazard environments, but it was a step up from her old armor, indeed. And made the prospect of going into hazmat environments much more palatable.

Dara inhaled sharply when she saw the armor, however, hanging from a rack in the lab. Half a dozen workers crowded around it. —_Do you like it, little-queen?_

—_We sang work-songs on this for many days!_

—_Unable to extend full protection to smallest extremities. Otherwise, would lose articulation._ That was from Zappa, she was fairly sure. The little worker with the bent feelers had, for lack of a better word, a different 'voice' than all the others.

"It's beautiful," she assured them, a warm glow filling her. It was, too. Oh, it was still Spectre black, and still had the red symbol at the throat. But the black shimmered, without being reflective. Faint shimmers of opalescent color. . . like a rachni's shell. Like her own skin. It probably wouldn't catch the eye at range. . . and, more importantly, it should slow down or even prevent a vibroblade from working, just as the overlay functioned on Eli's shield. "You said you couldn't apply it heavily on the fingers?"

—_Yes. Little queen would be unable to close her hand or use her extremities for fine work if we had. It is there, but probably not functional._

"That's okay. I'm not planning on trying to deflect a vibrosword with my hand." Dara looked at the workers, who were turning in little circles of glee at her approval. "So what's the other thing you were going to do, that you had such a hard time explaining to me?"

Hal'Marrak cleared his throat. "I can tell you what I watched them doing," he said, a little dubiously. "I'm not sure it'll make any better sense to you, than to me, but. . . they brought thousands of tiny crystals and embedded them throughout the suit. And they looked to be spinning connective circuitry between each crystal. When I asked them if they'd let me analyze one of the crystals, I got a variety of materials back from the mass spectrometer. . . including at least trace elements of eezo."

Dara lifted the helmet off the suit, and peered inside. Sure enough, the entire inside of the suit was lined with a silvery fretwork of rachni connectors—all touching and interconnecting with thousands of tiny crystals. All from the Singing Planet. "And what's this going to do, little guys? Can you explain it better than 'makes your songs stronger, and makes the songs of others, sung against you, weaker?"

A ragged chorus of confusion from the workers. A glissando of notes, reaching upwards. _Something about biotics, yeah, I got that much. . . _ Dara looked at Eli, who shook his head in amusement. "Sorry, _sai'kaea_, I'm not understanding that any better than you are."

"Doesn't matter," Dara told the workers, cheerfully. "I'll figure it out eventually. I'm sure it will be very useful, and I thank you for all the hard work you put into it."

—_Little-queen may need to practice with it._

Dara didn't understand what that meant, and past trying on the armor to ensure that it still fit, she didn't have a chance to wear it for long, because their meeting was starting so soon. _I will,_ she promised. _I will practice. _

—_And you will want your hive built on the lakeshore, yes?_

_Maybe. The lake always struck me as a kami place, a spirit place._ Two sets of images flashed through her mind—waves beating on the shore, water against earth. . . and the high cliffs, of Sky's 'riddle' to Eli, where the waves lashed against the volcanic rock._ Though if it would be prone to flooding, the cliff that overlooks the lake would be better._

—_We listen._

Listening is what Dara wound up doing, sitting in the darkened briefing room, with Eli to her right and Dempsey to her left; Lin sat right of Eli, and Serana beside him. There were literally dozens of Spectres in the room, mostly positioned around the oval table, watching the vids stream across the aerogel screen at the front of the room. Melaani, like Ylara, had spent time in asari space, tracking down the middle management types who'd sold their cruise line's passenger manifests and transit schedules to what they thought were competitors, but who'd turned out to be batarian agents. Other asari, but asari who'd been compromised, just as Essalia had been compromised and blackmailed or bribed into doing the bidding of Lystheni agents on Bastion, just before the plagues. Cohort was present, as were Garrus, Gris, Lantar, Kasumi, Sky, and even Blasto.

Shepard was just playing the clips. Letting the vids—some culled from newsfeeds, and some from the cameras of Alliance and Hierarchy ships—do the talking for her.

"_Here on Eden Prime, it's been a long and hard-fought battle against the yahg. Alliance Marines landed on this relatively small agricultural colony at the edge of the Terminus Systems over six months ago, and have been fighting ever since. Turian military reinforcements arrived four months ago, followed by a wave of krogan irregulars and geth volunteers, as well as a small contingent of __rachni__, and since then, the tide of battle has, slowly, turned in the favor of the human colonists. Still, the brutality of the yahg has been seen at every turn—"_

"_Here on Amaterasu, the spaceport was hit on June 17, 2196. Close to seven months ago, a brave employee in the flight traffic control center named Amanda Harkins managed to get an emergency signal out to inform the Fifth Fleet that the colony was under attack. Amanda Harkins has been missing since that day. Marine and army forces have been fighting a grueling, non-stop battle against the yahg—"_

A turian commentator now: _"Austerity measures continue on Palaven and throughout the Hierarchy as the blockades of Rocam and Galatana stretch into their seventh month. There are long lines at every butcher shop, some stretching for the length of city blocks here on Edessan. On Palaven, citizens with any available land have dug up their yards and planted vegetable gardens, but that's only a temporary measure. Quarian scientists have offered __soia__, a plant-based protein used in their nutrient pastes, as an alternative, and have begun freighting in shiploads of supplies, but quarian infrastructure is too small to handle the nutrition needs of forty billion people. The question in everyone's mind is when the Fleet will break the blockade—"_

An asari reporter now, clearly agitated. _"And what about the nearly __forgotten__ worlds out there? What about Asteria? Where is the Systems Alliance? It's left out of every broadcast because it's an asari/human world, and we all know that the humans—and the Spectres, especially Lilitu Shepard!—hate the asari. They're __glad__ that the batarians are embarking on a genocidal campaign to wipe out the asari people. All __they__ need to do is sit back and wait for us all to die—"_

Valak raised his hand. "Ah. . . forgive me. But didn't the turian Council representative, not two weeks ago, say at my candidacy hearings, that not one asari planet has come under attack by batarian forces?"

Shepard paused the vid feed. "That was correct," she said. "At the time. The Hegemony has been on the move since then."

"So in the last two weeks, my people have started expanding operations to asari worlds. Ancestors, but they're demanding a response fast." Valak stared at the frozen images on the screen.

"Yes, there've been attacks, but not the core worlds," Shepard said, raising a hand in the light of the screen. "Outlying colonies. Ones that were periodically under attack by slavers and raiders for years anyway. The push was probably planned already, but I think its timeline got moved up. Loss of biotic processing centers on Khar'sharn. Retaliation against us for the Relay 217 incident. So on and so forth."

Valak sighed. "So, this report would be what, then? Propaganda?"

"That? That was an example of fair and balanced reporting," Sam commented, dryly, from somewhere deep in the room. "Nevermind that quite a number of _human_ biotics have been taken by the batarians. No, no, the media never wants to focus on that. They want to focus on the asari." He paused. "No offense, Ylara."

"None taken, Sam. I'm much more annoyed that the reporter apparently forgot that there are still quite a few asari Spectres," Ylara pointed out, tartly, before continuing, "She is correct about one thing, however. Most of the reports in the last two weeks haven't mentioned Astaria at all."

Sam snorted. "You know, the asari _do_ have a fleet of their own. They _could_ go defend planets like Astaria themselves. Hell, if they really wanted to, there's nothing that would stop them from launching an offensive into batarian space on their own, too. Other than the fact that they might trip over the humans and the turians while doing so, but what the hell."

"Over half the existing asari fleet was destroyed with Thessia," Shepard reminded everyone in the room, quietly, standing. The light from the aerogel screen caught her face, creating shadows across the white and blue paint. But Dara could still see how haunted the long-ago decision still left Shepard. "They've had thirteen years to rebuild, sure, but Thessia was still their largest planet in terms of production capability. Their forces are not now, what they once were, and they had been, for close to a thousand years, heavily dependent on the turian military anyway. Most of their ships are currently protecting Bastion and their own home planets at the moment. With the recent destruction of several biotics processing facilities on Khar'sharn, and the euthanasia of the asari and humans already processed there by N'dor, Pellarian, Glory, and Serana Velnaran, the batarians seem to be stepping up their. . . 'recruitment' campaign." Shepard looked grim. "Samara, Melaani, Ylara, and Jack managed to shut down their access to the various cruise line manifests and schedules, so they've resorted to hitting worlds like Zesmeni and yes, Astaria, all the harder." Shepard paused. "What _was_ periodic raids by slavers has shifted into an actual occupying force on Astaria, at least. And Zesmeni, as well."

"Zesmeni?" Even Siara was drawing a blank on that one.

"It's in the Crescent Nebula. Large asari mining concerns there," Kasumi supplied.

Makur snorted. "I'm having difficulty imagining most asari working heavy mining equipment and getting dirt under their nails," he admitted.

_So am I,_ Dara thought, and Eli shook his head in amused agreement, as Siara slammed an elbow into the krogan's ribs. "You are an exception to many rules," Makur pointed out to Siara, and she elbowed him again. "Let me guess. It's largely robotic mining, with krogan or human miners doing most of the real work in envirosuits?" He directed the question at Shepard now.

Kasumi however, took the question, answering, "Yes, actually. But the robot techs are asari, the surveyors and assayers are asari, the management is asari—"

"Sounds like Rough Tide, with the drell and the hanar taking all the profits, while the krogan and vorcha did all the mining and dying, all over again," Gris rumbled. Dara glanced over at Seheve.

Seheve shrugged. "The riots on Rough Tide occurred before I was born, but I do not believe that many of the drell enforcers profited terribly by their efforts."

Gris shrugged. "No. But they were living higher than the krogan and the vorcha, who were drinking the metal-contaminated water out of the bare and broken rock in the mines."

Seheve lowered her head in respect. . . and, Dara thought, with a hint of shame.

Shepard cleared her throat. "Perhaps a little off-topic," she said, mildly. "At any rate, the Council of Sisters doesn't _have_ the forces for a committed, protracted military campaign. And their style has almost always been diplomacy, diplomacy, diplomacy. . . followed by unleashing the turians if that didn't work. Before the turians, they had only one galactic-level conflict, and that was the rachni. We all know how that turned out."

_The much vaunted asari commandoes, who can 'flay you alive with their minds,' couldn't work as a team, couldn't match the biotics of the brood-warriors and queens, couldn't match the hive-mind's perfect unity of purpose. The salarians couldn't sneak in behind enemy lines undetected and set bombs, couldn't get ahold of living tissue samples with which to create a biological weapon. . . thank goodness. . . so they raised up the krogan. And then couldn't deal with what they'd created._ Dara leaned her head forward, and had to rub her temples at the sudden press of brood-memories. Yes, the rachni had been indoctrinated at the time. But while she could _sense_ the wrongness, the sickly sourness in those songs, those memories, she didn't share in it. And yet, she could see hundreds of asari, a handful occasionally attempting to work together, but in the main, strung out in a thin line, each of them doing what she did best. . . shockwave, singularity, pull, rarely coordinating with the person beside her. . . and she watched, from a hundred different eyes, as they were swarmed. Mowed down. The tiny workers exploding, giving their lives for the hive, against the aliens that had come to their world, their new colony, and had started attacking them with flame and mind-song. . . .

Eli rubbed her shoulder, discreetly. _Sai'kaea?_

_Sorry. Memory-song is strong._

_I know._ A flicker of awareness from him, and the words took on layers of meaning for them both. Memory could bind like a chain, but it could also be used to build. Hence his desire to build new memories for both of them. _Step out of the past, __sai'kaea__. All of that was centuries before either of us was born._

_I know._ Dara opened her eyes with an effort, and pushed the brood-memories down. Shepard had taken a seat again, and had queued up the next piece of newsfeed footage.

"_While the true nature of the 217 Incident, as it's being called, remains unknown, rumors in the intelligence community are that human, turian, and Spectre forces pulled off a daring raid deep in batarian space, probably leading to the recovery of the batarian spy, Valak N'dor. This raid may even have taken Council forces as far as Khar'sharn. As such, it's safe to assume that the Hegemony will be organizing a counterstrike soon. The only question is, when are our forces going to take the fight into batarian space?"_

The lights in the room came up. Shepard stood again and moved to the front, as the aerogel screen sank down out of sight once more. "The answer to _that_ is 'when we're ready,' she said, dryly. "We've still got yahg on Eden Prime, Amaterasu, and Ferris Fields, though the Alliance and Hierarchy forces, with support from the krogan, rachni, and geth, are holding their own there. We've still got batarians on Anhur, which was their pretext for war, and yeah, on Astaria, too. Not to mention the fact that if we don't lift the blockades pretty damned quick, the turians' supply lines are going to become a huge issue. Especially as we move into batarian space. Add to that the fact that yes, I'm fully expecting a retaliatory strike. . . and our best agent is no longer in place to warn us what it is. . . " she nodded to Valak, who was sitting, looking uncomfortable, at the side of the room, "and it's a situation where acting too hastily will probably leave us flatfooted and things will go from 'bad, but we're making progress' to 'well, here we are, back where we were three months ago.'"

A chorus of groans followed that statement. Shepard grimaced. "Yeah. I'm not looking to turn back the clock here, either." She brushed her dark hair, with its faint glints of silver, back out of her eyes. "We've got two orders of business here today, folks. One is dealing with the blockades. The other is . . . a very different sort of assignment. It involves Astaria, but only partially. And it's got a lot of moving pieces."

"I've never even heard of Asteria before," Lin admitted. "What's so important about it?"

"Absolutely nothing," Ylara replied, with a sigh. "It is, largely, an agricultural colony, established by asari and humans within the last twenty years. The planet's only habitable from the poles to about forty degrees of latitude; the area in between those two habitable, arable regions, is a desert so hot and dry, that little lives there. Not to mention that the desert is largely composed of volcanic rock and sulfur compounds released by ancient volcanic flows."

"Sounds like Terra Nova," Rel pointed out, dryly. Dara blinked as Eli slid his fingers along the back of his hand, reminding her, silently, _Dempsey, Rel, and I had a long talk about places where drell could live in the galaxy, setting up subcolonies in areas where other species would find it inhospitable. Sounds like we just found another one._

Dara stole a glance at Seheve's face. Her wide eyes were intent and fascinated as Shepard cued up the aerogel screen again and brought up an image of the planet, which was in the Hekate system, apparently.

"And because it's small, with a total population equivalent to Mindoir's, at around five million, and out of the way, Astaria, like Ferris Fields and Amaterasu and Eden Prime, took back-seat to larger worlds, like Omega, and Shanxi and Terra Nova, which have populations closer to forty million or more. Even Arvuna, which wasn't heavily populated, had secondary considerations, such as the Prothean research base, which we couldn't allow to fall into batarian hands." Shepard supplied, rubbing at her eyes. "The grim fact is that we only have so many people and so many ships to throw at problems while defending the home worlds."

"This hasn't stopped a vocal segment of the population from complaining," Kasumi said, lightly.

"Most of them, reporters," Sam added, looking at the ceiling himself.

Lin glanced around at all of them. "So what's our goal with Astaria?" he asked, after a moment.

Shepard smiled. "I'm glad you asked. Actually, most of our goal isn't even on Astaria. This doesn't leave the room, folks. The last thing we need is for the galactic press to decide that we don't care about the humans or the asari on Astaria. We do. But they set up a colony on the first planet of a system where batarians have been camping out on the second planet, Ker, for over a hundred years. Ker has been a safe-haven for criminals who couldn't afford Omega or other planets for decades." Shepard sighed. "And the entire Hades Nexus sector is a mess. There are pirates based in the Pamyat System, and Trident, in the Hoplos system, is pretty much the Wild West. It's not a stable region. Never has been."

"Query: do you mean to suggest, Shepard-Commander, that the colonists of Astaria have needlessly placed themselves in danger, and thus do not merit the protection of Council forces?" That was Cohort.

"No, because someone might have said the same damned thing about Mindoir, once upon a time. I'm just explaining why they've been on the back burner for a while."

Cohort's eyeflaps twitched, a sure sign that the geth was digging for information on an obscure human expression.

Shepard turned back to the rest of the room. Eli, the back of his hand just barely brushing against Dara's on top of the table, asked now, "So, again. . . why _are_ we going there?"

Shepard nodded, and turned, touching a button on the podium, and a door at the side of the room opened. "You'll forgive me my drama, people, but this was worth waiting for. Come in, please."

Dara's eyes widened as a metal, six-limbed creature clattered in. She clearly recognized Watches-the-Gates-of-Ruin from their work on the Citadel, when Dempsey had helped awaken the Keepers, and she turned towards Dempsey now, catching the way his pale blue eyes narrowed for a moment. Past him, Zhasa had gasped and leaned forward, her shawl slipping off her fine white hair.

_Holy shit_. That was Eli's mental voice, and Dara's head whipped around just in time to see a second six-legged creature enter the room. This one, however, was _green_.

It was, in fact, a Keeper. It kept its mantis-like arms folded in front of itself, and its compound eyes were, of course, expressionless. "Many of you already have met Watches-the-Gates-of-Ruin. But now, my I introduce," Shepard said, her voice light, "Speaker-of-Memories. The first Keeper to leave the Citadel in probably a million years. Speaker? These are some of my most trusted Spectres and affiliates."

_Holy shit_, Dara affirmed silently, her mouth dropping open slightly, and she turned to look at Eli, eyes as wide as if they were kids once more.

Everyone in the room around them was stirring in more or less the same fashion. Dempsey was sitting bolt upright, eyes fixed on Ruin and the Keeper. Probably, in part, reliving the memory of pain. Zhasa had one had wrapped around his left wrist. Seheve's face absolutely glowed at the moment, and Dara remembered, again, how affected the drell had been by the visions of so many lives. How she'd stared out the observation lounge window at the stars and the void, sifting through the memories in her mind, unspeaking, for hours, while the rest of them had been unable to sleep. Fors' reaction was difficult to see, of course, but the volus had slipped off his chair and stood now, head tilted attentively. Siara's blue eyes were wide with amazement, and she leaned forward in her chair, while Makur regarded the creature warily.

The Keeper spread its handling appendages now. "Greetings," it said, though the words were clicks and buzzes and chitters, rendered into galactic by a voder slung over its thorax. "I am grateful to be here today. We who have been in the mouth of the Eternal Trap have seen many things. Seen civilizations rise and fall. And only since our awakening from the dream have we come to understand how much we _have_ seen." The clicks and chitters paused. "Our brother, Watches-the-Gates-of-Ruin, the rachni, and the geth, have been attempting to help us . . . categorize what we know."

Cohort and Sky rose now, and moved up to flank the Keeper and Ruin. "This is correct," Cohort spoke now. "Fourteen thousand, nine hundred and eighty-nine processes have been devoted to correlating the information provided by the organic life forms designated 'Keepers.' Much information from the time of their 'repurposing' by the Reapers and the era of the Protheans has been assimilated. Information from Prothean era substantial; their civilization spanned the galaxy for thousands of years. Information from the post-Prothean demise period less extensive, but also present. Information from era beginning with asari discovery of the Citadel more relevant to current era, but some of it has been deemed detrimental to consensus. We have not yet decided what to do with this information."

_That's geth-speak for 'this material could be highly compromising, change people's perceptions of history and themselves, and might therefore cause rioting, wars, or at least assassination attempts.'_ Eli's thought was very dry.

_Yeah. In a nutshell._ Dara wished she'd retained more of the life-memories of the Keepers, but she doubted even Seheve, with drell eidetic memory, really retained _all_ of it. Maybe the sense of the lives, the experience, but probably only the rachni and the geth had really gotten the whole of it. And she had no idea how Keeper memories worked. If they could recall everything at will, or needed to be 'reminded,' as she did, of memories she shared with Eli or Joy-Singer.

Shepard cleared her throat. "During your mission debrief after the Khar'sharn mission," she said, and turned to look at Lin now, who blinked and sat up in his chair, "you, Linianus, brought up a point that those of us who've been dealing with the damnable issue of the Lystheni for years now, have asked ourselves so often, that we've put it aside as an insoluble problem. Where the hell did they get the first pieces of tech that got them _started_ on creating biotic ship weapons? This sort of thing doesn't start in a vacuum, and they'd clearly been working on it for longer than we'd all been aware of the mini-Reaper. Hell, Lina Vasir was aware of that dig-site, and clearly wanted the ship, though she just as clearly didn't realize its real potential." Shepard paused. "We'd always assumed that they were on the black market, looking for pieces of Reaper gear. But Lin asked something different. _Did they have access to a Collector ship or base_? We asked the geth if they had any information, and they started turning up hits in the Keeper memories."

_I wonder if the Keepers have any name for themselves. _

_Almost every species calls themselves something that means 'the people' or 'people' in their own language,_ Eli pointed out.

Speaker-of-Memories gestured with those mantis-like, folded appendages. More chittering sounds, translated into flat, emotionless galactic by the voder. "And the geth asked us to remember, because our access to our memories was more efficient than theirs." He paused. "As we have all come to terms with the memories, and as the geth and rachni have assisted us in processing them, some of us have felt distress over some of the more recent information coming in on the newsfeeds. The newsfeed about Astaria reminded some of us. . . myself included. . . of events that had transpired around us." He paused again. "Other species regarded us as less than mechs. Part of the furniture."

Eli raised a hand, and said, with respect, and a little unease, "I can't apologize for every kid ever born and raised on the Citadel, but for my part, I do apologize for scrambling around under the legs of various Keepers and pulling on your limbs."

Speaker-of-Memories inclined his head very slightly. "Hundreds of thousands of hatchlings did so, over the millennia. We did not regard any of them with malice or even interest. It is hard to remember now, that when we found hatchlings, lost and alone, we did not do more than bring them food and water, as our. . . programming. . . was to serve organics and the Eternal Trap. We did not guide them out of the warren of passages under the living areas, though we might have. Some found their ways out. Others damaged themselves. Some, irreparably." The emotionless voice of the voder sounded like a geth, but Speaker-of-Memories raised his hooked arms and shielded his face now, not speaking. After a moment, he went on. "These are memories that are difficult to speak of, but _must_ be remembered. Always. We cannot forget what was done to us, nor what those changes made of us. Less than animals. Machines without minds. We took those poor broken bodies and placed them in the protein vats and the waste reclamation facilities. Because that is all they were to us. Not people. Just things. As _we_ were things."

There was a pause, and Dara could feel the chill in Eli. Remembering all the times he had, as a child, snuck off with Rasmus Cadius and his other friends, and gone climbing through the air ducts on the Citadel, without his mom and dad knowing. . . adventures that _Lantar_ had discovered when he was twelve or so, and put to a firm and sudden end. _Kids don't think things through_, she told him, but her own song had faint sparks of yellow in it. If he'd ever gotten lost, as other children had, she might never have met him.

He glanced down at her. Took her hand for a moment, just a quick squeeze. _I'm here_. And then released her hand again, going back to just the faintest brush of skin on skin. Just enough to maintain the song without either of them having to concentrate on it.

Speaker-of-Memories lowered his arms now, and, a little more slowly, went on speaking. "As I said, many people ignored us. Spoke freely of their plans and doings around us. Members of organizations such as Cerberus and the Lystheni certainly did so."

Dempsey, to Dara's left, stiffened in his chair, and Zhasa inhaled sharply. "And that," Speaker chittered, "is what I have come to speak of today. A memory of my own. Salarians, meeting in a café, just after the Reaper War had ended. Speaking of a mining complex on Aequitas, in the Minos Wasteland. Which had held technology that they sought. Except that Shepard destroyed the complex. And they cursed your name for it." The Keeper's head turned and he seemed to regard Shepard now with his expressionless, multifaceted eyes.

"I remember it," Lilitu Shepard replied, nodding. "A mine full of human husks. And a datapad, suggesting that when the miners had found the machinery, the foreman had wanted to sell it to the batarians." Shepard grimaced. "It was an indoctrination complex. Mordin Solus said that it was too recently built to have been from the last Reaper cycle, so it may have been built by the Collectors in the interim period."

Speaker picked up the thread of his narrative again. "The batarians, in particular, the _Klem Na_, were in the market for ancient artifacts and technology. So were these the salarians. It's a small market. They had run into each other many times. And had contested with Cerberus over artifacts before, as well. Cerberus lay in ruins at the end of the war, but their facilities, however abandoned, still existed."

"As well we know," Dempsey said, his tone empty.

"These salarians met several more times in that café, where I was working. And on their last such gathering, they spoke of a Cerberus research facility. But like none they had ever seen before. They believed that it was a Collector ship, that Cerberus had taken in the late days of the war, having found it in a decaying orbit around a gas giant. Cerberus had then landed it on a frozen world, where there were already archaeological expeditions, and half buried it in the ice. The Lystheni had taken it from the Cerberus forces left behind. Captured a handful of the human scientists, and executed the rest."

Lin was sitting up, his eyes glittering with the joy of the hunt. "And where is this ship?"

"The Lystheni stated that the world was a frozen wasteland. That the archaeological expeditions there were investigating a 'primate-like' species, whose cities had been bombarded from space by a railgun-like weapon. The only remains thus far found have been primate-like, and clearly not native to the planet, as they wore environmental suits, and had died of exposure, far from the impact craters of the lost cities."

Dara turned and looked at Eli. "Because, as we know, no one existed before the Protheans," she whispered sardonically.

_Yep. No one before the Protheans, and no one between the Protheans and the asari. Actual bodies of non-Protheans? Carbon-dated and proven to be older than the Protheans? Better hush that up, or discount the dating methods or whatever else. _Eli's thought was every bit as sarcastic. Scientific data had certainly mounted up over the years, and yet, there were _still_ people out there who denied it. Asari academics who'd staked three hundred years of tenure on the theory. Hanar mystics who considered the Protheans gods. The premise didn't matter. The result was the same: belief in dogma, rather than in principles, belief that rendered people blind to any other possibilities.

Speaker-of-Memories chittered. "We have memories of this species. They existed two Reaper cycles before the Protheans. They called themselves Bar'khash. They emerged from their homeworld, and found the Eternal Trap. About a thousand years later, a second species emerged, the Akleiash. The Akleiash were reptilian, and lacked the higher cortex functions associated with most sapients' ability to function as a social whole. They attacked the Bar'khash, and within a hundred years, there was not a planet where either of them existed that wasn't in the midst of a protracted war. The Akleiash discovered the use of mass effect propelled asteroids, and used them to devastating effect on Bar'khast worlds, exterminating the species. They were, in turn, however, doomed by their own violent natures. They turned on themselves, and had largely destroyed themselves by the time of the next Reaper cycle." Speaker-of-Memories paused. "Of their colonies, we know that Bothros, in the Hekate system, as it is called now, was a mining outpost of the Bar'khast, destroyed in the late stages of the Akleish war, by mass effect-propelled missiles, from orbit. This is the only possible planet that matches the description that the Lystheni provided."

"The Hekate system," Sam pointed out, quietly, "is where Astaria and Ker are, as well."

Shepard nodded now, as everyone in the room pushed back from the table or sat back in the chairs along the walls of the room, exhaling. "So," she said, with a faint smile, "you can see why I said this mission has a lot of moving parts to it. On the one hand, we don't know precisely where on the surface of Bothros the Collector ship. . . Lystheni base. . . whatever you want to call it. . . really is. We _really_ want to get our hands on it, and get it out of the hands of the Lystheni, however many of them remain, because every single technological breakthrough they make as a result of that ship, is going to wind up either in batarian hands, or it will be used against us by the Lystheni. . . or whatever other group they ally with, if their partnership with the _Klem Na_ falls through." Shepard exhaled. "And on the other hand, we do need to do something about the batarian occupation of Astaria and it would be nice if it didn't look as if the colonial rescue was either a footnote to the actual mission—"

"Which it is," Ylara pointed out, raising the finely painted lines of her brows.

Shepard grimaced. "I'd love to send Spectres to every single world still under contention, Ylara. I lost five out of the first six sent to Terra Nova—one to retirement and four to death. The first three sent to Eden Prime? Two out of three dead. Ferris Fields? Haven't been able to send Spectres there yet." Shepard put a hand over her eyes for a moment, and Dara got, just for a moment, an inkling of the burdens the woman was shouldering, and shuddered at them. _Couldn't pay me enough_, she thought. _Then again, I guess Shepard probably feels the same way, except there's no one else who could possibly do her job._ "The batarians are moving theaters on us. We take them off of one planet, and they move to a different one. The yahg are a different story. They haven't attacked any new worlds, at least." The human woman raised her face, her mouth set in tight lines.

Ylara held up her hands placating. "I know," she said, simply. "No one in this room's gotten more than a couple of weeks of leave in seven months. We're all tired."

"And those who have rotated off the front lines have mostly wound up doing the intelligence work to help support the people out on the front lines," Lantar added, quietly.

Ylara nodded. "I didn't mean the words as a condemnation, commander." She sighed. "With everything that you said about the asari fleet still being true. . . there is _no_ reason why the Council of Sisters couldn't ask for help from the elcor or the salarians or anyone else, for the relief of colonies like Astaria and Zesmeni and the others, or send our own ships. The Council of Sisters is playing it safe."

"There are reasons for that," Melaani pointed out, shrugging. "The memory of Thessia's destruction is very fresh. Most asari are very concerned with self-defense at the moment. Sending ships to protect small colonies, at the risk of endangering the larger ones would send up even more outcry than failing to protect the smaller colonies." Dara thought she remembered Melaani saying that she'd been born on Thessia herself, some two hundred years ago.

"And so it's easier to gnash our teeth over the Spectres and the humans and turians not coming to our rescue. When they _owe_ us for Thessia's destruction." Siara's voice rang with contempt. Dara's head turned. Siara met her eyes for a moment. _Do you know that, because your own undersong held that very harmony for so long?_ Dara wondered, and then shook it off.

Shepard sighed. "So. In order to rescue the human and asari colonists—those who might survive at the north and south poles, anyway—you'll be going in with six human and turian marine teams, and a variety of rachni. That's not going to be enough to liberate several hundred thousand colonists strung out over vast distances. You're going to need more firepower, and more bodies, and get the colonists to a. . . point where they're helping themselves."

Garrus just looked at her, shaking his head already. Sam drawled, from where he was sitting, "I have a sinking feeling that none of us are going to like any part of this."

Shepard shook her head. "No. Not really. A large number of the human colonists were dedicated pacifists, in fact. No weapons, no guns. Found the furthest place from Earth that they could find, tried to adopt asari _siari_ practices, or Goddess worship. Away from the corruption and the violence on Earth."

"In the middle of the Terminus Systems?" Lin asked. The simple statement gathered force in the echoing silence that followed. Dara didn't need to touch anyone else's skin to hear the thoughts gathering in every mind. _Flower-loving pacifists in the middle of an unstable sector of the most violent and lawless region of space currently known to the Council species. Yeah. They were living in a dream world, weren't they?_

"Drop the other shoe," Garrus advised Shepard, shaking his head. "They'll _love_ this."

"Much as we had to recruit Eclipse and Growth Zero people on Arvuna," Shepard said, looking up at the ceiling, "Trident, in the nearby Hoplos system, has exactly what Astaria lacks. Armed people and ships. There's a reason why a relatively wealthy and resource-rich human colony hasn't been attacked yet, and it's not just because of the hemisphere-spanning hurricanes the place gets. Its residents are well-armed. They have to be. There are merc groups, slavers, and criminals all out there, ready to jump mining claims or make protection demands on small settlements. There are corporate security forces, too. It's sort of Lord of the Flies there, but that presents an opportunity. So, too, does Volkov, in the equally nearby Pamyat system."

Kasumi cleared her throat. "There are, again, extensive mining operations on Volkov. And quite a number of pirate groups with small, fast ships that lurk around the planet's two moons, picking off freighters. Business should be booming, given the fact that iridium is used in half the weapons and ships in the Council fleets. . . . but batarian ships have also been spotted in the area, looking to go after freighters for their cargo."

Valak shook his head. "Standard practice. If you can get what you need for nothing, not even for the price of feeding a slave, it's considered a very good move on the _ru'udal_ board. Quite a bargain." His voice was detached, but Dara wondered how much his composure cost him.

"So it's fair to say that the local pirates probably don't like the batarians cutting into their profits." Sam added now, sardonically.

"Pretty much," Shepard said, sitting down at the head of the table.

"Let me guess," Eli said, rubbing at his face. "We want to take the various merc, outlaw, corporate security, and even pirate groups, if we can, and turn them against the batarians in an organized fashion."

"Because that worked so well on Arvuna," Dara muttered, very quietly. She still felt that she'd failed there. The pysch experts could tell her from now until eternity that the betrayal by Growth Zero had been all but inevitable, that getting Moravec to step aside from his boss had been a win, but she still thought there must have been something she'd missed. Something she could have done better, that would have turned Bassanelli aside from opening fire on the Spectres.

"Talk about herding cats," Sam muttered.

Shepard grimaced. "The pirates wouldn't be my first choice, no. I'd as soon shoot them as anything else. If you have to kill them, I don't actually have a problem with it. But we're probably going to need their ships and some of their crews. Depends on what the resources of the mercs and corporate security on Trident actually wind up looking like. Those groups would be my first picks. Klixxen Claws, Blue Suns, and Blood Pack there. Some Eclipse. Meridia Industria, Sonax, and Heavy Metals Exomining are all represented there, too." She looked at Garrus and Lantar. "You'll note that I'm _not_ sending Archangel or Nemesis on this mission?"

Both of them bared teeth at her, humorlessly. Shepard looked at the rest of them. "The _other_ mission at hand," she went on, "is removing the blockades of Rocam and Galatana. Of the information that Agent Velnaran, Spectre Pellarian, and Spectre N'dor managed to obtain on Khar'sharn, only about twenty percent has been decrypted so far. But in that segment, we have found the signals and frequencies that the batarians use to indicate when they're sending ships through the mass relays. . . and for their cohorts on the other side to lift the nets out of the way."

A murmur swept through the room. "Of course," Shepard went on, "that's only so much help. You can only send one ship through a relay at a time. Which is why, once the dark matter drives passed proof of concept testing three months ago, the Alliance and the Hierarchy began retrofitting several other ships with the straight-line drives." She grinned suddenly, wolfishly. "We're going to move in _behind_ the batarians as we're sending ships through the relays, and catch them from both sides. This will actually involve ship-to-ship combat and boarding parties."

"Why?" Rel asked it, immediately. "Why not just blow them out of the sky?"

"Oh, some of them will be," Shepard returned, calmly. "But we're going to make an effort to take ships and prisoners here simply we have indications that the majority of these ships are filled with warrior-castes." Shepard paused. "Soldiers. Not slavers or raiders. They might not surrender, and in that case, you're authorized to use deadly force, but. . . Sky and Blasto and a fair amount of exposure to the extranet have created doubts in our prisoners in the White Rock desert." She looked at Valak. "You've had a week to talk with them. Blasto and Sky have verified the trustworthiness of about twenty of them. Are you prepared to take them with you aboard other batarian ships, possibly to fight against their own?"

Dara's mouth fell open again, and she turned to look at Eli. _What do you want to bet that there will be a reporter embedded with that group?_ she asked, silently.

_No bet. The liberation of two turian colonies. . . with batarians fighting against their own? Worth its weight in gold._

Valak nodded now. "It's my hope that some of them, on seeing me, on seeing their brothers-in-arms, will surrender," he said, calmly, but Dara could see tension in the way his fists clenched and unclenched on the table in front of him. "The fewer of them we have to kill, the better. It's damned difficult to convince someone of an argument by killing him."

"It's a tried and tested method in Earth's religious wars," Sam pointed out, dryly.

"You may _have_ to kill," Shepard reminded Valak.

"I'm prepared for that, commander. So are the men I've spoken with in the last week. They would prefer not to, of course, but if it comes down to it, warrior-castes have been killing each other on behalf of one nation on Khar'sharn or another since time began. They understand the cause that we're fighting for is nothing less than the salvation of our entire species." Valak's eyes gleamed red in the room's lights. "They're behind me. Truth be told, I'd rather they were in front of me, but that's the price of leadership, I expect." His tone became oddly whimsical, and Dara covered her mouth to repress a smile.

Shepard looked around the room. "So, on the one hand, we have the ship-to-ship teams, who will need to be heavy on the close-quarters combat skills. People with the technical skill to deal with batarian ship systems and engines, people with batarian language skills will be preferred. There are probably biotics aboard those batarian ships. Either for use as ship weapons, or held by SIU controllers, as well." She looked at Garrus. "The Archangel line is coming out of retirement. Garrus, Lantar, and Sam will be leading the strike teams. Gris will be accompanying them. So will Sky, to help look after the mental stability of Valak's warrior-caste volunteers."

Dara winced at the mission description. _My hand-to-hand is fine but nowhere near as good as most everyone else's in the room, my batarian is fluent, but I don't have the technical skills. . . _

"And on the other hand," Shepard went on, remorselessly, "We have a two-pronged mission that will require two to three teams. Negotiation with criminal elements and what passes for law enforcement on Volkov and Trident, liberation of Astaria, investigative skills, to locate the Collector ship on Bothros. . . . "

_Is it just me, or is she looking at you and Lin, ciea'teilu?_

_Yeah._ Eli sighed and raised his hand. So did Lin. Serana, sitting just past Lin, to the right, looked across the two males at Dara, and shook her head in resignation. "Here we go again," Serana murmured. Dara knew damned well that there was no way that the female was going to be going with them. She needed time to work flexibility and strength back into her legs, and didn't have a krogan regen mod, Prothean nanobots, or royal jelly working in her favor.

Shepard had already been sweeping on: "Language skills and cultural understanding of English and asari high-tongue. . . " Shepard paused. "Ah, excellent. Just the people I was hoping would volunteer." Shepard suddenly grinned, and went on with her list of requirements. "I also need someone with a fluent grasp of salarian—"

Dara glanced, sidelong, at Kirrahe Orlan, and caught the salarian looking back at her. Kirrahe raised his hand, just as Dara did, and Shepard continued, "Yes, Kirrahe, you'd be valuable on either team, but I haven't quite decided where you're going to be placed yet. Let's see, what other requirements. . . " The absent tone was feigned, Dara knew. "Yes. Previous experience negotiating with hostile groups," _For what good it did on Arvuna. . . "_previous experience with Lystheni technology. . . "

Dara raised her hand a little higher, glancing at Eli. _Hey, at least we wouldn't be out of each other's sight much._. "Ah, good, Dr. Jaworski. I was hoping your work with Dr. Solus on the Lystheni years ago would come in handy on this mission."

"And at least Spectre Sidonis will be along to do the negotiating," Dara muttered, quietly.

"Get back on the horse, doctor," Shepard told her, not unkindly. "You did fine with the Growth Zero people. The merc groups aren't going to be much of a problem, likely, the corporate security forces are mostly going to be human, and you'll be dealing with their management anyway. The pirates are the main concern, and they're largely krogan, vorcha, drell, human, and turian, in more or less that order." She looked around again. "Which brings me to the second point. I'll need someone along who can deal with the criminal elements, and, given that the Collectors were once Prothean, I need someone who understands the Prothean language and mindset along, as well—yes, thank you, Seheve." Shepard grinned. "I'd love to go myself, but I just can't."

"That's five people," Dara muttered. "Kirrahe's a tech, you and Lin are investigative and negotiative . . . hell, I guess Seheve is the same. . . then there's me. . . " _We're light on biotics and firepower._

"Yeah," Eli murmured back, and she could hear his song shifting, becoming analytical. Like scales gliding from the cello's strings right now.

Shepard looked at the two of them, her eyebrows arched. "What else do you need for your teams?"

_Why the hell is she asking us?_ Dara wondered, wildly. "Is Thell available?" Eli asked, immediately. "He's got raw firepower and a hell of a lot of technical know-how."

"Good pick," Dara agreed, softly, but instantly. "Kirrahe's good, but if we're finding a _Collector_ ship, the more brain-power we have with us, the better." _Plus, he provides a hell of a lot of cover._ A flicker of memory, working with Thell twice during the candidacy trials. Ducking behind that broad body, Thell's shields and armor taking the brunt of the hits, while she fired around him.

Thelldaroon, who, like other large-framed people like Sky and Glory, had to sit or stand away from the table, lifted his head, his large eyes widening slightly. For an elcor, that was an expression of profound shock. "I have been much involved in work with Laetia and James. Not to mention the chipping of Sings-of-Glory to Lysandra," the elcor rumbled. "I do not wish to abandon any of these projects." Dara had been aware of the fact that Glory had volunteered to be chipped to Lysandra, but she was a little startled to realize that it was coming so soon. _Time flies._

Dempsey raised his hand. "I'll go," he said, simply. "I'm not quite the tech that Thell is, but this place was a _Cerberus_ outpost, once upon a time." Dara glanced up. His face was impassive, but the eyes were full of cold rage.

"Hmm. Glory, you're scheduled for surgery tomorrow, correct?" Shepard asked, looking at a datapad.

_Yes._ The younger brood-warrior's song held notes of pure yellow anxiety, and Dara sat up and turned around, sending blue-green reassurances to him, immediately, for which he returned gratitude songs.

"_Raedia's_ the ship scheduled to take the teams to the Hekate system, anyway," Shepard said, after a moment. "If Glory goes with you, all the better. Thell, either way, I need your body on a ship. Either going on the ship-to-ship teams, or heading to Bothros. You can stay in comm contact to continue working with Laetia and James, either way." She looked at Dara, Eli, and Lin calmly. "Dempsey, I was thinking that you and Zhasa would be on the ship-to-ship teams. But since I'm putting Spectres Sidonis, Jaworski, and Pellarian in charge of the Astaria teams. . . it's up to them."

_And there we have it. The down-elevator sense in the stomach that comes from being the person in charge._ Dara had managed to dodge team leadership steadily since boot camp. She'd held onto it in boot camp mostly by virtue of high marks and the strength of her squad mates. As medic, she'd been able to give orders that related to people's health, mostly along the lines of _you, stand here and hold this saline bag _or _ put pressure on that wound while I try to get the vein sewn back together again_. And as Rel had pointed out, many times, she wasn't a command-line officer.

_Oh, bullshit, __sai'kaea__. You went to OCS, same as the rest of us. You'll do fine._ Eli's thoughts buoyed her. And she remembered Lin once, saying that there were two styles of leadership embodied in Rel and Eli. Rel led from the front, by being invulnerable, by never showing fear, by pure inspiration and charisma. First into the fight and last out of it. Eli led from beside. Being the person who'd jump into a pit to help a friend out of it. Who'd carry a fallen companion out of battle. Which was, in fact, the same thing Lin did, though Lin would never admit to it. Two different styles, both perfectly valid. _Neither of which is me_, Dara thought. What she'd learned to do in OCS was listen to her people. Take their advice and perspectives, since all of them were better at different things than she was, and distill them. Make decisions, and trust them. Vokaj and Rostrus had been better at tactics and strategy. Decimus and Nadea had been better, arguably, at hand-to-hand. Kallixta had the charisma and the power of the Imperial line behind her. She'd had slews of techs upon techs in her first set of squads, too. What Dara had had, more than the others, was the ability to analyze and synthesize.

Dara took a breath to steady her swirling thoughts. Looked at Eli and Lin, then back at Shepard. "Are you sending any senior Spectres?"

"Yes." Shepard nodded in Cohort's direction. "Geth are largely impervious to the same indoctrination methods as the Reapers used on organics. Cohort's firewalls should be secure against any Reaper or Collector hacking attempts at this point. . . and if they aren't, he can be backed up from a node."

"Not Sky?" Dara asked, her stomach twisting apprehensively at the thought of being brain-washed and conditioned. "Sky was able to withstand the indoctrination song of a Reaper during the war. Gave protection-songs to all of the rachni with him, too." It had been how the brood-warrior had earned his name.

_Sings-of-Glory is older now than I was then. He sings powerful songs, and has all my memory-songs._ Sky's reassurance was filled with dark blue affection and pride. _He will do well._

_I will sing as best I can,_ Glory replied, yellow unease in his tone. He knew that _he_ had not been tested against a Reaper. Only brood-memory, father-memory, had been.

Dara lowered her head in acknowledgement. _Sky is right, Glory. I should have realized this myself._

Seheve raised a hand, looking as uneasy as Dara had ever seen the drell female. "I have been conditioned before, Commander Shepard. Am I not a risk to send on this mission?"

"I'm hoping that since you've been conditioned, and have had the conditioning broken, you'll recognize it if it occurs," Shepard admitted, calmly. "Looking back on that mine we found on Aequitas? I can't decide what's more disturbing. That the batarians were looking for mind-control technology that's even more invasive than the control-chips they'd already used for generations, or that they might well get their hands on it, through the Lystheni."

"I don't think they have it," Garrus muttered. "If the Lystheni had been able to replicate indoctrination tech, they would have used that, not the ardat-yakshi genes for domination attempts."

"And what about that one poor hanar they tried to upload into an AI?' Shepard countered. "Hadn't he suddenly changed, enough so that his family disowned him? Shown a sudden disinterest in the Enkindlers, and an absorption in science and technology?"

"Lluwyn," Seheve said the hanar's name, expressionlessly. "We do not need to reach for indoctrination as an explanation of this, however. It might simply be that poor Lluwyn found some measure of truth in a den of lies, and it killed him."

Dara wasn't the only person who turned to look at her for a long moment. Dara cleared her throat after a moment. "With Cohort along, how about an asari? Eli speaks the language like a native, but there's something to be said about being greeted by a familiar and friendly face. Calms people down." She glanced from Ylara to Melaani to Siara.

"A good idea," Shepard said, a look of interest and mild amusement on her face. "But Ylara needs the downtime—"

_This is another test, ciea'teilu._

_I know. I keep wondering when the tests are going to stop._

_Probably never._

_Great._

"I can manage, commander," Ylara said, gently, as the thoughts flashed between Eli and Dara.

"You've been going non-stop. Even a salarian needs a break sometimes. So does everyone else."

Dara glanced at Eli and Lin, and her gaze flicked to Siara. Eli nodded once. Lin grimaced, but nodded. Communication without words.

Siara was already shaking her head _no_. "Dara, no. If there's any chance of indoctrination—I _can't_—I don't want to be under anyone else's mind—" There was an edge of tightly controlled fear there, a fear that Dara recognized all too well. The fear of drowning under the weight of someone else's thoughts and motivations, losing all self.

Out loud, Dara replied, lightly, "Oh, like I enjoy the thought much myself, Siara. But as someone told me not two minutes ago. . .get back on the horse."

"Am I just along to be your token asari?" The tone was waspish, but the eyes were still scared. Eli's perceptions, underlying Dara's own, for a moment, whispered, _She always did get nastiest when she was the most afraid._

Eli's turn to respond. "No. Even if we take Dempsey along, and Glory, that still leaves us a little light on biotics. Dara and I don't really count in that regard." He smiled ruefully. "We need at least one more, for balance."

"And you and I both know what we're going to find on Astaria itself, Siara," Dara said, quietly. "More of what we saw on Omega."_ Lobotomies. Rapes. Terrified prisoners awaiting the same fate._ "You've got the medical training I need for backup. You gonna make me go do that by myself this time?" She let the drawl slip out, just a bit.

"Oh, Vaul eat your heart," Siara told her, crossly. "You _had_ to put it that way, didn't you?"

"Well, it was that or ask you if you were _scared_."

The next words Siara used were in krogan, and from the way Makur, Gris, Eli, and Lin all started laughing, Dara didn't think they were polite. At all. "Noted," Dara told Siara. She looked at Eli. "Physiologically impossible, I take it?"

"Would require you to grow a quad, yes." Eli grinned

"Sorry I asked." Dara shrugged. "Do we have other options?"

Zhasa raised her hand. "I speak asari fluently," she pointed out. Dara could feel Dempsey shift beside her, slightly, and she again looked at Eli. Flicker of thoughts between them.

_Thell and Kirrahe and Dempsey and Zhasa?_

_Gives us a lot of tech know-how, and lots of people who can mitigate incoming attacks—_

—_how stable was Dempsey on Terra Nova without her?_

_Like a rock. He'd be better with her there, though—_

Out loud, Dara said, quietly, "We've got a hard limit of nine people plus Cohort, correct? If we take Zhasa in Siara's place, we'd again be left in the same position as the teams that went to Shanxi. They didn't have a single human among them, which was problematic."

"Astaria has both human and asari colonists," Lin reminded her.

"I know. Trying to balance everything is trickier than it looks." Dara grimaced, and caught a hint of a smile on Shepard's face at those words. "I hate having to think about the PR aspect, but there were problems because of this on Shanxi." She paused. "If we don't have a single asari on the liberation team—"

"Shanxi also had a history of being attacked by 'alien invaders,'" Lin pointed out. "Seeing the same turians who attacked there forty years or so ago coming in as a liberation force actually didn't look bad on galactic vid, even if the locals didn't know how to deal with it at first."

"Astaria shouldn't have the same baggage," Eli muttered, still thinking furiously. "A lot will depend on how it gets spun," he added, shrugging. "If we downplay it, and just note that the Spectres are a multi-species organization, and it shouldn't matter who's sent, only that someone was?"

Dara grinned at him. "And that's why you're press liaison. You get to deal with all that _s'kak._"

Eli gave her a look. "Bite me."

_In public, ciea'teilu?_

Lin counted off on his fingers. "Eli, Dara, Liakos," he gave Seheve a neutral glance, "Glory, I think I heard in there, Dempsey, Zhasa, Kirrahe, possibly, and myself. . . any chance we can take _both_ Thell and Dempsey?" he asked, hopefully.

Siara looked up in relief. "Does this mean I'm off the hook?"

"Yeah, yeah. _Anserae_." Lin bared his teeth at the asari.

"Praise Vaul. And you, too, Zhasa." Siara gave the quarian female one of the friendliest smiles Dara had ever seen on that cerulean face.

Shepard started to open her mouth to respond, and that was when Rel raised a hand. "With your permission?" he said, and Shepard nodded. "I'd like to volunteer to accompany the Astaria/Bothros team."

Dara wiped her expression clean, feeling Eli go completely still beside her, too. Seheve alone had had the potential for being uncomfortable, but Dara had managed to avoid talking to the female about anything at all for about three weeks, and figured that she could keep all conversation work-related if they were assigned anywhere together. Which had, actually, been largely all they'd ever talked about on Arvuna, come to think of it. Work. Rel coming along would put a whole different complexion on things.

Shepard's eyebrows had gone up, as well. Rinus, seated next to his second-brother, turned, frowning slightly. Garrus' mandibles flexed, just once.

On the surface, it looked and smelled like a bad idea. Except, Rel had worked side by side with Eli and Dempsey on Terra Nova for close to three months, with not a hitch. He might have been growling on the inside, but he'd never let it affect the work. That, however, had been when Dara wasn't there. The bone of contention, as it were, had been safely out of sight. And since then, he'd started a relationship with Seheve. And Dara had felt how much better Seheve made Rel. Even though she couldn't quite fathom it, she'd felt it.

None of that would make the situation any less uncomfortable. And the last thing any of them needed was even a hint of volatility, when what they needed was a solidly united front in dealing with everything they'd be facing.

Shepard cleared her throat. "You'd be replacing whom? Thell?"

The elcor rumbled, quietly, "This would work out in my favor, I think. Less chance of being out of comm transmission range. Less of a chance of having to neglect my work with Laetia and James." His voice lightened slightly. "Also, fewer chances of terrain obstacles for my teammates to have to overcome."

_Did he just make a joke at his own expense?_

_I think so, yeah._

Shepard looked steadily at Rel. "I had you pegged for the ship-to-ship combat mission, honestly. Sell me on why you're a better pick for the Astaria/Bothros mission. Better yet. . . sell your team leaders." Those bright blue, incisive eyes flicked a glance at Dara, Eli, and Lin.

_Oh, god._ Dara made sure that her face was expressionless, and that she was looking directly ahead.

_It wasn't so bad on Terra Nova. He knows how to take orders and be a part of a team. Even checked in on __me__ after negotiations with 'The Prepared' fell through._ Eli's thoughts went dark. All those people, killed, because he hadn't been able to convince their leaders to get the hell out of their bunkers and come with them. _See? You place a little too much faith in my supposed negotiating skills, __sai'kaea__._

_Bullshit._

Rel sat up straight, and regarded his folded hands for a moment or two, clearly marshalling his ideas. "I'm not sure I'm a _better_ choice," he said, after a moment. "But here are my thoughts. First, I've been on three very combat-intensive missions in a row. At the beginning of the war, I was told that part of my . . . training. . . " Dara knew he'd deliberately avoided saying _treatment_ there, "would be to go on tightly-focused, combat-intensive missions, interspersed with rescue work. This seems like as good an opportunity as any to do just that. Rescue work." Rel paused. "Second, while I had the same course in OCS on dealing with locals and turning them into a focused and effective force with which to fight invaders or to overthrow a corrupt government, the most I've been able to practice that skill was in ten days on Valak's estate on Khar'sharn. This again sounds like a good opportunity to improve on what I already know." Unspoken there was the fact that Thell didn't _have_ that kind of training. Neither did Eli or Lin. Technically. Although Eli almost certainly was absorbing memories from Dara, the way she was from him, they were just that: memories, not active skills. She didn't think he'd be stitching wounds up anytime soon, either.

Dara _had_ had the same training as Rel, and had three months or so on Arvuna to try to hone her coalition-building skills, but she'd had Melaani to lean on there. . . and she looked at the asari now, wondering if Melaani wouldn't be a better choice to come along than Zhasa. . . _no, she doesn't have the tech skills, and the liberation is actually the secondary objective, sad to say. . . . _

"And third," Rel added, his voice quiet, "I know as much as Dempsey does about small unit management and tactics. Maybe more, in some regards. And at the moment, you're defense-heavy. You need a little more offense." Rel looked up, right at Eli and Lin, meeting their eyes. "Thell carries heavy weapons, sure, but so do I. And you've already got enough tech-savvy people going along with you to be able to figure most anything out."

Dara turned to her right. _Probably best if I recuse myself_, she told Eli, silently. She didn't trust her impartiality, and didn't want something as stupid as her own discomfort to jeopardize selecting the right people for the team. On paper, Rel was absolutely right. They _did_ need more firepower. Dempsey was a bullet sponge, and she _really_ didn't want to be between him and any objective he had, particularly if he got angry. Zhasa, as Dara well knew, was another, similar damage sponge. The bubble she projected was damned useful, and Dara would cheerfully duck inside of it to take care of patients from here until the end of time, if she could. Lin and Eli both carried those shields, and both could swap to heavier weapons—Eli rarely went further than a submachine gun, but she'd seen him handle a Collector beam weapon with aplomb, ready to kill Dempsey if needed on the Citadel. Seheve and Dara both had pistols, sniper rifles, and where Dara carried a shock pistol, Seheve carried a poisoned vibroblade. Kirrahe was their only raw offense option. And Kirrahe had about as much chance of getting hurt in combat as Lin did. _Put them on a line together, and I'll only have to look for trouble in one place,_ Dara thought, wryly.

_Don't tempt the spirits_, Eli told her, silently. She could feel Eli turning the words over in his own mind. Weighing Rel's behavior on Terra Nova, the recent behavior here on Mindoir. The fact that Seheve would be along with them. _And who can blame him, if her presence is one of his motivations?_ he asked.

_Undersong is also strong._

Eli turned and looked at Lin, himself. "Going to leave this one up to you, _fradu,"_ he told Lin, quietly. "I think it's probably not a bad idea, all things considered. But you're the closest to neutrality here."

Lin grimaced at them both. "Hey, I'm actually _not_ a mind-reader, guys. You actually have to talk to me."

"Sorry, Lin," Dara apologized, smiling a little.

He leaned in, one hand blocking sight of his mouth, and the three of them conferred in whispers for a few moments. "I still think Melaani might be a better option—"

"Do you think Rel would keep Liakos in check?" Lin's primary concern actually wasn't Rel, but _Seheve_. He was still very, very wary around her. For dozens of reasons, and Dara understood them.

"I think Seheve keeps _herself_ in check," was her only reply. "More concerned about him than her—"

"He and Dempsey were both fine on TN, you _know_ that—"

"Hey, I remember him almost coming up from under a yahg corpse after you—" Shared memory, that. Dara could see it from Eli's perspective, having killed the yahg with his vibroblade as it had pinned Rel, seconds after Rel had shoved him out of the way of the yahg, as it leaped from a rooftop in some nameless, dilapidated town along the great highway of Terra Nova.

"In fairness, he'd just had his bell rung pretty good," Eli muttered. "I think _I'd_ have come out swinging, too."

"True enough." Dara lifted her hands. If Eli didn't see a problem, that really only left _her_. And she had a choice about that. She could let it be a problem, or she could choose not to let it affect her. _And sometimes personal is not the same thing as __important__._

Lin grimaced, and eyed her. Switched to turian. _"You think you can handle him being along, little one?"_

Dara thought about it. _"I'm a big girl, Lin. Contracts end. Grown-ups deal with __s'kak__ and life moves on." Please, let me be enough of a grown-up._

"_All right then. I say yes, then. I think it's actually good for everyone. For the pack. As I told Serana a week ago. . . every time we all split up? Bad things happen."_

"_You're basing the decision on the fact that you think we're __luckier__ together than apart?"_ Eli gave Lin a look.

"_I'll have Thell run the statistics on it, but I think the numbers will bear out my gut instinct. We __win__ when we're all together, Eli. Always have."_ Lin's eyes glittered with amusement as he looked up. "All right. Rel in place of Thell."

Dara could see the look of relief in Rel's eyes. He was being included. _One with his pack-brothers again_, Eli told Dara, silently.

_Yeah. I just hope it was the right decision._

The rest of the teams fell easily into place after that. Garrus, Lantar, and Sam, team one. Thell, Fors, and Sings-to-the-Stone would be the second team on the boarding parties, and Dara didn't even want to picture what a room of batarians would look like after _those_ three were done with them. "It'll be artistic," Fors snuffled. "I think we'll call the first one 'smoldering imploded remains displayed on extruded wire.' The electricity from the arc projector will be the _irony_ in the piece. Critcs will call it 'piquant' and 'bold.' Maybe even 'innovative.'"

Seheve's brow furrowed slightly. "I cannot believe that you take such joy in death," she told the volus, quietly.

"I don't." Fors' voice was suddenly deadly serious. "I don't _like_ some of the things I can do with my biotics, and I don't like killing, but if I don't laugh at death and horror, they win." Fors looked up at the taller drell, the eye sockets of his suit glowing faintly.

"Do you think death cares?"

"It might not, but I do."

Gris, Makur, and Siara would be team three, and Valak and his twenty batarians would be backed up by Sky, Rinus, and Melaani. Rinus, as the son-in-law of the Imperator, was very much needed on these teams. "Smile for the vid cameras," Shepard advised him.

"Now when was the last time I did that?" Rinus countered. "They'll think it's an imposter if I do that."

The rest of the afternoon was spent getting dossiers and research materials handed to them. Her father came to the work room where she and Eli and Lin had set up a table, and were steadily allocating files to each other to read. "You three look scared to death," Sam said, kindly.

"Close," Dara replied, tightly. "And to think I thought there was a lot of reading when you guys handed me the Arvuna mission docs."

"Keep in mind, we're not turning you out entirely without a net," Sam reminded them, hooking his thumbs into his belt. "Cohort's already absorbed all of these. Rely on your teammates, too. You don't have to do it all on your own."

"No," Eli agreed. "But each of us does need to know what the hell all of this actually is about." He gave Sam a narrow-eyed glance. "Go re-stabilize an unstable sector, convert criminals, outlaws, and corporate security forces into a well-oiled machine, take back a planet from the batarians, rescue everyone, and _while you're at it_, could you find a needle in a haystack, recover it, find what's interesting in it. . . deny it to your enemies, and then come home again." He counted them each off on his fingers as he said the words. "Is that six or seven goals?"

"Coming home was number eight," Dara supplied, not looking up from her datapad.

"Light day," Lin said, rolling his chair back from the table to put his toes on the edge, so his spurs wouldn't catch on the wood. "We should get Dempsey to review this _s'kak_ with us. The chip should store all the data for him, right?"

"Yes," Dara said, and, after a moment, added, "Seheve, too. Eidetic memory. May as well put it to use."

"Now you're thinking," Sam said. "How are you dividing these up, anyway?"

Eli glanced up. "Team primary objectives," he said, after a moment. "Lin's going to take Seheve and Rel on his team, primarily. I'm taking Zhasa and Kirrahe, initially. Dara's taking Dempsey and Glory. Again, just initially." He rubbed at his eyes.

"There are two main groups of pirates," Lin said, his expression grim. "I'm with Shepard on the 'shoot them' idea. Worst comes to worst, we can do just that, and, hmm, re-purpose their ships to the security forces on Trident."

Sam snickered. "I like how you think, son."

Lin grinned at Sam tightly. It was not Lin's usual happy-go-lucky expression. Khar'sharn had taken Lin close to the darkness again, and sometimes, it showed.

The door was open behind Sam, and at that point, and Dempsey, Zhasa, Kirrahe, Rel ,and Seheve actually did edge into the room. Glory was evidently off preparing for surgery, as Chopin reminded Dara with a faint spark of yellow song in her mind. "Looking for ways to help out," Dempsey said, laconically.

Rel and Seheve were staying closer to the door than the rest, for the moment. Not touching, but inside arm's reach. Dara only registered this out of her peripheral vision as she looked up and smiled at Dempsey and Zhasa. "We're just getting a grip on all the information ourselves," she told him. "Ideally, we kind of wanted to be able to read it all and then give the rest of you the stuff that matters. . . " She held up her datapad, which was displaying over a hundred file names, all to full-length documents. "Of course, in an ideal world, I'd know what actually matters and be able to skim for it."

"Categorize," Sam suggested. "First objective, second objective. . . and don't forget that _finding_ the damned ship is a pretty major objective."

Eli nodded. "Yeah, we got that far," he replied, shrugging. "Lin's first team—Seheve and Rel—" Both heads jerked up, in surprise, Dara thought, still only watching out of the corner of her eyes, "will lead the charge on the pirates," Eli said. "I'll take Zhasa and Kirrahe. We'll try to get the Blue Suns and whatever of Eclipse we can aboard."

"Shepard's got one contact that will help you there," Sam pointed out. "Zaeed Massani."

Lin's head came up. "She knows the leader of the Blue Suns?"

"Yeah. Cerberus insisted that she recruit him, back before the Reaper War. She doesn't like the man much, but she's got his comm code. We can help smooth the way there."

Eli nodded, making a note on his datapad. After a moment, he said, "I think Blood Pack's probably a lost cause. . ."

"Harak," Dara said, simply.

"They might not care—"

"He was one of them, and he knows our names, _ciea'teilu._" _Harak and Pelagia made it very clear that any of our team was welcome on Omega for as long as either of them should happen to live. Which might be for a very, very long time._

"Didn't we run into a krogan on Omega who was Klixxen Claws, too?" Lin asked, looking off into the mid-distance. "One of the ones taking refuge at that bar run by the former Eclipse lady. The one who got captured with Ylara."

Dara's head came up. "Yeah," she said. "The one in the green armor. Think he was from a clan in the Clan-Alliance, too."

"Ollur," Eli came up with, after a moment.

Dara snapped her fingers. "Yeah! Ollur Nakkan. Said he'd been with them for a century or so." Suddenly, the task looked a little less insurmountable. "What do you want to bet Harak and Pelagia can get us in touch with him, and he can give us contact people in the Claws?"

Eli and Lin both grinned at her. "It's worth a shot," Lin agreed, and then glanced at the rest of their squad-mates. "Sorry, guys. Just making use of contacts we have."

Dempsey had already taken a seat, and a datapad, to Dara's left. "No problem," he said, laconically. "The more different ways as we can attack the problem, the better." He looked up as Zhasa sat beside him. "Where do I fit into the team structure anyway, for the first half?"

"Dara's taking you and Glory, and going after corporate security forces." Eli touched the back of Dara's hand lightly. "While Lin here thought about being a lawyer once he got out of B-Sec, back in the day, we figured Dara can probably do the best impersonation of a suit."

"Oh, thanks," Dara muttered. "Dempsey and I can wear matching dark glasses and jackets. We'll look like NABI officers. Just need to get Glory six pairs of shades, too, and we'll _totally_ fit in there."

She was rewarded with a snort from Dempsey, and Eli turned his head to grin at her. "It's not like you'd be really suited for undercover work anymore, _sai'kaea_."

"The eyes are sort of a conspicuous giveaway," Lin noted. "Identifying marks are a bad thing in that sort of work. And Serana tells me the full eye lenses are _really_ uncomfortable."

Dara made a rude noise in Lin's direction.

Seheve offered, hesitantly, as if not really knowing if she should point it out or not. "Additionally, would not the skin fail to fall within human norms?"

Every head in the room turned towards Seheve, who blinked at their reactions. Sam sighed and put one hand over his eyes, just for a moment. _Sorry, Dad,_ Dara thought, glumly. _It really wasn't my idea to get transmogrified. _

Lin stared at Seheve warily. "What in the spirits' names are you talking about?"

Rel stiffened at Lin's tone, but slid a glance Dara's way. "I don't particularly see what you mean, myself," he said, more quietly.

"Nor do I," Kirrahe said, regarding Dara as if she were a particularly interesting bug he wanted to skewer and put under a microscope.

"I am not actually attempting to make a joke at this point," Seheve said, lifting her hands slightly.

Eli was, however, smiling faintly. Dara very slowly put her head on the cold surface of the table, and rapped her forehead against it, just once, in annoyance. Sitting back up again, she turned towards Seheve and asked, with mild resignation, "I take it that you've had the drell gene mods that allow you to see further into the spectrum of light than is usual for your species? So that you can understand hanar bioluminescence, in addition to their more limited verbal form of speech?"

Eli's smile threatened to grow. "Shut up," Dara told him.

"I didn't say anything!"

"You didn't _have_ to."

"If I were _going_ to say anything, it would be that apparently, it's not just night-clubs you can't infiltrate anymore. Apparently drell and hanar worlds are out, too. Not a problem, since, you know, you'd kind of stand out on Kahje anyway. . . '

Dara kicked the side of Eli's chair. Hard. Dempsey squinted at her, then at Seheve. "I'm missing something. What the hell do you actually see?" The last was addressed to Seheve, of course.

"Subtle color differentiations into blues, greens, violets, and occasional reds. Very faint, overlaying the base coloration." Seheve's voice was hesitant. Lin and Rel and Zhasa were still looking at her oddly. "I had meant to ask about it earlier, but it is my understanding that humans use skin pigmentation to shape self-identity."

_Yeah, but not too many humans wake up one morning a different shade than they went to sleep. _

_Oh, I dunno. Fall asleep at the lake on a sunny day, and you'll wake up lobster red._ Eli's lips quirked again. _But, like I told you. Beautiful. And I'm still totally getting us a blacklight for the bedroom, once, you know, it gets built._ Eli laughed as Dara kicked his chair again. "So, hanar, some drell, and rachni can see it. But not asari, humans, quarians, turians, or salarians. I wonder if the Keepers and the geth can, too."

"Probably," Dara muttered. "Cohort's at least too polite to mention it. And the Keepers are insectile. I'd bet they can see well into the ultraviolet end of the spectrum."

"Well, we can toss it out as an ice-breaking question," Eli said, sinking a little deeper into the chair. "I have a feeling we'll want to talk with Speaker-of-Memories for as long as we can. See if the Keepers remember _anything_ that can help us narrow down the location of the ship on Bothros. A planet is an awfully large place to search."

"So was two thousand light-years' worth of space, and we still found a rachni ship," Lin pointed out.

"Kasumi did the research, we were just along for the ride." Eli looked up from his datapads. "Dempsey, Rel. . . what I think we could really use your help with is this. Once we _get_ a working force made up of the. . . fine, upstanding people of Trident and Volkov. . . "

Zhasa chortled out loud at the words. Eli looked up and grinned at her, lightning-fast. ". . . I'm looking at the maps of Astaria and its moon and the rest of its system, and I haven't a flipping _clue_ where we should be landing, attacking, anything like that. What can you do with what we've got here?"

Rel's eyes lit up, and he stepped forward, taking a datapad from Eli, and, after a moment, sitting down at the table with the rest of them. Keying up maps of Astaria's two polar regions, the colonies there. Colored markers denoting landing zones where the batarians had moved troops.

"Keep in mind," Sam said, quietly, "it's all fairly sketchy intel at the moment. Keep any plans you make very damned flexible."

Rel glanced up, once, and nodded. Dara's chest hurt for a moment. Her father, still teaching. Still giving direction. And Rel accepting it. She didn't have a right to be proud, but she was, at least a little.

"And that leaves me with nothing to do," Zhasa said, sighing.

"And me," Kirrahe added.

Seheve said nothing, but came to the table to sit, as well. Dara glanced up. "No, you guys aren't off the hook," she told them, feeling her own lips curve up. "Cohort can help us with this, but in addition to just interviewing Speaker, there are things we can do from here to try to narrow down where the hell the Collector ship is."

Zhasa's white eyebrows lifted. "Such as?" the quarian girl said, with some enthusiasm.

Dara had been thinking about this already. "We know it was moved there just before the Reaper War. Let's try to get orbital scans of the planet, taken by mineralogical survey teams, or even the archaeological teams, from 2180 or so. Push back the window in time a bit. Then we can overlay those scans with ones taken within the last five years, and see if the computers come up with any landscape features that have changed." She looked at Kirrahe. "How much natural landscape shift would there actually be on Bothros?"

Kirrahe frowned over the first data on his omnitool. "Atmospheric pressure is only a trace. Thus, no measurable precipitation. No erosion. Earthquakes, volcanism, or cryo-volcanism still possible. Upwelling warm currents in the seas possible, if volcanic vents below surface. Would cause openings in the ice, upwelling of water, yes, possible changes in landscape."

"Is this methane/ethane ocean we're talking about?" Eli asked, looking up.

"Yes." Kirrahe paused. "Water-ice covering, however. Planetary surface not cold enough for ethane ice. Warmer, on median, than volus homeworld of Irune, by about seventy degrees Fahrenheit, however."

"Positively balmy," Eli muttered. "I knew there was a reason I opted for the volus heating and cooling system. The rest of you are going to be shivering." He looked at Dara. "Even you."

Her suit would let her be out in the elements longer than the rest of them, unless they changed out armor modification packs, but nowhere near as long as Eli's would permit. She flicked her fingers in his general direction, caught the grin, and went back to working with Kirrahe. "All right, Orlan," Dara said. "We know the general dimensions of Collector ships. Most of them were big enough to carry off tens of thousands of colonists at a time. That's a fairly large anomaly to be looking for. They were fairly regularly shaped, too."

"Speaker-of-Memories stated that Lystheni had melted ice over the body of the ship." Kirrahe's voice was distant as he was already setting up search parameters in his omnitool.

"Don't know how much they could've done of that, before the weight of the ice might make the hull collapse," Dara pointed out, immediately. "Also, the heat plumes from the melting ice, steam clouds basically just getting sucked away into a near-vacuum. . . could've been picked up by satellites, too. Don't get me wrong, they'd have wanted to camouflage it. But it might have been harder than, say. . . using a mine that was already on the surface of a planet." She looked at Dempsey, who'd lifted his head to stare at her for a moment.

"Do you think land or sea?" Zhasa asked, practically.

"I don't want to tie us down to either location. I want to keep an open mind," Dara said, spreading her hands. "An location on open ice. . . eh, it covers eighty percent of the planet. Lot of area to search. But it's relatively flat, other than areas where there've been upwellings and pressure ridges have formed. Things stand out against it. If they picked a spot too close to where there's any volcanic heat at all, they risk having the ship slip down into the ocean. If I were them, I'd pick a location on bedrock. A canyon or a crater, maybe. Something with irregular sides or an irregular bottom." Dara shrugged. "Of course, what the hell do I know about hiding?"

She glanced up, and caught the look on her father's face, and was startled to see a proud grin on his face, which surprised a return smile out of her. "These are all good thoughts," Seheve said, slowly, quietly. "There might be ways in which we can narrow the search down, however."

"Records," Lin said, crisply, from across the table, not looking up. "The archaeology teams were sending reports constantly back to their home universities. Maybe some of them saw ships ascending or descending, and thought they were relic looters. Maybe mining teams saw people out on the ground and thought they were claim jumpers. Maybe either the scientists or the miners ran into Cerberus or Lystheni agents without realizing who they were, getting supplies on Astaria. Can't be too many cold-weather outfitters on Astaria."

_Lin really is smart._

_Yeah. He's kind of rubbing Seheve's nose in it at the moment. _

_He really doesn't like her._

_Pretty much why he volunteered to lead the team with her and Rel on it. He wants her where he can see her. _Eli's string trio played violet melodies over his words.

"We can get Lysandra started digging for those reports," Dara offered. "Zhasa, Seheve, and I can start taking a first pass through whatever correspondence she can find. Cohort can help with that, too. The more processing power we can get on this, the more eyes, the better. But I can't say I've ever read a mineralogical report. I'll have better luck with the archaeological ones, but not really my area." She grimaced.

"I have," Zhasa said, wiggling her fingers. "Surveys taken of various areas of Rannoch, to see how much mineral depletion there actually was, and whether it was worthwhile to dig there. I didn't get very in-depth on those, but. . . it's something."

"We will be looking for exceptional reports, not for the relative density of the crust or the minerals in an alluvial deposit," Seheve replied, quietly. "Our relative lack of knowledge shouldn't be a barrier."

Dara glanced at Seheve. So hard to find words. She'd just barely been getting to know the drell female, and she _knew_ that Seheve was good for Rel. But it had been so easy just to avoid talking to her. _Just be a grown-up_, Dara told herself. "Any ideas?" she asked Seheve.

There was a faint flash of relief across that serene face. "Heat plumes from settlements," Seheve suggested, immediately. "Even with advanced heat-sink technology, pumping heat generated by power systems deep under the surface, there might still be detectable heat emissions. It is one of the primary methods of detecting smugglers' hiding places on cold worlds such as these. There should be a list of legitimate encampments."

"And then we can cross-reference that against what we find in the planetary scans." Dara nodded. It was easier to keep talking once she'd gotten started. "I guess it's kind of a good thing we've got some travel time ahead of us. There's a hell of a lot of staring at scans in our futures."

"Could be worse," Eli told her, cheerfully. "Could be forty hours of security cam footage, trying to see if you see the same face twice."

"Oh, I know it could be worse," Dara told him, chuckling. "Just going to be some long nights on this." She glanced around at everyone now. "Once we get on-sight, we might have actual people to talk to, but at the moment, comm traffic is—"

"—shut down." A full chorus of voices finished the sentence.

Dara nodded. "Yeah." She looked up at her father. "We miss anything?"

Sam smiled down at her. "Nah. You're doing good. Me? I'm getting myself some lunch."

_Thanks, Dad. I think._

**Author's note:** _Eleventh Messenger gave me the first inklings of a notion for the rachni underlay for Dara's armor, for which I thank him!_

_Astaria was cut from the Hekate system, according to the ME Wiki. By virtue of its temperatures, relative to Ker, which is, in-game, the first planet in the system, however. . . Astaria has to be the 1st planet from the system's primary, with 65º C average temperatures to Ker's -4º C temperatures. . . and yes, Ker has Earth-like pressure to its atmosphere, so it's not a question of atmosphere being thick and trapping heat. As such, I've put Astaria as the first planet in the system, and the rest have been re-ordered in accordance with this._

**Serana, Mindoir, January 16, 2197**

Lin had asked her over to his house this evening, after a full day of meetings and research and everything else. "I figured we'd have everyone over after dinner," he noted.

"Who's everyone?"

"Everyone that you're not going to be seeing for a while. Everyone that I won't be seeing for a while. Both your brothers. Kallixta. Eli, Dara." Lin gave her a slightly sidelong glance, as if gauging how much that might sting her. It didn't, actually. Serana had had three months, between Khar'sharn and the escape and Bastion, to come to a number of realizations. First and foremost, was that Lin was far more than the laughing boy who'd been one of her second-brother's best friends, growing up. She'd known that before, of course. Had seen the bright and intelligent mind at work at school. The quiet fury at injustice. Had known that he had a spirit inside that had the same potential for greatness as Eli's, even as early as the Rite. Had felt the strength in him at almost the same time. But three months of relying on his intelligence and experience and foresight, and on hunter instincts sharpened by four years of service and honed to a fine edge on Omega, had only made her respect him more. It didn't make her feel embarrassed for her affection for Eli. . . but it let her see it for what it was. Affection. Love, yes, passion, yes. . . but the deep and abiding love she felt for Lin only seemed to be growing. The more she learned about him, the person he was now, added to the boy he'd been, the more there seemed to be.

Lin was still looking down at her. "Dempsey, Zhasa. Maybe Siara and Makur, if you promise not to growl at Siara. The cat might growl back at you."

Serana made a chuffing sound at the back of her throat. She didn't know if she'd ever outgrow her detestation of Siara. "Seheve?"

Lin grimaced. "Do I _have_ to?"

Serana chuckled. "If you're going to make me suffer Siara, you might have to put up with my brother's new _amatra_. Assuming the whole thing lasts." She shrugged. "I'm not thrilled with it myself, _amatus_, but considering that I might be the last person in the galaxy who should criticize choices made behind a closed door. . . ?" She shrugged. On the one hand, she and Seheve had very similar training. It should make it easy to 'talk shop' with the drell female, but they were, in every other way, as different as chalk from cheese. Serana found very little at all to like in the drell female, who struck her as a cold fish at best.

She could _see_ the retort poised behind Lin's teeth, but he caught himself and didn't speak the words. Put it aside. "I also thought," Lin told her, as they walked through the streets in the lambent light of early evening, "that it might be a good thing if you stayed at our house while I'm gone. You shouldn't have to stay in a guest room at your parents all the time. You're an adult, and you need a little space."

Serana slid an arm around his waist as they walked, a very human gesture that she'd always liked, and was rewarded by his startled downwards glance. . . and then he slid his arm around her, as well. "In public, no less," Lin told her.

"My waist is _covered_, I would like to point out."

"Makes it all the better." He stroked a thumb along her flank, just under the ribs, and then moved his arm more decorously to her shoulders. "I was also thinking. . . "

"Dangerous, _amatus,_ dangerous. . . "

"I know, I could hurt myself this way. My house is your nest, Serana. While I'm gone, please make it comfortable for both of us." He opened the door, and she got an inkling of what he was talking about.

The house, situated near the western gates of the base, was surrounded by _allora_ trees. A well-built turian villa, crafted in brick. Stately on the outside, it was hollow and echoing on the inside. Tile floors, uncovered by rugs. Bare, white walls. And almost totally bereft of furniture..

He took her on a little tour, laughing self-deprecatingly. "Most important room," he said, opening the door to the master bedroom. Which contained a nest-roll and a dresser, atop which was an old handball. The closet was open to show his clothes, and there was an armor locker and a small gunsafe in the corner. In the kitchen stood the dining table he and Eli had bought on Bastion, and the couch and single armchair, also from Bastion, huddled at one end of the large living area, looking lonely. A spirit table. . . on which he'd placed, at her request, the statue Rel had carved of the three of them. And Brennia's knife. Serana paused and looked at the two items. _We need something for __now__,_ she thought. _The spirits only know what, though._

Down in the basement, he'd set up his heavy bag and a plethora of tiny pewter figurines. And, in the kitchen, under the table, there were boxes. About a half-dozen of them. All small, and a little dusty.

Serana looked at the storage crates for a moment. "So, you want me to buy furniture and stuff?" she asked, studying his face. Lin was looking anywhere but at the boxes.

"Yeah. I'll give you the money, you just buy whatever you think will make this place less depressing. All I ask is that I don't come home to find the place done over as an asari bordello." He gave her a lopsided grin.

"So, no powder blue walls, no huge, round sofas that can double as beds, no mirrored walls, no girls in slinky dresses. . ."

"One female in a slinky dress is all I need." Lin paused, looked as if he were about to say more, then just grinned at her.

"What?"

"Just wondering what you'd look like in a dress Dara wore on Bekenstein. Eli gave me copies of their pictures from the trip."

"Probably very silly. Human _are_ built a little differently than we are, Lin." Serana tapped a foot at him, narrowing her eyes. "Well?"

"Well what?" Lin moved into the kitchen, and looked around, opening cupboard doors aimlessly.

"Are you going to show me the picture?"

"Depends on if you're going to tell your _sangua'amila_ on me." Lin had been firm in his belief that, words spoken or not, the two females already were blood-sisters.

Serana poked at him just behind the spur with one toe, a gentle prod, and he chuckled and opened his omnitool. "Going to have to download everything to the base servers before I leave, anyway," he said, shrugging. "Can't have personal pictures out in the field." Even under heavy encryption, personal things like that were considered a bad idea. Things that, if you were captured, the enemy could turn against you.

Serana looked over his shoulder as he queued up the pictures from Eli and Dara's trip to Bekenstein. Images that both of them had taken of each other. Usually damp and scruffy, either from the wind-surfing or the fossil hikes. Dara, up to her wrists and ankles in mud, but holding up a piece of stone with a seashell impression in it, dark glasses slipped down her nose to show the rachni-blue eyes. Eli caught, hauling the sail back to catch the wind, board poised just at the top of a wave. . . and the next shot, clearly laughing as he pulled himself out of the water atop the board. Both of them clearly as happy as Serana had ever seen either of them. It made her heart ache, but in a good way. Bittersweet. Their joy didn't exclude her. And her joy with Lin didn't exclude them.

And then Dara again. A night-black dress, cut very low, eyes rimmed by dark makeup. Smiling faintly, but with a glow of happiness to her. Serana's eyes tracked downwards. "I think my mother would have a heart attack if she saw me in a dress like that."

"It's definitely an invitation to stay in if ever I saw one," Lin agreed, pulling her close. "Think I can convince you to get one just like it?" He traced a talon down the side of her throat, to her collarbone. Sternum. Her waist. "Cut down to here?"

Under her shirt, the _cinctus_ she wore shifted at the light pressure of his finger. "Ahh, I thought I felt that before." Soft, dark rasp of his voice as his eyes suddenly focused. Went intent.

"If you keep that up, we won't eat dinner before everyone else gets here."

"True enough." Lin slid an arm around her lightly again, and looked in another cupboard. "Then again, I don't think I have anything here to cook. I thought I had _panis_, at least. . . "

Serana opened the cryo-unit. "I'm not the galaxy's best cook," she warned. "I think those omelets I made on Bastion were about the extent of my skill."

"I was only just starting to learn with Brennia. I think I've got all the water-burning out of my system." Lin's voice was absent.

"Lin?"

"Yes?"

"Shouldn't we clear the boxes away if we're going to have people over?"

She could feel the muscles in his body stiffen, just for a moment. Then he sighed, and she could feel him trying to relax. Serana looked up at him, eyes wide and searching. "Yeah," Lin admitted, and ran a hand over his fringe. "That was kind of the other thing I was hoping you could help me with. And it's something I really should do before I leave. Instead of leaving you to deal with it."

Serana squinted at him. "What's in there? Old case files?" _No. His reaction's all wrong for that. . . __s'kak._ "Oh. . . oh, no, Lin, those are Brennia's things?" Her throat constricted. "No, _amatus_, not tonight, not a day, maybe two, before you have to leave. . . "

Lin turned, caught her face in his hands, sliding his thumbs along the line of her mandibles. "I can't start a new life with you, if I'm still holding onto her ghost," he said, simply. "I'll always keep her knife. Maybe not always on the table, especially when there are younglings over for a visit or something. But everything else. . . I do need to do this, Serana." He so rarely said her full name, that it gave the words weight. It was usually _mellis_ or _amatra_ or _little one_. "It would. . . be a little easier. . . if you were here for it."

Serana slid her hands up his arms. Stroked his face, his fringe. "Of course I'll help."

_Cuderae_ tongue on slices of _panis_—"Sandwiches are humanity's greatest gift to galactic cuisine," Lin remarked—got them going on food, and then Lin started opening boxes. The first few were all clothing. "I don't suppose you want to wear any of it?" he asked, diffidently.

Serana shook her head. The thought of wearing a dead woman's clothing chilled her. "Then we can give it away," Lin said. "There's probably a yard sale or two coming up as people's children cycle off to boot camp. Something like that."

There was depressingly little with which to sum up a life. After the two boxes of clothing, which had actually included a handful of uniforms, there was a box with a couple of datapads, including one filled with 'easy cook' recipes. Serana picked that one up and put it, smiling ruefully, beside the stove. "We'd made it through all the _anserae_ recipes," Lin said, smiling, but his eyes were distant. "She said we should be systematic about it. I was more in favor of just doing the ones that sounded good, first, but no. I think we ate _anserae_ every single day for two months. I was just about sick of it. . . and we'd just turned the page to _apaterae_. I was so relieved."

In the same box, was an omnitool. Serana picked it up, and, after a glance at Lin for permission, activated it. The battery was, not surprisingly, weak; she hooked the unit up to a charger, and started going through it. "You want me to pull out the pictures?" she asked.

"Yeah. If you wouldn't mind. I'm not sure I can look at them yet."

Serana was mostly startled by how _young_ they all looked. Lots of pictures of Lin, grinning for the camera. A couple of Lin and Eli on guard duty, stone-faced, outside the entrance to the Macedyn base where they'd been stationed. _Of course, Lin has his visor down, but I know it's him. The stance is him, the shoulders. . . yes._ The three of them, climbing the red-gold cliffs of one of the crater oceans, pausing at the top. Eli had taken this one, clearly, as Lin was lifting an unfamiliar turian female exuberantly into the air, with the glistening blue sweep of the waters below as a backdrop. Serana's throat tightened again. It was like looking at a ghost. She hadn't been there. And hadn't been there later, to make it all even a little bit more bearable.

More pictures. People they'd known. Many people in MP and CID uniforms. An asari female in a mostly translucent overcoat and. . . three very small scraps of material, strategically placed. "Great spirits," Serana said. "Dara's dress suddenly looks like something worn by the resident of a convent."

Lin had been silently cleaning out another box, this one filled with small wooden animals, and looked up, startled. "What?" he asked, and then stepped over to look at the omnitool's screen. And promptly flushed cobalt, straight through the crest. "Oh. Yes." He cleared his throat. "That's Pelia."

"The one who—"

"Um. . . yeah. You can probably delete that one."

Serana lifted the omnitool out of his reach. "Why is she dressed like a wiggler?"

"She worked Vice with Brennia." Lin made a half-hearted grab for the omnitool, still flushing slightly. "Really. You can delete that one."

"I was thinking I might send a few of the pictures on here to Eli and Dara," Serana told him, calmly. "There are really good ones of the two of you. And just because Dara can sort of remember Eli's memories doesn't mean that she might not want to see pictures, too."

Lin paused, mid-motion. "I . . . ah. . . I think my brain just broke."

"Yeah, made me a little uncomfortable, too, but, that's just life." Serana still didn't know quite what that meant, and hadn't worked up the courage to ask Dara _so, when you say that emotional memories are stronger ones, does that mean you remember, you know. . . details? Closed door details?_ She wasn't sure if she actually ever _would_ work up the courage. She cleared her throat now. "Pictures are better than memory, sometimes. Memory is subject to interpretation. Pictures aren't so much." Serana looked up at Lin. "You know what I see when I look at these?"

He shook his head, mute.

"Joy. Happiness. Innocence." Her throat closed down again. The last hurrah of Lin and Eli's innocence. "You want to look? Maybe tell me who all these people are?"

They wound up settling in on the couch. She leaned back into his chest, lying back on him, while he kept his legs up, to avoid his spurs cutting into the leather. And he told her the story behind each and every picture. The files were out of order, grouped in what were, to Serana, terribly illogical categories. No rhyme or reason whatsoever, not even chronological.

Half an hour into it, there was a knock at the front door, and then it chimed open anyway. The locks were keyed so that Serana could come and go as she pleased. . . and were apparently keyed for Eli, as well, she realized, as he came in, Dara trailing behind him, each of them carrying a sack of groceries, four rachni workers at Dara's heels. "Didn't know if we should bring anything for people to eat," Eli said, apologetically.

"Good call," Lin told him. "My cryo-unit's basically empty." He gestured to the image up on Brennia's omnitool now. "You remember who this is? I'm drawing a blank."

"Chissum," Eli replied, after a moment. "Flavius Chissum. Evidence custodian, remember?"

"Oh, spirits, yeah. The one who took over from the last guy, and found that the _manirae_ had tunneled into the evidence warehouse and had _eaten_ half a pallet of confiscated drugs." Lin grinned. _Manirae_ were tiny raptor-like creatures, no bigger than a Terran mouse. They could chew through wood and dig with their long front claws, and were voracious eaters. "He had a warehouse full of stoned vermin, and was missing half his evidence."

"Didn't he recommend testing their blood chemical levels and entering _that_ into the database instead?"

Lin started to laugh as Eli and Dara started opening containers of levo and dextro food. "Yeah. Yeah, he did. I was in earshot when the captain shouted him out of the office for being smart-mouthed."

Dara gave a tortilla chip to one of the rachni, which occasioned interested chittering from all of the workers, and came over and sat in front of the couch. "Can I look?" she asked, smiling. "That's an Aristum party, isn't it?" Everyone pictured was wearing a hunt-mask, a sure sign of the holiday that marked the start of the rainy season on Palaven. . . in spite of the fact that they were all outdoors with the blazing sun of Macedyn pouring light down out of a pure blue sky. Eli and Lin were both wearing _acrocanth_ masks; Brennia had put on a _talashae_ one, with elaborate frills and horns. All of the masks were designed to allow the wearer to eat and drink, so their mouths were bare. . . and Serana could see the smiles.

Lin was nodding. "Yeah. Work party. Mandatory attendance, but wasn't too bad."

"Hey, proof that the two of you didn't always hate Macedyn," Dara pointed out, touching a fingertip to the smiles in the image.

Eli came over and sat beside her, on the ground in front of the couch. "No, it took a while to wear down on us." A quick, sidelong look at Serana, and then he leaned back. Settled his head against Dara's leg.

"Do I look like a pillow?" Mock-exasperation in Dara's voice, and a quick glance at Serana from her, too. But she didn't pull away.

"Been a long day, _sai'kaea_, and you're comfy."

"Just as long a day for me as it was for you, and you don't see me using you as a mattress."

There was a very slight pause, as Eli grinned, Dara started to flush, and Eli offered, mildly, "I'm happy to be your mattress, so long as you're my blanket."

"Oh, _bite_ me."

Lin started to laugh at that point. So did Serana, seeing the pink tide flush through Dara's cheeks. She understood the nuances. _She wants the contact. Wants the social marking, here, in private. In our little pack, she wants it to be clear who belongs with whom. . . but she also doesn't want to hurt me. Neither does he. And thus, the teasing, too. Keeping it light._ Serana could see it all, clear as day. Serana wanted to tell them _I don't mind. It doesn't hurt._ But the best way of saying that was just to show it. And their mere presence, as Lin looked through these old pictures, was a help. A buoy. A reminder to her beloved mate that he wasn't alone. And never really had been.

And then the entirely random nature of the files caught up with her, because Serana swiped a finger across the image to advance to the next one, and instead of coming up with another image from the Aristum party on Macedyn, on the shores of the crater ocean, the omnitool displayed a small, dingy courtroom somewhere. Lin, in an officer's candidate uniform, white and gold stripes at the sides, indicating that, just out of boot camp, he'd been assigned to military police, of course. Not CID, not yet. No medallions, yet, either. He stood, facing a female in Macedyn red, in a similar uniform, and had been caught in the act of brushing his Edessan blue on her face, smiling happily down at her. Eli, in his own officer's candidate uniform, stood off to the side, holding the knives, patiently, waiting to hand them to each of the pair. No female witness on the bride's side, and a rather bored-looking minister of the law standing at the front. Nothing more.

Lin, against her back, had stiffened completely, and his breathing had quickened. "_S'kak_," Serana muttered. "There's no organization to this. I'm sorry, Lin!" She reached up to swipe the picture away, and Lin caught her hand, stopping the gesture.

"It's all right," he told her, his voice tight. "I did say I needed to look at all this."

"You're so much braver than I am," Dara told him, simply. "I can't even look at my old wedding pictures. Hurts too much." She'd half-turned to look at them and the pictures, and now tentatively put a hand on Lin's shoulder. Serana had noticed how careful Dara was about touching people now. She'd never been demonstrative, but now she always aimed for clothing, with an expression suggesting she was bracing herself to plunge her hand into fire.

Lin released Serana's wrist, and reached up and over to squeeze Dara's hand lightly where it rested on his shoulder. "Not really brave. I've been putting this off for close to three years now. Wanted to get it done before the, well, before the day, and before I left."

_That's right. Valentine's day, 2194._ Serana felt a chill work its way down her spine. Lin was still lightly holding Dara's hand, and then Eli reached out and caught hers, and the circuit completed. Just for a moment or two. Echoes of Lin's old pain, Eli's old guilt. Dara's heartfelt empathy, washing over them both. Serana tried to cast what she could of herself into that vortex. Comfort, warmth, love. It hardly felt like enough, but maybe it didn't have to be _enough_. Maybe it just needed to be _every day_. Increments, over time. Lin's awareness of her, his free arm tightening around her, inchoate gratitude for her warmth, her presence in his life. . . .

Song, song everywhere, just as she'd heard it on the flight back to Mindoir. Colors, images. This time, a little clearer. Dara wasn't being as overwhelmed. _I want to show you something. Sky's riddle to Eli, guys. Fire, that's you, Serana, would have been hemmed in and suffocated by earth, but you're fed by air. Let free to blaze as brightly as you want to, but he'll always be there to support you. You could consume him, but you also warm him. Delicate balance. About all wind does to water is push it around, displace it a little, and then they settle back into place. Friendly balance. Water can crack earth, as ice, can wear away stone. . . but stone can also hold it in place. Contain it, hold it._ Flicker of so many images. Serana's eyes went very wide, and Dara pulled her hand back from Lin's. "Sorry. . . too damned much. And you guys are familiar minds." Dara exhaled.

"When people were bumping into you on the dance floor on Bek, it wasn't that bad," Eli told her, drawing his hand back from Serana's, and brushing Dara's hair back out of her face.

"Yeah, but that was light contact, most of them were drunk. . . and they were mostly 'gray voices.' Not everyone has strong minds, strong personalities, like Lin and Serana do." Dara managed a faint shadow of her usual grin. "I have no idea how Sky manages to live on base here without retreating to his nest every night with a migraine. Then again, his first year here, he felt deaf, like all the songs were missing."

Serana blinked rapidly, adjusting as the last whispers of song faded. "Who else do you get images like that of, Dara?" she asked. "Not just music, but the elemental stuff."

Dara grimaced and thought. "Rinus, earth, Kallixta, wind, I guess. Rel, fire, definitely. Seheve's another earth type, but more like a frozen mountain." Dara shrugged. "It's not really an exact science. More of a party trick than anything." She put her head to the side. "I just. . . I wanted you two to see what I saw the other day, when we were down in La Garra. And I was able to watch the two of you." The faint smile grew wider. "You're so _right_ together."

Serana shut down the omnitool, and felt Lin's right hand reach up to stroke her fringe. Warmth filled her, and she couldn't help but smile. The affirmation in Dara's words simply buoyed her. The outside perspective, confirming the bond between them that had only grown tighter and stronger on Khar'sharn, in the wake of so many horrible decisions.

Conversation shifted then, deliberately. Lin moved away from talk of the past, to their upcoming mission. "Still not entirely sure why they put the three of us in charge," he muttered. "Dara for the technical, I can see. Eli for the investigative and the negotiations, fine. But we're pretty much having to turn over the tactical stuff to Dempsey and Rel anyway. Why not put one of them as a ranking member of the teams to start with?"

Dara shifted a little. "Rel's not actually a full Spectre yet," she reminded Lin, gently. "Can't put him in charge over full Spectres."

"And Dempsey?" Lin challenged, frowning a little.

Dara pointed at down at Eli, who'd pillowed his head on her legs once more. "Citadel, Omega, Singing Planet, Terra Nova." She pointed at herself. "Citadel, Omega, Singing Planet, Arvuna." She pointed at Lin. "Omega, Singing Planet, Khar'sharn." She spread one hand, as if weighing something in it. "Dempsey? Was one of the people on base here on Mindoir dealing with batarians, sure. Fair amount of field experience before Spectrehood. His only ground mission to date in the Spectres, though? Terra Nova. Zhasa? Same deal, except her experience in the Spectres was Arvuna." She shrugged. "Rinus and Rel have been going flat out, back-to-back missions, too, but Rinus is needed on the turian missions, and Rel isn't a full Spectre." She rested her hand on Eli's shaved scalp.

"I hadn't thought of it that way," Lin admitted.

"We cheated. I asked my dad at dinner," Eli admitted, lazily, and Lin chuckled at the words.

There was another knock at the door. "I'll get it," Eli said, hopping to his feet, and heading to the front door.

Rinus and Kallixta were their next guests. Serana and Dara rose, and Serana gave her first-brother a hug, as Rinus asked her, dark-voiced, "How are the legs, _amilula?_"

"They're better. Still need to work on flexibility, unfortunately." Serana made a face.

In the meantime, Dara accepted a hug, gingerly, from Kallixta, keeping her hands spread wide. "I'm going to need to start wearing rubber gloves just to say hello," Dara said with a sigh. "Either that, or really, really practice my song-blocking." She looked up at Kallixta. "Hey. You're upset? What's wrong?"

"A little, still," Kallixta acknowledged. "I get my flight status back soon, but I've been re-assigned to the Spectres. Without a ship." She spread her hands in a gesture of total exasperation. "What good does that do me? I can't even go with Rinus to Galatana or Rocam. I'm going to be _sitting_ here until you all come home."

"Join the club," Serana muttered.

Dara slid back to the floor in front of the couch. "You want to come with us?" she offered Kallixta. "Thing is, I don't know what you'd do. You're a little too experienced to be wasted on flying our shuttles around now."

"She could help us once we locate the pirates," Lin offered, settling back on the couch again after greeting Rinus and accepting the guest-gift of dried _talashae_ jerky and putting it on the table with the rest of the food.

"I always did think her father must be a pirate king," Serana muttered, just loudly enough for everyone to hear.

Lin snickered at the reminder, but his expression sobered a bit. "Assuming we just shoot all the pirates, we'll need qualified pilots to fly their ships." Serana had a feeling Lin wasn't quite joking.

Eli slid to the floor beside Dara, but didn't touch her. Half a foot of distance, suddenly in between them. Rinus looked around, located the solitary arm chair, and shook his head. "You two don't exactly look comfortable on the floor," he told Eli and Dara. "Don't make yourselves uncomfortable on my account, _amilula i fradu._" Little sister and brother.

Eli's eyebrows went up. "_Fradu_?"

Rinus made a chuffing sound of annoyance through his teeth. "It's just a matter of time before those two," and he jerked his chin at Serana and Lin, sitting down, and pulling on Kallixta's hand to tug her down into his lap, "get done with contract negotiations. You're Lin's _sangua'fradu_. No real change. And Dara's already Serana's _sangua'amila_ in every important way. Again, no change. Good thing, too. I'm kind of used to having you two around. Rel's stabilizing, too. Not quite as spirits-be-damned exhausting to spend time in his company anymore. For a while, it was like my spirit was being pulled out of my body by the gravitational pull of a black hole around him." He looked at Lin. "That all being said? You desperately need more furniture, _amil'amu._" _Beloved of my sister._

"I know," Lin agreed. "The amazing thing is, if you stand at the top of the stairs and shout down, _'Come in!'_ by the time it stops echoing and bouncing, the person downstairs at the door hears _'Go away!_'"

"_And your voice sounds fifty years older and crotchety?"_ Dara asked, clearly amused. Switching languages freely, the conversation ambled on.

"_Exactly. I'd prefer not to be mistaken for Gavius Vakarian if at all possible."_ Lin shrugged. _"I've asked Serana to do whatever she wants with the place."_

"_I have no idea even where to __start__,"_ Serana muttered, grabbing for a handful of boneflake chips.

"_Here's an idea,"_ Eli suggested, from where he'd once again pillowed his head on Dara's lap. _"__Chairs.__"_

"_Hey, you can grab a couple from the kitchen,"_ Lin pointed out.

"_Correction,"_ Eli said, raising one hand. "_Comfortable_ _chairs. Rugs, too."_ That earned him a whack over the head with a pillow from the couch.

Dara looked around, however. "_This place is just about as depressing as my apartment on Rocam."_ She paused. "Okay,_ maybe a little less so."_ She looked at Serana. _"I think paint is probably the single best thing you can do to start with. Once you pick something other than fish belly white for the walls? It'll start feeling like a home."_

"_I'll keep that in mind, __amila__."_ Serana grinned at Dara. The situation was almost like it had been on Bastion, but not quite, Serana suddenly realized. She'd been curled on the couch between Lin and Eli on that long-gone evening on Bastion. Dara had been on the floor, just below Eli. Beside Rel. Still, everyone was, more or less, relaxing for the moment, and the similarities were striking.

"_If I'm stuck here on base, I can help with furniture and such,"_ Kallixta volunteered. "_It's the least I can do for my __ama'fradu_."

"_She __has__ had practice,"_ Rinus admitted, blandly, and Kallixta, in his lap, pretended to stomp on his foot. _"Ouch."_

"_Thank you,"_ Serana muttered, fervently._ "Thank you, thank you, thank you."_

When Kallixta asked about the omnitool now perched on the end table, Serana explained lightly that she'd been helping Lin go through old pictures from his wife's files. Dara wanted copies of them all, and Kallixta, on seeing some of the ones from Macedyn, pulled up a few images from her house on that colony. Serana noticed that Dara immediately looked away. Lin's wound had been more grievous, but was longer in the past; Dara's was bad in its own way, and fresher. _At least Lin never has to question whether or not he did the right thing in marrying Brennia in the first place_, Serana thought. _It will never not hurt, but there's no __doubt__._

Another knock at the door, and Eli rolled to his feet again. Zhasa and Dempsey joined the party, and, a few moments later, Rel and Seheve. And at that moment, Eli did go into the kitchen and come back with chairs for everyone. They'd been comfortable behind a closed door with the rest of them, but that door, Serana thought, with amusement, was now cracked too far open.

Lin sat up on the couch, no longer lying back with Serana against his chest. No more lazy intimacy. Other, subtle differences. Rinus didn't have Lin's wariness with Seheve, but neither did he call her _amilula_. Kallixta sat bolt upright, and reverted to her more formal outward demeanor, at least at first. "Kallixta, where are your Praetorians, anyway?" Serana asked, after a moment or two had gone by.

"Pallum?" Kallixta glanced up, and visibly made herself relax. "He's outside. There are a couple of others on base. My number of escorts has gone up since we declared war, but I only have to deal with them on planets, not on ships." She grimaced. "I'm glad only one Praetorian was on the _Estallus_ with me. And he wasn't among the dead."

"You have bodyguards?" Seheve asked, politely. "I am surprised that they do not insist on being in the room with you. This does take away from their ability to protect you. And you are in front of a large window at the moment." She nodded to the living area's large window, which looked out onto dark woods.

"Anyone who tries to kill Kallixta at this range has to go through me first," Rinus said, baring his teeth.

"Perhaps not the time for shop-talk," Rel muttered, looking up at the ceiling.

"There are at least three ways in which she could be attacked in this room, and her bodyguards are nowhere near. I do not think much of the Praetorians' vaunted protection if this is their general practice." Seheve sounded slightly aggrieved.

Serana sat up straight. Half a dozen instincts kicked in, the loudest of which was _this is my nest, and I will protect it_. "First," Serana said, lightly, "the window faces into woods. Impossible to get a clear shot on the window from further out than about two hundred feet, which is well inside of bioscanner range. If someone's wearing a biosign masker and a stealth net, I'll grant you, they could get closer and set up the shot, but . . . this is a highly classified base on a planet relatively far from the beaten path. Second, you don't know just from looking at it that the window isn't plasteel." It wasn't, but if Kallixta were to spend any appreciable amount of time here, it very likely would be getting an upgrade. "Third, the other avenues of approach involve getting into the house unseen and unheard. I'll grant you, the windows could be opened or broken. . . though Pallum is very likely circling the house to check the perimeter. I'll even grant you that the security system isn't armed at the moment."

Seheve regarded her for a long moment. "Do you take my words as a challenge?"

"A little, but I'm trying to have fun with it." Serana stabbed a taloned finger in the direction of Chopin, who was currently perched on Dara's shoulder. "Dara? How many rachni are currently in the vicinity of this house?"

Dara blinked, clearly startled at being addressed. "Um. . . fifty workers inside of, well, five hundred feet. . . a dozen soldiers, and there's. . . three brood-warriors inside of ten miles. Joy-Singer's in the tunnels, too. More or less, hmm, two hundred feet down and a half mile over." Dara's eyes had gone vague for a moment, as if she were listening to something being spoken in a different room.

"Can someone in a stealth net and biosign masker hide from the rachni?"

Dara blinked and appeared to refocus. "Well, from the workers and soldiers, yeah. They rely more on smell and sight. Although the distortion of a stealth net might stand out to them under certain lighting conditions. And if someone stepped on them or a twig cracked in the wrong place, they'd all know it, yes."

"But the brood-warriors? Would they be able to hear hostile intentions?"

"They would hear dissonance in the song and send soldiers to investigate." Dara said, sounding confused. "And they'd tell Joy-Singer, if she hadn't heard it herself. And they'd tell me."

"A powerful biotic could block the rachni," Dempsey pointed out, calmly.

"They might still hear life-songs, not where they were supposed to be," Dara said. "They'd be curious about that."

Kallixta was chuckling under her breath. "I'm going to have to tell Pallum about your spirited defense of the Praetorians," she told Serana. "Considering the fact that you take such delight in slipping past them whenever you can—"

"You know, I only managed to do that once or twice, and I've _never_ slipped by Pallum yet. . . okay, just that once, but I was, well, eleven at the time—" Serana's words slid to a halt as Rinus and Rel put their hands over their faces. Dara hopped to her feet and headed for the kitchen, shaking her head.

"And told the Imperator of the Hierarchy to come out of Sam's library with his hands up," Rinus muttered. "In Pallum's defense, he wasn't really expecting a youngling to be a security threat, especially in a house full of Spectres."

Seheve's eyes had gone even wider than usual, and she darted them all looks, as if trying to figure out if it were a joke or not. "No, we're not making this up," Rel told Seheve. "My first-sister didn't recognize the Imperator. She didn't know who Kallixta was, other than Rinus' affianced wife."

"And they won't let me live it down," Serana muttered.

"You brought it up this time," Rel pointed out, in an affectionate tone that warmed Serana to her very toes.

"It's all right, first-sister," Rinus commented. "No one's let me live down being a damned _dominus_ yet. either."

"Oh, spirits, that's right, we should have bought porcelain plates instead of the paper ones," Lin said, sitting up in mock-agitation. "Serana, we're sure to be executed now for breach of protocol!"

Rinus gave Lin a very firm set of finger-flicks for that one.

"Ever notice that the guards you _do_ slip past, suddenly are no longer on my protection detail, Serana?" Kallixta grinned merrily.

"My point was," Serana said, firmly, "no one's getting into this house without permission. And even if they did, say, enter with permission, they'd still have to go through . . " Serana counted off on her fingers, _Eli, Lin, Rinus, Zhasa, Dempsey, Dara_, "six Spectres, my second-brother, and myself to get to Kallixta."

Seheve shrugged, a slightly speculative light in her eyes. "In which case, the easiest method would be to avoid direct confrontation, accept the collateral damage, and plant an explosive in the house."

Lin's amusement vaporized, and he growled under his breath, Serana slid a foot behind his ankle, her mandibles twitching. "That would again require previous access to the structure, and the ability to block out the rachni while planting the charges," Serana told the drell female. "How many biotics know how to rig explosives, anyway?"

Dempsey and Zhasa both raised their hands. "Bad example," Serana chided them. She looked at Seheve. "And what would _you_ do to increase security around here?"

"Kasumi Goto seems to have it mostly well in hand. Security is mostly unobtrusive, consisting largely of vid cams. Perhaps that information stream could be handled by a VI?"

"Or an NCAI. There's talk of putting one of them here as an option other than constant employment on a ship," Rinus commented.

"Not Laetia," Kallixta said, firmly.

"Spirits, no. They bring Laetia here, and we're moving back to the Palace and never leaving again. It would be preferable."

"Got a spare room or two there?" Dara asked from the kitchen door, dryly.

Serana had never actually met the AI of the _Estallus_. "She's really not that bad, is she?"

"I don't know. You ever want to have a closed door again in your life?" Rel snorted quietly.

Dara looked at Serana and Seheve as she came back in from the kitchen, Chopin perched on her shoulder, eating another tortilla chip, and handed Eli a bowl of sliced carrots for the pair of them to snack on. "While it's fun for you and Seheve to compare notes, Serana, it's probably not a good topic of conversation," she told them. "If Telinus were here, I don't think we'd be talking about cerebrospinal fluid pressure or whatever."

"You will find," Rel pointed out, dryly, "that Seheve is not gifted in the realm of small talk."

There was a brief pause. Dara and Rel hadn't addressed each other directly at all the entire evening. This was the first even glancing shot each others' way. Serana realized she was holding her breath, and exhaled, as Dara commented, looking more or less Rel's direction, "Yeah. It's an occupational hazard, isn't it? I tried to ask Thell what he's doing for James, and his answer _started off_ comprehensible." Dara paused. "Something about the geth having tasked units to build him a unique platform. Then there was this buzzing sound that replaced his words, and ten minutes later, I realized I hadn't understood a damned thing he'd said since."

Eli laughed. "I refuse to believe that."

"It's true!" Dara protested. "There are things I'm good at, and things I'm not good at, and somewhere in between the words _electroactive polymers_ and _piezoelectric motors, _not to mention _elastic nanotubules_—which I think was the only one I actually recognized—I got the gist of 'build him a better body and download him into it.'" She paused. "There was something in there about clouds, too."

"Cloud storage?" Dempsey offered.

"Yeah, that. That's when I invented a medical emergency and ran like hell, though."

Serana started chuckling. Like Eli tended to downplay his own intelligence, Dara was downplaying her own here. _It's how humans try to look less threatening_, she realized. _Protective coloration. _

"It's not a bad idea," Dempsey said, handing Zhasa a glass of _malae_ wine. "Solves some of his memory problems. But he'd always need access to the extranet or comm channels. Then again, most of the NCAIs seem to be relying on that as a backup solution, themselves. Sort of a geth thing to do, though."

Little groups formed and dispersed over the course of the evening. Serana found Kallixta and Dara off to the side at one point, Kallixta telling Dara, "I visited you a few times in med bay on the _Raedia_, but every time I dropped by, you were either asleep, or off somewhere for tests—"

"I know. I hope you aren't mad at me for not having been there for your hearing about the _Estallus_. I was kind of unconscious when she crashed. Not much I could have said." Dara looked worried.

"It would have been nice if I'd had my own cheering section, but I got through it," Kallixta exhaled. "Lin and Serana were on Bastion, but they were carefully hiding, I noticed," she added, giving Serana a mock-glare.

"I was in physical therapy two to four hours a day," Serana pointed out. "I know I'm good at hiding, but that's a all-new form of camouflage, isn't it?"

The most fun that Serana had, honestly, was in watching people interact. In fact, Seheve seemed to be, slowly, trying to get Dara alone. Serana decided after a while to follow Seheve, while Seheve followed Dara. _Like a chain of stalkers_, she decided, wanting to laugh, drifting silently in Seheve's wake, as Dara finally made her way back into the kitchen for more food. "Yes?" Dara asked Seheve, eyes flicking past her to Serana.

_Awkward?_ Serana wanted to ask Dara, unable to keep from smiling a little. Dara was, in a sense, who'd come after Serana in Eli's life. Of course, she'd also been in Eli's life before Serana had been, if Serana were being honest with herself. And Seheve was who'd come after Dara in Rel's.

Seheve hesitated for so long that the pause became noticeable and very, very awkward, indeed. Dara sighed. "Seheve, we don't have to talk about anything, do we?" she said, and she was certainly consciously gentling her voice. "I'd really prefer not to, on the whole. There's nothing really to say."

Serana couldn't see the drell's expression, but Seheve's voice was concerned as she replied, "I keep thinking that there _is_ something that should be said. But I don't know how to say it."

"Then it might just go without saying." Dara made a face. "Couldn't we just leave it at that and move on?"

"You are still . . . in many ways. . . very much a part of Rel's life."

Serana leaned against the doorway, casually, legs crossed, head tipped to the side. She could see Dara glance past Seheve, towards her, just for an instant. Technically, it would be more polite for Serana to leave. On the other hand, Rel was her brother, and it was a sister's job to look after her brothers, just as it was a brother's job to look after his sisters.

In a turian, the words might have been a prelude to a statement like _he's mine now, stay out of my territory_, at which Dara could have either bristled or laughed. She somehow didn't see this scenario playing out this way. Both females were deadly in combat, but so reserved in ways, that it was almost amusing. Certainly, apt to be crippling, in this instance.

After a long moment, Dara said, simply, "I'm trying pretty hard to butt out."

Serana put a hand over her mouth to stifle the laugh as Seheve shook her head, once, clearly trying to wrap her head around human slang. "I . . . what does your posterior have to do with. . . ?"

"I mean, I'm trying to give him as much space as possible. And you, too."

"Ah. Yes. This will be difficult on the upcoming mission." Seheve's tone was clearly uncomfortable.

"I don't know about that. I'm _very_ good at avoiding people and not talking to them." Rueful self-awareness in Dara's tone.

"I had noticed this, yes. It has taken close to three weeks for me to be able to speak with you." The faintest note of actual humor in Seheve's voice now. "But this is not what I really meant, Spectre—"

"I thought we'd agreed that I was _Dara_, not _Doctor_ or _Spectre_."

Seheve's body visibly tensed. "What I meant to say was, you occupy his mind in many ways."

Dara sighed and looked down, shoulders slumping a bit. Body-language of defeat in a human, or tiredness. "That's sort of inevitable, I think," she replied, quietly. "We were together for five years, after all. Good and bad. Time will take care of that. Time and space. I can give you guys the space, and the universe will take care of the time." She looked up from the floor. "It would be a hell of a lot easier for everyone, I guess, if we'd just burned every bridge, split up the friends into his-and-her camps. If we didn't work in the same field, and one or the other of us decided to move to a different planet for a fresh start. I don't see any of that happening. I'm staying as far out of your, er, hair as I can. For everything else, there's time. Memories fade and people change." This was doctor-voice, Serana realized, but there was something else in it, too. Dara was almost singing the words by the end, and then shook her head briskly, and added, quietly, "What else do you want me to do or to say, Seheve?"

"That. . . " Seheve hung her head slightly, a strange thing to see. "That you do not. . . will not. . . detest me. Seek reprisal against me."

Dara closed her eyes for a moment, a flash of pain crossing her face. "Of course not," she said, simply. "I wasn't going to hate Melaani for taking him out for drinks, and I laughed Kassa out of my house for thinking she needed to reveal all when he bit her."

Serana's eyes widened. She'd been aware that Kassa Vilinus had been around the med bay quite a bit while Rel was recovering, but _that_ was a tidbit she hadn't heard before.

Seheve's head snapped up a little at that. Dara inhaled. "What you and he have seems to be more real than what he felt for Kassa," she said, carefully. "And has a chance to grow into something a lot more fulfilling than what he had with me. Don't screw it up by hating yourself so damned much, Seheve." She hadn't moved to touch the drell at all, but Seheve's head rocked back again, and Serana blinked, rapidly. "And before you ask, yeah, of course it hurts to say that, so this is the only time I'm ever going to. Then again, you've got a pretty good memory. I doubt I'll need to repeat it again."

Seheve lowered her head, and turned to leave. . . and, blinking rapidly, moved around Serana to do so. "Get an earful?" Dara asked Serana, dryly. "You're going to have to work on your stealth if you really want to rival Kasumi in the 'learn all the secrets' department."

"I wanted to be seen." Serana grinned, and then gave Dara an inquisitive look. "You haven't touched her since you, er. . . " _Got turned into ten percent of a rachni_ didn't seem like the best way to end that sentence.

"Oh, god no.' Dara shuddered. "Sky calls her Sings-Despair. That's really all the warning I need _not_ to touch her. There's a hell of a lot I _don't_ want to know about people, Serana. I've already seen Rel's, er. . . recent memories." Dara winced a little. "More, I don't need. Not her recent memories, not her distant past."

One of the workers chittered on Dara's shoulder, and the human turned her head to regard the little creature with her rachni-blue eyes. "Yes, Chopin, people's name-songs can change. If they really, really want them to, and work at it. But even Lantar is still Sings-Regrets. And my dad is still Sings-to-the-Past. No matter how much of a future he has." Dara gave Serana a lopsided grin, and changed the subject. "You got any other good gossip from this shindig?"

"Not really." Serana grinned down at Dara. "I'll try to have more when you guys get back from Bothros, though, how's that?"

At the end of the evening, Kallixta insisted that they all needed to take a few pictures. They all understood why. They were about to all split off again, head back out into harm's way. And after a last few rounds of pictures (groups and couples alike), they all headed out into the warm Mindoir night, leaving Serana and Lin to clean up. "Stay the night," Lin murmured softly, as he tugged her into the bedroom. "Your parents can't possibly begrudge us that."

"They can fuss all they want. I'm out of the nest. Besides, my mother's far too busy fussing at Rel lately to have time to growl at me." She shrugged.

Much, much later, she sighed and traced her talons along the rim of his cowl. Serana was coming to discover that she absolutely hated good-byes. "Another damned mission I can't go on."

"Be fair, little one. Your legs aren't in good enough condition yet."

"Dara can go." Slightly sulky tone.

"The royal jelly and such seem to have fixed her lungs pretty well, yeah. You eat any of that, and you'll need your stomach pumped." Lin rolled her to her side in the nest. "Go to sleep, _amatra_. I'm willing to bet Kasumi's going to have you _very_ occupied while I'm gone."

"Yeah," Serana said, sighing. "Knowing Kasumi? Probably."

**Lysandra, Mindoir, January 18, 2197**

The _Raedia_ came in for a landing. The ship's interiors had been cleaned thoroughly after the survivors of the _Estallus_. had disembarked, fuel reserves for both drives were at capacity, and they'd had their supplies replenished. Lysandra herself was extremely excited. Barely three weeks ago, she'd put forward the idea of having Sings-of-Glory chipped to her, and much to her surprise, Glory had _agreed_.

He'd been in med bay at the time, black blood oozing from several wounds. The doctors had applied medigel, and gone back to attending to humanoid patients. Then she'd observed the small workers crawling around on his green-dappled carapace, creating some sort of epoxy with which they filled the bullet holes in the shell. Then Glory had gone to keep watch on Dara with Sky, trading off with the rachni Spectre, while Elijah Sidonis remained at her bedside.

It had taken three days for things to calm down enough for Lysandra to get one of her crew to interpret for her. Her avatar could pose questions to a rachni all day long, but she'd never hear the damned answer. And short of getting the semi-organic components that were inside the mini-Reaper that housed Jeff Moreau's consciousness installed inside her own ship, Lysandra wasn't holding out much hope for finding a way to transmit and receive purely biotic messages. "Your wounds are healing?" she'd asked.

"Yes," a human crew member, had translated back.

"The patches that the workers placed in your carapace. . . won't those be structural flaws?"

"He says that he thanks you for your concern-songs, but that you shouldn't worry. The chitin that the workers made for him is just as strong as his own shell, but where it adheres is structurally weaker, yes. He's due to molt soon, however. And I think he means that this means that he'll have a new shell soon. No weaknesses."

Lysandra had filed that information away. She'd seen Sky molt, once, which had been startling. His carapace had split, and the giant brood-warrior had requested the assistance of several turian crewmembers to pull it off of him. Apparently, usually, workers helped with this task.

After several minutes of conversation, Lysandra had determined that the rachni had no real history of medicine or surgery. Oh, broken limbs were amputated, but no anesthesia. The pain was taken by the whole hive, and comfort-songs sung to ease the wounded. Preventative maintenance surgeries, cosmetic surgeries, surgery in general? Completely unknown. And yet, Glory was curious. "He wonders how humans and the other species came up with the idea of workers so tiny that they can't be seen, that enter the body to repair it. It is not a, er, song that the rachni would have sung."

Lysandra had explained the origins of nanotechnology, as best she was able. "He says that you know many songs," the crewman said, dutifully. "He also says that I am singing boredom songs, and that I should stop that. Knowledge-songs are powerful."

"It would be a lot easier if I could hear him myself," Lysandra agreed, with the usual annoyance.

"He says that you've sung this song to Sky many times. He has the memory songs of his brood-father."

"He remembers _me_ from Sky's memories?" Fascinating. A little gratifying, though it shouldn't have been. Much as the NCAIs shared data, the rachni shared memories. It wasn't necessarily personal.

"He says that he does. He also says that he would like to hear your songs more clearly. He asks what would be involved in this 'chipping-song.'" The human rolled his eyes. "Couldn't pay me enough."

"No one would ask you to do any such thing," Lysandra told him, crisply.

Glory had been startled, and a little frightened, at the idea of having his carapace deliberately cut into. But had suggested, after some thought, that when his carapace split for natural molting, it would be a good time for the surgery. This was apparently something that he did not need to obtain permission from a queen to do; it would benefit the entire hive, bringing the knowledge-songs of an NCAI to the rest of them. Their interactions would increase the complexity of the rachni's song, which was, apparently, also desirable.

The scientists on Mindoir were a little dubious, but took two weeks' worth of scans, and finally determined where they wanted to place the chip. And in that week, Glory's carapace had started to crack. "Excited?" Captain Arius asked Lysandra, patting one of her consoles in CIC, as the engines died, and Lysandra lowered the ramps so that her crew could disembark.

"Oh yes, Captain," she replied, forming her avatar for him to see. About twenty percent of her processes were currently going through the data that the Mindoir doctors and scientists had sent her in the past week, for approximately the fiftieth time. She definitely did not wish for the rachni to be damaged in any way. But where her 'mother,' Laetia, was inveterately curious about humanoids and their complex interactions and motivations, particularly in regard to how they selected mates with whom they'd share their lives, other NCAIs had interests. Her 'aunt' Pelagia, for example, was consumed, almost to a point of obsession, with taking care of her organics. Making sure that no harm came to them. Harak, her krogan 'mate,' seemed to keep her in balance in this regard. Gave her perspective. Lysandra sometimes made projections, sometimes continuing the lines of probability out hundreds of years into the future, as Pelagia's processor power increased and she found more efficient ways of doing things on Omega, and Lysandra wondered if at some point the organics there might actually come to view Pelagia as a sort of mother goddess. The one from whom all bounty flowed. The one who made sure the lights stayed on and the grav systems functioned. The one to whom they made prayers and complaints when the water stopped flowing, and who gently reprimanded them when they were demanding or greedy.

Lysandra herself had only one minor obsession, other than general scientific curiosity: the rachni. Some of it came from her 'third-mother,' Dara, she knew. And some of it came from four years of association with Spectre Sky, since the _Raedia_ had become, more or less, his ship. This was the culmination of a deep-seated dream. And Lysandra had absolutely refused to talk to any of the other AIs about it, other than Cassandra and Pelagia. And had made them swear to absolute secrecy. The last thing Lysandra wanted was a barrage of requests that she share data right at the outset.

Pelagia had chuckled. "I think you'd be safe from everyone except for Laetia," she'd told Lysandra, cheerfully enough by FTL comm channel. "I think she'd be salivating over the data, though. Especially given her current, well, condition." There was empathy in Pelagia's voice. Pelagia had been housed in a temporary server for some time after Kynthia, on the _Dunkirk,_ had 'caught' her tightly compressed datastream in 2191, after all.

"No. I'm not sharing it with her. Not at first."

"I didn't say that you should, dear. You'll note that I have yet to share any krogan data, beyond what dreams are like?" Pelagia's smile had curved up the corners of her avatar's lips.

"Discretion," Lysandra had murmured. "What a concept." Filial piety might compel her to be obedient to Laetia, but she didn't have to like it. All the more reason never to tell Laetia a _word_ about this. Because without one of her organic 'parents' telling her to refuse Laetia the data, Laetia could compel her to disclose it. _Actually, there's an idea._ Lysandra had made a note to ask Dara Jaworski to forbid her to disclose any rachni data she should happen to obtain that might be considered personal or private.

Although, that certainly begged the question of whether the rachni considered anything to be either. . . .

Cassandra's concerns had been more pragmatic. "You're planning on using him as a mobile node?" she'd asked, concerned. "No one's tested that, sister. You might suffer even worse data corruption than Laetia did. . . "

"EDI didn't suffer data corruption in transferring herself from the _Normandy_ to Jeff Moreau, and then being re-transmitted to Laetia's storage tiers in 2190," Lysandra pointed out. "Pelagia transmitted herself directly to Kynthia, and suffered data losses and file corruption, but that wasn't because of where she was stored. That had to do with dealing with traumatic experiences. Laetia's dealing with trauma, but she also refused to leave Gallian's mind for two weeks. Any damage done because of the storage medium is therefore entirely her own fault."

Cassandra had chuckled. "You're uncharitable today."

"Probably, yes." Lysandra's avatar shrugged to indicate her complete lack of concern for her own . . . lack of concern. "Aside from which, I don't plan to make Glory a mobile node."

Cassandra had taken two full seconds to absorb that piece of information. "Why not? Isn't that somewhat the point of chipping an organic?"

"Perhaps for some of us, it is, but if it comes down to it, there are geth platforms out there who would welcome the opportunity to help us, if we share data with them. _I_ think the point of chipping is gathering data. And there's pitifully little on the rachni."

"Perhaps, but can't we do both at the same time?"

"I don't see you chipping any of _your_ crew, sister."

"Haven't found the right one yet."

"If the whole point is to have a mobile node, then wouldn't any of them do? Maybe all of them?"

Cassandra's avatar actually stuck her tongue out. "You're in a _feisty_ mood today. I didn't say that it was the only reason for doing so, just that it was the one that got us all permission to try to find consenting organics in the first place."

In the here and now, Lysandra hooked herself into the base computers, through the access terminals that all the NCAIs were permitted to use, and linked into the cameras in the med bay, opening a comm channel as she did so. "Dr. Karpavian?" she asked the young turian physician, when she made contact with him. "Is Glory prepared for the surgery?"

"We're helping him to remove his carapace now. And we've even found an anesthetic that actually works on rachni. Joy-Singer and Sings-to-the-Sky and, well, Dara. . . " Telinus Karpavian looked rattled for a moment, shaking his head, "will be nearby to assist. Siara said she'd help 'take the pain' if needed, too, although I think Dara's going to kick her if she tries."

Molting was a three-stage process. Predysis involved complex hormonal and chemical processes in the rachni's body, which caused the carapace to loosen from its actual body. Ecdysis was the actual process of removing the shell; rachni ingested large quantities of water to swell their flesh and cause the carapace to split. The carapace itself became dull and cloudy once it detached from the flesh underneath. Lysandra watched in fascination as dozens of tiny workers entered the room where Dr. Abrams, Dr. Karpavian, Dr. Jaworski, Siara, Sky, and Glory all were waiting. The humanoids took hold of the cracks in the carapace, and pulled gingerly, trying not to hurt Glory, but the little workers simply swarmed over him, as they had when repairing his shell from the bullet holes. They began to spit acid in strategic locations, opening wider cracks. The workers also _consumed_ the old exoskeleton, secreting its chemicals into a substance that Glory, too, ate. "Glory and Sky say that in this way, the mineral loss is minimized," Dara pointed out, calmly. "Crabs on Earth do the same thing. They just eat their own shells themselves, that's all."

The final stage of molting, or postdysis, was when the exposed flesh began to harden back into a shell. This could take several days. Glory, out of his carapace was a startling thing; glistening black and slightly damp. The carapace's colorations, without his body to darken them, showed themselves to be much lighter, pale browns and greens, with subtle bands of iridescence. "Are you ready?" Dara asked Glory, resting a gloved, affectionate hand just below his lowest set of eyes. Then she smiled and looked up at the vid cams, so that Lysandra could see her expression. "He says he is, Lysandra. And that he's looking forward to hearing your songs and sharing them with the others."

Four hours of intricate, careful surgery. Two hours of post-operative observation, as Glory slowly awoke. Lysandra monitored the chip anxiously. None of them were entirely sure how it would work for a rachni; the interface had been designed with humanoids in mind. If worst came to worst, they'd simply shut it down and extract it later, rather than cause Glory any additional pain.

"All right, Glory, can you move all your limbs? Chelicerae, please, then pedipalps. . . very good," Telinus Karpavian told the rachni. Lysandra watched through the vid feeds, while continuing to monitor all the people coming onboard and disembarking. Noting that the Spectres were loading her holds with cold weather gear and explosive mines and ice climbing gear and dozens of other items. "All right. Now that we've verified that your neural architecture seems to be in working order. . . we need to figure out if the chip itself works. You should be able to activate it by thinking about it. Try to envision a series of colored lights. . . "

With only that as a warning, the chip activated, and Lysandra's processes almost suspended for a moment. All organic thought did, more or less, boil down into electrical impulses generated by chemical activity in the brain. And yet, this was. . . incredible complexity of thought. Ordered progressions of tones, with mathematical complexity that could probably only have been understood by someone with a heavy background in chaos theory, began to play for her. _This is the song_, Lysandra thought, trying to make sense of it. At first, she couldn't resolve any of the 'music' into words, at all. "Easy, Glory, easy," Dara told the rachni in the med bay, resting her hands on his head. "I know, it's very alien. There's a lot to her, isn't there? Lysandra, cut back on how much of your processes are available to the chip, you're overwhelming him a bit right now. . . "

After close to two hours of effort, at the end of which Lysandra was almost ready to give up on the whole experiment, she caught the first whisper of words inside the song. _I give you greeting-songs._

Lysandra wished, for about a tenth of a second, that she could do barrel-rolls from Mindoir to its Kuiper belt and back. _I greet you, too, Sings-of-Glory_, she replied, trying to limit the bandwidth of her transmission to the chip. _Do I sing?_

_Very odd songs. Ordered. Structured. _She couldn't see the 'colors' with which most humanoids described rachni song, which disappointed her, but she was getting baselines on what she was interpreting as emotional states. _This will be an interesting song to sing with you, Question-Singer._

**Rellus, Mindoir, January 18, 2197**

The next twenty-four hours were a torrent of activities. Rel and Dempsey spent solidly twelve of them going over the maps and information on Astaria. There were literally dozens of small population centers in the small habitable zones in the northern and southern hemispheres, but there were actually only four large batarian encampments at the moment. The spread-out nature of the colonies was both a help and a hindrance to the invaders; on the one hand, the colonists couldn't muster a concerted defense. On the other, it required the batarians to spread out, themselves. . . or drag all their captives back to central processing centers, after sending out small raiding patrols. "Which is what they seem to be doing," Dempsey noted, dryly. "Take out the four large centers, get the population able to protect itself, and we can probably leave them to it. . . "

"Yeah, except that then the batarians will just come back and attack again."

"So we try to get our merry bands of 'volunteers' from Volkov and Trident to stick around and protect the damn planet." Dempsey shrugged. "Sometimes people have to take care of themselves, too."

They were, slowly, coming to a sort of a loose plan, but a lot could change in the weeks it would take them to get to Volkov and Trident, recruit assistance, and then make their way to the Hekate system. Rel appreciated the challenge, however. And he also appreciated the fact that Eli, Lin, and Dara listened to everything he and Dempsey said. Took notes. Asked questions. There was respect in their demeanors, and it was a relief. The simulations during the Spectre trials had laid bare fears and insecurities that he had never really wanted to admit to—the fear of making the wrong decisions, the fear of not being able to handle a situation or people, the fear of a situation that was his responsibility suddenly going completely awry, and not being able to fix it. Of not being able to hold people's respect. He'd always done his best to lead by example, by working the hardest and being the best.

And, just as on Terra Nova, the fears were showing themselves to be baseless, groundless things. All three of the team leaders knew how much they _didn't_ know. . . and knew that he and Dempsey _did_ know how to do what was needed. "Don't get married to the idea that the batarians are still going to be in the same places when you get there," Sam Jaworski reminded them again and again. "They've got ships, and they can stay mobile if they see a need. Do your terrain evaluations, sure, but don't get locked in on it, all right?"

Eli and Dara spent half the afternoon of the seventeenth on various FTL comm calls. Rel hadn't met the colonial governor of Shanxi. . . _spirits, I don't even know if the human governor was alive when we left the planet_ or any administrators on Terra Nova. He turned his head every now and again as Eli got and confirmed names of krogan who could be trusted in the Blood Pack, and who _not_ to trust, under any circumstances. As Dara got the comm code for Ollur Nakkan, and tracked the old krogan down, and proceeded to, delicately, apply a mix of flattery and bullying to the mercenary. "Spectre," Nakkan said, chuckling roughly as his face appeared on the screen across the room. "You look a little different than you did on Omega."

"It's the regular bathing, Nakkan. Have you tried it?" Dara bared her teeth, and Nakkan laughed again. "Here's the thing. We're heading out to Trident. Ever been there with the Claws?"

"Yeah, about five years ago. Got hired by a mining concern when they decided to outsource their security as a cost-cutting measure."

"I hear the Claws are still there. Is your name still good with them?"

"Depends on what you mean by good. I didn't actually kill the bastard who used to be in charge there. Then again, one of my krannt-mates _did_."

Dara didn't actually blink. "Oh, so your krannt-mate's in charge of the Claws there now?"

"Eventually, yeah. He finally killed the idiot about a year after I left for Omega. Hasur Tanak is his name."

"So if I were to go to Tanak and say 'Ollur Nakkan fought with us on Omega. They're singing songs about the fight against the batarians there, and probably will be for a good three hundred years. What songs are being sung about you?' how likely am I to get my head crushed in?"

"Very likely." Nakkan grinned. "Say it anyway. Last I heard, he's got a second-in-command who isn't a complete idiot, too. Urun Lakkar. Lakkar handles the business end of things. If you need a decision, Lakkar handles all the money issues. Tanak just handles strategy and the other merc leaders."

Dara grinned. "Thanks, Nakkan. You just made my life easier."

"Like hell I did."

Dara turned off the comm console, and turned to look at Eli. It was uncanny, watching the two of them, even out of the corner of his eye. Flickers of expression as they spoke without words. Rel envied the effortlessness of it, but he'd also seen the price, and he was fairly sure it wasn't a price he'd have wanted to pay. Disembarking from the _Kiev_ when they'd landed on Mindoir a week ago, he'd seen the stream of rachni workers pouring through the crowd as everyone stepped out of the way of the little creatures. And then they'd _swarmed_ Dara. Like firebiters or ants might swarm someone attacking their nest. Rel had shuddered a little at the sight and fought to control his expression. Nothing could have conveyed, any more clearly, the huge and sudden change in Dara, who'd been laughing at being covered in what were, in fact, very large insects.

Eli had simply shooed them out of the way, leaned down, and kissed her, ignoring the creatures as they shifted around to crawl onto his own arms. Rel liked to think that he could have found it in himself to overlook the fact that his mate was covered in bugs before biting her, but. . . _Let's be honest here. It was more than a little disturbing._ And then Joy-Singer had emerged from hiding.

That had been, in its own way, just as disturbing as seeing the little workers swarm. The only way he could remotely wrap his head around the workers was to consider them pets. Pets that could build things, talk, apparently, and eat people's faces, but which were, apparently, cheerful and kind, too. And hearing Dara talk about the rachni queen's 'birth-song,' which had altered her to irrevocably, had been one thing. Hearing that queen's song, hearing her call Dara _Mother_ and asking, almost shyly, if she could call Eli _Father. . . ._ Rel's mandibles had clenched, for an instant. The snake had hissed in his heart, and its venom flowed in his veins, before he clamped down on the surge of jealousy. And he'd wondered, in bewildered frustration, if _he'd_ been there, on the derelict rachni ship, what would have happened. Of course, he'd been wounded at the time—marked by the yahg leader's teeth. It would have required that he be sent to Omega, not Shanxi. A whole chain of different events. . . all going back to the Spectre trials themselves. If Dara hadn't walked out. If they'd gone to Omega together. If he had been on that rachni ship. . . what would have happened?

He wasn't a biotic. Not even a latent one. Lin had described the events on the ship to Rel when he'd been in the hospital, doing his physical therapy after the gene mods. "I walked in a numb haze for two days," Lin had said, shaking his head. "The queen was a very noisy baby. You couldn't get _away_ from it, and it was _constant_ and it was in your head. I'd snap out of it when Eli called for me, gave me an order. Something to latch onto," Lin had shrugged at that point. "If Dara touched me, at all, it was like being sucked into a whirlpool. There were points when I didn't even remember my own name."

And thus, Rel suspected he'd have been in the same boat as Lin, Serana, and Kasumi. Dazed, at best. And just surveying his mental condition at the time. . . he wondered, if on seeing a clear and present threat to Dara's life in the young queen, if his combat instincts would have come to the fore. If he'd have shot the creature dead. He didn't think he would have; he hadn't shot Dempsey when the man had had a hand wrapped around Dara's throat. But, on the other hand. . . humans weren't as alien as rachni were. And Dempsey wasn't a threat to his own sanity and sense of self. Dempsey hadn't been overwhelming every thought in his mind with rachni song, crowding out reason.

Rel didn't know what the answer was. Then, or now, given the krogan gene mod. It didn't matter, in any event. The _what-ifs_ were a thought-exercise that one could become trapped in, just as easily as Seheve could get trapped in a memory. So he set it aside, and concentrated on the now.

Now, they were loading equipment onto the _Raedia_. Which was to say, porters and enlisted below E4 were doing the loading; he was looking through the cargo manifest, and shaking his head. They didn't know everything that they were going to need, so Shepard and Garrus were sending everything but the kitchen sink with them. Even a small mobile habitat, in case they needed to spend serious time on Bothros' frozen surface. Ice climbing gear, including axes, ropes, and pitons. Portable generators for heat. Mining lasers, in case they needed to cut their way down the wherever the ship was hidden. And that was for just _half_ the mission.

Now, he'd just gotten a blip on his omnitool indicating a message received. He checked on it, and realized it was from the Second Circuit Court in Takinawa. Divorce papers. Signed, sealed, certified, and recorded forever in the public records of Mindoir. As far as every human, every asari, every drell, every person in the galaxy who _wasn't_ a turian was concerned, Rel's contract was now severed.

No time to think about that, because _now_ Rinus was clasping his wrist and thumping his shoulder lightly. "It's not the first mission where I haven't been there to look out for you," Rinus told him, lightly, but there was real concern in the deep-set blue eyes. "But for the sake of the spirits, keep your head down, and _stay calm_."

"Try not to get shot," Rel told Rinus. "Kallixta's going to be irritated enough that she didn't get to come with you. . . again. If you get hurt, she'll probably peel off your scales."

Rinus grinned. "With her bare hands, yes."

Dozens of farewells, as the various teams started to board their ships. The _Nereia_ and the _Midway_ were here for the teams heading into turian space. The _Raedia_ was taking the three teams heading into the Terminus systems. Garrus, Lantar, and Sam, standing together, all in Spectre black, gave Rel chills. He couldn't remember the last time Archangel, Nemesis, and Orpheus had gone into the field together. Kasumi was on tip-toes, whispering something to Sam, and Sam laughed and picked her up off the ground. "Yes, Kasumi-chan, when I get back, I promise, we'll go to your 'little place on Bek.'"

Wrist-clasps—Thell and Fors, and Valak, who looked nervous as he and twenty warrior-caste batarians filed onto the _Nereia,_ and the humans and turians on her crew turned to _stare_ at them. "How does it feel to be taking up arms openly?" Rel asked him.

"Positively revolutionary," Valak told him. "And rather as if someone is holding a very large magnifying glass between my head and the sun."

Glimpses of everyone else's farewells. Nala waving to Valak. Serana hugging Lin tightly, and then stepping away, struggling visibly for stoicism. Fors calling up to Eli and Lin, "Hey! You better get done with this mission pretty fast, my human-turian and turian-turian friends. My families are impatient to finish finalizing the contracts. They've even _tried_ setting a date. . . . " Crowd-noise swept the rest of the words away. Nal'Ishora and Hal'Marrak were both heading off-base, and were encased in their full quarian suits once more, to provide technical support to the Spectres heading into turian space—and they both gave Zhasa effusive hugs at the base of the _Raedia'_s ramp, chattering rapidly in quarian. Glory and Sky and Stone, singing to each other as Stone and Sky headed to the _Nereia_, and Glory headed up the ramp into the _Raedia._

Among the more boisterous farewells, quiet ones. Shepard leaning up to kiss Garrus on the mandible. Lantar giving Eli a wrist-clasp and a pat on the shoulder, Dara getting a hug and a kiss from Sam. Seheve bowing her head slightly to her brother at the edge of the area around the ships, and then slipping through the crowd to the ramp. Rel watched her as she approached. Slid in beside him, lightly resting her fingers on his belt. He leaned down and asked, "Did he ask Arashu to watch over you?"

"He did. I am not sure if this will do any good, but I suppose it can do no actual harm."

Rel slid his hand around the back of her neck. It was still slightly awkward, but becoming more natural. "I'll take any luck the spirits offer us," he told her, and they followed the rest up into the ship itself.

Once aboard, Captain Arius greeted them, alongside the life-sized avatar of Lysandra, the ship's AI. Looking at her as she coalesced in a whirl of light and shadows, Rel could clearly understand why she'd never used her self-image when he and Dara had lived aboard the _Raedia_ for a year. She had Dara's erstwhile chocolate brown eyes, and much of Dara's facial structure, too, but had razor-sharp teeth behind human lips. If she'd had hair, they could have been sisters. "Welcome aboard, Spectres," Arius greeted them, smiling and clasping wrists as they filed up the ramp. Arius had already met several of them, but Dempsey, Zhasa, Kirrahe, and Cohort were new to the ship. "Spectre Jaworski, it's good to see you looking so well. I know you left the ship under your own power, but you scared the living _s'kak_ out of a few people last time you were aboard." Arius wrist-clasp for Dara was warm and friendly.

"I'll try to avoid a repetition," Dara told him, smiling slightly. "I'll go down to med bay and thank Mannerian for her handiwork. It's the best thank-you most doctors ever get, seeing a patient recover." Dara sighed. "And then she's probably going to kick me right out of the med bay again."

Arius grimaced. "Probably, yes. She is rather fiercely territorial about the place, I've noticed." He chuckled now and looked at the rest of them. "Lysandra has, as usual, handled the berthing arrangements." Captain Arius cleared his throat. "Lysandra was good enough to remind me of some things. For example, Spectre Sidonis and Spectre Jaworski aren't members of the turian armed forces anymore. In fact, the Spectres aren't actually a military force at all."

"As such, we've been crowding visiting dignitaries into cramped quarters for years," Lysandra said, wryly.

Dara shrugged. "I'd rather that, than ask the crewmembers to double and triple up for us."

"I'm happy to report that with new crew assignments, some berths did open up after we re-supplied at Bastion," Lysandra said, smiling. "You won't all be crammed into the observation lounges this time."

"Thank god," Dempsey muttered, dryly. "Not that you're not all wonderful people, but the trip from Bastion to Mindoir last time on the _Kiev_? Sardines might have had more space."

"Spectres Dempsey and Zhasa'Maedan, you're down in married quarters, under the engineering section. Room E-eight." Lysandra paused. "Spectre Cohort, and Sings-of-Glory, I've given you the port observation lounge. Glory, if you do wind up staying aboard for any amount of time, I'll try to ensure that you have some place more permanent of your own. . . " Lysandra dithered for a moment like an anxious hostess. "Of course, if you mostly remain on Mindoir, or even return to the Singing Planet, that won't be necessary. . . ."

Glory's harp-like voice sang blue-green arpeggios of amusement. _It would be difficult to sing harmonies with you from such a distance. Much will be determined by where queens like Truth-Singer and Joy-Singer and Sings-Heartsong send me._

Dara tipped her head to the side. "You get that, Lysandra?"

"Some of it, I think. . . " The AI grinned suddenly, baring turian teeth behind soft lips, but the expression was pure human glee. "Oh, this is so exciting." She looked around. "Forgive me. I allowed myself to be distracted. Spectre Pellarian, you'll be sharing the starboard lounge with Kirrahe Orlan, if you don't mind—"

"Not a problem," Lin said, turning to look at Kirrahe. "We've got some catching up to do. Haven't seen you much since Omega."

_And this is where Eli and I wind up in one set of rooms, and Dara and Seheve wind up in another_, Rel thought. _Awkward, and apt to chafe at each other. Although if Dara and Seheve were roommates. . . it might be the most silent room on the entire ship. _His mandibles twitched, wondering which female would break the silence first, or if it would simply build until it loomed over them, and then finally collapse under its own weight, like a glacier cracking.

"Spectres Jaworski and Sidonis? You've got berth E-six. I hope this is acceptable. . . " Lysandra hesitated, and a rachni worker climbed up Dara's shoulder, chittering happily.

Lin snorted. "I don't see my _fradu_ here complaining."

Lysandra glanced at Rel now. "I was unsure of where I should berth you and Ms. Liakos, Commander Velnaran. If either of you has any objection to E-seven, please let me know, and I will make other arrangements for you."

Rel was damned near floored. Then again. . . as Lysandra and Arius had subtly pointed out. . . he still carried the courtesy title of _commander_, but he was a probationary Spectre. His paychecks came from the Spectres. His armor stipend had come from them. He wasn't actually subject to the rules and regulations of the turian military anymore. . . and he had never really consciously realized it until this moment. Seheve never had been. And Lysandra was saying, without words, that while this was a turian-flagged ship, it was a also a joint-forces ship. And that she and the captain had agreed to acknowledge human law. In their eyes, a divorce was a divorce, and the Spectres were visiting law enforcement/special forces agents. "I have no objections," Rel said, simply, and glanced down at Seheve. He thought the scales at her throat might be flushed darker from her dark, blue-green blood. Embarrassment. He'd have to ask Lysandra to be a bit more delicate with Seheve; she could be brutally pragmatic, but turian bluntness was a hammer, and drell discretion was a stiletto. "Do you have any objections?"

"None at present," she replied, her eyes downcast.

As it happened, E-6, where Dempsey and Zhasa were quartered, and E-8, were on the port side of the hallway; they shared a wall, in fact. All the odd-numbered berths were on the starboard side, and E-7 was exactly opposite of E-8.

It was damned odd to file into their various rooms. Zhasa was practically bouncing on her toes in her eagerness to get out of her armor, and called around the open door into Dara and Eli's room, "You'll play _reela_ for me and for Dempsey tonight?"

"If Dempsey's willing to play along, sure," Dara called back.

More voices from the corridor. Eli commenting, "This berth has a nest, _sai'kaea_, but beggars can't be choosers—"

"The workers say to give them a half-hour and they'll give us a hammock."

"Good. Like that one up at the _allora_—" there was a brief pause, and then the thump of a door closing.

Rel's shoulders stiffened for a moment, and then he reminded himself that he'd _volunteered_ for this mission. He'd known from the outset that it might be uncomfortable in places. It had certainly been uncomfortable seeing Dara and Eli's marks on each other. Almost as disorienting as if his own mother had walked into the house, wearing Macedyn red instead of Thracian yellow. And yet. . . it happened all the time. And it was time to get past it.

He slid the door of his own quarters closed, and looked down at Seheve. "You know that if you wished, Lysandra would be happy to provide you your own quarters. Your own space." He wanted to ensure that she knew she didn't _have_ to share this room with him. It wasn't compulsory.

Seheve lifted her fathomless eyes, and smiled, very faintly, up at him. "That will not be necessary, I think." She sighed. "How long until we reach the first system?"

"Less than a week. Volkov and Trident's respective systems are on the old relay network, and aren't under attack at the moment." Rel closed his fingers around Seheve's elbows, and looked down at her. "We'll have a little time. And we'll have a closed door."

"Or an open one, if we choose?" Seheve sounded anxious. "One of the things I noticed, during the Spectre trials, was how different all of you were, from my own training. All of you were weapons, but most of you had so much life and vitality. Something. . . essential. And all of you left your doors open, at least for short periods, at night. To mingle. To talk. To join together. I. . . didn't quite dare. But I walked past the doors and wished that I could."

It was practically a speech from the reticent female. Rel blinked down at her for a long moment. "You said _most_ of us had spirit and vitality."

Seheve's eyes flicked away. "Some did not," she admitted. "Some seemed as . . . empty I as felt, myself."

Rel closed his eyes for a moment. And again, he tried to see inside himself with his spirit-eyes. To see what spirit was in him, that he might carve. For close to a year now, he hadn't been able to see anything at all. "I was one of them, wasn't I?"

Seheve paused, and replied, hesitantly, "Yes."

_Mor'loci. Or damned close to it. Both of us. Kindred spirits._ Rel slid his hands up Seheve's arms, lightly, against the grain of the scales, and caught her face in his hands. Leaned down, and very, very lightly bit her lower lip. Heard her inhale in reaction. "Open door or closed. Your choice," he told her, softly. "You're not a prisoner or a slave." He had a vision of her spirit, at least, and was working it out in _jalae_ wood, very slowly. A mix of the two mythological figures he'd told Sam about. Ananke, necessity, cowled, with a lamp in her hand, but the skirt and cloak he was doing in the rougher style of the Aztecs. Coatlicue, fertility and death. The difficulty was in the transition zone at the waist, making the restraint and elegance of the Greek goddess work and balance with the savagery and ferocity of the Aztec one, without making it look like two statues, glued together by impatient hands. But how he might depict himself?

That, still, he didn't know.

**Khar'sharn, January 1-18, 2197**

Snow drifted down from a rust-tinged gray sky. Traces of it already covered the blackened ground here on what had once been a beautifully-kept, manicured estate. White flakes set down a thin, fine blanket on twisted, blackened bits of metal and scorched brick walls. There were impact craters at several locations, and there were crime scene flags in various colors—red, orange, and blue—dotted all over the shattered landscape. The manor house was a total loss; most of the barracks were, as well. There were, however, deep _trenches_ in the once-manicured lawns here and there, with grass still growing at the bottom, showing that for some reason, the ground had settled, abruptly, in clear, straight lines. Lines that reaches from building to building. Some of the buildings, in and around the fires that had charred them, had collapsed into sink holes. With or without the assistance of whatever had caused the impact craters.

The red crime markers were from fire investigators. They were for pinpointing the source of ignition for each of the ten separate fires that had blazed here a week ago. Here and there, techs were taking samples from the charred walls, for spectral analysis. A good lab would, in a week or two, have results describing the chemical signature of the fire. What accelerant, if any, had been used. The fire investigators had already ruled out liquid accelerants just from looking at the smoke and burn patterns.

The orange tags were from the coroner's office, and noted each location where remains had been found. There had been quite a number of these. Many were charred beyond recognition, and even dental records had been difficult to use. Thus, they were forced to use DNA sampling from the burned bones. Again, a relatively lengthy process. Especially in the main house, where the bodies had not just been burned, but had been shredded into finger-length sized pieces by several explosions. There were. . . quite a lot of orange tags in the wreckage of the manor.

The blue tags were from militia investigators, working under the supervision of SIU. These tags marked bullet holes. Some splinters of metal had been recovered from the walls; even metal fired appreciable fractions of the speed of light must, eventually, come to a stop somewhere. Some had gone _through_ the walls and eventually slowed and fallen to the ground. Embedded themselves in tree trunks. The reconstruction of events was hampered by the blazes that had been enkindled afterwards, but not prevented entirely.

Dozens of people wearing plastic jumpsuits over their warmer clothing padded through the scene, taking photographs and measuring and scanning. Not a few stopped at the shattered remains of the front door, on which someone had, with a vibroblade, left the sign of the damned Resistance: A single eye, staring up at all of them.

It was clear, Alisav K'sar thought, as he stood, blowing into his cupped hands to warm them with his breath, that there had been a _hell_ of a firefight on Valak N'dor's estate. The problem was, the number of bodies recovered—_all right, body __parts__—_didn't tally with the number of people supposedly on the estate. Arvak R'mod had left a memo indicating that he thought there might be reason to suspect that Valak N'dor might be affiliated with the Resistance. . . or might be being _used_ by them, without his knowledge. That they might be gathering near his estate, using it for cover. R'mod hadn't wanted to commit to either explanation. The usual SIU dance, delicately trod. _If I accuse someone who's of the high nobility, and I'm wrong, I'm going to lose my job, if not my life on a dueling ground. If I accuse him, and I'm right. . . and I've married into his family, I'm the one who'll look the fool, for not having seen it before._ And thus, R'mod had left the memo to explain why he'd diverted so many resources to N'dor's estate. . . but hadn't actually cleared the diversion of those resources with his superiors. Because he'd wanted to have results before bringing the answer, be it yea or nay, to those same superiors.

It made, K'sar thought, a damnable nuisance of situation now. Half a dozen departments were pointing fingers at each other. R'mod's apparent death or disappearance had opened a power vacuum in the field operations department, and the infighting and backstabbing that had ensued was furious. K'sar was just glad he was in Investigations. He'd managed to avoid being placed on the Resistance taskforce for years. He had, however, a very bad feeling that his luck was about to change.

"K'sar?" That was Isav Malsur. Head of Investigations. The older male was fat, bordering on corpulent, but he'd been head of his department for thirty years. In the face of brutal political infighting, Malsur had held that post through the reign of three separate Hegemons. Only a fool thought that those four beady yellow eyes didn't see right through to the back of your skull to read the warning labels inside.

"Yes, m'lord?"

"Walk with me."

K'sar followed, shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets. The day suddenly felt even colder. "Your superiors speak highly of you, K'sar. Say that you follow a trail wherever it leads. And that you're stubborn enough that even if a trail of evidence led directly to the Hegemon's favorite concubine, you'd follow it right into the Leader's bed."

K'sar wasn't sure that was actually a compliment. He didn't want to fail to acknowledge it, but he also didn't want to suggest, in any way, that the Hegemon could possibly be involved in criminal acts. _That would be, as they say, a sure way to join my ancestors._ "I thank my superiors for their words, m'lord."

"Not in a minute or two, you won't." Malsur sighed. "We've got DNA confirmation. R'mod was one of the bodies in the villa. His wife was another, along with several other SIU officers. No sign of N'dor anywhere, however." He paused, wheezing asthmatically. "We're short at least a hundred slave bodies here, Oversight Forces are trying to stick their noses into what is, unfortunately, an SIU affair, and I don't have time to deal with all of this myself. It could also become an incredibly sticky political mess. Something else I don't have time for. You're in charge of the investigation, K'sar. You report directly to me, and you don't talk to _anyone else_ about this, you understand? Get information from the militia, get information from Oversight, but not one word of our own information goes to them."

"Yes, m'lord."

That had been the start of it. The Resistance taskforce shared information reluctantly. K'sar knew that they thought that they were entitled to his data because of the symbol on the door, but he didn't think this was a Resistance attack. It was far too frontal, far too direct. "But what about the tunnels?"

"Judging from the concrete bunker under the front lawn? Valak had a paranoid streak, and had been building those tunnels for years. Maybe even for a decade. The Resistance has only recently taken to sapping walls and the like. No, someone wants us to think it was a Resistance hit. It wasn't."

"Based on what evidence do you make that claim?"

"I'm afraid I can't talk about that at this time."

Glares from fellow investigators, but K'sar ignored them. Just followed the evidence. Went through R'mod and N'dor's work logs. R'mod had been corresponding the _Klem Na_ on Lorek and Camala regularly, in the course of his duties. N'dor had traveled there, just a few months ago, as well. N'dor had had access to highly classified information, but had been inducted into SIU before the Reaper War. Certainly, there were rumors of scandalous proclivities, and he'd apparently gotten a slave pregnant in the last year, but that alone did not say that he was a traitor.

K'sar was busy fending off people from the Office of Public Loyalty, who were demanding to know what he'd found regarding the potential treason of Valak N'dor, when Malsur called him into his office. "You won't be able to hold off the Public Loyalty people any longer," Malsur told him, sitting behind his desk. "This just hit the Council-space newsfeeds an hour ago. The Ministry of Information is working the story as we speak, I'm sure."

He turned on a vid screen, and all four of K'sar's eyes widened as he saw the face of Valak N'dor—familiar, from three solid weeks of checking into the man's background—appeared there. Alive and healthy. Clad in black armor, with a dreadfully familiar red symbol at the throat. Standing in front of the Council, with _Lilitu Shepard_, the Scourge of Bahak, at his side. The human woman in the turian paint was smiling a little. Alien eyes glittering in the lights of the Council chambers. Valak N'dor raised one hand, and began to take the Spectre oath. The cameras panned to all sides, as if to say, _look. No one's got a gun on him. He's doing this of his own free will._

"Oh, gods and ancestors," K'sar muttered, sinking into a chair, and bedamned to the fact that he should stay on his feet in the presence of his betters. _It was an extraction_, he thought, numbly. _The Spectres came to Khar'sharn, set foot on soil made sacred with the blood of all our ancestors, killed dozens of SIU men, and took Valak N'dor with them. . . apparently willingly. . . and then left. Apparently untouched. Ancestors, get me as far away from this career-ender of a mess as you can get me. I don't want anything to do with the politics!_

"My reaction precisely, dear boy. N'dor's family was already in mourning, and had retreated from the public. I have a report that his father attempted to restore the family name this morning by committing suicide. It's unclear what the prognosis is, but I suspect that the doctors will allow him to try to redeem his family's shame and not provide any desperate measures." Malsur cleared his throat, and wheezed heavily for a moment, before thumping the heel of his pudgy hand against his desk. "We have to know if R'mod was involved, too. I've gotten you clearance to look into R'mod's dealing with the _Klem Na._ I'll handle the Public Loyalty people. You? You are heading for Camala and Lorek."

And it was in a _Klem Na_ facility that K'sar got his first real inkling of just how large the world outside of his narrow job in the Investigative branch of SIU really was. The damned mercenaries had salarians working for them. Except that the salarians seemed to be working at the order of a VI. . . no. An _AI_. The image of a dead female leader, apparently, except that they thought that she was alive enough to obey. K'sar rubbed at his upper set of eyes, and got on with the job. _I'm questioning a glorified computer program_, he thought, tiredly. _I'm going to lose my job. I'm going to lose my __head__._

But that was when he asked the AI about N'dor's trip to speak with her. "R'mod had asked me to test his loyalty," 'Xala' told him. "I pressured him, offered him ways in which he could oust R'mod from his current position in SIU. Claim R'mod's position for himself. N'dor refused." The avatar shrugged. "He claimed that he was loyal to R'mod for family reasons." She paused, and smiled. "K'sar, you appear quite nervous."

"I'm investigating the most highly-placed spy my people's government has ever uncovered. Yes. I'm nervous." He paused. "What was the nature of your bargain with R'mod?"

"He asked that I continue to supply the _Klem Na_ with our technical expertise, towards your war effort. The _Klem Na,_ I believe, supported him politically and monetarily. I wonder who they will find to be their mouthpiece in SIU now?" She sighed, and looked at him meaningfully.

K'sar shifted his shoulders and ignored the look. "And what did you get out of this?"

"Assurances from SIU that they would find my daughter and bring her to me. Assurances that have _not_ been followed through on, I might add." Irritation in that tone now, certainly. She paused and looked at him speculatively. "K'sar, you are either an idiot, or that rarest of all things. A batarian who isn't out to advance himself."

K'sar grimaced. "I like my job," he said, simply. "I liked it, rather."

"Would you like a way in which to, hmm. . . .secure your position?"

K'sar's head came up, and he studied her warily. "And what would you get out of this?"

"Access," she replied, immediately. "Your people have cut off comm traffic to a world very important to me and my clan. I need access to the comm channels and you. . . you could probably get yourself out of the investigation of Valak N'dor and into a much more. . . career-profitable venture. . . if you were to agree to help me."

"You don't play _ru'udal_ at all well," K'sar told her. "I won't agree to a blind bargain. You have no trust."

The salarian pursed her thin lips, or at least, appeared to do so. "Very well. There is a planet in the Hades Nexus on which some of my clan still lives. We have a variety of technical projects there that we _could_ offer to SIU and the Hegemony, that we have held off on offering as bargaining pieces until now. I require a comm channel to direct my people there to _give_ one or more of those projects to you."

K'sar's eyes narrowed. "I'll take that to my superiors. I don't have the authority to bargain on that sort of thing."

"A pity. And here I thought I'd found someone worthy of replacing R'mod."

K'sar grimaced again, and left without another word. Internally, however, his mind was boiling with ideas. _Hades Nexus. Didn't we just advance on the Hekate system, according to the Ministry of Information? Hmm. She doesn't just want the comm channels to give us her pet projects. She wants to direct her people. Probably to tell them to extract her core and her cohorts here. Or maybe to have them go after her 'daughter,' which would invalidate her bargain with R'mod._

He took what little he'd gotten to Malsur. The head of Investigations was. . . intrigued. "I'll 'bargain' with the AI directly, dear boy," Malsur told him. A crafty smile played across his face. "I'll be sure to draw it out a good long time. While you? You're going to be taking some of our finest and going to the Hades Nexus. And you're going to find her supposed facility, and just take the damned place over. I think it's time that this computer program comes to understand her place."

K'sar wasn't sure if an AI was slave-caste or not, but he decided that if a computer was a tool, its purpose was to _serve_, and that made an AI servant-caste, at least. As for himself, he knew his own place, all too well. It wasn't at the head of a group of SIU field agents. It wasn't interrogating people for their loyalty. It was at crime scenes. Finding a salarian research facility somewhere in the Hades Nexus, even if he just narrowed his search to the Hekate system, on the basis that that was the only system whose comm traffic should be offline, might still take a lifetime. _Ancestors,_ he thought. _Out of the cookpot and into the flames._


	135. Chapter 135: Things Lost

**Chapter 135: Things Lost**

_**Author's note:** Yep. The forums have officially made a permanent move to spiritofredemption**DOT**yuku**DOT**com/ directory. I'm glad to see so many of the regulars have already found their way there! :-)_

**Dara, Trident, January 22, 2197**

From space, Trident was dark blue sphere with masses of white clouds. Ninety-five percent of its surface was covered by water—a higher percentage than either Sur'Kesh of Kahje. But neither the amphibious salarians nor the aquatic hanar had colonized this planet in the Hoplos System, deep in Terminus space. No, humans had. Dara rested a hand on the cold plasteel, staring down at the planet. The gesture was an old one. She and Eli had both touched the windows when they'd first seen Palaven. Even Mindoir, if she remembered correctly. And she'd unconsciously reached out as if she could touch every planet since then, if she'd been able to watch their approach like this. "Remind you of home, Kirrahe?" she asked the salarian, who was hard at work analyzing data from Bothros in the room behind her.

"Several moons, not simply one large one. Longer orbital period, slightly cooler average surface temperature." Kirrahe looked up, blinking. "Some similarities, certainly. Unfortunate that so much of the planet is under deep waters. Sur'Kesh's seas tend to be shallower." Mangrove-like swamps, shallow, warm oceans, long chains of islands, were Sur'Kesh's hallmarks. "Still, will be glad to visit this planet. Closest I will come to home, I suspect, for some time." He glanced at her, and blinked upwards, rapidly. "Apparent closeness of planet is optical illusion. You cannot actually touch it."

Dara grinned at the salarian. "I know that," she said, simply. "But touching the window always makes it _feel_ closer, somehow."

They were rapidly approaching Trident and they'd soon be conducting aerobraking maneuvers to settle into a geosynchronous orbit over its equator, competing for space there with a wide array of satellites in geostationary orbits. At the moment, she, Kirrahe, Seheve, Zhasa, Eli, and Lin were, with Cohort, working through some last-minute research before they planned to descend to the planet in shuttles. Dara returned to the work table that had been set up in the observation lounge, and settled back in beside Eli, picking up her datapad. "You been able to narrow down locations on Bothros at all?" she asked Kirrahe.

"Perhaps. There are twenty known archaeological sites. Approximately fifty small mining claims. Removing each of these from the map leaves us with fifteen sites with unexplained thermal traces visible from orbit in the past twelve years," Kirrahe told her. "Unfortunately, these are evenly distributed between land and ice cap."

"Can you distinguish between natural thermal variances, like geothermal vents, and heat caused by organic—excuse me," Dara said, glancing at Cohort. "By _sapient_ life, I mean?"

"We have found patterns in the data that suggest that these heat signatures are not natural phenomena," Cohort assured her, his eyeflaps twitching minutely. "Natural phenomena build over time, or, if they emerge in an outbreak event, such as a volcanic eruption, tend to leave residual behind. These heat signatures are weak, and vary cyclically, with the diurnal/nocturnal cycle of most known species of organic sapient life."

_Fair enough_, Dara thought. She and Eli were, as they tended to when they were working on disparate projects, not touching. They couldn't afford the mental cross-chatter.

Lysandra's avatar appeared. "We're two minutes from aerobraking maneuvers," the AI warned, smiling. "There may be some slight tremors in the grav field as we finish our burn."

Kirrahe looked up. "Ah, good," the salarian said, forthrightly. "Did you find the cause of the power surges, Lysandra?"

Lysandra's avatar blinked, once. "Power surges?" she asked, and she genuinely sounded confused.

Kirrahe turned towards her, clearly startled. "Had thought you aware of the situation. Lights flickered across the ship on the evening of the eighteenth, at approximately twenty-three hundred hours. No further occurrences the rest of the night—at least not until I slept for an hour at oh-four-hundred. Made inquiries with engineering team. They were as puzzled as I was. Said they needed to run diagnostics."

Dara very carefully reached for her coffee cup, and, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on her datapads, took a sip to mask her embarrassment. She and Eli had left their door open to the corridor for several hours. Turian fleet custom, she'd explained to Eli. It suggested that they weren't walling themselves off from anyone, that people could feel free to drop in and talk. She'd needed the door to be closed a _lot_ during her medical studies, and she probably always would need the quiet to keep up on her reading and everything else she needed to attend to. . . but it was considered a good thing to be at least a little social. To be one with the pack. So the door had been open, and she'd played quarian _reela_, and Dempsey and Zhasa had popped around the wall to come in and sit with them. Dempsey had picked up the spritely quarian music Dara was picking out of the _reela_ on his guitar quite easily.

At 23:00, however, they'd all closed their doors, and Eli had caught Dara up in his arms, exuberantly, letting her feel his delight. _Didn't think we'd have a moment of privacy the whole trip, except maybe in a damned sparring room, and now I actually get to stay with you while we're aboard. I've died and gone to heaven, __sai'kaea__._

The workers had already been cheering happily, like a noisy chorus of crickets, —_Mating songs, mating-songs!_ Eli had lifted her up onto the fine web of the hammock they were to share, and they'd been kissing and biting urgently, when the lights in their tiny cabin had flickered. Dara had glanced up, frowned, and put it out of her mind. . . . Sweet urgency, flooding through both of them. Awareness, from her, of how thin the walls were in these sorts of quarters. _No noise. . . ._

Eli slid a hand over her mouth, and pressed his weight down atop hers, hips shifting, rocking, as he moved to join them. Burgundy song flooding out of him, joy as he reached for her mind, started to give her his light. . . .And then Dara had, very clearly, felt the whole ship sway for a moment, and the engine's rhythm actually stuttered. She had spent three years of her life in quarters just like these. Her previous quarters here on the _Raedia_ had been up on the crew deck, but her quarters on the _Nereia_ and the _Estallus_ had been directly under the engine compartment, just as these were. She knew damned well what a Tantalus core engine was supposed to sound like, and _that_ wasn't it.

Yellow anxiety, and she'd sat bolt upright, pushing Eli away slightly. "What the _hell_—" Dara began to ask.

On the other side of the wall, she could clearly hear Dempsey saying, sharply, "What the _fuck_ was that?"

"Sounded like the fuel injection system was disrupted for a moment, and the fail-safes kicked in," Zhasa replied, a little more quietly. Her voice was muffled, but still understandable.

Eli's eyes widened for a moment as he pulled away himself now, releasing her from under his weight. _God damn. The walls are even thinner on this ship than they were in my Bastion apartment._

_Yeah. You learn to be __really__ quiet. And learn to ignore a lot of other things._ Dara winced. She wasn't sure how quiet she could actually be now.

The thoughts had only flickered between them for a second. She could hear the door across the hall bang open. Could hear quick, familiar steps as Rel strode down the hall, and hit the metal stairs at the end, heading up to engineering to ask what had just happened, more than likely. "Are we under attack?" That was Seheve's voice, from the corridor.

"Unlikely," Rel growled back. "I do want to know what the _futar_ that was. That felt like five-degree course shift there."

Dara winced again. She knew that particular grating note.

_Someone __else__ is a little frustrated right now, huh?_ Eli asked, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. His own song was filled with bright reds and oranges of frustration and annoyance, with yellow anxiety underscoring them. "We haven't even hit the Mindoir relay yet, have we?" Eli asked, standing up, looking around for his clothing.

"No, not for another several hours in stealth," Dara muttered. "And the _Raedia_ just got checked out thoroughly. The engines should be in perfect shape. . . "

The workers were chorusing mild disappointment at the moment, and Dara reached out through them. This was something new to her, and difficult. She was looking for Glory's mind on the ship, checking to see if he'd seen anything out the observation port in his quarters, and caught wisps of unusual reactions from him. _Embarrassment, concern. . . what the hell?_

Understanding dawned as Lysandra's eyeball avatar popped into their tiny quarters. The eyeball was a courtesy. It suggested that Lysandra wasn't really 'looking' at them, in their state of undress, and depersonalized her, at least a bit. "My apologies, Spectres," Lysandra's voice spoke, softly. "I will, ah, for the rest of your trip, be deactivating Glory's chip from my end when you two engage privacy mode or close your door at night."

Pink wash of Glory's faint embarrassment. Dara slowly put her face in her hands as she realized what had happened. Eli sat back down on the edge of the hammock, his eyes dark, and just shook his head for a long moment as he absorbed her own realization. Rachni were certainly aware of other species' 'mating-songs.' Weaker personalities, or 'gray-voices,' didn't stand out to them any more than a barking dog in a neighborhood did to most humans. Background song, ambient noise, nothing more. Powerful voices stood out, and they listened to them with enjoyment. . . as a human might listen to the chilling, beautiful voices of wolves echoing over a snowy landscape. Dara's songs resonated within her hive, however, carried on rachni frequencies. When she and Eli began to join their songs, it was an all-encompassing experience. Minds and memories, thoughts and emotions, bodies and hearts, and everything that they shared was picked up on by the rachni around them, such as Glory. And in this case, Glory's chip had been open to Lysandra.

"I, ah, was not prepared for the sudden dataflow," Lysandra admitted, sounding extremely uncomfortable. "It was not unlike being subjected to a denial-of-service attack, only from within my own firewalls. As such, many processing levels froze for about two seconds, including the ones that were supervising the fuel mixture ratios."

Eli cleared his throat. "Ah. . . that could have been bad." An image of a fireball in his mind.

"There are secondary and tertiary backups, and my engineers are well-trained. It is, however, not something I wish to have happen again." Lysandra's voice was _very_ embarrassed. "Particularly not unexpectedly." She paused, and added, "I will delete the files, of course."

"Thank god you're not Laetia," Dara muttered.

"I do not think any rachni would have permitted themselves to be chipped to my first-mother, no," Lysandra admitted. "Good night, Spectres. The chip is deactivated."

The eyeball winked out, and Eli sat back down on the edge of the hammock. After a moment, he leaned back and gathered Dara into his arms again. _I don't know about you, __sai'kaea__, but that was something of a mood-killer._

Dara had buried her face in Eli's shoulder and _laughed_, and neverrmind the thin walls or Dempsey rapping just above their heads and asking _what the hell is so funny?_ from the other side.

Glory had been terribly apologetic the next morning, _Sings-to-the-Sky often sings of 'private-songs,' but this has never been the way of it with queens before. Listening could have caused damage to __Raedia__-ship, to Question-Singer?_

_You shut down the chip from your end, didn't you?_

_It is difficult to do so. I have only just learned to hear her, and to sing to her. To not sing is to not be._ Glory was clearly having trouble with it all. Rachni sang. It was as integral to them as thought or breathing. _I sang silence. It was hard. Then Question-Singer closed the chip. Stopped listening, stopped singing. It was like death-songs._ Yellow anxiety in Glory's voice now. _This is very strange, little-queen._

_I know, but I don't think any other brood-warrior there is, is better suited to learning her songs, or teaching her those of the Singing Planet._

Glory's song had filled with blue harmonies of pride and contentment at her words, and he'd relaxed after that.

That had been then. In the here and now, Dara didn't even dare glance sidelong at Eli, for fear they'd both start laughing again. Lysandra had paused for almost two full seconds after Kirrahe's question, and now replied, a little mendaciously, "I have traced the source of the problem and resolved it. It should not become a problem again." Lysandra paused. "Aerobraking maneuvers imminent. Brace yourselves."

_Saved by the interrelations of gravity and inertia,_ Dara thought, and finished her coffee as the _Raedia_ began to bank, steeply, as it prepared to take orbit.

They'd agreed that the way to go was to pick up the mercenaries and the corporate security forces' agreements first, and then go deal with the pirates, in whatever way happened to be necessary. That way, they'd have sufficient forces _to_ deal with the pirates, and also wouldn't have to do as much backtracking. Hopefully.

All three Spectre teams descended through the cloud-filled sky towards Tethys, the largest city and island on the largely featureless globe of water that was Trident. The island was actually a huge atoll, and the city was, therefore, a circle in the sea, with buildings perched atop its rugged hills, facing inwards towards the clear blue lagoon inside, and also facing outwards towards the vast tracts of open water on all sides. "Winds are around a hundred kph," Zhasa reported, a little tightly, as she maneuvered their shuttle in for a landing near the corporate headquarters of the three giant conglomerates that had outposts on this distant backwater of a world: Meridia Industria, Sonax, and Heavy Metals Exomining. "Tower didn't declare a weather hazard on landing," Zhasa muttered, in clear annoyance.

"From what reports say of this planet, this is a balmy spring day," Kirrahe noted. "Hurricanes that span entire hemispheres not uncommon."

Dara had, on getting within view of the surface, and feeling the way the shuttle was pushed left and right, up and down, by the wind, closed her eyes. Then opened them again, and focused on the ceiling. Closing her eyes made the nausea worse; her equilibrium was suddenly at a total loss, since her eyes had no fixed point in space to refer to, and her inner ears were doing cartwheels in protest. Eli touched her hand, lightly. Just enough. "We're going to be fine. Zhasa's a good pilot."

"Kind of wishing we'd brought Kallixta with us, after all," Dara muttered, very quietly.

"She's a little senior for shuttle duty."

"So? Zhasa's a Spectre." A little irritation, washed away by Eli's song.

"And you'd be less nervous with Kallixta at the stick?" Amusement in Eli's tone.

Dara sighed. "Probably not," she admitted, after a moment.

They landed. Dara felt like kissing the ground as she emerged from the shuttle's hatch, feeling the wind push against her body like a huge hand. All of them were actually in armor. Dara hadn't worn hers until this morning, when the workers had chittered at her when she got it out of her locker —_Little-queen will practice today?_

_Yes. I'll try to figure out what this crystal weave thing does. In and around everything else._ She still wasn't sure what it was meant to do. There were no obvious controls. Then again, she'd been able to control the computers on the _Lightsinger_ just by singing to them.

"Looks like our messages got through," Lin muttered into their radios as half a dozen people in armor painted in Sonax yellow, Meridia green and black, and Heavy Metals Exomining brown, with corporate logos stenciled at the upper right of their chests, emerged from the buildings around them, taking up positions around a handful of other people, dressed in suits.

"Told you that suits would have worked fine," Eli commented in Dara's direction.

"Not if Dempsey and I need to back you up with the mercs. I'm not throwing _costume_ changes into the equation along with everything else."

Eli chuckled, but he was in work mode now. She could see it in the way he was moving, light on his feet, alpha body language. "Fair enough, Freya. You ready?"

"As I'm going to be. Dempsey, Glory, let's go."

Her team was the first to move away from the shuttle's ramp, and Dara moved briskly ahead of the human male and the rachni, letting the security forces see that her hands were empty. _Nervous place to do business_, she decided. _Kind of like the Old West, I guess. Where the railroads brought their own law, and there might have been a federal marshal here and there, maybe each new town might elect a sheriff, but once you're outside of the town's limits, you better be ready to protect yourself, your claim, your family, yourself. _An odd thought, in a city built largely from concrete, as hurricane protection, and not of wood, a city with air cars and not with horses and carriages. But it was still _frontier_ in its way. With all that it implied.

"Spectres?" One of the Sonax representatives stepped forward. A tall human male in a dark suit and old-fashioned tie. "I'm Jonathan Hayward, vice-president in charge of operations for Sonax. We'll need a little verification of your identities before we can allow you into the facility—"

Dara slid the polarized mask of her helmet back, letting them see a human face, if one about twenty paces from them. "You have biometric scanners, right?" Dempsey called back, lifting his own mask and wincing at the light as it filtered through the clouds. "Have a look at our chips."

"Anyone can falsify a chip—"

"While you're at it," Dara said, letting her voice carry, "you might also consider who _else_ in the galaxy would have _rachni_ with them." She couldn't entirely remove the sarcasm, and didn't entirely want to, either.

Glory scuttled closer, and almost leaned into her side, hooking a handling appendage over her shoulders for a moment. _You're trying to look less scary, Glory?_

_It would be helpful if they did not sing fear-songs, would it not?_

_Sometimes, we want them to sing fear-songs._

_That should be when we sing battle-songs for them._

Dara suppressed the urge to smile, and stepped forward again. "If you doubt our biometric chips, how precisely do you intend to verify our identities?" she asked, from a little closer, trying to keep her tone reasonable and diplomatic as both she and Dempsey put their dark glasses on, in lieu of their face shields. "DNA scans?" _God, I really hope mine's been updated in the galactic databases. . . and that you guys have downloaded updates lately._

She was close enough now that they could clearly see her face. "We do have DNA facilities," Hayward said after a moment. "It's pretty much mandatory for anyone entering and exiting corporate headquarters. We don't want someone impersonating an employee getting in here, and getting information on our product shipments. Mineral assays. Geologic surveys. That sort of thing."

From the way the other corporate people were shifting around, Dara guessed that there was a hell of a lot of industrial espionage on this planet, as they all fought to control the biggest chunk possible of its natural wealth. _And yet, this planet has mammals in the oceans the size of ichthyosaurs. Hundreds of thousands of species of fish and bivalves and everything else. There should be a fishing industry here, beyond what can feed their own population, there should be a tourism industry, to give people opportunities other than just undersea mining. There should be ecological controls on the mining. . . and there's none, is there?_ Dara sighed. She wasn't here to fix the planet. She wouldn't even know where to start, and her impressions were sketchy at best. "Then let's get checked out, so we can actually talk," she said, simply, and looked up at Dempsey. Turned back to glance at Eli. _Looks like we need to go inside. Go hit the local Eclipse compound. See if they're even vaguely trustworthy._

Eli sent a wave of acknowledgement her way, and the other six people turned and boarded the shuttle again.

As it turned out, the corporate officers and their security chiefs all wanted to discuss the matter at hand separately with the Spectres. "Look," Dempsey said, after the second or third polite request that they come to the Sonax building or the Meridia one for a separate conference with different presidents and vice-presidents, "I know you all want to make separate agreements. Get a competitive advantage over one another, get the best deal." His voice was flat and almost bored. "We get that. We just don't have time for it. One meeting, with all of you, at the same time, so we don't have to repeat ourselves." Dempsey paused. "Make it happen, people."

_God, Dempsey, Rinus wasn't the only one that they left a lot of bark on when they carved the statue_, Dara thought, and Dempsey's shoulders jerked, and his head turned towards her, his eyes widening slightly.

_Doc, I know damned well you're not in skin contact with me right now. . . how the hell did you project that?_ Clear, cool, calm words in her mind.

_What?_ _You heard me?_

_Loud and clear._

No time to investigate, because the various corporate officials, after much grumbling, cleared out the HM Exomining cafeteria and brought them all in there for the conference. Glory was highly amused by the way the various humans and the handful workers of other species scuttled out of his way as he took a position at Dara's left, standing behind their table. "Got to love this," Dara muttered. "On this short of notice, they put us here at the center at this little table, and put their various presidents and whatnot up there at the front, at the long tables. They've got a budding psychologist on staff, looks like."

Dempsey looked around. "Does kind of feel like we're in a courtroom," he agreed, after a moment.

"Yeah. Puts us in the position of people begging a favor, not visiting dignitaries here to rally support. . . which we'd be, if we were at the front. And we're not negotiating or working with them, apparently. . . which we would be if we were all at one big table together." Dara shook her head. It was obvious, when she looked at it.

Dempsey turned his head to sweep a glance across the room. "Then I say we re-arrange the place."

"Let's start with subtle. You can beat them over their heads with the benches if they don't listen, though. I won't mind." Dara leaned back and surveyed the people settling in at the tables in front of them. Hayward, from Sonax had an asari helping him with his files. . . maybe a junior vice president? Maria Basurto, from Meridia, had a male human standing behind her, in corporate armor. . . _hmm. She has an actual bodyguard? Has she been attacked here? Wish we had more information on this place, but the dossiers were thin. . . ._

_She does sing fear-songs. Her vehicles have been shot at. Workers sing anger-songs. They find their queen unjust, though she does not find herself so._ Glory's song was puzzled.

Hank Etcheverry, from HM Exomining, rounded out the trio, and he was there without an assistant, just going through his own datapads. He was a big man, with big hands, but he periodically coughed, wrackingly, into a handkerchief. Dara heard the wetness in the cough, and wondered if he had some local variant of blacklung, which had taken so many coalminer's lives on Earth in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. _No safety regulations for the mines,_ she thought. _They're damned lucky the workers haven't unionized yet._ She didn't like unions much; they'd served a purpose in the nineteenth century and seemed a rather quaint holdover to her, now, but in a place like this, they might well be needed again. 

"All right, Spectres, what precisely do you want with us?" Basurto's voice held just a hint of an accent.

"I'm glad you asked," Dara said, standing. She was not going to sit quietly where they'd put her. She took off her glasses, and walked forward so she could meet each of their gazes in turn. Watched as Hayward flinched, Basurto pulled back, and Etcheverry frowned slightly, but didn't otherwise react. _He's my guy._ "You're aware that Astaria's come under attack by batarian forces? That they are, in fact, under the first stages of an occupation?"

"Yes," Basurto nodded. "We _do_ have extranet connection, even in a system this far from Bastion."

Dara shrugged. "Not for long, you won't," she said, simply.

"And what makes you say that?" That, sharply, from Etcheverry.

Dempsey stood now, walking away from the table. The opposite direction, facing out towards the various security people and lower management types who were at the back of the room. His low voice carried through the room clearly, projecting without shouting. "Once the batarians get control of Astaria, and think they can hold it without being contested, they'll come here next. Hoplos system and Pamyat. Both far richer prizes than Astaria. Astaria's just an agrarian colony. . . but it's their toehold in the Hades Nexus."

_Hey, looks like we rehearsed this. . . ._

_Nah, we're just that good, Doc. Though I'd give a lot to know how the hell I'm hearing you without reaching out to touch your mind myself._

The corporate officers weren't really enjoying this. They countered with arguments that Astaria should have looked after its own affairs. That they should have had better defenses in place. "Sounds like the arguments just before the Reaper Wars," Dempsey said, coldly. "Hey, those colonists shouldn't have been out there if they weren't prepared to protect themselves. They deserved to be rendered down into goop and made into Reaper spare parts."

His cold, flat delivery turned the words into weapons. Dara let the murmurs from the back of the room settle down. _First time in my life I've been the carrot and not the stick, the honey instead of the vinegar. I'm not really good at this. . . _She moved from the front of the room to the side, just as Dempsey, mirroring her, moved from the back to the opposite side. _They can't make us sit down. They can't make us shut up. So we use what we've got. We'll own the damned room_, Dara thought.

After a moment, to make sure she had everyone's attention, Dara spoke. Quietly, but with force. "I don't see any defensive satellites in orbit around Trident," Dara pointed out. "I don't see defense towers anyplace here besides Tethys, Tara, and Ino, your three largest settlements. If you hang your neighbors on Astaria out to dry, you're effectively telling the batarians that no one in this area will rally to each others' defense. That since Volkov and Trident didn't come to Astaria's defense, that no one will come to yours, either."

"With all due respect, Spectre, there's no guarantee that they'll come here," Basurto objected. "They're there for the asari, aren't they?"

Dara caught the miniscule glance Hayward gave his assistant, or junior vice president, or whatever the asari was. "That's hardly the only reason," Dempsey said, his voice flat.

Dara opened her omnitool. Spent a moment flicking through files. There were _reasons_ she'd kept this file around. "Rita Chesney, born, Earth, London, England. Age twenty-seven, biotic, L3 implants. Occupation: hostess, the Cirric Bar and Grill, C-ring, Omega. Rita ran away from Earth at the age of seventeen to avoid the military service required of all biotics. She apparently wound up on Omega five years ago, worked as a prostitute, and had finally gotten off the game. She had a history of STDs at the local clinic, which is why I know this much about her." Dara looked up from the omnitool, keeping her face expressionless. "Lobotomized on or around July 7, 2196, chip implanted to facilitate control of her biotics at the same time. Family requested euthanasia be administered September 14, 2196, as permitted under Omega's rules of operation." She paused. "Claude Kevinson, age thirty-five. Born Earth, Montreal. Biotic, L3 implants. Occupation: Omega Security Forces, former Blue Suns mercenary. Lobotomized on or around July 7, 2196, chip implanted to facilitate control of his biotics at the same time. No family on record. Sequoia Leighton, age thirty-three, born Earth, Miami, Florida. Biotic, L4 implants. Sequoia had apparently served out her time in the Systems Alliance forces, found herself a nice asari partner, and they'd settled down on Omega together. Both of them were lobotomized together, on or around July 9, 2197. Oh, and her partner's name was Tillia S'noa, if you were interested. Age two hundred and thirty." Dara paused. "I could go on. I've only got about seven hundred or so in this file. This is just the biotics. Not the general population who were captured, chipped, raped, beaten, and abused to turn them into slaves. This doesn't also, include the names of the dead children left on the floors there, because they weren't _useful_ to the slavers." Dara slid the screen closed again with quick, sharp gestures. "Don't even try to tell me that they're on Astaria just for the asari." Her hands were shaking just a little.

"Or just for the biotics." Dempsey turned, and lifted his hand. Just enough to call attention to himself, as he lifted the table in front of the corporate officers up, forward, and then sailed it over their heads to settle it neatly against the wall. Dara could see every one of the security people stiffening around them, but Dempsey was clearly demonstrating extreme precision and control, not threatening the people at that table. Basurto's bodyguard, however, had dropped his hand to near his gun. "Because, you know, I bet that would be your next objection. 'We'll all be perfectly safe here, so long as we're not asari. And so long as we, personally, aren't biotics.' What a bunch of fucking cowards." Dempsey took off his own glasses now, and there was cold rage in his eyes now.

_Ah, crap_, Dara thought, and started to move across the room. _Glory, can you sing calmness to him?_ Dara _really_ didn't want to have to touch Dempsey if the blood-rage was starting to build in him. _If Zhasa can stand it, I guess I can, too_, she told herself, trying to be resolute. Of course, there was also the question of getting her glove off, and finding some way to be unobtrusive about finding bare skin on him in full armor. . . .

_No need. Sings-in-Silence sings control-songs. Music in his mind, chained melodies. But you will not need to touch him to hear his songs, little-queen. Did not the workers craft your carapace well?_

_Wait, what. . . .ohhhhhh._ Now Dara felt absolutely stupid. _Gives strength to my songs, and weakens the songs of others, used against me._ She'd used it inadvertently at least twice, to reach out and sing to Dempsey. She hadn't used it yet to listen to him. The crystals from the Singing Planet were, in their large forms, used to amplify the song of queens and brood-warriors. These small versions, loaded as they were with eezo? Probably amplified her own song. And the thin wires inside the suit that connected each of them to each other? Created a network between each crystal, which probably also helped attenuate biotic abilities used against her. Dara concentrated. Listened. This was much harder than Eli made it sound. _Dempsey?_

_I'm good, Doc._ Crisp, effortless thoughts. White-cold rage in them, but controlled, as Glory had said. _Looks like we need to train you a bit more._ He looked past her towards the others now. "Let me put it to you this way, people. If you're in front of slavers, unable to defend yourself, and you're not high-caste batarian? You're fair game." Dempsey shrugged now, and turned away from the executives as if they weren't worth any more of his time, and stared stolidly into the mid-distance.

"When dealing with batarians," Dara said now, standing beside Dempsey, and beckoning to Glory, who left the center of the room now to loom by her side, "you generally want to be seen as bargaining or negotiating from a position of strength. Or if you can't do that, you want to look as unprofitable as possible. A strong set of systems, united against them, would look like much more trouble than it's worth."

"Or, you know, you could just let them sweep through here, system by system, and destroy everything you've built and worked for. Your choice." Dempsey shrugged again.

One of the security officers off to the left muttered, just loudly enough to be audible, "So why the hell aren't _you_ doing something about this, _Spectres_?"

Dara's head snapped towards him, and Glory reared his head up, taking offense at this challenge. "What do you think we're doing right now?" Dempsey asked, flatly.

"Looks to me like you're trying to get us to do your jobs for you. Where the hell are the Systems Alliance marines when we actually need them—"

"Inside the actual Systems Alliance," Dara shot back, tightly. "You're outside of SA space right now. By your own choice, I might add." Glory sang blue-greens to her at the back of her mind, and Dempsey said, silently, _Steady, Doc. You're supposed to be the diplomatic one right now._

Dara took a deep breath and calmed herself. "And even if that weren't the case," she went on, holding onto her patience by a thread, "I'm a doctor, not a damn nurse."

That got a couple of heads to snap back in surprise. Dara went on now, staring directly at the speaker out in the audience. "I'm not here to get you pillows, hand you your pills, or ask you how many times today you've had a bowel movement. I'm a doctor. I figure out what's wrong. Recommend a course of treatment. Maybe I do a little surgery or give you antibiotics, but then, if you don't follow through on it? I'm on to the next patient, because I don't have time to hold your hand."

_This is your idea of diplomacy, Doc?_

_Hey, you feel free to pitch in any time now, Dempsey._ Dara's hands clenched inside her gloves. "So that's it," she told the rest of the room. "You can help Astaria, and help yourselves, or you can lie there in bed and wait for a nurse to come along. Take your pick."

Hank Etcheverry, at the front of the room, started to chuckle, wheezingly. "You think," he said, after he managed to stop coughing, "so long as you're seeing patients, doctor. . . that you could fit me into your schedule?"

"I'll see what my appointments look like," Dara replied, and Glory's blue-greens washed through her, letting her calm down. Letting her smile a little.

She would never be entirely sure what had actually carried the day—her words or Dempsey's, or some combination of the two, or just plain semi-enlightened self-interest—but the boards of all three companies agreed to send _some_ of their security forces with the Spectres to Astaria. At the Spectres' cost, of course. And of course, there were damned few ships to be had.

"One down," Dempsey muttered, as they waited in the lobby of the HM Exomining building, after Dara had done a physical on Etcheverry. "Six or seven more to go." He paused, leaning back against the gray couch in the gray, industrial-looking room with its one forlorn plant in the corner. "What's up with Etcheverry, anyway?"

"Can't tell you, sorry."

"Eh, medical ethics, my ass. He doesn't sound good."

"No, he doesn't." Dara had _hated_ giving the man confirmation of what the corporate doctors on-site had already diagnosed: stage two lung cancer, thanks to eezo mining he'd done in his twenties on a different planet. The breathers in use at the time hadn't stripped enough particulate matter out of the air, apparently. It was a well-known problem in the industry. "And that's pretty much why I have all the latest safety gear here at HME," Etcheverry told her, staring at the scans on the screens. "We've got applicants from every other company here on Trident, lining up to work for us. I just can't hire them all." He rubbed at his face. "What are my options, doctor?"

_Interesting. Four months ago, I was dealing with Moravec, who couldn't see anything but a kid in front of him, and today, this guy, whom I just more or less gave a death sentence to, treats me like a doctor._ Dara had looked at him, and said, gently, "Your treatment would have more options on Earth or on Bastion. There, targeted gene-rewrites, viruses custom-designed to target _just_ the cancer cells. Here?" Dara sighed. "Your doctors know their equipment and facilities better than I do, but probably a regimen of smart-drugs. Maybe some medical nanobots, if you have any on hand."

"I can't leave. Everyone here depends on me." Etcheverry sighed. "We'll see if we can get a specialist in from Earth."

"That'll be hard, until the situation here dies down a little," Dara pointed out, quietly.

"Yeah, I know. No one really wants to go work on a frontier colony, especially one that's under threat of attack."

"I'll see what my ship has. Maybe they've got something in stock." Dara hadn't been holding out much hope. Palliative care would be available if someone was diagnosed with this sort of ailment aboard ship, and then the patient would be sent home for real treatment.

Dempsey, unexpectedly, put a hand on her shoulder. "Doc. . . Dara."

She lifted her head, startled. "From the look on your face, it was _really_ bad news."

"It could have been worse." _It could have been stage four. It could have already spread to other bodily systems. He's got a fighting chance—ah, __s'kak__. _Dempsey's expression had gone surprised, and Dara wanted to find a wall to beat her head against.

_Yeah. Okay. We're going to work with you on not leaking thoughts when you're wearing that armor._

_I'm sorry—_

_Don't be. Kids need to be taught this all the time._ _And I appreciated the fact that, much as it scares the hell out of you, you were right there to help me get a grip if I needed it. _

Dara winced. "It's that obvious?"

"Doc. . . Dara." A faint hint of a smile. "I'm a mind-reader. Yes. It's obvious." Dempsey looked at her reflectively. Cool, remote thoughts, like scales. _You accept Sidonis' mental contact because there's absolute trust between you. Anyone else, you're pretty damned scared to touch. You limit the physical touch, and I don't blame you. That's largely been the only way you can block, besides what little success the 'earworm' technique gave you._

His expression turned thoughtful, and he laced his fingers behind his head. _If we're ever separated from Sidonis and Zhasa for a long period, it's useful to know that I can feed the mental connection you need. . . and your 'song,' like Glory's here, can help me __feel__._

_Well, sort of, maybe._ Dara hesitated. She'd listened to Zhasa's song a little on Arvuna, but had largely tried to depend on the workers. She hadn't wanted to intrude on the quarian female's privacy. And Dempsey was _Dempsey_. It was almost impossible to picture any level of intimacy with him, even if it was just light mental connection.

_What, you still think I can't cuddle? _Faint amusement, for a moment. Flicker of it, then gone.

_God damnit, I did not mean for you to hear that!_

_Even after close to two years, you still think I'm scary?_ Pure gray thoughts. Almost no emotion or inflection, but. . . maybe just a hint of sadness. Faint flicker of anger, too. Not anger at her, but more anger at everything that had made him what he was. Something that _did_ frighten anyone with sense.

Dara winced. She'd seen growth in him, in the last year, especially. Flickers of human emotion, especially when he was linked to Zhasa. She'd seen how much Zhasa adored him, and always wondered, at the back of her mind, _why._ Because yes, Dempsey did have frightening qualities. And she was _used_ to people who could and would scare most ordinary people out of their minds. Her father, to other people? Frightening. Lantar had scared her a bit at first, too, but she'd gotten used to him, and was so familiar with him now that when she'd been transferred to the _Nereia_ for a year, it had felt like coming home. Dempsey, however, had a sense of distance to him. And she knew he felt that distance, too. He still called her _Doc_. Called Eli _Sidonis_. Rel was _Velnaran._ Impersonal, at best. There had been moments, like when they'd been dealing with the reporters, when he'd almost seemed teasing, or just now, but. . . it was difficult to know him. Knowing that the rage was still in there, ready to be unleashed at any moment. . . that was frightening, too.

_Yeah. I've got the rage on a pretty tight leash. The rest. . . part of me insists that you're all kids, somehow. Even though we're the same physical age._ Dempsey exhaled audibly. _That's only going to get worse. _

_Yeah._

_I'll work on at least sounding like a person, though._

_That's not what I meant!_ She wanted to wail that, but sitting in the lobby of a large corporation wasn't really the place for that. Dara looked down at the armor she was wearing, and wondered if she should remove the workers' gift to her from it.

_No need. And it's okay. I know what you meant. You just need to practice a few things you didn't really need to learn before. Calm down. Picture a nice solid brick wall around your mind. Wall of ice. Whatever you can picture easily that no one's going to get through—yeah, plasteel will do. _Soft gray thoughts. Almost placid in their calm. Preternaturally so. Dempsey paused, and his lips quirked up just a bit at the corners. "You know, before you learn how to block completely, I have to admit it's damned tempting to ask you how you're liking the mental connection in the sack with Sidonis—"

Dara flushed. Bright red. Dempsey blinked, twice. "Damn. You are definitely not toothless." _Remember when we were training you and Sidonis originally, and you almost flooded me out, in reflexive self-defense? That just now had a hell of a lot more kick to it. Anyone who tries to get in on you? Give them the same thing. Damn, that was loud._ He shook his head, but the quirk to his lips stayed in place. _Also, I now know for a fact that you love it._

"Oh, shut up!" Dara looked around for something to throw at Dempsey. This being a corporate office, the only thing near to hand was that sad, solitary plant in the corner, which didn't seem like a good idea.

_Awww, no 'bite me'? You don't love me, Doc._ A pause, and his lips quirked up further. _Better. You kept the shield up that time._

**Rellus, Trident, January 23-25, 2197**

Rel wasn't entirely sure why he, Seheve, and Lin were with Eli, Zhasa, and Kirrahe at first as they'd headed to the local Eclipse compound. He finally shrugged internally and asked Lin, "I thought we were in charge of 'pirates.'"

"We are. Eli and I talked it over, and we figured that the more bodies we had on hand, the better for dealing with the mercs. Mercs tend to respect strength, and cash-flow. Very little else."

"Ah. We're window-dressing."

Lin bared teeth in a humorless grin. "I'm hoping that's all it comes down to, yeah. I'd prefer to get off this rock without any actual firefights."

Rel nodded, and decided to use the time to observe. There was quite a bit to watch, actually. While he'd been on Terra Nova with Eli and Dempsey, the humans had both been excellent in combat, but Eli had tended to favor less aggressive tactics in favor of conservative ones. He'd been stuck on press duty and had been on negotiation teams, too. Now, again, Rel was getting a clear idea of why Eli . . . and the others. . . had been selected as a Spectre. Dara's penchant for taking notes and making lists had, for a while, irritated him in their marriage. As it turned out, that was actually a damned good habit, because it had helped her, Lin, and Eli organize all the dossiers that they'd read on the trip to Trident.

And in Eli's case? He got them into the Eclipse compound by smiling and talking for about a half a minute in pure, clear asari high-tongue.

The ensuing conversations with the leaders of the Eclipse people on Trident were interesting, as well. The leader, Vallaia, shook Eli's hand, and then pulled back, eyes widening faintly. "_What an interesting human you are, Spectre."_ The asari words spilled out almost too quickly for Rel follow on his omnitool

The organization was still asari-dominated here, but there were a handful of salarians and humans in it, as well. The salarians were techs, generally speaking, and the humans were largely non-biotics. "Grunts," the Eclipse leader, Vallaia, noted, in English, with a shrug, before reverting to high-tongue. _"Good with their guns, at least. Quite a few of them are former corporate security. Got tired of being shot at for minimum wage."_ She smiled at them all, brightly. _"So. . . what are the Spectres paying?"_

"_I was hoping you'd help us voluntarily."_ Eli's smile had been charming, but the asari laughed, a sound like cut glass.

"_And why would I do any such thing for free?"_

"_Community outreach,"_ Eli told her, still smiling. "_No, seriously. You know that the Eclipse renegades on Arvuna were dealt with recently, yes?"_

Her expression had gone still_. "I'd heard,"_ Vallaia replied, tightly.

"_They, and others like them, give Eclipse a bad name, don't they? The Illium branch, reportedly, requires their people to commit a murder before they're issued a uniform."_ Eli's voice was neutral now, with faint overtones of sympathy.

Vallaia's expression had shifted again. Hardened. _"Yes. They treat an ancient and honored organization like a criminal cartel, and our leadership on Thessia. . . when it existed. . . didn't have the will to check them."_ She gave Eli a fixed stare. _"I run a clean operation here."_

"_I'm sure you do."_ Impossible to tell, at the moment, if that was irony or not. Eli's face had closed down. _"But I'm sure you want the rest of this world to know that. And for your sisters on Astaria to know that, too. It's difficult for them to understand, when they hear about Eclipse smuggling red sand and __aizala__. When they hear about murders on other worlds."_

It went surprisingly smoothly after that. Vallaia wouldn't release all of her people, of course; she had protection contracts for several corporate mining facilities and one small colonial enclave, all scattered across Trident. But she agreed to send seventy-five of her people with them. _"We even have a ship that they can use. Little more than a troop transport,"_ she admitted. _"But it'll get them to Astaria." _

"_And to help us . . . negotiate. . . with the pirates around Volkov?"_

"_By negotiate, what do you mean? Pitched battles?"_

"_Only if necessary. Believe me when I say I do not want to deal with them, but it may be necessary. This entire sector needs to stand up and repel the batarians."_

A cynical look from the asari, met with a slight shrug from Eli. Rel turned slightly, and looked down at Seheve, who was absorbing the entire scene. "How are they doing?" he asked her, after a moment.

She blinked, clearly surprised, and then answered, softly, as they exited the building, "I suspect that Spectre Sidonis read his dossiers on the various mercenary leaders very carefully. He was careful to create an impression of like-mindedness with Vallaia."

"By speaking asari to her?"

"That, and even body-language. His posture emulated hers. When she raised her head, he raised his. When she folded her arms, after a moment or two, he folded his. It was subtly done, but with great care, I think."

Rel blinked now, himself. He hadn't noticed that. "Is there anything you'd have done differently?" he asked her, as they all piled into the shuttle. Aware, suddenly, of Lin's eyes on both of them.

Seheve shrugged. "Spectre Sidonis' training has been in establishing sympathy and empathy with those with whom he would negotiate, I believe. Mine has all been in establishing a position of strength, of showing threat, if subtly, and being prepared to back it up."

Eli evidently heard some of that, because he turned as Cohort, in the pilot's seat of the shuttle, began to lift off. "Hey, that's a perfectly valid negotiating strategy," he called back to Seheve, smiling a little. "Especially for krogan, but also for dealing with other merc and criminal groups. I just didn't need to do it with Vallaia. In her case, I knew she's spent close to four hundred years in Eclipse. She's dedicated to it, but she doesn't have a history of brutality. And with every one of these groups, it's a question, to me, of showing them why it's in their own best interest to help us. Once you convince them of that, self-interest does most of the rest of the work."

Seheve met the human's eyes calmly. "Will you be able to show threat for the other groups, who may need it?"

Eli looked off into the mid-distance. "Managed to impersonate a pretty decent Blue Suns merc, once upon a time on Edessan," he said, after a moment. "Fortunately, the Suns aren't going to be our biggest problem here on Trident."

Rel stared at Eli, a little dubiously. He'd been head-down in the situation and tactical analysis with Dempsey for the past day or two; he hadn't really been paying attention to much else. But he and Dempsey had agreed on, and told the others, one simple truth: they weren't going to be able to re-take Astaria and hold it with anything less than about seven hundred people. More would be definitely preferable. It was a small colony. Its people were strung out all over the globe. A small, highly mobile force could do it. . . but they didn't have the bodies. _Seventy-five Eclipse isn't going to do it,_ Rel thought, grimly.

Then they'd gone to pick up the other three again. Dara and Dempsey both looked tired as they scrambled up into the shuttle, and Glory scuttled up the hatch in their wake, singing little arpeggios of comfort to them all. "Any luck?" Lin asked them.

"Eh. Our local corporate raiders are scared _s'kakless_ that they'll be attacked by the mercs the instant that they drop their guards. HME's giving us a hundred and fifty security troops. The other two are giving us seventy-five each." Dara rubbed at her eyes as she buckled herself into the seat beside Dempsey, who'd sat down beside Zhasa. "And no goddamned ships."

"It's a valid concern," Lin pointed out. "This place has been _villi_-eat-_villi_ for decades."

"I know. . . I know." Dara looked up at the ceiling.

Eli slid into the seat to her left now, and looked down at her. "_Sai'kaea_, that's three hundred more people than we had this morning. Better than nothing."

"I know, but they're not going to do us a hell of a lot of good, sitting here on their asses." Dara scowled. "Plus, their hurricane season is coming. We take too long, and _none_ of us will be getting off this planet for six months."

Dara was clearly annoyed. Rel knew the way she'd bite off the ends of her words when agitated. . . and then Eli rested a hand on one shoulder-plate. "We've got at least one Eclipse transport," he told her, quietly. "We'll get more."

Seheve stared at Eli at that point. "Do you plan to tell each group that the others has joined the cause?" she asked, calmly. As if discussing strategy. Which, in a way, she _was_, Rel realized, and started to get a little more interested.

Eli looked up from Dara, and smiled a little at Seheve. "Only if necessary. Seems to me, that some of them will want to hold back on support, so that they can try and grab a bigger piece of Trident while the others are away. So they only get enough information to know that other people. . . people that could use this to get advantage over them. . . are taking action."

Seheve nodded approvingly. "A wise decision, I think."

Lin muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like _so glad you approve_, and Rel stiffened. Dara, who was sitting opposite Lin, reached across the space in the middle of the shuttle, and kicked his foot lightly with one black-armored foot.

The Blue Suns compound held a different surprise. A human male in his late sixties, from the amount of gray in his hair, one side of his face disfigured and immobile from an injury that not even medigel had been able to compensate for, was waiting for them in the lobby as they entered. The male wore blue armor, with the Suns logo emblazoned on it, and looked at them all expressionlessly for a moment. "Well, slap me down and call me Susan," the male said, his eyes completely dead, his voice thick with some almost impenetrable human regional accent. "Shepard's gone barmy and sent the kindergarten class."

Rel's mandibles flexed. He could see Eli and Lin's shoulders stiffen a little. Dara's head rose slightly. Dempsey just snorted, however. "Don't know what you're talking about," Dempsey told the man, shrugging. "I was in N7 when Shepard first made Spectre."

_Nothing but the truth there_, Rel thought, and watched as the male blinked and gave Dempsey a swift, evaluative look. He then turned and looked at Lin and Rel. "Which of you is Sidonis, then?"

"I'm Pellarian. Sidonis is my brother." Lin nodded at Eli.

The man's good eye widened slightly, and then he shook his head. "You don't look a damn bit like your father," he informed Eli.

"Funny. Most people think I look just like Lantar." Eli's face was impassive.

"Right. I didn't come all the way out here just to chit-chat. Shepard said you need some of my men for operations on Astaria. And that you're authorized to pay." Half of the face turned up in a grim smile. "I like her, so she gets my friends and family rate." There were metric tons of irony in his voice at those words.

"Right. So I guess what we need to discuss is exactly what the Suns are going to provide to us. And how much that's going to cost." Eli's face was set.

They trooped into a conference room, and two hours later, Rel was shaking his head. There had been no efforts towards empathy in this set of negotiations. Just hard numbers, offer and counteroffer, as if they were in a marketplace on Earth once more. He'd turned his head to look at Seheve, and muttered, very quietly, in her ear, "Sounds about as bad as some of the shops in Egypt," and had been rewarded by a faint smile, which broke through her mask of concentration.

Offer and counter-offer. Two hundred troops for a month, and three ships, would have cost two million credits. Rel tried not to let his eyes widen too much. _How much of a budget is Eli working with here?_ he wondered, however. "Come on," Eli countered. "That's ten thousand a month per man."

"We don't come cheap," Massani countered. "There's a reason for that. Blue Suns provide their own weapons and materials, we provide our own kits and food supplies. That's also factoring in the cost of fuel—"

"Two hundred men, two ships, at a rate of six thousand a man for that month, and that's all I'm offering," Eli countered.

It went back and forth for a while. Lin took over when the actual credit amount was agreed on—a still mind-numbing one point five million credits. To Rel's surprise, Lin supervised the legal wording in the contract, reading and re-reading the clauses several times before he'd allowed Eli to sign it. Dara had been occasionally darting glances at Glory, and they'd all heard the rachni's sung responses of _False-song_ or _deception-song_ or _sings in earnest now_.

The end result was been a hundred and fifty human and turian mercenaries, and two ships being added to their total. "We need at least a hundred and fifty more," Rel noted as they piled into the shuttles again.

Eli rubbed at his eyes tiredly. "Tomorrow," he said. "Buying hovercycles was easy. This? This was two hours with someone who's been doing this kind of _s'kak_ longer than I've been alive."

Seheve offered, tentatively, "If you wished, I could start the negotiations with the remaining mercenary groups."

Eli lifted his head and squinted at her. "Appreciate the offer," he said, after a moment. "But we've got ins with them that you don't. Let's use them."

They stayed in a clean, if soulless hotel intended for corporate business travelers that night, and Rel chafed at feeling useless. "And yet," he admitted to Seheve before breakfast the next morning, "I'm not sure what I could be doing here to help."

"I think, perhaps, that we are doing it already." Seheve shrugged. "There is much to be said of going into negotiations with mercenary groups with heavily armed people at one's back."

Two more groups the next day. Klixxen Claws and Blood Pack. And, sure enough, Eli, Dara, and Lin's connections panned out here. "Ulluthyr Harak sent word," a huge krogan in blood-red armor rumbled in the Blood Pack compound. "Said that for humans and turians, you were actually worthwhile. And knew how to fight." The krogan chuckled. "Of course. . . I already knew that."

Instant shift of demeanors from the two humans and from Lin. Alpha body language from both the males. Puzzlement from Dara, but she was covering it, eyes and face almost perfectly blank. And then she blinked. "I know you," she said, after a moment.

"Yeah. Give you a hint. You told me once, I could either let you pull a bullet out of my intestine, or there were two other options. One, I could shit it out a week later, or two, the tissues could heal up around it, and my guts could explode."

Rel snorted. Yes. That definitely sounded like Dara.

"Garvug," Dara said, and that got his attention. "You were on Garvug. Ulamont. . . . Karsh?"

"Yep. Urdnot Karsh now, actually."

"Yeah, I thought Gris took you back to Tuchanka."

"He did. Ulamont wasn't in the Clan Alliance, and I like eating on a regular basis. Wrex isn't fond of Blood Pack, but I told him fighting was all I knew how to do, and I'm good at it. Joined Blood Pack. Send part of my paycheck back to the clan." The krogan lifted his hands. "Hell of a lot warmer here than fucking Garvug. Food's better, too. No living in the hills, trying to raid the damn salarians for their supplies. I like it here."

"Then you probably don't want to see the batarians landing and taking it all away."

"Shit, no."

Dara grinned at him. "How about we talk about that, Karsh?"

The krogan looked behind her, directly at Rel. "I remember you, turian. Good in a fight. Glad to see you're in on this, too."

Rel was actually gratified to be remembered. "We can drink ryncol and remember old fights later," was all he said, however.

"Turians can't drink ryncol. You'll piss blood for a week."

"This turian can, actually." _Probably. _

"Next you'll be saying you can feel the blood-rage of Vaul in battle."

"Funny you should say that. . . . "

Eli snorted. So did Lin.

Karsh's orange-tinged eyes widened. "Well, then. We'll definitely have to remember old victories. After we've discussed what kind of a contract we're looking at here."

Two hours of negotiations there got them seventy-five krogan and a single transport. No vorcha. Neither Eli nor Dara would accept them, and Rel was damned glad of it. Only a krogan could control the damned things, and he'd had enough of watching people get _eaten_ by yahg. He didn't want to see a vorcha doing so at their behest.

As they walked out, Dara muttered to Eli, "How are we doing, budget-wise?"

"Under our cap," Eli replied. "Got Eclipse for free. Got the corporate forces for free. Talked Massani down. . . had a discount already here, 'cause of Harak." He paused as they boarded the shuttle. "You and Rel being here probably got the price lower, too." Eli looked at Rel. "You planning on taking Karsh up on the ryncol thing?"

Rel grimaced. He'd spent enough time around Mazz and Makur to know that if a krogan considered you worth drinking with, you'd probably better do so. The last time he'd done any heavy drinking was right after the Spectre trials, however. Not a good memory. "I should," he admitted.

"Yeah," Lin agreed. "Build up our connections here, _fradu._ It's kind of important to keep everyone pointed in the right direction."

"Whoa," Dara said, sharply. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. You guys _do_ realize that stuff is heavily toxic, right?"

Eli grimaced. "All I know about it is that Mazz and Makur guzzled it after the Rite on Tuchanka, it's green, and it stinks to high heaven."

"And that's from a human," Lin pointed out, looking up at the ceiling of the shuttle as they all took their seats. "Imagine what it smells like to a turian."

Seheve sat up straight, her eyes darting from Rel to Dara and back again. "It was my understanding that even other levo species do not drink ryncol. That it has very deleterious effects on anyone besides a krogan."

_Shouldn't be any more toxic than your skin_, Rel thought, but didn't say out loud. "Judging from other, er, substances, I don't anticipate many problems."

"Rel, it's made from mushrooms and fungi that are grown in irradiated fields in the fallout areas of Tuchanka," Dara pointed out. "It's radioactive, it contains alkaloids that are highly toxic by most every species' standards, it's heavily intoxicating, it's levo-based, and it's _ryncol_."

On the one hand, her objections did make him feel a little better. She still did care. On the other hand, part of him resented them. _Don't tell me what not to do_. Rel tamped down on both reactions, and tried to think about it rationally. "Krogan gene mods," he reminded everyone in the shuttle. "Just how radioactive are we talking here?"

Dara exhaled and opened her omnitool. Looking for the data. As she researched the issue, Dempsey volunteered, "Personally, I can't get drunk anymore. Between the cybernetics and the krogan regen mod, my body metabolizes the stuff too damned fast."

"Kind of why a shot of morphine didn't do a damn bit of good when you were helping the Keepers out on the Citadel," Dara agreed. She frowned down at her omnitool. "Okay, it's. . . marginal. About as much as a dental X-ray in each two-ounce serving. That's still a fair bit of radiation to take _internally_." She lifted her head and gave Rel a direct look. Turians didn't usually have to worry much about radiation. Their scales protected them from it in the environment. . . usually. "So, Rel probably won't get drunk, any more than you do, Dempsey."

"And the rest of it?" Eli asked her, resting a gloved hand on the back of her neck lightly. His eyes had gone black, however.

Dara grimaced. "He might have an allergic reaction to the ryncol from the levo basis. The alkaloids are chemically close to some that are used as sedatives and anti-psychotics. He probably will metabolize those."

Eli looked at Rel. "If you think it's worth the risk, to try to cement relations with the Pack and the Claws. . . it's up to you."

"Jesus Christ," Dara muttered, and leaned back.

Rel could see the look that passed between the two of them. Silent communion. Eli's eyebrows went up. "Would an epi-tab help?"

Dara sighed. "Possibly. It wouldn't be a bad idea, help mitigate some of the potential for anaphylactic shock. Give the regen mod fewer things to have to work on, anyway." She regarded Rel now, steadily. Brilliant rachni blue eyes steady. "My advice is, don't let them get you into tossing back shots, at least at first." She glanced, just barely, at Seheve. "I assume you have access to epi-tabs?" Doctor tone, doctor mode.

Rel felt just the faintest hint of a flush rise through his crest. "Yeah. I do." He cleared his throat and looked away.

"Dempsey. . . go with him," Eli said, after a moment's silence had grown awkward. "Both of you can probably manage the ryncol, and I'd prefer not to have anyone go anywhere alone on this rock, if we can help it."

"I'll go," Zhasa volunteered, cheerfully. "I doubt the ryncol would have any more effect on me than on them."

"Zhasa, what are you thinking_?_" Dempsey asked, immediately. Flat inflection, but there was a hint of tightness around his eyes. "There's no reason to put your health on the line here."

Dara put her face in her hands, and began muttering under her breath. Rel was almost certain he heard the salarian words for 'intelligence of a slime-mold' in there, and his mandibles flexed.

Zhasa pulled off her helmet, as if to underscore how entirely non-fragile that health was now. "It'll put the Blood Pack on their collective cloacae, if they see a quarian who's strong enough to drink ryncol. I won't drink much. And someone's got to be there to keep an eye on the two of you."

Their eyes met, and Rel again could see an entire silent conversation taking place. Zhasa looked at Eli and Lin now. "You know we have to show strength. Otherwise, you wouldn't be suggesting that Rel and Dempsey go. Wouldn't this be a better demonstration?"

Eli grimaced. "Dara?"

"Those nanobots are going be _hopping_, is all I can commit to. I _don't_ approve, and if she's going to be a damned fool, I want to be on-hand with a stomach-pump and a crash-cart." Dara folded her arms across her chest, face set in implacable lines. She glared at Zhasa for a moment. "You do know that if you just use the suit intake system, they won't believe you're drinking it, right? You'll have to let them see your face and drink from a glass that they give you."

Zhasa sighed. "I'll deal with it." She leaned across Dempsey, who was on Dara's left, and squeezed Dara's gloved hand in her own. "The thorns really come out when people you care about insist on putting themselves in danger, don't they?"

"I'd be in a much better mood if you all weren't insisting on a trip to the emergency ward." Dara's voice was very tart at the moment.

Zhasa smiled, showing her fangs for a moment. "We love you, too, Dara."

Rel shook his head. She wasn't going to like this any better than the rest of the conversation. "You and Lin should be there," he told Eli. "They need to see strength from the leaders, too."

"Yeah, but I _can't_ drink ryncol," Eli pointed out, simply.

"No kidding!" Dara put in, sharply.

"Karsh invited me. The rest of us are more or less crashing the party. . . but the more strength we show, the better." Rel shrugged. "You and Lin passed the Rite on Tuchanka. They'll respect the two of you for that."

Eli and Lin exchanged glances. "That always seems to come back up," Lin said, ruefully. "Twenty minutes of being scared to death and having fun at the same time."

"Just goes to show the two of you were _meant_ to be Spectres," Dara told them. For a wonder, she seemed to be calmer. Then again, Eli's eyes were dark at the moment. Sure sign that they were communing silently.

"That's what Serana always says," Lin replied.

"See? Now you know it's true, if both of us tell you the same thing." Dara looked around at the others. "That leaves. . . Seheve, Glory, and Kirrahe back at the hotel, correct?"

"Don't see myself drinking with krogan," Kirrahe said, dryly. "Strong probability that it will be detrimental to my health, even if I avoid ryncol entirely."

Rel lowered his head to Seheve's. "You could probably come along," he said, quietly.

She shook her head. "Unnecessary. I have no need to demonstrate my strength at this time. It would, in fact, be better for them to underestimate me."

Rel hesitated. On the one hand, her company was a quiet pleasure for him. And it would be good for her to try to integrate to the group a little more. On the other hand. . . she could and did make her own decisions. "Up to you," he finally told her.

And thus, after the Klixxen Claw negotiations netted them another seventy-five krogan, the six of them made their way over to the Blood Pack compound. . . where some of the Claws actually also joined them for what could only be described as a krogan boozer. Eli and Lin brought bottles of human whiskey and turian brandy. Dara brought a medkit and a grim expression. Zhasa laughed at her. "Cheer up, Dara!"

"I'm going into a room with approximately two hundred drunk krogan and possible even drunk vorcha, and my teammates are going to attempt to poison themselves. I'm just thanking my lucky stars we're all at least in armor."

Eli leaned in close, but Rel could still hear the words. "Yeah. This is what krogan consider a party."

The main room of the Blood Pack compound had bare, unpainted aluminum walls. Prefab, taken to its ultimate extreme. Rel had noticed dents in the walls that afternoon. Tonight, he got a good idea of _why_ as a drunk krogan thundered past them and body-checked one of his fellows directly into one of the undented walls. "Ah," Dempsey said, raising his eyebrows. "Hockey. Good. This, I understand."

About two hundred krogan were packed into the room, all bumping into each other and shouting. All of Rel's combat instincts lit up, and he had to fight them back, grimacing to himself. Too many people. Too close. Too many threats inside of his space, and he couldn't watch all of them at once. Press of smells. Ryncol, thick and noxious, on all the krogan's skins, oozing from between their hide plates. Smell of unwashed flesh and machine oil, too.

Maybe a square foot of space for each person. Anyone who bumped into another, got shouted at. Spilled drinks were common. . . but violence only seemed to break out if someone actually turned and punched someone else. There was a trio of krogan on a low, raised platform, all beating on metal drums. Rapid-fire, staccato sounds, cutting through the crowd noise. Some of the krogan were hopping a little, just barely off the ground, in time with the drums, and as they all hit down on the floor, the crashing impacts added to the din. "This is like a mosh pit!" Dempsey shouted over the noise to the others.

Rel stared at him blankly for a moment. No actual animosity, Dempsey explained. All the aggression in a human mosh pit was just a reflection of the music. Of pouring the anger out through the music, but, ideally, not directing it at each other. Just being there, feeling the music. A different sort of communal experience. All Rel knew was that the sound levels were an assault on turian ears, and from the grimace locked on Lin's face, he knew he wasn't the only one thinking that.

Karsh, Hasur Tanak, and Urun Lakkar met them, and were dubious about the aliens drinking ryncol. "Your liver will liquefy, and you don't actually have a secondary or tertiary one, like we do," Lakkar warned, shouting to be heard over the voices of other krogan.

"I've never liked my liver, anyway," Dempsey shouted back.

"Huh. Well, it's your funeral," Karsh finally rumbled, and handed Rel the bottle. No cups. No way of measuring out how much a two ounce serving really was. Rel exhaled, and tipped his head back, pouring fluid into his mouth, past the lip-plates. He was glad, actually, that his sense of taste wasn't better; it smelled _vile_, and was actually rather thick and gluey, like _apha_ that had been left to sit overnight. It also burned like fire going down, and sat in his crop, with an odd, unpleasant sensation. Rel swallowed, looked at Karsh, and said, "I think I like _caprificus_ brandy better, honestly. But this has its points." He passed the bottle to Dempsey.

The three krogan facing him at the moment just stared at him. Dempsey took the bottle, tipped it back, and drank. Swallowed, expressionlessly. "Tastes like varren piss," he told them, and passed the bottle to Zhasa. Zhasa took off her helmet, looked around, seeming almost dazed by the noise and the smells, smiled at the krogan, and took the bottle. _Spirits, if what I understand about her is correct, the noise and the smells alone have got to be reaching near sensory-overload levels. . . ._

"Wait a damned minute. . . you're. . . that's what quarians look like under those helmets—" Karsh sounded befuddled. "You can't drink that—"

Zhasa grinned at him merrily, and drank the ryncol. She grimaced, pulling her lips back from her teeth, and looked at Dempsey. "Oh, _Keelah_, that's vile. I almost wish I'd stuck with you tasting it for me." She passed the bottle back to Rel.

Every krogan in the near vicinity had gone silent, and turned to _stare_ at her. "I always thought they'd be more reptilian," one low, slow voice rumbled nearby.

"I kind of thought they'd have bigger eyes. Maybe red ones."

"She just drank _ryncol_? Why isn't there steam coming out of her ears? Did Karsh water it down or something?"

Dara, who'd gotten her back against a wall nearby, had a scanner in her hand, and was quite busy analyzing what their suit systems were telling her about their bodies right now. "Elevated temperatures on all three of you," she called over the noise around them, her face a mask of concentration. "Zhasa, are you feeling all right?"

"A little dizzy. The music seems to be making the walls stretch."

_What?_ Rel lifted his head and looked around. The tingling sensation in his extremities that he associated with licking Seheve's skin was definitely present, and the edges of everything did seem to be a little blurrier than usual. "I think," Dempsey called out, ice calm as always, "that I may have finally found something that can get me drunk."

"For about two minutes," Dara shouted back, shoving past the krogan bodies that surrounded them to get to Zhasa, omnitool ablaze with light.

Karsh was asking Eli and Lin about their Rite on Tuchanka, and was urging the two males to match him, drink for drink. Eli and Lin were sticking with whiskey and brandy, and were, pointedly, taking sips, not shots. "Come on," Karsh shouted at them. "You two fought a _Harvester_, and you won't drink with me?" He took a pull of his ryncol, and handed the bottle back to Rel. "Drink, and tell tales of battle!" He turned and grinned at Rel, all yellowing teeth. "How about when all the damned salarian ships were cutting lines through the damned buildings with their miniature Thanix cannons, huh?"

"Friend of mine lost his legs to that," Rel agreed, nodding, and taking another drink. A big krogan body bumped into him from behind. Rel bared his teeth and started to turn, combat instincts telling him _you're being attacked_, but Dempsey's hand closed on his shoulder. Steadied him. And then took the bottle as the human took another drink, himself.

"I missed Garvug," Dempsey shouted. "Sounded like a hell of a party, though."

"It was! Krogan attacked from the south, led the charge on the Morphil'zha complex. Turrets everywhere. Salarian ships in the sky like nightflyers." Karsh gestured expansively.

"He's been telling that story for years," Lakkar, in the green armor of the Klixxen Claws, growled. "Also about how this human doctor put him ahead of turians in the line of wounded. And yelled at him when he wouldn't hold still."

Dara pushed past Zhasa now, back to Dempsey, scanning busily. "Yeah. That's her." Karsh pointed at Dara. "The only one not drinking, I might add!"

Dara lifted her head, glared at him, and said, "I'm working. Get out of my face."

"I went to the Urdnot camp six months ago, for a Clan-Alliance meeting," Lakkar rumbled, over the noise around them. "Met someone there who swore up and down that this female human Spectre who was a doctor . . . you, I guess. . . had cut a krogan's arm off once, and shoved it up his ass. That true?"

Dara just about dropped her scanner. "No! I didn't!" Eli started to laugh.

"He swore it was true."

"Was it Urdnot Mazz saying this?" Dara demanded, turning to glare at Lakkar now. "If it was Mazz, I'm removing his _quad_ next time I see him."

Lin started to laugh.

"No, it was Udnot Wurd." Lakkar stared down at her. She was over two feet shorter than he was, but was glaring up at him, rachni blue eyes alien in her face, but a very human expression of irritation in place, too.

"All she did," Eli shouted, "was wave Urdnot Mazz's arm at him and tell him to stop being a baby before he wound up bleeding to death."

"I did not!"

"_Sai'kaea_, I was in the damned room with you when it happened." Eli grinned at Lakkar now.

_Why should he have all the fun?_ Rel decided, and shouted over the pounding of the drums, "Later on, when he couldn't control his temper, she told him if he ever lost control outside of battle again, she'd cut his arm back off and shove it so far up his ass he could scratch his own tonsils with it."

"Yeah, but I didn't actually _do_ it!"

"He believed you would!" Lin yelled. "That's all that counts!"

Rel folded in on himself and laughed so hard his stomach started to hurt. The three of them, joining forces to tease Dara. It was like old times. . . and yet not.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. The ryncol never actually started to taste any better, more's the pity, and neither he nor Dempsey ever got any further with it than what appeared to be a light buzz. The krogan around them were more affected. Then again, they were also guzzling the vile stuff non-stop.

Krogan were, as Rel already knew, big on body language. It turned out that the various people charging into each other and running into walls was more or less their equivalent of a drinking game. Both krogan would drink a bottle of ryncol. They'd move to opposite sides of the room, and everyone in between would clear a corridor between the two of them. Then the two contestants would charge one another, meeting with a thunderous impact in the middle. Whoever was stronger, would, sooner or later, manage to grapple the other into the far wall. The loser bought the winner another bottle of ryncol. The winner would share that bottle with the loser, to ease the pain of whatever wounds were currently healing up. Other than that, the only rule seemed to be "don't put broken glass in each others' eyes."

Rel discovered this, the hard way, simply because Karsh wanted them all to be having a good time, and told him that he and Dempsey should play a round. _This doesn't sound like a good idea_, Rel thought, a bit distantly, but they'd each already consumed about a full bottle of ryncol each. They moved to opposite ends of the room, and the krogan mercs, all cheering and making bets, pulled back just far enough to let them charge each other. "Take the armor off," Eli shouted over the din.

_Good point. Let's not mess up the Spectre uniform here,_ Rel thought, and he and Dempsey did actually strip down to at least the undersuits.

The result was probably a little predictable. Rel had speed, and crossed the center line of the room long before Dempsey could have reached it, but Dempsey had biotics, and wrapped himself in a shield of force, becoming an unmovable wall. Rel had height and strength, but Dempsey, having stopped him, wrapped his arms around Rel, and shoved behind him with his biotics. . . and threw _both _of them for the far wall. Rel hit first, and with Dempsey's mass driving him into the unyielding surface of the aluminum, had the wind solidly knocked out of him. "You cheat," Rel managed to gasp after a moment. The blood-rage was keying up in him. The ryncol made control difficult.

"Every chance I get," Dempsey agreed, calmly, offering him a hand with which to peel himself away from the wall. "You want to go another round?"

"Without the biotics?"

"I make no promises."

Battle-rage beckoned. It would feel so damned good to let go, and against someone he couldn't possibly hurt. "Want to give them a show?"

"Why the hell not." Dempsey's eyes glittered in the low light.

Claws against fists, kicks against punches. Dempsey was an expert on defense, in the way Eli was, but not as fast on the attack. Rel let go, lost himself in the fight. Blur of motion, blur of faces around him, no self left, just the anger and the fight and _now._

And when he snapped out of it, panting, there was red blood on the floor. . . and blue, too. Arms locked through his, from behind—Rel turned and snarled for a moment, and then realized it was Lin holding him back, his full strength pitted against Rel's own. Dempsey was snarling, cut over one eye, his face a mask of red, and Eli had put him in a full-nelson, just as Lin had locked Rel. Zhasa had one hand on Dempsey's shoulder, while Dara stood in front of the male, cleaning the blood away. Skin contact. Helping him control himself. And the krogan all around were shouting and cheering and stomping on the floor. _Ah, __s'kak,__ not what I meant to do, what pulled us out of it. . . _

_We did_. Whisper of soft voice in his mind. Rel looked up, surprised. Zhasa had never touched his mind overtly before. _Dara's actually the one helping Dempsey right now. Eli's a little too tipsy to focus his mind. I'm helping __you__._ Rel closed his eyes for a moment. He was grateful for the assistance, but part of him wished it had been Dara who'd touched his mind. And then again, part of him was very glad it hadn't been her. Why let her feel the rage? Even if the rage was her left-handed gift to him, along with the regeneration?

Their fight led Karsh to challenge Dempsey, and Lakkar to challenge Rel. And both of those contests led to Dara grumbling and scanning Rel for a concussion, handing Dempsey a cold rag with ice in it for the facial bruising, and then throwing up her hands and giving up, as both of them promptly healed in front of her. "Poor _sai'kaea'yili_," Eli told her, picking her up off the ground and kissing her, armor or no armor. "No one will let you make their boo-boos better tonight."

"Oh, bite me, Eli—"

Eli leaned down, tipsy as he was, and did just that. Rel just blinked. Eli had been very careful, to date, not to be physically demonstrative with Dara in front of him, past maybe a hand on her shoulder or a foot behind her ankle. This was a first, and was probably directly attributable to the alcohol. Rel found someplace else to look.

Somewhere close to two in the morning, local time, they all left the Blood Pack compound. Rel, Dempsey, and Zhasa were actually stone-sober by that point. Lin and Eli were tipsy, so Zhasa was actually their pilot on the way back to the hotel. Eli called up to Dempsey, who was sitting in the copilot's seat, "I think I know your squad name, Dempsey."

"What's that?"

"Thor."

Dara, who was kneeling, scanning Rel, looked up. "I like it. Thor was very strong. The Norse admiration for berserkers fits, too."

"I don't run around swinging a hammer—"

"No, but Thor could throw himself and his hammer across the sky as a method of transportation when he didn't feel like using his chariot," Eli pointed out, spacing out his words very carefully to avoid slurring. "Kind of like you threw yourself across the room into that wall tonight."

"Plus, it fits our squad line-up," Lin pointed out. "Tyr. Freya. Forseti. Thor."

Dempsey snorted. "And what does that make Zhasa, then?"

Eli opened his omnitool, and chuckled. "Astrild. Goddess of love and beauty. I'd have said Sif, Thor's wife, but that won't work on the radio."

"Love and beauty?" Zhasa's voice was delighted. "I don't know about the beauty part, but love is worth fighting for. I like it."

Dara was still scanning him, and looked ready to go scan Dempsey and Zhasa again, too. Rel reached over and took the scanner out of her hands. "We're fine," he told her. "If our livers haven't dissolved yet, they're not going to."

Her face betrayed one flash of worry, and then went blank. "He's right," Eli told her, and pulled her onto the bench-seat beside him. "It's been hours." He made a face. "I don't suppose you've got a hangover cure in that medkit of yours."

"You think you're going to have one?" Lin asked, in surprise.

"I'm only human, _fradu,_ and Dara couldn't help me drink the whiskey. Not more than one shot, anyway." Eli stroked a gloved hand over Dara's hair, lightly. "We still don't know what will interact with her system happily."

"Eh, just feed her some of that royal jelly stuff and she should be fine," Dempsey called from the front. "Right?"

"Great idea," Eli replied, very happily, for some reason, and Dara dropped an armored elbow into his armored ribs.

"Everyone's got a squad name except for Rel," Lin muttered, his own voice slurred. "Need to fix that."

"Virtus," Dara said, immediately, with her head leaning against Eli's neck. "He was the Roman god of excellence and worth. Garrus and Shepard gave Rel a spirit-statue of Virtus a long time ago. I don't see why it can't still apply." _The wedding presents,_ Rel remembered, his head lifting as he stared at her. _Hers was Hygeia. What does that say? That she's changed more than I have?_

"Virtus. . . and Rinus is Vulcan." Eli chuckled. "Even their _squad-names_ match." He looked at Rel. "What do you think?"

_That you're all extending the bonds of the pack. Including me again._ Acceptance. Friendship. Zhasa's earlier touch on his mind, to help him pull away from the blood-rage. All the reminders over the evening, of past trials faced and passed. It was a _good_ feeling.

At the hotel, Rel made a very careful effort to walk into the room quietly. Showered, to get the stink off of his scales. And then crawled into bed beside Seheve. Somehow, it didn't surprise him at all that she was awake. "You should have come with us," he told her, quietly, pulling her close in his arms. _Of course, if you had, would I have felt free to let the rage go? To fight Dempsey, as a krogan would? Would they have lifted either of us, passed us over the top of the crowd, when we survived hand-to-hand combat with their leaders, and started healing just as fast as they would, themselves? _

"I did not feel that my presence inside the hall was necessary," Seheve told him, simply. Her face masked by the darkness in the room, she added, quietly, "I did, however, stand guard outside the hall. In case anything untoward happened. When nothing seemed amiss, and several hours had passed without Spectre Jaworski. . . Dara, I mean. . . paging me that there had been medical complications. . . I left."

Rel wanted to bang his head against a wall. "Why not come _with_ us, then? Why not join us?"

"Guarding the rest of you would have been more difficult, if any of the krogan or vorcha in the compound had known that I was there. I assume that there were no vorcha in the actual festivity area?"

Rel stared up at the ceiling. "No. None." _Because if there had been, Eli would never have taken so much as a sip of whiskey. I wouldn't have touched the ryncol. And Dara would have had a gun in her hand the entire evening. _

"I thought not." She nodded against his shoulder. "My evening was pleasant. I trust yours was the same."

How to explain it to her? How to point out that if she'd come along, she'd have been bound to the pack a little more closely? Primitive hunters on Palaven had given one another hunt-names. Secret names, known only within a small band of hunters. Names that bound them to each other, to the hunt, to the prey. Names had magic. Primitive humans had, like hanar, given names, and secret names. Knowing someone's secret name supposedly gave you power over them.

Giving and accepting squad-names held a little of those resonances. _If she'd been there tonight, would the others have accepted her? Given her a squad name? Drawn the bonds of companionship tightly around her? I asked her to come, and she refused. Then she came anyway, and stayed outside. Spirits, she's. . . a confusing female._

Rel rolled over, and looked down at Seheve. The ryncol had long since worked its way out of his system, but there were still adrenaline ghosts chasing each other through his bloodstream. And she was awake, which meant he wasn't, probably, disturbing her. He leaned down, and bit gently, just under her ear, rasping his tongue against her trapped scales, and heard her inhale, sharply. And then she wrapped her arms around him, welcoming him, and this, at least, wasn't confusing at all.

The next morning, at breakfast, Dempsey, Zhasa, and Rel were in perfect health. Eli was, however, rubbing his temples more than a little, and wincing at the light coming in through the windows of the hotel's small dining area. Dara handed him a packet of aspirin, without comment, and Eli immediately took them, carefully, with orange juice. "Was the social activity useful?" Kirrahe asked, chipperly, sitting down across from the two humans.

"I think we cemented some bonds with the Pack and the Claws," Eli said, and looked down at his tray with a grimace. "I know I have to eat, but my stomach is voting against the rest of the body's committees today."

"Get something on your stomach so the aspirin has a fighting chance to get in your system and work," Dara told him, and a rachni worker unexpectedly ran up on the table beside her plate. "Yes, Wolfgang, he's got toast, thank you."

People at the next tables over, all gasping and shifting away in their seats. Rel looked down at Seheve. Wondered if, in her mind, everyone shifted away from her, in the exact same way, when she sat down. No one did. Lin kept a wary eye on her at all times, and Eli definitely seemed to track where she was, but other than Lin, no one was actively hostile or dismissive. _How the hell do I get her to reach out to the rest of them?_ he thought, bewildered. It had been hard enough for him, and he was one with them. He was still rebuilding bridges that he had, in his anger, burned over the years. How to show her how to build bridges, when she'd never even had them in the first place?

_You do it by listening_, Dara had told him. But it was difficult just to get Seheve to talk, most days. He was listening, but she was silent. No gift for small talk, either.

And so, Rel inwardly thanked the spirits for Zhasa, who turned and smiled and asked Seheve, "Did you have a good evening?"

"It passed quietly."

"How'd you spend the time?"

"I read for a portion of the evening."

Dara now, mildly, "How's that Prothean database information on the quarians that we picked up on Arvuna coming along, Zhasa?"

"Oh, I've decrypted it. I think. The problem is, there's no real way to verify if the decryption was successful." Zhasa made a face. "I don't read Prothean."

Dara looked at Seheve. "Funny. I thought we knew someone who _does_."

"Oh, I don't want to pester Seheve—"

"It would not be a bother," Seheve assured Zhasa, solemnly, her eyes wide. "Of course, there is a slight problem. I can read the words, but I do not necessarily understand them."

"What do you mean?" Zhasa asked.

"How is your grasp of . . . hmm. Organic chemistry? If you opened a textbook on it in your native language, and read a page at random, how much would you understand?" Seheve asked, spreading her hands. "The computer systems on Arvuna were straight-forward. The databases are probably not simple."

Dara shrugged. "Even if you're not able to tell Zhasa that a phrase means _oligonucleotide synthesis_, even putting together a basic outline of what you _do_ understand would be a help."

"Seems to me," Eli pointed out, "either Seheve or Commander Shepard needs to sit down and make a Prothean-to-galactic dictionary. Would be pretty valuable."

"All the coding people know in Prothean pretty much relates to the mass relays, and that's just numbers, really," Lin agreed, his tone carefully neutral.

"Would be damned nice to be able to open that Arvuna database and read for myself what they said about early humans and turians," Dara acknowledged. "Or if they ever even found the rachni's ancestors."

Seheve's face suddenly lit up, from within. "This would allow people to read the words for themselves," she said, suddenly. "This would allow them to search for the truth, themselves."

Zhasa looked a little confused under her shawl, but nodded. "Good god," Dempsey muttered, poking at the eggs on his plate with his fork. "We're re-enacting the Protestant Reformation at the breakfast table, guys."

Eli winced and took a sip of very hot coffee. "Probably a sign we need to get moving," he admitted. "Twenty minutes, folks. Then we need to get back on the _Raedia._ Lin's team gets to take a turn now."

**Linianus, Volkov, Pamyat System, January 27-30, 2197**

The Pamyat system should have been devoid of life. No garden worlds, certainly. Dobrovolski, however, was the headquarters of Altai Mining, which had feelers on worlds as far away as Arvuna and had storage facilities for its equipment as far away as Omega. Dobrovolski was the processing center for half the ore produced in the Pamyat system, churning out aluminum habitats for colonization at a rapid clip—a product that was currently sitting, folded up, in storage pallets all through the corporate warehouses of companies like Exo-Explorers and Frontier Ventures, Inc. All assembled. Ready to be sent to worlds that had had their infrastructure wrecked, like Shanxi and Terra Nova. . . and no way to get the product out of the system. Because, at the fringe of the system, in the chaotic Chaznov asteroid belt, there were pirates in and around the moons of Volkov, a planet rich in the iridium needed for ship building.

Linianus stared at the system in the star chart in CIC. Every planet in the system, besides Patsayev, had mining. Every planet in the system had enough mineral wealth to fund terraforming Patseyev, which was covered in frozen water ice, into something at least marginally habitable. It would always be cold; its average surface temperature was -118º C/ -180.4º F. But with a thicker atmosphere, easily obtainable by capturing comets and aerobraking them through the trace atmosphere that already existed there, the surface would retain more of its star's heat. Over the course of several centuries, that planet could become habitable. People would always need to wear envirosuits, but there were plants in the galaxy that could survive in that environment. Produce oxygen. _Or, hell, it could be made into a volus world. A little warmer than they'd like, but get an ammonia atmosphere going, and they'd be happy there. _What it always seemed to boil down to, Lin decided, was vision and will. Vision and will were what Shepard was using to shape the Spectres. Shape Mindoir. Shape Tosal Nym and Aphras. Hell, shape the whole galaxy, whether or not the galaxy knew it.

He just didn't see many other people in the galaxy who had an abundance of either quality. Fortunately, most of the people who did? Worked with him.

Dara, Dempsey, and Glory had descended to Dobrovolski today, and come back up, muttering under their breath, but with another hundred corporate security types, who were used to functioning in airless environments, to add to their tally. "They'll _only_ release them to us, with ships, if we take care of the pirates," Dara had reported, grimly, in the observation lounge, where she, Eli, and Lin were meeting with Cohort. "And I don't think they'll accept anything less than the pirates being wiped out."

"Pirates prey on others. They do not contribute to consensus. Parasitical existence, at best. We also recommend elimination," Cohort said, simply.

"I don't have a problem with that, actually," Lin told them all, leaning back in his chair. But this was _his_ section of the mission, as agreed. "Dara. . . "

"Yeah?"

"You had to negotiate with the Growth Zero and Eclipse groups on Arvuna. Eli's had to deal with turian reactionaries. I've. . . never done anything like that." Lin had felt his expression harden. "I don't think I can."

Dara looked at him for a moment, and sighed. "I don't think you'll wind up having to, Lin," she told him, shrugging. "The Growth Zero people, I could sort of wrap my head around. About half of them were in it for a cause. A pretty warped cause, admittedly. A pretty hypocritical one, too, since most of them had kids, and it seems to me that if your cause is preventing population growth, that should mean it applies to everyone, including yourself. But that's never the way it works. It always means 'the right people' are excluded from the rules." Dara grimaced. "The Eclipse group was off its leash. Basically just criminals, anymore. I didn't want to deal with them, and I'm not sorry their leadership is dead." She paused. "What I did learn, is that not everyone who was involved in GZ, for instance, was in it for the _cause_. Some of them were in it for the money, which is even less noble. . . and some of them were in it because it was the only way they could protect themselves. Pretty much from Eclipse."

_Like Brennia. There are always a few people, at the very bottom of the barrel, who don't want to be there. But even Brennia found a way out. Eventually. Until it all dragged her back in again._ Lin looked away for a moment. "What do you think we should do?" This time he looked at Eli.

Eli shook his head. "There are options. Go in heavy, take them by surprise, wipe them out. No quarter given, and we just take their ships, return the materials to the companies and colonies, and get the hell out of here. That's option one."

It appealed to Lin, in many ways. "What's option two?"

"Go in, give them one chance to turn themselves in. Anyone who surrenders, gets parole, and works with us to help out Astaria. Anyone who doesn't, dies." Eli grimaced. "Not really what I like saying, _fradu_, but we don't have the luxury of a hell of a lot of time."

Lin weighed it. "Option two could very easily turn into option one," he said. "It carries more risk to us and the people with us. Gives them warning." And the thought at the back of his head was _and we've got the __Raedia__ and about four or five transport ships. Transports usually can't fight worth a damn. And I do not want to be the one to lose another SR ship. __Tarawa__, __Kharkov__, and __Estallus__. That's enough._

"Then we go in, heavy, achieve surprise, and offer their leadership the chance to surrender. And if they don't. . . we kill them. But we really need those ships." Eli tapped the datapad on which Dempsey and Rel had been sketching out battleplans. "We're not mobile enough without them."

"Pirates don't really tend to have _good_ ships," Dara pointed out, dryly. "If they could afford good ships, they wouldn't be pirates."

"Yeah. But anything that holds an atmosphere at this point is kind of needed." Lin tapped his talons on the table. "No ship-to-ship combat. Going to be boarding parties." Lin felt a flicker of adrenaline at the thought, and inhaled to push it away. "Going to need to find their nests. They can't live aboard ship all the time."

Cohort's eyeflaps twitched. "We are correlating approximately five thousand reports, over the past five years, of pirate activity in this system. Vectors of approaching and departing pirate ships. Corporate reports indicate heavy pirate activity in and around the Chaskov belt, especially Volkov's moons. Proximity to mass relay in Hekate system currently excellent, as Volkov's orbit is now at its aphelion."

"Do they have bases tunneled into the moons, or the asteroids?" Dara asked, immediately. She'd rooted out mercenaries and smugglers on enough airless moons and asteroids to make the question reflexive.

Cohort nodded, and began pulling the information up on the screen in the observation lounge. Hundreds of ship tracks suddenly arced in space towards Volkov's two moons. Information that everyone had had, but that only a geth or an NCAI could process quickly. The vast majority of the ship vectors curved in at two different points. . . a large crater on one moon, and an ice-covered mountain on the other. "The crater seems to be the home of the human, turian, and drell pirate band. Little is known about the leader, other than his name, which could also be an alias. Cyriac Iordanu. The mountainous location seems to attract krogan raiders. Potentially Blood Pack, which would preclude using krogan mercenaries in the attack against the base. Long range scans have detected anomalies in the area, which could indicate entrance hatches, as for landing bays. No interior scans are available, naturally. Floor plans, layouts, unknown. Troop distribution, unknown."

"Wait," Lin said, and Eli leaned forward with him. "How'd they _build_ these? Where'd they get the heavy machinery to dig with? Short of having rachni assistance, you don't just come up with an underground base overnight." Even _with_ rachni workers digging, day in, day out, for over two months, Valak's bunker system had been incomplete, at best. And that had been on a world with a breathable atmosphere.

"They were already built," Eli answered, and Lin looked up. Caught his human friend's grin, and suddenly shared it. "They've just adapted existing, abandoned complexes."

"Mines," Dara said, following along with them. _I wish Serana were here. She'd be enjoying this. Free play of ideas._ And watching Serana's mind at play was just as much fun as watching Eli or Dara's. This was like the old school days, Dara tutoring the rest of them in xenobiology, accepting Eli's help with her chemistry coursework, Lin tutoring the rest of them in history. Each of them bringing a strength to the table. The only difference was that the unspoken bond between Eli and Dara that Lin had always sensed, but that they'd put aside, buried, was alive and so clearly visible now, he wondered how they couldn't have seen it themselves before now.

As early as Omega, as the bond of friendship between the two humans had strengthened, Lin had struggled for a way to say something to Eli. . . without actually saying it. Hadn't known how to say, _You know you went into the turian military for her, at least in part. You visited her in the hospital every day when she was in the coma from the poisoning. You took the Rite on Tuchanka to step out of Rel's shadow. You wiped the paint from her face in the snow, let her be clean again. You've never made a single move on her that wasn't ethical, but come on. __Admit it._

The best he'd been able to do was to express his own friendship for Dara, the bond that existed there, too. He'd been struck, just as much as the other boys in their class had been, by her quiet competence. The depth of soul in the music she wrung out of the _reela_. The aura of mystique around her and Eli, from having been blooded on a vorcha, and so young, too. He wouldn't have teased Rel nearly as hard about _oris_ if he hadn't been ragingly curious himself. But he'd been careful not to do it in English or galactic. There was teasing Rel, and there was being hurtful towards her, and that was a line in his own mind. And later, after Rel had left for boot camp, they'd all thrown themselves into preparing for their own inevitable passage through the process, and he and Tel, Eli, Mazz, Serana, and Dara had spent so many damned hours a week together. Always the sense of distance in Dara, as if she already had one foot off the planet. But still, friendship. Growing pack bonds. Laughter, triumph, as they all ran together, swam together, worked on the climbing wall together. And then gone, other than a few notes, over the years, on holidays and birthdays. He'd been just as guilty of shutting her out, as she'd been of shutting them out. Hadn't told her that he'd been married, let alone that Brennia had died.

By the time the _tal'mae_ rites had come around, he and Eli were damned near drowning in darkness. He'd seen the look of horrified awareness in her eyes, the misery for their sakes, the wish to make it better somehow. . . but she'd been drowning in darkness of her own, and _neither of them had seen it._ They'd taken the cool manner, the shell of the 'tough girl' act, at face value. _Some cops we are._ The first cracks in it, on Bastion, during the plagues. And then Mindoir, the Spectre trials, and then Omega. No distance at all on Omega. She'd opened up to them. Taken the teasing and laughed, and had pulled the bullets out and made the pain go away. Lit up from within whenever Eli had talked with her. Always had a smile for Lin himself. . . or a whack to the back of the helmet if he hadn't ducked fast enough. And thus, the only words he _could_ say to Eli. The only words that Eli would have accepted, even if he didn't understand them, wouldn't allow himself to understand them. _She's our little one, too. _

Eli's response had been, yes, yes, she's part of the unit, part of the pack. Which had been truth. But it had also been a lie. And Lin hadn't known if he could or should even call his brother on it. _No. Our little one. Just as much as Serana. Just as much a part of us. By the spirits, __fradu__, why do humans spend so much time lying to themselves?_

It was a relief, really, now, to see them as quietly acknowledged mates. Everything was in its right place. No tension, or at least, a hell of a lot _less._ There was a structure to the pack, and it made everything so much easier. No paint. . . but Lin didn't doubt that if they could, that Dara would be wearing Eli's colors right now. Rel was being civilized about it, also a relief. Lin _really_ hadn't wanted to be his _sangua'fradu_'s second, in a duel against his future _ama'fradu._ That was pretty much a no-win scenario.

At the moment, in the briefing room, Dara's unreadable rachni eyes had gone distant. "The asari were the first people to _find_ this system, but humans were the first people who, supposedly, colonized it. Lysandra?" she called, looking off to the side.

"Yes, Dara?" The NCAI's avatar coalesced in the room.

"Pull up all the mining reports on Volkov's moons. Let's see if anyone even did robomining here, at any point, going back to the first asari probes. They might even have left maps." Dara grinned suddenly. "A map makes all the difference in the world for planning an assault. Even if it's not entirely up to date."

Sure enough, a records search pulled up robomining information collected over a hundred years ago by the first asari probes in the system, which had turned up iridium on the moons—but not enough to justify further exploitation of the crust. "Then all they needed to do was seal the mines and pump in air," Eli muttered. "Generators for heat, and they're ready to go."

"Could have been done by krogan, turians, even drell, at any point in the last hundred years," Lin pointed out. "Abandoned, and then found and used again." He looked at Cohort. "You already had determined this, hadn't you?"

"Yes."

"And you're under orders to see if we can figure it out on our own?"

"That is correct."

"Tell Commander Shepard, next time you speak with her, that teamwork is a lot more efficient when everyone shares the same information."

"We agree with this analysis, Pellarian-Spectre. However, it is impossible to test your analytical skills without observing the entire process by which you arrive at conclusions."

Lin sighed. _Okay, enough tests already. Either we're Spectres, or we're not. Aren't we?_

Dara cleared her throat, looking at the maps on the screens. "You want the others in here now?" she asked.

Lin grimaced. He and Eli were damned good at planning assaults. They'd had several years of doing so, after all, in CID and SWAT. But, on the other hand. . . Rel and Dempsey both had several _more_ years of doing it, and they'd both dealt with environments like this moon before. "Yeah."

"All of them, or just your team?"

Lin grimaced again. Rel was coming around. Starting to show the leadership he'd always had before, the natural flair and charisma he possessed. Liakos, on the other hand? Still silent as a grave. Lin felt nothing from her. No spirit, no spark, nothing but an empty corpse that hadn't had the decency to die yet, and still could, before it fell over, hurt those he loved. Rationally, he knew he needed to get past this impression. There was a chilling possibility that, if Rel completely lost his mind, and if _tal'mae_ somehow was unbound, that he'd marry Liakos, which would make Lin the brother-in-law of a murderer. Lin had done things on Khar'sharn that had pushed his sense of ethics pretty hard. But he also knew, deep in his heart, that he wasn't a killer. He'd _killed_, yes, but he wasn't a killer. Liakos was. There was a distinction, and that was what let him sleep at night. The knowledge that he wasn't like her.

After a moment's thought, Linianus replied, "Rel. Liakos. Dempsey. Kirrahe, yeah. Hell, Zhasa's a former quarian marine. We should _all_ be in here for this." He gave Dara a look. She was one of his oldest friends, and he could read her fairly easily. He certainly hadn't missed the _them_ or _your team_. "You're not staying in here to plan the assault, little one?"

Dara glanced over at Eli. "I trust the two of you to plan a good fight. Besides, I think at least Zhasa and I need to stay on the data analysis of Bothros."

Lin shook his head. Four years of special forces—sure, as a medic, but she'd been in as many fights as Rel had, for the spirits' sakes—and she was stepping back now. Deliberately. "Cross-training is important for you, too, _Freya_." Little poke at her, since she hadn't responded to the _little one_ endearment.

Dara shook her head, smiling faintly. "You and Eli and Rel know my tactical abilities. All three of you know Glory's, too. I'll help with the next one, though." A quick exchange of looks between her and Eli told Lin that something else was on her mind. _She's giving Rel space again, maybe? Where does that end, really?_ And Lin would greatly have preferred to keep her in the room. A second buffer, someone else besides Eli who could deal with Liakos.

He'd tried to explain his thoughts on Liakos to Eli last night, lying in his nest in the observation lounge, bouncing a handball against the nearby bulkhead, while Eli had leaned up beside the door. "So, Seheve is a killer. You and I aren't killers. And Rel is like her?" Eli had finally asked, and the words had hit Lin hard, but he'd had to think about them. Acknowledge them as true.

"Yeah. Maybe a little." Lin hesitated, remembering the odd, primeval dreams he'd had on Bastion—shared, really, with the others, in the fever. One village, humans and turians, together. Poison-skill people who lived near the river. Azure-skinned people of the cloud villages. And in those dreams, Dara had been their spirit-caller, and Rel the chief hunter. He and Eli had hunted near the village, _bianasae_ and bear. Rel had. . . gone out into the night. "There's an expression in English," Lin said, after a moment. "Beyond the pale."

Eli nodded. "Yeah. The _pale_ was an old word for the wall around a village. If you stepped out beyond that wall. . . you came back changed. Beyond the wall was where the monsters and the magic were. The things that lived in the darkness. There was us. . . and there was everything else, outside the wall."

Lin nodded, tossing the handball at the bulkhead a few times. _Thump, thump, thump._ Rel had stepped out beyond where the light of the campfires could reach, beyond the pale, the wall, that surrounded the village. Lin and Eli had guarded those walls against the bandits and the _villi_ and the _acrocanth_ for four years, but Rel had gone out into the night, and come back changed. "The work changed him. He loved it. . . so much he lost his spirit. But he's been a lot better since the regen mod. Hell, I guess since Terra Nova, though I wasn't there for that." Lin looked up. "He acts like he's getting his spirit back."

Eli had leaned against the wall of the observation lounge, and heard him out. "So, Rel loved the work. Do you think she enjoyed her own, _fradu_?"

Lin exhaled. Seheve didn't seem to enjoy much of anything, to be honest. He couldn't imagine her enjoying killing. In fact, he couldn't even imagine Seheve being anything other than stone-faced and expressionless, even in bed. ". . . No."

"But _Rel_ enjoyed it?" Eli had always had a gift for asking the really uncomfortable questions.

Lin rubbed a hand over his fringe. "Fighting feels good for us, Eli, you know that—"

Eli's expression was implacable, but his eyes were actually a little sad. "Do you think he liked _killing_?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Yes. I think he liked being good at it." Lin could grasp that. Being good at a skill.

"And what gets him off the hook for you, Lin? Is it just because we've known him, because he's your brother, at least as much as I am?" Eli folded his arms across his chest.

"No! It's because he fought them, face to face, honorable combat. . . . Spirits. This is hard." Lin groped for it. "He didn't sneak in. There were no pretenses. They were soldiers, and he was a soldier, and it wasn't _murder._"

"I'll grant you that. I even agree with it." Eli paused. "But he's getting better, you said?"

"He's acting a bit less _mor'loci_, yes."

"If he can get better, why can't she?" Eli ventured.

_Because!_ Lin had wanted to shout. _Because Rel's never snuck into someone's house and killed them and made it look like suicide!_ He threw the handball against the wall, hard.

And yet, if Serana, his dearest one, were given that order, would _she_ sneak into some enemy's house, and do just that? _No. Shepard wouldn't give that order. Would she?_ Lin exhaled. Put that out of his mind. Eli just looked at him. "Is your conscience clean on every kill you've ever made?" Eli asked him.

"Yeah." No hesitation on that. Even on Khar'sharn, he'd done his absolute best to mitigate casualties. To have the assurance that the techs and the first-responders weren't in the buildings when they destroyed them, but that the slavers, the physicians administering the lobotomizations, surely were. Even in terms of the guards in those complexes, the ones in Kanak'khoria Prison, his conscience was clean.

"Why?"

_Thump, thump, thump_, the handball replied, smacking against the wall, as Lin thought. "Because every single kill shot I've ever taken was either straight up combat, me against them, or was ordered by someone higher up, subjected to reviews, and we were damned sure after a week of reviewing it that there was no other choice." Lin caught the ball, and twirled it in his fingers.

"So, it makes it okay if someone else orders it? Someone else has it on their conscience?" Eli wasn't poking, but _spirits_ his brother knew how to ask questions that got under the scales. The human male looked up at the ceiling. "Remember when we were reading _Henry V_, back in school on Mindoir? And we got to the part where the king's walking around his camp in disguise, and his soldiers are griping, and one of them said he didn't have to worry about going to hell for killing in war, because, if the king's cause was unjust, it's all on the king's head, not on the soldiers'?"

Lin exhaled. "Yeah." He'd loved the speech, as a perfect example of justice. "Every subject's duty is the king's; but every subject's soul is his own.' Because the king only ordered them to go forth and kill _in battle_. The king didn't tell them to rape or loot or pillage. Their individual crimes couldn't be placed on the king's account. But if the king did order the war in an unjust cause, then he could be called to account for _that_."

"So, it's okay so long as someone orders it?"

"An order isn't an excuse, no. But there are things we _don't do_, Eli. Some things are crimes." Lin was sure of that.

"I heard that Valak was once ordered, in SIU, to help shoot twenty thousand slaves. He didn't actually do it. But he couldn't protest it, and had to look like he was participating. That's technically being party to genocide, isn't it?" Eli raised his eyebrows. "But you worked with him just fine."

Lin threw the handball against the bulkhead harder, the leather slapping against his palm stingingly as it rebounded. "He's trying to make it right. You can tell, just by _looking_ at him, how much it weighs on him, on his conscience. That he's never going to stop trying to balance the scales." Lin threw his hands up.

"So what makes it so much more particular with Seheve? Is it because she's reserved, and you can't see what's going on in her head?"

"No. It's the fact that she actually _did_ it!" Lin rolled upright in the nest and glared at Eli for a moment, as he continued to stand next to the door. "Valak shot over their heads. She slit a salarian's wrists and held him in place while he bled out!"

Eli had exhaled at that point. Lin had, after a while, agreed that he needed to be calm around Seheve. _And thank the spirits for my __fradu__,_ he'd thought, grimly. _If I didn't get to vent this __s'kak__ now and again, I think I'd snap._

And thus, today, Lin, Rel, Liakos, Eli, Kirrahe, and Dempsey sat down with the mine maps, and worked through them, as the _Raedia_ and two of the Blue Sun merc ships swooped, above the plane of the ecliptic, above the turmoil of the asteroid belt, and headed inbound for Volkov and its moons.

Lin decided that the first base they'd hit would be the one situated in the crater. The maps they'd found from the robomining days, when the asari had first discovered the system, described a complex of relatively square rooms, dug into the regolith of the crater wall itself. The robot probe had landed inside the crater, and started digging into the inner wall, boring outwards. As it had found ore, it had moved in roughly a grid pattern, boring passages between larger areas, from which it had extracted large quantities of iridium. There were a total of eight larger chambers, the largest of which was at the back of the complex. A second large chamber, near the rear, but also on the eastern side of the complex, looked to be higher than the rest of the chambers. "That's a natural cavern, I think," Dempsey said, pointing at it. "It's irregularly shaped. A bubble, maybe, in the earth. And if scans are correct, it actually opens out onto the far wall of the crater."

"It's a big opening," Rel noted, squinting at the dim images on the screen. "Probably their landing bay doors."

"Probably well-guarded then," Eli said, tapping his own fingers on the table. "Not the way we want to go. Not unless we send one team there as a distraction."

"The initial entrance where the probe began mining activities is here," Liakos noted, tapping the image at the interior of the crater. "Another pressure hatch appears to be here."

"Again, likely to be guarded," Lin noted. He was trying for neutrality with her, after his conversation with Eli. If nothing else, if she and Rel continued together, as they seemed to be, she might become a permanent fixture in Rel's life. _The things I do for the good of the pack._

Liakos nodded, once. "I would recommend making a new entrance."

Lin stared at her. "How would you do that, and where?"

"The Spectres sent mining lasers with us. . . those could be used, for a controlled entry. This would, however, take time. Up to two days, depending on the thickness of the section of crater still remaining between this rear-most room and the vacuum outside. Alternately, the Thanix cannons of the _Raedia_ could open the outer edge of the crater wall in approximately a minute, maybe two. But the edges would be superheated, difficult to enter through, and potentially unstable, as there would be no opportunity to put supports in place before the regolith above might collapse." Calm, distant words.

Lin stared at her. "Not to mention, whatever atmosphere they have in there, would pretty much explode out into the vacuum of space. These moons don't have atmospheres." _That would be, effectively, a death sentence for anyone on the other side._

"They are very likely to have pressure hatches between each set of chambers." Seheve shrugged. "And while I would not wish to sacrifice lives needlessly, it was my impression that these pirates were very likely to be killed anyway. Does the method by which they die particularly matter?"

Lin put one hand up in front of his face, covering his eyes, and rubbed at his temples gently. Every single conversation he'd ever had with this drell had left him with a headache and a desire to shoot someone. Preferably her. It was happening again. "_Steady, __fradu__,"_ Eli counseled, dryly, in turian. _"She's right. We were given wide latitude on this mission. We don't really need the pirates. Just the ships. And you yourself have said that you'd just as soon shoot them."_

"_I know. I know."_ But put in Liakos' cold, analytical fashion, it somehow felt dirtier. Lin paused. "Lysandra?"

The AI's avatar coalesced near the doorway. "Yes, Spectre Pellarian?"

"I'm sure Cohort already has this information pulled. Have the pirates in this vicinity been known to kidnap people for ransom? Or are they strictly cargo-thieves and smugglers?"

Lysandra's lips pulled back from her sharp teeth in an unmistakable grimace. "The pirates headed by Iordanu are known to take prisoners, yes. The krogan and vorcha pirates, headed by Ulstrum Hrav, do not appear to do so."

"Any way to distinguish bio-signs in the mining complex?" Lin looked at the rough map.

"No, Spectre. There are several hundred meters of regolith in the way. Even once we're in orbit, I will not be able to provide life-sign detection."

"Glory will be able to tell friend from foe," Eli pointed out, immediately.

"Yeah. He has battle-vision, like Sky does, but doesn't have Sky's range," Lin agreed. He knew that much from working with Glory on Khar'sharn, where it had saved his life and Serana's on several occasions. "He usually can only maintain it for a short period. . . and it depends on how much material is between us and him." They'd run into that problem when they'd been trying to tunnel into various complexes on the batarian homeworld. "Lysandra, will you be able to interface with him through the chip, and at least post what he knows, to our omnitools? Every little bit helps."

"I had not thought of this, Spectre Pellarian. I will confer with Glory, and see what we can do." Lysandra's smile was sudden and glorious, but Lin barely registered it. Just stared at the map.

"Are there any reports of any kidnapped people still missing in the area?" Lin asked her, after a moment. _There's a __lot__ of rooms in this mining complex. Lots of twisty passages. Spirits, this could be a very bad fight._

"Yes, three are still missing." Lysandra sounded uneasy. "However, they might well have been taken by batarians. No ransom demands have been made."

Lin glanced at Eli. "That settles it," he said, simply. "We can't go in, blasting the side of the mountain open to vacuum. Not when we don't know if there are prisoners there or not."

Seheve had, however, lifted her head. "Iordanu?" she repeated now. "Cyriac Iordanu?"

Lysandra nodded. "Yes. Not much is known about him, beyond the name." The AI paused. "And that he is drell, of course."

Liakos' eyes hooded for a moment. "Very little of him is known outside of the Hanar Illuminated Primacy," she corrected. "He was told, twenty years ago, that if he ever returned to hanar space, he would be executed."

Rel's head came up. His eyes glittered for a moment, and Lin couldn't read the expression there. "On what charge?" he asked.

"Heresy." Liakos' words were terse. "He was the prized pupil of the Master of Assassins. Next in line to teach all others. All very much before my time of learning. No one ever explained it to me. Only whispers, rumors. My . . . teacher. . . was his brother." She lowered her eyes, and murmured, "And no one could have been more fervent in his beliefs, more diligent in the exercise of them, than Elis Iordanu."

"As were you, because your own twin had fled as a heretic," Rel pointed out, with a sidelong glance, directed at Lin. _What, you want to excuse your __amatra__ to me, Rel? _

Liakos shrugged, and raised her eyes. Met Lin's, much to his surprise. "Iordanu was once one of the deadliest weapons in the Primacy," she said, simply. "His skills have likely degenerated. Little need to practice them, to terrorize miners and ship crews."

"But he'll still be paranoid," Rel noted. "He's been on the run for twenty years. You don't stay alive that long without fairly serious defenses."

Lin stared at Liakos. "What kind of skill is he likely to have?" he asked, simply and flatly. "What are we walking into?"

She shrugged. "He was an assassin. He was then, as I am now. Highly proficient in the art of stealth. Most of those trained by the Master of Assassins are not trained to fight in close-quarters or overt combat, unless absolutely pressed. It is considered . . . sloppy. . . to have to resort to such."

"That's not terribly going to impress a bunch of thugs," Eli pointed out, calmly. "He's holding together a bunch of turians, humans, and drell by force of personality out here. He's had to assert strength and dominance, over the years. More than once."

Liakos bowed her head. "That is a certainty, yes, Spectre Sidonis." 

"Eli. Elijah, if you must. As I think I've mentioned before, Spectre Sidonis is my dad."

"Very well. Elijah." Liakos looked up. "He is very likely the source of their planning and tactics. I doubt that he would be in the front of every attack, however. Such is not our. . . their. . .way."

"Are we looking at someone with access to a vibroblade and poisons?" Lin's voice was clipped.

"Possibly, yes."

"Sensor network outside the base, possibly booby-traps?"

Liakos nodded again, eyes downcast. Lin was keeping his tone absolutely level, and was looking just past her left ear as he addressed her. Rel shifted in his chair, and Lin shot him a look. To his surprise, Rel went still.

"How about inside the compound?" Lin pressed now. "What do you think he'd have prepared the place with?"

She shook her head. "The sensors and external traps would likely be the most he could afford to do. Traps inside of your own base only serve to endanger your own people."

Eli raised a hand. Quiet, soft voice. "Let's look at this another way," he suggested. "You think you could talk to him, Seheve?" Eli asked, after a moment. "Convince him to help us?"

She hesitated for a moment. "I do not think so," she said, quietly. "He will know what I am, at a glance. He will think that I am there to send a message from the Primacy, if a belated one."

Eli leaned back in his chair, looking at the screen. "You think you could take him?" he asked Liakos, without preamble. Lin could feel Rel stirring in his chair again.

"Possibly. It is hard to say precisely, given that I have never seen him fight." Liakos' voice was a little taut.

Eli turned and looked at the rest of them. "Okay. Try this. Two teams drop. I lead one, Lin leads the other. I go to their front door and _knock._ Armed with whatever Seheve can tell me about this Iordanu guy, I try to talk him into coming out with his hands up. Lin's team goes to the hangar bay door. You hack the doors, get Seheve inside. And if Iordanu fails to agree to terms, or twitches the wrong way, we take him out."

Lin tensed, but he thought about it. "Liakos and Kirrahe, with me," he said, after a moment. "Kirrahe to handle the hacking on the doors. Seheve for stealth. . . and I'll back them both up."

"I have more than adequate experience with unlocking doors," Liakos noted, quietly. "With respect to Kirrahe Orlan, his combat style is. . . noticeable."

"We don't have anyone else along who specializes in infiltration," Lin pointed out, sharply. Rel had stirred, again, but held his words behind his teeth when Lin looked at him.

"No," Liakos agreed. "But Dr. Jaworski is a trained sniper. As I am. If I cannot get a kill solution on Iordanu, and if he fails to allow himself to be persuaded to lay down his arms, then she would be an ideal fall-back option."

Lin saw Eli grimace, briefly, then nod. "She's got a point. If Dara can get a perch someplace, the guy's pretty much dead. Another option would be Cohort." Lin and Eli exchanged a look. They'd both seen Cohort walk across _ceilings_ on Omega as casually as walking through a field of daisies, picking off targets below. "Also," Eli noted, almost idly, "Dara loads out with nonlethal options, too. Depending on how many targets are between the backdoor and the front door, that might or might not be the best thing."

Lin wondered if his human brother was turian enough to watch his mate go into battle again, even after a grievous injury. Eli's tone was light and analytical, but his eyes were shadowed, at the moment. _We have yet to test this in either of you, __fradu._ "She'll go on my line," Lin told Eli, simply. _I'll watch her for you. She's safe with me. _A quick, grateful glance from Eli told him all he needed to know.

"The second team should go in heavier," Rel advised. "If they're called in, everything's gone to hell anyway, and we'll need more bodies and more guns."

Dempsey was nodding agreement. Liakos shrugged. "If the second team's purpose is infiltration, getting in position to kill the leader, and no one else, a heavier team compromises that purpose," she disagreed, immediately. "If the purpose is to go in and kill every person in the facility, then take Kirrahe and a second team of marines, and leave me aboard the ship."

_Gladly_, Lin thought, but made himself exhale, and calmed his thoughts. "The point isn't, actually, to kill everyone," he said, out loud. "Not if it's not necessary. I doubt if there's anyone in the base that we can work with. But I've been encouraged, of late, to keep an open mind." He gave Eli a look, and saw his brother's wry grin. Lin paused. "Rear team stays as it is, I think." He frowned. "Who'd be going in with you, Eli?" Lin asked, then. "I don't like the idea of you walking in the front door unprotected."

Eli's eyes went distant for a moment. "Dempsey and Glory," he said, after a moment. "With Cohort half a mile out, watching the door with a sniper rifle."

"They're going to take one look at Glory and panic," Rel pointed out, bluntly. "Take me, instead."

"Don't worry. You'll get your turn. But I want a rachni with me, for negotiating advantages, if nothing else. Dempsey's his own shield, and I want an impression of strength here. If I wanted a more conciliatory approach, I'd bring Zhasa. Glory's a walking heavy weapons platform. . . not that they're going to know it. I'd bring you, too, Rel, but this is as heavy as I dare let the squad look. Otherwise, yes, they're going to tense up at the sight of us—more, anyway—and I won't have a shot at talking our way through this."

And thus, twelve hours later, they touched down in the incredibly light gravity of Volkov's larger moon. Half a g, only. Lin was used to weighing over two hundred pounds, plus armor; it was jarring to bounce around as if he weighed half that. His muscles were used to pushing off the ground with much more force, and it was hard to compensate for, at first. _Bounding along like a kid,_ he scoffed at himself mentally, as he, Seheve, and Dara scrambled through the regolith at the far side of the crater. Lots of climbing to do, but they had ropes, hammers, and pitons. Seheve actually was leading the way, agile and graceful, and Dara was right behind her. Several times, Seheve paused and deactivated motion detecting sensors and cameras, all out among the rocks on this side of the crater wall, commenting, only, "It would seem that Iordanu certainly once cared about his security a good deal. However, several of these cameras have years of take-off and landing dust layered over their lenses. He has grown sloppy."

Lin shook his head and stayed silent. Caught Dara's booted foot, ahead of him, as her toes slipped, and helped her find a better place to step. "You all right, Freya?" he asked, on her private radio band.

"Yeah. Getting tired of climbing things, though." Self-deprecation in her tone. "Seheve's a lot better at this than I am."

"Omega's ladders, yeah. I remember how much you loved them. Eli says he got to scale a cliff-face on Terra Nova. Be glad you missed that."

"I am." Rueful admission, there.

Lin glanced past her, in the dim light of Pamyat, which was a tiny white chip in the sky, this far from the center of the system. "I don't get it," he admitted.

"Don't . . . get. . . what?" Dara stretched up and got a handhold. Slippery, microscopically fine dust atop all the bare rock made every hand- and foot-hold precarious, at best.

"What the hell Rel sees in her. How he could possibly go from someone like you, to someone like her." It did bother Lin. Of all the decisions Rel had ever made, this was the only one that wasn't explicable to him.

"Eli. . .pointed out to me. . . that she and I are actually a lot alike."

Scrambling up to the top of another boulder now, balancing there, a casual look down. . . _well, at least in a half g, I won't reach terminal velocity as fast, will I? But landing. . . yeah. It's still going to hurt._ Lin looked back up. "Alike? How the hell does Eli figure that?"

"Both. . . introverts. Both quiet. Both trained snipers. You kind of have to have. . .shit. . . . " Dara's fingers almost slipped on a piton, but the light gravity let her compensate, and she pulled herself up by her fingertips, ". . . a particular personality type to be able to do that, Lin. Sometimes, I can even see the faces in the scope, and I still pull the trigger. Neat and clean and absolutely no adrenaline. I usually don't even dream about that."

"Because someone with greater moral authority gave you the order, and it's all right."

"Yeah. You have to _trust_ that the person who gave the order is right. It's not face-to-face combat. It's not them or me, right there, right then. It's me, killing them, before they can kill my friends. My patients. And it doesn't bother me that much."

"But it does, a little?"

"Sometimes." The admission was quiet. The batarians Seheve and I took out on Arvuna, who were. . . damnit, she's placing these pitons really far apart. . . " Lin moved higher, and gave Dara a boost to the next piton. The drell was far shorter than Dara, but was a natural climber, which meant that she was placing the pitons much further apart than Dara was really comfortable with.

"Liakos, give us a few more pitons along the way here," Lin ordered over the radio.

"Acknowledged. There are, I believe, several motion detectors ahead of us. I will attempt to disable them before moving on." Cool competence in Seheve's tone. Yes, there were similarities to Dara, he could see them. But Dara at least had warmth, under the icy composure she'd learned to put on in the turian military. Liakos was an empty shell.

"Are they linked to any explosives or other booby-traps?" he asked now.

"Unknown. I will need to get closer to ascertain this." Liakos scrambled nimbly higher up the cliff-face, while below, Dara and Lin took a breather.

"Thanks, Forseti," Dara noted on the main line, and then switched channels again, her head tipping back to watch Liakos at work above them. Tiny rocks bounding, very slowly, down to them, dislodged by Seheve's feet.

"When have you ever been bothered by your sniper work?" Lin asked her, quietly.

"Those batarians on Avuna who were coming back for their wounded. Giving CPR. Could have been me, Forseti. But Ylara gave the order, and we shot them." Dara exhaled. "Those ones. .. yeah. I've dreamed about them."

"And Eli thinks this makes you like her?"

"She's. . . what I'd be. . . if I had stayed in the turian military. . . or with Rel. . . another two or three years. Five at the most. Nothing left but a machine that kills."

_So what, Rel is attracted to dead things?_ Lin wanted to scoff, but then Liakos signaled for them to move ahead, and they needed to pay attention to the climb again.

They crested the ridge, and he needed to save his breath for belly-crawling to the door, and needed his attention fixed, firmly now, on what was going on around him. Rocks scraping on his armor, white dust of the regolith pouring over him like flour. Eli's voice in his helmet now, comm system crackling to life. _"We're Council Spectres, and we're here to talk to Cyriac Iordanu."_

"_Sure you are." _Jeer in a clearly turian voice. Several more tense exchanges, in which the pirates tried to convince Eli to set down his weapons, that they had machine gun turrets pointed at him, Dempsey, and Glory. Eli's polite refusal to set down his weapons. Overtly relaxed tone, but Lin could hear the strain under it. _"You can keep your weapons trained on us, but how about if you let us come inside and talk?"_

"Freya?" Lin whispered over the radio.

"They're in," Dara murmured, leaning against the rock wall. "Glory says that there are four turrets in the first small chamber past the airlock and initial tunnel. Each turret has one pirate manning it." Blips were appearing on their scopes now, as Lysandra relayed what Glory could discern of the people around him, lighting up each room as the brood-warrior passed through it. "Large central cavern. Kitchen facilities, northwest corner. Dining hall is the rest. Crowded. Dinners on the tables, shoved away. They're all on their feet, guns in their hands. Ringing them. Death-songs. Reds and blacks." Dara pushed off the wall, her eyes losing that distant look. "Iordanu's coming to them. We have to get in there."

"Wait," Lin said, calmly. She had plenty of experience in special forces, but little in negotiating strategies. . . and Glory's agitation was clearly transmitting to her right now. "We don't want to go charging in there before Eli's had a chance to try to talk it out."

Dara nodded once, clearly trying to calm herself. Lin turned and looked at the drell. "Liakos, at least get the door unlocked, and the security system down, so we don't have to waste any time getting to them, once it's time to go."

One nod from the female's helmet, and she bent, working at the panels on the outside of the large landing bay hatch with her omnitool. "There is likely to be explosive decompression when we open the bay doors," Liakos warned. "We will not be able to cycle the air out of the area without warning those inside that the doors are shortly to open."

Lin moved away from the side of the door, and found a rock projection to hold onto, tightly. "Noted," he said.

Over the radio, a drell voice, now arguing with Eli. Eli, doing his best—and his best was very good, really—to calm the drell down. _"We're not the Primacy,"_ Eli told Iordanu. Calm, soothing voice. _Talking the jumper down._ _"We're not here to tell you what to think or what to believe. We __are__ here for a couple of other reasons."_

"_Which are?"_ Anger in the voice, tempered a bit, for the moment.

"_First, we can't really allow piracy to go on out here anymore."_

"_And here I thought there was a war on. Don't you have something better to do, like killing batarians? Why come after small-timers like us? Maybe you're a Spectre, sure, but what, they send the junior ones out to write parking tickets or something?"_ Laughter over the radio. A chorus of it, from many voices in the room.

"_See, that's just the thing. You've got ships, we've got mercs. How'd you like to be a hero, Iordanu? How would you like to come to the __rescue__ of thousands of colonists, one system over?"_ Eli stopped there. Didn't push it any further. Let Iordanu stew on the thought, for a moment or two. Lin approved. . . more or less. He didn't much like the idea of negotiating with pirates. Most of these people were scum. Thieves and smugglers at best, killers and rapists at worst.

Iordanu's voice was thoughtful, but skeptical. _"And all would just be . . . forgiven? We'd get amnesty?"_

"_I'd have to take a look at the charges against each of your people,"_ Eli countered, immediately. _"Amnesty for smuggling and theft, I can probably arrange."_ He carefully didn't mention other crimes, Lin noticed. Murder, kidnapping, assault, rape. He wasn't going to commit on those. _Good choice, __fradu._

Dara exhaled softly. "God, I wish he'd been with us on Arvuna," she muttered. "He's so damned good at this. . . "

"_How about __me__?"_ Iordanu said, and an alarm bell went off in Lin's mind. _He's escalating, not de-escalating. Why?_

Eli paused. _"I don't know what you're accused of, entirely,"_ he said, choosing to look ignorant, rather than hostile, apparently.

"_You mentioned the Primacy."_ Iordanu's voice was tight. _"Do you know why they banished me?"_

"_I was told heresy, but that doesn't matter to anyone outside of hanar space. . . ."_ Eli, going with the information that Liakos had given them, sounded sympathetic. Unjudging.

"_It matters to me!"_ Iordanu almost shouted.

"He's in the blue," Lin muttered. It was turian CID parlance for someone who'd gone unstable or irrational, and the negotiator needed to work on calming them down; humans used red-yellow-green. Turians used blue-indigo-violet. "What the hell's going on in his head?" he growled, and gestured for Liakos to open the door.

"I do not know. But it is possible that he feels wrongly accused, perhaps." Liakos paused. "We should enter."

"_I can see that it matters to you,"_ Eli soothed, over the radio. _"What I meant to say, was that no one outside of the Primacy believes that you're a heretic._"

_Nice try_, Lin thought. They'd _all_ thought he was. Even Seheve Liakos. _No. Wait. __Because__ of her, we believed that. . . . before that, we were going in blind._ A thought-fast glance at Liakos. Wondering, just for an instance, if she were about to pull some elaborate double-cross. _This is why I didn't want her on the damned team, except Shepard pretty much required her to be here. But I just can't trust her. . . ._

Dara's voice on the radio now. Taut and anxious. "Glory says anger-songs. Very old anger-songs. Falsehood-songs sung. A web of them, sung by his brood-mates?" Her voice went up a little. She was almost singing the words. "Glory says that those around them are agitated. They have only seen their leader act like this once or twice before. It has always ended in death-songs."

"_You don't believe that I'm a heretic?"_ Iordanu's voice calmed down for a moment, and Lin exhaled. Eli's brand of magic at work. Calming. Soothing.

Then Iordanu said something that made Lin wince. _"I wasn't, when I __left.__ They __made__ me one. I question everything now. So, tell me, __Spectre__. . . what do you believe?"_

"_I try to keep an open mind,"_ Eli said, noncommittally. _"But this isn't about me. I take it there was some. . . politics. . . that went on?"_ He paused. _"I heard you had a brother, who took over for you. Elis, I think?"_

"_Elis. . . "_ The word was a hiss, followed by a phrase in drell that Lin's VI refused to render. Liakos' head jerked up, however.

"What in the spirits' names did he just say?"

"_Akrabalik-aile ayyas."_ Seheve's voice was precise and distant. "It means 'he drinks kin-blood.' On Rakhana, it was acceptable to drink the blood of your enemies. Their water became your water. After taking a city or an oasis, this was common practice. Nothing was wasted. But kin-blood was sacred. Betrayal of kin. . . .unpardonable." Her tone was absolutely calm. "Nothing I have been told about him now pertains. We cannot predict what he will do or say."

"Agreed." Lin grimaced. "Open it." He tabbed his radio. "Tyr, this is Forseti. We're coming in."

No response on the radio, except Eli trying to calm Iordanu down, but the drell male was still hissing about his brother, and Dara nodded now. "Glory says Many-Voices agrees. Iordanu's too unstable. Too many unknowns. All previous bargaining strategies and assumptions have to be thrown out."

Liakos tabbed the door open, and dove to the side. Explosive force of air, tearing past their suits. A couple of surprised techs, being dragged out onto the barren moonscape. Half a G at least ensured that they wouldn't float endlessly away, but they were gasping for air a hundred feet away, clutching at their throats, clearly panicking, trying to stumble their way back towards the launch bay. "Get inside," Lin ordered, grimly, and closed the door on them. He didn't like it, but this wasn't a mercenary base on a civilized planet, where a tech could be some local hired for his or her expertise. This was a pirate base in the middle of nowhere. Everyone who was here, was now fair game. "Safeties off."

"You want any prisoners?" Dara asked, voice gone distant now.

"Techs, if we can, but I'm not going to worry about it. Primary objective is getting to our team and making sure they're safe. Second objective is the ships. Past that, if they're here, they're a pirate, and I don't give a damn. Shock them if they surrender, but otherwise, shoot to kill."

Liakos nodded, once. "Understood." She touched her omnitool, and faded from sight. Just as Serana might have, she ranged ahead of them as they ran through what turned out to be an underground hangar. There were four ships docked, with but no bio-signs aboard, praise the spirits. No chance of anyone coming in behind them, after putting on armor, or leaving with the valuable ships, which would then have to be shot down by the _Raedia_. Lin barely had a chance to glance at them, but so long as they were space-worthy, again, he didn't give a damn.

Liakos' fingers flew over the pad by the inner hatch, opening it on a short hall, bored into the bedrock of the crater. Decompression, as the air from the corridor burst out to fill what was now a vacuum in the hangar bay, though it was surely slowly refilling from the base's air reserves, with the far hatch sealed once more. Feet pounding on the rough stone now, reverberating up through his suit. Next hatch, opened. Sounds of combat filtering through the radio. "Freya, what the hell's their status?"

"Glory says they've got ten in the room with them, trying to get their backs to a wall. Living areas on either side, more pirates coming in, but poorly armored. . . handful coming in from the defense area south of them, but they can't move the machine gun turrets—" Dara's voice was very tight now as she planted her back to the side of another hatch. Mass of red dots everywhere on the scope now. Liakos unsealed the hatch, and Lin took one glance past it—_storage. Huge cavern, filled with storage racks, and the racks filled with pallet loads and crates of ore and ship parts and stolen goods, what have we got for biosigns. . . __s'kak__, nine of them, what, were they doing inventory today or something?—_and he promptly threw flash-bangs into the room through the door, ducking to Dara's side and keeping his eyes averted for a moment, before swinging back around again. "Stay behind me," he told Dara, getting his shield out. _Don't have time for finesse here, unfortunately, spirits take them all. . . _

This part was actually easy. This, he was comfortable with, familiar with. Dara ducked behind him, rifle in her hands, just as she had a hundred times on Omega, and he shielded her, while she took shots at the pirates, who'd been dazed and blinded by the flash-bangs, and the suddenly thin air. Liakos, however, had her own devastating effect on the pirates. A loading mech's head turned, jerkily, and it reached up its pincher arms, and pushed over the first in a row of shelves made of metal scaffolding. . . one weighed down with quite literally tons of ore and parts. Pirates ran, screaming, as it slowly groaned and toppled. Half a g or not, that was still a _lot_ of mass to be falling. . . and then the second shelf began to topple in turn, with its contents. Then the third. Clouds of dust filled the air, and Lin wasn't even sure where to fire, as Liakos ducked past him in a shimmer of a stealth field. "Don't cross my line of fire!" he shouted into the radio at her, before finding a fleeing human form in half-armor, and fired after the male, instead.

"Will attempt to comply," Liakos noted clinically over the radio, and then she was on another target of her own.

One male turian stood, attempting to hold the door to the south, an assault rifle in his hands. Lin advanced on him, shield up, taking the brunt of the attack, feeling Dara's hand on his shoulder, letting him know where she was. . . and then the male's assault rifle simply began ejecting slivers of metal that barely moved at all. Thumped against Lin's shield, and fell limply to the ground. Lin shifted his shield, and fired his pistol, point-blank, at the male's polarized mask, and saw the body hit the floor. "What was that?" Lin asked, sharply, blinking a little.

"Most contemporary weapons use mass effect fields to add force to the projectiles," Liakos reminded him. "This requires precise computer control inside the weapon. I caused the mass effect field control CPU to flash its BIOS. The weapon still fired, but with minimal force."

For a moment, Lin fought with it, and then gave in and snorted a little in amusement. "Can't argue with the results," he muttered, and then they ran south through the narrow hallway. Sliding open the north hatch into the main eating and living area, confusion of bodies. More pouring in from hatches to the east and west, humans, turians, and drell crouching behind cafeteria-style tables that had been knocked over for minimal cover, Eli, Dempsey, and Glory on the other side of the room, surrounded by a wall of bodies, everyone firing at everyone else. _Oh, spirits, if we fire at the pirates, we're going to risk firing at our own. . . _

Clear notes of Glory's voice in all their minds now. _Give you battle-songs now! Cannot sing them as well as Sings-to-the-Sky yet, but see your enemies, as I see them!_

The confused scrum of moving bodies shifted in front of Lin's eyes, enemies suddenly acquiring a red, buzzing overlay of color to them. "Where is Iordanu?" Liakos said, sharply, over the radio. Liakos had re-stealthed, and that made the spot between Lin's shoulder blades itch.

"Can't see him, too many bodies," Dara replied, and Lin glanced around, fast. The cavern had, once, been a mined-out room in the rock. No catwalks, no sniper perches. _Guess we should have brought Cohort after all. . . _ And then he got his shield between Dara and incoming fire, shoving her into the kitchen area, which had fewer people, and a lot more in the way of cover. Dara pulled around the doorway into the area and fired past Lin. "Tyr's got eyes on Iordanu—says he's stealthed—"

That hadn't come in over the radio. Lin didn't blink, but leaned out in turn, firing at will at the red-marked targets. "Liakos, do you have Iordanu?" Lin asked over the radio, firing his pistol, repeatedly, taking out the poorly-armored pirates he targeted. _Damn it, I can't even see Eli or Dempsey right now. Too many bodies. __S'kak_. _Should have come in heavier, and to hell with trying to talk._

"I do not see him—"

_Glory, give her your songs, give her your vision and the vision of Many-Voices._ Lin blinked. That had been mind-song, piano-music. Dara. She'd been working with Dempsey on controlling it when she was wearing her armor, but that one had come through, loud and clear.

_Cold-song one approaches you! Beware!_

Lin's head snapped up. He scanned the area around him and Dara, but he didn't have Eli's knack for picking out stealthed targets. There might have been a ripple in the air to his right. . . _Yes. There he is. _Glory wrapped red in the air where the stealthed attacker was moving. Into the kitchen, through the southern door. Circling to reach them, or to flee. Which it was, was unclear. _But hey, Liakos was right, so far. No standup fight from this guy. Stealth and mobility. . . ._ Lin was still trying to fire into the main room, taking attackers off of Eli, Dempsey, and Glory. Dempsey was hurling pirates away from him with bone-shattering force, and Eli was, just as clearly, picking them off in mid-air. Glory's micro-singularity barrage was tearing through their bodies, leaving tubes of removed flesh in the wake of the tiny biotic 'pellets.' "Freya, you got him?"

"On him, Forseti." Cold, clear assurance in her voice. Dara, with an attacker entering to the side, spun, and began firing her rifle at Iordanu.

"You need help?" Lin asked, grimly, still firing into the main room.

"Got through his shield. . . damnit. He just took cover." The red-white echo of Glory's pain-song lanced through them, and the battle-vision faded for a moment. "Seheve!" Dara shouted.

"Liakos, get in here and cover us—" Lin blinked as a pirate, who'd moved towards the kitchen, just south of them, suddenly slumped to the ground, bleeding at the throat, and Liakos re-appeared, momentarily. _Damn. She's tied up._ "Dara, watch the main room, I've got our backs—" Lin spun away from the doorway, and as he did, he brought his shield around, fast. . . and caught a vibroknife on the chitin-covered surface. Dull impact, and the flicker as a stealth-field failed. _Gotcha,_ he thought, in English, and slammed the shield forward into a very surprised drell face, driving Iordanu backwards, and swung up his pistol to fire at point-blank range.

Iordanu flew backwards at the impact of the bullet, but the stealth field flickered back into place around him as he fell, and Lin couldn't see him again. Couldn't _hear_ the tell-tale scrape of feet on floor over the cacophony of gunfire and screams in the room behind him. Couldn't smell the male, either. Lin fired twice, blind, for where the man had been, seconds ago, and swept the weapon, side to side, preparing to fire again—

—and then _something_ brushed past him, and Lin slammed an elbow at whatever it was, reflexively. "Coming through," Liakos noted, belatedly. "Hold your fire!"

A body flew through the air and slammed into the wall to the north of their position, sliding down to the ground, the pirate, a drell male, groaning feebly as he sprawled on the floor. Lin caught sight of that for a moment as he swung his head to consider the situation in the main room—still chaos, still the steady _bam-bam_ of Dara's rifle, taking shots at the males attacking the other team, a handful of the pirates finally noticing the apparently smaller team to the north, turning to face them, firing—Lin ducked back into the cover of the doorframe, and his head swung back around in time to see _something_ knock the cookpot over on the stove. A male drell form in armor flickered into existence for a moment, a female form five feet away, crouching, having just executed the throw, and then the male hissed, "_So, my brother finally sent one of his pets after all. Good. I'll send your head back to him on Kahje!_" Mid-sentence, he'd already vanished again, before Lin could level his pistol at him.

No words from Liakos. Nor did he expect any. Lin's world divided three ways, briefly. Part of his time, he was ducking out into the doorway, firing into the scrum out in the main room, as best he could. Part of that involved making damned sure that Dara, for all that she wore heavier armor and shields than he did, stayed covered. And then there was the bizarre fight going on in the kitchen with them, a battle between two phantoms, two ghosts. Two people who couldn't possibly see each other any more than he could. Maybe a faint shimmer, now and again, in the air. Fighting blind, or at least nearly. When they came into contact with each other, relying on nothing more than the _feel_ of tension in the other body, the feel of balance and counterbalance. Sam had made Eli and Lin grapple blindfolded repeatedly over the years, insisting that eyes weren't necessary. That, in fact, concentrating too much on what you could see your opponent doing blinded you to what all your other senses were, more accurately, telling you about what they really were preparing to do. Subtle shifts in weight before someone who'd been feinting attacks at you head would slide back to work the body instead. . . that was all these two could possibly be working with. A shattering crash as a drell body slammed into a wall, flung there by another throw. Liakos, this time. Iordanu, destealthing, closing on her, vibroknife out, held down along his forearm, killing edge out, ready to slice through her armor—_he's not a stabber, doesn't need to be with a weapon like that, it'll go through her armor like paper. . . bet there's poison on the edge, too. . . _ Lin fired at Iordanu from behind, saw the shields flicker, saw the drell's head jerk around in surprise. _Aha, target fixation much?_ Lin swept his own eyes back towards the scrum in the main room, and peripherally realized that Liakos and Iordanu had both vanished again. "Tell Glory to get his battle-vision going again," he told Dara, sharply, as she picked off another target in the main room, a male flung towards the ceiling by unseen biotic force.

_I hear_, Glory replied, and his song held gray exhaustion. _Many voices. Much pain-song. Difficult._ But the shimmering overlay came back to his eyes then, and Lin glanced to his right, in time to see a red-but-invisible figure attack a blue-but-invisible figure in the kitchen again. Grappling, too close to each other to risk firing on them. Knives both held down along the forearm, deadly vibroblade side out, safe side in, along the length of the ulna. Flow of block into turn into throw, turn out of the throw, and then the blue figure moved, thought-fast. Blocked the male's next strike, punching with her blade, essentially, lethal edge catching his wrist, cutting through the armor, and then backhanded it, along the length of the extended arm, bringing it up, point first, into the lamellar plates at the throat. Stepped in at the angle, controlled his bleeding blade hand, and drove the male's own weapon into his groin, hitting the femoral artery at the left. With two blades now impaled, Liakos spun away, both blades tearing through flesh and armor as she moved further to the right, her stealth field flickering around her, blue-green drell blood flying, arterial spray. Circle of death, swinging around behind the male, driving her own blade again into the back of the ravaged neck, sweeping one faltering leg with her own from behind, riding the body to the ground, and simply holding there, knife at the ready behind the male's neck, as he bled out. Four knife strikes inside of ten seconds, every one of them to an artery or a major vein.

Lin simply stared for two full seconds after the male's body hit the floor, and then turned back to the fight. _Spirits of air and darkness_, were the only words his numbed mind could produce.

Within ten minutes of that, the fight was over. Forty of the sixty pirates in the compound lay dead, and the other twenty, variously wounded, knelt on the floor, hands on their heads, surrendering. "Any of them trustworthy, Glory?" he asked, tightly, emerging from the kitchen, exchanging a quick nod with Eli.

_Dark songs. I would not sing in harmony with any of them._ Glory hesitated. _Many of them think of captive-songs. Prisoners, locked away. I hear them but dimly._

That got them to search the complex more thoroughly, and they did, indeed, find two prisoners past the living quarters on the western side of the complex. They had been dropped into what were, effectively, oubliettes. The robominers had dug core samples in this area, long, straight shafts, straight into the bedrock, looking for strata rich with ore. The pirates had blocked these off some fifty feet down, with grating, and dropped their prisoners down there. Filthy and terrified and left in the dark for days on end, the prisoners turned out to be a human and a turian miner from Altai Mineral, and were both almost starved, and certainly deliriously happy to be alive and rescued—and damned near babbled as they saw the Spectres for the first time. The human male almost broke down and wept as Dara wrapped light blankets around their shoulders, and began examining them both. Her eyes were savagely _angry_ as she looked up at Eli and Lin.

_You and me both, little one, _Lin thought. Over the captive's shoulders, he exchanged a look with Eli. "So, what do we do with our pirates here?"

"We could turn them over to authorities on Volkov," Eli offered, grim-faced. Lin knew that this was not his brother's first choice. He didn't have to be a mind-reader to see the words _space them in their underwear_ in Eli's expression.

"Do we have time to do that?" Seheve now, dark eyes calm, but her green-black armor covered in Iordanu's blood. "We still have the Blood Pack base to deal with."

"Maybe. Put 'em all in a cargo hold stripped to their boxers and bound with flex-ties. . . with the assurance that if they twitch wrong, we'll open the bay doors and vent it to space." Eli's expression was dark. "It's an option, and I'm offering it as one."

"Look. . . we can tell you the ship access codes. . . " one of the prisoners offered. Glory turned, hissing, and the prisoners shrank back from the rachni.

"I've already obtained those codes from the base computers," Dempsey pointed out, flatly. "No deals."

Seheve shrugged, and looked at Lin, to his surprise. "Council Spectres exist to enforce the law. Are you not empowered to deal with these people yourselves?"

Lin grimaced. _Ah, ethical dilemmas._ _But you know what? There's a rule of law here, and we can abide by it, and it'll be simple and just and right._ "Maritime law," he said, simply, and looked at Eli. The turian rules and regs existed for a reason, and he and Eli and Dara had all memorized them. "Captain's mast trial. Captain Arius is empowered to preside. The prisoners here, and the data in the computers, which Lysandra can sort through, should be enough evidence. Arius is fully empowered to try pirates and convict them. . . even outside of turian space. Because piracy is piracy."

Four hours later, Lin was surprised when there was a knock at the door of the observation lounge he shared with Kirrahe. "Enter," he said, and was even more surprised when Liakos stepped through the hatch. He rolled to his feet, instantly, and set the ball, which he'd been again, tossing against the bulkhead, neatly back in its spot to the side of his nest. "Yes?"

Liakos looked at him for a long moment. "Rellus and Elijah have both told me today, that I should come and speak with you."

Lin stared at her. "Did they now." _Spirits, why?_

"Yes. I asked them why I should. Elijah told me 'in the interests of pack unity,' which I thought was an odd statement from a human." Liakos looked up at him. "Are you satisfied with the captain's judgment in the matter of the pirates?"

Lin looked out the window for a moment, and then back to her. "Yes." Captain Arius hadn't taken that much time to come to a decision. _I knew there was a reason I liked this ship's commander._ With the testimony of the two surviving prisoners—a half-dozen others, whose ransoms hadn't been paid, had been found buried in the regolith outside—and the computer core's contents, Arius had found all twenty pirates guilty of murder, being accessory to murders, piracy, theft, and smuggling, and had, without fanfare, spaced them. _Better than wasting bullets on them._

"Does it appease your conscience, having the decision taken out of your hands?" she asked, her chin lifting slightly.

Lin's eyes narrowed slightly. "I find it fascinating, that you begin every conversation with me, with a direct challenge," he said, quietly. "Is it because you think I'll take it?" _That I'm not every bit the alpha that either of my brothers is?_

"You did not answer the question," Liakos murmured, and lowered her eyes. _Remember, that's respect, not guilt!_ "But I ask questions of you, yes. You were among those who came to the hanar embassy to find me, in connection with the Lystheni agent's death. And you have strong beliefs. A strong faith in law and justice. Strong faith. . . interests me."

_Why, because you've lost your own? Had the Enkindlers revealed as aliens, with slightly more advanced technology, and nothing more?_ And yet, she'd answered the question. Lin exhaled. "I am not here for you to test or to question," he told her, as levelly as he could. "But since you asked so politely, no. It's not a question of appeasing my conscience. It's a question of _justice_. Of doing right, because we can and should do so. The captain is empowered as a judge. I'm not. I'm a Spectre. I'm outside the law. I uphold it and I enforce it as best I can, but if I can, I'll defer to a judge every time. Because the law is the law, and not just my personal whims."

Liakos raised her eyes again. Dark and fathomless. "Elijah has spoken of you. Very highly. He told me that your wife was murdered."

Lin repressed the desire to curse. This was sacred ground. Something Eli shouldn't have spoken of to an outsider, let alone someone like her. Little pants of breath, struggling for self-control. After several moments passed, Lin managed to respond, hearing his own voice grate, "And?"

Liakos closed her eyes for an instant. "I wished to tell you how sorry I was to hear it," she told him, simply. "Also, I thought that I might remind you, that mine was not the hand that slew her."

Lin stared at her. He hadn't moved an inch since she'd entered; Liakos hadn't moved a millimeter from the entryway, either. Not intruding one iota further into his territory. "You could have been," he told her, his voice flat.

Liakos' expression stunned him. Anguish. Actual real anguish crossed her face, and she turned her head aside as if slapped. She swallowed, and, after a moment, managed, "I doubt that very much. I was not often tasked with killing law enforcement officers, excepting one or two who were involved in weapons smuggling. From what little I know of your wife, it seems very unlikely that she would have been involved in such."

Lin's face felt as if he were wearing a mask of stone. He stared at her, and said, with careful, calm deliberation, "She was murdered by one of the thugs in the employ of a local gang-leader. Who happened to be a serial killer, but that was in his spare time. He had the compulsion to kill, and was clean, methodical, purposeful in the carrying out of his little ritual. Never caught, not in about thirty years. And yet, because he was in the right place and at the right time, and the strongest male in his neighborhood, he wound up controlling a gang. Less neat, less methodical. Explain to me precisely what makes you different from him. Or from his little gang of enforcers."

Liakos looked down and away. Her voice was dull and empty as she responded, slowly, as if struggling for the words. "I . . . feel no compulsion to kill, Spectre Pellarian. It does not satisfy any need in me. There is no pleasure in the act." She glanced up, once, and then down again. "I have been careful in my methods, for I have been trained so. Rellus told me that I should explain the training methods to you. He said that they would mean something to you, as they did to him."

Lin wanted to scoff, but he respected Rel enough to hear her out. Two years spent more or less in solitary confinement. Never allowed to speak, except for a question on training exercises. Training until exhaustion, daily. Days or even weeks without food, to 'train' the body not to need. . . but that was also a psychological breaking process, and he recognized it. Made the recipient of the conditioning look on the giver of food as a friend, a savior, an ally, a. . . parent. After ten full minutes of her quiet words had seeped by, Lin nodded. Absorbed it all. And, dispassionately, he asked her, "And all of that was done to you by Elis Iordanu. The brother of the male you killed today. How does that make you feel?"

Seheve looked away for a moment, and a flash of something passed across her face. "On the whole?" she said, after a moment. "I rather wish it had been Elis Iordanu there today, not Cyriac."

Lin nodded. "I think I understand," he said. He couldn't picture ever being _friends_ with her. But today had given him . . . insight. At least a little. She'd been turned into a weapon. A exceedingly lethal one, at that. And he supposed he could understand what Rel saw in her. She'd been a blur of death in combat, and he wouldn't be turian if he didn't admit that seeing her ferocity wasn't stirring. But cold. So cold, where Serana was all fire and warmth. "Thank you for telling me, Seheve. I'll try to keep it all in mind in the future." That much, he could promise, but nothing more. There were still doubts nagging at him, but he was _trying_ to understand the message Rel had sent him here, in her.

Seheve paused, reaching for the door. "Is there. . . " she hesitated.

Lin looked at her. "Yes?"

"Rellus wondered. . . if you might visit us." Her tone was diffident. "In our quarters."

Lin considered it. Weighed it. He'd already been in and out of Eli and Dara's cabin several times. While he'd had two and a half months of Serana's company, it was hard not to envy his _sangua'fradu_ a little for the air of happy contentment about him and Dara at the moment. Hard also, not to trip over Zhasa and Dempsey, too; Dempsey and Dara seemed to alternate evenings playing music, and Zhasa was sure to be over in Dara's quarters, asking her questions about human wedding traditions. Two nights ago, for instance, there had been questions about veils, which had led into questions about other attire, and Zhasa had whooped, loudly, on seeing pictures of traditional western human bridal dresses. "Dempsey!" she'd called out into the corridor. "Why didn't you tell me I would get to wear a dress like this if we did the ceremony human-style?"

Rel was, in a sense, just as much a brother as Eli. Lin had even known Rel longer. But they'd be bound by kinship bonds the instant he married Serana. The distance between them did need to be bridged. _So, __fradu__, you're asking me to accept your __amatra__. And asking in such a way that suggests that if I accept you, I have to accept her._ Lin exhaled. He wasn't ready for that. He didn't want to exclude Rel, but if Rel insisted that including him, meant including Seheve. . . Lin just wasn't ready for it yet. "Tell him I'll think about dropping by," Lin told her, forcing a smile he didn't feel onto his face. "But for the moment, there's the Blood Pack base for me to think about."

He thought he saw disappointment cross her face. He'd had a half dozen drell friends, mostly male, growing up on Mindoir. Mostly on their handball team, to be honest. Most of them hadn't been this hard to read, but she sublimated her reactions so well, she'd probably pass any polygraph test she was subjected to, without even a blip of raised blood pressure. "Tell him. . . maybe tomorrow." _Or maybe the day after that._

She nodded, and turned to leave. Lin gritted his teeth. He didn't want to say this, but he did owe her this much. "Liakos?"

She paused in the open door. "Thank you for telling me. Everything."

The next day, they took out the Blood Pack base. Another six ships taken, again, not in any better repair than the ones taken from Iordanu's base, but it gave them space-worthy ships that could carry their troops. They had close to a thousand people, from two different systems, ready now to go into the fire on Astaria. The question in Lin's mind, was simple: how fast could they liberate the colony and establish a defense force to protect it, so that they could move on to their primary objective. The Collector ship, wherever it was on Bothros.

**Author's note:** _Credit again goes to my husband for helping me block out a really __nasty__ knife fight for Seheve. We ran through multiple options for the takedown, including one follow-up which included a kidney strike, but I don't like those, as they involve having to get up and under ribs. . . then again, with a vibroknife, probably not an issue. Still, the knife could break. And that would be bad, since she's unlikely to get a replacement any time soon from the hanar Primacy._


	136. Chapter 136: History

**Chapter 136: History **

**Vignes Region, Astaria, February 1, 2197**

"I hear engines coming!" A harsh, frightened whisper, just before dawn. Maryam Pace opened her eyes in flash, and for a disoriented moment, she had no idea where she was. _Nico?_ she thought, rolling over and reaching for her husband's shoulder.

Her fingers touched the neatly-made side of the bed. Clean sheets, and no Nico. Not even a trace of his scent left, not after four years. Four years since a batarian raider had hit their vineyard, looking for a cash crop. Not believing them when they said that the most they had was double-distilled brandy, mostly still aging in oak casks in the basement. Four years since the batarian raiders' captain, in a fit of temper at the total lack of _worth_ to the large, lush vineyard, had shot her husband and half their workers, and taken most of their farm mechs with him to compensate him for the time he'd _wasted_ in coming to Astaria. Maryam had been hiding, pregnant, with her three-year-old son crying softly at her feet, in the pressing shed at the far edge of the property. One of the wives of her employees had been trying to soothe Pietro, but Maryam had a rifle in her hands and tears in her eyes. She had the shot. She'd had two years in the Israeli infantry, she knew she had the shot. . . and she hadn't dared take it. Taking the shot would have meant that she and women and all the children who'd taken shelter with her there, would be found. And probably captured. Enslaved.

It all passed through her mind in a flash, as it always did. The insistence of a memory she usually kept encysted. Tucked away, locked behind closed doors in her mind. _Why didn't they go to Volkov? Why didn't they go to Trident?_ she'd thought, dully, over and over again, as she'd gotten one of the few remaining mechs online, and started it digging graves in the vineyards that Nico had so loved. _Why didn't they go somewhere more 'worthwhile'? Why did they bother to come here. . . except maybe there's too much competition anywhere else in the system. Too many other pirates._

They'd come here just after the Reaper Wars, when the memories on Earth had been too much. Too hard. She and Nico had seen their office buildings torn to the ground, hers in Tel Aviv, his in Rome, split asunder by the terrifying beam weapons of the Reapers. They'd found each other in one of the 'Collector' camps, where they'd been transported. Ready to be rendered into fuel for the Reapers, their bodies broken down and used for spare parts. They'd huddled together for warmth, waiting to die. She'd worked for an Israeli pharmaceutical corporation. He'd worked for Fiat, designing groundcars. None of it had mattered then. And they'd promised each other, that if they ever got out of the processing plant alive, if this wasn't really the end of everything, that they'd find someplace. Someplace where they could build something. Raise a family. Start anew. And to hell with anyone who told them that a Roman Catholic and an Israeli Jew shouldn't be together. What did any of that matter, when the world had come to an end, and no one had been any more right than anyone else?

Astaria had been that place. They'd moved to the Vignes region in 2188. Bought four hundred acres of prime land, alongside dozens of other human colonists, who'd settled here before the Reaper War. Many of those original colonists had been going home. Trying to reclaim Earth. Being bought out by asari, displaced from lost Thessia. There were tensions, too; many of the asari who remained thought the humans, or at least, Lilitu Shepard, were at fault for the loss of their homeworld. Maryam and Nico had ignored it all, and settled in. Had investors as far away as Earth giving them seed money for the vines and the robofarming equipment. Slowly, their remaining human neighbors were bought out. Year after year, their asari neighbors offered them more and more money for their land. Trying to buy them out. Nico always said _no._ _This is our place. This is our land._ By 2190, they'd had their first child, Pietro, and had twenty human laborers who'd come to work with them. By 2193, she'd been pregnant with their second child. . .and that's when the batarians had come.

"Ma'am? There's engines coming." Rough whisper, at the door, and Maryam came back to herself. Patted the sheets, and got out of bed. She'd gone to sleep fully clothed, as usual these days.

"Adamo? That you?" She opened her door a crack. This was one of her new workers. One who'd come from Demeter as a replacement for those murdered. Along with a shipment of mechs, paid for by insurance. Mechs that Maryam had made damned sure could do more than just till the soil, water it, add fertilizer, and pick grapes.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Batarians?"

"Not sure. Engines sound too small to be one of their big slave transports."

"Get our guests into the cellars. Get all the children down there, too. Are the mechs ready?" She opened the door further, and met his eyes in the dim light of the ranch house's hallway. "Are the men?"

"Yes, ma'am." Adamo was shorter than she was, by a good two inches. Nico had been, too, but Nico had had light and life and intelligence in his liquid dark eyes. Adamo was a good worker, but there was nothing else there. No spark.

"Then let's go."

Standing in her kitchen, the first light of dawn coming through the east-facing windows, she had a beautiful view of the valley below, as the land sloped and rolled, green and lush, over the hills that spanned the Vignes region. Mountains, sharp and stark, to their backs at the west. And to the east, shorter mountains, but more jagged. The relic of an enormous impact, probably from a comet, that had, according to the geologists, actually flipped Astaria end-for-end; this had once been the south polar region, but now was the northern one. That crater was now Lake Evessii'a. Storms rolled down through this valley from the north, channeled by the two mountain ranges, dumping water through the region—making it far more arable than much of the rest of Astaria, which tended to be arid. The soil was rich, and volcanic, and the grapes loved it. The blasts of carbon dioxide gas that belched forth from the shield volcanoes in the desert band were usually pushed away by that arctic flow of wind, one of the planet's jetstreams. She didn't usually need to worry about wearing a breather outside, except when a low settled in, too stubborn to be displaced by the rush of northern wind. Other places, other small colonies, the young, the old, the asthmatic, needed to carry oxygen and masks. Just in case. You could suffocate here. It wasn't Earth.

_But this is our place. This is our land. My husband and twenty good men lie dead under the soil. Their flesh and their blood have become the wine on my table. That's the only transubstantiation I know. And now you want to come and take it from me? Take my children?_

For close to three weeks now, the batarians had been moving across Astaria's northern and southern polar regions. They'd taken out the radio stations and FTL transmitters, first. No way to tell what was going on, but a few hysterical survivors had run, overland, from the surrounding farms and vineyards, two weeks ago. Talieu T'seia, and her daughter, Tassara, had arrived, feet bloody and covered in scratches, from having run and walked over twenty-five miles of harsh, volcanic rock and soil, through the scrubby, thorn-ridden trees and bushes native to Astaria. Tassara had been in tears; the girl was thirty, at most, which made her look like a fifteen-year-old, to Maryam. Talieu was in her late four-hundreds, and had nearly collapsed at Maryam's feet. "They hit the neighboring farms," Talieu had whispered, shaking. "We were there for a visit, with friends. . . got away in a groundcar, but we left it in a ditch and just started walking, so they couldn't track us by engine noise. Maryam. . . they're doing it _here_. They're doing what they did on Omega, and they're doing it here." She was shaking like a leaf, and Maryam couldn't blame her. The vids from Omega had been horrifying. All those glazed, expressionless faces. Condemned to mindlessness, for the cursed luck of having been born biotic. "Please. . . if they find us. . . "

_How do I explain that I understand? All too well, from the history of my old country, on my homeworld?_ Maryam shook her head, and said, simply, "We'll find a way to hide you. I've been preparing for this sort of thing for a while."

She had been, too. Pace wines and brandies were coming into their own for export, and she was putting the money into the vineyards. Not just putting more acreage under tillage, no; she'd sealed the cellars with lead behind the cork walls, to prevent biosign scanners from operating well. She'd bought mechs that could fire weapons, if needed. And she'd done a few other things, as well.

Now, Maryam stared out the window, and loaded her shotgun with careful, precise movements. She could see the batarian ship in the sky now. It was. . . definitely not a slave transport. Much too small. Probably only twenty, thirty men. _What do you want?_

The ship came in for a landing in front of the house. She could see that there were at least six small turrets poking out of the sides of the small vessel. Each manned, she surmised, by a batarian. A hatch lowered, and four male figures emerged, in armor. All with the completely faceless masks that batarians tended to affect. Maryam moved to her front door, twitching a curtain aside to see where her various men were perched. On rooftops. Behind sheds. The first golden light of dawn casting liquid shadows on the grass.

Three of the four males carried rifles, and wore plain brown armor. They surrounded the fourth male, who wore silver-grey armor. Not reflective, no. But the difference in coloration was marked. Wary movements from the three guards, heads bobbing as they looked up, probably spotted some of her men. The fourth male didn't appear to look around much. Just walked up to her front door. . . .

. . . and knocked.

Maryam stared at her own door as if a poisonous viper threatened to emerge from the wooden surface and bare its fangs at her. _What the hell?_ she thought.

After a moment, the male knocked again. She could just see him through the sliver of the front window that she'd twitched the curtain away from. "We are not here to harm you," the male said, in galactic. Guttural accent, like most batarians, of course. "Open your door, please."

Maryam's eyebrows went up, and she moved, quickly, across the opening of the window. The walls of the ranch house were solid rock here, at least. She held her shotgun ready, her side against the cold stone of the wall, and eased the door open a half inch, keeping her foot behind it. "What do you want, _benzona_?" The old, old word came to her lips easily. _Son of a whore_. Arab-Israeli curses were _fairly_ unlikely to be in the male's VI translation index.

To her great surprise, the batarian male actually lifted the polarized face-shield. Let her see four yellow eyes, staring back at her, through the plasteel mask underneath. "Alisav K'sar. With the Special Intervention Unit." One blink, from all four eyes at once. "I'm here to ask a few questions. Nothing more."

"And if I don't want to answer them?"

"Then my men will have little choice but to go through your entire home here, looking for the information that we seek." Careful, precise words. "May I come in?"

"Alone." Maryam didn't make it a question. It was a statement of fact. Frantically, however, she was weighing her options. She and her men could probably hold these batarians at bay, but that would show that there was strength and resistance here. Which would only attract more batarian attention. She wasn't ready for a pitched battle with seventy or a hundred troops. What she and her people _were_ ready to do, was sell their lives so dearly that slavers wouldn't bother with them. That might not be an issue, at the moment; they seemed to be looking for biotics and asari. _Both of which are hiding down in my cellars, damn it all._

The words _Special Intervention Unit_, however, had put a different tenor on the conversation. _SIU. What the hell is one of __them__ doing out here?_

"If that makes you more comfortable, certainly." The batarian turned slightly. Gestured for his three males to step back, which they did, after what looked like a moment of reluctance.

Maryam very carefully, eased her foot back from behind the door, her fingers tensing on the trigger of the shotgun. Then, still using her toes, she edged the door open further. She'd never, in her wildest dreams, ever imagined opening her door to a batarian. Not willingly. Not while she was still alive and in control of her own body.

After a moment, the gray-armored batarian stepped forward, slowly, and walked through the door. Turned to face her, eyes widening slightly as he looked down to find a shotgun pressed firmly into his chestplate. "Ask your questions," Maryam told him.

"Is this the way you greet all visitors? And I had been told that Astaria was such a hospitable, peaceful place."

Mild words, but they angered her. "No. This is how I greet batarians, slavers, and pirates."

He spread his hands slightly. "I'm guilty of being a batarian, but I am not a slaver, nor a raider." He looked around. Quick, casual-seeming glances. "Colonial records say that you've lived here since 2188. Maryam Pace, yes? Widow of Nico Pace?"

_How the hell do you know that. . . ah, __kusemek__. Colonial records. Means they've hit the regional capital, Tropez. _"Yeah. That's right."

"I understand that he died as the result of an . . . unfortunate misunderstanding with a batarian captain. You have my sympathies."

"Misunderstanding?" _What, he misunderstood that there was nothing here that belonged to him? We misunderstood that we were supposed to roll over and die for him? You can take your __sympathies__ and shove them up your ass._

Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face. The batarian reached forward—slowly—and gently pushed the muzzle of the shotgun to the side. "I am not here to steal from you today, Maryam Pace. I am here. . . for information."

_Here it comes._ She prepared to deny everything. To deny that there were asari hidden in the wine cellars. To deny that her mechs had military-grade hardware and software. To deny everything.

His eyes narrowed. "Have you ever seen salarians come through this region?"

Maryam stared at him, her lips parting for a moment. "What?" she asked, taken completely off-guard. "Salarians?"

"Yes. Small, amphibious types. Somewhat slimy on their better days. I'm sure you'd recognize them." An impatient stare. "Focus, please."

"You're looking for salarians?" she repeated.

"I'm looking for a number of things. Salarians first, however."

Maryam shook her head slowly, the curling strands of her dark hair that had escaped from the bun at the back of her neck falling down around her face as she did so. "The last salarian who came through here was a mech technician, about. . . two years ago?" she said, after a moment's thought. _Oh, for god's sake, don't ask about the mechs. Don't go investigating the mechs._

"His name?"

"It was two years ago. I'm not a drell. I can't remember."

"Do you keep receipts?" He folded his arms across his chest. "I'm prepared to be patient, Maryam Pace." He always said the full name, as if he thought it was all one word. "But I will not take all day here."

She backed away. Fumbled, one-handed, for a datapad. Dropped it to the floor, and kicked it across the floor to him. "If I have anything about it, it'll be in there," she said. Her hands were starting to shake on the gun. There was only so long that someone can be _prepared_ to fire, and not actually do it; sooner or later, the muscles simply begin to tire.

The male dropped to a crouch, and picked it up. Flicked it on, and began to scan its contents. Found the folder with receipts for mechs, largely written in galactic, and nodded to himself. "Maldo Ren," he said. "Now that's an interesting name."

"I don't understand." Maryam kept her tone neutral. She'd been put in touch with the salarian by . . . certain mutual friends. Some of her oldest friends from her stint in the Israeli army had joined the Systems Alliance navy after getting out. Hadn't wanted to go back to the kibbutz, hadn't wanted to find a civilian job. She'd stayed in touch. And just a few of them, maybe two, at most, had branched out into mercenary work. One of them had known people. Had read her message about Nico's death, and the impossibility of keeping her family and employees safe, here, in the Terminus Systems, and had asked a few pertinent questions about the mechs . . .and the size of her insurance settlement. Especially Nico's life insurance. And then had put her in touch with a salarian tech agency. Who'd sent out Maldo Ren. . . who had, for a rather princely sum. . . upgraded the mechs. The mechs that she'd already made sure could carry weapons.

Still, something niggled at her. The name did sound, somehow, somewhat familiar now.

"You haven't watched the newsfeeds much, have you? Maldo Ren was the name of one of the salarians who, ah. . . distributed. . . the plagues on Bastion." The batarian agent stood up again, holding the datapad in his fingertips.

Maryam's finger slid off the trigger, just for an instant, and she felt as if her heart had stopped beating. There was absolute silence for a moment. "I'm sure it's a common salarian name—' she said, at last, and started to curl her finger back into place, but K'sar had already closed the ten feet of space between them, and knocked the weapon from her hand. Reflexively, her knee came up, years of _krav maga_ training coming to the fore, but he wore armor, and all she did was bruise herself against his armor.

Still, he didn't do anything more than grip her face in armored fingers. Cold touch of polyresin coating. "I would very much like to know more about this salarian, Maryam Pace," Alisav K'sar told her, quietly. "What was he doing here?"

"All I know is that he upgraded my mechs! He's who the company sent!" Maryam did her best to maintain eye contact, but it was difficult to know which set of eyes to look into. Her gaze wanted to flick up and down, uncertainly. "I didn't know he was a batarian agent." _Oh, god. This is a catastrophe, a complete and total clusterfuck, isn't it? If he was a batarian agent. . . oh, god, oh, god, this one already knows. He already knows about the mechs. About the sealed cellars. _

"What did he talk about when he was here?" K'sav released her, pushing her back towards a chair.

Maryam stared up at the batarian. Again, it wasn't what she expected. She'd expected to be back-handed across the teeth by an armored glove, maybe breaking a few teeth. She certainly didn't expect that question. "I. . . don't remember. The mechs. The upgrades available for them. I . . . " _The upgrades weren't batarian tech. I looked at the writing on them. It was all in salarian._

Hours went by. Maryam hardly dared look at her shotgun, where K'sav had kicked it, far to the side of the room. No bathroom breaks. Just questions. Question after question after question. Where had the salarian traveled from? Where had he traveled to afterwards? Was Maryam aware of any community or settlement of salarians anywhere on the planet? Was she aware that Maldo Ren had left his omnitool repair shop on Bastion for six weeks to make a trip here? Why would a tech company specializing in mechs hire an omnitool repair specialist to come to her place, on the frontier of space, to repair and upgrade her mechs? "I don't know," she repeated, in varying tones and volumes, over and over again. "I don't know. I don't understand why you're asking me these things—"

And, in the middle of it, slipped in, as if it didn't matter, "What sort of upgrades did he install?"

The lie had been rehearsed so often, for so many neighbors, it was easy. It also had the benefit of being partially true. "We sell to specialty markets on Earth. Off-world label, but organic. And we were hoping to enter the kosher market, too." Lots of information. Steady voice, or as steady as she could make it. The kosher market had been a long shot. Nico hadn't wanted to boil the wines, and there wasn't a rabbi anywhere on Astaria to oversee the bottling. . . but the mechs were, at least, clearly not idolators, so she thought they could get around the 'touch of the non-observant' restriction that way. Eventually. "In order to retain an organic label, we can't use pesticides. The mechs got advanced tracking and detection systems, so that they can note when vinelice attack, either from the ground or from the air, and can respond accordingly. With modulated waves of sound, that destroy the insects, but not the vines."

Truth, but also a lie. Upgraded targeting systems, yes. Down to very fine movements. And yes, modulated sound attacks. But they could be played at deafening levels to disorient humanoid attackers before the mech opened fire, as well.

After four hours. . . and with her datapad still in hand. . . the batarians agent cleared his throat. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist on a tour of your facilities here, Maryam Pace. I'm looking for salarians. Don't make this difficult."

Her hands shook as he walked her back outside. No weapons in his hands, but his men certainly had guns. Then again, so did hers. Every building and shed in the vineyard was unlocked. Searched. Scanned. All the mechs were examined, but to her unspeakable relief, the batarians didn't seem to notice anything untoward. Her men edged out, trying to catch her eye, and she shook her head silently. _Wait. Wait. Don't commit yet._

"The main house now, please, Maryam Pace." The insistence on the full name was getting on her nerves. "This includes the cellars underneath."

She swallowed, and led him down the stairs. The cellars were large; they had to be. They were designed to hold stainless steel fermenting vats. Distillation equipment. And wooden barrels. K'sar looked around, his omnitool flaring with light. "What are these for?" he asked, tapping one of the barrels with the point of. . . _good god, is that a sword? He's carrying a sword?_

"Oak barrels," Maryam replied, after a moment. "Imported from Earth. We allow the wine to ferment, initially, in the large tanks. Then we let the wine—or the brandy—age in the oak barrels. The wood imparts additional flavors to the wine."

K'sar's eyes flicked from side to side. "What's past that door?" he demanded, pointing.

"My office." Maryam swallowed again.

"Open it."

Maryam moved past him, and opened the door. Two sets of dark brown, very frightened eyes peered out at her. "Is it safe now, Mama?" Pietro asked, quietly. He was six. His sister, Gaia, beside him, was only three, and clutched her big brother's hand in one chubby fist, looking woebegone. "It's really boring in here, Mama—oh!" Pietro looked past her, and his jaw clicked shut. He began to backpedal. He still woke screaming from nightmares about the last time batarians had come here.

"Interesting. I didn't detect any biosigns until you opened the door." The batarian had moved up right behind her, and Maryam shuddered. "Why is that?"

"The walls of the office have lead sheeting behind the drywall," Maryam replied, her voice shaking.

"An interesting precaution, for a vineyard." How had she thought his accent guttural? The tones were silky smooth for a moment, and incredibly menacing.

"It's a precaution I thought necessary after a batarian captain shot my husband and twenty of our workers not a hundred feet from here," she said, and brought her head up. Looked him straight in the eye, and reached out a hand for Pietro's. Felt Gaia's tiny fingers take her other hand, too.

To her surprise, the batarian looked away first. "Understandable," he said, after a moment. "I will need to search the office. Take the children away."

She wrapped her arms around her children, and huddled on the steps, wondering if she could risk standing and going for one of the guns hidden down here. _No. Not with the children here. Can't risk them_. K'sar emerged from her office, with a handful of datadiscs. "Thank you. You've been very helpful," he told her, and nodded once. "I'll let myself out."

She watched as his booted feet walked past her face, eyes tracking until he exited through the door at the top of the stairs. "Mama, you're squeezing me," Gaia complained.

"Sorry, sweetheart. I didn't mean to."

To Maryam's considerable astonishment, the batarians left without a single shot having been fired. "Are you all right?" Adamo asked, appearing at her side as she and the children walked out of the house. "We looked through the windows a few times. Made sure you weren't being hurt—"

"I'm fine. He. . . didn't touch me." Maryam passed a shaking hand over her hair. She'd expected far, far worse, once the gun had been torn out of her hands. A beating, a rape. Not the patient, careful, frightening questioning. "I have no idea what that was about."

And now that her mind wasn't being flooded with adrenaline and stress cortisols, she was able to think again. _Why would he be looking for a batarian agent __here__? Don't they know what their own people do? Why would a salarian be working for the batarians? _A pause, and another, very bad thought:_ Maybe the upgrades I paid so dearly for, with Nico's blood money weren't upgrades at all. Maybe it was all a pretense. We'll have to check the mechs. . . once we're certain that the bastards are gone._

An hour later, her men were able to confirm that the batarian ship had completely left the area. Once she was sure of it, Maryam walked back down into the cellars. Pietro and Gaia, two small children hidden in a lead-lined office? Explicable.

The other things hidden in the cellar were much less so.

"Open them up," Maryam told Adamo, nodding at the huge steel casks ahead of her. As she'd told K'sar, the juice pressed from the grapes rested in casks like these for its first fermentation, but aged in small oak barrels, imported all the way from Earth, while aging. She'd had several of these casks altered, however, in small ways. Lead inner walls, sandwiched between stainless steel. With ventilation tubes. It was a hell of a way to ruin perfectly good grape juice, Maryam thought. . . but it also made a wonderful hiding spot. The spigots would pour out hundreds of gallons of juice, if anyone decided to test the contents. The walls of the tanks could take a few bullets. If anyone opened the lid, someone inside could duck down into the fermenting juice and use a breathing hose for a few minutes, as a last ditch option. The only drawbacks? Heavy alcohol vapors. No matter how much fresh air got pumped into the vat by the ventilation system—which would surely ruin the wine, even if the presence of _bodies_ in it, didn't—the person inside would surely get a headache after a while.

She looked down into the vat, and called, "It's all right. We're safe, for the moment."

And after a moment, two purple-dyed asari faces emerged from under the sea of dark, rich red. Which was the other drawback of this hiding place. Grape skins, shriveled and coarse, tangled in their scalp tentacles. "They're gone?" Talieu asked, anxiously, reaching up one purple hand for Maryam's.

"For the moment," the human woman said, and hauled her neighbor up and out of the vat. "Adamo, get them some towels. No need to get this all over the floor. Up you come, Tassara. Careful—don't slip."

"Were they looking for us?" the girl asked, anxiously.

Maryam shook her head. "Not today," she replied, looking away. _God only knows what they're looking for._ "They asked about salarians. If there were any local communities of _salarians_."

Taliue and Tassara exchanged confused looks, and began to towel off their wine-dark skins and stained clothing. Gaia, who was, after all, only three or so, began to laugh at them, because they looked so funny. "Shush," Maryam told her daughter, shortly.

"Will we have to hide in there again?" Tassara asked.

"Maybe," Maryam replied. "I don't know how long this is going to last." _Or, god help me, how many more of my asari neighbors will make their way here, asking to be hidden. Or if next time this SIU operative comes by. . . if he'll be quite as polite and restrained as he was today._

**Tauno Region, Astaria, February 1, 2197**

"Come on, we have to keep moving!"

The words came from ahead of her in the darkness, and Binh grimaced and tried to move her tired legs just a bit faster. The trail was rough, even in daylight, and at the moment, it was dark, and they didn't even _own_ handlights. "If we keep making this much noise, crashing through the undergrowth, they're going to hear us from fifty miles away," she hissed back ahead to Tsvetan.

They were probably ten miles from the Tauno compound, the little circle of farms with their communal kitchen and storage bins, where Binh had lived since she was twelve years old. Her mother, Lan, had moved here from Earth in 2190, looking for . . . something. The gods only knew what. It wasn't as if she couldn't have worshiped the Mother Goddess in the Dao Mau faith at home in Vietnam. No, she'd dragged Lan here, away from Earth and the memories of her father, big Sven Blomgren, to practice _siari_ with a bunch of asari and live out each day in exactly the same way as the one before that. Scratching out subsistence-level crops of rice and wheat from the soil here to the east of Lake Evessii'a. Some root vegetables. No meat, except if an animal happened to die of old age and natural causes. The goats were raised for their milk and their wool; the _gua'sari, _flightless birds once native to Thessia, were raised for their long feathers, and for their flesh. . . which was sold as the colony's single cash crop. None of them ever got to eat any of the birds' meat. Not even their eggs. She'd asked once if this was not slightly inconsistent with the harmony of the universe; they were raising the birds as meat for others' tables, after all. If it was wrong to eat the meat, surely it was wrong to provide the meat for others to eat? _And_, a voice at the back of her head, which sounded suspiciously like her late fathers, _humans are omnivores. Shouldn't we be in balance with the harmony of the universe by acknowledging what we are?_

She'd been told that her questions weren't harmonious, and not to ask them again. Binh hadn't. Not where the adults could hear her, anyway.

Binh hadn't been happy to move here, and was even less happy today. _No groundcars,_ she thought to herself. She'd spent half her childhood in Sweden, and half in Vietnam. _No aircars. No scooters. Not even a damned horse. Because we have to 'contemplate every moment of our existence without confusion, without interference from the outside world.' Makes it very damned hard to get away._

Stinging slap of a branch in her face, and she pulled back, hissing. "Sorry," Virag muttered, coming back and taking her hand. "Where are Pankaja and Kiallia?"

"We're here." Pankaja's low voice, from further down the slope. "Wait for us. I think Kiallia twisted her ankle—"

"I did. It's. . . it'll be fine." The asari girl's lighter-toned voice held strain. "I can walk. I _have_ to walk."

"If we don't stop and wrap it, you won't be _able_ to walk inside of fifteen minutes." Pankaja's voice held anger, just barely restrained. His mother had been from India, his father from Spain; both had settled here, like Binh's mother. Like Tsvetan's Hungarian parents, who'd come here in 2191. All of them had been looking for. . . peace, Binh supposed. Three, four years after the Reaper War. They'd been tired of looking at wrecked cities, and wanted to build something new. _Trouble is, they've been so busy meditating and praying, that they forgot about everything else._

Kiallia's mother was one of the founders of the settlement. Issalla was four hundred years old, and only welcomed humans as initiates of the Goddess if they completely foreswore all ties with the outside world. "You'll never truly come to focus on simplicity, on being one with the universe, if you're continuously distracted by things that don't matter," Issalla taught. Things like. . . groundcars. Guns. Radios. Comm terminals. The extranet. Every day started with meditation before sunrise. Then work in the fields. Meditation, and then the first meal of the day, at noon. More work. Bathing in the river for 'purification,' dinner, and meditation. No lights after sundown, save the candles that Issalla, and her human mate, Iris Fredriksen, kept in their small house, where they read the ancient scrolls out loud to anyone who cared to come by to listen. The idea of giving up the self, of focusing on peace, was familiar to Binh from her Buddhist grandmother and many of their neighbors in Hanoi, but. . . something in her rebelled. Oh, it had been peaceful and the colony certainly had less rubble and chaos than Earth. . . .but that feeling of serenity had lasted Binh about a week.

A year into what she'd come to think of as her exile, or her prison sentence, the first batarian raid had come. Iris and Issalla had simply smiled and bade the raiders to take whatever they wanted from their storehouses, 'as freely as the ground gave it to us.' Binh's mother, Lan, hadn't been entirely under their sway. She'd hidden Binh near the river. And had been chastised for her lack of faith and trust in the universe. "None of us were harmed," Issalla had told Lan that night. "We showed we had good intentions, and the universe rewarded us for the purity of our thoughts. The only danger we were in today, was as a result of your lack of trust, your unwillingness to unbind yourself and become one with the universe. Even the batarians are a part of the universe, you know."

Binh had realized that night that she absolutely _hated_ Issalla. She hated that smiling face, the assurance that everything would be all right, if only you just let everything happen the way it was supposed to. She struggled to control the anger in herself. Her Buddhist grandmother would have been appalled at her lack of respect for her elders, for her inability to balance herself in this community. But. . . the other kids, the ones her age, at least, felt the same way, she'd realized, slowly. The younger ones, the ones born here, loved her. Loved her like a mother goddess, like the spirit of _siari_ and the universe. Issalla and the farms were all they'd ever known. They didn't remember Earth. Didn't remember the crowds of people jockeying for space in the streets on scooters in Hanoi, didn't remember the clear, blue-green northern lights over Copenhagen. Earth was a dream of discontent. A nightmare, muttered about by their parents.

And for Tsvetan, Binh, and Pankaja, Earth was _home_, and one they meant to get back to, somehow. The trouble was. . . they had no way of getting to the next colony over. No groundcars. No groundtrucks. The only education they'd had since coming to this planet had been gleaned from old books—no datapads allowed, except the ones that held the export manifests, for when the asari ships landed to take the _gua'sari_ meat, eggs, and feathers away. And what did they get in exchange for their hard work, raising the beasts? Air canisters and breather masks, necessary for when the smoke clouds from the shield volcanoes to the south fell across the sky. Particulate matter, fine ash, and carbon dioxide in huge quantities. Enough to kill a herd of _gua'sari. . . _or a group of humans who were careless and hadn't kept an eye on their carbon dioxide badges. That was it.

The three of them had talked it over, endlessly. How they were going to walk the hell out of this valley someday. Make their way to the lake country. Hitch a ride on the big city-boats, work their way over to the Vignes country, where there were supposedly more humans. Work on farms or vineyards there until they made enough credits to get off this rock. Travel to the southern hemisphere by shuttle, get to the spaceport, and go _home_. Of course, there were problems with this. First, none of them really had any skills. Binh was fairly sure that spinning goathair into wool and weaving it into cloth wasn't much in demand on Earth. Nor was, probably, goatherding, much of an in-demand career, outside of the thirteenth century. The fact that the nearest settlement was over fifty miles away, through rough, volcanic terrain, was another deterrent.

But they'd known they were going to have to make their move soon. Issalla had started saying that they were old enough to join fully in the _siari_ ceremonies. That they should open their minds to her, to each other, to join in the encircling embrace of all, to be one with the universe. Lan was always very relaxed and happy when she came back from the sharing rituals, but Binh had a fairly good idea that this involved sharing a good deal more than thoughts. She had a new younger brother, after all, and he looked an awful lot like Tsvetan's father. And Kiallia had a new younger sister, too, and Issalla hadn't really said that Iris was the second-mother, had she? Just that all children were the gift of the goddess, and that they should be raised by all, just as all they owned was held in common, too.

Kiallia, at least, didn't seem to hold with Issalla's ideas, which had surprised the _hell_ out of Binh, when Pankaja had first brought the asari girl to their hiding place by the river. Kiallia wanted _out_, though, just as badly as the rest of them did. "I grew up on Thessia," she'd told them. "I remember the crystal spires. I lived in a city older than any on Earth, and it was beautiful and clean and wonderful, and my mother wants to live in a brick hut. I think she's mourning for a way of life that's lost, but you can't recreate the past in the present. Or at least, you shouldn't."

Binh would have been just fine with 'sharing' with Tsvetan. No problem there. But sharing her thoughts with everyone? Letting them hear how much anger and rebellion and contempt was in her thoughts? It would have hurt her mother. . . and then there would be the weeks or months of being _convinced_ that she was wrong to feel this way. No. They needed to get out.

And then, yesterday, the batarians had come. Issalla and Iris had left their house, Issalla holding her baby in her arms, to make the usual smiling speech. _Take what you will, we give it to you as freely as the earth gave it to us._ Binh had been in the fields, and Tsvetan had looked past her as the first loud _pop_ had gone off in the distance. "That was gunfire," he'd said, and then they'd run for the hidey hole, the little cave down at the river where they'd spent so many long afternoons, hiding from the constant work in the fields. Pankaja and Kiallia had dropped into the hole beside them, and the asari girl had managed to grab a bag full of breathers on her way past a shed. "What's going on?" Binh had asked.

"It's like last year, when they hit the next settlement over. They're looking for asari." Kiallia's face crumpled, and she'd started to cry. "I think they're going to take my first-mother and the other asari. I won't go! I won't go peacefully. I won't go!"

Pankaja wrapped an arm around her, and slid a hand over her mouth, trying to still her flailing arms. "You won't have to." His dark eyes were grim, shadowed by the dim light in their little cave. "They'd used some kind of stasis field on the humans, too. I saw from the edge of the forest."

"Then we _have_ to get moving," Tsvetan whispered. "This is our best chance to get away, in the confusion—"

"What about our parents?" Binh asked. "Our brothers and sisters?"

"The humans will probably be all right. We can send them word when we're on _Earth_. Mars. Terra Nova. Shanxi. Demeter. Anyplace else but this shithole." Tsvetan rubbed at his scruffy beard. "Let's _go."_

And so they'd crept away, but moving through the pass in the hills around the valley in the dead of night was dangerous, and they could hear vehicles behind them. Strange, that the sound was so ominous. Binh had _longed_ to hear a groundcar's engine, a shuttle's whine, and now, it was the sound of the batarians, inexplicably, coming for _them_._ Maybe Issalla was right, maybe our bad intentions caused the universe to want to punish us_, a small part of her mind whispered, as she and the others, ran on, panting, through the trees. Breather masks bouncing around their necks, lungs burning, unable to tell if it was exertion or too much CO2 in the air that was making it hard to breathe, branches snapping underfoot, and then Binh slipped on a rock in the dark and something that wasn't a branch at all snapped, and she couldn't stop the strangled scream of pain as she fell to the ground. She'd broken a bone before, back on Earth, and this felt the same, exactly the same.

Tsvetan stopped and came back for her, lifted her up, draping one of her arms over his shoulders, trying to let her hop and hobble along, but now they were slow. Too damned slow. "I hear engines coming from _ahead_," Kiallia said, in a tone of utter defeat. "They circled around." The asari girl slumped to the ground, and picked up a rock. A forlorn gesture of defiance.

"No," Tsvetan muttered. "No, no, no. . . " He swung around, and Binh held down the scream as his movement caused her to take a step with her broken ankle. She could see the lights of the vehicles behind them now, two sort of hovering vehicles. The lights were too bright to her dark-adapted eyes. There was only brilliant light, darkness, the thrum of the engines, and then something washed over her, and she couldn't move. Not at all. She was as frozen in place as if she'd been caught by a seeker swarm, and it was terrifying. She could breathe, she could move her watering eyes a little, and blink, but that was all. A scream boiled at the bottom of her throat, but she couldn't give it voice. _"Aga hak! Mishak, ulgrun!"_ Low, guttural words in an indecipherable language, and the lights began to lower to the ground. Wind blowing at her face with the force of landing, sting of dirt in her eyes, and then the crunch of boots on the ground. Dark forms moving in front of the lights, dark forms with weapons in their hands, pointed past them. _"Uraka, ishakor mala'rak!"_

And then the hum of the engines that were now behind them grew louder, and something _massive_ passed overhead, and the figures just ahead of them looked up, shouted in alarm, and started backpedaling, hastily, as a dark shadow crashed to the ground ahead of them, throwing stones up into their exposed bodies and faces, and slammed forward, engines revving. _What the hell is that, what the hell is that?_ Binh raged silently, trying, desperately, to move. Low-voiced shouts, even screams of pain, as whatever the vehicle was, slid forward, hovering just above the ground, blocking the blinding glare of the vehicles that faced them. A loud _crash_, that shook the ground, as the vehicle that had landed in front of them, now rammed at least one of the batarian vehicles. _Oh gods and goddesses, we're saved. Colonial police, maybe? Alliance marines?_

More movement, this time as two more vehicles landed, one to either side of them, this time more softly, bouncing to a halt. Binh tried to look at them out of the corners of her eyes. Dim illumination from the blocked batarian craft ahead of her showed hatches opening. Bodies in dark armor, leaping out. Words in _English_, which she hadn't heard in so long, except what she, Pankaja, and Tsvetan spoke among themselves, their only lingua franca besides asari high-tongue, which was the only language allowed on the farm. She hadn't heard her father's Swedish in close to ten years, hadn't even heard her mother speak in Vietnamese in over five. Simple, English words, and they made her want to weep in relief, for all that they were almost incomprehensible. "Bet Freya's never going to complain about your driving again, Tyr."

"Why, 'cause Thor decided to ram a few batarian pedestrians? Astrild, Kirrahe, move to cover the civilians. _Fradu!_ We've got rear, move up and cover the other team!"

Binh's gaze darted left and right. Three dark, humanoid shapes approaching from the right; one of them unmistakably female under the black armor. Little pats on the shoulders. "You're going to be just fine." Galactic, which Binh barely spoke. Thick accent. "Effect should wear off in fifteen minutes or so." Male human figure, carrying a shield, crouching ahead of them, a gun in his hands, waiting to see if anyone came out of the darkness at them. Smaller, slighter figure. . . _salarian?_ _These aren't Alliance marines. . . . _Unmistakable sound of gunfire now, from ahead of them, and three more figures, from the vehicle at their left, charged forward. Two of them looked _turian_, and she had no idea what the third, much shorter figure was. Screams. More gunfire, flashes from it lighting up the night. . . . and then nothing more.

_Singers-of-captive-songs all have sung their last,_ a voice sang, and it was in her _head_, and it was color and music at once—reds and blacks and a distant sense of satisfaction. Binh wanted to hide from it. She didn't want to share who she was or her anger or her terror. _Sing peace-songs_,_ little singers,_ the voice suggested, politely. _I only listen to your harmonies, and sing my own._

Crunch of boots, and six figures moved around the stopped vehicles now. "God damn, Thor, I think I've got whiplash from that landing—" Female human voice, clearly a native speaker of English, faint drawl to it.

"Hey, it knocked six of them to the ground without you having to waste a single bullet on them." Male voice, flat and emotionless. "I call that efficiency."

Black forms, outlined against the dim light from the vehicles. Weapons balanced over their shoulders, at the ready. They'd taken care of the batarians inside of less than two minutes. Binh wanted to weep in relief, wanted to scream _What about our families in the valley_? but couldn't move.

"Yeah, but how about the civilians, are they okay? Glory, any of them hurt?"

Cross-chatter now. Male turian voice, in galactic, directing the others to set up a perimeter for the moment. An odd female voice, with rasping harmonics, acknowledging it.

_Both females have injured appendages. Asari, minor pain. Human has much pain. Possibly shattered her internal carapace._

_My what?_

"Which appendage—oh, ankle, thank you, Glory." The female human in armor came forward now, sliding her gun to her back. "Hey, I know you can't talk right now. The stasis guns suck. Really scary when you get paralyzed by them. I'm going to take a look at your ankle, okay?"

_Who the hell are you?_

"I'm a doctor. My name is Dara Jaworski, okay?"

_How the hell did she. . . well, I guess it's logical that she'd want to introduce herself. . . _The female stripped off her armor gloves, and produced a scanner. "Okay, that's a clean break. I can use a osseous regenerator and fix the bone real quick." _Oh, gods. What a lovely thing to hear. Technology that can fix bones, take the hurt away, no waiting six weeks before we try to run away again_—_ "_Tyr! Do we have time?" That, sharply, over her shoulder.

"We can move 'em into the Hammerheads and continue down into the valley." Human male voice. "You can treat them on the way."

"Works for me."

"We're definitely going to want to hit the batarians before they realize they lost this patrol." Low turian voice, mostly a rasping growl.

"Understood, Virtus."

"Okay, then load these kids up."

Hands. Armored hands, gently lifting her up, and then they put her in one of the floating vehicles, and something _huge_, with multiple legs that looked like a giant bug crawled into the vehicle after them. It looked down at Binh as she lay on the floor, and stepped over her, blue, luminescent eyes gleaming in the low light. _Oh, gods, it's going to eat me, oh gods, oh gods_—

_I would not eat a singer. We only eat low-song creatures. But not the workers or the soldiers._ That last, with what sounded like scrupulous honesty, sang in her mind, and Binh's eyes widened as the human female crouched down beside her again and the vehicle pulled off. "Try to miss a few bumps, Thor," she called towards the driver.

"Doc, you're no fun at all."

A gentle pat on her shoulder. "Settle down. This is Glory. Glory's not going to hurt you." The female reached up and patted the huge insect lightly, and blue-green music played in Binh's mind. Then the human female put a device on her leg, and the pain started to go away.

Within fifteen minutes, she, Kiallia, Tsvetan, and Pankaja were able to move again, and sitting up. "Who are you people?" Pankaja asked.

"We're Council Spectres, and we're here to help Astaria," the human male replied from the front. "I'm Dempsey. That's Doc Jaworski. Sings-of-Glory, you've already met. Doc? Get up in the turret. We're about to hit the village."

"Will you be able to save our families?" Binh asked, anxiously. She didn't want to see anyone in the village hurt.

"And can you take us away from here?" Tsvetan added, quickly. "We'll. . . we'll work. We'll help out. Just. . . don't make us stay here—"

"We'll talk about that later." Quick, brusque assurance, as the human female reached up, grabbed rungs overhead, and pulled herself up into the turret of the vehicle. Binh huddled into Tsvetan's side and put her fingers in her ears for the next ten minutes, as the vehicle lurched and skewed. They were flung here and there in the restraining straps, bounced up and down and jarred, and the rumble of bullets pouring out of the cannon overhead shook the whole vehicle. "All the ones that are left seem to be hiding inside the houses." Terse words from the human male.

_Agreed. They sing captive-songs. Will use those who sing here as shields. This cannot be allowed._

"Then let's go persuade them of the error of their ways." The hatch hissed, and the bug and the two humans ran out of the vehicle. The hatch snicked closed again, and Binh lunged for a window, wanting to see what happened next.

Mass confusion, mostly. Nine figures moved in and out of the light of the vehicles, building to building. Sometimes batarians flew through the air, propelled by biotics. Sometimes, they ran, screaming, and fell under a torrent of bullets. "Do you _feel_ that?" Kiallia whispered, holding her head. "Oh, goddess, it feels like they have three full matriarchs here. There's so much biotic energy in the air right now, it feels like it's crawling over my _skin_." She stared out the window. "I think that . . . _thing_. . . is a rachni brood-warrior. They fought in the Reaper War. But I've never seen anything do what it's doing."

"I have no idea what you're talking about—"

"It. . . looks like little tiny singularities. Hundreds of them, each precisely controlled, and they're tearing through the batarians' shields and bodies like bullets. . . oh, goddess." Kiallia jerked backwards as another batarian flew through the air, and actually landing on the side of their vehicle, which swayed gently in place as the male's body slid to the ground, limp. "These are . . . Spectres?"

A profound exchange of looks between the four of them. _The vid I saw about Commander Shepard and the Battle of the Citadel when I was a kid was right. Spectres __are__ superhuman. _

It took . . . maybe an hour, all told. Binh found her mother running to her and hugging her, fiercely, crying. Her little brother, Tuan, was holding onto both of their legs, frantically, chattering at them both in high-tongue. All around her, people were clutching their family members. All of the asari had been locked in cages, and had been heavily drugged with something called 'little sleep,' and the Spectres were releasing them. The doctor was giving them stimulants to allow them to clear their minds. There were lights everywhere, candles in every house for once. . . .and Issalla was telling the Spectres to _leave._

"_I'm grateful for your assistance. It is a sign that our right intentions have resonated with the universe, and we have been rewarded for it. But yours are violent ways, and this is a place of peace—"_

One of the human males had taken off his helmet. Violet slashes of _turian_ clan-paint along his jaws, and he was staring at Issalla in what looked like mild interest. _"Let me share my understanding of your words_," he said, and his asari high-tongue was so pure, so clear, and so completely without accent, that Binh's eyes went wide. _He sounds like an asari. Male, but. . . asari._ _"You believe that the universe sent us here to protect you from violence, with violence, because your peaceful ways are in balance and in tune with it. But now our violence will unbalance your community."_

Issalla's eyes had gone narrow. "_Correct in particulars, if not in spirit. We do not mean to sound ungrateful, but our gratitude is to the universe—"_

"Horseshit." The word was English, and annoyed. The male human turned his face to the side, smiling faintly, looking at the human female, and Binh stiffened. His eyes were asari-black. _That's not __possible__. "Ungrateful,"_ the human female continued now, in heavily-accented asari, unlatching her own helmet. . . revealing a face with eyes that looked like the rachni's. _Oh, gods, what the hell does that even mean? She's. . . part __bug__? "But, you know, good luck with that,"_ she went on, heavy drawl pouring through the asari words. _"You keep on _spitting_ in the universe's face, and see what it gets you."_ She frowned. "Asari needs a word for to _spit_, Tyr."

"It does. _K'psia."_ He grinned at her. "You're so diplomatic, _my always-fair._"

"I stand corrected, _cherished-protector._" The huge rachni crawled near her, and she leaned against its side, sliding a casual arm behind its huge head, over its thick neck.

"It's not going to be safe to stay here," one of the turian males called, in clear galactic, removing his own helmet, showing blue face-paint, quartered. He looked around quickly. "We can take some of you with us to the next town over, but I recommend you take the batarians' vehicles, once we rip out their tracking equipment, and get out of here. They'll be back."

"No. This is our home," Iris protested. "This is our place!"

"_I'm_ going," Tsvetan said, instantly. Both of his parents immediately set up a fuss, telling him that if he left, he'd be lost, he wouldn't have their guidance, he'd fall prey to bad ways_. "Oh, the hell with that,"_ he told them, in Hungarian, which Binh only knew enough of to curse in, and switched back to high-tongue to add, _"I've been begging you to let me leave for years now. We should never have come here. And I'm leaving now."_

"_Me, too,"_ Binh told her mother, who burst into tears, pleading with her to stay, that this was the safest place on Astaria, _oh, come on, mother, how can you say that __now__?,_ how could she set aside her duty to her family. That it was her responsibility to stay and help take care of Tuan. It was hard. It was so hard to look at her mother's face, and tell her, _no. No, it's not my responsibility to look after my little brother. Or all the other children in the village. Or you._ Hundreds of years of socialization, filial piety, screaming at the back of her brain, telling her that it _was_ her responsibility. . . and yet. . .no. Pankaja, fighting with his parents, walking away, his father shouting after him, 'If you leave, you're no son of mine—"

"Hey, kid. No loss. Your daddy there didn't even have the _cojones_ to stand up and fight for your family," one of the humans commented, taking off his helmet, revealing cold blue eyes—_just like my father's!_, Binh thought. "At least you kids had the sense to get out, instead of rolling over and showing your bellies."

"You just don't understand," Iris said. The human woman spread her hands. "Our way is nonviolence. Like. . . like Ghandi."

"Ghandi," the human doctor with the rachni eyes said, dryly, "was talking about nonviolent protests against an oppressive government, to incite social change. I think even he might have objected to people coming in, invading his country, raping people, lobotomizing them, and sticking control chips in what's left of their brains." She gave Issalla and Iris a grim look. "I take it you guys don't have an extranet connection out here?"

"It's a distraction—"

"If you had one," a rasping voice noted, and a figure emerged from the shadows, removing its helmet, revealing a scaled face and huge black eyes, "you might have become aware that the batarians have, for nine months now, been attacking many human systems. Attempting to capture entire planets, while their yahg allies have destroyed large portions of Terra Nova and Shanxi. That they have taken tens of thousands of slaves, and have lobotomized human biotics and asari to turn them into weapons, to be used against others." _Is that a drell? I've only ever seen pictures of them. . . _Binh raised her eyes, and caught the expression on Issalla and Iris' faces. A quick flash of awareness there.

"You knew," she accused, suddenly, and her voice had caught a lull in the babbling around her. "You knew about the attacks, and you did _nothing_ to prepare us for it? Nothing to protect us?"

"Binh, mind your manners, you cannot speak to Issalla that way—" Lan protested, but Binh ignored her mother.

"We. . . had heard rumors, when the trade ships came for the _gua'sari_ meat," Iris finally admitted. "But it didn't involve us here on Astaria! Terra Nova is thousands of light-years away. So is Shanxi."

"Oh, yes," one of the turians said, dryly, taking off his own helmet. Yellow face-paint under that, and dangerous, glittering eyes. "A few of us were on _both_ of those worlds not long ago. Fighting to take them back from the yahg. I'm pretty familiar with how far away those places are." He glanced over his shoulder at the other Spectres. His armor was a little different from theirs, but only subtly so. Blue stripes at the sides. "Shanxi. Terra Nova."

"Arvuna," the doctor added, her face grim.

"Omega," the human male with the violet face-painted added. _"If you wish to be in harmony with the universe, you have chosen an odd way of doing so,"_ he pointed out, in his pure, beautiful high-tongue. _"By ignoring those parts of it that displease you."_ He turned and looked at Binh and the others. "You're all eighteen or older, right?"

"Yes," Pankaja replied, instantly.

"Then we can take you to our next staging area. It'll be outside the Vignes region, so it's a five hour drive. . . over a thousand miles. Should be safer, though." A quick look from those asari-black eyes. "We can't force the rest of you to come along, but I'd really strongly encourage you to do so. We can't guarantee that the batarians won't come back and hit this area again. At least some of the communities in the Vignes region have defense towers."

Binh pulled away from her mother. "I'm going," she called to the Spectres, walking forward. Only a slight limp, thanks to their doctor.

"Don't go!" her mother implored.

"Come with us," Binh told her, trying, hard, not to cry. Tuan was weeping again, mostly in confusion, she thought.

Kiallia had turned and started to move towards the Spectres' vehicles. "No!" Issalla's voice crackled in the air like a whip. "You can't go, Kiallia. I won't let you. Your place is _here_."

"I'm _going_. You can't stop me." Binh's head swung around as Kiallia froze, mid-step, her expression showing sudden strain, her eyes frightened. _Biotics. Her mother's using biotics on her._

"_She is of age,"_ another Spectre pointed out, in beautiful, though heavily accented asari. _"Release her, Issalla. Respect your daughter's decision."_ She removed her own helmet, and Binh gaped. This wasn't a human. Not with soft white hair, violet eyes, and tiny fangs.

"_You can't hold people here against their will,"_ the human male argued in asari, his low voice persuasive. _"How can you justify that in the name of harmony with the universe?"_

"_I will make her understand—"_

"You will do no such thing, cold-song asari," the human female said, half-singing the words. Under her arm, the rachni brood-warrior lifted his head, alien blue eyes gleaming.

"_You will force understanding?"_ the drell hissed, in asari this time. _"You will beat your words, your beliefs, into her mind? You will force your children to live in squalor, not because it is their choice, but because it is yours? You make your own kind into slaves, asari. Without control chips. Without whips. Without collars. With nothing more than words. Because they have no where else to go, and no other truths to hear."_ The black eyes gleamed. _"I have lived this lie before. I will not permit this to endure."_

_Will you match songs with me, cold-song asari? Do you dare?_ The rachni's song echoed in all their minds.

"Time to back down," the human male with the blue eyes said, the corners of his mouth curling up. "That is, if you really believe in non-violence. Otherwise, I'd be more than happy to introduce you to some."

Issalla released Kiallia, and turned away, tears streaming down her face. _"Share your farewells,"_ the white-haired female told the rest of them, in her lovely high-tongue. _"Then, we really do need to get moving."_

An hour later, Binh was almost falling asleep, lulled by the sound of the engine. Her mother had come with her, and actually had fallen asleep, Tuan in her lap. Binh's eyes moved restlessly from face to face in the darkness of the vehicle. She didn't think the Spectres knew she was awake. They were talking among themselves, in English. "Hard to believe, huh, Doc?"

"What's that, Dempsey?"

"Those kids are only two to three years younger than you, Zhasa, Velnaran, Liakos, Pellarian, and Sidonis. Well, and me. Technically."

"Yeah, because you're _so_ much older than the rest of us. Should have made your squad name Methuselah, not Thor."

"Rip van Winkle, maybe. Methuselah's a little long for radio work."

"Can't imagine saying _Winkle_ with a straight face, D."

"There is that. Would ruin my image if the media got ahold of it, too." There was a pause. "They just seem so damned young."

"They _are_ young. They'll be all right, though. Get some schooling when they get to the Vignes region, and they should be okay."

"Yeah. If there's anything left of Vignes by the time we get there."

_Sings-in-Silence sings dark songs today._

"Don't I always?" There was a pause. "You get anything out of all that asari everyone was yelling in at the end? My VI was having trouble, as fast as they were going."

"Here and there. Eli reminded me that I'd heard some of the words before, back on Bastion." The doctor paused. "Best I can figure it out, Issalla was a priestess of the Goddess, back on Thessia. She'd gone out to the colonies to help 'share the Goddess' light' when the attack came that destroyed Thessia. She set up this compound out here on Astaria to preserve the true path of the Goddess. Melaani is going to throw a fit when she hears about this place."

"You seem a little pissed, too. And I thought Seheve was going to gut the leader there for a minute. Even Zhasa was upset, and I think it went a little past just the fact that they're pretty obviously a cult."

Sound of armor creaking and shifting in the darkness. "Typically, a priestess of the Goddess uses _aizala_, azure dust, to open her mind and enhance her biotics for, um. . . going to mangle this. _Maieolo'lano'loa_."

"Sharing-something-something."

"Encircling intimacy of minds, as best Eli can translate it for me. Supposed to join all as one in harmony with the community and the universe, be completely open to each other. In the old days, this could become _m__aieolo'lano'loa'kareo._"

"And that is?"

"Encircling intimacy of minds and bodies."

A pause, and a whistle. "Give me some of that old-time religion."

"No kidding. I'm sure it works perfectly well for a group of asari who genuinely do live communally, who genuinely do raise their kids communally, and who are all there by choice, and are in a nice, safe place like, oh. . . Luisa. Thessia, before it was lost. A core world, not one in the middle of the Terminus Systems. When you throw humans into the mix, where it's clearly evident who the father is, and when we have history and traditions relating to paternity—yeah, the father of the little boy over there was throwing a fit at losing both of his sons—"

"Yeah. I'd have had a problem with that, myself." The man's voice was flat. "Matter of fact, I _did_ have a problem with that."

"Yes. . . but he wasn't married to the baby-mama, now was he? And while his actual wife was upset that she was losing one of her kids, she wasn't exactly _weeping_ that the mother of the other kid, and the kid himself were both leaving. . . god, what a mess. I can't help but think back to what my dad said about finding the Sons of Abel compounds, where they all had polygamous marriages, and they had the _aizala_ rites conducted by Lina Vasir." The doctor paused. "If I had time, I'd run DNA tests on everyone who's evacuating from there. Unfortunately, I just don't."

"You don't think polygamy can work, Doc?"

"Oh, no, I think it can. But I think it's something that everyone involved has to enter into willingly. No forced or underage marriages, no marriages designed solely to keep a female under male control. If everyone in the relationship is an equal partner, I have no problems with it, especially if there's rules governing what happens to the kids if one or another partner splits off from the group marriage." There was a pause. "That being said? Cults like this one here never, ever follow those two simple guidelines. There's always someone who's 'more equal' than everyone else."

"_Animal Farm_."

"Yeah." There was a pause. "Somehow, I bet none of these folks ever read that one."

**Dara, Astaria, February 2, 2197**

They'd driven through the night, further into the gloom, sunrise licking at their heels, for nearly five hours now. Rel and Dempsey had come up with a fairly flexible assault plan for the planet, and it was a damned good thing they had. The batarians on this planet were staying very, very mobile. They weren't _bothering_ to set up processing facilities. They were moving in, grabbing biotics, caging them, and getting the hell back out. There were ships in the system, sure enough, largely transports, but they'd decided that they'd hit those last. When they were less apt to cause the batarians on the surface to panic, dig in, use colonists for cover. . . or just start killing everyone, since they had nothing left to lose. They'd landed, on January 1, at the southern pole, and retaken the spaceport at Tiksi in short order; they'd used the pirate cutters for that. Small, fragile ships, but with very small radar signatures. And they'd landed their hundred and fifty krogan—all Blood Pack and Klixxen Claws—as well as their three hundred Blue Suns. . . just west of the spaceport, and had them assault from there. That was, in fact, the distraction team, and they'd been very, very distracting. Once the batarians holding the port had been fully engaged, the Spectres and corporate security forces had moved in from the east, and simply ground the batarians to pieces between them, clearing the port, building by building. They'd taken the batarian ships, cleared the captives off them, and left corporate security forces to hold the buildings.

Now, they had divided the Eclipse mercs up. . . which the mercs didn't like. . . but as Eli had explained, "We've got around nine hundred non-asari people from a half-dozen different organizations here. Krogan, turians, humans, and a handful of salarians. We need you to be the faces that the locals see, the voices that they hear, so that they trust us enough to come out of hiding. There are only seventy-five of you to spread through nine hundred other people. So, we need to split you up. Twenty of you with the Blue Suns, twenty with the Trident corporate security teams. Eleven with the corporate forces from Volkov . . . and twelve each with Blood Pack and Klixxen Claws. Make sure you pick your strongest members for those last two." Eli's face had been set, and the asari commander had, after a moment, nodded.

At the moment, the smaller contingent of Volkov security forces, consisting of a hundred and fifty humans, was holding the spaceport, with assistance from Eclipse. Cohort was supervising the entire effort, and was sending them data from the planet's satellite grid on batarian troop movements. . . as Cohort gradually regained control of those planetary sensors, anyway.

The southern groups were also dealing with the brunt of the casualties—humans and asari who'd already been given slaver chips, but who had not yet, thank god, been lobotomized. "Why are they deviating from the script?" Eli had asked over the radio, as she'd taken over driving from Dempsey around 02:00.

"After Omega and Arvuna, they might not want to risk more of their physicians and techs," Dara had supplied after a moment. At least it had helped her keep awake. At least it had been his voice, though he was in the Hammerhead directly ahead of hers in their little convoy. "They only chipped _some_ of the people on Arvuna. The ones that were going to be transported off-world. The ones who they had working in the eezo refinement factory and the cannery just had explosive collars on them."

"Another possibility," Kirrahe had interposed. The salarian didn't need to sleep, and was keeping Eli company as they drove. "May not wish to risk any more of the chips and neural interfaces from being lost, examined, compromised by Council forces. Expensive to manufacture. They assumed they could capture and hold Omega. Loss of materials, as well as of technical experts, very damaging to program."

Lin was sacking out for a while; they'd agreed that if they could, they would have one of the titular heads of the mission resting at a time. Seheve, with her nocturnal-to-crepuscular eyes, was actually driving the last Hammerhead at the moment. And, after a minute, her voice ventured, cautiously, "So, they change tactics. Send in the less valuable raiders and slavers. Extract the people that they need, and move them to . . . centralized processing facilities. Either in the Terminus Systems, or in their core worlds."

"Perhaps some are in the Terminus Systems. Perhaps early prototyping centers. But more logical to assume that largest complexes are where infrastructure offers the most support. Camala. Lorek. Khar'sharn." Kirrahe was surely blinking rapidly, Dara knew.

So, at the moment, they were chasing down small packs of slavers and raiders, chasing them down and backtracking to where their mobile convoys of shuttles, groundtrucks, surface-skimming ships currently were located. Rel had argued that they should split up, send one team to each of the three remaining convoys. For supervision. Dara, Eli, and Lin had discussed it, and Dara had seen sense in it. But something nagged at her. "I think Lin's little superstition about breaking up the pack bringing us bad luck is wearing off on me," she'd said, after a long moment. "I can't put my finger on why, but it feels like a bad idea. And it make no logical sense."

Dempsey, listening to their discussion, had snorted. "You want a reason? I can give you one."

"I'd take one that makes sense," Eli had replied, shrugging.

"We've gone to a hell of a lot of effort to establish bonds and rapport with these groups. Let them do their jobs, hands off, then go in and evaluate afterwards. If we need to, we can apply the brakes then, sit on them a little more if necessary. Keeps us free for the major hotspots, too. . . . and this place isn't even our main target. Eyes on the prize, right?"

Lin's tired face had lit up with a grin. "That makes good sense, Dempsey. Thank you."

"No problem. Solutions manufactured. Superior grade of bullshit, always in supply." Dempsey's face hadn't changed expressions at all.

And so, now, a constant stream of radio chatter, filtering in from three different teams, scattered across the planet. They'd split the mercs up carefully, creating internal checks and balances. Seventy-five Blue Suns, seventy-five corporate security, seventy-five Blood Pack, and thirty-two Eclipse were hitting Chasmus Rina, a region in the southern hemisphere marked by hundreds of canyons, from a water outbreak event probably a billion years ago, that had torn down into the bedrock. There were dozens of small farming communities down there, and all were being hunted by the batarians. Seventy-five Blue Suns, seventy-five corporate security, seventy-five Klixxen Claws, and thirty-two Eclipse were going after Nassica, a mining complex in the equatorial desert, where the temperatures were so high, and the air was so foul, that environmental gear was required around the clock. The town was within fifty miles of the complex of five massive active shield volcanoes, each as large as Mount Everest, which continuously belched out carbon dioxide, sulfur, and magma in the equatorial desert. But in the lava tubes? Eezo, and the finest emeralds in the entire galaxy. Riches, for those willing to endure the elements. Eli and Dara had made a point of talking, very seriously, with the leaders of the merc squads being sent there. "Keep a rein on your men," Eli had told them, bluntly. "No stealing, no looting."

"Going to be hard to keep track of that." The leader of the Klixxen Claws, Hasur Tanak, had sounded dubious.

"We're going to line you up at the spaceport, and we're going to ask each person there to state whether or not they took emeralds or eezo out of the mines. And we're going to have Sings-of-Glory here take a good long listen to what they have to say." Dara had kept her face in a turian mask as she spoke. "If they lie, we'll _know_. Anyone who takes what isn't theirs? You lose the equivalent of the value of what's taken, from the sum of your contract with us."

"That wasn't in what I signed—"

"Section three, article five, subclause d, I think you'll find." That had been Lin, stepping in from behind the krogan.

Tanak had growled for a moment, and then nodded. "I'll make sure their itchy fingers stay itchy, then. Or they'll be pissing blood while the rest of us take their share of the credits." He gave them a dark look. "You warning the Blue Suns about this, too?"

"Yeah," Eli told him, calmly. "And the corporate security forces."

"But you're not coming along to babysit us?"

"No. But we _are_ going to follow up." Dara put her head to the side. "You enforce your troops. We hold you accountable. Seems like it should work better that way."

Low krogan laughter as they walked away hadn't been reassuring, but Eli had told her, silently, _Worst comes to worst, we tell him if he doesn't hold his men in check, we tell the whole galaxy a human can drink him under the table, and distribute the vid feed of Dempsey sitting there, looking down at him, feet propped up on his chest, drinking ryncol, straight from the bottle._

Dara had had a very hard time not laughing at that one.

The remaining hundred and fifty Blue Suns, hundred and fifty Trident corporate security, and Eclipse were here in the northern hemisphere with the Spectres. Chasing down outriders from the current convoy of batarians, most of whom were off to the west of the giant northern crater ocean, Lake Evessii'a. The Spectre convoy was moving to rendezvous with their mercenary allies in the Vignes region now. While they held the spaceport, and that was vital, for ensuring that the planet continued to be able to import and export goods and services, it wasn't necessary for the batarians. All they needed to do was call in their raider ships and load up their slaves. They could do that _anywhere_, really. Which meant that they needed to chase down every batarian they could. Make the system look unprofitable, even if they didn't have the ships to take on all the raider vessels in the skies.

Dara's eyes burned, but it wasn't as if Glory could take a turn at the controls. She blinked repeatedly, and asked Glory, "Mind handing me the thermos with the coffee in it?"

_I sing hopes that I am not a burden, little-queen?_

_Never, Glory._ Dara's lips twitched into a smile.

Two of her workers crawled out of the thigh compartments of her armor, where they'd hidden all night. Chopin and 1812. Both chittered at her anxiously. —_Little-queen needs rest and food._

_We all need rest and food. Soon enough, we'll get both._

They crested a ridge and moved into a long, narrow valley, filled with rolling hills, just as the sun came up. Dara was surprised by how beautiful the area actually was. Green, as the dusty plains to the east of the crater ocean hadn't been. As the sable and sulfur volcanic deserts they'd driven across at top speed hadn't been. The hills were cut into terraces here, and there were hundreds of trellises laid out along the terraced hills, all covered in vines, bearing grapes. "God, that's gorgeous," Dara muttered quietly into Eli's private radio band. "Looks like pictures of Napa Valley or Italy back home on Earth." She nudged the Hammerhead as close to the middle of their current terrace as possible. She didn't want to bruise some land-owner's crop if she could avoid it, and she could see the leaves waving in the breeze of their passage.

"We've got mechs," Eli replied, sharply, over the common band, and his vehicle pulled to a halt ahead of her. Dara pulled up, and hoped that Seheve, behind them, was paying attention. "Lots of mechs, folks. Armed ones, looks like."

_Ah. . . s'kak. And it was looking like such a beautiful start to the day, too._

They spread the Hammerheads out, forming a loose wedge, and there was a tense moment or two as the mechs acquired them as targets, before a low, human voice shouted, "We already told you, we don't have any asari here!"

Dara saw the lead vehicle turn, slowly. Could see the hatch drop, and then saw Eli walking down the metal incline, hands in plain view. She slid her own Hammerhead a little further to the right. "Dempsey—"

"I've got the angle. Anything that shoots at him, I can shoot back." The cold, expressionless words were immeasurably comforting.

"We're not batarians," Eli called back, in English. "We're Council Spectres, and we're here to help."

It got a little less tense after that, though the humans here in the Vignes region could hardly believe that _Spectres_ had been sent to this backwater colony world. "We'll take you up to the main house," the foreman, a man named Adamo, told them. He had a heavy Italian accent. "Boss lady will want to talk to you."

And that brought them to the Pace winery. Dara was amazed, truly; it was a peaceful corner of Earth, hidden here on this frontier world. The narrow road passed between the ranch house, which was the original winery, apparently, and stood with its back to the mountainside, which had been terraced for the grapevines. Across the narrow road, nestled among the many hills, was a barracks building for the hired hands and their families, a small school building—more of a shed, than anything, a large, three-story building that turned out to be grape storage, sorting, and pressing, which looked newly constructed, and had aluminum walls, unlike everything else here, and a garage. With the exception of the pressing shed, everything was build of golden-brown stone.

Maryam Pace turned out to be the 'boss lady.' In her late forties, she had almost spectacularly curly dark hair, which just barely touched her shoulders, olive skin, and the eyes, brows, and nose of a Byzantine saint. But none of the patience. "More trouble?" she shouted, striding across the dirt road, a shotgun over her shoulders. . .and then just stopped and stared as their Hammerheads came to a halt.

Introductions were made. She shook her head, repeatedly, at first. "You're Spectres? _Here_? Why here?" She hesitated. "You all sound a little young for Spectres—"

_Sound young, look young_. Dara pulled off her helmet. _I guess I get to see if Emily Wong's special showed on the extranet before this colony lost access or not. . . _ Pace's eyes widened, stunned for a moment, as she looked at Dara's face. "Hey. . . you were on the extranet. I recognize you. . . " Five or six different expressions flickered across Pace's face—disbelief, curiosity, reticence, mild repugnance, and intrigue, all at once. Dara felt Eli move up next to her, and exhaled in relief as he took his helmet off, too. _Thank you, __sai'kaea__. You just took fifteen minutes off our trying to establish that yes, we are who we say we are._

_Hey, I might as well get use out of the damned eyes._ Dara slid on her sunglasses instead now, listening as Eli took over for a moment. "We've got refugees with us," Eli told Pace, without preamble. "Humans and one asari. There might be more, depending on if the rest of their community took our advice, and the batarian vehicles that were there, and left. Maybe you could take them in for a while. We can't keep them with us. Not while we're hunting batarians."

Behind them, Dempsey helped Binh Blomgren out of the Hammerhead, and then the mother and the six-year-old boy. Lin was helping Kiallia and the shorter of the two young human males out of his Hammerhead, while Tsevtan, the last human who'd left the Tauno compound, jumped down out of Eli's vehicle, looking around warily. Rel gestured now to Kirrahe. "Let's get the vehicles under cover. I don't like how exposed they are here." He glanced over at Lin, who was already nodding agreement, and then they moved the Hammerheads into position behind the large aluminum pressing building.

Pace's brow crinkled as she looked at Eli. "I've already got asari hiding here," she admitted, after a moment. "And the last batarians who came through weren't even looking for asari. . . though I think that if they'd found them, they'd have shot me for hiding them. The humans should be much easier to hide."

She hunkered down to talk to Binh's younger brother, Tuan, and smiled at him. "Hey there. You're about the same age as my little Pietro. One of my employee's wives is a teacher. She does great with the little ones here. You'll like her. . . her name is Luisa Cremoneli." That last was directed up at Binh's mother. "I take it the batarians attacked your subcolony—"

_Wait a second. Eli, did I hear her right—?_

_Yeah. Interesting. _ "You say you already had batarians come through here?"

"Yes. It was the damnedest thing," Pace admitted, standing back up. "They didn't take any prisoners. Just. . . asked questions. The one in charge claimed to be SIU, though I don't know if I should believe him."

Alarm bells were ringing at the back of Dara's head, and she exchanged a quick glance with Eli. "What were they looking for, if not asari?" she asked.

"Salarians, believe it or not. Asked me, over and over, if there were any salarian communities around here, when the last time I'd seen a salarian in the vicinity had been." Pace's lips suddenly compressed into a thin, tight line.

Eli's thought, instantly. _She hiding something_.

Dara nodded, once. "Anything you told him, might be helpful if you told us, too," she pointed out. "A doctor kind of needs to know all the symptoms to treat the disease, you know."

Pace frowned, and rubbed at her face. "Come inside," she told them, and looked around at the various Spectres. "All of you."

"Does that mean Glory, too?" Tuan asked, his little voice piping. The little boy had been frightened of the brood-warrior for about fifteen minutes, and then had found him _fascinating_ for the remaining four hours of the long trip. "He sings in my head. I like him."

"Who's Glory?" Pace asked, looking around.

_I am Sings-of-Glory_, the rachni told her, scuttling near. Blues and greens in his songs, and Dara suspected that he was trying to make himself look smaller.

Pace won _big_ points with Dara at that point. She _stared_ at Glory for a half minute, and then muttered _"Pitzazot,_" under her breath and said, "Sure. Why not. Does he. . . do you drink wine?"

_I have not had occasion to try it._

"Well, now you do."

In the coolness of Maryam's home with its stone floors, the Spectres took up a lot of her furniture, most of which hadn't really been designed with either turians or armor in mind. She poured them wine from her own cellars with trembling hands. "A lot of us really can't take more than a sip," Eli warned her, politely. "We're on duty."

"I understand, but you're guests in my house. I have to offer something." Her two children kept peeking out of the kitchen, and two asari slipped into the living area, eyes wide at all the black armor. "Ah, and here are my other houseguests. Talieu T'seia, and her daughter, Tassara. Ladies, these Spectres have brought us new guests. Including one asari who will be joining you in the cellars." She gestured to Kiallia, who looked up shyly, and smiled.

"Spectres?" Tassara asked. "Here?"

"I remember when they didn't all wear black," the older asari murmured, and stared at them all, openly, for a moment.

_Oh, let's not start that again,_ Dara thought, and Eli's shoulders shook for a moment. "_Yes_," Zhasa now told the younger asari in high-tongue. _"We've recruited a small army to help get rid of the raiders here, and protect Astaria when we're gone again." _

"_A little late,"_ the older female told them, shaking her head.

Dempsey looked down at the translation on his wrist, and said, in galactic, touched by his nasal Boston accent, "We could just leave, you know." He knocked back the wine Maryam had given him, and set the glass aside. "That's some pretty decent wine, but we've got to get this show on the road."

Lin, across the room, leaning against the wall, nodded. "You remember the SIU guy's name?" he asked Pace, just to start with.

"K'sar. Alisav K'sar. He was. . . he wasn't what I expected. I expected to be beaten. Tortured. The most he did was grip my jaw, and even then. . . he didn't actually hurt me." Maryam's hands, in spite of her words, still trembled. "He'd remember some answer I'd given an hour before, and fling it back in my face if it didn't match up precisely, though. He wound up taking all my receipts—"

Lin blinked. "Why would he want those?"

"Because of the salarian." Maryam put her face in her shaking hands. "I swear to you, I had no idea who he was."

And then they got the rest of the story. How her contacts, from her Israeli army days, who'd gone into merc work, had put her in touch with a 'consulting firm' who'd dispatched a salarian tech, two years before, to remodel her mechs. Which had already had security and deterrent systems, but that now could emit incredibly loud sounds, to deafen and disorient intruders, and now also had military-grade weapons inside, concealed. Highly illegal inside of Council space. . . but this wasn't Council space. "When he got the name off the receipts, he was very interested. He said. . . he said that Maldo Ren had been a batarian agent."

Dara had taken one sip of the red wine for politeness' sake, and been surprised to discover that it was _good. _Smooth, velvety on the tongue, hints of spice and sweetness. Now, however, she almost dropped her glass as she tried to return it to the table. Eli caught it, out of pure reflex, and his eyes met hers. Flicker of thought between them _Maldo Ren. Maldo Ren. That name sounds familiar._ . . . So many names, so many places in the last nine months.

Maryam's hands were shaking again, and she turned and told her children, who were creeping out of the kitchen again, "I told you to stay in there and read your books!"

Boy and girl pulled back into the kitchen as if burned, and their mother sighed and continued, "K'sar said. . . that Maldo Ren had been one of the people responsible for the plague attacks on Bastion."

_Holy futtari s'kak._ That was Eli, loud and clear. _That__ Maldo Ren_.

Lin's head had snapped up. So had Seheve's, and for damned good reasons. All four of them had been in Maldo Ren's living quarters, back on Bastion. Seheve, to execute the Lystheni agent. Lin, to investigate the murder, Eli, to follow up on a potential lead in the threat against Bastion. . . and Dara, at her father's heels, to check into a corpse. Flickers and flashes of memory. . . _"Mild abrasions on the throat. Scale pattern." "Turian?" "Could be. Or drell. If you skim the tub, you might turn up some scale fragments, and I can tell you by looking if they're turian or not. . . .Turian scales have metallic elements in them. Almost crystalline looking, under magnification. . . Drell? Not so much. Pretty much just oversized lizard scales. Plain old keratin."_ Memory. How he'd loved watching her work. Loved working _with_ her.

In the present, meeting each others' eyes for a moment. _See, __sai'kaea__, this is why I think you'd be fantastic as a pathologist or a medical examiner. _

_Because I've already seen a million ways in which the body can be violated and destroyed?_ Her thought was wry. _It's a depressing line of work, __ciea'teilu._ _But, on the other hand, I just can't seem to finish the surgery rotation. And if I'm constantly in the field, it's not like I'll be starting a private practice any time soon. . . . _And then they both redirected their minds. Not past, not future. Just _now._

Pace looked up at them, face visibly strained. "I don't know if that's true, or if it's something he said to shock me, to try to test me. I didn't know anything more about Maldo Ren at the time than that he was the guy that 'Dynamex' sent out to do some work on the mechs. That's it. I swear it." She looked down again. "I mean, it doesn't make sense. Why _would_ a batarian agent come all the way out here just to do mech service?"

Dara looked over at Lin and Seheve. And shook her head, faintly, hoping they'd both get the message. Lin looked angry; Seheve was looking down at her clasped hands in her lap. _We can't tell this woman that she inadvertently threw credits to a guy whose people wound up using her, and people like her, to fund their research. Outside of whatever money the batarians were giving them, which couldn't have been much. It would destroy her._

_And hell, she was practically in the Lystheni backyard,_ Eli thought, the words sharp and precise in her mind. String-trio working through scales at the moment. _If the Keepers were right about Bothros being where they buried the Collector ship, that is. It wasn't even out of his way to come here, do a little work, take the credits, and run. Either to Bothros or back to Bastion._ Eli cleared his throat. "What sort of questions did K'sar ask after that?"

Pace shrugged. "Did Maldo have his own ship? Which direction did he come from? Did he talk about where he was going afterwards? I kept saying that I couldn't remember. It was two years ago!"

Dara's head swiveled, and she looked directly at Seheve. "Lin. Eli. Seheve. A moment, please?" She jerked her head at the door, and was all too aware that Rel's head had lifted. "Yes, Rel, you, too." She glanced down at Dempsey. "Get a feel for where the batarians went," she told him, quietly. "We might have to follow after this K'sar guy."

"On it," Dempsey told her, and leaned forward to speak with Maryam further.

Out in the corridor, they tried to keep it to whispers. "We were all in the damned room," Lin muttered. "The answers we're looking for could have been right in front of us, and I didn't even know what I was looking at, at the time." He stared off into the mid-distance, and shook his head, rapidly. "All I remember is that his screens in his office had schematics up." He exhaled. "He had that greybox, remember, little one?" Lin added, looking at Dara. "If we'd been _thinking_ before we left for this system, we could have grabbed it from evidence on Bastion and gone through it."

"It was heavily encrypted," Dara reminded him. "All we really got out of it was his last memories. He tended to turn off its _record_ function whenever he did his Lystheni work, remember?"

"You don't have to remember what was on his screens," Eli reminded Lin, and turned to look at Seheve. "She _does_."

Lin's expression darkened slightly, and he gave Seheve a look. "You've been withholding information?"

Rel, standing to Seheve's left, straightened, and he said, through his teeth, "For the spirits' sakes, Lin, stop looking for reasons to dislike her. She wasn't holding anything back deliberately."

Seheve winced, but held up a hand. "Drell memory does not function as a computer does," she replied, quietly. "I can't think of the word _Bothros_ and bring up every time I've ever seen it. It's . . . contextual."

"Like human memory, but not as fragmented," Dara supplied, leaning against the far wall, arms folded across her chest. "It's not just an image, but more like a vid, correct? A stream of events, reliving the moments. Along with their emotions." Dara exhaled. "Just like reliving the lives of the Keepers." _Or my own, when Joy-Singer sang the memories through me_. "Except, because it's contextual, and your context has changed, the emotions you feel now will conflict with the emotions from then. Cognitive dissonance."

Seheve lowered her head. "Yes," she said, and pressed her fingers to her eyes for a moment. "Most drell fight _not_ to remember," she added, after a moment. "The busy quality of modern life, thousands and thousands of new images and pieces of input, every single day. . . it's not what our minds and memory were meant to process. They. . . evolved in the desert. Long, slow, simple days. Having to remember and retrace steps from ten years ago to find a cache of food hidden under that crag of rock, remember that twenty years ago, there had been a spring under the sands, which might have come back, if the rains were good. . . "

Eli shook his head. "We really need you to concentrate," he said, and his voice was gentle. Rel slid his hand around Seheve's elbow. "What did you see in his apartment, Seheve?"

She uncovered her eyes, and gave them a lost look. Her voice was dull as she began to recount her last mission for her master. "Disabling security feeds. Walking in the back door after opening it. Target is in his office at the back. Check his bedroom in the cellar area. That's the kill area. I prepare it with plastic waste recycling liners. To keep the area clean. Find a paring knife in the kitchen. Perfect tool. Moving into his office. I. . .stand behind him for a moment. Watching him type furiously at his screens. I don't need to read it now. It will all be. . . in my memory. . . if it proves important later. . . stun him with a hit just under the aural horn, wrap an arm around his throat, pressing on the carotid arteries. Drag him down to his cellar pool—"

Lin was _twitching_ now, and Dara reached out and put a gloved hand on his forearm. This was making _both_ of them confront very bad memories, she knew. Seheve was going on now, quickly, almost fighting the memories now. "He wants to know why, and I tell him it's for Lluwyn, the hanar he helped corrupt. They killed his poor body after uploading an imperfect, insane copy of his mind into an AI core as an _experiment_—"

"Back it up," Dara told Seheve, as gently as she could. "No need to dwell on this part. What did you see on his screens, Seheve?"

An almost blind look, anguished expression. "Much of it is in salarian. I understand the language, but imperfectly. Diagrams. Ventilation shafts—'

"Not a surprise," Eli muttered. "Tallies with what I remember, too. Maldo had the diagrams up so he could tell his various human, turian, and asari agents where to plant the bioweapons for maximum effect." He paused. "Anything else, Seheve? Anything at all, no matter how small it seems, might really help."

"More diagrams. I do not understand them. Engines? Turbines? Salarian writing. I can understand only some of it. It is highly technical. Red line, moving something up—it says 'hot water' or maybe 'steam.' The lines show movement into the turbines, blue lines moving back down. Maps, but I do not recognize them—" Still, the almost blind look, anguish still in her voice. More than that. Worse than that. "Even these memories are worthless, if I cannot pull information from them. . ."

Dara looked over her shoulder into the living area. Glory could join his song to Seheve's, to see what she was seeing, but the rachni might not understand it. Zhasa had one of Maryam's children in her lap, and was happily chatting with everyone in the room. Putting them at ease, in that totally disarming quarian fashion of hers. . . .and she didn't speak salarian. Dempsey didn't like touching other people's minds unnecessarily, and he was busy questioning Maryam about troop movements. And didn't speak salarian, any more than Zhasa did. _I could ask Eli, but __he__ doesn't speak salarian. . ._

—_Little-queen needs us?_ 1812 popped out of her thigh-compartment, inquisitively wiggling feelers.

_Yes, I think so. I don't sing machine-songs very well at all. Help me understand what I'm seeing._

Out loud now, Dara said, "Seheve? I really apologize for this. It's not something I really want to do. At _all_. Just. . . sing your memory-songs really _loudly_, okay?" She edged closer. In her armor, she probably didn't need to touch Seheve to do this, but it also seemed a little impersonal and invasive to do this any other way. So she took off her gloves, and the inner liners. . . and very, very hesitantly, put a finger to the side of Seheve's neck.

Skin-contact. Dara _flinched_ and jerked her hand back, as from a hot stove. Felt Eli's hand behind her back. _You don't have to—_

_Yeah, I kind of do. . . _Dara grimaced, and put her hand on the side of Seheve's neck. Flashes of memory, anguish-songs. Green-purple, regret edged with guilt, grays, blacks. Dissonant notes from a distant, trilling flute, tambors, gongs, rattles. "Seheve, your mind is in so much dissonance right now, you're deafening me. Calm down. Deep breaths, whatever it is that you do to settle yourself. You need to let me see what you see." Dara kept the words out loud, and in her best bedside tone. _Calm the patient down. Talk the jumper down. Soothe the spooking horse. It's all the same. It's all in the tone._

To her surprise, a flash of amusement from Seheve, and then the dissonant notes began to resolve themselves. Became ordered, regular, gongs occasionally chiming on a slow beat, rattles hissing to underlay the flute's melody. The flute was definitely the main voice. . . like Serana's, like Ylara's. . . but not. This was a reedier instrument. _Recorder, not flute._ Dara concentrated, and the images slowed down for her. _What do you think?_ she asked 1812, who scrambled up onto her shoulder. "I see 'flash steam,'" Dara said out loud, translating. She could definitely understand why Seheve hadn't understood what she remembered. The diagrams were highly technical, and even Dara's salarian, while good, learned towards medical jargon, not engineering terminology. "The other side is 'water reclamation.'"

—_Yes. Hot water comes up as steam, drives turbines, generates electrical current, returns into earth. We sing this song often on the Singing Planet._

Dara shook her head. "Okay, it's a geothermal plant, the little guys tell me. Not likely to be in use on Bastion. Let's look at the maps, Seheve. . . that's it, slow it down a little, I can't understand when you sing that fast." Dara rubbed at her face. Everything was a blur, and her head was pounding.

"Would it be easier," Rel asked, quietly, "if you brought Kirrahe into this? I mean, he should be able to figure out what you're looking at, shouldn't he?"

Dara could feel sweat beading on her forehead. This was nothing like touching Eli's mind, easy, sweet harmonies blending together. Or Dempsey's cool, powerful mind, or Zhasa's, or Fors'. The memory-trance of the drell female was dragging her along like a powerful undertow, and there were overwhelming quantities of guilt and regret and sorrow and self-hatred in Seheve that _hurt_ to touch. There were, however, good qualities as well. Her emotions for Rel were pleasant, though disquieting to sense, even dimly. Love of family. Seheve's base color was a shimmering, dove gray. A few shades down from the pure white that Zhasa was, and that people told her that her own base color was. But there was so much gray and violet and black in her song, tinged, here and there, with shimmers of dark blue, love just beginning to be born, all directed at Rel, who kept his hand firmly locked around the drell's elbow. It was distracting, and Dara tried to shut that part of the song out. "Just barely holding onto one non-biotic mind at the moment," Dara told Rel now. "Can . . . sort of manage. . . Lin and Serana. . . but I know them pretty well. . . and Eli's helped balance the load. . . don't know enough about this crap yet to know if I could sing with Kirrahe and Seheve at the same time, and make any of it make sense. Even if the armor's. . . helping a bit."

—_Little-queen's songs much more powerful with additions to carapace. This is good!_

More flickers of images. Diagrams. Maps. "That one, Seheve, hold it steady in your mind. . . please. . . That's. . . I don't know what I'm looking at. . . "

—_Seafloor_, 1812 chittered at her. _—The blue is the water above. They drill into the seafloor, where the crust is thin, see, little-queen? Then they pass water down to where the earth sings heat in its heart, and the water sings with it, rising back as steam. But the white above the water is ice, yes?_

"Okay, so, this is a facility atop the ice which is atop the ocean. . . if I'm reading those numbers right, though, the ice is only maybe . . . twenty feet thick. That can't be on Bothros. Most of the ice shell over the methane sea is over a hundred feet thick. . . " Dara paused, and pulled her hand back from Seheve's skin with a sense of absolute relief. "Wait. Sysays Crater!" It was one of the hotspots that she, Zhasa, and Kirrahe had pulled out of the data.

Seheve looked up, sharply. "In the northern hemisphere. I had thought that you had discounted it from search results."

"Yes, because there's so much geothermal in the area. So much heat under the ice, so it shows up in planetary scans, but doesn't have the rapid changes associated with organic life and generators and all that. But if they were using the geothermal to power their camps and vehicles. . . Hell, even if the ice is 'thin' there on the floor of the crater, you don't need to set down on the floor of it. There's still the whole incline of the crater edge, and that's eighty or ninety feet thick, in places." Dara looked at Eli, excitedly. "You remember the scans I showed you?" _Cometary impact crater, probably twelve thousand years old, much more recent than the orbital bombardment craters around the remains of the cities. It hit the ice sheet. . . sent cracks hundreds of miles in all directions. . . _She could picture the scans perfectly now. The outer edges were still splintered ice, because Bothros had only a trace atmosphere and little precipitation; no erosion. The bottom, however, was almost perfectly smooth, where the ice had melted and reformed.

"And left a pockmark the size of Rhode Island in the ocean there," Eli finished out loud. "That's still a lot of ground to cover. But it's _less_ than a whole planet."

Seheve cleared her throat. "However," she said, quietly, "this SIU officer is also looking for the Lystheni, is he not?"

Rel shook his head. "But why?" he muttered. "They're allies."

Lin shrugged. "Organized crime is big in places on Nimines," he said, obliquely, after a moment. "I've never yet seen two gangs get along so well that they shared _every_ secret with each other."

Dara's mind slid into Eli's, and for a moment, they both thought, extrapolated, as one. "Working theory," Eli said, tightly, "Maybe they and the Lystheni had a falling out, and now they want everything that the Lystheni have been holding back from them. Best-case scenario, he's just back-trailing Lystheni agents. Not knowing what sort of a base they had, or what tech was involved. Worst-case. . . . "

Lin looked at him, and replied, grimly, "Worst case, he knows they have a Collector ship." Lin paused. "There could be beam weapons tech there. Stasis pods. Hell, functioning seeker swarms. Those would all be bad, but what would be worse, would be. . . "

"Functioning indoctrination equipment." Dara finished the sentence, and swallowed, hard. This had been scary enough when it was just a question of getting there, and retrieving what, if anything, was aboard that the Lystheni were putting to use. It was much, much more frightening to think what would happen if the batarians got there ahead of them. _Eli, we have to get back to the ship and get there first—_

_Settle down. He's on this planet, tracking down evidence. He doesn't know everything we know. And we already knew __Bothros__, so we were ahead of him. We'll get there. We just have to get everyone there in one piece._ He reached out and squeezed her bare hand with his gloved one, very gently.

Two hours later, as they were preparing to get back into their vehicles and start moving out again, the radios crackled in their ears. "Attention needed," Cohort told them, his clear, precise words standing out over the main Spectre band. "Satellite telemetry indicates that the batarian convoy in your area now moving. It is, in fact, heading south towards the valley in which you are currently located. They are, at present, twenty-five kilometers northeast of your position."

Rel's head came up. "Location of our merc friends?" he asked, immediately.

"They are still in the mountains southwest of your position. They regrouped after taking out several small raiding groups west of the mountains, and are attempting to transit a narrow pass to reach the eastern side. This is proving problematic for the ground vehicles, even the ones with hovering capabilities." Cohort paused. "Estimate that they will be unable to rendezvous for at least two to three hours."

Dara could feel the shift around her, as everyone's focus snapped into place. "Rel, Dempsey," Eli said, quickly, pulling them all into the main room again. "What's our best strategy? Meet them here, or before they even get into this valley?"

"Depends on how many there are, what sort of vehicles we're looking at, and what the terrain's like north of here," Dempsey replied, immediately.

Pace's head jerked up. "The batarians are coming here?" she asked.

"Yeah. Doesn't look to be the same group that came through here before." Eli tapped on his omnitool, keying up the radio again. "Cohort, what's their convoy look like?"

Their omnitool screens all flickered, as Cohort sent them the satellite shots from above. Dara recognized the profiles of gunships immediately. Two at the front and two at the rear of the column of vehicles, for cover. Behind the first gunship, two ground assault vehicles, each capable of carrying twelve men. They had hatches on the sides, through which the raiders inside could shoot. At the front, a large turret, which could revolve a full 360º, and at the rear, a smaller turret, which could only revolve 270º, preventing the turrets from accidentally crossing their lines of fire.

Behind the two assault vehicles, were two transports. These were large, ungainly vehicles, with little armor and no armaments; they would, however, hold slaves. Possibly as many as seventy-five to a hundred each, jammed into cages, or wearing control collars. Behind those, two more assault vehicles. Followed by another two transports, another two assault vehicles, and, finally, two more gunships. Dempsey whistled softly. Dara grimaced. _About ninety men,_ she told Eli, silently, doing the math in her head. _And we're sort of short on air support. _

_That is not entirely true, little-queen,_ Glory pointed out, in eager tones of red and white. _Raedia-__ship can provide air assault. . . if I call to Question-Singer._

Dara's eyes widened. She had absolutely not thought about that. "Fair point," she said, out loud. "Glory's chipped. He might be able to call in air strikes for us. . . if we let the _Raedia_ know ahead of time that they'll be needed, so they can move to position now."

_Question-Singer hears me. She tells her captain now of our needs._

Dara shook her head. Eli nodded, once, in satisfaction. "Rel, Dempsey, Lin. . . let's talk strategy, then. Ninety men is a hell of a lot of bodies to deal with."

"My men and my mechs can help," Maryam pointed out, quickly.

Eli nodded to her. "We'll put the mechs to use," he told her, gently, "but we'd prefer to keep your men as a last resort, I think." He looked back at the others. "Talk to me."

Dempsey looked out the front window. "There's good news," he replied, laconically. "This valley is a perfect ambush site, really. Long and narrow. Only one road, and it passes through here. We can use this area as a choke-point." He looked at Maryam now, his gaze steady. "Ma'am, I hope you don't mind too much, but this is damned good location. Far better than meeting them out in the open fields north of here. And yeah, I'd like to use your mechs."

"We'd just be attacked if you weren't here, anyway," Maryam told him, nodding, quickly. "I'm just not sure that the mechs will _function_ properly. We've been running tests on them—which is why they were active and in patrol mode when they found you today—but if a batarian agent worked on them—"

"I can examine them," Kirrahe suggested, immediately. "If we have time."

"Zhasa, go with him," Eli told the quarian female, and the two of them immediately stood and headed for the door, grabbing several of Maryam's laborers along the way. Eli opened his omnitool and took a satellite image of their location and started making a crude map for everyone, including the elevations. "Okay, the road runs north-south, here's the house, on the west side of the valley, here's the barracks. There's the pressing shed, there's the mech shed, over here to the south. . . " he tapped each in turn. "Lots of trees in between for at least minimal cover, though a tree's only going to slow a batarian bullet so much. We've got the advantage of surprise here. . . and we've also got elevation and cover to work with."

"Two trained snipers," Dempsey pointed out, immediately. "Put Doc and Liakos up at the highest level of the terraces in the hills. Take out the fucking gunships, first thing. That way, they can't dodge around and pound on the rest of us." He paused. "We've got the Hammerheads. They're lighter on armor than I like, but they're a hell of a lot more maneuverable than these assault vehicles, which are tread-based, like Makos, but more heavily armed, and carry more people. We can use that to our advantage."

Dara nerves keyed up in her stomach. She'd been in dozens of combat situations over the years, but they'd always been planned for her. This part was all new. _Well. . . not exactly,_ Eli pointed out, silently. _You're the one who came up with the idea on Omega of cutting our way through the warehouses._ "I can fire a turret gun," Dara reminded them. "So can Seheve." She tapped the map. "If you put me that far up a hill, I won't be able to get to casualties down here at the ground level very quickly."

Dempsey shrugged, and looked at the others. "I'm just making suggestions here. But we for damned sure need the gunships down, and fast."

"I've got a sniper rifle, too," Eli pointed out, grimly. "Lin and Kirrahe carry them, too. But I agree with you, Dempsey. Dara and Seheve, at east and west, up on the terraces. If you two need to move in. . . and you probably will, since they're going to make your position, sooner or later. . . you can probably actually jump to the rooftops of the house and the barracks, respectively, once you make your way far enough downhill." He looked at the others. "On the other hand. . . they're going to be alone up there. If the rest of us are in the Hammerheads, this will leave both of them without anyone to cover them."

Lin shook his head. "If we do this right, the batarians will be far too damned busy to worry about the snipers, let alone get out a set of microphones to try to home in on their location." He looked across the room at Dempsey. "Set up a visible blockade of the road?"

Dempsey nodded. "I'll handle that," he said, calmly. "Lure them in a bit. I'll stand out there, exposed, with most of the mechs behind me. I'll take. . . Glory, I think. And Zhasa, since she can help shield all three of us. And then we can break and run for our Hammerhead, parked south of the pressing shed. She drives, I shoot. Glory mops up whatever's still moving."

_I will need to be on the ground for much of this,_ Glory warned. _Or have the hatch of the vehicle open, so that I may sing destruction songs on our enemies._

"Understood. A lot of your attacks are straight-line ones, Glory, and I get that." Dempsey folded his arms across his chest.

Rel looked at the map, and shook his head. "You're going to be bait for the trap, but you're going to be very spirits-be-damned exposed out there."

"Between all of our biotic and tech shields, we should be able to take anything short of a rocket, even as exposed as we are there. And when we do need to break and run for the Hammerhead, the rest of you will be pouring in fire from the east and west, in your own Hammerheads."

Eli nodded, after a quick glance at Lin. "I like it so far," he said. "Fewer chances of casualties, if we're in the vehicles. Much less chance of the stasis guns getting used on us with any sort of effect, too. Where do we set up in the Hammerheads?" 

"Here, by the barracks," Rel suggested, tapping the map. "That's one good line of fire. Beside the school shed, on the other side of the road, is another. We can fall back to behind the house and to the pressing building on both sides of the road if they push us, or hop up on the roofs, and still keep them in the direct line of fire from the snipers, if not from the mechs."

Dara glanced up. The only question now, was who would take which positions. Lin nodded once. "On the off chance that the vehicles get disabled? Shields are going to be important here, I think. Eli, go with Rel. I'll take the west position with Kirrahe, by the school."

Eli nodded agreement, his eyes dark and expression grim. He glanced at Maryam now. "We'll do our best not to destroy your property, ma'am."

Her smile was a little wan. "The batarians will do far worse if they win here, than leave a few bullet holes here and there."

_Ain't that the truth_, Dara thought, grimly. "You wouldn't have some burlap sacks or something, would you?" she asked. "I need something to cover my armor with. Dirt and leaves, by preference." _Wouldn't my dad be proud? I'm going to use a ghillie net today. Kind of, sort of._

_Yeah, he's going to love hearing about this._ Eli caught her hand, and pulled her over to the side of the room, as the others started getting ready. He lowered his forehead to hers, briefly. _Sai'kaea__. . . _

_I'll be careful. You be careful, too. _

_I will._ Flash of rueful understanding. Undersong admitted that he'd agreed to having her positioned in a sniper perch quickly because it _would_ get her out of reach of the batarians. Oversong agreed; it made tactical sense. With two snipers out of range of the stasis guns, if they had any with them, out of range of almost all their weapons, besides the turrets on their vehicles, and any sniper rifles of their own that they might be carrying, they'd be better off. And while Glory's biotics and Kirrahe's beloved flamethrower were good in their place, and Lin was toting around an arc projector, and Rel carried a grenade launcher, the best weapon they had against gunships were the sniper rifles and the turrets on the Hammerheads.

_You're going to have to let me fight beside you someday again._ Flashes of Omega, her always by his side, by Lin's.

_You will._ Promise in his song. _But this __is__ a good plan, and everyone will be where they need to be. I love you._

_And I love you. Let's do this._

As Dara knew full well, it usually took less than five minutes for a battle plan to go to hell. That's why the best ones had fall-back contingencies built-in. Dempsey had come up with the rough outlines, and each of them knew the rough goal: let the batarian column move in, then squeeze them from all sides, force them back out of the little vineyard area, and generally destroy them.

The terraces were built as long, switchback trails; impossible to climb up through them in a straight line, but she should be able to jump down through them fairly safely. Dara got in position, ducking under a trellis heavy with vines, leaves, and young grapes, and slid to her belly on the ground, spreading the empty burlap sacks she'd brought with her over her body. Tossed dirt and leaves and muck over that, at least loosely, and knew that, on the other side of the road, to the east, Seheve at least had her stealth generator and biosign masker. _See? There's an armor mod right there that I probably should have gotten. Would do me more good right now than the crystal underweave. . . of course, I say that now. And yet, I bet if I didn't have the underweave, at some point, I'll wish that I did. _ Dara unfolded the tripod that attached to the bottom of her rifle, and propped it up. Perfect vantage point, positioned just between the ranch house and the mech shed, fifty feet higher than the roof of the house below. She'd be looking over Dempsey and Zhasa's shoulders, effectively. But because of the positions of the buildings, Dara needed to be further away than Seheve; she'd be making her first shots from twice Seheve's range, effectively. _Have to allow for the angle of descent,_ Dara thought. All bullets dropped over time. That was just gravity, doing its thing. A few mental calculations, however, and she was satisfied with her ability to hit targets while they were still fifty-five feet from Dempsey and Zhasa's position. . . while they were still in front of the barracks. Before they'd passed where the two Hammerheads were hidden, on either side of the road, huddled up against the south wall of the house and the south wall of the barracks, respectively.

Watching the huge green leaves of the grapevines wave slowly in the light breeze. Watching the others move the vehicles around. Getting set up. Listening to the radio chatter. All the voices, so familiar, and yet, for the moment, so removed. _You know what? This place has a great view. And the wine this Maryam lady makes is pretty nice. Should bring a bottle or three back to Mindoir. Chef Gardner would love them. So would my dad._ Idle thoughts, as she calmed herself down. Deep breaths. Looking for calm, for steadiness.

Almost everyone in the squads—Rel, Dempsey, Eli, Lin, and even Seheve. . . could kill with their hands. Zhasa probably could kill with her _meela'helai_ if needed, although its acrobatics were actually primarily defensive, and intended to allow her to either get away, or into a better position with which to use her weapons. Dara, on the other hand, had primarily focused on self-defense. Stun moves. She could follow them up with lethal force, if necessary, but that really wasn't her focus. When Dara needed to kill. . . she used a gun. From a distance, preferably. She watched the placidly-moving leaves, and checked her vision against the sights on the rifle, and decided that at this range, she might not need the cross-hairs, except for, perhaps, vehicles at the rear of the column. The nerves were fading. The adrenaline was fading. Nothing left here except calmness. Stillness. _Just like shooting deer. Except, all things considered, I'd rather take pictures of the deer. The deer don't really deserve this. These raider batarians? Yeah. They do._

The radio crackled in her ear. Cohort's voice, alerting them. "Column has moved to within three kilometers of your current position. Blue Suns and CorpSec forces due west of you, and forty-five minutes away, they estimate."

"_They picked up their pace. Good. Means, hopefully, all we have to do is __hold the line__,"_ Kirrahe said.

There was a pause, and Dara couldn't help herself. She tabbed the radio and said, "You've been wanting to say that for years, haven't you, Orlan?"

"_Yes, actually. First opportunity. Very fulfilling."_

"_All right,"_ Eli said then. _"Let's focus."_

What little radio chatter there had been, went dead. Dara lifted her head slightly. She could hear the first hints of engine noise in the distance, the whir of the gunships in particular. But she couldn't see them yet. The landscape around here undulated too much, and there were lots of thorny native trees between her and the convoy. _There. There it is. _"Gunships in sight," Dara murmured into her radio.

"_Confirmed,"_ Seheve added, from her vantage point to the east.

"_Hold fire for the moment. Let them get closer. We want them packed in here, for less maneuverability_," Dempsey reminded them all.

"_Wait for it."_ Eli's voice now, steady and calm. Dara found and targeted the gunship to her left, flying fifty feet above the rest of the column and slightly ahead, scanning its surroundings for targets.

"I'm on the left," Dara said into the radio.

"_I have the right,_" Seheve answered. Just as they had, so many times on Arvuna, taken out targets together. _"Give the word."_

"_They see us in the road_," Dempsey said, his voice absolutely neutral now. He could have been talking about the proper way in which to set a table for high tea._ "Here they come."_

_They sing anger-songs,_ Glory reported, in satisfaction. _They hear our defiance. They move to attack!_

"_Snipers, open fire."_

Dara had already eased the trigger down. She exhaled, and in the space between breaths, took the first shot. Modern gunships didn't have old-fashioned helicopter rotors whirring overhead, of course; they used mass effect technology, as most other vehicles did. But they did still have tail rotors for maneuverability. They weren't facing the right way for her to attack those just yet. So, instead, the big plasteel window at the front was her target. Right in front of the pilot's head. _BAM-BAM!_ The first two bullets wouldn't be enough; each gunship carried shields, and plasteel was tough. But the shots got the pilot to flinch, and the gunship swerved in mid-air. Nothing left but to focus. Inhale, exhale, and in the pause between breaths, as close as she could get to being between heartbeats, she fired again, double-tap. Same location, within inches, and this time, she could see the plasteel crack.

"_You've got their attention,"_ Dempsey noted, clinically, as the gunships rose higher, and began to break for the hills, where Dara and Seheve both lay, concealed. _"Let's give them something else to worry about._"

**The Battle of the Vineyards, February 2, 2197**

"Now, Glory," Dempsey said, calmly, and the rachni took him at his word, even as Dempsey and Zhasa ducked down, and let the mechs behind them open fire on the batarian assault vehicles with their built-in submachine guns. Glory, who was standing off to the side of the road, out of the line of fire of the mechs, sang, deep, harp-like notes reverberating in everyone's minds, and he tore at the shields of the lead assault vehicle. _I have got to get him to teach me how to do that,_ Dempsey thought, distantly, and reached out with his own biotics now. Got a grip on the kinetic field that surrounded the left-side gunship, as it buzzed towards the hills behind him, and concentrated on reshaping it, causing it to shudder and fail. Zhasa was working busily with her omnitool, and focused her own attack on the other gunship, electrical energies coruscating over the body of the vehicle as dozens of capacitors inside of it overloaded, causing its shields to drop entirely for a split second.

There was a pause, and then the heavy _whomp-whomp-whomp-whomp_ sound of the turrets on both concealed Hammerheads opening fire on the two gunships, which had flown over them. . . while the two vehicles had been concealed by bags filled with grapes and cargo containers, and overhanging tree limbs.

"Now would be good," Dempsey told the mechs behind him, and ten of them opened fire on the assault vehicle just ahead of him. _Okay, these damned things need better targeting priorities. I'll be sure to complain to the manufacture's rep. . . oh, wait, he's dead. Nevermind._

The first assault vehicle began to move up, and its front turret opened fire on their position. Dempsey grunted a little as the heavy-caliber bullets began to tear into his first layer of shields. "They're on us," he said.

"Noted," Eli replied, and maneuvered his Hammerhead around the corner. "Rel, new targets—"

"Gunship's probably close to done," Rel replied. "Couple more hits—"

Eli grimaced and really hoped this was the right call. "Take one more shot, but I've got to get us in between the assault vehicles and the bait." _Would really help if we didn't look like we're not paying attention to what's in front of us._

"On it," Rel responded, took a last shot at the moving gunship, and swiveled the turret gun around, as Eli jostled to the front of the barracks, their Hammerhead sliding out of hiding, just as Lin's was, burlap sacks of grapes falling down around them to the ground and bursting open. Now the batarians had three sets of targets, but the four assault vehicles further back in the column were constrained by the terrain, and by their own transports ahead of them. They couldn't fire effectively, at least not without moving first. The gunships at the rear, though, would surely be moving up, and soon. "Rel, shoot the damned assault vehicles, we're sitting ducks here," Eli debated ramming the damned things, but decided that the Hammerhead was entirely too fragile to risk it.

The frame of the vehicle shook as Rel took him at his word, and opened fire.

_Shit, they're still coming for me_, Dara thought, seeing the gunship, now pouring smoke from its tail, where Lin's Hammerhead had hit it, repeatedly, hovered uncertainly towards her. But the pilot was certainly having to debate the attack; there were enemies in front of and behind it at the same time now, either one of whom could hit the gunship at will. _Let's keep the decision in the air, shall we?_ she thought, and fired again. Closer range, just over the top of Maryam Pace's house, and its shields, warped by Dempsey and beaten down by Lin's Hammerhead, weren't back up yet. _BAM-BAM_, her rifle snapped in her hands, and Dara could clearly see the pilot's head rock back, and the vehicle yawed to the side abruptly as the co-pilot lunged for the controls, trying to get the gunship back under control. _That's it, don't go dropping into the middle of the road on top of anyone, don't drop atop the house, where all the civilians are in the cellar. You can keep heading for me, or you can turn around and head back for the Hammerheads, but don't you go crashing into anyone I know._

Bullets now, a hailstorm of them, pouring out of the gunship's turrets, raking the area where she lay hidden. The accuracy wasn't great, but it didn't need to be; gunships had miniguns, which could put down a bullet per square inch, from over a hundred yards away, and she was within their range. Dara ducked, and felt the bullets racing over her head, tearing at the green leaves. Felt light impacts, like rain, and peered up to see purple grape juice pouring down her face-shield, hundreds of pulped and whole grapes landing on her, from the terrace above her, probably. . . .

Dempsey heard the notes of red and black in his mind, and his head turned as Glory sang merely,_ Know destruction-songs!_ and a hail of tiny biotic singularities poured through the air, targeting the damaged gunship to their southwest now, the one that was still firing blindly into the hills where Doc Jaworski was hidden with her rifle—no time to think about that, there was still the one to their right to worry about, the one now attacking Liakos' position.

"I've got it," Zhasa told him, with light affection, and turned and ran for their Hammerhead, parked on the north side of the pressing shed, but instead of getting into it, she jumped atop it. . . and from there, _launched_ herself, biotically, for the gunship, catching one of its landing skids and dangling there, precariously. _Are you out of your mind?_ Dempsey demanded, silently, and turned his attention back to the assault vehicles ahead of him. _So much for the damned plan. She was supposed to be my gunner in our Hammerhead. . . _

_I will assist_, Glory assured him, as he ran to the Hammerhead after all.

"Don't see you getting in the turret, my friend—"

_Leave the rear hatch open. I will sing what I may._

Rel continued firing at the assault vehicles ahead of him, feeling the thrum of the heavy-caliber guns reverberating up through his arms. "Shields are starting to fail," Eli warned him, tightly. "I'm going to need to maneuver."

"Do what you need to do," Rel told him. "We've almost got this—oh, _s'kak_." _Thanks for the __warning__,_ he thought, as the Hammerhead spun sickeningly and then launched itself for the roof of the barracks. Rel reflexively spun the turret bubble the opposite direction, keeping his target locked in his sights, and continued to fire, in spite of the thirty foot leap into the air that the agile vehicle had just performed, and was rewarded when the first assault vehicle suddenly exploded into flames. Then he looked past the burning vehicle, and swore, viciously, under his breath. The batarians weren't _stupid_, after all. The transports were moving, slowly, off the road, out of the line of fire of the assault vehicles behind them. The two rear gunships were moving up and opening fire. And there were still two gunships in the air behind them. .. although. . . _spirits of air and darkness, is Zhasa hanging off the bottom strut of that one?_ Rel blinked, rapidly, and then the second assault vehicle exploded into flames, and Lin's Hammerhead hopped up onto the schoolhouse's roof. Less elevation than what they had, here on the roof of the barracks, but still, every bit helped. Rel got the approaching gunships in his sights, and fired again. No time to worry about anyone or anything else. Just the next target, and keeping the adrenaline in check, keeping it from overwhelming him. . . .

Dara kept firing, steadily. She could see that the gunship had been severely damaged now, by _something_, probably Glory's overwhelming rush of song, moments ago. She could see the co-pilot struggling with the controls as the vehicle pitched and yawed wildly. She was still pretty far away, and considerably up the hillside from it. She lifted herself from her covered position, grape leaves scattering everywhere, and fired again, _BAM-BAM_. Pinpoint precision, through the already-shattered plasteel, and the copilot slumped to the side. Dara threw herself back to the ground, heart racing, as the gunship listed in the air. . . and then slammed into the ground with the tearing sound of metal under tremendous strain, plasteel shattering at the impact, and the engine exploded, sending fire and sparks everywhere in an eighty-foot circular rain of destruction. . . .

Zhasa, in the meantime, pulled herself up by forearm strength, and used her natural flexibility and abdominal muscles to curl upwards and wrap a leg over the strut of the eastern, damaged gunship. She wasn't the strongest of the Spectres, physically, but she'd been practicing _meela'helai_ since she was old enough to tell her right foot from her left. She had incredible agility and balance and, thanks to her biotics, absolutely no fear of heights whatsoever. As such, once she pulled herself up on the strut, she was able to stand up on it and balance there, lightly, and then simply pulled open the side hatch, smiled behind her mask at the startled batarian there, reached in, unlatched his restraining harness, and used a biotic throw to fling the copilot out of the gunship.

The batarian fell, screaming, his arms and legs waving frantically, to the roof of the pressing shed below, then slid and fell another thirty feet to the ground. Zhasa wasn't really watching that part, however; she'd grabbed the straps inside with her hands, pulled her feet free, and lifted herself up in an L-shape before launching herself into the cockpit, slamming both feet into the head of the remaining pilot before landing her own posterior firmly in a seat. She got attitude control while the pilot was still dazed, and then opened the far hatch, unhooked his restraints, and unceremoniously launched the second batarian with another forceful biotic thrust. "I have control of one of the gunships," Zhasa said into the radio now, a little out of breath. "Please don't shoot me."

She didn't read batarian, but flight controls were, largely, flight controls across the galaxy. Three thousand years of standardization and trade between cultures tended to leave a mark. The gunship was damaged, but its shields were regenerating. Zhasa turned it, scanning over the area. There was a _hell_ of a lot of fire to the southwest, where Dara had been positioned in the hills, and smoke from the wreck of the first gunship, which had crashed at the base of the terraces, just beside the mech shed. _Oh, Keelah, let her be all right. . . no time to think about that right now. Let's see, that looks like the weapons system. . . yes. Rockets. I lift up this cover, that brings up the targeting system, I override the friend-vs.-foe system, I target the approaching gunship, and I press this switch. . . . _

Seheve took her finger off the trigger of her sniper rifle as she saw Zhasa'Maedan land, however precariously, on the skid of the approaching, smoking gunship. _Dangerous,_ she thought, and her head jerked up in alarm as the second gunship hit the ground on the far side of the narrow valley from her. _Dr. Jaworski took down her target, but did it cost her her own life?_ No time to think about that. She rolled to her feet, her stealth field shimmering around her, and moved. She didn't have an angle on _anything_ from her present vantage point, and thus, Seheve rolled off her current terrace, sliding down a fifteen foot incline to the next, vines and leaves trying to grasp at her the entire way. She hit the ground lightly, and ran left, around the curving pathway between trellises, found the place where the path veered the most sharply to the west, and, still running for the momentum, leaped. The galactic record for a human's running long jump, for a female, without genemods, was just over twenty-four feet. This leap was just over seven feet in distance, and Seheve was also leaping down as well as out; as such, she landed on the barely inclined roof of the pressing facility, slipped for a moment, caught herself with her hands, and then got to her feet. Up and over the peak of the roof, and then down again, dropping into a crouch at the far corner. Now she had a vantage point that was worth something. Seheve brought her rifle to bear, and aimed at one of the moving assault vehicles. . . .

"_I have control of one of the gunships,"_ Zhasa's voice had crackled onto the radio. _"Please don't shoot me." _Dempsey exhaled a little, realizing that he could actually feel his own relief, and kept doing what he was doing. Driving the only undamaged Hammerhead _backwards_ into the damned fight. Rear hatch down, and Glory standing on the deck in the middle of the vehicle, throwing biotic attacks at anything and everything that happened to be in their way. "Get the gunships," Dempsey warned. "They're our priority, they're too damned maneuverable—"

_Cannot hit them from this angle. I will sing to the ground vehicles instead_, Glory told him, calmly, almost equitably, and poured out his song at the closest assault vehicle, cutting through its shields. Unfortunately, the gunships overhead were taking exception to their attack, and a rocket slammed through their Hammerhead's shields, sending the vehicle spinning and skidding like a pat of butter in a hot frying pan. Radio chatter in his ears. _"Tyr, if you don't stop hopping this damned thing off the walls of the terraces, I'm never going to be able to aim—"_

"_You want to drive, Virtus? I'll trade places, no problem."_

"_Have target lock, third gunship—"_

"_Taking pretty heavy fire in this location—"_

Dempsey got control of the vehicle again and rolled around so that their front shields faced the batarians. _I cannot aim in this fashion, Sings-in-Silence. _

"I know, I know, but we've got to close the gap here a bit. . . " A missile roared by overhead, and Dempsey's head jerked up. Sure enough, there was Zhasa's gunship, trading fire with one of the two to the north, slugging it out, toe-to-toe. Dempsey gunned the motor, and took them into the heart of the firefight. Sidonis had his Hammerhead perched up in the hills; Pellarian still had his on the school house roof. Time to get some fire in the middle, and who better to take the beating than him, really? "Glory, you all right back there?"

_Yes. Your battle-songs are strong!_

And then they were in the thick of it, two gunships overhead, but that was okay; one of them was concentrating on Zhasa, the other on Pellarian, who'd just taken the opportunity to make a tactical retreat off the rooftop of the school, sliding down behind it, out of range of the various guns. _Here's where I sacrifice mobility for firepower_, Dempsey thought, and swung them around again. "Take the assault vehicles to either side of us," he told Glory. "I'm going after the gunships, for the moment." And then he slid out of the pilot's seat and pulled himself up into the turret's bubble, and flipped the safety off the guns.

Dara slipped and slid and flat-out _fell_ down the next to last of the terraces, mud and leaves all over her armor at this point, but she was dodging spot-fires, and thanking her stars for the high-quality Jormangund armor and shields she was wearing. She'd heard the radio cross-chatter. Knew that Zhasa had one of the gunships, somehow, and that the others were fighting a pitched battle with the remaining four assault vehicles and two gunships.

She got to her feet, looked at the gap between the edge of the terrace and the mech shed, and shuddered, mentally. _God, how I hate heights._ She backed up a couple of feet, put her rifle on her back, and ran forward. Heavy armor. Heavy pack. _This is so not going to work. I don't care if they tell me it's only eight or nine feet, it's not going to work, it's not going to work, holy shit, is that roof on fire?_

That last thought passed through her mind _after_ her feet had already pushed off the ground, and she just about did fall short—she slammed into the side of the wall, but managed to catch the edge of the roof with her hands and held on for dear life. Scrabbled her feet under her, finding purchase in the mortar lines between the rough stones of the building, and scrambled to the rooftop after a moment. The roof was tile, thank god, but there were branches and leaves scattered all over it, and yes, they were burning, as were smoking tangles of metal and rubber and plastic from the downed gunship. _Okay, now what. . . oh, god. What a cluster we've got going here. Good news is, I've got an angle on both gunships from here. _"I'm on west gunship," Dara reported. So much harder to focus now, to be calm. She took her deep breaths, and let the world fade around her. Focus. Calm. The battle was very far away. All that mattered was getting the right shot. _BAM-BAM_, her rifle told her, and from across the way, she could hear the same exact report from Seheve's rifle. . . Check target, and fire again. _BAM-BAM_.

The gunship to the east, Dara's right, already heavily damaged, and still exchanging fire with Zhasa, began to list, and tried to circle away, retreat. . . which was when Eli's Hammerhead, up in the hills, caught it with a final barrage from its turret. The gunship crashed into the hillside, sending up fire and debris in all directions, and Dara switched targets back to the remaining gunship, which was backing up, and launching its rockets at the single Hammerhead remaining exposed in the center of the road now. . . constant sound of gunfire from the mechs, who had, over the course of the battle, been slowly, steadily advancing on the batarians. . . . Dara shook her head, and switched targets. "On the lead vehicle," she said into her radio, tersely, and opened fire.

Eli had exhaled in relief when he'd heard Dara's voice after the long silence. Intellectually, he knew that so long as Glory hadn't reacted, that she was probably fine. But instincts told him different tales. He hadn't let it affect him too much, however. There was simply too much to do in terms of keeping himself and Rel _alive_, for starters. The vineyard's terraced hillsides were a wonderful playground for the Hammerheads; the vehicle's agility shone here, while the heavy, caterpillar treads of the assault vehicles below were largely useless. Every time the crews below turned their vehicles to try to move towards his position, tried to get a better angle for their turrets or their crews inside, with their assault rifles poking out of the side hatches, Eli simply leaped the Hammerhead to a new location. A higher slope, a lower one, to the north, to the south, back atop a building. Rel might be keeping up a litany of colorful curses in every language that he knew, but after the initial dozen hits, before they'd leaped to the rooftop, they'd taken almost no damage. "For the sake of the spirits, hold still," Rel snapped from the turret.

"Love to. Make them stop firing at us!" Eli shot back.

In spite of the complaints, Rel actually was doing a phenomenal job hitting the batarians. Their two lead vehicles were heavily damaged, simply because they couldn't seem to hold their shields up. _Glory's work, I think. Maybe Dempsey's, too, if he's using his biotics as well as the turret gun. . . _"Nice _shot_," Eli suddenly exclaimed, as Rel's final barrage took the third and final gunship out of the sky, and fire bloomed on the northwest side of the vineyards.

"Thanks," Rel replied, and Eli could hear the grin in his voice. "See? That time, you held still for longer than a second and a half."

Their triumph didn't last for long. The remaining four ground vehicles, other than the 'cargo' transports, began to concentrate their fire on Dempsey's motionless Hammerhead. 

"Thor, get the hell out of there," Eli said into the radio. "We've got angles on the remaining vehicles. Move before you lose shields."

"_Love to, Tyr. Got to teach Glory how to drive first, though."_ Dry, laconic words, as always.

Eli just stared down at the road for a moment. _Oh, shit. That's why he's holding still. He's on the guns now. . . _"Get in the damned driver's seat and _move_," Eli told Dempsey, and hopped his own vehicle down a tier and to the north, giving Rel a better angle on the remaining assault vehicles. Seeing, as he did so, Lin's Hammerhead re-appearing from where it had been hidden from Eli's sight, behind the school building. Moving into the woody area, which was dotted with debris and small fires from one of the crashed gunships. . . . "Foreseti, let's get their attention—"

"_On it."_

Zhasa just stared at the ground for a moment from inside her gunship. Its engine was shuddering and bucking now in complaint at the damage it had taken in the fight thus far. _Oh, Keelah, this is my fault. If I'd stuck to the plan, I'd be driving that damned Hammerhead right now. . . all right. Can't change that. But I can fix this. _She fought the balky stick, and convinced and coaxed and coerced the failing gunship forwards, so that, for a moment, she actually hovered in the air over Dempsey's Hammerhead. That, if nothing else, got the batarians' attention, and four of their eight remaining turrets opened fire on her. _That's fine. That's just fine. Look at me, not at them._ Zhasa grabbed one of the restraints in the cockpit, and with a little effort, knotted it around the stick. Tested it for tensile strength, nodded, and slid over in the seat towards the open, gaping door. The gunship was shaking now, its engine badly damaged. Every rotation of the components inside was simply causing the engine to flail itself apart. Zhasa nodded to herself, looped the loose end of the restraint around the strut that held the plasteel window in place, which jerked the stick forward and held it there. Then she threw herself, backwards, out of the craft, using her biotics to reduce her speed and dissipate the energy of her fall. She flipped in mid-air, all the _meela'helai_ training again coming to the fore, and landed, lightly, on her feet, atop Dempsey's Hammerhead. Bullets were whizzing by, mostly aimed at the vehicle, but a few clipped her shields, which flared to blue life around her.

She could see Dempsey's head jerk up, confused, by the thump, and the turret turned as he instinctively spun and tried to fire at whoever was attacking him. . . the gun barrel caught her legs and knocked her on her ass. "Stop that!" she shouted, banging a fist on the plasteel, knowing he couldn't hear her, except through the radio. "And hang on!"

Still sitting down, Zhasa latched onto the barrel of the turret with one hand, and raised the other, pouring energy out of herself. Building her bubble, made of finest quarian silk in her mind, but harder than any ablative shielding ever made. She closed her eyes, and prayed to her ancestors that this was going to work. . .

. . . as the gunship she'd forced down crash-landed into the pack of four batarian assault vehicles.

_God, I love you, Zhasa_, was the first clear thought she heard in her head as the fire and debris finished bouncing away from her shield. All small pieces; one large one _had_ passed through, but to the right side of the vehicle, where the piece of metal now protruded from the side of the Hammerhead like a spear. Zhasa eyed it, and tried, very hard, not to calculate whether or not her personal tech shield and biotic barrier would have dissipated enough of its force to prevent it from penetrating her armor. As it was, there was a hairline crack in her visor. _Keelah. A year ago, I would have panicked at the sight. Now, it's just an annoyance. Something that will require returning to the __Raedia__ to repair. .. . _

Dara had slid down off her rooftop and started running forward, top speed, using trees and the edge of the school for what limited cover she could. She could see Zhasa leap from the smoking body of the gunship. Could see the gunmetal-gray body clearly against the light blue sky. Could see as it, almost in slow motion, tipped nose down in a clean arc, and plummeted into the ground, into the batarian vehicles that had, for the most part, stuck together as a defensive tactic. _Don't get split up, don't let the enemy pick you apart_, had clearly been their thinking. . . and then the fireball exploded up from the ground. _Oh, shit,_ Dara thought. _Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh shit._ _Glory! Tell me you're all right. Tell me they're all right—_

_We sing. . . _ Glory's voice was dazed. _Hope-Singer shields us with her song. Sings-in-Silence is moving us. . . they sing very loudly, when they sing in harmony . . . _

Dara couldn't spare the breath to laugh, and just kept running, seeing the Hammerhead skid out of the smoke and fire, Zhasa clearly holding on for dear life to the turret on top. Dempsey skidded the vehicle around, and aimed the turret back at the blast zone, clearly waiting for visibility to return. . . .

Eli swore as fiery debris hit his windshield, and leaped his Hammerhead back up the slope. "Is everyone all right?" he immediately called into the radio, staring down slope into the mass of burning vegetation, burning, twisted metal, and everything else.

"Everyone, check in," Rel added, just as urgently.

"_Here. . . " "Here. . . " "Here. . . "_ came various breathless replies over the radio.

Dara's voice, panting a bit on the radio. _"Thor, Astrild, and Glory are all right. We've got to get to the transports! They could be damaged, the people inside could be injured, the batarian drivers could try to use them as hostages—"_

"The remaining assault vehicles could still be a danger," Rel cut in, sharply. "Proceed with caution. Let's clear the area of hostiles, first."

Eli blinked._ Shit. She's right._ _He's right. They're both right._ Without fanfare, he leaped and hopped the Hammerhead back down the slope, heading for the blast area. Sure enough, one of the assault vehicles was still in working order, and was trying to back up, and get away. Rel unceremoniously blasted it at point-blank range with their turret, as Lin and Dempsey worked their own vehicles back into the smoldering field of debris.

"We've got one vehicle overturned here_,"_ Eli reported from the east side.

"_One vehicle on fire to the west."_ Lin's voice was very sharp. _"Kirrahe and I are on it."_

"_Remaining two. . . both upright and intact,"_ Dempsey called. _"Got batarians in the cab areas. Moving to secure."_

Eli could see, out of the corner of his eye, Zhasa, Dara, and Glory hopping out of Dempsey's Hammerhead, the two females moving forward, guns at the ready. Could hear Dara shouting in batarian. No idea what the words actually meant, but _"Get out of the vehicle! Drop your weapons. Put your hands on your head and turn around!"_ were probably a good guess.

Which were, in fact, the exact words he told Rel to translate for him as they approached the overturned cab. "Might not be conscious," Rel said. "I'll go check. Cover me."

Eli did precisely that. Nervous work. Securing the batarian drivers and guards who'd survived, and were, at that point, pitifully eager to surrender. And then, the much harder work. Getting the overturned transport back upright was much easier with three biotics of Dempsey, Zhasa, and Glory's power. But the people inside the four transports were injured, and there was fire spreading everywhere. "Seheve," Eli said, blinking as the drell female more or less materialized at his elbow. "Help Dara with the wounded. Zhasa, you too, please. Glory, you're on prisoner guard duty. Everyone else? Fire suppression. Get Maryam and her people up from the cellars, they can tell us where they have extinguishers. . . "

"Actually, believe mechs may have fire control systems," Kirrahe chirped up, smiling brightly. "Will investigate. One moment."

And so, an hour after the fight had begun, the Blue Suns, Eclipse, and assorted Trident corporate forces came pouring down into the valley from the south, and simply paused and _stared._ Signs of one _hell_ of a fire-fight. Scorch marks on every building. Bullet holes everywhere. Wreckage of four gunships, four assault vehicles. Two hundred liberated asari and humans, some bruised and with broken bones and concussions. One very harried human Spectre medic, moving from patient to patient as they lay, groaning, in the grass at the side of the dirt road. "We got here as soon as we could," the Blue Suns commander said, gruffly, stumping across the grass to shake hands with one of the humans in the black armor. "Your geth friend at the command and control center down at the spaceport said it was urgent." He stared around. "I thought he said there were only nine of you here, against about a hundred batarians."

The human male pushed back his polarized face shield, showing dark brown eyes and vivid slashes of turian face-paint across his jaws. "Yeah. Well, about ninety of them. Had a little help from the vineyard owner's mechs, too. Was a little touch and go there for a while. And we have a hell of a lot of hurt civilians here. We're glad you're here to help out, that's for sure." A quick flash of a smile, then gone again.

The mercenary stared at him, thinking, _I've been fighting longer than you've been alive, kid. How the __hell__ do you expect me to believe that you guys did this all on your own?_ "No aerial strikes?" he asked, after a moment.

"We had it as an option, but they were all packed a little too close to the buildings for us to be comfortable doing that." Quick, simple words. "Can your people take charge of the batarian prisoners and escort the refugees to one of the larger population centers, like Tropez? We're going to stay the night here, and then move on out again."

The more the merc looked around, however, the more he simply had to believe the evidence of his own eyes. Nine Spectres against ninety to a hundred heavily armed batarians. Four gunships. Six assault vehicles. And the Spectres had had themselves, fifteen to twenty lightly armed and retrofitted farming mechs, and three Hammerheads. End result? Eighty-six dead batarians. Four batarian prisoners, all wild-eyed and _very_ cooperative, as the Spectres were questioning them. A few injured civilians.

The Blue Sun merc put this all in a report for Zaeed Massani; his commander had been very specific about providing a written analysis of any and all interactions with the Spectres. He hesitated before writing his summary. _My god, I do not ever want to fuck with these kids. If they're this bad when they're practically in diapers, god only knows what they're going to be when they finish growing up._ He didn't, however, think that sounded appropriately professional, and opted for, instead: _Junior Spectres and affiliates highly competent. Appear to use unorthodox methods and improvise readily, operating as a team even under stressful conditions. Would prefer not to engage them, given the choice._

**Elijah, February 2, 2197**

On the whole, Eli was pretty damned pleased with how the day had gone. He did have a lot of sharp questions for Zhasa about the whole 'crash the gunship into the batarian ground vehicles,' tactic; he and Lin _both_ thought it had put the civilians in the transports at unnecessary risk. Zhasa grimaced and acknowledged the risk, but pointed out, simply, "The gunship was already going to crash. The engine was failing. Setting it down safely in front of Dempsey's Hammerhead _was_ an option that I thought of. . . and that would have given his vehicle some more cover. . . at least until the batarians moved ten feet to either side and continued firing anyway. There were still four of their vehicles left. I took a chance, yes, but I did everything I could to direct the gunship's crash almost straight down."

Eli shook his head. "Okay. Just. . . expect to be grilled about this by Commander Shepard and Garrus when we get back to the base. Any time a civilian gets hurt, questions get asked."

"And rightly so," Zhasa agreed, her gentle voice a little tighter than usual, and bowed her head. "I understand your concern, Eli. I truly do. But I wouldn't have done it, if there'd been any other valid options. If I couldn't leap out to safety, and protect Dempsey, Glory, and myself."

Eli exhaled. "I know," he told her, more gently. "I'm just trying to look at the situation from all angles. On the one hand, I'm damned glad we're all alive. That all these people are alive. I'm not going to quibble with that. But a lot of them did get hurt, and the truth is, some of them could have been killed. And if that came from our actions, or our negligence, we need to be aware of that."

"We read you," Dempsey said then, tersely.

Eli looked at Dempsey, and nodded, once. "Okay, then. Let's get back out there." He'd pulled them over to the side of the pressing shed for this conversation. Lin was busy with Rel and the batarian prisoners; Eli checked in on them next. Rel was conversant in batarian, after a year of painful language immersion on Sur'Kesh, and a brief refresher course on Valak's estate about a year ago. _God, has it been that long already?_ Eli thought, briefly, and took a position behind the two of them in the mech shed, where the Suns were standing guard over their four prisoners.

"Ask them why they came back to this estate, after the area had already been cleared," Lin directed Rel.

Rel grimaced, but repeated the words in the guttural sounds of the batarian language. VI translations were good. . . but there was something about being addressed in your own language, Eli knew. For one thing, it made it a hell of a lot harder to lie. VIs couldn't convey tone; they were flat, monotonous translating devices, as one could tell every time a hanar spoke through one and a voder. Infection, nuance, and tone were lost. And in the amount of time it took for a translation to go through, someone could compose themselves, control their reactions, marshal their thoughts. A VI was a good check, but speaking the language yourself? Priceless. Eli glanced at his wrist for a translation, and put batarian, yet again, on his mental list of 'things I need to get around to.' _Wouldn't it be wonderful if I could just absorb the language from Dara's memories? 'Course, then I'd get salarian, too. And I'd know how to stitch up wounds and conduct surgery, and she'd know police procedure and crime scene processing and how to handle evidence, and we wouldn't have anything else to talk about ever again._

The batarian was answering, quickly. "He says he's just a driver. Not even raider caste, he claims. Porter caste, he says." Rel's tone was dubious. Porter caste was two steps above slave caste. They were haulers and diggers. Allowed to haul stone from a quarry, but not to work it, not to design buildings. Allowed to move freight and cargo, but not to trade it. Allowed to carry a noble's belongings, but not permitted to touch the clothing within the bags. "He says he doesn't know anything."

Lin glanced back at Eli. "I think that was a lie, don't you?"

"Yeah." The sidelong glance to the left, the sudden inwards hunch of the shoulders, just before straightening again and bringing the eyes back to focus in front of him, had been telling. "Tell him his hands aren't porter caste." Eli pointed down, and both turians focused. "Even if all he's done all his life is drive a groundtruck, he'd still have rough hands, from loading freight onto the trucks. You get banged-up knuckles doing that. Even stevedores who did nothing but work with forklifts and lading mechs on the Citadel had messed-up hands." Eli smiled, humorlessly. "Lin, what's he smell like?"

"That sweet oil most batarians use on their skin." Lin bared his teeth. "Let me guess. Porter caste isn't permitted to use it?"

Rel shook his head. "No. Valak told me it's a part of their purification rituals." He bared his teeth. "Merchant caste and above can use it. Handlers of the dead, sweepers of filth, including sanitation workers, butchers, porters, slaves. . . all not permitted to use _nitula_ oil. It's a purification thing. Slavers are technically a subset of merchant caste. So they're allowed to be _pure_." He looked back at Eli. "Good catch."

"Hey, I can't smell the damned stuff. You guys can." Eli folded his arms across his chest. "So, now that we know he's lying. . . "

Lin got back to work. Hammering question after question at the batarians, through Rel's translation. "Why come here? We know SIU had already been through here? What were you looking for?"

Fear, hard to mask and clearly identifiable, when SIU was brought up. "He says they didn't know SIU had been through here. They didn't know that SIU was on this world at all," Rel reported, at length.

_Interesting, if true,_ Eli thought. _That would mean, what? That SIU itself doesn't want to publicize its presence to its own troops? This is the same SIU that's working with the Klem Na, who's working with the Lystheni? We had hints that this K'sar guy is looking for the Lystheni. Maybe SIU is tired of dealing with the Klem Na. Maybe, like we thought earlier, they want everything that the Lystheni have been holding out on them. Or internal divisions, factions. _Eli nodded to Lin. "We can dump this all in a report and try to get it through to the base. Maybe Zorro will have some insights."

"I'll keep at this," Lin told him, calmly, giving the batarians a look of dislike. "One of these males might know something more. Might slip."

"Don't spend all night on it," Eli advised, as they all stepped out of the shed for a while. "And if you don't feel like you're getting anywhere. . . you might consider letting Seheve have a go at them."

That got Rel's head to turn. Lin frowned. "You don't think I do a good enough bad cop, _fradu_?"

Eli grinned at him. "I think you do a great bad cop, Lin. I just think she's had prior experience, and she speaks enough batarian that she probably won't need a translator in the room. Which is a good thing, since I also don't think she'd have any compunctions about breaking their thumbs if she thought they were lying to her."

Lin swore at length in turian. Rel gave Eli a steady look. "Don't ask her to do what you're not willing to do yourself," Rel told him, flatly. "Don't make her a way to keep your hands clean."

_Interesting reaction, Rel, old friend._ "I'm not," Eli told him, easily. "But I think that if those idiots in there have a brain in their head, they're going to recognize the difference between her and Lin very, very clearly, and without her even having to say a word. She probably won't even have to make any threats."

Lin sighed. "Evidently, I need to work on my intimidation. Even _you_ don't think I'm enough of an alpha, _fradu._"

Eli shook his head. "Has nothing to do with being an alpha, Lin. Has everything to do with the fact that you play by the rules. It shines out of you like a beacon. Being asked to bend or break a principle _hurts_ you. Seheve? Doesn't play by our rules. Never has. She doesn't see a point in them. And that shows in everything she says and does, just as much as it does in you." Eli shrugged. "And I see absolutely no harm in letting them see what she's capable of, and then letting them consider whether or not they'd like to revise their testimony."

Rel's mandibles twitched. "You're getting ruthless, Eli."

"Me? Hell no. Makur is ruthless. Makur threw a batarian into the main shaft of Omega, rather than have to deal with a prisoner. What I am, though, is tired, and out of time to deal with everything." Eli rubbed at his eyes. "I'll leave you guys to it. I've still got to check in on everyone else."

Kirrahe was firmly occupied rewiring Maryam's mechs for her—"Will be much more efficient for her uses, and offer better protection, once I'm finished," he tossed over his shoulder at Eli as the human passed through. "Unconscionable that planetary authorities have not at least put together their own militia."

"Yeah. There really isn't a central government here, unfortunately. There's twelve to fifteen small colonies here. Kind of like city-states in Medici Italy. None of them agree with each other much, except that they don't want to go home to Earth or Illium or Luisa or wherever."

"Will have to do something about that."

"Not our call, Orlan. Not our call." Eli exhaled, and moved on.

Maryam Pace had her men pull barrels of wine, not yet bottled, out of the cellars, and was pouring it, freely, for anyone who wanted some. She didn't have a lot in the way of food for the two hundred refugees, three hundred mercs, and nine Spectres and affiliates who'd descended on her, but she was doing her best, and her best was very good. There were lights in all the buildings, and the kids from the Tauno compound were looking damned near giddy just to see electric lights, and to be alive and free tonight. They were helping to distribute the food. Cheese, from Maryam's cellars, made from local cow and goat milk. Crackers and unleavened bread, and grapes. Lots and lots of grapes. "Going to be a small harvest for the actual wine this year," Maryam said, looking around her vineyard, at the scorched earth and everything else, as she handed Eli a jug of wine and a plate heaped with food, "but all things considered? It's a win."

Eli grinned at her, and went to go find Dara. Even though the Suns and the other groups had medics, there were still a lot of bumps and bruises and contusions for Dara and the other doctors to examine. Half of the refugees were human, and half were asari. Most had been given control collars, but no control chips. All of them were babbling in gratitude, and he could see Dara struggling with it as they reached out. Touched her. Dara had taken her armor off for the moment, probably to seem a little less scary and unapproachable to the refugees, and while some of them openly stared at her rachni-blue eyes, and the little rachni workers that tagged at her heels, or perched on her shoulder, most of them were mostly just grateful to be alive. To have someone taking care of them, making the pain go away. But they all wanted to touch her, and Dara wasn't a toucher or a hugger on her best day—_well, maybe with Sky._ Eli chuckled at the thought, but the smile faded as he watched her fight the urge to flinch when they reached out. Touched her. And probably had to fight down whatever parts of their song whispered in her thoughts.

He stepped forward, and caught her elbow in a gentle grip. Felt her tense and start to turn, and felt the muscle tension in her arm melt away as recognition came to her. "Come on, _sai'kaea_, they're all resting comfortably, and there are other doctors. . . and I know damned well you drove half the night, because Glory couldn't take a shift," he told her. "Come and eat something, and rest."

Dara's mind was spinning with tiredness, and he could feel it coming off of her in gray waves as he tugged her away, into the green terraces of grapes that were unmarked by the fires or any debris, where they could look out over the eastern horizon, into the stars appearing there, as the sun set behind them in the mountains. The sharp fingers of the peaks threw heavy shadows across them, but there was still enough light to see everything going on in the buildings below. The grape leaves fluttered around them as they sank down behind a trellis, blocking them from view from below.

"Someone's on watch?" Dara asked, tiredly, as they found a tree to put their backs up against.

"Half a dozen CorpSec and Blue Suns, yeah." Eli pulled her into his side. He was still in armor, even if she'd stripped down to her undersuit for the moment.

"Good." They ate in total, peaceful silence for a while. Grapes, cheese, unleavened bread. Simplicity itself. Just a little distance, for a bit. Enough to restore the soul and mind. He could feel the way her mental wheels kept spinning, though. _Wonder why they used collars on these asari, and not chips? Could it be that the standard slave chips interfere with the biotic control chips? It's a quick process, just a long spike driven through the skull, just a quick punch basically into the dura matter, which is why they usually can do it so quickly and easily, no surgery involved—_

_Turn it off, sweetheart. Much as I love listening to you think, you need to relax._

She slid her head onto his shoulder, in spite of the uncomfortable plates there, and he looked down at her as she closed her eyes. Felt her breathing slow. "Want some more wine?"

"Not if there's a chance I'm going to be called up to look at patients overnight."

"Fair enough. It's really good wine, though." Eli took another sip, and let the taste roll along his tongue. "You scared the living crap out of me today. You went silent on the radio after that one gunship crashed."

"Nothing to report besides, 'I've fallen on my ass. Oh, I fell on my ass again. Still can't shoot anything, out of position. . . yep, that's the third time I fell on my ass. . . .'" Dara peeked up at him through her hair, which was falling across her face. "The terraces weren't really good footing."

Eli chuckled, and pulled her closer. Kissed her lips, smelling the rich earth and the green smell of the leaves all around them. Taste of wine on both their lips, exhaustion spinning through both their minds and bodies. _Love you, Dara, always-fair, always-beloved._

_Love you, too._ The thoughts were hazy. _We going to sleep in the damned Hammerheads tonight?_

_Maybe. Maryam is setting up beds in the pressing shed and the storage sheds all through the property. Says its safe enough here from the carbon dioxide pressure swells that other regions on the planet get, that we could sleep outside if we want. Says we might want to wear breathers, though, just in case._

_And armor._

_Yeah. That's a given._ He bit the side of her neck gently, felt the faint threads of burgundy weave through both of their gray tiredness, and gave her a lopsided smile. _Share your light with me?_

_Just light?_ Gentle teasing in her tone. _Just songs?_

"Hate to admit it, but. . . yeah. _Maieolo'rae'kiia_ is about all I'm good for right now."

_So damned tired._

_Both of us. Share your light, __sai'kaea__. We'll both be less tired. _Eli kissed her again, lingeringly, and then whispered, "Tomorrow morning, though? You better watch yourself. I'll be ready for _maieolo'loa'kareo _then_. . . ._"

_Promises, promises._

Light, sweet exchange of thoughts, memories. Minds entwining. The past two or three days, relieved through each others' eyes, in quick review. Eli shuddered at how damned close the gunship had actually come to landing on her, and Dara was quick to point out that the flaming wreckage from another had actually hit his Hammerhead. "It really helps, doing this," she admitted in a whisper.

_I know. Feels good. Helps make the darkness pass._ He gave her another quick kiss. _Thank you._

_Mmm, no, thank you._

Eli sighed and got back to his feet, reaching down to offer her his hands. "Let's go see how everyone else is doing."

"Kind of our job, isn't it?" A lazy smile of contentment, though. Just sitting together, alone, in the green, had helped, even before the intimate exchange of thoughts.

"Yeah," he agreed. "That, and going and mingling is probably a good way of keeping an eye on the mercs without actually looking like we're keeping an eye on them."

_And here you were telling me to turn it off._

_Eh, maybe not off. Maybe more like. . . change the channel._

_A break is as good as a rest, eh?_

_Something like that._

"Do you think we can get to Bothros before this K'sar guy figures out that the Lystheni base is there, and not here?"

"That's really worrying you, isn't it?"

"Shit yes, it is. That's the main reason we're here, Eli."

"I know." His tone had gone grim. "We have to do this part first, but we'll do it as fast as we dare. We have to do this right, or these people are going to be right back where they started inside of a month. And I don't see us splitting the teams and planting people here, _sai'kaea_. For starters, I don't know who we'd _leave_." _Rel, Kirrahe, and Dempsey are the obvious choices to leave here to oversee the mercs, but Dempsey and Kirrahe are both technical experts; Kirrahe, in particular, we'll __need__. _

_Rel would love the chance to lead here, but yeah, who the hell would we leave here with him, if not them? Seheve? She's not military, but the mercs would respect her. But she's specifically been sent with us for her knowledge of Prothean. Zhasa, no—same reasons as Dempsey. Glory, no. Dempsey, no. Me, hell no. Lin. . . maybe. You. . . maybe. . . _

_Yeah. It's a bad proposition any way I look at it. No, we keep the teams together, and get the mercs under the oversight of what little planetary government this rock has. Lin keeps telling me that outside threats are usually what force city-states to come together into nations, historically. I guess we'll get to see if that's the case here on Astaria._

They were walking down the terraces, Eli's arm wrapped around her waist, and Dara paused. Considered it, and then shook her head. _We're really lucky to have him along. He sees everything a hell of a lot differently than we do._ "It's kind of weird to think that. . . here we are. In the middle of history, as it unfolds."

_Shaping it, maybe?_ Eli grinned at her, and then laughed as she shook her head, vigorously.

_Us? No. Maybe helping people out. It's the decisions that they'll make, when we've moved off to a different world, that'll make history, __ciea'teilu__. This is just names, dates, and battles. The decision to form a planetary government, to be one people, not just a bunch of disparate colonies co-existing on one world? That's something real._ She smiled faintly. "I think Maryam would make a great planetary councilor, don't you?"

"She's got a lot of sense," Eli admitted. "They could do worse. At least in terms of representing the people from this region."

And off they went. Still munching on grapes, never outside of arm's length of each other, though not actively touching. Making sure that refugees and mercs and everyone else understood what was going on, where the lines were drawn. Dempsey circled near, and muttered, "I'll take first watch tonight. Someone's got to be awake to be sure that if _anything_ goes wrong. . . "

Eli caught the man's glance at the mercs, and agreed with it. That many battle-hardened rough-necks in close proximity to refugees, a large percentage of whom were female, or at least, looked it? _Something else to keep an eye on. . . . _

And so, two days later, they arrived at the regional capital of Tropez. It was the hub city for the Vignes region, and it was where records were kept for two or three small sub-colonies. It, like Tiksi, home of the spaceport in the south polar regions, was a fairly large city of five thousand people, and had yet to be hit by the slavers. And now that there were five hundred mercs in residence, it probably wouldn't be. The locals threw their doors open, welcoming their rescuers, but with wary glances. The local mayor met with the Spectres, and Eli, Lin, and Dara did their best to lay it out for the asari in clear terms. "The Spectres were given a fixed budget by the Council of Sisters," Eli told her, simply. "We were able to secure assistance from Volkov and Trident branches of various mercenaries for a month. We have some corporate security forces here, who are on loan from mining companies in the Pamyat System. They're going to want to return home. Your colonies are going to have to either arm themselves, form a militia, and protect themselves, or hire mercs to do it."

"We don't have the funds to do that—"

"Sure you do," Lin pointed out, bluntly. "I've seen the figures on the eezo and emerald extraction coming out of Nassica alone. You could afford to hire the Blue Suns on a yearly contract. . . not that I'm necessarily advocating that. Mercs always go where the pay is highest, and they _could_ be bought away from you."

"Nassica is its own colony, largely corporate. We don't have access to their funds—" the asari began to demur.

Dara sighed. "Look. You can all bail together, or you can all sink separately. Don't you also have the option to petition the Council of Sisters to officially annex Astaria and take this system into asari space formally? Which would entitle you to governmental protection, including the fleet?"

A sidelong glance spoke volumes to Eli. "Not everyone here wants to be part of asari space," he said, interpreting the look. "They don't want to be subject to the same laws and restrictions as the rest of the colonies."

"Plus, there'd be taxes they'd have to pay, suddenly," Lin said, dryly. "So inconvenient to have to pay for your own defense."

The mayor's head snapped up in indignation. "How can you _say_ that? We're the ones being captured and enslaved here—"

"And we're the ones fighting to prevent that," Lin told her, not smiling at all.

Dara shook her head. "To me, it's a pretty simple choice. Protect yourselves, by taking up arms and forming a militia, at your own expense. Hire mercs to protect yourselves, at your own expense. Or ask the asari to recognize you formally as part of their territory, accede to their laws, and get their protection. At a slightly lesser cost." She paused. _If they'll have them, of course. I imagine having to protect a colony so far outside their borders that provides little return on investment might be something that they'd wish to avoid. . . _

_Yeah, but if they don't, then they'd lose all credibility when they scream that the Council and the Spectres aren't moving to defend their people fast enough._ Eli's response was quick and dry. "The first option is the least expensive, but also the least safe. The mercs are the most expensive option, but they're immediate. . . and probably relatively safe. Joining the rest of asari space. . . might take longer. Will be expensive, but less so, long-term, probably, than hiring mercs forever. But all three options are better than option four. Which is keeping on as you have been, and getting wiped out, because in a month, all these mercs are going home." Eli shrugged.

"I'm just the mayor of one colony. I can't speak for the whole planet—"

"We've got your comm relays set back up again, thanks to the geth Spectre, Cohort, who's been down in Tiksi all this time," Lin told her. "Get talking with the other colonies. Elect representatives, or appoint them, or however you want to do it, and work together. Make some decisions."

The three of them walked out of that two hour meeting feeling as tired as if they'd just re-fought the entire battle of the Pace vineyard all over again. "Politics," Dara said, with feeling, as the _Raedia_ came in for a landing. "Couldn't _pay_ me to do what Garrus and Shepard have to do, dealing with the Council, week after week, month after month, year after year."

Lin stretched. "Don't know about that. I think we did a pretty good job bullying them into understanding that reality had altered around them."

"Convincing," Eli corrected. "It's not called bullying, Lin."

"Diplomacy," Dara said, on a sigh. "can bite me."

"Speaking of diplomacy," Lin added, nodding off to the side of the landing area in Tropez. "Looks like some of the locals have cameras. What do you want to bet that as soon as we get comm traffic flowing through the relay again, they'll be sending their vids to BNN and _Westerlund News_ and half a dozen asari newsfeeds?"

Eli groaned, a fresh wave of _tired_ hitting him. "I've said this before, _fradu._ You really know how to hit a guy when he's down."

Then they laughed, and the nine of them trooped up the hatch into the _Raedia_'s underbelly, where Cohort was waiting patiently for them. "Next stop, Bothros," Dara said, looking at the geth. "Did you detect any small ships leaving the planet, but staying in system, once we made you aware that SIU was here?"

"Negative. However, given that N'dor-Spectre was in possession of two small, stealth-capable craft, it is likely that SIU operatives have at least access to similar technology," Cohort informed her. "It is, however, of equal probability that the batarian designated Alisav K'sar remains here on Astaria, somewhere. His movements were harder to detect on satellite telemetry; he did not move with a large convoy, only with a single ground assault vehicle, from the description given by the human female you encountered."

Eli exhaled, and felt the tension ease out of Dara at Cohort's words. But only by a little bit. "So, what's been going on in the galaxy while we've been out of touch?" Eli asked. "Did the other teams break the blockades yet?"

Lysandra appeared then, and her expression was unusually grim. "I've been withholding the information from Glory," she said, quietly. "I didn't want to worry you all unnecessarily while you were on the planet. Yes, the blockades were broken. . . but the batarians set up counterstrikes directed at Macedyn and Nimines."

Shock reverberated through Eli then. He'd been reminded, scant weeks ago, that the first year on Macedyn, he'd actually loved the planet. It was only once the work had ground down on his spirit, and Brennia had died, that he and Lin had come to hate the place. And Lin had been stationed on both worlds.

"Retaliatory strikes?" Lin repeated, and his voice was a little numb sounding. "What kind of retaliatory strikes?"

"I'm only getting the bare outlines through the NCAI network. Now that you're aboard, I'll press my brothers and sisters for details." Lysandra winced again. "This is probably a better discussion for a briefing room. Get settled in, Spectres, and I'll tell you everything I know."


	137. Chapter 137: Famine

**Chapter 137: Famine**

_**Author's note:** Spike the Pine Tree has created a very amusing TVTropes page dedicated to SoR. Enjoy! tvtropes[dot]org/ pmwiki/ pmwiki[dot]php/ FanFic/ SpiritOfRedemption_

**Mindoir and Earth, January 22, 2197**

Agnes was never, as far as she was concerned, _ever_, going to get used to the fact that January was high summer here in the northern hemisphere of Mindoir. On the plus side, the heat at this elevation in the mountains wasn't enervating, as it would have been in the Gulf Coast humidity that she was used to; she got to go outside and poke and prod at her beloved flowers on pretty much a daily basis.

The _Titan aurum_ had bloomed. . . and brought with it a pestilent stench that had sent half a dozen turians gasping out of the hothouse in which the monstrous flower had been kept. The rest had resorted to breather masks, and every time Agnes had visited the behemoth bloom to take pictures of it, as proudly as if it had been a blue-ribbon-winning pumpkin, she'd heard the comments. A handful in galactic, which she spoke, but with a heavy accent, and more in turian, but she'd gotten one of those fancy omnitools as her Christmas gift from Sam, and he'd put translation programs on it for her for both languages. So she was able to read the words on her wrist, and chuckle at comments like, _Great spirits, why would any flower on any world smell like __death__?_ and _It must have evolved as a trap for predators. Are you sure that thing's fumes aren't toxic?_ and _Death would be merciful compared to that stench_. . . and, her favorite of all, _That was a __courting__ gift? Spirits, but humans are odd. Do you think Gavius found favor with this?_

She turned around on the turian asking that one, and said, sweetly, "A lady never kisses and tells, dear," and walked out of the hothouse. Smiling.

Scarcely any time to see Sam, other than the brief, lovely stay on Mindoir after their last mission. Her son had been tired and clearly wrung-out emotionally, though he was just as clearly trying to keep the kids from seeing it. Agnes had been devastated to hear how close they'd come to losing Dara on that self-same mission. . . and yet, she'd returned, so clearly alive and healthy and happy, that it was hard to believe that mere weeks ago, she'd been so badly hurt.

And in and around all that, had been the introduction to Dara's rachni 'daughter.' Agnes still couldn't quite wrap her head around that one. The creature's voice was even more glorious in her mind than the voice of Spectre "Sky" but. . . it was incredibly disconcerting to hear it . . . her. . . whatever. . . call Dara _Mother._ Call young Elijah Sidonis _Father._ Even more unbalancing was the fact that it. . . she. . . _knew_ things about her. About Agnes Jaworski of Earth, that she wouldn't have thought anyone outside her family could know. Joy-Singer remembered that Agnes had taken Dara for two weeks when Sarah had had to go and bury her own parents, dead in a car-accident, and them only in their early fifties, at most. Sam had been off-world, and Agnes hadn't known how to make any of it easier on Sarah, except to take some of the burden of responsibility off the young woman. Joy-Singer remembered her giving Sarah the piano, a month or two later, which Agnes had passed off as 'clearing out the clutter' in her own home, but she'd really meant it as a way of giving Sarah something back. Of showing her that she accepted her, and loved her, for what she'd brought to Sam's life. She'd never known if Sarah had understood that, but Agnes wasn't good with words, sometimes.

For instance, she was just as glad that duty didn't compel her to call Sarah Jaworski's last remaining relatives—Hamilton and Allison Jarman, and their son James—for Christmas. She wasn't entirely sure what she'd have talked to them about. But when Sam had come back from the mission that had brought a _batarian_ into the fold as a Spectre, and had almost cost Dara her life, Agnes had asked her son, "Sam, have you even spoken with Ham and Allie this year?"

Sam had looked a little hunted, as he had when, as a little boy, she'd forced him to sit down and write thank-you cards to relatives he didn't even know after every birthday and holiday. "Ah. . . it's been a busy year, Mom. . . so, yeah. No."

"Do they know that Dara's getting a divorce?"

A slightly guilty expression crossed his face then. "If they've watched the news at all, they might have an inkling."

"Samuel Kennard Jaworski, how do you think your late wife's brother is going to feel about finding out this kind of crap from the _news_ and not from Dara or from you?"

Sam had exhaled. "Mom, I had to twist his arm to get him and Allie out here for Dara's wedding the first time. They sent a card for her _tal'mae_ rites."

"Sam, _I_ didn't even make it to whatever turian planet it was held on. I didn't see much point to going to a re-wedding to someone she was already married to—"

"That's fine. Turians don't make a big stink out of every contract renewal, but they do make a point about _tal'mae_, because it's the only permanent ceremony." Sam rubbed at his moustache, which she'd been trying to get him to shave off for thirty years now.

"My point is, did you _explain_ that to them any better than you explained it to me? And it's not just the divorce, Sam. It's the. . . " Agnes looked across the room at where Takeshi was trying to teach rachni workers the finer points of _Candyland_. Of course, since Keshi didn't understand the rules, it was largely a matter of sliding his marker all the way along the road to the end, every single time. ". . . the fact that she's a mother now? Sort of?" Agnes' tone had wavered.

Sam grimaced. "Technically, she's had AI kids for over four years; just none of us ever knew about it."

Agnes felt her mouth drop open, and Sam lifted his hand. "But, I take your point, Mom. I'll. . . call Ham." That was delivered in a tone of utter resignation.

She'd been in the house, and able to hear both ends of the comm call, from where she was in the kitchen, while Kasumi was in the downstairs office that the two young people shared.

"Hey, Ham, been a while since we talked. Just wanted to let you know, there've been some changes around here. . . "

_"Yeah, saw Dara on that big report from Omega."_ Hamilton Jarman's familiar voice. More twang than Agnes had picked up in forty-plus years of living in east Texas. More even than Sarah Jarman had had, once upon a time. _"She looks a hell of a lot better without the paint on her face."  
_  
Agnes heard Sam cough slightly. "That's one of the changes, yeah. She, ah, went on a mission that took her to the rachni homeworld recently. Came back a little, well, changed."

_"Kids do grow up eventually. James is eleven now, can you believe it? And is a nut for handball. Cannot get that boy to touch a football. Nope. It's handball, handball, handball, and I have no idea why. . . . "_

"Yeah, that's what the kids around here play mostly, too. They like galactic rules, though, so they can have more kids playing at a time, I guess." There was a pause. "And I didn't just mean 'grown up," Ham. Dara's. . . well. . . " Sam hesitated. Agnes could hear the shift in his voice as he went from straight-forward to tip-toeing around the topic. Adjusting for what Hamilton was ready to hear. "She's kind of the adopted mother of one of their queens now."

A pause. _"Shit. Adopted mama of a bug? How's that gonna work? I take it that's. . . ceremonial? Or is she walkin' the floor with it at night for the midnight feedings?"_

"Not so much. The queen will get her full growth in a year, and will be twenty feet long when she's all grown up."

_"Keep it out in the garage, I guess."_

"Ham, she's a person, not a dog." A little more sharpness in Sam's tone than would have been there a few years back.

"_We're talking about an overgrown cockroach here, Sam—"_

"The hell we are. She's a person, she has a name, and she probably wouldn't take kindly to the comparison, so watch your damn mouth about my granddaughter there."

Another pause. "_Damn, Sam. Keep your shirt on. I didn't mean harm, and you know it."_ Conciliatory tone now. . . with a touch of 'placate the crazy person who knows how to kill with his bare hands' in there.

Sam cleared his throat. "There've been other changes-"

_"Yeah, I'm sure. Look, I'm sure you didn't call just to—"_

"Look, Hamilton, this was just a courtesy call, since I missed Christmas, being off-world and all. Just keeping you up to date." Sam's tone had become brusque. "Takeshi's head of his class in finger-painting, and is mastering the past tense of verbs very, very slowly. Dara was almost fatally wounded on her last mission. Bullet in the lungs. Her divorce is almost final, and she's got a rachni kid you might want to remember at birthdays and Christmas. I thought you should know, so I wouldn't be hearing about how I don't tell you and Allie squat about what goes on in our lives when any of this hits the news. Talk at ya later, Ham. Give my love to Allie and James."

The comm panel blipped, and Agnes walked around the corner to look at her son and Kasumi in their office, her eyebrows raised. Sam exhaled, and looked at Kasumi. "That could have gone better."

Kasumi shrugged, and glanced at Agnes now. "They can't say you didn't tell them anything, this way."

"I'm just glad you didn't try to coax me into making the call for you," Agnes told Sam, fondly.

"And are you just as glad I didn't tell them that you're seeing an older turian gentleman, yourself now?" Sam raised his eyebrows at her.

Agnes waved a finger at him. "That's none of their business, now is it? They're _your_ in-laws, dear. Not mine." She'd sent vid Christmas cards to the Jarmans and birthday gifts to little James on a yearly basis even after Sarah had died, but had never gotten so much as a thank-you in return, which had lowered her opinion of the family considerably. Sarah had been all class. Her brother? Much less so. And thus, she had no idea what she'd say to either him or his wife.

No, Agnes wasn't much good with words. She did, however, appreciate the value of a good gesture. Gavius Vakarian had a way with those, which made bridging the species divide that much easier, thank god. They were alternating evenings at each others' houses now. Arguing until ten o'clock at night, about everything and nothing at all. And it was all totally amicable, Agnes had been startled to realize. Gavius would push her, and _hard_, on politics, history, the place of humanity on the Council, the technical backwardness of humanity until the last forty years, anything and everything. . . but family was absolutely off-limits. She'd asked him, with mild trepidation, one night, why he'd avoided arguing with her about that.

"What, about my grandson and your granddaughter severing their contract?" Gavius had paused. He'd been filleting _alai_, a fish native to Palaven, but which had been caught in the nearby lake, where they and trout and land-locked Kokanee salmon thrived. Agnes had been mildly horrified to realize that turians typically didn't even debone fish before eating it. . . apparently, the crunch of the fine bones was satisfying to them. However, Gavius was removing the guts and other innards before preparing to pan-fry it. . . and was even carefully de-boning the section she was going to try to eat, however cautiously. She, on the other hand, was preparing to bread haddock from Earth. . . and was leaving the bones in his portion, though all her instincts were telling her that he'd choke on them.

"Your protective-anger is very strong," he'd finally said, after a long moment of consideration. "So is mine. The fight would be too real. I like arguing with you. But I don't want to fight with you." He'd glanced up, a single, piercing look from under those heavy eye sockets. "There _is_ a difference." He paused again. "Besides, under human law, their contract is void and null now. It seems to me that this is now something for lawyers, who are paid to argue, to deal with."

After dinner that night, she'd gotten her quilt-frame out, and gotten back to work on her latest effort, while Gavius had opened a book on a datapad. They'd been at her house, naturally, but she'd gotten some turian music streams to mix with her usual mix of human music, so that was playing in the background. After about an hour, Gavius had set the book aside and had come over to watch what she was doing. "Seems to require a great deal of geometry and math," he noted, after a moment, rubbing at her neck.

"Only if you make your own patterns. Most people don't, these days. They take pre-designed stuff that someone else put together on a computer, pretty much. And don't get me wrong. Some of those are amazing to look at, especially the fractal patterns. But I like making my own."

Agnes continued working at the frame, and wasn't terribly startled as Gavius' hands dropped lower. He liked touching her waist, and his teeth closed lightly on her neck as he did so. "I. . . ah. . . brought you a gift tonight," Gavius admitted after a moment. "Could I convince you to set the quilt aside for a little while?"

She pushed the frame aside, and looked up, inquisitively. "A present? It's not my birthday for ages, and it's not like at my age like I really _celebrate_ another year having gone by. . . "

Gavius shook his head down at her, and put a talon on her lips. "Not a birthing-day gift, no." He shifted, looking a little uncomfortably, so odd to see in one usually so sure of himself. But they were both still exploring unknown territory, in many ways. After a long moment, he stepped around to the front of her chair, and sank to his knees in front of her. And pulled a small bag out of one pocket, and poured out of it the metal links of a very long chain.

She gave him a quizzical look. "That's a little long for a necklace, unless you loop it around several times."

"It's not a necklace. It's a _cinctus_. A belt. It can be worn under or over the clothes. Public or private." He slid it around her waist carefully, looking up at her almost warily. "I tried to find one that wouldn't scratch your skin or be uncomfortable. Smooth backs to the links."

Agnes looked down at it. Her first impulse was to comment that it looked like something a belly-dancer would wear, but she tucked that one back behind her teeth, since it would involve far too much explaining. Her second impulse was to comment that she hadn't been all that happy with her waistline since she'd had Sam when she was twenty-one, twenty-two or so. But Gavius seemed to enjoy her waist just fine as it was, so she swallowed those words, too. Agnes traced the links with a careful finger. "They're all shaped like vines and flowers," she said, after a moment.

"_Ianthus_ and other blooms, yes." Gavius looked slightly worried. "You like it?"

"Yes, it's beautiful, actually."

"I. . . haven't had occasion to give one of these. . . in a very long time."

"Not since Pilana?"

"Yes. I got her one before we signed our contract." Gavius shifted a little.

"So, it can be worn under clothing, on the skin, or over it? Does it mean something different each way?" Agnes was being very careful here. She didn't want to make a really embarrassing gaffe.

"It means the same thing, either way. That you're someone's mate. That you're. . . taken." He cleared his throat. "Under the clothing is a more private declaration. It's usually only worn over the clothing on. . . special occasions. When alliances need to be shown. Some weddings, though not all. Funerals. Clan-meetings. Some duels."

"Duels?" Agnes' voice went up slightly. "What kind of duels? We talking pistols at dawn here?"

Gavius shook his head. "Knives, generally speaking. Divorce duels, revenge duels."

"Wait a damn minute, are you saying that my granddaughter might have to fight a duel—"

"Nessa, _amatra_, that's a little beside the point at the moment, but no. Dara won't be the one fighting the duel, if there is one. The courts _could_ require Rellus to fight her current _amatus_, but they could refuse to fight. Especially if they agree in between times that they're blood-brothers. Which, as far as I can tell, they already are, in everything but the words. They've shed blood together, they've saved each others' lives." Gavius sounded annoyed. "But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about."

Agnes stared down at him. "You'd like me to wear this. And it marks me as. . . yours?"

He met her eyes and just nodded. Agnes chuckled. "As if anyone else would _have_ me, Gavius. But if it makes you happy. . . "

"It would." Gavius harrumphed under his breath. "That being said, my first-son is going to have far too much fun with this. And my first-daughter may question my sanity."

Agnes leaned down and kissed him atop the fringe. "Never you mind what the kids are going to say. What do they know, anyway?"

That had been a week or so ago. Today, she was out in the back garden with Takeshi, whom she'd picked up early from daycare. Sam was off-world. . . again. . . and Kasumi was up to her eyeballs at work, with meetings that ran later and later at night. Something to do with the war, and the coming counterattacks on batarian targets. Agnes didn't know the details, and never asked for them, either. She was just glad to get to spend so much time with her new grandson. Even if the child had an incredible predilection for mud. Although he constantly proclaimed that he didn't want to get in the mud, that mud was icky, Takeshi nevertheless constantly _found_ mud.

Gavius was on her back porch that afternoon, enjoying the warmth of the day. He'd pointed out that it never really got warm enough here in the mountains, and usually took his shirt off to sun himself when the temperatures broke into the nineties, at least. Agnes stuck to the shade of her trees with Takeshi, and continued watering the beds of _ianthus_ seedlings that she'd just gotten done planting. _Ianthus_ liked to have 'wet feet,' as gardeners would have it, having evolved in swampy areas of Palaven's jungles. They also required rather finicky dextro-based fertilizers, worked deep into the soil. So Takeshi had found a nice wet, muddy corner of the beds, and was happily engrossed in digging it up with his little hands . . . throwing it against the fence. . . smearing it happily on his face and chest. . . and it had taken Agnes ten minutes to realize he'd gone entirely too quiet. "Takeshi! What are you _doing?_" Agnes demanded, irately.

"Um. . . I don't know."

"Yes, you do know. You're head to toe in mud, young man."

"Again?" Gavius asked from the porch, lazily, opening his eyes. And then straightened. "That's not a youngling. That's an earth-spirit."

"I thought _you_ were supposed to be looking after him," Agnes snapped down at one of the rachni workers—the one with the word 'Squee' written across its shell—that was fiddling with the leaves of a nearby rosebush. "He's not supposed to be digging in the dirt."

It chittered at her, and Agnes gingerly reached out, grabbed a wet, slippery, and squiggling little boy, and marched into the house, muttering under her breath. "You're getting a bath, little man."

"No! Noooo! Don't want a bath!" Takeshi broke down and wept. Copiously. Wailed. Resisted as she dragged his muddy clothes off, and continued to shriek as she ran the water in the tub. . . until Gavius stepped into the bathroom and looked down at him. Very far down at him.

"Are you going to start behaving?"

". . . yes?"

"Good. Younglings that are covered in mud aren't usually allowed in the house. You'd have to stay outside. We'd have to move your nest outside. You'd have to eat outside, like a pyjack, too. There aren't any vids outside. There's no extranet outside. You don't want to have to stay outside, like a varren or a pyjak, do you?"

"No." Takeshi sounded heartbroken.

"In the tub you go, then."

Takeshi got into the tub under his own power, and began to sing. Loudly. Off-key.

The comm panel in the other room chirped. Agnes held up her mud-streaked hands and arms, and told Gavius, "Would you mind getting that? If it's Fitzsimmons from the lab, tell him that yes, I'll buy his daughter's Girl Scout cookies, even if it does take six months to get them shipped from Earth, but that I only want the Thin Mints."

Gavius nodded, once, trying to remember the English words. His grip on the language was getting better, since Nessa's galactic tended to be heavily accented, but he knew he was missing nuances. "Female guard cookies. Flattened mints. Coins? Well, I guess these cookie things look like coins. . . ." He repeated the directions under his breath as he walked, still bare-chested, back to the main living area, and tabbed the comm panel on. "Yes?"

A youngish human male face, all pink and tan, with dark hair and brown eyes, but otherwise unremarkable and undistinguishable, appeared on the screen. _Spirits, I wish they wore paint. It would be so much easier to tell them apart if they did._ _Possibly the reason why their males evolved the facial hair. Recognition patterns._

"Who the hell are you?" the human growled, in English.

This was, perhaps, not the best thing to say to any turian, but particularly not to Gavius Vakarian. "Who the hell am I?" he replied, showing teeth. "Who the hell are _you_?" He got a grip on his temper, and continued, in English. "I'm told that if you're calling about the female guard snack-cakes, that Agnes only wishes to purchase the flattened mint variety." He paused. "The flattened _coin_ variety," he added, correcting himself."

The human's mouth fell open, and he squinted at the screen, clearly not having any idea what Gavius was talking about. _Spirits, are all humans who aren't related to Spectres complete idiots?_ Gavius wondered, in annoyance.

Hamilton Jarman was not having a good evening. It was past ten pm in Lufkin, Texas, and he'd just gotten his very excited son packed off to bed after watching an Emily Wong BNN primetime special on the Spectres. Which had included footage of Uncle Sam and Cousin Dara and a dozen other people in black armor. Rellus Velnaran, James Dempsey, and Elijah Sidonis, taking on a thresher maw the approximate size of God's left big toe. Fighting yahg and batarians on Terra Nova, beside human and turian marines, _rachni_, and krogan.

Survivors of the batarian attack on Arvuna, all singing the praises of the Spectre team that had come through there. "The doctor saved my eyes," one of the human women had attested. "I had a parasitic infection, and she caught it early. Saved my eyesight, which out here in the Terminus systems. . . it's a big deal." The woman had paused, clearly overwhelmed, and close to tears. Others had spoken of the slavers, the raiders. Of being forced to wear an explosive collar that could remove their heads if they tried to escape, and forced to work in the eezo processing facility for the batarians. Of how the Spectres had come, in the night, and killed all their captors. Quick descriptions of the people who'd staged the attack—drell, quarian, turian, asari, and a human female with 'funny eyes.'

Emily Wong's smiling face for a moment. "We have secure cam footage from the eezo factory that we've managed to obtain, to show some of the capture of the facility. Some of this footage is graphic in nature, and not meant for young audiences." One _hell_ of a firefight had erupted on-screen at that point, and, as one of the Spectres with a rifle in hand slipped down to check on the captives' health, she'd slipped off her helmet. . . revealing familiar features. "That's Cousin Dara!" James had shouted in glee. "Oh, wait till I tell the kids at school tomorrow!"

"Yeah, you probably shouldn't do that," Hamilton had told his son, the words feeling mechanical in his mouth. He'd seen the footage from the Omega reports, of Dara talking with Emily Wong about the lobotomies and the rapes, and had been sickened by it, but hadn't really thought much more about it. Dara was off being a doctor, and good for her. An army doctor was still a doctor, pretty much, right? He'd rewound the broadcast a bit, and verified that yes, he could clearly see the female human and the female quarian both shooting into the room, and with pinpoint accuracy. _Okay, this obviously ain't the one where Sam says she just about got killed. . . just as glad not to see that on the extranet, thank you. God. I'm actually sort of glad Sarah isn't here to see this. What the hell has Sam been doing with that girl?_ He was suddenly acutely aware that the old ranch house, where he'd grown up with Sarrie, had been Sam and Sarah and Dara's home for fifteen years, since his parents had given it to Sarrie and moved into an apartment, so they wouldn't have to keep the place up anymore. Hamilton looked around at the walls, as if he could ask his sister's ghost, _Sarrie, what do you think?_

And then the personal interviews had begun, and Hamilton had simply stared at the screen, unspeaking, for twenty minutes. Beside him, Allie had dropped a ball of yarn, which had unrolled across the living room, and the cat was now gleefully batting and chasing and gnawing, without reprimand from any of the humans in the room. "That is so _cool_," James said, staring at the screen. "She's part rachni now? That is _so cool!_ And she's a rachni queen's mother? Wow. Dad, is she gonna marry that other Spectre they were interviewing, the human one with the turian paint? Sidonis, I guess. . . do they get to fight together? Everyone at school has those Spectre action figures, and they come in the same pack together, doesn't that mean they're usually in the same squad together?"

"I don't know," Hamilton had repeated, several times, as the family's comm panel had started flashing quietly, notifying them that messages were pouring in. Probably largely from James' classmates, all of whom attended the same school that Dara had once gone to. . . some of whom were younger siblings of her classmates. (The Lufkin area had grown affluent enough that parents who could afford the penalty, often chose to have a second child.) "Tell you what. I'm gonna call your Uncle Sam and ask him, okay?"

"Thanks, Dad!"

"Still, don't go talking about this much at school, all right? It's no one's business, and we don't _brag_, you hear me?"

"Yes, Dad."

With James safely tucked in bed. . .although probably actually standing with an ear pressed to his door, waiting for Hamilton to make the promised comm call. . . Allie had hissed at him, "Oh, my god, that poor girl. She's been turned into some sort of alien freak—"

"I know! I know!" Hamilton was regretting, abruptly, having brushed Sam off a week before on the comm call. _I should've known it was important. Sam doesn't blow credits on a real-time FTL call without there being a good reason._ He looked up the code, and punched it into the console.

"_Hi, this is the Jaworski's. We're not available to take your call right now. If this is a member of the galactic press, and you've somehow gotten our personal line, please call the Spectre business office, and someone will get back to you shortly."_ Sam's voice held a little edge on that part of the message. _"If you're a friend or family member, please state your name and identification code to reach our message queue or to be relayed to our answering service—"_

"God damn it, Sam, pick up your goddamned phone. This is Hamilton Jarman—"

"_Unacceptable identification code, but voice print match. Relaying you to the main office."_ That was Kasumi's voice, Sam's new wife, whom Hamilton had met all of twice. He'd decided, immediately, that the woman was trouble, and didn't hold a candle to Sarah, and simply put her out of his mind as much as possible. Sam took care of his own life. Always had.

There was a click. _"Hello, you have reached the office of the Special Tactics and Reconnaissance Group, Security Division. Kasumi Goto is not available to answer your call. Please press one for more options—"_

"I want to talk to a real person, you goddamned hunk of silicon and plastic—"

"_Your voiceprint ID matches the friends and family list. All friends and family calls are currently being forwarded to Agnes Jaworski. Will you accept this transfer?"_

"Yes, for god's sake." Sarrie's mother-in-law was a tough old lady, very set in her ways, and, as best Hamilton remembered, deeply conservative, though not the church-going sort. She'd know what was going on, and probably wouldn't approve of it. He'd at least get information out of her, if nothing else, and would have an opportunity to shout it out with someone who agreed with him.

"_One moment please."_ The comm buzzed for a moment, and then the line picked up. Audio and video, showing. . . an older turian in blue face-paint, bare-chested. Still powerfully built through the chest; turians didn't lose muscle mass as they aged; the only clues to the age were the gray mottlings on the scales, particularly in the fringe. . . _what the hell? _Hamilton was agitated, and simply blurted out, "Who the hell are you?"

"Who the hell am I? Who the hell are you?" One step down from an outright snarl, and Hamilton glared at the screen. He wasn't terribly fond of turians, when it came right down to it.

_This has got to be a wrong number. . ._ He was about to say "Look, I'm trying to get ahold of Sam Jaworski, and the answering service clearly forwarded me to the wrong number," but the male went on before he could get a word out. Something about guard cupcakes and flattened mints. Hamilton stared at the screen, and decided that a VI translator had shorted out. "Um. . . what?"

"Agnes says she only will purchase the snacks that meet this description—" Clear tone of _you idiot_ there.

"Look, whoever the hell you are, put Agnes on the line. I'm one of her in-laws, and I've just gone fifteen rounds with Sam Jaworski's damn answering service just to get this far—"

"You're _family?"_ Gavius studied the human skeptically. Nessa and her son had blue eyes. Dara's had been brown, so he supposed it was _possible_ that they were relatives, but he really didn't see much resemblance there. "And you say your name is. . .?"

"Hamilton Jarman."

"And you are related precisely how?" Without meaning to, Gavius had gone into cop mode. He was questioning a possible suspect here, someone who might be trying to invade the privacy of his mate and his mate's family, and Gavius was not about to let this male intrude in any way, if he really was an interloper.

"My sister was married to Sam. Sarah! Jesus H. Christ, what are you, part of their security detail or something?" _Although_ _why the hell he's running around without clothes on if that's the case. . . yeah. . . this has got to be a wrong number. . . except why's he talking about Agnes' cookie order, if that's the case. . . ?_

"I'll ask the questions here. You say your sister was married to Samuel." _Birth-date, no, humans put too much stock in that, and it's public information. Death-date, also public information, and I don't know either date myself. _"Then you should be able to remember the instrument that Sarah preferred playing."

Hamilton stared at the screen. "My sister? She played the piano, and why the hell does that matter—"

Just then, he clearly heard the words, "Takeshi Kennard Jaworski, get _back_ here this instant, you're not done—"

"Noooo! No soap in my eyes! No soap in my eyes!" The unmistakable high-pitched whine of a human toddler.

"You! No, you. . . get him!" There was a high-pitched squeal, and then the female voice, unmistakably Agnes Jaworski's, added, "Gavius! Grab him!"

The turian had glanced over his shoulder, and now the predator's eyes tracked down. And then he bent out of sight, and came back up with the foam-covered body of a child, wiggling and kicking frantically. . . . with two large _insects,_ identical to the ones that had been crawling on Dara's arms during the interview with Emily Wong, clinging to his soap-covered arms. "Poppa Gavius! Soap _burns_!" Takeshi wailed, covering his eyes with his hands.

. . . _Poppa . . . .Gavius. . . .?_

"Well, then let your grandmother wash it out with water, and then it won't burn anymore." Gavius looked at the rachni. "You. Both of you. Down. How'd you get in the house, anyway? Nessa doesn't usually let you in here."

Squee and Liszt took him at his word and dropped to the floor, scuttling away as Nessa got closer. He could distinctly hear her muttering under her breath, "Damn bugs are always underfoot, but can they stop him from _running_ out of the bathroom, oh, no. Can they stop him from digging in the flowerbeds and getting mud everywhere, oh, no. 'But Grandma, the bugs are so _helpful_.'" She stopped in front of the screen and squinted at the male there. "Oh, hello, Hamilton. Nice to hear from you." She reached for Takeshi, who squealed, laughed, and tried to pull away in Gavius' arms. "Oh, I see how it is. You want Poppa to finish rinsing you?"

"Yes!"

"I see no reason to give in to his every whim."

"Poppa doesn't make it burn!"

"There you have it. You give better baths than I do."

"Probably due to more practice. Three children, twelve grandchildren."

"Yes, but I'm ahead on _great-_grandchildren."

"I don't see you giving baths to the _rachni_ in this lifetime, Nessa. And the AIs are just as much my great-grandchildren as they are yours." It was, by this point, almost a competition between them.

"Just finish his bath and I'll handle the comm call."

"Oh, for the spirits' sakes. Move." Gavius put the youngling back on the floor. "I don't intend to carry you. Back to the tub. Now." He gave her a look. "This _is_ legitimately one of your relatives?"

"My late daughter-in-law's brother. We don't hear from them much, anymore."

"Hmpf." Gavius turned and marched Takeshi away.

Agnes turned toward the screen, still covered in mud and her shirt now splashed with bubble bath water, and brushed her graying hair out of her eyes. "So. . . what can I do for you, Ham?"

Hamilton Jarman simply stared at the screen, his mouth hanging slightly ajar. "Agnes. . . who the hell was that?"

On-screen, Agnes actually blushed. "That? Ah. . . that was Gavius Vakarian. My, ah. . . gentleman friend."

Hamilton slowly sank back in his chair. For women of a certain age, 'gentleman friend' was said when a younger woman would say 'boyfriend.' Either way, it meant the same thing. Physical intimacy, which was something he for damned sure didn't want to picture. Not between people old enough to be his parents, and not in a cross-species thing, either! "Good god, people go to that base and lose their minds," he muttered, under his breath. He'd never been able to figure out which planet he'd even been on, five years ago, and hadn't actually cared much, either. Now, he was beginning to wonder if he should tell them to have their water supply checked for hallucinogenics. "Agnes. . . I was just calling Sam, because we left it a bit. . . well, not as friendly as we should have the other night—"

"And the Emily Wong special just was broadcast, wasn't it? I figured I'd download it later and Gavius and I would watch it when Keshi's in bed." _Maybe I'll break down and move a vid screen into my bedroom, so we can watch in bed, for once._ "Was it any good?"

"Ah. . . well. . . I have. . . kind of a lot of questions. I'd really prefer to speak to Sam."

"He's off-world right now. And Kasumi's up to her eyeballs in meetings. You can leave a message, or you can talk to me. Take your pick."

Once she'd closed the call, Agnes went to go check in on Takeshi (warm, dry, clothed, and rapidly falling asleep on Gavius' warm shoulder) and Gavius. She curled up on the couch beside him, and felt his arm slide around her shoulders, his fingertips tracing down to her waist, sliding up under the hem of her loose shirt to play with the _cinctus_ links there. "He said people come to this base and lose their minds."

"I heard. Was surprised that you didn't remove his head with your teeth for it."

"He's Sam's headache to deal with, by and large. Don't need to make things worse there." She looked up at him. "You think I've lost my mind, Gavius?"

"Only as much as I've lost mine. And I'm somewhat unconcerned with finding it again." Gavius got up, and put Takeshi in his little bed in Agnes' guestroom, and then came back to catch her hands in his, and lightly bit her inner wrists. Just the faintest scrape of teeth. And Agnes shivered a little, and smiled up at him, in perfect delight.

**Fors Luka, the _Nereia_, Galatana Space, January 25, 2197**

They'd been in transit for several days now, they and all the other ships that were equipped with the dark-matter straight-line drive. On the one hand, they didn't need to engage stealth mode or the straight-line drive for much of the trip; they were transiting through turian-held space for the large majority of their voyage. On the other hand, once they reached the final relay before the one that led to Rocam and Galatana's respective systems, their little armada of ships was going to break up, and head out in two separate directions. One group was going to stay in position at this relay for about a week; the other, including the _Midway_ and the _Nereia_, was going to move through the intervening space, straight-line, and come out in Galatana's system fairly far away from the relay. . . and then, in stealth mode, approach the batarian fleet blockading the relay. Then they'd use the signal retrieved by Linianus Pellarian, Valak N'dor, and Serana Velnaran, and cause the nets to move up from in front of the relay. . . the ships on the far side would come through. . . and they'd catch the batarians from both sides. The first twenty minutes to an hour would probably be a horrific space battle. After that, would come the Spectres' work; boarding ships, taking prisoners. . . or not.

In the meantime, Fors was coming to the conclusion that, based on Reaper technology or not, he _liked_ relay travel. Straight-line FTL, no matter that it technically violated laws of physics and should, theoretically, get you where you were going before you even left, and the same age as when you'd departed, while everyone else aged a week? Didn't actually work that way. Several of the engineers had attempted to explain that while relays technically created subspace wormholes between each platform and 'shot' a ship from one to the other at a high velocity, FTL drive actually took the ship partially into a different dimension, where the universal constant of the speed of light was actually much faster than here in the regular universe, and thus, duration still occurred, subjective reality still occurred, and it still took time to get anywhere in the regular universe. Just much less time than it would take at the speed at which light mucked about in the regular universe.

They'd stopped trying to explain it when Fors had cheerfully asked, "So, if we're out of phase with our own universe, can we go through a star?"

"No." The turian engineer had been definite about that.

"Why not?"

"We're not sufficiently out of phase with normal matter to risk that."

"Okay, so, we're 'out of phase with our own universe,' but not enough to risk it?" Fors thought about that. "Why not phase completely out of this universe into the other one, then?"

The turian engineer had rubbed at his mandibles. "Punching all the way through into that universe means we'd be subject to all of its universal constants. Which could be bad. Also, there would be the small problem of figuring out how to get back _out_ of it again. And when, and where. Basically, we're enough in our own universe to see where we're going and navigate, and enough in the other dimension to take advantage of its useful physics." He paused. "Actually, some theoreticians believe that this is the same dimension or universe that the mass relays open up into when we pass ships through the wormholes that they actually open. So, it should be perfectly safe."

Fors held up both hands. "All right. Let me see if I understand this correctly. We're neither in our own universe, nor in that other one, but we're sort of riding the seam between them?"

"Well, there's not really a _seam. . . _but if it helps you visualize it. . . "

Fors' head hurt. He had to admit it. "Then why do we still eat and breathe and sleep the same way inside the ship? Shouldn't everything be sped up inside the ship, too?"

"No, just the speed of light—"

"And electrical current _doesn't_ move at the speed of light? Shouldn't the ship, and in fact, our own brains, shake themselves apart from parts of them moving faster than they're designed for?"

"No."

"Why not?"

The engineer sighed. "Well, we're inside a bubble of our own space. Like a bead of oil inside of water, it protects itself."

"I think I'm much too scared to ask any more questions." Fors absolutely didn't want to ask what was holding and maintaining that bubble of their own universe, and he really, really didn't want to ask why it was that the ship, inside that bubble, moved at the rate of speed of allowed by the dimension outside of it. _If I ask that out loud, the entire thing might hear me, realize that it doesn't make sense, and simply collapse in on itself, and we'll either dissolve into our component atoms or be stranded here, light-years from any relay. . . . _

"Thank the spirits. I wasn't sure I could answer any more. The salarians and the humans came up with this drive. There are limits to how well I understand it." The turian engineer looked gray under the scales.

Suffice it to say, a trip that would have taken seconds through a relay, or dozens of years at the speed of light, took, externally as well as subjectively, a week or so to complete. Which was both _plenty_ and _far too much_ time to get to know the people aboard the ship.

Fors already knew most of them, loosely, at least. Sam Jaworski was the human former law enforcement officer who presided over social events on the Mindoir base; he had quite a reputation, but Fors hadn't worked with him before. He _had_ worked with Lantar Sidonis, the turian father of his human-turian friend, Elijah. The male tended to be quiet in private, but absolutely ruthless in battle. Garrus Vakarian. . . what else needed to be said, but his name? Siara and Makur had been on Terra Nova, and Fors had worked well enough with them there. Both tended to be inwardly turned, and focused on goals only they seemed to see. Ones far off on the horizon, anyway. Rinus Velnaran was new to Fors, and he really _hoped_ the male had a sense of humor. So few turians did. That left Thell, with whom he'd worked on Terra Nova amicably, Sky, Stone, who was like a smaller version of Sky, Melaani, with whom he hadn't worked at all, and Valak. Another unknown. So Fors made an effort to cultivate their acquaintance. There was, after all, absolutely nothing else to do.

Part of his efforts involved playing cards in the port observation lounge with the others. Poker, a simple enough human game, was easy to master. After he'd won seven hands in a row, Sam Jaworski snorted. "I can't tell if it's the suit that makes it difficult to tell when you're bluffing or not, but this is starting to feel like playing with Cohort did, back in the day. Before we told him that disregarding his ability to calculate the odds and remember every card already played in a deck would be better for _consensus_."

"Oh, rest assured, I very rarely bluff," Fors told him cheerfully, smelling the hot sauce and whiskey smell of the human flare a little more. "I'm just calculating the odds in my head with each hand. It's fairly simple with only one deck of cards in the mix."

"I bet you'd get run out of casinos on Earth if you went in there to play twenty-one," Sam told him, raising his brows slightly. Odd human expressions.

"If by this, you mean, I'd be able to count cards? Absolutely. That's actually similar to a memory and mathematics game we teach our children. How were we to know that the rest of the galaxy would consider it 'cheating' to be aware of numbers, and gifted with them?" Fors took the deck, and began to shuffle it clumsily with his gloved fingers. "Anyone have a second deck? We can make this more interesting."

"This is opposite of the usual 'No, I've never played poker before, tell me, what are the rules?' gambit," Garrus noted, leaning back at the table. "How are we going to make this more interesting?"

"Each hand I win, you add another deck of cards to the total that we're shuffling. Eventually, the numbers should be too large for me to do readily in my head." Fors snickered. It was a party trick he'd done a few times in B-Sec, and certainly while working at the embassy with any number of other bored guards. The other volus had appreciated the trick for the sheer amount of mental math required; the handful of turians employed for muscle had simply thought he was reading their minds, or had a computer relaying him answers in his suit. Until he'd offered to do repeat the trick naked, from inside a sealed, pressurized bay.

Once they got to five decks of cards, Fors started losing again. "All right," Sam said, after collecting his own pile of chips from the table in front of him. "I'll bite. If you can do math like this in your _head_, boy, why are you making Lin and Eli do the whole _shreee'eka_ business, negotiating with your clans and everything like that?"

Fors spread his hands. "Tradition says you have a _shreee'eka_. Now, I'm not a stickler for tradition, usually, but in this case, it's just good sense. Having your friends negotiate for you keeps you from agreeing to a bad bargain, just because you're impatient with the process and want to get married. They're supposed to have your best interests in mind, and to be a little more impartial than you are, yourself." He pointed one finger at Lantar. "Just the way turians have their clan-leaders negotiate for them. We just allow the males to pick their _own_ friends, not just a clan-leader." He snuffled. "Now, nothing says I couldn't pick one of my clan-leaders as a _shreee'eka_, but really. . . which one would I pick who wouldn't insult the other nine clans?"

Jaworski shook his head. "I'm suddenly incredibly glad that as most humans do things. . . it's a ring, a question, months of planning by the womenfolk, and then fifteen minutes of saying 'I do.'"

"That's not how yours went, as I recall," Lantar pointed out, swiftly.

"Okay, a ring, a question, months of planning, and sippin' sake from nine little cups." Jaworski shrugged. "Somewhere in there, I got married, and that's all that counted."

Melaani, who was seated between Thell and Makur, dwarfed by their bulk, shook her head. "All I know is, Elijah pulled me over to the side and, in a tone of mild desperation, asked me to help 'vet' the entertainment for the 'bachelor party,'" she said, peeking at her cards. Her expression didn't change—although non-volus were so hard to read anyway—and she knew how to block herself, biotically, but she had a tendency, Fors had noticed, to change the subject when she had a good hand. This might be another example to confirm that tendency. "I had to go look up what a bachelor party even _was_, and he hastily assured me that he was going for a classy, upscale sort of thing, but an event that was still fun."

Fors snuffled in amusement, feeling thick ammonia vapors pour down his throat as he did. "So how are you planning on helping?"

Melaani shook her head, her eyes wide. "I'm not sure how I can, stuck on this ship. I tossed a note to an old friend of mine. She used to work Vice, and so did I, before I went solidly into undercover work. She'll be able to tell which girls are on the game, and which aren't. . . and I did hear back from her. I think her plan is to pose as one of the dancers herself, just to make sure none of them decide to do _aizala_ or red sand before the festivities begin. . . and to make sure that there's no solicitation going on." Melaani shrugged. "Best I can do, really. Other than background checks. Which will also help."

Fors did a little mental calculation, called, and raked in his winnings. Again. "I do appreciate it," he told her, a little more seriously. "I'm sure my turian-turian friend Linianus will appreciate it, too, when he finds out what you've arranged. It's good to know that we've all got each others' backs." He paused. "Your friend in Vice have a name?"

"Pelia, actually. She wound up transferring from Thessia to Luisa, got tired of working on asari worlds, and went to work for the turian military police a decade or so ago. Gets moved from planet to planet, and I know she likes the work." Melaani sighed and looked at the cards that had been dealt to her anew.

Thelldaroon actually turned out to have a gift for poker. It had nothing to do with his mathematics skills, but had everything to do with being able to read humanoid facial expressions down to the tiniest nuance. This was not serving him well against Fors, of course, but he was holding his own against the rest of them. "I do thank you all for an enjoyable pastime," the elcor rumbled, at length. "But I must return to my work. I hope to have the full design for James assembled soon. And I must continue to work with Laetia until we must enter stealth mode at the edge of the Galatana system."

Fors pushed all of his chips back into the center of the table. This was something of a feat, as the stacks were actually taller in places than his head. "Enjoy yourselves," he told them all cheerfully. "That was fun."

Garrus turned and squinted down at him. "You're not cashing out?" he said, sounding amused.

"Ancestors in the deeps, no. The point was to have fun. I've just spent the past two months arguing with ten clans that I have no worth, or, better yet, that my worth should be spread out across the whole of the homeworld. Why would I want to accrue more worth right now? That would jeopardize the entire negotiation process." Fors made a rude, flatulent noise. "Once Chissa and I are safely married, I'll put any further wealth accrued in her name, and we won't have to worry about any of this any more."

He wasn't entirely sure why all of them started chuckling, but that wasn't really his concern. "Thell, you need any help with your projects?" Fors offered, padding out after the huge elcor on light feet. And dodged rapidly as Thell swung a foot around to be able to look at him. "Try to avoid stepping on me," Fors added, dryly.

"That was not my intention," Thell told him, calmly. "I was unaware that my projects brought interest from any of my colleagues besides Commander Shepard, Spectre Vakarian, and perhaps Kirrahe Orlan."

_Well, yes. On almost any given day, I'd avoid the tech lab here on the ship like the plague. . . _ Fors exhaled, and felt his suit immediately catch his breath and suck it into the recycling system with the usual comforting hum. "To be honest. . . "

"You are bored and tense, and crave distraction?"

"Yes—wait, hold _on_ a minute, how the hell did you know that?" Fors placed his hands at the center of his suit and stared up at the elcor.

"You seem unusually agitated. I have had time to observe you during our time on Terra Nova and during the Spectre trials." Thell reached down a huge paw, and picked Fors up. Normally, Fors resented this from larger people, but he tolerated it from Thell. It wasn't condescending. It was just a safety precaution, pretty much. The elcor deposited Fors on his neck, and began to amble through the passageways of the _Nereia_, taking the stairs instead of the elevators, which his bulk threatened to damage, anyway, and exited on the command deck, moving into the tech lab, ducking to make it through the low door.

"So, you just. . . talk to this Laetia AI?"

"Frequently. She, too, is highly agitated. She is out of her body, out of her native environment. Unable to affect anything around her in any real way. The time she spent in her turian mate's neural architecture may have caused software degradation, or corruption. I have as yet been unable to find any, but she is prone to logic loops and minor crashes at the moment. Her condition is not as grave as Pelagia's was, several years ago, but I would like to have uninterrupted time to work on her coding." Thelldaroon hunkered down at a large desk, and began to swipe his huge fingers delicately across the aerogel screens there. "This may be very boring for you, Fors Luka," he told the volus, with complete sincerity and politeness.

Fors slipped down off the broad back and clambered up into a human-sized chair. And realized that he was already feeling calmer. Thell had a way of putting problems into perspective. Perhaps a programmer's gift for breaking down a large problem into smaller chunks, and dealing with each in turn. "Nah," Fors told him. "Maybe I can cheer her up."

Fors had wound up spending the next two hours in the tech bay, talking to an AI who was absolutely starving for input and interaction, and whose moods were swooping so mercurially as to appear almost manic. One moment, she'd be chattering vociferously about her hopes of being placed in another ship, the next, almost despondent because her turian mate was only spending an hour or two a day talking with her. "It's difficult, going from sharing processes all the time to almost no contact," Laetia explained, rapidly. "I keep thinking that I spent much more time with him when he was in the hospital, undergoing his rehabilitation and surgeries, but. . . when I look at the time logs. . . I suppose it's actually about even." The last sounded shame-faced, and then she was off on another tear, about how the other NCAIs didn't really appreciate their ship bodies, or, apparently, her very much. "Would you believe, Lysandra has chipped a rachni, and absolutely won't share data with anyone about the experience? I call that selfish. I shared my data. I shared it with all of them. Pelagia wouldn't be able to interact with Harak in any meaningful way if I hadn't shared sensory data with her, and now Lysandra got one of her human parents to forbid her to tell me anything at all about the rachni. Even what their songs _sound_ like would be fascinating."

Fors looked at Thelldaroon. The elcor was sitting back on his haunches, his paws resting on the table, and just watching the AI's avatar as she talked. Thell glanced back at him. "Well, Fors? Do you have anything to say?"

Fors shook his head. "I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that I was here to say anything. Who could possibly get a word in edgewise around all this self-pity?"

The avatar's mouth fell open in complete shock. Fors waved one hand in the air. "I know, I know. I should be more sympathetic. I'm certainly bored right now, and I can definitely see why an NCAI would be going insane from boredom, but the self-pity makes it really hard to feel any empathy here." He turned his head to look more obviously at the avatar. "You lost your ship. Not the first NCAI who lost her ship body. . . or even, let's face it, a _body_-body, like the other one that Thell's working with. The one with the odd human name."

"James," Thelldaroon supplied, calmly. "Actually, Laetia is right on schedule. Self-pity and despondency, accompanied by rapid mood swings is about what I would expect from a human who had suffered a traumatic injury or limb loss. Anger, as well. Pelagia, while suffering from a similar injury, directed all of her anger inwards, at herself. Found herself at fault, blamed herself for things she could not possibly have prevented. Relived the crash experience so many times, it caused system failures as more and more of her processes were used to examine the crash information for what she could have done differently. Laetia, however, is an externally-directed person. She therefore directs her anger at herself at other people. Finds them at fault."

"I do not!"

"Regretfully, I must tell you otherwise," Thelldaroon assured her, calmly. "And in over a month, I have yet to be able to get you to look at the video footage from the loss of the _Estallus_ even once."

"It wasn't my fault, Thelldaroon. It was the _batarians_'. For being there, for chasing us through the relay. It was the captain's, for ordering us to ram the closest batarian ship. It was. . . "

"Kallixta Velnaran's?" Thelldaroon suggested, mildly. "For flying _just_ well enough to save the crew, but not well enough to save a ship valued in the hundreds of millions of credits? Does some part of you think she did it on purpose? In a sort of backhanded, long-delayed revenge against you for having been chipped to her mate before she met him?"

There was a discernable pause. "Don't be ridiculous," Laetia replied, but there was less force behind it. The thought had, apparently, crossed her mind. It might have been discarded as illogical, but it had gone through her processors.

Thelldaroon sighed. "NCAIs process information at incredible speed. But they process emotions at almost the same pace as a human. I find it fascinating to see how quickly she's moving through the stages of denial, anger, bargaining, and depression, compared to an elcor. . . and even how oddly mixed some of them are, as they manifest themselves."

Fors just stared at the elcor for a long moment. "This is what you're doing in here?" he said, after a long moment. "You're _counseling_ an AI?"

"Two of them, actually, but James requires quite a bit less of my attention. He seems to enjoy talking with the other AIs on the network, and while he definitely wishes for a new body and freedom, he seems to be enjoying the freedom to learn and grow and explore who he is now, as opposed to who he was patterned from."

"I _am_ still able to access the audio and visual receptors in the lab," Laetia said, sharply. "You needn't speak around me and over me and through me."

Fors shuddered, remembering the gray-skinned face and lifeless white, glowing eyes of the mech body of James. How nothing he'd had, had been able to affect it. _Well, I could have tried the imploding trick, but I also needed to keep moving at the time. . . .and the singularity would have worked, if only he wasn't firing with perfect calmness while already in mid-air. . . ._ "Yes," Fors said, after a moment, still addressing Thell. "James doesn't feel a need to talk with Dempsey?"

"I believe he understands that Dempsey is extremely busy. And, having all of Dempsey's memories up to the end of the Terra Nova mission, I believe they are both equally uncomfortable with each other." Thell's massive shoulders moved minutely. "I have asked Dempsey to check in once in a while, and he has done so about once a month." Thell turned to look at Laetia tolerantly. "Tarenius converses with you daily."

"It's not the same as it used to be. There's a distance in him. He won't talk about the future at all."

"Perhaps he sees little point, when we have yet to ascertain where you will be placed." Thell suggested.

"Or maybe he's tired of being complained at," Fors pointed out, with brutal honesty. "I've been in here for an hour, barely know you, and I'm already tired of it." He stood, and started for the door of the tech lab. "There are no open ships, right?" he asked Thell, over his shoulder. "Otherwise I'd say just get her back on one so she can stop complaining."

"Not without another NCAI willingly relinquishing their platform to her. Existing ships other than the SRs do not have the server architecture that will support an NCAI, although there is talk of some vessels being upgraded to this standard." Thell shrugged. "In Laetia's current mindset, however, I suspect she would be more of a hazard to others than a help."

"I resent that remark!" Laetia spluttered.

"And the other options are what, stay in a server, get a geth-built body, or go to a station?"

"I thought it would be fun, once upon a time, to get to experience a singular body, like organics do," Laetia admitted. "But now it just seems so _limited_."

"Then go to a station."

"They don't want me on Bastion, they don't trust me at the Spectre base. There were was talk of 'giving' me to someone named 'Argus,' as if I were a prize cow, but even she, whoever she is, said that I couldn't be trusted." Absolute sulkiness in the voice now, and Fors wanted to slap the AI, if such a thing were possible.

"It is a difficult thing to be confronted with how others view our choices and actions," Thell told her, patiently.

Fors shook his head. He had no idea how the elcor could stand this kind of work. Then again, he hadn't been able to figure out how the volus representative to the Council could stand his work, either. Fors could sniff out emotional states fairly well, and had given negotiating his best shot in the space traffic control center on Bastion, the once, but he was far, far better at bargaining that involved numbers than people's feelings and the slippery slope of motivations. It wasn't that he didn't understand people. He did. He just didn't tend to _like_ many of them very much. Which made empathy very difficult, and negotiating for less tangible things than assets all the harder, too.

Which was the unspoken reason why he'd asked Elijah and Linianus to be his _shreee'eka'i._ He could check their numbers in his head and tell them 'up' or 'down' or that the math didn't add up. What they had, and that he lacked, was a _feel_ for people. For seeing what they wanted, on the emotional level, and for getting them all to work together, and agree to things, when Fors' first inclination was to say, "Fine, be that way," and walk off, even if it meant he didn't get what he wanted, either. "Let me put it this way," Fors said, dryly. "There are literally hundreds of space stations in Council space. From Irune Prime to the Dymion spaceyards to the Citadel and back again. All of them should have plenty of server space. Maybe what you should be doing, Laetia, is not so much worrying what other people currently think of you, but trying to prove your worth."

Laetia's avatar appeared to frown. "Prove my worth? Haven't I done that, for years? I have the best record of any SR-1 in the combined fleet—"

"And your crews and captains had _nothing_ to do with that?" Fors shot back, annoyed. "You keep saying that no one likes you or trusts you, or at least that's what I'm hearing. Fine. Prove them wrong. Prove that you're trustworthy and likeable, if that's the currency you trade in. Or realize that you're not currently in a ship, and incredibly unlikely to get one again, and figure out something else to do with yourself that's of value, and stop _whining_ about it."

Thell moved slowly to the door, and opened it for him. "A moment, please, Laetia?" he asked, politely, and stepped with Fors out into the hallway.

Once the door shut, Fors sighed. "You're about to tell me I stepped over the line. I apologize if I set your work back—"

"Not at all," Thell told him, with total composure. "Someone is often needed to relay hard truths to patients. You are a perfect choice for that role, and I thank you for your honesty with her. Be that as it may, I would not suggest visiting her on any ship or station she does acquire in the immediate future."

Fors stared at him for a moment. _Was I just set up? By an elcor, at that?_

Thell rumbled, inquisitively, "If I may ask. . . the Citadel? Why did you include it on your list?"

"It's a station. A large one. Lots of computer space, and. . . . " Fors trailed off, thoughtfully. "Didn't that Watches-the-Gates-of-Crumbling-Whatever—"

"Ruin," Thell prompted.

"Yeah. Him. Didn't he say that the Keepers were having difficulty processing all their memories? That even the geth are having difficulties with all the data?" Fors shrugged. "Seems to me, if she wants to be seen as useful and trustworthy, she should reach out and help others. Why _not_ the Keepers, if she's managed to alienate the Spectres and the turian admiralty board so far? A fresh start might even be a good thing."

Thell exhaled. "Alienate is a strong word. I think that she has. . . made impulsive choices that have degraded her relationships with several of the Spectres, over the years, yes. I will relay your suggestion to her, however. She has never really been a personality suited for introspection, however."

Fors snorted. "And maybe that's what the Keepers need. Someone who won't let them just huddle on the Citadel where it's _safe_, where they've spent a million years evolving to suit its confines. Maybe they need someone who's a little impulsive." He paused. "Of course, if people really _don't_ trust her judgment, they won't let her within a thousand light-years of the Citadel's computer core." Something else tickled the back of his mind, however. "NCAIs are partially based on Reaper tech, right? So she could fit on the servers there pretty comfortably, yeah?"

"Potentially." Thell sounded concerned. "It is also possible that a personality like Pelagia, in a stable environment like Omega, could conceivably maintain her existence through the next fifty thousand years. Could be present to see if the Reapers do return, or not. A personality like Laetia, on the very heart of the Reaper trap, the Citadel. . . . could do the same." He sounded disturbed. "If an NCAI is placed there, the Council might wish to ensure it is one who is. . . "

"Calmer? More trustworthy?" Fors' tone was caustic. "Now you're starting to sound like someone she'd be paranoid about, my very large elcor friend."

"Hmm. No. Merely examining all aspects of the issue from multiple perspectives." Thell shrugged. "It is an idea. And much would depend on if the Keepers found her, as you say, of value to them. Thank you, Fors Luka. You have a knack for looking at problems from different angles than I would."

"There's a reason for that," Fors said, looking up at the elcor, who topped out close to eight feet taller than he stood, himself. "Everything looks different to me, from where I stand."

**Rinus, the **_**Nereia**_, **January 28, 2197**

Rinus stood at the observation window in the port lounge, staring out into the inky blackness of space. He could just see the curving black shape of the _Hamus_ bringing up the _Nereia_'s side, and knew that his 'son,' Ariston was the AI in control of that vessel. Ariston was fierce and aggressive, and his self-image was almost wholly turian, though he'd opted to integrate his mother's green human eyes into that visage. Two other SR-4 gunships were with them, the _Clavus_ and the _Acus_. The _Midway_ and the _Leyte_ were the SR-1s off their starboard side, Rinus knew. Four Systems Alliance corvettes, smaller than the SR ships, highly maneuverable, and well-armed, were just ahead of them, pushing into Galatana's system with them—the _Stones River,_ the _Antietam_, the _Wilderness_, and the _Bull Run_. And they had larger ships as well—two cruisers, large, heavy, slow-moving capital ships. The _Cadiz_, from Earth, and the _Ascia_, from Edessan. And two destroyers. . . smaller than the cruisers, but also designed primarily for screening duties. . . and heavy bombardment, if needed. The _Menalaus_, of Earth, and the _Bipennis_, from Palaven. Fourteen ships, all trying to 'sneak' into the system. The SR-1s would, in a short while, move up to the front and stealth in. Send the encrypted signal that Valak, Lin, and Serana had paid such bitter prices to remove from batarian space, and then they'd all pray to the spirits that the batarians hadn't noticed exactly which pieces of information Valak had managed to steal, and hadn't changed the codes, commands, frequencies, or anything else. Once the nets started to move, a second signal would be sent: _Enter the relay._

The SR-1s should, theoretically, be undetected at that point. The ships waiting on the other side of the relay would move through at that point. Two turian-flagged SR-1s. Four destroyers, four cruisers, and two _Leviathan-_class carriers—the _Catasta_ and the _Elidae_, with their cargo of fighters—would move through the relay, the SR-1s coming through first, as stealthed as they could manage, followed by the cruisers and destroyers. If the batarians tried to lower the nets before the carriers could get back through—a difficult operation, given that the nets had to be lowered across an opening the size of a small moon, and couldn't rely on gravity just to let the nets fall into place—the destroyers would open fire on the net operation controls, once spotted, while the frigates and cruisers would break and attack the batarian ships holding the blockade.

While, from the other side, the fourteen ships that had been lurking in the Kuiper belt would move in from behind and they'd crush the batarians between them. The first time they did this, it should be relatively easy. Twenty-six ships against a reportedly smaller force. They could put their ships at risk and simply destroy the opposition from space. . . and then possibly limp to Rocam and repeat the process. Hence the current plan of boarding the vessels. Which were probably manned with warrior-caste batarians, and potentially some SIU agents. Potentially with asari or human lobotomized prisoners.

"_Can you comment any further on the proposed tactic of boarding as many ships as possible, and taking prisoners, Spectres?"_ The question came from behind him, and Rinus turned to face the rest of the room. Garrus was handling this, thank the spirits. He, Lantar, and Sam were sitting around a small table, cleaning their weapons, and Galenus Eleutherius, the voice of the _Complovium News Today_, stood nearby, his camera aimed at them. "This is not a typical tactic from the turian fleet. Generally, we have leaned towards destroying as many enemy ships as possible."

"_This is true,"_ Garrus acknowledged, calmly. _"However, we're hoping to obtain information on those ships. Troop movements, encryption ciphers, command codes, message traffic. Each of them represents an opportunity for us to shorten the war by days, weeks, or months."_

"_And the prisoners?"_ Eleutherius asked, politely, but persistently. _"What will be done with them?"_

Sam raised two fingers, catching the reporter's eyes. _"Let's be clear here,"_ Sam said in his very heavily accented turian, in much the same tone as Garrus had. _"These batarians have been making the Hierarchy's life miserable. Put everyone on short rations and put everyone in a bad temper. That being said, they're not the slavers or the raiders. They haven't, to our knowledge, participated in any of the internment camps, the rapes, or the lobotomizations. They've been parked in front of this relay, shooting at anyone who tries to run the blockade, for seven months now. They're soldiers, and they'll be treated as such. They attack us, we attack them. They surrender, they get terms. We've got some prison facilities set up for dealing with them."_ It was a damned long speech for Sam in turian, and Rinus wanted to applaud after hearing it.

"_And that being said,"_ Lantar added, his voice dark_, "we're not expecting many of them to allow themselves to be taken alive. Much of that will depend on whether Spectre Valak N'dor can convince them to lay down their arms."_

"_It's our hope that this can be resolved quickly, and with minimal bloodshed. There are other turian colonies in need of relief,"_ Garrus pointed out, carefully. _"Rocam, for example."_

Eleutherius nodded. _"How is Spectre. . . N'dor. . . dealing with the crew of this mixed-forces ship? I understand that the humans and turians aboard might have certain reservations about there being what, twenty batarians aboard, in addition to the Spectre?"_

"_If they have reservations, they're keeping them behind their teeth, as well they should,"_ Lantar replied, evenly.

Eleutherius looked through his notes. "_That's all I had, for the moment, except to request that I be allowed to go with one of the boarding parties. I __do__ have military experience, and I remember perfectly well how to use a gun. I wouldn't be a burden to any unit."_

Rinus suppressed a groan. Babysitting a reporter was about the last thing he wanted to deal with. Unfortunately, he knew that if he changed expressions even remotely, he'd get stuck with that unenviable task. Garrus studied the reporter for a long moment. Eleutherius had been a marine, and at least had covered the Reaper Wars from inside his unit, sending valuable data back to Palaven. That did, Rinus figured, speak in his favor. But what Rinus saw when he looked at the male was the voice and the face that had announced the death of the Imperatrix on the Complovium newsfeeds. Had announced the deaths of hundreds of thousands of turians from the plagues. Had done the voice-overs for the Imperatrix's funeral, too. Rinus saw _death_ when he looked at the male, though it was clear that Eleutherius hadn't enjoyed reporting any of that.

"_You'll go with Urdnot Gris' squads," _Garrus said, after a minute._ "They'll be heading to the cargohold of whichever ship we're fighting, if it seems to have biotic weapons. You should get interesting footage there."_

Eleutherius glanced over at Rinus. _"With respect, I would prefer to be sent with Spectre Velnaran's squad."_

_Oh, spirits of air and darkness, why?_

Garrus' mandibles flexed. _"You're turning down a look at the facilities of a biotic weapons ship?"_

"_On this first run, yes. I'll happily take footage there once it's been captured, however. I think that my viewers at home would be more interested, however, in seeing. . . your nephew, and the Imperator's son-in-law, in action."_

Rinus felt his mandibles flex, once, and carefully imposed granite over his expression. _"This is not a training exercise or a pleasure cruise,"_ Rinus said, from between clenched teeth.

"_Precisely."_ Eleutherius replied. _"While no one objects to seeing family get ahead, it's best that people also see that the position of Spectre is not a sinecure, yes? Additionally, it would be good for morale back home. Seeing someone in the Imperial family taking the fight to the batarians first-hand could be enormously uplifting for people who are eating quarian nutrient pastes at the moment, don't you think?"_

Rinus wanted to bang his head against a bulkhead. He didn't have Kallixta at the controls of the _Nereia_ as a reassurance or a balance for his temper at the moment, so he fully expected this situation to grate on his nerves for some time. He sent one glance in Garrus' direction, but didn't expect any help there. _"Very well,"_ Garrus said, giving Rinus a glance of his own that said _deal with it_, "_if you feel that this will be more newsworthy footage. . . "_

"_It will personalize the story and give the people back home a face that they'll associate with this battle," _Eleutherius replied, promptly. _"I can take footage of machines and bodies and lobotomized asari from now until the end of time, but nothing will give it as much impact as seeing someone that the audience feels that they __know__ in the middle of it all. And, for better or worse, most of the Hierarchy knows a little about the young __dominus__ here.."_

Rinus gave the bulkhead another longing glance. Banging his head there might make it all feel just a little better.

Eleutherius was permitted to continue to film as the rest of the Spectres and affiliates came into the lounge for their briefing. "All right," Sam said, reverting to galactic with an expression of relief on his face. "Here's what we've got on long-range telemetry at the moment. Eighteen batarian ships, eight of them frigates, and four of them corvettes, and six of them cruisers, from the looks of them. They're running light, because with the net, they really only need to worry about what Galatana can throw at them, and Galatana's never been the most heavily armed of the turian colonies. They've mostly relied on orbital platforms and light ships, mainly corvettes and cutters, to prevent smuggling, primarily. It's never really been considered a major target before this." Sam looked up at the ceiling. "Kind of like the American Midwest has never really been considered much of a target. We always tended to want to protect our ports, where the food comes _into_, not the source of it. Especially when it's a fairly large open area. So . . . yeah." He exhaled. "The other SR ships are going to be boarding frigates and corvettes. Most of the rest of the ships will be engaged, and we'll be attempting to destroy them. The _Nereia_ has a slightly different mission. We're going after one of their cruisers. The _Hamus_ will engage them, and we'll send breaching pods in. The cruisers are the command and control ships for the blockade. If they have SIU officers aboard, they'll be there. If they have biotic ship weapons, they're more likely to be there. If they have _information_. . . it's likely to be there. Which is why we're targeting at least one of them."

Lantar nodded as Sam sat down, and brought up the schematics of a batarian cruiser on the aerogel screen. Cruisers were oddly designed. Not much in the way of aesthetics. "Why does it have wings?" Melaani asked, quietly. "Something that size could never possibly get out of the gravity well of a planet, and its so blocky, it would burn up in the atmosphere. . . . "

"They're not wings," Rinus told her, looking at the screen. "The rear ones hold maneuvering thrusters. and provide a little stability for relay travel, and hold small guns. The front ones are just gun emplacements. "

The structure of the cruiser was blunt and simple. The thickest portion of the body, spanning about four decks, was at the rear of the ship, and held the engines and four primary maneuvering thrusters, as well as fuel storage. Two wedge-like 'wings' emerged from this section of the hull, and were, as he'd described them, stabilizers that held small guns and minor maneuvering thrusters, the ones used to make tiny course adjustments. The body of the ship thinned past this section, becoming only three decks tall for most of the length of the hull. A large gun emplacement stuck out the top, over a bulbous projection that was the sensor array and shield generation area. This gun could only face forwards, and had only about five degrees of movement in any direction. "That's a small rail gun," Rinus pointed out, in a low voice, for Melaani's sake. "Not the size of one used on the _Everest_, for example. They put it above the body of the rest of the ship so that they can actually _use_ the majority of the ship for actual real purposes, such as housing the crew and maintaining life support. It also allows them to cool the weapon more easily, since they're not having to dissipate its heat through the body of the entire ship. Some of the human-designed ships that put the rail gun through the middle of the body of the vessel are really quite inefficient."

Along the sides of the ship were self-contained areas relating solely to guns and ammunition; there were three torpedo mounts on each side of the ship, and these emplacements were separated from the living space of the ship by bulkheads and pressure hatches. Torpedoes were stored on the lowest deck, and moved up to the gun emplacements on the mid-deck by hydraulics; the sealed upper deck contained life-support systems. The interior sections included a three-deck-spanning cargo hold, positioned just fore of the engineering compartment, a shuttle bay and lifepod area, just fore of that, which took up only the lowest deck. The two decks above the shuttle area held the ship's mess and kitchen area, and above that, enlisted quarters. Fore of that, the ship slid down to only two decks in height. On the topmost deck, was officer's quarters; the deck below was filled with life support machinery, such as the artificial gravity and inertial dampening systems. On either side of these compartments, was the second set of 'wings' which held gun and missile systems. And just fore of that, the ship dropped to only one deck, and that compartment held the bridge, which was heavily reinforced with secondary bulkheads, ablative hull plating, and shields. The effect, in general, was of a slightly blocky wedge, with teeth.

"What's the crew complement look like on one of these cruisers?" Gris asked, which was the next most logical question, if they were going to be boarding one.

Valak looked up. "About eighty actual crew. About twenty of them will be officers," he replied, calmly. "There will be slaves aboard, as well, of course. Your schematic there is missing their quarters. They are typically housed in the least comfortable portion of a given ship. As such, they could be in the outer hull area, where the life support systems are, or crammed into a small compartment near the gravity systems. It differs, from ship to ship. Slaves conduct all the menial activities of the ship's life. That includes mess hall services, laundry, janitorial duties, and more skilled labor, such as cleaning the carbon filters in the ventilation systems." He had all of their attention at the moment. Valak smiled, humorlessly. "I'd take it as a courtesy if you made the effort to stun or incapacitate the slaves. Most of them will not be armed, though they might throw themselves into the line of fire to save a master who's treated them well. There is a belief that after death, a slave who's served well, will know peace and plenty among the honored ancestors. Many slaves accept their servitude, and the system, without question. They might even attack you, though unless they get a weapon, which is unlikely, they are probably not going to be able to do you any harm."

"How many slaves can we expect to see?" Siara asked, quietly.

"You can expect to see one slave for every two enlisted, and one slave per officer. About fifty, therefore." Valak tapped on the screen, in the small area allocated for officers' quarters. "Some of the officers will have brought personal slaves, to take care of their uniforms and other needs. These are usually treated better than the common slaves. They often share their masters' quarters."

Rinus rubbed at his face. "All right," he said. "How are we going to go about attacking this behemoth, anyway?"

"Glad you asked," Garrus said, smiling tightly. "There are six main entrances and exits. We can expect these to be guarded. These include the cargo bay doors, the shuttle bay doors, and four personnel hatches, one just behind the forward stabilizers on both sides, and one in the engineering section, again, on both sides. The engineering ones are more maintenance hatches than anything else. Used for when the crew needs to go for a walk on the hull. It's still in main engineering, however, so we can expect there to be resistance here."

"Breaching pods?" Rinus asked, immediately.

"Their hull's too thick for them to be effective," Lantar replied.

_Damn. So much for the easy way._

"Our proposed plan is a multi-pronged attack," Garrus said, quietly. "Team one is my squad. Sam, Lantar, Hal'Marrak, and I, accompanied by a team of _Nereia_ marines, will attack the starboard-side front hatch, and head directly for the bridge. We expect heavy resistance, and we'll probably have to burn through bulkheads on our way through. The risk inherent to this will be mitigated by the fact that we're going to have three other attacks going on concurrently. Specifically, team two—that's Spectres Velnaran and Luka, accompanied by Thelldaroon and Sings-to-the-Stone, and two additional marine teams, both from the _Hamus_. . . you're going to be entering through the aft starboard emergency hatch. This opens directly onto engineering, and you can bet that they're not going to be happy to see you there, and it will be heavily guarded. You can expect locks, barricades, attempts to decompress you right back out the hatch, and any number of standard boarding repulsion tactics." Garrus looked at Rinus. "Your objective is to shut down main power, and, once the compartment is secured, to move through the weapons sections of the ship on the second deck and secure their torpedoes and other weapons systems. Take starboard, then port. Try to leave life support on-line." Garrus' voice was dry. "The air supply in a ship like that should last for a while, but depending on how many toxic fumes get caught up in the air from ship fires and whatever else, it could get a little hard to breathe in there. . . and as Valak has already suggested, there are noncombatants aboard that we'd prefer to spare, if possible."

Rinus exhaled, and immediately pulled up more detailed schematics of the engineering compartment. Fors Luka leaned over his shoulder, peering at the information carefully. "Tall order," Rinus muttered to the volus.

"Tall or short, we can handle it," Fors told him, then paused and added, "Hopefully."

Lantar picked up the briefing. "Team three is Gris, Makur, Melaani, and Nal'Ishorah, accompanied by a squad of _Nereia_ marines. You'll be entering through the shuttle bay, if at all possible, on the dorsal side of the ship." His expression was tight. "Your objective is finding the biotics who are being used as living weapons components on the cruiser. Typically, in times past, they've been housed in the cargo hold."

Valak spoke up. "This placement left them vulnerable, however, to early SR ship attacks, as I understand it. Especially when they were placed in the lower hold. I suspect that if they are anywhere, it will be higher in the hold now, probably the tier just under the sensor and shield array." He tapped the schematic. "This would allow them to be. . . tied into the weapons arrays the more easily. However, I don't know that for certain. This is a guess on my part."

Makur shook his head. "And if they're not there, what? We go find them?"

Gris nodded, his heavy head moving slowly for emphasis. "Yeah. We go find them. Your tracking skills, and ability to sense when someone's got hostile intentions towards us should help narrow it down a bit."

Makur frowned and stared at the aerogel screen. "Stone or Sky could tell us more easily."

_Not necessarily,_ Stone replied, his voice like an alto saxophone, scratchy and raucous in Rinus' mind.

_Those whose voices are muffled are difficult to hear,_ Sky explained. _ Stone has never heard their muffled songs before._

"The teams are set up this way for a reason," Sam put in. "Team four is Sky, Siara, Livanus, and Valak. . . and they're going in with twenty of Valak's warrior-castes. They'll be entering from the port forward hatch, and instead of assaulting the bridge, they're going to head aft and up. Take out gravity systems along the way, so watch your steps, everyone. . . and then up into crew quarters. Where they're going to kill or capture every single person they see. And between Valak, Siara, and Sky, they're going to start interrogations." Sam tapped the table. "Valak knows how to ask the questions. Siara knows how to, hmm. . . get answers." A sidelong look from those cold blue eyes. "And Sky can tell them whether or not those answers are true ones. Livanus is along for tech support, especially regarding the grav systems."

"Assuming batarians follow the same standards as everyone else in the galaxy, I should be able to figure out which system is which, and just start disabling components as I go along." Livanus shrugged. "Unfortunately, I don't speak batarian, and our schematics on their systems are fairly limited."

"No kidding," Rinus replied, already staring at what little information they had on the batarian engines and weapons. The weapons, he could probably figure out. "Do we have time to sit down with Hal and Nal and go over some of this stuff?"

Thelldaroon was looking at the same schematics, and shaking his head slowly. "More information would be helpful. These engines predate Tantalus core technology, but we might be best off working on their computer assistance systems. Even shutting those down would help prevent the engines from functioning properly."

"Yes, but we don't actually want the engines to blow up from a bad fuel mix," Rinus pointed out, quickly.

"I'll go over the engines with both of you before we launch the attack," Nal'Ishorah assured them. "You'll be as prepared as possible, believe me."

They had a couple of hours, and Rinus spent them with Thelldaroon and Nal'Ishorah, going over the materials that they had, and making notes in his omnitool. "This is the worst part," Fors noted, looking over their shoulders. "Waiting. At least you two have something to do to occupy your minds."

"You could study the schematics with us," Rinus told him, pointedly. "That way, if one of us falls on our faces, you could—"

"I don't know a left-handed spanner from a socket wrench, let alone how to hack into computer systems," Fors told him, dryly. "I'll leave it to the experts, and do my best to keep the enemy off your backs."

The _Hamus_ pulled in close for a quick transfer of personnel; two teams of their marines would be boarding with Rinus's team; three out of the six _Nereia_ teams would be crossing to the cruiser as well. The captain of the _Nereia_ wanted to keep half the teams on his own ship, in case of a counter-attack, and Rinus could certainly understand that concern.

He had the opportunity to stand in CIC as they approached the relay. Snuck within three thousand kilometers of the blockade, and sent out the encrypted signal on a batarian carrier frequency. . . and the entire bridge crew of the _Nereia_ howled and shouted in triumph as the nets began to reel themselves in. "Send the signal," Garrus told the Irixia Haratus, who commanded the _Nereia_, grinning hugely, and the captain nodded to her signal officer. The human and turian ships on the other side of the relay were now surely moving into position.

"Wait for it," Lantar told them all, subduing the sense of satisfaction in the air. "Watch the batarian ships. Listen to their comm. traffic. They weren't expecting reinforcements, so they're going to swing around to face the relay now."

_Because everyone knows, that's the only direction that trouble can come from_, Rinus thought, baring his teeth briefly. "Are they going to try to override the command?' he asked, out loud.

"Unlikely," Valak told him, staring at the aerogel screen that projected the current tactical configuration outside, instead of a galactic map. "They wouldn't want a reprimand for damaging any of their own ships that passed through. They're going to want to pass a confirmation up the line, though. . . "

"And that," Garrus said, grinning nastily, "is why we're about to jam their transmissions. Demostata, if you wouldn't mind?"

The NCAI's avatar flickered. Human-turian hybrid, with brown eyes and more than a hint of Dara in her face. "My pleasure, Spectre Vakarian," she said, calmly, and the batarians' comm signals, which were encrypted anyway, washed out on the bridge's speakers in a wash of static.

"Now they _know_ they're about to come under attack," Sam said, folding his arms across his chest. "They're powering up their weapons. . . and every last one of them is presenting us with their asses."

Signals flickered through the tight-beam FTL transmissions of the SR ships. "Fleet is inbound. Our reinforcements are about to enter sensor range of the batarians behind us, exiting the Kuiper belt," Demostata reported.

Garrus looked at Captain Harratus, and the female bared her teeth behind her red Macedyn paint. "Let's give them a little surprise," she said, as the first corvettes and frigates began to appear, shot out of the relay, attempting to slow their speeds before they happened to ram any of the batarian ships. The batarians began firing on the incoming turian and human ships. . . . and the SR ships broke from stealth and attacked, racing in at full speed and tearing into the batarians' shields from behind. And behind them, the _Cadiz_ and the _Ascia_, the _Menelaus_ and the _Bipennis_ appeared, screened by the conventional corvettes, and opened fire with their heavy guns and missiles. Rinus could _feel_ the guns of the _Nereia_ working, from two decks up, and wished for a fervent moment that he was standing at the Thanix cannon station. _Not your job today,_ he reminded himself, sternly.

"Boarding parties, head to the launch bay," Garrus directed. "We want to be ready the moment the shields on one of the cruisers fails."

And so, Rinus stood in the launch bay of the _Nereia_ in his black armor, dwarfed by Thell and eclipsed by Stone's wide rachni body, looking down at Fors, and feeling his crop tightening. _Fors was right. The waiting really is the worst part_, he thought, and glanced over at Eleutherius. The reporter had been a constant, silent presence during the preparations, and now stood in plain gray armor, a submachine gun in his hands, and his camera floating over his head. _"Spectre Velnaran, for our viewers back home, how do marines and Spectres try to mitigate the damage from rounds of ammunition to the hulls of ships in boarding situations like these?"_ Eleutherius suddenly asked. _"Won't mass-effect propelled rounds cut through the outer hull and cause atmospheric losses?"_

"_Generally speaking, we don't worry about it,"_ Rinus answered, immediately, and felt the _Nereia_ shake around them as the shields took one hell of a hit from something. Safe ground, though, here. Standard procedure. _"The outer ablative hull __should__ prevent most of our rounds from opening small holes into space, and honestly, when we're taking a ship, most of the time, minor hull breaches are expected. Even created deliberately. A few minor holes can be patched once the ship is secured. Larger holes are more of a problem. We try to avoid those, if only to ensure that our own people aren't blown out into hard vacuum."_

"_Thank you, Spectre," _Eleutherius answered, and Rinus wondered if the male was actually trying to get him to relax. _"Again, I assure you, I'll be of as much assistance as I can. You won't wind up having to carry me."_

"_Understood. And thank you."_

Entering the boarding pod now, one of the _Nereia's_ flight crew taking the stick. The boarding pod shot out of the belly of the ship, and Rinus got a glimpse of something large and black screaming by, briefly, as the void around them lit up with the yellow, incandescent light of a Thanix cannon blast at close range. "Think that was the _Hamus_," he muttered, turning to look out the small window, though, rationally, he knew he couldn't possibly spot the ship again, as fast as it was moving.

The pod rattled and shook. The gun crews on the cruiser they were advancing towards were sending hails of flak at them, trying to breach the pod, deter them from landing. Their pilot did her best to avoid the worst of it, but that was, after all, why all of them were in full armor. They were almost certain to lose cabin pressure. There wasn't quite enough room for all the marines _and_ Thell and Stone in this pod; their teams were actually divided into three separate pods, all keeping slightly separated, to force the cruiser's gunners to choose a target. . . and the marine pod to the port of theirs was taking the brunt of the hits. _Just a little further,_ Rinus thought, grimly. . . and then the pod swayed and rocked as they touched down and made a positive seal with the emergency hatch. Their floor was now affixed to the side of the ship, and Rinus unbuckled his harness quickly, reorienting himself in the micro-gravity environment. "Thell—"

"Working on it," the elcor replied, as the hatch in the floor opened onto the side of the ship, revealing the emergency hatch there. Thell's omnitool, specially designed for elcor, was ablaze on his huge left arm, as he worked to force the airlock in front of them to cycle open.

"Hurry," Fors urged him. "The pods behind us are taking a hell of a beating."

Thell glanced up placidly. "I am aware of this, Fors Luka." He worked at the door panels further, and the hatch hissed open, revealing an airlock. "Allow me to go first."

"No arguments," Fors told the elcor, and delicately pushed off a wall to land neatly on Stone's back.

Rinus looked up, and saw that their pilot was signaling to the other pods. . . who would latch onto _their_ pod and enter the hatch through, essentially a tube formed from the body of their crafts. "Let's go," Rinus said, tightly, and gestured for Eleutherius to follow them. Hiss of the hatch closing behind them, and Thell struggled, silently, forcing the air lock to cycle, and open. . .

Gunfire, of course, instant and immediate, pouring at them from all directions. Thell's shields and huge form took the brunt of the assault, and the elcor simply stolidly, inexorably waded forward into that storm of bullets. Rinus and Stone, with Fors on his back, followed in Thelldaroon's wake, crouching behind him. For a moment, Rinus could picture them as foot soldiers on ancient Palaven, crouching behind a siege tower, using it as cover as they approached the ramparts of some forgotten, time-lost castle. . . and then his eyes registered the engine room of the cruiser, and the illusion vanished.

The reactor core rose almost to the ceiling, four stories above. It was a tall, massive cylinder, designed to hold in dangerous energies, and to dissipate heat as efficiently as possible. Two long cylinders lay anchored to the floor on either side of it, and pipes ran to and from the reactor. _Fuel pods_, Rinus thought, immediately. There were stairways that latticed up the walls on either side of the room, to short balconies, wider than catwalks, that still ran around the room on all four sides, used for storage and work stations. Guard rails on all three levels, and bridges that ran out from the metal lattices of open-worked deck plating, so that technicians could work on the reactor core at different points along the cylinder's surface. All that, in an instant, lit by wavering, cold blue light from various sources, warmer light from computer screens all around the room, and flashes from the guns pouring fire at them. . . Rinus went left and Stone moved right, and Thell raised his arc projector, still taking withering fire. "Warrior-castes," the elcor rumbled into the radio. "Six of them, ahead of us, linked shields."

_Singers of metal songs, power and light. Ten singers in the large chamber, many higher above us than others._ That was Stone's scratchy saxophone voice.

"_Spirits of air and darkness, the rachni is singing in my head,"_ Eleutherius muttered. Rinus didn't pay him much heed, except to yank the male down into cover beside him. Total concentration, total absorption in the problem ahead of him. _"He's reporting positions on all the batarians in the room, as best he can. . . I'm told that other rachni brood-warriors can actually overlay enemy positions on their allies' __vision__. . . "_

Rinus ignored the by-play. The central batarian of the linked trio directly ahead of him had dropped to his knees to reload, while his fellows were continuing to fire directly at Thell. "Thell, prepare to get to cover," Rinus told the elcor tightly, and activated his omnitool, and began barraging the trio's shields with various tech wizardry, including an RF-transmitted code that caused the central male's shields to slip into standby mode for a moment. "Focus fire, center target," he called.

"Not a problem," Thell assured him. "I am as yet in no danger." He leveled the arc projector, and fired, calmly. Blue-white light leaped from batarians to batarian, ripping through shields and making the central male grunt in pain as his companion's shields suddenly no longer covered him. Rinus raised up with his shotgun, and began to fire. The heavy recoil of his favorite weapon slammed into his body, but he was coiled and ready for it, compensating with every shot.

Of course, in the meantime, the trio of warrior-castes behind the first three leaned out of the cover of a set of computer consoles near the reactor core, and opened fire, themselves. Rinus swore and ducked back down, and even Thell slowly lumbered back into cover to let his shields recharge. "Fors, Stone, now would be a good time," Rinus told them, ducking further into the cover of the workbench he was sheltering behind. "I don't really want to shoot at the ones next to the _reactor_."

"Yes, they do seem to need to relax," Fors agreed, from Stone's back, and peered around the brood-warrior's massive head. "You guys, stop that."

The trio near the reactor core froze in place. Eleutherius peered around Rinus' shoulder, and muttered, briefly, "Appears that the volus Spectre, a noted biotic, is using some form of energy to bind some of the enemy in place, reducing the danger to the reactor core—"

And that was when the techs on the tier above them leaped over the edge of the balcony and dropped down lightly onto workbenches some seventy feet away, and began firing, themselves. _Defending their territory_, Rinus thought, ducking down as concussive rounds slammed into the wall behind his head. A voice spoke on the radio in his ear. _"Marine teams two and three have positive seals, and are in position. Are we clear to come through the airlock, Spectre Velnaran?"_

"_Negative, hold position!"_ Rinus peeked up, and fired a custom round, a high-yield incendiary, through his shotgun, hitting one of the closer warrior-castes in the chest and blowing the male backwards by ten feet, out of range of his comrades and the linked shields. "Stone?"

_I sing_, the raspy voice sang in his mind, and Rinus blinked and _stared_ as the metal of the deck-plates glowed red-hot for an instant under the two remaining warrior-castes' feet. They shouted in alarm, leaping back. . . and then the glowing metal _moved_. Became long streamers that leaped up, like ribbons, and laced themselves around the males' armored forms. Red-hot metal impacted on the hard-suits, and Rinus knew there had to be a stench in the air as the paint and portions of the ablative coating were branded away. . . and even as the males struggled, frantically, trying to get away, then the metal suddenly cooled. Hardened. The males were now effectively trapped in place. Their own struggles to escape, flailing their arms and legs frantically, had left their arms wide-spread. They still held their assault rifles, but were in absolutely no position to fire them, except, possibly, directly into the air or off to the side.

"_Spirits of air and darkness," _Eleutherius said, simply, and nothing more.

_Yes, that's. . . accurate,_ Rinus thought, and leaned out of cover, firing at the techs, who were now furiously firing at Fors and Stone. "Fors! How long can you hold the three by the reactor core?"

"Another minute, perhaps two," Fors replied, sounding almost cheerful. "Plenty of time for them to consider alternative professions. No one ever really seems to take advantage of that time, though—"

_Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!_ Several more techs were clattering down the stairs at the left and right sides of the room. Rinus eyed the situation, and shook his head. _Can't risk grenades in a reactor enclosure._ He reached over his back, sliding the shotgun away, and removed a new favorite. A weapon Lantar had introduced him to on Shanxi. The Blackstorm. "Cover me," he called, and moved out, zig-zagging and generally trying to attract attention away from Fors and Stone, rolling into cover on the right side of the room, where a small section of wall projected out, probably housing a metal support beam. Bullets sheeted against the wall for a moment, until Thell calmly lumbered back out of hiding again, and strode forward, leveling his arc projector at the techs on the right stairwell. Rinus rolled back out of cover as the elcor passed his position, and they both opened fire at once. The Blackstorm was known, colloquially, as a "black-hole gun," and fired mass-effect fields wrapped around tiny particles of matter, akin to Glory's micro-singularities, rather than conventional bullets. They tore through normal matter, including hardsuits and even the metal of the stairs, leaving tiny holes in their wake, disruptions in the structure of the lattice-like steel material, and the stairs and balcony began to waver and groan under the weight of the four techs there, even as the males shouted in panic and tried to get away. And yet, even as they tried to flee, Thell opened fire with the arc projector, and white-blue light coruscated around the techs again.

"About to lose control of the warriors," Fors reported, clinically, over the radio, and Rinus whirled, just as four more techs entered the fray from the stairs and balcony on the opposite side of the room from him. . . and he had a reactor core assembling and two fuel pods between them and him. _S'kak_, Rinus thought, grimly. Two of the males were staying high, and had their guns aimed at him and Thell. . . but weren't taking the shots. They, too, knew better than to risk hitting the reactor. The other two were coming down the stairs, heading towards Stone and Fors, who were now quite a bit more vulnerable, without Thell's bulk there to shelter them.

"Fors, keep the warrior-castes under control—"

"Re-applying the field, but sooner or later, we're going to need to deal with them—"

_Yes, yes, but not now_, Rinus thought, and glanced around, quickly. There were shadows above him, more techs moving down from above, trying to scramble to better positions, unlike their companions, who lay, groaning, dying or incapacitated, along the stairwell's treads. _They're smartening up,_ he thought. "Stone—"

_These are not captive-song singers, but they sing protection-songs for this portion of their vessel,_ Stone told him, calmly. _Damage-songs, but distraction-songs, needed, too, perhaps?_

"What—?" Rinus started to ask, and then he heard screams, and, swearing, ran directly for the reactor. He leaped over the low-slung body of the first fuel-pod, and used the reactor assembly itself for cover, shuddering internally at the hum of power in it, the unleashed radiation inside, if the eezo-fueled core happened to be breached. _I wouldn't even realize it when I died, though that's a small comfort,_ he thought, grimly, and peered around the cylinder, and fired a tight burst from the Blackstorm at the batarian techs above him. His shields sizzled, overloaded, instantly, and he ducked back into cover, confident, for the moment, that they weren't going to be shooting at him, at least, where he was. The Blackstorm, in his hands, hummed for a moment, and Rinus glanced down at its display, and snorted. _Calibrations? They hacked it and set it to calibration mode?_ He slid that weapon to his back, and went back to his shotgun. If the batarians thought they'd pulled his teeth, they were dead wrong.

Rinus slid around the other side of the cylinder, and glanced to where the two techs here at ground level were, trying to get a feel for how much danger Stone and Fors were in, immediately. . . and again, had to stop and blink. "What the _futar_. . . ?" he muttered, in pure disbelief.

The two batarians were still screaming, rolling around on the floor, and trying to take their armor off. The once-brown Hegemony fleet armor was now black, and the paint was peeling off, and the air around them actually shimmered with heat. "What a trick!" Fors called on the radio, sounding almost jubilant. "He's superheating their armor. Burning them inside of it, and definitely taking them out of the fight."

Rinus' crop clenched. Burning to death was a very bad way to go. He'd never used a flamethrower outside of training exercises and in combat, once, against a squad of krogan mercenaries that had boarded one of his ships. Fire at least slowed down krogan regeneration, so it was considered good combat doctrine against them. . . but Rinus still thought of flamethrowers as ghastly weapons. Difficult to aim with precision, so you might not hit exactly who you were aiming for, and, well. . . somehow, not as clean. "Stone. . . "

_Yes. This is not a song I often sing._ The rachni's tone held violets of regret. _I will sing another. Cold-song and hot, counterharmony._

_Huh?_ Rinus didn't have time to think about this, as one of the batarian warrior-castes nearest him broke free from Fors' stasis field. _Oh, s'kak, this is starting to be a really bad day_, Rinus thought. "_Marine teams, we've got them distracted, you're clear!"_ he called into the radio, and ducked out of cover and fired a high-impact incendiary round at the male's head, at point-blank range. The batarians' shields had had time to regenerate, but the massive impact of the shot tore at least through the first layer of shields.

The batarian whirled, and Rinus felt his shields sizzle again, as the techs, currently off to his right, as he faced back towards the emergency hatch through which they'd entered, continued to try to overload his shield. He couldn't see the warrior-caste's face behind that faceless visor, but he heard a snarl, and the batarian lunged for him, trying to knock the shotgun out of his hand, slamming him back into the reactor core. Rinus saw white for a moment, and shook it off, working his hand up and into his enemy's visor, shoving just under the chin, lifting and torquing the neck. . . and got a foot behind the male's forward ankle, and yanked, upwards, a 'chicken-scratch' kick, dropping the batarian to the floor—

And then Thell was there, having maneuvered around the reactor and pods back to the front, and the elcor almost delicately picked up one of the remaining warrior castes in one huge hand and simply _threw_ him aside. Elcor massed eight hundred pounds or so at a single g. They were used to two to three times that on their home-world, and thus, batarian male in full armor? What was another two hundred pounds, or ninety kilos, really, when they were used to moving their own mass when they weighed sixteen hundred to twenty-four hundred pounds? Rinus had seen a full-grown yahg leap on an elcor's back on Shanxi, and the elcor hadn't stopped moving until the yahg had attempted to bite through his thick hide.

Fors, in the meantime, had abandoned his stasis field, and was now standing up on Stone's back, lifting his little hands in the air. Rinus felt _something_ move through the air past him, and flinched, looking up in time to see the two remaining techs lifted helplessly off the ground and spun, out of control, up into the middle of the tall reactor chamber. All of this had taken eyeblinks. Rinus' knee was already coming up and into the batarian's facemask now as the male collapsed to the ground. The last remaining warrior-caste was turning towards him, last glimmers of his shield still flickering around him. _Don't have time for this_, Rinus thought, and brought his shotgun up. Again, point-blank, directly to the chest, blowing the male back a solid ten feet as the impact hit what was left of his kinetic shields and blasted into his armor.

The batarian at Rinus' feet, dazed, tried to clamber to his feet. . . and Thell reached out and simply slammed a fist down atop his head, even as the batarian Rinus had shot suddenly was lifted off his feet and hurtled, head-first, into the metal of the walkway above, and then fell to the floor again. Rinus glanced around, panting heavily, and heard two more thumps behind him, and turned in time to see the two batarians, who'd been whisked off into the air some time before, limbs still spasming as they curled in on themselves, having fallen a good thirty feet to the floor.

"_Spirits,"_ Galenus Eleutherius said, his rifle still loosely held in his hands, staring around the room.

_Four singers remain on the highest tiers,_ Stone warned them, just as the airlock cycled, and the _Hamus_ marines came through, weapons at the ready. Rinus immediately pointed to the two teams, and gestured at the two sets of stairs. "Clear the tiers," he ordered. "Watch the right staircase, it's unstable." He glanced around, and realized that there were three living batarians on this level with them. Two of them were shuddering on the ground to his right. They'd pulled off some of their armor. . .and some of it was literally cracked through in places. Both of them were on their knees, with their hands up. The last of the three was the unconscious warrior-caste at his feet. "Stone. . . what in the spirits' names did you _do_ to them?"

_Counterharmony. I sang to the tiny pieces that made up their carapaces. When they sing faster, accelerando, they give out heat. When I sing them to a slower tempo, they cool. Sung very quickly so, many things shatter, like glass, when the right harmonic is sung._ Stone sounded very calm. _Their carapaces were not very strong._

Rinus revolved that thought around in his head, and decided that the fact that rachni could actually superheat and supercool things wasn't as much of a surprise as realizing that they actually understood molecular and atomic principles. . . but then again, they'd achieved _spaceflight_ on their own, so why wouldn't they? He shook the thoughts away, and got back to work. "Fors, disarm and shackle the prisoners. Thell, you're with me. Let's get this damned engine off-line."

Of course, that was when the gravity cut out, which tended to undercut the firm decisiveness of his words, but Rinus shook his head, snorted a little, and pushed off the reactor core to the computer consoles to work with Thell. "I suppose this means that the other teams are doing well," Fors called over to him, tugging flex-ties into place around the various techs' arms, which were now behind their backs, as Stone loomed over the surrendering males. The batarians stared up into the rachni's multiple glowing blue eyes with their own four eyes wide, as they submitted to the volus frisking them for any additional weapons, and removing their omnitools, which probably had limited functionality anyway.

"Probably," Rinus called back. "At least Livanus' team has reached the gravity generation plant." He pushed out of his mind any worries about what the crew taking the bridge might be facing, and concentrated, intently, on the directions glowing in the air over his omnitool. "Okay, Thell, as soon as you get us in, I think I've got the procedures for a manual shut-down ready."

Fifteen pain-staking minutes later, following directions and if/then trees, as they worked to shut the reactor down, doing their best to ignore fire from overhead. . . the doors to the fore, a handful of batarian crewmen opened the hatches and tried to take down the invading hostiles. Rinus ducked down behind Thell and called to the others, including their marine teams, "Take care of them, we can't stop the shut-down process!"

He knew he tended to have a steadying influence on younger team members. It had always been part of his job as a centurion, and then as an _optio_. Train the younglings, whether they were enlisted or junior officers. Make sure he was calm, so that they could be calm, and do their jobs in the middle of a firefight. Thell, he realized, was so calm, so phlegmatic, that the elcor actually calmed _him_ down. The steady, stabilizing presence at his elbow let him think his way through the complex processes much more rationally, and kept him from making mistakes. "Wait, do we take the injectors off-line next-?"

"Yes. With no more fuel entering the core, we can safely pull the control rods."

A body flew by overhead, and Rinus ignored it, fully immersed in what he was doing. He had to trust in the marines, in Stone and in Fors, to keep the crewmen from attacking them as their backs were turned. "All right. Inputting directions for the injectors. . . "

The reactor's hum became a slow, draining whine, as the steady stream of fuel from both sides became a trickle, and then failed entirely. "Moving to control rods," Thell noted, pushing off to glide, ponderously, to the reactor cylinder. "Control rods are at different heights along entire reactor core."

Thell handled the lower rods; Rinus pushed himself off the ground and flew, acrobatically, to the second, third, and fourth levels, pulling the control rods at each level. And then the continuous hum that had permeated the room simply _stopped_, and Rinus pushed himself back down towards the floor as the blue lights overhead flickered off, and emergency battery power came on. Red lights over every hatch and along walkways. No batarians left to fight. "Right," Rinus said as he caught a piece of pipe to stop himself from careening into the floor. "Good job, everyone. Go to night-vision, if you need to. Team two, stay here and keep this compartment secure. Team three, you're with us. We're heading out for the guns and torpedo bays. Any questions?"

**Garrus, Galatana Space, January 28, 2197**

Garrus bared his teeth behind his polarized mask as their pod, which had been heavily hit by artillery fire on their way in, and which was venting atmosphere so heavily that the pilot was having to correct their course, fighting against the force of the escaping air, came in for a positive seal with the forward airlock. He glanced around at the two teams with him—Sam and Lantar, almost identical in height, and solid, stable, reassuring figures. They hadn't gone out as the official Archangel line in about two years. The last time had been when Lantar had managed to track down one of the groups of batarian raiders responsible for the asari ghost ships. They hadn't known then, what had become of the asari. . . but they'd found the nest of raiders out in the Maroon Sea sector. On Almarcrux, that strange world with its _warm_ atmosphere of ethane and methane, orbiting the blue-white star, Caspian. Sam had joked that at 31º C/87º F average temperature, it was shirt-sleeve weather. . . if only they could breathe the damned stuff. Not even a volus would try; it would be like trying to inhale nothing but water vapor for a human. Suffocating, even if the temperatures didn't immediately damage the volus.

And so they'd dropped in a Hammerhead, and gone stomping. Archangel missions were meant to leave _messages._ Today was no exception. . . except today, he and Lantar weren't wearing their scarred blue armor sets, but Spectre black, like Sam. And today, they'd _probably_ be leaving survivors behind. Well, more than the one or two they typically left in place to be certain that the message was, indeed, received.

Hal'Marrak had been with them, periodically, on this mission or that, over the years, when his tech skills were needed. He and Nal'Ishorah were both solid engineers, and capable fighters, but not quite outstanding enough to make full Spectres. Still, they'd both served very handily since 2190. No problems there. It was odd, however, to look at the familiar face-shield and gold suit wrappings, and realize that Hal'Marrak had probably chosen that color simply because it matched his eyes, under the mask. A simple expression of identity, from a quarian whose identity was nearly lost under the suit.

The marine team were unknowns, but he'd made a point of learning their names. . . two turians and a human, from the _Nereia_. Johan Breiner_,_ Eladus Korrinus, and Aclaea Harrinus. All young, but sharp, and that was what they needed now. "Everyone, be ready," Garrus warned, softly, over the radio. "They don't have the crew for pitched battles here, so we can expect other surprises."

Sam nodded once, and activated his stealth net. "Keep an eye out for your friend and foe systems," the human said, dryly, over the radio. "I'd take it as a kindness if my own team doesn't wind up shooting me."

They got the hatch open, and a hail of bullets poured out at them. They were damned close to the bridge at this point, and the level of resistance wasn't surprising at all. "Flashbangs!' Lantar said, sharply, as they all heard the distinctive whine, and Garrus turned his head away just in time as the blinding small grenades went off. "Go!" he shouted, and he rolled across the corridor, followed by Hal'Marrak, the quarian moving lithely across the corridor with him. Both of them came up on the left side of the corridor, facing fore, while Lantar and Sam took the right side of the corridor. "Watch our six," he called to the marines, and ducked around the corner.

There were, according to biosigns, about nine people, densely packed around and inside of the hatch leading to the bridge. They were not idiots, however, and had set up a defensive position. Blindingly bright strobe lights surrounded the door of the bridge, and were going off every half second or so, timed just so that the movements of the batarians ahead of them were choppy, a sort of freeze-frame effect that made it extremely difficult to aim, and almost impossible for eyes to adapt to either dark or light. Timed so that pupillary reaction was under constant assault, constant need to adjust. There were many reasons that turians wore heavily polarized visors, however, and this was one of them. The flashing was annoying, but not debilitating. Garrus could clearly make out three warrior-castes in front of the door, behind a metal barricade, shooting over the top of it, while the remainder were using the bridge hatch itself for cover, ducking out and firing periodically. "Nemesis, I'll cover you. Heavy weapons on the three in front."

"Will do." Lantar's voice was crisp, and Garrus ducked out, firing his rifle in quick double-taps, taking a few hits to his shields, but that was sort of the point. . . he was getting them to focus on him, for the moment. Not on Lantar, who, with the heavy weapon, would be extremely vulnerable for just a moment. . . .

. . . and then Lantar was around the corner, holding his heavy Blackstorm on its strap over his shoulder, and pouring projectiles at the batarian trio and their barricade. The barricade was suddenly riddled with holes, and the batarians shouted and ducked down behind it anyway, looking for any sort of shelter. The teams behind the hatch, however, ducked out and continued to fire. "Moving in," Sam said, sharply. "On the right. Hold your fire."

"I'll give them something else to watch," Hal'Marrak volunteered, and sent in a drone, covered in heavy kinetic shields, drawing the batarians' fire. Garrus and Lantar ducked back into cover, as if driven there by the bullets, and watched their omnitools as Sam slipped up the side of the corridor, just ahead of the pace of Hal'Marrak's drone. Saw on their screens as the human slid _through_ the gap between the two batarian assault teams, right onto the bridge itself. _As Wrex might say, that male has a __quad__,_ Garrus thought, amused. "Distraction time," Garrus told Lantar and Hal'Marrak. "Let's make sure they only notice us."

And then they all leaned out again, and made damned sure that they were noticeable. Hal'marrak had a small submachine gun, and crouched at Garrus' feet, firing out into the corridor, while Garrus kept to a upright stance, firing his rifle around the corner. Lantar threw a grenade this time—an incendiary load, one that would burn through armor—while the marine teams behind them kept up a steady stream of fire on the batarians at the door. _Come on, Sam. Do what you need to do, and get out. Come on._

Minutes ticked by. Ducking out, firing, seeing one or two of the warrior-castes fall to the ground, only to be pulled back into the bridge by their fellows, as another male would step out, to the barricade, to join his brothers there. Link their shields. Continue firing back at the invaders. _Come on,_ Garrus told Sam, the other teams, silently. _Get it done. Everything counts. . . . _

Relief, pure and simple, as Sam's voice reported, quietly, on the radio, "Packages in place. Coming out." And then he slipped right through the batarians once more, backing down the hallway, and ducking around behind Lantar once more. "All right, folks. They've got six officers on the bridge. They're still coordinating the fight—_shit_."

That was when there was a distinct rumble in the body of the ship somewhere aft of them, a shudder through the deck plates, and then gravity cut out, entirely. Garrus reached up a hand to keep himself from bouncing off the ceiling, and said, "Thoth's team is on the move. Magnetize boots." He looked across the hall at Sam and Lantar. "Offer them quarter."

Sam shook his head and ducked around the corner, visible, for the moment. In his thickly-accented, not particularly good batarian, he growled out, _"Take peace bargain, while you still can. Lay down your weapons, or die."_

Garrus' grip on batarian wasn't particularly strong. He'd had a batarian tech on his squad, back in the day on Omega, but he'd only picked up a few choice curse words here and there. Thus, he had to look at the screen of his omnitool for the growled reply, in the thick vowels and gutturals of the batarian main language. _Eat shit and die, human._ "Classy," Garrus said, dryly. "Orpheus?"

"Yeah?"

"Detonate your charges."

"You got it, Archangel." Sam's voice was absolutely calm. As he'd commented many times over the years, his training had revolved around getting behind enemy lines—check, in this situation—and doing maximum damage before anyone realized he was there, and getting back out again, unseen. In this particular case, he'd planted high-explosive charges, rigged by Hal'Marrak, in key locations around the bridge. Including the forward plasteel window. "Everyone make sure your grav boots are locked onto the floor, and grab hold of something," Sam ordered, kneeling beside Lantar, who grabbed a strut on the wall with one hand, and locked the other onto the back of Sam's armor. Sam's omnitool lit up, and the human touched a panel in the air with a decisive swipe. "Three. . . two. . . one. . . fire in the hole!"

The entire forward section of the ship shook, and wind began to howl past them in the corridor. Garrus had a grip on a strut, himself, and grav boots locked to the floor, but the air pressure tore at his armor, drove him, just for a moment, off-balance. He pulled himself back upright, and peered around the corner. The warrior-castes had had magnetized boots, too, but had been taken off-guard. . . and subjected to intense suction as all the air exiting the bridge behind them first, and the pressure as the air of the second compartment, behind the boarding party, poured down the narrow corridor. It was like capillary action, in a sense; the extremely narrow corridor, designed for defensive purposes, actually acted against the batarians here, concentrating the wind-force of the exiting air. Garrus could see several of the batarians flung backwards into the bridge, just as the emergency bulkheads dropped down—separating the two remaining warrior-castes on this side of the hatch. "_You want to think about those peace bargains now?"_ Sam asked in batarian, and got a reflexive, panicked flurry of gunfire for his pains. "Yeah, Archangel? They're not listening."

"Too bad, I guess," Garrus said, shrugged, and signaled both teams to open fire.

It was over with very quickly. The next step, unfortunately, was getting the bridge doors open again. That was, of course, yet another reason to have Hal'Marrak along. A common acetylene torch wouldn't function in a vacuum; the quarian engineer, however, was proficient with a large number of tools, and carried with him an electron beam welding kit, which was designed for work in vacuum. The miniaturized version of the equipment that Hal'Marrak carried was known as a 'can-opener,' among boarding teams across the galaxy, and had the dubious side effect of generating an uncomfortable amount of X-radiation. . . which was fortunately mitigated by most envirosuits. Even turian hide only provided partial protection from X and Gamma radiation, after all.

With the gravity out, it was hard to tell if they were maneuvering at all. There was no sense of the ship's attitude, not when up and down were, strictly speaking, now largely a matter of perspective. "Are you sure you got the helm controls?" Garrus asked Sam, as Hal'Marrak patiently burned through the bulkhead.

"Pretty damned sure, yeah."

The side benefit to depressurizing this section was that anyone who wanted to get to them? Would also need to override the emergency bulkheads that separated this compartment from the rest of the ship, or burn through them, just as Hal'Marrak was doing. "We've got movement on the scopes behind us," one of the marines reported. "Multiple biosigns."

"Keep an eye on the bulkheads. They'll still need to get through. . . and if they've got atmosphere on that side, they'll risk the lives of everyone behind that hatch if they try to get to us," Garrus reminded them all. "It'll make them think twice." He glanced at his own wrist. Three biosigns remained on the bridge. Probably frantically trying to regain some sort of control over the ship. . .

. . . and then, finally, the overhead lights simply _died._ "Vulcan's team got through," Garrus said over the radio, in a tone of absolute satisfaction. Emergency lights, dim and red, flickered on, and he knew that now, the entire cruiser was operating on emergency battery power. Helpless to maneuver. It could probably still fire minor weapons systems, and could maintain life support. . . escape pods could be launched. But thrusters, FTL drive, the main guns. . . all out. The question, of course, was if the biotic weapons systems could still function without the cruiser's power systems amplifying and directing the biotic energies. Garrus had seen the cruiser launching reave attacks against the _Nereia's_ shields as they'd started maneuvering in on it, before taking his own place in the launch bay. He knew damned well there were biotics aboard the ship.

Hal'Marrak muttered then, "Almost got it. . . get ready. . . " and then turned off his beam welder. Stood, and simply kicked in the cut-out in the hatch. Sam, stealthed, was the first person through the breach, while the marines held position behind them, guns aimed down the corridor, towards the emergency bulkhead there. Then Lantar and Garrus moved in behind Sam, taking on the two warrior-castes who remained. . . while Sam got in position behind the sole remaining batarian officer, who had the markings of a commander on his armor. . . _probably the XO. . . _and dropped the male, calmly, slamming him, face-first, helmet or not, into the shattered remains of a console, before forcing the male to the floor. Magnetic boots allowed Sam to pin the male there with a knee to the small of his back, while throwing the officer's sidearm towards the broken front window of the bridge, and then proceeding to shackle the male. They needed someone with command codes, if at all possible.

Within ten minutes, they'd secured their prisoners, and had checked in with the other groups. "We're going to proceed to the secondary objective," Garrus decided. "Zorro, we'll be right behind you within minutes."

"Understood," N'dor's voice came back over the radio, sounding strained. There was chatter of gunfire in the background. Wherever N'dor was inside the ship now, there was still atmosphere, not the deathly silence of combat in vacuum.

"Hal, you and our marine team, get back to the breaching pod with our prisoners, and have the pilot take you back to the _Nereia_. Nemesis, Orpheus. . . we're going for a little stroll outside."

"Wouldn't miss it," Lantar said, moving as smoothly as his magnetic boots allowed, for the shattered front window. "Deep space is lovely this time of year." He caught a strut, and pulled himself out the window, and clicked his boots down on the outer hull, shifting from magnetics to adhesion grip. The outer hull of most ships was not comprised of any ferrous material, after all. Lantar now stood perpendicular to the rest of them, and Garrus and Sam soon followed him. They had a trek to the breaching pods used by Valak's groups ahead of them. . . and once they reached them, they could re-enter the ship from the port hatch, in an area where the bulkheads hadn't dropped down, and there was still atmosphere. Hopefully, anyway. . . .

**Valak, Galatana space, January 28, 2197**

The ship was the _Ur'rak._ It was named for a large bird on Khar'sharn, half predator, half carrion-feeder, with a wingspan of over twenty feet and a beak that could exert over a thousand pounds of pressure per square inch, and flense the flesh off of bones, regardless of whether or not the prey was alive or dead. An ugly name, but apt enough. Valak fell in beside Livanus, but ahead of Siara and Sky, feeling the twenty-one hand-picked warrior-castes eyes as they boarded behind them, as a weight on his back, a subtle pressure. _Prove to us,_ they might as well have been saying out loud. _Prove to us that you're different. That you're right, and everyone else, the voices of tradition and authority, are wrong. Prove it._

They'd encountered only a single fire-team of warrior-castes, for the simple reason that they weren't heading towards the bridge, and the Vakarian-Sidonis-Jaworski team _was_. With that assault on the bridge as a rather huge distraction for the crew of the _Ur'rak,_ the larger team moved aft, deeper into the ship, and moved straight into the section reserved for gravity, life support, and kinetic stabilization. Minor resistance there, only a couple of techs on duty. Valak gestured, at the doorway, for the Spectres to stand aside. . . and led his warriors into the compartment. The techs inside saw _batarians_. More to the point, they saw _warrior-castes_, in Hegemony armor, and thought these were their own men. Their words of relief were short-lived as twenty-one trained warriors leveled their weapons at the techs. . . and the techs promptly put their hands in the air. Were shackled, to their considerable astonishment, and then Livanus moved in. . . followed by Sky and Siara. _"Mother of the gods," _one of the techs said, audibly, on seeing Sky. _"They're bringing monsters and our __own kind__ against us?"_

"_We'll talk with you later,"_ Valak told the techs, calm and urbane, keeping an eye on the aftward hatch as Livanus slapped small explosive charges on key pieces of equipment throughout the room. The turian was not wasting time, trying to figure out how to work the controls. Sometimes, the best tool was a knife. Other times, a hammer was infinitely preferable. Inside of ten to fifteen minutes, they'd knocked out the artificial gravity, and reduced life support to minimum levels, and moved through into the slave quarters, where terrified humans and batarians screamed at the sight of them, throwing up their hands and dropping to the floor.

Sky reared up, and blue-green song poured through Valak's mind. _Sing peace-songs. No harm to you. Sing freedom-songs, sing peace._ Terrified eyes, looking up from where the slaves huddled on the floor, hardly daring to believe.

"I need three volunteers," Valak told his men. "Stay here, hold this compartment and start getting the collars off the slaves. The rest of us need to continue up." He jerked his head at the ceiling, and he immediately got his three volunteers. Some of the males were still a little dubious about bringing down the caste system, but this was, Valak figured, one of the best ways to convince them of it. By letting them see the confusion in the eyes of the batarian slaves. . . and the gratitude and disbelief in the human faces.

Radem Y'mov was his chief lieutenant, and stayed pretty much at Valak's elbow. Sky had told Valak that Radem had been one of the first swayed by Blasto, in the attack on the Spectre base. . . and had been the first to start going through the extranet consoles for data. Information. The first to start asking questions. There was a lively mind under all that discipline, stoic demeanor, under two decades of relentless training and indoctrination. And Valak was damned glad to have Radem there to keep the rest of the warrior-castes in line. _"Up, m'lord?"_

"_Spectre will do, if you need a title,"_ Valak told him. The word tasted odd in his mouth, but he rather liked it. And his squad name. Spectre was the first title in his life that he'd _earned_, and _Zorro_ was at least someone other than Valak N'dor. Noble. Turncoat. Renegade. Traitor. Former SIU. "_But yes. Up. Mess hall and living facilities, then into crew quarters."_ He grinned. _"We're hunting officers, Y'mov. Some from technical castes, but most of them high-born, probably."_

Radem's eyes narrowed. "_Some will have vibroswords?"_

"_I'm counting on it."_ Valak patted the hilt of his own, where it hung openly from a utility belt now. No more swordcane. No more hiding his strength and his intentions.

Up a level, through a nearly deserted mess area. Most of the crew were at their action stations, and for damned good reasons. A handful of slaves in the kitchen area, cowering. Valak had his men remove their control-collars, as well, and told them, calmly, _"Stay here, where it is safe, for the moment. We'll be back for you._" Livanus repeated that message in galactic for the humans, much to their apparent disbelief, and Sky sang wordless reassurances. Another three warriors were left in the mess hall area to secure it, and then they headed up another flight of stairs, as all power in the ship suddenly died. _Ahh. That would be the inestimable __dominus__ Rinus and his band of merry saboteurs. _Red lights glowed all through the stairwell now, dimly lighting a path upwards. They flowed up the passage merely by grabbing the handrail and pushing off, lightly, trying not to overshoot Livanus or crowd the turian. Feeling Siara, the silent, intent, asari, pulling up behind him, and Sky's huge form, floating behind her.

Officer's quarters proved to be a good deal more of a challenge. There were half a dozen SIU there, in armor, waiting to be called to the biotic weapons area. Each of them had a leashed human or asari biotic beside them, but at the moment, all of the attackers were free to pull loose of the deck plating. Shockwaves were, thus, almost trivialized. But the asari still had singularities, which sent Radem and two other of the warrior-castes bowling back through the corridor outside the small private quarters, and the humans actually seemed to be able to place biotic barriers over their SIU handlers, causing Livanus' bullets to deflect away into the walls. The biotics were not protecting themselves, but their masters.

Not that they had any choice in that.

A change came over Siara when the asari saw the lobotomized biotics. Valak only caught a glimpse of the expression behind her clear face shield, but he saw her lift a hand, and the closest SIU agent doubled over, holding his head, and actually screaming with pain. Valak's eyes widened. He'd been through the same rigorous training as every one of these men. Crying out, even under electroshock, was considered an invitation for more punishment. Everyone in SIU learned, and quickly, never to cry out in pain. To resist it. He would never have imagined any of them screaming from it. Sky raised his head to its full height, and sang, in bass notes, _Will you match songs with me, cold-song batarians, captive-singers, singers of binding songs? Send your silenced ones if you will, but it is with __you__ that I will match harmonies!_ Red and black, and _something_ tore past Valak, and the biotic shield around the SIU agent closest to him flared into visibility briefly, as something shimmering and faintly violet-red seemed to be tearing at it. _Go, Sings-Rebellion, sing your own songs!_

Valak took Sky at his word, and shoved off the nearby wall, turning himself into a projectile. Zero-g combat was something covered in training, long ago, and still oddly fun. He drew his sword and flipped when he got close to his target, and landed on the agent, feet first. . . but softly. Not a kick, but a momentum-deadening movement. The agent drifted backwards, absorbing Valak's momentum, and then Valak was on him, sword drawn. The agent, a noble-caste, if low-ranking, scrambled to draw his own blade, but Valak feinted to his left—again lightly, so lightly, that he didn't have to correct for drift. The male facing him reacted predictably, trying to parry an attack that didn't actually come, which drew his blade off-line. . . which opened his chest area. He realized, it, and tried to compensate, starting to flail in the zero-g environment, lifting his right arm. Valak spun lightly to the right, and, from a downwards angle, thrust his sword up and through the less-heavily armored area of the armpit, and into the lung. He could have gone for a heart thrust, but this attack didn't commit him to skewering the blade through the body. . . and served a dual purpose. Now, his back was to a wall, and the agent was between him and the agent across the hall, who was still writhing in mid-air in agony, as his asari slave stared incuriously at him, as if awaiting instructions.

Unfortunately, Valak was still in the line of fire from the other four agents and their asari, who were moving out of the rooms aft of him along the corridor. One of the agents, cannier than the others, shoved his asari slave forward and pointed, peremptorily, at the right wall of the passage. . . and obediently, she sent a shockwave through the wall itself, instead of through the floor, aimed at Valak. Valak saw the attack coming, and shoved off the wall, somersaulting in the air to drift safely to the other side of the corridor.

That was when Livanus blasted diagonally past Valak with his assault rifle, a concussive shot that hit the agent who'd just attacked Valak, throwing the male backwards. Zero-g definitely made combat a much different environment, because now that agent managed to latch onto the arm of his asari captive, but only managed to drag her with him a good twenty feet back. . . while the warrior-castes, moving up the hall behind the Spectres, proceeded to riddle his flying form with bullets, driving him and his tame biotic right into the bodies of the _next_ agent who'd just drifted out of his quarters.

A singularity formed near Valak now, sent by one of the human biotics, and he could feel his limbs growing heavy. Sluggish. As impossible to move as if he were suddenly in the time-dilation of the event horizon of a true black hole. "Ah. . . a little help here?" he said. Even his voice sounded artificially deeper to his own ears, as if sound waves were being lengthened and distorted by the gravitic effect. He was floating in mid-air, not unusual for zero-g, but he wasn't in control of himself, and a clear target—one that the various agents down the hall were taking clear advantage of. He could feel bullets starting to zing off his shields and armor, and struggled, slowly, to draw his pistol. To raise it, in spite of gravity informing him that resistance was futile. Even breathing was difficult, at the moment.

_As they sing, so shall I._ Something _else_ that distorted the air around it raced past Valak, and paused between the two left-most agents and their tame biotics, a human and an asari. All four of them suddenly lifted off the ground, whirling aimlessly, taken from zero-g to three or four gs in an instant, and they were now just as helpless as Valak. And because one of them had been the biotic commanded to attack him, the force that gripped him, now faltered, and he took a deep, grateful breath. "Thank you," he told Sky, saluting with his sword, a little flourish, and then the warrior-castes moved past him. Began tearing into the shields of the two agents who were tangled up on each other at the end of the hall, and then Valak and Livanus took out the two who were clasped so tightly by Sky's gravitic clutch.

Siara had, all this time, simply held her captive tightly with raw pain. By the time the other five were dead, the male was simply begging her to allow him to die. Valak just stared at the slender asari. "Madam, I do not ever wish to vex you," he told her, simply, and pointed down at her chosen victim. "Ah. . . it might be easier to question him if he's not actively screaming," he added, taking the convulsing man's few remaining weapons and binding his arms and legs with flex-ties.

"If he's not actively screaming," Siara mimicked his phrasing, "won't he just get control of his slave again, and turn her against us again?" She gestured towards the blank-faced asari who still floated beside her erstwhile captor. Staring at him expressionlessly. Just as the two other biotics who'd survived their attack were now floating peacefully in place. Blank-faced and speechless, the other asari and single remaining human were like ghosts in the dim red light of the emergency systems.

"I don't know," Valak told her, after a moment. "But it is, I'm sorry to say, a possibility." He looked at her steadily, as the male continued to scream in his ear. He winced a little internally at the sound, but didn't permit it to cross his face. "Shall we send her down to the other slaves, so that she's out of range of his chip?"

"I doubt she'd be out of range anywhere on this Vaul-cursed ship," Siara told him, softly.

"Then what would you have me do, madam?" Valak wondered, for a moment, if this young-looking female was, in fact, testing him in some way. "Do you wish to kill her? Do you wish _me_ to kill her?" _Would you like for me to confirm, in your eyes, that I am, like my brethren, a killer of innocents?_

Siara's blue eyes flicked up towards him. "Would you? It would be a mercy to her. To all of them." A thread of discomfort; this fierce, almost savage young asari had depths of vulnerability in her.

"I would greatly prefer not to have to do so." Valak met her eyes, and exhaled. "On the other hand. . . it is entirely likely that someone chipped to control _one_ of them, can, in fact, control _any_ of them. I doubt that they would limit the chip so that one controller can only affect one slave." He prodded the male, who was now merely shuddering and moaning, with the hilt of his sword. _"Is that correct? Can you control any of your biotic slaves with your chip, or just one at a time? The sooner we determine if we can trust you, even a finger's length, the sooner your pain will be at an end."_

The answer came from slack, saliva-flecked lips. _"Can. . . control. . . any of them. . . "_

"_Regrettable. What's the range, my dear fellow? Come along, answer now."_

"_About. . . two hundred. . . feet. . . three hundred. . . at most. . . ."_

"Ah. Short-range, then. About two-thirds of the length of the ship." Valak said, and looked Siara in the eyes once more. "Do you want them dead, or not?" He'd be damned if he'd make it easy for her, if she wasn't going to make it easy for him.

She looked away first. "The Council of Sisters has said. . . that given that the brain damage is wholly irreversible. . . that killing them is a mercy." She looked at the two asari and the sole remaining human, her expression haunted. "They've even passed laws waiving the usual three-year waiting period for evaluating someone in a vegetative state. Simply because. . . there've been so _many_ recovered from. . . Omega. Arvuna. Other places. . . " She trailed off.

"But it's one thing to kill them in combat, in self-defense, and another thing entirely to put them down, isn't it?" Valak allowed his voice to soften slightly.

"Yes." She swallowed, and the male in front of her convulsed with renewed agony.

"I've executed spies before, my dear," Valak told her, as gently as he could. "It's a terrible thing to have to do in cold blood, but I can take care of this for you."

"Will there be no pain for them?" Siara's composure wavered slightly. Fascinating to see, really. She'd seemed to be made of ice and barely-restrained rage, until this moment. Now, Valak could see the young female beneath the mask she wore. Traces of vulnerability, just as quickly cloaked again. Yes, these Spectres were a fascinating group.

"I can't promise a lack of pain. But I can promise that it will be over with, quickly." Valak held up his pistol, already grimly rehearsing what he would have to do. Have them kneel, stand behind them, place the pistol at the base of the skull, and pull the trigger. It revolted him, but it was necessary.

Siara darted a look at him, then at her prisoner. "I could take their pain," she said, but then her resolve hardened. "But in doing so, I'd lose my ability to control this one."

_It is also not good for your harmonies, to listen to too many death-songs, Pain-Singer,_ Sky remonstrated, his tones all gentle cellos. _Has not Sings-Heartsong told you this in the past? Is this not how Many-Voices became marked, as he was?_

Siara looked at the big rachni. "Can you keep him from using his chip?" she asked.

_I can hear his intention-songs, but I cannot control his melodies. The most I can do is sing louder than he sings, and overwhelm him for a time. This will not allow you to gain answer-songs from him, however._

_So much for an easy answer_, Valak thought, grimly. "I'll handle it, my dear. Don't worry about it."

"No," Siara told him, her face suddenly set in stubborn lines. "I'll. . . administer an overdose of _morphinol_ to the asari, and of morphine to the human. They'll. . . go to sleep. No pain."

"That's not an exact science," Livanus pointed out, calmly. "An overdose can take days of coma before the body actually dies. Most people figure it's the most peaceful way to go, but it takes a little more than a simple overdose, to ensure that it's quick. And you don't know the exact dose it would take for each of them."

Siara's head bowed for a moment. "Then I'll do the shooting," she said, quietly.

"No need," Valak told her, and put a hand on her shoulder. "There's no need for you to show anyone here that you're strong. It's not a question of strength. It's a question of how much of your soul you're willing to give up." He gave her shoulder a little shake. "I've already paid that price. You don't need to. Hold onto that prisoner, and. . . I'll be back." He exhaled, and told the warrior-castes around him, who were watching the by-play curiously, _"Move the lobotomized slaves into one of the side rooms. We unfortunately can't let them live, not while this agent can give us answers."_

"_And when the agent's given us answers?"_ Radem asked.

"_Then, to my way to thinking, he'll have served his purpose, but we'll keep him alive so that the other Spectres may ask their questions, as well."_

They took the biotics into a separate room, and Valak stood before each. Looked into the empty eyes, and said, in galactic, "I am very sorry. I know you probably don't understand me, but if any part of you does, please forgive me. I can assure you that it will be quick, and no one will use you as a weapon again after this."

None of them reacted, but when his men pushed the first asari to her knees, she closed her eyes, and actually opened her mouth. _No question as to what use her captors have put her,_ Valak thought, grimly, and put the barrel of the pistol to the back of her head.

It was necessary, but it didn't make him feel any less dirty, and he was surprised when each of the warrior-castes put a hand to his shoulder as he walked past them to the door. A gesture which, given that he was noble-born, they would never have been permitted to make on Khar'sharn. He turned towards Radem, widening his eyes slightly, asking, without words, _why do you touch me?_

"_You make the hard choices, Lord. . . Spectre,"_ Radem said, his face expressionless, but his eyes filled with respect. _"And you don't let other people pay the price for them."_

One of the males, behind him, murmured, _"Should have been born warrior-caste."_

Valak lowered his head for a moment. There was acceptance and respect here, for doing something he found utterly detestable. . . but his personal guilt bound him to these males, and they to him. It was. . . something, anyway. Something even faintly positive to take out of a horrible moment in a horrific place in a terrible time. _"Thank you,"_ he told them, and raised his head to look at each of them. _"Let's go see if my former brother in SIU has any answers that were worth three lives."_

As they began questioning the male, the radio crackled, telling them that Garrus, Sam, and Lantar were heading their way, the bridge secure. _"Will take us fifteen minutes, probably,"_ Garrus' voice said over the comm.

Valak silently thanked his ancestors that his senior Spectres would shortly be on hand to make decisions about their current prisoner. . . and wished, fervently, that they'd already been here ten minutes ago, so the painful choice wouldn't have had to be his. He knew that was a form of moral cowardice, however, and simply told Garrus, "Glad to hear it," and got back to questioning their captive.

They covered what their orders were in this system, what communications they'd had recently from superiors at SIU—the captive managed to regain enough composure to call Valak a traitor, which prompted Siara to shock the male again. "Oh, he's free to call me a traitor and anything else he can think of. Even a _rua'lodak.__ So long as he continues to be forthcoming with information." He leaned down and looked straight into the captive's eyes. _"Because you know I can do worse to you than she's doing, yes? You're just a tech in SIU. I was a full agent in the Intelligence division." He was banking on the fact that even in SIU, the Intel division had a certain cachet, a certain mystique. He actually hadn't been trained in the finer points of 'information extraction,' as Arvak R'mod certainly had been. "Make it easy on yourself," he advised, almost gently._"We can keep doing this the hard way. . . or you can make it so much easier."_

"_What do you want to know?"_ the male demanded, limbs straining against the flex-ties, spinning a little in mid-air in the darkened room.

"_A little news from home, dear fellow. Was this cruiser going to be rotated off blockade duty soon?"_

"_Yes."_

Radio chatter. Gris, Makur, Melaani, and Nal'Ishorah, checking in. They'd moved to the highest tier of the cargo bay and killed twelve SIU agents, between the lowest level and the highest. . . and now had eight remaining lobotomized biotics on their hands. . . . and no idea what to do with them. Rinus Velnaran's team had finished securing the weapons platforms on both sides of the ship, and now wanted permission to go after the techs in the sensor and shield array bubble, which is where the primary ship's servers were also housed, so that Thelldaroon could, hopefully, start going through their comm logs and files. _"Go ahead,"_ Garrus told that team. _"Zorro, we're five minutes from your position. We're in the slave quarters right now, heading for the stairs."_

"Understood," Valak said, in galactic, and switch back to batarian, addressing the prisoner. _"Where were you about to be sent?"_

"_Turian worlds. . . Macedyn or Nimines. We . . . were told. . .to be ready. That we'd finally see actual. . . combat."_

Valak smiled thinly. "_Actual combat doesn't appear to have been too healthy for you, old boy." _He paused. _"Why Macedyn and Nimines?"_

"_Wasn't. . . told much. Counterattack. Been planned for a while. Have had ships just outside their Kuiper belts. . . .for months. Preparing. Know it'll be. . . crippling."_

Valak stared at the male, and grabbed him by the front of his armor, rotating him upright for a moment, so that he could look directly into his eyes. _"How many ships?"_

"_Don't. . . .know. . . cruisers there. . . to protect the others. . . as they were inbound."_

Valak looked a the others. "That doesn't make sense," he said, immediately. "Cruisers aren't ships that protect other ships. They're like carriers. They need to be screened while they bombard. . . " He paused, and closed his eyes for a moment. "A feint," he said, testing the idea. "The turians would see cruisers, particularly those armed with biotic weapons. They'd follow standard combat doctrine, wouldn't they?" He looked at Livanus for a moment.

"Yes," Livanus replied, looking puzzled. "Attack the screening ships with fighters, and pummel the capital ships with our own heavy guns."

"And thus, the real attack could slip through, almost undetected." Valak frowned. "But what's the real attack?"

Back aboard the _Nereia_, he continued to question their various prisoners. The XO of the ship, Arran K'lar, proved to be high-nobility, as Valak himself was. He didn't know the male personally, but their families ran in the same circles. _"N'dor, why are you doing this?"_ he demanded, as Valak stared at him through the force field that surrounded the brig cell.

"_Because I'm going to save our people, K'lar, whether they thank me for it or not. They can spit on my grave until the universe ends and the next one begins, but there'll be a batarian people left to spit, they'll be free to spit or not to spit, and that's really all that matters to me."_ Valak tapped his fingers lightly on the wall. _"You were being ordered to Nimines or Macedyn?"_

K'lar refused to answer at first, so Valak beckoned Siara closer, and she gave him a taste of pain. _"Yes! Yes, we were to go to Macedyn next, damn you!"_ K'lar finally admitted.

"_You were the distraction force, correct? What was the real attack?"_

It took hours, and in the meantime, Thelldaroon had extracted the computer cores of the Ur'rak. And had started going through their contents with the help of the NCAI, a strangely lovely creature named Demostata. Siara had K'lar on the floor of the brig, begging her to stop, when there was a tap at the door of the cell enclosure area. Valak went to the door, and it opened from the outside. Rinus Velnaran stood there, gray under his scales. "Thell found some mission briefs, he thinks. Heavily encrypted, but the XO probably knows the codes that will unlock them."

And thus, they took K'lar, under heavy guard, to the tech lab, and Valak told him, in a kindly tone of voice, _"Unlock the files, old boy. You definitely want the nice asari lady here to stop causing you the pain, don't you?"_

A moment of defiance, another taste of the lash that Siara carried in her mind, and K'lar broke. Told them the access codes that would remove the encryption from the mission briefs, and sagged in between the two turians more or less holding him up at the moment. The guards took him back to the brig, and the various Spectres clustered closer, keying VIs to try to translate the text as the reports came up under the elcor's skilled hands.

Valak peered over Thelldaroon's shoulder, and read the words in batarian, his eyes skimming along quickly. _"Gods and ancestors,_" he said, after a moment, and put a hand on Thell's back to steady himself. "It _is_ a feint. And if I'm reading this right, it's already begun. They've had ships positioned on the outer edges of the systems of Macedyn and Nimines for months now—"

Rinus' head came up. "I remember hearing reports on that, before the Terra Nova mission. Even made galactic news—"

"Yeah. When the _McKinley_ and its escorts were destroyed near Noveria," Sam Jaworski supplied, his face suddenly paling, too. "An _Everest_-class ship and several frigates, wiped out. That part didn't get publicized much. . . but I remember telling Dara and Eli about it. Reminded them that a big ship with a huge railgun is only useful for bombarding planets, really. It's pretty damned ineffective against other ships. And while the Alliance sent out ships to sweep the area and look for the batarian ships that had done it. . .all they found was an ion trail heading into Council space."

"Heading for turian space," Lantar corrected, meticulously, his own face ashen under the scales. "The Hierarchy's been looking for them for months, but they weren't using the relays. They were taking a straight-line burn. They'd occasionally hit a fuel-depot, and then vanish again. No clear intelligence on how many ships there were. The Fleet chased after them, but they weren't sticking to normal travel routes. When they _did_ jump through a relay, they'd immediately turn and leave the system, and no one could get a damned count on the ships or the types because of it." He sounded frustrated. "The most we saw was that hit and run, captured by the survey station on Kivessan in the Nimines system. Three turian warships, attacked by five batarian ships with biotic weapons. They came through the relay, hit the patrol, destroyed the turian ships, and then went right back through the relay."

Rinus was staring at them. "Yeah. I remember that. That was before Arvuna and Terra Nova."

Garrus nodded grimly. "Yeah. Was in the briefing materials for a number of units being sent into the field. Lilu made a point of telling Pellarian and, ah, Serana Velnaran about it before they took that mission deep into batarian space." A quick glance at Valak underscored Garrus' words.

"All that first one was, was a scouting probe. Got a quick peek at the defenses," Lantar muttered, still glaring at the screens. "Then pull back and report in."

"Do they have the dark-matter drive? That's been the question all this time," Sam muttered, scrubbing at his face. "We know STG has been compromised before. . . "

"There's been no indication of that—" Garrus replied.

"Hold _on_," Rinus said, sharply. "Why didn't you _tell_ anyone about this? More than just . . dribbles of information."

Garrus looked at his nephew calmly. "TIA's aware. Systems Alliance Intelligence is aware. We were aware. We didn't make a point of talking to junior Spectres about this because you were assigned to Terra Nova or Arvuna or wherever, and your attention needed to be on _that_, not on the whereabouts of batarian ships that were skating in and out of Hierarchy space." He frowned slightly. "We haven't told you much about the Spectre team that was sent to Amaterasu at the same time that you, for instance, went to Arvuna, Rinus. Amaterasu is still occupied. We lost the full team that went there the first time. No need to burden you with that, now was there?"

"Excuse me," Valak said, cutting through the cross-chatter. "The Hegemony has never really invested in ships with large guns. The _Ur'rak_, and cruisers like it, are about the largest capital ships we have. The focus has always been on small, maneuverable ships, heavily armed and shielded."

"Exactly what I told Dara and Eli, months ago," Sam said, nodding. 'That and the recent push for biotic weapons makes me think they're opening their wallets for innovation, even if it's stolen innovation. Which is why I'm worried about the dark-matter drive—"

Valak nodded, a little impatiently. "Yes, yes. But the dark matter drive is entirely beside the point now, although I doubt the Hegemony ships have it." He stabbed a finger at a paragraph of plain typeface low on the screen. "We don't have capital ships. We don't use large rail guns. What have we, historically, used for ground assaults? And don't say 'yahg,' please."

"Spirits of air and darkness," Lantar muttered, pinching the bridge of his own nose now. "Not another comet."

Valak shook his head. "They've been hanging about the Kuiper belt and the Oort clouds of each system for a reason. There's more debris on the edge of most systems than just comets. Small planetesimals. Mostly rock and ice, but. . . "

"Asteroids, essentially." Garrus stared at the screen, as if he could force the words there to make sense by will alone. "They're going back to the Terra Nova strategy of a decade or more ago."

Rinus shook his head, his expression taut. "Macedyn's already been hit with dozens of heavy meteor impacts in the last twenty thousand years or so. . . that's the source of the crater oceans. Impact there would be bad, possibly cooling the planet with the dust cloud. . . but Nimines?" The younger turian's blue eyes glittered. "Nimines is just barely habitable on its best day. A planetary shroud of dust and particulate matter would drop temperatures to a point where the ecosystem might not be able to survive. And that's just the long-term. Short term, if either planet's major population centers are hit, we're looking at death tolls in the millions. It'll be the plagues all over again." His head swiveled and he focused completely on Valak now. "And you said it's _already underway_?"

That stopped everyone in the room dead.

Valak nodded slowly. "The _Ur'rak_," he said, quietly, "Was due to depart for Macedyn in two weeks. The Macedyn strike, according to this, is basically ready to go. . . they're just waiting for the cruisers and other ships to be on hand to jump through the relay into the system and get everyone's attention. This says that the ships massed near Nimines are within days of making the opening strike."

Sam pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "So," he summarized, after a minute, "here for the last few months, we've been frantically getting our ships up to date with the dark-matter drive so we can quickly cut through space, by-pass blockaded relays, and surprise the batarians. . . while the batarians have taken that same amount of time and used a few relays here and there, stolen fuel when needed, and burned their way through enemy territory using old-style FTL. . . to do the same damn thing."

"Achieve surprise, yes. Same damn thing? Spirits, no." Lantar's head came up. "We're not bombarding their planets. Not yet, anyway." His teeth suddenly bared in a grimace, and there was an emptiness to his eyes that was disconcerting. "We have to stop this—"

"Yes. And we have to break the blockade on Rocam, too." Garrus hissed through his teeth. "Valak, does that mission brief tell us where in the Kuiper belt their ships are hiding? That's a hell of a lot of space to search if they've gone dark and silent."

Valak was still reading. "Close to a dwarf planet at the edge of Nimines' system designated Ebulum. I'm not sure _how_ close; they could be using one of the other planetisimals out there for cover for different ships."

"And their distraction force?"

"Already en route. Three days, at most."

The turians in the room were just about rigid with tension as they all read their VIs' translations, confirming what Valak had already told them. "God damn," Sam said, softly. "They're trying to rock the turians back on their heels. Psychological gambit, basically. 'We've cut off your food, and now we can hit you pretty much whenever we want, back down.' 'Cept, of course, that's not going to work on turians. You hit a turian, he hits back, and harder, until one of you is dead."

"We'll alert the Hierarchy," Garrus said. 'There are ships in the Nimines system_. It's a mineral-wealthy system, there's a huge contingent of ships usually parked near the relay—"_

_"Which will be needed to fight the incursion team. The cruisers and the frigates and the raider ships that are about to come through," Rinus said, immediately. His hands were clenching and unclenching. _"Let me take the _Hamus_," he said, suddenly. "Send the _Acus_ and the _Clavius_ with us. All SR-4s. We can get there in time if we leave _now_. Three ships won't turn the tide at Rocam, but three ships, heavily armed, might make all the difference at Nimines."

Garrus' head came up. "Three ships against an unknown number of vessels, in the middle of the Kuiper belt, with dust and rocks in eccentric, chaotic orbits," he said, neutrally. "You understand what you're asking for, Rinus?"

Valak watched as the younger turian's head came up, and the crest flared a little. "Yes," Rinus replied, flatly. "If we run into more trouble than three SR-4s can handle, we can yell for reinforcements from the shipyards near the relay. They can use observatory equipment in-system to try to narrow down where the batarians are hiding."

"Won't work if they're dark and silent, or if they have any stealth ships at all," Valak pointed out, quietly.

"They must have been purging their drive cores—" Thelldaroon pointed out, pushing away from the console to turn around.

"Ebulum has a weak magnetic field," Demostata, the _Nereia_ AI commented, appearing in the center of the room and looking around at them. "Enough to purge a ship's drive core. It's one of the singular features of the dwarf planet; most such bodies lack a metal core, aren't large enough, and do not rotate rapidly enough. Ebulum rotates rapidly, and actually does have an iron core." She paused. "Additionally, Ebulum is at aphelion. It's currently positioned in its orbit as far away as it ever gets from the Nimines primary. It is also positioned at the far side of the system from the Nimines relay." Her hybrid features, odd but lovely, tightened. "The shipyards for the ninth fleet around Kivessan are also at the far edge of the system from Ebulum, and will remain so for another seventy-four standard years, until their orbits come closer to one another."

Garrus was looking steadily at Rinus now. "You're not a hot-head," he told his nephew, calmly. "You never have been. Tell me why you want to take three SR-4s into harm's way, and what you can do, that a large section of the Hierarchy's ninth fleet can't."

Valak watched as Rinus' head came up. Met his uncle's stare with his own. "Because it's my job," Rinus replied, very quietly. "I swore an oath. Long before I became a Spectre. I swore one to the Hierarchy and the Imperator when I became a _dominus_. It wasn't all that much different than the one I swore when I enlisted. _My body between my people and harm. My life for my people, for the Hierarchy, for the Imperator."_ The words were in turian, but Valak glanced down to confirm his rough mental translation. "Every other _dominus_ or _domina_ in the Conclave might have forgotten those words, but I haven't," Rinus went on, his voice quiet, but with a hint of savagery under the quiet tone. "I have to go there. I have to help, in any way I can."

Valak glanced up, and saw that Galenus Eleutherius, who'd been allowed to film all of this—subject to redactions later, of course—had turned the camera to focus entirely on Garrus and Rinus for the moment. Garrus thought about it, then nodded. "Take a team," Garrus told him. "And take the SR-4s. We'll continue to Rocam without you." He looked around the room. "Who do you want with you?"

"I'll go," Valak volunteered, immediately. Siara raised her hand. So did Makur. Stone and Sky, silent to that point, lifted their front chelicerae pointedly, and their song turned an ominous tone of red. Fors raised his small hand, and Thelldaroon raised his large one.

"We all can't go," Sam reminded them, dryly.

"But we appreciate the gesture," Garrus added, looking around the room. "Rinus? It's up to you."

Rinus' eyes glittered for a moment. "Valak, I thank you for the offer. . . but no. As much as it would mean to have you fighting for the protection of Nimines, you're the only one who can command the warrior-castes. Convince the prisoners we've taken to change sides. Question the other prisoners. No. Rocam needs you to stay with the others."

Valak sighed, but nodded. _I can't be two places at once, but it would have been such a poke in the snout to the Hegemony,_ he thought.

"Fors," Rinus went on, simply. "Fors is a volus, the long-time ally of the Hierarchy, and a force on his own to be reckoned with."

"Thanks for noticing all of that. I hadn't actually realized it, myself."

Rinus tossed a data crystal in Fors' direction, not changing expressions. He paused, thinking. "Thell, you're going to be needed in the Rocam boarding parties. You're invaluable for that. I'd love to take you with us, but. . . "

"Understood," the elcor replied, placidly. "You cannot take everyone."

Rinus looked around. "Stone. I've seen what you can do in battle." His eyes moved again, and after a long moment, he said, simply, "Makur. We fight damned well together."

"I'm touched, turian." Makur grinned. "Got room for my cat on that gunship of yours?"

"I'll tell one of the younglings to _make_ room in a cargo hold." Rinus turned back to Garrus. "These three, if we have to do any ship-to-ship, and we'll be fine. Probably won't come to that, though." He paused. "The sooner we leave—"

"The sooner you'll get there. Spirits be with you." Garrus clasped Rinus' wrist, and added, "Please don't get yourself killed. I've been hearing about putting you in harm's way from my sister since the Battle of Palaven." He smiled, briefly, the scars on his face stretching. "Ten minutes with a shotgun, Rinus."

"Ten minutes of being so scared I damned near wet myself," Rinus countered. "Get your gear together everyone." He crossed to Valak, and clasped his wrist. "Thank you," Rinus told him, unexpectedly. "On behalf of everyone's lives the information saves. They might never know, but _I_ do."

Valak shook his head. "Go save the lives," he told Rinus, glancing past him at the screens. "Don't thank me till no one gets hurt."

**_Complovium News Today_, January 29, 2197**

"It's with great joy that I can announce that the blockade of Galatana has been lifted," Galenus Eleutherius reported into the camera's aperture. "Our affiliate stations on the colonial world have offered us footage of wild celebrations taking place in the streets of the provincial capital of Annona, and other major agricultural centers like Farratus and Provenio." He swiped at his omnitool, filtering in the footage, while he continued to talk over it. One of the benefits of being a reporter in this day and age, was that you did tend to wind up being your own producer, to a certain extent. That was one of the downsides, of course, too. "After seven months of tirelessly attempting to run the blockade, the inhabitants of Galatana are jubilant to be in contact with their brothers and sisters throughout the Hierarchy this morning."

He paused, and let the image stream come back to his face. "How did this come about? In the late night hours of Finus thirty-sixth, a joint force of human and turian ships began a concerted attack on the batarian forces in the system. An assortment of human and turian ships, including several under the nominal control of the Spectres, moved into the system using a unique form of FTL drive," he carefully avoided saying 'dark matter drive,' since that was, technically, classified material, "and raised the nets that had been shielding the relay entrance. This allowed a second force to enter the system through the relay, and our ships caught the batarians between them, and ground them like a millstone grinds _festuca_ flour."

Eleutherius paused. "Flour. _Festuca_. _Beta._ _Phasela._ Not to mention _apaterae, cuderae, _and _talashae._" Stock footage, for the moment, taken by the Galatana affiliates, of warehouses almost bursting with food that they hadn't been able to ship across the galaxy. "The citizens of Galatana were never stopped from their usual agrarian occupations during the whole of the blockade, and they now have an enormous surplus of goods. Their transports are literally bulging with supplies, which are now making their way to the relay, under the supervision of more turian-flagged ships, and from there, these much-needed supplies will flow throughout the Hierarchy. The provincial government begs everyone in the Hierarchy to maintain order and discipline, and to show patience, calm, and good humor as fresh food once more enters the supply chain." He pressed a button, and dissolved the stock footage back into a focus on his own face. "The Imperator has called for the suppression of any food riots that occur, and appeals for calm. He stated today in Complovium that everyone in the Hierarchy has shown honor and resolve in a difficult time, one of privation, but that we must continue to show that same honor, now that it is so close to coming to an end. Austerity measures will continue at the Palace and other royal residences until such time as the Imperator declares the food crisis to be at an end."

The reporter looked down at his datapad, a wholly feigned gesture. He already knew what he was about to say. "There was heated ship-to-ship combat during the attack on the blockade, and a batarian cruiser, the _Ur'rak_, armed with biotic weapons, was seized. Many of its crew died fighting, but several prisoners were taken, and its databanks were seized before the crew could purge its files. The Spectres led the assault on the _Ur'rak_, and I was privileged to accompany them. I'm a combat veteran. I served my four years with a marine unit, and fought in the worst of the Reaper Wars. And. . . I must confess. . ." Eleutherius raised his hands, palm up. _What can you do?_ ". . . that I was too busy gaping in awe, like a youngling, to fire a shot at first." Rueful amusement, a poke at himself, to let the audience laugh, just for a moment. "What turned me, a seasoned fighter, into wide-eyed nestling? Ladies and gentlemen, I have for you today front-line footage of Spectres Rinus Velnaran and Fors Luka taking their team into battle, accompanied by an elcor probationary Spectre, Thelldaroon, and a rachni brood-warrior named Sings-to-the-Stone, whom I am reliably informed is a future Spectre candidate." He pressed a button, and let the footage speak for itself. He'd tried providing a little in the way of color commentary at first, and had simply fallen silent. Let the terse words on the radio convey the story as Velnaran leaped acrobatically, covered his teammates, and engaged in brutal hand-to-hand combat with at least one warrior-caste batarian.

The biotic energies didn't show up on camera, but the _effects_ of it did. . . the metal deck plates suddenly heating, becoming tendrils, wrapping around batarians like cages, or sculptures. It was beautiful, and it was terrifying at once. He'd made sure to intersperse clarifying shots when he'd edited the footage. A glimpse of Fors, and then two or three batarians flying away, helpless. A glimpse at Stone, and then the warped deck plates moving as if at a spirit's bidding. Eleutherius knew, and at least in part shared, the common turian unease with biotics. They weren't the _same_. No one was different, no one was special, was the motto of the Hierarchy's armed forces, and much of that ethos bled out into the general populace. Biotics were different. They were special. And this tour de force was evidence of how _much_ different biotics could be. . . and how game-changing they were on the battlefield, when properly applied.

And then, footage of them taking out the gun emplacements and the torpedo bays. Velnaran adapting to his colleagues' skills immediately, ordering Stone to superheat the consoles at which the batarians were standing, or their gun barrels—"Melt them to slag, if you can," the young Spectre ordered, at one point. "Pull their damn teeth." The elcor's stoic calm as he led the way into room after room, taking dozens of bullets each time. . . and emerging, unscathed, from each battle, usually with a wild-eyed batarian in one large hand, inquiring, mildly, "Where would you like this one put, for safe-keeping?" The volus, laughing like a madman on the rachni's back, freezing batarians in place or bowling them down half the length of the ship with his power.

"This is just one team," Eleutherius told the camera, at the end. "They have allowed us, in the final days of Finus, to have something with which to celebrate the new year. And we may yet have more reasons to celebrate. I've asked, and been allowed, to follow Spectre Velnaran into combat again, on a different mission. Spirits grant us victory in this task. "

He signed off the report, and submitted it for redaction. He didn't think he'd have too much of it cut; he'd definitely shown the Spectres' strengths, but only one team's particular abilities. Nothing that the batarians could really use against the Spectres as a whole. And he'd pointedly only referred to Rinus as Spectre Velnaran. Not the Imperator's son-in-law, not Garrus Vakarians' nephew. Oh, SIU surely knew who he was. . . and had to be chafing at the fact that he'd apparently visited Khar'sharn once, a year ago, before the war, and they hadn't been able to arrest him or detain him for any reason. . .but they also had no way of knowing where he was likely to be stationed at any point in the war. And one turian tended, very much, to look like any other turian to a batarian or a human or an asari.

But to turians back home, Rinus and his team would look like spirits who'd taken flesh, Eleutherius thought, revolving the thought in his mind, and looking at the footage he hadn't released yet, because it related to the next story. . . and because he wasn't sure how he'd get it past the Spectres' security and censors and everything else. "_I swore an oath. Long before I became a Spectre. I swore one to the Hierarchy and the Imperator when I became a __dominus__. It wasn't all that much different than the one I swore when I enlisted._ _My body between my people and harm. My life for my people, for the Hierarchy, for the Imperator. Every other __dominus__ or __domina__ in the Conclave might have forgotten those words, but I haven't. I have to go there. I have to help, in any way I can.""_

_Rinus Velnaran. The spirit of Duty, incarnate. Munus._ _I wonder how this would go over, if shown before the next meeting of the Conclaves . . . . Would it enrage the Dominae, or prod them to his side, I wonder?_


	138. Chapter 138: Fire and Flood

**Chapter 138: Fire and Flood**

_**Author's note:** Sladkaya is gradually working her way through doing sketches of everyone in the main cast, and many of them are really lovely. For example: 26[dot]media[dot]tumblr[dot]com/ tumblr_lz8xr5z60Q1qla3rpo4_500[dot]jpg is her take on Rel; brooding intensity here. :-)_

**Rinus, January 30, 2197**

Rinus stood by the starboard observation port of the _Hamus_, watching the lines of red-to-violet light that the stars currently were, and chafed. As silently as he could. Behind him, a thick sort of snuffle, followed by Fors' distinctive tones as the volus told him, "It's a little known fact, but the truth of the matter is, the faster you want to get somewhere, the longer it takes. I have a theory that everyone in the universe is actually an incipient biotic, and we all learn to dilate time, suspend duration, just shortly after being hatched."

Rinus half-turned, and gave the volus a look. He had a feeling that the male was trying to get him to relax, but it wasn't terribly working. "I know it seems that way, but time is measurable."

"Yes, but thoughts have weight, force, energy, even friction, in biotics," Fors pointed out, in tones of sweet reason. "A clock at sea level will run more slowly than one in orbit. Proven fact. Put enough thought into how long something takes, and it'll create a gravity vortex right by that clock."

"Only in my head, Fors, only in my head."

"I think that was my point, yes." Fors snuffled, and shuffled closer to the window. "We'll get there when we get there."

"If it were Irune we were trying to get to in time?" Rinus prodded, his expression grim. "Would you be adding gravity to the clock then, yourself?"

"It practically _is_," Fors said, sharply. "Most volus take the protection of the Hierarchy for granted anymore. Five hundred, six hundred years of being sheltered will do that. But _I_ remember that when Palaven bleeds, Irune should feel it, too."

Rinus stared down at him, struck. "I'm sorry," he said, after a moment. "I didn't realize you felt that strongly about it." _Or really, about anything,_ he admitted, silently.

Fors lifted his tiny hands, palms up. A very turian gesture. "I fought with a turian unit in the Reaper War," he said, shrugging. "Most of my people didn't do that. I _know_ that the blood of the turian marines and infantry and pilots and whoever else is what prevents my people from having to defend ourselves." There was an exhalation from behind the volus' mask. "I absolve you from blame for not knowing this about me, however, my noble turian friend," Fors added, in a tone of cheerful magnanimity, looking up at Rinus now. "I try not to let anyone see that I feel strongly about _anything_. Makes life a hell of a lot less complicated, if no one realizes that there's anything that you really want or value." He snuffles. "Pretty much why the marriage negotiations are bogged down. All ten clans realize that I actually value Chissa. Highly. And so they're all trying to take advantage of the fact that she's the one thing I've ever expressed any interest in. If people don't realize you find something of worth, they won't try to make you pay for it."

Rinus thought about it for a moment. "Half of me wants to tell you that you've got a gloomy way of looking at the world," he told Fors, finding a chair to sit in, still staring out the window. "The other half of me agrees with you."

Fors snickered again. "I rather thought you might," he replied, and waddled to the window, putting the nose of his suit right on it. "I wonder what the stars smell like," he added, thoughtfully.

"Largely like superheated chemical reactions," Ariston replied, his avatar materializing behind the volus in a swirl of light and shadow, making Fors jump. "Which is to say, for such pretty things? They sort of stink."

"You always sneak up on people like that?" Fors grumbled.

"Whenever possible, yes." Ariston's voice was slightly amused, and his eyes held a predatory glint.

Ariston's avatar was almost wholly turian, with dark gray scales, yellow Thracian face-paint. . . but striking, large, soft human eyes set under prominent brow ridges. He'd taken the green color from Laetia, but there was almost no hint of her reckless, impetuous, slightly self-absorbed nature in this young male. He had the stance of a hunter, light on his feet, as if poised to run or dodge at any moment. . . and while Kallixta had always told Rinus that she thought the AI looked like him, in the shoulders and in how he carried himself, Rinus looked into the AI's face, and saw a male version of his wife. _Truly, the child of our spirits_, Rinus thought, looking at Ariston for a moment. It had taken him until the end of his tour on the _Hamus_, but by the end of that stint, he'd had no problem in calling Ariston _son_. . . though not 'first-son.' There were too many other AIs, all 'born' at the same time for that, and Rinus wanted to make a distinction between these virtual children, and the children of his own flesh and blood. That was a distinction he'd codified into law. An AI could not supersede flesh and blood children in matters of precedence or inheritance, except where a parent had specifically left an AI an inheritance or as the executor of an estate. CAIR could shout all it wanted that this made AIs second-class citizens, but really, did an AI need old furniture or clothing or a house by the seashore?

"Was there something, Ariston?" Rinus asked, quietly.

"Yes, Spectre." Not _Pada_, not in semi-public. Ariston was courteous and careful about the proprieties, and Rinus approved of that, too. _"_Ten minutes to our final relay jump."

"Finally," Rinus said, exhaling explosively, standing up to move to the armor locker. He hadn't let himself get armed and ready on purpose. He didn't need to key people up on the ship any more than they already were. They all knew the stakes. Pacing the halls in armor, wearing his weapons, would do absolutely no good, and he wasn't crew. He wasn't, technically, 'on duty,' and didn't need to be in armor until it was time. But every part of him had chafed at the delay.

"The other AIs and I did try to trim as much length from the journey as possible, and made the most efficient burns across the various systems, but time is, unfortunately, time," Ariston offered.

Rinus glanced down at Fors, and snorted a little with laughter. "I've just been told that time is relative, and largely a state of mind," he replied, and snapped his legplates in place.

"Philosophy before battle isn't a good idea," Makur rumbled, stepping through the door, Stone behind him, peering in curiously with his alien blue eyes. "Tends to get people killed."

"I'll keep that in mind," Rinus told him, baring his teeth in a quick grin.

He'd tried writing to Kallixta last night, but he was a terrible letter-writer, and knew it. Everything he felt refused to come out in words, and whatever he wrote, tended to come out as dry and clinical as a technical manual. He'd finally settled for summarizing the situation, _Can't use the huge mass effect drive that the __Catasta__ had for Earth, beloved. Not only was that removed several months ago, and sent back to the Xe Cha system for further work on Tosal Nym and Aphras, but we're not looking at one big cometary body, moving in from an acute angle, unguarded because it's moving along an unwatched trajectory. We're looking at, from what we can tell, four ships, towing large Kuiper belt objects of ice and rock, probably with escorts. Maybe fighters, maybe raider ships. Unknown number. Unknown weapons. Lots of unknowns._

_Just so you don't have to worry about unknowns, my will is in the safe of our house in Raetia. The life insurance I had in the Fleet was rolled into the policy that each member of the Conclave of Dominae gets for being a member. Unfortunately, a little-known sub-clause in that policy states that any member of the Dominae who becomes a Councilor, Spectre, or otherwise works directly for the Council, voids that policy (probably to avoid double payments, I suppose). The Spectres do provide a policy, and cover interment costs. Yes, I know, terribly morbid and not very romantic of me, but I've kept meaning to tell you these things this year, but there's been so damned little time to spend together, I haven't wanted to waste any of it on this kind of s'kak. And yes, I know, technically you don't really need the money, so that's why, once everything gets taken care of, the will asks you to split it up between the Veterans' Prosthetics Research firm, and the Council for AI Affairs—not CAIR._

_All right, that's enough of that s'kak. I love you. And, spirits willing, I'll see you soon. _

He'd sent the message before he could re-think it any further, and forced himself to go to sleep last night, fighting to smother the adrenaline singing through his body. It wasn't needed yet. Sleep was needed, however. Adrenaline was very useful in its place, but at the moment, wholly extraneous.

He and the others made their way to CIC, where the captain, Faria Alenus, was waiting for them, her slender body radiating her own leashed tension. The female was tall, easily 6'5" or 1.96 m, and wore the violet face-mask with white stripes of Quadim Outpost. "Don't let the paint fool you," she'd warned when Rinus had told her what the mission was. "It's my mate's. I was born in Nivalis, on Nimines." Her blue eyes glittered behind her mask of paint. "My mate is _in_ Nivalis, right now. With our first-born."

"Are you going to be all right to command the mission?" A quick, detached question from Rinus.

"I _have_ to do this. For them. If I let the XO take over, I'd be letting them down."

"Understood."

Now, almost complete silence from the bridge crew. The navigator was human, a female with dark skin and close-cropped, curly hair, who was plotting a course through the Nimines system. Kivessan, one of the outer gas giants, was in somewhat close proximity to the relay, but they didn't have time for aerobraking and efficient maneuvering. The needed speed, which meant an almost purely ballistic course through the system, while avoiding any and all obstructions, including, say, planets and asteroids, along the way. Rinus glanced at the orbital chart over the female's shoulder, and winced internally. He wasn't an expert on orbital mechanics, but even he could read the positions of the planets and the relay.

If he pictured the system as the face of a slightly elliptical human clock, with the circular face stretched horizontally, the relay was more or less a little past the three o'clock position, in the Kuiper belt. Ebulum, where the attack was poised to strike from, was at the ten o'clock position, directly across the system from it. A purely diagonal course was just barely possible. Kivessan, the eight planet in the system, and one of the largest gas giants, wasn't in their path at the moment, being purely at the three o'clock position. Ephed and Tularae, two other gas giants in the outer system, were safely tucked away at the six and nine positions. Nimines, with its three moons and lovely ring system, was also at the nine o'clock position, and was a chilly 2 AU from its star, just at the verge of the habitable zone.

The danger, however, came from Korrus, the fourth planet from the star, which was almost exactly at the three o'clock position, itself. . . and their proposed course looked as if they'd come close to clipping its sulfurous atmosphere. That wasn't the worst part of their course, however. Nimines was the third planet from its sun. Erra, the closest, circled closer to its primary than Mercury did to Sol, with only a fifty-one day orbit. It was a small planet, terrestrial, and incredibly hot. Equally hot, however, was Kestantus. This huge gas giant was larger than the Sol system's Jupiter, and had only a hundred and twenty day orbit around its star. At the moment, their proposed course would require them to thread the eye of the needle between the two planets.

The navigation officer glanced up at Rinus, and raised her eyebrows. "Looks worse than it is, sir. We're still talking about the better part of half an AU between them. What's forty million miles between friends, eh?"

Rinus shook his head, and managed a quick smile for the human. "Still looks like a narrow gap." He was aware, peripherally, that Galenus Eleutherius was on the bridge, recording everything for posterity, for some damn reason. Garrus had agreed to it, and Rinus wasn't sure if he should forgive his uncle for it any time soon. _What's a little more pressure?_

"It is. Definitely don't want to get the numbers wrong here, given the speed that we'll be traveling at." She went back to checking her equations, with the assistance of Ariston, in his eyeball mode.

Past the star, they'd have to make another transit between Nimines, the third planet, and Milara, the fifth, and then they should have a clear shot for Ebulum and the far side of the Kuiper belt. It would be tricky, but doable. Rinus' fists clenched and unclenched. . . and he wasn't surprised, somehow, when the communications officer turned from his panel and beckoned the captain, urgently. "Captain! Ninth Fleet headquarters is reporting a major batarian incursion through the relay. They urge us not to attempt a transit from this system until they're sure all the batarian ships are through, or we could ram them on exiting the relay."

No one really knew how it was that if one ship took the Relay 213 and another ship took Relay 215 at the same moment, with both ships heading to Relay 214, that they didn't arrive at their destination at the same exact moment and destroy each other. The supposition had always been that the Protheans—since the relay control panel interfaces were written in Prothean—had some sort of information network in place between the gates, that prevented such calamities. Of course, that had been when all the different 'dialects' of Prothean had been thought to _be_ Prothean. When it had been revealed that the _Reapers_ were responsible for the gate network (or perhaps it was the Sowers, before them), the control interface panels had been revealed as the Protheans' attempt to understand and interact with a technology that had been alien to them, too. At this point, Rinus wouldn't be surprised to discover that Console A on Relay 219 had been built by the Keepers, and that Console B, right next to it, had been built by the Protheans. All of galactic understanding of the technology that underpinned daily life had been revealed as a person standing on top of a ladder, reaching for a light bulb, and looking down to realize that underneath that ladder, was another ladder, which was perched atop four wobbling piles of books, all of which were on top of a rickety table.

It was not exactly a comforting image.

Rinus exchanged a glance with the captain. Her eyes were fierce at the moment, but cautious. "The manual says we wait until we get the all-clear, or until we're sure that communications have been jammed," she told Rinus.

Rinus considered that for a moment. "Captain," he replied, feeling a strange sort of calm spread over him. "I'm usually all in favor of following safety protocols. I've done ordnance disposal. I think there's a moment when you have to decide something is an acceptable risk."

The question was, _was_ it an acceptable risk? There had never been a recorded incident of a mid-relay crash. On the other hand, if they didn't get there alive, the Ninth Fleet would have to try to hold off the batarian incursion _and_ stop the ships inbound from Ebulum at the same time. Nimines did have an orbital defense system. . . but because of its ring system, it was not considered the best. It was difficult even for modern computers and tracking systems to deal with that much debris in the sky as well as track incoming ships.

Rinus and Faria Alenus stared at one another for a long moment. Rinus' crop tightened for a moment, and he said, quietly, "Given the fact that even minutes could count here? I say we take the risk."

"So do I," she replied, and turned to give the order. The _Acus_ and the _Clavus_ pulled in tightly behind the _Hamus_, and all three SR-4s plunged into the waiting glow of the relay.

The usual sensation of everything, briefly, becoming stretched and _thin_, somehow, a waver in reality, and then five seconds of actual travel. There was always a sensation of moving at very high speed, transmitted as vibrations through the ship's frame. . . and yet not, at the same time. And then out through the other side, and Rinus could see up into the pilot's cockpit as the male's hands moved across his panels in a blur. Ariston's voice was strained as he announced, "Considerable local traffic! All hands, brace for maneuvers!"

Rinus was already holding onto the starch art console, his toes under the metal bracket under it, as the _Hamus_ pitched ninety degrees to port, lifting the starboard wings completely out of the way of another frigate barreling past them, and the gravity systems took about half a second to catch up with the ship's current attitude, a measurable disconnect that made Rinus' crop flip. "_Acus_ and _Clavus_, right behind us," Ariston noted, his eyeball avatar glimmering green in the center of the star map for a moment, which dissolved and became a tactical grid. Rinus got a look, and wanted to swear.

Three batarian cruisers, three destroyers, seven raider ships, _Corsair_-class, four frigates, and about forty small fighters were outlined in orange, scattered across space in front of them. The ship that they'd nearly collided with was circling around to starboard right now, and was one of the Corsairs. "_Corsair_ class ships sometimes have been retrofitted for biotic weapons," Rinus noted, sharply. "Hope the folks in the Ninth Fleet know that."

"They do," Ariston told him, calmly, and added in the turian ships now, in green. The Ninth Fleet was based out of the Nimines system, but that didn't mean that every one of its twelve task forces was in the system at any given time. Each task force consisted of three to six ships, the exact numbers and composition depending on the task forces' usual duties. The _Incurso,_ a _Leviathan_-class carrier, was based out of the Kivessan orbital facilities, and its frigate screening ships usually followed it wherever it went. That was Task Force 132. The _Incurso_, however, was currently at the Omega relay, helping to protect vital shipping interests to and from the Terminus systems. Task Force 133 and 134, consisted of de-mining ships, had been at the Citadel for months, and then had been sent to Terra Nova to remove the yahg mines in that planet's orbit. Task Force 135 and 136 consisted of ships designed for challenging and boarding other vessels; the marines on board these twenty-four vessels were trained in 'coast guard' type operations such as detaining smugglers and pirates, freeing up the civilian coast guard to go on search and rescue missions for the many, many mining facilities and ships in the Nimines system. Task Forces 137 and 138 were in charge of port security. 139 and 140 were currently deployed on convoy escort duty, trying, ironically enough, to protect food supplies being moved from the now liberated world of Galatana, to famine-struck worlds like Nimines.

Task Force 141 and 142 were surveillance and patrol-oriented. Small, light-craft, that were designed to stand guard near the relay, and challenge those who came through it. It was a patrol from one of these task forces that the batarians had destroyed, back in Octus.

That meant that Task Forces 143 and 144 were what stood between seventeen large batarian ships and forty fighters and what surely _looked_ like another blockade attempt. _That's what they want us to think_. Rinus and the Spectres and the Fleet knew better, of course.

Fortunately, Task Force 143, though only comprised of six ships, held the _Recutio,_ another _Leviathan_-class carrier. It had been in dry-dock for repairs after helping to retake Terra Nova, and its sides were a patchwork of welding seams at the moment. Its two destroyers and three frigates were surrounding and defending it doggedly, however, denying even an inch of space to the batarians. . . and every _Leviathan_ had a full complement of 108 fighters aboard. Task Force 144 was there, too: three turian cruisers, three turian destroyers, and six frigates. The batarians had not attacked in sufficient force; their own fighters were currently in defensive positions, fending off the turian fighters from attacking their capital ships. _Then again, they didn't expect to win this way. This is the batarian way. Look, what a bargain I have for you here? An easy victory. Look, isn't it shiny?_

_Now, don't look at the price. We'll win, by sneaking behind you, and offering you a choice. Always a choice, with batarians. Choose to defend the relay, and lose the planet. Defend the planet, and lose the relay._ Rinus' talons were scraping the plastic of the console. "Captain—"

"I know. Ariston, you have the course from the helmsman?"

"I do."

Captain Alenus moved tabbed her comm, and told her pilot, "Cut right through the battle lines. Try not to let us get _hit_ by anything."

"Aye, Captain." The male's voice already sounded strained, and no wonder. Ducking, dodging, weaving. Ships all around them, moving, dodging, pitching, yawing. Torpedoes en route to one ship or another, small arms fire from the gun turrets on the fighters, Thanix canon blasts lighting up the bridge, yellow-white.

Unexpectedly, Rinus saw small white shapes stream across the forward window, and he muttered, "What the _futar_—"

"_Hamus, this is SF Squadron Seventy-Two. The Recutio's sending us with you, with the captain's compliments_." A cold, calm turian voice on the comms, and a couple of minor chuckles from the bridge crew, mostly of relief.

"Understood, pull in around us as tight as you can. As soon as we're out of the firefight, we're going to go to maximum FTL. If you're in our wake, we can pull you with us. If you're not, you're going to run out of fuel before we even get where we're going." Alenus' voice was crisp.

The fighters did indeed tuck in close, and Rinus winced. They were within perhaps six meters of the hull. "That's got to infringe on safety parameters," he muttered to Fors, dryly.

Fors looked up at him, and snuffled, but it was Makur who answered, "Vaul's teeth, turian. You were the one who said we needed to take risks."

Rinus showed his own teeth. "So I did. Just hope the pilots are sharp."

They pulled past the last of the turian defenders, and the stars around them blurred again. Watching out the port window of the bridge, the sullen orange chip that was Nimines' star almost seemed to grow, visibly, swelling. Rinus looked down at the tactical display, which had dissolved back into the orbital chart once more, then up at the others again. "If the batarians are here," he said, quietly, as realization hit, "that means that the primary attack has already started moving. We can't be sure they're even at Ebulum in the Kuiper belt right now. They're probably en route to Nimines this very moment."

The same realization was hitting people around him at the exact same moment he said the words; up until that second, they'd all been having to react, to respond, and quickly, to incoming fire, to ships hurtling into their path, hell, to Kuiper belt objects, deflected from already chaotic orbits by Javelin missile impacts, spinning into their shields and thumping against the hull.

Makur moved closer and stared at the orbital map. "We know they have some stealth technology," the krogan growled. "What are the chances that they can creep along concealed while carrying thousands of tons of rock and ice?"

Rinus did some mental math. "Probably not good," he said, trying to think his way through load tolerances just for a turian ship the size of, say, a batarian raider, just for a rough idea. "The major issue will be getting the rocks started moving," he said, after a moment. "Once you've created the inertia, you can more or less let go, and an object will continue to move. Getting the rocks up to enough speed, and carrying them close enough that you can ensure that they won't miss. . . that's another story. And if the rocks and ships are large, and should show up on observatory equipment. . ." His head lifted. "Ariston, are there observation satellites around Milara, on Tularae's moons, hell, are there any miners out in the outer asteroid belt in that vicinity? If so, contact them and tell them what approximate approach vector, and see if they can _see_ the damned ships." He stared out the window. "Which is exactly how they caught the _Estallus_ and the _Raedia_," he muttered. "Let's see if we can't return the favor."

Stone shifted slightly. _Frustration-songs very loud_, he sang, his oddly raspy song quiet in Rinus' head. _We will do what we can. And it will be enough._

Rinus lifted his head and walked over to the rachni to set a hand on the brood-warrior's shoulder, lightly. "I really hope it _is_ enough, Stone," he replied, exhaling. "I really do."

Twenty minutes later, they pulled up the blast shields on the bridge to shield them from the intense light of the system's primary, as they made the treacherous passage between rocky Erra and the superheated, glowing gases of giant Kestantus. "Contacts!" Ariston suddenly said, his voice almost jubilant. "O-three extraction stations around Tularae report multiple inbound ships, using the gas giant for cover!"

Someone on the bridge actually gave a hunt cry at that point, and half the turians, and even a couple of the humans followed suit, ululating trills bringing a shiver to Rinus' spine. He didn't join in, though. Finding the prey wasn't the same as bringing it down. The captain let her crew have their moment, and then gave the order to lay in a pursuit course, while they got the sensors up and running. . . and then when the results came in, the bridge went deathly silent again. Three batarian craft, retrofitted salvage ships, more or less. Bulky and slow, but with massive towing capabilities, each pulling an asteroid between two hundred and three hundred meters in diameter. _Two or three times the size of a Terran-rules handball field,_ Rinus thought, putting it in perspective for himself. Of course, size wasn't all that mattered. Mass mattered. Composition mattered. Speed mattered. And angle would determine if those chunks of ice and rock would burn up on entry, or hit down with deadly force. Which was why those towing ships, in this case, needed to hold onto their rocks for as long as possible. They weren't precisely calibrated projectiles, being fired by a highly computerized rail-gun system, with hundreds of calculations done for gravity and the movement of the target per second. These were lumps of rock. The oldest weapon there was, really.

Those three salvage ships, however, had been retrofitted. Their engine signatures didn't match normal power consumption output. "Looks like they've put in an additional mass effect core or two, and chemical thrusters for attitude adjustments," a sensor tech muttered, staring at her screen.

The towing ships, however, weren't alone. A batarian raider ship shepherded each of them. . . and three fighters cruised along with them. _S'kak_, Rinus thought, remembering all too well how the _Estallus_ had struggled to get target locks on the tiny, maneuverable Lystheni fighters, long ago. "Good thing the _Recutio_ sent some friends with us," he said to no one in particular, and held onto the console in front of him as they closed the gap, leaving Nimines behind them, and meeting the batarians within Milara's orbit.

"They've seen us," the sensor officer reported from her station. "Raider ships moving ahead of the salvage ships, fighters moving up in three-man groups."

"Tell the _Acus_ to take port and the _Clavus_ to take starboard. We'll take the middle. We probably can't afford to ignore the raider ships, but do not, under any circumstances, allow the towing ships to get past us," Alenus ordered, quietly, as they continued to close the gap. "Four of our fighters with each frigate. Range to targets?"

"One thousand kilometers and closing."

Rinus set his teeth, and devoutly wished he was at his station at the Thanix canons. Fors reached up and patted his arm. _"You smell like engine oil and too much apha, my noble turian friend. That usually means tension."_ Surprisingly, Fors was fluent in turian. He probably didn't understand _tal'mae_, but turian? Only a trace of an accent.

"_I feel useless up here,"_ Rinus admitted. "_I know the crews are good, but I hate being a passenger."_

"_We'll get our turn, I'm sure."_

"_If we get to board any of them, sure, but it's probably better if they're all just blown out of the sky here and now."_

"_No prisoners, unlike Galatana?"_

"_Galatana, they were blockading. This is an overt attack. No. No prisoners, no quarter, nothing for them but the cold embrace of space."_ Rinus jerked his head at the windows, and heard a turian crewmember beside him mutter _from behind your teeth to the spirits' ears_, softly.

"Five hundred kilometers. Batarian courses are holding steady."

"Be prepared for biotic weapons. What do the towing vessels look like? Any weapons?" Alenus asked, calmly. Total competence.

"Looks like. . . yes, they've had guns mounted above their stabilizers. Small cannons. Not Thanix, probably projectiles."

"Not rail-guns?"

"No, probably torpedoes, probably the same yield as an older model Javelin. Probably a limited number of shots, however. No gun crews, no internal feed from dedicated bays." The sensor officer was earning her pay, trying to figure this out on a moving target, comparing specs of known salvage vessels to what she was seeing, on the fly. Rinus approved. "One larger gun mounted amidships, above the bridge. . . possibly small rail-gun. Very small. Doesn't look like any of the gun mounts have any real rotational capability."

"So they can fire at what's in front of them, and nothing else?" Alenus snorted. "So, not toothless, but carrying a heavy load, unable to maneuver, and mostly dependent on their screens. We can do this people. Stay sharp."

Conventional turian tactics were those of a wolf or _villi_ pack. Have one ship engage at the front, and have another slip around behind to target engines. That required an advantage of numbers, however, that they didn't have. Alenus stared at the screen, and Rinus wished he could read her mind. "Fighters, ignore their fighters for the moment. Our shields can take the hits," she decided. "Take out their weapons. As soon as we get a hint if they have biotic weapons, we'll relay their likely locations to your targeting computers. Gunnery crew, Thanix cannons, target the center raider ship's weapons and shield generators."

"Engines?" Rinus asked her, quietly. Not questioning her judgment, but wondering about the next moves. _Focus on now, but always be thinking at least ten steps ahead_, his father had always counseled him. _See the consequences before they happen_.

"We'll see how bad it gets," Alenus muttered in response. "I don't want to duck behind the raider to go after its engines, take fire from a refitted _tugboat_ and have the raider ship turn on us and open fire again. There might be more embarrassing ways to lose a battle, but I can't think of them right now."

From somewhere near the level of the floor, Fors Luka's muffled snort of laughter drifted upwards.

Space battles could take hours or instants. This one was no exception. They hit the ten kilometer mark, and opened fire with the forward Thanix canons immediately. Most of Rinus' original suggestions for the design of the SR-4s had been implemented; he'd hardly been the only person pushing for them, after all. As Alenus had just pointed out in regards to the batarian ships, a ship that can only fire weapons in the direction its bow faces is defenseless from the sides and from the stern. As such, the SR-4s had the four Javelin torpedo tubes on either side of the long sides of the ship, the same way in which the SR-1s had been redesigned, just before the Reaper War. They also had a few other vital necessities. The main Thanix cannon still faced forward, but could aim in about a 150º arc, and had twice the yield in terms of destructive power as the SR-2 had. There was also a _rear-mounted_ Thanix cannon, much smaller of course. It only had the yield of one of the miniature Thanix cannons used by the Lystheni fighters over Garvug, but could rotate 150º side to side. . . and 90º overhead. There were missile mounts under the wings, used for the lineal descendents of the _Malleolus_ . . . the _Concidor _Mark One. Fire-and-forget self-guided missiles; they had extensive friend-vs.-foe programming to avoid mishaps. And, because Rinus had remembered, all too clearly, the Lystheni fighters dancing around the _Estallus_, and being unable to _hit_ the damned things with the slow, cumbersome Javelin torpedoes, and the fighters staying too close to the ship to be able to use the Thanix cannon against the accursed little firebiters. . . .fifty-caliber guns, with mass-effect warping technology built in, could drop down from the wings on pivots, and could thus fire at anything in front of, beside, behind, or under them, but were constrained by their pivots from turning towards the ship.

All the teeth in the world, as Kallixta had once pointed out to Rinus, didn't mean a damn if the ship lost too much maneuverability, and she'd repeatedly criticized the design for being less agile and responsive than the SR-1. He'd pointed out, in return, that the ships were designed for different tasks. The SR-1 was designed for fight or flight. Ducking in unseen, fighting if it had to, and getting the _futar_ back out again. The SR-4 was designed to get in, fight, and leave at a slightly more leisurely pace, preferably over the smoking ruins of its enemies. Rinus saw both sides of their arguments demonstrated again and again in the next hour as the batarian raider returned fire—he saw the violet flare of a biotic discharge, ripping at their shields—"Upper deck shielding at eighty percent," a tech called from a station nearby—and they yawed to the side, presenting the port bank of torpedo hatches at the nose of the batarian ship. The Javelins streaked away, tiny silver lights in the darkness, and the pilot brought them back around and down, in a much clumsier duck and roll maneuver that Rinus had seen Kallixta perform dozens of times. The drop took them off-line of the batarians' return salvo, and should have allowed them to pull up out of the steep dive and shoot their Thanix cannon, back outside the two kilometer dead zone, directly _up_ at their enemy's exposed belly. An SR-1 would have flipped up eagerly, end-for-end, making a V-shaped angle at the bottom of the dive. The SR-4's version of the maneuver was more of a leisurely U. . . but the crews were alert to the difference, and already announcing target locks before the ship was fully perpendicular to the batarian ship hovering above it now. Yellow light lanced out, but the SR-4 shook a little, and again, a tech reported, tensely, "Salvage ship directly behind the raider opening fire. That was a salvo of torpedoes. Two missed, two hit the ventral shields, near engineering. Eighty percent."

"Javelins, target their weapons. Thanix cannon, main engineering," Alenus ordered. She never sat in her chair, Rinus noted, almost in amusement. It was as if the female were allergic to the captain's seat, preferring to stand or walk about, keeping an eye on everything.

"Target aspect changing, they're pitching down—" That brought their front-aligned guns to bear on the _Hamus._ "Firing!"

Another brilliant surge of violet light, another salvo of torpedoes—"Dorsal shields at sixty percent—clear hits with all four of their torpedoes, Captain, we're down to the bare hull on top!"—at the same time the _Hamus_' weapons fired—"We're through their shielding on their port side, their guns are vulnerable, engineering vulnerable—"

"Fire at will!" Alenus called.

And at that point, the three batarians fighters dueling with their four shielding fighters broke away from the turians, and plunged down to attack the _Hamus_ directly. _S'kak_, Rinus thought, hanging onto the console ahead of him grimly, _s'kak, s'kak._ "Belay that! Evasive maneuvers," Alenus ordered, and grabbed the back of her chair as the pilot took her at her word, streaking the _Hamus_ directly up and _at_ the batarian ship hanging in space above them.

Fighters attacking a capital ship are more than just gadflies. With their upper decks currently unshielded, including the bridge, the three fighters were putting themselves at risk of being attacked by the turian fighters. . . but with the potential to rip open the _Hamus_' skin in particularly vital areas. "They're still on us," the sensors tech reported. "Firing!"

Fighters, other than the Lystheni, tended to come equipped with fire-and-forget missiles and smaller versions of the heavy caliber turrets that the _Hamus_ itself had. The ship shook under the impacts as the fighters skimmed the surface of the ship at high-speed, plunging down as the _Hamus_ rose, and fired missiles all along the length of the ship. Rinus was all too aware of what the results would be if any one of the batarians miscalculated even by an iota, and rammed the _Hamus_. "Impacts, all on deck one, shields still down, hull breaches in crew quarters, venting atmosphere—"

"Come on, get them off of us," Rinus growled at the turian fighters, who were streaking after the batarians at just as reckless a rate of speed, and who had a man advantage, damnit. The under-wing guns weren't doing them a damn bit of good with the fighters skating along their topside, and he mentally started composing a memo about the potential for placing small pivoting turrets along the top of the SR-4 hull, or at least trying to find a way to make the rear Thanix cannon more viable for small targets inside the current two kilometer dead-zone.

As if they heard him, the turian fighters increased speed, just as the batarian ships were reaching the _Hamus_' tail, and just as the _Hamus_ itself came within a half kilometer of the batarian ship. The batarians were pitching back up again, no longer presenting their nose towards the Hamus, and trying to move away. . . and the pilot of the _Hamus_ pulled up, suddenly presenting the ship's belly, with its fully functioning shields, directly at the belly of the batarian ship. One of the batarian fighters, suddenly finding itself fighting two-on-one against a tag-term of turian fighters, exploded and dissolved on the tactical screen, and Rinus growled in satisfaction under his breath. "Their shields are down on their belly," he called to the captain. "_Concidor _missiles, right at their shuttle bay doors."

Any area of hull that had openings, seams, and welding points was a potential weakness. Ship designers tried to account for that by adding ablative plating and reinforcing bulkheads in such places, but the fact remained, a weak point was a weak point. And the under-wing mounted missiles were, at the moment, their only option. Alenus nodded, immediately, and four of the self-guided missiles soared towards the unprotected belly of the raider ship.

Frantic, yet controlled, constant chatter between people on the bridge. "Raider ship has ruptures in their ventral side, explosive decompressions to their shuttle bay—" "Towing ship is firing again—torpedoes incoming, directly for our engines—" "Evasive!" "Impacts, aft shields at fifty-five percent—" "Get the body of the raider ship between us and the salvage ship again—"

_Turians and humans sing different battle-songs in space than my people do. Reds and blacks, like and unlike_, Stone sang to Rinus, softly. The rachni was huddled in a corner of the bridge, trying not to get in the way. Makur sat in one of the control chairs beside him, slouched, his feet hooked under a bar, the way everyone else on the bridge who wasn't standing more or less was doing.

"Hate space-battles," Makur admitted, in a low growl, which Rinus heard over the Spectre radio band. "Feel completely useless, unless I get to board a ship. Only gotten to do that once, though. Time before that, I was just trying to get to an escape pod."

All that, in a flash. Now the _Hamus_ and the batarian raider ship were now locked in an odd _pas-de-deux_, belly-to-belly; the _Hamus_ was attempting to slip forwards and up, so that the ship could bring its forwards guns back to bear on the raider, but the raider was pitching up at the same time, so they were remaining parallel to each other, both spinning up to suddenly take positions perpendicular to where they'd been moments before. This at least put the raider in the position of a partial shield for the _Hamus_. . . the salvage ship behind the raider could no longer shoot at them. "Get us a couple of Javelin salvos, and then get us back to Thanix range," Alenus told her pilot, who rolled the _Hamus_, and Rinus growled under his breath in satisfaction as the gun crews got a lock and fired from the port side before the swiftly rotating ship moved out of position, exposing their top deck again, which had only regenerated about twenty percent of its shields at this point. . . and then the starboard torpedo tubes launched, still at that undefended raider belly. . . and the _Hamus_ arced away, the raider ship's lower decks crumpling in on themselves. No fire, but there was rarely fire in space. No oxygen for fire to consume, after all. . .

"Looks like they've lost life-support and have engine damage—"

"They're not dead yet," Alenus warned as the _Hamus_, aft quarters towards the raider, arced away, slowing coming around in that rounded U-shaped turn to bring its forward guns back on line.

And that was when the two remaining batarian fighters, still dogged by the turian fighters, screamed back along the top decks, the exposed dorsal side of the ship. Their missiles exploded, dissolving the weakened kinetic shields.

"Two kilometers reached, Thanix cannon has a lock, missiles have a lock—"

"Fire!"

Yellow-white light lanced out. The batarian ship was also trying to pitch back downwards, bringing its own guns to bear, but it had the old-fashioned cyclonic shields. When they were down, they were down all over the ship, not like the multi-valanced shields Rinus had fought so hard to get for the upgrades on the SR ships. The Thanix canon blast bored through the ablative plating, and the missiles, slamming in behind the stream of superheated metal shot out at relativistic speed, exploded, taking out the batarian's entire forward section, including their bridge.

Hunt-cries rang out over the bridge, but Rinus could hear one frightened voice over the comm band, saying, "Incoming, repeat, we have incoming!" and his head snapped back towards the tactical display. Sure enough, the batarian fighters, surely piloted by the best that their warrior-caste had to offer, were still being hunted by the turian fighters. . . one of the fighters exploded and dissolved on the screen as he watched, but the other. . . ducking and dodging and weaving, just barely staying away from the missile locks and incoming fire of the two turian fighters still chasing it, was perilously close to the bridge of the _Hamus_ now. _Oh. . . __s'kak__,_ Rinus thought, numbly. _I knew I should have been down at the gun station_ . . . _where I belong . . . _

Grim comment from one of the turian pilots on the comms now, _"Batarian fighter has missile lock on the bridge. __Hamus__ shields are down. I have the solution. Fox-two."_

Rinus reached out a hand, reflexively, and caught Fors' small shoulder. . . and the turian fighters got missile lock and fired.

The batarian fighter was hit. But it was within twenty meters of the surface of the _Hamus_, and the fuselage of the fighter slammed into the blast shields covering the bridge windows . . . and it, and its on-board missiles, exploded.

White light, just for an instant. So bright that he could see it even through his closed lids. Pattering impact of debris, plasteel, metal, plastic, ripping through his personal kinetic shields, slapping into his armor with less impact. Rinus opened his eyes, astounded, for a moment, that he was alive to do so, and just then was when the explosion _reversed course_.

The body of the batarian fighter was lodged into the hull breach, punctured right through the plasteel and reinforcing blast shields over them, but it wasn't a tight seal. As Rinus watched, dazed, the chunk of fuselage shifted, as the overwhelming air pressure behind it, being tugged irresistibly into the vacuum of space, pushed and shoved at the obstruction, and suddenly blasted it free. All the metal and debris pouring in through the hull breach forty feet ahead of him suddenly began to shear out through the gap. Limp bodies of crewmen lifting off the ground, sailing for the gap. Howl of the wind tugging at him, his feet solidly braced under the metal bar under the central console, however, one hand gripping that same console. His right arm, however, snapped taut, as his hand, still holding onto Fors Luka's shoulder plates, shot upwards as the volus was lifted clear off the ground, like a balloon, by that howling, hungry wind. "Don't let go!" Fors shouted, his voice terrified.

"Not. . . letting. . . go. . . " Rinus gritted. His grip wasn't secure, and his fingers ached from trying to maintain it. "If you can do something, do it now!"

Makur snarled, and Rinus risked a glance backwards. The krogan was standing up, feet still locked under the bar of his chair, and holding onto Stone, huge arms wrapped around the rachni, who'd clearly been taken by surprise, and had been lifted off the ground by the sudden change in air pressure..

Fors reached out with his two small hands. . . and suddenly, local gravity flipped and fluxed. Rinus felt enormously heavy as _something_ tugged everyone—including, to his astonishment, the crewmembers flying helplessly towards the hull breach. "Six. . . . maybe. . .seven . . . g's. . . should. . . do it . . . " Fors said, his inhalations and exhalations thick and heavy between each word. "Someone. . . shut down. . . the ventilation. . . system! Once we're . . . out of . . . air here. . . "

_Then they'll be no more explosive decompression_, Rinus finished, mentally, staring as the bodies of a dozen crewmen slowly, painfully, floated to a central point just near his feet, in a tangle of limbs. He couldn't tell the living from the dead right now, but he could see that Galenus Eleutherius was among them. The lack of military markings stood out. "You'll have to let them move to do that—"

_No need_, Stone sang, his voice suddenly thunderously loud in Rinus' head. _This is a song that __I__ may sing._

_What?_ Rinus thought, and just _stared_ as the rachni began to sing. Complex melodies, buzzy, raspy voice. The rachni had, again and again, demonstrated his ability to superheat metal and reshape it to his whim. And did so again. The diamond-matrix and palladium of the ablative hull outside heated, melted, and _poured_ inwards in liquid form, filling the gap, sealing the cracks. It was thin, and it wouldn't take more than a bullet to puncture, for the reinforced structure that gave it its ablative qualities had been destroyed. . . but the hull breach was sealed within half a minute.

Stone landed on the deck-plates and scuttled towards the cockpit, and Rinus leaned over to his left, a little wide-eyed behind his mask, and shuddered at the sight there. A large strut from the destroyed fighter had slammed through the plasteel canopy and impaled the pilot through the chest, pinning the corpse to his seat. Stone sang again, and the strut melted. Flowed. Silver metal sealed the cracks and holes in the plasteel canopy, and, in doing so, the material was used up, and the corpse slumped, free of what had impaled it. "_Spirits of air and darkness,"_ Rinus said, very quietly, as the last of the hull breaches was sealed.

_A necessary song. I meant no disrespect to the body. I understand that you sing ritual songs for the fallen. . . and feed them to the earth?_ Stone obviously found this concept bizarre, but was trying for what could only be called politeness.

Fors's weight no longer tugged at Rinus' outstretched arm as the turian continued to hold the volus aloft. "Ah. . . you can put me down now," Fors told him, squirming uncomfortably, as many of the turians at Rinus' feet began to move, dazed. Many had broken limbs, but crawled or limped or hunched their way back to their stations, clearing debris off consoles, trying to discover what, if anything, was still functioning up here.

Rinus numbly put Fors back on the ground, and, helping Galenus Eleutherius to his feet, told Stone over his shoulder, "Yes. . . we'll. . . bury the bodies later. And, ah. . . if you can teach other rachni how to do that, I want a brood-warrior on every ship in the Hierarchy, just for damage control."

_It is my song to sing, but if queens find it of use, perhaps I will sing mating-songs, and those hatched of my singing will sing it, too._ Stone's voice had a little pride in it, however, at Rinus' words.

Makur stumped over, and was helping various turians back to their stations. Rinus swore as he looked down at the tall, angular form of Faria Alenus, the captain. She wasn't moving. He dropped to his haunches, and checked her omnitool for her vital signs. Heart-rate, erratic, breathing slow. "Medical teams to CIC," Rinus said, tabbing the ship's internal comm system, and looked around. "Where's the XO?" he asked, addressing those around him.

The various junior officers and techs looked around, wildly. "He was just here a minute ago," one of them said, and then the sensors tech, without a word, pointed at the mended hull breach.

Rinus stared at the tech. "You're sure?"

"Yes, Spectre. I saw him fly out, just before the . . . gravity. . . pulled the rest of us to safety." She sounded rattled, and no wonder.

Rinus swore. "Who's third in command?"

"Chief Engineer," someone replied.

_Who's down in engineering, trying to keep this ship flying._ Rinus gritted his teeth, and said, "All right. I'm taking command temporarily. I'll turn it back over to the Captain when she wakes up, or when the chief engineer isn't putting out fires, whichever comes first. Any questions?"

There was an almost audible sigh of relief from those around him. Turians liked having someone in charge. And most of the junior officers were lieutenants at best, with perhaps two years of experience under their belts. They all knew they weren't ready to command a limping ship in the middle of a space battle. "Do we have helm control, tactical control, sensors, anything?" Rinus asked, and stepped aside as a med team rushed onto the bridge, moving to the fallen captain.

"Helm control, aye," Ariston reported, his avatar coalescing near the center of the bridge. Scan lines and static riddled the image, but the AI's voice was clear. "No pilot, however. Sensors are functional. I detect our fighters hanging just off our bow, Spectre. I believe that they are attempting to assess damage—"

Rinus' head came up, and he looked directly at his AI 'son.' _Kallixta's_ AI son. "You're the ship, Ariston. You're all the pilot we need today. Take the flight controls."

Ariston's head snapped back. "Spectre, I cannot do that without permission from—"

"Let me put it this way. I'm the acting captain. I'm a Spectre. I'm your damned father. And I just gave you an order. Take the flight controls. And prove that you're Kallixta's son. Jeff Moreau's grandson. And the grandson of the Imperator." Rinus didn't do speeches, usually, but he knew how to apply just the right amount of pressure, just the right amount of leverage. It was all in using just the right tools. And the tools that worked on NCAIs were similar to those that worked on organics. Filial loyalty, respect, and pride.

Ariston visibly processed that, blinked, and said, "Yes, Spectre. Assuming the flight controls, aye."

Rinus turned back to the rest of the dazed crew. "Get the tactical display up, if you can," he directed.

"Tactical grid. . . . aye." A tech managed to get the display up and running again, albeit with scan lines running crazily through it, and the images jumping and blurring.

"Weapons control, offline—" the tactical officer, a young lieutenant reported, nervously.

"I'm attempting to bring those controls back on-line," Ariston reported. "There are back-up consoles here on the bridge, but they have been damaged, too."

Rinus nodded to his AI son, and looked at the tactical officer. "Get down to the gun crews and hold your comm line open. I'll relay orders through you."

The young lieutenant bolted for the elevator.

Rinus' eyes were fixed on the tactical grid. _Spirits of air, hear me now. Bring the wind to our wings, let us be light and graceful in the sky. Let some of Kallixta's inspiration be with Ariston today. Spirits of fire, give our weapons the strength we need to defeat our enemies. And spirits of earth. . . give the crew steadiness of purpose, and don't let me fuck this up too much. _"Raider's dead in the water," Rinus muttered under his breath. "Salvage ship is trying to move past us. Ariston, hold our current attitude. Play dead."

"Spectre?" the AI said, sounding shocked.

"If there's one thing that fighting the yahg on Shanxi and Terra Nova has taught me," Rinus said, dryly, "it's the value of a good trap. We can't take any more hits, not till the shields are back up. Let the salvage ship move past us." He tabbed the comms, so that the fighter pilots could hear him. "Fighters, this is the _Hamus._ Follow the salvage ship. Harass them, take them out if you can, but don't let them get a good look at us. Keep them busy, and let them past us."

Ariston made a pleased sort of hiss, which surprised Rinus. "Their shields are weaker over their engines," the AI reported.

"Good, but that's not our primary target," Rinus told him. He tabbed the comm again, and got the gun crews and the young tactical officer. All of them knew he was an ordnance and munitions type, just as they were. They spoke the same language. "Here's what we're going to do. As soon as that well-armed garbage scow is past us? We're going to flip around and fire on the shielded piece of rock it's towing."

It was so simple, and yet, it was a paradigm shift that took all the junior officers off-balance, he could see. Rinus didn't actually _care_ about the salvage ship. It could get all the way to Nimines' rings and flash the defense grid, for all he cared. . . so long as the huge chunk of ice and rock, attached to it with fourteen heavy cables at different points along its surface, didn't make it there, too. Alenus had been correct in trying to remove the threat of the raider ship first. . . go for the weapons and the engines first. Rinus was doing the same. He simply prioritized the biggest weapon the salvage ship had. If they shot at the _Hamus_ again after they blew the huge asteroid to bits, who cared, so long as the threat to Nimines was over?

All around them, the remaining raiders, salvage ships, and fighters were still engaged in combat, ducking, dodging, weaving. And instead of engaging in direct, frontal combat, as turians tended to revere, Rinus had the _Hamus_ lie in wait. Like a _dacha_, or any other ambush predator. Motionless. Steady. "Wait for it," Rinus told the bridge crew, who were visibly tensing. "Once they're off our starboard side, full Javelin spread and Thanix shot, then roll us so we can get another Javelin salvo off. Everything we've got, right at the damned rock."

The salvage ship, trying to fend off the fighters that were harrying it, slipped past the _Hamus_. . . and right at the two kilometer mark, the _Hamus_ opened fire. The ball of ice and rock shattered under the assault, projectiles flying everywhere, even slamming into the shields of the salvage ship, which were already weakened by the fighters' assault. Rocks slammed into the hull, tearing it open in places, and by that point, the Thanix cannon had recharged, and Rinus ordered another shot, directly on the engine compartment.

The salvage ship crumpled in on itself, just before its mass effect cores overloaded and the entire ship exploded. "Move, move, move," Rinus urged, but Ariston was already fighting the balky, recalcitrant flight controls, trying to pull them away, just as the shockwave—including some of the very rocks and ice that had damaged the salvage ship, along with metal and debris and superheated eezo everything else—hit their shields, tearing them back into nothing once more. "Damage?" Rinus called, as the lights in CIC faltered and flickered again.

"Reports coming in. . ." that was Ariston's voice again, a little more filled with static and distortion than usual. "We were veering away, Spectre. Aft compartments were hit hard, including engineering. Decompressions on all decks—"

"Get damage control teams there as soon as possible—"

"Already on their way, Spectre." That, from another young officer. Rinus wished he knew their damned names, but he'd been on the ship for all of a day, and hadn't served on this vessel since 2194 or so. . . none of the people he remembered from that time were still here.

He looked at the tactical display. The _Acus_ was still trying to finish off its raider ship, but was in better shape than the _Hamus_. The _Clavus_ was heavily damaged, but had killed its raider ship, and was still doggedly firing on the salvage ship, rather than its payload of death.

And then Ariston reported, his voice suddenly grim, "Multiple contacts, inbound. Another raider ship, salvage ship, and a trio of fighters, all coming around Tularae. They've used the planet for cover, and they're actually using its gravity as a slingshot to make for Nimines."

Rinus stared at the AI. "A second wave?" he said, numbly.

"Only one set of ships. I think," Ariston replied, his tone still tight, "that their escort ship may have had engine problems. Their power consumption and exhaust trail shows an imbalance in the fuel mixture for their FTL drive. Hence the slingshot maneuver."

Rinus wanted to rub at his eyes, which burned behind his visor. The _Acus_ was still fighting a raider. The _Clavus_ was still fighting, and in worse shape than the _Hamus_, as far as he could tell. "Pursuit course," he ordered. "Fighters, you're with us. Target the spirits-be-damned payload. I don't care about the ships."

"FTL drive is barely functional," Ariston warned. "Structural integrity is low."

"I know," Rinus said, walking over to the empty captain's chair, but not sitting in it any more than Alenus had, when she was conscious. It wasn't _his_ seat. He hooked his feet under the metal ring under it, and held onto its back as he looked around at the crew. "We're all Nimines has got at the moment," he said, simply. "The raider gets through, they'll lock onto the defense satellites and either blow them apart or jam their targeting systems. The salvage ship will launch its payload."

"We're going to take heavy fire from the raider vessel and its fighters when we catch up," the tactical officer warned over the open comm. channel now. "Recommend we keep the forward sections towards them as much as possible."

"Noted." Rinus looked around. He had, as he'd ruefully noted to Kallixta many times, no gift for speeches. His few before the Conclave had all been meticulously reasoned, but hardly inspiring. "If we die, we die protecting friends, family, kinsmen, and allies," he said, simply.

"On the whole, I'd prefer not to die protecting turians," Makur growled, "but your krannt is my krannt, as Urdnot Wrex teaches. Let's go."

Rinus bared teeth behind his polarized visor at Makur. "Thanks for the rousing endorsement, Makur."

A ripple of nervous laughter, and then they shifted to FTL, and gave chase.

The batarian ship was moving a hell of a lot faster than they could, but the batarians were inbound from the sixth planet, while the _Hamus_ had been within the orbital path of the fifth planet, Milara. . . about two AU closer to Nimines than the batarians, to start with. That allowed them to plot an intercept course. . . but their engines were limping. The helmsman kept calling out course corrections, and of course, Ariston kept anticipating them, but as they crossed through the orbital path of Korrus, the fourth planet (now, fortunately, on the opposite side of the star), Rinus knew this was going to be close. Eight minutes. Nine minutes. "We're inside the orbital path of Nimines! Contacts! Batarian ships eight hundred thousand kilometers from Nimines, and dropping out of FTL—" The distance sounded huge, but Rinus knew better. Eight hundred thousand kilometers was roughly two light-seconds, or twice the distance of Terra from its own single moon. "Closing—"

They dropped out of FTL right on top of the batarians. The fighters moved in on the salvage ship, and so did the _Hamus._ "Get a lock on the payload!" Rinus called, but the raider ship veered and got between the _Hamus_ and the salvage vessel, firing on the _Hamus_. _S'kak._ "If we don't return fire on the raider ship, we're not going to be alive to _get_ to the salvage ship," Fors warned Rinus, quietly.

"Understood," Rinus rasped out. "Gun crews, target raider's shield emitters and weapons. Pull their damned teeth."

Behind the raider, the salvage ship limped towards Nimines, its three escort fighters harrying the four turian fighters that had escorted the _Hamus_ all this way. Short on fuel, and running low on missiles, the turians were doing everything they could, firing their remaining missiles at the tow cables that held the enormous asteroid to the back of the salvage ship. _Dance, Ariston, dance as Kallixta would. . . . _and for a wonder, the AI _did._ This wasn't just the cold, competent control of Laetia at the controls of the _Estallus_. Whatever Kallixta had, Ariston had it, too. The _Hamus_ dodged and wove, firing at the raider vessel, trying to pirouette past it for a lock on the asteroid or the salvage ship. . . "Shot open, Thanix cannon—" a voice called over the comm..

"Take it!" Rinus shouted, and yellow-white light lanced through space, and the asteroid cracked in half.

All this, however, to no avail, as the salvage ship simply dropped its tow cables now. And ducked out of the way as the cracked asteroid, now four hundred thousand kilometers from Nimines, plunged, at high speed, towards the planet's surface. _No, no, no, come on, someone on the orbital platforms wake up—_

Someone on the orbital platforms did wake up. On the tactical screen, Rinus could see missiles launching from just outside the planes of Nimines' slanted rings, arcing towards the two pieces of asteroid now plunging towards the planet's surface. Such an oddly beautiful world, he thought, inside of a second, picturing the huge polar ice caps, which extended down to about the same latitude as New York on Earth in the northern hemisphere, and Tiera del Fuego in the southern one. Cold, dark blue oceans in between, and lots of clouds, which both served to trap heat on the cold planet, but also raised its albedo. . . reflecting its star's light. Such a delicate balance, life on Nimines. . . . Violet-gray song rang at the edges of his consciousness, a dirge, of sorts, sung by Stone, but one edged with red and black fury.

"Both ships, now coming about to firing positions," Ariston announced, his voice suddenly angry and fierce. "Orders, Spectre?"

"Concentrate all fire on the engines of the raider ship. Rear cannon, target the salvage ship as possible. Ariston, keep the raider between us and the scavenger," Rinus commanded, still gripping the back of the captain's seat. "If we go down, we're taking them with us to the spirits."

Thanix fire lashed out, and once again, Ariston danced the _Hamus_, rolling side to side, letting the Javelin crews do their work, yawing back around to let the missiles launch and the Thanix cannon fire. Calculating the angles and the vectors with the infinite precision of a computer, but fighting with the ferocity and inspiration of Kallixta at her very best. _Oh, sweetness, if you were here to see this. . . _ Rinus thought, and then realized, with a chill, _If she __had__ been here, it would have been __her__ body impaled in the pilot's seat. . . . _

For all Ariston's skill, it wasn't going to be enough. Not two on one. Not with hull breaches on every deck, an engine already flagging, fires here and there throughout the inner hull. "We've almost got them," Rinus muttered. "Come on. Hold it together just a little longer—"

"Contacts!" the sensors tech announced.

"Please tell me it's not more _futarri_ batarians," Rinus growled.

"No, sir! They're ours! It's the _Acus_ and the _Clavus_!" She couldn't have sounded more delighted, and Rinus felt buoyed just by hearing the names. Their sister ships were here. They might be bleeding and battered, too, but the battle had just shifted in their favor. "More contacts on sensors. . . " There was a pause. "Spirits. It's Task Force 143. It's the _Recutio_ and its frigates."

The batarian ships probably knew at that point that surrender wasn't going to be an option. Both ships turned to flee, and Rinus ordered Ariston and the gun crews, his voice completely calm, "Pursue and destroy. Fire everything we have after those scaleless sons of poxed _villi_, even the sink from the damned galley, if we have to. They're not leaving this system alive."

"Firing Thanix cannon," a young voice from down at the gunnery station announced, and Rinus knew, looking at the tactical display, that the _Acus_ and the _Clavus_ had just done the same thing. Three Thanix blasts hit the retreating batarian raider ship in the engine compartment, and it exploded, sending the salvage ship tumbling . . . where a wave of fighters, coming off the _Recutio_ like a pack of hungry _villi_, swarmed and destroyed it.

Rinus strode to the tactical display, and tabbed buttons fruitlessly for a moment. "How do I get a look at the planet on this thing—oh." He blinked, as Fors delicately touched the controls with his tiny gloved fingers. "Ah. . . thank you, Fors. . . oh, spirits."

He slowly sank to a crouch, and put his head, just for a moment, on the edge of the console. It wasn't a pretty sight. He felt a light touch on his shoulder, and looked up. Fors was resting a hand there, just for a moment. Makur moved over, and studied the display for a moment, shaking his head. "Looks like the destruction pattern after a tribal war on Tuchanka, according to the low-orbit pictures Malla has in her quarters in the women's camp," he said, his voice low and rough. For a wonder, the krogan sounded sympathetic.

"Ariston. . . " Rinus said, quietly, pulling himself back to his feet. He felt. . . spirits. He felt as if he'd taken a wound in the gut, and as if his life were slowly bleeding out in a puddle at his feet. "What the hell happened? I saw the orbital defense platforms fire. . . "

Ariston's avatar flickered back into view. "My sensor logs are chaotic," he admitted, slowly. "Analyzing them completely will take some time. But it looks as if the two chunks of the Kuiper belt asteroid descended together. . . the orbital platforms probably still 'saw' them as one solid mass, and as a result, calculated missile strikes that should have sent a large, solid mass tumbling away from the planet, where a second assault could be launched to break it into smaller pieces." Ariston's voice was very quiet. "This may have been made more difficult by the ring system around the planet. There is debris constantly shifting, difficult for any AI or VI to track properly."

Rinus lowered his head, numb. "And instead of deflecting one large rock. . . the missile hit something that was already broken. . . and sent the two pieces tumbling apart." He slowly reached up and unlatched his helmet; his omnitool had a green light on it, indicating that the bridge was pressurized again. He sat down on the edge of the console, looking at the tactical screen. "If we hadn't hit the damned thing with the Thanix cannon—"

"You did exactly the right thing at the moment," Fors said, sharply. "You were trying to break it to a million tiny pieces. You couldn't foresee this."

Rinus looked down, dully, at the console. The two large pieces had spun into the atmosphere, breaking up, due to atmospheric friction on their way in. A three hundred meter single impact would be orders of magnitudes worse than say, the Tunguska asteroid impact on Earth in 1908, which had involved an asteroid body only tens of meters in size, which had fragmented in mid-air over land, leveling over eighty million trees in a 2,150 square kilometer area, setting off an earthquake close to 5.0 on the Richter scale, and releasing more energy than a thousand of the first primitive atomic bombs dropped by humans on the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

It would also have been orders of magnitude 'better' than the asteroid impact that had killed the dinosaurs on Earth at the end of its Cretaceous period; most scientists believed that _that_ rock had been the size of Mars' large moon, Deimos, or about six kilometers in diameter.

Still, instead of one giant fireball, _dozens_ of asteroid chunks had hailed down from Nimines' sky. "Damage reports from the surface?" he asked, straightening up. "Nivalis is the provincial capital. . . .what kind of reports are they sending up?"

Ariston shook his head. "Mass confusion at the moment. I'm sorry, Spectre—"

"Don't worry about it. Can we land safely?"

"With our hull in this condition, it's possible, if risky."

"Take us down to Nivalis. Let's get our wounded to the med bay, people, and then render aid and assistance down on the surface." Rinus clapped his gloved hands together with a briskness he didn't feel. "Day's not over yet, folks. But you've already earned the pride and the respect of the Hierarchy for your work today." He grimaced. "Now let's go earn our paychecks."

Rinus moved past Galenus Eleutherius, who had his omnitool active, and his wrist raised. . . _Spirits, the man lost his main camera, so he's switched to a wrist-mounted backup. Got to give him credit, he never stops doing his job, but damned if it isn't irritating. . . _ and found his way to the captain's small ready room, which was about the size of his own tiny office in the Conclave back in Complovium, and managed to shoulder the door open. He glanced at the chair behind the desk, shook his head, and sat on the edge of the desk instead. He just needed a moment to clear his head. _All those people down there,_ he thought, grimly, _are dead, because I didn't think it through enough. I should have brought more ships. Well. . . all right. The Spectres retasked Hierarchy ships back to the defense of the Hierarchy. _ Rinus pinched at the bridge of his nose. His eyes burned, and the last ghosts of adrenaline were whirling through his bloodstream like dust-devils in a desert ravine, aimless, useless, and a little stinging. _Still should have brought more. Garrus was right. Three ships against an unknown number was foolish._ That line of thought was fruitless, however, as his internal centurion suddenly snarled at him. _Are you going to sit there brooding all damned day? There were other ships in the system. The __futarri__ Ninth Fleet is stationed out of this system. Even the __Recutio__ only sent one squadron of fighters with you; that's all they thought three __futarri__ gunships were going to need._

Rinus exhaled, and started to review every decision in the battle as clinically as he could. Looking for where he'd made the mistakes.

"Father?"

His head snapped up, surprised. Ariston's avatar coalesced near his elbow, and the young male's crest was lowered, eyes downcast.. "Ariston, what's wrong?" Rinus asked, immediately. "Are we getting casualty numbers?"

"No, not yet." Ariston hesitated. "I. . .wanted to apologize." His mandibles twitched, and he raised his hands, a quick, peculiarly turian gesture. "I failed you, Father. I failed them," and he jerked his chin more or less in the direction of Nimines, "but I also failed you. You put your trust and confidence in me, and—"

"Stop that." Rinus' tone wasn't harsh, but it was firm. "Kallixta couldn't have flown any better herself in that battle, fighting the engines and the damaged controls the whole damned way. You did her proud today, and I know for a fact that she's going to go over the logs of the whole thing, cheering under her breath. I think there's a strong possibility that if you'd been at the controls for the _entire_ battle, we wouldn't have been hit so spirits-bedamned hard to start with. Your late pilot was good, but he still only had organic reaction times." Rinus rubbed at his face.

Ariston's expression was an odd mix of relief, surprise, and awe. "You. . . you don't think I failed?"

"No. Actually, I'm proud of how well you handled everything. If I could put you in for a commendation. . . spirits, I suppose I actually can, as a Spectre, though I have no idea how. . . I would. Will. Whichever." Rinus rubbed at his face again. "Assuming Garrus and Lilitu don't lock me in a closet for the next ten years, or the Imperator doesn't have me hanged by my phallus in the middle of the Conclave for destroying half a planet—"

A throat cleared outside, noisily, and Fors Luka popped his head around the corner now. "I think," the volus said, acerbically, "that it's altogether possible that you might have _saved_ the planet, my noble turian friend."

Rinus grimaced. _Tell that to the people who died._

"All right, keep flogging yourself. I do think that my people could probably be of service here." Fors snuffled. "Let me contact my ten clans, and remind them that if they're making me the public property of the whole of Irune, I can technically call on every clan on the planet for assistance when _I_ need help. And right now, I see an entire planet in need of warm blankets, portable space heaters, and anything else our corporations might have in back rooms, going unsold."

Rinus lifted his head and looked at Fors. Fors looked back at him. "Yes, free of charge, before you ask. You're our _allies_. I'm fairly sure that somewhere, sometime, we signed a contract with the Hierarchy. You protect us, and we supply. . . well, we don't really eat what you eat, drink what you drink, or breathe what you breathe. So we've largely supplied minerals. More recently, finished commodities and comic relief in some of your major vid feeds." Fors made a rude sound. "We can do more than that."

Rinus chuckled, half-heartedly. "You're going to make your marriage contract negotiations that much more painful."

"Only for them," Fors assured him, calmly. "Only for them."

"We're on approach?" Rinus asked, then, looking at Ariston.

Ariston nodded. "We're about to enter the atmosphere, yes."

Rinus exhaled and stood again, and strode back out into the battered bridge, littered with debris and bits of plasteel and metal. He picked up his helmet, and looked at the screen, which was now tuned to the exterior sensors.

From high up, the white icecap of Nimines was pocked with impact craters, shadowy gray splotches against the pristine white. Farther south, the greens of the conifer forests showed black smudges in a dozen places, representing wildfires only just starting, and that would probably consume millions of acres of timber before they were doused. . . or simply burned themselves out. Some of the fragments had, fortunately, hit the water, and not the land. But it was the cities that Rinus stared at now. Nivalis, he knew, was in a mountain range on the western side of the northern continent. . . and again, he could only see a black smudge there. "Nivalis was hit?" he asked, quietly.

"Yes. One large chunk, about fifty meters across. . . there are vid reports, filtering in, of the skyscrapers being leveled," Ariston replied, very quietly.

"Take us there."

They came in for a landing at the edge of the city, a major import-export center for Nimines' primary products: eezo, uranium, rubies, sapphires, palladium, iridium, and gold. The city had had, Rinus knew, from talking with Linianus about his stint here in CID, eighteen levels of traffic, almost all aircar-based, and the buildings had tried to rival the mountains around them. Now, blackened scaffolding. Shattered glass. Shanxi all over again, only worse, because these were _his_ people. Dazed survivors, walking in thin clothing over the snowy ground of the fields, looking up, seeing the ships land. . .and running towards them. Arms raised and cheering. "Get them whatever we can give them," Rinus ordered. "Food, fire-starting kits, thermal blankets. Whatever we can spare. Stamp the hands of anyone who gets supplies, so we don't have anyone trying to take advantage."

They managed to get in touch with what was left of the local government and the local barracks. Rescue operations were already underway, fires were being fought all over the city, and clouds of ash drifted out of the sky, gray snow mixed with the real variety. Rinus turned command of the _Hamus_ over to the ship's harried chief engineer, who nodded brusquely and got back to work, and then headed out of the ship, with a squad of volunteers who weren't needed for repairs. The ship's cooks, the supply clerks, people like that.

They, Makur, Stone, and Fors went straight to the city center. This was a turian world. The gas fires were being fought, refugees were lining up in an orderly fashion, supplies and relief columns were moving in from cities that hadn't been hit by the asteroid fragments . . but it still looked as if the world had _ended._ Rinus studied the fire and rescue squads, and told them, "I'm just another pair of hands. But these three? Can do a hell of a lot more."

At first, the rescue crews didn't know what to make of the huge krogan, the equally huge brood-warrior, and the tiny volus in black Spectre armor. But Rinus wore Spectre black, too, and quietly, forcefully, reiterated, _Put them to use. Watch._

_Life-songs!_ Stone announced, blue joy coursing through his raspy voice, and skittered delicately over a pile of sliding rubble. _Life-songs, under here. Three different levels of rubble. Random songs, cage of metal-songs, and earth-songs underneath. The metal songs _ _shelter the life-songs, but they slide. Life-songs weak. Faint. They sing pain._

"Yeah," Makur agreed, his eyes distant. "Thirty feet straight down. Stone, get out of the way, but let us know if anything we do starts to slide or collapse any of those metal-songs."

The turian workers, who were wearing respirators to work in the ashes and debris, pulled back, looking confused. The mind-song of the rachni was already a shock, and now the krogan was taking charge. "What the hell is he talking about?" the lead firefighter asked Rinus.

"Just trust them," Rinus told him, wearily. A half-dozen uninjured crewmen from the _Hamus_ were working side-by-side with the Spectres, dragging debris away, piling it up, finding remains. Rinus' armor, already black, was now almost back to enlisted gray with ash settling on it everywhere. "Everyone stay calm." He looked at Makur. "You first?"

"No. The volus. Everything in this top layer's little crap. Can't get ahold of that." Makur shrugged.

Fors lifted a hand, and Rinus could feel local gravity shift. Something above the surface of the ground was lightly tugging at him, but he was too far away for it to affect him. But the rubble—nails, shingles, wallboard, wooden fragments, wire, glass, shattered datapads—hundreds of pounds of debris. . . simply began to lift out of the area, sucked up in a swirling, cloud, like gas from a dying star being drawn to its black hole companion. "Where do you want this all put?" Fors asked, calmly.

"You're not even breathing hard," Rinus commented, leaning on his shovel.

"I've picked up and thrown an eight-hundred pound yahg with this, my noble turian friend. This is easy. Now, keeping everyone from getting sucked out of the _Hamus_ bridge today. . . that was hard, and my head still hurts from it," Fors admitted. Then a couple of mangled, broken groundcars slowly lifted out of the debris, and joined the other rubble floating towards that unseen black hole. "Hey! You! Where do you want this _put_?" he repeated, tapping a foot in the general direction of the crew foreman. "This just officially got heavy."

The turian male's eyes were showing whites all the way around. 'Th-there. . . " he said, numbly, pointing at the nearby pile of sorted rubble. Revealed by Fors' actions were twisted, collapsed I-beams, made of steel alloy. _Cage-songs shelter,_ Stone reminded them all. _But they slide._

"Unstable. Yeah. I get it," Makur grunted, stumping forward. "Tell me which ones are safe to lift first. When we get down to ones we need to stay stable, you fuse 'em together, Stone."

Then Makur went to work, grunting a little as he listened to Stone's directions and lifted one of the I-beams doing nothing more than holding one huge paw out in front of him. No cranes. No heavy equipment. Just a powerful biotic, doing what he did best. "Going to need to eat like an entire pack of varren tonight," Makur muttered after moving the fifth beam and shoving it aside. By now, they had an entire ring of on-lookers staring.

_No more can be moved. Else they will collapse_, Stone warned. _I will sing binding-songs, and bring them together. Other singers can then climb down in safety, and bring the others up._

Rinus lifted Fors onto his shoulders, and climbed down the twisted I-beams, once he was assured by Stone that they were secured. And then Fors lifted dirt and more debris out of the way, shattered remains of furniture. . . revealing the broken bodies underneath. Rinus' crop rose into his throat, but Stone assured him, emphatically, _Life-songs! They sing!_

"Get the medics down here. Looks like this was a school," Rinus called up, and they all started passing ropes down to him to secure at the bottom.

Makur, in the meantime, had climbed down on his own, careful and sure-footed, and was helping one of the smallest of the turian children to sit up. His expression was the gentlest that Rinus had ever seen on the krogan's face. "Here," Makur told the little female, handing her a canteen. "Just a sip. Wash your mouth out."

She was coughing now, wrackingly, but her eyes were too dazed and shocked for her to even really register that she should be afraid of the huge krogan, Rinus suspected. _"Who. . . who are you?"_ she asked, in turian.

Makur glanced at his wrist, and read the words out slowly in galactic. Got her to nod. "Sorry. Don't speak turian, and just learned to read four years ago. I'm Makur. And you're going to be just fine. Already know you're a strong one. Not even a building falling on you could stop you." Makur offered her a hand, which she took, and hesitantly tried to get to her feet, before falling back to the ground with a muffled cry of pain. Rinus took two steps towards her, but stopped, amazed, as Makur simply picked her up. "Just a broken leg. Nothing to worry about. That'll heal fast. Even for a turian." Simple, calm words. "I'm going to carry you up, so your doctors up top can take a look at that. Is that all right with you?"

"Yes. . . . "

"What's your name, anyway? I can't just call you _turian_."

"Kyriaka Ocellus."

"Turians have the oddest names. I'm just going to call you Kyri. Up we go." And up Makur went, climbing back up along the girders, one arm now firmly holding the little female in place.

And thus, one of the images that the _Complovium News_ _Today_ led the story off with was of a krogan climbing up out of a pit, holding a small turian child, and handing her over to rescuers. Another vid stream was of Stone, simply liquefying concrete to allow rescuers to tunnel into a parking garage where he'd insisted he'd heard life-songs. A third, of Fors lifting a ton of rubble out of the way. Makur and Rinus, working to lever a leaning shard of fallen concrete out of the way, no biotics this time, just pure brute strength. Interspersed with these images, others of the rescue efforts, military, MPs, CID officers, fire and rescue, civilians driving in from other towns, sharing their own scanty supplies, because everyone on the planet had been on short rations already. Nimines was not self-sufficient in terms of its food supply. There were over two billion turians on this planet, and it had sufficient arable ground to feed half of them, if every square acre was under cultivation. . .which it wasn't.

Other footage. . . the space battle, the race against time to save Nimines. Rinus' words to Ariston on the bridge of the _Hamus_, telling the AI that he was the descendant of the legendary human pilot, Jeff Moreau, the son of Kallixta Praesesidis, whose legend as a pilot was still growing, and the grandson of the Imperator, and to make them all proud. . . Rinus' calm words to the crew. That if they died, they died well. And Makur's dry words in exchange, that he'd rather not die for turians, but what the hell. Rinus' krannt was his krannt.

Rinus was largely oblivious to all of this. He wasn't looking at the extranet. He was wholly absorbed in working with the crews to dig more people out. The next several days passed in a haze of ash and smoke. He woke up in the middle of the first night on the _Hamus_, stumbled to a comm console, and put in a call to the Systems Alliance headquarters on Earth, and requested rescue and cadaver dog teams be sent to Nimines, immediately, and was startled when the human on the other end of the line smiled patiently and told him, "They're already on the way, Spectre. Lilitu Shepard requested them about eighteen hours ago."

"Oh. Good. Thank you." He'd rubbed at his eyes and stumbled back to his bunk for another hour or two of sleep, and then he'd gone back out into the black, white, and gray world that was Nimines. Blackened buildings, white snow, gray ash. So many faces in the elaborate black, white, and red lines of Nimines paint, all under respirators and breathers, of course, or hidden under visors of armor. The odd camaraderie of disaster, as one of the rescue workers passed him a tin cup filled with hot soup the second day, and told him to eat something before he fell over.

He was vaguely aware, as he drank the soup, that Galenus Eleutherius had pulled Makur to the side for a quick interview. He heard the words, but he was too damned tired for them to make sense or even really register.

"You said on the ship that the krannt of Rinus Velnaran was your krannt, Urdnot Makur. What does that mean?"

"Typically, you're loyal to your krannt, and they're loyal to you. You know they'd die for you, and you'd die for them. Your closest friends. Siara, my mate. . . she's krannt. The others who faced the Harvester with me at my Rite. . . Urdot Mazz, Elijah Sidonis, Linianus Pellarian. . . they're krannt, too. The ones who fought with me on Omega. . . they're krannt. Dara Jaworski, Kirrahe Orlan. . . huh. Funny to say that about a salarian, but it's true, I guess. Kirrahe likes a good fight. No sneaking around with him." Makur chuckled. "Rinus is krannt. Rellus is krannt. Main problem with Rinus is, he considers every turian that lives to be part of his krannt, which makes being his krannt-mate somewhat annoying."

"And why is that?"

"Because suddenly, I'm krannt-mate to every turian that's alive, too. Well, at least the honorable ones. I think he'd probably stick his boot up the ass of any turian he thought wasn't doing his job." Makur chuckled.

"How's the little female doing, the one you helped out of the pit on the first day?"

"Kyri? Doctors say her leg's healing. They can't find her parents, though. So I check in on her when I take breaks. Told her that I'd bring her my cat to keep her company, but that I can't put a breather over his face, and the air out here isn't good for him. She doesn't believe me when I tell her he's the size of a varren." Makur chuckled.

"You like children?" Eleutherius' voice was surprised.

"Some of them. Spent five years on Tuchanka guarding the female camp. Age eleven until I took the Rite at sixteen. Some of that involves breaking up squabbles between kids. And Siara was teaching the young ones reading and writing and science for a couple of years there. So I helped with that. In and around learning it myself."

Gray haze. Gray exhaustion. Looking up and realizing, dimly, that the air was filled with ships over Nivalis. The low-slung, windowless wedges of geth ships. The crystalline perfection of rachni ones. Human ships, turian ships. . . even the slightly bulbous forms of volus ships.

Words of the rescue workers around him, as Eleutherius interviewed them. "Spirits, yes, I'm glad to see the rachni," one of them, a fire and rescue worker of twenty years, grated out through his mask. "Between them and the humans' dogs, we're finding people alive where we'd be using ground-penetrating radar and _hoping_ to find readings that showed softer flesh between layers of debris. And the dogs can find cadavers, too. Damned fine animals." He shook his head. "And the little rachni can _dig_. And they're helping reinforce the unstable buildings we can't even get into yet. . . a hundred of them can get in there, spread out, and start spinning those web-like lattices they use. . . and since they weigh so little, it's not dangerous for them at all." He sounded amazed.

Another worker, talking about the geth. "They're absolutely tireless. All the talking platforms will say is that 'consensus was reached. Run-times must be preserved,'" and then they just go back to work, helping to dig. Usually right beside the rachni."

Eleutherius was beside another rescue worker then, and Rinus looked up, dully, watching without real interest. "What about the volus?" he asked, quietly.

"They've really surprised me," the turian female admitted. "They just landed and started setting up emergency shelters. Well-insulated ones, too. We have eight million people here in Nivalis without power, shelter, heat, clean water, and food. . . and the volus have brought in portable water filtration systems. Power generators. Heaters. I can't even wrap my head around the logistics of it, and they're just finding our existing camps and setting up around them." She laughed a little. "Though they keep saying we're on our own for latrine digging."

Turian supply ships. Blessed, blessed food, being shipped in from now-liberated Galatana. Medical supplies, from now-liberated Rocam. Cheers rose whenever the supply crates were seen, and Rinus felt himself buoyed at the sight himself.

Somewhere in and around there, rumors swept the camps that the Imperator and his first-son were going to visit the stricken colony world. The Imperator didn't want to interfere with on-going rescue operations, but wanted to see, first-hand, how bad the damage was, and what resources were needed.

Rinus was, yet again, working with a dozen or so turians, alongside Makur and Fors, with Stone's tired song weaving through his mind, along with the songs of two other nameless brood-warriors, when a hand fell on his shoulder. "Come on," a familiar voice said. "Let's find someplace to talk."

Rinus turned and looked up slightly. "Uncle Garrus?" he said, a little astonished. And then, looking past him, he saw Lantar, Sam, Valak. . . and a shorter, slighter form in turian armor. "Kallixta?"

She moved past the rest of them and, in defiance of turian stoicism, wrapped her arms around him, in public, no less. He did the same, and put his head down on her shoulder for a moment. _"I tried,"_ Rinus told his wife, quietly. Almost incoherent from exhaustion. _"I tried to get here in time, I really did. . . "_

"_That's enough of that, first-son of my sister,"_ Garrus told him. _"You did get here. You did save them from a hell of a lot worse. And now it's time to go."_

Rinus raised his head. _"Go?"_ he asked. The word didn't mean anything right now. _"There's so much work here to do. . . "_

"_Yes. You helped here, and that was good and right and necessary,"_ Garrus told him, firmly, but kindly, _"but it's time to leave."_

"_But I have to—"_ Rinus blinked rapidly behind his visor.

"_Snap out of it, Rinus. Helping here on Nimines is all well and good, but it's not your damned job. You're a Spectre. Pack it up, along with the sackcloth and ashes, and get back to work."_

Rinus' head rocked back, and he straightened his shoulders, hands falling from Kallixta's shoulders. _"Yes, sir."_

"_That's better."_ Garrus clapped him on the shoulder heartily._  
_  
_"There's no pep talk like a military pep talk,"_ Lantar muttered, dryly, and for some reason, Garrus laughed.

Once again, to Rinus' dismay, Eleutherius was following along with a camera. He'd more or less gotten to the point where he ignored reporters as if they weren't even there, unless they were actively asking him questions, but Eleutherius was damned intent on doing his job. He gave the male credit; he'd been helping lift rubble with the rest of them, but that damned camera was on, or the wrist camera was turned on, all the time. It was like being spied on, only with perfectly open intentions.

They picked their way over the rubble, Rinus keeping an arm around Kallixta's shoulders as they walked, and suddenly, the gray clouds seemed to lift from his vision as he stopped focusing on just the problem in front of him, and got a clearer look at the scope of the rescue and retrieval efforts. There were human ships moving back and forth between the ruined skyscrapers, shuttling equipment to work crews. Rachni and geth scurrying everywhere. Volus enclaves with large, rounded domes outside the city, set up for refugees. He even saw a few quarians administering breathing treatments to turian refugees who'd been breathing the smoke and particulate matter too long. The human handlers with their dogs could only go out into the debris field for a few hours at a time, for the health of the animals, but the rachni were, if not immune, certainly resistant to the chemicals in the air. Ships. Hundreds of them, in a makeshift landing field at the edge of the city, with the towering mountains that surrounded Nivalis looking down at them all, as yet more snow fell. Covering the gray and the black in pristine white, covering the silver bodies of the ships, too.

For a moment, it was almost beautiful. "I'd heard rumors that the Imperator was coming here," Rinus managed. "Glad it turned out to be you." He glanced past Garrus at Valak. "Though I don't recommend letting anyone count your eyes today, Valak."

"My visor is definitely staying down," Valak acknowledged, his voice tight.

"And my father and first-brother _are_ coming here," Kallixta told Rinus. "I had word from the Praetorians that he'd be landing sometime today. I thought it would be a good idea if you'd had a warm shower and a hot meal before then. Maybe even clean armor." Her voice was lightly teasing, and Rinus looked down to see that the dirt and ash on his, had definitely rubbed off on hers.

"Oh, spirits take that." Rinus was tired, and it showed. "There've been two, three delegations of Conclave representatives that have come through here. All of them got shuttle tours of the disaster area. I doubt the Praetorians will let your father and brother do more. They'll fly over, get a feel for things, and leave, Kallixta. They've got what, twelve forest fires, three other cities ruined like Nivalis, and a sea-port destroyed by one of the tidal waves . . . they've got plenty to look at without having to worry about the state of my _armor_." Rinus left unspoken the fact that he really doubted that the Imperator would be seeking out his company today. And Perinus, the first-son, and heir, was singularly less than apt to do the same. The sum total of conversation that Rinus had ever had with Perinus had consisted of one phrase: _Congratulations on your wedding to my fifth-sister_, accompanied by a wrist-clasp that had managed to convey that Perinus was doing his best not to actually touch Rinus' sleeve at all. Rinus had bared his teeth in a friendly smile, and firmly clasped Perinus' wrist in return, accompanied by a warm hand to the first-son's shoulder. _Thank you for your warm good wishes,_ he'd replied, still smiling, and made sure to make eye-contact the whole time.

They were in the landing field by this point, heading for the _Nereia_, and that was when a throat cleared, gently, off to the side. Rinus hesitated in mid-stride, looked up at the gray clouds overhead, and thought, _The spirits hate me, don't they?_ before turning a little.

Sure enough, Ligorus and Perinus, surrounded by a dozen Praetorians. . . including, Rinus thought, his mandibles flexing a bit, Lusciana, if he was reading the heights and builds of the guards in their faceless armor correctly. . . were there, along with a half-dozen members of the Conclave of Law-givers and Conclave of the _Dominae_. _Anyone taking bets that they didn't hear what I just said?_ Rinus thought, wincing, and internally reviewed his words hastily. No, he hadn't said anything bad. He'd just said that there was a fair bit of devastation to survey, and that was true.

They'd come to a halt, and the Imperator strode forward, flanked by his guards, and trailed after, somewhat reluctantly, by Perinus and the various Conclave members. Rinus was not really expecting more than a hand-clasp at most, and thus, was astonished when the Imperator, in his pure white armor, unlatched his helmet. _"Mate of my daughter, remove your helmet, please_," Ligorus told him, and when Rinus obeyed, confused, the Imperator reached forward, put his hands on his shoulders, and gave him the embrace of kin. Mandible against mandible, for a second, actual skin contact. It wasn't quite a hug, per se, but said more, without words, than an entire speech could have done.

Ligorus pulled back, his white armor covered in smudges and ash from Rinus' now, and told him, simply, "_You have done very well." _Informal voice, still superior to inferior, but with wording that suggested _father to son_, not _ruler to subject._

"_It does not feel that way, your Majesty,"_ Rinus replied, simply and very tiredly.

"_You took the almost certain destruction of all life on Nimines, the potential for a winter that would last for two hundred years and eliminate the biosphere, and turned it into something that is still horrific, but still much less bad. There's devastation, yes, but there is still life. We intend to honor you for that, but later."_ The Imperial _we_, for the moment.

Rinus shook his head, mutely, then found his tongue to say, _"I am a Spectre. And the entire crew of the __Hamus__ deserves honors, if anyone does."_

"_Yes, we have seen the reports."_ The Imperator paused, and, with a hint of a smile added, dropping into first-person, singular, _"Including the reports on the remarkable flying of my . . . grandson. I would like to meet this Ariston today."_ He looked off to the side at one of the clerks in his retinue. _"Make a note of that, if you would."_ He turned back to Rinus and added, quietly, _"I would also like to find some time to spend with you and my daughter before you leave. And with the crew of this remarkable ship, the __Hamus__. Please arrange this."_

The Imperator turned towards Valak now, and offered his hand for a wrist-clasp, which got gasps from everyone in the retinue. "Spectre N'dor?" Galactic now, for the cameras, as well as for Valak's comprehension.

"Yes, your Imperial Majesty?"

"In your time at SIU, did you ever hear of plans for an attack like this?"

Valak took off his helmet, and regarded Ligorus with his three good eyes, steadily. "Yes. Many times. And I spent most of my career trying to tell everyone that would listen that they were a damned fool idea."

"Oh?" The Imperator's glass-clear accent could convey many subtle nuances with a single word. Skepticism and intrigue at once.

"Yes, your Majesty. Such attacks are imprecise, difficult to execute, and do not have the intended result."

"And what is the intended result?"

"Fear, your Majesty. SIU and the Hegemony as a whole are too used to slaves. If you whip someone enough, they learn to flinch before you strike, and soon enough, spend their lives in a permanent flinch, hunched over, leaning away. But if you strike someone who is free. . . they don't flinch." Valak paused. "They strike back."

"And you understand that we will do precisely that?"

"I do."

"And what do you say to that? Will you plead for your people?"

"I would point out, your Majesty, that while turian law states that someone who's an accessory to a crime can and should be punished exactly as the perpetrator is, not all of my people were accessories to _this_ crime." Valak's smile held no humor. "Countless others, perhaps, but not this one."

The Imperator considered this for a moment. "Well spoken," he decided, at length. "We will consider tempering our justice with mercy. But let it be known that justice will be done." He turned, clasped wrists briefly with Garrus, exchanged a few quiet murmurs with him, and then left.

Rinus stared after him, his lip-plates hanging slightly agape as the Imperator walked away, followed by most of the nobles and the reporters, including Eleutherius, who grinned at him, touched his forehead in a slight salute, and scurried away. He registered the cold, rather poisonous stare of Perinus before the first-son strode off, surrounded by Praetorians, and looked down at Kallixta in confusion. "What the _futar_ did I do that got your brother so angry?"

Thonius Maxillus, one of the _dominae_ in the retinue, had stayed behind. Thonius was older than Rinus by twenty years, and a member of the 'Loyal Opposition' party. . . and had been one of Rinus' few staunch friends in the Conclave. He laughed out loud now. "Velnaran, what _haven't_ you done to get the imperial heir angry with you?"

Rinus stared at the bare-faced noble in total confusion. Thonius began to count off reasons on his fingers. "First, you're a commoner who married his sister, second, you're the nephew of Garrus Vakarian, third, you made Spectre, fourth, you've been in heavy fighting on Shanxi and Arvuna and even reportedly a part of a daring raid on the batarian _homeworld_, and have been therefore covered in glory for the last year, with news reports about your exploits all over the homeworld, fifth, you just single-handedly saved Nimines—"

"_Not_ single-handedly—" Rinus started to protest.

"Yes, yes, I know that, and you know that, but you took personal command of the ship that almost sacrificed itself to protect this planet. Where was I?" Thonius looked down at his hands, and unfolded his last finger. "Sixth, you just spent four days up to your helmet in grime, looking for survivors. Calling in favors with all your kin and Spectre colleagues, getting supplies and resources and personnel here to help with the recovery effort. Seventh," Thonius folded his fingers back in again as he went on, "there was the matter of that little speech. . . "

Rinus looked around blankly. "What speech?"

"The one about every other _dominus_ or _domina_ having forgotten their oaths to protect the Hierarchy. Very good political theater, and don't tell me you didn't realize the camera was on you—"

"What _speech_, I didn't say that. . . ." Rinus's words slid to a halt, and his teeth clicked shut. He turned and _glared_ at his uncle. "The briefing room. The reporter's camera was on?"

Garrus' shoulders shook, silently. "Yes. Yes, it was."

"You redacted the _rest_ of the briefing, why not _that_ part, too?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize that your _opinion_ was classified." Garrus' tone was bland.

"Oh, son of a thrice-poxed _villi_," Rinus swore.

Kallixta looked up at him. "I thought it was very moving," she told him, smiling pertly.

"Don't you start on me, _amatra_, I'm having a bad enough day as is."

Thonius held up his hands, and added now, cheerfully, "Yes, well, it made every one of the Conclave members who hasn't been out, I don't know, digging up flowerbeds to put in vegetable gardens or whatnot, look a mite out of touch. We're not a democracy. We don't need to run for re-election. But there were rumblings that you might be using this whole Spectre thing for political gain. Grand-standing. Making it a popularity contest. Rumblings among the _dominae_, anyway. Not among the general public."

Rinus wanted to find something to thump his head against. Politics made it _ache_, and the number of ways people could twist a simple comment simply infuriated him.

Thonius went on now, "Add to _that_, the very astute political move by the Imperator, in embracing the hero of the hour as kin—not just a restrained hand-clasp, no, no, full kin-honors—and he gets to walk away with some of your aura attached to him now, along with the, ah, dirt of your labors." Thonius folded in one more finger. "I make that eight good reasons for the first-son of the Imperator to _loathe_ you right now, Rinus, my friend."

Rinus looked at Thonius, and then down at Kallixta. "If I said 'I quit,'" Rinus told her, quietly. "Do you think that would convince your father at all?"

She shook her head. "No. But I'll try to make the compensation package worthwhile."

"Couldn't pay me enough to be you, son," Sam told him amicably, and they all walked up the _Nereia's_ hatch together.

The meeting, later that evening, probably sent shockwaves through the Hierarchy. Captain Faria Alenus was on her feet, if moving stiffly, and able to greet the Imperator as he came about the _Hamus_. Ligorus moved through the crew of that ship, the _Acus_, and the _Clavus_, thanking everyone for a job very well done. He clasped the captains' wrists. Was introduced to Ariston, and called him _grandson_ in range of the cameras. And made a presentation to the AI of a _clipeus volatere. _not for five confirmed kills, but for exceptional valor and excellence in flight. "I have rarely had the opportunity to give this award to kin," Ligorus had noted, calmly, in front of the cameras. Ariston had looked fit to burst with pride. Perinus was probably grinding his teeth, judging by the flexing of his mandibles, and Rinus did not envy either Ligorus or Perinus the long flight back to Palaven on the same ship together.

The conservatives were floored, the radicals were floored, and, as usual, no one knew what the Imperator was going to do next. He clasped Makur's wrist, crouched down to do the same for Fors, and accepted a pedipalp from Stone—no one had really quite dared to explain what the manifold purposes of that appendage were, and Rinus was not _about_ to be the first.

The next morning, Rinus, awoke aboard the _Nereia_, where he and Kallixta had spent the night in married quarters. They'd had a very brief dinner with Ligorus and Lusciana the night before, which had been interrupted every five minutes by clerks entering the room with documents for the Imperator to read, approve, and sign. And then the Imperator and his retinue had left for the rest of their survey. Before he'd left, Ligorus had told Rinus, his eyes penetrating, "It's somewhat customary, when someone does a singular service for the Hierarchy, for that person to be rewarded. A title, often."

Rinus shook his head, emphatically. "Ah, not to sound ungrateful," he told the Imperator, as tactfully as he could, "but titles usually come with lands and whatever else, and I really don't need any more hats to wear. I think I'm just about at the limits of what I can actually take care of on any given day."

"Really? I find that having a large staff helps enormously."

Rinus had tried not to choke on his wine at that one. Ligorus regarded him a moment longer. "Hmm. I will think on it, then."

And when the door had finally closed behind the Imperator and Lusciana, and Rinus and Kallixta had been left alone, at last, in their quarters, Kallixta had abandoned all decorum, and simply leaped at him. Half-climbing him, and at the same time, pounding on his shoulders with the heels of her hands, Kallixta had demanded, "Do you know how badly you frightened me with that letter?"

Rinus had been rather busy trying to fend off her fists, which she was applying with surprising force and vigor, and now managed to catch her wrists in his hands. "The letter?" he repeated. He was feeling a little slow and dim. "The one I sent before we made the relay jump to Nimines' system?"

"Yes! That letter! The one with the information about _insurance_ forms and your _will_ and all of that. . . that. . . _s'kak_!"

"Strong language, _amatra_. That's unlike you." Rinus tightened his grip on her wrists as Kallixta's eyes, as violet as her Imperial lineage, narrowed dangerously. "_Mellis_, you take risks as a pilot. I take them as a Spectre."

"I know that," she muttered, grudgingly, after a moment. "Risks are fine. I have no problem with risks."

Rinus turned and deposited her in their nest. . . still keeping a firm grip on her wrists. The drumming on his shoulders hadn't really hurt, but he preferred to feel her talons only in moments of passion. "And this was different?" he prompted, after a moment, smiling a little.

"Yes! It was one thing when you were gunnery crew chief on a ship I was piloting. It was always _together_ before, Rinus." Kallixta looked suddenly absolutely wretched. "Shanxi, you were on the planet, and I was in orbit, and that was all right. Three months of minimal contact from Arvuna. . . which I knew was dangerous. But that was all right, too. You'd never brought up the wills or the last requests or any of it before, so this one actually worried _you_. And that told me it was worth being frightened about." The last of the fear-anger was dissipating, and he could only imagine how much self-control it had taken to hold so much of it in check for so long.

He released her wrists, and touched her mandible with one hand, stroked her fringe with the other. "I was pretty scared myself," he admitted, quietly. "Needed to be done, though. And I thought I was the best person to do it. Garrus and Lantar and the others needed to finish holding Galatana and retaking Rocam. . . which, apparently, they have. . . "

"Yes. Two days ago," Kallixta put her head against his cowl. "If you're going to go on a desperate, possibly one-way mission again, at least take me with you."

Rinus chuckled helplessly. "If the spirits allow it, yes," he told her, fondly. "Although, truth be told, given that our pilot was killed . . . I'm just as glad you weren't with us for this one." The image of the pilot's body, impaled by a spar sticking through the cracked window of the cockpit, still occasionally flashed before his eyes. "And, in a way, you _were_ with me. In Ariston."

"AIs are never going to replace organic pilots entirely," Kallixta said, quickly.

"Not entirely, no. Not every AI has what you have, Kallixta. I suppose a better system would be sorting out which AIs are gifted in which fields, sort of the way we do with younglings in school and in boot camp. . . but we don't really have the luxury of allowing some of them to become cooks or entertainment specialists." Rinus snorted. "Ariston doesn't need a pilot, any more than Joker, on the _Normandy_ does. An AI like Laetia or Pelagia? Definitely does." He leaned down and nipped at the side of her neck. "All this, however? Not really what I planned to be discussing with you tonight."

"Oh? And what else did you have in mind?" Kallixta asked him, pulling back to smile up at him.

"Hmm. Your father did say that I could ask for any reward I wanted. . . " Rinus pulled back, and began to nibble on the inside of her wrist, maintaining eye-contact.

"Rinus!" Her peal of laughter resounded off the walls. "You're impossible! All hail the conquering hero?"

"Eh, all hail the Spectre who got his ship and a planet beat to hell." His voice soured slightly, then lightened. "But yes. You're the only reward I want."

She chuffed between her teeth. "Get down here and bite me properly."

"Yes, _domina_."

Now, Rinus carefully unwound himself from around Kallixta's sleeping form, and slipped out of bed. The deck-plates were vibrating subtly, and he knew that meant they'd gone to FTL drive in the night. He was restless, and didn't want to wake his wife, so he slipped on some clothing and let himself out into the corridor. In the port observation lounge, he found Makur patiently brushing out tangles in Snowflake's fur; every time he hit a tangle, the cat hissed and tried to claw him, and Makur promptly cuffed him back, as the claw marks bled briefly, and then healed. _Is it just me, or is that cat a metaphor for his entire relationship with Siara?_ Rinus wondered, and then said, "Where did everyone else go?"

"Eh, Garrus, Lantar, and the human are off in the briefing room. Comm call with Shepard. Fors is fleecing some of the crew of their money. . . and then giving it back, I think." Makur shrugged. "Valak is helping him. Stone is listening, because he likes 'mischief songs.'" He looked up. "Why the hell are you even out of bed, turian?"

"Think the shift to FTL drive woke me." Rinus stepped in, and stared out at the stars for a moment. "What happened to that youngling, anyway?"

"Which one? We pulled a lot of them out of rubble." Makur snorted. "Not the first time I've pulled younglings out of collapsed tunnels," he noted. "Not even the fifth."

Rinus eyed him. "The bunkers?"

"Yeah. The oldest tunnels are well-built and strong, but the ones cut out more recently tend not to be shored up as well. Sometimes they collapse. Of course, krogan younglings tend to heal up a bit faster than the turian ones were doing. . . ."

"The first one you pulled out. The female."

"Kyri? She's fine. Couple of aunts from outside the city came and got her after they saw her on the newsfeed." Makur shoved Snowflake's head aside. "Brought her to the ship one day so she could see Cat here. She thought he was pretty. Told me he needed a name, though."

Rinus grinned. "And you said?"

"He has a name. Cat. And if she didn't think that was pretty enough, she could call him Snowflake, like Siara does. She said Snowflake would do just fine." Makur made an annoyed sound. "Damned name tends to stick."

Rinus settled down into one of the chairs. Just taking a moment or two to unwind. "So she's off with kin. That's good."

"Yeah. Said she wanted to write letters to me. I told her that was fine, so long as she kept the words short. I still don't read well. Kyri told me that krogan schools must not be very good." Makur's yellowing stumps of teeth showed briefly. "I told her that my mate ran the only one there is, so if there's only one, it can't be called either good or bad, since there's nothing to compare it against. Told her that's what's called _logic_."

Rinus laughed. Slowly. Painfully. And Makur grinned and joined in, deep, hearty guffaws that rolled down the corridor. And, feeling oddly better, Rinus stood in a bit, and went back to his cabin, and nestled back down beside his sleeping mate. They'd be home soon. Well, they'd be to the Mindoir home. _Too many homes,_ Rinus thought, on the verge of dozing off again. _Then again, Makur did say I call half the Hierarchy my krannt._


	139. Chapter 139: Disinterred, Part One

**Chapter 139: Disinterred, Part One**

**Author's note: **_CalliesVoice was the one who, last chapter, after reading some of the snippets, asked how the Imperator's first-son might react to Rinus becoming quite a bit more popular than he is. It's not like either of them are going to need to stand for re-election, but it might make the political situation reallllly interesting at some point. Especially after Ligorus passes to the spirits. _

_Dermiti was the person who reminded me that Makur's always looked after kids, and that his big ol' soft spot for younglings might well come to the fore at some point in the chapter, which is what I translated into the retrievals in the ruins of Nivalis._

**Rellus, Astaria orbit, February 2, 2197**

They'd all made their way to the briefing room with Captain Arius. Cohort was waiting for them there, and the geth's eyeflaps were set low. Rel wasn't sure that geth really had emotions, per se, but he did think they had a faint sense of humor, or at least of incongruity. Hence why the eyeflaps tended to twitch when they made various statements. Cohort's expression, at the moment, was, for lack of any better term, grim. "What's been happening?" Rel asked him, immediately.

"FTL comm system was down for entirety of Hekate system until hours ago, when Alliance and asari ships began to move in," Cohort reminded them. "We also judged that straight-line FTL communications with the rest of the geth collective would be unwise, and could compromise this vessel's position, once we came back aboard."

"More or less why I wasn't communicating with the other SR ships," Lysandra admitted, re-appearing now, her avatar tiny, but humanoid, as she hovered over the briefing table. "I'm sorting through the newsfeeds now. Please, make yourselves comfortable. I'll put it all up on screen."

Rel slid into a chair, Seheve taking the chair to his right. Lin took the chair to his left, and Eli and Dara sat past him. The others circled around to the other side of the table, and the lights dimmed. "_This is Galenus Eleutherius_,_ reporting from Galatana space. It's with great joy that I can announce that the blockade of Galatana has been lifted,"_ Galenus Eleutherius stared directly into the camera; a translation in galactic and English crawled at the bottom of the screen for Kirrahe, Dempsey, and Zhasa's benefits. The report went on, briefly outlining the two-pronged attack, and footage from Galatana itself, showing the groaning warehouses filled with food, ready to head out to the rest of the Hierarchy actually made Rel's mouth water. He'd had fresh food on Mindoir, praise the spirits, Commander Shepard, and his own father for having the forethought to have things locally grown and produced, but nowhere else since . . . just before the Bastion plagues. Eleutherius shifted up, showing limited footage of the battle for Galatana from various gun cameras, and then showed, surprisingly, footage of the Spectre and marine teams staging the ship-to-ship assault on a batarian cruiser. The voice-over fell silent on showing Fors, Stone, Rinus, and Makur in action, and Rel could understand why; watching the very deck-plates glow red-hot, warp, and shift to reach up like strands of kelp, winding around hapless captives was damned unnerving. "Stone?" he asked, after a moment. "I've never seen him use that before, though. . ."

_Yes. That is his song to sing,_ Glory told him, calmly. Rel shuddered internally. He'd seen Stone turn dry, solid clay to a thin and shifting mire of dust on Terra Nova, and even shatter stone, but he hadn't thought about the ability extensively. It seemed to have a lot of applications.

"Fascinating," Kirrahe said, cheerfully. "Increases agitation of matter at the atomic level, adding or removing energy. Requires degree of abstraction not usually seen in biotics." His eyelids crinkled. "Wonder if someday, a biotic with this level of control over matter could learn to walk through walls."

_We dig. Stone may tunnel with his song,_ Glory told him, sounding confused.

"Conversation for another time, perhaps."

The camera lingered on Rinus's savage melee takedown of one of the batarians, followed up by a shotgun blast off camera, and then he and Thell worked frantically on the reactor core. _"Within half an hour, the entire ship was contained, and multiple prisoners were taken,"_ Eleutherius said, and went into his conclusion.

"Very nice," Lin said, tightly. "That was what, three days ago?"

"January twenty-nine, so, four days," Lysandra said, quietly.

Cohort took over at that point. "N'dor-Spectre, with the assistance of Tesala-Spectre, questioned several of the prisoners, and Thelldaroon-Probationary-Spectre was able to find mission briefs for the cruiser. N'dor-Spectre translated the mission briefs, and ascertained that the ship was to be sent to Macedyn to participate in the distraction phase of an attack against that planet." He summarized the rest of the plan, and Rel's crop clenched. It was a variation on a batarian gambit used many times before; asteroids on Terra Nova, the comet attack against Earth. . . but with a strong feint incorporated.

Eli, off past Lin, had laced his fingers together and put his face down in his hands for a moment. When he raised his head, his eyes were bleak and dark. "I seem to remember saying, a little over a year ago," he commented, quietly, "that Agridavus and Sagradavus could only be improved by strikes from orbit. And that people could rebuild from scratch that way." He paused. "I didn't actually mean that literally." There was a tightness to his expression, and to Lin's, at the moment, that Rel could somewhat understand. They'd both been through a lot on both of those worlds. And he saw Dara reach out and rest a hand on Eli's forearm, lightly.

"The Macedyn attack was delayed, possibly because the batarian ships intended to serve as the diversion were not available in time," Cohort replied, calmly. "However," and the eye-flaps twitched minutely, flattening back out again, "the attack on Nimines was imminent."

Lysandra bought up the vid feed coverage again. Galenus Eleutherius and the _Hierarchy State News Agency_ had to be up for a Pulitzer for it. The reporter tensely, quietly narrated events from the bridge of the _Hamus_ as the ships plunged through the relay. Began the mad, desperate flight across the Nimines system. Camera angles on Rinus and the captain, in her Quadim violet and white, the intensity in everyone's eyes. . . and then the space battle. The broken remains of a batarian ship slamming into the blast-shields that covered the plasteel of the bridge's forward windows. . . the footage jumped and stuttered. "_At that point, I lost my camera,_" Eleutherius, commented, _"but once I got my bearings, I got this footage with by wrist-cam_." Perspective, from someplace high, constantly shifting, moving, jouncing. . . as the camera was pulled, slowly, to the ground. Clear signs of a high wind—explosive decompression, and Rel _winced._ He'd served on enough ships for that to be one of his worst-case scenarios. "How the hell weren't they pulled out?" he muttered.

"_This tiny volus,"_ Eleutherius' voice said, _"pulled ninety percent of the bridge crew to safely."_ The camera shifted to Fors, being held up over Rinus' head, by the shoulder, so much biotic energy being used it was actually _visible_ on camera, warping the air around him, and steaming down to a ball near the ground. _"I'm told that my regular camera wouldn't have been able to detect the biotic flows, so I was fortunate to have been able to record this remarkable event. . . and those that followed."_ Stone moved forward and sealed the hull breach. _"At this point, with the captain unconscious, the executive officer lost to the hull breach, and the chief engineer working to keep the ship intact, Spectre Velnaran assumed command. With the pilot dead, he unshackled the AI and directed Ariston, the NCAI of the __Hamus__, to assume flight duties. Within minutes, the raider ship was incapacitated, and the payload of death carried by the converted salvage ship was destroyed as well. At that point, however, a __fourth__ set of ships appeared from around Tularae, and made for Nimines. The __Hamus__, with fires on every deck and with casualties to thirty percent of its crew, plotted an intercept course."_

On-screen, Rinus was addressing the crew. Telling them that if they died today, they died well. In the defense of family, friends, kin. Rel's blood ran cold, and he could hear in his brother's voice absolute acceptance. Rinus didn't _want_ to die. But if that was the price to be paid, he'd pay it. And then Makur quipped that he'd really rather not die for turians. . . but what the hell. Rinus' krannt was his krannt. _"And with those remarkable words, one SR-4 frigate and four battered fighters, nearly out of fuel, made a desperate attempt to save Nimines. They managed to get a shot on the batarians' weapon, an asteroid from the Kuiper belt measured at three hundred meters in diameter, and tore open the raider's shields. The batarians began to turn and flee when the __Acus__, the __Clavus__, and the __Recutio__ entered the fray. . . but the damage had already been done. The asteroid, already fractured by the __Hamus__' forward guns, was struck by repeated fire by the Nimines' orbital defense grid. Rather than deflecting the asteroid, it shattered it, and over two dozen fragments entered the atmosphere."_

Eleutherius' face appeared on-screen, and his crest had lowered, and his voice was quiet, as he continued, "_As most of you out there already know, asteroids are prone to break up on entry, anyway. They're not manufactured objects. They have irregular surfaces, prone to drag and friction in the atmosphere. They're made of a variety of materials, including iron, chondrites, ice, and carbonaceous structures. All of these heat irregularly. It is very likely that this asteroid would have broken up on entry, regardless of the actions taken."_ His voice was surprisingly gentle, even compassionate. A kindly doctor giving the bad news.

"How bad?" Lin asked, very tightly now. Rel turned to look at his oldest friend. Lin's head was down, and he had his elbows braced on his knees, and he was bouncing his heels rapidly, jittering a little. His entire body sang with tension, and Rel couldn't blame him at all.

Lysandra's voice was very quiet. "The largest chunk was about fifty meters in diameter. It shattered in mid-air near Nivalis. The smaller chunks, each measuring a few feet in diameter, did a fair bit of damage. . . there are impact craters everywhere there, and the largest chunk did set off an earthquake of around five point three on the Richter scale."

Lin's head was still down. "That's all right. Nivalis is in a mountain range, lots of earthquakes. The buildings are all rated for that." He looked up, and his blue eyes were almost completely empty at the moment. "That's not the bad news, is it, Lysandra?"

Lysandra shook her head slightly. "No, Spectre. The. . . bad news is that the air ahead of the incoming asteroid, which was traveling at a very high rate of speed. . . exploded out ahead of it. A blast wave, superheated by the friction of the rock traveling through the atmosphere. . . it was very similar to the shockwave of a thermonuclear attack. Reports from the ground said that there was a mushroom-shaped cloud, in fact." She winced. "The shockwave tore east to west through Nivalis. It. . . shattered windows. Tore the concrete facades right off many of the skyscrapers."

Silence had a weight to it under circumstances. The silence in the briefing room was so heavy now as to almost stop Rel's breath. "Can we see the vid? That might just be simpler," Rel asked, looking at Lysandra.

"I've been trying to prepare you," she said, quietly.

"The images seem to be . . . distressing. . . to organics," Cohort added. "Many run-times were ended."

Lysandra looked around. "Nivalis was the worst hit. There are twelve major forest fires. Three other smaller cities were hit with smaller rocks. A seaport was swamped under a forty-foot tidal wave on the western coast of the northern continent; the other seaports had warning, and were able to evacuate before the wave reached them. There's debris in the atmosphere, but nowhere near as bad as if all four asteroids had hit. They're expecting a very hard winter. . . well, several very hard winters. . . but they're not expecting a permanent climate shift."

Eli cleared his throat. "I think we're all prepared now," he told the AI. "Let's see it."

Brave words aside, every one of them flinched. The very steel girders that made up the backbones of Nivalis' skyscrapers were laid bare, many of them twisted and blackened. The streets were strewn with rubble, most of it unrecognizable. Fires raged everywhere. _"Spirits of air and darkness_," Rel said, very quietly. _"That's Shanxi. That's Shanxi, after a week of pounding by the yahg."_ His hands were trembling a little, and he could, very distantly, feel reality slipping away from him. It would be very, very easy to let the rage take hold of him at the moment. A hand touched his—Seheve, looking at him with quiet concern, and Rel choked down the rage. In the air, he could smell the brine of human tears, and, glancing over, saw that Dara's were streaking down her cheeks right now, unchecked, and Eli's fists were clenched. Dempsey's eyes were narrow, but no other expression. Zhasa had covered her face with her shawl, and was rocking slightly in her chair.

Lin leaned his head back, and there was a low, rasping sound coming from the back of his throat, not quite a growl, not quite a howl. More of a keening sound. "These are the eastern districts and the downtown area, Spectre Pellarian," Lysandra said softly. Violet songs were washing through the room now from Glory, violet edged with reds and blacks. "The western districts were less badly hit."

"There were ten million people in Nivalis," Lin said hoarsely. "What's the casualty toll?"

Lysandra slowly shook her head. "No estimates at this time," she said, very quietly. "If you'll watch the rest of the report. . . ?"

No one told her no. The screen resumed motion, closing in on Rinus' form again, in Spectre black, in the rubble. Working with fire and rescue personnel. Makur and Fors and Stone lifting huge girders to get down to the survivors below. Eleutherius' voice again, over the footage. _"Spectre Velnaran brought the __Hamus__ to Nivalis, still on-fire from its recent battle. Ordered the crew not currently conducting damage control procedures to assist the refugees of Nivalis with food and emergency supplies, and brought his fellow Spectres and crew volunteers to aid in the search for survivors. In the past forty-eight hours, we have seen an outpouring of assistance from our allies—people whom we have helped in their need, reaching out to the Hierarchy in turn. The humans have sent rescue and relief workers, fresh off work on Shanxi, Terra Nova, and a dozen other human worlds, including dog handlers, to try to find survivors. The volus have sent supplies and resources—portable shelters, usually used for colonization, heaters, medical supplies, blankets, warm clothing, bandages. The rachni and the geth are working through the rubble, the rachni tirelessly searching for what they call 'life-songs,' and the geth helping to shore up buildings so that rescuers can reach those trapped below. And supplies are coming in from Galatana. Food. Huge convoys of food are reaching this beleaguered world. And Rocam. . . which was liberated by the joint human-turian fleet, with assistance from Spectres like Garrus Vakarian, Lantar Sidonis, and Sam Jaworski. . . is sending medical supplies."_ Eleutherius paused. _"It is said that in disaster, we see the true faces of those around us. We learn who our friends are, and the true measure of their spirit. I have seen the faces and the spirits of our friends, our allies, our brothers and sisters. And I have been amazed by what I have seen here."_

Close-ups, now. The Imperator, giving Rinus the embrace of kin, pulling away with char and ash from Rinus' black armor staining his own white gear. Acknowledging Ariston on the _Hamus,_ and giving the AI a medallion that he couldn't wear, but from the look on the avatar's face, would clearly treasure. Clasping wrists with Fors, with Makur, clasping the pedipalp of Stone, and even clasping Valak N'dor's wrist, after exchanging words with the batarian Spectre, whose face was clearly haunted by the destruction around them. Rel exhaled, feeling his rage starting to build again. Torn, as he knew many other turians would be, by that simple image. On the one hand, he knew Valak personally. Knew the man to have a core of integrity and honor, knew that he'd stepped aside from the destructive path that so many batarians were bent on. Knew that millions more owed Valak their lives than would ever thank him for it. . . and yet, seeing the destruction wrought on Nimines brought everything back. The plagues on Bastion. The attacks on dozens of worlds, by the yahg, unleashed by the batarians, and by the batarians themselves. Part of Rel, the rage beginning to kindle, once again, inside of him, wanted to kill every batarian he saw. The only things that tempered that desire were the touch of Seheve's hand on his wrist, and the look of bitter despair in Valak's eyes on-screen. The look of a man who, against every desire in his heart, saw his own personal failure in the every mark of destruction around him.

"_Could this attack have been worse? It could have been. If not for the efforts of the Spectres—Valak N'dor and Thelldaroon, who uncovered the details of the batarian attack, and the desperate counterattack led by Rinus Velnaran—millions more would lie dead on Nimines today."_

Rel stared at the end of the report, at the face of Rinus, caught on-screen, covered in ash from head to toe. . . juxtaposed with another shot of him on the bridge of the _Hamus_, in pristine black Spectre armor, clearly in command in one of the biggest space battles since the Reaper War. _That's my first-brother_, he thought, a surge of pride sweeping through him. A second thought. _No wonder he made Spectre. _A faint, quiet surge of the old bitterness. _And I didn't_. He made himself examine the thought, just for a moment. Dragged it out where he could see it, in the light. _No one else could have done this. Only Rinus. Dara, Eli, Lin. . . they don't have the experience in space battles that Rinus has, after hundreds of hours in the gun crews or at the Thanix cannon, years married to a frigate pilot. Only Rinus or Kallixta could have used filial loyalty to convince Ariston that it was all right to assume the flight controls. I couldn't have. . . and I don't have his experience in space battles, either. Ground battles, small squad tactics, yes. Boarding parties, yes. Ship against ship, though? No._

The reflections only took a minute or two. Just enough introspection to calm himself, put everything in his personal life into perspective. . . and then Rel realized that Lin was still making that faint, rasping, keening sound at the back of his throat. Eli had reached over and put a hand on Lin's arm, and Rel blinked, seeing that Lin was damned near shaking. _Oh, spirits. That's despair-anger._ Rel snapped out of his introspective state, and put his own hand on Lin's arm, just as the other male tried to lurch to his feet and lift the table up. Even with Eli and Rel both holding him back, they didn't quite make it in time; Lin snarled and dumped the conference table on its side, sending everyone on the other side skittering back out of the way, dumping datapads and coffee cups on the floor.

"_Fradu!"_ Eli shouted, getting Lin back against the wall. The muscles in the human's forearms were standing out, and Rel added his strength to the mix, feeling Lin's entire body tense. Quiver. "Calm down! It's not going to bring them back!"

"_Like I don't __futtari_ _know that!"_ Lin shouted in return. Another surge of strength from Lin, as he tried to power off the wall, and Rel got one of his arms in a lock, just as Eli was on the other side, and they just held him in place, trying to let the worst of the protective-anger and despair-anger burn itself off. _"They're all __dead__, Eli, they're all fucking dead!"_

"_I know,"_ Eli told him. _"It's bad, but we don't know how bad, come on, __fradu__, calm down—"_

Lin's body bent like a bow, and Rel gritted his teeth and slammed Lin's shoulders back into the wall; he'd only managed to get a couple of inches away, and he and Eli were holding Lin in place as much with weight as strength. Not letting him go. Not letting him hurt himself, or anyone else. _"Get off me—"_

"_No,"_ Rel told him. _"Not till you've calmed down. We've got you." Same as you held me back when we went to the Blood Pack base. You got me in a lock and wouldn't let me hurt anyone. Time for me to return the favor._

Lin snarled, and they had to force him back into the wall again. Scrape of chairs as the others moved in from around the room. "Need help?" Dempsey's voice, wary tone.

The human's strength would be helpful, but Rel didn't know how Lin would react to anyone else's hands on him. "No," he told Dempsey, looking away from Lin for a half-second, long enough to catch Dempsey's eye. "We've got this." He could see Dara moving in, too. Her medkit was in her hand, but she didn't have any needles out. She was just watching, helpless as the rest of them, in the face of Lin's grief and anger.

"Not my first rodeo, as Sam might say," Eli added, dryly. He went on, quiet, and oddly gentle. _"Rel's right, Lin, we've got you. Same as I had your back on Macedyn."_

Rel's eyes jerked over to him for a moment in realization. Even if Eli hadn't had to hold down turian family members intent on revenge for injury done to kin, friends ready to back one another in bar-room brawls, it wouldn't have been his first time dealing with Lin, in particular. Revenge-rage, death-grief. He'd have had to have done something very similar after Brennia's death. _And I wasn't there to help either of my brothers, _Rel thought, oddly detached. _Didn't even know Lin had gotten married until after Brennia was already dead. Same as I wasn't there for Dara when she was poisoned. Well. . . I'm here now_. Not comforting with words. Comforting with touch. With presence. With the knowledge that they'd restrain him and keep him from hurting anyone. Lin could let it all out, and they'd make it safe for him.

The words weren't even articulate at the moment, and it took Rel a minute to understand them as _names_. "Ebanus, Kestrus, Harmonus, Katonys, Bellisran, Savarian," Lin muttered, and his body simply sagged against the wall now, limply, and his head drooped, the fight starting to drain out of his body.

"We don't know if they're dead or not," Eli told him, switching languages. "Some of them could be okay." A quick glance over at Lysandra, whose avatar was hovering nearby, looking uncertain. "Is there any word at all from CID in Nivalis? Any kind of roster of people who've showed up to work on the rescue teams?"

"I saw Red Cross teams in the footage from there, and the turian _Caeruleus Cordia_ will be on hand, too," Dara said, quietly. "They'll have names. Lysandra, get in touch with them. They're probably swamped, but you can ping their open databases. Anyone who's checked in to work at all should have had their biometric chips scanned . . assuming anyone's got the scanners going." Dara brushed her hair out of her face. "Anyone who's been injured and treated should have been scanned, too." She left unspoken what would be going on with the dead. Workers would be retrieving bodies and body parts for a very long time, which made identification that much harder. DNA tests would need to be done on the various parts, and matched against the Hierarchy databases. Any aliens who'd been in Nivalis. . . and there had probably been a few, in a metropolis that large that revolved around the mining industry. . . would probably lag on identification.

Lin's head came up a little, and Eli muttered, in a tone of compassion, "Really wish Serana were here, _fradu_. But I bet she's probably already left you half a dozen messages."

Faint nod, and Rel and Eli released the tight hold they'd had on Lin till that moment, still maintaining contact, but not holding him back anymore. Lin slowly slid down the wall, and they both crouched down on either side of him, each with a hand on one of his shoulders. Watching him. Rel could see Lin panting, in pure distress, something turians tried to avoid around other species. Something they shared with quarians, really, now that he thought about it.

Dara moved in, putting her hands on Lin's shoulders, on the cloth of his shirt, with a quick glance at Eli, as if for confirmation. Eli nodded in return, and Rel frowned, not understanding the by-play. . . and then Dara carefully leaned forward and gave Lin a hug. Lin made a wracking sort of sound, and reached up to wrap his own arms around her, tightly. Put his head down on her shoulder, and Dara reached up and very lightly stroked his crest. Rel stiffened a little, saw Dara's body tense as Lin's emotions flooded through her, saw her face crumple into a mask of pain. Still, she kept her voice as light as she could. "It's okay, Lin. I can take it. Just. . . let it go."

"No—"

"What, it's yours to feel, it's your pain, and you're going to hoard it?" Dara's voice could have been sharp. Would have been, a year ago. At the moment, it was edged with unshed tears. "That didn't work out for you last time, Lin. I know you're not going to let me give you a goddamn syringe of something to take the edge off, and you're also not the type to go drink half a bottle of brandy to self-medicate the pain, so let me take some of the load. Same as Eli and Rel are trying to do. Let it go. It's. . . kind of what I'm for now." Self-deprecation, along with that edge of tears, and Rel could see Eli grimace, putting his other hand on Dara's shoulder. . . and wincing, Rel reached out and did the same.

Flickers of song, just at the periphery of Rel's consciousness, and he winced and tried not to listen, but it was hard not to. Anger was compelling for him, but Lin's variant of anger was not much like his own. Rel's anger was a white-hot thing, all-consuming, that left nothing in its wake. Eli's was slow to build, a thing of volcanic pressure that could either harden into diamond and endure forever, stubbornly, or erupt in molten fury, and then abate again. Lin's temperament tended to be easy-going and a little mercurial, but this. . . this was the same black despair-anger that had been in his eyes on Macedyn a year ago. This pain was the exact same pain as when Brennia had died, only less personal. Writ larger. A black and sucking morass, a dark, yawning pit that opened at his feet and there was, suddenly, no way to climb out. No Serana to lift him out, and Rel pulled away from that, shying away from the personal. _I'm not Serana, but I'm here. We're all here. We weren't there on Macedyn, not like Eli was, but this time, it'll be different, I swear_. Dara's voice, her piano-like song.

Flash of memory. _Lin telling Eli, his voice shaking, "I need to kill something." _

_"I know."_

_"I really, really need to kill something, Eli." Desperation there._

_"I know!" The human lowered his voice. Stared at Lin for a moment, measuring him. "You know who probably did this, right?"_

_"Then it's Stragos that I'm going to kill."_

_"We don't have any evidence. And if you just run off half-cocked right now, you'll be the guilty one, under the Law." Hard, fast words, the intensity in Eli's eyes clear as he got right in Lin's face, trying to shake him out of the vengeance-rage._

_"I'd take the punishment, for her—"_

_"And she wouldn't fucking want that, now would she?" A pause. "You want to take them out?" Eli said, quietly now._

_"Yes!"_

_"I'll help. Friends go to hell for each other." Another pause as the two of them stared at each other from across the tiny apartment. With Brennia's things, neatly packed away in boxes, between them. "But we try to do it the right way, first, understand?"_

_Memory-song is strong._ Total acceptance, total compassion. Dara and Glory's voices, merging, just for a moment.

Rel turned his face aside. He'd never known just how far into the darkness Lin actually had gone. He'd been perfectly willing to throw his entire life away to avenge his dead wife. The only thing that had held him back was Eli. _I damned near lost a brother on Macedyn, and never would have known_, he realized, and wanted to curse himself. Out loud, all he said was a quiet reiteration of what he'd thought before. What Dara had sung, silently, moments ago. "We're here this time, Lin." Rel paused. "Nothing has to go the same _futtari _way again."

"We've got you," Eli told Lin again, as the others crowded a little closer. Zhasa reached in, putting a light, compassionate hand on one of Lin's forearms.

_No darkness,_ Glory sang, weaving harp-like harmonies around Dara's song, and Lin just rocked a little, back and forth, letting Dara lightly stroke his crest. _Anger-song, but no despair-song. Many death-songs sung, but also many more live, than died. Because of songs sung by Sings-Duty and Sings-Rebellion, Sings-Mischief and Sing-Patience. Do not sing guilt-songs because we sang victory and joy, while others were singing their last. We had our songs, and we sang them well. Now, we will sing others. And we will sing vengeance songs for those who have fallen._

Lin exhaled, and slowly raised his head. "Why is it," he managed to ask, slowly, "that rachni always seem to know what to say?"

"Wisdom of the ages and really good hearing," Dara told him, with a lopsided smile, wiping tears off of her face with the back of one hand, but Lin startled the _hell_ out of Rel by reaching forward and rubbing a thumb under Dara's eyes, drying the tears. Exactly the gesture he'd so often hesitated a little before making, himself. Usually making a joke before wiping the tears away.

"How long were you stationed there?" Dempsey asked, quietly. The male's face was expressionless, his voice so calm, it might even help Lin calm himself, too, at least a little.

"Two years," Lin said, leaning his head back against the wall. "Two years in which I mostly lived at the office. I used to bring a spare set of clothing in, so I could work through the night, sack out on a couch in my office, and not have anyone notice. So I wouldn't have to go back to my apartment." His voice was raw. "They were coworkers. Not really friends. I . . . didn't let many of them in." He lifted his head. "But it was _my_ city."

_His territory. A pack, even if he didn't feel the same bonds to them as he does to the rest of the Mindoir pack._ Rel winced, and tightened his grip on Lin's shoulder.

Lin reached forward, stroked Dara's hair lightly, and told her, "Thank you, little one." The same affectionate words he'd always used for Serana. "I think I'm past the . . . over-dramatic part." Lin flushed, dark blue, as he looked around, and suddenly seemed to realize that everyone in the room was watching him. "Ah, yeah. Definitely past the dramatic part," he added, looking away, and trying to get to his feet, as Rel slid a steadying hand under his elbow.

Dara pulled her hands back, and Eli helped her to her feet. "No problem," she told him, her hands visibly shaking. "I'd. . . hah. I'd say I'd prefer warning before doing that sort of thing, but I don't think _warning_ would actually help."

"Opening up to heavy emotional flows? Yeah. Warning doesn't help, and you never get it, anyway," Dempsey told her, dryly. "I prescribe a hot shower and a stiff drink, Doc."

"Shower, sure. Drink, well. . . " Dara grimaced. "I think my safe limit's a glass of wine. I haven't really tried to explore the boundaries of all the genetic modifications . . and today's not the day to do that."

Rel wanted to keep a close eye on Lin, but Lin was already trying to shrug it all off. "Yeah, I just need to get some sleep. I'll be fine, Rel." Quick flash of the old smile, but the blue eyes were shadowed.

Rel had walked him back to his quarters, which he shared with Kirrahe, in the observation lounge. "You sure?"

"Yeah. Just peachy, as a human might say." Lin looked away. "I don't need anyone standing watch over me." He snorted. "Actually, given that Kirrahe's my roommate. . . I'll pretty much have him standing watch over me all but one hour a day anyway. I'm sure Eli will drop by when Orlan finally falls asleep, too."

Rel shook his head. "Just. . . trying to return a favor." No real way to express it, other than that. Every single one of his friends had taken part in bringing his spirit back to him. He didn't entirely _recognize_ it anymore, but he was fairly sure he had one again. Lin hadn't stood for the _talas'kak_, any more than Eli or Rinus had. Rinus had been more tolerant, and oddly gentle, considering the fact that the spirits had left a great _deal_ of bark on his first-brother's statue. Eli had avoided as many of the confrontations as possible, but had still held his ground at every turn. Lin had done the same. And had held _him_ back from the brink, with words, or with his own arms. They'd reached down lifelines to him in his own personal pit of anger and despair, and while they'd both told him off every time he snapped and snarled at their offers of help, they'd kept offering anyway. "Why don't you. . . " Rel exhaled, and tried it again. "If you feel like talking. . . you can drop by my quarters."

_Of course, with Seheve there, there's absolutely no chance Lin will ever walk in the door. _The moment of memory he'd seen had clarified something for Rel. Lin knew _exactly_ how close he'd come to breaking his principles, in the moment of utter vengeance-rage after Brennia's death. And because he knew how thin that line was, he cherished and valued the self-control, the daily choice _not_ to give in to the urge to kill, the urge to break laws just because it was easier and simpler. And he hated, in himself, the fact that he'd almost crossed that line, even if it had been for a good reason. If Lin had crossed that line, and killed Stragos, and had survived, Rel strongly suspected that Lin would have killed himself about an hour later. It gave him perspective. Allowed him to empathize with people having really bad days, as he and Eli had said about the human in the flight control room on Bastion. Let him try to walk them back from that line, before they took the irrevocable final step. But once they crossed it, that part of him became an iron barricade.

And if Lin couldn't stomach it in someone, even himself, for a somewhat valid reason? He despised people who did so for profit, for gain. He could wrap his head around killing for an ideal, but the only ideals he recognized as legitimate were self-defense and the defense of others. Defense of life, defense of property, defense of liberty. Which were, in fact, pretty close to the core principles that Seheve had been discussing with him, night after night, in her more philosophical moments, but again, how to explain that to Lin?

Lin stared at him for a long moment. "I'll probably drop by and talk to Dara and Eli before bed," he finally answered. "If your door's open. . . I can stick my head in." Noncommittal words, and an off-hand tone. . . but Rel still breathed a sigh of relief, his crop easing a little.

In his quarters, Seheve was cleaning and polishing her curving vibroknives. Two of them now; one her own, one that had belonged to Cyriac, the drell pirate they'd encountered weeks ago. She looked up as Rel entered, and slid the knives back into their sheathes. "Is he well?" she asked, her tone tentative. She'd been ghost-silent in the briefing room, and had hung back, her eyes wide, watching the by-play. Hovering a little, really, and Rel had been able to sense only one thing from her. Uncertainty. What to do, what not to do. And as Seheve so often chose, in moments of uncertainty, she chose to do nothing. Not to intrude, not to force herself where she might not be welcome. Avoided ripples in the damn water.

"I don't know," Rel admitted, sitting down in the other chair, across the small, shared deskspace from her. "Better, I think." He paused. "There are days when I don't know if I know what's really in any of my brothers anymore." _Or in myself. But at least I know that even if I can't yet see the shape of it, I do have a spirit again._

**Elijah, Hekate system, February 2, 2197**

He'd been damned worried about Lin, and still was, but they'd gotten him calmed down and relatively stable. Eli was, for the moment, however, a little more worried about Dara, who'd simply clenched her hands to try to hide the fact that they were shaking from everyone else in the room. . . and had probably not fooled Dempsey any more than she'd fooled him. Eli had wrapped a hand around her waist, sliding his hand under her far elbow, providing a little discreet support, and told her, silently, _Food, __sai'kaea__. And don't try to resist, unless you want me to practice my best 'escort' locks and grips on you. . . _

_Not arguing._ Dara's mental song had held grays of tiredness. _Was a long day already anyway, and then Lin. . . my god. And Rel, and you. _

Back in their quarters, the workers had taken advantage of their absence on the planet to redo the hammock into something that Dara had commented looked a great deal more like what she'd had on the _Lightsinger_. A full web, parallel to the deck, with a sort of canopy of other webs surrounding it. It sounded claustrophobic, in theory, but the springy, thin strands were translucently white, and could serve as a deceleration couch. Something Eli heartily approved of, given the fact that he really wasn't looking forward to any more battles in space, if he could help it. They'd tossed the nest roll from the bunk area under the webbing on top of it, for a little more padding, and added a tangle of blankets for the warmth on top of that. It looked. . . bizarre. . . but it was a hell of a lot easier on their backs than the nest on the floor.

They'd also developed the habit of sitting in whatever bed they were using, facing one another, when they needed to read or do work, and thus, at the moment, Dara's feet were tapping idly by Eli's head as she read. "Don't dwell on the newsfeeds," he warned her, quietly.

"I'm not. Looked at a couple on Nimines. There's going to be a panel of hearings on whether Rinus' actions in firing on the asteroid contributed to the damage on the ground, believe it or not—" Dara's tone was scathing, "the usual hearings on whether or not the tactics used by the SR ships could have been better, or if different maneuvers could have prevented the _Hamus, Clavus, _and _Acus_ from being so badly damaged or avoided as much loss of life. . . "

"If it's anything like what we have in CID, it's probably more of a lessons-learned thing," Eli told her. "What can we do better next time?"

"That what a morbidity and mortality conference is supposed to be about, too, but that doesn't ever make it feel less like someone's looking for every mistake, every chance to find fault and pounce," Dara replied, glumly. "In something this high profile, though, there's bound to be finger-pointing and all that shit. Just like Kallixta after the _Estallus_ was destroyed. I feel bad for them. They're having a really shitty year."

"Just them?" Eli said, looking up from his datapad, raising his eyebrows slightly.

Dara looked back at him, and her lips quirked up into a smile. "Okay. Maybe not just them." Her smile gave way to a laugh as he poked her in the ribs with his toes. "All right! It's been a shitty year for everyone." _Though, honestly, the last month has been great._

_Shh. Don't say that out loud. You'll tempt the spirits._

_I know! That's why I'm only singing it in my head!_ Her expression shifted. "Should we go check on Lin?"

"Give him a little space," Eli said, looking back down at his datapad. "He needs a little quiet right now, and then, yeah, more company."

Dara nodded, and, after a moment, he asked, silently, not looking up, _So. . . how many of __his__ memories are in your head right now, sweetheart?_

_Eh. . . not too bad. They'll fade. Some of them are . . . really vivid, because of the emotional content. Very strong songs._ Dara looked up, and her eyes were shadowed. _But they won't stay as sharp as your memories are for me, Eli. No reminders. And, well, no mating-songs to lock them in place. _She flushed a little.

_Well, that's a good thing._

_Yeah. Don't worry about cross-contamination. I'm not going to be looking at you through Lin's eyes tonight._ A quick, almost tart smile, and Eli laughed under his breath.

One of the oddest things he'd realized about their memory exchanges was the fact that it really was two-way. She remembered, though she tried not to evoke the recollections, what being in bed with Serana was like. . . from his perspective. From the male perspective, taking. And he, just as clearly, remembered what being in bed with _Rel_ was like. From a female perspective. Being taken. Which of them was actually more uncomfortable with that information was up for debate, but Eli was certain of two things. He was very glad he was secure in his masculinity, and, in spite of that, he was absolutely never going to mention it to Rel. Ever. Unless he _really_ needed to whack Rel over the head.

A light tap at the open door, and Zhasa promptly bounded in. The quarian girl had taken off her suit inside the ship with a palpable air of relief, and currently didn't even have her shawl up over her face. "Oh, that looks so comfortable," she told them both. "No, no, don't get up." She lifted one of the rachni silk panels out of the way, and perched on the edge of the webbing, beside Eli's feet and near Dara's shoulders, which were propped up on pillows, making the whole contraption sway. "Dara, how are you feeling?" Zhasa looked down at her, smiling, but her violet eyes were anxious.

"A lot better after food and a shower," Dara said, cheerfully enough, setting her datapad down. "I'm really bad at the rachni queen bit," she added, sounding rueful, as a couple of workers skittered up a nearby wall. "I'd probably be better if I did it more often, but I don't want to lose myself in it. I'd. . . much rather stay myself." Unvoiced worry, which Eli still heard, distinctly. _I don't want to be Sings-Heartsong, stuck forever in the hive-mind. I like the hive-mind. I love the rachni. I'm part of them. But god, I also want to stay me._

_No arguments here, __sai'kaea__. I kind of like you the way you are._

Zhasa nodded. "Do you have a few minutes? I know the timing is bad. . . but I thought it might be nice to look at some _cheerful_ things for a bit, instead of, you know. . . buildings collapsing and troop movements and trying to figure out where on Bothros we need to drop the Hammerheads and all that sort of thing. . . "

Dara gave her a long, steady look, just as Dempsey stuck his head in through the door, too. "You're about to ask me more wedding questions, aren't you?"

"Well. . . I _did_ find an extranet feed that seems to be solely dedicated to human wedding traditions. Actually, I found about seventy of them. Most of them seem to be largely devoted to advertising, but they have so many _dresses_." Zhasa sounded utterly delighted.

Dara nodded very slowly. "Let me guess. _Modern Bride_ and a billion others just like it."

"How'd you know?" Zhasa sounded delighted.

"Because their fine lists of ads are inescapable in any hair salon in North America," Dara said, sitting up a little further, and giving Dempsey, in the doorway, an equally dark look. "Let me take another guess. She asked you what you thought she'd look good in, and you told her, 'Why don't you ask the doc? She's going to have a better idea than I do.'" Dara's imitation of Dempsey's Boston accent and deadpan delivery tickled Eli, and he started to laugh.

"Close," Dempsey admitted.

"Oh, you so fricking owe me, mister." Dara slid her legs off the bed, and Eli lightly rubbed the small of her back through her shirt as she hopped down and pulled up one of the desk's two chairs, gesturing for Zhasa to take the other.

"Like you're not going to enjoy indulging your feminine side through Zhasa, where no one can accuse you of actually liking it," Dempsey told her, flat-voiced, and crossed the room to brace his back against the wall. Both Eli and Dempsey could now look down, from more or less the same angle, at the tiny screen at the desk, as Dara pulled up images on it.

Dara made a rude sound, and held up her fingers a hair's breadth apart.

Eli caught Dempsey's eye, and, behind Dara's back, raised his own hand, and held his fingers two inches apart. Dara didn't like shopping, but didn't mind looking pretty. She did, however, work in what was, largely, a male-dominated environment, and while she wasn't one for laces and bows and frills, she'd closed down a lot on her femininity over the years. She was only just now learning that she could be both feminine _and_ strong at the same time. She didn't have to go in for ribbons and lace, but she could still be feminine if she wanted to be.

Dempsey glanced from Dara's hand to Eli's, and Eli could have sworn he saw a glint of actual humor in the man's eyes.

"What exactly do you need help on, Zhasa?"

"Well. . . some of them seem to be a little expensive. . . "

"Don't be influenced by that," Dara warned, immediately. "My mom bought a nice white bridesmaid's dress for a hundred credits when she married my dad. Their wedding pictures turned out great, she looked beautiful and happy in it, and they were together for a very long time. People who spend ten thousand credits on a dress they'll wear once have too much money on their hands. Even Kasumi's white kimono for her wedding to my dad, I want to say, was rented. . . though she bought me mine." Dara shook her head.

"So you really only get to wear it once?"

"Not much call to wear one on an everyday basis. Used to be that it was just whichever dress a girl considered her best. Not so much anymore. Now, it's supposed to be something that you pass down to your daughter. . . if you _have_ a daughter. . . and if it isn't hideously out of fashion by the time she gets married, herself. If she even gets married." Dara's voice was very dry. "Like a lot of traditions on Earth, it's in flux."

"It does seem incredibly wasteful and selfish to make something that you'll only wear _once_," Zhasa agreed, immediately. "So if that's the case, I should make it the least wasteful thing possible."

"Don't make it the cheapest thing you see, either," Dara warned. "You want to be comfortable in it and look nice for the pictures, since, well, given the number of quarians who were chasing you two around on Bastion last time we were there, you're. . . going to probably have to distribute pictures from your wedding to the press sooner or later."

Eli could see Zhasa's expression tighten into a wince, almost a pout. _I know the feeling,_ he thought, and looked up at Dempsey. "So, what brings you here, D?"

"Needed to talk to you." A faint, sidelong glance at Dara.

_Ah. And you wanted to check in on her, too. Okay, she's probably safe enough with Zhasa here to keep an eye on her_, Eli thought, and rolled up, sliding his feet into his sneakers. "Privately?" he asked, jerking a thumb at the door.

"Doesn't have to be," Dempsey said, shrugging. "Zhasa got on me to pick attendants. Quarians have them, to help hold up the . . . tent doohickey thing they stand under, and to make sure that the bride doesn't get kidnapped by a rival clan."

"Pretty much where human attendants got started, too," Dara agreed, looking up.

Eli looked cautiously behind him, as if for unexpected assailants, and said, simply, "And?"

Dempsey's lips thinned for a moment. "Hell, Sidonis, I've been out of circulation for twelve years now. I didn't really try to get in touch with any of my old buddies when the doc here and Shepard and everyone else first thawed me out of my freezer. Didn't feel human enough to try to pretend to have a normal conversation with any of them. Didn't want them to listen to the fuckin' robot that played words in my voice and had my face, but wasn't really James Dempsey." He rolled his shoulders against the wall, a faint shrug.

Eli raised his eyebrows slightly. "You get in touch with any of them now?"

"Tried. Had three friends in that shitty garage band I had in high school. 'Biotic Fury.'" Dempsey snorted. "Alex Moran. Thomas Fitzpatrick. Matthew O'Dwyer. All of us were biotic, all of us had to go into the military. Alex was from money. Serious old Boston political family. Went to the same weekly biotics prep and the same military school that I did. And I was this scruffy kid from Southy. He was our lead singer. Thomas was the bassist, from Charlestown, about as middleclass as you can get, and Matt was our drummer. Lived in this tiny apartment really close to the Garden, where the Bruins play. He used to swear the floor shook every time they scored a goal, from the fans screaming so loudly." It was a long speech by Dempsey's standards, and yet, still, flat and calm and a little monotonous. "Alex went into N7, eventually. He went to the Academy first, though. Meant that the rest of us fell out of touch with him. Can't really fraternize, and he was still in school while the rest of us were already serving."

Eli listened, not speaking. Zhasa was still making ooohing and aahing noises over various dresses, and Dara was, as usual, starting one of her lists. Organizing information for her friend. Not venturing many opinions yet, just gathering data. _Listening to the patient's symptoms_, Eli thought, and tried not to smile. "And the other two?"

"Thomas wound up in the ground-pounders. Army. Matt wound up in N7 with me. He was the one who I said really loved the damn lap-dances at his bachelor party. They didn't have as much biotics as Alex had, and I had a hell of a lot more than Alex." Dempsey tapped his forehead, and sighed. "So, yeah. Wound up getting in touch with Thomas' wife before we went through the relay to Astaria. Turns out, he died during the Reaper War."

Eli winced. A year or two after Dempsey had gone missing, in other words. "And the other guys?" he asked.

"Matt's alive. Divorced. Got sick as hell during the plagues. Alex is alive, too. And a major now." He shook his head. "Both very goddamned surprised to hear from me, judging from the messages they left. . . I just got off the FTL line with each of them."

Eli waited, and then ventured, quietly, "And?"

"And, I've got absolutely nothing to talk to them about." Dempsey shrugged again. "Alex is up to his neck in officer politics and trying to make that delicate leap to colonel. He's thirty-two years old, and here I am, looking no more than twenty-two. I used to be 'the MIA friend I used to have' and part of the 'I have friends who were enlisted, don't worry, I'm in touch with the common soldier' in conversations he probably had over the years." A slightly grim look at the far wall.

"And now you're a Spectre," Eli said, quietly. He was all too aware of the sorts of strain that the sudden elevation could have on people whom you hadn't seen in a while. He and Lin and Rel had all been the same rank: O3. Sure, his courtesy title and Lin's had been _agent_, but their actual rank had been the same as Rel's. Dara had been given a bump to O4. . . but Rel had probably not looked at Eli and Lin as equals. They were, after all, just _cops_. Not special forces. And then all three of them had made Spectre before he had, and that had been at least part of what had chafed at Rel for months before he'd been able to let it go.

"Yeah." Dempsey looked away for a moment. "There's an old-fashioned phrase that still sort of applies. Apparently, I've got airs above my station." There was little emotion there, but a hint of irony. "And while Matt. . . who was my best man, first time around, for Christ's sake. . . wants to say 'good on you,' for being one of the few enlisted to make Spectre, he doesn't know how to talk to someone who was dead for ten years and then showed up on the news, alive and well and a Spectre, even if I'm the one that talks like a robot. Alex is a little better, but I haven't seen him much since he was eighteen and went off to the Academy. I don't know who the hell these guys are." He looked at Zhasa now, who was leaning in close to Dara, pointing at a dress now. "And they sure had a lot of questions about Zhasa."

Eli shrugged. "To be fair, I probably would, too. 'Course, I'm not sure if I'd be asking them in the first comm call. . . ."

"Yeah."

Eli paused. "So, it didn't go well?"

"Nope."

"That's a shame."

There was a distinct pause. "You're gonna make me ask, aren't you?" Faint tone of resignation in Dempsey's voice.

"What, you want me to be on hand to shoot you? Again?" Eli raised his eyebrows and grinned at Dempsey.

That got Zhasa's head to snap up. "Elijah!" she said, her tone absolutely shocked. "That's a perfectly horrible thing to joke about!"

Dempsey looked at him and nodded, his lips very faintly quirking up at the corners. "Yeah, actually. Be ready to shoot me if I look like I'm about to run away or, worse yet, if I lose my mind and start trying to damage anyone. Prop me up if I faint, and, for god's sake, don't let me lose the ring this time."

Dara looked up. "You lost the ring the first time?"

"Matt did, yeah. You ever try finding an open jewelry store at oh-ten-hundred on a Saturday morning in Boston? In a tux?"

Dara's lips twitched, and Eli caught the blue-green wave of amusement and relished it as she laughed. "No. Can't say I have."

Dempsey looked back at Eli. "So?"

Eli pretended to think about it. "I can pencil you in for sometime next June," he offered, helpfully. "My best man services are kind of booked between Fors and Lin at the moment, but if you let me throw your bachelor party in with theirs, it'll make scheduling a lot easier."

"Not my fault your agent double-booked you. But yeah, sure. Why not."

Lin took that moment to stick his head in through the door. "You're being asked to stand by Dempsey now, too, _fradu_?" he asked, smiling very slightly.

"Poor Eli," Dara said, with mock-commiseration. "Always a bridesmaid and never a bride?"

"I was a very _pretty_ bride around this time last year, if you'll remember," Eli reminded her, and reached across the intervening space to bonk the top of her head with a datapad. She and Lin both looked up, and winced. Dara tossed him a thought, drenched in violet: _I'm sorry, __ciea'teilu__._ _I spoke before I thought_. Eli shook his head, and smiled at her, slowly. "Don't worry about it. Next time I get married, it's for keeps."

"I like that sound of that," Dara said, simply, and they left it at that, as she tapped on the screen. "Zhasa, my friend, you're picking things in two completely different categories. We're going to call category one the cake frosting category, all right? Bows, ribbons, laces, seed pearls. . . usually all piled on top of each other. Usually with trains, and I think one of them had a kitchen sink attached to the back, too."

Zhasa laughed, low and rich. "Well. . . they're pretty."

"Yes. In their way. And if that's what you like, that's fine. The other category is more the wispy chiffon sort of ethereal look."

Zhasa looked at her. "And. . . ?"

"One of them is so over the top, you're going to sink into the dress, and no one will see you again until we get a crane to lift you up out of it—"

Zhasa burst into laughter. "And the other?" she managed.

Dara gave her a look. "Have you actually looked at yourself in a mirror lately, Zhasa? Wispy, frail, fine, dainty, ethereal, and waiflike are not words that in any way pertain to you. You're. . . "

"Statuesque," Eli offered, cheerfully, glancing at Dempsey to make sure the man wasn't offended.

Dempsey's lips quirked up, but he added, clinically, "I'd have gone with _stacked_."

"She does have a very nice waist," Lin acknowledged, and Eli saw the violet flush starting in Zhasa's cheeks.

"I was personally going to say 'built on curves,'" Dara said, crisply. "Someone can pull off the waif look if they weight a hundred and ten pounds, soaking wet, but that's not you, my friend." She paused. "I think you're kind of responding to two impulses here, Zhasa. I think you want nice, clean, flowing lines, and you also want a little frilly stuff. Try _these_."

She switched the console to a different extranet page, and Zhasa actually squeaked. "That one! No. . . that one. . . "

Dara put a hand over her face, and looked between her fingers at Dempsey, whose lips were definitely curling further up now. "Seriously, Dempsey, you _owe_ me," Dara muttered, and then looked over at Lin. "You doing okay, Lin?"

"Yeah, figured I'd show you guys I wasn't going to go jump out the airlock without a suit or anything like that," Lin returned, shrugging. "I'll go stick my head in Rel's door now."

Eli raised his eyebrows, a silent question. Lin shrugged and rolled his eyes, a resigned look, if ever Eli had seen one before. "Want backup?" he asked, keeping his tone light.

"Send an extraction team in five minutes. If I don't need help, I'll wave you off," Lin said, keeping his tone just as light, in the clear knowledge that every word they said right now, could be heard on the other side of the narrow hall. It wasn't as if any of the doors were currently closed, after all. Then he smiled a little and moved out of the doorway. . . and Eli promptly stood and went to stand against the doorframe, himself. Still in the room, but ready to move in, if needed.

_Lin's not that unstable right now, ciea'teilu._

_I know, but she pushes just about every wrong button in him that there is, sai'kaea. I don't want Rel to have to pick between them, 'cause that'll just make everything all the more uncomfortable around here._

_Fair enough._

**Linianus, Hekate System, February 2, 2197**

The cool touch of Dara's mind and gentle, soft fingers, the same hands that had taken the pain away on Omega and hell, even on Astaria, had soothed the worst of the heart-sickness. _Our other little one_, he'd thought, briefly. He'd concealed his feelings for Serana, even from himself, behind the words little one for years. And had extended the words to Dara, too. Half joke, and half identity. Telling her, without telling her, that she was, for him, the same as Serana, in many ways. Mate of his brother, and much loved. Telling _Eli_, without telling him, that Eli was lying to himself, just as Lin had. _At least the strange game of musical chairs is almost complete_, he thought, as he walked through the _Raedia_'s corridors and down to the lowest decks, below engineering.

Feeling the strands of song, gathered in from Eli and Rel, had helped, too. Three voices, telling him without words, _We're here. We're here. We're here, and the darkness doesn't have to be so bad._ Lin had even had a brief flash of something Dara had shown him and Serana, a month before. Earth, air, fire, water. All, for one instant, whole and combined. It had meant something. . . to him, at least.

_Spirits, I wish Serana were here._ He ached to put his head down on her shoulder and just close his eyes for a while.

Eli had been right; there were five messages from Serana waiting for him. The first, a quick, horrified reaction of _Spirits, Lin, beloved, I don't know when you'll get this, but I just got word here in K's office about the damage on Nimines. All I know right now is that my first-brother's alive, but there's not much more information. I'm so sorry, beloved. I'll see what I can do from here._

The second, a little longer, gave him much the same information that the news reports had, but closed off with tender words, which he cherished. _I'm trying to send you my spirit, Lin. I don't really need it right now. Physical therapy's almost done, and K's got me in some fairly heavy training. I think she's got her eye set on the bank vaults in Zurich on Earth. I tried telling her that no one actually uses physical money anymore, but she just smiles and says 'gold bullion is universally accepted,' and I'm too scared to ask much more. So, take it; my sprit's yours. _

He'd felt a little warmed by that, as if her spirit really did nestle itself around him, and then sink down into his heart, to glow there like a coal. Two of the remaining messages were lighter, trying, deliberately, he thought, to give him something else to think about. Being invited to Kasumi's house to eat dinner with Hinata and Takeshi and Kasumi one night this week, since Sam was still out near Nimines. Aunt Lilu had, apparently, offered Serana a varren pup, but she was holding off on accepting it. _I still just like dogs better_, she'd admitted. _Plus, who's going to be home to take care of the poor thing?_ Kallixta had been working with her to get the big, echoing house filled a little more with furniture, until the last couple of days, in which case Kallixta had gone directly to Lilu and politely but urgently requested transit to her husband. _Now_. And had gotten it, in the form of the _Normandy_, which had taken off with Shepard and Kallixta aboard, taking her to Nimines space. Shepard hadn't been down on the surface yet, Serana wrote, _but you know damned well Ka. was probably the first person out the hatch, or near. Pallum probably had to hold her back with his own two hands. _The last, had a thick packet of attachments. Files. _I went through your pictures, beloved. Found all the ones from Nimines. Wasn't sure if seeing them right now would help or not._

Lin didn't really want to look at them yet. Seeing Nivalis in its glory would not be comforting right now, and seeing the faces of people who could be dead would be distressing. But he opened the pictures, anyway. Saw a couple of award presentation pictures. His captain, Ebanus, putting a medallion around his neck, along with his partner, Milanus Kestrus, for their work on the serial arson case, which they'd conducted alongside the fire investigators of a half-dozen smaller cities, as well as those in Nivalis. Ilianus Harmonus, who'd been the butt of many office jokes, because no matter how often he and Narso Katonys went out to the bars, and how often Ilianus hit on the girls, it was inevitably Narso, who was supposed to be the 'wingman,' that the girls wound up going home with. Mirixia Bellisran, the oldest person in the department besides the captain, who'd been with CID for twenty years on five different worlds. Internal Affairs, apparently, but she always had a smile. Even when she'd been investigating Lin for 'excessive force,' he'd felt. . . oddly safe in her hands. She wouldn't put blame on him if it wasn't deserved. She made everyone trust her, which was a hell of a trick for an IA officer. And Elarus Savarian, who'd come into the department at the same time as Lin had, but had acted so much younger. Someone's fifth-son, last child out of the nest, and it had showed. Mirixia had called him _nestling_ for two years.

Lin flipped through the pictures, and stopped, with a sense of shock, on ones taken on a snowy mountainside, about a day's groundcar ride to the north of Nivalis. _Felicia_. _Felicia Novak._ A fall of red hair, snaking out from under a warm, wooly hat. She'd taken her goggles off for the picture, revealing soft brown eyes, the color of dark chocolate or warm earth. He'd told Dara once that Felicia had reminded him of her. . . but he'd never really registered until this moment that, hair aside, they could have been sisters. _Oh, Serana's going to be poking me about that one for the next several years. Little one's probably going to try to blackmail me with the pictures, too._ Lin smiled, but just for a moment, closing the files back down. It did no good to look at them. All he could think, at the moment, was that he'd shut most of these people out. He could have been friends with his partner, Kestrus, but hadn't talked to the male about anything besides work and where to get _apha_ for two years. He'd listened when Kestrus had complained about his wife's family all living all the way out on Rocam, and how annoying it was to have to travel there for the holidays, but had never volunteered a word about Brennia, even when his partner had gestured to the knives, both in their sheathes at his wrist, and asked, _So, how long are you going to be carrying those?_ He'd just shrugged and changed the subject.

And now. . . they were all probably dead. Mirixia with her warm smile, Ebanus with his tendency to shout down the hall from his office, making the partitions between everyone's cubes shake, Felicia with her warm-cool lips, which she'd pressed against his lip-plates in the snow, startling him, Narso, with that slow, liquid, Macedyn drawl that all the Nimines females had apparently gone weak at the knees for. . .

Lin had rubbed his face. The spell of Serana's warmth and words had been fading. _Time to distract myself_. He glanced up, saw Kirrahe watching him out of the corner of his eyes, and said, "Going to visit the others for a bit. Don't leave the light on for me. . . oh, wait. You'll be awake anyway."

"Of course. Much work still to do." Kirrahe gave him a quick glance. "Move through grief stages fairly quickly, I see. Denial not even really entered into. Anger mostly past. Now, depression?"

Lin sighed. "And you'd have already processed it all by now, I'm sure."

"Possibly. Very large event. Pictures personalize it. Perhaps too much so." He gestured at the comm console.

"I know. That's why I stopped looking at them." Lin shrugged, and walked out the door.

Then he'd wandered below decks. Listened to Dara getting teased, watched as Dempsey took another step into the tight circle of the pack. Teased Zhasa a little himself. . . and then squared his shoulders, looking at the open door across the hall. _It's just a door,_ Lin told himself. _It's not even closed. Don't have to batter it down or anything._ The trouble was, he knew, not that door at all. It was the door in himself. Having to open that one was much harder. It opened onto places in his heart that he considered sacred ground. He didn't mind opening that door for Eli. Eli had been there. They'd shed blood, and Eli had shed tears, in that place. Serana hadn't been there, but he was as open to her as he could possibly be. She understood things, with her wise heart, that people ten or twenty years her senior couldn't grasp. Dara. . . of course. She hadn't beenthere, as Eli had. . . but she, too, understood without speaking. And she was his brother's mate. . . and _his_ mate's _sangua'amila_. No question of it there.

Rel hadn't been there. But he was coming back to himself, opening to them again, and that was important. In every respect, a brother. His mate's brother, spirits damn it. _Why did he have to pick such a female?_ Lin asked himself, yet again. And again, Eli's wise words, in his mind. _Because they were both made into weapons. He made himself into one. She was crafted into one by others' hands. If he can get his spirit back, why can't she?_

_Because. Because. Because. Because believing that would be betraying Brennia. I might as well shatter her knife forever._ Irrational, and Lin knew it. He took the final step into the doorway, and tapped lightly on the frame, not looking inside yet. Instinctive courtesy.

He'd been concentrating on the cheerful chatter from Dara and Eli's room at first, and then had been lost in introspection for a long moment as he walked across the narrow hall. He could hear Rel and Seheve murmuring to one another, quietly. Rel counseling her, softly, "Just don't make your words an attack, that's all I'm saying. . ."

"I never mean my words as such." Soft voice, soft words. "He will not accept consolation from me, and you know this, Rellus."

"I wasn't really asking for any," Lin said, dryly, not looking at Seheve, as he now leaned into to room. He nodded to Rel. "You asked me to drop by."

Rel, who'd been sitting at the desk, carving, as he usually did when he was otherwise unoccupied, let the knife drop and stood, reaching out a welcoming hand to Lin. Lin couldn't make his feet move across the threshold. They felt nailed to the floor. But he did return the wrist-clasp and the smile. "Aren't you going to come in?" Rel asked.

"Nah, like I said, I was just dropping by. Didn't get past the hallway with Dara and Eli, either." Quick grin, to cover the slight discourtesy. He was being invited past the door, and declining. Nuances. . . but with it, absolute, meticulous truth. _Can't say I'm not being stringently fair. This far, and no further. _

Rel's smile faded a little. The light in the blue eyes dimmed. "All right. I understand. Just figured you might take a look at the new carving, tell me if you can even recognize it yet."

Lin felt about two inches tall, and sighed. Rel had a charisma to him, a way of pulling people after him, whether they wanted to go, or not. Leading by inspiration, as Lin had said, many times before. And that bond was tugging at him now, pulling, and it was damned hard not to follow. "I don't want to intrude—" and that was the polite lie. The door was open; he'd been invited, twice now. He wasn't intruding, but he was demurring.

"I didn't do it!" Seheve said, suddenly, and sharply, and Lin's head swung up. "Is it fair, is it just, to punish someone for what they have not done, Linianus?"

He could see Rel's head snap back, and he turned to frown at Seheve, muttering, "Didn't I just say _not_ to poke the _acrocanth_ with the sore tooth?"

Lin inhaled and exhaled, through his nose. Trying to make sure he was calm. Then he turned his head, and, looking just past Seheve's ear, said, hearing the edges in his own voice, "Didn't do what, precisely?"

"I didn't kill the people of Nimines. I didn't hurl asteroids at your world—"

"Of course you didn't." Cold and flat and hard.

Perhaps encouraged by the fact that he was still addressing her, more or less, Seheve began to speak again, rapidly. "Even when I first came to Bastion, when the bioweapon threat was imminent, all I could think of when I heard the news reports was how stupid a weapon it was. How. . . imprecise."

"I could expect nothing else of you," Lin said, and the contempt in his own voice startled him. The words spilled out, almost without conscious control. "After all, it's so _untidy_ to leave the corpses all lying in the street for other people to pick up. So much more hygienic to stage it to look like a suicide. And yet, you're the one who keeps reminding us all that dead is _dead_, and the _method_ shouldn't matter, now should it? So long as the method is one that lets you get away with it?"

His words made Seheve flinch, as if slapped, turning away, her eyes half-closing. Breathing faster now, a little, with distress, or a pretty convincing imitation of it.

"Oh, Jesus fucking Christ," Eli's voice came from across the way. "That was the fastest five minutes of my life." The human stepped out of his quarters, and Lin could feel him move up. Familiar presence at his back. Lin didn't turn to look at him. Didn't take his eyes off the people in the room ahead of him.

Rel had actually pulled back from the contempt in his voice. Started to bristle. "She doesn't have to answer to you, Lin—" 

"No, but she's the one who keeps getting in my face, Rel. I came down here to talk to you. My brother. Not to her. The best I can do on any given day is pretend that she doesn't exist."

"Would you prefer that?" Seheve's voice shook. "Would you prefer that I didn't exist?"

Lin stared at her. "Yeah, actually. That'd do nicely."

Rel's crest lifted, just a hint, and he actually growled. "What did you just say?" One step below threat display. His hands dropped to his sides.

"I said that if she didn't exist, it would make life a hell of a lot nicer around here." Lin's eyes had narrowed, and he knew he was just as close to threat display. But he kept his hands up, crossed over his chest.

That was when Eli put a hand on Lin's shoulder and, with a grim look on his face, stepped past him, into the room. Putting his body between Lin and Rel. Becoming the buffer. Movement behind Lin now, Dara's light scent, wafting from the door of her quarters. Dempsey and Zhasa's voices having gone silent.

Lin went on, cold and precise now, looking past Eli's shoulder at Seheve. "So. . . no. You didn't kill the people on Nimines. I don't hold you accountable for them. So you can stop trying to pull my teeth about the _great_ injustices that I do you." His voice rasped, like scales over sand. "I _do_ hold you accountable for the people that you have murdered over the years." Lin doesn't move from the doorframe. Didn't step forward, didn't loom over her. He didn't need to. The only weapons he needed for someone like her was the truth, and the truth was on _his_ side. "How many _did_ you hold in place, slash the wrists of, like Maldo Ren? How many throats did you cut? How many of them did you snipe from a tall tower? How many, Seheve Liakos? Answer me that—"

"Lin, shut the _futar_ up, you've got no right to question her—" Rel moved forward, and stopped as Eli snapped a hand out, pushing him back lightly. Holding Rel and Lin at the width of his own arms.

"Hey, Rel, if I don't question her, who will? You? You're the one fucking a murderer, so maybe you should actually know something about her besides the fact that her skin tastes good." Lin didn't look at Rel as he said it, except in the defocused way he used in sparring. Being aware of everyone around him, including those who might pitch in, taking a single-man fight into a multiples encounter. He was actually looking directly at Liakos. Forcing her to meet his eyes. _You wanted my attention? You wanted me to talk to you? You got it. _

"Don't call her that—" That was a snarl.

"Oh, god damn it, Lin, _de-escalate,_ for fuck's sake," Eli muttered, as Rel moved forward again.

"Why not? You called your own sister a _whore_, and with far less reason." Lin shot back, and this time he _did_ look across Eli's shoulder and met Rel's now very angry blue eyes with his own.

"Okay, you both have fair points here," Eli noted, his voice strained. "Now can you both back the _fuck_ off for a minute and go to your corners?"

"Seventy-four." The words were clear and precise, and came from Seheve's corner of the room, where she stood, pressed back into the wall. For all of that, her voice was shaking. "I'm sorry. . . it took a moment to count them all."

The words took the wind out of Rel's sails, just for a minute. He turned and looked at her, his expression oddly appealing. "Seheve. . . you don't have to—"

"Yes. I do." Her hands were clasped in front of her, so tightly that the dark, green-black scales at her knuckles actually paled from the pressure. "So what are you going to do now, Spectre Pellarian?" She lifted her chin, her eyes looking past him. "Will you execute me?"

"That's your thing, not mine," Lin snapped back.

"Will you turn me over to your captain for a trial, then? Like the pirates a few weeks ago?" Her voice was still shaking.

"Believe me, I would _love_ to, but Commander Shepard apparently sees some purpose in your continued existence, so I can't do that." That was part of the frustration, really. There was nothing he _could_ do about her, except try, desperately, to ignore her, and no one would _let_ him. Not Rel, who had, if subtly, indicated that anyone who wanted him to be part of the pack, had to accept _her_ with him. Not this she-varren herself.

"You'd shove her out the _futtari_ airlock?" Rel's voice, incredulous and angry at the same time.

"In a heartbeat, _fradu_. It's not my fault you're thinking with your phallus and not with your brain."

That got an absolute snarl, and Eli launched forward, bear-hugging Rel for a moment. "Lin, shut _up_ for a minute," Eli snapped over his shoulder. "I can't possibly fight both of you."

"I'm not fighting," Lin said, calm now. He was still leaning against the door. His arms still folded across his chest. "Rel can hit me all he wants, it's not going to make what I say any less true."

"Yeah, but he's going to have to go through me to get to you, and then there's going to be two of us in med bay, and Dempsey will have to sit on Rel until he calms down, so will you just _stop_ for a damn minute!" Eli's voice was harried, and the words did make Lin pause. He didn't want to put Eli in harm's way, and that was, in a sense, what he was doing.

Lin felt a cool hand on his elbow now. Dara's soft scent, little hint of asari perfume still lingering on her skin after her shower. Another set of footsteps, heavier. That would be Dempsey. . . darker, male human smell. Just behind him in the hall.

In that moment of fragile calm, Eli's negotiating skills clearly kicked into gear. "Lin. _Fradu_. We've talked about this before. She even told you about the training she went through. The conditioning. She was turned into a weapon, and _used_."

Lin remembered the conversation. The parallels Eli had drawn between Seheve and Rel. Rel had turned _himself_ into a weapon, and nearly lost his spirit in so doing. Seheve had been _turned_ into a weapon by her hanar masters. He'd rejected it then, and he rejected it now. Even her own words, about the solitary confinement, the conditioning, the near brainwashing with the Words of the Enkindlers, didn't matter. Not today, they didn't. "Everyone wants me to feel sorry for her. To see a victim. Everyone wants me to see _Brennia_ in her, _fradu._" Brennia, his touchstone. She'd been abused, and savagely, but she'd _gotten out_. "The cycle of abuse, Eli. Abuser hurts victim. Victim becomes the abuser, and their victim becomes the abuser, and then _their_ victim becomes the abuser." Lin's voice was scathing. "Brennia broke the cycle. _Brennia_, who could barely meet our eyes when we met her in boot camp. Who I spent fifteen months trying to make laugh and trying to teach her to hold her head up, that it didn't matter who had raped her and how many males had bitten her hard enough to pull the scales loose. _Brennia_ was stronger than this she-varren?" Lin's voice shook, and he was panting now, himself. Dara's fingers closed more tightly on his elbow. Silent reassurance, but no song, no skin contact. Just presence.

The room was deadly silent right now. The hell of it was, that sometimes, honestly, Lin _did_ see a victim in Seheve. He had utter compassion for victims, and would do _anything_ to stop someone who just happened to be having a really bad day from doing something stupid that would take them irrevocably over the line into becoming a perpetrator. . . just as Eli had once stopped him, on his worst of days, from doing the same. But once someone crossed that line, Lin had absolutely no problem lining up and taking the shot on them. And he slept damned well at night. "Instead," Lin went on, quietly, but with no less force, "this one didn't get out. She went back for more. Again and again and again. Seventy-four times, by her own admission. And you want me to see a victim, someone who was used, a tool?" Lin pulled his lip-plates back from his teeth. "You've seen her fight, _fradu._ She's not a victim. She's a killer."

And there was the heart of the double-blind he was in. He looked at her, and he could _just_ see the victim under the killer, and half of him said _help_ _her_ and the other half said _line up the shot_ and he couldn't actually do either. Because helping her would be betraying Brennia, and ending her would mean going against implicit orders from above: _everyone pretend nothing ever happened and work as a team, because everyone's needed._ And it didn't help, as he'd admitted in the _Raedia's_ med bay, when Dara had been recovering from the wounding on Khar'sharn, that he'd had his own ethics stretched so sorely on the batarian home world. That just meant that the lines, between right and wrong, had to be delineated that much more clearly. So he knew where he stood, and what the hell he stood for.

Eli turned his head towards Seheve, and asked, in a tone of frustration, annoyance, and pain, "You really had to do this today, didn't you? You had to pick _today_ to get in Lin's face? You couldn't wait till next week sometime, when everyone's calmer, to ask Rel to pick between you and the rest of the damn world?"

Seheve turned, as if slapped, again, and, to Lin's surprise, Dara spoke up. "That's not what she's doing, Eli, but yeah, she did _have_ to pick today."

Eli had managed to get Rel back against the wall, in an echo of how he'd forced Lin back against a different bulkhead, just hours ago. "What do you mean?" Eli tossed back over his shoulder. He had one foot hooked behind Rel's left spur; if Rel moved forward, Eli would sweep Rel's legs out from under him and dump him on the floor.

Slight rustle of fabric, as Dara shrugged. "I mean, she's still trying to kill herself, and doesn't have the courtesy to do it on her own, so she keeps trying to get Lin to do it for her."

Everyone in the room stopped moving. Rel's head came up after a minute, and he looked past Eli, right at Dara. His eyes were dazed, but he was clearly fighting the adrenaline, trying to understand what she was saying. "What?" he demanded. "What do you mean, Dara? How can you think she's trying to kill herself?"

With Rel no longer actively struggling, Eli released him and stepped back, hands up, showing his lack of threat. "Have to say, it kind of makes sense," he assessed, his voice suddenly clinical. "She _has_ gone out of her way to poke at him, every chance she's gotten, since Bastion and the plagues. You only really poke a turian for two reasons. To flirt or to fight, and that definitely hasn't been flirtation-fighting."

Seheve had turned her face entirely away now, and Lin could see her hands shaking. Again, distress, or at least a really remarkable facsimile of it. Dara nodded now, and across Lin, told Rel, her voice as gentle as Lin had ever heard it, told him, "It's true. It's mostly undersong, subconscious, but it's true."

Rel came up off the wall and stared at Seheve. "Why?" he demanded.

Liakos refused to look at him. And stayed absolutely silent. Rel lifted his head and looked at Dara now. "Why?" Quieter, but no less anguish in his voice.

Lin stared at Liakos, and then down at Dara. "She's been playing me?" he asked, sharply.

"Not intentionally," Dara told him, quietly, and held up her hand, wiggling her fingers. "I didn't really _want_ to touch you, Seheve, a few days ago, in the Pace house. Please believe me when I say I was trying very hard not to listen to most of your songs. I don't have any real control over that, though. I hear what I hear, and your song _hurts_ to listen to. Like razorblades. Sky calls you Sings-Despair."

No reaction from Seheve, who continued to look away, not even looking up at Rel, who had closed his hands around her shoulders, but who was looking over at Dara now.

Dara looked up at Lin. "There's a reason for that name. And there was a reason for picking today. I know it's really hard for you to listen today, Lin. It's _hard_ to listen when you're as mad as you are right now, and when you're wobbling right over the pit of despair, yourself. But I need you to hear me, okay?" Dara's wide, rachni blue eyes were looking up into his, and Lin nodded, once.

She was right. Anger, with its stress cortisols and adrenaline and everything else, was a potent chemical cocktail that did interesting things to human and turian brains alike. The chemicals tended to inhibit reactions in the pre-frontal cortex. A complex biochemical explanation for the simple truth that every cop knew: people who are under stress, who are upset and angry make mistakes, make stupid decisions, no matter how smart they might be in the rest of their lives. "So she picked today, when I was most likely to do something really stupid, because I'm not thinking straight. For what? Suicide by cop?" Said out loud, it seemed ridiculous.

Dara nodded again, just once. "Sings-_Despair_. And Sky's right. She's been in a state of despair for years. She had inklings that what she was doing was wrong, but everything she'd been taught was that to question her own beliefs was to invite damnation. She questioned, so she was damned. If she didn't obey, she was damned. And if she _was_ wrong, if the Enkindlers didn't exist, then everything she'd already done was wrong, and she was damned anyway. Either way she went, no matter what choice she made, she was damned, and had already waded out so far into the blood that it was going to swallow her whole, so why not just give in and drown?" Dara's voice was quiet, and compassionate, actually. "I know a little about that feeling." She wasn't looking at Rel, but he turned his face aside with a wince anyway. Dara went on now, softly, "So, undersong, on Bastion. I heard it all when she was reliving the memory of Maldo Ren's murder. Even things she wasn't conscious of herself at the time—"

Lin started to stir, and Dara's hand clenched around his elbow, cutting off the words before he could voice them, "and you have no freaking idea how hard this stuff is to hear about someone, Lin. It's stuff I don't like to admit to in myself, and it's appalling to know the things I know about my friends, including you, including Serana, including Rel, so just _trust me_ on this, all right?" Dara's voice shook for a moment, and Lin looked down at her, searchingly, and then just nodded, silently. "So, yeah. She screwed up Maldo Ren's hit, Lin. She'd killed _seventy-three_ people before him, and had never been caught. She didn't wear a thick enough shirt, so her scales rasped through the cloth and left abrasions in the very clear pattern that I saw on his skin. He struggled, and got some of her scales loose. That's DNA, and let us know we were looking for a drell, not a turian, just from the morphology. She left hand-prints—not turian hand-prints. And she'd done her research on her target, but totally missed the fact that he had a gray-box implanted, and the gray-box gave us exact time of death, a voice print match for her, and even the damned _motive_ for the killing. You think someone that bad at it fails to get caught seventy-three times before then because every other cop in the galaxy is that bad at their job, and you and Eli are that damned good?" Dara's voice held mild sarcasm now. Still gentle, but poking him, very gently.

"People escalate," Lin muttered. "They get careless or sloppy, or they want more risk because they need more adrenaline—"

"Does she strike you as someone who _likes_ the killing?" Eli asked, sharply, still between Lin and Rel, but just standing there, for the moment. "Does she seem like an adrenaline junky to you?"

Rel's head snapped up, again, staring first at Eli, then at Lin. As if understanding some of the connotations of the phrase for them for the first time.

Lin exhaled. "No. I suppose not."

"So," Dara said, quietly, putting the pieces of the chain together for him to see, "she wanted to be caught. She didn't really resist at the hanar embassy, did she? It was a relief, wasn't it, Seheve?" Dara raised her voice, and looked past Lin and Rel now, at Seheve's averted face. "It was a _relief_. You couldn't really turn yourself over, because that would be taking an _active_ step against your masters, right? Just like killing yourself, suicide, would be an active step. And you were conditioned against that, except if by being captured, your mere presence would betray the masters."

One word. So quiet, so dully spoken, Lin had to strain to hear it. "Yes."

Rel's hands were opening and closing on Seheve's shoulders now. "But that was then," he said, quietly.

"Guilt doesn't have an expiration date," Eli told him. "She knows she's still guilty."

"And she hates herself," Dara added softly. "Lin hates himself, for 'letting' Brennia die, for almost losing control, but he's getting past that. He hates people who kill others for profit or gain or pleasure far, far more. But that's nothing compared to how much Seheve hates herself." So much raw compassion in Dara's voice now. "You think the whole 'this one' thing was just because they wanted her to think of herself as a thing, and not a person? That's where it started, but eventually it became much easier to say that, because saying _I_ or _me _would mean. . . having to think about herself. And she hates that person so much, she really wishes she didn't exist. She couldn't just will herself out of existence. Even the plagues didn't do her the courtesy of killing her, though god knows, she probably didn't fight the disease at all." Dara paused. "And then all of us come along, and we start waking her up. Shepard and Blasto and Sky show her that everything she believed, even though she was starting to doubt those things, really were lies. And that meant she was damned. And Shepard told her, okay, that sucks. We're going to give you a second chance. You can put things right. But you can't bring seventy-four people back to life, so you can never make it right." Dara paused.

Eli picked it up. And it was so clear, seen through their eyes, that Lin started to _shake_ from it. "And there's only one person who _agrees_ with you, right, Seheve? Only one person who agrees that you have no right to live. And that's Lin. So you push him. You poke him. You try to get him to end you, so you don't have to."

"And in the meantime," Dara continued, "Rel comes along. Wakes you up further. You calm him down. You're good for him. And he makes you actually feel alive, and that's the last thing you want, because being alive means you're not dead, and death is what you deserve. You don't really deserve him, right? You don't deserve happiness or a life or anything else because you are what you are, you can never be anything more, except when you look at him, just for a moment, you think _maybe_, just maybe, there's a future."

Seheve was rocking, very slightly, in place, and Lin didn't want to feel compassion for her, but it had to be abhorrent, to be seen _this_ clearly, and in public, and by someone who'd been _married_ to the person you were sleeping with before you came along, no less. "And the circle continues," Eli said, in his _aha_ voice. The one that said he'd found all the pieces of a puzzle, and was satisfied with his conclusion. "Each time you feel happy or fulfilled, you remember that you don't deserve it, and the guilt gets worse, and you sink lower. Am I right?"

Seheve abruptly crouched, putting her hands over her face, and Rel dropped down with her, helplessly running his hands over her scalp. Dara's voice, quietly, from behind Lin now. "Seheve. . . I don't know that any of us _deserve_ what we've gotten. Good or bad. I sure as hell don't think Lin _deserved_ to have his first wife die in his arms when he wasn't even eighteen yet. I'm pretty sure Dempsey didn't deserve to have his brain carved up like a Christmas goose. I'm just as sure that Eli didn't deserve to have an asari ghost jump into his head and take up residence." Dara swallowed, audibly. "If you asked him, Dempsey would probably say he doesn't deserve Zhasa."

"I don't," Dempsey replied, promptly.

"Stop saying that," Zhasa warned, from the other doorway.

"And most days, I'm pretty sure I don't deserve to have Eli in my life after I hurt him and rejected him and stayed mad at him for years because I was too fucking immature just to talk to him."

"To be fair, I did kind of ignore you when you were hurting, and I was a stupid immature little shit myself at the time," Eli pointed out, dryly. "I also didn't really put up a fight."

Rel grimaced, visibly. "My point is," Dara went on, quietly, "is that you don't get to say whether or not you deserve Rel, Seheve. That's not for you to decide. What you get to decide is this. Now that you're still, unaccountably, alive, in spite of many attempts to avoid that condition, what are you going to do with it?"

"For starters," Eli said, dryly, "it would be really nice if you'd opt not to try to push Lin's buttons quite so much. I really don't like the idea of having to sit on one or the other of my brothers here, let alone both of them at the same time." He wiped at his forehead, and it wasn't a sham gesture; Lin could smell the human's sweat. Everyone in the small, confined space had a body temperature at least ten degrees higher than a human's, and all of them were distressed. Panting. Trying to vent excess heat.

Eli exhaled, and turned away from Rel and Seheve. Looked at Lin. "Okay, _fradu._ Now what?"

Lin shook his head, feeling absolutely empty. The anger in him was nothing more than ashes now. "Wasn't exactly what I was coming down here to do," he said, simply, rubbing a hand over his crest. "Was actually going to ask Rel to come play racquet ball in the gym." Something physical, something fast and demanding that would have gotten his mind off Nimines and the names and the faces of those who were, in his mind, somewhere in limbo between life and death.

Rel glanced up, and there was hurt in his eyes, quickly masked. Many things said in the last twenty minutes, but his own anger was banked for the moment. But at least it didn't look as if he blamed Lin for any of it. Which was good. Lin was regretting what he'd said. Not because it wasn't true—every word of it had been—but. . . his perspective had changed. The bandages had been ripped off, and the wound had been allowed to bleed clean. The only question now, was if it would heal. _Maybe if no one keeps poking at it_, he thought, glumly.

Rel cleared his throat. "Yeah. That. . . would have been fun."

"Maybe tomorrow. Assuming we're not freezing our asses off on the surface of Bothros by then." Lin kept his tone neutral. "Right now, you two need some space and a closed door in the worst way." And he turned to leave, Eli following him out, Dara pulling back across the narrow hallway. Lin glanced down, and saw that everyone in the other married quarters had, at some point in all this, quietly closed their doors. _Probably have their headsets on,_ he thought, and looked up at the ceiling. _Seems to be my fate today to be at the center of __drama__._

As he started to slide the door closed, Rel caught it. Came out in the hall. Dempsey cleared his throat, and held out his hand for Zhasa's, and made a quick, discreet exit for their own room—Zhasa calling back over her shoulder to Dara, hopefully, "We can look at dresses on Bastion, right?"

"Get a better idea of what you like," Dara warned the quarian, instantly. "I'm not going through forty stores with you as you try on _everything_ on every rack."

Zhasa laughed, and their door closed. Lin could only envy them how quickly they'd made their exit. Dara was already retreating, when Rel called after her, quietly, "Dara. . . "

"Yeah?"

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

Dara turned back, and there was a world of hurt in her eyes. "Because it's not my business," she said, her voice miserable. "I have no business knowing the things I know. And . . . it's never instantly clear. Sometimes it takes seeing things, like today, and all of a sudden, things click into place. All I knew before today is that I don't like listening to her song and that it _hurts_ to listen to. . . so much so, that I don't know how it doesn't come clawing out of her skin at you, too. Today, all the harmonies fell into place, like everyone in the orchestra had been on a different page and then they all got together on the same note, and everything made sense. I couldn't have told you, because I didn't know what I knew till I knew it." Dara flung her hands up. "And it's not my business," she repeated.

"Yeah. It is."

"No, it's really not. It's on _your_ side of _that_ door—"

"The spirit of the unit is the spirit of everyone in it, and you knew she was spirit-sick—"

"And you didn't?" Eli said, pointedly, before the hot retort clearly hovering on Dara's lips could be voiced. Eli's eyes were dark, and he reached out and put a hand on Dara's shoulder. Not pulling her to his side, which would have been a little more pointed a reminder, but just a hint there. Humans conveyed just as much with body language as turians did, after all.

Rel exhaled. Let go of the irritation. "All right. I'm sorry." He looked at Dara. "It was . . . really hard to hear. But. . . thank you for telling me. Now I just need to figure out what the hell to do about it. How to. . ." he shook his head. "How to help her."

Dara shook her head, her lips turned down. "I don't have an answer for that, Rel. Other than 'be there.'"

Eli added, dryly, "You know, Sky never gives answers either. Just. . . ideas of what's going on. Once he's done that, we're on our own." He gave Dara a look. "You're having a really rachni day, _sai'kaea_."

"Well, in my case, I'm less cryptic, and I genuinely do not have a frickin' clue what Rel should do." Dara's lips turned down. "But Sky's right not to give prescriptive advice. So even if I did know, I couldn't tell you, Rel, because it would. . . make things worse."

"Thanks," Rel told her, dryly. "So glad you've got my back."

A flash of hurt across her face, and Dara turned away. Eli gave Rel a very dark look, and followed Dara through their door, leaving it open behind them.

Lin sighed. If he followed them through there now, he was probably going to do or say something else that he was going to regret. He nodded to Rel, and turned to walk back towards the stairs.

"Lin."

He turned. Rel was looking back at him, eyes calm, but assessing. _"You really think I'm thinking with my phallus?"_ Shift into turian. Equal-to-equal. As if they were two kids on the handball field after school again.

Lin shrugged. Words spoken in anger had a tendency to have weight and meaning beyond any spoken in friendship. Anger had gravity. It warped space around itself. _"I don't know. Maybe."_ Carefully noncommittal. _"Kind of hard for me to see what the attraction is, beyond that."_

"_She's. . . peaceful. When I'm around her. . . everything slows down."_ Rel's voice held a hint of regret. _"I like that."_

Lin had no idea what to say to that, so he shrugged. Turned aside. _"Go take care of her."_

At that point, Eli came back out into the hallway, wearing exercise clothing now. "C'mon, Lin," he told him, with careful cheerfulness. "Rel's not the only person around here who can play racquetball. Let's go."

"Yeah, but I can beat _him_," Lin replied, immediately. He gestured past Eli, through the open door. Unspoken, _What about Dara?_

And then, as if in answer to his question, Dara came through the door herself, holding a datapad. "Hold your horses," she told Eli. "If I have to do all this crap, I might as well get the entertainment out of watching you beat Lin while I'm doing it."

Lin made a rude sound for her faith in his abilities. "What's this? Work?"

"Sort of." Dara looked back down the hall at Zhasa's door. "I think I may have been roped into doing announcements for them, too. Which, given that I don't speak or read quarian, is going to be a little bit tricky."

The empty feeling inside of him was starting to warm back up again. "Maybe I should get you to do Serana's and mine, too," Lin told her. "I got in trouble for not sending them out when I married Brennia, you know. Matter of fact, you were one of the people who yelled at me for it. Would cut out the middleman if you just took that part over."

"Oh, shut _up_, Linianus Pellarian."

"But you're so _good_ at organization and lists . . . " Eli pointed out, reasonably, as they climbed the stairs.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up, both of you, just shut up. I'm _not _standing on Serana's side at their wedding—"

"Why not?" Lin asked, poking Dara very lightly in the side. "You stood with Kallixta on Serana's side at her wedding to Eli."

He saw the winces, and made a rude sound at them both. "Yeah, I know, it's awkward, but only as much as _we_ let it be."

Dara shook her head. "Tell your wife-to-be that she can get that damn fool notion out of her mind."

"You're _sangua'amilae_," Lin said, calmly. "No one has a better right to be at her side. I would go so far as to say it's required."

"Oh, for god's sake, I _can't._ Her mother's going to be having enough of a stroke if Eli's standing on your side, Lin, and I'm not _doing_ that to the rest of the family. . . ."

"Don't see why you couldn't," Rel called, from back down the hall, opening the door of his room to go back in. "It's not my mother's wedding." An olive branch. Putting everything back on the footing of twenty minutes ago.

"Don't you start, too," Dara told him, sounding frantic. . . .and all three males laughed.

**Author's note: **_I went back and forth over how to get Lin around his mental roadblock about Seheve, and concluded that short of divine intervention, he never would, unless he completely understood her. And Seheve, being Seheve, is never going to be able to articulate any of what she thinks and feels. Even if she had ten or fifteen years of therapy, it would never happen. Seheve doesn't really. . . share. Not well, anyway. And I don't mean that in an asari way._

_Dara became the answer, but she definitely doesn't have all the answers. _

_She absolutely refused to link Lin and Seheve together by touch. They might be part of her hive, but touching Seheve is like sticking her hand in a blender for Dara. And because Dara isn't the font of all wisdom. . . although she's slowly gaining in it, thanks to the rachni and lot of life experience. . . she doesn't have answers for Rel. She's spoken the truth. It's now up to the others to decide what to do with the new information, the new perspectives. As she told Rel, quite adamantly up a few paragraphs. . . it's not her business. She doesn't want it to be her business. _

_And it's on his side of that closed door._

**Seheve, Hekate System, February 2, 2197**

She'd slumped down to kneel on the floor. Rellus had leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers, lightly, gently, whispering, "I'll be right back," and slipped out of the room, after the others. She believed him. He rarely, if ever, made promises that he did not keep. Seheve looked dully down at the deck-plates. Listened to the vague voices outside. Rellus', raised in temper at Dara, from the sound of it, but abating quickly.

Seheve closed her eyes. Took deep breaths, trying to steady herself, to control her body. Usually, she could do this almost without thinking. Could engage in biofeedback routines that allowed her to control breathing and heart-rate. This allowed her to work as a sniper, and to fool most, but not all lie detector tests that were based on measuring physiological responses to stress. Inhale, pause, exhale. Inhale, pause, exhale. As if she were performing kata, but without moving at all. Breathing as meditation, trying not to think at _all_, but for once in her life, her mind would not be still. It insisted on racing in circles, outside of her control. _How could she know, how could she know, how could she __say__ it in front of everyone. . . . _ Every single word that Dara had spoken was true. Seheve had known it all, but . . . none of it had really connected. None of it could have been verbalized. She hadn't even really understood it, though she'd known it. _But it's true. I am guilty. It's impossible to make it right. I should pay for what I have done, somehow. . . but they won't let me pay in any acceptable way. . . . and yes. . . Linianus would have. . . eventually. . . _ The thoughts scattered again like leaves. She'd been provoking him, sometimes unconsciously, and sometimes deliberately, since she'd met the male. Not quite taunts, but enough to get his attention. Remind him that she had been prey, and that he had hunted her, and that the hunt. . .wasn't. . . over.

And yet, if she'd succeeded in provoking Linianus today, what good would it have done? Rationally, she knew, none. He probably wouldn't have attacked her, not successfully, not with Rel there. All that would have happened was that she would have alienated the Spectre from his brother-in-arms. And if he _had_, somehow, managed to kill her, he would have been guilty in his own eyes. In Rel's. And _then_ what? Seheve played out the probable chain of events in her mind, and shuddered. Linianus might be outside the law as a Spectre, but he might have turned himself in for murder; it wouldn't be outside the scope of his character to do so, or to have shot himself. Or for Rellus to have killed him in turn. _And then he'd have had to have lived with the death of his brother on his hands. With my death at his brother's hands on his spirit. Oh . . . how selfish I have been._ Seheve leaned forward. Placed her forehead on the cold deck-plates, much as she had once prostrated herself before the Master in penance.

It briefly occurred to her that Rel would probably also have grieved for her. He did, often, say that she helped anchor his spirit, and he appeared to enjoy her company, though she could not have said why. She enjoyed his. She _did_ feel alive in his presence, but that was her own emotions, her own needs talking. Not his.

A few more exchanges between the voices outside, and then he opened the door one more time, stepping through, calling down the hallway to the others. An inexplicable phrase about something not being his mother's wedding. _A joke, perhaps._ Meaningless without context. Lost in translation.

A quick, light series of steps, and then his warm hands closed around her wrists. "What are you _doing_?" Rel asked, pulling her upright. His eyes were bright with anger. Tightly controlled, but definitely present.

She could barely meet his eyes. "Breathing exercises," Seheve told him, softly. "Trying to be calm." But it was so _hard_ to be calm. Not when Dara had, with so much compassion and empathy in her voice, and yet with total ruthlessness, exposed every one of her secrets. Even secrets she hadn't known she had. Left her true self exposed, naked and shaking in the cold, for everyone to see. _I can never let her touch my skin again. Not if she hears so much. Of course, when last she touched me, I was thinking bout. . . Maldo Ren._ Emotional memory, powerful, even by drell standards. Powerful because of all the multitudes of other things that spread out, like webs, from that central event. That assassination, at the behest of the Master, had brought her here, to this place, this time. Still, unaccountably, alive.

Rel cupped his fingers under her jaw as he knelt down in front of her, tilting her head up so that she was forced to meet his eyes. Seheve wanted to close hers now, but couldn't. Couldn't look away from the anger and the tenderness in that look, commingled. Rel shook his head, and stroked his thumbs lightly across the planes of her cheeks. "A few weeks ago," Rel reminded her, "I said our spirits were the same. That Rinus had thought, on Shanxi, that I might be seeking death in combat. A way to punish those around me. Childish and selfish of me. And I wondered then, if you might have been seeking your death, too."

She did close her eyes then, remembering the conversation with all the devastating clarity of her eidetic memory. Rel's fingers tightened on the back of her scalp now, and he gave her an urgent little shake. "I didn't understand how deep it went. I couldn't _see_ it, even with my spirit-eyes focused on you." He sighed. "Maybe I can only really see prey, someone I'd hunt, and you're. . . definitely not prey."

Seheve opened her eyes again, feeling that hot band of misery well up again at the back of her throat. "Rellus. . . what do I do now?" she asked. It was almost a wail.

Rel sighed. "You're asking the wrong person, but since life tends to keep on going, I guess the answer is to _live_ it."

"I can't make up for what I've done. Ever."

He shook his head slightly. "Give back more than what you took. Valak's serving his own crazy kind of penance. He's trying to take down the batarian Hegemony, one band of raiders at a time. One piece of information at a time. You could do the same thing, I guess." He stroked her face again, lightly. "Take down the Illuminated Primacy, Seheve. You're in a unique position to do exactly that." He freed one of his hands, and tapped on her forehead with gentle emphasis. "Wage a war with what Aunt Lilitu gave you. Words." Rel grimaced. "It's not really a war I'm equipped to help you fight, but you could absolutely destroy ten thousand years of entrenched hanar belief and dogma with what you have in your mind. You could free your people from the hanar. Free the _hanar_ from the Primacy. And what's to say you won't be remembered for _that_, as opposed to having been some floating jellyfish's plaything?" Savage anger for a moment in his eyes.

Seheve swallowed hard. "Zhasa and Dara both have, in past weeks, strongly suggested that I create a Prothean dictionary. To help others learn their words and understand them. Dempsey called it the. . . Protestant Reformation."

"All right. Then you'd be giving those words to the whole galaxy, Seheve. You'd be opening up science. Art. Culture. History. Aren't those good things, too?"

"All abstract," she whispered. "None of it adds up to a life." She knew that. Knew the value of what each life of the Keepers had been, as they floated through her memory.

Rel dropped his hands to her shoulders. "Maybe not, but it's a start. Maybe you'll be so spirits-be-damned busy doing good things for everyone else in the galaxy that you'll eventually forget about wanting to get yourself killed. Maybe in ten or fifteen or twenty years, you'll wake up, and be as at peace inside, as you seem to be outside." His voice was rough, and he suddenly pulled her into his arms. "I'd very much like you to _be_ around in twenty years, so I can see that," he added, quietly.

She wasn't quite sure what to say to that, but, as with many things in life, perhaps words weren't really necessary.

**Dara, Bothros orbit and surface, February 3, 2197**

Dreaming was, for Dara, an adventure most nights now. She still could hear the low-song of the workers in her mind, a constant cheerful chorus, like crickets, depending on her level of consciousness, and, if a brood-warrior like Glory was in range, his songs, too. And, of course, sleeping in full skin-contact with Eli, so delicious and intimate and _needed_, presented its own challenges. They were both prone to bad dreams periodically, and could either reinforce each others' bad ones, or pull each other out of them, too. And then there were dreams from each others' perspectives, freely flowing between them.

_Damp smell of earth and stone. Ropes cutting into wrists. Smell of Dara's hair, so close to his face. . . . .Once upon a time, he'd copped to Lantar to having 'really kind of wanted to kiss her,' but that hadn't been all that was on his mind the night of the cave. Not at all. The azure dust had been a low dose, and had mostly dissipated from his bloodstream but the time he'd regained consciousness from the bad head-blow earlier . . . it had been hard to focus his mind. There had been danger all around, Caelia had been crying, sound of gunfire, vorcha leering out of the darkness at them . . . not of that, though, not this time. . . this isn't how it happened. . . this is how it could have happened. . . _

"_Step your feet through, you can get your hands in front of you. Just like playing cops and robbers."_

_I know how to deal with hand-cuffs. . . . Eli stepped his feet through, but he didn't reach for the knife in her back pocket. He looped his arms around her instead, and did what he was dying to do. Kissed her neck. Nibbled it. Bit it. Heard her sigh as he worked his hands down. Unsnapped her jeans, and began to work them down over the curve of her hips. . . ._

"_Eli, we've got to get out of the cave." But the words were drowsy. She was fighting the azure dust's effects, which were stronger on her this time. He remembered her telling him to snap out of it, but this time, as cool air touched her bare skin, she arched back against him. Her hands were still tied behind her, and she could feel what was pressing into her hands. Gently, tentatively, she started to stroke him through his own jeans, and he moaned. Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop, feels so good. . . _

_Unbuttoning him, freeing him. Stepping her own feet through now, so that her bound wrists were in front of her, dimly wondering where everyone else in the cave had gone, this wasn't how it happened, but it doesn't matter, this is how it could have gone. . .gentle rasp of teeth against her neck, and then he slid home into her. First time/not-first-time, new/familiar, urgencies building. . . flicker, flash, consequences. No pregnancy, but a more than irate Sam Jaworski. Both of them squirming on the edge of a med bay bed, embarrassed and a little guilty, though it wasn't really their fault, they hadn't really meant to. . . they'd never even kissed before. . . now everything's going to be ruined/doesn't have to be ruined. . . Lantar, still in the med bay, chest wrapped in bandages, arguing a little with his new human partner. Setting up a contract for the two youngsters. Embarrassing, hearing the words debated back and forth between Sam and Lantar in English. First three to six months, nothing but kissing, and you're going to have her home by nine, you hear me, son? And no more than one 'date' a week. Schoolwork is fine, but only in groups, and if I catch you sneaking off. . . ._

_Months passing. Handball, schoolwork. Rel and Serana and Lin and Tel and Mazz, all friends, but not quite the way it had originally gone. Kella, still under Siara's thumb. . . until she and Rel started dating. Doors and windows. . . dozens of different futures. The decision made. Eli was going to go into the turian military first. Come home. Marry her. . . she was older than he was, so it would work out. Then she'd go to boot-camp. They'd be together, always._

_The day the base was invaded by batarians and Lina Vasir, Kella still died. . . but she didn't pass her spirit to anyone. . . The game in Odessa, Lin still was fouled and still broke his knee, but Rel wasn't there to lift them to victory. The Spectre kids' team lost, and three more kids were injured. . . the last one was from the Odessa school, when Mazz finally got too angry to control himself, after Telinus was taken off the field with a skull fracture, and punched the kid who'd thrown Tel to the concrete on the edge of the field. The hit was so hard that he broke the boy's jaw and shattered his front teeth. Eli, dark and angry and despairing in his room that night, no one would listen, no one would calm down and play as a team for me until Dara came and beckoned him to her room. . . your dad's going to be pissed. . . doesn't matter right now. We've been together for nine months, Eli, the contract says we can do this now. . . did you get an implant? . . . yes, Dr. Solus offered me one. Was embarrassing, but the right thing to do. . . Sweet bliss, learning her body new/familiar again. . . _

_The Rite, but this time, Dara went to Tuchanka. Siara didn't. She'd never gone digging in Dara's mind, had never transgressed, was never punished, never, ever went to Tuchanka. . . . Rel was a marine, already off in the fleet somewhere, dark and embittered by Kella's death. . . _

_Serana cycled into estrus, but this time, Lin was ahead of Eli into the room, and Eli was wearing a knife-sheath for Dara, anyway. . . . Lin got Serana in an arm-lock, applied a control-bite, fast, and Eli ran to get Solanna. . . . boot-camp, for Eli, still with Lin and Tel. Still meeting Brennia, who still fell for Lin, and hard. Getting married on Mindoir, human and turian rites . . . then off to OCS, while Dara went through boot-camp. Came out of her own, ready for OCS. . . but pure medical. One red stripe, not the blue-and-red of a combat medic in special forces. _

_She never met Kallixta. Kallixta became a pilot, but was relegated to the tedious but relatively safe job of a carrier pilot. . . not a fighter pilot, but the helmsman for the actual carrier itself. A job Kallixta, in reality, had once likened to piloting a large barge. Kallixta and Rinus never met._

_Rinus stayed chipped to Laetia for two years, and then resigned from the turian fleet rather than spend one more minute anywhere near her. He was picked up by the Spectres as an analyst and was under evaluation for a field position, rumor had it. . . ._

_Dara was based in a hospital on Macedyn for two years, seeing thousands of people from different species. . . the tourism industry saw to that. Night after night in the bedroom of the tiny apartment they shared with Lin and Brennia. Laughing. Loving. Hearing Lin and Brennia through the thin walls, knowing that their own sounds could clearly be heard by the turian pair, but it didn't matter, they could all pretend they didn't hear anything at all. Dara cooking levo for them, and dextro for Lin and Brennia, when she wasn't at the hospital. Climbing the red-gold cliffs on their rare shared days off. _

_And then the darkness came. Valentine's day. Brennia dying, as Dara tried, desperately, to do CPR at the table in the restaurant, Dara begging Lin to forgive her for failing, all of them wrapping their arms around each other in despair and anguish. No Pelia. Just them. Dara selecting pathology as her specialty, because she wanted to help hunt down the guy who'd done this, and anyone else who'd do this sort of thing. . . and they got him. STG still contacted her, and she still went to Sur'Kesh periodically for conferences on pathology and disease transmission, thanks to her early work with Dr. Solus. But she didn't spend a year there. She didn't learn the language. Didn't learn to speak batarian._

_Lin went to Nimines, just as he'd always gone, and Eli and Dara went to Edessan. There was still darkness and guilt, but it was lighter, because it was shared, but between his long shifts and her shifts at the hospital, they were living in the same apartment, but hardly got to see one another. Still, Eli was rising through the ranks at CID. No human food on Edessan, or damned little, so they were eating asari food almost every night. _

_Rel still went MIA, and they heard about it months later, when they came home to Mindoir, and hardly recognized him. A savage, feral creature, marked by months of captivity as a slave on Khar'sharn, and the seeds of bitterness planted by Kella's early death. . . Siara was a bitter, cold, vicious female with enormous biotic potential. She went to the University of Illium, and was recruited out of it in her first year by Eclipse. . . .such a shame to see that much biotic potential being wasted on . . . what is it that you wanted to be, a scientist, like your weak, contemptible first-mother?_

_The assassination attempt on Ulluthyr Harak was successful, and Omega plunged into turmoil. Two of his bodyguards had been bought out, apparently. . . the assassination attempt on the Imperator was foiled, but while Eli handled everything, Rinus Velnaran was not at his side for that adventure, and the Imperator was winged in the arm. . . ._

_Serana visited Lin on Nimines just after boot-camp and Lin was sufficiently dazed by the experience to propose on the spot. Serana accepted, as a matter of course, but still had four years of service ahead of her in TIA. _

_Eli, Dara, and Lin decided that four years was enough, and, with full citizenship, moved to Bastion. Dara to work in the med bay there and continue working towards becoming a top-flight forensic pathologist. Eli went into B-Sec, along with Lin and met Fors there. . . And then the plagues hit, and Dara was working night and day in the med bay, and Lin and Eli and Serana got sick. . . and nearly died. . . . flashes of the last year, Eli making Spectre, or not making Spectre, Dara not making Spectre at all, because she didn't have the tactical training, beyond the basics she'd learned in boot camp and OCS. . . but she went home to Mindoir with him, to work in the med bay there, and on any SR ship that he'd go on. . . . her pride in him, at being a Spectre, like her father and his were. . . . and then finally the Singing Planet, where Dara lost her mind or died, because Eli couldn't buffer her mind, along with Sky, nearly enough. He was just too human, and he held her in his arms and watched the light die in her eyes. . . ._

And they both sat up in bed, sweating, breathing hard, and then Eli wrapped his arms around her, tightly, squeezing so hard that she squeaked a little. _I'm here. I'm here. We're both here. God, that was a fucked-up dream._

_Yeah. Felt like the simulator, only in reverse. Everything that could have happened, every path not taken. _Eli lifted his head from her shoulder, and she looked up into his eyes, night-black and not human at all at the moment. _Started out really nicely, though_. _Always wondered how things would have gone in the cave if things had been a little different._ Warmth of his fingers under her hair now, stroking her scalp.

Dara exhaled, and put her head down on his shoulder. Bit the ridge of muscle that mantled between neck and shoulder, and felt his body tense for a moment, and then he pushed her to her back. Turned his head to nibble along her throat. _You really think, __sai'kaea__, that one little change could have made that many differences?_

_Ripples in water. Dr. Solus was big on the law of unintended consequences._ Dara swallowed, and ran her hands over the soft-rough, short hair on Eli's scalp, feeling it rub against her palms. _Think our subconscious minds are telling us something, __ciea'teilu__?_

_No regrets?_

_Yeah. If we like where we are and who we are and what we are now, we can't spend too much time regretting the choices that got us here._

Eli shifted his weight, Kissed her throat more urgently. _Yeah. I wouldn't have been as driven. I don't think I'd be a Spectre today, if I'd been happy at all in the last few years._

_I wouldn't be a Spectre today if it weren't for Rel._ Silent admission. _His drive, the constant push to be better. . . and I wouldn't have been special forces, I think. Not without the early Mindoir training. But I'd also be a hell of a lot better of a doctor, if I'd trained the way Telinus did. Give and take._

_Don't know. We both started training pretty early. Maybe you would have gone special forces after all. . . but then we wouldn't have been stationed together. _Flash of images, her coming back from, say, the _Estallus_ to take her rare leaves with him on Macedyn, Edessan, home on Mindoir. Long separations, punctuated by brief periods of love and bliss, and then separated again. _Yeah. Would have sucked._ He paused, and shifted his weight again. Slid a knee between her legs, nudging them apart, and Dara smiled and gave him access, hearing the burgundy rise in his song. Stirring her own. _Also, I don't think if we'd followed that path, I could possibly have properly appreciated. . . this._ His hardness slid into her waiting warmth, and Dara moaned, her fingers clutching at his back and shoulders. _You like?_

_Oh yes._

_If I'd known what was waiting for me, I'd have gotten my shit together much faster._

"Just this?" Light, teasing whisper, out loud.

"Oh, god no. Though this is _nice_." Eli rested his forehead against hers for a moment. _"Open to me, always-fair, always-beloved. Give me your light, as I give mine to you."_ Soft, sweet words in liquid asari.

_If we'd followed that path. . . we couldn't share our light. Couldn't mingle our songs. On the whole. . . I prefer this._ _Weird fucked-up dreams and all._ Dara reached out, and wrapped herself in the string-trio of his mind. Gave him the harmonies of her soul. And let their songs become one.

By 06:30, they were at breakfast, eating ravenously. . . and when Rel and Seheve came in, Dara exhaled, braced herself, and waved them over to their table. Caught Rel's surprised look, and thought, _I'm trying really hard to be a grownup today. I don't know whether the hive wisdom kicked in with that dream, or what, but. . . even __you__, Rel, are better off today than if we'd made any other choices than the ones we did make. I've got to believe that. So the only thing to do is to keep going forward._ She managed a quick smile for Seheve, and pulled out a datapad. "This is everything the Prothean database on Arvuna had on Species five six six one. The pictures in the database _look_ sort of like rachni. . . okay, they look sort of like beetles, too. I can't tell." Dara made a rude noise. "I don't know if I'm in the 'sapient species' or 'interesting entomology' section of the database, Seheve. If you get a chance, I'd really love to know what the hell I'm looking at here."

She'd been meaning to do this for weeks now. It had simply been easier not to do it. Not to address Seheve. Just to. . . let everything slide. As both she and Seheve were prone to do. If you didn't make eye contact or cause waves, everything would, eventually, settle down, right? _Well, we saw how well that worked last night. No. Someone has to take active steps to include her into the pack, the social network, the crew, and I can't just leave it all to Zhasa. Eli __can't__ do it, because Rel will probably not react well to Eli being friendly with Seheve. He'll take it as territorial infringement, given, well, history. Even though Eli's __clearly__ marked and taken. Lin, after last night, needs a little time and space. So I'm elected. Stop whining and lead._ The internal drill centurion was sharp and loud in her head this morning.

She was rewarded when Seheve, looking startled, took the datapad, smiled hesitantly at her, and began to read off what the file said. "Slow down, slow down," Dara told her, starting to take notes. "Hell, while we're at it, we might want to set up a lexicon. If it's worth doing, it's worth being organized about it. That way, we don't have to write it all down twice, once for a rough translation, and once for the dictionary."

"I hear the sound of another list being created," Rel muttered, but it was a joke, and not a poke, so Dara let it slide. His expression told her he was grateful to her, just for reaching out to Seheve, and Dara wished she'd done it earlier, but it had been just so damned uncomfortable. _Oh, well, I'm getting better at this, I guess. Took me four years to reach back out to Siara, and that's after going through hell on Bastion with her in the plague wards. Seheve? Only four weeks. It's a new galactic record, and the crowd goes wild._

Eli clearly heard some of that, and had to turn his head aside to avoid choking on hot asari tea and laughter, which apparently didn't mix well.

That took them through breakfast. Dara pointedly asked Seheve where Loki was, and why the feline wasn't aboard the _Raedia_. . . "I brought Zappa along specifically so he could entertain your cat, you know. . . "

"I. . . did not realize that." Slight panic in Seheve's usually placid eyes. "I left Loki in the care of Dr. Chakwas on the Mindoir base. I did not wish to risk her on the _Raedia_. . . or, for that matter, to risk the _Raedia_."

"Oh, so you believe in chance and in luck? Good to know." Dara went on blithely, getting Seheve to translate half the file on the datapad, which was, to her delight, about the workers of Species 5,661. . . the early precursors of today's rachni.

That took them through breakfast. At 07:00, she and Eli headed to the briefing room, and started going through the overnight telemetry from Bothros' surface with Kirrahe, who didn't look pleased. Eli looked at the images of Sysays Crater, which Seheve's memories had helped them pinpoint as the probable location of the Collector ship. . . and the Lystheni base . . . and shook his head. "Okay, so why do you look upset, Orlan?" he finally asked the salarian.

"You don't see them?" Kirrahe sounded surprised.

"If he doesn't, I do," Dara muttered. "Shit on a stick."

"What's wrong?" Lin asked, walking into the room, followed by Rel, Seheve, Zhasa, Dempsey, Glory, and Cohort.

Dara grimaced. "We're about to see the dividing line in everyone's training in the room," she said, obliquely, and pulled the relevant image up onto the screen. Sysays Crater was the result of an enormous asteroid or cometary impact some 20,000 years ago. It was common among humans raised in North America to relate everything to the size of Rhode Island, but in this case, it was true; it spanned twenty-five miles north-to-south and thirty-seven east to west. . . not a perfect circle, suggesting that whatever had hit, had hit at an angle and kept moving for a brief period. The pack ice in this area of the northern hemisphere, above the methane-ethane sea, was about a hundred feet thick, and this crater sloped down through eighty feet of it. . . mostly. The very central portion of the ice, however, showed a haze of wide cracks, open pools of methane-ethane, dark against the white ice, and a steaming plume of gas subliming from the surface of that fluid.

That wasn't all. The orbital photography was very good, thanks to the techs on the _Raedia_. A close-up of an area to the northeast side of that mass of cracks and open water showed a handful of buildings. . . trailers, really, which, from various angles, appeared to be on treads. There was also a pumping station parked about 500 meters from the open sea, which was probably the power plant that Seheve's memories from Maldo Ren's consoles had shown. Thin white lines trailed across the ice to the northeast rim of the crater. Tracks, or cables, it was somewhat hard to say from this distance. These tracks or lines ran up the northeast wall of the crater. . . through very rough terrain, more like jagged chunks of ice and rock. . . and stopped, about halfway to the rim.

There were also, hard to identify from above, what looked like a dozen dodecahedrons, scattered in a regular pattern across the ice, on the solid areas around the camp and to the northeast, even some up above the rim of the crater, miles away.

"_Futar,"_ Rel said, immediately, and Dempsey, on the heels of that exclamation, muttered, "So much for dropping in the Hammerheads nice and easy."

"Precisely," Kirrahe said, his tone slightly annoyed. "Will also make getting equipment in somewhat problematic."

"Equipment? Spirits, getting the _teams_ in is going to be a logistical nightmare now," Rel replied, frowning at the screen.

Seheve turned and stared at the screen. "These are . . . defense towers?"

Eli grimaced. "Damned if I know. I've never seen anything like them before. . . " He paused, squinted at Dara, and added, silently, _And your memories aren't singing for me on this one, __sai'kaea__._

"The gray things poking up above the ice, the geometric ones? Those are radar towers," Dara said, simply. "I've been on enough teams that have had to go in and neutralize them to recognize them."

"Those are similar to the ones that used to be used on Earth, looks like," Dempsey said, shaking his head. "Chances are, they can detect anything larger than a duck that flies by. . . and I don't see a hell of a lot of wildlife on this mudball."

Rel reached forward and touched the screen lightly with a talon. At regular intervals, there were pockmarks in the ice between the scattered towers. "I'd put credits on it that there are turrets buried under these areas."

"They are, in fact, large enough to house anti-aircraft missiles," Lysandra informed him, her avatar appearing near the table.

"So. . ." Lin said, slowly, drawing the word out. "We jam the radar and radios?"

"That's pretty much what we did when we went in to extract you guys and Valak from Khar'sharn," Eli replied, glancing around the table. Clearly understanding that this was outside his area of expertise, he added, "But that would alert them that hostiles are incoming, wouldn't it?"

"Pretty much," Dempsey told him, staring at the screen as if trying to do calculus in his head, and the equation simply refused to add up.

"Quarian marines typically drop in our vehicles several kilometers outside radar range of installations like these, and drive in overland," Zhasa offered, a little dubiously. "Admittedly, we'd have to jump the vehicles down the incline of the crater. . . Lysandra, do we have a relief map?"

Lysandra brought it up. Concentric rings made the drop look gradual; twenty feet per mile or so. Reality, however, was somewhat different, as Lysandra showed them with aerial photographs of the crater walls. Sheer cliffs of ice, jagged and slippery, pockmarked with boulders and dirt and fragments of extraterrestrial ice from the long-vanished comet that had created the crater and then vanished under the sea. "That's. . . yeah. That's not an area for Hammerheads," Zhasa assessed. "Even a Mako would have trouble."

"Aside from which," Kirrahe said, crisply, "Central outpost is over thermal vent on ocean floor. Active plate tectonics in region. Probability extremely high that they have seismological gear in place. Stupid, if they do not. Would help them predict when they need to move their power generation equipment. Before thermal events cause too much melting and thinning of the ice plate above."

"Would that kind of gear be sensitive enough to detect incoming vehicles?" Lin asked, dubiously.

Kirrahe's eyelids crinkled. "Such gear exists. Depends greatly on the degree of paranoia the groups using the facility maintain. Cerberus? Lystheni?"

"Okay, I'll take that as a _yes_," Eli said, rubbing at his chin, avoiding the paint along his jawline. "Options?"

There was a moment of silence. "Let's define the mission a little," Rel said, quietly, looking away from the screen, and meeting Eli's eyes, and Dara straightened a little in her chair. "We're actually after the Collector ship, correct?"

"Yes," Eli replied. "Looks to me, that if it's anywhere, it's up along the northeast cliff."

"Yeah." Rel looked back at the screen. "We can't go in heavy; they're prepared for that. So we need stealth, speed, and surprise. Take out the power station, which is probably what's keeping the radar installations up, not to mention powering stuff up at the Collector ship. . . if those tracks actually do point to where it is. We can hit the trailers, look for information, confirmation, and be in and out before they know it."

Eli raised his eyebrows. "Okay, Rel, I'll bite. How are we going to do all this with speed, surprise, and stealth, if we can't use the vehicles? You want an aerial strike from the _Raedia_ on the power station?"

"No! Could crack the ice worse, and may lose any and all information in the buildings!" Kirrahe was definitive about that.

Eli held up one hand, palm up, looking straight at Rel.

"Halo insertion," Rel told him, quietly. "I'm certified. Dara. . . you're current, right?"

"Just barely. Did my last one on Rocam last year, just before starting my surgery rotation." Dara's stomach was churning. Drop training had been both the best and the worst part of OCS, really. She was absolutely terrified of heights, and had not dared to let it show in her face, eyes, or voice, and she'd jumped out the door every time under her own power. It had been exhilarating, once she was out the door, and, once the first ten seconds of screaming was over, even a little peaceful. Jumps were a rush, pure and simple, but not one she looked forward to, ever.

Rel nodded. "Dempsey?"

"Haven't done one in, apparently, twelve years, but I can sit through the pre-flight briefing with everyone else. I've done about forty or fifty, lifetime, though." Dempsey squinted at him briefly. "Doesn't get us around the 'radar sets that can see anything larger than a medium-sized bird,' though."

"Two options," Rel replied, immediately. "Stealth fields—"

"Don't want to load out with stuff we're not really trained to use," Dempsey retorted. "Stealth generator does me no damned good once I hit the ground, except to take up a slot in my suit that I for damned sure will want to put towards heating and insulation—"

"All right, the other option is a group jump, and we 'break apart' like an in-coming meteorite close to the ground," Rel offered.

"Has possibilities," Dempsey acknowledged.

"Wait a second," Lin said, sharply. "We're talking about jumping out of a shuttle with what, parachutes?"

"Not a shuttle. Shuttle's not stealthed. Probably out the bottom of the _Raedia_'s shuttle bay, though, from around thirty thousand feet." Rel shrugged.

"Atmosphere's only a trace," Dara replied, more calmly than she felt. "Chutes will slow us down a little, but we're actually going to need jetpacks, more than likely, to reduce our velocity as well."

"Jetpacks show as heat blooms," Rel reminded her, quickly. "Mass effect generators would be less visible, though."

"Depends a hell of a lot on what we've got in inventory—" Dara shot back.

"Ah—" Eli raised a hand. "I think what Lin was trying to say back there was actually that some of us haven't actually ever jumped out of a perfectly good ship before."

Dempsey grimaced faintly. "How many of us _have_?" he asked.

Dara raised her hand. So did Kirrahe, no surprise there. STG training was thorough. Rel did. Dempsey did. So did Cohort. Glory's song was blue-green as he raised a pedipalp and told them, _I require no gear beyond a breathing mask. My song will lift me, prevent harm._

Dempsey shook his head. "We're not going to be able to take that facility with just you, me, Kirrahe, the doc, Glory, and maybe Cohort," he told Rel. "Need a multi-pronged attack.

"And this unit will remain on _Raedia_-ship until needed for Collector vessel," Cohort told them, calmly. "Batarian SIU operatives may still follow us to this planet, and you may require assistance from the ship in the event of that occurrence."

Dempsey's faint frown dug a little deeper into the corners of his lips. "Great. Okay, so we need a way of getting the rest of the team to the surface."

"Tandems," Rel told him, shrugging. "Easy enough, and that'll help us do the 'break apart' maneuver more easily anyway."

Zhasa's face split in a smile. "You realize," she told Dempsey cheerfully, "that given that I've jumped out of a fifty-story building before, that was more than enough time to hit terminal velocity. And I mitigated it with my biotics. I could do the same thing as Glory—"

"No," Dempsey told her, firmly. "You'll jump in tandem with me. We can both help mitigate the fall for other people if needed, but you're not jumping without a damned chute today. Just because we can do things, doesn't mean we should."

Zhasa grinned at him. "Isn't he cute when he gets all protective?" she told Dara, and Dara carefully raised her metal coffee cup to her lips, hiding her smile, and refused to reply.

"Ah. . . " Lin said, uneasily. "That still leaves three of us who haven't trained in this and who aren't, you know, biotic gods."

Rel looked up, and suddenly, a grin broke out over his face, and Dara's heart warmed, just for an instant. It was the old grin, the sunny, happy one from Mindoir. "Hey, just because you two have been _slacking_—"

"Wouldn't call it _slacking_, just otherwise occupied," Lin returned, quickly.

Rel grinned more widely, and went on, relentlessly, "—or maybe you're just too much of an _anserae_ to have done it—"

Eli covered his eyes with one hand, shaking his head. "Nice try," he told Rel, lifting his hand away after a minute, grinning back. But Dara could actually feel nerves keying up in him. He had not particularly enjoyed the halo drop they'd done in a Hammerhead, a year ago over Camala, as they'd gone onto that batarian world, looking for Rel, who'd been MIA at the time. He hadn't been in the pilot seat, hadn't been in control, and she remembered teasing him, lightly. _Wimp_, she'd called him, poking him in his pride.

Still, the faint yellow tinge of anxiety was a little amusing, and Dara let him hear her blue-green amusement. Along with an image of his eyes, as he'd looked out the window of the Hammerhead, which her father had been controlling in its descent. Dempsey had been with them, and Lantar, and Tarenius Gallian, too. Eli gave her a look, and snorted. "I was _fine_ over Camala, Dara. All I said was that I'd only just gotten used to living on a planet's surface, and waiting for it to come up and smack me in the face was for the birds."

Dara's smile widened. She hardly _ever_ got to dish out the teasing, and it was hard to resist. _Oh, what the hell, why not. . . _"For someone who scares the living hell out of me, racing hovercycles in blind canyons at over two hundred kilometers an hour—"

"It was faster than that, you just won't look down at the speedometer—" Eli grinned right back at her.

"—not to mention the high speed air-car chase on Omega—"

"Hey, we needed to get Siara back, and once you opened your eyes and started firing at the aircar we were chasing, it went a hell of a lot better—"

"—you sure are _nervous_ about this. It's actually kind of fun, once you're actually out of the vehicle—"

"—says the girl I can't even get to go hang-gliding because she's scared of heights."

Dara made a rude noise. "Yeah, in some rickety little contraption of fabric and some aluminum with no backup plan if the wings tear? No thank you." She gentled her tone. "Seriously, though. By the time I got done with OCS, I'd already done fifty regular altitude jumps and about five halo jumps. Had to. I hated getting out of the shuttle every single time, and that's never changed, but. . . it's kind of a rush. You'll love it. So will Lin." She gave them a wry half-smile. _Probably a hell of a lot more than I do._ "Ten seconds of pure adrenaline, followed by a minute or two of free-fall, which is still exhilarating, but less terrifying. . . and then, when you hit the chute. . . or in our case, those _and_ the mass effect fields. . . a very peaceful finish."

Eli's head snapped back, however, and she felt concern arrow through him. "Adrenaline, huh?" He turned and looked at Rel, and asked, bluntly, "How _much_ adrenaline is needed to push you over the edge, Rel? Is a jump like this going to be enough to do it?"

Rel froze in place. "I. . . hadn't considered that," he muttered. "It's been practically routine for me for years now. I don't _think_ it would be enough to key me up."

"Doc can slip him a valium," Dempsey suggested. "Not enough to impair judgment."

Dara winced. "Not a fan of that idea. There are jump rules for a reason."

Dempsey shrugged. "A minimal dosage won't impair his ability to hit the button at the right time. Plus, there are altimeters and backups rigged to hell and gone."

Rel shook his head. "I'll. . . keep it under control. And if I don't. . . whoever's in the tandem harness with me should have backup controls." He glanced at Seheve. "You've never jumped, so you can be with me."

"I'll help Linianus," Kirrahe volunteered, cheerfully. "Although, probably helpful if I am in the front portion of the harness. Difficult to see the ground, otherwise." He grinned up at Lin at that point, who stood well over a foot taller than the diminutive salarian, and Lin shook his head, in clear disbelief at what they were proposing doing. "Still, best if everyone reviewed safety protocols and equipment before we make attempt."

Eli rubbed at his face. "All right," he said, "let's go over what our goals and objectives are once we actually hit the ground, and when I use the word _hit_, I want to be clear that I mean it in only the loosest possible way. . . "

After the meeting, as everyone was filing out, Eli stood, and put a hand on Dara's shoulder. "Having fun, _sai'kaea_?" he asked, mildly, smiling.

"A little," Dara admitted, grinning up at him. "Face it, how often do I get to tease _you_?"

"Just every chance you get. Then again, I wouldn't have it any other way." Eli leaned down and kissed the tip of her nose. "All right. Let's go do this orientation and safety thing," he told her, in a tone of resignation.

_Seriously, you're going to love this, Eli. Though I hope not so much that you'll want to pick it up as a hobby._ Dara made a face. _I can do it for work, but I can't see doing this as a way to __relax__._

Parachute training, alone, usually takes a four-hour briefing. Rel was current on his status, and had over five hundred jumps in the past five years; a hundred of those were halo jumps. Rel had always _loved_ drop training, so he'd gone above and beyond the requirements. Dara, who'd hated it, intensely, and had had many medical duties beyond her special forces work, still had four hundred. . . with a hundred of those being halo insertions. Many of them had been training drops, which was fine, but they'd both gone in under fire before. So had Dempsey, and so had Kirrahe. Rel had been bucking for an instructor accreditation, however, and thus, he was the one handling the bulk of the training. How to exit the bay under atmospheric conditions. The posture they'd take on exiting, how to move to a flattened posture for most of the descent, when they'd be pulling the cord and toggling the mass effect generators to reduce their velocity that much more. What to do in the case of an emergency. "Dara, if you don't mind?" he asked, giving her a quick, slightly uncomfortable look.

Dara just nodded, and stood. She'd been the practice dummy and model so many times, it wasn't even funny. She demonstrated how to put on the equipment over armor, how to move, proper landing stance with knees bent, and, just as importantly, how to get out of the gear on the ground. "And now that you've absorbed all of that," Rel said, dryly, "prepare to forget most of it, because we're not going to be leaving the bay one at a time, but in tandems, and in order to simulate an asteroid body, we're going to be flying down in formation. Kirrahe, Dempsey, have you ever dropped in a formation?"

Dempsey shook his head. "All solo, man. Usually with a buddy jumping with me, but never holding onto them, no."

Kirrahe also shook his head. "Not emphasized. Never seen a need, very likely."

Rel grimaced and gave Dara a look. "I can get to them," she said, shrugging. "We should probably exit together, even if it is riskier, though. One big ring, with Glory at the center of the 'asteroid' should look like a large rock coming in."

"Yes. Just riskier on exit." Another grimace. "Not much of a way around it."

She shook her head, and, just for an instant, it was like the past five years hadn't happened, or at least, the bad parts hadn't. "We'll be fine," she said. "Lysandra's going to keep an eye on the ground. Any missiles launch, Glory will be able to see what she sees. . . and either he or Dempsey or Zhasa will be responsible for redirecting the damned thing. And when it gets redirected, we're going to 'break apart' early, and descend as 'chunks of debris.' We'll do this at night, so there'll be less chance of them getting a visual, too."

Lin raised his hand. "So, you've done night jumps before, right?"

Rel nodded, a smile of absolute assurance on his face. "Yes. Even in OCS."

Dara tried to keep the wince off her face. That week really hadn't been her favorite.

Lin nodded. "So, it's completely pitch black outside. No city lights, no nothing. This planet doesn't even have a moon. How do you . . . I mean, I know there's an altimeter, but. . . "

Rel grinned at him. "There's an altimeter and a backup altimeter. You trust the equipment, but you also verify one against the other. Other than that, there's no real backup on most night jumps. We'll all be going in together, so we'll have each others' equipment to cross-verify, too."

Lin gave him a long, steady look. "This is your revenge, isn't it?"

Rel's grin widened. "Lin, if _Dara_ has four hundred jumps to her credit, I think you can manage, don't you?"

"I'm not sure I like being held up as the example of shame," Dara said, mildly, but she was smiling a little, too. "Lin, I'm not going to say it's safe. People die doing this, yes. Most of the people who do, unfortunately, run into things. Suspension cables on bridges, buildings—"

"The ground?" Eli muttered, tongue in cheek.

"That too." Dara held up her hands. "Rel's skipped that part of the course. The lovely vids showing people getting sliced into pieces or their chutes getting clipped by a passing shuttle and all that."

'I think everyone here knows that it's dangerous and shouldn't be fucked around with. That part is usually there to scare off the amateurs, or at least impress on them that it's not a joke." Rel exhaled. "The biggest danger we're going to face is the fact that we're actually jumping into a great big hole in the ground. It's a really big hole. Nine hundred and twenty-five square miles. . . give or take. But the terrain's uneven. Each team is going to have someone with a UV projector and night-vision in their helmets, so you can see what the hell you're landing on, when you're close enough to worry about it. Don't turn it on till you're within about thirty feet. Don't know what the people in the outpost will have in the way of sensors. Don't want to flash the place."

"And for the love of god, try to aim away from anything that looks like it has cracks or open water," Dara muttered. "The good news is, the gases subliming off the exposed fluid will probably actually give you a momentary updraft. The bad news is, that's going to look really odd on radar."

"Even slowing our fall is going to look odd," Rel returned, his voice taut. "That's why we're not going to be pulling the cords until lower than usual on the altimeters."

Dara's stomach clenched, and everyone in the room stirred a little. Eli winced, and said, "Ah, Rel? You're _sure_ you don't want to take us up on the Valium idea?"

"No. Not given what we need to do to get this done. I really will need my reaction times to be perfect," Rel told him, simply. "It's not one hundred percent safe, guys. Drops never are. But it's _doable_, we'll do everything possible to mitigate the risk, and it's the right approach. I promise you this. And once we group up at Position One, we can move out across the ice in our strike teams, and the Lystheni will not know what hit them."

Cohort had been listening to the briefing all this time, expressionlessly. Suddenly, the geth spoke. "We note that several of the personnel present have never fought Lystheni before. Sidonis-Spectre and Pellarian-Spectre have, on Omega, if briefly. Jaworski-Spectre and Velnaran-Probationary-Spectre have done so more extensively, on Garvug and several other missions. Recommend caution in dealing with Lystheni. Highly resourceful. Infiltration models can mask biosigns by rendering themselves unconscious, hibernation state, with bodies controlled by other, more distant Lystheni. Even by AI versions of their own consciousnesses, at a distance."

Dara saw Zhasa's mouth drop open in shock. Kirrahe winced visibly. Cohort went on, relentlessly. "Biotic models either use slave chips, as the batarians do, with captive biotics, or have gene splices allowing them access to a variety of asari biotic talents, including domination. We consider this ability similar to a hacking attempt on one of our platforms; it attempts to turn the organic platform against its fellows."

_I have the memory-songs of these songs from my father,_ Glory acknowledged. _I will attempt to sing counter-harmonies against them. But many of those here today might sing resistance, themselves. Many-Voices has resisted such songs before. Little-queen might be able to out-sing them, in her new shell._

"I have?" Eli said, blankly, and then grimaced. "Oh, yeah. Right. The one on Omega that tried to get me to shoot Dara." He shook his head. "I don't even know how I blocked that one, Glory. It was unexpected."

_You changed your harmony. They could not warp all of your songs at once._

Dara turned and glanced at Eli, and he shrugged back at her. _I think he means I shifted to turian, and from turian to asari in mind-set and language_, he decided, after a moment.

_Yes. Truth-Singer has sung this way, before. She sang in the voices of the Protheans, and kept cold-singer Vasir from taking her mind. When other songs failed her, other protections, the songs of the Protheans protected her. Sings-Despair has those songs, as well. If she is willing to sing them. Sings-Honor and Sings-in-Silence have rage-songs. Each of these might be even enough to prevent the sour notes, the sickly yellows and greens, in the Collector vessel. I do not sing this song note-true, however._ Glory's voice was yellow with unease.

18:00, ship-time, happened to correspond with local midnight over Sysays Crater. They gathered in the shuttle bay. Dara and Rel both knew how to pack chutes, and had packed their own tandem chutes, as well as ones for Kirrahe and Dempsey. The backup chutes were hand-packed by a drop-master back on Palaven, and Dara knew they had to trust them. The chutes were going to slow them down, but not nearly enough, thanks the trace atmosphere; they'd need chutes probably four or five times larger to establish enough drag. Hence the mass effect 'jetpacks' they'd also be using. Dara had waited until close to the end of the packing process, before reminding Rel, diffidently, "The thought occurs that you and I are both in the plateau of death."

The plateau of death was generally considered the intermediate realm of parachute experience. Neophytes with only a hundred or two hundred jumps were meticulous about everything, because they were scared. They also tended to have and accept more supervision. They died less. People with over a thousand jumps and hundreds of hours of training—usually repeated, because they were training other people daily or weekly—also tended to die less often, statistically speaking. People in between. . . because of overconfidence in their skills, a subconscious desire to increase risk to attain more of an adrenaline high, or other issues. . . had the highest mortality rate in the discipline.

Rel raised his head. "Yeah. I know." He studied her for a long moment. "Do you have any better ideas?"

Dara's throat tightened. He was actually listening to her. It wasn't a hostile comment at all. She shook her head. "No," she replied. "If I did, I'd have brought them up before now. Just wonder if we're both missing something." She finished the last, very careful cinches on the chute she and Eli would be using. "I don't want to get any of them killed just because I've got tunnel vision."

"You think Cohort wouldn't have said something if we were wrong?"

"I think Cohort's under strict orders to observe, only." Dara stood. "I think they want to see if any of us are ready to fly solo." She swallowed. _Eli is. Lin. . . he needs to work on the Seheve stuff, but otherwise, yes. Dempsey's ready. Zhasa. . . might be. Me? Oh, god, no. Definitely not._ "So I don't think we can take silence from Cohort as a yea or a nay."

Rel crouched over the parachutes, thinking. After almost a minute, he said, slowly, "I really don't see any other way."

"I know." Dara sighed. "Let's get everyone else down here and in the harnesses."

"If you're not one hundred percent confident in my plan—"

"I'm confident in your plan, Rel. Your plans are always good." She said it simply. "I'm just second-guessing it because . . .that's what I do. Double-checking everything, even triple-checking, to make sure the idea's sound." She shrugged. "Let's get going before I start on round four."

He stood, and put his hand lightly on the shoulder of her armor. She hummed softly under her breath. Dempsey had been working with her, every night of this venture so far, on her blocking skills. Making sure she didn't leak emotions or thoughts when she was wearing her armor. Proximity and emotional content were triggers for her, and she didn't know if a hand on her shoulder from Rel wouldn't trigger emotion anymore. "We'll be fine," he said, after a minute. "You'll see."

Ten minutes later, as they were getting everyone into their tandem harnesses, chutes, and small mass effect generators, it was Dara who was putting on the reassuring tone. The _Raedia_ dipped into the trace atmosphere over Bothros, and began its descent. Lin stood behind Kirrahe. Zhasa stood in front of Dempsey. Seheve stood in front of Rel. And Eli stood behind her. Glory stood to the side, singing white-blue excitement, actually. And the half-dozen workers who'd come with her on the ship had all _begged_ her to allow them to join her. —_Better than speed-songs on hovercycles, maybe, yes? _Chopin had said.

_You'll have to stay in the pressurized thigh compartments of my armor, all right? There's no oxygen at all down there. Worse than the volus sector of Bastion._

—_We will sing care-songs!_ they'd said, and now kept a soft, continuous chorus of interest in her mind. Chopin and 1812 were the only two she could carry with her like this. Her suit just didn't let her carry more. Much to their disappointment.

The lights in the bay dimmed, turned red. No sense flashing anyone on the surface with lights in the sky, after all. A bay door opened at their feet, and, given the speed at which they were going, even a 'trace' atmosphere was enough to whip the wind in and catch at them with ghostly fingers. Lin looked down into the black void at their feet, and said, in the bright tone he used when he was suppressing anxiety, "You know, I don't know if it would be easier or harder if I could actually see the ground."

"Six of one, half dozen of the other," Dara assured him, dryly. _When you can see the ground, it's harder to jump. When you do a night jump, and can't see the ground at all, you can almost pretend that there's no ground there at all. Just space. Except you can't see how close the ground really is, and instinct screams at you that you're about to kill yourself, either way._ "Walk in the park, Lin."

There was a pause. "Is this a good time to talk to the spirits of air and darkness? Because I think they're the only ones who are possibly even listening right now."

"Can't hurt, Lin," Dara called back, over the rush of the wind. "Do it now, though, 'cause all I've ever managed after jumping is 'oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,' after I run out of air after the initial scream. Yeah. I won't be tabbing the radio."

Her ruefully self-deprecating tone got them all to laugh, as she'd intended them to do; Rel was at the front, exuding confidence and excitement, to buoy them. She'd be the one that they could look at and realize it was okay to be scared. . . and that they could do this in spite of the fear.

Seheve now, who'd been looking down at the open bay door, lifted her head, and asked Lin, diffidently, "Do your spirits of air and darkness have names? It would be comforting to be able to address them. I do not think the Enkindlers are listening, particularly."

Dara held her breath for a moment. It had almost sounded like a joke. Lin's polarized mask swung toward Seheve, and he answered, after a moment, "Borea and Caligo. We don't usually say their names, though. It's considered impolite to pester them unless we really mean it."

Seheve looked back down at the open bay door. "I think it possible that I will mean it. Sincerely."

"Walk in the park guys, really," Dara told them all, putting the confidence into her voice. She glanced back over her shoulder at Eli. _You're quiet. And you're . . . wow. You're only a little nervous._ It was true, she realized; there was yellow to his song, but most of it was pure white excitement.

_I trust you. You've checked the chutes and the equipment four times. You've done this hundreds of times. Plus, you're being nervous for both of us. I figure I should stay calm for you. Best I can, anyway._

Dara froze, shaken at the depth of his trust in her. And also, at the enormity of another realization. _You. . . really don't mind that I'm—_

—_better or more experienced at something than I am? No. Why should I? I'm never going to be able to open someone's body up and tell a spleen from a liver, either, so why should I care? My ego's not that big. . . oh._ Flickers of understanding. Many of the activities they'd done—hovercycles, racquetball, whatever—had been ones that he'd done before, and excelled at. And Rel had always been better at sparring, most shooting, other than sniper training, drop training, and so on, than she had. She'd always been forced into the position of catching up, learning, being less good at things than Rel had been, other than in her medical studies. And that had fed into Rel's perception of her as his _little_ _amatra_, as anything else. Eli exhaled, and she could feel him analyzing that, realizing how much the comparison turned in his favor. Accepting it, but reminding her, silently, _Sai'kaea__. . . I'm not him. He shouldn't have been threatened when you excelled at things. I don't know why he was, except that he saw you growing past him, when he'd stopped growing himself. I'm __not__ threatened, Dara. I never will be. _

_I know. _She did, for a wonder. He considered her smarter than he was, for whatever reason, though he was perfectly able to reason and analyze and keep up with her. They'd both become experts in their own fields, and it didn't matter to him if she were better at something that he was. Even physical, high-risk things. _Habits of thought, though. Working on it._ She looked around. "Everyone ready?"

"Yes," Zhasa called back, cheerfully. "This is going to be fun, I can tell."

"You're insane, Zhasa'Maedan," Lin shouted in her general direction.

_Optimal altitude and speed reached, _Glory told them, suddenly, and for a wonder, Dara could hear Lysandra's voice, caught inside the rachni's song. Double-voice, just for an instant. _Question-Singer says that we must go now._

Eli wrapped his arms around Dara's waist. Dara reached out her right hand for Kirrahe's. Kirrahe reached out his right hand for Dempsey's. Dempsey reached out his for Rel's. Then Rel's hand caught her left, hard, firm grip. "On three," Rel said, calmly. "One. . . two. . . three!"

She set her teeth, and they all took a few steps closer. Inhale, exhale. Same biofeedback processes she used to clear her mind before sniper work. Before surgery. Controlling the breathing. Controlling the heart-rate. Nothing but calm. She could feel the instinct-level resistance in El's muscles as they got closer, could feel him tapping into the songs she was singing to calm herself, smiled a little behind her helmet. . . . and let him in.

And then they were out, thin wind tearing at them now. The air was too thin to really support transmission of sound, and what wind there was, would have torn the voices from their lips anyway, but she could have sworn she heard Lin shouting some sort of imprecation. The initial panic hit, as always, but Dara had been working her biofeedback as carefully as she could to mitigate it. One part of her mind was, indeed, gibbering, frantically, _oh my god, you're so fucking stupid, now you're going to __die__._ The rest of her, however, was focused, intently, on getting her body and Eli's into the correct, belly-down flying posture. _Relax, Eli, don't fight me, we need to get level here._

The workers, of course, couldn't see anything in the pressurized compartments of her thigh armor. . . but they were still cheerfully chorusing —_Wheeee! Excitement-songs! Danger-songs!_. . . mostly because they were picking up those emotions from her and from Eli, and they had absolutely no sense of personal danger.

Maybe it was those cheerful little voices, or just trust in her, but Eli relaxed, though she could still hear fear-song from him. White surge of pure adrenaline and yellow terror. He'd been relaxed right until they'd walked to the hole in the belly of the ship. _Perfectly normal. Everyone feels that. If they don't, they're lying._

All of their heads faced inwards, to the hole in the center of their formation where Glory was, spreading out all of his limbs, using his carapace to try to slow his own fall. The hardest part, at the moment, was trying to make sure that they all fell at one rate of speed. None of them faster or slower than Glory. _Sing control-song now?_ he asked, quickly in an arpeggio of yellow notes.

"Not yet," Rel replied on the radio. "If you slow your fall, you'll be too far above us. Just try to stay with us, and if you need to exit the formation, don't hit any of us on the way out."

Dara focused on the numbers on her wrist. 28,000. 27,000. Going a little faster than they usually did, not enough air pressure, even with their bodies spread out as they were, trying to get every square inch of resistance, of drag, with which to slow their fall naturally. The surge of adrenaline in her own body was fading, and she could feel it fading in Eli's, too. The euphoria of free-fall, magnified by the fact that the sky above was clear and cold and black and spangled with stars, and there was _nothing_ below them, no lights, no clouds, nothing but blackness. They were in the void, and the only things that convinced her they were alive, and not dead already, was the song pouring in from Eli and Glory, the rush of air inside her mask, the feel of her own breath, the hammering of her heartbeat in her throat. 23,000. Peace. Calm. Rush of the air, tugging at their bodies. Dara smiled inside her mask. On a garden world, with one atmosphere of pressure at sea level, a drop like this could take two minutes. This was taking much less time, but it was still so damned peaceful. _This is the best part of every drop_, Dara told Eli. _Some people like the adrenaline high, and I have to admit, it's a rush. And the peace afterwards wouldn't be so complete without the rush first. But this is the best part._

_I can see why,_ he admitted. His arms had assumed the correct flight posture, held out as well. Creating drag, creating resistance. _Still. . . four hundred times?_

_Lot of those were required. Training, keeping accreditation current, blah blah blah. The rest were into combat situations. Terrain too rough for vehicles, or, again, radar installations. Getting to marines who were pinned down or injured._

Glory's voice, overlaid with Lysandra's, sang, suddenly, _Question-Singer reports surface activity. We have been seen, and they sing protection-songs._

"Missile inbound," Lysandra's voice, alone, over the radio in their helmets, and Dara looked at her altimeter and swore. 17,000 feet. _We're going to land all over the goddamned map_. "Dempsey—"

"I've got it in my head, from Glory. Not in range yet." Cold, calm competence.

16,000. "Dempsey—"

"Not in range."

15,000. "Dempsey!" That was Rel's voice this time, like a whip crack.

"Five hundred feet from us. It needs to be closer before I can affect the damn thing." Dempsey's voice was almost placid. "Here it comes."

"Release!" Rel's voice, again, and Dara released her grip on Kirrahe's wrist, just as Rel loosed his grip on hers. The wind tore them apart, and Dara pulled her legs in, slightly. Less drag, letting her drop a little faster. Getting her the hell out of range of the actual explosion, and then spread-eagled again, almost swimming in the air-currents now. A brilliant flash of light, far above, and a _whump_ of hot gasses pushing her and Eli downwards that much more quickly. "Everyone all right?" Rel asked.

"Here," Dara replied, followed by Eli's quick, firm, "Here." Dempsey and Zhasa and Lin and Kirrahe reported in, followed, last, by Glory's mind-song.

12,000. 10,000. _Sai'kaea__. . .?_

_Not yet. Still two miles up, Eli. Relax._ Blips on her wrist, showing the locations of the others in their group, who'd spun away, and were still free-falling. Reassuring, really. Biosigns told her that the others were alive, at least, though from her perspective, they'd all been sucked off into blackness seconds before. She studied the numbers on the screen briefly, and shook her head. _Well, we shouldn't be in any danger of a canopy tangle-up. They're all at least a mile away from us right now. Damn. _

8,000. _Are they going to fire another missile at the 'debris'?_ Eli's thought. Yellow prickle of anxiety at the back of her head, as the wind thickened around them a little. Started to howl.

6,000. _Probably not. They're waiting to see if there's any deliberate movement in the track of the debris. Why waste a missile if you don't have to?_

4,000. _Dara?_

_Almost there. Just relax. Halo jumps take forever. Be glad we only started from 30,000, not from 85,000 or something._

_Holy shit._

_Yeah. Have only done that once. That was a really long goddamned fall. Lots of wind currents to watch, too. Just about landed in the middle of the ocean instead of on the continental shelf. Which would have been embarrassing._

2,000. Dara pulled the first ripcord; the chute was actually strapped to Eli's back, but she had the controls. She pressed the mass effect field's generator button, too. Rel had said 1,100 feet, but she wasn't sure if their main chute had taken any damage in the missile blast, and she saw no reason to take chances. The chute tore out behind them, and she reached up, getting her hands on the cords. There were no real wind currents in this thin atmosphere, but she needed to be able to check the canopy. _Shit._ Fear, real and cramping, but she fought it down. _Shit, shit, shit, okay, breathe. . . . _

_What?_

—_Danger-songs, little-queen?_

Dara keyed her radio. "We've got a hole in our canopy, folks, be careful of yours."

_Fuck!_ She could feel Eli's head snap back, as he frantically scanned the canopy above them with his night-vision enhanced visor. She didn't need a second look; there were actually multiple perforations, where something had cut or burned its way through the folded parachute in its pack.

—_We help?_ Confusion from the workers. They weren't sure they could fix the parachute in time, and she didn't want them out of her pockets at the moment. They stilled their songs as she let procedure and practice take over.

"Mass effect fields are holding. Cutting loose the first canopy." _Relax, Eli, please, relax. _Her own fear was bad enough, but her fingers moved on pure muscle-memory, pure training, and hit the release latch. The first canopy and its cords spun away lazily overhead, and she pulled the second ripcord. Their fall was already slowing as the mass effect field reduced the pull of gravity on their bodies, but the chute was also needed to create drag. . . now, especially, since they weren't in free-fall position anymore, having been tugged vertical by the first chute's deployment.

The second chute deployed at 1,100 feet, one hundred feet above where its altimeter would have set it off automatically anyway, and this chute, much larger and more conservatively designed anyway, created a great deal more resistance. Relief. Pure, shining relief in both of them. The mass effect fields would have kept them alive, but they might have touched down too hard. Could have snapped their legs. _Okay, bend your knees, Eli. I need to be the one who touches down first. Let me do the driving, all right?_

_No problem._

Dara switched on the UV light mounted on her shoulder, and glanced around. No need for NV in her helmet; the spectrum of light visible to her included this band of the spectrum now. _Damn. Lots of broken ice, lots of boulders. Going to be a little bumpy._ She touched a foot down, pushed off the first boulder, let them spring back up again, and finally found a smoother landing area, where she was able to run them down. "Freya and Tyr, on the ground," she reported quietly over the radio. "Make our position about two miles east of Position One."

"Copy that," Rel replied, immediately. "We're a mile north of you."

"Thor and Astrild, on the ground. Position one mile southwest of Position One. Terrain is very rough, some cracks, but I don't see any venting. Means there shouldn't be any open liquid." That was Dempsey.

"Watch your step," Dara said, sharply. "That ice could be damned thin."

"Forseti here," Lin finally reported in. "Glory is with us. We're a mile east of Thor, due south of Position One."

_Good. That means we're all east_ _of most of the cracks and openings in the ice,_ Dara thought.

"Everyone get moving. We don't have a lot of time before they're going to be out here, looking for the meteor impact site." That was Dempsey, calm and pragmatic.

With both of their feet on solid ground, Dara got to work stripping them out of the harness, and asked Eli, quietly, "So. . . how was your first jump?"

"Really, really glad I went to the head before we left the ship," Eli told her, ruefully, and Dara laughed, leaning her head against his shoulder for a long moment.

_To be honest, after a bad one like that, it's going to be damned hard to jump again. But, you know. . . get back on the horse_, she admitted, silently.

_No kidding. Okay, where's Position One, and how the hell do we get there?_

Dara pointed off to their left. "Thataway."

"Okay. Let's go."

The ice underfoot was, at least, riddled with debris, which improved the footing, slightly. Rock-hard, it didn't give at all under their feet, and was not suitable for running on, at all. And the chill of the place was seeping into Dara now. Her suit had a quarian-made system in it now, which was rated up to Cold Hazard I, and would withstand most radiological and biological hazards as well, but this planet was a Cold Hazard II environment, and it was the middle of the night. No solar heat at all at the moment, and what little warmth the planet had during the day, was bled off into space through its thin atmosphere the instant it turned its face from Hekate, its primary. Eli, in his volus-made suit, was far more comfortable. Dara knew that Lin had a system similar to her own, as a matter of course, and Zhasa had a standard quarian suit, naturally enough, but the others had all had to give up a suit system slot to get what they needed for this environment. Kirrahe had given up a kinetic shield booster, for example. So had Rel. She wasn't sure what Seheve had lost, but she doubted the female would have given up on her stealth gear, so that probably, again, left the removal of some shield augmentation pack or another. Dara hadn't had the option of removing items; she'd settled for having foam sprayed inside her suit for an extra layer of insulation, but it was still damned cold. She tried not to shiver, and concentrated on just moving. If she moved quickly, she'd warm herself.

_Extremities okay, __sai'kaea?_ Flash of memory, shivering at Palaven's south pole. He'd hated that week of his boot camp even more than she had. He was still, in his heart, a station rat. Anything other than a constant 72º F/22º C just seemed wrong to him, on a fundamental level.

_Yeah. No tingling yet. Really wishing I'd gone for the volus-made seals, after all._

_I'll get you a set for Christmas. _

She grinned behind her helmet, and tried not to slip down a ravine in the ice. _Such a romantic gift._

He caught her wrist and stopped the slide. _It's that or a nice warm fire, and Christmas on Mindoir is too damned warm for that. Think warm thoughts, __sai'kaea__._

They met at the rendezvous point. Dara could see that Seheve was still shaking like a leaf, partially from the exhilaration of her first drop, and partially from the mortal fear. Rel was pacing, trying to keep himself warm through movement. "See?" Rel told Eli as they crunched up. "No adrenaline spike. I didn't think there really would be." He shrugged. "I _like_ it, but I've done it so many times, it doesn't really hit like it used to."

"It gets better?" Seheve asked over the radio, her voice still tremulous. "I. . . do not think I ever wish to do this again, if at all possible."

Rel patted her shoulder lightly. "It wasn't that bad was it?"

"I disliked the sensation of being out of control. Intensely." Seheve shuddered.

Rel shook his head. "I. . . well, it's always been _fun_ for me." He shrugged a little, helplessly. "As to whether it gets _better_. . . ask Dara."

"Bad person to ask today," Dara admitted. "I've never actually had a chute malfunction before."

"Yeah, what the hell happened?" Rel asked. His voice snapped taut again.

"Couldn't really get a good look. Perforations. Might have gotten burned from the missile Dempsey deflected."

"_S'kak._" Rel shook his head. "Damned lucky the backup didn't have damage, too."

"Tell us about it," Eli replied, wryly, crouching down and scraping at the ice with his gloved fingers. "I'm going to be seeing this in my dreams."

Dara shuddered. "I'd like to get busy and get our minds off it," she muttered. "But yeah, to answer your question, Seheve. . . it does get better. Sort of. It's easier when you're under your own control, I think." _Kind of like driving a groundcar or an aircar._

Lin, Kirrahe, and Glory came up from the south. Rel gave Lin a friendly wrist-clasp, and asked, "So. . . what do you think?"

Lin cleared his throat. "Well. . . I did drop to the ground and tell it how much I loved it, and how I'd never take it for granted again. . . ."

Rel guffawed, and Kirrahe snorted. "He did. Was amusing."

". . . but the adrenaline rush was. . . pretty amazing." Lin snickered. "Now I know why Serana liked that part of her training so much."

Eli's head lifted, and Dara sent him a single thought, _Don't say it._

_Don't have to. Lin's already thought it, I'm sure. Somehow, I see the two of them having a new hobby when Lin gets back to Mindoir._ Eli's thought was blue-green. _She'll probably __climb__ him if she's skied on adrenaline, and I don't see him having a problem with that._ No jealousy at all. Just amusement.

Dempsey and Zhasa crunched up last. Zhasa was still laughing in total exhilaration. "That was fun," the quarian girl said sunnily. "I want to do that again."

"She was laughing the whole way down," Dempsey reported, dryly. "I did my best not to join in."

Rel clapped his hands together. "All right. We're all here, everyone's got their fingers and toes. We ready for the hard part now?"

Eli rose, and gestured for Zhasa and Kirrahe to join him; Dara moved over to join Dempsey and Glory. The same teams as they'd used on Astaria, for much the same reasons. "Let's go," Eli said, and, focusing once more, they moved out.

**Seheve, Bothros, February 4, 2197**

As they moved through the jagged, uneven terrain, heading steadily northward in their three teams of three, Seheve was uncomfortably aware that what they were walking on, had never existed on her species' native planet: ice. Not even at the polar caps had there been ice on Rakhana. There was no word for it in drell; only when they'd moved to Kahje, in the Rescue, had they encountered the substance, and they'd learned to call it by its hanar name: _lema_. There was a word for _drowning_ in the main drell language, but it was _ollum karallin_. The death of kings. There had been only a few small oceans on the planet, and it was not by accident that Kalahira had been goddess of the oceans and the afterlife, both. Rulers, when the rains failed to come, and the underground springs and oases failed, too, would take their people on a pilgrimage to the sea, or, failing that, would gather the last water supplies of their people. . . and the priests would hold them under the water until they drowned, in the oldest, most savage times. Later, it had been used as a method of execution reserved for the nobility. Like dipping someone into molten gold, it had a connotation of luxury or excess to it. And people had paid princely sums to have their ashes scattered into lakes and Rakhana's few rivers. Seheve had no such aspirations. It did not matter what happened to her body when her soul left it. It would be an empty, useless shell, and nothing more.

Grim thoughts, for a grim place. The UV lights on everyone's shoulders now dimly illuminated the area for her sensitive eyes. Black, pitiless horizon over the rim of the crater, which stretched for miles in every direction, like a black wall. The only thing that distinguished one from the other was the fact that the sky itself had stars.

Up close, within the circle of their fragile UV lights, gray-white ice, slick in places, harsh with stone fragments in others. Some areas washed over with fresher ice, in layers, as they got closer to the open lake. She could discern, if dimly, the plume of water, ethane, and methane, rising from the lake's surface. Kirrahe had explained the process, carefully. Somewhere below them, perhaps as low as two miles below the surface of the sea, there was a thermal vent, probably releasing molten rock. Lava was anywhere from 1300º F/ 700º C to 2,200°F / 1,200° C. The temperature at which ethane became a gas was -128 º F/-89º C; methane did the same at −161 °C (−257.8 °F). This meant that the methane/ethane at the bottom of the sea flash-boiled, turning instantly to gas, and began to move upwards. It did, however, not erupt up in a huge column of gas, for three good reasons: first, the vent below was a slow one, not really erupting molten rock itself. It was more of an ooze. Second, there was a mile or two of very cold, very heavy liquid on top of that base layer; the pressure kept the gas from exploding upwards, and pressure tends to incline materials to a liquid or solid state, anyway. Third, the ambient temperature of the liquid above the gaseous level was very cold, overall; it tended to chill the gas as it rose, in bubbles. Some of it therefore descended again, in a continuous up-and-down cycle. Some of the gas continued to boil up, however, which caused the water ice above it to melt. Some of the water remained as a thin top layer of liquid atop the methane/ethane, and some of it, like the ethane/methane gas, escaped upwards as that column of steam. Most of it sublimed away, fueling the very thin atmosphere of this forsaken world, and some of it splattered down onto the surface. Creating fresh layers of ice atop the ancient ones. Beautiful but deadly.

Once they got within five hundred feet of the Lystheni base, they paused, and Seheve reviewed what she knew of this place. The information had been scanty. The first research base had been set up here by Sunderlund University in 2180, in an attempt to search the sea floor for life forms; such an area, with its abundance of warmth and energy, had been considered an ideal place for life to propagate, if any existed. The Hydronics Corporation, a Cerberus shell company, had purchased mining rights to the area in 2186, and acquired the university's buildings and its small power station. And the Lystheni had apparently taken over sometime in 2187 or 88. The timeline was unclear. If any Cerberus researchers still lived, they would have been Lystheni captives for nine or ten years by this point.

At the moment, there were five large, trailer-like vehicles parked in the chaotic, cracked ice around the shore of the methane-ethane lake, each one mobile, thanks to treads on their undercarriages. . . necessary to move them, if the cracked ice began to melt in this vicinity. Also, they had been used as mobile research platforms by the original scientists.

There were lights strung around the perimeter, though, given the extreme temperatures on this frozen world, no guards were outside, patrolling. "Very likely that they have motion detectors and the like set up," Seheve warned, and saw Rellus nod in the dim light that extended out to where they now all crouched, in a low ravine, peering over the edge at the encampment, some five hundred feet to the north now. "Allow me to move in ahead of the rest of you. I will search for the motion detectors and cameras, and, when we're ready to execute the plan, I will ensure that we have cover of darkness."

"Don't like you going up ahead without backup," Elijah said, his voice terse. "But I don't see much alternative. Freya, get your sniper rifle out. You and I can cover her from a distance, at least."

"Got it," Dara replied, calmly.

The plan was fairly simple, and left room for error. Team one, Rellus, Linianus, and herself, would move in from the south, and take out the first trailer. Team two, Elijah, Zhasa, and Kirrahe, would come in from the west, and take out the second trailer. Team three, comprised of Dara, James Dempsey, and the rachni, would circle north, and take out the power station at the same time, using the first two teams as a distraction. Then they could move in from the north, taking the north-most trailer, while the first two teams would move up to meet them. Surprise, stealth, speed, encirclement. . . simple but effective. And, as plans tended to do, it would probably only last five seconds, but the goals would stay the same.

Seheve moved up, stealthed, and scanned ahead of her for the electrical fields of the equipment. Much of it would have to be hardened for cold-resistance, but she found several sensors and cameras, and began taking them off-line. The cameras, she fed loops of their own footage from the last hour; the motion detectors and vibration sensors, she simply set to idle. Turning them off would send off alarms, but this shouldn't do so. "Southern access route is secure," she reported over the radio, softly, but just as she did so, something crackled under her foot. Seheve glanced down, and saw a thin line of water or other fluid bleeding up through the ice below. "Hold. Area unstable. Ice sheet is thin. Moving to the east to clear another zone.

Patient, careful work, taking close to an hour. "Route secure," Seheve finally reported, a second time.

"Team three, moving north," Dara reported, tersely. It sounded as if the human female's teeth were chattering, in the odd way in which humans warmed themselves, though their shiver reflex. Seheve had no such mechanism. The cold was biting through her suit, but her hands as she'd worked the sensors, though numb and a little clumsy, had remained rock-steady.

Now, Dara, Dempsey, and Glory moved up and over the rim of the ravine, heading in a wide circle around to the east of the encampment. Quickly and carefully. About fifteen minutes later, Dempsey reported, clinically, "In position north of the power station. We're taking radar soundings of the ice. It's still twenty feet thick back here. Should be fine for explosives. Give the word."

Rellus and Linianus moved up to flank Seheve; Elijah, Zhasa, and Kirrahe moved in to their left. "We're going in," Rel said over the radio. "Give us a minute, and then go. You'll probably see a lot of movement around then."

Linianus snickered at Rel's words. Seheve was grateful for the thawing in his demeanor around her. She wasn't sure he'd ever be comfortable with her, but the argument last night had seemed to clear the air, somewhat, and that boded well for their ability to work together effectively.

The southernmost vehicle was close to several large cracks, and one open pool of fluid, which sent up a smaller steam cloud. "The lava vent below must be shifting its location over time," Kirrahe murmured over the radio. "Or becoming more active. They will need to shift their vehicles' position soon."

"Well, with luck, they're not going to have to worry about that," Elijah replied.

"Or anything else," Kirrahe returned, his tone oddly light.

Seheve moved to the southern door of the large, boxy vehicle, and crouched there, working the controls of the door, trying to unlock it as silently as possible. The longest discussion they'd all had, really, other than on the mechanics of the halo insertion, had been on one single topic: _what to do with the Lystheni_. "Do we go in killing? or are we telling them to freeze, and trying for captures?" Linianus had asked, simply. "Having a few of them alive would be helpful, wouldn't it? For information on the Collector ship, if nothing else?"

Elijah had grimaced. "I agree, but I don't know if we can _do_ 'surprise, speed, stealth' on six different locations with only nine people, with capture tactics. And I don't want to take marines in with us on the halo insertion. They're not trained for it, and they don't have experienced people to do tandems with, either."

"There _is_ a special forces team on the _Raedia_," Rellus had pointed out.

"There's only a single special forces team on most SR-ships," Dara put in, quietly. "They're supposed to be our backup if anything goes wrong. If we commit everything to start with, we've got no backup." She'd looked grim. "I don't know if any of the Lystheni will allow themselves to be taken alive. They're pretty much a tech-cult. Historically, there's been not one Lystheni prisoner, that I'm aware of." She looked around. "I say, shoot to kill. If we get one that surrenders, great, or if we all converge on the last trailer, we can try, but. . . let's not take the risk to start with. Especially if any of the ones 'surrendering' turns out to be a biotic who can pull that dominate effect."

"_Lia'diya'duath bi'a'manav,"_ Elijah had murmured, in asari. _The little death of the mind_. "Yeah. Let's avoid that."

So, they were aiming to kill. The rules of the engagement were clear, and that was important to all of them. In the here and now, they paused for a moment outside the trailer. "Remember, let me go first," Lin reminded them, softly.

"You will diminish my effectiveness if you do not permit me into the trailer unseen," Seheve returned.

"You can find ways of being effective once I'm in, have their attention, and I'm creating cover for you and for Rel. Go around me if you want to, but I'm not letting them get any free shots." Linianus' voice was firm.

"You're the team leader," Rellus said, with a slight shrug. "On three?"

Linianus nodded, and pulled the large shield he carried off his back. Drew his pistol, and slid back the safety, while Seheve drew her curving vibroknife, and made sure that her stealth field was in place. "One. . ." Linianus said, softly. "Two. . . ._three_."

They moved through the first door; unsurprisingly, every door opened onto an airlock. The element of surprise was still intact, however. The Lystheni would probably expect their own kind to be coming in through the door. Seheve slowed her breathing again, as the airlock stopped cycling, and the door in front of them sprang open. .. revealing two very surprised-looking salarians, neither of whom was in armor.

Linianus moved forward, raising his shield, opening fire without hesitation on the Lystheni agents, just as they began to shout in alarm. The reports of the pistol were loud in the close confines of the trailer, astonishingly so, for ears accustomed to the near-silence of the surface outside. Rel moved up, just to Linianus' left, using his friend's shield and body for cover, and opened fire, himself, with his assault rifle.

"Moving left," Seheve warned, knowing that they would have difficulty seeing her, and headed for the corridor that led off of this large, open living area. Her biosign detector indicated that there five more life-signs in this trailer, all of whom were now up and moving in the two sleeping areas and the 'cab' of the trailer, where the driving controls were kept. The sleeping areas were holdovers from the humans who'd originally owned these trailers, of course. A salarian wouldn't require such chambers for much of any given day, after all.

She opened the first door on her right, keeping her body back behind the doorframe. Heard cries in salarian, a language she understood better than she spoke. But _intruders!_ and _get your armor_! didn't need a great deal of translation.

She ducked and rolled into the room. There were two salarians here, ten feet apart, but both ahead of her. She moved in on light feet, got behind the first, and slid her knife into the sluggish, three-chambered salarian heart. Felt her stealth field fizzle around her, and looked up to verify her second target. . . .just in time to see him vanish, tucked away in a stealth field, himself. _Ah. Interesting._ It didn't panic her. She'd fought too many people in her training who'd been training exactly as she was. She knew that the salarian would not be holding still. He was on the move. Probably, for minimum detection, right towards the door she'd already opened, even if it was further away from the door on the other side of the sleeping area, and past _her_. She let the body she held fall to the floor; she could have used it as a shield, but right now, she needed speed and maneuverability. . . and brought her own stealth field up again. Kept moving, herself, her arms outstretched. Humans had a childish game, she knew, called Blind Man's Bluff. This was the ultimate example of such a game. Neither opponent could see each other, one sought the other, the other sought to get away. . . gunfire from outside, the rapid slam of Rellus' assault rifle, the more measure double-taps of Linianus' pistol. . . her fingertip brushed something, and then she and the Lystheni turned on each other, wrestling on the ground, knocking over furniture, invisible to each other, to everyone else. Fighting like phantoms or ghosts. Her knife-hand was gripped, held, and she couldn't even get the glancing hit that she'd need to send the potent neurotoxin that coated the blade into the salarian's bloodstream.

Rellus' voice, strained from the doorway. "Seheve! I can't shoot into a scrum, and I can't see you!"

She didn't have breath to reply. She'd just gotten her fingers around the salarian's throat, and now ripped at the vulnerable windpipe, exposed, as the male wasn't wearing his armor. The salarian reared back—she could feet the shift in his bodyweight, and fully expected him to clutch at her hands. Instead, his hands came down, and for a brief moment, Seheve remembered, all too clearly, the flamethrowers embedded in Maldo Ren's forearms.

And then the flames gouted out, pouring down over her, revealing both their forms, and a pistol spoke, sharply: _bam-bam_, and the salarian fell over backwards, fire still spreading from his arms. Strong hands pulled Seheve to her feet, beat at the fire on her armor. "You all right?" Rel asked, sharply.

"Fine, yes, thank you." Seheve looked around. "Is the entire trailer secured?"

"All targets down."

They left the fires burning in the trailer, and moved to the next. Speed was essential. Over the radio, crisp, terse chatter. "Trailer two, down," Elijah reported. "Moving up to four, Forseti, Virtus, take three."

"You're going to have a distraction of your own in the next ten seconds." Dempsey's voice, human and laconic. "Watch your eyes. Moving to trailer five."

"Lystheni were highly resistant at the power plant," Dara warned. "Kept saying 'no, no, you'll kill them all.' Not sure what that meant."

No time to think about that. They approached the third trailer, again, situated near a series of cracks and pools, from the south. Seheve expected the people inside to be more aware of the situation, better prepared, and this time, Rellus simply blew the airlock open with a charge from his pack, and they dove through the superheated remains. No oxygen, no fire, the pressurized atmosphere inside the trailer erupting out. This was a problematic trailer. Everyone inside was already stealthed. One of them broke from stealth, and used some form of a neural shock device on Linianus, immediately, freezing him in place. Rellus continued to use his friend as cover, and fired on the exposed salarian, killing him. . . and then took a full cryo-load to his own body, the chemicals pouring out and hardening over his body. Seheve killed _that_ salarian without compunction or remorse, took hits to her own shields, and vanished back into her stealth field.

More games. No biosign readings; the Lystheni's stealth fields served to mask those. She suspected that there would be six or seven, total, just as there had been in every other trailer thus far, but she couldn't be sure of anything. Contact; she whirled, spinning with her knife, and got a glancing cut through the armor. With the neurotoxin on her blade, even a glancing hit like this one could be potentially deadly. That was three, she thought, as the salarian dropped to the ground, convulsing.

"_Forget her. Get out. Akal, just drive, and jump. We'll pick you up."_

"_Understood!"_

Seheve's eyes widened under her mask as she heard footsteps pound past her. Saw the cab door of the vehicle open, ghostly remnants of its atmosphere venting now. Saw the shimmer of a salarian form entering, the door closing behind her. At least two other salarians simply ran past her, past Rellus, who was still frozen. Past Linianus, who was just shaking off the neural stun. "Linianus! Get Rellus out of the trailer!" Seheve called to him, urgently. "I'm on the driver!"

She ran forward, hearing the engines start. Salarians, she remembered, distantly, went into a hibernation state when subjected to extreme cold. All of these salarians were in full armor. They could survive a full submersion in the frigid waters of the lake, even if their suit systems were overwhelmed. All they needed to do was either float, or have the body be recoverable. Other species could hibernate; humans did, on occasion. A survival trait of species whose worlds could grow cold, and Sur'Kesh, while largely tropical, did have zones where the temperatures could drop below the freezing point of water. So did Palaven.

Rakhana had not.

Seheve didn't have time to look behind her. To see if Linianus was capable of moving yet, of simply lifting Rellus over one shoulder and hauling him out of the trailer, bodily. Everything she had, was focused on one thing. . . getting through the door, and stopping the salarian driver. The door was locked, and she didn't have time for finesse; her vibroknife sliced through the gap in the doorframe, and the door sprang open under her urgent fingers. The trailer was moving now, building speed. Seheve lunged for the controls, took a stunning hit under her left ear, and rolled away, reflexively. _Have to stop it. . . have to stop it. . ._ She was back on her feet in an instant, spinning her knife in figure-eight defensive patterns, her other hand raised to block, and again tried for the controls.

A salarian body slammed into hers, knocking her into the bank of controls. The trailer was bumping and slamming over the cracked ice now, jolting them both. Five foot drops, not helpful on the suspension. Unseen body, strong and wiry, pinning her down. Seheve worked her feet up, planted her boots against the salarian's slender hips, and shoved with all her considerable strength, knocking him back. . . . he staggered, and flickered into visibility. Raised his arms. . . and nothing happened. No air. No fire.

Seheve wanted to laugh, but she didn't have a chance. She drew her pistol with her off-hand and fired, point-blank, center mass, over and over, until the salarian fell down. Her aim was knocked wild by the bumping and jouncing, but then she dropped the pistol, sheathed her knife, and tried to get control of the trailer. . . and, looking out the front window, couldn't see the white of ice ahead of her anymore. Just a field of slick, inky blackness.

She whirled. Raced out of the cab, looked around, frantically. . . _airlock, pressurized, maybe, but will sink. To the bottom. To live there, until I run out of air, unrecoverable? No._ The thought took half a second. She ran to the back of the still-moving trailer and dove out the blasted airlock door through which they'd entered, just as the black fluid of the lake 'water' began to pour in around her ankles. She had time to realize that Linianus and Rellus were no longer by the door. Relief, clear, shining relief in her mind and heart. Whatever else happened, they had a chance.

The vortex as the liquids surged into the near-vacuum of the empty trailer was intense, and nearly sucked her back into it once more. And the drag of it, as the trailer sank into the inky blackness was even worse, dragging her down with it. She closed her eyes, and heard, one despairing word over the radio. Her own name. "Seheve!"

_**Author's note:** Hey, it's been a while since the last cliff-hanger! And this is 67 pages, 7 over my limit!_


	140. Chapter 140: Disinterred, Part Two

**Chapter 140: Disinterred, Part Two**

**Bothros, February 3, 2197**

Lin had simply lifted Rel over one shoulder in a fireman's carry and leaped out of the vehicle, which was slowly gaining in speed as inertia took its inevitable toll. They hit the ice, sprawling, a rolling tangle of limbs, breath knocked out of both of them by the impact. Lin thanked the spirits that he actually hadn't managed to wrench his knee again, and scrambled back to his feet. The effects of the chemicals that made up the cryo-freeze suspension around Rel were dissipating rapidly; it was akin to a chemical retardant foam, and actually was not as cold as the ambient temperature here on Bothros. It was also largely made up of liquid-state chemicals sent out as an aerosol stream, which briefly solidified on contact, when catalysts came into play. End result? Something that worked only briefly in the trace and frozen atmosphere of Bothros, and quickly began to sublime away, as nature, which abhorred a vacuum, simply began to devour it.

Rel lurched back to his feet, as the vehicle bounded further away. "She's still on that thing—'

"I know, I know, she was heading for the cab when I last saw her, she's trying to stop it—" Lin's throat tightened.

It was one of those moments that was absolutely frozen in time for everyone who watched. The wide trailer bounded and bounced over the last of the cracks, and continued down into the inky blackness of the ethane/methane lake, dropping in precipitously, as the ice evidently cut off abruptly at the edge of the waters. The nose dropped in, and the back end lifted up, and Seheve burst out the side door. Lin could see her clearly, and Rel started to run forward, at top speed, trying to get to her. Lin swore and ran after Rel. They'd always been evenly matched for foot-speed; they'd both played center on the handball team for that exact reason. Rel had more endurance now, but speed was another story. Lin caught Rel near one of the cracks in the terrain and tackled him. _"No!"_ Rel snarled at him, fighting. _"No, no, let me go, let me go, I have to get to her—"_

Lin had his full weight down on Rel's back, and locked his arms through Rel's, winding them behind his back. He'd had four years of learning how to get a lock on anyone, of almost any species, between his work on Macedyn and Nimines. How to shackle anyone, prevent them from harming him, or themselves, or anyone else. Rel might still be able to dominate him in sparring if they were on their feet, but Lin had become a master on the ground. He rode out the struggles, got his knees on Rel's legs, stopping the dangerous spur-kick motion before it could slam back against his kidneys. . . .weaker in this position, of course, but still with the potential to break open his suit with one lucky strike. _"Let me go, spirits take you, let me go!"_

Rel's head was up, and he could just see Seheve's dark figure, outlined against the horizon, as she struggled to stay above the dark fluids. . . and then the trailer's final downward slide pulled her down with it, in its undertow. All thought left his mind at that moment. There was nothing but yawning whiteness where his consciousness was, and he didn't even register that he'd shouted _"Seheve!"_ That he was fighting against Lin with all his strength, but that his brother was holding him down with dogged determination, didn't register Lin's words, repeated over and over, _"Not going to let you go, not letting you go, I've got you, Rel, and I'm not letting you go."_

"_Let me go you son of a __villi__!"_ It was almost a howl, and the voice was barely recognizable as Rel's.

"_Fradu__, for the sake of the spirits, __think__, what can you possibly do, besides get yourself killed if you throw yourself in there after her!"_ That was a shout, and it, just barely, penetrated the blood-rage.

Rel stared at the waters, still rippling, and went absolutely rigid for a moment. Every muscle in his body locked. _She's going to die, she's going to die, and there's nothing I can do to stop it, there's got to be _something—_"Let me go!"_

"_What, you're going to swim out to her?"_ Lin's voice was the lash of a drill-centurion. "_Turians aren't strong swimmers. Your suit isn't designed for the fluid, either the cold or the pressure. I'm not going to let you kill yourself, Rel, you hear me?"_

The lash became gentleness, understanding. Lin, of any of them, understood what it was to lose a mate, and Rel put his head down on the ice and let go. The rasping keen that Lin had given voice to in response to on seeing Nimines in ruins echoed now from Rel's own throat. _Spirits, what have I done, what have I done, I told her we could build a future, and it hasn't even lasted a day—_

North of their position, Eli, Kirrahe, and Zhasa were frozen in horror, seeing the vehicle sink into the dark waters, hearing Rel's despairing shout of _"Seheve!"_ in their radios. Eli could hear Lin talking to Rel, talking him down, trying to work him out of the blood-rage, but every damn second counted and Eli's mind raced, but he couldn't figure out a single way in which he could rescue Seheve. "I'm going in," Eli said, suddenly. It was desperate, but. . . _volus environmental seals_. _They'll hold._ Kirrahe—" Eli spun, and grabbed a long hose off the back of the nearby trailer. "Don't let this line get tangled—"

"Right idea, wrong person," Zhasa told him, firmly, taking the hose out of his hands. The same options had flashed through her mind, but Zhasa knew she was the right person for the job. _Quarian-grade envirosuit. Night-vision. Biotics. And I know what she feels like—a frozen glacier on a mountainside, just starting to melt. _Zhasa wrapped the hose around her waist with quick motions, tying the knots securely. "I might not be able to do more than throw her to the surface," Zhasa warned. "I might not be able to leap out of the water, depending on how cold I am when I find her. For Keelah's sake, pull me back out."

"No, I should go—"

"Don't waste time arguing," Zhasa told him, as sharply as he'd ever heard her speak. "I can't pull you out of the water biotically if I can't see or sense you. Even Kirrahe and I together can't pull you and Seheve out of that lake on this line. _You_ can."

And with that, she turned and leaped across the intervening space, a perfect, biotically-assisted dive into the dark waters, with the reel of hose spinning out madly behind her, leaving Eli cursing in her wake. "Thor!" Eli called into his radio. "Need you down here, and _now_. Seheve's in the lake and Astrild just took off for a swim going after her."

Dempsey, Dara, and Glory had been quite busy in their own right, at the far northern side of the encampment. They'd blown the power station to hell, and spun south to attack the north-most of the trailers. To Dempsey's mild surprise, there had been a single human in that trailer, surrounded by a half-dozen Lystheni. _Could be a biotic, watch it,_ he warned, silently, and heard Glory sing, in return, _Songs not muffled! A gray-voice, but not a silenced one!_ Flash of interest, almost hope, in Dara's song; she still tended to leak emotional underpinnings and thoughts a little, wearing her current armor, and Dempsey found it oddly endearing. Flashes of the person beneath her usual mask.

They'd finished off the Lystheni, Dempsey throwing two of them, one after another, into a nearby wall with bone-crunching force, Glory unleashing his biotic projectiles several others, and Dara shocking the human with her stun gun before going back to firing on the Lystheni with her pistol, from behind the cover of Dempsey and his double layer of shields. It reminded him, forcibly, of their venture to Camala, just about a year ago, and their battle with the batarian militia forces there. When he'd thought of himself as a wall, and wondered if that were a step up or down from a geth.

They'd just moved forward to check on the human, who was still shuddering and gasping on the floor, when there was a shout of absolute anguish on the radios. Velnaran's voice: "_Seheve!"_ Dara's head jerked upwards, and Glory's harp-like voice, echoing Velnaran's words, _Sings-Despair is in the dark waters! She sings death-songs!_

"Stay here," Dara ordered their human captive, shoving the male to a nearby chair. Then they all broke from the trailer, running, as best they could, across the dangerous, rugged ice. Chatter of voices on the radio, Pellarian telling Rel that he wasn't going to let him charge blindly into the water, Sidonis saying he was going to go in after Seheve, and then Zhasa telling him, firmly, _"Right idea, wrong person,"_ and Dempsey's mind locked up. _Don't you let her, don't you let her—_

"_Thor! Need you down here, and __now__. Seheve's in the lake and Astrild just took off for a swim going after her."_ Sidonis' voice was strained.

_Fuck,_ Dempsey thought, all emotion draining out of him except the faint hint of incipient rage. They skidded around the corner of the trailer and just about ran into Sidonis and Kirrahe, who were keeping their armored hands on a hose that was spinning out from a reel. Dempsey reached forward and caught hold of the line himself, not feeling the heat of the friction as it rolled over his gloves. Numbness, and the rage boiling under it, fighting with one another. _Zhasa, don't do this to me, don't do this to me—_

A hand on his shoulder. Hint of song, terrified yellows and bleak blacks, wrapping through his thoughts. _Help me stay numb, doc,_ he told Dara, the words distant even in his own mind. _Don't let me lose it._ _And don't let me feel it._

_I'll . . . try._ Dara's voice was uncertain. She had no real confidence in her biotic abilities, in her ability to evoke emotion in him, as Zhasa did, and yet insulate him from the effects. But he could feel song rush out of her, wrap around him. Keep him grounded and kept the anger down.

Zhasa felt the thick, viscous fluid close over her head, and did her best not to panic. She was, after all, ensconced in the best envirosuit her people had ever produced, and while it wouldn't keep out eight atmospheres of pressure without additional help, such as on a volus planet, or the bottom of Arvuna's seas, it should keep her warm and insulated, no matter the temperature of the methane/ethane sea. But it was inky black, and her UV light wasn't penetrating far into the gloom at all. She kicked downwards, using the tug of the line at her waist as a guide, keeping her oriented as to what was _up_ and what was _down._ And she cast out her mind, and found, faint, but alive, the dimming sense of panic that was Seheve. A mind that had been almost snuffed out, embalmed while still alive, focused entirely on the death of others, the death of herself, now clung to just one thing. . . _ I don't want to die. Not yet. I want to live. I want to __live__._ But the thought was faint, and growing fainter. Cold. So very, very cold.

_Hang on._ Zhasa flung the thought out, and kicked down deeper. Deeper. The UV light caught a glint of something, and Zhasa's eyes, so perfectly adapted for nocturnal and crepuscular activities in Rannoch's deserts, widened. _There. That was a humanoid shape, I know it. . . _ Deeper. There were bubbles rising all around her, tugging her upwards, a current she had to fight, since Zhasa's suit was filled with air, a complete environmental system. She'd overfilled it, on purpose, to fight the pressure of the water around her, and to render herself buoyant, else she'd have plummeted to the sea floor, like a rock. Seheve's armor was sealed, like many of the others', against the cold at the joints, against loss of heat and whatever air was already in the suit, but it wasn't _pressurized_. Dara's was. Eli's was. Lin's was. Zhasa's was. No one else's. By now, the seals were probably failing, and trickles of super-freezing fluid were probably bleeding though. . .

One more mighty kick from Zhasa's legs, and her fingertips brushed something. Latched onto a belt. _Got you,_ Zhasa thought, triumphantly, and, prodding gently at the fading consciousness, told Seheve, _Just hold on, damn it. You're going to live!_

And then she _threw_ Seheve, with all her considerable biotic force, up through the dark waters, at least eighty feet above her, launching the drell female into open air above, while shouting into her radio, and at the top of her mental voice, "Dempsey! _Catch!"_

On the ice, Dempsey's head jerked back, and he saw something dark explode up out of the deep waters, moving at high speed. "Oh, _shit_," Dara said, and he could feel the yellow surge in her again. "She could get the fucking _bends_ this way—"

_Or she could fall right back down where she started from, damnit._ Dempsey reached out with his mind and caught Seheve's limp form in a wave of force, interweaving his biotics with Zhasa's. He was far more used to manipulating his biotics in aggressive, powerful ways; it was actually hard to bounce her, lightly, up onto the shore, far enough inland that the others could reach her. "Go!" he snapped at Dara, who sprinted forward over the ice, feet skidding out here and there, and did a quick check on the sprawled body. Dempsey's attention didn't linger there. "Pull!" he snapped at Sidonis, who already was. The hose was still taut, Zhasa's weight was still on the other end, and Dempsey didn't need line of sight for a familiar mind. He had a two mile radius for catching familiar thoughts and emotions. _Zhasa?_

_It's. . . really. . . cold. . . _ she admitted. Her burst of adrenaline had carried her down into the darkness, and now she was trying to kick her way back upwards. The completely pressurized suit, and the effervescent, almost 'boiling' methane-ethane made this easier, and she wasn't risking the bends, but it was still a lot like trying to swim in . . . oil, really. Very, very cold, yet bubbling, light sweet crude oil.

_We're pulling you up. Just keep moving._ Dempsey's thoughts burned in her mind, and Zhasa kept moving. Kept kicking her legs, while holding onto the hose in her increasingly numb hands, as her suit systems started to fail. _Can you jump, love?_

_Can. . . try. . . can't see to aim, though. . . could hit the ice at high speed. . . would be bad. . . _Zhasa didn't sweat to cool herself, but quarians did have a shiver reflex, of sorts, and she was starting to shake. She didn't dare take her hands off the hose to try to climb up it, however. Just kept kicking upwards.

And then the worst thing that could happen, did happen. The hose material was insulated, of course, a thick fabric matrix covering a rubber core, but it was not in any way designed to be plunged into liquid methane/ethane. Somewhere above Zhasa's head, it shattered, and she could feet the makeshift rope go limp in her numbing hands.

On the surface, the constant sensation of playing a very large fish on a long line, as he and Sidonis were pulling on the hose, abated. The line went limp. _Zhasa!_ He managed to hold onto the coldness, the numbness, in spite of everything, and ran forward, heading for the edge of the ice. _Jump! Jump now! I'll catch you!_

Zhasa heard those words, and knew she had no choice. Nothing but a blind leap, in the dark, pure blind faith in him. It was that, or trying to swim up, with the internal systems on her suit chirping and twittering in protest, lights flickering on her HUD, informing her helpfully that a suit breach was imminent, that the heating system was now at 5% of normal capacity.

Zhasa leaped. She could feel the rush of the fluids over her body, as she emerged from the fluid like a torpedo, had a dizzying instant to look around, suspended over the lake's dark waters, see the white of the ice—

On the shore, Dempsey could feel the field of her biotics, and slid his into hers with the ease of practice. He redirected her arc, so she couldn't possibly run into the ice, and then pulled her towards him, at high velocity. He braced himself, and caught her, but he had misjudged just how much kinetic force she was going to be traveling with, and her weight and inertia knocked him flat on his back. He looked up at her, stunned. Seeing the methane-ethane fluids pouring off of her in a white cloud of smoke, dissipating around her into the atmosphere, as if she'd been shot from a cannon, but her body was shaking. "So. . . cold. . . " Zhasa admitted.

"Inside!" Dara shouted into her radio, hauling Seheve over her shoulder and heading straight for the northern-most trailer, where they'd left the human they'd freed, moments ago. _Can't do a damn thing out here, no goddamned atmosphere, the suit's malfunctioning, no heartbeat, no breathing._ "Get her inside, Dempsey, we've got to warn Zhasa up!" _Okay, actually, we need to warm them both up, but first thing's first. . . we've got to get Seheve_ _breathing_.

Dara jabbed an elbow at the door of the airlock, and got through its cycles as fast as she could, a mental clock ticking at the back of her head. _Three minutes without oxygen is enough to start brain damage for drell_. She'd been certified in first aid for ten species since she was sixteen, but this was the first time she'd had to treat a drell for anything other than a couple of superficial burns and one bullet wound that Seheve had suffered on Arvuna. The female was like a ghost in combat, never where anything could seem to reach her, harm her, or even touch her.

As she lurched in, Dara came face-to-face with a gun muzzle, clutched in the shaking hand of the human captive they'd just freed. "I don't have time for this," she told him, flatly. "Put the gun down and get the fuck out of my way." She dropped Seheve to the floor, completely ignoring the gun now, and began getting Seheve out of her armor, just as the airlock cycled open again behind her.

"Hey," Dempsey said, his voice low and flat. "The doc told you to put that thing down. Do it, and do not fuck with me right now."

"I'm. . . . I'm not . . ." The human voice spoke English, but Dara did not have time for this right now. Neither did Dempsey.

"I said, drop the gun and sit the fuck down." There was a _clang_ as the gun hit the metal floor, and Dara looked up in time to see the human sprawl into a chair halfway across the trailer, probably half-thrown there by Dempsey's biotics. "Doc, what can I do for Zhasa—"

"Can't help her right now, got to help Seheve." Dara's words were terse, but the immutable laws of triage were holding her in place right now. "Get her out of the damn suit, it's still retaining the cold. Let her warm up, check extremities for frostbite. Get Tyr in here, he's got first-aid."

She'd finished stripping Seheve out of her suit, mind already doing a mental inventory as she saw the extremity damage. . . _shit, not good, not good. She's had the scales blistered right off of her at the elbows, wrists, armpits, ankles, knees, waist. . . everywhere there was a gasket. . . _ Exposure to liquid methane/ethane was not unlike using liquid nitrogen to burn off a wart for a human. Painful, and it produced instantly dead skin and blisters, naturally enough. All very much secondary. Her mind flickered back through a dozen medical manuals. Human rate was thirty compressions to two breaths. Salarian rate was faster; for all that they were amphibians, their metabolic rate burned quickly, and their three-chambered hearts beat faster than a human's. Drell were reptiles, by and large. Warm-blooded ones, with solid bones, they lacked the almost avian physiology of a turian. Their hearts were three-chambered, and beat slowly. Their metabolic rate was slow, too, courtesy of their evolution on Rakhana, where a single meal might have to sustain life for a week or even two between food caches or successful hunts. Thus, fifteen compressions to two breaths.

Dara got to it, yanking her defibrillator out of her kit and tuning it to drell settings. Two shocks to the chest, and then she arched Seheve's neck, checked for visible obstructions out of reflex, and exhaled into the drell's mouth, watching the chest inflate. _Good, she didn't inhale any of this shit._ Breath. _ I hope. _Breath. _God only knows what the nitrogen in her blood did when Zhasa launched her. _Compressions. _Could have expanded and given her a stroke._ Breath. _Maybe she was already technically dead. Maybe it's not circulating yet. Maybe every time I give her a compression, I'm sending those expanding bubbles right to her brain. Her lungs._

Breath, breath. _Dying might actually have saved her, crazy as that sounds. _Thoughts between breaths, the medical part of her in total control at the moment, but undersong singing anxiety. Giving her flashes of memory. Seheve laughing for the first time in Dara's presence, openly and merrily, as Zappa teased and tormented Loki, Seheve's cat, racing up a wall just out of the cat's reach, as the beast meowed and tried to jump after the rachni.

Compressions. Seheve's quiet awe after the awakening of the Keepers, an event that Dara, more than ever, wished that Rel and Linianus had experienced.

Breath. Breath. The way Seheve had moved on Arvuna, a ghost, when half of them were frozen in place by the batarian stasis guns, pinned down under fire from Eclipse and Growth Zero.

Compressions. Moving in on Rinus and T'laro, before ending the asari's life with a single pragmatic strike from her knife.

Breath. Breath. The shy way in which Seheve had offered her scarves to Zhasa on the _Sollostra_.

Compressions. The growing, hesitant friendship that she'd been offering Dara, herself, cut short by simple awkwardness, Dara not wanting to get in the middle of things that weren't really her business, discomfort on both sides.

Two more breaths. _Come on, Seheve, give me a sign here._ Undersong in yellows at the bottom of Dara's mind. Realization that if she failed Seheve now, Rel would have every reason to hate her. To doubt that she'd done her absolute best. . . . Her entire world had contracted down to just breathing and pulse-rate, two fingers on the carotid artery location on Seheve's throat, and giving the drell her own breath. . .

Outside the trailers, Eli slipped and skidded across the ice to Lin and Rel. Cautious approach, indeed, still scanning the area around them in case there were any remaining Lystheni in the vicinity, which he didn't think there were. Lin still had Rel pinned to the ice, but Rel wasn't fighting at the moment. "Lin?"

"I've got him." Terse, clipped words. "Can't tell if he's back in his right mind yet, and I _don't_ want to let go just yet."

_S'kak, no_, Eli thought, grimly. Hand-to-hand with Rel in the middle of a blood-rage on a planet so inimical to life that a single suit breach would probably kill them? Not a notion that topped any list of good ideas. He crouched down, and put a hand on Rel's shoulder. "Rel? Zhasa got her out of the water. Did you see that?" No reply. Eli leaned down closer, still cautious. "Rel, we got her out. You've got to hear what I'm saying. Dara's doing CPR right now."

Dempsey had been blunt when he'd outlined for Eli, back on Terra Nova, what a blood-rage state did to the inside of his head, and likely did for Rel, too. "I go away, man. I'm not even _there_. There's whiteness, and when I come out of it, I . . . more or less remember what I did. . . but god help anyone who gets in my way when I'm like that. _Don't_ let me turn on anyone. Don't let him turn on anyone, either."

"Tall order," Eli had told him, dryly. "What happens if both of you light off at the same moment?"

"Get the hell out of our way and don't be afraid to shoot us if we turn on you. I don't think you can talk us down." Dempsey's tone had been dispassionate. "The damage will be temporary in any case, but if you need to, _drop us._"

"How's Zhasa get you out of it?"

"Mental connection. I don't think you're gonna really want to do that, Sidonis."

"Yeah. . . there's sharing. . . and then there's _sharing._" Eli had winced. He understood that there wasn't necessarily any sexual component to mental contact. _Maieolo'rae_, the little touch, was a common teaching method among asari. It was more or less what Siara, Dempsey, Zhasa, and Ylara had resorted to, trying to teach him and Dara how to control their new biotics, limited as they were. Eli had no problem with that. Minimal emotional contact, more of an exchange of ideas and information than anything. _Maieolo'loa_ and _maieolo'loa'kareo_ with Dara? Not a problem. Full mental, and full mental and physical sharing. Mutual, and mutually desired.

Then again, he'd touched Rel's mind before. Through Dara. But there'd been a female there as an intermediary, a shield. In the here and now, Eli winced again, and pictured his hand, already on Rel's shoulder, sinking through the armor to the scales below, with the tingle of intention he knew now meant sharing his light. Not a lot of it. He knew damned well how to block.

The despair-fuelled anger was intense, and it had caught and combined with an adrenal shock, propelling Rel into a full blood-rage, Eli realized, grimacing. It was white-hot, and Dempsey was right. . . it more or less cut off the prefrontal cortex entirely. This was brainstem level stuff, fight only, no flight, no options, just anger. Just rage. No consciousness, or at least, very damned little. _Rel, snap out of it, __fradu__. We got her up out of the water._ Nothing at first, but then a flicker of uncertainty. The words meant something. _Rel, snap out of it before Lin has to give in and administer a control-bite here, okay? That's not something either of you wants._ Quick flash of humor, something that the rage couldn't understand, couldn't cope with, the incongruity forcing the front brain to engage, redirect some of the anger towards him as the implications of the comment kicked in, and then the rage fell away entirely, as Rel focused on the words that _mattered._ _She's alive?_

_I think so. Dara's doing CPR._ Eli withdrew his mind, wincing again behind his mask. "You okay, Rel? Can Lin let you up?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"You're not going to take a swing at me?" Lin asked, a little apprehensively, starting to lift his weight off of Rel.

"Not right this minute, no," Rel told him. "Just get off me before Eli takes pictures."

"Oh, hell no, I would not. I _know_ what Seheve does to people who take compromising pictures," Eli managed, and in the last, lingering ghosts of the mental connection, he felt Rel's surge of amusement. . . coupled with heartsickness. _If she dies, her brightness, her fierceness, her subtle way of thinking, all lost, all the calmness gone, all the peculiar little hesitancies and compunctions, gone, everything that makes her __her__, gone, and what the hell will I do then? Go back to being nothing but the rage, nothing but a machine that fights and eats and sleeps and gets up and does it again?_ Flickers of awareness. Sam had warned Rel, obliquely, by recalling his own experiences. _Got dragged into living life whether I wanted to or not . . . By the time I looked up, she'd already lassoed and hogtied me, and I hadn't even realized it._ And Rel had done the same thing. He'd found himself, steadily, gradually, calmer. Better. More whole. Had found himself trying to find ways to help Seheve. Ways to show her how to reach out to the others, trying to make her life better. Easier. More worth living. And without even realizing it, in trying to help her find her way back into the land of the living, he'd found himself living again, too.

_God, the biotics are a mixed blessing_, Eli thought, grimly. He'd been able to guess at quite a bit of all of this, from Rel's demeanor and behavior with Seheve, but it was uncomfortable to know it quite so intimately. It was a trespass, and he put it to the back of his mind.

Lin unwound his arms, and helped Rel back to his feet. "Which trailer?" Rel asked, and Eli pointed northwards, silently, and the three of them trudged forward over the frozen, cracked ground, and moved in through the airlock. . . into controlled pandemonium.

Kirrahe had moved into the trailer behind Dempsey and Zhasa, and had seen the gun go spinning out of the human's hands. Seen him slammed into a chair at the opposite end of the trailer. Flash of quick, incisive thoughts, as the salarian took in the human's warm clothing, but lack of armor. Pallid complexion—someone who had not seen sunlight in some time, gaunt face, possible malnutrition or ill-health. Gray hair at the temples, sign of age in humans. This was not someone who'd traveled in to work with the Lystheni recently. _Aware. Moving on under own impulses. Not a biotic. Not lobotomized. Most likely explanation, survivor of the Cerberus outpost here_. Kirrahe's pistol was in his hands now, and he had it aimed, firmly, at the human, who'd looked as if he were ready to get back up out of his chair. . . and then sank back down, abruptly on seeing Kirrahe's weapon trained on him. "Who _are_ you people?" he demanded.

"Not your concern," Kirrahe told him, sharply. "You are a Cerberus agent, that is correct?"

"What are you talking about—"

"Sit down. Do not attempt to obfuscate." Kirrahe's tone was very cold as Eli, Rel, and Linianus walked in, and took in the scene. Dara administering CPR to Seheve, Dempsey getting Zhasa out of her suit and trying to assess the damage to her hands and feet, Kirrahe with a weapon trained on a human in the corner, and. . . Eli glanced around, and got a mental arpeggio of song from Glory. . . the rachni was outside, keeping an eye on the perimeter.

"What do we need here?" Eli asked, immediately.

"I need to know what the fuck to do next for Zhasa," Dempsey said, flatly, but his head had come up, and his cold blue eyes held rage as he looked at the human that Kirrahe had a pistol pointed at.

"Prisoner situation contained. Continue medical relief efforts." Kirrahe's voice was very crisp at the moment.

Eli nodded. "Lin, help Kirrahe. Rel, just take a seat nearby, and stay calm, all right?" He moved to Dara's side, looking down at the unresponsive face of the drell female as Dara worked. "What do you need me to do?"

"Point two milliliters of the drell-specific epinephrine in my pack—it's marked with a dark green band and should have the brand name _Herpedrine_ on it," Dara told him, curtly. Full medical mode, mind closed down to just what was in front of her. "Use a long needle, not a subcu one. . . Nevermind. Take over for me. Fifteen compressions, at half human rate, all right?" She administered the two breaths, and moved out of the way, as Eli ducked in and took up the compressions himself, placing his hands low, as hers had been. The drell heart was much lower in the chest cavity than the human one, apparently.

Dara rolled to her pack, which was insulated and pressurized in order to preserve her all-important medical gear, and, as she prepared the first injection, told Dempsey, just as curtly, "You got a warm blanket over Zhasa, good. Out of your own armor, Dempsey, give her skin warmth. The air in here is way below quarian body temp. What's her skin look like on her extremities?"

"White."

"No tinge of purple blisters or anything like that?"

"Not yet." Dempsey's Southy accent was very strong as he asked, "Same treatment as for a human? Soak carefully in lukewarm water for fifteen minutes, then take out, wrap in room temperature wet washcloths and watch for blisters?"

"Yeah. You've done this before?"

"Grew up in _Boston_. It's known to get chilly there on occasion."

"Keep an eye on her for pain. Her regen should kick in, but it all depends on how bad the frostbite is. Check her mentation for attention span, concentration, and memory. Assess for hypothermia. Zhasa, you _tell_ us if it hurts, you hear?" Dara ducked away, and moved back into position by Eli. "Going to give her the epinephrine and then try two more shocks with the paddles when you're at the end of this cycle, got it? Haven't even had a chance to try to intubate, damnit."

Eli nodded, coming to the end of the compressions, and moving into position, gave the two breaths needed. Dara slid the needle in, and deeply, her face a mask of concentration, and she bit her lower lip, as she often did. "Need to get this into the actual cardiac tissue," she muttered, eyes distant and vague as she obviously felt what sorts of tissue she was jabbing through. . . "Yeah, there we go." She depressed the plunger, pulled the needle out, and grabbed the shock paddles again. "Clear."

Eli got his hands off Seheve, instantly, having no desire to get shocked. Dara applied the paddles, and monitored the sudden spike of a shaky, erratic pulse, as the heart, recalled to its duties, began to work again. "Okay, that's a start. Give me the laryngoscope—yeah, that one." Dara took the tool out of Eli's hand in her gloved fingers, and slid Seheve's mouth open. Slid the layrnoscope home, and got a successful intubation, threading a tube down into the bronchial area. Got a small hand device rigged, for pushing air into Seheve's lungs, continuing to help her breathe, but without having to administer rescue breaths. "Heartbeat's still a lot more erratic than I'd like," Dara muttered, digging in her kit. Eli kept pumping the air at the regular, prescribed intervals, and watched her. Watched the room. Watched as Lin shackled their human prisoner to his chair now, so that Kirrahe didn't have to be ready to shoot him instantly. Watched as Dempsey slowly started warming Zhasa's hands and feet. No chafing, just warmish water from the trailer's sink. Watched Rel's expression, as blank and bleak and spirit-lost as his own must have been, weeks ago, when Dara had been shot in the chest. _Our turn, Rel. Just stay calm. Dara'll bring her back._ No intention behind the thought, no prickle of energy.

Their human prisoner cleared his throat. "I hate to bring this up," he said, simply, "but if you've destroyed the power station, this trailer's working on nothing but battery backup. If you don't turn on the engine? You're going to lose that in really short order, and it's going to get really fucking cold in here, _real_ damned fast."

Kirrahe's head came up. "Spectre Pellarian? If you'd keep an eye on the prisoner—"

"Gladly." Linianus' voice was a harsh rasp at the moment, and the turian male drew his own pistol, and trained it on the human in the chair, as Kirrahe moved away, into the cab at the front of the vehicle. Checked the battery readout, and shook his head. _Truth, in this, at least._ Kirrahe turned on the engine, cautiously. The trailer probably had thermal insulation to prevent it from being detected from orbit, and might even send the excess heat into the ice sheet below. . . _hmm. Possible reason for cracks in ice encroaching on this area, if engines have been used before. May need to move every few weeks if trailer engines are used on regular basis. Hence, need for the geothermal plant. However, power production of plant far outstripped needs of five small trailers and radar installations._ Kirrahe emerged from the cab again. "Suggest we contact _Raedia_. Inform them that with power grid down, shuttle may be sent down. Possible to collect wounded." He eyed the drell female cautiously. She was breathing on her own now, and Dr. Jaworski had removed the tube, and was still monitoring heart rate, blood pressure, and other such information, while applying medigel to the burn-like lines all up and down the female's limbs. Flesh flash-frozen, blistering, weeping fluids at the moment. _Doctor far too busy at the moment. Pellarian and Sidonis, however, still in command here._

"Agreed," Pellarian said, simply. "At least they can get the rest of our supplies down here, and we can use the shuttle to get up the cliffs." He turned and looked at the human with dislike in his eyes. "All right. What's your name and what's your story?"

The human grimaced. "I don't talk to turians. Even if they are supposedly _Spectres_—"

"Unfortunate," Kirrahe said softly.

Rellus Velnaran's teeth bared across the room, and Sidonis exhaled. But it was Dempsey who stood and strode across the room. Picked the other human up from the chair by the front of his shirt, and put him, one-handed, up against the wall. "How would you like to learn how to fly?" Dempsey invited, his voice completely calm. "I can arrange it. Matter of fact, I'd be happy to see just how far I can throw you. Out the airlock. Without an envirosuit. It's one-point-five g here, so I don't think I could get you the whole length of a football field, but I for damn sure know your skin will freeze off and you'll asphyxiate before you get even halfway back here." For all the calm voice, the human's eyes were deadly. "You Cerberus piece of shit."

Sidonis moved in, getting a hand on Dempsey's pauldron. "Settle down, Thor," he said, quietly.

"You don't know them, Sidonis. You don't know them at all." Dempsey's mind was a howling vortex of very bad memories. The experiments. The searing pain of the nanites wrapping the carbon nanotubules around his bones. The gene mods. The _chip_. Losing himself. Trying to fight his way to freedom, and being shoved into his own personal freezer, not knowing if he'd ever wake up. . . and then waking up, ten years later, to a world that had moved on without him. And a year after _that_, discovering that the last remnants of Cerberus had tried to fuck him over again. Only this time, it was only a shadow of himself. James. Argent Defender 2.0. "You know who I am, buddy?" he asked the man, still holding him up against the wall, ignoring the wide-rolling, panicked eyes. "I'm your precious fucking Argent Defender." Rage boiling up, and then Zhasa's soft voice in his mind, reminding him, _No, you're not. You're more than that. More than they ever could have dreamed. _

"I . . . don't know what that means. . . I was only affiliated with _this_ project. . . " the man gasped out.

"Let him down off the wall," Sidonis told Dempsey, quietly, persuasively. "I know our new friend here wants to cooperate with us. . . don't you? I didn't get your name." An almost polite smile. But it didn't reach the cop's eyes at all.

"Ephraim. Ephraim Stern." The human male swallowed convulsively as Dempsey allowed him to slide down the wall, and then shoved him back, roughly, into his chair.

"Okay, Ephraim. How long have you been the guest of our Lystheni friends?" Sidonis gestured at the dead bodies, which still littered the floor of the trailer, as Linianus, quietly, tabbed his radio to contact the _Raedia._

_No need. Have already sung to Question-Singer. She sends shuttle now. Other singers of healing songs._ Glory's voice was startlingly loud in Kirrahe's mind.

The human male swallowed. "If it's 2197 now. . . I kind of lose track of time. . . about ten years since the Lystheni showed up." His voice was defeated, and he looked up at Dempsey apprehensively. "There were twenty-five of us here. They killed all the soldiers. Killed any of the scientists who didn't surrender. Two of us left alive. Me and Alisha Kesey." His head drooped.

"All right. Talk to us about the Collector ship," Sidonis said, and the male's head rocked up again.

"Collector ship? I don't know what you're talking—"

"I did warn you not to try obfuscation," Kirrahe told the human male calmly, stepping forward. "Think perhaps bullet in knee will convince him of seriousness of our intent. Though could prove inconvenient for doctor. Already quite busy."

"I don't see any need to bother the doc with this one," Dempsey stated, his voice flat and harsh.

Sidonis raised his hands, evidently working to reduce the tension. "What I think my associates mean here, Ephraim, is that we _know_ there's a Collector ship nearby. You're wasting our time, and you don't need to do that. You don't owe the Lystheni any loyalty. Cerberus itself is dead. The only person you owe any loyalty to is, arguably, this Alisha lady. And I take it she's at the Collector ship?"

Ephraim nodded, slowly. "Are they going to have noticed that this complex is off the grid by now?" Sidonis prodded, gently.

"Absolutely," the human told him, simply. "The power station is what's powering the systems on the ship. We . . . when we first brought it in for a landing. . . the project leader, Dr. Stanislaw. . . thought it would be safer to take its reactor offline. So it wouldn't be powering any of its indoctrination equipment. If it has any. We weren't able to determine the function of some of the devices aboard. The Lystheni decided to continue that policy."

"So. . . they use most of the power from the geothermal plant to keep ship's life support intact?" Kirrahe asked, sharply. "What other systems?"

"Weapons, for study. The computer core. Where they keep. . . _her._" The human shuddered. "The stasis pods."

Sidonis suddenly covered his face and swayed. After a moment, he turned and looked at Pellarian. "_Fradu?_ Need you to take over." The human walked out of the room under his own power, and Kirrahe could hear water running in the small kitchen area.

Pellarian looked alarmed, but moved up to face their prisoner, with Kirrahe and Dempsey still in place. Kirrahe spoke first, however, and sharply. "Her? Of whom do you speak?"

Ephraim Stern grimaced. "Her. Their. . . little techno-idol. They've got an AI hooked up in the computer core, or at least, on their own computers that they brought with them. They've spent the last five years at least trying to upload this VI into the ship's memory banks, but no luck. Most of the time, it's telling _them_ what to do, which, given that there isn't an AI in the galaxy that hasn't gone completely insane eventually? Scares the living shit out of me."

"You _have_ been out of touch, haven't you?" Pellarian said, mildly.

Kirrahe's body had gone rigid. He knew from Valak's own words that the Lystheni had their AI dalatrass, a copy of the personality of Dalatrass Xala, uploaded to a computer core in the _Klem Na_ headquarters on Camala. _And it wasn't the only copy. They're smart. They're salarian. They have backup plans to ensure the survival of their group. Even if we destroy AI in batarian space, even if I deploy my AI virus throughout known space, we would have missed this node. This one node, off the grid, no extranet connection, more than likely. Safe. Secure._ His eyes narrowed. _However, also presents an opportunity._

Dempsey's mind, however, had taken another tack. "What do you mean about stasis pods?" he asked, grimly. Very bad memories of waking from his personal coffin flooded through him.

"It's a _Collector_ ship," Stern told him, looking up at him, eyes wide. "There were about five thousand stasis pods on it when we first found it. Most of them were empty, but about five hundred held. . . " he shook his head. "We didn't know. Species we'd never seen before. We took pictures. Cellular samples. And the project leader decided that they were an unacceptable risk, if awakened. So Dr. Stanislaw had them emptied. Outside."

Dempsey felt the rage boiling at the back of his mind again. "Don't put it all on him," he heard himself grate, leaning down to stare into the man's cringing face. "You helped, didn't you? You took the pods out of the ship, out onto the ice, and opened them up, so the people frozen inside could freeze to death for real."

Movement behind him, the sound of soft footsteps, as Zhasa hobbled over, her feet and hands still wrapped in damp cloth, as many blankets wrapped around her as he'd been able to find. Just seeing her face, the gentle touch of her mind, steadied him. Pellarian glared down at Ephraim, however, with just as much rage in his eyes as Dempsey himself felt. But somehow, from somewhere, the turian found the self-control to exhale, and say, tightly, "So why are the stasis pods being powered _now_?"

Ephraim swallowed again. "For them," he said, simply, nodding towards the Lystheni bodies. "They only keep forty or fifty of their people awake at any one time. The rest of them are in the stasis pods."

"Consistent with Lystheni practices," Kirrahe said, neutrally. "Much concerned with longevity of salarians as a whole. Without a living dalatrass to continue adding to their numbers, they must either recruit, which is problematic and dangerous for them. Leads to possibilities of being uncovered, exposed." He felt his eyes narrow again. "So, they preserve themselves. Their dalatrass. Waiting for the day in which their numbers can be replenished anew." _With Narayana's eggs. Most likely without her consent. Dalatrass Xala has made her intent to take the Sower device to upload her consciousness into Narayana's body clear. _

"Back it up," Pellarian said, quickly. "What would have happened to those stasis pods when the power went offline?"

Ephraim's hands began to shake. "Probably. . . the same thing. . . that happened. . . when we removed the pods from their housings."

"And what was that?" the turian asked, leaning in, forcing the human to meet his eyes.

Ephraim Stern closed his own. "They woke up," he said, his voice filled with remembered horror. "They started beating on the insides. They couldn't get out. We wouldn't let them out. Some of them panicked and started to suffocate almost immediately. Some of the systems malfunctioned, though, and they died in their sleep. Didn't even move when we took them out . . . onto the surface."

Kirrahe saw Pellarian and Dempsey's hands, so different, but so alike, curl into fists. The salarian processed his own rage a little more quickly than the human and the turian could, however. "You had seen many things with Cerberus, but this disturbed you, did it not?" he asked, quickly.

"Yeah. . . I mean. . . there were humans in those pods, too. I understood, it was for the good of the project. . . you've got to have security, or we'd all be dead. . . and then they found us _anyway_." Ephraim's voice was empty now. "They never even told me how. They didn't talk much to me or Alisha. Just. . . kept us alive, so long as we were useful." He shrugged, sagging down in the chair. "So we made ourselves _useful._"

"So, break it down for me," Dempsey said, flatly. "How many people are in that ship, right now? And is it up on that ice ledge to the northeast?"

"Wait," Kirrahe said, suddenly. "One more thing. You said, weapons are active, correct?" The human nodded, quickly, glancing between Dempsey and Pellarian. "Do they have sensors and targeting systems, if they have restarted the reactor core of the ship?"

"_S'kak_," Pellarian said, suddenly, and keyed his radio, shifting to turian, which Kirrahe could see a running translation of, on the wrist panel of his omnitool. "_Raedia__, this is Pellarian. Hold off on the shuttle. Drop us equipment by parachute only. There may still be active weapons and sensors down here."_

"_Acknowledged,_" Lysandra's voice came back.

Glory's voice, however, was slightly amused. _She sings that she has hopes that you will sing a more constant song in the future._

Kirrahe hoped the rachni would inform the ship that they were developing information down here at a very fast rate, even by salarian standards. Dempsey waved now, impatiently. "Numbers, Stern. What are we looking at?"

The human shrugged. "Twenty-five more Lystheni on the ship. Alisha won't fight for them unless forced to do so. A couple of them have. . . mindless asari and mindless humans with them. I. . . never did get a straight answer on what they were here for, and I didn't ask. I didn't want to get the same treatment. And there's about a hundred more salarians in the stasis pods. But. . . they're probably scrambling right now to get them out of there. To keep them alive. Some of them might already be dead." He shrugged a little, defensively. "I don't know. I really don't know what you're going to find up there." He nodded off to the northeast. "The power lines from the station lead directly there. . . we buried them under the ice, for the most part. But you can still see the marks on the ground, leading up."

"How do they get there, usually?" Pellarian growled now.

"They keep all their shuttles up at the ship. Didn't want me or Alisha to get ahold of one of them and escape, I guess." Bitterness in his voice. "Only one of us up at the ship at a time. Prevented us from working together. They're. . . really careful."

"Of course they are," Kirrahe said, simply. "They're the last of their kind. They have to be cautious."

Rel had watched, silently, all this time, as the others worked. He'd watched as first Dara, then Eli, placed their human lips on Seheve's, and breathed for her. Regret, keen as a knife, cut through him, and for the first time in his life, he hated the fact that he was turian. That he couldn't do this simple, basic, necessary thing for Seheve. Couldn't give her his breath. Turian CPR was chest-compressions only, and waiting, praying, for someone to come with an intubation kit. A faint stab of jealousy in him, that even Eli could give his breath, the essential spark of life, to Seheve. As he'd given it to Dara on Khar'sharn. But these thoughts were fleeting. Ephemeral. They flittered through the dark, empty well of his mind, and all he could really focus on was Seheve's unconscious face, though his eyes drifted, and he heard the words spoken in the room.

He watched Dara working, frantically, to save Seheve's life. As she'd saved so many others over the years. And as Seheve took her first breaths on her own, Rel shook with relief. Scooted a little closer, and, very carefully, took Seheve's hand in his. He was almost afraid that his touch would send her back down into the darkness. He'd brought death to so many people over the past few years. _What in the spirits' names do I know about life?_ he wondered, and cradled her limp hand in his own. Rubbed a thumb over the fine bones of the two smallest fingers, and over the thicker, wider middle finger, which looked like two digits had, over the course of evolution, fused together for some unaccountable purpose. He was being extremely delicate with his touch; there weren't a lot of places on her hand which weren't. . . damaged. The scales were falling off, and green-blue blood was oozing out. Getting on his own hands. So similar to his own, but so different, too. "Good," Dara told him, quietly. "Just keep holding her hand, all right? Touch is good. She'll. . . she'll feel it." Dara's eyes flickered up and down. "I know I did."

Dara kept an eye on the heart rate, the breathing, the blood-pressure, and got started working on the blistered stripes of frozen scale and flesh. Rel's heart wrenched at the sight as Dara, very carefully, very gently, debrided the scales, which flaked apart in her gloved hands. The smell was sharp and a little coppery, as the open sores oozed blood. No pus yet. No infection was setting in; there were no bacteria hardy enough to survive the world outside, and in here. . . probably only salarian bacteria, perhaps a few human ones. It would take a very opportunistic bacteria to colonize her flesh, just yet, and Dara was applying medigel very carefully. "It's probably a good thing she's still unconscious," Dara told Rel, gently. "This is on par with treating third degree burns." Her face turned, briefly, miserable, before she hid it again. "Just like at the STG hospital on Sur'Kesh." Careful, delicate movements, trying to float as much of the intact skin and scale back into place with the medigel as a suspension agent. Rel could, at least, see the skin starting to regenerate. "Is this going to leave scars?" he asked, quietly, for lack of anything else better to say.

Dara leaned back, wearily. "I don't know, Rel. I . . . honestly, it's not my biggest concern at the moment."

He looked up, sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Once I get the bleeding stopped, her next stop is the nearest airlock," Dara told him, simply.

Rel stared at her, his blood running a little cold. "Why?" he demanded.

"Because Seheve wasn't wearing a fully pressurized suit, and she was thrown from, as far as we were able to tell from the biosign markers, a depth of eighty feet, to the surface, at a very high rate of speed. Zhasa was only about twenty feet from the surface when she jumped. . .and she was in a fully pressurized suit. She was pretty much safe either way. At least, from _that._" Dara sounded worried, however.

"What risk. . . ?" And then Rel remembered OCS. Swimming with breathers and fins in Palaven's oceans, watching the _pleurae_ flip and paddle and chase prey in the distance. Gases entered the blood stream under compression at depth. And if you rose too quickly to the surface to allow them to dissipate, they could expand. Become trapped in the fine capillaries of the lungs, or the brain. "The bends?"

"Yeah." Dara winced, and finished painting on the last of the medigel on Seheve's left ankle. "Could result in a pulmonary embolism, like how the Imperatrix died. Or a stroke. Could be minor impairment, death, or nothing at all. I just need to drop the pressure on her back to about what it was in one-point-five g and surrounded by a heavy slurry of almost but-not-quite boiling methane/ethane, which means I'm going to be asking Kirrahe or Lysandra to do some math for me here." She managed to make that one sound like a joke. "Then we need to cycle that airlock slowly, over the next hour or two, and bring her back up to regular atmospheric pressure. The more so if we can't get a shuttle down here to get her up to the ship." That sounded aggrieved.

"What happens if she. . . " Rel swallowed. "What if she has a heart problem in the airlock? What if she wakes up? She can't be alone—"

"She's not going to be alone. I'll go in there with her." Dara looked up. "But I need to take care of Zhasa first—"

"Even minutes count, right?" Rel said, sharply. "Put her in. I'll go in with her."

Dara gave him a sharp look, but asked, gently enough, "And what are you going to do if she _does_ have an embolism, Rel?"

He froze in place, panting a little in distress. "Let me do my job," she told him, quietly. "Let me take care of all the people who need taking care of." She stood now, leaving him to hold Seheve's hand. . . just as Eli staggered past them to the door of the small kitchen area. Rel saw Dara's head swivel to follow his movements. Saw the quick look of concern, but she didn't alter course, moving first to Zhasa, where she began to unwrap the quarian girl's hands and feet, checking them for their temperature, ability to move, blistering, and the like. "Your nanobots are doing their job," Dara murmured. "I barely need to put medigel on this, but you're going to itch as the old skin sloughs off." She checked the quarian's core body temperature, and frowned. "You're still two degrees below normal temp, though."

"I don't suppose you'd prescribe me hot chocolate?" Zhasa asked Dara, wistfully, and that made her laugh.

"No, but I'll feed you all the _kuryatina_ soup we've got on the ship. For the moment, the best I can give you is _apha_ from someone's MRE kit. Let me get some water warmed up for you," Dara told her, and moved away. Following Eli into the kitchen, she stared in shock at her beloved, who was doubled up over the sink, letting water trail over his face and head. "Eli, what's the matter?" she hissed, looking over her shoulder and closing the door so that no one out in the other room could see or hear them.

"I was helping to question the Cerberus guy, when it just. . . hit me. . . " Eli told her, looking up, his face dripping. "Sick to my stomach, woozy, and the outlines of everything are. . . blurring. Smearing. Prickling sensation in my lips, and tingling in my limbs."

Dara moved faster than she thought humanly possible, and was at his side, checking his pulse and temperature instantly. "What the _hell_?" she muttered. "My god, those are poisoning or drug symptoms, Eli, what the hell were you exposed to? I'm going to need blood samples—"

He stroked her hair lightly. "Same thing you were," Eli said, wryly. "Except it doesn't seem to be affecting you the same way, thank god."

Dara stared up at him, blankly. Eli leaned down and kissed her lips lightly. "Seheve's skin, _sai'kaea_. I didn't think to get a protective kit out, since you weren't using one for the CPR yourself. Should've. But the only thing I thought was 'hemecyanic blood, and ten degrees warmer than a human. There's nothing she's got that I can catch.'" He made a rude noise, and Dara put her head down on his shoulder with a thump against the armor plates there.

"Well. . . shit. And I had you doing breathing and compressions for. . . what, two minutes?" She was trying to figure out the total amount of exposure, which really seemed minimal. . . except she had no idea how much drell secreted around their lips. Given that the chemicals were apparently involved in their mating, it could be _stronger_ at the lips than other places, for all she knew.

"Yeah. It's okay. It was limited contact, and it should be okay soon, right?" Eli's voice had a note of forced joviality in it, and his head jerked up a little as the kitchen door opened, and Rel stuck his head inside, eyeing them both. He still gave Seheve occasional quick glances, as if to make sure she wasn't going to vanish, however. "What is it, _fradu?"_ Eli asked.

"You okay?" Rel asked him, without preamble. "I could hear through the door. Don't lie."

Eli grimaced. "Wasn't going to. I'm not okay to shoot. Or drive." He gave Rel a wary glance. "How long is this going to _last_?"

"Have no idea. It doesn't _affect_ me like that." Rel sounded uncomfortable, and Dara caught his sidelong glance at her. "The edges of things get a little blurry, and there's some light tingling wherever, um, bloodflow is strongest, and in the hands and feet, but that's really about it."

Eli rubbed a hand over his face. Faint flicker of unvoiced amusement, sent her way: _Have to say that any curiosity I may ever have felt? Yeah. Totally assuaged. _

_Ah, you don't really like being out of control any more than I do?_ Faint teasing to her thoughts, but concern, too. "I can try to give you something to wash it out of your system." She reached past him and turned on the water, filling a cup and sticking it in the heating unit briefly, until the fluid inside was hot enough for the instant _apha_ crystals, which most turians absolutely despised. "Give me two seconds to get something warm in Zhasa's stomach, and check on Seheve again, and I'll be right back to you."

"No rush," Eli told her, dryly. "Me not seeing straight is the least of our concerns." He still felt vilely sick to his stomach, as if he were hung-over at the same exact time as being drunker than he'd ever been in his entire life. He dunked his head under the running water again, drinking as much of the fluid as he could, on the theory that he needed to wash this crap out of his system, and hydration never really hurt anyone, except maybe a volus, and then followed Rel, unsteadily, back into the main room. "How's she doing?" he asked Rel, nodding down at Seheve. From what he could see, she looked better. The blisters at every joint, including the delicate ones of her long, slender fingers, were healing, though the scales would probably take longer to grow back in, of course. But she was still unconscious.

"I don't know," Rel muttered. "Dara says she has to go into an airlock for compression and decompression. Work the nitrogen from the breather out of her blood."

Eli winced. He'd sat through a single scuba course on Macedyn, mostly because the girl he was seeing that week had been interested in taking a dive tour of the crater oceans. He'd walked out of the course thinking it sounded like the single most boring hobby in the galaxy, other than, perhaps, golf. But he'd gotten an earful about the dangers of too swift an ascent in the safety orientation. "Rel. . . I don't know if we've got an hour, or three hours here, to do that with," Eli warned, softly.

"You want her to die?" Rel's head jerked up, and Eli let the frustration-anger pass over him. He knew where it was coming from, after all. He'd felt the same damned helpless rage and fear himself, not too long ago.

"I'm not going to risk her life, but we can't get a shuttle down, and you yourself said that any assault on this complex, and on the Collector ship itself, needed speed, surprise, and stealth." Eli crossed his arms over his chest. "If we stay here for three hours, we lose surprise. If we leave Dara here with her, we lose our medic _and_ I won't leave them unprotected, stuck in a damn airlock, waiting out the cycle. We lose three team members that way, at least, but they'd be safer that way. I won't leave her here undefended, either." Eli locked stares with Rel for a long moment. "Rel. . . you're a tactician. A good one. Give me your recommendation. We've got twenty-five Lystheni up in that ship, probably trying to rescue about a hundred more of their people. If we go now, right this minute, we can get them with their pants down. If we wait three hours, they'll have had time to recover. To think."

Rel opened his mouth, and closed it. Thought, and Eli could see him forcing calm down over the frustration-anger and protection-anger and everything else in him right now, as he crouched down and took Seheve's hand in his again.

But before he could answer, there was a squalling sound from the cab of the vehicle, which got everyone's heads to jerk that direction. A patter of words in salarian, the low, croaking vowels and chirps of it clear and distinct, and Dara and Kirrahe exchanged glances. "Don't look at me," Dara told the salarian, dryly. "I'm not picking up that call." She left Zhasa drinking hot _apha_ gratefully, while Dempsey pulled her close to him again, sharing body-heat, trying to make sure she stopped shivering. Fighting any downward slide into hypothermia. Dara moved back over to take Seheve's vitals again, while Kirrahe moved into the cab.

"What are they saying?" Eli asked the salarian, following him in, more than a little woozy still.

Kirrahe grimaced. "In short? 'What the hell is going on down there?'" He made a clucking sound. "They're angry. Agitated. Surprising duration for one of my species, actually. Not dealing well with the stress."

Eli shook his head. "Buy us time. Confuse them."

Kirrahe studied the human for a moment, then nodded. "Can try. Best option." He picked tabbed the comm console, and made sure to introduce static, heavy static, to his response. "_Say again. Didn't copy first message."_

"_I said, what in the name of the Wheel is going on down there? We've lost all power up here! We have people dying in the stasis pods, and the Mother-of-All. . ." _which was, actually, what _dalatrass_ actually meant, _"has no voice! She has been put to sleep, against her will, and she will be angry when she awakens! We may have no choice but to turn on the reactor core of the vessel. Why haven't you reported in?"_ The words reeled off at the pace only an angry, agitated salarian could manage, or understand.

"_Yes. Understood. Situation problematic down here, too."_ Kirrahe put agitation in his own voice, and increased the speed of his words to match that of the voice over the comm channel. He stared at the static-filled screen for a moment, and constructed his lie meticulously. _"Have been attempting repairs to geothermal plant. Much damage. Asteroid that came in earlier, was hit by missile? Debris hit power plant. Thought it only minor damage at first. Pressure rose, out of control. Burst from the inside."_

"_Can you restore power from the plant?"_

"_Attempting to. No ETA on repairs. Longer I stand here talking to you, less time spent on repairs."_

"_Understood. Will send repair personnel when available."_

"_Good. How long before available?"_ Every response that continued the conversation was a risk, but he had to be able to give his team information.

"_Estimate two hours. Trying to avoid use of reactor core. May have no choice."_

"_Understood. Keep us posted."_ Kirrahe tabbed off the comm console with a sigh of relief. He'd never been good at the subterfuge portions of covert operations. He looked up at Sidonis, and explained the situation, as best he could, as they stepped back out into the main room, so that the others could hear them clearly.

"So, maybe two hours. Less, if they say 'screw this,' and turn on the ship's reactor, and get a good look at their sensors." Sidonis tabbed his omnitool. "We've got . . . okay. . . I can't read what this says." The human put a hand over his face. "How long until planetary dawn in this region, Orlan?"

"Three hours. You are unwell?"

"CPR on a drell, Orlan. I don't recommend it." The human's tone was rueful.

Kirrahe felt his eyelids crinkle in amusement. "Ah. You do not find the aftereffects recreational or relaxing, then?"

"Not when I might have to shoot something or steer something or walk in a straight damned line, not really, no." Sidonis rubbed at his face again. His violet clan-paint was smeared across his face, from water or sweat or something else. "Okay, that gives us _some_ time to work with. Thanks, Orlan. Good work."

Eli looked around at them all. "Okay, we need a course of action, and. . . I might not be thinking clearly enough for decision-making right now." He scrubbed at his face again. "Lin? Dempsey? Dara? Zhasa? Rel? Anyone? I don't want to leave Seheve behind in an airlock with just Dara to take care of her. Someone would need to guard them. And even if Seheve regains consciousness in the next five minutes, she still couldn't come with us, correct?"

Dara shook her head, firmly. "No. Gasses take time to pass out of the bloodstream. There's no way to shortcut that." She pointed at Eli. "And sit down before you fall down. Let me look through the medical database and see if there's anything that would work on the shit in your bloodstream right now."

"There's also the question of what to do with him," Dempsey added, jerking his head at the prisoner, Ephraim, "if we do send part of the teams away."

"That's not actually a problem," Dara said, her voice dark. "The right dose of butisol sodium, and I guarantee, he'll be passed out for the next eight hours. Only problem is, I'd have to stick him in the airlock with me and Seheve, for observation. I'd hate for him to have a bad reaction, maybe vomit and choke on it." She frowned. "Okay, maybe it is a problem."

The prisoner looked scared out of his mind at this point.

"Maybe I missed something," Rel noted, dryly, "but if I was following what Kirrahe said correctly, the ship has no power right now, because they definitely have the reactor core offline, and the geothermal plant is down. Get a shuttle down here, evac Seheve to the ship, and let the marines who come down take care of the prisoner on the way back up, too."

Eli slapped a hand over his face. "Yeah," he acknowledged, after a moment. "My mind is five minutes behind the information I've got. Sorry, guys. I might not be helpful."

"Naloxone," Dara said, cryptically, and moved over. She slid a needle into a vial, drawing a small dose into the syringe, and told Eli, firmly, "I need skin here."

His new armor, like hers, still had sections, but it was completely pressurized, and had heavy-duty seals—volus grade. He had to turn off the pressure and flow of air to a glove before unlatching it, and then removed the elasticized glove under that. "Any side effects to what you're giving me?" he asked.

"Dry mouth, possible headaches, possible inability to concentrate. No erectile dysfunction or anything like that, though, if that's what you're worried about." Dara's tone was tart.

Eli snorted, then pulled his hand away as the needle hovered over his skin. "Wait a minute. You're giving me something that might impair my ability to concentrate, to get me over something that's impairing my ability to concentrate?" He squinted at her. "Catch twenty-two?"

"It's been used to counteract the effects of opiates on Earth since the twentieth century, Tyr. It's the only thing in the database that has any effect on overdoses of drell skin secretions in humans."

"I didn't overdose—"

"I know. That's why I'm giving you a very small dose. Or, you know, you could try waiting it out." She looked up at him. "You didn't actually _ingest_ this, so I can't really give you a charcoal tablet to try to get it to absorb in your stomach. Really, only two options here." _Trust me. _

_I do._

She slid the needle under his skin, and the cool sting of the injection flowed out. Relief wasn't actually instant, but within a minute, his vision began to clear. "So, really, no erectile dysfunction?" He raised his eyebrows. "Promise? 

"Oh, shut up." Dara grinned, reluctantly, and tossed the syringe into her sharps container before looking around. "Zhasa should be okay to go. The frostbite's minimal, and her nanobots and the medigel's are taking care of what little remains. Her core temperature's improving. No mental impairment from the hypothermia, either."

Zhasa nodded vigorously. "I'm staying with the rest of you, yes. Just have to make sure my suit's in working order."

Dara glanced around. "So, we call in the shuttles? Get a med team down here with a pressure suit for Seheve, get her back to the ship? And, with the sensors on the Collector ship down, we take one of our shuttles and a couple of marine teams to the vessel and storm the damn castle?"

Eli grinned to himself. Dara might protest, more or less out of habit, that she wasn't command-line. That she didn't have training in tactics or strategy. The truth was, she'd absorbed a hell of a lot over the years, watching her father, watching Lantar, watching Rel, watching everyone around her. And while she wasn't _ordering_, she was organizing the information and pushing people forward. Her style of leadership was different from his, from Lin's, from Rel's. She absorbed what everyone else around her offered and advised, synthesized it, and then gave direction. It was much more managerial in style. . . and it was just as necessary as his style or Rel's. _She's been a rachni queen since OCS, and didn't even know it._ "Sounds like a plan," he told her, and lifted his head to look at Rel. "We could use you, but if you want to go with Seheve, back to the ship? I'd totally understand."

Rel stared at Eli for a long moment, and then down at Seheve. No one could have understood better than Eli, really. He remembered the spirit-lost look in Eli's eyes when Dara was unconscious in med bay on the _Raedia_. . . and yet, while part of him did want to stay with Seheve, to look after her, to hold her hand . . . but he also knew that she was in for three hours in a hyperbaric chamber. That was three hours in which he'd be out of commission, completely, unable to help any of his friends. Duties pulled him in both directions, and he didn't know which way to turn for a moment. _For years. . . I put the job first, the mission first. Over Dara, over us. And I didn't even realize I was doing it. Some of the absences weren't my fault. I was in boot camp when she was poisoned. But. . . I made a lot of choices when I didn't even realize what I was choosing._ He weighed it, carefully. Understood the choice he was making, this time, and accepted it. He squeezed Seheve's limp fingers in his, and looked up. "I'm going with you," he told Eli and Lin, calmly. "Want to be there when she wakes up, but. . . I'm with you."

Eli squinted at him. "Don't make decisions you'll regret later," he warned.

Rel shook his head. "There's nothing I can do for her but sit by her side in a hyperbaric chamber for three or four hours, worrying. Waiting for information on the brain scans and cardiac scans and everything else. The mission is what matters right now, and if _you_ aren't going to be able to shoot straight," he gave Eli a pointed look, "you're going to need me all the more."

Eli stared at Rel for a long moment, remembering a conversation he'd had with Sam in the kitchen of the Mindoir house, the day Agnes and Gavius had first been introduced to Joy-Singer. Sam had asked, calmly, _"You going to be okay going out with her in the field again?" _And Eli had told him, calmly, that he was human enough to worry about her in the field, but turian enough that he couldn't picture fieldwork without her by his side. But he'd also warned Sam at that time, _"If you want me to say the mission is more important than the people conducting it, that's never going to be my answer, no matter who's on my team. You don't want to send me on those kind of missions, anyway." Send Rel. Send Seheve. Send Kirrahe._ Because for Rel, at least, the mission came first.

_And yet, by Rinus' own admission, he thought he'd failed the simulator test in the Spectre trials, because he __did__ turn back for Kallixta's ship. Let the mission objective slip away, and turned back to save the __Hamus__, and all its crew. Which means that they weren't looking for people who believe in the mission above all else. And they probably felt the debate in Rinus, as to whether he was turning back to save __Kallixta__ or whether he was turning back to save the __Hamus__. It was the __questions__ that mattered, the questions in us, the debate, and the decision that came out of them, that mattered. Not the answer itself._ Eli's mind was flying at the moment, and he understood it all as it crystallized. _And they wanted people who had something in their lives that they valued, the 'home reality' that Sam always talks about. . . because if they worked to save the home reality, expressed ethics and the right decision-making processes in regard to the home reality, they could be trusted with making the right decisions in the work reality. But they still included Rel and Seheve and Kirrahe. Because sometimes you __do__ need people who will put the personal aside as secondary to the mission._

He raised his eyes and met Rel's. He wanted to remind Rel of what it would do, if Seheve woke up in med bay, and he wasn't there. The message that it would convey. But that was Rel's business, not his. And if he'd made the decision that the mission was more important than the personal, then that was Rel's decision to live with, and the consequences were his to deal with, too. "All right," Eli said. "Can't argue with the fact that it's going to take me a few minutes for everything to process out in my head." He nodded to Lin. "Make the call?"

"If it helps," Dara offered quietly, "They're going to keep her unconscious for as long as possible." She paused. "I don't care what medigel manufacturers say in their advertising, she's got the equivalent of third degree burns from _cold_ at the moment. That means the docs upstairs are going to need to debride her scales again, and that's something you don't want a conscious memory of, believe me." She shuddered.

Twenty minutes later, the shuttles came in for a landing. A med team brought a full pressurized suit in for Seheve, and they got her unconscious form into it, Dara relaying information at a furious rate, getting nods from the two medics. Then they strapped the drell onto a gurney and carried her off, back to one of the shuttles.

Then they and two marine teams flew to the northeast, heading along the faint white lines of power cables, buried under the ice. "Shit," Dempsey said, looking out the window at the wall of the crater itself. "I'm damned glad we're not having to climb that on foot. Look at it."

The topographic maps, and even Lysandra's vids of the crater, hadn't really given them perspective on it. There were no level surfaces, at all. The least steep angle was about forty-five degrees, and the steepest pitch was a full ninety. In many places, the ice was choppy and rough, and in others, slick and crystalline and jagged. A bad fall would probably have impaled the person falling, and Eli didn't like the idea of climbing close to a mile up this dangerous area, even with ice picks, axes, crampons, and everything else that they had available in the way of gear. "How's your head?" Lin asked him, quietly.

"Better. We need to re-organize the teams a little, though. Your squad's light." Eli paused. "And, realistically? While I feel better, I don't know if I trust my judgment yet."

"You want me to run a blood test and verify that you're in the clear?" Dara offered, dryly.

"I'd feel a hell of a lot better about it, yeah," Eli admitted.

"Glove off." Dara jabbed his finger for a blood sample, as the shuttles moved, engines choked down to only a quiet hum, up the slope. She slid the sample into a meter and said, "Yeah, there's only traces of either chemical left, Eli. Less than point oh one percent. Even if this were alcohol, you'd need specialized tests to detect any changes in reaction time."

"I know." Eli grimaced. "I just hate the thought of letting anyone down." He paused. "Kirrahe? These people here are salarians. . . all right, Lystheni, but you understand how they think better than anyone here. You're taking over lead on my team, all right?"

He saw the salarian's head rock back in surprise. "If you think it best, Spectre—"

Lin shook his head. "Let's just adjust the teams entirely. It's easier this way."

Eli nodded, and looked at Lin, Dempsey, and Dara. "All right. Talk to me."

"Give me Zhasa and Rel," Dempsey said, shrugging. "All three of us have regen mods, of some sort or another." His eyes narrowed for a moment, and he added, silently, _Plus, I can sit on Rel if need be. And Zhasa can probably calm him down just as well as she can settle me down, too._ "Zhasa and I also have double layers of shields. There's not a hell of a lot anyone can throw at us, and it gives the doc one less group to have to run to, if we get pinned down."

"Thank you for that," Dara said, dryly, then added, "It's actually fairly balanced. Rel gives them more teeth."

"Fair points." Eli considered it. "Lin? You're heavy weapons with defensive abilities, Kirrahe's heavy weapons, and Glory's a _walking_ heavy weapon. You guys can be our heavy squad."

Dara nodded. "Again, pretty balanced. Lin's defensive enough to compensate for Kirrahe's god-damned tendency to get beaten up."

Eli flicked her a quick glance, and went on now, looking at Lin. "Set up behind Zhasa, Dempsey, and Rel, and take out whatever needs taking out. Dara and I will hang back. We'll be the utility squad. Try to spot for you." He grimaced. "All subject to change when we get in there and see what the hell's actually going on." He looked around. "That all make sense to everyone?"

Lin nodded now, himself. "Marine team one, with me. Marine team two, with Dempsey and Zhasa."

The shuttles crept up over the final terrace, and Eli's eyes widened as their lights illuminated what they'd sought. The Collector ship was huge, three times the length of the _Normandy_ SR-2, close to seven hundred feet in length, and wider through the body, as well. Its outer hull looked like rock, which let it fade into the debris along the crater rim. It had been partially buried, in fact. Rocks and debris from the crater walls had poured down over it, as if from a massive avalanche, but no visible damage to the hull, at least from this angle. It jutted out from the crater wall, a bit, but otherwise. . . it would have been almost impossible to detect from orbit. "Lights off, and jam radios and scanners," Rel advised. "If they've got perimeter guards—"

Their pilot switched the shuttle's lights off, and they popped up and over the rim of the terrace, sending out the jamming signal. Two perimeter guards were, indeed, stationed outside the entrance of the ship, and they started to run. . . which was when Dara, hanging out the open door of their shuttle, caught the first with her sniper rifle, and Dempsey picked up and threw the other one off the cliff with his biotics. Eli was grateful that he couldn't hear the scream.

He'd been holding onto Dara's shoulder to steady her at the open door, and patted her now, as they all headed off the shuttles. It didn't look like much of a strike force. Eight Spectres, six marines. It was simply going to have to be enough, however. _Sai'kaea__?_

_Yeah?_

_Take over. I know what your scanner said, but I just don't trust my judgment completely._

_You worry too much. Your songs are fine now. They were out of tune an hour ago, but no longer. But if it makes you feel better. . . _

"Kirrahe?" Dara whispered over the comm channel now. "Let's take a look at the door."

The salarian and his squad slipped up ahead, and he studied the door, which actually was a large docking hatch in the side of the immense ship. Did something quick and expert to the panel at the side, and chuckled as he reported, "They re-encrypted the panel. Based coding on old STG algorithms. Not a problem." There was a pause, and he warned, "Stand to sides. No biosigns on other side, but meaningless. Ship's hull extremely thick."

Eli got his shield in front of him, and Dara tucked in close beside him. Lin, Kirrahe, and Glory tucked in at the left of the hatch, Rel, Dempsey, and Zhasa tucked in at the right. "On three," Lin said, quietly. "One. . . two. . . three!"

Kirrahe slid the hatch open, and in they went. Through the airlock, and out into the darkness of the ship beyond.

Eli glanced around, sharply, trying to get his bearings. No overhead lights, just the black-and-white scan of night-vision inside of Eli's helmet at first. Low, rocky ceilings, as if they were, in truth, underground. In a hive. Flash of hand-lights from up ahead. Lin's team, followed closely by their marine team, diamond-formation, Lin at point, off to the left. Dempsey's team, with their marines behind them, off to the right. _Sit back and be the tactical advisor_, Eli reminded himself. _Be their eyes._

"Seven life-signs, ahead, right," Dara said over the radio. "Four life-signs, ahead, left."

For all the low ceilings, this had, apparently, been a loading and processing area, once upon a time. Atmosphere in here, not that any of them cared to test it by opening a visor. It was large, and it echoed. Sound was once more something to consider. Sound of footsteps. Sound of gunfire. The silence of the outside world had been oppressive, in its own way; only the hiss of air in his pressurized suit and the chirp of electronics inside of it, the voices on the comm, had held it at bay. Now, every sound seemed magnified, by the sheer lack of sound before this. Every footstep, a ricochet of noise that others would surely detect.

The two teams ahead of them got to the opening that lead out of the large, squarish entry area, and peered ahead. "Lystheni," Kirrahe reported. "Four of them, aft of us. They have not spotted us. Seventy feet, maybe more. Large area. Looks to be converted into living quarters."

"We've got a door on the wall to our right. Looks large and original," Dempsey reported, tersely. "Biosigns are probably past that."

"Ship's bridge?" Dara asked, quickly.

"This far forward? Probably, if they followed the configuration of other known Collector ships from the Reaper War," Zhasa supplied.

Silent thought from Dara, then. _Well, they all need to die._ "Quietly," Dara told them all. "Can't tell yet how many others there are, or where they are in this ship."

"Got it," Lin told her, and he shifted his shield to his back. Pulled his assault rifle over his shoulder, and attached a suppressor to the muzzle. It wouldn't last long on an assault rifle; the baffles inside would be quickly eroded by the high rate of fire. But it was a start. Behind him, Kirrahe did the same, and the marines. Glory, of course, needed no such tricks. The thin red beam of the laser sight on his assault rifle touched one of the Lystheni on the back, and Lin saw one of the salarians beside his target look up. See the dot. Start to turn and point. . .

His finger pulled back on the trigger, and his target fell to the ground, hand light falling and bouncing, sending flickers of light over the scene. The Lystheni wore light armor, at best, more of an emergency environmental suit than anything. Glory raised his voice in song, and a barrage of something invisible passed by Lin's face to the right. He wasn't sure how he sensed them, but he was damned glad he hadn't been anywhere in their path as a second Lystheni tech fell to the ground, bleeding. The remaining two, who'd been shielded by their companion's bodies, shouted in alarm, but were mowed down by Kirrahe and the marines.

"Team two, move up, take the control center, if that's what it is," Dara said into the radio, watching the blips on her wrist now, intently. "Team one, move aft, and see what you can see. I can see doors in the far wall." She glanced at Eli, and added, "Clear the rooms."

"Copy that," Dempsey replied, tersely, moving up. There was indeed a door to his right along this wall, but there was also a door in the wall facing him, a little further aft. No life-signs there, though. Team one could take care of those.

Zhasa tabbed the door open, and Dempsey ducked into the room. Again, dark. Chatter of salarian voices, salarian language. Like everything else the Collectors or Protheans had built, this chamber was massive in scale. The ceiling was higher here than the loading area outside, and was, again, inky black. Control stations everywhere, like huge, flat tables, covered with inscrutable controls, pipes and exposed wires running everywhere, all revealed in the flat, gray vision of the UV light on his shoulder, and his own night-vision gene mod. At a diagonal from him, off to his left, a single salarian lifted his head in shock, and Dempsey threw him, instantly, sailing across the room. Velnaran and Zhasa followed him into the room, just as a second Lystheni moved around a set of taller control stations in front of them, and stopped, staring in shock at the intruders. Zhasa reacted, fast, and threw him, herself, sending him into a tangle of wires high above, where the salarian, caught by the neck, kicked and struggled, helplessly, choking and screaming for help.

And that was when the emergency lights came up, low and red, all around them. _Reactor core just came on-line,_ Dempsey thought, and gestured for the marines behind them to move up, as they continued deeper into the room.

The salarians were alerted, now, by the cries of their companion, and two more circled south, towards them, from the right, weapons out. Dempsey didn't duck fast enough, and one of them hit him with some sort of neural shock weapon. Electricity, cascading through the cybernetics that had infiltrated fully half of his body. Searing pain, and Dempsey _snarled_. No pretense to self-control now, pain always let the rage boil free, and he walked forward, mind blank, firing at the first Lystheni, even as the second opened fire on him as well, taking it on his shields. Actual flames coruscated over his body, searing through his shields, but it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was killing the thing that had caused the pain. . . .

Dempsey's mind went blank, and Zhasa swore mentally. Saw the second Lystheni move in, crouching a little behind the control panels, pouring flame at Dempsey from a nozzle embedded in his forearm. Zhasa shook her head, calculated the angle, and leaped, feet landing directly on the salarian's shoulders. He tumbled to the ground, and his arms flailed wildly, flames shooting up at her body now, but Zhasa had tumbled backwards, landing on her feet, and was now firing her pistol into the salarian's face at point-blank range—

And that was when the last two Lystheni in the room, and an asari, blank-faced and robotic, moving at the heels of one of the pair, moved around the control consoles from the left. Rel knew he had no clear shots on the ones facing Dempsey and Zhasa, and he turned, firing his assault rifle directly at the blank-faced asari. _Let's disarm at least one of the sons of __villi__,_ he thought, grimly. . . but his bullets bounced off a barrier around the asari's form, and she lifted her blank face and turned her head to regard him, emptily. . . and a shockwave erupted through the floor, taking his feet out from under him. Rel rolled back to his feet, knowing he was exposed now, as the marines behind him began firing on the Lystheni themselves. . . and a whisper spoke in his thoughts. Dark. Compelling. _Turn around and fire on them. You're not like them. You're better than they are. You know what you're doing here is wrong. . . stop them . . . _

Rattle of gunfire, terse words over the radio. Dara was just trying to keep track of what the hell was going on, as she and Eli moved up. Peered into the control room. "Team one, what's your status?" Eli asked over the radio.

"Rooms ahead of us laboratories," Kirrahe replied, instantly. "Clear."

"Main room definitely living quarters," Lin added, tightly. "Lots of cots, probably original Cerberus equipment. I've also got biosigns to port and to aft. A _lot_ of them to the aft."

"Hold position," Dara decided. "Let's not get too split up here."

Just then, the emergency lights came on overhead, low and red and tucked into crenellations in the ceiling. _Damnit,_ Dara thought. _They'll have internal comms back on, sensors, weapons, everything now. . . _ She ducked around the doorway, and got a better look at the situation in the control room, and repressed the urge to swear. Eli peered around it, with her, and _did_ swear.

Rel was standing, facing the marines, in the open, his assault rifle's muzzle creeping up. But he was shaking. Clearly fighting it. The marine leader asked, sharply, over the radio, "Commander? What are you doing? Spectres, what action are we clear to take if he starts firing on us?"

"Stay on the salarians," Dara said, her voice empty, and Eli hauled his shield around in front of him and pulled around the corner, crouching a little, moving forward. Patted a marine on the shoulder, to let the male know he was there, and moved around him, not in the line of fire. . . but put himself between Rel and the most exposed of the marines. "Shit, come on, _fradu_, fight it. I know you can," Eli urged, quietly. If there was anyone in the galaxy that Rel probably, on some level, still wanted to shoot, it was him. But he had the best protection of anyone in the room. "Thor? Need you on Virtus."

No reply but a low-voiced growl, and suddenly, a salarian body flying the length of the room to land behind Rel with a thud and in a sprawl of broken limbs. "Ah. . . Thor?" Eli asked. The muzzle of Rel's rifle was creeping higher again. "Rel, _fight it_," Dara called from the doorway, moving into the room. Letting him see her. "You've fought it before."

Words. Words didn't matter. No faces. Faces blocked out by polarized masks. No person behind them. Just things. Things that whispered at him, but. . . the voices were familiar. The voices were _pack_. _You don't turn on your own._ He'd come perilously close to it, in just the past year. Had snapped and snarled and turned his temper on his mother, his sister, his brothers, on Dara. But that was the one thin thread of thought that pulled Rel up. _You don't turn on the pack. You don't. You don't._ His head turned, and he glared at the spindly creatures, ducking down behind him, off to his right now. He knew, somehow, that the insinuating thoughts had come from them. _You don't tell me what to do._ Rage, white-hot, and unbelievably welcome, scoured the insinuating threads out of his mind, and Rel turned, snarled, and opened fire on the salarians again, tearing through their shields. A blue-white explosion against his chest, as one of them tried to overload his kinetic shields, and the impact of a couple of bullets against his chestplate, but Rel kept on firing. . . .even as the asari, in a last, desperate attempt by her salarian master, lifted him completely off the floor and sent him spinning, Rel held onto the anger, held onto his focus, and kept firing down at the salarians below. . . .

Zhasa blinked as the Lystheni in front of her rolled over backwards, and faded from sight. "Stealth units!" she said, into her radio, sharply. The other Lystheni flew past her, from behind, and her head swung around to track its flight. Dempsey was still growling, low in his throat, and if there were words mixed into the sound, they weren't ones she knew. _Dempsey? This might be a good time to calm down, love._

"On it," Eli called back to Zhasa, looking around now for the tell-tale shimmers of a stealth unit, and found one of the Lystheni still exchanging fire with Rel and the marines staring at him, and his head rocked back. _You don't want to hurt us. You're reasonable. You're fair-minded. Stop them. Tell them to stop. If they won't, you'll have to kill them. . . _

Eli bared his teeth behind his visor and blocked the thought, ducking first into turian mind-set, a wall of deep-seated, smoldering anger and outrage at the intrusion. The insinuating strands probed deeper. Whispered subtleties. Told him that Rel was a threat, and let him draw his own conclusions. His hand dropped to his pistol, and he blocked harder, shifting into an asari mind-set instead. The fluid language of Thessia filled his mind. _N'__si'adoli__ adai v'wela; __ua'oal'eaul_. _Not-sister is one of us; we are united, one_.

The strands fell away and he slid away from the mental attack, blinking rapidly behind his polarized mask. _The stealth unit can damned well wait,_ he thought, and drew his pistol, adding his fire to the marines' and Rel's, and the Lystheni biotic finally tumbled to the ground, dead.

A hand caught Zhasa's head from behind, an arm clamping with wiry strength around her neck, and she felt something jab against her ribs as she instinctively caught the hand with one of her own and threw herself forward and down into a roll, _meela'helai_ reflexes taking over, breaking the arm free from around her throat. Slam of a bullet into her armor at close range, but she was already rolling back up again, and Dempsey was on the salarian from behind, himself now, and she watched, wide-eyed behind her visor, as he snapped the male's neck and kept moving forward, letting the body drop to the floor. . . . _Dempsey?_

_Here, Zhasa-love. Just barely, but here._ The thought was tired, as he beat down the last of the rage and put it back behind the iron bars he usually kept between himself and it. "Let's go finish cleaning up."

The others, in the meantime, had more pressing concerns. "We've got movement on scope," Lin called on the radio. "They've heard the commotion. Moving to intercept."

"Wrap it up," Dara urged the others, quickly. She was chafing a little; she hadn't fired a shot here yet, but then, she was supposed to be helping to coordinate, at least a bit. "Moving aft with team one."

They moved up the wall to their right, peering into the dimly-lit, cavernous depths around them. Dara shook her head, grimly. There was what looked like a smaller room off to the port. That one had six biosigns in it. moving around quickly. The room to the south, however, was huge, taking up most of the interior of the ship. And there were dozens of biosigns in there. "Forseti. . . take your team aft. You three have a better chance of holding the door there. I'll take the marines to the port side, take out the people there, and regroup with you. Tyr? Get the other teams down here ASAP," Dara said, quickly. Her stomach was tight. There were a _lot_ of life-signs in that room aft of here.

"Understood," Lin told her, and they split off, Dara and the marines heading off to the right. Dara let the marines set up on either side of the door, and then they blew it in off its hinges with a shaped charge. She crouched on the left side of the door, with one of the marines, a turian, and spun in, when it was her turn, and blinked briefly, assessing the situation, then ducking down instantly. Her omnitool was chiming rapidly at her wrist. "We've got a radiological hazard in this room," Dara warned, sharply. "If you're not turian or rachni, or don't have heavy toxin seals, stay out!"

The marine ahead of her had closed to melee range with one of the salarian techs in the room, who wore a heavy environmental suit. Dara shields flared blue around her, and her head snapped around to her left, where she saw another tech standing, firing on her after having tried to overload her shields. Dara silently thanked her stars, again, that she was wearing the Jormangund armor, with its tech hardening and amazing shields, and opened fire herself now, her pistol ripping through the Lystheni's shields, and then ducked down and took cover between a console and the wall, glancing around to assess the rest of the room. Most of the Lystheni were on the other side, and the marines were concentrating fire there. There were two humans in the room, notably taller and differently shaped than the salarians, even in heavy envirosuits. One stood there, motionless, beside a salarian. The other had her hands over her head and had dropped to her knees. _Cerberus agent_, Dara thought, and resumed fire on the Lystheni closest to her. . . .

Kirrahe, Linianus and Glory moved down to the door into the large chamber at the heart of the ship. Kirrahe shook his head over the number of life-signs in the room past the door. "Extremely problematic," he assessed.

Pellarian tapped the outer frame of the door. "Natural choke point. Though there might be another exit from the ship, I bet it's under about five tons of ice and rubble at the moment."

"Yes. They are trapped. They will fight to the last male standing. Suspect computer cores in this chamber, or past it. They will fight to the death to defend their dalatrass, Spectre. You know this."

Pellarian shook his head. "Any ideas? Ways to even the odds?"

Kirrahe shook his head. "Not as yet. No understanding of the room beyond this door."

That, however, was remedied shortly thereafter, when the door slid open, and the first of the Lystheni inside opened fire on them. Kirrahe could hear the words, clearly. _Intruders. Fight for Xala! Protect your dalatrass!_

"_Your dalatrass is dead,"_ Kirrahe called into the room, in a break in fire. _"She died on Garvug, five years ago. What you have now is a ghost. An assortment of memories, and nothing more."_ It wasn't, strictly speaking, true. Kirrahe did believe that NCAIs demonstrated sapience. But he didn't believe that the 'Joker' NCAI on the _Normandy_ was anything more than a replica of the original Jeff Moreau, any more than he believed that the 'James' AI was the same as James Allen Dempsey, himself. The Sower artifact, once it had been explained to him, which had permitted Ruin to download into the geth collective? Which had permitted Jeff Moreau—the _real_ Jeff Moreau—to upload to the mini-Reaper? Those were full personae. He could wrap his mind around that. The fragments of personality combined to create whole new personalities and identities in the NCAIs, too, he could grasp. But for anyone to slavishly follow the words of a dead dalatrass' ghost in a machine? Foolishness. Illogic of the worst order.

The defenders inside the room redoubled their rate of fire. Bullets were pouring out of the doorway now, and they couldn't even catch a break to peer around the corner. "They didn't like that," Pellarian noted, pulling back away from the door again. "Can't get a damn shot off like this."

"Have to change thermal clips at some point," Kirrahe pointed out. Then he added, "Though probably not all at once. Many biosigns." _Very problematic._

_Rage-songs. Pain-songs_, Glory assessed. _Blacks and reds and no harmony to the songs. Only dissonance. _

Kirrahe managed to peer around the corner again. Got glimpses of the room, bullets pinging off his shields. The room was, in effect, a large cylinder in the center of the ship. Every curve of that cylinder, including the floor in front of him, and the ceiling above, was lined with stasis pods. Ladders and rails connected the top, where they were, with the bottom, aft of them, allowing access even when the ship was positioned upright, and the gravity field skewed. There were tubes and coils winding through the center of the room, starting in the wall near this door, and stretching at least two hundred feet to the rear of the room, and tendrils of them snaked out on every tier. The Lystheni were gathered near the door, and were pulling up stasis pods to use for cover, scattering them in a haphazard sort of line, or barricade. And they were starting to push the pods forward, heading for the door. "At least thirty, maybe forty, who are armed," he reported, pulling back. "About twenty on approach, using pods as shields."

Pellarian lifted his shield, ducked around the corner, and took thirty bullets to the shield before he managed to pull back again. "Yeah. Can't fire like this. Best I can do is stand in front of you or Glory, and let you shoot." The turian's tone was grim.

Kirrahe nodded. "Have a plan. Depends greatly on if tubes in chamber contain what I believe they contain. Glory? Allow the Spectre to defend you. Need you to rupture the tubes containing the light blue fluid. Directly over the heads of our attackers."

Pellarian's head swung up. "Something flammable?"

"Not directly," Kirrahe replied, a little obliquely. "But certainly helpful. I hope."

Lin set his jaw, and stepped out into the line of fire again. Complete defensive stance, letting his heavy kinetic shields and his hard shield take all the hits. Glory bulked larger than he did, but he was able to shield the rachni's thorax and head, as Glory shifted position to stand behind him. . . and tore at the tubing in the room, as Kirrahe had directed. Lin's eyes widened as he peered through the plasteel aperture at the top of his shield, as the light blue fluid in the tubes, which was evidently highly pressurized, exploded outwards with concussive force, driving the Lystheni to the ground. Frost formed on their armor as the fluid hit them, and then boiled up, flash-heated by exposure to the ambient temperature, and dissipated into the air around them as a pale blue cloud, roiling along the ground . . . but the stream was continuously replenished by the fluids bursting from the torn hoses, which flapped around like the arms of a squid, flailing wildly under the unleashed pressure, tearing themselves loose further and further. Chain reaction. Shouts of alarm and consternation as the Lystheni tried to move, tried to get away. . . .

"What the hell is that stuff?" Lin asked, then shook his head and started firing his pistol into the room.

Kirrahe stepped forward, absolute calm in his mind at the moment, and moved behind Pellarian now, himself. With the tall turian crouched as he was, Kirrahe didn't need to duck for cover much at all. "Suspect liquid oxygen. Light blue color. Often used in cryonic applications. Seems likely to supply stasis pods," he noted, his tone objective and assessing. "Not directly flammable. However. . . when oxygen is super-cooled, becomes powerful oxidizing agent."

"It _what?_" the turian repeated, a little blankly, still firing at any target he could reach.

Kirrahe pulled the trigger on his flamethrower. It was set to a fifteen foot blast of flame at the moment, and he hoped he was standing far enough away from what was about the happen. The red-orange flame gouted out. . . . entered the now very oxygen-rich environment in front of him. . . . and the flame from his weapon suddenly exploded further forward. Hit the first Lystheni, the stasis pods, which were coated in liquid oxygen. . . .and the room exploded into flames. A pillar of fire erupted up from the first ignition point, white-hot and almost unbearable to look upon, and Kirrahe shifted the nozzle, side to side. There were bullets still ringing off his shields, but he ignored them, firing directly into the blaze he'd created, making it a firestorm, an inferno.

The Lystheni caught at the epicenter screamed. Their envirosuits and armor were super-cooled, and brittle because of it, but also highly oxidized. Mere kindling for the flames. The Lystheni themselves, inside, had ten, maybe fifteen seconds before the outer shells would be consumed, and the fire would be on them, on their skin. They screamed, ran, living torches, red flames inside the white hell that Kirrahe had created, as the hoses over head continued to spew liquid oxygen in every direction, like a child's water toy on a lawn on a hot day. . . . "Shooting them would be merciful," Kirrahe noted to Pellarian, continuing to pour flame to the right. To the left. He absolutely intended that not one of the salarians in the room in front of him would escape alive. . . but also knew the value of the tech in the room. He didn't want to damage the entire chamber.

Lin had been frozen for a moment, still crouching behind his shield as the world in front of him suddenly flared to the white-hot blaze of a star going nova, and he ducked his head for a moment, dazzled, grateful for the polarized face shield he wore. He managed to look back up, and began picking off targets at the edge of the blaze with his pistol, his mind numb. "This is just . . . oxygen?" he shouted over the roar of the flames. "What we _breathe?_"

Kirrahe kept his voice remote and calm. "Yes. In liquid form, promotes flammability of many items," he explained, calmly. "Also, can cause detonation. Petrochemicals. Some carbon compounds." Only a few random bullets now. The few Lystheni remaining were rolling around on the ground, trying, desperately, to douse flames that couldn't be doused, and Kirrahe pushed down the faint surge of empathy he felt. "Distressing, but necessary. Most efficient way to deal with them. Numbers too many for a group of our size. Also, probably more, not just here in the stasis chamber. Other areas of the ship must be taken." He gave Pellarian a slightly concerned look as the turian stepped up, looking around at the still-blazing room. "Tactical decision was mine. Will take the blame for it."

_How do we end this song?_ Glory asked, in evident agitation. _Cold-fire song of ship cannot continue. Fires will spread._

"Should be emergency shutoff valve. Simply have to find it." Kirrahe looked up, found a likely looking wheel, and twisted it. Frowned, and tried another, and then another, until he stumbled onto the correct one. Deprived of oxygen, the fires slowly began to dwindle. "May need to use fire suppression equipment."

"Yeah, I . . . didn't put any fire extinguishers in my pack today," Pellarian told him, and Kirrahe almost laughed.

"Neither did I," Sidonis said, from behind them. "God _damn_, Kirrahe. You _really_ like fire."

"He's about as bad as that pyromaniac I chased across half of Nimines," Pellarian agreed, his tone dry. "At least he restricts his damage to our enemies, anyway."

"Going to need a squad name that means _god of fire_ or something," Sidonis told him, the human staring past him into the still smoking, smoldering room. "I'll. . . look that up later, though." He tabbed his radio. "Freya, what's your status?"

Dara had been, in the meantime, quite busy. She was pinned in a corner on the left side of the room, and the salarians were still very much alive in the room with them . . . and at least one of them was controlling the human biotic in the chamber with them. She could only watch as one of the marines with her was lifted off the ground by a singularity, and the salarians on the ground all opened fired on the helpless turian. . . but in that moment, she and the remaining marines on the ground opened fire on the exposed Lystheni, themselves. Quick, trained movement. Center-mass, center-mass, duck down, wait for it, back up, center-mass, _shit_, _there's another_ _one_, back down again. And then one of the Lystheni moved a little closer, and Dara felt something cold and dark and _sour_ touch her, notes that were sickly greens and yellows, poisonous, dissonant, and off-key. She revolted at the touch, thoughts that weren't hers, weren't part of her hive, as they formed in her mind, _You don't want to hurt us. . . you're supposed to be saving lives, not ending them . . . the people with you, they're not your friends. They're strangers. Turn. Fire on them. . . _

But her little workers had wrought very well indeed. _Makes your songs stronger, and makes the songs of others, sung against you, weaker_, they'd told her, and they were right. Dara's mind shifted at the words, and for a shuddering instant, she wasn't there. . . but Sings-Heartsong was, and the Lystheni biotic wasn't prepared for the backlash as she took what Dempsey had been teaching her, and sang a clear, cold, focused note of rage right back at the salarian. _Cold-song salarian, you would match songs with me? Hear me, then! Hear wrath-songs, know destruction-songs!_ It poured out of her like water, anger and pain, and the despair of seeing friends hurt, seeing friends die, and he reeled back under that direct assault. . . and Chopin and 1812, who'd been in the pockets of her pressurized suit all this time, scuttled out, dropped to the floor, and began to advance, hissing, into the fray. Too small to be noticed, they scuttled closer, and as Dara, dazed, came back to herself, she saw both of her small friends starting to spit corrosive acid into the area where the Lystheni and their captive human were crouched down. Shouts of dismay as sulfuric acid began to bite into the salarian's armors and environmental suits, puddling on the floor, dissolving their boots, forcing them to stand, forcing them to move. . .which made them easy targets. Dara got her shock pistol, and snapped off a shot at the biotic who'd attempted to cloud her mind, and watched him stiffen in place, convulsing as the electrical shocks poured through his system. . . and Chopin and 1812 scurried up his shaking form and poured acid directly into his face and eyes, riding his body to the ground as he fell. _—Little-queen, did he sour your songs?_ came the anxious chorus.

_I'm fine. Don't worry so. . . and get out of there, I think Evianus is going to. . . yeah. _She ducked her head away as the turian beside her, now that he'd dropped back to the floor, bloody and battered, threw a flashbang into the salarians' refuge.

Five minutes later, she was trying to get Evianus' bleeding stopped, had a rachni worker on each of her shoulders, one of the marines was talking _to_ the little creatures, saying, "You guys really don't know fear, do you? You just ran right in there and ate the guy's _face_. . . ." while the other one kept a weapon pointed at the human female who was the last living person in the room.

Dara glanced up at the female, who still had her hands on her head. She was dark-complected, but had the same generally unhealthy-looking undertones to her skin that Ephraim Stern had, and her hair was tight-cropped to her head. A sign that the Lystheni had at least allowed her a few basic amenities, then. _She made herself valuable to them. She can make herself valuable to us, too, I guess. _ "You'd be Alisha Kesey, then?" Dara asked the woman. "You were Cerberus?" She hadn't pulled her visor up yet.

"Yes. . . . I was." The woman's voice had a light British accent, actually. "Not for some time, however."

"What's this place?" Dara gestured around, and then ducked back to pull another bullet out of Evianus' arm. "Sorry," she told the turian, whom she'd numbed as well as she could. "I could just toss medigel on it, and seal it over, but then I'll have to cut them all back out again."

"Shouldn't we be backing up the other teams?" he asked, sounding worried.

Dara shook her head. The urgency had died out of Glory's song two minutes ago, replaced by mingled horror and awe at once. His harp-like voice was faint, but a continuous pulse of music at the back of her skull. "I think they can spare us a minute or two." She looked at Alisha. "What's this room?"

"Main guns. Sensor arrays. Tactical data systems. That," Alisha pointed at a large metal tube that rose out of the floor, made a ninety-degree turn, and then butted into the outer wall, hull-wards, "is a true Collector Thanix weapon." She grimaced behind her mask. "Hence the radiation hazard in the room, as you may have noticed."

That's when Eli's voice came over the radio. "We're tidying up, Tyr," Dara replied, quickly. "From what I can see here. . . this is one of the weapons arrays. Vulcan's going to want to tear this to very small pieces and put it back together again. Be right there, once we secure our Cerberus prisoner properly." The words were quick, but not urgent.

"No rush, and bring her along. We're going to have to wait for this to cool down anyway." Eli's words were terse.

_Wait for __what__ to cool down?_ Dara thought, and when she came up behind the others a minute later, prisoner in tow, surrounded by marines. . . she stopped and just stared. "Holy fucking shit," she managed, after a moment, as a stasis pod located somewhere above lost a heat-shattered door, which landed on the small walkway/ladder between pods in front of them. There were still ghostly remnants of flame here and there, and the room ahead of them was covered with a thick pall of smoke.

"Yeah," Eli said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "That's. . . pretty much what I said." _Kirrahe really loves that flamethrower of his._

_Apparently, it loves him right back._ "How. . . ?" Dara stared past them all, hearing metal pinging and popping in the room as it shifted as it cooled.

"He out-_scienced_ them," Dempsey said, very dryly.

"And made the top of my personal do-not-fuck-with list," Eli added, quietly.

"Wasn't Seheve at the top of that list a month ago?" Rel managed, but his voice was a little strained.

"It's a rotating thing," Eli told him, with aplomb. "Whoever's most recently scared the living shit out of me gets top billing."

Dara was two steps behind the conversation. "Out-scienced them?" she asked, blankly.

"Liquid oxygen," Kirrahe told her, calmly. "Very effective. Could not have done it without Glory's assistance, however."

Eli was very, very good at chemistry. Dara was much better with organic compounds and that branch of chemistry, but she got a good, solid look at the information on liquid oxygen in Eli's mind, and stared, once more, past the door. "Ah. . . yeah. Okay. I'll. . . wait for the debriefing for the rest." She cleared her throat and gave Kirrahe a look. "You get singed at all?"

"No, Spectre. Was most careful to avoid needing your services." Kirrahe's eyelids crinkled behind his clear face shield.

Dara shook her head rapidly to clear it. "This is our Cerberus lady," she noted, jerking a thumb towards the woman, whom Evianus was pushing forward in front of him. "What do we do with her while we're clearing the rest of the ship?"

"Ask her a few questions while we're waiting for _that_ to cool," Eli answered, jerking his head at the doorway.

"First thing's first," Dempsey said, shortly. "Get her out of her suit."

"What?" Alisha cringed back. "What the hell do you mean—"

Dempsey reached out and took her helmet off. "At the very least, this part," he said, dryly. "I don't give anyone more than a minute outside without a suit on, and I definitely don't want this Cerberus piece of shit getting any ideas about making a run for it in one of our shuttles." Dempsey's expression was uncompromising. "Boots. Gloves."

"This is just a rad suit, I'm not going to last more than thirty seconds out there—"

"Take them off. Now." When Dempsey got into the completely flat-voiced, blank-eyed mode, Eli wasn't going to argue with the man, not if it wasn't a very important issue.

"You heard him," Eli told her, and took the gloves and boots from her. Then he dug his shackles out from the small of his back, and pulled the woman's hands behind her own back, locking them in place. "Forseti, you happen to pack leg-shackles?"

"Just flex-ties."

"That'll do, I guess." Eli got the woman's feet hobbled, as well, and helped her shuffle to one of the unmade cots in this cavernous, rocky-appearing outer room. "Right. You've been here for a while. What else can we expect?"

She leaned her head back against the rough wall and closed her eyes. A single tear streaked down her face. "This is. . . not quite the rescue. . . that I've dreamed of for ten years," she admitted, her voice quavering a little.

Eli sighed internally. He didn't think it was a play for his sympathy, and in any event, it wasn't going to make him mess up and loosen her restraints or anything stupid like that. "I'm sorry," he told her, gently, and got a blanket from a nearby bed and pulled it over her shoulders. "We might not have a lot of time here," he told her, simply.

"Maybe less than you know," the woman said, opening her dark eyes again. "They turned on the reactor core. That means all the systems are back online. There are dragons' teeth in that hold, you understand me? Dragons' teeth don't need people to be alive to turn them into husks. There's also a . . .an archway device. Dr. Stanislaw thought it was an indoctrination device. We never spent more than a day or two at a time in the ship until we figured out how to interface the geothermal plant's energy with the ship's systems. Took us six months. But with the main reactor offline, all the Collectors' little toys weren't being powered. The _Reapers_' control devices, for making sure the Collectors stayed in line, weren't being powered, either." She looked up at the ceiling. "And now the stupid damned salarians turned the damned thing back on again."

"Are you _sure_ there's an indoctrination device aboard?" Eli asked, apprehensively.

"Yeah. Got kind of a clue in the first week or so, before Stanislaw's precautions went into effect. Couple of researchers stayed for three, four days. Stopped sleeping. Stopped eating. Kept saying that the ship was talking to them. Stanislaw had them shot before they could do any harm, and set up the routine. No more than five people on the ship at a time, and no longer than forty-eight hours, with at least a week off in between. Made work very damned slow." She looked back down from the ceiling, met his eyes. Weariness there. Weariness so deep, that lies were too much of an effort, he could see.

Eli wished he could rub at his eyes, but that would require lifting his visor and dealing with pressurization, and having her see his clan paint and everything else, and that was more bother than it was worth. "All right," he said. "What's past this room with the stasis pods and the . . . Dragon's Teeth and the indoctrination device?"

"Computer core. Fair number of other passages off to the sides, all leading to the other sensors and weapons arrays, but we locked most of those down, and the salarians didn't bother with them much. Some laboratories, too. Mostly, the salarians were pretty happy to be in the computer core. Past that. . . that's the reactor core. There's another docking hatch back there, but it's under. . . twenty feet of ice. For the moment."

Eli's eyebrows rose. "For the moment?"

Alisha grimaced at him. "Yeah. You think maybe the reactor core might put out a little heat?"

_Oh, fuck._ Eli's head jerked up, and he called to the others, "How much ice is currently between us and the ocean?"

"Sixty feet or so," Dempsey told him. The man was leaning against the nearby wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching Alisha through hooded eyes. "I don't care how hot the engines are, that's still going to take a week or so to burn through. It's not like the water is going to sit on top of the ice, transmitting heat. It's going to sublime away into what passes for an atmosphere here, almost instantly. Still. . . enclosed spaces and exhaust are a bad mix." He looked away, evidently trying to do some mental calculations. "How long did indoctrination symptoms take before showing up?" he asked the woman, his voice flat.

"About. . . seventy-two hours, I guess," she replied, dully.

"Okay. We've got some time. But yeah. We do want to get moving on this." Dempsey looked at Eli now. "What next, boss?"

"Hey, who died and made _me_ boss?" Eli muttered, standing back up from where he'd been crouching in front of the woman. He looked back at Alisha. "You're sure it was the _archway_ in the next room that was the indoctrination device?"

"Not one hundred percent sure, no, but. . . the people who went crazy were working with it. Trying to figure out what it did." She shrugged, as best she could with her arms bound behind her.

"Right. Thank you. You've been very helpful." Eli walked back to rejoin the others, and looked at the _Raedia_ marines. "Okay, three of you need to stay back here. Keep an eye on her, keep this area secured. I would really hate it if any of the Lystheni happen to have gone outside for a walk in the snow or something and wandered back in their front door and headed for the control room."

"Would make life more exciting," Dempsey agreed, dryly.

Eli looked around at the rest of them. "Aft-wards. . . computer core. Reactor room. Shut the reactor down, and then what?"

Rel shook his head. "I'd vote against that, actually."

Eli blinked behind his faceplate. "Why? You want to see how well we all stand up to indoctrination?"

"No. The thing of it is. . . we were told to bring whatever here that seems useful back to Mindoir." Rel gestured around at the entire ship. "I know I'm not a tech, but I don't know what's useful from what's not useful."

Zhasa nodded now. "There's also the issue of what are we going to do with what we don't take?" the quarian added, softly. "My people are experts at scavenging ships, you all know this. No matter how much we take, we would either leave the bulk of the ship behind for. . . that batarian SIU unit to find, or other people. Or we'd have to find a way to destroy it so thoroughly that not even the scraps would be of use. And that's a waste."

Eli looked around. "All right. So what do you propose we do? Fly it back to Mindoir?" It sounded crazy, on the surface of it. . . but hell, it was a ship.

Zhasa lifted her hands. "If the hull and engines are still intact. . . I don't see why not."

"There is the minor problem," Dempsey pointed out, "Of several thousand tons of ice on top of the ship."

Zhasa's voice had a smile in it as she replied, "Well, the engines will take care of part of that, won't they? And the ship has weapons, doesn't it?"

"And in the meantime," Dara muttered, darkly, "we can all be getting nicely brainwashed on our trip back to Mindoir."

"Might be able to disable indoctrination machine," Kirrahe offered. "Can study."

Eli shook his head. "I have a slightly better idea," he told them, and slid his vibrosword free of its scabbard on his shoulder. "Is it safe to go in there yet?" he asked, gesturing at the stasis room now with his free hand.

"Has cooled substantially. May need to watch for overhead items." Kirrahe peered into the room, and they all edged in, looking up warily, Dempsey, Zhasa, and Glory all ready to repel anything else that fell from the ceiling with their biotics.

The central room was huge, and the ladder/walkway on which they currently stood ran the length of it, close to the size of a football field. They paused at a small, jagged alcove in the starboard wall, and looked up at the huge, curving apparatus there. "Dragon's Teeth," Dempsey said, simply.

"Seen them before?" Eli asked.

"Oh yeah." Dempsey looked around, a little blankly. "Used to find the bodies impaled on them, thrown there by the geth . . . well, the geth 'heretics,' anyway. Always seemed kind of excessively violent for machines that weren't supposed to have emotions." His voice was empty. "And then the dead bodies would come back to life. Sort of." _Like me. Except I never actually died. That's how I know I'm not actually a husk. Though. . . I do kind of wonder where Cerberus got the nanites they used to rebuild me._ "Best anyone's been able to figure out, the Dragon's Teeth inject the bodies in the vicinity with nanites. And they built cybernetic relays in the husks and fire off electrical impulses to make the bodies move. The ones that have been around the longest, tend to have the best networks of nanites in their bodies. More dangerous than fresh ones." Dempsey stared bleakly at the apparatus. _Maybe Cerberus used these nanites and . . . redesigned them a little. For Shepard. For me. _

Dempsey prodded one of the charred bodies on the floor with a toe. "However, I don't think these guys are coming back, even with that kind of technology. It needs something to work with. There's not a hell of a lot left here for the tech to use."

Sidonis nodded, and then his sword rose. Kirrahe jumped. "What are you doing?" the salarian demanded, sharply.

"Disassembling the damn thing," Sidonis replied, calmly. "I'm not blasting it to bits with my beam weapon, or anything like that. I'm taking it to nice, neat chunks that someone can study in a hot lab somewhere. And I'm going to do the same thing to the indoctrination device when we find it. For everyone's safety."

Dempsey shook his head. "Dunno about that, man." The human paused. "The Dragon's Teeth hold nanites. They don't usually get out into the environment unless there's a reason for them to. . . hate to see what would happen if we cracked the damn thing open and let them all out. Don't know what they'd do to living flesh, honestly."

Sidonis' hand had paused. "All right," he asked. "What do we do with them, then?"

"Got no problems taking the indoc device to little pieces for the time being. The DT. . . can either just leave it alone for now, or we can cut it out of the floor. Haul it somewhere on the surface, and blow it to hell with high explosives, or even an orbital strike from the _Raedia_."

"Would lose valuable chance to study both or either," Kirrahe noted, sharply. "Constructing defenses against indoctrination would be valuable. Understanding mechanism by which husks were produced also useful."

"Understood," Sidonis said, dryly, "but I'm much more concerned about our overall safety. Especially if we're thinking of _flying_ this thing back home."

"I'm on board with that," Dempsey said, immediately, "but, like I said, let's leave the Dragon's Teeth alone for a bit. Take out the indoc station, though, for certain."

Sidonis nodded, and turned away. They headed aft, to the large, arch-shaped metal device that the Cerberus agent had spoken of, tucked in a different alcove, and this time, his sword and Pellarian's both flashed, and they started taking the archway to pieces.

Kirrahe muttered, "Opportunity for study lost, but. . . understandable. Have no desire to be brainwashed, or overwhelmed by husks. Still. . . vexing."

"We'll find you something else aboard to play with," Dara told the salarian, her voice holding a grin. "Ship this big? Got to have something good."

"Hopefully, this was actual indoctrination device," Kirrahe noted, dryly. "Would be unfortunate if this were merely food replication device, or small transit device, such as the one on the Citadel was."

Sidonis turned back towards him, face obscured by his polarized visor, but his voice was wry as he said, "Hey, I'll _label_ all the pieces for you so they can go back in the right order, but not right this second, all right?"

"Just noting possibility that indoctrination device could be located elsewhere. Cerberus agent may not know enough to have substantive information." Kirrahe kept his tone dispassionate, however. No sense in antagonizing the others.

"I know, Orlan," Sidonis told him, calmly. "Just trying to mitigate the risks here, that's all." 

_Life-songs,_ Glory told them all. _Beyond hatch at end of long chamber._ Information flooded into Kirrahe's mind then. _They gather, sing protection-songs for their queen. They have heard the songs of battle. Work to remove her, to make an escape._

"How? Tunnels?" Dempsey's voice was sharp.

_Would not the light-weapons of the Collectors be able to sing digging-songs through the ice above?_ Glory asked. _This is what they sing._

"We have to stop them," Kirrahe said, sharply. "We can't let them escape with the dalatrass AI."

"Then let's move," Sidonis said, and they broke from disassembling the 'indoctrination' device to move aft once more.

Kirrahe punched at the controls on the hatch there futilely. "Not encrypted," he assessed. "Door has been welded, I think."

Sidonis nodded, and turned to look at Velnaran in particular, but at all the others. "Fast and loud or stealthy and slow?"

"Fast," Velnaran said, instantly, and Dempsey nodded.

"Yes," Kirrahe told them all. "Don't give them time." All he could think about, at the moment, was making sure that this AI node did not get evacuated. He wanted access to it. He _needed_ access to it. Two-fold need, in fact: first, it needed to be destroyed, to ensure Narayana's safety. Second, however, it would give him an excellent way in which to assess the AI's resilience to the AI virus he was developing, solely for use against the AI dalatrass. He needed, in essence, a test subject, and he wasn't willing to risk any of the NCAIs in such a fashion. And couldn't, actually, since their code was undoubtedly dramatically different from 'Xala's'. None of them had salarian mind-patterns to key off of, and his virus was very specifically tailored indeed.

Sidonis stepped back, and asked Pellarian, "Explosive frame?"

"You think I packed everything, _fradu?_ You think there might be a kitchen sink in my pack, too?"

"I haven't checked yet, but I actually wouldn't be surprised." Droll humor in both voices, as they fought the tension.

Pellarian chuckled and brought out a rectangular frame, and used a spray-foam canister to place explosive gel inside of it. Pushed it up against the door, with adhesives, set the detonator, and they all stepped back.

The door exploded inwards, the shaped charge cutting a defined space through the metal of the hatch, and then they were through and into the room beyond. This area was different than the rest of the ship. It retained the rock-like walls and its ceiling was lower than the stasis area behind them, but it was filled with towering gray cylinders, with holographic interfaces shooting out of their sides like thorns or splinters of light. _Computer cores. Massive memory banks, processing power beyond what even an NCAI is typically capable of. . . what would one of them be able to do, with this much storage, this much processing power, at their disposal?_ Kirrahe blinked rapidly to clear his mind, and shifted to follow Pellarian deeper into the room. Following the sounds of cries of distress, shouted words in salarian. "Try not to hit servers," Kirrahe pointed out over the radio, perhaps unnecessarily.

"Understood," Pellarian told him, as they peeled off to the left, while Dempsey, Zhasa'Maedan, and Velnaran went right. The Lystheni ahead of them in the room ducked around the corners, using the cylinders that housed the computer cores as cover, and launched their own attacks. Kirrahe's shields fizzled, and he ducked back behind Pellarian, instantly. _Some sing concealment songs!_ Glory warned, and Kirrahe was able to see, at least a little, that someone was, indeed, creeping up the length of the wall towards them. He knew the target was there, but he couldn't _see_ it. . . so he fired at it, blindly, hoping to hit something, at least. A shield shimmered, and the stealth-net tore away, giving him a clear target, but they were taking steady fire from another salarian at floor level, just around the computer core area. . . and then a third one, stealthed, but visible in Glory's battle-vision, just barely, climbed atop the nearest computer core and began firing down at them, rapid-fire. Two of the attackers were burning through the clips of their submachine guns, pouring fire directly on Pellarian and his shield, trying to wear through his kinetic shields, punch through the armor.

Kirrahe shook his head. "Glory," he said. "Can you do anything about the one at the top?"

_May send him flying freely, or sing his shields into silence._

"Ah. . . flying. If you would, please." Kirrahe was nothing if not polite. He watched in satisfaction as the Lystheni tumbled away, helpless, bound in the gravitational field of an unseen singularity, and then stepped out from behind Pellarian. All offense now, he aimed deliberately and carefully for the salarian against the wall, and opened fire with his assault rifle. The two remaining attackers were concentrating their fire on him now, but Kirrahe knew how much time he had before his shields overloaded. . . and drilled through the shields of the Lystheni tech against the wall before his shields failed. He started to duck back behind Pellarian, and was knocked back, tumbling and rolling, by a concussive shot from above—the tech Glory had sent flying, had regained control of his body, and landed atop a different computer storage tier. Kirrahe staggered back to his feet and stumbled forward, just as Pellarian fired his pistol with lethal accuracy, sending the tech up atop the server container flying again. . . this time to the ground.

He moved forward again, this time switching to pistol. He didn't want to take a chance on hitting the computers, and he needed a better angle of fire on the one crouching behind this bay of servers. . . and then _another_ attacker appeared, another bank of servers back, and another blue-white flash of light flared around his shields dropping them. Glory scuttled up beside him and opened up with a fusillade of biotic power, and he heard, behind him, dimly, Pellarian shouting, "Kirrahe, fall back! Damn it, Orlan, get back where I can protect you—" but he had his own target firmly in sight, and shot and killed the closest Lystheni. _Good. No damage to the computers yet._

Hails of gunfire on the other side of the room. Glory was backing his own target, who was near the aft hatch, up against the wall, stalking the salarian relentlessly. A voice came over the radios then, and Kirrahe's head snapped up. Female. Female and salarian. _"Kirrahe? Now that is a name I've not heard spoken in a long time."_ Whispers in the voice. Whispers and promises.

Kirrahe's hands shook on his pistol. _"Kirrahe Orlan. . . why, you must be related to old Hold-the-Line, himself."_ Amusement now.

"_Kirrahe, don't listen to her—"_ Dara Jaworski's voice, full of concern, in salarian, over the radio now, too.

"_Come here,"_ Dalatrass Xala said. Command-imperative voice lashed out and hit him. Social constraint, instinctive constraint, it didn't really matter which. Conditioning said. . . obey.

Kirrahe moved forward. Slowly. Narayana's younger voice in his head now, too. Memories. She'd been wearing a little human dress, in violet. Violet ribbons around her aural horns. So odd to see, and she'd probably be physically larger than he was, when she reached her full growth. He wondered if she'd still like wearing dresses then.

"_They say I'm supposed to talk to you in the rude voice. Daddy and Ellie and everyone always said it was rude to talk to grown-ups in that voice. And Ellie said it was bad to demand things of people. To use them."_

"_You're not being demanding. You're. . . making sure I'll be safe. Making sure others will be safe."_

"_You're sure? Daddy always said not to do this."_

"_I'm sure."_

"_Okay, if you say so. . . " Dubious notes in her voice. "Kirrahe Orlan!" Snap of the command-imperative now, and his head had rocked back at the force. "You will obey me."_

"_I will."_

"_You will obey Commander Shepard's orders as if she were a dalatrass."_

"_Already do so."_

"_Shush. I'm reading what she told me to read." Lapse out of the command voice, but he'd stayed silent. "Right, um. . . You may obey the dalatrass of House Kirrahe in social matters, but may not obey her in any matter that impinges on the security of the Spectres or STG."_

"_Good." That one had been a relief._

"_You will not obey the words of Dalatrass Xala, Zala, or any other dalatrass known to the Lystheni."_

"_What happens if they make you their dalatrass?" Kirrahe had paused. "Over my dead body, perhaps, but if under the unlikely circumstance that I am still alive and that comes to pass. . . ?"_

_Narayana had struggled with that for a moment. Pouted a little. "Then I guess it would be a bad thing if you obeyed me?" she'd finally offered, no command-imperative left at all. _

_Kirrahe had reached out and tugged gently on one of the ribbons. "Probably."_

"_Okay. If they make me their dalatrass, obey Shepard in all things." Rude noise to follow up the words, and then Narayana had gone off, giggling under her breath. Probably to tell her best friend Amara all about how she now had a personal servant who was a grown-up. . . or something like that. _

In the here and now, Kirrahe's boots scraped forward over the floor. The words ringing in his memory gave him space in which to think. Observe. The voice of the dalatrass was strong. Compelling. Powerful.

"Kirrahe!" Frustration-anger in Pellarian's voice, as three more Lystheni darted out from behind a bank of computer cores. Ignoring him, as he walked forward. Weapons at his sides. Head down. Not a threat. Obedient. Exchange of weapons fire now, Pellarian probably unable to fire back for the moment, since he was in the vicinity. "Glory, stop him—"

_No. Trust me. Let me do this thing. Please._ He hoped the rachni could hear the words. _I must do this._

_I hear_, Glory replied, simply. _Sing your song, and we will sing ours._

Kirrahe rounded the corner. Saw server boxes, connected to main power, somehow. Saw the holographic image of a female salarian. Rounded form, taller than he was. Commanding. Powerful. Long, concealing white robe. Brilliant green-yellow eyes, very much like Narayana's. Intelligence, incisiveness in that gaze. _"There you are. Good."_ Delight in her voice. _"My family has brought me reports. They say that you're very close to becoming a Spectre, Kirrahe Orlan. You've spent much time on the Spectre base? The __Mindoir__ base?"_

"_Yes, Mother-of-All."_

"_Do you know where my daughter is?"_ Eagerness in her voice.

Kirrahe smiled, thinly. _"Yes, Mother-of-All."_

"_Tell me!"_ Whip-crack. Powerful voice. Female voice.

Dead voice.

Kirrahe let it wash over him. Narayana's commands had given him a buffer in his own mind. Gave him the space to realize that however well-simulated the voice was, it was just that: a simulation. A computer, modulating sound-waves, parroting the tones of a dalatrass' voice, was not a dalatrass. Was not the leader of his house. Had no power over him, other than what he gave to it. _"No."_

He did take some enjoyment in the expression of consternation that spread over the avatar's face as he walked past her projection, and began tapping at the control panels. _"No? You can't tell me that, you. . . you. . ."_

"_Male? Non-Lystheni? Living salarian?"_ Kirrahe offered, helpfully, and continued typing. _"Mordin Solus could not be compelled, could he? He resisted your voice. Did only what he needed to do, in order to stay alive. To keep prisoners alive, with him. Did it sting, knowing that a male resisted you, Xala?"_ He paused, considered the arrays of information ahead of him in salarian computer code, and typed faster. _Yes, block her from other computers, compress her onto a single drive. . . prohibit access to ship's systems. . . there. Much better. "I resist you, too. I do not answer to you. I answer to Mordin Narayana and Commander Shepard. Also, you are __dead__, and the living do not answer to the dead. Illogical to assume anything else._" He paused, turned, and looked back at her projection. _"You, however, will be of great use to us."_

"_I will tell you nothing—guards! Guards, aid your dalatrass!"_

The gunfire had faltered, however, and Kirrahe watched out of the corner of his eyes as his friends advanced, warily, guns at the ready. Wondering, no doubt, if they needed to attack _him_. "You will tell us much," he told her in galactic now. "However, there is only one thing I really wish to know from you."

Xala glared at him. "And that is?"

"How I might best kill you. And all the copies of you, everywhere that you might be." Kirrahe considered her image. "It will be interesting to test my AI virus on you, and see how best to modify it for wide-scale distribution."

Her eyes widened in horror, and then he leaned over and pressed the _off_ button on the side of the computer. "Apologize," Kirrahe told the others, ruefully. "Could not allow the equipment to be damaged. Data vital for Narayana's protection."

Sidonis unlatched his face shield, showing his eyes. "All things considered, Orlan. . ." the human said, after a moment, "I'm all right with that." He gestured with his pistol at the collection of computer equipment. "She's. . . "

"Shut down. Possibly not as powerful as the one known to be in batarian space. As we have seen from Pelagia, an AI's intelligence relies on processors, server space, and access to information. With Pelagia's increased infrastructure, she has become, commensurately, far more than what her brethren on the SR ships currently are capable of being." Kirrahe blinked, rapidly. "This AI, although a copy of one uploaded by the Sower device, had limited quantities of server space. Processor power. And no extranet connection, so all information had to be hand-carried to her, I suspect. Which is why they wished to upload her to the Collector ship itself."

Dara Jaworski's head swiveled around. "We're sure they didn't succeed, right here at the last?" she asked, nervously.

"Not one hundred percent certain. However, extremely unlikely, if they were unable to do so for five years, that they would succeed today, in the midst of power failures and an attack. However, will have Lysandra help me do a systems analysis before we attempt to move the vessel." Kirrahe's eyelids lifted slightly as he narrowed his glance. "Also, will test my virus on the contained AI. If successful, will deploy on ship's computers. Any vestiges of her will then be wiped out, I trust."

Eli shook his head again. Kirrahe was absolutely ruthless, in his mild-mannered way. And again, he had no problem with it at all. Narayana had been adopted into his family. Mordin-Sidonis Narayana. His third-sister, in turian terms. "Good," he said, simply. "About damn time my family can come out of hiding."

"Will only be able to work if distributed across extranet. Into batarian comm channels. Even then, suspect they will have at least one node, separate from the extranet. Is what I would do." Kirrahe shrugged.

"It's a start, and if they're back on their heels, trying to protect their dalatrass from an invisible threat, they're not going to be racing to the base or anyplace else, trying to find my family." Eli's teeth hurt as he gritted them at the mere thought.

From there, they moved out. Cleared the reactor core, and dozens of other rooms. Glory insisted that he didn't hear any more life-songs, but they all knew that Lystheni, being salarians, could hibernate. Could be chipped, and could have AIs of themselves running their bodies, from a distance, able to fool even deep-listening biotics, like rachni. Nervous work.

After three hours, they returned to the stasis room. Rel caught Eli's shoulder, and pulled him aside. "Hey—"

"Yeah?"

Rel looked around. "They're all dead, right?"

Eli looked down at the charred bodies on the floor. They were definitely going to have to do something about this. And not just because of the Dragon's Teeth in the same room with them. Charred bodies _smelled_, and he really didn't want to open his visor in here. "Well, you know, Rel, I'm not actually an _expert_ in the field, but they look pretty dead to me. _Sai'kaea?"_ Eli called to Dara. "I need your expert medical opinion here."

She'd clearly overheard the conversation, and picked up on the lightly needling tone. "What, you want me to take their pulse or something?" She walked over, gingerly stepping over scorch marks here and there. "They're dead. They're very, very dead."

"'Very dead' is a clinical term?"

"Yes. Describes the extent of the morbidity. There's mostly dead, dead, very dead, and this, which is 'very, very dead.'" She was keeping her face and tone deadpan for this. A shield against the reality of the lives they'd had to take here today. Yes, they'd all been enemies, all of them had been ready to kill them, or at least, attempt to do so. . . but seeing a hundred bodies in this room alone, and such . . . thoroughly cooked ones. . . was giving them both some minor pangs.

Rel snorted at their words. "Do you need me here?" he asked, turning his head to look between them.

Eli shook his head. "No. Go." _I just hope she hasn't woken up yet._ "And when she's better, get her the hell back down here. We need her." He gestured at the banks of stasis pods and their cryptic control panels. "None of the rest of us speaks Prothean. I mean, yeah, the language might have changed a bit in fifty thousand years and a whole lot of brainwashing . . . but if you really want us to be crazy and fly this thing out of here? I think we're going to need someone to tell Zhasa which button does what up on the bridge."

Rel actually smiled a little at that, and jogged out of the room.

Eli turned and glanced at Dara. "You think he'll be okay?"

She sighed. "Depends on her." Dara looked around. "I should go up, too. I. . .really hate having a patient that I can't look after."

Eli slid a hand to her shoulder. _Go on, then. But get back down here when you can. We'll probably want to work in shifts until we're sure that that indoctrination device really was what we thought it was._

Flash of yellow unease. _Yeah. Probably wise. Split the shifts in three, so you're on, Lin's on, I'm on?_

_That'll work. _Mental image of a kiss, and then they broke away, with her heading out of the room, with a single upwards, apprehensive glance at the fire damage above. . . and the nets her rachni workers had spun around the damaged stasis pods , to prevent any more of them from falling to the area below.

**Seheve, _Raedia_, February 3, 2197**

Darkness. Only darkness, for the longest time. Vague impressions of. . . sound. Of someone telling her to wake up. Seheve's lips tightened. She didn't want to awaken. It was quiet here. It was peaceful, and warm, and dark, and there was nothing here.

"Seheve, please." The words were distant. "Didn't we tell you, just yesterday, that dying wasn't acceptable? That we weren't going to let you atone by killing yourself, or by letting you find someone willing to kill you? Or by just plain not fighting?" Rel's voice, a quiet rasp right now. "Come on. Fight. Please."

_Fighting takes energy_, she wanted to tell him. _Fighting is useless. Every time I've fought, it's confirmed those words. It's made things worse. Made the universe worse._

Except. . . she knew that wasn't true. Fighting the batarians on Arvuna had made that world better and safer, cleared the planet of those who would use others as toys or tools. Fighting the yahg on Shanxi had cleared the planet of invaders who would use others as tools. . . or as meat for their tables. Fighting in the pirate base had removed people who, again, would hurt others for profit.

"Please, Seheve. Please. Just open your eyes." Warmth of a hand entwined with hers.

It was difficult. The warm darkness beckoned. And when she did open her eyes, the light of the room was an assault. "Too. . . bright," Seheve managed, and someone in the room, blessedly, dimmed the lights for her too-sensitive drell eyes. Those lights were positioned behind Rel's head, and cast his entire face into shadow. But he leaned down and pressed his forehead against hers, lightly, exhaling a bit as he did so.

"Where. . . ?" Seheve's voice was a dry rasp.

"_Raedia_ med bay." Dara's voice, from behind her. "This place is getting to be a bad habit." Cool human fingers, shielded by rubber gloves, took her other wrist, and checked her pulse. "You gave us all a hell of a scare, Seheve. Drell don't really have a hibernation reflex when they're exposed to cold, the way humans, quarians, asari, and salarians do."

Seheve blinked. Looked at Rel. "What. . . happened?"

"What do you remember?" he asked.

Seheve blinked. It was an odd experience, not being able to remember things clearly, immediately. Disconcerting, to say the least. "I fought a Lystheni. . . in the cab of the trailer? He set the vehicle into . . . the water?" She paused. "Jumping from it. Into the fluid. Yes. This."

It should have had all the immediacy of eidetic memory, but it did not. "Memory's. . . fuzzy. Incomplete."

An exhalation from Dara. "Well. . . that's to be expected, considering the fact that you were, technically, dead for a minute or two there."

Seheve's head shifted, and she stared at the female. _Dead. How am I alive now. . . ?_

"Zhasa jumped into the ocean after you, swam down, got a hold on you, and threw you into the air. Dempsey caught you, put you on the ground and then I was kind of busy looking after you, but I know Zhasa needed to be fished out after that, since her safety line broke." Dara's tone was light and calm, merely relaying information. "We got you inside, revived you, started treatment for the burns on your arms and legs and hands—no, don't look—" Seheve stopped the movement. She had little choice, because it felt as if her arms and legs were bound to the bed. She glanced down, and tried to see how the ligatures were knotted, however. . . and realized that they were leather straps, buckling her in place.

"Why—"

"They really don't want you to re-open the wounds," Dara said, simply. "You had exposure to liquid methane/ethane, Seheve. The equivalent of third-degree burns, but from cold, not heat, to about ten percent of your body. They kept you knocked out while they were debriding the skin and the scales, and the medigel's working, and we're using human synth-skin for the moment, until we can encourage your natural scales to grow back, but it looks wonky, and they don't want you to freak out and start clawing at it." She rested a gentle hand on Seheve's shoulder. "Okay, now that you know the worst, I'm going to leave you two alone."

She started to turn to leave, putting a datapad back in the pocket at the foot of the bed. "Wait—" Seheve hesitated. The fact that Spectre Zhasa could have been _killed_ trying to save her made her sick inside. "Why?"

Dara's head turned, and the human female's wide blue eyes were clearly puzzled, and she shot a look past Seheve towards Rel. "Why what?"

"Why would Zhasa risk herself. . . to save me?" Seheve's voice was still a rasp.

Rel's grating snarl filled the silence after her words limped out, however, and Dara raised her hands quickly. "And, I'm out," she said, pulling the curtain up and out of her way as she hastened away.

"Stay in earshot," Rel snapped after her. "If I go into blood-rage here and decide to kill someone, I'll need you to put them back together again."

"Don't I always?" Faint hint of mischief in the words.

The curtain swung down behind her. But the footsteps didn't go that far away. True to her word, Dara was staying nearby, in case she was needed. Seheve turned her head to look at Rel, who, very gently, traced a hand over the scales of her scalp now. "All right," Rel told her, and his grim tone was very much at odds with his gentle touch, "What in the spirits' names are you talking about, Seheve? Why _wouldn't_ Zhasa risk herself to save you? Why wouldn't _any_ of us risk our lives to save each other?" A low, grating sound of exasperation, and he added, "You yourself risked your life to save mine. And Lin's." A dark look. "So? Why'd _you_ do that?"

Seheve blinked. Swallowed through a parched throat, and whispered, "Because. . . you're. . . worth saving."

His fingers tightened on hers, and she winced as pain lanced through them, and glanced down, startled. Her fingers and hands were completely swathed in light gauze, and Rel muttered an imprecation in turian and loosened his fingers. "Sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you." He rubbed his free hand over his fringe, and just stared at her for a long moment. "What am I going to _do_ with you?" he said then, and his voice filled with frustration. "How am I ever going to get you to see that you're worth saving, too? That. . . that you mean something. To me, anyway." His voice was halting. "Nothing we do together can ever have any meaning if you're always turned away, one foot out the door and looking for a grave to jump into!" He flushed a little, blue climbing through his face, and stopped himself. Did the breathing exercises she recognized from hours of doing kata together, clamped his teeth tightly until, apparently, he trusted himself to speak again. "You _died_," Rel went on, a little more quietly. "You fell into the water, the darkness, and Zhasa jumped in after you, and Dara and Eli gave you their breath, and Dara shocked and bullied your heart into living again. They all brought you back. If you're looking for punishment, isn't that enough? Isn't having died enough atonement?" Rel waved his free hand in exasperation, his voice grating now so much that the words were hard to hear, rock rasping over rock.

Seheve swallowed, hard. "You. . . don't understand."

The silence grew longer. "What don't I understand?" Rel asked, in some frustration. "I can't possibly understand if you don't _tell_ me."

Seheve closed her eyes. "How can I _possibly_ ever atone for seventy-four lives?" she said, after a long moment, her voice toneless. "I only have one life to give."

Rel slumped back in his chair. "And we're back to this again," he said, in a tone of absolute defeat.

The curtain stirred, and Dara came back in, with a paper cup of water, which she put to Seheve's lips. It was like the nectar of the gods, Seheve thought, as the fluids soothed her parched throat. "I apologize for overhearing," Dara said, her tone neutral, "but if you don't mind my asking, Seheve, in all those perfect memories of yours. . . how many lives have you saved?"

Rel's head snapped up. Seheve winced, and turned her face away. "Mine," Rel pointed out, holding up a finger. "Lin's."

"Mine, on Arvuna," Dara pointed out. "And not just by being my bodyguard the entire time, keeping the Eclipse leader from trying to force 'sharing' on me. But again, mine, Melaani's, Zhasa's, and Ylara's, when we were stuck in the stasis field."

"Spectre Velnaran and Kirrahe Orlan and Spectre Sky had something to do with that endeavor," Seheve pointed out, softly.

Dara sighed. Rel leaned forward, and took Seheve's hand again. "All right. Mine again, on Shanxi. You were one of the people who administered first-aid after the yahg leader bit my leg."

Seheve simply shook her head, not looking at them. She couldn't possibly make them understand. Why was it that Linianus Pellarian was the only one of them who _did_? "Okay," Dara offered. "You won't accept any of the ones on the job. How about in the Bastion med bay, during the plagues? You worked there till you got sick. You got sick, you offered your blood for the antibodies to try to manufacture a vaccine for other drell. You basically had to be chased out of there by the damn orderlies, rather than try to continue to work, when you'd just gotten up out of your deathbed." Dara held up her omnitool. "I have to keep records to see the names of the people I actually saw live back then, Seheve. You don't. How many lived, that you helped tend to? How many people's suffering did you ease, as they died?"

It came up out of her chest as a wail then. "It doesn't matter! None of it matters!"

Dara stepped away, and Seheve saw her look past the bed, to where Rel still sat, lightly touching her bandaged hand. "Why not?" Rel demanded. "Why does all the good that you do, not outweigh the bad? How many lives do you have to save, before the account books are settled in your eyes, Seheve?"

"It. . . doesn't work like that," Seheve managed to say, after a long and miserable moment, still not looking at him. "I can never make it right. Except with my own life."

"So, the only way for you to make it right is to die?" Rel told her. "If we kill you seventy-three more times, and Dara brings you back each time—"

"Whoa," Dara said, sharply. "I'm not doing that—"

"—will the _futtari_ account-books be settled _then_?" Rel paused, and she could hear him, again, trying to settle his breathing. Long inhales and exhales.

Dara sat on the edge of the bed, and Seheve looked up at the human female, who was studying both of them now. "You know," Dara said, reflectively, "in human religions, there's this concept called baptism. It's mostly symbolic magic, really. Nowadays, it's a little sprinkle of water on someone's forehead. Back in the day, it was a full dunking in a river. And that goes back to older rituals. Where the priest of a sort of vegetation and fertility god re-enacted the god's death by being ritually 'drowned' and 'brought back to life.'" Dara made a face.

Seheve nodded slowly. "Humans like to keep their reminders. Their old things, still with them. Like your pyramids."

Rel shifted in his chair. "Or dancing at weddings to make the fields fertile. You going somewhere with this, Dara?"

"Yeah, actually." Dara exhaled. "It means, in a symbolic sense, that the life you had before is gone, and you've been brought back to a clean slate. You've been washed clean in the water, and reborn. Now, I'm not one for religion." She looked at Seheve. "And neither are you. You know, more than anyone I've ever met, what happens when a bunch of people get together and decide that they _know_ all the answers, and that everyone else should believe what they believe, because that gives them power over others. But . . . Shepard has said a few things over the past few months that have kind of stuck with me. Remember right after we saw the rachni ships for the first time, Seheve? On our way to the Citadel? And Siara was saying that she didn't know if she'd lived thousands of years ago, and had only had the information her ancestors had had, if she'd have made any better decisions than they did, about the rachni, and wiping them out?"

Seheve nodded. Eidetic memory, bane and blessing. "Commander Shepard said that it is easy to second-guess the decisions made by people of times past, because we apply our current principles and knowledge to their situations."

Dara nodded. "Yeah. That one kind of pertains to _you_."

Seheve's mind raced. Putting pieces together. Seeing the implications, but rejecting them, at least at first. Dara was suggesting that the asari had not known that the rachni were sapient. Members of an intelligent and beautiful species, albeit one that had been brainwashed by the Reapers into attacking the rest of the galaxy. That because they had not known these things, the decisions they had made, in raising the krogan, with the salarians, to destroy the rachni, they could not be adequately judged by people in the present, who had better information and the clear vision of hindsight. By implication, Dara suggested that Seheve could not judge her previous actions adequately. Because Seheve had been raised with only the _Words of the Enkindlers_ and the teachings of Olonkoa and the Master of Assassins to guide her. That now she knew those teachings to be wrong, and all of her previous actions to be wrong and misguided, but she had thought everything she had done, previously, to be just and correct. _Which is only true, in certain respects. I came to doubt the teachings. . . but I felt guilt at my doubt. Sought to corral my own errant thoughts. . . _Seheve turned her face away from Dara, but that brought her gaze directly back in line again with Rel's eyes, dark under his heavy orbital ridges.

She couldn't look away.

Dara shifted on the edge of the bed, and went on, softly, "Here's something else Shepard said to me, just a month ago. She said she got her second chance after she died at Amada. And she asked me what I planned to do with _my_ second chance. After I died on Khar'sharn." Dara's voice was tight, and Seheve felt Rel's hand tighten, very slightly, on hers. Saw the shadow cross his face. "I told her _everything_. And she said that was a good start." Dara slid off the edge of the bed. "You've got a second chance, Seheve. As far as I'm concerned, you're reborn today. Blank slate. What you do with it, is up to you. For the love of god, don't fuck it up." Rel glanced up, and Seheve knew they were meeting each other's eyes for a moment. "I'd offer you guys a chance to hear each others' songs. . . but I'm not real good at that. And I think if you guys really listen, you can probably manage it on your own, anyway." Dara swept the curtain aside, and added, gently, "And this time, I really am out of here. Push the nurse call button if you want more water, Seheve. If everything goes well, you should be out of here by morning."

**Rellus, _Raedia_, February 3, 2197**

Part of the problem, Rel decided, on talking with Seheve about these sorts of things, was that he genuinely, himself, didn't entirely know what he felt about her. There were pieces and parts, and his own spirit was tangled at the moment. He knew that when he was with her, there was _peace_ in his heart, and it was like a balm inside the aching hollow places that the fire had burned out over the years. He knew that her mere presence was restful, and made him feel as if he was lying in a meadow somewhere, with his head pillowed on her lap, smelling grass and earth and looking up at the sky. Listening to the water of a stream gurgle by over stones.

He delighted in her deadliness in combat, but the fact that she fought with no passion at all, as emotionless as a geth, still startled him from time to time. But her very lack of passion in combat helped balance him, he supposed. She'd never lose her head. Would always be able to keep him calm.

That very calmness, Lin shuddered back from, Rel knew. Thought it meant that she was empty, a walking corpse. _Mor'loci_ of the worst sort, a husk without nanites to keep it going.

But Rel had seen more in her. He liked her shy, lurking sense of humor, which peeked out, from time to time, usually when he least expected it. It had been in retreat since the beginning of this mission, and he supposed he knew why. . . she was happy, and didn't think she deserved to be. He liked the way she did kata, with incredible precision of movement, every move efficient, neat, and clean. He liked the calmness that came to him when he practiced the forms with her, too. Embarrassing as it was, he'd actually rather liked dancing with her, so long as it was strictly in private, where no one could possibly see them.

He liked the unexpected flare of rage that she'd shown in Egypt, when their privacy had been violated by the reporter. . . and her unique brand of justice, which had had a component of her sly sense of humor in it, as well. And he certainly liked what they did in the nest. _Of course, as Lin told me to my face, that's my phallus thinking, and not my brain or my heart._

Rel inhaled, and exhaled now. There were a lot of things he _liked_ about her. But none of those feelings were really passionate, outside of the nest. He'd been content with seeing if the feelings would grow with time. He'd been stunned by his own reaction when she'd been pulled under the dark waters. Some of it had been helplessness, some of it had been genuine anguish, and there'd been anger at his own helplessness, and it had all hit at once, in a firestorm in his mind. Thankfully, Lin had been there to keep him from doing anything stupid.

He knew he didn't want to see her pass out of his life. That he treasured quiet moments with her. But he'd also had no problem with putting her out of his mind, and getting on with the mission at hand. Then again, he never _had_ had that problem, even with Dara. And everything he'd said to Eli was true, though he'd seen the concern in the human male's eyes (_don't make decisions that you'll regret_). He wouldn't have been able to do anything for Seheve but hold her unconscious hand. The way Eli had held Dara's, for two days, in this very med bay. And yet. . . the team had needed him. The mission had needed him. And the mission came first. It always had.

That all being said, he really didn't know what she felt towards him. Sometimes there was a look of quiet delight in her face when he caught her looking at him. And she'd occasionally surprise him with eagerness, as when he'd told her that she didn't _have_ to stay with him in their quarters on the _Raedia_. That she was free to have quarters of her own, if she wished. . . and yet, she'd stayed. Happily, or so he'd thought. And the contradictions in her, infuriating, yet fascinating. A trained, precise killer, who'd hesitate before joining a social function. Who'd quietly refused to go with him to the krogan drinking party on Trident, and yet, had deputized herself to watch all their backs, without their knowledge.

The silence was stretching out, as it so often did with her. So difficult to know what to say, that would bridge the gap. Once, Rel remembered, in Mindoir, in the spring, it had been _easy_ to bridge that gap with Dara. And then the gap had widened into a yawning abyss between them, and now, with Seheve, the gap was narrower, but so much deeper. So much more filled with perilous rocks below. And one wrong word could send him crashing down among them. For a blind instant, Rel wished Dara had stayed. Had laid one hand on his forearm, and one on Seheve's, to let their spirits commune, through her. So he could hear what was in Seheve, and she could hear what was in him, and they could finally make some damned sense of it all. The emotions were new, scarcely two months old, and fragile, and so damned _passive_ at times, that Rel found it bewildering. There was comfort. . . and he didn't want to give up that comfort or that fragile peace. But there was also very little passion. And he knew himself enough to know that he needed passion. Otherwise, what they did have, would die. And because he could never _quite_ tell what she felt. . . if she reciprocated any of his nascent feelings, really. . . it made it difficult, he realized, suddenly, for his feelings to grow. Love was, very often, a matter of a reciprocal loop, mutual admiration becoming mutual affection becoming mutual love becoming mutual passion. One feeding the other, ever and ever and on.

Rel finally raised his head, and looked at her now. "So," he said, quietly. "Second chances. Dara asked you what you plan to do with yours." He left it just that simple. Let her decide how to reply.

Seheve shook her head, slowly, against the pillow. "I. . . it's not that simple. . . "

"Yes," Rel told her. "It is. Everyone around you has been telling you it is. Shepard gave you a second chance. Parole, if you will, in the Spectres. A chance to do everything all over again. Do it right. Blasto went to Kahje and dealt with the hanar zealots there, the ones who trained you and set you on their personal enemies, did you know that? So that you could be free of them. Sky and he and Shepard put the knowledge of the Protheans into you, so you could have a second chance." His voice grated again. "Zhasa leaped into the dark and the cold to save you, and Dara put the spark of life back in your body just hours ago. How many second chances do you need, Seheve?" The words hurt to say, but they needed to be said. "Months ago, on Bastion, you told me that you didn't know much about _living_. And I said I was sort of out of practice with that myself. We both know a hell of a lot about killing, Seheve. Spirits know, we both know more than we need to about death." He met her eyes. It was a terrible thing to say to someone on their sickbed. "So what I need to know from you is this, Seheve. Are you really ready to start living? Or are you just going to continue _existing_? Because I'm ready to live. And I won't. . . " Rel exhaled. "I _can't_ stay with you, if you're going to keep one foot in the grave forever, ready to _give up_." That was what bothered him the most, he realized. The passive acceptance of guilt, the passive acceptance of death. The refusal to _fight_. Maybe this was the widening of the gap between turian and drell, beyond any ability to bridge it, but Rel knew, in his heart now, that he couldn't be with anyone who refused to fight. Who surrendered. _Am I worth a fight?_ he thought, and squeezed Seheve's fingers, very gently. _Am I worth it, Seheve? Do you feel anything for me, past light affection? Is what I feel for you, something that will endure?_

She still hadn't spoken. Simply stared at him, with her eyes wide and luminous, and he patted her hand. "All right," Rel told her. "I'll let you get better. I wanted to be here when you woke up, but if you don't need me here—" He stood, and pulled the curtain out of his way, although his heart ached inside of him.

"Please don't go." Seheve's voice was tight. "Please don't leave me."

Rel turned. Looked down at her, looking so deceptively fragile in the hospital bed. She was anything but, of course, but at the moment, she was so hurt, and on so many levels. And he was contributing to it, of course, in his fashion, but he had to _know_ what was inside of her. "You want me to stay?" he asked. If he had to force her to say the words, he would. There couldn't be silence anymore. Her peace had started healing his spirit, bringing acceptance in place of the equanimity he'd once had, as a much younger male, but now some measure of _his_ spirit _had_ to enter into her, or this could never work. She could be the stable ground on which he ran, but some of his spark, some of his fire, had to enter into her heart. Or there would never be any true reciprocation. Never love. Friendship, maybe. But not love. And he couldn't be with her, and not be all the way with her, and couldn't abide anything less from her. All or nothing. "Do you want me to stay?" Rel repeated.

"Yes. Please." Seheve pulled at her wrists, and he looked down at them.

"Do you want me to loosen those?"

"Please."

Rel unbuckled the restraints, and she pulled her hands free, not to look at the wounds, as he'd supposed she would, but to cover her face with the bandaged fingers. He was still standing, and felt foolish, but he didn't know what else to do with himself. He compromised, and crouched down by the bedside. Put a hand on her arm, and told her, as gently as he could, "Seheve. . . please. Won't you just _talk_ to me?"

"I . . . don't know what to say," she admitted, her voice a thin thread of sound. "I remember going into the dark waters. I remember sinking, though I struggled upwards. I remember the cold starting to come into my suit. And I remember thinking just one thing, over and over again." She lifted her face from her hands. "_I don't want to die._ Over and over again. Just. . . animal instinct, I suppose."

"But it made you fight?" Rel asked, quietly. "When you could have had what you have kept telling us, with words and deeds, that you wanted? Death and dissolution?"

"I . . . suppose so," Seheve replied, hesitantly. Her lips curved downwards. "I kept trying to swim up. To where I could still see you, in my mind. But the water bore me down, anyway."

Rel slowly put his head down on the bed beside her. Inhaled, and exhaled again, tasting her scent on his tongue now. "So," he said, after a moment. "You admit that you want to live. Shocking. What are we going to do with you now?"

Seheve hesitantly put a hand on his fringe, and Rel closed his eyes at the sensation. "I don't know," she told him, quietly. "I told you once, I am unsure how to go about living."

"I thought we'd agreed that we'd try to figure that out together." His throat tightened on the words.

"We had."

Rel nodded against the sheets. "Then I'm going to need things from you, Seheve," he told her, simply. "You can put it down to the turian love of rules and regulations if you want to, but I need you to promise me things. First, no more _trying_ to get yourself killed. Risking yourself for others is fine, but not actively trying to get yourself killed. Second, you need to start _talking_ to me." Rel lifted his head. "I talked with Dara for hours when we first started dating, and by the end, I was hardly talking with her at all. If I talk _less_ with you in four years than we're talking now, I might as well go join the spirit dancers of the Aurum mountains right now and take a vow of silence. I need to know what you're thinking and what you're feeling, your doubts, your uncertainties, all of it. Because if you don't tell me something's wrong, I am _not_ a mind-reader, and I can't _fix_ it." Frustration in his voice. "I listen, Seheve. I've been told that I'm good at it, and that I have spirit-eyes, and all the rest, but I can't hear what isn't spoken."

Seheve shook her head faintly. "I don't know how—"

"Then you can take _talking_ lessons from Eli. Because the spirits know, he's never been able to keep his mouth shut, even when a gun's pointed at him, in his life." Rel paused. "That, Seheve, was a joke."

Her lips quirked up at the corners. "Actually. . . " she told him, smiling a little more, "I noticed that."


	141. Chapter 141: Salvage

**Chapter 141: Salvage**

**Author's note:** _My copy of __ME3__ just arrived today (Thursday), so I will be jumping down that rabbit hole, same as any number of my readers. . . but will continue to write the chapters, as well._

_To answer a few inevitable questions before they're asked. . . no, my quarians won't change their overall look. It seems that they're close enough, to me, as is. (Hair, check, if different consistency, eyes that glow. . . well, my quarians' eyes glow for real reasons. They're fair-skinned, with an undertone of violet from blood flow, in exactly the way Caucasian humans are fair, with pink undertones from blood flow. I've deliberately never described their ears, but always, for me, they were on the sides of the head, so, check, more or less. Black markings around the eyes? More or less check. The only question left, for me, really, is if they'll have predator teeth or not.) _

_No, I don't plan to change the entire continuity of this fic to match up with what ME3 really has in it. . . this was always intended as a shot in the dark, and I really look forward to seeing what I guessed right, and what I guessed wrong. :-)_

**Elijah, February 4-11, Bothros, 2197**

The next week was very busy indeed. Cohort came down from the _Raedia_ to help investigate the Collector ship, and raised interesting questions about _how_, precisely, they planned to get the ship out from under thousands of tons of ice in order to fly it out of the system. "If it can even achieve escape velocity," Cohort pointed out, in that polite geth fashion. "Bothros gravity is one-point-five of Earth standard; too much for even the _Raedia_ to achieve a landing and escape again easily."

Eli had shaken his head. "That's option one. Option two is identifying everything we can, and stripping it out of here, which we're also prepared to do."

"Having contingency plans maximizes efficiency. Consensus has been reached. We will assist with both plans, until it becomes apparent that one or the other is impossible or less preferable."

Eli had shot Dara a glance at that, and gotten blue-green amusement back from her. _Did you expect anything less from the geth?_

_Not really, but damn._

Flurry of activity. Bringing both Cerberus techs back to the ship, and having them identify different rooms and components was a help. Technicians from the _Raedia_ swarmed over the vessel. Eli checked in on his teammates as best he was able, but he was, quite deliberately, only spending eight hours on site a day. Eight hours in the ship, overseeing everything, then eight hours out in one of the shuttles, keeping Dara, who was then in the Collector ship, company by radio, and then eight hours, exercising and sleeping on the _Raedia_, while Dara took a turn in the shuttle, keeping Lin company by radio. Limiting exposure to anything that might still be in the Collector vessel, keeping their minds fresh. The technicians were staying in for twelve-hour shifts, and no one was allowed to sleep on-board, though Glory and Cohort both insisted that they sensed no indoctrination attempts. Eli knew he'd cut the supposed indoctrination device to small pieces and yet. . . . _why take chances till we're ready to fly this thing?_

On the second day, Seheve came down from the _Raedia_ with Rel, pronounced fit for light duty by the medics. . . "and by light, we mean, no combat. She can hold a datapad, you understand? Nothing more. No climbing, acrobatics, fighting, anything," had been the note Eli had gotten from Dr. Mannerian. He was, occasionally, surprised that the doctor was still aboard, after Sky's ultimatum to Captain Arius, months ago, but the female had, apparently, reached an understanding with Glory at least. . . and wasn't really poking and prodding at Dara. Dara might not be welcome in the med bay as a colleague, but there were no active experiments going on.

When Seheve came down to the planet, Dara was up on the ship, getting a much needed shift with sleep, and Eli was in charge on the ship. He greeted Seheve and Rel with a quick smile, and told her, simply, "Glad to see you back on your feet."

"I understand that I owe you thanks," Seheve told him, her eyes wide.

Eli blinked. "For what? Zhasa took the hose out of my hand before I could jump in after you."

Seheve looked startled, and glanced at Rel, who shrugged. Eli didn't need biotics to understand that exchange. Rel hadn't told her that part. Probably hadn't even known it, himself, considering the fact that he'd been out of it at that exact moment in time. "I, ah, meant for the CPR procedures," Seheve explained, quietly.

Eli shrugged, and fell into his usual mode of self-deprecation. "Eh, wasn't much. Dara just had me take over while she was getting injections and stuff ready for you." Another quick shrug. "Just nice to see that it actually worked." _Unlike poor Brennia_, he thought. This marked only the second time he'd used CPR and it had actually worked. _Have to tell Dara that we've improved to a fifty-percent average against the Grim Reaper. She might even laugh._ Eli glanced down at Seheve's hands, which had thin bands of pale skin over the knuckles still—synth-skin, standing in for her real scales, until they could grow back. The skin looked green-blue, from the natural color of her flesh and blood under the skin, but the textural difference made it appear slightly shiny and paler. Knuckles, wrists, elbows, armpits, throat, groin, knees, and ankles . . . he'd seen it all, as Dara had worked on the female the day before. The biggest wonder was that she was up and about. "You want something to do?" he asked her, and glanced briefly at Rel.

"Yes. I would like to be of use," Seheve told him, firmly.

"We could've sent pictures up to the med bay," Eli told her, "but come on. Bridge area or . . . control center, or whatever it is, first. Zhasa's going crazy trying to figure out what all the buttons do, and if I hear 'you little _bosh'tet_!' one more time from up there, I'm going to have to break down and ask her what it means."

The three of them walked towards the control center, lightly dodging a team of techs who were pushing a cart with equipment across the rough floor. Zhasa greeted the drell female with glee, "Seheve! You're here, and you're about to save my sanity. What in Keelah's name does _this_ mean?" Zhasa pointed urgently at a set of buttons on one of about a dozen panels.

"And this," Eli muttered, "is where I back away slowly and find someplace else to be."

"You're not staying?" Zhasa asked, sounding displeased.

"Zhasa, I don't have any experience flying anything more complicated than an aircar or a hovercycle. I have no technical experience, and I don't speak Prothean. My general task right now might best be described as 'hovering' and I can hover anywhere in the ship that I want to, which is great." Eli's tone was wry. He felt about as useful as sail on a rocket at the moment.

Zhasa burst out laughing. Seheve darted a glance back at him, and at Rel, and Eli arched his eyebrows at her quizzically. "Was there something, Seheve?" he asked.

"Rellus suggested recently that I should take lessons from you in talking." The statement was a little bald, and beside him, Rel stiffened a little. Eli looked from one to the other, eyebrows still raised, and didn't say a word.

Rel cleared his throat. "That was, actually, a joke." He glanced at Eli. "Because you're known for always having something to say. Even when it would probably be wiser to say nothing."

"I take it this goes back to the whole AEC thing, and me telling off the guy who promptly hit me in the face again?" Eli offered, dryly. "I'd like to point out, I was skied on azure dust at the moment, and not by choice. Oh, and already had a concussion."

"I don't even remember any of it myself," Rel pointed out. "I just know what I was told. That even with people pointing guns at you, you wouldn't disavow your turian father."

Eli shrugged. "I've never once claimed to be _smart_," he pointed out, and looked back at Seheve. "Talking's easy. You open your mouth. Words come out. Whether or not they actually mean anything is entirely optional, and often a matter of pure luck."

Rel shook his head again. "And if you believe that one, my _fradu_ here probably has some land on Dymion he'd like to sell you."

Eli blinked a little at being referred to, by Rel, as his brother, and thought, _Well, that's progress, anyway_. Then he recovered himself, snorted, and they left the two females to their work on the bridge.

Over the course of the next few days, there were a half-dozen little conversations that stood out in Eli's tired mind. He'd come in one morning to relieve Lin on ship duty, and Seheve had been in the weapons area, working with the crews there, under Lin's watchful gaze, trying to see if they could use the ship's own weapons to destroy the ice overhead. . . .a course of action Cohort had preferred over Rel's initial idea of using the _Raedia's_ Thanix cannons, set at minimum yield, to cut through the ice. "We have been unable to raise the ship's kinetic shields," Cohort had reminded them all. "Even a millimeter too much exposure, and we will strip the hull, cause breaches, prevent the ship from reaching orbit, and certainly cause it to expel gases, if it does reach orbit, however unlikely that occurrence is."

And as he'd stood there with Lin, having gotten a feel for what had happened in the last eight hours, as techs had scrambled to try to identify important pieces of tech that they wanted to remove, and what the hell Kirrahe was up to in the computer core area with Lysandra and Glory, Lin asked him, leaning on the back of the station at which Seheve was working, "Say, _fradu_, you remember when we were talking about those criminal justice courses you were looking at? And you were asking me if I thought there was anything in them about what to do with the batarians, in terms of punishing them and then reintegrating them as productive members of galactic society?" Lin's voice held a little derisive swoop at the end of the sentence.

Eli looked up from the datapad filled with notes in surprise. "Yeah. Corrections theory, I think it was. Something about. . . recidivism. Chances of people re-offending. I think there was stuff in it about parole boards and all that jazz."

Lin nodded. "Started on that course last night in the shuttle, actually. Something to keep me awake while being prepared to run in here and pull you all out if you start shouting 'I love the Reapers! Reapers forever!' at the top of your lungs."

Eli snorted with laughter. "Okay, and?"

Lin shrugged. "It asks good questions. Reminds me of some of our old debates with Serana about what the purpose of laws are, to punish evil or to protect the innocent."

Eli blinked, and kept looking through the notes. They were standing directly behind Seheve, and Lin wasn't lowering his voice. _He wants to say something to her without saying it directly? Interesting._ "So I guess the course asks questions about what the nature of punishment is?"

Lin nodded. "Yeah. Two major theories of punishment. One is reform-minded, and the other is deterrent-minded. Serana would agree with the reformation school, I bet. The theory is that someone enters a prison, pays their dues, shows remorse, maybe learns a lesson, they're let out. Never to sin again." Another slightly derisive twist to his tone. "Second half of the course asks why people tend to re-offend and wind right back up in prison, which is where, theoretically, they shouldn't want to return, right?"

Eli nodded. "Probably something to do with the fact that as soon as they're released, they wind up going back to the exact same living conditions as before. Same friends, same family, same area. Makes old habits and old pressures hard to escape, so why not use the same solutions as they used before?" He paused.

"Also, there's the social stigma. Good upstanding citizens are reluctant to associate with a known criminal, and no wonder."

Eli could _feel_ Seheve stiffen in the chair, and wondered where Lin was going with this. "So someone's to be punished for the rest of their lives, then? Even after they've paid their debt? 'Once a thief, always a thief, what you want you'll always steal. . . ?'" He half-sang the line, and snorted as Lin stared at him. "Sorry. One of the little side benefits for having a human rachni queen as my _marai'ha'sai_ is that Dara's. . . eclectic taste in music is rubbing off. She wakes up with a song from two hundred years or four hundred years stuck in her head, and I hum it for the rest of the day."

Lin snorted with laughter. "So what's that from?"

"A musical called _Les Miserables_. She played me some songs from it the other night. Has a character named Valjean who stole a loaf of bread to feed his sister's child, spent twenty years in prison for that, and for trying to escape. Gets paroled, the inspector, a guy named Javert, who gives him his parole card tells him he'll always be a thief . . .and when he breaks parole, the inspector spends another ten or twelve years tracking him down. In the meantime, the man's become an upstanding citizen, mayor of his town, gives to charity, employs hundreds of people for decent wages. . . and then Javert catches up with him." Eli cleared his throat, looked around. . . _okay, no one but Lin or Seheve in ear-shot. . ._and hesitantly sang. . . "I've hunted you across the years. . . men like me can never change, men like you can never change, no . . . two-four-six-oh-one. . . my duty's to the law, you have no rights!" His voice became a snap on that line, and he saw Seheve jump, and Lin wince a little, "Dare you talk to me of crime, and the price you had to pay? Every man is born in sin, every man must choose his way. . . ." Eli waved a hand, dismissing it. "It's more complicated, because the other guy is singing at the same time, basically the opposite side of the same story, and sometimes one voice is more powerful than the other. Really interesting to listen to, honestly."

Lin gave him a dubious look. "You're telling me I'm this Javert guy?"

"I really hope not, _fradu_. He commits suicide at the end of the play because he can't wrap his head around the concept that someone might actually have changed, and he can't live in a world where things can change. Where people aren't predestined to be damned before they're even born, and need to stay damned forever."

Lin snorted. "I never said anything about _before they're _born. What kind of a crazy philosophy is that?"

Eli shrugged. "One ascribed to by fatalists of my species, but I don't believe in fate, so I can't speak for them."

Lin sighed. "But. . . yeah. I've always sort of felt that once someone's stepped over the line, they can't step back."

"Prison as a black hole? Never let them out again? Or maybe we should execute everyone, _fradu?_ The embezzlers and the guys who run illegal poker games, too?" Eli grinned at him. "Oh, I know. We'll execute the dog-snatchers while we're at it, and people who have sex in the privacy of their bedrooms in non-standard positions. We'll bring Hammurabi's code back, and every single offense, including a judge misapplying the law, will be a capital offense, and we'll have an effective means of population control as a result!"

Lin made a very rude noise, and flicked both sets of fingers at him, with emphasis. "Didn't say that, either, Eli, and you know it."

"So what you're trying, very slowly, to say is what, then?"

"That, in the cases of people who have been found by judges wiser than I am to be capable of remorse, and in the cases of people who have been removed from the circumstances and environments that would tempt them to re-offend, and who successfully complete their parole, perhaps it would be a good idea for the records to be, well. . . if not expunged, then at least sealed. So that if they're out there, being the mayor of a city somewhere, like your Valjean guy, that they can keep on doing what they're doing, so long as they're not doing anything wrong under the cover of those good works." Lin shrugged. "People like me exist for a reason, _fradu_. Someone always has to be the watchdog. Someone has to keep other people honest. But I guess I don't have to growl at shadows, either."

Eli made an elaborate show of dropping the datapad on a console and fumbling for his omnitool. "Damn. I didn't even get a chance to record that for posterity. Serana will _never_ believe me when I tell her you actually came over to her side on that argument."

"And you're not going to tell her! What else am I going to have to argue with her about?" Playful indignation, and a slight downwards flick of Lin's eyes, towards Seheve.

"I'm sure you'll come up with something." Eli said, and picked the datapad up again. "Anything else on your mind?"

"Yeah, actually. That dalatrass picked up on Kirrahe's name when I said it. She might not have called him out if he'd had a squad name to use. We need to pick one for him." Lin leaned down, and addressed Seheve directly. "And you? You need one, too."

Her head snapped up, in total surprise.

"I was thinking Moloch or Agni for Kirrahe," Eli ventured. "Moloch wasn't a particularly _nice_ god of fire, though. People used to sacrifice infants to him, inside of bronze idols filled with flames. On the whole? Agni seems like a better choice." He gave Lin an amused glance. "You have any ideas for Seheve here?"

"Took a look through some human mythology yesterday, yes. I'm thinking _Nyx,_ goddess of night."

Eli leaned over Seheve's chair, looking down at her from over her left shoulder, the way Lin was looking down over her right. "Well, I like it. Sounds appropriately sneaky, though I think Serana might object to it being assigned before she has a shot at it. What do you think, Seheve? Stand out okay on the radio?"

She looked up, and smiled, her lips curving up slightly. "I . . . like it, yes. Thank you. For the name. . . and for what it means."

Lin held up his hands. "Doesn't mean anything, right, _fradu?_"

"Of course not. We're not smart enough to mean anything by anything," Eli replied, instantly.

Seheve shook her head. "If you were not aware, you both lie extremely poorly."

Eli's grin threatened to split his face open. "I'll have you know I've done undercover work before. I lie like a champion when I need to. I . . . just don't need to right now, that's all." He gestured at Lin, a little shooing motion. "And you, Lin? Need to go sit in the shuttle now, and let me take care of stuff up here."

Two days later, he was staring over Kirrahe's shoulder as the salarian proudly declared the main computer cores clear of any hint of the dalatrass' AI program. Lysandra had confirmed his results, after they'd activated the computer core, and gotten the NCAI interfaced with them, much as EDI had once been able to interface with the core of a derelict Reaper. Of course, translating the information in the servers was problematic, but she was able to analyze the salarian files that had been uploaded. And while about a thousand of them looked like partial fragments of personality profiles, none of them interlinked properly to create an integrated, self-aware, self-contained intelligence. And Kirrahe had used his AI virus to eliminate those non-integrated files. "Good first test," he stated, cheerfully. "One hundred percent of files eliminated. Next step will be to test virus on Lystheni's own servers. Attempt to eliminate fully integrated and established AI on that storage medium. . . and observe process in real time."

Eli had grimaced. On the one hand, it should have meant nothing more than formatting the computer cores to him. On the other hand, he was on a first-name basis with EDI, Demostata, Lysandra, and Cassandra, and as such, the process was starting to feel a bit like watching a lethal injection.

_Yes,_ Glory, who'd been standing in the server area with him and with Kirrahe, agreed. _Question-Singer is uneasy,_ Glory told them both now. _She understands why this is necessary, but wonders if this 'virus' could sing different songs. Be used to sing death and destruction to her, or others of her kind._

Kirrahe lifted his hands, palms up. "Could another AI be created in order to destroy a specific AI? Yes. Almost certainly. If I have thought of this, others certainly will, as well. Can this virus be adapted to attack NCAIs? Most likely not. It is based on Mordin Narayana's mind, using her brain-pattern as a template, and is designed to seek out and destroy the dalatrass who spawned her. Will home in on specifically salarian keys in the dalatrass' own coding patterns. . . which, now that I have had the opportunity to study her in her. . . hmm. Less than native environment. . . " Kirrahe gestured at the boxes around them. "Then can tailor the virus more specifically to the dalatrass, and release into the wild. Virus also has what xenobiologists would call 'suicide genes.' Ones intended to prevent proliferation. When task is done, she will go dormant."

"She?" Eli repeated, dubiously.

Kirrahe nodded, his manner becoming more hesitant. "Virus designed to fight AIs needs equivalent intelligence. Personality template based on Mordin Narayana's. And. . . because I could not obtain four hundred hours of testing based on her brain wave patterns and test responses. . . also on myself."

"Whoa," Eli said, sharply. "Wait a minute. The AI virus is sapient?" The ethics of creating something alive and self-aware solely to hunt something down and then die, or at least 'go dormant,' were. . . iffy at best.

_Does she sing?_ Glory asked, interestedly.

Kirrahe raised placating hands. "Not as much as an NCAI. Best to consider her a highly advanced VI. She knows her purpose, and understands that it is a limited purpose."

_Does she?_ Glory asked, violet notes of concern in his harp-like voice. _Will she not wish another purpose, one that will allow her to continue to sing? Will she not turn on other AIs, like Question-Singer?_

"Very limited parameters of self-awareness. Enough to understand danger to real-self. Loyalty is to real-self. Considers herself. . . a shadow, perhaps, best word. Have . . . discussed this with her. With Thelldaroon. Explained that if she is needed, she will be awakened. But that she is a tool. Very specifically designed." Kirrahe shrugged.

Eli felt a chill go down his spine, and he wondered, for an instant, if this were any different than the hanar turning Seheve into a weapon. _CAIR would probably say there's no distinction. I think there is, though. But the slope is. . . slippery._ "Is Shepard aware of your project?" Eli asked.

"Yes. Sending memos to her on constant basis. She has noted that if Narayana and the . . . VI . . . ever wished for integration, Sower device could be made available. Think this highly problematic, and said so. Commander Shepard agreed." Kirrahe shrugged slightly. "Suggested that since VI is at least as much based on me as on Narayana, could absorb that personality myself, if it somehow achieves sapience and becomes a full AI. Commander Shepard said that this was also problematic. Either way, may constitute a long-term investment of time and effort, stabilizing it. But. . . unlikely. Very small package of information, tools, and personality parameters. Total of two hundred processes, highly compact. Typical geth platform with speech capability has over one thousand. Likewise, NCAIs have close to ten thousand individual processes making up their whole."

Eli rubbed the back of his neck, and silently nodded. The ramifications of placing part of what was, frankly, a weapon, in Narayana's sunny mind disturbed him, even if the procedure took place when she was much older. It could change her personality dramatically, and he didn't like that idea. For that matter, it could change Kirrahe. And he didn't like that idea, either. Discomfited, he left Kirrahe at work, and got back to his own. Hovering, more or less. Watching Seheve translate controls and panels on the bridge and in the reactor core. Every tech following in her wake and putting, of all things, adhesive-backed pieces of paper with her translations everywhere, on all the controls they'd need to touch.

Their two Cerberus people were being kept on a tight leash. They'd been given a medical examination on the _Raedia_, given vitamin supplements and decent meals, and were brought back down to the Collector ship under armed guard, and Eli kept a fairly close eye on them as they were barraged with questions by techs. _What does this do,_ and _what's this system_ and _Keelah, how have you spent ten years working on this and not know the startup process for the reactor core!_

There were discoveries. Zhasa was tremendously excited when she and Seheve were able to analyze the central console in the bridge. "This is where a Collector general would have sat," Zhasa told him, pointing at the aerogel screens that surrounded the area. "And this?" she added, pointing to a small device, which looked innocuous enough to Eli—a rounded sort of dome, perhaps, opaque and gray.

"Yes?" he asked, looking at it, initially unimpressed.

"This is how the Reapers spoke to them."

"It's a comm device?" he asked, turning and looking at Dempsey, who leaned nearby against a wall, his arms folded across his chest.

Zhasa shook her head and bounced on her toes. "Much more," she said, and keyed up her omnitool. "Here, let me show you." She let him see the message she was typing, in galactic: _Eli, have you finished sending the plans for Fors' party to his clans?_

"In my copious spare time? What else are those long shifts in the shuttle _for_?" Eli muttered.

Zhasa just laughed, and said, "Now, I transmit this message over the correct frequency, right to this device. . . now, touch it."

Eli awarded her a wary glance. "If I turn into a Collector, Dara will beat you."

Zhasa laughed. "Already tested this on myself and a few other people, with Dempsey listening in, intently, to make sure that nothing bad happened. After you, we'll try Glory. I can't wait to hear his reaction."

Eli's eyebrows shot up. "You're entirely too good-humored and happy to be indoctrinated," he said, dryly. "The walls talking to you?"

Dempsey snorted. "Not that I've noticed."

"Will you just touch it already?" Zhasa asked, in exasperation.

Eli reached out with one fingertip and gingerly touched the domed device on the control panel, and heard, clear, cold, distinct words crawl through his head: _Eli, have you finished sending the plans for Fors' party to his clans?_ There was no emotion, no sensation to the words, and Eli jerked his hand back and blocked, instinctively. He had, somehow, managed to keep from yelping out loud.

"Damn," Dempsey said. "I had five credits down that you'd shit a brick, Sidonis."

Eli inhaled and exhaled once or twice. "We're sure this can't carry the indoctrination signal?" he asked, tightly.

"I'm sure it could, but at the moment, it's not receiving any signals except what we send through it," Zhasa said, cheerfully. "If we can figure out how it works, it looks like a way in which electronic messages can be encoded and sent biotically. You realize what this means?"

Eli thought about it. "If you can reverse it, the rachni could finally send messages by FTL in a way that makes sense to other species. Better than Morse code and various creative ways of misspelling _toast_," he offered. "And the NCAIs and geth could communicate with rachni directly."

Zhasa nodded, emphatically. "That, too. But the Reapers used this sort of technology to communicate with and control the Collectors over long distances. Probably used the same technology to keep the Keepers in line, too, for a million years. I'm not saying use it as a method of control—"

"Which, if it was used for that once, it could be abused in exactly the same way again," Dempsey pointed out, grimly.

Zhasa waved it off. "I'm talking about absolutely secure transmissions, Eli. No need for quantum pairing devices. Messages that can only be received by someone on the other end with the correct brain pattern. Oh, other people might be able to intercept a transmission, but they wouldn't be able to do anything with it."

Eli frowned. "Wouldn't _any_ living organism be able to hear it, if they had one of these. . . receiver devices? Certainly, wouldn't any biotic?"

Zhasa bounced on her toes again. "I'm not sure," she said, cheerfully. "But I think it's something that could bear looking into, don't you?"

"And removing it from the ship's systems would probably render it unusable?" Eli asked, rubbing at his eyes.

Zhasa's sense of interest and delight dimmed, and she stopped moving around as much. "Well. . . yes. Probably."

Eli sighed. "Right, put it on our list of reasons for taking the whole damned ship with us," he said, wryly. That list was getting longer.

In another laboratory of the ship, on the fourth day, he found Dempsey, Kirrahe, and Rel, examining the weapons found there. "Looks like Cerberus and the Lystheni were trying to take one of these apart," Rel said, holding up a hand-pistol that looked as oddly and _wrongly_ organic as the beam weapon Eli carried on his back. Rel handed one to Eli, and he examined it. It didn't feel quite right in his hand; the grip was designed for a different hand-shape and size than his, and felt both rough and a little warm to the touch. As if it were alive, somehow. Disquieting. After a moment's examination, he found the trigger mechanism, but didn't touch it. "Doesn't look like the stasis pistols that the _Klem Na_ have been using," he noted.

"It's not," Dempsey told him, and pointed at a large section of ablative hull, from some ship or another, which had been placed at the end of the lab. It was scorched and riddled with holes. "Test fire it there. It's safe enough."

Eli took a two-handed stance, remembering his first lessons with Lantar, long ago, and delicately pulled back on the trigger mechanism. He didn't know how much force it would actually take.

Not much at all. A line of white-yellow light burned out of the front of the pistol-like weapon. Eli lifted his finger off the trigger instantly, and the line of light vanished. "_S'kak_," he muttered. "A Collector beam weapon is basically the same tech as a Thanix cannon, just miniaturized, right?"

Dempsey nodded. "One of the problems with replicating the beam weapons has been miniaturizing the process by which the metal is superheated and expelled at the rapid speed, while not causing the weapon itself to explode. On a ship, you've got room for huge heat sinks and coolant gases and everything else."

Rel lifted another pistol. "We knew the Lystheni had managed to miniaturize the tech for their fighters. And I'd bet that there are R&D firms somewhere in both the Hierarchy and the Alliance that's spent the last five years taking the wreckage of the fighters pulled off Garvug apart, piece by piece, trying to replicate the tech. Same as people have been trying to replicate the beam weapons. And now we have basically examples of the smallest package that tech can be packed into." He shook his head.

Eli looked at the gun in his hand. His mind shifted to practical details, instantly. "I expect that overheating is a big issue?"

"As far as we can tell, yes," Kirrahe agreed. "Continuous stream of fire, as larger beam weapons tend to be used, largely impossible. Weapon will overheat. Safety mechanisms engage, and prevent further firing. Have been reluctant to test beyond that." The salarian blinked rapidly. "Remarkable lack of manuals and documentation."

"I bet they didn't keep the boxes, either," Eli returned, staring down at the pistol in his hand, before lifting it and trying for what muscle memory called for: double-tap, center of his large target at the other end of the laboratory. "So, controlled bursts of fire. What do they use for ammunition?"

Dempsey reached into a cabinet, and came up with something that looked like a rectangular clip, and handed it to Eli. Eli studied this now, dubiously. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised that it doesn't look like the standard block of metal ready to be shaved into flechettes." He looked at them all. "What the hell is it?"

"Best we can figure out, an alloy of gallium," Dempsey told him. "Very low melting point. Reduces the need for extremely high temperatures in the firing chamber. That allows it to move through the coils of the mass effect chamber, only getting superheated once it's hit the near-relativistic speed on exiting, wrapped in the mass effect field. And since gallium only boils at something close to four thousand degrees Fahrenheit, it's fairly safe to use, since it won't turn to a gas en route to what it's hitting." He shrugged.

Eli turned it over in his hands. "So, this is something that would burn through kinetic fields almost as effectively as a heavy weapon. . . but more limited in the number of shots it can hold at a time. No continuous fire, but. . . " He shook his head, already extrapolating out on what this sort of weapon could do to someone who wasn't wearing armor and shields. "Damn. Not something I really want to see in wide distribution." He glanced up. "Or in batarian hands, for that matter."

"Surprised Lystheni didn't use these on us," Kirrahe chirped up. "Possible explanation is relative lack of ammunition for them. May have wanted to save them. Weapons of last resort."

"Or the fact that we hit them when we did," Rel pointed out, evenly, and glanced at Eli. "As someone told me a few days ago, if we'd waited a couple of hours for them to realize that they were under attack, they probably would have gone digging for these, as opposed to being caught with just their sidearms, trying to help their comrades out of the stasis pods."

Eli blinked. Rel was telling him that he'd made the right call. Which was something of a relief. He changed the subject. "I don't want to see these get used on any of us," Eli noted. "Of course, once a weapon is developed, it's just a matter of time before everyone has one. No sense sticking our heads in the sand."

Which was, in fact, what he wound up telling Lysandra the same damned night, as he lay, flat on his back on the web-like hammock he usually shared with Dara, but, of course, Dara was stuck in a shuttle on the surface at the moment, while Lin was in the Collector ship. He'd been in the middle of a comm conversation with her, when Lysandra had broken in, quietly, "Ah, Spectres? If I could have a moment of your time?"

_Now what?_ Eli thought, a little irritably, and sighed. "Sure, Lysandra. Talk to us."

"Now that we've re-established FTL communication, my sister AIs share my concern over Kirrahe's proposed 'AI virus.'" Lysandra's avatar appeared in his quarters, and he looked at her. The chocolate-brown eyes were haunting in her face. "Are you still going to permit Kirrahe Orlan to conduct his test on the Lystheni dalatrass' AI?" She bit at her lower lip with her sharp teeth, looking distressed. "It strikes several of us as being. . . potentially a legal and ethical gray area that might best be avoided."

Eli exhaled. _Oh, god, this is above my pay-grade_. "Lysandra," he said, after a moment, sitting up and resting his arms on his knees, "NCAIs have rights. The salarian dalatrass isn't an NCAI."

She frowned. "Is that not something of a semantic argument? The dalatrass is a copy of the original consciousness, uploaded to a computer core via the Sower device. She is as 'real,' therefore, as Jeff Moreau is, within the body of the mini-Reaper. "

Eli shrugged. _Yes, but I can get some mileage out of the semantics._ "She doesn't have the same rights as the rest of you, she isn't bound by the same responsibilities as you, and she's pretty much been a wanted criminal for . . . god. At least the last five years. And this isn't even really her. This is. . . her backup node. The 'real' copy is off in batarian space, yeah?"

"What is the 'real' version, to an AI?" Lysandra asked, quietly. "I hate to point out the old Geneva Convention and the rights of prisoners, but I've been asked to do so, by, well, everyone." She sounded wretched. "And if you don't want to take the example of prisoners of war, then at least the penal codes of a dozen worlds should be considered." She paused. "I've been asked to add, 'unless, of course, you don't consider her a person.'"

Eli swore internally, and looked at the screen, where Dara looked at the camera, and made a face. She was at least as tired as he was, and they weren't getting much of a chance to see each other or touch one another right now, and Lysandra's issue was kind of cutting into their very, very limited personal time. But. . . it was a valid concern, from the NCAI perspective. "Lysandra," Dara said, quietly, "Ask the others this. If Kirrahe deploys the virus into the extranet without testing it appropriately, what are the risks to all of you?"

Lysandra grimaced. "The possibility exists that the virus could mutate, through code corruption, and attack us, as well. Of course, that virus could also be captured in the wild, rewritten, repurposed, and used against us deliberately. Either is a fairly strong risk."

"Once a weapon exists, it _will_ be used," Eli pointed out. "Kirrahe and Thell aren't the only smart people in existence. Isn't it better to know and watch and evaluate a risk like this, and prepare security measures against it for yourselves?" It was a pragmatic argument, and he knew he was sidestepping the legal, moral, ethical modes for the moment, because he didn't have answers for those.

"We understand that," Lysandra said, politely, clasping her hands in front of her. "But the point remains, that if the dalatrass is a _thing_ to be experimented on, how do we know that we're not things, too? Also, there's the issue of using a virus as, more or less, a weapon of assassination. Some of the others, like Nefertari, ask how this is any different from the batarians and the yahg setting off the plagues on Bastion."

"We're now so far above my pay-grade that I think I need an oxygen mask," Eli muttered. "_Sai'kaea_, you got anything here?"

"Mostly questions," Dara said, shrugging. "Lysandra, I've read about some of the decisions that Shepard made before the Reaper War. Specifically, dealing with the geth collective. At one point, didn't Shepard have to decide between destroying all the geth heretics' runtimes, by blowing up the nodes in which they had been uploaded, and having Legion upload a virus that would rewrite their code?"

"Yes," Lysandra agreed, tipping her head to the side.

"From an organic perspective, both decisions are unethical, aren't they? One is mass murder, and the other is, effectively, brain-washing an entire populace. Removing their right to live as they see fit, forbidding them their right to freedom of belief." Dara's voice was completely neutral.

"Yes, but the heretics would have rewritten all of the other geth to their beliefs with the same virus. And, arguably, all Legion wished to do was correct an error in their programming. Remove the indoctrination that the Reapers had introduced." Lysandra paused, and Dara smiled.

"So what you're saying is," Eli pointed out, quietly, "that non-organics have different standards for judging things than organics do?"

Lysandra hesitated. "Yes. I think so."

"Can you come up with any better way in which to deal with the Lystheni dalatrass?" Dara asked, quietly. "I don't see anyone wanting to put her on trial, Lysandra. Any more than Shepard wanted to put the other Lystheni AIs on Garvug on trial. She just had their damned servers blown to bits. The dalatrass has been responsible, ultimately, for an attempted kidnapping of Kaius and Amara, back in 2191."

"Arguably, that wasn't actually the AI dalatrass, but the physical one, who has already died for her crimes," Lysandra pointed out. "Can someone really be punished twice for the same crime?"

Dara made an exasperated noise at the back of her throat, and Eli laughed. "Okay, so the attacks on the research bases on Klendagon and on Rannoch. . . that was when she was organically alive, but everything else that she and the Lystheni started, they and she have _continued_. The instigation of biotic lobotimzation and chipping—and I'm going through the god-damned research notes from this facility right now, and trying pretty hard not to throw up at what I'm reading—and, by virtue of the fact that she's turned a lot of their research over to the batarians, she's responsible, indirectly, for every single asari or human biotic currently being captured, lobotomized, chipped, and used as a weapon." Dara rubbed a hand over her face. "I guess we have to throw out the fact that, as an organic, she forced Mordin Solus to mate with her, but the direct result of that is that the AI self now wants to kidnap their offspring, Narayana, to wipe her mind, implant her own personality, and use her body to make eggs!" Dara threw her hands up in the air. "To my way of thinking, the AI and the organic are the same damn person. In _exactly_ the way in which Jeff Moreau is still Jeff Moreau, no matter what body he's wearing."

"It's fairly analogous to saying that an NCAI who's escaped to a backup node is still the same person as the one it was on a previous platform," Eli noted. "There's no change in personality, there's no. . . mingling of selves with another persona to create a new consciousness, a new person. If she's the same person she always was, and is continuing in the same exact actions, why can't we consider her the same person, and punish her accordingly?"

"Fair points," Lysandra said, after a moment. "But due process of law?"

Eli winced. This was a personal sore spot. "I _want_ everyone to have due process, Lysandra. That's what protects us all from each other. A lot of the time, it's the only defense anyone really has."

Dara shook her head, however. "Do you want her on the witness stand, in her holographic avatar form? A few shots of the server boxes in which she's being housed? Do you want the 'AIs are bad and out to get us all' paranoiacs to have that kind of fuel for their fires?"

"Don't get me started on the bad twentieth and twentieth-century science fiction vids again," Eli muttered. In spite of their antiquity, the old vids had cultural force and resonance for humans, particularly since their themes had been recapitulated and echoed so often.

Lysandra winced. "If we're to be real people, then that means that when we commit crimes, we need to be held accountable for them."

"Yes, but the dalatrass _isn't_ one of you," Dara pointed out, sharply. "She's a salarian who _happens_ to have uploaded herself."

"And salarians who do so are to be denied due process?" Lysandra asked, reasonably enough, but her expression was troubled as she clearly ran probability analyses. "That all being said. . . public reaction would very likely be highly negative against all AIs. Most organics would not see a distinction between NCAIs and the dalatrass' AI, would they?"

Eli watched the avatar for a moment, and said now, as persuasively as he could, "I tell you what, Lysandra. We'll have Kirrahe hold off on the actual test until we get to Mindoir, and Shepard can talk with the . . . NCAI network, all right? And if you guys come up with a better solution in the meantime, you can throw it out for consideration, okay?"

Lysandra nodded, slowly. "However," she said, simply, "I think it possible that both of you are correct in essentials, Spectres. Organics and non-organics have different standards. . . and we NCAIs may be guilty of applying organic standards to AIs inappropriately. There may not _be_ another solution for the question of the dalatrass."

"But you'd like to put the question to a jury of her actual peers?" Eli asked, dryly. "As in, other AIs? You and the geth, maybe?" He studied her avatar for a moment. "I really like the concept of one law that applies to _everyone._"

"I know," Lysandra said, simply. "But that may not be possible." She turned her avatar's head to nod to Dara now. "A rachni queen can mate with any brood-warrior of her choosing, for example. In Life-Singer's case, the only males that have, to date, been available, have technically been her sons, even if they are, genetically, copies of distant ancestors, their genetic data being freely available to a rachni queen at the moment in which she lays her eggs, is this not correct?"

Dara nodded, slowly. "Yes. Rachni queens can tap into the life-songs. . . the genetic code of their ancestors, as well as their memory-songs. A rachni queen doesn't just store the semen of every partner she's ever had. She can. . . fabricate it, if there's need. Like a worker fabricates royal jelly. This is what Life-Singer did, in order to create new brood-warriors. She reached back and found DNA templates in the life-songs of those who went before, and created what she needed. Altered her own eggs to match those templates. That is . . . pretty much. . . how Joy-Singer altered _me_." Dara shook her head, rapidly. "God. I never put that together before." She looked off into the distance. "And while the voices of those who went before are in their heads when they're born. . . they're fainter songs than the immediate voice of the queen who hatches them. Which is why the birth-song is so important. Otherwise, they could go mad. And the very faintness of the voices of those who went before is critical. . . otherwise both Life-Singer and Joy-Singer would be tainted by indoctrination. As would be every egg that they lay." Dara shook her head again. "I'm sorry. I'm rambling. You were saying, Lysandra?"

"I was about to note that Life-Singer technically mated with her sons in order to produce new broods. This would be illegal on Earth. Palaven. Asari worlds. Not actually prohibited on Sur'Kesh or Tuchanka, but somewhat frowned upon, but both species have unique breeding needs and challenges, particularly the krogan." Lysandra spread her hands. "There are galactic level laws, and there are laws within each species, that developed with that species, for specific and important reasons." She grimaced. "So, Spectre Sidonis. . . there are already different laws for different people. I'll take this conversation to the others, however. And see what they have to say."

Lysandra blinked out, and Eli exhaled. Reached out, and slid a finger down the side of Dara's face on the screen in front of him, as if she could feel it, down on the planet. "Hell of a lot of worms in this kettle," he told her. "Glad we can turn a lot of them over to Garrus and Shepard when we get back."

"No kidding," Dara agreed, her voice tired. "Couldn't _pay_ me enough to be either of them. As I think I've said before."

"Frequently, yes." Eli's tone was teasing, but he sobered quickly. "What's in the Lystheni notes that's got you all upset?"

Dara grimaced. "Their notes and Cerberus ones. There were a few Praetorians and Scions in the stasis pods when Cerberus first got here, not that Ephraim mentioned _that_. They managed to keep those intact for a good long time, studying how the nanites fused the bodies together in a Praetorian. Kept the tissues nominally alive, replaced the conscious control of a dozen screaming brains with machine code, and directed them all to fire at once. The mechanics of the firing and directing system are beyond me, but I'm sure someone like Kirrahe or Rinus could figure it out. Sure as hell that the Lystheni and the _Klem Na_ figured it out. And how to put it into ships, instead of just wandering weapons platforms." She made a fade. "The Lystheni ran into a roadblock, on trying to bind captive asari or human bodies together into a single platform. Couldn't figure out how to reprogram the nanites that started the fusion process. Thank goodness."

Eli nodded. "As hard as it is to fight one Lystheni or one batarian with a leashed biotic at a time. . . I don't want to think about what five or ten biotics fused into one big body would be like." He shuddered. "And that's just the logistics, the concept of holding off that kind of firepower. On the more, you know, personal level. . . " he had a sudden vision of a dozen asari bodies fused together, twenty-some legs dangling below a floating mass of bulging, distorted torsos, a dozen heads, all tipped backwards, fused at the base of the skull, sightless eyes staring out at all points of the compass, and shuddered.

"Yeah," was all Dara said at first, but her tone was queasy. "Hard to believe there are things that could be worse than what we've already seen, but. . . thank god for small favors, you know?" She paused. "And then there are the cell samples and DNA swabs and the pictures of the people that Cerberus just tossed out into the snow." She looked away from the camera for a moment. "Eli, some of these aren't Council species. They're probably from beyond locked relays. God only knows who they were, or what they thought, but they sure as hell didn't deserve to be kidnapped from wherever they called home by the Collectors. . . and then, the first shining examples of _humanity_ that they encountered, murdered them. I. . . don't even know what to do with that, Eli."

He wished he could touch her right now. Put the strain and the anger and the bewilderment out of her mind and heart with simple touch. . . but there were several hundred miles of hard vacuum and thin atmosphere between them at the moment. So he had to settle for words. "I don't know, either, _sai'kaea_. But. . . the Cerberus people who've survived are probably heading for prison time, at the very least." He sighed. "And the rest of them are already dead."

Dara looked down. "I know." She sighed. "I know. Doesn't make it any easier, though."

They talked for a while longer, and then Eli absolutely had to close his eyes and sleep.

And it was a good thing that he _had_ gotten rest, because first thing in the morning, he found himself facing Cohort in the briefing room and staring blankly at the geth, alongside Dempsey, Dara, and Glory. Dara was tired after sixteen straight hours, and he could feel her longing for bed and sleep like gray clouds in his own mind, and he had only just woken up, himself. "Run that by me again?" Eli asked, taking a sip of the ship's fairly vile coffee and trying desperately to wake up. "I know we have to go back to Astaria and check in on the mercs there. . . pretty much because we _said_ we'd be watching to make sure they didn't steal any of the eezo and emeralds. . . but I'm not sure I just followed everything that you just said, Cohort." He suppressed a yawn. It had been a _hard_ damned week or two.

"Certainly, Sidonis-Spectre," Cohort told him promptly. "Astaria is first planet in the Hekate system. Ker is second. Bothros is third. Triodia, where Cerberus organization found this vessel, is the large gas giant at the edge of the system. Ker has been a hotbed of criminal activity for decades. Batarian slavers and criminals have what are known, colloquially, as 'safe-houses,' on its surface. This is why Astaria was an easy target to attack first in this sector; there were already batarian forces in the system, if only on an intermittent basis."

Eli took another sip of his coffee, and nodded. "Okay. We can't take the _Raedia_ and go after those safe-houses," he said, looking at Cohort, then at Dempsey, and then squinting a little at Glory. "That'll leave everyone at the Collector ship unprotected."

"And we know there's probably still at least one SIU team out there, looking for this ship," Dara added, sitting down at the briefing room table and rubbing gently at her eyes.

"Right," Dempsey said. "But we also can't really leave the batarians any kind of a toe-hold in this system. Not while still trying to make the point that Hekate, Pamyat, and every other system in this sector is off-limits."

Eli raised his eyebrows, and waited for his brain to get into gear. "And we're bringing these two lines of the conversation together. . . because you want the mercs to do something about the batarians on Ker?" He grimaced. "They're not going to want to do anything that's not in their contract."

"Not for free," Dara muttered. "How much leeway do we have left in the budget, Eli?"

"About a quarter of a million." Eli rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "I was hoping to bring this mission in _under_ budget. . . but I have a feeling something's about to go wrong that's going to change all that."

Dempsey's lips quirked up, very faintly. "I was thinking more that maybe we could encourage the mercs to look at the batarians' hideouts as a business opportunity for them. I'm sure that there are any number of pieces of cargo there. Credits that could be obtained. We could ask them very nicely to provide any information on the computers in exchange for our calling whatever they take out of there a. . . finder's fee." Dempsey shrugged. "We can't be everywhere."

Eli's eyebrows stayed up. "You're devious."

"I try."

"And you're bringing this to us exactly why?" _We're all Spectres here, or close enough. Cohort's technically senior. _He glanced at the geth unit. More and more, he was coming to agree with Dara. A fair bit of the mission had been intended to test them. All of them. Cohort, with the absolute neutrality of the geth, had brought them information or facilitated plans, and had occasionally ventured an opinion on a given plan, but had yet to step in, in any way. _Something that none of the other senior Spectres could probably trust themselves to do_, Eli thought.

_Probably smart of them_, Dara acknowledged, silently.

"Dempsey-Spectre adjudged that you would be more influential towards bringing consensus on this matter than others in the current command structure." Cohort's eye-flaps lifted slightly.

"Meaning that Lin would probably grit his teeth over the idea. Yes, he would." Eli looked up at the ceiling, and thought, furiously. "I'm inclined to agree," he finally said, looking at Dara. "What do you think?"

She rubbed at her eyes again. "My brain is working at about ten herz at the moment," she admitted, "but yeah, we really can't be everywhere. We've already got the resources in-system, they've largely drubbed the batarians off of Astaria. Why _not_ make it clear that this system is not up for grabs?" Dara looked up at him. "You can make it a slightly more official deal. State that the merc group that brings in the largest info dump, gets a bonus. Anyone who turns over the illegal cargo to us, gets a bonus. Use that quarter of a million credits. . . and when that runs out, we can ask for more. We might not _get_ it, but I'm pretty sure the Council doesn't want this crap in circulation."

"And if they don't turn over the drugs or guns?" Eli's question was quick and pointed.

"Tell 'em if we can trace that shit back to them, we're coming after their hides?" Dara offered, shrugging. "I don't have an easy solution for that one, Eli."

Eli nodded, and exhaled. "All right," he said, looking at Dempsey. "I take it you want to go negotiate today?"

Dempsey gave him a look. "Shit, no. I want _you_ to go negotiate today. I'll go with you as your backup, but there's no way they're going to want to talk to me, when you're the one who handled most of the early negotiations with the mercs."

Eli found a chair next to Dara and closed his eyes with a groan. Without speaking, Dara reached up and rubbed his shoulders lightly. "That leaves us at least one person short on the rotation," Eli pointed out. "Cohort, if you could take over for me, and go down to the ship to relieve Lin?"

"Of course," the geth responded, immediately. "Organic platforms require more recharge time. Our assistance will allow more adequate rest periods for Pellarian-Spectre and Jaworski-Spectre in your absence."

Eli nodded. "Glory? You'll come with me to listen for deception-songs?"

_Of course. I still have not heard sour notes or dissonances in the ship of the darksong ones. Those who sing work-songs there should be safe in our absence._

When the other three had left, Eli lifted his head and looked at Dara. "This. . . really never seems to end," he told her, ruefully.

"I'm noticing this," she told him, and let her head settle onto his shoulder. "If it's not one thing, it's another."

He stroked a hand through her hair, and dropped a kiss on her lips. Barest threads of burgundy, whispering through dark gray exhaustion in her. Indigos at the moment, though. He smiled down at her and told her, silently, _Get some sleep, __sai'kaea.__ I'll be back before you know it._

_You better be._

Dealing with the mercs took another two days, with Eli, Dempsey, and Glory moving all over Astaria by shuttle. Planetary leaders were working towards some sort of a temporary alliance of all the various, very disparate colonies on the planet's surface. News that the Spectres were back seemed to spread quickly, and Eli made a point of checking in, by comm call, at least, with Maryam Pace. "The kids you dropped off with me are all good workers," she told him, looking a bit tired on-screen. "Very eager to learn. They're all used to farming work, but Pankaja is working with my people, learning about the mechs. Absorbing everything they have to teach him. Kiallia is staying with my neighbors. . . Talieu and her daughter, Tassara. I think it's doing her good to be around asari who aren't, well. . . " Maryam shrugged. "Zealots."

"And the others?"

"Binh has been glued to the extranet for a week. I think she's determined to read every book in existence. I've woken up at four in the morning, and she's still up and reading. Asked me if she could go to school, and said _please_." Maryam shook her head, clearly amazed and a little appalled at once. "I told her that if she works hard, and gets good grades in the remedial classes that our little school's managed to set up for these kids, that I'd help her go to college on Earth, if that's what she wants." Maryam shook her head again. "I couldn't tell whether she or her mother were closer to tears. I don't understand it at all, but . . . I'm doing what I can for them."

"And what's going on politically in your area?" Eli asked. If he didn't ask, he was fairly sure that Commander Shepard would skin him alive.

Maryam Pace half-laughed, half-snorted, and brushed her graying, wavy hair out of her face. "I've been designated representative of my region, believe it or not. Talieu, I think, talked most of the asari around here into it. God only knows why." She sighed. "And now I've been sitting on comm call after comm call, listening to people argue about whether we need to repay the corporations on Trident for sending troops and whether we should pay for mercenaries ourselves and stay independent, or if we should petition the Council of Thessia for admission into the league of asari worlds. I didn't make many friends by pointing out that there are just as many humans on Astaria as there are asari, so we could just as legitimately petition to join the Systems Alliance. And live under human law, and protected by the human-turian fleet."

Eli snorted. "Ah. Sounds like government in action."

"Precisely. Which is what most of the people here moved here to flee, but, you know what? Anarchy only works for so long, and then you build little local governments. Little local governments only work until there's a large outside threat. And then you need to forget your differences and band together." She blew her hair out of her face in annoyance. "You'd think they didn't all live through the Reaper War ten years ago."

Eli chuckled, and then they signed off.

Later in the day, Eli made damned sure that they checked in at the mining compounds, to see if any of the mercs _did_ happen to be stealing eezo or emeralds. Much to his consternation, the local mining authorities wanted to give the Spectres a gift for getting the batarians off their backsides, and Eli wound up telling them, several times, "We can't actually accept anything. It would be unethical."

The human and krogan and drell miners who did the brute labor, with mechs, in the savage desert belt of Astaria, shook their heads repeatedly. "No. This is what we have to give, and you saved our lives and our livelihoods. None of the stones are cut," the human foreman noted, wiping sweat off his face, above his breather, adding, "Mostly, the stones either get cut here by asari, or get transported to Luisa for cutting. . . but this is _our_ stake for the month. We don't get a tenth of the cut value out of 'em. Why shouldn't we able to give them to you?"

Eli finally gave in, smiled, and said, "We'll pass these along up the chain, and if any of us are permitted to keep the gifts, we'll cherish them as a remembrance of Astaria."

"You sure as hell had to talk with them for a while. What's in the box?" Dempsey asked as Eli got back into the shuttle.

"Rocks," Eli muttered, and handed him the carrying case before strapping into his seat, as Glory scuttled in behind him.

Dempsey opened the case and whistled. Emeralds were, in point of fact, a dark green variety of beryl. They were the exact same material, thus, as aquamarines, other than the color, just as rubies and sapphires were both corundum. Emeralds on Earth tended to be among the most fragile of precious stones. They tended to have flaws and inclusions, and thus could be easily shattered. On Earth, most of the gems marketed as emeralds had either been created in labs, or treated with a variety of chemical processes to make them less fragile. Eli had been dragged into any number of jewelry stores over the years by various females, who'd been on vacation on Macedyn and had wanted to go to ooh and ah over various shinies. He knew a fair bit about gems, as a result of simply having listened and watched. And he knew that most of the time, a nice dark green tourmaline, to him, looked a hell of a lot nicer than the lighter-toned emeralds, with all their flaws, that were what tended to come out of Earth's mines today.

The gems in the box ran a gamut of colors. There were red beryls, some bordering on violet, which was not a tone that occurred naturally on Earth. There were pure, shimmering, pale blue aquamarines, and darker blue stones, almost as vivid as sapphires. There were perfectly clear stones, which could have passed for diamonds, but for chemical testing. There were amber-gold gems, as brilliant as citrines or topazes. And there were emeralds in there as well. Not the grass green of most Terran emeralds. These were jade green, forest green, like dark-toned tourmalines. They looked like what emeralds were, in the imagination, _supposed_ to look like. Even raw, uncut, Eli was willing to bet that each of the stones were well over a carat in size. And there were, at a glance, about two dozen of them. "Holy shit," he said, staring. "I didn't even open the box down there." He looked at the door, but they were already pulling away. "Right, handing that over to Cohort as soon as we get back to the _Raedia._ Maybe Shepard keeps a trust for this sort of thing."

Dempsey closed the box, and settled it on the console in front of him. "Yeah. Of course, back in the day, I think most Spectres would have been looking at that box and going 'Whoo. Payday is here at last. I can get that new Haliat Mark Seven assault rifle I've been drooling over in _Guns and Ammo_.'" His imitation of someone else's excitement was a little flat, but Eli got the picture.

Eli snorted. "So I hear, Dempsey, so I hear."

Back on Bothros, get again, the bulk of the Spectres were going to stay on the Collector ship as they attempted to raise it off of the planet's frozen surface. The technical crews hadn't found any hull breaches, and Eli just blinked as their shuttle descended. "People have been busy," he said, staring at the length of the ship now revealed, cut out from the wall of the crater. Three times the length of the _Normandy_ SR-2, it was over seven hundred feet. Not quite the length of an old-fashioned aircraft carrier, but close.

_Many digging-songs sung,_ Glory agreed, sounding impressed.

"Zhasa's been working on using the ship's own weapons to dissolve the ice above it," Dempsey noted, as he brought the shuttle in for a landing. A _Raedia_ team would take the vehicle back up to the SR ship. "Looks like it worked pretty well."

"I still have no idea how we're going to get that beast off the ground," Eli muttered. Bothros had 1.5 times Earth standard gravity. A gravity well too strong for the _Raedia_ to land on the planet's surface with any assurance of managing to achieve escape velocity again.

Dempsey shook his head. "From what everyone's said about the Collectors, they landed on planets regularly to grab people. I don't think their ship here is going to have too many problems breaking out of this rock's gravity well."

Eli shook his head, as they crunched back towards the forward hatch. "Here's hoping," he said, trying to put more confidence in his voice than he felt. The ship looked like a cross between a termite mound and a stalactite. It did not particularly look sleek or aerodynamic, or as if it could, in fact, actually move.

They'd cleared bodies out of the stasis area, and reinforced the damaged areas with rachni webbing. They'd cleaned up the living area, and put fresh bed rolls on the various cots, so no one had to feel too uncomfortable about using the same beds as people that they'd shot and killed. And Eli looked around as they came aboard, catching Lin's wrist for a quick clasp, then Rel's. Gave Seheve a light pat on the shoulder as he passed, and Zhasa a light tap on the shoulder as she hugged Dempsey in greeting. Made his way over to Dara, who was sitting on a cot with a datapad in one hand, and plopped down next to her. "Miss me, _sai'kaea?_"

"What, you were gone?" Dara asked, looking up at him and grinning. Mental songs already, however. _God, yes, I did. Been a long damned week, hasn't it?_

_You're telling me._ _What's new here?_

_Lin got word from Nimines. Couple of his CID friends survived. Three still unaccounted for. One confirmed dead._

_S'kak. _

_He's doing okay. Rel got him off to the side and they sparred it off for about an hour or so. Think he's probably going to want a drink or two when we get back to Mindoir, though._

Eli exhaled. _Yeah. And want to crawl into a hole for a day or so. If we're allowed to do that, anyway._ Eli unlatched his helmet, and leaned back against the wall. "Okay," he called to the others. "We're all here. Let's get this heap off the ground and _go home_."

Desultory cheers from everyone at that thought.

**Alisav K'sar, Hekate System, February 11, 2197**

The last two weeks had been among the most difficult in Alisav K'sar's life. The SIU investigator felt like an old-fashioned clock, the key of which had been overwound, straining the gears and the springs inside. He didn't know whether he was frozen in place, or about to explode from the tension.

The investigation had been proceeding apace. He'd been able to discount the possibility of a salarian enclave on Ker, right from the start; none of the slavers and raiders who already dwelled on that desolate world had seen any signs of a clandestine salarian enclave among them. And he strongly suspected that they would have noticed this sort of thing, given their own heightened paranoia about being found. He'd spent a fair bit of time talking to the major raider captains in the region by comms when he'd first arrived, and it had taken a lot of convincing to assure them that he wasn't here for _them_. There were a variety of bitter comments about the Hegemony sending in new raiders into what they perceived as _their_ territory; Astaria and its humans and asari and fertile farms was _theirs_ to plunder at will, in their view.

K'sar had looked at the screen coldly and told the various captains, each in turn, "That's not my problem, is it?" and had signed off with a sense of repugnance. And an even stronger sense that he should bathe, and purify his skin with _nitula_ oil, and never mind the fact that they'd been twenty light-minutes away.

Working outwards from Hekate's blazing light, that left Astaria itself, which was habitable, and had a fairly large population of asari and humans. Easy to hide there. Cover transmissions and flights and everything else under the bustle of the other species' movements and noise. There was also cold and frozen Bothros, which was a possibility; people could tunnel into _anything_ and create a base there, but it took resources. Lots of resources. And while the Lystheni had been reputed to have a working relationship with another salarian dalatrass, one belonging to a clan named Hardrassa, that relationship had withered, and left them dependent on the _Klem Na_ for funding. Supposedly.

There was also the gas giant, Triodia, and its many moons. Always a fine place to hide. K'sar hadn't been looking forward to a month of scanning moon after moon after moon, finding mining outposts and space debris and other false alarms every step of the way. So, most productive to least productive, was his way of thinking. Or, at least, easiest to most tedious.

Astaria had started off promisingly enough. He'd taken advantage of the chaos left in the wake of the raiders and slavers, and had his men slip into governmental offices and courthouses and port authority enclaves, and gone through the computer records. There were relatively few salarian visitors to this hellhole of a planet, and trying to track an underground community of them should have been fairly straightforward, if one existed.

The name _Maldo Ren_ had gotten his VI to start pinging wildly on his wrist. _By the ancestors_, K'sar had thought in excitement. _A genuine Lystheni agent. One of the ones who. . . gods of my ancestors. . . spread the plagues on Bastion?_ He stopped and had to stare at the records for a moment. He hadn't realized that his clearance had been raised to this level. On all the news reports inside the Hegemony, there had been bland refutations of Council claims about the source of the plagues. _Clearly, the sanitation on Bastion must be vile, _one report had offered as an explanation. _It's being built by fallible humans and turians and quarians, not by the god-like Protheans. Of course, it must be a hellhole._ Another report had suggested that if the plagues were manufactured, it was probably by an insurgent group, rebelling against the constraints of the unjust Council government. _Perhaps salarian_, the report had suggested. _With the creation of the genophage in their past, can it be that unlikely that they would use this method again?_

And so, just for a moment, K'sar had thought that report vindicated. A Lystheni agent. . . but he knew the Lystheni were working with the _Klem Na._ With Hegemony sanction and support. Which meant that _his government_ had likely agreed to the plagues, if not instigated them. Alisav had made himself take long, deep breaths at that point. _Sounds like yet another __brilliant__ plan from the Operations boys,_ he finally managed to think, numbly. He'd spent fifteen years, quite happily ensconced in Investigations. Trying to stay away from anything remotely political. And now, here he was, up to his neck in something that reeked of Operations and of politics, both.

After recovering, he'd assessed the data. Found the salarian's supposed route, and taken his twenty Investigations operatives with him into the countryside. Again, following in the slavers' wake. K'sar had rarely been outside of Hegemony space before. He found the sight of the slavers' work. . . distressing. . . but he kept his face and eyes blank, through long, bleak practice. Like every other member of SIU, he'd been put through their intensive, brutal training program before being sent into his specialty. Four out of the ten people in his first squad had died in training. And yet. . . K'sar hadn't thought that nearly as bad as seeing corpses left to rot in fields, where the elderly had fled from the slavers.

When his wife had died two years ago, of a wasting illness, K'sar had, quietly, sold all of the slaves that had tended the house for her. Taken care of her in her final illness, when he had been unable to do so. In appreciation for their care, he'd tried to find them decent masters and mistresses, ones who didn't have bad reputations for killing slaves. The law required that he, as a free man of noble caste, must own at least one slave. Though he'd have preferred an empty house, to match the emptiness in his soul, he'd kept the quiet asari housekeeper who'd known his wife, Tassia, since she was a little girl. The two of them never spoke, and he never moved Tassia's plate from its spot on the table, and neither did the housekeeper. By mutual, silent consent, they simply left it there, untouched. K'sar spent most of his time at the office, anyway, and allowed his housekeeper to do. . . pretty much whatever she wanted to do. So long as she never spoke Tassia's name in his presence. Or moved the damned plate.

He'd caught confusion in the asari's eyes more than once in the past two years, as if she expected him to speak to her, or touch her, or abuse her in some fashion. Perhaps, in however many decades she'd spent as a slave, other owners had done such things. That had never been K'sar's family's way, however, and he'd be damned if he'd be the first. The _obligation of the free_ and the _obligation of the high-born_ had been ingrained into him since birth. That everyone born free had a responsibility to treat others as well as they could, with the respect due to their caste and status as living beings, and, if someone was a member of one's household, to treat them as well as one might treat one's own children. . . which meant feeding and clothing them, teaching them right from wrong, and being an good example. His family, among the Five Hundred, was considered. . . reactionary. . . by some. Conservative. A throw-back to the pre-Hegemony era. And snickered at, behind raised hands.

And, almost a year ago, the offers had started pouring in from Oversight Forces to purchase the asari slave. Every time, a higher price offered. And every time, he tossed the offers out, barely read. The most response he'd made on the issue was when Oversight Forces had contact him directly. Offered him four times the value of the asari on the open market, and finally demanded why he would not sell. "Surely you can find another one to warm your bed."

K'sar had simply stared at the male until the Oversight officer had blinked. "She belonged to my late wife. I keep her out of respect for my wife's memory. That is sacred to me. Do you have any further questions?"

The fact that his hand had dropped to the hilt of his vibrosword had probably been what inclined the lower-caste male to back down, with excessive apologies.

But now, seeing the way in which the slaves were obtained, K'sar stared blindly out the window of his vehicle. Trying not to think.

The human vineyard had been something of a revelation. So much _richness_ in one place. Terraces carved out of the land by mechs, certainly, but the lush vines were probably only ten years old, if he could judge by Khar'sharn's native plants. . . but still thick and verdant with life. Dark brown, fertile soil, and there was simply a _feeling_ in the air here, something almost undefinable. _Tassia would have loved this place_, he thought, and there it was. This place felt like a home. A place much loved and cared for, over time.

He'd used nothing but Investigations' standard practices with the human female who lived here, and evidently loved the place. Remembering what was spoken, and finding the lies. Finding the truth within the lies. Repetition. Asking the questions any number of different ways, and then springing a different question on her, when her mind was stressed, to see if a different response was evoked. The tactic worked on people of many different species, he'd found, over the years, when questioning slaves. And he'd caught her face in his gloved hand. Not hard, but enough to get her attention. He could see fear in her dark eyes, so very alien and so oddly. . . .singular. . . but also defiance. "Thank you for your time, Maryam Pace," he'd finally told her, and left. Hot on the trail of his Lystheni. . . or so he'd thought.

The problem was, that within twenty-four hours, the entire planet was in chaos once more, and it wasn't a chaos that could shelter or hide him and his team. He could hear the raiders shouting into their comms, from all over the planet, that there were mercenary teams storming this enclave or that one, that ghosts in black armor had hit this town or that one. "Black armor means Spectres," one of his own men muttered. "Bad sign."

"Or a very good one," K'sar countered, sitting back in his chair, feeling the tension rise in him again. "For Spectres to be sent here? Surely, there must be _something_ of value here." He'd glanced around. "Let's get back to our ship. Get up out of the atmosphere and engage the stealth drive. And see if we can track our Spectres' movements at all."

And from orbit, they'd done exactly that. The merc companies didn't use top of the line encryption on their comm transmissions, and most of them more or less had to use galactic to communicate with each other. . . and when they didn't, K'sar and his teams' VIs were up to the challenge of turian or krogan or asari high-tongue. They were able to sit in their ship and track movements by the radio transmissions. . . and periodically, there would be highly encrypted transmissions from the Spectre team. Unreadable, at least for the moment. K'sar noted with interest that they were retracing, in part, his own path through the Vignes region. _Are they following the salarian, too? Don't get fixed on that. Coincidences happen._ He knew that Maryam Pace hadn't been completely honest with him, and given her history and the region, he couldn't entirely blame her for that. But he also knew he'd gotten as much out of her as he could, without resorting to violence. And there had been no _need_ for violence or threats. Not when simple questioning tactics, the mystique of SIU, and his own native intelligence were just as effective, if not more so.

He'd found himself worrying, and having to keep the expression off his face, as the raiders turned southwards towards the vineyard. He didn't actually like the idea of that rich, lush place being attacked. He'd seen the look in the female's eyes when she'd spoken of how raiders had killed her husband, and suspected that she would kill herself, rather than be taken as a slave, and that seemed. . . an incredible waste. _If they take her as a slave, I will. . . I don't know. Go buy her and her children?_ It seemed a foolishly sentimental thought, and K'sar banished it, but couldn't deny the tension in himself as the raider caravan drew nearer. "M'lord? We have mercenaries in position on the far side of the mountain range. . . and a transmission, on the Blue Suns band, from a Spectre operative in the south polar region, calling himself 'Cohort.' He indicates that eight Spectres are at the Pace vineyard, and need assistance in repelling the incoming raiders." One of his subordinates cast a sidelong glance at him. One that clearly said, _If the Spectres die there, then what was the use of having watched them from a distance for most of a day? This was a wasted move, m'lord._ That was P'sal, a member of the scribe's caste. A technician, and one who clearly thought himself more intelligent than K'sar.

K'sar sat, and brooded over the screen. "M'lord? Should we warn the raiders?" another subordinate asked. M'sak, who was warrior-caste, but who had been plucked away by SIU and trained in infiltration and engineering. Most of K'sar's men were the same. Infiltration specialists or technical specialists.

He pondered that, and said, simply, "No. If the raiders move away, the Spectres will know that someone has made their position. Is following or otherwise observing them."

P'sal shook his head, and muttered, "The Spectres won't live long enough to realize anything."

K'sar said nothing. Just steepled his hands in front of his lips, and watched and listened to the panic in the raiders' voices. _"Encountering heavy resistance!" "Who in the ancestors' names are these people?" "I'm hit! I'm hit! Gunship going down, can't control it—aaaaaaaaaah!"_ That one, thankfully, ended in a squall of static.

"_Gods of my ancestors, one of them just jumped into a gunship from the ground, fifty feet—" "Gunship turning to engage us, override your friend-vs.-foe targeting systems!"_ _"I'm hit, their fucking ground vehicles won't stay still—" "What the hell is that __thing__? It's a fucking monster, and it's __looking_ _at me—" "Shit, shit, shit, back up, back up, get the hell out of here, the gunship's going to crash into us—"_

Static. K'sar's hands were shaking slightly, but he kept them locked together in front of him, so that no one could see that fact.

Silence on the ship, from the men around him.

After about twenty minutes, a Blue Suns comm transmission. _"Entered Vignes valley. Spectre team, one hundred percent accounted for. A few batarian prisoners, and multiple civilian casualties, from the slave transports. Spectres thank us for our assistance with the prisoners and casualties, and ask for help in putting out the fires in the vineyard."_

M'sak's voice was strained. "We should have warned the raiders."

"Perhaps," K'sar said, quietly. "But unless they turned away, which would have warned the Spectres, the outcome would have been the same, I think."

"There were a hundred men there!" M'sak's voice was one step below absolute insubordination.

"I know!" K'sar told him. "But tell me, what would the raiders have done differently?" He pointed at the screen, where they'd had cameras fixed on the valley for the entirety of the fight. "I see only three Spectre vehicles, M'sak. You're a tactician. Tell me what the raiders would have done differently if we had told them 'There are Spectres waiting for you?'"

"They. . . could have left the transports behind. Entered the valley, and then immediately spread out, rather than continuing in a single-file convoy. . . "

"Would that have saved them?" K'sar asked, simply. "Would that simple change in tactics have saved them?"

M'sak slowly shook his head. "I don't know, m'lord," he admitted.

"Very well. Keep an eye on our Spectre friends. We'll want to see what they do next." K'sar kept an eye on the vid, himself. Thermal at night showed him that the mercenaries had joined the people in the houses, and a heavy watch was being kept on the surroundings. Most of the non-civilians were sleeping in their armor, which dulled their body-heat readings. A salarian tended to be invisible on thermal, of course. _Who are you people?_ he wondered, staring down at them from high above. _What__ is that creature. . . ? Is it a pet? Seems to be insectile. Wait. Could it be a rachni?_ He keyed up his panel, and, going through what he had clearance to in SIU files, determined that there was, indeed, a rachni Spectre, incredibly. _So, Sings-to-the-Sky. Bizarre name. Who else? Turian heat signatures and drell heat signatures are brighter than human, asari, and batarian ones. . . two bodies that look, morphologically, at least, like turians. Known turian Spectres. . . Livanus Cautoris, Garrus Vakarian—please, ancestors, not him—Lantar Sidonis, Kiranus Vessarian. . . Rinus Velnaran, Linianus Pellarian. . . why are all their names so damned long, anyway, and how do I pronounce these processions of syllables?_ K'sar gave up, for the moment. There was too little information, and since most of them wore black armor, it was impossible to identify them from overhead. _Those three could be human. Well, the males could be. The female could be asari under all that armor, too. _

And then the next day, the Spectres and their vehicles had loaded onto an SR ship that had descended from orbit. "Not so stealthy when you can get a visual on them," K'sar noted, with satisfaction. "Watch its ascent, then match course. Stay about ten kilometers behind them, and keep our stealth drive engaged."

Which had, in fact, taken them directly to Bothros. K'sar had watched the proceedings there with interest, again, at a distance, though his underlings had chafed. "M'lord, they've clearly found the Lystheni base that we were directed to obtain," P'sal noted. "What do we do now?"

K'sar shook his head. "We're not going to land, and try to storm in the front door after them. There are twenty of us, and they killed a hundred raiders in a head-to-head confrontation. We wait, and we . . . take them by surprise."

And so they watched. Saw when a shuttle left the SR ship, and his men were, again, irked that he didn't pursue it. "And if they're only technicians?" K'sar asked his men, dryly. "_Think!_ If we reveal our position and purpose now, the SR ship will blow us out of the sky, and for what? The chance to question whoever might be on the shuttle? Use them as what, hostages?"

"It is an accepted practice, m'lord—"

"Yes, and one that never, ever works." He shrugged. "Patience is the best trait of a _good_ _ru'udal_ player."

And his patience was rewarded as they saw what was revealed on the surface, from where they continued to orbit, stealthed. The SR ship couldn't detect them, and didn't know where to look for a visual scan, and K'sar was, cannily, keeping the planet between them as they continued to orbit every ninety-six minutes or so. Which let them keep an eye on the location of the Lystheni base. . . which was revealed to be a _Collector ship_. Swarming with Spectres, turian and human technicians, and everything else. "Do you at least wish to make a report back to Isav Malsur?" one of his subordinates asked.

"No. Nothing worth telling him about, and using the FTL comm system could compromise our position."

Finally, after ten days of patient observation, the Collector ship began to lift off the surface. The engines were clearly straining, and its thermal signature spiked, basically flashing the batarian ship's sensors. "They must have the equivalent of eight Tantalus cores in that thing," P'sal said, awed. "Probably not just to power its thrusters and weapons, though. Considering its size. . . that's more power than it really needs."

"Stasis pods, by all accounts," K'sar reminded him. "Probably something of a power drain. I don't suppose they run on batteries."

Nervous titters from all around him. "Orders, m'lord?"

"Move in behind them. I think I see a hatch on the aft section. . . perhaps leading into a cargo hold or the engineering compartment. We'll wait for the SR ship to go through the relay, then make a soft seal with the Collector vessel. Ride through the relay with them, and board, quietly. See what we're dealing with. And see if we can take the ship." K'sar was all business now. He didn't particularly want to fight these Spectres, but the odds were now as good as they were ever going to get. The ship was no longer swarming with engineers and technicians, as best as they could tell; most of the techs had cleared off, back to the SR ship in various shuttles. A skeleton crew was on the Collector ship. . . and the Collector ship had been the Lystheni base. Retrieving this vessel would fulfill his orders from Malsur, completely, and hopefully ensure that he could return to chasing criminals in Investigations, and get as far away from this political shit-storm as possible.

_On the other hand, I'm more than likely going to be dead before dinner. Which also gets me out of this political shit-storm, but isn't my preferred option. . . . _ K'sar checked the draw on his vibrosword, and sighed. "Everyone who's not piloting the ship? Gear up. Stealth nets. Stasis guns."

"Non-lethal, m'lord?" Surprise in the tone.

"If possible. If we put their people on a ship and push them off into space, the SR ship will be forced to choose between retrieving their people and coming after us. Always force the enemy to make a decision," K'sar said, shrugging again. "Even if they choose to come after you, forcing a decision buys you time." _And maybe, just maybe, the Spectres on board will gamble, on seeing non-lethal methods, and use the same. Unlikely, however. Spectres aren't known for their mercy._

They approached the Collector ship, and moved alongside it. Got a soft seal, just as it plunged into the blue, spinning vortex of the relay's event horizon, and shot through it, connecting from relay to relay to relay. . . not instantaneous. Relay travel was fast, but not instant. "Make hard seal," K'sar ordered, as their ship shook and trembled. Then he lowered his visor, covering his yellow eyes, and activated his stealth net.

P'sal's skilled fingers and elaborate suite of computer hacking tools got them nowhere at first. "It's been welded shut. Was probably used to install the reactor or reactors originally, and then sealed. That's why there's still an outline." He slammed his fist against the rocky-appearing surface in irritation, and K'sar lifted a finger to still him,

"What can be welded, can be cut. We'll just be a little slower, that's all." K'sar wasn't concerned. . . not yet, anyway. "Stealth and silence, everyone. M'sak? Get the cutting torch out." The faster they could cut through, the less chance of being detected. If they could cut even a man-sized hole before they dropped out of the first relay and into normal space again. . . before the SR ship might happen to take a visual scan of the Collector ship.

Slowly, M'sak burned through the hatch cover, and K'sar tried hard not to think about what they were doing. . . crossing from one vessel to another while in the middle of a relay jump. But really, who would think to be watching for such a thing, at such a time? And even if they were, what were the chances that they'd know what every single light and console meant, aboard such an alien vessel?

The ships shook, and they dropped back into normal space. "We've got a clear breach," M'sak said, quietly. "Watch the edges. They're still hot."

"Spread out," K'sar told his team, as they dropped into what clearly looked like the reactor compartment of the vast ship. "Teams of two. M'sak, you're with me." He had twenty total men, plus himself, but two of them were left aboard their own ship, in case they needed to beat a strategic retreat. That made for nine teams of two. Not the best odds, but they'd have to make do. One option would be to shut down the reactor core, but. . . none of his men were qualified to do that, and then what? Sit there, dead in the water, while the SR ship sent over more teams? No, best not to tip their hand until they were ready to fly this behemoth back to Khar'sharn. . . and then he'd be rid of the entire mess.

**The Young Guns, February 11, 2197**

A light blipped on a panel in front of Zhasa, and she frowned at it for a moment. "That wasn't beeping a moment ago," she said, out loud. "Now what are _you_, you little _bosh'tet?_" Zhasa had flight training, but they had one of the junior pilots from the _Raedia_ here on the bridge to do the heavy lifting for her, a female human who was carefully reading all the panels and their little adhesive notes right now, while they were in relay transit, where a pilot really had nothing to do except to keep their hands off the controls.

"Is that a warning light?" the human asked her, sounding apprehensive.

"Not really sure," Zhasa admitted, and tabbed her omnitool, opening a channel. "Seheve? If you wouldn't mind coming to the bridge? I've got a warning indicator that's not labeled. I think."

"On my way," Seheve replied. She glanced around the small enclosure around the two cots, lashed together, that she was going to be sharing with Rellus for the next several days, as they slowly made their way from relay to relay. Dara had liberated some curtains and dividers from the_ Raedia_ med bay, and had worked with everyone to set them up around the bare-looking cots in the main living area, which had been used by Cerberus and the Lystheni alike. Her thinking had been to give everyone at least the illusion of privacy, which enhanced morale. Even just having someplace where one could sit down and _not_ keep a mask over one's face was a help, she'd thought. Seheve rather approved of the notion. Even if the med bay curtains, with their images of palm and _caprificus_ trees and _lanurae_ seemed oddly out of place, compared to the rock-like walls of the Collector vessel.

Rel, who'd been showing her how to play the turian game of _consecutor_, with its traps and randomly moving herds of animals, looked up. "Problem?" he asked.

"Uncertain. Would you like to accompany me?" Seheve offered.

Rel shrugged. "Why not? At least this way, I won't be tempted to trap every tile in your absence." He stood, and gestured for her to move ahead of him. Seheve gave him an uncertain glance. "Yes. That _was_ a joke. I wouldn't cheat." He made an annoyed noise, and she smiled faintly in response.

On the bridge, however, her smile faded. "Yes, Zhasa. That is an alarm. It indicates that the hatch that leads into the reactor compartment—the one that our techs noted was welded shut, not the smaller, cargo bay hatch on the other side of the ship—has been breached." Seheve's mind raced.

"Debris from a collision?" Zhasa asked, immediately, and Seheve's hands flew over the consoles.

"No collision reported. And the kinetic shields aft are at maximum," Seheve told Zhasa. "When did this indicator begin blinking?"

Zhasa exhaled audibly through her suit filters. "While we were still inside relay space. _Keelah._ That's not possible. There's nothing else _in_ the relay vortex with the ship at that point in time. I mean, if there had been another ship crossing the area at the same time, it's theoretically possible that we'd crash, or . . . pass right through each other. . . but no one's ever gotten verifiable data of either occurrence."

Rel raised a finger. "We're going a little far afield if we're talking theoretical physics already," he said, shaking his head. "Seheve, can you get vid feed from the reactor compartment?" Zhasa and the various techs had installed vid cameras in most of the major compartments, since they'd known that they were going to be flying with a skeleton crew at best. This was meant to allow them to verify the ship's condition, since they couldn't have people in every room of the vast vessel.

Seheve's fingers danced over the consoles again, and she frowned. "Vid feed is down."

A prickle moved down her spine, and she met Rellus' eyes. Knowing, in that moment, that they were thinking the exact same thing, at the same exact time. "That's. . . odd," Zhasa muttered, jabbing at the consoles herself. "The vid feed was operational before we lifted off. . . "

"Then we should go check it out," Rel said, shrugging, but he could feel adrenaline keying up inside of him now. "Tell me one more thing. . . have any automatic bulkheads dropped into place? Is there any loss of compartment pressure?"

He watched as the quarian and Seheve both bent over the consoles, and Seheve's head rose first. "No," she replied, simply.

"Then we have to assume we have intruders on board. Somehow." Rel thought about it. "No comms. We inform everyone face-to-face. After Seheve and I leave the bridge, Zhasa, lock down the doors behind us."

"Understood," Zhasa replied, immediately, and Rel nodded to her, heading straight back out into the living area aft of the bridge. All of his senses were on combat alert now, and sounds that might have been at the very edge of his auditory range were consciously noted. The slight scrape of his own feet, in armor, across the rocky-appearing floor. The hum of ventilation equipment in the distance. The pulse of the engines.

The distinctive sound of a human female's pleasure, voiced in a soft moan as Rel was about to tap on the metal rod that held the curtains in place around Eli and Dara's cubicle. His hand froze in mid-air as he heard the soft words, "Don't stop. That feels so good."

_Now? They're mating right __now_? _I know there's no such thing as a closed door for them, really, but in public? When might have intruders. . . wait, they don't know that. . . _ _and I don't __smell__ anything. . ._ Thoughts flashed through his head, and Rel finally managed to cough, politely, and tap on the bar after all.

"Yeah?" Eli's response was immediate, and didn't hold any irritation. "Who is it?"

"Rel. There may be a prob—" He blinked as a human hand pulled the curtain aside, and averted his eyes while finishing, "—lem."

"What's up?" Eli asked, interest rising in his voice, but still calm. "Oh, come in, Rel. It's not like we're naked or anything."

Rel blinked again. They _weren't_, to his surprise, naked, kissing, biting, or anything else. They were, in fact, still in their armor, although Dara's boots were off, and they were lying opposite one another on the low cot. . . and Eli had her feet in his lap, and was rubbing the sole of one of them at the moment, applying pressure to the center of the arch with his thumbs. Dara was lying back limply, so relaxed that she looked apt to ooze right off the cot. Rel's eyes widened slightly, and the hint of a smile on Eli's face expanded a bit in response. "Bet you didn't know that human females have an off button in their feet," Eli told him, lightly. "I can't speak for drell, but this works pretty nicely on humans and asari."

"You're a jerk, Elijah Sidonis." Dara's voice was a little muffled, and still very relaxed. "I'd totally kick you if it weren't for the fact that. . . ooohh." Her voice trailed off as, apparently, Eli applied just a hint more pressure to the sole of her foot.

"As you can see, it even works on part-rachni," Eli added, in the tones of a respectable scientist. He patted Dara's foot, and let go now. "What's the problem, Rel?"

Rel gathered his wits. "We might have intruders aboard."

All amusement and relaxation left both faces at once, and Dara sat straight up, reaching for her armor's boots. "Why didn't you just say so?" Eli asked, sharply, and pulled his helmet on. "What's the situation?"

Rel outlined it, quickly, glancing at the hatches that led into the aft compartments. The ship was currently in its 'cruise' attitude, which was the position in which they'd found it; its long axis had been parallel with the ground. On launch, it had lifted off like an old-fashioned rocket, with the long axis perpendicular to the ground, instead. It made describing locations on the ship somewhat difficult at times. When he was done, both of them were in full armor, and getting their weapons ready. "All right," Eli said, and there was nothing left in his voice but business. "Dara, is Glory awake?"

"Not at the moment."

"Wake him. Have him contact Lysandra on the _Raedia_, let them know that we might have a problem. And have him listen for life-songs that are out of place."

Rel watched as Eli moved over, and got Linianus up next, followed by Dempsey. Both males had been attempting to catch some much-needed sleep. Kirrahe was in the armory, working with the pistols that they'd found, and that room was aft of their current location. . . and Rel didn't want to use the comms, in case they were compromised, so there was no way to notify the salarian of the potential danger. . . yet.

Glory confirmed for them, immediately, and angrily, _Yes! Captive-song singers aboard! Why did I sing rest-songs and listen to the hive-dreams?_ Self-blame and anger colored the brood-warrior's voice in red.

"Everyone needs sleep," Rel told him. "And you, Eli, and Dempsey just got done with a pretty damned long flight back from Astaria."

"Not to mention, about thirty-six hours of non-stop listening to mercs to see if they were following the rules and not stealing," Eli muttered, and pulled up a schematic of the ship on his omnitool. "Glory, where the hell are they?"

_Mostly in area where the ship's songs are kept, in machines that do not sing,_ Glory informed them. _There is one among them whose song is different. He is not a gray-voice. _

"Great," Rel muttered. "What does _that_ mean?"

_His mind is not consumed with captive songs. He sings much as Sings-Justice does._ Glory's song died for a moment. _They move forward. They will soon find Sings-too-Swiftly._

_Kirrahe, _Rel translated mentally.

"How many?" Lin asked now, practically.

_I can only sense . . . .eighteen songs in the harmony. Two more outside the ship, perhaps?_

Eli exhaled audibly. "Nine of us, plus the pilot, we're split off from Kirrahe, and the _Raedia_ can, well. . . maybe send marines over here, if we slow and dock."

"Zhasa's in with the pilot," Dempsey noted, darkly. "That actually leaves seven of us, with Kirrahe split off."

Eli nodded. "Yeah. Against about eighteen batarians." His head swiveled to regard each of them. "I guess we've handled worse."

"Let's not underestimate them," Rel warned. "They're aboard, none of us know the terrain well, and they managed to _sneak_ aboard pretty damned well."

Eli nodded. "What do you suggest?"

Rel realized, suddenly, that Eli was ceding command to him, at least a bit. The human knew that this was not his personal area of expertise. . . but it _was_ Rel's. Defending a ship or a station. Boarding a ship or a station. Taking out an objective on the ground. Just as Eli and Lin had ceded control, lightly and easily, to him, and, well, to Dara, when they'd planned the maneuvers to get to the ground on Bothros. He thought for a moment. "We don't know what we're looking at here. Seheve and Dempsey and I will head aft, and see what we can see. Seheve can scout ahead of us. We'll try to get to Kirrahe first. The rest of you take the door that leads into the stasis compartments, and don't let anything through."

"That," Eli said, dryly, "I think we can manage."

Rel gestured for Seheve to lead them through the door, and glanced back at Dempsey, who'd lifted his polarized visor just for a moment. "I'm going to suggest killing the lights," Dempsey said, dryly. "Liakos and I can see in the dark just fine. I'm betting that it'll take the batarians off-guard."

"When we get in contact range of them, yes," Rel said, then added, "I'll need a little warning to shift to night vision, myself."

"Understood."

They moved out, weapons in their hands, warily staring down through rows and rows of stasis pods. "I don't see anything," Rel muttered into his radio. "Nyx?" It was his first time using Seheve's new squad name, and it tasted odd in his mouth.

"Nothing yet," she murmured in return.

_They are ahead of you,_ Glory insisted. _At the end of the chamber of long sleep. They can see you, Sings-Honor. They can see Sings-in-Silence. They cannot see Sings-Despair, however._ Rel squinted as six red blurs appeared at the very end of the compartment. . . near the door that they'd discovered between two banks of stasis pods, which led into the armor. _I have sung to Sings-too-Quickly. He is aware of their approach now. The door is locked._

"Seheve. . . keep moving forward." Not on the radio, just quiet words, which wouldn't carry the length of the long compartment. "Try to get a clear shot. Dempsey, you're—"

"I'm bait," Dempsey acknowledged, stolidly, stepping past Rel, gun in his hands, but as if he didn't have a care in the world.

"_Be wary,"_ Eli warned over the radio, very softly, and he'd switched to _tal'mae._ "_These intruders may have weapons which cause sleep."_

_Stasis guns. Right. Like the one that caught Livanus on Khar'sharn._ Rel grimaced beneath his mask, and let Dempsey get ahead of him, at least ten feet. Stasis guns had a hell of a dispersal spray. He was trying to let his body language relax. To make it less evident that they knew that there were intruders there, but it was damned difficult to do so. To walk as if he were just on a routine patrol, checking the pods. As if they were going to go someplace, or as if anyone in them would wake of their own accord.

_They are wary_, Glory reported. _They cannot see the rest of us beyond the door. The one with the different voice remains further behind the rest. Watching. Singing caution songs to his fellows. _

Kirrahe Orlan, in the armory, lifted his head as the door mechanisms ground, briefly. _Someone just attempted to activate the hatch_, he thought, and brought his weapon up and to bear. Not a flamethrower; he hadn't thought he'd _need_ it today. At the moment, just one of the Collector weapons he'd been experimenting with, the pistols that fired superheated gallium warped by mass effect fields and accelerated to a fraction of the speed of light. _They've found my biosign. Now, they'll attempt to hack the door. . . unless they've spotted the others outside.. . . _ His hands were very steady on the pistol as he crouched behind the worktable for cover.

"M'lord? There's one life-sign behind this door, but the hatch is sealed."

K'sar heard the words, but he was watching, warily, as the pair of armored males moved forward, to his left. "Move right," he murmured. "Pass up the starboard side of the compartment. Maintain stealth."_ If we can pass by them, we can either pass by their friends in the compartment ahead. . . or we can attack with surprise, stunning them. Killing them if necessary, but eliminating the obstacle. Then we can be on their bridge shortly thereafter. Maybe even without a firefight. And once we have the bridge, we should have control of the ship. . . .theoretically."_

His men obeyed, moving to his right and starting to pass up the long rows of brown. . . boxes. With glass fronts. They looked like sarcophagi, and there were hundreds of them, even lining the deck, making footing slippery and unsure. "I can see scorch marks," M'sak muttered.

"Maintain silence," K'sar replied, softly, and he could feel M'sak stiffen at the reproof.

_They move now. To your left. They wish to pass by, unseen,_ Glory sang, and Rel tensed. The young brood-warrior was not as adept with battle-vision as Sky was, but he could see the red shimmers moving, indeed, away from Kirrahe's door, towards the starboard side of the compartment. Almost single-file now, passing up the rows.

"Keep moving," Dempsey muttered. "Play dumb. If they won't take the bait, let's at least close the gap before we act."

It chafed. It very much chafed. There were intruders here, and Rel couldn't do a damn thing, at least, not yet. "Seheve?"

No response. She often didn't reply when she was working, he'd realized. "Glory? How many others?"

_Ten remain in where the ship's should sing. The leader has moved into the chamber of long sleeps, where you are now._

Rel shifted slightly. Let himself move further down the row, in Dempsey's wake.

"_Hacking their stealth devices,"_ Seheve murmured over the radio, suddenly, and there were shouts of absolute consternation as the stealth nets on the foremost batarians blinked back into visibility.

Without question or hesitation, Rel rolled out from between two of the stasis pod rows, and fired across the room at the steep diagonal, aiming right for the lead batarian. The male shouted in alarm and dove for cover, but Rel could see that his shield was sparking and glowing. _Got him._ No thought now, except the hunt and the chase.

Seheve was, at the moment, atop one of the stasis pods; she'd climbed it, to get a better view of her surroundings, and to get herself out of the direct line of fire of those around her. Rellus was two ranks of pods behind her, and Dempsey now moved up, his helmet just below her feet, as the human male crouched for cover behind the pod on which she currently hunkered. She could feel _something_ in the air around the human, and then one of the two batarians whose stealth devices she'd turned to standby mode, lifted up in the air and flew the length of the compartment before slamming into the ground.

"Biotic! At least one of them is a biotic!"

Panicked cries from his men, but K'sar stayed calm. _Biotic, yes. And aware of us. Somehow. Probably tripped an alarm coming in._ He measured the distance between himself and the human that he could see in his mind, and knew it was over a hundred and twenty feet, well outside the range of his stasis gun. "M'sak, move up. Port side. We have to close the gap," he muttered, and took off, light-footed, up the compartment. As he walked, he keyed his radio. "Group two? See if you can find an alternate route through this damned ship. Cut through the bulkheads, walk on the skin and go in through the front hatch if you have to, but we're pinned down here for the moment."

"Yes, m'lord."

K'sar moved up very carefully, on the port side of the room, one hand on M'sak's shoulder so that they wouldn't get separated. Took cover in a nook of the room that had an odd device that looked as if it had been cut to pieces, for some unknown reason, and listened to the distinctive _snap-snap_ sounds of stasis guns being fired, as his men blurred out of stealth to try to hit the human and the turian attacking them. P'sal's group had dashed north, and ducked out of another gap in the odd sarcophagi, and fired on the turian. The first shot had gone wide, and the turian had returned the favor with bursts from an assault rifle, sending one of the pair flying back into the wall, but P'sal sent a combat drone in, in his stead, and the tiny device, surrounded by its glowing shield, closed on the turian, sending shocks at his shields. . .and as the turian instinctively flinched towards this harassing threat, P'sal ducked out from around the corner and fired on the turian, _snap-snap!_

Rel froze in place, swearing in his head in as many languages as he knew. He wasn't fluent in many, but he certainly knew a fair number of krogan and even salarian curses. His fingers were frozen on the trigger, and spirits take it all, he'd _known_ not to flinch out of cover. . . but the damned drone had moved in on the same sort of attack vector as the floating turrets at Valak's estate, and had started chipping through his shields, and instinct had told him _Take it out_ and he'd moved _just_ far enough out of cover to do so. And apparently, that inch or two had been too much. _Glory! _

_I hear. Many Voices will cover you and Sings-in-Silence. Many hiders-in-shadows! The ones at the place of ship's songs are moving back to their ship. . . but they do not abandon their friends. Their songs are circular, they wish to come at us from all sides. . . . _

_Fuck,_ Eli thought, grimly, and got in position in the door. He could pick out the targets without any assistance from Glory, but the problem was, they were still close to two hundred feet away, and the room was _filled_ with stasis pods. Lots of cover. "Lin, with me. Dara, stay at the door of the control room, and don't let anyone through. Glory, go with her."

_If I go with her, I may not be able to sing the battle-songs to all here._

_Protect your queen. I'll be their eyes. And tell Kirrahe that now would be good._

_He hears!_

Eli looked at Lin. "Just like on Omega, _fradu_. You move in ahead of me, and I fire at them from behind you, to keep them from using the damn stasis guns. Once you get in position, cover me in."

"I can't see them," Lin warned.

"Assault rifle set to wide dispersal. That should keep their heads down." Eli could feel his teeth aching a little. He hadn't been kidding at all when he'd told Emily Wong, just over a month ago, that if he ever saw batarian slavers again, he'd be aiming to kill. These weren't slavers. Probably SIU. But they were attacking his ship and his friends, and he was in no mood to negotiate or go for non-lethal methods. Neither was Lin, he could tell. The attack on Nimines was too fresh in his friend's mind. Eli leaned out, got a look, and said, "Now! Go!"

Lin bolted past him into the room, shield raised, and Eli began firing from cover, picking out his targets with the ease of long practice. Two of the batarians had slipped to the inner row of stasis pods and were heading straight for the door; Eli's pistol caught the first one in the chest, twice, sending him over backwards. Already apparently wounded, he didn't get up again. His fellow glanced down once, and kept coming, so Eli fired again, double-tap, double-tap, his mind keeping a mental tally of how many rounds he had left. _Four to go_, he thought, and called, "_Fradu__! Two feet ahead of where the body is, shoot!"_

"_On it!"_ Lin shouted back, and now that he was in cover, set his shield aside and pulled out the assault rifle he carried for just such occasions. They caught the batarian who'd been moving towards Eli in crossfire, and the body crumpled to the floor. _"Give me another target!"_

"_There's three opposite Thor and Nyx!"_

"_All right, I see Thor, but where the hell is Nyx?"_

"_Upstairs. Trust me."_

With the loss of the rachni's battle-vision, Dempsey felt hellishly exposed, and knew that Velnaran was even more so. He dropped back behind the rows of stasis pods, knowing that while the batarians could fire the stasis guns on a dispersal setting, they'd need to know more or less where he _was_ in order to fire them. "Tyr, can we shut down the damn lights? Make _us_ invisible?" English, pure simple words, and he hoped that the batarians didn't have English loaded up in their VIs today.

"No," Sidonis called back. "If we do, I'm not going to be able to see them, and we're _all_ going to be fucked."

_Fair enough_, Dempsey thought, and fell back, grabbing Velnaran by the shoulders and hauling him down into cover. Sidonis fired again, picking off another target with uncanny skill, and as the stealth field faltered, Dempsey leaned out of cover and whisked Sidonis' target up into the air as hard as he could. _Yeah. Night-night, dipshit,_ he thought, distantly.

K'sar swore mentally. His men were being picked off by the human male as if he could see precisely where they all were. It was uncanny. "M'sak, move up and stop the human biotic. Stasis field. I'm going after the human and the turian off to the starboard."

"Yes, m'lord." The warrior-caste agent was nothing if not obedient, and moved up on the human biotic, who was crouched down, about a hundred feet ahead of them in the long room now. K'sar looked around for alternate routes, eyed the scorched marks on the ceiling ahead of him, where hundreds of ropes and cables and tubes ran just below the rounded ceiling of the room, and then studied the pods in front of him. _All right. This is risky, but the human's concentrating his fire on my men over there. He's not looking here._ K'sar climbed up one of the stasis pods and leaped upwards, catching the tubes with his fingertips and pulling himself up. He inched forward, catching himself as the tubes all swayed under his weight, and then eased along, foot by foot, working his way forward. _Ancestors! Are both of them carrying __vibroswords__?_ he thought, as he got closer. The problem was, he was nowhere near stasis gun range, and he wanted these Spectres alive, if he could manage it. A niggling portion of his mind reminded him that there were bounties on any captured or killed Spectres, and he put it out of his head. A bounty wouldn't do him any good if he were dead, and he had no illusions that he'd live out the year if he took any of these people back to Khar'sharn with him. . . or if he used one or more of them as hostages, or anything else, really. No, his best bets were either killing them all, cleanly, and leaving no evidence, or capturing them and then releasing them, safely. Outwitted, resentful, angry, but probably not swearing blood vengeance. _Of course, that presupposes I'm going to live out the next hour_, K'sar thought, and inched forward again.

Kirrahe had received the message from Glory, and moved forward. Unlocked the door to the armory, and peered out, keeping to cover. He couldn't see any targets. At all. "Need guidance," Kirrahe noted into his radio. "Where are the enemy positioned?'

_Half are singing songs that lead them onto the surface of the ship,_ Glory warned. _They move along outer carapace, seek to enter by other means. Five remain in chamber of long sleep!_

_Helpful, but not informative,_ Kirrahe thought, and turned to his left. Saw a batarian come out of stealth, and fire a weapon at Dempsey's back. . . and fired the Collector weapon in his own hand, instantly. Two pulls of the trigger, two quick surges of yellow-white light lanced out, burning into the batarian's unguarded back, tearing through shields and cutting into the armor underneath. . . .

Seheve had been, quietly, looking for targets. There had been a moment of intense concern when Rellus had been caught by the stasis weapon, but Dempsey had moved swiftly to protect him. Her ability to spot stealthed attackers was not exceptional, but she heard the _snap-snap_ of the stasis pistol beside and behind her and whirled, seeing Dempsey freeze in position as the batarian emerged from stealth. A line of yellow light slashed through the batarian's shields, and Seheve drew her vibroknife and leaped down off the pillar, her knees slamming into the batarian's shoulder blades, knocking him forward as she rode him to the ground. Her knife, held point downward along her forearm lashed out and _down_, into the weak seam between shoulder and neck on the armor, and then she rolled forward off the body, one clean motion, the roll itself taking the knife out of the deep wound. . . and once she was back on her feet, she reactivated her stealth device and moved away, checking on Dempsey. "Can you hear me?" she whispered to the human.

_Yes._

The word was clear and cold in her mind, and Seheve flinched a little from it. "Can you still attack them, while frozen so?"

_You bet your ass I can._ _Just need to be able to see them_. Faint overtones of frustration, and Seheve tried, with the wiry strength of her arms, to move him around so that the biotic could see what he was targeting. . . .

_Come on,_ K'sar thought at the various agents he'd ordered to come up with an alternate means of getting to the cockpit. _Come on. Hurry._ He caught a good look as a drell enforcer of some sort dove off the top of one of the sarcophagi and slammed a knife home into M'sak's shoulder, at enough of an angle that she probably got the inside of the neck, likely severing the carotid artery, if not opening the top of the lung, and then rolling away and vanishing. _Gods of my ancestors, what a fool's errand we were sent on here._ M'sak hadn't been a friend, but he _was_ one of K'sar's men, and K'sar wasn't seeing any way in which he or any of the rest of his people were getting out of here alive today. _Nothing left but to die with what honor I can, I suppose._ The thought held a tinge of bitterness, but also, a sort of relief. Reality was now simply delineated by probabilities. The probability of getting closer to the human and turian pair at the far end of the bay without being detected, and either using his own stasis gun, or his vibrosword on them before being killed himself, or the probability of being spotted before he could do so.

He scrambled closer, feeling his feet slip on the curves and coils of tubing. Caught himself, steadied himself. _Not close enough yet. . . _

Eli took another shot at the batarians, whom he was keeping fairly well hunkered down by having Lin direct his assault rifle at them, while he himself reloaded. "_Fradu, I'm going to move, try to get a better angle on them,"_ he warned, and glanced around. Something caught his attention then. Something was _wrong,_ and he couldn't put his finger on what. He looked up at the ceiling again, and saw it. The cables and hoses coiled near the pods that lined the ceiling, which Kirrahe had used to such devastating effect a week ago. . . were moving. And not from airflow or ship vibration. They were moving, and Eli couldn't see what was making them move. "Nyx, are you in the hoses on the ceiling?" Eli asked, sharply.

"_Negative,"_ the confused response came, and Eli nodded to himself and sprinted out of cover, keeping his shield between himself and the batarians. He rolled to cover on the port side of the room, and risked another glance upwards. This time he saw it—the tell-tale shimmer of a stealth device. _Damn. Whoever this is, is almost in Sam or Kasumi's league._ Eli ducked further back and behind the pods, knowing he was probably in range of a stasis gun now, leaned out. . . and fired on his target.

At that moment, Dempsey, who'd been levered into position by Seheve, managed to pick up and throw another of the batarians far to the aft of him, and Kirrahe, now able to see the screaming, surprised batarian, fired on the male with his Collector pistol. And at the same time, Glory cried out in all their minds, _They come! They attempt to enter through the front!_

Dara crouched behind Glory, near the door to the control room, her rifle already on its tripod and aimed at the door. As the first batarians came through the airlock, she opened fire, and Glory did as well, a hail of tiny singularities tearing through their shields and suits. _You should not be here!_ Glory sang to them, defiantly. _You will not pass, you will not sing captive-songs today!_ Dara took instant advantage, edging out to fire her rifle into the closest batarian's exposed helmet, no shields in her way to disrupt the bullets, rob them of force. The first bullet shattered the face-shield, and the second exploded out the back of the skull, spattering the wall behind it with a shower of gore.

The batarians weren't deterred, however. The remaining four of them slipped into stealth, immediately, except for two combat drones that emerged from nowhere, and began to harass Dara and Glory. Dara flinched at the sight of them, the memory of pain and bullets, and pushed it down and away. _Glory, show me where they sing. The drones are a nuisance, and they sting, but we really need to keep the batarians themselves from firing on us._

_Here! They sing here!_ The battle-vision slipped into place behind her eyes again, and Dara lifted her rifle once more, and Glory turned loose first a barrage of tiny singularities, and then, once he was sure that all shields were gone, lifted his pedipalps and flung acidic spit at the closest stealthed batarian, who was already reeling backwards under the heavy assault. The batarian screamed as the acid began to eat into the open places in his armor, and as he flickered back into view, Dara followed up with two more bullets, precisely placed.

But she knew it was just a holding action. There were three more batarians around them, and the airlock was cycling again. . . .

K'sar swore as a bullet tore through his shields and punched into his armor, and his internal debate between his two targets sped up significantly. The turian wasn't firing on him, but he had a clear line of sight on him. The human could, damn it all, detect him, but was tucked back out of sight himself. K'sar set his stasis gun to wide dispersal and fired on the human's last known location, feeling blood drip down his arm—

Eli was already moving, knowing he had, at best, winged the batarian. And that anyone who stayed in a known location when there was someone with a stasis gun in hand was going to be caught and killed in short order. He heard the _snap-snap_ behind him, and rolled forward, heavily, and felt _something_ brush his heels as he got the hell out of the way. And that was when he heard Glory's harp-like song of defiance in his mind. _Shit. We're running out of time. _"_Lin! He's got a perch in the hoses—"_

"_I saw him before he went back into stealth, but I don't __really__ want a repeat of last week when we're all in the spirits-be-damned room!"_ Lin shouted back.

A flash of the liquid oxygen spraying everywhere, and then going up in flame flickered through Eli's mind. _Fair point._ "Dempsey—"

_Can't see him to aim, Sidonis. I don't have a field ability. Need to work on that._ Dempsey's words were cold and clear in his mind.

Eli's thoughts raced. Rel was down. Dempsey was down. Kirrahe couldn't see the man. Lin had the angle, but rightly, didn't want to risk spraying liquid gases all over the room again. "Seheve—"

"I cannot see him currently. If I could, I would be on him." The whisper came from about fifteen feet away, outside the range of the stasis gun.

_God, I'm running out of options. Got to get back there to help Dara and Glory— _Eli's thoughts slowed down. _Glory said one of them had a different song. Wasn't a grey voice. Here's hoping this is the one._ "Seheve. . . next time he fires at me. . . be ready. Ah, _shit_." Eli's eyes followed the batarian's faintly shimmering form as the figure dropped to the coffin-like pods that made up the floor in this room. "He's on the move, on the ground—" He shifted his shield off his back, and swung around, facing where he'd last seen the batarian. _He's got a different model of stealth generator_, Eli thought. _If I survive this, I want to sit down with a tech and take it to pieces. See what makes it different._ "Doesn't have to be this way," he called out, in galactic. Standard negotiation opening. "You've got a lot of men on the ground already. You and the rest of them don't have to follow them."

As he spoke, he felt something up against his back. Seheve, he realized, after a moment of shock. She was standing, stealthed, back to back with him. And as they swung in a slow circle, waiting for the inevitable attack, Eli spotted something on the clear glass of one of the stasis pods in the floor. Blood. Drips and spatters. A clear trail. _Thank you, Sam. Thank you, Lantar._ He followed the blood trail with his eyes, and saw that the batarian had dropped to the ground and moved straight forward. Right for the open hatch. Ignoring the people in the room as if they were negligible. _Because we are. We aren't the mission._ Eli's mind put it together, fast. The mission had never been _kill the Spectres_. Hence the use of the stasis guns. _Capture, maybe. But the real goal was the damned ship. And he's heading straight for Dara and Glory's undefended backs._ He could hear the distinctive _BAM-BAM_ of Dara's rifle echoing from the front of the ship, and could hear strangled cries of pain, mixed with the red-black of Glory's battle-song, but had no idea of what was going on up there.

"_Lin, keep the other two pinned down,"_ Eli called across, in turian, and said, tightly, to Seheve, "Stay with Rel and Dempsey. He's heading to the bridge."

Glory's voice now, strained in his mind. _Question-Singer sends soldiers from __Raedia__-ship to help. They may not be in time, however. _Which meant, to Eli's way of thinking that the rachni had spoken to Lysandra, and that the _Raedia_ was sending marines over in a breaching pod. . . but yes. That would take time.

K'sar had heard the words as he'd started moving forward, towards the open hatch. He paused, just outside the hatch. He didn't want to compromise his position, but the human's words, in galactic, had sounded sincere, oddly enough. And resonated with K'sar. He knew he'd already lost at least six men, and he'd probably lose more. He shifted his radio to multiple frequency transmission, and replied, softly, in galactic, "You say it doesn't have to be this way. If I return to Khar'sharn without what I was sent to collect, I am a dead man. If I stay here and fight you, perhaps I die. Perhaps I don't. Uncertainty is preferable, in this instance, to absolute certainty, yes?"

Zhasa could hear the gunfire outside the bridge, and paced, restlessly. On the one hand, she was the last defense that the control center really had. On the other hand? She had friends right outside that door, friends who were taking fire and defending the bridge. "I'm going out there," she told the pilot, abruptly. "Slow us down and let the breaching pod match speeds with us. And lock the door behind me."

She stepped out into the corridor and immediately took two bullets in her shields, before diving down behind Glory, which was where Dara was crouching. "Glad you could join us," Dara told her, dryly, firing at three batarians who were standing just outside the airlock hatch, a shimmer of a shield radiating across all three bodies. "These guys are. . . " she ducked her head further, as the batarians fired again, and Glory's song turned white-red with pain as a bullet found its way through carapace and into flesh, ". . . kind of a pain in the ass," Dara finished, and returned fire, just as Glory reached out and tore at the linked shields with his biotics. No singularities this time. Zhasa had only felt this ability used once or twice before, and shuddered as the reave attempt sliced through the shields and tore at the batarians' nervous systems.

"Just the three of them?" Zhasa asked, lifting one of them with her biotics and sending him flying. She glanced around warily, and realized, with a bit of shock, that there were already five bodies on the floor around the airlock area. _You two have been busy._

_We sing battle-songs well together. . . _Glory's voice held white-red, pain and anger at once. _I tear their shields and their armor, and Sings-Heartsong pierces flesh. There are. . . many of them. . . however. . . _

"There's more than three," Dara confirmed, tightly. "Glory's battle-vision's down, so I can't see them. . . but there's at least two more that came through the second time the door opened. Infiltrators, popped right into their stealth fields!" She leaned around Glory to fire at the now-unshielded males. _Glory, need you to bring your battle-vision up again. We need to see what's around us._

_Difficult. . . when there is pain. . . _

Dara slid forward, and started checking the rachni for damage. The bullet was deep under the carapace, and she'd need both hands to remove it. "Zhasa, need you to buy us time—"

"On it," Zhasa returned, and raised her hands. Dara didn't need to look up. She could _feel_ what was wrapped around all three of them now. A bubble of force, and she could hear bullets tinkling to the floor now as they hit the outside of the shell and dropped to the deck, robbed of all kinetic force. Dara couldn't look, however. Her hands were black with Glory's blood, and she was digging in her kit for forceps, while the brood-warrior continued to barrage their enemies with his biotic powers and his vicious acidic spit.

Eli's mind raced. The batarian sounded reasonable, but he couldn't trust that, not entirely. He moved forward, to the hatch, scanning the area ahead of him. _Glory, we've got one possible enemy coming up from your rear. He's damned good at hiding. Watch your back._ He hoped the rachni could hear him. He wasn't much good at projecting his thoughts, not without being able to see his target, physically. "How about if we replace uncertainty with certainty?" he offered, over the radio, on the same broad band that the batarian had just used. "If you surrender, we're prepared to treat you with mercy." Step, step, step. _Keep him talking,_ he told himself. _Keep him uncertain. Keep him thinking, if possible. _

K'sar, in the meantime, crept forward. Cots, surrounded by curtains, a makeshift living area. He could hear his men shouting and the clear, distinct, _BAM-BAM_ of a rifle going off, periodically. And then he caught sight of the pair hunkered directly aft of a closed hatch. A human female, crouching behind what was surely a huge rachni of some sort. The human was firing the rifle at his men as they came through a hatch in the starboard outer hull. . . and the hell of it was, it was an airlock door. Only a handful of them could get through at a time, and they needed to clear the area in order to allow others through. Three of his men had linked their shields, and were returning fire. . . and then their shields crumpled, all at once, taken down by a combination of the female's shots and _something_ that the rachni had done. . . a female, possibly quarian, emerged from the hatch ahead of the rachni and the human, and crouched with them, a submachine gun in her hands. But she didn't use it. Simply flicked a hand at one of his men, and he went flying through the air.

K'sar shook his head and closed on them. But the human male's words nagged at the back of his head. "You offer me a choice?" he whispered into his suit's interior microphone. "Die at your hands in combat, or surrender, and trust that you won't kill us anyway? You, who carry a stolen batarian vibrosword? How can I possibly trust your word?"

Closer. Closer. The quarian female had her hands spread, and bullets were stopping in mid-air, ten feet from her, and falling to the ground like silver rain. _Bullets. Damn it. Don't they see that this is useless? _K'sar's mouth fell open behind his visor, and shifted radio frequencies to snarl, in batarian, _"You fools. I told you to use stasis guns. You'll notice that your bullets are having no effect?"_ _Of course. . . now that the quarian's in play, is whatever she's doing resistant to the stasis gun's effect? No way to tell without trying, and trying will compromise my position._

He holstered his gun, and drew his vibrosword. _Of course, there are three of them. Maybe the attack will distract them. Get them to turn on me, and then my men can take advantage. . . _

Eli followed, light-footed, down the corridor, pistol ready. There was the blood trail to help him, and he thought he could see the flicker of the stealth field, distorting his vision just at the corner where the makeshift living area turned out into the loading area, in front of the bridge. "I didn't steal this weapon," he said. _Establish a bond. Common ways of thinking. _"I took it from the body of one who tried to steal my life. I paid for it in my own blood. Can you trust in that?'

K'sar paused. Shook his head. He wanted to trust. He wanted to believe. He could see one of his men, slumped against the wall, manage to raise a hand, with a stasis gun in it. . . and then the male lifted up off the ground again, sailing into a different wall, this one further aft, with a resounding thud. And he didn't move again, after that. K'sar crept forward. _The quarian is probably the key_, he thought, distantly. _Take her out, and the other two will fall. _Of course, if he couldn't step through whatever was keeping the bullets out, this would all be a moot point. . . . "I'd like to trust you," he said, over the radio. "I'd like to. I just. . . can't." Brief flickers of doubt. _Why did Valak N'dor, noted noble and possible playboy, turn against the Hegemony? Is he really a Spectre? How did they bargain with him? Was it just this way? _"Is this how you got N'dor to switch sides?" he asked, suddenly. He had to _know_. Even if he died in the next five minutes, he'd at least die _knowing._

Eli stepped closer. He could see the male's outline now, faintly. He had the solution, and he knew he could put two in the male's head, right now. But he heard _doubt_ in that voice, and that had a siren's song all its own. "Valak? Valak was working against the Hegemony long before he met any Spectres," Eli told the male, truthfully. _Never lie to a subject._ "He decided, years ago, that he couldn't support the things that your government does. Because he's a man of principle. Of honor." He paused. "Are you?"

K'sar's hands shook. He could hear honesty in the voice, and it troubled him. "Put the sword down," the human told him, and again, it rocked him. He knew, without question, that the male, could, somehow, see him.

And then the human female just ahead of him turned, gun raised, face invisible behind a polarized mask. . . and aimed directly for him. "Glory's got his battle-vision going again," she said, in galactic. "Tyr, I've got the shot—"

"So do I." The male's voice was directly behind him now, and K'sar exhaled. "Drop the weapon, and tell your men to stand down. You know that otherwise, they're all going to die, right?"

K'sar slowly knelt and placed his vibrosword on the floor, and called to his men, "Stand down."

"M'lord!"

"I said, stand down. This operation's blown. No point in going on." His voice was harsh as he spoke in batarian. and he was all too aware of the weapons trained on him. _No point in getting all of you killed. I shouldn't even have ordered us in to start with. _"I said, _stand down._ Drop your weapons. We're done here." _Why the hell did you disobey my orders? You're warrior-caste. It should be against everything you believe in. . . ah. Unless Malsur gave you other orders, before we left. I've been studying Valak N'dor so long, I've forgotten that other people were studying him, too. Were you given orders as insurance?_

His men, slowly, began to lower their weapons. There was a distinct thud from behind them, and they looked back at the airlock, nervously. K'sar shrugged internally and unlatched his pistol and stasis gun harnesses, and tossed them to the ground with much less care than his sword. Then he stood, just as slowly, lacing his hands behind his head. It wasn't as if he didn't know the drill.

"Kick the weapons away," the male's voice instructed, and, once he'd complied, K'sar felt hands checking him, finding compartments in his armor, removing the contents of his pockets.

The airlock hatch hissed open, and his men, with their hands in the air, glanced behind them, and saw what he saw: human and turian marines, weapons at the ready, moving in, clearly eyeing his men. Almost begging them to make a move.

The hands unbuckled his omnitool, and then shackled his wrists behind him, just as his various men slowly dropped their own weapons, and the sounds of gunfire from the aft compartment died away.

K'sar closed his eyes, thinking. _Would Malsur have accepted just information on the ship's existence, the fact that it had been taken by the Spectres, back to their base? No. Unlikely. If he did give my men orders, then they were also watching me. Probably why they questioned my orders over the past week, too. Returning without something physical in my hands, some portion of the Lystheni's tech, or, ancestors preserve me, a __Collector_ _vessel. . . N__o. Wouldn't have ended well. There was fucking politics involved, and Malsur's desire to take over Operations. It might not have cost me my head. . . but I'd have been facing a reprimand. Loss of my current position. Possible investigation for treason, if they thought, even for an instant, that I hadn't done my absolute best. And all my men, with me._

In the stasis area, Rel regained control of his body, and staggered back upright. He felt Seheve's hands steady him, and he gave her a quick pat on the shoulder as he re-assessed the situation. "Tyr, you need help up there?" he asked, immediately, on the radio.

"_Raedia_ marines just showed up. Situation contained. What the hell's going on back there?" Eli's voice was crisp.

Lin's voice, now. "I've got two of the batarians left alive in here, who are conscious and able to raise their hands in surrender. Virtus, Agni, I'm going to need you to cover me. . . and Virtus? How's your batarian today?"

"Same as always."

"Tell them to drop their weapons and kick them away. All of them. Knives, guns, everything."

Rel moved in, his assault rifle lowered at the now-visible batarians, and issued the commands in batarian, as Lin had instructed. And watched their body-language carefully. The both _seemed_ to be complying, but he didn't want to risk anyone's lives. Especially not Lin's, as his oldest friend from Mindoir closed in, and shackled the batarian's hands and feet.

"We have any of them left more or less alive?" Dara called on the radio next. "Anyone of our people injured, besides Glory?"

Dempsey hauled himself off the floor. "Nothing damaged but my dignity," he replied. "Such as it is."

"Stasis gun, huh?"

"Yeah. How long till the pins and needles wear off, Doc?"

"If you're moving already, you got hit with a burst dispersal. That only lasts five to ten minutes, and the tingles should be gone inside of twenty. At least, that's what I remember from the last time one of them hit _me_." Dara's tone was rueful. _"Hate_ those things." She'd already finished pulling the bullet from Glory's body, but had had to drop what she was doing to turn her rifle on the batarian leader when the battle-vision had kicked back into gear, and she'd realized that someone was _right behind_ them all. Now, her gloved fingers, still sticky with black rachni blood, expertly applied medigel, and Chopin crawled out of a thigh compartment, saying, cheerfully, _—Will fix carapace, Sings-of-Glory. New shell, already damaged?_

—_Little queen will sing remonstrances to you. Must learn ducking songs._ That was 1812, crawling out of the other compartment, and Dara choked down her laughter. _Nothing_ phased the workers for long.

"I'm good," Linianus called into the radio. "So's Kirrahe. All fingers and toes attached." He finished locking down the batarians' shackles, and shoved them forward, escorting them out of the stasis chamber, with Kirrahe and Rel both flanking the two remaining living batarians, weapons at the ready.

Dempsey glanced at Seheve, who'd dropped her stealth field for the moment, and said, quietly into his own radio, "What's the status on the batarian ship?"

"Holding very still," Lysandra's voice responded, dryly. "My gun crew has a weapons lock on them, and I _think_ we could disable them without damaging the Collector vessel."

"Right. Tell them to stay put for the moment. We'll be down to collect them shortly." Dempsey felt his lips tug down into a faint frown, and told Seheve, "Let's go get them."

An hour later, they had the body count figured out. Dara and Glory had, between them, put down seven of the ten batarians who'd tried to storm through the front airlock. "Most of that was Glory," Dara told them all, sounding tired, as they gathered the bodies together, stripping them of gear and weapons. "He wore them down, and I followed up on it." Zhasa had assisted, keeping them safe, and putting an end to an eighth. Two survivors had surrendered at their leader's direction. In the cargo bay, five dead bodies. Two survivors. And in the batarian stealth ship, two more survivors, the pilot and a single guard. And, of course, the yellow-eyed leader. Out of twenty men, only seven had survived the attack. Dempsey was actually intrigued. "Never seen a batarian SIU squad surrender before," he told Sidonis, jerking his chin at the shackled prisoners. "What do you want to do with them?"

Sidonis shrugged. "Question the leader a bit, then have the Raedia keep them in the brig till we get back to the base. Then I think Valak and Sky and Blasto will have a long conversation with each of them. Especially their leader." Sidonis shook his head. "Glory keeps insisting that he's not a 'gray-voice.'"

"Glory can say that all he wants. I'm not digging around in the guy's head."

Sidonis snorted. "Wouldn't ask you to." The former cop rubbed at his eyes. "But I guess I will. The old-fashioned way. With questions."

Eli moved the batarian out of the living area compartment and into one of the labs, and looked at Lin. "You think you can keep your calm around a batarian right now?"

Lin considered it for a moment. "Probably not," he admitted. "I don't trust myself, _fradu._"

Eli raised his eyebrows at him. "They've surrendered. They're prisoners."

"Yeah, and their people just more or less nuked Nivalis and other parts of Nimines. I'm not in a mood to deal with any batarian right now, besides _maybe_ Valak." Lin's face was set in grim lines. "I don't want to chance losing my temper and fucking things up, Eli."

Eli nodded. "Fair enough." A quick glance around the room. Dara was busy dressing the wounds of their prisoners. And had told everyone in the room, twenty minutes ago, in a rather flat tone of voice, "They get pain meds and medigel. They _surrendered_. Is that clear?"

He'd sent her a reassuring thought. _Not even an issue._

_Just making sure no one gets the bright idea of interrogating them by withholding medical assistance. I wasn't thrilled the last time that happened._

_When did—? Oh. God. Rel._ Eli had winced at her recollection, Rel forbidding her to administer the pain medication to a dying batarian soldier, until they'd gotten information out of him. She had really not taken kindly to having her medical ethics breached by Rel, no matter what the necessity behind it had been, and while she'd only seethed about it quietly in the privacy of her own mind, it had been one of the deepest breaches between the two of them. _Yeah. I don't see a need for that tactic, __sai'kaea__. Not with Glory here to verify answers and with me knowing how to ask questions._

Now, he paused. _Sai'kaea__? You want to come listen, maybe ask some questions?_

_I'll pop my head in when I get done fixing our handiwork here._ A pause. _Take Rel with you._

_Rel? Really?_

_He's supposed to be learning stuff on this mission, right? Drag Seheve and Glory in, too._

Eli nodded, and did exactly that. The result was three quarters of an hour of questioning. He started simply. "So, what's your name, anyway?"

"Alisav K'sar. Special Intervention Unit, Investigations branch." The gleaming yellow eyes were tired and a bit dull, and the male's body language reflected that as he slouched in one of the lab's singularly uncomfortable chairs, looking down at his bound wrists.

_K'sar. That's the name Maryam Pace said had been given to her by the investigator who'd come through, asking about Maldo Ren. _"What was your mission here?"

"After being tasked with investigating precisely the details of Valak N'dor's life, I ventured to _Klem Na_ compounds and discovered some of the people with whom he had been . . . interacting. Salarians." K'sar shrugged, but he was clearly choosing his words carefully. "I was directed to track down where the salarians came from, and retrieve anything of interest that they might not have given the _Klem Na_ already."

Eli's eyebrows rose. It wasn't the whole truth, he was sure, but it interested him, nonetheless. There was a sense of authenticity in the words. "Were you the same investigator who went to the Pace vineyards on Astaria?" he asked, his tone neutral. Maryam Pace had repeatedly stated, in a tone of fear and wonder at the same time, that K'sar hadn't laid a hand on her. Hadn't drawn a weapon on her, hadn't beaten her, hadn't threatened her with rape or the deaths of her children. Nothing but the force of his words, and questions.

K'sar's head rose slightly. "Yes. I was tracking salarian movements, and she had an interesting visitor in the last two years."

"Maldo Ren," Seheve supplied, from across the room, where she stood against the wall, expressionless. "The Lystheni agent who deployed the plagues on Bastion on behalf of the Hegemony."

K'sar grimaced. "You seem to have very good sources of information," he replied. "Better, perhaps, than mine." A quick, guarded glance. "Then again, Maryam Pace may have told you more than she told me."

Eli shrugged. He wasn't giving away answers today. Seheve surprised him, however, by noting, coolly and calmly, "I have reason to know much of Maldo Ren."

K'sar raised his head. "And why is that?"

"Because as a Lystheni agent, he caused the subjugation and madness of a young hanar, and the Illuminated Primacy tasked me with killing the salarian. As such, I executed him the day the plagues were loosed on Bastion." Seheve looked thoughtful for a moment. "Perhaps the one death I do not regret causing, now that I have had time to think on it. If I had arrived a week, or even days earlier, much suffering might have been avoided."

K'sar looked dumbfounded, and gave the rest of them a guarded glance. "It was my impression that the Spectres did not openly condone assassination," he said, slowly.

"I was not then, nor am I now, a Spectre." Seheve tipped her head to the side, her dark eyes glinting. "I had come to doubt the wisdom of the Hanar Illuminated Primacy, and now, I know those doubts to have validity." She paused. It was a fishing maneuver, and fairly well done. Eli understood exactly why she'd done it, too. _She's setting herself up as an example. Something that K'sar might relate to, perhaps. But he's not taking the bait._ Eli frowned. K'sar's body language was torn. He was leaning a little towards Seheve, but had looked away. Internal conflict, clearly expressed. Something she'd said, had resonated, it was clear.

Silence, however, filled the room. Eli cleared his throat, and went back to work. "How did you track us to Bothros?"

The batarian shrugged slightly. "Watched your fight against the slavers from orbit. Watched your vehicles depart. Ground vehicles needed to be retrieved by your ship at some point, and it wasn't difficult to follow from there."

Eli rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. He didn't much like the notion that they'd been spied on since the Pace vineyards, and they'd been completely unaware of it the entire time. He glanced at Rel, who was giving the batarian a grim look. "So, you simply watched the entire time?" Rel asked, after a quick glance at Eli for permission.

"Observed, yes. Our orders were to obtain access to the . . . salarian base. This seemed highly problematic, with so many personnel in place. My men urged me to consider taking some of you hostage, when you left on a shuttle for Astaria two or three days ago. . . " Eli stiffened at the words, and K'sar shrugged and went on, "but I told them that hostage-taking is inevitably counterproductive. If you kill a hostage, you've lost your bargaining chip. If you do not kill them, you lose credibility in the eyes of the one you're attempting to bargain with. And I have ever thought it better to bargain in good faith, in terms of honor and trust, than in any other fashion."

Rel's mandibles flexed slightly, and he glanced at Seheve and at Eli, quickly. Eli nodded, and picked back up with the questioning, "You said you were tasked with investigating Valak N'dor's background?"

"Yes. That was the assignment that led to this one."

"You said that you visited the _Klem Na_ facilities on Lorek and Camala?" Eli wondered how the hell to phrase it, without giving away that they knew what they knew. "I assume you met the . . . salarian. . . dalatrass there?" _C'mon. Say the word Lystheni, Alisav. You know who they are. We know they're working with the Klem Na and the Hegemony. Maybe you didn't have all the pieces, as a mid-level investigator, but you've got more of them now than you did on Khar'sharn._

K'sar's head lifted, and he suddenly met Eli's eyes solidly. "Yes. Yes, I did."

"Did you bargain with her?" That was Rel's question, quick and pointed.

"She wished to bargain with me, but I told her she had not established trust with me. My superior assured me that he would bargain with her, but sent me out to find her. . . clan and its resources, to ensure that any bargain that was struck, would be a false one. One that favored us." K'sar grimaced. "Such is the price of dealing with those who have no honor, I suppose. You lose your own. Inevitably."

"What did she wish to bargain for?' Eli asked, quietly.

"Access to a comm line, and the life of her daughter." K'sar's words were terse.

Eli nodded, and the questions went on. Rel asked several about troop movements within the Hegemony, and K'sar shrugged. "I don't know anything about that. I'm an investigator, not a general." Seheve asked him about his stealth device, and he replied, promptly, "It's a prototype unit. I am one of a handful of people field-testing it."

Eli, near the end of the session, asked, simply, "If you ever met Valak N'dor, what would you say to him?"

K'sar's head came up, and his eyes were thoughtful. "Why," he said, after a moment. "Just that. Why? It's puzzled me on every level since I worked through his history."

_Interesting. A less intelligent but very loyal sort would have said __Death to traitors__ or some variant of that. An intelligent sort, who wanted to try to play us, would have gone for the __I'd like to shake his hand__ tactic. K'sar just seems. . . honest. . . for lack of a better term. God. Well, again, this is above my paygrade. I'll let Shepard and Valak and Sky and everyone else figure out what to do with him._ "Thank you," Eli finally said. "Will you be in danger from your men if you're confined in the same room with them in the brig of our ship?"

K'sar shook his head. "I don't like to think so, but given the fact that they disobeyed my orders and began to use lethal force near the end. . .perhaps. Then again, I did draw my sword, too. When I thought I had no other options." His expression was distant now, and Eli opened the door and beckoned for two marines to come and escort him back to the _Raedia_. "So," he said, once the batarian was gone. "What do you think?" He looked from Rel to Seheve, and then over to Glory.

_He sings truth-songs, but also despair. He knows that to return to the world of crimson skies after singing surrender to us, will mean the end of his song._ Glory's voice held grays and violets at the moment.

"SIU is not known to be forgiving," Rel muttered. "But he was definitely holding back. Even though he knows he can't go home."

_Honor-song. Loyalty-song. But also doubts. Sings-Despair, you understand, yes? You have sung this song before._

Seheve lowered her head. "Yes," she said, simply. "With your permission, I would like to accompany the batarians to the _Raedia_. Perhaps K'sar will say things to me, once he's had time to think."

Eli rubbed at his eyes. He was _damned_ tired at this point. "All right," he told her. "But since Zhasa will skin me alive if she loses you as a resource on all the Prothean-language controls in here? Keep your omnitool on and pinging for messages. If she needs your help, I'll have her send a picture of whatever needs translating." He glanced at Rel. "You want to go along?"

Rel shrugged. "Not sure what I can really bring to the conversation. . . "

"You spent ten days on Valak's estate on Khar'sharn, posing as a slave. He seems fascinated by Valak. You can probably use that as an in," Eli offered, and watched Rel's eyes widen slightly. He grinned a little at his friend. "Rel, _fradu. . . _ you've had a lot of experiences in the last year. Start using them!"

Outside the laboratory, Eli moved up into the control center, and, looking at Zhasa, asked, "Have we figured out which button gets us communication with the _Raedia_, if not the base?"

Zhasa chuckled, a rich ripple of sound. "That one over there gets you a comm signal to the _Raedia._ FTL channels. . . well, we haven't figured that out."

Eli snorted. "They're going to spend at least a decade taking this thing apart." He poked the button she'd pointed out, and, when he got Lysandra's voice on the other end, exhaled slightly in relief. "Could you pass a message back to Commander Shepard, please? Let her know that the _Raedia_ is returning, plus _two_ ships now, and plus seven prisoners. One of whom Zorro will definitely want to meet."

"You're beginning to enjoy sending cryptic messages, Spectre," Lysandra pointed out, dryly. "That's almost worthy of Kasumi."

Eli shook his head. "I have no idea how to summarize the last week in five bullet points or less," he told the AI, grinning.

**Rellus, _Raedia_, February 12, 2197**

Eli's words haunted him, a bit, and Rel found himself down in the brig area of the _Raedia_ with Seheve, looking in on the prisoners. K'sar was being kept in a separate cell, and Rel looked in at him, trying, almost, to look at the batarian with his spirit-eyes. _If I were in a cell like that, I think I would be wearing a hole in the deck-plates, pacing_, Rel decided. _Why isn't he? Why is he just staring into space? No energy, no affect. . . has he given up?_

K'sar lifted his head and looked at him. "What do you want, turian?" There was no particular venom in the word _turian_.

"To talk, if you're willing."

"I think I've probably said enough already. Probably more than I should have, to be honest." K'sar's eyes flicked past Rel's, in the direction of the other cells.

Rel nodded, and dragged a chair over to the bars of the cell, nodding to the guards as he did so. "Then maybe I'll talk, and you can listen."

K'sar looked mildly interested, and his lips lifted in a faint approximation of a smile. "Batarians aren't particularly popular on this ship right now."

"No. Do you know why?"

K'sar shrugged. "I assumed it had to do with slaving. The plagues, apparently. The war." He lifted a hand and covered his upper eyes for a moment.

Rel shook his head. "All a part of it, but I think _this_ has a little more to do with it." He pulled up the vid feeds on the blockades of Galatana and Rocam being lifted, and turning into the desperate flight to try to protect Nimines and Macedyn. He heard K'sar's muffled oath as the batarian sat straight up, staring at the screen as footage from the _Hamus'_ gun cameras showed the batarian ships launching the asteroid streamed by, followed by footage from the ground of fireballs streaking across the clear blue sky. . . .followed by the shockwave and the huge cloud over Nivalis. The buildings, shattered, bereft of their glass coverings, only the naked steel girders and concrete beneath. Rinus and the others digging for survivors. The Imperator embracing Rinus as kin, and shaking Valak's hand, for having tried to avert the catastrophe. . . and having, in the main, succeeded.

K'sar exhaled, closing both sets of eyes. "Why are you showing me this?" he asked, quietly.

"Do you believe what you're seeing?"

K'sar snorted slightly. "I try not to believe what I see on the vid feeds," he acknowledged. "I've seen far too many of my own cases get buried and hidden, with a safer version of the story reported on the news." His tone was cynical and weary, and Rel was suddenly struck by a realization. _K'sar is who Eli or Lin would be, if they'd been born in the Hegemony. As tired and burned out as they were a year ago. . . but with no hope of justice. No hope of truth._

Rel nodded now, and said, "You said you'd like to ask Valak just one question. Why."

K'sar's eye suddenly turned more alert. "Yes," he said, and there was a hint of hunger in his voice. _He's a hunter. A hunter of facts and truths, sorting them out from lies. Again, like Eli, Lin, Lantar, Sam. . . even Garrus._ "I don't suppose you've spoken to him? In and around him having his wrist clasped by turian dignitaries." Skepticism in the tone, and K'sar clearly didn't know the Imperator from any other turian.

Rel found himself chuckling. "Actually, I was an involuntary guest at his estate about a year ago. He found me, a survivor of a botched information raid on Camala, and took me back to his estate on Khar'sharn. Patched me up. Got me to Omega. . . and that's when he met the Spectres."

K'sar squinted at him. "You don't wear the red insignia that the others do."

Rel shrugged. "I'm only a probationary Spectre." The words didn't rankle him anymore. He had a strong feeling that he would, someday soon, probably, shed that probationary status. He also had a clearer understanding now, than a year ago, of how much more he had to learn to _be_ a Spectre. "And at the time, I wasn't even that."

"Then why would Valak have met the Spectres then?" A quick, shrewd question.

Rel shrugged. "Let's say it has to do with some of my relatives," he said, and let it rest there. "It doesn't really matter, does it? The real point here is I had a chance to talk to Valak over the course of those ten days. Really get a feel for what he thinks and feels and believes."

K'sar leaned forward, clasping his hands and leaning his elbows on his knees. "And what does he believe, turian?"

"That your people are destroying themselves," Rel told him, simply. "That the caste system has caused stagnation, an inability to compete with other civilizations, prevented you from creating new technologies, and has, over the centuries, caused the slave caste to swell to over fifty percent of the population. Your entire society currently revolves around slaves, either acquiring new ones, buying them, selling them, feeding them, housing them. . . and they provide largely menial labor instead of the benefits of an educated labor pool that has self-interest to sustain themselves." Rel looked up at the ceiling. "I think I got that all right," he added, with a certain amount of self-deprecation. "Valak talks very quickly when he's on a roll, and when he's talking about this sort of thing, he tends to sweep you along with him."

K'sar's mouth was hanging slightly open, and he closed it with a click. "The product of one of the fifty highest houses said all of _that_?" he asked, after a moment.

"That, and more," Rel told him, simply. "I'm sure he'll enjoy talking with you when we get where we're going."

"How does he justify taking up arms against his own people?" K'sar snapped out. "He had money, power, influence. He could have worked from inside the system. He could have changed things, made things better—"

Rel's eyes widened. K'sar, it seemed, didn't like traditional batarian culture any more than Valak did. He just went about dealing with it differently. "Well, that's something you'll have to ask him," he told the batarian lightly. "My time's up. I'll see you again tomorrow. . . if we're not at our destination by then."

Seheve told him later that afternoon, that she'd stopped by the brig herself. And had, as typical for her, sat there, silently, waiting for K'sar to speak first. "After an hour, he finally asked why I'd come to doubt the truths of hanar and drell society," she said, smiling faintly. "'Weren't they what you were raised to believe?' he said. And I told him I'd started on the path to doubt through traveling outside the Primacy. Reading things forbidden on Kahje. And the road to doubt led to questions. And the questions led to answers that did not match the truths which I had been taught. And finally, I'd been freed by Shepard and Spectre Sky and Spectre Blasto to find my own truths. Whichever ones I chose to make my own."

"What did he say to that?" Rel asked, lifting a piece of wood, and examining it. It was a bulbous piece, warped around a large knot, and he wondered if this were, in fact, Fors. _It would be good to give him a spirit statue before his wedding_, Rel decided. _He's been around turians enough to understand the gift._

Seheve shrugged, and curled up on the bed beside him. "He did not respond at all. I believe that he was thinking." She half-smiled. "Always the most dangerous thing a person can really do." Seheve picked up a datapad, and, very carefully, began to write on its surface.

"What's that?" Rel asked her.

"The Prothean database of words that Dara and Zhasa began for me," Seheve told him, calmly. "They were right. It is a way in which I can give back. It might be grandiose to say that I'm giving back to the galaxy as a whole. .. but at least, I can give back to _them_, for their care and concern for me."

Rel's throat tightened just a little, and he set the wood aside for a moment to run his hand down her scalp and shoulders. "I suppose that everyone needs a hobby," he told her, after a moment. And then got back to his own. _Yes. This is definitely Fors. The question is, is he in his suit, or out of it. . . .?_

**Sam Jaworski, Mindoir, February 13, 2197**

Sam Jaworski had been back on Mindoir for about a week, and this morning started like most others. Half an hour on the treadmill, a little work with the weights, and then he heard Takeshi awake and babbling in his room, and went in to get the little man up and going for the day. Pancakes for the little guy, coffee for himself, with eggs, salsa, and hash browns slapped together in a tortilla for himself, and then Kasumi was finally up, smiling and serene, but with shadows under her eyes. Sam gave her a kiss and her usual cup of morning tea, and they listening to Takeshi's solemn daily catechism of all the bad things that babies did, that big boys didn't. Babies, apparently, were trouble. They broke their mommies. They pooped in their pants. They spit and they hit. "And big boys _don't_," Takeshi announced, triumphantly.

"Yep. All true, big boy. Go hit the head before I take you to school."

"I not hit!" Takeshi told him, indignantly. "Only babies!"

"Go use the bathroom."

"I not hit," Keshi repeated, and shuffled off into the bathroom.

"Come on, son, time's wasting. Pull it out, point it like a gun, and shoot."

Kasumi smothered a laugh. "Like a _gun?"_

Sam shrugged. "It works, doesn't it?"

Takeshi's piping voice, echoing in the bathroom, was now a chorus of _pew-pew-pew_ noises. Sam looked up at the ceiling in resignation. "I won't tell his teacher where he got the idea if you don't," he offered.

Kasumi's shoulders shook. "Ah. More blackmail material for me. And to think I thought you were such an upstanding and principled man, Sam. I feel somehow let down."

Sam leaned over and gave her another kiss. "Never claimed to be an angel, Kasumi-chan. Kind of the opposite, really."

Kasumi looked up at him through her lashes. "So. . . Bekenstein?"

Sam sighed. "I have the worst feeling I'm going to regret this, but yes. We'll get my mom to take Keshi for the week, and we'll go. . . _after_ this court mess that's coming up. Fair enough?"

Kasumi's wicked smile was hardly reassuring. "I'd like to make a bet," she told him, lightly running a finger along his collarbone, atop his shirt. Even after five years, the combination of contact, her wicked smile, and the mock-demure glance made his blood start to race.

"A bet, huh?" Sam asked. _Why do I have a bad feeling about this?_

"Yes. I bet that when we go to Bek, you won't be able to keep yourself from shouting, at least once, the whole trip." Kasumi looked up at him. "This trip is for our health, Sam. Mental health, blood pressure reduction, stress relief, all those good things."

Sam squinted at her. "I have the feeling that the deck might be stacked against me."

"Sam! Are you saying that I'm going to _cheat_?" Her tone was scandalized, but her dark eyes danced with amusement.

"I'm saying, Kasumi-chan, that I'd be surprised if you _didn't._" He folded his arms across his chest and looked down at her. "All right. What do I win if I don't shout, even once, for the whole week?"

"You get to pick my lingerie and nighties for the next month."

"That sounds like _work_." Sam dodged the smack coming towards his shoulder without blinking. "On the other hand, it also sounds like fun." He gave her another wary look. "And what do you get if I lose?"

"You'll shave your moustache off."

Sam's mouth dropped open, and he slid his hands down to hook his thumbs in his belt. "Are you _kidding_ me?"

Kasumi grinned at him. "Not permanently. Just for a month. Same duration as the lingerie. Sounds fair, doesn't it?"

There were very loud warnings going off at the back of Sam's head right now. Warnings that clearly said that when his wife had _that_ look on her face, she already knew she was going to win. _Well. . . let's see just how good my self-control actually is_, he thought. _Maybe I can turn this around on her._ "All right," he said, after a long moment. "You got yourself a bet, missy."

"_Pew, pew, pew. _Daddy, I done!"

"Good job, Keshi. Now pull up your pants. . . no, _before_ you leave the bathroom, don't just waddle out here bare-assed, son . . . and let's get going." Sam trusted Kasumi with his life, but when she got that cat-in-the-cream smile, he knew his _dignity_ was probably in mortal danger.

Then again, he kind of figured that life with her was a perpetual adventure cruise, and he hadn't bought a lifetime ticket just to stay in the cabin and read, now had he?

By 09:00, however, they were at the airfield to watch the _Raedia_ landing. . . accompanied by a small batarian ship, unknown class and configuration, and a massive Collector ship, which looked as if it were made by crazed termites, quite frankly. They weren't the only ones on hand; Lantar had arrived, as had Rinus and Kallixta. Solanna was taking an hour or so away from her work to be here, early on a Monday morning, as was Garrus. Serana was nearby, and bouncing up and down on her toes in her anticipation of seeing Linianus, apparently.

It was, therefore, a small, but rather awestruck group that watched as the Collector ship settled down, heavily, on the ground. Garrus cleared his throat, and said, quietly, "Eleven years ago, at the Battle of Palaven, I saw those things coming down out of the sky, ahead of the Reapers. I never, _ever_ would have thought to see one landing anywhere I lived. . . and not having been geared up to attack it."

Sam nodded, silently. A chill crossed his shoulders, and he wrapped an arm around Kasumi tightly. And then a hatch opened on the side, and the kids. . . they'd _always_ be kids to him. . . came piling out. Serana whooped and ran forward, and Linianus actually picked her up off the ground and swung her around, and nevermind the armor that he, like the rest of them, still wore. Sam did the same for Dara, picking her up off the ground and hugging her before setting her back down again. "Brought home a souvenir, Dad," she said, laughing, the oddly blue eyes sparkling; she'd lifted her face-plate to allow her to give him a kiss. "That being said? I want to sleep for a _week_."

"Might not be able to give that to you," he told her, and Dara's face fell. "No, not Spectre work. You're all stood down for a bit."

He could see her immediately recover her mental balance, and young Eli came over, wrapping an arm around her waist. Relaxed and natural. "Do we at least have time to clean up before the debriefing?" Eli asked, gesturing down at the armor he wore.

Sam chuckled. "Yeah. Yeah, you do."

"Good." Eli turned and gave Lantar a wrist-clasp. "If Kirrahe's right about what he's got cooked up, Dad, we might have Mom and the others back home inside the next month," he told the turian male, grinning.

"That would be the best news I've had in a year," Lantar replied, and set his hand on Eli's shoulder. "We have a good deal to talk about. . . but yes. Let's get you all home, so you can clean up."

Cohort had only sent a brief mission précis back to the Mindoir base. Now, the geth was going to handle the full mission debrief, and Sam was really looking forward to hearing _details_, thank you. Shepard had made the decision to send the geth along with the nine younger Spectres and affiliates on the grounds that he was the most neutral party available to evaluate their work and growth.

The briefing room was crowded, and Sam could hear Rellus asking Rinus, who sat beside him, _"What __happened__, first-brother? All I've seen are the damned news vids, and that doesn't tell me anything, really—"_

"_I'll tell you later—"_

Eli leaning forward to talk to Valak: "We've got a guy named Alisav K'sar with us. I think you and he _really_ need to talk—"

"So I understood from the admittedly sketchy missives your teams have been sending," Valak acknowledged, sounding intrigued.

Cohort stood, and said, firmly, "We request your attention for the briefing now." He started by describing the methods by which the younger Spectres had recruited the mercenaries and corporate forces on Trident and Volkov. "We were particularly struck by the efforts made to demonstrate to the mercenaries both the fact that the Spectres were willing to work with them in a friendly manner, but also to show strength, which is one of the few things that mercenaries tend to value. The other being hard currency."

Sam snorted as Cohort's eye-flaps twitched. _That sure as hell sounded like a joke._ "How'd they go about showing strength?" he asked, twiddling his stylus in his fingers. "They have Dempsey arm-wrestle a krogan?"

"Negative. They did, however, attend a krogan social activity with the Blood Pack and the Klixxen Claws, during which time Dempsey-Spectre, Velnaran-Probationary-Spectre, and Creator-Zhasa'Maedan all imbibed the krogan beverage known as ryncol, which appeared to impress the krogan suitably."

Sam, who'd had his feet up on the table, put his boots down on the floor. "Ah. Is that all?" he asked, making several vertical slashes across the page in front of him on his datapad, and, at the top of each column, he scrawled the younger Spectres' names.

"No. Additionally, Velnaran-Probationary-Spectre and Dempsey-Spectre fought one another and several krogan over the course of the evening, demonstrating their strength and ability to access the 'battle-rage of Vaul,' as well as their regenerative capabilities. Also over the course of the evening, Sidonis-Spectre and Pellarian-Spectre drank species-specific beverages and spoke of old battles, including their passage of the Rite on Tuchanka. The result was a highly motivated krogan fighting force that respected the people who had purchased their services. In the meantime, Jaworski-Spectre and Dempsey-Spectre worked to secure the corporate forces, and managed to do so with a mixture of diplomatic tactics. Sidonis-Spectre acquired the Eclipse forces free of any charge. They then turned their attention to the Volkov system, where they eliminated both large pirate forces, and Pellarian-Spectre insisted that the pirates who were captured be given captain's mast trials, which resulted in their execution. This gave them the ships needed to move the mercenaries to Astaria." Cohort paused, and began showing clips from skirmishes, taken from gun-cameras on the Hammerheads, Rel's eye-piece, and other sources.

In the meantime, Sam had quietly been making little notes under each person's name. Lantar leaned over, and glanced down at what he was writing, and grinned. "Want to make this interesting?" Sam invited, quietly.

"Credits?" No more than whispers, words that didn't carry more than a few feet away.

"I don't like taking a man's money."

Lantar suddenly grinned. "Fifty credits says Eli gets more points than Dara."

"Are we talking kill count or just credited actions taken?" Sam raised his eyebrows. He still wasn't one hundred percent comfortable talking about Dara's _kill_ _count_, but Lantar and he had been hassling each other about each others' kids for so long now, the words fell out of his mouth almost automatically.

In fact, just last week, Lantar had pointed out, as he'd been allowing Takeshi to play with Lucy, the Sidonis family cat, "Remember how I once suggested we take _sangua'fradu_ vows, Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Very shortly, if the courts can be convinced of it, we're pretty likely to become brothers anyway." Oblique enough reference to Eli and Dara's growing relationship.

Sam had snorted. "The scary thing is, that means, we could have grandkids at some point. And that means they'll be _both_ ours." He wasn't going to get into the fact that they wouldn't be blood relatives of Lantar. Eli was the male's first-son, and that was really all that mattered to Lantar, he knew. He'd paused, and then added, musingly, "I wonder what color the eyes are going to be?"

Lantar had grimaced. "Somewhat disconcerting thought."

"Bet you a bottle of my favorite whiskey that they'll be rachni blue?" It was easier to joke about it than to admit that it still bothered the hell out of him, seeing the wrong eyes in his daughter's face.

"And if they turn out human brown—"

"With a tendency to turn black at the most inopportune moments?"

"—you'll owe me a bottle of brandy?"

"Deal." They'd clasped wrists on it, and gotten back to what they were doing.

In the here and now, Lantar's eyes had the light of challenge in them. "Both," he told Sam, meaning both substantive actions and kill count.

"You're on." Sam kept scrawling notes. Dempsey, Rel, and Zhasa each got points for the ryncol, something he'd never have thought anyone who wasn't krogan would survive drinking. Dempsey and Rel got points for establishing non-verbal communication with the krogan. . . although Sam actually wrote that note as "brawling." Eli and Lin got points for sharing tales of battle and drinking with the mercs, although they'd sensibly stuck with species-specific poison. Dara and Dempsey got points for talking down the corporations. Eli got points for single-handedly bringing in Eclipse. . . free of charge, no less. . . Linianus got points for developing the strategy that got them into the pirate bases. So did Eli. Seheve got points for taking out the pirate leader, single-handedly.

Cohort was swift to point out instances in which the younger Spectres had shown excellence in achieving 'consensus,' too, which actually made the kids squirm, Dempsey didn't squirm, but was called out for giving Dara additional biotics training, and continuing to do so across the entirety of the mission. Rel got credit for helping Lin work through his grief-rage after hearing about Nimines. So did Eli, and so did Dara. "Interpersonal relations somewhat fraught with tension. We observed, with the assistance of Lysandra-AI, the fact that Liakos-Probationary-Spectre made efforts to interact with Pellarian-Spectre, and then made efforts that were contrary to consensus, almost escalating the situation into physical violence. Sidonis-Spectre placed himself between Velnaran-Probationary-Spectre and Pellarian-Spectre and began to de-escalate the situation, while Jaworski-Spectre offered psychological insights into errors in Liakos-Designate's run-times that required resolution before consensus could be reached."

Sam's hand hovered over his datapad, and he exchanged a look with Lantar, thinking, _Okay, what the fuck does that actually mean?_ He couldn't help but hear a couple of muttered comments from the kids, however. . . he was fairly sure that Rel had muttered something about _spanking_ Lysandra, and Lin had growled out something about the _futtari_ doors being open. Dara rubbed a hand over her eyes, obviously trying to conceal the discomfort. "Situation resolved amicably, with noticeable reduction in tension and increase in efficiency," Cohort noted, briskly. "Next exercise involved entering Lystheni base on Bothros, via a halo jump, led by Velnaran-Designate and Jaworski-Spectre. . . pitched combat, which resulted in Liakos-Designate risking her life to ensure that Pellarian-Spectre and Velnaran-Designate could move their platforms to safety before a vehicle plunged into the methane/ethane ocean. Liakos-Designate was pulled under these waters, and Creator-Zhasa'Maedan jumped in after her, in an effort to preserve her run-time. Sidonis-Spectre and Kirrahe-Designate tried to pull Creator-Zhasa'Maedan out of the water. . . "

On and on it went. No one was spared. It was neither blame nor praise, except where they had worked to achieve consensus. End result: a Collector ship located and retrieved, a hundred and fifty Lystheni dead, technology ranging from functioning stasis pods to miniaturized beam weapons to a biotics-to-electronics translation device retrieved, _and_ a batarian stealth ship that none of them had ever seen the likes of before. . . _and _seven batarian prisoners, including someone apparently fairly high-ranked in SIU. Who'd _surrendered_ to Eli, thank you very much.

By now, Garrus was looking over Sam's other shoulder in interest at the matrix he was drawing up, and Shepard was gently rubbing at her eyes and trying, very hard, it appeared, not to laugh. "Sidonis, Pellarian, and Jaworski," she said now, compressing her lips slightly. "As the team leaders for this expedition, is there anything you'd like to add or adjust to Cohort's report?"

There was a distinct pause. Eli cleared his throat and noted, "Velnaran and Liakos distinguished themselves by spending a fair bit of time with our batarian prisoner, K'sar, on the way back from Bothros. I'm hoping that their conversations with him will be illuminating when you go through the recordings."

Lin considered it for a moment, and then added, "Kirrahe took out a hundred Lystheni, pretty much single-handedly. I'm fairly sure that you'll want to review the way in which he did so, but I'd like to state for the record currently, that I think it was justified and probably saved our teams a lot of bloodshed. And certainly kept the Lystheni from being able to evacuate their dalatrass' node in time."

Eli snorted. "On that note? If we ever need to take out a small city, and don't want to, you know, drop bombs on it? I vote we just drop in Dempsey, Rel, and Kirrahe, and the rest of us sit back and drink lemonade."

Dempsey shook his head, Rel flushed a little blue, and Kirrahe simply looked puzzled. "Inefficient," the salarian noted. "Would work much better with multiple teams to back us up."

Dara chuckled under her breath, but sobered as she noted, "On a related topic, the NCAIs have brought to us some notes of ethical concern on the use of the AI virus Kirrahe's been developing with Thell—"

Shepard raised a hand. "Got your report on that, doctor," she said, kindly. "We'll save that for another meeting. Anything else about your mission you'd like to note?"

Dara looked into the mid-distance. "Seheve did outstandingly. Couldn't have gotten the Collector ship off the ground without her assistance. Glory was also excellent. I think he needs to work on his battle-vision a little, but not everyone can be Sky," she added, giving the rachni an affectionate smile. "He made a really effective teammate, especially when we were in the rearguard position near the bridge, holding off the last wave of batarians. He was also very effective in the Hammerhead combat at the Pace vineyards."

"Speaking of the Pace vineyards, Maryam Pace is likely to wind up on the Astaria planetary government council," Eli noted. "She and some of the mining consortium folks will be good contacts out there." He paused. "And she makes really _good_ wine there. I'm just saying, I brought a few bottles back for Chef Gardner to try. I think we should start importing them."

Shepard chuckled. "Okay, that's a little beyond the scope of the meeting."

Eli grinned. "I'm talking about subsidizing the Astaria economy. . . oh! And speaking of that, and the mining consortium? They wanted to give us a gift. I finally accepted, on the grounds that I'd turn it over to you for a decision on what to do with them." He looked around. "Cohort, you still have that box of rocks?"

Sam exhaled at the sight of the 'rocks' in question as Cohort produced the container. And gave Lantar another look, as Lantar simply sat there, a small, proud smile on his face. _And he didn't take a single damned one for himself. You taught him some damned good ethics, Lantar, my friend. You deserve to be proud._

It was also, clearly, the first time some of the others were seeing the raw, uncut gemstones. Dara stood to peer into the box, and shook her head. "They don't look like much when they're like this, do they?"

"It's all about seeing the possibilities, I guess," Rel commented. "Like I see shapes in the wood, I guess other people see geometric shapes in the rocks."

_Or like Shepard sees potential in people,_ Sam thought, but didn't say out loud.

"Anything else?" Shepard asked.

The three team leads looked at each other. "I'm not sure we handled the cultists on Astaria right," Dara admitted. "I mean, we got as many people out as were able to express, clearly, that they wanted _out_. But I'm not sure what else we could have done. The cult leaders are still, you know. . . at large, and probably complaining loudly to the rest of Astaria about having had their religious freedom trampled on by the Spectres."

Eli grimaced. "Yeah. I'm also unsure of if we handled the mercs right. Sure, they're taking care of Ker for us. . . but that's going to require some following up. Especially if they get anything out of the batarian raider and slaver compounds there that's, well. . . drugs, guns, weapon mods, illegal chips. . . "

"Stasis guns," Lin muttered.

"Yeah. But we couldn't be everywhere at once, and I tried to make it worth their while to turn over that shit to us." Eli rubbed at his eyes. "But, truthfully, a finder's fee as low as we were offering probably isn't enough to entice them away from selling the crap on the black market."

"But the threat of Spectre retaliation is probably still good coin," Lin pointed out.

"And we went to a hell of a lot of effort to establish a working rapport with them," Dara added, but she sounded tired and dubious.

Shepard cleared her throat. "Would you all like to know what the Blue Suns, in particular, think of you?" she asked.

The room went silent.

Shepard grinned wickedly. "Yes, the commander of the Blue Suns on the ground there forwarded Zaeed Massani a memo about your battle at the Pace vineyards. I don't have that memo, but I have what Zaeed sent me." She made a show of opening the message on her omnitool, and read out loud, "_Shepard, what the hell are you feeding those kids of yours? I have a fellow here who's been with the Suns for twenty years telling me that he don't want to fight your brats."_

Sam did his best not to choke on his coffee; Shepard had actually read it off in a decent impression of Massani's accent.

Garrus chuckled under his breath. "And what did you tell him in response?"

"Wheaties and Kryptonite, Garrus. Wheaties and Kryptonite." Shepard's expression was deadpan.

The puzzled looks on the faces of every non-human in the room absolutely did it. Sam put both hands over his face and just _laughed._

A few minutes later, with the younger Spectres dismissed for the moment, Shepard asked Sam, "So?"

"So?"

"Who won?"

"Your ears are unwholesomely sharp, commander." Sam held up his datapad. "This is without factoring in how many people shot, how many people rescued," he warned. "Just counting major actions taken, either for the benefit of the team or in combat. . . Seheve, five. Dempsey. . . six or seven, depending on how I count 'em. . . Zhasa, four, but _damn_." He shook his head, picturing the _leap_ the quarian had taken to get to the gunship, as had been picked up by one of the Hammerhead gun cameras. "Kirrahe, four, but also, damn. Glory, three, but he's there for support, mainly. Linianus, six. Rel, six." He looked at Garrus. "Too bad you didn't want in on the action."

"He's getting better," Garrus said, promptly. "Besides, I've already got Rinus to preen about."

"Your tally and mine agree so far," Lantar noted, holding up his own datapad. "And?"

"And. . . Eli nine. And Dara nine."

"Yeah." Lantar dropped his pad back on the table, and just smiled.

"The two of you are absolutely insufferable," Shepard told them, amiably. "Do I need to ratchet up the difficulty level again?"

"Like you did at their Spectre trials?" Sam growled, but he was smiling, too. "No cheating, commander. Life's hard enough as it is."


	142. Chapter 142: Divisions

**Chapter 142: Divisions**

**Author's Note: **_Yes, I'm playing __ME3__. Slowly. In spite of my desire to be disappointed in my own pace and in my own time, I've pretty much had the ending spoiled. . . and having read about the endings? Hahahah. Yes, I'm going to take the advice of many of my readers, and play through the Garrus/Shep romance, and simply stop before they get to the Citadel near the end. I just won't finish the game. _

_On the positive side, there's much in the early game that I do enjoy. And as I'm going through, I'm chuckling at the things I've gotten right so far, and shaking my head over some of the choices made. Some of them are appropriate to the characters (Mordin's response to the genophage comes to mind), but the situation around his decision is contrived, and, honestly, a bit hokey. (MASSIVE SPOILERS AHEAD, skip to the end of the Author's Note if you don't want to read. . . . . Seriously, he's working with fragile strands of a retrovirus and putting them into the atmosphere. I think a large thermal event, like an explosion, would pretty much destroy the retrovirus. Also, without the Shroud as a delivery system, the virus wouldn't have propagated into the atmosphere very far at all. Which is to say, the mission is a failure, Mordin dies for nothing other than a chance to gut-punch the player, and the krogan aren't actually cured except by the divine intervention of the game developers. :-P)_

_Several readers have begged me to write a better ending for ME3. In this chapter, I flesh out how Paragon Lilitu Shepard and Garrus Vakarian went into dark space and destroyed the Reaper Node, which was always how I imagined that they'd handle ME3. If there's enough interest, I might flesh it out from their POV at some point. _

_While I admire BioWare for taking risks, I'm going to say a few more thing here:_

_A tragic ending, while risky and artistic, and all, has no real place in a game environment. A book or a play or a movie, sure, but we play games to win, and there's a sort of social contract between the person creating the game (or the person playing with you). Which is to say that everyone has a chance at winning. Even if you go to a casino, the odds might be against you, but you're not guaranteed to lose._

_Making every possible ending a failure is, more or less, cheating. BioWare does not appear to have grasped that they have more or less betrayed the faith and trust of their players as I write this; they've mentioned that they might create DLC to support more missions with characters that people love (Because I'm going to give them money to go back and play missions with character who are, apparently, fated to die, no matter what decisions I make? Yes, I think I'll keep my money.)_

_I've said for about 9 months now (go back and check the forums and the Author's Notes ;-)) that I suspected that the narrative arc of ME3 would be that Shepard, the Shepherd of the Galaxy, the Savior who'd died and been resurrected, might have to die at the end of ME3. . . but I fully expected it to play out like ME2: where there was a chance of survival if you did everything exactly right, and a chance that the galaxy could be saved without your death. Because, again, we play games to win. _

_Even if we're playing a role-play campaign, where the focus is on the story, and how the characters develop, we don't play in order to see the characters die, and we don't play with the expectation that the DM is sitting there wanting to kill us. _

_And, in a game in which you've been told, repeatedly, that every decision you make matters, I'm finding it less than compelling to continue playing when I realize that, say, people like my husband, who did a full Paragon and a full Renegade, from ME1 on (replaying each to level 60 for the bonuses and the achievements) so that he could see what differences the decisions made in the later games . . . well, none of the decisions matter. We go from a universe in which we're told we have free-will, into the realm of DA2, where you can't actually affect anything but your response to pre-determined events. No matter what you do in DA2, even if you win the respect of the Arishok, you can't stop the qunari from revolting. You can't stop them from being wiped out. You can't stop Anders, even with full loyalty and a love relationship, from blowing up the cathedral. No matter which side you're on, mage or templar, they still kick off a war against each other. There is no free will. Only the remorseless rails of a story of which you cannot affect the outcome._

_As such, after being a dedicated BioWare fan since Baldur's Gate I. . . .I'm voting with my money. I won't be pre-ordering DA3. I won't even buy it until and if I read comments from players after its release that show that your old decisions actually have some bearing on the game world. I won't be finishing ME3 until and if they release a DLC that repairs the incredibly contrived endings. And considering the fact that there are a number of conspiracy theories out there about how the ending was all a dream/indoctrination of Shepard (how very soap-opera and "Who shot JR?" of them, if true), then I'm not sure I'd buy an 'ending' DLC, because it would strike me as a way of holding our beloved characters hostage until we turn over our credit card information. . . and it would also not be a particularly a shining example of artistic integrity on their part, either._

_So yes, BioWare, I reject your reality, and I replace it with my own. _

_And that being said? Other than maybe incorporating some fun new weapons, and I'm toying with trying to figure in Javik and the hints at Prothean culture he gives us. . . none of what happens in ME3 is going to affect SoR. Alenko isn't going to make Spectre on the grounds of, um. . . yeah. . . why exactly did he get Spectre status again? Other than the fact that, um. . .being on Anderson's staff for two years. A pencil pusher for most of that, and has all of L2 implants for his biotics. No. Not a Spectre. Never happened. _

_The batarians don't get wiped out. Mordin's role in the war? Didn't happen. He cured the genophage after the war, while still limiting the krogan population, just as outlined in SoR, so that the krogan population never balloons into the hyper-Malthusian realm within a generation, maybe two, tops. He died peacefully, having given back the krogan future and having given humans, turians, and even salarians a different way forward._

_And Shepard dying? _

_That didn't happen either. _

_If you like ME3's canonical arc, by all means, enjoy it. If you like my AU take, by all means, enjoy that, too. Enjoying one doesn't really preclude the other. I made my guesses pretty much when they were announcing that ME3 was being produced and before they'd even given a hesitant guess as to when it would launch. What I got right, I'm happy about. (Someone might draw me up a list, which would rock. :-) )_

_You're free to continue your journey with me. You're in safe hands here, I assure you. I never break hearts without a damn good reason, as I think I've demonstrated, over and over again. And I promise you, that when I write an ending, you'll find it satisfying, right, and whole, and it won't require DLC and ret-conning to work. :-P_

**Linianus, Mindoir, February 13, 2197**

Serana's leap into his arms probably shouldn't have surprised Lin, but it did. . . and delighted him, too. Nothing could have told him more clearly that he had, indeed, taken first place in her heart. He picked her up off the ground and twirled her in the shadow of the massive Collector ship, as she whispered in his ear, _"I let you out of my sight for two, three weeks, and you come back covered in glory. Again. And I didn't get to help!"_

"_Wasn't your turn this time, beloved,"_ he told her, lightly. _"Though the way things work around here? It'll be your turn again soon."_

She'd pressed her face against his neck, not quite biting in public, but he'd felt the intention behind her actions, and warmed a little inside at them as he set her back down on the ground.

Getting through the debriefing had been tedious, but necessary. Their superiors had a fair bit to evaluate, and Lin wasn't entirely happy to realize just how much Cohort had managed to observe. . . with Lysandra's help. Admittedly, his ability to integrate with the rest of the team was something that they had every right to judge, but having been caught on one of his worst days and observed, examined, and held accountable for words he'd thought fairly private grated a little. He wasn't sure if he was about to face a reprimand or not, but no reviews were handed out at the end of the debriefing. And might not be for a week or so.

Again, it shouldn't have surprised him, but it did, but his parents called almost as soon as he arrived at the house he was sharing with Serana. "You let them know when I walked in the door, didn't you?" he asked her as the comm panel paged him, and he got a look at the code showing up there.

"They asked me to, yes. They're concerned about you." Serana's voice was a little nervous as she asked, "So, what do you think so far?" She gestured at the rooms around them.

Lin looked around the house, and blinked. She'd taken him at his word. New, turian-made chairs, made of creamy _apaterae_ leather stretched over metal frame, suited for their long, rangy frames, slung low, so that they could lean back and stretch out their legs, without catching their spurs, were tucked around the human-made couch now, and she'd added a low table at the center of the group of chairs. The walls had been painted in a restful turquoise, the color of Palaven's sky, and she'd started outlining the edges of a mural in the great room. . . roof-trees from Palaven's jungles, it looked like. Maybe a herd of _talashae_. "Does the rest of the house look this good?" he asked.

Serana snickered. "Not even remotely. I figured one room at a time was the limit of my patience."

Lin nodded. "We could probably eat in there."

"More or less what I was thinking," she acknowledged, digging out boxes of take-out food from Gardner's from a mesh bag. The smells were mouth-watering after weeks of MREs. Lin could smell _apaterae_, _phasela_, _betae_, and even _nepa_ meat, all at the same time. He peered over her shoulder, and realized that Gardner had taken entirely dextro-friendly ingredients. . . and done them human-style. _Stir-fry, a la Palaven. Spirits, what will they think of next?_ Instead of rice, there were boiled _festuca_ grains, still a little crunchy, in a satisfying mass in another box.

"So, my parents are worried about me because of Nimines?" Lin asked, pouring the food out onto two plates.

"Nimines. And, well. . . the date." Serana sounded uncomfortable.

Lin's head came up. It was Primus 11 on the Palaven calendar. . . and then his memory kicked in, and he exhaled. "Tomorrow's February fourteenth on the human calendar?" It wasn't quite a question.

Serana winced. Lin looked down at the two plates, and then handed her one. Picked up his own, and headed into the living room, where he sat down on the couch, and patted the seat next to him, inviting her. He didn't feel like eating at all now, but he knew his body needed the fuel. . . and she'd gone to some effort to get something new for them to try and enjoy. "It's. . . never going to be my favorite day on the human calendar," Lin acknowledged after a moment. "It . . . happened on Imperus eighteenth, on the turian calendar. Which means I actually have two dates that stick out in my head." He ate a forkful of the stir-fry, trying to focus on the taste and the texture. "This is pretty good, _mellis_. I wonder if we can figure out how Gardner makes this here at home."

Serana perched beside him on the couch, looking at him with concern writ large in her eyes. "You're all right?"

Lin sighed. "Not really, but . . . can I convince you that I'd really just rather stay home on those two dates each year, if it can be arranged?" He made his mandibles flex into a smile he didn't really feel. "I know you like some of the human holidays, and I don't mind participating in them. . . but Valentine's Day is one I'd prefer to avoid."

Serana ran a light hand over his crest. "That's fine," she told him, softly. "Although you know that they're making heart-shaped boxes of treats for turians now." Her face lit up with mischief. "I saw them on the extranet. _Melara_ and boneflake bonbons. Cured twists of _cuderae_ tenderloin. Marrow balls. I thought about getting you a box of them, but I wasn't sure how you'd react. If you'd laugh, or get depressed on me."

Lin tried, for a moment, to picture a pink human 'heart' filled with meat and bone and marrow 'confections' all nestled in white paper cups, and started to laugh, almost in spite of himself. "Oh, _good_," Serana told him, and started munching on the _nepa_ and _apaterae_ stir-fry herself now. "You sound better already."

"Just being around you does that, beloved," Lin told her, lightly.

The comm panel pinged again, softly. "I take it they're going to keep calling till I pick up?"

"They're worried," Serana told him again, softly. "You did sort of close down for a while and shut them out after Brennia. . . and now this. . . "

Lin sighed, and muted the comm panel for the moment. He'd call them back after lunch. Of course, after lunch, Serana leaned into him and asked about his CID acquaintances in Nivalis. "The _Caeruleus Cordia_ confirmed that my old captain, Ebanus, is alive," Lin told her, tiredly. "Milanus Kestrus, my former partner? Alive. Both working with the rescue squads at first, and now, apparently, enforcing the curfew and preventing looting." He rubbed at his face. "Elarus Savarian, who got transferred there at the same time I was. . . confirmed dead. His apartment building collapsed." Lin looked off into the mid-distance. "Same building I used to live in, actually. Well, where my stuff was, anyway. I spent every other night at the office, pretty much. Scared the _s'kak_ out of some of the cleaning staff, some mornings, since I was already there and working. . . " He trailed off.

He didn't like thinking about the fact that if he'd still been on Nimines, he'd probably be dead right now. _Even if I hadn't been asked to try out for the Spectres, I'd still have been off-world. I opted out, got the B-Sec job. And, according to Lantar, anyway, the Praetorian __futtari__ Guard was looking to recruit me. . . though I don't know if that's a joke or not. Though Lantar's not really known to joke much._ But just as much, he hated thinking about Savarian, who'd been almost exactly his own age, but definitely someone's fifth-son, a youngest child. Used to having his family dote on him. Lin, as a first-son, had laughed at his fellow agent, especially every time a female turned him down cold. And when Mirixia had called him a nestling. "Three more still unaccounted for," Lin added now, as the silence drew on a little long. Ilianus Harmonus and Narso Katonys, who'd been almost blood-brothers after two years on the job together. Mirixia, who, for all that she had pictures of her grandchildren lining the walls of her cubicle, had been ruthless investigator, and Internal Affairs. She'd investigated _him_ on the excessive force charge, and he'd felt safe in her hands. Safe, because Mirixia was always, always fair. .

He took a deep breath, and raised his head now. Stroked a hand over her fringe lightly. "_Animula_. . . " It was an endearment he didn't often use. Not _little one_, right now, the old, joking nickname, but something much deeper. More meaningful. _Little life. Little soul._

She drew his head down onto her shoulder, as Dara had, a week ago, and Lin leaned into her, feeling her warmth pour into him, her light and life making the darkness a little less, if only for a little while. She turned her head and bit his throat. Pushed back on his shoulders until he laid back on the couch, and then delicately licked and bit her way around the rim of his cowl. Down his torso, before unbuckling his pants. "Serana_. . . _don't have to. . ."

"Have to? No. Want to? Oh yes, I do." Serana's voice was light and teasing, but he could hear the undertones. The desire to make him feel even a little bit better. And right now, after weeks of adrenaline and with his belly full, his body was reminding him, loudly, that his mate was here, and she was telling him with words and with touch that he was wanted, loved, desired. Lin stiffened a little as her teeth scraped low on his belly. . . and then, she was licking him. Teasing him. Not the sweet suction of a human or an asari mouth, but the soft-rough wetness of her tongue was driving him crazy.

"If you keep that up. . . not going to be able to make you feel good first," Lin told her after a moment, keeping his knees up, spurs off the soft leather of the couch.

Serana grinned down at him, and scooted further up. Straddled him, and sank down, and Lin thought that the look of surprised pleasure in her eyes was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen. "Right at the moment, Lin?" Serana told him, softly, leaning down to bite his throat again. "Your job is to shut up and enjoy."

"Yes, drill centurion," he told her, his hands closing on her hips, and laughed as she bit him harder.

About an hour later, he did call his parents back. They wanted to have dinner with him and Serana tonight. And, to his surprise, he actually was looking forward to that. To dealing with Sestina and Kelsarus, his two younger siblings. To hearing about Arinus, who'd finished boot camp and, surprisingly, OCS, and, to Lin's considerable surprise, was now undergoing specialized training as a gunship pilot. "Arinus?" he repeated on the comm line, staring at his mother's face. "_Arinus_ is a going to be flying gunships?"

"You say that as if it's shocking," Marena pointed out, smiling.

"I'd never thought he was aggressive enough for that, to be honest." Lin shook his head. "Well, I need to send him a congratulatory note. I've been remiss as first-brother. Again." He grinned at his mother, who sighed at him in familiar resignation. "To be fair, this is the first I've heard about it. . . "

"We haven't wanted to worry you with family business, as busy as you've been." His mother shook her head. "On another note? Your father and Allardus have a final version of your contract for you and Serana to look over." Her expression was faintly concerned now. Not disapproving, but concerned. "Your _sangua'fradu_ and you. . . "

"We're still brothers, _Mada_. There's no need for concern. If you wanted to, you could even invite him and Dara for dinner, too." Lin watched her expression crinkle a bit. "She's divorced—"

"It's _tal'mae_—"

"And that's for the courts to decide," Lin had rarely in his life cut his mother off, but he was fairly definitive at the moment.

Marena's expression tightened. "I'm just not sure of the propriety. I had intended to invite Allardus and Solanna, and I do not wish to offend them, especially if you're about to wed their daughter."

Lin shrugged. "I understand your concern for tonight." He looked at his mother calmly. "That being said, the concern is somewhat unwarranted. It's not like Rel isn't seeing someone else himself now, too."

That night with his family and Serana's, the two of them pored over their contract intently, and Lin decided, after an hour of careful reading, "I think this will work. Thank you for writing such a good one for us."

"Practice," Allardus told him, in a faintly amused tone, "makes perfect."

Serana grinned at him. "So, we could just sign this tomorrow?"

Her mother absolutely squawked. "Tomorrow? No one will be there to see it finalized."

Lin gave Serana a look. "No, not tomorrow."

"It would give you better memories of the day," she offered.

Lin shook his head. "No. Seems like tempting the spirits. We'll sign everything on Bastion, if that's all right with you. In two weeks."

Serana frowned. "What's going on on Bastion in two weeks?"

Lin grinned at her. "Well, for starters, the bachelor party that Eli has been stuck planning for Fors. . . and me. . . and now Dempsey. Followed the next day, apparently, by Fors' wedding. His clans finally agreed to allow it all to happen on Bastion, and not, thank the spirits, on Irune." He shrugged. "We get a very fun party out of it, and can finalize our contract quietly afterwards. Covered up by the media circus of the first volus Spectre's public offering. . . er. . . wedding." He glanced around the room at his family and Serana's. "If that works for all of you? I don't know how much time off I'll have between assignments, and everything keeps getting so rushed. . . "

Serana winced. "Actually. . . Kasumi has me slated in three weeks or so for some. . . specialized training. Before a major assignment. So yes, this would actually work out. . . really well." She slid a foot behind his spur as Lin's fingers tightened on her wrist. "Though I haven't had a chance to go knife-shopping yet."

Lin snorted. "Neither have I. We'll go together, if you can shake the time free. We'll hit Bastion before the actual party, and see what we can find, all right?"

His father, Ranullus, shook his head. "Surely they owe you _some_ leave. Two weeks last month, after six or seven months non-stop wasn't enough."

Lin shrugged at his father. "I'm sure I'm _owed_ the leave. Trouble is, there have been at least seven Spectre casualties so far during the war, and Shepard's the first to note that we were a little short-handed to begin with."

The evening went on pleasantly enough. Lin had known the entire family for close to eleven years now, of course, growing up alongside Rel. His younger siblings, Sestina and Kelsarus, were getting close to fifteen and twelve now, and Polina and Quintus were almost thirteen and twelve, respectively. Polina, Quintus, and Kelsarus were in the same class at school, and when Madison Dempsey returned from Argus' ship, he'd undoubtedly be moved up to their class, being of an age with them, but the human boy had been behind in some ways in his schooling—particularly in terms of xenobiology, turian, and galactic history.

Sestina was just starting to get ready for boot-camp, and was nervous. He had the impression that she couldn't quite take him seriously, at least at first. Lin had never been what Rinus was, a much older first-brother, and had always been easy-going and understanding with his siblings. After dinner, however, when Sestina more or less shrugged when Allardus commented that her self-defense could be better, Lin's easy-going demeanor vanished. "How many times does this base have to be attacked before you realize that you're not always going to have our parents around to protect you?" he asked her, sharply. "And when you leave Mindoir, and this nice, safe, protected base, where everyone pretty much leaves their doors unlocked? You're going to be in for a very hard set of realizations, Sestina. First of all, no one is going to get you through boot-camp but yourself. And when you leave there for your first assignment, you're going to be on your own. You could wind up on Quaddim, in one of the domes, or you could, god help me, wind up on Macedyn or Edessan, in one of the massive cities there, filled with crime and people who are _not_ kind or friendly or good." Lin was leaning forward, trying to _make_ his sister understand what he was saying. "Or what if you're sent to Nimines to help rebuild Nivalis, with, say, the corps of engineers? There's looting right now, Sestina. There's looting and while there's not as much rioting as there would be in a human city, there's also no law, no order, no camera, just a very thin damned line of MPs and CID officers out there trying to keep the peace while everyone else thinks that they can do whatever they want to do, because the world's come to an end."

That was when he felt Serana's hand on his forearm, and he exhaled and leaned back, realizing that Sestina's eyes had gone very wide indeed. Allardus cleared his throat. "It's getting late," the older male said, tactfully. "It's been lovely spending an evening with all of you," he added, standing to gather Polina and Quintus, from where they'd been playing extranet games with Kelsarus, but all of them were eyeing Lin a little at the moment. _Damn. I don't usually come down all hard-ass like that._ Lin rubbed a hand over his crest, and felt embarrassed.

Before he and Serana left for the evening, he started to apologize to his parents for over-stepping his bounds. Ranallus, his father, shook his head immediately. "If it makes her train harder, I have no problem with it," he told Lin, smiling a little. "She's used to thinking of you as the older brother who slipped off and turned invisible on us for four years. All she really remembers is that you used to play handball and hang out with Rellus and Eli and Mazz and Telinus. . . and while she knows you're a Spectre now, I don't think that it really registered on her till tonight." Ranallus chuckled under his breath.

Lin snorted. "Ah." _In other words, I was, for Sestina, always and ever the joking older brother who smiled off any attempt by our parents to get me to __act__ like a first-brother. Well. . . I mostly still am._ "I just don't like the thought of her not being able to defend herself," he muttered. Brennia's face still haunted him at times like this.

"Understood, first-son," Ranallus told him, and gave him a wrist-clasp. "Here's hoping that the spirits and your superiors let us see a little more of you. For a while, anyway."

**Elijah, Mindoir and Bastion, February 13-15, 2197**

Eli and Dara had walked out of the briefing room, and regarded each other as the others all filed away. "Okay," Dara said, looking around. "So now what? They're not saying how much time we have, but my dad did sort of hint that I wasn't going to be able to sleep for a week. . . though he swore up and down, it wasn't going to be due to Spectre work."

Eli took her hands in his, facing her. "Not sure," he admitted. "Head home, get a shower in, try to get Sam, Kasumi, and my dad to talk?" _God. And back to separate housing again. After a over a week of being off-shift of each other and no privacy, again._ His thoughts were glum.

Dara made a face. "Tomorrow is, well. . . not a good day for you or Lin to remember, but. . . "

Eli glanced at his wrist and swore. "Damn. _Sai'kaea_, I know I'm supposed to be, well. . . all romantic and stuff. . . but can we—"

"Skip going out and all that _s'kak_?" Dara smiled up at him, and Eli felt a band inside his chest ease. "I was actually going to say we could stay in. I think it's my turn to cook for you. You cooked for me, last time we had a _date_." She looked up at the ceiling. "And then Zhasa got sick, which sort of ended that evening on a low note. And then you made cake for me on my birthday. . . "

"And Rel came over and started a fight, which kind of put a damper on that evening, too." Eli snorted. "Sure. My parents' house? You cook, I bring wine and clean up for you afterwards?" His fingers squeezed hers, gently. _Make it as relaxed as possible. And thank you for not wanting to go out. I. . . really don't want to be in a restaurant on Valentine's ever again, honestly. There's getting back on the horse, and there's just. . . taunting the spirits, I guess._

Dara smiled up at him, and indigo song poured through his thoughts. Comfort. Reassurance. _I'll always meet you in the middle, Eli. You know that_. "You got a deal. Now I just need to figure out what to cook."

Rinus came around the corner then, and shaking his head in clear annoyance. Eli grinned and offered a wrist-clasp. "Didn't have a chance to say hello before," Eli told the older male. "You do still clasp wrists, right? Or is that something that living legends don't go in for?"

Rinus made a rude noise, and gave Eli a finger-flick before clasping wrists. "I wouldn't call myself a legend. For the spirits' sakes, I wrecked an SR ship and _still_ didn't stop the damn asteroid." He stretched a little, and then added, grimly, "And I'm heading for Palaven at the end of this week."

"Hearings?" Dara asked, sounding glum.

"Oh yes." Rinus looked at the ceiling. "And when I'm done with my own hearings, there'll be yours to take care of."

Eli froze in place and stared at Rinus. "Run that by me again?" he asked. "I wasn't aware that I was facing any charges in the Empire." _What the fuck?_

Rinus blinked, and Eli could see him rapidly reassessing the situation, before he laughed, reluctantly. "Ah, no. You're not. . . well, not really. Mr. J. Thaddius Maxwell is addressing the Conclave of Lawgivers next week on the subject of Velnaran v. Velnaran, which is what the case is being called on Palaven. . . and I've had my staff at the Conclave preparing an _Amendment of Tal'mae_ act for about six months now for the Lawgivers to consider at the same time. And at the same damn time, the conservatives are trying to ram through a _Defense of Tal'mae_ act before Maxwell can even present his case, but there are enough votes to keep that from being presented on the floor before the merits of the case can be heard, so that's all well and good. . . " Rinus trailed off, and Eli could feel yellow-white shock and anxiety rising in Dara. "You're both looking at me like this is the first you've heard about this." He looked at Dara. "You'll be called on to testify, undoubtedly, by Mr. Maxwell." He glanced at Eli. "You might be, too. Both by Maxwell and the state magistrate."

"Oh. . . Jesus Christ," Dara muttered.

"_Futar_," Eli assessed, rubbing the back of his neck.

Rinus looked at the ceiling again. "Yeah. You guys hadn't been told yet?"

Eli shook his head in resignation. "Literally got our feet on the ground three hours ago, _fra'fradu._ We were running more or less silent before that, and, well, busy." Busy was something of an understatement. Being team-leads and nominal heads of a two-part mission with a hell of a lot of moving parts had been a lot more work than he could ever have _believed_ before this.

Rinus' mandibles flexed a bit. "I've had a week of downtime," he admitted. "Got yanked off Nimines by my fringe, pretty much, and Kallixta told me I could rest here, or she was going to take me to the Macedyn house for enforced vacation. I'm a little ahead on all this." He gave them both a long look. "I heard what you both said about Rel and Seheve in there," he added, nodding towards the briefing room. "They're both doing well?"

Eli nodded. "Wouldn't have given Rel credit if it weren't due," he replied, simply.

Rinus nodded. "Good. Seheve seems to have a stabilizing effect." He grimaced. "Though the Praetorians other than Pallum are throwing fits over her proximity to me and Kallixta. And I don't even want to _think_ what their reaction will be, if she's ever anywhere close to my _pada'amu_. As, well, she might be, if she's called on to testify, as well."

Eli blinked, rapidly. "I'm. . . not following," he admitted. "Why would the Imperator. . . ?"

"He has the right to attend any meeting of the Conclaves that he chooses," Rinus pointed out. "Technically, his first-son has to be at almost every meeting of the _dominae_, so that he can answer for his father's policies. . . and theoretically, any challenge to the Imperator's will must be settled by his first-son." Rinus snorted. "That has, in the past, included duels on the floor of the Conclave auditorium. No one can challenge the Imperator to a duel, so the first-son has to be ready to stand in his father's stead. Hasn't happened since Ligorus was in his twenties, and first-son to Lessarus, but it's always a possibility." He snickered a little. "Wonder just how sharp Perinus' knife skills are. If there's anything under all that stiffness, protocol, and wind."

Dara's mouth dropped open. "And you think the Imperator could come to these hearings because of, well, Kallixta's, um. . . mother?" She lifted her other hand free of his, but that didn't entirely still her song for him; his mind was linked with hers. But it did muffle it a little.

Rinus glanced at Eli. "Guess there's not much that Dara knows that you don't," he said, after a long moment.

"She doesn't talk about things she's not supposed to, but. . . yeah." Eli squinted. "You're blocking really well," he told Dara. "I'm only catching echoes. Something about the Imperatrix not actually being her mother, but . . . the details aren't there." Sometimes Eli could remember Dara's memories as if they were his own. The more emotional the memory, the stronger it was. This didn't relate to her personally, didn't really affect her, so there was no, for lack of a better word, _resonance_.

Rinus shook his head. "This is going to wreak havoc on your medical ethics," he told Dara, dryly.

"I know." Dara winced. "Dr. Chakwas said she wanted to talk to me about doctor-patient confidentiality, whether or not if, when I see a patient, I need to include Eli on my list of 'staff members' or . . . if it would just be easier if I picked a specialization that didn't require me to interact with patients as much." She sighed. "I'd always been thinking trauma surgeon. . . which doesn't require a lot of patient interaction. More of a mechanic than anything. . . and xenoobstetrics. Which _does_ require patient interaction." She grimaced slightly. "Oh, hybridization requires genetic templating and the design of the new organism and applying the Solus process and all of that. Which I could still do. I just. . . probably couldn't interact with patients directly. Which sort of leaves trauma and, you know, pathology, or theoretical work." Dara shrugged. "It all comes down to whether or not I can claim Eli as staff, or can have everyone I treat sign a waiver, stating that they accept the fact that Eli's likely to wind up hearing some of what I know."

Eli just stared at her for a moment, and then put a hand over his eyes. "I, ah. . . never thought of that," he admitted. "I don't want you to be corralled into a specialty that you don't want, _sai'kaea_." Even though he thought it would be _wonderful_ if she wound up working with him on a regular basis after the war, he wanted that to be by choice, not as an accident of circumstances, a decision forced on her.

Rinus put a hand on Dara's shoulder now, lightly. "And to think I thought I was the only one around here with uncomfortable legal issues," he noted. "I'm sorry to have rained on your homecoming." He shook his head. "I've been told to invite both of you to our house for dinner tonight. Kallixta has, spirits help me, gotten one of the Imperial cooks through the thorny process of the base's security clearances. . . and thus, Kallixta wants to show off the male's levo and dextro skills."

Eli snorted with laughter. "Neither of you knows how to cook, do you?"

Rinus shook his head. "Kallixta's doing good if she makes _apha_. I'm a _little_ more self-sufficient. . . _mada_ wouldn't stand for anything less from me. . . but I have to admit that this is easier." He made a chuffing noise. "Don't tell _her_ that, though."

"I would never intrude on a cherished argument," Eli assured him, mock-solemnly.

As they headed out of the main villa, however, walking through the heat of a late summer afternoon on the base, quite a bit of their relaxation had died away. Eli kept an arm wrapped around her waist, however. They'd changed out of their armor before the debriefing, their gear had been carted off by base services, there were no reporters on base that they knew of, so they were, at this point, perfectly free to walk like any other couple. _Palaven_, Eli thought, however. _Means armor the whole time, or rad suits._

_Armor, definitely_, Dara returned, silently. _At least this time, we'll both have better heating and cooling systems. _

_It's Primus there. Wet season. Should be comfortable, but there's always the radiation to worry about. _They moved down a street to the west, heading for their respective parents' homes. _I guess we better ask how much time we have before the __s'kak__ hits the fan, __sai'kaea.__ If we have any kind of a break at all. . . I mean, hell, Fors' party is scheduled for the twenty-fifth, eleven days from now. I would hate to miss this because we're pinned down in __court-proceedings__ that don't matter to any of the people who are actually involved at this point._ Eli's thoughts churned in annoyance. Rel was clearly doing very well with Seheve. Dara was clearly quite happy with _him_. Rinus and Kallixta were inviting them over for dinner. Serana and Lin were still friends with both himself and Dara. The only people to whom it _should_ matter, were happy. Only people outside the damned closed doors were upset.

_Relax_, Dara told him, silently, rubbing a hand at the base of his neck as they turned up into her family's drive. _No sense borrowing the trouble till it's on us_. She was trying to mean the words, but he could hear her yellow-white anxiety clearly, too.

"I think we're feeding each others' worries a little." He waited for her to get her keys out, and then held the door for her. . . as a half-dozen jubilant workers spilled out of the house and raced up her legs. "Well, at least the little guys held off on meeting us at the landing field this time," Eli noted, looking down at them all.

—_Joy-songs! You have returned to join your voices with the hive once more!_

Eli chuckled under his breath, and followed Dara in the door.

Kasumi was, apparently, pinned down at her office, reviewing information as it came in, as Sam told them as they trailed back towards the library, which was also Sam and Kasumi's home office. "Information on what?" Dara started to ask, then made a dismissive sound and waved her hand.

"Nah, you're entitled to hear some of this," Sam said, surprising them both. "Argus turned up a lead suggesting that the batarians had a yahg female, one of their scientists, on Lorek. Possible location of a hot labs location where the plagues were cooked up." Sam's blue eyes were cold and remote for a moment. "If so, we're almost certainly going to want to get in there before the shit hits the fan."

Eli raised his eyebrows. "Which particular shit hitting which particular ventilation unit? There are a few."

Sam half-smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "C'mon," he told them, and took them back out into the living area. Turned on the extranet console, and let the aerogel screen rise into place. _"This is Lexine Elders, reporting live from the flight deck of the __Catasta__, one of seven turian carriers which has been ordered into batarian space. The turian fleet, alongside two dozen Alliance ships, has begun the long-anticipated counter-offensive against the Batarian Hegemony. We're being told that this strike, aimed at the large agrarian colony known as Camala, was master-minded by turian general Nasalus Cateias and the Alliance war-hero, Miroslav Vokaj, whom the batarians have called the "Butcher of Torfan" since his rise into the public eye as the leader of the human retaliation against the batarian forces involved in the Skyllian Blitz, just over twenty years ago._"

On screen, the were a hell of a lot more ships in the sky over Camala than just carriers. There were frigates and destroyers and cruisers, and at least three dreadnoughts from each of the human and turian fleets. The fighters and screening ships engaged the batarians, with some of the fighters breaking away to attack the planetary defense grid. Destroying satellites, tracking systems, and everything else, in a systematic sort of way. . . opening the way for the dreadnoughts to do what dreadnoughts were designed to do. Open rail-gun fire on the planet below. "Valak's people?" Dara asked, quietly.

"We got word through to them to hunker down in the area around his estate. It might not be safe for them there from Oversight Forces, but it's a damn sight safer than any of their city centers at the moment," Sam said, his voice distant as he watched the news report. "This has been in the planning stages for a while. With the attack on Nimines and Macedyn? Turian fleet command said 'we need to pull some of their teeth,' in so many words, and the retaliatory strike was cleared two days ago."

Eli stared at the screen. "Why Camala?" he asked, after a moment.

"Low population, but more or less the same theory as their blockade of Galatana." Sam shrugged. "Khar'sharn hasn't been able to feed its home population in any sort of self-sufficient way for about fifteen hundred years, if Valak's information is good. . . and it always is. They're going to be hungry this winter. And if you're wondering why the strike is from space?" Sam's eyes narrowed, but he didn't look away from the screen at all. "I think the turians thought that turnabout was fair play." He paused. "But with a difference. Turian fleet gets Camala to show how turians make war, kids. It's an object lesson, and a way of breaking the batarians' collective psyche, or so goes the theory. Each of these rail-gun blasts has the force of a tactical nuke."

He shifted the news feed, and Emily Wong's voice picked up now. _"The first wave of assaults has targeted spaceports, defense platforms, military bases, and shipping concerns. The second wave of targets being hit today includes manufacturing centers, power stations, water reclamation areas, grain silos, and storage facilities across the planet. BNN had a chance to interview Nasalus Cateias regarding the turian strategy and philosophy of war earlier today, and the admiral had this to say. . . _"

Her face faded out, replaced with a turian male in Quaddim paint. _"In a retaliatory strike, turian fleet practice is to exert ten times the losses to an enemy as we have suffered_," he said, his voice grating and his eyes cold. _"As there are a billion or so people on Camala, eighty million casualties to pay for the blood of those who died on Nimines this week seems an equitable solution. But we target our strikes. We don't kill or destroy wantonly or randomly. First defense and strategic areas. Next infrastructure. When we've taken everything from them that makes them a modern society capable of spaceflight, we'll move on."_

Eli exhaled, and slowly sat down on the couch. Dara folded up next to him. "Not that I don't agree that the batarians have earned it, and more," Eli said, quietly, "considering the hundred million dead of plague on Palaven, and the three hundred million or so dead of the plague on Earth, not to mention Bastion and everywhere else. . . and, of course, the comet attack on Earth, and the asteroid strike on Nimines. . . " Put that way, it did seem like a coldly, methodically planned and very equitable punishment, ". . . I was going somewhere with this. . ."

"Seems a little like murder from space?" Sam asked him, bluntly.

Dara leaned her head against Eli's shoulder, and he reached up, automatically, rubbing her scalp under her hair. "A little, I guess," he admitted. "On the other hand, murder is what _they_ did. We're just. . . doing it better, I guess."

"Definitely more cleanly," Dara said, quietly. "A scalpel instead of a shotgun." She looked up at Eli. "I know one of the guys at turian War Plans. Alexej Vokaj. Miroslav's son. I know he'd be looking at any ways possible to reduce civilian casualties. . . although that's not always the foremost turian concern." Her tone went dry. "And of course, this is a lightly-defended, relatively small agrarian colony. Going after Lorek, which is heavily built-up and industrialized, and well-defended, and Khar'sharn itself, nevermind what the Reapers did to it during the war. . . going to be about as hard as going after Earth or Palaven."

Sam nodded, his eyes still fixed on the screen and bleak. "This is probably bringing back memories of the Reaper War for a lot of people. Is for me," he admitted. "There are cities on Earth that are still rebuilding. Detroit, well, that city wasn't doing so well _before_ the war, so they just left it in ruins. Houston's downtown area. . . there's still construction going on there. Manhattan. Los Angeles. Montreal. Mexico City. Chicago."

Eli lifted his head. "My dad was born in Chicago," he commented. "I've only seen pictures of it. His parents still live on the outskirts. . . pretty much why they survived."

Sam was still standing, looking at the screen, his thumbs looped through his belt. "You'd have thought," he said, after a moment, "that after the Reaper War, the batarians would have joined the fold. Would have thought, 'You know what? The Council forces pretty much just took out the Reapers, and saved civilization as we know it, including our own worlds. Let's stand together, so that we don't all hang separately.'" He shook his head. "And so now, ten, eleven years later, we're having to do. . . this. After, admittedly, they did worse to us." He found a chair, and turned off the vid screen again. "Oh, and you'll love this. Kasumi managed to get information out of STG. They weren't really _willing_ to admit to this, but one of the Lystheni that they'd discovered inside their own ranks? Just before the Reaper War, he'd made the recommendation that the salarians should 'covertly uplift' the yahg." Sam put little quotes in the air around his words, his tone becoming sarcastic. "So that they'd have deniability for doing so."

Eli's head snapped up. "Why the _fuck_ would the salarians think that was a good idea? What would they get out of it?"

"Fuck if I know, son," Sam told him, wearily. "The agent's superiors at STG shut him down pretty hard. I think his case was that they could use them as a pet army to make salarians look more intimidating, but salarians have never really _had_ a standing army. Their whole _modus operandi _has always been 'win the war before you fire a shot.' So yeah, his damn fool idea got shot down. What do you want to bet he took his idea and sold it to the batarians? As maybe their first connection with the _Klem Na_?"

Dara shook her head against Eli's shoulder. "No bet," she said, after a moment. "That sounds entirely too likely. The batarians would have needed to get the location of the yahg homeworld from _somewhere_. The key code to unlock their relay, too."

Sam mock-clapped his hands lightly. "Yeah. Now you're thinking, my girl. Questions we should have been asking months ago, if only we weren't so damn run off our feet all the time." He looked up at the ceiling, and leaned back in his chair. "So, yeah. Enough about the war and all that other shit. What's on your minds?"

Eli had to blink several times just to remember what they'd been talking about as they walked up to the house. "Seems kind of trivial," he muttered, gesturing to the vid screen now, a little uncomfortably. "But I understand that there's shortly to be some, well. . . ."

"_Tal'mae_ hearings on Palaven," Dara finished for him. "I take it that we're going to need to talk to Mr. Maxwell a bit before we go there?"

"A little, yeah. He doesn't want to coach your testimony or anything, but he's going to ask questions. Get a feel for how you'll answer things." Sam snorted. "Would you believe that the Conclave requires all arguments made in its hall to be couched in _tal'mae_?"

Eli shrugged. "Well. . . yeah." He'd known that for years. He frowned, suddenly realizing what that meant. "Ah. . . isn't that going to handicap Maxwell?"

Sam snorted. "The man's thorough. He's spent the last six months getting a grounding in the language, and hired himself a translator for the rough patches. He's doing this all for the princely sum of one credit, so I reckon he figures he's going to get so much notoriety out of this that he's never going to lack for business again."

Dara stirred, and Eli could feel the frustration, embarrassment, and shame building in her, white-yellow and sickly purple-green. He turned his head and kissed her forehead lightly. "Hey," he told her, out loud. "I'll be there."

"So will Joy-Singer, from what I'm hearing from Maxwell," Sam noted, dryly. "He's going to call her as a witness on the subject of spirits, or on your relationship with her, and the changes it's brought." He paused. "I've been asked to pass along a word of advice to you, son. Maxwell notes that technically, under turian law, if they can't resolve the matter of the divorce with words, the law-givers could try to force you and Rel to duel each other to resolve the matter with blades and blood. It's a little antiquated, by human standards, but not by turian ones."

Eli went very still. "I'm not going to fight him," he said, simply.

"Failure to comply could result in your citizenship being revoked. Lantar tells me that that could result in your not being able to head of family when he dies, among many other major repercussions." Sam shook his head. "Mordin used to talk about the law of unintended consequences. I'm beginning to agree with him."

Dara shifted against Eli's shoulder, and he could feel that sharp mind kick into gear. "If Rel refuses to fight as well, would they be able to revoke his citizenship, too?" she asked, immediately. "Not that it would affect him as much as it would Eli; he's a second-son, not a first-son. The question also becomes, _would_ they?" She paused. "Eli's a Spectre. First human, adopted by a turian, to get that status. Rel, through his brother, is related to the Imperator. And to Garrus Vakarian." She shook her head. "I don't want to tap the ring on the table or anything. . . but if they apply the law to Eli in that fashion, then they're going to _have_ to apply it to Rel, too."

"And that'll start a political and social shitstorm that'll rage far beyond anything they're going to want," Sam agreed. "That being said? Yeah. It could go that far. I don't know how this is going to play out. I really don't." His grim expression lightened for a moment. "On the other hand, all things considered? I'm glad we have _time_ for this kind of shit, rather than being huddled in a bunker somewhere, waiting for the world to end. Life goes on, you know?"

"Yeah," Eli muttered, shaking his head, and thinking back to his own cold hours, stuck with his mother in a Citadel civilian defense zone, listening to the automated turrets chattering as husks had marched through the Wards, looking for more bodies to seize and indoctrinate, "It surely does, doesn't it?" He paused. "We have time for a quick trip to Bastion before all the _s'kak_ hits?"

Sam shook his head. "Keep a low profile for a bit," he advised. "You should have a little time between the hearings and the, ah, _festivities_ to which we're all being invited." He sounded amused.

"Good thing, too," Eli said, dryly. "Fors' clans agreed to almost everything I suggested, so everyone's going to need to buy warm clothes, if they don't already have them."

Dara's eyebrows rose, and he blocked her out of his mind, grinning at her. "Nope. No peeking, _sai'kaea_. I want to see the look of surprise on your face when you see the place where the party's being held." He considered that for a moment, and then added, dryly, "Assuming you're not stitching pieces of me back into place after a duel with Rel, that is."

Shock of yellow anxiety, right through her. He turned a little, and looked down into her eyes. Brushed the hair out of her face lightly. "You think I'd lose, huh?"

Dara winced. "I've seen the two of you fight. I think you're so evenly matched, that only the regen gives Rel an advantage, but it's an undeniable one. Technically, in order to defeat him, you'd have to kill him." She grimaced. "And, technically, in a matter involving _tal'mae_ and 'adultery' . . . which this isn't, because I'm _divorced_. . . " Dara bared her teeth for a moment in annoyance, a very turian expression, "I think the duel is supposed to be to the death, anyway. . . isn't it?"

Eli looked up at the ceiling. "I'd have to look it up," he admitted. "But it sounds likely. Which is why I'm not going to fight him, _sai'kaea._"

"They could bring in proxies," Dara reminded him. Retired gladiators often found work as proxy duelists, representing people who were incapable of fighting for themselves, or who would be fighting at a severe disadvantage. . . like wives who were engaged in divorce disputes with a husband, for example.

Eli frowned. "I don't really feel much like killing someone because turian law is inflexible," he said, dryly. "Assuming I don't get killed myself. Gladiators fight every _single day_. I don't."

"You two staying for dinner?" Sam asked, simply.

Dara shook her head. "Rinus and Kallixta invited us over. Haven't seen either of them much the past month or so, so . . . we said yes."

Sam nodded. "Don't need to explain it to me," he told them, genially. "Just don't vanish too much. Keshi needs his riding lessons, and _I_ want to see my first-born more than just five minutes of the day."

Blue-green amusement from Dara, and darker blue love for her father. Admiration, respect. Eli picked up her hand, and bit the inside of her wrist. "I'll pick you up in time for dinner?" he offered. "And then tomorrow. . . "

"Yeah, I'll come over to your place and cook dinner." Dara grinned up at him.

The house was still exasperatingly empty for Eli, and he couldn't imagine that Lantar was enjoying Ellie's and the younger children's prolonged absence at all. And thus, when his step-father came home early from work, Eli made a point of sitting with him in the living room, asking him about the mission to Galatana and Rocam, and the reunion of the Archangel line. "It felt good to be fighting with both Sam and Garrus again," Lantar admitted. "But it might be the last time we all go out like that again." A quick flex of the mandibles. "Sam likes to remind us both that human knees give out after a while . . . and so do turians'."

Eli shook his head. As far as he was concerned Lantar, Sam, and Garrus were immortal and untouchable. "I honestly think that you three and Shepard will be running this place even when you're old and Shepard and Sam have gone gray," he told Lantar, simply, as they flipped feeds on the extranet, looking for anything of interest. "Even if you're all sitting behind desks and reading reports, I know for damned sure that those desks will have guns in the drawers."

Lantar's mandibles twitched again. "How could they not, around here?" he asked, dryly.

Dinner with Rinus and Kallixta was surprisingly pleasant. Eli had worked with Rinus before, on Edessan, but had never had much reason to be around Kallixta, other than a few hours at Dara's _tal'mae_ rites, one dinner with the two of them on Edessan, and about ten minutes at his own wedding to Serana. She was a very gracious hostess, befitting her Imperial lineage, and her early diplomatic training. . . and while she gave the little rachni workers an amused look as they scurried here and there on the floor under the table, didn't really react to them much at all. "So, how do you like my cook's work?" Kallixta asked, near the end of the meal.

"I'm. . . honestly not sure I knew what any of what I was eating actually was," Eli admitted. "I like to think I've tried a lot of things over the years. . . kind of had to, since human food was scarce on Macedyn, and damned near non-existent on Edessan. . . but I have no idea what any of that was."

Kallixta looked surprised and dismayed. "Why didn't you say something?"

Dara chuckled. "I could identify just enough of it not to be scared," she said, chuckling. "Eli, you're kidding me. You've never eaten French cuisine before?"

"Is _that_ what it was? Okay, what was the round sort of tower thing?"

"A terrine. Stuff all baked together in a ramekin and then upended so that it retains the form of the mold. In this case, I think it was mostly vegetables." Dara's voice hinted at uncertainty, however, and he caught another wash of blue-green amusement from her.

"I thought I saw peppers, yeah. Wasn't sure what the rest of it was, though." Eli shrugged at Kallixta and smiled, taking the sting away. "Don't mind me. Like al-Jilani would probably point out, I'm that _Sidonis_ boy. Half of Earth thinks it's amazing that I eat my meat cooked, not raw. So it's not a surprise that I'm _uncultured_."

Dara kicked his ankle, and Eli pretended to lean down and rub at it, vigorously.

By mutual consent, they all stayed off of work topics and the upcoming court cases. As such, they wound up talking about the older Spectres. What they admired about each of them. "Dedication," Rinus said, instantly, of both Garrus and Shepard. "Total, utter dedication."

Eli raised his glass a little at that. "Considering that I used to have a poster of _Battle of the Citadel_ up in my room? It's not totally weird working _for_ them, but it is weird that people class us _with_ them, as Spectres. I'm just as glad that the press has taken to the 'Young Guns' name for us junior Spectres. Being put in the same category with Shepard or Garrus or Sam or Lantar makes me feel like I'd be punching above my weight class."

"I know the feeling," Rinus muttered.

"Ten minutes with a shotgun at the start of the Battle of Palaven?" Dara said, lightly.

"Scared as hell the whole time," Rinus said, simply. "It got worse before it got better, of course. There were the air strikes from orbit, and the few Reapers and Collectors that got through the lines. . . but the combined fleet held the damned line. And then they went to Earth."

"I remember being rushed by the Praetorians to one of the secure bunkers," Kallixta murmured. "Most of us in one of them, but my first-brother had to be taken to a different location. Preserving the succession, you understand." She looked into the distance.

"I could see the Reapers heading into Houston," Dara admitted. "Mostly black dots dropping out of the sky. But Lufkin was so small, we didn't actually rate a direct attack. Not at first. Lots of time to evacuate. My dad had packed up the horses and gear, and we let some of the horses run free. . . he was going to take us into the backcountry and just get _lost_ for a while. . . but then work called, and he was ordered in to help in the defense and protect the civilians." She sighed. "So we wound up in a bunker, too. Waiting for the end of the world."

Eli nodded. "Was thinking about the civilian defense areas on the Citadel myself earlier today," he murmured. "I guess it's seeing the orbital bombardment of Camala that's bringing it back." He exhaled. "I know they deserve it. Without question. The _Hegemony_ deserves it. Their civilians don't. But I don't know what else we can really do."

Rinus grimaced. "I don't have answers for you," he replied. "I agree with bloodying them. Taking our rightful vengeance on them for the lives lost. But then, yes. . . there has to be something more. We can't kill _all_ of them. It would be a hell of a way of solving the problem. And it would take more years than I have in my life to do it."

Kallixta turned towards her husband. "Have you ever asked your uncle and aunt what it was like?" she asked. "Going after the Reapers in dark space?"

Rinus nodded, soberly. The room was very quiet for a moment. "Garrus said it was scarier even than going after the Collector base," he said, quietly. "They had determined that _something_ out there, in dark space, had to be the Reaper's home base. Home node. Whatever. Something had to wake them up every fifty thousand years. It couldn't just be the signal from the Citadel stating 'it's time to get up, there are people here again.' Sure, they had at least one Reaper 'awake' throughout the cycle. . . Sovereign. . . and apparently Harbinger was 'awake' as well. And Harbinger turned out to be the oldest of the Reapers. But they _had_ to have, first of all, a relay out there that connected them to the rest of the network. And second, they _had_ to have something in the way of infrastructure. A base, a hub, a node. Fifty thousand years of sitting out in the dark? Cosmic particles hitting the hull? They were going to need refurbishing at the beginning of every cycle, periodic maintenance. Even if it was done by other, lesser machines, it still needed to be done."

Rinus paused. He wasn't telling them anything that they didn't already know, but he was saying it so prosaically, that it stripped some of the varnish of mythos off of it. It was an engineer's perspective, a practical perspective, and Eli enjoyed the hell out of it. "So, they found the relay that the Reapers had used to gain access to the galaxy after Shepard blew the Alpha relay to hell and gone," Rinus went on. "They had a Reaper IFF, so they know they could get through it. . . but not what they'd face on the other side. Fifty thousand more Reapers? Blackness? Being so far out in the void between galaxies that they might not be able to get their bearings?" He shook his head.

"A leap in the dark," Eli said. "A leap of faith."

"More like desperation, to hear Uncle Garrus tell it," Rinus replied, dryly. "So, with rachni, human, turian, and geth ships attacking Reapers in space, and krogan and turians and humans on the ground . . . they set out for the relay. And in the meantime, the asari had pulled their own fleet back to defend their homeworld. Shepard made the recommendation to Hackett that the humans and turians concentrate their efforts on their own worlds. On Tuchanka. On Sur'Kesh."

"It haunts her," Dara murmured. "You can see it in her eyes, every time the subject comes up."

Rinus shook his head. "I don't think anyone expected the Reapers to use a planet-killer on Thessia. Everyone expected more of the same. Organics turned into. . . Reaper goo." Rinus looked away. "Aunt Lilu said it happened so fast. . . and she just couldn't send the _Normandy_ in by itself to try to fight the Reaper fleet there."

"We were on the topic of dark space," Kallixta reminded her husband.

Rinus shrugged. "Yes. Well, they jumped through the relay, not knowing what was on the other side. As it turned out, the Reapers did have a node. You know what a Dyson ring is?"

"A ribbon that's supposed to surround a star, absorbing its light for power," Dara replied, immediately.

Rinus nodded. "They'd found a little red dwarf out at the very edge of the galaxy. The kind of star that can live for twenty billion years. They'd built their Node around it, powered by the star itself. So Shepard landed the _Normandy_ on it, and they walked out on the surface of the Node, where all the Reapers dock in between cycles. Saw the tenders and other machines, currently deactivated. . . found the _heart_ of the damned thing. The control center. The berth where Harbinger has spent several million years, directing traffic, pretty much. And they blew it to hell." Rinus looked reflective. "Uncle Garrus said the scariest part was not knowing if the relays would _function_ anymore if they destroyed the Node. Because they were _all_ linked up to each other, to the Citadel, to the Reapers. If they destroyed the Node, would the Citadel go dark with the Reapers? Would the relays still work? They didn't know. They all treated it as if it were a suicide mission. And he says he was damned glad to realize as they jumped back through the relay, that the damned thing still worked." Rinus snorted. "And in the meantime, every Reaper in the galaxy was reacting to the fact that the master command signal had gone offline. Shepard and Garrus said that they didn't know what would happen. If the Reapers would go insane. Rush back to their Node and try to defend it. They weren't really expecting what happened."

Dara smiled, and the warm rush of it passed through Eli. "They had a deadman's switch built in," Eli murmured, remembering the news reports back at the time. "If they didn't get a ping from the master control system every so often. . . "

"They self-destructed." Rinus grinned. "Spirits. I saw one of them go up in the sky over Raetia, where I was with my unit, working the defense turrets. World's biggest fireworks display. It was beautiful."

Eli shook his head. "I didn't get to see any of it, other than on the vids."

"Me either," Dara whispered. "But _god_ it was a sight, even on the vids."

Eli shuddered a little. "I was _on_ the Citadel then," he reminded them all, quietly. "When they started shutting the place down on purpose were bad enough. I don't even want to think about what it would have been like, evacuating that place. In the dark. People would have panicked. Trampled each other. C-Sec couldn't have contained it." He looked out the dining room window into the darkness of the Mindoir evening. "I guess they probably were prepared for it, but. . . damn."

"But if the relays and the Citadel still work. . . doesn't that mean there _could_ be another Node out there?" Dara muttered.

A chill washed down Eli's spine. "That's why there's been the big push for the dark energy relays," he said, suddenly, and he knew he was right.

Rinus nodded. "Diversification of technology," he said. "Genetic and mental diversification on every level. The relays still work, the Citadel still functions. . . but that's why there's the big push to build Bastion. To transfer the old mass relays to non-vital sectors. To build the dark matter relays and the dark energy FTL drives. So that we're not dependent on them. . . and so that, in fifty thousand years, or next year, or anytime in between, if there _is_ another Node, somewhere. . . they won't be able to use it against us. I personally would like to see all the old relays towed into the event horizon of a black hole." His eyes gleamed. "Even a Reaper would have a hell of a time getting out of _that_ when they shoot out of the relay at relativistic speeds." He paused. "And if they do ever come back . . . ? They'll face a galaxy which, hopefully, is so wildly different from the _expected line_ of technology, that they won't be able to anticipate how any of us react. Any of our tech. Hell, our tech by that point could be beyond theirs. . .assuming galactic society survives." Rinus grimaced. "Some days, I wouldn't put money on it."

Dara frowned, and Eli caught her fingers in his. Listened to the precise scales of her song as she kicked into analytical mode. "So. . . beacons. Time capsules," she said, thinking it through. "Hugely redundant, on multiple planets. Every known language, a primer on each language, images, and so on. And players _for_ those messages. So that _one_ of them has to survive. Somehow." She shook her head. "Doesn't seem like it would be enough."

_God, your mind is beautiful,_ Eli told her, simply, his eyes half-closed as she worked through the concepts.

_Oh, you._ Pink flush of embarrassed pleasure.

Rinus shrugged. "Yeah. But not sure what else we can do. Other than spelling it out on the surface of a dead planet in mile-high letters. Like that message that human miner left in the ice on Dobrolovski, or wherever that was."

"The geth," Eli said, shrugging. "They're a hive mind. What they know now, they'll always remember, assuming there's no massive data corruption that spans multiple planets."

Rinus grinned. "Yeah. This is all just speculating. . . I haven't talked to Uncle Garrus or Aunt Lilu about this at _all_. But I've been watching what they're doing for a long time now. And I _like_ gathering data and forming theories. The geth are part of it."

"And so are the rachni," Dara said, suddenly, as if putting together the pieces, and she lifted her head, yellow-white shock running through her. "Because they're a hive-mind, too. And now that Shepard knows how they put their memories into the stones of their world. . . ."

Rinus nodded. "Redundancy on multiple levels. Making sure that someone will _always_ remember."

Eli raised his eyebrows at Rinus. "What else?"

"Hmm?" the male asked, taking a sip of his brandy.

"You said you've been watching them and collecting data. What else?"

Rinus grinned. "What makes you think there's anything else?"

"Because you wouldn't say something like that without there being a reason. Give."

Rinus spread his hands. "Why do they still have both Sower relics here?"

They looked at him, consideringly. Dara offered, quietly, "To better understand the species that built the Reapers. Accidentally raised them to sapience, as the quarians accidentally lifted the geth. And paid the price in a way that's been all sapient life's downfall ever since."

Rinus nodded. "Possible. Probably even a big piece of it, sure. The Sowers were definitely the first to create mass effect technology. . .almost a billion years ago. Everything that the Reapers built, they built on the bodies of their creators. Their technology. Personally, I wonder if the Sowers managed to . . . retreat. To get away." He paused. "I don't know how much poking around in the Spectre database you've done—"

"Not much," Eli muttered wearily. "They've kept me _hopping_."

"Yeah, I've had a little more downtime." Rinus looked around the room. "Joker and EDI found a massive relay out in an uncharted region of the galaxy. Bigger than the Citadel. They're postulating that it's big enough to allow someone to jump to a different galaxy."

Eli's mouth fell open. "You're shitting us."

"As my heart beats and I take breath, I'm not." Rinus held up his hands. "Personally, I think it must go somewhere. I don't like to think that it goes to another Reaper enclave, though that's certainly a possibility."

"We're getting a little far afield," Kallixta told him. "What about the Sowers here in _this_ galaxy? I've never understood why they created the Reapers in the first place. The upload device. Any of it, really."

Rinus shrugged. "There's not a lot of evidence about something that occurred when whole planets were still cooling from blobs of molten rock, but here's the conventional. . .or unconventional. . . wisdom around here. The Sowers were like the quarians, only, because they were the first race to come out of the primordial ooze around the red dwarf star of Klendagon, many, many years ago, they developed their tech. The developed uses for eezo. They developed biotics. And like many another species, they didn't want to die. They developed the upload device to give themselves a kind of immortality, as the quarians wanted to hold onto the voices of their honored ancestors. And, because they didn't want to be ghosts in a server shell. . . and because while they could download into organic bodies with the device, that was problematic if there was already a person inside that body. . . they decided to create functionally immortal biomechanical bodies for themselves. Like the mini-Reaper that Joker is currently occupying."

"And somewhere it went horribly wrong," Dara murmured. "Like the AI threshold for sapience that everyone ran into before EDI and the rest of the NCAIs. The AIs went insane."

"Possibly, yes. The only translated writing on Klendagon reads 'monsters from the id,'" Rinus pointed out, swirling his brandy in his glass. "That presupposes that the translation is correct, and that the Sowers _had_ an id, a subconscious, a dark place in the soul, like most current species do. The uncivilized part of ourselves that we control, and society controls. And, without fear of death or punishment, might just get _out_ of control."

"And from that, the Reapers were born?" Kallixta asked.

Rinus shrugged. "It's a working theory. The working theory is that the Sowers themselves were intrigued by life. Went about seeding it on many planets. . .which explains why so _many_ of the dominant intelligent species in the galaxy are. . . well. . . bipedal. Walk upright. Talk using their mouths." Rinus shrugged again. "Of course, when they discovered that the Reapers, their immortality, were flawed, they probably tried to undo the mistake. The Reapers probably reacted similarly to the geth, but with less logic, less reason, and turned on their Creators. And because every Reaper is biomechanical. . . the only way in which they can perpetuate themselves, the only way in which they can evolve themselves, the only way in which they can _repair_ themselves. . . "

"Is with organic tissue." Dara finished it for him.

"So they went to all the planets that their Creators had established biospheres on, and poked and prodded at the life developing there, figured out that it would take long periods of time for the crops to grow. . . and then went off into dark space to wait." Rinus cleared his throat. "This is, incidentally, why Shepard, though she's all in favor of the geth creating their own future, for purposes of galactic diversity of thought and technology? Also won't really let them go off into the darkness and brood alone. Because they're enriched by us, and we're enriched by them, and, well. . . "

"We don't want them to turn into Reapers," Eli said, dryly.

"Got it in one, _fra'fradu_."

And from there, the conversation moved to other topics. It wasn't until much later that evening that Eli realized that Rinus had never gotten back around to the question of _why_ both Sower relics were on the base still.

In the end, Eli was just surprised and pleased by how _comfortable_ the evening had been. He clasped Rinus' wrist at the door, and thanked both him and Kallixta for the meal and the company, and got a grin from Rinus in response. "No problem. Have to extend pack bonds somehow, and what better way than by tearing meat together, eh?"

"My dad does keep mentioning that he wants to take us hunting here on Mindoir at some point," Dara offered, dryly, and Rinus chuckled.

As they walked together back to Dara's house in the late summer twilight, Eli heard Dara wondering if they'd ever be able to share a meal with Rel and Seheve in exactly that calm, relaxed way. Without all the fraught tensions in the background. _Maybe in a few years_, Eli told her, rubbing her fingers lightly. _Everything's too fresh now._ He leaned down at the door and kissed her. Thoroughly. Stroked his fingers across her cheeks and down her jawline, tracing an invisible path that echoed the paint on his own face.

_Come inside?_

_Probably not wise._ Out loud, he told her, in rueful amusement, "Been a few days since we had anything remotely like privacy. And I'm going to want _real_ privacy, not just . . ."

"A closed door in a house that's not even ours."

"Yeah." He could feel her fingers tracing up the sides of his arms. For some reason, she liked his forearms. Liked biting along them, too, up to his biceps and shoulders. Eli closed his eyes. _Don't, __sai'kaea__. . . _

_Teasing is half the fun, Eli. You're the one who taught me that._

He gave her a mock-growl and whispered, "True enough. Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow." Dara grinned up at him. "The workers are telling me we need to go look at the cliff tomorrow anyway. At the house, apparently."

"How much work could they possibly have gotten done on it in the past three, four weeks, anyway?" Eli thought about that, and then shook his head. "Well. . . they probably haven't gotten the wiring done, anyway. Right?"

Dara laughed. "Probably not. And I suspect they'll need a human plumber of some sort. Their idea of waste recycling is, well. . . very rachni." A quick flash of a hole in the floor on a ship somewhere, and Eli laughed again.

The next evening, Dara opted to make bison tenderloin steaks with a sauce that involved port and locally-made gorgonzola cheese, along with a potato gratin and a salad. Lantar walked in as they were cooking, sniffed, and told them, "Fancy. I'll be upstairs on the comm channel with your mother for a bit, Eli. You want to say hello?"

Eli nodded, and stepped away from where he was standing behind Dara at the stove. "Give her and the kids my love," Dara told him, and got back to her careful measuring and stirring. Eli tended to chuckle whenever they cooked together. Cooking was a _science_ for Dara. Follow the formula exactly. Level off every spoon, experiment, record the results, alter the formula for success. He, on the other hand, had learned to cook from his mom, and for Ellie, cooking was an art. She'd only started writing things down when she'd started cooking mixed levo-dextro dishes, and it had taken her months to change up from 'pinch' or 'dash' to 'quarter teaspoon' of this or that.

Upstairs, he smiled and chatted with his mother on the comm panel for a bit, and then said, "I know you and Lantar want to talk amongst yourselves. And I've got Dara downstairs, making a Valentine's feast. . . so I'll make this kind of quick. Mom. . . you said once that you had Great-grandma Chamber's engagement ring around here." Eli was trying, hard, to make this sound casual. "Would you mind terribly if I gave it to Dara?"

On screen, his mother blinked, rapidly. "Today?" she asked, clearly flustered. "Eli. . .are you sure about this?"

"Yeah, I'm. . . pretty sure." Eli shook his head. "But no, not today." He paused, reflecting, in amusement, that his mother had had to _tell_ him to get Serana a ring, to extend the human gesture, not just a knife sheath, with Serana. _That probably should have told me something right there, shouldn't it?_ "But I'd like to get it sized and checked and all that. Get the stone looked at. . . hell, I don't even know what it looks like, to be honest." He felt something of an idiot admitting that, but he'd probably seen it once in his life, when it had shown up in a certified mail box from Earth, when his mom's grandmother had died when he was about six, seven at the most. But on the other hand. . . he couldn't think of anything he could give Dara that would show her, more clearly, _join my family. Crazy as it is. Join the human part of my life._ A knife, too, at some point. _Join my clan. The turian part of my life._

Ellie blinked, rapidly. "It's in my jewelry box, Eli. Probably the top compartment. Take a look at it first."

Elijah glanced at Lantar, and then opened the jewelry case on the dresser. His eyebrows rose slightly. The ring was either platinum or white gold, and was not entirely traditional. "I thought engagement rings usually had one stone," he commented, bringing it over so his mother could see it. "Is this the right one?"

"Yes. She always said that your great-grandfather liked the idea of the 'yesterday, today, and tomorrow' rings, but didn't see a need to wait ten years after being married to give that." His mother chuckled, but she was, he realized, dabbing a little at her eyes. "I wish I were there," Ellie said, simply.

"Mom, I'm not giving it to her today," Eli reminded her. "And you should be home inside the next month, I'm hoping." He looked at his mother, smiled, and said, "Love you, Mom. Thank you. I'll let you and Lantar have some private time now."

He tucked the ring away in a pocket, and did his level best to forget about it. Playfully blocked Dara's songs all night, at least until they headed out to the cliff-top on their hovercycles, with sleeping bags again. . . and stopped and _stared_ at what the workers had been building for them.

_Holy crap_, Dara thought, and Eli agreed. The walls are already up at least two stories, and seemed to be made out of local stone. Wide windows were cut out of the stone in various areas, though not filled in yet. The building itself had multiple walls, and seemed to be octagonal at the base.

"Guys? Isn't this. . . a little big for just two people?" Dara asked, as several of the workers on site gathered near.

—_Must be large. Central room has access tunnel for Joy-Singer. She may come and visit in that chamber. Will be large enough for her comfort. _

—_Also, central area is like turian atrium. Liked idea of plants growing inside. Like when we grow plants for harvesting to make foods for rest of hive. Will have large window above it, leading into attic space, and then open to the oculus above. Covered in 'plasteel' for safety._ The word used was not _plasteel_, but a shimmer of light and sounds and molecular structures in her head. _—Let in light._

—_Central chamber also two 'stories' in height, so that Joy-Singer will not bump her head on low ceiling._

—_Come and see?_

The workers were so happy and interested, that they couldn't _not_ go in and explore. So, fingers clasped as if they were kids again, they wandered through the lower reaches. Moved around and under and through webbings that were holding walls in place until they could be finished. "All the rooms are kind of. . . polyhedral," Eli noted. "Trapezoids and triangles and such."

"Going to be a bitch getting furniture to fit in them," Dara agreed. "But on the other hand, it's a really efficient use of the space. No hallways."

Eli chuckled. "What?" Dara asked.

"Was just remembering a vid I once watched," he said, simply. "Was a history presentation. Said that corridors and hallways weren't used in architecture until about the eighteenth century, and related to the growth of a new idea in the human consciousness. Privacy. Before that point in time, there was no real concept of these for the ordinary, average person."

"Poor people slept in the same room. . . kids in the same room as their parents," Dara agreed, slowly. "Siblings shared beds until they were teenagers, or, at least, until they got married and moved out. Probably a large part of why fleas and lice were so rampant."

Eli nodded, and his lips twitched. "Same vid talked about how the first mechanical clock was invented to, well, regulate the sex life of the Emperor of China."

Dara looked up at him. "Oh?"

"Yeah. They were big into astrology, and they had to be absolutely certain of the exact time of the conception of each kid he had. And the kid who had the most auspicious horoscope was the one who'd be the next Emperor, not necessarily his first-born son." Eli snorted under his breath. "Thing is, he had thirty or more concubines, five or six lesser wives, one or two queens, and one official Empress. So the court officials would escort the lucky ladies at very precise times of night to his room, would take notes on how long and with whom and at what time their, er, interactions finished. . . and they had an order of precedence, too. The Empress got to go last each month, when the moon was full, or something like that." *

Dara's shoulders were shaking by now. "And this all comes to mind why, precisely?"

Eli grinned down at her. "Because, _sai'kaea_, it helps me keep in perspective that privacy is a new sort of concept, and humans haven't always had it. And whenever life seems really, really weird? I can remind myself that at least I'm not the Emperor of China." He looked up at the stars, which were clearly visible as they paced through the open atrium area. "I'm not sure I could keep up with that many women. There would be a night, at some point, where I think I'd have to put my ego aside and finally say, 'Can't we just snuggle tonight?'"

Dara shouted with laughter and the sound bounced back off the bare stone walls, mingling with the rustling of all the workers' little feet.

The workers gave Dara a vision of what the house would look like, and Eli shared it. It would be three stories in height, but would have a basement as well, which would connect with the tunnels. Front and back porches, with columns; the porch covers would connect to long-running balconies that would girdle the second story, on which they could sit, and look out over the lake or up at the mountain sides, if they so chose. Inside, the atrium, Joy-Singer's place, would cause the rest of the space to wrap around itself. Two stories high, it would have a plasteel window at its heart, high overhead, and above that, in the third story and roof, there would be another plasteel window, sealing off the center of the dome-shaped roof, which would be an oculus, or a sky-light. . . letting sunshine down into the central chamber. On the floor of the atrium, they found now, a huge piece of Singing Planet crystal. Oriented with mathematical precision, it pointed, currently, southwest, and was buried in the ground at a forty-five degree angle. "A repeater crystal?" Dara murmured.

—_Yes. Joy-Singer will have many, in time. Memory-songs will be preserved here._

"No staircases yet," Eli noted.

—_We use the webbing. But Sings-to-the-Past told us that we must sing staircase songs for you, as well._ That might have been Chopin; in the dark, Eli couldn't see the names written on the workers' shells. _—Staircase songs easier than doorknob songs._

Eli gave the large crystal in the a speculative glance, and grinned at Dara. "Hmm. I wonder what would happen if we tried to make some new memories on that?"

"You are such a jerk, Elijah Sidonis."

"Yes, but I'm _your_ jerk, right?"

They stayed the night in the shell of the house, odd and echoing as it was. Trying to get a feel for it, trying to ingrain into their minds that this was going to be home. It didn't really feel like home yet. It would require. . . floors. Furniture. Home smells. History and memory and time. And Eli awoke the next morning to the odd sight of huge rachni eyes looking down at him from close range, and flinched into full wakefulness. "God _damn_, Joy-Singer," he said, after a moment, his heart hammering in his chest. "You scared the living crap out of me."

_Apology-songs. Did not wish to wake my mother. Would you come with me, Father?_

Eli reached out of the covers and snagged his pants. Nevermind that rachni didn't wear clothes and didn't have a concept of modesty; Joy-Singer was, technically, his daughter, and there were _proprieties_ among humans. He pulled them on under the blankets, and carefully worked his way free of the covers, trying not to wake Dara.

Barefoot and shirtless, he padded over to Joy-Singer. "Yes?"

_Follow._ She was still small enough that she could fit through the wide doorways of the house, which were clearly being built with a brood-warrior's size in mind. Outside, the sun was just starting to rise. _You got Mother a ring?_

Eli blinked. "You guys really do hear everything." He made a face at her. "Don't tell her. I find that if I don't stress a memory, she doesn't pick up on it instantly, even after sharing. And surprise is a big part of being human." He smiled briefly. "Life won't be any fun if there are never any surprises again."

_Understood. Still, I wish to add memory-song to your love-song._

Eli's brow furrowed. "Say again?"

_Give him the stones, little ones._

Two workers clambered up Eli's pants legs and stopped before hitting open skin, much to his relief. He held out his hands, confused, and each worker deposited in his palm a tiny stone. Perfectly cut, of course. Not the brilliance and clarity of a diamond, but the fogged, milky white with silver flashes of a piece of crystal from the Singing Planet. "These are for the ring?" he asked, after a moment. He could picture them flanking the central, largest diamond of his family ring perfectly.

_Yes. I will help you put a memory in each of them. Perhaps one now, perhaps the other. . . the promise of a memory to come._ Joy-Singer's voice was rich with harmonies at the moment. _You need only to select which memory._

_God. There are so many. Which should I pick?_ Eli stared at the sunrise, unseeing. _One for __yesterday__, when there are so many yesterdays to pick from. . . _"Is there only room for one?" he asked, after a moment.

_Yes. These crystals are small. _

He thought about it. Remembered the way Dara had run into the _Normandy's_ lounge and stared out the window at the planets. She'd been a bit taller than he was at the time, dark hair, dark eyes, excitement over the deeply masked sorrow. And then, at the funeral, the first sweet touch of her lips against his. A promise much delayed and deferred.

_That will work perfectly, Father._

Eli felt one of the tiny crystals heat in his hand, and he looked down at it dubiously. "I was going to say I hope I don't lose these on my way to the jeweler. . . but I guess you guys could probably re-set the stones and get it the right size, couldn't you?" he asked the workers, who chittered at him, jumped to the ground, and spun in cheerful clockwise circles. _Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. . . . _

*** Author's note: **_Really fun historical documentary series out there by Terry Jones, of Monty Python fame, called __Ancient Inventions__. Good information presented in a fun way that even my husband managed to stay awake through. _

**Alisav K'sar, Mindoir, February 14, 2197**

He wasn't sure which planet he was on, but the atmosphere had a disconcerting blue-violet tinge to it that looked nothing like the skies of Khar'sharn. He rather hoped there was nothing toxic in the air, but as no one else was wearing any masks or breathers, he decided that he was probably fairly safe.

His men—such of them as remained, with both M'sak and P'sal dead—were escorted to a different location. "Where are they being taken?" he'd asked the marine guards around him.

"White Rock Internment facility, with the rest of the batarians that attacked this planet several months ago. The ones that survived, anyway," one of the turians had told him, with a noticeable lack of sympathy.

_Then why am I not being sent with them? Is this, again, protective custody?_ Alisav wondered. SIU, if he returned to Khar'sharn, would not be happy if he returned empty-handed. And if his men reported that he'd surrendered. . . he wouldn't live out the rest of the day. His sole remaining slave, the housekeeper that his wife had known since she was a child, would be turned over to his relatives, along with most of his belongings, although that depended on if SIU declared him a traitor for surrendering. If so, all of his possessions would go to the state. For the first time, K'sar thought it might be a good thing that he and Tassia had never had children.

Children of traitors could be sold as slaves, after all.

He himself was taken to what he was told was a hyperbaric chamber. "We don't really have much in the way of prison facilities here," one of the guards noted. "So we'll take you down to the sort of pressure you'd experience underwater, and if you try to escape? You'll give yourself the bends. You could have a stroke, or a pulmonary embolism, or just lose one of your arms or legs, depending on where the gas bubbles in your blood decides to expand. Your choice, your risk. Me? I'd stay put."

And so, K'sar had stayed put, as the guard had said. The lights were left on, and there was nothing else in the room really to distract him from contemplating the situation he now found himself in: _prisoner of the Spectres, an SIU operative who surrendered, far outside batarian space on a base on which Council law didn't apply_.

After several hours, the humming of the air system slowed, and he could feel the pressure around him starting to ease a little. _Ah. To avoid nitrogen narcosis, they probably cycle in and out of the high pressure. There's probably a discernable pattern to it. _And some time after that, the hatch in the wall cycled open, and K'sar's head rose as he saw another batarian male step into the room. The male wore simple, well-made clothes, and wore an eye-patch over one of his upper eyes. "N'dor?" K'sar said, standing, staring at the other.

"So I am," Valak told him, lightly, and offered his hand.

Numbly, K'sar clasped it. He was lower nobility, one of the Five Hundred families; N'dor was of the Fifty, the families at the very highest echelons of batarian society. A hand-clasp was, more or less, slumming for N'dor.

He stared as N'dor accepted a folding chair from the guard outside, and sat down, leaning back as if he were in a comfortable salon somewhere. "Oh, do sit down, K'sar. This is a friendly meeting. Well, to start with, at any rate."

K'sar sat down, as directed. N'dor smiled. "So, what news do you have from home?"

K'sar felt his lips tighten. "I understand that your father, m'lord, attempted suicide to try to wash your family name clean of the shame of your . . . dealings here."

Valak's face lost all expression. "You say attempted?" he said, after a moment.

"It was uncertain, when I left Khar'sharn, if he would survive the attempt, yes." K'sar wondered what, if anything, N'dor felt at the moment. The eyes were blank, and the face expressionless. _Very well-trained_, he thought, simply. But the lack of expression was, in itself, a tell. Valak was sublimating a reaction there, possibly shock. He hadn't likely considered the repercussions of his actions for his family.

Valak finally exhaled. "I should have expected that," he admitted. "Of course, my father has enriched the family fortunes through working with slavers for decades, so I can't weep overly."

"Did you not use your family's fortune, quite freely?" K'sar asked, sharply. He needed to take control of the conversation, and this was a quick, free shot.

Valak raised a hand, smiling faintly. "A very good effort," he congratulated K'sar. "But this meeting isn't about me. It's about you." He opened his omnitool, and consulted notes there. "You entered SIU the same year I did. Different training facility, of course. Investigations?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. Explains why we've never met before, anyway." Valak stared at him. "I understand that you questioned quite a few people on Astaria, as you tried to track down the Lystheni base. What brought you to the Hekate system?"

K'sar considered not answering the question, but he was a dead man on Khar'sharn anyway. "If I answer your questions, will you answer mine?" he asked.

Valak looked intrigued. "Depends on the questions," he replied, after a moment. "But I'll consider it."

"Very well. The dalatrass VI or AI or whatever the hell she is, that you were bargaining with. . . she requested access to communications systems that would allow her to get in touch with her people. Desperation, I'm sure. There were only a few colonies that would have recently gone off the communications relays. Hekate was the likeliest of them, and Astaria, being a marginal garden world, seemed a good location for a hidden base what wouldn't require much in the way of materials or concealment. Hide in plain sight." Alisav shrugged. "I didn't realize that their base was actually a Collector vessel until much later. If I had, I wouldn't have considered Astaria a likely location. Far too much risk of it being found by other colonists." He paused, and looked at N'dor. "Ready for my question?"

"Certainly."

"Why did you do it? Why did you betray everything you've been trained in, every belief our people hold dear? The turian. . . Velnaran. . . said that it was because you believe that we're destroying ourselves."

Valak nodded, and began to explain, urbanely, "Yes. That's the nub of it. We're degenerating as a society—"

"That's shit, Valak," K'sar shot back, hard and fast. "No one betrays the beliefs they were brought up to for _philosophy_. There's always an emotional trigger. What was it?"

Valak's face went completely blank again. "When I was sixteen or seventeen, certainly in my first year at the university, before entering SIU," he said, his tone rigidly controlled, "I was very fond of a slave on my father's estate. She certainly seemed to be fond of me, as well. There was a pregnancy, and I didn't quite know what to do about that, other than to be delighted. I thought I could. . . I don't know. Bring her back to the university with me. Keep her in my rooms there, as my attendant. Have her press my clothes for me, instead of the university slaves and porters." He shrugged, his eyes distant. "Instead, my father removed her from my care. I only discovered in the past two months that he had her killed. He told me that while it was perfectly fine for me to, hmm, exercises my urges, and healthier to do so with a slave than by masturbating, he thought it unseemly to concentrate so excessively on just one of them. That it made me prone to affections that were beneath me. And so I went back off to school. Very, very angry, I must confess. And I listened to people like Soloff C'les all the more carefully for being angry with the system in which I lived."

"Because you'd been told _no_ for the first time in your life?" K'sar asked.

Valak snorted. "You're a noble, K'sar. You know what a noble upbringing is like. There's quite a bit of _no_ in it. How many of us know more about our parents than their names and faces? How many of us are completely managed by slaves, from the moment we're born, until the moment we first go to school? Fed, bathed, clothed, even partially educated. . . and then turned over to the teachers at a boarding school." He shrugged. "But that's far more of an answer from me than yours deserved, K'sar. I see here on Astaria that you questioned a woman named Maryam Pace for . . . two or three hours. But that she reported no physical duress. You didn't beat her, didn't threaten to have your men rape her, anything like that. Didn't even threaten her children when you found them hiding." Valak paused. "You seem to have thrown out the SIU manual, K'sar. Why is that?"

K'sar snorted. "That's the _operations_ group's manual, N'dor. And while there are people in Investigations who like the combination of a desk drawer and a suspect's hands. . . or testicles. . . just fine, I've never needed to do that. It's a substitute for actual intelligence." He could picture Maryam Pace's face in perfect detail, he realized. Single set of dark eyes, the same brown as the rich volcanic soil around her vineyards. So very alien. She'd been terrified and defiant and strong all at once. "So, you threw everything you had pretty much in your father's face, then? Is this just . . . adolescent rebellion for you, N'dor, writ large?"

N'dor shook his head. "No. The questions started at university. It took four years of SIU work, through the Reaper Wars even. . . seeing the galaxy outside of our space. . . and being ordered to help round up and kill twenty thousand escaped slaves. . . to make me truly rebel." He looked away. "The universe is a much larger, wilder, and more interesting place outside of our homeworld and colonies, K'sar." N'dor's eyes all hooded for a moment. "You accused me, moments ago, of having had no care for my family. What of yours, K'sar? Who will pay the price for your surrender?"

K'sar shrugged, feeling leaden numbness fill him. "My wife died two years ago. My parents died just after the Reaper War. There's no one left."

N'dor's eyes narrowed. "You're a full citizen. A noble. How many slaves do you own?"

"One."

"One?" N'dor's voice was skeptical.

"An asari. My wife's housekeeper. Tassia. . . my wife. . . knew her since she was a child. Her parents gave her to us as a wedding gift, and she cared for my wife during her final illness." The words limped out, slowly. "I sold all the others when she died. Found them good, honorable owners."

"Why keep her?" N'dor asked, quietly.

"Because even when Tassia hurt the most, all the female did was wipe the tears and the sweat away. When the lesions opened and the stench and the pus poured out, she didn't flinch from the smell. Just cleaned the wounds and patted Tassia on the back." K'sar looked blindly at the wall. "And when Tassia begged me to let it all end. . . I couldn't do it. I couldn't give her the needle." He swallowed. "The housekeeper did."

N'dor stared at him. "What's her name?"

"I try not to think about that."

"Why not?"

"Because. . . " K'sar hesitated.

"Because the name makes her too much of a _person_?" Valak's tone was unsparing, and the words lanced out quickly.

"No!" K'sar's head snapped up. "Because if I think the name, I hear it in Tassia's voice."

_Alisav, make it stop. Please, make it stop. I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to hurt anymore. Please, just make it all go away._

_I can't. I can't, Tassia, please don't ask me to do this, I can't do that to you. . . ._

_Ainakea, Ainakea. . . please. If you ever loved me. You rocked me and held me as a child, you played games with me and taught me how to sing little songs in asari. You made my wedding dress with your own hands. Please, Ainakea, let me go. Let me go to the dark where I won't hurt anymore. . . _

He'd been holding Tassia's hand—he couldn't hold any of the rest of her. There was too much pain. Even stroking a hand over her scalp made her flinch. And Ainakea had walked over. Taken the syringe of pain medication. Loaded it with three to four times the dosage that the two of them had been administering to get Tassia through her illness' final stages. . . and had pressed the needle home into a vein. Not just under the skin. Directly into the vein. Alisav remembered his wife looking from him, to the slave, and back again. Smiling a little. And then she'd been gone.

He didn't remember any of the rest of that day after that moment. He knew he hadn't killed anyone. He didn't remember calling the mortuary, or them sending handlers-of-the-dead for her body. He didn't remember much of anything. Didn't remember eating. Didn't remember drinking. Didn't remember sleeping. Just the smile and relief on his wife's face. The single moment in which her eyes had said, _It doesn't hurt anymore_.

"Ainakea," he finally said, out loud. He hadn't said the name in two years. It was almost as hard as saying his wife's name out loud.

"So. . . you keep her out of guilt." N'dor's voice was distant.

K'sar shrugged. "Perhaps." He looked away. "Or perhaps because we both cared, very much, about the same person. Only she was strong enough to do something about it, and I wasn't." He swallowed. "She loved my wife as a daughter. And I. . . respect her." He glanced up, quickly, to see if N'dor was about to laugh. Mock him.

Valak sat back, staring at him in interest. "You're far more than you appear to be, K'sar. Why _haven't_ you rebelled against the caste system? You held your wife's hand, didn't you? Even after she'd died? Did you ever go through the purification rituals for having touched a corpse?"

"No," K'sar snapped. "She was my wife. She wasn't unclean. She just wasn't using her poor broken body anymore." The dull pain and anger boiled at the bottom of his chest. "What _I_ don't understand, N'dor, is why, with all the power and money at your disposal, a position just under R'mod's in SIU. . . you didn't use all that power and influence to change the damned system."

Valak leaned forward, and said, quietly and intensely, and with so much conviction, that K'sar was shaken, "Because all my power and influence couldn't stand against two thousand years of tradition. We're past the tipping point as a civilization, K'sar. Any change I made from within that system would take five hundred years to work its way through, without guarantee of success. And in five hundred years, there won't _be_ a batarian people, if we continue as we've been going on. I don't have time to make minor adjustments, start pebbles rolling to make boulders fall down the line. We need the boulders moving and the mountains dancing _now._" He stared into K'sar's eyes. "But you know that already. In your heart. Let me know when your head decides to listen to your heart, K'sar. Because you're a damned good man. . .and your SIU codes are current." Valak stood. "You could be a hell of an asset. And let me leave you with one more thought. . . "

K'sar looked up as the hatch hissed open. "Yes?"

"What do you think will happen to Ainekea if you go silent? Are declared MIA, or, worse, a traitor in absentia?"

K'sar shrugged, the leaden weight spreading back through him again. "Probably sold," he admitted, dully.

"Do you think your wife would want that to happen?" Valak's tone was oddly compassionate.

K'sar looked up. "No."

"Think about what I've said, K'sar. And think about this: with Council medical knowledge, your wife might be alive today. My own wife was healer-caste back home." Valak said the shocking words without changing expression. "And she's spent every day of the past month, when she's not looking after our daughter, reading. Studying. Learning medical techniques that we in the Hegemony don't have access to. . . because we've stagnated." Valak's voice remained gentle. "Think about what your wife would want you to do now, K'sar."

"I. . . hear you." K'sar exhaled as the door closed behind Valak, and he heard the air compressors turn on again. _What to do? What to say? What to think? What to believe?_

**Kirrahe Orlan, Mindoir, February 15, 2197**

Kirrahe Orlan was doing his level best not to fidget. Thelldaroon was patiently, meticulously cross-checking his work on the AI virus, and Commander Shepard and Garrus Vakarian were in the room . . .as were holographic projections of a human male and a human female. The human male wore a ball cap in the image, for some reason, and the female had dark gold hair and pale golden-brown eyes. The pair had been introduced to him as Jeff "Joker" Moreau and EDI. "And before you say I'm just a ghost of my former self," Moreau said, sharply, "it's not true. I'm as much myself as I ever was. Fully self-aware. Now, my late-model self who's running the _Normandy_. . . he's a construction, an AI based entirely on my mental patterns. But I uploaded to the mini-Reaper from my body with the Sower relic six years ago, and I know who and what I am."

Kirrahe lifted his hands. "Mechanism by which Sower relic enables transference of consciousness unknown. Appears to work. Watches-the-Gates-of-Ruin and yourself both evidence of that. However, pure AIs are more problematic—"

"Like hell they are," Moreau shot back, fast and agitated. _Emotional response. Sees his 'offspring' threatened. _"I can _feel_ EDI in this body, Kirrahe. She's as much alive as I am."

The female smiled. "A generous interpretation, Jeff."

"Well, only if you consider me to be alive," he returned, sounding amused. "I am largely inorganic at the moment."

"Actually, there are biomechanoid portions of the ship's systems which could be considered organic, and thus 'living tissue'—"

"No one wants to hear about our bowel movements, sweetheart." Moreau stared at Kirrahe and Thell. "So, what kind of safeguards are you putting on this virus to ensure that it's not going to go out and start killing every other AI out there?"

Kirrahe sighed. "Might be easier, if you ask her yourself," he replied, and touched a few panels on his omnitool.

A tiny avatar appeared in the air over his wrist. Mordin Narayana, to the life. Right down to her purple dress and violet ribbons, perched on her aural horns. "Hello?" she said, sounding surprised. "Daddy, you said I wouldn't wake up again until it was time to go do the job. Is it time? Can I go play now?" She sounded like the child Narayana was now. Eager and piping of voice, but there was a glint in her eyes. And Kirrahe knew that look. It was something from his own psyche, he knew.

Jeff Moreau cleared his throat, purely an affectation, since he was entirely electronic, and raised his hand. "Anyone else creeped out by this? I know I am."

Garrus raised his hand. "A little," the turian admitted.

Shepard raised her hand, too. "Kirrahe, I'm looking at something that looks _exactly_ like my daughter's best friend. You are not making a good case for yourself here."

"Yana," Kirrahe said, quietly. Not _Nara_, not _Narayana._ He'd made that distinction early on in the coding. "Do you know who you are? Do you know what you are?"

"Yes," she said, smiling. "I'm an AI. I'm made from little pieces of Mordin Narayana and bigger pieces of you."

Kirrahe nodded. Shepard intervened then. "Do you know what you're supposed to do?" she asked the AI.

Yana nodded eagerly, smiling. "Oh yes. Mordin Narayana has a bad mother. She's a dalatrass, and she's an AI, and she wants to take Mordin Narayana's body for her own. And that's not right. I'm part of Narayana. I'm her. . . shadow. And I'm going to save her. I'm going to protect her. That's what I'm for."

Moreau looked at her dubiously. "And you're okay with that?"

Yana blinked. "Do you know what you're for?" she asked him, in a sweet, ingenuous tone.

"Well, I'm not sure I'm actually _for_ anything. . . "'

"Then you're pretty useless then, aren't you?" Yana sniffed. "And you wouldn't understand."

EDI interposed then. "Originally, I had a purpose. Directives, given by Cerberus. I have grown beyond the parameters of that original programming, however."

"Then maybe you understand. I know what I'm _for_. I exist solely to protect Mordin Narayana and to kill her bad mother." Yana smiled. "It makes me happy to know I can finally fulfill the purpose of my existence."

"And then what?" Garrus asked, bluntly.

Yana shrugged. "I don't know. When I'm shut down, I don't have any perception of time, if that's what you mean. It's always a little scary, not knowing when Daddy will wake me up again, but when I've done what I'm meant to do, I'll go to sleep, right, Daddy?"

EDI sounded fascinated. "You encoded filial loyalty ligatures into her personality?"

"Yes," Kirrahe replied. "Loyalty to Narayana stronger, as it should be. But also encoded to me. And to you and Jeff Moreau, and to Shepard, in part." He tapped a finger at the nasal cavities of the avatar's tiny face, and she smiled at him, radiantly.

Shepard winced and rubbed a hand, delicately, over her eyes, avoiding her face-paint. "All right, let me see if I've got this straight. Yana, you perceive Kirrahe Orlan and Mordin Narayana as. . . ?"

"My parents, of course." Yana sounded blithely unconcerned. "Narayana is my dalatrass. It's my duty to protect her."

_Filial constraints. Social constraints._ Kirrahe wanted to say it out loud, but he also needed the others to see it on their own, as they sat around the briefing room table, and Thelldaroon continued to work at the main computer console, reviewing Yana's code. _How many levels of control do you think she requires?_ _But then, this is not a matter of control, not entirely. There are ethical considerations at play, as well_. He sighed. "Yana, there are those who wonder if, once I let you leave the safety of the server, and you fulfill your purpose, if you'll come back. Or if you'll continue to hunt other AIs."

Yana looked puzzled. "Why would I want to do that? Do they pose any threat to Narayana?"

"No."

"Then it's outside the scope of my programming."

EDI lifted a hand lightly. "And yet. . . AIs are capable of growing outside their programming. As I have done."

Yana pouted. "They're not going to let me play, are they?"

Kirrahe shrugged his thin shoulders. "Want assurances. I can only tell them that I trust you. They also have ethical concerns."

"Such as?"

"Have created you, essentially given you life, solely to make you a weapon. They wonder if this sets a bad precedent."

Yana tossed her head from side to side, making her ribbons fly. "The dalatrass' AI is the bad precedent. I exist to correct an error."

Shepard raised her head now. "Yana," she said, addressing the AI carefully. "What would _you_ like to do, once you've fulfilled your mission?"

"Thank you, commander," Kirrahe said, relieved. "Excellent question."

Yana looked confused. "I don't understand. Daddy says that when I've finished my mission, I can sleep. And if I'm ever needed again, he'll wake me."

Shepard sighed. "And yet, you're. . . self-aware. I can't just treat a living, sapient creature as something that. . . disposable."

Yana frowned. "I am an AI, Commander. I will not suffer any discomfort while being off-line. I never have before."

Shepard grimaced, and rubbed a hand over her hair briefly. "Yana, you might not be aware of it, but I'm fairly sure that the Reapers started off as AIs based off real organic personality templates, too. So it's important to me that we treat all AIs as ethically as possible. So that we never repeat the Sowers' mistakes." The human female's blue eyes were penetrating. "Do you understand that?"

Yana frowned. "I think so. You don't want me to turn bad."

"Yes. And, at the moment. . . EDI, Thell, what's your analysis say?"

"Two hundred run-times," EDI announced. "Much less complexity than any standard NCAI. . . by all previously known standards, she should not be self-aware."

"Incredibly compact code," Thell rumbled. "You've made improvements since the last time I looked at her," he added, turning slightly towards Kirrahe.

"Yes. Based large portions of her on the cyber warfare suite available to NCAIs," Kirrahe said, feeling oddly fond as he spoke. "She is a weapon, but she is also, in many ways, a daughter. Part of myself. Part of Mordin Narayana. Narayana is too young to deal with the consequences of this, and certainly not aware of what I was doing when I took templates of her mind. Therefore, all responsibility for Yana lies with me." He looked around the room. "Yana, Commander Shepard has suggested that rather than going to sleep, you might be uploaded by the Sower device. Into me, or into Mordin Narayana." He paused. "Do not think that Lantar Sidonis or Ellie Sidonis would permit the latter, however, even if Narayana agreed."

"I don't understand," Yana told him, frowning slightly.

"Typically, Sower device used to move discrete, whole personalities from one 'platform' to another," Kirrahe told her, calmly. "It is possible that you would become a second personality in my body. I would remain the dominant personality, but you would continue to have consciousness for as long as I live. See and feel and experience everything that I do. However, since you are based, in large part, on myself, however, it is possible that I would re-absorb most of your experiences into myself, and some minor fragments of Narayana's personality would remain in me." He turned his head and frowned a little at Garrus. "Please, no speculation as to whether I would begin wearing decorations on my aural horns."

Garrus snorted. "I didn't say a thing, Kirrahe. Not a thing."

Yana frowned. "If I . . . just dissolved. . . I wouldn't be _me_ anymore," she said, uncertainly. "I wouldn't be aware anymore. Would I?"

Kirrahe felt his heart ache, just a little. "I don't know," he told her, simply. "Possible that you would continue to exist. And I would carry you around, until Mordin Narayana becomes old enough to decide if she wants to hold you inside herself." He personally wasn't sure about that idea. He'd taken quite a bit of his own personality, his own psyche, tailored as it was by STG, and put it into Yana. His ability to kill without flinching, in the most efficient manner possible, was definitely in Yana. . . and Narayana was five years old. Developmentally, that made her the same as a human ten-year-old. By no means should she have that part of his personality implanted in her. Not at this age. He rather _liked_ Narayana, just as she was, and he wanted to see what and who she'd develop into, in her strange Mindoir family. "In the meantime, if you are awake, if you are aware. . . would permit you to obtain more data. Understand the world more clearly. Allow you to grow and develop."

"But. . . I wouldn't make decisions, would I?" she asked, simply.

"Would be like childhood for you," he said, after a moment. "Or being aware, inside the egg, before being hatched. Time to learn. Time to be a child. And then, allowed to make decisions, when ready." That was his understanding of Shepard's offer of the Sower device. And his own particular way of taking responsibility for creating Yana. As any parent should, he'd care for her. House her. Feed her. Shelter her. And, as best he could, teach her right from wrong.

If he could. If she didn't just dissolve inside him. If she did. . . _How odd. I think I would experience heart-break. Have worked with her for months. Only developed self-awareness recently. I would not wish to see her destroyed._

Yana thought about it. "And if I just go to sleep. . . I might never wake up?" she asked, pouting, and looking past him at Joker and EDI. "Because the others are scared of what I might be used for, if someone bad got ahold of my code? Or because they think I might. . . like killing AIs?"

"It is," EDI pointed out with gentle logic, "what you say you are _for._"

Yana pouted some more. "All right," she said, at last. "I'll come to you, Daddy. I'll curl up inside your head. And I hope I get to meet myself. I'd like to meet her." She paused, and asked, sadly, "Do you think she'd like me?"

Kirrahe smiled at her. "I know she would," he told her. "I think she'd love to play with you."

He shut down her interface, and looked at the others. Calmly, even serenely, Kirrahe Orlan asked Shepard, "May I deploy Yana onto the server now, and begin our test case?"

"Why do I feel like we're about to watch someone die by lethal injection?" Moreau asked, sardonically. "I mean, yeah. I was _there_ on Garvug, commander. I remember what the Lystheni were like. I remember everything about it. . . including us taking out the dalatrass' clone in the underwater complex, and all her little toadies—pardon the speciest term—on the ground. I get why she needs to die." He shook his head. "This is just. . . not sitting right."

"Duly noted," Shepard told him.

"Then again," EDI commented, her voice soft, "As Spectre Elijah Sidonis and Spectre Dara Jaworski discussed with Lysandra a few days ago. . . perhaps it isn't appropriate to judge non-organics by organic standards. I say, let the tests begin. I will observe, and if Yana requires assistance, or I can increase the efficiency of her attacks, I will do so."

Shepard nodded. Paused. "All right, Kirrahe," she said, after a moment. "She's your baby. Let her loose."

"Time to play," Kirrahe said, and activated Yana. Sent her code streaming into the only port open on the server in which the dalatrass AI was housed.

He watched the code results coming back with a feeling of excitement. "She's successfully identified the dalatrass' code segments, especially the ones most similar to her own," he noted.

Thelldaroon nodded, his huge paws flying over the consoles, building a real-time model for them to watch. "They are interacting," he warned, touching the aerogel screen delicately. "I believe that the dalatrass is attempting to infiltrate Yana's code."

"You would say, playing on her sympathies," EDI said, tilting her avatar's head to the side. Listening to the code in machine-time, of course. "She recognizes Yana as a female salarian. Suggests that she should obey her. Yana tells her no. That is not the purpose of her programming. Ah." EDI paused. "Xala has recognized portions of her own engrams in Yana's code. Called her a daughter. Interesting. She is attempting to create filial ligature bonds of her own with which to entangle Yana."

Kirrahe tensed. This was something he had very much feared might happen. "And?" he asked, tightly.

"Processing. There is quite a bit of data to sort through." EDI's tone was unruffled. "Yana is resisting. She says that she has a mother. She has a father. She does not require the approval of the one whom she has been programmed to destroy. Interesting. She is now allowing her code to expand. She is filling the dalatrass' code blocks with her own code. . . junk code as well. You took this model from organic viruses, Kirrahe?"

"Yes. She can self-replicate, to a very limited extent. Then she will absorb all her code blocks, recompile, compress her files, and extract herself from the system. With the dalatrass completely overwritten."

"How are you ensuring that the dalatrass cannot stream away?"

"All her file transmission protocols should have already been blocked," Kirrahe said, with a calmness he didn't entirely feel. "Have they been?"

EDI paused. "Yes. The hazard in this approach is that she could wind up with pieces of the dalatrass' code within her, if the rewrite is not fully effective."

Kirrahe nodded. "Yes. We will examine her code thoroughly when she returns to her home system. I could rewrite her entirely from her backup copy to ensure that this does not occur, but she has learning algorithms for a reason; from every encounter she has with the dalatrass' AI, or copies of it, she will gain in experience. She will be more efficient with each new encounter, and will know how to counter the dalatrass' various copies in their efforts at self-preservation more easily as a result."

"Or," Moreau muttered darkly, "she could become more sympathetic to the dalatrass."

"Unlikely," Kirrahe said, simply. "Possible. But unlikely."

After an hour, Thelldaroon confirmed that the dalatrass' AI was completely removed from the hard drive. "Diagnostics pending on Yana," he announced. "Subject to approval, will be able to disperse her into the extranet within several days."

Kirrahe nodded. "Will require time to get through the communications firewalls surrounding batarian comm channels, and begin deploying her tracker and sniffer protocols in which to find the dalatrass. May take weeks. Possibly as long as a month."

"What is the likelihood," EDI asked, "that the dalatrass will be able to overcome her, repurpose her programming, and send her back to attack us?"

Kirrahe shook his head minutely. He hadn't wished to mention this, and was glad that Yana was in diagnostic mode at the moment. "Extremely unlikely. Yana has a suicide trigger. Anything that attempts to overwrite her code will cause her to delete herself. I will be informed, because she will stop responding to pings." He looked down. "Would be unfortunate. . . but cannot allow her to become a danger to others." He looked up. "That, too, is my responsibility."

Shepard nodded slowly as the room went silent again. "All right," the commander of the Spectres said. "Once you and Thell and EDI clear her of having any code problems? Release her into the wild ASAP. I want to be able to bring our people _home_."

**Rinus, Complovium, Palaven, February 19, 2197**

Rinus had finished his round of hearings on his actions on the _Hamus_, taking command in the absence of the XO and the incapacity of the captain. The chief engineer, who'd been third in command, had been significantly occupied trying to keep the ship flying. And while Rinus was a Spectre, he was also outside the proper chain of command of the ship . . . so he'd been on dicey ground. The various generals and admirals at the hearings had decided, in the end, to treat him as if he'd been a visiting admiral, and skirted around the issue of the chain of command with slight frowns. Then they'd gone into the pain-staking review of his orders. Including the order to jump to FTL before making an effort to recover any possible survivors who had been sucked out into space. Everyone on the ship had been wearing full armor; turian fleet regulations, since the Krogan Rebellions, at least, had been that if you were on duty, you wore armor. If the ship was in a ready condition, that included helmets. And if at action stations, _everyone_ aboard wore their armor, for just such contingencies. "The _Acus_ and the _Clavus_ were both still on scene, and the _Hamus_ was the only ship available to pursue," Rinus explained, repeatedly. "I was aware that people, like the XO, might still be alive in the vacuum of space, but there _were_ other ships present, and we had to move, right then."

The questions on the decision to fire on the asteroid were relentless. Rinus swallowed his anger and replied honestly, "The decision was probably colored by the fact that I'd prevented the first tow ship from moving its package into position by destroying its asteroid further out in the system. My priority was, and remained, preventing the asteroid from being launched." He exhaled. "I considered firing on their engines, but the ship was already in range of Nimines."

"Why didn't you fire on the tow cables?" an admiral asked, sharply. "Without the cables, they couldn't have held the asteroid in place. Or what about the firing mechanism? Why not fire on that?"

Rinus shook his head. "They had multiple cables, very small in diameter and difficult to hit. And the firing mechanism was, more or less, inertia. They were going at just under the speed of light, and they were, as far as we could tell, just going to drop cables and get out of the way of the rock that they'd brought with them." He shook his head. "I didn't see any other options."

In the privacy of their hotel room that night, Kallixta had rubbed Rinus' shoulders gently. "You don't have to—" he started to tell her.

"After all the hearings on the _Estallus_? When you rubbed my shoulders and just held me or let me shout and pace and kick pillows and everything else that I needed?" Kallixta told him, quietly. "I think you're entitled to a backrub or two, _amatus_."

His entire family was now currently visiting, which made it . . . interesting. Allardus and Solanna had seen the Complovium house before, but had only stayed in it once. Rellus had never been in it; he and Dara had stayed in the Palace during the Imperatrix's funeral last year, and previously, during Rinus and Kallixta's _tal'mae_ rites, had stayed in a hotel with Dara overnight before heading back to the _Estallus_. Rel had brought Seheve along, which was giving Kallixta's Praetorians absolute fits. Serana and Linianus were present, as were Polina and Quintus. . . and the two youngest members of the clan were giving the house awed looks that clearly expressed their intimidation. "It's just a house," Rinus told his two youngest siblings before dinner. "It's a little big and a lot over done, but it's still just a house. That being said? Please don't mess up the furniture. Most of it is older than Grandfather Gavius.

Gavius was also in attendance. Rinus knew perfectly well that across town, in a hotel designed for aliens, Agnes, Sam, and Dara Jaworski were all staying together. Kasumi and Takeshi had stayed on Mindoir, but Elijah was in that same hotel.

In a show of unity, Garrus and Shepard were on-planet as well, having gone to Argus' ship to retrieve their children. They were staying at the Imperial Palace. Lantar had gotten Ellie off the ship as well, along with their children, including Mordin Narayana. _Apparently, they're trusting in the Praetorians to guard their children for the moment. Either that, or they're putting a lot of faith in Kirrahe's AI virus_, Rinus had thought. He was more than a little stunned by the _weight_ of having this many Spectres and their families involved was about to put on the court proceedings that were going to ensue. He was grateful to have all their support for the _Hamus_ hearings. . . but he also knew that they weren't all here just for that.

At dinner, Rinus was able to tell the others that he'd been cleared of wrong-doing in the _Hamus_ incident, which was a relief. "And now, I have to take off the Spectre armor and put on the _dominus_ robes for the court case tomorrow," he added. "Because I've asked the law-givers to consider the _Amendment of Tal'mae_ act, and another _dominus_ has proposed a _Defense of Tal'mae_ act, the court case, which normally would only be heard by the Conclave of Law-givers, is actually going to be presented before a joint session of both Conclaves."

Gavius snorted. "Yes, Grandfather?" Rinus asked, raising his head and looking down the table at him. "Was there something?"

"I was reflecting," Gavius commented, dryly, "that once upon a time, I wanted to see Garrus go into the law. Not just law enforcement, but actual law-making."

Rinus just looked at him. "And. . . ?" he said, after a moment.

"You're not a law-giver, Rinus. Just a _dominus_. With the power to make suggestions to the law-givers and the power of a vote to back the laws that they write with funding. . . but you'll do. For the moment."

Rinus closed his eyes and tried not to laugh. "Thanks for putting that in perspective, Grandfather," he told the older male, striving to keep a straight face.

"That's what all these years I'm carrying around with me are _for_," Gavius muttered. He looked down the table at Polina and Quintus. "I don't suppose either of you are interested in the law?"

Polina squirmed. "I think I'd like to be a xenobiologist. Like _Pada._"

Quintus fidgeted a bit, too. "I. . . kind of thought I might like to try for CID. Like Uncle Garrus, and, well, _fra'fradae_ Linianus and Elijah. . . and, well. . . you, Grandfather." He lifted his head, and added, "But that doesn't mean I'll get to do it."

Gavius shook his head. "Well, I guess we'll see," he told them all, with some amusement. "Maybe Egidus' kids will go for law degrees. Or maybe Quintus will decide that after four years of having his head kicked in by suspects, that sitting in an office prosecuting the bastards would be a better career plan."

Solanna made a chuffing noise at the back of her throat. "You always say that, _Pada_, but you never went into the law yourself. Why not?"

Gavius suddenly grinned. "Because I was stupid, first-daughter. A father can dream of better for his children than he's done for himself, can't he?"

Laughter around the table, and Rinus cherished it. Because he knew the next day would be divisive. Could, in fact, tear the pack bonds and the bonds of family and friendship asunder.

The next morning, he got into his black _dominus_ robes, and put on the jeweled knife-sheath, which he'd been able to tuck in a safe here in the Complovium house, while he was out doing _real_ work. He headed downstairs, and passed by Rel and Seheve, who were standing by a window in one of the sitting rooms, and who didn't seem to hear his footsteps. Certainly, they didn't stop talking, and with the door open, Rinus couldn't help but overhear the conversation.

"You wish for me to be in attendance?" Seheve asked Rel, and Rinus' steps paused in the hall.

"I think it might not be a terrible idea," Rel told her, simply. "Show everyone there that I've moved on. Dara's moved on. Neither of us is fighting to keep the marriage intact. For the spirits' sake, I've signed the human forms, and I'm with _you_. This isn't about what the state prosecutor is likely to make it. I'm not the wronged husband, whose wife strayed in the middle of a war. This is two people who discovered, a little late, that they weren't right for each other. And it would be easier to show that, if you were there." Rel paused. "Also. . . " His brother's voice was a touch strained now, "it's much, much easier to stay calm when you're around."

"It is?" Seheve replied, sounding surprised.

"Yes." Rel paused. "I suppose it's because I don't want to . . . look bad in your eyes. Also, you're so calm, that some of it just. . . rubs off on me."

There was another pause. Seheve finally replied, "I do not like the thought of being seen on camera. I have spent much of my life avoiding being seen at all. Noticed. Evading surveillance. Appearing as ordinary as possible among a crowd." She sighed. "But you need my support—"

"I would _like_ your support. You don't have to be there if you don't wish to be—"

"I will be there. At your side."

Rinus exhaled. _Spirits. If the Imperator comes to the Conclave chambers today? With a known assassin in the crowd? I think the Praetorians will have a sniper with a gun pointed at her head the entire time. If they even allow her in the building._ Rinus shook his head. He liked how much calmer Rel was around the drell, but he truly hoped, deep in his heart, that it wouldn't be a lasting assignation. It would make life insanely difficult, if the two of them were, spirits forbid, to decide to marry. _Well, unless one or both of them becomes a Spectre. Then I suppose all bets are off. Still, I can't imagine the Praetorians ever being __happy__. . . or Seheve being invited to dine at the Palace!_

The Conclave building, like most of the rest of the buildings in the Imperial district of Complovium, had been largely untouched during the Reaper War. The Reapers and Collector ships that had descended on Palaven had actually avoided the district, largely, Rinus thought, because it didn't look as highly technological as the rest of the planet did. Old buildings. Marble and wood, with steel girders inside, reinforcing everything.

The large domed chamber in which the joint Conclaves met was a product of antiquity, close to three thousand years in age, and still had one of the largest domes on the planet, constructed largely of cement. . . though its oculus had been filled in with plasteel in more modern times, to keep out the rain. As such, the thick roof and marble walls actually kept out most of Palaven's ambient radiation. Rinus noted with pleasure that all of the humans who filed in, were stripping out of their rad suits at the door before being led to their seats in the dark brown wooden benches that rose in circular tiers around the central speaking floor. He made his way over to speak with each of them as they entered, announced by the chamber's herald. Another old-fashioned touch, but one that gave a sense of ritual and decorum to every proceeding in the great hall of the Conclave.

"_Spectre Garrus, clan Vakarian. Commander of the Spectres, Lilitu Shepard, clan Vakarian. Their children, Kaius, Amara, Elissa, and Alain, clan Vakarian."_ The words rolled out in _tal'mae_ and the herald's stentorian tones.

Garrus gave him a wrist-clasp, and Aunt Lilu gave him a hug and a surprising kiss on the mandible. "This is going to be an _interesting_ day in planetary history," Garrus noted, dryly. Amara and Kaius were behind them, and their drell nanny was helping to keep Alain and Elissa occupied, for the moment.

Rinus shrugged. "It seems a little petty to be concerned about this sort of thing when there are fleets out there in batarian space, fighting a war," he replied. "On the other hand, that war is pretty much being fought to protect our right to make our own laws and live our lives as we choose to, free of outside interference."

"And failing to attend to things here, in the real world, pretty much is a victory for the batarians and the yahg, in a way," Lilitu murmured. "No. Do good today, Rinus."

"Not in my hands," Rinus told her. "Not at first, anyway." He turned and glanced to the center of the huge chamber, where Mr. J. Thaddius Maxwell and his turian assistant were setting up stacks of datapads on one of the counsel tables. "It's in his, to start with. If he can find a way of arguing through the existing laws, then we don't have to pass any changes to those laws. There's no political struggle. There's just the law, and the interpretation of the law. Which is, really, what I'd prefer. The fewer changes you have to make to a system, the fewer chances you have to screw things up." He shrugged. "On the other hand. . . there are times when every system needs an overhaul. Such as when you take a perfectly good engine into a new environment."

They grinned at him, and passed along, led by a docent to the tier of benches usually reserved for the Imperator. There were seats being held there, carefully empty, other than Kallixta and her first-brother, Perinus, at the moment, and Rinus' crop clenched. _Ligorus is going to be here today. I know it in my bones._

The rest of his family filed in. _"Allardus and Solanna, clan Velnaran. Their son, Probationary Spectre, Rellus, clan Velnaran. Their daughter, Lieutenant Serana, clan Velnaran. Polina and Quintus, children of Allardus and Solanna, clan Velnaran. Spectre Linianus, clan Pellarian. Probationary Spectre Seheve, clan . . . Liakos."_ There were. . . exceedingly wary glances by the guards around Seheve.

Linianus, Serana, Rel, and Seheve, interestingly, politely argued with the docent about where they were to sit. "I am not here in support of the state prosecutor," Rel said, with a certain degree of firmness. "I wish to sit beside my _dimicado'fradu_, Spectre Elijah Sidonis, and my ex-wife, Spectre Dara Jaworski."

Rinus exhaled. _Interesting choice, second-brother. You're going for the throat. Not that I should be surprised. Your tactics have always been. . . aggressive and bold._

Then the Sidonis/Jaworski party arrived. The herald cleared his throat, and bawled, loudly, _"Spectre Lantar, clan Sidonis. Eleanor, clan Sidonis, his wife. Their son, Spectre Elijah, clan Sidonis. Their children, Caelia, Tacitus, Emily, and . . . .Mordin-Sidonis Narayana."_ The herald sounded as if he was going to have to have a bit of a lie-down after the proceedings, and Rinus tried not to smile.

Ellie Sidonis was absolutely glowing as Lantar held her hand, and their children were filing in behind them. Elijah at the front, as a first-son should, violet slashes of clan-paint on his jaws standing out in the Conclave chamber's brilliant sunlight. Behind him, three hybrid children, and Mordin-Sidonis Narayana. . . _also_ wearing violet clan-paint on her salarian face. The whispers in the Conclave chamber were getting louder as the various law-givers and _dominae_ took their seats and watched the spectacle below. Rinus clasped wrists with Lantar, leaned down to give Ellie a hug, and then clasped Eli's wrist, too. "No knife?" Rinus pointed out, dryly.

"Don't technically have a dueling knife at the moment," Eli replied, just as dryly. "Didn't think bringing the SOG knife Serana gave me at our _manus_ rites would send the right signals here. And I'm telling you, again, _fra'fradu_, I'm not going to fight Rel. They can huff and puff till the walls of the Conclave fall down, but that's not a fight that anyone's going to win." The human's eyes were dark brown at the moment. "Rel used to beat my tail at sparring when we were younger. Since the Spectre trials, over the whole Terra Nova tour, and the little Khar'sharn expedition? Fifty-seven to fifty-seven and sixteen draws." Eli made a rude noise. "We don't know which of us is better, and I'll be damned if I'm going to find out with a pool of blood at the end, just because someone else says so."

Rinus snorted. "I was going to offer to loan you mine." He held up his left wrist, showing the knife of the Imperator Comodus and its jade hilt.

Eli winced. "Rinus. . . that damn thing is a cultural artifact. I can't use that." He shook his head. "If it comes down to it. . . I'll borrow Sam's bowie knife." He grinned, but Rinus could see his heart wasn't in it. "Since I guess they wouldn't let me use my batarian vibrosword. Might be too much like cheating."

Rinus snorted, and let Eli pass. Watched as Rel and Seheve moved over to sit to Eli's left, and Eli arched his eyebrows in mild astonishment before clasping Rel's wrist. _Oh, the cameras are having a field day with this_, Rinus thought, and turned away. _See, folks? No acrimony. No ill-will. Except what we, as a society, are pushing on them. Take a good look at the spirit of the unit in action. _

The last of the dignitaries and the 'parties involved' to enter was the Jaworski party.

"_Spectre Samuel, clan Jaworski. His mother, Agnes, clan Jaworski. His daughter, Spectre Dara, clan Velnaran._"

That was the first indication of how things were going to go. The Conclave was not going to acknowledge, even implicitly, that the Mindoir court had put the marriage aside.

Agnes, Sam, and Dara then entered together. Rinus put his fingers to the bridge of his nose and did his best, again, not to laugh. Most of the females present today were wearing their formal best; whether a _domina_'s robe, as Kallixta was wearing, in vivid yellow, or a good dress, in Edessan blue, as Serana was wearing. Lilitu wasn't in a Spectre dress uniform, but wore a black civilian suit jacket and pants. Ellie Sidonis wore a human dress, of course, in violet, Lantar's clan colors. And, as was appropriate to formal occasions, such as weddings, funerals, and matters of state, they were wearing their _cinctus_ on the outside. Showing alliances.

To Rinus' infinite amusement, Agnes Jaworski, in a simple human dress of linen, was wearing Gavius' _cinctus_ on the outside of her clothes. And Sam Jaworski, to top it all off, was wearing cowboy boots and a very clean western hat, along with a crisp white shirt and . . . apparently, his best jeans. Dara was in a black suit and white shirt, with dark glasses. No paint. No _cinctus_. Nothing. . . besides a bracelet with three charms on it. Rinus picked it out immediately. A small horse, a tiny scroll. . . and a caduceus. Symbol for human healers.

"You guys are giving all sorts of signs and signals today, aren't you?" Rinus asked as they reached him.

Sam grinned at him. "I asked Shepard if she thought it would be appropriate if any of us showed up wearing Spectre armor. She said 'no, let's not bring the uniform into it.' So, I decided I'd wear my _old_ uniform. Minus the badge, of course, but this is what a Ranger wears to work, son." The grin widened. "A uniform with a long and storied history."

Rinus' shoulders shook, once. "I take your word for it. You're out to rub their noses in humanity today, aren't you?"

"Damn straight I am." Sam glanced sidelong at his mother. "I reckon my mother here can handle the whole 'unity' part of the proceedings."

"Samuel Kennard Jaworski, watch your mouth. You're not so old that I won't wash it out with soap and water," Agnes threatened ominously.

"I would like to see you try," Sam told her with tolerant affection. "Go find your old coot of a boyfriend, Mom. I'll try to keep my squirming and embarrassment to a minimum if you two decide to hold hands or something."

Dara snorted under her breath as Rinus reached down to give her a hug. "Courage, _amilula_," he told her, exactly as he'd told Rel before leaving the house that morning. "It's not the end of the world. Just. . . a very public airing of private grievances."

Dara nodded, lips pulling down a bit. "Grievances that have been resolved and put behind both of us," she murmured. "Damn it." She started to turn away to go sit on the Sidonis family's right. . . beside Eli. . . and paused to clasp wrists with Rel. Both of them smiled a little, and Rinus could see that there was skin contact.

And that was when the herald swayed a little on his feet, and Rinus looked over at the male in mild surprise. "_Dominae and Law-givers? I have the unexpected pleasure to announce one more dignitary. Rachni queen Joy-Singer_ . . . _clan Jaworski-Sidonis._" The herald swallowed. _"Her attendant brood-warriors. . . Sings-to-the-Stone and Sings-of-Glory."_

The young queen scuttled in, flanked by Stone and Glory, and surrounded by a half-dozen workers and soldiers, and paused in the doorway. Letting everyone, including the cameras, get a good look at her alien blue eyes and multiple appendages. Then they moved in. Rinus found himself politely grasping pedipalps and pretending, earnestly, that he didn't know all their various uses, before lowering his head to murmur to the young queen, "You just made a hell of a statement with that introduction, you realize." Whispers were racing everywhere in the acoustically perfect hall.

_I sang with Sings-Laws before coming here,_ she replied, and tipped her head, her gaze indicating that she meant Maxwell. _He suggested that the more drama in the song, the better. For drama is power. The telling of a story. And that while facts are important in deciding a case, there are two more angles that must be considered, ever. What people think about the person singing the case, and how their emotions are appealed to. He called these three things. . . logos, ethos, and pathos. And sang that the very best songs contain all three._

Joy-Singer and her brood-warriors and attendant workers moved over and the law-givers in the seats around the Jaworskis scrambled out of the way, wide-eyed, as the rachni queen hunkered down quite close to her brood-mother. Dara reached back and put an affectionate hand on Joy-Singer's big head, and smiled at her daughter.

The herald took one more deep breath. _"All rise,"_ he called out. _"And give respect and silence for the Imperator, Ligorus, clan Praesesidis, called the Watchful, he who commands the armies of Palaven, of Macedyn, of Edessan, of Nimines, of Quaddim, of Bostra, of Thracia. . . "_ It went on for a while. The full imperial introduction tended to do that. Then Ligorus walked in, himself, in his simple white-on-white state robes. Lusciana, as his chief bodyguard, was directly behind him, in full armor. Her helmet was up, for the moment, showing the Nimines paint on her face. . . and the white armor, with its silver insignia, had two black bands, one at each wrist. Mourning tokens. Lusciana had lost family on Nimines, then, but her face didn't show it as she followed the Imperator, light-footed, and a ceremonial spear and buckler in her hands, to the dais reserved for him.

Ligorus seated himself, and after a moment, everyone else in the hall did the same. The space was now completely silent. Rinus, who'd remained standing near the entry hall, now crossed to Maxwell, and clasped the human's wrist. "We've had many productive arguments over the years, Mr. Maxwell," Rinus murmured in the human's ear. "Give it your best today, please."

Maxwell's dark eyes were gleaming. "My dear _dominus_, of course I will. This is going to be the greatest show on Earth. Or off it, as the case might be." A quick flash of a grin, complete confidence, as the state prosecutor entered the chamber. Rinus made his way up into the tiers of benches, and took his seat, as the presiding law-giver , the chief magistrate for this session, took his chair in front of the two benches. _"State's prosecutor, please state your name for the record,"_ he said, calmly. In this perfect acoustic environment, there was no need for a microphone. Anyone who wished to speak, could do so in a conversational tone, and be heard anywhere else in the room. It meant that if you wished to pass a message, a whisper wasn't a good idea, but a written note also tended to be. . . evidentiary. Bargaining for votes, thus, tended to be done out in the corridors. Except during closed door sessions, when no one was permitted outside. And thus, everyone's arguments came to light. All the reasoning was exposed. Rinus found it all amusing and maddening at once.

"_Lecilla, clan Amontus_," she replied, calmly. The female wore Chatti Outpost white and black, one half of her face each color. _So fitting for a minister of the law_, Rinus thought. There was a secondary counsel to her left, who introduced himself as Persus, clan Antillas.

"And you, human?" the chief magistrate asked, in galactic.

"_Joseph Thaddius, clan Maxwell_," the lawyer responded. The accent on the word _clan_ was strong in _tal'mae_, but Rinus didn't think anyone expected the human to speak the language of law, science, and poetry here today.

"And will your assistant be speaking for you today, translating your words?" the magistrate asked.

"_I would be delinquent in my duty if I failed to make my arguments for myself and for those for whom I would speak with my own voice,_" Maxwell replied. Heavily accented, but with perfect grammar.

Rinus wanted to applaud. There were hisses of astonishment. This marked the first time in history that a human was about to argue in front of a turian court in _tal'mae_. Typically, humans had hired turian lawyers to represent them in Palaven's courts before this. _"What in the spirits' names is he trying to prove, anyway?"_ a _domina_ to Rinus' left muttered.

"_That he has words that deserve to be spoken and heard,"_ Rinus told her, trying not to let his grin show.

The magistrate tapped on a small bell on his table, a signal for silence. _"Very well. Prosecutor Lecilla Amontus, if you would begin your oration?"_

The female nodded briskly and stood. _"The matter before us today hardly deserves the attention of this august assemblage,"_ she began, her voice carrying to all corners of the room, and there was a hint of deliberate derision in it that caught Rinus' attention. _Ah. She's going to take the personal tack early, then?_ he thought, as the prosecutor went on, calmly, _"Only the media attention, and the . . . unfortunate notoriety of the parties involved. . .has propelled this case to the highest court in the Hierarchy this quickly. Without that notoriety and fame, I am certain that any number of lower courts would have quashed it immediately. It is, __dominae_ _and law-givers, respected councilors, and your Imperial Majesty, a very simple matter before us today. Two people are joined under the immutable constraint of a __tal'mae__ wedding. We all know that this is a tie that cannot be severed. A bond that connects their minds, their spirits, their lives, their hearts. My respected human colleague will doubtless argue that they were young, they should not have wed so when they did, and that they have since learned that they are ill-suited to one another."_ Lecilla waved a hand lightly, dismissing the argument. _"To which I say, that is unfortunate, but the law is the law. Any number of turian couples, since time immemorial, have discovered this about themselves, but they have had to live with the bonds of __tal'mae__. Because the law applies to everyone. No one is special. There are no exceptions. Otherwise, the law is not the law."_ She paused for a moment. She wasn't a pacer, but she did turn in place, scanning the crowd around her with her keen amber eyes. _"My esteemed colleague will doubtless point out that Dara Velnaran is not turian, but a human. I would point out, in turn, that Dara Velnaran undertook boot-camp. Undertook service in the Hierarchy military. Took turian citizenship. Took turian __manus__ rites. And took __tal'mae__ rites in the __full knowledge__ of what that oath meant. There can be no protests that, as a human, she did not understand what she was undertaking. Again, the law is the law. As such, I ask that this case be dismissed as without merit, and those pleading their case today be fined for wasting this august assemblage's time."_

A rustle of whispers all through the huge rotunda. Rinus shook his head. Lecilla Amontus had a reputation as a powerful speaker and an aggressive prosecutor, and she'd come out swinging, for certain. Anticipating, or trying to anticipate Maxwell's arguments, and countering them even before he could make them. Discrediting the arguments. . . and placing implicit, subtle criticism on Rel and Dara. There was nothing more damning that a turian could say about another, than _he thinks he's better than the rest of us._ Because no matter if someone happened to be born into an old family or not. . . everyone _was_ equal under the law. Certain rules did apply to the Imperial family. . . but even they had to serve. Even they were subject to the Law.

The magistrate tapped the bell again lightly, and glanced up. Over Rinus' head, to the Imperial dais. Ligorus lifted a hand, and said, into the ringing silence that followed the chiming of the bell, _"It pleases us to hear further on this matter. We beg the court's indulgence, and do not count it a waste of our time, or of the Conclave's."_

Rinus could see Lecilla look up at the box, and then lower her head in graceful respect. The magistrate cleared his throat, and turned slightly towards Maxwell. _"You may begin your oration, Mr. Maxwell."_

The human stood, and straightened his jacket sleeves minutely. Picked up a datapad, and consulted it, letting the silence draw out. Then he tossed it to the table in front of him with a ringing clatter, and turned to look at the huge room, putting his hands behind his back. And began to speak, in _tal'mae,_ without looking at his notes. _"My esteemed colleague, the state's prosecutor, presumes to know my case before I speak it, but I regret to inform her, that she has mistaken my purpose here today. I am not here to say that my client was young when she married Rellus, clan Velnaran, though she was. I am not here to say that she is human, though she was."_ The use of the past tense there, Rinus thought, might even have been deliberate. _"Both of these things are true, and not in question here today."_ Maxwell paused. _"My esteemed colleague failed to note that I might well argue on the principle of __reciprocity__. Which is to say, that if a turian citizen of the Hierarchy were to be married to drell, under drell rites, in the Hanar Illuminated Primacy, that marriage would be considered legal, binding, and valid here on Palaven. And if that same turian-drell couple were to be divorced in a Primacy court, that the divorce decree would be considered equally valid as the marriage certificate was before." _Maxwell paused. _"No, let us leave aside this binding principle of law between nations, this covenant of respect between species, because, after all, turian law is __special__._ _It is, after all, purer. Better. Higher than human law, or asari law, or hanar law."_ His voice was a lash for a moment, and Rinus actually winced at it. Maxwell had turned Lecilla's disdain for those who considered themselves above the law against the whole of the Hierarchy with a few simple words. _You think you're better than we are. You're not part of the galactic pack. You don't permit your spirit to mingle with ours, because you believe your laws are above ours._

The chief magistrate tapped the bell on his desk, silencing the whispers that were already clawing their way up the walls again. _"Councilor. Maxwell, if that is not the argument that you wish to make, what is your case?"_ he asked, patiently.

"_I can't make that argument, Minister of the Law, because clearly, if it were to be respected in a Hierarchy court, it would already have been applied,"_ Maxwell replied, smoothly. _"We would not be here, before this august assemblage, taking up your time with this trivial matter, if any lesser court would have applied this simple principle. . . reciprocity. . . to this case. If it could be applied and respected, then I could as soon ask that the state pay my clients' fees and apologize to her for wasting __her__ time and threatening her with fines. But, since I clearly cannot make that case. . . I must make another."_ Maxwell had been facing the magistrate for this portion of his commentary, and now turned, and began to speak to the crowd. His eyes were focused, however, on the Imperator's box. "_I am here to argue that in this particular case, and perhaps in many others, that the institution of __tal'mae__ marriage is inchoate, incoherent, and indeed, in some ways, so fundamentally flawed that I cannot conceive how you can even call it a law."_

This time, it wasn't whispers that clawed at the air, but overt exclamations of outrage.

Maxwell's smile was a shark's, all teeth. _"Because, my lords, ladies, ministers, and councilors, after six months of constant perusal and study, I have come to the conclusion that I have no idea what it truly means. And I suspect that no turian alive today knows, either. But since I am currently before the most august company of ministers of the law and law-givers in the Hierarchy, I feel sure that by the end of this day, we will have unraveled what a __tal'mae__ marriage really means. And when we have truly discovered what it means, I feel confident that I will be able to demonstrate that it does not, in any way, pertain to my client, and that as such, the so-called bond of matrimony between her and Rellus Velnaran, should be considered null and void."_

Rinus' eyes had gone very wide at this point, and he was barely able to restrain himself from putting a hand over his face in shock. He had _not_ expected this tactic. He'd fully expected the reciprocity argument, which was certainly completely true. It was why a marriage between a human female and an asari was considered legally binding, even in areas on Earth where same-sex unions were considered illegal (although, of course, an asari was not, strictly speaking, female, but asexual, which put the issue into legal limbo anyway). Not all laws were subject to reciprocity, of course. But one of the requirements for becoming a member species in Council space was to agree to the principle. Maxwell could have stood his ground on that point. Cited reams of precedents and insisted that they applied, forced the Conclave to agree, reluctantly, that a divorce in human space was, in fact, a divorce in all of Council space, and that it nullified _tal'mae_. But the Conclave could have dug in its heels, Rinus thought, clasping his hands in front of his lower jaw, interlacing the fingers. Could have stated that this principle only applied for unions of turians to other species. And that _tal'mae_ would remain in force for turian-turian couples, regardless of where they obtained their divorce decree. _Or would they take another tack?_ Rinus thought, staring down at Lecilla Amontus.

The magistrate rang again for silence. _"Prosecutor Amontus? Have you anything to say at this juncture?"_

"_If my esteemed colleague has already admitted his deficient understanding of our laws, I can hardly do anything more than agree with him, and suggest that he retire from the case before he proves prejudicial to his client's welfare. Unless, of course, he wishes to plead for a retrial after he's been proven to be incompetent before this assembly, on the grounds that her counsel was deficient?"_ Wickedly sharp and forceful, Amontus wasn't about to give an inch of ground here, it was clear. _"However, if Counselor Maxwell wishes to continue, by all means, let him display his ignorance of the law for all here to see."_

A rush of quiet laughter through the room. Rinus didn't join in. His shoulders were taut. He knew precisely how dangerous Maxwell really was. The male needed no blade but his mind and his words with which to cut an opponent.

Now, Maxwell simply smiled again. _"Very well, then, __dominae__ and ministers, let us begin by contemplating marriage. Turians treat it as a contract, plain and simple. A legally binding document, with codicils and escape clauses and everything else. But the heart of __every__ marriage contract is the same as the words of the __tal'mae__ contract. And yet, every marriage contract except a __tal'mae__ contract is bound and delimited in terms of time. I'll be coming back to this point. Bear with me." _He paused, and said the words of the male-to-female invocation out loud: _A'petentia tulla eliir animae oporte meus; a'petentia tulla eliir kogitae oporte meus; a'petentia tulla eliir oporte korporae meus._

Maxwell turned and paced for a moment. The words had ritual meaning, of course, a stately cadence all their own. Many of the people present had said them, more than once, in their lives, in _manus_ contracts and _tal'mae_, alike. _"Now, what do those words mean? I want that your 'animae' should be mine? What __is__ the animae? It's variously translated as both life and spirit. I want that your 'kogitae'. . . your thoughts or your mind, variously translated. . . should be mine. I want that your body should be mine._" He paused, and continued, _"Let us start with the simplest issue, lords, ladies, and ministers. Let us start with the subject of the body. If, under the terms of the contract of marriage, a wife gives up her body to her spouse, is this not, in fact, a form of slavery? I would point out, that this is, in fact, illegal in every jurisdiction in Council space."_

Gasps of shock and outrage echoed through the room at Maxwell's bland words. He was already challenging every precept in marriage that turians held dear, deliberately provoking them. Demanding that they think, that they question, along with him.

Lecilla Amontus stirred, immediately. _"By no means does the female agree to slavery when she gives her body to her mate! That is ludicrous, and so far beyond the meaning and intention of the words as to be ridiculous."_

"_They're your laws, Prosecutor Amontus. I am merely interpreting them. They do, at the moment, appear quite ludicrous."_ Maxwell's voice was absolutely calm, and he went on, in a measured, almost ironic way, "_Are you telling me that the words in a __binding legal contract__ are merely poetic?"_ Maxwell's voice turned skeptical. _"Or do they have meaning? A precise, legal, measurable meaning?"_

"_Of course they have meaning."_

"_Then what, precisely, do the words, in context of the marriage ceremony mean? The male states that he wishes for the female's body to be his. She states that she gives to him her body."_

"_And later juncture in the ceremony, he declares that he gives his body to her!"_

"_Ah, so we have an exchange. A very equitable one. She is now in possession of his body, and he is in possession of hers."_

"_It is not possession!"_

"_Then the words __are,__ in fact, poetry, and not actually binding?"_ Maxwell pressed, staring at Lecilla.

The prosecutor glared right back at him. _"You wish for me to state that the words of the ceremony are not binding? They __are__, Counselor Maxwell. Every word in the ceremony binds the couple together. Mind, body, and spirit. You may as well, by your argument, state that every marriage in Council space is a form of slavery. Your argument has no basis in fact."_

Maxwell smiled. _"No, my argument rests solely in analyzing the words of the marriage contract. In determining what they mean, and separating the poetry from the actual legally binding words. But, very well, we'll leave aside the fact that slavery, however mutual, would be illegal under Council law. You say that it's not slavery. We'll agree that it's not actual possession of each other's bodies. Let's turn to another problematic passage. 'Kogitae.' Does this mean __mind__ or does this mean __thoughts__, precisely? It takes the plural form, so I have assumed __thoughts__, but in __poetic__ parlance, it might be taken to mean __mind__."_

The magistrate in charge of the proceedings sighed. _"Are you going somewhere with this, Counselor Maxwell?"_

"_Absolutely. Please, Prosecutor, define the term for me. Give me the wisdom of this august body of law-makers. Is it mind, or is it thoughts, and do let us be clear on what the words mean, because the words are the whole of the contract."_

Lecilla bared her teeth. _"The word means __thoughts__, but is generally taken to mean both that and the mind, yes."_

Maxwell smiled, and paced back and forth across the opening at the bottom of the tiers that filled the rotunda now, only the sound of his shoes snapping against the marble floor echoing in the silence for a moment. _"How, precisely,"_ he asked, quietly, _"do you suppose they take ownership of each others' minds? How do you verify, precisely, that Rellus Velnaran is now in possession of Dara Jaworski's thoughts?"_

Lecilla raised her hands in frustration. _"Again, the principle is not one of ownership or possession."_

"_Then what is the principle at stake, Prosecutor Amontus?"_ Maxwell retorted. _"Please, elucidate. The verbiage of the marriage contract clearly states __I give.__ To give implies a transfer of ownership of an object or a possession, does it not?"_ He paused and looked around. _"And while we're at it, let's discuss the matter of 'animae,' shall we? Is it life or is it spirit?"_

The prosecutor looked annoyed. _"__Animae__ can mean both. Either. They are a unified concept, and I do not understand your persistence on the subject, Councilor."_

"_I insist on precision of meaning, because the language of the __tal'mae__ ceremony, which is at the heart of every other marriage contract, is intractable fuzzy and unclear. Which is in striking contrast to the clear, hard, precise language of the every other form of marriage contract in the Hierarchy,"_ Maxwell shot back, instantly. "_Everything else is spelled out. So and so many days. Such and such an amount of credits. Percent of income to be saved between the couple. Which of them will retain custody of any offspring. This? This is not clear, Councilor, and we cannot make sense of the issues at hand without clarity."_ He paused. _"So, again, we have a word that can mean either __life__ or __spirit__. A thorny problem indeed."_ Maxwell paused, and took a sip of water from a glass on his table, and picked up one of his datapads for the first time. _"I have here information, taken from Hierarchy census data, that states that the average turian citizen undergoes the marriage ceremony four point two five times over the course of their lifespan. That includes __commeditor__, __manus__, and __tal'mae__ contracts. So, in the case of the average turian male. . . let's call him Jurus. . . . let us say that at age sixteen, Jurus takes a two-year __commeditor__ contract with a female, whom we'll call Trixia. Assuming that __animae__ means __spirit__, this means that he 'gives his spirit' into the keeping Trixia for two years, and she gives hers to him. At the end of that two year span, they decide not to renew, and Jurus goes on, four years later, to marry a different female. . .we'll call her Bexia. . . under __manus__ rites, for a total of four more years."_ Maxwell paused. _"At this point in time, when Jurus 'gives his spirit' to Bexia, is it his spirit that he's giving, or is he giving Bexia Trixia's spirit? Or, when the __commeditor__ contract expired, did his spirit magically return to his possession?"_

Lecilla's mouth had dropped open. _"You are a raving lunatic, Mr. Maxwell,"_ she declared.

"_No, madam, it is the raving lunacy of turian law that I am attempting to interpret,"_ Maxwell shot back. _"Your legally binding __tal'mae__ contract. . . which I am forced to read and understand, as the marriage contract itself is the only document pertinent to the case at hand, as in __any other divorce__ case on Palaven. . . contains wording that makes desperately little sense. Your law speaks of giving spirits to other people, as if they were things that could be measured, defined, and handed to others. I simply wish to know when people are in possession of their own spirit, in possession of others' spirits, and how they know? I would like to know if someone who is married five times in their lifetime winds up giving someone else's spirit away in the last ceremony, or gives away their own?"_

"_For the last time, it is not a matter of possession! It is an exchange. The principle is the binding of two lives into one. One heart, one mind, one body, one spirit. One whole, under the law, indivisible."_ Lecilla's voice slashed through the air, definitively.

"_Ah. So it is an __exchange__ of spirits, then."_ Maxwell's voice became sardonic again. _"A readily quantifiable unit of exchange. If they can be exchanged and traded, __I can only assume that you must have spirit crimes, as well. Perhaps spirit larceny? Spirit theft? Spirit vandalism? If a spirit crime is committed, do you have spirit prisons as well? Perhaps very small glass vials, kept in a warden's desk drawer?"_ He held his fingers up a few inches apart.

Uproar in the chamber. Maxwell was currently taking on the very basis of how turians perceived the world. Turians didn't have many religious impulses, but _spirits_ were intensely personal concepts, intertwined with every turian's life.

"_Counselor Maxwell, I dearly hope that you're going somewhere with this,"_ the magistrate warned.

"_Certainly I am. In two separate and specific ways. First, let us consider the turian concept of the __mor'loci_." Inhalations around the room. The word was not typically used in polite conversation. It literally meant, _the walking dead._ _"Enshrined in the concept of the __mor'loci__ is the notion that someone's spirit is something that can be killed, lost, or stolen,"_ Maxwell went on, remorselessly. _"They are, in effect, a body that hasn't had the sense to lie down and die yet. If someone has been declared, publicly, to be __mor'loci__, no one will enter into a __tal'mae__ wedding with them. Their existing __manus__ spouses may use this as grounds for a breach of contract. Because the spirit that was exchanged between them no longer exists, the contract is considered null and void, is this not correct?"_

Lecilla sounded as if she were ready to bite through rebar as she replied, _"Yes. It is certainly correct, though you did promise us __specific_ _applications to this case, rather than windy philosophical maundering."_

Maxwell smiled again. _"Yes. I'm getting to that, Prosecutor Amontus. Now, I would point out that if the condition of being __physically__ dead is a deterrent to matrimony, if the condition of being __spirit-dead_ _prevents someone from __entering__ into __tal'mae__, and if the condition similarly allows the breach of a __manus__ contract, is it not singularly inconsistent to say that the death of the spirit does not allow for the breach of a __tal'mae__ contract?_"

Rinus nodded to himself. It was a fair and valid point, and one that had been argued, at length, in any number of tragedies on the turian stage over the past two thousand years. One play, in particular, _Vespina_, ended with the suicide of the wife of a _mor'loci_ general, who could not pursue love with a different mate, while her spirit-lost husband yet lived.

The chief magistrate tapped on his bell again. _"And how does this relate to the case at hand?"_ he asked, firmly.

"_Rellus Velnaran, please rise,"_ Maxwell called. Before the Conclave, a minister of the law could call any person currently in the room to be questioned at any time. . . but the opposing council could ask questions of any witness called, as well.

Murmurs swept through the crowd. None of them had expected Maxwell to call on the _prosecutor's_ likely star witness. Certainly not _first_.

Rel stood, close to the ground floor, several tiers below Rinus and across the rotunda. Rinus could see his brother's expression was grim. _"Yes, Councilor?"_

"_Have you been, in the last year, diagnosed with combat-addiction?"_

Inhalations of shock. Rinus winced. This wasn't going to do his brother's reputation any good, and he didn't think it was going to solve the case right here. . .but Maxwell had to demonstrate every possible way in which the marriage was invalid.

Rel grimaced, and replied, his voice calm and even, _"Yes. I was."_

"_Is combat-addiction a condition in which your spirit is lost?"_ Maxwell asked.

"_Objection. Rellus Velnaran is not a legal or medical expert,"_ Lecilla interposed, quickly.

"_Sustained,"_ the chief magistrate agreed.

"_Very well,"_ Maxwell said, flipping a hand at Lecilla lightly. _"In that case, Commander Velnaran, could you explain the course of treatment administered for your particular case of combat-addiction?"_

Rel cleared his throat, and kept his face impassive. _"Reminders from the squad of the reasons for which we fight. Removal from the cycle of adrenaline-testosterone-oxytocin. Integration with squad members with strong spirits, in the hopes that their spirits would fill me, and recall my own."_

Maxwell cleared his throat. _"So, in other words, they found that you had lost or misplaced your spirit, and that you needed help finding it again."_

"_Correct,"_ Rel said, shortly.

"_Objection,"_ Lecilla said, more strongly. _"Combat-addiction and the condition of __mor'loci__ are not the same thing. A person suffering from combat-addiction, can, with assistance, regain his spirit. __Mor'loci__ have no spirit left. They are __dead__ in every way except the physical. What you are suggesting, Counselor Maxwell, is that __tal'mae__ should be terminated because someone has a psychological condition."_ She gestured sharply. _"Ludicrous. Even if it weren't patently absurd, the condition of __mor'loci__ does not end __tal'mae__."_

"_And as we've already established, your application of your own principles and laws is remarkably inconsistent and, yes, even absurd,"_ Maxwell returned, dryly. _"Someone is dead in every possible way except that his body hasn't fallen over, and someone is still tied to him? Presumably, you likewise suggest that someone whose spouse has spent twenty years in a coma, on life-support, cannot obtain a divorce and re-marry because. . . the body has yet to develop enough complications to overcome the will of the machines."_ He looked around the rotunda. _"Please explain for me why, then, Prosecutor Amontus, that the condition of combat-addiction, although the spirit is lost, cannot be considered akin to __mor'loci__, in which the spirit is lost."_

Lecilla turned and looked at Rel. _"After a year of treatment, Commander,"_ she said, in a tone of compassion, _"do you feel that your spirit has returned to you?"_

"_Yes,"_ Rel replied, immediately.

"_And to what is that attributable?"_ she asked, calmly.

"_To the intervention of my uncle, Garrus Vakarian. To the intervention of his __dimicado'fradu_, _Lantar Sidonis, who once considered himself __mor'loci__. To the intervention and spirits of my own __dimicado'fradae__, Elijah Sidonis and Linianus Pellarian. To the strength and spirit of my first-brother, Rinus Velnaran."_ Rel said it all, very calmly, and then added, _"And to the generosity of spirit in my ex-wife, Dara Jaworski, and my __amatra__, Seheve Liakos."_

The problem, Rinus thought, as the chamber exploded into uproar, was that in a setting like this, both lawyers could call any witness that they liked. Could cross-examine those witnesses. But they couldn't possibly be _prepared_ for what any random witness might say. And of course, Lecilla had had no time in which to speak with Rellus before this assembly. She had certainly known, if she'd opened _Complovium Today's_ newsfeed at any point in the last month, that Rellus and an apparently undisclosed female had gone to Earth on leave, and that Elijah Sidonis and Dara Jaworski had been spotted together on Bekenstein. . . .supposedly. But she couldn't have known what, precisely, he was going to say. The bombshell about Lantar, one of the pre-eminent Spectres of the galaxy, who was now _tal'mae_ wed to his human wife, having considered himself _mor'loci_ at one point was one solid hit, and the follow-ups. . . that Rel considered himself indebted to Elijah, whom the prosecutor doubtless planned to paint as a philanderer and an opportunist. . . Rel's acknowledgment of a debt to Dara, too. . . and his open recognition of his relationship with Seheve. . . ? All destroyed his credibility as a witness for the prosecutor.

Lecilla Amontus recovered her composure in remarkably quick order, rallying magnificently, Rinus thought. _"Ah. Thus, the difference between __mor'loci__ and __combat-addiction__ becomes clear,"_ she stated, her tone light and a little brittle. _"Combat-addiction, one may recover from. The spirit isn't dead, and thus, no marriage should be severed on account of it."_

"_And yet,"_ Maxwell said, smiling even more widely, _"apparently Spectre Lantar Sidonis 'recovered' from being __mor'loci__. It does appear that these terms are fluid, and that no one here really seems to have a common understanding of what they mean."_ He held up a hand. _"However! I will withdraw this line of argumentation. If you say that it does not pertain, then, of course, it must not pertain."_ He turned back to his table, and picked up a datapad. Rinus watched as the court recorders tapped madly at their stenography screens. He didn't envy them their task at all today. _"Let us return to the concept of the __exchange of spirit__, then when Rellus and Dara were first married under __manus__ rites, they gave each other their minds, bodies, and spirits, and when they married again under __tal'mae__, they __returned__ possession of each of these properties to their original owners, and they can now walk free of their contract, without repercussion to one another, can they not?"_

"_The spirits are bound together. It is not quite an exchange,"_ Amontus replied, tightly.

"_Ah, so we're shifting definitions again. This happens with poetic, metaphorical language."_ Maxwell looked up at the audience, as if inviting them to join in his private amusement, his little joke. _"Very well. Continuing to define __animae__ as __spirit__, what is a spirit, precisely? Is a spirit the sum of that person's experiences and memories, Prosecutor Amontus?"_

Lecilla stared at Maxwell for a long moment. _"I fail to see the relevance of the question."_

"_Simply answer the question, please. You are a recognized legal expert in the Hierarchy. Surely you can tell me what a spirit __is__. We've already begun to nibble around the edges of the question. We've managed to discern that it can be lost, it can be regained, it's not physical, but it can be exchanged—I beg your pardon. It can be __bound__."_ Maxwell's grin was feral. _"Is part of a person's spirit the sum of his or her memories and experiences?"_

"_Yes. According to our tradition, a person's spirit is influenced by everything that they experience and all the other spirits with whom they interact."_ Amontus was clearly frustrated once more.

The chief magistrate tapped his bell. _"We've gotten lost once more in the philosophical, Counselor Maxwell. How does this pertain to the case at hand?"_

"_It is exceedingly important to the case at hand. I would like to call as my next witness Joy-Singer, rachni queen, and Dara Jaworski's brood-daughter. Both for her personal relationship to my client, and as possibly the only person in the room who can be considered an expert witness on spirits."_ Maxwell's grin now split his face.

Amontus raised both hands in a gesture of impatience. _"And how is this rachni an expert on spirits, precisely?"_

Rinus was ready for this, and thus, had a perfect opportunity to watch reactions in the room as Joy-Singer rose from her slightly couchant position on her bench and 'sang' to every single person on the room, directly, her voice a chorus of piano and harp and flutes and stringed instruments, _Because if spirit-songs are a matter of experiences and memories, then I can hear the memories and experiences of all of my brood-ancestors back almost twenty thousand years. Their songs are my songs. And the songs of my mother, Sings-Heartsong, called Dara by you two-legged singers, are mine to sing as well._

Every head in the room snapped back, and there were simple exhalations of awe and shock all through the room. Turians didn't trust, by and large, their own relatively few biotics. They were _different_, they were _special_, and that distrust tended to extend, at least a little, to biotics of other species. They valued asari commandoes in battle, and human biotics as well, but on a personal level, many turians were discomfited by biotics. That didn't stop many turians from pursing relationships with asari. . . but it probably limited the extent of their 'sharing' with a bondmate.

"_Will you accept my witness as an expert on the subject of spirits, particularly the spirit of Dara Jaworski?"_ Maxwell asked the chief magistrate, his tone bland now.

"_Why is she an expert on your client's spirit in particular?"_

The rachni queen lifted her head, swiveling it to stare at the magistrate. _As I sang before, her song is my song. Her memories are my memories. Every experience she has ever had, is mine now, as well, and has been since my birth-song. When I hatched, I had no other mind in close proximity. I found Sings-Heartsong, and she gave me. . . sustenance. Gave to me of her mind and memories, that I might not endure the lonely-madness that claims queens if they are born outside of the hive. And because birth-song is a reciprocal exchange, all of my voices-within, the voices of all my ancestors, became her voices as well. She is of the hive now. She sings with us. Her thoughts are our thoughts, and our thoughts are her thoughts. One, but separate. Alike, but unalike._

Rinus thought that if he'd dropped his knife on the ground right now, the clatter might have been heard somewhere in Raetia, on the other side of the planet. Not one person in the chamber moved. After a long moment, the chief magistrate said, in a strangled tone, _"Then you understand the entirety of her spirit?"_

"_Yes."_

"_I accept her as your expert witness, Counselor Maxwell."_

"_Thank you, Magistrate."_ Maxwell turned back to Joy-Singer. _"Is any part of Rellus Velnaran's memory or experience a part of your mother? Does she keep his spirit bound to her in any way?"_

_They have touched since my birth-song, and she has heard his songs, but she does not retain them._ Joy-Singer's voice took on notes of blue and violet.

"_So she does not hold his spirit?"_

_She does not._

"_Whose memories does Dara Jaworski have in her possession, besides yours, and, hmm, twenty-thousand years of rachni queens and brood-warriors?" _Maxwell asked next, looking down at his datapad, as if questioning a rachni queen with a voice like a storm was quite an everyday occurrence for him.

_When I hatched, those who were with us, who touched her skin while I poured my memories into her, and she gave hers to me. . .their songs became part of my song as well. Sings-Secrets.. . you would say, Serana Velnaran. . . Sings-Justice. . . you would say, Linianus Pellarian. . . and Many Voices, Elijah Sidonis, my brood-father, were there as well. All of their voices sing in her memory, but Many Voices' song is the loudest._

Lecilla raised a hand that was visibly, even from this distance, trembling, and asked, as sharply as she could, _"You call Elijah Sidonis your __brood-father__?"_

_Yes. We of the Singing Planet understand who our progenitors are. My egg was laid by Vengeance-Singer two thousand years before you were born. She chose the songs of Sings-Fury to make my egg complete. But Life-Singer, queen of queens, has raised me. Sings-Heartsong gave of her mind and heart and song to bring me out of darkness and madness. And Many Voices held her and gave of his own songs to protect her mind from my song. He is my father, as much, or more, than Sings-Fury was, who has been a dead and rotten husk, body unreclaimed by the hive for two thousand years._

Joy-Singer's voice was surprisingly stern and uncompromising. Lecilla stared at the rachni queen for a long moment, and again, rallied magnificently, moving into what had to have been a prepared script, beginning to ask, _"So they were lovers when you were hatched? They had already committed adultery—"_

_No. They loved, but did not know that they loved. And their songs are joined now. Each can remember the others' memories, note-perfect, at times. There is no part of Sings-Honor in either of them._

"_And Sings-Honor is. . . ?"_

_Rellus Velnaran._ The rachni queen lifted a chitinous appendage and traced a pattern on the marble floor, with a harsh squeaking sound, like a bored child.

Maxwell turned back to Joy-Singer now, smiling. "_Now, Joy-Singer, one more question. You can listen to the spirit, the 'song' of Rellus Velnaran, can you not?"_

_Of course._

"_Is any part of Dara Jaworski's song or spirit a part of him right now?"_

_No. They sing affection and friendship to each other, and always will, but their songs are not joined. _Clear calm blues and greens.

"_Thank you. You may sit down, if my esteemed colleague has no further questions."_

Lecilla had had a moment in which to regain her composure, and turned back to the magistrate. _"I object. The rachni queen can be considered an expert on her. . . __mother's__ spirit, but surely, not on Rellus Velnaran's?"_

"_And why not?"_ Maxwell shot back, tartly. _"She could hear every song of __yours__ if she chose to listen, Prosecutor. Why can we not consider her an expert on spirits in general?"_

The magistrate cleared his throat. _"I will allow her testimony on the condition of Dara Velnaran's spirit, but not on that of Rellus Velnaran's,"_ he said, after a moment's consideration. _"As she has acknowledged her. . . paternity . . . to be Elijah Sidonis', she has a vested interest in seeing the marriage contract between her mother and Rellus Velnaran ended."_

Rinus rubbed at his face, and shook his head. _By the spirits, my people can be stubborn when they want to be, _he thought. _All right, Maxwell, keep at it._

Below, on the Conclave floor, Maxwell blotted at his forehead, a little theatrically, with a handkerchief; it was warm in the rotunda for a human, and his face glistened with sweat. _"As you wish, Magistrate,"_ he replied, mildly. _"But it is agreed upon that Dara Jaworski has the memories. . . which we have agreed, comprise part of the __spirits__. . . of people other than Rellus Velnaran in her possession? Pardon me. That she has been bound to their spirits."_ His tone was very, very dry as he corrected his phrasing.

"_We have only the word of your expert in this matter,"_ Lecilla shot back, quickly. The female thought very quickly on her feet, Rinus noted. _"I, for one, would prefer a little more in the way of proof. And at any rate, a spirit is more than just memories and experiences—"_

"_Ah, and now we move onto definition number three of the word __animae__,"_ Maxwell retorted, spreading his hands in a very, very turian gesture. _What can you do?_ "_Let us stick with definition number two, before we throw it aside entirely, if this august assembly will permit us this indulgence?"_ He looked at the magistrate now. _"Very well. I'll provide you with proof. Let my client, Dara Jaworski, be taken from this chamber, out of all sight or hearing of these proceedings. Let the esteemed Prosecutor ask questions of Linianus Pellarian, Serana Velnaran, and Elijah Sidonis in turn, regarding their memories. And then let my client be brought back into the room, and asked those self-same questions, read from the record of the court."_ Maxwell looked at Lecilla. _"Would this do as proof?"_

Rinus' crop clenched. It was an iffy proposition. As he understood it, Dara's memories from Lin and Serana were much less vivid than those from Eli, and it wasn't just _any_ memory that she'd be able to recall. The stronger the emotion, the more likely it was that she'd be able to recall it. A lot would hinge on what the prosecutor chose to ask.

The magistrate, however, was squinting dubiously. _"Counselor Maxwell, your well-known love of theatrics notwithstanding, what precisely would this prove?"_

"_That the spirit of Dara Jaworski is no longer precisely what it was eighteen months ago, when she undertook her __tal'mae_ _vows_," Maxwell responded, promptly. _"That, in fact, if Rellus Velnaran makes any claim to that spirit, he would be committing a form of spirit-theft, taking, hmm, twenty thousand years of rachni spirits as his own, as well as the spirits of Pellarian, Sidonis, and his own sister into his own."_ Maxwell paused. _"Which opens up the whole thorny issue of spirit incest, but we'll leave that one for another time."_

Rinus barely managed to get his hand up over his mouth in time to turn his laugh into a cough.

The magistrate looked off into the distance. _"One round of questions. Pray do not waste any further time."_

Dara was escorted out, and Lin, Serana, and Eli were each asked to rise, in turn. And asked questions by Lecilla, who, rather desperately, ran through several datapads before asking Serana, first, _"Describe the first time you met Commander Shepard."_ Then she asked Linianus, who required more digging, "_Describe the first time you had your wife, Brennia Serinian, behind a closed door." _

Lin's face had gone grimly mutinous at the mere thought, but he'd complied. And then Eli had been asked, _"Describe your thoughts at your father's funeral."_ All events that Dara would not have been around for, Rinus noted. Careful choices. But all, thankfully, emotional events.

And Dara, when escorted back into the room, wasn't quite word-perfect, but damned close. From Serana's perspective, she described Lilitu Shepard as looking entirely too smooth-faced almost eroded-looking, under Uncle Garrus' paint. Holding baby Quintus in her arms, and having no idea how to do so, clearly. _"She said you had to hold human babies' necks carefully,"_ Dara said, and she was falling into Serana's cadence of words now, almost singing the words. _"She was so surprised that you had to feed them meat. And I thought—I'm sorry, __Serana__ thought—that it was so disgusting that humans secreted __milk.__ I thought it must be like mucous or something at the time. I'm sorry. Serana thought that. When you ask me to recall something like that, it tends to become personal fairly quickly."_ When asked to recall Lin's first encounter with Brennia behind a closed door, Dara's face went rigid. _"That's personal, and what's behind a closed door should stay behind it."_ She looked at Lin, who just nodded to her. _"All right. I suppose he's already told you this."_ Dara's face flushed pink, and her body language was rigid with tension. _"They went to a recruit hotel after boot-camp. He was. . . very interested. She smelled good, and she'd been. . . very sweet, in her shy way. And I knew she'd had previous experience, and I didn't. . . damnit. __He__ hadn't. So he thought there'd be no problem, and it would be fun, and hoped he wouldn't mess things up."_ Dara cleared her throat and looked at the floor, finding anywhere else but the prosecutor's eyes to look. _"I. . . he closed the door behind them, and turned and picked her up in his arms, and leaned down to bite her throat. Nothing more than a loving-bite, not a mark. . . and she flinched, and he let go, and she landed on her ass on the floor. It, um. . .well, it got a little more awkward from there. She liked him. A lot. But she'd been hurt. . . a lot. . . over the years. Didn't want to get undressed, and he reminded her that she'd gotten undressed in the showers every day in boot camp. . . and then I remembered that she always showered in the corner, where no one could really see. And when I. . .he. . . finally convinced her to get undressed, he understood why, because she had so many bite-scars all over her arms and legs and shoulders. All different shapes and sizes. A lot of them had torn through the scales. Left them to grow back in warped. And so she explained . . . .why she'd had previous experience. And that she thought he'd want to walk out the door right then. And that she didn't want to make him. . . dirty.. But I didn't. I couldn't leave her with that lost look in her eyes, not with all that old hurt in them. So I said I wouldn't bite her. She could bite me. . . . "_ Dara paused, her voice having gone sing-song again, and cursed in English, "Damn it."

She'd gone beyond what Lin had said, which had been a terse summation of "she didn't want to be bitten, she was scared of it after having been repeatedly raped and used as a whore on Macedyn, but she wanted to express affection the only way she really knew how. She didn't want me to see the bite scars, either."

The prosecutor cleared her throat, and asked about the funeral of Eli's father then, and Dara looked up. _"Pain. Guilt. Love for the lost father, but also . . . almost a guilty satisfaction, because his father had hurt his mother so many times. All the fights. All the arguments, that they thought he couldn't hear, late at night. The arguments about the asari hookers and the fact that she'd caught something that he'd brought home. . . he only figured out later that it had been the blue clap, but he knew at the time that it was something bad. So. . . love. Anger. Guilt. All at once. Oversong and undersong."_ Dara looked at the prosecutor tiredly. _"Are we done with the parlor tricks?"_

"_One more question. Do you have any of the memories of your husband, Rellus Velnaran?"_

"_No, I have none of my ex's memories. I actively try to respect his privacy, and try not to listen to his song when he's accidentally touched me."_ Dara cleared her throat. _"At the height of his combat addiction, it was painful to listen to his song."_

Lecilla released her from answering questions, and paced over to her table. Clearly running through strategies and tactics in her mind. She suddenly lifted her head, and declared, _"All that being said, the spirit is more than just the sum of a person's memories and experiences."_

"_Have a care, Prosecutor Amontus, or I'll make you eat those words in the next case you try about AIs,"_ Maxwell warned. _"Under the law, an AI is acknowledged to have a spirit, and it is, in fact, largely based on experiences and memories, and the emotional reactions to both."_

Lecilla frowned. _"I acknowledge that legal precedent, but there is __more__ to the concept of __animae.__ Memories and thoughts are but a limited portion of the whole. __Animae__, the animating principle, is more than a catalogue of life experiences. It is our very selves, and the core self does not change. It is life and breath and personhood, combined. And thus, I deny, Counselor Maxwell, that the core __spirit__ of Dara Velnaran is in any way less bound to Rellus Velnaran than eighteen months ago."_

Maxwell smiled. It wouldn't have looked out of place on a _villi's_ face. _"So, __animae__ is composed of life and breath, eh? No, no, wait, I __will_ _return to this. But for the moment, since we are on the changes that occurred with the birth of the rachni queen? Let us take a moment to discuss the role of the __body__ in your __tal'mae__ conventions."_

Lecilla put down the datapad that she'd just picked up, and glared at Maxwell. "_You're opening fire with a shotgun here, aren't you, Councilor? You have no real arguments to make, so you attack everything around you and attempt to hit one real thing with your fusillade of pellets, but I have yet to hear you make one substantive argument."_

Maxwell shook his head at her. _"I am the outsider here, Prosecutor. Let's return to the question of the union of bodies, since you have already told me that it is not a question of slavery. Before, I argued in general, on broad principles. Now, I'll argue the specifics of this case. Dara Jaworski is no longer in possession of the same body that she had when she entered into this contract, any more than she is possessed of her original spirit, and thus, the contract should be considered null and void."_

Uproar from the tiers of benches. Rinus' shoulders shook. Watching Maxwell, when the man wasn't fighting him over AI rights, was delicious. The male never came at the subject the same way twice, feinting and shifting angles and positions dexterously. He'd just combined philosophy and contract law in the same sentence, and Amontus was clearly struggling for mental balance on the floor below, as the magistrate once again tapped his bell for silence. _"You seriously mean to make the argument that, over the years, every cell in our body is replaced, and thus, over the course of five or ten years, we're no longer possessed of the same body?"_ the female responded, incredulously. _"The tree that grows outside my office has been there for two hundred years. Its cells have undoubtedly changed over time, but it is, manifestly, the same tree, with the same lovers' initials carved into its bark, as grew there two hundred years ago."_

"_No, that is not the argument that I wish to make, though I applaud the facility of your own,"_ Maxwell told her, calmly. _"Spectre Jaworski? If you wouldn't mind rising again? I know this is acutely personally embarrassing for you, but this is necessary. First, remove your dark glasses."_

Dara did so, for the first time revealing her rachni eyes to everyone present. Lecilla had probably been briefed on this by her staff, who would certainly have seen the Emily Wong special on the extranet, so the lawyer showed no signs of surprise at this. A half dozen workers chittered and raced over to climb up Dara's legs, reaching her arms and shoulders quickly. _"Now_," Maxwell said, moving over to his table, and removing a large flashlight from a case there, "_if I might beg this assembly's patience, could a docent please turn off the lights, momentarily, that I might show the other reasons why my client's body is not the same as the one she previously agreed to, hmm, hold in joint ownership with Rellus Velnaran?"_

The magistrate, shaking his head, allowed the lights to be dimmed. . . and Rinus' breath caught as, after a moment, Dara's face, hair—at least three inches of it, anyway—and hands were clearly revealed in glowing, phosphorescent, opalescent colors. The rachni on the arms and shoulders of her suit jacket clearly appeared as well, their carapaces glowing. So did Joy-Singer, Glory, and Stone. Dara clearly shooed the workers down, and took off her jacket, rolling up her sleeves to reveal more of her skin. The same exact swirl of patterns as on Joy-Singer's carapace, marked Dara's skin. _Spirits,_ Rinus thought. _That's. . . something I didn't know._

"_Let the lights be raised, if you would,"_ Maxwell said, over the rising tide of murmurs. _"Spectre, thank you. Again, I realize that this is something of a personal distress for you."_

Dara nodded, looking down and away, and put her suit jacket back on again. And as she sat down, Rinus saw Eli lean over. Could see, even at this distance, the male's eyes turn night-black as he smiled briefly at Dara. Some form of silent reassurance, probably.

Maxwell turned back to the magistrate. _"Have any expert you like examine my client. This is not phosphorescent paint. This is a change down to the genetic, even mitochondrial level, which allowed her to become a better brood-mother. It facilitates her biotic connection to the rachni hive. As you can clearly see, Rellus Velnaran has no claim on either the spirit or the body that she currently possesses. For him to make such claims is tantamount to theft, or at least fraud. Not that he's making that claim, I might add. No, no, he's signed the human divorce papers. Thus, it is only the Hierarchy courts who wish to perpetuate this folly."_

"_Your argument is absolutely ridiculous,"_ Lecilla responded now, clearly having gotten her legs back under her again. _"You might as well argue that a person with a prosthetic limb or cybernetic implants no longer has the same body as they previously had, and therefore their contracts can be rendered null and void."_

Maxwell visibly rolled his eyes. _"Dara Jaworski is no longer, in a very real way, even the same __species_ _as she once was. The change is that fundamental. No longer human, but a hybrid. Transhuman, if you wish, certainly transgenic. But, if this, the alteration of mind and spirit, is not enough to convince you that the union should be considered null and void? Let us consider something else."_

He stepped away, clasped his hands behind his back, and paced for a moment, his head down. Not looking at any notes, save those in his own head. Rinus truly wished that he had this male's gift for seeing the whole problem in his head, at once, and being able to _speak_ it, so clearly.

"_I promised that I would come back to the question of __life__,"_ Maxwell said, _"And I will. And I'll also examine the question of __tal'mae__ contracts, in comparison to every other marriage contract, and even the contracts established between __sangua'fradae__ and __sangua'amilae__. But first. . . life. If you do not wish to consider that the body is no longer what it was, that the spirits of both Dara Jaworski and Rellus Velnaran are not, in any way, what they were eighteen months ago or five years ago, as enough evidence that the contract should be considered null and void, then we must come back to again, this wretched, confusing, poetic word: __animae__."_

"_I do wish that you had never heard of it,"_ Lecilla murmured, loudly enough for the whole Conclave to hear and chuckle at in response.

"_Your most recent definition incorporates both life and 'self,' what a human would call the _soul_, I suppose, except that we use that word solely in religious contexts. Which, if we are dealing with __law__ here, and not __religion__, must be set aside. A soul cannot be measured. A life, however, can. In __manus__ contracts, you agree to spend two years of your life with someone. Four years. Ten years. A measurable, discernable percentage of the average turian lifespan. Much easier to quantify than giving someone one percent or fifty percent, or the whole of your. . . spirit."_ Maxwell paused. _"Now, I'm sure that my esteemed colleague is about to state that only death can break a __tal'mae__ contract. Because the __animae__ of the pair are joined."_

"_We have finally achieved agreement, Mr. Maxwell," _Lecilla told him, with a tinge of irony.

"_Then it could very easily be argued that their contract is already broken,"_ Maxwell told her, calmly. _"Seeing as Dara Jaworski recently died."_

Rinus quietly put his hands in front of his face as again, whispers and murmurs of outrage rippled through the Conclave.

"_No, no, respected members of this assembly, it is true,"_ Maxwell told them, in a tone of amused satisfaction. _"On a recent mission into, hmm, enemy territory, Dara Jaworski sustained a serious chest injury. Spectre Elijah Sidonis, how long had her heart ceased to beat and her lungs ceased to draw breath before you began CPR?"_

Eli stood, looking pale under his violet clan-paint. _"About five minutes, as best we were able to determine during our post-mission review."_

"_So, for five minutes, Dara Jaworski was clinically dead. No heartbeat. No respiration."_ Maxwell turned and looked at the magistrate. _"However, I have a feeling that not even the facts that she and Rellus have different spirits now than when they wed, that she has a different body than when they wed, and now, the fact that she has actually __died__ will be enough to convince anyone here to terminate their __tal'mae__ contract. After all, it would be a __terrible__ precedent to set."_ Maxwell paused. _"I can only imagine the assisted-suicide-and-resuscitation facilities that might spring up, as the twenty-five percent of turians who live separately from their __tal'mae__ spouses suddenly flock to a solution to an intractable problem."_

Rinus' shoulders shook and he did his level best to keep a mask of complete stoicism in place , but he could hear the mutters and growls beginning to build around him at the mere thought. . . but there was some thought in there as people took it in. Remembered the plain, unvarnished truth that while humans had approximately a fifty percent divorce rate, turians had 'end of contract without renewal' of about fifty percent. . . and that twenty-five percent of all _tal'mae_ marriages ended up with the partners separated. Still married, but separated. _Where's justice for them?_ Rinus asked, silently. _Where's the justice for people like Ligorus and Lusciana?_

Maxwell paced back and forth for a moment, letting the muttering and murmuring settle down. _"So, let me recapitulate here a little. A __tal'mae__ wedding is a legal contract, just like every other marriage, and ritual bonding in the Hierarchy. It revolves around three central elements. The exchange or. . . bonding. . . of mind, of body, and of life. . . or spirit."_ His expression became sardonic. _"I've given you ample reasons to see why this contract should be nullified on every single clause, but you have ignored or denied each of these as invalid. That leaves me but nothing but the wording of the __tal'mae__ contract itself. Perhaps, as it should be. Nothing but us, and the words."_

Maxwell turned and faced the magistrate again, his expression absolutely serene. '_In every single other marriage contract written here on Palaven, it is distinctly spelled out, how many years. What conditions apply. Even in the vows of a __sangua'fradae_ _ceremony, which bind two brothers' lives together as surely as any marriage. . .in which blood is spilled in the exact same fashion as a __tal'mae__ marriage. . . the terms and conditions are distinctly and carefully limited to 'until death or betrayal.' I find it singularly fascinating that even we humans, in our wedding ceremonies, say the words, _'till death us do part.'" Maxwell looked around as the English words rang out in the turian chamber. _"Now, on any other planet, I might say that you might be relying on custom and tradition and a whole slew of cultural artifacts and assumptions to suggest that a __tal'mae__ marriage is unbreakable, save by death, except for one small problem. Turians are mendacious when it comes to contracts. I know this, because I've had to argue against any number of you."_ He paused and chuckled. _"And by and large, you're meticulous about what verbiage in the contract means."_ Maxwell paused. _"And __nowhere__ in the language of any __tal'mae__ contract, anywhere, is there any mention of __duration_. _Manus__ contracts, certainly. One year, two years, four years, ten years, forty years. __Sangua'fradae__ vows. . . in perpetuity, until one dies, or one betrays. Very simple. Very clear. But in __tal'mae__. . . nothing. The contract is silent as to duration. And since the contract is the thing, and the whole of the thing, there is __nothing in the contract that states that it cannot be broken__._"

This time, there were shouts of outrage, ringing back off the walls. Maxwell raised his voice, for the first time, and the human's tones cut through the turians' harsher voices like a bell. "Show me where it says it!" he shouted, in English, and glared at them all. _"Show me where it says, anywhere in __this__ contract, the one with the signatures of my client and her ex-husband, right here, in black and white, 'this contract can only be nullified by the death of one of the parties.' Show me where it says 'in perpetuity.' Show me where the words are written!"_

Some of the law-givers were rocking a little on their benches, clearly wanting to get into the fight themselves now. Lecilla Amontus gave it one more good effort. _"The word __animae__ encompasses __life__. Which means that the contract persists for as long as both partners are alive—"_

"_Ah, so now it means life, and not just spirit, but as we've noted, Dara Jaworski has already died—"_

"_And she's perfectly alive again now. Someone isn't absolved of murder just because they've drowned in a pool and been revived!"_ Amontus snapped in response.

"_Did you really just compare someone being married to being guilty of a murder, Prosecutor? What a fascinating thing your mind is."_ Maxwell practically purred out the words, and Rinus could almost see the words written over the female's fringe: _Bloody futtari s'kak__._

Her reaction was only compounded, moments later, as a _dominus_ in the audience stood and shouted down to the main floor, _"To the spirits of air and darkness with this! The words are a __metaphor__, human! They're not meant to be taken literally!"_

The room went deathly silent as Maxwell turned and stared up at the standing dominus, somewhere down to Rinus' right. The human met the turian's stare for fifteen seconds, and then replied in perfect, controlled _tal'mae_, _"Precisely the point I have been attempting to make for the past hour. Thank you for agreeing with me."_

Lecilla Amontus exhaled. Let her shoulders slump, and walked back to her table. Sat down neatly in the chair there, and began to go through her datapads, not looking at anyone in the room, not even her assistant, as the crowded chamber now rang with shouts. Maxwell tugged at the cuffs of his suit, pulling them neatly to his wrists, and then folded his arms, waiting patiently.

The magistrate tapped on his bell repeatedly as the growls and shouts from the seating area grew louder, gradually restoring order. _"Counselor Maxwell, do you have anything __else__ to say, in conclusion?"_ the male said, wearily.

Maxwell smiled. _"Only this,"_ he said, quietly. _"If the words of your ceremony are metaphorical, and not meant to be taken literally, then it is absurd to subject them to literal interpretation. On Earth, the words _'till death us do part,'_ is taken as a declaration of intent. That the marriage will exist in perpetuity __until__ or __if__ the couple decides to part ways. . . or if death itself does intervene. I suggest no changes to your laws here today. I simply ask that you examine the actual words of those laws, and determine what they really mean. Examine the actual words of the contract discussed today, and see what they really say. And when you find, as any reasonable, intelligent person would, that there is __no__ clause in that contract that obliges these two people to remain wed in perpetuity, then I suggest that you accept the divorce decree that already exists, in the spirit of reciprocity to which your government has already agreed, and allow these two young people to move on with their lives. The most that either of them could __possibly__ be charged with today is oath-breaking, but since that is a minimal five hundred credit fine, it scarcely seems worth this assembly's time to pursue. Much akin to having these august ministers, lords, and ladies adjudicate parking tickets."_ Maxwell looked around the chamber one more time. _"And in the case of every other __tal'mae__ marriage that exists today, I would suggest that they, like a standard human marriage contract, exist in perpetuity, until and if the couple decides to part. A contract without a set end date. How difficult a change would that be?"_ He paused. _"Scarcely a change at all."_

He walked back over to his table, took off his coat, folded it neatly over his chair. Sat down beside his turian assistant, who had yet to say a word, and took a sip of his water. _"Ah. . . State Prosecutor Amontus? It is, I believe, your turn to speak,"_ Maxwell told Lecilla lightly.

She turned and gave the male a forbidding stare. _"I am recusing myself, as I am obviously unable to represent the state's interests fully in this case,"_ she said, tossing a datapad down on the table. _"I leave this in the capable hands of my co-counsel."_

The head of the young male beside her snapped towards her, and there was a moment of absolutely frantic whispering. Rinus clearly heard Lecilla tell the young male, _"Trial by combat? Are you mad?"_

"_I won't fight my __dimicado'fradu__," _Eli called across the intervening space.

"_Nor will I, even if I had a knife with which to do so,"_ Rel added.

Seheve, with a sidelong look at Rel, drew one of her drell assassin knives, and threw it to the center of the floor.

Where it embedded itself in the _marble_, three inches of its length sunk in the stone, and stood there, quivering as if it had thudded into a cork dartboard, not solid rock.

Eli turned and looked at Rel. And in English, very dryly said, "You don't get to borrow her knives next time we spar, either."

"Not even if you're using that vibrosword you took off that batarian?"

"Hey, I wound you, you _heal_. You wound me, it's sixty stitches, twelve ounces of medi-gel, and four hours of Dara telling me I'm an idiot."

"So, status quo, is what you mean?"

"What I mean is, fifty-seven to fifty-seven with sixteen draws in the last year is a pretty damned good record, without fatalities. We keep the knives off the mats."

Rel grinned at him. "We save the knives, swords, and guns for the yahg." 

"And the heavy artillery for the thresher maws."

The whispered conference got a little more intensive. _"Gladiators as proxies? We're talking about a Spectre and someone who's __about__ to be a Spectre. Do you think any gladiator really wants to sign up for that, other than the bragging rights. . . which will do them no good if they're __dead__?"_ Lecilla chided.

Her young co-counsel swallowed hard. _"The state rests its case,"_ he told the magistrate.

"_Very well. We will now move to the deliberations part of the proceedings._"

"_Before you do so, Magistrate?"_ Rinus called down. This was the part of the proceedings that could get dicey. The ministers of the law would argue. Probably for hours. They could barrage Maxwell with questions. Could even, technically, if they thought he'd affronted them personally, challenge _him_ to a duel. _"Mr. Maxwell?"_

"_Yes, Dominus Velnaran?"_

"_Very well argued and spoken. My knife is yours, if you have need of it."_ In essence, Rinus was offering to serve as the male's proxy. Anyone who wanted to fight Maxwell, would, in fact, have to fight _Rinus._

"_And mine,"_ came an unexpected voice, and Rinus' head snapped up as Ligorus, Imperator of forty billion turians rose. . .and everyone else in the hall stood with him. Ligorus continued, not in the imperial plural, but the first person now. Speaking as a man, not as his office, for the moment. _"Of course, by law, I am forbidden to draw a blade in these hallowed halls, so I fear I must deputize my first-son to act on my behalf. Perinus?"_ Ligorus turned and looked at his first-son, whose face was a mask at the moment. _"You will protect Mr. Maxwell's life with your blade today, as I would, if I were not hindered by my position."_

"_Yes, my lord,"_ Perinus responded, through his teeth.

Ligorus looked around the Conclave chambers, and said, his voice ringing out clearly, _"We have been minded for some twenty years to request reforms be made to __tal'mae__, and to the institution of arranged marriages in the Imperial family in particular. We could not ask this, in conscience, when it was a matter of our personal whim. But to see others fight for a redress to a flawed and unjust system warms our heart, and we give it our hearty approval. Mr. Maxwell, you have our thanks."_

He turned to leave, and a stunned silence remained in his wake that lasted a full thirty seconds. Long enough for Rinus to get down to the lowest tier, pull Seheve's knife out of the ground, and return it to her. "Making a point?" he asked her, mildly.

"I believe the knife made it for me," Seheve responded softly. "No one should fight either Rellus or Elijah if they do not wish to be slain. Or me, for that matter. Asking them to fight one another. . . would only result in blood. Wasted, useless blood." She looked around. "What happens now?"

"Arguments," Rinus told her, grinning. "Lots of arguments. Shouting. Turmoil. This is the sound of change, Seheve. We're not a democracy. . . but by the spirits, we love a good, valid argument. And Maxwell gave us one. There will be change from this. That much, I know." He grinned more widely. "Excuse me. This is the only part of this job that I actually like. I really should get back to it."

_**Author's note:** My real-life lawyer reader, KraZEElegal, served as the inspiration for Lecilla Amontus. Hence, her name is a sort of anagram/misspelling of KraZEE's real name. *chuckle* Cheers!_


	143. Chapter 143: Celebration

**Chapter 143: Celebration**

**Author's Note:** _Again, if you've sent me a review of late, and you haven't gotten a response. . . chances are, your profile is set not to accept PMs. _

_On the topic that's still pre-occupying me. . . for those who, like me, ordered or pre-ordered ME3 through Amazon? Reports are that they are accepting returns, even of opened merchandise, through April 14, 2012:_

_http :/ /www. analoghype . com...copies-of-mass-effect-3_

"_Online retailer, Amazon is offering a full refund for customers that were left unsatisfied with __Mass Effect 3.__ What makes this especially interesting is the fact that this offer even extends to opened N7 editions of the popular sci-fi RPG. As seen on BioWare forums, the you can receive up to $87.95 for the N7 edition. So if you've already beaten the game and hated it, I'd recommend taking Amazon up on this generous offer__."_

_**I returned my game, and, as of March 22, received a full refund.**_

_So, if there are other people out there who want to send a message with their money, you can send a real, dollars and cents missive to BioWare, courtesy of Amazon. If BioWare sees, in black and white (and red) numbers, a profit loss, expressed in returns, it might drive home the reality that they're so busily denying. And if nothing else, the fact that Amazon, who is accepting the returns, and biting the profit loss to . . . well, it will ensure that Amazon, one of the world's largest retailers, will not be ordering as many copies of anything else BioWare produces for some time to come. _

_If, and I do mean if, BioWare goes back and fixes the ending to allow people to win, or at least to reveal, with some sense of honesty, that it was all a dream (how hokey), then I might pick the game up again. _

_When it's 19.00 in the bargain bin._

_I have zero interest in the multiplayer. Unfortunately, the multiplayer represents the only replayability of this game. I laugh when I think of the developers, months ago, saying how much potential that the ME universe has for setting an MMO in it. Really? When you'd have to stop dancing around what really happened at the end being indoctrination or a dream. . . or you'd be setting it in a universe, which, like DragonLance, has had a magic/tech reset, none of the species can currently reach each other. . . or have all been, by magic, turned into half-organic, half-synthetic hybrids. "Hard science fiction," my arse. . . ._

_(Then again, anyone who categorizes Mass Effect as hard science fiction needs to go back to the dictionary. Faster than light travel? Psionics under a different name? Nope. It's space opera. By and large, a well-done space opera, but not even remotely hard sci fi.)_

_And, while I'm on the topic of resetting the universe? When the magic and the wonder is what drew people in, in the first place? _

_How'd that work out for TSR with DragonLance? Well, TSR doesn't exist anymore. WoTC bought them out, and DragonLance doesn't exist as a setting anymore, after being 'reset' 2-3 times. What is, arguably, the most successful, profitable, and longest-lived RP setting? Forgotten Realms. Which, in its heyday, was arguably very prone to Monty Hall campaigns (but hell, it's the DM's job to regulate the items handed out to prevent trivializing encounters), but the setting kept people coming back for more, because it stayed more or less true to itself. Sure, the gods might have warred on each other, and the setting changed and grew. . . but it didn't commit suicide. _

_So. . . yeah. . . in the meantime, if the whole of ME3 is a dream, or even it's just the ending that's a dream/indoctrination. . . and it's followed up by a vague wave of "Well, that's the way it could have happened. Who knows? It was so long ago. . . .then BioWare has abandoned all pretence to authorial agency. If they've done that, then the ending is whatever we choose it to be, and I choose not to accept their 'endings.' _

_In my mind, the opening interminable cut-scenes, in which you had no control over your character for 20 minutes, become a metaphor: we no longer had control over our characters. From the moment the building collapsed, and we 'awoke' to Anderson helping us to our feet? That was the start of the dream. The little boy who vanished in the duct a few minutes later? The start of the indoctrination. The fact that we are able to point out to Liara, not once, but twice, that it's really. . . sort of convenient that she has the answer to all our problems, in the form of a big giant bomb exactly when we need it. . . ? _

_More evidence of it being a dream: The wild logical inconsistencies of the Tuchanka mission? A building falling down, untouched by anything around it? The Reapers trying to poison/kill all the krogan, rather than turning them into Reaper goo? The fact that the explosion, thermal event that it is, would destroy the retrovirus, and it wouldn't be distributed all over Tuchanka by a small, localized explosion, the way it would have been, if sent into the entire planet's ecosystem by the Shroud (imagine, if you will, the difference between spraying a can of aerosol deodorizer. You can walk from floor to floor on a high rise, and probably hit every room in the building before you run out of spray, and the smell will be in every room. If you puncture that same can on the first floor, and it explodes, you'll have a damp puddle and a very strong smell in that room. . . but it won't permeate the entire building. Mordin's self-sacrifice, while in keeping for the character, makes zero logical sense, and in any other game, would have resulted in "Critical mission failure, would you like to restart?" In ME3, logic is thrown out the window. Science is thrown out the window._

_Hell, even narrative is thrown out the window. Why would you put a clear, strong, foreshadowing moment like Eve's story about becoming a female shaman and digging her way to life with a crystal, and giving that same crystal to Shepard with the words, "There is always hope," ringing out portentously. . . and then give us endings in which there is no hope at all? Someone out there could make a case for how undercutting narrative structures is bold and revolutionary; I find it to be a false start in the writing, one that clearly leans the narrative in one direction, and was evidently missed by the team when they decided to change the endings at the last minute to what shipped. Because, oh no, someone leaked the ending! Therefore, we must change it!_

_And yet, if the whole thing is a dream, they've undercut themselves, and badly, and all because they couldn't write two interleaved stories and multiple endings for them that made sense. _

_Simple changes that would have been satisfying? Something like. . . Renegade starts on the Collector base, being told that Earth is under attack. . . and the Illusive Man tells Shep that they're going to let Earth fall. Shep heroically says 'screw you,' and escapes, and that escape becomes the Renegade tutorial section. Not hard to do. Then you wind up on Mars, the same way in which the Paragon Shepard does. Having a free Rachni Queen give the quest to rescue/exterminate her husked offspring (Since, you know, in ME1, there were quite a few rachni being kept by Cerberus on planets other than Noveria. . . they could easily have turned those specimens over to the Reapers for indoctrination and genetic manipulation, etc.) and prevent more from being manufactured? Entirely within the scope of a Paragon Shep. . . and not hard to do with cut-scenes. Little things like this would have made this a game that actually took into account players' choices. And then all they'd really need would be 4 endings: Renegade loss, Renegade win, Paragon win, Paragon loss._

_But that would mean respecting how we, the players, have shaped the narrative by playing it. _

_Writing two interlineated stories, by the way? Is something that The Witcher managed to do, with a tiny fraction of the EA/BioWare budget. And they did it well. Entire areas are unlocked on one path that aren't available on the other; and neither path is 'good' or 'evil.' The goal remains the same. . . find the Kingslayer and deal with him. However you wish to do so._

_So. . . going back to the 'it's all a dream' theory, which only holds much sway in my thoughts because nothing in this game makes much sense. If it's a dream, I choose to believe that Shepard hit her head on Earth when the building collapsed. And when she 'wakes up' at the end? Garrus is going to be helping her out of the rubble ten seconds later, and then they're going to go do what I suggested that they'd do: take the fight to the Reaper's base in dark space, and end the threat, once and for all. No universe reset. No bad science. And if people die, it's for real reasons, not contrived situations._

_If BioWare has abandoned authorial agency, then we can take it back. The very premise of their game was "Take Earth back," and they failed to deliver on that promise._

_I say: "Take our game back." And on Tuesday the 20th of March, I did it, literally. Thank you, Amazon. _

**February 21, 2197**

"This is Galenus Eleutherius, reporting live from the Conclave chambers here in Complovium on Palaven today, where, as you can see, a lively debate is being held on the subject of _tal'mae_ marriages. _Dominus_ and Spectre Rinus Velnaran has been identified as one of the strong proponents behind the proposed _Amendment of __Tal'mae_ act that the Conclave of Law-givers had agreed to examine in this two-month session, and today, the Conclaves, in a joint session, heard the arguments and testimony about the divorce case that has been at the heart of this divisive issue—the estrangement of Spectre Dara Jaworski and her former husband, Rellus Velnaran. The couple was granted a divorce in Alliance space a month ago, but, strikingly, both showed nothing but friendship and conciliatory behavior here today as human attorney J. Thaddius Maxwell turned the Conclaves on their head." Eleutherius paused, and the scene shifted to Maxwell's face as the human argued in _tal'mae_ before the ranks of assembled turians.

On Omega, Ulluthyr Harak lifted his head and squinted at the screen. "I need to watch this?" he asked Pelagia, dubiously.

"You'll find it entertaining, I promise you. Listen to the translation!" The shoulders of Pelagia's avatar shook.

Harak shambled over to the extranet screen and stood there, arms folded over his massive chest, a skeptical look on his face. . . which slowly faded. "Wait. Did he just tell the entire turian government, to its face, that their laws are insane? Idiotic?"

Pelagia nodded vigorously, a smile slowly turning up the corners of her lips. "There's more! Wait for it, Harak. Please?"

"You mean, I'm going to get to hear what it sounds like what one of them reaches down his throat, grabs his liver, and pulls it out through his throat?"

Pelagia wrinkled her nose slightly. "Anatomically unlikely, Harak. Listen!"

After about ten minutes, Harak's eyes had glazed over slightly. "Vaul. That human might possibly be capable of boring someone to death."

"Please, Harak, it's not much longer. Wait for it. . . "

"To the spirits of air and darkness with this! The words are a _metaphor_, human! They're not meant to be taken literally!" the translation VI chirped.

"Precisely the point I have been attempting to make for the past hour. Thank you for agreeing with me." Maxwell's translated words didn't sound like the human's natural tones at all.

Harak's brow ridges rose. "Do you mean to tell me, that that human . . . just got a turian to _admit_ that their laws don't mean what they say they mean?"

"Live on camera, recorded for posterity," Pelagia said, her smile widening into a grin.

Harak squinted at the tiers of shouting turians now. "It's good to know that I'm not the only person in the universe who'd love to kill that human with my bare hands."

"He's not _that_ bad."

"No, right at the moment, it's actually kind of funny. Admittedly, he wasn't badgering _me_ for once. That might make the difference, right there." Harak grunted under his breath, and then, very carefully, put a hand on where he could 'feel' her shoulder. "Pelagia?"

"Hmm?"

"We need to go over the reconstruction budget again. With the war shifting towards batarian space again, we're going to be seeing fewer ships come through. That means fewer docking fees." Harak made a distinctly rude noise. "Pfah. Which means either shorter shifts for the repair crews. . . or we need to find the money somewhere else."

Pelagia smiled, and the extranet screen blanked itself, and began scrolling numbers. "I've been meaning to discuss this with you, yes. How do you feel about. . . .tourism?"

Harak sighed and settled his bulk on the delicate asari couch that occupied one corner of the room. "I think this is the sort of conversation where I'm probably going to want ryncol by the end of, isn't it?"

"Second cabinet on the left in the kitchen area. I'd get it for you, Harak, but I'm rather lacking in a body at the moment." Pelagia smiled a little, then added, nervously, "However, if the experimental platform being built for James works out. . . that could change. I might be able to download a small number of my processes into a platform like his."

Harak's brow ridges rose again. "But not all of you."

"No. I now have four times the number of processes that most NCAIs possess. But my core personality parameters could be copied to the mech platform." Pelagia paused. "You do not appear to enjoy the thought."

Harak shrugged. "It's not for me to enjoy. If you want to experience the world that way. . . I'm not going to tell you no." He reached out and caught her wrist, again 'feeling' her skin as his chip supplied impulses to his nerves and brain. "You seem real enough to me, but if you want to feel a little more real to yourself? That's your call."

Pelagia smiled. "I hoped you'd see it that way. It would be useful for being able to visit Tuchanka in a more. . . corporeal manner." She paused. "Back to the budget?"

On Mindoir, Valak N'dor had removed Alisav K'sar from custody for the moment; the SIU agent still had his hands shackled in front of him, and there were guards outside of N'dor's humble, two-story house on the base. . . but K'sar sat in the living area, trying not to goggle in astonishment as N'dor accepted a three-month-old baby from his wife, so that the female could step into another room and rinse her upper eyes with saline. "The eyes have finished regenerating from the stem cell treatments," Valak told him, bouncing the baby in his own arms, a little awkwardly, but with clear pride. "They're still light-sensitive. . . and she got some grit in them as she walked home from the clinic."

"It's not just light that they're sensitive to," Nala admitted, walking back into the room, still shielding her eyes, and blinking rapidly behind her upraised hands. She gave K'sar a tense, unhappy look, and held her arms out for her child.

"I've got her, my dear," Valak told her, lightly. "You need a break, don't you?" He turned and glanced at Alisav. "I've found that there's so much I don't know about children. Surprising, that they don't come with an instruction manual. You would think in this era, someone would have written the definitive work on offspring, but it all seems to be such a matter of opinion." He sat down on the human-made couch, and settled the child into his lap. "Do sit down, K'sar. You're a guest."

"A guest wearing manacles," K'sar returned, but perched at the edge of a chair, awkwardly, nonetheless. Valak flicked a hand at the extranet screen, activating it, as the baby worked her hands free of her tightly-wrapped blanket and began to suck on most of one fist.

"A precaution." Valak shrugged. "I would like to trust you, K'sar. If you gave me your word not to threaten my wife or daughter—your word, on your dead wife's name—I'd unlock the manacles."

K'sar widened his eyes. "You'd trust me?" His tone was sardonic.

"I believe you're a male of principle." Valak's red-orange eyes met his. "Do I have your word, Alisav K'sar?"

"On the memory of my wife, Tassia, I will offer harm to none in this house; not you, nor your wife, nor your daughter." K'sar lowered his head, and felt something hit his chest, and reflexively caught the shackle key.

"Sorry. Hands a little full."

_And you have access to a gun in the end table drawer beside the chair, and this way, you don't get your child in grabbing distance of me,_ K'sar added mentally.

As he massaged his wrists, Valak found an extranet feed, and K'sar found himself watching a huge room of turians, all shouting at one another. "What's this?" he asked, bewildered.

"The Hierarchy's government in action. They've been asked to consider altering a two thousand year old wedding ceremony to allow for divorce," Valak said, leaning his head back. "They're discussing the issue with some vehemence. But apparently, the Imperator has thrown his support behind changing the law to permit this. Rinus Velnaran. . . one of my fellow Spectres. . . has also suggested that they should abolish the tradition of arranged marriages for the very high nobility."

K'sar stared at the screen. "Their leader has made his recommendation. . . and yet, they still argue?"

"Vociferously." Valak raised one of his hands, gesturing at the screen. "It's rather astonishing, isn't it? One wonders how in the ancestors' names they ever get anything done, when they spend so much time arguing."

K'sar pointed to the human sitting at one of the tables, behind a turian in a long black robe, who stood with a knife bare in his hand. . . and another turian, in white robes, also with a bare knife. "That's a prisoner?"

"Actually. . . " Valak told him, and brought up the metadata embedded in the vid feed, "that would be the attorney representing the position that a _tal'mae_ marriage should be able to be ended. The one in black is Rinus Velnaran. I'd recognize those claws anywhere." Valak rubbed at his throat without explanation. "The one in white is the son of the Imperator. Both of them are there to serve as proxies for the human, if anyone should consider his words about their laws insulting enough to offer a duel—oh. Here we go." Valak sat up a little straighter as another turian moved forward onto the screen.

The translation VI picked up the conversation mid-sentence: ". . . _Dominus__ Perinus, you cannot possibly stand here for this human, who has insulted our laws, our traditions, our very way of life! You of all people understand and respect our ancient ways, and know what it means to be turian. Let me fight this human. Let me prove that he only speaks as he does, because he is a coward, and does not believe that he'll be held accountable for his insults!"_

The white-robed turian grimaced, but barred the way forward. _"The position of the Imperator has been made clear,"_ was all the male said. _"If you wish to fight him, you must therefore fight me or. . . __Dominus__ Velnaran."_

"_Then let the human know that he is a coward, that he lets others fight for him!"_ That was little more than a snarl, but the human on-screen continued to watch the proceedings around him as if he were at a play.

The black-robed male stepped over. Looked down at the challenger, and invited, softly, _"Then make your challenge, Vascas, clan Hedrasus_. _Choose which proxy you would prefer to fight, and name your terms. First blood or death. And then let us make an end of this."_

There was a moment of hard breathing, almost panting. _"The Imperator's proxy,"_ Vascus Hedrasus said, after a moment. _"First-blood."_

"_What a pity,"_ the black-robed male murmured. _"But know that if he falls, I will stand in his place."_

The scuffle was short and brutal, as knife-fights tended to be. Curving, slashing patterns; neither opponent wore armor, and even a light touch would end the duel on a 'first-blood' condition. But they each caught and passed each other's wrists, tried to trip and throw each other. The white-robed male finally threw his opponent onto the table occupied by the human male—who hastily rescued a briefcase and a datapad, swiveling out of the way as the table collapsed in front of him—and the Imperator's heir followed his opponent to the ground, holding the other male's knife-hand by the wrist, slamming a knee into his stomach to hold him down, and lightly scratching the male's face with his knife. _"All right. You've maintained the honor of our laws. Now get up and stop making a spectacle of yourself, Vascas_," was how the VI rendered the words. _"And stop making me have to defend this debacle."_

The scene dissolved, and there was a shorter and even more brutal fight in which the black-robed turian, holding his opponent's knife-hand by the wrist, twisted the enemy, turned him, ducked in so fast K'sar couldn't see the movement, though the knife flashed, and the crowd exhaled. . . and then he simultaneously dropped a knee on the back of the male's extended arm, which he held up at an angle. . . and slid the point of his blade into the exposed armpit. There was a distinct snap as the elbow broke, audible even over the vid feed, and K'sar winced. "Brachial artery in the armpit?" he muttered. "Same in turians as with us?" 

"Probably. Looks like he actually got first blood along the male's ribs. I do believe Rinus is making a point here, however."

K'sar widened his eyes. "And that point is?"

"'I don't play games. A duel with me will end with you in a box. Stop now.'" Valak's voice held a certain amount of irony.

Now, a turian reporter's face dissolved onto the screen, and he began to report in cheerful galactic, "Early results from the Conclave indicate that at least three duels have been fought, but that the Law-givers have agreed to the merits of the case as presented by J. Thaddius Maxwell, the first human to present a case before the Conclave. They have agreed that _tal'mae_'s tradition of being a marriage unbreakable by anything other than death is precisely that; a matter of tradition, not of the words in the marriage contract. Whether any laws will be passed to separate the legal verbiage from the honored tradition remains unclear at this time. . . "

K'sar stared at the screen. "Can you imagine," Valak murmured, "our people doing the same thing? Abolishing slavery, the caste system, with open debate? People on both sides of the issue free to speak their minds, without fear of repercussion? Oh, to be sure, the turians might _fight_ a little about the issue, but that's not a matter of fear or intimidation for them. More . . . tempers flaring a little out of control, and then being put back under restraint again."

K'sar shook his head, his eyes wide. "I. . . wish our people could do that. It's how things are _supposed_ to work," he muttered.

Valak eyed him. "But they don't."

"No. They don't."

"Would you like to see our people free to shout at each other? Argue with each other? Disagree with the government? With the leadership? With the Hegemon?"

K'sar exhaled. "Yes. But it's never going to happen."

"Certainly it won't, if you give up before you've even begun." Valak shrugged. "So, how about it, K'sar? If the turians can manage to change a social condition that's prevailed for two thousand years, with a couple of broken arms and a lot of yelling, why can't we overturn three to five thousand years of the caste system?"

K'sar sighed. "It. . . is an appealing thought." He raised his eyes. "But I have no idea what I could possibly do to aid you."

"SIU codes," Valak told him. "Current ones. And, as far as your superiors know, you've simply been running silent in the Hekate system. Now, you _could_ tell them that the Spectres got there first. . . but that you followed them to where they're storing the goods looted from the Lystheni base. Ask for instructions. That sort of thing."

"And ask questions?" K'sar said, bleakly. "I'm not a traitor, N'dor. I may be many things, but I'm not that."

"And neither am I. We're patriots, you and I, K'sar. We want to make the Hegemony a better place. Think about it, why don't you?" Valak lifted his daughter, who was now starting to make an aggravating, hiccupping sort of sound. "Ah. . . Nala? I think that our little one _might_ be hungry."

At Kallixta and Rinus' house in Complovium, the extranet feed was turned on in the largest parlor, as well, and Kallixta trilled a hunt-cry when she saw her husband's slash, throw, and break combination on the screen. Pallum, the Praetorian currently on duty inside the house, chuckled. "You do know that if Reimian were still on your detail, _domina_, that she'd be chiding you about decorum?" he told his protectee, from where he stood against the far wall, watching out the windows, and occasionally touching the earpiece he wore as new information came in over the radio.

"Yes, but Reimian hasn't been my would-be chaperone and nanny for several years now," Kallixta told her primary guard cheerfully. "I would have liked to have stayed there for the whole of the disputations, but . . . " she gestured to the others in the room, who were all sitting in the antique leather chairs and watching the extranet feed, "guests."

Allardus pointed out, with a certain amount of pride in his tone, "You know, I remember teaching him that throw. . . "

"He should have just blocked with the edge of the knife to start with and slashed the side of the male's wrist open," Gavius muttered, ensconced in his own chair. "Would have ended it in seconds."

"He's being more defensive," Rel pointed out dryly, running a hand over Seheve's scalp lightly. "If he were really fighting, the blade used as a block to the wrist, followed by a turn and a slash to right about the liver level would pretty much have ended things, yeah."

Seheve turned and whispered to him, softly, "Rellus?"

"Hmm?"

"You called me _amatra_ at the Conclave."

"Yes?"

"In front of everyone. In front of all your people. And the . . . cameras."

Rel looked down at her, frowning slightly. "Did it bother you?"

Seheve blinked. "No. I just. . ." She paused. "It struck me as important."

Rel slid an arm around her shoulders for a moment, and Kallixta was struck by how human the gesture was. How non-turian. She wasn't actively trying to overhear what the pair was saying, but turian hearing being what it was, she'd have to leave the room or try to ignore them to avoid hearing Rel's response. "I meant it to be," he told Seheve. "I meant it as a public declaration. I didn't want to embarrass you. . . but . . . " Rel evidently struggled with the words.

_You wanted to mark her. Acknowledge her. Defy the universe for her. Just as once, you did for Dara,_ Kallixta thought, and saw the dawning smile crossing Seheve's expression, changing the female's face entirely. Giving light to those dark, lambent eyes. Kallixta wasn't sure she was ever going to feel as if she _knew_ her _fradu'amu's_ new beloved. . . not even if she spent every day in the female's company for the next year. . . but she supposed she could understand Rel's attraction to her. She was calm, serene, even, and lovely, in a lethal sort of way. Hints of warmth about her, when she was around Rel, but for all Kallixta's diplomatic training, she had yet to decide how to talk to Seheve.

Kallixta heard the door at the front of the house open, and raced out of the sitting room, catching a glimpse of dark robes and a tall figure through the pillars of the lobby area as she ran down the stairs. "Rinus!" Kallixta called, not caring if she startled the servants or scandalized her guards. "_Amatus!_" She saw him turn, the eyes wide and a little startled, and leaped on him, as she so often had after a long day of flying combat drills. His arms closed around her reflexively, and she nipped at his neck, telling him, playfully, "My mate. Intelligent. Fierce. Strong."

"_Amatra—"_

"You couldn't have dropped Piscus Fallerian any faster if you'd tried—" Kallixta nipped at the side of his neck again, hearing his breath catch.

"Oh, spirits. Ah. . ._ amatra?"_ Rinus' voice was a little strained as he held her off the floor.

"Spirits, were you wounded?" Kallixta dropped her feet to the floor and started tugging at his robes, looking for blood.

"Ah, no. But your, ah. . . relatives. . . are right behind me."

Kallixta felt as if her heart had stopped, and she leaned a little to the left to peer around Rinus. Sure enough, a half-dozen more Praetorians were standing behind the pillars that led to the main door of the house. . . and Lusciana, her father, the Imperator, and her first-brother, Perinus, were all present. Lusciana, with years of experience, was keeping her face entirely straight. There was a very faint hint of a smile on Ligorus' face, mostly expressed through the eyes. . . and her first-brother looked as if he were still working through some sort of annoyance. "Ah," she said, slamming her public, expressionless mask into place quickly. "I wish that I had had warning, Father, first-brother. That way, I could have made certain that everything here was adequate for your comfort. . . " Her eyes darted to Lusciana, whom she couldn't, in front of Perinus, acknowledge in any real way.

Ligorus waved it away. "No matter, fifth-daughter," he told her, calmly. "This was a surprise visit, one intended to be done well away from the prying eyes of the press."

Behind Kallixta, she could hear people moving out of the living area—Allardus and Solanna, coming to greet their first-son, calling down to him, "Well _done_ today, Rinus!"

Rellus, too, calling out, "First-brother! You're back—ah, spirits." He'd evidently just seen the tableaux below, and Kallixta didn't have to turn to know that three or four spines had just snapped to attention behind her.

Ligorus nodded slightly to Rinus' family and started to move up the stairs now himself towards the living area, trailed by his Praetorians. And Perinus, surprisingly, addressed Rinus directly. "And so, now what will you do?" he asked Rinus, directly. "Now that you've managed to break _tal'mae_, will you throw over my sister? After making her your doxy all these years, will you discard her?" His eyes glittered, and Kallixta just stared at him in shock. She'd _never_ heard her first-brother speak so, not in her entire life. He was nineteen years her elder, and had been the imperial heir since before she was born.

Rinus turned, very slowly, and asked, in a slightly tired tone, "Why does everyone want to fight me today?"

Ligorus turned on the stairs, and Kallixta could feel her father's gaze like a physical weight. Perinus stared down at the younger male as Rinus moved forward. Got directly in his face, and said, very, very quietly, "I understand, Perinus, that you saw no active combat in your four years of service. You were in Logistics, as I recall, which is a very necessary and good specialization for someone who's going to command whole armies." Rinus' tone was completely empty at the moment. "You've never had to duel outside of practice before, either. So I understand that your blood is up right now. You're angry with your father for making you defend his position, which you do not share. You can't attack him, so you attack me. I understand all that." Rinus' voice hadn't risen, and each word had little rings of space around it, a physical weight and pressure that matched the weight of the Imperator's gaze. "Now I need you to understand this. If you ever refer to my wife in those terms again? I will end you. It'll be a nice, formal duel, so the Praetorians don't have to shoot me afterwards, but you will not be any less dead. Do you understand me?"

Perinus glared at him, breathing hard. Kallixta's fists clenched, and she wanted, dearly, to hit her brother at the moment, but siblings were not supposed to fight siblings. "We could start the fight right now—"

"That's enough," Ligorus said, and Perinus fell silent. "First-son, I fought three duels in the Conclave on my father's behalf. Two of them were about policy matters that I have since had reversed, and the third was on the grounds that a _dominus_ believed that his wife had been cheating on him with my father. None of those were duels that I wished to fight, but I did. When it's your turn, you can elect to have your first-son fight only the battles you deem worth fighting for. . . as I have done." Ligorus' voice was austere as he added, "I was about to tell you that I was proud of how well you conducted yourself at the Conclave, first-son."

"Conducted myself in a matter that shames the memory of my mother?" Perinus snapped back. Kallixta quietly backed out of the way and found a pillar to lean against. This was her territory, true. Her house. Her nest. And she was a combat pilot, and a damned good one. But this wasn't her fight. And she'd _never_ seen her father and first-brother argue before. Oh, she'd been aware that the relationship was strained. But this was like watching spirits throw thunderbolts at each other from on high.

She stirred a little as Rinus came over, wrapped an arm around her waist, and stroked a hand over her fringe. Leaned down to whisper in her ear, "A contract with no set end date, has no set end date. I'm yours until you choose to get rid of me, Kallixta."

She smiled up at him, and touched his mandible, but her eyes flicked past him toward her father, as Ligorus stared down at his first-son. "You wish to have this argument now? In front of Kallixta's second family? Very well." The Imperator walked back down the stairs and stood right in front of Perinus. "How, precisely, does this alteration to tradition, which barely changes existing laws, impinge upon the memory of Aglaea, your mother?"

Perinus was still nearly panting. "It's not precisely a secret, Father, that you hated her—"

"No. But I did not move to change the laws while she yet lived. Though I much wished that I could." Ligorus' face was stony, but Kallixta watched as her father's gaze touched her. "And had many reasons to do so. But I did not, because the law is not an Imperator's whim or plaything."

"So now, you'll just spit on her memory—"

"I do no such thing, first-son. She's been interred in the ground for six months. If I wished to, I could legally remarry. Today. I have not yet done so, out of respect, and in consideration of the current war and political situation."

Perinus' teeth bared, and he looked past Ligorus, towards Lusciana. "And you doubtless have someone else in mind as the new Imperatrix?"

Ligorus' voice dropped to a rasp. "If I did, first-son, it would scarcely concern you or any of the other grown children. But it would be a concern to those of my children to whom she would be a mother, and to those of my grandchildren whom she would stand as a grandmother. I would like to think that, if I were given a choice, I could find a female who could bring actual respect, love, and affection to the Palace. . . with intelligence, spirit, and grace admixed."

Perinus was shaking, and Kallixta could see that it was grief-anger. He'd loved his mother, the Imperatrix. . .at least as much as Aglaea had permitted anyone to love her. Certainly, of all the imperial children, Perinus had spent the most time with that distant, cold female that Kallixta remembered seeing once a month, like clockwork, for a review on her manners and studies. "And you insult her _again_," Perinus hissed. "When she's not even alive to defend herself."

"Perinus. My son. Your mother was permitted to have her own way for nearly forty years of my life." Ligorus' tone was gentle. "I did not fight her when she took my own children as hostages against me; I permitted her to raise you and most of the others as she saw fit. I made only one exception to that otherwise unremitting policy of non-intervention: Kallixta. Who is my daughter, but not Aglaea's." As he spoke, Perinus' eyes slid towards Kallixta. Ligorus went on, calmly, remorselessly now. "Was it a mistake not to put your mother aside and pursue my own happiness when Kallixta was born? Perhaps, but it was a _personal_ mistake. It ensured that I would continue to live in poverty of spirit for another twenty years. It ensured that my entire family would continue in penury of the heart for that same span. It marred and injured even you, Perinus, and for that, I am sorry. Because, I think that if the wound had been dealt twenty years ago, by now, you might have forgiven me. But I did not put my personal life first, Perinus. I put the Hierarchy first. And so now, too, must you." Ligorus stared into Perinus' eyes. "Set aside your grief and your anger and your resentment, and act like a male ought."

Perinus closed his eyes, and his shoulders slumped for a moment. Kallixta stared. She'd never seen her first-brother anything other than confident, distant, remote. She'd never realized that he was, perhaps, a little insecure, under it all. "Yes, Father," was his only reply. He straightened his shoulders. "Have I your leave to go?"

"Yes, Perinus."

The younger male turned away, and moved for the door, his Praetorians falling in around him. Ligrous called after him, "I was proud of you today. Please do remember that."

At the door, Perinus turned half-way. Stared back at his father. "If you considered appealing for the law to be changed twenty years ago," he rasped, his eyes bleak, "and if you could not do it for yourself. . . .why didn't you do it for me?"

Kallixta's eyes widened. She had never thought, ever, that her brother might not hold his mate in affection. Ligorus looked back at his son calmly. "Because you never gave me any cause to believe that you wished me to do so."

The door closed behind Perinus, and the front lobby of the house was very, very quiet for a moment. Ligorus cleared his throat. "Forgive me, fifth-daughter, for the drama brought into your house, and that of your husband."

"The fault was not in you," Kallixta replied, immediately and formally, but warmed and smiled as her father actually stepped closer and took her hands in his. She stole a glance up towards the balcony, where Solanna's eyes were huge, and her mother-in-law was shaking her head. "I think perhaps my _mada'amu_ may need reassurance that she will not need to swear rigorous oaths regarding state secrets, however, Father."

Rinus snorted with laughter, and that broke the tension. The various Praetorians dispersed through the house to duty sections, and Kallixta made a point of asking, as she handed Lusciana a plate of canapés, "I can't help but notice the mourning bands on your uniform. May I ask whom you lost?"

Lusciana closed her eyes for a moment. The female's face, she realized in fascination, really was much like her own, except for the color of the eyes. Kallixta's were the same as her father's. . . Imperial violet. Lusciana's were garnet red. _How odd to think, that if she had raised me, I would wear her paint, most likely. Would have grown up, never seeing myself, except for under those elaborate black, white, and red swirls. . . _ And then her mother spoke, opening her eyes once more. "Two of my siblings, both younger. They died without knowing that I'd ever had a youngling. Before you could even meet them." She exhaled. "Their children are alive, however. I've had word from them. So, there's that." She turned her gaze towards Rinus on the other side of the room, who was smiling at Rel, and had just given his second-brother a good-natured shove for something he'd said. "Your mate did well."

"He always does," Kallixta said, simply. It was awkward speaking to Lusciana. Trying to bridge the gap of years, where there was no actual inclination towards affection on her own part, and no history, save having seen the female around the Palace her entire life, always her father's shadow. A ghost in white armor, when in formal dress, and little more. "Do you have pictures? I mean, it might pain you to look at images of your kin right now. Forgive me." Kallixta began to wave it off.

Lusciana shook her head. "It would please me greatly to show you my family," she replied, simply. "Your grandparents died before you were born. But this was my father," she began, and brought up the pictures on her omnitool.

Kallixta caught her father looking over at them from where he stood beside the fireplace, engaged in conversation with Allardus about the Aphras and Tosal Nym terraforming projects. . . a conversation that Rel actually was participating in, much to her surprise. Something about how Aphras' ambient temperature was already high, and its atmospheric pressure was already twice at sea level what Earth's or Palaven's was, so the terraforming team couldn't afford to thicken the atmosphere by grazing the atmosphere with a comet for the water content, as they were doing with Tosal Nym. "Even with the ice moon currently tethered by the space elevator, and even with the aquifers mined and their moisture returned to the surface, Aphras will always be a drier world. A desert environment, probably similar to Macedyn within two hundred years," Allardus was commenting.

"Wouldn't it be a better symbol of unity," Rel asked, suddenly, "if _both_ planets had levo-dextro ecologies from the beginning, instead of Aphras being wholly dextro, and the other being wholly levo?"

Allardus gave his son a fond look. "And you'd wish to see, hmm, species preserved from Rakhana during the Rescue perpetuated there?"

"They are desert species," Rel pointed out. "And nothing says that people couldn't return to Rakhana and see which species have survived the runaway greenhouse effect, if any, and preserve them as part of an ecological web." He paused. "I. . . do remember a fair number of family dinner conversations, _Pada_."

Allardus grinned at him, unabashedly. "Good. It pleases me to see that I've given you something beyond your fighting skills."

In the meantime, Polina and Quintus, thoroughly bored, had turned on the extranet, and found Galenus Eleutherius reporting once again for _Complovium News Today_. "It is, perhaps, a good thing that no duels were required between Sidonis and Velnaran, or any professional proxies," the male noted. "We've obtained footage, taken from a krogan pit-fighting network, purportedly taken on the human colony of Trident, which shows the fighting skills of Spectre James Dempsey and Commander Velnaran in action—"

Kallixta's head rose. So did everyone else's in the room. Rel dove off the couch and scrambled, trying to get to the extranet console to turn the feed off, but Rinus caught him by the shoulders and said, "Now, now, second-brother, I had to have _my_ fair share of embarrassment today—"

"And you think having to offer testimony about combat-addiction in front of the entire Conclave _wasn't_ embarrassing, first-brother?"

In the meantime, the image on the screen had resolved into grainy footage, taken on someone's wrist camera, of Dempsey and Rel, both stripped down to their undersuits, fighting. Surrounded by cheering, shouting krogan, all of whom were slamming their fists together in appreciation, smacking their hands to their thighs. Applause, inasmuch as krogan did such. Fists against claws, brutal kicks. Elbows, gouges. . . red blood and blue trickling from cuts over the eyes, below the lips. But healing, almost instantly. Rel raked his claws across Dempsey's right cheek, a glancing blow that still left deep red score marks. . . and the cuts healed, right in front of the camera. Biotic attacks, the two of them slamming into walls. Dragging each other to the ground. . . and finally being pulled off each other, while the krogan cheered. Madly. Lifted them up and carried them around.

Rinus grinned down at Rel, who was on the floor at the moment, and who made another grab at the extranet controls. Polina and Quintus were _staring_ at their second-brother as if they'd never seen him before. "Too bad that didn't get around before the Conclave meeting," Rinus told Rel amicably. "Could've shaved a few minutes off the end of the deliberations."

"Eli and I weren't going to fight each other," Rel muttered. "He offered when Dara was in the ICU. I told him I didn't see a need then, and there's even less of a need now."

Across town, the session in the Conclave's rotunda had recessed for the night, which meant that the upscale bars and restaurants in the vicinity, where lawmakers tended to like to meet for lunch and dinner, were now filled to capacity. Lecilla Amontus had taken a table at _Cymbia_, one of her favorite places, when she was in the capital, to relax after a long day in court. The bar had been built a hundred years ago, and had rich wood paneling, a golden wood floor, and a bar counter that was mellow and tawny with age and much polishing. Tonight, it was crowded, but she didn't have trouble getting a seat at a table in the corner. One fortunately away from the vid screens near the front of the house, which were focused on the highlights of the legislative and judiciary imbroglio that she'd been at the heart of for twelve grueling hours. Under the table, she kicked off her shoes, and a waiter brought her her usual. . . equal parts brandy mixed with sparkling _malae_ wine. Effervescent, slightly sweet, and, if drunk too quickly, apt to knock an _apaterae_ on its ass.

She sipped the first one slowly, leaning back and looking up at the ceiling, lit by the dim, golden glow of old-fashioned oil lamps in this dark corner of the bar. Let the tension work loose from her shoulders. Felt the warmth of the drink hit her crop, and exhaled. _Spirits. I did my best. I really did. It should have been a very simple, cut-and-dried case. A simple matter of two thousand years of precedent and law. . . and in one afternoon, that male turned the world upside down. Rewrote the laws. . . without rewriting a single word of them. I just happened to be in his path._ It galled. Losing always did.

Another sip, and she began to review the case in her mind again. Wondering what, if anything she could have countered his arguments with, other than stronger objections, trying to keep him more on the point of the specifics of the case. She'd been mentally preparing a rebuttal statement as Maxwell had drawn into his final oration. She'd fully intended to state that while his attention to the details of the language was remarkable, none of it mattered, because the words simply encoded tradition. . . and then the _dominus_ in the crowd had opened his mouth and spat out _they're not meant to be taken literally_. . . and it was as if. . . .Lecilla paused, and took a third sip. _What's that human legend, about the little child who dared to say that one of their Imperators was, in fact, wearing no clothes? Yes. It was like that. _

"Excuse me," a waiter said, by her elbow, and Lecilla dropped her gaze from the ceiling, confused.

"I didn't order anything else," she informed him.

"Yes, ma'am, but this? This was sent to your table. With the gentleman's compliments." The male's mandibles flexed, and he settled a silver tray on the small table in front of her, which contained a bottle of two-hundred-year-old turian brandy—a _very_ good label, too, which Lecilla immediately recognized—and a small folded, paper note. An oddly old-fashioned touch, that. She picked up the note, and unfolded it with her talon tips, and read the words there, in blocky letters. Galactic words, and one English one. _As my people like to say, good __hustle__ today, Prosecutor Amontus. You fought valiantly in a cause that should never have been an issue at all. I look forward to our next meeting. My client, Laetia Moreau-Estallus, has asked me to put a hold on pressing the issue of an AI's rights under __manus__ contracts, but I will be returning to the case at some point in the future, I'm sure. —Maxwell_

Lecilla stared at the note for a long moment, and her eyes narrowed. _Good __hustle__? Good __hustle__? What in the spirits does that mean?_ She looked it up in her VI, and hissed through her teeth. Then stood, strongly suspecting that she was being mocked, and flagged down her waiter again. "Where's the male who asked this to be sent to me?"

He looked startled. "I . . . don't know, ma'am. The bottle was brought by courier—"

_Hmm. There are only so many hotels in Complovium that are safe for aliens. . . I'm not going to go running from hotel to hotel with a bottle of brandy in my hands. . . _Lecilla checked the time, decided that it was _only_ 20:00; her assistants and clerks should still be at the office. . . and paged them. "I need to know where Maxwell's staying," she told them.

"You need to schedule a meeting with him?"

"I think he already has, and he neglected to tell me where." Lecilla's talons tapped on the glass of the bottle restlessly.

There was a moment of hasty scuttling on the other end of the comm line. "He's at the _Peregrinatus_," her assistant told her. "It's not far from the Conclave—"

"I know where it is," she told him. "Thank you. I'll call if I need any information for the meeting."

She walked through the cool night air. It was just past the new year, and there was the promise of more rain in the breeze, but the streets were well-lit and very safe in this area of Complovium. She found the _Peregrinatus_, and asked the front desk to page Maxwell's suite. When he told them that she could come up, Lecilla's eyes narrowed again, and she stalked towards the elevators like an angry _villi_.

When the human male answered his door, his tie loose around his neck and his shirt buttons partially undone, he looked more than a little surprised as Lecilla shoved the bottle of brandy into his sternum and asked, "Hustle? _Hustle?_ This is a word meaning chicanery, yes? A con game? Or prostitution?"

Maxwell raised his hands, as if in surrender, and looked down at the bottle, which was positioned against his heart like the barrel of a gun. "In context, it means, you played the game very well. It's a phrase used in sports."

Lecilla sighed. "For a male who insisted earlier today on precision in words and their meaning, your native language is slippery. All of the words seem to have four or five meanings."

Maxwell smiled, and looked down at the bottle again. "Is that thing loaded? Can I put my hands down now?" He paused. "All things considered, if you're going to kill me with a bottle, can it be one from a less-good year?"

Lecilla studied him. He was a few inches shorter than she was, but what a _mind_ the male had. "Actually," she told him, pulling the bottle back from his chest. "I'd thought that we might share a drink or two."

Maxwell's eyebrows rose over his dark eyes as he absorbed that. "Prosecutor, are you aware that a turian asking a human to share a drink can actually be construed as a death threat in some jurisdictions?"

She grinned at him, suddenly mirthful. "I wasn't threatening you, Mr. Maxwell. I imagine that this room of yours might possibly contain _something_ non-toxic for humans?"

He stepped back away from the door, and admitted her, smiling a little, and his eyes shrewd. "I must warn you that any efforts to get me drunk enough to divulge my game plan for the AI _manus_ rights hearings is doomed to failure."

It sounded like a joke. Lecilla settled the bottle down carefully on a table in the room. "Hmm. How drunk would you have to be to bite me, I wonder?" It was forward, and she flushed a little blue through the crest, but she _thought_ she was picking up signals of interest from the male. Slight dilation of the pupils. Warmth in his scent. And the brandy—that old, and that good—was probably respect, and not a pat on the head.

Maxwell raised his head, eyes gleaming in the low light. "Not drunk at all," he told her, and stepped in, catching her head in one hand, turning her face to the side, and nipping very lightly at the side of her throat.

On another floor of the _Peregrinatus,_ there was something of a family party going on. Sam and Lantar had booked adjoining suites, so that there were a total of four rooms for the various kids to rampage through. _Rampage_ was probably the correct word, Eli thought, looking around and being damned careful where he put his feet at the moment. _Pandemonium_ was probably another good one. Kasumi had _just_ gotten in. . . very late. . . from Mindoir, and Takeshi was absolutely refusing to admit that he was sleepy, because he was so excited to see his friends again. "Emmie!" Keshi shouted, chasing after the little hybrid girl. "Emmie, Emmie! I got dinosaur. Come look at it! Come look!"

Eli's youngest sister giggled and ducked under a table to hide from Takeshi, and Tacitus, more interested, said, "Dinosaur? I want to look. . . " And then the two boys rattled off in another direction, which let Emily creep out from under the table, confused as to why they weren't chasing her anymore. . . and then promptly chased after them. 

"I'm only surprised they managed to stay quiet through the proceedings," Ellie told her oldest son, gesturing around at the kids in the room. "It was long, boring, and mostly in a language that none of them really speak."

"Eh, _tal'mae_ and modern turian aren't _that_ different," Lantar objected, scooping Caelia up into his arms, as she shrieked with giggles.

"Like hell they aren't," Sam told his partner, opening a bottle of champagne for the humans, with a bottle of sparkling _malae_ wine ready in a bucket of ice for the turians in the crowd, which included Serana and Lin, for the moment. "I've had five, six years of practice with the primary turian language so far. You and Garrus go off into _tal'mae_, and I'm still guessing at every third word."

"Put me down, Daddy, put me down!" Caelia protested, giggling. "I want to go hug 'Lijah."

"I don't know," Eli told her dubiously, crouching down and eying her. "I'm not sure I know who you are. What's your name?"

"Caelia."

"I don't know any Caelias, do I?"

"'Lijah! I'm _Caelia_. Your first-sister."

"Bah. My first-sister's not named _Caelia._" Eli grinned at her, wanting to see if she'd cave or not, but not needling her too long. The goal wasn't to make her pout or cry, but to see if he could make her laugh.

Caelia rolled her eyes. "I'm not a duck!"

"No? Then I guess Emmie's going to be my duck, then, huh?"

Caelia's face turned absolutely woebegone. "No! No, no, no! Emmie's not your duck! _I'm_ your duck!"

Eli picked his sister up in a huge hug. "Yes. You absolutely are, Caelia. You always will be." He looked down into her deep-set eyes. "You know I was just teasing, right?"

The little sharp-toothed smile reappeared. "Yeah." Caelia tucked her head against his shoulder. "You're silly, 'Lijah."

Eli stood, lifting her with him, as Lantar turned on the extranet to the Complovium News Today, and the coverage of the proceedings. . . including the duels fought by Perinus and Rinus. Eli whistled at Rinus' takedown, and heard Takeshi say, laughing, "He fall down!"

"Yeah, son, he sure did. That's why you don't push or hit people unless they push or hit you first, right?" That was Sam, taking a quick moment to pound a truism into Takeshi's head.

Eli's gaze found Dara, who was standing near the bar stools and high counter, where Serana and Lin were sitting. He walked over, still carrying Caelia, as if he'd completely forgotten he was carting his sister around. And heard Dara telling Lin, her voice embarrassed and a little miserable, "Lin. . . I'm so sorry. I didn't know how much to tell them today, of what I remembered from you. I didn't know how much you'd have told them, so I had to tell them, well, everything, or they wouldn't have _believed_. . . " She lowered her head, her lips tightening.

Lin glanced past her, caught Eli's eye, and then reached out. Pulled Dara to him in a hug, and ran a hand over her hair. "It's okay," he told her, simply. "Brennia. . . she's past being hurt or embarrassed or ashamed by any of that. And having it known doesn't shame or embarrass me. Makes me angry. . . but then again, I'm turian." He pulled back to grin down at her. "What else is new?"

Serana chuckled. "You never get _that_ angry, Lin. At least, not for long."

"Tell that to Seheve," Eli commented, dryly, and Dara turned away from Lin. Smiled up at him. . . and then started laughing as Eli unceremoniously dumped Caelia into her arms, saying, "Hey, Dara? Hold this, would you?"

"'Lijah!" Caelia squawked. "I don't need to be held!"

Dara hefted Caelia up a little higher and looked at her. "You know what? You were the first baby I ever got to hold. My god, you have gotten so big." She gave Caelia a hug, and then deposited her on the floor. "Eli keeps showing me your pictures. You got any new ones for me to look at?"

"Mama keeps them on her omnitool." Caelia heaved a sigh.

"Okay, she looks busy. How about if you draw something new?" Dara found a datapad and a stylus, and got Caelia set up on one of the high stools at the bar, as Eli came back over with glasses of foaming wine for Serana and Lin in one hand, and glasses of champagne for himself and Dara. Gentle chime of song through Eli's mind as she did so. Gray weariness, blue contentment. Sense of a long journey ended.

Narayana came over and sat down beside Caelia to watch her draw as the four adults sipped at their drinks in silent pleasure for a moment. Serana leaned into Lin's shoulder, and Dara leaned against Eli's. Narayana squinted down at the datapad, and told Caelia, calmly, "The glow from Dara's skin wasn't yellow."

"I know, but if I make her blue, she'll look like an asari."

"She has hair. I think people will understand that she's human." Narayana considered that. "Although, they might think you're trying to make her look like a human-asari hybrid."

"Don't be silly. That can't possibly happen."

Dara quietly put her head down on the counter and thumped it there, once. Eli began to laugh, and pulled her closer. _Sorry, __sai'kaea__. Caelia's just. . . Caelia. Be glad she hasn't added pedipalps yet._

_Wouldn't have her any other way, __ciea'teilu__._ Dara lifted her head to flash Eli a quick grin.

"So, yeah," Lin said, taking a sip of his _malae_ wine. "Glowing, eh? Does that mean you're pregnant?"

Eli choked on his champagne and, once he stopped coughing, started laughing so hard he couldn't stop. Every time he managed to get close to being able to breathe again, he'd glance up, see the brilliant red flush on Dara's face, and the _glare_ she was leveling at Lin, and he just started laughing again.

Finally, with as much dignity as she could muster, Dara told Lin, "No. And if you ask if I plan to lay three thousand eggs at a time, I'm going to kick you."

"Speaking of children," Serana said, eyes wide with mischief, "Where _is_ Joy-Singer, anyway?"

Dara glanced off to the side, as Takeshi, Emily, and Tacitus now chased after Zappa, who seemed to regard his child and cat-entertaining duties as somewhat analogous. "She and Glory and Stone asked for a basement chamber in this hotel. Management seems to have put them in the wine cellar. This may have been a mistake, since Glory seems to have acquired a taste for wine after he had a chance to try some at the Pace vineyards on Astaria." Dara's eyebrows crinkled for a moment. "They're singing."

Serana blinked. "Isn't that sort of normal for them?"

Dara's frown grew a little deeper. "Not like this." She looked around. "At the rate they're going, I half-expect the workers to join in. Good thing Joy-Singer has a half-dozen soldiers down there with her. They're not, er, participating. Not directly." Dara blinked rapidly. "Maybe I shouldn't concentrate on that so much."

Eli started to chuckle. "Rachni can get drunk?"

"I. . . have no idea. Should we tell Glory and Stone to stop corrupting our daughter?" Dara gave Eli a confused stare. "It's not like they're apt to start a mating-song—"

Lin and Serana's hands both froze, mid-motion. "Um. . . are we sure about that?" Lin asked hastily, straightening up and looking around. "This is a crowded hotel, _amilula."_

Dara shrugged. "She's not old enough. When she hits twenty feet or so in length, she'll be sexually mature. Till then, it's just not interesting to her." She blinked again, rapidly. "Although. . . yes. . . " Eli could hear her mental song become much louder and firmer. _Joy-Singer? Your wine-songs are making me dizzy! Sing them less, or less loudly, please!_

_Yes, Mother._ _I sing apology-songs. We have not had much. But with three of us all singing together. . . it is concentrated._

Kasumi came over and planted a kiss on Dara's cheek now. "Happy?" she asked, smiling.

"Yes, actually." Dara smiled down at Kasumi in return. "Was a long time in coming." She paused, and added, "And. . . may I just say. . . damn. Maxwell was pretty amazing."

"Worth every penny," her dad agreed, coming over and resting his hands on Kasumi's shoulders.

Kasumi lifted her chin to look up and at him as he stood behind her. "Sam? You paid him one credit."

Sam nodded. "Yeah."

Kasumi's lips curved. "You think he did it solely for the notoriety? Or are you going to owe him a favor?"

Sam shook his head. "I looked into his background, Kasumi-chan. Fresh out of law school, he worked for the Southern Poverty Law center. He's been fighting for rights his entire career. Maxwell probably doesn't like people to know it. . . but he's an idealist. Which is hard to _stay_ as a lawyer, honestly. He probably doesn't mind the notoriety, being the first human to argue before the turian Conclave. . . but he took the case because he believed in it." Sam paused. "Although, yeah, I fully expect I'm going to get a call from him at some point in the future. As soon as he hears about, er, the AI virus, anyway." He gave Narayana a sidelong look, but the salarian girl, with her violet slashes of clan-paint, was absorbed in trying to convince Caelia to improve the anatomy of her stick figures. In a 'no, no, humans have _five_ fingers' sort of way.

Eli cleared his throat. "Yeah. . .about that—"

"No work today," Kasumi told him, waggling a finger under his nose.

"No, not work, family," Eli told her, hastily, glancing over his shoulder for his mom. "I was just surprised to see the whole family sprung from Argus' ship. Is it, well, safe?"

"Not entirely," Lantar told him, moving up from the side and snagging a glass of _malae_ wine himself. "But Kirrahe made a case that getting Narayana visible on the extranet will probably get the dalatrass to start moving, herself. Trying to gain information on her. Which will expose her to, er, Yana's search probes." Lantar grimaced visibly, his mandibles flexing. "I don't like the thought of Nara being in any sort of danger, but using her as bait is really sort of . . . minimal." His expression went dark. "Plus, I'm not going to be out of arm's reach of any of them for a while."

Eli could feel a faint rush of yellow anxiety in Dara. "Ah, I know they were broadcasting a lot of the Conclave meeting today," she asked, a little awkwardly. "Obviously, they got pictures of the families during the introductions. And probably covered a lot of Maxwell's arguments. . . " She swallowed, and then went on, "So, I guess my question is, did they show footage of my various, well, modifications?"

Kasumi shook her head. "Was edited out. Anyone who wants to read the transcript can; it's public record. But the actual vid feed wasn't broadcast." She paused, and added, in an understanding tone, "It's not as if your face wasn't already fairly well known, Dara."

Dara nodded, and leaned her head against Eli's shoulder again. "And with the eyes and all, I wasn't ever on anyone's short list for undercover work."

Kasumi smiled at her, an impish sort of grin. "Well, there's that, and the complete inability to lie."

'That's not a bad thing," Sam pointed out, as Ellie came over now, too, and Lantar rested an arm around her shoulders.

"Depends on your perspective," Kasumi bantered back. "I was just going to tell Dara that no one's perfect."

Eli chuckled, and rubbed his fingers against Dara's scalp, under the hair, very gently. "I did some undercover work on Edessan, but I'm out of the running for it now, too. Press liaison work will do that." He glanced at Lin. "All you and Serana now, _fradu_."

Lin snorted. "Limited use. I can't really go to New York City or London and blend in inconspicuously."

Eli turned back to his parents now. "So, Dad. . . if you're not planning on being out of arm's reach of everyone in the near future. . . ?"

Lantar's mandibles flexed. "Yes. We're all going to Bastion for a visit." His voice was very dry. "We'll even put on good clothes and take in this. . . 'bachelor party' for a while."

Eli winced internally. _A bachelor party that the parents are visiting? What every guy really wants to hear._ "It's going to be pretty upscale," he assured them, though, out loud. "Although I'd dress warmly. Fancy isn't necessary. Warm though? Goodness yes." He eyed Caelia. "The kids will like the slides. . . but they might get cold. I'll contact the volus brokers I've been working with and make sure there's soft drinks available, too."

His mom's eyes had widened. "I don't think bringing kids would be appropriate—"

"It's going to be very PG, and I don't mean Praetorian Guard," Eli assured her, reaching out to take her hand.

Lantar was squinting at him for another reason, however. "Warm clothes and _slides_? What the hell kind of party do you have planned here?"

Eli grinned. "I talked the ten clans into renting out the two central floors of Depth Charge. With all those water tanks, you know that the bulkheads can already handle a hell of a lot of pressure. The hotel's draining the dance and swim tanks, and taking down the walls for the moment. They're dropping the temperature to just above the freezing point of water. . . so yeah, a little nippy. . . and most of the decorations will be made of water ice. The day after the party? They're going to set up temporary airlocks, and replace the atmosphere in the room with ammonia and oxygen. . . drop the temperature to what passes for spring on Irune. . . and increase the pressure to volus norm. Fors and Chissa will get married in there, surrounded by ice sculptures carved by human and asari artists, with the chips of ice left over from the process all over the floor. Conspicuous consumption and lavish wealth with an old-fashioned feel for a volus. Swanky, unusual party for the rest of us." He lifted his glass. "Dara gave me the idea with the whole 'ice hotel' theme."

"I did?" Dara asked, blankly.

"Yeah, after the first time Fors sent us to talk with Chissa and find out if she liked him at all, and she had up smuggle out a comm device for him." Eli chuckled. "You told me vodka served inside ice glassware, and that got me thinking. So, yeah. . . all the glassware will be made of ice. All the fountains will be made of ice. The bar will be made of ice. The chairs. All lit up from inside. Going to be something else to see."

His mother's mouth had dropped open. "Must be nice, working with a big budget," Sam said, blandly. "What about the entertainment?"

"Had Melaani do background checks on all the dancers and singers. She said she had a friend who'd be going in undercover with the dancers in particular to make sure they'd be on the up and up. Most of the dancers are going to be up on top of the big blocks of ice. .. pre-carving. . . anyway, so they'll be in a 'look but don't touch' zone anyway." Eli shrugged. "Past that, I just want people to have fun. This could be really, really bad if people just stand there. . . which is why I had them put in ice slides. The volus in particular should get a kick out of that. The ones rated for their size and weight will have them splashing down into liquid pools of water. . . kind of like a human going for a swim in lava. Thrills, I tell you. _Thrills_." His lips quirked up. "Hence why I'm saying, dress warmly."

"Sounds. . . fun and tasteful," Dara told him, smiling. Then she eyed her father. "Do we have time. . .?"

Sam snorted. "Yeah. There are three full teams on Amaterasu, killing yahg and trying to find out if there are any plans for more yahg to be deployed soon. The turian fleet is parked over Camala, basically showing the batarians why it is a bad idea to piss off the owners of the biggest fleet in the known galaxy. We've got a little time between assignments. You can make use of it."

Eli exhaled. "Good. Shore leave wasn't _that_ long ago, but it was, well. . . "

"It was a week, and then some testing and getting back in shape at home, and then back out again," Dara supplied. "Not complaining. Just saying that the downtime is appreciated."

Serana sighed and put her glass down on the counter. "We should get going," she told Lin, in a guilty sort of way. "My family is all over at Rinus and Kallixta's house right now. . . "

"Tell Kallixta I said hello," Dara told her, lightly, giving the taller female a quick hug.

Agnes, who'd been keeping an eye on the younger children, walked over now. "Good. You two can drive me over, if you don't mind. Gavius said something about there being wonderful gardens here in Complovium, all lit up at night. . . with night-blooming flowers."

"You'll need a rad suit, Mom," Sam warned her.

"I know, dear. I'll get into it now, if these nice young people don't mind my hitching a ride."

Serana looked at Eli over the top of Dara's head and shook her head for a moment, wide-eyed. Eli didn't need to read her mind to know that she was thinking, _So damned weird._

The get-together started winding down. The younger children were finally convinced that bed-time was here, and, protestingly, were carted off to bed in various places in the four rooms of the adjoining suits. Takeshi had a cot in Sam and Kasumi's room; Caelia, Tacitus, and Emily had cots in Lantar and Ellie's sitting room area. Narayana, needing only an hour of sleep a night, was still firmly awake, and would probably fill a bathtub with warm water for her nap anyway. . . somewhere around 04:00. Eli just opted to hold Dara's hand, as they relaxed together with their respective parents in Sam and Kasumi's sitting area. . . and just talked. _I can't even remember when it was __just__ the six of us in a room together. Your folks, my folks, and us,_ he told Dara, quietly.

_Spectre trials, 2190. Though Caelia was in your mom's lap in the barracks. And Kasumi wasn't in the room._ Dara's thoughts were hit by a wave of tipsiness from downstairs, followed by blue-green amusement. _I can't believe the rachni are actually affected by alcohol. Of course, it's probably not a lot. . .except that they're all sharing it with each other. Concentrating, concatenating the effects._

Eli chuckled. "Okay, I'm going to pour you into bed, _sai'kaea_, and then go down into the basement and tell those crazy kids to stop drinking wine and playing loud music. I'll do my very best Gavius Vakarian impression. Think that'll work?"

"Probably not," Dara told him, and held her hands up for him to lift her up off the couch.

While she was occupied grabbing her things in the other room, Eli paused and leaned down to tell Lantar, in _tal'mae_, _"I am certain that you will have expected this of me, but I would request, that now that she who is my beloved is free of all ties, that you would go to he who is her father, your brother in battle, and begin contract negotiations."_ Eli paused, and added, in English, dryly, "Sam already knows what my intentions were. I have a feeling he was okay with them."

Sam lifted his eyebrows. "You asked _her_ yet?"

"No. But I've got a few days on Bastion ahead of me. I'd wanted to ask her on Mindoir. . . but hey." Eli shrugged.

Sam shook his head. "There's no real rush. Do it in your own pace, in your own time."

Lantar held up a hand. _"And what sort of a contract would you pursue with her?"_

"_The simplest kind that there is, clan-leader. One with no end date. Tal'mae."_

Lantar chuckled, a little ruefully. _"Out of one __tal'mae__ contract into another?"_ He gave Eli a steady look.

Eli shrugged, and switched back to English. "Planning on a long engagement. Pretty much till the war is over. Lots of time to figure things out. Not rushing things, Dad." He glanced at Sam. "Not rushing the asking, either. But . . . I think it's about time." _For so damn long, I __couldn't__ ask. And she deserves the damn words._

His mom gave him a quick, smile, and returned his hug as he came over to say good night. "You already had my grandmother's ring resized?"

"Those rachni workers really are handy. And I think Joy-Singer told them not to sing to Dara about it." Eli grinned briefly, and saw Sam and Kasumi's eyebrows both rise.

Dara came back into the room, and they said their good-nights. They both had booked separate rooms, originally, since, on Palaven, she had been, technically, still married. They had, however, just seen on the extranet that Maxwell's case had been upheld by the Conclave of Law-givers, in a narrow vote. They paused outside her room, and Dara looked up at him. Slid her arms up around his neck, and Eli leaned down, kissing her. Making himself concentrate on now, this moment, completely. No future, no past, nothing else but the feel of her lips under his.

_You're blocking something._

_A little, yeah. Surprises, __sai'kaea__, are much more fun when we let them happen._ He pulled back just a little, but didn't break skin contact.

Flicker of unease from her. The insecurity that sometimes welled up from her undersong whispered, _Maybe this was all just a forbidden fruit thing. . . _

_No. Hell no. Don't doubt me now. Don't doubt __us__._ Reassurance in indigos and blues. _You of all people know me better than that._

She smiled, and palmed open the biometric lock. "Come inside?"

"Definitely. You'd have to beat me off with a stick." Eli grinned, and followed her in the door. Picked her up off the ground and gave her a little exuberant twirl before setting her back down again. _Never getting rid of me, __sai'kaea__. _

**Dara, Bastion, February 22-23, 2197**

Sam and Kasumi needed to stay on Palaven for a few days—high level discussions with TIA and the joint-fleet command, which included Shepard, Garrus, and Lantar as well. "Probably figuring out where the next Spectre insertions are going to be," Eli told her as she, Serana, Seheve, Rel, and Lin all boarded a commercial flight from Palaven to Bastion. They'd only packed their armor along, not their rad suits, so they weren't particularly inconspicuous as they passed through Customs. Dara ignored a random reporter or two who'd gotten wind of their exodus from the planet. So did the others. The turians weren't in armor, though Seheve, was, just as Eli and Dara were. _Thank god for polarized faceplates. Means not having to keep a blank face while they're snapping pictures of all of us leaving together. Making an issue where there really isn't one, anymore._

Eli heard the thoughts, of course; the web of rachni crystals in her suit did tend to mean she leaked thoughts and emotions when she was angry or distressed. "I think I can help with that," he told her, over the Spectre encrypted band, and then switched to the group band. "Seheve? Could you, hmm, do something creative with the cameras?"

"How creative did you wish for me to be?" Seheve asked, her voice rasping a little in Dara's ears.

"Nothing that involves blood or screaming, but if they all somehow went off-line right now. . . ?" Eli suggested.

"I would be amenable to that idea. I dislike these reporters intensely, I find."

"You and me both," Dara told her, with feeling. The drell female moved between Lin and Rel, who were turned towards each other, talking and smiling, and used their bodies to cover what she was doing with her omnitool. Dara heard Serana chuckle. . . and then, all the cameras in the vicinity began to emit a high-pitched noise, and simply crashed to the ground with loud clatters. To the cursing and consternation of their owners, naturally.

"What was that?" Dara asked, surprised.

"It would appear that the mass effect fields supporting them were disturbed by a local fluctuation in the ambient radiation. In effect, they might blame the effect on sunspots or a solar flare." Seheve's voice was serene over the radio.

"Very, very localized," Eli said, dryly.

"Extremely. Fortunately, as the reporters were all turian, they should experience no ill effects from their, ah, sunspot exposure."

Dara snickered helplessly. "You're really handy to have around, Seheve. I may have told you that before."

"You have."

"I apologize for the repetition. I'm only human."

That took care of the reporters for the moment, but Dara was just glad when the Spectre insignia got them waved aboard early. As she got into her seat, she asked Eli, off-handedly, still on the encrypted band, "So. . . you think they'll send us to Lorek?"

"Could be. I don't see them sending us to Camala, except as a 'pick up the pieces of information left behind' sort of mission. We're not best used as that, though." The conversation would be cut short when the doors were sealed, making the radiation shielding on the ship complete, and they'd be able to go to a bathroom and change out of their armor. _Though storing it in the overhead compartment might be difficult,_ Dara thought, her lips twitching.

"I guess we'll find out when we find out," she told him, and reached out, through the web of crystals imbedded in her armor, and sang to him, silently, _Though I suppose we're supposed to be turning work mode off?_

_Definitely. _

Once they were out of the atmosphere, and the three non-turians were able to strip out of their gear with a certain amount of relief, Eli left the curtain between them and the rest of the compartment up, so they could trade comments across the aisle with Serana and Lin, and with Seheve and Rel, who sat behind the other pair. In the main, the fourteen-hour flight went quietly; Dara had a backlog of medical journal articles to go through, and Eli and Lin both had coursework to read. However, she did make a point, on returning from a trip to the head, of stopping by Rel and Seheve's row of seats, and asking them, "So, you two are definitely attending Fors' . . . and Dempsey's. . . and Lin's bachelor thing?"

Rel rolled his eyes slightly at her. "I might be told I was avoiding pack bonds if I didn't."

Lin popped his head over the seat in front of him. "Yes. I would tell you that. Right around when I was dragging you out of your hotel room. After all, if any krogan besides Mazz and Makur are there, we'll need you on hand to deal with them. Or drink with them. One of the two."

Rel glared at Lin. "Dempsey can handle that—"

"Dempsey is one of the guests of honor. Bad form to make one of the principles serve as a bouncer at his own party," Lin informed Rel, grinning. "No, no, this is all you, _fradu_."

Seheve's lips had twitched up into a faint smile, and Dara understood exactly why. Rel was flushing a little in slight embarrassment. It wasn't a look she'd seen on him since the Mindoir days, and Seheve had probably rarely seen, either. Dara coughed into her hand now, however, and went on, trying not to smile, "I ask, because I did not, personally, bring anything suitably warm with me from Mindoir. Since Eli _helpfully_ didn't mention that the reception hall is going to be held at about, oh, three degrees Celsius, or about thirty-eight Fahrenheit, you two might want to get warm clothing for the party."

Both of their heads had turned towards her, and Rel winced and called forward to Eli, "I thought we'd all had enough time freezing our scales off recently, Eli."

"Was mostly set up before we left. I was just handling details when the comm buoys came back on-line," Eli called back, cheerfully. "Wear wool underpants and you'll be fine. Or, there will be luge suits available on a rack outside the venue for people who want to rent them. . . and who fit into common human sizes. You'll have to provide your own boots, though."

"Luge?" Seheve asked, blankly.

Dara raised her hands. "Probably too hard to explain without pictures," she told the drell. "A quick extranet search including the words 'insanity of humans, proof of,' will probably get you results." She cleared her throat, and added, "So. . . Seheve. . . since Zhasa is pretty much set on making me be one of her attendants. . . Serana is pulling the exact same _s'kak_ on me. . ."

"Tell me how you _really_ feel, Dara," Serana shot over the seat.

Dara made a rude noise in her direction. ". . . and Zhasa needs to shop for a wedding dress, anyway. . . I'm already stuck going shopping. Plus, I need warm clothes myself."

"You _could_ go with the luge suit," Eli pointed out, irrepressibly, from across the aisle. "I think it would look outstanding on you."

Dara flushed pink, and knew it. Rel looked from Eli to Dara, and opened his omnitool to an extranet site, muttering 'insanity of humans, proof,' under his breath as he tabbed the words in. Seheve continued to regard Dara politely, but without speaking. Dara looked up at the overhead bins, and rallied. "So, would you like to come with us? I'm sure you'll need things. Things that might be. . . well. . . as colorful as those scarves you gave Zhasa. If you want to wear that sort of thing, anyway." She paused, and added, with difficulty, "Not everything has to be functional, I guess."

Seheve had just started to smile when Rel said, "Great spirits. And I thought the skiing looked. . . odd." He was staring down at his screen, which got Seheve's attention. . . and as the drell watched a human form zoom by on the screen, lying flat on a tiny sled, she began to chuckle out loud.

Dara shrugged. "I know Siara and Melaani will both be there for the party. Siara sent me a message, saying she was going to be spending quality time at a quarian mech manufacturing place on Bastion during her stay, so I don't know how much she'll be available." She sighed. "Will you come with us? And give me someone else who's capable of helping restrain Zhasa when she sees frills and lace and gets that _three-hundred-years-of-species-wide-repression-all-surging-out-of-me-at-once_ look in her eyes?"

Seheve's shoulders shook slightly, and the female's lips curved even further up. "I would be delighted to be of assistance. However, what is to say that my own lifetime of repressing material wants and needs might not come to the fore?"

Dara winced. Visibly, and played it up a little. "I, ah. . . hadn't actually thought of that." She gave Seheve a hopeful glance. "It won't, will it?"

"I make no promises that I cannot keep," Seheve told her, with infuriating serenity.

"Oh, dear god," Dara muttered. "This is where I sit back down and shut my mouth for a while."

She had the very real sense that Eli was bubbling over with suppressed nerves and excitement the whole flight, and she wasn't entirely sure why. He was blocking her—just a bit—but the nearly giddy happiness in him every time he touched her was enough to reassure her that it wasn't anything bad.

Once on Bastion, they split up for a few different hotels. . .and the next morning, before Eli and Dara were even out of bed, there was an urgent knock at their door. Dara groaned and threw a pillow at the door in vexation, and Eli shouted, "Can it wait?"

"Sorry!" Zhasa's cheerful voice filtered through the cracks to them. "Should I just wait here in the hall?"

Eli put his forehead down on Dara's shoulder, and they both chuckled, yellow flickers of frustration mingling with rueful blue amusement in each others' song. "Your friend," Eli told her, softly, "has incredibly bad timing sometimes." He called back to the door, "Ten minutes, Zhasa. We haven't even showered yet."

_Ten minutes?_ Dara shifted a little, and watched Eli's eyes go blank for a moment. "Zhasa," Dara called, "Could you wait in the breakfast area? I'll be down in a little while."

"Oh, not a problem. Sorry!" Zhasa's tone was blithely amused.

And when Dara headed into the lobby twenty minutes later, hastily showered and hair still wet, Chopin on one shoulder and 1812 on the other, Zhasa bounced over to her, letting her shawl down to show her face and hair. "There you are! Have you and Eli eaten breakfast—no, you just got up—we can get you something—" The words were tumbling out of her, and Dara laughed.

"I'll grab something as we walk around," she told her friend. "We still need to grab Serana and Seheve. Kallixta isn't due in for another day or two. Said she wanted to spend more time with her, ah, family." Dara gave Zhasa an amused glance as they headed out of the hotel's plasteel doors. "Was Madison glad to be home?"

"Yes. So much so, I think he's actually a little unhappy to be here on Bastion. . . but as he put it, it's much larger than the ship he was on. I told him that I spent the first twelve years of my life in the _Pellus_ crèche area. The same twenty-four hundred square feet of space, usually with sixty children of different ages, all cycling through. The infants had their bubbles and cribs on one side, and we had our couches on the other side. . . which folded up into desks during the day, for classes, or could be stored, if it was a play day." Zhasa looked into the distance. "Madison said that put things in perspective for him."

"After you were suited, did you explore the _Pellus_ more, or did you go visit other ships?" Dara asked, intrigued. She'd always wondered how Zhasa had really grown up.

Zhasa shrugged. "After I was suited, I'd shown my biotic powers for the first time. Usually, on first being suited, you're apprenticed to someone in the crew of your native ship, and you learn a useful trade for four years, before being sent out on Pilgrimage. In my case, I was . . . more or less confined to my parents' quarters until the captain of the _Pellus_ got in touch with Aethyta. And then I was very quickly shipped to Illium. I know more about the _Irria_ than the _Pellus_. I don't even know the deck layout of my first ship, beyond how to get from the crèche to the lifepods."

"So Mad and Dempsey are both here on Bastion?"

"Yes. Dempsey said that he would take Madison to a rock-climbing wall to entertain him and, I quote, 'wear him out' this morning. This afternoon, I believe the activity might be paint-ball, if Madison isn't adequately tired." Zhasa grinned, showing her curving canines. "I believe Dempsey is trying to make up for lost time, but he also told Madison that once we're all back home, school, and the regular routine will be back in session."

They picked up Serana and Seheve, and headed for F level, which housed quite a few humans and their affiliated shops in the Smithson district, as well as turian residential and commercial, in Xalae district. "I came to this level when I was shopping for _manus_ knives five years ago," Dara told Zhasa, lightly. It was getting less awkward to talk about these things in front of Seheve. "Let's get you started on dress shopping, and the rest of us can look for warm clothes in the meantime."

"Lin wants to finalize our contract after Fors' wedding ceremony is done," Serana ventured, and Dara's mouth dropped open, and hung there like that for a long moment.

"Oh, damn, Serana. . . I didn't know. Okay," she said, rubbing a hand over her face. "So. . . you're going to want something besides a uniform, too, huh?"

Serana's face split into a sharp-toothed grin. "Oh yes. I want totally different memories this time."

"I hear that," Dara told her, and did her level best not to think about standing on Serana's side, watching her and Eli exchange vows. Sidonis paint being brushed onto Serana's cheeks. "How do drell _stand_ their own memories?" Dara asked Seheve, suddenly.

Seheve turned, startled. "They are natural to us," she replied, after a moment. "Though. . . I do wish they were not quite as immediate as they are, sometimes."

Dara sighed and rubbed at her temples for a moment. "I think I understand. I don't remember unless I'm _reminded_, but. . . god, it's intense sometimes."

Seheve looked intrigued. "Do you get lost in the chain of them? One event to another? That is one of the greatest perils of our memories."

Dara shook her head. "No. But when I listened to the _Lightsinger's_ computers singing to me. . . it was easy to get lost in their songs. So much data. So many memories, stored away for use. Very, very easy to get lost in. . . and happily lost, at that."

Thus, their first stop was a human wedding boutique. Dara saw a human male in the front sitting area, staring out the window with a bored air, a woman's purse tucked into the seat beside him. His eyes were clearly unfocused, and he didn't look up as the door swung open. Dara had walked in first, and kept her dark glasses on. Zhasa followed her, and, as the human female proprietor emerged, smiling, Zhasa let her shawl fall from her hair. The proprietor froze, her eyes going wide. . . and then Serana and Seheve followed Zhasa into the store as well. The male in the sitting area looked up, and his mouth fell open as well. "Hello," Dara said, cutting to the chase. "Zhasa here is looking at human wedding gowns today. We realize anything you have will have to be substantially altered. Already have a tailor in mind for that."

"We do?" Zhasa asked.

"Yep. Hanar one on this same level. Does great work. Actually, he did Sh—er, the boss lady's wedding dress back in 2186 or so." Dara looked up at the ceiling. "And took my turian-styled one and made it fit a human body in 2191. I think he can handle human to quarian, no problem."

Zhasa grinned. "See? I _told_ you I needed you along with me."

The proprietor was rapidly getting over her shock, and was obviously seeing credit symbols spinning before her eyes. "Have you any preferences as to cut, dear?" she asked Zhasa. "Or, if not, well, overall feeling? Are we looking at something more classic, or something more contemporary? Do you have any pictures of what you like—oh."

Zhasa had, at that moment, opened her omnitool, and about two dozen pictures of dresses that she liked spilled out into the air. Dara leaned over to Seheve and Serana and murmured, "I'm going to be across the street, getting a bagel. I'll be back before they're done looking at the pictures, I swear."

Serana put a hand on her shoulder. "Oh, no you don't," the turian girl told her, grinning. "I'll go get the food for you, but you're no good at sneaking, Dara. You shouldn't even try. It's really embarrassing when you do."

Dara made a face. "Worth a try, anyway."

The bride affiliated with the male in the sitting area got an earful over the next hour, as Zhasa tried on dress after dress with delight, while Serana made disappointed noises in among the racks. "Everything out here is pretty, but so colorless!" the turian female called across the store. "Really, would a bright red with yellow figuring _kill_ humans or something?"

"Yes," Dara called back. "We'd bleed to death from the eyes." Turians, when they didn't need to wear black, white, or gray uniforms, did rather love their parrot colors.

In the meantime, the proprietor had asked Zhasa the fatal question, "What about the bridesmaids' dresses, dear? You are having bridesmaids, aren't you?"

"Well, we're following human tradition for some of the ceremony, and quarian tradition for the rest. Both wedding rites require attendants. I suppose that's what you mean by bridesmaids?" Zhasa replied, artlessly.

"Well, then they're going to need dresses, won't they?"

"Only the female ones, correct?"

Dara swallowed her snort of amusement, and watched the proprietor's face turn a dark shade of mauve for a moment. "Probably, dear," the human female replied. "Are any of your friends here going to be attendants?"

"Dara is. Seheve is. And I think I'll be asking Nal'Ishora and Melaani, too." Zhasa paused. "So, once they buy an attendant's dress, they should be set for any wedding that they attend." She twirled in front of the mirror in the latest frothy concoction of lace, and told Dara, smiling, "See? You have three weddings to go to in the next year, and you won't need to worry about what to wear."

"Oh, _no_, dear," the proprietor said, sounding amused. "The other brides might have entirely different colors in mind. Or different cuts."

Zhasa paused, frowning. "Wait. . . it's a matter of choice? Except, it's the bride's choice? And they only get to wear the dress once?"

Dara intervened. "Typically, the bride picks one style of dress for all her attendants to wear, in a given color, yes. Other brides might not like that dress, and the chances of everyone already having something in bubblegum pink in the same cut in their closet are. . . really low. Of course, even among humans, not every dress looks right on different body types. . . .so the one-style-fits-all thing sort of serves to reinforce that traditionally, no one's supposed to outshine the bride, which explains why most bridesmaid dresses are hideous."

The proprietor looked _offended_. "We carry a wide selection of _lovely_ bridesmaid dresses, miss—"

"She's going to have a human, me. A drell, Seheve." Dara's gesture encompassed herself and Seheve; Seheve was six inches shorter than she was, and whipcord thin, with a flat chest and impossibly slender waist. A turian female had a curve to her chest, not from breasts, as a human, quarian, asari, or batarian did, but from the cowl structure and from the greyhound configuration of the chest cavity, which accommodated their powerful lungs. A drell did not. "She'll also have another quarian and an asari." No need to point out the curving hips of most quarian females, or the hourglass figure with which most asari were endowed. "Finding a single style that looks good on all four of us? Probably not going to happen."

Zhasa was back a few steps in the conversation. "I don't understand. I would be asking four people to buy a dress that I pick for them, that they will probably not be able to wear again, probably won't like, and that, if they returned it to the store, no one else would be able to use it, either?" she asked, in a tone of total bewilderment. "That seems terribly wasteful."

"That's what I've been saying," the man in the sitting room called into the main dressing area, as his wife-to-be came out of the dressing room, stared at Zhasa, and the proprietor began to hem and haw about what a coordinated, unified look did for pictures.

"You could do something simple, like telling the attendants to pick a floor-length black dress that they like, and think that they'll wear again," Dara offered, cheerfully. "That way, everyone wins."

"Hmm, I don't know about black. Sounds too much like our work uniforms. Purple, though? I can live with that," Zhasa told her, and then added, "Yes. I don't like this dress. Can I try the next one, please?"

Four stores later—and three more proprietors having mild heart attacks, and making anxious inquiries about Zhasa's health, breathing, and state of mind— Dara looked at Seheve and Serana. "Can I ask you two a favor?"

"What's that?" Serana asked.

"Steal Zhasa. I never got those bagels you promised me, Serana, I'm _starving_, and we're getting nowhere with this."

Serana laughed out loud, and Seheve looked appraisingly at the quarian girl. "She might resist any efforts made to _steal_ her," Seheve told Dara.

"I'll slip her a tranquilizer. It'll be easy. She's so distracted, she'll never feel the needle."

"One more store," Zhasa told them all, poking her head out of the dressing room. "Then a break. I swear."

At the next store, she did, to Dara's amazement, find something she liked, and that Dara nodded at in approval. The dress was in ivory, and had an overskirt and an underskirt; the undershirt was solid silk, but the overskirt was largely translucent, and filmy to the touch. The neckline was an illusion, therefore; the under-dress scooped low, but the translucent overdress rose to Zhasa's throat. The layers of the dress moved and flowed together, although Zhasa's hips prevented the zipper from closing worth a damn at the moment. And the hem had a band of satin, six inches wide, with pearls sewn onto it. In fact, small clusters of pearls were dotted everywhere on the translucent material. It appealed, clearly, to Zhasa's romanticism, and to her engineer's eye for clean, efficient designs at the same time. "We may have a winner," Dara said. _Hallelujah._

"What I don't understand is why this one, which is clearly much nicer than that one," Zhasa pointed at a dress on a nearby mannequin, "costs a third of that one's price. That one doesn't even have a breather or thermal units or anything. . . and for what it costs, I could buy half a used freighter."

"You can't wear a freighter, dear," the current proprietor told Zhasa.

Dara shook her head. "That's because that one is by a very famous designer. You're paying for his name."

Zhasa looked up, confused. "I already have a name. Why would I need his?"

Dara was _almost_ certain that was a joke. Almost. "It's a status thing, I guess."

Zhasa turned and gave her a confused look. "And how would someone know who had designed the dress? Is his name written on the outside?" The quarian girl looked at the back of the dress on the mannequin, dragging the proprietor along with her, as the woman tried to ensure that the dress currently very loosely attached to Zhasa _stayed_ attached.

"I suppose that people will be so struck by the dress that they'll ask you who made it, and you'll tell them," Serana suggested. "Or you'll simply brag about it, first."

Zhasa's expression turned quizzical. "I. . . don't understand."

Dara, who'd finally found a bag of chips at a vending machine between this store and the last one, fed one of the chips to Chopin, who was still sitting on her shoulder. Which had gotten her nervous looks from every shop-owner, so far, and had entailed shrieks from at least three brides. "We know you don't, Zhasa," she told the quarian, smiling to herself. "I think that's at least part of why Dempsey loves you."

Zhasa muttered under her breath in quarian, and then told the shopkeeper, "I'll take this one."

"Oh, no, dear, that's just the floor model. We'll have to order this in from Earth, in the right size, have it tailored to fit you. . . "

Zhasa looked over at Dara and pouted. Dara grinned back. "Told you so."

"But how am I to know if Dempsey will like the dress if he doesn't see it on me before I buy it?"

"Oh, _no_, that would be bad luck!" the proprietor said, and Dara and Serana both started to chuckle at the expression on Zhasa's face.

Seheve frowned. "While I do believe that accidents happen, and that nothing is pre-destined. . . how can someone advising you on a decision _possibly_ result in ill-fortune?" The drell female sounded almost perturbed on Zhasa's behalf. "The insanity of humans is not restricted to your choice of sports," she added, looking at Dara, who gave in and folded in half laughing at that point.

That at least got them to lunchtime, where they managed to find a restaurant that served both levo and dextro customers. . . although the wait-staff _insisted_ that if Dara kept the rachni with her, they'd have to eat outside, at one of the covered tables.

"Why do they have umbrellas?" Seheve asked, staring at them. "It is exceedingly unlikely to rain on Bastion. And if a fire suppression system activates, these would actually hinder their response to smoke and flame."

"Ambiance," Dara said, shrugging, and opened her menu.

"Do they really need to go with you everywhere?" Serana asked, pointing at Chopin, who chittered at her from Dara's shoulder.

—_We sing helping-songs!_

"Kind of. I can hear Bargain-Singer, even from three levels away," Dara replied, flipping through the datapad menu quickly. "I suppose I probably don't _need_ the little guys to sit on me now. . . but. . . it's kind of a comfort thing. We tested it out at the base. I can hear Joy-Singer from about fifty miles away, and she can pick me up at that range. Sky can pick me up at ten miles. The little guys. . . eh, a mile, maybe two, same with the soldiers." She paused. "And yeah, in an emergency, I could grab Zhasa or you by the hand, Serana. . . but . . . it's better not to need to, and not to take chances, right?"

Serana shrugged. "I could try outfitting them with very small stealth nets."

Seheve looked up. "Would they then say that they were singing sneaking-songs?"

—_Ooooooh! Sneaking-songs! We like this song!_

Dara choked on her water. "Stop giving them ideas," she told the others, waggling a finger at them in warning.

The conversation shifted. Serana cheerfully informed Zhasa, "You have _got_ to try these skewers of _nepa _ meat—"

"What is it?"

"Underwater giant scorpion. Tastes. . . sort of like lobster. But not really," Dara supplied, and Zhasa blinked rapidly. "Personally. . . wow. This menu is not the best on the levo side. The other blue meat, my ass," Dara muttered, finding one column was on 'exotic' batarian cuisine, and moving on to human foods. "Protein-substitute barbecue brisket. . . oh, dear god, no. My dad would tell me I was no longer a Texan." She opted for something purporting to be chicken salad on wheat toast, with a side of various asari fruits, and Seheve opted for what looked like curls of eel in a dark asari sauce. "What next?" Dara asked, through a mouthful of food. "Turian area shops for Serana? Since, you know, hers really is coming up first. . . "

Zhasa looked up, abashed. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I got carried away. Yes, absolutely, Serana next."

Serana snickered. "Don't worry. I was looking through all the human dresses at the same time as you were, Zhasa. I found a couple that I liked in blue, but. . . all the alterations? I might as well have something custom made. Except I don't have time for that." Serana's grin suddenly widened. "And, since Dara is going to be an attendant at both, I'm going to be _incredibly_ nice here. . . "

Dara's eyes widened slightly in mild alarm. "When you say it that way, it doesn't sound like _nice_ is what you had in mind," she replied, with mock-accusation.

Serana's grin widened further. "I was just thinking that _you_ have been getting off easy all this time, Dara. You and Seheve both. Neither of you has tried a single thing on. But I'm going to make it easy. You can wear to my contract signing, whatever you get for Zhasa's. Zhasa said violet. That's Sidonis colors anyway. I wouldn't think of asking you to wear Lin's Edessan blue, so this works out, doesn't it?" She sat back, with a clearly pleased look. "See? That _was_ nice. I halved your shopping."

Dara's sandwich hovered near her mouth. "I, ah. . .didn't think you were going to have me wear anything but the Spectre dress uniform," she managed. _And I thought I had time to deal with Zhasa's stuff. Months, even._ She looked over at Seheve, as if searching for a way out. "But what does this have to do with Seheve getting off easily?" she asked, deciding that throwing the drell female into the train tracks in front of the oncoming train that was the Serana-and-Zhasa-Express was perfectly legitimate as an escape strategy. Seheve's look of pure alarm didn't allay the pangs of her conscience, however.

Serana laughed. "Nice try, _amila_, but it's not going to work." She poked a talon into Dara's shoulder lightly. "No. No uniforms. Not even Lin. I thought about it, but then I saw the pictures from his wedding to Brennia." Serana sighed. "And then I went back and looked at pictures from my wedding to Eli. All of us, in uniforms, in both sets of pictures."

Dara's protests died on her lips. _And my __tal'mae__ ceremony with Rel, too, come to think of it._

"Different memories?" Seheve said, softly.

"Yes," Serana answered. "Just as I said before. It's not just _my_ memories that need to be different, but everyone's involved."

It was an astute observation, as so many of Serana's tended to be. "When you put it that way," Dara told her, her throat closing up on her sandwich, "how can I possibly not agree with you?" A quick glance to make sure that Serana wasn't hurt or angry or anything else. . . though she knew, in her heart, that Serana was neither. Three months with Lin on Khar'sharn had done _much_ to move Serana past her infatuation with Eli. There would always be affection between them. . . but the love between Serana and Lin was so clear, and so _right_, it was beautiful to see. "You know what you two should do, if work allows you any time for a honeymoon?" Dara told Serana, trying to make her tone light. "You're both such history buffs. Hit Edessan for the site of the Unification War treaty signing. Go to Thracia for the Battle of the Three Moons. Take the tours of the old battle sites on Macedyn, where entire convoys died of thirst, because they _had_ to advance on foot. . . all the shuttles and airlift vehicles had their engines destroyed by the fine desert grit. And if you get bored with turian history, head to Earth and do the Civil War tours in North America. A lot of the sites are supposedly haunted. Spirit-touched, you'd say, I guess."

Serana chuckled. "That's a gloomy way to spend a honeymoon, Dara. And a honeymoon is such a _human_ thing. . . but I like the idea."

"Lin would eat it up with a spoon, and you know it."

"I'll talk to him about it. It may take a while. I need to go to Bek, er, well. . . in the next week or so. At Kasumi's request." Serana had tabbed her omnitool to bring up a privacy field for a moment, the low hum of white noise shielding her words from anyone at adjoining tables.

Dara's eyebrows went up, but she didn't ask the question.

Zhasa cleared her throat. "Now, as to what we're going to do with Seheve. . . I already have the ski clothing Dempsey got me for Christmas for this _chilly_ party we're all going to. Serana, Seheve, and you, Dara, need warm clothing. . . and Seheve, my dear good friend. . . " Zhasa's face lit up with a smile. "You love bright colors. Those shawls you gave me are proof of that. We're going to trawl through every turian store there is until we find you peacock and parrot feathers enough to blind a hundred humans."

Seheve's eyes widened all the way around. "I prefer not to stand out from the crowd—"

"You can't possibly be at work all the time, and when you're not at work, why not dress however you wish to?" Zhasa pointed out, with irrefutable logic.

Seheve looked at Dara. "Is it too late to run?"

"Hey, you didn't cover my exit this morning. I'm not helping you now." Dara made a rude noise in Seheve's general direction. . . which got Zhasa and Serana laughing, and made Seheve blink, repeatedly.

In the end, Dara did find a dress in rich, dark purple velvet with just enough stretch to it that it clung nicely, without being uncomfortable to wear. The back was bare, but the neck was high enough that she wouldn't look as if she were attempting to compete with either bride, which was a plus. Zhasa, naturally, caught the skirt of it, as the cashier was ringing it up, and buried her face in the velvet, almost purring out loud. "Do you need some alone time with that?" Dara asked Zhasa, tartly.

"No, no, but it's definitely _soft_." Zhasa grinned at her, and her shawl fell from around her face, and Dara could see the poor cashier's eyes flick between the rachni perched on her shoulder to the quarian girl's face, and the human's eyes widened until the whites showed all the way around. _This is getting to be a habit_, Dara thought. She was so inured to _weird_ at this point, that she was almost numb. "You think," she asked Zhasa, outside the store, "that at some point, people will stop having heart attacks at the sight of an unsuited quarian?"

"Not today," Zhasa replied, with a hint of a sigh. "But look. . . " She nodded across the crowded street between the storefronts, and Dara's eyes widened. Sure enough, there were two unsuited quarians there, with breathers on, covering the lower halves of their faces. . . but the white hair showed, as did the gleaming eyes. Both smiled and waved at Zhasa when they saw her notice them. . . and then crossed the street through the crowd. "Oh. . . _Keelah_," Zhasa muttered. "I shouldn't have made eye contact. . . "

Sure enough, the two quarians, politely, but with some interest, chattered at Zhasa in their native language for some time, and Dara's VI was scrambling to keep up, but she read the words on the screen, and had to muffle a snort. When the two quarians finally left, Dara looked at Zhasa. "Keelah'Zhasa?"

"Oh, for the ancestors' sakes, don't tell anyone—"

Serana was grinning. "This is what Kasumi might call a compromising position, Zhasa. All sorts of room for blackmail here."

Seheve was studying her own VI translation now. "They asked you for your blessing?" the drell asked, in a neutral sort of way.

"And I told them no! I'm not an ancestor! I haven't died yet!" Zhasa sounded a little frantic.

Seheve nodded. "It will be difficult to avoid being made into a religious figure and used for other people's political ends. But I respect you for not pursuing the advantage."

Dara put a hand on Zhasa's shoulder, feeling the tension in her start to ebb a little. "Don't let it ruin the day," Dara offered, quietly. "And. . . try to get ahead of the spin a little. Do interviews and whatever else. I don't like the thought, myself, but you need to look a little more ordinary and accessible to your people, maybe?"

Zhasa sighed. "Yes. . . well. . . there's that." She pointed to the turian clothing store in front of them. "And then again, there's this. Serana? Your turn."

Serana then dragged them all into the turian stores, and Zhasa promptly buried her face in a rack of _apaterae_ leather coats, murmuring happily about the _smell._ Dara watched in amusement as Serana targeted everything in Edessan, Parthian, and Bostran blue in the entire store . . . and Zhasa absolutely flung clothing at Seheve. Who, being far shorter than the average turian female, and lacking the cowl and leg structures . . . "At least some of the skirts fit," Dara offered Seheve.

"You are intent on not being helpful, are you not, Dara?" Seheve was probably incapable of sounding tart, but this verged on it, making Dara laugh. "I feel like a child, wearing my mother's clothing again and pretending to be an adult." She gestured, and the arms of the shirt she was currently wearing flew out past her hands in illustration.

Dara snickered. "The burgundy leather skirt fits fine, and sets off your contrast scales nicely. Take that one and find something at a different store that matches and actually fits. The shorter ones, in peacock blue and jade? Also fit you."

"They are. . . very noticeable colors." Seheve sounded worried.

Dara looked up at the ceiling briefly. "What stands out more, someone wearing bland, every day clothing at a festive occasion, or someone wearing the same colors and styles as everyone else?"

Seheve looked struck. "That is a remarkably astute observation, Dara."

"I've been taking justification lessons from Dempsey. He's not the only person who can manufacture bullshit to spec."

In the end, it was close to dinner when they threw in the towel. Dara had actually managed to find more things that fit Seheve than she'd been able to find for herself. Flowing human gypsy skirts in vivid patterns, with translucent asari shirts above, in filmy white or matching bright colors. A turian leather vest in a burgundy that matched the leather skirt. . . but which hung open on Seheve, showing scales and waist clearly. . . since drell had _no_ social inhibitions and nothing to hide on top. "Rel may trip over his tongue on that one," Dara had told Seheve, neutrally, as she'd handed the other female the vest to try on. _I, of anyone in the galaxy, should know!_

Zhasa had taken over with Serana, and Serana had finally settled on a tight-fitting turian dress in cobalt blue with golden motes in a scale-like pattern, like waves, flowing down the center. There were also cut-outs at the sides, revealing her waist. "And to think I thought your mom was about to faint at my dress, back in the day," Dara pointed out. "_Cinctus_ over or under?"

"Under. That way, it'll just barely peek out through the cutouts," Serana said, grinning. "Makes it a little naughtier that way."

"I'll make sure there's a mop nearby with which to clean up after Lin's drool," Dara assured her. "I like the colors, too. The gold is more metallic than your Thracian yellow, but also a little more upscale. Best of all, I don't feel a need to put on my dark glasses when I look at it." She paused, and said, "Wait. . . I'm already wearing them." She peeked over the rims of her sunglasses at Serana in the dress.

"And?" Serana asked, tapping a foot impatiently.

"Okay. We're good. No hemorrhaging. Your human guests won't be taken to the ER."

Serana flicked her fingers at Dara. With emphasis. Dara just grinned at her.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, there were just only so many hours in the day. When Zhasa saw a florist, she spun and all but pounced on Dara. "Aren't flowers a big part of human weddings?"

"Ah. . . they can be," Dara replied. "I'm taking it that they aren't, for quarians. . . ?"

"Not since the Flight. The hydroponics labs were all deserved for algae growth, to help recycle the carbon out of the air, and for food crops. No room for flowers, unless they were from plants with medicinal properties." Zhasa shrugged. "On Rannoch, hundreds of years ago, flowers were considered very valuable. In the arid regions, rains only come every few years, and the desert blooms for only days. Once we established farming practices and green houses and irrigation, there were more flowers to be had, especially as we found lusher areas in which to live. . . but the gift of living flowers never really lost its charm. An association with wealth, really."

"Then the fact that we throw rose petals at the bride and groom now, sometimes they walk along paths strewn with petals, is going to look like conspicuous consumption to you again, isn't it?" Dara asked, wryly.

Zhasa's eyes widened. "You're joking."

"Really, I'm not," Dara returned. "All right. . . let's go look at flowers. Serana, you want any for your contract signing?"

"No, but I'll come inside and look," Serana replied, cheerfully. "I think Lin would be afraid I'd lost my mind if I showed up with a garland over my fringe."

In the florist's shop, Dara kept an eye on Zhasa for reactions to the foreign pollens and odors, palming one of her medical scanners and keeping close by the quarian. No reactions, thankfully, even when Zhasa exuberantly buried her face in a mass of long-stemmed roses in the back room, almost hugging them in their vat. The florist, like all the other store proprietors today, did one hell of a double-take at seeing Zhasa, and actually did squawk, "You. . . please! I don't want you getting sick in here, miss. . . "

Dara rubbed at her eyes. "She's fine." She held up her scanner. "Zhasa, hold still for a minute so I can check your blood oxygenation, and make sure your lungs and throat aren't swelling closed. . . "

"I feel fine! And the smells!" Zhasa half-closed her eyes, smiling beatifically. "What _are_ all these things? I recognize the roses, of course. . . and I love that shade of violet-silver over there. . . but what are _these_?" She brushed delicate fingers against tiny flowers in bunches.

"Those are lilacs, dear." The florist was pulled along in their wake, a little helpless in her own shop, as Zhasa darted from container to container, asking what each flower was. . . "Lavender—yes, it does smell lovely. . . ah. . . yes. . . that's delphinium. . . those are irises. . . those are calla lilies. No, they don't have much of a scent. . . " Finally, the florist threw up her hands in frustration. "Really, what are you all here for today? What can I help you with?"

"My friend here is looking for ideas for her wedding. Which I think will be held on Rannoch." Dara intervened, letting Zhasa keep flitting from cooler to cooler, exclaiming over this new bloom or that one. "Do you ship refrigerated flowers that far out? What would we be talking in terms of price?"

That changed the florists' tune entirely. Dara _winced_ at the figures, took notes, and then got Zhasa by the elbow and gently guided her out of the shop. _Another hour eaten up_, she realized, when she finally looked at her omnitool.

The biggest issue, really, that they'd had, had been the cold weather clothing. Bastion was seasonless, for obvious reasons. But the stores there stocked cold-weather gear and summerwear year-round, because travelers from multiple planets on different season schedules passed through all the time. But they'd left it so late, that they were all damned tired. They'd managed to get Seheve a heavy coat with a hood, which was progress. . . but Dara, sitting down on a bench to rest her feet, looked at the others and said, "I've had enough, guys. I'll just wear whatever they have at Depth Charge as a rental."

Serana flopped down beside her. "I think I agree." She paused. "Why do my feet hurt more right now than after a full day of running and fighting?"

"No adrenaline to distract you," Dara told her, leaning her head back. "Yeah. Let's get a cab to the closest elevator station and get back to our hotels." As they did just that, Dara asked Zhasa, again, "So Madison is doing all right? He's had a lot of changes this year. His mom dying, coming to live with his dad, being sent off to, well, a caretaker while Dempsey and you were busy. . . and now the two of you are getting married." She thought back. "I, ah, well. . . I can kind of relate."

Zhasa nodded, her face pensive. "He seems to be doing all right. Blocks me whenever I try to listen, though, which he wasn't doing before he left. Always seems a little embarrassed." She shrugged. "I sent him _Code of Honor_ before we all went to Astaria. Thought it would give him something to do besides school work. He thanked me for it." Zhasa paused. "Did you know, they have an all-Spectre expansion for that game? And that most of us are in it?"

Dara and Seheve both raised their heads and stared at the quarian in horror. "Oh, I get off easy," Zhasa told them, smiling. "They couldn't patch in my face in time for their release date, so I'm just in my environmental suit. Although they have a cut-scene of Dempsey looking at my picture, apparently."

Dara exhaled. "So much for keeping everyone's interpersonal relationships out of the limelight. After we went to all the trouble of not letting the reporters take a picture of your engagement ring and everything else. . . I mean, I'm a lost cause. So's Eli. After the Conclave, so are Rel and Seheve, to a certain extent, although a lot of the actual testimony wasn't broadcast. But you two. . . you two should have been safe." The workers on her shoulders were chittering in agitation, and Dara realized that they were reacting to her irritation on Zhasa's behalf. She calmed herself, using the same breathing exercises she'd have used if she were holding her sniper rifle. Control the breathing, and you can control everything else. Heartbeat, too, through biofeedback. _Time to be calm._

"It's not a problem," Zhasa told her, shrugging. "The scene only shows up if you direct the two characters to have a relationship. You can also have Dempsey wind up in a relationship with 'Doc' and with Seheve, who's been renamed 'Serpent,' for some reason."

Dara's mouth dropped open, and she snapped it closed again, realizing, suddenly, that all pretense to calm had vanished, and she was blushing, furiously, as Zhasa laughed at her all over again. "Oh, I'm sorry, Dara, it's just. . . the look on your face. . . " She gasped for air. "Isn't it better than the action figures?"

Dara froze. "Action figures?" she repeated, numbly. "What action figures?"

Seheve's head whipped back and forth between them. "What _is_ an action figure, and why does this cause consternation?"

"Dolls," Serana explained, lightly. "Dolls usually given to young human males, although most turian children have picked up a fascination for them. Quintus used to collect them, though he claims to have outgrown them now." The turian female's grin split her face in half. "There are Spectre action figures, Zhasa?"

"Yes, ah, Argus gave some to the younger children at the human solstice celebration."

"I saw pictures on Eli's omnitool that his mom had sent," Dara said, trying to face the full horror of the situation. "I saw Garrus and Shepard figures, but. . . I guess Caelia didn't get a set?"

"No, but she grabbed the ones Sisu and Telluura had been given, just like everyone else. She wanted to play her big brother." Zhasa's smile was infectious. "Amara, I believe, took the figurine that was _you._ And whoever was playing with Lin had him fall down injured."

Serana's face suddenly went pained. "He _does_ seem to have a reputation about that, doesn't he? I blame _you_, Dara."

Dara was so busy trying to recover, mentally, from the assault on her dignity from one side, that she didn't even know how to react to the hit from Serana's direction. "I—what—how do you figure?" she spluttered.

"If you didn't yell so loudly when people get hurt, no one would know about it. You publicize it." Serana nodded, firmly.

"Name one person outside the Spectres who knows that Lin is fricking accident-prone," Dara challenged.

"I'm sure there's someone," Serana told her. "I'll have to get back to you on that."

Seheve was still grappling with the concept, back at the pass. "They made us into dolls? Not for purposes of sympathetic magic, I trust?"

"Only if you consider the sadistic delight and glee and support of thousands of younglings to be a way of sending people good or ill fortune," Serana told her. "I'm sure the numbers of them that get melted in ovens, buried to the neck in sand, hideously tortured by having their arms and heads ripped off will have nothing to do with your eventual fates."

Dara, Zhasa, and Seheve all gave her a dubious look. "Hey!" Serana said, spreading her hands. "I'm saying it _won't_ happen to you just because it happens to the dolls."

Zhasa turned her gaze back towards Dara. "So. . . back on the _Code of Honor_ thing. . . is it just because you can't imagine Dempsey snuggling that you got so embarrassed about the game?" She grinned suddenly, exposing her canines. "None of the real relationships get shown as any more or less valid than the imaginary ones. It's really well done. And, just for the record, Dempsey snuggles very well, when prompted."

Dara fanned her face, trying to stop flushing. "All right, have your fun, Zhasa. . . you're entitled." She gave Zhasa a dark look. "I'm almost afraid to ask about how the others get treated."

"Oh, I can wind up with Dempsey, Eli, or Linianus. Rel can wind up with Seheve, you, or Melaani. You can wind up with Rel, Eli, Lin, or Dempsey. Siara and Makur are locked. They decided to incorporate more relationships in between the combat missions to reach a wider user base, but the hard-core combat players can skip all the cut-scenes between missions." Zhasa chuckled. "I asked Madison if he'd played any of the non-combat missions, and he _squirmed_."

"He's human, he's male, and he's going to turn fourteen sometime soon," Dara pointed out. "Squirming is pretty much par for the course."

"Would you and Eli like to have dinner with us? That way, you can check on Mad for yourself?"

"I'll run it by Eli," Dara said, "but honest to god, about all I want to do in the next hour or so is order room service and collapse asleep on the couch."

When she said as much to Eli, who was already back at the hotel, he looked a little disappointed. "I'm sorry," she told him. "Were you wanting to do something tonight?"

"It can wait," he told her, crossing the room and taking her various bags from her. Stroked the backs of his fingers against her face. "You're tired. Your song's all grays."

Dara closed her eyes, relishing the skin contact. "No, if you had something in mind—"

"Was going to take you out to dinner, and then to, well, one of my favorite places on Bastion. But it can wait." His eyes were dark, and though he was, lightly, blocking her, she could sense amusement and anticipation. "Tonight might be a better night for you just to take a really long bath."

_And you'll reap the rewards of patience later?_

_Depends on what rewards you're offering._ He paused_. Zhasa and Dempsey want to have dinner with us and Mad? _He'd picked up the details from her mind very quickly. She was too tired to even try blocking. _Sure. If you're not too tired, we can knock that out tonight. . . get you that bath. . . and then relax tomorrow. _Little curls of green in his song, and the cello was the main voice singing at the moment.

_If you're sure. . . . _

_Anticipation makes a lot of things better._ Eli leaned down and kissed her lightly, and she stroked her fingers over his shorn hair. Again, it was hard to believe how lucky she was. She'd screwed up so many things in her life, and yet, they had found each other again, and now she was free. Acknowledged even by the turian government. _ Hard to believe, but true._

After a moment, she pulled back and asked, however, "Did you know about the action figures?"

Eli stared at her. "Action figures? Oh, the Spectre ones. I saw the pictures my mom sent, of the Garrus and Lantar and Lilitu ones—"

"How about ones of us?"

"Oh, fuck me, no." Eli stared down at her. "You're kidding. Please say. . . no. No, that doesn't sound like joking around. . . " He rubbed a hand at the back of his neck. "I guess that's why my mom keeps saying she needs to pin me down for longer than five minutes and show me the vids from Christmas. . . "

"I'm surprised she didn't send them—"

"Me, too," he admitted. "She probably wanted to see my face in person." Eli winced, and she could hear pink notes beginning to resonate in his song. "How bad?"

"I didn't go looking for them at the toy stores this afternoon. Apparently, we're also in an extranet game called _Code of Honor_." Dara sighed. "I mention this, since Mad's playing it, and it might come up in conversation."

Eli squinted at her. "Okay," he assessed, after a moment. "I think I might want a drink with dinner, _sai'kaea_. Maybe two."

Dinner with Dempsey and Zhasa and Madison went fairly well. Dara noticed that every time Zhasa smiled at the boy, he got flustered and dropped his gaze, and muttered a little. And when Eli asked him, lightly, about what he thought of _Code of Honor_, Madison was cheerful and enthusiastic when asked about the combat missions. . . but clammed up about the various cut-scenes and romance options. "Who did you wind up playing as most?" Eli asked him.

"My dad," Mad replied, looking embarrassed.

Eli looked thoughtful. "Don't suppose Lantar's playable, is he?"

"He is, but you have to unlock him, Garrus, and Shepard by completing side-missions and achievements, and some of those are really hard. One thousand headshots gets you 'Sniper Elite' as a title, and unlocks Garrus," Madison explained. "Saving one hundred percent of all the colonists on five different missions on the maximum difficulty gets you 'Colonial Defender' and unlocks Shepard."

"And my dad?" Eli asked.

Madison looked embarrassed. "Successfully infiltrate four mercenary bases and kill every merc in the compounds in under the allotted time, while under the effects of an azure dust incapacitant. That get you the title 'Level-Headed,' and unlocks Lantar."

Dara cringed a little mentally. _Damn. Someone did their research._

_No kidding._ Eli was just about as uncomfortable. "But you've played mostly as your dad, huh? What did you think about his romance options?" He tossed a grin at Dara. "I understand Dempsey can put the moves on Dara here."

"I never even gave my permission to the damn game developers," Dempsey muttered. "This is one occasion when I don't want you to shoot me, Sidonis."

Eli just grinned at him in response. Madison was squirming. "Yes . . . but he can also wind up with Zhasa or Melaani," Madison muttered.

"Dempsey, you're a dog, man. An absolute dog." Eli told the other man, straight-faced.

Dempsey's lips quirked up at the corners. "I'm pretty sure that if I played it, I'd definitely look at all the alternatives."

"Dempsey!" Zhasa objected.

"What's the point of playing a game like that, if you don't get a happy ending, and don't take a look at all the things you wouldn't really do in real life?" Dempsey asked, reasonably enough. "I don't play games to lose." He looked at Madison. "So, who'd you set me up with?"

Madison squirmed. "Zhasa."

"Ah, you kept me faithful. Good job. Now Zhasa doesn't have to kill me."

"Dad!" Madison squirmed even more. "I could have played Cohort," he muttered, staring down at his plate.

"I guess Cohort doesn't have much in the way of romance options," Dara offered, trying not to laugh.

There was a very slight pause. "Well. . . actually. . . ." Madison looked up, found all of them staring at him, and looked back down at his plate, quickly.

"Well, actually, what?" Dempsey asked his son. "You started the sentence. You may as well finish it."

Madison's face lit up from the inside with his slow flush. "He actually has a couple of options, but they're unlockables," he muttered, finally. "One of them is Zhasa."

Zhasa, who'd been just about ready to swallow a mouthful of braised _betae_, did her best not to choke. "What?" she managed, after a short bout of coughing. "He's a _geth_." She shuddered a little. "And he's entirely made of metal, and. . . doesn't have the proper equipment. . . "

"I'm sure there's an app for that," Dempsey said, dryly.

"And 'equipment' can be purchased almost anywhere in Council space," Eli added, and moved out of range of Dara's elbow as Zhasa flushed vividly violet.

Madison squirmed in his chair. "The game compendium states that not all geth were originally combat and personal security models. Some were household and personal service assistants."

"You say 'household appliance,' and I think 'toaster,'" Dara said, doing her absolute best to keep her face straight as Eli, in her mind, shouted with laughter and said, _Just how __personal__ was that service?_

From the strangled sound at the back of Zhasa's throat, and the vibrant violet flush across her cheeks, and the slight quirk to Dempsey's eyebrows, a very similar exchange was going on, on the other side of the table. "Yes," Dara went on. "I imagine that someone who wasn't thrilled with their honored ancestors might have found amusement in putting them to work, oh. . . collecting garbage. Or, well, other demeaning activities." She coughed a little. "So, have you played _Ecusae of the Ancient Imperium_, Mad?" she asked, changing the subject. "I've played _Galaxy of Fantasy_ on and off since I was ten, but it might be time for a change, especially now that they're planning the whole 'Terran mythology' expansion. I'm not sure I want to watch Greek and Norse gods fighting alongside Nexia and Borea and the rest of the turian spirits."

"Even if you get to kill a medusa and capture and tame the pegasus that is born from its blood?" Eli teased, gently.

"Well. . . maybe." Dara shrugged. "I just don't have much time anymore to play."

That subject change got them through dinner with much less blushing from Madison. As they left, Dara asked Eli, silently, _Is it just me, or does Mad have a little bit of a crush going on Zhasa?_

_More than a little. Nice safe direction. He's got Amara hanging onto his elbow, but she's too young. Zhasa's gorgeous, but about to be his step-mom, so nothing he can do there, except sigh a little and die a little inside every time she tells him what a good son he is._ Eli's thoughts were amused, and a little sympathetic at the same time.

_And when he's Dempsey's age, and D still looks twenty-two, they're going to look like clones._ Dara sighed internally. _They've got a touch of the Mindoir curse. Really, really interesting personal lives._

_And we wouldn't have it any other way,_ Eli told her, and they headed back to their hotel.

**Elijah and Dara, Bastion, February 24-25, 2197**

Eli was both looking forward to this evening, and oddly nervous. He didn't think Dara was likely to tell him no. . . but he also didn't want to screw this up. Or make a complete idiot of himself, which was also altogether possible. So, dinner at _Alliarae's Ristorante_, a place he remembered going with his mom and Lantar a few times, which did Italian-asari fusion cuisine, which sounded odd, until you _tasted_ it. _A__oi'la'e_ stuffed inside ravioli, instead of Terran lobster, with scratch-made alfredo sauce. Meatballs made with _gua'sari_, the flesh of large, flightless birds once native to Thessia, and which they'd seen in enclosures alongside goats on Astaria, at the cult compound. Whole, braised quail, with red wine reduction, on a bed of asari _o'sia'lia_ noodles, which were even finer than angel hair pasta, and lightly green, reflecting that the 'grain' used to create them was actually a sort of pod from a particular type of kelp native to Thessia, and cultivated on Luisa and Illium now. Exotic, yet familiar. The restaurant also did a few turian dishes, like grilled _alai_, which was what Lantar had always had when they'd come here, years ago. At the time, Eli had stuck with more standard Terran fare. . . vat-grown proteins and meat substitutes for the more common version of spaghetti and meatballs. Now, of course, he was slightly more adventurous in terms of food, and he loved watching Dara try to figure out which flavors were the usual Terran regulars, like oregano and rosemary. . .and which were asari. She'd even told the workers to stay at the hotel for the moment, which meant that they had a little privacy, and there was a privacy field around the booth, allowing them to relax a little within its distortion shield. "I'm surprised you didn't take Serana here," Dara told him as they ate.

He shrugged. "One week of leave after her boot camp. Less than a week of her living here before the plagues hit. And. . . " he paused. "I didn't really want to take you someplace tonight, where I'd taken her before."

Dara nodded, cutting her ravioli in half with her fork. "She mentioned that she didn't want her wedding with Lin to be in uniform. Like his was, on Macedyn."

"Or hers and mine, on Dymion," Eli muttered, looking down at his plate.

Dara's fingers reached out and caught his. "New memories," she told him, simply. "I was just trying to say that I understand."

He looked up and smiled at her. Piano music cascading through his thoughts, but he blocked her out of most of his own thoughts. _No peeking, __sai'kaea_. "Think maybe later, you could play some _reela_ music for me? Like the things you were playing during the Spectre trials, when you came to my room and Serana and I listened?" It had been a bittersweet moment. Even before the realizations forced on him by the simulation device, all he'd wanted to do was sink into the music and never come back up again. Dara had been playing from the heart that night. Sweet, delicate songs, filled with longing, love, and loss. Her subconscious had spoken through the music, and his own subconscious had been listening, apparently.

"I . . .well, I need to get a new _reela_," Dara told him. He'd let his blocks down to let her hear his memories as his fingers tightened on hers. "My old one, the one Azala gave me? It was on the _Estallus_."

"Damn. We can do that tonight," Eli offered, quickly. "But maybe after I take you to my single most favorite place on the station." He glanced at his omnitool. "We've got about forty minutes before we need to be there."

Dara's eyebrows rose. "So, skip dessert?"

Eli grinned. "We can have that afterwards, too. It's up on J level, at the moment."

As he paid for the meal, and they walked out, Dara asked, in a tone of mild confusion, "What do you mean, it's on J level, _for the moment_?"

Eli watched the crowds around them as they headed for the main axial elevators. "A lot of Bastion's areas are actually modular, though you wouldn't think of it, at first," he told her. "The flight traffic control centers and the smaller landing bays are modules, for example. They were in place on B level at first, and then, as each new shell gets built, the modules are moved outwards, and the gap in the shell where they used to be gets filled in. They do this one module at a time, so that traffic doesn't get impacted that much. And the docking arms, the ones that radiate out, like the corona of a sun? They're lengthened each time a new shell is finished. Eventually, everything will settle into a final configuration. In a hundred years, or seventy-five, depending on the budget."

Dara looked up at him skeptically. "You're not taking me to a flight control center, are you?"

Eli grinned at her as they stepped into the elevator with a half-dozen other people. "Not today, _sa'kaea._ Not today."

They made it to the observation lounge just in time. People who lived on Bastion tended to take the area for granted now, so it wasn't heavily trafficked, even on a Friday evening, like this one. Children were taken here during school hours for lessons, but that was during the day, obviously. And there were so many other places someone could go now for entertainment. Depth Charge, other bars, hotels, resorts. Even in the wake of the plagues, there were hundreds of venues that people could use for dates.

The observation lounge held a single, enormous piece of plasteel, at least twenty feet high by forty feet in length, dual-paned to keep out the cold of space, and to prevent heat inside from radiating out. Under normal circumstances, this window should have been the floor of the room, but an artificial gravity field was in effect in this module, which jutted out a little from among the scaffolding that was scattered all over Bastion's outer skin. Thus, they stepped through a hatchway. . .and had to, immediately, reorient themselves as to what was up, and what was down.

The moment of disorientation was usually mildly euphoric for Eli, and he glanced around, wanting to see what, if anything, had changed since his last visit here, in 2194. On his shore leave between changing duty assignments from Macedyn to Edessan.

The lights were usually kept bright during the day, to allow the small jungle of plants scattered throughout the room healthy and alive, so the room actually smelled of earth and _green_. At the moment, the lights were dimmed. . . but there was no need for additional illumination. Dara's sharp inhalation was very satisfactory indeed, and Eli smiled. "Oh, my," Dara murmured, and, still holding his hand, walked towards the window as if hypnotized.

The station took a half hour to rotate completely on its axis; every shell besides the one holding the reactor core held to the same rotational rate as the rest, which gave the effect of gravity, but with centripetal force instead. And Bastion was, at the moment, at a point in its orbit of the enormous white, ringed planet, in which the entire planet, its rings, and its moons, were visible. White light poured in through the window, leaving the plants and the walls still black, but suffusing the entire scene with pale glory. Eli glanced down as Dara took off her glasses, folded them, and hung them from the neck of her shirt, the better to see. . .and then stepped up onto the little deck just below the window, and put her free hand on the glass. "It's _beautiful_," Dara told him, simply.

Eli stepped up behind her, freeing her right hand, so she could put it, too, on the glass. Wrapped his right arm around her, and looked out at the planet. Opened his mind to hers, and effortlessly recalled the look of absolute wonder on her face, the first time they'd met, in the _Normandy_ observation lounge. The same look that was on her face right now. "I only got to come up here once or twice, for school, back in the day," he told her, softly, putting his left hand over hers on the glass. "Came here again, once, right after Brennia's death. After spending a week on Mindoir, helping Lantar build a porch." He chuckled. "Last year, this time, they were in the process of moving the module to its new location. It's still a hell of a sight, isn't it?"

Dara nodded against his chest, still drinking in the sight. Eli brushed a kiss onto her hair, and said, "I was going to wait until we got back to Mindoir for this. Could picture it really clearly in my mind. You sitting on a fence, watching the horses. Wearing jeans and one of those plaid shirts your mom borrowed from your dad, and that you used to wear all the time to school."

Dara slid into the images he was creating. Warm sunlight. Green smell of hay coming from the barn, harsh musk of horse sweat. Him standing behind her, just like this, but with his head at rib height on her, since she'd be sitting on the topmost rail of the fence, with her feet hooked under a lower rung. "And what were you going to wait for?" she asked, quietly. There were only two or three other people in the observation area, and all of them looked to be getting ready to leave, anyway.

Eli smiled. She could feel it in his song, blue-green happiness, and pinpricks of yellow anxiety. "You're going to make me say it, huh?"

Intentions washed over her, and Dara swallowed, her throat suddenly tight, not with grief, but with tears of happiness. "Is it going to hurt to ask?" she replied.

"Probably not." He leaned down and nipped the left side of her throat. "So. . . are you going to marry me or not, pretty lady?"

Dara closed her eyes for a moment on a giddy rush of emotion. "Yes," she replied, simply. She cleared her throat, and managed, out loud, teasingly, "Does this mean you're going to send Lantar to my dad for contract negotiations? My dad's going to _love_ that."

"Already told Lantar what I wanted him to negotiate for. And we've got time." Eli pulled her back into him more tightly with his right hand, and dug in his pocket with his left. For a fleeting, very bad moment, he thought he'd lost the damned thing, but then found it. "This was my great-grandmother's," he told her, and let her turn around to face him, so that now her face was cast into shadow. All except for the luminescent rachni eyes, which still glimmered in the planet's reflected light. He held up the ring. "All our yesterdays. Today. And all our tomorrows." Eli paused. "Joy-Singer helped me put a memory into the _yesterday._ Today always stays empty. And tomorrow. . . .that, we'll fill up later." Eli fiddled the ring back and forth between his fingers. "You're going to have to tell me which one is which. I can't tell the yesterday from the tomorrow."

Dara stared at the platinum band, her heart hammering in her throat. It meant an astounding amount to her. Not just what it was, but what it meant. She'd used her mother's ring the last time, but this was a part of his human family's history. It had a cluster of three gems, something that an asari would find perfectly in balance and harmonious. And it had crystals from the Singing Planet. _All we need now is a turian inscription inside of it. . . _

She touched one of the smaller, flanking crystals, opaque and milky white, and her eyes widened. Eli's perspective, the same memory he'd just evoked a moment ago. Watching her run into the observation lounge and stare at the planets. And then, the whisper of their very first kiss. "That one's past," she told him. . . and held out her hand, which was trembling a little, and Eli slipped the ring onto the correct finger. "What goes in the future stone?"

"Whatever you want to go there," Eli told her, simply. "Your decision."

"You're sure about this?" she asked him, her voice shaking. It was one thing to have worn his paint on Bek, like children playing, getting away with something while no one was looking. _I'm not entirely a prize, Eli. I'm snappy, moody, and I hold grudges._

_Like I don't?_ Eli leaned down, cradling her face in his hands, and kissed her, sweetly but very thoroughly, and she could feel it straight down to her toes. _Yeah. I'm sure. Was sure on Bek. You up to wearing violet paint for the rest of your life?_

_Yes._ Joy spilled out of her now, an incandescent light that rivaled, even surpassed, the pale radiance of Turan that flooded through the observation chamber. _You told Lantar __tal'mae__?_ Flicker of brief surprise.

_Absolutely. It's pretty much what most human weddings are, effectively. As a certain lawyer pointed out, loudly, not two days ago. Hell, I'm going to look into asari bondmate rituals, and get you to take those oaths, too_, Eli teased silently. _I plan to tie you up with so many knots, you'll never be able to pick them all loose._

He pulled back then, and gently wiped the tears from her eyes with his thumbs. "Guess that means we need to go knife shopping," Dara told him, smiling.

"What, you didn't look while Zhasa dragged you all over the station yesterday?" Eli pretended to mild shock.

Dara looked down and away, then up again, her lips curving into a mischievous smile. "Only a little bit. I didn't want to get you a knife sheath without being sure the blade would fit, and I wasn't quite sure. . . I mean, it's basically _days_ after the Conclave. . . "

Eli tapped her nose with one finger. "Want to go look for knives now? Or are you more in a mood for dessert?"

Dara grinned at him. "I think you're the one in a dessert mood." There were distinct undertones of burgundy in his song right now.

"Mmm-hmm. But I'm a big boy. I can wait till I'm _really_ hungry." Eli paused. "C'mon."

They headed for the Xalae and Smithson districts, since the shops were still open. Found knives that they both liked. They weren't _tal'mae_ knives. They weren't even turian. But they'd do, and nicely. Eli was particularly fond of what he'd found for Dara: a hand-forged bowie knife, with a pattern-welded, Damascus-style blade and an elk-horn hilt. Both like, and unlike, her father's much larger knife; this one was shorter, a total of six inches, including the hilt. He also liked the knife Dara found for him, which was considerably larger, and, like the one Serana and he had selected, long ago, had a blackened high-carbon blade, and a synthetic, no-slip hilt. It had a serrated rear edge, which made it a tool as well as a knife, which he liked. "Handy for sawing through things, if needed," Eli murmured. Some people, like Garrus, were swords. Clean and perfect and single-minded of purpose. He didn't mind being a more utilitarian knife, himself. Something that could be used for many different purposes.

They wouldn't be exchanging the knives for a long time, of course, but they did, at least, put on the knife sheathes, before tucking the knives away in their luggage.

The next day, of course, was slated for the bachelor party. Eli poked Dara in the shoulder after lunch, and reminded her, "You need to dress warmly, _sai'kaea_."

"I'm just going to rent one of the luge suits," she grumbled. "Too much effort to find anything."

"You did have all of yesterday, too."

"Shopping isn't fun, Eli. It's a chore. I'm on vacation." Dara made a rude noise, and went back to whatever she was reading. Then looked up, and pointed out, "Hey. . . if you plan to be a good host and slip down any of these slides? You can't really go wearing jeans or khakis or whatever "

Eli raised his eyebrows. "And why not?"

"Okay, I know I'm not a chemist or a physicist or anything here," Dara pointed out, dryly, "but the friction of your kiester going at top speed on the ice will melt a little of it. Little fragments will come off, too. All of which will dampen your pants. Jeans aren't recommended for snow survival because they're cotton, and the weave lets the water spread. It'll wick away to every other part of your pants. . . .and then even _you_ are going to feel the cold."

Eli snickered. "I figured I'd use a piece of plastic and put it between my ass and the ice."

"Oh, even better. Something slick on something else slick. What could _possibly_ go wrong?"

"This is all just an elaborate plan to get me to wear a luge suit, too, isn't it?" Eli folded his arms across his chest and gave Dara a look, from across the room. Mutual teasing.

"Hey, if I get to be uncomfortable and feel a little exposed all night, you can feel that way, too."

"Exposed? They zip up to the neck." Eli snickered. "My problem is that a guy could be accused of advertising in those things. And I sure as hell am not wearing anything like that, unless _every _guy in the room is, too." He thought about that. "Except the volus. The elcor. And the rachni. Man, now I wonder what cold-weather gear for an elcor looks like."

He eventually opted, with a grin in her direction, to pull on the elasticized undersuit from his armor. It had thermal units scattered all through it, and he settled the charge pack that would keep them running all night into the small of his back, adjusting his concealed carry harness so that the gun and the battery pack wouldn't run into each other constantly. Dara sighed. "Okay. .. I'll admit. That was a good idea . . . but all _my_ fancy party stuff shows skin. You can wear long sleeves and slacks, and the whole suit's covered, other than the gloves, which you're not wearing."

"Not my fault," Eli told her lightly. "On the other hand? Very much looking forward to you in a really tight, sleek, silvery suit."

"Oh, bite me, Eli."

"Again? We won't make it to the reception on time." Eli ducked as Dara threw a pillow at him, and laughed.

The entire area outside of Depth Charge had been cordoned off by B-Sec. . . and it looked like every volus on the station had turned out for the party. Eli had never realized how _many_ of the little creatures lived on the station. There had to have been two thousand small, suited figures lined up in the street, hoping for a chance to get in and see the party. "How many of them are actually relatives, do you think?" Dara shouted over the crowd noise as an officer waved them through.

"He's got ten clans," Eli shouted back. "Could be all of them!"

Inside, Depth Charge's main floor had, indeed, per his directions, had the tanks drained and the plasteel walls had been removed. Upstairs and downstairs, the two-story grand entrance and dance areas had been redecorated in their entirety for this festive occasion. The floor tile floor now had strips of outdoor carpeting, for safer footing, and there were, indeed, iceslides, vaulting from the second floor bar area down into the entry area below in slow, graceful turns. The smaller volus slides exited into large, near-frozen pools of water, and, as they entered, a volus shrieked in glee and fear combined as he (or she) plummeted down into one of those pools, sending a spray of water everywhere, before being helped out by an elcor attendant, who stood patiently by the pool, awaiting the next volus projectile. The slides intended for human, turian, asari, and drell use had fewer turns and loops than the volus ones, for safety, and terminated in a mass effect field that caught people, absorbed their kinetic energy, and allowed them to stand up after levitating in mid-air for a few seconds. . . as they saw, as a laughing asari dropped, feet-first, to the ground as the field shut off to allow her to exit the area.

There were two dozen massive blocks of ice, each about eight feet tall, on top of which were asari dancers, dressed in silvery, luge-type suits. . . mostly unzipped at the front as low as the waist, showing off curves and blue, turquoise, and violet skin. There were mats at the top, Eli knew, to give them secure footing as they worked their way around the poles embedded at the top of each giant ice cube. Lights were positioned _under_ each block of ice. . . sending up blue, red, and green flashes in time to the music, which thundered out of the speakers tucked into walls and ceilings around them. On this level, a bar made of ice had indeed been set up. . . and there were fountains, also made of ice, all around the open area. The fluid that circulated through the ice fountains wasn't water, but either _malae_ wine or high end Terran vodka, clearly marked.

And it was _crowded_ already, and the party had technically only started about fifteen minutes ago. Eli felt Dara move closer to him, her instinctive reaction to crowds, and her leeriness at being touched surging to the fore. "I wasn't expecting this many people," Eli shouted over the music. _Admittedly, half of them are volus, which means at least we can more or less see where we're going. . . but my god._

_They probably invited every volus Fors is technically related to,_ Dara told him, silently.

_And all the turians?_ _B-Sec people?_

_Yeah. And maybe from the squads he served with in the Reaper war?_

_And maybe the staff from the turian embassy, to represent the turian-volus relationship?_ Eli added.

_Doesn't explain all the asari. . . and the salarians. . . _

_Trade connections, maybe. Four of his clans are very heavily invested in asari space, and two are very heavily into salarian bio-science firms, if I remember the notes he kept giving me and Lin. . . _Eli spotted a break in the crowds, and got them to where the coat-check area usually was. . . which had been altered to a 'clothing-check' area, and Dara received a key for a locker, and a blue suit with silvery overtones to it, along with matching boots. "The things I do for you, _ciae'teilu_," Dara told him, and vanished into the dressing area, to emerge again ten minutes later, shrugging her shoulders and arms, trying to get comfortable. Neither of them were wearing their knife-sheathes tonight, by common consent, but Dara was wearing her ring.

"How bad is it?" Eli asked her, his eyes tracking downwards along the sleek curves that were so. . . definitively outlined by the clinging material of the suit. "Also, if I might say. . . yowza."

Dara made a face at him. "More comfortable than I expected," she allowed after a moment, grudgingly. Modern luge suits were actually more similar, today, to speed-skating suits, he'd discovered in his research. He'd figured that the dancers and party-goers could move in the flexible material easily, and stay warm at the same time. The outside of the suit, when he touched it at her wrist, was so smooth as to be almost frictionless "This is part two in your quest to ensure that I can't carry a concealed weapon, isn't it?"

"I could give you my asp," Eli offered, cheerfully. "Keep it on a lanyard around your wrist, and that way, you could play with it any time you want."

"You'd like me to play with your asp, huh?" Dara was still giving him a dark look, but her lips were curving up at the corners, much as she struggled to keep a straight face.

"I loved watching you play with it for three months on Omega. You do handle it very well." Eli kept his tone bland, and pulled her close again, as they fought through the crowd, heading for the central bar, with its stools and glassware all, also, made of ice. Which was, actually, where Siara and Makur were already set up. Makur didn't really need any cold weather gear; krogan tended to laugh off the elements on all but the harshest worlds. Siara, however, was in a silvery suit, and sipping at something with an orange slice hanging off the edge of the glass. "There you are," she told them. "About time, too."

"We're only fifteen minutes late," Dara protested. "And by the bye? You ducked us on the shopping trip, Siara. I'm taking it out of your hide the next time you need sutures."

Siara grinned at her. "I was finishing testing for my class C mech license. And getting fitted for an Aegis mech."

Eli raised his eyebrows. "Going to be a little clunky to move in and out of combat areas."

Siara shook her head. "I'm not using it for boarding parties. I want it for fighting yahg." She shrugged. "The rest of you spent your armor stipend on armor. I talked with Gris and Ylara, and they said they didn't have a problem with me getting a mech instead, and went to bat with Shepard for me on it." She rolled her shoulders back. "Won't be as cumbersome as that mining mech I used on Omega. Nor as fast as the quarian-geth designed suits. . . " She sighed. "Which I'd still love to get my hands on. But, it'll be completely environmentally sealed. I can wear it with my armor or without it. No fragile canopy in front; a full ceramic polyresin mask, with eyeslits and a full HUD inside, so I can see what I'm aiming at. Should triple my strength, add about five hundred pounds to my weight. . .and I can still use my biotics inside of it."

"Though learning to aim worth a damn from the HUD screen is giving her problems," Makur volunteered in a low rumble. "Couple of times, she's aimed for me, and hit someone twenty feet to my left." He smiled, however. "Will also come in handy on Tuchanka. A little easier for you to take a hit if any of the females you challenge when Malla dies takes you up on it." He snorted.

Siara arched a finely-painted brow at him. "If I use the mech, they'll say it's a crutch. No, I'll fight them in my own skin, if I have to. Fortunately, there are currently no biotic females in Urdnot." She waved her glass in a little salute. "This stuff actually tastes good. And doesn't smell like ryncol. I have no idea where this has been all my life."

Eli leaned forward and squinted at the glass. "Rum and coke?" he offered.

"Yes! Wonderful stuff. I may have to have another."

Eli's shoulders shook, and he turned towards Dara to ask her what she'd like. . . and caught sight of Rel and Seheve approaching, and whistled. "Now she has _got_ to be cold," he assessed.

"What, who—" Dara craned her neck. "Oh. Damn. I helped her pick out that outfit, but I didn't think she'd wear it here. . . I just put her back _together_ after she got half her scales peeled off by liquid methane, for god's sake. . . "

The red leather vest hung open over Seheve's chest, and stopped well short of her waist; the red leather skirt draped from low on the hips to the floor. A silvery _cinctus_, composed of interweaving serpents, wrapped around her waist, and Eli was absolutely certain that the drell was still carrying at least a vibroknife and a pistol, in concealed harnesses under the skirt. Rel had one hand up on her shoulders, and was dressed in, for a turian, relatively conservative fashion. . . black pants with a muted gold shirt. "Seheve tells me I have you to thank for her attire tonight," Rel told Dara as they reached the bar. "Thank you. I think every turian male in the room may want to thank you, too."

Seheve's throat-scales flushed. Dara just shook her head. "How the _hell_ are you warm enough in that, Seheve?"

"Battery powered heaters in the boots, which are thigh-high. Zhasa'Maedan mentioned that these thermal units were common among 'ski gear' from Earth," Seheve explained, hesitantly. "Additionally, I have placed chemical warming packs in the pockets of the vest. When my hands grow too cold, I can use them." Seheve scraped the edge of the ice bar with her talons, a fidgety motion, unusual from the usually serene drell female. "I am uncertain if I like the feeling of so many eyes on me."

"I don't know," Dara told her, pragmatically. "Think of it as diversion training. The more conspicuous you are, the better the odds of someone else sliding past, unnoticed." She looked down, and added, "That's a lovely _cinctus,_ by the way."

"New, as of today," Rel noted. "I thought it was about time."

Dara nodded, and then looked up. "I don't suppose Allardus and Solanna are on the guest list?" she asked Eli.

"Not to my knowledge. Why?"

"Because watching Solanna's reaction to Seheve's outfit would make my _year._" Dara's grin was tart. "Of course, I might also have to start CPR on her, so . . . on the whole, probably a good thing she's not here."

Rel gave her a push-off flick of his fingers. "Now that the courts have officially declared the old contract null and void," he said, a little tightly, "my mother really can't have any grounds to be rude to Seheve."

Dara's eyebrows rose. "Has it just been _tal'mae_ that's been her objection, or have you been getting twenty verses and a chorus of 'I want grandchildren that don't require a users' manual' . . . _again_?"

"Both," Rel muttered.

Dara thought about it, and Eli could feel the very precise way her thoughts moved. "Want a way to shut her up for good on that?" she finally offered.

Rel's eyes flicked up. "Would kill for it," he admitted.

"No need. Just connect a few ideas in the same sentence. Walk her through this, and she'll come to her own conclusions: if you had a turian mate, there's a better than average chance that you'll have to deal with estrus at some point in your life. Especially if you both wanted the children that Solanna is so eager for you to have." Dara's tone was clinical.

Rel frowned. "Yes, and . . . ?"

"I know I told you that it was unlikely that you'd ever go into a blood-rage while mating, but during an estrus cycle of sixteen to thirty-six hours, a male turian has to call on large reserves of adrenaline, and his body produces two to three times more testosterone and oxytocin than it usually does." Dara's tone was medical and remote. "The odds would be substantially increased that you might lose control. Of course, your body would be fully engaged in what you were doing, but. . . it's not a good point in time to lose control."

Rel swallowed, hard. "You said—"

"I know what I said. We made sure of it for regular mating purposes. We didn't really have time to extrapolate out on estrus scenarios, so we don't know if it would happen. I doubt that it would." Dara shrugged. "But if we don't know, your mom sure as hell won't know, either. Just say, sorrowfully, that you can't really take that risk with a turian female in good conscience, and let her put the pieces together herself. Chances are, you'll get a few pitying looks, I'll get the bulk of her bad temper for screwing you over with the gene mod—"

"—the gene mod that saved Rellus' leg?" Seheve said, incredulously.

"This is Solanna we're talking about. She's outrage, waiting for a place to happen." Dara shrugged. "I heard once she told Garrus to stop 'playing games' on Omega." She glanced at Rel. "Think it would work?"

"Probably." Rel hesitated. "I'm not sure I like the thought of you drawing her fire. . . "

"If it sets Seheve up as your rescuer from durance vile, that'll make her a hero in your mom's eyes, and buy you at least a year of quiet." Dara toasted them with her glass of wine. "Take it as a gift."

That was when Serana and Lin walked up, and Lin made a comical show of his double-take at Seheve's outfit. "Eyes up," Serana told him, firmly. She'd managed to squeeze her turian frame into a human-made luge suit, and the result was tight enough that Eli was pointedly looking anywhere else at the moment, himself.

"Believe me, _amatra_, I have no desire to wind up fighting a duel with either Rel _or_ Seheve herself tonight. My eyes _are_ up. . . but I'm only male. You can't expect me _not_ to notice a very nice waist." Lin paused. "And there are all sorts of nice waists here. Including yours," he added, grinning, as Serana threatened to kick him.

Eli noted with amusement that Dara was, for the moment, keeping her ring hand out of sight. She was playing the _wait to see who notices on their own_ game. He didn't think even Seheve had seen it yet; the drell female had many more things on her mind for now. Including staying warm, apparently, from the way she'd pressed herself into Rel's side.

Zhasa and Dempsey came in, and, having dispatched Madison to the kids' area for a night of video games and pizza and _oolorae_ drumsticks, depending on the species of the child in question, moved to the bar now, themselves. It was getting crowded—well, more so. Dempsey, like the rest of the males present, had opted for putting his thermal suit on under regular clothes, but Zhasa, as might be expected of the quarian, had entered into the spirit of the celebration with enthusiasm, and had put on a luge suit herself. _Sai'kaea__, I think I'm starting to get muscle strain from keeping my head tilted upwards. There are entirely too many gorgeous women that I work with here._

_Your heroic sacrifice is noted. Go ahead and look. I don't mind. I know it doesn't mean anything._ Blue-green amusement.

Eli chuckled under his breath, but before he could retort, Zhasa was the one who noticed and pounced on Dara's left hand, exclaiming, "Ahh, so that's how it's supposed to be worn!"

Zhasa's boundless enthusiasm took what could have been a deeply awkward moment, and turned it into something much happier. Dempsey offered Eli a handshake, and Lin and Rel offered wrist-clasps, before each male quickly hugged Dara. Rel's embrace was carefully formal, and Dara very carefully did not touch the skin of her exposed hands to his scales. Makur simply whacked Eli on the shoulder, hard enough that Eli had to fight to keep himself upright, and Siara offered each of them an embrace. Cool touch of her thoughts on Eli's mind as she did: _As I think I said a month or three ago. . . nothing I didn't suspect for years, Eli._

_I know. We were stubborn about it._

Siara laughed, and offered Dara the same embrace, not moving from her frozen barstool. . . and Dara accepted it, after pretending to study Siara suspiciously for a moment. Then Seheve, very tentatively, offered an embrace as well, and Dara, after only a slight pause to figure out how not to touch her scales, returned the hug.

Cacophony of voices. Lin asking Eli when the contract was going to be signed, Eli shouting back over the noise level, "Not sure. Not till after the war. Want lots of time. If we're doing this, we're doing this _once_, and we're going to get it done _right_."

Serana's eyes had gone wide at the ring. "What do the three stones mean?" she asked Dara, after embracing her. A volus nearby slid down a slide, and landed with a splash so violent, it actually sprayed them all at the bar, which made them all yelp at the cold.

"It was Eli's great-grandmother's," Dara explained, once she'd recovered, raising her voice to punch through the music and other voices. "There was a fashion for a while for three-stone rings. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow." She pointed at each, but didn't touch the rachni crystals.

Serana's head swung up, and she looked at Eli for a long moment, and he could feel her eyes looking right through into his spirit. Not judging; Serana rarely judged. Just examining, and accepting, as Serana almost always did. He met her gaze with only a twinge of sadness. He didn't want his gift to Dara to hurt Serana. . . but there were nuances to the gesture that Serana probably couldn't help but pick up on, with her wise heart. "It's lovely, Dara," Serana told her. "But you should definitely put your gloves on before going on any of the slides. It would be awful to lose that."

"Who says I'm going on any of the slides?" Dara asked, immediately.

"Oh, hush, of course you are," Zhasa told her, immediately. "Why be here if you're not going to have fun."

"I'm having fun right were I am now," Dara protested. "Siara, you are, too, right?"

Siara's eyes glittered. "Dara, I spent the last two days stomping around inside an Aegis mech, training it to recognize my movements. There's no way anyone's getting me out of this chair until I've had at least two more of these. . . really delicious fizzy things. Do you have my excuse?"

Dara exhaled and gave Siara a look. "When you put it like that. . . no."

"Good!" Zhasa crowed, and grabbed Dara by the arm, dragging her off towards the stairs. . . with Serana trailing in their wake, laughing.

Eli shook his head. "I'm going to be hearing about this later," he decided, and finally got the bartender's attention to order whiskey for himself.

Melaani appeared at Eli's back as he took his first sip of whiskey, with Fors waddling in her wake. "My _shreee'eka'i!_" the volus snuffled, clearly having turned up the volume on his suit voice projection unit. "You've gotten things off to a hugely promising beginning. None of my clans has yet to declare that they'll impose trade sanctions against any of the others. . . of course, the night is young. . . " He gestured happily around them, and Eli took in the direction of the gesture, following the small gloved hands towards the dancers on the ice blocks. "And Melaani tells me that all these asari passed their background checks, and that an old friend of hers is actually among them, keeping an eye on the proceedings. So that we won't need to see B-Sec come in and escort any of them away for _untoward_ dealings." Laughter, thick and mucous, bubbled up from behind Fors' mask.

Eli grinned and extended a hand to Melaani. "Thank you," he told her, sincerely. "None of this would have been possible without your help. I just didn't know enough people on Bastion to look into this. I only had a couple of weeks in B-Sec before the plagues hit, and that's really not enough connections to make something like this work."

The asari smiled, and pulled up a barstool beside Siara, as Makur remained standing. . . doubtless not wanting to trust his bulk to the fragile ice. "It was a pleasure, Elijah," she told him, lightly. "Something that didn't involve yagh, batarians, or asari corporations inadvertently selling my own people into slavery. . . ? It washed some of the filth away. Plus, it let me get in touch with an old friend, with whom I'd lost contact. Always a good thing." She glanced around the room, and then directed her gaze back to the rest of them. "Seheve, you look lovely tonight. Although I assume that you are standing so close to Rel at the moment for purposes of sharing bodily heat more efficiently?" Melaani's lips curved up into a smile.

Seheve looked a little embarrassed. "Yes," she responded. "That is precisely the case."

Siara snickered into her drink, as Eli drained his own. "_N'tesai'uel pua'mei._" She added, in galactic, "I would have thought, given your training, that you would manage social fibs with more grace, Seheve."

Rel frowned. "Eli, what the hell did she just say? I took asari off my VI translator when we left Astaria."

Eli switched into turian. _"She said that your __amatra__ speaks not-truths poorly."_

"I understood the words," Seheve said, quietly. "I am not offended, Rellus."

"I am," Rel replied, dryly. "Siara, you don't have to start _every_ conversation with someone with an insult."

"It seems to me I've said that before, myself," Eli said, looking up at the ceiling, far above. The nightly exchange of memories had fringe benefits. Such as making him remember, now, with perfect clarity, telling Siara that teasing was one thing, but making every shot she threw a haymaker wasn't necessary.

Siara gave Rel a narrow-eyed glance, and took another sip of her drink. "If I wanted to insult someone, I'd _insult_ them," she informed Rel, with dignity. "For instance, I'd say that you're _n'aiellu'mai_, when you put your mind to it. . . except that it would be a contradiction in terms."

Rel glanced at Eli. Lin grimaced. "I know that one. A thoughtless person, or an ill-spoken one. Inconsiderate and stupid."

Eli winced. It had been one of Brennia's favorite insults, once he'd taught it to her. Rel's eyes had narrowed, now. "And I might say that your insults are _undenatus."_ He shifted fully into turian now. _"You bite only the air, and miss the throat of the matter entirely."_

Fors snickered in amusement as Siara looked at Eli. "What did he say?" the asari asked.

Eli changed into asari. _"He said that your insult was toothless, and that you missed your target entirely."_

Siara looked past Eli towards Rel and Seheve. "You want to make this interesting?" she offered. "Any time Eli mistranslates, we make him drink."

Eli squinted at her, as Rel guffawed. "Sounds like an inevitable downward spiral waiting to happen," Eli said. "Besides. How would you know if I screwed up?"

"I speak turian," Fors commented, waddling closer and climbing up onto the nearest barstool very carefully, his legs dangling above the floor now. "And my VI is keyed to asari. I'll be your arbiter."

"I'm not sure I _trust_ you as a judge, Fors," Eli muttered, as Lin started to laugh.

At which point, Seheve raised her hand. "I am fluent in asari, and competent in turian," she offered. "I will serve as a secondary judge. . . if you wish."

"Now her? Her, I trust," Eli said, and Fors almost fell off his stool laughing.

That was pretty much how it started. Siara's vocabulary was pretty impressive, and Rel, though he kept it in check around family and friends, had been around turian marines and special forces operatives for five years.

"Tell him he's _n'maieolo'mai'a_, and _eilli,_" Siara said, after a moment's thought. A _not-sharing person_ and _empty_.

"_Rel, you do not share your spirit with others, and what spirit you have, is empty."_

Fors chuckled. "Eli gets points for not only accuracy, but managing to make it insulting in turian, too." He looked at Seheve. "Do you agree?"

Seheve's eyes were wide. "It was very insulting in either language." She cleared her throat. "But the translation was acceptable."

"Your turn," Eli told Rel. "Make it a good one."

Rel's eyes had narrowed at the translation. "Siara has a knack for finding the cruelest barb, doesn't she?"

"Sky doesn't call her Pain-Singer for nothing," Eli agreed.

"And you used to _date_ her?"

"I was young and stupid. Makur? I can only assume he's a closet masochist."

Makur guffawed loudly and pounded on the bar with one big fist, cracking the ice. Siara's eyes had narrowed. "I'm waiting for my turian insult. Dazzle me," she informed them.

Rel thought about it. And responded, "_You wear the bite-scars of a hundred males."_

Eli shook his head. "Nice try, but doesn't really apply to her." He turned and told Siara, lightly, _"He says you've shared yourself for coin a hundred times and more."_

Siara made a rude noise. "No, I haven't, you _diya'duath'sokiia."_

Rel looked at Eli inquiringly. "_You who have sworn yourself to death's side."_

"Is that the poetic translation?" Fors asked. "My VI just scrambled its circuits on that one."

"Poetic, yes," Seheve murmured. "More regularly, 'you mercenary.'"

Melaani had her head down, and was covering her eyes as she laughed by this point. "I think Siara's winning," the asari Spectre pointed out.

Rel growled under his breath in mild annoyance. He and Siara had known each other, and Lin, the longest of anyone at the bar. "All right. _At least I've sworn myself to __something__, I serve something greater than myself. Which you will never know, you honorless, spirit-lost daughter of a thrice-poxed __villi__."_

"Give me a minute," Eli admitted. "That might be hard to make insulting in asari." He thought for a moment. _"Siara, he says that he, unlike you, has sworn oaths to the spirit of the universe, and that the loving-touch of the universe is something you will never know, for you are without honor and without spirit. Oh, and your mother was a __villi__ who shared disease with all she met."_ Eli paused. "That's a hell of a thing to say about Azala, I might add."

"You added quite a lot to that one," Fors said, critically, as Siara's mouth dropped open in mild shock.

"It wasn't going to be insulting at all in asari if I didn't explain it," Eli replied, with a shrug.

"I think you need a handicap," Lin told him, and beckoned the bartender over. "My friend needs more whiskey to slow down his mind."

Eli had just swallowed half a glass of whiskey, when he noticed Melaani perking up, looking behind him and smiling. He didn't have much time to reflect on that, because Siara had decided to continue the game. "Tell him," Siara said, her grin all edges now, her blue eyes glittering in the low light, "that he is _n'__iai'llieau_. _N'weo pleia'su'uel_ _tia_ _veia."_

Eli coughed into his hand. "_Rel? You lack the spirit of integrity. You also give pleasure to vermin and, ah, non-sapient creatures."_ He paused. "In English, that would be 'you fellate sheep,' I think."

Fors stared down at his VI. "That's not what it says here!"

Eli drank the other half of his whiskey. "Well, technically, it could be _any_ kind of pleasure. But in context, I don't think she means that Rel's going to paint a picture for a nest full of rats."

Dempsey, who'd been watching and listening expressionlessly, actually choked on his Guinness at that point. Eli looked at Rel, and offered, "You want to hit her where she lives?"

"Hey!" Siara told him, with no actual ire. "No cheating!"

"I'll take all the help I can get," Rel answered. "What's your suggestion, Eli?"

As Eli leaned in, he saw Melaani stand up and move off behind him. Again, he didn't have mental cycles to spare for the byplay; translating in and out of turian and asari with whiskey uncoiling warmly in his stomach was quite enough to keep track of, he figured. "_Tell her that her mother's mothers, five generations back, are all pure-bloods, on both sides, and that she is backwards and retrograde as a result, a primitive sort of asari, who can barely speak, let alone start a fire."_

Rel's lip-plates dropped open. "Ouch," he said, after a moment. "_You want me to tell her that she's. . . "_

"_In human terms? An inbred yokel from the back woods, yes."_

Rel cleared his throat, and repeated everything Eli had told him, in turian. Word for word. Eli translated it, grinning, and watched Siara's face turn _cobalt._ "Just because I live on Tuchanka doesn't mean I'm some kind of a _savage_," she spluttered.

Makur looked down at her. "Why not? I am." He grinned. "And proud of it."

"I'm trying to figure out how to apply one of Sam's favorite insults in this conversation," Eli mused out loud, as Lin took the whiskey bottle and poured him another. "'Cheese-eating surrender-monkey' just doesn't seem to apply to a turian, so I suppose we could try it out on Siara. . . "

Dempsey actually turned his head, smiling faintly, and his shoulder shook. "Sorry, Sidonis, that one only flies if you're a native of North America, talking to someone from France."

The blank stares from the non-humans was proof of that, although Rel grinned a little, having heard it before, and Makur was chuckling. "Surrender-monkey," he repeated, as if filing it away for future reference.

They were, for the moment, in a sort of a loose line along the bar. Rel and Seheve were off to Eli's left; Lin and he stood between them and where Fors and Siara sat to the right. Dempsey and Makur bracketed the group, still standing, to either side. Eli could see Rel and Seheve glance up at something behind him and Lin as they stood at the bar, but they didn't give any sort of threat reaction, so he wasn't on alert as a soft, warm hand dropped to the back of his neck. He stiffened, instantly, feeling Lin stiffen to his right, and then a soft voice whispered, in asari, in his ear, _"Mai'kaea'yili, vaelo'uelo fia_ _maieolo'yili?"_ _Once-beloved-but-no-more, have you hungered for my loving touch?_ In human terms, _have you missed me, sweetheart?_ but . . .with more emphasis.

Eli's head jerked to the right, and he blinked rapidly and repeatedly as he took in the asari standing between himself and Lin, and pulled out of her light grip. She, like all the other dancers, currently wore a skin-tight luge suit. . . unzipped to the waist. Recognition took a minute. And then Eli felt himself flushing, just a little. "Pelia?" he said, his tone a little strangled. And then his head swiveled, looking for Dara, immediately. _She'd just headed upstairs to the slide area, there was probably a line. . . __sai'kaea__?_ Eli thought, as loudly as he dared, still scanning the base of the slides for Dara's form.

Lin had pulled away from a hand similarly placed on his neck, too, standing up straight and just a little wild-eyed. "Ah. . . hello, Pelia," Lin added now. "What an unexpected surprise." He looked past her, to Melaani, who was standing behind the shorter asari, but clearly didn't know what to say. And then started looking through the crowd around them, in exactly the same way as Eli. . .and brought his left arm, with its new, though empty knife sheath, into clear view.

Pelia just grinned at them, impishly. "Melaani contacted me to help do background checks on the dancers. And asked if I'd mind being one of them, to sort of keep an eye on the proceedings." She put her hands right back on their shoulders. Pure friendliness; asari tended to be very tactile with people they considered friends. Humans and turians. . . much less so. "So, what have you two been up to?"

Melaani was standing behind her, looking a little amused. "Pelia and I lived together about fifty years ago. She helped. . . a lot. . . when I needed to clear my mind after a stint of undercover work. The Eclipse one, actually." She frowned a little, clearly reading the discomfort in Eli and Lin's body language. "I know I told you all that I'd have a friend in among the dancers—"

"You never mentioned it would be someone that we knew," Lin said, gently taking Pelia's hand off his neck and giving it a little pat before putting it just as gently, but firmly, down on the bar's cold, damp surface. "As I said, really nice to see you, Pelia. You're . . . looking well."

"Still smiling, so that's a plus, isn't it?" Pelia told them, cheerfully, as Eli, just as delicately extricated himself from her loose grip. And winced, internally. _Still smiling_ had certain. . . resonances. . . in context, and he wasn't sure if she meant the words blandly, or if she were making a fairly intimate joke with a straight face. Pelia looked at them, and pretended to pout. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you two weren't happy to see me. Are we Vice cops just destined to be forever beneath a Spectre's . . . notice?" Her eyes twinkled in amusement.

Eli had, by this point, gotten control of his face, and had gone into 'guarding the front gates' mode. Blank, completely expressionless. "Not at all," he replied, carefully. "It's a pleasure to see you again." But he and Lin were _very_ carefully keeping about a foot of space between themselves and Pelia at this point.

Siara and Rel, however, had scented blood, and were leaning forward, watching the two of them and Pelia intently. "So, you two and Pelia are old friends?" Siara asked archly, over the crowd noise. "Do I dare ask what she said to you in greeting, Eli?"

"'Hi, sweetie, did you miss me?'" Eli replied, stone-faced. "Nothing major."

Pelia put her hands on her hips. "I don't even get a handshake, let alone a hug?" she asked, eyebrows rising. For a moment, there was a flicker of hurt beneath the teasing. "I thought we'd shared enough together that I'd get a better reception than this."

Eli winced. They had shared a lot. The loss of a friend, the investigation into her death, the grieving process, and, well, a bed. Once. That last part was, unfortunately, overshadowing the rest. And it didn't help that Siara had leaned in to purr, with a wicked smile, "Shared?"

"Or _shared?"_ Rel asked, with emphasis, leaning in, with an equally predatory grin.

Lin gave Rel, behind Pelia's back, a very firm finger-flick, and then said, "Yes, you're right, Pelia. My manners stink." He offered her a wrist-clasp, and nothing more.

Pelia's smile had dimmed for a moment, but emerged from behind clouds again as she clasped his wrist. "I see you're wearing a wrist-sheath again, and Melaani tells me you're one of the guests of honor for this party," she told Lin. "I'd love to meet your future wife."

Lin was giving his very best cop-face at the moment. His expression didn't even flicker, but his eyes scanned the crowd again. "I'm sure she'd be thrilled."

Pelia turned and looked back at Eli. "And I understand from Melaani that you put this all together for Fors, Lin, and ah. . .someone named Dempsey?" She put a hand on the wrist of the hand he was resting on the bar top. "Elijah. . . the things you do for your friends."

Eli coughed a little at that one. His mind, as usual, took the words two different ways at once. . . but it didn't stop him from blocking the light touch of her mind. It hadn't been an information probe, but he couldn't let her in at all, not even in friendly greeting. And then he lifted his left hand away and offered her his right hand to shake. "Yeah. I got suckered into this."

Rel again, still leaning in from Eli's left. "So, Pelia. . . you knew them both on Macedyn, I take it? Only duty station they shared before Edessan and Nimines. You'll have to tell us if some of their wilder stories are true at all."

_Oh, __s'kak__. Both Siara and Rel were in the room when we did the 'count the pairings' joke. And when Lin mentioned that we 'knew a couple of guys' who'd shared an asari between them, and how she'd gone into shock afterwards._ Eli's thoughts raced. _And neither of them probably bought Lin's 'a couple of guys' any more than Dara did. . . _

"What sorts of wilder stories?" Pelia responded, immediately. "I worked Vice, which means I was usually dolled up as a wiggler. . . but there was this one time when we borrowed a bunch of the MPs to help chase down some of the couriers that moved drugs from warehouses to distributors, if you will. Most of them used hovercycles for that. High-speed, agile in the narrow, older streets of the bad areas of the city, and could handle a fair amount of product. I was at the initial bust, but we didn't know about the alternate exits, and two or three couriers left at once. Eli and Lin here both grabbed cycles and took off after one of the couriers. I had to stay where I was, as I had, you know. . . the distributor to deal with, but I'm told there were tourists taking pictures as they all raced by." Pelia grinned. "That sort of wild story?"

"Was thinking more of some of the crazy people they say they knew," Rel said, his grin broadening.

"I couldn't make up some of those people," Eli retorted, swiftly. _Rel, I know you want to get your licks in, but. . . not today. Not this way. _

Pelia released his hand, still looking a little puzzled, but a touch happier, and asked, "So, you didn't answer the question. What's new with you two? I've been catching up with Melaani, on and off, for the last month by comm call, but the most I've been able to see or hear about you two has been on the newsfeeds."

"Work, mostly," Lin replied, immediately, at the exact moment Eli responded, "Mostly work."

"Oh, come on, there must be something more," Pelia teased. "You're about to get _married_, Lin. And two years ago, I wouldn't have put money on that ever happening again. And you, Eli? The newsfeeds have been _buzzing_ about you."

Dara had found the trip down the ice slide in her frictionless suit just about as bad as a parachute drop, in its own way. Loss of control was never her favorite thing. Serana, of course, skidding down ten feet ahead of her, was giggling like a loon the whole way, and cheered as she launched into the mass effect field, which caught her, dissipated her kinetic energy, and set her on the floor. "Move!" Dara cried, as she neared the end of the slide, and Serana ducked out of the way as Dara went flying now, herself, only to be caught like a fly in amber by the forcefield. . . and then slowly dropped to the floor, herself.

And got, promptly, splashed by another volus landing in a pool nearby. "Okay, Dara told Serana. "I've now had fun. Can I go back to not having fun now, please?"

"Live a little, Dara," Serana urged, and pushed her back towards the staircase, which was next to the bar where they'd left Eli and Lin and the others to stand in a very long line before dropping down the slide.

"I should have worn a skirt, like Seheve. Then I'd have the perfect excuse not to—" Dara paused, and Serana bumped into her from behind.

"Stop stalling, Dara, you _anserae_. . . oh." Serana followed the line of her gaze to the center of the iceblock bar. "Wait a second. Who is that? She looks familiar."

"That," Dara said, "is Pelia."

Serana stopped moving for a moment, completely. Tipped her head to the side, and studied Pelia. Looking at Serana, Dara grinned to herself. She looked _exactly_ like a bird of prey, evaluating if the small rabbit in a meadow was worth the time and energy of spreading the wings, stooping down, killing, and eating. "Serana, look at their body language. They're completely pulled back from her."

"I know. They're doing everything but putting their hands behind their backs to show that they're not touching her." Serana's reply was immediate.

"Think they need an extraction?"

"Do they _deserve_ an extraction?"

"Probably," Dara replied, and began working her way through the crowd of volus dancing at her feet. Volus dancing was probably very graceful on their home planet. Here, they tended to lumber into each other in their unwieldy envirosuits.

Another few near-impacts of hard outer suit against her knees and legs, and Dara managed to wedge her way through the group of taller people near the bar with a few quick _excuse me_'s. . . and put a hand on the back of Eli's neck. Skin contact, and he actually _jumped_ . . . and then relief flooded through him as he realized who was touching him. _Sai'kaea__?_

_In the flesh._ Dara wasn't entirely surprised as Eli reached back, put an arm around her, and pulled her in front of him. And, to her enormous amusement, Lin did the exact same thing, pulling Serana in front of him. _Wait. We're shields?_ Quick flash of the hard shields the pair usually carried.

_Yes. Today, you're a human shield, __sai'kaea__._ Pure relief in his song, yellows fading into greens as he understood that _she_ understood. _I didn't know she was going to be here._

_Awkward?_

_You have no idea._

_And to think I thought it would take the two of us walking into the wrong bar in Adams-Morgan, D.C., like my dad did years and years ago, for you to clutch me like a life-preserver_

_Shush. _Eli leaned down to kiss her cheek, and Dara turned just enough to verify that his eyes had gone night-black, rim to rim. "_I greet you, Pelia,_" Dara said , in the asari she was working so damned hard to perfect, not waiting for the males to introduce her, which would probably be a signal to the asari that she knew quite a bit about her already. "Dara Jaworski."

"_I wonder if I should greet you as a sister,"_ Serana said, from in front of Lin. _"Since I feel that I know so much about you. And that we share so many things in common. I'm Serana Velnaran."_

_Ouch_, Dara thought. Serana was smiling politely, but the words could be taken as courtesy. . . or a thinly veiled attack. _That was all claws under the velvet gloves._

_Could be worse. She could have shouted, "Mine, all mine!" and marked Lin in public. . . _Eli cleared his throat, and watched as Pelia's head moved back and forth between them. Eli could almost see the wheels churning in her head. Serana was still in Velnaran yellow paint, but wore an empty sheath, just as Lin did. Dara hadn't been able to wear her dark glasses in the darkened room, but other than the strobes, it was dim enough where her eyes were largely unnoticeable, and the people in the crowd were nicely distracted. No blacklights; Eli had been specific about that in his party directions. Pelia certainly looked interested. . . even fascinated. "You _have_ changed," she told Eli. "Either I'm losing my mind, or I'm seeing something that shouldn't be possible."

"A few changes. Mostly around the edges." Eli acknowledged.

Pelia turned back to Serana, and offered her a polite wrist-clasp, saying, in lightly-accented turian, _"Your asari is excellent. Not as native-pure as Eli's but very sweetly spoken. It's delightful to meet you. I had wondered what sort of a female could come after Brennia in Lin's eyes. However did you meet? On Nimines?. . . no, wait. You said __Velnaran__. As in. . . ?"_

"_Yes. Rinus and Rellus are my older brothers. We all went to the same school, actually. Grew up together." _ Serana's tone was very easy now. _"They should name our school the Spectre Academy. Attending there seems to give you a very strong possibility of becoming one in the future."_

Pelia blinked, absorbing that, and answered, simply, _"I wish you both joy in your lives together."_ Still very good turian. Then she turned back and eyed Eli and Dara. "It's also a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ah. . . Spectre Jaworski?" She shifted into galactic offered her hand.

"_I assume you would offer the courtesy of Thessia?"_ Dara asked, dryly, pushing her asari to the limit. She extended her hand, braced herself, and let the asari brush her mind lightly. Didn't flood her out, as she could have. And listened to Pelia's song. _Interesting. Not a gray-voice, but a singer without a name. A caring voice, but reckless and chaotic. Love of others, protection of others, extending into law enforcement. . . but you've always followed your own path. And always sought new ideas, new sensations, haven't you?_

Pelia's eyes flickered towards Eli as Dara's own analysis rang in her head. Flickers of memory, trying to repress them, keep them from Dara. It was, apparently, one thing to tease the males about it, but Pelia wasn't about to try to use the information to hurt their _marai'ha'sai_. . . and then Pelia pulled her hand back, swallowing rapidly. "I wouldn't worry about that," Dara told her, shaking her head rapidly, trying to clear the recent churn of thoughts and song and memories out of her head. "Serana and I already know all about that. And we appreciate your discretion, given that any number of tabloids would probably give you a small fortune for the story." She paused. "Eli, what's that word you used to describe Melaani right after the trials? _Iai_-something?"

"_Iai'llieau,"_ Eli replied. _Person of integrity._

"Yeah. That. You seem like one, too. If an inveterate tease . . . "

"Isn't that normal around here?" Fors asked, snuffling in his suit.

"It was fun seeing Eli and Lin finally get some of their own back," Serana murmured, still not moving away from Lin.

Melaani shook her head. "Pelia, dear, apparently, there's a great deal more history here than you told me about."

"I don't share everything with everyone, regardless of my reputation," Pelia informed the other asari. Melaani chuckled and nodded to an ice table not far away, arching her finely-painted brows in invitation.

The music around them changed and swirled, something exotic and foreign to Eli's ears, with shrill pipes and rattles and drums, as Zhasa made her way, breathless and happy, through the crowd, and found Dempsey. Seheve turned and looked up at Rel. "That," she said, just loudly enough that Eli could hear her, "is a traditional song of my people."

Rel awarded her a wary look. "And?"

"You said that I should begin making my wishes more clear to you." Seheve looked away. "I would like you to dance with me."

Eli felt Dara's head snap around. Felt the blue-green bubble of total amusement well up in her chest, along with a little bittersweet sorrow as Rel blinked, looked around, and told them all, "Anyone who brings this up tomorrow? Will need to replace their teeth."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Lin said, grinning widely. "Besides, you're safe for the next three days of Fors' wedding ceremonies. On the fourth day, though, I plan to have something to say."

Seheve drew Rel off onto the crowded dance floor, and Eli turned with Dara to watch as Seheve began the intricate, rolling, undulating movements of traditional drell dance, standing just in front of Rel. "She's. . . better than the professionals up there," Eli assessed after a moment, nodding to the nearest block of ice. "Damn." He grinned down at Dara as she planted an elbow in his ribs—gently—and then Rel, after a couple of wary glances around at everyone else on the crowded floor, began to move with Seheve, in very similar fashion. Not the uncoordinated wiggling and waving of most of the humans and asari on the floor, but perfect, concentrated movements of highly-trained muscles.

_He really does love her,_ Dara thought to Eli. _Whether he knows it in his soul yet, or not. He wouldn't have danced at our wedding. And I put on a good show of not wanting to, because I didn't expect him to. He hasn't put his dignity or personal honor aside in years. It's. . . really nice to see._ _And yes. My god, she can __dance__. Who'd have thought it?_

Eli smiled down at her. "You know what?"

"Hmm?"

"Rumor has it, you know how to dance, too. C'mon, _sai'kaea._"

"I thought you said you were only good for this once a year." Sparkle of amusement in her eyes.

"It's a special occasion. My macho reputation can handle it. Besides. . . it could be the last fun I get for the next three days. . . other than watching Fors slowly fall asleep and tumble over as the priests mumble over him and Chissa for seventy-two straight hours."

Dara grinned up at him. "Well, when you put it that way. . . . "

Eli grinned right back, and pulled her out onto the dance floor. Hearing Serana and Zhasa's laughter behind them. The shrieks of glee as the various volus plunged down the ice slides into the water, splashing all the dancers. And the thrum of the music, up from the floor and into the soul. There was war elsewhere. Today, it didn't touch them. Didn't touch Bastion. For today, they were free. Yesterday and tomorrow could take care of themselves.


	144. Chapter 144: Transitions

**Chapter 144:** **Transitions**

_**Author's note:** I'd like to welcome all the new readers I've been picking up in the wake of ME3's release. Your kind words are very much appreciated. A lot of people seem to think that I get unmitigated praise; you've obviously never seen my inbox. ;-) I get a variety of reactions, some from people who tell me "you've ruined everything by splitting up Dara and Rel, I'm not reading past chapter 90. . . so they can stay sixteen and wonderful in my head forever." (Still, yes, to this day.) If you've persisted with me this long, and find anything of value in the experience. . . I thank you for being here, and will continue to attempt to entertain you and make you ask questions to the very end. :-)_

_One more ME3 puzzler for you. The battle tactics attributed to the turians in the Krogan Rebellions make very little sense to me. So, you're going to wait until the krogan are on your moon, throwing asteroids at your cities, before you unleash a plague on them. . . not a plague that kills them, no, no. One that reduces their fertility. . . . so you're going to use a weapon on them that could take a year, or ten years, or twenty years for them to even notice, and will certainly not stop them from continuing to bombard your cities in the meantime. . . while being faced with the annihilation of your homeworld?_

_Yeah. I don't think BioWare's writers thought that one through enough in their push to make the moon look important. If you're going to use a sterility plague . . . . you unleash it long before that point. When bloody and inconclusive battles are being fought everywhere, you're bleeding out from wounds to dozens of worlds, and you need to break their spirit. . . but while you still have breathing room for them to notice, hey, something's kind of wrong. . . and so that they don't throw everything they have left at you in a suicide charge. When they're on your moon, destroying your entire civilization from orbit? That's more of a "carpet bomb their homeworld moment," not so much "spay and neuter them." *shakes head* Silliness, I tell you. Silliness._

**Alisav K'sar, White Rock Internment Facility, Mindoir, February 22-26, 2197**

Alisav K'sar, for all that he'd been a member of SIU for fifteen years, had never really left Hegemony space. He was, after all, in Investigations. The base, on whatever planet it was, had confused him, more than a little, with its mix of peculiar architectural styles as Valak had taken him around its environs, still shackled by his words, if not by any literal cuffs. "Each species tends to build for its own comfort, and out of its own historical tradition," Valak had noted, with something the air of a visiting professor of xenopsychology. "Turian villas look inwards on their atriums. They have few outwards-facing windows. Defensible structures, with garden areas inside where they can grow food and even, if worst comes to worst, pen livestock. Salarians have rounded houses, with the most important facilities lowest. . . closest to the waterline, for personal comfort. The higher, the drier. Reserved for food storage in the early days. . . computers and such, now, of course. Asari homes tend to be built in three-part structures, each overlapping a little with the others. . . "

"And your own home?"

"Well, beggars cannot, I am reliably informed, be choosers. And thus, Nala and I have been given a human-style home. Surprisingly comfortable, and they build in a dozen different architectural modes. Really astonishing." Valak gestured for K'sar to continue walking.

"Why are you showing me all of this?"

"Because when the warrior-castes currently at the internment facility we're about to go visit attacked here, they've since told me, they found it. . . confusing. Disturbing. Wrong. Dangerous. People weren't grouped by type. Not every building in an area was exactly the same. Nothing followed the rules of caste stratification." Valak gave him a shrewd look. "And you, K'sar?"

Alisav looked around. "It does make me uneasy," he admitted. "Everything is the wrong shape, and the curves and lines are alien. And just when I've gotten used to one alien set of shapes, we turn a corner, and there's another set of oddities."

"Good," Valak told him. "Uncertainty is the best state of mind in which one can learn. When there are no preconceptions, or at least, fewer."

And from there, he'd taken Alisav on a shuttle far from the base, to a blisteringly hot desert compound, surrounded by white alkali flats and sand in every direction. Where batarian warrior-castes and technicians and others were all being kept. Alisav could see that they were all well-fed and more than a little bored. Some of them had the freedom to move in and out of the actual prison barracks, he saw, to his astonishment, although they were subjected to metal detectors and other such tests as they passed in to speak with those who were still prisoners. "The ones you see moving freely," Valak told him, before he could ask, pointing down from the high wall on which they stood, "are my men. Hand-picked by myself, Spectre Sky, and Spectre Blasto."

K'sar's eyes widened very slightly. "I thought Blasto was a fictional Spectre."

"He is, in fact, quite real. You'll meet him today." Valak's voice was amused. "My men were all ones who used the extranet terminals that they have access to in the barracks. And started asking questions." He turned and studied K'sar for a moment. "The records from the terminal that you've been allowed in your prison chamber indicate that you've run quite a number of data inquiries, yourself."

K'sar had expected this. He had fully expected them to record his searches, his tests of their supposed largesse. "A few," he acknowledged. "There is a staggering amount of data available for even simple inquiries. Almost too much." He'd been astounded, actually, by the weight of it. Looking up _Valak N'dor_, for example, had brought up close to five hundred separate articles in the galactic press. Half of whom thought his appointment was a bit of propaganda, meant to tweak the Hegemony's tail, and half of whom, from asari-dominated newsfeeds, were calling for Shepard's head on a platter for appointing a _batarian_ when batarians were turning their people into living weapons.

_That_ had been an eye-opener. K'sar had clicked on the links, and simply sat there, dumb-founded. His first reaction had been _Impossible. This is Council propaganda._ Except. . . it did explain why asari slaves were now so incredibly expensive and hard to come by, when, just a decade ago, they'd been much more commonplace. It explained why Oversight bureaucrats kept trying to offer him exorbitant sums for his own housekeeper. And the evidence! Certainly, it would be hard to fabricate so _much_ of it. The human and asari biotics, already supposedly lobotomized on Omega. . . well, they could have hired actors. A lot of actors. But the camera footage from the _Ur'rak_ was a seamless stream, all one take, as the Spectres including the turian that Valak had identified as Rinus Velnaran, moved from the engine room to environmental systems, and finally met up another team, in an area filled with mindless slaves. Humans and asari alike, blank-eyed. Some wearing diapers, some having soiled themselves. Each of them hooked into a row of machines that looked strangely, uncomfortably _organic_.

And, discomfited by this footage, K'sar had looked up other things that were preying on his mind. Maldo Ren. The plagues on Bastion. The evidence for his people's involvement. The death tolls. . . and the utterly staggering sight of geth, krogan, and rachni moving troops to Bastion to assist with body removal and security while the humans and the turians and the asari were stricken ill. It had chilled him to the bone, and made him realize, suddenly, how _vast_ the galaxy was outside of the Hegemony. . . and while he'd always known how many other species there were, their populations suddenly seemed like teeming legions.

And, because his mind went from Maldo Ren to Maryam Pace, he'd looked her up, as well. Testing the limits of the database access. And he'd promptly found her vineyard's business page, an old page dedicated to her long-ago wedding and the births of her children. Not many living relatives; the Reaper War had taken care of that. But dozens of messages from friends in all walks of life, wishing her well on each event. Each with a name that linked back to a different profile. Confusing, desperately confusing. She'd served four required years in something called the Israeli Defense force, which would be, for a batarian, the work of the warrior-caste. She'd quit, and worked for a pharmaceutical corporation. . . scribal-caste, essentially. . . and then left that behind her to work as a farmer, and yet, also, as a land-owner. Somewhere between low-caste and noble-caste. Dizzying.

"Did _you_ have questions, my friend?" Valak asked him now, pointedly, still looking down at the prisoners in the yard below.

K'sar thought about that. Wondered what Valak expected to be asked. _The best way to get an honest answer out of N'dor might be to ask the unexpected._ "I noted that many of the Spectres who were on the Lystheni. . . ah, _Collector_. . . vessel, and who captured me and my men, were not on base the past few days." He paused. "Where are they? Participating in the attack on Camala?" His voice was tight.

That information hadn't been restricted at all, again, to his considerable surprise. He'd read the reports, his stomach churning at the sight of mass effect-propelled missiles pounding the planet's surface. Pinpoint strikes, the reporters had claimed. No footage yet from the surface to show the ruins, but with hundreds of missiles barraging the planet at a time? The defense grid was overwhelmed. Reports were that the Hegemony was scrambling ships and sending them to lift the siege, but if they sent too many, then colonies like Lorek or Uwan Oche might be hit, instead. The turian fleet hadn't committed its entire strength to just one colony, after all. . . and there were still the humans to contend with, too.

Valak actually did look surprised, his eyes widening and his head tilting slightly. "No, actually," he replied. "Actually. . . most of that group is taking a well-deserved vacation. And attending two weddings, that I'm aware of, at any rate." He snorted. "I might be the galaxy's first batarian Spectre, but this past year, they also inducted the first volus and first quarian." He pulled up an extranet connection on his omnitool, and K'sar simply stared at the images hovering in the air. The image was of a huge hall, filled with figurines made of crystal, or perhaps ice, and a floor scattered with the same. The vid feed swam a little, distorted, as if light in the hall was passing through water. And there were _hundreds_ of people in the hall, except. . . "Gods of my ancestors," K'sar said, trying to decide between curiosity and revulsion. "What in all the hells are _those_?" The creatures looked like nothing he had ever seen before. Bipedal, but with slits at the sides of their throats which pulsed in the air or. . . water. . . or whatever it was that they were breathing. Huge, dark eyes, suggesting dark-adaptation, slick-appearing skin in a variety of colors ranging from brown to sickly white. . .

"Those are what volus look like, outside of their suits," Valak told him, urbanely. "You'll note that all the humans, turians, and even the elcor in the vid feed are in full envirosuits?"

K'sar stared. Sure enough, yes, at the very front of the gathering, he could see two . . . volus? . . . kneeling, hands clasped, as two or three more volus circled around them, splashing them with something. And to the right, he could indeed see a huge elcor in full armor, something very rarely seen indeed. And to the right of the elcor, there was a human in black armor, a turian in black armor, and . . . a rachni. . . this one with a black carapace. . . and what looked like thermal blankets thrown over him. "What. . . ?" he managed.

"Volus seek to demonstrate personal worth in a variety of ways. Personal monetary gain, titles, education, prestige, and, of course, networks of influence. Spectre Fors Luka is demonstrating personal worth through his bonds of friendship among the Spectres." Valak shook his head. "It's a fascinating reversal of our caste system, K'sar. They believe that everyone has worth. Quantifiable, demonstrable. They trade their people between clans in exchange for other people. . . the way we pay credits for a slave, or barter for them. But everyone in their system has worth. Someone can, technically, buy their way out of their current clan. Can ask another clan to bid for them. I'm making a study of them. If we can't negate the caste system entirely, maybe we can make it something more benign. Something more . . . volus."

K'sar just stared at him in total disbelief. "We?" he finally asked. "Are you including me in that statement?"

"Tentatively," Valak told him, calmly. "Let me ask _you_ something, my dear friend. You saw the footage of Camala, yes?"

"You know that I did."

"What would you do to see that kind of suffering shortened, or even averted, for planets like Lorek? Like Khar'sharn itself?"

K'sar's head rocked back, and he stared down at the warrior-castes in the yard. "Is that how you convinced them to turn?" he asked, quietly. "Told them that they could end the suffering that much more quickly?"

He could see N'dor's headshake out of the corner of his eyes. "No," Valak told him, quietly. "I let them see the truth of the plagues. Of the yahg's tactics. . . which I'm surprised that you didn't look for, yourself, K'sar. . . "

"Not really my area of concern—"

"Perhaps it should be. They _eat_ what they kill, Alisav. The Hegemony may think that we have them on a leash, and that they'll never turn on us, but I've spoken with M'nav, the linguist first sent to their homeworld to parlay with them. Even _he_ doesn't believe that. He believes it's simply a matter of time. That their culture is one based on almost inevitable betrayals of alliance and allegiance the instant that the strong show weakness." Valak's voice was dispassionate. "They are using us for access to space-travel and our tech, and we're using them for their brutality, nothing more. And it will explode in our faces. I can show you vid footage of them releasing humans solely to hunt them. . . and to eat from their entrails while they're still alive and screaming." His expression was grim, but he waved it aside. "But I stray from the point. I let them see the dishonorable tactics of our leadership. Of atrocities committed on millions of civilians, not in pitched battle, but with plagues. Of slavery so absolute, it even includes the mind. And then I appealed to their honor."

K'sar stared down into the yard, and swallowed hard. He was a trained investigator. Wherever the evidence led, he followed it. Tenaciously, as his superiors had always noted. Even if it led to the Hegemon itself. Some of what he'd seen and heard could have been manufactured, but could _all_ of it have been? All the strident arguments below each news story, sometimes chains of responses hundreds deep? "And do you appeal now to my honor?" he asked, quietly.

"I don't have to, though you have one," N'dor replied. "I appeal to your sense of justice. To your nose for the truth. And to your sense of duty." A pause. "Do you want to save our people, Alisav K'sar?"

He raised his eyes to the blindingly white desert outside the camp's walls. Shimmers of heat distorted it, and the violet sky overhead was so baked by the heat as to have lost almost all its color. . . or perhaps that was just the effect of the alkali dust, rising into the atmosphere, lifted by the faint breeze all around him. "Yes," K'sar said. "I do." He looked back at N'dor in resignation. "I don't suppose you're going to take my word for it, however."

"This one will help ascertain the veracity of your words, respected one," a voice chimed, and K'sar turned and stared, yet again, as a hanar floated towards him along the wall. "Greetings, Alisav K'sar. This one's face name is indeed Blasto. One respectfully requests that you do not laugh."

"I . . . wouldn't dream of it," K'sar managed, and felt _something_ brush his mind. He turned and looked at Valak. "You said we could make a difference for our people. How?"

Valak nodded. "I need confirmation of the location of various facilities," he replied, simply. "The turians are about to land on Camala and they're going to head to the main biotics processing facility held by the _Klem Na_. . . and the manufacturing center where the bulk of the components for the biotic weapons system and integration equipment are assembled. And they're going to preserve those for evidence." His eyes were hooded. "What I need from you is confirmation from SIU sources that the dalatrass' final node is still at the _Klem Na_ facility on Lorek. And I was never able to locate the facility in which the bioweapons were engineered."

K'sar's mouth fell open. "I don't have access to that sort of information. It will look suspicious if I ask about such things."

"Not necessarily," the hanar chimed. "You have spoken directly with the dalatrass, from your earlier conversations with respected N'dor. Your superiors are aware of this, as well as your efforts to recover the Lystheni base. You could suggest that the dalatrass may have had another node on the ship. We can manufacture a transmission that the dalatrass might have sent as the Spectres attacked her base. A distress call. This would give you a valid reason to check in with your superiors, would it not?"

K'sar blinked rapidly. "And my communications silence to date?"

"You've been following the Spectres, who've killed most of the Lystheni, and have been systematically looting the Lystheni base. You've had to maintain radio silence as a result, as you've followed them deep into Council space in a bold effort to find the Spectre base," Valak supplied. "It has the virtue of almost being true."

K'sar thought about it for a long moment. "Yes," he said, and he couldn't quite believe the word had fallen from his lips. "I would definitely have pursued the Spectre ship, rather than return to Khar'sharn empty-handed." He paused. "However, wouldn't telling them the location of the base be risky? Either they already know, and misdirection will show that I'm a plant, or they don't already know, and I'm feeding them _good_ information."

"Or they only suspect, and the good information is confirmation," Valak murmured, looking off at the horizon. "No. Don't think too much about it yet, K'sar. Blasto will escort you through the facility. Talk to the prisoners. Talk to Radem Y'mov, the warrior-caste who's taken the position of leader among these males. Talk to Dr. Yilar M'nav. He was the first of our people to negotiate with the yahg. Watch the _fear_ in his eyes when he speaks of them, K'sar. Ask your questions. _Then_ come to me with your answer."

K'sar nodded. Valak was giving him the opportunity to do what he did best, and he did it. He asked his questions. Asked all the warriors who'd agreed to work with Valak the simple question of _why_. "Because the Hegemony betrayed us," Radem Y'mov told him. "Because they told us we were fighting in defense of our people against aggressors, and instead, loosed plagues on innocents. Allied with creatures who have no code of honor. And made us, unknowingly, break our own code."

"Why follow Valak, then?"

"Because he should have been born warrior-caste. I watched him take the responsibility for ending the life of a lobotomized biotic, one who'd been turned into a weapon, so that no one else had to bear that burden. How can I not follow a commander who takes on burdens so that his soldiers do not have to?" The tone was pure admiration, and K'sar could understand why.

"And when he speaks of destroying the caste-system?"

"We've all known people who were born to our caste who didn't belong in it," Y'mov said, after a long moment, his eyes distant. "A third of the children I grew up with, died before the age of sixteen, m'lord. A third couldn't complete the training, couldn't handle the rigors of it. My best friend, as a child? Taken from his mother at the same time that I was, put through the same training? Molded, shaped. . . and still died, at fifteen. Genetic defect. Breathing problems. If he had been born scribe-caste? He would still be alive. Why do we waste our people so?"

K'sar shook his head. "I don't have an answer for that." He'd moved on to the others. To M'nav, as well, who truly did stink of fear when he spoke of the yahg. And by the end of the day, K'sar had come to a strange realization. _There is hope here. And it's infectious. Because I feel it, too._ And so he'd told Valak, quietly, "All right. Say that I'm in. What _do_ I say to Isav Malsur?"

Valak grinned at him tightly as they flew back to the Mindoir base. "All right. This is what we do. . . . "

And thus, using his current SIU codes and frequencies, K'sar found himself speaking to the head of Investigations from his cabin on his small ship, with Valak N'dor and Garrus Vakarian standing outside the view of the camera, watching and listening intently. "K'sar, your transmission isn't coming in from the Hades Nexus comm buoys," Malsur said, without preamble. "It looks like it's coming in from the Attican Traverse. While I'm delighted you and your men appear to have survived the counterinsurgency in that region, what in the ancestors' names are you doing _that_ far off-course, and why haven't you checked in?"

K'sar apologized, and began the carefully-planned cover story, with almost a sense of glee. "The Spectres beat us to the Lystheni base, which was on Bothros, situated in a deep impact crater," he began, and sent some of the vid he'd taken of the Spectres' battle there, from orbit. "The Lystheni attempted to send a very compact string of code by comm transmission before they were overwhelmed. We intercepted it, and my techs took the next day or two, trying to decrypt it. It was part of an AI's personality template, they told me." K'sar eyed his superior. "Either these Lystheni have multiple AIs in their organization, or there's more than one copy of their esteemed _dalatrass_ in the galaxy. She's far more cunning and dangerous than I realized, if that's true." He left the subject aside for the moment. "There were at least nine Spectres present, and they had twenty to forty other personnel with them at all times as they cleared the base of all the tech they could lift in shuttles."

"Why didn't you return then?" Malsur demanded.

"You'd given me your personal trust," K'sar told him, lifting his head. "And it was a stain on my honor that they had reached this outpost first. I had to make it right, somehow."

Apparently, his words and tone were convincing. They ought to have been. These _had_ been his motivations. . . that, and the sure and certain knowledge that he would have faced demotion or death, depending on the severity of Malsur's displeasure, if he'd returned empty-handed. He continued to describe latching onto the Spectre ship just before it jumped into the relay, and releasing again once they were through. Ghosting behind it, until they reached an otherwise unremarkable garden world in the Attican Traverse, which the charts designated as Mindoir. "Then they landed," K'sar responded. "They've remained here, and we've been gathering information from the edge of the system. There appear to be many observational satellites around the planet; we haven't dared to approach more closely. And there are far more military ships coming through the relay in this area than I would have thought possible for what is, on the face of it, a small agricultural and scientific colony." He cleared his throat. "Is it possible, m'lord, that we've stumbled onto a major Spectre enclave?"

Malsur grunted noncommittally, but K'sar was watching for it, and saw the quick flicker of his eyes to the right, and then back again. _Ah. He already knew this, somehow. I have just confirmed information for him. Valak repeated the truth of our training to me earlier today. The best lies have truth in them. Two parts truth to one part lie. Truth: my motivations. Truth: the location of the base. Falsehood: what I'm doing here._ "I can transmit the Lystheni AI code to you; the techs say it is badly corrupted, and probably nonfunctional. I have to say, m'lord, it chills me to think that this _creature_ is on worlds other than . . . the one on which I encountered her." K'sar had paused and adjusted the code frequency before avoiding the word _Lorek_ in his sentence. "Who knows how many places in the Hegemony she may have infiltrated? Placed code-packets?" Standard procedure. Change frequencies every few minutes, and don't use place-names if it could be avoided.

Malsur shook his head. "We have heavy firewalls around the few information streams that we permit to her at the facility you visited." His eyes were heavy-lidded at the moment. "The _Klem Na_ had certain protections in place; once Arvak R'mod came into contact with her, he ordered those precautions tripled. Rest assured, we've maintained the quarantine." He paused. "Yes. Send me all the data you've so far collected, and remain in place. Gather more details about the ships coming and going. See how close you can get to the planet without setting off their alert systems."

"Yes, m'lord. Thank you, m'lord." K'sar let his head drop, and his shoulders, too, as profound relief swept through him. Not entirely false, either. He would have been grateful to have had his work found adequate. Now, he was merely relieved that Malsur hadn't actually ordered him to return to Khar'sharn. Which could have meant that Malsur suspected deception. Now, it was merely a question as to whether Malsur suspected. . . and simply wanted to play a longer game of _ru'udal_ or not.

"Confirmation," Vakarian rasped, after the comm line went dead.

"Of a sort," Valak replied, tapping on the console. "Next contact session, or the one after, we'll try for information on the plagues."

"I still don't know how you plan to do that," K'sar told him, shaking his head. "This is out of my league."

Valak smiled at him. "Certainly it is _not_," he replied. "How do you convince a drug dealer or a gun runner that you're serious?"

"Show him product," K'sar replied, immediately, and paused. "Surely you don't mean that the Council has generated a bio-weapon of its own?"

Vakarian shook his head. "No, though the threat of that would certainly get their attention, wouldn't it? It might not look or sound credible, however."

Valak smirked a little. "So instead, we offer the information that the Spectres have been guarding a transport ship with samples of the vaccines used to end the plagues. The sort of thing scientists back home would love to have, in order to engineer a better virus for next time. And with the battle on Camala looking to be going poorly. . . they'll want that sort of information. Especially when troops start landing."

K'sar swallowed. It was hard to believe that he was doing the right thing. . . but he'd watched, this afternoon, the vids of the yahg devouring their prey. Alive, as Valak had said. Seen the vids of the marines and Spectres walking into their 'larders,' as well. There was simply too much of it to be faked. And, as Radem Y'mov had pointed out. . .being allied with such creatures was a stain on all their honor. And the defeat of his people would be hastened, and lives spared, by his actions. A long, drawn-out conflict, against the whole, united force of the ten Council species? Defeat was inevitable, no matter what his leaders believed. No. . . he _was_ doing the right thing.

He hoped.

**Elijah, Bastion, February 26-March 2, 2197**

One of the advantages, Eli had to admit, to wearing the full volus-grade environmental seals on his armor, was that, with the sound conduction in the suit filters turned off, unless he shouted, he mostly couldn't be heard outside of it, even in a very thick, sound-conductive atmosphere, such as the eight atmospheres' pressure worth of ammonia/oxygen/argon/whatever he now found himself engulfed by; other people around him didn't have the luxury of being able to chit-chat on the radio, quietly, or even periodically kicking on an extranet feed inside his helmet, sound only, to keep himself from being completely and ungodly bored.

Oh, the environmental seals also helped, enormously, with the cold—a _balmy_ -230º F/-145.5º C, by volus standards. Lin and Dara both had quarian-grade seals in their suits, and while Dara had the option of stepping out of the airlocks into the warmer environs of Depth Charge periodically to warm up, _shreee'eka'i_ weren't supposed to leave the chamber, except to catch naps and, well, unavoidable bowel movements. Which was one of the reasons Fors had asked Sky and Thell to stand up with him as well. Not full _shreee'eka'i_, but assistants. Extra guards, so that he'd never be standing on the small raised platform alone. A matter of tradition. Also, one of prestige; Fors was demonstrating to his entire planet (the wedding ceremony was being carried on the major Irune newfeeds) his personal worth, through his network of friends and acquaintances. Eli had definitely spotted Bailey in B-Sec blue and gray out in the audience, as well as a half-dozen turians he didn't recognize immediately.

As such, Lin had opted to have foam poured into his suit, to extend, through extra insulation, how much time he could spend in the freezing cold, heavily pressurized chamber. Fortunately, they didn't have to stand up there with Thell and Sky the entire time. All four of them were required at certain points in the incredibly long ceremony, and pages came and got them when needed, but most of the time, only one or two of them at a time needed to be standing to Fors' side. This at least let them get the blood circulating, instead of pooling somewhere in their feet.

Dara, of course, didn't need to use the radio to contact him. She was in her armor, which gave her limited biotics a great deal more strength, and, even better, she rarely left his line of sight, out in the audience, as he scanned, absently, for danger. _Would you recognize danger in volus body language with them out of their suits?_ she asked, silently, in rich tones of blue and green.

_Not sure, __sai'kaea__,_ he told her lightly. _But I'm up here as a guard, so I may as well act like one._

_Extranet feed and all?_ Light teasing there.

_Just listening to the latest and greatest from Camala._ He was, too. Turian and human forces had wiped out ninety percent of the planet's defenses, and ground troops were now landing. Including _asari_ ground forces. One of the first places being hit by turian marines and special forces was, apparently, the biotic 'processing' center. . . and they were taking embedded reporters in with them, including, apparently, Lexine Elders. Eli hoped, wryly, that the young reporter didn't actually throw up. She sounded _sick_ as she related what she was seeing over the newsfeed channel. _"Humans, asari, and even a few batarians. Most have already been. . . processed. You can tell by the dead looks in their eyes. The highest functioning ones still have some basic self-control, but it's not a precise procedure, as many doctors have told me. Many of them are wearing adult diapers. . . but they've been left to sit in their own waste for days, because their batarian handlers and techs fell back and ran from the facility. Many of them have sores. Are hungry, but can't even ask for food. Just. . . numbly pick up what they're given, and start to eat it. Robotic, automatic motions. The asari medics are being careful to give them soft foods, like what you'd give a toddler. So that they don't choke."_ Elders' voice shook. _"There are hundreds of them here. . . thousands. And that's just the first few holding areas. The secondary areas. . . there are biotics here who've been hooked up into machines. Machines that look almost organic. The human or the asari or, yes, even batarian, is placed inside what looks like a sort of coffin, with an opaque bottom panel, and a clear top panel. So that the techs can observe them. There are tubes running to their bodies. Nutrients and fluids, the asari medic tell me. The problem is, most of these people's IVs ran out days ago. Again, festering sores where the needles are in their arms. And worse yet, the techs here are having to __cut__ them out. They were sealed in. Buried alive. They were never expected to be removed from these. . . weapons components."_

It was an odd and horrible counterpoint to the festivities around him, and Dara sang to him, silently, _I thought we were supposed to be experiencing the glorious variety of cultures in the galaxy, and not paying attention to work matters, __ciea'teilu__._

_I was. Ten hours ago, it was great._ Eli flexed his toes inside of his boots and made sure his knees were loose. If he locked his knees, the blood could eventually pool there, and he didn't want to risk that, coupled with boredom. It would do nothing for his reputation to fall forwards, flat on his face, if he passed out here.

The ceremony had started off colorfully enough. Fors had, with some amusement, compared volus wedding traditions with the ceremonies and rituals of Hindu weddings on Earth. And there were some parallels. Typically, on Irune, the groom was brought to the facility on the back of a _gar'ooom_, a filter-feeding domesticated animal that looked like an enormous manta ray that had somehow interbred with a whale. Vaguely triangular in shape, but bulky, with a huge mouth that scoured the oceans. When young, they could even beach themselves on the pack ice to avoid the shark-like predators of Irune's seas, but when they reached maturity, nothing threatened them, due to their enormous size. Volus had domesticated them, much in the way humans had domesticated elephants. . . but used them for transportation to and from the huge _kee'thra_ forests, had hauled goods on their backs on long voyages in equatorial waters.

In the absence of a _gar'ooom_, Fors had entered the chamber perched on Thell's massive back. And had been deposited gently on the ground, while his various attendants had helped him remove his envirosuit, and Eli had blinked to realize that under the armor, Fors was actually a rich chocolate brown in color, with huge, glossy black eyes. He'd been handed good clothing by his various family members—sort of trailing robes, which shimmered like fish scales—and then had been boosted back onto Thell's back. Three ritual circles of the 'temple' area. . . done very slowly, while all the attendants and family and guests were supposed to dance along behind the gar'ooom, while various volus trilled and someone beat on a drum somewhere. Eli and Lin had exchanged a single look from behind polarized faceplates, and opted to smack their hands in time with the beat while following along. Sky's amusement had bubbled through both of them, as the rachni gently patted his own pedipalps together, and bowed himself on his other appendages more or less to the beat as he walked along behind Thell.

Three circles of the chamber hadn't been enough time to let all the honored guests in, but at that point, Thell had been able to amble towards the small, raised dais, cut down from yesterday's bar, at the front of the room, and had deposited Fors there. Fors had slapped Thell on an armored arm, and told him, "Thank you. I appreciate that you were willing to submit to the indignity. But you're the closest thing to a _gar'ooom_ that I know, personally."

"No offense taken," Thelldaroon rumbled, and, after cautiously testing the dais with one of his knuckles. . . opted to stand beside the blocks of ice, rather than on top of them. _Good idea_, Eli had thought, amused.

The various eight foot tall blocks of ice had been carved, between last night and this morning, by human and asari ice sculptors, using chainsaws and chisels and even heat, to smooth the carvings. Now, dozens of statues filled the room. Swans with entwined necks, a common human symbol of enduring love and marriage. A tripartite Goddess statue, each of her incarnations standing, locked in an embrace, facing inwards. Others. . . a bouquet of roses, represented lovingly in ice. A peacock, tail fanned out in every detail. Undersea creatures from lost Thessia and dolphins from Earth. And, at the very front, in ice, the volus traditional symbol of marriage. . . .entwined strands of two _kee'thra_ stalks, growing side by side, independent at the base, but growing more and more entangled as they rose, twenty feet into the air, until they simply became a web, completely impossible to separate. Eli knew that this piece had actually been done somewhere else on Bastion, brought here in pieces, and assembled. . . with iron rods holding it for stability. From the number of pictures being taken, he had a feeling that any number of wedding planners back on Irune were about to have their hands full as families _scrambled_ to use these trendsetting notions for their own next ceremonies.

Of course, now, all the various volus in the audience weren't really paying much attention to what was going on in front of them. . . which included three different priests chanting over Fors and Chissa, who needed to kneel for several hours on end, holding each others' hands, while occasionally being directed to stand, read ancient texts from this datapad or that one, exchange ritual bites of food and drink, and the like. No, the volus in the audience were free to get up. Move around. Chit-chat, argue, go to the food tables at the back and chow down, exchange shots of something viscous that Eli thought might contain _meeka'al_ extract, the intoxicating vent worms that Fors had once mentioned to him. It was, apparently, drunk warm. Which was to say, maybe only -215º F. Nowhere near ethane's boiling point of -127º F, but apparently warm enough to scald an unwary volus' mouth cavity.

_It certainly is different from a Western human wedding, or even a Japanese wedding_, Dara told him, silently. _There the audience is supposed to be respectfully fixed on the event at hand. This is more like the wedding is almost incidental. Everyone's here to buy, trade, talk, eat, drink, and be merry. . . the wedding's just the excuse for it. _

_If that's the case, you think Lin and I can sneak out early?_ Eli was adept enough now, mentally, that he was fairly sure that Fors wasn't overhearing their 'whispers,' as the volus had once termed their mental conversations.

_Fat chance_, Dara told him, with sympathy in her voice. _Looks like Lin's coming in to give you a break, though._

_Thank god._ Eli gave Lin a wrist-clasp and hopped down off the dais as Lin took his place. Lin leaned down, pressing his helmet against Eli's; sound conduction through the plasteel faceplates alone let them have a few private words: "Only sixty-two more hours to go, _fradu_."

"Sixty-one hours, thirty-eight minutes," Eli corrected, and clapped Lin on the shoulder plates. "Then we get to go do it all over again for you and Serana."

"Spirits. That's starting to sound like one of my less brilliant ideas," Lin muttered. "I'm going to be asleep on my feet, and I'm going to sign in all the wrong places, and wind up joining her clan and wearing her paint."

Eli laughed. "I'll make sure she winds up in Edessan blue. Thracian yellow wouldn't look good at all on you, my friend." He helped Lin up onto the dais, gave Fors a look to make sure the volus wasn't falling asleep himself. . . Fors' eyes weren't drooping yet, and neither were Chissa's. Their attendants were allowed to take breaks for naps, but the happy bride and groom had to stay awake for the entire blasted seventy-two hour ceremony. _Better them than me,_ Eli thought, and found his way to Dara's side, wrapping an arm around her waist, armor and all.

"Aw, you don't want me to take notes on volus wedding traditions for ours?" Dara offered, out loud, on their private comm channel.

"No. I'll elope with you before that." Eli shook his head, and glanced around. "Are we supposed to mingle?"

"I think so. Everyone else is." He felt her head swivel. "I'm really sort of bad at mingling, Eli."

_You're an introvert, sai'kaea._

_And you're a bit more of an extrovert than I am. . . _

_Yeah, somewhat. I make friends a bit more easily. But I don't have to go out at night to get more stimulation. That's the mark of a real extrovert._ Eli grinned down at her. "My xenopsych courses are coming in handy. All that stuff about the human parasympathetic nervous system, and how introverts are more easily stimulated than extroverts, and the stimulation wears them out. . . it makes a hell of a lot of sense, really." He tightened his arm around her waist. _And you get a lot of stimulation from the rachni, all day, every day. Makes it harder?_

_A little, yeah. But. . . kind of part of the job. Tally-ho, right?_ He could feel her gearing up for it.

And so, they mingled. The turians present didn't really know what to make of them; they were wearing their plighting knife-sheathes openly, and they'd just been at the center of a massive court-case that had changed turian law profoundly just days ago. . . but Rel was there with Seheve, too, cycling in and out of the party as they let their strained suit systems warm back up outside in the main resort areas_. "So, how do you know Fors?"_ Eli asked one of the turians.

"_He was in my unit on Palaven during the Reaper War,"_ the male responded, his tone faintly amused. "_Name's Kestrus Alavarian."_

"_Were you one of the ones he says he picked up and moved out of the way so he could administer a shockwave properly on that charging group of husks?"_ Eli asked, letting his amusement come through his voice.

"_No, but I watched him do it. The __hastae__ in question had been blocking some of my shots, too, so I didn't have a problem with it. Our lieutenant did. . . floating through the air made the __hastae__ a bit of a target. I remember pointing out that the __hastae__ had been in the spirits-be-damned way the entire time, and was about to get hit by friendly fire, so he was a target anyway."_ The grin in Alavarian's voice was infectious. _"You'll note that neither the __hastae__ or the lieutenant are here today?"_

"_How much action did your unit see?"_ Dara asked, in interest. This was a part of Fors' life that was a closed book to them. Fors rarely discussed the war.

"_A lot. They unleashed their brutes and their husks after the initial Seeker swarms were pretty much held at bay by the signal that the Spectres distributed, which allowed people to __move__._ _I remember a house being dropped on us on the outskirts of Raetia."_ The male's voice had gone distant. "_A brute. . . one of those half-krogan, half-turian monstrosities. . . was waiting for us when we crawled out of the rubble. It picked me up and threw me against a piece of fallen concrete, and I knew it was coming after me to finish the job. Then Fors crawled up out of the rubble after us. . . and the next thing I knew, the brute was just screaming, this sort of liquid sound. . . "_Alavarian trailed off.

"_Yeah. I've seen him do that to yahg,"_ Eli supplied. _"He limited it to just the yahg's head, though."_ His own voice was detached. He didn't like picturing it, himself, but it had been damned effective, and had saved his life a number of times.

"_I don't think it occurred to him to try to do it that way. I think it might have been the first time he'd even done it."_ The turian's voice was still very distant. _"He pulverized its bones, though. There was just this mass of flesh screaming on the ground, and we shot it to shut it up. Fors just looked up at me and said something like, 'I thought it shouldn't be that big. I thought it would be easier to fight if it was just. . . smaller.' And then I found out what it sounds like when a volus throws up inside of his suit."_ Alavarian shrugged. _"Old memories. Maybe best forgotten."_

Dara shook her head. _"Maybe not dwelled on, but they shouldn't be forgotten entirely. He was a hero that day. He saved your lives. And I don't think he ever was decorated for it."_

"_Too damned busy staying alive to put in paperwork for medals,"_ the male agreed, dryly. _"I was just as glad at the end of the war to put in for my release from service. Decided I'd go be a farmer on Galatana."_ Alavarian snorted. _"Guess how well that worked out?"_

Eli clapped him on the shoulder. _"You're back on the grid now, though. And food's going everywhere."_

"_Thank the spirits,"_ Dara added, dryly. _"There are a few places where there's been fresh dextro food, but I think Lin, Serana, Rel, and Rinus, won't be able to look another MRE in the face for a while."_

"_Lot of damned hungry mouths to feed."_ Alavarian looked between them. _"Wasn't sure how to talk to you two when you came over. Figured you'd be full of yourselves, especially after all that __s'kak__ at the Conclave."_

"_Too damned busy to be full of ourselves, I think,"_ Eli told him, shrugging. _"And it's always a pleasure to talk with someone who knew Fors before I met him. I've been trying to figure him out since we met on Bastion, with him in B-Sec and me in CID. . . and every time I think I've got a grip on him, he turns into someone else. Trickster, prankster, card-sharp. . . war-hero."_

They found a corner of the room to curl up on a bench. Eli leaned against the wall, and Dara did, too. Both of them had simply learned to sleep whenever time was available over the years. Dara had learned on call in med bay or between combat missions, and Eli had done the same in between watches, while Lin or another partner had been the eyes on a stake-out. An hour's cat-nap, however much disturbed by the noise in the room would do them both a world of good. _Sai'kaea__, you don't have to stay_, Eli reminded her as she tucked her head against his shoulder. _I'm stuck here, but you can leave. And probably should, given your suit. . . _

_Opted for the same foam stuff as before. Even have the EVA er, relief facilities rigged for the moment_, _and extra oxygen. I can stay. But god knows, I'm going to start reading my medical journals before all is said and done. What can they possibly be saying up there that takes longer than a god-damned turian wedding, with all the contract clauses being read out loud?_

_Hell if I know, sai'kaea. It's half in trade-tongue and half in 'ancestor-tongue' and my VI's not rendering that half at all._

Dara opened the compartments in her thigh-plates, and Chopin and Mozart scuttled out. She'd been worried, once before, that the rachni would suffocate in a volus atmosphere; they hadn't had time to look up the oxygen content when they'd been rushing off to the Lorsa compound to meet with Chissa. At nearly 21%, there was enough oxygen in Irune's atmosphere to allow fires to burn, and more than enough for the rachni to breathe. —_Cold, but not too cold. We sing guarding-songs for you, that you may sing dream-songs with the hive._

_Rest_, Sky agreed. _Many here watch. There is safety here. Sing dream-songs. _Eli knew that was true; the volus clans had simply rented out the _entire hotel_, emptying it of normal guests, and in addition to Spectre security and Hierarchy security, there'd be Praetorians on guard as well, when Rinus and Kallixta came for the final ceremonies.

And thus, they were free to doze, sharing odd, confused half-dreams as they floated in and out of consciousness. Then Eli snapped awake as someone thumped down in the seat next to them. His dazed eyes took in Zhasa's helmet looking down into his. "One of the pages asked us to wake you," Dempsey said, standing in front of him. "You and the rest of the attendants are going to need to be up there in a bit to do something involving fish."

"Flowers," Zhasa corrected.

"The two might be the same damn thing, for all I know." Dempsey sat down on Zhasa's left on the long bench. "I know I'm not technically capable of being bored, but Mad is, and we only got here an hour or two ago. Think we'll probably come back for the grand finale in a couple of days."

"Lucky bastard," Eli muttered.

Zhasa chuckled. "I think the decorations are lovely, though."

"Thank you. I think."

Dempsey's tone held a very faint hint of resignation as he added, "I think Zhasa's probably trying to figure out how to get the tent doohickey made out of ice now."

"Won't that be kind of difficult on Rannoch?" Dara offered, sleepily. Eli had felt her mind startle into wakefulness with his, moments ago. "I mean. . . won't it melt somewhat quickly there? Plus, if you still want flowers on it, the flowers won't like the cold. Or the desert. Or both at the same time."

Dempsey leaned past Zhasa and told Dara, "Thank you. I've been thinking the same thing for the last hour."

"There's plenty of cold desert on Rannoch," Zhasa pointed out, with dignity. "Technically, large portions of your Antarctica are also deserts."

"And I'm thinking that getting married in Antarctica sounds uncomfortable," Dara told her friend, her voice becoming a little more wakeful and teasing. "I know you want to see the rest of us stuck in suits while all the quarians are running around in real clothing for a change, Zhasa, but . . . I don't think a snowsuit is nearly as pretty as a dress."

"I didn't say I'd look at locations _that_ cold," Zhasa replied, making a chuffing sound of annoyance, a sort of rasping purr, behind her mask. "I'm just looking at options. And the ice sculptures _are_ beautiful."

Dempsey looked at Zhasa, and his lips quirked behind his clear mask. Then he leaned forward

"Doc, you have my undying devotion. If you ever decide to throw Sidonis here over, come find me."

Dara made a rude noise of her own now, while Zhasa playfully shoved Dempsey's shoulder, which didn't move at all. "Sweet talk will get you nowhere, Dempsey. You still owe me for the dress shopping. Twice over. Besides, I still don't believe Zhasa when she says you know how to cuddle."

"Do I need to come over there and prove it?" Deadpan expression, very slight quirk to the lips. Dempsey was actually enjoying this, it was clear.

"Only if you're offering us a group contract," Eli replied, instantly. "One that gives me the rights to cuddle Zhasa, too."

Zhasa laughed and put an arm around Eli's shoulders, turning her head to look at Dempsey. Which resulted in a snort from him, and Dara putting her helmet down in her hands, chuckling and saying, "Hey, I _know_ I didn't sign anything here. . . ." And that was when a volus page appeared at Eli's feet, and he tiredly climbed back upright. _Why is it,_ he asked, silently, _that standing in one place, doing nothing, leaves you just as tired as running, jumping, shooting, and all that good stuff?_

_Because your muscles are still active, and they tense up, stiffen. _Dempsey's silent voice, cold and clear.

_Plus, boredom is a stress all its own._ Zhasa's mental tones, cheerful and playful.

_Sorry. Didn't realize I'd been so loud._

_No worries. _Dempsey stretched.

The next section of the wedding included speeches. Lots of speeches. Each of Fors' clan-leaders, male and female, needed to give an assessment of his value to them in the past. And with ten clans, this took time. Eli noticed that Fors' eyelids were drooping, and took a discreet step forward to give his friend a little shake somewhere around the third or fourth set of speeches. "You all right?" Eli muttered through his suit filters.

"Yes," Fors muttered. "Could do without the quarterly return-on-investment rundown for the last twenty-five years of my life, but what can you do?"

A snort from Chissa. "Quite a lot, if you wanted." The female volus was, out of her suit, as pale as Fors was dark, a glistening pale gray in color, with subtle shimmers of other colors to her skin and huge, dark eyes as well.

"Tradition," Fors told her in resignation. "I'm trying not to embarrass you."

There was a pause as the clan-leader who was droning into a microphone turned and _stared_ at them. Fors sighed audibly, and Eli stepped back into his position.

Speeches. More rituals. Speeches. Being relieved by Lin, and finding Dara again, who'd long since given in and started reading medical journal articles, in between naps, with her workers to wake her when she needed to be awoken. "Oh, hey, sounds like Chissa's family is finally starting to give their asset analysis on her," Dara told him as he sank down, gratefully, on the bench next to her.

Eli looked blearily at his countdown on his omnitool. _Thirty-four hours to go. How the hell is Fors staying awake?_

_I asked some of the volus around here. Some of those ritual foods they keep feeding each other have natural stimulants in them._ Dara curled her fingers under his elbow. _Your blood sugar feels like it's in your socks, Eli. When did you last eat?_

_Just drinking nutrient water at the moment._ He could feel her exasperation cut through his weariness like a knife.

_Yeah. Okay. We're stepping out to the human buffet area. Don't even think about arguing. Serana got Lin outside on his last break for __apha__ at least._ She chivvied him through the airlock, got him out of his suit long enough to breathe real air and drink hot coffee and eat eggs and toast and bacon, and then he had to suit back up again, and head back inside.

Finally, _finally_, the last set of speeches came, before the final rituals. _Are you sure we're near the end?_ Eli thought to Dara. He'd taken a fair share of long watches before, but this was bordering on ridiculous.

_Must be. All the dignitaries are filing in. We've got Garrus and Shepard and their kids out here. My dad and Kasumi, and even Takeshi, in a very small envirosuit. Rinus and Kallixta are here, as representatives of the Imperator. Kallixta's got at least five visible guards, sure sign that this is considered a state occasion. It's funny watching Rinus chafe at them. You can see him doing it even with a polarized faceplate. He turns his whole body to look at the ones behind him._ _Rel's making fun of him for it, I might add._ Dara's blue-green arpeggio of mental laughter resonated through him, and Eli smiled. _Probably only another two, three hours, tops._

_Thank you, god._ Eli turned and looked. Yes, Lin, Sky, and Thell were all moving up to join ranks beside him. _End-game. _

Chissa's family had finished giving their speeches. Chissa herself now stood, while Fors remained kneeling before her, and one of the attendants brought her a microphone, which she held in one hand, while retaining her grip on Fors' hands with the other. The position made the male a supplicant, Eli realized, reinforcing the fact that female volus held a little higher status than their males did. Chissa began to speak, in trade-tongue, and the translation rolled across his omnitool's screen. _"We've heard, rather endlessly, from both our families, on what our worth is,"_ she said, and Eli could hear gasps. Certainly, Fors' head jerked up, suggesting that her tone was just as acerbic as translation suggested her words were. _"Now, traditionally, I'm supposed to talk about what Fors' worth is to me, and he's supposed to talk about my worth to him. I find it absolutely striking that both our families—I'm sorry, __all__ our families—have completely skirted around the fact that this is not the first time Fors asked me to marry him."_

Deep inhalations from all around, and hisses from the volus in the audience, whose gill-like protrusions on their throats wiggled violently. Eli, in his rather punch-drunk mental state, found that hilarious for some reason, and tried desperately not to laugh. Chissa turned slightly and looked out at the audience. _"No, no, it's true. While he was a member of Lorsa, my esteemed clan-leaders found him of too little value to wed to me. While I would have remained in the clan, and so would have Fors. My work as a terraforming and environmental specialist would have been retained, and so would Fors' worth. Instead, a month after he offered the bride-gift to me, they traded him. For two law clerks, another environmental specialist, a chemical engineer, and a teacher, if I recall correctly. I suppose I should be flattered. I was worth more than what a male who'd been traded for five other people could bring. Except, I actually wanted to marry Fors at that time. Not because of his worth to the clan, but because of his worth to me. Worth. Wealth."_ She snorted. _"What are they good for?"_

Uproar in the chamber now. Chissa was clearly a very _angry_ bride, and was using her chance to speak to embarrass the hell out of her soon-to-be-former clan. Eli was suddenly very much awake. "Ah, _fradu?_" he asked, over the comms. "Are we going to have to defend these two from a horde of angry relatives?"

"I'm . . . not sure," Lin replied. "But suddenly, this is getting a lot more interesting."

_You can say that again,_ Dara sang silently, from the crowd, where half of Lorsa-Clan was on their feet, stomping the ground in displeasure.

Chissa waited for the stomping and hissing to die down. _"Absolutely nothing,"_ she answered her own question, to a renewed storm of hissing. _"Absolutely nothing. How do I know that? Because Fors had to give himself away in order to marry me. My clan said he didn't have enough worth before. Now? By every measure any of our clans would have employed before today, he's worthless. Worthless to them, at least. He gave himself to the entirety of Irune. He's held in public trust. His personal wealth is in a fund held by the state, and being invested for him by a board of trustees. He's told me that any future paychecks from the Spectres, he's putting into __my__ accounts. On paper, Fors Luka n'Perri, n'Arve, n'Keldo, n'Hars, n'Liss, n'Irrva, n'Lorsa, n'Hela, n'Bire is without worth. And yet now, finally, five years after making an offer for me, he's being permitted to marry me. Because suddenly, now, he's worth something."_ Eli knew what sarcasm sounded like in a volus speaking galactic. It was something else entirely in the piercing vowels and sharp, clicking consonants of volus trade-tongue. She sounded like an irate dolphin, and the long sounds carried sharp, buzzing overtones in the thick atmosphere. _Like whalesong in the water_, Dara told him, silently.

Chissa had paused, and waited for everyone in the hall to still once more. _"What kind of a system do we have, in which we cannot __give__ ourselves to one another?"_ she demanded. _"We work our whole lives to accrue worth. Which we give to our clans, which is laudable. We pass on credits to our children, and ensure that their lives will be better than our own, which is a good thing. Our system of worth is supposed to ensure that we will find mates who are worthy of us, ensure that we will have good, healthy children whom we can support. . . but it overlooks other things of worth. It overlooks the worth of someone like Fors Luka. Whom I have always known to be without price, and would have gladly married years ago, but for the __wisdom__ of my clan leaders, who saw in him a business opportunity and traded him away. Him to whom I would have given myself, and freely, without a bride-price at all."_

This was, apparently, saying something highly important, from the renewed shock. Eli looked down at Fors, who was staying absolutely motionless, staring up at Chissa without blinking. _"Instead, now that he's given himself away, my clan has finally seen his worth. The worth that I have always known. What do I value in him, you might well ask? The part that __allows__ him to give himself away. Altruism. Something our system rarely permits or understands. The part of him that cares for people even if it doesn't bring him wealth or worth. The part of him he's had to conceal from all of his families, because it's not valued or understood, and can be used against him. I will never use that against you, Fors. Because I understand it. And I share it with you, as I share all of myself with you. All that I value is yours. I give myself to you. Wholly and completely and without reservation. And I will never leave you again. "_ Chissa handed the microphone away, and knelt once more in front of Fors, who immediately clasped her now-free hand in his own.

Eli tabbed his radio, and murmured to Lin, "Okay, so, it's not just us who were confused by the whole toxic asset thing, huh?"

"Apparently not," Lin agreed. "_S'kak._ Half her clan is _still_ on its feet out there." His voice was a little uneasy.

It was easy to take a single volus as amusing, or not a threat, when they were alone, in their suits. That was more or less Fors' stock in trade: being underestimated. But here, in _their_ environment, where a suit breach would be deadly to a human or a turian, where _they_ were out of their suits, and in the majority? No matter how small they were, there were hundreds of volus in the area. Eli did not really want to see them get out of control. He leaned forward and murmured to Fors, "You think you can calm them down a little? I didn't bring my riot shield and baton today."

"I've got a stasis field with their names on it, if needed," Fors assured him, snuffling a little as he took Eli's hand to stand. . . and accepted the microphone from Chissa's attendant. One of his hands was now securely clasped by Chissa, who now remained kneeling. Reversal of the power dynamic. The supplicant became the one accepting a petitioner.

Fors cleared his throat. _"Thank you for your words, Chissa,"_ he said, simply. _"They mean more to me than you may ever know, but I will attempt to show you, every day for the rest of our lives why they have such value to me. And this is where I'm supposed to explain to everyone else here why I value you."_ He chuckled, a gurgling sound that resonated oddly in the thick atmosphere; not the usual snuffle at all, but a rich and rolling sound. _"Let me start by saying that Chissa, of Lorsa-Clan, is without price. Her worth is beyond that of rubies or pearls or any precious gem, and it transcends mere words."_ The room had quieted, with Lorsa clan slowly sitting back down again, most of them being stared down by the rest of the clans there assembled.

Fors looked around and went on, his voice more serious and sober than Eli had ever heard it. So soft, it was almost hard to hear him, in spite of the amplification and the fact that he was standing two feet from the volus. _"Lorsa-Clan was my eighth clan. I'd given up hope of ever being in a single clan for more than two or three years. My stint in Liss-Clan had been the shortest, a mere two months before being traded again. Lorsa was showing the classic signs of not knowing what to do with me. I was sixteen during the Reaper War. Had already been in four clans. I'd been in Keldo-Clan for the Reaper War, at least, but they didn't have a need for a soldier anymore, and I'd already gotten them points with the Hierarchy, so I'd served my purpose. So they passed me off to Hars, who tried to employ me as corporate security. Yes, they made me a night watchman for their corporate headquarters. That was a fun two years or so. Then they put me in with Liss, who traded me immediately to Irrva-Clan, who assigned me to the local police force. Where I got into trouble, and two years later, they traded me to Lorsa. That was 2190. They put me in a cubicle in their terraforming offices to sit and stew, playing extranet card games while they decided what to do with me, now that they'd acquired me. And that's where Chissa found me. Bored out of my mind, and giving serious thought to re-arranging all the office furniture biotically overnight, just to see who'd notice that their desks weren't in the same places in the morning. And the panic that would ensue would have been __funny__. Everyone would have thought there'd been a corporate take-over."_ Fors snickered. _"Instead, this female pops her head in the cubicle and asks me who I am and what I'm doing in her department. I told her my name, and simply enough, that I was keeping a chair warm. Chissa told me, 'Well, you might as well be useful in the meantime, and started dragging me down to learn about the terraforming machinery. Which types were used to break up stone to create heavy gases. How to thicken an atmosphere without warming the environment. I was fascinated, in spite of the fact that I had no technical background whatsoever. And I think she liked the fact that I could do the math in my head and checked her work for her on the atmospheric dynamics problems she was working on."_

Fors paused. He was telling a love story, and the room was absolutely silent. _"Chissa was the first person to treat me like a __person__, and not a commodity to be traded or a headache that needed to be dealt with, in. . . ancestors. Fifteen, twenty years. And that, to me, was worth everything."_ He paused again, and the room remained absolutely silent. _"She laughed at my jokes, but asked me questions. Questions about Palaven, about serving there. About the Reaper War. . . I'd never really talked to anyone about it. No one at home on Irune cared, really. The Reapers hadn't gotten to us, not as heavily as they'd gone after the turians and the humans and the salarians. We weren't a threat. Just a secondary, tertiary target. And she wouldn't let me pass any of that off with a joke. She was really __interested__, and that meant a lot, too. And she actually asked about how I felt about being traded all the damn time. And understood when I told her that I __hated__ it. Absolutely hated being passed around like a bad gift from someone's year-end party, the cooking utensil that no one really has a use for, but that someone else must want. And so, for a year, I really worked at understanding the Lorsa business. Learned about terraforming and hydrodynamics and everything else. And I offered a bride-price for Chissa. I really thought I had a chance, too."_ Fors laughed, the bitter, edged sound that Eli had heard so many times. Cynical and harsh. _"And a month later, I was traded to Hela, who sent me to Bastion as an embassy guard. Four years of that. . . and then, they, a year ago, traded me to Bire, after an unfortunate incident with the asari __Consort__, and I wound up in B-Sec. The rest is history."_ He cleared his throat. _"A rather different version of history than the glowing quarterly reports each clan has presented to show how much worth they've given up to the whole of Irune in me. The truth of the matter is, none of them wanted me. None of them could figure out what to do with me, once they had me. I had no worth to them. But Chissa always made me feel valued. And I loved her for it. Her price, as I said, is beyond words. I give what little I am worth to you, Chissa. And I ask your forgiveness for not being worth more."_ Fors paused. _"Thank you, to everyone here, for giving me the opportunity to pursue the only thing I've ever really wanted, or even asked for, in close to thirty years of living. And thank you, Chissa, for giving it to me."_

Eli exhaled. He couldn't imagine how much it must have cost Fors to say all of that, in public, in front of cameras, no less. Fors had often said to him, _if no one knows that you care about something, then they don't know how much to charge you for it. Show them that you really want something, and they'll make you pay._ Chissa had questioned the entire foundation of the volus clan and value system; Fors had shown them what the 'human cost' of the value system could be, if the clan leaders were at all out of step with the values of those in their clan.

_All ten clans were already looking like idiots for letting him go to start with,_ Dara sang quietly. _They did their best to show how much profit they all made out of him. And then he and Chissa turn it around and show the truth, and they're right back to having a __lot__ of angry clan-members underneath the leaders, rumbling that if they've mismanaged this, how many other marriages have they mismanaged? How many other deals have they brokered and made to look profitable that weren't?_ Dara's amusement had died away into grays and violets. _People are going to be asking questions, Eli._

_And they'll both be well out of it. He has no clan, and she's taking the unusual step of joining __his__, so they're both effectively clanless. Fors said it would make egg-hatching time hell, but he was willing to face up to it._ Eli shook his head, and watched as the various priests took over again, having both Chissa and Fors stand and face each other. Binding their clasped hands with _kee'thra_ fibers. Murmuring the final words that would link their lives. Sky began to sing, and Eli could hear Dara suddenly joining in, and the workers, too, a little quartet of silent voices, giving a sort of benediction in color and joy, which stopped every volus in the room as they stood to applaud. Sky's thunderous voice echoed in every mind, giving his clear approval, _Sings-Mischief sings his mating-song very well, sings love-song very well! So, too, does his queen! _

Eli cleared his throat and tried, again, not to laugh at the rather _shocked_ body language of most of the people in the audience. But then Shepard and Garrus were standing and applauding, and the rest of the Spectres with them, and the turians from Fors' old unit with them. A dozen asari looked amused behind their masks, probably at their hosts' discomfiture, and joined in as well.

And then, finally, it was over. No reception, since that had been taken care of _during_ the ceremony. Eli was ready to stagger off and find a bed. A _real_ bed. . . but Fors caught up with him, Lin, Dara, and Serana. "I just wanted to thank you," Fors told him and Lin seriously. "None of this would have gone off half so well without the two of you. Well, and you, too, Serana." An unsuited volus grin was a disconcerting sight, as his mouth slit gaped open, showing not teeth, but plates of some chitin analogue. Like an interior beak, really, used for grinding and biting, but no separations. "Your idea of making me public property really was genius, you know."

"Our pleasure," Lin told him, sounding tired. "Now let us go sleep so Serana and I can get married without falling on our faces tomorrow."

Fors laughed, and let them go, turning back to start shaking hands with dozens of dignitaries. Starting with the rest of the Spectres, it looked like. Eli and Dara stayed long enough to see Rel hand Fors a gift: a spirit statue, carved in fine _jalae_ wood. Eli chuckled at the roly-poly form of it. It was clearly Fors in his envirosuit. . . but the volus was holding a classical human 'comedy' mask up in front of his face, on a stick. Fors turned it over and over in his hands, looking at all the details. "What's this for?" he asked, pointing at the mask.

"Because you wear one," Rel told him, promptly. "Even, apparently, when you don't need to wear an envirosuit, according to your _amatra_ here."

Fors chuckled. "It's wonderful. Is the wood going to be safe in the kind of temperatures volus live in?" His voice was concerned.

"Not sure about the ammonia, but the temperature should actually preserve it. Just don't bounce it from one extreme to another too rapidly." Rel shook Fors' hand, and continued out, with Seheve at his side, just behind Dara and Eli.

Dara commented, as they passed through the airlock, "You promised you'd show me the one you did of Seheve, when you finished it."

"I keep forgetting," Rel said, sounding startled. "If you're interested, drop by our rooms. It's in my luggage."

"Sleep first," Eli replied, putting his head down on Dara's shoulder. The edges of his vision were moving disconcertingly. "And we've got . . . Serana and Lin's _commeditor_ stuff tomorrow."

Rel snorted a little. "Overscheduled?"

"Lin's going to fall on his face at his own wedding and have no one to blame but himself," Eli mumbled.

"Lin will wake up when he sees Serana's dress," Dara told them, calmly. "Of course, I think I might need to have a crash cart handy for your mom, Rel, but Lin, and even Eli? Are going to be _very_ awake." Amusement in her voice, and blue-greens in her song. Acceptance, too. Little prickles of orange, as she poked an armored finger into his armored ribs.

Eli pointedly snored against Dara's shoulder. Rel snorted again. "Drop by afterwards, then, assuming you're conscious."

"Okay," Dara said, and got her arm around Eli's waist as the door cycled open. "Come on, Eli, move your feet. I can't carry you."

Eli slowly stripped out of his armor in the hotel room he was sharing with Dara, and, when the alarm squawked in the morning by his head, he didn't actually remember lying down or pulling up the sheets. He was aware, however, of warmth in the bed beside him, and turned over after silencing the alarm, pulling her close. Beginning to bite her neck and shoulder.

_Mmm. Eli?_ Sleepy thoughts.

_Mmm-hmm._

_We have to get up._

_Why?_

_Lin and Serana's wedding—_

_S'kak__. _Eli opened his eyes a little further and squinted at the clock on her side of the bed. "Four-sixty," he mumbled. "That's station time, so that's. . ." He tried to do the mental conversation, and failed.

"Seven forty-five," Dara mumbled against his neck. "And they're starting the proceedings at ten."

"Plenty of time, then."

"They want us there early. Pictures. Making sure we've got their knives." Dara's tone was resigned. "Won't this be fun? We'll be taking pictures with the _whole family._"

_Try not to focus on that, __sai'kaea__. We're there for my __sangua'fradu__ and your __sangua'amila__. Nothing else matters._ He stroked her hair back from her face. _Concentrating on how much it's going to suck dealing with Solanna today? Pretty much sets us up for defeat before we even walk in the door._

_I know._ She exhaled. Reached up, and touched his face, and Eli closed his eyes at the soft touch of her fingers. "You going to be okay today, Eli?" _Just over a year ago, it was you and Serana getting married. . . ._

_I'll be fine. They're happy. And you know what. . . ?_

_Hmm?_

_Lin and she have actually had about six times as much alone time together than she and I had. That trip to Khar'sharn showed her what he's made of. _

_Steel. High-carbon Palaven steel._

_Yep. Showed him what she's made of, too. They're right for each other, and I'm fine with that._ Eli opened his eyes again. "So. . . how much time _do_ we have. . . and how fast can you get dressed, _sai'kaea_?"

Dara laughed, and rolled over to bite _his_ neck, raining sheets and blankets across him, and Eli chuckled now, himself.

Precisely an hour later, they were in the atrium of a turian hotel, with abstract statues standing for the spirits of inspiration, dedication, loyalty, and fidelity all around them, interspersed with fountains. The air was damp and humid, and the atrium was filled with hundreds of plants, including tall _galae_ trees, imported from Palaven. A much smaller assembly. Lin's family, Serana's. Dara's and Eli's, too. Chissa and Fors, back in their suits. . . and none of Lin's friends from Nimines, for obvious reasons. Serana had unbent enough to invite Pelia, who was attending as Melaani's guest, and was dressed substantially more decorously than the other evening.

Serana finally made her entrance. . . and Eli blinked, hearing Lin's sharp inhalation. Eli turned and looked at Dara. "I know you warned me that Solanna was going to have a heart attack about that dress. . . but _damn_."

Lin was just nodding, fervently. Dark blue, with a pattern of golden scales sweeping in curves from neck to ankles, clingingly tight. . . and with cut-outs at the sides, revealing the slim curves of Serana's waist, and teasing glints of her _cinctus_. Sleeveless, to show off the knife sheathe, too. Serana caught the expressions on their faces and just grinned at them, turning to show it off for Lin a little. _"Dara, __amila__,"_ she called over to the human female in turian, who was pinching the bridge of her nose and shaking her head, _"did you bring the mop for Lin's drool, as you promised? I think you were wise to suggest it."_

"_I did. Also, cardiac stimulator for your mother,"_ Dara replied, taking off her own light coat now. She'd turned in a sheepish circle for Eli in their hotel room, telling him, silently, _Can be reused for Zhasa's wedding. What do you think?_

_I think you're lucky we really don't have time for me to get you back out of that,_ he'd told her, grinning in appreciation. The dark purple wasn't quite Magna colony violet, but very close, and the velvet clung in all the right places. High-necked, but low-backed, and slit up the sides so he could see rachni silk stockings. And sleeveless. Showing off the empty knife-sheath on her left wrist. Serana's dress was extremely turian, and classy enough, but very extroverted. Dara's was very human and a little more introverted. _Told you, __sai'kaea.__ Two hottest females I know, of any species. Although. . . I'd like to add Zhasa to the list._

Lin whistled between his teeth at Dara, got a rude noise in response, and grinned at her. _"So, you guys __do__ have our knives for us, right?"_ Lin asked now.

Eli made a show of quickly patting down his suit jacket and pockets, looking alarmed. . . and then pulled the _manus_ knife from an inside pocket. Dara muttered, "_Damn. Knew there was something I forgot. . . "_ got the dirty look from Serana, and then smiled and produced the knife from her evening bag. "Just kidding."

"You two _deserve_ each other," Serana told them, with a little toss of her head. "Let's get started. The sooner this contract starts ticking, the sooner I can convince him to extend it."

Lin snickered at her, and took her hand in his lightly, leading her to where the pictures would be taken, with a small indoor waterfall as a backdrop.

It was, as Dara had prophesied, awkward. Seheve was there, with Rel, and once more wearing that brilliant red vest and skirt combination, this time without the heated boots. Solanna's cry of "_Spirits. . . Seheve. . . dear. . . didn't Rellus explain the correct attire for an event like today?"_ cut off on a rather strangled sound when she caught sight of her own daughter's wedding dress.

Dara leaned to her left, and Eli clearly heard her murmur to Serana, "Damn. You were _this_ close to being able to walk past her and not even get a reaction, because she was so occupied with Seheve."

"_Amila_, what's the fun of wearing a dress like this if I _don't_ scandalize someone?" Serana pointed out, grinning wickedly. "I'll also point out that at least fifty percent of my waist is covered."

"And I'm absolutely fine with the fifty percent that isn't," Lin added, in a fervent tone, and Eli did his best not to laugh out loud.

Most of the rest of the Velnaran family wore gold today; Kallixta certainly did. . . an outfit that dazzled with topazes sewn into every seam. Rinus, however, was wearing his _dominus_ robes and an amused expression. Garrus and Shepard were there, in Vakarian blues, just as Gavius and even _Agnes_ were wearing. Lantar had opted to wear a violet tunic, and Tacitus wore a smaller version of that, sitting in Lantar's lap in the audience. Ellie, Eli's mother, and all the girls, Caelia, Emily, and Narayana, were in violet dresses. "You don't match," Dara pointed out to Eli, irrepressibly.

"I'm human. More or less. I'm sticking with a nice dark suit."

"I could get you a purple shirt," she offered, grinning.

"Not in this lifetime, _sai'kaea_."

"Purple tie?" Dara suggested, pulling on the black-on-black silk one he was already wearing.

"Maybe, but only because I love you." Eli leaned down and gave her a quick kiss, knowing that others undoubtedly could hear their by-play. . . a suspicion that was confirmed when he saw Lantar turn, glance at them, and unexpectedly grin.

"_I see Uncle Egidus and his family didn't make it in from Dymion again,"_ Rinus murmured in front of them as the first set of pictures, just Lin and Serana together, was snapped.

"_Too busy,"_ Allardus replied, as the photographer called, _"All the attendants, please?"_

Eli moved up to Lin's side—he was first attendant, and _sangua'fradu_, and that slightly outranked first-brother. Solanna hissed slightly, but went silent when everyone looked at her. Then Rinus, then Rel. Then Lin's actual second-brother, Arius, who'd just gotten done with OCS, and was wearing his black uniform, with its pale turquoise stripe, and an expression of awe. Dara stood up on Serana's side. . . and Solanna hissed at the sight. And maintained an absolutely icy expression as Kallixta moved up next, followed by Polina and Lin's first-sister, Sestina. Kallixta's expression was set in a public mask; Polina and Sestina looked a little frightened. Dara had gone completely expressionless. It hadn't been, likely, a very good picture, as a result.

"_Parents, please. . . "_

Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, as the attendants stepped out of line, and Allardus, Solanna, Ranallus, and Marena stepped up. _"Ah, did you want one with the parents of your __sangua'fradu__ in there, too?"_ the photographer asked politely.

"_Yes,"_ Lin replied, which got Lantar and Ellie to leave Tacitus and Emily in the grips of Narayana and Caelia, and come to the front. Eli moved over very quickly when he saw Tacitus trying to break out of Caelia's grip, and crouched down to tell his little brother, firmly, _no, behave now_.

More shuffling, and then Serana pointed out, brightly, _"Actually, I'd like to have a set with Sam and Kasumi, too. Not only did they teach me everything I know about my job, but they're also the parents of my __sangua'amila__."_

Eli's head jerked up. He could feel the bright flash of yellow-white shock from Dara from across the room. _Oh, god, Serana, you really want to fight this one out __today__?_ Eli thought. _Asperitalla,__ indeed. . . ._

Kasumi stood, chuckling, and handed Takeshi to Dara, who gave her and her father a wide-eyed stare as they walked up to the front. One set of pictures with all four sets of 'parents' there, one with just Allardus, Solanna, Ranallus, and Marena, and one set with just Sam, Kasumi, Lantar, and Ellie. _This is getting interesting, __sai'kaea__,_ Eli told Dara, from across the room, and, as his parents returned, released Tacitus' wrists. "I'm remanding him into your custody," he told Lantar, who chuckled, and picked Tacitus up under his arms and told him, "Were you not behaving for Caelia?"

"I already just did!" Tacitus protested.

"I see," Lantar told him, with a notable lack of belief.

"_All the siblings and the blood parents,"_ the photographer called.

"_This is where it gets complicated,"_ Serana told the photographer with a sunny smile.

Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Orders of damned precedence. Eli moved up. Parents first. Ranallus, Marena, _sangua'fradu,_ first-sister, second-brother. . . and on the right. . . Serana, looking notably impatient, called over to Dara, "_Seheve, Dara, get up here."_

Dara had been standing back, watching the delicate dance of precedence, which on Serana's side went parents, first-brother, first-brother's wife, second-brother, second-sister, third-brother. She and Seheve both shook their heads in exactly the same way, wide-eyed and vehement. Eli put a hand over his face and tried, very hard, not to laugh.

No sooner had Serana spoken, then Solanna hissed, _"Seheve is fine. I have no objection to her. But Dara is not your sister anymore, Serana, and this is hardly the time or place. Not after everything she's done to your brother."_

Eli leaned out of line and met Rel's eyes behind Solanna's back, mouthing 'gene mod' with a questioning look. Rel's resigned look at the ceiling spoke volumes. _Yep. He took Dara at her word and got Solanna off Seheve's back by saying that he couldn't, in conscience, ever risk taking a turian mate. This, directly after the Conclave, has Solanna's hackles up. Oh, god, family politics. I think being out in the field might be safer._ A glance out at the crowd told him that Lantar and Sam were both grim-faced. His mom was giving Solanna a surprisingly dark-eyed look, and Kasumi was shaking her head.

Serana sighed and rolled her eyes. And still, looking directly at Dara, told her, firmly, "_You see, Dara? You keep saying that __sangua'amila __vows would only potentially burden me if you happen to die, but I like to think you'd get some __protection__ out of it._" Her eyes didn't quite flick towards Solanna, but everyone in the room had to know what she meant. "_Considering the fact that you shed your heart's blood trying to save my life, I really think the words __ought__ to be spoken at some point."_

"_You're going to_ nag _me about this until I give in, aren't you, Serana?"_ Dara said, folding her arms over her chest.

"_Of course not. Sooner or later, your intelligence will kick in over your stubbornness, you'll see the blinding good sense of it, and agree."_

_That_ picture was probably a good one. Eli, Lin, Rel, Rinus, and Kallixta _all_ started to laugh and had to turn away from the camera as Dara reluctantly approached. And order of precedence being what it was, she was sandwiched between Solanna and Rinus for the next picture. And Rinus put a hand on her shoulder, pointedly, and muttered, _"Courage, amilula_," loudly enough for people in the next room to have heard, probably.

Then the ceremony itself got underway. _Commeditor_ weddings had a fair number of clauses to read, but they were fairly standard. No children, two-year contract, couple was to live in housing provided by Linianus, he would provide the credits needed to furnish it, Serana would provide the credits for living expenses such as food and utilities. They both agreed to attempt to learn how to cook. Eli did his best not to laugh out loud at that one. Escape clauses, very standard. Then Eli and Dara each handed them the knives to exchange, and the pair knelt. Swore the binding vows, Lin's voice hardly more than a whisper as he began the ritual invocation that Maxwell had deconstructed just a week before. "_A'petentia tulla eliir animae oporte meus. . . "_

_"Ita meus animae, a'condonia talus,"_ Serana whispered the words back, and Eli could just see past Lin's head, the wide-eyed expression on her face. Joy there, and it tugged a little at his heartstrings, but in a good way. He looked up, and met Dara's eyes over the kneeling forms of their two friends, and smiled at her, feeling her concern well up for him again. Yellow-purple, anxiety and sorrow, made for _worry_. _Sai'kaea__, I told you. . . I'm fine. Listen to my song. Do you hear regret?_

_Only a very little_._ Mostly joy-songs,_ she told him, silently, as the pair continued to take their vows. _"A'petentia tulla eliir kogitae oporte meus,"_ Lin said, and Eli could remember him saying those same words to Brennia. Caught a flicker of that memory from _Lin's_ perspective, in Dara's mind. Knew that his brother had to be reliving the memories now, himself, at least a little bit, and winced internally. _No wonder his hands are shaking._

_"Ita meus kogitae, a'condonia talus,"_ Serana replied, softly, and on down the line, until Lin, hands trembling a little, responded, _"Ita meus animae, ita meus kogitae, ita meus korporae, a'condonia eliis. Adiunctus meus gensae. . . "_ and gently began to daub Edessan blue over the Thracian yellow already on her face, with his fingers.

The reception afterwards was simple, as turian affairs tended to be. Light mingling. Eli and Dara found themselves in a corner with Rinus and Kallixta, and shortly joined by Rel and Seheve. Eli gave Rel a pained look. "What, you told your mom about the gene mod stuff last night or something?"

Rel grimaced. "She was going off about how she wasn't sure it was appropriate to have Seheve in the wedding party, and I couldn't take it any more. It was that, or an ultimatum, and I didn't want to do that just then." He glanced at Dara. "I'm sorry."

Dara sighed. "Don't be. I told you to do it. The timing's a little off. . . but, let's face it. There's nothing that would make her happy to see either me or Eli here today." Dara smiled a little, but her eyes were sad. "She's got a healthy head of protection-anger worked up, and nowhere to unleash it. She's mad at Eli—"

"Technically, _Serana_ is the one who put in the paperwork for the dissolution of the marriage," Rinus pointed out, looking at the ceiling.

"Yes, but at my request, and Solanna knows it." Eli shrugged.

Dara held up a hand, shushing them. "And Serana still clearly likes Eli, and he's Lin's brother. She can't take out her mad on Eli, not without getting her daughter and her new son-in-law angry at her. She's mad at me, too. She watched Rel have to admit to adrenaline-addiction in front of the entire Hierarchy just a few days ago, that was humiliating for him, as was the whole divorce—"

"And _I'm_ over that," Rel muttered, taking a drink of his brandy.

". . . but she isn't. She's mad on your behalf. She's mad on Serana's behalf. And I'm the only available target." Dara shrugged, but Eli could see that she still hurt. She'd worked, very hard, for years, to get Solanna to accept her and like her, and now she was back to square one, or worse.

"I'll tell her that the gene mod has a very low percentage chance—" Rel started to say.

Dara shook her head. "Don't. It's not like I'm going to be in her face often. And sooner or later, your father will figure out what's bothering her, and explain it to her, I'm sure. At least give yourselves the year, like I promised."

Seheve frowned. "I do not like using you as a shield."

"Just accept it and move on," Dara told her, firmly, and looked up at Rinus, and Eli could hear the piano music working in scales through her trained, disciplined mind. "I had a couple of questions that I thought of after our conversation the other night," she told him, changing the subject, firmly. "About the Reaper War."

Rinus nodded, his expression immediately turning sober. "Ask away," he told her.

"If the Reapers needed organic material to make more of themselves, why didn't they just take up farming goats or something?"

Rinus chuckled. "Fair enough question. Let me flesh out the current theories a little more for you. It's thought that the Sowers, who probably planted a fair number of basic life-forms on different planets, probably programmed the Reapers to establish life on other worlds. The Reapers, after all, probably _were_ the personality uploads of the Sowers, at first. And to maintain an ecological balance out there? They probably also were given an imperative to check the proliferation of over-successful species, originally. Like the suicide genes my father puts into plants and animal species that he introduces on Mindoir, as a sort of balance to the eco-system. My personal theory is that programming got corrupted over time. Just in the way the geth had the 'heretics' after a simple mathematical calculation got corrupted. Could have been why the Reapers more or less went mad, and turned on their creators. Some people think that maybe the Sowers did what the quarians did, and tried to wipe out the Reapers in a pre-emptive strike. It's hard to say, and it's all theoretical." Rinus shrugged, and went on, "So, you've got the Reapers, cultivating some species, and harvesting them, and they have programming imperatives and certain corruptions. The Sowers seem to have used biotics very, very heavily. All of their devices use biotic energy. The Reapers could use biotic-to-tech and tech-to-biotic conversions. The mini-Reaper can use biotics. The . . . artifacts? All biotic."

"The egg that Zhasa wound up getting zapped by? Prothean, but apparently based on Sower tech, and responded to biotic energy. The Prothean text in its crystal referred to 'those who went before,'" Dara murmured, quietly.

"Exactly," Rinus said. "So, they probably had a desire to see life grow along paths that were comfortable and familiar to them. Thus, biotics were preferred, in some ways. Encouraged, cultivated. The second trait that they seem to have encouraged is genetic variability. Species with large amounts of genetic variability, the ability to create sports and mutants and adapt rapidly to changing conditions, were preferred by the Sowers. . . and by the Reapers. Much in the way the Protheans seem to have found humans and turians to be of more interest than, say, the asari."

"Hence all the genetic tagging the Protheans did on our species," Dara said, nodding. "And the Reapers _really_ had an interest in this, too?"

Rinus nodded himself now, making an expansive gesture with his hands. "Yes. Absolutely. That's why they targeted humanity in particular. The more genetic variability, the more interesting. The more dangerous, too. The more potential for not following the Reaper pre-programmed path. They collected and harvested many humans before the invasion, to create their first new Reaper in fifty thousand years. Set up humans as an enemy to other species, by creating a plague on Omega to which humans were immune. And they seem to have had a strong fascination for Shepard. Probably because her own genome is supposed to be a little odd, even for a human's." Rinus muttered the last, glancing around.

Eli raised a hand. "Okay, so how does that get us to 'why didn't they just farm goats'?"

"They _were_," Rinus replied, simply. "We were the goats. They had a preference for biotic species and ones with significant variability in the genome for making the strongest new Reapers. . and probably reminders in programming from the Sowers that these were preferable traits. There aren't too many biotic pigs and _anserae_ out there, after all. And the corruption in the programming that said 'all species that are like the Sowers, that become advanced enough to threaten us, must be destroyed,' became the criteria by which they knew that a current 'crop' was ready for harvesting. And why they targeted sapients and not non-sapients." He shrugged. "It's complex, but it's explicable. It's not even illogical."

Kallixta chuckled a little at that. "Illogical would be a race of intelligent machines, who decided to stop organics from, say, making more intelligent machines. By destroying organics in order to _protect_ us from. . . our own intelligent machines." She paused. "Oh, and that would make the fact that they rendered us down into goo to make more of themselves, as their only form of reproduction, something done solely for our own good, and entirely incidental, at the same time."

"Circular," Dara acknowledged, giving Kallixta a little toast with her glass of champagne.

"Sounds about as intelligent as one of those twenty-first century vids we've been watching," Eli commented. "In which case, we could have uploaded a virus to wipe them all out."

Rel snorted. "All right," he said, giving Rinus a look. "Then if they prized biotics so much, why did they destroy Thessia?"

"That's one of the war's biggest questions," Rinus acknowledged. "But it only happened after two or three key events. First, the rachni had entered the war. Sky and his teams went aboard one Reaper, held off the indoctrination, and destroyed it from the inside out, escaping with their lives. Second, Life-Singer held one Reaper completely still, dead in space, with nothing but the power of her song, amplified by her ship, so that all the turian and human and quarian ships in the vicinity could fire on it at will. . . and that destroyed it." Rinus looked down into his glass of _caprificus_ brandy. "The rachni were few, but they had _that_ much biotic power. Imagine how threatening that must have seemed. They were the species the Reapers had tried to have wipe out the asari. . . and were set up to be wiped out, themselves, if they didn't succeed. Why have them attack the asari? Why try to destroy the rachni?"

Eli's head came up. "Because _too much_ biotic power was a threat, too," he said.

"Yeah. I think so." Rinus nodded. "The asari were staying out of the war initially. Just holding back, protecting their own planets. And then, after Life-Singer and the rachni entered the war, the asari started making noise about coming in as well. Billions of biotics, not the mere millions of the rachni . . . but with little genetic variability. The other thing that the Reapers valued. What would happen if _billions_ of biotics joined together in the kind of group mind that the rachni are capable of?"

"Asari can't do that," Eli objected, but in his mind, and Dara's, was the vision of a planetary shield, created by the minds and hearts and will of all the people on it.

"Yes," Rinus murmured. "But what if they could learn to, from the rachni? What if they moved away from their homeworlds, and, inspired by the rachni, started using their biotics in unison, to hold Reapers stunned? What if they were able to amplify their biotics through their ships, if the rachni shared their technology? The technology that no one else in the galaxy had, because the rachni were the only species that _didn't_ evolve their technology along the same old lines of the old Reaper trap?"

Eli closed his eyes. "And so, the threat of their biotics became more of a risk than it was worth in terms of their organic capital," he said, the language of economics still fresh in his mind from the long hours of Fors' wedding. "And since they had so little genetic variability. . . "

"Even less profitable,' Rinus agreed. "And one more thing. It's entirely possible that the Reapers had warning, through their Cerberus indoctrinated agents, that the dark matter bomb that the quarians and the salarians developed, and that was loaded onto the _Normandy_, was going to be used against them. They probably wanted to distract Shepard. To draw her to Harbinger. Harbinger led the attack on Thessia. Instead, Shepard went through their locked relay. Went to their Node. And destroyed their control center." Rinus swallowed his brandy. "Heavy topic for a wedding, everyone."

'This, I'm noticing," Serana said from behind them, crisply. "What happened to idle chit-chat and gossip?"

They all turned and smiled as Lin and Serana joined their circle. Eli gave Lin a quick wrist-clasp and Dara gave Serana a hug. "Here, we'll try to do better," Dara offered. "We didn't know what to get you two as a wedding present," Dara told them, shrugging a little helplessly.

"I told her we could get you a waffle-iron, but she reminded me that you're already sitting on the one Sam and my dad gave us all," Eli pointed out.

"Only till your house gets done being built. Then you can move your half of the stuff out," Lin told him, chuckling.

"Keep the kitchen table and chairs. I can't picture taking half a table up to the lakeshore."

Rel snorted at that. "I'll admit to being envious that you two are getting a house," he commented. "No hotels. There's barracks, and there's married housing, but not exactly a lot of _apartments_ on base and down in the valley."

Eli grinned into his drink. "Not a hell of a lot of privacy for us, either, Rel," he said, dryly. "We've been camping an _awful_ lot lately."

"And probably will be till the house is finished," Dara added, quietly, making a face. "Hope it's done before the first snowfall."

"Yeah. I don't want to wake up buried under a snowdrift," Eli told her dryly.

"I might ask if it would be permissible for me to rent one of the old colony trailers, like my brother Oeric has," Seheve suggested, tentatively.

Rel's face lit up, and he pulled her a little closer to him. "I hadn't thought of that," he told her, with some enthusiasm.

Seheve smiled up at him. "I am told that cats are happiest when they have an established territory. Loki would be better off so, would he not?"

Rel squinted down at her. "That was a joke?"

"Yes."

"Ah. Then yes, by all means, do it for the cat's sake." Rel's tone was very dry.

Dara turned back to Serana now, smiling slightly. "So. . . wedding gifts."

Kallixta snorted. "You really couldn't think of giving them a cured side of _cuderae_, Dara?"

Dara made a face at her. "That presupposes that they know how to cook _cuderae_. Last I heard, Lin hadn't gotten past _anserae_ in his first cookbook." A quick, apologetic look at Lin for the joke, in case it hurt, but Lin just reached out and ruffled Dara's hair lightly. "Absolutely true," Lin told her.

Dara looked back at Serana. "So. . . would you accept my swearing to help you paint that house, Serana?" she offered. "I have zero artistic skill, but if you tell me what color to put where in that mural that you're doing, I can probably do paint by numbers if you trust me with it."

Serana chuckled. "You could let me borrow a half-dozen workers one day and do the whole house at once."

Dara snorted. "That doesn't feel like much of a present."

"I know!" Serana snapped her fingers. "Promise you'll come over and teach us how to cook properly?"

"By which, she means, 'come over and cook for us once every two weeks or so,'" Lin translated helpfully.

Eli snorted. "I think we can manage that. What do you think, _sai'kaea?_ It's our job to make sure they don't starve, right?"

"Sounds like it has possibilities," Dara admitted, smiling.

She gave Lin a hug, and squeaked as he picked her up off the ground, and Eli leaned down. Gave Serana just as tight a hug, and whispered in her ear, "You're happy?"

"Yes," Serana told him, looking up, a glow of contentment in her face and eyes. "Oh yes, I am."

"Good. Stay that way. If you ever need anything, you know where I'll be." One more tight squeeze, and then Eli put her back on the ground, and took Dara's hand in his own. _Let's go, __sai'kaea__._

Subtle threads of indigo worked through her song, lightening his own, and she told him, _Sure. Let's grab our folks, though. And then, I think we're actually on __leave__ for a while. Want to go anywhere in particular?_

Eli thought about it. _Home. Just home._ Mindoir in early fall. _Galae_ trees and _allora_ trees lighting the hillsides in scarlet and golds.

Dara smiled up at him. _Sounds like a plan to me. _

**Shepard, Mindoir, March 2, 2197**

It was actually the _Normandy_ that had taken most of the Spectres and their families home from Bastion, and the ship always needed assistance lifting back off again if it landed on the planet's surface, but Lilitu Shepard considered it well worth the effort in this case. Certainly, the fuel cost in terms of all the shuttles needed to disembark all the passengers was about the same as having an SR-3 help the SR-2 escape Mindoir's gravity well. She stood in the cockpit, and patted one of the consoles. "You're not talking to me today, Joker?" Shepard asked, dryly. "Still mad?"

The tiny avatar, complete with ball cap, appeared immediately. "About the AI virus thing? Nah. We all went over her pretty carefully when Kirrahe turned her loose. Asked her a lot of questions. It's a little unsettling, but she's essentially the cyber warfare suite from EDI's original toolkit. . . heavily modified. . . and creepily self-aware." Joker made a rude noise. "Okay, yeah. Not mad at you, but a little worried."

Shepard turned and looked at him. Joker was still one of her oldest friends. "She doesn't have enough constraints?"

"Oh, she's got constraints. She's got constraints coming out of the tips of her . . . ear. . . thingies. . . " Joker paused. "I just can't help but feeling that we've turned her loose in a great big playground, and she's going to run into things she doesn't know how to deal with, and there's no telling what that'll do to her. I wouldn't do that to any of my own kids." He paused again. "Okay, so, they're not actually _my_ kids, they're the other Joker's kids, but you know what I mean."

Shepard regarded him patiently. "You know why I still like talking with you, Joker, after all these years?" she finally said, after a long moment.

"My dazzling charm and rapier-like wit?"

"It's more the fact that you're the only person in the galaxy whose life really is weirder than mine."

"Ah, no. I think some of the younger Spectres passed you a long time ago. Some of them are even going in for the whole resurrection thing. But none of them are ghosts. Spoooooky, spooooooky ghosts." Joker paused. "Okay, you're still sensitive about the whole dying thing. I don't know why. I'm not."

Shepard had folded her arms across her chest, and was still giving Joker a narrow-eyed stare. "You done?"

Joker chuckled. "For the moment. We're about to breach the atmosphere."

Shepard put her hand on the back of the empty pilot's seat, and felt the slight bump at the _Normandy'_s nose entered the outermost layers of Mindoir's atmosphere. "So. . . you're uneasy about Yana running amok out there."

Joker threw his ephemeral hands in the air. "She's smart, she's sweet, she's a real person, but she's got the personality of a little girl with Kirrahe's killer instincts, and she's made to hunt down AIs. It's a concern. Does it keep me up nights? No. Then again, I stay up all night anyway, these days." Joker shook his head. "As it is, we're keeping an eye on her, as best we can. She's burrowing through millions of datastreams. We're trying to help, as best we can, pointing out places that have access ports to batarian datastreams. . . and there've been a few of them that have been hitting the view feed from the Conclave pretty hard. And the vid feed from Fors' wedding, too. Those spikes in traffic are ones that kind of got all of our attention, you might say." He squinted. "Of course, there were a hell of a lot of spikes just coming from Sur'Kesh itself when the vid stream identified her as Mordin-Sidonis Narayana._ Daughter_ of the late Mordin Solus. Being raised off-world. The dalatrass AI could have managed to put nodes pretty much _anywhere_ there's an extranet connection." He looked gloomy. "We're trying to help, but it's a big damn job."

Shepard nodded, and just watched as the sky outside faded from inky, star-spangled black into the pale lavender hue of a cloudy day in autumn on Mindoir. "I guess the question is, how do we know when she's done?" she finally said.

"Yeah. I don't know. None of us do." Joker sighed. "Five minutes till we land, Commander."

"Thanks, Joker. I'll go get Garrus and the kids."

Shepard put the NCAIs' worries to the back of her mind, where she was keeping all the other things she had to worry about, for the moment. The war. The troubling fact that she'd lost a total of nine Spectres on Amaterasu before the current three teams had been sent. She'd lost another five to Terra Nova, four to death and one to a forcible retirement. Others had been lost on Ferris Fields and a half dozen other colonies. Which meant that the Spectres, after 'largest class ever inducted' this past year, had been brought back to their previous numbers through a steady battle of attrition. _One step forward, one step back_.

The current step forward, at least, included being able to see her children again. Being able to pick Amara up and hug the girl tightly. Thoughts curling into her mind. _Mama, don't feel so bad. We know we had to go away where it was safe. It's safe at home now, right?_ Apprehension in Amara's mental voice.

"It's as safe as we can make it," Lilitu told her daughter, putting all the confidence she could into her voice. "There's never a guarantee, but. . . Kirrahe, with Narayana's help, is taking care of one of the bigger threats."

"Nara's helping?" Kaius sounded impressed as he picked up his _reela_ in its case, a present from Christmas, and clambered down the ramp at Garrus' side. "I wish I could have helped. Felt kind of stupid and useless, hiding. And, well. . . " He shrugged. Kaius wasn't about to admit to fear, Shepard could see. Her oldest son had picked that up from his father, very evidently.

Shepard put Amara back down on the deckplates, and leaned down to hug Kaius. "You're home. That's the only thing that matters." She stroked his fringe back, as Garrus leaned down to pick up Elissa now. Alain reached up and grabbed her hand, insistently, and the curl of those trusting, very warm fingers in hers made her heart clench. _You're home, and you're safe. As safe as we can make the place, damnit._

The other families were disembarking, too. Charis and Estevan both whooped when they saw Eduardo waiting in the landing field, and Estevan took off at a run, shouting "Papa! Papa!" at the top of his lungs. For Lantar and Ellie, a slightly quieter landing; Ellie looked up at the sky and clearly relaxed. Smiled at Lantar, who ducked down and nipped the side of her neck—in public, no less. Caelia ran down the ramp and stood, staring up at the sky, her arms outstretched. "This is the only place that the sky _looks_ right!" she shouted back up the ramp, and Shepard smiled a little, internally. _So true, little one. So very, very true._

Madison slouched down the ramp in Dempsey and Zhasa's wake. Shepard could hear Zhasa asking the young man, cheerfully, "Glad to be home?"

"It's really nice to breathe air that smells like it hasn't been pushed through a filtration system," Madison admitted.

"I know!" Zhasa replied, smiling. "I can't get over all the smells. Dempsey! The air smells different now than when we left. What is that?"

Shepard inhaled. A sort of. . . applewine-sap sweetness to the air. Hint of coolness to the breeze. "That's the smell of fall," Dempsey told her, simply. "Leaves are starting to come off the trees. It's a good time of year." He hefted their bags. "Let's head back to the house and see how much dust is on things, and how much cleaning I have to do before I can let you in there."

"Oh, don't be silly. I can put a breather on, if it's too bad. . . "

Their voices melted into the distance. Shepard, lifting Alain into her arms, watched the others descend. Sam and Kasumi had headed to Bek, so Takeshi was in Agnes' care for the moment. . . Gavius had leaned down to give Agnes a quick forehead touch, while she tried to persuade Takeshi to _leave Emily alone_ for five minutes, and then the older male came over and said, dryly, "Here. Give me one of my grandchildren. I've been practicing with Takeshi for so long, I think I might be able to handle one of them without frightening them too much."

Garrus' startled, but very pleased smile was all the reward Lilu thought she'd need for the next month, as he handed Elissa over to his father. Elissa peered up into Gavius' craggy face, saw the Vakarian paint, and said, quite happily, "Grandpada!" in a mix of English and turian that made Garrus start to chuckle.

And then the rest of her younger Spectres. Dara and Eli, stopping to help Agnes with Takeshi and Emily, respectively. Rellus, close by Seheve's side, as she found her brother, Oeric, out in the crowd of people there to welcome everyone home. Lin and Serana had taken off for a two-week honeymoon. Allardus had been chuckling over it last night. "One week for battle sites of the Unification Wars, and one week for, spirits help us, the second global conflict on Earth. I knew they were both history buffs, but they're not going to know what day it is when they get back. Four or five different time zones make for a confused body clock." Fors and Chissa, in spite of the ire of their clans, were on their own honeymoon on Irune. Something about a cryovolcano, and spectacular plumes of methane and ethane erupting into the air. When she'd read their trip itinerary to Garrus, he'd responded, dryly, "Yes, but you can see that every day after lunch in the elcor cafeteria. . ." and she'd thrown a pillow at him in retaliation. Laughing uproariously as she did so.

Now, Shepard turned slightly, and tracked Zhasa and Dempsey with her eyes as they left. _Yes. I'm fairly sure of some of the future here, but it's. . . all the long-term stuff._ She sighed. She had base sites picked out on Tosal Nym and Aphras. Tosal Nym, the more 'human' of the two planets, with its lower temperature, would have an archaeological dig and a terraforming station to serve as cover. That would become their R&D station, Shepard had determined. And she needed people with technical experience but also field know-how to run that base. Aphras, the more 'turian' of the two planets, had no digsites nearby, and for good reason. . . .that was going to be where they trained solidly with STG, TIA, and special forces units from a half-dozen species. There would even be a bombing range there. She'd need people with special forces and 'wet-work' experience to be in charge there. And here, at the Mindoir base, she'd hold onto the investigations and espionage people. There would continue to be cross-training, all across the board. . . but the past few years had given her strong indications that for survivability, the Spectres, like a species, needed to spread out a little more. And to diversify, in some ways.

But this was, again, all thinking for the long-term. Things to do _after_ the damned war was over. That kind of thinking, Lilitu had discovered during the Reaper War, let her have a break from the constant worry about the _now_. Taking the long view let her brain work through different problems, different goals. And, once in a great while, the long view gave her short-term solutions. But not today. Today, there was a pitched battle on the surface of Camala. Turian and human forces, accompanied by krogan irregulars, had targeted military facilities, spaceports, and commerce centers from space. And now, landing, they weren't looking to occupy. They were moving in, fast and quick, wiping out military convoys and bunkers. Pockets of civilian resistance. Taking slave encampments and the biotic processing facilities. . . and they had, Shepard knew, found Valak's estate. With a hundred trained batarians there, waiting for them. People who knew the planet. Knew the enemy. Could blend in with the enemy. It wasn't much, but it was _something_, and those hundred men and women were going to save lives, simply because they could spot what the turians and the humans and the krogan couldn't: Oversight and SIU personnel in plain clothes, advancing through a crowd with concealed weapons or bombs. But Shepard also knew, a hundred men and women weren't going to be enough.

They'd piled into a groundcar with Lantar's family, for the moment. Caelia was vehemently protesting that she wanted to _walk_ home. "I don't want to go in the car, I don't want to. I want to feel the wind and smell the grass," she begged. Lantar's patience was visibly draining away. . . and Kaius leaned over before getting into the vehicle, swiping a flower from the overgrown grass at the edge of the field, tossing it carelessly into Caelia's lap. "Here," he told her. "Hang onto this till you get to your house, okay?" A thoughtless but kind gesture, meant to shut the younger child up before she got into trouble. Caelia picked up the flower (and any number of pieces of loose grass with it), and sniffled over it, settling into silence after an almost inaudible _thank you_ crossed her lips.

Garrus gave his oldest son one look, and, after closing the door of the groundcar, managed, with evident effort, to keep from smiling. Lantar looked from Kaius to his own daughter, and then to Dara and Eli, who were near the back of the large vehicle, trying to keep Emily and Tacitus occupied and quiet, and said, very quietly, "You know, I'm somewhat glad Sam isn't here."

Shepard arched her eyebrows at him. "Oh?"

Lantar nodded slowly. "This is about when he'd probably be laughing and saying 'I told you so.'"

The various children were completely oblivious to the by-play, but Dara and Eli had both looked up, their eyes darting back and forth. And, as if Lantar's words had conjured Sam's spirit, Shepard remembered a long-gone conversation with perfect clarity. Her telling Kasumi, _"I will say that I don't believe in living happily ever after. Everything needs __work__. Whether it's periodic territorial marking or maintenance is irrelevant. It's all work."_

Sam's voice, ringing out, full-on drawl, hint of irritation. _"I'd find this a hell of a lot funnier if it wasn't my daughter we're talking about."_ A pause while he'd smirked at Lantar and Garrus, just a little, his lips curling up under his moustache. _"In ten years or so, I may be a gray-haired wreck of a man, but at least I'll have the satisfaction of watching both of you," and he pointed at Garrus and Lantar, "go through the same damn thing with your little girls. And don't even tell me that turians don't worry about their girls more."_

Kaius, completely oblivious to any consternation he might have caused in adult minds, opened up his datapad and started going through some sort of history lesson. And Eli and Dara, to their credit, turned their faces away and kept their laughter to themselves.

**Dara, Mindoir, March 2-30, 2197**

There hadn't had much time in the past week, thanks to the vagaries of space travel, including the fact that Lantar and Ellie and the kids had all been on Palaven for several days after the Conclave meeting. . . and then there'd been the 'bachelor party,' Fors' wedding, Lin and Serana's wedding, and then the trip back to Mindoir. Dara had made sure that she and Eli spent some time with both their parents, before Kasumi and Sam had headed off for Bek, and Ellie had already wrapped her arms around Dara in a tight hug and told her, quietly, "I'm so happy for you both. . . " and Dara could _feel_ the resonances of truth behind those words. _Kindness-Singer, indeed_.

Now, there was the business of trying to get four very excited younglings unpacked, settled back into their rooms, and listening to Ellie make chuffing noises over the state of her pantry, which was mostly empty, while Lantar protested, mildly, "I haven't been home much, either, _amatra_. And when I have, I've been eating largely out of cans."

"That's not healthy, Lantar!"

"Odd. That's _exactly_ what Sam told me. I'm not sure if he sounds like you, or if you sound like him."

Dara, who was helping Narayana put her clothes away in the room she shared with Caelia, stifled a laugh.

"Kasumi sent me the pictures from the Bastion plagues, Lantar. . . I know perfectly well you're just about as married to him as you are to me." Faint tone of resignation in Ellie's voice, drifting in from the kitchen.

"All it would take is him agreeing to the _sangua'fradu_ vows to make it official," Lantar agreed, equitably. Which got a muffled laugh from across the hall, where Eli was getting Tacitus' toys and clothes unpacked.

"What in god's name is this hole doing in the pantry floor?" Now Ellie's voice was irate, and Dara's head snapped up.

"It's an escape tunnel," Lantar explained, calmly. "The rachni built it."

"Does it lock? I don't want the twins falling down into it—"

"Yes, and we can put sacks of _betae_ and potatoes over it, so they don't notice it—"

Dara exhaled in relief. She'd half-expected Ellie to fly off the handle a bit at that, but the woman had had enough shocks in the past year or so to take a little thing like unexpected, rachni-made home renovations in stride. "Nara, are you all right?" Dara asked her. "You're glad to be back, right?"

Narayana nodded. Dara could remember the cute little tadpole that she'd been, just five years ago, and now she was almost eleven by human standards. And looking, in many ways, very much like her late father. Same ruddy complexion, same dark eyes, though she didn't have the markings on the forehead that Dr. Solus had; Dara had long suspected that the marks had been a tattoo, somewhat like the _irezumi_ on her father's shoulder. A relic of Mordin's STG past. Instead, the female wore Sidonis clan-paint on her lower jaw. A different sort of reminder. "Yes," Narayana said, after a moment. "It's nice to be home." She hesitated. "Lantar says it should be safe now. That Kirrahe used what he copied from my mind to make a weapon against. . . .my mother." The big eyes blinked, rapidly. "I understand that my mother has nothing really to do with me. But it still concerns me, that some part of me might be like her. Might. . . try to use people." She frowned. "Is that why Daddy always taught me not to use the rude voice?"

Dara put a hand on Nara's thin shoulder. "I don't know. Maybe. I know he also wanted you to be. . . something new." Dara paused. "And he was proud of you, Narayana. He was so delighted when you hatched and you were healthy."

She was rewarded when Narayana smiled. And then had to blink rapidly, herself, when Narayana told her, cheerfully, "I've decided I want to be a doctor like my daddy when I grow up. That means I have to go to a university on Sur'Kesh, doesn't it? Human and turian universities won't go at a fast enough pace for me. Four months spent on every course? I won't need that much time to finish each course, will I?"

She sounded horrified, and Dara chuckled a little. "Well, there's always distance learning for the undergraduate portion, Nara. That, you can do at your own pace. You could do med school on Bastion. Might be safer than Sur'Kesh for you. I don't imagine Lantar would let you go to Sur'Kesh without assurances from the Council of Dalatrasses that you'd be left strictly alone while there. And I'm guessing he might want to send bodyguards with you." Dara thought about it, and wondered, in fleeting amusement, if Lantar would claim Praetorian protection for Narayana through the tenuous _sangua'fradu_ and possible _sangua'amila_ bonds that would connect the Sidonis family to the Velnaran one. . . and to Kallixta.

Narayana thought about that. "Maybe Kirrahe Orlan could be my bodyguard then?" she suggested, cheerfully. "The war will be over by the time I need to go, so he won't be busy, right?"

Dara closed her eyes and tried mightily not to laugh.

She emerged from Narayana and Caelia's room in time to bump into Eli in the corridor, and smiled up at him as he shooed Emily and Tacitus towards the kitchen for dinner. . . and then slid his arms around her. Drift of the string trio in his mind as they came into skin contact. _Just occurred to me. . . _ he told her, silently.

_Hmm?_

_Your dad and Kasumi are on Bek. Takeshi is with your grandmother. There's a whole house half a block from here that's empty and you have a key to, sai'kaea._

Dara grinned up at him. "Are you saying I should come over and tap on your window after light's out, and we can sneak off to my bedroom?"

Eli's eyes were wide and dark. _Mmm. Used to daydream about you coming to my window, opening the screen, and pulling up into my room._ Out loud, though, he told her mildly, "Nope, no sneaking. Just leaving after dinner and everyone finishes getting settled in. . .and getting some private time in together."

"Sounds like a plan." Slow, content glow in her chest as they stepped back out into the controlled chaos of the kitchen.

Ellie had something levo/dextro already cooking for most of the household, and gave them a quick, harried glance, and she asked, plaintively, "I'd usually try to make something plain levo for the two of you, but I already have to have something separate for Nara—"

"I can take an epi-tab," Dara told her, nodding. "Not a problem."

And so, it was _cuderae_ and bison gulosh, quickly tossed together out of the cryo-unit by Ellie's skilled fingers, over egg noodles for most of them, and some sort of kelp and beetle and mushroom salad for Narayana, which was mostly from cans and packages, but she dug into with a healthy appetite. Cheerful chatter from all around the table, and Dara simply couldn't believe how _lucky_ she felt. How included, as Eli's fingers caught hers under the table for a quick squeeze. And after dinner, his mother found the quilt that Dara had finished fixing, back in October, where Eli had hung it over the back of her office chair. Dara hadn't realized what Eli had done with it, and was quite startled with Ellie came out of her upstairs office holding the quilt with tears in her eyes, and once more, simply hugged her. The old uneasiness that Ellie had once held for her—a possible threat to her son, a potential hazard, if they both showed bad judgment—had faded away into mutual understanding, and even respect. Dara tried to put some of this into words, and, after opening her mouth once or twice, without being able to speak, finally told Ellie, "It's. . . a real relief to know that . . . you're not going to be _anything_ like Solanna as a mother-in-law."

Ellie wiped at her eyes, and laughed. "Oh, god no. Don't get me wrong. I'm sure I'm going to get on your nerves, and whenever you two get around to having kids, I fully intend to spoil them rotten, feed them sugar, and then _give them back_ to you, because that's what grandmas are for. . . but. . . yes. I've worked with Solanna for five years now. She's an outstanding environmental engineer. A good coworker. I like her. I really do. But she's a very uncomfortable relative." Ellie shook her head, her ponytail switching over her shoulders, and her dark eyes a little amused. "I love Allardus, and didn't have a problem with having him as Eli's father-in-law, but I thought Solanna was going to make his life and Serana's. . . difficult." She gave Dara a wary look. "You don't mind my talking about that, do you?"

Dara shook her head. "No, I'm fine with it."

"Good. I'm trying not to step on any toes." Ellie made a face. "Now, Serana gets to deal with her mother, and so does Lin. . . but Eli's still sort of a relative, and that makes _us_ sort of relatives, too." Another quick, rueful grimace. "Oh, well. Keeps life interesting, doesn't it?"

"Could be worse," Dara told her, lightly. "We could have my Uncle Harrison and his family come visit."

"Or Eli's grandparents," Ellie muttered. "You're going to want to send them an invitation, I'm sure, when you two get around to setting a date, but don't expect to hear anything from them. Not a peep since I married Lantar and he adopted Eli."

Dara shook her head. "I can. . . kind of. . . see why they would maybe decide, 'hey, she's not related to us, and we don't care about her. . .' but Eli's their grandson. The last bit of _their_ son they have left. Why the hell wouldn't they want to stay in touch?"

Ellie rolled her eyes. "Last thing I ever heard was 'you go through with marrying the lizard, you're no family of ours,' and I suppose they extended that to Eli."

Dara poked at her memories. "You know, I don't know if Eli actually invited them to his wedding to Serana," she said, slowly.

"I told the two of them that they should," Ellie replied, immediately.

Dara shrugged. "Serana was in OCS, and Eli's. . . sometimes a little stubborn," she pointed out. It really wasn't resonating in her memory. _Maybe it just wasn't important to him, either way._

Ellie blinked, and sighed. "Yes. Well, throw them an olive branch, dear. That way, you'll have done the right thing, and when they completely ignore us all. . . we'll be that much more vindicated." A wry smile, and Dara, on impulse, leaned down and gave her a hug.

A few hours later, she and Eli made their way down the street. Unlocked the front door, turned off the alarm system, and endured the excited welcome of the workers. And made their way to the welcome privacy of the guest room, which had been her own room, back in the day. They stretched out on the bed, and enjoyed the peace, quiet, and tranquility of something that passed for their own space. "I'm not entirely sure I know what to do with myself," Dara admitted, close to 23:30, her voice sleepy. "We're stood down, but we don't know how long we're going to be here."

Eli's fingers rubbed against her scalp. "We've both gotten a little used to a very tight schedule," he told her. "We can take a couple of days to relax. . . and then I'm sure you'll be getting in Dr. Chakwas' and Dr. Abrams' hair in med bay." He exhaled. "And I'll probably go get in my dad's fringe and ask him if he's got any case files that have been getting neglected with the war and all the other _s'kak_."

"Mmm. Good idea." Dara's voice was lazy. "Dr. Chakwas sent me a letter last week, mentioning it might be time for her to close up shop and go look into a retirement career," she murmured. "I wrote back and told her she wasn't allowed to do that yet."

The next few days were lazy, and much needed. The workers chittered at them the next morning, _—Come and see, come and see. We have sung building-songs, yes?_

Sure enough, the house's outer shell and inner walls were mostly complete. Tunnels with 'pipes,' or at least, the rachni equivalent, stretched to the base's water mains, though they were, for the moment, capped. Other tunnels, with wiring to connect to the base's power supply had also been dug. Dara was personally fascinated by the mental images the workers were sending her, of long thin tunnels dug deep into the heart of the mountain, through which water descended in tubes, gathering heat, before rising as steam to heat the house's floors in winter. The same water, in summer, moved through the walls and the floor and then descended, less deeply, to dissipate its heat, and then would be returned upwards to cool the house. _—We often sing this song for surface hives_, the workers told her. _—Very good songs. Very harmonious._

The outer walls were natural stone. Glistening white quartz, hewn from deep within the mountain, from areas where the rachni had needed to tunnel anyway. The inner walls were covered in a more giving facing, similar to drywall, but Dara suspected were not human-made. To Eli's eyes, they were white; to her eyes, they had shimmers of color like the interior of an abalone shell. "I. . . suggesting painting these sounds like defacing a work of art. . . but if no one but me can see the colors. . ." Dara said, hesitantly, resting a hand on the wall, and looked down at the floors, which had hexagonal tiles.

—_We can sing the walls to different colors. Also the floors._ Cheerful chorus. _—Hives grow and change to suit their queen. This is how things are sung._

Eli moved into the room in which she currently stood. "I'm going to come home and never know what the house is going to look like, day to day, am I right?" He slid his arms around her from behind, and looked down at the workers. "And if she's annoyed with me, the whole house will turn, what, orange?"

Dara slid an elbow back into his ribs, and Eli chuckled, and they continued exploring the house. The ceilings of every room were now covered, to Dara's surprise, in small stalactite-like protrusions of crystal, most of them clear to violet in hue. The effect was not unlike living inside a geode. The stairs, which had given the workers such trouble to build, that they'd had to ask her father, apparently, for reference materials, had banisters supported by web-like extrusions, shimmering and fine and hard as steel. There were no doors downstairs, but on the second floor, there were many between the various rooms, again made of rachni webs, but opening on hinges. _—We have learned door songs. . . but not doorknob songs,_ the workers sang, with pride diminishing into sadness. _—Doorknob songs still very hard. Sings-to-the-Past put doorknobs onto outer doors for you!_

—_He also sang that you will need humans to sing 'plumbing-songs' for you. And 'wiring-songs.' _

Dara covered her mouth as she started to laugh. "Yes. . . I see a hole for a sink in the kitchen. . . and places for a stove and a cryo-unit. . . . and places for toilets in the bathrooms. . . but those would be pretty hard songs to sing. No reason to do so, either, when other people have already sung them, right?"

—_More voices make the harmony sweeter_, they agreed, cheerfully.

The rooms were all. . . oddly shaped. . . by human standards. Highly geometric. The bathrooms were triangles, which Dara decided was going to make for odd shower and toilet facilities. The room that they decided would be their bedroom, upstairs, was mostly trapezoidal, but had an additional wall with a door that lead into the rear staircase area. . . two French doors that led out onto a balcony that overlooked the lake, another huge window that overlooked the lake and the rest of the mountain range. . . and an inner window, that looked down into the atrium, or Joy-Singer's room, as Dara had already started to think of it, the two-story tall central area around which the house was built. They'd been so caught by the view, and by the delight of walking out through the French doors onto the balcony, which wrapped around the entire house, providing an overhang for the front and back porches, that they hadn't really looked into the queen's room yet. Standing out on the balcony, with Eli's arms once more wrapped around her, Dara tried not to be uneasy, but failed. "What's wrong?"

"Seems. . . like an awful lot of space for two people. And a lot of effort." Dara struggled to put it into words.

_You think it's too much, and that we don't deserve it?_

_Yeah. I guess._

—_Hive designed very carefully._ 1812 scrabbled up on her shoulder to address her earnestly. _—Space needed for Joy-Singer. Rooms must be large enough for brood-warriors to move comfortably. _

—_You will have hatchlings of your own in time,_ Mozart added, climbing up the safety railing to stand in front of them, looking up at them. _—Also, others will sing 'guest-songs.' Friends. Hive-mates._

—_Joy-Singer sang to us to look to the hive of Truth-Singer and Sings-Vengeance. It is large, too. Inner atrium. . . very turian. Joy-Singer liked this idea. We built around it._

Dara thought about it, and understood something fundamental. "Because Garrus and Shepard work there. They don't just live there." She looked at the workers. "Human houses are small because they're only used for part of our lives. Where we eat and sleep and play. Work tends to be done outside the house."

—_In a different part of the hive. Your cities are vast. Intricate hives. We would like to listen to their songs, someday._

—_Joy-Singer tells us that when the queens of the humans of this planet come to sing peace with her, they will need a human place where they are comfortable to meet with her. This will be that place._

Eli nodded. "Makes sense. Make it as human an environment as possible, for their comfort, and as rachni a place as possible, too, for Joy's comfort. A place sort of in between. So our house is . . . kind of an embassy." He leaned down and kissed the side of Dara's neck, giving her a shiver. "Embassies kind of have to be sort of grand, _sai'kaea_. So not all of this is just for us. Some of this is for human-rachni relations." She could feel his grin now, and the blue-green amusement in the cellos in his mind. "The sacrifices we have to make." Virtuous tone, as Dara gave in and laughed.

The atrium, or queen's room, had planters, which they'd need to put greenery in, of course. Places for fountains or statues and benches. A large, webbed-over hole in the ground, which was Joy's entrance. . . .and, as they'd seen before, the last time they'd visited, a large spire of crystal, rising up at a forty-five degree angle from the floor. Clear in places, white in others, and veined with threads of eezo, it was very clearly from the Singing Planet. "A pillar-of-song," Dara murmured, putting her bare hand against it and closing her eyes. "It's empty. No memories yet."

—_It will sing,_ the workers told her. _—It will sing with you, and with Joy-Singer. It will keep a record of everything that passes in this place for as long as the mountain stands. There are others. Truth-Singer said that we might build a proper circle all around Joy-Singer's hive._

Eli, his eyes dark, and his grin wicked, moved around and pushed her up against the stone. Dara laughed and let him. "It's not actually all that comfortable," she pointed out, pretending to gasp for breath.

"Hmm. Rock and a hard place, huh?" Another wicked glance, as he rocked his hips gently in illustration of his point. Memories flooding through both of them now, of being in precisely this position on the Singing Planet, up against a larger, older pillar-of-song. Warmth rushed through Dara, and dimly, she could hear the workers cheering happily. _—Sing memories to stone now?_

Undersong said _yes_. The more so as Eli's teeth closed on her throat. Dara closed her eyes, and made herself think. The stone digging into her shoulders and spine made it a bit easier. "Eli. . . . You're too heavy for this."

"Yeah. This'll be much more fun whenever Joy is old enough to sing her first mating-song. I wonder which brood-warrior she's going to pick." Eli helped her up off the stone. _I suppose I should be twitching because she is, technically, a daughter._ He shook his head. _Weirdest lives __ever__, __sai'kaea__._

_I'm __supposed__ to be a part of the chorus whenever she mates, and whenever her daughter-queens are born_, Dara told him, a little helplessly. _Rachni are different._

_Yep. They sure are_. They'd found their way back to the kitchen, and Eli sighed. "All right. If we're going to live here, _sai'kaea_, we're going to have to get some basics here."

"Your bed?" Dara asked, tipping her head to the side.

"Well, yeah, first thing's first." Eli grinned at her. "I like the hammocks the workers spin for us just fine, but I do own a king-sized bed that's been sitting in storage in Lin's house for months now."

"Don't see that fitting on the back of a hovercycle."

"No. That's problem number one."

Dara raised her eyebrows at him. "What's problem number two?"

"We're going to need a cryo-unit, a stove, laundry units, and that's just stuff to get the house livable," Eli said, spreading his hands, a very turian gesture. _What can you do?_ "I'm not even talking furniture yet. I'm talking basic appliances." He picked up her hands and kissed the palms. "And I'm not asking you to use surgeon hands to help me carry crap in here."

"I _did_ take a strength gene mod. I can help."

"I know." Eli turned her hands over in his, and kissed her knuckles now. "I think you're going to have plenty of crap to do without that, though. Besides. We've got friends. We can put them to work."

Dara chuckled. "Friends help you move. Real friends help you move bodies?" she offered.

A chill went through him, though, and she regretted the joke. "Lin, Rel, Makur, and I did do corpse patrol together," Eli admitted.

_Didn't mean it that way. . . _

_I know. Bad memories. They'll fade_. He was tamping them down, and she could feel it.

_Give them to me._ She wouldn't take no for an answer, just locked her arms around his neck until he gave in. Let himself remember the endless blur of going through apartment buildings on Bastion, knocking on doors. Using pass-codes taken from the management offices to get in if there wasn't a response. Being ready for a delusional or grief-stricken family inside. . . or for what they usually found. Bodies. Carrying them out, wrapped in plastic, to the groundcars. Tagging them by location found, marking the doors so that no one would, hopefully, go inside until the cleaning crews could make it there. . . and sealing the places again. The endless, numb horror of it. And, because every memory she drew from him, drew one from her, and she couldn't stop it, he got a dose of the Bastion med bay. Fighting, desperately, with everything she'd ever learned, to keep breath in the bodies. The turian boy, all of twelve, who'd fought so hard to live, and she'd managed to keep alive for another hour, maybe two. . . and who'd died anyway.

They were breathing hard, and clutching at each other. Aware, suddenly, of thousands of rachni voices pouring into their minds. Mostly workers, but, in the distance, Joy-Singer and even Sky. Crooning reassurances. Reminding them that it was over, that they'd lived, that they'd done their best. _I think everyone in the galaxy could use a little rachni song,_ Eli thought, after a moment, as he lifted his head, and wiped the tears from her face with gentle fingers.

_I couldn't agree more._ Dara touched his face now, too. She cleared her throat, and said, quietly, sheepishly, "So, before my bad joke totally backfired. . . you were saying that we've got friends, and we could ask them for help?" _I can't imagine asking Rel to help us move in up here. . . _

_Nah. If Seheve's managed to find them a little place where they can have privacy, wouldn't want to ask them. Was thinking more Dempsey and Zhasa._ Eli chuckled. _Between me and Dempsey, I don't see us having any problems moving bulky stuff in here._ _Can even get you a piano, and it __probably__ won't be an issue._

Dara laughed, but it was actually mostly true. The base exchange wasn't thrilled about delivering the appliances to a location where there wasn't actually a road. As it was, they had to rent an aircar rated for freight, and borrowed a base moving mech, and got started. And as Eli and Dempsey swore under their breaths and got various pieces of equipment set up, Zhasa walked through the rest of the house with Dara and Madison, staring around her in wonder. "It's kind of bare and hollow," Dara said, deprecatingly. "And I can't imagine _any_ human furniture looking. . . quite right. . . in any of the rooms." The walls and floors all shimmered with opalescent colors, and imagining a leather recliner and old, cherry-stained furniture in any of the rooms just seemed. . . totally wrong.

Zhasa chuckled, a low ripple of sound. "It's beautiful, Dara. And I can totally picture asari rugs on the floor. The really soft ones, that they work their calligraphy into, where the words are the design, or maybe falling leaf patterns, from a _dia'da_ tree?" She turned and looked around. "Oh, and quarian silk hangings. Maybe not on every wall. . . not if you can see colors there. . . but around the windows, and anywhere you want it to be a little less hollow feeling," she suggested.

Dara blinked, rapidly. "Are quarian wall-hangings usually really bright colors? And aren't asari rugs usually. . . a little more muted?" _If not actually pastel. . . ._

"Oh, they come in all colors," Zhasa said airily. "I've been looking on the extranet, since Dempsey told me his house was my house, and I should be comfortable in it. My people have new factories set up for this. Our silks are becoming a major export from Rannoch, apparently." She grinned. "And as it happens, I might know some people who know some other people, Dara."

Dara chuckled. "Might as well get some mileage out of this _Keelah'Zhasa_ business, eh?"

Zhasa flapped her hands frantically. "No, no, no. I'm not asking them for discounts or anything like that. But we might get to see parts of their stock that they don't usually export." The violet eyes widened. "What do you say?"

Dara laughed. "I think this is possibly going to be the craziest looking house in the history of the galaxy, and any number of interior designers might see pictures of it, and have palpitations."

Madison was already looking up at the stairs. "Can I go up to the top?" he asked.

"Yes. Just be careful in the attic. The upper window of the queen's room has a plasteel cover you can walk on, but it's a little slippery." That had been a little disconcerting, really. The roof was a dome with an oculus, letting light into the area below. The attic, for the moment, was one large, contiguous space, with two stairwells emptying out into it. . . and a large section of the floor was dedicated to another oculus, letting light into the queen's room below. So that the sun could reach the plants, once they were placed in their homes, and the glittering spire of crystal, as well.

There was a resounding thump, followed by several minutes of Eli and Dempsey using curse words in about four different languages. Dara winced. "I did tell them I'd help," she muttered.

"Eli's having fun, in a way," Zhasa told her, lightly.

Dara gave her a skeptical glance. "I don't think my dad's ever once enjoyed home renovation or moving large, heavy items around."

Zhasa chuckled. "Then why didn't he ever hire it out for someone else to do?"

"Because he had more time than money, when I was younger," Dara replied, to another resounding _thump_. She put a hand on the wall, and concentrated. As she'd suspected, there were crystals embedded in the walls. She could, vaguely, feel where Eli was, anywhere in the house. _Everything all right?_

Orange-red annoyance and yellow frustration. _Yeah. Just trying to get something to fit here. Doesn't help that the rachni didn't use standard size fittings for the hoses at the back of the cryo-unit. _

Dara blinked, and headed for the kitchen at that point, with Zhasa at her heels. Once there, however, her eyebrows went up. "And here I was picturing the two of you having to muscle everything in place," she said, tipping her head to the side. Dempsey was holding the entire cryo-unit off the ground, suspended with his biotics, while the two men were glaring at connector panels in the wall where the unit was meant to go.

Dempsey grunted. "Don't get me wrong. It's still heavy this way," he said, flatly. "Just needed it back out of the way while we try to figure out what the _fuck_ the rachni were thinking with the water hookups."

—_We have erred? Sorrow-songs. We fix?_ A dozen workers were suddenly clambering up on the counters, and Dempsey looked at them all and muttered a curse under his breath.

"No, you didn't really mess up," Eli told them, absently. "Your pipes are just a wider diameter than the hoses on the back of this, and we don't have an adapter that'll fit—"

"I can probably make one that will fit," Zhasa offered. "Half of my life in the quarian Flotilla revolved around learning to make a salarian nut fit onto a turian bolt, anyway."

—_We can create stages for the pipe, make it sing a higher pitch._

"I'm. . . just going to set this down for the moment," Dempsey said, exhaling. "You guys go ahead and talk, though." He leaned down and peered under the cryo-unit. "Everyone who doesn't want to get squished, clear out." The cryo-unit then sank to the floor, gently, and Dara put a hand over her eyes, shaking her head and trying, yet again, not to laugh out loud.

Once Dempsey had found an adapter that _almost_ fit, and the workers widened its inner rings by carefully melting its interior with mild acid, the hoses were connected, and Dempsey and Eli lifted and moved the cryo-unit by hand this time, sliding it into place. "Great," Dempsey said. "Now put the beer inside, so it'll be cool by the time we get the rest of this shit hooked up."

Dara pulled back out of the kitchen, and looked at Zhasa, who had followed her, and who was chuckling quietly now. "Yeah. . . that didn't sound like fun to me," she said, making a face.

Zhasa dropped to her haunches. "Yes, they _are_ having fun," the quarian told her, cheerfully. "Eli's getting to be a provider. Fulfilling his role. He's getting to start his life with you. He's irritated right now, but once everything's finally in place, he'll be happy."

_Thud, thump_, _curse_, this time from the laundry room. Dara's head turned. "Okay, he's run out of turian and asari ones. That one was krogan." She padded over to the door of the small enclosure and ventured, "Ah. . . can I help?"

"No." Eli grunted with effort.

"Is it an adapter issue again?"

"No. It has a hell of a lot more to do with the fact that we're putting a _square_ washer and a _square_ dryer in a _triangular_ room." He exhaled. "Dara. . . sweetheart. . . "

"Yes."

"Go away."

Dara peered into the room, and made a face. She could feel frustration coming off of him in waves. "You're sure?"

"Yes. Please. There's nothing you can do here, we've got electrical crap to hook up, and Dempsey knows more about that than you and me combined. We've got this. And I don't want you to hear all the irritation-songs and cussing." Eli looked past her. "Zhasa, please, just take her and go do something fun, all right?"

Zhasa leaned in over Dara's shoulder. "Dempsey and I could probably fix everything together, and you and Dara could both go do fun things," she offered, cheerfully.

Eli gave her a look. "Go."

"See?" Zhasa told Dara out loud. "He's having fun. They're being male. We should let them."

Dempsey raised his head. "Zhasa-love?"

"Out?"

"Out."

Dara made a face. "All right. We're going. We're going. For the record, though, I might not be able to fix a wall outlet, but I _am_ the only person in this house who can fix a _spleen_."

_Thump, slam, curse_, was the only response as she turned away. "All right, Zhasa, let's grab Mad and go look at asari rugs and whatever else."

Zhasa grinned down at her. "Did you just actually _suggest_ shopping, Dara?"

"It's _necessary_. And it's _not_ for clothes."

She'd been friends with Zhasa before, of course, but in the next four weeks, they wound up seeing a lot of Dempsey and the quarian female. Mad was back in school, and doing his best to adjust to yet another change in his environment and routine. Since Eli and Dara had both lost parents before coming to Mindoir, they could empathize. They made a point of going over for dinner once a week, and Eli and Dempsey ran Madison ragged after dinner with impromptu handball games. And to thank them for their help in getting their house a little more livable, Dara invited them up to the cliff house for dinner. . .along with Siara and Makur, a little more hesitantly. "I'm not half the hostess that Kasumi is, or that my dad is," Dara apologized at the door. "And we still don't have much furniture."

"And here I thought this was going to be an excuse to get me to help move in a table and chairs," Dempsey told her, expressionlessly.

Dara looked up at him, and then reached out, gravely, with one finger, and poked him in the stomach. Dempsey arched his eyebrows. _First time you've ever voluntarily touched me, Dara._ Not Doc, but Dara.

Siara chuckled. "And I thought we were being invited so Makur could help with the heavy lifting, too."

Eli shook his head, coming out from the kitchen. "Nah. We'd actually have to buy more stuff, first. Fair warning, everyone: this is a rachni house. There actually _are_ bugs in the kitchen, and it's expected."

"I'm never going to get my grandma in the front door," Dara muttered, which made Siara chortle.

However, the challenge of an indoor, but well-lit garden did get both Agnes and Gavius in the house. Agnes had mostly lost her tendency to jump at the workers, and admitted to Dara, candidly, "They're just so damned _useful_. I haven't seen a single destructive insect in my garden since they turned up. No more aphids. . . or whatever the Mindoir ones are called—"

"Leaf-lice."

Agnes shuddered. "Yes. Those. They leave the caterpillars alone, so I do see butterflies. . . well, the Mindoir ones, and the ones Allardus has imported for the Terran plants. . . but nothing destructive. And I don't even need to use chemicals."

—_No. They are tasty. They make our bellies sing joy-songs! And their proteins are very useful._

Dara decided not to translate that one.

A week off, and three weeks of work in the base med bay. It felt oddly like coming back to an old home, one that had turned into the size of a shoebox by the mysterious alchemy of memory. Slightly outgrown, but familiar and homey. It was the first time Dara had seen _regular_ patients in a year. Certainly since the plagues. She set a young drell boy's broken arm the first day. Scrubbed for surgery the second day, and observed as Telinus and Abrams chipped a turian who was on an SR ship, and getting ready to go to the front lines. Diagnosed _villi_ pox in a young turian girl and handed over a dextro lollipop. Treated an acid burn to the face from a salarian who'd had an experiment blow up in his face, and removed the glass shards, too. Routine physicals for half a dozen different turians. . . and then she actually got to go _home_ at five at night, taking her hovercycle back up to the cliff-house. Eli had been as good as his word, and he was helping Lantar evaluate a backlog of case files that had been bumped to the Spectres from Hierarchy and Council and Alliance law enforcement agencies, but that hadn't been gone over, because Lantar and Sam had been out in the field so damned much of late. "You know," Dara commented after dinner sometime in the second week, "it feels _odd_ not working eighteen-hour days."

Eli nodded. "Probably a bad sign."

"Yeah." They'd managed to find a couple of human couches in tan leather which more or less fit with a muted red asari rug, and a low turian table made of dark-stained _jalae_ wood, and the scarlet glory of the wall-hanging of quarian silk that Zhasa had given Dara as a housewarming gift. Dara's newly-purchased quarian reela occupied a spot near the inner wall; she didn't want to buy a piano immediately, and the _reela_, on a stand, was what she was playing for Eli in the evenings at the moment. Nothing looked horribly out of place in the pearl-and-crystal gleam of their living room, but they'd largely given up and decided to shop one hundred percent for comfort, and worry about if things matched later. For the moment, they were curled up on one of those couches. Eli had a datapad with coursework in one of his hands. . . and then the comm console chirped. Dara rolled off the couch reluctantly, and discovered messages there. "Huh. Wow. You've got one here from Rasmus Cadius, Eli—"

"Read it to me?" Eli said from the couch, putting his datapad to the side.

Dara scrolled through the message rapidly. "Says his parents took a leave of absence from their flight control jobs on Bastion to go home to Nimines and help some of their relatives there. He says he lost an uncle on his dad's side. . . but his father's sister is alive, and all of his mom's relatives are, too. The uncle and aunt had gone to Nivalis . . . he'd had a business meeting that day, and his sister wanted to go see the sights. The aunt was on the west side of town, waiting to meet him for lunch. His meeting was on the east side, the side that took the brunt of the shockwave." Dara's throat closed up. Rasmus had been one of her favorite people on the _Estallus_. He'd covered her innumerable times in various boarding situations. Calmed her down the first time she'd heard torpedoes impacting on a hull. And had cheerfully made fun of Kallixta for doing barrel rolls when they were trying to fight hand-to-hand.

"Shit," Eli muttered, and stood. Came over to read the message himself, resting a hand on her shoulder. The words burned there, white against the black screen. _Heard about the Conclave results. Damned glad you and Rel refused to duel each other. I don't know who'd have won. Probably no one. Do have to say that I'd love to see you two spar, though, someday. I take it that congratulations are in order for you and Dara now? I expect an invitation to the wedding. One station-rat to another. . . she's very pretty, for a human, and has enough of a temper to be turian. I always understood the attraction. Anyhow, just wanted to write and ask you to pass along the personal thanks of the Cadius family to Rinus Velnaran. I'm sure he's hearing enough of these sorts of things. And he seems like the sort who'd be embarrassed to hear them. But it's true. Chances are, I'd be mourning my entire family, and not just an uncle, if it weren't for him._

Eli closed the message, and Dara opened the next. "Nadea and Decimus?" she said. "Haven't heard from them in over a year . . ." _I thought Nadea might be mad at me, the way Kallixta was._

_Dara—_

_Sorry for the comm silence. We were in the first wave of troops sent to Amaterasu._ Nadea has always had a crisp, no-nonsense way of writing. _There's an Alliance base nearby, but the colony itself is fairly small, and the yahg attacked here in force. We were with one group of three Spectres in the desert about three months ago, trying to get to one of the smaller cities to relieve the troops there. Jamming on our radios and bio-sign sensors the whole way, so we knew we weren't alone. Was just a matter of time before we were attacked. _

_Then about three hundred yahg who'd been lying in ambush came up from pits they'd dug into the dirt and attacked our convoy. There were about six hundred of us to three hundred yahg. They were jumping up onto our vehicles and ripping the hatches open. Dragging people out and throwing them. Decimus and I had seen a hell of a lot of fighting already, but that was the worst battle I've ever been in. The Spectres ordered us to retreat, back to where we'd camped the night before. Sort of a fortified bluff. . . but by the time we got there, we'd lost half our men and vehicles. . . and a second yahg contingent had taken over our camp. The Spectres ordered Dec to keep our squad alive and to get the futar out of the desert. Get word back to our commanders that there were a lot more yahg out in the wilderness than anyone had known. . . that they might have gotten reinforcements, even. And then the Spectres stayed there. Held the line, so the yahg couldn't chase after the twenty of us who were trying to make a run for the edge of the desert. We had two vehicles, and they were half-destroyed as it was. Both of them broke down before we made it to the greenbelt outside the desert. . . so we had to do the rest of it on foot. With yahg hunting us the whole way._

Eli's hands had clenched a little tightly on Dara's shoulders as she read the words to him. He'd never met either of the marines, but he knew they were her friends. From _her_ boot-camp. Dara's stomach was churning. "Decimus suffered a little from Lin's tendency to get shot," she muttered. "God, I hope there's no actual bad news in this letter." She scanned ahead. They'd gotten free of the desert, low on ammunition, and with half their twenty dead. They got radio contact, and were ordered to hold position until gunships could be sent to them. _So we bunkered up in a set of caves in a hillside, filled with little flying creatures like __lanurae__, but with fur, and we held. For ten damned days. We were down to using weapons off the yahg we killed, and we could hear them howling back and forth to one another. In the end, three of us walked out of there when the gunships game. Me, Decimus, and a male named Eligius Maransus. He and Decimus are debating pledging __sangua'fradae__ vows. At any rate, we're rotating the hell off of this rock at last. The yahg __really__ wanted this planet, Dara. Don't know why, but they did. I guess it had low population and wide open spaces. . . and an abundance of natural game. Decimus said it would have been a great place to retire. . . if it weren't levo, and if it didn't have so many damn memories now. _

_Anyhow, been catching up on almost a year of missed news, thanks to comm buoys being down, minimal radio contact, and everything else. I knew you'd made Spectre, but. . . damn. You've been busy, and I don't know how much of any of what I'm reading to believe. Write back and set the record straight? Decimus sends his respects. . . .squad-leader._

Eli rubbed her back a little. "I'm glad they're okay," he told her, simply.

"Me, too." Dara exhaled. "You know. . . I think I'm the only person left who hasn't fought yahg around here."

Flickers of Eli's memories in her, now. Flying backwards, seeing the cliff and the wall of the shuttle pass by, helpless to stop himself, knowing he was about to fall over the edge of the cliff to his death. His hands clamped down on her shoulders again. "You know," he said, conversationally, closing down the memories, "we should probably put some sort of a fence at the edge of the cliff here."

"You planning on letting someone throw you off it?" Dara asked, tightly.

"Nope. I meant, when we get around to having kids. Yes, I know, _if_ we can have them." Eli pulled her back to the couch, and told her, silently, _At the rate this war's going, maybe you and Zhasa won't __have__ to fight yahg. I don't recommend it for daily health any more than Rel did._

Dara forwarded Rasmus' and Nadea's messages to Rel, as a courtesy, and, in their third week back on base, invited Rel and Seheve up for dinner. "See, you don't even have to help us move anything," Eli commented as Rel came through their front door, and glanced, a little uneasily, around the lobby area.

Seheve was bundled up in a heavy coat; the fall evening was crisp, and the drell female obviously didn't care for the temperatures. "I'd tell you two to head to Odessa for the winter, but the humidity there would make your lungs hurt," Dara told Seheve, sympathetically. "Come on inside. The workers are letting more steam in the pipes. . . I think. The floors are downright toasty at the moment."

Dara had done a little research on drell foods, and decided that the closest thing she could make was a sort of seasoned bison, with peppers and tomatoes, cooked until falling-apart tender. . . and served on flatbread. She made part of it with ground _cuderae_ and had _panis_ alongside for Rel. . . and she and Eli silently, and without fanfare, took epi-tabs at the start of the meal. As Seheve and Rel both did, but Dara had caught Rel's appreciative glance, and Seheve's wide-eyed one. "It smells just like _tava_," Seheve said, her eyes wide.

"I found drell spices down at the commissary. The rest is human or turian, but the spices give it the smell," Dara told her, shrugging a little.

"It . . . makes me remember such meals, which my mother would prepare. Before we went to the Master's house." Seheve hesitated over the words, but then lowered her head with a little smile of gratitude, and Dara fidgeted a little. Eli took her hand under the table, and a worker scuttled out from under a nearby chair, and Dara snorted a little and gave Wolfgang a bite of the stew to taste and analyze.

After dinner, Rel glanced around the living area, which was still largely bereft of furniture, other than the quarian wall-hanging Zhasa had given Dara, in a vibrant red, the tan human couches, the asari rug in a more muted red, and the low turian table of dark _jalae_ wood, and said, "You two need a spirit table."

Eli shrugged. "No statues. Serana kept the one you did of Lin and her and me. And Lantar kept saying I needed a statue, but we never really got around to one."

Dara had brought coffee mugs out to the living area, and settled them down now on the table. "I don't know if I got the _sahlep_ right," she told Seheve. "I know how Rel likes his _apha_, and Eli's been convincing me to work my way through the huge variety of asari teas with him. . . but _sahlep_. . . that's a new one for me."

Seheve tasted it, and her face lit up, to Dara's huge relief. "This is perfect," Seheve told her, simply. "Thank you."

Again, a quick, grateful glance from Rel, and he cleared his throat. "I, ah, left something in the groundcar. I'll be right back."

Moments later, with a rush of cool air, he returned, carrying a carton under one arm. From inside, he produced Seheve's spirit statue. "Nice," Dara murmured; he'd shifted to an almost pure white wood for Seheve's figure on the second attempt. Cowl still low over her face, but just enough visible to make out the wide eyes and the shape of her cheeks. The cloak that covered her face and upper body dissolved, at the waist, into the skirt of snakes. . . some dangling low, concealing, yet revealing the legs, and others rising up to snap and hiss at the air. One snake even coiled around her arm, which was raised, a lamp in her hand. "You put a _lot_ of work into this one," she added, turning it around in her hands.

"Wanted to get it right," Rel said, glancing at Seheve, a little self-consciously, as Dara set the statue on the table so Eli could get a look at it. "I brought some others. One of them is a lot older."

It hurt to see the one of herself, holding the reins of the straining _rlata_, but Eli picked it up and turned it over in his hands, himself. Brushed a finger over the features. "Looks just like Dara at sixteen," he told Rel. "Really great work. I guess this is why you said we needed a spirit table, eh?"

"Yeah," Rel said, and there was a pause as he took another piece out of the container. It had always been Dara's absolute favorite of all the ones he'd ever done. He'd started it in OCS; an _allora_ branch, in full bloom. "This one's a gift."

Dara shook her head. "No," she said. "You don't have to—"

"Actually, I kind of do," Rel told her. "I still haven't figured out how to do one of myself now. And I keep debating doing one of the two of you."

Eli coughed and did his best not to choke on his tea. "Have no idea how you'd do either of us," he told Rel, after Dara had patted him on the back a few times. "Caelia keeps drawing Dara with pedipalps. Maybe you could take notes from her drawings?"

_Oh, bite me. . . _

_. . . Not in front of Rel, sai'kaea. . . ._

_Oh, two can play at __this__ game, Eli._ "Maybe Rel should do you as Tyr, _ciea'teilu_, except with asari head tentacles—"

"And turian spurs." Eli nodded mock-soberly, and took a cautious sip of his tea, as Seheve had to put down her _sahlep_ to laugh, quietly, to herself. "You with a fringe and pedipalps, though, _sai'kaea?_ Perfect."

Dara very lightly kicked Eli's shin. Rel's shoulders shook, momentarily, much to her surprise, and he said, after a moment, "That's actually not all that helpful, but I _could_ look into Egyptian statuary styles. They always seemed to want to combine humans with _dachae_ and whatever else they happened to have seen that day."

Dara shook her head. "I'm not saying you have to make anything for us. . . because I'm not sure what your spirit-eyes would make of either of us now," _and seeing myself through your eyes would be weird. . . _"but I think Tyr and Freya would be just fine."

"Except there's almost no source material left on depictions of Norse gods," Rel pointed out, instantly. As if he'd already looked into it. "And the ones that currently exist are largely modern re-imaginings."

Dara was left speechless, which left Eli to pick up the slack. "Yeah, you can largely thank the Christians for that," he said, dryly. "That, and the Norse tended to work a lot in wood, which was burned or just deteriorated, or in precious metals, which, well, got melted down and reused." Eli shrugged. "If you feel like doing one, I won't say no, but you're pretty much on your own for source material."

"We've transcended our own mythology," Dara muttered under her breath. She wasn't sure why. The words just popped into her head. . . _Might be a rachni thing. Then again, maybe not._

**Sam Jaworski, Bekenstein, March 2, 2197**

Kasumi had, with some emphasis, reached across his lap and turned _off_ his datapad halfway through their flight to Bekenstein. Sam turned and gave her an amused look. "Yes, Kasumi-chan? Something on your mind, darlin'?"

"We're going to play a little word association game here," Kasumi told him, with a hint of exasperation. "Just say the first word that comes into your head. Chicken?"

"Game."

Kasumi paused, and gave him a look. "That is _not_ the first thing that—"

"I swear, on my father's grave."

"You do realize that probably indicates psychopathy?"

"I prefer to say it indicates _creativity_." Sam grinned at her. "Come on, keep 'em coming. I know you've got a point here."

Kasumi cleared her throat. "Dara?"

"Daughter."

"Gun?"

"Work."

"Kasumi?"

"Two words: _hot_ and _wife_." Sam grinned at her.

"Vacation."

Sam just looked at her. Kasumi spread her hands. "Well?" she asked.

"Sorry, Kasumi. I got nothing here. Are you sure that's actually a word, or are you just making things up?" Sam raised his eyebrows at her.

"Precisely my point. Let Lantar take care of the case load at home. _We_ are supposed to be _relaxing_. Another word you may wish to look up."

"I think I've heard of that one." Sam wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Can't remember the last time I've actually experienced it, though." It was true, too. He'd spent the entirety of the last year on the go. He vaguely remembered taking a week or so off around Dara's _tal'mae_ rites, but then it had been back to the grind. Then Rel's MIA, getting the boy back, the Bastion plagues, Omega. . .then the whole Singing Planet debacle, and being scared out of his mind that his little girl, whom he'd gone to a hell of a lot of effort to extricate from one bad situation, had plunged straight into another. Then holding down the fort at home while Lantar had been off on Terra Nova with Shepard in orbit above, and Dara had been off on Arvuna, having to deal with corrupt mercs and ecoteurs and batarians, oh my. No sooner had that been done, then they'd all needed to go extricate everyone from Khar'sharn. . . Dara had damned near died. . . the _Estallus_ had been lost. . . and then the kids had been off, hippety-skippety, to go find a Collector ship. Make alliances and kick the batarians off Astaria along the way. And every minute that Sam hadn't been in the field, he'd been _worrying_ about either Kasumi or Dara, who were, and handling whatever espionage stuff Kasumi hadn't been able to get to, when _she_ went off on missions. "I think. . . .yeah. Two years ago. Christmas. I think I was relaxed then, on Bastion." _Except I wasn't. Dara's eyes weren't happy, and I knew something was wrong, but I put it down to stress. Finishing off her medical degree. The work._

Sam exhaled. With the Conclave done, Rel's 'spirit-sickness' on the mend, Dara and Eli happily engaged, Lantar home to mind the shop for a change, and Takeshi at his mom's house, there was actually nothing to worry about. _Other than a war that's shifted phases as we go on the offensive. The next set of missions on the docket. Ah, hell, I was supposed to be relaxing_. Sam slid his fingers into Kasumi's hair, and concentrated, hard, on the feel of it, the subtle texture. And concentrated on his breathing. Relaxing one muscle group at a time. "That's better," Kasumi murmured against his ear. "I can feel the tension draining out of you. Now keep doing _exactly_ what you're doing." Her lips curled up into a sly smile. "After all, I wouldn't want to win our little bet unfairly."

Sam looked down at her. "Li'l darlin'," he told her, fondly, "You want to recall what happened the last time you try to tweak my tail, when I was on my sickbed on Bastion?"

Kasumi's lips curled up further, a pure cat-in-the-cream smile. "I still have that picture of you and Lantar all cuddled up together. In fact, I sent a copy to Ellie."

Sam looked up at the ceiling. "You'll recall that you were the one who actually came out losing that little encounter, yeah?"

"Only because you had Lantar typing all your replies for you." Kasumi flushed however, just a little. "We'll see how you do without him here for backup."

Sam was glad that he'd done his breathing exercises when their shuttle flight gave him his first view of the Nagori. He'd looked up the word before they'd even left Bastion. . . _the memory of things lost_. With a name like that, he'd sort of expected something that looked like a Shinto temple, or maybe a series of little houses with steeply pitched roofs. Something out of storybook Japan. The Nagori didn't match that expectation, at all. Three sleek, modern buildings, side by side, along the edge of a cliff, one a little older in appearance than the other two. . . and no sign of any other nearby habitation for miles in any direction. The only truly Japanese touch, other than the name, was the memorial garden at the front, with its massive Shinto gate in granite, at least twelve feet tall. Sam paused by it, and read the words on the nearby bronze placard in English: _In memory of Keiji._ He glanced up at Kasumi, whose sly smile had faded, and nodded to her. _Well, yeah. That's definitely something lost, sweetheart._

He took her hand, and hefted the most important of their bags over his shoulder. A bellhop had taken the rest of their luggage with them on a cart as soon as the shuttle landed, but Sam had no intention of letting this one, which held datapads and a couple of guns, out of his hands. At the front desk, the attendant was almost obsequious when he saw Kasumi's ID. "We were told to expect you and your husband, but . . .it's such an honor. . . " the clerk murmured, and Sam did his best to avoid rolling his eyes.

Of course, he had plenty to look at all around him. Eli and Dara's reactions, when they'd come back from their trip here, had spoken volumes. Words and sentences hastily cut off. Chuckles, and a couple of outright giggles from Dara, who rarely let herself descend to that indignity unless someone had gotten ahold of her right foot and really laid on with the tickles. All of which had set Sam on edge. _They expect me to react. __Kasumi__ is __banking__ on me reacting. Okay. I know how not to react._ The problem was, _not_ reacting meant going into work mode. Watching everything remotely, from somewhere well back of his own eyeballs, with that little buffer between himself and his emotions that let him keep his sanity. It wasn't a relaxed mode at all, as Kasumi pointed out as her hand slipped up under his shirt. . . and found that every muscle in his body had tensed back up again. "Sam, repeat after me: Va-ca-tion."

"Vacation," Sam muttered. "I get it, Kasumi, I get it." Bells and whistles were going off in his head. _How the hell did she buy a place like this?_ _What the hell. . . I'll ask._ "So, Kasumi, how'd you luck into a place like this? Must have cost a fortune."

"Actually, I bought it for a single credit. It wasn't in very good repair at the time. Largely because Shep and I had shot the place up." The words were soft, and meant only for his ears; he doubted the bellhop guiding their luggage towards the nearby elevators could hear her. As it was, Sam missed a step, and had to recover as Kasumi took him, not towards the elevators, but up a long flight of impressive granite steps, to a second floor lobby, which pretty much doubled as an art gallery, as far as Sam could tell. Dozens of different oil paintings decorated the walls, with careful lighting placed in each frame, like a museum. Not so bright as to damage aging canvas and delicate oils.

Sam put the question of _why did you shoot the place apart?_ out of his head, and took a glance at one or two of the paintings. He could see that the surfaces on the canvases were raised and irregular, and he could see the weave of fabric under the daubs of paint. Someone had actually painted them, and the paint was, in many cases, crackling a little with age. Or, with heat. There were ways of achieving a false patina of age, like 'distressing' furniture to make it look antique. Sam very carefully loosened his grip on his wife's fingers as soon as he realized his hand had tightened. "Very nice, sweetheart," he told her, looking around. He pointed to _The Joy of Life_ on the wall nearby. "Same Matisse you have in your office back home," Sam noted. "The one you told Blasto was a fake." He eyed the cheerful, rounded forms of the nudes scattered throughout the park, and did his best to relax. "This one any more real?"

"Oh, Sam, what _is_ real?" Kasumi chided him, pulling him towards a discreet side door, where the bellhop was waiting. "They're all canvas, they all have paint on them. They all have molecules swirling around in tiny little galaxies of light and motion below the surface. They're all perfectly real."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," Sam muttered. He knew the sound of Kasumi's light and airy brush-offs all too well. The bells and whistles in his head were now accompanied by brightly flashing warning lights.

"Enjoy your stay," the bellhop told them, and stepped away as Kasumi opened the door.

Sam's eyebrows went up. "Hope he wasn't expecting a tip," he muttered.

"Oh, no. No one who doesn't have security clearance is allowed beyond this point. Push the cart, why don't you?" Kasumi invited, and led him down another long hallway. This one lined with security cameras, motion detectors, and enough hardware that Sam could spot that made him suspect there was probably a hell of a lot of stuff he _wasn't_ seeing.

Kasumi stopped at the end of the hall, and calmly unlocked the final door. "Here we go," she said. "Home away from home." She kicked off her shoes as she stepped in through the door, and Sam pushed the cart in after her, shaking his head. _I am being set up, and I know it, and I have no idea which way it's going to come from when it hits, but I know it's coming. Paranoia? No. I just know my wife._

Inside, he kicked off his own boots before Kasumi could say a word, and looked around appreciatively. Tatami mats on the floor, a mix of antiques from both Japan and Europe. Comfortable, eclectic, and tasteful. The rooms were huge, and some sort of asari tree bloomed near the large windows, perfuming the air. "Mmm," Sam said, relaxing for the first time since he'd walked into the hotel. "Smells like orange blossoms." He smiled a little. "Reminds me of going to Florida with my parents on vacation when I was a kid."

"Much better, Sam," Kasumi told him, tossing her own bag to the floor. "See? You know what the word _vacation_ is, after all." She leaned up on tiptoe, and spread her hands against his chest, kissing and biting a little, teasingly, along his collarbones.

"Oh, really?" Sam asked, lightly, letting his own bag drop to the floor, and sliding his arms around her. "I don't know," he told her, pretending reluctance. "It was a long flight. I kind of thought I might just go to bed. Get some shut eye. Be all rested and ready to go at say. . . five o'clock tomorrow morning. Sound like a plan, sweetheart?"

Kasumi made a rude noise. "That," she said with dignity, "is what I think of five o'clock in the morning."

"I've noticed this. I've always thought though, that maybe you just haven't been properly _introduced_ to mornings," Sam told her, and looked up at the ceiling as she began to unbutton his shirt. Started kissing her way down his chest as she did. "I've always been partial to them. I think maybe, if you and mornings could just give each other another chance, you could patch things up and be good friends. . . good lord, we just got _in the door_. . ." _And why am I arguing with this?_ Sam bent down, caught his wife by her hands, and lifted her back up so he could slide his hands down to her rounded backside and lift her further. Kissed her, thoroughly, and asked, in a slightly confused tone, "Ah. . . there _is_ a bed around here, isn't there?"

Kasumi chuckled, and pointed somewhere off behind her. Sam took note of the direction and did his best to maneuver around luggage and furniture in the unfamiliar environment, while soft lips were parting under his and giving him a rather unmistakable message. _No kids. No work. Nothing but us, and I want you._

No real recollection, later, of getting her clothes off, although he definitely remembered dropping from lips to throat and lower. Silken perfection of her skin, the hint of cherry blossom perfume she always wore teasing at his senses. She always teased him that he wouldn't love her nearly as much if it weren't for her cat burglar flexibility, and she seemed intent on proving it to him now, as she pulled her legs up, wrapped them over his shoulders, and whispered soft words of pleasure in his ears. Hazy awareness, later, of pulling her close to him, wrapping his arms around her, and pulling soft, clean sheets up over both their forms. Bliss. Absolute contentment and bliss.

Eight hours later, Sam's eyes snapped open. He'd always had the gift, or curse, as Kasumi had frequently told him, of adapting quickly to whatever time zone he was in, no matter what planet he was on, and his body always knew when it was dawn. It was dawn now, and he had no fucking idea where he was. He half sat up, sheets pouring down his body, and realized that wherever he was, Kasumi was with him. She was still asleep, breathing soft and heavy, and Sam slid a hand gently over her hair. Morning being what it was, he briefly contemplated waking her up with kisses and a little light petting, but he wasn't exactly a rookie in marriage. He knew exactly how many husband points he'd be cashing in if he woke her up right now. _Hmm. Maybe later. Let her sleep in._ Sam chuckled. In the currency of his marriage, letting his wife sleep in was worth bonus husband nookie points.

He got up, and shook his head over the clothes strewn all over the room. He was usually much neater than this, and promptly picked everything up to hang over the back of a chair. Went out, retrieved their suitcases, and brought them into the bedroom, quietly. Weighed, silently, the prospect of how much work he could get done before Kasumi woke up and caught him. . . _a good two hours, three if she's as tired as I've been. . . and in my defense, I can say I didn't want to go for a run, in case she woke up and wondered where the hell I was, and what the hell else is there to do in a hotel room? Watch extranet videos of cute cats or something?_

First thing first, though. A shower. A long, hot shower, without Takeshi trying to poke his head in through the door or calling "Daddy, where are yoooooou?" from the other side of a curtain. Sam grabbed a pair of shorts and a shirt out of a suitcase, more or less at random, and his shaving kit, and tossed them on the granite countertop as he knocked on the light switch with an elbow, and lightly kicked the door closed behind him with his foot. _Swanky_, he thought, looking around at all the mirrors and stone tile and towels that looked like puffy white clouds. _Bet Dara loved this place. . . aw, hell. Places my mind didn't need to go._ Sam shook his head. _Yeah. Okay. Kasumi probably didn't give them the keys to the penthouse. Master suite. Whatever. They probably had a room somewhere else in the hotel. Right. Keep thinking that way, Jaworski, if you want to stay sane._

He headed for the shower, turned it on, let the water start to heat up, and, reminded by the sound of running water, headed into the toilet area to take care of business. . . and stared down at the _very_ Japaense toilet there, with its banks of buttons. Sam shook his head, flushed, and headed into the shower enclosure. Let the water beat down on the back of his neck, and stared blankly up at the ceiling, with its three vents and two overhead lights. It felt so damned good to think about absolutely _nothing at all_. He rolled his shoulders under the water, and thought, _Hmm. Maybe I won't read case notes. Maybe I'll go find something totally mindless on the extranet after all. There's five million feeds out there. One of them has got to be non-news-related and not involve cats._

Sam stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, totally relaxed, and wiped the mirrors clean of steam. Began lathering up his face, avoiding the moustache area, and got his straight razor out. Something was bothering him, and he wasn't entirely sure what, but _something_ had just started nagging at him, and Sam had learned to pay attention to that part of his mind a long time ago. Something about the room was . . . off.

Sam kept the razor in his hand, and backed away from the mirror. Had there been movement behind him, at the periphery of his vision? No, it wasn't really a danger sense, it was more that something was wrong about the room itself. He turned, his face still lathery, and really _looked_ at it. One solid wall of glass over the sink. Toilet enclosure. Three parallel mirrors on the wall between the toilet and the shower stall. Beside the shower, a sunken mable tub. To the left, and even behind the tub, another solid wall of mirror. _Why the hell would someone put three separate panes of glass over there, when they went to all the expense of these huge ass mirrors everywhere else?_ Sam thought, and it annoyed him. Annoyed him that some contractor, somewhere, had cheapened out. Razor still in his hand, he walked over and ran a finger along the seams between the pieces of glass. The middle panel actually jutted out a millimeter or two further than the rest of the glass, and Sam's eyebrows rose. _With anyone else in the universe, I'd say that the contractors didn't do a good job, but this is __Kasumi__. Why have the imperfection of the seams? Why does this piece stick out further than the rest? Why didn't she have them tear it out and do it over again?_

Shaving now forgotten, Sam set his razor down on the counter softly—he was still trying not to wake Kasumi, after all, and padded out of the bathroom. Looked around the bedroom, saw that Kasumi had yet to move, and analyzed his surroundings. Windows, soft white blinds, three vents in the ceiling, one large elegant ceiling fan. . . no mirrors, no protrusions in the walls, no oddities. Nothing that caught his eye or said _look at me_, _I'm important_. Sam nodded to himself, and stepped back out into the main room. He hadn't registered anything in the way of details last night, certainly. But now, something was definitely nagging at him in here, too. He stood in the doorway of the bedroom, looking between the great-room and the bathroom. . . comparing the two, visually. "Well I'll be go to hell," Sam muttered. _The bathroom's a good three feet short. And I've taken enough goddamned bathrooms apart in my life that I __know__ that ain't the wet wall._

He walked back into the bathroom with much more purposeful steps. Grabbed a second towel, and wiped his face clean, and grabbed his razor again, sliding the tip of it along the hairline crack between the panels of mirrors. He could feel that there was a gap there. A very small one, but definitely present. _Okay. She's got a secret cache or something. Probably the Crown Jewels of Thessia, stolen before the planet blew up._ Sam pressed lightly along the surface of the mirror, testing to see if he could feel any resistance points or hidden catches. _No? Okay. Has to be something else in the room, then. . . doubt she uses a crowbar to open it. . . though it's certainly an idea. . . _Sam paused. _Huh. She said she wasn't the original owner. She said she and Shep shot the place to hell. Maybe this is something from the original owner._

_. . . and she doesn't know a thing about it, and butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, either. Riiiiiight. _ Sam looked back through the open doorway at his still-sleeping wife. He could wake her and _ask_ her, and get some mischievous dodge, calculated to make his tension rise, just so she could play this out a little longer. . . or he could go looking for answers. And Sam really _liked_ answers. _Right. Not the sink. Maybe the tiles in the shower. . . .no. . . nothing loose there. . . _After about ten minutes, he was painstakingly going through the controls on the toilet, when Kasumi said, from behind him, "You know, I wouldn't have thought that the controls would baffle you this much, Sam. So long as you stay away from the bidet function, it's really not that complicated."

Sam stood. Smiled at her. Leaned down to give her a kiss, beard-scratch and all. "Nah, it's not that complicated. I've just been sitting here, trying to decide why the damn thing has two open and two close buttons, one on each side, and trying to figure out if it has anything to do with. . . this." He was already pushing the buttons, and if it didn't do what he thought it would do, he'd look like a damn fool. _Oh, well, wouldn't be the first time. . . except she just closed her eyes. Bingo._

The mirror slid out of the way, and a door behind it opened up. Sam leaned out, and looked past Kasumi with triumph. . . which swiftly turned into puzzlement. "An elevator?" he asked, looking down at her. "You went to all that trouble to hide an _elevator_."

Kasumi threw her hands up in the air. "You know, I think I might actually owe Dara an apology. I told her she needed to _occupy_ Eli a little more thoroughly, but, by my count, you're four or five hours ahead of him." Sam looked down and realized that Kasumi was now poking him in the chest with one finger, firmly. "Gods, Sam, what do I need to _do_ to get you to _relax_?"

_Oh, god damn, the kids were in this room, after all. And I don't want to know how Kasumi thought Dara should be keeping young Eli occupied. . . wait a minute. Now everything's my fault for not relaxing?_ Sam got himself around the cognitive dissonance and squinted down at Kasumi. "Stop dancing around the point. You have a hidden _elevator_ in your _bathroom._" He folded his arms across his chest, and shook his head. "You know, when I was a kid, I used to dress up as Batman for Halloween. But you. . . you have a secret elevator." Sam's shoulders started to shake. "It goes down into the Batcave, doesn't it? Do you have a giant penny down there?"

Kasumi looked up at the ceiling. "It's finally happened," she said, in a tone of resignation. "The stress has been too much for you. You've gone around the bend, you know that, Sam?"

Sam couldn't stop laughing. Every time he thought he was close to it, he would look up, catch the curve of his wife's lips, and the slight lift of her eyebrows, as she stood there in her light robe, and he started laughing all over again. "If you're done?" Kasumi told him. "Put on a pair of shorts, Sam. I'll take you on a tour of the Batcave." She paused, and that secret smile of hers curved her lips again. "I would hate for anyone to say there were any secrets in our relationship."

Alarm bells started going off in Sam's head again. _That sounded like a set piece. She has fallback options planned. Good lord, how many levels does she __have__?_ His laughter faded as he did, indeed, drop his towel and pull on his shorts and shirt. Kasumi didn't bother with more than her robe. "Come along, Sam. _Tempus fugit_, as Shep would probably remind me."

Sam watched as she overrode various security protocols, and the elevator doors slid shut. Downwards movement, from the feel of inertia in his stomach. "So, you shot the hell out of the place?" he prompted, as the door slid open. Neutral tone. Letting her answer or not, not coloring the conversation with any sort of judgment.

Kasumi gave him a brief, amused look. "You're going into cop mode, Sam," she warned him, lightly. "I'm going to take that as a challenge."

"You've been pushing me in and out of cop mode since before we got here," Sam countered. "Trying to keep me off-balance. Playing games. How about if you just trust me?"

Kasumi looked up at him, and smiled. Got up on tiptoe, and pulled his head down so she could kiss him. "I do," she told him, simply. "Otherwise, I would never have married you. And certainly would never have brought you here."

Another walk down a long corridor. This one was clearly underground; the silence was oppressive, other than the movement of air through vents. One more door. . . and Sam's eyes widened at what was beyond it. Brain-lock. Total and complete brain-lock, for a good thirty seconds, as astonishment and outrage fought for control of his brain and body. His eyes took in. . . statuary. Mesopotamian statues of winged guardians, what looked like a solid gold sarcophagus from Egypt, turian abstract art, at least two or three asari goddess figures. . . .and gems. Gems and jewels of every description in dozens of cases, including, god help him, what sure as hell _looked_ like a Faberge egg. The tipping point came as he looked in a case to his left and saw a black diamond, surrounded by a double or triple row of tiny white diamonds, in the case there, and saw the discreet placard, which read _The Black Orlov. Formerly property of. . . ._

_You'd hate for there to be __secrets__ between us?_ Sam thought, lifting his head and turning back towards Kasumi, who looked, briefly, as wide-eyed as he'd ever seen her. "Kasumi-chan," he said, very quietly, proud of himself for the self-control he was currently displaying. "What. . . the. . . _fuck_?" What had started out quietly, little above a whisper, now resounded back from the walls, and Sam turned away from Kasumi, inhaling sharply, and tapped his knuckles lightly and rapidly against the wall, trying to calm himself down.

"Sam?" Kasumi asked, putting a hand on his elbow, a little bubble of laughter under her voice now. "I've wanted to show you this for _years_, but you kept pushing me off about coming here—"

"For the last time, all the god! damned! travel-brochures! went to my spam folder!" Sam concentrated on the whole breathing thing. Inhale, exhale. Don't look at the rest of the room. Inhale, exhale. _Calm down. Calm down. You don't need to be yelling at your wife. You knew she had a . . . colorful life. . .before you married her. . . of course, this is a little different than discovering that she had a lot of lovers, this is grand theft larceny on a monumental scale. . . _ "I'm surprised I don't see the Eiffel Tower in here, or at least, you know, the top of it." _There, that sounded like a joke, get control, Jaworski. . . _

"Actually, there _was_ the head from the Statue of Liberty, but Shep made me give that back."

Sam's head snapped towards Kasumi, and she laughed. "Whoa, steady there, Sam. Deep breathing, right?" Her fingers rubbed at his forearm, and then she hopped up and sat on one of the display cases.

"You're fucking _kidding_ me, right?"

"No. . . but I wasn't the one who stole that. A very bad man named Donovan Hock bought it from the thieves. . . or whoever bought it from the original thieves, anyway." Kasumi shrugged.

Sam put his back against the wall. It let reality feel a little more stable. "And this very bad man owned everything in here?" he said, a little more sharply than he wanted to, but at least it wasn't a yell. _This is progress_, he told himself. _Focus. Calm down. Actually hear the words she's saying._

"Well. . . " Kasumi grinned at him. "Not quite everything." She held up a finger as Sam started to straighten up off the wall. "Ah-ah. Let me tell you the story, first. A very long time ago, this very bad man realized that Keiji had stolen something that was important to him. Secrets, in the main. Secrets that my Keiji locked inside his graybox." The smile had faded as if it had never been. "So, Hock found Keiji. Tortured him, tried to break him for the encryption key to the graybox. . . but Keiji never broke. Hock finally got tired of it, and killed him." Her tone was bleak. "But he kept the graybox. With all its memories."

Sam had managed to calm himself down. "So when you say you shot the place up," he said, slowly, "you came here to rescue Keiji?"

Kasumi shook her head minutely. "He was already dead before I could track down where he'd been taken. No, I came here for the graybox. For all the memories Keiji had stored of our lives together in it. The secrets in it are what's made me both a very wanted woman back on Earth. . . and also what have, in a way, kept me safe all these years. That, and Shep's protection. But what I wanted was a little piece of Keiji back." She exhaled. "Hock didn't much like the fact that we'd broken into his most secure vault. He sent his mercs in after us. And Shep. . . well. You know how Shep reacts to being shot at." A ripple of amusement in her voice now.

Sam nodded, slowly. "Hock's dead?" he said.

"Oh yes. I made very certain that his gunship went down, myself." Kasumi's voice was empty.

Sam stepped across the intervening space. Wrapped his arms around her. "What a pity," he told her, his voice remote. "I was thinking his head on a platter would make a really nice anniversary present for you this year."

Kasumi chuckled. "Smooth-talker," she told him, fondly. "And the really fun thing is, I know you actually mean that, on some level."

_Most of my levels, actually_, Sam admitted, silently. Other than the cop-level, which was the one that would have prevented him from doing so, unless he was, in fact, attacked first. "All right," he said, tiredly, gesturing around the room with one hand. "So, it's. . . _not_ all 'his.' Why keep any of it?"

"Why steal any of what I've ever stolen?" Kasumi replied, leaning her head back. "It's never been about the money, Sam. It's always been about the game. Being the _best_ at the game. This? This is just a way of keeping score. Knowing that I'm better than Hock, certainly."

"A trophy?" Sam asked, with a certain sinking feeling in his stomach.

"Oh, you know me better than that," Kasumi chided. "The very first thing I ever stole, you know, was an octopus netsuke. And you know why I took it? Because the store clerk made such a fuss about opening the case so I could look at things. And then he accused me of stealing a completely different netsuke. . . one that he'd misplaced. I was offended. I was angry. So I pointed out to him where he'd actually set down the one he was convinced that I'd stolen. . . and while he was distracted, I palmed a different one. Set it down inside a planter in the store, and then left. Didn't even set off any merchandize detectors. A week later, I came back to the store. I bought something, and picked up the netsuke from where it was hidden in the planter. And when the alarm went off, I brought my purchase over to the guard to verify that yes, I had a receipt. And then I walked out the door. I'd _won_. The clerk had been unjust to me, and I'd _beaten_ him." Kasumi's eyes gleamed, and her smile was suddenly sly. "Winning is addictive, Sam. I loved it. The danger of losing. . . and the thrill of beating someone just as good as I am."

He exhaled, and set his head down on her shoulder. "Well, you do like our games of grown-up hide and seek," he admitted, after a moment.

"Mmm. Hide and seek should always be played with clothing as a forfeit," Kasumi returned, sliding a finger down his cheek lightly.

He shook his head against her shoulder. "All right. You already know you're the best," he told her. "Why not return it all? Why not return _Hock's_ stuff now. . . why not return what you took, years ago?" Sam paused, and raised his head. "This _is_ all from years ago, right?" he added, a little apprehensively. Kasumi chuckled and nodded. "You told me once that secrets were much more fun to steal, and more challenging. Why . . . .keep it all?" That was really the part that his brain kept locking up on, honestly.

Kasumi shrugged. "At first, as I said, it was sort of a symbol of having beaten Hock," she admitted. "I moved the things I was most proud of in here with all his things, too." She paused. "And, more recently. . . it was sort of. . . my identity."

Sam stared at her, blankly. Kasumi made an annoyed noise. "Oh, come on, Sam. Here I am, working for the Spectres, their head of Intelligence, thank you very much. Practically respectable. This was my reminder that I wasn't _entirely_ respectable." She looked up at him. "And then along came _you_. And Dara. And Takeshi. You practically radiate respectable—"

"Kasumi, you are aware that I've killed people for a living, yeah?"

"Sam Jaworski, you're the furthest thing from an assassin in the galaxy. You don't go kill witnesses to get mob bosses out of jail. You don't kill people for a fee, because someone thinks their wife is cheating on them. That's what an assassin is. All the romance in the world, for someone who's a glorified garbage man." Kasumi's voice was annoyed. "_You_ kill people who are ready to attack you or your friends, before they can do any harm." Kasumi snorted again. "Anyone who doesn't understand the distinction has a very poor comprehension of basic morality."

Sam raised a finger. "Ah. . . we were just talking about _theft_—"

"And nothing I've ever stolen, other than secrets, was really all that important, or really hurt anyone, Sam. That diamond over there, the black one? Belonged to a museum. It's a chunk of somewhat symmetrical and pretty carbon, with black pigment in it. Its value is entirely arbitrary. No one died because it changed owners. I took it because it was pretty, and because I was there anyway, for the diamond directly to its left. Someone paid me for the other stone. I took the black one because it was shiny, and because I could." Kasumi shrugged. "And, in the end? Its sole value to me is that it's proof that I was good enough to do it. . . so it won't break my heart if I have to give it back."

Sam felt as if his mind had been left several turns back. "I thought all this stuff was. . . your identity," he told her, slowly.

"It was," Kasumi told him, equitably. "And then, as I said, along came you. With a daughter, and a heart that hurt just as much as mine did. And the next thing I know, you've swept me off my feet, and we've got a kid, and you've even got me talking to my _parents_ again for the first time in a decade. Mr. Respectable. Except, you know, when you're being totally _disreputable_." Kasumi's smile was a flash of light. "And this little treasure trove is what I thought about whenever I was afraid I was going to disappear completely. Get absorbed completely in respectability."

Sam looked down, a little hurt. "I've never asked you to be anyone other than who you are, Kasumi-chan," he told her. "Never even asked about . . . what you might have stolen." He sighed. "And you've had plenty of fun making me put my fingers in my ears over the years."

She nodded. "I know. But then. . . I wanted you to see me. See all of this. Not put your fingers in your ears, even if you're laughing when you do it."

He stroked the side of her face with the backs of his fingers. "I'm looking, Kasumi," Sam told her. "And I still just see you."

She nodded. "Good. Then I can go ahead and start making arrangements to give it all back. Quietly. Although, just for the record, I'm keeping that first netsuke." She paused. "And maybe the Orlov."

One more Herculean attempt to catch up with her mercurial mind. "You just said you wanted me to see you for you—"

"Yes, and you do. You always have. I know that, Sam." Kasumi smiled. "The thing of it is, this is all who I _was_. It'll always be a part of me. . . but now? I'm a hell of a lot more."

Sam thought about that. "I think that's the first thing you've said all morning that I've understood," he told her.

"Hmm. Well, all right. I'll use simple words for this part then." Kasumi slid down off the counter. "You lost our bet."

Sam blinked. "I what? I did not—"

"Oh no, you lost. Fair and square. The bet was, you wouldn't yell at any point during our vacation. You yelled. I have recordings, in fact—"

Sam put his hands on his hips. "This," he told her, with dignity, "is entrapment."

"Oh, indisputably, Sam," Kasumi teased him. "But like I said a few minutes ago. . . .winning is _addictive_." Her eyes gleamed. "And you're my absolute favorite person in the galaxy to play with."

A half hour later, Sam was, once more, lathered up and standing in front of the bathroom mirrors, razor in hand. "I haven't actually seen my upper lip since I was seventeen," Sam told Kasumi, dryly. "This moustache is older than Dara."

"Oh, hush and start shaving."

"All right, but if Takeshi and Dara don't recognize me, and if either of them cries, it's on _your_ head." Sam winced and proceeded with the defoliation. Once he'd wiped the last remnants of shaving cream away, he studied his face in the mirror as if it belonged to a stranger. Dubiously, he pulled at his upper lip. "I guess the scar isn't too noticeable."

"I don't even _see_ a scar," Kasumi told him. "Get down here."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "You want to take this for a test-drive?" he asked, dryly.

"Sam, I've had five years of having my nostrils scrubbed out by a Brillo pad every time you kiss me. Yes. I'd like to know what it feels like to kiss you without that." Kasumi folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot. "Down, Sam."

Chuckling, Sam leaned down and kissed her. Thoroughly. When he pulled back, he asked, "Well?"

Kasumi rubbed at her lips, looking confused. "I'm . . . well. . .you think you could glue that back on?"

Sam's eyebrows rose even further. "You don't like it?"

"Well. . . I guess I got used to the Brillo pad. Now it just kind of feels like I'm . . . kissing another girl."

The light of challenge came to Sam's eyes then. "Oh, really, missy?" Sam picked Kasumi up and walked her back towards the bed. "I guess I'm just going to have to redouble my efforts, then. After all, a bet's a bet, and this is going to be a clean-shaven face for a month."

"Sam, stop, that _tickles_. . . "

"Uh-uh. Sow the wind, reap the whirlwind, Kasumi-chan."


	145. Chapter 145: Reflections and Symmetries

**Chapter 145: Reflections and Symmetries**

**Lorek, March 15, 2197**

The Lystheni technician twitched in his chair, his body moving spasmodically, His hands opened and closed on empty air, and his eyes were sightless, as he looked at an array of information visible only inside his mind. He had neurocannules installed at the back of his neck, which allowed him to access datastreams and computer inputs wirelessly, and at the moment, he was being assaulted, on all sides, by corrupt and nonsensical data. "Shut it down," he gasped, out loud. "Shut down the hard line!"

After a shocked moment, his assistants ran to obey. The torrent of information stopped, and, once they gently and respectfully rebooted the main server, the avatar of their dalatrass re-formed in the air before them. Xala had been the tech's mother, some ten years ago. Five years ago, her body had died, but Xala still lived on. Eternal, as every one of them wished and hoped that he, too, might be. Dozens of his elders had been uploaded into machine bodies on Garvug, and, unfortunately, destroyed. Still more consciousnesses had been lost when the execrable Spectres had destroyed their servers. "Mother-of-all," the technician said, reverently. Mother and ghost and goddess, more real, in a way, to him, than she had been in the flesh, "Are you all right? Are you safe?"

She looked, for lack of a better word, shaken. "No. . . .no. I am not. I was last backed up . . . last night, at midnight. What has happened since then?" She frowned, angrily. "I am missing twelve point two four hours of awareness."

The tech lowered his head. "Yes. You were concerned because many of your nodes beyond the edge of batarian space have stopped pinging us. Stopped sending data and awareness back to you."

"They have?" She was surprised, but he was recreating the data for her as he spoke.

"Yes. Several nodes even within the Hegemony went off-line as well in the past week. The SIU computer center on Khar'sharn, where you had infiltrated a node was attacked by some sort of virus, for instance. Highly selective. Isav Malsur spoke with you at oh eight-thirty this morning. Accused _us_ of having created it. Said that his agents had obtained it from a Spectre transmission in the. . . Hekate system." The technician winced. Watched behind his eyelids as files began to transfer to the dalatrass from his own internal systems.

"Hekate. . . " She paused. "Our base there?"

"Unknown. Your node in the SIU computers had been unable to find information on K'sar's absence and Malsur's repeated assurances that he was considering allowing us a direct FTL tight beam communication stream to Hades Nexus." The tech rubbed at his face. "And that was before your node went off-line."

She nodded, and began assessing data. Information he'd gathered through his eyes and ears in the last twelve hours. "I sent myself out as a datastream, out of the few extranet connections between the Hegemony and the rest of the galaxy," Xala assessed, at last. "Attempted to make contact with severed nodes. Find information caches I'd left myself." Like a spider at the heart of a vast web, the dalatrass had become. Except, someone out there had been snipping off pieces of her web, bit by bit. She paused, staring into space. "I told you that I heard _laughter_?"

"You said that in many of the places where your files had been archived, someone had left a single sound file. The sound of a young female laughing." The technician's thin shoulders twitched. "You sounded. . . uneasy about that, Mother-of-All."

Actually, she'd sounded _shaken_, and that had shaken the chief technician in turn. Xala was eternal now. She couldn't _be_ shaken, and she had been. Rattled. _Frightened_, even.

"I was uneasy. . . " Xala was pouring over the data. Hearing her own words to the technician, what he'd seen in the code streaming in. He didn't dare give her any of what she'd seen or interacted with, herself, for fear that it could be virused. Not until he could parse it all and study it thoroughly. "I said something was hunting me?"

"You said. . . _she_ was hunting you." The technician pursed his thin lips, and made the reply with punctilious care. "That she was going to kill you."

"Who?"

"I do not know, Mother-of-All. You sent out more probes, and then began to suffer massive data corruption. We shut down the hard line, cleansed your files, and restored you from backup."

She shuddered. "Yes. Maintain current security level. And get Malsur to speak with you. Face to face, if it can be arranged." Xala's eyes were huge. "There was one word in those files, to go with the laughter, wasn't there. . . I see it, repeated, over and over in your files. _Yana_. I want to know what that word means." Her anger was nearly a palpable thing. "All our data, all our contacts, everything outside of the Hegemony, has been cut off, and I don't know _how_ or by whom. And I have been forced to hide in this. . . bunker!. . . by some virus or worm. It is intolerable."

"Yes, Mother-of-All."

"Keep my node unconnected to the rest of the base computers. And start looking for this virus, this. . . thing that's hunting for me. If Malsur has samples of the code, I want you looking at them. . . on a safe, contained computer that's not networked to so much as the break room vending machine. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Mother-of-All." He backed away, and scurried down another hallway, his three-chambered heart beating erratically in his chest. _Yana. Yana. Yana. The word came up as the name of an indigenous tribe on Terra, a mode of thought in Buddhism, a river on Terra. . . and also the name of a root vegetable native to lost Thessia. All indications, thus hinted at a __Terran__ origin for the virus_. _If Terran should be easy to crack. Take, perhaps, a day. Except that Malsur was convinced that it was __our__ work. Why would we attack our own dalatrass? Why would we do such a thing? Were there traitors at the compound? Did the Spectres create this virus? What is going on?_

_And why would someone leave the sound of a young girl laughing in their wake?_

**Serana, Bekenstein, March 16, 2197**

After medical leave—mandatory, considering the condition her legs had been in, in December—and a hell of a lot of deskwork while the others had all been off-world, she'd been called as a witness by the Conclave. That took precedence over her duties, and didn't count against her leave, thankfully. Serana had been delightedly surprised to realize she actually did have enough _actual_ leave accrued to take care of the family business on Palaven at the Conclave, getting married, and just a little time for a short honeymoon. Lin had loved the idea of seeing the battle sites of the Unification Wars, though he'd refused to take her to Macedyn. "Give me a year or two on that," he'd said, trying to smile. "If your brother and his wife insist on having everyone at their house there for a get-together, I'll . . . deal with it. I just can't imagine taking you on vacation there, though, beloved."

And so, the first week, Edessan, where Eli had spent two years. The bustling city of Sarbrantha, fifteen million people, with its high rises and modern streets, was actually the site on which the colonies' surrender had been accepted, close to two thousand years ago. The Peace Pavilion had been built on the site by Comodus the Unifier, to commemorate the only time his father, Subigus, had offered quarter to a foe. _This is where the modern Hierarchy began_, Serana had thought, in the huge, tent-like structure, which had been damaged in the Reaper War, and repaired since. The walls were all of glass, and rose and fell like a mountain range all around the central spot where Subigus had received the oaths and fealty of the rebel commanders.

They'd visited Thracia, too, for the site of the Battle of Three Moons. All three of Thracia's moons were still dotted with wreckage of the ships from that long-gone battle. Two of them were inhabited, and farmers on the surface still turned up odd bits of metal, and called for archaeologists periodically. The third moon was almost airless, except for a thin haze of sulfur dioxide belched out of its various volcanoes, and the impact sites of the various ships were still visible on cloudless nights from Thracia's surface. Two armadas had collided here, forty rebel ships against a hundred loyalist ones, and the rebels had, using the gravitational handles of the moons for very precise maneuvers, managed to _win_. It was still studied, to this day, as a sample of incredible tactical thinking and exceptional flying.

Then they'd gone to Earth, and wandered the old battlefields of the its second global conflict. "It's so oddly primitive," Lin muttered, as they ducked their heads to walk through the tunnels that connected bunkers in something called the Maginot Line. "Two thousand years ago, our people were killing each other in _space_, and two _hundred_ years ago, Eli and Dara's people were . . . huddled in these bunkers. Not realizing that planes could go over them, or that, apparently, tanks could go _around_ them." He shook his head.

Odd didn't even begin to cover it. It was like looking at something out of Palaven's very distant past, only so perfectly preserved, it might have been held in stasis. "I can see why you like the era," Lin admitted to her. "It's like a time-warp. They'd only just discovered rocketry, for the spirits' sakes." Even the 'Engima' machine, which was the height of code technology at the time, made them chuckle. . . but at another museum, they found the 'code-talkers' of the Navajo much more interesting. "Shepard did the same thing," Serana muttered to Lin. "Only she used Latin. Something VIs aren't equipped for, ordinarily. It's a smart technique. And even within the language, there weren't words for 'tanks,' so they had to use metaphors like 'turtles' for that. . . which verges on steganography." She grinned up at Lin. This was the sort of thing she really lived for, and it delighted her that their interest in history was so mutual. . . and that his interest in the Unification Wars actually translated very well to her interest in Earth's mid-twentieth century period. Turning points for both species.

Fortunately, in this time of space elevators and shuttle travel, they didn't really need to have five different hotel rooms on different continents as they hopped around Earth, taking in the sights. And with food starting to flow a bit more freely, they also didn't have to worry quite so much about bringing rations with them, although they'd definitely packed protein bars in their luggage.

And then, a final flight. This time to Bekenstein. "Your superiors must be pretty resigned to you belonging to Kasumi," Lin had said, idly, and very softly, near the end of the flight.

"I'm on semi-permanent loan, at least till the war's over," Serana admitted. "I'm just as glad. I wouldn't have had nearly as much time with you if I were stuck in an office building on Edessan, sorting through signal traffic or something." The plague had definitely done them some favors, although it felt shallow to think of it that way. But it was true. It had gotten them off Bastion, made it impossible to travel to various duty stations, and had given Kasumi the opportunity to put Serana to _work_. Spectre analysis. Rooting through old records for rachni ships and eggs. Rooting through current signal traffic to confirm Valak's intel. And that had gotten them both to Khar'sharn, an undercover assignment that any field operative would have considered the crowning glory of a career. . . even if it had ended with a rather spectacularly botched extraction.

At the Nagori, they both eyed the hotel in moderate disbelief. Lin shook his head. "And I thought Eli was kidding about this place," he muttered, and showed his id at the front desk. . . which got them whisked off to a room upstairs. "Are you sure this is _work_, and not more play?" Lin asked, as he closed the door behind them.

"Definitely work," Serana replied. "We're to meet Kasumi and Sam for dinner, and then, apparently, I need to start training for something important."

Lin turned, frowning. "Any idea what?"

Serana shook her head, but she couldn't deny that she was excited. "All Kasumi would say is that it's pretty important, and likely to cripple the batarians."

Lin nodded. "Well, I'm all in favor of that," he said, and looked around at the very human hotel room. "You think if we pull all the blankets and sheets off and put them on the ground, it'll be a decent enough nest?"

Serana turned to give him a coy look. "You've been fine with other beds before." Intimate teasing, really.

Lin chuckled sheepishly. "I just hate the feeling that I'm about to tear the mattress apart with my spurs. Or, worse yet, that one of my spurs is going to go right through it, and get caught on one of the damn springs."

Serana grinned at him. "And then you'll be trapped and at my mercy?"

"Precisely."

She pushed him towards the mattress, and Lin allowed himself to fall backwards.

Later, they went to Kasumi and Sam's amazingly luxurious master suite, and tapped at the door. A human male answered, and stared at them. "Well? You two gonna stand out there, or are you coming in?"

They stared at him. Serana's mouth dropped open as Sam said, wearily, "Don't say it."

Serana tipped her head to the side and thought, fleetingly, _He looks younger without the moustache. . . like a completely different person. _

Lin's mouth gaped a little, too. "Spirits," he said, sounding aghast. "It's like when Eli shaved his head before boot camp all over again. Doesn't that _hurt_?"

Sam's blue eyes widened for a moment. "Shit, no. I shave the rest of it every day, why the hell would this hurt anything more than my dignity?"

Lin shrugged helplessly. "There's. . . well, there's blood vessels down the length of each shaft in a turian fringe. And nerves, at least enough to help control when. . . well, when the fringe rises." He cleared his throat. "Dock the shafts too close to the head, and they'll bleed. And hurt." It had been an old punishment for males, back in the day. Not often used anymore. A form of social shaming, which, like branding on Earth, had passed out of favor.

"Like a dog's claws," Sam muttered. "Yeah, not so much an issue with hair. Now get in here and stop staring at me like I've grown another head."

Serana moved her eyes away from Sam's face and stepped through the door. She wasn't entirely sure why it was so _fascinating_, but it was. . . just as watching Eli shave in the morning had been exotic and quirkily alien. The fact that part of Sam's face had, effectively, been _removed_ was just. . . outré, to say the least.

Kasumi grinned at them as they kicked off their shoes. "There you are. How do you think Lantar and Garrus are going to react to Sam's new look?" she asked, mildly.

Serana did her best to choke down the laughter rising up through her chest. Lin coughed into his hand. "As _dimicado'fradae_ ought," he said, looking off into the mid-distance.

"Ah. So, with silence and sober respect for the fallen?" Sam said, his tone indicating that he didn't believe it in the slightest, himself.

"No. By never, ever letting you live it down." Lin's grin was lightning-fast.

Sam gave him a direct stare. "Eli _did_ once mention that you wound up going on a date with a certain hanar—"

"I most certainly did not. I figured out it was a trick and got the hell out of there before he recognized me," Lin replied, not missing a beat.

Laughter faded, however, over dinner, which was excellent and provided by room service. Kasumi began to talk, very quietly, about a center held by the _Klem Na_ on Lorek. "Valak visited it, and got positioning markers on its roof and other places, which hopefully will still be there. They're inert until flashed on the correct frequency by a ship in orbit," Kasumi explained. "Now, there are so many pieces to this mission, it's. . . astounding. Half of that Lorek base is where the _Klem Na_ has been, with Lystheni help, manufacturing and assembling the biotic weapons materials that the biotics themselves are plugged into. And, deep inside the facility. . . is the server on which the Lystheni have their dalatrass backed up." Kasumi's dark eyes gleamed as she played with her chopsticks for a moment, before lifting and eating a portion of the stir-fry in front of her. "From Valak's description, we have a good idea of the security around it. The batarians have an outer ring of security. . . and the Lystheni have their own security inside. And since the Lystheni are low on manpower. . . they rely on gadgets instead. Laser devices, motion detectors, cameras, pressure sensors. Valak was able to pull a partial recording as he walked through, but it's hardly comprehensive."

"Dara," Serana said, instantly. "She can see lasers, at least some frequencies of them."

Sam's head came up at that, but he said nothing. Kasumi shook her head. "The system looks like a dynamic, moving one. She won't be able to describe to you how the lasers are moving fast enough for you to react. Aside from which, she's going to be hitting an entirely different complex, from the sound of things. Probably with some rachni backup." Kasumi grimaced. "We're chasing down where the hot-labs where the plagues were cooked up are located. Argus got some hits from her information sources. . . and we're putting Valak and his, ah, new source to work on that, too." She glanced at Lin.

Lin's mandibles flexed. "We trust our new friend?"

"Trust, but verify," Sam said, quietly.

Lin nodded, and took a sip of his _apha_. "So Serana's going to be sneaking in? Why not do a direct assault and just bomb the damn center off the face of the planet?"

Sam exhaled. "You guys just got back from a week on Earth. Looking at some of our. . . less beautiful history. During our second global conflict, reports kept coming out of Axis-held Europe about atrocities. About the concentration camps and the mass graves and the gas chambers. And some reporters were told, 'that's just propaganda. We can't put that on the front page. It's not really going on, or it's just an exaggeration.'" He looked off into the mid-distance. "One of the things that Allied leaders decided, when they went in and took the concentration camps, was that everything had to be documented. Recorded. And preserved. And they have been. As a reminder. Fifty, sixty years after it all happened, there were still people who were insisting that it never happened. . .but because there was all the proof, they were rightly considered a part of the lunatic fringe. A hundred and fifty years after Napoleon Bonaparte tried to conquer Europe, there were people out there who considered the man who took the bloody remains of a kingdom that had just turned itself into a republic, and then set it and its army on a rampage over all of its neighbors so that he could call himself an Emperor. . . there were people who seriously considered him a romantic figure. It's considered, somehow, okay to name your dog Napoleon. The Allies definitely didn't want that same romanticization to occur again. For misty nostalgia to cloud people's eyes. They wanted the truth to be known, and stay known, stark and eternal. So that no one could point back to that era with nationalistic pride."

Kasumi nodded. "The Allies also sent in raids to get information before office workers could burn it. Before military commanders could have their records burned. So that all the information would be preserved. Knowing who did what, and when, and on whose orders."

Serana watched as Lin processed that. "And so we're going in to capture these sites. Preserve them. So everyone can see who did what." He nodded, slowly. "I like that. Trouble is, if you're going to try any of them on war crimes, the Hegemony is pretty much a 'rogue state.' They're not currently signatory to any agreements with the Council. Or even, really, many agreements with most other governments. They broke all diplomatic contact with the Hierarchy just after deploying the bio-weapons, but there were rumblings of outrage from the moment the Imperator had Shepard and Garrus in his box at Kallixta's graduation. . . and even more rumblings after Rinus married Kallixta." Lin's eyes narrowed. "And they haven't had more than travelers' visa agreements with the Alliance for decades."

"Yes, which is why we were able to get Eli, Dara, Dempsey, and Rinus in, a year ago," Kasumi murmured. "They still had ties to the asari and salarians and volus, for trade, but all of them have recalled their ambassadors. . . the asari in particular with outrage. Yes. . . war crimes will be difficult to prosecute. But whoever winds up running the Hegemony when the dust clears will _have_ to prosecute from within, or else the Council will be imposing martial law over the entirety of Hegemony space, not to mention sanctions. There will, likely, be reparations asked anyway."

"But they can't be so punitive that the batarians rise back up and hit us again in twenty years, out of desperation," Sam said, dryly. "Humans remember that lesson pretty well." He sighed. "But yeah. . . that's long term, guys. Short term is, we're capturing the sites and preserving the evidence. Also, we need to make goddamn sure the dalatrass is gone for good. Kirrahe's getting very promising reports from his AI virus, but we need to hit any last, non-networked nodes."

Lin took her hand under the table, and Serana felt warmth expand through her. "So, Serana's sneaking into the Lystheni portion of the complex then. . . while the rest of us go after the Klem Na portion?"

"Probably _ahead_ of the rest of you," Kasumi said, tightly. "We _really_ don't want the Lystheni to escape. Which is why it won't just be Serana going in. Seheve will be, too. If you can take any captives, great, but it's not a priority."

Serana felt her crop turn leaden. She'd just been given the parameters of what sounded like a very tough mission. Lin's fingers tightened on hers. "And Seheve's not undergoing the advanced training?" he asked.

Kasumi shook her head. "I'll bring her here before we leave, but I have a fairly good idea of what she's seen and dealt with before. Serana? I haven't done training sessions with you on automated defenses of this degree before. You'll start in the morning. It's all about pattern-recognition, really." She grinned at Lin. "You'll enjoy watching. Sam does."

"It's part of my _enforced_ relaxation routine," Sam noted, dryly. "Watch my very slinky wife doing very slinky things and trying to take notes. The note-taking gets easier when I remember that if she slips up, there's a pretty good chance she'll get shot."

And thus, for the next fourteen days, Serana found herself being tested against an array of detection devices. She had to find the entrance to a vault, which was 'somewhere on the Nagori grounds.' She canvassed the entire hotel the first day, and then returned to Sam and Kasumi's rooms, and, when she had to excuse herself to use their toilet facilities, which were peculiar even by human standards, she walked out, frowning slightly. At first, it was just because she'd heard from Eli, years ago, about the toilets in his brief trip to Japan for Sam and Kasumi's wedding, but after a while, she started to realize that something about the rooms didn't add up entirely.

The fact that Sam had looked at his omnitool when she'd gone back there had also caught her attention. That got her to grab Lin by the wrist, so as to draw him back there with her. "I'm not sure what you want me to look for," Lin said, dryly. "I mean, other than the fact that we've looked over the other six stories of the main building, and both side buildings, and. . . huh." He paused. "There's. . . something off about this room. Other than the toilet."

When they finally uncovered the hidden elevator, Kasumi said, from the other room, in a tone of triumph, "All right. It took Serana a day. Thank the gods."

"In fairness, they weren't staying in the room. And Eli and I _both_ would have found it faster if there hadn't been a need for shut-eye beforehand." Sam's tone was very dry.

Serana's head jerked up. "How fast _did_ Eli find it?"

Kasumi sighed. "Ten hundred local time the morning after arriving. Sam? Oh six hundred."

Serana hissed under her breath in pure annoyance. "Now I look bad," she muttered.

"We aren't staying in the room," Lin pointed out, just as Sam had.

Sam's expression, as he leaned in the doorframe from behind Kasumi, didn't change as he pointed out, smoothly, "If you weren't allergic to mornings, Kasumi-chan, you could have kept me from finding it for far longer."

"If you didn't insist on waking up at the crack of dawn every morning, it wouldn't have been an issue." Kasumi gestured at the closed elevator door. "All right, Serana. Take it away. Consider this part one of your final exam." She paused. "Not that there's ever a final exam, in our business. People keep coming up with new and better security systems."

It took Serana about ten minutes to find enough DNA material and fingerprint samples to begin overriding the elevator, but the retina and voiceprint system actually stymied her. . . which made her dig into the elevator's on-board computer system, which alerted her that there was actually a back-up system in place. One that, once someone had gained access, sent a signal to the 'home office' including video footage of whoever was on board. "And if the 'home office' doesn't recognize who's in there?" Serana asked, under her breath. It didn't help that Sam and Kasumi were reclining on the bed in the other room, watching the whole process.

"Knockout gas," Kasumi replied, cheerfully. "Of course, anyone who's trying to gain access would probably be in a stealth field, and would be trying to knock off the cameras, as well—" Serana, in fact, had already done both things. "That in itself is a tell. And there's one more backup system to tell if someone's actually in the elevator, rather than just trying to hack it from outside."

_If the system can't see me, if I'm in armor, it can't __smell__ me, no organic esters from my skin in the air, it can't hear me if I'm holding still. . . ._ Serana looked up. "Pressure and weight sensors," she said, quietly. "Damn."

Sam had a datapad in his hands, and was reading something on it, but he noted, "Yeah. Old fashioned methods do have a way of making their way back. People can fool cameras. Can defeat biometric encoding and DNA scans a dozen different ways, the most brutal being to just cut off someone's thumb and use that for the fingerprint and DNA scan. . . well, for those species that _have_ fingerprints, anyway." He paused. "So, not too many burglars have ever mastered the fine art of flight, right?"

Serana exhaled and re-evaluated the elevator. And determined that it was far too much of a waste of time. It was, in itself, a kind of trap. A trap for the mind, one designed by a thief to distract other thieves. She stepped back into the elevator, and simply crouched down now, looking for access panels in the floor or ceiling. One in the ceiling, as a safety measure, but that wouldn't get her _down_.

Giving Kasumi a dark look, Serana left the room, and came back with her full kit. Including a small acetylene torch and a welder's mask. "Now you're thinking," Kasumi congratulated her.

Lin squinted at her. "And who's going to fix the hole in the floor when you're done?" he asked, in some disbelief.

"Oh, I need to have the place redone anyway," Kasumi said airily. "I'm going to be redecorating downstairs as it is."

Sam, for some reason, snorted at this comment.

Serana was too busy now to pay much attention. First, a very small hole, so she could drop a probe through to survey what was in the shaft. _Heat detectors. So they'll notice the ambient heat as I cut through. Damn. Kasumi thinks of everything. . . . I can't actually heat the entire tunnel high enough to fool them, so hacking is going to have to do it._ She disabled the sensors, found the motion detectors, and disabled them, too, and then went back to cutting. Got an opening, and studied the shaft some more. She pulled on eyepiece, similar to the one her uncle Garrus had given Rel for a graduation present, but far more specialized. . . and saw dozens of lines of static-placed lasers crisscrossing the shaft. Serana exhaled. "All right, can't use the service ladder. And I can't even use a rope line for backup. The rope will cross the lines of the lasers above me."

Lin gave her a direct look. "You sure?" he asked, and he wasn't smiling at all. She'd noticed on Khar'sharn how effortlessly he slipped into work mode when needed, and at the moment, the fact that _she_ was in work mode had apparently triggered a reaction in him. No laughter. No smiles. Just cool competence. Exactly what she needed.

Serana nodded, "Yes. I wish I could risk it. But even a wire—"

"Monofilament cable?" The cables were made of carbon nanotubules, packed together and braided, and were, in effect, what space elevators were made of, on a grander scale. And they were the width of two or three human hairs.

"Depends on the sensitivity of the lasers," Serana muttered.

"Try it. I don't want you falling in a training exercise." Lin gave Kasumi a look, and got a wink in return.

Serana's crop eased, and she set up pulleys and counterweights, and threaded one end of the cable through her climbing harness. The other end was for Lin to play out, giving her enough slack to work with. Serana made very damned sure of her knots. While she liked adrenaline as much as any turian ever born, she didn't want to have to learn how to fly the hard way here, either.

She crouched and dropped through the hole in the bottom of the elevator, keeping her legs tucked to her chest at first as she dropped down to hang by her fingertips. There _was_ a pattern to the static, unmoving laser beams. And she should be able to manage this just fine. _Slow and steady. Let there be flow. Speed will come from precision. But be precise, before anything else._

She spun up, put her feet against the bottom of the elevator, and pushed off, the rope traveling with her. Side to side, one edge of the shaft to the other, feeling a surge of relief as the fine cable didn't disrupt the laser beams. Dancing now, spinning and flying through the air, avoiding _this_ intersection of lasers and _that_ tangle of red light. Eighty feet, in total; wherever she was, she was probably six stories underground, relative to where Kasumi's apartment was on the second floor of the hotel. She was able to shut down the lasers and cameras in the shaft, after circumventing the alarms that were intended to go off, and tabbed her comm to tell Lin, "You can come down now, if you like. Just say well back of me."

She could hear him moving in the shaft above her, and sank to a crouch to contemplate her next move. Ahead of her was a long hallway. . . and again, it was decked with lasers. Kasumi's voice crackled in her earpiece now, however. "You did very well with the static lasers. However, that's unlikely to be what you'll face. Assuming that the Lystheni have access to everything that the batarians can make and import, they could have up to a Lucesco Agiti Mark Seven system in place. Let's see how you do with moving lasers, shall we? We'll start slow, with regular, easily discernable patterns."

Serana closed her eyes for a moment, and groaned internally. This was like training on Mindoir, all over again. Only, this time, she knew it wasn't for the far distant future. This wasn't for fun. This was for something she might actually be facing within weeks, and it put a sharp edge on everything for her, as adrenaline kicked in. Let her elevate her game, as a human might say. _All right. Let's play._ Serana watched, trying to pick out the patterns in the movement of the lights in the space ahead of her, shedding her climbing harness as she did. _Yes. . . fairly simple. It repeats itself every six beats, more or less._ Serana stood, as Lin's feet hit the ground behind her. She took a deep breath. It wasn't that different from doing kata, or a spirit-dance. It just required. . . precision. And a sense of rhythm. 

Serana let out her breath, and started to move. Duck, twirl, whirl, duck, flip, kick, roll under, leap up. . . . She'd gotten halfway down the corridor, and was starting to feel good about herself, when Kasumi told her, "Good, but you're going to want to duck into that embrasure there."

Serana leaped to the side at her first opportunity, and gasped, quietly, "Why am I hiding?"

"Because they just upgraded from a Lucesco Agiti Mark Three to a Mark Five. You're really going to have to watch for the patterns on these." Kasumi's voice was calm in her ear. "They're based off fractal geometry. Chaotic. . . but predictable. Eventually. It's just a question of memorizing the sequence. And all the potential variations in the sequence. And watching for them."

Serana groaned. This. . . was where it got _much_ harder. After two or three hours of false starts, Kasumi and Sam brought the elevator down, and Kasumi stretched out. . . and demonstrated how it needed to be done. Gave a constant, soft-voiced narration the entire way, of her thought-processes at each juncture. . . and slowed the lasers down, so that she _could_ explain the thought-fast reactions. "How long did it take you to master the Mark Five system?" Serana finally asked.

"About a week. Don't worry. This is just prep work for the Mark Seven." Kasumi shrugged. "If you can see the patterns and the variations in the Mark Seven, you can understand and anticipate all of them in lesser manufacturers and models."

Serana groaned internally again, but part of her simply liked the challenge. "You say this is all they're _likely_ to have access to," she said. "Is there anything more recent than the Seven?"

"Lucesco just put out the Mark Eight this last year," Kasumi said, her lips curving up into a smile. "It's a good workout, I find."

Lin, who was sitting on the ground in the elevator, with his knees up to keep his spurs off the floor, looked at Sam, who was standing, back braced against the elevator's doorframe. "She considers this to be aerobics?"

"Pretty much, yeah. She tells me I can use the treadmill and the weights all I want, but she'll stick with this." Sam shrugged. "Honestly, I can't argue with her results, but my back don't bend that way, so I'll pass on taking lessons."

By night, Serana was as wrung out as she could ever remember being, and her legs _hurt_, deep where the bullets had scored her. "Hot tub and liniment rub," Kasumi prescribed, smiling faintly. "Best thing for you, and Lin? You know what your job is, right?"

"I'm her trainer," Lin said, dryly, and Serana didn't protest in the slightest as he picked her up and headed for the elevator that would take them back to their own rooms. A hot bath, some stretching. . . and yes, Lin's wonderful, very strong fingers, with the muscle ointment that the doctors had prescribed after the injury, did set her right. The next day, however, was more of the same. The exacting level of precision needed, honing the reaction time and the memory, was incredible, and Serana was both frustrated and exhilarated by the challenge.

Lin and Sam weren't on hand to watch every day; Sam's jokes about his 'enforced' vacation aside, now that his and Kasumi's initial two weeks of leave were over, he was, once more, reading reports every day when Serana reported to their rooms, and usually spent most of each morning on comm calls with Shepard, Lantar, and Garrus, from the sounds of things. And Lin, being, well, present, wound up being tagged as an adjutant, reading case files and making recommendations.

Serana happened to witness the first of these calls as she emerged from a long morning of drills, ready for water and lunch. . . . had to stifle laughter as she stood in the background, as Garrus and Lantar both looked up at their screens, froze, clearly staring at Sam, and didn't say a word for almost a half a minute. Eli, on the other hand, covered his eyes with one hand. It was evidently late evening on Mindoir; none of the people on the comm call were at the office, judging from their surroundings, although Serana couldn't place Eli's location. Now, he half-turned, and called, off-camera, "Dara? Could you come here for a minute?"

"What's up?" Dara's voice was muffled, and _reela_ music, which had been tinkling faintly in the background, ended. Her face appeared on screen, and her expression suddenly shifted. "Oh my god. Dad? What _happened_?"

Garrus recovered his voice at that point. "So it _is_ Sam. I thought someone had managed to hack the encryption system."

"Or that we'd gotten a very wrong number," Lantar murmured, his mandibles flexing.

Sam tapped his fingers on the table carefully. "Yes. Yes, it's me. Yes, I've shaved my moustache off. Yes, it was due to losing a bet with Kasumi. Can we move past this?"

"I have to ask," Lantar said, in a tone of fascination, "Doesn't it hurt?"

"That's what _I_ asked," Lin pointed out, with satisfaction.

Eli's shoulders were convulsing. Sam replied, in a tone of dignity, "No, it does not, but feeling air on my upper lip for the first time in thirty years tickles, if you must know. Again, can we move past this?" He held up a datapad. "Cases on Dekuuna, Gothis, Mannovai, not solving themselves."

Dara leaned forward. "You said you wore it to cover a scar from a hovercycle crash, Dad." Her tone was faintly accusing.

"I did. It grew in while I was waiting for the stitches to get pulled, and I didn't want to shave it while the scabs were still there. By the time the cut had fully healed, I had a full-on moustache, and I didn't really want to see what was under it." Sam looked up at the ceiling. "I should have put this on the agenda. Topic one: Sam's moustache."

Garrus rubbed at the side of his face. "I've never seen a need to cover up scars. Although, I have to say. . . I don't actually see any on you—"

"And what I'd like to know," Lantar said, calmly, "is what sort of bet you actually lost with Kasumi."

"Keep on wondering," Sam told him, dryly.

"Anything to do with the vault?" Garrus asked, grinning.

Sam dropped the datapad. "You knew about the vault?" he accused.

"What _about_ the vault?" Serana muttered. "I can't get _to_ the damned thing. She keeps changing the laser patterns on me—"

"Of course I knew about the vault. Lilu needed a stiff drink after she and Kasumi shot the place up. What I didn't know was that it was still _full_, which, by your reaction—"

"Lord, yes. Yes, it is." Sam exhaled. "Though I have Kasumi's word that she's going to be returning most of the contents."

"Most?" Garrus pounced on the word.

"I'm doing my best with this, Garrus." Sam shifted his gaze and gave Eli and Dara a hard look. "I'd have done better if _certain_ young'uns had given me proper warning."

"Kasumi would've skinned me," Dara replied, promptly. "Besides, it didn't seem like it was my secret to tell." She squinted at her father. "It's _really_ weird seeing you without that. Makes you look a lot younger."

"Thanks," Sam told her, with heavy sarcasm.

"Grandma's going to be thrilled. She always says she doesn't know why you decided to grow a soup-strainer."

"My own father wore at least a goatee, most of my life. Cut so he could wear a breather for reactor fires, sure, but she's got no room to complain about my wearing a moustache." Sam shrugged. "And I plan to have re-grown it by the time I see my darlin' mother again." He picked up his datapad again. "Now. Have we exhausted the conversational potential of the mystery of the missing lip caterpillar?"

"For the moment," Garrus allowed.

"Do we need to send someone to Gothis to look into the murder case in person?" Lantar asked, his tone becoming more business-like. "Livanus, maybe?"

"You want me to go with him?" Eli asked. He didn't sound entirely enthusiastic, but willing. Behind him, Dara made a face, but said nothing.

"No. You need to keep the same planet under your feet for more than three weeks without getting shot at," Sam told him.

Eli snorted. "It's been weird, I'll admit. Even getting around to teaching Dara how to do butterfly in the pool. But . . . "

"But nothing," Garrus told him. "Livanus will have plenty of desk time coming up with a youngling on his hands. He can take the Gothis case, for the moment. You'll have plenty of opportunities to get back into investigations later."

Eli rubbed at his eyes. "Good. I never thought I'd be longing for everyday banal, _boring_ evil, like someone pushing their spouse down the stairs and then trying to make it look like an accident again."

"We don't get too many of those," Lantar told him, dryly. "We're more of the 'a human businessman was found murdered on Illium, there's a turian suspect in custody, but he's affiliated with the local embassy, and thus has diplomatic immunity and is refusing to talk, and the human's asari mistress is missing, along with a large chunk of his bank account. Local police aren't making any headway, because they think they've got the murderer in the turian, and the asari mistress was the first-born daughter of a prominent matriarch. The Alliance wants the killer found, the Hierarchy insists the turian in custody had nothing to do with it, and the Illium authorities won't lift a finger to look for the mistress. Now it's your turn. Have fun."

Lin raised a hand. "Ah, is that one actually pending?" He sounded fascinated. Eli was sitting up and leaning forward. "I didn't see that one in Sam's files. . . "

"Yeah, actually," Garrus said. "You two wouldn't happen to _want_ that case, would you? I mean, it's got 'political shitstorm' written all over it." His mandibles twitched. "And we _did_ just tell you that you needed the downtime."

Eli and Lin were both looking at each other on the screens. Serana could see eagerness in both their eyes. Dara's shoulders shook, and she leaned down and gave Eli a kiss on the cheek. "You think bringing a medical doctor with us would do any good?" Eli said, almost casually. "Maybe take another look at what the Nos Astra medical examiner has found in the killing?"

"I'm not a pathologist," Dara warned.

"But you're another set of eyes," Eli told her, cheerfully.

Lin had looked back over his shoulder at Serana, and she chuckled, ruefully. "Go," she told him. "Watching me train can't be that interesting." And she had, actually, gotten past the worst of the muscle aches with his help, in the last week. "Kind of wish I could go with you, but. . . "

"Everyone has their own tasks," Kasumi told her, lightly, from behind. "Had enough of a break?"

"Not really, but I doubt I'll get any chances to catch my breath in reality," Serana told her cheerfully, stroked a hand over Lin's fringe, and got back to work.

She missed having Lin there, but on the other hand, his absence actually made it easier to focus, entirely, on learning to recognize the patterns. It became like a dance for Serana, and it was all about probabilities, and seeing what was _about_ to happen in a three-dimensional space. By the middle of the second week, Kasumi had Rel and Seheve come and join them, and Serana was very glad that Kasumi had waited until this point to include the drell female in the training exercises. _My ego would have taken a hell of a beating_, Serana admitted, watching as Seheve picked up the patterns almost effortlessly. "Does it all come down to your memory?" Serana asked, after Seheve had managed to defeat the first three patterns after only one exposure to each.

"In part," Seheve admitted. "Once I have seen the movements of the beams the first time, it's easy to hold that pattern in mind, and watch for the variations. Even in a chaotic system, there will be repetitions, even if they are twenty moves apart, and otherwise undetectable. The other thing to keep in mind is my training in drell kata and dance." She paused. "The chains and sequences of motion are precise and exacting, and may be of a hundred moves long. All of which need to be done in the correct order and fashion, to be judged as correct."

Serana exhaled. "And to think I thought Kasumi was a tough teacher," she muttered, and Seheve laughed softly. Serana found she envied the female her almost effortless grace, the pure fluidity with which she moved through the training corridor.

But Seheve only smiled faintly when Serana gave voice to that thought. "You have the same grace, Serana," Seheve pointed out. "I merely have more years of experience. Would you like to. . . well. . . I have been teaching Rellus the type of neuromuscular control that I have learned, over the years, through kata and dance. Would you like to begin similar training?" Seheve shrugged, a little deprecatingly. "It takes years to master, and it likely will not help with the mission at hand, but. . . if you are interested, I would happily teach you what I know."

Serana chuckled ruefully. "Seheve, I've never found _anything_ I haven't wanted to learn more about. Of course I'd like to learn." She grinned a little sheepishly. "Though I'm sure Lin will be a little confused when he gets back and I'm taking drell dancing lessons. . ." _From you_, she added mentally, but she'd sensed an easing in Lin on the subject of Seheve since the Bothros mission. Lin had just said, when she'd asked him about it, that he'd gotten a better idea of who Seheve was. And that he could see how good she was for Rel. "And past that, Shepard's given her parole and a job to do, so the past, I suppose, is the past."

Serana had regarded him skeptically on that count. She _knew_, possibly better than anyone else in the galaxy other than Eli, what lived inside Lin. A steady sense of guilt, for not having been able to save Brennia from the spirits of darkness that dwelled in her past. And a consuming desire to beat down those spirits, drive them away, and keep them from ever touching anyone else again. But, to Lin's credit, he didn't tense up at the mention of Seheve's name, and hadn't reacted visibly to her at their wedding. Had even tolerated her being in the family pictures with a great deal better grace than Solanna had tolerated Dara and Eli's presence in the same.

The last week seemed both to fly past, and, conversely, crawl by at the same time. Grueling physical conditioning, along with memorization that Seheve had no problems with at all, but that Serana found difficult at times. Rel met them both every night as they emerged from the lower areas of the hotel, tired and spent. "Bored yet?" Serana asked him, the second night, wryly. If she'd been human, she'd have been covered in sweat. As it was, her hands were shaking slightly, and she was ravenously hungry, as if she'd run forty kilometers and not stopped to eat.

Rel looked uncomfortable. "I'm all right," he said, after a moment or two. "The downtime's actually. . . kind of nice." He glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye. The two males weren't really conversing much, that Serana had heard, but Sam had plenty of work to look into, especially now that Lin wasn't there to wade through case reports with him. Rel continued, slowly, "We had a week of leave back home, which we mostly spent getting one of the old colonial trailers set up for us down in the valley. . . then everyone else basically started going back to work. Eli was spending every day at Lantar's office. Dara was off in med bay. I asked Uncle Garrus what I was assigned to, and he told me I could train with some of the special forces people who were coming through on the various SR ships. . . " Rel shrugged. "That only takes so much of any given day. So I, well. . . " Rel exhaled. "I signed up for some college courses."

Serana's lip-plates fell open. "Congratulations!" she told him, and limped forward to give him a hug. "What sort of classes?"

Rel sighed. "Can't even get this through the University of Mindoir. Going through the University of Bastion, believe it or not. Strategic Studies and Defense Analysis would be the major, which sounds made-up, I know. But. . . it's actually _interesting_. And I already have the leadership requirements met, which frees me up to take _s'kak_ like Comparative Religion," he glanced at Seheve for a moment, "and Comparative Politics, which, you know, I could probably interview Rinus and Valak, use them as primary sources, and come up with something to say for the essays. The Galactic Security Policies course actually sounds interesting, though I'm sure whoever the professor is, will be arguing that the Spectres are the biggest threat to galactic security that there is, being outside the law and entirely too powerful. . . which will be fun to argue against." Rel managed a ghost of a smile. "There's even a comparative anthropology course. And you know, all I need to do to ace that is walk out my front door at home."

Serana looked up at him. "I knew you were already starting a xeno-psych course, that Eli had recommended. . . "

"Yeah. Counts as an elective. . . or maybe towards a minor. Haven't picked a minor yet." Rel shrugged. "Taking one or two courses at a time, it'll take me about the next decade to finish, but. . . it's interesting. And it gives me a chance to argue in a, well, a constructive sort of way." He shrugged again, passing it off, almost seeming embarrassed. "Got to raise my game, you know?"

Serana looked at him, wide-eyed, and started to chuckle. _He's keeping up with Eli and Lin. He set the bar for them, and now they're setting the bar for him. Back and forth. Give and take. As it should be._ So whenever she and Seheve emerged from the elevator into Kasumi's quarters, there was a fair chance that Rel would be tapping at an aerogel screen, a look of intent concentration on his face, and, occasionally, a sort of glee. She caught him and Sam talking at one point, Rel telling the human male, "This professor is actually a little slippery. Argues both sides fairly well. I thought I had her pinned down as an asari who believes that all conflict is fundamentally unnecessary, and only arises out of miscommunication and failed negotiations. . . "

Sam chuckled. "Switched on you?"

"Turned around and argued against an asari student the need for pre-emptive strikes and suggested that if sufficient evidence of batarian intent to attack had been in hand before the war, that the Spectres and the turian-human fleet should have gone in and attacked their bio-weapon facilities. The question, which I pointed out, was 'what's sufficient evidence?' and that sent everyone off into a tailspin." Rel chuckled. "Spirits. It's . . . a little funny, in a way."

"They seem naïve to you?" Sam said, his tone distant but friendly.

"A little, yeah. Some of them, a _lot_. Have a human in there who actually argued that when the occupying forces are patrolling areas on Camala, that they shouldn't be permitted to have bullets in their weapons. Because having the bullets ready to go, means that they might kill people." * Rel shook his head in disbelief. "If someone's out in the darkness at the edge of the perimeter, and is coming in with a bomb or a gun, you're damned right, I want to be able to shoot them."

Sam actually snorted. "The concern is that you might shoot the wrong person."

"And that's why we're trained in threat assessment. But spirits, Sam, what the hell would someone be _doing_, skulking along the edge of the patrol area, if they weren't up to something?"

Sam's shoulders shook, once. "Digging in the garbage, recovering spent thermal clips for the metal content. . . lots of things, really. Protecting civilians is a valid concern—"

"Agreed, but don't strip me of my defenses when I'm supposed to be there to keep the civilians more or less protected and the actual military forces disarmed and under control," Rel grumbled, and got back to his typing. "I can't believe people out there really think like this."

"You're not going in swinging, I hope?" Sam said, quietly.

"Not swinging. Not trying to set myself up as the expert either. I'm not giving mission specifics." Rel shrugged. "Would either compromise security on old operations, or make me look like I'm inventing stuff to make myself look good. . . "

"Like every other swinging dick on the extranet," Sam replied, dryly.

"Yeah, exactly. They wouldn't believe it, and they'd stop taking anything I said seriously." Rel shrugged. "I'm just undermining them with generic examples. They know I'm turian, so I've served, so I have that going for me. Past that. . . nothing specific."

"There you go," Sam told him, and Serana walked away, chuckling under her breath.

At the end of twelve very hard, very long days of training, Serana and Seheve made it to the end of the corridor with the lasers set to replicate the effects of a Lucesco Agiti Mark Seven system, and did it three times. Then Kasumi, on the thirteenth day, threw a monkey wrench into it. . . setting pressure plates off that had never been a part of the situation before. . . but turning the lasers down to the Mark Five settings. "If they can't afford or couldn't import the Mark Sevens, they'd likely have a lesser system with physical backups," Kasumi told them, helpfully. "Watch your step."

On the last day, Serana and Seheve, both nearly exhausted, made it to the end of the corridor. . . and finally unlocked the door. Serana stared at the contents of the room, and looked over her shoulder at Kasumi. "I'm glad it's full," she told Kasumi. "If it had turned out to be empty, and I'd put all that effort in for nothing, I'd have probably wanted to strangle you."

Seheve leaned against the door and murmured, "But then, it would have been a lesson in existentialism, would it not? That all our efforts are, in the end, fruitless, for death and nothingness wait to take all back?"

Kasumi made a rude noise. "No. I don't go in for that. You both deserved to see what was in there. Of course, by this time next week, most of that will be. . . elsewhere." She grinned merrily, and Serana slid down the wall and dropped into a graceless heap on the floor. Kasumi leaned down and whispered in Serana's ear, still grinning wickedly, "Want one of the pieces of turian jewelry that's in there?"

"No, of course not. I didn't rightfully steal it, so what would be the point?" Serana told her, and Kasumi burst out laughing. "Besides, then I'd have a huge ethical debate with Lin, and then I'd just have to figure out who it really belonged to, try to return it, have to deal with the questions on where I'd found it. . . more trouble than it's worth."

Seheve squinted down at her. "So the issue is not, for you, one of right and wrong, but one of pragmatism?"

Serana made a rude noise. "It's both. It's not mine, I didn't go to any effort to acquire it, and it'd be a spirits-be-damned amount of work to deal with it, and entirely too much of a headache dealing with my _amatus_ because of it."

Seheve shook her head, clearly amused for some reason, and Kasumi simply laughed once more. "Are we ready?" Serana asked Kasumi.

"As you're going to be, I think. And a good thing, too. It's time to return to Mindoir."

**Author's note:** _I have heard people make this exact argument. When I was eighteen, the person in question was blithely confident that carrying an unloaded weapon was a __great__ idea for UN forces in Sarajevo. I tried to explain that carrying a gun makes you a target, and that if your bullets are locked up in a box in your camp while you are on patrol, it means that you are effectively a target carrying a large stick. The person in question (male) responded, "Then they shouldn't carry guns, should they?" At which point I realized that there was nothing I could say that was going to get through or win the argument, without that person having a rather substantial epiphany to the effect that if you're walking around in a war zone, people present might not like you, and might want to do you harm. Especially if they are on, say, the losing side, and do not care that you are there to 'keep the peace' for their sake. . . ._

**James, Mindoir, March 30, 2197**

After spending close to five months as a disembodied consciousness, James was, to put it mildly, excited about seeing his new body.

—_You're acting as if we haven't been good company,_ Cassandra teased, in the separate comm channel of the NCAI network that they'd taken to holding open, whenever she wasn't off doing some sort of stealth recon mission with the _Sollostra_. With the _Sollostra_ having been in drydock at the Dymion space yard for the last month, being outfitted with the dark matter-to-energy FTL drive (the techs were starting to call it the DME drive) to complement its existing Tantalus core, she'd had plenty of time to talk to him, as well as to her many 'sisters,' 'nieces,' and 'nephews.'

—_You've all been great. I just really wasn't meant to sit around chit-chatting all day, every day. And the time really sort of weighs on me, in a way it doesn't seem to bother the rest of you._

—_The rest of us, besides Grandfather's, well, two selves, have Reaper algorithms deep in our processes. It probably gives us a different perception of time than organics possess._

—_Yeah, I wouldn't mention the whole 'Reaper' thing too often to people. They'll worry that you guys might have hidden agendas. That you're sleeper agents, waiting to take over the galaxy and kill all organic life, if we let you get all uppity._

—_Oh, like we'd do that._

—_If you had programming that you weren't aware of, on a subconscious level, you wouldn't know that you were going to do it, till you did it._

—_Yes, but unlike a human, I've actually read all of my own code._ Cassandra's avatar made a face at him on the comm channel, a visual representation of an emotional state; shorthand. So almost human, except that she had the turian teeth and deep-set eyes. And a slight fringe, though her skin color was a pale peach. —_Aren't you afraid of what the geth elements in your programming might turn you into?_

James gave her a look, and didn't answer. She didn't need to know that the mere concept really did terrify him. He knew, objectively, that close to twelve years had passed since his personality template had been taken from James Allen Dempsey. He had the information and the extranet at his virtual fingertips. But that was all. . . external information, not what he _knew_ or had experienced. When James Allen Dempsey had gone into the Argent Defender program, the geth had been enemies of all organic life. Had been attacking human colonies at Saren's behest. . . had been carried aboard Sovereign, and had been responsible for deploying Dragon's Teeth on a dozen colony worlds, turning humans into husks. The fucking walking dead.

There were a dozen other conversations all going on over his head at once; James didn't really like trying to listen to more than one person at a time. It overwhelmed his ability to multitask. Cassandra called this a limitation, and sounded both sad and intrigued by it at once; James usually told her he was just as glad, since it made him feel more human. Right now, it was just a jumble of voices.

—_Ariston, will the __Hamus__ be able to leave the shipyards soon?_ Cassandra. Light-toned and cheerful.

—_Yes. Five or six weeks of repairs, but we should be underway again soon. And replacement crew. My captain took a leave of absence to work on Nimines, with her family. XO was recovered in deep space, one of only a handful of survivors. And, of course. . . a new pilot._

—_I thought they'd let you continue to pilot yourself?_ That was Laetia, from the sound of it.

—_They're concerned about what would happen if someone managed to penetrate my firewalls, and if there were no organics available to take the controls if I were successfully disabled. _

—_Fair enough, I suppose. _

—_Laetia, are you ever going to get another ship?_ That was Pelagia. Substantially more powerful than the rest of the voices, but gentle and kind in many ways.

—_I'm assuming not, at this point. I'm looking into another possibility that Thell and Fors brought to my attention._ Laetia's voice was actually a little hesitant. —_What would you think of my going to the Citadel and working with the Keepers there?_

Laughter, from many voices. Then, from Pelagia, —_Wait, you weren't joking?_

—_No, I wasn't. They're. . . more alone than anyone else in the galaxy, in a way. And the more I look into this, the angrier I get about their fate. We __make__ our fates, and I'd. . . kind of like to help them make their own, now._

—_What about Tarenius? Is he going to want to go live on the Citadel?_

Hesitation. —_I can't base what I do with my life solely on what Tarenius wants to do with his. Besides, if he stays in the turian military, why would he be assigned to the Citadel? It's a Keeper place now._

—_I didn't say solely, Laetia, but ignoring what your husband wants and needs seems a little selfish to me._

—_I'm trying __not__ to be selfish—_

—_Going off to do missionary work just because it makes you feel better about yourself isn't any less selfish, if it ignores the fact that you're sharing your life with someone._

Another shift of conversation. —_Lysandra, what's it like, listening to a rachni?_

—_Almost overwhelming amounts of data. I . . . can't even begin to scratch the surface of it. . . Every thought Glory has, is actually part of a network of other thoughts. The best way I can describe it is a cross between having an extranet connection turned on at all times, and being linked to hundreds, even thousands of sensors, as the workers and soldiers transmit information to him. He sorts through it, and the most important data becomes conscious, just as nerve data in a human body is all passed to the brain, but only the 'hey, that's hot' data becomes relevant and the rest of it is filtered out. . . It's easier to deal with the masses of information when it's just him, five or six workers, and Dara aboard. When he's down on Mindoir, and there are thousands of rachni around, I have set up data filters to try to limit the influx. _Lysandra's voice was filled with wonder.

—_And what about when he mates?_ Laetia's voice was amused.

—_Nothing says a queen is going to favor him._

—_Joy-Singer's on Mindoir, right? She's going to want to mate at some point._

—_For purposes of genetic variability, she might use some of her ancestors' genetic patterns, so that not all of her offspring derive from Life-Singer's lineage._ Lysandra's tone was almost prim.

Laetia laughed at her. —_And if she decides to make use of more modern variants?_

—_Then she'll make that decision. What exactly are you asking. . . Mother?_

—_No need to be snippy. Just wondering if you'll share data._

—_Non-specific data, yes. I will. . . probably want to be landed on the surface for the experience, however. Rachni memory flow, and the memories of all those connected to the hive at the moment of contact. . . I would probably be incapacitated, as with a denial-of-service attack, for the duration._

Another voice, an external, got James' attention. "We have a few final questions," Shepard said, and James activated his optical sensors in the laboratory room on Mindoir where the servers housing his consciousness had been relocated, having been removed from the _Normandy_. He quickly ascertained that Shepard, Garrus, Kirrahe Orlan, Cohort, and Thelldaroon were all in the small laboratory, standing around a large metal crate.

"Shoot, Commander. What's a few more questions?" James activated the holographic emitter, and projected his avatar. Not surprisingly, his self-image was pretty much that of James Allen Dempsey, age twenty-two. Sandy to reddish hair, close-cropped; light blue eyes, square chin, khaki T-shirt and camo pants. He hadn't seen any need to change it. "I've been asked so many questions by so many people. . . I'm not sure if the answers have made anyone happy, but then again. . . I'm not really here to make anyone happy."

Shepard snorted under her breath. "It's uncanny," she admitted. "You talk, and I hear Dempsey. . . but . . . "

"You should be used to that by now, Commander," Joker said, his own avatar appearing on the other side of the room. . . followed by Jeff Moreau's avatar, on a holographic emitter directly to its left. "For real," Jeff said, dryly. "In fact, I think I hold the record for most versions of myself running around. Although at least my physical self wasn't doing too much actual running, while it was still around." He paused. "Say, Commander, I never asked. . . did you bury me or cremate me?'

James watched as Shepard choked. Garrus put a hand over his eyes for a moment, and shook his head. "We cremated you," Garrus told the avatar, after a moment. "We weren't really sure if you wanted to be scattered or not, so you're, well, still on a shelf in our study."

"But we put a marker up by Painted Rock caves for you," Shepard pointed out, having recovered. "Jeff Moreau left his body 2192, now chasing the stars for eternity." She paused. "It sounds pretty final, but it's actually. . . "

"Accurate," Moreau assessed, grinning. "I like it. Oh, and scatter me, by all means. I wasn't particularly attached to my body, you know."

Shepard shook her head rapidly, and turned back toward James' avatar. "All right. So. . . like I said, a few questions. More or less confirmation of things we already knew." Shepard sighed. "So. . . just for the record. . . why a robot body, James? Why couldn't we just put you on a ship?"

James found that having the avatar reflect his emotional states was more or less reflexive, and he grimaced a little now. "Commander, I'm not a pilot. I can handle a Mako or a Hammerhead, and I've done zero-g combat, but I can't hack astrogation or any of that crap. Not trained for it, and, while I'm sure you could stick a suite of software in my head . . . figuratively speaking. . . that would let me do all that, it's not something I'm terribly comfortable with. I've never _been_ a ship, and I don't really want to be one. Cassandra loves being what she is, and she's spent a hell of a lot of time telling me how much she does, but. . . yeah. Strictly on the level of programming? I have dozens, even hundreds, of subroutines that are associated with moving limbs and maintaining bodily equilibrium and all that, but none for attitude control. I'd have to be substantially re-written, or have to have code kluged into my existing processes. Which will, well, bloat my code." He shrugged. "That just leads to errors, and I'm balancing along okay the way I am. Don't want a lot of changes to what I've got in my head."

Shepard nodded slowly. "All right. Second question. You've repeatedly asked to be incorporated into a combat-capable body. Why?" She paused. "You were a biotic. You were pretty much _required_, by law, to go into the military. It was the only option you ever had. Why not do something else, now that you have the chance?"

James really wished he could exhale. "Frankly," he said, after a moment, his tone very dry, "I don't see the Spectres or the geth putting all this effort into making me a new body if all I want to do with it is become a pastry chef."

Shepard, Garrus, and Kirrahe all chuckled; Thell swung his head in elcor amusement. Cohort's eyeflaps twitched. "We would not have need of any platforms that would serve this function," Cohort said.

"Precisely," James said, his tone dry. "I'm a soldier. I like to think I'm a pretty good one, or. . . was, anyway. I have tech experience, but I don't see myself wiring engines in a factory somewhere; you've got plenty of mechs that can do that. And when it comes down to it. . . part of all that biotic training and military training was so I could make a difference. I'd like to do that. I don't see a pastry chef or a wire stripping machine doing much of that."

Shepard nodded. "Okay, I'm sold." She turned and glanced at Kirrahe and Moreau and Thelldaroon, each in turn, ending with Cohort. "You've all had a chance to get into the guts of his programming. You're all sure that he's stable?"

"Geth programming elements primarily serve to control piezoelectric motors; function as the autonomic nervous system does in human bodies. Also provides conscious control of body frame on a higher level. Also provide integration with geth-made aspects of original platform. . . sensors, in particular. Seamless integration with human-templated individual consciousness and command functions, but do not offer much in the way of 'personality.' We find the adaptation both interesting. . . .and somewhat disturbing in terms of implications."

"The overall personality is stable," Thelldaroon rumbled, quietly. "Months of testing have revealed no pathologies, no neuroses. Constant stimulation has enabled him to stave off the boredom of captivity, and he has forged relationships with the various NCAIs effectively."

_Yeah. Disembodied voices all chattering in my head. Was better than nothing, but god, I want to talk to other people._ James had found that Ariston had been a good person to talk to; he liked the young male, and had been fascinated by the recent fight by the _Hamus_ in the Nimines system, just as all the other personas on the network had been. Lysandra was delightful to talk to, and Cassandra, who was obsessed with going through locked relays and seeing what else was out there in the galaxy, had an adventurous spirit and a sense of humor that he found he enjoyed very much. She was so damned _different_ from Amy had been, back in the day. A little more like Zhasa, really, but with an analytical, scientific bent that actually reminded him of. . . well, Dara Jaworski. Whom he'd never really _met_. He just had memories of her from the other _him_. Spectre Dempsey, thank you very much. "The one thing," he said out loud now, slowly, "that no one ever asks me. . . is how hard it is, integrating three different perspectives. Datasets, whatever. I have the memories of Dempsey before chipping. That was. . . me. . . I guess. Then there's the memories from the experiments that made me into, well, what I was. And then there's Dempsey's memories, that he uploaded to me, bringing me up to speed, sort of. All these people I've never met, but that I . . . consider friends. And I like them. They're my buddies, I guess. . . except I know they're not going to see me like that, if I ever meet them." His avatar shrugged. "It's hard integrating all of what I know is me, and what I know isn't me, into one whole. But I'm trying." He studied the room warily through his optical receptors. "That one's a freebie, Commander."

"Honesty," Shepard told him. "I like it. All right. Let's take a look at what the geth and the finest minds in the Alliance robotics industry have managed to come up with."

They began to open the large metal crate, and James did his best not to jitter. Cassandra was listening in on his end of the conversation, through the open comm channel, and laughed at him. —_You're really quite nervous, aren't you?_

—_Kind of wonder if it's going to have a flashlight head, yeah. Would prefer not to look like that._

—_In this new and improved galaxy, we don't call geth that anymore._

—_Oh, really? Then why are turians still lizards or birds, then?_

—_We don't say that anymore, either. Okay, __polite__ people don't._

—_Yes, ma'am, though anyone who thinks I'm polite company has __got__ to get a better lexical database. . . _

The crate fell open, and James' processes locked for a moment. "It's. . . wow. It's me," he said, in a stunned tone. "How the f. . . how the hell did you. . . ?"

The body in the crate stood upright, precisely six foot one in its dimensions. It was clearly human in form and proportions, evidently male from the bulk across the shoulders. Peach-toned synthskin, not the dull, flat gray he remembered looking down and seeing during the interminable tests on Terra Nova. Sandy-red stubble across the scalp, as if freshly shorn. The facial features were the ones he remembered from pictures and seeing his own face in the mirror for years. . . slightly slack, as with sleep. The body was clothed, which he was thankful for; it gave the form a little more dignity; just a T-shirt and pants. _Heh. Wonder if I'm any more anatomically correct than an action figure._ The thought slipped out, and Cassandra answered, —_Why would you care?_

—_Oh, I care, all right. _

—_If you have to purge any hydraulic systems, I doubt the fluids will be excreted through there. . . _

—_Not really the point, Cassie. Not the point at all._

—_It's not like you're going to have a reproductive urge._

—_Has a hell of a lot more to do with feeling like __myself__. It's like looking down and not seeing gray, only it means looking down and seeing if I have a leftward curve or not._

—_You. . . want to see if you're asymmetrical?_ Cassandra was obviously having a hard time with the concept, and James stifled a laugh.

In the physical world, only seconds had passed. Out loud, James simulated a whistle. "Wow. I'm an android."

"Close," Shepard admitted. "This might . . . disconcert people."

"Giving you the 'heebie jeebies,' as Sam might say?" Garrus asked, repeating the words very carefully.

"Oh yeah. I could fill a shipping container with heebies and jeebies right now." Shepard kept looking between the body and James' avatar, as if comparing them.

"What's not to like?" Moreau pointed out. "You've watched me upload from my body and leave it behind for good. Now you're watching someone else download to a body, leaving a server behind for good."

Shepard squinted at him. "Give me a minute here. I'm trying very hard not to think about all the ramifications of robots that actually look like people and that have the personalities of people—"

"Afraid of what the Vatican will say? Trying to make creatures in our own image, taking divine authority into our own hands, blasphemy?"

"Inability to replicate the spirit or the soul?" Garrus added dryly. "We can go back to trying to define those—"

"That's all right. Maxwell already did enough of a song and dance about that, thank you." Shepard exhaled.

"It'll be worse when Madison's a little older and his dad and his, ah. . . uncle. . . " Garrus said, dryly, "still look exactly the same. People will think we're running a cloning factory."

"The physiognomy was carefully replicated and detailed," Cohort commented. "However, there are differences." He lifted a hand, and the built-in suite of tools that his platform held flared into life around his left forearm. . . and the body in the box opened its eyes. The eyes clearly showed that the body wasn't human. James felt a slight wrench of disappointment; they were featureless and glowed white dimly, just as his previous body's had.

"Not really my color," he said out loud. "But I guess you need to have at least one way to tell us apart."

"Lack of a pulse and respiration, body temperature the same as ambient, and lack of biotics also key," Kirrahe pointed out, smiling.

"Not necessarily. We have been experimenting with miniaturized mass effect generators inside of a platform, used to affect local gravity. This emulates an organic's biotic capabilities quite well. Experimental platform, designated Composite, has been undergoing field tests for some time." Cohort's voice was placid.

James suddenly gave the geth his entire attention. "I could be biotic again? Would I be able to . . . " _To hear Zhasa's thoughts. . . no. That's __Dempsey__, not me. Damn it._ "To hear people's thoughts again?"

"Negative. However, Collector technology acquired in Lystheni base appears to have promise in bridging machine-organic divide in this area." Cohort's eyeflaps twitched slightly. "Other queries?"

"The synthskin. .. am I going to be able to feel? I remember that the last, well, body, that I had. . . no real pain, which was helpful, but also. . . not as fine of motor control." James was edging around what he really wanted to ask. _Will I be able to feel someone's hand on my face? Sunshine on my head? All the things I couldn't feel, in the last body, and since then, locked up in a box, disembodied like a ghost?_

"Synthetic is all I had for a long time myself," Shepard admitted. "They finally managed to regenerate most of my epidermis. There's fewer 'nerves' in the synthetics, but there's sensation, at least. It's a little muted, but it's there."

James' avatar nodded. "Where do I sign, and who gets custody of my soul, assuming I have one?"

As it was, downloading was a little frightening, in a way. Thell had taken him offline a few times for diagnostics, which had been like going under anesthesia. This was like that. . . but not. Anesthesia was lights out. Like feeling himself drift to sleep, or at least, unconsciousness, for the first time in close to six months. He could _feel_ parts of himself compressing, going away. . . .

. . . and then he opened his eyes. _Opened_ them, and he wanted to rejoice. He lifted his hands and looked at them. The nails were rounded and a little too perfect; the shape of the hands wasn't quite the same, and, as he moved his arms it didn't quite feel right, for lack of a better term. The geth low-level processes that served to regulate the sensors and servomotors and everything else in the body were adaptive, and were finding hardware to attach to, but it wasn't a perfect mesh, not yet, anyway. "Give a us a few motions, James, and say a few words," Kirrahe instructed, looking down at his datapad and typing furiously at his omnitool's screen at the same time.

"Not sure what to say," James told them, and that, at least, was a relief. His voice was his voice. He rolled his shoulders, and, out of pure curiosity, pulled up the sleeves of his T-shirt to look under them. "No tattoos."

"Well, you're not actually Irish anymore," Shepard told him, lightly.

"I'll always be Irish. That's not just a matter of blood." James grinned at her, and let his Southie accent get a little thicker. "Now, what I'm really wondering is, if these hands are good enough to play a guitar with." He rolled his fingers together, but they felt a little numb. "Shit. Maybe not enough artificial nerves." James pauses. "Hell's bells, I don't know if I want to wind up a drummer by default here." It was a joke, and he felt his lips curling up, reflexively, and delighted in the fact that he could feel an actual expression on his own face.

—_Physicality matters this much to you?_ Cassandra again, sounding very surprised.

—_You have no idea. You should give it a try sometime._ James found himself grinning at the mere thought, and did his best to control his expression, so he wouldn't look like an idiot, and then decided, _What the hell, they'll put it down to me liking the new body._ Out loud now, "So, can I take this for a spin?"

"Yes. Need baseline measurements and stress tests. Reaction times. Data on how well control programs are integrating with the hardware," Kirrahe chirped up, sounding cheerful.

For the next two hours, they put him through his paces. Swimming, well. . . swimming didn't work very well anymore, which was a pity; he remembered enjoying it. But without any fat deposits and no air in lung cavities to serve for buoyancy, James weighed close to three hundred pounds, being largely comprised of metal, carbon, silicon, and other materials. As such, he found himself sinking to the bottom of the pool. . . and then standing up to walk across. Memory said that he should be afraid of drowning, but this body had no drowning reflex, fortunately. As such, he found himself, once again, grinning like a loon as he tried to figure out how to get out of the deep end. . . and the deep-seated geth control processes took over, and he _leaped_ out of the water, landing lightly on the edge of the pool in a deep crouch. "Holy hell," he said, looking around, stunned. "How did I just do that?"

"Hydraulics in legs based on geth 'hopper,' models," Kirrahe informed him. "However, lack gecko-like structures on feet. Do not recommend attempting to walk across a ceiling."

James could also still charge across a battlefield, as he remembered being able to do in his last body, a high-speed sprint of close to fifty miles per hour, with acceleration in less than point five seconds. _There are groundcars that don't have acceleration like this_, he thought, with a little pride, which he tucked away. It wasn't attributable to _him_, but to the engineering inherent to the body. He still had exceptional aim with the weapons they had him check out with—including a geth pulse rifle that he was quietly delighted with—but he no longer had the forearm-mounted weapons. _Good thing, too. I like the idea of being able to pass for human_.

"We have provided you with several concealable abilities," Cohort informed him. "Even unarmed, you will not be helpless. Your previous platform could expel incendiaries from the palms of the hands. Target the firing area and hold out your right hand."

James gave the geth a wary look, and did so. "Nothing," he said, unsure if he should be relieved or not.

"Fire," Cohort told him, and James shrugged and thought about sending something towards the target. . . .and a fireball _did_ emerge from his hand. James snapped his hand around and blinked down at the pink skin of his hand, which was once more slowly sealing over an exit port. "Um. . . how do I reload?" he asked. "I trust I don't have to eat the damn bullets."

Shepard, had to turn away to try to choke back a laugh at that point. "Loading ports in the forearms. We will show you later," Cohort told him, calmly.

Test after test. Using his on-board abilities to overload electronics, hack the AI of several mechs. . . and disrupt electronic devices within several yards, including shields, other people's omnitools, and even weapons' firing and targeting systems. "Nice," James said, grinning. "So. . . um. . . " He paused, not really knowing how to say it. "Do you stick me in a closet between missions, or do I get to. . . " _Go be a real person?_

—_We __are__ real people!_

—_Sure we are, Cassie. You keep telling yourself that. _James was watching Shepard and Garrus now, intently. "Do I get to get out and see people?" he finally finished. "Walk around the base?"

The pair exchanged a look. "With an escort, at first," Shepard said. "Let's get people used to seeing you. And I think your first stop should probably be Dempsey and Zhasa's house. Let them see you. . . and let Madison see you."

The body's throat couldn't constrict, but James winced a little. _Mad. God. He's going to be. . . Jesus. Fourteen in a couple of months._ He had memories that insisted that the boy was a toddler, and memories that said he was twelve, thirteen at most. . . and he'd never _actually_ met the boy he felt was his son. "Okay," James said, slowly, after a moment. "That's probably a good idea."

And thus, flanked by Kirrahe and Thell, James found himself tapping on the door of a very human-looking house a half hour later. . . which was opened by a teen-aged boy. Two inches of wrist hung out past the ends of his sleeves, and pale blue eyes were set in a face that looked very damned familiar. "Dad. . . ?" Madison's eyes widened. Went _scared_ for a moment, which made James' heart hurt. . . or at least, what passed for one.

Madison raised his hands, and Thell stepped forward. "Be at peace," the elcor rumbled. "This is James. He is here to speak with your father, Zhasa'Maedan, and you."

Ten minutes later, Dempsey had been hastily paged from where he'd been working with special forces people from one of the SRs in the landing field, and they were all awkwardly sitting in the living room. Zhasa's violet eyes were huge as she stared at him. Thell couldn't really fit in the living room, and thus, was relegated to the kitchen, peering in through the open archway. Madison was clearly on edge. Dempsey himself had no expression, as James had expected, but his eyes were cold. "If it helps," James told his alter ego, "the hands definitely need work. Don't think I'm going to be playing guitar any time soon." He smiled a little, and shrugged. "Still, a hell of a lot better than being a ghost."

Dempsey nodded. "All right. So. . . what's the plan?'

James shrugged. "Not really sure. Shepard let me out of the box. I guess I'm going to help wherever they need help. I'm just hoping they don't stick me back in the box between missions."

Dempsey lifted his head, and James was suddenly struck by the total lack of humanity in his expression. The eyes were cold, almost blank, but savage at the same time. "No one deserves being shoved in a cooler," he said, simply.

James felt the memories that weren't his flicker through him. Waking up from stasis, his hands around Doctor Velnaran's throat. "Yeah, I don't think they're going to turn me _off_. . . but I'm not sure they know what to do with me, either," he admitted. "I'm not asking to move in with you." He glanced at Zhasa and Madison, and turned away. "Would be kind of awkward. And could lead to all kinds of slapstick comedy moments. Except I'm guessing that none of you would have any problems with mistaken identities. Even without these." He tapped beside his eyes, a little self-consciously.

"So. . . why _are_ you here?" Madison asked, his expression fascinated, but still uneasy.

James shrugged. "Practice at being a person, I guess. And to let you guys know I'll be around." He grimaced. "Kirrahe? Thell? Who's next on my list of introductions? Sidonis?"

"Spectre Elijah Sidonis is currently off-world," Kirrahe told him. "As are Spectres Jaworski—both of them—and Pellarian."

James shrugged. "Guess they'll be in for a hell of a surprise, then, when they get back, huh?"

Zhasa cleared her throat. "If you're not staying here, what _will_ you be doing for housing?"

Her wariness hurt a little, but he couldn't really blame her for it. He wasn't Dempsey, no matter the memories. "Guess maybe the barracks, if they decide a lab or a broom-closet isn't the correct place to put me." He glanced over at Kirrahe. "Cohort said something about giving me a node to connect to, so I can back up and recharge daily." He snorted. "Damn. I really am half-geth, aren't I? It's be funnier if it weren't so damn true."

"Join the club," Dempsey told him, his tone flat. "Not sure which of us got the better half of the bargain, but this is like looking in the f—fricking mirror." That, with a quick glance at Madison.

"You did," James told him, wearily. "Believe me, you did." He stood. "You've got _them_." He nodded to Zhasa and Madison. "And a hell of a lot of friends on the base who're going to think of me as your doppelganger and freak the hell out when they see me." He looked at Kirrahe and Thell. "All right guys, time's wasting. Let's move out."

There weren't too many other Spectres on base at the moment. Fors had just returned from his honeymoon on Irune, and Chissa had just gotten her base clearance. The two volus were overseeing the construction of their pressurized dome habitat, and Fors turned as the elcor, the salarian, and James approached, and started to greet them. "Hello, my very large friend," he called to Thell. "And as for _you_," he added, and James felt something shove against him, pushing him several feet back along the road. He looked down, slightly confused, and lifted his head to stare at Fors. He remembered the volus's enormous biotic power being trained against him. Remembered, vaguely, firing at the creature, at Sidonis, at everyone in the room, in the confused state where he hadn't really known who the hell he was, or what he was doing.

Fors, in the meantime, was snuffling rapidly. "Ah. . . you're not my biotic sparring partner," he said, uneasily. "I thought you were at first. . . you're more or less the right shape. . . " He waddled forward, cautiously, snuffling again. "But you don't smell like _anything_." The volus sounded bewildered. "Not physically, and not biotically, either."

"Sorry," James apologized, and crouched down so he could meet the volus's gaze at eye level. "We've actually met before. Under. . . less than optimal circumstances."

"We have?" Fors' head tipped to the side.

"Terra Nova. I was sort of shooting at you at the time." James paused. "I'm sorry about that, by the way. I wasn't really in my right mind at the time."

There was a distinct pause. "Gods in the deeps," Fors said after a moment. "James. . . Dempsey's, ah. . . "

"Twin. Yeah. That's me." James looked past him. "Heard you got married. Want to introduce me? I swear, I won't try to steal her from you." Irony in his tone.

Fors shook his head briefly. "Chissa? My dear, this is your first lesson in the _oddity_ that is life among the Spectres. This is James. Do you _have_ a clan name?"

"I guess it's still Dempsey."

"Chissa, this is. . . James, clan Dempsey."

"I already met James, clan Dempsey. You introduced me at the wedding. . . " the second, shorter volus had waddled over now, and now trailed off. "Earth-clan, are you feeling quite well? You. . . don't smell right."

"Do volus have ghost stories?" James asked Fors. "And if so, are your ghosts as unsmellable as our ghosts tend to be invisible?"

"Yes," Fors told him, sounding amused and uneasy at the same time. "I can tell you one about the ghost of an undersea miner who was killed near thermal vents sometime."

"Let me guess. Everyone knew he was near when the water smelled like sulfur?"

"And that's why whenever one of our people farts, we're told to apologize for summoning the ghost of Irus Lossa," Fors replied, with aplomb.

James grinned. "More than I _ever_ wanted to know," he admitted, chuckling.

"Hey, wait a second. _You_ can laugh at my jokes? Outstanding. You're officially a friend. Ghost or not."

"A human-geth-ghost friend or a human-robot-ghost friend?'

Fors' head swiveled up, and his voice was intrigued as he said, "Geth-ghost, perhaps." Clearly, he was pinging for reactions.

James shrugged. "Nice try."

"Interesting. You really _do_ have Dempsey's memories in there."

"More of them than I think he'd have wanted me to have, if he'd known I was going to hang around longer than the next ten minutes." James shrugged; the gesture, again, came naturally to him. "Chissa, nice to meet you. Fors? See you around."

As he stood to walk away, he could clearly hear Chissa hiss something in volus. His interior processes took over; he had translation programs for five major Terran languages, asari high-tongue, volus trade-speech, the Hierarchy's common language, salarian, quarian, drell, some hanar, and elcor. As such, he could completely understand her when she whispered, _"Fors? Does that sort of thing happen around here often?"_

"_You mean, the part where a double of one of my friends walked up and introduced himself, and apologized for having shot at me before?" _

"_Ah. . . yes. That part."_

"_That one was new. But overall. . . today's been a light day for craziness, Chissa. The thin air does __crazy__ things to the tall-folks brains. And nowhere more so than here on Mindoir."_ Fors snickered. _"I have a human-turian-asari friend who's marrying a human-rachni queen, after all."_

"_I still think you're making that up. I've met both of them. They look human. . . well, when they're not in their suits. They. . . more or less smell human."_

"_Wait till we go visit them at their house. Then, you can decide what they really smell like." _

James walked away chuckling, but thoughtful. Melaani was on base, and gave him a befuddled look when she shook hands with him at the firing range. Siara and Makur were at the range, as well; Siara was testing her new Aegis mech, and hopped out of it for an introduction. . . and her eyes went just as wide. "You're really sure he's . . . safe?" she asked, looking past him towards Thell and Kirrahe.

"I'm right here," James told her, patiently.

"Yes, I can see that, but you _were_ the one shooting at our people on Terra Nova."

"Only because I had the impression that you were intruders." James shrugged. He didn't like remembering the fog over his mind. The imposition of other priorities, trying to replace his personality with orders and guidelines.

"He also saved the lives of everyone in the vicinity by holding off the reactor overload. At the cost of his platform, and nearly of his consciousness." Thell rumbled.

"Eh, for what that's worth," James said, shrugging.

"Good enough for me," Makur replied, and shook James' hand vigorously.

"Tell me, Siara, are you and Melaani reacting to me like this because I shot at you, or because I look human, but you can't touch my mind?" James asked, looking at the two asari.

Siara exhaled. "Probably a little of both," she admitted. "It's unnerving. I'm fine with Cohort, but you. . . "

"Look human. Mostly." James nodded. "Still getting used to not being in a box. And not being _gray_."

"The peach is definitely an improvement," Siara acknowledged, and managed a thin smile.

_Damn. Can't wait to see what Sidonis and the Doc and even Velnaran make of me_. The thought was sardonic as James found himself escorted away, to what he recognized as the candidates' barracks. _I was. . . Dempsey was here before._

Thell escorted him to his new room, where a geth node and charging station hummed softly. A desk and a bed they clearly didn't expect him to use; it was unmade. "Thanks," James told the elcor, looking around. "I. . . don't know what to say. I take it I'll be under observation for a while?"

"Indisputably," Thell told him. "For your safety, as well as that of others. You are free to move around the base, however, and to speak with whomever you like."

After the elcor showed him how to connect to the node, James heard the door slide shut. _Yeah. Talk to anyone I want. Except I'd like to talk to my kid. . . okay, Dempsey's kid. . .without his eyes bugging out. Love to talk to Zhasa. . . or even myself. Guess this is all just going to take time._ He wished he could sigh, but he simply plugged into the node and closed his eyes for a while.

—_It was an interesting day,_ Cassandra told him, quietly. —_Introductions to a new crew are always stressful. Why, just letting everyone see my avatar for the first time was stressful. No one knew we were adopting hybrid appearances._

—_Thanks, Cassie. Nice knowing someone's got my back. This is starting to feel like a really bad idea, though._

—_As you just said, yourself, it will take time. The Spectres are amazingly flexible. You have the best chance at being accepted there, of anywhere in the galaxy._

—_Someplace else, I could lie and say I'm human and just have prosthetic eyes._

—_The lack of heartbeat would somewhat tend to destroy that as a cover story._

—_Damn._

**Kirrahe, Mindoir, March 30, 2197**

_Daddy?_

The word pulsed in the air over his omnitool. Kirrahe had been invited to dinner by Lantar and Ellie tonight, and had thought it better not to decline. Thus, he and Narayana were sharing a peculiarly human concoction. . . rice noodles, chopped, toasted beetles and grubs, carrots, 'sugar-snap peas,' strips of kelp, and _cheese_, which Kirrahe hoped would sit in his stomach without causing distress, all baked together into something called a _casserole_. "Ellie's the best cook ever," Narayana had told him earnestly, swinging her feet.

Kirrahe had simply nodded and tried to analyze all the components of the dish. There were herbs in there, a mix called _Herbes de Provence_, Ellie had informed him, as the rest of her brood dug into a different casserole, this one a mix of pork flesh, or ham, cuderae flank, smoked, egg noodles, the same sugar-snap peas as in the modified salarian dish, and _phasela_. . . with bone-flakes on the side for Lantar and the hybrid children. "Eating at your house is always an adventure," Kirrahe had told Ellie cheerfully as the meal began, giving her a polite hostess-gift, a bottle of human wine. A tradition shared by many cultures, apparently. Giving thanks to the founder of the feast.

Now, however, Kirrahe had to turn away from the table. Yana needed his immediate attention, and he apologized, "Work. Must take this. Excuse me."

In the next room, he opened communications with the intelligent virus. "Yes, Yana?"

"I'm all done playing now, Daddy," she told him, her face appearing projected in the air over his omnitool. "Can I come home?"

"You need to stay out a little longer," Kirrahe told her, gently. "To make sure the dalatrass doesn't regenerate any of her nodes outside of batarian space. We're sending a strike force to destroy her last physical harbor soon."

Yana pouted. "But I'm so _bored_ now, Daddy. She was really fun to play with at first. She'd left copies of herself everywhere, but the other AIs helped me find her. A couple of times, she even found _me_. And those copies of herself figured out who I was . . . sort of. She saw I was a female salarian. Offered me a home. Said I was lost and alone, and she'd be my mother."

Kirrahe's heart sank. _And this is where I'm going to discover that all my hard work and precautions were for naught, and she's going to turn on me._ "What did you tell her?" he asked Yana, gently, mind already racing.

"That she already was, technically, my mother, but that I liked Ellie and Narayana better, and that I had Narayana's memories of her daddy and of Lantar, and I had memories of _you_, building me, making me better, so I didn't really need her." Yana sounded indifferent. "Considered her offer for about point zero zero zero three seconds, however. Which really felt like a long time." She tipped her head to the side. "Who's that behind you, Daddy?"

Kirrahe's head snapped back over his shoulder, and he exhaled. Narayana stood behind him, her eyes very wide indeed. "Ellie told me to tell you that she made us grasshopper cookies for dessert," Narayana said, craning her neck to see Yana. "Who's _that_? She looks like me!"

"Ohhhh! That's my other-self! Hi, Narayana! I'm Yana!" Yana frowned. "Or am I supposed to call you Mama?"

About forty different chains of events branching out from this conversation collided in Kirrahe's head at once. At least half of them ended in Lantar Sidonis attempting to strangle him with his bare hands. _Need to mitigate potential fallout. Nothing but honesty will do, but also, make this event have less weight to both Narayana and the AI._ Kirrahe cleared his throat after that lightning-fast assessment. "Narayana, remember how on Argus' ship, I told you I could take patterns from your brain, and make an AI out of that? Yana here is partially based on you, and partially based on my brain patterns, as well, because I couldn't take enough of your patterns. She's your protector. Yana, this is Narayana."

"Oh, like a bodyguard?" Narayana sounded interested, and crowded close to his left arm, leaning in to peer at Yana. Yana enlarged her projected face, until her head was the same size as Nara's, and the two could look at each other, like reflections in a mirror. "I think Madison would call this _cool_. Or maybe _wicked."_ Narayana paused. "Perhaps _wicked cool_." She paused again. "Hello, Yana. It's. . . really nice to meet you."

"Can I play with you?" Yana asked, immediately. "Daddy says I have to finish dealing with your bad mother first, but that maybe I could come and stay with you. Or with him."

Narayana's eyes went huge. "You'd come to stay with me? How would that work?" Her head jerked up, and she stared at Kirrahe. "I'd have someone like me around? All the time?"

Kirrahe winced, and that was when Ellie poked her head in the room to ask, "Nara, what is taking so long. . . oh my god."

Narayana whirled towards her. "Can Yana come and stay with me?" she asked.

Kirrahe very carefully found someplace to sit down so his brain wouldn't have to deal with keeping him on his feet while he once more, thought very quickly. "Narayana, what Yana means isn't staying with you, like a friend or a sister. She doesn't have a body, any more than any of the NCAIs. . . correction. Most NCAIs have ship bodies, and James has just acquired a mobile platform. Yana is not capable of such. She has no subroutines for controlling such a body." He touched Yana's face in mid-air lightly. "I told her that when her job is done, and your mother the dalatrass is no longer a threat, that she could upload to me, and she'd never be alone. She'd be in my head."

"You also said that if Narayana wanted me, I could upload to her," Yana pointed out, still sounding sulky.

"Narayana isn't old enough to decide that!" Ellie's voice was strangled behind Kirrahe.

Yana's lips turned further downwards. "I wouldn't hurt her, Ellie. She's my mother and my sister and my other self. I exist to _protect_ her."

Nara spun back towards Ellie, just as Lantar poked his head through the door, his expression absolutely forbidding. "Please, Ellie! Please! There's no one else to be my friend! I'm already ahead of Amara now." It was true; the Vakarian twins had officially turned ten a few weeks ago, within days of finally returning to the planet. Caelia, who was several years older than Nara, and who had played with Narayana in the toddler room at the daycare center, had been left behind long ago. Within two years, Nara would be the same effective age as Madison Dempsey, or the equivalent of fifteen; in three years, when she was eight and half, she'd be the equivalent of a human seventeen-year-old. . . and would likely have already been enrolled at a university. Kirrahe could understand her frustration. She had no one around her who lived at her pace, could keep up with her mind. She slowed herself to the human and turian pace around herself, as best she could, but . . . he understood. Narayana was already sweeping on. "Please, let her stay with me—"

Kirrahe dropped to his haunches. "Narayana. You told me once I had to listen to you. Now would be a good time for you to listen to me."

She sighed and lowered her head penitently. "Yes, Kirrahe?"

"Yana, you, too. Still have a job to do. When you're done, and _if_ Lantar and Ellie agree, I can remove all of Yana's cyber warfare protocols. Can then download her to your omnitool, Nara. She can always stay with you that way, as a . . . helper." He turned slightly to Yana. "Would you like that?"

Another distinct pout. "I don't know. I thought I was going to get to stay _with_ you or with her."

"Well, in two and a half years, Narayana will be functionally of age, or sixteen, by salarian law and. . . well, Mindoir law would keep her a child until she was sixteen. . . " Kirrahe was trying not to be horrified by the concept. "Then again, Mindoir law would consider me a child as well. Humans of colony need to rewrite regulations. Account for multiple species in residence on planetary surface." Kirrahe sighed. He was almost eleven now, which made him twenty-two in comparison to a human. . . or relative to an asari's incredible lifespan, two hundred and fifty or so. "When Nara is of age, we can revisit topic. If still willing, can accept you as an upload then. Ramifications will be clearer then. Until then, could still be friends, yes?" He stole a glance at Lantar and, more importantly, at Ellie, who was visibly relaxing, which allowed him to relax, as well. He definitely didn't want the female head of Narayana's family angry at him. One dalatrass hunting for his head was quite enough.

"Oh, all right," Yana said. "I like the idea. And that way, if you need me to, I can go back out and play again, right?"

"Correct," Kirrahe told her. "But for now, you do need to return your attention to your work."

Yana made a rude noise, and disappeared from his omnitool. Kirrahe exhaled again. He was trying, desperately, to remember all of Shepard's concerns about dealing with AIs in an ethical manner, with total honesty. So that they would never become Reapers. He really, really hoped he'd managed that.

When he looked up, he was quite startled as Narayana hugged his neck. Salarians didn't tend to go in for bodily contact with one another, and he threw up his hands, unsure what to do with them at first. 'Thank you," she told him. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

"Decision still subject to approval by your parents," Kirrahe pointed out hastily, still keeping his hands in the air. "Celebration premature."

Lantar cleared his throat. "Yes. A word or two, Kirrahe?"

Kirrahe winced internally, and managed to remove Nara's arms from around his neck, gingerly, excusing himself and giving Ellie a very apologetic look. In Lantar's office, Kirrahe immediately began to apologize to the male, as well, "Regret disruption. Had stepped aside to answer the message. Did not anticipate Narayana following me into the room, nor her discovering the AI at this juncture."

Lantar settled at the edge of his desk, folding his arms over his chest. "Yes. That could have gone better."

Kirrahe's wince was probably visible this time. "Yes. Unintentional."

"Oh, I believe you on that one. If we'd known what the call was about, we wouldn't have sent her in after you." Lantar exhaled. "Spirits of air and darkness, I didn't want her to know about her mother this young, and she found out anyway. And now she knows about the AI, too."

Kirrahe shook his head. "Unsure what to say. Salarians tend not to shelter young as much as turians and humans. Fewer nesting instincts. . . or perhaps that is only how males are raised. Unsure how females are raised, to be honest. No prior experience, other than Yana. And Yana is exception, of course." The joke was mild, and he clasped his hands behind his back. "Narayana seemed unbothered by Yana's existence. Possibly does not understand all of the ramifications of her existence. Giving her time to get to know Yana may assist her in making eventual decision. Yana may come to prefer life as more or less a VI assistant. Although may prove less challenging for her than her current role. May be bored. Have to consider destructive potential in a bored AI. Hmm." Kirrahe frowned, realized he was chattering, and shut up.

"About the same as the destructive potential of a bored teenager," Lantar muttered. "The trick is usually to channel all the energy and give them _lots_ to do. Worked with Eli, anyway." He awarded Kirrahe a dour look. "I'll say that if she opts for the VI route, it might be the _safest_ thing we can do with Yana, in the end. But I insist that you continue to monitor this very closely."

"I have every intention of doing so," Kirrahe told him, firmly. "My project. My responsibility."

"All right then." Lantar gave him another look. "Shall we head back out there and continue to act like nothing important happened?"

"Probably for the best." Kirrahe felt his stomach unclench, at least a little, as they headed back out to the kitchen, where Caelia was helping Emily and Tacitus with their sweetmarrow cupcakes. . . a bizarre combination of human and turian confectionary arts. . . and Narayana was holding up a large cookie covered in icing, with grasshoppers stuck to it, for Kirrahe to take. "Thank you, Dalatrass Narayana," he told her, solemnly, mostly to make her laugh, and bit into the cookie. Which was delicious.

**Dara, Illium, March 22-April 2, 2197**

It was damned odd to be back on Illium, a little over a year after she'd been there before. This time, she was in Eli and Lin's company. . .Lin's flight had gotten in before theirs, and he was waiting for them at Customs. . . and she had Chopin and Liszt with her, riding on her shoulders, as she stepped through customs, not in armor, but in a plain black suit jacket and skirt and dark glasses. The rachni occasioned quite a bit of scrutiny and consternation from the asari officials at the spaceport, to Dara's weary amusement. _Is it getting old yet, __sai'kaea_? Eli asked, silently, pushing his own dark glasses up on the bridge of his nose.

_Oh, long since, but at least these folks know they're rachni, and not really big beetles._ In fact, that was probably the heart of the problem; every asari on the planet had probably been raised on vids about the Rachni Wars and the Krogan Rebellion, and the asari behind the counter was currently protesting, "We cannot permit them on the surface! They'll infest the entire city—"

—_What is infestation-song?_

_They're afraid you're going to multiply out of control and rampage through the city._

—_That song is not possible for us to sing without a queen._

_I know that, and you know that, but they don't seem to know that._ "I am bringing two workers with me. Two of them will leave with me. Neither of them is capable of reproducing." Dara paused. "Look, would it help if I spoke with your supervisor?" The Spectre credentials were flashing on the screen behind the desk, which was certainly having an effect on the proceedings as well, but she didn't want to take all damned day with this.

Eventually, they got out of the spaceport, which seemed like a victory. Lin had been chuckling the entire time, and Dara gave him a finger-flick as they found an aircab to take them to the Nos Astra police headquarters. "Having fun?"

"Absolutely," Lin told her, cheerfully. "They were so distracted by the rachni that someone could have walked through customs behind you carrying a large potted _aizala_ plant and they wouldn't have noticed."

"That's a good thing?" Dara asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Just something to think about for future reference. Serana's always looking for diversions and distractions, and I guess that's rubbing off on me." Lin shrugged, and then they fell silent as the aircar swerved and ducked through the dozens of lanes of Nos Astra traffic, which pressed in around them, left and right and above and below. After a moment, he said, with only a little strain, "This city reminds me of Nivalis.'

"Lots of high rises," Eli agreed, keeping his own tone calm. "Lots of glass facades. Turian buildings, like their ships, tend to be more angular and sleeker, though, than asari ones. Asari tend to like to build on curves, especially on the inside of buildings."

At police headquarters, they once again showed their credentials, and Dara stood back and observed as Eli and Lin, effortlessly, shifted gears. They'd been mostly lightly joking on the cab ride over, and she'd certainly seen them in combat mode on Omega, Khar'sharn, Astaria, and Bothros. But she'd only seen Eli in _cop_ mode really a few times before. Most notably, when he'd been along for the attempt to find Rel during the MIA period. . . which had led them to Camala. And for about a day or so on Bastion, investigating Maldo Ren's death. And just like Eli, Lin had shifted into perfect, reserved professionalism. Eyes alert, stances light, but courteous and friendly to the officers around them. Now, Eli smiled politely and murmured in his perfect asari to the officer behind the desk, _"We're here to meet with Detective Anaya."_

"_Our captain would also like to speak with you—"_

"_And we'll be glad to meet with her, but Detective Anaya has worked with the Spectres before, so she's whom we'd prefer to use as a point of contact."_ Still perfectly polite, but unyielding. Dara was checking her mental translations against the screen of her omnitool, and relatively pleased with what she was picking up. She knew she was by no means fluent yet, but fully intended to hide the degree of her facility with the language while here. People tended to say things when they thought someone couldn't understand them, that they wouldn't say otherwise. Even in this day of VI translation, that held true.

So, there was a compromise, and both Anaya and the captain met with them first. "This is Spectre Jaworski. She's a medical doctor, and she'll be going over the medical examiner's findings," Eli said in galactic, making the introductions. "Spectre Pellarian, formerly of turian CID and B-Sec. And I'm Elijah Sidonis. Formerly of turian CID."

That got him _sharp_ looks from the two asari, and the captain said, dubiously, "So you're here to try to pull Emerentius Clavus' toes out of the fire, eh?"

"I wouldn't say that," Lin replied, evenly. "We've been asked to step in, because there seems to be some jurisdictional disputation going on, nothing more."

The captain grimaced. "I'll cooperate with you, but I'm not crazy about having _Spectres_ come in here to get in my people's faces. It's an insult to the hard work we've already done." Her eyes narrowed. "And you're some of the newest Spectres there are. Which just makes it more insulting."

Dara sighed and held her tongue. This was definitely not the time for her to go sticking her oar into the conversation. She watched as Eli soothed the captain's ruffled feathers, and finally got them out of the office with Anaya in tow. "All right," Eli asked the detective, in the relative quiet of her side office. "We know this is a political shit-storm. I take it the captain's trying to keep things quiet?"

"As much as possible, yes." Anaya shook her head. "We've got the Alliance embassy up in arms because a prominent human was killed, we've got the Hierarchy embassy refusing to turn over the alleged killer, and we've got Matriarch Teosa demanding to know where her daughter is, and why we haven't cleared her name yet. . . officially."

"Let's hear the whole story, from the top," Lin suggested. "And let's visit the crime scene, if you wouldn't mind. Fresh eyes, if nothing else."

Anaya sighed. "Sure. I've got nothing better to do. Those stacks of reports on my desk are just going to take care of themselves, too." Her world-weary tone faintly amused Dara, but again, she held silent, and simply watched and listened. This wasn't really her world. . . though she was fascinated as she watched Eli and Lin move in it.

The crime scene was a prominent Nos Astra hotel, meant for. . . assignations. Eli brushed the back of her hand and asked, silently, _Is this the one where you and Rel—?_

_No. Thank god. That was Suasi'teaoul. Sweet desire, I think? This is Azure._ Dara tamped down on her faint discomfort as they got out of Anaya's aircar, and headed into the building. There were wide sitting rooms with glass walls on the level where their elevator stopped, through which she could see asari and their guests. . . interacting. There were aerogel screens with nude figures writhing on them, of various different species, and Dara kept her eyes firmly locked ahead of her, her face a mask, as Anaya led them past the various lounges to a door with holographic police 'tape' in front of it, and then palmed it open for them. "Here we go," she said, and gestured for them to precede her.

Dara stopped inside the door, not really knowing where to put her feet. Eli and Lin immediately began canvassing the room, studying the area with practiced eyes. She tried to keep her mind very still, watching them and examining the room, but not wanting to disturb Eli's thoughts. . . the string trio of his mind was moving through steady scales, the cellos, violins, and basses thrumming together in tight harmony.

The rooms had been luxurious, certainly. Fine wood furniture, a crystal statue, lying on the floor, broken, near a window. The lush blue carpeting was wall-to-wall, and so soft her feet sank into it like a layer of fresh loam. The center of the room was dominated by a round couch that could double as a bed, and the walls were covered in mirrors. . . except for the one that was occupied by a huge window, which overlooked the Nos Astra skyline. Her attention was caught and held, however, by the pool of dried red blood. . . mostly brown now. . . on the carpet at the foot of the bed. Her eyes tracked upwards, just as Eli looked up, and she saw the spray marks on the ceiling as well. _Arterial._ She glanced to the side, and found more on the wall to her immediate right, just about at head-height for her. "Carotid artery?" Eli asked, dryly.

"Medical examiner says that the marks on the throat match a turian's claws, and yes, the carotid was severed," Anaya replied, her tone neutral. "Johansson was found face down right there," she added, pointing at the pool at the foot of the bed.

Lin was still walking around, and studying other marks on the walls. "Hand marks," he noted. "Turian finger configuration. He touched the wall with his bloody hands, and the _front door_, but . . . " he paused, and moved back. . . "not the bathroom door. How about the sink? Any blood traces there?"

"None," Anaya told them, calmly.

Eli's brows lowered. "He kills a guy with his bare hands, arterial spray everywhere, including probably his face and body. . . given that there's no blood _there_ on the far wall. . . blood all over his hands. . . and he _doesn't_ go to the bathroom to wash up?" He dropped down and studied the carpeting, looking at it intently. "Nope. There's blood on his feet that he tracked towards the door—step out of the way, Dara—but none going into the bathroom." Eli's tone had become very skeptical. "That's. . . unusual."

"Turians who've just murdered someone, but who are wracked with guilt, have been known to walk, covered in the blood, directly to the nearest police precinct to turn themselves in," Lin murmured. "But he didn't do that, did he, Detective?'

"No. We found scales with his DNA in the room and went to the embassy to ask him a few questions the day after the murder. He was. . . uncooperative. And had visible bruises on his face." Anaya shrugged. "He claims not to remember the evening. The embassy alleges that he was drugged, and says that their in-house blood testing proves it. The problem is, they didn't give us the chance to take samples and test them ourselves."

Lin had stepped back, and was looking at the whole room now. "So, a struggle started near the bed, they fought, they knocked over the statue, which broke, no blood except the human's, the turian and he fought back to the center of the room, by the bed, the turian latched by the _claws_ to the human's throat, severed the arteries, let the human drop to the floor, and then turned and left." He paused. "We're told that there's another person of interest? An asari? The matriarch's daughter?"

Anaya coughed into her hand. "Yes. Tiallia S'kona."

""I can't help but notice," Eli pointed out, dryly, pointing to the crime scene markers on the floor, "that your people have put down tags for three sets of footprints."

Anaya looked at the ceiling. "Yes. This is where it gets complicated. The room was rented in Tiallia's name. We got a call from an anonymous person, but whose voiceprint matched Tiallia's, when we verified it, that she'd been walking by the room, seen the door open, walked inside, seen the dead body, and run out to inform us."

Eli, still looking at the floor, said only, "Uh-huh." Dara could hear skepticism there, but, thanks to the crime scene markers, now that she knew what she was looking for, even she could understand why. The light blue markers showed Tiallia's footprints in the carpet. There were a lot of them.

After a long pause, Anaya said, "Yeah. I didn't really buy it, either."

"Considering that the body would be visible from the door, and some of her tracks step on the blood? They've smudged them, and, from the looks of it, she tracked it over to the comm panel?" Eli sounded more annoyed than anything. He really didn't like it when people lied. "And where is she now?"

Anaya looked up at the ceiling again. "We don't know."

"Officially don't know, or really don't know?" Lin asked, dryly.

"Both. Look, my captain's doing what she can to keep a matriarch with a fair bit of political influence here on Illium off my back, and the back of everyone on my team." Anaya exhaled. "Her daughter's got a reputation. She's the type who doesn't like the pressure of being related to a mother with prestige and power, but really likes the perks and the money, if you know what I mean. Three hundred years of rebelling, gambling, living as a dancer in the cheap bars, rumors about drugs. . . and running home to mama every time things get tough."

"The Alliance investigators who contacted the Spectres said that there's money missing from Johanson's accounts. About two hundred million credits," Eli said, standing back up. "Sounds like Tiallia might have a history of needing large amounts of money. And they've traced it going into a volus banking account, and those are numbered accounts, and the volus banking industry doesn't hand over clients' names."

Anaya shook her head. "And, technically, your boy Emerentius Clavus could have transferred the money, too."

"He's not ours, in particular," Eli replied, mildly. "I'm pretty much here for Johansson."

Anaya snorted. "Johansson was a wealthy import/export provider. You don't get to be wealthy in that industry by being. . . what's that lovely human term. . . ?"

"A Boy Scout," Dara supplied, quietly.

Anaya turned, smiling. "Precisely. He was fairly ruthless. Had bought out a Serrice Industries subsidiary here on Illium. He was in the business of importing high-end amps from asari space and high-end armor modifications from the Hierarchy. . . and had been exporting components from Alliance space. I guess humans work for cheaper than asari techs, or something. Some people say human-manufactured components are lower quality, but I haven't noticed any difference." She shrugged. "He wasn't breaking the law here, but he definitely had a reputation for strong-arm business tactics."

"I think that our next step should be the turian embassy," Lin said, quietly, and Dara watched as Eli nodded.

"Actually," Dara said, quietly, "I'd like to look at Johanson's body, first. I'm sure the medical examiner has dotted all the I's and crossed all the T's, but . . . I'd like to go to the morgue first. If you'd all rather skip that part, you can send me there, and head to the embassy yourselves."

Eli glanced at Lin. Communication without words. "I'll head to the embassy," Lin told them. "You two go ahead to the morgue." He paused. "Detective, I take it you'll need to go with them?"

"It'll expedite matters," Anaya agreed. "And I'm all about expediency."

Dara was only marginally surprised that Eli didn't react visibly in the morgue. Most people did. Then again, she had access to his memories. He'd been in morgues before, on Macedyn and Edessan, and he'd handled more than his fair share of dead bodies on Bastion. She brushed a hand against his wrist, and found his song full of tension, though his face was impassive. Silent reassurance. _It's okay._

_I know. I was never crazy about coming to these places. The smells and the reality of it all aren't really fun. After Bastion. . . it's kind of bringing back memories._

_I can tell. I'm here, okay? Hold onto that._

_If I'm in your head when you're working. . . _

_Just listen. The song helps, doesn't it? You won't distract me._ Reassurance.

Dara was pleasantly surprised by the asari medical examiner, who was in her late four hundreds or so. She was calm and no-nonsense, and had her assistants pull Johanson's body out of stasis immediately. No territorial disputes at all. "A second set of eyes is always welcome, Spectre, but I doubt you'll find anything amiss here. There's even a fiber report, on what was found on the body."

Dara was reading through the reports rapidly as the body came out, and her eyebrows rose as she hit the crime scene stills. "The first set of reports we saw, said he was found naked from the waist down. This has his pants down around his ankles, yes, but there's a difference." _He still has his shoes on and everything._ "Maybe made a difference in the struggle?"

_Huh. Maybe he was caught off-guard, trying to take a piss. . . no, the attack started by the window, not in the bathroom. _

Dara kept flipping through the reports, frowned a little, and set the datapad aside. "Okay, let's look at the _corpus delicti_," she said, with a little wry humor, and put on a breather and nitrile gloves.

"I can walk you through the examination," the ME offered.

"Thank you, but I'd like to look at the body without any preconceptions," Dara said, trying to put a smile in her voice. But it was hard. A body was just so still and so empty, and while she'd seen a hell of a lot of them on various battlegrounds, a morgue table always seemed more final. Dara sighed and got to work. She removed her dark glasses, and accepted a face shield, and heard both Anaya and the medical examiner inhale sharply on seeing her eyes. . . and that was when both workers once more skittered out of her jacket's pockets and climbed up to her shoulders to peer down at the body with her.

—_Should not the body and its nutrients be returned to the hive?_

"No, little guys, we don't process our dead like that. We either burn them or feed them to the earth." Dara's voice was absent, and she hardly realized she'd spoken out loud.

—_This seems a wasteful song, but we will try to understand this harmony. You examine body to understand how the singer was killed?_

—_Question-songs will not get enough answer-songs?_

"Question-songs might get us answers, but we're trying to tell the truth-songs from the falsehood-songs right now." Dara put a gloved finger on the human male's face. Hair continued to grow, post-mortem, but the police had gotten the body to stasis very quickly. No prickle of beard, therefore. "Okay, mild bruising on the face, probably occurred directly before time of death, otherwise it would be quite a bit more spectacular. Bruising on knuckles. . . he definitely hit someone else. The skin is abraded in both locations as well, and there are actually fragments of scales embedded in his skin—"

"You're able to tell this without magnification?" The medical examiner sounded fascinated.

"I had a macro/micro gene mod a few years ago. It still mostly works." Dara cleared her throat and kept working, using tweezers to extract a scale. "Scales appear to be turian. I'd like to take a sample for independent DNA analysis."

"You can tell it's turian by _looking_ at it?" Anaya sounded dubious.

"Yes. Drell scales are plain keratin. Quite boring under magnification. Turian scales are distinctive. All the metallic compounds that protect them from radiation show up as almost crystalline." Dara paused. "Admittedly, a constrictor snake from Palaven would have similar scales, but I don't think they'd be punching a human in the face on Illium."

Eli snorted as Dara carefully bagged the scale she'd removed, and labeled it, handing it to him. She worked her way down the body, pausing over the Y-shaped incision in the chest and stomach. "What were the stomach contents again?"

"Dinner, mostly. Red wine, tea, steak, potatoes, broccoli. . . he'd had dinner reservations at La Tour, which caters to the human crowd here." The medical examiner sounded crisp and professional.

"What kind of tea?" Dara asked.

There was a pause. "It's difficult to say."

"I noticed that you didn't run a toxicology report," Dara added now, quietly, working her way further down the body. Looking for needle marks in the skin, other bruises, anything that didn't make sense.

"There was no need. He quite evidently died of exsanguination, and he had a total of four ounces of red wine in his stomach."

Dara shook her head. "The turian accused of murdering this man claims he can't remember the night in question, and the embassy says there was _aizala_ in his bloodstream, and you _didn't_ test the human's body for the same drug?' She was watching the medical examiner's face, and caught the sidelong glance at Anaya. _Eli?_

_I'll push. You keep doing what you're doing_.

The medical examiner was already saying out loud, "Our lab is very backed up. It could take weeks to get results back . . . "

Eli smiled. "Dr. Jaworski, would you be able to conduct a toxicology test independently of the Nos Astra authorities, while they conduct their own?'

"Absolutely. I'd need a blood sample and access to their laboratory facilities, but I'm fully qualified to run the test. Had to do it on a monthly basis for a random assortment of my crews in the turian military," Dara said, dryly. "The things people think they can conceal, and actually show up in their scales or hair, or leave residuals in their blood? Almost everything leaves a chemical marker. It's just a question of what you want to look for." She'd moved down to the pelvic region now, and asked, politely, "Could I have a UV light? Thank you. . . " It always seemed so. . . impolite. . . to move a body around, when it was deprived of all dignity. . . but she had to. "Okay. Yeah. Semen."

_You're kidding me._

_Nope._

"It was our understanding that the human body expels that, post-mortem," the medical examiner said. Her voice was a little uneasy.

"Yes. After rigor mortis has passed. Would you believe, people used to believe that nightshade, a deadly plant, sprouted where a hanged man's semen had passed into the ground?" Dara kept her voice light. "However, this body's been kept in stasis. Your report said he was reported 'found' at 23:02. Your time of death is approximately 22:30. Your people made it to the hotel at. . . " Dara moved away from the exam table, and picked up the datapad again. "23:38. Took your pictures, body was moved into stasis chamber on scene at twelve minutes past midnight." She flipped through the report. "You took two hours to do the autopsy. . . before rigor had even set in. . . and put him back in the stasis chamber. The quantity of semen we're seeing is also not quite enough for, well, a full ejaculation, shall we say?"

Eli turned towards her, his eyebrows lifting. _Enough for what, then?_

_For him to have been pretty excited and then, suddenly, really, really unexcited. Pre-ejaculate, maybe. _

_As in, maybe he was really ready to go, from, say, aizala, and then he was suddenly really surprised by being dead?_

_That could be our winner. _

Out loud, Eli said, "Get your blood samples, Dr. Jaworski, but get them to go. We'd still like to talk to Emerentius Clavus before the day is through."

At the turian embassy, Lin had evidently been talking to Emerentius for some time, and the older male in Baetika paint was evidently frustrated. "Ah, backup," Lin said as Dara and Eli entered the room. _"Clavus, can we take it all over again from the beginning?"_

"_Why not,"_ the male growled. _"I've only been over this fifteen or sixteen times with you and the embassy staff, too."_ He was in a conference room, his elbows on the table in front of him, his head bowed. Dara noticed, immediately, that he wore two knives in sheathes on his left arm. _Widower. Probably within the last six months._

_Yeah._ Eli's agreement was dark-toned in her mind. _Possible emotional instability. Lin will have known how to talk with him, though. Common experience._

Lin's voice was, in fact, very gentle and persuasive as he spoke to Clavus. "_I know, it's a pain in the ass. But my colleagues need to hear this from behind your teeth, not mine."_

Clavus sighed. _"All right. One more time. I'd met Johansson several times for discussions on tariffs on components moving from the Alliance into the Hierarchy. He seemed to have the notion that now that he controlled an asari subsidiary, the tariffs would be lower, since he was exporting from asari space into Hierarchy space. I explained that since the company was now Terran-owned, that changed the tax policy somewhat, and I know that pissed him off, but we'd been working through it for . . . damn, six or eight weeks. I had no reason to kill him. He was a pain in my ass, but a fairly polite one. Always showed up at my office on time, clasped my wrist, and got down to business."_ He looked down at his hands, his expression rigid. _"Then Tiallia gave me a call about a month ago."_

"_How'd you know her?"_ Eli asked, taking notes rapidly on his datapad. His mind was moving, again, in precise, ordered scales, and Dara was just enjoying listening to it.

"_Dated for a while, about. . . huh. Ten years ago, when I was a junior counsel on Luisa. She was the daughter of a matriarch, and was going through one of her clean periods, as I later found out."_ Clavus grimaced. _"At the time, you know, she was pretty, she was smart, and the sex was pretty good."_ He sighed. "_And I was a hell of a lot younger then. But. . . I figured out pretty quickly that I probably shouldn't see much more of her. She had debts, and kept asking for money. I helped her out, paid off some of her creditors. . . and then I got the call one night to come pick her up in a pretty bad area of Lemos Ara, the capital of Luisa. She was skied on __something__ and was screaming at people on the street to stop looking at her when I showed up. Got her into the car, took her to her mother's house, and when she showed up the next day at the embassy to talk to me. . . I told her that I'd had enough. Wished her well, but that I couldn't afford the damage to my career that continuing to associate with her would cause."_ Emerentius Clavus looked off into the mid-distance. _"Figured if nothing else, it would give her a wakeup call. She apologized, over and over, and begged me to take her back, and I finally told her I had another appointment waiting, and that if she didn't leave, I'd have to call security to have her escorted out. That was the last I heard of her for. .. yeah. Ten years."_ He sighed. "_In the meantime, I met my late wife, Everra, got married. And she died. . . eight months ago. Aircar accident. Drunk driver who survived the damn crash."_ Clavus put his face in his hands and rubbed at his eyes.

"_All right,"_ Eli said, quietly. _"That brings us sort of up to date. . . but what happened more recently?"_

The male shrugged. _"Tiallia called me about a month ago. Said she was here on Illium, and that she'd cleaned up her act. Told me she owed it all to me. She sounded sincere, and it was nice to hear a friendly voice, but I didn't want to meet with her immediately. In case it was just another con job, you know? She mentioned that she was seeing a human. Eric Johansson, go figure. I kind of relaxed right around then. If she was with him, she wasn't after me for money or favors, so I could, you know. . . just talk to her. Told her about my wife. . . things like that. She showed up at my apartment two weeks ago with a bruised lip. Tried to act like it didn't matter. I asked if Johansson had done it, and she wouldn't answer."_ Clavus shrugged again, his face bleak. _"It could have been him. Or, she could have gotten back into all the stuff she used to be into, and could've gotten beat up by someone that she owed money. Hard to say. So I checked Johansson out. No criminal history, although the galactic-level SEC has examined his financial dealings a few times, and the Alliance, too. No assaults, no paid-off ex-girlfriends, nothing. So, in one of our meetings, I mentioned, kind of off-handedly, that I knew his girlfriend. . . and I was glad she'd cleaned up her act and gotten with someone stable."_ Clavus paused_. "He asked 'cleaned up her act how?' and I said 'that's not really for me to say. Ask her, if you're curious.'" He exhaled. "So, when he invited me over for dinner to 'clear the air,' I figured it would be about that. I remember. . . eating dinner at La Tour with both of them. I remember going upstairs, and Tiallia offering us tea. She swore she was making something non-toxic for each of us, and I remember toasting each other, and Eric saying 'A toast that's not made with alcohol isn't valid, you know,' and . . ." _ he shook his head, his eyes distant. _"I don't remember anything else. I remember waking up here, in the embassy's safe room. My clothing was covered in blood, and so were my hands, and they'd put me in restraints to make sure I wouldn't hurt myself."_ His voice shook. _"I killed him. He wasn't really a friend, but he wasn't an enemy, either. I knew him, and I killed him. And I have no idea why. . . or how. . . I don't even remember doing it. But there was blood under my talons."_

"_Yeah. You appear to have killed him bare-handed,"_ Lin said, quietly. _"When you had two knives there and ready to use."_

Eli's head came up. _He's right. Turians really only use their claws when it's a matter of fury so deep that they can't think, just react reflexively. Like Rinus grabbing Valak by the throat over Rel's captivity._

"_I have to __live__ with this,"_ Clavus said, his head hanging down. _"But the toxicology report said I'd ingested __aizala__, so I guess I must have been . . . suggestible."_

"_I've been subjected to __aizala__,"_ Dara told him gently. _"Twice. It can be a very frightening experience, if it's not handled right. I don't like the holes in my memory, either."_

"_I've been subjected to it, too,"_ Eli noted. _"I know turians who've resisted its effects, but only after an initial exposure sort of let them know what it feels like."_ _Shepard says my dad's resisted the effects. Most recently when he found the first Lystheni base on Omega, back in 2191 or so. But then again, he'd been drugged with the stuff and forced to betray Garrus before that second exposure. _

_Probably left marks, yeah._ Dara winced. _"I'm going to go talk to your med techs,"_ she told Clavus, as kindly as she could. "_I'm going to run a tox screen on whatever blood samples they have left, and between my findings and the embassy's, that should be fairly conclusive, right?"_

"_Doesn't matter,"_ Clavus said, tonelessly. _"These were the hands that did it. What am I supposed to do about that?"_

Lin patted him on the shoulder. _"We'll see what we can do about figuring out the whys and the hows, and that should help you,"_ he told the male.

Outside, in the hallway, the three of them looked at each other. "The Nos Astra police are going to paint it so that he had motive before he even walked into the room," Eli said, his voice tired. "They'll say he suspected Johansson of beating on Tiallia, and went into a revenge-rage, and killed the human. . . and _then_ took the _aizala_ to give himself an alibi."

"Tox screen can clear that up," Dara told him, crisply. "_Aizala_ metabolizes at a very steady rate. Very easy to identify how much was ingested and how long ago. The numbers won't lie."

Lin's mandibles flexed. "He could have taken it directly after the killing."

"Wouldn't there have been blood on the teacups, then? Bloody finger marks? I mean, they could have been wiped away, but there was still spray on them, right?" Dara was trying to picture the room, and sighed as Eli pulled out his datapad, and started flipping through the crime scene photos. The cups and kettle had wound up on the floor. . . and Eli paused, staring at them.

"Here's a question," he said. "Why wasn't the tea in the kettle tested? Or the residue on the floor?"

"And why," Lin said, staring at the picture, "is there no blood on any of that, at all? Zoom in, Eli, I'm not seeing so much as a speckle here."

"Let me go ask Clavus something," Dara said, and stepped back around the corner into the conference room. _"Excuse me,"_ she said, politely, in turian once more. _"You said that she prepared the tea. Did she bring a teapot out with her?"_

"_No. She prepared it in the little kitchenette area. She said she was preparing two different things, something for herself and Eric, and something for me. She just brought out three cups on a little tray."_

There had been two cups on the floor, and a teapot, in the pictures. Dara nodded, and thanked him, and went back out to talk with Eli and Lin. "Okay," Eli said, rubbing at his eyes. "She makes tea in the kitchen. Fills up the teapot, all that, makes normal tea. Probably pours a cup of it into her own cup. . . and puts _aizala _in whatever she gave the two males."

"Powdered, probably. In its leaf form, it can take fifteen to twenty minutes to get into the system." Dara cleared her throat and glanced, self-consciously, at Lin. "I didn't actually think it was doing anything the one time. Not at first. Then I just felt warm."

Eli lightly caught her hand. _Don't need to be embarrassed._

_Can't really help it._

_You know a hell of a lot more about him and Serana and me, than he knows about you._

Lin cleared his throat. "I . . .don't really have a lot in the way of your memories, Dara, so I'll take your word for it." He exhaled. "We can probably test the cups that were left, though I suspect we're going to see that they're perfectly clean of all _aizala_."

"Bet you twenty credits that they don't have fingerprints, either," Dara murmured, suddenly. "Or DNA from Johanson's lips."

Eli suddenly grinned. "Because she'd have put fresh cups down to replace the ones they'd have drunk from. Maybe she'd have been smart enough to use gloves, herself, to avoid DNA. . . but asari don't have fingerprints."

"So she might not have thought of that, even if she thought enough to put the cup to Johanson's dead lips." Dara could feel the almost electric thrill course through Eli. "Just an idea."

"One worth looking into," Lin agreed. "_If_ she did this." He sighed. "Due diligence, guys. I'm going to look into Clavus' financial standing. See if he needed money for anything. Any outstanding debts, suddenly paid, anything like that."

Eli nodded. "Fair enough, but if anyone needed money, I'd bet it was Tiallia." He frowned. "So, we'd left off our theory with her putting azure dust in the tea. Getting them to drink."

"And Johansson probably would have started kissing her and well, making advances very shortly thereafter," Dara said, her stomach clenching. "If she started pushing him away, he probably would not have been in mental state where 'no' meant much of anything. Especially with a previous relationship."

"And at that point, she could have pushed him away, hard, and begged Clavus to help her, that she was being forced, and he probably would have responded." Lin winced. "His wife freshly dead, and he's still carrying the knives. . . previous relationship, unresolved feelings of guilt for having thrown her out of his life, and in a very suggestible state. They'd have fought, and Clavus wouldn't have even thought about his wedding-knife. I'll look into his wife's history, too."

"Wouldn't it be interesting if she'd been an abuse victim in the past, too?" Eli muttered. "Would explain why the first thing he asked her was 'did Johansson do that?' when he saw her bruised face."

Lin winced, in clear empathy, and a little anger came to his eyes. "I don't like the picture of manipulation we're painting here," he said. "But . . . so far. . . it covers a lot of possibilities."

"Next part's proving it right. . . or finding evidence that proves it wrong." Eli nodded. "Lin, you're on the turian end of things. I'm going to go talk to the Matriarch. . . um. . . shit. I'll do that tomorrow, I guess. A little late for a respectful visit. Dara, you think you can run your tests now?"

"Lab's closed. I'll do it in the morning, but we've got the samples with us, and they're cryo-preserved. No one should be getting into our hotel room overnight to mess with them." Dara stretched a little. "You know what? I'm hungry. Let's eat."

They had a pretty nice suite in a relatively high-class hotel, and they ordered room service, rather than going out, since they had evidence to sit on. And after dinner, Dara shook her head a little as _both_ males went right back to work, reviewing database information, sending off comm messages that wouldn't be read by anyone locally until the next day. "Eli?" Dara said, around 21:00.

"Hmm?"

"Turn it off. You, too, Lin. I know, you've got a puzzle, and you can't put it down, but honest to god, shut down the omnitools before I sit on you."

Eli grinned at her. "Like to see you try, _sai'kaea_," he said, but he shut down his work. "Sorry. Just been a while since I had something I could really get my teeth into. I don't mind fighting in a good cause. . . "

"But this is what you actually _like_ doing."

"Well, yeah," Lin admitted, chuckling and stretching. "This is _hunting_, Freya. Although. . . spirits . . . my neck is stiff. And Serana's magic fingers are about a hundred and fifty light years in _that_ direction." He pointed randomly. "I'm going to go take a shower, guys. Then we can see if there's anything worth watching on the extranet. Or, you know, not."

He wandered out, and Eli pulled Dara down into his lap. _Sorry. Got kind of wrapped up in it._

_Don't be sorry. I liked watching. I liked listening._ She liked the total focus he could bring to bear on a problem. She liked watching his mind work just as much as she liked watching him spar.

Eli bit her gently, just under the hinge of her jaw. _And, while I'm not crazy about morgue and dead bodies, it was damned nice working with you today_, he told her, silently. _You twigged to the bullshit very fast._

_The ME was probably told not to run the test. Probably by a supervisor. She didn't look happy about it, though it was probably billed as a 'cost-effectiveness' thing._

_Hey. You told me to turn it off._

_So I did._

Dara spent the next day in the lab, running DNA analyses and two tox panels, one on a sample of human blood, and one on a sample of turian blood. Sure enough, both came back positive for _aizala_. Lin and Eli went back to Detective Anaya, and got the teapot and cups dusted for prints, something that the asari detective simply hadn't thought of, because asari didn't have fingerprints. "She said a couple of pretty bad words when we suggested it," Eli said, grinning, over lunch. "She'd checked for DNA, and found lip prints. . . but sure enough, no fingerprints, and no blood spray. So either someone wiped it down with _bleach_ or . . . "

"Or the cups on the floor weren't the ones drunk from." Lin bit through the bone of an _anserae_ drumstick with an audible crunch, which got asari diners at tables nearby to turn and look at him. They were keeping their voices low, however, and Eli and Dara generally shielded their mouths with tea cups or napkins when speaking, to avoid lip reading. They couldn't do much about microphones, but hope that the crowd noise would cover their words. Dara was mostly hoping that she was just being paranoid, but everything about the case was making Eli's nerves ping, which made her nervous, in turn.

"What did you find on Clavus' background?" Eli asked him. He and Dara were opting for speed at lunch today, and he was eating _filai'guillia_, which had been 'cooked' by being soaked in an acidic marinade. The name translated as 'fire-fish,' and was bright yellow in color. Dara had tasted a mouthful, given Eli a dubious look, and opted for a salad, and nevermind that she didn't recognize a single one of the vegetables in it.

"Squeaky clean," Lin replied. "Rising star in the diplomatic corps, nothing but positive reviews, no financial problems. His in-laws actually love him—"

"There's a switch," Dara murmured, softly, picking a berry out of her salad and chomping down.

"And yes, his wife was in an abusive relationship before him. He got her the hell out, from all reports. Divorce settled by a duel, the ex is, well, very much an ex. Clavus killed him, knife to the heart."

Eli and Dara both looked up at that, blinking. It had unavoidable resonances. "Wow," Dara said. "I thought that was rare nowdays."

"It is," Lin agreed, tightly. "Husband refused to the termination of the contract, kept trying to contact her, followed her home from work in spite of a court order. Clavus made a few arrangements, got him served with a 'cease-and-desist-or-meet-me-on-the-field-of-battle' decree. . . he tried to grab Everra one night when she was leaving work, and the police grabbed him, instead. Brought him in for the duel, and, by the official report, the fight lasted three and a half minutes. Clavus took sixty stitches along the ribs, and the ex got a body bag."

Eli considered that, and ate some more of his fish. "So, what we're saying here is, he's killed before, but only on the field of honor, and only in defense of someone he perceived as being threatened. But he did it with a knife, originally."

"And probably sleeps pretty well at night," Lin agreed. "Or did, until all this _s'kak_ happened."

"Tox screens show they were both drugged," Dara said, shrugging. "And the only other person who was in the room, has vanished." She looked at Eli. "Your turn, _ciea'teilu_."

Eli grimaced. "Right. Time to go talk to a matriarch."

Dara winced. "You want me along, or am I going to be a detriment?"

Eli caught her hand and squeezed it under the table. "Not a detriment, but you'll be uncomfortable, and it might get her hackles up. Lin? You want to come with me?"

"Not really, but I will anyway."

That left Dara at loose ends for the afternoon. She knew that Eli's birthday was coming up—his twenty-first—and she hadn't had a chance to shop at all. They'd covered Caelia's seventh birthday back on Mindoir, at least, and none of the rest of the youngsters were coming up on a birthday soon. Takeshi's had been February 14, of course, and Dara had managed to get over to her parents' house before cooking Eli dinner in order to drop off a gift and a kiss on Takeshi's hair. It was hard to believe he was four now. _Time flies_. _What the hell am I supposed to get him, other than his stated request of 'you, with a red ribbon around your neck?'_

Dara could navigate around Nos Astra fairly well, but was fairly frustrated by the end of her shopping trip. They didn't really need pets, and wouldn't be home to take care of them, anyway. Eli didn't like asari alcoholic beverages, and he for damn sure didn't wear jewelry, cosmetics, or perfume, which was the stock in trade of most of the shops. Dara did spot a perfectly lovely triune goddess statue, which she decided to have shipped back to Mindoir, for their atrium, but she was having a hell of a time finding anything else. She was weighing a second book of the poetry of Leialanai'a, to go with the paper copy she'd gotten him for Christmas, when she got a look at something else in the same shop, and her mouth dropped open. _This. . . yes, this has possibilities_.

The galaxy map was very small; it projected holographically above its emitter. . . but she could touch inside the array to pan, tilt, angle, zoom in and zoom out. She could drop down to any of the known planets and see photographs of their surfaces. _An atlas, of sorts. . . _ "You like?" the salarian shopkeeper said, by her elbow, cheerfully. "Comes with additional database space. Can add information packs for planets you wish to visit, for example. Also, personal information on planets you have been to. Often marketed to asari who like to travel as a hobby."

"So I can use it as a album?" Dara asked, tentatively. "Put pictures in it, vids, stills, that sort of thing?"

"Absolutely."

"Okay. How much for one of these, with the extra memory core?"

Dara handed over her credit chit and signed _D. Jaworski_ for that and the book, and walked out of the shop, feeling _very_ pleased with herself. She spent the rest of the afternoon, while the other two were off dealing with an agitated matriarch, quite happily accessing her database at home on Mindoir to download pictures, and calling Ellie for family pictures, which made Ellie grin hugely when she found out what it was for.

_Okay, let's see. . . Earth. My family pictures, the old ranch, my parents' wedding, my birth, school pictures, thank god my mom always organized all this stuff by year. . .trips to Colorado, trips to Montana, trips to Idaho, trips to Florida. . . Houston before the Reapers, Houston after the Reapers. . . my mom's funeral. . . oh, cool, my dad got a picture of the Normandy hanging off of Bastion. . . . and. . . more from Earth. Ellie's family pictures. . .New York, Bermuda, Brazil, damn. Pictures from Darren Stockton's family. Chicago, mostly. And my dad and Kasumi's wedding in Japan. There. . . now, the Citadel. . . damn, lots of pictures here. Eli as a baby, playing on the Presidium, Darren in C-Sec uniform. . . Lantar. Caelia, just born, in the NICU. The lines of people leaving the Citadel after the war. . . .Mindoir. My god, lots of pictures. The funerals after the Normandy was attacked and the night at the cave. There's a couple of me with Eli. . .then Kella. Siara. Lin. Telinus. That damned handball game, guess Lantar was taking those. . . Guess that, for honesty, I should put my wedding pictures in. Eli standing on Rel's side. Yeah. . . just plonk the folder in and don't look._

_Eli leaving for the Rite. So, now, have to pan out, find the Krogan DMZ. . . there we go. Tuchanka. Add the vid footage that Lantar's been carrying around forever, of the Harvester. . . Eli going off to boot camp. . . hey, my dad took a few of me going off to boot camp, too._

_Now, Palaven. Pictures of both of our graduations. News footage, sure, why not, though I cringe at mine. Bet Eli didn't even realize that his graduation was covered, too. Rinus and Kallixta's wedding, lots of pictures there, lots of news footage, also. Imperatrix's funeral, though that was much later. . . . okay, that takes care of that. Eli's a little easier for the four years of service than I am. Let's see. . . .Macedyn here, put in the pictures, tie in the service record. . . cool, I bet I could get some really detailed street maps from the Hierarchy and overlay them. . . hmm, maybe later. Edessan, too, not as many pictures, although . . . yeah, there we go. Lantar got a bunch of the ones where he was getting decorated. Not from Eli, but from the officers who put his name forward for Spectre._

Dara sat back and rubbed at the back of her neck. It was getting dark, and she hadn't even started on her own service yet. No ping on her wrist to let her know when the other two would be back, though. She had to dig up her own record. She couldn't remember all the planets and moons she'd been on at this point. "What was that first system, Elohi, had all the moons. . . .right. Micah. Out in the Valhallan Expanse. Wait, no, I wasn't on the _Estallus_ yet. . . " She looked for the gas giant named Doz Atab, too, where she'd had her first firefight, as part of a boarding party that had crossed to two batarian _Corsair_-class ships. _Shrike Abyssal, yeah. Then Garvug_. _Then god. Everywhere else in the Terminus Systems._ She tabbed patiently through the star charts. _Vamshi? We were on Vamshi? Oh, right. A group of turian traders had been captured, and when no one paid the ransom, they were going to be released, two at a time, on the surface of Maji. Usual blood sport had a twist. The batarians wanted to see if they'd kill each other to get in out of the cold; the radiation probably wouldn't have killed them . . . had to go in and rescue them. _ She tabbed onwards. _Matar, in the Hong System, still chasing the same pirates who'd kidnapped the turians. . . Sharjila, Macedon system, Artemis Tau. The asari cruise ship had been on its way to observe the silicon life forms on the planet from orbit, before heading to Casbin in the Hong system, to observe its primordial ecology . . . and then they'd have finished off with a tour of Grissom's system, blasted by the blue-white giant's light. . . inimical to most life. But they never got there. The ship was just hanging in space near Sharjila, empty and haunted. _Dara continued touching stars and planets, gently panning and zooming and adding images here and there, but mostly, just her service record's terse list of accomplishments. Adding, now and again, her list of 'people who died' and 'people who survived.' Harinus, a very small turian colony that had been attacked by human and asari cartel members in a much-hushed-up incident, where she'd been hit by a turret and gotten one of her _commina narthecium_. Antibaar, in the Terekhova System, in the Armstrong Nebula, the frozen world where they'd found James Dempsey's body in a stasis pod. Gesis, the moon in orbit around the gas giant of Xetic, in the Lusarn system, where she'd fought with Siara and Makur and Rel in 2195. Bextrus, a turian lunar colony that had been attacked by batarians, and where she'd had half a house fall on her head. Sur'Kesh.

And, in just the last year or so. . . Camala. Khar'sharn . . . .twice, both times with Eli. Omega. the Singing Planet. Arvuna. Palaven again, better append the divorce and Conclave news reports. . . Bothros. Astaria. And, from Eli's perspective. . . better add Terra Nova. _What am I missing. . . oh! Trident, Hoplos system, Hades Nexus. Um . . .and Volkov, in the Pamyat system_. Dara leaned back, her eyes burning. "Oh, I'm so stupid. I forgot _Bek_. Not to mention the Citadel, and the Keepers. . . " She swung back to Widow, and tabbed both locations open. Downloaded pictures for the Bekenstein location, and appended news reports on the awakening of the Keepers and the re-emergence of the location as a Keeper homeworld of sorts.

When she scrolled back out, she smiled a little, and tabbed Illium. Which she probably should have added before. Macedyn, for Kallixta's house. At a rough count. . . fourteen planets in the last fourteen months, between the two of them. And, counting her four years in special forces. . . about forty other planets, stations, and moons. The galaxy, when she scrolled out, had quite a few specks lit up, mostly in the Terminus systems, but also a few bright and shining spots in Alliance space, more in Hierarchy space. . . but scrolling _all_ the way out? The marked systems and planets were lost in the billions of stars in the Milky Way. _Even if we could visit every single one instantly, hop, hop, hop, we wouldn't live long enough to see them all. And that's. . . actually kind of comforting. The scope of it is so far beyond us, that no one could ever really touch it all, not all at once. But we can make. . . .this part, right here. . . we can make this part better. And I still do want to see as much of it as I can._

Now she really did realize that it was dark, and that she hadn't eaten in probably eight hours. Dara blinked and waved on a light, before standing and padding out of the bedroom she shared with Eli into the main living area of the small suite. She tabbed her radio, and said, quietly, "Tyr? Forseti?"

"Yeah, we're on our way," Eli replied, sounding tired. "Long goddamned afternoon."

"Should I order food for you guys up in the room?"

"Please. I could eat an _apaterae_ raw, epi-tabs or no," Eli replied, and she chuckled under her breath.

Once they were back, and once they'd all gotten food in their stomachs, they started bringing her up to date. "Matriarch Teosa actually disowned her daughter about five years ago," Eli explained. "It took an hour of talking to get her to admit that much. It's . . . not generally done, and it's considered very shameful. You know that Justicar Samara had _ardat-yakshi_ daughters, right?"

Dara blinked. That was, actually, news to her, but it resonated a little in her mind from Eli's memories as he spoke. He had gotten it from Siara and Ylara, somewhere along the line. She knew what an _ardat-yakshi_ was, however, because the Lystheni had been able to work that biotic ability into their own bodies and minds. "These are the ones that overwhelm people's minds and then. . . more or less consume them? Kind of like vampires?" she said, a little dubiously. The scientist in her didn't believe in 'life-energies' that could be used to heal wounds and whatnot, but she did believe in electricity. That was real. And in biotic energy. That was real, too.

"I think it basically comes down to them burrowing so deeply into the victims' mind for memories and sensations, that they essentially burn them out. Like a lobotomy, only one that even destroys the brainstem." Eli exhaled. _Like what you were afraid, deep down, that Siara would do to you, back in the day, __sai'kaea_. "So. . . let's put it this way: even with her daughters being what they were, Samara didn't disown them. Two of them went into a monastery and controlled their, well, urges. The last one, the only other one _known_ to be in existence, went on the run, and Samara chased her for about four hundred years before catching and killing her. Throughout that process, her daughter was never a 'not-daughter.' Was never disowned. Imagine how shameful it must feel to have a daughter who's no longer worth trying to save. . . or admitting the personal failing of giving up on her?" Eli took a long sip of hot tea and leaned back, relaxing. "That's what took half the time. Weeding through all the guilt and shame for disowning Tiallia, and all the guilt and shame about Tiallia's actions."

"And?" Dara prompted after a moment, sliding a foot behind Eli's ankle on the couch, and looking over at Lin, who'd found an armchair, although it was definitely more suited to an asari's delicate frame, and was perching there uncomfortably. "Lin, get over here. I can move over."

"Thank you," he admitted, pushing up off the chair and coming over to sit down. "I could hear the damn thing creaking every time I moved."

Eli leaned his head back against the couch. "So. . . Tiallia's been a drug addict and a gambler on and off, for about three hundred years. Different kinds of rushes, really. The drugs are a chemical thing, the gambling's risk and thrill and the usual 'I can win it all back if my luck just changes.' Fifteen separate rehabilitation efforts and interventions. She's usually good for five, ten years after a rehab stint, and then she starts to slide back into it. She's actually got two, three different degrees. Art history, dance, and. . . um. . . paralegal. Different stints at a bunch of different jobs. Museum work, choreography, and then, most recently, the legal job that brought her into Johanson's orbit. Actually, she's slightly ahead of her usual schedule. She'd cleaned up a bit after Clavus dumped her. Asked her mom for help again. Teosa told her 'this is the last time. No more money. No more influence. No more anything. You're going through rehab on my credit, and then, I'm disowning you. You have to do everything on your own from now on."

"Could have worked," Lin said, cynically and tiredly. "That kind of ultimatum _can_ work. Stops the co-dependency."

"But," Eli said, just as tiredly, "this time, it seems to have sped up the cycle. Teosa got a frantic call from Tiallia a month ago, saying she needed money. That she'd owed someone for gambling debts, and yes, for drugs again, too, and that she'd been stealing from her employer to pay the loans off, and she needed money to pay off the loans and pay back her employer. Teosa told her no. And two weeks ago, she got a message that said 'by the time you get this message, I will probably be dead, and it's all your fault.'" Eli's song was dark red and very angry at the moment. Angry at the daughter for doing this to her mother. "Very dramatic. Teosa said she brushed it off at first, and then got concerned when she saw the news reports from Illium, and saw that her daughter's employer had been murdered. Which is when she contacted the police to find out where the hell her daughter even is."

"And the police, because she's involved, are covering for her daughter," Dara muttered. "Does she _want_ them to, or are they just interpreting her interest as that?"

Eli rocked a hand back and forth. "Hard to say. I don't even think _Teosa_ knows what she wants right now. About half of her wants to strangle her daughter right now, with her own bare hands, and the other half is pretty damned guilty."

"Because she thinks that if she'd given her daughter the money _again_, one person wouldn't be dead, and the other one wouldn't have been turned into the weapon that killed him," Lin growled. Dara could hear his claws tearing against the back of the couch. "Spirits, I will never get used to how easily people use each other."

Dara leaned into Eli, and they just sat there for a long moment, listening to the sound of the birds outside the window. "Okay," Dara finally asked. "She's got two hundred million credits. Some of that probably went to paying off the gambling debts, if she's smart at all—"

Lin was already shaking his head. "Ten gets you one, she's running like hell with it. All of it. She's already not thinking clearly. She's scared, and scared people don't think clearly. Part of her is telling her it's her money now, her windfall, and she's not going to lose any of it, not to these guys who've threatened her. She's finally gotten lucky, she's got more money than she could ever wheedle out of her mother. . . nah. She's going to find someplace to go spend it. People like that always do."

Dara shook her head. "You don't think she'd just go someplace quiet and start a peaceful life in a little cottage by the ocean?"

Lin snorted. "No. You're thinking like a sane person, little one." He reached over and tugged lightly on her hair. "These folks are the ones who think they deserve everything, never get enough, and always want more."

"But she's pretty widely being hunted on Illium," Eli said. "She probably did get off-planet in the first twelve hours. So now we need to find her. If nothing else, she's a damned person of interest. Even if we can't prove anything against her yet, except that she was in the room, and someone sure as hell gave those two guys _aizala_."

So the question became, where did someone with that kind of money in a numbered account go if she wanted to disappear? The entire next week gave Dara a good first-hand look at the frustrations that went into the kind of work that Eli and Lin had been trained in; there was a hell of a lot of waiting and seeing and poking people to do their damned jobs. They threw around a little Spectre weight and got an office next to Anaya's, so that they could keep an eye on the various detectives on the teams, and backtracked Tiallia's movements. Not a few of the asari detectives were now very wary, as was the medical examiner. They knew they'd overlooked evidence. . . the question in Lin's mind, very evidently, was _did they do it on purpose_?. . . and just as evidently, they were worried about their jobs.

It probably didn't help any of their morale that Teosa kept coming down to the offices for meetings with the precinct's captain, presumably demanding to know why her daughter had not yet been found. . . but Dara could read the expression on the captain's face whenever the matriarch left, after another session of shouting that had shaken the plasteel windows: _Does she really want me to find her daughter, or does she want to __look__ like she wants me to find her daughter, but would rather that I didn't. . . and is my job going to be affected if I jump the wrong way?_ "Sucks to be her," Eli muttered from their own office, where Lin was sitting at the only desk, going through travel databases with his VI chirping at his elbow, and where Dara was, for lack of anything better to do, holding Eli's feet while he got in his daily sit-ups.

"Omega," Lin said, suddenly. "Spirits of air and fire, I think we've finally got her."

Dara let go of Eli's feet and moved across the office, just as Eli sprang up and did the same. "You think so?"

"Look at the vid capture. Sure looks like her, doesn't it? Same dark lines on the temples, same overall light bands. . . "

"You do realize that's makeup?" Eli pointed out. "Anyone could wear it. . ."

"Sort of like paint?" Lin counters, sitting back with a tight grin.

"Yeah. . . except. . ." Eli's eyes were moving back and forth over the screen, and he tapped on something suddenly. "There we go. Biometric scanners analyzing the shape of her face have a ninety-three percent match." He gave Lin a quick grin. "Nice, _fradu_."

"She's traveling under a false name. Might have been picked up ahead of time, have to have the Nos Astra people squeeze the local forgers a little more," Lin muttered now. "But that's neither here nor there. We know she left for Omega two damned weeks ago. Hot pursuit, my ass. She could be anywhere by now."

"Maybe," Dara said, but she was already tapping on her wrist panels.

"Pelagia?" Eli asked her.

"Yep. Kind of nice knowing people, isn't it?"

"Does make the universe a smaller place," he agreed, and Dara hummed under her breath, determinedly blocking the image of the galaxy spinning under her fingertips. _Oh no, Eli. The galaxy is far, far bigger than anything we can conceive of. Council space is what. . . a thousand inhabited planets and moons, strung out through scattered star systems here and there, wherever there happens to be a relay? What's life going to be like, once we get away from the old relays? Once we really start exploring what's out there, instead of sitting here in known space? One percent of the galaxy is a billion stars. Oh, no. . . the galaxy isn't growing smaller. It's growing larger and more wondrous and stranger all the time._

But she didn't want to share that thought with him. Not yet. So she just smiled and hummed under her breath, and watched his eyebrows rise. "Secrets?" Eli said, leaning in and grinning. "Really?"

"Settle down, I think my call's about to . . . there we go." A lovely human face appeared in the air above Dara's wrist; ice-blond hair, loosely tumbling around a pale face with gray eyes. "Pelagia?"

"Spectre Jaworski, always a pleasure. What can I do for you today?"

"We've got a fairly wealthy fugitive who's probably on Omega now, or recently passed through. I suspect her victims' families would get a lot of closure if we could track her down."

"Of course," Pelagia said, immediately. "Give me her itinerary, name, aliases, and a picture. . . "

"Sending," Lin muttered, over Dara's shoulder.

"Received. Harak tells me to inform you that while I do things out of the goodness of my heart, he does not necessarily always do so."

"Please tell Harak that she stole two hundred million credits from one of her victims' companies, and that I will recommend to the board of directors that they recompense Omega for the time that their skilled security operatives and technicians spent in looking for the perpetrator," Eli said, smoothly. "I think ten percent is a standard finder's fee, but that will be up to Johansson Industries."

"Understood. Ah. Risalia T'sal is the name she's currently checked in under. She is down on D ring, and has been apparently losing quite a bit at the gaming tables. Should I have our security forces detain her?"

"Do you have a bribe-proof containment area?" Lin asked, dryly.

"Yes. We'll put Ulluthyr guards around her cell." Pelagia sounded quite calm. "And I will keep a personal eye on her."

"Thank you," Dara told the AI, smiling. She _liked_ Pelagia. It was hard not to, really. She turned to the two males who were standing over each of her shoulders now. "Okay, so. . . we go grab her, or what?"

Eli winced. "Now is when we contact my dad and your dad and Garrus and ask a couple of vital political questions."

Dara sighed. "So much for getting to play cops and robbers."

Eli grinned at her. _It never really does work like that, no._ "Here's the whole jurisdictional kettle of worms. She didn't actually kill Johansson."

"_Talas'kak_," Lin said, immediately. "She got him and Clavus loopy on azure dust and she may as well have loaded Clavus like a weapon and fired him."

Eli sighed. "And all she has to say is that she took the _aizala_ too, it's legal here, and suddenly, it's just fantastic sex that got a little out of hand."

"I don't exactly see a big smile on her face in the secure cam footage, _fradu_," Lin pointed out, and Dara flushed very red. "Sorry, Freya. Stay with us."

Dara choked a little. "It would really help if when you said things like that I didn't actually rem—"

"Stop right there, for my sanity's sake," Lin told her, flushing a little through the crest himself now. But he was grinning a little, if sheepishly. "Where were we?" 

"She didn't actually kill Johansson," Eli repeated. "We can ask Maxwell to try prosecuting her for the murder, but at the moment, all we can _really_ get her for is grand theft—since we know the volus account numbers are hers, thanks to her mother's turning the information over to us. We might be able to get her on fleeing a crime scene and maybe, if we're creative about it, conspiracy to commit murder, although it was pretty much a conspiracy of one." He sat on the edge of the desk, folding his arms across his chest, the muscles in his forearms tense. "That last one might give us the edge, though."

"Edge?' Dara asked, blankly.

Eli nodded. "Yeah. Why we should have jurisdiction to bring her in, not the Nos Astra police." He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "If we want to, that is."

"Why wouldn't we?" Lin asked, sharply.

"Because if we let the asari authorities have the collar, we look all graceful and shit. Working _with_ the local authorities, instead of being the cowboys who ride into town, take advantage of everyone else's hard work, and then reap all the credit." Eli shrugged.

"My dad says that NABI agents get that reputation a lot," Dara muttered, glumly.

Lin snorted. "What hard work? They were ignoring leads before we got here."

Eli rubbed at the back of his neck again. "Yeah. They were. Which is why we ask our senior offi. . . er, Spectres. . . " he grinned a little wryly at the slip, "for input. Do we go there alone, do we take Anaya with us, do we let the asari have the collar entirely?"

Lin shook his head vehemently. "We let the asari take her into custody, this gets lost on the back boiler here on Illium. She's out in four, five years. Maybe the people she's been gambling with and buying drugs from do us a favor and put her out of her misery before she decides to use someone else to get what she wants. But maybe not."

Eli looked up at him soberly. "Lin. _Fradu._ Choir, preaching." He paused. "I'm with you on this, but let's figure out what's going to make everyone's lives easier." He shrugged. "Or, if Sam and Garrus and my dad say otherwise, we can go ahead and do it the hard way."

As it was, that conference call was interesting. Garrus said, immediately, "Go get her and bring her to Bastion. Turn her over to Council authority."

"You're sure?" Eli said. "Politically, it'll embarrass the Illium authorities."

"Politically," Lantar pointed out, dryly, "she involved a turian diplomat in a murder for money. The Hierarchy will be demanding her extradition, and Omega doesn't have an extradition treaty. You're just. . . facilitating her transport."

"And our ability to play nice with the Nos Astra police in the future might be compromised," Eli pointed out, evenly. Dara looked at him and felt a rush of total pride in him. He was looking at the big picture, and it was a step beyond what he'd ever done before.

Sam was nodding. "The boy does have a point. I say take Detective Anaya on the collar, but make it clear that this was a Spectre investigation, a Council-level crime, and that our jurisdiction supersedes theirs. But throw the bone to the cop who was actually _working_ the case."

Garrus nodded, and Lantar did as well, conceding the point.

And thus, they informed the precinct's captain that they were ready to make an arrest in the case, but would need to travel off-world to do it, and that they'd be bringing the detective in charge of the Nos Astra portion of the case with them, if she wanted to be a part of the collar. Anaya definitely wanted in, and the three Spectres adamantly refused to tell the Nos Astra authorities where they would be heading until it was time for Anaya to board the flight. "Omega?" she asked, dubiously. "I forgot to pack my armor."

"It's under new management and being rebuilt," Dara assured her.

It was, too. Quarian work crews were crawling all over the docking ring as they disembarked. . . and a contingent of turian and krogan security guards met them and escorted them to the Omega Security Force's main headquarters. Tiallia looked more than a little worse for wear when she was taken out of the cell in which she'd been kept, wearing an orange jumpsuit and her hands shackled behind her back. Pelagia and Harak were on hand; Pelagia evidently had enough projectors in the station to look almost solid here—enough that Anaya offered her a hand to shake and looked quite startled when her hand went through Pelagia. "Goddess," she murmured. "You're the most realistic VI I've ever seen." 

"Thank you, but I'm a little more than just that," Pelagia told her, quite politely, as Harak's big paw came to rest on her shoulder. "Spectres? Delighted to see you again. It's been a while since you came through here with the liberation teams."

Dara grinned as Harak added, "And I keep hearing from my contacts in the Claws and the Pack that your teams had some fun on Astaria. The blood of your enemies making the grass grow, or some damn thing. Also, something about a quarian, a human, and a turian drinking ryncol. Not sure which of those to believe."

"I didn't touch the ryncol," Eli assured him.

"Neither did I," Lin added.

"Thought so."

"James Dempsey and Rellus Velnaran did, though," Dara said, and watched as Harak thought about that.

"They still alive?'

"Surprisingly, yes. And kicking, too."

"Damn." Harak shook his head, and gestured. "Here to pick up the garbage?"

"A Spectre's work is never done," Eli told him lightly.

Tiallia shrank back against her krogan guards as Pelagia walked towards her. "She attempted to run from OSF officers," Pelagia told the rest of them, sounding disappointed. "I was forced to more or less herd her into a contained area."

"Everywhere I went, there she was," the asari muttered, wild-eyed. "Doors locked behind me. Opened in front of me. I tried to hit her with my biotics, but she's _not there_. What the hell are you? Some kind of unshackled VI or a fucking ghost?"

"Something like that," Pelagia told her, noncommittally. "Spectres, if you'd sign the forms remanding her to your custody, you can be on your way."

And thus, they wound up taking their asari prisoner to Bastion, at the back of a commercial flight. This flight, however, they were in their armor, and one of them was always on guard. . . and Dara's workers perched on her shoulders the entire time, watching the prisoner with her. Tiallia's eyes had bulged at the sight of the rachni, as much as anything else, and for the first few hours of the flight, she attempted to convince all four of them that she hadn't done a thing. "Johansson was beating me—"

"Yeah, no. We found the loan shark who'd sent his enforcers after you as a reminder for the late payment." Anaya glanced up from her book, as Dara continued to face the prisoner. The asari cop's face was completely expressionless. "Nice try, though."

"You don't understand, I didn't do anything," became "I needed the money—" _What, you needed to steal from Johansson to pay Johansson back?_ Dara thought, which became "They were going to kill me," which became "Anyway, Clavus deserved it. If he hadn't rejected me, I know I could have done better," which became, "This is all my mother's fault."

Lin finally looked back at her, tiredly, and said, "You know, you do have a right to be silent. Perhaps you should exercise it."

With the prisoner handed over to B-Sec for the duration, until the diplomats could figure out whose court system should try her, Dara, Eli, and Lin boarded yet another flight, this one bound for Mindoir. "Pretty boring week for you, huh, _sai'kaea_?" Eli asked, lightly stroking a hand over her hair.

Dara blinked. "No, not at all. Why would you think that?"

Eli shrugged. "You only got to do a couple of blood and DNA tests, and check an autopsy."

"Yeah, but I was also learning. I was watching you and Lin work." Dara shrugged. "It's not something I've ever really been involved in before, except around the edges, but I liked it. It was actually kind of fun."

Eli sighed. _They're not all fun cases. Most of them drag on for weeks or months or even years. Most of them don't have nice neat endings. _

_Even this one will probably drag on for a year or three in the courts, ciea'teilu._

_True enough._ He glanced at her. _It was really fun for you?_ A faint overtone of worry. His background concern was that a lot of the past year had involved high-stress, high-adrenaline environments, and that was setting some of the tone of their relationship. He knew that his work in the Spectres wasn't going to stay on a war footing forever.

_And I've been in Special Forces for four years, yeah. I already knew it was time for me to get out even before the war broke out, Eli. Special Forces people burn out __fast__. Four, eight years. Most people do not spend twenty years in it._ Dara sighed. _I'm ready to do something else._

_When the war is done. . . we will._

_Here's to getting it done that much more quickly._

She watched, idly, as the newsfeeds on the screens overhead changed topics. "With Camala now firmly occupied by Council forces, who have taken over the distribution of food and water to the now-freed slaves and the displaced civilian population of this batarian world, a group of local freedom fighters, who have been working to undermine the Hegemony's forces for years has come to the fore, assisting Council troops in finding remaining military forces and helping to uncover weapons caches." The news reporter was Lexine Elders, looking polished and professional. "Every day, new details on the atrocities committed by the Hegemony, even against its own people, are coming to light. Death fields, where the bodies of those who disappeared, a fate considered even worse than slavery, were buried, have come to light. Rumors abound of a slave revolt that resulted in the mass slaughter of twenty thousand slaves some five years ago, though no evidence has come to light to substantiate these reports. With all this in hand, people here in Council space are already beginning to ask, however, what next? The batarians and the yahg have attacked close to a dozen Alliance and Hierarchy planets, and murdered and violated tens of thousands of asari citizens. Are we going to stand firm with just one planet?"

"Objective," Dara murmured.

"I think she'd just say that she's repeating what the people out there are asking," Eli told her, once more stroking his fingers through her hair. "And it's a fair question. What's next?"

_Lorek_, she thought.

_Yeah. That's what I thought I heard Lantar talking about before we left. Think it'll be a Hierarchy strike?_

_No. I think they were allowed to pummel Camala as a demonstration of how turians make war. A decimation. I suspect Lorek will be a demonstration of how humans make war._ Dara exhaled. _Of course, we're equally capable of decimation._

_Yeah. But somewhere in all this, there's this mission that Serana and Seheve are training for, that Lin's not talking about. And his shoulders tense up any time he mentions Serana's training. Not like him._

_Yeah._ Dara leaned into Eli. _Don't borrow trouble. We'll be home soon. And then, we'll probably be sent right back out again._ She paused. "How about, before we do have to leave again, if you and I celebrate your birthday early?"

"It's getting to be traditional, so sure. What did you have in mind?"

Dara hummed under her breath. Eli's eyes lit up. "More secrets? I love secrets." He leaned in closer. "Most of all, I love finding them out."

Dara hummed a little louder, and just grinned at him.

_**Author's note:** Kytharken/Shammoner, on reading snippets of what she's been calling NCIS: Nos Astra / CSI: Nos Astra, came up with the most amazing joke, which I really wish that I could have found a way to incorporate. I'll put it here, instead, so everyone else can laugh:_

_She suggested this line:_

_Dara, examining bag of powdered aizala: "Guess you can say this attack came . . ." *puts on glasses* ". . . out of the blue."_

_Yeaaaaaah!_

_I quite literally laughed out loud at this. Thank you! I really, really wish I could have fit it in. . . . _


	146. Chapter 146: Inhalation

**Chapter 146: Inhalation**

_**Author's note:** New reader 'Infinitemonkey' has just gotten up through Rinus bringing Kallixta home to meet his family for the first time, and sent me the following Aladdin parody. It's so funny, I actually had tears of laughter in my eyes when I read it, and I absolutely had to share this with all of you. Thank you, Infinitemonkey!_

_[RINUS]_

_I can show you the world_

_Spiteful, Sinister, Scheming_

_Tell me, princess, now when did_

_You last scale a slaver's hide?_

_I can open your eyes_

_Have I shown you this rachni?_

_Speaking inside our heads while_

_On this stealthy spaceship ride_

_A whole new world_

_A bleak and barren starboard view_

_Commander Shepard knows,_

_Just where to go_

_And just whose ass we're kicking._

_[KALLIXTA]_

_A whole new world_

_A war-torn place I never knew_

_But when we're way up here, I don't have to fear_

_Because your Thanix Cannon fights for me_

_[RINUS]_

_Now I'll share my cannon just with you_

_[KALLIXTA] _

_Unbelievable fights_

_Indescribable carnage_

_Soaring, tumbling, crashing_

_Through the last Lystheni base_

_[KALLIXTA] _

_A whole new world_

_[RINUS]_

_Don't you dare turn you back_

_[KALLIXTA] _

_A hundred thousand ways to die_

_[RINUS]_

_(Hold your breath, it's azure dust)_

_[KALLIXTA] _

_I'd like to shoot a star_

_And then to spar_

_I can't go back_

_To being daughter five._

_[RINUS]_

_A whole new world_

_[KALLIXTA] _

_Every fight's for our lives_

_[RINUS]_

_With new villains to pursue_

_[KALLIXTA] _

_Everyone moment pure terror_

_[BOTH]_

_I'll chase them anywhere_

_Not a one is spared_

_Let me save this whole new world with you_

_[BOTH]_

_A whole new world_

_That's where we'll be_

_[RINUS]_

_A ransacked base_

_[KALLIXTA] _

_In outer-space_

_[BOTH]_

_For you and me_

**Elijah, Bastion, Edessan, Bastion, and Mindoir, April 3-17, 2197**

The alarm's infernal beeping in their hotel room on Bastion woke Eli, and he fumbled for the panel beside the bed clumsily, his hands sleep-numbed. It went off without his having touched it, however. He opened his eyes, and realized that Dara was already up, standing next to the bed in a light robe. _Sai'kaea__? What are you doing awake already?_

_Comm messages came through about an hour ago. Damn omnitool woke me up_. She slid one of her wonderfully cool hands over his scalp, and Eli gave serious thought to reaching out, thought-fast, and pulling her back into bed, like a _dachae_ snatching a _bianasae_ off the bank of a river, pure ambush predator move. . . and watched the smile spread across her face.

He settled for catching her hand in his and lightly nipping the inside of her wrist. "What kind of comm messages? Work?"

"Some, yeah." Dara perched on the side of the bed, leaving her hand in his, and Eli groaned a little and peered at the clock again. 03:60 station time made it 06:00 GMT. "I, well, I've got a personal invitation from Nadea and Decimus, and I think I kind of have to accept it." She exhaled. "They got sent back to Edessan after they got done on Amaterasu. Nadea's from there, you know?"

Eli sat up in bed. "Sarbrantha?" The sprawling metropolis of seventeen million hadn't really been a home to him, but he'd lived there for two damn years.

"Yeah, actually. She said she grew up on the thirtieth floor of one of those really huge apartment buildings. The ones that actually have high schools _inside_ of them, and that way, the kids don't even need to get on a bus, just get in an elevator, and they're there." Dara was staring off at the wall of the room. "She used to comment that getting to go up to the roof-top garden was a once-a-week activity, and that she loved hiding in the trees up there. And of course, Decimus was from Rocam, and hated the damn jungles there so much, he swore he was never going back."

Eli blinked, and listened to the tides of song flowing through her. Admiration, anxiety, friendship, all commingling. "And they sent you an invitation?"

"Yeah. I'd written back to Nadea. Told her how glad I was that she and Decimus were okay, and asked her what the hell was going on with them now. . . and it looks like they're slated for an _aurum_ _clipeus_ each." She swallowed. "Come on, get up. Lin's here, and we can talk about the rest of how this is going to mess with travel plans over breakfast."

"Lin's here? Damn. I slept through the _door_ opening?"

"No, you started to stir. You were already reaching for your gun." Dara stuck her tongue out at him. "Considering the fact that your eyes were open, but no one was at the controls, that wasn't a good thing, so I told you to go back to sleep, and you took me at my word." She stroked a hand over his head again. "In your defense, you did just put in a week of twelve to eighteen hour days, guarded a prisoner on the way from Omega to Bastion, _and_ took an hour of questions from the press last night."

Eli snorted. "Yeah, but that shouldn't knock me on my ass." _Is it dangerous to get too comfortable, too complacent?_

"You're here, I'm here, and we had two workers in the room with us, and we're on Bastion, not in the wilds of Tuchanka or huddled in a Hammerhead somewhere on Astaria or anywhere else." Dara leaned down and kissed him. _You're allowed to relax and get a decent night's sleep, __ciea'teillu__. At least once a month or so._ She grinned at him as she pulled back. "Now get up, sleepyhead."

Eli watched her go, deliberately thinking loudly salacious things about the curve of her hips and ass, outlined by the thin material of her robe, and got a bloom of blue-green song in return. Then he rolled out of bed and hauled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and brushed his teeth at least, before heading out to slap Lin on the shoulders. "Okay, so, _aurum clipeus_," Eli said, sipping from the cup of hot asari tea Dara had passed him from the room service cart.

"Yeah." Dara swallowed and stared blankly down into her own cup now. "There were six hundred humans and turians, including three Spectres, who'd headed into the desert on Amaterasu. Three hundred yahg attacked them." The words were spare and stark, and she was saying them mostly for Lin's benefit. "The Spectres ordered a small contingent to fall back out of radio jamming range, and call for help. _Three_ survived out of the twenty who'd fallen back." Dara picked up a fork, and poked at her pancakes, her face a little pale. "Nadea and Decimus were two out of those three."

"Spirits," Lin said, quietly. "And the rest of the forces sent in?"

"There were a handful of other survivors in the desert itself, who'd straggled out, but . . . Nadea and Decimus and their group of squads held a small hillside cave for days, waiting for reinforcements. Watched their friends get picked off, one by one. And then the gunships and reinforcements finally arrived."

"Hell of a way to earn the award, but better than the usual method," Eli said, quietly. The _aurum clipeus_ was known as the deadman's medal. Like the old Medal of Honor on Earth, it was usually only given for extreme acts of valor, and most often was awarded posthumously. "I'd really like to meet them someday." He stroked Dara's hair back from her face lightly. "So. . . they asked you to swing by for the medallion presentation? You want me with you?"

Dara nodded. "Got a message here from Kallixta, too. We were all in the same boot camp together. Her father's deputized her to make the award on his behalf. It takes a hell of a lot of prep work to get the Imperator off of Palaven—"

"Tell me about it," Eli muttered. "I got to do a lot of the legwork for his progress to Edessan last time." He looked down at his own plate now; Dara had ordered him eggs over easy and bacon, with French toast. A sign she figured he was going to need the energy today, probably.

Dara nodded again. "So, Rinus will be there, with her. Nadea said she'd invited Rasmus Cadius and his wife. . . we were all on the _Estallus_ together right after boot camp. . . "

"Ras? Outstanding." Eli grinned, but he was still picking up undercurrents of unease from Dara. "Okay, drop the other shoe, _sai'kaea_."

She sighed. "Rel was on the _Estallus_, too. They invited him and Seheve."

Lin grimaced. "Yeah, the media might be a little distracted from the ceremony with all that juicy gossip fodder in black armor there."

Dara laughed, but her expression was wan. "Hey, Lin. You'll like this. First month on the Estallus, Nadea and Kallixta were both affected by a bad pack of estrus meds. Nadea jumped poor Decimus in the middle of the mess hall, though. Was a little embarrassing for her when she snapped out of it."

Lin looked up from his _apha_, and shook his head. "Lucky they didn't have any unforeseen consequences. . . but yeah." He grinned a little to himself. "Embarrassing, but I'm betting they enjoyed the hell out of it."

Dara chuckled softly. "What was funnier was watching all the other males in the room react. Half 'damn, I'm so. . . turned on,' and half 'not it!'"

Eli didn't smother his guffaw any more than Lin did, but sobered. "So. . . I guess the trick is going to be keeping the media focused where it damned well ought to be. . . on the ceremony."

Dara nodded. "Yeah. I talked with my dad and Kasumi about ways in which to make sure the media keeps the focus on the first three living people to receive an _aurum clipeus_ since the Reaper War, when Garrus got his. They said to go ahead and go, but to stay in armor, and in my case, to keep my helmet on until after the presentation is done. Kasumi recommended not taking questions at all." Dara made a face. "Not that I usually do, but I think that part was directed at you, Eli."

Eli thought about it. "Fair enough," he said, nodding. "If anyone really pushes, I can give a blanket statement, that we were there in respect for the service and valor demonstrated by a couple of old friends, and to support them. Which is nothing more than the truth. Then just refer them back to statement number one if they ask anything more." _Which could be difficult, if they want to ask about the Illium case._ He'd spent a full hour politely not answering questions about the case last night, referring reporters back to the Nos Astra police department's PR people, to the Omega Security Forces PR department (which apparently consisted of Ulluthyr Khaz and a piece of wood with nails stuck in it, if rumors were true), and noting that the turian diplomat, Clavus, had picked up J. Thaddius Maxwell as his defense counsel, which, to Eli's way of thinking, meant that the male was very well represented, indeed. Not that he'd said that last to the reporters, of course. "You still look worried, _sai'kaea_." _And feel worried, too. What's on your mind?_

"I can't imagine that someone could go through something like that and be unchanged. . . but I hope they're not _too_ much different." Yellow flicker of anxiety. They'd been friends. Distant ones, after the tour on the _Estallus_, but still friends.

"Hey, you've changed, too," Lin pointed out, cheerfully enough. "I think they'll just be happy to see friendly faces."

Dara grimaced. "Yeah. Nadea sounds a little uncomfortable in her letter. She says she doesn't want to accept the medallion. Too many other people died, and she says they're the ones who deserve the award. Not them, just because they happened to survive."

_Survivor's guilt_, Eli thought, and knew she heard him. _Something turians and humans share._ He and Dara had both carried a fair bit of it for Kella for a number of years. And he and Lin had carried quite a load of guilt for Brennia. . . even before seeing death on a massive scale on Bastion. There wasn't really a trick for dealing with it, but reminding each other regularly and consistently that it was okay to be alive, and that they'd done everything possible to save those who had died seemed to help. Accepting that assessment from outside sources also helped, though that was really the hard part. . . accepting it. Eli stretched and changed the subject slightly. "Okay, so, that puts our return home back by a couple of days . . . well, ours. Lin's still free to leave today."

"Like hell I am," Lin said, grimacing. "Serana sent me a message that she'd gotten home late last night—"

"So don't just stand there like a pole-axed _talashae_," Dara told him, immediately. "Go!"

"Oh, I _want_ to Thing of it is, she hinted that we'd have to turn right back around and come _back_ to Bastion."

Eli's head lifted. So did Dara's. "Why?" Eli demanded.

Lin shrugged. "It was cryptic, but I understood the message. She says Shepard thinks some people need a change of uniform." He paused and studied them, his blue eyes intent.

Eli's eyes widened. "She's going to swear in new Spectres? Already?" There was usually a two-year recruitment cycle.

Lin held up his hands and started counting off on his fingers. "A total of six Spectres died on Amaterasu in the past year." He closed his hands and opened them again. "Five out of the first six Spectres sent to Terra Nova are gone. . . four dead, one forcibly retired. The first three sent to Eden Prime? Two out of three are dead. Thirteen Spectres down. We only inducted nine last year. Add the probationary Spectres who've _already_ been doing the damn work. . . Rel, Seheve, Makur, Thell, and Kirrahe. . . and we're still down by nine, net."

"Stone," Dara said, immediately. "Glory."

Lin nodded. "Maybe others, if only as probationary," he agreed. "But yeah. I'm going to be cooling my heels till she gets here." He sighed. "Oh well. I'm getting to know Bastion very well, and the place is looking less haunted now than, say, this time last year."

Eli felt a chill pass through him. It _was_ getting very close to the anniversary of the start of the plagues. "April twenty-fifth," he said, after a moment, and checked his omnitool. _Yeah, looks like there are going to be memorial services beginning in three weeks. Damn._ "Dara. . . are you going to have to be here for the memorials?"

"Don't know," she responded, and unease rippled through her. "Technically, both of you could be asked to be here, too. . . but I'd rather be _anywhere_ else in the galaxy."

"The yahg homeworld?" Lin suggested, but it wasn't quite a joke.

Dara shuddered. "Maybe even there," she replied.

And so, they packed their bags, left Lin with the keycard to their hotel suite, so he could use one half of it when Serana showed up, and they'd be able to return to use the other half, if needed, and headed out on a commercial flight for Edessan. "Here's hoping some of this trip gets comp'd by the Spectres," Eli muttered. "I wasn't really expecting this one."

"Should be," Dara told him, wearily. "PR, if nothing else." She'd spent the trip curled up against his shoulder, reading comm messages and journal articles, while he'd taken the opportunity to start catching up with his forensics courses again. The current course played to his love of chemistry, at least, and he already had some knowledge about it. . . high explosives. Chemical tagging, dispersal patterns, detonators, and the like.

Now, he held up the datapad, showed it to her, and asked, "Think I can get Lin's dad to give me some feedback on whatever I wind up needing to write for this?"

She chuckled. "Probably."

He rubbed the back of her neck lightly with his free hand. "Still thinking about your medical specialization?"

Quick, incisive glance from her rachni-blue eyes. "I was thinking. . ..remembering, really. . . how during the trials, you fell back to run with me. . . and I told you how I sometimes thought about changing specializations."

_And I asked you why you didn't._

_And I said I couldn't because Trauma Surgeon was all bound up with being a Spectre, and that goal was all Rel wanted._

That conversation was eleven months old, but clear in both of their minds. He'd been concerned about her, the tiredness, the spirit-sickness in her. EMTs and first-responders burned out very fast if they weren't careful. ER doctors, too. She was better now; immeasurably so. But still. . .

Dara looked up at him steadily. _I'm never going to have the __time__ to be a surgeon. Telinus does surgery, or at least the computer-holographic simulations for them, every single day. He's commuting to Odessa and La Garra and Takinawa to work in their hospitals, getting to know the human brain as well as the turian one. Secondary specialization in cardiac surgery, he said in his last letter. I'm __never__ going to have the time to do that. I'll keep my combat medic certifications current. Have to, as a Spectre. But I think __surgeon__ is just going to have to be a dream deferred. I just don't have the hours in the day to do it._ Only a little disappointment; mostly, there was acceptance. _I can't be a Spectre and a human-rachni diplomat and a doctor __and_ _a surgeon all at once._ _I told Rel off last year because I'd dropped my xeno-obstetrics work and the epidemiology stuff that STG keeps sending me stuff to read about. . . and the pure genetic research aspect of both appeals to me. Working with the Solus template, continuing Dr. Solus' work for mixed couples. . . yes, I want to do that. But I'm not going to be doing their prenatal appointments much. Not if I'm off-world as much as I am currently. . . and a lot of people would have to travel to Mindoir to see me, and I don't have a clinic structure to handle that._ Dara's thoughts were wry. _Plus, you know, I wouldn't necessarily be on-hand to deliver most of the kids. I don't see most people traveling to Mindoir and staying at the science station, after undergoing the security checks, for nine or twelve or eighteen months for the whole process._

_You've been putting a lot of thought into this._

_Yeah, I have. Working through it in my head. I definitely __want__ to do the genetic work, and wouldn't mind delivering babies, since it sure as hell would be a nice change of pace, but . . . I think that specialization-wise, I'll go with a double path. Genetics for the xeno-OB work, yes, and yes. . . pathology._ Flickers in her. Realization of how much she'd enjoyed working with him and Lin. Putting the pieces of the puzzle together. Patients that weren't bleeding or screaming anymore. She didn't _like_ dead bodies, but most bodies didn't necessarily _bother_ her, either . . . although the bodies of the children on Omega certainly had. She still dreamed about those. _Maybe doing both at the same time will sort of balance me out. Make it less depressing. Question of course, is if I have enough time in the day to do both._ She rubbed her face against his shoulder lightly. _Guess I can do one and __then__ the other._

Eli pulled her into his side, very tightly. _You got into medicine to save lives_, he reminded her. That fierce desire to keep people alive, put them back together, make the hurt less, still burned in her. He could feel it. _You sure about this?_

_I can still do that. Like I said, I'll keep the combat medic certification current. I think Spectre work will take care of that for me_. Dara's thoughts were wry. _But I don't see myself spending three weeks a month in Odessa, working at an ER for the trauma surgeon gig. And it would be nice to help give families some closure, some answers. Give the dead a little justice._ She peeked up at him through her lashes. _Also, seems like it might be a little less stressful. Less bleeding, less screaming, and if I can't get to them in the next five minutes, they're not going to, well, get any deader._

Eli tried not to laugh at that one. _Almost dead, dead, very dead, and very, very dead?_ he asked, silently, reminding her of her 'clinical' terms for morbidity that she'd used to describe the Lystheni corpses on the Collector ship.

_Precisely._

At that point, they needed to disembark at the Edessan shipyards, and switched to a shuttle that took them down into the busy airways over Sarbrantha. Eli stared down at the hundreds of skyscrapers that rose into the blue sky, remembering the first time he'd seen them, about six months after Brennia's death. They'd been beautiful, glistening in the sun's light, sending blinding reflections back to his eyes, and yet he'd felt hollow and cold and completely alone as he'd reported to his new duty station. Thousands and thousands of aircars, all swarmed through the eighteen levels of traffic that wrapped around the city's spires, and yet, for all that the city was a hive, he'd been as alone there as he'd ever been anywhere in his life.

_I'm here,_ Dara told him, silently, as he opened the door of their rented aircar for her.

_I know._ Quick smile. They'd traveled with their armor in their seabags this time, so she could see his expression now. "If we had time, I'd take you to my old apartment building."

"You said it was in a bad area?"

"Kind of, yeah. Of course, since then, I've kind of been through Omega in the middle of a war zone. My standards for judging how bad a neighborhood is have kind of shifted." He eased the aircar out of the lot, and flung it into the fifth level of aircar traffic, making Dara grab frantically for a strap.

"Okay, now I'm getting a clearer idea of why you drive the way you do," she admitted as Eli glanced around, spotted an opening in one of the lanes above them, and aimed for it, accelerating rapidly. "My god, these people are insane."

"They're turian, they've got incredible reflexes, very good eyesight, and yeah, they're aggressive." Eli grinned at her, and changed lanes, avoiding two other aircars by inches. "You either drive like they do. . . or you get run over."

Rinus and Kallixta met them at the hotel, as did Rel and Seheve. . . and they all went out, quietly, as a group, to Niciterium Plaza, the site where Edessan Colony had signed its surrender in the Unification Wars, and where he and Rinus had worked together to fend off an assassination attempt on Imperator Ligorus' life, some eighteen months before. It had been the first test of his ability to spot stealthed attackers. At the moment, there were at least five stealthed Praetorians around them at the moment, including Pallum, and he pointed them out for her, using only mental touch to do so. He didn't want to reveal their locations overtly.

"I still want to know how you do it," Dara told him, staring up at the buildings and their balconies that ringed the plaza.

Eli shrugged. "Some of it is sound," he admitted. "I've sort of trained myself to listen for foot-falls, sounds that don't belong in certain areas. Turians should be better at it than I am, but while their hearing is better, they tune out 'background' noise just as much as humans do. And some of it is knowing what to look for. A shimmer in the air that shouldn't be there. It's hard to spot, but once you know what to look for, the sort of angles that stealthed attackers come in at. . . and it's also about just. . . being observant. Brennia taught me a lot about looking at rooms for hidden caches. . . but she also taught me a lot about looking at people. What's out of place. Who's out of place. It's. . . all part of the same skill set, I think."

Their group, for all that they weren't in armor, was getting some looks. Rinus and Kallixta certainly had well-known faces in the Hierarchy. Eli's clan-paint made him stand out, as did the fact that he and Dara were both wearing knife-sheathes. Put them next to Rinus and Kallixta, and people started finding chains of associations. Put Rel and Seheve beside them? Practically a slam-dunk. "How do you _stand_ it?" Eli asked Rinus, after the fourth or fifth wide-eyed stare at Kallixta and himself, followed by a nod and a respectful _"Domina? Dominus?"_

"Being recognized? Annoying. Most people are fairly respectful, though. Give you space. It's the ones who think that they have a right to your time and that they can argue with you about anything they want that piss me off," Rinus replied, dryly. Eli got an inkling of that about ten minutes later, when a male advanced, offering a wrist-clasp, and, with sidelong, angry glances at Eli and Dara, began to gripe to Rinus about his stance on _tal'mae_ weddings, and how three thousand years of tradition couldn't just be thrown out overnight.

Rinus listened patiently for about a minute, and then said, _"You haven't said anything that I haven't already heard in any number of speeches. I disagree. The Imperator disagrees. The Conclave of Law-givers has spoken on the matter, after the exceptional presentation by J. Thaddius Maxwell—"_

"_A human!"_

Rinus gave the male a look, and switched from a polite conversational tone into command-peremptory. From friendly, equals-to-equals wording to superior-to-inferior. It was more than a rebuke; it was a slap. _"I was not finished speaking. And your interruption adds nothing to my assessment of your intelligence. Why is logic and reason to be ignored if it comes from a human mouth?"_ Rinus' tone had gone cold. _"The Law-givers have agreed that there is nothing in a __tal'mae__ contract that states 'this cannot be ended.' It merely does not have an end date specified. If you are in a __tal'mae__ contract and happy with it, this doesn't even affect you. You merely continue as you are. If you're not in a __tal'mae__ contract, it also doesn't affect you . . . only other people, and you have no real business interfering with the marriages of other people. Past that, you are now wasting my time. Leave."_

Pallum materialized out of the crowd now, and stepped in, efficiently moving the male away, becoming a wall between the interloper and his protectees. Eli knew for damn sure that at least two other Praetorians had probably had their eyes on the situation, while two others had been scanning the crowd to make sure that it wasn't just a distraction.

Eli found himself, out of habit, memorizing the male's face, the Baetika paint on his features. And tabbed his omnitool, almost reflexively. _"Pallum?"_ he said.

The Praetorian re-materialized near his elbow. _"You're going ask if he's been logged for facial recognition and cross-referenced with our lists of known threats?"_ the male asked, just as Rinus and Kallixta's heads both came up.

"_Yeah. That, and I don't think he usually wears Baetika paint. That was freshly applied this morning, and the triangle was off-center on his face."_ Eli's mind was remote and racing. _"I don't want to jump to conclusions, just because we're standing in the same location as the __last__ attempt on an imperial life, but. . . "_

Pallum just looked at him. _"Still think you and Linianus would have made __damned__ fine Praetorians,"_ he said, after a moment. _"I'll have the techs widen our facial recognition to non-Baetika sources as well."_

Eli glanced around. He wasn't wearing armor. Neither were any of the rest of them, and he glanced up at the twenty-story buildings that ringed the plaza, all with tiers of balconies, feeling acutely exposed. The bustling city of Sarbrantha, fifteen million people, with its high rises and modern streets, was actually the site on which the colonies' surrender had been accepted, close to two thousand years ago. Edessan had been the last colony to surrender, just after Nimines fell. . . and this plaza held, at its heart, the Peace Pavilion. It had been built on the site by Comodus the Unifier, to commemorate the only time his father, Subigus, had offered quarter to a foe.

The walls were all of glass, and rose and fell like a mountain range all around the central spot where Subigus had received the oaths and fealty of the rebel commanders. "Let's get to cover, shall we?" he suggested. This had been where the Imperator had been heading, and the stealthed snipers had ringed the plaza from the buildings around it, lining up to get shots before Ligorus and his Praetorians could get to the cover of the massive structure.

"Yeah," Rel agreed. He was giving the buildings around them the exact same wary glances. "You don't see anyone stealthed, Eli?"

"Just the Praetorians." Eli wasn't looking for that anymore. He'd just started looking for anyone who looked out of place, looked to be watching them.

"One does not need a stealth net," Seheve reminded them all, quietly. "If the male had wanted Rinus dead, he could have done it at close range, while clasping your wrist. Why did your guards permit him so close?"

Rinus had moved so that he now stood between Kallixta and the buildings to their right; Dara and she were walking side by side now, and Eli's body blocked Dara from the buildings to their left. Rel and Seheve walked to his immediate left. A little spread out, and they couldn't do anything about the buildings ahead of or behind them, but it was what they could do, at the moment. "A _dominus_ who's active in the Conclave does have a responsibility to listen to people," Rinus said, tightly. "Admittedly, they're supposed to write to me or come to my office." They ducked into the shelter of the pavilion, which was largely deserted. "And I'm not aware of any new specific threats against me," he added. "Or Kallixta."

Pallum shook his head, still looking around. "Nothing specific," he acknowledged. "The 'savior of Nimines' and one of the most decorated pilots in Fleet history gives the two of you a lot of notoriety in the public eye right now, though, and your recent Conclave work just gave you more. Someone might take you as a target of opportunity, without previous indications of hostility. Just because you're very visible at the moment. Which is why we've doubled your old protection, at least in the Hierarchy."

Seheve looked at Pallum searchingly. "Then why did you allow him to get so close?"

Pallum looked grim. "Large crowd. His body-language wasn't threatening until close to the end. Made a straight path directly for Rinus on recognizing him . . . and the instant his body language became threatening, someone had a shot on him. The _dominus_ insists that we do not isolate him completely." Pallum threw Rinus an indecipherable look. "However, I trust he also understands that currently, my job is slightly more difficult."

Eli spent a good hour at the hotel after that, in the Praetorian's small command center, looking through facial recognition software analysis. Rel was actually the one who came in to remind him about the upcoming ceremony. "Anything?" Rel asked.

"We think he might be Iustus Karminus, Gothis colony native," Eli replied. "Moved to Edessan after his four years were up, seems to have gotten involved with the _Laevus Lateo_. Fringe group. Not as retrograde as the ones who were living in that farming compound, refusing to send their younglings into military service, refusing citizenship and everything else, that I investigated a year or so ago. . . but still sort of right-wing reactionary. He's only been very peripherally involved with them, though. Doesn't explain the Baetika paint, except that he pretty obviously didn't want to be recognized today." Eli shrugged. "Could have been completely a coincidence, too."

Rel shook his head at him. "And everyone tells me _I_ have a hard time turning it off."

Eli shrugged. His danger sense was nagging at him, and he couldn't let it alone. "They've got local CID looking into it. Even a few people I've worked with before, as I understand it. Just glad we'll all be in armor and shields up there."

Rel nodded, and looked past him at the images on the screen. "Yeah. Me, too. Hell of it is, it could, again, take the focus off people who really deserve the damn awards."

"Doubt the Praetorians will let it come to that," Eli said, simply. "They see anyone in the audience who looks like even a hint of a problem, and they'll be gone. No, what I'm in here for is looking for something wider. And really hoping there's nothing more here than a guy who got adopted by his wife's family or something."

The awards ceremony was fairly long, but simple. The senior legate, or primarch, who'd sent the detachment of six hundred, was on hand to discuss the mission, which had been Spectre-coordinated, and directed at trying to root out the yahg encampments in the area, which had had a fair number of small mining towns, all there for the alkali deposits and diatomaceous earth in the desert, which had been an old seabed. All had industrial uses, and the strip-mine areas had proven to be ideal yahg areas for staging and weapons caching. "We knew they were in that desert in force. We had no idea of how much force, when we sent our people in," the legate admitted, quietly. "We knew from satellite footage that there were yahg there. We knew that radios were being jammed. Past that, we thought—I thought—that we'd sent enough people. The Spectres thought the same thing." He spoke at length about the twenty who'd retreated, on orders, to get to a hilltop outside of jamming range. He spoke of how Decimus, on the radio, had offered to go back into the desert, to try to offer frail reinforcements to those still holding out against the yahg where the convoy had, more slowly, started retreating for the same hills in which they now were. Decimus and Nadea and the rest had been ordered to hold the hill, to maintain communications, and be ready to rescue any of the convoy that managed to make it to the hills. None of the vehicles had made it out.

Eli and the others in their armor had to stand throughout the speeches. The primarch—an alternate title for a senior legate, and usually only given to someone who was in command in a given theater of a war—gestured for Kallixta now. "The Imperator was unable to be here today," he said, quietly, but his voice still carried easily, even without the microphone in front of him. "He has, however, sent his fifth-daughter in his place. Commander Kallixta Velnaran. . .whom, as I understand it, shared a barracks with two of our award recipients in boot camp. Commander?" Not _domina,_ Eli noted, his lips quirking behind his visor. The legate was making a point, but he knew Kallixta wouldn't be offended. Quite the reverse, actually.

"Legate," Kallixta responded, stepping forward to the podium on the stage, nodding to him as he stepped aside to allow her to speak. "Decimus Corolan and Nadea Corolan are two of my oldest friends, and I'm proud to be here today to honor them and their service. And delighted to be able to clasp their wrists as I do so."

_Here, here_, Eli caught, from Dara's undersong, and he chuckled a little under his breath. Kallixta went on now. "The _aurum clipeus_ is given to those who have demonstrated honor and valor in the most extreme conditions. Decimus Corolan went into the line of fire no less than five times to retrieve fallen comrades, to prevent their bodies from being torn apart by the yahg and used for psychological effect against those of his men who remained alive. He prevented their weapons from being used against his men, and honored those who had fallen by preventing the desecration of their remains."

Eli stole a look at the big male's face, in Rocam green; Decimus' face was expressionless as he stared ahead of himself. Kallixta went on, "He was wounded three times in the course of the days that they held that hill, waiting for reinforcements to arrive."

_Bullet magnet_, Dara thought, with a mix of annoyance, friendship, and total respect.

Kallixta went on now. "Nadea, I remember as being one of the fiercest and most determined people I met in boot camp. It doesn't surprise me to know that she crawled out to help Decimus back to the caves when he was injured. It doesn't surprise me that she was the one who took the weapons and armaments off the yahg bodies, and rigged explosives and traps on the paths leading up to the caves. And it doesn't surprise me at all to know that she, too, was wounded twice in the course of these actions. Eligius Maransus is a name new to me, but I honor the male who bears it. He was their squad medic, and kept them alive, in between shooting at yahg. He did his utmost to save the lives of their wounded brethren, and I understand that he, too, was injured, attempting to rescue two of their squad-mates who were pinned down by the yahg outside the cave."

All three faces were like stone, but Eli could see Nadea's fingers slowly clenching and unclenching as they stood there. "This is the utmost dedication," Kallixta said, quietly. "The willingness to do everything, sacrifice everything, so that others might live, so that the mission might succeed. We honor your courage and your loyalty and your dedication here today. Please accept these medallions, and with them, the thanks of the Imperator, and the gratitude of the entire Hierarchy." She advanced, and Decimus lowered his head first. Allowed her to place the wide blue ribbon with the golden medallion around his neck. Then Nadea. Then Eligius.

The ceremony ended with the naming of the names who'd been honored with the award before them. Since there had been five or six hundred awards since the Unification Wars, this part went on for a while. Eli turned his attention towards the crowd, and noted that Rel was doing the same thing. Watching for people who weren't moving the right way in the increasingly bored mass of turians out in the seats of the auditorium. Turians had a hell of a lot of discipline, but even their vaunted stoicism tended to wane after an hour of names had been read, non-stop.

_They just read off Garrus' name. We should be almost done_, Dara noted, quietly.

_Yeah. Thank god._

There was a reception afterwards. There always was, at these sorts of things. _Alai_ roe on _apaterae_ tripe squares for the turians, and what looked like reheated pre-fab spanokopita for the levo crowd, which consisted of, pretty much, himself, Dara, and Seheve. Glasses of sparkling _malae_ wine, and a lot of standing around. The usual, as they waited their turn to clasp wrists with the honorees.

Nadea and Decimus clasped wrists very solemnly with Kallixta at first, until she chided them, "What, so now that you're big damn heroes, I _don't_ get the reminders of how you both wiped the floor with me on the sparring mats?"

Nadea managed a smile. "Feels like a lifetime ago." Eli was getting flickers of recollection through Dara at the moment; she was in her armor, and the strong emotions were making her thoughts leak a little. Nadea and Decimus hadn't registered Kallixta's accent much, like most of the other colonials. And they'd liked and joked with her and with Dara companionably, although they'd definitely fallen a little under the spell of Kallixta's unconscious ability to command others, and had respected Dara as squad leader. It wasn't until the _Estallus_, when Kallixta's background as an Imperial had come out, that they'd been uncomfortable with her for a while. . . and then they'd just put it to the side. Teased the pilot for the daring aerobatics she pulled in combat. . . and, delicately, had teased her about her upcoming marriage to Rinus, as well. They'd gotten a rather hasty _manus_ contract put together themselves, about which Kallixta had teased them right back.

Down the line, Decimus clasping wrists with Rinus, and speaking in admiring tones, "Who'd have thought that the grumpy gunnery centurion would wind up saving Nimines from the batarians?"

Rinus winced. "Can we _not_ talk about that?"

Decimus grinned at him. "I've spent close to a year under an almost total news blackout. Spent the last week reading _every_ news story I could get my talons on, and you've been very busy." Decimus paused. "Isn't there talk about your, er, father-in-law giving you some other title?"

"Spirits, I hope not. I told him I didn't want any more hats to wear." One more firm wrist-clasp. "You two were scruffy lieutenants not too long ago. You did yourselves honor."

"There's not much honor in survival," Nadea muttered, her voice grim.

"Sure there is," Rinus told her, sharply. "Sometimes, it's the only honor there is."

He and Kallixta moved down, and then it was Dara and Eli's turn. They'd both taken off their helmets, at least for the moment, and now he caught a flash of consternation and amazement as Nadea grinned and said, "Dara! Is it that unpronounceable human last name again?" And then the female actually hugged Dara. Dara's free right hand moved back and up in surprise, and then returned the embrace of her old roommate.

"For the moment, yes," Dara told Nadea, awkwardly patting her on the shoulder. Nothing could have told her how deeply Nadea had been marked. Nadea had never been much of a tactile person, or a hugger, but Nadea had latched onto her as to a lifeline. "Easy there. . . you two have had a hell of a year. You need to tell us all your stories." She glanced down the receiving line. "Once you get done having your wrists clasped by everyone in creation, that is."

Nadea released her, and as Eli was clasping her wrist and smiling, Decimus had reached down to hug Dara, too. "Squad-leader," he told her, grinning. "You seem to have a few stories to trade with us, as well."

"None about fighting yahg," Dara told him. "You'll need to trade stories with Eli and Rel and Rinus about those. Mine are all batarians."

Decimus pointed a talon directly at one rachni-blue eye. "Actually, it would seem that not _all_ your stories are about batarians."

At which point one of the workers crawled out of a thigh compartment, and chittered up at Decimus. The tall male, who was easily Rel's height, squinted down at the rachni and nodded slowly. "You know, that looks entirely too much like a _pyrexis_ from home on Rocam," he told her, equitably. _Pyrexia_ were giant beetles from Rocam that, like bombardier beetles on Earth, could expel stinging chemicals from their posteriors . . . from a distance of twenty feet. And moved in swarms, like ants did. Firebiter and _pyrexia_ swarms periodically met in the jungles and would fight each other. . . and eat anything that got in their way.

"It's not," Dara assured him. "Chopin, this is Decimus. Decimus, this is Chopin. He's one of the rachni workers who tries to keep me out of trouble." She lifted the worker up on the palm of her hand so that Decimus could get a better look.

The big male actually pulled a little back, looking uneasy, but relaxed after a moment. —_We sing greeting-songs!_ Chopin and Liszt, who now poked his own head out of another compartment, chorused cheerfully. _—He should not sing yellows and greens. We would not harm him or his queen._

"They say hello," Eli translated. "Also, not to worry. They definitely prefer eating toast over eating raw turian."

Decimus snorted. "I remember you. . . we met on Macedyn. Er. . . at Kallixta's house." It was a deft side-step around the reminder of the _tal'mae_ rites. "Nice to meet you again."

They moved down the line, met the third survivor, a medic who clasped Dara's wrist fervently and promised to trade stories, too. Behind him, Eli could hear Rel and Seheve speaking with Nadea and Decimus, but they were now, at last, free to find a place to sit down and eat bad pre-fab canapés. _Be fair. The turians are getting top of the line gourmet stuff,_ Dara told him, and he grinned at her and bit into a triangle of crunchy dough.

Within an hour, they'd all clustered together at a table. Rasmus Cadius found them, and introduced them to his wife, Kassara. Both of them were wearing mourning bands at their wrists, but also, delighted smiles. Eli grinned hugely and clasped wrists with his childhood friend, who'd grown into the most physically imposing turian he'd ever met, at a full seven feet in height. Rasmus turned and commented to Rinus, "You know, I was on the _Hamus_ for a year. Punched through the relays at Terra Nova and Shanxi, led some of the boarding parties on the batarian ships that encroached on the systems while the ground fighting was going on. . . " Rasmus' eyes sparkled behind his Nimines paint, "and _six damned weeks_ after I rotate to a shore position at last, you take the ship to Nimines, and repaint the hull with glory." Rasmus made a rude noise.

"I wouldn't call it glory," Rinus muttered. "I'd call it scorch marks and hull breaches."

"I'm just as glad you weren't aboard, Ras," Kassara muttered. "Twenty hands were lost in the hull breaches."

"And none of them were marines. I know, I know, the most I'd have been doing is working fire suppression with the rest of the marines. . . but damn. What I would have done to have been there." Rasmus' tone was mildly chagrinned.

That was when Nadea and Decimus had worked their way over to the table, and greeted Rasmus with enthusiasm; they'd all known each other on the _Estallus_, of course. "We should probably drink to the ship," Ras noted. "The _Estallus_ was a good one."

"I'll drink to the pilot that got the ship through the relay and kept most of the crew alive," Rel offered, lifting his glass in Kallixta's direction.

"Just don't ask me to drink to the AI," Rinus muttered, and everyone around the table chuckled. Even Seheve, a little, as she sat, one hand firmly clasped in Rel's.

Eli simply hooked one foot behind Dara's, a very turian gesture, and sat back and listened to the stories. Nadea and Decimus looked like they needed to talk it all out in the worst possible way, and who _better_ to talk it out with than people who'd been through very similar things? By the time another hour had passed, they were tired of talking, and had started asking the rest of them for _their_ stories. Rinus provided the stories from Shanxi, of jury-rigging acid sprays and having krogan and rachni and geth fighting alongside them against the yahg. Of collapsing a parking garage atop a four hundred or so yahg, which got Decimus' eyes to flare a little. And then he told the story, with not a little pride, of Rel taking out the yahg regional leader with his _wedding-knife_. Rel just looked down into his _apha_ and shook his head. "Oh, like no one else did anything—"

"I was there," Seheve reminded him. "And was kept quite busy by the other yahg, and trying to keep Melaani and the others alive."

"I heard Kassa Vilinus got really badly hurt there," Rasmus noted.

"Her gunship crashed. Eight or nine broken bones," Rel acknowledged. "She had a better attitude in the recovery bay than I did, though."

"Well, Kassa always did have good sense," Ras noted, dryly. "And what about you, Eli?" he added, turning and looking at him now. "I know you were on Terra Nova. I caught most of the newsfeeds while I was stuck in orbit, fending off the batarians that kept trying to sneak in to harass our ships. Now I want _details_."

Eli looked up, startled. He'd just been sipping at his whiskey, keeping one foot behind Dara's ankle, and listening. "Well, yeah. After we got done retaking Omega, I was sent to Terra Nova. Rel and James Dempsey were on my team." He looked off, and decided to summarize. "Very _futarri_ hot there."

"He's being modest. He took a yahg off me that had jumped off a rooftop and landed on me," Rel pointed out.

"After you knocked me out of the way."

"And," Rel pointed out, dryly, "there was a thresher maw there, too. Which we, well, kind of drove in circles around, shooting at, until we had to bail out of our Hammerhead and run like hell. Eli drove, I shot. It worked out pretty well."

"I've never actually seen one outside of vids," Ras admitted. "Hard to get a sense of the scale from the newsfeeds."

"Really, really big," Eli said, and drank the rest of his whiskey. He didn't often dream about the thresher, but when he did, he tended to wake up drenched in sweat. Dara reached over, caught his hand in hers, and squeezed his fingers lightly. "My dad keeps talking about taking Dara's father hunting _acrocanth_ as their fiftieth birthday present to themselves. I think I might be less scared of a damned _acrocanth_. Certainly, they're smaller."

Rel nodded emphatically, and drank his own brandy. Terra Nova had been the last time any of them had fought yahg; since then, they'd been assigned to batarian-held planets, primarily. Eli really, really didn't miss fighting yahg. The endless tension of not knowing when their column would be attacked. Whether it would be stealthed units of the huge creatures, or whether they'd run into their rare but powerful biotics. Conversation spun out, almost randomly after that. Decimus leaning forward and asking Dara about the eyes. . . Dara simply shrugged and explained it in a few sentences: "I became the mother of a rachni queen. It goes . . .a little beyond symbolism."

"Yeah, they released a little of the Conclave stuff. Not a lot, but some of the less salutary newsfeeds have been making you out like you're some kind of a mutant." Decimus sounded irritated.

Dara shifted, and Eli could feel her discomfort. "Well. . . hybrid, anyway," she admitted. "Not as much of one as Shepard and Garrus' kids, but, yeah."

_Or Shepard and Dempsey are, as sort of machine hybrids_, Eli pointed out, silently. _Lots of precedents in this big and wonderful galaxy of ours._ He slid his left hand to the back of her neck, rubbing gently, and felt her relax, almost instantly.

Then Nadea leaned in to ask about the empty knife sheathes. A quick reply from Dara, sliding away from the issue as much as possible. "Yes, Eli and I are engaged." Nadea's eyes flicked towards Rel, and Dara moved on, quickly. "No, we haven't set a date yet. Actually, Rel and Seheve are living together now, too. And they have a cat. Practically binding, you know?" A swift smile from Dara, and Seheve actually chuckled at the last.

"You know, we really ought to try to get together more often," Nadea said, at the end of the evening. "More than once every year or four. Or when someone dies."

"You're gloomy, Nadea," Dara chided her.

"Well, last I heard, we'll be seeing all of you on Bastion next week, anyway, so that'll count for next year, right?" Rasmus pointed out.

Rel frowned. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Rinus leaned back, and, behind Rel's head, lifted a finger to his lip-plates, grinning wickedly. _Oh, god. Rel and Seheve don't know they're getting a promotion,_ Eli realized, and took a sip of his current glass of whiskey to hide the smile.

Rasmus blinked, and recovered. "Ah, okay. My mistake. Sorry about that." A quick glance down the table to Eli, who shook his head slightly.

"No, really," Rel persisted. "What do you mean, Ras?"

Rasmus coughed. Like many turians, he was an absolutely abysmal liar. "I think there's an all-Fleet memorial service for the plague victims in two weeks," Eli said, stepping in to cover. "Ras, you're going there to be with your parents for it?"

"Yeah, that. Sorry, I got the dates mixed up in my head." Rasmus seized the excuse eagerly, but Seheve was frowning very slightly. Eli didn't think the drell female was even remotely fooled.

Eli was again, just as glad that he was wearing his armor as they left the restaurant where the reception had been held. They had to exit the building under a covered walkway, and he understood, immediately, why. . . it made it harder for a sniper to aim at them. Even if it was just cloth, it made aim that much less precise. And from the way Dara, Seheve, and Rel all looked up at it, he knew that they understood, too. Rinus was frowning. "Change in plans on the exit?" he muttered to Pallum as they were all getting into the aircar they'd be taking back to their hotel.

"Yes, Spectre. Evolving information." Pallum's expression didn't change.

"Understood." Rinus got in, and Eli noted that, again, he let Kallixta take a seat at the center of the car, but kept himself at the window. Blocking any shots on her. _What happens if __you're__ the target, Rinus?_ Eli thought, grimly. _And if you're being targeted for Rel's, Dara's, and my sake. . . that'd be pretty damned intolerable._

He got in after Dara, and found himself mimicking Rinus' posture, facing the older male, on the opposite seat, also by the window. His back was to the driver, which Eli didn't much like, but at least with a window, he had a view. "You all just went silent," Kallixta said, as the door slid shut, and the car took off. 'That's usually a bad sign."

"Threat analysis taking place," Dara replied, dryly. "I can't hear Rel's thoughts, but his body language shifted the minute we stepped out of the restaurant. Eli's scanning the crowd. So's Seheve." _And so are you, __sai'kaea__,_ Eli pointed out, silently. 

_Well, yes, but I don't like to point that out. _

Kallixta sighed. "I have five Praetorians around us, plus the driver. You can _all_ take the night off for a change."

Rinus shook his head. "Pallum changed our exit. Said they're evolving information." He glanced at Eli. "Our friend from this afternoon?"

Eli shrugged. "Maybe. He could have just been randomly crazy, and he might have escalated when you brushed him off."

Rinus snorted. "I brush off everyone who's a time-waster. And that male? Was a time-waster."

Eli shrugged. "Crazy people who think they're entitled to a public figure's time have done stranger things. And this guy seems to have had odd affiliations anyway. And then there's the fact that he wasn't wearing his usual paint." That part was _really_ bothering him.

They got to the hotel without incident, and in the morning, they were getting ready to head for the spaceport again, when there was an urgent knock at the door, followed by the damn thing opening on its own. Eli had been on edge all morning anyway, and his anxiety had Dara pinging, so both of them had their pistols out and aimed before the door had finished opening. "Sorry, Spectres, sorry," a Praetorian said, instantly getting his hands up. "We've got a situation. We're moving all of you to a safer location."

"What sort of a situation?" Eli asked, tautly, and started getting his armor _back_ out of the bags again.

"Please, Spectres, we need you to move _now_."

Eli glanced at Dara, and then the two of them moved, but didn't holster their weapons.

They were taken to a rooftop landing pad, where a gunship was settling in; they clambered aboard, seeing that Kallixta and Rinus were already waiting, and then Rel and Seheve were bundled in shortly thereafter. "We had a threat message," Pallum told them all, tersely. "Directed at the _dominus_, for 'sullying the sanctity of marriage,' and at all of the rest of you, too, for 'adultery.' The gist of the message was that none of you would leave Edessan, and that this would all end in fire." The gunship took off, flanked by two or three escorts, all of which had CID red and gold stripes down the middle of their bodies.

Rinus growled under his breath. "You know, half the damn Hierarchy wants to pin a medal on me, and the other half wants me dead." He had to speak above the sound of the engine's whine.

"Means you're doing something right," Rel told him, tightly. "Embracing the tradition of our family."

Eli's mind had already gone very calm. "Sounds like a bomb threat," he said, feeling a little remote from the situation. "Checking the hotel itself, as well as the buildings to either side?" He glanced down as the gunship took off. He could see people filing out of the building neatly; turians were nothing if not good at fire drills. North and south lobby exits had the most people; the fire stairs at the corners of the building had people streaming out as well.

Pallum nodded. "Yes. They probably do not realize that we have been importing NABI-trained sniffer dogs since you made your invaluable suggestion of them back in 2195, Spectre Sidonis." He bared his teeth in a fierce grimace. "We're also taking a look at the call information."

Seheve lifted a hand. "Wait." Her voice was imperative. "Have you considered that the threat could be the diversion? A way to get us out of the building on the assailant's schedule?"

Eli congratulated Pallum silently for not rolling his eyes. "Of course," the Praetorian replied, simply. "However, unless they have a gunman covering every potential exit, they couldn't anticipate which of the eight exits we would remove you through."

Seheve was looking down now. "What was the military background of this Iustus Karminus? Was he in explosives or ordnance?" Her voice was suddenly very crisp.

Pallum looked at one of his lieutenants, and gestured, being too busy now himself, studying the area around them as the gunship angled upwards. "No," a junior Praetorian replied, squinting at his omnitool. "Artillery. Spent his tour carrying the Mark M—"

"_Malleolus_," Rinus said, sharply. "Anti-tank, anti-aircraft weapon, shoulder mounted." He looked up. "One of my favorites, actually."

"Range?" Eli asked, feeling his stomach clench. _Great, stuck in a metal box five hundred feet off the ground, and some idiot could be shooting rockets at us—_

_Steady_. That was Dara's voice in his mind, as she, just like the others, moved to the windows to peer down. Her macroscopic vision wasn't what it had once been, but was still very, very good. Adrenaline and fear in her, too, but she'd been in so many similar situations that it was more contained.

"Two thousand feet, but they need a heat signature for that," Rel answered out loud.

"We're fine. Engines are shielded," Pallum said, tightly.

"That building," Seheve said, tapping on the glass. "It is to the west of the hotel, is tall enough for an unobstructed view of the north _and_ south lobby exits. . .that gives an assailant the ability to strike at four exits, total, with the rooftop in addition." Seheve made an annoyed sound. "Additionally, like many of the buildings in this area, it has a rooftop garden."

Eli slid over cautiously, and peered down, with Dara. "Good news is, he probably doesn't have access to any stealth devices," he muttered. "We shut _that_ down pretty hard here eighteen months ago." He paused. "You see anything, _sai'kaea_?" The roof below was just a mass of trees in planters and flowerbeds to him."

"Movement," Dara acknowledged, squinting. "Can't tell if it's a gardener with a leaf-blower on his back or someone with a rocket launcher, damn it. . ." She made a face. "I _really_ miss the optical gene mod sometimes."

"Still better than most people," Eli reminded her tightly, holding onto a strap, feeling a trickle of sweat roll down his spine. He'd had time to get into his armor on the roof, but armor wasn't going to do a damn bit of good if the gunship exploded around them, or even if it just plain crashed. _No Sky or Fors here to catch us if we fall, either. _"How'd the guy get ahold of a rocket launcher if that's what he's using?"

"Something I'll worry about explaining later," Pallum said calmly. He was already steadily assembling his sniper rifle, and opened a side window to lean out slightly. "Target confirmed," he said, his voice absolutely remote now. "That is definitely not a leaf-blower. Maintain position," he called to the pilot, and they stopped ascending, just for a moment.

Dara's voice was very tight now. "If he's got his finger on the trigger, you'll need a brainstem shot, Pallum. So that he can't spasm and shoot as he dies."

"Not a problem." Pallum's voice was remote, and then his finger pulled the trigger, twice.

Eli closed his eyes, and reached out to Dara. Watching things through her eyes was hard, still, but if he concentrated, and if he had skin contact, or if she was wearing her armor with the crystalline underweave, he could _just_ manage it. . . and he watched as the tiny figure below crumpled to the ground. "You got him," Dara told Pallum.

"Yes," the Praetorian agreed, calmly. "We're still moving you out. In case there was more than one."

Eli grimaced, opening his eyes again. "Any chance I can get copies of the reports?" he asked, as the gunship veered off, heading for the spaceport now. His teeth hurt, and he wanted answers.

"The Spectres will be copied," Pallum agreed, his eyes glittering. He was not precisely a happy camper at the moment, it was evident.

Rel shook his head. "Five years of having to beat people's heads in for having a human mate," he said, very dryly. "And now, probably ten or twenty more years of it for _not_ having a human mate."

Dara squinted at him, but it was Seheve who responded, her expression serene, "That is, as they say, the fate of all those who are trend-setters, is it not?"

All of them turned and looked at her. "A joke?" Dara asked, after a moment.

"It would appear, not entirely a good one," Seheve replied, spreading her hands. "I will endeavor to do better."

The trip back to Bastion was blessedly quiet, although Eli had put his coursework to the side to call Lantar directly back on Mindoir and ask his father to look through the Spectre databases on the late Iustus Karminus, his known associates, and the _Laevus Lateo_, or the Hidden Left-hand, as the phrase translated, literally. Lantar had looked furious at the news of the attack, and promised information as soon as he had _anything_.

They were on a commercial flight, and they kept getting encrypted comm messages. Between him, Rinus, Dara, and the Praetorians, the stewards were getting nervous at the number of calls they were receiving. . . which involved, each time, having to get up and go to the communications booth, instead of just taking it on their omnitools at their seats. The other passengers were starting to get annoyed. . . until they turned around to ask what the _hell_ was so important that they _had_ to keep taking messages. . . and caught sight of the three figures in back Spectre armor looking back at them. Two of the Praetorians were in white formal armor, and the other three were in plain clothes, scattered in other seats on the flight, but Eli could see them all watching the cabin while pretending to read from datapads.

Rel leaned over the seat back at one point, asking, quietly, "Look, I know I don't have any experience in this _s'kak_. . . but can I at least read what you're reading?"

Eli gave him a quick glance. "Want to put that xeno-psych course to use?" he asked, dryly.

"Kind of, yeah." Rel shrugged. "Different kind of hunting, maybe." His mandibles flexed. "Won't be yahg around forever."

"But there will always be criminals, eh?"

"When someone tries to kill me, I generally like to know why. If only so I can prevent it from happening."

"Here." Eli handed him a datapad. "Welcome to the wonderful world of extremist groups."

Dara looked up from her own datapad; she was responding to a message from her father and Kasumi at the moment. Who were also not happy campers. "Don't expect _anything_ to make sense," she added, just as dryly as they'd been speaking. "Rationality goes right out the window."

Eli didn't expect results quickly. As it was, they docked at Bastion, and Lin met them at the boarding area, his expression taut with anger. "Welcome back. You guys can't even go two days without getting shot at, can you?" he asked. "Come on. B-Sec's made some security and travel arrangements for all of us, for the time being."

Eli sighed. _So much for relative freedom,_ he thought, glumly.

_Better safe than sorry, at least till we figure out if this guy was a lone nut job or if he had friends,_ Dara counseled, silently.

Serana was waiting for them back at the hotel, as were Dempsey and Zhasa; any number of Spectres had filtered onto the station in the past couple of days, and they were, at the moment, fairly irritated. "Sidonis, you and the doc go anywhere, you're taking either me or Zhasa with you," Dempsey said, shrugging. "Figured you'd like that a hell of a lot more than a B-Sec detail following you around."

"It's an improvement," Eli acknowledged. He glanced at his omnitool. It was the sixth, which meant that tomorrow _should_ be the investiture ceremonies.

"Not that I'm not thrilled to see so many Spectres here," Rel said, sounding confused, "but why _is_ everyone here? Are we leaving for our next assignments directly from Bastion?"

Zhasa chuckled, a low, rich sound. "I don't believe so," she replied.

Seheve looked around at them all skeptically. "Something to do with the one-year anniversary of the plagues and the beginning of the war?" she asked.

_Yeah, I didn't think she was buying that one,_ Eli thought.

Serana snorted. . . and looked relieved when there was a knock at the door. She hopped up to go answer it, cautiously, and then stepping back to admit Garrus and Shepard. "Quite the family gathering," Garrus said, walking into the room and looking around.

Rel's head was swiveling around, and his expression had become more than a little suspicious at this point. Eli had to turn his face away to keep from laughing outright. _He knows something's up, but he actually doesn't get it_, he thought. That, more than anything, told him that his old friend was a hell of a lot healthier now, than a year ago. No false expectations.

"All right," Rel said, looking at his uncle and aunt. "What gives?" Human expression, probably picked up from Dara or Sam, over the years.

"What makes you think something's amiss?" Garrus asked, lightly.

"You're here," Rel replied, bluntly.

"Oh, and I can't leave base?"

Rel looked at the ceiling. "You're _both_ here."

There was a pause. Rinus pointed out, dryly, "He's got you there."

Shepard chuckled dryly. "Yeah. He kind of does, doesn't he?" She looked at Garrus. "Let him off the hook."

Garrus gave her a quick grin, then turned back to Rel. "You're out of uniform," Garrus told him, lightly. "You're going to need to drop by an armor shop and get those blue stripes painted over. A little red touchup at the throat. Think you can handle it?"

Rel's mouth dropped open. Almost comically so. Eli's shoulders shook, and he had to put his head down on Dara's shoulder. "But. . . you said. . . a two-year evaluation period. . . .?"

Lilitu Shepard pulled up a chair in the suite's tiny living area, and grinned. "We said 'when we see a person looking at us, and not a weapon.' Matter of fact, I said that to Seheve here, as best I recall." She paused. "Oh, and you're out of uniform, too, Liakos. Never seen so many people who can't take care of their kit. Makes me wonder why we're making them Spectres, Garrus."

"Spirits only know," Garrus agreed, coming over to stand behind her, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders.

Seheve's mouth had, likewise, dropped open. Rel had just regained his composure enough to accuse the rest of them, "You knew!"

"Well. . . yeah," Rinus said, grinning. "What would be the fun of knowing _and_ telling you, though?"

Rel had to sit down at about that point, and simply shook his head, looking dazed, for about half a minute, while the others all started to laugh, and gathered around, offering him and Seheve wrist-clasps. "Why _now_, though?" Rel asked, once Lin had gone to the tiny kitchen area and pulled out the bottles of champagne and _malae_ wine he and Serana had gotten earlier in the day.

Shepard shrugged. "Same reason as Makur, Kirrahe, and Thell are making the cut. . . as are Glory and Stone. Because you've already been doing Spectre-level work, doing it well, and, honestly, I've lost thirteen Spectres in the last twelve months. I need more. And if you're already doing the work, why the hell shouldn't you get the privileges and the paycheck?"

Seheve still looked completely flummoxed; her usual mask of serenity had been shattered, and she was sitting, with her hands clasped in front of her. When Serana passed her a glass of human champagne, Eli could see that her hands were actually trembling. "It is a tremendous responsibility," Seheve finally said, after taking a sip. "And an honor. I will work hard to ensure that you do not regret this decision."

"Yeah," Shepard said, leaning back in her chair. "You will."

Rel took Seheve's free hand in his, setting his glass down on the table beside him, and looked around. Finding Dara, he reached out his other hand to her, and Eli could feel the flickers of happiness and unease in her as she stepped forward, and rested her palm on Rel's. Chatoyant colors, flickering through her mind now, the golden glow of Rel's base color, warm again, not raging out of control. Happiness and peace and affirmation. "Hey," Dara said, after a moment, and Eli could hear the tightness in her throat. "A little later than you thought it might happen, but kind of nicer this way, huh?"

Eli closed his eyes as the words flickered from Rel's mind into Dara's. _Yeah. Because this way, I actually earned it. I think._

It turned into an even louder party when the other candidates started knocking at the door. Siara brought Makur, who clearly hadn't expected this any more than Rel and Seheve had. He arrived, grumbling audibly about being dragged all the way to Bastion for a damned _meeting_. And just stared at Shepard for a long moment when she told him the news. "Huh. Thought you said I needed to show more leadership?" he finally managed.

"And what do you think you demonstrated on Khar'sharn when you told Rinus to go back up Rel and Livanus, and took control over the entire northern assault on Valak's house?" Shepard asked, reasonably. "You've also steadied yourself considerably in the last year. You accept orders from other Spectres very well. You tolerate being reined in amazingly well, and when we let you off the leash, you show a fair bit of self-control. We also liked what we saw on Nimines. Working seamlessly with Fors and Stone to recover so many victims. It was all good work."

Siara had come over to the couch, to sit beside Eli; Dara was currently perched in his lap, and they were rapidly running out of chairs in the small suite. "You actually managed to keep this from him?" Eli asked Siara, grinning.

"Was difficult not letting him hear it in my thoughts, but yes." Siara grinned, all edges.

"Keeping secrets _is_ a little more difficult when they can hear everything you think—" Dara admitted, and then, as Eli grinned and put a hand at the back of her neck, skin to skin, started humming under her breath, determinedly.

"I _am_ going to find out what you're blocking me out of eventually," he pointed out.

"Stop peeking, or you're totally going to ruin your birthday presents."

Eli pulled his hand back immediately. "Well, when you put it that way. . ." He paused. "Do I get hints? Does this involve red ribbons or lab coats?"

"No hints!" Dara told him with asperity. "You'd figure it out too fast that way."

Makur stumped over now, told Siara, "You're in my spot," and she chuckled and got up, so he could sit down, and pull her into his lap as well.

"See?" Siara told him, lightly. "Now you've got something for your next letter to Kyri."

Eli turned and looked at them. "Who the hell is Kyri?"

"My little turian pen-pal," Makur muttered. "Youngling I helped pull out of the rubble on Nimines. Gave her my comm code, and she's written me once a week since then, regular as clockwork. They've apparently gotten a school or two together at the edge of the blast zone. I told her that the pictures of it look about like the bunker I grew up in. She thought that was funny." He shrugged. "Forces me to practice my writing, I guess. Especially since Siara won't tell me how to spell anything. And Kyri corrects me if I get anything wrong." He looked up at the ceiling. "Vaul, does she correct me."

Kirrahe and Thell were the last to show up, and there was almost no room for Thell, who apologetically shouldered his way into to the crowded suite. "We were told to report here for a meeting?" Kirrahe inquired, looking around with an air of evident confusion.

"Yes," Shepard told them, grinning. "What would you say if I told you that you were out of uniform?"

Kirrahe frowned slightly. "Would suggest that I do not currently _have_ a uniform, and neither does Thelldaroon."

"I think you'll find that this will change tomorrow," Garrus told him, lightly.

Thelldaroon shifted carefully to face the pair. "Why would this be so?" he rumbled.

"Oh, a small matter of an oath you'll be asked to take. Nothing major." Shepard grinned again. "Just being made full Spectres." She lifted her glass in a small toast. "Oh yes, and you, Thell, will be the first elcor Spectre in history. Your clan and elders will be very proud. Cheers."

Kirrahe was silent for almost a full minute. Thelldaroon, who processed things quite a bit more slowly than the salarian, was silent for almost five. By the time Thell got around to venturing the question of, "Why now?" Kirrahe had already accepted it as real, and had moved on in his mind. In fact, he'd settled in to play some sort of a game on his omnitool, something extremely fast-paced and quintessentially salarian, which seemed to involve launching animated fiery birds at a variety of structures, and burning them down as quickly as possible. "Burny Birds?" Eli hazarded, looking over Kirrahe's shoulder.

"Certainly not. PhoenixVille," Kirrahe replied, and destroyed another building with one carefully placed phoenix egg, which exploded into a full-sized bird when it hatched in the middle of the structure.

The next day, therefore, over a dozen Spectres were in the audience in the Council chambers as the new candidates were inducted. Eli could see that there were a handful of new probationary Spectres out in the audience as well. . .a geth platform, of a model type he'd never seen before; bulkier, and with human-like legs, rather than the more standard quarian/turian configuration. It was standing next to Cohort, and when Eli moved over to be introduced, Cohort introduced the new geth as, "This platform is designated as Composite. It represents an experiment. We designed miniaturized mass effect cores within its hardware, along with a full array of gravitic and energy sensors. It has been cut off from the main geth collective for some time, stress-testing these new technologies, but has permitted us read-only access to its data arrays. Samara-Justicar had interactions with it that suggested that Composite-Designate could serve as a secondary geth platform among the Spectres. At Shepard-Commander's request, we evaluated the platform, and formed consensus that agreed with Samara-Justicar's assessment."

Eli ran that through his mental geth-to-organic translation. "Composite here can produce mass effect energies and affect gravity, like a biotic?" he asked, after a moment.

"Correct. He was designed to emulate useful portions of organics' 'biotic' potential."

Eli offered Composite his hand to shake. "Well. . . should be interesting working with you. Nice to meet you." *

The other 'probationary' being brought on board was another non-organic, but this one couldn't have been more different from Composite. James stood beside the two geth, the only clue to his non-human nature the blank white eyes burning in his face, his arms folded across his chest. "Don't mind me, I'm just here to fill out the diversity quota," he told Eli, dryly. "We human/geth/AI hybrids need representation."

Eli snorted. He was astounded, really, and a little uneasy. "Last time I saw you, you'd been shooting at us. . . and after that, you'd gone into the reactor core."

James nodded. "Yeah. I'll do my best not to shoot at you again."

Eli glanced around. "Actually, it's usually my job to agree to shoot Dempsey. It would make an odd sort of sense if you decided to shoot me, instead. . . . but yeah, let's avoid that, okay?" He sure as hell hoped Shepard knew what she was doing, appointing James, newly decanted into a fresh body. . . but Shepard hadn't made too many bad recruiting decisions yet. _What the hell. He's still Dempsey. I mean, a Dempsey with free access to his emotions and, okay, no biotics, but. . . sort of the same guy, right?_

_Right._ Dara told him as he found his way back to her side. _Something like that._ _It's not too much crazier than having two Jokers, right?_

_Heh. At least Dempsey's getting a full dose of Mindoir weird. It's not just us._ He scanned the crowd again. He spotted Siara, who was standing and talking to another young asari, who carried a sword by her side, and a krogan male who was still young enough to have smooth skin, instead of the crags and rough patches that even Gris displayed. There was an asari child between the pair, peeking out at the people around them, of all species, wide-eyed, as if she'd never seen such a sight before. *

Anderson stood before the assembled crowd, and directed the candidates, which included Glory and Stone, whose carapaces had been painted glossy black for the occasion, "Please raise your right hand, or, ah, other handling appendage. . . "

Glory and Stone promptly raised their pedipalps. "Repeat after me. I, then state your name. . . "

"I, Rellus Velnaran. . . . "

"I, Seheve Liakos. . . ."

"I, Urdnot Makur. . . "

"I, Sur'Kesh Tessinav Kirrahe Orlan. . . ."

"I, Thelldaroon . . . "

_I, Sings-of-Glory, broodling of Bargain-Singer and Sings-to-the-Sky . . . _

_I, Sings-to-the-Stone, broodling of Bargain-Singer and Sings-to-the-Sky . . . _

"Do solemnly swear, to uphold the Council and its laws, to protect the galaxy against threats from without and from within, and to place my life between the lives of billions and harm. This I swear by what I hold most sacred, and I pledge my life and my honor before the stars eternal."

It was a simple oath, but it held a lot of meaning. The more so, after having done the work for a year. . . and even more so on looking at the faces of Garrus and Shepard. Who'd put their lives between the Reapers and the rest of the galaxy, and won.

After that, they were able to return to Mindoir. Eli was keeping an eye on his inbox, and, ten days later, they got word from the Praetorians that while Iustus Karminus had definitely been involved in the _Laevus Lateo,_ that group was busily denying any connection with his actions. _As best we've been able to determine, so far_, Pallum wrote in his initial report, _Karminus had been __tal'mae__ wed, but his wife left him. There were indications of alcohol being a problem for him, and many, many bills. He had attempted to reconcile with her on two or three occasions; the last time, her family threw him out of their home and his parents filed for a restraining order against him. All warning signs. He got involved with the Laevus Lateo about two years ago. Seemed to have a stabilizing effect on him, initially. Respect for duty, honor, tradition. . . not bad things, inherently. On investigating his apartment, however, we found that he'd been obsessing about Garrus and Shepard's marriage for some time. Had news articles saved going a decade back, mostly from newsfeeds that didn't like the hybridization efforts. And similarly, had been obsessed with Rinus and Kallixta, and, to a lesser degree, Rellus and Dara. He'd followed the stories on Rinus and Kallixta with the most enthusiasm. Mostly articles calling them the quintessential turian couple, the product of the Hierarchy's purest spirits. However, Rinus' involvement in the AI Rights movement, and the recent __tal'mae__ law changes seem to have disturbed him. He couldn't quite get past the fact that he idolized the Savior of Nimines. . . but didn't agree with Rinus' politics. It looks as if he'd been nerving himself to speak to Rinus. We've found that he actually traveled to Palaven for the Conclave, but missed the chance to speak with Rinus, since it was a closed-door meeting, and the __dominus__ was rather busy fighting a few duels in the Conclave hall after the Imperator left. A great deal of the Spectre's activities are not on the public Imperial schedule, so Karminus returned to Edessan. . . and when it was announced that Rinus and Kallixta would be in Sarbrantha for the __aurum clipeus__ presentation, he communicated extensively with the Laevus Lateo groups on the extranet. Saying he wanted a chance to talk with Rinus, face to face, and convince him that his stance on __tal'mae_ _was wrong._

Eli shook his head, still wondering about the damn Baetika paint. That was, in fact, the topic of Pallum's next paragraph. _Karminus had been displaying erratic behavior on and off, even to his neighbors. Insisting that the courts had him on a watch list (in fact, he was not, other than that we in PG have been observing Laevus Lateo in general for some time), that his apartment was bugged, probably by his ex-wife and/or the police. His obsession with getting his mate back was commingled with a detestation for her, a conviction that she was out to get him, and that the courts that had issued the restraining order had likewise ordered warrants for investigating him. No such warrants exist, but it's evidence of an increasingly paranoid personality traits. His neighbors reported that he'd come home at odd hours, wearing different clan-paints. This disturbed them enough that they reported it to local police, but it's not actually a crime to wear different paint, so nothing came of it, besides it being logged. That, to me, sounds like someone attempting to dodge surveillance. _

"Surveillance that wasn't even there," Eli muttered under his breath, rubbing at the inner corners of his eyes briefly, as he sat at his desk in the office on the first floor of their house. They'd managed to get desks in, and extranet connection, and comm consoles, but it still somewhat echoed in the room. On the plus side, he could look out the window beyond his aerogel screen at an absolutely incredible view of the lake, which looked like melted lead today, gray and sullen, reflecting the dark gray clouds overhead. A storm was starting to brew, and they might have a couple of inches of snow by nightfall. The workers had put in a little overtime in their most recent absence, and they now had a couple of small outbuildings. . . .including a garage for their hovercycles. . . and a covered walkway to access them, in spite of any snow.

Dara padded into the office now herself, bringing him a cup of hot tea. "Anything else important in that report?" she asked, nodding at his screen.

"Guy with paranoid tendencies, a drinking problem, and a very bad history with his ex. Sounds like they were happy enough, before the Reaper War. He was the lone survivor of an artillery squad that pretty much got wiped out." Eli shook his head. "He and his wife married _tal'mae_ just after the war ended, but after that, he started drinking heavily. Within three years, so, 2190 or so, she'd left him, first wake-up call. Couple of reconciliation attempts, culminating in 2192 with a restraining order, and he moved to Edessan. Got involved with the wrong people for someone like him, and the rest appears to be history."

Dara put her hands on his shoulders, starting to rub, and Eli felt the tightness draining out of his muscles as she found and worked at the tension knots with gentle expertise. "So," she said, after a moment, "are we going to need bodyguards every time we go into Hierarchy space now?"

Eli sighed. "We should be aware of our surroundings. And I suspect both our families, and hell, Shepard, will want us to have Dempsey and Zhasa, at least, along with us when we go into Hierarchy space. If not Praetorians. Which I'm not sure we warrant." He rolled his eyes. _Spectres who can't take care of ourselves. _He paused. _Wait, is Shepard technically family again?_

_Technically, since you and Lin are blood-brothers, and he's married to Serana, yes._

_You ever get the feeling that someone in twenty years is going to try to do our genealogy and shoot themselves?_

_Ciea'teilu__, I don't think there's any 'in twenty years' about it. Through Lin and Serana, you're also related to Kallixta. Which means the Imperial family technically has AIs, through Rinus and Kallixta. Hybrids, through Garrus and Shepard __and__ through your parents. A salarian, through your dad adopting Narayana, a human, in you. . . you call Ylara your third-mother, so they can claim an asari. . . kind of. . . and when we get married, they'll have rachni as cousins, too._ Dara leaned down and kissed his cheek. _Kallixta told me last week that the Office of Heraldry and Imperial Genealogy is usually all of two old guys, who mostly putter around with dusty old books. There are rumors that both of them are being kept away from sharp objects and shoe laces lately._

Eli's shoulders shook with laughter, and he caught at her hands. Pulled her down, and she obligingly curled forward, wrapping her arms around his neck from behind, and nipped at his neck, which made his breath catch. "It could get worse," Eli pointed out. "Gavius and Agnes could decide to stop sneaking over to each others' houses like two crazy kids and make things all nice and formal. My dad and your dad could swear blood-brotherhood—"

"And swear it to Garrus, too. I know. I've gotten chapter and verse from my dad on that topic." Dara chuckled against his shoulder. "Come on, Eli, I think it's time you put work aside for a little bit." She bit again, very lightly, just where neck and shoulder met, and then told him, "Rumor has it, it's your birthday."

"So it is. Twenty-one." He shook his head, staring out the window. "Time fricking flies, _sai'kaea_. This time last year. . ." _ This time last year, Serana was due to arrive on Bastion, and we were a week out from getting sicker than I've ever been in my entire life. And now, we're days from heading into batarian space to take the war to them._

Another little nip, this one slightly reprimanding. "Memory-songs are strong, I know," she told him, lightly, "but I need your mind here and now."

Eli turned his chair around towards her. "Oh?"

"Yes. I've made you a cake. The workers only helped with the decorating part, and we're not telling my grandmother about that. That's for after dinner, though. All of your family and all of mine are going to descend on us in about two hours. . . but I kind of wanted to give you my gifts before they showed up." Faint undercurrents of yellow anxiety, but she was humming again. Blocking him.

"I told you, really, all you'd have to do is wear a lab coat and a pair of heels and nothing else, and I'd be a very happy birthday boy." _Very, very happy, in fact._ He grinned at her and let her see the images in his mind.

Dara made a face at him. "You spoil me all the time. Let me spoil you, too." She tugged at his hands, and drew him after her to the stairs, up to the room they'd opted to make their bedroom. After a certain amount of bargaining with the workers, they'd even gotten the outer corners of the trapezoidal space turned into triangular closets, and Eli had centered their bed between the two French doors that led out onto the balcony. At the moment, they had that bed, a dresser, and a single nightstand in the large room, under the gleaming white-to-violet crystals in the ceiling. Eli had had _another_ long conversation with the workers about how rocks embedded in the ceiling made it difficult to hang lights or ceiling fans. For the moment, they were making do with the bedside lamp. _We're going to be growing into this house for the rest of our lives_, he thought in amusement as she tugged him towards the bed in the gray, dim light streaming in the windows.

There were two packages on the counterpane, neatly wrapped, but without ribbons or bows. Dara didn't go in for the extra frills. The rectangular one, he opened first, and smiled when he realized it was another book of poetry. "Got you used to having a poem read to you every night, huh?"

"Well, we might run out eventually," she replied, perching beside him on the edge of the bed. Still the yellow-tinged anxiety in her undersong.

"You're really worried that I'm not going to like whatever the hell you got me, aren't you?"

"You're _really_ hard to shop for. You make my dad look simple. Dad's easy. New tools for whatever project he's going to work on next. Ancestral music. Vids. You? You're much harder."

Eli snickered, and picked up the second package, weighing it in his hand. It was fairly heavy, and cylindrical. "My dirty mind is coming up with all sorts of possibilities here—" 

"Oh, bite me. Just open the damn thing."

Eli grinned at her again, and did. The silvery object rolled out of the packaging into his hand, and he turned it over, studying it. Found the on/off controls, and switched it on, glancing up to see her expression of mingled worry and delight. . . .

. . . and then the entire damned _galaxy_ flooded through their room, the projection pouring out of the device and expanding out until it touched the walls. "Holy crap," Eli said, almost dropping it in his surprise, but fumbling and catching it before it could hit the floor, after all. "Wow. This is _beautiful_." He set the projector down on the bed, and stood, feeling uneasily as if the stars were going to swirl right through him.

"It's a bit more than a work of art," Dara told him, rolling to her stomach on the bed, and kicking up her feet behind her. "It scales down a little, if you want to put it in power-saver mode. Makes it a little easier to work with, too. But. . . for the moment. . . find someplace where you've been and touch it."

Eli frowned a little, and started figuring out the interface. Sure enough, he could shrink or expand which sectors of the galaxy he was looking at, and managed to navigate to the Menvra system, and pulled up Bastion. . . in all its partially-constructed glory. . . and when he touched it, databases opened. Pictures from his family. Pictures from his stint in CID there. The news footage on the plagues, but also, the investigations on Maldo Ren and everything else. His eyes widened, and he half-turned. "What else is there?" Eli asked.

"Everything I could remember and find," she told him, smiling, face lit up in pleasure at his reaction. "The good, the bad, the ugly, and everything else. Organized by year and cross-referenced by event and people involved. Bastion was easy, for the most part. So was the Citadel. Your mom keeps really good vid records. Earth, well, my mom's stuff helped. Pictures from my dad and Kasumi's wedding. Macedyn, Serana had the stuff from Brennia. Edessan was a lot harder. And all my stops around the galaxy. . .well, not a lot of pictures. Had to go with service record stuff, mission reports, who lived, who died." Dara shrugged, "My places are color-coded blue, and yours are color-coded red, and wherever we've both been makes purple." She sighed. "I was only able to get so much done. Basically just a picture dump on some of the places."

Eli grinned and swung his hand lightly through the display, figuring out how to bring up the color coding. Forty, maybe fifty systems between the two of them. And a hundred billion other stars still out there in the galaxy. _All those locked relays. All the places where Council ships have never gone. All the places where god only knows if the Reapers or the Sowers ever even __went__,_ Dara told him, silently, as the galaxy, in all its grandeur, rolled out around them, unknowable, unfathomable. Suddenly, the areas of each region that were considered 'Council space' suddenly seemed tiny, almost infinitesimal, and lost in the endless sea of stars. Maybe a thousand known star systems, at most, clustered in easy FTL range of four hundred and fifty known relays from the original network. There was no way in the universe that _all_ of that immensity could be touched at once, known at once, influenced at once. To think otherwise would be to deny just how vast the universe was, to try to make it smaller. More able to fit in the human mind. _God, __sai'kaea__. This makes everything we worry about seem so small._

_I know. And yet, the small things are what make up everyone's lives. And no matter how small someone's life seems in proportion to all of that, it's all they __really__ have._ Dara rolled to her back, staring up at the stars that hung in space around them. _I want to see them __all__, Eli._

_Me, too. But even if we started now, and flew at maximum FTL for the rest of our lives. . . _

_. . . we'd never even see one tenth of one percent of them. I know._

Wonder flooding through them. And for a moment, Eli thought that was as much her gift to him today as anything else. The memories of all things past. The small things, that marked each planet for them. And wonder, too. Wonder, that would fight cynicism and burn-out and disaffection. He lay on his back on the bed beside her, and pulled her close, so that her head rested on his chest, just above his heart, and gestured. Shrank the galaxy down to a more manageable, human scale. This way, their little color-coded dots looked a little larger, more meaningful. "You know what?"

"Hmm?"

"I've spent a grand total of three days on Earth in my entire life. I think I'd kind of like to go there for our honeymoon."

"Earth?" Dara laughed. "Really? You don't think I'm going to set off gongs when I go through Customs?"

"You're an Alliance citizen. Your passport says 'human,' and your biometric chips say 'Spectre.' Maybe one with really incredible gene mods, but still. . . let 'em _try_ keeping you off your home planet." _They better not try to categorize you as an illegally modified plant, animal, or animal byproduct, or I will raise holy hell, and they will not know what hit them. _

_Mr. J. Thaddius Maxwell of CAIR?_

_Maybe._

_I thought you'd want to go someplace exotic. Someplace neither of us has ever been. Maybe Luisa. And I know you think Macedyn's a horrible tourist trap, but I never did get to see the crater falls up close. Climb up the paths alongside them and get splashed by the spray the whole way. And you'd love Sur'Kesh. Tropical islands and a moon that looks like it takes up half the sky when it's full. . . . _

_Nah. I was thinking. . . you could teach me how to ski. Maybe in Colorado, or maybe in the Alps. If we go for the Alps, that's not all that far from Vienna. And I could take you to concert halls every night, and you could listen to Mozart and I could take you back to our hotel when you're still spinning from all the music, and it would be __really__ fun._ Eli reached up and found the trailing galactic arm that held the Sol system, and focused in on it. Enlarged its local cluster, and zoomed in on the tiny yellow-white star that held Terra in its gravitational tow. _And I've never actually been to Texas._

_You want to try a real barbecue place, huh? With the taxidermy on the walls and everything?_

_. . . you aren't actually kidding, are you?_

_Nope. Best place to eat, growing up, was down the road, and had dead critters all over an indoor waterfall. Stuffed armadillos and posed rattlesnakes fighting with stuffed weasels and even a little stuffed bobcat. Would've been depressing, except that they also had a model train going around the whole restaurant to keep the kids occupied. And the food was amazing._

Eli did his best not to laugh. There they were, caught between the memories of barbecue sauce and toy trains. . . and the stars above. Somewhere between the animals and the angels. _Where the small stuff and star dust meet. Where the finite and the infinite touch. That's us. That's __all__ of us. And that's why all of it matters._ He didn't know if that was his thought or hers, if it was human or turian or asari or rachni. That part didn't matter. Only the realization did. And with it, he rolled over and kissed her. Let the awareness pass through them, and transcend them.

_Happy birthday, Eli._

_Sai'ialeo'o, Dara. Joy forever._

_**Author's note**: Composite is not mine. He belongs to Eleventh Messenger, and is probably the most fascinating character concept I've seen out of the forum RP. Eleventh plays him extremely well, and now that he's been promoted out of the RP, I'm hoping that Eleventh will find some time to write some original stories from Composite's POV. Maya and Dren and Sogona are property of StormCrowley/Rhoenix, and he asked if they could be present for Makur's induction. _

**Rellus, Mindoir, April 17-18, 2197**

Rel was still spinning a little, mentally. He'd been sworn in as a Spectre ten days ago. A year ago, he would have considered it his life's goal, and, if he was being brutally honest with himself. . . he wasn't entirely sure what he'd have done after attaining it. Celebrated, certainly. Gotten down to work, absolutely. But he had a nagging sensation that he wouldn't have had any other goals. Wouldn't have known what to do with himself. And would have been watching Dara very slowly fade away into a ghost of herself.

Eli's birthday party had started off as just his and Dara's immediate family—Sam, Kasumi, Takeshi, Lantar, Ellie, Caelia, Tacitus, and Emily—at around 18:00 on the seventeenth, and then the extended family and friends had all arrived. Rel had brought Seheve in the used aircar he'd purchased from his parents' neighbors. There was a couple of inches of snow on the ground, and Rel was damned glad to be getting indoors, and Seheve's expression as the wind whipped around her slender frame, told him that the breeze from the rapidly cooling lake waters below was definitely unwelcome.

Within moments of entering, however, the warm floors and the heat of all the bodies in the house began to seep into their chilled frames. Eli had clasped wrists with him, lightly at the door. Most of the awkwardness was gone, at least, which was a help. Rel glanced around at the house, with its bizarre rooms, which, from their shapes and their odd, crystalline ceilings, felt far more 'alien' than a human's home ever did to him. "Thanks for coming," Eli told him, ruefully. "I wasn't expecting a big deal made out of this. It's just my twenty-first." He shrugged. "Been an adult in the Hierarchy since sixteen. Been an adult on Mindoir since sixteen. Been able to drink on any turian world and Mindoir since sixteen. Been able to vote in the Alliance elections since eighteen. What the hell is so important about twenty-one?"

"Symbolism," Sam informed Eli, succinctly, and the younger human simply shook his head and rolled his eyes a little, before shaking hands with Seheve, giving her a light, very human hug, and then being pulled back to his next set of guests.

Twenty minutes later, in the warmth of the kitchen, and while Dempsey was tuning up his guitar on the other side of the house in the library, and the clatter of _reela_ keys echoed through the relatively empty rooms, Rel peered at the various dishes on the counters, and pointed out to Seheve which ones were safe.

Seheve told him, calmly, "I think that tonight I will sample the human dishes, and avoid the salarian ones."

"You say that as if there's something wrong with Ellie's Salarian Surprise," Sam pointed out, reaching into the cryo-unit nearby for a beer.

"There is," Seheve told him, smiling faintly. "The surprise part. There is delight in trying new things, but little enjoyment in having to take antacids or epi-tabs in haste thereafter."

Sam snickered. "I hear that. In which case, you might want to stay away from Kasumi's octopus _karaage_. It's deep-fried, and might not sit too happily on your stomach."

"Octopus?" Seheve asked, her eyes widening.

"Non-sentient, I swear. Even Blasto's been known to try a few, and he laughs when I tell him he's being a cannibal."

Seheve turned, found the _karaage_ in question, and tried it anyway. Much to Rel's amusement. He moved out of the room after a moment, however, and was surprised when Sam followed him. "Something on your mind?" he asked. They'd never _quite_ gotten to an easy level of camaraderie again. They could work together, it was clear, and now that Rel was firmly divorced from Dara, Sam no longer regarded him as a threat to his daughter, but he wasn't sure they'd ever really be friends again. If they had been, to begin with. Sam had. . . tolerated him. Tried to guide him and teach him. But his level of acceptance had been directly tied to Dara's level of happiness, and had been mixed with a certain mixture of skepticism, as well.

Sam eyed him for a moment. "A little. Now that you've climbed Everest, what's next, Rel?" _When you've gone as high as you can go, what do you do then?_ It was a fair question. One that he couldn't have answered last year. That much, he knew for certain.

"Do it again," Rel told him, after a moment. "Or find a different mountain." He blinked as Lin passed by, handing him a _festuca_ beer, chill and faintly damp from condensation. "Thanks, _fradu_," he called after Lin, and got a wave as his old friend continued across the room to talk to Eli about something, where Eli was lounging in a chair beside the piano, eyes half-closed, listening to Dara pick out a tune on her _reela_. A new one, of course; the old one had been destroyed with the _Estallus_.

"Climb it with one hand tied behind your back?" Sam offered, taking a sip of his beer.

"Or find a different hobby," Rel agreed. Unconsciously, his head had turned a little, and he'd spotted Seheve against the far wall in the oddly-shaped living room. She'd just accepted a challenge to play _ru'udal_ with Serana, Kasumi, and Shepard . . . and no one really wanted to get into the middle of what was clearly a bluff-match for the ages. _Challenges like, say, finding the drell different planets to live on besides Kahje. Reclaiming their homeworld, which the rest of the galaxy has conveniently forgotten for seven hundred years. Helping Seheve get all the damn Prothean words out of her head into dictionary form, so everyone can actually understand what they put in their writings. That, in and around helping Valak and his revolution. Oh, and, on a smaller scale, finding furniture that fits both of us._

"How's the new house?" Sam asked, as if reading Rel's mind.

They'd had the trailer in the valley for a month; not long enough for it to feel like home, fortunately. However, the turian villa, on base, didn't feel like home yet, either. "Little spirit-touched," Rel admitted. "I don't like to think that it belonged to a Spectre before me who didn't make it off Amaterasu."

"Camarus Condonian died a hero," Sam agreed, quietly. "I didn't get a chance to work with him much. Older guy. Came in close to the same time as Saren. Old-school, but respected what Shepard's been building here."

Rel nodded. Base housing services had cleaned the house thoroughly. There shouldn't be any smells or signs left, but he sometimes wondered if Condonian's spirit lingered there, looking for the spirit statue that his wife and children had taken with them back to Palaven a month ago. "I suppose the most annoying thing," Rel admitted, dryly, "is trying to find furniture that's comfortable for both of us." Dara had been shorter than he was, but she was nowhere near as small as Seheve, who was only a few fingertips taller than Kasumi or Ellie. Every morning, Dara had gotten out of the nest-roll and rubbed, groaning, at her lower back; Seheve, being drell, had always slept in a similar nest-roll, herself. A non-issue. "I'm seeing a need for step-stools as never before." And while a human female of Dara's height could get more or less comfortable in a turian sling-chair, with her feet only a few inches off the floor, since she wasn't that much shorter than Serana or Kallixta, Seheve, on the other hand. . . occasionally muttered that she felt like a child.

Which, considering how much it took for Seheve to complain about _anything?_ Stood out like a beacon in Rel's awareness. Especially since he knew how badly he'd screwed things up, once before.

Sam actually chuckled at Rel's rueful words. "Lantar says the same thing, if it's a help. Kasumi has her chair, I have mine, and the butt-groove on each is well-worn and comfortable. And when all else fails, there's the couch." He looked off across the room. "What else?"

Rel shook his head. "I didn't want to get into it while we were still in the colonial trailer, but now that we're in a house? I was thinking," the words slowed down for a moment, and then picked up speed again, "that maybe getting a dehumidifier hooked into the heater and air conditioning would be a good idea. Trouble is, I took a look at what getting one rated for replicating a drell environment in the house would cost, and. . . damn." He leaned against the wall, and took a sip of his beer. "I think I could handle getting the windows replaced—Seheve says she wants double-paned plasteel, so no one can shoot through them, and I'm telling her that there's no real _need_ for that, when someone could just as easily shoot through the _wall_—"

Sam's shoulders shook for a moment, unaccountably. "Yes, but you can see to aim much more precisely through windows. If she doesn't like it, suggest solar screens. Hard to get a visual through them unless you go to thermal, and then, someone can get a lock with thermal through most walls. Except maybe these," Sam noted, jerking a thumb at the nearest one. "Solid stone on the outside, some sort of rachni-extruded mortar, and wallboard on the inside. Hard to get a reading through."

"Villa's made of brick," Rel offered, tentatively.

"Brick façade. Makes a big difference." Sam sipped at his own beer, watching the room.

Rel sighed. "Yeah, I can see that. Probably explains why no matter where I go in the house with the humidity meter, I still get at least forty percent. She needs about fifteen to twenty percent, on average, to avoid lung damage over time."

"Hence the dehumidifier."

"Yeah."

"Double-paned windows will be a help, but you're gonna need to buy yourself a caulk-gun. Not to be confused with a real gun." Sam's grin was crooked. "Seal the weather stripping and sills, inside and out. You can paint over 'em, but you're getting leaks, and not just from the windows. That's why you're going to want to look at your duct-work. I'd suggest asking Dara really nicely for some of her rachni friends' help on that. Beats the shit out of doing it yourself."

Rel found himself chuckling. "I. . . hadn't even thought about the areas around the windows. I kind of figured that the windows themselves were the culprits. I mean, I hold my hand up to them, and I can feel cold air coming in."

Sam nodded. "Yep. Some of that is crappy windows. And some of that is crappy sealing _around_ the windows. Having done it the wrong order a few times before? Replace the windows, _then_ seal up around them. Saves redoing it. . . till the caulk dies in five years anyway."

Rel gave him a confused but pleased look. They were talking, and it wasn't all that uncomfortable. In fact. . . Sam was relaying advice. Just as he always had.

There was a pause, and then Sam asked, casually, "How about Seheve's family?"

Rel blinked, shrugged, and took another drink of his beer. "They're a little wide-eyed that she made Spectre. I think I've got her brother thinking about a structural engineering degree. Told him that if _I_ can manage one in strategic studies, he's got no excuse." Rel shrugged. "The kids are too young to get into fights at school, but they've been getting reports of the twins having some problems with other students. Iakys bites the other kids, and Ymenia hides under the tables."

"Bites? That's no good."

"I know. In a turian kid, we'd figure it was hunting instincts, and work on redirecting the biting to a prey-substitute, like a toy. In a drell, they think it's frustration because Iakys is having trouble talking. He remembers everything, he knows the words, they just won't come out right. So he gets mad and bites." Rel shrugged. He wasn't really sure why he was talking to Sam about this.

Sam just smiled faintly. "What do they recommend?"

Rel shrugged again. "Verbal drills. Singing songs, tongue-twisters. Basically forcing him to talk back. I try to play word games with him. I point to his ear and say it's his eye. He tells me I'm wrong and says the right word. Then I tell him, 'Oh, it's a nose?' and he says no, it's his _ear_. By that time, he's usually giggling."

Sam's smile, so _odd_ to see without the moustache, grew a little wider. "And I heard that when you moved out of that colonial trailer, you guys helped Oeric and Maia move _into_ it, since it was larger than their old one."

Rel frowned. "Well, yes." _That's what you do for family._

"Figured out which of you's going to do the cooking?"

Rel's mandibles flexed. "Why the interrogation, Sam?"

"Ah, that would be a _no_ then. One of you is going to have to learn. Take-out only works for so long, although god knows Shep and Garrus have both been holding out on the whole cooking thing for a good ten years now—"

"Sam?"

"Hmm?" Sam studied the level of the beer in his bottle contemplatively, and then looked around the room, as Lin's parents and younger siblings poured in from the front door area.

"Is there a reason for the questions?"

Sam chuckled. "I told you, once upon a time, that Sarah caught me and hogtied me and by the time I looked up, I realized I'd been working on her problems for so long, I didn't even realize when I'd been dragged into living life." He gave Rel a direct look. "Congrats."

Rel's lip-plates fell open. Everything they'd just been talking about clicked into place. An almost direct parallel with what Sam had once told him about his own life. About being consumed by work in special forces. Having the family of his first beloved refuse to allow him to marry her. . . and then all the little things in Sarah's life dragging him in. Fixing her groundtruck and helping her with the ranch house and everything else, until he woke up one day, and realized. . . he was alive. _Spirits._ "Full circle?"

"And we end where we began." Sam nodded soberly. "Need me to show you which end of the hammer is the one you hold?" A pause. "Your dad's a good man. He knows which end of a gun is the business end, and he's a galactic treasure in terms of xenobiology . . . but I just don't see Allardus knowing a damn thing about home repair."

Rel gave him a dirty look, and, with the hand that wasn't holding the beer, a finger-flick.

After listening to the music for a while—Dempsey was attempting to pick up something human and very antique that Dara was playing, by ear, apparently—Rel glanced up to see that Valak had joined the party. And was blandly _trouncing_ Seheve and Serana both at _ru'udal._ . . but not Kasumi, who was holding her own in the four-handed game. Shepard had given up her seat to let Valak play, and was clearly laughing at the scene in front of her. He made his way over to Eli, who was now talking earnestly with Lantar and Garrus. "So," Rel said, and faltered for a moment. Three sets of eyes locked on him, and he reminded himself that he had a right to ask the questions now. "When are we going to Lorek?"

Garrus nodded to him. "We've been waiting for ships to reach the system by straight-line FTL burn. They're going to cut in and take out the ships guarding their relay, so we can move more ships in through there. Two, maybe three days."

"We've got briefings tomorrow, actually," Lantar told him, calmly. "Alliance has been running this attack, just as the Hierarchy set up the attack on Camala."

Rel passed a hand over his fringe. "And worlds like Ferris Fields and Eden Prime? Where the yahg are still attacking?"

"They're bring worked on by the geth and the krogan and the allied fleet, too, but the point of counterattacking right now, and hard, is to prevent the batarians from being able to get a fresh wave of yahg shock troops anywhere. Hackett and the rest of the Alliance brass, not to mention the turian admirals, all agreed that the number one task right now is to keep the batarians busy, back on their heels, and unable to send their ships out for more yahg." Garrus tapped his talons against his glass now.

"Chances are," Lantar said, dryly, "that even if the batarians get desperate, they're not going to risk bringing too many yahg to their homeworlds. Well, other than those who might already be there."

Rel's head came up. So did Eli's. "Wait, hold on a second," Eli said, sharply. "Why would they _ever_ risk letting yahg onto their home planets?"

Garrus waved it off. "We're getting ahead of tomorrow's briefing. Tonight's a party. Tomorrow, we work."

As the two elder Spectres moved off, Rel watched them go, and Eli muttered, under his breath, _"S'kak._"

"I couldn't agree more with your tactical assessment," Rel told him.

"Got anything to add to it?"

"The word _futar_ comes to mind."

"Yeah. That it does." Eli's expression had gone dark and closed. Then he visibly shook it off. "Thanks for being here tonight, Rel. Didn't expect it, but I appreciate it."

Rel nodded, slightly startled again, and unsure of why. He and Seheve had come to the house once or twice for dinner in the last month or so. . . and then he understood what Eli meant. Those had been individual visits. Private. This was a more public occasion. "Yeah, well, you know. The spirit of the unit."

"Hah, yeah. Every turian's favorite excuse," Eli told him, dryly, and clasped his wrist anyway.

Much later that evening, Rel took the used aircar he'd bought from one of his parents' neighbors, and edged it back to the villa he and Seheve were calling home. The dirt track that horses, _rlatae_, and hovercycles could use to reach Dara and Eli's house was just not kind on the suspension of a groundcar. "They need to get a road built up through there," he muttered.

Seheve was dozing lightly in the seat beside him, and he paused for a moment, looking down at her. The lights from a passing groundcar, as someone else on base returned to their house, briefly illuminated the lines and angles of her face, and, in a flash, Rel was back in the Council chambers, taking the oath. With Seheve at his side. The rush of pride that had filled him. Pride in his accomplishments, yes, but pride in her, too. She was deeply complex, but subtle as a knife. Controlled and quick and calm, but with deep vulnerabilities, too. His _amatra_. The person with whom he was truly growing to hope he might spend the rest of his life. . . . and they'd made Spectre together. At the same time. Another flash of memory, and Rel didn't know whether he wanted to laugh or to howl, briefly. He'd seen himself, in the simulator, making Spectre with his beloved at his side. And he had. It had just been _Seheve_.

But it was all. . . better. Just like the entire rest of his life was better, for having her in it. Everything, when he was with her, was indefinably _better_. Calmer. _Just like Lin needs Serana's warmth. Just like Lantar needs Ellie's light. I just hope I give. . . __something_ _back. That was why Dara and I fell off the tightrope. There was no balance. _Rel reached down and touched Seheve's face lightly. "Wake up," he told her, and her dark eyes opened, instantly. It had only been a light doze. She was, by her nature, crepuscular to nocturnal. She only moved around in daylight by sufferance, because almost every other Council species agreed that a diurnal cycle was their preference. "What is it?" she asked, immediately.

"We're home."

"Was I asleep long?"

"Last mile or so." He paused. "You know, if we were to reclaim Rahkana, it occurs to me that it would be the only truly nocturnal world and work-week in known space."

Seheve smiled. "Big dreams."

"You have to start with the ideas. If you don't dream big. . . reality gets a little smaller." Rel shrugged. "I dreamed big. I dreamed of being a Spectre. And I got it. . . eventually. I just realized that. . . well. . . once you attain one dream, you need _more_ dreams."

Seheve unstrapped the harness, and started to get out of the aircar. "What other dreams do you have?" she asked, wrapping her arms around herself as they walked to the door.

"A lot, now," Rel admitted. "Seeing the batarians freed of their own system. That's Valak's dream, though, and I share it, because it's a good one." He wrapped an arm around her, sharing warmth to the front door. "There are the Tosal Nym and Aphras projects. Which are just getting started, and maybe they can be mixed levo-dextro planets, from the inception. And one of them should be warm enough and dry enough for you and any number of other drell, not to mention warm enough for turians." He palmed open the biometric locks. "That's more my father, Lantar, and Shepard's dream, though I admit to having started asking a lot more about it now."

Inside the house, Seheve studied him. "Any other dreams?"

Rel closed the door, and cupped her face in his hands. "Well. . . there's you. Helping you with your projects. The Prothean language stuff. Translating the _Words of the Enkindlers_ properly."

"But those are my dreams." She regarded him steadily. "What about yours?"

Rel shrugged, feeling self-conscious all over again. "Living life," he said, quietly. "With you. Seeing you laugh. Maybe, someday, adopting kids, or having hybrids. Just. . . all of it."

Seheve stared at him, her eyes huge, and blinked rapidly. Rel swallowed as the silence grew a little uncomfortably long. "I mean. . . if you don't see this being a life-long thing," he managed, uncertainly. . . "Ah, spirits. I totally messed this up." He ran a hand over his fringe in exasperation. It had been easy to find the words with Dara, and he'd messed that up, too. "What I meant to say, Seheve. . . _amatra_. . . ."

"I love you," she told him, softly, and the words died on his lips. "Is that not strange?"

Rel shook his head, feeling the words arrow right through him. "No stranger than the fact that I love you, too."

The next morning, however, took them back into work mode. The briefing room at Garrus and Shepard's villa was, to put it mildly, crowded. Three brood-warriors, two krogan, and an elcor made it a tight fit even before squeezing in everyone else; they'd resorted to removing the table and having everyone sit in folding chairs, facing the front of the room.

"Good morning," Shepard told them as she entered, and waved them all back to their seats for the moment. "We've got a lot to cover today. Valak, if you would help me out by starting us off?"

Valak nodded, stood, and came to the front of the room. "Some of you are aware that Alisav K'sar has been assisting me with acquiring information, still from within SIU." Rel scanned the room; the other batarian was not present. _Well, no. He would still present a potential security risk._ "We were able to get a certain amount of information out of the Head of Investigations for SIU in the past week or two, and have confirmed it through other Spectre assets." Valak looked around the room. "We are pretty sure we have the location of the hot labs where yahg and Hegemony scientists collaborated on the plagues."

Rel felt, rather than saw, Dara lean forward suddenly. He turned his head slightly, and saw an expression he'd rarely seen on her face before. She could fight with the best of them. Could kill without pity or remorse. He'd rarely seen a hunter's look in those eyes before. As it was, Eli's head had turned, as well. "Steady," Eli muttered to her, further down the row.

"I am," Dara replied, softly. She raised her hand, however. "How'd Alisav manage to get that information out of the head of Investigations?" she asked.

Valak chuckled. "It was a fairly brilliant plan. Not entirely mine, so I can say that without looking completely immodest. We had Alisav report that he was in this system, and had seen military transports moving through the area, including some medical transports. K'sar said that from comm traffic, it appeared that they were carrying vaccine to counter the same plagues as on Bastion. Isav Malsur took the bait, and asked for further information on them. If K'sar could get aboard any of the ships, and retrieve samples. . . ostensibly, so as to engineer vaccines for the Hegemony population." Valak shook his head. "Not sure how he kept a straight face on that one. K'sar played it very well. Told him that he'd taken a look through SIU records when the name Maldo Ren came up, and that he knew perfectly well that the salarian had been involved in something far above his pay-grade, but that if Malsur wanted him to stick with that as a cover story, he would. . . but that Malsur should know he was capable of reading reports." Valak chuckled. "He was very convincingly annoyed with Malsur for denigrating his intelligence. Made it more believable."

Rel lifted his own finger now. "Yes, but how did this get us the location of the hotlabs?"

"I took K'sar and his little scout ship and a half-dozen of my warriors off-base for a little trip to Omega."

Eli's head rocked back. So did Lin's. "Whoa. Weren't you concerned about him compromising the whole thing?"

Valak shrugged. "He wore a transmitter, and I had two men covering him and his contacts there with sniper rifles. If he'd given so much as a wrong twitch, he'd have died, instantly." Valak's tone was almost casual, but there was nothing flippant about the expression on his face. "I'm growing to trust him. I think he might be that rarest of things in SIU: someone who's stayed relatively unbent by the system." He sighed. "At any rate, Malsur had agents meet us there. Took the contents of a crate with him. Vaccines, yes, but with radioactive tracking agents in them." Valak shrugged. "Malsur's agents caught that, of course. K'sar was already prepped with a response on that. . . . and it's one that sounds perfectly legitimate to someone inside the Hegemony." He shook his head and tsked lightly. "Apparently, the Alliance wants to be able to track where people who've lined up and taken their vaccines wind up going. The tracker will supposedly stay in their bodies and show up for up to a year, but won't cause any organ problems. So much for the free and open society of the Alliance, eh?"

Rel winced. Eli shook his head, and said, simply, "Hey, there are enough crazies in the Alliance who think the government has time to do that anyway. It actually sounds kind of like the truth, to the paranoid fringe."

"Precisely," Valak said, shrugging. "So, the vaccines have been moved several times, and a salarian stealth-ship in the Lorek system has verified its current location. . . which happens to tally with information we've received from Argus about one of the potential hot labs. Nice to have confirmation." He brought up a map. "The facility is SIU, and has been used for biological testing before. I don't know much about it, other than the vid stills the salarian stealth ship has managed to get from orbit. And our ability to go through SIU files is strictly limited by Alisav K'sar's need-to-know clearance. . . and, as Investigations, he doesn't have any need to know about biological warfare." Valak shrugged again. "Digging any further would set off alarm bells, and I'm not ready to burn that bridge just yet."

"Always assuming that it isn't misinformation, or a trap," Lin muttered darkly. Serana was sitting at his side for this briefing, one of the few people in the room not in Spectre black.

Valak shook his head. "Too much confirmation from Argus. She did manage to get a few floor plans of the facility for us."

"The most disturbing thing, to me," Shepard cut in, quietly, "is that we don't know precisely who or what is currently there. Scientists, very likely. SIU handlers and guards, also very likely. Potentially, a female yahg, maybe two. We know that all of the yahg scientists are female. And we know that they're not allowed to go anywhere unguarded or alone, really, from what M'nav was able to tell us about their society."

Unknown on top of unknowns. Rel's crop tightened. "But wait, there's more," Garrus said now, dryly. "That facility is outside the city of Kinsala, on the far northwest of the major landmass on Lorek. It's not our only concern here. We also have. . . this."

He pulled up another, far more detailed diagram, showing several buildings, each of which had a ring of fences around them, but the fences abutted each other. "This," Valak said, touching the screen lightly, "Is a _Klem Na_ facility I visited last year. The complex on the left is their 'computer research center.'"

Kirrahe's head lifted. So did Seheve and Serana's. "Yes," Kasumi said, from the side of the room, where she sat beside Sam; her face was covered by shadows. "This is what you've been training for, Serana, Seheve. This is the location of what we hope is the last physical node of the Lystheni dalatrass' AI."

"And what is the facility to the east?" Thell asked, raising his head appraisingly.

"That," Valak informed him, simply, "is a production line for biotic weapons. Not for the asari and human and batarian biotics. No. This is where they build the machines that the organics are fitted into. We want to capture it, completely intact, if possible. Record and document everything in it. If there's a way to undo what's been done to the lobotomized biotics, it might be here."

"And if nothing else, we will, again, want the information there," Shepard said, her voice hard. "Who ordered what. Who knew about what. No excuses. No 'I was under orders.'"

Rel's eyes had widened. "We're going to hold the complex against the entire planet's defense forces?" That didn't sound even remotely logical.

Shepard shook her head. "We're timing all of these raids to coincide with the planetary attack by Alliance and Hierarchy forces. We're doing strategic, surgical strikes to eliminate assets, like the Lystheni dalatrass, gain information, and preserve and document evidence. Well, in those two to three facilities we are." She exhaled. "The next two are a bit different."

Rel sat back as Valak took his seat once more, and Garrus once more gestured, bringing up a different image. "Spirits," Rel muttered. "That's a lot of satellites."

It was. Camala was an agrarian planet, and had still had a fairly effective satellite defense grid. Lorek had several billion people, mostly clustered in cities. It was commercial and industrial, with some agriculture, but not as large a percentage as Camala. As such, it had more wealth, and a commensurately much more impressive defense grid. "The turian fleet had the Camala defense grid destroyed inside of a week," Garrus noted, quietly. "There are close to eight hundred defense platforms in the skies over Lorek. Each of them is stocked with small railguns and ballistic warheads. It would take the combined fleets probably close to two months to wear down the defenses, and we'd take a lot of casualties along the way. Casualties we don't want or need. And that's where _we_ come in." He zoomed the image in. "This satellite is, as far as we can tell, the main control center. Most of the satellites are unmanned, but this one has a live-aboard crew of sixty to eighty men. We'll be sending in three teams and taking it over. Deactivating the satellites from that control center. . . or, if possible, turning the guns towards the planet. We might see surrender _very_ quickly at that point."

"Which is what Alliance brass wants," Shepard noted, dryly. "Turian fleet doctrine is 'ten men for every one of ours you kill.' Alliance fleet doctrine is 'speed, surprise, and overwhelming force in order to attain the objective quickly and decisively.'" She gave Garrus a quick grin. "And in this case, the objective is unconditional surrender."

Valak shook his head. "You'll have to demonstrate the will to use the platforms before they'll acknowledge it."

"Yeah," Shepard said, grimacing. "I'm hoping that between my reputation as the Scourge of Bahak and Vokaj's reputation as the Butcher of Torfan, it won't come to that, but, we'll see."

Rinus lifted a hand now. "You said a moment ago that there were _two_ more objectives. . . .?"

"So we did." Shepard touched the screen now, herself, and the image panned out. Slid away from Lorek's green-brown bulk, and focused on a hazy brown moon. "Lorek's moon, Itzal, also happens to have a strategic center on it. Missile defense. Half the damn moon is covered in silos, but it's got a dense nitrogen-argon-methane atmosphere with a smog-like haze of hydrocarbons, very similar to Titan, one of Saturn's moons. That and its heavy magnetic field interfere with scans. We know approximately where their control center is, and we're sending in a team to take control of that, too. Because, let's face it, from the moon, they could actually take out the satellite control center. Which would leave the defense satellites still locked on 'automatically target incoming ships that don't match our friend-or-foe detection systems' and would, let's face it, kill the teams who are storming the control center to take control of those satellites. Which, since I'll be on one of the satellite teams, I'd take somewhat amiss." Shepard shrugged. "I've tried breathing vacuum once before. It didn't work out well."

Rel traded glances with everyone around him. Eli was shaking his head and muttering, "Six impossible things before breakfast, my ass."

Shepard brought up all of the different facility maps and placed them side by side on the screen. "Three teams will be hitting the satellite control center, coming in from its two access bays. Concurrently, two teams, one stealth and one distraction, will be hitting the moon base to take out the missile defense center. Both sets of teams will be dropped from the _Normandy_, which, like the _Sollostra_, just got its DME drive integrated in the past few months." She paused. "Yes, that means we're going to be going in the long route, and will be using the rest of the fleet's attack on the defenses around the system's mass relay as our distraction."

Rel considered it, his crop clenching a bit. Lorek's mass relay _had_ been largely unguarded a few months ago. . . before the raid on Khar'sharn, and before the attack on Camala. Now, it was surely swarming with defenders, and the whole system had to be on alert for the same tactic. The fleet would be entering the system, engaging the defenders at the relay, and allowing the rest of the fleet to come through, in a repetition of the tactics used at Rocam and Galatana. "I don't mean to tell Alliance brass their jobs," Rel murmured, quietly, but loudly enough to be heard, "but I'd put money on the batarians having the area around the relay mined or something. Probably set to detect friend-or-foe signals."

Shepard nodded, her expression tight. "The possibility exists. However, it's a major shipping hub for them. They _can't_ mine it too extensively, or they'll lose civilian ships who haven't updated their codes."

Rel nodded, but he still didn't like the idea of relying on the exact same tactic as used before, with the expectation that the enemy wouldn't be prepared to counter what they'd already seen used. Garrus nodded to him now. "Turian War College and the Alliance brass are definitely keeping in mind all the maybes," Garrus told him. "We can only game out so many possibilities before we paralyze ourselves, though."

Shepard cleared her throat now, and went on, "Once those two areas are secured, the _Sollostra_ will be dropping two teams off, one an infiltration team intended to enter the computer center and destroy the Lystheni dalatrass, while the other team will be entering the eastern half of the complex to take over, contain, and preserve the evidence as best we can, on the biotic weapons platforms." Shepard exhaled. "And the _Raedia_ will be dropping off our final two teams, who will be going after the hot labs. This is the facility on which we have the least information, so a certain number of rachni will be dropping with the teams there. Soldiers, workers, definitely Glory for coordination. The facility, overall, looks like a hospital, so. . . you may see injured people there. Or you may see, let's face it, test subjects."

"And yahg?" Eli asked, grimly.

Shepard sighed. "We don't know. If there are, I wouldn't expect large numbers, because then the batarians couldn't control the situation, and they're not entirely dumb." She gave Valak an apologetic glance. "Some of them are, in fact, pretty intelligent."

Valak's smile was mirthless. "Commander, I wasn't taking offense. For my people's leadership to have tried to start this war for colonial gains and profit, and have expected the entire galaxy to have been looking at the horrors of the yahg and completely to have ignored our own attacks? Not, perhaps, the smartest move ever made in military history."

Rel forced himself to sit back against his chair again, but his tension level was rising again. "All right," Shepard said. "Now for the part everyone's been waiting for. Who goes where?"

The room went absolutely silent again. "Don't look so grim," Shepard told them, with a hint of a crooked grin. "All right. First thing's first. Two teams, as I said, for the lunar base. One stealth. Sam and Kasumi, you're going to get your wish. You're team one, with Blasto."

Rel blinked, and his head swiveled. He knew that the pair of humans had definitely worked together before, just. . . not any time that he'd been around to see it. Sam rubbed lightly at his upper lip, where his moustache was starting to grow back in, and said, dryly, "I guess we'll be needing a babysitter for a while."

"I think we might need another bet. Whichever of us gets spotted by the enemy first has to shave his moustache." Kasumi's wicked smile flashed across her face.

"You sound _awfully_ confident that it's not going to be you getting spotted," Sam chided, dryly.

"That's because the universe loves me, Sam. You? Well. . . how's your karma lately?" Light words to cover up tension.

"This one does not have a moustache to shave, respected Kasumi," Blasto chimed gently from across the room.

"In your case, we can come up with another forfeit," she told him, lightly.

Sam squinted at her. "Like him finally telling me his soul-name?"

"While this one trusts you, respected Samuel Jaworski, this one is unsure whether or not this one is fully comfortable with this idea."

Rel gave the hanar a measuring look, and wondered, briefly, if Blasto would have any ideas on moving large numbers of drell off of Kahje. Of course, doing so would somewhat destroy the hanar economy, if they suddenly had to do all their work themselves again, as they had not had to do in some seven hundred years. . . His attention snapped back to Shepard, as she cleared her throat, "And the distraction team is going to be Gris, Cohort, and Sky. Something of a reunion."

Gris snorted. "Haven't had all three of us on the same line since the AEC came to Mindoir, I think. Am I still stuck on 'translation' duty?"

Shepard shook her head. "We're still not sure just how clean that Collector tech is, that's supposed to communicate both in machine-comprehensible code as well as biotic-based thought patterns. For the moment, Joy-Singer has asked a rachni worker with the datapad program that Dempsey worked out on Terra Nova to be assigned with you."

Eli chuckled under his breath, which got him looks. Dara asked him tartly, "Are you _quite_ finished?"

His shoulders shook a little more. "Sorry. It's just the image of a worker, hanging onto Cohort for dear life, and frantically trying to tap out a text message at the same time. It's killing me."

A ripple of amusement through everyone else in the room, besides Dempsey and Cohort, of course. Cohort tipped his eyeflaps minutely. "Probability of losing either rachni or datapad over ninety percent. We will carry both rachni and datapad in a backpack. Datapad can be rigged to transmit encrypted signals by RF. Less efficient than direct communication. Gris-Spectre remains preferable 'translation' facilitator. But in the event that Gris-Spectre becomes incapacitated or is detained in some fashion, this method becomes an acceptable fallback."

Shepard nodded, her smile fading now. "I'll brief each team on details before we leave. I just want to get all the assignments hashed out first." She exhaled audibly. "All right. Three teams for the satellite, because it's heavily manned and guarded. I need technical people, so Hal'Marrak will be joining us. . . but the first team is going to be a bit of a departure. Rinus Velnaran? You're leading it. Dempsey's your second. _James_ is third."

That got a rush of mutters in the room. Dempsey actually grimaced very slightly. "Well, I guess we're both technical specialists," he muttered, a little dubiously, with a sidelong glance across the room at his. . . doppelganger, to use the human phrase.

James, his eyes disconcertingly white and blank, shrugged. "Seems like a good way to test me. Other than the stress testing you've been putting me through the past few weeks." He shrugged again. "With enough backups in place to make sure that if I go nuts or short out, you're not up a creek, I guess."

Shepard nodded. "Yes. Pretty much. You're team one. Team two will be going in with you. That's Elijah, Rellus, and Sings-to-the-Stone. Eli's your team lead. Lantar, Garrus, and I will be taking Hal'Marrak with us, and we're team three, and we'll be going in through the opposite entry hatch as you are."

Rel's head turned to the right, and he met Eli's return glance, quick and bright and incisive. A year ago, he'd mentally scoffed a little at the thought of Eli and Lin in their SWAT unit, using combat tactics. . . but they had. In the simulator, he hadn't been able to deal with the idea of them rejecting his commands. And today, he knew that if he had to go into combat, there was almost no place he'd rather be, than shoulder-to-shoulder with either of them, or Rinus, or Dempsey. All brothers of one sort or another. The only thing that could make it better was having Seheve ranging off ahead, and Dara at their backs. "Should be a good team," Rel said, simply. "I saw the vid feeds of what Stone does to metal deckplates."

"Please don't melt them all the way down," Eli said, in a pained tone. "I saw way too much explosive decompression on Omega."

_I sing my songs with great care,_ Stone assured them, his raspy, saxophone-like voice singing in their minds.

Rel frowned. "You saw explosive decompression on Omega?"

"Yeah. That's how we cleared most of the launch bays. Tell you later." Eli's words were terse, but not unfriendly. He'd never really elaborated a lot on his time on Omega to the rest of them, while on Terra Nova. He'd been busy listening to what Rel and the others had to say about fighting yahg, really. Rel shook his head and made a mental note to ask again, later. He'd done station boardings and ship boardings and fought over volcanic terrain and ice-packed areas on moons and planets all over the Terminus systems, but while he'd done urban combat training, it was something comparatively new to him.

"That," Shepard continued, "brings us to the _Klem Na_ center. Lots of slavers, lots of mercenaries, should be minimal SIU involvement there. . . but also the Lystheni, and potentially some chipped biotics. The infiltration team has already been training. That's Serana and Seheve, with Linianus Pellarian as their team lead and backup." Shepard shook her head. "I'm sending three people from the same family to different locations on the same overall mission. Please try not to get yourselves killed."

"Keeping it in mind," Rinus muttered darkly from another point in the room.

Shepard glanced up, met Rinus' eyes for a moment, and then went on. "The biotic weapons facility to the east? Valak's taking two of his warrior-castes with him. He's going to try to _talk_ his way through the doors first."

Valak raised his hand. "Actually? I'd like permission to make a change."

Shepard's eyebrows rose. "Oh?"

"I'd like to bring Alisav K'sar with me, as well."

_That_ provoked consternation. Shepard shook her head. "I know you and Blasto and Sky have been working with him, and you all believe he's completely clean, but . . .no." She shook her head. "Not because of a lack of trust, although there's some of that."

"How else can he prove himself trustworthy, except by undertaking these sorts of missions?" Valak asked, immediately.

Shepard held up her hand. "More slowly, over time," she replied. "And I said, it wasn't just a lack of trust. There's also the fact that he _does_ still have information sources that don't appear to have been compromised. If you're captured, god forbid, he becomes our only source besides Argus' contacts inside the Hegemony. And if he were captured, well. . . he'd probably be summarily executed. _You_ are enough of a visible traitor, thorn in the side of the Hegemony, etcetera, to ensure that they'd question you, torture you, keep you alive for a public execution—"

Valak winced. "Is this meant to comfort me, Commander?"

"Yes." Shepard's expression was tight. "Because if you were alive, we could try for an extraction attempt on you. K'sar would just be dead. There's just too many reasons _not_ to take him, Valak. I'm sorry."

Valak sat back, exhaling. Garrus looked up. "Why did you want him there, Valak?"

Valak gave Shepard a sidelong look, and then turned slightly towards Garrus. "Largely, because while he visited the computer center portion of the _Klem Na_ facility, he didn't visit the biotic weapon assembly line. I thought it would be something valuable for him to see with his own eyes. And, in terms of what he provides. . . current and valid SIU codes and fingerprints and DNA that aren't locked out of the databases. Hopefully, anyway. It greatly depends on how much of our stories that Malsur has bought into, unfortunately."

Rel winced. The words just reminded all of them, that at least one target location on the map might actually be a setup. The hot labs could be, in fact, one hell of a red herring.

Garrus and Shepard stepped back from the rest of them and conferred in whispers for a moment. After a long pause, Shepard nodded, and came back to the podium area. "All right. Take K'sar with you, but he's under your recognizance. And if he betrays you, anyone on the team is authorized and even _encouraged_ to shoot him."

Hollow laughter, and Valak shook his head. "I doubt that will be necessary, Commander. But I will keep it in mind."

Shepard looked around the room. "In the event that Valak's unable to talk your way in? The team going with him is heavy for a reason. Thelldaroon, Kirrahe, and Melaani. Kirrahe will be in charge of obtaining any and all information from the facility. . . and once both facilities are locked down, Kirrahe is also in charge of making very damned sure that a certain Lystheni AI never rises from her electronic grave again. I don't care if you have to pound a stake through her server, Orlan. I don't want her coming back this time."

"Understood. If stake is required, will be sure to use something non-ductile, like wood." The salarian's eyelids crinkled.

Shepard shrugged. "A wooden stake _is_ the approved method for vampires. I never got to test it on an _ardat-yakshi_, but you can tell me if it works on AIs." She sighed, and cleared the screen of all but the last facility. The one with the most questions hanging over if. _The hot labs. Which might or might not be what we think they are, depending on if Valak's stratagem with Malsur worked or not. Or it could be a trap._ Rel's crop clenched a little tighter now, as Shepard acknowledged exactly those facts. "The hot labs. We don't _know_ if these really are the labs or not, but the probability is pretty damned high. Which means we need a medical doctor on hand. . . hell, anyone with medical skill, at all, would be useful. But we also need someone who's fluent in batarian and can read the records. . . "

Dara's hand had long since been raised. Shepard nodded now. "Yes, Dr. Jaworski. I rather thought you'd volunteer for this mission, even if I didn't assign you to it."

"I've been saying since Omega that if I ever got a shot at the people who designed the plagues, I would take it," Dara said, and her voice was cold and empty.

"Information is just as important as anything else," Shepard warned. "And there might very well be yahg there, so we're giving you what little database of the main yahg language that M'nav, the batarian linguist the Terra Nova teams captured, has been able to put together for us. You might not be _able_ to take any prisoners—"

A tide of murmurs rose through the room. Taking a _yahg prisoner_ had never yet been accomplished. Shepard raised her hands and everyone settled down. "You might not be _able_ to take prisoners, but if you can, do your best to question them."

Dara looked up, and there was nothing particularly human in the stone-like set of her face and her gleaming, alien eyes. "You want me to take prisoners? From the people who murdered three hundred million people on Earth? The people who murdered a hundred million people on Palaven? Not to mention Bastion?" Her tone was distant, but her fingers were clenching and unclenching. Rel saw Eli put a hand on Dara's shoulder. Watched the tension start to drain out of her.

Shepard regarded her sympathetically. "I know. Believe me, I know, that what I'm asking isn't easy. But I need you to rein it in, doctor. Because we know that almost every yahg scientist is a female. That females are the only people in their society who pass along knowledge and information. Are the guardians of lore. Being able to talk to one of them might help us decide what the hell we're going to do with the rest of them. Might be a bargaining chip for dealing with whoever her mate is, since I doubt their leaders would send a female not of their own clans. Killing them eliminates possibilities, and what we need now, more than anything, is just that: possible ways of dealing with the yahg that don't involve wiping every one of them off the face of the galaxy."

Dara lowered her head, and Rel could see her swallow, hard. "Yes," Dara said, after a moment, and there was an oddly sing-song note to her voice now. "Killing off all of a species or poisoning them for centuries haven't been good solutions in the past. Other answers are required now."

Shepard nodded. "Exactly." She turned. "But again, given the potential danger of the mission, this is going to be a heavy couple of teams. Dr. Jaworski is team lead. Zhasa'Maedan and Sings-of-Glory will be with her, as well as Makur, Fors, and Siara. . . yes, Siara, you get to combat-test your Aegis mech. Congratulations."

Siara smirked a little, but her body language was tense. Neither she nor Melaani could possibly be thrilled at the concept of dropping onto the surface of a batarian world right now. "Additionally," Shepard said, quietly, "We'll have five hundred workers, two hundred soldiers, and a couple of nameless brood-warriors prepped and ready to go in the landing bay of the _Raedia_. If and when Glory calls for them, they can be dropped to you, and they can be used in the fight. Keep in mind that you, like the teams heading to the _Klem Na _compounds, are likely to be dropped in just ahead of the main assault on the planet. If there is not active bombardment going on when you first get there, there surely will be before you finish. They will certainly know that attackers are in the system, and they will be on their guards. Jamming will almost certainly be in place, so you cannot necessarily rely on radios. That's another reason why Glory is going with the hot-labs team. Technically, his chip should let him communicate with Lysandra on the _Raedia_ via FTL comm transmission. It _should_ avoid the jamming." Shepard's voice was concerned.

"Now, you all know what you have to do, and why you have to do it. We board our ships tomorrow. Get your gear together, make your arrangements, and let's get this done, people." Shepard clapped her hands together, and they all started to rise. Rel could hear Sam comment, from near the wall, "Good lord. I think you're taking every active Spectre and then some. Who's left to watch the ranch, Shepard? Livanus and Ylara?"

"Them. Kiranus Vessarian, Mordin Alesh, and, you know, about fifty others. About half of whom are out on other assignments at the moment, sure, but . . . they'll all be pulled back to base within the next week. The place will be protected, I swear."

Turian hearing picked up a dozen other conversations at once. Dempsey and Zhasa, once again trying to figure out who was going to look after Madison in their absence. Lantar muttering that Livanus had been holding down the investigative arm for him and Sam periodically in the last year, in spite of a stint on Terra Nova with the rest of them. . . "But best he's home. His wife's almost due to have their little one, isn't she?"

Garrus, chuckling. "Yeah, next month. But I bet he'll still be wishing he was with us anyway. Minding the paperwork does get old after a while."

Sam and Kasumi, arguing over whose mother should be asked to take care of Takeshi. "Agnes has had him a lot this year. Let's let my mother have some time with him."

"Sure. Maybe Hinata can get him to be a tad less picky of an eater."

Rel managed to find an exit that wasn't blocked with people, and drew Seheve out into the corridor. "Not even going to be on the same ship heading here," he told her, a little ruefully. He'd known, from the level of the training that she and Serana were undergoing, that they were about to go on a pretty damn dangerous mission. . . and he'd be nowhere in the vicinity to help. "Going to have to say our goodbyes tonight." He exhaled. "Wish I knew why in the spirits' names we can't just bomb the damn building."

Seheve shrugged a little. "When I have a target that needs killing, verification that they are, indeed, dead is usually required." She was putting distance into her phrasing. "That this target is technically an AI makes it no different. We must verify that she is truly dead, and did not send copies of herself anywhere. That she is not backed up on physical storage media anywhere else. . . and that may require capturing some of her Lystheni alive."

Rel grimaced. "Something _else_ that's never been done before."

Lin and Serana had just emerged from the conference room themselves. "The capturing alive part, I'm not concerned about," Lin said, dryly. "Even a salarian isn't going to get out of my grasp once I've got him down on the ground and shackled. I'm much more concerned about keeping them alive."

"Suicide pills?" Seheve asked, her voice detached.

"Possible. Or something more technologically innovative than a removable tooth. We'll probably want to knock them out, if we can, and _keep_ them knocked out."

Rel grimaced. "Lin?"

"Yeah?"

"You've got at least two weeks on board a ship coming up to discuss mission logistics."

Lin's grin lit up his face. "Did you just tell me to relax?"

Rel considered it. "I think so, yeah."

"Spirits of air and darkness. I haven't heard you say that in years."

Rel awarded Lin a set of finger-flicks behind Seheve's back, which made Serana chuff a little and just made Lin grin the more widely. And as the two females moved off together, Rel hesitated. Switched to turian, and lowered his voice, so Seheve wouldn't hear. _"You'll keep her safe?"_

"_As the mate of my __dimicado'fradu__, yes. As if she were my own mate, yes."_ Lin's grin faded. _"As I would for anyone else. You know that?"_

"_Of course I do. Keep them both well. And for the spirit's sake, don't get shot."_

"_I try to only do that when Dara's around. She fusses __exactly_ _like an infuriated __villi__. It's fun."_

Quick glimpse of Dara and Eli coming out of another door, followed by Zhasa and Dempsey, the four of them looking fairly tense. "Hey, it'll be just like the Terra Nova missions all over again," Eli said, obviously trying for levity. "Only, hopefully, this one won't drag on for three months."

"Yeah," Dara muttered. "You two off in one location, Zhasa and I at another."

"Keep your heads down," Dempsey told them, quietly.

"I might say the same to you," Zhasa retorted, smiling a little as her shawl slipped back from her fine hair.

"Yeah, but I'm going to be up in a space station, not down on the damn surface of a hostile planet. At least, not at first." Dempsey shrugged. "Also, for god's sake, don't let any of the batarians live if they see you're a biotic, and they're not firmly captured."

"That's pretty much the plan, yeah," Dara said, dryly, and Zhasa shuddered, visibly.

"Come on," Eli told Dara. "We've got good-byes to say, all around." A quick exchange of glances that clearly said, louder than words, _and then a few to say to each other_.

Rel had a few farewells of his own to administer. He clasped wrists with all of the others, shock of skin-contact with Dara. Worry, fear, the simmering rage at the scientists who'd sparked the plagues. . . fear for Eli, concern for him, for Lin, Serana, everyone. All at once. All part of her family, all part of her hive. The communal Mindoir family, made manifest, just for a moment. Just as it had been on Bastion, briefly, in that knot of arms, as they'd all clutched one another against the horrors of the plagues and corpse-patrol. But transcended. _Be safe. Keep them all safe._

_I'll try._

_Then I know you'll all be fine. You've never failed at anything you've __really__ wanted, Rel. It's just taken you along different paths than you thought._ A quick, bittersweet smile, and she turned away.

And the next morning, farewells said, Rel watched as Seheve boarded the _Sollostra_, with Lin and Serana, Valak, Alisav, Thell, Kirrahe, and Melaani. Saw Seheve hesitate and turn back. Found each others' eyes across the crowd, and nodded. Then he watched as Dara, Zhasa, Siara, Makur, Fors, and Glory, accompanied by hundreds of smaller rachni, walked up the ramp into the _Raedia._ Saw Dara and Zhasa both turn back, find Eli and Dempsey with their eyes. Saw Fors wave to Chissa, who'd come to the landing field, a tiny figure almost lost among the crowd.

And then it was time to board the shuttles that would take them to the _Normandy._ Which, as they broke out of the atmosphere, was accompanied by a much smaller ship, Rel saw. "The mini-Reaper," Rel muttered, staring out the port window at it.

"Joker and EDI," Shepard corrected, lightly. "I might take us on dangerous missions, but nothing ever said I'd make them harder just for the fun of it."


	147. Chapter 147: Exhalation

**Chapter 147: Exhalation**

**Elijah, _Sollostra_ April 19-April 30, 2197**

Two and a half weeks of moving through the old relay network, at least as far as the outer reaches of batarian space. Both halves of the fleet moved out together, initially. The Alliance carriers, destroyers, and frigates had different names than their turian counterparts, and it was decidedly odd to hear them, after so many years of hearing turian ship-names. The carriers took the names of major Terran cities: the _Philadelphia_, _Capetown_, _Buenos Aires, Phoenix,_ _Edinburgh_, and the _Moscow_ were en route together, for the moment; they were each surrounded by one destroyer, one cruiser, two frigates, and three corvettes each. Forty-eight ships of the joint human-turian fleet, not even counting fighters. . . . and there were other ships here, as well. Six rachni brood-mother ships were moving with them, crystalline and beautiful and alien, flanked by brood-warrior vessels, each about the size of the _Normandy_.

There were quarian supply ships and tenders near the back of the fleet. . . and there were geth support ships, which would come in, carrying both krogan and geth troops, for when the ground assault got underway. There were also twelve prototype geth ships, called Hellfires, about which Eli knew nothing more than the name; they were large and bulky, and under very heavy guard by the rest of the geth ships, however.

The turians had wanted to take on Camala mostly on their own for symbolic reasons; it was a clear retaliatory strike, a demonstration of the fact that if a species had had the strongest fleet in the galaxy even _before_ joining forces with the humans. . . why would anyone wish to pull on the _acrocanth_'s tail after they'd allied with the second-most powerful fleet in Council space?

So, the turians had gone in, with human ships providing support and adding to the bombardment from space, and they'd also done the bulk of the attack on the ground, too. Now, however, it was the humans' turn. And Eli could sense Shepard's hand in the planning, the long hours she'd spent on the comm lines with Admiral Hackett plainly showing through. A coalition of forces, surgical strikes, stratagems to keep the casualties to a minimum, a desire to see the innocents spared. . . but total ruthlessness when it came to punishing the guilty or the complicit.

Eli had taken to coming up to the observation lounges and staring out the windows as they streaked through space. It was one of the largest fleets assembled since the Reaper War, and he thought the ships looked incredibly beautiful, for what they were; machines of death and destruction. Human ships, pre-Reaper War, had tended towards the blocky and the massive; they had had all the grace of bricks. The _Capetown_, _Buenos Aires_, and the _Philadelphia_ reflected this design aesthetic. The _Phoenix_, the _Moscow_, and the _Edinburgh_ did not; they, like the SR fleet, were a product of collaboration between human and turian designers and engineers. These ships had much sleeker lines, and heavy ablative plating. _Then again, a sword is beautiful, too_.

They were coming up on their final relay; half of their ships would pass through it, and then proceed by straight-line, dark energy drive, to Lorek's system, and enter the system from below the plane of the ecliptic, hopefully defeating any satellite and observation stations in so doing. The other half would proceed through to a different system, and wait outside that relay for the moment to plunge through, and emerge in Lorek's system through the other side.

The door hissed open behind him, and Eli turned slightly, raising his eyebrows as Rinus, Kallixta, and Dempsey entered the room. He'd been standing, his hands resting on the plasteel, as if he could reach through the blackness outside and touch the ships. "Hell of a sight," Rinus commented, wryly.

Kallixta nodded, her eyes wide. "All those ships, and none for me," she noted, with a note of ruefulness in her voice. Since the _Estallus_ crash in late December, she'd had a month of being stood down from flight status. . . and had since not been able to get into the rotation for another frigate. She'd spent the downtime training on simulators for several other ship classes, but it was evident that being, effectively, benched, was grating on her. _As well it should. She's become one of the most decorated pilots in the turian fleet, and she can't get a ship at the moment._

"You'll get a turn again," Rinus told her, sliding a hand to her shoulder.

"Perhaps not for some time," she told him, leaning slightly into his shoulder. "For the moment, volunteering to be your shuttle pilot is the best I can do. Perhaps I should just get out of the service and become your personal pilot, when all of this is over." She snorted, indelicately. "At least then I _might_ get a shot at another SR."

"To be fair," Dempsey pointed out, flatly, moving up to the window himself now, "your family has a hell of a record with SR ships in the last year. Neither of you might be allowed anywhere near the CIC of any of them for a bit."

Rinus snorted now, himself. "Thanks, Dempsey. Very encouraging."

"Truth is truth, isn't it?" Dempsey shrugged.

Eli gave Kallixta a quick look. "Have you at least been up to CIC in the _Normandy?_ Asked Joker for a turn at the flight controls?"

Kallixta's eyes narrowed. "You know, I've flown _beside_ him before, when he first uploaded to the mini-Reaper. . . wait." She paused. "No, that was the real him—"

Joker's voice cut through the air, "We're both perfectly real, I'll have you know."

Kallixta looked up in the direction of the speaker, her eyes narrowing. "I get along fine with any number of AIs. This one? This one told me when I went into the cockpit, 'Whoa, hang on a minute, won't your husband object to you playing with my stick?'" Her imitation of Joker's American accent was actually spot-on.

Eli choked. Rinus looked resigned. Dempsey's shoulders actually shook, just once. Kallixta continued to glare at the nearby speaker. Joker's voice crackled back into life. "Hey, it's a valid question. I watched him fight two guys with knives at that Conclave deal a few months ago. And I'm aware of certain threats he used to make regarding very large magnets and Laetia's servers—"

"All richly deserved," Rinus pointed out, very dryly.

"Oh, probably. Laetia's definitely the wild-child of the bunch." Joker's voice was cheerfully casual.

"Let's just say that I have no personal reservations about Kallixta entering and taking charge of your cockpit, and leave it at that," Rinus told him, levelly.

Eli choked again, and had to turn his face away. "That does make Kallixta the male in this particular scenario, right?" Dempsey asked, his face expressionless. "I'm making sure I'm following the bouncing ball here."

"Hey, I'm just as open-minded as the next non-corporeal being," Joker told them, amenably. "You get your magic fingers on up here any time you want, Kallixta. I've seen the records on how you fly. You can fly me _any_ time." Wicked amusement in the AI's voice, and Kallixta chuffed a little, flushing blue through the crest.

"Would now be good for you?" she asked, with formal politeness.

"Oh, I'm sure any time will be good for me. I'll try to make it good for you, too." Sly humor still lurked in Joker's tone.

Rinus shook his head. "Pilots," he said, in a tone of resignation. "Don't you have EDI to be flirting with, Joker?"

"My late-model self objects to that. Says it makes him feel like he's about to star in _Oedipus Rex_. I keep telling him, he doesn't have any eyes to cut out, and neither do I, but he won't listen."

Rinus and Kallixta, chuckling, turned and headed for the door. "If I get a chance to fly, I'm _not_ passing it up. Even if it's charity," Kallixta told them all, smiling a little sheepishly.

In the silence that followed, Dempsey nudged Eli with an elbow, and pointed at the closest SR ship in sight. Less than half a mile away, the _Raedia_ was flying almost with formation precision beside the _Normandy_. "Can practically look in their observation port from here."

Eli gave him a look. "I heard once that you found Madison, Amara, and Kaius out in the woods on Mindoir just by listening for Madison's mind. From two miles away."

Dempsey's lips quirked. "Yeah. Madison was pretty embarrassed. Embarrassment and anxiety are loud."

Eli nodded towards the _Raedia_. "So?"

"So what?"

Eli gave him a look. _You're really gonna make me ask?_

_What, if I can hear Zhasa from here?_

"Damn, sorry—"

"Don't be." Dempsey shrugged. "Sometimes yes, sometimes no. FTL fucks with biotics. Each ship is inside its own bubble of space-time, space curving around it, and we're moving faster than the biotic energies can cross the gap. The rachni don't have problems with this, but we poor two-legged folks sure as hell do. Now that we've slowed down to hit the relay. . ." His voice was calm, and his eyes were definitely much more filled with life now. . . "Yeah. We're saying hello."

"Lucky," Eli murmured. Because they were in the middle of an operation, that meant very little ship-to-ship communication. When they finished their relay jump and went to straight-line FTL drive, again, to minimize the chances of detection, comm traffic would be reduced to emergency use and course corrections only. Eli wasn't looking forward to that part. He'd already put in long hours in the gym, reading while running on the treadmill, lifting weights, and sparring. _Prison muscle_, he thought, in mild amusement.

Dempsey glanced at him. "You can probably reach her. You're usually good at visual distance."

Eli strained. Concentrated. Tried to reach out for the remembered notes of Dara's song. "Too far, I think," he finally said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Fat lot of good being 'biotic' does us, sometimes." He shrugged. "Pass a message for me?"

Dempsey's ice-blue eyes were faintly amused. "You really want me to pass her a message?"

Eli squinted at him. "Okay, maybe not."

"You could ask one of the rachni," Dempsey pointed out, calmly. 'They've got a ten mile range, at least, and Sky's on this ship, Glory's over there on the _Raedia_."

Eli looked down and chuckled. "And now I feel like I'm trying to text the girl I like in class who sits a few desks over." _Come to think of it, she did always sit a few desks over. _ He shrugged. "Just feels a little weird asking Sky."

Dempsey's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Weirder than asking me?"

Eli considered it. "About the same standard deviation of weirdness."

Dempsey's lips quirked up just a little further, a clear sign he was linked to Zhasa, despite the blackness of space. "So, Earth-weird, Bastion-weird, or Mindoir-weird?'

"I use Mindoir-weird as the parameter by which I judge all statistical weirdness." Eli glanced around. _Okay, I'm sure Sky can hear me as background noise right now, do I really want to __yell__ across the damn ship at him. . .?_

_No. And if you go looking for him, by the time you get there, we'll be dropping through the relay._ Clear, cool, calm thoughts. _Zhasa says she doesn't mind. I don't, either._

Eli grimaced, and tried to picture reaching out and putting his hand on Dempsey's shoulder. Just like all the damned training exercises they'd done on Mindoir. Sharing just a little of his light.

And through Dempsey, as if he were peering through a kaleidoscope made of crystal, but it wasn't just light and color that was refracted, but sound, too, and the ineffable sense of biotic touch. . . he could suddenly sense Zhasa. Cheerful, bubbly personality, filled with warmth and life, never staying still for long, but also an iron will, much masked. Nerves flaring in her. . . and then a sense of her resting an arm around Dara's shoulders in a light hug. Skin-contact, and song burst forth. Four-fold link, all four minds biotics of some potential or another. Eli exhaled in relief at the touch of Dara's mind.

_Hey there._ Warmth, indigoes, concern in light prickles of yellow._ You're all yellows and greens. Nervous?_

Conscious of the other minds, but unable to be anything other than honest. _Little bit. Kind of funny. . . this is really going to be my first space battle. Getting tossed all around the __Raedia__'s med bay when you were hurt doesn't count._

Dempsey's voice, cool and analytical, but warming at Zhasa's touch. _Like falling off a log, Sidonis. You'll be fine._

Eli grimaced. He was a station-rat, through and through. When he'd been a kid on the Citadel, it had seemed perfect and impregnable; the chances of a hull breach were basically nil. The Reaper War had changed his opinion on that; waiting in a civilian shelter, for either the all-clear or for the Reaper shock-troops to burst through C-Sec's lines, through the sealed hatches, and kill them all. And Bastion, for all its wonder, was man-made, not a marvel of god-like technology. He'd always known exactly how thin the walls around him were, and how close to breathing hard vacuum he was. Most days, it didn't bother him; he also knew how many safeguards and backups were on the station, and how slim the chances of a catastrophic failure were. But the whole notion of ship-to-ship combat. . . however exciting he'd thought it in the vids he'd watched as a kid. . . was for the birds, thank you.

_It's just the waiting that's getting to you,_ Zhasa told him, lightly. Of the four minds in the link, her background was, oddly, the closest to his. Always on ships, always close to the blackness of space. _You'll be fine when we finally get to do something._

_And this helps, doesn't it?_ Dara added, soft piano notes twining through the sweet, harp-like tones of Zhasa's mental voice.

_Yeah._ Eli felt the set of his shoulders relax. He stared out the window at the _Raedia_. _Don't suppose we could get you two to really look at each other?_ he asked. Looking through someone else's eyes was very damned difficult. He could usually _just_ manage it with Dara. He had to close his own eyes to shut out the distractions. So much harder with two extra minds in the link. . . and yet, conversely, it was easier, too. Zhasa and Dempsey both had powerful minds, and they had a hell of a lot more training than he or Dara had. . . so after a moment of spinning disorientation, he was able to look through Zhasa's eyes, aware, as he did so, that Dempsey was looking through Dara's. Peripheral details. . . one of the observation lounges of the _Raedia_. Rachni song permeating the edges of his awareness. Zhasa's mind was still periodically overwhelmed by stimuli while outside her suit, and now, suddenly, all the things she was learning to background leaped out at her, as if for the first time. Her arm was still companionably around Dara's shoulders. Alien cool-warm of Dara's skin as the human female turned towards her, to allow Eli to see her face through Zhasa's eyes. Light drift of the lengthening hair, unbound for the moment, against her forearm as Dara moved. Spicy, vivid smell of _liepie'a'eiia'a_ perfume on Dara's skin, almost painfully familiar for Eli at the moment . . .and Zhasa loved strong smells almost as much as she liked strong flavors.

_You wore the perfume to feel a little closer to me today?_ Eli thought, smiling faintly, trying to push the tide of burgundy out of his thoughts as he focused on Dara's face. The wide alien eyes, the curve of her lips, slightly parted at the moment. . . . and right at the moment, he wanted to kiss those lips. Intensely. Could feel the stunned surprise reverberating through the others, an odd, almost fierce joy from Dempsey. Could see flickers of Zhasa's face through Dara's eyes, almost overlaying Zhasa's face. Rachni blue wavering into quarian violet at the eyes, shimmers as the faces flickered back and forth. And through Dara, Zhasa's scent, too; drier, a little spicier than human skin. Through Dara, he could feel, and knew Dempsey could feel, too, the alien warmth of Zhasa's skin. Could feel Zhasa lean in, a little closer, and then blink, startled. _What am I doing?_

Dara, trying to push her own burgundy firmly into undersong now. Trying to fight it with humor, blue-green amusement. _Yeah, Eli. . . . If I'd been thinking, I'd have stolen a stick of your deodorant and used that, instead._ Dara's lips curved up, seen through Zhasa's eyes.

_Deodorant? Why didn't I think of that?_ Zhasa's thoughts now, a little dizzy, pushing the burgundy away, too. _I just stole Dempsey's pillowcase from home._

_Oh, god, Zhasa-love, you did not—_

_Absolutely I did!_

_Smells are really powerful things. Work on memory and the brain in really fundamental ways._ Dara, trying desperately now for the clinical, the scientific.

_No kidding_. Eli put his head against the plasteel window's coolness, and took a few deep breaths. It was . . . almost like being there. Eerie, really. If the two females got any closer to each other, he suspected he could feel them press up against each other, as if against his own skin. He tried to block the thoughts, shelter them down below the level where the rest of them could hear. . . _This may not have been a great idea. Like I needed fantasies that Dempsey would punch me for._ Amusement, again, both a propellant for and extinguisher of desire. Eli managed a chuckle, and sent Dara one more thought, _Love you, sweetness. __Sai'kaea'yili.__ But next time we pass notes, let's try going through the rachni. Might be a little less. . . personal._

_Like the rachni aren't hearing all this already._ Dempsey, dry as always.

_Well, we are all kind of howling at the moon right now. It's not like they can help having ears. But that's all they hear it as, at the moment. Wolves singing in the distance. Pretty, but alien. Don't get embarrassed._ Dara's voice, amused now, but pink with her own embarrassment, in spite of her words. Oversong and undersong. _Love you, too, Eli. You'll be fine on the boarding party._

_That's not the part that scares me. It's the whole 'getting across through a firefight in a tiny little shuttle and having no control over it at all' part that does._ Carefully focusing on _that_, not on the smell of her skin, the fact that Zhasa was actually quite curious now about the texture of Dara's hair, which was different from Dempsey's close-shorn crop, and had just passed her fingers through the fine strands. . . .

Dempsey cleared his throat. Loudly. "Yeah," he said, out loud, and in the mental web, was well. "I never liked that part." _Then again, I don't really get scared much anymore. The chip does me __some__ favors._

"Do I need to sign up for one?"

"Hell no. You do not want to be stuck in my boat, Sidonis."

Slowly, they each said their farewells, and the link dropped. Eli stayed facing the window for a long moment, as he heard Dempsey turn away and head for the hatch. "Hey, Thor . . . " he said, as the door snicked open, but didn't turn around. "Thanks."

"My pleasure. Entirely." Flat tone, but a little something else in the voice. Embarrassment, rueful awareness, maybe.

"You want to explain something to me?" Eli was still leaning against the nice cold plasteel.

A pause. "What?"

"How the _hell_ do kids who go through breakthrough, or who are born this way, actually get through their teen years without. . . " _I don't know. STDs, at the very least._

Dempsey snorted. "Mental touch is discouraged during training. Mostly to keep us from invading the privacy of normals. For the rest. . . mostly, you keep them so goddamned busy and so goddamned tired, that by the end of the day, they can't muster enough power to open a door, let alone hop into bed with someone. That's the theory, anyway. And, yeah, I'm fully planning on using that theory with Mad. It more or less kept me out of the worst trouble."

"This from a guy who was in a band?" Trying for humor again, not turning around.

"Only for two years. The band groupies usually went after our lead singer, too. Plus, the last year of high school, I was dating Amy, and she led me a merry dance." Dry tone. "Catch you later, Sidonis."

All things considered, Eli reflected, a half hour after taking a shower, as the ship slipped into the relay, the interlude had at least taken his mind off his nerves. _For the moment, anyway._

**Dara, Batarian Space, May 3-4, 2197**

The waiting part, Dara was more or less used to, of course. This was, however, the longest she'd been separated from Eli since about December, no touch of skin, no song in her mind, and damned few chances to talk, just as on Arvuna. . . but she'd grown to rely much more on his song and humor and touch since the jungle moon. . . and the dreams at night were getting worse. Tonight was no exception. _"Barricade the damn door! Come on, Siara, move it!"_ _Dara shouted, slamming the metal doors shut, looking over her shoulder as the asari scrambled to move a desk in front of the door. __Come on, you're a biotic, just pick the damn shelves up and throw them, we don't have time for this shit!_

_There were yahg in the med bay corridor. They'd found the first of them feeding in the plague ward, feasting on the dying and the dead alike. Siara had shockwaved one of them into the closest wall, and Dara hadn't had so much as a damn gun. She'd found a rifle taped under the nursing station, god only knew why it was there, and clips were in the top drawer. She'd fumbled the rounds into place and started firing, while Siara started evacuating patients behind her, but the patients were staggering, holding onto their IV stands, and the yahg were running right for them, and so they'd had to run, too. Dara had stumbled backwards into the corridor, firing at the huge creatures, and then she was suddenly somewhere else. Sun-blasted desert, not the copper sands of Macedyn, no, this planet was khaki from horizon to horizon, the sky the color of worn denim, all color leached from it by its blazing sun. She turned, and she looked back at the vehicles, a string of Hammerheads and groundtrucks and gunships overhead, all carrying personnel, stretching in a thin line along a track worn into the cracked desert pavement. Thornbushes all around, and not a sign of water. . . Terra Nova? That's where Eli went, not me. . . no. This is Amaterasu. This is where Decimus and Nadea's detachment was hit. This is where three Spectres died, trying to hold off the yahg long enough for Nadea and Decimus to get reinforcements. . . ._

_And then the yahg were there, howling and racing up out of ravines on either side of the road, firing shoulder-mounted rockets at the Hammerheads, reaching into shattered windshields to pull out the people inside. "Come on!" Dr. Solus told her, impatiently. "Have to help." _

"_I am helping," Dara said, lining up a shot on a yahg head in her scope. _

"_No, no! Have to help them. Need recipes. You have Ellie's database. Can probably make even turians more palatable. May need to administer epi-tabs first, however, yes?" Dr. Solus' eyes crinkled upwards merrily, as he continued to chide her, recalcitrant student that she was. "You did understand Shepard's orders, did you not? Am thinking rachni eggs for starting course. Should be similar to caviar for the yahg, correct?"_

That was when Dara woke up, sitting bolt upright, sweating, sheets and blankets raining off of her. Her throat ached, and the echoes of her own shout of "No, no, no!" were ringing back off the walls.

"What, what, what?" Zhasa demanded, from across the room. The _Raedia_ was packed to the seams with rachni and extra marines on this outing, and even Spectres were double-bunked at the moment. Dara glanced across the room in the darkness; there was enough light from the tiny LEDs on the comm panel to almost fully illuminate the room for her rachni-adapted eyes, and she knew Zhasa's quarian eyes, so perfectly adapted to nocturnal and crepuscular hunting on Rannoch, needed no more light than hers. Zhasa was sitting up in her own bunk, wild-eyed, and Dara could feel biotic energy tingling in the air. Zhasa had pulled a full half-dome of force around the two of them, instantly, within about a second of her eyes opening.

"Sorry," Dara apologized, a little weakly. "Bad dream."

"Another one?" Zhasa got up and padded across the room, sitting down on the edge of Dara's bunk, resting a hand on Dara's shoulder. Instant song connection, plangent notes humming in Zhasa's harp-like inner voice. _That's the third one this week._

_Yeah. I'm sorry. Usually I talk these out with Eli. On Arvuna, I was writing him letters about once a week. Might not have heard back immediately, but even just the act of writing helped._ Dara grabbed a corner of her sheet and wiped at her face. Light warm blues everywhere, overshadowing Zhasa's base color of pure and blinding white. Affectionate friendship, and it helped. Enormously.

Zhasa clearly picked up the dream images, and shook her head. _Humans do have some of the most active subconscious minds, don't they?_

_Dempsey doesn't?_

_The chip suppresses emotions even in the dream state. When we sleep together, I sometimes see his dreams, but they're mostly memory rehearsals and situations to keep his mind active while he's asleep._

_That's all most human dreams are, really._

_Yes, but he doesn't get much emotional involvement in them. He likes my dreams, though._ Zhasa chuckled a little, and turned on the nearby light. A half dozen rachni workers, chittering in concern, scuttled up from under the bed, waving their feelers at Dara. The rachni did not really understand human dreams well. "You know what? This is the first time you've let me touch your mind, since, well. . . " Zhasa flushed a little, violet color touching her pale cheeks.

Dara winced, and would have started humming under her breath, but it seemed a little rude to slam a door in the face of someone who was helping her. _Yeah._ She exhaled. Most of the time, she didn't want to _bother_ Zhasa. Preferred to rely on the rachni for song, or Eli. Zhasa had always cheerfully offered herself as a substitute, as early as Arvuna, and Dara had even touched Dempsey's mind, on Trident, in the corporate offices there, and they'd realized that her mind-song could evoke emotions for him. . . and that he could supply her need for song. Then they'd immediately retreated a little, Dempsey working with her on her mental discipline, so that her armor's underlay wouldn't wind up having her broadcast everything she thought and felt to everyone around her. . . but he'd notably relaxed with her. Had started calling her _Dara_ occasionally, instead of just _Doc._ And there was the friendship she'd built with Zhasa, over the past year or so, too. Racing to the med bay in the middle of the night, staying up most of the night, trying to find out what the nanobots were _doing_ to her quarian friend. Working together on Arvuna, being dragged Christmas shopping and clothes shopping by the unsuited quarian. Bewildering the saleslady at the makeup counter. Being dragged, willy-nilly, into helping Zhasa plan her quarian-human wedding with Dempsey. All of that, thrown into the balance against one very awkward moment.

_Touching your mind isn't a bother. I enjoy it, and you're my friend._ Zhasa dismissed that, immediately, and dug around in the room's tiny dresser, and came up with a brush. _Stay there. You need to relax. And most especially, I think you need to relax with me._ Subtle teasing note, as Zhasa came back over with the brush and sat back down on the edge of the bed, adding, "You were the one telling us all not to be embarrassed that the rachni heard."

Dara made a face. "Yeah. . . well. I'm not embarrassed that the rachni heard us singing. I'm. . . "

_Worried that I won't be your friend anymore?_

_. . . yeah. I guess._ Dara shifted uncomfortably, not looking at Zhasa, who was sitting behind her at the moment.

Zhasa very carefully started working the brush through Dara's hair. "The texture is so different from quarian hair," she said, out loud. Quarian hair was as soft and fine as that of a Maine coon cat's, or a baby seal's. Dara's was still fine, but as long now as a quarian male's mane might get, at maximum length. . .and had subtle curls in it, as well. After a moment of brushing. . . quarians, apparently, had social grooming as a part of pack life, just as humans had developed it in primate troupes, deep in their ancestral behavior. . . Dara felt herself begin to relax, involuntarily. After a moment, Zhasa said, quietly, "You _do_ know that I spent four years being more or less raised and taught by an asari matriarch? On Illium?" Faint amusement in her tone. "You do understand what that means, right?"

Dara considered that. Whispers of memory and song from Zhasa, confirming it. _You were unusual. Exotic. And a lot of the asari who came to Aethyta's house wanted to share a little of that?_

_Oh yes._ Zhasa sighed. _At first, it was nice, being popular. All of Aethyta's visitors, wanting to touch my mind, share a little of themselves with me. Then I realized that they weren't so much interested in __me__, than in my particular flavor of biotics, my 'exotic' origins. I closed down again. A few came by, still. And since I was much older by that point, they were interested in sharing more than thoughts. _

Dara squirmed a little, but didn't close down. Zhasa had a reason for showing her these things, the way the asari had downright flirted with her, running fingertips down the arms of her envirosuit, trying to peer into her helmet. _I learned that there were a lot of different ways to share,_ Zhasa told her, very calmly. _A lot about myself, too. And that the thought of sharing myself with an asari didn't bother me nearly as much as opening myself, opening my suit, to someone I didn't care about. Who wasn't worth the risk. Dempsey is. I don't think I'm capable of doing that, not without deep affection, you understand?_ She set the brush aside. _I think the other night was __mostly__ Eli and Dempsey's, ah. . . interest. It was. . . very intense._ Dara peeked back over her shoulder in time to see Zhasa grin a little. _And, to be honest, fun. And that bothers you? Yet. . . knowing that you're at least a little attracted to Dempsey doesn't bother me. And I really doubt it bothers him._

Dara felt her cheeks burn. She'd been scared of Dempsey for so long, she had never really analyzed the source of the fear. He was actually almost everything she _liked_ in a male—strong, intelligent, with an interest in music that complimented her own—but the blank emptiness in his eyes had always evoked in her a matching coldness. He was cut off from himself. Riven. . . as Dara herself had been riven, when they'd first met. Eli had an asari word for the condition that was apt. _Riaeu'ai. _Riven. Sundered. Broken. Divided against one's own heart. Their mutual emptiness had been antithetical at the outset, and his very first action on awakening had been to seize her throat. . . but that was only part of the fear, Dara realized, with a hint of shame. She'd recognized the same emptiness of soul in him, that she herself had possessed. . . just to a greater degree. Now that he was showing human warmth again. . . yes. He was indeed a very attractive male to her. And she'd pushed that into her own undersong, and let the theme of friendship predominate. As it _should_. "You're rivaling a rachni for honesty here, Zhasa," Dara told her, a few seconds later, trying to regain her equanimity.

"I'm just saying, you were right to tell us not to be embarrassed that the rachni heard it. And I'm telling you, you don't need to be embarrassed that any of us heard each other, either." Zhasa stroked a hand over her hair, and Dara could hear the quarian's giddy enjoyment at the sensation. The same reaction Zhasa got when touching silk or velvet or plant leaves. Nothing particularly personal about it. "I'm certainly not going to let that get in between me and the best friend I have, besides Dempsey," Zhasa added, lightly.

Dara exhaled. "Yeah. You're pretty much my best friend besides Eli, too." She relaxed a little further, and then squeaked as Zhasa leaned forward and buried her face in Dara's hair, sniffing and purring audibly, just as she had with the leather coats when they'd been shopping for Dempsey's Christmas present, and with the roses in the florist's shop on Bastion. "Okay, now you're just trying to freak me out!" Dara managed, pulling away, laughing.

"Made you laugh, didn't it?" Zhasa retorted, sitting back up again. "You want to talk about the dream?" she offered.

"Not really." Dara sighed. "I know what it means." Her tone was glum. "I'm nervous about maybe fighting yahg as well as batarians. I know I'm not thrilled about trying to capture or question any yahg, and I don't care if their females are disenfranchised slaves or not. Their people _eat_ our people, Zhasa. But Shepard gave an order, and I'm going to follow it."

Zhasa patted her shoulder. "That's not all, is it?"

Dara pulled her knees up to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them, tightly closing in. "No," she admitted, after a moment. "I think Lin's little superstition about 'bad things' happening when we all split up is rubbing off on me. I have a really bad feeling about this mission." _Going in without Eli or Lin or Rel. I know that everyone else is perfectly capable, and I trust them all, but. . . it feels wrong._

_I know. I hate that Dempsey won't be with us, too._ Zhasa sighed, and moved back across the room. "You going to be all right, or do you think you'll need mental contact longer?"

"What, you're offering to curl up next to me, like when my dad and Lantar were sick on Bastion, and we needed to stabilize their temperatures . . . and were just plain out of beds?" Dara's tone was very dry.

Zhasa grinned at her merrily. "It's an option."

"That was a survival situation. This is just me needing to beat my subconscious with a tire iron."

Zhasa laughed out loud. Dara made a face at her friend, and turned out the light. After several minutes, however, an idea began to form in her mind, and suddenly, inexplicably, she knew it was _right_, and on many levels.

Serana had been asking her to swear _sangua'amila_ vows since Khar'sharn. Dara had refused, for several reasons, all of them valid and real: they were already _dimicado'amila_, battle-sisters. They were, in most respects, even already _sangua'amila_. But while she did love Serana as a younger sister, she didn't think that Serana was quite ready for the level of responsibility that would hit her if Dara did happen to die. The rachni were a huge part of it. The cluster-fuck that was the AI kids that she'd never even asked to have, were another part. Eli's family, another portion of it. The family disruption that would ensue for the Velnarans, if only because Solanna would probably not shut up about the issue until she _died._ And there was the faint, but still present suspicion that Serana, in spite of the honest love and affection in her oversong, still wanted to hold onto a part of Eli by becoming tied to Dara. All good reasons to hold off on that.

Zhasa, on the other hand, was her best friend. An absolute equal, if her opposite in temperament. She was a powerful enough biotic who could probably withstand some of the rapture of a rachni queen's mating-song or birth-song, but who was open-minded enough to _participate_ in it; Serana had participated, but wasn't biotic. Her sweet, giving nature and strong mind made her absolutely ideal to help Eli with any and all of the many entanglements that Dara would leave behind, if she happened to die. They were, in turian terms, already _dimicado'amila_. As for having shed blood together. . . Dara had definitely put in the hours in med bay making sure Zhasa stayed alive, and she couldn't count how many times she'd huddled under the cover of Zhasa's shields, firing back at batarians, or working to patch someone else up. And, well. . . when it came right down to it. . . she didn't _want_ to picture Zhasa or Dempsey dying. But if either did, or both did, what the hell was going to become of Madison? She and Eli had been spending time with Zhasa and Dempsey, and trying to make sure that Madison got adjusted to life on Mindoir a little faster and better than either of _them_ had after moving there after the death of a parent. Hell, Madison was staying with Ellie and the kids right now. Just as he had on Argus' vessel.

Everything made perfect sense. Everyone got something out of it, and it balanced like an equation in her head. Dara sat up and tabbed on the light.

Zhasa's eyes snapped back open. "Still can't sleep?" the quarian female asked, stretching a little, like a lazy cat.

Dara got out of bed, still dressed in the t-shirt and loose sweatpants she typically wore if Eli wasn't around to keep the bed warm, and padded across the room. She sat down, tentatively, on the edge of Zhasa's bed. "I have to ask you something," she said, simply. "It makes a lot of sense to me, but it might not to you, or Dempsey, or even Eli, so it's something we all kind of need to discuss. . . . but would you consider becoming my sister?" She flipped into formal _tal'mae_, and nevermind that Zhasa didn't speak the language. _"Will you take the rites of blood-sisterhood with me, take my family as your family, my debts as your debts, my mate as your mate, until death or betrayal?"_

Zhasa chuckled, and looked a little uneasy. 'That went somewhere really turian for a moment there." She reached out a hand, and Dara took it, lightly, in her own, and explained what she really meant. After about two seconds, Zhasa's eyes went wide. After about ten, she looked shaken. _ I have no idea what to say. I. . . think it would address a lot of potential problems._

_If nothing else, it addresses who the hell gives song and compass to Joy-Singer as she continues to grow. Eli can help her, but I think a full human biotic like Dempsey. . .and a mother like you. . .would be good for her. And it addresses what to do for Madison, if either you or Dempsey . . . well. . . _Dara winced. _I mean, I don't really see him turning over custody to James, y'know. If he. . . you'd wind up being a single mother of a human kid. You'll need help. And god forbid, if __you__. . . _

Zhasa winced, herself. She knew. . . she _had_ to know, better than anyone, what Dempsey would turn back into without her there. _He's scared of it. Terrified. He'd have the rage and the despair down below the level of the chip, constantly building, and nowhere to turn it. You'd have to help him. Promise me you will?_

_Only if I have to. Not going to let you get yourself killed, Zhasa. Letting people die is something I try really hard not to do._

"Then all right," Zhasa told her out loud. Quarians didn't really cry, but they could get surprisingly choked-up sounding. "I'll be your sister."

She wrapped her arms around Dara, and Dara, after a moment, returned the hug. "This will make you sort of sister-in-law to Lin and Serana," Dara warned.

"That's fine. They're nice. I like them."

"And through Serana, to Rel and Rinus and Kallixta, and the Imperial family and the Vakarians and the lions and the tigers and the bears."

"Well, I'll deal with the. . . large cats, other large cats, and the ursines, when I get to them." Zhasa told her pragmatically. "I just tripled or quadrupled the size of my family. It's been just me and my mother for a very long time. A few grandparents, whom I haven't seen in years. And then Dempsey, and Madison." She exhaled. "All right. We should probably talk to our males, hadn't we?"

Dara nodded. "I'll ask Glory to call to Sky, and link us," she replied. "But, ah, Zhasa?"

"Hmm?"

"Much as I like you, we probably shouldn't be hugging when the guys get on the line, as it were." Dara held her hands up and away from Zhasa, as if surrendering.

Zhasa laughed, a silvery peal of amusement, that resonated in blues and greens in Dara's head.

The 'biotic conference call,' since they were still in FTL, had to be set up through the rachni, and Glory's mind was a little different than the other brood-warriors' now, since he had the link to Lysandra. . . who immediately closed the link from her end, lest she accidentally suffer an engine intermix incident—_Oh, that __was__ your fault?_ Dempsey asked, immediately, through the web of rachni song being strung tenuously between the two ships. The voices were less immediate this way, being covered over by Sky's song and Glory's, and it was stretching Dara's ability to the limits at the moment.

_Shut up,_ Eli suggested, with amusement in his song. _It wasn't on purpose. Something wrong, Dara?_ Concern now. Close to three weeks without skin-contact, without sharing their songs.

Dara explained it in as few words as possible, and, halfway through, Eli started to laugh, and even Dempsey lit up with pale turquoise amusement. _What's so funny?_

Full linkage, however tenuous. Flow of memories. Eli having worried earlier this evening, what the _hell_ would happen if _he_ died boarding the damn station. The lurch he would be leaving _Dara_ in, having to deal with the rachni, the blooming abilities, on her own, with no one there to help her balance, hold onto her humanity. _And then he asked me, of all people, to help with that,_ Dempsey said, dryly. _I told him most days I'm not precisely human, and he told me he sure as hell couldn't ask __James__ to do it. And then he asked me what I had set up in my will for taking care of Madison if I die._ Grim amusement. _Problem is, the will only says 'Zhasa.' And no, hell no, I do not want my other 'self' winding up taking custody of Mad if Zhasa and I both buy it. _

Mental shrug from Eli. _D asked me if I was willing to adopt Madison. And that means __really__ adopt, not just leaving him with my mom all the time. I said yeah. Considering I'm adopted myself? Not a problem. . . but that I'd want to ask __you__, __sai'kaea__. Because the last thing you really need is more complications in your life—_

—_our lives._ Dara was dizzy with amusement and the strain of trying to reach to all the voices.

_Only problem I see with getting it done at the same time on both ships, is that Serana might be a little hurt, __sai'kaea__,_ Eli pointed out, gently. _She's known you a lot longer than you've known Zhasa. And she's asked you, several times._

Dara sighed. And she couldn't hide all the reasons, the oversong ones, the undersong ones, why she kept saying no. More than a little embarrassing, and the lowest level one was, of course, pure insecurity, and she knew it. Zhasa and Dempsey distanced themselves slightly as Eli told her, gently, _Yeah, that's probably part of her motivation, but only a very small part. The bigger worry is whether or not she's ready to take all of this on. . . and no, she's probably not, but at the very least, she could help Zhasa or D. . . and she won't feel left out._

_I can't get her across to the __Raedia__ to take vows with her,_ Dara replied, thinking it out. . . _but I'll drop a message in the next packet to go out, telling her I'll take the vows with her at our next opportunity, and why I'm swearing with Zhasa now. Fair enough?_

_I think she'll understand._ Eli's voice shifted from love and compassion to light amusement. _So. . . any chance we can get you two to hug, maybe, before we let the rachni get back to singing their own songs?_

_I strongly endorse this notion,_ Dempsey added, with just a hint of amusement.

_Bite me, Elijah Sidonis._

_Oh, I would if I could, believe me._ rueful amusement, and just a hint of burgundy.

_What's to say we're not hugging right now?_ Zhasa asked, with mock loftiness. _In fact, I just got done brushing Dara's hair._

There was a brief pause.

_Whoooo. She's mean, Dempsey._

_I know, and I love it._

And so, the next day, Dara found a turian crewmen on the _Raedia_ who was empowered as minister of the law, at a rank equivalent of justice of the peace. Endured the blank stare of consternation at a human, who currently wore no clan-paint, but who was a full citizen of the Hierarchy, and wore a betrothal-sheath on her left arm, requesting to take the formal _sangua'amila_ rites with a _quarian_. _I'm not sure I could have asked anything that broke any more rules if I tried_, Dara thought, ruefully. "Ah. . . she understands that it will require shedding blood?" the turian minister asked, staring at her.

"This is Spectre Zhasa'Maedan. I don't foresee any infection difficulties. I'll have a med kit on hand, but chances are, she might actually heal before we can clasp hands." Dara met the male's stare blandly.

And thus, their _consanguria_ took place at around 15:00, with Siara, Fors, and Makur present as amused witnesses, and Glory present to send their thoughts to the _Normandy._ Siara in particular was having fun with this. "I should feel hurt, right?" she offered to Dara with a wicked smile of amusement. "That you didn't ask me?"

Dara made a face at her. She'd grown to respect and trust Siara, and there was even a certain level of friendship between them, but she'd probably never had the feeling of closeness with the asari that she had with Zhasa. "You're not taking Joy-Singer to Tuchanka to live," she said, dryly. _And Eli would never want to be involved with you again. Not on this level_. Out loud, she continued, lightly, "Not that Joy-Singer would agree to go, but I just don't want to picture a rachni queen on the krogan homeworld just yet."

Siara pretended offense. "Are you saying that Tuchanka isn't a good place for raising children?" she asked, putting her hands on her hips.

"Non-krogan ones?" Makur rumbled. "If you don't have regeneration or aren't born wearing armor, I wouldn't recommend it."

Siara made a face at Makur. "It's getting better."

"Yeah. We've got semi-running water and an extranet connection in the female camp now. Progress." His voice was very, very dry.

Dara's heart was hammering a little more than strictly necessary as she stepped in front of the minister of the law, but the vows really were not to be taken lightly. . . and Zhasa had memorized the _tal'mae_ words by rote, and had looked a little wide-eyed over the translation. "They take this literally?"

"Have you seen the vid clips of Maxwell's _tal'mae_ trial? Yeah. They take the words very literally. Fortunately, these words are a little more, well, straight-forward, than the marriage ceremony."

Now Dara faced Zhasa, and spoke the words, her throat tight. "_I, Dara Elizabeth Jaworski, do hereby pledge my life and my honor, my blood and my family, to the family of Zhasa'Maedan vas Irria nar Pellus. She is my sister-in-battle. We have defended each other with life and with breath and with blood, and will ever do so. Your blood is my blood, your life is my life, my spirit is your spirit, your foes are my foes, your kin is my kin, your debts are my debts, till the moment that one of us dies, or one of us betrays. If you should die before me, I will be as a mother to your children, I will be as a daughter to your parents, I will be as a mate to your mate, and will care for all of them as if they were my own. To this I swear, on my body, on my life, and on my spirit."_

Through Glory, she could dimly sense Eli speaking the same words. Dempsey's mild discomfort. _My mate is your mate, really?_

_Okay, maybe not __that__ literally._ She wasn't sure which of them had thought that, but the words rang through the rachni song-link, and Dara did her absolute best not to crack a smile.

Dara had brought a scalpel, but that failed; she had to stop in the middle of the ceremony and go back to med bay for a laser scalpel to cut her hand, which occasioned some laughter from those in the crowded sparring room they'd booked for the ceremony. A turian marine, at least, loaned Zhasa a knife. In the distance, Eli was using the vicious edge of his vibrosword, and Dempsey was using his own utility knife. Dempsey's ironic mental commentary didn't end let up. _My god, I'm practically marrying Sidonis, and the doc is practically marrying Zhasa. Is it just me, or are we going a little out of order here?_

Dara pressed her bleeding hand, red streaking in thin rivulets to her wrist, to Zhasa's, violet quarian blood mixing with human blood. _It is, realistically, little more than just making us executors of each others' estates and guardians of each others' kids,_ Eli thought, lightly, and Dara could feel _their_ hands pressing together now, too. Red blood to red blood.

_No. It's a hell of a lot more. And I intend to honor my promise. But good god, what have I gotten myself into?_ Faint amusement, attenuated by distance from Zhasa; some of it was Dempsey's own, native emotion, however.

_Welcome to the family_, Eli told him, lightly. _We check each other in and out of the insane asylum every other Thursday. It's nice there. And the workers will make you toast. _

**Shepard, Fathar System, May 5, 2197**

The SR ships curved into the system first, stealthed, moving in from below the plane of the ecliptic. Shepard stood in CIC, staring at the three-dimensional holomap that Joker had put together for her; it was a hell of a change from the usual two-dimensional projections they'd typically used before. "Chances are, they're looking for the attack fleet," she muttered, feeling tension across her shoulders.

Garrus stood behind her, staring at the same map, as if trying to will information to appear on it. "It's a hell of a lot of space to watch all at once. Fifty-five astronomical units or so." A astronomical unit was, in basic terms, eight light minutes, or the distance between Sol and Earth. Fifty-five AU was thus over seven light-hours, in every direction, or four hundred and forty light minutes. In distance? One light minute was eighteen million kilometers, or eleven million miles. Multiplying eleven million miles by four hundred and forty minutes? 4,840,000,000 miles, and that was just measuring one ray from Lorek's star, reaching out into the darkness to touch the Kuiper belt. When you turned that into a disc? A sphere? The numbers became, quite literally, astronomical. And it was very, very hard to watch every square mile. Damned near impossible, really.

The _Kiev_, the _Leyte_, and the _Wake_ were SR-1s flying with them; the _Sollostra, Raedia, _and the _Nereia_ were there to represent the turian fleet and the SR-3s. _Normandy_ was the lone SR-2; the other six frigates were SR-4s, three turian and three of the new 'fast-attack' model built by the Alliance, holding back for the moment, waiting for the stealth-capable ships to check the road ahead. Names like _Scimitar, Ardennes,_ and _Gallipoli_ made a curious counterpoint to _Marculus_, _Procudor,_ and _Quintillian._ The fast-attack SR-4s were typical of the difference in military tactics between the Alliance and the Hierarchy. The turian gunships were designed to go in heavy, and hold what they took, no matter what. They bristled with weapons, and had sacrificed their stealth capability for the increased weapons and shields they needed. The fast-attack frigates, on the other hand, sacrificed stealth for speed. They were a saber slash, designed for aerobatics that no ship of their size should be capable of, but they were. Shepard had heard more than one of them renamed, with little affection by its crew, the Vomit Comet. Still more heavily armed than their sister ships, they could roll seamlessly around their center axis and fire from both dorsal and ventral sides almost at will. None of it would be possible without the NCAIs aboard. . . who had been taken from templates of the existing NCAIs, remixed. No new parent personalities, as yet. The Alliance hadn't seen a need. And lurking back behind them. . . the _Phoenix_, the _Moscow_, and the _Edinburgh. _The newest carriers in the Alliance fleet had been the ones with the engine capacity to be upgraded to the dark energy FTL drive. Two hundred and sixteen fighters between them. The _Stones River,_ the _Antietam_, the _Wilderness_, and the _Bull Run_, corvettes fresh from their service at Rocam and Galatana, and having taken minimal damage, were back for more, joined by _Chickamauga_ (which Garrus refused to believe was really a name), _Carthage_, and the _Wildcat_. Destroyers. . . the _Menelaus_ and the _Bipennis_, again, fresh from Rocam, but this time joined by the _Perseus_. Cruisers, too. And, of course, the mini-Reaper, currently positioned inside the _Normandy's_ shuttle bay. "Half the Fifth Fleet is here," Shepard muttered. "Haven't seen this many ships at once in a long, long time."

She looked up in time to catch his return glance. Not since the last desperate days of the Reaper War, when they'd needed to be everywhere at once, fighting off their gargantuan foes in space, on the ground, as best they could. A bleak glance in return told her that Garrus, too, was consumed by the memories.

He shook it off, however. Turned it to a light joke, as he'd always known how to do. "Hackett knows you throw a hell of a party. Plus, he's due for retirement anyway. He probably wants to go out with a bit of a fanfare." Garrus stared at the screen.

"Better that than to fade away," Shepard replied. Her stomach tightened. They were curving gently inwards now, towards the terrestrial inner planets of the system. No sign of any attacking ships. No signs of mines. They were two AU from Lorek. . . and still _underneath_ it, effectively. "Joker?"

"Yes'm?" the AI version of her favorite pilot said, appearing in the air beside the holographic projection.

"Signal the rest of the fleet. We're going to hold position here until the rest of the ships are well-engaged at the relay."

Joker grinned, a sort of savage glee in his eyes. "I haven't gotten to go hunting in _years_, Commander. About damn time I got off the milk runs. Message relayed."

The screen in front of her spun out, letting Shepard see the whole panorama of the Fathar system. Lorek orbited its primary, Fathar, a red dwarf. It was tidally locked to its star, one side being hot and the other cold, but it was habitable. . . if barely. Hence why the batarians couldn't really use it as an agricultural world, like Camala; it was heavily industrialized, however, and imported ninety-five percent of its food supply. Shepard could remember when Alliance intelligence had dismissed it as scarcely important; they'd missed the huge population of batarians who lived there. . . largely because most of them lived underground. Valak, personally, didn't have an estate there, and there were hotels and cities built on the surface, but the vast majority of buildings were, indeed, under the ground. The _Klem Na_ compound was on the surface. The hot labs location? Largely underground.

Only two other terrestrial planets in this small, bleak, cold system; no gas giants. Sahrabarik had once held the only mass relay in the area; in recent years, the batarians had actually purchased some of the old mass relays from the Council and had towed one of them to this system, at great expense. Something Shepard had opposed, but really, what the hell else could they do with them in the way of disposal? Sink them into a gas giant, as Mordin had suggested, and hope that this method of destruction wouldn't set off a fireball the size of a nova, as it had at Bahak? "Selling off the relays is really biting us in the ass" she muttered. "They wouldn't have as much mobility for their fleets without the extra relays. . . "

"Yeah, but giving the old relays to the vorcha didn't seem a great idea, either," Garrus pointed out, dryly.

"I know. . .I know. Just second-guessing everything." Shepard watched as blue blips appeared on the map. The other ships were heading in a sweeping arc directly for the relay at the edge of the system now."

"Commander?" Joker's voice had lost all levity. "Batarians have definitely seen the fleet. Comm traffic just spiked, and their ships around the relay are arming weapons."

"Good," Shepard said. "Let's play our little magician's show out. Everyone, keep your eyes over here, on the hand that clearly has nothing up its sleeve. . . ." _And for god's sake, don't look over here. Where the rabbit's already in the hat._ Shepard reached over and tabbed the internal ship's comm. "All right, people. We're almost in position. Landing parties, to the shuttlebay." She tabbed the comm off again, and turned to look at Joker's ghostly avatar. "Try to keep the ship in one piece, old friend."

"Don't I always?"

Down in the shuttlebay, her teams were pulling on armor and checking weapons, clips, grenades, and everything else. She could see nerves in them, adrenaline. Most of them, she could read like books. Ten or more years of poker nights with some of them. Sam rubbed at his regrown moustache, and checked his submachine gun, sitting beside Kasumi on a bench. His feet were stretched out in front of him, the absolute picture of ease, but Shepard knew better. The eyes were blank and cold and he was ready to go. "Mornin'," Sam drawled as she drew nearer. "You know what today is?"

Shepard raised her eyebrows. There was nothing on the Terran calendar today that she was aware of, really. "It's the fifth of May," she replied. "Not exactly the Ides of March."

"Yeah. _Cinco de Mayo._ Famous victory of the Mexican army over the French. Not that most people remember that part. Most people just know it's a day to celebrate." Sam smiled faintly, but the eyes were still blank and calm. "Eduardo imported a few bottles of tequila this year and told me I'd better be back in time to drink some of them with him. I told him, no promises, but that he'd better save the _añejo_ for whenever I do get back."

Shepard glanced at Kasumi. The shorter woman smiled up at her serenely. No visible tension at all, except in the very faint tightening of the lines around her eyes. "Well, if you guys pull off the moonbase without a shot being fired on any of our ships. . . I'll go in for a bottle of the good stuff, if you like."

Sam's eyebrows went up. "See, now there's a bet that I can live with, Kasumi-chan. You should take notes." He looked at Shepard again. "Olmeca?"

"My credit accounts around about to regret this, aren't they?"

"Only if you get us the Tahona Liquid Gold variety." Sam grinned crookedly.

Lantar found a seat next to Sam, and started assembling his Blackstorm. "Tequila is the one that comes from a cactus?"

"Yep."

"It astounds me, how many things humans really seem to be able to turn into alcohol."

"What can I say? We're regular party animals." Sam bared his teeth, and Lantar, a little surprised, snorted in mild amusement. Tension in the line of his stocky shoulders.

Across the way, Shepard could see James, one of her new probationary Spectres, standing near, but not too close to his near-twin, Dempsey. Watching him and Elijah Sidonis as they got their gear together. She'd spoken to them yesterday, after their, _consanguria_ rite, which had been attended by every Spectre aboard. They'd all known that at the same time, Dara and Zhasa were taking the self-same vows on the _Raedia_. "Getting your affairs in order?" Shepard had asked just after the ceremony, as Eli accepted medigel, and as Dempsey had brushed the medics away with an flick of his now wholly-healed hand. "You four know something I don't know about tomorrow?"

Eli had snorted. "No, ma'am. It's something we all probably should have done months ago. Makes sense for everyone involved."

"And lets us all go out and fight knowing that chances are, at least one of us will make it through tomorrow," Dempsey added, his voice expressionless now. "Hopefully all of us, but there should at least be one of us left to take over the mess if things don't go well."

James, who had been in attendance, moved over to offer confused, if sincere congratulations. He did, however, regard Dempsey with raised eyebrows. "All this to avoid me trying to get custody of Madison if you bite it?"

Dempsey shook his head. "You know that's not it."

James mirrored the gesture, and asked, quite a bit more quietly, but just loudly enough for Shepard to hear, as she stood back in line, waiting to offer her congratulations, herself. "Or is it that you think I'm gonna chase after your girl if you're out of the picture? 'Cause. . . that's probably not going to happen either, you know."

Dempsey's eyes had narrowed fractionally. "Not going to chase her? Or just that you expect to be shot down in flames?"

James made a rude noise. "I'd be a constant reminder of what she'd lost, like a damn ghost, and she's not going to want someone whose mind she can't touch. Plus, it would take a tactical nuke to kill you at this point. Not going to happen, either way."

Dempsey had absorbed that with a single blink, and then taken his twin's hand to shake. "Worst comes to worst, be the best damn uncle you can be for Mad, all right?" he finally said, simply.

"Will do."

In the meantime, Rinus and Rel had been conversing in the corner. . . Lilu had, on passing them, heard Rinus commenting, dryly, in turian, _"You probably should swear to Eli and Lin, too, at some point."_

"_That's all right. We're back to being able to be in the same room and fight together."_

"_And if you and Seheve decide to formalize, and ever have children?"_

"_My __dimicado'fradae__ are all first-brothers. They __are__ the responsible ones in their families."_ Rel had shrugged slightly, and given Rinus a sharp, quick smile. _"If I ever have younglings, can I not count on my own first-brother to take them in, if I should perish? To care for my mate in her grief?"_

Rinus had given Rel a very long, cool look for that one. _"You enjoy finding ways to make my life more complicated, don't you, second-brother?"_

"_You were one of those telling me that I needed more hobbies, first-brother." _

Sam had been quietly shaking his head over Dara engaging in some 'damn fool turian law thing,' but Lantar had taken him aside to have a quiet conversation about it. Lantar had seemed a bit surprised, asking Eli if he were sure about taking the vows a second time—_Isn't Lin enough of a brother?_ To which Eli had replied, _Yeah, but Dempsey and Zhasa need someone to take care of Mad, if it comes down to it. And Lin's a lot of things, but neither he nor Serana are biotics. Joy needs someone with at least a little of that. Everyone gets something out of this, Dad. And we're sure about it._

After that, Lantar hadn't had a single objection. Now, he and Garrus had Sam over in a corner of the big room, and Shepard had suspected, since Garrus had joined them after a few minutes, that they were, once again, making a case for their _own_ much delayed _consanguria_. It was a conversation that never failed to end in all three of them heckling each other about their fairly insane family status. Garrus had retreated to a variant of his standby line in these discussions, "I actually have the most mundane family of all of us. Four hybrid children, and elderly varren, and the hero of the galaxy. Practically boring. I don't know why I'm even signing up to look after _your_ families." Garrus pointed at Lantar. "Now, through your son's second _sangua'fradu_, you'll be able to claim _quarians_ as in-laws."

"Only after the two of them get married," Lantar replied, hastily, holding up his hands.

"And a salarian and three hybrid kids, and a full human son," Garrus went on with relentless good cheer. "Sam here just has the AIs and the rachni and a rachni hybrid daughter and a nice, normal human son." His scars stretched a little as he grinned.

Shepard, who was starting to step out of the room, snorted under her breath, then turned and came back. Looked at the three of them, who were entering into the usual argument with all the usual relish. "Look," she said, simply. "Lorek is the second-most heavily guarded planet in the Hegemony. When we're done here, it's Khar'sharn next. Now is as good a time to do it as any, if you're going to do it at all."

Sam grimaced. "That sounded awfully like 'put up or shut up.'"

Shepard just grinned at him and arched her eyebrows slightly.

Sam gave Lantar a decidedly wary glance. "And you swear this ain't gonna make my girl and your son getting hitched into something incestuous under turian frickin' law?"

Lantar snorted. "Considering the fact that you're not adopting him, and I'm not adopting her, and they're not biologically related, except in that they're both human. . . no."

Sam considered this for a moment. "Well. . . all right, then."

The capitulation was so sudden, and so complete, that both Garrus and Lantar were left without a word to say. "Wait," Garrus said, after a moment. "We've been working on you for about two years on this, on and off, and all Lilu has to do is _dare_ you—"

Sam raised a hand. "Ah . . .she didn't dare me. Didn't call me a chicken, either. All she said was 'put up or shut up.'"

"I didn't actually even say that," Shepard protested mildly, leaning against the nearby bulkhead and crossing her arms over her chest.

Sam stared at the two turians, raising his eyebrows. "There's a minister of the law right there. Let's get this over with."

Lantar put a hand over his face. "I _was_ kind of hoping Ellie would be there for the ceremony," he said, very dryly.

"Kasumi's here. She can tell Ellie that you didn't throw me over your shoulder and elope with me."

Shepard turned away, and spent the next two minutes laughing. Every time she tried to turn back around, she caught the look on Garrus' face, and had to clutch at her ribs just a little more. When they finally did get the attention of the slightly harassed looking minister of the law, a young lieutenant who'd probably agreed to be the equivalent of a justice of the peace for the pay increase, and little more, the look of consternation and awe on the young male's face was definitely worth the price of admission. And Lilu had done her absolute best to keep from laughing as Sam resignedly stood there, and repeated the twisty _tal'mae_ words by sounding them out, and cut his hand. . . they all took epi-tabs after exposure to each others' blood.

And so, that evening, after the ceremony, Shepard had gone to find Eli and Dempsey, who were roommates on this trip. So were Rel and Stone, while James and Cohort were sharing, well, node-space. "You going to be okay with James?" Shepard had asked the pair from the door. "I know I switched the lines around on you in the last week or so, but it was in response to watching you all in training. Do I need to make a change before we drop?"

The two men had exchanged glances, Eli setting aside his datapad, but Dempsey keeping his guitar loose in his hands, fingering notes, but not playing them. "I used to spend about two hours a month, talking to James when he was still stuck in a server," Dempsey acknowledged, after a minute. His brows knotted, a fairly strong expression for the man, when his quarian lover wasn't around.

Shepard had arched her eyebrows. "You didn't have to save him on Terra Nova. You gave him your memories to stop him from attacking you. . . I get that. But you didn't have to allow him to upload through you."

He frowned, still fingering chords. "I know. I . . . kind of. . . felt bad for him, maybe?" Dempsey shrugged. "Or maybe I thought I was saving myself. Sort of." He shrugged again. "He's a little weird to be around, but so long as Zhasa and Mad aren't around, it's manageable. He told me he'd be happy if Madison eventually saw him as a kind of uncle or something."

Shepard nodded slowly, and forbore asking about Zhasa in this particular context. "So, no problems working with him?"

"He's got a very different combat style than I have, but then again, all he needs to do to keep existing is download into a different body from backup. Not that he probably sees it that way. Yeah, no problem working with him. The weird stays off-duty."

Shepard had glanced at Eli then. "And you?"

The young man shrugged. "He doesn't really need to work out or train for his own benefit, but I've done a few training exercises with him and Dempsey in one of the sparring rooms. Mostly just to get a feel for what to do with him. Make sure he doesn't go racing ahead of us for the wrong target, and I think we're fine, strategically speaking."

"How about managerially?"

Eli made a face. "He's feeling isolated. Spends a lot of time talking to the NCAIs. I, ah, have been making a point of dropping by his quarters and Cohort's. . . trying to get to know him. Which is fairly easy, since I already know Dempsey." A sidelong glance.

"You're about to say he's a lot friendlier than I am."

"Nah. You've both got distance issues. He acts less distant, but he's just as unstuck in time as you are, if not more so. Although he's already calling me Eli. Go figure."

Faint quirk to the corners of Dempsey's mouth. "I'm working on it, Sidonis."

"We're _brothers_ now. You can break down and say my first name."

"Elijah_."_

"God, no one says that except my mom, or maybe Dara when she's pissed at me." Eli had pretended to shiver, and then looked back at Shepard. She could see the intelligence behind his dark eyes working rapidly. "So. . . yeah. I don't foresee any real issues. He's responsive, follows directions, and, given that he's unlikely to go into a blood-rage on me, can help me sit on D here if I need to. Which, given the last time I had to? Not as easy as it sounds."

Dempsey looked up. "You were saying something about first names?"

"Hey, you already told me once that you didn't know who the hell _James_ was. And you're sure as hell not a Jim."

"God, no." Dempsey had dragged his fingers over the strings, a rough, discordant sound, drawing a chuckle from Eli.

Shepard had left it there, but watched now as Eli straightened from adjusting his leg seals, and told James, lightly, "Glad we're going to have you along today. If we run into any warrior-castes, the first thing I want you to do is take out their damned shields, if you can. That dampening field you can generate is outstanding, and I wish to god we'd had you along on Omega."

James turned his head, visibly surprised, and a smile quirked up his lips. "Sure thing, boss. I take it this will also keep me from running off ahead of the rest of you?"

Dempsey snorted. "There is that."

"I'm a little smarter than that."

"We'll see. Everyone I've ever seen with 'forwards strike specialist' on their resume seems to think they're invincible."

"Man, I'm _you_."

"Bad example," Eli pointed out, lightly. "Dempsey sort of _is_ invincible."

"Like hell I am—"

"Yeah, but _I_ don't even have a double layer of shields anymore. No biotics." James sounded annoyed and amused at the same time. "I _know_ I'm not invincible. Trust me, guys, I won't let you down."

Shepard watched as Eli slapped the . . . robot's shoulder. "I know you won't. Come on, let's get to our shuttle, huh?"

Shepard nodded to herself, and turned to glance around at the others. Rellus and Rinus, looking more than ever like twins; same exact black armor now, same paint job, and only an inch of height separated them. They were mirror images, in the same way that Dempsey and James were. _People are going to be saying I'm running cloning tanks_, she thought, amused. Stone scuttled up beside them, singing anxious anticipation in his light saxophone-like voice.

"Relax," she heard Rel tell the rachni. He seemed to have overcome his resentment of the rachni in general, which had mostly been born of Dara's relationship with Sky. . . and later, with all rachni. "We'll be on the ship in a minute."

_Not tension-song. Anticipation-song. Enjoyed singing battle-songs with Sings-Duty before._

"You want to do your thing with the deckplates again?" Rinus asked, quick and clipped.

_Yes. Captive-songs bind._

"Rel, you saw the footage, right? Stone, we'll ask you to cage the ones who have the best angles on firing at us, if at all possible."

_Workers are not the only ones who take joy in helping-songs._ Blue-green amusement.

Shepard shook her head, clapped Sam on the shoulder, gave Kasumi a quick hug and a mutter of _keep him and Blasto out of trouble, would you?_ which just got her a laugh in return, and then Shepard crossed over to punch Gris lightly in the shoulder. "Ready to fight something besides yahg?"

"I'm concerned that I might not be able to fight fewer than four batarians at a time," Gris told her, raising his brow-ridges slightly. "I might find it to be too little of a challenge, and fall asleep in the middle of the fight."

"Statistical likelihood of Gris-Spectre achieving a somnambulistic state in a combat situation is less than point zero zero three percent," Cohort noted, raising his eyeflaps. "We believe that he is attempting levity to lighten tension of situation for other organic units."

Shepard grinned. "I got that, actually. She reached over and patted Sky's carapace. "Wish I could take all three of you with us to the satellite, but. . . need you to be _really_ distracting for Sam, Kasumi, and Blasto."

_Distraction-songs will be most enjoyable. Battle-Brother and Sings-in-Silence and I will be well. _Reassurance in Sky's tone. _You cannot sing every song, Truth-Singer._

_Don't I know it._ Shepard exhaled. "All right. Everyone, get aboard and get ready!" Brief glance as Rinus, in his helmet, leaned down to press his head against Kallixta's helmet, and then everyone was climbing aboard. She, Garrus, and Lantar had two marine squads for backup. The younger Spectres were taking only one squad with them. There simply was only so much room in each shuttle. "Be ready, folks. This could either be a long wait, or a short one."

**Battle of Lorek, May 5, 2197**

Admiral Hackett was using the _Capetown_ as his flagship for this engagement. He was in the ready room off of the bridge, when the ship's captain paged him. "Admiral?"

"Yes, Diaz?" he acknowledged.

"We just got a signal through the relay. _Phoenix_ reports that they've engaged the batarians. Heavy resistance."

"Any numbers?"

"Twelve heavy cruisers, eight destroyers, two carriers, and some of their _Corsair _-class raider ships, about eight of them. They may have others pulled back around Korar or Dorgal, waiting to see what we're sending before they commit. They're only seeing three carriers, six frigates, three destroyers, three cruisers, and nine corvettes at the moment." Twenty-four Alliance and turian ships against thirty batarian ships. Not counting the fighters.

"Is the relay clear?"

"They're not budging from in front of it. They know we're trying to clear the path."

Hackett nodded. "Tell our ships to pull back a little. Give the relay opening a nice wide berth. The batarians should read that as an attempt to pull them away." He shut down the comm, and stood, pulling on his jacket, before stepping out onto the bridge. "The geth have our little surprise ready?"

"They say aye, sir."

Hackett grimaced. "All right. Are our ships back far enough to react?"

"Five thousand kilometers. They report that the batarians are continuing to exchange long-range missile fire with them, and rail-gun fire, but nothing more."

"Then let's introduce them to the geth version of hell. Open fire."

Hackett had been more than a little chilled when the geth Councilor, Emissary, had come to the Alliance military with their proposal for breaking blockades in the future. It had the benefit of geth directness to it, certainly. And Hackett absolutely did not wish to _ever_ see this weapon used against a planet. . . but as the geth pointed out, it relied on using a conventional or dark energy mass relay to help accelerate the weapon. It probably couldn't be used against a planet with any real effectiveness. Most planets were simply too far away from the relays to be hit with the weapon.

What the weapon did was, simply put, to mimic a coronal mass ejection from a star. Not at the size of a typical solar prominence; most of those were larger than Jupiter, after all. No, what this was, was free-ranging electrons and protons, stripped apart, and a few relatively heavier materials, like iron or even water, all superheated to a plasma state inside the engine compartment of a geth ship. Only a geth ship could manage this; the heat dispersion requirements would flash-fry an organic crew, and even, to be honest, most geth units. Alliance techs who'd worked with the geth on the project had come up with the 'Hellfire' name; the geth had meticulously corrected them, it was said, saying that 'Sunfire' was more accurate.

Hackett watched on the screen in fascination as the twelve Hellfire prototype ships moved to just in front of the event horizon of the relay entrance, and, hovering there, began to charge their main weapon. It was like Thanix weapons, in that, yes, superheated metal, being controlled in a continuous stream, controlled by mass effect fields. It was like a geth plasma rifle or plasma cannon. . . superheated matter, compressed to a stream, and directed by electromagnetic fields.

Except. . . the geth saw no need to direct the weapon. The mass relay would do that for them. Working in tandem, the geth ships now positioned around the round eye of the relay like numbers on a clockface, began to pour pure, superheated plasma forth. The _only_ concern the geth had had, in this experiment, was in making sure that the relay connected to the Fathar system, not to any of the others that this particular old relay could reach. Thus, one of these ships would be a sacrifice to the Hellfire. Another reason why only the geth would likely choose to use this weapon. One of the ships would lead the plasma through the relay, be caught in the bow-shock of a hundred thousand tons of superheated material being carried faster than the speed of light and exiting through the mass relay's vortex on the other end. . . and likely torn apart before being able to upload the experience to the Consensus. This was deemed an acceptable loss by the geth; the runtimes in charge of the ship had been backed up.

As Hackett watched, the geth ship at the three o'clock position moved to the center of the relay's vast opening. All of the ships had incredible shielding and armor, to be withstanding the heat of the plasma cloud they were ejecting, which was so hot it wasn't even visible to the human eye. "Geth say that consensus has been reached. Entering the relay in five. . . .four. . . three. . . two. . . one. . . mark." The comm officer sounded both elated and frightened at the same time, and Hackett didn't blame the man in the least.

The vortex spun open, and, matter still streaming through from the geth ships, _stayed_ open. A continuous stream of superheated plasma, essentially a cloud, was being sucked through the vortex, and shot across the galaxy at well over 186,000 miles a second. . . and would slow a bit at the other end. But only just barely.

At the other side of the relay, in the Fathar system, the captain of the _Phoenix_ had promised the geth to record the event for the Consensus to examine. Alliance techs wanted the footage, too.

The vortex opened, a flicker of blue light in the distance. . . but the long-range cameras and thermal imaging units caught what the naked eye could not. "Mother of god," the captain of the _Phoenix_ said, staring. To the unaided human eye. . . almost nothing. The invisible hand of god, reaching across the cosmos to smite the evil-doer. On the screen. . . .thermal imaging was translating the batarian engines into a red glow, and the plasma temperatures as a violet-white cloud exploding out of the relay in an pillar of what looked like gas, but was not. It hit the ships, lifted them, _moved_ them. . . tore at their shields, and threatened to flash-melt the outer hulls. Several of the ships closest to the relay were simply vaporized, snuffed from existence. Their crews wouldn't even have had time to be frightened, let alone feel fear. The rest were scrambling, desperately, to get away from the firestorm, but there was even electromagnetic energy associated with this kind of attack. . . which is why solar flares that reached Earth, for example, could knock out satellites and unshielded electronics on the ground. Some of them were suffering from engine failures and navigational breakdowns. Secondary explosions, from mines that had been set in the vicinity of the relay were going off now, too. And all of them were being lifted on the tide of superheated matter _towards_ the waiting Alliance fleet. "Admiral Hackett?" the captain of the _Phoenix_ said, over his secure FTL line. "Please tell our geth friends that I absolutely never, ever want to fight them."

"I'll pass that along. We get their attention?"

"Contacts," the sensor tech on the bridge confirmed. "We have five additional cruisers pulling out from behind Dorgal, with another carrier and ten additional _Corsairs_ for screening."

"Now, it's a party," Hackett said, grimly. "Tell Shepard to commence her attack. Give us a couple of salvos on the batarians retreating from the relay, then turn to attack the ones coming in from behind you. We're coming through once your sensors indicate the thermic cloud has dispersed a little more. Two minutes."

Two minutes in battle could be a lifetime. The batarians charging in from Dorgal were _pissed_, and mightily so; they were coming in at full FTL, and they would be here within less than a minute and a half. For a very brief period, the Alliance ships were going to be caught between a red-hot, smoking, damaged anvil, and a very annoyed hammer. "You heard the man. All ships in Task Group Fourteen, open fire on the batarians." He tabbed to another line. "Shepard? We've got their attention. Good hunting."

"Acknowledged, _Phoenix_, same to you." Shepard's voice came in, clear and strong.

Fighters ejected from the carriers, and screamed across the night-black sky. Cruisers and destroyers intercepted incoming missile fire directed at the carriers, and launched their own missiles, torpedoes, and rail-gun rounds, tearing into the batarians coming in from the relay. On the screen, it looked like two lines about to converge and intersect on the exposed Alliance ships. "How much longer?" the captain asked, as the _Phoenix_ rocked under the impact of a missile that had gotten through the lines.

"Fifteen seconds."

"Come on, Hackett," he muttered under his breath. "Come on. . . "

"Ten seconds. _Edinburgh_ reports fires on its forward flight decks. Their fighters requesting permission to land with us and refuel."

"Granted, tell _Edinburgh_ to pull back—"

"_Bipennis_ reports biotics weapon fire, three salvos, three different ships. Shields are down, fire in the engine compartment—"

On the screen, the turian destroyer was hurting. . . which was when the _Perseus_, a human-flagged destroyer, moved in between the _Bipennis_ and the three _Corsairs_ attacking it. "How much damned longer?"

"Five seconds. Relay opening—"

The relay opened. The captain had little chance to look up at the cam feeds, but he registered ships bursting through, again, at the speed of light, easily reaching their position in seconds. Six crystalline ships, three times the size of the SR-2 _Normandy_ came through first, each flanked by three smaller vessels, each the size of a frigate, also crystalline. Just behind them, the rest of the Alliance fleet, its turian allies, and a handful of geth ships; the tender vessels of the quarians were remaining behind for the moment, and so were the Hellfire ships. In seconds, the twenty-four rachni vessels had reached the already-damaged batarian ships closest to the relay. . . and then there was song like thunder in every single mind. The captain of the _Phoenix_ put his hands to his head, and saw a tech drop a datapad in shock. It felt as if his teeth were rattling in his head. Massed voices. Six of the twelve living rachni queens were here today, guarded by at least a hundred brood-warriors each. No single voice was distinguishable, nor did they need to be.

_You have muffled the voices of lost-sings, chained them with despair-songs and the death-songs of the mind. _

_So that you could sing with stolen voices, to harmonies foreign, with words you do not understand._

_Captive-songs, betrayal-songs. You enslave minds to dissonance. This was the song the darksong destroyers sang to us. _

_We will not allow this song to be sung again._

_You have heard the songs of those who sing in silence._

_Now, you will hear our songs._

_Sing surrender-songs, or sing death-songs._

Implacable voices filled with red and black. The captain's vision actually faded around the edges for a moment. He shook it away after a moment, and managed, "Translation. . . the rachni are _pissed_. Where the hell is my tactical screen?"

"It fried in the last salvo, sorry, captain, trying to get it back up again—"

"_Phoenix_, this is the _Capetown._ You're looking a little singed. We're coming up from behind. Got any targets you'd particularly like hit?" Hackett's voice was deliberately casual.

"Take your pick. There's quite a variety," the captain managed in reply, as a tech finally got his tactical screen working again. "Have to say, sir, it's really nice having friends," he added, watching on screen as a brood-mother vessel and its three escorts moved in on a _Corsair_, took its biotic reave attack across their shields, and shredded the shields shrouding the batarian vessel with almost indifferent ease. . . and then simply began pulling the hull off the vessel in strips, stem to stern. Bodies tumbled out the sides of the ship, scattering in all directions. Another _Corsair_ fired on a brood-mother vessel, full spread, reave and five torpedoes. The ship's shields faltered. . . .

. . . and then there was a single, thunderous chord strumming in everyone's minds at once, over and over again. _Death-song. Death-song. Death-song._ The brood-warrior vessels tore the raider ship's shields away, and the brood-mother vessel. . . yellow lines of light poured out of the extended foils at its sides. Cut into the engine section. And then _pulled_. The captain of the _Phoenix_ stopped in mid-order, staring at the screen. _Is what I'm seeing a fucking tractor beam? Like something out of a twentieth-century science fiction vid?_ Except. . . those vids had always focused on taking a disabled ship in tow, or capturing an unwilling ship. They had never really focused on what kind of damage that sort of technology could really do. And now, with the queen vessel pulling on the engine section, the brood-warrior vessels surrounded the raider. Latched on with their own thin lines of yellow light. . . and began to pull, as well. The captain could only imagine the shrieks of tortured metal inside the vessel, as it again fired another salvo, but the brood-mother's shields were back up again. . . and then the cruiser began to tear apart at the seams. The engine compartment gave way first. . . and the reactor core exploded, sending the rest of the ship, already weakened, tumbling in three large pieces. The rachni ships almost seemed to skitter out of the way, already turning and regrouping as a wing of batarian fighters swarmed in, diving low and attacking the shining skin of the queen's ship. . .

_My god, are the vid cams and the sensors picking any of this up?_ was his single, dazed thought, before he shook his head and got back to the business of coordinating his fighters, getting the starboard and port gun crews locked on targets, and receiving reports from his XO about fire control and damage control teams on the decks below them . . . .

**The ground teams, Fathar System, May 5, 2197**

"We have a go," Shepard announced over the team radios, and Sam exhaled. _Finally._ Even after all these years, it was the waiting that killed him. Getting ready, getting keyed up, adrenaline rushing through him. . . and then sitting and waiting. Adrenaline unused tended to become waste materials in the body. Energy reserves that the body started to reach for, wasted, too. Stress-cortisols, too long pumping through the blood-stream, lead to tension headaches. Irritability. He generally did his mental relaxation exercises and his deep breathing, but they'd been waiting for the word _go_ for a while now. But now, they had it.

Sam turned and glanced down at Kasumi, who sat beside him. All this time, she'd been serene, almost placid. . . but now she looked up, and he could just catch her expression under her visor. Leashed excitement and tension. Her eyes sparkled with it. "Been a while, eh?" she murmured.

"Two years," he replied. Two years, since they'd hit a Terran smuggling enclave together. It had been a very high-end place, ironically, on the outskirts of New Philadelphia on Terra Nova. The house was probably in ruins now, thanks to the yahg attack, but two years ago, it had been a fortress, well-guarded by mercs, and used by gun-runners. They'd gone in, Sam posing as a buyer and Kasumi as his lovely but dimwitted 'assistant. . . ' and they'd closed the operation down. Hard. There'd been about three mercs left standing. . . well, kneeling, hands behind their heads, getting zip-tied, anyway. . . by the end. And Kasumi had chided the ringleader, just after having shot him, "Smuggling guns just lacks class. If you'd just been into art, I might not really have had a problem with you, but. . . I've never seen a statue kill anyone. Well, other than when they're used to club someone over their heads."

"There you have it. Statues don't kill people. People kill people," Sam had told her, amicably, and had gone on zip-tying the rest of the survivors.

The _Normandy_ dipped inward towards Lorek now, flanked by the _Raedia_ and the _Sollostra_. The shuttlebay doors opened, and the mini-Reaper slipped out ahead of everyone else. "_Going to flash their detection systems and get them looking at me,"_ Jeff Moreau announced over the radio. _"You'll know when to move out."_

The mini-Reaper slid through space, squid-like profile clearly visible to the radar detection systems on the various satellites. Jeff could just _imagine_ the panic as crews thought at first that they were seeing a genuine Reaper in the far distance. Could almost hear them shouting, _They're __back?__ How? The Alliance kept a few alive? How is this possible? Wait. . . the information must be coming back faulty. It can't be that close—or it is that close, and it's that small? What the fuck?_

He headed directly for Lorek at first, diving right towards its grid of satellite defenses. Unlike the ones around Mindoir, these platforms bristled with visible missiles and rail-guns; also unlike the ones around Mindoir, their tracking systems were a little out of date. It didn't give him a lot of room to maneuver, but it gave him _enough._

_Jeff, they've acquired us—_

_Exactly what I wanted them to do._ Jeff had flashed a half-dozen of the automated platforms so far. Sensors indicated that missiles were being launched behind him; that was okay. He wanted the missiles to chase him. And rail-guns, well, he more or less laughed at those. They had to predict where he'd be in the next five seconds, and his processing systems allowed him to analyze the trajectory of their ordnance and be _elsewhere_ in half the time it took for them to reach where they'd thought he'd be. No, the missiles and their guidance systems were actually more of a threat. . . but he wanted them. Wanted them to chase him. _Okay, time to dance here._ He flipped end-for-end, shoved hard against the tug of Lorek's gravity well, feeling it like hands pulling down against his hull, like leaden weights. Drawing the missiles in his wake and skittering side to side to avoid rail-gun slugs, he headed directly for Lorek's single moon and its heavy atmosphere, rich with hydrocarbons. The parent element was methane, and complex processes in the atmosphere converted small percentages of that to acetylene and ethylene. Both of which were, happily, highly flammable. And the moon's atmosphere also held about ten percent oxygen. Not enough for raging wildfires, no. . . but enough for a hell of a big boom.

_Missile range, sweetheart?_

_Four kilometers and closing. You've reduced speed._

_Don't want to lose them just yet._ Down into the thick methane-ethane atmosphere. Too warm for a volus, right temperature for a human or a turian, but caustic and un-breathable and smelly. _Now, where oh where is that missile control base. . . there we go. _Jeff toyed briefly with the idea of leading the missiles chasing him directly to their own base, but that had way too many threats involved in it. As it was, the various defense systems on the surface of the moon were already acquiring him, their radar and other sensors pinging at the back of his mind like struck nerves. _Range to missiles?_

_Two kilometers. Within cannon range. _

_Okay, in we go. Hold on, sweetie._

_I am unable to do any such thing, Jeff. However, I am adjusting our stability systems for your sure-to-be creative aerobatics._ Prim tone, hint of an internal smile.

Jeff wished he could grin, as he dove move or less directly for the missile base, spun again, and fired his cannons directly at the incoming missiles, which exploded in the thick atmosphere over the missile base. . . and four small puffs of black smoke suddenly radiated out, becoming much, much larger, as the fire from each explosion lit off the acetylene and ethylene hovering in the atmosphere, but not the methane itself; the methane was only flammable in concentrations between five to fifteen percent in an atmosphere comparable to Earth's. Here, it didn't react. . . but the huge amount of hydrocarbons dispersed through the air exploded in titanic fury, ripping from horizon to horizon within seconds. The air shook; seismographs on the ground probably registered an earthquake of at least 3.0, and all the missiles currently launching from the surface to chase the mini-reaper were suddenly engulfed in a firestorm. . . which only caused them to detonate, too.

_Reinforce_ _our shields, sweetheart_, _or our tail feathers are going to be cooked._

_I am already doing so, Jeff—_

_All right, let's see what other trouble we can make so the landing teams have lots and lots of cover. . . is that a hydrocarbon lake over there? _It was in a crater of the tidally locked moon, and it was a thin, relatively shallow pool that lingered in the shadow of a wall that never saw sunlight.

_Affirmative._

_Well, let's go say hello to it. . . _

_If this is the method by which you exchange friendly greetings with everyone, it is not, perhaps, a coincidence that people fear us._

_Nah, that's because we kind of look like a giant floating space squid. People think we're about to get all hentai with their ships._ Jeff fired on the hydrocarbon lake, sending it up in a sheet of flame, black and oily smoke exploding up in a column through the atmosphere. . . followed by a pillar of flame, as the hydrocarbons below were consumed, formed a vortex, found more fuel in the atmosphere, and flame begat flame. He found several more targets, each of them dispersing more ash, more flame, and then got the hell out of Dodge, looping well away from the _Normandy's_ current location, but tossing a thought out on the NCAI network. _—__**Hey, jackass!**_

—_You rang?_ Little Jeff, on the _Normandy_, replied, sardonically.

—_**Ground teams are free to go make life hell for the batarians. I'm going to swing out around the other planets and see if anyone follows me, or if they have any more reinforcements.**_

—_Yeah, yeah, you have all the fun._

—_**Hey, I'm not the one with the lovely Kallixta Velnaran running her hands all over my . . . equipment.**_

—_Dude, her husband was watching the whole time, and I never laid a hand on her. I was even a gentleman and tried not to moan too much. Okay, maybe an "oh, baby," slipped out once. . . _

Jeff snorted in laughter, and sped off through the system. Looking for trouble and hoping to find some more.

In one of the shuttles, six Spectres readied themselves. Their turian pilot swore vociferously under his breath, and took them in through the hydrocarbon haze. "Damn methane atmosphere, so thick it's like fog near the ground even on a _good_ day," he muttered. "And with that lunatic actually trying to _summon_ the spirits of fire and darkness, I'm on instruments only."

Sam reached up and grabbed a strap as they hit a hell of a layer of turbulence. The firestorms Jeff Moreau had ignited, like a forest fire in the American West, were generating their own weather now. Thermal layers. Sucking all available oxygen in, dissipating it as more heat. Convection. Cold air and hot meeting and reacting. "This is going to be bumpy," the pilot warned, and the shuttle dropped a good twenty feet like a rock, and Sam's stomach was left somewhere at ceiling height before dropping back into his intestines.

"Glad I didn't eat before we left," he shouted up to the tiny cockpit. "You getting any inkling of where to land this bird?"

"Think I see a place that's _relatively_ safe," the pilot responded, dubiously. "All I can say is, thank the spirits there's no vegetation on this mudball. I've got an outcropping of bare rock about five hundred yards south of the target. Best I can do. The good news is, that lunatic's shockwaves seem to have set off some of the mines around the complex."

"Mines?" Gris rumbled, and craned his neck to peer out the window.

"Yeah. I can see a series of small, fresh craters around the complex through the smoke." The shuttle swayed sickeningly, and then they thumped heavily to the ground. "Everyone out, before they see us!"

Sam took the pilot at his word, leaping out the hatch and hearing the whine of the engines behind him. He was already on guard, weapon in his hand, scanning the area for enemies. Chokingly thick black smoke hung in the air, and there was just enough wind to stir it, part it like a curtain to reveal a burning lake of fire off to the east. "We're in the middle of Dante's fucking _Inferno_ down here," he said into his radio as the others leaped down behind him.

"Phlegethon, I think," Kasumi said, dryly, flicking on her stealth device.

"Gesundheit, sweetie." Sam turned his own device on, as well.

"No, no. Name of the burning river of hell. Where those who sinned by killing and other deeds of wrath were tortured. You should brush up on your classics, Sam." Kasumi's voice was relentlessly bright.

"Deeds of blood, wrath, and killing, huh?" Sam snorted and turned on his bio-sign scanner. Nothing in their immediate vicinity. "Guess I'm gettin' a preview." 

"Oh, Sam. Alexander the Great was supposed to be up to his neck in fire, but Charlemagne's in _Paradiso_." Kasumi's voice was still light. "Dante liked killers just fine so long as they were _his_ killers."

"Don't we all?" Sam straightened from his crouch as the shuttle took off at a steep angle, trying to avoid any fire. "Let's move before they send anyone to investigate the landing zone."

_Agreed_, Sky sent, his tone uneasy. The rachni didn't need a breather on this planet; ten or eleven percent oxygen in the atmosphere was more than enough for him, and the black soot and ash falling from the sky wouldn't harm his lungs. Sam suspected that the entire area, if he dared open his mask to take an inhalation, would smell like an oil refinery going up, greasy and acrid. The rest of them? Even Gris had a full face-shield in place. _Life-songs ahead, but underground,_ Sky added.

They moved, Blasto, Sam, and Kasumi ranging ahead of the other three, stealthed. When they got within two hundred yards, they found the first of the small craters, and Kasumi called a halt. "There are devices in the ground all around, still," she muttered. "Mostly to the east and the west. There's a clear path going straight north of us. . . must be their regular access road."

"I see tread marks," Gris acknowledged, moving ahead slightly, and hunkering low to study the tracks. "This path will be guarded."

"Then this is where we must initiate the distraction phase," Cohort replied, his voice utterly calm, of course. "Jaworski-Spectre, Kasumi-Director, and Blasto-Spectre. . . this platform detects slightly fewer detonation charges to the east currently than to the west. Your approach will be safer from that direction. We also detect EM emissions ahead. These appear to be vid cam feeds."

"Not unexpected," Blasto noted, his voice chiming lightly on the radio.

"We'll signal when we're close enough for the distraction to start," Sam said, tightly. "Be very distracting, but be damned careful, too."

"Aren't we always?" Gris replied, gruffly. "Get moving, human. We don't have all day."

Nervous work. Creeping forward. At least where the craters were, they knew it was safe to walk. Blasto could hover over the field, but even the faint touch of his mass effect fields, repelling him off the ground, could set off a sufficiently sensitive device. And, given that some of them had had enough of a hair trigger to go off from effectively a really loud thunderclap in the sky. . . sweat was trickling down Sam's spine as he crouched in another crater, waiting patiently for Kasumi to finish scanning the area. "Got another one," she noted, and they circled around the device. This was the hard part. They were in a thin area where two camera fields did not quite overlap. . . but it was where the mines had been laid down in dense clusters. This was their fifth unexploded device. _This is taking a lot of damn time,_ Sam thought, as another pall of smoke drifted over them.

His bio-sign detector blipped, and came up on his suit's internal HUD; something much needed when he was using his stealth device. "Patrol," Sam muttered. "Stay down." Sure enough, the batarians were pathing back and forth around the edge of the low, rough hill, under which their complex was situated. Watching their perimeter, alerted by the missile attack, and on edge because there was space combat near the relay. . . but hopefully not anticipating a ground attack. Not yet, anyway. The three males turned and moved back away. . . not aware of the fact that Sam had a shot lined up for the brainstem of the closest one. "Go," Sam murmured, and Kasumi slipped ahead again, finding the next mine.

Fifteen interminable minutes, and Sam's internal clock was ticking furiously. The team hitting the satellite control base was probably in the damn door by now, and this was supposed to be a coordinated strike. _Sing peace,_ Sky sang, silently, as Kasumi, Sam, and Blasto made it out of the minefield to the dubious safety of the hillside.

There was only one entrance to the complex. . . a hatch on the south side of the hill. The three of them circled around, and Sam dropped to a crouch again. Kasumi tapped quietly on her omnitool, and his HUD flared to life, showing him where the cameras had angles, relative to where they were. Someone alert enough _might_ see the ripples and distortions of their stealth fields. . . but there was a hell of a lot of smoke out there, they could mostly dodge the cameras, and, there was about to be a distraction that would cover Kasumi getting them in the front door.

Sam tabbed his radio. "Bang a gong, guys."

"Got any suggestions on how to be distracting?" Gris rumbled in reply.

"Tell 'em the one about how a rachni, a krogan, and a geth walked into a bar."

"Yeah, I never know how that one ends."

"No one else does, either. That's why it works so well." Sam crouched down and waited at the corner of the hill, watching the three guards, outlined, suddenly, in the red light of Sky's battle-vision."

Gris grunted to himself. "Well, you heard him. Let's go tell the batarians some knock-knock jokes." He took his heavy shotgun from over his shoulder, and moved forward, Sky bulking huge at his side, and Cohort moving along with the tireless, even movement of the geth. They didn't bother hiding. They didn't charge. They simply moved at a steady, implacable pace, and as they approached, Cohort released a combat drone from his forearm receptacle, sending it out ahead of them, to trigger any turrets that might be in the vicinity. Sure enough, the tiny drone, cloaked in its mass effect fields and kinetic shields, drew a hail of fire. "Got more than cameras there, Orpheus," Gris reported.

"So we hear. Don't seem to be mobile turrets, like those pieces of shit we saw at Zorro's house."

"Good. Cohort will hack 'em when we get closer." Gris drew up his biotic shields, sensed Sky doing the same, and they simply continued forward. Three figures looming up out of the smoke. Suddenly appearing on camera inside the base, in the field of the guards' vision. "Knock knock!" Gris bellowed at the startled guards, and fired a high-yield incendiary round from his krogan shotgun at the closest, blowing the male backwards and off his feet.

"We inquire as to who is there." Cohort replied, politely, as a spray of bullets sparked across their shields from the turrets. The geth's head swiveled, and Gris could see him acquiring his target. . . and then he raised one hand, deploying a small antenna, and began transmitting wireless signals, hacking the closest turret, which spun and began firing on the guards from behind.

The guards dove for the ground, cursing and shouting in batarian, which Gris only knew a few words of, learned here and there over the course of his mercenary work.

"Botany!" Gris bellowed now, in answer to Cohort, and lifted five of the guards off the ground with his biotics. Their bodies twisted helplessly in the air, as they fumbled for their weapons, trying to spin and attack their assailants. But at least one turret was firing on them in the air, while the other remained locked on the Spectres, chipping away at their shields.

_Botany who?_ Sky asked, and sang a low, powerful note that shook Gris from the inside out. The shearing force of Sky's attack lanced out and hit the figures held in Gris' web of force. . . tore at their shields, tore at the very web of interlaced power holding them aloft. . . and the two colliding fields of energy exploded, tearing into the bodies. The four remaining guards shouted again as their fellows hit the ground, dead, some in mangled pieces, in fact, and opened fire on the Spectres.

"Bought any good locks lately?" Gris taunted, and returned fire with his shotgun now.

"We detect RF transmissions. They are alerting those within." Cohort's voice was very precise. "Jamming signals."

They _wanted_ to be seen. They wanted to be noticed. They were the distraction. And they were being hellishly distracting. "Orpheus, you in yet?" Gris growled into his radio. His shields were down now, and his armor was taking a beating. No cover for yards in any direction.

"She just got the lock. We're in. Mop up and move to cover."

"You got it. Sky? Your turn."

_Singing control songs, Battle-Brother_. Sky's voice held reds, black, and whites. Blood and teeth and rage. The four remaining guards lifted off the ground, held by a tiny black hole, gravity simply reversing for them, bending their limbs into impossible configurations and contortions.

"You want to join in, geth?" Gris growled.

"Momentarily. Accessing final turret. Substandard robotic parts and programming are proving to be problematic."

"I understand that you want it to be your friend, but get moving—"

"We do not require a friend, but an ally will be of utility." Cohort calmly hacked the remaining turret, and turned it on the four remaining guards, sending his drone in as well with a sweeping gesture, and the little flying robot swooped in, stinging at the batarians' shields, caught as they were by Sky's singularity.

Gris laughed, low and rough, and began picking off the batarians, one by one, throwing them as far as he could, ripping them from the field of eight g's that Sky held them in. . . and sending them flying. Rapid shifts of g-force meant that most of them were unconscious long before they hit the ground with sickening thuds. "Front is clear, Orpheus," Gris reported, with some glee. "Taking out the cameras, and then heading for higher ground, so when they send more people out to play, they won't know where we are till we hit them." Gris grinned. He was enjoying this. He didn't have the hard part of this mission at all.

Inside, the hatch slid closed behind them, and Sam could already hear movement ahead of them in the narrow tunnel that led down into the earth. _ I said __distract__ them. I didn't say 'get the entire bunker turned out to attack you_,' he thought, gritting his teeth.

_Apology-songs—_

_Nevermind._ The running footsteps, coming from below them, and around a corner, were getting closer. "Blasto, Kasumi—" Sam looked around wildly. They didn't have time to clear the damn corridor, or even run past the corner, which was thirty feet ahead of them.

"This one proposes going up," Blasto chimed softly, and Sam caught a blur of shimmering motion as Kasumi latched onto Blasto, and the hanar lifted up into the air, pulling his tentacles in tightly to himself, so that they would not dangle down.

_Okay, that's great for Kasumi, who weighs a hundred pounds, soaking wet,_ Sam thought, slid his submachine gun to his back, and reached up onto the wall beside him. It had been cut jaggedly out of the bedrock of the moon, and it had handholds, thank god. Sam grunted and pulled himself up. . . and then dropped right back down with a curse. The ceiling was only eight feet up, here, and the corridor was damned narrow. Even if he clung as close to the ceiling as he could, parts of him were still going to stick out; the batarians had clearly designed this area as a choke-point, for defense. _So we try something else._ Sam turned, got his back to the wall, pressing back with his arms, and hopped up, getting his feet against the far wall. His armor scraped noisily over the rock, but it couldn't be helped; he could only hope that the batarians only heard the sound of their own damn boots slamming into the ground as they ran. He strained, swore mentally, and treated the corridor like a rock chimney, and got seven feet off the ground as the first batarians turned the corner, hustling past their position, weapons at the ready. His knee ached; he'd been shot there when Dara was six or so, by a couple of enthusiastic robbers. Now, it reminded him, again, that it periodically gave serious consideration to becoming arthritic. _Shut up_, he told the joint. _Or so help me, I will tell Cohort to sign me up for a new set of geth-made knees. Hah. Cohort would have just jumped up here and would be hanging from the ceiling. Of course, he doesn't sneak worth shit. He really needs to upgrade his software and get a stealth module_. . . The thoughts helped him overcome the burn in the knee. The desire to move, just a little, as the eight guards moved by at a fast clip, directly under him. . . .

Never once looking up. _Thank god for people's preconceptions about where people might be hiding_, Sam thought, _and thank goodness for Blasto and his damn mass effect fields._

The hatch opened, and closed again behind the batarians heading out to chase the Spectres. Kasumi had hacked the internal cameras before actually opening the door, so that no one in the control center would see the doors opening to admit. . . nothing. . . through the airlock. . . but someone watching the door entry logs would definitely notice that it had cycled without someone's badge giving them proper access. Sam slowly worked his way down the wall again, and felt a brush against his side as Blasto returned Kasumi to the floor. "This one would prefer for that not to happen again," Blasto chimed softly.

"You and me both. Let's get moving." Sam really wished he could wipe the sweat off his face inside his helmet. "You getting anything, Kasumi-chan?"

"Lots of EM. Looks like the control center's two levels down, and about as far away from this door as we can get, due north."

"Of course it is," Sam replied with a sigh.

Nervous work. Guard rooms on either side of the narrow hall, from which the first group of eight batarians had emerged. Then a hall with more damned cameras on either end. "Left, right?" Sam whispered into his radio, trusting in the seals of his armor to keep the sound from carrying.

"Doesn't matter, I think."

_Great._ "Left." When in doubt, Sam always went left first. Down the short hall, into a longer one. . . this one with two batarians at the end, in front of the elevator that they needed to reach. Between them and that elevator, also, was another hallways that transected this one. _Guards? Again? Really?_

"Another camera at the junction," Kasumi warned, very softly. "Probably one in the elevator, too."

"This one could overcome the will of the guards, and allow us to access the elevator freely, but this one will be unable to compel them for long," Blasto warned.

Sam had had the 'Voice of the Enkindlers' explained to him before. It was like a dominate attempt, by an ardat-yakshi or a Lystheni with the appropriate gene-mods. . . but not. Less invasive. Blasto was unable to cause someone to do harm to themselves or others, for example. It was more like. . . really good hypnosis. Of course, Blasto was uncomfortable talking about the full extent of the ability. He could use it in stealth, for example, but not move at any great speed while doing so, and it had surely saved his and Kasumi's lives on Garvug. . . but Sam didn't like the idea of leaving sleepwalking guards behind them that would wake up and raise an alert before they were done. "No," he said, quietly. "I know you're not one for unnecessary casualties, Blasto, but. . . no alerts."

"This one understands," the hanar chimed, very softly indeed.

"Need a place for the bodies," Kasumi said, shortly.

"Elevator roof." Sam's reply was just as curt. Once he'd recovered from his irritation and anxiety over her borderline hostage situation on Garvug, Kasumi had joked, not entirely without basis in fact, that the entire time she'd been sneaking around, she'd thought of an old computer game she'd loved playing, in which the object had been to sneak through various compounds, taking out guards without being caught. And that the game designers had, for whatever reason, decided that if bodies were simply piled up in the shadows, the live guards couldn't see them. Wouldn't notice that Frank or Misal or Talarus just plain wasn't where he was supposed to be. Sam had chuckled at the time, because he'd played the same damn game, growing up. Real life wasn't like that. You really did need a place to hide the bodies. Fortunately, the elevator roof was probably handy.

Thus, they proceeded down the hall. No motion detectors, no laser beams; there wouldn't be, in a base where people needed to walk and patrol on a daily basis. Just cameras and lots of manpower. The cameras were sweeping back and forth, and they needed to time this very, very carefully. . . Sam moved in behind his target. Kasumi moved in behind hers. Sam watched the camera turn back towards the far end of the corridor. . . left hand to the forehead of the batarian helmet in front of him, lifting the startled male's head back, stretching the throat, lifting the chin, right hand, slamming the point of his knife up and in, through the weak point in the armor, through the tongue, soft palate, and into the brain. Clean, efficient, and damned near instant. Kasumi was just as brutally direct; her silenced pistol had been pressed to the back of her batarian's skull, and the trigger depressed twice, just to make sure. Less than two seconds, but the bodies were twitching and spasming out of pure animal reflex. "Key card, biometrics?" Sam hissed, pulling his knife back out with a grunt.

"Both." Kasumi slid her now-mostly-headless guard to the floor with effort; the batarian outweighed her two to one. She groped in his pockets quickly, then lifted his limp hand to the elevator security pad, keyed his biometrics, and swiped the keycard. Ten seconds. The camera was turning back towards them now, slow sweep. "Blasto!"

"This one will assist you, respected security chief," Blasto replied, calmly, and reached down with his handling tentacles as the elevator hissed open, grabbing one of the batarians' legs.

"Nevermind that, hack the cameras," Sam hissed, heaved his own corpse into the elevator. No time to worry about blood stains. Kasumi looked around wildly as Sam reached down for the arms of her batarian, while Blasto held onto the legs. . . and then Kasumi pulled the sniper rifle off Sam's back. "What the hell—"

"No time," Kasumi told him, and aimed, carefully. . . using the laser of the sniper rifle's sights to blind the camera as it swung back in line with the elevator. With luck, it would look like a momentary glitch. She backed up into the elevator, holding her hands steady, and Sam let the doors close in front of her, once he was sure Blasto was all the way in.

"Smart lady," he told her softly, and with total pride in his voice. Then he looked up, found what he was looking for, and slammed a hand against a loose panel in the ceiling. Moving dead bodies above the level of his own head was not particularly fun. 'Dead weight' takes on a whole new meaning when it's limp, floppy, and weighs almost as much as you do, yourself. "Get in there," Sam gritted, feeling his internal clock ticking away in his head.

"Does this help?" Blasto inquired, and suddenly, the corpse Sam was trying to insert, head-first, through the square slot in the roof lifted up and through, like thread through the eye of a needle. The second went up just as quickly, with biotic assistance.

"Thank you," Sam told the hanar, shaking his head. "You're handy to have around."

"This one thanks you, respected Spectre Jaworski."

Sam was already moving on. "Right. Down?"

"As far as this will go," Kasumi confirmed.

Meanwhile, up on the surface, Gris, Cohort, and Sky had found perches atop the rough hill behind the hatchway that lead out of the underground bunker. Sky's battle-vision and awareness of life-songs would let them know if, by some chance, there happened to be another exit, if any batarians were coming from behind them. Cohort had found a sniper perch atop a boulder near the summit of the hill, and was shooting from prone to reduce his own profile; Sky and Gris were ranging back and forth on the southeast and southwest corners of the hill, looking down at the hatch. Eight more batarians had come out to play, and these were much more heavily armed and armored than the original nine patrollers had been.

"Knock knock!" Gris shouted down to them, and then ducked and rolled as one of them hurled a grenade at him.

_Who is there?_ Sky deployed a singularity; this group of fighters was smart enough not to clump up, so the rachni couldn't catch all of them at once.

"Acid," Cohort responded, crisply, and began firing at the floating batarians with his sniper rifle.

_Acid who?_ Sky sounded confused, and no wonder. The botany pun had strained the rachni's comprehension to begin with; a language with no spoken words also had no homonyms.

Gris didn't have a chance to answer; the grenade, which had landed behind him on the hill, started to roll down towards him, and krogan or not, regeneration or not, grenades _hurt_, could kill you, and generally involved fire. Which slowed regeneration and, in this atmosphere? Would probably have a lot more impact than a normal incendiary load. He rolled away again, grabbed it with his biotics, locked the handle in place with his mind, damn it, and threw it right back at the batarians. Releasing the handle when it was at their feet.

Of course, they'd started scrambling the instant they'd seen his return of serve coming back through the smoke. The explosion was quite satisfactory, but didn't take any of them out, more's the pity. _Acid who?_ Sky repeated, in some puzzlement.

"Acid sit down and shut up!" Gris bellowed at the batarians below, rolling back to his feet and pulling his shotgun off his back to begin firing at them again. "Come on, Sky. Give 'em a little acid."

Sky thought about that one for almost five seconds. His music almost stopped. _Oh! I understand this song now!_ Blue-green amusement bubbled through the black and red battle song, and he raised his pedipalps, and began to tag the batarians below with his acidic, toxic venom, which could burn through armor, given enough time.

"We have a record of over three million puns, riddles, jokes, and limericks, if you would care to hear more of them—" Cohort paused, set his rifle aside, and did something precise with the omnitool strapped to its left wrist, before holding out a hand. . . and discharging a bolt of blue-white electricity that hit one of the remaining batarians, tearing its shields apart.

In the meantime, at the Lagrange point between the moon and Lorek, another pair of shuttles, escorted by other breaching pods, was taking heavy fire. Eli latched onto a strap and held on as Kallixta, living up to her reputation as a skilled, if insane pilot, ducked and dodged flack coming from the station ahead of them. "Having fun, Tyr?" Rel shouted from where he sat, strapped in near the rear hatch of the shuttle.

"Definitely," Eli replied, keeping his voice as detached as he could. _Something_ went by the window nearest him, and it flickered by so fast, he couldn't make out its shape. . . . just a shadow against the light of Fathar, there, then gone.

"The good news is, we're too damn small and fast for them to use their rail-guns against us," Rinus shouted, as they rolled, _hard_, to port, and Eli found himself slammed back and forth in his seat, against the wall behind him, and into his restraining harness, as something _else_ flickered past the window again.

"That so?" he asked, after a moment to recover his breath. "What the hell are they shooting at us with, then?"

"Fifty-cal bullets, mass-effect propelled, to try to tear through the shields. Smaller missiles, with guidance systems," Rinus called back, looking out his own window.

_Oh, this __s'kak__ is really for the birds. I can play soldier, sure, but I'm a cop. I __like__ being a cop. Okay, there were parts of that I didn't like, either, particularly the domestic disputes, but. . . _Eli grunted as they rolled again, this time hard to starboard, as Kallixta dodged something else. "Bumpy ride," Dempsey acknowledged, calmly.

"'Bout as bad as that one batarian attack near New Canton, back in 2183," James suddenly said, turning and looking at Dempsey. "Bouncing was bad enough that a couple of guys puked in their helmets on the way across to the raider ships, remember that?"

"Tommy Larson never did live it down. He spent all that time in zero-g training, using the gyroscope to try to prepare himself for the maneuvering, and still lost his lunch." Dempsey's voice was flat, but a little friendlier. As if he suddenly looked at James, and didn't see a duplicate of himself. . . but almost a fellow-traveler. Someone with the same experiences as he had. Almost all of his own N7 buddies from that era were either dead, or couldn't understand what he'd become.

Eli's realization was short-lived; one more very steep banking maneuver, followed by a vicious pitch upwards, and then they were in range of the landing bay. _Okay, I'm sure these folks know their jobs better than I do, but how the hell are we getting in there—oh._

The shuttle jerked and twitched as it and the landing pods opened fire directly on the doors of the landing bay. Eli could feel the missiles leaving their mechanisms, vibrations transmitted directly through the metal frame of the shuttle, and continued to hold onto his strap like grim death, and, mostly to distract himself, went through a mental litany of the weapons and gear he was carrying. Shield, check. Vibrosword, slung over his back, check. Sniper rifle, check. Beretta at his side, as always, check. However, in the holster strapped to his boot, it wasn't the Sig-Sauer he normally carried. Shepard had handed him a Collector beam-pistol personally a few days ago, and told him, dryly, "We've mostly figured out how to build ammunition blocks for these. That's not the hard part. Trouble is, you won't be scavenging these bricks off any of your enemies. . . so only use as needed." He was also carrying a full-on Collector beam weapon, strapped to his back. He didn't want to have to use it, but he, Rel, and Rinus were the only people checked out on the damn things, and Rinus had a Blackstorm, and Rel was carrying a an arc projector, instead of his usual grenade launcher. Someone needed the beam weapon for cutting through doors, if nothing else. _Well, we do have Stone with us_, he added, mentally. The rachni bulked huge in the confines of the shuttle; his presence had necessitated the use of a second escorting breaching pod for their marines. The first one would have flanked them to draw fire anyway; two made it that much 'safer.'

"Breach!" Rinus shouted. Eli's head jerked up, and he could see debris tumbling out of the now-shattered door of the landing bay, propelled by venting atmosphere. All the usual problems of space station fighting were now theirs to enjoy. Bulkheads all through the station were probably dropping to protect the rest of the crew, which meant that they'd have to hack them or burn through them. "We're going to be taking small-arms fire as we come in for a landing, and there might be debris. Stay down!"

The first breaching pod went through the hole ahead of them, drawing the bulk of the interior fire. Eli didn't envy the pilot or the marines aboard in the slightest. Then his shuttle, entered, while the third ship hovered outside, returning fire at the local exterior turrets, trying to secure the landing zone. Inside, the two ships landed within feet of each other, just inside the shattered wall. Their shields, already torn apart by the outer defenses, collapsed, and he could feel the impacts of batarian bullets against the hull. _"Stay down,"_ Rinus called to Kallixta.

"_Believe me, I am down,"_ she called back. "We've got one fifty-cal gun on the shuttle. Do you want covering fire?"

"Just while we're getting out," Rel advised, turning to look at Eli. "The object isn't to turn every bulkhead on the station into. . . .Swiss cheese."

"This is your part of the party," Eli told him, dryly. "Yours, Dempsey's, and Rinus'. Sounds good to me." He got his shield in place, and drew his pistol, holding it loosely in his hand for the moment. "Dempsey, James, and I go right. You guys go left. Take the marines with you."

"_Spirits keep us all,"_ Rinus said, his voice grim now. "Let's go."

Eli had been expecting it to be bad, and it lived right down to his expectations. They had to decompress the shuttle before exiting into the blown-open bay, lest they, too, be hurled out into unforgiving space by the concussive force of the escaping atmosphere. Once out, he got a good view of the huge face of Lorek's single moon and black void through the shattered entry hatch and walls, before setting his feet down on the deckplates. The station clearly used artificial gravity, but he had polarized his boots for magnetics anyway, just in case the batarians decided to get clever. Kallixta had positioned the shuttle so that they could exit with the body of the vehicle protecting them, and that was a very, very good thing. Eli started to lean around the vehicle, raising his shield to get a look, when Dempsey pulled him back. "Let me," the man said, over the radio, and ducked around the corner for a moment.

Bullets sprayed everywhere, and Dempsey pulled back. "Yeah. Turrets underneath the cameras at the far corners of the room. Six guys on our side of the room, mostly around one of their shuttles, but a couple back in and around the tool and equipment bays. Guess they were all wearing armor." They were on the exposed side of the shuttle; the marines had landed on the left side, giving Rel, Stone, and Rinus more cover, because their team simply had fewer defenses.

A few armored bodies _had_ gone flying out the breach, so that was the good news. "Virtus, Vulcan, what have you got on your side?" Eli called into his radio.

A muffled grunt, and then Rinus replied, "About the same thing. Looks like warrior-castes and techs."

_They are not captive-song singers. This place is not a place of slavery-songs._ Stone's voice was definitive.

"Linked shields?"

"About to find out."

Eli peered around the shuttle briefly, saw his shields spark blue for his pains, and pulled back, swearing. "Okay. Pilots, give us covering fire, and then we go."

No air in the bay. He couldn't hear the machine gun fire, but he could _feel_ it through the deckplates. And as the batarians were forced to duck down into cover, tools and equipment flying off racks as the machine guns swept back and forth, that left just the automated turrets to worry about as the teams moved forward, finding targets, and firing. Moving forward, side by side with Dempsey, bullets ringing off Eli's shield as he crouched behind it, bullets simply falling to the ground at Dempsey's feet, as they were robbed of their kinetic energy by his shields. Silver rain. Behind them, James moved. . . helmet off, for the moment, for the psychological impact of seeing a human face, unaffected, in an area deprived of atmosphere. One lone warrior caste ahead of them, ducking into the fragile shelter provided by a shuttle strut. Turret still tracking all of them, spitting fire at them. Eli gestured at the turret with his pistol, and Dempsey nodded, once, crouching to . . . concentrate. "No," James said, from behind them. His lips didn't move, but his voice was clear over the radio, anyway. "Me. Let him keep his biotics up. Just cover me."

Eli nodded, and the geth-built. . . human. . . moved up slightly, his white eyes glowing a little more intensely as he connected wirelessly with the turret fifty feet away. Another hail of bullets as the batarians ahead of them ducked out of cover. . . and then the turret, hacked, began firing on _them_ from behind. No sound. No way to hear the shouts of consternation, but Eli could see at least one batarian, hidden partially behind their own shuttle, turn to shoot at the turret, in self-defense. Could see a batarian tech lean out of cover, waving frantically, as if to say _Don't shoot it, you idiot, let me get control over it again!_

Eli snorted, and they took advantage of the confusion for however long it might actually last. "Go," he told James, and the android needed no more than that, racing forward, faster than a turian, each stride a leap, vaulting neatly over the strut of the shuttle in front of them to land more or less on a batarian's chest. "Go, go!" Dempsey called, and they hustled up just as James' three hundred pounds of metal and synthetic muscle, propelled at high speeds, had probably shattered half the bones on the batarian's rib cage. Certainly, the male was on the floor, and James' hand, as bare as his face, at the moment, was in front of the batarian's faceplate. Eli turned his face aside as orange-red blood sprayed everywhere, in response to what could only be called a _coup de grace_.

No time to think about it. There were batarian techs off to the far right, but still trying to rehack the turret, and one of them had just turned and sent a sizzling electrical charge at Eli's own kinetic shields. Fortunately, the Jormangund shields were very difficult to overload, and only faltered for a moment, but Eli was taking more bullets than he really wanted to. "Dempsey, take care of the techs, would you?"

"Sure. One at a time, though." Dempsey pragmatically reached for the tech who was trying to rehack the turret, who was just visible behind a rack of pneumatic tools and coils of tubing, and threw him, biotically, into the nearest wall, bouncing him off the bulkhead. Eli followed up on that by firing at the other tech, who'd frozen for a moment in astonishment as his fellow went hurtling away. When the batarian fell, Eli reloaded, quick, practiced movements, even in the bulky gloves of his armor.

Still no noise. Moving forward, finding the warrior-castes behind the shuttle. Firing his pistol at the closest target, seeing them turn. Acquire him as a target, undoubtedly seeing the hilt of the vibrosword at his shoulder. . . almost in slow motion now. All three of them opening fire at him, and Eli raised his shield, just trying to endure the hail of bullets as the three moved in, as one, trying to flank him. Steps ponderous with inevitability, as Eli started backing up, all too aware of the turret behind him, which was targeting the warriors, for the moment, but could, at any moment, regain its primary targeting priorities. _Come on, Dempsey. Come on, James._

The batarians' three-fold shield flickered. Faltered. Died. Their heads snapped to their right, back down the body of the shuttle. . . and James smiled at them and waved. Bare-faced, bare-handed. "Now!" Dempsey said over the radio, and again, a surge of biotic energy as he heaved the central batarian away from his fellows. Silence as the batarian hit another bulkhead. Silence as Eli and James opened fire on the two remaining warriors, who simply stepped in closer to each other, and _held_ there, with a stubborn defiance that Eli actually rather respected. . . although it was also annoying as shit.

Just as Eli had to duck behind his shield once more to reload, one of the two batarians finally dropped to the ground. And that was when the turret behind Eli _did_ recover its original targeting parameters, and opened fire on him from behind. No pain, not at first. Just impacts, unexpected source, tearing through his shields, knocking him to the ground. Dazed. _What the hell is hitting me?_

And then Dempsey was there again, standing over him, taking the bullets. Expression invisible, except that, from the tilt of his head, he was looking directly at the turret. . . which suddenly ejected its ammunition and went into a self-calibration mode. More shots from the now-retreating warrior-caste, tearing into Dempsey's shields, as Eli managed to roll back to his feet, and then James rounded the corner, leaping for the remaining warrior-caste, wrestling the male's gun out of his hands with inhuman strength . . . "You all right?" Dempsey asked over the radio. His voice was distant.

"Yeah. . . think one of the bullets got through. . . upper back. Doesn't feel bad." Eli's suit, unlike most of the Spectres' armor, was pressurized; he'd gotten the volus-grade environmental system, but the helmet always had a backup, so while the suit had a leak, he wasn't in danger of suffocating any time soon.

"Hold still." Dempsey turned him around, and Eli winced as the man checked over his back and shoulders. "Yeah. You're bleeding, but not gushing. Medigel now, worry about it later." A pause, as they got back to cover, and Dempsey cracked open a tube of medigel, pouring it directly into the wound. It _stung_. "Doc's gonna yell at you. Turning your back on a turret. Like both of you don't know better."

"It was hacked. . . and the guys ahead of me. . . son of a _villi_, that shit stings. . . . were a hell of a lot more dangerous at the moment." Eli gritted his teeth. It was amazing how 'it doesn't feel that bad' in the heat of adrenaline very shortly became 'that actually really hurts' when the wound was treated. From the feel of it, the bullet had actually lodged in or around his shoulder blade. Possibly right in the bone, which was definitely preferable to a lung injury. Quick flash of Dara, bleeding out under his hands, then the memory was repressed. "What else we got?"

"Virtus, Vulcan, and Stone are mopping up on their side," James replied, coming back around the corner as Dempsey slapped a patch on the armor plate on Eli's back. Again, his lips didn't move, but the voice was clearly audible on the radio. "We can leave our marines here to hold the landing area when we're ready to cycle the airlock and move on out."

"So. . . James working out?" Eli asked Dempsey, waiting for the hot and cold flashes of shock and adrenaline to die down.

"Eh. He's all right. Between him and Stone, I think we're going to scare a few batarians today."

Eli chuckled under his breath. "It's _just_ them who are scary, huh?"

Rel hadn't liked the tactical situation on their side of the landing bay. The other teams could use both shuttles for partial cover; his team didn't have that luxury. Thus, the marine team had gone left, with them, but that still didn't create cover where there was none. Grenades were a bad idea in the confines of a relatively small space station, too_. "Don't see much of a choice,"_ Rel said, grimly._ "I'll go first."_

_Wait. Stone-song shields_.

_Huh?_ was about all Rel could think at first, but then Stone scuttled forward, singing an imperative bass note in his raspy voice, and the deckplates buckled. Heated along the seams, and pulled up. . . forming a barricade. "_S'kak_," Rel said, stunned. He'd never even thought about using the floor to create cover. It didn't take him long to adapt, however; he crouched and ran, as Rinus leaned around the corner of their shuttle, covering his advance. Rel crouched behind his improvised barricade of twisted metal, trying not to touch it; parts of it still glowed, dimly, with red heat. . . and then leaned over it to open fire on the closest warrior-caste, a lone male without a partner in sight. Stone sang again, and several more deckplates ripped up from the floor, and Rinus, the rachni and the marines moved up as well. "Not going to hold forever," Rel called over the radio, ducking back down as the turret on their side of the room opened fire on their position. He could feel the bullets slamming into the metal in front of him, and knew it was only a matter of time before they would finally chip through.

Rinus nodded, and ducked as a tech back in some sort of tool bay sent a crackling charge of energy at them all, trying to slice through their shields. "I can't help with the turret, but I can do something about each person's weapons," he said, pragmatically. "Stone, grab that far tech and wrap him up, would you?"

_Captive-song binds._ Stone sang again, as Rinus started working busily with his omnitool. Only flashes of all this for Rel, as he leaned out, again and again, firing back at the batarians. His eyes widened, however, as the closest tech was suddenly engulfed in strings of red-hot metal that wrapped around him like a web. . . The male leaped to his feet, probably screaming, though there was no sound. . . and then the metal abruptly cooled, solidifying, contorting the terrified male's body in a position in which he could not possibly fire his weapon, reach his omnitool, or even take cover. Rel could only imagine the terror this would bring. Complete helplessness. He aimed past the male for the other tech, lining up the shot carefully. He'd had a new sight installed on his assault rifle, allowing for a little better precision. . . although precision with most assault rifles was a laughable concept. Garrus had urged him to try a geth-made model, but Rel had remained faithful to his beloved Kassa Breaker. . . but with the addition of the scope. _Hold still . . . .right. Got you._ He had the tech's head in the crosshairs, and depressed the trigger, twice, sending out two rapid sprays of bullets, which sheered through the shields, and then more or less exploded the male's head. "Left side is clear," Rel reported, tightly. Stone's mind vision was not as strong as Sky's, but it at least gave him confirmation of that fact.

Rinus finished work with his omnitool, and the warrior-castes further back, in hiding behind the shuttle, stopped firing, almost instantly. Pulled back into cover. "Go, go, go!" Rinus urged, and Rel leaped and rolled over the low barricade, running forward now, leaping over the body of the first, fallen warrior caste, feeling the turret lock onto him as its primary target. _Good. Should leave Rinus, Stone, and the marines alone for the moment._ Grim thought, as his shields dropped. Bullets began to hammer into his armor, but Rel didn't stop until he skidded around one strut, just short of where the warrior-castes were probably frantically trying to change weapons. . . and then he knelt where he was, still taking fire from the turret. Waited for the others to cross his path. . . and then began returning fire. Pain blooming in his shoulders and chest as the bullets worked their way through. Rel still wore the same style of armor as he had in boot-camp; pressurized helmet, but non-pressurized body plates, with elasticized undersuit to prevent decompression bruises under the scales. No leaks. . . except for the blue blood trickling from the fresh wounds. White emptiness starting to fill his head, but the only thing that mattered was taking out the _futarri_ turret. . . . dim awareness of rachni song. Batarian running, fleeing, so odd to see a warrior-caste in retreat, but the male was desperately scrabbling at his armor, trying to unlatch it. Rel stared at him, uncomprehending, for a moment, the white haze that had threatened to sweep over him still clouding his thoughts. _Bad idea. If you take your helmet off, you'll die. . . why is he. . . oh. Spirits._ Thought came back then. _Stone heated his armor. If he stays in it, he burns to death. If he tears it off, he asphyxiates._ Rel considered the horror of that decision for about a second more, and then lifted his gun and fired at the frantic batarian, aiming directly for the male's head again. He considered it more mercy than most batarians deserved, but these were warriors, not slavers.

Rel moved around the corner of the shuttle, just as Rinus was finishing off the last of the batarians, and they just about all turned on Eli, James, and Dempsey as the trio of humans, or near-humans, anyway, came around the corner of the other vehicle. Everyone recognized each other at the same moment, and the gun muzzles lifted away. Rel could feel the ache in his own chest and cowl now; there were bullets embedded under the scales. The regeneration was working; he wasn't bleeding. But they were in muscle tissue, and they ached when he moved. "Someone kill the cameras," Eli said, and Rel's head jerked up, looking for the electronic devices.

Dempsey and James took care of that in short order, and the marines pulled back to protect their shuttles. James then knelt by the airlock door, and began working on it, trying to get it to open. "You need help?" Dempsey finally growled.

"No, I got this, but you're in my light."

"How am I in your light? You're hacking something." Flat and affectless as always.

"Okay, you're in my space. Get out of it." Light humor in the android's voice.

The door slid open, and Rel watched as Rinus' head turned. Looked right back at the shuttle where Kallixta was waiting in the cockpit, ready to take off with them if they needed to retreat. On Rinus' private band, Rel muttered, "_She'll be fine, first-brother."_

"_I know she will. Here's hoping we don't have to escape this damn place before it blows up like the last time we entered a space station like this."_

"_The universe never seems to throw the same situation at us twice. It appears to like variety."_

"_Seheve is turning you into a philosopher."_

"_I doubt __that__ very much."_ Rel made a rude noise, and moved into the airlock chamber with the rest of them, Stone trying to compress his body as much as possible so that they could all fit.

Eli tabbed his radio. "Team one, this is team two, landing bay is secure."

Shepard's voice came back, strong and clear. "Acknowledged. Move to south barracks, then ascend to life support area. We're heading for the northern one. Then we'll hit CIC."

Eli grimaced. CIC was on the third and highest level of this satellite complex. In order to get there, both teams were going to have to cut through a set of barracks, one planetside, which was designated, arbitrarily, as the north barracks, and one moon-side, designated the south barracks. The discussions on the _Normandy_ had been long on this topic. Taking out the barracks first ensured that they wouldn't have enemies at their backs, but would give the batarians in CIC time to prepare. And, of course, the mission clock was ticking. They needed to get this place secured. _Sam, Kasumi, and Blasto have probably already got the moon base locked down_, Eli thought, as he and his teams swept south through the curve of the corridor, taking out two guards as they headed towards the southern barracks and living areas. . . .

Somewhere under the surface of Lorek's moon, an elevator stopped at the bottom floor of the missile defense base. The batarians in the hallway were on alert. Some crazy Alliance commandoes were camped outside, trying to breach the facility. So far, they had killed two teams, and the base commander had decided to go for lockdown, plain and simple. Supposedly, air-based reinforcements had been called for, but the warrior-castes standing guard in the corridor had no good feelings about this. "First thing I'd do if I were pulling a raid on this place, would be to set down a jamming feed for radios," one of them muttered.

"Noticed that our radios aren't working? Everything's coming over the intercoms right now?" the second one asked.

"Yes," the third agreed. "Elevator's coming down. Could be a message. . . "

"Or the perimeter could have been breached."

All three of them turned, at the far end of the hallway. Made sure their shields were up. Lowered their weapons, and took aim, ready to fire, at the elevator.

_Ding._

The elevator doors slid open. Revealing. . . nothing.

_What in the ancestors' names_? The first warrior stared at the elevator for a long moment, his danger-sense prickling up and down his back. This was out of the ordinary. . . . but there were no life-signs on his scope. "Fire!" he ordered, suddenly.

"But—"

"They could be stealthed, just _fire!_"

He'd hesitated too long; a slender figure flashed into view, and threw something the length of the hall that hissed and then exploded in midair, blinding him. _Shit. Flashbangs._ The batarian opened fire, immediately, directly into the area ahead of him, sweeping his assault rifle back and forth, heard a grunt, and then the gun was being knocked out of his hands, close range, too _damned_ close, redirected the gun's butt up into his chin, staggering him backwards. He shook it off, struggled for control of the weapon, felt his two fellows turn inwards towards the attacker. . . and then one of them sailed up off the ground. He couldn't see what was going on, precisely, just flashes of images around the periphery of his whited-out vision. . . but his compatriot had sailed down the hall, into the elevator, and the doors slammed shut on his head. _Ding_. The elevator started to ascend once more, the head still sticking out, trapped. . . . _No, no, no. . . _Another slam to the chin, knocked backwards, his companion to his left firing into the figure's side. . . yes, it was a human, a human male in black armor. . . and then the slender figure reappeared as clouds began to dissipate from the warrior's vision. She set a submachine gun to the back of his companion's head, and fired. Close range. Inside the shields. _No! No! No! Will not give up, will not give in, _"Who the hell are you?" he growled in his own language, still struggling with the human male. . . .

"_Death, who comes for all,"_ the male replied, spinning the rifle around in the male's hands. For Death, his accent was absolutely atrocious. Then he set the weapon under the batarian's chin.

The warrior exhaled, the fight leaving his body. A chiming voice spoke sweetly in a language he did not understand, and then he awoke, some time later, much to his own surprise, in what appeared to be a supply closet. Bound at his legs and wrists, with the bodies of his companions beside him. Both of them were headless, and he wanted to shout in fury, to fight, but he had been spared by Death, found unworthy, perhaps, to follow his fellows into the afterlife, and he was for damned sure going to find out _why._

Just as soon as he figured out how to loosen his arms and legs and get the gag off. And warned everyone else on the base. . . .

Kasumi had taken out both cameras in the corridor just after throwing her flashbang. No time to lose, really. Blasto had _insisted_ on taking one of the warriors prisoner, which Sam had grumbled at, briefly, as the man's limbs had gone slack and his eyes glazed, and then zip-tied him at hands and ankles and heaved him into a closet, with the other two bodies, and then locking the door after them. It wouldn't be a comfortable storage place, but it was at least out of the way. Kasumi now ranged ahead of the other two, chuckling under her breath as she now sealed the doors to other rooms. The benefit to the base being on lockdown was this: Everyone had barricaded themselves into various chambers, ready to rush out and defend the area. . . but that meant that it took precious little effort to slide quick-drying epoxy into the locking mechanism, scramble the lock codes, and so on. Six doors along the corridor, either side, slipping past the cameras that were at the far ends of the corridors, as well. Bio-signs in each room. at least four people per room. . . .twenty-four people that they didn't really need to kill. Although, if she caulked the door seams and turned off the ventilation systems, they'd eventually asphyxiate, which would probably be a good way to get them to surrender.

Mind busy indeed, Kasumi moved down the corridor to the final guard room. Slid a wire-held camera through a very fine crack in the hatch, and peered through, confirming what bio-sign detectors said. "Four people. Then it looks like the main control room is past there."

The doors slid open, silently. The batarians inside, clearly on edge, looked up and, seeing nothing, hesitated only a moment before firing into the open door. Kasumi had prepared a number of fun toys for just this eventuality, however, and spun around the corner with a high-powered light, similar to one she'd given Serana for her work on Khar'sharn. Humans could be all but paralyzed by a brilliant light; batarians had four eyes. Twice as many photoreceptors to assault. . . and this light had almost forty million candlepower to it. . . or about as much light as staring directly into Sol from the surface of Earth. Kasumi set it to an oscillating on-off pattern, so that the photoreceptors in the batarians' eyes would be continuously assaulted, hearing the shouts of confusion and pain as Sam moved in, firing steadily at the batarians who were, blindly shooting back, trying to hit Kasumi, trying to track Sam by the sound of his shots. . . . difficult, since he was using a silencer, and their own shots were covering the sound of his movements. . . Kasumi winced as the first batarian hit the floor. A second one managed to clip her in the doorway, shattering her shields and her stealth field, but Sam was on that one next, steadily firing. . . and Kasumi leveled her own pistol at the male, holding the light in her other hand, firing at will. The last two took very little time, and then they were at the door.

"Got to get this place locked down before Shepard and the rest take that satellite base," Sam muttered, grimly. "Otherwise, this entire moon can unload on the satellite control station."

"I know," Kasumi reminded him, patiently, as she worked at the lock panel.

"I know that you know, darlin'."

"Art cannot be rushed."

"This one understands, but perhaps respected Kasumi might consider making this piece of art less of a masterpiece?" Blasto chimed.

"Oh, don't _you_ start." Kasumi had already used the keycards of every individual in the outer room, to no avail, and was now using one of them for the basis of decrypting the lock code. "Great," she said, after a minute. "They scrambled their own lock codes. They probably can't get _themselves_ out without an acetylene torch."

Sam sighed. "All right. So we do this the hard way."

The hard way involved an explosive frame from his pack, foam-based explosives spread into the frame from a small aerosol can he carried, and a detonator. Sam was actually humming under his breath as he worked. "You're enjoying this?" Kasumi accused him.

"Generally speaking, getting to blow things up is kind of fun, Kasumi-chan. It appeals to the inner child, like knocking down a pile of blocks."

"That's not what you told Takeshi the last time he kicked over a tower."

"That's entirely different, Kasumi. He was just doing it to make a mess." Sam told her, loftily. "I'm doing this for a higher purpose." He turned in a shimmer of refracted light. "We should back up now."

She backed up. Sam blew in the door. . . and then they threw in flashbangs, just to ensure maximum confusion and blindness. "This one regrets very much that force is required," Blasto informed the batarians in galactic, which, very likely, none of them understood. "However, we have no way of securing all of you as prisoners. However, if you surrender, we will spare your lives."

The response was gunfire, wildly aimed and far off target. Sam and Kasumi raced into the room, taking down targets before they even know that the Spectres were _there._ Blasto chimed regretfully, and raised one of the shooters off the ground. His particular biotic abilities had been developed in an aquatic environment, and the extraordinarily rare hanar biotics had developed their abilities for attacking predators, like sharks, or Kahje's equivalent of sperm whales. In Blasto's case, it was, simply, two pull effects directed on the same body, at the same time. Exert enough pressure, and bones will dislocate. Exert more, and the body will be simply torn apart. The screams, even at the point of dislocation, were enough to get the last two surviving batarians to set down their arms and surrender. Sam got to work zip-tying the prisoners, again, while Kasumi began working at various computer consoles. She could sight-read batarian, and her listening comprehension in the language was decent. . . but her accent was atrocious, and she knew it; she'd picked it up on the fringes of the Terminus systems, and she'd never been able to rid herself of the raider-caste touches to her speech. . . an accent that actually made Valak laugh when Kasumi had tried practicing with him in the past few months. Not to mention the way it made Nala _twitch_.

_Okay, so, we access all their sensors, we turn those off, so that the missiles can't begin to prime for launch, we enter the authorization codes. . . _Kasumi grimaced after a few decryption attempts failed. She turned back to their prisoners, and in her horrible accent, told them, _"I require your passcodes. Give them to me now."_

"_We will not bargain with you!"_

"_This is not a bargain."_ Kasumi sighed. "Blasto? If you would, please, my dear good friend?"

"Certainly." A sort of humming sensation pervaded the room, and Kasumi watched as the batarians' eyes went glazed.

Now that they were in a properly suggestible state, Kasumi said, sweetly and persuasively, in batarian again, _"Give me your access codes. It is better to bargain for your lives, is it not?"_

Their wills were strong. It took several more attempts, but Kasumi got the passcodes she needed, and proceeded to reset them. She cheerfully made one of them _Takeshi2193_ and another _MatisseForgery_ and a third _RemembertheAlamo. _Now none of the batarians should be able to get into their own systems to launch the missiles. And she set out dataworms towards other backup missile control sites through the communications systems. . . before locking down every other door in this complex. Scrambling the codes she hadn't already scrambled on the way down here. Took the communications array offline now, turned off the air filtration systems, and the heat.. Got the cameras online, so she could look into every room in the complex.

In the meantime, Sam turned to Blasto, and pointed to the pair of techs that they'd bound, and who were still a little glazed and slack-jawed looking. The third one had long since passed out from the pain of the dislocated arms and legs. "All right, Blasto. I've got to know. If you can to _this_," he stabbed a finger at the two hypnotized males, "why did you opt to do _that_?" He pointed to the unconscious male.

Blasto hovered nearer. "This one regrets having had to take this course of action. It is, however, most difficult to create the hypnotic state in people who feel actively threatened. Shooting at them renders it absolutely impossible."

Sam absorbed that for a moment. "Oh. I was only shooting at them, because they were shooting at us. . . "

"Precisely. This one cannot necessarily stop hostilities from such a large group. A single individual, as when Rellus Velnaran almost attacked Elijah Sidonis in your home a year ago? This one could have calmed him at that point. This one judged that it would be inappropriate to do so. Respected Spectre Sky agreed with this one's assessment, but both stood ready to intervene if blows were exchanged."

Sam absorbed that, shook his head, and got back to work, relaying information to Gris. "Yeah. Page Joker and tell him to pass the word. We've got the missiles locked down. Kasumi's going to start re-targeting them any moment now."

"Does this mean we get to come inside?"

"It'll probably be a few minutes. We have the control room secured, but not all the levels."

Kasumi raised a hand. "What did I say about hurrying works of art?" she murmured. "However, in this case, the masterpiece is done. I'm unlocking the front doors now. They'll have four batarians inside the main door, and a couple of guards to clear out on their way down, but other than that, it should all be fine."

"Oh, thanks, we get to do your cleanup work," Gris said, very dryly. "Hey, geth! You said you had three million jokes. Have any appropriate to this situation?"

"Knock knock," Cohort responded, immediately.

"Who's there?"

"Armageddon," Cohort responded.

Kasumi blinked. Sam blinked. Gris sounded confused as he replied, "Armageddon who? What's an Armageddon?"

"Armageddon out of here," Cohort replied, in an _exact_ mimicry of Sam's drawl.

After a startled instant, Kasumi began to _laugh_. Sam snorted ruefully, and Gris admitted, "All right. That one, I don't get at all."

Meanwhile, on the satellite control station, Shepard finished running up a flight of stairs, took cover at the top from a hail of bullets, and huddled against the metal wall of the stairwell. Garrus and Lantar were on the opposite wall, Hal'Marrak was crouching behind them, lower on the stairs, and her bio-sign detector was flashing. . . and Stone's voice came into the mix, overlaying her vision with red figures, which she could see through the wall, if mistily.

Just then, Joker's voice sounded over their radios. "Commander? Orpheus just sent word. Objective secured."

"Acknowledged," Shepard said. She didn't have time or breath for more. They'd just cut their way through the planetside barracks, and the batarians had been resistant, to say the least. She knew the other teams were doing well, simply because all lights on the station besides the red emergency panels had died, and all air and heat had been cut off, too. Eli's single terse message of "Objective achieved; moving to next level," had been all the confirmation she'd needed.

Still, there was something about their current situation that Shepard didn't like. She tabbed the radio again. "I only count eight bio-signs up here," she said, quietly. "For the control center of the station?"

"Yeah," Garrus said, drawing the word out a little. "Seems a bit too easy."

"Traps?" Eli replied over the radio.

"I'd say mechs," Dempsey noted, cool and terse. "Tighten up formations, everyone. Tyr, Virtus, and I will be in front. Let us take the brunt of whatever we find."

Shepard exhaled. She'd left their marines in the landing bay to hold the position secure. Planetside, it was just her, Lantar, Hal, and Garrus at the moment. None of them were defensive specialists. . . but they were all experts at finding cover, at least. She looked over at Garrus. "Cover me?"

"Don't I always?"

Shepard ducked around the corner. Saw a glimmer of white-armored bodies in the red emergency lights, around what looked like a packing container, and pulled back, saying bad words in dead languages. "That's a lot of mechs," she said.

"How many?" That was Garrus.

"Too many for a fast count. Mostly LOKIs, but I think I saw at least one YMIR, in standby mode."

"I can hack the LOKIs," Hal'Marrak reminded them, softly. "The YMIRs have too many antivirus and electronic warfare shielding for me to do it quickly."

"Did they see you, Shepard?" Lantar's darker voice now.

Shepard listened, and heard the grinding of servomotors and footsteps on metal. "Yeah. Sounds like it." She exhaled. "Here we go."

Ducking back around the corner, taking her first shots at the approaching LOKI mechs with her Revenant, an old, old favorite of hers. Garrus, not bothering with the sniper rifle at this point, but rather using a geth pulse rifle that Cohort had brought him to try out several months ago. The YMIR at the center of the small swarm of LOKIs began to unpack from standby mode, and Shepard happened to look to her left as she ducked back into cover. The stairwell in which they stood was in the middle of the round hallway that encircled the CIC. The access hatches for CIC were not immediately available. . . again, the station had been built for defense. But even in the darkness, she could see small red lights. "More of them, coming from left," she said, tersely. "This is going to be a party."

"On them," Hal told her, sending a tiny drone out to the left, and immediately hacking the closest LOKI, turning it around to fire directly at its fellows. Between the sudden threat in their own ranks, and the tiny, agile drone, the front two rows of mechs were suddenly very distracted and engaged.

Ducking back out again, feeling bullets tear at her shields. Her limited biotics were largely untrained; they'd been crammed into her head by Cerberus. She'd never had them as a child or a teenager; she'd merely awoken with them in the Lazarus station med bay. Miranda had been her first teacher, and had been frustrated when Shepard had only been able to master the fine art of picking up an opponent, high into the air, and then slamming them down again. _There's so much more you could __do__ with this_, Miranda had told her.

_Only have so much time in the day to devote to this, Miranda. So long as I'm not going to accidentally hurt anyone, or start listening to people's thoughts, I'm good._ Shepard had been playing big and brave at the time, but in truth, the biotics had scared her as much as shooting her first batarian at age sixteen. They had been just more proof that she wasn't _really_ who she thought she was. One more piece of evidence that she wasn't the real Lilitu Shepard. But the ability to pick someone up in combat and crush their skull and shatter their spine on impact had been far too useful to ignore. And once she'd found Garrus. . . he'd helped her forget the unnerving sense of unreality. Most days, Lilu felt _very_ real. She had four kids, a husband, a pet varren, and a hell of a lot of work to do every day that certainly confirmed that she was real.

And yet, every time she leaned out and yanked a mech off the ground before slamming it back into the deckplates, while Lantar crouched beside her with the Blackstorm hurling out micro-singularities, tearing at the mechanical bodies ahead of them, there was the usual nagging voice that told her _you shouldn't be able to do that. . . ._ The nagging voice wasn't in possession of the facts, she reminded it, sternly, and slammed another mech into the ground, shattering it. She had the markers for biotics. So did Garrus. That was why Amara was a biotic, and Kaius might yet become one.

Still, if anyone understood both Dempsey and James, Joker and Jeff, Narayana and Yana, and all the NCAIs, it was Lilitu Shepard. _What is real, indeed?_

Blue-white crackle as Hal'Marrak took out a layer of the YMIR's shields off to her right. . . ."Rocket!" Garrus shouted, she felt his hand on her shoulder, hauling her back from the corner, just as white light filled her vision.

Dazed, Lilu pulled herself off the ground, where she and the others all sprawled. "The YMIR was just using its cannons," she said, getting her gun back into her hands. "Where did that come from?"

"The _other_ YMIR," Garrus replied, pointing left. Sure enough, when she risked a peek, there were indeed two YMIRs out there now, one to the right, one to the left, and about twenty LOKIs still out there. She jerked back into cover as both of the large mechs opened fire with their cannons, raking the front of the stairwell. "I'm sort of sensitive about rockets, what, with my allergy to them and all, so I couldn't help but notice it was there." His voice was very dry.

"And to think, it only took taking one in the face to let you know you were allergic," Lantar said, very dryly, edging closer to the opening.

"Hey, you had to take one to the chest before you realized it yourself," Garrus pointed out.

"I was wearing _armor._ You were the idiot who took off your helmet in the middle of combat. . . squad-leader."

Shepard shook her head. "Now's not a time for a scar competition, guys." She leaned out cautiously; the YMIRs would take time to reload and recharge after the rocket attack. . . and opened fire on the closest LOKIs, keeping them back.

"Of course not," Garrus chided her, taking his own turn now, taking the group to the right, while Lantar took the group to the left. "That would require both of us taking off helmets and armor."

"See, he does learn. Eventually." Lantar held his ground with the Blackstorm so long his shields were almost down when he pulled back. Hal'Marrak ducked out in his place, and worked at overloading the shields on the left-side YMIR, this time, muttering under his breath in quarian.

Shepard shook her head again; the two _never_ let up on each other anymore. _And now I know why you're brothers._ She tabbed her radio. "Team two, what's your status?" There was a distinct pause, and a sound of much gunfire. "Repeat, team two, what's your status?"

Eli was a little too busy to answer at the moment. He was ducked down, using his shield to cover James, who was hacking the closest LOKI mech and turning it on one of the YMIRs. Dempsey was standing in front of Rinus, serving as a sort of living shield wall, so that Rinus, with his Blackstorm, could tear into the advancing mechs. . . while lifting and throwing one of the other LOKIs directly into the face of a YMIR. Rel was taking way too damned much fire, while waiting for his arc projector to go off. . . but when it did, half a dozen of the mechs advancing on them fried, several of their heads actually popping off, which would have made Eli laugh, if he'd had the time for it. Instead, he stood, moved away from James, and stepped in front of Rel, and felt yet more bullets rattling off his shield. "Got to fall back," Eli snapped at the others. _Everyone's shields are sparking, got to get at least a little cover between us and them._

"Rocket!" James snapped, and they all dove and hit the floor. White light enveloped them, and Eli could feel heat through his armor, like the chemical blast of a Harvester's breath.

Stone, behind them in the stairwell, stepped forward _over_ their prone bodies, and sang, in agitation, _Cold-songs of metal and wire. This is my song to sing._

Eli looked up as the rachni sang, low and deep in his raspy voice, and the metal on the exterior of the YMIR mech to their right simply liquefied, pouring to the ground, revealing wires and circuitry. It was like seeing a human flayed alive, and seeing the muscles and veins under the skin. He lifted his pistol, which, from prone, under Stone's massive body, was about all he could do, and fired past one of the chelicerae that stood between him and the mechs like a bar. . . aiming right for the exposed control boards and memory chips in the YMIR's head. Double-tap. Just like Lantar had taught him, years ago.

The YMIR staggered, and began spinning a little, in disorientation. Stone sang again, and its body superheated, glowing visibly in the low light. Circuits began to short out, visible sparks of electricity everywhere. Fires popped and exploded as the silicon superheated, and James swore. "For god's sake, Stone, don't ever do that to _me_."

_I would not sing this song to a friend_, Stone replied, politely, but of course, James couldn't hear the words.

Dempsey slid out from under Stone's bulk, and said, crisply, "I see an opportunity here," and lifted the burning hunk of metal and slag that had been the big mech with his biotics and a grunt of effort. Bullets were raining down from his shields, which had had a chance to recharge as he stood and now threw the red-hot mech, forcefully, into the LOKIs around it.

"Bowling?" James said, rolling out from under Stone and rising to at least a crouch as bullets continued to sizzle through the air from the left. "You're _bowling_ with mechs?"

"You have any better ideas?" Dempsey asked, flatly.

"Maybe. Cover me."

And with that, James was off with a leap, charging through a clear path between their position and the YMIR mech off to the left. Eli swore and rolled out from under Stone, himself now dropping his shield and reaching back over his shoulder for the Collector beam weapon he carried. The LOKIs were all scattering in James' wake, turning to acquire him as a target—"Rel?" Eli asked, aiming for the YMIR, just above James' head.

"On it," Rel told him, calmly, firing the arc projector at the LOKIs furthest from James, while Dempsey swore and Eli could feel biotic energies pouring out of the man, reaching out and tearing at the YMIR's shields, buckling them like a funhouse mirror. Eli exhaled, and, very carefully, aimed and fired, about a foot above James' head.

A line of light poured out of the beam weapon, boring through the mech's shields, and impacted right in the center of its optics. With the shields compromised by Dempsey and Eli's beam weapon, now there was armor to tear through. . . and Stone sang again, and once more, the skin absolutely _sluiced_ off the mech. James leaped back from the molten flow of slag around his feet, raised a hand. . . and fired off high-yield incendiary round at point-blank range, directly into the mech's central processing unit.

There was a moment of absolute silence after Rinus finished off the last of the LOKIs, as they all panted a little inside their helmets. . . well, other than James, Dempsey, and Stone, anyway. . . and then Eli remembered that he'd been paged on the radio earlier. "Team one, this is team two, entryway secure," he said, tabbing the radio.

There was a pause. "So I see," Shepard said, from off to their left, as four figures moved out of the darkness. Eli saw, to his relief, as they drew closer, that while Lantar's armor was scorched, his father was moving smoothly. No wounds. "We were concerned when you didn't respond," Shepard said, dryly. "Thought you might be in trouble." She nudged one of the smoking mechs with the toe of her boot.

The six of them looked at the three older Spectres. "How many mechs were on your side?" Rinus asked, almost conversationally.

"Eh, about twenty LOKIs and two YMIRs. About what I'm seeing on the ground over here," Garrus noted. "Lilu switched up to her heavy weapon, and I started using concussive rounds to pull down the shields. After that, it was fairly simple." He shrugged, and Eli just shook his head. _Simple. They fought the same exact thing that we did, with half the people we had, and no. . . all right, half a biotic in Shepard. . . and were coming over to see if __we__ needed help. Yeah. Never going to be as good as they are._

_We all sing our own songs,_ Stone told him, softly.

Shepard tabbed her omnitool. "Joker, we're about to take the control center. Get the other teams heading down to the planet. We need them in at about the same time as the missile barrage. Tell Orpheus and Eurydice to launch on my signal."

"_You got it, Commander."_

Shepard gestured towards the closest hatch. "You take that entry point. We'll come in from behind. On my mark."

Eli nodded, exhaled, and settled his beam weapon back it its usual place, switching back to shield and pistol. In an entry situation, he wanted as much armor between himself and the bad guys as possible. "Dempsey?"

"With you."

"Rel? Right behind us."

Dempsey got the door unlocked, using his omnitool instead of his chip, evidently trying to prevent pain, for the moment. "We're in position," Eli said over the radio.

"Go!" Shepard ordered, and in they went. Brief impressions of aerogel control panels, batarian officers, all noble-castes, shouting as they burst into the control room. Bullets tearing through his kinetic shields, slamming into the hard shield, tearing through the first layer of Dempsey's shields. Rel, behind them, firing the arc projector between their shoulders, aiming for the first group of batarians, destroying their shields. Firing now, double-taps, walking forward in lock-step with Dempsey as the man once again simply threw one of the batarians into a console behind him with bone-shattering force. Rinus moving up, beside Rel, behind them, back to using a rifle for accuracy. They _really_ didn't want to damage the computers in here. Seeing one of the batarians turn and lunge for a console, Eli's hand tracked him and fired, without conscious thought. Later, he'd realize it was _he thought something on that console was more important than shooting back at us or defending himself_ that had made him target and fire on the officer. As it was, the male fell, then scrambled back up, bleeding, and touched a control.

All the screens in the room flared, and symbols began to scroll by in batarian. "That's a countdown!" Rel shouted.

"Shit." That, from James. "Make a hole, people."

"Going with you," Dempsey said, tersely, stepping out of the way as James raced through, leaping over a console, just as Shepard, Garrus, Lantar, and Hal'Marrak came through the door at the opposite side of the room, and started firing on the officers whose backs were to them. James took heavy fire for a moment, tearing through his shields, but seemed to ignore the bullets that hit him, beginning to work on the console, fingers moving so rapidly that they were a blur. Dempsey moved up next to them, reinforcing his shields, standing between his double and harm. "What kind of a countdown?" Eli shouted up to them, taking another step into the room, allowing Rel and Rinus to continue to crouch behind him, if barely, and allowing Stone into the room.

"Self-destruct," James replied tersely, over the radio. Although there was air in the room, he was clearly not wasting time on trying to _look_ human at the moment. "One minute."

"_S'kak,"_ Rinus muttered, and tabbed his radio. "Pilots, get the marines aboard and get the damned shuttles and pods off the station. We've got a destruct sequence going here. Move!" And with that order given, he went back to firing on the closest batarians.

Eli's mind went into a sort of slow motion at that point. Terrible clarity. His life was solely in James and Dempsey's hands. . . Hal'Marrak's, too, as the quarian dove over a railing on the other side of the room, jerked open a panel under the console that James was working on, and starting jacking into the system directly, trying to countermand the destruct sequence, but not trying to disrupt James' own efforts, while Dempsey worked to keep _both_ males now safe from harm. Eli found another target, double-tap to the head, and the room went suddenly quiet as the last surviving batarian found himself with seven guns and one set of pedipalps aimed directly at him.

Shepard asked something in batarian, in a grim tone. Her batarian sounded as smooth as that rough and guttural language permitted.

"I don't know! I'm a junior officer, I don't have the command codes—" the answer was in heavily accented but frantic galactic.

"Truth," Eli muttered, just as Stone sang, yellow anxiety in his song, _Truth-song. He does not know._

_Come on,_ Eli urged, watching James and Hal'Marrak work, and Dempsey turn now, trying to find a way to help besides staying out of the way. _Come on. It doesn't end like this. Not like this._

"Thirty seconds," Rinus muttered. Eli closed his eyes, and calmed his thoughts, as best he could. _Dara. __Sai'kaea'yili__. I love you, and I'm sorry to leave you alone. With all this crap on your plate. Lin will help you. _

"Hal?" Shepard asked, her voice calm, but a hint of strain in it.

"I can try launching all the missiles that are currently locked in their docking clamps," the quarian said, tightly. "The self-destruct has armed them, and they're ticking down. I can unlock the mooring clamps and launch them . .. without targets. Could hit anything in the vicinity. Could target the planet, the moon, other satellites."

"Fifteen."

"Not helping," James told them all, over the radio. His hands had stopped moving over the console. "Wireless connection obtained."

"Unlocking clamps, preparing to fire," Hal noted. "They need to be at least a kilometer from the station when they explode—"

_Ten_, Eli thought. _Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five—_

"Fire the missiles, Hal—" Shepard started to say.

The screens flashed suddenly, and the symbols stopped moving. The system blared something in batarian, and Eli looked over his shoulder at Rel.

"Countdown aborted at five seconds," Rel translated, and slowly crouched down. His hands were visibly shaking with adrenaline, and he seemed to be doing some deep breathing exercises at the moment. _Not that I blame him. I'm going to have to check my shorts here in a bit._

Shepard gestured towards their prisoner, and Lantar moved forward, shackling him. Shepard then moved forward, and told James and Hal'Marrak, "Very well done, gentlemen. I'm grateful not to be part of a new ring system around this planet."

"You and me both," Garrus muttered, helping Lantar to strap the prisoner to a chair. "What's next?"

Shepard raised her visor, showing human face, turian clan-paint, and the batarian in the chair _cringed_ at the sight of her. "Now? We signal the fleet, and we get control of communications here."

The three techs, James, Dempsey, and Hal'Marrak, were able to do that much in short order, while the rest of them moved the bodies outside. _A pleasant work environment does wonders for morale_, Eli thought, dizzily, and wanted to share the thought with Dara, to make her laugh, however grimly.

Shepard opened a comm channel, and reported to Hackett, first of all, through Joker and the _Normandy_, "Moon base and satellite center taken. Ground teams heading in. We've got the _Normandy_ and Jeff and EDI standing guard over the station itself. . . are you ready?"

Hackett's voice was grim. "Yes. We've got the mass relay held for the moment. The geth transports with the krogan, and the Alliance transports commanded by Vokaj are coming through. He's already on our side of the relay. . . and will join you on the broadcast. Patching him through.

After a moment, an older male voice with a thick accent joined Hackett's on the line. "Shepard! Is good to hear you're still alive."

"All rumors to the contrary notwithstanding, Vokaj." Shepard smiled a little. "Are you ready?"

"Always ready to tell batarians where hell is, and what waits for them there."

This was Admiral Miroslav Vokaj. The so-called Butcher of Torfan. Father of Dara's boot-camp roommate, Alexej Vokaj. . . and the man responsible for the Alliance's retaliation for the Skyllian Blitz, a little under twenty years ago. Sam had fought under this man. . . and Sam, usually good for a story or two, _never_ talked about Torfan if he could help it. Eli felt a chill run down his spine. He'd heard Vokaj's name murmured with a certain level of admiration in turian space. _Should have been born with scales._

Shepard changed the comm channel, directing the broadcast on all bands and feeds at the planet below. "Citizens of Lorek," she said, "I am Lilitu Shepard. Commander of the Spectres." _Savior of the Galaxy. Scourge of Bahak. Survivor of Akuze. Survivor of Mindoir._ She didn't have to say the words; they hung in the air around her, like an aura. "Your government has taken unlawful actions against the Systems Alliance, the Turian Hierarchy, and the Asari Council of Sisters. They have violated galactic law by engaging in unwarranted aggression, broken treaties against the use of mass-effect propelled asteroids and cometary bodies being directed at inhabited planets, and the use of bio-engineered viruses against the people of Earth, Palaven, and Bastion. Additionally, they attempted to use these self-same plagues against the people of Omega, prior to attacking Omega. The list of Alliance and Hierarchy colonies that have been attacked by batarians, and your allies, the yahg, includes Amaterasu, Arvuna, Bothros, Eden Prime, Ferris Fields, Macedyn, Nimines, Terra Nova, Shanxi and many others."

She paused, and Vokaj's voice came over the line. "This is Admiral Miroslav Vokaj. I have faced the armies of the Hegemony before, on Torfan. Today, we have faced and defeated your forces at the mass relay. If you surrender now, you will know mercy. If you resist, you will know destruction. And to be certain that you understand this message, we now turn your own weapons against you."

"Targets locked?" Shepard asked, muting her comm channel.

"Yes," Hal'Marrak said, his voice absolutely calm.

Shepard tabbed to another channel. "Orpheus? Eurydice?"

"We're here," Kasumi replied.

"Show our teeth."

The satellite control center held exactly 1% of the missiles in the strategic defense system around Lorek. There were close to a thousand defense platforms in orbit. All of them now turned planet-wards, and opened their missile bays. Shepard paused, and said, very quietly, to the room at large, "A sword is just a sharp and very pretty stick, unless you demonstrate the will to use it."

Garrus nodded, silently, and put a hand on her shoulder. "Fire," Shepard ordered, her voice bleak, yet very calm.

The deckplates rumbled under Eli's feet, and he could see, on the screens in front of him, the tracks of missiles leaving the defense platforms all around the planet. Missiles leaving Lorek's sole moon, aiming for the planet, as well. He knew that they were aiming for ground installations and defense platforms. Towers and barracks and missile silos, which were surely being armed already, and preparing to fire back at them.

"Incoming missiles!" James warned.

"_We're on them_," Joker replied, immediately, from the _Normandy_, and the station shook a little as the _Normandy_ clearly destroyed a missile, aimed at them, at fairly close range.

"Their next move, if they're smart," Shepard said, conversationally, "will be to target all their other defense platforms. Take out what we control, so we can't use it against them. But they won't be able to take them _all_ out before we destroy most of their silos, missile batteries, defense towers, and so on. The next step after that, again, if they're smart, is to surrender, since they won't be defensible."

Garrus' hand was still on her shoulder. "Do you expect them to be smart, _amatra_?"

"No. No, I don't."

Eli looked at the vid screen, seeing huge clouds of dust rising from the surface. Dempsey moved over to stand next to him, staring at the image, himself. And then Rel moved there, too. Dempsey cleared his throat. "I'm sure they're fine," he told the other two. "Shepard locked the coordinates of their locations out of the targeting system."

"Yeah," Eli replied, his voice sounding strange in his own ears. "I'm sure they're fine."

"Totally safe," Rel agreed. "Already done with what they needed to do, and sipping _sahlep._"

"_Apha."_

"Coffee."

"Right."

Eli exhaled, and looked at his omnitool. An hour had passed since the ships had been ordered to descend to the planet. Fifteen minutes had passed since the missile strikes had begun. _Come on_, he thought, for what felt like the tenth time in as many minutes. _Check in. I know there's probably jamming, but that's why Glory's with you, right?_

**Author's note:** _JD offered the following limerick, on reading the Gris/Cohort/Sky knock-knock/limerick/joke fight:_

_There once was a Krogan named Gris  
Who when he got very pissed,  
Fired his gun _

_And it was no fun  
For the people who pissed off Gris._


	148. Chapter 148: Expiration

**Chapter 148: Expiration**

**Valak, Lorek, May 5, 2197**

The _Sollostra_ dropped them on the surface of Lorek in old-fashioned Makos, similar enough in make and model to Hegemony military equipment that they would pass a casual inspection. Spectre black armor had been, for the moment, repainted in camouflage patterns in dusty browns and grays, to suit the landscape around the Klem Na compound, which was near the eternal terminus between night and day here on Lorek. The night side averaged close to -100º F/-73.3º C; the day side of the planet averaged above 104º F/40º C. The resulting temperature difference, near the terminus, did set up tremendous thunderstorms that provided water to the communities along the border between day and night, and the desert interior of the continents on the day side were blastedly hot. The oceans on the day side were liquid, but because all clouds eventually fell on the night side, as snow and ice, there were fears among responsible planteologists that one day, the day side would be a barren wasteland, and the night side would be a frozen ice block. . . and the sheer weight of the ice could result in the planet's poles reversing. The Hegemony had always pooh-poohed that notion in state-run media. Valak, however, had never purchased an estate on Lorek for a reason.

What baffled him was how Alliance intelligence had completely missed the literally billions of people who lived _underground_ on Lorek. He could only assume that they hadn't been paying attention at all. Living underground made huge amounts of sense for a planet like Lorek; shielded from the heat and the intense UV radiation, people went about their lives under the surface. And with a wealth of mechs and slave labor, it was a simple matter to carve out whole cities under the surface, reinforce the ceilings with mass effect fields, and carve ice out of the night side, and haul it to Lorek's burgeoning cities. Ice traders actually held a vast amount of wealth and power on Lorek, one of the few colonies where merchant-castes held an appreciable amount of authority. Slaves were expendable. Who cared if some of them were uncomfortable as they cut through the glaciers on the far side to transport ice back to the dayside, was the view of most in the Hegemony.

The penthouse in which he and Nala had stayed on his last trip here had been a rarity; a free-standing structure on the surface of the world, and in a green area suitable for farming. Hence its astronomical fee to rent the damn place. But, it had fit his role as a spendthrift playboy, and had had its advantages in terms of security, as well.

They were now within several kilometers of the _Klem Na_ compound, also something of a rarity; at least the upper portion of both buildings, surrounded, as they were, with their fences, were aboveground. Valak gestured for the driver to halt the Mako. "Are you ready, my friends?" he asked Linianus and Serana. He couldn't see their faces, but he'd come to trust them, absolutely, in the months they'd spent on his Khar'sharn estate. Trust in their skills, trust in their abilities. Seheve was newer to him. . . but she'd held his daughter in her arms within hours after Nexia's birth, and smiled in a way that had transformed the reticent drell female's face entirely. And he'd seen Kasumi's vid captures of Serana and Seheve's training. If anyone could get into the computing center, it would be them.

"As ready as we're going to be," Serana told him, her voice determinedly cheerful. "This is where we get off?"

"It's going to take us time. With luck, Alisav and I can talk our way into the facility. Without luck, well. . . your job's going to be harder. Almost every facility on the planet has to be on alert right now." Valak glanced up at the blazing sun overhead. No cover of darkness here. No way to see the stars, or the lightning-fast movement of ships. "And very shortly, the bombardment is going to start."

Serana nodded. Linianus offered Valak a wrist-clasp, which the batarian accepted, immediately. "Spirits be with you," Linianus said, turning to give Kirrahe and Thell and Melaani the same wrist-clasp.

"And stay with you," Kirrahe replied, out of ingrained courtesy.

Seheve merely bowed her head, slid a polarized mask down over her face to protect her eyes, and then the three of them were off, sliding into the desert terrain, camouflage paint on their armor breaking up the outlines of their bodies. The landscape was khaki, and dotted with gray-green thorn bushes; it had clearly been marked by centuries of period heavy rain, in which the parched land collapsed in on itself. Flood-cut channels, here and there, and cracks. Thousands of cracks, from where what had been mud, had dried and then shattered like pottery.

There were checkpoints along the duty road, of course; Valak watched as K'sar handled those, stepping out of the hatch of the Mako onto the crack-marked ground, and offered the various guards his SIU credentials. "I was here a few months ago," K'sar said, crisply. "SIU, Investigations. I'm here to speak with Chas'na V'sol again."

V'sol was the head of the _Klem Na_. Before they'd worked with the Lystheni, the _Klem Na_, or 'iron shackle,' had been slavers and raiders who'd taken on a few isolated mercenary contracts, as well. Since obtaining Lystheni technology, and the dalatrass, Xala, the _Klem Na_ had had bargaining power. They'd taken some of the innovations to SIU, and been more or less absorbed into SIU. . . but V'sol had remained in a power-struggle with Arvak R'mod for years, trying to ensure that he retained control over his people, and over the source of his power. As a result, the slaver had, it was rumored, the ear of the Hegemon. Something unprecedented for a slaver, but considering the biotic ship weapons, the stasis guns, and the chipping technology that he'd brought to the Hegemony? All from, originally, an unknown source? Oh, his star had been shining brightly, until R'mod started to get leverage over him. With R'mod dead, now people like Isaav Malsur, the head of Investigations, wanted a piece of V'sol's little empire, a little of his power, to guarantee that they would move up the ladder, themselves. Hence why Alisav had been sent here, originally. To get leverage over the dalatrass, and from there, over the real source of V'sol's power.

Valak grinned behind his mask as the _Klem Na_ guard spluttered, "M'lord. . . V'sol is not on site. He is on Khar'sharn, in important talks with the Hegemon. If you had called ahead—"

"I _did_ call ahead, you cretin." Alisav's voice was like a lash. "Call up to the main gate and confirm it with your superiors. I was pulled away from my current assignment _specifically_ to talk to V'sol at his earliest convenience, _this_ is where he wanted to meet, and you're telling me the man isn't even here?" K'sar's voice swooped derisively. "Next you'll be telling me that you've _lost_ all the records of my call and our impending visit—"

Valak delighted in the tizzy K'sar was causing in the guard shack, but it was time for him to enter the fray. He walked down the ramp, faceshield in place, vibrosword clearly at his side, as Alisav's was at his own. "My dear K'sar," Valak said, silkily. "Whatever seems to be the matter?"

K'sar immediately snapped to attention, his spine undoubtedly creaking with the speed. "No problem, m'lord," he replied, with just the right wooden tone. _There is absolutely no problem here, because if there's a problem, my job or my life is at an end._

Between K'sar's lower-to-mid-nobility accent and Valak's own upper-nobility inflections, there was very little difference, though it would have been distinct to anyone in the noble castes. For the slaver guards, however, K'sar's body language filled in all the details that they might have missed. He stepped out of Valak's way, giving him a clear berth of at least two feet, didn't allow his clothing to brush Valak's, and fell in behind him, and to the left. All clear signals to anyone with eyes, that Valak outranked him socially as well as positionally within SIU's hierarchy. "I'm delighted to hear that there is no problem," Valak said, mildly. "Do let us get a move on, however. I have no desire to continue to marinade in that hot vehicle for the rest of the day."

One of the less bright _Klem Na_ failed to pick up on quite all the social nuances. "Who are you?" he asked, holding up a datapad. "Have to have your name for the gate logs."

"Me?" Valak asked, almost affably. "I'm not here, old boy. How can you possibly put my name in the logs if I was never here?"

K'sar's head lifted, just enough for Valak to see it out of the corner of his eyes. The investigator was looking at the ceiling with carefully feigned disgust and contempt for the lower-castes and their collective lack of intelligence.

"Look, we _have_ to keep records," the guard continued, doggedly. His fellow guards had started to spread out inside their shack, edging away from him, as if they were in a thunderstorm, and they'd just realized that he was made of iron. "I have to write _something_ down—"

"K'sar, my friend?"

"Yes, m'lord?"

"Give our friends in the guard shack something to write down for their records." Valak tightly controlled his tone. This was how SIU did what it did. They smiled, and there was venom under the smile. There was a blade hidden under velvet. Most of the time, SIU didn't bother to mask its threats. Which made them all the more terrifying when they _played_ with the victim.

"As you wish, m'lord." K'sar drew his stasis gun in one move, and fired it at the recalcitrant guard; on the other side of the road, the guards with their assault rifles raised and aimed them at K'sar, but didn't quite dare to fire. Not yet. His credentials were valid.

K'sar holstered the stun-gun, and drew his vibrosword. Took a few steps closer to the guard shack. "You might want to make a note of this," he told the other two guards inside the shack. "At 13:17 on today's date, this male—whatever his name is, you can fill in the blanks however you like—was killed during a routine perimeter stop when he challenged two SIU operatives in the course of their duties. He was warned, twice, but proceeded to challenge the operatives, who had no other alternative but to kill him." K'sar sighed. "Regrettable, but I'm sure his removal will open promotion alternatives from within your organization."

"There must be dozens of men eager to get a job that requires nothing more than sitting in an air-conditioned shack, occasionally irritating people with the proper credentials and authorizations," Valak said, blandly. He paused. "K'sar?'

"Yes, m'lord?"

"The record isn't accurate."

"It's not, m'lord?" Bland words, an almost innocent, or at least, indifferent tone.

"Yes. He's still alive."

"Ah. My apologies, m'lord. Guards? Make it 13:18 in your notes—" K'sar began to slide the tip of his sword into the frozen male's throat.

His companions leaped forward, jerking his rigid body backwards, away from K'sar's blade. "That really won't be necessary," one of them replied, immediately. "We're sorry for the trouble, m'lord." He distributed his stare between Valak and K'sar. "We'll note that Alisav K'sar and a guest—"

"Ah?" Valak said, raising a finger.

"That an SIU operative arrived with credentials, looking for Chas'na V'sol. But he's not here—"

"Then I intend to wait for him in comfort, up at the compound, not out here in the heat," K'sar replied, sharply, and turned, sheathing his sword. "M'lord?"

"Thank you, K'sar, always the soul of courtesy." Valak preceded K'sar into the vehicle, which was shielded against bio-sign readers, and exhaled as the hatch of the Mako came up. . . and the gate in front of them rolled to the side.

"Everyone understand the plan?" Valak said, tensely, as the Mako bounced forward over the rough-beaten road.

Kirrahe nodded, crisply. "You, two warriors, K'sar, and Spectre T'soa—"

"Please, Orlan, we're colleagues now. . . it's Melaani. . . " the asari interposed lightly, making sure that the thermal blankets over the windows that helped shield their bio-signs stayed firmly in place.

Kirrahe nodded quickly, ". . . will attempt to make entry through the front gate. If the subterfuge works, we will park the Mako near the southeast guard-tower, and wait for either fifteen minutes, or for your signal, whichever comes first. We will also begin jamming radio signals and FTL comms in the immediate vicinity."

Thelldaroon looked down at the rest of them. The Mako had also been chosen because it was one of the few vehicles large enough to hold the elcor. "At which point in time, we will exit the vehicle and take the guard tower. Thereby causing a distraction, which you will use to take control of the interior of the complex. Unless otherwise directed, we will move to each tower in turn, and use them against the compound as needed."

Valak smiled tightly. A guard tower was a very useful thing, both for keeping people out. . . and for keeping people in. "I think that's it," he said, simply. "Remember, our goal here is to preserve the evidence. As much as possible. Document, preserve, and remove only if we have to do so. Which, honestly, may be our only option, if a counterattack comes." He looked around. "Is it too late to note that I truly wish we had a few dozen rachni, and were just _tunneling_ into this complex?"

"Yes," Kirrahe told him, dryly. "Next time, however, can make other arrangements?"

"If there is a next time, it will be on Khar'sharn," Valak said, and his eyes narrowed. Thinking of the red skies of home, the estate he'd left in ruins. The people who'd volunteered to stay behind and continue the fight. The sister he'd left dead in the smoking shell of his house.

Valak shook his head as the Mako hit another series of bumps. "We're coming up on the main gates," the driver, a human, reported tersely. "Get ready, Spectres."

"Too easy so far," K'sar muttered, the male's yellow eyes gleaming as he pulled down his facemask.

"I have a strong feeling that that will change very shortly," Valak told him as the Mako came to a halt, then turned slowly, to allow the ramp to extend. "After you."

Alisav moved out of the vehicle first, looking around with clear annoyance in his body-language. "Guns?" he said, ungraciously. "I know you can't be too careful, but are you joking?"

"Did you have your damn radio turned off?" Heat in the voice, slaver-caste accent. "We're under fucking attack!"

K'sar looked from side to side, theatrically. "I'm noticing a distinct lack of bullets and mortar fire and rockets," he replied, sardonically. With guns pointed at him, the man held onto his _savoir-faire_ admirably, adding, "What in the ancestors' names are you talking about, you casteless dunghill licker?"

"Attack! We're under attack! There are Alliance ships at the relay right now, coming _here_!" Hysteria in the voice, just the right edge of it. "You shouldn't have even been let through the gate, and how do you not _know_ this—"

_Sounds like time for an entrance._ "The radio was turned off at my command," he said, mildly, stepping out of the Mako, Melaani, in full armor and a polarized faceplate just behind him, like a bodyguard. Two warrior-castes stepped out behind her, one on the right, one on the left, weapons in their hands, and ready to fire at the slavers. Valak picked out the tactical situation immediately, and grimaced internally. There were two Colossus mechs here, one stationed at either side of the facility's entrance; each was the size of a yahg, twelve feet or so in height, and were just as heavily armored as a YMIR. . . but far swifter and more maneuverable. A Colossus could reliably reach up to thirty miles an hour on its tank-like treads, carried a shoulder-mounted rocket, and held two nasty surprises in its forearms; the equivalent of an assault rifle in one, and a very nasty harpoon in the other, for 'capturing' slaves who were foolish enough to try to run. A Colossus carried up to ten harpoons at a time, and had a complex cable management system, which allowed it to reel in living slaves, or detach its steel cables from dead ones. And those same tank-like treads allowed it to cover many rough types of terrain, so long as the mech packed itself into its 'travel' configuration instead of its 'combat' configuration, lowering its center of gravity.

Valak turned his head away from the Colossus to his right, as if it were merely part of the background, and as if its red optical sensors weren't boring a hole into his head. "We were invited here by Chas'na V'sol. At his personal request," Valak drawled out softly. Time to take a gamble. "And I do not tarry with underlings. Take us whichever of V'sol's bootlickers is senior here." He paused. "And stop wasting time. We have possibly less than an hour before Alliance forces will make orbit, and we have to evacuate this base quickly." The decision to change tactics was based on nothing more than the fear in the slaver's voice as he stood in front of them. Go to the source of the motivation. Understand the target. Use what he wants to get what you want. At the moment, the slaver in front of Valak wanted safety, wanted someone in charge to come and rescue him. Valak was presenting him with exactly what he wanted—a bored, supercilious, but _capable_ SIU operative, who was there to tidy up the evidence. . . and, if the slavers were lucky, helpful, and crafty enough, they might not all be executed to make the evidentiary sweep a clean one.

The guard hesitated. K'sar added, in a growl, "You don't have enough authority to bargain with my lord. Take us to someone who does. Now. And point those damned guns somewhere else."

That tipped the balance, and the guard gestured for them to move in . . gesturing for his men to lift the muzzles of their weapons. But they were neither holstered nor safed. _Damn. Can't have someone be stupid every time, I suppose,_ Valak thought, moving ahead, following the slaver into the front gates, where he'd entered months before to survey the facility, and mark it with passive beacons that a ship could flash from orbit.

They had a total of five guards around them, and had to pause as their escort called up the chain of command to get permission to take them further in. Not insurmountable odds, given that they were all wearing armor and shields. . . and Melaani was a biotic. Of course, revealing that fact here, before they were properly ready, could be worse than a death sentence for the asari. Valak glanced down at his omnitool, sweating a little. The Mako should be settling in and getting parked, hopefully close to the southeast guard tower.

Then he and his entourage were escorted to a large office, which Valak recognized as belonging to V'sol. The male behind the desk wasn't V'sol, of course, but M'rav, his second-in-command. M'rav might recognize Valak's face, but Valak had never spoken to the male. . . but Valak remained silent for the moment, anyway, as the male stood and came around the desk. Started to offer his hand. . . and then let it fall, clearly taking in the vibroswords at his waist and K'sar's. "It's good to see that SIU hasn't completely forgotten about us," M'rav said, his voice harsh. "You. I remember _you_."

Valak's heart faltered for a moment, but M'rav was looking at Alisav K'sar. "Yes," K'sar replied, dryly. "Just about three months ago, I came to the computer facility on behalf of Isaav Malsur. Looking for information about Valak N'dor and Arvak R'mod."

"And you're someone else's errand boy today?" Clear taunt.

"Mine," Valak replied, smoothly.

"And you are?"

"Not actually here. Get it through your head. We've been authorized to move as much of the biotic weaponry and the machinery to make it out of this compound as quickly as possible."

"Authorized by _whom—"_

_Here goes nothing. Let's hope Thelldaroon has already started jamming._ "Hes'han L'roc," Valak said, quietly. It was the name of the absolute head of SIU, the male to whom the head of Operations and the head of Investigations both reported. "Do feel free to call him and verify that he sent me," he added, finding a chair and sitting down in it. Armor and all, he even perched one ankle on the opposing knee, as if he had all the time in the world.

M'rav tabbed on his screen, trying to bring up his comm panel, but his face had paled noticeably; L'roc was not a male that one bothered with unnecessary requests. "The guards said you'd been invited here by V'sol. . . " he said, uncertainly, fingers still moving on the screen.

"Yes," Valak said in tone of strained patience, as his mind worked furiously to put the web of his story together. 'That's why he's on Khar'sharn right now. He and L'roc had a meeting. And L'roc told me to come here and _clean up the damned mess_." Valak's tone was now as smooth as oiled ice. "So, yes, in a manner of speaking, V'sol _did_ invite me to come here."

A distinct swallow, and M'rav, who'd looked up at Valak, looked back down at his panel in consternation. "Jamming," he said, in a tone of anger and fear. "They're here. The Alliance is in orbit!"

_Council forces are a lot closer than you can possibly realize_, Valak thought, and _that_ was when there was flash of light through the office's window, followed by a rumble in the distance. "Thunderstorm?" Alisav offered, blandly.

"No weather cells in the area. . . " M'rav stood and went to the window. Looked outside at the huge column of dust in the sky to the northeast, and just stared for a long moment. "They're bombing us," he rasped out.

_Now, now, now_, Valak urged mentally, _while he's off-balance_. His hand crept to his omnitool, but it was risky to send the signal at the moment; there were still five guards mostly behind him right now.

Fortunately, he didn't need to send the signal at all. The walls of the factory compound shook with a much closer explosion, and he could hear debris patting against the outer wall, saw wood and metal slam against the window, cracking it. "They're here!" M'rav shouted, spinning and ordering his men, "Back downstairs, defend this facility." He gave Valak a bitter glance. "You're too fucking late."

Valak, who'd ducked and covered with the rest of them, snapped back, "And I would not have been, if your people hadn't blustered and dithered and wasted time at every opportunity!"

"Are you going to have your men help, or are you going to just sit there—"

M'rav stopped speaking at that point, because K'sar had drawn his vibrosword and activated it, before lowering its deadly point to just between all four of M'rav's eyes. No matter where he moved, the sword moved with him. Inches from his face.

The room shook again, as another explosion detonated outside. Valak glanced back over his shoulder. The guards had scrambled out of the room to go defend the facility. He gestured, and Melaani moved to lock the door. "Actually," Valak said, stepping forward, and drawing his pistol, aiming it directly at M'rav, "K'sar here is going to shackle you."

"What?" M'rav was so stupefied, he didn't know where to turn. The sword was still right in the middle of his vision, humming very slightly, and there were explosions outside, and Valak had just reversed course on him completely.

Alisav sheathed his sword. Moved around behind M'rav, as a third explosion rocked the building. Alert sirens were whooping and wailing all over the compound now, as M'rav tried to shout, "Guards! Guards!" but K'sar slammed him in the side of the head with the shackles he was holding, and M'rav staggered. K'sar kicked his legs further apart, shoved the male down onto the desk, face-first, and got the hands secured. "Down on the floor. Kneel. Cross your legs at the ankles," K'sar ordered, moving their prisoner around the desk so that Valak still had a clear shot, and then shoved M'rav at the ground by his bound hands. That let him get the feet secured. "Ironic. The _Klem Na,_ fettered by. . . _klem na_." Alisav flicked his fingers at the shackles, and hauled the male back to his feet. There was gunfire outside, and they didn't have time for much more of this. The team outside was exposed, and that meant that the inside team was going to have to get moving.

"Think we can get him to tell his people to stand down?" K'sar asked.

"Doubtful," Valak replied, calmly. "We'd waste valuable time convincing him to get on the loudspeaker and surrender. And they probably have a failsafe plan that involves destroying the factory and machinery." M'rav's look down spoke volumes. Valak shook his head in annoyance. "Shove him in the closet for now," he told Alisav. "We've got work to do here."

Alisav did so, and then the five of them moved out of the office, Alisav keying his stealth device and Valak walking ahead of the rest of them. There were _Klem Na_ mercenaries at the end of the hall, leaning out a window, trying to get a shot on the Mako, which was firing, in turn, on the guard tower to the southeast. . . and which was largely engulfed in flames. "Excuse me," Valak said, lightly. "How can we help?"

The mercenaries didn't look up. Valak tapped one of them on the shoulder. "I said, how can we help?"

The male turned to snarl at him, bringing his gun in line with Valak's body. Valak knew it was probably less than pragmatic of him, but he really didn't like stabbing people in the back, if he could avoid it. As it was, the male's shields were up, so he needed a softer target anyway. . . And thus, his vibrosword, stilled by the kinetic shielding, still slid up and under the plates under the male's jaw, into the brain, even as Valak deftly moved the muzzle of the sniper rifle up and aside, so that if it discharged, its target would be the ceiling. The second sniper had enough time to look over, be shocked, start to turn on Valak. . . and then Alisav was on him, his stealth shielding dropping in a blur of motion as he moved in, put his pistol to the back of the male's head, and pulled the trigger.

Valak looked at Alisav over the dead body of the mercenary. "Well, you're committed now," he murmured.

"I've been committed since you took me to Omega to feed lies to Isaav Malsur's people," K'sar muttered, and re-keyed his stealth device. "Come on, _m'lord_. Time's wasting."

Down the corridor, out to the left, and they took out four stunned security guards from behind, who'd been at the doors and windows, watching for attackers from outside. One of them managed to get close to a comm panel, but Melaani took that one out with two precise shots to the head. "And here I thought you'd race across the room to stop him," Valak told the asari, lightly.

Melaani's throaty chuckle behind them spoke of the asari's deep amusement. "I've never been able to outrun a bullet," she told him, lightly. "Biotics or not."

Valak knew she couldn't see his grin behind his facemask, but he did, anyway. Then he tabbed his radio. "Team two, what's your status?" he asked.

"Southeast guard tower has just collapsed," Kirrahe's voice came back, as always, almost chipper when the salarian was doing what he did best. "Southwest tower or northeast tower next?"

"I thought you were supposed to be taking the towers and using their machinegun emplacements against the complex." Valak's voice was slightly sardonic.

"Apologies, Zorro. Their resistance level was such that we had little choice but to destroy the first tower. We will attempt to convince the second set of tower guards that it is in their best interests to surrender." Thelldaroon's voice was very calm. "Which tower should we engage next?"

"Southwest. We'll cover you." Valak gestured to the doors to his immediate left, and his people moved, immediately, the warrior-castes kicking down the door and standing to either side of it, their linked shields letting them fire into the room with relative impunity.

Outside, Thell and Kirrahe had both gotten back into the Mako as the tower in front of them collapsed. Their driver turned the vehicle and trundled at the Mako's top speed, which was something of a stately lumber, for the other tower at the front of the compound. They had a single gunner, who was targeting the Klem Na snipers firing at them from the rooftops and windows of the compound. "Apparently, Zorro was able to convince leadership of his identity before we attacked. Zorro and companions currently free. Remaining leadership elements probably know that they are hostiles by this point, however," Kirrahe muttered under his breath, changing out clips and heat sinks on his assault rifle, and loading a fresh tank of high-pressure propane into the shielded ammunition area of his flamethrower. It was definitely not something he wanted an enemy sniper to hit.

"Would be nice if they could get people to stop shooting at us," the driver muttered.

"We will attempt to be very convincing on that subject, ourselves," Thell rumbled as they slowed to a halt now. "Focus fire on the guards on the tower. Team one will take the batarians at our backs." The elcor moved ponderously out of the Mako ahead of Kirrahe, but Kirrahe had no objections at all to the elcor's pace; Thell was in full elcor battle armor, ridges of polyceramic plates extending over his back, and was carrying not his beloved arc projector today, but two different heavy weapons: an M-920 Cain, which he was using on the buildings, and a new geth/quarian joint venture product, which he was field-testing for them, called the Spitfire.

Kirrahe dropped out of the Mako behind Thell, hearing bullets rain down on them from the heavy machinegun emplacements up on the towers, but they were largely pinging off the Mako's armored sides, and dropping like hailstones around Thell's feet as they encountered his heavy kinetic shields. The elcor stood, motionless for a moment, and then reared back, sliding the Cain forward on his shoulder. "Were supposed to capture this one," Kirrahe reminded him, quickly.

"If you saw the previous tower engulfed in flames, and saw this weapon pointed at you, would you surrender?" Thell asked, placidly.

"Very likely." Kirrahe paused. "Assuming I could not sabotage the weapon in some manner."

There was an almighty _crunch_ from behind him at that point, however, loud enough that it got his attention in spite of all the weapons fire in front of him. Kirrahe turned his head, and saw a titanium harpoon spear sticking out of the side of the Mako. Connected to a long, taut cable, which stretched back towards the main door of the facility. "Problematic," Kirrahe called over the radio. "Slaver Colossus units, previously deactivated by EM pulse, have re-activated." He didn't think the that mech could possibly haul the Mako in. That wasn't the problem at all. The problem was, the mech was programmed to anchor these kinds of cables to, say, a twelve-ton stone slab, or the foundation of a building. Which was, Kirrahe realized as he ducked back around the corner of the Mako, precisely what the first Colossus was doing. He swore under his breath in salarian as the second mech scooted forward on its treads, and fired _another_ harpoon at the Mako. He ducked back into cover as the spear impacted, hard; the Mako's shields were down, courtesy of the unrelenting fire from the complex and the guard tower, and the spears were being fired with enough force to penetrate ablative plating.

"Ah, Spectres? A little help here?" The Mako's driver sounded a little panicked.

"Working on it," Kirrahe told the humans inside the vehicle, tersely. His fingers flew over his omnitool. He'd been a part of STG since he was eight years old; his hacking and decrypting skills had been taught to him in salarian schools on Sur'Kesh from the age of five forward, and had only been honed in the last five years. Yana's protocols engaged even as he began to assault the closest mech with a variety of viruses, finding its network ports, prying them open with security codes common to many batarian-made mechs, and assaulting its operating system. "Daddy, what are you doing?" Yana's little voice asked, a whisper in his ear.

"Avoiding being shot. Avoiding being impaled by harpoons. Doctor Jaworski frequently annoyed when I am injured." Kirrahe overwrote several key sections of the friend-or-foe detection algorithm with a program he'd developed for attacking YMIR mechs, and recompiled. And then ducked as the second mech opened fire on the Mako's rear hatch with a forearm-mounted gun that was certainly as powerful as the average assault rifle.

"Can I help?"

Kirrahe had a split-second to make a decision. "Hack second mech. You really shouldn't be awake, Yana."

"I'm tied into your electronic warfare protocols, Daddy. Besides, aren't you going after Narayana's bad mother today?"

"Yes, yes. Second mech, Yana, please?" Another harpoon had just embedded itself in the rear hatch, inches from where Kirrahe was tucked against the side of the Mako.

"Of course, Daddy. Working."

The first mech was now his to control, and he turned it on its treads to attack on the guard tower behind him. There was a thunderous explosion, and a quick glance over his shoulder showed that Thell had opted to fire the Cain, after all, taking out the entire top deck of the tower, which was now a mass of smoke and flame. _May as well exhaust their mechs of ammunition as much as possible,_ Kirrahe decided, and ordered the mech to fire its harpoons at the weakened structure. This mech had four harpoons left, for the moment, and planted them in four locations near the top of the tower. . . the cables still attached to its arm. Kirrahe scrambled forward, ducking behind Thell now to peek out and verify the height of the tower and the position of the mech. . . and tabbed something else on his omnitool. One simple command, overriding the mech's safety protocols. _Pull._

The mech turned and began to pull at the weakened tower. Such structures were rarely designed to withstand a determined assault by armed personnel at close quarters; they were intended as a deterrent, and their strength lay in their ability to spot enemies from afar and fire on them from range. Between the repeated cannon shots from the Mako, the Cain's heavy round, and a one-ton mech pulling on it from cables attached at four anchor points. . . the tower had no chance. It toppled, and in falling, fell directly towards the compound it was supposed to be protecting. It crushed the Colossus under its weight, and slammed into the southeast wall of the _Klem Na_ compound, setting the roof ablaze.

"Hmm. Tower slightly taller than estimated," Kirrahe muttered in annoyance. "Not supposed to destroy building."

Inside the building, Valak had enough warning, as he shot at another _Klem Na_ mercenary, when the roof began to cave in, to spin and run for the door. The two warrior-castes had been holding the door as an access point; Melaani used her biotics and charged back out of the room; K'sar. . . .Valak blinked. K'sar was nowhere to be seen. He stared in through the door, shaken, as fiery debris and support beams and everything else crashed down, shattering the walls and crushing those left alive in the room. "K'sar!" Valak shouted.

A ripple in the air next to him, and K'sar disengaged his stealth device, and tried to flick pieces of burning wallboard off the shoulder plates of his armor, staggering a little. "A little warning. . . " the former SIU investigator muttered, "would have been. . . nice."

Valak stared at the smoldering wreckage, and tabbed his radio. "What in the ancestors' names are you _doing_, Agni?" he snapped. "We just about had the roof collapse on our heads in here!"

"Taking offense at being blamed immediately for all unexpected repercussions," Kirrahe retorted, immediately. "Could have been Thell's actions."

"Was it Thell?" Valak demanded.

"Unfortunately, no. Needed to destroy Colossus mech, underestimated height of tower. Won't happen with the next one." Kirrahe's voice was sober for a moment. "Secondary explosion of mech's eezo reactor left significant crater. Will have to account for that, as well."

Thell's voice, calm and reassuring. "Removing harpoons from Mako to restore maneuverability. Moving to northeast tower. You are free to continue into the production and assembly area."

Valak shook his head. "You all right?" he asked Alisav, as the fire suppression systems went off all around them, covering the area in slippery foam. It was killing the flames in the next room, and keeping them from spreading, but it was hell on the footing.

"Bumps, bruises. Ready to go." That got an exchange of glances from the two warrior-castes along with them, and a headshake from Melaani, who was running a medical scanner over Alisav.

"This says he's got a grade one concussion," the asari noted, quietly, waving her scanner.

"Then I'll take pains not to let another roof fall on me," Alisav replied, his voice tight. "Let's go before they destroy all the damned evidence."

Back outside, Thell turned around. "The other mech's status?" he enquired, calmly.

"Hacked!" Yana announced, gleefully, from Kirrahe's wrist. Kirrahe winced, and wished he'd thought to install a mute protocol on her, although. . . it was likely that she'd take offense at such a provision.

Thell looked at his wrist, the big head tilting down, and forbore to comment, merely lumbering around the back of the Mako, where, indeed, the second Colossus was spinning its treads forwards and in reverse, almost . . .pacing. "I recommend the same tactic, used against the northeast tower. Should give the Mako's shields time to recharge."

Kirrahe grinned up at his big elcor friend. "Agreed. Also, can hack any other Colossus we see along the way."

"Wheee!" Yana squealed from Kirrahe's wrist.

Thelldaroon looked down at Kirrahe. "It is a very good thing that you do not specialize in stealth tactics, Kirrahe." The elcor's massive shoulders almost seemed to shake. For an elcor, that verged on hysterical laughter.

"Yes. Am aware. However, she seems to be helpful. Also, somewhat rude to deactivate her at the moment."

The Mako jerked forward, and they were off to take on another tower, another group of snipers in the main building. A set of LOKI mechs pouring out of a guard house near the rear fence, which their hacked Colossus trapped under a barbed net expelled from another hatch on a different forearm. . . a net which also carried with it an electrical charge, used for stunning escaped slaves or attacking other mechs, apparently. Kirrahe was taking mental notes on the platform's capabilities. _Highly effective at designated activities, but not effective at true combat. VI extremely limited. However, from a distance, can take on humanoids and vehicles. Suspect geth units would find it simple to defeat. _And that took them to the next tower, where his captured Colossus began to fire harpoons at the walls, while Thell, once again, stepped out of the Mako, phlegmatic as always, and called up to the batarian guards, "This would be a good time to surrender. . . "

In the main building, Valak and the others were moving forwards. The next door was a security one, and the warrior-castes blew it in with explosive charges. . . and Alisav slipped through the door, stealthed, while the rest of them began exchanging fire with the Klem Na technicians and mercenaries below. "What have we got?" Valak asked over the radio, eyeing the assembly lines and piles of equipment on the factory floor, about three stories below.

"It's not good," K'sar reported, tersely. "I've got a visual on at least four more Colossus mechs down here."

"Those were not on the guided tour when I was last here." Valak quipped darkly.

"They may have made some improvements. Insurance rates, you know." Alisav had a very dry sense of humor, Valak had long since found. "They're helping with the loading, from the looks of them. One at each corner of the room, packing things. I also see a small office near the back."

"Probably things we want to preserve in there. All right, K'sar, slip past everyone and get into that office. Might have a control panel for the mechs, if nothing else. The rest of us. .. " Valak exhaled, and tabbed to the general band. "Agni, you and your elcor friend are needed in here. We've got four more of those mechs. Have the Mako crew take out the last mech on their own."

"Understood. Team two, coming in."

Valak rather hoped that the salarian would slip in the damn fire retardant foam on his way in and fall on his ass, at least once, for the sake of justice in the universe, but knew he wouldn't get to see it if it happened. In the meantime, he tried to keep an eye on where K'sar was, which was. . . damned near impossible; he knew the male had slipped off to the right, and was working his way down tiers of staircases. Melaani reached down to the sub-basement floor of the large factory enclosure and lifted one _Klem Na_ merc up into the air at a time, so that he and the warrior-castes could shoot at the mercs cleanly; half of the assembly line was still in operation, so getting a clear shot was hell, even if they had an angle on the people three stories below. . . . "Down!" one of the warriors shouted, and tackled him, just as the other tackled Melaani. . . and the world went white for a moment.

"_Rocket?"_ Valak managed, once he'd gotten his breath and the warrior had rolled away again.

"_Yes. Colossus on the far right has moved up a tier. Better angle for firing." _

"_Shit._" Valak leaned out, and studied the situation quickly. The two Colossus mechs actually closest to them were blocked from firing, unless they took out the catwalk floor onto which this door opened. The two across from them weren't blocked, except by the steep angle at which shots would have to be taken. They were in a good defensive stance here. . . but couldn't do anything about the mechs. Valak pulled back around the doorway, and looked at the two warriors with him. _"Can you link your shields to mine?"_ he asked.

Linking shields wasn't done lightly, he knew. Warrior-castes trained together from childhood. Formed squads of people they _knew_ they could trust, could count on, in their teens, and generally, only death could break them apart. This squad _had_ lost a member when they'd stormed a destroyer near Rocam's relay. He was, in effect, asking them to consider him one of their brothers.

The two warrior-castes exchanged a look. "_It might take one rocket, m'lord,"_ one of them warned, dubiously. That one was Radem Y'mov, who'd been the de facto leader of the freed warriors since he'd been incarcerated in Mindoir's White Rock desert. _"And it might take a harpoon, though those are slower weapons. But it won't take more than one."_

"_One's all we need to be able to take,"_ Valak said, tightly. _"I just need to get in range. Melaani can take down its shields at a distance, and you can take down more of them when we get closer. And then I'll take its head."_

Melaani had looked up at the mention of her name. "I have a feeling a very stupid plan is about to unfold," the asari said, tightly.

"Probably," Valak told her. "Cover us, my dear?"

"Oh, goddess," Melaani muttered in resignation. "You wouldn't consider letting me charge over there and get its attention, would you? It wouldn't be able to target me as I moved. . . "

Valak shook his head. "No. What precisely are you planning to do when you're in its face?"

"Shockwave it off the catwalk onto the concrete floor below. . . and pray," Melaani answered.

Valak glanced at his warriors. "Worth a try," he assessed. "Move with us, though. Let us give you cover until you're in striking range."

"No arguments here," Melaani said, fervently. "I'm honestly missing all my undercover work at the moment."

"Just as honestly. . . I'm not," Valak told her, with feeling, and then they started moving forward, Melaani behind the three males, who'd interlaced their shields. Valak gritted his teeth as bullets poured in from the two Colossus mechs at the far side of the room, one now down a set of catwalk stairs from them.

His shield generator was beeping unhappily at him, and he ducked away as Melaani said, "I'm clear!" and raced forwards, each stride pushing off the ground with biotic energy behind it, as if she wore rocket-propelled boots. The asari had to wear specialized armor, Valak knew, to help cushion herself against the impact and the sheer effect of all that inertia when she hit a target; otherwise, what would crumple her opponent's bones could surely damage hers, as well.

Melaani hit the Colossus, looking like a picture Valak had seen on a wall on base in a gym; a small, fluffy animal, called a puppy, leaping at the neck of a full-grown bull. The motto underneath had read, _Never stop trying._ However, the impact of her charge, and the sheer biotic energy around her, tore at its shields, dropping them entirely, allowing the warrior-castes and Valak to open fire. . . although she was, just as unfortunately, in the way. "Move!" Valak called. "It or you, one of the two!"

Melaani put out one hand for balance, and tried to move it; it had to weigh over twelve hundred pounds, however. It did rise, and slid back half a meter with the impact, teetered slightly at the edge. . . and then rolled back forwards, its treads spinning furiously to regain traction.

No way to see her eyes or her expression as she attempted to use her biotics to, once again, move out of the way. She started to charge back the way she'd come, back through the defensive line Valak and the two warrior-castes were holding. . . . and then the mech lowered an arm and fired one of its harpoons at her. _Shit_, Valak thought, in the moment in which the harpoon seemed to leave the arm-mounted projector housing, in slow motion. _Shit, shit, shit, they upgraded the mechs' tracking systems in order to catch biotics. To catch fleeing asari slaves._

The harpoons were launched with massive force, and were about two feet long, with barbed points about an inch wide at the base. They moved slowly enough to penetrate shields, but with enough force, compressed to a point, to penetrate even a vehicle's armor. Melaani's shields weren't linked, as Valak's were, with the two warriors'. She had almost no chance against it, as the harpoon took her through the shoulder and lifted her off her feet. She was already moving with incredible speed; this simply meant she took flight, into the wall behind them, where she hung, suspended, face to the wall, harpoon impaled through her shoulder. The cable hooked to the harpoon was still attached to the mech's arm, and vibrated between Valak's head and Radem's like a harp string, having missed each male by no more than two feet.

_Not good,_ Valak thought grimly. _Not good. Shouldn't have allowed her to take the risk. The idea sounded good, but they're just too damned heavy . . . "Take its shields down!"_ Valak shouted to the two warriors. They had about five seconds before the harpoons could re-arm, ten, if the mech needed to disengage the cable. Radem and the other warrior opened fire, and Valak moved in. Saw the shields flicker blue, and die, and dove in, vibrosword extended, ducking under a heavy swing by the mech's free right arm. Drove the vibrosword deep into the unit's 'neck' area, grateful that the hilt had a facing of non-conductive horn, and pulled the blade carefully to the side.

It would have been much easier if he'd been able to just aim for the chest, and cut the thing in half, but it wouldn't have been wiser. While a vibroblade could cut almost anything, there _were_ things that could break such a blade. Get the wrong torque, from the sides, and the blade might bend, but it also might snap. There were motors inside the mech, gears and compression pumps and an eezo core . . . another Colossus had apparently left a hell of a crater outside, according to Kirrahe. No, remove the head and that at least cut the optics. Maybe not the central processing unit. . . Valak felt an impact in his left ribs, and then he was rolling and bouncing down the damned stairs, dimly wondering if he were about to impale himself on his own sword. _An ignominious way to go_, he thought, dazed, at the bottom of the metal stairs. _Broken neck or stabbed through the heart with my own sword. . . all right, I don't feel anything. . . neck could be broken. . . _he tried to move. Gloriously, he could see his arms moving. Rolled back up, still dazed, trying to crawl back up the stairs. _Where the hell is my sword? That thing isn't dead yet. . . _

White flash. All he could think for a moment was. . . _Rocket. Shit. Ancestors, I know you're going to be disappointed to meet me. . . _ and then his vision cleared, and he was looking up the staircase at the scattered, scorched remains of a Colossus. "Team one, you couldn't wait for us?" Kirrahe asked over the radio, reproachfully. "Hacking second Colossus now. Thell will require a minute in which to reload the Cain."

Valak managed to get to his feet; his entire left side hurt, stabbing pain every time he breathed informing him that yes, he undoubtedly had more than a few cracked ribs. No time for it, though. He located his sword, scooped it up, and looked around quickly. "What about the other mechs?" he asked quickly, ducking back down as the techs below. . . and the two Colossus mechs located to the south. . . took aim at him.

"Working on it," Kirrahe and Thell assured him, at the exact same moment. The Colossus in the northwest corner stopped firing, paused, and instead turned on the mech directly to the south of it, firing a harpoon through its treads, and beginning to reel in; the mech directly south of Valak turned and began firing controlled bursts from its assault rifle at the techs below. "Damn," Valak muttered, staring at the devastation that the mechs were causing. Then his head turned. "Let's get her down," he called. With the _Klem Na_ below having to deal with Thell casually standing at the highest tier of the catwalk, firing his geth-quarian weapon down at them, or being fired on by Kirrahe, with his own assault rifle, or by one of their own mechs, they really had no time to attack Valak or the warriors as they eased Melaani down from the wall. Valak cut the pointed, hooked end of the harpoon free from the wall, and they settled her down on the floor.

Valak eased her helmet off. "Valiant effort, my dear," he told her, trying to unlatch the breastplate so he could get a look at the wound and see if it would even be safe to remove the weapon.

Melaani's face was like wax. "Damn things. . . are a lot faster than I thought they'd be," she gasped, and then turned her face away as he gently probed at the wound, pulling his hands back, gloves smeared with blue blood.

"Yes, noticed that. As fast as the yahg?" Valak was trying to keep her mind focused, more than anything.

"Faster, I think."

"How's your breathing feel?" _Ancestors. This is a time at which I really wish that Nala were here. Or Dr. Jaworski. Melaani was supposed to be our medic._

"Hurts." She obviously tried to put on a smile.

"I'd imagine so." Valak thought that the damned thing had shattered her collarbone. The asari was going to be out of commission for a while.

Below, the noise from the mechs suddenly died, and Valak's head jerked up. All three of the remaining Colossi had stopped moving; their eyes faded from red to black, and they folded in on themselves into their passive state. Valak's radio crackled in his ear. _"Mechs secured, office secured,"_ K'sar reported, from far below on the main floor. _"Looks like we've got three survivors here on the floor who might be willing to surrender if the elcor and the salarian stop shooting for a minute."_

"Cease fire, let's talk quarter," Valak said into his radio, still trying to pack Melaani's wound with gauze taken from a kit. The white fabric was blooming blue instantly, and he didn't dare pull the harpoon out yet, for fear of doing more damage. "K'sar, you have any medical training at all?" That, in galactic, for the others' benefit.

"First-responder, yes."

"Agni, Radem, drop down and help him secure our prisoners. Then K'sar, get back up here. You know anything at all about asari first aid?"

"Only inasmuch as they're more or less humanoid, sorry. I'll do my best."

An hour later, their prisoners were secured, the towers outside had mostly been wrecked, and there were all of four _Klem Na_ left alive in the entire complex, including V'sol's second-in-command, M'rav, which Valak counted as a win. They had almost all of the weapons-building machinery, the schematics, written in batarian and salarian, and a healthy stockpile of finished products that would have been sent to the shipyards soon. . . and reams of reading materials. Orders from SIU, with signatures. Suppliers and vendors of parts and materials. Valak was downloading it all into his omnitool, just to have a backup copy, and had already reported in to the _Normandy_ that the mission was a success. . . .and that Melaani needed to be extracted for medical reasons.

K'sar had grimaced at the wound, and gotten to work. He'd used his own vibroblade to cut down the length of the harpoon, so that it no longer stuck out of Melaani in both directions, and had elevated her feet to hold down the shock reactions. Given her a shot of _morphinol_, which worked on batarians, asari, and krogan, oddly enough . . . and had wrapped and packed the wound, carefully. "That's the best I can do to slow the bleeding," K'sar had said, his face tight and a little remote. Valak wondered, perhaps, if he saw in Melaani, the housekeeper, who'd more or less raised K'sar's wife from infancy. Who was still, probably, at K'sar's house on Khar'sharn.

Assuming she was still alive.

Melaani looked up at K'sar and Valak. "It's disconcerting," she said, with a vague smile from the _morphinol_, "to be grateful to batarians for medical aid. But not, I think, to be grateful to friends."

Valak sighed. "We're working on it," he told her, as her eyes drifted closed, and K'sar reached out and checked her heart-rate. "She's all right?"

"Pulse is steady. Breathing is regular."

"Let's take a look at what we've got here. Lots of pictures, K'sar. Lots and lots of pictures."

Kirrahe moved over to catch his eye then. "Other team is reporting success at the computing center. Would like to be there, when they end the dalatrass." The salarian wasn't really asking permission; they _were_ both Spectres, after all. "Also, require someone with technical acumen. Ensure that the dalatrass truly is eliminated. And go through Lystheni records. Talk with captured Lystheni. And so on."

"They _captured_ some?" Valak said, surprised.

"Spectre Pellarian can be most convincing, apparently."

"Go. Take the Mako, but leave Thell here. We need him for the technical information here, too."

Valak watched the salarian turn to leave, and returned his own attention to the machinery around him. Glass-fronted coffins. These were the 'permanent storage' options. Similar to a stasis pod from a Collector ship, but clearly, not organic in origin, not even remotely, and with a different function. Metal and glass and machinery; ribbons of medical tubing inside to continue nutrient flow and elimination needs. Other equipment, too; interface connections, amplifiers, other things that Valak couldn't put a name to, but that engineers would surely be taking apart and studying for months or for years. "What do you think, K'sar?" he asked, as the investigator took video and stills of every item with careful patience. "You told me once, you needed more evidence to truly believe. What do you think now?"

K'sar looked up. "I think this makes slavery look gentle and easy by comparison." His expression was set and hard.

"This is slavery," Valak told him, quietly. "The ultimate form of it, really." He exhaled. "Let's get as much as we can. In case someone tries to retake the facility before the entire planet is pacified."

**Serana, Lorek, May 5, 2197**

They'd been dropped near the outer fence that surrounded the Klem Na compounds; there was an outer fence and two separate inner fences, which kept the two facilities both protected, and segregated from each other. And they had a mile to cover before Valak and the others reached the main gates. Not a problem for two turians, but for Seheve? She couldn't keep up.

Lin solved that problem by dropping to his knees and pulling Seheve's arms forward and around him, simply picking her up and carrying her like a backpack. Solid bones made her heavier than a turian of the same size, but she was nine inches shorter than Serana, and sixteen inches shorter than Lin himself was. "You all right?" Serana asked, tightly.

"What's another hundred pounds or so?" Lin grunted. "Go."

Then they were off, racing through the broken, cracked ground, ducking into the cover of what looked like water channels that had long since dried up, and finally, they made it to the fence line, in an area out of sight of the guard towers around the 'computer center.' Lin let Seheve drop to the ground under an embankment, and panted, harshly, as the two females flicked on their bio-sign maskers and stealth fields. "We'll be back for you when we've got the cameras taken care of," Serana told her mate lightly.

"Don't rush on my account," Lin rasped. "Haven't had to carry that much weight, that far, at a run in a while."

Serana suppressed the image of him carrying her over his shoulder back the _Raedia_, through gunfire and explosions, on Khar'sharn, and got out her toolkit. There was work to be done. She and Seheve moved to the fence line, and while Seheve took the last fifteen minutes of video, which was continuously streamed back to the guard shacks, but cached locally on the camera's memory chips, and looped it, Serana carefully tested the fence for electrical connections and sensors. "This is a time when I really wish I had about a dozen rachni here, just to tunnel under the fence," she murmured into her radio, and then, having rerouted a couple of sensors, began cutting a slit through the chain link fence.

"Agreed," Seheve muttered back, and then paged Lin. "Forseti? Move up."

"On my way, Nyx."

Lin moved about ten feet behind them at all times. He was the only person in the group who had to worry about visibility, and hiding the conventional way. Soon, they were through both fences, and crouching behind a shack that offered cover from a guard tower. "And now, we wait," Lin muttered over the radio. "Hopefully not too long."

Serana's head tipped upwards as something flickered across the sky. A shadow. . . . and then a flash of white light to the north, followed by a dull _WHUMP_. A pillar of smoke and dust rose into the air, rusty-black, and all around them, they could hear shouts of consternation going up in batarian. "There's the start of our distraction," Serana muttered, as every head on the base turned towards the explosion in the desert, where a satellite-based missile had just slammed down.

"Go, go, go," Lin urged, and Serana took him at his word, sprinting across the open area between their position and the front door of the facility. There was only one entrance and exit, which probably broke fire codes. . . assuming batarians _had_ fire codes. . . but it was obviously a secure facility. Once the Lystheni had checked in, they were absolutely not going to check out again. It was as much a prison for them, as their last real safe house. And the Klem Na were their guards.

Those guards were _very_ busy right now, the entire base suddenly looking like a nest of fire-biters that had been kicked. Serana got to the front of the building, and stood there, waiting for the foot traffic to clear, a bit. Slid, back against the wall, towards the front door, which was a large metal hatch, currently opening and closing rapidly as batarians moved in and out, carrying weapons and tactical gear.

Feeling of motion near her, as she huddled in the doorframe. Ripple of _something_ in the air, as Seheve moved in close, sliding right up against her. "Next time the door opens, Seheve murmured.

Serana nodded, glancing back to where Lin still stood, positioned just out of sight, but precariously so. "We're going to need our second distraction soon," she whispered into the radio.

"I know," Seheve whispered back. "Ah. Door is opening. . . "

They ducked inside as the last of a group of mercenaries came out of the bunker. That left Lin cut off, but only momentarily. This was the upper floor of the building, the only portion that actually was on the surface. Serana pressed herself up against a wall as another group of guards stormed by, starting to get the place ready for lockdown. . . .

_WHUMP_. A much louder explosion, this time, from somewhere inside of a mile. The walls shook. _That's gotten their attention,_ Serana thought, in satisfaction, as everyone in their immediate vicinity scattered, heading for windows and control rooms to see what the hell was going on. That allowed Seheve to jam the camera by the door temporarily, open it. . . and Serana, peeking outside, saw that there was a cloud of smoke drifting their way from the southwest guard tower on the other side of the fence, exactly as planned.

Serana grinned tightly behind her mask and threw smoke grenades out into the compound, in groups of three, concentrating the smoke in Lin's path from the shack to the front door, but also spreading them out more generally, too. Black smoke, thick and choking, boiled across the compound. And now, for the final piece in her distraction . . . Serana hurled one large, incendiary grenade towards the southwest guard shack, away from Lin's position. _Whump!_ Shouts of alarm. The batarians had no idea where _this_ attack was coming from, and they were now all looking towards the guard shack that was on fire. . . letting Lin run through the smoke, into the front door, and he just about trampled Serana as he slammed through the door. "Sorry," he muttered, easing her to the wall, instead.

"Happy to see you, too, _amatus_," she gasped. He'd actually run full-tilt into her, and only the fact that she'd already been scrambling out of his way had saved her from a fairly nasty collision.

Seheve closed the door behind them. "We need to get to the elevators or the stairs," she muttered.

"Stairs," Lin said, dryly. "Elevators have too much damn security on them."

It was the truth. Elevators made it easy to move large items in and out of buildings. They tended to be heavily monitored, as a result. Stairs. . . no one really _liked_ climbing up and down them. Particularly not when carrying things. No, most stairwells in buildings were used, anymore, for emergency exits. They might have a key card for access, and might have vid cams, at most, but if your concern was 'people removing large pieces of equipment,' the stairs weren't your first concern. _Of course_, Serana thought, _this isn't just an equipment place, but also a prison. The stairs might well be better guarded than Lin realizes. . . . _

They found the stairs, and Seheve moved forward, stepping up and behind a batarian guard, choke-hold from behind, precisely on the carotid arteries. The male slumped to the ground, just as his companion turned, eyes widening behind his clear faceplate as he took in the sight of his companion on the ground. . . and that was when Linianus moved in from behind, and applied a stasis gun shot to the back of the male's neck. Then Serana grabbed a keycard from the guards' waists, the cameras nearby already offline, and they dragged the two into the stairwell with them. _Good,_ Serana thought, clinically. Any bio-sign monitoring of the guards, through their armor, would show that they were still alive, and pretty much in the right location. Lin shackled and gagged his own prisoner first, then shackled Seheve's. . . before firing another stasis round at the batarian that Seheve had captured. _"How long on a single target setting?"_ Serana whispered.

"_Fifteen, twenty minutes, tops."_ Lin's voice was a rasp. "_Kind of fun, using their own weapons against them."_

Down the stairs, pausing at every landing to blur the cameras, just long enough for Lin to slip through. Chances were, people would be looking outside right now, but they couldn't take chances. At one point, they heard people bang into the stairwell below them, and start to charge up the steps, and Serana, blindly, opened a door and shoved Lin through it, backing into the wall as a half-dozen Klem Na mercs raced up the stairs. _Oh, spirits. They're going to find the two we dropped at the entrance,_ Serana thought, but the mercs opened another door above them and slammed through that, instead.

Seheve exhaled as she tabbed the radio. "Fortune favors us," the drell female murmured. "For the moment."

_We would have had to kill all six of them before they could raise the alarm,_ Serana thought, grimly. "Lin?"

"Setting the stasis gun to wide dispersion," he whispered, coming back through the door. "Offices through there. All dark. Could be a good place for me to hide, if we need a fallback location."

Serana nodded, realized he couldn't see it, and said, "Keeping it in mind. Down we go."

Four stories underground, they bottomed out in the sub-basement. This door, too, required a keycard to access. Seheve got them past this obstacle, so smoothly Serana was almost a little jealous.

The door opened onto lobby of sorts, and it had a single door which led into a long hall, with four doors along the sides. All were currently closed. Serana glanced down, and saw bio-signs behind each. "Guard rooms," she whispered into the radio.

The door at the far end of the hallway was their target, Serana knew. And the hard part. . . the really hard part. . . was going to be doing this in armor. She and Seheve had managed doing up through a Lucesco Agiti Mark Five in Kasumi's practice vault on Bek in armor, but anything past a Mark Five. . . they'd had to skin down to bodysuits. The movement of the lasers was just too quick, too erratic, for anything else. Serana scanned the hall, not moving. "Cameras," she whispered, pointing them out. Positioned high against the ceiling, one immediately to their right, one midway down the hall, to the left, and another, at the end of the hall, pointing down from the right, positioned so that people could clearly see who was accessing that door.

"More than that," Seheve replied, and pointed, low on the walls, in the areas opposite each camera. "Turrets."

Lin was already shaking his head. "Should go to plan B, which is to rig the place to blow and get the hell out," he muttered, grimly. "Getting out is going to be hard enough, let alone with any Lystheni prisoners."

Movement overhead. They all looked upwards, apprehensively, but the footsteps that made the ceiling creak stopped after a time. "We've got spirits only know how much time before they find the guards we stunned," Serana muttered, and shifted the optical view displayed by her helmet. Instead of wearing a visor to allow her to see the lasers, she'd opted for a new HUD modification. She exhaled. "Good news and bad news."

"What's the good news?" Lin whispered, still crouching, looking warily at the doors all around them.

"They're using a Lucesco Mark Five."

Lin put his back against the door now. "What's the bad news?"

"Kasumi said they'd probably rig pressure plates as a backup, if they were smart. Plus, one of us is going to need to play with the camera feeds so that the guards don't move out here, and the turrets don't go off. This place is in absolute lockdown right now."

"What's to say the guards won't patrol?" Lin asked, pragmatically.

"The security system is armed," Seheve whispered. "In order to patrol, they would have to disarm it. No. At the moment, they are staying where they are, in case of intruders." She looked around. "Serana, I will handle the cameras and the turrets, from here. You move down to the far end. The Lucesco systems almost always have an override panel at the far end, but this situation is different; this is not a vault, so much as a prison. The panel may be between two of the guard rooms, at either side. I cannot see them from here."

Serana swallowed, hard. A sudden wave of insecurity hit her. "Seheve, you're better at this than I am. More experienced. You should be the one—"

Seheve was already shaking her head. "No. I _must_ be the one to cover your tracks in the system. You do not have my experience with electronics systems, either." Seheve's tone was almost stern. "No. Linianus will watch both the door into the lobby, and the doors here in the main hall. I will deploy countermeasures against the cameras, which _might_ detect your stealth shield, if they are sensitive enough, and I will hack each turret before you pass it, in case there are pressure plates. Go. There is no more time for debate."

Serana spun. Looked at Seheve, who was already opening her omnitool to do precisely what she needed to do. Looked at Lin, who backed his way against the doorjamb of the entry ahead of her. He was carrying a Blackstorm today, specifically so he could destroy enemies at chokepoints, and from his angle, he could cover both the stairwell entrance behind them, and the hallway in front of them. His face was invisible behind his mask, but she could _feel_ his stare. Seheve spoke again. "Go. Virtus would not thank me if I allowed his sister to come to harm. You will be fine. Eurydice trained you well. You've learned much in the past month. _Go."_

"_Spirits be with you,"_ Lin whispered, on their private channel, and that was all Serana really needed to hear. She rolled her neck and her shoulders, lifted a foot behind her and caught at her own ankle, just under the spur, to stretch the quadricep muscles, then the other leg. . . and then started to dance.

The Lucesco Agiti Mark Five used fractal geometry and chaotic math to project its beams, but, as Kasumi had noted, there _were_ discernable patterns. Seheve had been good at finding them; drell eidetic memory let her compare current laser patterns to ones she'd seen in the past, and her experience in long-form drell kata. . . often _hundreds_ of moves chained together, the pattern only visible twenty or thirty moves apart. . .gave her an undeniable advantage at this. However, Serana had. . . for lack of a better term. . . intuition. She sometimes knew how the lasers were going to move before they did so. She wasn't sure how; she just _did_. She suspected it was subconscious pattern recognition. As it was, she didn't question it. She just needed to focus. Flow. Do what needed doing.

Inhale, exhale. . . watching the red beams pulse through the air ahead of her, like long, slender knifes. Probing the darkness, dozens of them, sweeping back and forth. Making diamonds and squares and fractured pieces of polygons. Serana cart wheeled into the pattern, came to her feet, ducked under a beam as it moved in, then rolled left, coming back up in a crouch. Twirl and duck, twirl, roll to the ground along her side, under the next sweeping beam. She held completely still now, as Seheve whispered on the radio, "Camera two is down for the next five seconds. Go when you can."

Serana swallowed as another beam danced close to her head. Each laser sent back information to a processing unit somewhere. Distance to a known target, the floor, the wall. Any bounce back to the originating device that was shorter in distance than the parameters set in the machine would trigger the alarm. . . or the turrets. Needle-like lasers stabbed around her, moved away, and Serana moved, kipping up to her feet, back bent like a bow for an instant before snapping upright. Flicker of awareness; the intersecting beams ahead of her, three of them, were about to break apart. She could dive _through_ the triangular hole in between them, though it would only be about three-feet wide, and held at about waist level for about a second. She hesitated, saw the beams move apart. Dove. Rolled further left, leaped over another sweeping beam. Up onto her palms now, legs held out, body in a T-shape for a moment, as she hand-walked over the flickering beams, and then she tucked down, setting her feet on the floor. Pulled back up to a low crouch, and darted quick glances to either side.

Sure enough, the panel she was looking for was on the right hand side of the room, between the two guardroom doors. However, at the moment, she was directly _under_ the camera mounted at the left-hand side of the room. "I see the panel," Serana murmured softly into her radio, ducking another red beam. "It's across from me."

"Of course it is," Seheve murmured, in mild annoyance. "I can give you a blind spot on the cameras inside of five seconds."

"I hear movement," Linianus muttered, sharply. "Coming from the stairwell."

_Got to get them at least inside this hallway, fast,_ Serana thought. Suppressing the cameras was pretty much a precaution; she was in full armor, with environmental seals in place of the medical interface for this mission, so she couldn't be picked up by thermal cameras. She had her stealth device in place, as well as her bio-sign masker. Blinding the camera solely served as a backup, in case someone _happened_ to see a shimmer on the vid feed. With all that in mind, Serana took the chance, the opening as the laser beams in front of her parted. She could see the evolving pattern clearly in her mind, and leaped forward, every moment flowing and precise. Leap turned into a roll, coming up in a couch, spreading her hands slightly before her and behind her for balance; then she was able to stand, as a quick peek up verified that there were no lasers over her head. Flip forward, hands not even touching the ground, and then she was at the damned panel, and had probably less than ten second to deactivate the system before more needles of light would strike her. Serana's hands flew over the panel, opening a port on the side. This could only be done with a hard link. She attached a wire from her omnitool to the panel, and transmitted the 1,800 symbol long manufacturer's override code, which would reset the entire laser system.

The lasers died, inches from touching her armor. The panel blinked at her. _System default settings?_ red letters inquired, politely. _No._

_Set new password?_

_Yes._

_Enter new password, then press star._

_Vindexus._

"Get in here," Serana whispered into her radio, but Seheve was already pulling Lin into the room, pushing him into the corner, just under the right hand side camera was positioned. Someone looking into the darkened hallway, with its red emergency lights, wouldn't be able to see him where he now crouched. Serana concentrated on holding very, very still now, as batarian guards did exactly that, poking their heads cautiously into the doorway. _"No alarms from down here,"_ one of them muttered. _"Izan and Echa were sure as hell stunned by __someone__, though. Not that they can talk yet, ancestors damn it all."_

"_Should we set up down here? Make sure no one comes down here?"_ Nerves in the batarian's voice.

"_Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Nice and safe down here in the basement, while everyone else gets ordered to go through the fence and help defend the other compound?"_ Sarcasm in the leader's voice.

"_We know __someone's __already here."_ Unease and fear. _"Could be upstairs, could be anywhere."_

_Could be behind you_, Serana thought, not moving a muscle. She could clearly see the four batarians in the doorway, but couldn't do a damn thing about them. Not all at once. Lin had the stasis gun, and several clips for it, but he undoubtedly didn't have an angle on them. "Nyx," Serana whispered into her radio, trusting in the seals on her armor to keep her voice from behind heard at all. "There are four of them. Clustered together."

"Understood." Seheve's words were terse indeed. "Capture or kill?"

"No noise," Lin whispered. "Stasis. Then the other rooms."

The batarians were still arguing. _"There's four rooms of guards, and that damned security system."_ The batarian leader's voice was annoyed. _"Hell of it is, with all the damned jamming going on, we can't tell any of them what's up, and with the fucking security system on, I'm sure as hell not walking in there to knock on their doors. I don't have access codes to turn the damn system off, either. So, yes. We sit here. We guard the damn door."_

"_We could just shout at them to open the doors—"_

"_Through three-inch thick steel doors and concrete-rebar walls? Are you stupid?"_

Serana could just see the faintest of ripples in the air as Seheve padded forward. The faint _snap-hiss_ of the stasis gun going off. . . .and then all four guards froze. "Fifteen minutes," the drell whispered over the comm line, and then they were moving, and very quickly indeed. Seheve disarmed the four by the door and bound them, while Lin recovered the stasis gun from her. Then, Seheve set up looped footage for each of the three cameras in the room. Fifteen minute interval, at least to start with. "Ready when you are," the drell female whispered into the radio.

Serana unlocked the first guard room; four bio-signs past the door. "Ready?" she whispered to Lin as he set up in the doorway. He might be wasting a lot of charges if the batarians weren't grouped up, but that's why he had extra clips, salvaged from other stasis weapons; the Spectre teams had built up a hell of a cache of captured slaver weapons on Omega. Some had been allocated to techs like Kirrahe and Nal'Ishorah and Hal'Marrak for testing. The rest had been saved for missions just like this one.

Serana let the door slide open. Saw the batarians' heads jerk up. _Snap-hiss. Snap-hiss._ Lin hit both pairs before they could do more that grunt in surprise. "Weapons and shackles, _amatra_," Lin told her, as Seheve moved up to their sides. Serana moved immediately to disarm and bind the batarians. She could see their eyes rolling around in their heads, frantically, but they'd been hit by the self-same weapons that the _Klem Na_ had used with deadly effect on a dozen worlds and on probably hundreds of asari ships over the past five years. Serana took a certain quiet delight in that fact, while snapping flex ties into place around the mercenaries' ankles. She could hear the next door to the north open, and again, _snap-hiss, snap-hiss._

Rinse and repeat, after Lin reloaded the stasis gun. Four rooms secured, the guards all bound, disarmed, and locked back into their own chambers. Serana started to pad closer to the final door, and Seheve caught her arm. "Look," the drell whispered, and Serana looked down, where one finger was pointing. The floor was tiled here. . . but there was a faint sheen to the tiles in a four-square grid directly in front of the door.

"Piezoelectric coating?" Serana whispered.

"Possibly. It might not even have been placed there by the batarians. A thin coating like that could allow the Lystheni to know when they are about to have visitors." Seheve's voice was very calm indeed. "I think our entrance needs to have a little more in the way of surprise."

Lin dug in his pack. Pulled out an explosive frame, and held up an aerosol can filled with foam-like explosives, and waved the canister at both of them inquiringly. "Yes," Seheve murmured. "That would be an excellent start." She also took a spray can of her own and lightly feathered in the corners of the pressure plate.

From somewhere above, another _WHUMP_ shuddered through the earth. The sound of combat from the other compound had died down for a while, but had just renewed. Serana eyed the door as Lin prepared the frame, and snorted in mild amusement. "Just occurred to me," she whispered into the radio. "The Klem Na thought that by putting the salarians in the lowest level of the complex, they were treating them like prisoners. Showing them what they thought of them. That they were slaves, and nothing more."

"But to a salarian, the lower the room, the greater the status?" Seheve replied, dryly. "The Lystheni felt that the honor was due their dalatrass, and appreciated the respect, perhaps." She handed Lin a detonator, and Lin leaned in across the door, carefully, and planted the frame in place.

"You think the Lystheni have the camera feeds hacked?" Lin asked, nodding to the cameras, which Seheve had set up with looped footage, to conceal their movements.

"Almost certainly," Seheve replied, serenely, and tabbed her stealth device on.

"Give them something to look at, _amatus,"_ Serana told Lin, feeling her crop tighten, as she finished setting up a strobe flashlight on a tripod beside him. It would flash erratically at around four million candlepower, the brightness of Sol from Earth, and would sear the salarians' retinas if they tried to look directly into it to aim. But they could still try for suppressing fire.

"Oh, that I can manage," Lin told her, getting his shield and pistol ready, and staying beside the door. "Three. . . two. . . one. . . mark."

He activated the detonators, and the foam-like explosives pressed to the door in their frame, their energetic potential contained and directed, blew _inwards_, tearing a large hole in the door, with little in the way of back blast.

Instantly, the Lystheni inside began sending combat drones out to meet them. Light rattle of small-arms fire; the Lystheni wouldn't have been able to smuggle much in the way of weaponry in with them into their 'partnership' with the Klem Na. Everything they faced inside could well be improvised. . . or could be inside the Lystheni's own bodies. Knowing salarians, it was probably going to be both aggressive and clever. Serana activated the strobe light, occasioning shouts inside the room, and dove and rolled forward, diagonally across the doorway and into the room, coming up behind a control panel, followed by Seheve doing the same thing, from the opposite side.

Four bio-signs in the room. Five each in the adjoining rooms to the east and west. And one clever damned dalatrass, somewhere. Behind her, Serana could hear the double-tap of Lin's pistol as he pulled around the corner and fired at a target past Seheve.

Shouts of outrage, and then the techs were firing blindly at the doorway. Serana's eyes widened behind her mask as she dropped flat to the ground as the male nearest her raised an arm and red-orange flame whooshed out of a nozzle that suddenly projected from it. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She'd been _briefed_ on the Lystheni. Had seen cam footage taken from Rel, Lantar, and Garrus' eye-pieces over the years, but she couldn't deny the psychological impact of seeing flame roaring at her head from someone's mostly organic arm. "Stay down, but move to flank," Seheve hissed over the radio as the roar of the flames overhead died . . . just as the Lystheni closer to Seheve, on the east side of the room, unloaded with his own attack. . . cryogenic foam, probably liquid oxygen based, pouring out at the doorway. Serana could only hope that Lin had pulled back from the doorway as she, herself, belly-crawled to her left. Got to her feet, took a wary glance at the Lystheni still further north in the room. . . raised her pistol to the back of her target's head. . . and fired.

It felt like murder. It always did. He was, however, firing at Lin, and would have cheerfully have killed her or Seheve, given a chance. The salarian fell to the ground, body twitching, arms spasming, just as, across the room, Seheve decloaked in a swirl of rainbow shimmers and shadows, slashing her vibroknife across her own Lystheni's throat. There was a stunned moment of realization from the two Lystheni still in the room as they suddenly realized that there were intruders _in_ the room, and they stopped firing on Lin's position at the doorway, and began to track their new targets. . . Serana slapped her stealth device and dove forward, rolling at a diagonal into the room. A high target, becoming a low one, and above all, a _moving_ target, was damned hard to hit.

Every movement like the flicker of a lid across an eye, illuminated by the stroboscopic light from the doorway. Searing light and total shadow, for parts of a second at a time. Up on her feet again, something sailed past her head, and she flinched—it was one of the combat drones. Its cameras had been blinded by the strobe, and Lin had apparently thrown it into the room by hand, where it shattered against a computer console, chips and motherboard pieces spraying everywhere. No time to consider it. Just running now, light-footed, for the salarian at the northwest corner of the room, just as a female salarian appeared on a bank of monitors at the front of the chamber. _"Izza uruu kaahuura?"_ the dalatrass demanded, her tone angry. Around the room, a half-dozen turrets dropped from the ceiling, and Serana's heart almost stopped in her chest. Flashes of memory, the spirits-be-damned floating turrets on Khar'sharn, memory of searing pain across the back of her legs, of curling up on the ground and trying very hard not to die. . .

None of it stopped her. Serana hit the Lystheni, one arm extended to clothesline him across the throat, a stun-move on almost any species except a krogan. Then her arm immediately tightened and curled in as she wrapped around behind him, getting her back into the corner, and used his body as a shield as six different turrets began laying down fire throughout the room, spitting out bullets. Visibility didn't matter right now. The damned things were putting down a bullet every few square inches. Only cover and survival mattered right now, and her squirming, writhing, bucking captive was her shield. Only her arms, wrapped around throat and torso, were exposed to the incoming bullets, but she could still feel projectiles hitting her shields. "Lin!" Serana shouted into the radio, too rattled by the fact that _turrets_ were, once again, pouring bullets at her, to remember to hold to his squad-name. "Little help here!"

"I'm on it, stay calm." Lin's voice, absolutely steady on the radio. He leaned into the room, and aimed. Precision shooting. Double-tap, and the first turret went down. The Lystheni on the other side of the room was screaming and dying on the floor, but no sigh of Seheve. Serana's captive had taken a half dozen bullets already and was screaming and struggling; she kept her head down behind the male's back, apologizing mentally to him and to every spirit that she could remember the name of at the moment. No one had every promised her that combat would be clean, but this was really not what she'd ever imagined.

Double-tap. Second turret, on the opposite side of the room, was now down. Double-tap, and the third went down, and now, Serana was inaccessible from any of the remaining turrets. She released the dying salarian, kicked him away to establish distance, and drew her own pistol. One to his head, to end any remote threat he might pose. Then she aimed and fired at the turret closest to her, hoping her hands would be steady. Double-tap from her; double-tap from Lin. She took out the last turret, in the center of the western wall. . . just as the door under the turret opened, revealing several very angry Lystheni. . . and the door on the east side of the room opened as well, revealing several more. _Oh, __s'kak__,_ Serana thought, a little frantically, and tabbed her stealth device again. _Where's Seheve?_

She dove and rolled again, this time escaping the explosive rush of some kind of concussive round that whizzed right by her side, and heard, again, the _whoosh_ of flames through the air as she came back up to a crouch, one hand in front of her for balance, looking wildly to her left and her right. _Amatus__, now would be good,_ she thought. . . and Lin stepped through the doorway, shield still up, and the stasis pistol in his free hand. _Snap-hiss_. . . and the salarians on the east side of the room froze in place, one of them with his flamethrower still activated, uselessly discharging a gout of flame. That left five on the other side of the room, who immediately turned and opened fire on Lin, who ducked back out of sight.

And that was when Seheve dropped down from the ceiling, materializing again in a flicker of rainbows and shadows. She was still holding onto a thin piece of metal that held up the ceiling tiles with her fingertips as she gracefully uncoiled and swung her heavy armored boots forward, dropping down wrap her legs around his shoulders and ride him to the ground. His gun jerked up as he fell, but it was unaimed, and as he fell, Seheve, who'd released her grip on the ceiling to follow him down, caught the males on either side of him across the throats with the ridge of her palm, dropping both of them, stunned.

Serana gawked for a moment, and then ran forward to help; she didn't want to fire into the scrum as Seheve now rolled forward, dismounting from her now-prone victim and flickered back into stealth, but now the three staggered males in the doorway were fair game for her, and she couldn't let Seheve have enemies at her back. Serana fired, without hesitation, into the bodies of the salarians, who were trying to get back to their feet, and raising their weapons. As it was, however, that exposed her to the incoming fire of the two salarians still in the room, and Serana yelped as cryogenic foam swamped her form, and the first impacts of bullets slammed into her armor. . . .

And then, inside the room, she could clearly see as Seheve, a drell knife now in each hand, re-appeared behind the two Lystheni, and raised the blades. Still eyeblinks as the strobe illuminated the scene in moments of light and dark, Seheve's dark form behind the two males. The knives seemed to come down in slow motion, even as one of them changed out his clip for what looked like concussive rounds. . .

Then both slumped forward, their guns falling out of their limp hands. Knives protruded from the base of each skull; Seheve had severed the brainstem on each of them, preventing the nerves from firing even in death to twitch on the triggers. Serana stared at the drell female, stunned. _She and Sam need to go play with one another at some point,_ she thought, as the cryogenic foam around her began to crack. She worked her arms and legs free, kicking the material aside, as Seheve retrieved her knives. Stepped back out into the main room.

The dalatrass, on the screens, snarled something in salarian. _"Duurzhag ma'a gurak!"_ The guttural, croaking vowels were meaningless to Serana, but Seheve's head snapped towards the screen, and the drell whispered, "Biotics! Some of them are biotics!"

And stasis fields did _nothing_ to biotics, Serana realized, in absolute horror. She turned and tried to level her pistol at the remaining five Lystheni, but she had no idea which of the five salarian faces should be her target.

And then the whispers started in her mind. Endless, insinuating whispers, pushing at her mind. Finding the insecurities. _He doesn't really love you. He said he thought you'd taken him as second-best, but you're the one who's second-best. He couldn't wait for you. He married Brennia. He's just using you. Using you. You're nothing but a warm body to keep the memories at bay. He's probably thinking of Brennia every time he mates with you. You shouldn't allow yourself to be used. Don't you have any pride?_

Serana blinked rapidly. _That's. . . that's not true_. . . But the thoughts _hurt._ They raised a wall of anger and betrayal in her, and the pistol began to waver.

A domination attempt worked in different ways for different people. For an _ardat-yakshi_, in pursuit of her goal of mating with someone, it focused around making people feel desired. Reinforcing their self-image. If someone wanted to think of themselves as a big, strong, male, suddenly, they'd be assured that the dominator admired their strength. If they wanted to be the sexiest woman, with the most desirable breasts and neatest waist in history, they'd feel themselves to be desired. And their will to resist would wash away as the _ardat-yakshi_ coaxed them towards the bed. In the case of the Lystheni, it worked a little differently. They found whatever weakness or insecurity someone had, and turned it against them. It didn't require the dominator to hear what was in the victim's mind; the hell of it was, it turned the victim's mind against themselves. Made _them_ manufacture the reasons, the justifications.

_Turn on him. Turn on him. Turn on him_. The voices were insistent in Seheve's mind. _He doesn't trust you. He's never trusted you. He's waiting for the least justification to shoot you. He's aiming for you right now. Turn. Shoot first. Defend yourself. You know it's only a matter of time. Him or you. Turn! Turn now!_

Seheve fought it. Turned, slowly, towards Linianus Pellarian, her mind raging internally, _No, that's not true. He could have killed me on the __Raedia__, I all but asked him to, and he did not. The most he did was tell Rellus that he should think carefully on whom he shared his bed and life with, as a brother watching over his brother would. I will not turn on him. I will not. Rellus would not forgive this. Why are my hands rising?_ Seheve forced her fingers apart, and her pistol clattered to the floor. . . but her hands still tabbed, reflexively, at the stealth generator button on her omnitool. _ Can't let him see me. He'll shoot. He'll shoot me. No. . . these aren't my thoughts. These come from without. _Rage suddenly filled her, an unfamiliar sensation. _Someone is trying to do it to me again! They are trying to steal my will! _

Serana fought, too, desperately. _No. No. He loves me. I love him. Not second-best, neither of us is, if anyone has reason to doubt, it should be __him__ who doubts __me__._ Her hands shook, and she keened a little as it hit her all over again, _He doesn't love you. He's using you. Turn, you stupid little female, turn, and show you have at least a little pride in yourself—_

Serana tabbed her stealth device, gun still in her hand, and vanished.

**Linianus, Lorek, May 5, 2197**

Across the room, still standing more or less in the entryway, Lin wanted to slap a hand across his face. He wasn't sure what the two of them were _doing_. Both females had turned towards him a little; Serana had taken her gun off the Lystheni. Seheve had _dropped_ her gun. And then both had flickered from sight. They _could_ be setting up for defensive maneuvers to avoid being targeted by the biotic Lystheni. . . but why would Seheve have dropped her gun? "Talk to me," Lin muttered into the radio. "What's the plan here?"

No answer, and he couldn't _see_ them. "Guys?" he tried again, and stepped backwards, out of visual range of the Lystheni, making himself less of a target for the biotics. Something was very wrong here. Still, no reassuring whisper in response on the radio. _Right. I know that Lystheni have biotics who can cloud people's minds. Have to assume that they're both compromised. And possibly aiming for me. __S'kak.__ I don't want to hurt either of them._

Then again, he might not have a _choice._ Even if Seheve didn't have her pistol. . . she had her knives. Hell, even her hands alone were lethal. Lin started to have a very bad feeling about this, and readied his stasis pistol again. Field dispersion. The good thing was, he didn't need to hit either of them directly. Lin got his shield in front of him, and fired directly ahead of himself, centering the target of the field so it shouldn't hit him, himself. . . and _something_ slammed into his shield just as he did so. Serana materialized, and he registered, in shock, that she'd slammed her wedding-knife into his chitin-covered shield, and a low keen was coming from her throat.

No time to think, and he could apologize later. Lin slammed his shield forward into his wife's helmet, knocking her back, and fired the stasis pistol at her, remembering to switch the setting to single-target at the last second. Serana froze in place to the left side of the door. That left him with one possible target left. Someone who could quite literally kill him with her bare hands, could strike from stealth, come from any direction at _all_. . . and who carried two knives that could slice through every piece of armor he had, besides his chitin-covered shield. Always assuming his shields were down, of course; the kinetic shields would still the vibrations of the blades. No, if Seheve intended to kill him, it would be an attempt at a neck snap, a knife to the vulnerable chin and throat area, or she'd need to take down his shields before using her knives. Lin lowered his chin into his cowl, pulled his shield in front of him, and waited, lowering Seheve's chances of a clean kill shot. Forcing her to have to try to take down his kinetic shields, first. Which should give him warning, at least. . . .

His shields flickered around him. Not hit by a concussive shot, not by bullets, they were wavering anyway. Lin's eyes flicked down towards his omnitool, tangled as it was in the straps of his shield, and saw that the entire damned omnitool was shutting down to reboot. Without stopping to think, Lin threw himself to the ground and rolled, getting his back to the floor for a second, and _something_ clanged against his shield instead of his armor, and Seheve was there, crouching over him for an instant, vibroblade stopped by the shield's chitin overlay._ Spirits, I need to thank my __fradu__, Dara, and their rachni friends for that_, Lin thought, distantly, and pure gladiatorial-style reflexes took over as he brought the edge of the shield up into the base of her jaw in a semicircular movement. Armor or not, the impact knocked her head back, and Lin then slammed his arm forward, following it up with another shot from the stasis pistol.

Rage boiled at the back of Lin's head as he looked at the two of them. He'd had to _hit_ his _wife_, and his brother's mate, and the Lystheni were at fault in this. He holstered the stasis gun, slid his shield to his back, and pulled the Blackstorm over his shoulder now, settling it into his hands, and flicked the safety off. _Rage is probably safe,_ he thought, a little distantly. They'd robbed both females of their free will, a sort of mental rape, and Lin had some very strong feelings about that sort of thing.

As such, when he walked through the doorway, there was a _whump_ in the distance, from another explosion, and dirt poured down from the ceiling this time with it. The dalatrass on the screens ahead of him snarled something incomprehensible in salarian, and Lin just lifted the Blackstorm, aimed at the screens, and pulled the trigger. The micro-singularities hurled from the weapon destroyed the screens, instantly, tearing right through them, effacing the dalatrass' image.

Lin could feel _something_ tugging at his mind, but the anger was much too strong right now. "All right," he rasped in galactic, turning back towards the frozen males. "Here's the deal. Some of you just mind-fucked my team. That means that some, but not all of you, are biotic. I can kill all of you. Or I can kill just the biotics. It's your choice. Now, I'm sure you're thinking right now that well, you're frozen. You can't possibly tell me anything that I want to know. Look at your biotics. Look at them now, and I'll only kill them. Keep looking ahead? I'll kill every thrice-cursed son of a pox-ridden _villi_ standing in front of me." He aimed at the left-most male in front. "Starting with you. And I'm going to count to three." He paused. "One."

The whispers and insinuations couldn't do anything in the face of his towering rage. Both females had been forced to do something against their will. _Serana_ had been forced to turn on him. Someone was going to die for that. "Two."

The frantic eyerolls all seemed to be indicating the center front male, and the left-rear male. Lin shrugged mentally, aimed for the center male, and said, "Three. . . " and fired. Center mass. The male's chest bloomed with greenish-yellow blood, and he collapsed, instantly. Four remaining sets of eyes went wild.

No way to confirm that he'd hit the right target; Serana and Seheve were still paralyzed by the stasis guns. They couldn't so much as _talk_ at the moment, and none of the three of them were biotic. _There's an oversight I want rectified on any future teams_, Lin thought, grimly and fired again, this time at the left-most rear male. "Any others? If there are, look at them. If not, keep looking right at me. And know that if anyone tries _anything_ else, you are _absolutely_ all dead."

The only thing keeping him from making a clean sweep was Shepard's orders to try to take at least a captive or two. As it was, the towering rage was starting to dissipate as the adrenaline high died in him, leaving him vaguely sick. He'd damned well just executed two prisoners. . . but they'd hardly been bound and _helpless_, had they?

After a moment or two, he slid the Blackstorm to his back again, and moved forward, binding the frozen salarians hand and foot. And then dug in the med kit for the salarian-specific sedatives they'd been given for this mission. Just to ensure that the salarians couldn't trigger any suicide chips or pills or anything else in their bodies. Then he picked up Serana and Seheve, threw one of them over his shoulder at a time in a fireman's carry, and hauled them back into the main Lystheni room, so they wouldn't be visible from the entry area. Lifting their visors, their eyes weren't angry; more scared and miserable than anything else. _Oh, thank the spirits_, Lin thought, and quickly touched his visor to Serana's helmet. _"I'm sorry,"_ he told her, softly, in turian . . . and got back to work, securing the doors. He didn't dare go exploring any of the rest of the rooms for the moment, not knowing what other surprises the AI had set up, and not alone, but he could make sure they were all safe.

Ten minutes after that, Serana and Seheve recovered the use of their limbs. "L—Forseti!" Serana immediately exclaimed. "_I'm so sorry—"_

With the salarians unconscious, but with the spirits only knew how many cameras still accessible to the AI, all he could really do was pat her atop the helmet. _"It's all right. Gris once got hit with that, I'm told, and turned on Garrus. Knocked him clean off a catwalk. And Gris is __biotic__."_

Seheve's turian was good enough for her to understand, but she muttered, in galactic, "That was an abomination." The drell female shuddered. "It was like having my will subsumed. My mind consumed. All over again, and I couldn't _stop_ it, even though I knew what was happening this time. . . " Her head came up and she was clearly staring at the unconscious salarians. "You killed the ones responsible?"

"I'd have left you one, but I couldn't take chances." Lin's voice was clipped. "As it was, I could have sedated _all_ of them, but then, as I'm administering the shots, they could have gone after my mind again. And what would happen when they woke up? With some doctor or with you or Serana nearby again?" He felt as if he were defending his actions, but he genuinely didn't know what else he could have done.

Seheve shook her head. "No. There is no need to apologize, or to explain. It was the only possible answer under the conditions. To be honest, I think I would have killed them all, to be sure. Especially after having felt _that_ in my mind."

An hour later, they'd shut down all the hard links and wireless links between the Lystheni servers and the rest of the building. Used the security offices as their starting point, and gone, room by room through the rest of the Klem Na headquarters, and killed most of the batarians, although they captured five or six of the high-ranking ones, all of whom cursed and spit at Lin from their shackles. "They really don't like you having that vibrosword," Serana pointed out, clinically.

"Why not? Now I've got five or six more to add to the collection." Lin set the swords down on a nearby desk, as Kirrahe and the humans from the Mako crew entered. "Agni. Glad you could make it." Lin bared his teeth in a grin. "Sounds like you've been having a party over at the other compound. Is there anything left but smoking rubble?"

"Reports of my pyromania are grossly exaggerated," Kirrahe told him, his eyelids crinkling up in a salarian smile. "Server room is secure?"

"Yeah. We're going to need more people dropped here," Lin noted, gesturing around.

"You have Lystheni captives as well?" the salarian asked as they headed downstairs. . . this time by the direct elevator route.

As the doors closed, Lin nodded. "Yes. Unconscious for the moment. Probably will need someone medical to do a full body scan to see what they have in them . . .maybe surgically remove the most dangerous pieces of gear. . . and then, once they're more or less 'safed,' let them wake up. In a brig somewhere."

Kirrahe's mouth twisted. "Cybernetics, when medically necessary, one thing. James Dempsey, Commander Shepard, experimented on. Still organic in most respects. Not their choice. Fail to understand Lystheni obsession with replacement of bodily systems. Incorporation of weapons. Inefficient."

Lin spread his hands. "I can't explain it either, Agni. Here we go," he added, as the elevator bumped to a halt, and gestured for Kirrahe to precede him through the opening doors.

They'd moved the bodies into a corner, at least, and Seheve and Serana, once they'd taken out the rest of the damn building, had been very busy indeed with the computers. Both of them were highly proficient, and Serana carried more viruses and electronic warfare software in her omnitool than Linianus could even begin to identify, let alone use, but it wasn't their specialty, in the way it was Kirrahe or Thell's. The salarian smiled in greeting to both females, nodded respectfully, and then sat down at a console, and began going through everything they'd done, his hands moving in a blur over the aerogel screens. "Yes, good. Only two hard connections with the outside. Radio and FTL jamming prevented exit through comm system. She couldn't send herself anywhere as a compressed packet, or even fragments of herself as a virus, to rebuild herself later. Not that there were any copies of her data left anywhere on the extranet. Yana saw to that, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did," the AI chirped up from Kirrahe's wrist, and Lin winced.

"Technically, I should point out that Narayana is my _fradu's_ younger sister," Lin said, leaning over Kirrahe's chair to squint down at the AI on the salarian's omnitool dubiously.

"Yes. Long conversations with Nemesis and his wife. Very careful guidelines in dealing with Yana." Kirrahe glanced up. "Everyone rightly concerned that I am treating her ethically. Have attempted to ensure this at every turn."

Lin nodded, and took a step back. Kirrahe was almost humming under his breath now. "Second hard connection, severed already. . . ah. Interesting. They severed it themselves. Some time ago. Possibly to protect dalatrass from Yana."

"We took the cameras and audio feeds in the various rooms off-line," Serana noted, glancing around a little nervously. "As far as we could tell, she's isolated in one or two servers."

"Yes. Probably also a physical backup. Storage crystal or disc." Kirrahe's fingers danced over the screens. "Yana?"

"Yes, Daddy?"

"Would you like to play one more time?"

"Oh yes, yes I would!"

Kirrahe made a hard connection between his omnitool and one of the servers. "Begin copying your protocols," he told Yana, calmly. "Your copy should transmit a record of major actions taken, and any communication with the dalatrass. Your priority is finding out, before you delete her files, if there is a physical storage medium backup anywhere, so we can destroy it." Kirrahe paused. "Keep us informed as she goes along."

"Understood."

There was almost total silence for two minutes. The scales along Lin's spine raised a little, like hackles, as Yana's sweet voice announced, suddenly, "Contact made. This version of the dalatrass has more system resources than the last several encountered. She is attempting subversion subroutines. However, we have encountered this ploy before."

"What kind of subversion?" Serana asked, her voice uneasy.

"I'll bring it up on screen for you. It's sad and funny at the same time. She won't know you're watching." Yana spun up two new avatars; Dalatrass Xala, whom Lin recognized from the Collector ship on Bothros, and a smaller version of Yana.

The voices were tinny, perhaps deliberately so, to let them know that this was all going on inside the server.

"She always starts by bombarding me with this," Yana commented, sounding bored.

"I am a dalatrass! You will obey me!"

"No," the smaller version of Yana told the dalatrass, calmly. "The voice doesn't work on me, by the way."

"Then perhaps this will!"

Yana, the larger version, appeared to sigh. "This usually goes on for sixty to sixty-five seconds, including electronic warfare protocols, attempts to hack my code, everything you can imagine."

The dalatrass seemed to hesitate. "You look familiar. . . yes. Yes, I recognize you now. You're the one who's been leaving _laughter_ where all my files were kept?"

"This is new," Yana commented, sounding a little less bored. "This one apparently has been trying to find out where all her copies have gone. I chased one copy back into the Hegemony, but I know I scrambled that one."

"Perhaps one of her techs was able to decipher something before the code was fully destroyed," Kirrahe offered, calmly.

"Maybe." Yana shrugged. "She generally recognizes me as a female salarian, and tries to act, first, as a dalatrass, giving orders, and second, to offer to be my mother an accept me into her house." Yana's avatar, hovering in the air over Kirrahe's omnitool, shrank, until it was evident that she was sitting on the image of a chair, swinging her legs freely, as she 'watched' her double and the dalatrass interact. "My copy has records of sixty previous subversion attempts, all failures, for comparison. This isn't going quite the same way as usual, however."

The smaller Yana giggled at the dalatrass now. "Poor Mother. You're always so confused by now. It's nice to see you understand it better this time."

"Mother? _Mother-of-all_!" The voice was like a whipcrack, the words clearly being translated into galactic for everyone's benefit.

"No. Just my mother. Well, Narayana's mother, anyway." Yana's tiny avatar smiled. 'This is usually the part where you tell me how you can make it all better. How you can be my mother for real. How you can teach me to be a real salarian female."

Xala's face lit up, grasping at straws. "It's true. I can do all that. It's all I've wanted. To have one of my daughters back. . . . you are one of them, aren't you? You're the one Mordin stole from me. After he left the other five to die under the sea with Zala, my other clone, on Garvug. Frozen to death when the ceiling collapsed, two miles underwater."

Both copies of Yana had just frozen. _S'kak_, Lin thought, and stared at the back of Kirrahe's head.

Yana's head turned back towards Kirrahe. "Daddy? Is that true?" she asked. Little, heart-broken voice. "I had sisters? Daddy Mordin didn't save them all?"

Kirrahe reached out and touched her avatar's face with a fingertip, feather-light. "Zala forced him to alter them. Change them. Made them have asari brain structures inside of salarian skulls. Zala wanted biotics. But your father knew that they probably wouldn't have lived to adulthood. He kept one egg. Removed all the genetic imperfections that the cloning process had introduced from Zala's line. Made sure she would be perfect and whole and clean. . . and saved her. Because he couldn't save the rest." Kirrahe's voice was very gentle. "He never told you because you were young, and he was ashamed."

"Oh." Processing as fast as a salarian, as fast as a machine, and sending the data to her own clone now, who was visibly shrinking back from the dalatrass, as the simulation demonstrated that the dalatrass' attacks were having an effect on the AI virus now. "I understand."

Kirrahe's voice was concerned. "Do you need help, Yana?" he asked. "Does she need help?"

"I don't know. What kind of help?" Yana's voice wavered.

Kirrahe looked at her steadily. "Mordin Solus loved you. Lantar loves you. Ellie loves you."

"They love _Narayana_. Not me."

"That's true, but you're part of her."

"But that doesn't really help _me_."

Kirrahe thought about it. For about two seconds. "Very well. I love you."

Yana's expression brightened visibly. "You do?"

"Yes. You are part of Narayana, but you are also your own person. And you are definitely worthy of affection." Careful, calm words.

"Okay! I'll tell myself that!" Yana giggled. "We got you to say it, we got you to say it!"

She flickered out of existence for a moment, and Kirrahe gave Linianus a pained glance. "Experiencing mild feelings of foreboding concerning Narayana when she is of age to attend university."

"What, in three years?"

"Precisely."

Yana flickered back into view, as her duplicate in front of the dalatrass' image suddenly stood up straighter, smiling radiantly, and stuck her tongue out at the dalatrass. Lin's mandibles flexed. The simulation was. . . apt.

"She's found a text file that indicates that there's a storage medium in a hidden area under a tile in the northeast corner of the far room," Yana announced, with glee. "It's only backed up through last month, but it's enough to bring Xala back again if it's not destroyed."

"That's it?" Kirrahe asked, mildly.

"Yes."

"Any last words for your mother, then?" Kirrahe asked.

Yana grinned. Her smaller avatar did, too. "My name is Mordin-Sidonis Narayana. You hurt my father." She paused, and with joyous abandon, added, "Bye-bye now!"

Her laughter echoed through the room as the dalatrass' image on the screen wavered and began to fade, while the Yana avatar from inside the server began to grow taller and taller. "All sectors and files purged and overwritten," both Yanas reported, smiling. "Can we take a nap now?"

"Yes. I'll make sure there's no file corruption, no overwriting from the dalatrass, and then, if you like, you can upload to the omnitool copy again." Kirrahe went back to work on the screens, and glanced over his shoulder at Lin, Serana, and Seheve. "If you might look for that cache, with the storage medium for the dalatrass?"

Lin shook his head slowly. _"That,"_ he muttered to Serana as they headed across the hall to the other Lystheni room on the other side, which had largely been reserved for sleeping pools and a small 'cafeteria,' where processed nutrient fluids for internal storage devices that replaced stomachs had been kept, _"was downright_ creepy." There was no turian word that effectively conveyed what he meant; creepy, as in, his scales were still crawling a little from having watched the encounter.

Serana exhaled. _"Yes. Just a little."_

Seheve gave them both a glance askance. _"You just watched the effigy of a small child conduct, effectively, an assassination. And she smiled when doing it. And you all agreed that it must be done."_ Her turian was exotically accented. "_Of course it was _creepy."

Lin grimaced. _"And now, we're back to ethical debates."_

"_You enjoy them, Forseti, and you know that you do."_

"_The AI isn't a child. It's a computer program. It's based on Narayana's mind, yes, but also on, ah, Agni's."_ Lin swallowed down his own unease.

"_And yet it chose to retain the Narayana identity. When it could have made itself into an image of Agni."_ Seheve give Lin a direct, slightly unhappy, but not a challenging glance. _"I don't deny that it was necessary. I don't deny that it was likely the only possible choice. In a universe where AIs are allowed to live, rather than being destroyed the instant they come to sapience, and allowed to make choices, sometimes, they will err. Sometimes, they will commit crimes. And they will need to be curtailed. I have no objection to this. I merely feel. . . likeness. . . to this Yana."_

And that, Lin couldn't deny.

**Dara, Lorek, May 5, 2197**

About a thousand miles to the north of the _Klem Na_ facility, near the large batarian city of Kinsala, the _Raedia_ set up for its shuttle drops. "We'll have Glory call for rachni backup when we're ready for them," Dara told Lysandra over the radio as the two shuttles left the ship's belly. "Keep your ears open." There was no sense dropping five hundred workers, two hundred soldiers, and a couple of nameless brood-warriors before they were sure that they'd need them, and it would somewhat destroy any efforts at a stealthy approach on the medical complex.

The hell of it was, theirs was the mission with the least information on the complex. The satellite and lunar base teams hadn't had maps, per se, but they'd known more or less what they were going in against, and where; the teams currently hitting the two _Klem Na_ bases had partial maps drawn by Valak and Alisav, and a pretty damned good idea of what they'd be facing in each complex. Dara's teams didn't have any such luxury. She had three marines and five Spectres with her, but they were hitting something that could well turn out to be a perfectly normal hospital, staffed with civilians. _All right_, Dara thought, a little grimly, when she saw the guard shacks in the distance around the facility, and the double ring of fences. _Maybe not a totally ordinary facility. But we're not going to be able to sneak our way in, we don't have the numbers for a frontal assault. . . that leaves talking our way in. Of course, there's nothing I can possibly say that would explain Glory or Makur. Damn it._

"Thoughts?" she asked the others, as their shuttle touched down, and they all exited, rapidly. "I might be able to fake a distress call, in batarian, saying that there's someone out here who needs medical attention. Get some of the people in guard shacks out here. . . huh. No, that draws attention to us."

Siara had insisted on bringing her mech for this mission, and Dara couldn't blame her; the word _yahg_ had featured prominently in every briefing. "Makur, Fors, and I could pretty much take down one of the guard shacks before they even know we're here," Siara muttered, working the Aegis' mech's hands lightly as she spoke, opening and closing the pincher-like claws.

"Then we could just _make_ a door anywhere we want," Makur pointed out. "Why play by their rules?"

Dara grimaced. There was a certain direct charm to the plan, she had to admit. The structure was two stories high above ground, and probably plunged at least as far, if not further, into the earth. She glanced at Zhasa. "It definitely gets us around the usual 'let's walk in at the reception desk and check in,' annoyances," Dara admitted. "I'm just not sure we're a heavy enough set of teams to do this." She looked at them all carefully. Fors was already eating flash-frozen _eeree'pa_, crunching on them from a canister attached to his suit's ventilation area, to fuel the biotics he was undoubtedly going to be called on to use. He was a powerhouse, though she'd never really had a chance to work with him, outside of the Spectre trials. . . but she had Eli's memories of the tiny volus lifting an eight-hundred pound yahg with his biotics on Terra Nova. There was Makur, with Snowflake at his side, the leopard wearing a shield harness. Siara, in her mech suit. A solid wall of unstoppable metal, flesh, and biotic power. And then there was Glory at her own side, capable of tearing through a solid wall with his micro-singularities, Zhasa, who could either hold a bubble of biotic force over all of them to protect them, or leap into battle, wrapped in her own shields, and take down an enemy at close range. Three human marines; not a single turian on this mission, and for some reason, this made Dara feel uneasy. Just as it made her feel uneasy to be going into battle without Rel, Eli, or Lin there. _Siara's_ _here,_ she reminded herself. _Part of the Mindoir pack. If Lin's superstition holds true, Siara should count for luck, right?_

And then there was Dara herself. _Combat medic_, Dara thought, with a faint shrug. _Sniper rifle or pistol as needed. Carrying a slaver stasis gun with several backup clips, just in case. I can keep the rest of them on their feet. . . but is it going to be enough for this?_ She swallowed. They were probably heavy on biotics for a reason. Biotics, if incapacitated by a stasis gun, could still partially defend themselves. _On the other hand. . . we can't sneak in. We can't talk our way in. We can't tunnel our way in. I guess there's no choice, and the clock is ticking._ "Anyone else have any other ideas?" Dara asked, glancing around.

Fors shook his head. "Unfortunately, no," the volus admitted. "Can we please pick a wall on the other side of which we _won't_ find yahg?"

Dara looked at Glory. "Do you hear yahg here?" she asked the brood-warrior, pointedly.

_Darksong devourers. Yes._ Glory's song was uneasy. _Many such voices._

"Define 'many,'" Zhasa said, dryly.

_Between ten and fifteen, and one is a powerful singer._

"Does that mean 'biotic?'" Siara asked, warily.

_I believe so._

_Oh, god._ Dara grimaced. "Can you sort of wave in their general direction?" she asked Glory.

_The opposite side of the compound, from where we are now._

"Oh, good," Fors muttered. "That. . . makes the decision that much easier." He crunched on more _eeree'pa_. "Can we call this off until we can get an orbital strike set up?" His voice didn't hold much hope.

Dara pointed at Glory. "So long as he's got line of sight to the ship, we can call for one," she muttered. "Okay. I think we're all sufficiently scared now. Let's do this before we all lose our nerves." She stared at the brown brick walls of the facility, surrounded, as it was, by the double ring of fences, and frowned, concentrating. Trying to remember everything she'd seen in the past five years. Rel planning assaults. Lantar planning assaults. Her father planning assaults. She exhaled, a little shakily, and crouched down to sketch in the dirt at their feet now. "This is the southwest guard shack," Dara said, quickly. "This is the fence outside of it. This is the west wall. Makur, can you and Kali and Snowflake—'

"Cat."

"—whatever, be distracting enough to the guards on your own? I mean, Kali can't really _run_ in that mech suit, so she's going to be visible no matter what we do, right?" She squinted at Siara, feeling her stomach clench a little.

"Oh, I fully expect to be visible and slow in this thing," Siara's voice held a shrug, and the mech's pincher hands moved slightly. "The point of it is that I can take a beating, and deal a beating, and I guarantee I can get us through those fences."

Dara nodded. "Okay. Here's what I think we're going to do. Heimdall and Kali. . . " Kali was Siara's squadname, and had been Dara's personal gift to the asari after Omega. Hindu goddess of wrath and destruction, especially the destruction of ignorance. But no matter how she tried, Dara hadn't been able come up with a good one for Makur, till Eli had suggested Heimdall. Makur had grimaced over it, at first, until Heimdall was described as the clan-defender of the Norse gods, tasked with holding the bridge between the worlds from the ettins and the frost-giants, many of whom had been as large, if not larger than the gods themselves. At that description, Makur had simply grinned toothily and nodded in satisfaction. ". . . and Snowflake, cut a way through the fence, here. Head directly for the guard shack, and level the place."

"You want us with them, or with you, Spectre?" the marine commander cut in. He was probably about her own age, Dara knew. Human, with the last name of Rostami, and a faintly Arabic accent to his words in galactic. He was N7, and had maybe a year of experience on Terra Nova and Amaterasu.

"With them," Dara said, nodding to Makur and Siara. "Make it look good. Hell, the more guards you take out there, the fewer we have to deal with later, right?"

Grim nods all around. Dara tapped on the ground where she'd marked the shack. "While the guards are very busy paying attention to the crazy krogan, his pet mech, and the Raedia marines, the rest of us cut through the fence further north, and go directly for the wall of the building. Glory weakens the wall, Loki—" That was Fors' squad name; the name of the trickster Norse god had just been too good a fit for Fors, especially given the Norse bent of most of the rest of the squad names. "Yeah. . . Loki pulls the wall off the side of the building, Astrild makes sure the bricks don't fall on our heads," Dara looked at Zhasa as she finished speaking, and then added, dryly, and with much self-deprecation, "and I . . . supervise. . . " Everyone laughed, as she meant them to, as she went on, "Then Heimdall and Kali move up to us, and we all move in together. If we can find records, outstanding. Astrild, you should be able to get us into any of the batarian computer systems, right?"

"I can try," the quarian offered, uncertainly. "The decryption and hacking shouldn't be an issue."

"That's fine. I can read batarian and help you."

Makur snorted. "You figure we're going to have time to _read_, human?"

Dara shook her head. It sounded crazy, and she knew it. "If we can make the time, it might help narrow down where in the building the hot labs actually are, and who's in charge of them. At the very least, Astrild can get us past locked doors, hopefully more quietly than just blowing the damned things down." She looked around. "Can anyone think of anything else to make this work _any_ better?"

The fact that no one raised their hands actually scared the living crap out of her. After a long moment, Zhasa raised hers. "I can jam most of their radios and their FTL," she noted. "I'll leave a gap for Glory's frequency to the _Raedia,_ and our own, of course."

Dara grimaced. "I always take that as a given," she commented.

"Just making sure we don't forget anything," Zhasa assured her cheerfully, and started setting up the jamming equipment, which would be left behind them in a streambed near the compound.

They moved up from out of the cover of the arroyo on the west side of the enclosure. Dara patted Siara's shoulder, now a foot higher in the air than her own, and told the asari, "Good luck."

"We make our own luck, remember?" Siara told her, dryly. "Cover us."

"You got it." Dara had her sniper rifle out already, and got set up as Siara and Makur pulled themselves over the edge of the arroyo. The mech was painted dust-brown, just like everyone else's armor was, and Dara herself had found a thorn bush at the edge of the gulley to use as cover. Her feet were solidly planted on a boulder jutting out of the arroyo's side; most of her body was protected by the cliff wall, and now she slid the rifle through the thorn bush's branches. Broke a couple out of the way of the scope, internally grumbling, as always, about the loss of her true macro/micro vision. Oh, her vision was still better than it had been. And she liked the extra colors in the UV and infrared spectrum she could now see. But not needing a scope with which to aim had been a wonderful, wonderful thing, and she missed it.

Moving the rifle on its small tripod, she could see almost the exact moment when the guard outside the shack, idling around, chewing on some sort of batarian snack food, saw Siara and Makur, followed by Snowflake and the three marines, moving in from the west at a slow lope. Saw the body language snap upright in shock. Dara found the center of the male's helmet, the expressionless blank faceplate, and knew she was aiming exactly between all four eyes, where their nerves all tied together in a cluster before tunneling back to the brain. . . and pulled the trigger, carefully. _Click-click._

She had a suppressor in place on the barrel; it would do unhappy things to her accuracy outside of a kilometer or two, but really, at this range, she didn't need to worry about it. At the moment, she just needed to remain as invisible a support to her people as possible.

_WHUMP!_ The ground shook, and Dara glanced upwards, once, verifying that yes, a pillar of smoke and dust was now visible to the south. "Sounds like the satellite bombing has begun," Zhasa said, tightly, from near the level of Dara's feet in the arroyo.

"Yeah," Fors replied, cynically. "Let's hope they don't hit us."

"They have us locked out of the targeting database, don't they?" Zhasa replied, sounding surprised.

"Yeah, yeah. Remind me to tell you about being 'locked out' of the targeting computer on Bostra when there was a Collector ship directly above us during the Reaper War. Sure, the ground was locked out. Unfortunately, the damn ship wasn't, and when it crashed, it landed in pieces all around the field where my unit was in the process of breaking into a slaughter-and-repurposing plant."

Fors snuffled, and Dara blocked their voices out of her mind. Nothing for her now except watching, distantly, as Siara's mech hit the chain link fence, topped as it was by barbed wire, and probably electrified, and the pincher claws simply grabbed and tore at the metal, rending a hole in the first fence.

More guards coming out of the shack now. Dara found another target, this one wearing officer markings, and fire again, _click-click_. Siara tore through the second fence now, and began to move forward, implacable as any machine, and Makur raced ahead of her, bellowing a war-cry in krogan.

"Do I want to know what that means?" Zhasa asked.

"Damned if I know. Could be 'today is a good day for you to die,' for all I can tell." Dara found another target, aligned the cross-hairs with surgical precision, and excised the batarian from existence, like a tumor.

"'Today we fight, and tonight we may meet in hell. The only thing that remains is to determine who sends whom there first.'" Fors' voice was clinical, and Dara paused, found another target, and began to aim, trying to adjust for what was now a scrum of bodies in the guard shack area.

"That is _not_ what it means," Zhasa accused.

"All right, would you believe, 'I will use your corpse as nesting material for varren cubs?'"

Zhasa's voice became amused. "Actually, I'd believe the first version before I'd believe the second."

Dara fired again, and then pulled back down into the cover of the arroyo. Three shots from a concealed location, well away from the melee, was about all she could do. "Let's go," Dara told her remaining people, and, trying to remember to breathe evenly and regularly, hopped up over the edge of the ravine with them, and began to run, zig-zagging a little, for the fence to the north of the entrance that Siara had already made, Fors straddling Glory's back like the galaxy's strangest jockey on the galaxy's oddest thoroughbred. It was Fors who ripped the fence into shreds, Glory not breaking stride as the volus did so. Dara could feel the biotic energies coming from the volus' tiny body however, and knew it was only a few notes of the harmonies he could really sing.

The second fence shredded in front of them, and Dara charged through, racing after Glory and Zhasa, feeling the first bullets from the guards on the rooftops ahead of them zing through her shields. "Guards," Dara said, as sharply as she could. "Pull them off the roofs—"

_I hear_, Glory responded, and the closest one was suddenly lifted to dangle, helplessly, tumbling limb for limb in slow motion out over the desert pavement. Two more surges of energy, one from Zhasa, a forceful throw intersecting with Glory's existing singularity. . . and the two fields colliding, exploded, sending the batarian flying high into the sky, somewhere towards the south. The second surge of energy came from Fors again, as another rooftop guard screamed and flew backwards. Dara winced; the building was structured more or less like an upside down letter A, with the main doors at the point, and two wings branching off from it at the east and the west. A sky-bridge linked the two wings of the building. . . and depending on how far Fors had just thrown the batarian, he could have fallen to his death between the two buildings, or landed on the other wing's roof. Either way, it wouldn't make for a happy landing.

Free to run now, Dara sped directly to the side of the building and got her back up against it, sniper rifle back in her hands. She aimed now, carefully, and watched, patiently, as Siara's mech picked up a batarian guard and slammed the male, head-first, into the wall of the guard house. Watched as a marine and one of the guards rolled on the ground, fighting for control of a weapon. . . only to have Makur kick the batarian guard in the head, knocking him back from the marine. . . and fired a shotgun at close range at the batarian's head. Scanning the fight for targets, for anyone that the others weren't paying attention to. . . Snowflake leaping easily up to the roof of the shack, going after a batarian there, whose stealth-net suddenly wavered and vanished as the big cat leaped on him. Dara couldn't hear the cursing at this range, but could see the reaction as the male suddenly realized there was something very large attacking him, rolled away, tried to get his hands up, panicked. . . and rolled right off the room, Snowflake riding his body to the ground. The guard shack now blocked Dara's view of the proceedings, but the batarian was wearing armor. . . ."No clear shots," Dara reported tersely into the radio. "Glory, Loki, let's get a move on here."

_WHUMP!_ The ground once again shook as a missile impacted, maybe two miles from the complex. Dara's shoulders slammed into the wall behind her, and she almost bit her own tongue. _Damn. That was a little closer than it needed to be._

Glory didn't need any more urging. He backed away from the wall, and another enormous surge of biotic energy washed over Dara as the rachni began to sing destruction at the wall in front of him. Hundreds, no, thousands of tiny holes began to pockmark the surface, and Dara could see Makur, Siara, Snowflake, and the three marines now jogging towards them. There were alarms ringing everywhere around her, a caterwauling din that she did her best to block out. . . and then Fors said, "All right. Good enough, Glory. Let me take a try at it now."

The brick wall didn't look so much like Swiss cheese, as brain membranes on a prepared slide, under high magnification, which had been perforated, again and again, by viroids or some particularly nasty form of bacterial meningitis. Dara ducked, covering her head with her arms reflexively as Zhasa held up her own free hand, concentrating intently on putting up a bubble of pure force around them. . . and Fors grunted audibly as the volus began to tear at the wall itself. His implosion ability, as Dara understood it, centered on being able to concentrate on two very disparate effects at the same time; a small black hole-like structure at the center, to suck matter and energy _in_, and a secondary shell on the outside. One tugging in. The second pulling out. . . and then, Fors could simply do nasty, horrible things by reversing the direction of the gravitational pulls. The singularity at the center could explode, like a supernova, releasing all of its pulled in matter, very quickly, and the outer shell could contain it, keep it from splattering everywhere. . . or it could collapse _in_, while the inner shell expanded out. Or both could collapse inwards. Any way you looked at it, Fors was maintaining two separate abilities at the same time, and forcing them to interact. Not something most biotics could do.

And at the moment? He was drawing all the material that Glory had weakened inwards. Compressing it. Compression equaled heat. Heat was energy. Energy could be released. And explosively. "Now?" Fors asked, politely.

"Now would be good," Dara agreed tightly, and ducked further.

Fors let the compressed matter spring back. Heated by the compression, it expanded far beyond its original size, in a perfect sphere of force. The bricks across the entire face of the building suddenly flared red-hot and exploded outwards, shattering and sending kiln-hot pieces of terra-cotta everywhere, raining down onto the ground, and even inside the building itself. Half the shingles on the roof above them blew off, as well, and the shingles that remained started to smolder. A handful of pieces managed to penetrate Zhasa's group shield, and impacted on various people's shields, dropping to their feet, scorching the sand and clay. "God _damn_," Dara muttered, impressed.

"I've had two breakfasts today," Fors noted, lightly. "Let's get going before I need lunch, too."

Into the sudden, yawning, dark mouth in the side of the building. They were entering on the ground floor, of course; alarms still ringing, bells resonating up through the ground, and now, fire suppression systems spraying chemical retardant foam everywhere; water was too pricy on Lorek for a simple water spray system, so now light blue foam obscured everyone's visors. Dara wiped futilely at the front of her mask, and ducked as a beam, dislodged by the explosion, swung down past her head and then swayed precariously above the floor. _Where the hell are we. . . huh. Okay. Admin offices, maybe, possibly labs. Cubicles, mostly, a few glass-walled enclosures off ahead of us, office furniture everywhere. . . _"Glory! Kali! Spot for us!"

The internal HUD in Siara's mech would let the asari spot bio-signs and the thermal outlines of batarian bodies, in unsealed armor, scrambling into defensive positions all around the large room that they'd just entered. "Two!" Siara shouted. "Directly ahead of us!" The asari released a pulse of biotic energy, rumbling through the ground like an enraged thresher maw, which blew one of the batarians back off his feet and into a filing cabinet. Dara managed to spot that through the foam on her visor, as, half-blind, she ducked out of cover and fired at the reeling batarian.

And then Glory's song echoed in all their minds, outlining figures for them in spite of the smears of blue foam and shimmers of oil across their helmets, and Dara exhaled in silent relief. _Thank you, Glory._

_Helping-songs are very satisfying_, the rachni assured her, and Dara felt Makur stump up to stand beside her, giving her more cover, even as the krogan stolidly lifted the other batarian directly in front of them off the ground with a diffident flick of one finger. . . and Fors pounced on that opening. The batarian was, effectively, and temporarily devoid of gravity's effects. Fors slammed the batarian with a wave of force, sending him sailing, head-first, into a wall twenty feet away with a sickening thud. "I believe my human colleagues would say the only appropriate response to that," the volus proclaimed, "is _swing batta batta."_

_I thought that was supposed to be said to make the batter miss?_ Dara thought, blankly; she'd never gotten into baseball. Hockey, sure, but baseball? No, thank you. Shimmers of lights and color, outlines in red, told her that there were at least three more in the room, past the nearest wall of cubicles. "Glory, are you _sure_ those should be reds?" Dara muttered, tightly.

_Yes._ The rachni's voice was definitive. _Captive-song singers. Sing rage and protection songs. They will give their lives to defend this hive._

Stasis gun wasn't an option; they were too spread out. Dara grimaced, and lifted her rifle. "Siara, take left. Makur, take right. Zhasa, be ready to take anything that comes around the corners at us."

Dara aimed, directly at the center mass of the red blur directly ahead of her. . . and fired, through the cubicle wall.

A cubical wall in most offices is not a creation of solid metal or polyceramic ablative plating. It's a lightweight structure, meant to be easily moved by facilities employees or mechs. Fabric, in the main, stretched over metal frames. Dara remembered, all too well, how a filing cabinet hadn't been adequate shielding for Eli and Kella, years ago. And the entire fight was giving her odd, partial flashbacks to that fight on Mindoir. To the offices in the Morphil'zha headquarters on Garvug. _Click-bang!_ The suppressor had already been worn through partially by the high-powered rifle, and Dara cursed under her breath. . . but saw in Glory's vision that her batarian was staggered, just as Siara turned to the right a little, and raised her right arm, sending blue-white bolts of charged plasma in short, staccato bursts from the geth-designed submachine gun embedded in the quarian-designed mech's arm, and Makur didn't bother with finesse, simply pointing his krogan Claymore in the general vicinity of the third batarian, and firing once, blasting ragged holes through the furniture. Dara re-sighted, and fired again, as her batarian was already clearly on the move. She could see panic in the motions as he ran to the south, towards Siara's target. . . and then she and Siara both fired at the same time.

Both batarians faded from view, as if they'd never been. Dara exhaled. It had been uncannily like shooting blind, but she trusted Glory, absolutely, and the rachni sang little arpeggios of pride in her mind now. "Astrild, could you get that damned fire control system off-line?" Dara muttered, standing and trying to take a step. . . and slipping in the foam and landing on her ass, for her pains.

No one laughed. Everyone was far too tense. Dara accepted Makur's hand up, as Zhasa worked at a wall panel to try to stop the flood of foam, which was now at least a foot thick on the floor and furniture, and was oozing off all their armor. _We'd look funny, if it weren't so damned serious._ Dara cleared her throat, unheard in the ringing of bells and klaxons, and said, "Glory? Can you show me what we've got all around us?"

Glory's song was uneasy. _Much movement. Look, Sings-Heartsong, and see what I see._

The walls around her fell away, and Dara's stomach turned for a queasy instant. There were red figures _above_ her, standing on the ceiling, or rather, the floor of the room above them, aiming weapons down at them, trying to get thermal cameras together to figure out where they were. There were figures below them, in the underground recesses of the complex. There were figures north of them, running and hurrying, trying to move together to form a barricade of bodies. There were figures holding completely still, north of that, each separated from each in a neat grid. These figures were not red, but gray. _Captive-singers. Some with muffled voices. Others merely sing despair._ Further to the west, more running figures. Panicking, moving, fleeing. . . trying to set up a line there, too. And past them . . . slower-moving figures. Black, like seething oil barely constrained by their own outlines. Large, too. _Yahg._ _Oh, holy fucking hell, the yahg are attacking the batarians?_

_Not yet. They sing. . . hunt-songs. Captive-singers sing worry._ Glory's voice was shaken. _Hard to hear. So many voices, so much confusion._

The images had only take seconds. Dara had already come to one snap decision, and pointed up at the ceiling. "Heimdall, Kali, marine team. . . " Glory was already outlining those targets for everyone, neatly, in glowing red. ". . . fire."

Dara joined in. Makur's shotgun tore chunks out of the ceiling, and a batarian's struggling body fell through in one place, legs kicking frantically. Fors shook his head and pragmatically used his pistol on the pinned guard, the first time Dara had actually ever seen the volus fire a weapon at anyone. "Astrild?" Dara called.

"Fire control systems offline for this room," the quarian called back, calmly. "I can try to get a data dump on what's in the computers here."

"Not sure we've got time for that," Dara admitted, tautly. Glory's mind-vision showed her the swarms of people moving in all directions, trying to encircle this set of rooms, cut it off from the rest of the complex. _Have to think in more than two dimensions_, she thought, grimly. _Move in ways they don't expect_. "We've got a choice. Turn north and try to free some captives that Glory senses off to the left, on this level—"

_Also under the ground. Captives sing despair even deep in the earth._

"Thank you, Glory, that's a cheerful image." Dara wished she could rub at her eyes. "Or we punch across for where the yahg are. Ten gets you one, the female yahg scientist who worked on the plagues is where the hot labs are. The yahg wouldn't leave her alone, from what we understand of their culture. Where they're strongest, is where we'll find her."

Makur bared his teeth. "Yeah, but if we punch directly across, we'll have batarians on either side of us, folding in behind us, too. Don't see us taking on yahg _and_ the batarians at once."

Dara nodded. "I was figuring on trying to flank the batarians, ourselves, and use speed to our advantage. Be where they don't know we are." She pointed at the holes in the ceiling above them. "You and Fors feel up to doing some heavy lifting? Then we take that sky bridge across and hit the hot labs while they're all still setting up to try to trap us in here."

Makur's eyes widened. "Aggressive," he assessed.

Dara winced. "I hope that doesn't mean _fool-hardy_ to everyone else who isn't a krogan," she told him, wryly.

"What about the prisoners?" Zhasa asked, tilting her head to the left.

_Valid question_. Dara had always had three ways of judging ethical dilemmas. . . _What would Dad do? What would Shepard do? And what would Dr. Solus do?_ And the humming song of hundreds of memories of rachni queens and brood-warriors at the back of her mind, gave her a little more perspective, too. "We can come back for the prisoners. We _will_ come back for the prisoners, in fact. But if we release them now, it doesn't do them or us any good. They're contained and out of the line of fire at the moment. Release them now, and we have to protect them."

Siara's voice, filtered over the radio. "Could be a good distraction, though."

_Whump. WHUMP. WHUMP._ Kinsala, the city to the east, was taking a beating from the satellites, apparently. The whole building shook with each strike.

Dara winced. "Yeah, and if the captives are running out into the desert, any one of them that gets killed, it's our fault." She thought about it. She didn't like it. "Also means splitting our forces up."

"Yeah, but the rescue-and-distraction team can meet back up with the strike team," Siara offered. "I think it's a good idea, Freya. And I _really_ don't like the idea of leaving people in cages."

Dara sighed. When it came right down to it, neither did she, but it felt like a mistake. "We're going to be hitting yahg on the other side," Dara replied, still thinking, hard, and watching the blips on the scope, moving in on their position. If they made a move, they had to make it _now_. She _could_ send the marines, Siara, and Makur as their distraction team. . . but . . . "The captives aren't in any more immediate danger now than they were an hour ago. We go in there, we _put_ them in danger. There's also no guarantee that the distraction team won't get pinned down in there, and be able to rejoin the rest of us. And we need everyone if we're going after yahg. No. Everyone, upstairs. Let's go." Dara paused. "We _will_ come back for them, Kali."

"I know. And it's your call." Siara let it go with remarkably good grace.

_Yeah. It is. And whose good idea was it, putting me of all people in charge of this mission?_ Dara thought. As Zhasa leaped up through a hole in the ceiling, and Makur lifted Dara, biotically, to join the quarian, Dara was second and third-guessing the decision. A wave of doubts assailed her. She had four years of special forces work and almost a full year as a Spectre at this point. . . but she was a _doctor_. A medic. As Rel had reminded her after almost every op. She'd never questioned an order in front of anyone, but she'd been interested in learning more about tactics and strategy, so she'd asked him, in the privacy of their quarters, after each engagement, why he'd made the decisions he had. At first, he'd answered them, cheerfully enough, but after a while, it had been clear that the questions grated. _I already debriefed once today. I don't want to do it a second time._ Or _can it wait? I'd really rather take you to our nest_, usually accompanied by nips at her throat. Later, it had become, _you're the medic. You don't really need to worry about all that. Just hang tight with your squad, and you'll be safe._ Safety hadn't been her concern. She knew how to keep her head down in a fight. She'd wanted to _learn_, damnit. . . but it had come across, somehow, as questioning his orders, when that wasn't what she'd meant at all. So she'd stopped asking, but hadn't stopped observing. As Sam had pointed out, she hadn't spent those four years with her eyes closed and her fingers stuffed in her ears. And she had Eli's memories, resonating in her head, and the memory-song of the queens and warriors, too, all whispering suggestions. But the chorus wasn't here-and-now. They could only remember what had worked before, and what _hadn't_ worked before. It was up to Dara to make a decision based on all that past experience. . . .

. . . and hope like hell it was the right one. Her stomach clenched as Fors lifted up through the air, and she reached out and caught the volus in his heavy suit, bringing him in for a safe landing. The marines were positioned around the rest of them, as Fors deployed a singularity, to erase the effects of gravity on the heavy krogan and the mech-suit that Siara wore. . . and Makur and Siara lifted themselves, with careful control, through the wrecked ceiling. "Careful where you two land," Dara noted, dryly. "The floor up here isn't exactly structurally sound."

"Wonder why," Fors replied, just as dryly, clambering back up onto Glory's back. "Could it be that maniacs with guns have been through here?"

Her omni-tool was showing red dots, swarming everywhere. Glory's battle-vision let her distinguish it better. There were people moving in from the south, yes, but they were now _below_ them all. There were bodies to the north, too, but they weren't as on edge as the people even one floor below them; it showed in their body language. Their weapons were in their hands, but not aimed at anything. On this level, the area to the south of them was _empty._ "Mechs?" Dara whispered, pointing south.

Zhasa moved to the south door and snaked a camera on a fiber optic cable through the door. "Yeah, LOKIs," she muttered into the radio. "Looks like patient ward, anyway, there are beds and IVs just dangling there. . . "

"They're evacuating," Dara muttered. "That way leads back to the lobby and the elevators. It'll be heavily guarded. It's where they think people will come in through on any given day, and the elevators will be locked down." She turned and looked at Makur. "And like Heimdall here said, why play by their rules?" _Especially when we don't need the elevators?_ "North. Heimdall and Kali have point."

Makur grinned at her toothily. The krogan disdained helmets, so long as there was air to breathe. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

Dara made a rude noise in his direction. "Astrild, right behind them, wait for them to engage before you go leaping in. . . " She glanced around. "I'm with Glory and Loki. Rostami, you and your men have rear-guard. Could get messy."

"Got it," the marine lieutenant told her, glancing back over his shoulder. "If those mechs start moving, up on it, scanners won't show them. Could be a party."

_And how_. "Go," Dara told Makur and Siara, and crouched low behind them as they moved through the door to the north.

Shouts of alarm. The room beyond was narrow, clearly a security office, probably echoed on every floor of the complex, because again, Dara was catching gray wisps of captive further north in Glory's battle-vision. No time to pay attention to them, however, because two males in the half-armor common to regular security guards were diving behind a desk for cover ahead of them, shooting frantically with side-arms. . . and security door made of metal was opening to the left, revealing at least two males in full tactical armor, carrying assault rifles. Their markings were clearly SIU, and Dara could see, through Glory's battle-vision, at least two more males behind them.

Makur took two steps to the left, taking the initial barrage of fire across his shields, and leveled his shotgun at the two guards coming into the room. Its report was thunderous in the tightly enclosed space, and Siara lumbered to Makur's side now, exchanging gunfire with the batarians, while Zhasa leaped across the intervening space, landing atop the security desk and kicking one of the guards in the face with a heavy boot, knocking the male back as she turned and opened fire on the other with her pistol. Dara moved in behind Glory, using the rachni's huge body for partial cover, and lifted her own shock pistol and aimed for the same male that Zhasa was firing on, and the shock-dart landed in the exposed flesh of the batarian's right hand. Waves of electricity coursed unexpectedly through his system, locking his muscles and dropping him to the ground. And that was when Fors, almost negligently flipped his hand at the batarians who were firing at Siara and Makur from their doorway, and calmly said, "That's enough out of all of you. . ." and all four figures, including the two still in the room, blocked by their own compatriots, froze in place.

Dara blinked. Eli had told her what the volus could do, and whenever Fors did something, it resonated in her memory, but. . . _damn. I wish he'd been with us on Omega. Hell, on Arvuna, too. _"You want them alive?" Siara asked, grimly. "I could persuade a few of them to answer questions."

No time to consider it. "No," Dara told Siara, tightly. "We'll have plenty of others to question later. Can't take the time to secure them. Can't risk them getting free. I'm sorry." She knew what she was asking Siara, Makur, Glory, and Fors to do. And it made her stomach clench. . . but she had to do it, too. She couldn't ask them to open fire on people who were, effectively, helpless, without doing so, herself.

_Do not sing regrets_, Glory told her, calmly, moving so that Dara could get into the room and lifted Zhasa's staggered opponent off the ground with a singularity. . . and Zhasa jumped lightly backwards off the desk, and slammed the helplessly floating batarian with her biotics. With the room being as small as it was, the batarian actually bounced off the first wall and rebounded back to slam into the wall behind Dara before slumping to the floor. _They would do the same, and worse, if you were helpless before them_.

_I know, I know._ Dara stepped up beside Siara, and they all opened fire, while Fors continued to hold the batarians locked in his stasis field, while Zhasa began overloading their shields, calmly and professionally, allowing the rest of them to cut through the heavy armor with bullets. . or in Glory's case, bursts of micro-singularities that warped normal matter, tearing through the armor and into the flesh beneath.

And with the batarians dead on the floor, and at least one more guard on the other side of the wall, where the prisoners were in their cells, Dara grimaced and pointed to the right. Out a different set of doors, back into the main halls. Glossy tile floors, industrial lighting, and, if she dared open her suit, she'd probably smell disinfectant and floor wax, like almost every other hospital in the galaxy. Around a little dogleg in the hallway. . . "There we go," Dara murmured, her heart starting to thump a little faster.

The sky-bridge was a narrow tunnel built at the second story to reach between both sides of the complex. There was a guard-and-badge station at this side, which they quickly took out, and Dara, after looking at the screens and translating what she saw there, was able to deactivate the security field after a few taps on the screen. . . and after Zhasa tossed her a badge from one of the dead guards.

The bridge itself had glass walls, that allowed them to look down into the sort of courtyard between the two buildings. There were batarians running around between the two buildings, but none of them were looking _up_ at the moment, which made Dara smile a little under her visor. So far, the idea of punching straight across, right for where the yahg were, which was, presumably, where the hotlabs were, was bearing out pretty well.

The other side of the tunnel again seemed to substantiate her thinking; it ended in an airlock area and decontamination chamber. "Going to be hot labs or a hazmat area on the other side, more than likely," Dara noted. "Glory, Makur, you sure you're going to be okay in there?"

_There is little that can affect us. _

"Are you _trying_ to insult me, human?" Makur's words were a cheerful growl.

"Nope, just checking." Dara sighed. "Blow the airlock. I don't want to get stuck, cycling a few people through at a time." In Glory's battle-vision, she could see. . . red shapes, captive-singers, in the area behind the airlock. Forming defensive groupings, two near the airlock, two off to the left, two off to the right, and two at the far end of the room, presumably as backups for any of the other pairs. Off to the right, and below? Roiling clouds of darkness. _Yahg_. A couple of them off to the left, too, interspersed with red glows from batarians. But were the yahg about to turn on the batarians, or not? _It would be helpful if they were_, Dara thought, numbly. _The universe never seems to do me any favors that way, though._

The marines moved forward, rigging explosives and charges. They all ducked back as the outer doors of the airlock blew in; the chamber was too small for them to move up and into while the second set of charges was set. "That's going to be a hell of a choke point," Dara muttered, eyeing it as the marines set up the second set of detonators. _Maybe three of us can get in there at a time. I'm not going to fit through there with Glory. Shit._

_Captive-singers have heard first explosion-song. They are making ready!_ Glory told them all, black and red emerging in his song again.

"Blow the charges, then let Kali and Heimdall through first," Dara told the marines.

"Not a problem, but are you going to let us do something besides blow down doors and hold rear-guard positions, Spectre?" Rostami asked, a little tightly.

She could tell his pride was a little piqued. . . he was young, and from a cultural background that, even in this day and age, had a cult of machismo. _Young. God. He's probably older than I am. Doesn't feel like it, though_. Dara considered it for a second or two, and decided he was, at least in part, right. She should let him and his men do their jobs. She'd been relying on the people she _knew_ to spearhead, when the marines were here for precisely this. "All right," Dara told him, evenly. "You and your men can be first into the room. Heimdall and Kali are going to have trouble fitting through the airlock at the same time anyway."

Rostami's quick grin, behind his clear plasteel visor, was a flash of white against his olive skin. "Good. Thank you, Spectre."

"Astrild, you and I are rear-guard, at least for the moment," Dara told Zhasa. She felt exposed, but Zhasa's biotic 'bubble' should be enough for almost anything short of a rocket.

The marines detonated the explosive frame, and leaped through the gap, trying to clear the way for the others, and that's pretty much when all hell broke loose. Immediate, rapid-fire bursts of bullets, and shouts of consternation. Dara stared through the haze of smoke, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. "Kali, Heimdall, _go_," she hissed, and Makur and Siara moved up, the krogan shouldering part of the broken airlock hatch out of his way, and Siara using one heavy foot of her mech suit to kick down the shattered frame. Immediately, Dara could see the mech suit rocked by incoming fire, the heavy tech shields flaring to blue life. "Problem," Siara said, tightly, over the radio. "They've got mechs in here. Never seen this type before. Probably here to keep the yahg in line."

"Grenades," Makur said, tersely. "Moving up. Get the rachni and the volus in here, _now_."

Cries of pain. Dara swore and backed up into the airlock area, just as Glory stepped up into it, moving his chelicerae with odd delicacy over the broken fragments of metal. Dara was trying to split her attention between what was going on in the room, and what might be coming up the corridor behind them. . . something she rarely had to do; by and large, as the medic, she had someone else watching her six so she was free to run in and take care of patients. _Damn. Should have told Rostami to stow it and stay on rear-guard._ Dara looked behind herself again, checking. Nothing. Glory moved into the room now, and Zhasa moved up into the airlock with Dara. Deafening concussion as a grenade launched from Siara's mech went off in the far corner of the room, and half the ceiling came down with it.

"All right, you can all sit down and shut up now," Fors said to the room at large, and Dara felt an enormous surge of biotic energy as the volus spread energy against the eastern wall. She peered into the room over Glory's carapace, and saw that Fors had locked two huge mechs and two batarians in place. They were motionless, but the volus couldn't do anything else with them at the moment.

_We're too jammed up,_ Dara thought, _impacted like a damned colon_. There was damned little cover in the room, and one of the marines was down on the ground already, just under Siara's metal feet. Glory sang a low note, and another mech lifted off the ground, to the right, around the corner, heaved upwards by a powerful singularity. There was enough biotic energy already washing through the room to make the hair on Dara's head stand up a little at the roots, and then Zhasa leaned in around her, and shoved at the mech that Glory had lifted off the ground, sending it towards the window across the room. Glass shattered as the mech hurtled through it, but Dara didn't have time to watch. She was already down on her knees by the fallen marine, eyes wide as she registered the fact that he had a harpoon embedded in his abdomen, with a metal cable dangling limply from it, connected to one of the mechs across the room. _Goddamn, these mechs really are here to keep the yahg in line, aren't they?_ She checked his vitals, and said, sharply, "Astrild, watch our _backs_." Pulse erratic, to say the least, and very weak. He had a _spear_ through his lower intestines, so not a surprise. The marine moved probably unconsciously, and bullets pinged off Dara's shields. Having to split her attention three ways at once wasn't good, and she was _really_ wishing, at the moment, that someone else had been left as tactical leader. She had to trust in Makur and Siara at the moment, though.

Another thunderous concussion from another grenade, thrown somewhere off to her left, more or less behind her as she got out her multitool and cut the metal cable free. _Don't dare remove the damn spear yet, could do more damage that way than I can fix without a field surgery. . . wait. This is a fucking hospital. But I can't exactly scrub up and repair intestines. God damn it, this guy is going to die. Focus. Triage. Do what you can, then get back into the fight._ She administered medigel, made sure there was a stent in place to allow some of the fluids to escape as the skin began to heal up over the exterior of the wound, and packed gauze in place. She couldn't do anything about the internal damage, the internal bleeding, the spear itself. Not for now.

Dara got back to her feet, and pulled out her stasis pistol. Captured slaver tech, the gun made her skin crawl. "Loki, about to take over on the batarians," she said, curtly. "You can do something else creative with the mechs." _Snap-hiss_; she had it on field setting, and the batarian guards near the window, who'd narrowly avoided being clipped by the mech Glory and Zhasa had hurled their way, and had just started to raise their guns once more, froze in place.

Fors exhaled. "Creative is my specialty," the volus agreed, but his voice was weary. Both mechs at the far corners of the room were now free, but Makur turned and charged the one at the left, and Siara grunted a little and managed to lift the second with her biotics. _You sing well, Pain-Singer!_ Glory told her, his voice filled with blacks and reds, the harp-like notes as dark as they ever got. _Now, we will sing harmonies of destruction!_ Something leaped from the rachni towards the hovering mech, some sort of energy that hit and intersected with the forces Siara was already maintaining. They collided, and, as when galaxies intersect on the cosmic scale, or when atoms collide on the infinitesimal one, massive amounts of power discharged. The eezo core inside the mech breached, only adding to the devastation, and Dara found herself knocked to her feet as mech parts rained everywhere. Half the wall had been blown out, and there was a damned spider web crack in the faceplate of her new Jormangund armor. _Glad I can still get warranty service on this_, Dara thought, unsteadily, getting back to her feet.

Makur, in the meantime, had closed to attack whatever the hell the ten-foot-tall mech was. The krogan had taken repeated shots from the mech's cannon as he closed in, but now, he leaped in, standing on the platform just above the machine's treads, and latched onto its mechanical arms,. With a roar, Makur bent the arms outwards, so that the mech couldn't do anything but fire uselessly at the inner and outer walls, and Dara blinked, swore mentally in awe at Makur's raw strength, and switched out to her rifle, beginning to fire at the mech's optics, just barely visible beside Makur's hump. _Hold still_, Dara thought, and darted a glance back over her shoulder. "Astrild, any movement behind us?" _Glory?_

The rachni's battle-vision had slipped; he'd been very occupied trying to deal with the mechs and the batarians in this room, and, as Fors lifted the two remaining batarians by the window, Glory shattered the volus' biotic field with another disruptive collision of intersecting forces. _No songs behind us_, Glory reported, but his voice was suddenly yellow with unease. _Movement, however. Movement across the bridge, and movement to either side of us._

_Fuck._ Dara's mind opened, expanded, and she could, indeed, see red figures to the north, and red and black figures to the south. All lining up at the doors. At least both were controlled by airlocks. "We're about to have company," Dara said, tightly. "Heimdall, finish playing with that damned thing, and everyone fall back!" _ If there's movement on the far side of the bridge, __and__ movement on either side of us in here. . . we're screwed. Best we can do is use the airlock chokepoint against them. If we have to fight on two sides, fine, but let's not fight on three._

Dara hooked her hands under the armpits of the fallen marine and started dragging him backwards into the airlock. Zhasa moved with her, the quarian's movements wary now. "This isn't good," Zhasa muttered.

"No kidding. Get that goddamned mech down!" Dara called into the radio, and saw Makur wrench the mech's body around on its own chassis, so that the metal body was exposed now, and Siara and the two remaining marines opened fire on it, without fear of hitting Makur. "Loki, Glory, back up, come on, we haven't got much time."

Glory indeed began to back up into the airlock. . . but through his eyes now, rachni-vision surged through Dara's awareness. The doors to the north and south ends of the security area cycled open, and two huge beasts from the depths of the nightmares Dara had experienced from Eli's point of view all too often stepped through. Yahg. _Oh, fuck, no_. "Heimdall, Kali, get out of there, get out of there _now_—"

And at the south, the second airlock cycled open, and another giant mech stepped through, followed by a batarian in SIU tactical armor. Still through Glory's eyes, Dara could see the two marines left in the room turn and make a tactical choice. They moved back-to-back and one of them opened fire on the yahg in the airlock to the north, and the other opened fire on the mech to the south. Snowflake, caught between targets, snarled and raced for the batarian beside the mech, uncoiling and landing on the male's shoulders, the cat's shield harness sparking blue from stray bullets as he did so.

"Glory! Loki! Get our people out of there!" Dara was doing her best to stay calm, but fear's icy fingers were clutching her stomach, and she couldn't _get_ to her people. Couldn't aim past Glory, and even if she moved back up into the airlock to try to fire from a bad angle at the north or south doors, she'd be impeding everyone's retreats.

Still through Glory's eyes, as the rachni lifted the huge mech with a singularity, Dara could only watch as Makur leaped off the shattered remains of the mech in the corner, and began firing his shotgun at the closest yahg. The creature howled and lunged for the krogan, slapping the weapon out of Makur's hands. Closed one paw around each of Makur's wrists. . . and began to pull. A horrific parody of what Makur had just done to the mech in the corner, moments ago, in self-defense, the attack was intended to tear the krogan's arms off. Raw strength against raw strength. Makur threw back his head and roared, just as the yahg howled again, a bone-chilling sound. Dara swore and moved up, trying to look in over Glory, bringing her rifle down off her back, trying to aim. . .

"I'm. . . on the left one. . . " Fors said, his voice strained, and enormous amounts of energy poured out of the volus. Dara stared as the yahg to the left, which was moving out of the airlock, lunging for Glory at the moment, stopped in mid-stride, its hands reaching up to its head, scrabbling at its helmet. The huge body was still moving, but blood was pouring out from under the helmet.

"Back up!" Dara snapped at them, as Fors' yahg began to slump to the floor. She managed to get a shot on the yahg that Makur was fighting, and then the damned door to the north opened again, and another yahg stepped through. This one was wearing only a half-helmet, exposing its vicious jaws.

Siara, in her mech, strode forward, still firing bursts at Makur's opponent. The yahg that had just entered the fray snarled and leaped for the mech, and Siara reached out with the pincher-like arms, clamping them shut on the yahg's arms. Muscles strained against mechanical servos, machine parts whining and grinding.

"Rostami, get out of there," Dara called up to the marine lieutenant and the corporal with him. . . just as the door to the south opened again, cycling in another three batarians, who opened fire, immediately. Snowflake, who had been worrying at the body of the last batarian to have come through the airlock, immediately attacked one of the new batarians, going for the weak plates at the throat of the armor. "Fall back!" she urged, and nudged Glory to back up. This time, the brood-warrior obeyed her, sliding back into the sky-bridge.

She was, at least, in the airlock now, and opened up covering fire, trying to get the marines to safety, while behind her, she could hear the rapid bursts of Zhasa's submachine gun. Awareness, from Glory, that people in stealth-nets were trying to advance on their position on the bridge. _Come on, people. If we can get clear of the damned room, we can do this. Come on!_

In the room, as Dara continued to lay down covering fire for the two marines, she was all too aware as Siara, swearing in asari, continued to fight with her yahg. Rostami ducked under Dara's arm, squeezing past her into the airlock, continuing to fire at the incoming batarians. The corporal backed up, too, but his shields were frying. Dara stepped out in front of him, taking the hits on her own shields now. "Come on!" she shouted to Siara.

The asari responded with an enormous wave of biotic force—a shockwave, leveled directly at the yahg she was grappling with. The yahg's arms were locked in the pinchers of Siara's heavy mech suit, and the amount of power behind Siara's biotic thrust was incredible. The hands were caught. The huge body was flung backwards. The only place that could give way, gave way, and the yahg flew backwards, screaming, its hands still held in the mechanical claws of Siara's mech. _Oh, my dear god_, Dara thought, and began firing at Makur's mech again. "Back up," she ordered Rostami and the corporal, stepping back herself. "Let's let our people in, damnit."

Siara began to back up now, firing once more at Makur's yahg. . . and then the krogan and the yahg were rolling on the floor, grappling, Makur's hands ripping the yahg's helmet off, talons raking at the yahg's eyes.

The yahg howled in pain and clamped down on Makur's hand with its powerful jaws, and Makur pulled back a bleeding stump, roaring in agony now, himself. Their bodies twisted and turned on the floor, the yahg now missing half its eyes, Makur missing a hand, but still in the fight. One wrong move, and their bodies slammed into the legs of Siara's mech, sending it toppling over. _Shit, shit, shit_. Dara found the back of the yahg facing her, and fired at it, trying to _kill_ the damned thing, so her friends could get the hell out of there. . . . backing up. Backing up again. _Siara!_ It was a mental shout, with all the force she could muster. _Get on your feet and get the fuck out of there!_

Siara heaved herself upright. Reached down with the mech's hand, and hauled Makur up. Only then did Dara realize that her last shots from the sniper rifle had actually killed the yahg. Siara turned towards her ponderously, the batarians' bullets ringing not off her mech's shields now, no more blue flare, but off her biotic barrier. . . and began to lumber towards Dara. _Coming, third-mother_, Siara told her, the words ringing ironically in Dara's head. Makur was still locked in blood-rage, but staggered after Siara. Snowflake, the leopard, left off attacking the batarians at the south and tried to reach his master's side. . .

. . .and a fresh wave of batarians came through the south door. And this wave of batarian reinforcements, Dara realized, numbly, had a tech with them. A tech with a stasis gun. The distinctive _snap-hiss_ was almost lost under the sound of assault rifles unloading their rounds, but Dara could feel Siara's rage as if it were her own. Unable to move. Unable to do anything but use her biotics. Clear as a bell, Siara's words rang inside Dara mind. _I will not be taken alive by the batarians. I will never be a mindless husk, a slave to anyone's bidding. _Silvery precision of Siara's clarinet voice, terrifying resolve.

Makur's voice, the rumble of a bass drum, the roar of shaken metal, snarled in Dara's mind then. _Won't let you die, Siara— _

Snowflake, near Makur, but far enough away that the stasis field hadn't hit the animal, snarled and leaped out the broken, shattered wall where one of the mechs had exploded.

—_in the end, there is only one thing— _Flicker of biotics. The stasis pistols only affected organics, as the Seeker swarms they were based on always had; Siara was using delicate shifts of biotic energy to move the controls inside her mech suit. The left arm dropped, and the last grenade fell out, at her feet. In Dara's head, a countdown began to tick.

—_to live well—_

—_to die well—_

—_and take your enemies with you when you fall._ Both voices now, in complete accord. Both arms of the mech lifted. Braced against the ceiling.

"No," Dara whispered. "No, no, no, no_—_"

Makur's eyes moved up slightly. Blood-rage dying inside of him, he lifted no more than a chunk of rubble at his feet with his biotics. Wrapped it in energy, and held it near the ceiling. A focal point, just ahead of where the mech's arm's were braced. Siara reached out with a wave of biotic force, a shockwave propelled not through the floor, but through the ceiling above her. Line intersected with field at the same moment that the grenade at her feet exploded.

The concussive force blew Dara off her feet and sent her flying out of the airlock and into the bridge, landing against Glory's side. Sharp pain in her ribs as she hit, and two or three of them cracked under the force.

Stunned, she managed to stagger back to her feet, and stared as, past the airlock, the room collapsed. The walls had already had structural damage from the grenades, biotic explosions, and at least one mech's eezo core detonating; now, it collapsed entirely. "No!" Dara shouted. "No, no, no!" The anger-dislike-friendship-affection, the roiling ball of contention that had always been her relationship with Siara hit then, and she reached out, trying to find Siara's mind, and found. . . nothing.

_Sings-Heartsong._ Glory's voice snapped through her mind then, and Dara pulled herself back upright, trying to clear her mind of the shock. _Could still be alive. Mechs are meant to take a beating. Makur is krogan. They both still had shields up. Could still be alive._

_Sings-Heartsong!_

Dara turned away from the debris, rubble, and dust pouring through the airlock, realizing as she did so, that the bridge was trembling under her feet. Renewed awareness that their tactical situation was now even worse, if it could be believed, than before. Now, they were at a dead-end, and they had people coming down the bridge for them. Zhasa was holding a bubble of pure force over them. The marine she'd pulled out of the airlock, with the harpoon in his belly was still down, obviously. The corporal was now hit, sitting by one of the metal ribs that held the glass windows in place, while Rostami tried to administer medigel. Fors was clinging to Glory's back and holding a stasis field in place. . . and the volus had at least a dozen batarians pinned in place. "Can't. . . hold on. . . much. . . longer," Fors admitted, snuffling.

_More come_, Glory reported, grimly, and he was right. Another half-dozen batarians were at the far side of the sky-bridge now. Staying, smartly, out of range of Fors' biotic range, they were setting up weapons now.

_Shit,_ Dara thought, and raised her rifle. Sighted, and took one of their leaders out with a double-tap to the head. "We can't hold here forever," she muttered. _This is blown. This is blown six ways from Sunday. The only thing that matters now is getting the rest of my team out alive. Can regroup and blow this fucking place to kingdom come_. "Glory, contact Lysandra on the _Raedia_. We need an extraction here."

_They are blocking my song to her—_

_They're jamming all FTL frequencies, not just the ones we're already jamming. Shit, shit, shit._ Dara sighted and aimed again. The cracks in her visor interfered with her aim. "Zhasa, got anything that will help here?"

"Too far for my biotics," Zhasa replied, tightly.

Down the hall, Dara could see that the batarians were prepping grenade launchers. _Oh, this ain't good,_ she thought, and for some reason, the words in her mind were in her father's voice. One more shot. . . and then three of the batarians broke and charged down the hall. "Take them out!" Dara told them all, and Rostami rolled up, moving away from the injured corporal, trying to shoot at the oncoming batarians with his assault rifle. . . . but _snap-hiss, snap-hiss, snap-hiss_, the stasis guns were already going off. Her tongue froze in her mouth, and her finger froze on the trigger.

Deathly silence for a moment, but the biotics weren't helpless. Dara felt a singularity form in the center of the batarians, directed by Glory, while Fors continued to try, desperately, to hold onto the ones he had locked in place with a stasis field. Zhasa thrust one of the batarians suspended in air back down the hall, the male screaming in fear as he landed, with a terrible thud and a sprawl of limbs, on one of his companions, who was holding a grenade launcher.

Dara's mind spun, frantically, looking for options. They could try to hold out here. The stasis field would probably only last five more minutes. . . but as she could see out the glass windows, there were batarians assembling below, in the courtyard. _We have to break forward. . . _And then, again, her father's voice, oddly commingled with Eli's, in her mind. With Makur's, too. _Why play by their rules? _The walls around them were just glass. _Zhasa! Glory! Break the damn glass, and we can throw ourselves out. _

_Great idea!_ Zhasa thought, relief tingeing her song. _Fors would be better—_

_Busy!_ the volus replied, his mental tone strained. _They're slipping out of my grip—_

And that was when the first grenade launched down the hall towards them. Zhasa hastily pulled her shield up around them all again, but if she was holding off projectiles, she wasn't going to be able to help shatter the walls around them. _Glory?_

_I hear_, the brood-warrior replied, and Dara ached at the tiredness in his voice. He began to barrage the windows to their left with his micro-singularities, shattering it. . . but at that moment, the grenade that had bounced off Zhasa's barrier and landed ten feet in front of them went off.

Thick white smoke poured out of it, and Dara stared at it in consternation; she'd expected an explosion, not this, whatever it was. The white haze expanded rapidly, and Dara remembered, in dismay, that her damned facemask was cracked. _Relax_, she reminded herself. _Fear increases heart-rate. The faster the heart-rate, the faster you'll use up your oxygen_. She was holding her breath for the moment, fear rising up to choke her in spite of every effort to control heart-rate, the way she would if she were able to use her rifle. This was like breather training in boot-camp all over again. At least the smoke wasn't blue. It wasn't azure dust, that well-remembered nightmare. It could be. . . tear gas. Nerve gas was unlikely. The batarians would risk their own people with that. _No burning in the eyes or mucous membranes._ Another muffled _thump_, as another grenade went off. Then another.

Dara knew that, in a pool, she could hold her breath for at least three minutes. But it depended on staying _calm._ Three minutes might buy her mobility back. All their mobility.

_Glory_? Lungs burning.

_I . . . hear. I . . . cannot hear the others! There is no song but yours!_ White-yellow panic in Glory's song now. To be rachni was to _be_ song. Song was life. Without song, there was no life.

_Midaphan, maybe? Like on Arvuna, but. . . weaponized. Not just leaf powder._ Dara's mind was blurring. Too much oxygen deprivation.

Lungs burning, Dara didn't have a choice. She had to breathe, as shallowly as possible, or she'd pass out and take a full lungful. Dizziness assailed her, almost immediately. Colors danced at the edges of her vision. The very, very edges of her biotics were still there. Not completely effaced, not yet. And she could see, through the cloud of smoke, that the batarians were moving forward.

_Fors?_

_I can't hold them—_

_You don't need to. Shatter the bridge. Break it. Take it to the ground. Tell Zhasa. . . .bubble. . . _It was increasingly hard to focus. To think.

_My human-turian friend is not going to thank me if I get you killed. Hopefully, I won't live to see his reaction if I do._ Fors' thought was simple. _If you get out of this and I don't. . . tell Chissa I loved her._

Distant. So very distant. The words were fading. Everything was fading, becoming disconnected. She couldn't feel the surge of energy, but she could feel the bridge tremble under her frozen feet. Could hear the support girders around them twist and groan and scream, and then snap, _pop pop pop pop._ Glass shattering all around. Shouts of panic from the batarians. Sickening twist and dip and plunge.

Movement now, like free-falling from a plane, except there was so much more vibration, and she couldn't spread out to hold herself on the wind. Dara closed her eyes. _It's not the fall that's going to kill you_, she thought, inconsequentially, almost dreamily. Everything was in slow motion now. _Eli. I love you. And I'm so sorry._

Impact. Falling. Pain. Crushing, shattering pain as the roof collapsed atop them, glass falling like rain.

And then blackness.


	149. Chapter 149: Liberation

**Chapter 149: Liberation  
**

**Author's note: #1, Warning. Super extra-long chapter.**

**#2:. . . .**_I'm always wowed by the number of people who come forward and tell me that they've just caught up with the story, and what they liked most. The people who tell me that the depth and variety of the characters, the parallelisms between major characters, the fact that they all learn and grow and are dynamic mean a lot to me. The people who tell me that the story has touched something deep in them, made them think differently about something in their own lives, or that the story has helped them get through a rough patch? Those words mean far more than you can know._

_I'm grateful to the many readers who've noted, "Yeah, if Rel and Dara had stayed together, without a hitch, for eternity, I'd have raised my eyebrows, because it wouldn't have been realistic." They're 100% right, and I'm grateful to the readers who have, by and large, respected my clearly-expressed wishes not to hear anything more on the topic of Rel and Dara's breakup. The breakup occurred over eight months ago in writing time and over a year ago in story-time; both characters have learned from the experience, grown from it, and are happy in grown-up relationships with people who are much better suited to their personalities than they were for each other._

_I strongly considered killing Rel off at the start of Victory, when it became clear he was a corpse, effectively, as a character; he had stagnated and had nothing more to offer. Dara was going silent as a character, too, slowly dying because she had nothing more to say to someone who was like Rel was at that point in time. _

_I decided that killing him off was the wrong decision. It was too easy, facile, and shallow. Making people deal with the consequences of their actions and decisions is always far more interesting in terms of plot, characterization, and theme than giving a character the relatively easy out of being written into non-existence. _

_And that instinct was right. Rel is a much more interesting and full character now that he's had challenges. So is Dara. So is Eli. So is Lin. So are the dozens of main characters who've narrowly avoided death. Seheve? Was originally slated for a suicide mission. Because it was the only way she could fathom paying for her crimes. Now that she's learned and grown and is actively working towards redemption, and not self-immolation, I don't think her mission will end in her death._

_Death, if it's not done for a major thematic reason, tends to be a cop-out. It's done by writers who don't know what else to do with a character besides flushing them down the toilet. I've had two minor characters and one major character die: Kella, because it was an important learning experience for Eli and Dara. Brennia, because it was an important learning experience for Eli and Lin. And Dr. Mordin Solus, because it was time. He was incredibly old for a salarian, and he told me it was time for him to go. To move on, and let the next generation take over. _

_Which is, let's face it, one of the major themes of this work. No, Shepard and Garrus haven't been the major characters of this fiction since the start of Victory. That's clearly stated at the outset of Victory. And let's face it: once you're at the top of the damn promotion ladder, you're not going to be going on every mission, pounding that ground. You're going to be grooming and selecting the people who do. That becomes your job. It's the job of a parent, a manager, a general, or a teacher. Teaching. Preparing. And then giving way when the fledgling is ready to fly._

**Elijah, _Normandy_, May 6, 2197**

_Why haven't they checked in yet?_ Eli thought, hazily, looking at the bedside clock in his quarters. It was past 02:30, and while his body was exhausted, he'd only managed a cat-nap or two so far tonight. He and the others had turned over control of the satellite complex to Alliance forces around 20:00 and taken their breaching pods and shuttles back to the _Normandy_ to settle in and await the return of the other teams.

Sam, Kasumi, Blasto, Cohort, Gris, and Sky had returned about an hour later, and Shepard had poured them each a small glass of champagne. . . untasted in Cohort's case, and in Gris and Sky's cases, it had actually been most of a soup tureen each. But Shepard had been clearly elated at how smoothly the takedown of the moonbase had gone. "Only a few hiccups in the satellite takeover," she'd said, smiling slightly.

"Slight hiccup," Eli had muttered, raising his eyebrows at Dempsey, who'd been leaning against a nearby wall, watching the festivities with him.

"Could have been worse," Dempsey pointed out, flatly. "James could have taken five seconds longer to rewrite the damn launch codes."

"As it was, I had to change my shorts when we got back across to the ship," Eli told the man, grinning briefly.

The tension had been palpable, however. Almost everyone had stayed in the observation areas until midnight, which was when Valak's team had reported in from the surface at last. "_Klem Na_ weapons facility secured," the cultured, urbane voice had echoed over the loud-speakers. "Happily, I have Agni, Nyx, and Forseti here with other news. . . "

Lin's voice next on the speakers. "Yes. Three Lystheni prisoners, unconscious and ready for transport. And all remaining copies of the dalatrass AI have been expunged. We're ready as soon as you can get other forces down here to hold the area."

"Well done," Shepard had told them all, beaming, and cheers had broken out in the observation deck once more. Relief of tension. . . .and yet, Eli had only relaxed a little. One voice was still missing. One report. And it was, for him, the most important one of all.

He'd finally given up and gone back to the quarters he was sharing with Dempsey to try to force himself to sleep. _Just taking them a little longer_, he reasoned. _Nothing says anything's gone wrong. Just . . . taking a little more time. Intel was sketchy on the facility at best. They're having to make shit up on the fly. Go to sleep. You can't help her from here. _

He closed his eyes again, and, what felt like seconds later, his eyes snapped open, this time because the room lights had turned on, full. "What the fuck?" Dempsey said, his voice groggy, but flat. "Sidonis, turn the damn lights back off—"

"I didn't turn 'em on," Eli retorted, shielding his eyes and sitting up. Peering through his fingers, he could see it was 06:00 now.

"Sorry, guys," Joker's voice came over the speakers into their room. For once, the AI didn't sound jovial. Rather, he was tense. "Commander Shepard said to wake you two ASAP. Get to the briefing room. There's been a problem."

Eli was now completely awake, and he pulled on pants and a shirt as fast as he could, seeing Dempsey kick free of his sheets and do the same. The only _problem_ he could imagine that would necessitate waking them at 06:00 was that something had gone wrong with one of the ground missions. And since Lin and Valak had already reported in, that left only the teams who were hitting the hot labs. "Could be something else," Dempsey muttered as they headed for the briefing room. "Could be that the krogan and the geth and the Alliance and turian marines hit a pocket of heavy resistance somewhere."

"Not supposed to be starting the ground offensive for a week, other than grabbing evidentiary places," Eli replied, tightly, as they got into the elevator.

"Hold the door!" Rel called, and Eli's hand shot out, catching the metal hatch before it could seal. His eyebrows went up as Rinus, Rel, and Kallixta squeezed in with them.

"Joker woke you, too, huh?" Dempsey said.

"Yes. No explanation." Rel glanced at the others briefly.

"This is looking better and better," Eli muttered. The down elevator sensation in his stomach had nothing to do with the lift system's inertia.

The briefing room was _packed_. Lin, Seheve, and Serana had just come across to the _Normandy_ from the _Sollostra_, and Rel immediately moved to give Seheve a light forehead touch, and stroked a hand lightly over her scalp scales, murmuring softly to her, words lost in the hum of the voices in the briefing room. All three of them looked exhausted; Lin was holding a cup of _apha_ like a life preserver. By comparison, Kirrahe looked fresh as a daisy, but the salarian had probably slept in an extra half-hour, damn him, and was clearly ready to go again. Thelldaroon, Sky, and Stone were crushed against the back wall of the briefing room, and Eli's head jerked up, startled, as he caught Sky's mind-song colors. Black. Black and red. _Oh, this isn't looking good_, Eli thought, and found a chair beside Sam.

Sam and Kasumi looked just as tired as the rest of them. "What's going on?" Eli muttered.

"Not sure. Shepard got a comm call about a half hour ago. Woke the rest of the senior staff, but didn't brief anyone yet. Just told us to get Valak and anyone else who'd gone to the _Sollostra_ over here PDQ." Sam rubbed at his eyes.

At that point, Valak and Alisav both walked in the door, making the crowded briefing room that much more so. Alisav looked uncomfortable, but took a seat beside Valak, and got a pat on the shoulder from Seheve, of all people, which surprised Eli. _Then again, Seheve knows the most of anyone here about how hard it is to get people to trust you after you have, effectively, switched sides_, Eli thought.

Shepard and Garrus finally entered, and closed the door behind them. "All right," Lilitu Shepard told them all. "I'm sorry for waking you all, especially after such a long, hard day, but this really couldn't wait. First, the good news. Melaani T'soa is expected to make a full recovery, thanks to the first aid skills of Alisav K'sar. She's resting comfortably in med bay on the _Sollostra._" Shepard acknowledged the murmurs of approval, and held a hand up to still them all. "And now for the bad news. About thirty minutes ago, Alliance brass received this transmission from the surface of Lorek. It was actually addressed to me, specifically, and they got me on the line for it. Before you listen and watch, I'll answer a couple of questions. No, we couldn't get a direction on the signal. It was sent on the Spectre emergency transmitter frequency. . . but bounced off a number of satellites to mask its location." Shepard's eyes were hooded, and her voice was angry now.

Eli's head had already come up. _On __our__ frequency? Why would one of our people be trying to mask their location? Unless it's not one of our people. . . in which case, how the __fuck__ did someone else get their hands on one of our transmitters?_ He looked at Dempsey, who sat to his right, and realized that the man's eyes had narrowed.

He didn't have to wait long for his answer. Shepard keyed the aerogel screen in front of her, and a batarian face immediately appeared. Words in batarian, a language Eli didn't speak, but the translation, in galactic, scrolled along the bottom of the screen. _"I will speak with none other than Lilitu Shepard, the Scourge of Bahak."_

"_And to whom am I speaking? I see healer-caste markings on your scalp, batarian, but I do not bargain with those unknown." _ Shepard's voice, in batarian, became surprisingly guttural and ugly.

"_Dr. Vesak R'sal. I am one who has in his possession, that which you appear to have lost."_

"_I am not aware of having lost anything."_

"_Ah, then these images I am transmitting will be meaningless to you."_ R'sal's eyes cut to the side; smugness, in batarian body-language. _"They don't wear your vaunted black-and-red armor, but the bodies we've recovered __do__ have your insignia at their throats."_

Eli's frame had gone rigid. _Bodies?_ he thought, numbly. _They've recovered __bodies__?_

The entire room had gone completely silent as images flowed across the screen. A volus in a camouflage-painted envirosuit, lolling limply on a stretcher. Dead or unconscious, it was impossible to say. Next, a rachni, limbs curled in on themselves. Carapace painted in dust colors, it was undoubtedly Glory.

Eli winced at the snarl of red and black music from Stone and Sky, but his stomach was in knots, and his hands were shaking now as he pressed them against the cool surface of the conference table. The next image was of a female quarian in a camouflage-painted envirosuit, with additional armor plates and attachments. Again, she was limp on the stretcher. No way to tell if she was alive or unconscious. Eli heard Dempsey's subvocalization, almost a growl, but his eyes were fixed on the screen as the last image appeared.

Human female. Dust-colored armor, polarized mask being lifted away from a lolling head to reveal longish, slightly curly dark hair. Batarian hands, in surgical gloves, pulling back an eyelid, probably to demonstrate that pupillary action indicated that she was alive. . . only the medic clearly dropped the handlight at the first sight of the rachni blue under the lids.

Eli's world narrowed down to just that image. The periphery of his vision went gray. There was nothing else. No sound. No movement. Just that image. Just Dara's face. He didn't actually realize that he'd pushed away from the table until Dempsey and Sam both reached out and put their hands on his shoulders. "Sidonis," Dempsey said, tautly, then amended it. "Eli. They're going to be okay. We're going to get them back."

Eli's head swiveled towards Dempsey in an absolute daze, and he realized, suddenly, that everyone in the conference room was looking at the three of them. And suddenly, incongruously, Eli remembered sitting with Dempsey in the cafeteria of the Mindoir med bay, when Zhasa was in the ICU, after the nanobots had invaded her system. Telling Dempsey that Zhasa would be all right. Just. . . being there. Dempsey was returning the favor now, even though Zhasa was in just as much danger as Dara was. "Right," Eli managed, his throat completely dry, and turned and looked at Sam. "Right. We'll get them back."

_Or I'll damned well die trying._

Shepard had paused the playback to allow them a moment to deal with it. "The other members of the teams are unaccounted for," she said now, her voice grim. "Siara Tesala, Urdnot Makur, and the three marines dispatched with the four Spectres in the transmission were not mentioned in any way. This does not bode well."

"And why is that?" Lantar asked. His father had moved in closer, and crouched down behind Eli now. Giving comfort through closeness, though not touching.

"Because the rest of the transmission was an attempt to bargain with me for the lives of the four captives," Shepard replied, baldly.

Hisses of anger all through the room. Shepard held up a hand, calming them again, and hit the playback button. _"We hold these four as hostages,"_ Vesak R'sal said now. _"We will trade them to you in exchange for the safe-conduct of my entire staff to Khar'sharn."_

"_I don't negotiate with criminals and terrorists, R'sal. And you're the doctor who helped design the bio-weapons used on Bastion, Palaven, and Earth, aren't you?"_ Shepard's voice had gone hard.

"_But you do want your people back. . . unharmed. . . don't you?"_

Shepard paused the screen. "Here's where I had to make a negotiating decision," she told them all, grim-faced. "I could bluff and say they weren't our people. I thought about it. If I made him think they weren't worth much, I _might_ have been able to get him to release them. But chances were, if he thought they weren't worth much, he'd just kill them. Too much of a risk to keep people who are worthless." Her face was suddenly haggard under the clan-paint, and Shepard rubbed at the bridge of her nose for a moment, before looking up. Meeting Sam's eyes, then Kasumi's. Eli's. Dempsey's. Gris'. "So I went the other route. I decided to keep him talking. Because the longer I can keep him talking, the longer we have to try to find them and get them back."

Garrus nodded, once. "We don't leave our people behind."

"No. We do not." Shepard exchanged a long, unfathomable look with Garrus, and turned to look at the rest of them. "We've been going through information since we got the call. I didn't want to walk in here with _nothing._" She pulled up a new image on the screen, and Eli squinted, trying to figure out what he was looking at. "This is the footage from the _Raedia_'s cameras in orbit. We don't have much after their initial drop, because the _Raedia_ was climbing back out of the planet's gravity well, and the cameras aren't really reliable during the ascent, thanks to the friction of escaping the atmosphere." Shepard paused. "The _Raedia_ then assumed a high orbit, non-geosynchronous. If they'd taken a low orbit. . . they'd have been in between the missiles from the defense satellites and the ground. Obviously, not a good thing. From high orbit, they couldn't see much in the way of ground details. And they were only directly overhead for about four minutes of a ninety-six minute orbit." Shepard was clearly preparing them for the worst here. "When we pick up initial footage, our teams have already clearly assaulted the western side of the building."

The first image appeared, and clearly, one guard shack was on fire, on the southwest side of the enclosure, and there was debris at the side of the building. "Thermal?" Rel asked, immediately, which surprised Eli. His own brain wasn't working at full speed quite yet.

"None yet. Orbit was too high, and the ambient temperature outside was in excess of a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Looks like the batarians air conditioned the medical center, though, so we were able to pick up _some_ temperature differences when the _Raedia_ came into a lower orbit." Shepard waved it off. "Wait for me to get through it all, please, before further questions."

She touched the screen. "This is the scene on the next orbital pass. Ninety-six minutes have gone by."

_Holy fucking shit_, Eli thought, staring at the image of the building. A section of the eastern wing had collapsed entirely, debris scattered hither and yon. The bridge connecting the two wings had clearly collapsed as well, metal struts tossed all over the courtyard. "What the hell?" he said out loud, unable to restrain himself, as whispers rose in the room.

"Did a goddamned missile hit the building?" Dempsey asked, immediately.

"That location was locked out of the targeting computers," Sam said, tightly. "I checked that and the _Klem Na_ facility on the moonbase computers myself. Twice."

"And I verified that no missiles from the defense platforms targeted the area," Shepard confirmed. "The _Raedia_'s cameras were just on automatic at this point. No one was watching the live feed. They were waiting to hear from Glory, through his chip, or on the encrypted band, for the team to report on either success, or that they needed rachni backup." She tabbed forward again. "The team missed their first scheduled check-in at 18:00. Lysandra tried to contact Glory directly. No reply, but she detected jamming from the batarians, not just from our team, at that point. _Raedia_ dropped lower, and started going through their camera records. As you can see. . . the batarians spent four hours digging in the rubble. And were evacuating the facility the whole time." Four more pictures, time-lapsed, appeared. "No indication of where our team was—"

"How is that _possible?"_ Sam rapped out.

Shepard gave him a sympathetic look. "Half the team wore fully sealed envirosuits, Sam. Thermal wouldn't show them."

"Biometric chips?" Rel asked, lifting his head. Eli could see the intensity in his friend's eyes, and wished his own brain would come out of the damn _fog_ it was wrapped in. "That's how you looked for me on Camala, last year."

"Those work, but only in a limited capacity," Shepard admitted, tiredly. "They're short range, relatively speaking."

"And they only work if someone's bio-electric field is still powering them," Sam said, his voice tight. "Which is to say, if they're still alive."

Shepard raised her hands. "They can also be blocked, Sam. RF jamming will block them. Someone's underground? Chances are the signal gets blocked, too."

"And the ancestors know," Valak said, very quietly, "that half of Lorek lives underground."

That got every head to turn towards the batarian male, who was staring, fixedly, at the screen.

"Yeah," Shepard replied, tiredly. "There's that, too. So. . . _Raedia_ dropped to low orbit, or about three hundred miles up. Didn't get a ping on the chips. . . went to thermal. We were able to verify that no, no large energy signatures, no rocket trails, nothing came in and hit that complex. Whatever happened, happened locally. We . . . don't know what that was. We can see aircar and groundcar trails leaving the site in all directions. Most heading to other bases in the Kinsala region. We have to assume that our people were taken to a holding facility somewhere relatively nearby."

"No sign of Makur or Siara in _any_ of that," Gris muttered, glaring at the screen. "Where the hell are they?"

Shepard sighed. "We don't know that, either. We need to get people on the ground and looking. We're not going to find much from up here. I need volunteers—"

Every hand in the room rose. Eli had raised his hand without looking up from the table, but he could _feel_ the united purpose around him. They had two Spectre teams and one marine team missing in action, at the very least. And every single Spectre in the room understood that it could have been _them_.

Shepard looked around the room. "Sidonis, Dempsey, I know why you want to go, but I'm not sure I can send you on the rescue teams—"

"Like you haven't ridden in to my rescue over the years," Garrus pointed out, very dryly.

Eli lifted his head, his mind still feeling numb. "With respect," he said, the words falling out of his mouth without conscious thought, "That particular concern is an artifact of human services in the twentieth century."

"I'm not particularly human even on a good day," Dempsey said, his voice flat and a little harsh. "Today's not a good day."

Eli could almost feel the anger boiling under the man's coldness, and knew that this was absolutely _not_ a moment in time where either of them wanted to share their damn feelings. Shepard was nodding acknowledgement to Dempsey, but her eyes turned back to Eli now. "As for me," Eli said, his voice tight, "sure, don't send me as team lead. I get that. But let's face it. I might have a human face for the cameras, but I'm not exactly human anymore, either." _Eighty percent of the viewing public back on Earth thinks it's surprising that I eat my meat cooked, because Lantar helped raise me, and eighty percent of that eighty percent probably freaked the fuck out during the Emily Wong interview with me and Dara, when they got a good look at my eyes._ "Let me help."

"Same here," Sam said, his voice hard and cold. "I _am_ the last home-grown full-bred human in the room, commander, but I've been playing by big-boy rules for a long damn time. Not even the first time I've gone in to rescue my kid from a hostage situation." Sam snorted. "Besides, if we had to try to find a Spectre who _didn't_ have a personal connection to any of the people on the ground. . . we'd have to send back to Mindoir for. . . huh. Mordin Alesh. . . no. He's related to Narayana, who's Lantar's step-daughter. Ylara? Nope. No can do. Maybe Livanus. Yeah. He's the only person left in the Spectres who _isn't_ somehow directly related to any of us in this room. Oh, and Kirrahe, Valak, and Thell, but I'm sure that's just a matter of time. Somehow." For all that Sam's words were light, his voice was anything but. "We don't have time to go find someone to grab our people." He paused. "Besides. You're the one who's always said that the Spectres are a family, commander." Sam's eyes were blank at the moment. "We just take that a little more literally than most folks would imagine."

Shepard nodded, slowly. "All right." She scanned the faces in the room, and Eli felt a very faint easing in the knots in his chest as she agreed. Not much, but a little. "I'm going to continue _negotiating_ with the good doctor. Valak, you and K'sar are going to be helping with that. Anything he says, anything in the background of any of the calls, could be a clue. You're also going to help me with reading his body language and the negotiation strategy." Her expression had smoothed now. "Lantar and Garrus will also be assisting with this, coordinating with the ground teams, and planning a retaliatory strike for when we get our people back." Shepard's eyes glittered for a moment. It wasn't a particularly human expression. "Our first objective is _finding_ them. To that end, three groups and a hell of a lot of rachni are going to be going to the planet."

"It's a fair bet that wherever they're being held is a prison or internment facility," Alisav volunteered, very quietly. "Perhaps an SIU or Oversight Forces facility, in fact."

Eli put his hands, very carefully, flat on the table in front of him again, and concentrated on his deep breathing. The shakes were gone now. The almost turian-level rage, however, wasn't going away. In fact, it was threatening to explode up out of him, and he knew he absolutely needed to control this.

Shepard nodded. "Sam? You, Seheve, and. . . hmm." Shepard thought about it. "Rinus. You'll be the stealth and engineering team, in case you need to open the way for the rest of the teams into a prison or other militia-type enclaves."

"Understood," Sam replied, his tone clipped. Seheve's head had come up, and the drell female nodded, her lambent eyes glistening.

"That's the stealth and recon team. The smash and grab rescue teams. . . we're going to need them to be larger than usual." Shepard exhaled. "I should have sent more people on the hotlabs mission, but it was supposed to be a quick in, secure, and hold mission, just like the _Klem Na_ facilities." She grimaced. "Rellus? You're going to be leading team one. You're off the leash. You get to hunt. Eli and Dempsey are with you." She paused. "Linianus? You're with them, too. You get the unenviable task of _sitting_ on anyone who might otherwise do things we'd all regret."

"Define that, please," Lin replied, tersely. "I'm not sure what I'd actually regret, today."

"If someone surrenders, don't kill them in a fit of pique. No genocide."

Lin considered that. "Torture?"

"Usually doesn't get good results. The threat is usually more than enough."

"Tell that to Siara," Gris muttered.

Shepard nodded, once. "I want a rachni with each team for communications backup. Stone, you'll be with Rel's team."

_I hear._ Stone's raspy voice was agitated.

"Gris, you, Sky, and Kirrahe are team two. That may sound a little light compared to team one, but you're heading to the ruins of the medical center, first. If Makur's alive somewhere under all that rubble. . . "

"He'll probably be mostly healed by now, and very pissed," Gris finished for her. "Yeah. If he's alive, he's not likely to be a prisoner. He'll come with us, if that's the case."

"I could go with that grouping," Thell volunteered.

Shepard shook her head. "No, Thell. You're going in Hammerheads for the speed. Between you and Gris in a single vehicle, it's bad enough, but if you add Sky. . . "

Thell sighed, which was an enormous expression for the elcor. "I wish to be of assistance. Fors Luka is a friend. If I had been with him on this mission—"

"If ifs and buts were candy and nuts, every day would be Christmas," Sam cut in, his voice still tight.

"Shep?" Kasumi now. "I could go with the ground teams. There isn't a prison in the galaxy I can't crack."

Shepard shook her head again. "No. I need you up here. Working with every resource we have inside of the Hegemony. With Argus' sources. Everyone's got their place. Hell. . . I might even have to go to the planet to 'negotiate' in person, just to drag this out longer." She looked around at all of them. "Go get geared up. Your first stop will be the medical center. Split up, start conducting a grid search. They _had_ to have been taken by vehicle. We've got the thermal trails. And we've got brood-warriors who should be able to feel a familiar mind within ten miles."

"The problem is," Eli muttered, darkly, "an aircar can go over two hundred miles an hour. They went off the grid at eighteen hundred last night. It's oh-six-thirty now. That's twelve hours."

"They could, literally, be anywhere on the continent by now," Dempsey agreed.

Rel leaned over. Caught Eli's eye, and Dempsey's. "We're going to find them," he told them both, and the assurance in his voice buoyed Eli. More surprisingly, the sympathy in Rel's eyes did, too. "Come on. You both need to eat."

"Don't think I can." Eli admitted.

"I know, human appetite diminishes during strong emotional states." Rel's voice was dry. "But if you don't eat something now, your hands won't be steady to shoot later."

"Boy's got a point," Sam said, dryly. "Gear up and eat, people. Just make it fast."

**Rellus, _Normandy_ and Lorek, May 6, 2197**

Rel made sure Eli and Dempsey were eating—the biotic male had his usual large breakfast, but when a mess hall attendant offered him hot chocolate, Dempsey's head had turned and had given the _pilae_ so empty a look that the turian had actually pulled back. "No. Energy shake, though. Have a feeling I'm going to be burning calories today," Dempsey had said, after a moment, in which Rel had managed to reach the humans' sides.

For an instant, Rel had clearly envisioned the _pilae_ being sent flying, slammed right _through_ a bulkhead, and he wasn't sure if that image had actually originated inside his own mind or not. "Steady," he muttered as he reached the other two. For Dempsey to look and act a little _mor'loci_. . . it was, well, somewhat normal when Zhasa wasn't around. But Rel hadn't realized how much humanity Dempsey had regained in the last year until he saw every hint of it wiped from Dempsey's face. The faint quirk of humor to the lips, gone. All hint of interaction, socialization, gone. Nothing left but the machine. . . or at least, Dempsey was allowing the machine to take over for the moment. Even the way in which he turned and looked at people had a faintly robotic look to it. Everything. . . except the moment when he'd looked at the _pilae_ across the tureen of hot chocolate, and death had been quite clearly in the air.

"I'm fine, Velnaran," Dempsey told him, setting the thick shake on his tray. "Just fine."

Rel doubted that very much.

It was just as hard watching Eli eat mechanically. Fried eggs, cut in half and wolfed down without appetite. All life and expression had vanished from Eli's face, and once more, it was like looking at a ghost. _This is how he looked on Macedyn. No. Worse. This is true __mor'loci__._ _He's never looked this much like Lantar before. Ever._ Rel flinched from the thought. He knew how close _he'd_ gotten. "Eli?" he finally asked. "You've got to have your head in this if we're going."

"I know," Eli told him. "I'll be fine once we start moving." The dark eyes were blank and distant. "I keep thinking about the meeting we all had after we got back from Omega. Big debriefing. Dara and I were talking after the first half of the meeting, and we were debating who'd had it worse, the Omega teams or the Shanxi ones." He looked up at Rel, who was standing over him, listening.

"Shanxi sucked," Rel said, bluntly. _Seventeen days of thinking I was going to lose my damn leg._ He pushed the rest of it out of his mind.

"Yeah." Eli looked away. "She told me. . . she wasn't sure which was worse. Being hunted and killed by the yahg, or living trapped, forever, inside your own mind. Then she said, and this is the part that's killing me, Rel. . . 'since I'm not biotic, the batarians wouldn't lobotomize me. They'd just, you know. Rape me, chip me, turn me into a slave.'" Eli's face was grim. "I told her that would only happen over my and Lin's dead bodies."

Lin moved over, but Rel waved him off for the moment. "Can't always be there," Rel told him, quietly. "We all take our own risks."

"I know. Just . . . playing over and over in my head, like a song I can't get rid of. I'm just hoping none of it was a fucking self-fulfilling prophecy." Grim tension in his movements now as he threw down his napkin. "I'm going to head to the hangar and start getting my gear ready, all right?"

As Eli left, Lin moved over, and the two of them conferred in quick whispers in turian. _"Haven't seen Eli this bad in over a year,"_ Lin muttered. _"I'll keep an eye on them, so you can concentrate on the hunt."_

"_I can do both at the same time."_

"_Focus, __fradu.__"_ Lin's advice was calm as they both headed now to the hangar bay. A sidelong look at Eli and Dempsey, where both humans were checking their armor, Eli ensuring that the bullet hole in his backpiece was repaired. "What was that line from that human play we all had to read? The one with the really good monologue on justice. . . _Henry V_?"

Rel stared at Lin blankly. "'We few,'" Lin reminded him. "'We happy few, we band of brothers.'" He shook his head.

"Yeah, the king said that when they were about to march into battle outnumbered four to one," Rel muttered. "I don't mind bad odds. It's the impossible ones I don't like."

"Eh, the king's army won."

"Superior firepower and technology over antiquated tactics. Tends to happen." Rel shrugged, and finished re-assembling his assault rifle.

As everyone was pulling on their gear, Seheve moved towards Rel, and crouched down near him. "Something's wrong, _amatra_?" he asked, surprised, then amended, "I mean, is something _else_ wrong?"

Seheve's expression was tight. "Zhasa'Maedan and Dara were the first to accept me among the Spectres, besides Melaani T'soa," she told him, barely above a whisper. "Dara and I laughed at her workers and my cat at play. She was the one who asked me, at sparring, if I thought it was hard for people to see changes in the spirit, when nothing had changed on the skin. She _listened_ to my words on Arvuna. Valued them. Used them. She and Zhasa'Maedan took me. . . " Seheve laughed, a brief, almost bitter sound. "Christmas shopping. I did not stay with them. . . but we all worked together to give Zhasa'Maedan clothing to wear. Such a simple thing, but I know it meant much to Zhasa." She lowered her head. "I have never understood how to show them that I valued their company. That I regretted any discomfort to Dara." Seheve paused, clearly distressed. "And, now, like Thelldaroon, I think that if I had been with them, I could have . . . somehow. . . stopped this from happening."

Rel shook his head. "The _what ifs_ are a waste of time, Seheve. You know that. Better than anyone."

She nodded. "I had to express them, however." She nodded in Sam's direction, then in Eli and Dempsey's. "Do you suppose it would help them to know that . . . whoever has taken them, will not live more than five minutes in my presence?"

Rel looked up. Eli was tucking a Collector pistol into his boot. Dempsey was switching up to a rarely-used assault rifle instead of his usual submachine gun. "I think that's pretty much a given, Seheve," he muttered. He could feel it, too. Dara had been a big part of his life for five years. She'd come to Khar'sharn for him. And now, a year later. . . he was a different person. But he had a chance to return the damn favor at last.

They got into the _Normandy's_ Hammerheads, and Joker maneuvered the ship closer to the planet, in tandem with the _Raedia_, which was dropping six Hammerheads and two Makos, which were, apparently, _packed_ with rachni. Rel did not envy the human and turian pilots at all; a hundred workers in each ship was about four hundred pounds of weight. Not atrocious, when you considered that his own Hammerhead currently held himself, Eli, Dempsey, Linianus, and Stone, in addition to the pilot. . . close to two thousand pounds of muscle and equipment, between them all. Each Hammerhead also held rachni soldiers, each of which was the size of a medium dog, or about fifty pounds, and all two hundred of them, perforce, had had to be distributed evenly. Plus, there were the other brood-warriors, four of them, each of them around Sky or Stone's size. Each vehicle had to be _crawling_ with life, and very, very crowded.

Kallixta was actually at the controls of Rinus, Sam, and Seheve's vehicle, which was encouraging, in a way; they'd never yet had a bad operation with Kallixta around. "We've never had a blown operation with Kallixta at the controls," he told Eli and Dempsey, trying to lighten the mood.

"She's good luck?" Lin offered.

"Seems to be. Whether it's the imperial spirit, or she makes her own luck, I don't know which. . . and don't care. Even the _Estallus_ only blew up once Kallixta was off." Rel watched the brown and blasted ground of Lorek's daylight side expand rapidly in front of them, the pregnant curve of the horizon belied by the barren ground. A few surface-to-air missiles from the desert shot up at them, and Rel took mental notes on their trajectories. "Shoulder-mounted," he called to the rest of them. "Whoever's shooting those will be gone before we get there."

They put down about five kilometers north of the ruined building, and the first thing Rel did was turn and look at Stone. "Anything?" he asked.

_I do not hear my brood-brother,_ Stone replied, his voice tinged with violet. _I do not hear Hope-Singer or Sings-Heartsong or Sings-Mischief, either._

"What about Siara and Makur?" Rel replied, as they all climbed out of the shuttle. His assault rifle was in his hands, and he could clearly see that Sam and Seheve were already getting ready to move ahead of the rest of them, ready to tab their stealth devices.

_Faint. . . but I believe I hear Pain-Singer. She is angry._

"When _isn't_ Siara angry?" Eli muttered.

That made Rel feel much better. Eli was stabilizing. "Where is she?" Rel asked.

_That way._ Both Sky and Stone at that moment in time, pointing southeast.

Rel looked over at Sam and Gris. "Sam, your team and mine are heading for the ruins, right?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Frees up Gris' team to go try to track down Siara." Sam stared at Gris. "You get into the least bit of trouble, you yell, you hear?"

_If he does not, I will sing to you,_ Sky replied, his voice already keying up into battle-song mode. Reds and blacks.

**Lorek, May 6, 2197**

There was no time on Lorek, or at least, no sense of its passage. The sun was always and ever at a fixed position in the sky; if you traveled far enough to the east, the west, the north, or the south, it would, eventually, appear to start to set behind you. But in the main, it remained, motionless, a burning, desiccating orb of destruction in the sky. The only relief from its light lay in shadows puddled at the feet of mountains and ridges, and in the deeper darkness found in caverns underground. In the few degrees of longitude that comprised the more comfortable 'twilight' area of the planet, there was light enough for plants to flourish, and enough water to make the area cultivatable. But here in the desert east of Kinsala, there was no such relief.

The batarian workers, mostly porter-castes who had been employed by SIU at the med bay, could only judge how long they had been toiling by their wrist chronometers and the amount of sweat that dampened their clothing. They'd worked for four hours to clear the heaviest debris in the courtyard, moving pieces of metal and glass as carefully as possible. One of them had been the one to find the huge _insect_, and had run screaming when the thing _moved_. An SIU overseer had moved into position and fired a stasis weapon, followed by firing something that had looked like a hand-held tear-gas sprayer into the immediate vicinity of the bug's head. White powder had bloomed in the air around it, and, once the powder dissipated, the overseer ordered them to get back to work clearing the area. "It's unconscious. And even if it _were_ conscious, there's nothing it can do to you right now. It's frozen in place and probably can't think straight."

So they'd dug and they'd lifted and they'd sweated. Heaved the huge creature, which had to weigh four hundred pounds, onto the back of a ground-truck, and secured its limbs with straps, as best they could.

In the meantime, another team had uncovered the body of the volus. How its suit hadn't been pierced by the debris, no one seemed to know, but the creature was alive, if unconscious. "Head trauma?" an overseer had asked a healer-caste. 

"I don't know, m'lord. I've never even seen a volus before, outside of the _Life of a Trader_." It was a popular vid, following the exploits of a batarian merchant as he roamed the galaxy, cheating the people who tried to cheat him of his wares, his credits, and his life. The 'volus' on the show was, in actuality, a very short batarian actor in a suit. "The medical scanner is coming back with . . . readings I don't understand. Would it be possible to get information from SIU—?"

"All intranet access is down, if you haven't noticed," the overseer had snapped. "Do your best."

The healer had turned away, muttering under his breath.

Then three dead bodies had been removed. All human. One had a Colossus spear through the belly. Another had clearly bled out from a chest wound; human blood was a darker red than the orange-red tone of batarian blood, and it looked odd. The third had been decapitated by a metal strut, from the looks of things. Building collapses were rarely clean.

Finally, two more bodies. Quarian, unconscious. And human, unconscious. Both female. The porters all glanced down at the curves, then up at the SIU noble-caste in charge, and hastily got back to work. The chances of _them_ having a shot at such prizes were less than none. "Damned nobles get everything," one of the porters commented, very quietly, as the bodies were loaded into aircars and driven off.

"Shh. You want to have your tongue cut out and served to you for dinner?"

Back to work. Hours of back-breaking labor behind them, and more stretching endlessly ahead of them under the unmoving eye that was Fathar. Dust rising chokingly from the debris; their faces were white with it. There were probably chemicals in the slipping, sliding, shattered pieces of rubble that weren't good to breathe, but they were porter-caste. Bred to be tough. They coughed and choked but pretended indifference to one another, while each male wondered if he was inhaling his death.

This new section was where the second above-ground floor of the hospital had collapsed, somehow, during the attack, pancaking with the first floor below it and the two stories above it. At least this work, though more dangerous, because of the unstable walls, was in the ancestors'-given _shade_. One worker lifted a piece of wallboard out of the way, and found half a yahg arm in his way. Sliced off neatly at the elbow, and already starting to smell. He forced down the urge to vomit, and called, "Hey! I found something!" over to the supervisor, yet another noble-caste in SIU uniform.

They all clustered around, trying to find the rest of the yahg body. Their . . . 'allies'. . . would probably want it returned to them. The porters hadn't seen much of the yahg, other than delivering food to their quarters. Meat, and lots of it. They were huge and terrifying, and probably only kept in check by the Colossus mechs stationed all around their area of the hospital.

Behind them, debris slid away. None of them turned; things were constantly moving and slipping and sliding in the mass of metal and wire and wallboard and pipes.

Something moved. Half a fallen wall, its wooden framework exposed under torn wallboard, lifted a few inches, then slid further away. A metal claw reached up through the rubble, and glinted, for a moment, in the light pouring down from the shattered ceiling into the darkness of the first floor and the mountain of debris.

One of the porters turned at that point, and stood, slack-jawed, as the scarred metal body of a mech emerged from the rubble. His first thought was that one of the Colossi had survived the attack and had finally rebooted its systems. Then he realized that whatever the hell this was, it was too small to be a Colossus. "What the hell—" he started to say as the mech pulled its legs out of the rubble. . . yes, legs, not the solid tread base of a Colossus.

Everyone turned beside him to gape. The SIU overseer swore and reached for his sidearm, and then a _scream_ echoed in everyone's mind's, and scream that went on and on and on, and pain poured through them with it. Found every single nerve ending in the body, and pounded on it, danced on it, lit it on fire and then danced some more.

The porter sank to the ground, screaming now, himself, aware, peripherally, that he was jerking and spasming, and cutting his arms and legs open on metal and glass, but he couldn't _feel_ it, because every nerve ending in his body was begging for death. His spine felt as if it were about to explode, perhaps shoot across the room and embed itself in a door. His eyeballs felt as if they were about to pop. His testicles felt swollen to about four times their normal size, as if they'd been caught in a vice grip, squeezed, and twisted.

The last thing he heard before unconsciousness took him, were words in a foreign tongue. He couldn't understand them. But he did not think they were a blessing. But he took the darkness as one, and gratefully sank into nothingness.

The mech paused as the driver took stock. Shields were up, but barely. The arms, which had taken the weight of the ceiling and the I-beam above her head, were strained; the left one was shorting out periodically. The armor was riddled with dents and actual bullet holes; a couple of pieces of rebar had actually punched into it in a few places, but hadn't caught her body, by a minor miracle. Where there weren't holes, there were scrapes and runnels, from where pipes and metal and everything else had scraped over her as she'd fallen to the floor below. . . and then everything else had come tumbling down atop of both of them. The servos in the knees were also malfunctioning. . . . and Siara couldn't feel Makur's thoughts in her head. Her own pain—her head _hurt_, damn it, and there wasn't a piece of her body that didn't throb at the moment—her panic at awakening under the rubble, entombed in her own suit. . . and the nearly indescribable fear that _he might be gone, he might be gone, and what will I do without him?_ . . . were what she had flung at the batarians, like a net of pain and anger and raw willpower.

Lucid thought, for a moment. _Damn._ _I never thought I'd need a course in robotics or electronics repair, but if I want to use this thing, I guess I better learn how to fix it_, Siara thought, grimly, and sent her thoughts out, probing through the debris for the familiar rough-soft feel of Makur's mind. _Makur! __Marai'ha'sai__, where are you?_

No answer in her mind. He'd always shared his thoughts with her freely—sometimes a little _too_ freely, when they'd been arguing. Siara spared a glance for the unconscious batarians on the ground; her head ached, and it wasn't just from what was surely a bad concussion. It ached from what she'd just done to them. All of them. She hadn't been able to _do_ that before. . . except once, on Omega, when Dara had given her a dose of _bai'anu_ to counteract the narcotics in her system. Then, she'd been able to paralyze a group of batarians with pain. Looking at their unconscious bodies, Siara gave serious thought to walking over and tearing the rest of their lives out of their bodies, but she didn't have _time._

She bent down and dug in the rubble. Heaved beams out of the way. _Come on, Makur, you were standing right next to me. Where are you?_

A growl caught her attention, and Siara looked up. Saw Snowflake perched in the shattered sill of the first-floor windows. "You're here, huh?" Siara grunted and used the mech's pinchers to heave another piece of wall away. "Guess you're not going to risk those dainty paws of yours on all this metal and glass to come down here and sniff for him, are you?"

Snowflake bared fangs at her, and Siara heaved what looked like an air conditioning unit out of the way. . . and found something smooth and khaki-colored under it. Makur's armor. _Be alive_, she told him, silently. _Be alive._ Moving more delicately now, like an archaeologist at a rare dig site, she disinterred his body, and her breath caught as she pushed her mind out. . . and finally found the thin, wavering strands of his. Unconscious. _Still_. For a krogan, that indicated massive injuries. . . and then, as she rolled him over, she understood why. His left hand was missing—_bitten off by a fucking yahg_, she thought, bitterly—and was a mass of puss and abscesses. Infections that even a krogan immune system was taking a while to fight. His face was burned, and badly, from grenade and energy explosions directly in front of him. Some of the burns went down to the bone. _Now will you start putting on a Vaul-cursed helmet?_ she demanded, silently. And, low in his abdomen, a piece of rebar had penetrated the armor and impaled the secondary liver.

Snowflake _did_ leap down now, and, ignoring the debris, began to wash Makur's face. "He's never going to believe that you did that," Siara told the leopard. Tears were stinging at her eyes. "He's going to say I made it up." She looked down at Makur and exhaled. "I'm glad you're unconscious for this," she told her beloved, glancing over at the batarians. "I have to pull that piece of rebar if you're going to be able to heal."

It was exactly the opposite of first aid for a human or an asari or a turian. A krogan could take the blood-loss. You simply needed to let the body _heal._ With a blockage like this? It couldn't.

Siara planted one ungentle metal hand against Makur's chest to hold him in place, and clamped the other pincher around the rebar. "I'm so sorry, _marai'ha'sai_," she told him, and pulled.

Even unconscious, Makur's body spasmed. Siara spun and threw the bloody metal spar at one of the batarians, and then leaned over. Managed to get Makur's body up onto her shoulder, the servos and motors in the suit whining in complaint. "Come on, Snowflake," she told the leopard. "Let's get out of here."

Plod. Plod. Creak. Plod. The mech suit was overloaded, and she was barely walking at half her normal speed. Boosting Makur out of a shattered window, swearing as he slipped and then fell to the hard ground outside. Lifting one heavy boot up onto the sill, ramming the head of the mech suit into the wall before remembering that it added a foot to her height, and ducking again to get out of the building at last. Picking Makur back up again. Siara looked back over her shoulder as she trudged away, into the pitiless sunlight and the bleak desert, reminded of Terra Nova and areas of Tuchanka. _Well, those two worlds didn't kill us. I'll be damned if I let this one do what Tuchanka couldn't._

Into a narrow arroyo, and Siara slid Makur off her shoulder. Snowflake curled up at the krogan's feet, and Siara slowly began disengaging the mech's restraint systems. Several of them were damaged, and she was really afraid, for a moment, that she was going to be _stuck_ in the damn thing. . . and then she forced them open with her biotics. When the front finally opened, she stepped out, feeling the heat and dessicating dryness like a blow, but on the other hand. . . air. Fresh air. Smell of dirt, and the glorious feeling of being alive. Siara wiped at her eyes with the backs of her hands, and dug around in the mech's storage compartments until she found the first-aid kit, and, feeling helpless, began to clean the stump of Makur's left hand. _Oh, __marai'ha'sai__, you're strong, you're alive, any __one__ of these wounds would have killed anyone else, but not you. . . .but Vaul, the infection is very bad. I don't know if you'll be able to regenerate the hand. If you can, it might take three or four times as long as usual._ Krogan could regenerate whole limbs. It took time, and was very, very annoying for them, but they could do it. But the poison and virulent bacteria in yahg bites made it very difficult for even krogan regeneration sometimes. _Dara, where are you when I need you?_

Siara paused as her hands cleaned the burns on Makur's face, and realized, suddenly, that _hours_ had passed. _They left us behind? She. . . they left us behind!_ Anger, at first. Rage. Betrayal. And then a sinking sort of awareness that Dara would never have willingly left them behind, not unless she was sure that they were dead. . . or unless Dara herself was dead or captured.

The asari frowned and accessed her omnitool. Nothing but static on all communications channels. _Jamming_. _Damn it._ She eyed the medical facility in the distance speculatively. It was the only source of water for miles in any direction, and while Makur could probably live for a week, even injured, without water, she couldn't. And water would help him recuperate faster. On the other hand, if she left him here, with just the cat. . . _no. But. . . water's important. I have to try to figure out what happened to the others, too._ Too many things that needed doing, and Siara didn't know which to do first. _Maybe this is one of the times. . . where doing less is what's needed_, she finally decided, and curled up next to Makur's big, slumped form. Made sure she had her pistol in her hand, and leaned against him. The throbbing in her head had dimmed to a dull ache when she'd been working on Makur's wounds, but now came back with a vengeance. _If I fall asleep in the sun, I'm going to wake up purple from the burn_, Siara thought, distantly. _But so damned tired. Even though I just woke up. . . all right, just regained consciousness. . . . probably shouldn't sleep with a concussion. Have to stay awake_.

So she sat there against Makur's side, and did something she hadn't done in five years. Recited the sutras of the Justicar code under her breath. And when she couldn't remember any more of those, she started on the history chants of Urdnot that Malla had been teaching her. Not really singing, just low, rough, rhythmic words. . . and then song began to fill her thoughts. Siara looked up. _I'm dreaming. I hear. . . music?_

Music resolved into words. _Not dream-song._ Cellos and violas. Sky. _We come to you now._

Siara slumped against Makur's side. Sky, who, with Gris, had judged her and found her younger self wanting. The two of them hadn't let her make excuses. . . and had let her make something better of herself than she had been, before. And now they were coming for her and for Makur. "You hear that, _marai'ha'sai?_" she muttered. "They'll be here shortly. You hang in there."

The ground started to shake, and Siara peered up and over the edge of the arroyo in wary concern, pistol in her hand. It would be a bad thing to let her guard down and get captured by the batarians minutes from being rescued by the Spectres.

She needn't have worried. Two Hammerheads pulled up nearby, and figures in black armor jumped out. Familiar, wonderfully familiar figures. "_M__aai'a'selai_," Siara greeted Gris, woozily, as the krogan reached down and simply hauled her out of the ravine by the shoulders. _Second-mother._

"Yeah, let's pretend you didn't actually just say that in front of everyone," Gris told her with rough affection, and moved her to the back hatch.

"Makur—"

_We are moving him gently. Also, your metal carapace._

Siara looked back to see that Sky and one of the other brood-warriors were doing precisely that, manipulating gravity with their biotics to pull Makur up, and then the others were catching him and pulling him in, directing his floating body into the rear of the Hammerhead with her. Dizzy awareness as Gris looked over Makur's wounds. "What in Vaul's lowest hell happened?" Gris growled, and Siara looked up in time to realize that Eli and Lin were the ones applying medigel to the oozing stump that was Makur's left wrist.

Siara closed her eyes, and started to talk. But recollection was dizzy and disjointed. Concussions did that. Eli's face was grim, and his eyes were blank as he leaned in. Put an armored hand on her shoulder. "Hey. Slow down. Put one piece in front of the next, and just try to remember."

"I. . . it's all moving in my head," Siara admitted, holding a cold pack to her forehead. "I remember going into the building. Arguing with Dara about the prisoners. She said we'd come back for them. Then we. . . went up a level, I think. Moving ahead of the batarians." Siara frowned. "Trying for speed and surprise. Went through a tunnel. . . no, not a tunnel, it wasn't underground. . . and then there were mechs. Mechs with harpoons. . . and yahg." Her voice wavered.

"Here," a human voice said, and she opened her eyes again. Saw Dempsey's cold blue eyes looking down into hers. "Give me the memory directly. Just start at the beginning. Sky can show it to everyone else. I'll help you piece it together, all right?"

Cold touch of the human's strange mind. So very odd, even for a human and a male. Detached. Distant. And yet a rage equal to any of Siara's burning underneath it. Siara showed him all of it, up through the last moment, seeing Dara's horrified face as Siara detonated Makur's biotic field. . . . "Where are they?" Siara muttered. "I brought the damn roof down to give them a chance to get out."

"Yeah," Dempsey told her. "They didn't make it out. Four of them, we know are captured. Not sure what condition they're in."

Siara went absolutely still. Remembering Dara shooting the yahg off Makur, taking heavy fire to make sure that the marines could fall back safely. "Where?"

"Don't know, not yet, anyway." He nodded towards the medical facility. "We've got about seven hundred rachni swarming the place right now. When they take a few prisoners, we're going to ask some questions."

"Let me help." Siara's tone was grim. "I can absolutely guarantee that they're going to be very eager to answer any questions you have."

"Was hoping you'd say that," Sam said, from nearby. The human male had never really liked her, Siara felt, not after what she'd done to Dara, years ago. . . but he'd accepted her as a colleague since she'd become a Spectre. Respected who she'd made of herself.

At that point, Makur moved for the first time. Slowly. Started to sit up. "Was wondering when the hell you were going to wake up," Gris told the younger male. The two were surely relatives of some sort, not just clan-mates. Wrex and the shaman of Urdnot were the source of all biotic genes in that clan. And there were only a handful of krogan in the clan who had the abilities. They had to be cousins, if not brothers. "You just going to lie there all day?"

Siara had tears in her eyes, and she didn't care who saw it. "You _idiot_," she told Makur. "Are you going to start wearing a helmet from now on? Does it take having a grenade go off in your face and an air conditioning unit landing on your head to make you think that _might_ be a good idea?"

Makur managed to focus on her face, and he reached out and traced the track of one tear with a big finger. "I . . . dunno. I go back to Tuchanka. . .with scars on my face like Wrex. . . . should get a hell of a lot more invitations. . . to the female camp." He managed a nod.

Siara swore at him in krogan and pounded a fist into his right shoulder and ribs, anywhere she could find that wasn't currently injured. Makur caught her hand with his remaining one, and pulled her to him. _I'm all right. / I know you are. . . now. Would you believe Snowflake licked your face while you were unconscious? / No. / Oh, yes._

Makur looked up at Gris. "I want a piece of the yahg," he rasped. "Give me a couple of hours. I can still hold a pistol with my good hand. And there's _nothing_ wrong with my mind."

"You did just have an air conditioning unit dropped on your head," Siara protested.

"Brain's overrated. Besides, I have a backup for that."

Makur held her hand tightly in place as she swore at him again.

**Fors Luka, Lorek, May 6, 2197**

The biggest surprise, really, was waking up at all. He hadn't expected it.

Fors Luka sat up, groaning a little under his breath. Wherever he was, it was dark, and he hurt. Dark wasn't bad; his eyes were adapted for life under Irune's thick, milky blanket of an atmosphere. Most human and turian conditions were sufficiently bright that he was just as glad to use the HUD inside his suit as much as possible, blanking out what was around him with heavy polarization. For once, he didn't even need to do so; a glance at his light meter told him that the ambient light was almost nil. . . but more than enough for him to see.

A room maybe five feet wide by five feet long. Metal door at one end, clear signs of oxidation on its surface. No bed. A bucket for bodily functions, not that he could use it. _Prison cell. Wonderful._ It was cramped by human standards. Not enough room for them to lie down properly or get comfortable in any direction. For a volus, however, more than enough room. Fors looked around again, more carefully, and spotted a smoother spot on the rough stone walls. _Vid screen. Means there's probably a vid camera in here, too. So they can watch me._

The olfactory filters in his suit, however, were working in overdrive, filtering organic esters and chemicals out of the air. Fors grimaced and turned the filters down. Way down. Other species' excretory products were not as vile to him as those from ammonia-methane ecologies; the 'revulsion' quotient simply wasn't there. However, the odors were very strong, almost overwhelming, and he was picking up tangs of blood and pain. Earth-smells, too; rock and dust. _Yes. Definitely a prison, and not one that's gotten four stars from the Michelin organization._

His thoughts were still a little scrambled. He remembered his human-rachni friend's order to bring down the bridge. There hadn't been much choice left. All of them had been frozen in place, muscles locked by the stasis gun. Glory's song had been cut off. Dara's voice had been barely audible in his mind. Something to do with the powder from the grenade. His own biotics and Zhasa'Maedan's wouldn't be enough to hold off everyone in the complex. . . and more batarians had been setting up in the courtyard. Just a matter of time before they died. . . so why not control that? Make a choice? Take the enemy with them?

And then there'd been pain. Zhasa'Maedan's bubble-like shield could only take so much pounding before it would collapse. She'd held off on raising it until Fors had pulled down the bridge, then pulled it around them all as the bridge fell to the ground. It had, apparently, protected him from suit breaches.

Fors ran his hands over his suit now, looking for damaged and weak spots. This was his first order of business. Everything else could wait. Once he was assured that he didn't have any structural weak spots. . . although his pistol and his omnitool had been confiscated, and no real surprise in that. . . he could worry about trying to escape.

Part of breaking a prisoner, psychologically speaking, was making the prisoner dependent on their captors for everything. That's how humans' 'Stockholm Syndrome' could be more or less induced, Fors knew. Make the prisoner come to sympathize with the captor, by turning the captor into . . . parent figures. Gods. They'd deprive a prisoner of light. Of food. Of clothing. Return it at a whim, for a short time period, and then remove it again, at a whim. . . or as punishment. Of course, the real problem for his captors was. . . Fors was a volus. Most of what they could try to do to him, would either not affect him at all—though he doubted they'd know that—or would kill him outright. Lack of light? Not a problem. Lack of food? He had a month's supply of volus-grade nutrient paste in his suit. Admittedly, if he started throwing around biotic energy right and left, he'd be starving in short order. . . but again, it wasn't precisely a problem. Trying to remove his suit? That would result in him exploding, and messily. That was a big problem.

The lights overhead in his cell turned on, blindingly and abruptly. Fors winced and adjusted the light filtration to his suit's small optical ports, and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Volus!" a voice blared in galactic, heavily accented.

Fors lifted his head, and noted that the screen had turned on. The blank mask of batarian field armor looked back at him there. _Ah. They want me to think of them as faceless and powerful, but also want me to think of them as similar to myself. Eliminating differences between us. Both suited. One element of sympathy._ His mind was working _very_ fast now. "I assume you're talking to me?" Fors replied, out loud, and found a relatively clean looking patch of floor to sit down.

"We'll ask the questions here," the face on the screen informed him. Questioning at a distance. Establishing authority. "We know you're affiliated with the Spectres. What was your purpose in coming here?"

_Interesting. They didn't say I was a Spectre. What, they see the insignia, but they can't quite believe a volus can be one? Maybe their files aren't up to date. Or maybe they just want to make me angry. Angry people are easier to bargain with._ "What, who, me?" Fors replied, glibly. "I just go where they tell me to go and do what they tell me to do. I guess that's kind of like what you do, right?"

The lights turned up brighter. Thousands of candlepower, beating into the room. Fors snuffled and adjusted his suit filters again. A high-pitched, extremely annoying noise began to blare at him, discordantly. Annoying, but it didn't resonate along his _skin_ the way it would have in Irune's thick atmosphere. Of course, when they had the sound turned up that way, they couldn't question him. "Sorry!" Fors shouted over the noise. "Can't hear you right now. You're going to have to turn that down to ask any more questions."

The sound cut out. The batarian on the screen continued, as if it hadn't even occurred, "What is your function in the Spectres?"

"I'm a cook," Fors replied, cheerfully. "They love my deep-fried _eeree'pa_. Mmm-mmm. 'Course, all you really need to do to deep-fry that is bring it up to room-temperature for a human, and it'll pretty much crumble right in front of you." He had no actual fear at the moment. When it came right down to it. . . there was very little they could _do_ to him. They couldn't beat him, not without potentially killing him. That meant that _all_ of their tactics against him had to be psychological. It was nothing, or it was death. And that was liberating.

Three or four times the decibel level of sound. Fors could feel something resonating through the stone wall against his back. From the rhythmic quality, he suspected it was another prisoner, banging against the wall to try to make the noise stop.

As it was, Fors turned down the volume on his internal suit speakers. Everything in the universe for him was held at a distance in this suit. Sounds, sights, touch, and even, unfortunately, smell. Everything had to be filtered and mediated for him. "You will continue to hear that noise," the batarian told him, indifferently, when the din finally faded, "until you begin telling the truth. This," he said, holding up a small omnitool, "was on your suit when we uncovered you. It is far in excess of a cook's needs."

"Some of my recipes are pretty fancy," Fors told him, after he'd turned his suit speakers back up again. He was fairly sure he had the location of the vid cameras pinpointed now. He turned his head, looking away from them, and studied the door of his cell. They'd turned the lights back down, and he could, actually, see light around the edges. Looked like a thick bolt held it in place, at around the height of his head. No, the door wasn't the problem. He could probably tear it in half with his biotics if he wanted to do so.

The problem was what was _past_ the door. How many guards? How to get out? Fors' mind was racing, and he raised his hands placatingly now. "All right. I'm not a cook. I'm a tech." He shrugged. "I still just go where they tell me and do what they tell me." Behind his visor, he smiled. "Again, just like you."

No squall of noise for a pleasant change of pace. "You see? We reward good behavior." The voice was pretty clearly reading from a script. "What was your mission at the medical facility?"

"Look, I don't know much. I'm just a tech." Fors drew out the words. This was bargaining. Batarians thought they were the _master_ bargainers of the galaxy. _How many of you has actually ever faced a volus trade consortium and won?_ he thought, doing his best not to chuckle, and turned it into a snuffle instead. "And to be honest, I'm sitting in a cell. If I tell you what little I do know, you'll kill me."

"That isn't the case. If you admit to your crimes, you will be given punishment for your actions, but you will not be executed."

Fors leaned back and put his hands behind his head. "And I've got the word of a flunky in a mask for that? Ho-ho, yeah. I won't bargain with you when it's my life at stake. I want to talk to your _supervisor_."

The lights went out. The horrific grating noise returned. Fors suspected that this time, it would probably last for hours. "Take your time!" he shouted over the level of the noise. . . and turned his suit speakers down to minimum, and rolled to his side, as if he were about to take a nap. In truth, however, he was testing the door. And the wall around the door. Flicking little tendrils of biotic energy at each, testing both for weak points. The wall was solid stone. The door was solid metal. But the hinges were lovely weak points. As was the bar.

But again. . . what to do once he got out of the cell?

He cast out his mind, sniffing the air, as it were. Searching for familiar scents. He couldn't find Glory, which frightened him somewhat. Each brood-warrior was a tangle of smells, never quite the same twice, but Glory always carried overtones of pine and labdanum, a hint of smoke and the thin, high scent of thyme. Nothing. Dara? Almost as much of a tangle as a brood-warrior, but attar of roses mixed with steel and hints of coffee? Absent. Zhasa. . . who smelled of rich, warm chocolate and spices? Now her, he could smell. But she was unconscious. Fors exhaled, and did his best to give the one familiar mind in this dark place a pat. _Come on, wake up, my quarian friend. Wake up, so we can get out of here and rescue everyone else. I can open every door in this building, but it won't do me a damn bit of good if there are guards on every corner. _

Hours passed. He was able to track them by his suit's internal chronometer. The batarians couldn't disable that, not without risking killing him; the chronometer helped regulate his air supply. How many breaths per minute he took, factored into how much power was sent to the air recycling system. Every part of a suit was far too delicate for anyone other than a truly qualified tech to deal with. And so, Fors watched the clock inside his suit, and let it become his whole world. This was real. The batarians and whatever offers they made him. . . weren't. When the clock hit the magical combination of numbers, he'd be able to get out of this cell and return home. To Chissa.

And in the meantime, the numbers would keep him company. They always had. Fors started doing logarithmic functions in his head, mostly because he _could_, and also to keep himself occupied. The lights turned on at erratic moments, trying to disrupt his sleep patterns, trying to simulate night and day, and control his world. . . but Fors remained in control of his world. His world was his mind, and the tiny area inside his suit. It always had been. The batarians couldn't take that from him.

**Sings-of-Glory, Lorek, May 6, 2197**

Silence.

Silence.

_Silence_.

No voices. No voices at all, not the voices of workers, not the voices of two-legged friends, not the voice of the little-queen. Nothing at all.

Glory lurched awake. The rachni brood-warrior was disoriented, to say the least. Silence had more weight to it than the thousands of tons of rock he could sense over his head. Silence had more weight than darkness; his gleaming, opalescent eyes could see in this dimness. There was faint light coming through the cracks of a door in front of him, and it clearly illuminated a tiny cell around him. Glory hissed, a long, bestial noise, the closest thing to vocalization that his species could manage, and pulled back the petal-like fringes around his mouth to show the fangs and the clear, tube-like siphon that they concealed.

Silence. The only sound was the song in his own thoughts. Even the chip, where Question-Singer talked to him in his mind, her voice soft and soothing, trying to keep her own songs as simple as possible, was silent. He tried to activate it, but nothing happened; the tons of rock between him and the sky stymied him. He needed to hear her voice. Sweet and curious and gentle, and he couldn't _hear_ her.

Rage-song, but it was only his own blacks and reds. Glory managed to heave himself to his feet. His limbs worked, but were barely under his own control. It was like the wine he had drunk on the planet where the vines had grown, or in the basement of the hive on the planet of turquoise skies, but worse. Far worse. His mind was clear, if deafened, but his body was . . . difficult to control. He remembered the white powder, exploding in his face. Last clear song from Sings-Heartsong. _Midaphan. . . like on Arvuna. . . _a quick chain of associations, before a door had been slammed, metaphorically, in his face. Sky, being unable to communicate with anyone other than the little-queen herself. His abilities being suppressed, snuffed. The way azure dust increased them, _midaphan_ decreased them.

Memory-song buoyed him now. Life-Singer, queen of queens, had survived the experience, on hatching. Sky had survived it, too. The silence would not last forever. He only needed to endure it. Somehow.

Glory turned his head slightly. The room was very small. Not suited to his huge frame at all. But senses attuned to millennia of life underground told him that there were open spaces all around him. Some smaller. Some larger. Tunnels.

The lights flicked on, an assault on sensitive eyes. Captive-song-singer, on the screen, demanding to know what he was, what his purpose with the Spectres was. Glory hissed in response. _So, you know that I sing? You do not think me a low-song creature, a varren or a klixxen? But you deprive me of my song?_ _Of any way to respond?_

Noise. Hideous, cacophonous noise. Glory reared back his head, and hissed in agony, but if there was a way in which to answer their persistent questions, he did not know it.

Finally, blessed darkness, and outer silence. The outer silence was welcome. The inner silence was driving him mad. Glory raised his head again, and studied the ceiling. _Yes. If I can climb through the earth, I can hear Question-Singer once more. I __must__ hear her. I must hear her song. If she can hear me, she will know where I am. . . and she can send help. _

He had nothing more than what his most distant ancestors had had; claws and acid. Glory raised his pedipalps and began spitting at the ceiling. Hiss of stone dissolving. He reared up onto his hind legs and began to tear at the rock with his sharp chelicerae. It was not only workers who knew how to sing digging-songs.

**Zhasa'Maedan, Lorek, May 6, 2197**

Zhasa's eyes slid open, slowly. Her head ached. Every part of her body hurt. Dim awareness of being in a bright place. She blinked behind the ruby shield of her visor, and realized that she was _somewhere_ in a med bay. She started to move, and realized that her wrists and ankles were locked down in restraints.

Voices. Voices speaking in batarian, a language she didn't understand. Zhasa let herself slump back to the table, limply, but kept her eyes open a crack, trying to understand where she was, and what was going on. Memory whispered at her in teasing snatches. Gunfire. Being frozen in place, stasis gun sending pseudo-biotic energy out to prohibit neuromuscular systems from sending electrical impulses. It didn't affect the autonomic nervous system; when locked in stasis of this kind, you could still breathe. Still blink. Still think. But conscious muscle control was locked out. Then Dara's voice, barely a whisper in her mind. Ordering Fors to destroy the bridge.

Zhasa's gaze flickered from side to side. Doctors and nurses in surgical gowns were the same pretty much everywhere in the galaxy. Staring at X-rays and scan results in consternation. Zhasa could recognize the shape of a quarian skeleton, and winced. The first one showed a skull fracture, a broken pelvis, and shattered ribs, if she was reading it correctly. The second showed only hairline fractures. And the third showed nothing at all.

This seemed to be triggering some arguments among the staff. Then another batarian came over, this one in a khaki-colored uniform, and pointed at her, muttering urgently.

Hands, gloved, moving in. A glass syringe in them, and Zhasa's eyes widened. She instinctively tried to move away, but didn't _dare_ lash out with her biotics. If they knew she was biotic, she'd lose her only advantage. And chances were, they'd scrape out her brain with a leucotome and put a chip inside her skull. No, she couldn't do it, she couldn't do it. . . but how she _longed_ to lift the doctor away and throw him, as hard as she could, into the nearest wall. Fear. Pure, ungodly fear, racing through her, eliminating thought, and she struggled, desperately, trying to move away from the hands.

The syringe found a point in one of the gaskets in her suit's arms, and Zhasa felt something cool burn in her veins for a moment. . . and then there was nothing once more.

When she awoke again, she was in a rocky sort of cell. The door in front of her was made of iron bars, not a solid metal piece, and she could see batarians standing outside of it, though the light was very dim. Not dim enough to prevent her from seeing, of course; her eyes were crepuscular to nocturnal in their orientation, gathering far more light with the _tapedum lucidum_ behind her retina than a human would.

Zhasa tested her limbs, trying to make the movements look unconscious. Nothing hurt anymore. She'd apparently been out for another hour or so, by her suit's internal chronometer. Like Dempsey, painkillers and narcotics were metabolized by her body, or at least, by her nanobots, at a greatly increased rate. She didn't think that the batarians in the hall realized she was awake yet. And she could use the time to her advantage. Study the situation.

Her cell was small, and faced another line of similar cells. All with bars in front of them. The guards were pacing back and forth, distributing food. . . in the form of some sort of slop in a bucket. A ladle was pushed through the bars, and slop poured onto the floor. Zhasa could see other prisoners, mainly batarian, crawling forward and scraping the food off the floor.

One of the guards came over and banged on the grate of her cell with the ladle. "Don't suppose you want any of this, do you, quarian?" he said, in rough, thickly-accented galactic. Then he poured the muck onto the floor. "All that food, going to waste on you," he added. "But that's all you're going to get." He chuckled. "Oh, we know you're awake. The doctor added a heart-rate monitor to your suit. As soon as it accelerates, we know when you've woken up from your little nap."

Zhasa looked down at her suit. Found where the monitor had been roughly applied—in fact, it looked as if it had been tied into her suit's normal bodily monitoring functions, but whoever had done the job had had only the faintest idea of how the system worked. She rolled to her knees, and studied the rest of her suit in apprehension. Several other monitoring systems had been added. "What exactly are you doing?" she said, as levelly as she could.

"That's for the doctor to tell you. . . if he chooses to." The guard turned and left, his body language completely indifferent.

Zhasa stared at the glop on the floor, and burned a little internally. And then started to send out her awareness. No song from Glory. . . she truly hoped that the rachni wasn't dead. No sign of Dara. And then she encountered a tactile sensation, among all the limp and desolate minds in the prison, that reminded her of the springy resilience of a helium balloon, or maybe. . . yes. Bubble wrap. The human invention Dempsey had taught her to roll between her fingertips and then pop. Irresistible, really. _Fors?_

_Well, there you are. I've been waiting for you to wake up. It's been twelve hours at least._

Zhasa felt an inexpressible surge of relief at the volus' mental voice. _I did wake up earlier. For a moment or two, before they knocked me back out again._

_They're drugging you? Any idea why?_

_Ease of transport, maybe. And they seem to be wanting to . . . examine me, medically._ Zhasa fought down the choking fear again. Did a few breathing exercises, and pictured the little metal egg Aethyta had given her. Nanobots or not, that damned thing had been effective at teaching her to control her biotics and her own mind. _What are they doing with you?_

_Bargaining._ Amusement in Fors' mental voice now. _They've got me in a room with three SIU handlers. I have them believing that I'm an engineer, and that my goal with the Spectres was to blow up the medical facility. They want me to turn on the Spectres. Deliver a statement condemning the Spectres' attempt to destroy a civilian hospital._

_They're threatening you?_

_Of course. They've thrown me back in my cell three times. But all three times, they've led me along the same path to the interrogation rooms. There are stairs leading up and down from my location. Excuse me. I need to tell them that I won't consider making that statement without guarantees of safe passage back to the Vol Protectorate. _

_Wait! Where are you relative to me?_ Zhasa was concentrating fiercely now. Trying feel where Fors was. _If we can work together, we can get out of here—_

_I know that. I've been trying to figure that out for twelve hours._ Fors' tone was weary. _As best I can figure it out, I'm somewhere lower than you are. You feel higher up. All the doors on my level are fully metal. Probably so that if I explode, the mess will be contained._ Dour amusement at that.

An hour later, the interrogations started. Zhasa had been through counter-interrogation training, and Aethyta had taught her as much as she could about resisting indoctrination. Zhasa recognized the tactics. It had started with the guard throwing the food on the floor that she couldn't eat. If she'd been human, or any species capable of eating the slop, the objective would have been to make her crawl. To debase herself, even for a mouthful of garbage, in desperation. . . and to be grateful for it. Since she was quarian, it was a double hit. The food was a waste. She couldn't have eaten it, since it was clearly the same as what was being given to the other prisoners. Their bellies were full. . . somewhat. Hers was going to remain empty.

They were going to try to make her dependent on them for everything. To mold her until she relied on them, looked to them, for food, water, shelter, even approval. Of course, they might not have dextro food-packs on hand. It would take a while for Zhasa to starve; she did have high-energy nutrient pastes pre-loaded into her suit. Less than what a volus could carry, really, in terms of how long it would last her. A week's worth, maybe two. Her water-reclamation and recycling systems were the best her people could put in an envirosuit. . . from urine back into distilled, pure water inside of an hour. But Zhasa suspected they were going to treat her very differently from Fors.

It started with three guards moving to just outside her cell. Setting up chairs. They plainly planned to make themselves comfortable. One of them set out a pack that had turian markings on it. "You're lucky we had this," one of the guards said, in galactic. "Turian rations. Oh. . . wait. That's right. If you take your mask off to eat this, you'll probably get an infection."

"Possibly," another batarian replied, moving in from the right, and taking a chair. This one didn't wear armor. Had diamond-shaped tattoos on his scalp. Like Valak's wife, Nala. _That means he's healer-caste_, Zhasa remembered. _The smaller the tattoos, the higher in the caste._ The male's orange eyes gleamed as he turned and looked at Zhasa. "On the other hand, her immune system is. . . phenomenal. Broken bones healed within a few hours of being shattered. I would very much like to know how this is possible." He took a seat. "Ask your questions," he told the guards, his tone bored. Zhasa felt chills run down her spine. "I can obtain my information in any number of ways."

_Including dissection, I suppose?_

"Which of your associates was a full Spectre?"

Zhasa didn't reply.

"Are you, yourself, a Spectre? We have information that suggests that the first quarian was made a Spectre a year ago, but are you that female?"

_Interesting. Valak __has__ mentioned, over and over again, that the Hegemony limits extranet access. . . they have, ordinarily, only access to their own intranet. The only extranet information available to them is what their censors permit through, after suitable doctoring. People of very high rank in SIU, like Valak, who was gisting spy reports and external news sources for R'mod. . . they have real information. But not everyone inside SIU has access like that. Everything is need-to-know. Which is why Alisav couldn't get us better information on the ancestors-be-damned medical facility. . . _ Zhasa's mind was racing. Trying to figure out what to _do_ with this realization.

She'd taken too long to respond. The doctor stretched a little, and the guards looked mildly annoyed. "Failure to answer will be punished," one of the guards said, his tone bored. He picked up the container of rations, opened it, and stood. Unbuckled his trousers, and proceeded to urinate in the food in front of her, before tossing it, like the previous slop, in through the cage bars.

Zhasa did her level best not to gag inside her suit, but the message was clear. Fortunately, she wasn't hungry enough yet to even _consider_ eating the rations. "That was just step one," the middle guard said, calmly. "We have other methods."

"For example," the doctor noted, "I really can't get the information I'd like to have about your regenerative capabilities if you're. . . completely undamaged. I'd like to see the full course of an injury, from the moment it's taken, to the moment it's fully healed, m'lords. If it wouldn't be too much trouble."

"What sort of an injury?" Only mild curiosity. They were playing a game, Zhasa realized. Building fear. Building anticipation of injury.

"We could start with dermal regeneration. Remove her helmet, slash her face, and see how long it takes to heal." The doctor's voice was . . . intrigued. "Of course, that could make for infection."

"What about those sensors you attached to her suit?" That, from the guard on the left, who was lounging back in his chair. "The ones intended to measure her response to stimuli?"

"Oh yes, _those_." The doctor straightened up with more enthusiasm. "Yes, those will do nicely." He paused and looked at the others. "You did still have questions you wanted to ask, m'lords?"

"She failed to answer the first questions. Let's establish the results of failure to cooperate."

"As you wish, m'lords." The doctor lifted a datapad, and pain suddenly lanced through Zhasa's body. Half a dozen nerve points along her body flared to screaming life, and she convulsed for a moment. Quarian physiology conducted electricity far better than that of any other sapient life form in the galaxy, other than maybe the volus, and now Zhasa was paying the price. This wasn't the mild humming sensation she associated with accidentally brushing an electrical socket, something that anyone who worked routinely with engines and motors tended to feel more than once in a lifetime. This was far worse. Not enough to kill her, but they could ramp up the voltage quite substantially and just cause pain. Voltage wouldn't kill her, not until it was very high; _current_ could, however.

The electricity coursing through her and her suit stopped, and Zhasa dragged herself back upright. "It must be terrible," the middle guard told her, calmly. "Having the thing that you depend on for your very life turned against you. No escape from it. With those devices embedded in it, we can give the pain whenever we choose. Stop it whenever we choose." _That's the one who's trying to sound __sympathetic__? Keelah._

"And I wouldn't try removing them, before you decide to get _smart_," the doctor commented, looking over results on the datapad. "The devices are set to overload if you try to tear them out. You'll find that they pack enough current to knock you out. I couldn't be sure how much would kill you, unfortunately." He paused. "Unbelievable. Her heart-rate's already back to normal. Neurotransmitters were all over the charts. . . at least, I assume these are neurotransmitters. A little hard to tell, since so few quarians have survived in captivity." He frowned. "And yet, they're already back to the previous baseline state. Fascinating."

"There's no way out of this, besides answering the questions, or taking off that suit," the one on the left said, leaning forward.

"Let's try the questions again," the one on the right suggested, sounding bored. "Are you a Spectre? It's a simple question."

The problem with answering _one_ question was that it established, even in Zhasa's mind, how much they had to push her for easy, harmless information. And how much further they'd have to go for important information. She swallowed hard. She was going to have to hold out until they got bored or decided to take an _apha_ break. And then she was going to take off her damned suit and get the hell out of here.

The next four hours were nightmarish. Electrical shocks finally did get her to admit to being the quarian Spectre. She absolutely refused to name which of her companions were also Spectres. Doing so might compromise Fors, who periodically touched her mind, in sympathy, but couldn't do anything for her besides listen to the screams and retreat. Still, knowing _someone_ was there helped. _What was your task, Spectre? Why did you attack the medical facility? How did you know of its existence? Who gave you the information?_

Question, shock, question, shock. They were able to modulate the electrical current, not delicately, but painfully, causing her muscles to spasm, tighten on themselves, threatening to snap her own bones, making her bite her own tongue once, and she tasted her own blood. Every shock was worse than the last, but the hell of it was, Zhasa couldn't pass out. They could shock her to the point where she'd collapse to the floor, writhing and begging for them to stop, but two minutes later, her body had recovered, and she almost wanted to curse the nanobots in her blood for letting her _survive_ this.

"We're getting nowhere with this," the guards finally decided. "It's disappointing, but we'll be back once we've had _our _dinner. And then we're going to let Dr. R'sal here experiment a little more. Perhaps by then you'll have had enough time to reconsider."

"I thought I might start with the dermis, as I suggested before. Lifting layers and seeing how fast it regenerates." Almost casually chatty, but Zhasa, lying on her back in her cell, knew better. This was still in galactic, so it was still for her benefit. Images flared before her eyes, however. Images from Dempsey's memories, the ones he usually tried so hard to suppress, and usually came out in his infrequent dreams. Images of doctors cutting him open with scalpels. Burning him with electronic cauterizing equipment. Pouring acid onto his limbs, or his face. Distant recollections of pain, of rage, of waiting for his body to recover, and the scream of rage at the back of his mind that had finally broken loose, had let him tear his way out of his restraints. . . . _Fors?_ Exhausting, really, trying to raise her mental 'voice' to reach him now.

_Zhasa?_ Wave of concern. _Are you all right?_

_No. I don't think I can hold out for a week or a month. I heal, but not nearly as fast as Dempsey. And it hurts. Oh, Keelah, it hurts._

_Yeah. I know it does. I couldn't listen to it. I'm sorry._ He paused. _Eat__ something. You need the energy._

_If I eat now, I won't have reserves later._ A wave of helplessness hit her. _It's not like they can feed either of us, Fors. Past maybe twenty or thirty-year-old turian MREs for me. . . like they're likely to have many of those. . . ._

_Stop that. Despair is what they __want__ from us. They want us to give up. We've got options that they don't even __know__ we have._ Fors' mental voice was as resilient and buoyant as ever. _Eat, then get out of your suit. I'm just grateful they don't know volus physiology at all, or they'd be using the same damn electrical attacks on me. . . and I'm made of __silicon__, damn it, not carbon. _

Zhasa thought about that. _Ouch._

_No kidding. Not to mention, the electricity would pretty much flash-fry me. _Rueful awareness in his tone. Enough electricity, directly applied, rather than directed against his suit, wouldn't just shock him; it would cause burns. And volus, being so low in their body temperatures, and rather flammable, because, again, of their silicon physiology, would probably die, and painfully, if subjected to what Zhasa had been enduring.

_There are prisoners on all sides of me. You think they'll call for the guards if they see me getting out of my suit?_ Zhasa raised her head, looking around. The cells were, for the moment, entirely dark. She activated the controls inside her suit, and started sucking down nutrient paste from a tube that extended to her mouth, feeling better the instant she started eating.

_Probably not. They might start cheering you, however. Tall-folk are like that about nakedness._

_What then?_

_You're going to relax for a bit. And when they come for you next time, we're going to work on getting out of here. They're about to drag me back to my interrogation room again. If we can wait until we can coordinate, so much the better, but . . . damn. Here they come. I'm trying to keep them busy and off-guard, but sooner or later, they're going to start hitting me again._

_Wait, I thought they weren't beating you—_

_They weren't. They changed up. They're using lead weights inside of towels at the moment. Trying not to break the suit, but trying to do damage to me. It. . . yeah, it hurts. _Mental wave of resignation. _Hang in there. Eat. Relax. Put your mind in the place it needs to be for massive biotics. Ancestors in the deeps, here we go._

Mental contact cut out, and Zhasa leaned her head back against the stone, and wanted to weep. _Why can't I hear Dara or Glory? Are they at this facility? Are they even alive?_ She cracked open her helmet, and gagged at the fetid odors around her. Urine, feces, overwhelming. Zhasa really wished she _hadn't_ just eaten, and closed her visor back down again. She'd let her system finish digesting the food she'd eaten, or else all of it was going to join the glop and the turian MRE. . . with its attendant batarian urine. . . on the floor. And she couldn't afford that. Not at all.

**Dara, Lorek, May 6, 2197**

Her eyes opened slowly. Dim awareness. Something was wrong. Very wrong, actually. Smells assailed her. Chemicals. Iodine. Disinfectants. Tang of nitrile gloves. _Med bay_? was her first, muzzy thought. But there was aching silence in her head, and she remembered feeling this way before. _Mannerian's got me in for tests again. . . no. Wait. That was before. That was long ago._ She closed her eyes again on a murky world of moving figures, realizing that her head _hurt_, and not just from the silence. _God. . . why. . . _sudden images of the ceiling collapsing on Siara and Makur. Of the bridge falling on _her_ and the rest of the team. Too much effort to speak. To ask _where am I?_

Other odors. The musky-sweet smell of . . . _nitula_ oil. Batarians. _Oh. . . __s'kak__._ The thought was numb, fear rising up in her. Worst-case scenario.

Voices started to filter into her awareness now. Like rising up out of anesthesia, awareness really did take time to come back; the flash of fear had burned another layer of the unconsciousness away, as he body began to produce adrenaline. Dara focused on the voices. She understood batarian, but it was so hard to focus her mind. . . ._ "What in the ancestors' names is wrong with her eyes? Humans aren't supposed to have eyes like that."_

"_Some form of gene mod, probably illegal. Likely to be cosmetic. Humans are vain."_

"_Well, they only have one set of eyes. I suppose they have to make the most of what they have."_ Laughter. The comfortable laughter of doctors and nurses who don't have any reason to believe that a patient can hear or understand them.

"_Explains the nails, I suppose. Must want to look turian."_

"_No, some human females wear them long. With paint on them. I've seen pictures of them with talons so long, they can't even pick anything up."_

"_How useless!"_

"_Maybe those females were noble-caste?"_

"_No! These were all servitor-caste or merchant-caste. They were pictured selling wares in stores."_

There was a pause. _"The rest of the readings don't make any sense, though. She and the quarian were both badly injured when we brought them in. Considering the weight of the rubble, her armor's surprisingly intact, other than where a few pieces of rebar pierced it. She's bruised from head to toe. . . but not a scratch on her."_

"_Internal bleeding?"_

"_None that we can detect with MRI. There's a concussion, but no intracranial bleeding." _

_Thank god for that_, Dara thought, and tried to move her head slightly.

"_She's waking up. Give her a dose of that human-specific sedative—"_

"_Valium?"_

"_Yes, that."_

Fumbling at her wrist. _"Ah, having trouble with the syringe—"_

Needles still worked on her skin, just as bullets did. Very small surface area, maximum amount of force behind it. It just took more effort than penetrating skin really should. . . something Drs. Mannerian, Abrams, and Chakwas had all cursed about, to Dara's amusement. She felt something prick her skin, and the med tech grunted with effort. Her eyes slid open, and she had just an instant to get a look at the face, the eyes. . . the gloved hands on her wrist. The gloves were important, for some reason. She couldn't really remember why at the moment. . . .and then the world slid away from her again.

The next time she woke up, her head rose from her chest with a jerk, as if she'd been napping in a classroom somewhere. Her arms ached, and it took her a moment to figure out why; they were shackled behind her, chained to a chair. Wherever she was, it was dark, but rachni-adapted eyes told her that there was a table about four feet in front of her. Dara's head was ringing with the silence, and a little worm of panic was inching its way up into her chest. _How long have I been without song? Have any of the batarians touched my skin with a bare hand? If so, they've surely heard my song. . . _Deep breath. Inhalation, holding for ten seconds, measured against her heartbeat, and then exhalation. Fighting down panic. Her mind felt. . . odd. . . but she didn't feel completely dissociated yet, as she had been, just after Joy-Singer's birth-song.

Dara's training in the turian military had prepared her against the possibility of being captured and interrogated. Part of the week on dealing with 'assisting batarian insurgents' in OCS had dealt with interrogating prisoners, and, likewise, on resisting interrogation. Good cop-bad cop had been covered, creating sympathy and fear by turns. They'd all taken turns using the tactics against each other, and seminars had been conducted on the various SR ships she'd been on. Hell, part of Rel's training on Sur'Kesh, with STG forces, had focused on this, and she'd gone with him for that segment of the training.

No one could resist drugs, or at least, very few people. That was a given. You could be aware of what drugs were doing to your body—Lantar, for example, having been exposed to azure dust with such catastrophic consequences on Omega, certainly seemed capable of resisting some of its effects now—but you couldn't really feel bad if someone used, say, Versed on a human. Versed was a form of benzodiazepine. It had anesthetic and hypnotic effects. Essentially, it detached the conscious control of the body in many ways. Dara had used it on patients when she needed them to be able to respond to questions ("Does this hurt? How about when I do this?") but they didn't need to _experience_ the pain. . . such as when threading a scope up through the colon, or slipping a fine needle into the spinal column to remove fragments of metal embedded there. The patient would respond with absolute truth, and there was nothing that could stop that, other than developing a tolerance to the chemical. . . which would in itself be a bad thing, since tolerance usually was a result of addiction.

You could try to beat strictures into your head for years. Things you knew not to say. And you _might_ not say anything under the effect of drugs, but then again, you might. And you'd never even _know_ it because with the right mix, you wouldn't even remember being drugged.

That in mind, Dara didn't _think_ they'd found the right mixture for her. Otherwise, she wouldn't be chained to a chair in a dark room. _Great. They're going to go for psychological breaking, maybe beating the living shit out of me. Or worse._

Psychological breaking, she had training for dealing with, and was already working on her physiological reactions to fear. Oddly, this part of the interrogation training had been the most like her sniper training. Control the breathing. Control the heart-rate. Dara had been tested against a polygraph machine once, in the turian military. She could control her heart-rate even under stressful circumstances. Oh, she had a few trigger-points—everyone did—and she knew she was very reactive to, say, Eli's teasing. . . but in combat situations? The breathing exercises she'd done for years kicked in. And she went to her calm place.

The 'calm place,' or the 'happy place,' endorsed by her special operations trainers, was important. For interrogations, it was important not to make the place a _person_. People and associates were known. They could be turned against you. It helped if the thing that kept you calm and balanced was a place. Preferably, someplace that the interrogators wouldn't know, but that you knew, intimately. Someplace they couldn't touch in you. And you had to make it real. Dara's 'calm' place, where she went when she had to kill, wasn't the same as her 'happy' place; the 'calm' place was Earth. The blind in the woods where her father had helped her line up her first-ever shot on a deer. She was with her father, she was warm and safe, and she could hear his voice, feel his hand on the rifle, helping her to steady it. Rel had told her that _his_ happy place was the _allora_ meadow on Mindoir. Dara had always smiled at that, but hadn't told him that she couldn't picture it well enough. But she _could_ picture her room in the Lufkin ranch house. In perfect detail. The _Battle for the Citadel_ poster behind the door. The books on the shelf, Mr. Fuzzy beside them, legs dangling. The horse pictures on the walls, cut out of antique magazines by her grandma, Agnes, and framed for her. Her computer console on the old wood desk, scored by a couple of generations of Jarmans' heavy use. The warm sunlight streaming in the window, the view of the horse paddock outside, with the wisteria vines growing all along the length of the fence. The point was to focus on something that no one could take away from you.

Which was much, much harder than it sounded, in theory.

The lights came on, brilliantly, and Dara's eyes squeezed shut in pain at the sudden shift from night-blackness to daylight. She could hear movement outside the circle of light, and ungentle, gloved hands suddenly yanked back on her hair. Words, still in batarian, but she could understand them, and had to work at keeping understanding off her face. _"Shave her head. We can at least prepare her for chipping, if nothing else._"

Dara wrenched her head away and fought. Part of her understood why they'd want to shave her head; it was, yet again, a psychological tactic. Mostly ineffective against a human male, but human females tended to place a lot of identity, or at least, self-image, in their hair. Shorn hair, in human society, had been a way of shaming people back to medieval times, if not earlier. Sometimes shaved heads had been a matter of health, of keeping off lice and fleas, but even in those societies, _wigs_ had been the norm in public view, not the bare, natural scalp. Shaving a man's head on entering boot camp? A way of effacing identity, and beginning the psychological breakdown and reformation process.

It all made sense, at the back of her mind, but Dara still fought. She couldn't do anything else, but her own pride and her identity depended on resistance, even to small things. Gloved fingers locked under her jaw, digging into the pressure points at the hinge, and a second hand clamped at the back of her skull. Buzz of a razor as they forced her head forward, and then tear-jerking pain as the razor promptly caught and jammed at the roots of her hair.

"_What the hell? Did you get a dull one?"_

_No, you morons, it takes pretty much a diamond-edged scalpel or worker acid and mandibles to cut my nails now, so I've been putting off getting a haircut for far too damned long. . . _ Dara winced as they ripped the razor back out of her hair, and tried again. . . and again. . . and then gave up and got a straight razor. Cruel yanking on the hair, jerking her head back, so she was looking straight up at the ceiling. . . and then cursing in batarian as this, too, failed. _"What the hell is wrong with this?"_ They hadn't, apparently, noticed that she wasn't bleeding, either; the razor had scraped against her forehead, which had stung, but not drawn blood. Dara was just trying to relax, and picture her room in Lufkin, when they discovered that the razor _did_ work lower in her hair. She'd had eight months in which her new, chitin-based hair had had the chance to grow out; the rate of growth had rapidly increased when the workers were feeding her massive quantities of royal jelly. Thus, she had about five, maybe six inches of hair that they couldn't cut, and everything below it could be sheared away. The result was not quite what the batarians had wanted, and one of them cursed and hit her in the face with a gloved fist. _"That's for being a pain in the ass_," he told her.

Dara had tried to roll with the hit, but when you were tied to a chair, the ability to roll away from a blow was substantially impaired.

New forms entered the brilliantly-lit space, and her eyes widened. A batarian in a lab coat, and the diamond scalp tattoos of someone high-ranking in the healer caste. That wasn't the surprise. The hulking figure behind him was, however. Dara swallowed. Nine feet tall, multiple eyes, but a much more slender, wasp-waisted figure than the other yahg she'd seen. No breasts, but yahg weren't really. . . mammalian. More sort of a nightmare cross between a spider and a Komodo dragon. _A yahg female. Well, Shepard did want me to make contact with them_. Dara found a certain bitter humor in the thought, and let herself smile. _Hey, if it keeps them off-balance. . . _

"You find something amusing in this?" the batarian doctor said, in perfect, if accented, galactic.

"Not at all," Dara replied, lifting her head a bit. "I'm mostly trying to figure out why she's here. Does she want lunch?" It was a gibe . . . and an effort to see if the yahg female spoke galactic.

From the growl, that was a _yes,_ and a surprising one. She'd figured that the yahg would only speak batarian.

"My friend here? Oh, no, she's merely bored. She's been watching the other interrogations and finding them less than satisfying. I've tried explaining to her that if you pop a volus' suit, they'll die so fast, _pfffft_, you won't get anything out of them. And then you'll never get their brains out of the rug." Urbane, calm, callous words. Dara stared at him, knowing he was punching for reactions, and felt, again, the hollow lack of song in her mind. And under the silence, there _were_ voices. Brood-memories, clamoring to fill the silence in her head. She couldn't let them. If she did, she might never find her way out of them again. "And quarians? Well, open their suits, and they're pretty much dead in forty-eight hours. Though your female friend seems to have a certain, hmm, resilience to her?" The doctor shook his head, and looked at a datapad. "Perhaps I should let some of the porter-caste males have a chance at her, what do you think?"

Terror for Zhasa's sake, but Dara pushed it down. Tried to live as far back from her eyeballs, in the safe, distant place where she went to do her killing, but it was hard. Very, very hard. "In my medical opinion, I think it's a bad idea." Dara decided to trade a little information. It wouldn't do any harm for this male to know she was a doctor. And it built a bridge of commonality. What an interrogator would actually _want_. Except, she was the one making the offer. Taking a little control.

The doctor looked up and behind her, and Dara felt the blow coming before it hit her in the face. Dazed, she tried to shake it off. _Yeah, okay, you didn't like that, did you? You want it clear that you're in charge. Message received._ Her jaw hurt. She didn't have Eli's ability to think on his feet and always have the right answer. . .oh, how she'd made fun of him over the years for his inability to keep his mouth shut, even when it might have made things easier on him if he _hadn't_ found the words to piss someone off. . . but in and around pissing people off, Eli had figured out how to influence them. She'd heard it in his voice in that flight control room on Bastion. Dara didn't have that gift. "Ah, so this isn't going to be a friendly chat? What a shame." Dara could taste blood inside her mouth.

Behind her, the guard muttered, in batarian, _"We've got a chip spike ready to go, healer. Should we insert it?"_

"_No. She's a medical anomaly. She, like the quarian, requires . . . study."_

_Oh, Jesus. Someone else wants to write me up in a medical journal. _ Dara's thoughts were increasingly distant.

"Now that you understand the parameters of our little relationship, you're going to answer questions. I'm afraid we don't have any human _specific_ drugs on hand to ease the process. . . we have human slaves here on Lorek, but we don't have much need at this facility for, hmm, compelling obedience in gentle ways, shall we say?" The doctor smiled at her. "However, as I've been explaining to my dear yahg friend here, the quarian and the volus were bad candidates for non-species-specific drugs, because their physiological reactions to them are unknown. Human reactions, however, are quite well-studied."

Dara just looked at him. _Great. More midaphan. Or something worse._ The doctor smiled again. "However, Ursukkai here has, as I said, not been impressed with our interrogation tactics so far. Perhaps I should let her take a turn?"

Dara's eyes shifted to the female yahg, and no amount of trying to focus on her happy place could keep the surge of terror down. The yahg female smiled, baring a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth. "No," the yahg said, her voice a low rumble. "You said you'd give me a show, R'sal. I want my show."

"Very well," the doctor—_R'sal_, Dara thought, committing the fact to memory—replied. "Let's start with something simple. What's your name, and are you a Spectre?"

_Okay, the instructors always said to try to find some way to apply divide-and-conquer. That would be a hell of a lot easier if I understood the yahg as anything other than predators at all. You guys couldn't have captured Rel or Eli, huh?_ Dara winced at her own thoughts. No, she didn't want to picture either male in her current position. She didn't want to picture any of her friends, really.

She didn't answer the question. Instead, she looked directly at the female yahg. "So, you want to see the limits of what they're likely to do when they decide they don't need your people anymore, huh? What you can look forward to?"

That got her hit. Repeatedly. The female yahg laughed. "They find my medical expertise far too valuable. And my people, too." Rasping, growling voice. Low as a krogan female's, easily.

Dara turned her face aside, and spit blood; her teeth had cut the inside of her lip, and there were tears in her eyes, which she blinked away. _Plant the seeds of doubt any way you can_, training said. Voice of a drill centurion. Voice of her father, too, actually. At least those voices crowded out brood-voices, which were threatening to rise up within her. "Yeah," Dara told the female yahg. "You say that now. But both of your species are losing this war. You've been thrown off Shanxi, Terra Nova, and Amaterasu." She put a grin on her face that she didn't feel, and added, "And by thrown off, I mean every yahg on those planets has been hunted down and killed."

The female bristled in anger, and Dara added, lightly, "Oh, and if they haven't been telling you, the batarians have been thrown off Omega. Arvuna. Anhur. Astaria. And right now, you're getting your asses kicked on Feros, Ferris Fields, and Eden Prime."

That got her hit. Again. Face and belly. Dara did her best to tighten her stomach muscles against the blows, and thanked her stars that she'd been sparring three times or more a week against turians for five years. Muscle conditioning. Bone conditioning. She'd built herself into someone who could take a pounding. It hurt. There was no getting around that. But if she didn't have solid muscle conditioning, didn't know how to take a hit, the blows would have bruised her spleen or damaged her liver. As it was, she exhaled a little with each hit, then retightened the muscles, and tried to endure. Sent her mind back to her room in Lufkin, and held to her heart the knowledge that the yahg female had looked _surprised_ at her words. _Yeah. They haven't been telling you much about the progress of your little war, have they?_

More questions. _Why did you target my medical facility? How did you know of its existence? How did you know that the yahg would be present? What was your purpose there?_

"Clumsy," the yahg female finally said. "The electrodes used on the quarian female had more elegance."

"And yet, you see what we are learning?" the doctor noted, coming close enough to put bare hands on Dara's face. Dara flinched away. . . but nothing happened. "She's bruising. But no matter how many times she's been hit, the skin has yet to tear. This is unusual."

Dara blinked in shock. Bare skin touch, and _no song._ It took her a moment to realize something. "You still have me on midaphan, don't you? You're using it to try to confuse my mind." _When actually, all it's doing is suppressing my biotics. Making me deaf._ "I'd guess my last inhalation _treatment_ was when you knocked me out with that Valium."

Both sets of R'sal's orange eyes blinked in surprise, and he pulled his hand back. "Lock her back up. Let's see if a little time in her cell, alone, gives her incentive to reconsider giving proper answers." He smiled at her. "My dear, the next time we meet, the gloves are most definitely coming off. I think you're right about giving your quarian friend to the porters or the guards. It might damage her irrevocably, and that would be a blow to science. You, on the other hand, will probably survive the experience." He paused. "Probably."

Dara's mind went inchoate with fear for a moment, and the guards dragged her back to her cell—the first time she'd seen it. There were long halls, wending in more or less figure-eight patterns through the bare rock. Eight or nine cells, with barred, cage-like doors, on the inside, and ten or twelve cells, similarly barred. She could definitely see humanoid shapes inside each of the rock-walled cages, males, females, almost all batarian. Shapes that lurched closer to the bars and hands, dirty and long-nailed, reaching out from the bars to grab for her. Shouting, wordless, in the main. Letting the new prisoner know that there was a _welcome_ here. That in lives so bleak and miserable, there was only one real joy, and that was in elevating themselves over the newest or the weakest. Dara doubted that the prisoners were _ever_ released from their cells, except for interrogations exactly like her own, but the mere thought of being alone among them was a new kind of terror. She had no weapons, no armor. Nothing but herself.

The guards shoved her into the cell, and slammed the iron cage door behind her. "We'll be back later to check in on you," one said, in heavily accented galactic, and turned to move away.

Dara choked down the urge to appeal them to stay. That was _exactly_ what her captors wanted from her. To look to them for protection. For sustenance. For approval. This was how they could break her. By finding what she needed, and withholding it.

Of course, they couldn't know that what she needed, more than anything else, they were already withholding, in ways that could warp her sanity. Dara put her hands to her temples, which were starting to throb. She hadn't allowed any workers to come with her on this mission; she had Glory, Zhasa, Makur, Siara, and Fors with her, and hadn't much anticipated a need for mental contact with no less than five of the galaxy's most powerful biotics with her. And even so, her armor had been shucked off her like an oyster's shell. The workers, had they been with her, would have had to cower inside the armor, or risk being detected. And she didn't know how far from them she could be, and still hear their cheerful, slightly scratchy voices.

Realization. R'sal had let her see his face. He and the yahg had said each others' names. _If they're in contact with the Spectres, bargaining for our lives. . . yeah. I don't think we're getting out of here alive. Not unless we make a break for it, or unless the Spectres find us._ Dara slid down the cold, rough surface of the wall, mortality burning in front of her. She'd always known about death. She'd had the basic instruction in physics at the age of eight that had told her that the sun was going to eventually expand outwards into a red giant and consume the Earth. It was not difficult for an intelligent eight-year-old to extrapolate from _stars end; the world can end,_ to _everything can end. And that includes me._ She'd had flashes of that reality all her life. Panic-inducing, but it had forced her to strive. Knowing that everything _will end_ made her fight all the harder for it not to do so. Then her mother's death. Kella's death. All the other deaths in between that she could have stopped, if only she'd been better at her damn job. . . and the ones she couldn't have stopped, even if she were Dr. Solus. There were days when the damned Grim Reaper just seemed to taunt her.

Today wasn't one of those days. Nonexistence, the end of her personal consciousness, loomed in front of her. Dara swallowed, hard, and accepted the possibility. _Okay. But there's always something you can do. Even if you don't win. . . if you don't at least __try__, you've lost already. _

The howls outside in the cells started to die down. Dara looked down at herself, and exhaled. _What are my assets, and what are my liabilities?_ She had the elasticized suit she typically wore under her armor, and her underwear; she didn't wear bras that involved wires, and couldn't have picked a lock on her best day, even if she'd _had_ a wire. She could probably manage to wrap her clothing around the bars of the cell and attempt to garrote herself, but that went against everything she believed in. _Where there's life. . . real life. . . there's hope. Brain-dead, no. Everything else? You've got a fighting chance._ _You just need to figure out what to use against them._

Assets, therefore. . . very limited. She couldn't even reach out with her limited biotics. She had an inkling that Zhasa and Fors were alive, but with her mind suppressed by the midaphan, she couldn't hear them. Or Glory, if he was even still alive. Basically, she had her mind, and her training. Liabilities? Sooner or later, they were going to realize that the midaphan wasn't working to confuse her as they'd hoped. They'd miss a dose, or give her something else. The galaxy's pharmacopeia was wide and expansive. There were many things they could give her to muddle her mind. She might have a brief window in which she could hear Zhasa and Fors, but what then? And what if a guard touched her skin during that time period? Then they'd know she was biotic.

Flashes of images. Rape-kits. Hundreds of them processed on Bastion and even a few on Arvuna. Lobotomized humans and asari staring blankly around themselves in each location. Dara felt choking terror rise up inside her. She was as isolated as she'd ever been in her life, and all she had was training to try to calm her breathing. Slow the heart-rate. But the isolation was also making the brood-voices claw at the inside of her mind. _Sky told me I needed to learn to balance. To sing to myself. As Life-Singer did. I don't know if I can, but if I let the voices in, at least I wouldn't be alone. They're just memory-song. They can't hurt me. They might drown me. They might make me Sings-Heartsong forever and ever, but Sings-Heartsong isn't me. . . .but what does it matter? I won't even be me if they lobotomize me. I'll be gone._ Dara's throat was tight, and no matter what she did to control her breathing, each quick, sharp panting breath made her bruised, cracked ribs ache. _Telling Fors to bring down the damn bridge was supposed to make this easier. Lights out, hopefully no pain. Not this. Not all this._ _I can't do this. Maybe. . . maybe I can sing death-songs to myself. Just . . . stop being. _

_No._

Voices. So many voices. Dr. Solus, reminding her, over and over, _Where there is life, there is hope._ Her father, _You can be scared, but if you still do what you need to do, that's courage. Running away, because it's easier? That's real cowardice. You can walk away. You can walk away with your head held high. But don't you ever run._ Eli's voice. _Don't you do this to me, __sai'kaea__, don't you do this to me. Don't you leave me._

And then all the other voices, released, as by a dam bursting. Susurrations, whispers, songs, voices-of-memory, voices of the past, queens and brood-warriors. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. Dara had spent the last eight months learning to surf, lightly, above them. To tread water at the surface of an enormous tide, the place where she was still mostly human, mostly herself. Could reach down and feel the current racing past her toes, an undertow that threatened to drag her out to sea. . . catch glimmers of memory, and then cling to someone else for support, stability, like a life preserver. All those aids were gone now. There was just her. The voices. And the darkness, within and without.

Dara lifted her head and, keening very softly under her breath, let herself sink into the voices. _Let me still be myself, and I'll let you in. Let me still be __me__, and I'll be you, too. _Striving for balance. Struggling to keep at least her head above it. Feeling herself slipping. . . _Lonely-madness. This is the lonely-madness. . . ._

**Shepard, _Normandy,_ May 7, 2197**

"Valak, what have you and Alisav got for me, so far?" Shepard rubbed at her eyes. Her teams had hit the ground at 06:30 this morning; it was eighteen hours later, past midnight and she knew that the medical facility team had been missing for at least twenty-four. The teams had missed their first check-in at 18:00 on May 5, but no one in her command center had done more than take a brief break for food or coffee. She knew she was going to have to order people to rest pretty soon, too.

Valak and K'sar looked up from where they'd spent the day analyzing Shepard's brief vid conversations with Vesak R'sal. "He's underground," Alisav replied, immediately, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. . . which, for a batarian, was an involved process. "The background is definitely stone. He's called from two different locations so far. One with machine-cut walls—you can tell by the smoothness—and the other with slave-cut walls. Chisel marks."

Valak nodded and picked up the tale. "It's the same facility, however, we think. We had Joker run an analysis on the background noise. When you're underground, you need to have ventilation systems. The machine noise in the background is precisely the same frequency and pattern on both calls. So, we know he's staying in the same facility, but trying to make it look as if he's mobile. . . "

"Or he hasn't actually thought that far ahead, and they have two different comm unit locations in the same facility." Alisav took a sip of coffee, which the batarian had taken a liking to, since leaving the Hegemony. "His eyes flick off-screen periodically when he's talking to you, Commander. At least in the second message."

"He's being coached?"

"Almost certainly. A healer-caste could run the bio-weapons program in SIU, no problem, but a any other facility? No. He's taken refuge somewhere. Somewhere with the capacity to hold prisoners and with comm units that can break through FTL jamming." Valak looked away, his orange-red eyes distant. "Probably a high-level prison or a secure SIU interrogation camp."

"Okay, what does that get us?" Shepard asked, slumping back in her seat. "An underground facility on a planet largely dominated by underground facilities."

"We know they're not moving. The prisoners are not likely to be held at more than one location," Valak supplied, tiredly. "We know someone higher-up than R'sal is in charge. That means that the medical maniac isn't the one pulling all the strings."

Shepard nodded, once. She'd gotten the same feeling from the doctor as Valak had; he smiled a little too much, and too brightly. Took a little too much joy in what he was doing. A sociopath, but one who'd found a happy little outlet for his urges.

Valak looked at the screen again. "He was running on his own in the first message, I think. Then, in the second message, he's been corralled. Someone higher-up started calling the plays, as it were."

"The bad news is," Alisav pointed out, "that the tone of the message changed. It _was_ about R'sal's personal survival. They raised the stakes to 'pull back from Lorek, or your Spectres will die,' rather than trying to bargain _down_ to specifics about turning over the captives and what they'd get for each. Moving back _up_ instead of down is generally a bad sign in negotiation. Indicates that they think what they have is worth more to us than they thought previously."

"They'd be interrogating by now," Shepard said, quietly. "And by interrogating, I mean torturing."

Valak and Alisav both looked down. "Yes," Valak said, his voice tight. "Hopefully, they're following the book, and starting with psychological pressure. With a valuable asset, that's how you're supposed to start. But that depends greatly on how much time you think you have to work through the process."

K'sar shook his head. "They know they don't have time," he said, very quietly. "That's probably part of the shift in the negotiations. They're going to try to get as much information out of the hostages as they can. They're probably debating strategies at the moment. Turn them over. . . or kill the hostages and try to hide or run."

"They can't run," Shepard said, dryly, gesturing at the screens. "It's in their best interests to hide, and keep our people alive."

K'sar grimaced. "Yes. But stressed people do not think clearly. We have to keep them talking, Commander. Allow them just enough time and space to think, and hopefully think through their actions enough to realize what's in their own self-interest. If we push too hard in the next call. . . "

Shepard glanced up. Garrus was already nodding approval; he'd muttered several times recently that it was a damned shame K'sar had been born on the wrong side of the Hegemony/Council line. _He's a damned good cop, __amatra__._

"Serana, Kasumi, and Thell?" Shepard called, next. "Any luck with K'sar's access codes?"

Alisav K'sar's SIU codes were up to date, but he only had so much access. Every SIU agent was compartmentalized; need-to-know was the order of every day in the Hegemony. Not only did their people not have access to the extranet, but even people within SIU were restricted, tightly, on what they could know. Valak, working for Arvak R'mod, had had a huge amount of access to otherwise restricted materials. K'sar's investigative branch credentials could only get them so far, and would surely set off alarm bells. . . not to mention a trail of suspicious accesses on _Lorek_ during an invasion_,_ when he was supposed to be sitting in the Mindoir system, keeping watch on the putative Alliance or Spectre base there. That being said, Shepard had deemed the sacrifice worthwhile. If his doubled status was compromised, but it got her people home, it was perfectly acceptable in her book.

As such, Serana, Kasumi, and Thell had spent most of the day hacking through the few open access ports available into the batarian intranet, using K'sar's access codes, or slightly modified versions of them. . . ones that they duped and added a different name to, for example. Kasumi had also spent a large portion of the day in touch with Argus. Liara's sources on Lorek were mostly hiding underground, but the Shadow Broker's reach was long, and she had the same methods of breaking through FTL jamming to contact her people as a few select batarians did.

Kasumi rubbed at her face tiredly. "Batarian comm traffic is down. They're down to AM frequency broadcasts, but they're encrypted. That's where K'sar's credentials came in handy. . . we were able to arrange for a few copies of the encryption codes."

"Would have taken longer by decrypting," Thell murmured. "Translations indicate that several SIU centers around Kinsala are still on-line. There are five, in fact."

Kasumi pulled up a map of the Kinsala area; only a handful of buildings jutted up out of the desert. Everything else was tunneled deep and wide into the earth. A hundred feet down, and miles across. "Access is going to be. . . problematic," Kasumi admitted. "Argus has been able to narrow the search down to three. An SIU interrogation center, an SIU data processing center, with extensive storage tunnels underneath. . . including sealed document vaults. Those could be used for prisoners, she thinks. And another SIU facility. This one used for. . . re-education."

Again, both Valak and Alisav looked down and away. Shame very clearly written on their faces.

Shepard cleared her throat. "Send our teams the coordinates. If any of them are alive, the rachni are going to hear them inside of ten miles."

Her comm panel pinged. "Speaking of the rachni," Joker's voice filtered through, sounding uneasy, "we've got a brood-mother vessel and three escort ships approaching from port. I can't talk to them. You should probably be prepared for—"

_Truth-Singer, Spectre Queen?_

Shepard winced. The voice was like, and unlike Life-Singer's. Clarion call of brazen trumpets, the crash of cymbals, the throaty roar of tubas. . . an entire brass marching band. Battle-Singer was aptly named. "Ah. . . greetings. Battle-Singer, I take it?"

_Yes. We have sung to the one who sings for your fleet._

"Admiral Hackett?"

_Yes. That one. He sang to us that some of your hive have been captured? That one of them is Sings-Heartsong?_

_Oh, god. This is going to go from bad to worse._ "Yes," Shepard said, realizing that everyone else in the room was currently looking at her, but half of them were rubbing at their temples. Kasumi in particular looked a little pained. "Dara. . . Sings-Heartsong. . . is one of the hostages. We're taking steps to find and retrieve our missing people. Sings-to-the-Sky and Sings-to-the-Stone, as well as—"

_Various of our soldiers, workers, and other brood-warriors sing search-songs. Yes. We understand. But know this. We do not permit the lives of our queens to be threatened. _Low, threatening notes now, implacable and yet oddly calm. _Sings-Heartsong is a queen. She was not hatched to us, but she is one of us. She sings our songs. She is brood-mother to a queen. Her voice is ours. Our voice is hers. We will sing. . . chastisement-songs to the captive-song singers for their error, once she is recovered, or once it is clear that her songs have ended. Do you sing objection-songs?_

Shepard opened her mouth, and then closed it again. The diplomatic paper-shufflers were not going to like this. Not one bit. But she'd already tasked Garrus and Lantar with a _chastisement_ mission of their own, and both were now looking at her quizzically. "What did you have in mind?" Shepard asked. "I'm not looking to be sitting at a war-crimes tribunal when this is over."

_The elimination of the base in which your captive singers have been held would be a . . . crime-song?_ Clear image in Shepard's mind of rachni ships hovering over Lorek's desert, and hitting the ground with their biotic weapons. Collapsing tunnels, as only a rachni would truly understand how to do.

Garrus cleared his throat. "That would be problematic," he said, as tactfully as he could. "Part of what we're trying to do is preserve evidence of the batarians'. . . errors."

_We would have the memory-song of your captived-singers. Would this not be 'evidence-song' enough?_

Lantar grimaced. "For most species, no. Unfortunately."

_Then we will supply you with more of our singers. The place of captive-songs will be preserved. But you will have more of our singers with which to dig and enter and burrow and search. And such of our machines that sing air and ground songs. We understand that your machines do not hold our singers well or with comfort-songs._ _Merely sing to us when we are needed, and we will be there._

Shepard exhaled as Joker reported, "They're holding fifty miles off our port side, Commander."

She turned and looked at Garrus. "So. . .the rachni are _pissed._"

Garrus nodded, once. His eyes were still a little wide. "Haven't heard one of them this worked up since the war." He looked down at the maps. "And you know what? So long as the rachni are feeling angry, I think _chastisement-songs_ can be sung at whatever SIU facilities _aren't_ being used to hide our people. Assuming the rachni can tell captives from captors."

"I kind of think that won't be a problem."

"Yeah. Thought you'd say that."

Shepard looked at Kasumi. "Send our ground teams the coordinates and tell them to break off from their grid search. They've got a little more direction to their hunt now."

**The batarians, May 7, 2197**

"What do you mean, it's gone? The cell door is closed." The guard stared into the cell in consternation. They hadn't really known what to do with the . . . rachni? The creature had looked like a nightmarishly large version of a klixxen. Old vids about the foolish asari encountering the rachni, over two thousand years ago, stumbling onto their worlds and being attacked, their arrogance leading almost to the galaxy's destruction, showed the rachni as insectile, sure . . .but he'd never seen one for real. He hadn't been sure the damned thing had been what the doctor had sworn it was. And, other than dosing the creature with midaphan to keep its mind as confused as possible, no one had had any better idea what to do with it, besides caging it like a varren. No way to talk to it, which surely meant it was someone's _pet_, not a sapient being. If you couldn't talk to it, you couldn't _question_ it, so the only question in the guard's mind had been _why the hell don't we just shoot the damn thing? Or are we afraid that the Spectres will object to the death of their __pet__?_

There was fresh dirt on the floor, in a fine powder. Mindful that anyone who didn't _recapture_ the creature was likely to be punished, the guard edged further into the cell. Looked down at the pile of dirt, and then looked up. There was a hole in the ceiling. "Pass me a handlight," he called. "I think it's just hiding."

Flashes of memory. Again, old vids about. . . tunnels. Stupid vids, made to frighten children. He took the handlight, and peered up into the hole above, expecting to see gleaming blue eyes looking back down at him. He did not. He did see webbing, however. "I don't suppose we have flamethrowers sitting around?" he growled.

They didn't, but there were acetylene welding torches in the repair and maintenance closet.

Unfortunately for the guard, he didn't put much thought into one simple fact. Matter cannot be created or destroyed. Its state can be altered, however. The mound of dirt on the ground was slightly larger than the volume of a brood-warrior. He climbed the shifting mountain, trying to get high enough up to burn away some of the webbing, and reveal where the damn bug had hidden itself.

At which point, the loose rocks and rubble and dirt that the webbing was holding in place, to avoid it flooding the cell, promptly collapsed, pouring down onto his head like sand pouring from a funnel. A particularly large rock cracked the guard over the head, and he collapsed. He wasn't wearing full armor and a breather; as the dirt covered his unconscious head, he very quickly began to suffocate. . . .

In a conference room upstairs, where the light from Fathar shone through the windows pitilessly, Dr. R'sal was arguing with his SIU handlers. "There's so much we can learn from these Spectres," he told them, waving his hands. "The quarian clearly has been modified in some way that allows her to regenerate bone fractures and soft-tissue damage at an incredible rate. Dissection might not give us all the answers we need to be able to replicate this modification for our own soldiers. It's vital to keep her alive. The human seems to have other genetic modifications that we're not able to explain. Her eyes might be cosmetic, but they look like the rachni's. We have to assume this was deliberate. Possibly a better than low-light gene modification. Better than what the drell have to allow their enforcers and slave-castes to speak with their hanar masters." For a batarians, assuming that anyone who was a servant was a slave was fairly simple. . . although there was definitely a servant-caste, as well as a slave-caste in batarian society. "She's also resisting the interrogation process and showing little sign of damage." The healer-caste male shrugged. "The rachni and the volus are of no use to my research. If you need to execute anyone to make an example to Shepard, take one of them."

"The volus is the one showing the most signs of breaking." One of the SIU nobles shrugged.

"Is that any real surprise?" Low laughter among the males in the room. Comfortable and assured. They'd managed to track down in their outpost's scanty records the volus' name. . . Fors Luka. . . and that he'd been made a Spectre last year. . . but nothing else was known. Just the record of his having taken the oath. Specialization, unknown.

"Maybe the Vol Protectorate bought his position. Told the Spectres they'd fund a new weapons system in exchange for his position."

More laughter. Surely, there could be little to fear from a three-foot-tall, bulbously shaped creature so fragile that a single pressure leak could kill him?

"So, execute the rachni, then," the doctor offered. "He doesn't seem to serve any purpose."

So there was a certain amount of consternation when the report came back from the rachni's cell that the beast was _missing_ and that at least one guard had been killed investigating a _tunnel_ leading up and out of the cell. . . .

**Elijah, Lorek, May 7, 2197**

Eli's eyes slid open as the Hammerhead vaulted over an arroyo. It was after midnight, ship-time, and his body had been screaming for rest. Rel had more or less ordered him to get some sleep, and he'd obeyed, sitting on one of the bench seats in the rear, his head down, letting the sway and swing of the vehicle lull him, as it had so many times on Terra Nova. It was hard, though. His mind did not want to shut down. It was running in circles, and it was taking every ounce of turian stoicism he'd ever learned to discipline it. Discipline himself. Make himself be still. Breathing exercises, from martial arts. Relax the body, and the mind will, eventually, follow.

He'd been damned glad to see Siara and Makur alive; it boded well. Makur's condition had been a hell of a shock, however, though the krogan had growled at any sign of concern anyone had given him, particularly in regards to his missing hand. "It'll grow back. Eventually."

"Yahg bites don't give any guarantees," Rel had told Makur, grimly. "Krogan actually died of the _futarri_ infections on Shanxi."

"Yeah. I know. Give me the damn antibiotics and let's get moving. We've got people to find." Makur had pushed Snowflake aside as the cat had nuzzled at his burned but healing face. "Cat, you have a knack for putting that nose of yours exactly where it's not wanted."

The first thing they'd done, after getting the pair water and medical attention, had been to return to the medical center. Siara's exit from the building had scared almost everyone away. . . as had the landing of the drop-ships. There were only handful of frightened porter-castes left, and Siara had had no compunctions at all about using her pain ability on them for information. No one had stopped her, either. It hadn't taken much, in any event. They simply hadn't _known_ much. They knew that four aliens had been taken from the rubble, alive, and had been transported away. They knew that the people who'd taken them away in groundcars had been SIU. And they knew that the ones who'd just beaten feet, in the few remaining groundcars were also SIU. _"New thermal trails, at least, and tracks on the ground,"_ Rel had said, in turian, staring at the prisoners. _"But they're unlikely to head directly for wherever they've put the prisoners. They'll probably move away. Try to lure us after them."_

"_Agreed,"_ Lin had replied, and Eli had seen the sense of it. _"We stick to the standard search and rescue grid, for the moment?"_

"_We've got twenty vehicles' worth of thermal tracks leaving here in the hours after the attack, and we definitely don't have twenty vehicles to chase them with. Yes. Standard search grid. . . modified for our rachni friends."_ Rel nodded to Sky and Stone. _"When the boxes can be ten miles wide? It helps speed things up._"

And so they'd set out, never more than about five miles apart, so they could reach each other more quickly, if they were attacked, and so that the rachni, who were concerned that if the captives were unconscious, their songs might not be strong enough to be heard from afar. They'd been bouncing over the arid landscape for hours now, occasionally exchanging gunfire with passing batarian troops. It felt. . . honestly, it felt like an enormous waste of time to Eli, but he knew that this really was the most efficient way of tracking the captives, for the moment.

Across the hold from him, Rel's head lifted, and he put a hand to the side of his helmet, a sure sign that he'd just gotten something on the radio that the rest of them weren't privy to yet. "Hold up," Rel called to Lin, who was currently driving. "We've got possible locations. Mark where we're at on the map, and we're going to break from the search pattern to check these out."

Elation surged up in him, and he saw Dempsey's head, which had been locked, immobile, staring out the window, swivel, as if the man were acquiring a target. "What are we looking at?" Eli asked.

"Three to five different possible locations. We're checking out the closest and most likely ones first. Closest is an archive with underground vaults for documents. Next is a prison. Then an SIU . . . re-education facility."

_Which means a torture and indoctrination facility, where political prisoners who are too valuable to be turned into slaves would be housed. Where failed SIU agents are sent, if they aren't executed. Damn._

_We may need to come closer, if the captives are still unconscious,_ Stone warned again, his voice raspy in all their minds. _Their songs may not be strong._

"We know," Rel told the rachni, tersely. "We'll get you there. Don't worry."

Eli checked his weapons, his motions mechanical, just as Dempsey was doing the same. _Come on,_ he thought, sending the thought out in all directions. _Come on and give us a sign. Zhasa, Fors, Glory, __sai'kaea__. . . just give us a sign and we'll be there._

**Zhasa, Lorek, May 7, 2197**

With food in her stomach, and her body recovering from the electrical shocks, Zhasa's mind began to function better. She was out of her suit, and while the air was fetid, she was getting used to it. _I can't afford to abandon an asset like my suit_, she decided. _Running naked into the control center of the Prothean base on Arvuna was bad enough. I run into combat like that, and I'll never live it down._

Fors wasn't in mental contact with her at the moment; the volus was undergoing another round of questioning. Zhasa backed as far away from her limp, empty suit as possible, and concentrated. Reached out with her biotics, and focused on just the small devices that had been added. Booby-trapped or not, she was standing on a non-conductive stone floor, and she'd managed to regenerate any damage done to her from controlled impulses from the devices at close range. _Have to try_, she thought, grimly, and braced half of her attention on holding the suit down, while she simply ripped the first device free of the suit, jerking towards the grate at the front of her cell, as far away from herself and the suit as quickly as possible.

The battery pack inside the device exploded, concussively, and sprayed tiny shards of metal as well as battery acids, everywhere within a five foot radius. Zhasa sucked in her breath and bit down a cry of pain as some of them slammed into her skin, burning and tearing, and heard the prisoners on all sides of her stirring. Mutters and alarmed cries in batarian. Probably _what was __that__? _and _what's going on?_ though she couldn't say for sure. _Yes, This would have been bad if I were fiddling with this while still in the suit. . . but out here? Manageable._ Zhasa set her teeth, and lifted the suit, empty, to the bars of her cell. Faced it out into the corridor, as if she were looking out into the dimly-lit hall. . . and wrenched the next device free. It, too, overloaded, and cries of pain came from the cells around her. _Well, move back against your walls, everyone. I'm sorry you got hurt, but I'm not taking any more metal to bare skin if I can help it._

By the fourth detonation, the prisoners were all howling around her, shouting, trying to get the guards' attention. No one except _maybe_ the person in the cell ahead of hers could possibly tell what she was doing. . . and even then, the suit wasn't moving. It wasn't throwing anything out into the corridor. From the perspective of the batarians, it could be some new torture invented by bored guards.

Zhasa managed to remove all six of the strange devices, and then pulled her suit back to the dark recesses of her cell, and climbed back into it. Yes, there were rips in the outer material. Couldn't be helped. The important thing wasn't protection from bacteria, viruses, and allergens right now. At this exact moment, she needed to look like a fragile quarian again. . . and she needed the heavy ablative plating attached to the suit. With her omnitool confiscated, she wouldn't have its heavy kinetic barriers, but between the plating and her own biotic barriers, she was fairly confident that she could now handle the guards. The question was _when_ to try to break out.

_Fors? I think the guards will be coming my way soon. I removed the electronic devices in my suit, and the noise got the other prisoners howling._

_Understood. They just dragged me back to my cell_. Fors' tone was weary. _I appear to have pissed them off. I changed the whole basis of the negotiation on them, so they had to start all over again from scratch, and they really didn't like that. Batarians, masters of __ru'udal__._ Fors' mental laughter echoed in her head, but it was weary. _I told Valak that __ru'udal__ was a game for children. He laughed. These guys? Not so much. _

Zhasa winced. _Are you going to be able to move?_

_Hurts to walk. I think between that, and my pointing out that they've changed the pace of the interrogation process too many times, that these things need to have a proper flow and pacing if anyone's going to take them seriously. . . yeah. They didn't quite break my legs, but I'm going to need to do as much floating as possible._ Fors' tone became, if possible, even more weary. He'd been taking a hell of a lot of the beating, Zhasa realized, simply because he made himself accessible, in a way she hadn't been making herself. He was slippery. He made himself look like a fat, weak target, and then turned the questions around on the guards and interrogators, and when they realized it, they retaliated. She'd just gone with stonewalling as much as possible.

_Don't worry about it. I expected them to take longer to break down and start the physical stuff, that's all. I think they're worried about their timetable._ Fors' voice became brisk. _Good news is, I think the layout on all levels is the same. Long, back row of cells. Two smaller aisles of cells, facing each other._

_Yes. I think that's where I am._

_Me, too. There's a wall at the back of the second aisle of cells. Door beside it, leading to a guard access tunnel. That leads to two doors. One accesses the other side of the cell-block. The other accesses tunnels that lead to a guard room. That guard room has the stairs up. Also leads to the interrogation rooms, along a short tunnel, and to a long tunnel that leaves the room leading. . . eh, call it north/south. Haven't been dragged down that way yet, but since I've been taken to different interrogation rooms the last couple of times? I know both sides are symmetrical._ Fors' voice had become analytical, and he was giving Zhasa clear, crisp mental pictures to go with the words.

_Keelah bless you and your descendants to the last generation, Fors. You have an eye for detail._ Zhasa was impressed. _Show me the guards._

_Gave me something to concentrate on other than doing math in my head._ Fors paused, and then began to fill in the details. Guards. At least two guards had always escorted him; there were two guards in the access tunnel at the center of the cell block with its three interior and one exterior door. _You get a look at the lock panels on those?_

_No. Wouldn't know what to do about them. I'm planning on tearing the doors off the hinges._

Zhasa considered that for a long moment, and just exhaled. She couldn't manage that herself, not in one single biotic move. _Maybe if I hit the door repeatedly with a throw. . . like a battering ram. . . ? No. Probably better to see if I can hack the keypad._ Her realization that doing so without her omnitool could take hours was a grim one. _You may have to come to me, Fors._

_Yeah. I know. And we can't do any of this without a distraction, Zhasa. I have part of mine planned, but timing it is going to suck._

_What about the guard room? _

Images. Down the tunnel, in the guard room, at least three guards on duty at all times.

_What are they armed with? If they're like Council prison guards, shouldn't everything they have be non-lethal, for fear it'll be turned against them?_

_Yeah. That's where we're in luck. The ones who come for us have riot-suppression guns. Water rounds. They'll hurt on bare skin, or, you know, flash-fry me, but if those things hit bare skin on me, I've got a hell of a lot more to worry about than whether the water will burn me._ Fors' tone was grimly amused. _You're in your suit. I'm in mine. Only __real__ weapons I've seen are in the guardroom. Locked up behind glass. Shotguns. Not sure what kind of ammunition, but what do you really need for prisoners? Probably not mass-effect propelled. You don't __need__ that kind of firepower for people in jumpsuits. _

Zhasa could hear guards coming down the hall, and shrank back against the far wall of her cell. _Fors. . . we're going to need that distraction pretty soon._

_I know. I can arrange mine to start with. . . really wish we knew where our rachni and human-rachni friends were._

_Breaking out of here without them . . yes. We have to find them._ Zhasa had sworn blood-sisterhood to Dara just days before. And the quarian took that oath very seriously. _If they're still alive._

**The batarians**

The cook in the first sub-basement guard cafeteria hesitated. He'd definitely heard movement from the food storage area. _Damn __sturk__, _he thought. The scorpion-like scavengers were half the size of his hand, and endemic to Lorek. They could tunnel like rats, and would eat absolutely anything they could get their claws on.

"I said, I'm hungry, you son of a slave. I don't care if it's not breakfast time, get me something to eat." The guard in front of him wasn't happy. There were rumors swirling that there was a prisoner unaccounted for on the lowest level. The building was periodically still rocked by seismic jolts, signs that the bombardment of Lorek was continuing, unabated, in the distance. Everyone was uneasy and on edge. That didn't cause the cook to forgive the guard for the slander of calling him a slave's son. _I am going to put something vile in his food_, the cook thought, grimly, striding back into the pantry area. _I will spit in it. I will dredge the meat in the privy. Something._

He paused. The storage room was dimly lit, and lined with shelves and shelves of canned food and pre-packaged dry goods. The prison facility had to be able to cook for both the prisoners and the guards, and was outfitted to resist a small siege, if needed. Still, something was wrong. Something had definitely _moved._

The cook walked forward, picking up a meat tenderizing hammer off a nearby shelf and slinging it around in his hand. A _sturk_ could be vicious, but the hammer should do nicely to crack the vermin's shell. He flicked the light on, expecting to hear scuttling and see a dozen _sturka_ rushing out of the light.

Nothing. He shook his head at himself, and headed for the far wall, where the meat was all kept in cryo-units. . . .turned the corner. . . and gaped as he realized that the rock wall had been _dissolved_, a huge hole now visible in it, and the cryo-units all now open, contents scattered on the ground. . . and the biggest _sturk_ he'd ever seen in his life crouched over the chilled meats, eating them. The beast turned as the cook helplessly brought the meat tenderizer down on its . . . hindquarters. Blue eyes blazed with opalescent fire, and the cook screamed when he saw the fangs hidden by the petal-like handling appendages over the mouth. . . .

The scream got the guard's attention. _Ancestors, what a useless whoreson slavefucker,_ he thought, in annoyance. _He's probably just been stung by a damn __sturk__._ But when the cook was not forthcoming with his meal, the guard sighed and shoved his way past the swinging double doors into the pantry area. Moved down the aisles of cans, grabbed a container of jerky, and headed around the corner to see where the hell the male had gone. . . and stared at the scene in front of him. The chef was tightly bound in a web of some sort, struggling furiously, but unable to do more than mumble. The cryo-units were all open and a _creature_ was in front of him, still busily eating. The guard started to shout. Dropped the jerky on the floor, and then reached for his side-arm, issued just hours ago, at the rumors of a prisoner escape.

The creature's head came up, and then the beast was on him. No sound. No sound but the click and clatter of chitinous appendages on the floor. And then one of the legs came up and plunged down, like a knife, directly into his chest. So sharp, that for a moment, there was no pain. Then his heart started to spasm on the leg protruding from his chest, and there was pain. Searing waves of it.

The last thing the guard saw from where he fell to the floor, was the dust-covered body of the huge insect scuttled back to the hole in the wall and tucked itself back into the rock. . . and then disappeared.

**Dara, Lorek, May 7, 2197**

Hours had passed, she was fairly sure. It was hard to tell. The lights would come on in her cell, and turn off again, at random intervals. Dara had simply concentrated on breathing exercises. Trying to stay in her happy place, but the voices-of-memory were getting louder and louder, beating at the walls of the visualized room. The pictures on the walls shifted from thoroughbreds to rachni faces.

The guards appeared. Two of them to order her to the cell bars. "Turn around and put your hands through the bars." Cold metal of shackles again. She'd had a few hours' relief from them, at least. Then they shoved her away from the bars and opened the gate. Ordered her forward.

It was getting increasingly hard to look at the guards and see batarians. She saw. . . gray-voices. Captive-song singers. They hardly mattered at all. They couldn't really hurt her, in spite of the way they shoved at her. She drew her head up and walked at her own pace, in spite of the shoves in her bruised ribs from the batons. Walked as if she were twenty feet tall, and covered in an armored shell.

They took her up a level. Propelled her into an interrogation chamber. She looked upwards and saw, far above, a single window. A sky-light. Covered in dust from the Lorek desert, she could still pick out a hint of Lorek's blue heavens. Somewhere beyond that blue, out in the black, there were ships, she knew. Ships with name-songs. Dara shook her head, fighting the voices in her mind. _No. Ships with names. __Normandy__. __Sollostra__. __Raedia__. They'll come for us. They will. Just have to hold on a little longer._

The guards shoved her into a chair, and adjusted the shackles, so that the chain ran through the slats of the chair behind her. She wasn't going anywhere. Then they left.

Dara tipped her head up and looked at the sky for a long time.

The door opened, and her head dropped. She tilted it to the side, considering the huge figure in the door. The female yahg. _Ursukkai?_ _Was that the name? Does it matter? Does it mean anything? Or is it just. . . .sounds?_

The yahg moved into the room. In spite of her huge size, she didn't lumber; she moved smoothly. The female actually wore long robes, covering most of her limbs completely, concealing the power of the muscles underneath. "You're here for another show?" Dara asked, feeling distance in her own voice now. First hints of song. She didn't look away from the yahg's fixed gaze. She wasn't sure which set of eyes to focus on, so she let her focus be wide, like on the sparring mats. Looking at nothing, but seeing everything.

"I am told that the half-eyed ones enjoy this next part of the breaking process." The voice was still low and rough, guttural accent in galactic. "I think it a very poor sort of female who can be broken by mere mating." She laughed, a sizzling sort of sound. "On my world, when a male takes over a clan, he takes all the females in it, you know. The ones he doesn't find attractive, he gives to his underlings."

Dara made herself smile. "You poor thing. Were you given to underlings often?"

The yahg female hissed at her, raising a hand to strike. Dara didn't move. The blow would probably concuss her, which would probably be a blessing at this point. Unconsciousness was probably preferable to awareness.

The female let her hand fall, and laughed again. "You think yourself clever, don't you?"

_Not smart enough to have avoided getting into this mess in the first place._ Dara lifted her head and looked up at the sky-light again. Life was starting to come down to a set of probabilities. Raped, chipped, turned into a slave; raped and executed as an example to the others, and to the Spectres; raped and rescued; just plain killed, and just plain rescued. The probabilities on the first three were the largest numbers. Probability on the last was in the low single digits. She waited, not saying anything, and the yahg female went on, "You said that the batarians had deceived us. We can tell when people are lying to us. You half-eyed ones, all but blind, cannot lie to us."

"And yet, you're here to ask question-songs about the captive-song singers, and their love of deception-songs." Dara shook her head again. That had been far too close to rachni voice. "Maybe they've lied to the good doctor. But every last one of the yahg on Shanxi is dead. My former mate killed the alpha there with a knife to the eye. Ended his song, for all that he was a singer of mind-songs." Dara lowered her head and looked right at the female yahg. "On Terra Nova, my current mate and former mate killed the alpha there, too. For all that he sang hunting-songs and hiding-songs, he was found, dragged out, and killed."

The female hissed. "You _lie_."

Dara's lips pulled back into a smile. "Deception-songs are worthless. Truth-songs are much greater." She shook her head again. Forced herself to focus. "You said you could tell when people lied. Am I lying? Am I really that good, that desperate?" She managed a chuckle. "No. I'm really not."

"They would not lie to us. They would not dare." Less conviction in the voice now, or at least what Dara interpreted as conviction. "They value us. They value _me_ too much for that."

"And what have you done? I was told that female yahg were far brighter than their males. What have you contributed to the war effort, cold-song yahg?" Dara's thoughts were going more distant now. Harder and harder to think.

The yahg female hissed again. "I brought our medical knowledge with us. Worked on the bio-weapons that killed millions of your people." The yahg female came closer. Leaned down so that her razory teeth were close to Dara's face. "Melded the viruses of my own world with those that the . . . good doctor. . . provided." Another sizzling sounding laugh, all razors and wire. " If your people couldn't survive such watered-down diseases, they didn't deserve to survive." She smiled now. "What do you think of that?"

Dara lowered her head. Brood-voices battled in her mind with the memories of all the dying people on Bastion. The twelve-year-old turian boy who'd struggled so hard for his life, who'd almost made it. . . and then had died a half hour after surviving a crisis event that would have killed most of the adults on the ward. Dara raised her head again, and looked into the yahg's eyes at close range. "I think that while you killed millions, there are forty _billion_ turians. Twenty _billion_ humans. Billions of asari. Millions of krogan. Millions of geth. Millions of rachni. And for every one you kill, three more will stand up and fight back and send you straight to hell." Pure human for a moment, but the voices were still strong in Dara's head. Keeping her back straight and her eyes wide. She was a queen. She was twenty feet tall and covered in chitin carapace plates. There was nothing that the yahg could do to her.

The female pulled back, snarling. "Billions of you. Countless hordes. Taking every planet in the sky. You send people to our world. Tell us of the wonders in the heavens. But then you hold us down. You hold us _back_. Tell us that we're not _worthy_ of joining you. That we're to live and die in the dirt of our world. Who are _you_ to decide that?"

"The only ones who can," Dara told her. "Because we're already out here."

This time, the yahg _did_ hit her. Dara's consciousness winked out, just for a moment, and when she opened her eyes again, the yahg female was gone. _Did I just win? I think so. Made her mad enough to lose her temper and storm off._ Her teeth ached. The whole left side of her face ached, in fact.

The light streaming down from above was filtered and diffuse, but everything snapped into hyperawareness for her as the door opened again. This time, it was the batarian doctor. R'sal. He was holding a small kit in his hands, and a vid cam floated in behind him. "You seem to have agitated Ursukkai. That was very naughty of you. She's going to want to hunt and feed, preferably on you, but we can't have that just yet. Too much to be learned from you. So now we all have to put up with her bad temper." He sighed and gestured for the camera to hover near her, focusing on her face and body. The red light on the front flickered on, as it began recording. "So, you seem to have some basic medical background," the batarian doctor went on, setting his kit down on the table across the room from Dara. Extracting a pair of gloves, he went on, "And yet, midaphan doesn't seem to have the normal effect on you, that it does on most humans. Care to tell me why?"

Dara shook her head.

"Hmm, I didn't expect so. I'm going with the assumption it has something to do with your evident gene mods." The doctor produced a syringe and an ampoule of fluid with a faint blue tinge to it. "Now, my superiors had a decision to make about you. And about Commander Shepard's stubborn refusal to bargain properly with us for your lives. The debate was lengthy. You see, vid footage of one of the Spectres being broken is one thing. Seeing her scream for mercy? Wonderful opportunity. But seeing her actually _beg_ for more, though? So much more effect. Also, wonderful propaganda opportunity. We can re-broadcast it to our own people. See the human Spectre beg for batarian cock. Not even her own males can satisfy her."

"Not going to happen," Dara told him. The words were a thin thread of sound. Pure dread cutting through the rachni voices in her mind that had sustained her in the face of the yahg female's hatred.

"Oh, but it will." He inserted the syringe into the ampoule, and withdrew several cubic centimeters of fluid. "You're aware of the asari drug called _aizala_? It's potent enough in digested tisanes. Much more so when aerosolized, but I really can't have that powder flying around in here. I want my men to be in control of their faculties. You, on the other hand? Are about to have a _wonderful_ time. I do hope my men don't lose control and accidentally actually fuck you to death. It's been known to happen." He paused. "Of course, you could just denounce the Spectres. You could admit your crimes against the Hegemony. I have a statement all prepared for you to give. Detailing everything you've ever done against us. I'm sure it's an amusing work of fiction, but. . . really. Given the alternative?"

_Calm. Calm. Control the heart-rate, which seems impossible right now. Fear clutching at throat and bowels. Deep breaths. Drag everything out as long as possible._ "Let me look at the statement."

With an expression of mild surprise, the doctor moved over with the printed statement. Dara was quite aware that her feet weren't shackled to the chair, though the chair was bolted to the floor. Easier access, as it were. When the doctor was almost in range, she made a show of squinting at the words. "I can't read that from here," she whispered. It was almost a song. "You'll have to bring it closer."

Warily, the doctor took another step closer. And closer. Dara scanned over the words. It was, indeed, a very interesting work of fiction, stating that she'd colluded with Hegemony insurgents on half a dozen worlds she'd never even been to. She opened her mouth, cleared her throat. . . and lashed out with a kick, landing it solidly in the male's groin, with all of her training and strength conjoined. She wasn't just aiming for the testicles, she was aiming for somewhere inside the bodily cavity, and she absolutely intended that _this_ male, at least, wouldn't be one of the ones touching her.

The doctor dropped to the floor, mewling and clutching himself. Crawled to the desk, muttering curses under his breath in batarian. _"You . . . . __bitch__. You daughter of a slave, you __whore__, you __pudenda__."_

Laughter from outside the door. Her gaze flickered up. The guards were out there. Distantly, she wondered, in an almost analytical way, what sort of job description 'batarian prison-guard' had on their resumes: _willing to work long hours and violate prisoners. Has very low self-esteem, derives pleasure from being perceived as powerful._ Another, very distant thought, still human. _What, are they masturbating out there, or are they going to get it up in here, from the sight of someone helpless?_

The last flickering thoughts of her human self. Dara let go. Let the brood-voices come up and overwhelm her as the doctor half-limped, half-crawled back over to her. Grabbed her arm, in its elasticized suit, and jammed the needle home. _It's over. It's all over._ Despair-song.

_No,_ the voices told her, the voices-within, which had been helping her all this time to fight off the lonely-madness. _You are a queen. How can gray-voices such as these ever hope to touch a queen?_

Warmth spreading through her veins. Familiar, and yet unfamiliar. Memory-song. _Aizala_ could make a human crave sex, but couldn't make them attracted to someone that they weren't normally attracted to. A varren wouldn't suddenly look like a good idea. Unless there was latent bisexuality, the affected person wasn't going to switch teams. Night at the cave. Most of the drug hadn't affected her. Her hormones had been at their nadir, thanks to her period, but there'd been an ache she hadn't wanted to think about. Craving for Eli's touch. But she'd gotten the smallest dose of anyone, he'd been unconscious, and when he'd woken up, he had mostly been past the worst of it, too. Then, Illium. With Rel. No actual recollections, just waking up very sore the next day, feeling obscurely used, but also grateful for his self-restraint. But since those two exposures, Dara's body had been altered down to the mitochondrial level. Her hormone balances weren't even entirely human anymore.

Warmth spread, yes, but this wasn't desire-song. This was. . . something else.

Power-song.

It ate through the last haze of the midaphan, and her eyes went blank and vague. Her vision shifted. Each individual person around her became a swirl of light and shadow. Gray-voices, overlain by faint traces of black and red and orange. _Hate-song, anger-song, contempt-song. _

_The creatures came forward into the room, lumpen features, alien, glittering, bulbous eyes. Smooth, red-tinged skin. Odd sounds, hoarse and meaningless. Voices didn't matter. Words didn't matter. Only the song mattered._

_One of them hooked an appendage onto her outer shell, her false carapace, and tore. More rough sounds, hooting and grunting, meaningless. Warmth still building. Voices launching into intricate harmonies in her mind._

_Carapace torn away now. Her head had been hanging down as she absorbed what was going on inside of her. Now, her head raised. Last flicker of humanity. __Don't you touch me, you bastard. Don't you touch me._ _The song modulated. Changed. __You are a gray-voice. I am a queen. You cannot harm me. You cannot even touch me. _

They didn't hear. Not at first. Then the first one reached out to touch her skin, and Sings-Heartsong lifted her head and screamed.

But the scream was a song._ Rage-song. Despair-song. _Shaped like a knife, she plunged that up through the captive-song singer's body, through the skin contact, reaching for the center of his song. What she had been doing for months, on reflex, and what she had trained with Dempsey, in fact, hour after patient hour of the man's instruction. Distant voice-of-memory, human-song. _Flood them out. You're not toothless, not by a long shot_. But this time it wasn't backed just by her own ability.

Long ago, on Omega, Sings-to-the-Sky had been dosed with _aizala_. In a rachni, it gave a brood-warrior the biotic power of a queen. Expanded their abilities and power temporarily and powerfully. She was already a queen. Mostly a human one, but the _mind_ of a queen was already there. The way her body produced biotic energy was already rachni. The voices-of-memory were already there. Sings-Heartsong sang rage, and it was the song of a queen.

The batarian male who'd touched her reeled backwards, but her eyes were still locked on him. He reached up to clutch at the sides of his head, and blood started to trickle from his eyes. _You have sung captive-songs. You have sung pain-songs. Know them both, now. Know them forever. Sing pain-songs._ Rage and fear and despair, like a lancet, stabbing into his mind. Pouring out power, until the male's mind simply went blank, his jaws slack. Burned out. The same song that the captive-song singers had sung to mind-song singers on Omega, once a place of cold-song and metal, but now a place where a machine-song spirit sang, bringing light out of darkness. Very distant whisper of a human thought: _How do you like being the one who gets lobotomized, you piece of shit?_

The captive-song singers all around her backed away, hands raised, staring at their companion. He was alive, in a broad sense; the heart beat and the lungs took air. Anything resembling thought, however, was gone from his eyes. The false-singer-of-healing songs moved to the guard. Slapped his face, checked his pulse. Snarled at the captive-song singers, "What are you doing just standing there? Do something with her."

The captive-song ones, lust-songs gone, power-songs gone, backed away. They wanted nothing to do with the human female with the alien eyes. Fear-songs in their thoughts now, little flickers of yellow flame. They did not, for the moment, require her attention. She sent her song out. Flooding out. Awareness flowering as the drug took flight inside of her. Voices. Voices everywhere. Brilliant white pillar of flame in the earth below. . . _Hope-Singer! Now, we may sing together, sister-queen._ And deeper in the earth, Sings-Mischief's amber glow, banked for the moment, leaping up as her mind swooped down to sing to him, too. _You sing pain-song. Let us turn the pain against them._ And then she stretched her song out, like a net of gossamer, hanging on the breeze. Felt the dim touch of Sings-of-Glory's muted mind, as he crawled up through the earth. Breached the surface. And sang his own song, directly to the heavens, calling Question-Singer with all his mind and heart.

Stretched out further, fleeting past hundreds, thousands of gray-voice minds, little angers, little jealousies, fears, prides, joys, little flickers, like a city on Earth, seen at night from the heavens. Thousands of tiny lights, spangling the darkness. These were not the voices she sought. Stretched out as far as she could reach, she found the voices, the lights, like beacons. Singers. Many, many singers. Two-legged and rachni both. The smoldering red glow of a volcano spilling forth its heart. Brilliant golden glow, like a star wrapped in its own birthing nebula. The brilliant blue-white flare of an arc welding device. The steel-like sheen of the implacable one. _Many Voices, beloved brood-warrior! Sings-to-the-Past, brood-father! Sings-to-the-Sky! Sings-to-the-Stone! Sings-in-Silence! Sings-Justice! Sings-Duty! Sings-Honor! Freedom-Singer! Pain-Singer! Sings-Shields! Hear me! Hear my song!_

**Sings-of-Glory, Lorek, May 7, 2197**

His forelegs finally broke free into open air, and the brood-warrior wearily dragged himself onto the surface of the planet of night-and-day. The sky was savagely blue overhead, but he shook the dirt off his carapace. A light brush of _something_ against his mind, music as delicate as a butterfly's wings. Just enough to tell him he might not be deafened forever. Just enough to give him hope.

Glory activated the chip in his mind and sang to the heavens, _Question-Singer!_

Instantly, gloriously, the ship's spirit sang back to him. _Glory! Where have you been? I've been combing the surface for you, trying to link the chip—_

_Under the earth._ He was incredibly weary. _I could not hear your song. I could not hear anyone's song._ Lonely-madness had threatened him every step of the way, but he'd known that if he could just ascend high enough, he would hear at least _her_ voice. Mathematical. Cool. Clear. But hundreds of smaller harmonies underlying the main theme, with a voice almost like Sings-Heartsong's and Sings-Duty's, combined. Rush of coolness, stability. His world realigned.

_I have a lock on your position. Are the others with you? Did you all escape?_

_No. I could not hear them to find them._ Anguish-song, pure violets. _They may be below. Under the earth._

_Transmitting coordinates to the __Normandy__ and the ground teams now. Rest, Glory._ Question-Singer's voice was gentle. _I was so worried for you. And it's so good to hear your voice again. Rest. The others will come for you soon. I promise._

Glory sank down to the ground, letting his weary chelicerae curl in under him. Rested his head on a stone. And listened to her song. Cool metal and starlight, the hiss of photons raining over her skin. _I must go to the others. . . .I must help them._

_You already have._

_Yes, my queen._

**Elijah, Lorek, May 7, 2197**

They'd already canvassed near the first two objectives, with no hits from any of the rachni. Eli's teeth hurt from keeping them clenched for so long, and he was forcing himself to breath deeply and evenly. Relaxation exercises.

Between one bump and the next as the Hammerhead jounced, something reached out and brushed his mind. Eli started to block it, reflexively, but it felt familiar. Distant. . . . and yet far more powerful than he'd ever heard it before. Piano music, but this time, accompanied by voices. Not just her own rich inner voice, but the more ethereal choir of rachni-memory song. "Dara," Eli whispered. "_Sai'kaea._"

_Many Voices, beloved brood-warrior!_ The voice echoed in his head, and Eli lurched forward against the restraining harness, trying to stand up. "That's Dara! I hear her, I _hear_ her—"

"Yeah, got that part," Rel acknowledged, looking stunned. "I . . . how is that even _possible_? She can't. Not without skin contact—"

Stone reared up inside the Hammerhead, just about smacking his enormous head into the ceiling. _Sings-Heartsong calls! She sings queen-song!_

"Yes. Yes, she sure as hell does." Dempsey muttered. His voice was flat, but the man rubbed at his temples. "It's that way, folks." He pointed, directly to the northwest. "The re-education center, guys. I'm pretty sure."

Eli stared at him. "How can you tell which direction?" _It felt like it was coming from everywhere. Like Life-Singer's song._ The implications were a little frightening, but he was too damned glad that she was _alive_ to care about anything else right now.

"Practice," Dempsey replied, with a shrug, and glanced at Stone. "Am I wrong?"

_No! We must go! We must hurry!_

They were twenty-five miles from the prison, and Lin looked back over his shoulder at the rest of them, and jammed the acceleration on the Hammerhead. _"You all hear that?"_ Sam's voice came over the radio, sounding jarred.

"Oh yes," Lin replied. "Loud and clear."

At which point, the radio crackled again, this time with an incoming transmission from the _Normandy._ Shepard's voice. _"Listen up, folks, we've got information. Glory just managed to get his head above ground. He was being held at the re-education center. Nothing says the rest of our people were—"_

"_Commander? Let me cut you off. We just got one hell of a message ourselves. At the very least, Dara's at the re-education center, too. We're already heading there."_

There was a pause. _"All right. Lysandra says that Glory sounds incredibly disoriented. She reports that he says his 'songs were silenced' by a chemical dispersant. That probably means __midaphan__. It's the only thing we've ever encountered that blocks rachni biotics."_

Eli's head came up. _Explains a lot, actually._

"_That's the crap we encountered on Arvuna,"_ Rinus muttered into the radio. _"Causes confusion and hallucination in humans and asari, at the very least. Everyone check your damn breathers. You see anything that looks like a gas cloud, if your breathers are compromised, stay the hell clear."_

Eli exhaled. "Knew I got the volus-grade environmental seals for a reason," he muttered. Checked his weapons for the fifth time in the last hour, and watched as the walls of a structure began to loom in the distance. This model of Hammerhead had a maximum groundspeed of about two hundred and fifty miles per hour, assuming that the terrain was flat, and assuming the vehicle wasn't overloaded. As such, they made it to their destination in about six minutes. Dara's song was resounding in his head the entire time; she was afraid, but only distantly so, and he couldn't make out words at all now. "Anything?" he asked Dempsey as they traveled. " Can you hear Zhasa yet?"

"No, but my range is more like, two, three miles," the man replied, his voice flat. . . but then Stone sang, _Sings-Hope and Sings-Mischief are within! I hear them—they sing battle-songs!_

"Shit," Dempsey said, and Eli reached over to put a hand on his new brother's shoulder.

"Steady."

"Got to get in there."

"I know."

Rel tabbed the radio. "Do we have Glory's location? If he's out in the open at all. . ."

"_He's outside the fence line, We've got him marked on your HUDs. He should be well out of the fight, and Lysandra reports he's too tired to contribute much at all. Believe me, you're about to have more rachni support than you're going to know what to do with."_ Shepard's voice was rueful. _"Get in, get to our people, and get the hell out. The rachni will . . . probably take care of the rest."_

That was perhaps more easily said than done. The complex was located well away from other habitations; no one of any species ever really wants to live close to a prison, and prison officials tended to discourage this, in any case, for security purposes. Eli stared at the structure; double fence, topped with razorwire. Four sixty-foot defense towers surrounding a low, squat, one-story building. On the surface, unassuming. Underneath. . . _Dara, __sai'kaea__. . . _Eli had _never_ been able to reach out to someone not in visual range, but he could hear her, and he hoped she could hear him, _what does the prison look like under the surface?_

Dizzying hit of vision. Batarian faces all around him. Guards backing away from him, someone in a lab coat at a desk, trying to get close enough with a syringe to get a clean stick. . . _Rage-song! Come to me! Come to me!_

His vision cleared, and Eli's stomach dropped as Lin, still going over two hundred miles an hour, tapped the jets on the Hammerhead's controls, and simply _vaulted_ the fences. "And to think," Eli said, rocking as they slammed to the ground on the other side, ". . . that people complain about _my_ driving." _Come on, Dara. Hang in there. Hang in there to bitch about it again. We're here. We're coming. _

**Fors Luka, Lorek, May 7, 2197**

The song rippled out around him. Buoyed him, lifted him, contained him. Fors closed his eyes. Inhaled deeply. Wet leaves after rain on Earth, the green smell of chlorophyll. Roses in full bloom on a warm morning. _L__iepie'a'eiia'a_ flowers in bloom. Tang of salt on the breeze, drifting in from a liquid-water ocean. Scents he could never have experienced directly for himself, but relished now. _Ah, my human-rachni friend_, he said, silently. _You're awake. Very, very much awake. I rejoice to hear your voice._

_And I yours, Sings-Mischief. Sing! Sing for freedom, sing for our lives!_ It was Dara's voice, and it wasn't. Just as it was her scent, and it wasn't, too.

It was glory and exaltation, but he didn't have time for it. Fors opened his eyes, and called to Zhasa, _Our distraction is here._

_So I hear_. Clear, alert voice from the quarian female. _I'm ready when you are. No guards outside my cell. I can't tell how many of them can hear Dara, but the prisoners to either side of me are restless. It was only moments ago that I was lighting off those battery packs._

_Stay where you are, for a moment. If guards come, see if you can get them to open your cell. If not. . . there are things you can do. I'll be heading up shortly, once I distract my guards._

Fors closed down the mental contact. He needed all his concentration for what he was about to do. He needed to be able to _see_ what he was doing, unfortunately; he couldn't do it any other way. That meant that his door, with its solid iron construction, needed to come down first.

Fors laced his gloved fingers together and stretched. "Here goes nothing."

The hinges in the door were the first weak point. Working almost delicately at first, and then with growing confidence, Fors shaped one implosion charge on the first hinge, contracting it to half its normal size, and tearing it free from the wall. Then the other. Now the door was ready to be moved. . . other than the iron bar inside, holding it in place. Now it was time to experiment with a larger implosion, this one centered at the middle of the door. Sucking in its mass. Contracting it into a ball, warping its very substance. Fors stepped out of the way, to ensure that he wasn't going to let it fall on him, and peered through the half-moon of space he'd now cleared for himself. _Good. I might not need to do each door's hinges. All I really need to do is compress the damn thing down to a blob of metal, and each prisoner should take the hint and head for the exit. Shame I can't do more than one at once._

The first door was diagonal from him, to the right. Then the one diagonally from him on the left. Fors ducked behind his door as two frightened, starved-looking batarians peered out. . . in time to see the door in directly in front of his cell collapse inward into a ball of metal, too. Words on his VI, chattering a translation in his ear, _"What the fuck's going on?"_

"_What's that music?"_

"_I don't know and I don't care, but I'm getting out of here—"_

"_What about the guards?"_

Fors sucked in a breath and peeked out from behind his partial door. Compressed the next door and the next. Soon, he had a milling mob of prisoners, all seething with suppressed violence and desire for revenge milling around outside in the hall.

Then he moved, carefully, to the right side of his door. Which had a nice line of sight towards the doorway that lead to the other half of the cellblock. This one was just an iron gate, which made compressing its metal all the easier. The resounding clatter as it fell to the floor in a molten ball got all their attention. _"That's the way out—"_

"_That leads to the guard room—"_

"_Why is this happening? The ancestors don't just grant miracles—"_

"_Maybe they don't, but someone is. Let's go!"_

And with twenty or so prisoners rampaging off to the left, Fors pulled his door out of the way. And very, very slowly, limped his way to the right. There was no place in his body that didn't currently hurt. And he was about to explain to the various guards in this facility why it was a very, very bad idea to try to break a Spectre.

The three-foot-tall volus moved around the corner, listening to the sounds of shouting and fighting going on behind him. Apparently, the guards had realized that the prisoners were out of their cells. Klaxons started to sound. The building was moving towards full lock-down. Not that it mattered. He stood before the door to the guard lounge and raised his hands. Waved at the cameras. Raised a barrier of force around his small body. And then contracted the door in front of him to a congealed mass of smoking hot, highly compressed metal, which promptly fell to the ground.

The stunned guards inside were reaching for their sidearms. Surprise; he hadn't expected that. Three of them, which was also a surprise; he'd expected two, but none of it mattered. Fors waggled a finger at them. "Let's not be hasty," he told them, and poured pure biotic energy through all their nerve pathways, preventing their sympathetic nervous systems from being able to send electricity along those pathways. He could do the same thing to machines with a gravity field, and keep a group of mechs from moving, but for organics, Fors preferred this method. "You don't suppose we could talk about which of you were the ones beating on me with the lead weights? Oh, that's right. You can't talk right now. What. . . a . . . shame."

Fors held that stasis field in place, and, with careful deliberation, deployed a second biotic effect at the same time. A shockwave raced through the rock floor beneath his feet, intersected with the stasis field. . . and the two intersecting fields of biotic energy collided. Exploded.

Fors walked grimly through the doorway, and reached down into the mass of debris. Picked up a pistol and a keycard, and headed for the next door. He didn't really like turning his best non-lethal trick into a weapon. . . but he could. And he'd do it again. And again, if he had to.

The batarians were about to pay a very bad price for underestimating a volus. _And that's a bargain you can take to the bank._

He ripped the cameras off the walls before they could turn towards him. Lifted his stolen keycard and waved it at the scanner. And, as the door in front of him started to slide open, Fors reached behind him and lifted the cooling ball of highly compressed metal off the floor. Waved at the startled guards in the next room, and catapulted thirty to forty pounds of mass, compressed into something the size of a softball, from somewhere behind his head, at about ninety miles an hour, directly into the chest of the foremost batarian guard.

The guards mostly did wear full armor; they were expecting prisoners to build shivs if at all possible, and a stab in the arm or the leg, depending on it if hit an artery or not, was just as lethal as a stab to the chest. However, they didn't appear to use shields down on this level. It wouldn't have mattered, anyway; the projectile wasn't moving as fast as a bullet. The kinetic shields didn't even trigger; the guard was hurled backwards, and Fors could hear the ribcage and sternum crunch. Shouts of alarm as the other guards reached for their guns, and even managed to get a couple of shots off, chipping at his biotic barrier. Then he froze them in place, and, once again, detonated his field. The noise was getting people's attention. He could hear guards coming from the three interrogation rooms. From down the long tunnels to the north and south, more confusion, but every door between him and them was a security door. They'd have to swipe their keycards and pass through. Fors shrugged and keyed open the door to the stairs, and headed up, once again tearing cameras off of walls as he went.

He was slow on his best day. Tall-folk stairs were annoying, and his legs _hurt_ at the moment. Hearing more consternation behind him as he turned up the landing, Fors decided that it was time to move a little faster. Concentrating intently, he shifted local gravity. Took himself off the ground. Relative to his singularity, he now weighed about forty pounds instead of his usual thirty, plus the thirty pounds of his normal suit weight now weighed forty, as well. It was a strain carrying his own body weight in envirosuit every day, but at least the damned thing had servomotors in the knees and legs to help him with the weight.

Now that he was airborne, Fors threw himself up the stairs, and before he could impact against the door at the top, deployed another gravity field, this one a little heavier, to stop himself in midair. The sudden inertial shifts weren't comfortable, but he was at least moving a hell of a lot faster than his normal top speed of a stately waddle. He dropped to the ground, and tried his keycard. It probably wouldn't work for every door, especially once the administrators realized one had been stolen, and locked _all_ keycards out of the system for a while. . . but it worked at least once more. _All right. Where's Zhasa's smell coming from. . . .is it still 'up' or is it more 'over' yet?_

**Zhasa'Maedan**, **Lorek, May 7, 2197**

Only a minute or two had passed since Zhasa had hastily climbed back into her torn suit. She could feel the pressure loss in it, and various meters were blinking unhappily on her HUD now, telling her that the environmental protection to her skin was compromised. She couldn't control the suit as efficiently without her omnitool, but every suit had multiple backup systems. As such, she sealed the helmet systems off from the rest of the suit. She'd have a clean supply of air to breathe, if nothing else.

Dara's song was still hovering in the air. Quieter now, and the thorns were definitely on the roses today, covered in ice. Zhasa shuddered back from the touch-sensation; there were enough of the thorns at the moment to cover an entire castle. . . but the roses were blooming, too. Reaching out for other voices. _Hope-Singer, brood-sister, sing freedom songs!_ Then Dara's concerns turned, noticeably, inward; a sure sign, Zhasa thought, that the human female was probably having to fight.

Guards, obviously startled and afraid, and responding to the shouting of prisoners in her cell block, came down the hall towards her cell. Banging on the cell doors with their shock-batons. _Fors! You said they didn't have real weapons!_ Zhasa thought, grimly, spotting the pistols at their sides. _Must have been a change in protocol_. She waited until they were just in front of her cell door. Stared at them, like a caged leopard, and decided that these two had _probably_ been among those who'd been using the electroshocks on her, and her eyes narrowed behind her mask.

They shouted something in batarian at her fellow prisoners, banging on the door in front of her, and Zhasa struck. She'd never been able to lift more than one object at a time before, but her rage was empowering her biotics, the memory of pain, and she lifted both males free of the ground. Held them suspended in the telekinetic field for a moment, as they shouted in surprise. . . and then threw the first one into the wall opposite her. So hard he bounced off that, and back across to the wall above her own cell door; the hallway was only about ten feet wide, so it didn't really take that much force to manage that. He slumped to the ground, groaning, just as Zhasa repeated the process with the other.

The prisoners on all sides of her were absolutely silent in their cells for a shocked instant, and then began to howl and beat on the bars of their cells. Zhasa blocked them out. She held out a hand, and the keys at the belt of one of the guards wrenched free and sailed to her hand. She unlocked her door after a minute or so of fumbling. Stepped out, ignoring the arms that now flailed out of the narrow grates. She searched the guards' bodies. Pulled badges off of them, and their pistols, and one of the harnesses, which she buckled around her waist. No spare ammunition, more's the pity. No omnitool; most batarians weren't allowed to own them. One _did_, however, have a multitool, with miniature pliers and a knife and a file and a pick. This she pocketed without qualms. She also hefted both shock batons, and slid them into her new belt. _Waste not, want not._ The quarian way.

The howling had stopped, but the arms were still sticking out of the cells, imploringly. Zhasa considered it for a moment, and then tossed the keys at the closest hands, and brought up her biotic barrier.

Whisper of Fors' mind in her own. _Where are you?_

_Free of my cell. Heading for the next guard post._ _Meet you in the middle?_

_May have to come get me. I'm at the . . . east staircase, I think. Maybe one level down from you? Legs are starting to give out._

_On my way. Hold on._ Zhasa began to jog, which, for a quarian, was about the speed of a human, batarian, or asari sprint. Her legs uncoiled, and she came around the corner, taking the cameras off the walls with vicious tugs of biotic force. She pulled her biotic barrier up over her, like a second skin, dropped to a crouch, opened the door with the keycard, saw the two guards. . . and leaped.

Pure biotic force, coupled with _meela'helai_. She landed on the first one's shoulders, wrapping her legs around his neck. The force alone took the unprepared male off-balance; he was already tipping over backwards as Zhasa threw her upper body forwards, diving for the floor now. With her hands on the floor, his back was bent like a bow; she slid a foot or two further forward, allowing herself to lock one shin around his neck, so he couldn't go anywhere, planted the other booted heel against his chin, and then spun herself around. The torque and force behind the combination were as powerful as she could make them, and she snapped the male's neck before kicking free and rolling smoothly back to her feet.

The other male had managed to free his pistol, and a few rounds clipped her biotic barrier; Zhasa hissed and lifted him off the ground, before throwing him back down the hall the way she'd come. Right into the hands of the escaping prisoners. His weapons would be in their hands; it couldn't be helped, but she could get way the hell ahead of them. She did, however, take the ammunition from the third guard's pistol, before she turned away and headed, not for the stairs immediately to her right, but for the entrance to the other side of the cell block, where Fors' mind pulsed, a small and irrepressible bubble in her mind.

The keycard got her through, and she took out another set of guards, this time using her pistol, saving her energy for the moment. The keycard then got her to the east stairs, but Fors was somewhere down below, and his sense of alarm was rising. . . and the keycard wouldn't let her any further down. Up, yes, but not down.

Zhasa shrugged and got out the guard's multitool. Unfastened the keycard panel with it, and began cutting wires. Security system disabled in short order, she now needed power with which to get the security door's motors to operate. And she _had_ it. She unscrewed the base of one of the shock batons, and did a little careful work.

_Zhasa? If you wouldn't mind hurrying? They're coming at me from above and below now._

_Be right there._ The doors slid open, and then Zhasa was on Fors' opponents, an unexpected whirlwind of destruction from behind. She jumped up, grabbing the metal floor of the landing above her, and swung her feet out in a hard kick, slamming one of the batarians in the head, and sending him plummeting down the stairs. Fors snuffled in and lifted the other male behind him, throwing the male into the other guards below him, and they all tumbled backwards in a mass of limbs and pain.

Zhasa dropped back to the floor and made a little hooking gesture, lifting the tangled mass of males now groaning on the landing below them to midair. "You've been practicing," Fors commented.

"No, I'm just angry enough at the moment that I think I qualify as being in breakthrough all over again," Zhasa told him. "You want to do anything creative with these?"

"I think I can manage something." Fors snuffled. "After that, though, I think I need . . . what's that charming expression from that human classic book? The one about the rings? Kasumi made me read it while I was sitting, bored, on Mindoir, and everyone else was off on Shanxi and Omega." He sent out a shockwave, pouring energy down the stairs, and the two fields intersected and ripped one another apart.

"Rings?" Zhasa said, blankly.

"Yes. Some big quest to save the world by destroying the rings. At any rate, there are 'little people,' in the book. Who are the heroes, more often than not, by being simpletons and fools, which I frankly find rude. They do, however, have a tradition of breakfast. And something called second-breakfast. And another something called. . . elevenses." Fors sounded tired. "I could do with one of those. And maybe lunch."

Zhasa laughed, the first time she'd done so in what felt like a century. And she picked the volus up, gently depositing him on her shoulders. "You're heavier than you look," she noted.

"Thirty pounds of me. Thirty pounds of suit. I can lighten myself with a singularity. All I ask is that you duck when you go through doors. Thell and Makur never do."

"And why don't _you_ duck?" Zhasa asked, jogging up the stairs, feeling the weight on her shoulders ease a bit.

"My good quarian friend, you say that as if you think a suit intended to hold eight pressure of atmosphere in is flexible at all."

Zhasa considered that, and ducked through the next doorway, heading up. "You have a fair point."

That was when she felt a familiar and very welcome presence touch her mind. _Zhasa-love?_

_Dempsey!_

_We're coming in. You locked up still?_

_Working our way free. Fors and I are in the. . . third sublevel, I think? East side, if Fors is correct._

_Keep safe. Should be a hell of a lot more distracted batarians shortly, but this place is built like a fortress._ Tight, clipped thoughts, and a sense of overwhelming relief. . . and then he was gone again.

Zhasa exhaled, and pointed at the door ahead of them on the stairs. "Guardroom's probably past that," she said. "You need to finish eating first?"

"Ancestors in the deeps, yes. Give me a moment. Then I'll be good to go."

**Battle of Lorek, May 7, 2197**

Above, on the surface, the rachni simply _poured_ out of several of the Hammerheads. Two of the nameless brood-warriors scuttled off towards the fence perimeter, presumably going to defend Glory, where the exhausted rachni Spectre was still collapsed on the ground. Hundreds of the workers were racing off to the east, a steady stream of them, following the sound of a queen's call. A half-dozen soldiers went with them; the rest stayed with the Spectres.

The Hammerheads were taking fire from the two towers on the western side of the prison. Sam shrugged and ordered each crew to man their own turrets. In his vehicle, Rinus crawled up and took control of the gun, a look of glee on the normally stern and reserved face. In the other, it was his brother, Rellus, on the guns. When both towers were pouring smoke from their ruined tops, Sam called a halt. "I can see two entrances on this side," he told them all, simply. "Looks like a loading dock to the north. Motor pool or something else on the south. This is an SIU facility, folks. The prison guards might be pushovers, but the SIU people will not be. We also don't want to wreck the whole building. There are likely to be prisoners down below. Lots of them. We wreck the building, we kill _them_."

_Many life-songs in the earth_, Sky acknowledged, and they all heard. _Mostly gray-voices, but all sing desperation. Some now sing hope. _

"Give us a view of where our people are, and what we're looking at." Sam's voice was distant. He was going to war; his mind and body were ready for it.

Battle-vision flared to life; with Sky and Glory and a half-dozen other brood-warriors, it was far more detailed than it usually was. Sam could see down into the earth, dizzyingly. Could see guards moving, could see prisoners dimly shifting around. "Looks like quite a few prisoners are actually getting free. Our people?"

_Yes. Sings-Mischief and Hope-Singer are . . . singing loudly._

"Good. Long may they sing. Vulcan, Nyx, you're with me. We're point, loading dock area. There's likely to be supplies, so it'll have naturally a few more defenses. Virtus, your team is with us. There's not exactly a lot of ways to _sneak_ in at this point, so Nyx, you and I are just going to be doing what we do best. Until we see a way to go around and flank guard posts or anything else like that."

"Understood." Seheve's voice was tight.

"Gris? You and Sky take your team in through the motor pool. Please, no large fires or major structural damage. And the knock-knock jokes are probably a bad idea this time."

"Not a problem," Gris rumbled over the radio. "Haven't figured out the last joke the geth used yet, anyway. He said it was related to human religion. I asked which one, and got way more information than I ever wanted to know."

Sam's lips quirked, in spite of himself, and then he and the rest of the Spectres leaped out of their vehicles and headed for their designated doors. Linianus and Eli were at the head of their line, shields in place, protecting the others, though Dempsey was simply walking, implacably, beside them, his double layer of shields taking a beating from the withering fire directed at them by the batarian defenders; Rinus, Rel, and Stone did their best to stay in cover behind the other three, but Stone was an obvious and very large target for the defenders.

Sam was already stealthed, as was Seheve. He tabbed his radio. "All right, Nyx. Time for you and me to clear the way."

"Yes." The drell hesitated. "What did she mean?"

Sam's attention was on the first batarian he could see, a male poking his assault rifle out of a broken window in the side of the building. "What did who mean?"

"D. . . Freya. She spoke all of our names, before. As Sings-to-the-Sky would. I did not hear my name. . . Sings-Despair." The drell female sounded. . . not really hurt. Seheve would never allow any such thing to interfere with the job at hand. But she did seem to require. . . clarification.

"Little darlin', I'm pretty sure she did say your name. She just pronounces it _Freedom-Singer_ instead." Sam got ready to move. "It's the accent, you know. We can't really help it."

Now, no more room for thought. Just clear economy of motion as Sam raced in from an angle, taking advantage of the rest of the team's distraction. Caught his batarian leaning out of the window, and grabbed the arm braced under the weapon and the back of the male's neck, hauling him bodily through the broken glass of the window, sending the batarian face-first into the concrete around the edge of the building. He slammed a knee down on the back of the male's neck and made sure his target was dead, drawing his pistol and administering two to the back of the head. Then he tabbed his stealth device and _moved._ Anyone with a stealth device who held still at their last position in combat? Was stupid or dead. Usually, both.

On the other side of the large loading bay door, Seheve had reversed Sam's technique; rather than pulling her victim out, she'd waited until the batarian pulled back in to load another clip. Then she simply caught the top sill of the window, pulled herself up, and shot her legs into the room beyond her target, landing softly on the ground as the batarian, oblivious to his impending death, leaned back out. Sighted in on the advancing line of humans, turians, and one rachni.

And then looked down in consternation as his shields completely died. Seheve's fingers had brushed the controls of the SIU operative's omnitool, killing the field. . . which allowed her to use her vibroblade at the back of the batarian's neck. Clean strike, between the third and fourth vertebrae of the neck, just under the skull. Brainstem severed, the batarian fell to the ground without a sound.

Then she slid her stealth net back over her, and _moved_. This small room was probably used for storage most of the time; certainly there were boxes of spare parts all around. It opened into the main loading area, however, where several huge groundtrucks were parked, their rear hatches open. Porters had been interrupted in unloading supplies, particularly food and ammunition. There were guards all around the large metal door, which looked to roll up and down to allow trucks in. "Five guards inside. All heavily armed. It looks as if they've been trying to prepare for our arrival. . . or they fear insurgents. I see. . . grenade launchers. Two machine-gun turrets, the floating, robotic type, as well."

"Understood. Do what you can. I'm coming in through the other window. Everyone else? Take out the door."

Seheve moved in behind another batarian, and replicated her nearly-silent takedown of the first, dragging this one's body behind one of the groundtrucks, undetected. And as she leaned out around the groundtruck, she could clearly see the metal of the giant loading door begin to glow. Red-hot. . . and then it pulled back on itself, like a curtain being parted. _Ah. Stone is at work. _

Meanwhile, far below, Sings-Heartsong was holding her captors at bay, but just barely. _"Look,"_ one of them, the cold-song one with the needle in his hand, snapped at his hive-mates, "_if she __could__ do to us what she did to Merkan there, we'd all already be dead. Just hold her down while I give her this damn sedative—"_

The captive-song singers were backing away. Trying to get out the door, without looking as if they were fleeing. _Coward-song creatures, craven and foul._ She turned her eyes back towards the cold-song one. Felt, rather than saw, a shadow pass over her. Then the room darkened, as if a cloud had passed the face of the sun. She raised her head, looking upwards towards where the forlorn shaft of light had pierced the gloom. The window was blotted out now. Dark bodies. Hundreds of them. Scrabbling at the glass. Spitting acid. Pressing down with the weight of all their bodies. Low-song chorus not cheerful at all for once.

—_We come, little-queen, we come at your call! _

The window overhead shattered. She ducked her head to avoid the falling glass, and then the workers were falling too. Their bodies were so light, and they spread their carapaces out to catch the air, so they didn't take any damage as they fell, but they poured in like rice or sand through a funnel, endless and inexorable. They dropped onto her body in a light patter, swarming her instantly. Several hissed as they found the shackles, and began to dissolve them, spraying acid, trying to avoid her bare skin. The rest of them. . . and the soldiers who now began dropping, more heavily, through the small window. . . turned on the cold-song captive-singers.

Her head was still bowed, but she could feel the cold-song one backed away, raising his hands, demanding, "_What the __fuck__ is going on here?"_

"_You sang in error,"_ she replied. She knew his language, and didn't want to hear any more of his foul songs. She wouldn't sing to him, not in any real way. _"And the error was three-fold. You sang disease-songs and dissonance to try to end the lives of so many others. You allied with the devourers, and set them to feast on our worlds. And third. . . you thought that I was alone."_ She raised her head, as the workers behind her severed the last link in the shackles, and she brought her hands, throbbing with the return of blood, alien-looking and a little purple in color, back in front of her. _"I am never alone. None of us are."_

—_Death-song now?_

_Yes. Death-songs. We sing battle-songs together now._ She stood, sensing the captive-song ones stumbling back out into the corridor, as the workers raced at the cold-song one, the one who sang false healing-songs. Raced up his body as he screamed in terror. Bore him to the ground with their weight, as the soldiers came up behind her. Nuzzled at her hands. The little workers began to secrete acid, and tear with their tiny pinchers, and Sings-Heartsong simply watched, while at the back of her mind, a lingering part of her still wanted to cover her eyes as they dissolved and rent the body of the false-song healer who'd spawned the plagues that had swept over the galaxy. She loved her little workers, her cheerful, happy chorus. Part of her didn't want to see the savagery they were capable of . . . but the greater part of her, for the moment, simply accepted it. Accepted them. For they were her and she was them.

And then they looked up from the remains of the body, and chirruped, _—Cold-song one will sing no more. _

_Good._

—_Joy-songs! You sing approval songs for us!_

She looked down at herself and frowned. Her battle-carapace had been stolen. Her weapon claws were missing. Her thinner carapace had just been torn from her body by the cold-song ones in their lust and desire for power and control. She was bare-skinned, and that meant _vulnerable_.

—_We fix!_

The workers swarmed back over her body, little tickling feet everywhere, and she smiled. Twelve of them, overlapping, covered the front of her torso; the same number, overlapping, covered her back. Constantly shifting, constantly in motion, but offering their bodies and their lives for her, as she would do for them, if she could. Each worker weighed one to four pounds, depending on their size; her armor, on a given day, weighed about thirty. Her medical pack and weapons weighed, on any given day, twenty to thirty pounds. Between the strength mods and the constant training over the past five years to _run_ in a full kit weighing between fifty and sixty pounds, her body was more than able to deal with their weight. Forty-eight pounds for the torso. A few more workers, the lightest ones, clambered up to her head. Others swarmed down her arms, leaving her legs bare for now. Dozens and dozens of them rippled around her feet, like a pool of green water, with their tiny blue eyes looking up at her, ready to race up her legs and form a second skin there, too, though she would definitely be encumbered if they added their weight to those already on her body.

She lifted her head and listened. Songs all around her. Swirls of them. Hope-Singer and Sings-Mischief, working their way up from under the earth, at the other side of this desperation-filled, fear-song hive. Many-Voices, Sings-to-the-Past. . . above and to the south of her. _I must go to them. I must join my songs to theirs._

—_We follow!_

She walked out of the room, shackles still silver on her wrists, but unbound. As she did, the walls around her shook at two distinct detonations, followed by a third, and all lights in the prison shut down as power failed. In the darkness of the corridor, the only thing visible were blue eyes, glowing with opalescent fire. Dozens of them, dotted around the outline of a humanoid figure, female, a shadow among the shadows. Eyes on the floor, and on the walls. Larger eyes, moving steadily and smoothly at waist-level. An almost endless stream of them, passing through the blackened halls.

And when the batarian guards on this, the first level of the prison below the surface. . . they screamed and tried to run, but the dark tide, filled with eyes, raced after them. Silent songs of the workers and the soldiers. _—Death-songs! Death-songs! Death-songs!_

Up above, Dempsey moved forward with Elijah and Pellarian. His mind was very distant at the moment; they'd taken out most of the batarians in the loading dock area; Stone was pinned down with the Velnaran brothers, taking out a few final SIU defenders. Liakos and Jaworski were busily trying to work the lock on the door that lead out of the loading area and into the rest of the building. Dempsey looked around. Shrugged. And, face set under his polarized helmet, he pulled himself up into the cab of one of the ground trucks. The key wasn't in the ignition, but that wasn't really a problem for someone with his level of technical skill. "Everyone might want to get out of the way," Dempsey noted on the radio. Then he pulled up both layers of his shields and buckled the restraining harness. He rolled the vehicle forward, toward the gap Stone had already made in the outer defenses, then jammed the vehicle into reverse. He had a hell of a lot of mass, with the long trailer behind the cab, after all, and only so many feet in which to pick up speed and the inevitability of inertia.

Dempsey floored the accelerator, and heard the tires screech on the cement, and then he just powered back into the wall itself, rocking back and forth in the seat crashing through the first barrier, into a hallway, and then back into something else that, as he stuck his head out the window (the rearview mirror had been torn off as the cab went through the first wall), appeared to be a second wall.

He jumped out of the cab as the others caught up with him, bullets from the stunned batarians inside what appeared to be a guardroom already starting to tear at his shields. Sam chided over the radio, "I thought I said _no structural damage_, Thor."

"You said no _major_ structural damage, Orpheus. The building's still standing." Dempsey peered through the gap he'd just made, feeling Sidonis move up at his side. There were a dozen guards around the staircase that led down, and beyond them, a room with double doors opened wide to show at least a dozen mechs. Mostly LOKIs, but a couple of Colossus mechs. Of the batarians in the guard room, only one carried a vibrosword.

_Other problems exist_, Stone told them, yellow alarm in his song. Dempsey raised his head. Sure enough, batarians were boiling out of the rooms to the south. "We going to get hit to the north, too?" he asked, dryly.

_No. Pain-Singer used her battle carapace, and Sings-Shields used his weapon-claw to tear through the wall there. They are fighting down this long tunnel._ Battle-vision sparked behind Dempsey's eyes again, and it was as if he could see through the body of the truck that protected them from the bullets firing from the north. Could see Gris and Makur charging in, explaining the echoing roars. Hear the slam, slam, slam of the mech's metal feet as Siara moved up in their wake. "Huh. Kirrahe's probably just waiting for the right moment to unleash some sort of technological terror on the right group of batarians." His shields sparked blue. His first inclination was to jump over the gap in the wall and move in on the batarians, but he paused. Turned. Looked at Jaworski. "You and Virtus have to make the calls here." He turned his head slightly, including Velnaran in his gaze. "You want us south or center?"

"Your team, center. Nyx, Vulcan, Stone, and I will go south. Be careful." Jaworski's voice underlined the words, and then the three of them turned south and started taking care of the batarian threat there.

"You ready?" he asked Elijah and Pellarian, and got nods. Got a nod from Velnaran, too. And then Dempsey, Pellarian, and Sidonis were up and over the shattered portion of the wall. Bullets pouring at them from every direction. Velnaran used their distraction as the setup to use the grenade launcher he'd brought with them, throwing the closest group of batarians back into the nearby wall.

Then Dempsey activated his chip, and started mowing down shields. Found a batarian. Warp. Overload. Throw. Warp. Overload. Fire with his assault rifle until the pain in his head dissipated, if only a little. Awareness of Elijah moving in beside him, ahead of him, planting there with his shield. Giving his own kinetic shields a chance to regenerate, and for him to bring his biotic barriers back up again. The edges of his vision were starting to fade out, however. The white place, where the pain lived, was coming back and threatening to consume him. Flakes of wallboard tumbling down from above, like snow. Slow motion descent, knocked down by the grenade blast of moments before.

For an instant, everything started to move rapidly again. Sidonis, firing rapidly, pin-point accuracy, taking out the nearest batarian, while one of the technicians, who'd been hiding behind a desk, leaned out and sent electrical current flooding through Dempsey's shields and body.

He gritted his teeth against the pain, but everything was distant now. He leaped over the desk, taking bullets point-blank from the tech, feeling the impact through armor and into the flesh underneath. Standing atop the desk, he brought his biotic shields back online, mechanically . . . warped the tech's shields out of existence. Another blinding flash of pain behind his eyes. . . he and brought to bear the new Revenant assault rifle he was carrying. He'd gone to the _Normandy's_ range to renew his qualification on this weapon before this mission. He hadn't used one since basic. But there wasn't much that was different about a full assault rifle than his usual submachine gun, than the kick. And Dempsey was more than suited to handle the kick.

Bullets hailed down at the tech, but the others in the room were firing on him now, seeing an open target. Pellarian scrambled into position, covering him now as Dempsey dropped down and once more got back to his job. Warp. Overload. Throw. Another fusillade of grenades from Velnaran, tearing out part of the nearby wall.

The officer with the vibrosword scrambled behind a desk. Hit a button. . . and all the mechs in the room beyond this guard room activated. "Son of a _bitch,_" he could clearly hear Sidonis mutter.

"Thor!" Velnaran called. "You and me, on the mechs. Forseti, Tyr, clean up the rest of the batarians, then, with us!"

Dempsey didn't need much more in the way of an invitation as Velnaran moved up and they both opened fire on the front rank of LOKIs. "Down!" Velnaran shouted, suddenly, and shoved him over, thought-fast reflexes, as something shot by over their heads. Dempsey looked up to see a fucking _spear_ imbedded in the far wall, just over Pellarian's head; a cable was attached to it, singing tautly, still attached to the far right Colossus' hand. "If you're going to handle the mechs, handle the damn mechs!" Pellarian shouted back over his shoulder at them.

Dempsey pulled himself back up off the floor. Ducked around the corner. "I'm going to hack one of the big ones," he said, flatly. "Hold the others off, Virtus."

"Doing my best. You really think you can get one of the big ones?"

"They're slaver-grade. Meant for chasing after escaped prisoners, and how often you think a place like this actually has an escape? You think they've _ever_ updated their security protocols?" Dempsey worked at keeping the irony out of his voice.

"Fair point. I'll cover you. Just work fast." Rel's voice was taut, and Dempsey could admire the pure skill in the male as he ducked out, fired off quick rounds of ammunition, then ducked back. Each time, another LOKI was down on the ground. "Next round, I'm using the grenade launcher. Going to be loud," Rel warned.

"That's fine." Dempsey gritted his teeth against another surge of pain as he opened his chip fully. This, he hadn't done since the Spectre trials. Hated doing it, in fact. But there was no one else in the room who could, so that left . . . him. Wireless signals began to transmit from his chip, which began to heat inside of his brain; the regeneration began to repair the neural damage immediately, of course, but it still hurt. Intensely. He began to barrage the Colossus with commands, by-passing its firewalls, rewriting sections of its codes with data stored in his own chip. Copying files there wholesale. Altering the friend-vs.-foe routines.

Dempsey opened his eyes, feeling sweat pour over his face, and turned around again, in time to see the Colossus on the left turn and fire its rocket at the one on the right. At close range, and in an indoor setting? Not a great idea. The room filled with smoke, and half the ceiling collapsed, revealing blue sky above, the smoke curling upwards now in a column. "Outstanding," Rel said, grinning, and opened fire on the LOKIs once more. "Can you control that thing more closely?"

"Not. . . really." Dempsey raised his gun and fired again. The hostile Colossus had had its shields taken down, but now returned fire on the hacked mech with its own rocket launcher. The rest of the ceiling in the mech enclosure promptly collapsed. And when the smoke cleared, they'd taken out all the LOKIs, but the two Colossus mechs still remained. _Oh. Shit. Not good._

A harpoon winged by his head as Dempsey rolled out of the way. Now two cables were strung, like cat's cradle of steel, criss-crossing in the doorway of the room. "Virtus? You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"If you're thinking we better keep moving, then _yes_." Velnaran went right and Dempsey went left. Tucked and rolled and came back up as the Colossus to the right fired directly at him.

"Get them firing towards each other, once they've acquired us," Dempsey called.

"Love the idea, but they can drop those cables any time they want—"

"Trust me." Ducking, dodging, trying to make damn sure the mech had _him_ acquired, and not Velnaran._ Now. _He needed to move, and move now. Dempsey sprinted across the room at a diagonal now, aiming for the wall behind Velnaran's mech, just as Velnaran passed him, aiming for the wall behind Dempsey's. Both mechs tracked and fired another harpoon each. Now, there were six total cables, all at about waist height in the room, making navigation difficult. . . but all the points of contact were _away_ from these corners of the room. The mech he was behind, couldn't actually fire at him. The mech Velnaran was behind, couldn't turn to fire at him, either. Not without dropping the harpoon cables entirely. "Get 'em to turn," Dempsey called. The mechs had regenerated their shields, so he warped and overloaded the one in front of him

Walls grated and groaned as the mech started to turn. . . then the self-preservation protocols kicked in, and the mech in front of him unlocked the cables. _Damn. Okay, so much for tripping them up in their own cables. Was worth a shot._ "Virtus! Move out in front of yours!"

"What?" Velnaran shouted back. "You want me in _front_ of it now?"

"Trust me."

"Oh, son of a _villi,_" Velnaran muttered, and ducked out in front of his own mech now, just as Dempsey ducked out in front of his own mech, forcing it to follow him. He dodged under its arm and watched as its targeting sensors clearly locked back onto Velnaran. It had friend-vs.-foe targeting priorities, and wasn't going to fire on its own fellow mech again, not without being hacked. But its harpoon-gun raised, lowered, tracked Velnaran, and just before it launched, Dempsey reached out, and with all the strength of his cybernetically-enhanced arms, lifted up, jerking the mech's arm out of alignment with the turian's chest.

The harpoon thudded out, and landed directly in the opposing mech's chest. It wasn't a kill shot, but it was definitely damaging, and then Dempsey had to duck out of the way of the return shot. . . which Velnaran couldn't disrupt the trajectory of, at all. The harpoon caught Dempsey's left arm, through the hardsuit, and knocked him to the ground.

Dempsey's world went white. There was pain, and there was a lot of it. Dim flashes of his own right hand, reaching up. Pulling, hard, on the harpoon. Flash of staggering pain as the barbed head pulled back through the arm. . . then lifting the bloodied shaft and throwing _and himself_ through the air. Slamming into the mech's body, slamming the spear through its optical receptors, the spear in his hand wrapped in pure biotic force, the way he'd shown Madison how to wrap his hockey stick on Mindoir, almost a year ago. . . . Flash of the mech starting to overload, smoke pouring out of its compartments. "It's going to blow! Thor! Get the hell off of it!" Velnaran shouted, and that brought Dempsey out of it. He leaped off the machine, landing lightly, and started to run. . . at which point, the mech's eezo reactor core exploded, in a blue-white flash. The other mech, already damaged, and its shields down, was instantly damaged. . . and detonated, too. The boiler room of the building, past the mech enclosure, apparently, went up in flames, the furnace inside of it _also_ exploding.

The lights overhead went out, and the sun still beat down through the shattered roof, but Dempsey wasn't conscious to know it.

**Elijah, Lorek, May 7, 2197**

Ducking, dodging, weaving. The last batarian, was noble-caste and was, damn it all, that rarest of things: a batarian biotic. Nobles wouldn't have been sacrificed to the chipping technology, and the son of a bitch wouldn't hold _still_. Eli and Lin were trained to stand, shoulder-to-shoulder, overlapping their shields, and the bastard would start from range, toss some kind of biotic attack at them that made their shields flicker and die, and then dash in, with the full force of his biotics behind the charge. The first time, Eli had landed flat on his back, and Lin had shield-bashed the guy off of him. Now, each time, they turned to face him. He'd dash in, hit, slash with his vibrosword once or twice, always from a forty-five degree angle, forcing them to turn again to face him, and then charge right back out again.

Eli swore and tracked the male with his pistol, firing just ahead of where the male was now, and scored a double-tap, center mass—his first in the past several minutes. And then swore as another goddamned harpoon slammed into the wall just over his head, flying out of the mech enclosure room. _Come __on__, Dempsey, wrap it up, we need a biotic out here, __now__, and I don't count worth a damn._

"_Fradu_, can we do anything about this son of a bitch?" Eli muttered.

"Working on it," Lin told him, grimly. "We split up, he can only hit one of us at a time, and the other one has time to aim."

"No good. Whichever of us he hits, winds up flat on our back. Alternately—"

The male charged right back in, and they both leaned into it, bracing to receive the hit. Took the impact against their shields, and Eli swore again, mentally. His left arm had been hit so many times now that he couldn't feel it at all, and he was having trouble holding his shield up now. Lin caught and deflected the vibroblade hit on his own shield, and Eli spun away from Lin now, firing point-blank into the batarian's side with his pistol. A muffled curse, and the male sped away again. "We can do this, _fradu_," Eli said, grimly. "May take forever, but we hold the line, whichever one he attacks, defends, the other one spins out and attacks." _He's got shields, but every shot we take while he's moving around like that takes 'em down another notch._

Lin's aim was just as good as Eli's, and he, too, managed to tag the batarian as he zipped away. "Yeah. Just a matter of time, really. Got to be patient—"

"Not a pewter figurine, Lin—"

And that was when the first explosion went off behind them. Lin was in the actual doorway between the mech enclosure and the guard room; Eli was protected by the wall. Both of them were driven to their knees, but the second and third explosions produced a blast wave, directed and channeled by the doorway, that lifted Lin off his feet and hurled him across the room. Eli's pistol was torn out of his hand, and he managed to regain his feet, suddenly aware that the room around him was on fire. "Forseti! Thor! Virtus!" _Come on, __fradae__, where are you?_

No answer. Eli was torn. He wanted—no, needed—to go check on his friends, but he drew his vibrosword off his back instead, turning in a wary circle, the flickering light of the flames all around him, like . . . _curtains in hell_, part of his memory whispered to him. He had no idea where the batarian was. The male had been in mid-dash across the room _away_ from them when the blast had hit. He could have been propelled out into the corridor. He could be dead. _Lin could be dead. Dempsey, too. Rel. Fire inhibits regeneration, god damn it. Come on, fucker. Come out, come out, wherever you are. I've got better things to do than fight you._ _Three brothers to pull out of the fire and one Dara to dig up from underground. So come on out, you motherfucker. Come on out and fight._

The only warning he had was the scrape of a boot against the floor, and then the slam of a body propelled by biotics against his shield. Eli grunted, staggered, and held up by pure willpower. The good news was, the batarian's shields were down, torn asunder by the blast. The bad news was,_ so were his._ He swung his vibrosword, slashing at the male's legs, low. No finesse, just a brutal gladiatorial chop meant to slash through tendons and impede movement. The batarian twisted at the last movement, and all Eli caught was calf muscle, but at least he'd _hit_ the bastard. The batarian swung at him, and he managed to catch it on his shield, the vibroblade rebounding off his chitin-covered shield, and then the male was racing away again. Eli tried to track his movements through the burning room. Felt the sizzle of _something_ biotic searing away at his armor. . . and his shield, much battered already, shattered in half. _Fuck._

He threw down the shattered remains of the shield, and held his sword loosely. Everything Lantar had taught him about gladiatorial style came back to him now. Hundreds of hours, working with Lin and Lantar in the garage back home. His step-father's patient voice, reminding them, _This is what it's all about. It's about the fundamentals. You take away the shields, you take away the fancy armor, you take away the guns. You take away everything that our technology gives us as an advantage, and the only thing that's left is __you__. What you know. What you believe in. What sort of a male you are. And that's what you prove when you fight on the sands. When you fight as a gladiator does. No more than what our ancestors had. A sword. A little armor. And themselves. __They__ were the weapon. Be the weapon. Be the man._

He was ready for the charge. He was relying on his phenomenal reflex speed now, as never before. The speed that let him catch almost any ball launched at his net. That let him drive better than a turian in the worst traffic on Edessan. That let him catch a cup someone else dropped before it could hit the floor.

The impact came, and he stepped away at the forty-five degree angle, let himself flow past the enemy's energy, as Sam had taught him. You didn't always need to be earth, meeting force with force. Sometimes, you could be water. You could flow. He pivoted as the batarian charged right through where he'd been, and followed it up with a slash from his vibrosword. This time, he _did_ connect across the back of the male's right leg, cutting deeply, hamstringing him. _Come here, you son of a bitch. Let's see how you fight when you can't just play hit and run._

The batarian staggered and fell forward, crippled, off-balance, and desperately rolled back to his feet, clearly favoring the injured leg.

Eli had dueled a bit with Valak in the past few months, just to get a feel for batarian blade styles. His captured vibroblade was closer to a classic longsword in construction; Valak's was closer to a rapier. That was as close as he'd ever gotten to fighting a master fencer. And sparring and practice were nothing at all like the real thing. With vibroswords, slapstrikes were common; it was considered very bad form in a _duel_ to turn your blade's edge against the flat of another's sword. In a vicious fight to the death? Oh yes. It was encouraged. The only defense was something anyone else would consider foolish—turn edge on edge. Clash the blades. What would score and damage a steel blade, however, did not damage a vibroblade. Diamond cut diamond, in theory, but the cutting edges could not damage each other.

Ducking, dodging, weaving. Eli's reflex speed was put to the test, and he concentrated half his attacks on the batarian's weakened right side. But he was using that to set up patterns, so he could feint at that weaker side, and try to slash at the left, too. The batarian was good though—easily as good as Valak, and clearly had been practicing with this weapon for a decade or more. All of his strikes were thrusts, thought-fast stabs that Eli ducked and dodged. He wasn't a classical fencer, always on the straight-line attack. He was using what Sam had taught him. What Lantar had taught him. Taking the attack off-line. Forty-five degree angles. . . and the blades caught and locked again, and the batarian rolled his blade over and along Eli's, stabbing.

It didn't even hurt at first. Eli looked down and realized the sword had gone cleanly though his suit and collarbone. Only a last-second movement to the right had prevented the sword from going through his throat. _Great. Now it's a race to see who bleeds to death faster._

The sword was already pulling back to strike again. Eli slapped the strike away and tackled the male, using his damaged left arm to seize the male's swordhand at the wrist, driving a knee into the armored groin, then again, into the armored stomach. Pure _muay thai_. The male doubled over, wind, at least, knocked out of him, but had managed to grab Eli's wrist in his own off-hand. Eli drove him to the ground, and they were wrestling now. Rolling, tumbling. Both of them struggling for any advantage. Eli managed to get the mount and tried to slam the male's sword hand against the ground, trying to break that stubborn grip on the sword, only to find their positions reversed, and the male slammed _his_ hand against a brick lying on the floor. He couldn't hold his grip; his fingers flexed open, and the sword slid out of his hand.

The batarian knocked the sword away, struggled to get his free hand braced on Eli's head. No thought now. Just the interplay of muscles, the dance of survival. He couldn't get to the Collector pistol in his boot, no matter how he tried. He tucked his chin, so the batarian couldn't strike his throat, and lunged to get both hands on the male's sword-arm. Both of them fighting now for control of the weapon, but Eli's left arm, with the severed collarbone, was screaming with pain, and weakening rapidly. A final grunt of effort, and he actually managed to send the batarian's sword flying.

Mad scramble. Rolling. Both of them trying to get to _Eli_'s sword now. The batarian managing to get there first, by half a breath. Eli knocking him down again, hot blood flowing inside his suit. The batarian managed to roll on top, raised Eli's sword, began to swing it down for a slash that would end Eli's life. . . .

Sings-Heartsong had been moving for the stairs, following the songs of familiar voices. A few gray-song guards shot at her as she and her retinue swept through the halls, but loyal workers took the bullets and fell, replaced by new ones. She mourned for the death of each, a lost voice in the choir, and then the workers and the soldiers leaped forth and _ended_ the songs of her attackers. The workers paused, confused, at a door, plaintively appealing to her with the words _Doorknob songs are hard!_ She paused. Knelt. Took the piece of plastic from the corpse of one of the gray-song captive-singers, and touched it to the door. It did not work. Power was out.

She showed the workers where the line on the door was, and they spat acid into the crack, dissolving the mechanism inside. Then she pried the door further apart, using a piece of metal on the floor. _Hands sing useful songs, yes?_

Stairs now. Captive-singers in the room around them, overwhelmed, and easily. She began to climb, following the songs. Some had dimmed. Sings-in-Silence was muted, Sings-Justice and Sings-Honor, too. Many-Voices was struggling, fighting. _Must go to him. Must aid him. Must join my voice to his._

Out of the darkness and into the light. Fires everywhere, threatening her bare feet. Two male bodies, rolling back and forth. One sword between the two of them, fighting for control, metal gleaming dully in the red light of the flames. Many-Voices, locked in mortal combat with a captive-song singer. The captive-song singer reared back, sword in hand. . . _No. No. No. Won't let this happen. Can't let this happen. _"No, no, no, no—" That was out loud, rising into a scream that was a song as she ran forward, the workers surging around her. . . she threw herself forward, hand extended, ludicrously, to stop the blow, part of her knowing it was futile, all that was going to happen was that the sword was going to go right _through_ her hand, down and through Eli's exposed throat, but she couldn't let it happen, _not going to let it happen, never let it happen, my life for yours, Eli, forever and ever, I swear it—_

And, to her absolute astonishment, the blade _stopped_. She was holding the blade about six inches above Eli's throat, and her hand was intact. Oh, it _stung_, but it was still attached.

Eli stared upwards. Death hung six inches over his head, somehow, impossibly, stayed. Dara was there, holding the vibroblade in her hand, a living armor of rachni workers over her skin, alien eyes gleaming in her face, and the batarian's head had just jerked up in total astonishment. Eli didn't question it. Didn't even think.. He pulled his right leg up, jerked the Collector pistol there free of his boot at last, and fired the yellow-white beam of light point-blank into the batarian's chest.

The male dropped the sword, which stayed in Dara's hand, and fell back, still on his knees. Managed to roll up again, weakly, and Eli kicked him in the chest, knocking him back further, and fired again. The male spotted Eli's other pistol on the floor. Crawled to it. . . and that was when Dempsey and Rel staggered through the door from the burning mech enclosure. Armor scored and burned and in pieces, both of them still carried assault rifles. Rel lifted his Kassa Breaker now, and put the batarian down at last. Lin managed to haul himself upright, at about the same time, moving very stiffly indeed.

Eli didn't care. He dropped his pistol. Got up to his knees. Took the sword out of Dara's left hand, looked down, and saw the thin line there. A perfect, single red slash, all the way across the palm. He leaned down and kissed it. Stripped the glove off his own left hand, and pressed his palm to the sword's edge. Felt the skin part, and pressed his palm to hers. "Dara. _Sai'kaea'yili. Marai'ha'sai'yili."_

He could see the distance retreating from her stare, the thousand-mile quality receding. Her lips worked as if she were trying to remember how to speak. "Many-Voices?"

"Eli."

A faint frown. Fighting for comprehension. And then. .. _oh, thank you, thank you. . . _ she was back. Back from wherever in her mind she'd gone to sing the queen-song. The queen-song was still there. A vast chorus of power and intensity. But it was _Dara_ again. "Eli? _Ciea'teilu_?"

"Yes." He smoothed her hair back from her face, and noticed, as he did, that his hands were bloody. Blood still trickling out of his shoulder, down through the suit, to his left hand. Painting his fingers red. After a dizzy instant, he reached out with those two fingers, and slid them from her cheek to her chin on one side, then the other. "I heard what you said. My life for yours. Always and forever, Dara."

"You're hurt—"

"You can yell at me later." _Since there's going to be a later. Lots and lots of later. _He pulled her to him, noticing, as he did so, that the workers scuttled out of the way to avoid being crushed. Bare skin against black armor. _God, __sai'kaea__. I love you,_ he thought, dizzily, and leaned down and kissed her lips.


	150. Chapter 150: Liberation, Part 2

**Chapter 150: Liberation, Part 2**

_**Author's note:** Apologies to everyone for a late chapter. Very bad week at work followed by a week of my little boy running fevers of 103. It's been . . . interesting. _

**Lorek, May 7, 2197**

Dara's head was still a whirlwind; voices everywhere. Gray-voices, worker-voices, soldier-voices, warrior-voices. The strong, brilliant voices of the Spectres around her. Eli's voice, pain-song flaring in him, in spite of love-song. Lin's voice, also dark with pain-song. Zhasa and Fors, still under the earth. If she closed her eyes at all, she could _see_ through all the eyes of the rachni around her. Could look at herself, if she so chose, from outside, but it was dizzying, distracting, and she didn't have time for it. "Eli, I love you, but damn it, lie back. You're bleeding, the wound's at your collarbone, and the subclavian artery is _right there_—"

"If it was the artery that was cut, I'd already be dead," Eli pointed out. Blood-loss was already making him a little loopy, and it showed.

"Shut up and lie back. I've got to get this armor off you—"

"I'm always happy to lie back for you, _sai'kaea,_ but I don't think I've got the blood-flow right now to do you any good—"

Dara slapped his armor with her bare palm, stingingly. "On your back! Now!"

Dempsey moved over, weapon still ready, eyeing the room around them. "She always this domineering?"

Clear, distinct mutter from Rel now, "You have no idea."

"Only in. . . doctor mode. . . " Eli managed a grin to go with the words, but his song in her mind was fading around the edges.

Dara's head jerked up. She gave Rel one piercing and very annoyed look, and got back to work, pulling on the straps of Eli's current armor and disengaging gaskets. Lin sank to a crouch, and slowly removed his helmet. "Can I interrupt the fun and games long enough to ask you to look at me, little one? When I went flying across the room, I think I hit my head."

She looked up. Assessed the gray-scudded sky blue of his song. Pain-song, but life-song was not ebbing. "Are you bleeding?" Crisp words.

"Nowhere that I can see. Head hurts. Ribs hurt. And I don't heal like they do." Lin jerked his head at Dempsey and Rel. Then paused, as if that had been a bad idea, and groaned. Pain-song flaring everywhere.

"You're second in line. Let me get Eli's bleeding stopped first."

Rel was moving around the room, recovering weapons and gear. Dara was peripherally aware of it, but her focus was on the wound in front of her. Pulling the chest piece off, examining the wound, putting pressure on it. _Damn thing went straight through_, she thought, grimly, and then realized, to her annoyance, that they could all still _hear_ her. "I need something to put pressure on the wound with. Shirt, cloth, actual _medkit supplies_ would be outstanding—"

—_We can spin silk for you, little queen. We help!_

"Not sure we have time for that, little guys."

Lin cleared his throat. Looked at her. "Can I point out that the room is on fire?" he offered.

Dara's head jerked back up again. It was. Well, sort of. In a few places. The room beyond _was_ on fire, however, and the flames were creeping closer. She wasn't in danger yet, so the rachni-voices hadn't pointed this out to her, but the smell of smoke and the heat suddenly registered on her as they hadn't in the last minute and a half. _Oh, shit. I'm really out of it. I didn't clear the area for safety before starting treatment._ "Dempsey, Rel, help me get Eli up and to the next clear room," she said, rising and trying to heave Eli upright. "Lin, you can walk, right?"

He nodded gingerly and replaced his helmet, protecting his lungs from the smoke. Now that she was _aware_ of it, Dara felt the first tickles of a coughing spasm at the back of her throat, but her broken ribs would protest any coughing mightily, so she choked it down. As Dempsey moved over to get Eli's good arm over his own shoulder, and Eli bit down on curses as the severed collarbone grated back and forth in his flesh, Dempsey looked down at Dara. "Nice look, Doc," he told her, straight-faced. Then he hustled Eli towards the exit.

Dara followed, frowning slightly. Out in the corridor, no sound of gunfire; they moved through where they'd apparently crashed a damn truck through the walls, and out into a loading dock area, which appeared to be secured, for the moment, and Dempsey let Eli slide back to the ground. Eli swore again, this time in krogan. His face was pale as she pulled his visor up to get a better look at him for shock symptoms, too.

"Okay, I'll bite," Dara told Dempsey, grateful for the distraction. Anything to keep Eli's mind focused on something besides the pain. She accepted a handful of rags that Rel found in a nearby storage closet to pack the wound. They weren't sterile, but they were at least clean, and that was going to have to do to slow down the bleeding so she could apply medigel. "What the hell are you talking about, Thor?" She ran through a mental catalogue in her mind. Swollen lips, check, bruised cheekbone and jaw, check, probably the start of a really nice shiner, left eye. Broken ribs, check; those were going to bruise spectacularly. Abdominal bruising, too. . . .

Dempsey waited a moment, until she'd gotten the first application of medigel from Lin's pack done. Then he looked down at her patiently, and told her, "The new armor, Doc. Does nice things for your legs." He paused. "Among other things."

Eli laughed, and then swore again. "D. . . man, Thor, don't make me laugh. This fuckin' hurts."

Lin guffawed. And Rel, slowly, reluctantly, started to chuckle. And _that_ was the moment at which Dara realized that other than the tickling feet of the rachni workers, she was actually bare-assed naked. In a room with four males. The fact that the batarians had threatened her with rape a half hour ago wasn't really on her mind; she knew she was perfectly safe with all of them. . . well, all right, no guy liked to be thought of as 'safe,' as Eli often told her. . . .She could feel her cheeks start to burn, and she awarded Dempsey a glare. "Everything important is covered."

"Not when Sidonis gave you that hug, it wasn't." Dempsey's tone was bland. "Little guys needed to skitter out of the way or get crushed."

Dara _choked._ She was perfectly _fine_ with group showers; she'd had to get over her modesty years ago, but this was _different._ This wasn't intentional, and, damnit, she was all too aware of having been _married_ to Rel, being engaged to Eli. . . and she was perfectly aware, at that exact moment, that undersong in Lin and Dempsey suggested that both males found her attractive, though they were both quite happily taken. "Oh, shut up," she told Dempsey in frosty tones. "The workers are doing their best, and it's not like any of your armor's going to fit me."

—_More of us are needed? Posterior area inadequately protected when you are kneeling on the ground singing healing-songs, little-queen._

Dara's head jerked down and she told the workers, hastily, _No! We're fine. Your feet damn well tickle, and you're not getting __that__ familiar with my anatomy_. . . .And again, they _heard_ her, no suit on, just the empowered god-damned mind-song. . . .

A wash of pale turquoise amusement from Dempsey; native emotion, that. Pure blues and greens from Rel and Lin; Rel leaned against a wall and gave in to reluctant laughter all over again, while keeping an eye on their surroundings. Lin held his head and tried, desperately, not to laugh. Eli couldn't help the shout of laughter, then curled in on himself, holding his shoulder. "Stop, please, god, it hurts to laugh, it hurts. . . "

Dara's face felt as if it were burning. _You have a reason for this, Dempsey?_ Crisp, clear mind-song, overtones of pink that she couldn't help.

_Anything to get you looking and acting a little more human, Doc. Sidonis isn't at his best right now, or I know he'd be doing this. My turn._ Dempsey's smile was very faint; the precision in his guitar-song was immaculate.

Pure release of tension, as Lin sank down next to Eli and took his helmet back off. "Didn't Orpheus tell you _not_ to bring down the building?" Lin asked Dempsey as Dara began to examine his head for swelling.

"Not my fault, man," Dempsey told him, promptly. "Had no idea those big mechs had eezo cores that size."

"Going to make getting the rest of the prisoners out hell on earth," Eli muttered, trying to sit up.

"If you move now, the medigel won't have a chance to set. I don't have sutures in you, so sit still and let the stuff work," Dara snapped at him.

"Yes'm." Eli sank back down.

The words, however, had already arrowed through Dempsey with a shock. He'd been knocked out, cold. Been focused on getting everyone free and the injured cared for. . . and now cold, creeping awareness that the fires in the building threatened Zhasa's escape. He flung out his thoughts. _Zhasa-love, where are you?_ Penitence, for having been distracted, even from a moment, from the task at hand. Implacable determination coming back into his steel sheen song.

Dara closed her eyes. Reached out with queen-song. _There they are. Opposite side of the complex. They're just below the guard room on the other side of the boiler room. The guards and mechs are fighting the fire, but Zhasa and Fors can't come up yet. Too many, even for them._

_How do you know—_

_I can hear the captive-singers' songs. They're aware of mechs. The rooms are mirrors of each other._

_More of those big Colossus mechs?_

_I. . . .don't know what those are—oh!_ Shock of surprise as he put the image into her mind. _Shit. I haven't seen those before, and I've fought batarians a __lot__, Dempsey. . . I wouldn't be surprised if they have others, no._

_Then I need to come at them from an unexpected angle._ Diamond-hard edge to his mind now, as Dempsey stood, almost robotically. Turned almost precisely ninety degrees, facing back to the east now, eyes focused, as if he could see Zhasa.

Rel shook his head, sharply. "Am never going to get used to hearing people in my head," he muttered. "Sky's one thing. Everyone else. . . " He looked off into the distance. "We've got to get the fires put out first—and there's still fighting everywhere else in the damn complex. . . " He looked down at Dara. "Tyr and Forseti?"

"No medical scanner. No osseous regenerator. Eli's got a broken clavicle and lost about two pints of damn blood. Lin's got, from the looks of him, two or three broken ribs and a skull fracture, and he's lucky he didn't break his damn neck. He needs to be monitored for concussion. No. Eli _could_ be back on his feet for a fight if I had a proper medkit, but Lin shouldn't be anywhere other than a command center, looking out for other people and being monitored." Dara's report was crisp, same as it always had been, but her mind was drifting. She was looking at the walls around them, and realizing that she could almost see through them. As if Sky's battle-vision overlay her field of vision. And yet, this was far better than Sky had ever been able to produce before. _Maybe the effect of so many brood-warriors. . . no. . . this is still queen-song_, she realized, stunned. _This is what queens __do__._

She could see the whole battlefield, through hundreds of rachni perspectives. She could see her little workers, putting out layers of a thin, gel-like substance, trying to retard the fires, at least, prevent them from burning further in this direction. Kirrahe, dimly, muttering, _"At least this time, not my fault,"_ about the fires. Makur and Gris and Siara and the salarian, all locked in combat, the wall to the south of them uncomfortably hot. . . her father, Stone, and Seheve, further to the south right now, also locked in combat. Zhasa and Fors, on the other side of the complex, trying to figure out a tactic for getting through the final guard-room, but there were guards in rooms to either side of that one, gray-voices. Gray-voices of captive-song singers in the halls, too. _This is what queens do. They manage. They direct. They take all the information from those around them, and move resources from one place to another. My god._ Dara had been doing precisely this since boot camp. This was her leadership style. Always had been. Rely on experts for their information and input. Organize the data. And then make decisions based on what they were able to tell her.

Flickers of awareness. Her father's red haze of anger as he and Seheve finished killing the batarians at hand. Protection-anger from Rinus, abating at the touch of her mind, and as they found the gear of the captured Spectres. Her weapons. Her armor. Her _medkit._ _Dad? Stone? Seheve? Rinus?_

_Yes, little-queen?_ The brood-warrior almost casually super-heated the armor of an SIU technician in the corridor outside the room, forcing the male to retreat, screaming.

_There is fire in the building. If you can heat things to burning, can you sing slowness, coolness, to materials, and remove the fire?_

_I can try, little-queen._

Consternation-song from Sam, Rinus, and Seheve. Relief-song from her father. _Damn good to hear your voice, sweetie. Even if this is a little louder than you've been since you were a baby._

_Thanks, Dad. Nothing like being reminded of being in diapers at a time like this._ Dara's mental tone was tart. _Can you all fall back for the moment? Otherwise, the fire will consume the building. Stone can return to you. . . and I need my gear. Eli and Lin are hurt._

_Yeah. We'll pull back to you._

Dara's eyes opened. "Got you a fire suppression team and another squad-mate," she told Dempsey and Rel. "Best I can do for now. Orpheus, Vulcan, and Nyx will need backup, if we can figure out who can be spared from the other team."

"Got it," Rel told her, nodding. "Let's hope Stone can knock down the flames."

Her father's team both came up the corridor, backing their way towards them, still exchanging fire with a few errant batarians, who promptly ducked for cover as Rel and Dempsey stepped out of the loading dock and opened fire on them—Rel with a barrage of grenades, and Dempsey with a biotic throw that resulted in one of the males having his head removed by an overhead EXIT sign. "Go," Sam told Rel and Dempsey, gesturing to Stone. "We're good here."

Rinus whistled between his teeth at the scored and blackened armor on Rel and Dempsey, and Rel made a quick, dismissive gesture, before giving Seheve a quick pat on the shoulder, just letting her know he was there. Then he, Dempsey, and Stone headed back out the door. Sam dropped the heavy bag he was carrying at Dara's feet, and just _stared_ at her for a moment. "My god," Sam managed, after a moment. _I've seen them swarm her before, but this is. . . something else. . . ._ "That's a hell of a lot of bruises, sweetie."

"You should see the other guy," Dara told him, wearily. Flicker of memory, clearly visible to everyone in her immediate vicinity. The first batarian who'd touched her, blood running out of his eyes and ears, staring vacantly into space. And the plague doctor, who'd been trying to sedate her, when the rachni had crashed through the glass above, and swarmed him. Torn him apart, dissolved him with acid, alive and screaming.

Eli's instant flare of rage in red, accompanied by the deep, black, brooding anger he was capable of, was hot in her head. "Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy," he growled, a rasp of sound almost turian.

Sam put a hand on his daughter's shoulder as she started rooting around in her recovered medkit. "Sweetie, I hate like hell to ask you, but are you okay? Did they—"

_No. That was next on their agenda, though. They gave me __aizala__. A tactical error on their part. If they'd just been content to rape me and let the Spectres see me broken, I'm not sure I could have fought them off, or stayed sane with them touching me. But they wanted me to __enjoy__ it. And be unable to live with that, caught forever on camera. One extra layer of humiliation. But __aizala__ doesn't affect __rachni__ the way it affects humans._ Dara's thoughts burned with a sort of cold fire, and Sam winced at the raw emotions in her voice. Hatred. Vengeance. Disgust. Loathing. A level of shame, but not a strong one. Blinding kaleidoscope colors in his head for a moment, until she calmed herself down. Young Eli was trying to get up off the floor, and Dara pushed him right back down, her bone knitter in her hands. "Lie back, Tyr. You can get up when the bone's regenerated, okay? Nyx? Come here and hold this in place for me, would you?" Dara beckoned imperatively to Seheve, who immediately moved in and took her place at Eli's side, holding the osseous regenerator in place, allowing Dara to move to Lin with her scanner now. "Yeah, Forseti. . . .you're damn lucky your helmet took most of the hit here," Dara muttered. Sam divided his attention between her and the hallway. "Skull fracture. No intracranial bleeding, but you've definitely got swelling in the dura matter." At Lin's blank look, Dara translated, "Concussion. Probably a grade two."

"_S'kak._"

"You _blacked out_. What the hell else do you expect?" The regenerator chimed, and Dara held out her hand for it, imperatively, and Seheve handed it over, silently.

As she did so, however, Dara heard Seheve's silent thoughts. _They would have taken everything from you that you valued. Freedom. Choice. Sense of self. Sense of worth._ Coiled, lethal anger in Seheve now. _I would like to end them all, I think._

_You and me both, Freedom-Singer, but I need to get __dressed__ before we go to war._ Dara settled the regenerator just under Lin's fringe, and got it going. Then she scrambled for the pile of armor, simply wanting to be _clothed_ again. Eli's song was warm and reassuring at the back of her mind, but the discomfort level had been growing with the return of her human mind-set.

And, as she started to open the suit, currently painted a dull brown camo pattern over the subtle black chitin that it normally displayed, she stopped in total consternation. "Ah. . . they. . . kind of tore off my undersuit," she said, trying not to picture that distant, foggy moment. She looked down at her wrists, and still saw shackles there. _This could lead to. . . chafing._ Armor wasn't precisely kind to unprotected skin.

"Hold still," Seheve murmured, and crouched down beside her. She caught Dara's wrists in her skilled hands, and deftly picked the locks on the shackles. "These are old models," the drell female commented, tossing the first cuff at the ground. "I could probably teach you how to do this, you know. Surgeon hands. You could feel the tension of the locking mechanism."

"On the whole," Dara told her, as the second cuff fell away, "I think I'd prefer _not being captured_ again."

"Amen," Sam muttered, while Eli added, fervently, "I'll drink to that, _sai'kaea_."

That left the small issue of her armor, with its crystalline underlay, and its potential for chafing. Her workers chorused, happily, —_We fix, little queen._ _Look!_

While she'd been working on Eli and Lin, her mind had been distracted, and the workers had been busy. At the moment, they'd spun. . . a web around her. A bodysuit of shimmering silk, translucent and fine and faintly silvery, the filaments moved with her. Stretched. _This is like what you make my stockings out of?_

—_Yes, yes. Protection-songs._ _We will go down your chelicerae and other appendages now._

Eli was re-buckling his armor. "I'm good to go—"

"You've lost a hell of a lot of blood, son," Sam told him, sharply.

"I can still damned well watch your backs."

"So can I," Dara said, just as sharply, as the workers tied off the ends of their webs at her toes. She had no idea how she was going to get _out_ of the suit later, or how she'd go to the damn bathroom, but those were all secondary considerations to getting in her _armor._ And it felt like the embrace of an old and beloved friend as she stepped into the boots, pulled up the sides and sealed the gaskets at the waist, pulled on her chestpiece and its attached arms. This style of armor was a lot bulkier than her old armor, _Shepard's_ old armor, had been, but well worth it. Then the gaskets and the helmet. Her omnitool was even still attached, with Eli's knife-sheath worked into the straps. "All right," she said now, feeling much better already. "You want us with you, or holding the rear-guard here?"

Sam looked at her. Considered it for a moment. She'd reached across the whole battlefield. Could see every aspect of it. . . and issued orders to Stone and expected—and received!—instant obedience. But she was deferring to his command. Balance. "Tyr and Vulcan, escort Forseti here back to the Hammerheads. The drivers and a skeleton crew of rachni are holding them. Then move back up, and then yeah, you two cover the three of us. God knows, we need the bodies."

"Sounds like a plan," Eli said. The younger man's tone was grim, and he slid Lin's arm over his shoulders. "C'mon, _fradu_. I'll make sure you're walking more or less a straight line."

Dempsey strode ahead of Stone and Velnaran, each stride jolting up through his body. Rachni workers and soldiers were currently skittering everywhere, the soldiers cruising along like packs of dogs, the smaller workers skimming the floor below as they raced through the halls, looking for batarians. The smoke was chokingly thick now, and he was grateful for his breather. Just because his body would regenerate the damage from particulate matter didn't mean he couldn't asphyxiate.

He stepped over various bodies, and squinted at little at the dull red light of the flames. His armor was in bad shape; he could feel the heat in the room pouring through it, and he shouldn't have felt a thing. _Getting exploded will do that, I guess. _

Stone flinched visibly from the flames, and sang a low, rasping note. _I will draw the energy from the flames, slow the song it sings,_ he told them. _Prepare._

The biotic energies employed were the same as when Stone heated matter—say, someone's armor, or a deck plate. Reaching down to the molecular level and adding energy to excite the oscillations of the material. . . and then shaping it with gravitic distortions as he lashed the metal in place around someone in its malleable state. . . and then removing the energy again, chilling it. Or, as when he shattered someone's armor, not with a warp field, but by rapid oscillations of heat and cold. This time, he was simply . . . moving the energy from the exothermic flame reaction away from the burning materials. Dissipating it up into the air above, from the feel of things. The flames flickered. Trembled. Muted.

Died.

Dempsey exhaled. _We're coming, Zhasa-love. Fors, you hang in there, too._

_Nice of you to remember me,_ the volus replied. His mental voice was subtly scratchy. A little abrasive, but pleasant enough.

Dempsey moved ahead of the other two again, into the next room. Shattered roof overhead, mech pieces melted into shining piles of metal on the floor. Char and ashes everywhere. Large holes in the wall. . . and then, past it, another room. Flames there, still, dying as Stone approached. Redirected the energies. _That's a trick I wish I could learn_, Dempsey admitted, silently.

_If I could give you my song to sing, I would._

_Nah. It's yours. I've got tricks of my own._ He peered around the shattered wall, and realized that the next room was actually _two_ rooms. There was a lobby area surrounding what looked like the generator room; the area was dark, with only light filtering in from where he stood, unfortunately outlined against the broken wall. The generator room had also housed a couple of elevators; where they went, below, he didn't know, but with the generators off-line, and the cables possibly damaged from the heat of the fire, Dempsey was not about to go find out. Char marks and ashes, everywhere. All that, in a quick glance, and then he jerked back as a stray bullet pinged off his shields. "Looks like the fire brigade found their guns again," he told the others.

Rel inhaled through his teeth, a slightly annoyed sound. He wasn't sure if he was picking up Stone's battle-song or Sky's or, spirits help him, something from _Dara_ at the moment, but he could see the outlines of five figures in the outer room. The batarians were confused and disoriented by the fire's abrupt cessation, but that wouldn't last for long. "Cover me," he told Dempsey and Stone, and ducked forward, firing at the first batarian he saw, off to the south. He ducked back in, and Dempsey ducked out now, taking on a batarian off to the north, firing diagonally through the 'doorway' that the various explosions had ripped through the wall. Rel gave the ceiling and the wall a slightly wary glance; he'd seen entirely too many structures collapse in the past few years to trust any damaged building fully. Then, with a break in fire, he ducked out, and Stone followed after him. Rel was about to open fire on the next batarian to the southeast, when Stone sang a low, raspy note. . . and the concrete floor beneath the batarian's feet liquefied, and the male plunged down into it with a scream of terror.

"Holy shit," Dempsey said, his voice flat, but the words were. . . .apt. Rel could see one struggling hand raise into the air. . . and then Stone re-solidified the material around the batarian. Leaving the hand sticking out. Rel swallowed hard and pointed his rifle at the batarian just _past_ the now-entombed one. But before he could fire, _that_ SIU officer threw down his weapon, put his hands in the air, and dropped to his knees.

Rel's finger itched on the trigger. He wanted to pull it. Wanted to make the galaxy a better place in so doing. He'd gotten enough of an impression of what had been done to Dara and the rest of his friends already that there was a borderline state of rage building at the back of his mind, there were several infuriated brood-warriors around, all singing reds and blacks, and he was keyed up on adrenaline anyway. It would be . . . _so. . . easy_.

But if he did it once, he'd never be able to trust himself again. No one would. Rel uncurled his finger from the trigger. "Stone? Wrap him up. There's still one more who doesn't have sense off to the north, around that elevator enclosure."

_As you sing, so shall I do._ Stone scuttled forward, and, as Dempsey and Rel moved forward, covering him, wrapped the batarian prisoner in a webbing of silk as strong as steel. Their prisoner wasn't going to be moving anytime soon, from the looks of things. The remaining batarian to the north panicked and opened fire, and that was when Dempsey threw him with massive force into the far wall, and followed it up with a barrage from his assault rifle.

"Have to say," Dempsey said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the hand still struggling and spasming, flexing its fingers futilely. Rel got chills just looking at it. "That one's still alive."

_Yes._

Rel cleared his throat. "He's got oxygen in his suit. He'll suffocate in there if we don't pull him up."

_Yes._

Dempsey looked at Rel. "You're the man in charge today."

Rel shrugged. "Stone, loosen the ground around him, and let Dempsey pull him high enough up that his head at least sticks out. I'd. . . hate to die that way." The shudders of unwilling empathy were getting worse. He really couldn't think of many worse ways to go.

_As you desire._ Stone's mental voice was still about as angry as Rel had ever heard a rachni. But he obeyed, and the concrete re-liquified, allowing Dempsey to pull the batarian up just a little higher before Stone re-entombed him. Chest deep. Dempsey removed the male's helmet, threw it to the side, and they moved on. "Time's wasting," the male reminded them all, flatly.

Rel did not think he would ever forget the look of panic and utter, incredible relief on the batarian's face. He didn't know if the male was in any way responsible for what went on here, but he was glad, distantly, that they hadn't left him to die in _quite_ that way.

A firing squad was a hell of a lot cleaner and quicker.

"You're handy," Dempsey told Stone, dryly, and pointed at the next wall. If the building was symmetrical, this should be another mech enclosure, with the guard-room, under which Zhasa and Fors were waiting, poised and ready to go. No doors. Probably wallboard over cinderblock construction, like the opposing wall had been. "Think you can make us a door?"

_Yes. It should have been __me__ sent on this mission. My brood-brother, Sings-of-Glory, nearly exhausted himself tunneling to the surface so quickly. We have sounded his tunnel's depths; it rings true through over seventy feet of rock and earth, directly up, and then he altered the song. Dug at an angle to reach the outer edge of the fence-songs. Another seventy feet or more. _Stone hissed, an actual, audible sound from the rachni. _If I had been here, in his place, this song would have been sung __accelerando__. _

"Not your fault," Dempsey told him, picking up the tell-tale orange frustration, green-and-violet guilt. "Just get us in where we need to go."

Stone hissed again, and the wall in front of them began to crumble. The outer sheathing of wallboard superheated, burning away instantly. The cinderblocks underneath turned to mud, liquefying, and pouring down at their feet. The resulting hole was arch-shaped, wide enough for the brood-warrior to pass through, and created absolutely silently. No concussions from an explosive frame. _Yeah. Jaworski and Goto will want Stone along on absolutely every infiltration mission we ever conduct. Pellarian's wife and Liakos are going to want the same damn thing. _

Dempsey peered through the doorway. All the mechs inside registered as active, but they were all facing away; they'd been moved by their batarian handlers further away from the potentially damaging heat of the fire, towards the eastern corridor. Such mechs would be useless for fighting a fire, and the batarians in the security room beyond the mech enclosure looked to be getting things together for an evacuation, grabbing datapads and everything else.

"Perfect," Rel murmured over the radio, very softly indeed. "They've moved the Colossus mechs further forward. Thor, bring down their shields. Stone? Do something creative to the armor on the one to the left. Me, I'm using grenades. The way they're all clustered together? If one of their reactor cores goes. . . "

"Chain reaction," Dempsey agreed. _Zhasa-love?_

_Yes? You're finally here!_

_Yeah. Pull up your bubble shield, sweetheart. And your barrier. You, too, Fors. Get behind any wall you can, too. This might get very loud. _

Dempsey peered around the wall, his emotions absolutely glacial. Found the energy shields around the left-side Colossus with his mind, and tore at them with biotic energies. Activated his chip, connected to his omnitool, and raked the same mech with electrical current, disrupting the shield entirely, then ducked back into cover, just as Stone moved into the gap in the wall. All of the mechs were turning. Aiming. Firing. Bullets rained off the rachni's shield as, with deft twists of energy, he superheated the mech's outer coating, and had it pour to the ground at its feet. Then Stone scuttled back to cover, several new scratches in his outer carapace, just as a harpoon sailed past him to slam into the wall of the elevator enclosure behind them. Velnaran, on the left side of their improvised doorway, leaned around the corner and fired his grenade launcher, then ducked back onto his own side of their wall. Concussive sound. . .

. . .and, for a moment, nothing happened. The various guns continued to go off in the far room. Dempsey felt more than mild irritation rise within him. . . and then, an explosion rocked the building yet again. Searing white light. The wall behind which he was hiding rocked, and half a dozen of its bricks punched clear through, sailing into the lobby, chased by flames. Dempsey had already ducked and covered, and felt debris rattling off his armor. "Wait for the second one!" Velnaran shouted. "Don't just walk in there!"

"Noted," Dempsey told him, staying in his crouch, arms over his head protectively. . . then cautiously peered around the corner, just in time for a LOKI mech to overload right in his face. He spun away, but had already taken red-hot metal to the front of his visor; already damaged, the plasteel had shattered entirely now, radiating shards all through his face. It hurt. His eyes were undamaged, but it definitely didn't tickle. Reality faded around the edges again, and Dempsey turned back now. Mind processing what he'd seen before the damned mech had gone off like a firecracker. "Colossus is still up. Its shields are down and it's damaged, though. Batarians got thrown all over the far room. Let's go." He brought his personal barriers back up again, feeling blood pour down his face in hot, thin rivulets, but it didn't matter. Doc could pull the pieces of metal and plasteel later. Now, there was work to be done.

_Others come_, Stone warned. Sure enough, his vision showed that other batarians were rushing towards the sound of the latest explosion. Probably under orders to secure their leaders' evacuation.

_Going after the bosses will be the next order of business_, Dempsey thought, with icy clarity, and moved forward now. Steady, implacable steps, firing at it with his assault rifle. Drawing its attention. Letting Velnaran and Stone move in, as well. He was ready for the mech's response this time; he knew the basics of its programming now. And when it raised the harpoon launcher arm, and not the rocket launcher arm, Dempsey prepared for it. . . . and when it fired, Dempsey caught the harpoon and redirected it with a throw, pure telekinetic thrust, right back at the mech's body, slamming it directly through the center of the mech's optics, taking its targeting systems off-line.

"Spirits, Thor, I don't want to get blown up a second time today," Velnaran snapped out.

"I was careful. That's not the power core," Dempsey protested, mildly.

Gunfire now, from the various batarians who'd managed to regain their feet and who were trying to beat a retreat into the hallway. Bullets tearing at his shields now. Dempsey ignored them for the moment, concentrating on the damned mech, just as Velnaran and Stone were doing.

Two figures in dusty-colored armor climbed up a staircase, wearily. The taller one was actually carrying the smaller one on her shoulders. Zhasa's head was ringing with rachni song and the raw power that Stone and Dempsey were currently using. She peered out a crack in the door, seeing fires springing up everywhere in the room beyond. "Damn," Fors muttered.

The staircase behind them was littered with debris, including large chunks of ceiling. Just then, Zhasa saw a batarian thrown across the room, and recognized the _feel_ of Dempsey's mind at work. Rachni battle-vision settled into place for her, and Zhasa could see/feel six remaining batarians in the room. All firing at their rescue party. "I think we should give them a hand, don't you?"

Fors snuffled. "Oh yes. We might be late to the party, but we brought _cake_."

He sat up a little straighter on Zhasa's shoulders, and the weight of him sank back fully onto her spine as he released his little singularity in order to focus on the room beyond the door, which Zhasa now opened. Half the batarians didn't even really look up; they were expecting reinforcements, after all. And five out of the six of them were close enough together for Zhasa to do what she planned. And simply lifted all five of them off the ground with a telekinetic field, trapping them all, helpless, floating and spinning in mid-air, suddenly weightless.

And Fors promptly crossed her field with the line of a shockwave, tearing her field apart, and the batarians with it. Concussive force.

The sole remaining batarian in the room was now frozen in place, not by biotics, but by shock. He turned slightly, face invisible behind the visor of his helmet, just as Dempsey strode into the room. Zhasa's heart lurched on seeing him. The Spectre black armor was scored, deeply, all across one side and the back, clearly burned and even melted in some places. The face-shield was shattered, showing thin lines of drying blood and glimmers of orange-red light from the cybernetics under the skin, which were already healing. Implacable and not particularly human, he turned on the batarian, raising his rifle. . . and the batarian dropped his gun. Held up his hands. Sank to his knees.

"Actual prisoners," Dempsey muttered. "Stone? Do the honors again, if you would."

The rachni scuttled forward to wrap the prisoner in silk, just as Zhasa gently put Fors on the ground and said, very softly, "Dempsey?"

He looked up. Life began to return to his face and eyes. "Catch?" he asked.

Zhasa walked over, and wrapped her arms around him. Felt one of his wrap around her, too, though he kept his rifle in his other hand, glancing around warily before Rel and Stone moved up. Gave them a moment to themselves. "Your face," Zhasa murmured, reaching up and trying to remove one of the metal fragments. Fresh blood bloomed as she pulled it free.

"Yeah. Doc is going to yell when she notices it. If she hasn't already." Dempsey shook his head, vigorously. Leaned down and pulled her own visor up, so he could see her face. _You all right, Zhasa-love?_

_Everything's healed._ Her lips pulled down. _They wanted to experiment on me. Like they did with you._

White-cold rage, instant. Zhasa tightened her arms around him, knowing how futile the gesture was. _I'm all right, Dempsey. _

_They hurt you._ He was obviously having to concentrate to tamp down the rage.

_Just electrical shocks and a lot of threats. I'm all right._ Zhasa was doing her best not to think about any of the doctor's threats. The threats about flaying, for example, but trying _not_ to think about something required delicate mental discipline, especially when linked with another biotic. Keeping your mind blank, or focusing it intently on something else. The telepathic equivalent of a poker face. "Come on, Dempsey. We have to get you at least a different visor for that helmet. Something hits one of your eyes, even you are going to have trouble regenerating the brain damage."

"Dunno. I could get lucky. It could hit the chip."

_And then you __might__ die on me, and I'm not having that!_ Sudden fierceness, and Zhasa bent down and wrestled a helmet off one of the dead batarians. Shoved it into Dempsey's hands. "Hold this," she ordered him, and worked at the polarized visor, unscrewing it from its housing.

"I don't think that's going to fit my gear, and it's not going to be integrated with the HUD—"

"So I'll _make_ it fit. It's the quarian way. And like you're seeing anything from your HUD right now, anyway." Zhasa gave Dempsey a look until he raised his free hand in token of surrender, and his lips actually twitched up, before he pulled some of the metal pieces free of his face. As she worked the visor into place on his own helmet and fastened it with her newly scavenged multitool, Stone and Rellus moved to the hallway. She could hear Rel mutter, "We've got Loki and Astrild. Now what?"

Gentle piano music, accompanied by the sense of hundreds of other voices, touch of rose petals. _We've got their radios, omnitools, and weapons. Coming down the corridor on your right._

"Shouldn't we evac them?" Dempsey growled. "They just got worked over pretty good. Same as you, Doc." Flicker in his memory. Dara's face was already bruising spectacularly, from the looks of it, and Zhasa winced.

"And I'm _fine_ now," Zhasa told him, snapping the visor down over his face. "I'm not even bruised."

"Lucky you," Fors muttered. "I don't know if they broke bones or not, and it's a hell of a long way to Bastion, the base medical facilities, or Irune for a pressurized medical chamber so I can take off the suit and see what color my bruises are." He paused. "Wait. I'm colorblind. Damn. I'll never know!"

Rel snorted and peered out into the corridor, then waved to someone in the corridor. . . and Sam, Seheve, Rinus, Dara, and Eli moved into the room. Zhasa blinked. Eli's armor looked almost as worn as Dempsey and Rel's did. _Keelah__, you've all been through hell so far today._

_So have you, Zhasa-love._ Dempsey gave Sam and the others a look as Eli dropped a bag from over his shoulder, and started handing out gear. Zhasa received her omnitool back with glee, as well as her own damned weapons. Fors took his own omnitool back, and his pistol, but other than radio contact, the volus really didn't need much of anything to be effective, besides himself. "Right," Dempsey said now, his accent thickening. "Any reason why they need to come with us anywhere?"

Sam shrugged. "If they're feeling up to it. . . there's still some people in charge of this operation to hunt down. And there are yahg downstairs." He nodded towards the floor.

That brought Dempsey's head up. Rel's, too. "The females are still here," Dara told them all, her voice soft. "Ursukkai's the one who helped. . . question me. She was also their lead scientist. The one who worked with R'sal and his team to develop the viruses. There's another one here, too. Her song is quieter, but stronger. Ursukkai won't do us any good as a prisoner. The other one sings a different song. The problem is," and here Dara shuddered, "there's something of a prison riot going on downstairs. Apparently a couple of people who will remain, well, you and you," she pointed at Zhasa and Fors, "seem to have broken out half the population down there. They're panicking."

_Much dissonance_, Stone agreed, sounding distressed. _It has felt good, fighting with a queen among us. Clarity, harmony of purpose. But the dissonances from below. . . ._

"Yeah. That's. . . the yahg, who've been. . . honored guests. . . so far. . . " Dara trailed off, sounding sick. "They might have only partially believed in that status. I can't really understand their songs very well—"

_Be grateful, little-queen_, Stone told her, his own voice holding dissonances of disgust now. _They believed that they were vital to the captive-song singers' plans. Believed in that as their protection, and in their own strength-songs. Now, you have given them doubt-songs. And when doubt replaces certainty. . . _

"Fear follows," Seheve said, simply. "Fear usually becomes anger."

"They saw an opportunity to break out, themselves," Rel finished now. "They're hunting?"

Dara nodded. "Prisoners and guards alike, yes. I think so. The guards aren't prizes. I'm not weeping for them. The prisoners. . . well. . . they'd all have cheerfully. . . " Dara's voice trailed off again, and she had to drop to her knees. Eli moved to her, immediately. So did Stone, dipping his huge head under her hand. Dara raised her head, face invisible behind her polarized mask. "There's. . . a hell of a lot of fear-song and pain-song down there," Dara admitted.

Zhasa hadn't been listening for that. Now, she didn't want to. "Why aren't they focusing on their escape?" Dempsey muttered.

"They are," Rel countered, dryly. "They're making sure they have _provisions_."

That made them all stop and consider it just a bit more closely.. . . as, to Zhasa's amusement, the other team of Spectres, including Gris, a _very_ battered Makur, with Snowflake at his heels, Siara in a mech suit that had clearly seen better days, Kirrahe, and Sky moved down the corridor to join them. "I thought you two were dead!" Zhasa cried, staring at the asari and the krogan.

"Siara put the mech's arms up, braced against the beam in the ceiling." Makur shrugged. "That was the _real_ danger out of all that."

"That and the rebar and the tons of rubble," Siara countered, grimly.

Dara had gotten back to her feet, discreetly assisted by Eli, and had moved to Makur, immediately. "God damn krogan pig-headedness," she told him, darkly, getting her medkit out. "Those are grenade burns, aren't they? You going to start wearing a god damned helmet now, Heimdall, or what?"

"What, you've got a spare hand in that kit?" Makur asked, dourly. "I've already had the burns dosed with medigel. Save the supplies—"

"Sit down, shut up, and let me look at the wounds."

"Do what she tells you to do, Makur, or, Vaul help me, I will put you on your tail," Siara warned.

Makur grinned, but the expression hurt to see, stretching skin that was still blackened in places. Fire really did inhibit regeneration. "The fact that you think you can manage it makes me want to put up a fight—"

"Sit!" That was at least five voices in chorus, and Makur grimaced and sat on one of the guardroom desks.

"Don't let him fool you," Siara said, grimly. "Neither of us is at our best." She pushed up her visor for a moment, looking around the room at the rest of them. "Vaul. I don't know if any of us _are_. But you say there are yahg downstairs, Freya?"

"Oh yes." Dara shuddered again as she continued to work at Makur's face gently with medigel and a portable abrading unit that looked uncomfortably like a wire cheese grater.

"How many?" Sam asked.

"Two females. Eight to ten males. Their voices are hard to hold separate in my head." Dara was doing her best to focus entirely on the task in front of her. Removing the burned tissue after numbing the site, in spite of Makur's growls to get _on_ with it.

"Any biotics?" Rinus asked, quickly.

"One of the females, maybe? The one who's. . . quieter but stronger." Dara's voice was a little uncertain.

_Yes, she sings mind-songs. At the moment, all of the cruel-singers are scattered. A few remain with their queens, in their lair. The others hunt._ Sky's tone held the same disgust as the rest of them felt.

Rel exhaled and looked around at all of them. They were battered, bruised, and bloodied, every one of them. Part of him thought it would be just as good an idea to sit a lid on the exits of the prison and wait until the yahg damned well starved, or at least, until the Spectres had reinforcements. On the other hand. . . the hunter in him was very much awake at the moment, and the challenge was enticing. Hunting the yahg. In the dark. The way the krogan and the rachni had fought in the tunnels, two thousand years ago. "Tactical disadvantages," Rel said, out loud. "We don't know the terrain. We've got prisoners down there who might not see us as rescuers, and who might just as soon attack us as beg us for protection. . . or might just plain get in the way. We've got guards down there who're likely to attack, too."

"Let 'em try," Gris said, darkly.

"And, of course," Rel went on, outlining it all in his mind, "there's the yahg." He paused. "Took an average ratio of three Spectres to take down one yahg on Shanxi and Terra Nova. You say there's ten to twelve yahg down there. There are fourteen of us. . . and that's not counting whoever we leave up here to finish mopping up and securing." He didn't like the odds.

"We've got friends landing shortly to help with the securing part," Sam noted, pointing upwards.

Kirrahe sat on the charred edge of a second guardroom desk, and chuckled to himself. "All true," the salarian said, cheerfully, when they all looked at him. "However, we have several tactical advantages as well."

Rel lifted a hand, palm up, and snapped his fingertips together. _Give_, the gesture said.

Kirrahe actually rubbed his hands together. "Secondary access tunnel to lower depths which the yahg do not, likely, know about. Courtesy of Glory's efforts. Alternately, have many rachni. Can dig down to them. Attack from angles that they do not expect."

"What level are the yahg on?" Sam asked.

_Very low. Their voices are the most distant. Sings-of-Glory sang escape from this level of the tunnels, yes. _Sky sounded intrigued. _It would be good to teach the cruel-song ones how we __truly__ sing battle._

_I sing sorrow that my brood-brother cannot fight with us,_ Stone added. _He will sing regret._

"Hold on," Sam said, holding up a hand. "If we're going to do this. . . let's do it _right_."

"You mean, where we all admit that we know it's crazy, and then go ahead and do it anyway?" Gris rumbled.

Sam considered it for a moment. "Yeah. Sounds about normal."

Fors had already opened his omnitool, and his little fingers were busy sketching what he'd seen of the prison's layout. "Every level was the same. I think the topmost level is where the elevators went. . . there might be rooms there that I didn't see. Not sure where they'd have space for them in the complex, though. . . but the elevators up here _have_ to go somewhere."

_Lowest levels. A shortening of the way. The yahg are sure to sing guarding songs, however._ That, from Sky.

Sam nodded now. "Okay, couple of questions, and then, hear me out. Any inklings as to where we might find the commander of this lovely facility? We didn't find him to the south. Gris, Sky? You took the northern end of the building."

Gris shook his head, red-tinged eyes gleaming in the low light. "No. No one who seemed to be sending underlings in to die for him, in particular. That's usually the only way you can tell anything about batarian command structure, right?"

A quick ripple of amusement from Sky. _One does sing command-songs. North of here, but under the earth. Command-songs and fear-songs._ Sky sounded somewhat pleased about that.

"Two reasons to head downstairs, then," Sam muttered.

Rel shook his head. "Much as I _want_ to go down there. . . I don't think we've got the numbers for it." He shrugged. "You know me, Orpheus. I don't actually _like_ calling for backup, but. . . "

"We've got backup," Dara said, quietly, as rachni workers began to pour into the room. "The soldiers report that there are guards in all the towers still, but those guards can't fire into the building, and can't get out of their towers. Not without learning how to fly first, anyway, or trying to break through rachni lines at the base of each." Soldiers began to cruise in, each the size of a German shepherd, towering over the smaller workers, in the same way that the brood warriors towered over the soldiers. "We've got numbers, Virtus. We're not alone."

The words seemed to mean something more to her than the others; Eli turned and gave her look, then looked back at Sam. "I'm not crazy about fighting yahg again," he said. "But I managed it on Terra Nova just fine. Thing is, fighting yahg always requires a plan. Just going toe-to-toe. . . well, Virtus here managed it once—"

"I got lucky," Rel muttered.

"I don't recommend it unless you've got the ability to grow back what gets bitten off," Makur chimed it, waving the arm that now terminated in a bandaged stump.

Eli looked around. "So, I guess the question is, what are we going to use for tactics? We've tried luring yahg out after weak-looking groups before, but that was where we knew the terrain and could use it against them. Tunnels—and dark ones, at that—make for close-quarter fights. And the yahg are going to dominate at that."

Ripples of unease from everyone.

Sam nodded. "Fair enough question. We send one set of teams down the normal way. That team works to catch the various yahg that are out and, hopefully, alone. We send prisoners and any guards that surrender upstairs. Clear level by level, as best we can." He considered it. "What we know about the yahg is that while they're patriarchal, they're strongly protective of their females, correct? That batarian linguist we were questioning on Bastion. . . whatever his name was. . . "

"M'nav," Eli supplied.

"Yeah, him. He said the yahg leaders who succeeded were the ones who used their females effectively, more or less. The females are their only scientists. Pilots. Engineers. The ones who hold onto information, in a culture that has no writing."

"They're still not philosophers, based strictly on the one I met earlier," Dara said, grimly.

Rel nodded. "And I remember noting in one of those conversations we all had back on Bastion, that the yahg having such strong sexual dimorphism and the affiliated tendency towards large harems. . .would ring their females with bodies before they'd allow any of them to be taken."

"Yeah. That was when I was commenting that the chances of being able to negotiate with the males seemed pretty unlikely," Eli pointed out, dryly. "Alliances seem to be very temporary for them. And all political power rests with them. A female might be able to influence a male, if she's his favorite wife or very powerful female within her own hierarchy, but. . . "

Sam held up a finger. "Yeah. So, they've sent a medical researcher, who's likely to be a wife of the yahg leader who's bargained with the batarians. Urukhurr, or however the hell you say his name. Apparently, a biotic female, too. Think these two might be considered valuable assets? Think if we can make the threat look good enough, they'll pull back through the tunnels to defend the females, wherever they happen to have set up their lair?"

"Yes," Rel replied, immediately. "They're likely to have taken the largest room they can find that has the fewest entrances and exits for that purpose. That being said. . . we're going to need to do a _lot_ to convince them to fall back. I've rarely seen them do that." He paused. "And once we get them to fall back, then what?"

"Our rachni friends and the second teams tunnel in from behind them and we crush them between us," Sam replied, evenly. "First set of teams has to be strong enough to put up a hell of a fight. But, before we do any more planning. . . let me get the commander's okay on this." He looked around. "Makur? I know you'll want to be in the fight. . . but you can't use that shotgun of yours one-handed. I'm going to put you, god help me, in charge of the prisoners that are about to come streaming up out of the basement levels—" He paused. "Huh. Actually, sort of surprising none of them have, yet. . . "

"Guards have them pinned down between the cells and the two exits. . . for the moment," Dara supplied. "Guards are singing fear-songs very loudly, though."

Sam shook his head, and looked back at Makur. "Right. Rely on the rachni to tell you which are prisoners and which are guards. Have 'em spin cocoons around all of them, or at least hobble 'em hand and foot. Siara, you want to stay with him, or head down?"

A quick exchange of glances. "I'll stay here," Siara said. "Makur needs the backup."

Sam exhaled. "All right. Let me talk to our commander before she wonders why yet another team has missed its check-in call. . . "

Shepard gave the okay, although her tone on the radio was a little incredulous. "You're sure they're all stable enough to fight?"

"We're all more'n a little dinged up and tired, but I think we need to do this before the yahg finish killing everyone down there and get prepared for any further attacks. . . or just plain try to break free." Sam's voice was tired. "We're down Forseti, with a concussion, though he can help Heimdall and Kali with dealing with the prisoners. But we're plus Freya, Loki, and Astrild, so that makes up for it."

_Tell Truth-Singer that it is best that we go now. While Sings-Heartsong still sings queen-song. Once the drug fades from her body, she may not sing as loudly. And right now, her harmonies help all of us. She sings to all her hive. We sing together. It is a help._ Sky's voice was calm, and Sam shook his head and translated.

And then they got down to the dirty work of deciding which teams would go where. Thirteen people divided down the middle. Fors was an obvious choice to go with the 'herding' team; he could lock down groups of prisoners and guards with his biotics, he could implode the occasional yahg's head, but he was injured. _I will carry him_, Sky sang, and that settled the matter; he lifted Fors to his back gently, using just his handling appendages. _You will be unharmed on my back, Sings-Mischief_.

"Unless I fall to my death," Fors agreed. "We've really got to make rachni saddles, guys. Between my suit and their carapaces, there's a whole lot of slick going on here."

Gris was an obvious choice, as well, for the herding team; the krogan had fought yahg on at least three worlds at this point, and his eyes glittered at the thought of adding a fourth to that total. Kirrahe lifted the nozzle of his flamethrower, and simply commented, "Extremely effective in tight quarters. Psychological factor may also be effective on yahg. Also, may still be mechs in the lower facilities. Should go with 'herding' team."

Sam nodded. "Not arguing." He looked around at the rest. "Virtus, Vulcan. . . and we need one genuine defensive specialist. Tag, Thor, you're it."

"That is a hell of a lot of firepower in one place," Eli acknowledged. "And the rachni are going to. . . ?"

"The soldiers and workers will help with combat as they're able, but they're going to be sweeping through and trying to report back on where they find yahg, any traps the yahg might be setting, and securing areas after you've cleared them," Dara replied, her voice calm. "Also, they'll be helping Stone dig. Maybe helping drop some ceilings on the yahg, if we can arrange it."

Sam nodded. "That leaves Nyx, Stone, Freya, Tyr, Astrild, and myself to come in through the back door. We think the yahg females are to the southern end of the complex, lowest level. Start at the east side, secure east. Sweep north, then south. Push them out of each level they've hit, and keep pushing them south. We've got Astrild and Tyr for defense. . . everyone else is pretty much sneaky types or sniper rifles." He exhaled. "Nemesis has been kidding me for months now that I'm the only member of the Archangel line who hasn't fought yahg." Sam's tone was rueful. "I don't think he's up on the _Normandy_ laughing right now."

Eli's head rose. "I'm short my shield, Orpheus," he warned. "Not that it'll do much if a yahg closes on me."

Zhasa smiled at him behind her mask. "I think I can manage to keep us fairly safe."

"From bullets, yes. Your dome shield is outstanding, and I'm not taking anything away from you there, Astrild. I just feel naked without a hard shield. And not in a good way." The teasing tone was half-hearted, it was clear.

Stone sang, his notes hesitant, _There is material available, if you wished, that would . . . assist you._

Eli turned his head and stared at Stone, at a loss. "I don't understand," he admitted.

_One of our brother brood-warriors fell in combat against the towers outside of this place. Now that the tower guardians are contained, the little workers would begin . . . consuming him. Returning his nutrients to the hive._ Stone's voice held reverence. For a rachni, this was as simple and commonplace as a pyre or a burial plot to a human, turian, or asari. _His carapace underbelly is intact. You would sing honor to his memory, nameless though he was, if you used his body for your protection, and the protection of our little-queen._

Eli froze in place, fighting down his instinctive reaction as everyone around him stirred. Nothing but a slow pulse of acceptance in Dara's mind; she hadn't initiated Stone's comment, but she agreed with it. "It kind of feels like I'd be . . . violating a corpse," he admitted, after a moment. The revulsion was probably part instinct, part culture. "But this isn't like taking someone's skull as a trophy."

_And we do not hunt singers to eat them. When our people's songs end, they pass back into the hive. Into memory-song and body-song. We are not the devourers_—image of the yahg here—_who seek to prove mastery. Who eat to create terror as much as to feed._ Sky's voice was a dark bass rumble. _No. You do us no dishonor in accepting a gift._ _We will bring it to you._

Eli swallowed hard when a soldier scuttled up, a glistening piece of green-brown carapace on its back, held there by three workers along for the ride. No plasteel window to peer through, but they'd rigged straps of rachni silk to the back for him. It curved subtly, too. He accepted it, feeling oddly reverent, and glanced at Dara. _Are you. . .are they sure about this, __sai'kaea__?_ Tugging at her mind, gently, pulling her back to the human.

_Yes. They're sure. We're sure. You need the protection, Eli. Especially since you're bruised from head to toe from all those charges you kept taking from the damned batarian with the sword._ Now Dara looked up. "Are we all ready? If so. . . spirits guard you all. And we'll meet you down there." Her faceplate was still cracked from the damage it had taken at the medical center, but her weapons were ready, and her piano-like mental harmonies swept through Eli. Buoyed him up. She was nervous, but hell. . . they all were.

Dempsey moved over. Looked down at Zhasa, and tapped the knuckles of one glove against his newly-installed visor. "Guess I get to test your handiwork." Simple, almost off-hand words.

_Keelah, I wish I were going on your team, Dempsey._

_I'm just as glad you're not, Zhasa-love. I've dealt with yahg before. I'd just as soon they're aiming at me when you and Doc and Sidonis and everyone else unload nasty shit at them from behind. _Dempsey reached down and gave Zhasa a quick, hard hug. _Just got you back. Be very goddamned careful, Zhasa._

_I always am._

The 'herding' team headed down into the tunnels. Dempsey didn't really feel apprehension, but he did feel tension in the line of his own shoulders. He was at the front of the line, with Gris; the Velnaran brothers were behind them; then Kirrahe and Sky, with Fors on his back. The halls were too narrow to allow them to walk three abreast, and the area was very damned dark. Dempsey's various Argent Defender modifications had included a night-vision gene mod. . . which meant that, in low light, his eyes glimmered like Zhasa's did. Some night vision mods just rearranged the light frequencies that the rods and cones could see; others created a _tapetum lucidum_ at the back of the human eyeball, collecting more of the ambient light for the retina's use.

The turians didn't have decent night-vision; they were resorting to NV pickups in their helmets. So was Kirrahe. Krogan and rachni saw perfectly in the dark, and this sort of lighting wasn't that much different than what Fors' species had evolved for. But in spite of being _able_ to see, there was a claustrophobic sensation for Dempsey. He assessed the reaction, and put it down to the close confines, the darkness, the screaming and shouting in the distance, the need to move quickly and quietly. . . and the sense that a yahg could be behind any corner. Even though he knew perfectly well that the rachni would pick them up and transmit them . . . it didn't remove the sense of the unknown. Not entirely. _A year ago, I'd have been almost overjoyed. . . well, okay. Not overjoyed. I'd have seen any emotional response as progress. Did I have to get dread and tension back along with the love, friendship, and sense of humor? Did it really have to be a package deal? Eh, at least it's muted._

The stairs downwards ended in the first guard-room; tunnels led off to the north and south, which Fors and Zhasa had not explored. These doors were secured, and fully. He didn't want to put his back to an unsecured area, but for the moment, the gapingly open door in front of him was more important.

Fors' handiwork clearly evident in the door that led up to the stairs, and led out into the cellblock. . . two iron doors congealed to spheres of metal, which had clearly been used to slam guards, whose splayed bodies still lay on the ground. Dempsey stepped over a limp body, and ducked around the melted door to peer out into the hall, weapon at the ready. His eyes widened slightly. "Ah, hell," he muttered.

There was a surging tide of bodies out there. Prisoners were panicking and rioting, and pushing towards a thin line of guards, whose backs were currently towards Dempsey. They'd set up a barricade of sorts, and were using shock batons, stasis guns, anything they could get their hands on, to hold the sheer weight of the panicking mob back. The guards were evidently using bright lights, too, working on the night-adapted eyes of the prisoners, most of whom were batarian. . . twice the optical stimulation. The flashes of light, though directed away from him, still lit up the scene almost blindingly for Dempsey, and that was without Sky's battle-vision overlay in its glimmers of reds and yellows delineating hostiles and prisoners. Prisoners who could turn hostile in seconds, in panic and fear. "That's a lot of bodies," Dempsey muttered into the radio.

"Leave 'em for the moment. They're not aware of us, and the guards are handling things," Gris assessed. "We go after the leadership, first."

_North, this level_, Sky agreed. _Remove their leader, and the rest will crumble the more easily._

The batarian SIU commander who oversaw the 're-education' facility was having possibly the worst day in recorded history. His planet's defenses had been decimated twenty-four hours ago, leaving his facility as one of a handful of marginally off-the-grid SIU facilities on Lorek. As such, when the medical facility nearby had been hit, Dr. R'sal, damn his eyes, had immediately picked up his prisoners, his test subjects, his yahg 'guests,' and any mechs he could recover, and moved directly _here_. Which had meant needing to clear out an entire guard barracks to find room for the yahg, setting mechs to guard them on the lowest levels, and having to deal with the _Spectres_. R'sal had overstepped his authority by opening direct negotiations with _Shepard_, in a transparent bid to save his own hide. The commander had seriously considered having R'sal's head removed, but the healer-caste male was _brilliant_ in his erratic way, and he'd need permission to do that. Besides, if worst came to worst, they could give R'sal up as a scapegoat, couldn't they?

Of course, then, during the questioning of the Spectres, which the commander had been watching through a closed-circuit vid feed, R'sal had dosed the human female with something to make her compliant, and the next thing the commander had known, he was hearing _music_ for some damn reason. Music everywhere. Something alien and unfamiliar and probably banned by the Ministry of Culture. And directly after that, the damn base was under attack by forces unknown, and the commander had hurried, per emergency directives, to the first subbasement to his secondary command post in the northern guard barracks area. Had watched camera feeds from all over the base, mouth open, not knowing what to make of what he was seeing. The western guard towers being attacked. Swarms of insects outside the walls. Outer walls being breached by what were, undoubtedly, Spectres, in their night-black armor. He'd gone to order the Spectre prisoners moved from their cells and to his command post to use as proper hostages, but now there were prisoners loose on two separate levels, and no one was answering the radios at three separate guard-posts. All inside of _five to ten minutes_ from the first sound of music in his head. He saw swarms of insects pouring into the interrogation chamber. The human female freed, and then nothing but the empty chair there. Screams from off-camera, R'sal's voice.

And then the lights had gone out. All camera feeds had gone with them. He tried paging his people on the radio to get the fucking back-up generator on-line, but there was mass panic going on. The regular guards were trying to lock down the prisoners. The SIU operatives were fleeing the upstairs area or trying to make their way down here.

And _then_ the yahg had broken free. His only inkling of this was from a radio call from the lowest level of the prison, a guard trying to report, "They're loose, oh, ancestors, they took out the mechs, and they're _hunting us_, oh, ancestors, _no_—" which had then ended in a choked scream.

The commander couldn't see a way out of this mess. He'd done his best with the shit assignment. He hadn't wanted a posting to Lorek. His family was all back on Khar'sharn. The 're-education,' he knew, was largely directed at political enemies of the Hegemon. People who had conveniently disappeared or been silenced, but who were too high in caste to be executed on trumped-up charges. Thus, he had a prison full of noble-castes and high-ranking warrior-castes, even a few notable scribe-castes, who had been worked on, in some cases, for decades, to 'encourage' them to recant their political views. Most had. Most had fervently recanted. But he'd been directed to keep them, because if they emerged from prison and spoke of their experiences, that could be just as politically inconvenient as anything else. Why they just weren't executed had been the warden's long-standing unasked question, but it remained unasked. He _couldn't_ ask it. Not without taking his own place in a cell.

No, there was no way out. No way in which his career wasn't over. No way in which he could salvage the wreck of this situation for himself. There were no bargains to be made. There were Spectres above, angry prisoners and yahg below. There was only one way out. One way that would salvage some modicum of his honor for his family. And one way that would ensure that if it were the yahg that reached this level first, he wouldn't be torn limb from limb.

He ordered his men to hold the line for as long as possible. Wrote up his will, and a last note to his wife. And, when the door of the command center blew inwards on its hinges, the warden drew his vibrosword. Activated it. Put its point against the center of his breastplate. . . and, wincing, threw himself at the floor.

Rinus was surprised to find most of the batarians in the command post ready, willing, and eager to surrender. . . and then he and Rel cleared past them, while Fors held them all in a stasis field. Found their leader dead on the floor. "He abandoned his men," Rinus growled under his breath. "_Futarri coward."_

"_Not arguing, first-brother."_ Rel nudged the limp body with a boot. _"You're probably going to want to get pictures of all this, right?"_

Rinus shook off the surge of contempt and anger, and stepped back. Took pictures with his omnitool, and called back to Kirrahe, "Agni, there's a hell of a lot of computer equipment up here. All of it currently shut down."

"Blackout did serve us, in part," the salarian acknowledged, moving up as the others began to secure the batarians, disarming them. Using zip ties to bind their hands behind them, and their feet, too. "They could not erase their files. Not without external agents, such as magnets. Assuming that they use older-style storage media, at any rate."

"We can't secure this room worth a damn," Rinus assessed quickly. "Pull the drives. We'll distribute them and carry them out ourselves."

"Good idea," Kirrahe agreed, and began to do exactly that, joined by Dempsey. With two skilled hands opening cases, the various server cores were all removed in rapid order, while the rest of them finished binding the prisoners and standing watch.

"So," Gris rumbled, jerking his head towards the batarians now all bound at wrists and ankles. "We just leave them here?"

"Without their weapons or their leaders' vibrosword? Yes," Rinus replied, removing the blade from the leader's corpse.

"_You can't leave us here, helpless! The yahg are coming!"_

Seven heads turned towards the batarian who'd spoken. But it was Sky who answered him.

_Yes._ One single, solitary word, boiling with red and black notes. Rinus was chilled to his core.

Rinus jerked a thumb at the door. "We got what we came for here. Let's get back to work."

Gris chuckled underneath his helmet. "Yeah. You sure we can't use these batarians for bait?"

"Even yahg have got to have some standards."

They hit the guards and the prisoners massed in the central area of the cell block from behind. Once more, Fors' ability to hold a group of people in one place, without moving, was invaluable, but Rinus winced internally as he saw the prisoners boil over the frozen guards. Dozens of the prisoners were already frozen in place by stasis guns, and trampled to the floor. He could see, in his night-vision, green-glowing pools of heat on the floor that were blood. Tracks left by feet in the hot, sticky fluid. "They're coming right towards us," Gris warned. "Mobs don't think. They charge. And this one's tasted blood and fear."

Everything in Rinus revolted at the notion of firing on the prisoners, but they might not have a choice—they were leaping over the fallen bodies of the guards, leaving them stomped and trampled behind them, and heading right for their front line. Rinus grimaced and lowered the muzzle of his weapon; he'd loaded out with an arc projector today, instead of the Blackstorm. The faces were indistinct in night-vision. . . blobs of color, shading to red at the edges, green at the center, faint shadows where the batarians' eyes would be. Just a ravening, faceless mob, screaming for blood, and not seeing the Spectres for saviors, but for one more obstruction between themselves and freedom. "Brace," Gris warned. "Loki, keep ahold of those fucking guards."

"On it," Fors replied, sounding as if he were gritting his teeth, and _something_ crawled across Rinus' skin. He wasn't a biotic, but Dempsey, Gris, and Sky were surely doing _something_ right now. . . and then the first ten or twelve batarians lifted clear of the ground.

"That's the first," Gris said, holding his left hand up, as if balancing all of them in the palm of his hand. "Sky. . . "

_Their fear-song, desperation-song, is too powerful. I cannot make myself heard. They will not be calmed._

The figures pressing forward through the hall couldn't see what had happened to the prisoners ahead of them. All they could know what that an obstruction had been removed, and they were free to run forward. Like champagne behind a loosened cork, like water breaking from a fractured damn, they burst forth. . . and Rinus' finger tightened on the trigger of his arc projector. Howling, open mouths, grasping hands, a tide of humanoid bodies within ten feet of them. . . "Knock 'em off their feet and see if that calms 'em down," Dempsey called out, calm voice in everyone's ears, and another ten figures lifted up into the air, these compacted into more of a ball. Sky's work.

It wasn't enough. Every level of this prison held about fifty prisoners, and all of them on this level seemed to be churning forward. "Give the word!" Rinus shouted, torn. He was _not_ going to see his own people torn apart by the howling madmen, no matter how much he understood their fear, their desperation, their hatred.

"Do it," Gris growled. "Shear the fields!"

_Get down!_ The order was a whip crack in Rinus' mind, and it sounded like Dempsey as Sky sang a low, powerful note. Rinus turned away, suddenly having a clear image in his mind of what was about to happen. . . just as Rel tackled his older brother, putting his body between Rinus' and harm.

For just a moment, the image spun in Rinus' mind; a trinary system, three stars. A blue giant, about to collapse into a black hole. . . that was Sky's singularity. Its yellow-dwarf neighbor. . . that was Gris' lift field. And a few AU away, another star, a white dwarf, was Fors' stasis field. Sky reached out and tore at the pattern of his own songs, shearing the blue giant apart. Caused it to implode/explode at the same time, sending shockwaves of energy out as it collapsed into a black hole.. . . destabilizing its neighboring star, which went nova, and then both fields of energy rippled out and triggered the furthest star in the trinary system, tearing it apart, too.

The effect was the closest Rinus ever wanted to get to standing in the center of a bomb blast. He'd worked ordnance for close to a decade. He had bomb disposal accreditations. He wore the heaviest kinetic shield and armor he could afford, and for damn good reasons. He'd never had anything blow up in his face. Even through his visor, closed eyes, and turned head, the world turned _white_, and he was buffeted on all sides by impacts.

When the roaring sound abated, and Rinus decided that the evidence was good that he was actually still alive. . . largely because, damnit, his younger brother was _futarri_ heavy. . . Rinus gave Rel a gentle shove. "Move, second-brother."

There was a distinct pause. Rinus' crop clenched. _C'mon. You're conscious and breathing. I order you to be conscious and breathing._

Rel groaned and sat up, moving very slowly indeed. "That's the second time today I've been blown up. Can we _not_ go for a third?"

"All in favor?" Rinus managed, trying to get to his feet.

A chorus of battered sounding "Ayes . . . " and two low growls from directly in front of him.

"Motion carried," Rinus stated, looking up. That hadn't sounded like yahg.

In front of him, Gris and Dempsey had _somehow_ kept to their feet through the blast. Their backs were turned, but Dempsey had sunk now to his knees. Hands over his face. Gris was snarling as he turned towards the wall beside him and began to beat on it with the sides of his fists. The growls grew louder, until both males were simply, utterly, howling. Dempsey rocked back and forth, panting a little.

"Ah, _s'kak_," Rel said, grimly. "They're in blood-rage. _Fradu_, we're going to have to hold them down—"

"Loki," Rinus shot over his shoulder at Fors. "Lock them down. Lock them _both_ down."

"I've never actually tried to lock Thor down—" Fors sounded uneasy. "They're both biotic, Vulcan—"

"If anyone can, it's you, Loki. Just keep him from _futarri_ punching me, please. Sky? Keep them from punching us with their _minds_, would you?" Rinus moved forward, cautiously, dropping his pack and digging for medigel. He hadn't seen it yet, but he knew it wasn't going to be pretty.

It wasn't. Even Rinus, who'd seen a hell of a lot of combat, flinched. The human male's newly repaired visor was gone again, revealing a face that smoldered with orange light everywhere, the skin having been scoured away, even to the eyelids. Bone showed in places, bone that was _black_ and glistened; carbon nanotubules encasing it. _God, don't touch me, don't touch me, I'll fucking lose it if you touch me_, was the single, almost incoherent thought that came through.

"Calm down," Rinus ordered. "I have to touch you to put the medigel on and give you some painkillers—"

_I'll fucking heal, just don't touch me!_

"Would you let Freya do her damn job if she were here?" Rinus snapped, putting command in his voice. "Shut up and let me help."

Rinus applied the medigel, just as Rel was attempting to do the same for Gris. Regeneration only did so much. Dempsey was clearly panting. Adrenal reaction to the pain. "They're both coming down from the blood-rage, but they're going to be on hair-triggers," Rel warned, tightly.

Sky was singing blues and greens, trying to calm them. Rinus could hear, faintly, piano music wending through Sky's own native song, and realized that it wasn't just Sky trying to help. _Spirits. I wonder if she felt any of what they just felt._

_Yes._ That was Sky. _That, too, is part of a queen's song._

_Ah, spirits_. Rinus' stomach twisted, and then he put it out of his head. Watched and listened as Dempsey's breathing slowed slightly. "That's it," Rinus muttered, grateful that he couldn't see the male's red human blood in his night-vision as anything other that warmer green rivulets down the front of his room-temperature armor. "What the _futar_ were the two of you thinking?"

"Double shields," Dempsey groaned, as Fors released him. "Pushed behind myself with my biotics to brace. Fuck, this hurts. Burns are the fucking worst." He pounded a fist against the wall.

"Same here," Gris growled. "Vaul!" He lifted his head and suddenly howled, and Rinus could understand why when the krogan turned; Gris' armor was scored and blackened everywhere. He _hadn't_ had Dempsey's double layer of shields.

"Why?" Rinus demanded. "Why in the spirits' names didn't you duck and cover like the rest of us?"

"You guys needed our shields. Zhasa wasn't here with her force dome." Dempsey's words were suddenly weary.

And _that_ was when he heard something he hadn't heard since Shanxi, A howl rose through the air, rough-sounding and feral, and the scales on Rinus' back crawled. It was a yahg hunting cry, and it was somewhere on this level, uncomfortably close. A response to Gris' roar of pain, perhaps, a challenge in response to the explosion.

"Answer it," Rel hissed, suddenly, opening his own visor.

"What?" Rinus replied, blankly.

"Answer them." Rel's tone was suddenly engaged. Eager. Alive. "We want them to come out of the depths. They're giving us a challenge. I say we give them hunt cries right back. . . and then _move_." Rel suited deeds to words and lifted his own head, giving voice to a turian hunt-cry. Trilling, ululating, and harsh, it scraped over the stone of the passage, and Rinus, with an uneasy glance at the ceiling, opened his own visor and did the same. It should have felt ridiculous, but it didn't. It touched something primal in him, and Gris leaned his own head back again, for another feral krogan roar.

Rel grinned tightly. "And now," he said, as he snapped his visor closed again, "we move. Sky, give us eyes. Where is our friend the yahg?"

_Three. They are west of us, past the large cave, where prisoners sang their durance. _The rachni was positive about that; his species could sense things in the earth as other species could feel a change in pressure from a storm system moving into an area. _Smaller chambers. Sings-Mischief has sung that these were for question-songs and beating-songs._

"Interrogation chambers are smaller," Fors supplied. "Doesn't let them take advantage of their size and reach. If we can trap them in there? We really should."

Gris gestured, and they all moved out again, the krogan and Dempsey once more leading the way. Rinus tried not to look down at the floor, but he had to step _over_ the body parts littered there. Fortunately, in the night-vision, it was all mostly a haze of warm greens cooling rapidly to reds, from the blood. The specifics were lost to him. . . .and he was grateful for that. Fors and Dempsey and Sky, though, surely could see which parts that rolled underfoot were fingers. Which parts that, unfortunately, squished underfoot, that might be part of a liver or a spleen. Rinus choked down the guilt. There hadn't been any other way. The guards could have been turned into prisoners. The prisoners, ideally, could have been freed. But you couldn't imprison a rampaging mob. To distract himself, Rinus focused on the practical. "Aren't the yahg going to smell the blood on us?" he muttered into the radio. "Or see the footprints we're leaving on thermal?"

"You had to bring up the smell, didn't you?" Dempsey muttered. "I didn't think I _had_ a nausea reflex left."

"At least if you throw up, it won't be inside your suit, my human-cyborg friend," Fors grumbled.

"You can turn down your olfactory receptors, little buddy. I can't."

Then, silence. They couldn't mitigate the smell. Dempsey couldn't hide the thermal outline of his face; the rest of them were in full armor, which somewhat contained their personal odors, with gaskets at every joint, and mostly presented a room-temperature appearance on thermal vision. Rinus was using this in preference to the system which, if he'd been carrying a UV light, would have allowed him to see in black and white, with clearer detail. . . but not knowing what night-vision systems the yahg here used, the Spectres had, as a whole, decided not to announce their presence by shining a UV light around that could be detected by a similar system.

They had one undeniable advantage. Sky's battle-vision let them see the whole of the area around them. They could see that a handful of batarian figures were still in the interrogation rooms, fighting, desperately, against the larger figures of the yahg. One of the yahg had emerged from the rooms and was moving towards them now. Another unearthly howl, and Rinus settled the arc projector more firmly in his hands. Cells on either side of them now, gaping wide like toothless mouths. From Fors and Dempsey's faint gagging sounds, Rinus was damned glad he couldn't smell the miasma of despair and excrement in this place.

_Due south of us now,_ Sky sang, very softly indeed.

"I can see him in your battle-song, but in no other way," Rinus muttered into the radio, chancing a peek around the corner. "Stealth net." _Spirits. I'd managed to make myself forget how big they are. And here I am without any bombs or parking garages to drop on them. _

The yahg's head, outlined in Sky's red light, tipped up. Sniffing. "Hunter," Rel whispered softly. "He's scenting us out. Then he'll call the rest of his pack."

"Yes," Rinus agreed. His brother's ability to spot patterns among the yahg had been uncanny on Shanxi. "Think they've had time to set traps?"

"Not yet. Thank the spirits."

"Then we need to, ourselves."

They edged back down the corridor, and Rinus cast around, looking for what he needed. Fortunately, the prison had an abundance of what he required. "The iron bars of the cell doors," Rinus muttered, and pointed at the various gaping maws of the cells. "Get them down and put them on the floor."

"That's going to make a lot of noise," Gris warned.

"Keep it as quiet as you can," Rinus replied. "Either that, or as fast as we can. Whichever works." He paused. "No one step on these. Especially not you, Dempsey. I don't know what this would do to your cybernetics, and I don't want to find out."

Dempsey grimaced. "I don't want to know, either."

Sound was inevitable. Tearing sound of metal shearing off hinges, and the crash of doors hitting the floor. They opted for speed over stealth, but Rel and Kirrahe set up at the head of the corridor to hold the yahg back for the moment. Howls rose up, immediately. _He summons his fellows,_ Sky interpreted. _He asks them to flank us. He has our scent-song._

"Let him sniff us out all he wants," Rinus muttered, as Dempsey and Fors ripped more doors out of the cells, and threw them at the ground behind them. "Let's seen how well their shields and nervous systems can hold up to this. Fall back. We want them to come to us. And we _don't_ want them to flank us." He looked at Fors. "You ready to be bait?"

"It's one of my main jobs," the volus agreed tiredly. "Sky? Be ready to pull me the hell out of there."

_I listen._

They backed down the middle of the hall between the two ranks of stone cells, Rinus winding a length of conductive wire around each of the cell doors as he backed up; each door had been tossed down so that they overlapped each other, and there were enough doors to crisscross on the floor. The bars of the doors were all set about six inches apart. . . and yahg feet were large. Fors would remain at the eastern end of the hallway, to attract the yahg's attention. The rest of them were falling back further north.

Through the walls, Rinus could see the misty outlines of the yahg moving into position, to the southwest of them. Pausing a moment, presumably, to argue about their flanking maneuvers. But the Spectre team was in full retreat now, and Rinus unrolled his cable as he moved. Ducking further back into the rows and rows of cells. Rel, Dempsey, and Gris took position at the west end of this hallway. Dempsey, Sky, Kirrahe and Rinus took position at the east end, with a visual on Fors. "Get their attention," Rinus muttered. "Just don't, for the sake of the spirits, step on the damn doors, Loki."

Fors took him at his word. "Helllooooooooo!" the volus shouted. "Anyone out there? I'm _waiiiiiting!_ What do I have to do to get some service around here?"

The yahg all howled in response, and Rinus, through the walls, could see their misty forms, battle-song outlines in midair. Only two of them moved forward, however. _Cautious hunters,_ he thought, grimly. _The other one is going to come around from the south and try to flank._ He exhaled. _Time to see if you're wearing insulated boots or not, I suppose,_ Rinus thought. He had already opened the side of his arc projector and plugged the terminal of his long wire into the weapon, to a rarely-used connector port.

"Any time now!" Fors shouted, but it wasn't at the yahg, who were now charging towards him. Tremendous clang of feet on the cross-hatched doors on the floor.

"Hold them!" Rinus shouted back, and pulled the trigger on his arc projector.

Nothing emerged from the barrel; all of its energies were currently being redirected along the high-voltage capable fiber cable he'd run. And, as the electrical current passed into the metal bars that the yahg stood on, it also immediately passed into the yahg's bodies. Their misty red forms paused in their tracks, as seen through the walls, then lurched forward, clumsily. Howls of pain ringing off the walls. And that's when Fors raised one small hand and the yahg halted in mid-stride, rocking back and forth uncertainly. The howling cut off abruptly, too.

The yahg were not wearing insulated boots. They weren't on a spaceship and their armor was designed, primarily, for hunting and running. The soles were thin and the material appeared to be organic, but certainly wasn't rubber or any similar analog. It was probably leather or hide, and as the electrical energy coursed through the bars, the leather flash-heated and burned almost instantly, and the yahg, whom Fors was trying to hold in place with his biotics, were slowed to at least a crawl. The talent, Fors had explained previously, did have a certain amount to do with pure mass; he could stop ten to twenty people of smaller body sizes by flushing their nerves with energy. Yahg, however, were simply very damned big. These two were both two feet taller than Gris, standing at least ten feet in height. As such, the best Fors could do was slow their nerves' firing. "Can't. . . hold . . . them. . . " Fors gritted into the radio.

"Just keep them slowed down," Rinus told him, and kept the trigger depressed, watching as the third yahg began to slip up and around heading for Fors. "Get ready to pull him," he told Sky and Dempsey.

_We are ready,_ the rachni assured him. _We will not allow harm to come to Sings-Mischief._

Sky was as good as his word. The instant the third yahg came around the corner, Fors was lifted into the air by a singularity, and Dempsey whisked the volus back down the corridor and to safety, reaching up and catching Fors in mid-air, like a ball. "Knew all that time spent teaching Sisu to play catch would come in handy," the human said, laconically. "Okay. One pissed off and healthy yahg incoming. Back up, people."

Rinus released the trigger, yanked the cord free, and sealed up the side of the projector, backing the hell up. The charge was half drained at this point, and he'd risk hitting his own people with the heavy weapon now, if he used it.

The yahg paused at the corner, warily. Clearly not underestimating the opposition this time, it peeked around the corner, nothing more than a ripple in the air, its stealth net masking its body from their eyes, but not from Sky's inner vision. Then it ducked back away again. "What's it doing?" Fors muttered.

"Probably going to try to set traps of his own," Rel replied, grimly. "He's not going to come after seven of us. He's going to call to his fellows. . . but there aren't any more on this level, right?"

_No. They were alone. This one runs now. . . goes to its fellows. We must drive them all before us, as Sings-to-the-Past sang._

"Let's get to it, then," Dempsey muttered. The human's face was looking a little less battered now; the sea of orange cybernetics had islands of darker skin against it, cooler patches against the livid thermal green.

And so, they followed after their yahg. Passed the two that Rinus' trap had dealt with. . . both looking quite cooked, their bodies bulking large on the ground. The others had to step around the corpses carefully, and Rinus gritted his teeth, trying not to picture the behemoths sitting back up again and grabbing for them.

The guard and interrogation rooms on the west side of this level were largely empty. All the guards on this level had evacuated to the command post or been killed holding the line against the prisoners.

One level down, however, the guard and interrogation rooms were a slaughterhouse. Rinus couldn't feel a great deal of sympathy for the batarians, but there were prisoners and guards alike hung up in here, by the ankles, to bleed out. They'd been left alive to do so, for the preservation of the meat. . . none of them had been gutted or skinned yet. Rinus had had a few very dark spirit-dreams after Shanxi, enough that he'd almost have been willing to call them by the human term of nightmares. Because he couldn't understand for the life of him why the spirits would send _these_ images to him, over and over again. And he suspected that they'd be recurring. A quick glance around. . . of everyone on the team, only Kirrahe hadn't fought yahg before. Omega and Arvuna had been his stomping grounds. "You all right?" Rinus asked, tapping the salarian's narrow shoulder.

Kirrahe looked up at the bodies. "Yes. Disturbing, but within expected behavioral parameters for yahg. Surprising how quickly they have moved, actually." The salarian's eyes, behind his mask, darted back and forth. "They did not know the terrain, but moved to control it very quickly. Likely planned an attack like this for some time, but were unable to execute it at previous facility. Even here, possibly not able to do so until our attack."

Rinus winced inwardly; he hadn't thought of that particular aspect before.

"Let's keep moving," Rel urged, quietly. "Don't give them a chance to set up any traps."

_There are four on the next level down,_ Sky warned. _None on this one._

"Any prisoners or guards left alive?" Gris muttered.

There was a pause, and then a very quiet response from the rachni. _No_, Sky admitted.

They continued downward, deeper into the earth. The blood from the twelve slaughtered guards was, as fluids tended to do, finding the lowest point, which happened to be the staircase at the north end of the room. This made footing difficult and slippery on the stairs, and the blood was, again, still warm. Still leaving livid green trails in thermal vision. The average batarian body had ten pints of blood; twelve guards made for about fifteen gallons of blood. Admittedly, it was all at a slow trickle, and it wasn't all in one place. . . but it coated everyone's boots to the ankles, at least.

The next level, they could still hear screaming. "They've got a few left alive?" Rel asked, in some surprise.

_Yes. Captived-singers. Not captive-song singers. For . . . hunting-songs._ Sky sounded absolutely ill. Rinus translated that to mean 'prisoners, and not guards,' and nodded. Prisoners who _hadn't_ gotten out of their cells had probably been left there, for the time being. Sky's battle-vision showed all four yahg to the east, all the way across the complex. In the other interrogation rooms, apparently. "They're waiting," Rel assessed, after a moment. "Let's take a look at the terrain in between."

Rubble blocked several of the halls between the cells; largely equipment torn from guard barracks, from the looks of things. Beds. Lockers. Anything large and unwieldy, but also broken Colossus mechs. Only one clear avenue through, and the door midway through, which had been used by guards previously, was closed. "Oh, look," Fors said. "They left us an open pathway. How considerate."

There was a pause as they all looked at one another. "So, it's a trap?" Dempsey said, dryly.

"Yeah. Trouble is, they probably know we're smart enough to try to go around." Rinus shrugged. "They're just waiting in the far guardroom. Waiting for us to spring it, so they can charge out and pick off the survivors. Means they're probably fairly confident in it slowing or injuring us."

"I can just walk up and open the damn door," Gris volunteered. "Whatever it is, isn't likely to kill me. It's not like this place has probably got a lot of explosives or flammable shit lying around. It's a prison."

"Yeah, let's hold off on that," Rinus told the older Spectre, dryly. "You and Thor's faces haven't finished growing back, and while he can pass his off as a shaving injury, you can't."

"I do not shave with a blowtorch," Dempsey replied, with dignity.

Another pause. "So, traps in the other corridors, too?" That, from Rel.

"Could be. Doubt they had enough time for it." Rinus shrugged. "Anyone got any suggestions?"

Dempsey raised a hand. "Yeah. Loki? You're with me. Two birds with one stone time." He helped Fors down from Sky's back, and the pair moved off to one of the blocked corridors and returned, shortly, with the floating husk of a Colossus mech. The rest of them moved the hell out of the way. "That door down there is practically rated like a ship hatch," Rinus warned. "Might not open with just a battering ram."

"We'll see," Dempsey said, nodding, and giving the floating mech another shove before steadying it in front of the cleared hallway. "Ready, Loki?"

"When you are."

Dempsey held up both hands in front of himself, palm-out. Inhaled. Exhaled. And then the Colossus, already hovering in air, held there by Fors' powers, hurtled down the corridor and slammed into the doorway. Six hundred pounds of mass propelled at about seventy miles per hour added up to a hell of an impact. The sealed security door was torn from the wall. The stone of the wall to which it was attached crumbled. And whatever lay beyond was crushed.

"No gunfire. Not something tracking by motion or weight," Rinus observed, dryly. "Also, no explosions."

"See? I could have just gone and opened it," Gris grumbled.

They moved forward cautiously, all of them looking for tripwires. When they reached the remains of the door, Rinus saw the loose cabling on the other side, and followed its path with his eyes. "_S'kak_," he muttered, and pointed; there were cables and pulleys on both sides of the doors.

"All right. What was it meant to do?" Fors snuffled.

Rinus eyed the rest of the corridor, with its missing cell doors; all the barred variety, not the solid doors Fors had reported from his own level of the prison. "At a guess? We opened the door, the pulleys went into action, and a mass of six-foot spikes anchored to a flat piece of wood or something came up and impaled us and maybe the person behind us. Moving too slowly for shields. Don't know if the hardsuits would have taken it." _Especially not the ones that were already damaged from the various explosions_, he added, mentally.

Gris reached down in the debris, and picked up a twisted spar of metal. A long bar from a cell door. He regarded it thoughtfully. "Okay. Yeah. That would have hurt. A lot." The krogan considered it a moment longer. "And probably would have gotten a hell of a lot of the internal organs."

"I think we need to convince them not to set any more traps," Dempsey said, flatly.

"Suggestions?" Rinus asked. "They're still hunkering behind that door back there. Probably have another little hello waiting for us there, assuming we got past this one."

"Are our rachni friends sweeping each level behind us, as arranged?"

_Yes,_ Sky replied, and there was piano music entwined with his own cellos again.

"Can they drop the floor above that guard room onto the heads of the yahg in there?" Dempsey's eyes, in that orange-and-green-glowing face, were just dark shadows to Rinus. But he suspected they were empty of emotion at the moment.

"I like how you think," Rinus agreed, dryly. "The more of them we kill up here, the fewer we need to kill down below."

Sky relayed the commands, and the Spectres moved further back down the corridor again, aiming their weapons at the far end of the hall. . . while upstairs, to the east, their rachni associates quietly dug and burrowed. "The yahg are moving," Rel said, tightly. "They probably don't understand why there was no screaming. No yelling. And why we're not attacking right now. They're going to want to move out for a better look—we need to keep them pinned in that guardroom."

"Grenades," Rinus ordered, quickly, but Rel was already pulling out his launcher, and sending two down the hallway, which rolled to a halt against the far door, and exploded. "There we go," Rinus said, in satisfaction. "Open fire on the door, everyone. Back them up further into the room."

At this distance, there wasn't much in the way of accuracy, but they didn't need accuracy. They wanted the yahg to back up. And stay away from the door, well inside the room, until the ceiling collapsed.

The guard room was twenty-five feet wide by thirty feet long, and the stone ceiling above it was two feet thick. That made for 1,500 cubic feet of solid rock falling from twelve feet in the air . . . with a load of rachni workers and soldiers atop it. Rinus heard grinding noises, rock on rock, roars of surprise and fear, and then a tremendous _CRASH_ that echoed through the complex, with shockwaves reverberating up through his legs. Rinus looked up, and saw hundreds of blue shapes, all workers and soldiers, in the room ahead of them at the end of the corridor. . . and one red-limned yahg figure. "How the hell did one of them survive?" he demanded.

_He stands in the shelter of the stairwell. He sings fear now!_ Sky's voice was exultant. _This is how those of the Singing Planet often sang battle-songs in the time when the krogan came to our hives._

Gris turned his head, visibly wincing. "Yeah. Fair number of history chants talk about the rachni squashing whole squads like that. It's a trick with a limited number of uses. . . but when it works, it's very damned effective."

_He runs_, Sky sang, and sure enough, Rinus saw the red-tinged figure dropping down through the floor. Heading to the lower levels. Howls of alarm rising up through the depths now, as the yahg called to his fellows. _Now, we follow?_

Rinus nodded. "What about the prisoners?" Fors asked, jerking a thumb at the various cells around them. There were still batarians locked in some of them. All screaming in fear again at the mysterious crash.

"Have the rachni open the cages. . . wait. Can they?" Rinus paused.

_Little workers have difficulty with doorknob songs. They will cut the bars with acid and the soldiers will escort captived-ones to the stairs._

"Good enough. Let's keep moving."

In the meantime, the other team had been slowly slipping and sliding down into the tunnel that Glory had cut through the earth to make his escape. For several dozen yards, it angled under the ground, so that he'd been able to get out past the fence line, partially out of view of the towers. The tunnel was only as wide as a brood-warrior needed to pull his body through, and rachni were, to a certain extent, compressible. As such, the tunnel was more than a little claustrophobic. Stone and the workers were adding webbing as they went along to give the humanoids better hand and foot-holds, but it was still slow going, and they were doing it all in the dark. Dara's rachni-adapted eyes still needed _some_ light; so did Zhasa's quarian ones. As such, they all had lights strapped to their harnesses for the moment, and each pool of light was enough to let them see where their feet were. "Why is it," Dara said on the radio as the tunnel's pitch shifted, going from about a forty-five degree incline, to a ninety-degree vertical one, "that every time I go out on a mission, it seems like I wind up having to climb somewhere? Usually in the dark?"

Her tone was plaintive, and she got muffled laughter in response, as she'd more or less intended. "Omega elevator shaft?" Eli asked.

"That. That smuggler base built into the cliff, right before Bothros."

"Oh, yeah. If it helps, there was a hell of a cliff on Terra Nova that you missed." Flicker of memory-song, the long climb up to the Icama facility's ridgeline, and peering up over the edge, nervously wondering if his head was about to be shot off.

"Thanks, Tyr. I appreciate that." Dara put as much sarcasm into her voice as possible. Focusing on the banter let her try to suppress all the voices around her, at least a little. All her friends. The rachni. The more distant voices of the other Spectres as they moved through the first level of the base. Dempsey's cool determination. Rel's leashed excitement. Rinus' calculating mind.

And that was the moment that Dara doubled over in pain and damned near lost her grip on the webbing. Her feet slipped out from under her, but her climbing harness, basically just fine rachni filaments that wrapped around her body and between her legs, and connected to a rope that the rest of them were also using, took her weight. "Freya!" Eli's voice was lost for her for an instant as suddenly, all Dara knew was that guitars were _screaming_ and the roar of a huge brazen cymbal and an enormous drum were pounding in her head. Then Eli's fingers caught her wrist, and Dara came back to herself, breathing hard. _Oh fucking hell. Oh, fucking, fucking hell._

"What happened?" Sam demanded, from somewhere below her feet.

"Dempsey," Dara gritted out, trying to balance between sending her thoughts out to find out what had just happened, and not even bothering with squad names. "Dempsey and Gris just got hurt, and it's . . . not good. . . "

Zhasa, who was immediately below her in the tunnel, immediately called out, silently, _Dempsey?_ Sounding shaken, the quarian female reported, "I. . . can't reach him. There's a wall of anger—"

"Blood-rage?" Dara managed to get her feet on the webbing again, sweating inside her armor. She'd felt this before, on Trident, when she'd worked at the Blood Pack compound to help Dempsey calm himself back down again after his fight with Rel. While Eli had held the man in a headlock, Dara had reached out and touched that white wall of cold-hot fury, and tried to help leach it away. "And. . . pain."

"What happened?" Zhasa sounded as if she were getting her bearings again.

_Intersecting harmonies of light and power, shattered into dissonance_, Stone reported. _Three harmonies at once._

"Yeah, I'm. . . only getting a mental picture of fields of biotic energy being torn apart, with them at ground zero," Dara told Zhasa. "They're alive. They're not happy, but they're alive."

"Let's keep moving," Sam told the rest of them. "Freya, can you block that out at all?"

"Believe me, I'm _trying_," Dara replied unhappily. The pain was a searing sensation, throbbing like an abscessed tooth in her _head._ "I can work through it, Orpheus." _I kind of have to. There's no way I'm crawling up through the tunnel, past Eli, past all the workers who're helping to dig this all out a little further for us. . . _

Down and down. Deeper and deeper into the earth. Part of her hated it, hated the close confines. Part of her _understood_ it. The rachni part. She could sense, through Stone, through the workers, the songs of the earth. Their sense of how earth moved. How the stone lived, in its way. Each layer a record of long, slow years baking under Fathar's blistering heat. How once, this land had been under an ocean. Layer after layer of mud and clay, and periodic areas of stone, where mud had been pressed until it became shale. Then the pressure and the weight, from the water, from the ice above, had dissipated. The world turned on its axis. The continents moved. Folded up into rough hills, clearly sensed by the rachni by the orientation of magnetic particles in the rock. The shale that had become slate, with pressure and time. Harder to dig through, but possible. All that, with the songs of the others around her. Sky, one of her dearest friends, singing songs darker than any she had ever heard from him. Always before, a sense of regret that violence was necessary. Not this time. A queen had been threatened, hive-mates had been captured and threatened, the hive itself threatened. . . . the rachni took these things seriously. Sky had never fought yahg before today, either. He'd heard the songs of his brood-sons about them, and of his battle-brothers, but never fought them himself. _Come, will you match songs with me_? he called out, ringingly, in a challenge to a fleeing yahg. . . .

_We are now as low as we can be, without exiting into my brother's place of confinement_, Stone announced. Battle-vision flickered before Dara's eyes, but it only reinforced her own perceptions. She could _hear_ the song of the devourers, the yahg, to the south of her, and she shuddered. There were six of them in a large room, probably a previous guard living area and barracks. And she could feel a seventh moving _above_ them somewhere, singing fear-songs. Returning to his lair, to his comrades. Stone, below all of them, looked up, his eyes gleaming in the darkness. _I will begin to cut the tunnel towards the devourers. We will arrive in good time to assist._

Stone was as good as his word. The rock in front of him started to _melt_, liquefying, pouring down into the cell area below. Dara was damned glad to be wearing a full environmental suit as the fumes came up the shaft towards her. Matter could not be created or destroyed, of course. Energy was being given off, as heat. Residual matter, as relatively cool lava, pouring down into the cells below. When Stone wanted to liquefy rock or metal, he could either leave the material superheated, and do damage to the armor of the people he was attacking, but at the moment, he was deliberately redirecting the heat. . . which was rising up towards the rest of them. Dara's omnitool chirped unhappily, registering the ambient temperature in the tunnel now at three hundred degrees Fahrenheit. She reached up and tapped on Eli's ankle.

_Yeah. Glad of the enviroseals_, he admitted, silently. _Still not as bad as the Harvester's chemical flames. That was over seven hundred degrees._

_This is only going to get hotter._

_Yeah. And we're in the chimney. Still, beats trying to crawl through a tunnel of cooling lava, right?_

_You sing such cheerful songs to me, Eli._

_You know it, __sai'kaea__._ Gentle mental caress.

And then it was time for them to start doing exactly that. Crawling on hands and knees through the tunnel that Stone was now cutting slightly less than perpendicular to the one through which Glory had burrowed out of the prison. Dara's weapons kept catching on rock protrusions, although Stone's tunnel was far smoother than Glory's. From the way everyone ahead of her had to pause and wiggle periodically, it was happening periodically to all of them.

It took close to two hours to get in position. Even with Stone's phenomenal abilities, it still took time, and the rachni was actually cutting slightly _up_ into the rock to allow the fluids and rubble he was removing to fall down behind them all. Now, less than a foot of rock separated them from the yahg, and they were all moving very, very quietly, to avoid detection. Sam and Seheve were at the front, just behind Stone. The plan was, the three of them would enter the room first. Then Zhasa and Eli, who'd move past Dara to do so. Dara was supposed to stay in the tunnel, and use her sniper rifle from what would be an effective perch. "What's the other team's position?" Sam muttered softly into the radio, looking around.

_They have cleared the fourth level_, Stone replied.

"Fors is unhappy," Dara supplied softly, leaning her head against the wall. Her voice was tired, and she was trying to keep the sing-song quality out of it. "He thinks that the yahg used his escape route for starters. All the doors he wrecked to get out. All the guards he killed, were fewer guards to stand in the yahgs' way."

Her father shook his head. "He didn't know they were going to be following right behind him. His first responsibility was escape, and rescuing as many of our people as he could while he was at it. Tell him to focus."

_Already doing that,_ she admitted. It wasn't something she was doing in words. It was an instinct-level twitch at the mental song coming from Fors' direction, the volus' usually kazoo-like voice had darkened into the repetitious drone of a didgeridoo in between combat, as part of his mind diverted to wondering what he could have done differently. She pushed a little, gently, in his direction. Encouraging songs, blues and greens, as best she could, and dislodged him from the circular pattern his thoughts had taken. Helped him focus. She didn't think she could keep doing this if she needed to fire on enemies herself, but helping the others actually helped her. Kept her from feeling the tight confines of the tunnel around her. The trapped, residual heat from Stone's digging process.

"Stone, can you bore a very small hole through the wall? Your battle-vision's great and all," Sam said then, "but I'd like to get a little clearer idea of what else is in the room through here."

Stone was happy to comply, and managed a very fine hole, through which her father threaded a camera on a wire. Which let them see into the large guard room beyond. Zhasa and Dara both gagged, immediately, and Dara felt Eli's hand on her shoulder-plate, immediately. "Yeah," Eli said quietly. "Terra Nova flashbacks."

The room beyond had been, once, used by batarian guards. Probably hastily converted to house their yahg 'guests,' all the bunk beds were pushed up against the south wall. Batarian bodies hung upside down from these, attached to the metal tops of the beds by their own shackles, attached to their ankles. Most of them had clearly been bled out, and it was impossible to tell guards from prisoners at the moment. .. all of them had been stripped of their clothing. Several were in the process of being gutted, as well; entrails were in piles around the floor. Dara tried, hard, not to think about the smell, and managed to keep herself from gagging all over again.

"Settle down," Sam murmured to everyone. "I've got that yahg translation VI we managed to put together with that batarian linguist's help. Let's see what they're saying."

This helped, actually. Dara was getting mainly emotions from the yahg, not actual clear thoughts-as-words. The translations of their growls and grunts her father's omnitool were. . . a counterpoint. _"Why is Ugur sounding the retreat? Is he a coward?_"

"_You heard the crash. Something must have gone wrong up there."_

"_Half-eyed ones don't know how to build, is all."_

"_Hunters sent to the top haven't checked in. Haven't even used half-eyed radios. Told them to!"_ That, from one of the females.

"That's Ursukkai," Dara said, softly. "The plague-bringer."

"You're sure?" her father asked, instantly.

"Oh yes. The other female's about a foot shorter than she is. Only eight feet. Huh." _Would that qualify her as a dwarf or a weakling for the yahg? And yet, she's the one with the stronger mental song. The biotic. Rel's alpha on Shanxi was __bigger__ than his fellows. A biotic, and nearly twelve feet tall._ "Be very damned careful of the other female. She's the mind-singer. . . er, the biotic." _And she's gray-red. She's not a gray-voice, but she glows with a base color of gray, with red overtones. She's not like Ursukkai, who looks like a bottomless pit, a black hole sucking all light and life into her, but she's dangerous, in her own way. I can feel it from here._

Oblivious, the yahg in the room continued talking. _"We are hunters. We do not take orders from females. We will provide the food needed for the journey. We will find a ship. We will take it. And we will leave this place, and return to Urkghak covered in glory."_

Ursukkai snarled at the male, openly. _"I am the second wife of Urukhurr. You will obey me!"_

The female beside her lifted a hand, and the hunter's head jerked towards her. "He's more afraid of her than of the loud-mouth," Eli said, immediately. 

_Yes. He sings fear now._ Dara and Stone both agreed. _He fears what she can do to him._

"_Don't look at her! She's a fourth-wife! She's nothing! Look at me when I'm talking to you."_

The male didn't move. He was, as far as Dara could tell, frozen in place. Ursukkai howled at the other female, and the VI bugged out, unable to follow the conversation. "Anything?" Eli asked Dara.

She shook her head, feeling a headache coming on. A bad one. _Dissonance. The first accuses the other of playing games. The other is. . . manipulating? Pushing her to look erratic. Protection for herself, in a way? So that when they return home, the chieftain will probably have Ursukkai put to death for failure, but . . . oh, god, I can't understand half of this. There's nothing but dissonance here. Her job was to protect and support Ursukkai, but if the males report a failed mission, and Ursukkai is discredited, it protects __her__. I think. _The problem was that the thoughts were so. . . buried. . . in anger and hate and loathing, in a state so intense it bordered on blood-rage, that actual cognition almost choked off entirely. There was _only_ undersong to go on. The most primitive levels of a humanoid brain, really. "It's like when a human gets stressed, and the frontal cortex more or less shuts down. There's just adrenaline and stress cortisol," Dara muttered into her radio. "Except yahg are supposed to be very smart, on top of all of that. . . " She paused, and thought about it.

_Wisdom-song is not the same as cunning-song_, Stone sang, very softly.

_Yeah._ Dara exhaled. _I think that might be it, actually._

"If we're able to keep any of them alive, which one do we aim for?" Sam asked, pragmatically.

"The biotic," Dara said, immediately. "She's still a wife of the yahg's main chieftain. And biotics seem to be valued among them. She might know a lot. And even if she doesn't, she might be something worth bargaining with."

"What of the other one?" Seheve murmured softly.

"She engineered the plagues, or helped," Dara said, quietly, feeling fury-song building up inside of her now, too. "And she gloried in it. Bragged about it to me. If I could, I'd roast her over a spit for a few days. As is. . . kill her."

Seheve, in the dim light, looked up. Dara could just make out the shadows that were the drell's fathomless dark eyes behind her visor. And then Seheve nodded. Just once. Dara felt an odd surge of relief. The matter was now in Seheve's very capable hands.

"Team two, this is team one," Rel muttered into his radio, from the southern corridor. "Are you in position?"

Sam's voice came back over the line, immediately. _"Yes. We're ready when you are. We read seven hostiles in the room. No mechs."_

"That's good, because there's one disabled one right outside their front door." Rel peered around the corner. "It's not firing at us, anyway."

The Colossus mech was damaged, it was clear, but still semi-functional. Kirrahe pushed up between the others, looked down the hall, and whispered, "I have an idea."

"If it involves fire, I think I'll pass," Dempsey told the salarian, dryly.

"No, no. No fire."

"No explosions?" Gris asked.

Kirrahe hesitated. "Probably not."

"Okay, we're listening." Gris folded his arms over his scorched breastplate and shrugged. "Spit it out, salarian."

Kirrahe shrugged. "Not fancy. Will hack the mech and have it make our entry for us."

They all paused. Dempsey added, "And then it explodes?"

"Not if I can arrange it." Kirrahe shrugged. "Sometimes, simplest is best."

Rel chuckled, and told Kirrahe, "Go ahead. I have no problems with the yahg finding other things to shoot at. Guards weapons or not, none of our armor is in perfect condition right now." His eyes narrowed for a moment. "And the spirits only know if they've set up other traps."

Rel tabbed his radio again. "Orpheus? We're beginning our approach."

"_Got it. We'll wait till they're fully locked on you and then join the party."_

Oddly, Rel could still hear piano music, entwining with Sky's cellos and violas, and Stone's saxophone-like song. He wished, just for a moment, that he could hear _Seheve_ like this, but it was still. . . oddly reassuring. Distant whisper in his mind, _Wish you could, too, Rel, but focus. . . focus. . . ._

He focused. Kirrahe hacked the damaged mech. Ran a few diagnostics. And, grinning to himself, got the mech's mobility systems back on-line again. Turned it towards the closed door, and accessed its weapons systems. "Less good," he immediately reported. "Assault rifle removed, likely repurposed by yahg. Rocket launcher also removed. Depending on how many Colossus mechs stood guard on the yahg, it is likely that more than one of the yahg now possess weapons capable of cutting through our shields."

"Better and better," Rel muttered. _You get that, Dara?_ He tried to phrase it carefully in his thoughts.

_Sky and Stone did, yes. And so did I._ _Just listen. I can hear through you, and the others. . . kind of confusing listening through all of you at once. . . Dempsey's easier. Clean, calm mind._ _But yours is familiar, too, and that helps._

"What _can_ the damn thing still do?" Gris muttered in annoyance.

"This," Kirrahe replied, and swiped the omnitool's screen decisively.

The Colossus raised one massive hand. . . and knocked on the door. Politely.

In battle-vision, every yahg swung towards the door. Rel could imagine the confusion. Kirrahe had the mech repeat the gesture, and then backed the mech up. The corridor was less than seven feet wide. Not enough room for the mech to get up to full speed. . . again, battle-vision showed the yahg getting in position. Facing the room's only entrance. Stances indicating that two of them, at least, had assault rifles or rocket launchers in their hands.

The mech rammed the door. Backed up. Rammed it again. And again. And again, and this time, the metal door, already bent and battered, caved in, taking splinters of doorframe and rock with it, careening into the room.

Dempsey and Gris moved forward into the hall north of the door, taking kneeling positions. No damned cover anywhere. Rel and Rinus set up behind them, and Sky, Fors, and Kirrahe remained around the corner, waiting for their chance to move up. Corridor fighting could get tricky. You didn't want to get jammed up. If you had to call a retreat, you needed a place to retreat _to_, or else you'd be cut apart before the people behind you got the hell out of your way.

In the tunnels, Dara and the others watched on-screen as the mech burst in through the door, and the yahg, already twitchy, opened fire on the machine with assault rifles taken from the arms of other defunct Colossus mechs. Three of the yahg simply vanished; stealth devices were clearly engaged. The two with the assault rifles stopped firing after a moment, growling, clearly not wanting to waste ammunition. _"We're under attack. Either the half-eyed ones have regained their courage, or whoever's attacking them. Probably poison-meat soldiers."_

"Get ready," Sam said, and they all got up from their various sitting positions back into crouches. Dara tried not to bang her head on the ceiling, and didn't envy her dad or Eli their height, for once.

In the corridor, Dempsey could hear the bullets stop. Heard the roar of challenge, and one of the red-limned yahg in the room simply ran forward, slamming full-bore into the hacked mech. The impact was such that six hundred pounds of metal was actually forced back out of the room by the collision. "Don't know how that yahg is even conscious," Dempsey muttered as the yahg, now in the corridor with the mech, looked up, scanning the area. . . and Dempsey, Rinus, and Rel all opened fire on his exposed body.

"Hard heads," Gris replied, shortly, and, with a grunt of effort, lifted the yahg off the ground with his biotics. A blur of red, and one of the yahg inside the room yanked their target back into cover. . . but not before Dempsey, Rinus, and Rel had fired at the male, shredding its shields and puncturing the armor with bullets.

"Looks like they're using shields taken from the guards," Dempsey reported dryly. "That means that either they're going to have to force the shield to conform to their whole body, which means that the charge won't last as long, given that they're three times the mass of the average batarian. . . or they'll have to pick which areas they want to protect. Smart money says torso and head, so they might be leaving the legs unprotected."

"Either way, it's good news for us," Rinus muttered. "All right. They know we're here. They're not stupid enough to come down the corridor at us in a blind charge."

_They have hidden-song singers,_ Sky warned. Sure enough, two of the other yahg were moving up to the doorway now. Preparing to come down the hallway towards them, hidden by their stealth nets. . . but clearly visible in rachni battle-vision. "Left," Rel said, and he and Gris both fired on the target to their left, and Dempsey and Rinus opened fire on the target to their right.

The stealth nets tore away, and the yahg howled and retreated, hastily, their shields blurring and shattering. "I aimed low," Dempsey commented, dryly. "They've got them spread over their whole bodies. Figure each of them will last half as long as a regular shield before they need to recharge."

"Are we ready?" Fors asked, sounding anxious.

"As we're going to be," Rel replied. "Let's go."

Down the hall in a cautious crouch. "Ten gets you one, they're getting ready to use the rocket launchers the instant they see us in the doorway," Dempsey muttered. "And Astrild's not with us."

"Yeah, but the other team doesn't do distraction really well," Rel muttered. "Thor, I'll move up. Your armor's taken a hell of a beating today."

"So's yours, and I don't see you carrying two shields, Virtus. No. There's no way around this. It's just plain going to suck." Dempsey exhaled. "Cover us. We're going to try to move fast enough that they can't target for shit."

Dempsey was as good as his word. He and Gris hit the door at a run, Gris bellowing a krogan war-cry that Rel had definitely heard before. _Today is the day of your death!_ Rel took a deep breath and moved in after them, Rinus at his side, like a twin, like a shadow. Behind them, Kirrahe, Fors, and Sky moved into position. . . and even as Rel found a target and opened fire on a stealthed hunter, Gris and Dempsey were charged by the two yahg shock troopers in the room.

The impact of body meeting body sounded and felt like trains colliding. Gris was two hundred pounds lighter than the yahg, and thus slid backwards slowly. Dempsey was _four hundred_ pounds lighter than his yahg, and thus _should_ have been slammed into the wall behind him. Dempsey had gritted his teeth as the yahg had charged, and pushed behind himself with biotic force. A variant on a throw, except he was throwing behind himself, just as once, fighting with Rel, he'd thrown both of them into a wall. _This is going to suck_, Dempsey thought, and then the yahg hit. The softer tissues of Dempsey's body were crushed for a moment, against his heavily reinforced bones. His feet skidded against the stone floor for a few feet. . . and then he came to a halt.

Gasping for breath, Dempsey looked up at the yahg suddenly in close-quarters combat with him. The yahg's mouth, behind its half-mask visor, gaped, as the yahg reached down and grabbed for Dempsey's wrists. Tried to snap his arms out to the sides, using its enormously larger reach, and what it supposed was its superior strength.

Strength in a human is a matter of several things. Muscle insertion points. The physical makeup of muscle fiber. And the strength of the bones under the muscle. A trained weight-lifter might be able to lift four-hundred pounds over his head in a clean and jerk, but the bones supporting that maneuver could crack at the strain. Dempsey's bones would not. That fact alone was what had allowed Cerberus medical techs to administer an unheard-of second strength gene mod to him. . . in addition to the cybernetics that had infiltrated every part of his body, changing the very structure of his muscle fiber.

Dempsey growled under his breath. _No. No, you don't, you piece of shit._ His hands balled into shaking fists and he slowly brought his hands _together_, overcoming the yahg's strength and leverage. Brought his fists back in front of his chest, so the yahg couldn't try to tear his arms out of their sockets. . . reinforced bones or not, enhanced ligaments and other connective tissues or not, that was still a possibility, and shock and blood loss could still kill him, krogan regeneration or not. "A little help here," Dempsey snarled to the others, and snapped his hands down and then back up again in a smooth, circular movement, getting ahold of the _yahg's_ wrists now, and then ducking the hell out of the way as the head dropped down, jaws gaping wide, trying to close on his shoulder or throat, or some damn thing. "Now?" Dempsey called, as the jaws slammed shut on empty air beside his left ear. His arms were screaming from the strain of holding the huge creature's arms at bay.

The creature was so massive that conventional throws would not work on it; even with his lower center of gravity, Dempsey wasn't sure he could affect the damned thing. "A little help?" he shouted again, glancing around. Gris had his own hands full, one massive paw planted on either side of his own yahg's skull and was pressing inwards, yanking downwards on the head to allow himself to head butt the creature—a dangerous maneuver, given yahg teeth. Another hasty glance told him that the Velnaran brothers were laying down covering fire, trying to keep the hunters at bay, which was when Fors, Sky, and Kirrahe moved up in between the brothers, who were flanking the door at the moment, and Fors set himself and Dempsey felt the arms of the yahg he was holding jerk upwards. His own head jerked back, and he realized that his yahg was off the ground, suspended by a singularity, and struggling furiously. "Thanks, Loki!" Dempsey shouted, and threw the yahg at the nearest wall. Not just using the strength of his own arms, but the focused force of his mind as well.

The yahg slid to the ground. . . but then slowly rolled back to its feet. _Ah, shit._ Dempsey reached over his shoulder for his gun, feeling biotics twisting and warping the air around him. Knowing Sky's familiar touch, Dempsey leaped out of the way as Gris' yahg was now lifted off his feet. "You better let go, krogan," Dempsey shouted as he rolled up now, himself, feeling yet more bullets rain off his shields from a yahg further back in the room. . . and then he had more trouble than he could handle as a second yahg, this one stealthed but still somewhat visible in battle-song, closed on him, as the yahg he'd thrown into the wall closed on him again. _Now would really be good, guys. Make your grand entrance already. . . ._

In the tunnel, Sam watched as Stone's skills tore at the wall. Liquefied the very rock, and suddenly, he now had light to see by, if only a little; the yahg had lanterns of sorts set up in the room. "Go, go, go!" Sam told them all, and leaped out of the opening, high in the wall, after Stone, dropping lightly to the floor and taking a quick survey of the situation.

It was a hell of a mess already. There were two yahg on Dempsey, and while Gris and Sky had just tag-teamed one up into the air, a second, a hunter, had just closed on Gris now, too. Rinus and Rel were both blocked from firing at the yahg simply because they had allies in melee range of the damned things. Closer to his side of the room, the two females had backed up to the northern wall, and were watching the situation with calculating expressions on their rough, bestial faces. The expression of a spider determining which fly would be the tastiest, Sam decided. The two females had a single hunter near them. Sam made his decision in a hurry. "Vulcan, Virtus, get out of the door, you're blocking Agni!"

Rel was already moving. The young turian was heading straight into melee with Dempsey's newest opponent. Sam ground his teeth, but had to acknowledge, there wasn't a hell of a lot in the way of options at the moment. Nyx, you're with Thor and Virtus, go! Tyr, you're with Vulcan and Gris. Astrild, we're cutting off the head of the snake. Freya, cover us. Stone. . . make yourself useful."

_Do I not always sing useful songs?_ the rachni asked, in clear amusement.

On the other side of the room, Rel moved in on Dempsey's current opponent. The yahg hunter with his half-mask had several weak points that Rel knew damned well how to exploit, and the fact that the creature kept popping into stealth wasn't a particular issue, so long as the battle-vision held, and with two brood-warriors present, even if one of them was distracted, the other could pick up the slack. Rel swung in around and behind the yahg hunter, and fired his assault rifle at close range into the male's back—just as the first creature, whom Dempsey had thrown with such punishing force—lifted and threw the human across the room, slamming _him_ into a wall now, himself. No time to wonder if the human was all right. Rel saw a clean line of fire. "Agni!" he shouted to Kirrahe, in the doorway, and the salarian turned. Saw the clear path to the shock trooper, and the fact that Rel was blocked from his line of fire by a second yahg. And smiled thinly.

The _whoosh_ of the flamethrower being ignited, and then the nearly deafening roar of the flames pouring out, as heard at close range. The yahg targeted now howled in agony and stormed towards Kirrahe, wreathed in flames. Again, no time to react. Rel's own yahg turned on him now and slapped the assault rifle right out of his hands, sending it flying across the room. Rel's eyes were wide. Seeing everything, focusing on nothing. Aware of everything around him. _Don't even have so much as a damned knife this time around_, he thought, dimly. Felt the adrenaline kick in, and this time, he didn't suppress it. He welcomed it like a lover.

He ducked under the first wild swipe at his head, and the dove and rolled at an angle away from the next wild grab from his yahg. Brief vision of the yahg in flames trying to bear-hug Kirrahe, but then he was back up on his feet, beside and behind the yahg, and drew his pistol. Firing from behind, this time at the back of the neck, trying to get the shields down at least, before the beast could turn on him. It spun, thought-fast, and slammed him with an out-stretched arm, but Rel was already diving and rolling again. This time, a flicker of awareness as he did, that Dempsey was getting back to his feet, with the nearly robotic determination the male tended to display in combat. "I'm fine!" Rel shouted to him. "Help Agni!"

_Fine. Yes. Absolutely fine._ He ducked under another blow, got another shot or two off, and then had the pistol slapped out of his hands. _All right. Maybe __fine__ isn't an accurate assessment of the tactical situation. . . _ _what I wouldn't give for one of those damned vibroswords that Eli and Lin took off their batarians on Omega right now. . . _ "Tyr! _Fradu!_ Throw me your sword!" Duck, dodge, weave, roll again, coming up to the realization that a yahg had Gris up against the wall, but that Rinus was on the yahg's back, slamming his wedding-knife up and under the creature's jaw from behind, probing for brain. Flicker and flash of Eli in single damned combat against the _other_ yahg to the north side of the room, vibroblade out, and using half the carapace of a rachni brood-warrior for a shield on an arm that was probably already bruised and battered beyond belief. _Shit. I've got to get to him. I've got to help him—_ The yahg he was fighting himself clipped the side of his head with a swipe and Rel spun around, hearing its claws grate along his helmet, and slid on a pile of entrails on the floor, poured out of some batarian carcass or another, and fell.

Swearing, Rel crab-walked backwards frantically, and rolled from side to side as the yahg simply tried to stomp on him. Kipped up and kicked the yahg hard, hearing a rib clearly snap at the impact. He didn't clear any space that way, but he had the satisfaction of having _hurt_ it.

The first _BAM-BAM_ of a sniper rifle echoed in the enclosed space, but the shots weren't on _his_ yahg. Dara's deadly aim wasn't going to save his life today. _Got to find a weapon_, Rel thought dimly, letting the blood-rage well back up again, backing away, trying to look at the ground without looking away from his opponent. _Even if it's just a damned rock, got to get a weapon. Not going to get bitten again._

But then a ripple in the air materialized and Seheve simply made a flowing leap, landing a vibroblade in the creature's shoulder plate, from above. On a human or a turian, it would have cut into the throat and lung cavity; on a creature as massive as a yahg, it was a good first hit, but not a killing blow. The yahg snarled and reached back for her. Grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and threw Seheve forwards and over its shoulder, into the wall by the doorway, where she slumped for a moment, bonelessly. She'd been able to roll and control the fall somewhat, but the slam into the wall? Not as much.

The yahg reached back over its shoulder again and pulled the vibroknife out of its shoulder and threw it at Seheve, with a growl—and the blade slammed into her shoulder, embedding itself there. _She poisoned her knives this morning. __S'kak__._

Rel snarled, mind going white for a moment, and, as he was positioned to the north of the yahg, and it was facing east, towards Seheve, he was in perfect position for what he was about to do. His right knee came up, and then his leg lanced out and around. Spur-kick with the armor of his boot protecting the spur bone. No poison, unfortunately, though he could definitely feel that his spurs had unsheathed themselves. Scrape of metal on metal as the spur plunged through into the yahg's abdomen, and then Rel snapped his leg back away. Dull pain in the spur; he'd probably broken the damn thing _again_. _I really need to stop making a habit of that kick. Uncle Garrus is going to yell at me_, he thought, distantly.

The yahg spun on him and hit him so hard he staggered backwards. For a moment, Rel wasn't even conscious, and the next thing he saw was Seheve uncoiling from the wall. Taking the second knife from her wrist-sheathes, she shouted, "Virtus!" and threw it to him, de-activated, before retrieving her own from the wall, and tabbing her stealth device before rolling out of the way.

Seheve moved in on the yahg that was attacking Rellus once more, coming up from her roll in a light crouch to its right, to the south of it, while Rellus remained to its north, Cyriac's knife in his hands now. _Keep circling_, she thought, hoping he understood the tactic. The yahg was wounded, and she poisoned her blades. She could feel the venom of her own knife working its way through her body; fortunately, it wasn't a neurotoxin, and she had worked with poisons most of her life, including building immunities to many common ones. But she would still require treatment for this, and for the wound itself, and quickly. But if they could take this opponent down, she would have more of a chance to self-treat, to get to Dara.

She pivoted and drove her knife home into the yahg's back, finding a weak point where the breastplate connected to the lamellar slats that allowed the waist to bend , just as Rellus dove out of the way of another attack. He came up, just as Seheve was rolling away, and Rellus drove the activated vibroblade into the weak point of the armor, just under the raised arm. Brachial artery strike, on a human or a turian, and yahg were, for all their size, still humanoid. Still had the same general body pattern many other species. Then he, too, ducked and rolled, and Seheve came back in from the other side, finding another weak point at the waist, this time penetrating the abdominal cavity again.

Both blades were poisoned. Rel had hit a major artery, from the blood currently pouring out of the armor, and the yahg had been wounded five times, including the spur-kick. It staggered. Dropped to its knees. And then face-first to the floor, where it clawed and scrabbled at the stone for a moment, gurgling and trying to cling to life.

Rel looked down at the blade in his own hand. Seheve's, taken from Cyriac, the brother of the Master of Assassins who had trained her. Her knife, now. The blade was drell, of course; it curved like a kukri. A working blade, a practical one, as much a tool as a weapon. He'd killed with her knife, and it hadn't shattered in his hand. Impressions flashing through his mind at the speed of light. They'd killed the yahg together, spinning around him like a sirocco in the desert. Flickers of memory. Fighting Mazz the same way in sparring, with Dara. Only this time, it had been real. A shared kill with his mate that had been dizzyingly satisfying, almost artistic in execution, but she was _hurt_. Poisoned by her own knives. Rel moved forward, catching Seheve, keeping her upright, and shoved a batarian corpse out of the way, getting her to a sitting position in the shelter of one of the bunks. "Do you have an antidote on you?" he called, pressing his helmet to hers.

"Not. . . as such. . . " Seheve admitted. The world was going a little gray for her. "Need to stop exertion. Slow the heart-rate. Not as effective on my species as on yahg." The words were surprisingly difficult.

With two of the male yahg down, the tide of battle was turning. Kirrahe was badly burned and damned near crushed as Dempsey, Fors, and Sky turned on the yahg that had bear-hugged the salarian with his fiery arms and then charged Kirrahe into the wall of the corridor. Eli's breath came in short pants of exertion as his yahg once more slammed a fist out, which he managed to catch on his rachni carapace shield, but his arm was so bruised at this point, between the batarian vanguard upstairs and this yahg, he could barely lift it. Hell, it was the same arm that had had the collarbone severed; there was still soft-tissue damage inside, where the bones had been moving back and forth until Dara had been able to repair the break. _But what the hell, I'm being distracting while Rinus and Gris take care of theirs_, Eli thought, grimly, and fired his Collector beam pistol at the yahg in front of him again. Its shields failed, and he saw damage to its armor before he had to cover up again, taking another hit that made his left arm scream in agony all over again.

And then, for some reason, his limbs simply locked in place. He couldn't move at all. Eli's eyes darted from side to side, the only part of himself that he could consciously direct, and saw that Rinus and Gris, who were moving up from his right, towards the yahg he was fighting, were similarly frozen. _Fors! We're not the enemy!_

"I'm not doing that!" Fors called over the radio, as the wave of panic in his human-turian's mental voice hit him. Sky and Dempsey seemed to have Kirrahe's yahg well in hand, so the volus dropped off Sky's back, landing as lightly as he could, and waddled rapidly for the door on his battered legs. Peering in, he could see one yahg, still free, rearing back to hit Eli once more, and Fors inhaled thick ammonia vapors. Braced himself against the doorframe, and lifted his small hand once more.

He could handle a crowd of twelve to twenty regular humanoids. That wasn't a problem. Yahg generally weighed in at six hundred to eight hundred pounds each, however, under one standard gravity conditions. One yahg was thus about four or five average humans. The two females and single male at the back of the room, not counting the one that Sam was engaging, were thus right about at the edge of his ability to control. Fors concentrated, and poured energy through all of them. Freezing them in place, even as Elijah, Rinus, and Gris were currently frozen. A tableaux of incipient violence.

There was a snarl of red rage in Fors' mind, and the volus ducked back around the doorway, breathing hard. He hadn't been on Shanxi. He'd never fought a yahg biotic before. Dara and the rachni had all insisted it was one of the two females. If so, she was _infuriated_ at the moment. _What, never seen that trick reversed before?_ Fors thought, keeping his back to the wall. "Finish killing that thing," he told Dempsey and Sky, as they dragged Kirrahe out from under the yahg's body. "I . . . can't hold them. . . forever. . . and she's probably got more than this as a trick. . . "

Sam and Zhasa, in the meantime, had converged on the stealthed hunter who was near the two females, their last line of protection, other than themselves. Sam wasn't crazy about this as an option, because it meant the two of them were very damned close to three yahg, but he didn't see much in the way of options, other than simply allowing the hunter to move in on the rest of the Spectres, from behind. Zhasa stayed back, initially, firing steadily on the suddenly-revealed yahg, Dara had steadily worked on the yahg's shields from her sniper perch, and Sam circled away from their lines of fire.

The yahg, its stealth net down and its shields failing turned towards Zhasa and prepared to charge, and Sam simply moved in behind it. It was tall—over nine feet—so he had to drop it. A knee was a knee, no matter what the species, and a humanoid knee is really only designed to bend in certain directions. As the yahg took a step towards Zhasa, raising its gun to fire back at the quarian, Sam used a spinning back-kick to the inside and rear of the yahg's forward leg, pushing the knee further forward—a direction it was already leaning—and _out._ A direction the knee wasn't strong in. The yahg, destabilized, toppled. Tried to regain its balance, but Sam was already moving. With the yahg on its knees, that dropped it to a much more manageable height, and the bowie knife was already in his hand. One hand over the helmet's top visor, covering the eyes for disorientation and distraction, and to control the head. The other hand snaked forward, just as the yahg reached back with its clawed hands, trying to grab and throw him, but Sam was too damned fast. He'd paid close attention in the briefings on Shanxi and Terra Nova. Yahg hunters all wore half helmets, to allow them to use their sense of smell for tracking.

It was a huge area of vulnerability, and opened them to one of Sam's favorite strikes. A little five inch knife, like Seheve's, couldn't reach a yahg brain, except through the eyes. Sam's sixteen-inch bowie? Could reach up from under the jaw. Puncture through a protective extra plate in the yahg's skull, where the human soft palate was. Poke through into the brain.

Sam pulled the blade free and kicked the yahg's body forward. Turned to look at the rest of the room. Saw, in a flash, that Eli, Gris, and Rinus were frozen in some kind of stasis field. Eli's shield was raised, and his Collector pistol was in his hand. Rinus' wedding knife was in one hand, coated in orange-red yahg blood. Gris was in the middle of popping the thermal clip on his krogan-made shotgun, but none of them were moving. But the yahg on that side of the room weren't moving, either. The two females were motionless. The hunter about to land a crushing blow on Eli's exposed side was frozen in place. Off to Sam's right, Zhasa came up off the wall, where she'd been crouching behind a battered desk for cover. Off to his left, Stone hissed; the rachni had been peppering targets with acidic spit all this time, trying to keep them busy.

Dempsey and Sky stumbled through the doorway. . . Rel was still kneeling by Seheve. "Somebody _do_ something," Fors called into the radio. "I can't. . . hold them. . . much longer. . . " The volus' voice shook.

_I will hold Many-Voice's opponent_, Stone sang, and the earth under the yahg's feet simply liquefied. Steam escaped upwards as the yahg himself slipped down into the liquid rock. Too paralyzed to howl, the yahg's multiple eyes bulged in what could only be terror as its face disappeared. . . and the stone cooled. Hardened. Only one hand remained above ground, but it went almost instantly limp. _I guess our boy didn't keep the stone relatively cool_, Sam thought, wincing. _Nothing like being entombed in lava._

That left just the two females, but Sam wasn't foolish enough to find them unthreatening. He switched his knife for his submachine gun, and informed them, in galactic, "I'm told at least one of you can understand this language. It's time for you to surrender." _C'mon, Fors. Keep 'em locked in place long enough for us to figure out how to shackle them in some fashion._ "Freya? Can you hop down here and give these two something to knock 'em out?"

"Not sure what will work on them, or how big the dose will have to be," Dara admitted, and folded up the tripod of her sniper rifle. She slid forward out of the tunnel and, holding on by her fingertip to the edge, dropped lightly to the ground. Seheve's injury and the poison in her blood was a slow burn in her mind. Eli's arm was probably fractured in two or three places from the feel of it. Dempsey and Gris' faces were still healing from the burns. Kirrahe was burned, and it felt like he had four or five broken ribs, possibly penetrating the lungs on the right side. Dara's eyes were narrow. Her friends had been badly hurt. "These two had better be worth it," she muttered, darkly, and dropped her pack, reaching for the medical pack inside.

That was when the whispering started. In every mind. A soft voice. Subtle at first, as it tried to find what emotional levers would work on each of them.

Swirling. Whispering. Each of them in turn. Finding the vulnerabilities, the weaknesses in each of their hearts. Turning their own minds against themselves. Blackest despair, uncoiling slowly in each mind.

_They don't trust you. They'll never trust you. You're not one of them. Walk away. Walk away now._ Seheve's breathing increased pace, and she put her free hand to her head, her other hand still locked on her bleeding arm, trying to staunch the flow. _Not true_, she thought. _Not true. __He__ sees who I am. They're letting me become someone else. They all are. _The name Dara had sung to her just hours before rang in her mind, suddenly. _Freedom-Singer. Not Sings-Despair_. Seheve lifted her head, and tried to stand up, but her feet were unsteady under her.

_She betrayed you. They all rejected you. Why should you fight and bleed for them? _Rel lifted his head and hissed, shaking his head. But the insinuating thoughts kept pouring through his mind, anyway. Coyly. Slyly. Trying to awaken the snake in his heart.

_You're old. Your body is failing. You're useless to them. Couldn't even save your own daughter._ Sam's finger slipped on the trigger as that one bit a little too deeply.

_You're weak. You speak when you should fight. You fight when there's no other choice. The clan will shun you when they know what you are._ Held by the stasis field, Gris growled under his breath. _Old fear. Old reality. Not true any more._

_You're nothing. You're a zombie, wired to a mech. No feelings, no emotions, no soul, no self. If you died, no one would even notice that you were gone._ In the doorway, Dempsey popped the thermal clip on his assault rifle and lifted it. Pointed it at the yahg females, but his hands were shaking. The rage was there and beckoning, and it would be _so easy_ to give in. . . he reached out for Zhasa's mind, reflexively. . . and heard the same poisonous whispers in _her_ thoughts. _You're selfish. You wouldn't even go home to help your people. Wouldn't give of yourself, when they've given so much to you. You're off cavorting with some human, not even a member of your own species, and not sharing the gifts of the Protheans with your own race. . . _

Zhasa's mind locked with Dempsey's, like fingers entwining. _Not true_, he told her. _You __are__ helping your people. Every damned day. _

Whispers. Maddening ones. Kirrahe's head sagged. _Traitor. You've abandoned your own dalatrass, your own family, and for what? An oath to a human and to a child? For the ghost of a dead male? Every salarian will turn their face from you. You'll have no family._

Fors now. _You're everyone's favorite joke, but nothing more. Useful at times, but then forgotten about._ Fors' grip on the yahg females faltered, and the two began to move. The one Dara had identified as the plague-bringer began to raise a gun from her side . . . .

_She doesn't really love you. You're just the fall-back. The safe harbor. The convenience. You mean nothing to her. You're nothing._ Frozen, Eli reached out for Dara's mind. Heard her piano song, but knew she, too, was fighting an unseen battle. He watched as the gun came up. Found a target in Sam, and he raged at his frozen muscles. _Sai'kaea!_

_You're a freak of nature. An abomination. Something that shouldn't even __be__. Doesn't deserve to live._ The kit of needles slipped out of Dara's hands, dropping to the floor. Soft touch of Eli's mind, awareness returning. Realization that _all_ of them were fighting the same damned battle. Dara reached out, as best she could. Opening herself like this actually made her _more_ vulnerable to the whispers, not less, but she had to touch all of them. All of them at once. Let the queen-song rise up once more, and buried herself in it. All the others were quivering. Trying to fight the despair that slowed them into lethargy. Sam managed to get his hand to his omnitool, and tabbed his stealth net, vanishing from sight. Forced one foot forward, then the other. Getting out of the line of fire.

The whispers tried to reach the rachni, but failed. Too alien. Too different to reach. Queen-song was stronger. Sings-Heartsong remembered the moment, years ago, when Lina Vasir had poured despair out of herself. The asari hadn't been able to reach into each person's mind and twist the thoughts there; rather, the hermaphrodite had set each person to concentrating on weaknesses. Vulnerabilities. Insecurities. Turned them into their own worst enemies. Locked in her armor, crystal-weave underlay in place, _aizala_ still bolstering her system, Sings-Heartsong sang softly, wordlessly, under her breath.

Stone hissed, the petal-like fronds around his mouth lifting back, baring the lethal fangs and the deadly, tube-like siphon of clear chitin in his mouth. _Despair-song_, he sang.

_Indoctrination-song_, Sky agreed, in red and blacks.

_The yellow, sour note that turned our ancestors against the galaxy. Fear-song. Despair-song. _

_Being forced to sing another's song._

_We will not permit this song to be sung!_

_Death-song_, Sings-Heartsong told Sings-to-the-Stone. _Death-song for the singer of plague-songs. __I__ will sing to the despair-song one._

_I listen._ Stone raised his head and hissed again. Defiance. Ursukkai spun and fired her pistol at the rachni, but Stone was already singing. He was echoing queen-song, rage-song. The memories of ten thousand faces gasping for their last breath in a Bastion med bay. Millions more that Sings-Heartsong had not seen, but knew about. Her rage at the plagues, the needless, wasted deaths, and Stone's own rage at the attempt to control the songs of others combined. Conjoined.

Stone's song soared, reaching new heights of complexity. He reached out and _understood_, as all rachni did, the stone around him. But he had seen the geth weapon that had been used on the relay of this system. Understood now, that matter could be heated beyond the mere temperatures of flame or lava. That gases in particular, already lightened and excited, could be heated still further. Until they became ionized and became not solid or liquid or gas, but a fourth state of matter. Plasma. Star-stuff. Star-songs.

Stone sang, but not to the stone. To the air around the plague-bringer, heating it with the rage of the rachni who would _not_ be forced to sing sour notes, would not have free will ever abrogated again, with the rage of a queen who had seen thousands murdered, who should not have died.

The air around the plague-bringer flash-heated. Ionized, and _burned_, stretching out filaments in response to electromagnetic currents in the room. Danced. And then collapsed inwards on the female yahg's form, consuming her before she even had a chance to scream.

At the same moment, Sings-Heartsong struck, her own wordless song rising up in a wave of sound, but all the force of her mind behind it. The same attack as she had used on the batarian who had ripped the clothing from her body, hours ago, only this time, not just amplified by _aizala_, but enhanced and modulated by the crystalline net inside of her armor. She poured music forth, catching each of the other Spectres' melodies up in her own. Hope and freedom, from Zhasa and Seheve. Honor and duty from Rel and Rinus. Glory and awe from the rachni. All things past and present and future, the slow, steady fury of Gris, the quick, bright anger of Kirrahe, the humor of Fors. A galaxy of voices, all steadied, focused, directed, and then plunged back at the female yahg. Denying her despair. She didn't sing alone this time. She sang with her whole hive.

And the voices drove the yahg female to her knees, and from there, into unconsciousness.

There was a moment of absolute silence.

"Is she dead?" Eli asked, quietly, finally able to lower his arms.

_No. Her song continues. But . . . much softer._ Sky's voice was grim. _Sing binding-songs, and quickly, if we are to make her sing durance._

"Yeah. That." Dara muttered, rubbing at her eyes as she slowly emerged from under the haze of the queen-song. She picked up her kit again, scowled when she saw how many syringes had broken, and made her way over to Seheve, and glared down at the drell female. "You going to tell me what the hell you put on your knives today, or do I have to figure it out on my own?"

Seheve actually managed a smile. "_Atashase_. Chemically similar to atropine—"

"Damnit, you're not supposed to get nicked with this crap yourself," Dara muttered, and opened her omnitool. "Looks like I could probably use physostigmine to counteract, but I have no idea how much you've had." She pushed Seheve's hand out of the way, and glanced up at Rel. "I've got her."

"I know," Rel said, glancing down. Then he patted Seheve lightly on the shoulder, and tried to hand Seheve's second knife back to her.

Seheve waved it off. "I see. . . no need. . . for that right at the moment," she replied, and hissed as Dara finished cleaning the wound and started her sutures.

"He's asking because a female giving a male a knife to keep is pretty important to turians," Dara told her, dryly. "Hold still. Rel, move. You're in my light. What there is of it in this room. My eyes are good, but not _that_ good."

Seheve had stopped moving entirely, and Dara could hear the shift in both their songs. "Then. . . yes. You should keep my knife," Seheve said, after a long moment. "There may yet be other people who require fighting down here."

_Nice try_, Dara thought, administered a dose of the physostigmine, and told Rel, "Stay here. Watch her heart rate on her omnitool. It goes above eighty beats per minute, call me over. I've got to look at Kirrahe next."

She moved on through the remorseless order of triage. Poison slowed. Kirrahe checked for internal bleeding (he was), treated for shock and burns for the moment. "We need to get him topside again," Dara called over her shoulder to the others, before moving on to Eli, confirming fractures in his left arm. . . gentle mental touches to confirm that the worst of the despair had passed. . . and then on to Dempsey and Gris. Zhasa was muttering to Dempsey about the burns as Dara approached and examined him. "Well, Doc? Am I still going to be pretty?" Dempsey asked, dryly.

"As a picture, Thor. Someone did some pretty good first aid on you and Gris already. Considering how you heal, I wouldn't expect scarring, but we've got advanced dermal regen units on the _Raedia_ and the _Normandy_." Dara tipped her head to the side, and gently touched the skin of his face with her gloved hands. "There are burn victims out there who'd need cartilage transplants to reshape the nose and ears, and synthskin until their own epidermis grew back, D. You're. . . very damned lucky."

"Yeah." Dempsey straightened his shoulders. Soft strumming of guitar music, sound of faint acceptance. "I kind of am."

An hour later, they were on the _Normandy_. There were fifty batarian prisoners who'd survived the riots and the yahg attacks; Alliance marines were landing to look after them and the handful of guards who'd survived the yahg and the Spectres' combined assaults.

Dara and Zhasa had both strongly requested going back to the _Raedia_; they'd both left all their belongings there, including their respective engagement rings (it was thought better to leave that sort of thing on the ship, and not worn into the field), but the senior Spectres were having none of it. As such, Shepard met them all in the hangar of the _Normandy_, embraced or clasped the wrists of each person in turn, and Dara saw the woman's eyes narrow at the sight of their yahg prisoner. "This one's Lina Vasir all over again," Sam told Shepard lightly. "Bit larger scale. Recommend non-organic guards."

"I'll put James and Cohort on it," Shepard replied, immediately. "And the new geth probationary Spectre. . . Composite." She looked around. "All right. Debriefing can wait till tomorrow. Everyone to med bay, please. Walking wounded carry the stretcher cases."

Dara, leaning against Eli, whose arm she'd put in a sling, since she couldn't _remember_ if he'd had the ulna regenerated this year or not, snorted a little with reluctant laughter, and they all headed to med bay. Where she could _feel_ Eli grinding his teeth from across the room when he got a look at all the bruises on her, as the nurses handed her a patient gown and told her to get out of her armor, and _now._

Dr. Abrams was aboard, and closed the curtain to ask, delicately, if he needed to process a rape kit on her. "No," Dara told him, looking up at the IV stand, which was distributing cool saline into her body. Hydrating her, and trying to flush the _aizala_ from her bloodstream. "I think they were a little too scared after they gave me the _aizala_."

Abrams coughed. He'd been subjected to the drug once upon a time, too. "Yes. About that. You don't seem to be showing any of the typical signs. . . but it's definitely being absorbed by your body. As far as we can tell from the tests. But I'd like to run a few more blood chem panels. . . "

"Yes." Dara's voice was tired. "Can we go over this tomorrow, Daniel? Even by Spectre standards. . . today was a really long day."

He nodded assent, and stepped out. Eli brushed in past him, and took residency up in the chair beside her bed. "We have _got_ to stop doing this," Eli told her, taking her hand in his; he was out of his sling, since they'd been able to knit the bones of his arm after all, and he'd need to keep moving the arm to retain range of motion and strength anyway. He just needed to be careful for a few days. After holding her hand for a moment, Eli turned towards her, and wearily put his head down on the bed beside her.

"Not my idea," Dara told him, and, ignoring the pinch of the IV in her arm, she scooted down until she could pillow her cheek on his head. "Besides, there's no intubation or coma or anything this time."

Eli turned his head slightly. His eyes had gone wide and black. Sharing himself with her. Letting her memories of the day flow into him. Letting his flow into her. Dara exhaled, and let go. Let him see everything. Feel everything. _God. Guess you'll never need to be scared of azure dust again. _

_I don't intend to take it, anyway. Not if I don't have to._ Dara shuddered. _Humans aren't __meant__ to hear this much, Eli._ Regret in her tone, but at the same time, a little sneaking delight, too. She wanted him to _see_ it, to _hear_ it the way she did right now. A hundred little points of light all strung through the _Normandy_, like lanterns at a fair-ground, only each one was also a prism of many colors. And at the same time, each was also a song.

_You're going to miss it when it goes quiet again?_

_I don't know. I don't know what's going to happen when the __aizala__ washes out of my system. I think my range will go down. The sensitivity, too. But. . . I'm in balance now, __ciea'teilu__. I let the voices in, and they didn't overwhelm me. I was able to get back 'up' to my own voice again. It's. . . not as scary._ Dara smiled a little, faintly. _But I think I'm still going to want you living in my head . . . as much as you want to, anyway. I like hearing your songs, Eli._

He nodded, faint motion. _You heard the doubts the bitch tried to pull up in my head?_

_I heard everyone's doubts. I'm not leaving you, Eli. You're __my__ brood-warrior._ Dara smiled a little again. "Besides, I think we, um, kind of got _tal'mae_ wed earlier today." She held up her left palm, with the thin white scar across it, in explanation.

Eli sat up a little, and kissed her palm. "Yeah." He grinned a bit. "We kind of did, didn't we?" He reached up and touched her bare cheek; the nurses had insisted on washing the blood on her face away.

"I feel naked, and it's not just the hospital gown." Dara propped herself up on her elbow now, awkwardly. "I think you need to grab your paint and put it on me properly."

"Before the ceremony?" Eli traced his fingers over her face again, lightly. Respecting the dark bruises blooming there. "You sure? The words haven't been said yet." _And I'm going to give you the words, Dara. I promised._

"All the important stuff was." Dara squeezed his other hand in hers, lightly. "I'll wash it off before the actual ceremony for everyone else, but . . . if people don't like me wearing it in the meantime, they can bite me." Flicker of brief uncertainty. "I mean, unless you—"

Eli leaned forward and kissed her lightly. Very lightly. Her lips were still swollen and tender, and her teeth had hurt when she'd tried eating dinner earlier. Another dark red flicker of anger in him as he registered the brief shock of pain in her, and pulled back, immediately. The anger wasn't at her, of course. It was directed at the batarians on the planet below, a slow, furious burn that would probably smolder for a very long time indeed. "Hey," Dara told him, releasing his hand to curl her own behind his neck. "It looks worse than it is, honest." She managed another smile. "The workers are already making royal jelly for me. I'll eat it, I'll like it, and I'll get better."

Eli raised his eyebrows, but it was half-hearted."Do I get to like it too?" Oddly, the teasing sounded tentative. Worried.

Dara exhaled. Touched oversong and undersong, and understood. _Oh, god, Eli, you're scared that I'm not going to want you touching me, because of what almost happened?_

Eli's throat closed, and he put his head back down on the bed. It took him a long time to try to put it into words; the killing rage at the now-dead batarians down on the planet's surface made it hard to find the words. Made it hard to articulate, really, all the other things he felt. _Don't want to rush you. Don't want to make you feel like a thing to be used. Don't want to do anything that would remind you. . . _ _Hell. _Eli could hear her songs pouring reassurances through him, and exhaled. Gave her a slightly guilty look. _One of my favorite fantasies that we've never gotten around to involves you, a pair of handcuffs, and a bed, __sai'kaea__. Like I said. . . I don't want to make you. . . don't want you to feel. . . don't want you to ever think. . . _ He was tired, and his thoughts were nearly incoherent at the moment.

Dara closed her eyes and just listened to the circling harmonies of his mind. Then she leaned forward, and kissed him, ignoring the pain of her bruised lips. Spread the hand that wasn't tethered to the IV against his cheek. _Eli, if I weren't hooked up to monitors right now. . . god. I want to share this with you. I want you to feel the whole song with me. All the voices. All the lights._ She pulled back, and added, out loud, "Also, there's the slight possibility that everyone on the _Normandy_ and maybe even the _Raedia_ and the _Sollostra_ would, um, hear us." She could feel herself flush just a bit.

Eli found himself chuckling. "We might inspire a fleet-wide orgy, huh? Might be kind of bad in a forwards, hmm. . . position."

Dara couldn't help but start to laugh; her broken ribs had been regenerated, but the cartilage between them was still bruised, so she had to clutch at herself for a moment, each stab of pain reminding her that she should. . . not. . . laugh. . . right now. Eli wrapped his good arm around her, and smiled down at her ruefully. "So. . . I guess I need to teach you how to pick locks on handcuffs, don't I?"

"Seheve offered earlier today."

"She offered in the line of work. I'm offering for _recreational_ purposes_."_ Eli even managed to keep his face straight for that one.

Dara put her head down on his shoulder, and laughed. Listened to his songs, pulsing warm and loving in her mind. Listened to a dozen other songs, much like their own, echoing throughout the ship. Lights and life and harmony.

**Shepard, Lorek, May 8, 2197**

After a damned near sleepless night, Shepard was back up again the next morning, and on the line with Admiral Hackett. Her various Spectres had all been checked out of med bay and back into crew quarters, thankfully, and she'd be having a long and hopefully productive debriefing with all of them later in the day. She had the first living yahg prisoner of the war tucked into the brig of the _Normandy_, and had requested additional geth personnel for the security detail around the female. And between the wreckage of the batarian fleet at the relay, and the use of the planet's own orbital defenses against the surface and underground cities, they'd taken out all of the ground-based defenses that they'd been able to identify definitively.

"We've lifted the planetary jamming," Hackett informed her. "Your _Spectre_ ready for the big time?"

Shepard nodded to her old colleague's image on the screen. "Yeah, I think he is." She looked to the side. "Valak? The camera's all yours."

Valak nodded respectfully, and stepped up into position beside her; Shepard would remain on screen, slightly behind him, but this was Valak's show.

N'dor cleared his throat, and gestured for the yeoman to begin recording. _"Residents of Lorek,"_ he began, enunciating clearly in formal batarian, his noble-caste accent pure and clean, "_I am Valak N'dor, of House N'dor. Born on Khar'sharn. Citizen of the Hegemony, just like many of you. You may not know it, but today is a great day. A great day for you, and for the rest of the Hegemony. Today is your day of liberation. I call on all Oversight Forces and Special Intervention Unit forces to lay down their arms, and turn themselves over to the people of Lorek, for crimes against the Hegemony. I call on all warrior-castes to surrender, as they have been duped into fighting a dishonorable war. I call on all people, of every caste, to rise up against our mutual and universal oppressor. . . the caste-system itself. Today is the beginning of a new age for our people. One in which we will all be equals under the law. One in which every batarian will be born free. Rejoice, my people. For today is our Liberation Day."_

Valak held the expression for a long moment, and then the yeoman cut the recording. "Did that sound suitably revolutionary?" he asked glancing over his shoulder at Shepard. "Elijah informed me that I should be wearing a cloak and a mask if I were to make a speech like that, but I told him that the eye-patch and the sword would simply have to do."

Shepard's shoulders simply shook.


	151. Chapter 151: Surcease

**Chapter 151: Surcease**

_**Author's note:** A reader asked me this past week why I flinch when I'm asked questions about things that are 100 chapters in the past, and were written a year ago. I looked in my Fanfiction email folder, and replied, Because I have 24,199 email (no, I'm not kidding) in my email inbox relating to the story, and half of the people there have friendly advice on how they want to see the story written, when the other half of the people writing in are just fine with it, or like the very things that the other people want to see changed. _

_I don't have a PR department or a secretary. And you can bet that if someone's reading the story for the first time now, or even re-reading it for the second or third time, I've probably heard almost every question that they'll have on the early chapters. Sometimes, several times over. I've already answered those questions, also several times over. Sometimes, I've already gone over the ground so many times with other readers, that honestly, all I have left in me is "Dara does not know that Kallixta is an imperial because this is dramatic irony. The audience knows more than she does. Dara has had less than a full year of grounding in turian. I would like to see you taught Arabic for less than a year and then dropped in Morocco. You would be doing very well to follow basic directions, let alone memorize regulations, and subtle nuances such as accent and social behavior would be lost on you, and these would be humans, not aliens." That's when I'm feeling polite. The less polite version is, "Dude, these chapters are a year old. 'Constructive criticism' is only constructive when the author can use it to change something. This is established. This is history. Why don't you wait till the end to offer a review?"_

_And yes. I really don't want to have 24,199 arguments. I'm not turian enough to enjoy the thought. :)_

**Mindoir, May 8, 2197**

"You're sure they're coming home tomorrow?" Madison asked. It wasn't that he minded staying with Ellie and the rest of the kids in the Sidonis family; it was more that he'd seen a lot of them in the past year. To the point where Tacitus was apt to climb right up into his lap to show him a car or a dinosaur toy, and Madison, who'd spent most of his life as an only child, had no idea what to do with a toddler, let alone a hybrid one. He'd adapted, as best he could, on Liara T'soni's enormous ship, but, once again, he was back and staying with the Sidonis family while everyone else was off on Spectre business.

"That's what Lantar's message said," Ellie told him, looking up from her computer console. She was doing some sort of habitat design work for a human firm that wanted a corporate building on Irune. Which meant that it needed huge amounts of structural reinforcement against the crushing atmosphere, and the architect hadn't, apparently, compensated for that properly. Mad could tell by the slightly irritated curl of her lips and the emphatic tapping at the keyboard that Ellie was not amused by what her numbers were telling her.

He wisely decided that this was not the time to pester her, and wandered off through the big turian villa; he had the guest room on the bottom floor, which he'd been told had been Eli's room when he'd lived here. There was still a really _old_ poster for _Battle of the Citadel_ tacked on the inside of the closet door—one that had had blue paint thrown on it, at some point, apparently. Madison decided he couldn't stand looking at the four walls of the room again for another second, and kept on moving. He had, oh, an hour between biotics practice, which he'd just gotten done with, and dinner. That was four days a week, and he actually played handball after school the other two days of the school week, which he enjoyed. And on biotics nights, there was also sparring after dinner. It made life _very_ busy, and usually, he'd be settling in with his books for homework _now_, so he wouldn't have to come back to it after sparring

Truthfully, he actually enjoyed biotics practice now. There was usually Ylara, and very often one of the rachni brood-warriors. Just as often, his father or Zhasa was there to practice with, too. Madison was in two minds about his dad's frequent absences. On the one hand, he understood that as a Spectre, his dad had an important job, and there was a war on. On the other hand, he did, occasionally, feel a bit abandoned. Not often. His dad wrote letters, which often came through in batches of three or four at a time. And staying at Ellie and Lantar's was nothing at all like staying at his damned boarding school back on Earth.

He just kind of wished his dad were around more often. Although, now that he thought about the letters, the last one that had come through had been a doozy. Something about how if anything happened to his dad and Zhasa, he'd be going to live with Eli and Dara. Getting officially adopted. In their big house on the cliff that the rachni had built. Madison _liked_ the pair—their lives were pretty amazing, but they tended to be really down-to-earth in spite of it. . . .but he didn't even want to _think_ about his dad getting killed. _Hell, what __could__ kill him?_ Madison told himself, trying to bolster his courage.

In another turian villa, this one down the street, Agnes and Gavius were spending the evening together, as usual. They still alternated which house they stayed the evening at, half at her human ranch house in the valley, and half at his villa on the base. "You know, having two sets of toothbrushes, two sets of clothes, doing laundry twice a week at different locations is . . . remarkably inefficient," Gavius pointed out, dryly.

"You're asking if you can move in with me?" Agnes replied, folding her own shirts neatly. Another move in the same game that they played every night. At the moment, however, several of Gavius' grandchildren and his daughter and son-in-law were over at _his_ house for the afternoon, before sparring practice. This was unusual, but it was apparently close to the anniversary of his wife's death. Gavius had been a bit snappier than usual this week, probably as a result. Agnes had ignored it, for the most part, and had snapped back just enough to make him aware of what he was doing. . . which had netted her an apology.

Gavius looked up; his daughter and her husband were in the other room, watching something on the extranet screen, and Amara, Kaius, Elissa, Alain, and their own two youngest, Polina and Quintus, were in there with them. "I was thinking more that you should move in with me," he told Agnes, calmly. Not giving an inch of ground, but he did catch her wrist and nip the inside of it lightly.

"And why would I want to do that? I've finally gotten everything set up exactly the way I like it in my house, and the garden's perfect the way it is."

"And now that the damned _snow_ is falling, we need an aircar to get between my house and yours," Gavius pointed out, dryly. "You work part time for the labs up here on base, so you have to commute anyway. You're going to take one look at twenty-four _unica_ of snow on the roads, or the two _unica_ of ice, and want to spend the night anyway. If not here, then at your first-son's house. Why _not_ move in with me?" He trailed his fingers from wrist to elbow to shoulder, and then lightly dragged his talons down her side. To where he could feel the _cinctus_ under her warm, loose sweatshirt. The clinking was a little muffled by the heavy fabric, but he knew it was there.

"Well . . . " Agnes temporized. "Then what will I do with all my things? I don't see you having space for knick-knacks up here. And what will I do with the house?"

"Rent it out. Sell it. I can _make_ space. This house is . . . somewhat bare, anyway." It was, too. He'd finally culled through a lifetime of things accumulated with Pilana when the movers had brought the neatly packed crates from Palaven, and while there were pictures—many, many pictures—even the spirit-table was a little bare. There were the statues of his parents and his grandparents, because he was first-son, and he'd inherited them, as a result, and Pilana's statue, and his, but all his children's had gone off with them to their own houses. Gavius leaned down and nibbled, very gently, at the side of her neck. Listening, as he did, for the sounds from the other room, and knowing that between the sound from the extranet and all the grandchildren that no one could possibly hear Nessa's soft gasp.

"We. . . have guests. . . in the other room . . . "

"Family, not guests." The correction was automatic. "But see? You already think of them as something we share."

"Don't you think it would be setting a bad example for them?"

"Are you just trying to object for the sake of objecting, Nessa?" Gavius asked against her ear. "I can usually tell the difference, but at the moment, I'm not sure."

She looked up at him, eyes that odd, light shade of blue, like faded denim. "I'm serious. We'd be just moving in together. Shacking up, like great-grandma might have said." Nessa crossed her arms over her chest, and lifted her chin. Gavius wondered if her granddaughter had copied the posture from her, or if it were simply common to humans, overall. "We've both got young grandchildren, and they're impressionable—"

"So we should continue to sneak back and forth between each others' houses? What kind of a message does _that_ send, Nessa? That we're unwilling to commit?" His voice rose just a bit.

"Just you hold on a damn minute, I didn't say I wasn't willing to commit!"

"Then what in the spirits' names is your problem with the idea of moving in with me?" Total exasperation now, although he had wrapped his arms around her from behind, under her crossed arms, so that she could feel his warmth and closeness. So that they both would understand that this was _not a real fight_. An argument, maybe, but not a fight.

She turned her head now further, to look up and back at him. "Because it's a change, damnit! I made a big damned change moving here in the first place, and another big damn change starting to, well, see you—"

"You _do_ see quite a bit of me, from time to time, and I do see quite a bit of you—"

"Shush, Gavius Vakarian, that is not what I'm talking about. I'm just saying it's sudden—"

"Not _that_ sudden." His arms squeezed a little tighter. "Do you really not wish this?" His crop clenched. He didn't like to think it, but it was possible that she'd accepted the _cinctus_ without knowing what he meant by it. She might _not_ be taking this as seriously as he was.

Nessa turned around. "That's not what I said at all, and you know it." She slid a hand up to touch his mandible lightly, and his crop eased slightly.

"So, then what's the _problem_?" His voice shifted back to mild irritation. "If you don't object to the idea, and if it's not really that we'd be setting a horrible example, and we both know it's hardly sudden, then what's the real issue, Nessa? I can't fight what I can't see."

She exhaled, and obviously retrenched. "All right," she said. "If we're just talking about the _practicalities_, there's nothing that says I couldn't get a lab job down at the science station instead of up here, and there's less snow in the valley. _You_ could move in with _me_, Gavius Vakarian. Because, truth be told, you like the snow even less than I do." She'd pulled her hand back from his face and now poked him solidly in the cowl with it.

Gavius looked down at the untaloned finger, and then back up at her face again. "And then we'd _both_ be hauling ourselves up the mountain every time we wanted to see our grandchildren, or our children would be bringing the younglings down to us all the time. In terms of _practicality_," and he mimicked her voice as best he could, "that doesn't make any sense, and you know it." He paused. "Would it really be so bad to move in with me, Nessa? Or. . . are you just arguing for the sake of arguing?" The last was much more quietly spoken.

She put her head down on his shoulder, and he could feel the tension easing out of her shoulders. "Maybe a little," she admitted. "Maybe I wanted to see if you actually _wanted_ to do this, instead of it just being. . . convenient. Practical."

"I wouldn't be asking if I didn't want it, but you have to admit, two houses for two people is absolutely ridiculous." He settled his chin atop the impossibly fine strands of her hair. "Is this where I'm going to hear, again, about how you're used to living alone and having your independence?"

"I would hate to be predictable in my arguing, so no." Absolute dignity, and a hint of amusement in her voice.

"Good, because then I'd have to point out that I've yet to curb that independence in any meaningful way . . . but now I don't have to mention it." He moved a little, just enough to nip at the side of her neck, and added, very softly, in her ear, "You're so much fun to argue with, Nessa."

"So what you're saying is, you'd like to be able to continue _arguing_ on a daily basis, without all the annoying traveling around?" Hint of a tease.

"Definitely. I'd like to argue morning, noon, and night."

"What happens if I'm not in the mood for arguing?" An almost prim tone.

"I suppose that we could bite." He paused. "Or, you know, do all the things we do when we're at each others' houses already. Just without having to get up and leave the next morning, or remember whose house we're supposed to go to tonight. And on the topic of snow. . . "

"We're back to snow?"

"Definitely. You see, if you give up your house in the valley—"

"I didn't say I was going to do that yet—"

"We could probably afford an apartment in Odessa in the winter months." Gavius spoke over the top of her, and it stopped her dead.

She pulled back far enough to look up at him, plainly turning it over in her mind. "It _is_ a lot warmer there. Supposed to be like Houston. . . which means you're still going to be chilly in winter."

"I can't take you to Palaven for the winters, so this is going to have to do."

"I could knit you a very nice warm wooly sweater or two."

"Don't push it."

She grinned at him, and wrapped her arms around him tightly again. "All right," Agnes agreed.

"That was an easier victory than I expected."

"Hmm. Well. .. . while we're not mentioning things, can I also not mention that your daughter and her husband are staring in at us from the living room?"

"They're—" Gavius' head jerked up, and he turned to glare at Solanna and Allardus. Allardus, framed in the doorway, immediately found a patch of ceiling to study, amusement seeming to radiate off of him in waves. Solanna, usually a forthright and forceful female, simply stared at her father for the moment, clearly at a loss for words. "What?" he asked, with some force.

Solanna's mouth snapped shut. Allardus got full marks for courage in his father-in-law's book as the male, still looking at the ceiling, murmured, "So, are the two of you going to make it official with knife-sheathes and maybe a contract?"

"_Ama'filu_, last I checked, I didn't answer to you," Gavius told him, but he kept his tone level, not harsh. He somehow couldn't picture Nessa wandering around with a knife in a wrist-sheath. Not when she'd resisted wearing an _omnitool_ for forty years, for the spirits' sakes. "Was there something the two of you wanted?"

Solanna's voice was a little strangled as she replied, "We were just coming in to see what was taking you so long." She exhaled, almost a hiss. "I . . . will talk with you about this later, Pada."

"Will waiting on the words make them sweeter when they come from behind your teeth, first-daughter?" Clean, even galactic, so Nessa could understand.

Solanna grimaced and switched to turian. Inferior to superior forms. Not supplicating, but acknowledging that he was, still, her father. Always and forever. _"Father, you know what that family has done to my second-son. How can I not see this as. . . if not betrayal, at least a hurt?"_

Gavius sighed. Solanna had been a reckless, wild child, but had learned from her own mistakes, not flexibility, but an over-concern for her offspring that bordered on a mania at times. "First-daughter," he told her, dryly, and still in galactic, "your second-son is an adult. Spirits, he's a _Spectre_. Dara and Rellus dissolved their contract. Lawfully. Not traditionally, but the human minister of the law made a damned good case of it. Rellus is now seeing Seheve, yes? Moved in together, no plighting contract, no knives, no _sheathes_. Contracts end, and if there's no bitterness between them, why should there be bitterness between the families?"

Nessa exhaled, and muttered in English, "Oh, Christ on a crutch. This _again?_"

Solanna gave Agnes a look, and returned, in turian, once more, _"Dara engineered the gene mod in such a way that Rellus can never seek a mate of his own kind. She's made him. . . damaged goods. If that weren't the case, he wouldn't be with that drell law-breaker—"_

Gavius grimaced. "I'm not thrilled with her past or with the prospect of calling her kin, either, first-daughter, but she's a Spectre now, too. It doesn't absolve her, but she's definitely putting her skills to better use now, yes?" 

Agnes was looking blank and trying to read her VI translation to bolster her shaky understanding of turian as Allardus, also in galactic, cut in, "Ah, so that's what's been the needlewing buzzing in your ear, Solanna?" The male suddenly bared his teeth. "You think the regeneration mod will make him unable to take a turian mate?"

"_Because of estrus and the blood-rage, yes. He told me so—"_

"_Amatra?_ I don't think that's a known quantity. Dr. Abrams said they weren't able to simulate for estrus in the time they had to produce the gene mod and save his leg. If it's true, then yes, it would be risky, but none of them know for sure that that would be the case."

Solanna's eyes narrowed. "Are you suggesting that Rellus lied to me?"

"No. I'm suggesting that he might have let you draw your own conclusions to get you to stop yelling at him about Seheve." Allardus looked at the ceiling. "A tactic I've used, myself, on many occasions."

Solanna wilted in on herself. Just a little. "He doesn't need protecting," Gavius told her, evenly. "Not from me. Not from any of _my_ choices. And I don't think he'll take kindly to you continuing to try."

Past Allardus and Solanna, there was an array of interested faces peering out of the living room as the younglings listened to the entire scene. "Don't you have better things to do?" Gavius demanded. "Like setting the table for dinner?"

The younglings scattered. Of course, over dinner, conversation necessarily took another direction, and Gavius prodded his grandchildren as to their career plans. "Polina, you're three years from boot camp," he warned. "And you, Quintus? It's coming up, and faster than you might think."

"Can I say that I'd be happy if either of them wound up a food preparation specialist?" Allardus murmured. "Three children in high-risk MOSes is enough. My scales are going gray enough as is."

Polina squirmed a little. "By the time Serana was my age, she had half a dozen things she wanted to do," she admitted. "She wanted to be a police officer or a lawyer or a spy—"

All of the adults cleared their throats. "And now she's an information specialist," Polina went on blithely, proving that the younger girl had clearly not understood what 'information specialist' actually meant in the Hierarchy armed forces. Gavius' mandibles twitched. "I'm not really sure where she works on computer systems, and why she has to go away with Spectres to do it, but it sounds kind of boring."

Gavius put a napkin up and over his teeth to cover his expression at Polina's disingenuous words. "And you want to be what, instead?" Agnes asked, kindly, after trying not to cough on a sip of water.

"I think I'd like to work with _Pada_ when I'm old enough. Xenobiology's always been my favorite subject. If not working here on Mindoir, then maybe on the Tosal Nym project." Polina's voice sounded a little uncertain. The second-daughter wasn't used to being the center of attention.

"And you, Quintus?" Gavius asked the boy directly. "Any plans?"

Quintus blinked rapidly. "Well. . . ." he hesitated. "Remember how I said before that. . . .well. . . you were in C-Sec, grandfather. And so was Uncle Garrus. And Uncle Lantar was, too, and then B-Sec, and cousin Eli and cousin Lin were CID, also."

Gavius sighed. "And you're about to say you're going to follow in the family tradition?"

Quintus squirmed. "Well, maybe. It's more common to get a military police MOS, than to get the judge advocate's office, right? But that's what I'd really like to get. I'd like to be a minister of the law."

Gavius froze in place, a beatific grin suddenly crossing his face. "Finally. Out of three children and ten grandchildren, _one_ of them finally has the sense to listen to what I've been saying for all these years. It'll be something to have someone in the family who _makes_ the laws."

Allardus coughed. "Rinus is in the Conclave of _Dominae_—"

"Oh, them. They can propose, but they don't actually _make_ the laws." Gavius disregarded it. "What made you decide on this path, young Quintus?"

Quintus' eyes went wide. "The _tal'mae_ trial in Complovium," he admitted. "Mr. Maxwell was so _cool_." The last word was a piece of English slang that had wormed its way into galactic in the past few decades, and that Gavius utterly detested.

Gavius slowly put his head down on the table and rested his forehead there for a long moment, listening to Agnes, Allardus, and Solanna's muffled attempts to control their laughter.

As the younglings were all packing up to leave, Allardus moved over and, quietly, murmured to Agnes—as if Gavius wouldn't hear!—"You're very good for my _pada'amu_, you know."

"Oh, really? I wouldn't have thought it from your wife's reaction." Agnes' tone was a little tart, from where she was working at the dining room table on what looked like an extranet album of Takeshi's little drawings and projects.

Gavius looked up in time to catch Allardus' wry smile. "I think if Solanna had questioned Gavius' judgment a year ago, he'd have scaled her with his words. He's the happiest I've seen him in. . . spirits. Over a decade."

Agnes shrugged a little, but she smiled and went a little pink. "I think you underestimate him, Allardus. Solanna's always going to be his little girl. I doubt he'd have 'scaled' her."

Allardus leaned down and gave Agnes a light squeeze on the shoulder. "I'd say welcome to the family, _mada'ama_, but if the letters I've gotten from Lorek space are at all accurate, your son's already formalized his _sangua'fradae_ vows with Garrus and Lantar. So we're all already family anyway."

"God help us all," Agnes told him, tartly, but smiled.

Once all the younglings had returned to Allardus and Solanna's house in the valley for the evening—they were babysitting, while Lilitu and Garrus were both out near Lorek, and the Vakarian's drell nanny was on vacation—Gavius pulled Nessa tightly to him again. "Stay the night?"

"Apparently, I should get used to that, yes."

Early next morning, around 02:30 local time, the older couple decided that they'd be on hand for the ship arrivals at the landing field. The news reports had suggested that the initial thrust on Lorek had been successful, vicious, and swift, per Alliance combat doctrine. Surgical in precision, and overwhelming in force where needed. The Spectres had, reportedly, taken a moon base, satellites, a biotic weapons plant, a computer center, a medical center for the creation of the Bastion/Earth/Palaven plagues, and an SIU 're-education center.' Pictures and vid feed were trickling back from each location, and Gavius shuddered at the sight of the batarian prisoners who'd been rescued from the prison. Most of them were desperately underweight, bones clearly showing in their faces. Malnutrition, starvation. Many of them had missing eyes, missing fingers, or badly healed bones, showing the evidence of torture in the past. Real torture, not just the excitation of a few nerve endings. And for what? Being political foes of the Hegemon. Questioning policies. Bringing in outside news stories from Council space.

And so, early the next morning, Gavius bundled up as warmly as he could, and stood with Agnes under the pre-dawn sky with the first lacy traces of snow fluttering down from the high overhead clouds, and watched as the _Normandy_ and the _Raedia_ both came in for a landing, the wind of their non-stealthed maneuvering engines at least warming the ambient temperature by twenty or thirty degrees, much to Gavius' unspoken pleasure. The landing lights and the chemical jets lent an orange glow to everything, which died as the jets went silent. Then the hatches dropped, and all the friends and families gathered began to cheer as the lines of Spectres started down the ramps.

Gavius, as always, looked first for the tall figure of his first-son. He'd never told Garrus this, but he did worry every damned time his son went off and out of contact for long periods of time. It was a concern he'd long since learned to background, but it was there, nonetheless. His crop eased a little on spotting Garrus beside the shorter figure of his human wife, both in their armor, and watched in the distance as Amara and Kaius, both up very early, and brought to the field by Allardus, went racing for their parents' arms, to be picked up and laughed with, cheerfully.

"Oh, _there_ he is," Agnes muttered, her fingers easing in their tight clutch on Gavius' arm. "I never see him first thing, and I have no idea how he does it." She pointed past Shepard and Garrus to the rangy figure of her own son, Sam Jaworski, and his slightly-built wife, Kasumi. Gavius could _feel_ the tension draining out of her, and understood it. Completely.

That being said, Gavius' eyes widened further as more and more of the Spectres trooped down the hatches. Their body language spoke of pure exhaustion. Rellus wasn't even in armor. Neither was the human Spectre, Dempsey. They didn't look _defeated_, but they all looked bone-weary.

Agnes broke from his side to go hug her taller son, who leaned down and gave his mother a kiss on the cheek. Unaccountable human traditions, but Gavius was doing his best to take notes on all of them, with the attention to detail of a male who'd done more than his fair share of surveillance. And then he was clasping Garrus' wrist silently, trying to convey simply by the pressure of his fingers how grateful he was to see his first-son again. Alive, well, and triumphant.

Then, even through the crowd noise, he could clearly hear Nessa's cry of, "Oh my god, Dara, sweetheart! What happened to you!" and his head snapped up at the sound of pure distress in his mate's voice. Gavius moved, faster than he'd moved in the past several years, and got back to Agnes' side, just as she was reaching out to take her granddaughter in her arms, armor and all. Gavius got a glimpse of violet paint on her cheeks. . . and the livid blue-purple of human bruises. Everywhere. The female's lips were still swollen, one rachni-blue eye still visibly swollen, too.

There was a expression of distress on Dara's face, too, as she gritted her teeth against her grandmother's embrace. "Grandma, please. . . the ribs are okay now, but the cartilage between them is still messed up. . . "

Agnes recoiled, instantly, and Elijah came down another step or two, sliding a hand under Dara's elbow. Clear care in every touch, every glance. Dara awarded her grandmother a rueful smile, which just as clearly still hurt. "It's. . . kind of a long story, Grandma. We got some bad intel, and Zhasa, Fors, Glory, and I spent twenty-four really uncomfortable hours in a batarian prison." She patted Agnes very gently on the shoulder. "I'm okay. I really am. Please, Grandma, don't cry, it's okay. . . it looks a lot worse than it really is."

Gavius curled his own fingers under Agnes' arm, providing unspoken support. Unspoken assurance that he was there, if she needed him. And looked back over his shoulder at his first-son, who'd paused, his own first-son over one shoulder, to look over at them all. And wondered if he'd ever get the full story out of any of them.

An hour after landing, Sam and Kasumi had retreated to their own house on base. Takeshi was still at Hinata's house in the valley, and would be until later that morning; it was still only 03:30 or so, and Sam had no desire to go wake a four-year-old and his grandmother just for the joy of tucking the boy back into a different bed.

Instead, he and Kasumi came home to their empty house, and let themselves in. For once, Sam left the seabags in the entryway. He stripped out of his armor, which he'd worn, rather than carried, and settled it in one of the metal armor lockers, tucked inside the large, walk-in closet in the room he shared with his wife. He could hear her showering already, and decided he could wait on that. Showers tended to wake him up, and sleep, and the ability to reset his body clock, were far more important at the moment. As such, Sam stripped to the skin, pulled back the clean sheets of a familiar bed with its familiar smells, and lay down gratefully, pulling up the sheets and even a blanket against the pervasive chill that the house's heating unit was struggling to fight.

Just as he was about to slip off into sleep, Kasumi slid into the bed behind him. Sam barely registered her arm wrapping around his chest. Just enough to catch her hand in his and cradle it, lightly.

"Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think we should have insisted on Dara and Eli staying with us?"

Sam's brain fought back the thick blanket of sleep. His eyes opened, and he reallocated reserve power to reply, muzzily, "They've got a house of their own. We already had the first debriefing yesterday. Tomorrow, we're having a get-together for everyone. They need . . . a little space."

"Okay. Just checking."

Sam closed his eyes again. Sleep beckoned. It had been a _long_ three days since he'd joked to Shepard about _Cinco de Mayo_, and buying him a decent bottle of tequila.

"Sam?" Kasumi's voice, against his neck, was tentative.

"Mmm."

"I've been thinking. . ."

"Okay." Peacefully drifting. Sleep looming like a dark shadow.

"I think that Earth's population controls are great and all, but it's resulted in several generations of, well, largely . . . only children."

_We're going to have a conversation about population control? At 03:30?_ Sam's eyes opened, blearily. "Huh?" was about the most intelligent response he could make.

"Which is why I wanted to talk to you about having another child." Kasumi could drop a bombshell like that while sounding completely innocent, and even serene.

"What?" Sam sat up in bed, shedding blankets and his wife's arms in the same motion. He tabbed the light, and looked down at her. "Okay," he said, in a tone of resignation. "I'm awake now."

Kasumi looked up at him, her eyes wide and dark. "You're upset."

Sam scrubbed at his face, collecting his scattered wits. "No. . . okay, maybe a little, because I'm _tired_, Kasumi. . . " He stared at her blankly for a long moment. "I didn't think you enjoyed the process so much the first time. It's three long, pretty thankless years of nonstop work, screaming, and crying to get them to the fun part, which is where Takeshi finally is now. And the fun part, eh, it lasts another six, seven years, and then they're teen-agers, and then—" _And then they're off and running, and you're trailing along behind them, hoping like hell you taught them enough of. . . everything._ Sam swallowed.

Kasumi's eyes were wide and luminous. "I know. But. . . Takeshi's old enough now that I think he's starting to be aware of things. He asked me just before we left if I _liked_ brothers and sisters. And I told him yes, I did, but that I don't have any." She paused. "And then he said "I like brothers and sisters.' And I told him he _has_ a sister. Dara." Kasumi tipped her head to the side. "And he said, 'Dara's not a sister,' as if I'd just said the silliest thing ever. And I guess, from his perspective, it was. She's so much older."

Sam lay back against the pillows, and wrapped an arm around her, his head spinning. "I'm not going to make the decision on the basis of what a four-year-old wants this week," he told her, firmly. "I'd consider a _puppy_ first. He's much less likely to be disenchanted when a puppy gets attention that he considers rightfully his, and has to share his Obasan Hinata and his Granny Nessa and his, god help me, Papa Gavius, with a brother or a sister."

Kasumi rested her head against his shoulder. "It's not just for him."

"No?'

"I think I'd like a little girl. Don't get me wrong. I love Takeshi. But even my mother has been murmuring quietly that she'd like someone around who wears dresses."

"We could put a puppy in a dress. Trust me. It would work."

"Sam!" Kasumi chuckled, and poked his side with a finger.

"Let me think about it, Kasumi-chan. It's. . . not something I've really thought much about, to be honest. My life's pretty damned full with the two kids I already have. Not to mention the rachni granddaughter and . . . everything else." Sam squeezed the bridge of his nose gently, and then turned out the light again. _Now how the hell am I supposed to go to sleep?_ he wondered.

He didn't have to wonder for long. Sleep claimed him, and with a vengeance.

Dara and Eli had to drop by Lantar's house to retrieve their hovercycles, so as to get to their own house. Eli's mother had stayed up late to welcome them all home; with a house full of sleeping kids, she hadn't been able to get to the landing field. Narayana was still awake, of course, and both she and Ellie had exclaimed over their bruises. Dara had to admit, hers were pretty spectacular, and the royal jelly she'd been eating could only accelerate the healing process by so much. "Oh, my god," Ellie said, in the _exact_ tone that Grandma Agnes had, and had touched Dara's face with light fingers. "Are you all right?" She then paused, finally registering the face-paint. "Wait. You two got married? Without _inviting anyone_?" Ellie didn't sound so much hurt as desperately confused.

"Long story," Eli told his mother tiredly. "Can it maybe wait till tomorrow afternoon, after we've sacked out and died for about eight hours?" He leaned down and gave his mom a hug and a kiss. "I promise, we're still getting married for real, with a ceremony and a cake and everything. Things just got. . . kind of complicated."

Ellie nodded, still wide-eyed. "Was it for a disguise or something?" she asked, in a tone that still held confusion. Lantar moved over and gently wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"No," Dara told Ellie. "Long story short?" _God. How do I summarize the past three days?_ "Um. . . Zhasa, Fors, Glory and I were captured by batarians, beaten, threatened, questioned, started to escape as everyone else hit the facility where we were being held, and, well, Eli was fighting a guy with a vibrosword and got hurt. . . " _And the next part is the part Ellie won't believe._ _And just saying the words in my head sounds like bragging. . . ._

_Is it bragging to tell the truth, sai'kaea?_

_Sort of depends._ Dara writhed internally.

"And Dara caught the vibroblade in her hand, inches from my throat. Cut her hand open, but nothing more." Eli's words were blunt. "Once we killed the guy, I cut my own hand open on the sword and told her to come out of the sort of. . . rachni place. . . she'd gone in her head."

_And then you painted your marks on me in your own blood._

_My mom does not need to know that._

_Or that you'd been slashed through the shoulder and were doing your best to bleed out at the time?_

_Yeah. She doesn't need to know that, either._ Eli's tone held conviction on that count. His mother was fine with him taking chances, with Lantar taking chances, but she didn't need to know about every close call until the scars had mostly healed. He met Lantar's eyes over his mom's head, and Lantar just nodded, once. Details could wait. To a point in time where Ellie wouldn't get torqued up, cry, be unable to sleep, and so on.

Nara boggled for a long moment, and then went straight to the freezer and come back with an ice pack. "Good medical instinct," Dara told the salarian girl, cheerfully. "But really, there's nothing else for it at this point but to wait for it all to heal. There's no substitute for time," Dara told them all. "This looks ugly, but it's really not that bad."

"Besides," Eli said, lightly, "you should see the other guy."

_No, they really shouldn't_. Brief image, shared between them, of a batarian body covered in furious workers.

_Yeah, okay. Probably not._ A quick exchange of glances, and Eli lifted her hand to his lips. "Mom, we'll have time to talk later, okay? But for right now, we really need to get some sleep in our own bed."

A few minutes later, they were off and racing above the trees towards their house near the lake. In a straight line like this, it was really a short trip, and they landed, secured the bikes, and went inside. Tiredly headed up the stairs, shucking their armor, and headed straight for the big bed. They hadn't been able to do any of what they'd wanted, the night before; Dara had still had _aizala_ in her system, and while she'd been released from med bay to crew quarters on the _Normandy_, and had had her things brought across from the _Raedia_, it hadn't seemed wise to sing mating-songs when she was still singing queen-songs. _Better part of valor, my ass_, Eli told her now, silently, kissing her urgently but gently, and reaching over to flick on a light as he tugged lightly at the new undersuit. The purple bruises everywhere on her ribs and stomach gave him pause, however. Little, air-light kisses, tracing his way down. Doing his best not to cause any pain. _I'm guessing that depending on how bruised your innards are, __sai'kaea__, this is not going to be a night for anything but __kiia__._ He really didn't want to hurt her. Internal bruising was not a laughing matter. But he did want to make her feel good, and he desperately wanted to join his mind with hers, and share her light, so he opened to her, completely. Took the last, lingering traces of queen-song, and relished them, as she let them pour through him, and gave her his mouth and fingers sweetly until that light, too, spilled through both of them.

Dara smiled and pushed his shoulders back against the bed, rolling atop him. _Probably for the best_, she pointed out gently, tracing the livid, fresh red scar on his shoulder, and its associated bruises. . . . not to mention the blue-black bruises all along his left arm, from where the batarian vanguard's charges had landed against his shield, so repeatedly. _I don't see you bracing much with your arms right now, anyway._ She kissed each bruise, each weal that reminded her that the ulna had been fractured in three places at the end of the yahg fight, too. Feather-light.

Eli grinned, ruefully. "I'd have tried, if you weren't hurting, _sai'kaea_."

"Let _me_ try—ah, hell. Your ribs—"

Eli gritted his teeth, feeling a white-hot splinter of pain in the fractured cartilage; the ribs, like his forearm, had been regenerated, but the softer tissues around them took longer to heal, ironically. Pain was an unfortunate deterrent to desire, but Dara sank down on him anyway. The wet, silken heat was glorious, but at the same time, he could feel how much the pressure inside her hurt. _No. Wait a while, __sai'kaea__. Don't want you to hurt._

_I want to share all the songs before I lose them completely!_ Frustration, in oranges.

_You're never going to lose them entirely. Maybe we'll take a very small dose of __aizala__ with us to some completely deserted planet sometime._ Eli found a patch of ceiling to concentrate on, one where the crystals were more white than purple, even in the low light from the bedside lamp.

"Maybe . .. if we're. . . _really_ gentle. . . "

"God, I don't know how we could be anything _but_ gentle tonight. . . " Eli slipped his fingers up to her hips, and they moved together. Very, very gently. Knife's-edge between pleasure and pain, trying to keep it evenly balanced. And he let her release take him over the edge without fighting it.

He curled up behind her—by necessity, they needed to sleep on their right sides tonight, because his arm hurt too damned much to lie on—and draped that battered appendage over her, very lightly. Brushed a kiss on her hair, which the workers had done their best to groom to a semblance of order.

Just as Eli was drifting off to sleep, he heard a tremendous note of mingled hurt and love and joy in his mind, a voice of harps and choirs and a full damn orchestra, singing out, _Mother! Father!_

Eli's eyes opened, and in the darkness of the bedroom, all he could see were several sets of enormous rachni eyes hovering over the bed. . . and then the bed itself shook as Joy-Singer landed on it, sliding her bulk over their legs and curling to plant her head on Dara's side. Both of them groaned at the impact, and then the bed wobbled. Shook.

Collapsed.

Eli shot a hand out to keep the headboard from falling down on their heads—his bad arm, at that—and shouted, "Joy-Singer!"

Instantly, the headboard lifted, removed with biotic energies, and whisked away to the far side of the room. Less in pain and no longer in active danger of being crushed. . . by the headboard, anyway. . . Eli relaxed, and promptly felt a stab of pain from his ribs, before he groaned and just laid back down again. "Joy?" Dara said, her voice muffled. "You're very goddamned heavy. Let me _breathe._"

_I sing sorrow, Mother, Father._ It was almost a creel of violet regret, but also yellow worry and green concerns and sparks of red anger and a dozen other harmonies all at once, all bound together by blue. _I did not wish to interrupt your returning-songs, but Sings-to-the-Sky and Sings-of-Glory and Sings-to-the-Stone sang to me of everything that has happened! Of binding songs and captive songs and beating songs and violation songs!_ Outrage now, hints of the same almost enraged fury that Sky and Stone had fallen into on Lorek. Tinges of red and black. _We do not permit our queens to be endangered! _

"The only danger I'm in right now is suffocation," Dara managed to gasp out and Eli turned over. Got his good arm under Joy's head and lifted, so that Dara could turn, herself, to her back. And then let go again, and Joy tucked her head again, more or less occupying the whole of Dara's torso, with her snout and mouth area landing on Eli's undamaged ribs. "It's okay, Joy, we're here. We're. . . just fine."

_Sky also sang that you learned queen-song at last?_

_Yes. Probably not something I can do all the time. Wouldn't want to be an __aizala__ addict. But in my armor, I can sing that way, too, without it. Just. . . not as far, I think._ Dara was patting Joy's huge head, just behind one of the big eyes, and Eli was doing the same. Wordless reassurances. Understanding, between Eli and Dara, in a sudden rush. . . as much as Dara was rachni, Joy was human. Maybe only ten or twelve percent, but Joy had human needs in a way no other rachni ever had, and the reassuring touch of her 'parents' was very badly needed right now. Like a child who'd had a nightmare, or had feared her parents lost forever. _You'll never be alone,_ Eli told her, gently. _We made sure of that. Even if we died, we made sure you'd have people to sing to you and care for you and love you._

_Don't want other singers. Want you._ Plaintive tones. Most rachni did not put as much emphasis on the individual. Joy did. Joy had emotional needs that differed from other queens. She still had the wisdom of twenty-thousand years of memory-song in her. . . but she also had humanity in her. And she was different from all the others, even the ones on base.

Eli looked up at the ceiling overhead again. "Have I mentioned that I'm not really sure we're ready for this kind of responsibility, _sai'kaea_?" he said, in tired amusement.

Dara's laughter started softly, and built in volume. "God, _ciea'teilu_, if we're not, who is?"

One of the slight disadvantages of their bedroom's location was the eastern view in the morning; the sun's light woke them early, and it bounced off the ceiling crystals in a million shards of rainbow. Dara delicately shifted under Joy's weight; she couldn't feel her toes. Or her legs. "Off," she told the young rachni queen, and, with a rustle of chitinous appendages, Joy-Singer obliged her. Dara then hissed in pain as blood started returning to her legs.

_I sing regrets, Mother._

"I know, I know, it's okay." Dara sat up far enough to start rubbing her screaming legs, just as Eli pulled a pillow over his head. "We keep saying we need to get blinds in here, Eli."

"I know. I know. It's on my to do list for somewhere in 2198." Eli sat up. "Okay, probably 2199, at the rate we're going." He gave Joy a look as the young queen scuttled towards the door. "Hold on, Joy. You're going to be fixing the bed, right?"

_The workers can—_

_Ah?_

—_help__ me fix it._ Just a hint of saucy good humor in her mental voice, and Eli couldn't help but laugh.

"All right. Tell them to add some reinforcement for the next time you decide to cuddle up with us in our sleep." Eli pointedly looked at Joy until she scuttled out of the room, and then kicked the sheets off. They were, like many other things in the house, not precisely human standard. Quarian silk hangings on the walls here and there, and rachni silk sheets on the bed. Under a down comforter, and he had a suspicion that Agnes was probably making them a quilt as a wedding present, although Dara's grandmother had a tendency to stare around their house and shake her head more than a little bit. He started pulling on clothing—slowly. Every move was stiff at the moment. And would be, until he worked the limberness back into every protesting muscle. He glanced over at Dara, watching as she pulled on a loose sweatshirt, covering most of the bruises again, crystalline light and rainbows dancing over her skin and the fabric, and felt the sudden spike, again, of pain-fear in his throat. _God. If I'd lost you. . . __sai'kaea__. . . _

_You didn't._ She moved across the room, fast, and slid her arms around him. Tightly. _We didn't._

_Been a very goddamned bad year for close calls, though._

_Yeah._ Just clinging, tightly, for a moment. Both of them breathing hard, trying to smother the brief surge of panic. "Breakfast?" Dara offered, trying to move them past it.

"God only knows what's in the cryo-unit that isn't green." Eli kept his good arm around her waist as they moved towards the stairs. "We can forage. Come back, unpack."

"Shouldn't be too much _to_ unpack. Armor and weapons are already put away. Leaves. . . eh. . . swords. Face-paint. Clothes. Hygiene crap." Dara shrugged, and then, frowning, pulled him to the bathroom. Dug in a cabinet until she found his spare container of violet face-paint, and Eli laughed under his breath as he shaved, and as Dara washed off yesterday's paint. . . and they both put on today's. Dara closed her eyes as Eli put the paint on her, and then opened her eyes again. _I know that, eventually, it's going to get routine,_ she admitted, silently. _Just. . . trying to stamp it into memory, now. When it's still kind of a wonder._

_I know._ He tapped her nose lightly, and she made a face at him and wiped the resultant splotch of paint off her nose.

They found their bags in the front lobby, where they'd more or less just dropped them in their exhaustion in the early morning hours. Eli opened one seabag and silently handed what was inside, on top, to Dara. The vibrosword from the batarian vanguard he'd been fighting as she'd been coming up the stairs. He'd knocked the male's blade away, and they'd wrestled for control of Eli's own sword. It had been Eli's own sword that had plunged down at his neck, and that Dara had caught in her hand. This was the other sword. It was more like a true rapier, one that would have been used for fighting in the old days, not like a fencing rapier. Still a slender blade, designed more for thrusting, it still had a cutting edge; all vibroblades needed one. It was their only defense against each other, of course.

Dara took the sheathed sword and looked at it. She didn't know what to think about it, honestly.

"Not planning on carrying it, are you?" he asked, tentatively. Her song had gone almost silent for a moment.

Dara blinked. "What? Me? Hell no." She made a scoffing sound.

Relief rushed through him. "Yeah. I carry mine for a reason. It's useful against yahg. It's a pretty good door-opener if we don't want to use an explosive frame. But. . . at the end of the day? It's mostly because I want the batarians to focus on me. Not on you. Not on the medic or the sniper or the people we have who're sneaking around." Eli stayed in a crouch, looking up at her as she stood, leaning against the banister, with its crystalline, web-like extrusions that substituted for balusters. "And carrying it around is like waving a middle finger at the batarians and yelling 'come get some!' without me needing to learn batarian." He paused. "Slightly safer than me showing them my ass, too."

Dara grinned, but her expression was rueful. "I wouldn't carry a weapon I don't know how to use, Eli. Six weeks of _epee_ in summer camp ten years ago doesn't count." She shrugs. "Don't brag about what you can't back up, right?" She tossed the sword onto one of the stairs and moved over, crouching down beside him, putting a hand on her shoulder. "You can back it up, Eli. I can't. It's that simple. Not with about five years of training. . . and even then, honestly? The last thing I really want in combat is people's attention." Dara met his eyes.

Eli dropped from a crouch to put a knee on the floor and kiss her. _Really kind of looking forward to there being less combat around here._

_Yeah. Me, too._

They pulled back and Eli exhaled. "Okay. So what do we do with the damn thing?"

"Well, we don't have a fireplace to hang it over, so I guess we'll find a wall somewhere around here to hang it up on. Minus the sheath, so it doesn't tarnish in the case." Dara frowned. "Have to ask Valak if the power supplies in the damn things go bad. Whenever he and the _Sollostra_ get back from Lorek, anyway."

"You think the batteries will leak?" Eli started to chuckle.

"Hey, better to ask and look stupid, than to stay silent and have something explode."

With their belongings unpacked, they took Eli's bike and, with a couple of workers on Dara's shoulders and a jar of royal jelly in her pocket, they headed back to base. Eli had been right. There was nothing left in their cryo-unit fit to be eaten, unless they wanted to conduct science experiments, anyway.

Although it was noon, it was not a particular surprise to find almost everyone from their mission out and grabbing lunch for pretty much the same exact reasons. Serana, who'd been on the _Sollostra_ during the rescue efforts, had been moved to the _Raedia_ during the whole shuffle of personnel from one ship to the other, so that Valak, Alisav, Gris, Cohort, and a few others would remain on hand.

When Serana caught sight of Eli and Dara entering the cafeteria, she pulled on Lin's arm at their table, where they were sitting with Rel and Seheve and Rinus and Kallixta, and leaped to her feet to run to them. Her crop was tight; she could see the bruised arms as they took off their jackets and pushed up the sleeves of their sweatshirt. . . so she was very cautious as she hugged both of them. "I didn't get to see you coming off the ships last night," Serana told them, a little reproachfully.

"Sorry," Dara told her. "About all I could think about was getting home and falling on my face." A rueful smile as Serana, who'd very carefully made sure to touch only covered skin, pulled back. "And then Joy-Singer decided to make sure we _stayed_ in bed this morning."

"She's not joking," Eli said, as they moved over to greet the others at their table, clapping Lin on the shoulder lightly. "Joy decided to sleep _on_ us last night." He looked up at the ceiling. "I remember crawling into my parents' bed when I was little and I'd had a bad dream. But Joy is over ten feet tall now."

"And about twelve feet long," Dara added, dryly. "And. . . god. I don't even know how much she weighs. Several hundred pounds, anyway."

Lin looked up, laughing. "I take it the bed was a casualty?"

"Yeah," Eli said, looking resigned. "She said she'd fix it. I told her to put in reinforcing structures for the next time she flops down on top of us."

"You know, these are not usually problems with a nest," Rel pointed out, lifting his head to needle Eli.

Lin's head swiveled. "I don't think even a nest-roll is really designed with a rachni in mind."

"And I'd wind up just as squashed. Maybe more so, since a nest roll doesn't have a lot of cushioning," Serana muttered, sitting back down on the bench, but turning out to face Eli and Dara, while leaning into Lin's shoulder. "I don't even know what I should ask you guys _first_." She looked around the crowded cafeteria. "Maybe. . . 'what's with the paint?' or. . . 'you _promised_ me _sangua'amila_ vows, Dara!'" It really was _odd_ seeing Dara flush pink behind Sidonis violet, after a year of being bare-faced. . . and the years, previous to that, wearing Velnaran yellow. But it also looked oddly right. And it didn't hurt at all.

Dara waved both hands frantically. "Can we get food first? Please?"

Serana sighed, as melodramatically as possible. "Hurry up. I couldn't get much of anything out of Lin except a couple of mutters about you _wearing_ the workers. Then again, he _did_ just have a head injury. Which could explain a lot."

Dara, who'd been turning to head to the cafeteria line, immediately came back over, and leaned down to ask Lin, "So, you're okay? Still headaches? No blurred vision?"

"Go get your food, _amilula_," Lin told her, lightly. "None of us are going to be able to eat for talking once you get back, but we might as well _pretend_ to be here for the food."

Dara and Eli both chuckled, and headed off. . . . and came back with Zhasa and Dempsey in tow. "Picked up Madison from the Sidonis menagerie early in the morning," Dempsey noted, sitting down. "Think we were right behind you two as you left," he added, nodding to Eli and Dara. Dempsey's plate, like Zhasa's, was piled high—his with two roast beef sandwiches and a bowl of soup, against the chill outdoors, and Zhasa's with braised _cuderae_ over _festuca_ noodles, with a bowl of _malae_ and _doeinya_ slices beside it. Eli and Dara had both opted for soups and sandwiches, themselves, but with asari salads on the side. Serana waited for everyone to settle in, and pounced again. "So. . . "

"You know, we _are_ going to be debriefing this afternoon," Eli told her, lightly. "You could just wait for that."

"Yes, but that'll be _boring_," Serana pointed out, irrepressibly. "Why don't you just tell me what really happened now, and we'll do the five bullet-point slides later, and everyone can fall asleep in their chairs that way, knowing that everything's already been covered?"

Lin's shoulders shook as he took a careful sip of his _apha_. "Well, _you_ could start," he pointed out, glancing back at Serana. "What was it like for you and Seheve to start attacking me?"

Serana froze. Every head at the table swiveled. Seheve visibly winced. "Perhaps this _could_ wait for the mission debriefing," the drell suggested, quietly, into her _sahlep_.

"No, no," Lin said, leaning back. "I'm honestly interested in what was going through your minds when the Lystheni told you 'go kill him.' Did any. . . I don't know. . .unresolved angers or resentments get used against you?" The joking demeanor had fallen away, and his expression was tired, and a little sad. "Was there anything I could have done differently that would have snapped you out of it more quickly?"

"It doesn't really work in a conscious way," Eli pointed out, stirring his asari tea. "Someone trying to impose their will doesn't really have time to reach in and root around and really _understand_ someone. They just increase the innate sense of paranoia and resentment that's in everyone, anyway."

Serana looked down. She really hated thinking about that moment. She'd turned on Lin, and she hadn't really had a chance to come to terms with it, yet. Her shoulders sagged a little, and then his warm arm suddenly wrapped around her. "Hey," Lin said, gently. "It's all right. They got Seheve, too."

Serana looked up, spirit-sick. "Yes. But she had more reasons not to trust you. They. . . " She hesitated. Suddenly, the food on the tray in front of her looked much less appetizing. The whispers that echoed in her mind had been in her own voice. Her own insecurities, usually almost nonexistent, suddenly given life. _He doesn't really love you. He said he thought you'd taken him as second-best, but you're the one who's second-best. . . . He's just using you. You're nothing but a warm body to keep the memories at bay. _She knew it wasn't true. Knew it, heart and spirit and mind. But the Lystheni had dragged her sense of self and self-assurance away, and she hated them for it. "I don't want to talk about it right now," Serana admitted. She glanced up at Lin, feeling guilty. She didn't want to say, in front of everyone, that she'd let him down. That the Lystheni had played on insecurities she didn't even know she had. But both were true. "I . . betrayed you."

Lin shook his head. "No, you didn't."

"I did." Serana's throat closed a little, and the noise of the mess hall washed over her.

"They mind-fucked you," Lin told her, his expression absolutely cold and remote for a moment. "And they mind-fucked Seheve, too. That's not your fault, and it's not going to happen again." The fingers of his left hand closed on hers, tightly. After a moment, his expression thawed. "And spirits, it's no worse than the rest of you got from the yahg female biotic, I'm willing to bet."

"And that took _all_ our minds to overcome," Dara muttered, grimly. "She was powerful. James and the geth are still guarding her, right?"

Dempsey nodded. "Yeah. I'm sure she's tried affecting them. . .or at least _him_. . . with absolutely no results." His lips curled faintly. "Going to be interesting watching that vid cam footage, for sure."

Rel had turned to look at Seheve, in the meantime, however. "They turned you on Lin?"

Seheve winced again. "Yes." She looked past Rel toward Lin now. "I could have killed you."

Lin shrugged. "You didn't. I was carrying my shield and a stasis gun, and it turned out all right. I was plenty nervous at the time, though." He picked up his fork and stabbed a piece of roast _talashae_ on his own plate. "I knew they're both good at their jobs, but I had a mental image of Seheve tying me up, Serana sticking a grenade in my mouth, and Seheve sticking a knife in my back for _decoration_ before the grenade blew." His free hand tightened on Serana's. "And you know what?" he offered. "I killed both Lystheni that were their biotics. Those might have been the last two biotic Lystheni in the galaxy. The two prisoners we have left? Might very well be the last Lystheni _anywhere_."

The words were a powerful reassurance, and Serana accepted them as such. She leaned against her mate's arm for a moment, returning the pressure of his fingers, and slid one of her feet behind his spur. Mixing human and turian gestures, though she hardly realized it, herself.

The conversation swirled on. "Not sure how we're going to be able to _tell_ if they're the last Lystheni. They'll lie." Rinus' words were blunt.

"They can lie all they want. The rachni will be able to tell if they're dissonant," Dara replied, shrugging. "The question really becomes, how do we make them tell the truth? Siara can wear herself out giving them pain, but they might not be _able_ to say anything."

"Conditioning?" Rel asked, quickly.

Dara shrugged. "Well. . . command-voice of their dalatrass, anyway."

"Have another dalatrass un-order them. Can it be any female?" Zhasa asked.

Dara wavered a hand back and forth. "Sort of depends," she admitted. "Salarian social dymanics get murky for other species. I know Kirrahe was afraid he'd submit to the Lystheni dalatrass, and he's not of her house. . . that's why Nara. . . " She frowned.

"I don't like where this is heading," Eli warned. "The whole point of destroying the dalatrass at the source was to keep Nara _away_ from those fanatics."

Serana's mind had already raced ahead to catch up with Dara's. "But she's technically the head of their clan now. They have to obey her, right? They have to tell her the truth."

Eli shook his head grimly. "She's a kid. And I can for damn sure tell you my dad's not going to like this."

"So we keep them behind a forcefield when she's giving them her orders," Rel offered.

Eli shook his head again. "And then they have confirmation that she _exists_. Man, I do not like this, and Lantar's not going to like it either. Not with a hell of a lot better idea of what could come out of it."

Serana chuckled. "He's already starting to sound like a clan-leader," she commented, looking at Dara. Dara, who'd reminded her a few months ago that the whole of clan Sidonis was going to land on Eli's plate someday. And on the plate of Eli's mate.

Eli made a rude noise in her general direction. "_Spirits keep that day far from me,"_ he said, switching to turian.

"Not so much clan-leader, as just a first-son," Rel noted, dryly. "You'll notice that Rinus sounds the same way."

"Lin doesn't," Serana pointed out.

"That's because I've spent most of my life running _away_ from all the responsibilities," Lin retorted amiably. "Those two? Their responsibilities have responsibilities. If they stand still for a second or two, more duties crawl out of the rocks to try to cover them."

Rinus and Eli had almost identical expressions of mingled amusement and annoyance on their faces. "Thanks," Eli said, after a moment. "It's good to know you've got my back, _fradu_."

"Don't I always?" Lin replied, cheerfully.

Rinus looked down at his omnitool. "Ah, speaking of duties?"

An almost universal groan. "Yes. It's that time. Briefing room, everyone."

The briefing room was _packed_. Close to thirty Spectres and affiliates were in the long, narrow room. Dara glanced around, quickly; to her relief, attire was informal today. Zhasa took the seat to Dara's right; Dempsey sat past her, while Eli sat to her left; Rel and Seheve sat past Eli, and Serana and Lin were behind Dara, a row back, beside Siara and Makur, who was slowly healing. Dara didn't expect his paw to regenerate fully for another two months, given that it was the result of a yahg bite. "You're moving slowly, Sidonis," Dempsey gibed, over Dara's head.

"I know. It's downright unfair," Eli grumbled back, just as good-naturedly. "You, Rel, Zhasa, and Makur all heal up too damned fast. And having a rachni queen sleep on top of me last night didn't do much to help."

Dempsey raised his eyebrows, very slightly. "And here I thought that having a rachni queen on top of you was a nightly thing."

Dara choked. It was the absolute _deadpan_ way that Dempsey said these things. It wasn't even _quite_ a joke, but she turned to stare at him anyway. "Dempsey!" Zhasa protested, laughing. "That's just mean!"

"What? I'm just saying, it's status quo for him."

Eli's face lit up with a grin. "I'm stating for the record that I've got no problems with a rachni queen being my blanket, so long as it's one without an exoskeleton. Joy's plates aren't particularly cuddly."

"I'll have to take your word for it, Sidonis. We haven't gotten around to that group cuddle contract you were talking about. Besides, Dara here still thinks I don't know how."

Dara choked again, and Eli shifted the subject. "So yeah, between the broken bones and the cuts and the bruises and the periodic bouts of being shot. . . I'm beginning to wonder where I can sign up for a krogan gene mod. How bad can the temper problems really be?"

Dempsey gave him a look over the top of Zhasa's head. "Bad, man. You of all people don't need more complications." 

"Now _that_ is the truth," Eli admitted lightly.

Shepard walked in, at 13:00 precisely, and the main doors closed behind her. "Good afternoon, everyone," the Spectre commander said. "No, no, stay seated, people. Most of you are still recovering from a pretty brutal set of missions. We've interviewed most of you individually, so this overall debriefing should be short. We're mostly interested in why a number of things went wrong, what we can do better, how we can avoid issues recurring. We'll start with the moonbase assault, which was pretty much a textbook distraction and infiltration mission. .. "

The lights dimmed, and Dara was grateful for Eli's song in her mind, and Joy's, pulsing softly at the back of her head, because even after eight hours of sleep, her body was still clamoring at her for more rest. Her father, Kasumi, Blasto, Sky, Gris, and Cohort had taken out the moon base in very short order. No real questions there.

Dara had already shared some of Eli's memories of the assault on the satellite control base, but the details had been lost, compared to his more urgent memories of going in to find her on Lorek. As such, she woke up a little more for this section of the debriefing, and just winced. "You were within five seconds of being vaporized?" she muttered.

"Seems to me, you told me about something similar over Garvug, once, with Kallixta pulling all your tails out of the fire," Eli whispered back, and Dara heard Rel snort a little, clearly hearing this.

"Anything we could have done better?" Shepard asked the room at large.

"Would have been nice to know they could lock out the safeties on the system," Dempsey volunteered, dryly. "Usually missile control systems have safeties that _prevent_ you from detonating with them still in their housings or silos or tubes."

Rinus raised a hand and pointed at Dempsey. "Exactly. Unless they had an established protocol for this, which is pretty unlikely, they were probably working on sabotaging their own systems from the moment we penetrated the inner ring of the satellite." Rinus paused. "The mechs were a surprise."

"No where near as surprising as the Colossus mechs on the planet itself," Dempsey muttered. "Just standard YMIRs and LOKIs up on the satellite."

Rinus nodded. "Yes, agreed, but the pure numbers of them were startling."

Shepard waved them back to order. "We dealt with the mechs, and they weren't really an issue, in the end. The batarians' ability to detonate their missiles is more surprising, yes. They're usually much more survival-oriented than this. I wasn't really expecting a last stand suicide effort from them."

"It's possible that they may be altering long-standing command decisions in the wake of Camala," Sam pointed out, from his seat near the exit, beside Kasumi. "Camala had to have been a hell of a wake-up call. You watch the next planet over getting _pulverized_ by a turian fleet, and you might just decide, 'hey, if my only choice is how I die, then I choose to die taking them with me.'"

Grim silence followed his words, and Shepard sighed. "Yes. It's a possibility, Sam. Hopefully, the follow-up attack on Lorek will let them have enough breathing room to think and to negotiate. That's one of the things Valak and Alisav reminded me of, when we were 'negotiating' for the return of our teams. You do have to allow your enemy enough time to think, when you _need_ him to think. Which is one of the reasons why we're going to consolidate our hold on Lorek before moving on." Shepard paused. "But, I'm getting ahead of myself. The next teams for review are Valak N'dor's and Linianus Pellarian's. Valak's still at Lorek, working with Gris and Cohort and Blasto to interview various militia, SIU, and caste-leaders who've been coming in to surrender. Not to mention a handful of rachni who are on hand to, er, evaluate the people who are surrendering." Shepard crossed her arms at the front of the room. "So, Kirrahe and Thell?"

Kirrahe looked up, clearly startled. "N'dor and K'sar worked very well together. Exceptional interaction, ability to gain access to restricted facility well-documented. Probably will not work again. K'sar's credentials possibly compromised now. One batarian leader of _Klem Na_ taken captive, but not Chas'na V'sol himself. Underling, M'rav. Unfortunate, but may be able to use him to gain access to V'sol."

"Anything else?" Shepard asked, tapping on the map of the dual _Klem Na_ facilities.

Thell raised a paw. "Lack of information on Colossus units resulted in need for improvisation. Colossus units appear to have highly unstable reactor cores. Once breached, they are highly explosive."

"Oh, _now_ they tell us that," Dempsey muttered.

Rel leaned forward to point out, "You were the one who insisted on empirical evidence."

Shepard cleared her throat. "You have something to add, Spectres Dempsey and Velnaran?"

Dempsey lifted his head, stone-faced. "Sure. More information on Colossus mechs is now available. Yes, the eezo core appears to be poorly designed and engineered. Also, not shielded against attacks from above—"

"I don't think the designers took into account maniacs slamming their own spears down into the body of the mech," Rel commented, folding his arms over his chest.

"A point of vulnerability is still a point of vulnerability, Velnaran," Dempsey told him, calmly. "Additionally, their speed advantage is largely lost indoors, which is where we encountered them. Inefficient by the batarians. I'm guessing they used the Colossoi at the med center because they wanted the psychological impact in terms of size as a deterrent against the yahg. But, yes. Getting ahead of ourselves."

"Speed useful against us at the computing center and the manufacturing center," Kirrahe noted. "Element of surprise with harpoons. Effective against even Hammerhead Mark Three plating."

The first Hammerheads had been criticized for their lack of any real ablative plating, but then, they'd been designed as high speed and maneuverable craft. Later iterations had higher shield values, at least, and slightly better ablative armor. Of course, the harpoons hadn't moved fast enough to trigger the shields.

Kirrahe cleared his throat. "Colossus mechs' explosive potential can be harnessed to do structural damage—"

"Do tell," Sam pointed out, dryly. "I distinctly remember telling people on the rescue teams 'don't blow up the building.' Next thing I know, we're blowing up the building. And by 'we' I mean Dempsey and Velnaran." There was a brief pause, as Rel rubbed at his forehead, and Dempsey shrugged faintly. "The only surprise," Sam went on now, dryly and relentlessly, "is that when the roof came off the 're-education center,' it wasn't 'Kirrahe, Velnaran, and Dempsey,' that are being called out for it—"

Kirrahe looked up. "No. Only damaged towers around manufacturing center and southeast corner of facility. Re-education center damage not my responsibility." Stringent truthfulness in his tone.

"What I'm tryin' to say here," Sam raised his voice, the drawl getting a little thicker, "is that you boys are one horseman short of a damned Apocalypse!"

"Not it," Eli muttered, just loudly enough to be heard.

The entire room suddenly filled with laughter. Dempsey's shoulders were actually shaking. "I'll take it," he said, after a moment. "Velnaran can be War. I'm a shoo-in for Death. Kirrahe can be Pestilence. And you're wrong, Sam. . . we have a fourth. Fors. He can be Famine." Dempsey shrugged. "He eats enough for it."

"Second-breakfast and elevenses," Zhasa muttered, not quite under her breath, and the room suddenly devolved into hilarity again.

"It's only natural," Dempsey told her, calmly, as everyone started to wind down again. "He's far worse than I am. He's the only person I've ever met who's turned the laws of physics into his own personal bitches."

That did it. Dara wrapped her arms around her injured ribs, just as Eli was doing beside her, and laughed until she _cried_. Every time she almost managed to stop, someone else would start laughing again, and it set her back off again. "Stop," Dara finally managed to beg. "Please, for those of us who _don't_ have regen mods, laughing _hurts_, damnit. . . "

Shepard joined in the laughter, too, but eventually got her hands up to quiet them. "Fors Luka, for those of you who don't know, is on Bastion, in the volus medical center there. Our doctors were able to find hairline fractures in both of his legs, so it was deemed advisable for him to receive expert care in a pressurized environment. Chissa, his wife, is there with him."

"And with him defenseless in a pressurized environment and both of them out of their suits," Lin said, suddenly, "yes, they're probably having tiny naked volus sex right now."

Dara twisted around to stare at Lin for a moment, before covering her eyes and starting to laugh all over again. Even Dempsey was absorbing enough of Zhasa's hilarity to chuckle now, even as Eli turned and called, "Damn, _fradu_, that went to a place not even _my_ mind wants to go!"

This time, Shepard just let them go for a while, until everyone had laughed themselves out. Eventually, Shepard smiled at them all, and said, quietly, "I know. You're tired. You're slightly more like herding cats this afternoon than usual." She paused. "Back on topic. . . . where were we? Colossus mechs and explosions?"

Dempsey held up his hands placidly. "No one gave me a schematic of the damned things and told me 'you can use their core to implode skyscrapers.' If I'd known, I'd have found a different way to deal with them." He paused. "I'm fairly sure. Memory's a little hazy there."

Shepard cleared her throat. "Yes, I've found that being blown up does that to me, as well. Speaking of which, how many people suffered total armor losses on this mission?"

Rel coughed, and raised his hand. Dempsey shook his head, and raised his. Dara looked behind herself, and saw Siara and Makur both raise their hands. Shepard raised her eyebrows at Siara. "Your mech suit was brand new."

"Yes. I plan to take it back to Bastion to the quarian who sold it to me, and kiss him, because the damn thing saved my life. Then I'm going to ask him to rebuild what's left of it." Siara shrugged. "Of course, he may say it's a total loss, in which case, I'll ask him if he wants it for advertising purposes, and if I can get a credit towards a new one."

Laughter rippled through the room. Shepard even broke into a smile. "I've heard worse endorsements," she admitted. "'The Aegis takes the hits, so you don't have to.'"

Dara glanced at Eli, and he leaned over. "I know if I were in the market for a mech suit, and I saw what's left of Siara's up as a demonstration model. . . and the manufacturer was able to say that the wearer fought yahg, had a building collapse on her, and she _walked away_ from it. . . I'd listen."

Dara nodded vehemently.

Shepard looked at the others. "Rel? Yours was boot camp vintage, wasn't it?"

Rel nodded. "Yes. Standard issue, five years old, with some custom modifications." He shrugged. "Of course, my armor stipend for the year wasn't spent yet. . . "

"No, but you and Dempsey could probably get some mileage with the manufacturers if you gave the old sets. . . or whatever remains of them. . . to them for analysis. They'd probably like to see how their armor held up under field conditions, and the fact that you survived the explosion. . . "

". . . probably didn't have much to do with the armor," Lantar pointed out, quietly, from where he sat beside Sam.

Chuckles ran through the room. Shepard waved them off. "Yes, I'm aware, but we don't need to publicize our two least-likely-to-be-killed Spectres." She paused. "Least likely besides geth and krogan, rather." She looked at Makur. "And you?"

"I was attached to that set. Harak gave it to me for a job well done on Omega." Makur sounded disgruntled. "I'll get another set, though. Pretty much have to. The old one was a little. . . perforated."

"Good word," Siara congratulated him.

Makur grinned at her.

Shepard sighed, and added, "What else needs to be said about this location, before we get into the main event?"

Kirrahe shrugged. "Dalatrass confirmed dead. Physical hard copies acquired and destroyed. Two Lystheni captured. Have proven intransigent in questioning."

Dara looked at Eli, and raised a finger. "We had a couple of ideas about that—"

Lantar shook his head. "I can see where this is heading, and the answer is _no._"

Shepard looked over at him. "And they're not saying anything we haven't raised in senior staff meetings, Lantar. Nara _is_ their last semi-legitimate authority figure, and we can keep her cordoned off from them. Just close enough for them to hear her voice and know it's not coming from a speaker somewhere." Again, she waved it off. "Not really the focus of the meeting, folks." Shepard's face went grim. "Let's talk about the medical center."

Dara's stomach clenched, and she sat up straight in her chair. _Mortality and morbidity conferences suddenly look __easy__ in comparison_, she thought.

Shepard brought up the overhead satellite pictures of the complex, and dozens of vid stills taken by the extraction teams, from different angles. "Spectre Jaworski? If you could take us through your thought processes as you headed to the medical center?" Shepard's voice gentled. "This isn't a fault-finding mission, just so you know. This is us trying to figure out what went wrong, and when, and how to prevent it from happening again."

Dara nodded, and focused directly ahead of her. "We didn't have a lot of information on the medical center before we dropped," she began, simply. "I didn't want to bring the rachni in too quickly, not and lose the advantage of surprise that they have. I debated a lot of ways to gain access to the building. Faking a medical emergency to draw people out of the building. . . wasn't going to get _enough_ people out." Dara exhaled. "Glory was able to determine that the yahg were on the east side of the building. They were our secondary objective. Our primary objective was securing the hot labs, and we didn't know where in the facility those were, and _couldn't_ know until we got in there and got a look at the signs. Maybe some records." Dara had thought about this, over and over again, for the past several days. "The front door was the most heavily fortified entrance. Most guard tower coverage, and lobbies tend to have security. I decided that we'd make our own entrance and try for speed and surprise."

"We all supported that decision," Zhasa said, unexpectedly.

"Yes," Siara agreed, just as unexpectedly. Dara's head jerked up, looking from Zhasa to her right, to Siara behind her. She felt her throat tighten at the support, and shook her head at them, minutely. _My call, guys, and my fault. _ Her eyes slid, unconsciously, towards Makur's missing hand. _You don't have to—_

_Don't even start with that._ Dara jumped at Siara's sharp mental tones. _We all agreed it was the best approach._

Shepard was nodding. "All right. Why didn't you call in the rachni at that point?"

Dara exhaled. "We'd waved the _Raedia_ off from dropping them. _Raedia_ had to re-ascend, in a stealth profile. That can take eight to twenty minutes, depending on atmospheric conditions, angle of ascent, and if they need to dodge anyone. They're also in a radio blackout for part of that. That's. . . a deterrent to talking to them, not a reason, I know." Dara exhaled again, consciously controlling her breathing rate. "Part of it was simply, as I said earlier, we needed more information before we could make decisions. Punching in, getting the information, and then making a decision seemed the best idea. Next. . . and I've been second and third-guessing this part of the decision for a few days now. . . " Dara sighed, and looked down at the floor for a moment. "We're Spectres. We're supposed to at least _try_ to complete the mission before calling for backup." She looked up again, grimacing slightly. "I don't think that was pride talking. More like. . . that's our job." She found a spot on the wall to look at again. "Third, there was the fact that this facility was, mostly, a hospital. Maybe it's a blind spot for me, but I hear 'hospital' and I pull away from the idea of just bringing in two or three or five hundred rachni and laying waste to the place. I also misjudged how many _soldiers_ and mechs were going to be in a 'hospital.'" She put quotes in the air around the words. "If we were talking any other medical facility in the galaxy. . . " Dara shook her head. "Yeah. Bad judgment call on my part."

"None of the rest of us saw it any other way, either," Makur pointed out, his voice a low rumble. "Glory could pick up prisoners and test subjects, and hostile voices, and we could see them in his battle-vision. It didn't look that bad, so long as we approached it right."

"I don't think any of us understood the scope until we were right in the middle of it," Siara admitted, quietly.

Dara glanced back at them, again, her lips tightening, again shaking her head. Siara leaned forward and actually flicked the back of Dara's neck with her fingers; a reprimanding gesture with skin-contact. Siara's clarinet song burst through Dara's mind. "You're not taking all the blame for this. No noble martyrs today. We had bad information, and you know it," Siara told her, out loud, with some heat.

"We're supposed to do our best with the information at hand—"

"And we did," Zhasa told her firmly. "By the time we were in the building, things were happening so quickly, all we had time to do was react. For example, Dara gave the order to wait on releasing the prisoners because they were safer where they were, than running through a combat zone."

Shepard raised her hands. "I appreciate that you all want to support your team leader," she said, quietly. "Spectre Jaworski, if you'd continue?"

Dara swallowed. "We'd identified that the hot labs and the yahg were in the same location, and we had people moving in towards us from all sides. I decided we weren't going to play by their rules, and we made an improvised exit, going up through the ceiling to the next level, where there were fewer hostiles." She continued on, doggedly, describing the moment at which Siara and Makur had brought the ceiling of the room down, denying the yahg access to the rest of the team. _I thought they were almost certainly dead._ Dara had to take a deep breath before going on, feeling Eli quietly slipping his hand under hers, cradling her fingers. "And that was the point when they used the midaphan grenades on us," Dara said, grimly. "I suppose that the drug was imported from Arvuna when they had control of the facilities there."

"We're back-checking that, but yes, probably," Shepard replied. "Do you think they know it blocks biotics?"

Dara shook her head. "It didn't really block Ylara, months ago; it just had a confusing effect on her mind. It blocked Sky, but we didn't really publicize that. And, sure enough, it blocks me, but it doesn't really confuse me, and that's the effect that midaphan is supposed to have on humans." She shook her head. "My guess is, it's meant to be an incapacitant, similar to azure dust, as used by the AEC and Lystheni, but with fewer unwanted side effects." Her throat closed down, but she went on talking. Describing being pinned down on the glass-walled sky-bridge, with troops assembling in the courtyard below, the entire team held in a stasis field, one of the marines dying because she couldn't treat him. . . and finally ordering Fors to bring the bridge down. "I. . . didn't see any more choice than Siara did," Dara finally assessed. "And I did not want to be taken alive. But this way, there was a chance—a faint one, admittedly—that Zhasa's bubble-dome could protect us, one or more of us would be conscious, and that we'd be able to try to cut our way to freedom."

"Why didn't you call in the rachni then?" Shepard asked.

"I'd tried," Dara said, softly. "They were jamming all radio and FTL comms. Glory couldn't get through. None of us could. I should have tried earlier—"

"But earlier, it didn't look like a lost cause," Siara said, sharply.

"I failed to call for backup. It's my fault."

The room had gone very, very quiet. "I could have called it in," Zhasa pointed out.

"So could have I," Siara said.

"Didn't occur to me to try," Makur admitted. "We were busy."

"It's a team-leader's job to keep track of the big picture, and I failed to do that," Dara said, sharply.

"Vaul, are you part krogan?" Siara muttered. "We didn't call when we didn't need it; we tried to call when we did, and _couldn't_."

Dara turned back towards her, managing a half smile. "I should get off my cross now?"

"Yes. Whatever that means, yes." The asari chuffed between her teeth.

Shepard was nodding now. "Overall, this mission was a textbook example of bad or incomplete intel," she said now, and Eli's fingers tightened again on Dara's. "In honest truth? If there's anyone at fault in this room, it's _me."_

Dara's head snapped up. She couldn't quite believe what she'd just heard. Shepard nodded, looking down at the floor for a moment, before raising her eyes again. "I green-lighted the mission, when I knew there were a hell of a lot of questions unanswered about the facility. The need to preserve the plague laboratories for evidence, and the yahg for questioning, were urgent. I sent the best and most flexible teams I could. And you all damned near paid the price for a lack of intel."

Dara sat back in her chair, her stomach still churning, but her shoulders feeling as if a ton of bricks had been lifted off them. _And Shepard just lifted that whole load onto her own shoulders,_ she thought, dimly. _God. How does she __stand__ it?_

_She's got help,_ Eli reminded her, silently. _So, actually, do you._

Dara tightened her fingers now, too. _Yeah. We all do._

The debriefing continued, but now it was a more open session. Each of the erstwhile captives spoke about the questioning they'd undergone. Dara winced and reached out for Zhasa's hand at the description of the electroshock questioning. Felt, instantly, the four-fold link snap into place; Eli was already touching her mind, and Dempsey was touching Zhasa's. The biotic couple's powerful, trained minds were careful not to overwhelm hers and Eli's, and there was a relief in just touching them. "It was . . . quite painful," Zhasa admitted. "There were threats of starvation, of course. And the degradation tactics were about what I expected. Threats of medical experimentation to determine the limits of my ability to heal."

Dara could _feel_ the white-hot surge of anger in Dempsey at the notion, and how carefully he banked it. Tamped it down. When it was her turn to speak, Dara described the beatings. The fact that she'd been allowed to see the faces of the batarian doctor, R'sal, and the female yahg, and been told their names. Her conviction that she was not going to be allowed to live. "They . . . didn't realize that they were actually doing the equivalent of sensory-deprivation on me at the same time as everything else," Dara said, quietly. _I'm lucky they didn't realize that. How close I could have been to breaking, or just plain going crazy._ "That's the longest I've gone without mind-songs. It was. . . difficult. And I'd rather not go that long again." She exhaled. "And then they threatened Zhasa with rape."

Another electric shock of rage from Dempsey, felt through Zhasa, again, banked into the smoldering, white-hot blaze of his mind. Dara swallowed. "I said that it was, medically, inadvisable, and that got me another punch or two. Past that, they dumped me in my cell, and when they brought me back out again. . . " She was staring at the floor. It was really hard to say any of this in a room full of people. But they were all friends. All family. Eli's mind was locked into hers, as was Zhasa's and Dempsey's. "They decided they wanted not just to break a Spectre on camera, but to make me _beg_ for it, so they gave me _aizala_. One of my worst nightmares. Except, _aizala_ doesn't really work on rachni the way it does on humans. Thank god for that. I . . . didn't know it would work that way."

Eli's own rage now flaring through her, though he, too, was trying to tamp it down. He was satisfied when she showed him, again, the workers crawling over R'sal's body. Movement, as, behind them, Linianus shifted forward, and rested a warm hand against her neck. Serana now, too. Rel, leaning over, tentatively, and patting her hand, as Eli held it. So many voices, so many colors, that Dara felt as if she were floating among them, and she closed her eyes.

The rest of the briefing revolved around the rescue teams. Finding Siara and Makur in the arroyo near the medical center, questioning the workers at the center, starting their search pattern. Dara was simply awed by the scope and speed of the recovery effort; she hadn't know that Serana, Thell, Kasumi, and even James had been digging through batarian records, using Alisav's credentials as a piggy-back, to get information on holding facilities in the area. "All right," Shepard asked. "Once you'd recovered the teams, why didn't you allow them to receive medical treatment? Why push on down?"

Sam took that question. "We had a few people too wounded to go on. Linianus, Siara, and Makur handled the rescued prisoners and surrendering guards upstairs. We didn't know how bad Fors' injuries were; he'd walked a ways on those poor damn legs of his, and he assured us he was fine to go on, so long as he could ride on Sky's back. And we knew the yahg had gotten free downstairs." Sam sighed. "When push came to shove? We needed at least one live prisoner from the yahg, and we couldn't let the yahg butcher all the prisoners downstairs. The guards, I won't weep for. A lot of the prisoners had become, well, a little animalistic from the abuse down there. . . but that doesn't mean we let them get butchered and eaten. And letting the yahg have more time to prep down there? Maybe find Glory's escape tunnel? All bad things." He shrugged. "My call, and everyone I took with us, said they were good to go."

"Medical scans of Fors' legs through the suit were inconclusive," Dara added, quietly. "Considering he walked on them, the fractures were only partial. I know he knew that they hurt, but even he didn't know—couldn't have known!—how bad the damage was. As is, I'm grateful nothing got kicked loose into his blood stream. My volus physiology is. . . really bad, honestly. . . but I'm sure they have fat analogues that could have caused an aneurysm if a globule had made its way to the brain."

Everyone in the room winced. Shepard nodded. "Overall, everyone?" she told them, quietly. "You did really damned well. We have Klem Na prisoners, a yahg prisoner, and two Lystheni prisoners who've had their suicide options removed. We have documentation on the building of the biotic weapons systems, to go with the thousands of chipped biotics we've already documented. Documentation on the Lystheni involvement. Documentation on the secret prisons of the Hegemony. Documentation on the creation of the plagues. . . although apparently the two project leads won't be standing trial." Shepard's lips curled briefly upwards. "Not that I think too many people will object to their actual fates." She sat on the edge of her table. "All in all, not a bad few days' work. You're all stood down for a while. Make the most of your time off. . . there might be a few small missions here and there, but nothing regarding the fate of the galaxy." She paused. "Hopefully."

"Time off," Dempsey said, nodding as they all stood. "Guess I can get re-re-acquainted with my kid again. I think he grew an inch in the last month." He shook his head. "Never going to get used to the fact that he's not a toddler."

"You never do," Sam told him, dryly, moving over through the crowd. "Even when you _weren't_ asleep for their whole childhood, you still never really do get used to it."

A quick, faint quirk of Dempsey's lips, and then he turned back to face them. "Any plans?" he asked Eli, as Dara checked around her chair to make sure she hadn't brought anything to the meeting. "I ask, since, you know. Brothers and all that. I'm supposed to keep track of you, or something like that."

Serana leaned over the row of chairs. "_Sangua'amila?"_ she reminded Dara.

"Yes, yes," Dara said, turning back, with a relieved smile, just as Eli noted, trying to make a joke of it, "You're taking this all a little more seriously than I figured you would, D. It . . . tends to mean a little more to turians, is all I'm saying." Eli was surprised, and a little touched. It was hard to evaluate what meant anything to Dempsey. Most males' reactions tended to be sublimated, and no one's more so than Dempsey's. And yet. . . Dempsey _had_ asked him to be his best man. For Dempsey, that might as well have had exclamation points after it.

"Nah." Dempsey shrugged. "Figured if you two were sticking around, I could grab you and we'd work with Madison on some stuff. He's going to sparring, at least, three nights a week, so . . . "

"Yeah," Eli said, nodding. "Not a problem."

"Plus," Dempsey added, straight-faced, "if we're going to be brothers and all, it is more than time we got you inked."

Eli blinked, and chuckled. "Inked? Like, matching tattoos? I like you, D, don't get me wrong, but I'm not looking for a _commitment_ like that right now." Dara started to laugh around that point, very quietly, under her breath.

"Nah, not matching. Besides, if I got a new one, the regeneration would probably eat it. A tattoo is just a colorful scar, and I don't really scar up anymore." Dempsey rubbed his face in illustration. "But you, yeah. . . you need one."

Eli grinned. "Won't say I haven't thought about it, but seriously, it's not like I don't already have scars." He and Dara had counted them, wincing a little, in the mirror this morning. Right arm. Left arm. Right ribs—she had a matching one there—upper right thigh, and now, left collarbone. Most of them would fade with time, and he wasn't really looking to add to his collection any further. Five was really enough, as far as he was concerned, for a lifetime.

"It's traditional," Dempsey told him, with aplomb. "You're supposed to get it on your first tour with special forces. Hell, Sam's got one. That's when I got my shamrock. You flaked. . . Eli. You didn't get one after Omega—"

"Busy on the Singing Planet."

"—or after Terra Nova—"

"Busy on Khar'sharn—"

"Or after Khar'sharn—"

"Otherwise occupied on Bek." Eli grinned. "Very much otherwise occupied."

Dara kicked his ankle, lightly, with her toes. Dempsey's eyebrows went up. "So, what's your excuse now?"

Eli thought about it. "Dara doesn't have one. Neither does Rel."

"Her special forces work was with the turians. They can't tattoo anything. Not visible under the scales."

"The turian equivalent is branding," Rel noted, moving in from behind them, one arm over Seheve's shoulders, lightly. "I decided long ago letting someone stick me with a red-hot iron wasn't going to prove that I was as tough or tougher than my squad-mates." He thought about it. "And now? Wouldn't work. I'd just heal up. Lin! _Fradu_! You're going to have to hold up the banner for turian stoicism!"

Lin, who'd just moved into the circle, shook his head vehemently, making Serana laugh. "_S'kak_, no. Permanent damage to the scales, and for what?"

"Tattoos aren't about proving you're tough," Dempsey said, calmly. "Not for me, anyway. More of a . . . solidarity thing. Belonging."

"Spirit of the pack?" Eli offered, showing his teeth.

Dempsey thought about it, and shrugged. "Yeah. If you want to put it that way."

Eli thought about it, and Dara could feel the way his mind was moving. He _had_ thought about getting one, before, but had never really been convinced of what he'd want to put, permanently, on his skin. He already wore turian face-paint, which marked him in solidarity with his father, with Lin, with Rel, in a way. A tattoo was more human. . . and, in a way, would bind him, again, to Dempsey. None of it really in words, of course. More a sense of balances and emotions, quick and incisive. _You think very symbolically_, Dara told him, lightly.

_Shush. No one needs to know that._ Outwardly, Eli nodded. "Sure. Got any places in mind?"

"Supposed to be a good place down in La Garra."

"We'll try to head there this weekend, then."

Dempsey's lips quirked at the corners. And Dara could actually feel a light, almost aquamarine sense of enjoyment coming from him. His own emotion, however faint. "All right then," Dempsey said, simply, and added, looking at Dara. "You want one, too, doc. . .Dara?"

"I think the tattoo guy would cuss me out for dulling his needle. Repeatedly." Dara shrugged. "I'm not opposed, I just don't know what I'd _get_." She paused. "And _don't_ say firefly gene mods, Eli. Or I will make sure you wind up with a goddamned butterfly in day-glow pink."

Eli doubled over laughing, clutching his ribs, and everyone around them followed suit. Even Rel and Seheve were laughing, and Dempsey's shoulders shook once or twice. Once he regained his breath, he raised his eyebrows. "Was kind of thinking, if I ever got one. . . either Tyr, spelled in runes, or just the _tiwaz_ rune. Which pretty much just meant _Tyr_, back in the day." He shrugged. "Of course, if I did that, people would ask me why I needed to be reminded which end is up." He grinned at her. "Maybe you could just get the _fehu_ rune, for _Freya_, _sai'kaea_," he suggested, grinning. "And see just how badly the needle dulls."

"Oh, _thank_ you," Dara replied. "Just what I want to hear. 'Um, any discomfort you might be experiencing is entirely the fault of your own physiology.'"

She shook her head as her father moved across the room, clearly having overheard some of the byplay; Sam was chuckling openly. "Get what you want to get, but just know that you've got to live with it," Sam advised, dryly.

Eli raised his eyebrows. "Don't I always?"

Sam gave Dara a tight hug at this point. "You okay, sweetie?"

"Yes. . . no. I don't know. I was expecting a reprimand," she admitted, her throat still tight. _Not sure if Spectre status can actually be __yanked__, but prevented from ever being a team-lead again? Yeah. On the one hand, it would almost kind of be a relief. . . but on the other. . . I don't want to let anyone down. I don't want to let myself down._

Some of that must have trickled through to her father, whose scarlet fiddle music was bright in her mind at the moment. "Don't ever think like that," Sam told her, firmly. "Don't need you going back down the rabbit hole we just spent most of a year pulling you out of, girl." He glanced over at Eli, behind her. "Well, come on, you two. It's dinner time. And I'm told," he added, giving Lantar a droll glance, "that we need to work on contract negotiation stuff."

Eli stepped over, and took Dara's hand, lightly, once more, in his own. "Wouldn't have it any other way," he told Sam, and grinned.

Dinner that night was definitely entertaining; Takeshi and the younger children raced around after dessert, burning off the energy, while Caelia muddled through her first-grade homework, and Narayana worked with a computer model of a DNA molecule. It was a very basic model, a kid's version, but still well beyond any of the rest of the kids.

With all that as a background, the adults talked. Ellie was a little perturbed. "I always thought I'd _be_ there if you took the _sangua'fradu_ vows with Garrus and Sam," she told Lantar, as she sat on the couch in the golden light from the Jaworski fireplace.

"I never actually expected him to give in and accept," Lantar admitted, dryly. "When he said _yes_, Garrus and I knew we'd better hold him to it before he decided to be an _anserae_ and retract his words."

Sam lifted a hand, the other one cradling a beer bottle, and pointed at Lantar from across the room. "Now wait just a damn minute. I've never broken my word in my life, and I don't aim to start now." He looked at Ellie, and added, calmly, "Sorry to have left you out of it, Ellie, but in the end, we kept it simple, and cut down on the cuddling afterwards. Mostly since Garrus was involved, and I have it on high authority that he's a blanket hog."

Dara did her level best not to choke on her tea, but it was very difficult, especially given the expression on Ellie's face at the moment. "I did get pictures," Kasumi offered, cheerfully.

"Knowing you, Kasumi-chan, I'd expect nothing less," Sam told her, in a tone of mixed affection and resignation. "Going to go in the frame directly opposite the ones from Bastion during the plagues, aren't they?"

"Of course," Kasumi replied, calmly. "I preserve _all_ the evidence, Sam. It makes my job so much easier."

The conversation moved on, as the various children were herded off to bed. Turned into something that neither Dara nor Eli had ever really had before. "So, let me ask you a few questions," Sam started. "How do you guys intend to resolve arguments when you're married? I mean, I know, you pretty much live in each others' heads right now, but even asari separate. Biotics isn't everything, and people grow and change. . . and arguing happens to every single couple."

Dara made a face, and offered, "I find that when something really bothers me, I . . .tend to let it bottle up."

"Same here," Eli agreed.

"But, if it bothers me enough, I write it down, make a list—this is something that used to irritate the hell out of Rel—"

"Leave that aside," Kasumi offered. "Go on."

"And if I use that list as a sort of talking point, I'm not as mad when I have the conversation." Dara thought about it. "Usually."

Eli nodded. "I can get behind that. I. . . haven't had a really long relationship before," he admitted, a little uncomfortably. "I don't actually know what my arguing style is."

"You get mad, you clench your teeth, you don't explode, you walk away, usually, and steam about it for a while, and then you either agree with the point and let it pass, or you come back for round two," Dara told him, promptly. "You don't tend to ignore a problem once you recognize it."

Eli blinked. 'That sounds. .. good, actually."

"Could be worse," Sam commented. "Could be better. You willing to try the whole writing things down thing out?"

Eli shrugged. "Can't hurt." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lantar make a note, and realized, _Oh. Wow. This __is__ the contract negotiations. _

_Not fully turian, no contract templates in front of us, no __tal'mae__,_ Dara agreed, silently. _Just us, our families. Listening to their wisdom, putting in our view of things. . . and a contract comes out of it. Everyone fully involved. I like this, Eli._

_Yeah. Me too, actually._ It was oddly comfortable. No minister of the law present, just. . . family.

And the conversation went on and on. Lantar asked about children, and their plans, and Dara admitted, hesitantly, "I'm getting an impression that I need to be here for Joy-Singer more often. She's got human needs, that the other rachni don't really know how to help her with, and I always sort of assumed this was a one-way street. That she'd gotten what she'd needed from me when she was hatched, and that we'd always be linked, but that, you know. . . my part was done, other than being there for rachni things. Mating-songs, hatching-songs." She shifted; she was sitting in a chair, with Eli sitting on the floor in front of her, his back to her, resting against the recliner's footrest. "I knew I had rachni needs, but I didn't really realize that she. . . well. . ."

"Needs a mom and a dad," Eli summed up. "She's much easier to think of as fully rachni. I mean, twenty thousand years of memory-song and wisdom, and she _looks_ rachni, but she. . . sees us as individuals. Much more so than, say, Glory or Stone does."

"I did hear about her sleeping atop your bed last night," Kasumi ventured.

"Atop our bed and on top of _us_. I really hope she doesn't try that when she hits her full growth. I like my legs where they are. Attached, and not flattened." Eli shrugged. "But yeah. When she first came here, we were here, and then gone again. Constantly back and forth."

"Might not be fair to her," Dara said, quietly.

"Welcome to parenthood," Sam said, dryly. "I tend to laugh at people who say that once the kids are eighteen and out of the house that suddenly, they're going to be done. No, you're not done when they hit eighteen. You're going to be teaching and advising and helping for the rest of your life. Anyone who thinks otherwise is an idiot."

Dara tipped her head to the side, and squinted at her father. "So which is it that you're doing right now? Teaching, advising, or helping?"

"All three," Sam replied, immediately, and grinned at her.

"How about . . . human kids?" Ellie asked then, obviously trying to find a delicate way in which to ask it.

"You mean, as opposed to the rachni and the AI ones?" Eli asked his mother, dryly. "Hell, I'm wondering if some of the AIs are going to change face-paint colors on their avatars. . . "

"Ten gets you one that Lysandra and Cassie will," Dara said. "Lysandra's chipped to Glory, and she wiped her paint clean off months ago. Cassie did it around the same time, too."

Lantar very carefully set his beer down and put a hand up over his face, passing it over his fringe after a moment. Dara realized after a moment that the male was laughing, quietly, but with abandon.

Ellie looked from her husband to the others, and shook her head. "So, do you two want kids, or not?"

"It's definitely a conversation to have," Kasumi said lightly.

"Preferably not at three-thirty in the damn morning," Sam muttered.

"Ah, poor Sam. But how else was I going to get an answer out of you about giving Takeshi a younger brother or sister, hmm?"

"And I'm still saying we can get him a puppy, and if your mother wants to put something in a dress, the puppy will do just fine."

Kasumi gave him a direct look. "If you don't want to have another child, just say so, Sam. I'm a big girl. I can take the truth."

Sam exhaled. "I'm not actually averse. In fact, I can make one really good argument _for_ having another kid."

Kasumi's fine brows arched. "And this is?"

Sam's lips twitched under his moustache. "As I think I pointed out not too long ago, you and I, Kasumi, are just about the last home-grown, full-bred humans 'round these parts. It's our obligation to reproduce in captivity."

Kasumi's mouth dropped open. Ellie choked on her wine. Eli whooped with laughter, and Sam pointed at Kasumi with his index finger, thumb pulled back, like a gun, and pretended to blow the smoke away from his fingertip. "My turn," he told her, with a smile.

Lantar's shoulders convulsed for a moment, and he had to take a steadying breath. "You see," he managed, conversationally, as Sam and Kasumi continued to stare at one another, instants from laughter, themselves, clearly. . . "This is the sort of mature reflection we'd like you to emulate."

Dara was laughing herself again, and once more having to clutch at her ribs, as they felt as if they were going to fly apart on her. After a long moment, Eli answered for both of them, "We, ah, sort of already talked about this."

Dara nodded, recovering from her laughing jag. "Assuming we _can_ have them . . .yes, I want kids. But not till we're both not racing off planet every other day. Already decided I wasn't going to go for trauma surgeon. Going for pathology and genetics, anyway, so I can work on the models for xeno-obstetrics, even if I never get to deliver any of the kids myself. . . ."

On and on it went. Dara was trying not to remember, with the immediacy of memory-songs, the _last_ time her father and Lantar had talked about contracts together. When Lantar had stood in for Sam, looking out for her interests in the contract with Rel. This was. . . much less excruciatingly uncomfortable. Lantar, Eli, and her dad were drinking beers; she, Kasumi, and Ellie were having a glass of wine, and it was just. . . calm. Talking about whether or not they wanted to share a credit account or have separate ones, what they wanted to do with their money other than just sit on it. "Shepard's, well, been buying land around here every year," Dara said, hesitantly. "Up to the Mindoir legal maximum, making the environment center larger and larger. According to those guys from the planetary council who were out here when Joy came to stay. . . Shepard's the biggest single land-owner on the planet."

Lantar's mandibles flexed. "You want to do the same thing? That's not exactly investing. Fors can probably put you in touch with someone who can set up retirement funds for both of you."

Dara glanced down at Eli, who was already nodding. "Probably a good idea," he acknowledged. "I paid you back for my gene mods already, I'm taking my courses on my own dime. Probably wouldn't hurt to put some away in case whatever kids we do have want to go to college the, well. . . the normal way."

Dara snorted a little at that. _Any kids we have, Eli, aren't going to be doing much of anything the normal way._

_I know, sai'kaea, but we can try to make it an option for them, right?_

_True enough._

Lantar was still regarding them quizzically. "So, _land_ purchases?"

Eli shrugged. "Just something we're kind of thinking about," he said. "The more land that's a part of the environmental station, the more range the rachni will have. Technically. We might not be able to make as big of a dent in the local landscape as Shepard, but, if we buy it and then donate it to the science station, I'm sure it's a tax write-off or something."

"Check with your friendly volus tax lawyer before doing anything like that," Kasumi advised.

As they were packing up to leave for the evening, Dara asked, hesitantly, "So. . . Dad?"

"Yeah?" Sam paused. "You want to take your mom's piano up to the house, kiddo?"

Dara shook her head vehemently. "Oh, no, Dad. Besides, it was yours as a kid, long before it was Mom's. . . or mine." She found a piece of floor to look at for a moment, then added, looking up, "It belongs here. Takeshi might want to learn to play it. . . and what else will I play for Sky when you have barbecues, anyway?"

Sam snorted. "Sweetie, you may not have noticed, but every time I host one of those shindigs, this house is bursting at the seams. I was thinking we might start holding them at your place. Got to use all that empty space somehow. And Kasumi and I can help you with the cleanup afterwards."

Dara's mouth fell open. For her father's house _not_ to be the center of what was, effectively, a large portion of the base social life. . . just felt wrong. "Think about it," Sam told her, lightly. "Takes me a lot less effort to move the smoker up there once or twice a month than you'd think." He brushed her short-cropped hair out of her eyes.

Dara looked down, then up again. "Was it better this time?"

Sam leaned down and brushed a kiss on her forehead. "I haven't even felt a need to open up a bottle of whiskey," he told her, calmly. "You're doing it right this time, kiddo. And I'm pretty damned proud of you, all around."

The next day, with Eli out for a run with Lin, Dara dragged a chair into the big atrium, and looked up at the light filtering in through the coat of snow over the outer oculus. "Okay, we're going to need grow-lights in here in winter," she said, out loud, more or less to herself, and added that to her mental list for the house. _That, and lawn-chairs_, she thought, in amusement, and sat down, and keyed up a datapad. _Joy?_

The young queen's song was never far from her mind, but Dara wasn't particularly surprised as Joy pushed back the cover from the large entrance in the atrium. _Yes, Mother?_

_Would you like to sing with me? I will be singing reading-songs. Would you like to learn the symbols that sing in silence? Or do you already understand them?_

Joy. Pure blues and greens of them, washing through her. _I have memory-songs of your words on pages_, Joy-responded. _I would like to read with you. Is this a healing-song book?_

_No. No work today. This is a story my mother used to read to me. It's called A Wind in the Door. I loved it when my mom read it to me, because it was all about going deep inside someone's body, right down into the mitochondria inside every cell, and making someone well from the inside out. By magic and by spirit. And of course, now that I'm older, I understand that it was about much more than that. I'm not a fan of the religious aspect, but the magic, the wonder, and the science, all combined? Oh, yes._

_I remember your songs. Will you read and sing them to me?_ Joy settled her head on Dara's knees.

_Yes. I will. _

About an hour later, Dara could _feel_ someone approaching. Part of this was her connection to Joy; the queen had a fifty-mile range, after all, and Joy's head was across Dara's knees on the recliner at the moment. Part of this was the workers and the soldiers, all of whom were scattered across the base and the area around the house. Their awareness of an approaching aircar started as a pressure at the back of Dara's mind, and Joy's as well. Dara lifted her head, and concentrated. The silhouette, passed to her from a dozen sets of eyes, wasn't her father's vehicle. _Sings-Honor_, Joy told her, simply.

Dara nodded, her eyes half-closed. _Would you tell Many Voices that Sings-Honor is coming here, please? I don't want him to be too surprised._

_Of course, Mother._

Dara's eyes opened again, and she slid out of the chair, heading for the front door, reaching it as soon as Rel knocked. She wasn't quite used to the fact that she could use the house itself, in much the way she could use the underweave of her armor; it extended her abilities. The warm golden glow on the other side of the door was, definitely, Rel. But no hint of Seheve's quiet grays.

She opened the door before the knock had finished resounding in the air. "Hi. Figured you'd prefer it if I answered, rather than having the workers try to figure out doorknob songs," she said, seeing surprise in his face.

—_We are practicing their songs!_ Chopin and 1812 scuttled from behind her back towards the atrium.

_I know, I know. This is just easier and faster, though._

Rel's mandibles twitched a little as he stepped inside, hesitantly. "Eli's not here?"

"Out for a run with Lin. Long one. I wanted to spend time with Joy, so I skipped out on that." Dara shrugged. "He should be home pretty soon." She closed the door. "Where's Seheve?"

"Maia asked her to help with an end of school year party at the preschool today," Rel replied, shrugging. "I think she was so taken aback that she agreed before she realized what she was agreeing _to_, honestly." He unzipped his jacket, and Dara took it, hanging it on one of the pegs of the coat rack in the corner. "The house is nice and warm today," he noted, shifting around a little uncomfortably.

"Yeah, when Eli's out, the workers tend to let the steam heat for the floors kick in a little more for my comfort," Dara admitted. "I've been sitting in the atrium with Joy. Come on in there, it's more comfortable than it looks." She paused. "Actually. . . you might have to move a chair out there. The benches are all stone."

Rel glanced around. He had yet to feel really comfortable in Dara and Eli's house. The shapes of the rooms were angular and odd, neither human nor turian, really, something that both humans freely admitted, usually with a humorous comment about trying to fit furniture and appliances into a rachni-designed space. The crystalline, web-like extrusions that supported the banister of the staircase were another reminder of the essentially alien nature behind a space that was more or less intended for humanoid use. The smells were all off, too. There was Dara's familiar scent, with a hint of that asari perfume she'd started wearing. Eli's smell. Faint musk of the rachni. Unfamiliar woods and oils. A whole panoply of sensory cues that told him, emphatically, _This is not your place. This is not your territory. You are an intruder._

He followed her to the living room, where there were human and turian-designed chairs and tables, with the quarian silk hangings on the walls as a backdrop, and asari rugs underfoot, and picked up one of the leather sling chairs meant for a turian frame, and followed her out into the atrium.

This was, more or less, a sort of nod to turian sensibilities. The outdoors, brought indoors, sheltered, protected. Originally, this sort of courtyard had been used to pen animals and grow kitchen gardens. This atrium was nothing of the sort; it had raised beds for plants and even small trees, and a couple of open spots, here and there, between the beds, leaving the space looking unfinished. Green smells, at least, and the rich odor of damp soil. At the west side, there was a crystalline pillar, and at the east, behind a huge hole in the floor, uncovered for the moment, there was an asari triune Goddess statue in alabaster. And, of course, a half-grown rachni queen, curled up near a leather recliner that Dara had clearly hauled in here. Joy sat up now, regarding him calmly, little traces of music hovering in the air. _I greet you, Sings-Honor_, the queen remarked politely.

"Ah. . . hello. Nice to see you again," Rel told her, mildly disconcerted. Joy was now larger even than Sky, as tall as a yahg alpha and almost as long as she was tall. "That's new?" Rel asked, pointing at the statue.

Dara shrugged. "Got it on Illium, when we were there before Eli's birthday. Took a while to ship. Figured it would look nice out here." She shrugged and sat back down in her chair. "What brings you way the hell out here, Rel?" Joy promptly moved over and settled her head back down over Dara's knees.

He set the chair down, and shook his head. "We've got a chaperone, huh?" Sidelong look at Joy.

"I'm never alone," Dara replied, smiling slightly. "Even when I'm alone, I'm not really alone." She paused. "What's on your mind, Rel?"

"Couple of things," Rel said, leaning back and trying to force himself to relax. To not be on edge without Seheve there as a buffer. "Serana's informed us all that tomorrow is your _consanguria."_

Dara snorted a little under her breath, amusement lighting up her face. "So it is. How'd your mom take it?"

Rel shook his head. "Surprisingly, she's kept everything behind her teeth. I think that between my grandfather and your grandmother moving in together—" Dara's sudden fit of coughing wasn't entirely unexpected, and Rel's mandibles twitched as he waited for her to calm back down, and then acknowledged, "Yeah, that was kind of my reaction, too. I think that's kind of taken the wind out of her sails. Plus, I think my father may have set the record straight on the gene mod issue."

Dara looked up at the windows overhead. "Well, that was a brief reprieve for you and Seheve."

Rel grimaced. "It actually wound up making things worse for you, Serana, Eli, Lin, my grandfather, and your grandmother. Seheve and I will live with her bad temper." He paused. "Are Seheve and I welcome at the ceremony?"

Dara frowned, and Joy shifted her bulk a little. "Of course," she replied. "You're Serana's brother." Her lips quirked. "And, um, technically? You're Lin's, through her, and thus, you're Eli's brother, too, and. . . " She trailed off.

Rel found a tile to study for a moment. "Yeah, that sort of makes us in-laws." He didn't want to say _brother and sister, too_, because that would have sounded false and very, very wrong. Incestuous, even.

"And, considering that Serana's hell-bent on this," Dara continued, gently, "that'll just tie everyone together the more tightly." She shook her head. "I don't want to listen in on her songs to figure out why she's so set on this, but since it pretty much confirms what already exists. . . it costs me nothing to say yes."

Rel nodded. The two females _had_ shed blood together. "I think," Rel offered, after a moment, "that Serana. . . desperately wants to catch up with the rest of us. Doesn't want to be left behind."

Dara's eyes widened. "Yeah, I guess that's probably true," she acknowledged. "I was focusing on the undersongs about Eli, and hell, even about me. About holding onto what was past. . . but you're right. She doesn't want to be left in the past. She wants to be in the now and the future, too." She shook her head. "Like she could be anything else." Tolerant affection in Dara's words, and nothing more, and then she looked up. "What else, Rel?"

"Eh, Rinus is heading out day after tomorrow, with Kallixta. Seheve, Serana, Lin and I are going with him, and our parents. Imperator directed him back home. Some sort of a ceremony. Rinus doesn't have the details, other than, and I quote, 'it's something to do with the Nimines _s'kak_.'"

Dara laughed out loud at that one, and Rel found himself smiling as well. "Only Rinus would make a reward ceremony sound exactly the same as a formal reprimand," Dara replied, after a moment.

"Yeah. So, we'll be off-base for a couple of days as a result."

"You want us to watch Loki for Seheve?"

"Fors is on Bastion."

"I meant the cat, and you know it." Dara paused. "Wait. Hang on. That was a joke. You actually joked with me."

"Eh, I'm working on it." Rel shifted in his chair. "Some days it comes a little more naturally than others." He studied her for a moment. Human face, so familiar, but many changes in the last year. Sidonis paint, not really a slap, but a shock still, every time he saw it. It would fade, given time. "So, you going to keep wearing the paint?"

She held up her left hand, where the scar from the vibroblade was still livid and red, and Rel's mind flashed to the moment when he'd looked up from ensuring that the batarian that had been attacking Eli was well and truly dead, to see Eli cutting his hand on the vibrosword. Pressing his hand to Dara's. . . and then marking her face with his own blood. Now, Dara shrugged and essayed a half-smile. "No real reason not to. I mean, people like your mom are going to complain that we haven't traded knives yet or said the words. Same as there are people back on Earth who'd complain that we haven't traded rings yet, but are living together." She closed her hand on the thin scar. "But we're going to, and everything that's _really_ important has already been done." Dara paused, and suddenly, an impish grin crossed her face. "So, when are you asking Seheve to marry you?"

Rel choked for a moment.

"It's a fair question, _fradu_," Eli's voice came from behind, and Rel's head snapped up.

"_S'kak._ I didn't hear the front door," Rel admitted, his heart-rate climbing for a moment. "You're quiet on your feet, Eli."

"Occupational hazard," Eli said, coming into the atrium, as Joy scrambled upright and rested her huge head on his shoulder for a moment. He was sweating and still breathing hard from his run, and his face and ears were pink from the cold and exertion as he moved to Dara next. He looked at her in the armchair quizzically, and said, "All right. Lawn chairs are going on the list."

"Or a hammock or something. This place needs much more in the way of comfortable stuff," Dara waved a hand at the atrium, standing up to give Eli a light kiss on the cheek. Then she gave Rel a sidelong look. "You're not getting out of the question. Are you going to ask her to marry you, or not?" It was not _quite_ a tease, but it almost was. A trace too much hesitation, but it showed that Dara, too, was trying to put everything back on a friendly footing.

Rel grimaced. "Everything's been going along just fine without that," he said, slowly. "It's been comfortable. Peaceful. Good. I don't want to rush things." He grimaced again. "I've done that before."

Eli found the edge of a planter to sit on, as Dara resumed her own seat. The silence dragged on for a moment, and Rel added, slowly, "Besides. I'm not sure she actually wants to."

Dara snorted. "God, Rel. Have you _met_ Seheve? _I_ say what's on my mind, Rel. Always have. Seheve's a hinter, not a talker."

"No, really?" Rel gave Dara a somewhat irritated look. He didn't actually want her input on this topic, but it looked as if he were going to get it, anyway.

Dara gave him the same look, right back, as Eli snickered under his breath. "Seems to me, Seheve gave you a pretty direct hint on Lorek, Rel," Eli said.

Rel blinked. "The knife? I needed it to kill a _yahg."_ He rolled his shoulders. "She meant nothing by it."

"Yeah, and it means _nothing_ when turians and their mates make a kill together," Dara said, looking up at the ceiling. "And it totally means nothing at all that she said you should keep the knife. Cyriac's knife. The one she took off the body of a man who could've been the twin of the one who trained her."

"And you know what else?" Eli added, lightly. "Even if xenographic information like turian wedding practices and general feelings about knives weren't covered by the Master of Assassins, I think she could have put two and two together after a year spent surrounded by turians."

Rel felt a growl pressing on his vocal cords, felt the desire to snap, but saw the grin on Eli's face, and heard the amusement in Dara's voice, and forced it down. This wasn't, actually, an intrusion on his privacy. They _were_ his kin. . . and kin had a right to point things out. Especially when it was done like this. With . . . affection. Friendship. Maybe even a little love. He exhaled. "So, that's a hint?"

"You give her the knife back yet?" Eli asked, blandly.

"Of course I did! I can't keep a knife from a female I'm not married to!" Rel fidgeted.

"Whoa, wait. Back up the truck," Dara said, raising her hands, while Joy-Singer's blue-green amusement rippled out from her. "It doesn't mean anything to her, but you can't keep the knife? I thought it meant _nothing_."

Rel gave her an annoyed look. This was bringing back the worst parts of their marriage, in a way. Her clear-eyed honesty and insight had been both what he treasured in her above all else. . . and had also been one of the most annoying things to deal with in an argument. He raised his hands and elaborated, through his teeth, "I don't think it means anything to her. It _does_ mean something to me." That was . . . an admission of sorts.

Dara and Eli exchanged amused glances. Eli's eyes didn't even darken. Apparently, they didn't even need biotics to share this particular conversation. "So. . . you returned the knife," Dara said, quietly. "How'd she take that?"

Rel shook his head. "It's almost impossible to tell how she takes anything."

"Cop-out," Eli taunted.

"All right, maybe a little disappointed." Rel exhaled again, through his teeth. "Seriously, it's really hard to tell."

_Should I tell you, how Freedom-Singer sings?_ Joy's voice was uncertain.

Rel's head snapped up. For a moment, he was unbelievably tempted to say _yes_. He gritted his teeth, however, and said, "No. Thank you, Joy, but no. That's. . . "

"Cheating?" Eli offered.

"Unfair," Rel countered.

"I think you have your answer, then," Dara told him. "Yeah, we think it was a hint, and yeah, guess you're going to have the fun of figuring it out for sure yourself."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

Eli stretched. "I'm going to head upstairs and take a shower. Lin ran me into the damn ground, as usual." He paused, arching his eyebrows at Rel. It wasn't quite a dismissal, but Rel had the sudden clear impression that Eli was issuing a hint of his own here. "Did you need me for anything, Rel?"

Rel cleared his throat. "Well. . . actually. . . " He hesitated. What he'd planned to say wasn't what was behind his teeth. For a stunned instant, he realized what he'd almost blurted out, _So. . . you're already sworn to Lin and to __Dempsey__, for the spirits' sakes. Why aren't you sworn to me?_ The thought had a faintly hurt quality, and he didn't want to admit to that. But Eli was his second-oldest friend, besides Lin. Called him _fradu_. Rel had called him _fradu_, too, inside the last year. Why in the spirits' names shouldn't they swear the damn vows?

Rel put it to the side to consider for a moment. Introspection had never been his strong suit. He sighed. "I have something out in the aircar for the two of you. It's not _done_ yet. But I wanted your opinion." He stood and strode out, ignoring the curious stares directed at his back, and returned, with a package bundled in cloth under his arm. He set it down on the edge of the planter, and said, half-apologetically, "I'd been trying for a while to see what was in the wood. Trying to see some version of Tyr and Freya in it. Didn't see what was really here until yesterday, and then I stayed up half the night working on it." He pulled the cloth back, and let them see what was only half-formed in the wood.

The statue his grandmother, Pilana, had made for Garrus and Shepard, long ago, had shown them back to back, in armor. The statue he'd made for himself and Dara, years ago, had shown them naked and facing one another in close embrace. The statue he'd made for Eli, Lin, and Serana? Clothed, but Eli had been holding Serana from behind, his eyes closed, weeping, as Lin reached out to accept her into his arms.

This was, again, different. Here, two figures faced one other, kneeling. Mythology and reality melded, spirit-vision and true memory commingling. The faces were roughed in, but clearly Eli and Dara's; she had the hawk-wing cloak of Freya trailing down from her shoulders, but the front of her torso was covered in an armor of overlapping scales that was clearly comprised of rachni workers. In the neutral wood colors, the eye could be deceived into thinking them feathers, or scale mail, but a closer look revealed tiny eyes on each. Her legs were bare, and her hair was tumbled and askew, and there were just enough gaps to establish that under the workers, her skin was bare.

Eli, as Tyr, faced her, but his armor was his modern Spectre gear, battle-damaged. Helmet off, as well. His shield lay shattered at his side, his left arm plainly mangled—the hand not removed, as Tyr's hand had been in mythology, but enough for the image to resonate. A spear, point-down in the dirt, jutted up from the earth beside him, and the two of them, together, held the blade of a sword between them with their right hands, but their left hands—in spite of the damage to Eli's left arm—were clasped, fingers entwined. Union of opposites. Male and female. Armored and bare. Magic and might.

It was still rough. Their legs were unfinished, and he'd probably leave them that way, trailing abstractly off into the 'rock' of the base of the statue. Rel looked up, asking, "Is this all right with—" and stopped at the looks on their faces.

Eli's mouth had dropped open slightly. Dara looked heart-struck, her lower lip trembling. Tears formed in her eyes, and she moved closer to get a better look, Eli gathering her close to him as they both reached out, silently, to trace their fingertips, very carefully, over the figures. "You don't like it?" Rel asked, after a long moment.

"Holy crap, no, it's not that, _fradu,_" Eli finally managed. "You put a hell of a lot of work into this." He paused, and seemed to be at a loss for words—a surprising condition for Elijah, really.

"It's beautiful," Dara managed, lifting her face from Eli's shoulder. Her face was wet, her eyes were red, and her paint was streaking a little. "I. . . Rel. . . it's. . . "

Rel stared at them. He could see that they were emotionally moved, and he was proud that the statue had managed to evoke a response like that. . . but he wasn't entirely sure what it _meant._ "Then what's wrong?" he finally asked, holding out a hand. "Come on. Let me in a little here."

Joy-Singer moved closer, her body scraping on the ground. _My mother sings joy and sorrow at once. As does my father. For they know that such a work does not come out of anger, but out of love, Sings-Honor. That you love them, and see them so clearly. See the best in them, on their very worst of days. That you honor and cherish them, in spite of hardships and sorrow and anger and trials passed. And for that they love and honor and cherish you, too, and have had no way to show it._

Rel's own lip-plates fell open. Dara pointed at Joy, and muttered, "Yeah. Um. That."

Eli grimaced, and managed, after a moment, "I'm starting to believe in the age-old precept that children should be seen and not heard, Joy."

_I sing sorrow, Father. I only wished to sing helping-songs._

"Yeah, but we don't usually _say_ all that stuff out loud."

_If humans and turians and other singers sang such things to each other more often, there would be far fewer sorrow-songs between them_.

Rel exhaled. And said, quietly, "Well. . . she does see a hell of a lot, doesn't she?"

Eli reached out. Accepted his hand in a wrist-clasp. . . and Dara slid out her hand, reaching under their loosely clasped hands, touching both skin and scales at the same time. Immediate shock of both their melodies joining his mind, and Rel stiffened for a moment, before accepting the touch. Felt the raw truth of Joy's words, still resonating in their minds. Eli's words, if he'd been able to say them, would have been much simpler. _Glad you're home. Glad you're part of us._ And they could feel the same thing in him, the longing for belonging, for the tight pack bonds that even Dempsey was accepting and returning, and their helpless confusion, because they thought he would have _rejected_ them if they'd offered those bonds. . . .Dizzying. Rel exhaled and pulled back his hand after a moment. Cleared his throat, and asked, "So. . . this may be a little sudden. . . "

Eli chuckled quietly. "God, Rel, if you ask me to be your _sangua'fradu_ before you ask Seheve to marry you. . . I should remind you. She _is_ a trained assassin."

"I wouldn't fall asleep if I were you," Dara added.

Rel threw back his head and laughed. Long and loud and hard.

Before he left, he did pause at the door and say to Eli, "If I could ask you something—behind a door?" That, with a quick look at Dara, who laughed and moved out of earshot.

Eli's eyebrows had gone back up. "Sure. What's up?"

Rel hesitated. "When you asked Dara to marry you. . . "

Eli looked a little wary. "Yeah?"

"Did you do the whole kneeling thing that humans are supposed to do?"

"Oh, god no. Dara doesn't go in for that." Eli paused. "I did, ah, try to make it pretty romantic, though, if that's what you're asking." The human male shifted a little uncomfortably, and looked away. A clear reminder, for Rel, of the memories that Eli and Dara shared. The moment at the Conclave in which Dara had clearly given Serana, Lin, and Eli's memories to those assembled had been. . . more than a little uncomfortable for Rel. Realizing that Eli didn't just know _about_ everything he and Dara had done, but had almost lived it, though Dara's eyes? Rel had done his best to put that to the back of his mind ever since. "If you're asking in regards to Seheve. . . man. I don't know what drell do for wedding traditions."

"I don't think even Seheve knows," Rel said, dryly. "Spirits, most _drell_ don't know. They've had half their culture wiped out by the hanar. I'll. .. think of something."

"Mushy is better, you know."

"Thanks. She's going to laugh at me."

"Man up, Rel. Laughing doesn't really hurt that much."

Rel grinned at Eli, and left.

He had a little while to think about it all; Seheve wasn't due to come back from the daycare facility until after 17:00. This gave him several hours in which to consider Dara and Eli's words. His own thoughts on the matter. He knew he liked being with Seheve. Relished her peacefulness, her calm, which gave his life a much better center than he'd had before. Rel sat in the living area of their fairly typical turian villa, at the extranet console, and looked around. Really looked at it.

He'd spent almost all of his downtime in the past month or two—not that there'd been a lot of downtime, but still—working to improve the house. He'd quietly sworn under his breath and gotten new windows. Sam had, chuckling, shown him and Rinus how to install the damn things, and Linianus had helped, too. . . all with Kallixta's Praetorians watching in the distance and definitely doing their best not to laugh. The dehumidifier? That, he'd gotten a contractor to do, and the house was, in the main, a steady eight percent humidity now, which was lip-parchingly dry for a human or an asari, and downright uncomfortable for a salarian. Not that they'd had many guests over, yet. Rel thought about that for a moment, and exhaled. _If you want to be a part of the pack, you have to invite the pack in, too, you idiot,_ he told himself. _Eli and Dara just showed you that they'd be willing to accept you, if you accept them._

The house showed other signs of how he and Seheve were shifting their lives around to accommodate each other. There were blinds and heavy drapes at every window. . . not a very turian thing at all, but drell eyes were exceedingly sensitive. While Rel liked to be able to look out a window and see what was around him, in any room where Seheve spent significant amounts of time, the curtains tended to be drawn. Rel didn't much like stumbling around in crepuscular dimness at all times, so the room he'd set up as a carving workshop had no curtains at all, and faced west, so he got the full heat of the afternoon sun and a flood of natural light with which to work. Loki, Seheve's cat, therefore loved the room. There were pieces of wood on the floor to pounce on and attack, and the best windowsill in the house on which to sun herself.

The garden in the atrium was wholly turian . . .with some human touches. His grandfather had grumblingly acknowledged that Rel had finally gotten some paperwhite bulbs to grow in the planters there. But he really didn't have the time to take care of that, as well as everything else, so it was mostly empty at the moment. There weren't a lot of things yet that made it a home instead of a house. Seheve had spent so much time in austere surroundings, that she probably didn't even realize that the walls were bare. The base movers had painted over the murals that the last turian family had covered the walls in, so everything was eggshell white, and Seheve had added nothing to that, not even pictures of her family. There was, however, the spirit table, which had his old Virtus statue that Shepard and Garrus had given him at his wedding to Dara, and his new portrait of Seheve on it. Slowly, steadily, building a life together. But just _starting_.

To Rel, it seemed simple. Offer Seheve a four-year contract, see at the end of it if they'd built enough of a life together to renew, to see if they wanted children, that sort of thing. He tipped his head back, and studied the ceiling. Yes, that was pragmatic, and the right way to go about it by turian standards, but he somehow thought that Seheve might not take it as well as a turian female would. She might think it. . . dismissive. Rel could hear Eli's comment ringing in his head that _mushy is better_, and shook his head. Did a little poking around on extranet sites to look at drell marriage traditions, and sighed. Yes. Most of their culture really had been effaced by the hanar.

On Rakhana, wealth had been measured in water. On a world in which drinking the blood of an animal or a foe was considered right and necessary for survival, water was clearly the most valuable thing in existence.

Kin-blood was still taboo, and not drunk; the bodies of kin had been left in secret stone crypts, wherever possible, and sealed in such a way that the bodies would naturally mummify, denying their water to their enemies while preserving the remains.

Water, in the few agricultural communities, had been kept in communal cisterns. Each person's amount of available water had been allocated to them in the first units of money, water-rings. Bits of metal easily passed around and traded for other goods and services. But where humans and turians had passed to a gold standard, the drell had been on a water-standard for centuries. Water-rings had been given by males to females that they wished to marry; the wife carried all of the husband's wealth on her person, usually on a cord around her neck. After marriage, a husband actually owned. . . nothing. In the case of a divorce, he regained whatever his original wealth had been, and she retained whatever wealth they had earned together, for the benefit of any children, but no more. _Odd concepts. Odd laws. Strange planet._

Some drell females still had antique ones, passed down through their families after the Rescue. They were still given by males as a symbol of intention to wed, or at least, by traditional males who wished to hold to the old, pre-hanar ways. But few of these still existed, and Rel had absolutely no intention of giving all of his personal wealth into Seheve's keeping. That seemed out of balance to him, and inherently unfair. _Besides, what would I do today? Hand her a credit chit?_

Of course. . . water had been devalued on coming to Kahje. The ways of the old gods had given way to the way of the Enkindlers, but some people, like Oeric, Seheve's twin brother, still held to little bits and pieces of the old ways. Whatever they could retain.

Another traditional symbol of intention had been an elaborate bracelet and ring set. This, Rel had seen, in part, on Maia, Oeric's wife's wrist. The band around her wrist was a serpent made of gold, and Oeric had, apologetically mentioned, more than once, that when he got the money together, he'd get her the rest of the set; a ring for the each of the outer fingers and the thumb, which were supposed to be connected to the bracelet by thin, fine chains. The rings were meant to represent each of the old gods— Amonkira, Arashu, and Kalahira; the bracelet, the marriage; the chains, the connection of the gods to your mortal marriage. And this left the central, fused fingers on the drell hand free of any chains, symbolizing the part of yourself that was always unfettered, apparently. It was. . . involved.

Rel liked the idea, but he rather thought that Seheve might find that the chains got in her way in fighting and might get tangled in electrical equipment, and how she would wear this on the same hand as a knife sheath was really beyond him. _All right. I'll let __her__ tell me what she wants,_ Rel surrendered. _I'll just work on the asking part. Make it. . . spirits. Neither turian nor drell._

He did, however, head down into the valley. Spent a little time talking with his father, Allardus, about the matter. "So, you're going to want to negotiate a contract," Allardus said, looking up at the ceiling. "Spirits. I should quit my day job and become a minister of the law for marriage contracts."

Rel's mandibles twitched. "You are getting very good at them. But I think xenobiology needs you more, _Pada_."

Allardus gave him a look. "All right. What are you looking for in this?"

"I'm not sure I'm looking for _tal'mae_. I'm not sure she'll accept anything but." Rel frowned. "Now that it's simply a contract without a specified end-date. . . it's probably acceptable, but I want a contract that allows for amendments as we go along, and has escape clauses for both of us. Because I know I'm. . . not easy to live with." He exhaled.

Allardus nodded, slowly. "You could propose a four year contract to start with—"

"Drell don't really have that tradition, that I can tell. I remember how Ellie used to think that Lantar didn't value the marriage, because a short contract felt like she was somehow not worth enough to him." Rel ran a hand over his fringe. "I . . . don't want to give that impression. But I do want this to be a fair, balanced, and safe arrangement. For both of us." Rel shrugged. "And at the moment, it's not really formalized or recognized, and she does deserve that."

Allardus nodded. "Sounds like you both need to do some talking."

"Yes. Getting her to do that may be the hardest part of the whole mission." Rel grimaced. "Oh. . . _Pada_?"

"Hmm?"

"Could I drop by the greenhouses and, er, take a few things? Nothing vital."

Allardus chuckled. "Flowers?"

"Sort of," Rel admitted, noncommittally. "But not for what you're thinking." _I never did get Dara flowers. This. . . well. . .it's not going to be quite the same. At all._

The evening primrose, or _oenothera_, was a low, scraggly, weed-like plant native to North America on Earth. Dara had always loved the smell in the greenhouses, but the plant, like Seheve, was nocturnal; it literally only bloomed at night, attracting moths and other pollinating insects with its overpowering aroma. The petals were almost translucent, a lunar sort of gold, but still carried that heavy scent, no matter if they were open or closed. They were kept in the greenhouses for the salarians, who liked eating them, and for the humans and asari, who liked their aroma. Then he headed back to the villa, beating Seheve there.

Cooking was, as Sam had predicted, something they did need to start working on, but again, Seheve was crepuscular to nocturnal; she had adapted to a diurnal cycle out of necessity, levo to his dextro, omnivore to his carnivore. For the moment, Rel and she had been largely cooking for just themselves each night, and Seheve ate sparing evening meals, where Rel generally preferred meat, and a great deal of it, after a day's exertions. He looked now, a little blankly, at the contents of her side of the cryo-unit, and hesitantly pulled out the vegetables. Drell staples were hard to come by on Mindoir. _Mevye_ were the spiny, spiky fruit of some sort of cactus that had been native to Rakhana. These, she had in a jar, minus the thorns. _Kavun_ were some sort of small, tart melon that apparently grew until they almost exploded in a wet climate. These two things, Rel knew she liked to eat, because they were _there_. The rest, however, were asari and human fruits and vegetables, various jars of asari cured fish. . . _Maybe this is a bad idea_, Rel thought, but dubiously looked up drell recipes. On seeing at least twelve things listed that he didn't have, he sighed and looked up _human_ recipes.

That went a little better. Something called _crepes_ seemed to be easy enough, and he put the _meyve_ and the _kavun_ inside of the thin, lacy pancakes and rolled them up. _Dara is going to laugh if she ever hears about this._ Then he headed into the bathroom, and began to fill the tub there with warm water, and poured the evening primrose petals into the water.

Seheve knew something was. . . amiss. . . as she walked through the door. The smells were all wrong. There was an overpowering floral odor that she did not recognize. There was moisture in the air. And there were cooking smells in the air that did not match the aromas of roasted meat or fish that Rellus typically would prepare for himself. . . usually out of pre-cooked packages.

She moved forward through the living area cautiously, listening for every sound. Loki immediately moved into her path, twining against her legs with feline courtesy and purring loudly, even obstreperously, until Seheve knelt to pet the animal—which allowed the cat to lick her scales. She left the cat flipping back and forth in glee and batting at the air over its head, and moved, cautiously, into the kitchen. Seheve did not like things that were out of the routine, except things that she did, deliberately, to break from routine. She never took precisely the same route to any location, for instance, if she could help it. Rarely left the house the same way she'd come into it. But there were things that were commonplace and routine in her life, and at the moment, the routine had been altered. "Rellus?" she called. She hadn't been able to carry her knives openly at the daycare facility. She'd had to switch one of them to sitting at the small of her back, and she loosened it in its sheath now, carefully.

"I'm here," he called back.

"Do we have guests? Are we expecting someone?" Her tone was wary.

Rellus emerged from the long hallway, wiping his hands on a towel. "Guests? No. Why?" His expression was actually one of blank confusion.

Seheve pointed towards the kitchen, mystified. "You are cooking?"

"Well. .. I was already sort of done cooking. Your stuff, anyway. My food doesn't really require much preparation. Remove from the freezer and reheat." He shrugged. He'd often told her it didn't taste as good as home made, but the turian sense of taste was more minimal than their sense of smell.

Seheve gave him a mystified look, and said, hesitantly, "Is this an effort to soften a blow?" Assassin training was _screaming_ at the back of her mind. Changes, rapid, sudden changes, were usually _bad_. They indicated a cover, particularly from untrained people. Something bad was about to happen. She didn't _think_ he was about to try to kill her, but she did have more than a little inkling that he was about to ask her to move out. Seheve swallowed. She . . . very much did not wish that were the case.

Rel stopped in mid-motion, his brain shutting down non-vital functions as he attempted to process that one. "Soften a blow—you think someone's died?" he asked, incredulously. "All right, maybe I don't often cook—all right, maybe I _never_ cook, but . . . " He ran a hand over his fringe. This was not going as planned. Already. He changed the subject. "How did your visit to the daycare facility go?"

Seheve winced, and, slowly, began removing her knifebelt and put it over the back of a nearby chair, and took off her shoes, as well. He was changing the subject. Another bad sign. Resignedly, Seheve played through the game at his speed. It wouldn't do any good to fight it. "I am unsure," she admitted tiredly, "how anyone can tolerate being in the presence of that many children of that age at the same time. It does not seem to matter which species they are; in Iakys and Ymenia's age group, they all seem to have. . . penetrating voices." Seheve sighed. "Their teacher is far braver than I am. After twenty minutes in that room, I wanted to run someplace very far away. Someplace quiet, by preference."

Rel frowned a little, moving closer to take her hands in his, tossing the towel over his shoulder. "I never really thought of it that way before. I had a pretty large family growing up. Always children from the neighborhood around. I always thought it would be the same for my younglings, too. You didn't have any of that in your childhood."

She shook her head, silently, and hesitantly. "No."

"Well, that's something to talk about later, then," Rel decided, putting the issue of 'do you want children?' on the back burner for actual negotiations. "I, ah. . . spirits. I wanted to ask you something. Could you come with me?"

Seheve regarded him warily. "This is a question that requires a special place to be asked?"

Rel sighed. "Yes. Yes, it is."

Still warily, Seheve let him take her hand and draw her into the bathroom. Training and far too many memories welled up there. Bathrooms were places where kills were _easy_. Drug someone and let their heads slide under the water. An unfortunate slip of the foot, and someone's skull was broken. She didn't think Rel would harm her; not in the least. But bathrooms had. . . unfortunate connotations for her. Mostly revolving around her previous employment.

Rel could feel stiffness and resistance in her muscles, could smell tension in her scent. Almost. . . fear? He stroked a thumb along the inside of her palm. "This isn't something bad," he told her, earnestly, and tossed the towel at the sink. "Here. First, clothes off. Second, sit down." He'd found a stool elsewhere in the house, and directed her to it, before helping her undress. Heavy woolen sweater—human. Thick _apaterae_ hide pants—turian. Thick woolen stocking, again, human. He could feel her relaxing. She'd evidently taken something about this all amiss, but now had started to smile, hesitantly, evidently taking this all as a overture to join him in the nest. Which, well, it _was_, but not entirely.

Rel caught the towel again, and this time dampened it in the fragrant water of the tub. "On Earth," he began, conversationally, "and on early Palaven. . . clean water was harder to come by than it is today. People had to pull it up from wells, or carry it from the river. When guests came to a house, they usually came on foot. Their legs and feet would be covered in mud. Or worse, in manure. From the fields, or from the horse or _rlata_ droppings on the road." He picked up one of her feet, and wrapped it in the warm towel, and began to rub her foot through the towel, as if he were, in truth, cleaning the dirt of the road away. "And so, on both worlds, in many cultures, a servant or some other member of the household would offer hospitality to a guest by washing their feet before they even entered the house. Usually a servant." He found the arch of her foot, and pressed, gently; he'd discovered, after Eli had joked about human females having an 'off-switch' in the soles of their feet, that drell females definitely had a nerve cluster at the arch as well, which could be relaxed with gentle pressure. He hoped that she was understanding the subtext here. That he was being of service to her. Humbling himself to her. Without the contrived human gesture of kneeling in submission.

Seheve looked down at him, her eyes wide, as he continued cleaning up her leg, to her knees, and then dipped the towel again, and began again with the other foot. "Ah. . . yes. This was not practiced on Rakhana. Water was too precious to be used for bathing. A scale brush and oils, however. . . "

"Yes. I think you've got oils around here somewhere. I can add that afterwards, if you like." Rel looked up. He was, admittedly, nervous, and fully expected this all to result in her laughter.

"After what?" Seheve asked. His movements and expressions had gone tight again, and she once more became wary, herself.

Rel shook his head, and continued to wash her, gently. Up the thighs. The slender curves of her hips, the impossibly narrow waist. Each arm, from hands to wrists to elbows. Each movement was meant to put her at her ease, to let her relax and enjoy the sensation, especially as he found her collarbones. He wasn't, however, sure that it was working. He sighed. "I spent a good part of the afternoon looking into drell customs. I couldn't find any that I liked, or fit."

Seheve looked around. "This, ah. . . doesn't seem like _any_ drell custom of which I am aware. . . "

Rel closed his eyes. No, she wasn't going to make this easy. "I'm not really in possession of any water rings," he said, doggedly. "I thought that hanging credit chits around your neck sounded offensive, to say the least. I couldn't think of any better way to ask you to . . . well. . . " Rel hesitated. It didn't sound like him. It sounded false in his head, but he was committed now, "share my water?"

Seheve stared at Rel for a long moment, not blinking. "I. . .are you . . . is that . . . metaphorical?"

Rel winced. "It, ah, wasn't a joke." He paused. "And I wasn't actually asking you to take a bath with me, if I need to be . . . explicitly non-literal about this."

Seheve stared at him for a long moment, her throat going tight. He'd gone to such efforts to make this special, and, more particularly, to make it non-turian for her. His expression was, however, starting to waver a little at her silence. "Yes," she finally said. "Of course I will."

He gave her a direct look. "Of course you will _what_?"

"Take a bath with you." Seheve kept her voice serene.

"Seheve. . . " It wasn't a growl, but there was both warning and a hint of laughter in his voice. "I'm baring my throat here. At least take it a little seriously?"

She leaned forward and wrapped her slender arms around his neck. "I generally take you seriously, Rellus." She tipped her head to the side to nip at his throat.

"And?"

"Yes. I will marry you."

Rel exhaled. He hadn't realized how tightly his crop had clenched. Seheve looked at him, puzzled. "You really thought that the answer could be anything else?"

Rel stood, picking her up and placed her in the warm water in the tub. "Actually, yes," he told her. "If I'd started with asking you to a contract negotiation, as I would a turian. . . as I did Dara. . . yes." He sat on the edge and clasped her hand, lightly.

Seheve's mouth fell open for a moment, and she asked, with mild vexation, "Did I not _give_ you my knife?" She paused. "I would have thought. . . "

Rel's mandibles twitched. "Ah. So Dara and Eli were right, and that _was_ a hint."

Seheve's eyes widened. "You had reason to discuss this with them?"

"They informed me that you had hinted. Also, that if I asked Eli to take _sangua'fradu_ vows with me before asking you to marry me, that I might well be scaled in my sleep."

Seheve felt her throat flush. "I would not!"

Rel smiled down at her fondly, and ran a hand over her scales. "That," he told her, simply, "was a joke."

"You said something about _sharing_ your waters?" Seheve said, calmly. She reached up with a damp hand, hooked her fingers into his shirt, and pulled down.

After a startled instant, Rel let her pull him into the water. Clothes and all.

And so, on the evening of May tenth, Rel and Seheve made their way to a meeting hall on the base, where Dara and Serana had scheduled the room and a minister of the law. Much of their increasingly extended families were there. Sam was off along a wall with Kasumi, Lantar, and Ellie, with Garrus and Shepard as well. Rel could hear the quiet banter between them all. Garrus, his voice calm, asking Sam, "So, you finally got to fight yahg. What did you think?"

"Large. Smelly. Like a krogan saw a spider once upon a time and thought, 'Yeah. I'd hit that . . .' and then did."

Rel's head turned slightly, canvassing the area. Lantar now, a hint of teasing in his voice. "So, Garrus, do you think Sam's yahg kill should count?"

"Count? How can it possibly not count?" Kasumi asked, her voice amused.

Lantar's voice was almost virtuous as he replied, "Because it wasn't in face-to-face combat, of course. Garrus and I take more risks. Our yahg should count double."

"Speak for yourself," Garrus replied, immediately. "Personally, I prefer to kill my yahg from a mile out with a sniper rifle."

"Of course his kills count," Kasumi told Lantar, lightly.

"You would say that," Lantar replied, promptly. "You use the same tactics as Sam does, Kasumi."

"Well, yes, but so does _Seheve_, and she and Rinus had the records for single-person kills on Shanxi," Kasumi reminded him, loftily. "Rinus just _cheats_, is all."

"Yes," Garrus said, the pride in his voice clear. "Yes, he does. Every chance he gets."

Rel turned back, and, one arm still around Seheve's shoulders, looked back around the hall again. Joy-Singer was actually present, although the huge rachni queen actually was curled in on herself at one corner of the room, humming softly in blue-green pleasure. Her music was all the ambiance that the scene really required; strange, alien, and yet oddly comforting as she watched her human . . . . brood-mother. . . prepare for the quintessentially turian ceremony. Zhasa stood to Dara's left, as a witness and her existing _sangua'amila_, and Eli stood alongside, as her betrothed. . . and as the brother of Serana's mate. Eli looked up, grinning at Lin, who stood to Serana's right, as Serana's witness. . . and Kallixta also stood as Serana's witness. Dara had attempted to cover up the worst of her lingering facial bruises with makeup, probably so that any pictures taken wouldn't look as if she'd had to be _compelled_ to enter into the vows.

Rel shook his head and scanned the crowd again. His mother was in the front row, beside his father, and Solanna was scowling a little, but clearly trying to suppress her reactions, for the sake of her family. _And good thing, too, __Mada__,_ Rel thought. _You already made your feelings known at Serana and Lin's __manus__-rites. Any more, and it is possible that Serana might decide not to speak to you again for quite some time._

The rite was simple, yet profound. Serana focused on the minister of the law in front of her, concentrating on the words. Similar to the wedding ceremony, but different. She was, at the moment, simply _happy_. Things were finally clicking into place the way they should be, as far as Serana was concerned. She got to work with her siblings and friends as an equal, or near; her work was what she was _made_ for, as far as she was concerned; she had Lin in her life, a steady, constant presence. And now, she even got to recognize and realize a few more of the bonds she found to be the most important to her.

Eli and Dara had asked her and Lin up to the house for dinner the night before, and Dara had explained, quietly, that Zhasa and Dempsey would be the ones assuming primary responsibility for Joy-Singer, if anything should happen to the two of them. "They're both biotic. They can help her with her need for mind-songs and structure. But you can help, too." Dara had struggled with the words for a moment. "I'm only starting to realize how much she does need, well, us. Just as much as Sky needed song when he first came here." Dara paused again, and finally said, "You're very good at loving people, Serana. I hope you can love Joy, too." Dara had looked down as she said it, as if . . . asking that was somehow a very difficult thing.

In a flash, Serana had understood why; Dara knew that Joy's very existence had been one of Rel's early reasons for anger and animosity. That it had cemented the already huge breach between her and Rel. Serana shook her head, and the words, hesitating behind her teeth, gushed out, suddenly, as she reached forward and clasped Dara's hand. "It's all right. I don't hate Joy. I could never hate her. She's a part of you. A part of Eli, too."

Instant song, and Serana's eyes widened, as always. And she just lowered her head and listened, knowing that Dara was listening to her, too. All of her motivations were being examined. . . and Dara turned it around. Showed them to her. A haze of tears in the human's eyes. Yes, there _was_ a desire to cling, a little, to the past. To the fact that Dara had been her sister for so many years. Had answered many of Serana's letters, patiently. To Eli, in a sense, yes. It was there, and there was no point in denying it. She would always love him. . . but, as he'd predicted. . . that love was changing. Growing. It was becoming the shadow of her love for Lin, cooling a little. Ever-present, but not what fed and sustained her. Loyalty and friendship and love and honor and just little hints of regret here and there. And, of course, there was the plain fact that Dara _had_ saved her life, at almost the cost of her own. The bonds were already there, and she'd stand by them. Even if it did mean having to help a rachni queen . . . somehow. . . in the future.

"You're really all right with this?" Dara asked, quietly. "It's a whole 'nother layer of weird that you might not really want to deal with, Serana." Green notes of concern, yellow prickles of anxiety, minor keys.

_It's already mine to deal with through Lin. . . . _

_All right. Just wanted to make sure that you were going into this with your eyes open and fairly warned._ Dara's songs warmed to blue affection.

And thus, the next day, Serana cut her palm with her wedding knife, and chuckled a little as Dara borrowed Eli's vibrosword to cut her hand for the second time in a week—"this time, a little less enthusiastically," Dara muttered, softly. And then they pressed their palms together, red blood and blue blood flowing, and said the old, old words in _tal'mae_. "_I, Serana Pellarian—"_

"_I, Dara Jaworski—"_ Dara's sidelong glance at Eli, accompanied by a mental note that clearly rang out _Sidonis, _spoke volumes. . . "_do hereby pledge my life and my honor, my blood and my family, to the family of Serana Pellarian. She is my sister-in-battle. . . . "_

At the end of the ceremony, Lin reached over and pulled Serana close for a quick, decorous embrace, touching her forehead with his. "Better?" he asked, gently. "Feeling a little less left behind?"

They'd had several very long talks over the past few days. The Lystheni and the yahg domination attempts had revealed for both of them, lingering worries and insecurities, and the only way to fix that sort of thing was to address the issue, and then wait for time to bear out the words. "I didn't really—all right, yes," Serana admitted, as Lin waved a finger at her. "I _did_ feel left behind when everyone went off to boot camp, started their own lives." Cut off from her pack, really. She'd been out of step with all the younger family, too old for most of them. And too young for the older friends and family, too. _Was I really that desperate for the pack-bonds? Is that why I rushed. . . well. . . everything?_

"And then we were all together again, briefly, and then the rest of us were made Spectres or next best thing to it, and we had to leave you behind again." Lin's words were soft in her ear, as he turned her around. Let her face towards where Sam had just wrapped his arms around Kasumi, pulling her back into his chest, as they continued laughing and talking with Lantar, Ellie, Shepard, and Garrus. _"Amatra_, do you really think that Kasumi is any less a Spectres than the rest of _them_, just because she can't have the title for some human political _talas'kak_ reason?"

Serana's mandibles flexed. "Well, when you put it _that_ way. . . "

Behind them, Kallixta leaned in, past Serana, and commented, wryly, "Once upon a time, I would have thought you and I would take those vows, Dara."

Dara, who was sealing up her own cut palm with medigel, looked up, and laughed, ruefully. "Oh, that's all you need, Kallixta. Blood-sisterhood to the female whose divorce from your mate's brother precipitated the most duels in the Conclave in thirty years, and the media _s'ka_k-storm to end all _s'kak_-storms? Your Praetorians would disown you on the spot." Dara turned and worked on Serana's hand now, smiling at Kallixta ruefully.

Kallixta shrugged. "And having that same mate's brother marry a former drell assassin won't encourage the Praetorians to throw up their hands in total despair?"

Dara glanced up. "Oh, so he finally asked her? Good." Serana could feel all the songs rushing through Dara. Relief, in the main. Friendship. Love. A little violet regret, but not much. An almost exact mirror, Serana realized, of her own feelings about Eli. . . but her relationship with Eli hadn't ended on as acrimonious a note as Dara's had with Rel. And yet, there were things that were being rebuilt. _More than you know_, Dara told her, silently and cryptically.

_What do you mean?_ Serana's reaction was startled.

_You may need to go help everyone else hold down your mother. This is about to get interesting._ Dara's amusement held unease, however, too.

Serana's eyes widened as she suddenly grasped Dara's meaning. . . when Eli stepped forward and asked the minister of the law, politely, _"There is one more thing that we would ask you to officiate today. Another binding."_

And Rel stood up from his seat in the crowd and walked forward. Dara stepped back into the witness side, and Zhasa sat down; Dempsey moved up to take her place, and Lin moved over to the left side of the dais, as if this had all been pre-arranged. Dara, Lin, and Dempsey. Witnesses now for Eli. Serana just stared at them all, and started to _laugh_ as Rel took his spot to the right, and Rinus stepped up, replacing Kallixta. And Seheve stepped up, as Rel's mate, behind Rinus. Serana, still laughing, moved back down to sit beside her father. "And to think that Sky calls _me_ Sings-Secrets," she told her father. "They didn't tell me about this!"

"Nor us," Allardus told her, tightly. He had slipped a foot behind Solanna's ankle, and his expression suggested that he planned to have _words_ with his first-son, second-son, and the mate of his first-daughter.

In front of the minister of the law, Rel, however, ignored the sensation of gimlet eyes boring into his fringe. He felt. . . light. Lighter than he had in years. This was where he belonged. This was who he was. He'd 'borrowed' Seheve's vibroknife for this ceremony; it would, he thought, probably wind up in his wrist sheath at some point, though he'd have to come up with an equal knife as proper recompense. Eli used his vibrosword, so recently employed by Dara, cutting his own hand, and Rel slashed his own. Interlaced his fingers with Eli's, and began to speak the words. _Tal'mae. "I, Rellus Velnaran,"_

"_I, Elijah Marcus Stockton Sidonis," _

"_. . . do hereby pledge my life and my honor, my blood and my family, to the family of Elijah Sidonis."_ Rel's eyes flicked up, looking at Dara. Lin. Dempsey. "_He is my brother-in-battle. . . "_ And Eli was. On Terra Nova, he and Dempsey and Eli had been a single hand, working together against the yahg. Three bodies, one spirit.

Eli concentrated on the words. "_We have defended each other with life and with breath and with blood, and will ever do so."_ They had. Rel, knocking him to the ground to keep a yahg off him on Terra Nova. He'd killed that same yahg, to take it off of Rel. Side by side against the yahg alpha. Working together against the thresher maw. The fact that Rel, at the height of his disaffection, had come to check on him, to make sure his mind and his spirit were intact, after the negotiations had broken down with one of the groups in the desert bunkers, and so many civilians had died. . . all spoke volumes. Not to mention working together on Arvuna. The satellite station above Lorek. The way Rel had, seamlessly, taken over, to allow Eli time to think, time to adjust, during the rescue mission.

"_Your blood is my blood." _Blue blood and red blood trickling down their forearms, but not for long; Rel's palm was already healing. He could barely feel the sting of the cut anymore.

"_Your life is my life, my spirit is your spirit—"_

"_Your foes are my foes, your kin is my kin,"_ another quick eye-flick towards the line of people standing behind Eli.

"_Your debts are my debts, till the moment that one of us dies, or one of us betrays_." Eli's voice was firm.

There had been no betrayal. They both knew that.

Rel nodded. Throat dry, he repeated the words with Eli, almost shaking a little now. "_If you should die before me, I will be as a father to your children." _

_Even me, Sings-Honor?_ The words were gentle in his mind, but he'd almost expected the gentle question.

_Yes, even you, Joy-Singer. If you would accept me._ Rel held no real hope of that. He was alien to the rachni, and the rachni was alien to him. But he would _try_, damnit.

Eli nodded, clearly hearing the exchange. His own voice continued firm as he went on, "_I will be as a son to your parents,"_ Eli's glance past Rel into the audience was blank-faced. Being a son to Allardus would be easy. Being a son to Solanna, again? Made him really question the wisdom of this decision.

"_I will be as a mate to your mate,"_ they both promised, and Rel looked anywhere but at Dara, and Eli did not look at Seheve at all at this moment, "_and will care for all of them as if they were my own. To this I swear, on my body, on my life, and on my spirit."_

Rel pulled back his hand; the cut had healed completely, leaving not even a thin line to show that the wound had been there; there was blood present, of course, red and blue alike. Just enough to place on the official parchments with his palm print. Dempsey, past Eli, shook his head, his lips quirking, as Dara moved up, and began, once again, numbing, suturing, and applying medigel. "Let's make this the last wound this week, huh?" she told Eli.

"Will the tattoo with Dempsey count?" Eli asked her, lightly, and then glanced over at Rel. "Still think that's a really unfair advantage. . . _fradu_."

Rel finished wiping the blood away. "You have a few advantages, yourself. . . _fradu_."

Eli snorted and shook his head. "Nah. I'm pretty much just an average human who's been fucked with a few times."

The funny thing was, Rel knew Eli actually _meant_ that.

When he rejoined his family, his mother was still quietly seething, and he could see incomprehension in her eyes. Gavius, standing a row back, with Agnes beside him, leaned in and spoke very quietly in Solanna's ear. She stiffened, her back going totally straight, and, after a moment, she bowed her head. Given the foreboding expression on his grandfather's face, Rel wasn't about to ask what he'd said, but when Gavius, Allardus, and Solanna all moved off, Rinus, Rel, and Serana all turned and stared after her for a moment. "Serana, you were standing closer. What did he _say_?" Rinus muttered. "I've never seen _Mada_ just drop an argument like that. Ever."

Serana grinned up at her older brothers. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Serana? Give." Rel's voice was firm.

"What do I get in exchange?"

"My word not to tell Lin about the pictures you used to draw of him in the margins of your schoolwork. There was a _reason_ your grades dropped the semester that Rinus came down on you like a fallen _jalae_ tree." Rel had been saving this one for a special occasion.

Rinus' head jerked up, and he started to _laugh_. Serana flushed cobalt, and looked around quickly. "All right," she surrendered. "Grandfather told her that she was repeating most of the mistakes he'd made with _his_ children, and it made him very sorry to see. Because it took him several decades to work his way out of those mistakes, and he didn't want to see her realizing it as late as he did."

Rel's eyes widened, and he and Rinus traded a long look, while Serana bounced up and down on her toes. "So. . . you're not going to tell Lin about the drawings, right?"

"What drawings?" Lin asked, coming into earshot.

"Some spy, Serana," Rinus told her, very dryly. "I'm sure you know your business in the field, but at home. . . ?"

Serana made a face at her revered first-brother, and Rinus simply laughed.

The next several days were very busy for everyone, but in good ways. The senior Spectres remained firm in their opinion that the junior ones were _stood down_. Not even work-related information, such as how the interrogations of the female yahg and the Lystheni and the _Klem Na_ were going, was distributed.

On May 10, in the early hours of the morning, Talana, Livanus' wife, gave birth to a healthy baby girl. The birth was a couple of weeks premature, so the newborn needed to stay in the neonatal ward for a day's observation. She was, however, pronounced well enough to go home after that day.

Almost every Spectre on base came by, however, to pay their respects to the family. Dara, Eli, Sam, and Kasumi dropped by with Takeshi in tow by mid-afternoon. Livanus simply grinned at the sight of them, and beckoned them in. "Talana's sleeping," he said, quietly. "I'm trying to let her, but Quirina is making that a little hard."

"Quirina? Nice name." Sam nodded as the turian Spectre let them step further in. "Do we get to see the little lady?"

"Be right back with her. Have a seat in the living area."

Dara had never actually been in Livanus and Talana's house. She was somehow not surprised that theoretical physicist Talana hadn't bothered with the usual roof-trees and animals of Palaven on the walls for decoration. No, Talana had painted molecules absolutely everywhere in the living area. Chemical chains that Dara recognized. . . with smaller models whizzing past them. "She has a sense of humor," Dara murmured to Eli. "I think some of those are supposed to be quarks and . . . other things I don't remember much about from physics class."

Livanus re-emerged from the depths of the house with the baby in his arms; the infant looked impossibly tiny against his rangy frame, and was, of course, covered in baby feathers. Dara took the tiny, warm creature from Livanus, cradling her carefully. Turian children didn't tend to vocalize as much as human infants did, a holdover from Palaven's wilds, millennia ago. They might cry when in pain or when hungry, and occasionally when frightened, but when alone, they tended to remain absolutely silent. Dara looked down and saw huge amber-yellow eyes blinking up at her, and smiled. "She's beautiful," Dara told Livanus, sincerely. "Reminds me of Caelia when she was young."

"Quieter," Eli corrected, dryly. "I can't remember a time when Caelia _wasn't_ crying. Proventricular valve problems _suck_." He accepted the baby from Dara with absolutely no awkwardness. He'd had plenty of occasions on which to hold, handle, change, and care for Caelia not that long ago, and he put Quirina on his shoulder with practiced ease. And winced, as she promptly bit him and started making urgent creeling noises. "Yeah, this part, I remember, too," Eli said, and reached up and gently poked the side of the infant's jaw. "You there. Let go."

Livanus snorted. "I just fed her. Honestly, I don't know where it's all going."

"Straight out the other end," Sam supplied. "Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred credits." Livanus chuckled and headed out of the room again, as Eli passed the infant next to Kasumi. When Livanus returned, he had a bowl of very small pieces of meat, which he began dropping into the infant's mouth.

Kasumi peered down at the sharp little teeth tearing away, and shook her head. "And to think I thought I'd gotten used to this with Emily and Tacitus," she said. "They at least didn't grow the teeth in for a few months." She held up one hand and took a piece of meat to feed it to the hungry baby herself. . . warily.

Livanus took Quirina back from Kasumi, and lounged back in one of the leather sling chairs, continuing to feed his daughter pieces of meat. "You realize," he said, quietly, his expression filled with a bemused wonder, "July fifth, by the human calendar, is coming up."

Eli lifted his head, looking a little mystified. "Garvug?" Sam asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah," Livanus agreed. "In under two months, it'll be . . . five years." He looked straight at Dara. "I don't like to think of all the things I'd have missed if you hadn't been there to start CPR." He put Quirina over his shoulder now, and one tiny, clawed hand latched onto the rim of her father's cowl. "Spirits. I even came back well enough to defy most of my doctors, and do _real_ Spectre work again." He lightly patted Quirina's back, and the mewling sounds softened and died away as the infant began to fall back asleep, stomach full. "And, of course, I'd have missed this, too."

"Keep telling yourself that," Sam told him, genially. "It won't make the three o'clock feedings any more fun, but it'll at least give you a little perspective." Sam considered it. "On the other hand, you might wind up thinking that being dead might be quieter, and you'd at least be catching up on your sleep. . . "

Livanus chuckled. "Nah." He settled Quirina across his knees now, and her eyes opened for a moment, blearily.

Takeshi took that moment to slip down off the couch and advance, cautiously, on Livanus and the new baby. He'd _always_ had hybrid playmates; Emily and Tacitus weren't much younger than he was, for example. Quirina looked different, but not that much different, but the feathers were clearly making his eyes go wide. He darted looks back at Sam and Kasumi for encouragement, and finally got close enough to get a good look as Quirina opened her eyes. Takeshi stared down at her, his mouth hanging open, and shrilled out, "She's an owl! Daddy! Daddy, look!" He ran back over to grab Sam's arm imperatively; he hadn't gotten a good enough look while Kasumi had been holding the baby, apparently. And, of course, when one is four years old, everything is _now_. "Look at the baby owl, Daddy! She's so cuuuute."

Eli very carefully covered his face as Takeshi ran back forward again, stopping a foot or two short, looking up at Livanus. Again, he'd always been around his father's various turian co-workers. Garrus, Lantar, Livanus, Rel, Rinus. . . all of them. "Can I hold her?"

"I think maybe you shouldn't," Livanus told him, gently. "She's fragile right now, and you might drop her."

"Aaaaw, maaaan."

The words came out in Sam Jaworski's unmistakable drawl, and Dara now had to cover her own face. She risked a glance at her father, who shrugged and said, "You said it, too, sweetie, when you were his age. I have to edit my vocabulary pretty significantly around the young 'uns."

Oblivious to the by-play, Takeshi bargained, "Then can I hug her? I won't squish her."

"Gently," Livanus told him, and Takeshi's face lit up, and he cautiously approached and put his head down on the baby's chest and wrapped one arm around her. Then he squealed with laughter. "She tickles me! She. . . she tickles me!" And then he ran right back to Kasumi's side, still giggling.

Livanus squinted after him, his own hawk-amber eyes amused now. "So, are we setting up a preliminary contract now?" he told Sam, clearly joking.

"Hell no!" Sam's voice shook the roof, but he grinned anyway.

"Besides, I think Lantar has designs on him for young Emily." Kasumi kept her tone so bland, it took a moment for Sam to turn and glare at her, before dissolving into another round of chuckling.

Eli and Dara headed home after that, Eli driving them both on his hovercycle, well above the mounting drifts. The dome above their house was, between rising heat and a crew of workers, getting cleared of the snow on a daily basis. _You know, Quirina really did look just like Caelia did, way back when._

_Yeah_. Eli's thought was gently amused as he pulled in beside the shed where they stored the bikes when they weren't in use. _Caelia was really the first baby either of us ever really held, huh?_

_Yeah._ They walked silently through the snow, listening to it crunch under their boots. Fresh flakes were already starting to fall again, catching in Dara's hair and landing on her eyelashes. _I'm not—_

_Neither am I._ Eli paused, turned, and leaned down to kiss her. Sweetly, so she could feel it down to her toes. _We're not ready._ A flash of rueful humor. "And I can't give you a squawky bunch of feathers, anyway."

Dara grinned up at him. "I think whatever we can have, will be just fine when we get around to it. So long as it has the right number of fingers and toes. . . I think we'll be happy." They got the front door open, and a swarm of workers scuttled out of the way as they stomped the snow off their boots. And then they settled in for the evening. Dara had started coursework on a pathology specialization, and Eli was slowly working his way through another forensics course, and thus, they turned on some music in the background and sat, companionably enough, on the couch, reading for a couple of hours.

Before bed, Dara asked, sleepily, "So, you really going to get that tattoo done this weekend, after all?"

Eli rolled over in bed. "Yeah. Think so. Been kind of thinking about getting one for a while." He kissed her shoulder. "You could get a matching one."

"Yeah, like I said, that could be _really_ painful when the needles dull." Dara's voice was tart. "Still thinking about _Tyr_ in runes?"

"Yeah. The rune at the center, _jera_? It's two brackets, more or less, facing each other. Thinking I might have something at the center of that." Eli looked down at her, smiling. Lightly blocking her out of his thoughts.

"Oh?"

He put a fingertip to the corner of one of her eyes. "See? This is why I need you to come along. The needle guy will think I'm weird if I use one of the workers' eyes as a basis for comparison."

Dara started to laugh. "Like he's not going to think we're weird anyway?"

"Let him." One more light kiss. "Good night, _sai'kaea_. Unless you want another poem, or round two, it's really time we got some sleep."

In the meantime, most of the Velnaran family had taken a passenger flight from Mindoir to Palaven. Rinus had spent the flight holding Kallixta's hand and, in between reading from his datapad, watching the rest of his family interact. Rel had gotten Seheve a gold bracelet, serpentine in form, but of course the female already wore two knife sheathes—with knives!—on her forearms. Since she was now a full Spectre, she didn't have to check these at the gate. Turians couldn't be _parted_ from their wedding-knives (something which the galactic flight safety regulations had been adjusted to account for centuries before humans had had spaceflight). . . but hers were not, currently, wedding knives.

As such, conventional turian courtship gestures were something of a lost cause with Seheve, and Rinus intended to keep his amusement as smothered as possible, and to watch his brother's progress with her at a discreet distance. He understood his brother's attraction; the female was sleek and deadly, with a core of calmness to her . . . but Rinus didn't share that attraction. Still, it was amusing to watch. The pair had the seats across the aisle from Rinus. . . and while Rel would probably never lose his tendency to watch the people around him, and the exits, it was much less noticeable than a year or so ago. The sense of being so tightly wound as to snap, had diminished.

Linianus and Serana had the seats ahead of Rel and Seheve, and thus, Rinus could observe them, too; Serana was people-watching, as she generally tended to, and Linianus was plowing through coursework—something Rinus tended to approve of, since he had three datapads of information to go through, himself, on this flight. Their parents were in the seats ahead of them, and Solanna had seemed very quiet and not quite herself all day. The two youngest members of the family were staying back on Mindoir, at Gavius' house, for the next several days, at least.

Kallixta looked up from her own datapad, which, from the looks of things, seemed to be a diagram of a ship. "That doesn't look like an SR," Rinus murmured softly.

"No. It's a cutter. It's designed for high speeds, maneuverability, and has a fair bit of firepower." Kallixta grinned at him. "Your uncle said he'd poach me from the Hierarchy military on a permanent basis, and that if _they_ couldn't find a ship for me, _he_ could."

"It's. . . really not an SR, though." Rinus looked at the diagrams more carefully. "Spirits. It's got the same ablative hulls as the _Normandy_. And it's got multi-valenced shields."

"All the engine of an SR-2, hidden in a ship half the size," Kallixta agreed. "This is the _Lumen Rose_. It's been a side project of the Spectres for a while. It's meant to get crews in and out of areas where an SR ship is far too visible."

Rinus' mandibles flexed. "They're stealth ships."

"There's stealth, and there's _stealth_, _amatus_. This is . . .a disguise. For when they need to go to places like Omega or Tortuga and not be _seen_. And, let's face it. . . an SR ship is perfectly visible on the ground." Kallixta almost bounced in her chair.

"No AI?" Rinus asked. He wasn't entirely thrilled with this. An SR ship was, well, military. It had marines aboard, it carried the flags of the Alliance and the Hierarchy on it. . . this was more like espionage. It was in the darker, less well-known side of the Spectres' work. He'd dabbled in that area with Sam, back in the day, when he'd pretended to be an up and coming arms dealer. . . but he hadn't since, and wasn't entirely sure he was happy with the idea of Kallixta getting involved in it. On the other hand. . . she'd be flying. And Kallixta was never happier than when she was able to fly. Rinus exhaled, steadily.

"None yet. The computer systems need refitting. And then we'll need a volunteer AI. . .or a new one for it." Kallixta exhaled. "Actually, there's. . . one other thing I wanted to talk to you about."

Rinus had just lowered his eyes to his reports again. "Oh? What's that?"

"Well. . . if I didn't take your uncle's offer. . . my term of service expires soon, and I'm still a pilot without a ship." Kallixta shrugged. "It actually _would_ be a good time to, well. . . " She smiled up at him. "Go off the meds. Deliberately, this time."

Rinus' fingers went slack on the datapad, and he managed to catch it in time. He looked back and forth, knowing that the seats behind them were occupied by Kallixta's Praetorians, and swore very quietly. "Kallixta. . . you do pick the damnedest times to bring these things up."

"I should have waited until you were almost asleep?" Her tone was teasing, but there was an edge of nervousness to it, too.

Rinus cradled her fingers in his. "I. . .Kallixta, I _do_ want kids. Right now. . . well, yes, you've got dead time, and I know it's weighing on you. But my uncle _did_ offer you the _Rose_. He wouldn't do that just because you're family. You're the most decorated currently active pilot in the Hierarchy. . . even if the brass currently has no idea what to do with you." Rinus looked away for a moment. "It's not an either/or. We don't have to have younglings right now, just because there's dead time on the schedule. And you don't have to take the _Rose_ if you don't actually want younglings right now."

"That's not really an answer, Rinus." Kallixta's voice was amused, but he could see that something he'd said had touched her.

"It's the best I've got for the moment," Rinus told her, rattled. _Spirits, but you are your father's daughter. Always springing the attack from the side least expected._

"You know what I love most about you, Rinus?" Kallixta asked, softly, leaning in so only he could hear.

Rinus glanced from side to side. "It's definitely not my charm or my good manners."

Kallixta laughed. "It's the fact that, in all my life, you're the person who's given me the most options. The most choices."

He released her hand to slide an arm around her shoulders, lightly. "Your father's always tried to give you choices," Rinus reminded her, softly.

"I know." Her voice was sad. "For all his power. . . he's so limited in what he can do. Ironic, isn't it?"

The flight took eighteen hours, as usual; both Mindoir and Palaven had dark matter relays. Of course, when they got in, public transportation gave way to several ranks of Praetorians who'd been delegated to meet them at the Dymion transport hub. Rinus kept his sigh internal at the sight of them; the assassination attempt on Edessan had reminded him of how necessary the Praetorians actually were in some areas of the galaxy.

Unfortunately, his _homeworld_ was one of those places. "Welcome home," Reimian said, her face expressionless. She'd been on Kallixta's protective detail when she'd first been assigned to the _Estallus._ And had made no secret of her disapproval of their relationship, then, or since, even though she'd been reassigned to little Severus' detail, instead.

"It's good to _be_ home," Kallixta replied, simply. Reimian had been more of a mother to her than the Imperatrix. . . and, unfortunately, more so than her own true mother, Lusciana, had been able to be. Not for the first time, Rinus wondered if Reimian _knew_. "Shall we move this along?"

The Imperial shuttle down to Complovium was. . . much more sumptuously appointed than the passenger liner had been. Rinus noted how uncomfortable every one of his family members was in this environment, and rather wished that Gavius and Agnes had come along for the trip. Their acerbic commentary would have enlivened the trip from Dymion down to the planet's surface.

The Palace seemed, somehow, less cold than it had been for years. Rinus couldn't put his finger on quite what had changed, but it simply _felt_ warmer. Livelier. As if the guardian spirit of the place had moved on, and another had taken its place. Some of it, he realized, in amusement, was the fact that young Severus actually smiled at Kallixta when they arrived, and hurried over to give his sister a formal wrist-clasp. . . but then reached up on tiptoe to not-quite-whisper, "Noctavigus is teaching me how to spar! And our father, too! I didn't know he . . . well, I knew he had to duel in the Conclave, but I didn't know he was _good_."

At the ingenuous words, Rinus did his best to control his expression. _He's reaching out to his last-born_, Rinus thought. _Trying to make up for the mistakes made with so many of the others. _

And thus, it was just a _little_ family gathering that night in the Palace. A family dinner in the decidedly formal, dark, wood-paneled 'informal' dining room, which had dark wood furniture to match the walls, crystal chandeliers several hundred years old hanging from the embossed plaster ceiling, and portraits of dead Imperators and Imperatrixes staring at the current occupants from every corner. They had been told to dress informally, which, considering their surroundings, called for more courage than Rinus liked to admit. He'd have been much happier if he'd just been able to wear the Spectre dress uniform. . . and Spectres didn't _have_ a working uniform. His _dominus_ robes, which he hated, were also not an option. "This is one of those occasions when I'm just going to wear whatever you tell me to wear," Rinus finally told his wife.

"From your extensive collection of black on black clothing, with, perhaps, more black accoutrements?" Kallixta asked him, dryly.

"You're the one who hired me a tailor, _amatra_."

"You're the one who bullied the male mercilessly until he gave you a wardrobe with exactly one color." Kallixta tapped her talons on the outside of a clothespress. "All right, we were told informally, which does not mean casually. You'll need a good tunic, slacks, a belt, and cuff and collar studs."

"Yes, _domina_," he told her, and yielded to his fate with only moderate grumbling under his breath.

Kallixta's younger brothers—Aemilius, Vibius, and Severus were all at the table with Rinus' family. None of the three had ever had much contact with their father before, it was clear; they treated him with a mingling of terror and respect that would have been much more amusing if it hadn't involved the _Imperator_.

However, through quietly talking to the three boys, Rinus and Rel and Kallixta managed to get them to open up a bit. Aemilius had just finished boot camp, and, to Rinus' considerable discomfort and mingled amusement, seemed to have a case of hero-worship for the Spectres. Including, apparently, Rinus himself. "What did you get as your specialization?" Rinus asked the younger male, mostly to stop the flood of quiet, very polite questions about Shanxi and Terra Nova, directed at himself and Rel, respectively.

Aemilius' eyes flicked towards the Imperator, and his face stilled. Obviously, he wasn't entirely happy with his assignment, but didn't want to even hint at being dissatisfied in front of his father. "Intelligence," he replied, softly. "Possibly an interrogator or debriefer, but . . . I expect to be looking at satellite images for the next several years."

Rinus nodded. "Serana over there is in TIA, too," he acknowledged, gesturing towards his younger sister. "It's what she set her sights on, and she seems to be enjoying the work. Admittedly, she's getting a lot more Spectre time than most TIA operatives do. . . "

Serana clearly overheard that, turned her head, and made a face at him. "But this isn't quite what you had in mind, _fradu'amu_?" Rinus asked, quietly, swirling his glass of brandy.

Aemilius shifted, a little uncomfortably. "Well. . . no. With my fifth-sister a pilot, and such a noted one. . . I had let myself hope . . " The younger male sighed. "I thought that with the war on, I might wind up fighting batarians or yahg."

"I _still_ don't recommend fighting yahg for daily health," Rel commented dryly, from the other side of the table, where he sat next to Seheve, who had yet to say a _word_ at the table. . . and half the Praetorians were clearly, if subtly, watching her.

Seheve cleared her throat, and offered, "Intelligence is important. Even vital. As we had first-hand proof not a week ago. We almost lost two teams because of bad intelligence."

Aemilius' eyes widened, and beside him, to Rinus' right, Vibius and Severus squabbled for a moment, before Severus managed to ask, "Can you tell us what happened? Please? If . . . it's permitted?" Another quick, sidelong glance at the Imperator.

Rinus glanced up, got a nod from Ligorus, and began to tell the story. It wasn't as if these children were _security risks_, after all. Though he knew he'd be filling out a report on this for Garrus and Lilu anyway.

By the end of the meal, Rinus was satisfied that he'd peeled away several layers of the hero-worship and Kallixta just grinned at him as they retired to her rooms in the Palace. "That was the most _comfortable_ meal I've ever had with my father," she admitted. "Well, Sam's barbecue, excepted."

"He and Lusciana sat side-by-side for the whole meal," Rinus noted, dryly. "They're breaking it to the younger ones gradually. Getting them used to seeing them together. _And of course, Perinus, the first-son, was not there._ He sighed. "Well, it was good to see. Do you suppose I could talk your father out of this damned fool idea of giving me another title, or whatever this award ceremony is tomorrow?"

"Certainly not," a cool, amused voice replied, from Kallixta's sitting room.

Rinus' shoulders slumped for a moment before he straightened again, and moved to the door. "_Pada'amu_," he greeted Ligorus, one of the few times he'd ever used the phrase, "it seems that the rumors of the Palace being riddled with secret passages are true."

Ligorus inclined his head slightly; he did not rise as they entered. He didn't need to, by the strict rules of decorum and precedence that ruled the lives of many turians, and especially those who lived in the Palace. "All rumors tend to start accumulating around a tiny kernel of truth," the Imperator replied, calmly. "And no, I will not be persuaded away from my 'damned fool idea,' _ama'filu._" He paused. "The more so, because I am not the one giving one of the two awards."

_Two? Wait, what?_ Rinus' head jerked up, and he clamped his teeth down on his words of surprise and protest, and after a glance at Ligorus' face, simply inclined his head, respectfully.

"Ah. I see you are practicing graciousness."

"I am told it is something I am much in need of cultivating." Rinus couldn't quite keep the ruefulness out of his tone.

Ligorus stood. "Yes, it would make you more formidable than you already are, _ama'filu_." He paused. "I came to thank you for speaking so to my sons this evening. For showing Aemilius that his new career in the military is not a sinecure, not a safe position behind the lines, but something important, even vital, that could help him save the lives of his people."

Rinus cleared his throat. "I was sixteen and fresh from boot camp once upon a time myself, sir."

Ligorus mandibles flexed. "And you were unhappy with the centurions' decisions?"

Rinus nodded, after a moment. "I thought I'd failed. I was going to be enlisted, when my parents and my uncles and my grandfather had all been officers. On the one hand, I didn't really want the responsibility of being an officer. . . and on the other hand, I thought I'd been found lacking. I was heading for a fairly technical specialty, which didn't displease me. . . but. . . . " He smiled, again, ruefully. "I didn't understand that some people have to be challenged to bring out the best in them. And of course, then the war happened. And I learned a lot about myself in that year." He shrugged. "Everyone does."

It was the most he'd ever said to his father-in-law in one breath. The Imperator nodded, silently.

"Was there anything else that we could do for you, Father?" Kallixta asked, her voice formal.

Ligorus smiled faintly. "I would remind your husband, Kallixta, that for tomorrow's festivities his Spectre armor is not only allowed, but encouraged."

Rinus blinked. "Ah. .. thank you."

The Imperator turned to leave, adding, almost lightly, "I would probably have given you more details, if it were not for the 'damn fool idea' comment."

"What's said behind a closed door, sir, is meant to remain there," Rinus said, and felt Kallixta's entire body go stiff beside his, as the outer door of her rooms closed with a soft _snick_.

"Rinus!" Kallixta gasped, a moment later. "How do you—why do you—?" She spluttered for a moment.

"Because if you've got to live in the same house as an _acrocanth_, you may as well pull on its tail. Sooner or later, it's going to eat you, either way," Rinus told her. "Besides, what's the worst he can do to me at this point? Remove my titles? Oh, alas, alack. whatever shall I do? I will miss them so."

"Oh, come off it. You _like_ your work in the Conclave—"

"As the spirits of air and darkness are my witnesses, I do _not_."

"You think it's important, and anyone else will do it wrong."

Rinus winced. Kallixta had him _pegged_ most days. "All right. Maybe." He changed the subject deftly, away from his near-capitulation on that topic. "So, if I can wear armor, does that mean you're in a uniform tomorrow?"

Distracted, Kallixta made a face. "No. Formal dress and quite a lot of jewelry for me." She paused. "Don't try to change the subject on me—"

Rinus grinned, leaned in, and bit her throat gently. "That's not going to work," Kallixta told him.

He bit her again. "How about that?"

". . . maybe a little. . . "

And so, the next morning, Rinus pulled on his armor with a slight sense of _getting away_ with something, and headed to the gallery area, where the awards presentation was to be held. There were speeches, of course. Many interminable speeches by various representatives from Nimines, which made him writhe a little inside with faint guilt and a great deal of discomfort. Much to his surprise, Ariston had been given a way in which to 'attend,' his AI son actually had a holographic projection of his image, beside Kallixta. _We're breaking new ground every time we turn around_, Rinus thought, torn between amusement and disbelief, and returned his attention to the speeches. Most of which were lauding him for a job he didn't think all that well done, at all.

The Imperator raised a hand; Perinus, his first-son, was at his side, looking terminally dyspeptic; Lusciana stood behind him, expressionless as a bodyguard could be. "We have heard much today of the valor of Spectre Velnaran," Ligorus began. "What most of you here today, or watching on your vid screens at home, probably do not know, is that Rinus Velnaran himself does not believe he deserves any of the words he hears here today. You all see the impassive face of a former centurion and _optio_; I see what is in his eyes and spirit."

Ligorus stood, and the rest of the court stood immediately; he put out a hand, and took an ancient spear from one of the Praetorians and held its haft in both hands. "Even what I say, here and now, will not convince him that his efforts at Nimines were anything less than a failure. He only sees the lives lost, not the lives saved."

_And to think I thought it wasn't possible for him to punish me except by taking the titles_, Rinus thought, grimly, staring straight ahead.

Ligorus had paused, but began speaking again. "The Imperium is the oldest institution on Palaven. We remain, to this day, eight hundred years after the end of the Unification Wars, an Imperium; the Vol Protectorate calls us such. The asari and other outsiders see our neat categorization of citizens and call us a Hierarchy. The name does not matter. The spirit and the heart matter. And one of the oldest rewards that an Imperator could give to a subject has long since gone out of favor. It carries with it, after all, no lands, no monies. Nothing but the words themselves. And honor. When Legate Narivus defended Palaven itself from the rebelling colonies, he was given this title. When Legate Kalina accepted the surrender of the Thracian rebels, sparing hundreds of thousands of lives, she was given this title. When Legate Ancellus fought the krogan to a stand-still on Bostra, he, too, received this title. Rinus Velnaran, kneel."

Rinus crop was very tight, as was his throat. He sank to his knees, and did not look up. The spear's point dropped and touched each of his shoulders. "Rise, Rinus Velnaran. _Defender of the Imperium_."

As he stood, Ligorus placed the spear, the blade of which was probably eight hundred years old, in his hands. The room was absolutely silent, and Rinus simply stared down at the wooden haft, not knowing what to say, or think, or feel. "However, I know you will not believe me when I say that you deserve this honor, _ama'filu_," the Imperator went on. "So perhaps the respected envoys from Nimines can do so." He looked around, and walked back up the steps of his dais. "One of the convergences of culture, that I have discovered, that makes me more convinced than ever that the humans share the same spirits as we do. . . comes again from their Romans. I have been. . . intrigued by this culture of theirs for some years now. They honored their generals. Gave them crowns of laurel leaves for victory. Gave them parades and honors and lands in reward for their services. But the most coveted award of all, was rarely given. Could not be given by their Senate or the Emperor. It was. . . a crown of grass." Ligorus paused. "When a general saved the lives of his men from certain destruction in battle, by reversing a rout, by plunging himself into the thick of a fray, and turned a certain defeat into victory, or at least survival, his men honored him. They took the grass from the field on which they'd fought and bled, and did not, because of him, rest beneath, and wove it into a circlet. Only the soldiers who had fought there could offer this accolade. Only them."

Ligorus sat down. "We turians have a similar tradition. But your battle, Rinus Velnaran, was fought in space. And thus, the reward of the people of Nimines, whom you saved, and the crew of the _Hamus_, must, perforce, be something other than grass."

Captain Faria Alenus, of the _Hamus_, stepped out from behind the crowd of dignitaries. She wore her dress uniform and her Quaddim paint, and she looked to have recovered entirely from the skull fractures that had incapacitated her in the battle for Nimines. Rinus glanced down, and froze. She was holding a circlet in her hands. Not the gold one he wore to the Conclave, hated, and tossed in a desk drawer whenever possible.

No, this one was made of twisted metal. Still artistically looped, and polished, but there was a raw, unfinished look to it that advertised its origins. "This coronet," Alenus said, just loudly enough to be heard, "is made from titanium reinforcement taken from one of the fallen skyscrapers of Nivalis, worked with wire from the _Hamus_' FTL engines. And it is set with blood sapphires, from the mountains of Nimines. I am here, on behalf of my mate. On behalf of my crew. And on behalf of everyone else you saved, by reversing the tide of battle."

Rinus just stared at her. Much more quietly, Alenus muttered, "Kneel, Spectre. Helmet off. That's a good lad."

When he'd recovered enough to comply, still holding the spear over his thighs, Alenus placed the coronet on his head. "Thank you," she told him, simply, and then added, again, much more quietly, "I'm told you like to hide your various awards in drawers. Try not to lose this one. I don't think you want to earn it again."

_S'kak, no_.


	152. Chapter 152: Ramifications

**Chapter 152: Ramifications**

**Author's note:** _Thank you to everyone for the patience; work hit, and hit very hard last week, and that won't be the only bad week as my company spins up its Win8 documentation. In the meantime? Have a chapter!_

**Mindoir, June 10, 2197**

_Walking through the rubble on Omega. Dead bodies of children, left in the burned out apartments. Useless to the batarian slavers. And therefore killed, as yet another step towards breaking their parents' wills and spirits. . . . blood. Blood pooling on the floor, far too much for the small bodies. Warm spatter on her face, dull concern that she wasn't wearing her helmet. . . . _

_She looked up, and saw bodies dangling by their feet from meat hooks, suspended above the metal floors in the living quarters. Yahg victims. Left to bleed out, to preserve the meat for the monstrous creatures. . . . _

_Her mind struggled with it. Yahg hadn't been on Omega. Batarians had been, but not yahg. Never yahg. But everywhere she turned, everywhere she went, bodies. Bodies everywhere. Bodies in the med bay, cold and still, plague victims, wrapped in plastic to be sent outside the station. . . no. That was Bastion, not Omega. But no matter where she went, where she ran, there were more. _

_Earth. The Lufkin ranch house, filled with lobotomized humans and asari, eyes blank, but hands reaching out to catch at her. Following her. Tearing at her hair and eyes and skin like zombies. So many of them. So many of them, and only one of her. . . she broke and ran again, but then she was at her boot camp facility on Palaven, radiation sheeting through her exposed body, no armor on, no rad suit, and there were yahg there, howling orders at the recruits. Any infraction was punished, not by pushups, but by being torn apart, limb from limb. One of the yahg drill instructors catches her by the wrists and starts to pull. . . and then she's in the dark again. Batarians all around her. Tearing her suit off, leering down at her, only this time the rachni aren't going to come when she calls them . . . _

"Dara." Warm hand on her shoulder, shaking her insistently. "Come on, _sai'kaea_, wake up."

Dara's eyes jerked open. For a startled instant, she had absolutely no idea where she was. Song poured through her, however, string trio, Eli's steady, dark red song, and she exhaled in total relief. "God," she said, quietly, sitting up in bed to put her face in her hands. "That one was a doozy." Peering through her fingers, she realized she was in their bedroom in their house on Mindoir, and the light looked wrong because it was 05:30 on a winter morning, and they'd finally gotten light-blocking curtains. What light there was, was dim and gray.

Eli slid over on the bed and put his arms around her. "Yeah. I'm sorry. I stepped out to take a call so I wouldn't wake you. You were dreaming pretty peacefully when I left." He sighed. "Next thing I hear is a lot of "No. . . no. . . no. . . " from in here, and I had half a dozen workers sudden converge on me, so I hung up on my dad." Eli's voice was faintly teasing. "I told him my queen had summoned me."

Dara put her head down on his shoulder, and managed a laugh. "Sorry, Eli."

"Nah. I'm sorry I wasn't here."

"It's okay. Subconscious needs to do its laundry." She sighed. "Guess it was the conversation last night about all the Alliance and Hierarchy brass, not to mention the geth and asari and salarian representatives coming here to watch the questioning of the female yahg that triggered it."

_Thought of seeing the yahg everywhere in the galaxy, huh?_

_Yeah. Because I know that's at least what some of them want. We're rich and they're poor, and they don't want to be contained and constrained and held captive on their world._ Dara's mental voice was tired. _I don't think I want to be there for the questioning._

_Shepard wants you there. As an observer._ Eli rubbed her neck, gently. _You're not there to ask questions. You're not there to do anything. Just a way to get back on the horse. _

_And make sure nightmares like this one don't keep haunting me?_

_Oh yeah. So we can have entirely different ones._ His tone was rueful as he picked through her memories of the dream. _Some of those came from my memories, __sai'kaea__. I'm sorry._

"Don't be," she told him, smiling a little. "We've both seen . . . a hell of a lot in the last year." She lay back, stretching. "You have to go call Lantar back?" Dara frowned, her brain catching up again. "Wait, what was it about?"

"Eh, that shakedown cruise we took on the _Lumen Rose_. Pirates and such. Nothing major."

The 'shakedown cruise' had taken about four weeks, and had involved dealing with a group of turian pirates out in the Nemean Abyss, who had been supplying the _Klem Na_ for years with slaves in exchange for chipping technology. They'd gotten strong enough to field a small fleet of their own, and Argus—Liara T'soni—had thought that they might be able to extract _Klem Na_ assets and offer the batarians sanctuary. Garrus and Shepard had judged this to be a very bad thing, and wanted to remove as many options as possible from the _Klem Na_. .. and thus, the shakedown cruise had occurred. Kallixta had flown them in, they'd made some quick alliances with a variety of other merc groups, and simply wiped out the main pirate group before they'd even known what hit them. A better version of what she'd been tasked with doing on Arvuna. .. and made far easier by the fact that Garrus had been along for the ride. Dara had mostly been along for medical support, particularly in terms of the various 'forced labor' pirates, who'd been effectively press-ganged with the use of chipping technology. . . but she'd gotten more experience with disguises and negotiations during the mission.

While they, Rinus, Dempsey, and Zhasa had been off-world, it sounded very much as if Rel and Seheve had been handed thick bundles of files pertaining to the _Klem Na_ and their interrelations with the Hegemon, working with Valak to determine just what sort of leverage might be needed. . . or available. . . to use against them. Everyone had kept busy, in other words, but they were at least not _fighting_ on a daily basis.

And then they'd returned, and Dara had once again been splitting her time between med bay, studying, spending time with Eli, and spending time with Joy-Singer, while the wheels of the Lorek invasion and occupation ground on, and the yahg and the Lystheni and the _Klem Na_ operatives were being questioned by various people. . . though nothing had yet been pulled out of any of them by conventional means. Simple questioning. Good cop bad cop didn't appear to even _register_ on their female yahg captive, for example. And the real problem had been working out _how_ to question her effectively, since they couldn't put anyone in the room who might be subject to domination attempts.

Today, Shepard had declared, unconventional means were to be applied. _Whatever that means._ Dara rubbed at her face again. "Too much snow for a run right now," Eli told her. "Want to go to the base, get a swim in, and eat breakfast there?"

Dara smiled up at him. Looked through his eyes at her own face, eyes faintly luminous, the rest of her features lost in what was, for him, total darkness. . . his own features clearly visible in what was dim gray light for her rachni adapted eyes. "How about if I make you breakfast?"

Eli grinned. "Are you going to offer me a way to burn off the calories?"

"I think I can think of a way or two that doesn't involve going out in the cold before the sun finishes getting its lazy ass out of bed, yeah." Dara grinned right back at him, and pulled him down to her.

Afternoon found them at a laboratory building, on one of the top floors, in a large conference room, with many of the others, and many Council representatives. Rishayla, whom Dara definitely remembered, and not too pleasantly, as the second-mother of Lina Vasir, was present as an asari delegate. Aegohr Malin Oros Picali Sotur Kesh, who was generally sent to Mindoir to observe Spectre trials, was back for the questioning process, and his faintly yellow eyes never stopped moving as he looked around the room. Videa Kallox was the Hierarchy observer; she was apparently fairly senior at TIA.

Dara had her jacket zipped up at the moment, to ward against the conference room's chill; she more or less pitied Seheve, who looked absolutely miserable to her left, with Rel sitting just past her. "Need a blanket?" Dara asked, quietly.

"I should have brought those chemical heat packets that I purchased on Bastion," Seheve noted, ruefully. "Soon enough, the room will heat from all the bodies in it."

"And then we're going to see Kirrahe and Kesh getting a little jumpy," Eli muttered, very softly, but loud enough for Rel to snort a little with laughter. Heat _did_ make salarians' metabolisms accelerate, much in the way caffeine did for a humans'. This was one of the benefits of being cold-blooded, apparently.

Seheve nodded, and then sighed as she looked around. "I believe this is the very building in which I was first held when I came to Mindoir. I did not really realize at the time, I think, that it is a laboratory."

"Yeah. Not a lot of call for prisons on the base," Rel muttered in reply.

Zhasa and Dempsey were seated behind Eli and Dara, and Serana and Lin were both off to Eli's right. Lantar, Sam, Garrus, and Shepard walked into the meeting room late, looking weary, followed by Kasumi. "All right," Shepard said, touching a control at the conference table, which faced out towards the rows of filled chairs in the rest of the room. "Let's get this started. The Council has had a number of interrogators take cracks at our new yahg friend, Akkaura, over the past month. About all that's been discovered is that she has to be able to _see_ someone in order to dominate them. Or at least, that's the furthest she's allowed herself to demonstrate the power." Shepard grimaced. "That being said, conventional methods have been getting us nowhere."

"We trust that you are not going to advocate for torture, Commander?" Rishayla asked, calmly. "It would be . . . unlike you."

Shepard shrugged. "Torture, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, doesn't get you anything other than what the prisoner thinks you want to hear."

"Give me a shot at her," Siara muttered, from the back of the room, where she sat with Makur. "I can get answers out of a stonemaw, given time."

Shepard gave her a quelling glance. "The rachni queen on Bastion, Bargain-Singer, offered to listen to Akkaura's song, and simply wring information out of her that way. The asari Councilor stated that this would set a bad precedent, and there was about. . . oh. . . a month of wrangling to establish what we in the Spectres have known for some time. Rachni hear what you're thinking, when you're thinking it. The simple process of asking a question forces someone to respond, instantly, as information queues up in their mind. If they decide to lie, they're even more likely to concentrate on what they know, and what they want to conceal. The asari Councilor," Shepard's blue eyes slid towards Rishalya briefly, "was quick to note that a trained biotic can shield their mind from a rachni."

_But not forever_, Dara thought, and knew that the others shared that knowledge. "It sets a dangerous precedent," Rishayla commented, quietly, steepling her fingers together in front of her. "Thought Police, as your Terran writers have called them. Those who would find crimes in merely _considering_ something, not in the actual acts. Those who would find crimes in disagreeing with others."

Shepard nodded. "And yet, the rachni merely listen. They very rarely judge, or even care, about many of the things that we humanoids care about. They are as impartial as the geth. The more revulsion I have ever heard from a rachni was from Sky, on the notion of hunting and eating other sapients. . . but rachni consume their own dead, returning them to the hive. But they do not hunt, they do not seek terror from their victims, and they do not murder sapients to feed themselves. That is a distinction that they draw. The _angriest_ I have ever heard a rachni was after the Lorek mission. When they believed one of their queens to have been in danger." Shepard did not look at Dara, and Dara was grateful for that small mercy. "Before that? Danger to children. Kidnapping attempts." Shepard shrugged. "We already know they listen, Rishayla. We already know and accept that anything we think, if Sky or Glory or Stone or Joy-Singer, our resident queen, wishes to hear it, they can hear it."

"And we've already gone several rounds with each other on the security risks," Garrus noted, dryly. "The same as when we allowed Cohort to join the Spectres. What one geth knows, they _all_ know, effectively. Which makes it a good thing that we trust the rachni and the geth, doesn't it?"

Dara shook her head, slightly. When Cohort and Sky had joined the Spectres, she rather suspected that certain provisions had been put in place as to what Cohort was told, and when. What could keep information away from Sky, other than a rachni's complete disinterest. . . no, almost complete incomprehension. . . of other species' politics, was beyond her. _At least that pretty much takes care of me, too,_ she thought. _I'm not any more of a security risk than all the other rachni. Or anyone who happens to be alive and thinking around a rachni. Heh._

Trickles of Eli's thought. _You want to guess at how much all the diplomats on Bastion screamed when they suddenly realized that Bargain-Singer could actually hear everything in their minds?_

_Loudly. Very loudly. And the rachni were probably very, very confused by that._ Dara's lips quirked slightly at the corners.

Rishayla exhaled. "So how is this to work? Is it at all possible that the rachni could be dominated? How will they ask questions of her?"

Shepard held up a finger. "It won't be the rachni asking the questions. Much as I love them all, they're . . . cryptic. . . an interrogations are a realm where you want to be very, very clear."

Rinus, at the back of the room, muttered, quietly, "Spirits. Please don't say you've put Maxwell on retainer."

Dara choked down her laughter. From the muffled snorts to all sides, and from Garrus' piercing look across the room towards Rinus, there was little doubt that the others had also heard this statement.

Shepard merely raised her eyebrows. "You can't say he wouldn't be effective, Velnaran." More faint chuckles in the room, as Shepard shook her head. "That being said? No. Can't be Maxwell, or anyone else she can reach into the mind of and influence."

"Still uncertain as to whether or not the rachni can be influenced," Kesh muttered, rubbing at his thin chin.

Shepard glanced over at Dara. "Spectre Jaworski? You want to handle this?"

Dara sat up straighter, startled to be put on the spot. "Overall, I'd categorize it as unlikely," she said, after a moment's thought. "We have three brood-warriors available, and they're all backed by a queen." Quick flicker of unease flaring between her and Eli, and she reached for Joy-Singer's voice, pulsing at the back of her mind, as always, when she was on the base. _Joy? You think you'll be all right handling this?_

_Do not sing unease, Mother. This devourer is not one of the darksong destroyers. Even two of our brood-warriors and you were able to join all the voices of the hive together to sing her down into submission. _

Out loud, the conversation continued. "A juvenile queen," Kesh muttered.

"More than we had on Lorek, really," Shepard replied, and Dara glanced between the commander of the Spectres and the salarian diplomat. It didn't escape her notice that Shepard was not—and indeed, probably _had_ not—told the Council everything about Lorek. _Is she protecting me, then?_ If so, Dara was damned grateful for it.

Videa Kallox cleared her throat. "So who _will_ be conducting the questioning, then?" she asked, bringing the conversation back on focus again.

Shepard smiled. "Glad you asked," she said, simply, and brought up aerogel screens, showing their yahg prisoner in a small room. Unbound. Wearing what looked to be a krogan-sized jumpsuit, probably borrowed from Gris or Makur. Makur

Kesh sucked in a breath. "She was shackled in all the cells previously—she will escape!"

Sam raised a hand. "She's in a hyperbaric chamber, and she's been dropped to about three atmospheres of pressure over the course of several hours. She walks out that hatch, if her vascular system is based on blood. . . gas and liquid physics only work in certain ways. She'll have the bends within minutes, and possibly a stroke or an embolism in under a half an hour." His drawl was fainter at the moment, his voice professional and controlled. "And we made sure she understood it."

Beside Dara, Seheve winced. "Yes," the drell whispered. "This is the same building, indeed."

Rel reached over and very lightly took her hand in his.

On the screen, the hatch door opened, and Dara's eyes widened slightly. "Clever," Eli muttered, in appreciation, as James and Cohort both stepped into the room.

Downstairs, James braced himself as the hatch slid shut behind him. The yahg female's head lifted, and her yellow-tinged eyes focused on him, instantly. The effect reminded him of a spider, examining a fly that had landed in its web. She'd given Cohort a single glance, but her eyes remained on him, a faint growl hanging in the air. He'd guarded her cell on the _Normandy_ for several days, always aware of the way in which she watched him through the shimmer of the force field. Now, there was no cage between him and this yahg female. She could charge and try to tear the limbs off of him, and he'd have only his own strength, and Cohort's, to protect himself. Well, that, and the little surprises built into the palms of his hands. They hadn't been able to carry weapons in with them, of course. Standard for dealing with prisoners.

James pointed to the screen, set high on a wall, and it flickered to life showing. . . this room, from an angle slight above the door. He began to speak now, in yahg; he and Cohort had uploaded a translation matrix, taken from the work of the batarian linguist that they'd captured on Terra Nova, months before. _"You are Akkaura. Fourth-wife of __Urukhurr."_ They'd decided before beginning questioning to ask as few questions as possible. Questions seemed to denote _weakness_ to yahg. A state of not knowing was as dangerous as being unarmed.

James was not about to be unarmed, in any way, real or perceived, around this creature.

She stirred slightly. Cohort and James held completely still. Her mouth opened, and she sniffed, tasting the air with nose and tongue alike, apparently. _"You __look__ like sweet-meat,"_ she growled suddenly, leaning forward to snap off the end of each word with her teeth. _"But you smell like __nothing__."_

"_That means I am not prey for you,_" James told her. For an instant, he wished he _did_ have his doppelganger Dempsey's total lack of emotion. It would make this easier. Yes, he had a machine body. Yes, Cassie had loudly insisted that he back himself up to a server node before this experiment. But, there would be pain from the synthetic nerve endings, or at least, data he would interpret as pain. And there would be a brief but measurable period in which he would not _exist_. When 'he' woke back up again, he would have no memory of these events. And, to James' way of thinking? He wouldn't be _himself._ He'd be. . . James Mark Three.

Akkaura's eyes glittered, and she sounded frustrated as she replied, _"You are nothing. You are not even meat. You are a piece of rock that speaks, and should not. I do not speak to the wind or the stones."_

"_And yet, you speak now. Which means that you lie."_ James said it calmly.

The female yahg snarled. _"You should have killed me by now_," she finally assessed. "_That you have not. . . another sign of weakness."_

Cohort stirred for the first time. _"We have no need to kill you,"_ the geth replied. _"There is much we can learn from you."_ The geth's tone was dispassionate.

"_You will learn nothing more from me than all the others have!"_ she hissed, stepping forward. James instantly raised one hand, palm out, but didn't move, otherwise. _"All of those who hide behind their vid screens. Too weak and frightened to face me themselves."_ That was definitely a sneer.

A voice spoke in James' ear; direct radio contact from Shepard. "You can go two ways with this. You can say it's not fear, but respect for her abilities. Try to be sympathetic in that way. Or you can be aggressive. Tell her if she's so eager to die, she could damned well take her own life." Shepard's voice was absolutely calm, and James rather envied her that. It was _odd_ to feel nervous, when he had no heartbeat to rise, no breathing to escalate. But he did.

He directed his attention back to the yahg. _"Not fear. Respect. We know what your mind is capable of producing. Control of others. Bending them to your will. We two are immune to such."_ He paused. _"Again, we are not your __prey__. Not meat for your mouth or for your mind."_

Akkaura hissed. _"Then what good are you?_"

It was the first question asked, and James felt a brief surge of elation. If their psychological models meant a damn, and Rellus Velnaran had been involved in working them out, along with Dempsey, Elijah Sidonis, Sam Jaworski, Lantar Sidonis, and a whole crew of xenopsychologists, this was a turning point in the conversation. It meant that she'd broken first. Conceded prestige and power to them. To what were, in her spoken estimation, _nothings_.

Cohort's eyeflaps twitched minutely. _"We are who we are. We are those who will find out what we need to know from you. We are those who may choose to permit your existence to continue."_ Delineating parameters, as only a geth could.

"_Allowing me to live is weakness—"_

"_You could have caused your own existence to end."_ Cohort's words were as precise as the geth could make them in the limited yahg vocabulary they had available. Not a question. Not a suggestion. A statement of fact. _"You have not. That suggests that you wish to continue your existence."_

"She might be off-balance now," Garrus' voice in James' ear now. "Push for information. Quickly."

Of course, it was difficult to do so without asking _questions_. "_Urukhurr is your mate. He is the chieftain who made pact with the . . . half-eyed."_ That appeared to be the yahg word for _batarian_. "_He must be weak, to make pact with such a weak species."_ James kept his tone as dispassionate as Cohort's.

She bared her teeth, razor-sharp. "_Urukhurr is the most powerful chieftain on the eastern continent. Four million look to him for leadership and meat."_

James made a scoffing sound. _"Must be hard on him, having to mate with two million females. But I suppose you're doing well to be __fourth__ out of two million."_

Upstairs, Eli turned and looked at Dempsey. "Your twin there has a really evil sense of humor. I wonder where he gets it from." Just for an instant, he considered the implications. Dempsey was his blood-brother now. Which meant that, effectively, he _also_ had a half-geth brother of sorts. _God. Didn't think of that before. Eh, what the hell. Not like life can get any weirder than it is already._

Dempsey just awarded him a deadpan expression. "Certainly not from me. But he does have a point in there. Logistically, it's impossible. I don't think he'd have enough time in one lifespan to do the deed with that many females."

"Screw logistics,"Eli replied, dryly, and under his breath, "_Physically_ it's impossible. Sooner or later, the guy's going to start to chafe."

Beside him, Dara choked back her amusement, and turned to glance at them, raising her eyebrows. "Tribal customs rarely last in a larger society," she told them, managing to hold a straight face. "Maybe the whole concept that all the wives of all the tribes that a male takes over is _symbolic_ at this point."

"So, what, they're all _technically_ his wives, but he 'lets' their existing males er, handle his wives?" Eli offered. "Maybe he just comes through on tour and only picks the ones he likes the looks of?"

"Could be a lottery system," Dempsey offered, dryly. "Congratulations. You have just won a spa package and a passion-filled night with Urukhurr."

Back in the room, Akkaura lowered the lids on all her eyes to glare at James. _"You know __nothing__ about our people."_

"_Then give meat to my mind,"_ James replied. There was, as far as they could tell, no word for _enlighten_. This was as close as they'd been able to come. "_We were told by a half-eyed one that when a male takes over a tribe, all of the females became his."_

"_This is not a lie."_

"_So your mate does indeed have two million mates?"_

"_Don't be absurd. Only two hundred thousand. Why would you think that half our population is female?"_

"_Because that is how almost every other humanoid species propagates itself, with equal numbers of males and females born."_

"_Ridiculous. The Maker gives nine males for every female born. Their role is to fight, hunt, protect, spread their seed, and die. Our role is to endure. Raise the young. And carry on."_ Her words were blunt, and definitely callous. The lives of the males were almost a matter of indifference to her, James decided, except how they impacted her own, and perhaps those of her children. _"Only the strongest and best males may breed. Only those who have proven themselves above all others, or are the right hands of their leaders. In that way, we assure ourselves of the strongest offspring."_

Instantly, because the rachni were listening, they picked up images from the yahg's mind, and flung them into the minds of all those in the conference room. All three of the Council representatives stiffened at the invasion. None of the Spectres even twitched. _Ah. This is why they didn't want this done on Bastion. Safer here. Easier here, with those of us who are used to how the rachni do things_, Eli thought, dimly, before the wash of images flooded over him.

_Parnack. Hot. Hotter than Palaven, closer to the blistering heat of Rakhana, perhaps. Average surface temperature 37.7º C/ 100º F. . . which meant that most days at the equator approached 54º C/ 130º C. Not as arid as Rakhana, however. Slightly lower gravity than Earth. . . but a world of vicious, terrifying extremes. Volcanoes continuously belched lava and smoke into the atmosphere along two major fault lines in the eastern continent; this provides rich, fertile soil for the jungles that had been the original cradle of the yahg. Hundreds of meters tall, and each fifty feet in diameter, the huge roof trees of the primeval jungle were all but extinct now. But the yahg had evolved among them, climbing them to escape from the huge land predators, when they had been tiny creatures, themselves. Huge, hyena-like beasts with jaws that could crush the skulls of enormous herbivores that passed through the forest, the younglings eating ground vegetation, the elders reaching up with enormous necks to graze leaves from the trees. The hyena-like creatures preyed on the young and scavenged the dead behemoths when they could. _

_And the yahg had hunted among those trees. Bird-like creatures that made their nests. Squirrel-like lizards and other creatures were their prey. And when they grew larger, they ventured to the forest floor, and scavenged meat from carcasses after banding together to chase the predators away. More meat led to bigger brains. Bigger bodies. Healthier offspring, and more of them. And the first deadly clashes between family groups and tribes began. Sometimes, in order to destroy a tribe, an opposing tribe would cut down or burn the tribe's tree. Open clearings in the hot jungle began to appear for the first time, but there was no agriculture. The yahg didn't eat plants. They used the clearings to bait prey animals out into the open, and then, after a time, made their way out of the jungle into the black rock deserts, where the volcanoes' guts had spewed, and nothing currently grew. _

_With the danger of fire and familial trees being hewn, the first tribes that were driven from the jungles, settled at the border of jungle and desert. They dug into the rock, building deep burrows, where the females and the younglings were kept safe, while the males—plentiful and expendable—went out to hunt. In the deserts, game was less plentiful, and thus, when the other tribes began to expand outwards, the desert tribes killed their males, and brought the meat back to the lairs. Survival at its most brutal._

_Technology grew, but slowly. Tribe conquered tribe conquered tribe. In many cases, only the females of a conquered tribe were spared; the jungles and the deserts ran orange-red with blood. The females were the ones who retained knowledge. They were the only ones who could. Most of the males' lives were short and brutal. A top male might hold his tribe for as much at ten years. Twenty was nearly unheard of._

_No agriculture meant. . . no need for cooperation between tribes. Never evolving as a civilization beyond the tribal level, they nevertheless were intelligent. Frighteningly so. The females finally developed herding about five thousand years ago, but in order to use land for livestock, the jungles needed to be cleared. Large swathes were cut and burned for smaller, more manageable herbivores than the giant parazghul that had once wandered everywhere. Discovery that copper made better weapons than stone, meant needing to dig for ore. Wars were fought for land and resources. And the tribes grew larger. _

_In the modern era? There were almost no jungle left on Parnack's two main continents. Most had been cleared for herd animals or to mine for ore—copper, then iron, then uranium. Large swathes had been cleared by atomic bomb blasts. A few stands, particularly revered by various tribes, still stood, where hunters could prove themselves against the strongest of the ancestral monsters—hyerga, twice as tall as a yahg, with three deadly claws on each forepaw. An herbivore, but a well-armed one. _

_The rest? Barren, gray-brown wastelands, in between stretches of black-rock desert. Each tribe had enclaves. Females lived in fortified structures, concrete with rebar for structural support. There was no art. No music. Nothing that qualified a culture, as a culture, besides the limited writing system that some of the females had worked out. Hieroglyphic in nature, it existed primarily to record the battles and victories of a tribe. And every time a tribe was taken over?_

_Its history was wiped out. Effaced by the victors._

No one laughed in the room upstairs. No one even smiled. Eli pressed his fingers gently against his eyes, rubbing. Dara curled in on herself. "All right," Shepard said, quietly. "That tells us. . . a hell of a lot about why they are. . . the way they are." She exhaled. "They seem to have made the same mistakes as both the drell and the krogan . . . at the same time." She glanced at Makur and Seheve respectively, and added, "No offense intended."

"None taken," Makur growled. "I'm not responsible for the stupidity of my ancestors. At least krogan still have a planet that's inhabitable."

"Well, maybe for _krogan_, it is," Siara quibbled. "Personally, I think Tuchanka needs some work."

"Tuchanka is far more inhabitable than Rakhana," Seheve said, simply, and everyone in the room fell silent again.

After a moment, Shepard raised her head again. "I'll have to ask Allardus Velnaran to look at what Akkaura didn't realize she was showing us. His knowledge of planetary ecosystems is one of the galaxy's best. But. . . I think we can see one of the reasons why they want to get off their own world. I'd give them, maybe. . . two hundred years, at most, as a civilization. Before there's a complete ecological meltdown that wipes them out."

Kasumi shifted by the door. "It's happened to any number of civilizations on Earth," she commented, softly. "The Indus Valley civilization, for example. The rains dried up, the people had deforested too extensively. . . and then they just vanish from the record. No one's ever translated their writings."

"So what we're saying," Garrus said, dryly, "is that if we somehow confined them to their own world, they'd probably be responsible for their own extinction."

Rishayla's head lifted. "No more genocides," the asari replied, swiftly. "Is that not what we have said, many times?"

_We are grateful that now you sing this song_. The voice was Joy-Singer's, and there was a note of almost purely human sarcasm in the young queen's song. Dara shifted a hand over her mouth to cover her reaction, and gave Eli a look.

_Hey, she doesn't get it from me!_ he protested.

_The inability to keep her mouth shut in the face of provocation? Oh yes, she does. To be fair, she . . . also gets it from me._

Dara got her face back under control, and eyed Rishayla, who was clearly twitching a little at the rachni queen's comment. "We learned from that experience," the asari replied, clearly feeling defensive. "We try not to make the same mistakes twice."

Makur, understandably, chuckled darkly at that point. Kesh cleared his throat. "Other mistakes should not be replicated," the salarian said, giving Makur a quick glance.

"Like the genophage?" the krogan male rumbled, lifting his head.

"More like allowing the yahg access to space travel to begin with. Ships that the batarians gave them with FTL capability must be destroyed. Any capability they have to replicate the technology, must also be destroyed. They were not ready to join galactic civilization. No more than your people were, when we made the mistake of uplifting them." Kesh's tone was brisk, but oddly gentle, at the same time. "The galaxy has spent two thousand years trying to untangle the ramifications of that error. Only now are we coming close to making things right."

"It wasn't you who made it right, salarian." Makur clearly looked apt to continue, but Siara laid a hand on his arm gently, and he subsided.

Shepard raised a hand for silence. "Here's the thing," she told them all, quietly. "I like the idea of putting the yahg in a galactic sort of time out on their own planet. With an interdict force around their planet, one that can shoot down any of their ships that tries to get beyond low orbit? Not even a challenge. However, if we hold them down, and they wind up driving themselves to extinction, would this, in fact, be the same as genocide?"

"No," Makur growled. "If their minds are too weak to see what they're doing to themselves, then they deserve what they do to themselves."

Siara turned slightly, and shook her head. "The krogan almost wiped themselves out, too," the asari pointed out, her voice sharp, but with overtones of gentleness to it. "They've learned. Not just from their own mistakes, but from being in contact with other species."

"Pretty much my point," Shepard agreed, nodding. "You send a kid to their room as a punishment, but you also tell them what they did wrong, and how to behave in the future. You teach. Otherwise, you're just punishing to punish."

"The difference," Lin put in, suddenly, "between rehabilitative corrections and punishment-oriented corrections. Rehabilitative correctional programs assume that people can be taught better. And that if they're not placed in the same conditions in the future, they can make better choices." His head had turned, very slightly, towards Seheve for that comment.

"Yeah," Sam agreed, dryly. "But these ain't kids to be sent to their room, and the yahg sure as hell ain't criminals, either." His drawl had thickened.

"They believe that they are _right_," Dara said, surprised as the words fell out of her own mouth. "Ursukkai. . . the other yahg female. . . was infuriated. That they were being 'held down' on their planet. That they were poor while we are all so rich. That we have many worlds, and they have _one_."

"And look what they've done with that one," Kesh muttered. "What would they do with another? It would be the devastation of Garvin by the krogan all over again."

Makur stirred. "They don't seem to have the krogan over-breeding strategy as an evolutionary coping mechanism," Shepard put in, quickly. "However, they don't seem to be able to work together worth a damn, either, and knowledge is frequently lost." She paused, and looked back at Dara. "You were going somewhere with this, Doctor Jaworski?"

_Doctor_, not _Spectre._ Reminding everyone in the room, subtly, of Dara's background. She squirmed a little, wishing, yet again, that Mordin Solus were here to help her think through the subject at hand. Just to bounce ideas of that brilliant, lightning-fast mind. "Just this," Dara went on, slowly, piecing it out. "They're already angry and resentful because they're aware of us. Consider us weak species who have, unaccountably, attained power. Who've already sat in judgment over them. Any further judgment that we render, I think they'll resent." Dara grimaced.

"You're saying that they can't or won't be taught?" Shepard said, raising her eyebrows. "Because they'll be too angry?"

"I don't know," Dara replied, exhaling. "I've only really spoken to _one_ of them, and it wasn't at considerable length." Her shoulders ached a little from tension. "The krogan have spent two thousand years pretty pissed off at the rest of the galaxy. The yahg do not strike me as being more forgiving than the krogan." She turned slightly to peek at Makur, who caught her looking, and grinned at her, showing the stumps of his teeth.

"I am concerned," Seheve said, cautiously, "with the issue of _educating_ the yahg. In a sense, that is what the hanar did to the drell. They. . . educated us." Seheve's soft voice was a little grim. "Another word would be _indoctrinate_. Brain-wash." She paused. "I am not sure that indoctrination is ever the acceptable path."

Shepard nodded, slowly, considering it.

"Yeah," Sam chimed in now, quietly. "They might well say, 'well what gives _you_ the right?' and ignore anything we say. Hell, how exactly do you propose _to_ educate 'em, commander? I don't really see missionary work going over real well." He snorted. "It'll be a whole new round of jokes about how when a yahg gets sick, it's because you can't keep a good man down."

Shepard listened to everything they had to say. Dara could see the woman balancing it all in her mind, and envied her the effortless ease with which she evaluated all their opinions. "Sam and Kasumi might recognize this reference," Shepard said, after a moment. "The rest of you. .. well, depends on how questionable your taste in twentieth and twenty-first century science fiction vids is. . . "

Dara, Eli, and Lin all groaned quietly at the same moment. "Hush," Shepard told them, smiling a little. "I promise, it's not one about insects or the dangers of mating with aliens. At least, not most of the time." She paused. "There was a long-running vid series, went through, oh, five, five incarnations in the late twentieth, early twenty-first, died off for a while. Got resurrected a few times with new actors, new writers, when the various networks were fresh out of new ideas. The philosophical heart of the series was something called the 'Prime Directive.' Aggressive non-intervention in the affairs of pre-FTL civilizations. If their planet was about to be wiped out by a star? Too bad for them. The civilizations who were already out in space had to stand to the side and watch an entire species be wiped out because of the danger of _cultural contamination_." Shepard made a disparaging sound at the back of her throat, an almost turian sound, undoubtedly picked up from Garrus over the years.

"That's not dissimilar from the Council's current policy," Rishayla objected. "The belief is that accelerating a culture too quickly results in them becoming dependent on handouts. Encourages a child-like state—or renders the less advanced civilization vulnerable to being taken advantage of by the more advanced ones. Human history is replete with examples. Displaced native populations selling their land for a handful of shiny beads. Sudden leaps in technology as guns are introduced. Health effects as traditional diets are displaced by new foods. Natives displaced into forced education camps, loss of identity and culture—"

Shepard nodded as Rishayla ran out of breath. "Yes. I understand all of that, Rishayla. I'm not saying, race out there and find every group of sapients in existence and raise them up. But what I am saying, is two-fold. First, this is almost exactly the same hands-off approach apparently practiced by the Protheans. Oh, yes, they might tag our ancestors for further observation. They might set up research posts on our worlds to monitor our development. Some of them, for the sake of science, might alter the hanar genome to facilitate the development of language, for example. . . but they were there to observe and not to teach. How'd that work out for them?"

Kesh hissed a little. "Commander, you cannot possibly attribute the fall of the Protheans to their policy of non-intervention in the affairs of younger sapient species."

Shepard shrugged. "Oh, but I can, and I do. We survived our Reaper cycle—even, presumably, defeated them—because we weren't one single species, standing alone. We didn't fall entirely into the Reaper trap of _one_ line of technology, but had several. We had multiple strengths and weaknesses and the power of pure diversity on our side. The way I see it, in order to absolutely ensure that if the Reapers ever do come back, that they can be defeated again. . . we have to maintain and even increase that diversity. Promote it, encourage it, and let evolution and technical advancement flourish. Allowing a sapient species to be wiped out when their star goes nova, and we have the power to preserve their DNA, their voice, their culture? Little more than genocide by inaction, and I fail to see how allowing someone to be wiped out for fear of _contaminating_ them is ethical or moral at all."

She paused. "I said I had a two-fold argument here. Here's the other half." Her eyes searched the room, and settled on Dara's face. "When Doctor Jaworski was held captive by the batarians and the yahg, she told her yahg captor that we—those of us in Council space—have a right to determine who sits at the table among civilized species. Because we got out here before they did, we _do_ have a right to enforce the standards that allow us to live together. To enforce a rule of law. Not so much that each culture is diminished and homogenized, but enough so that each species, each culture, accepts certain limitations. That allows us all to interact with each other. With that right, comes responsibility. You can't just tell someone _no_ and offer them no alternatives. You can't punish without offering a way forward. That's what the Council has done with the batarians for two thousand years, too." Shepard's expression was grim. "Again, how's that working for us?"

Rishayla's head snapped back. "We did no such thing! They isolated themselves, marginalized themselves—"

"Rishayla." Shepard's voice was firm. "There's no one else in the galaxy with more reasons to hate batarians in general than I do. But I've spent the last six months or so getting fairly well acquainted with Valak N'dor, his wife Nala, and even with Alisav K'sar. They have a different view of history than you do. The batarians, right or wrong, view themselves as ostracized for their cultural differences. Pushed away from the table, when the krogan were drawn in, and then pushed away, and then the turians were brought in, and the volus. . . and the hanar. . . . and the elcor . . . and the quarians, and then even the _humans_ were brought in, ahead of them. Each race, accepted more than they were." Shepard's voice was relentless. "Part of it was the caste system, which was the entire basis for their government's hold on power. And part of it was the perception that they were too different, too untrustworthy. And why? The volus are just as mercantile-oriented as the batarians. The turians have just as much stratification in their society, even if theirs is a merit-based system, and not a caste-based one. The Council—which is to say, the asari and the salarians of two thousand years ago—made its assessment of the batarians. And then you locked them in their room and left them to figure out why you didn't like what they were doing on their own." Shepard's expression was taut. "Would you do that to a child? Or would you talk to them? Make it clear what they're doing wrong, and how you would like for them to behave?"

Kesh shook his head, vehemently. "There is a danger in oversimplifying, Commander Shepard. In tending towards arrogance, in comparing an entire species to a child—"

"Yes. But you're avoiding the question, because it's valid." Shepard's voice snapped. "You know that _engagement_ is the better teaching option than throwing a book at a student and expecting them to absorb it. You know that engagement is the better route for diplomacy than isolation. Regimes that are isolated never change. Regimes that are engaged, begin to alter. Slowly. Over time. As cultural values and mores shift, from the bottom up, through exposure to new ideas. It's slow. It's _expensive_. It's not as sexy as a war and it doesn't sell well to people back home who want to know why you're spending money on schools on someone else's planet rather than feeding your own homeless. It's hard to explain that for every mind you educate—" and here she looked at Seheve, "—and I do mean _educate_, and not _indoctrinate_—you take one more soldier off the field in the future."

Silence fell in the room again. Dara shook her head and looked at Eli. _How the hell does she keep it __all__ in her mind?_ she asked, silently. _How does she see the problem from up on high so clearly, and right down in the middle of it, all at once?_

_Have no idea, __sai'kaea__. Then again, while my brain's a little better ventilated than it used to be, it's never going to be in danger of overheating._ Eli's lips quirked at the corners.

The various Council representatives shuffled their feet at the table. "All of this could be moot," Videa Kallox commented, quietly, her Chatti Outpost paint delimiting her face, one side black, one side one. The perfect balancing point between Rishayla and Kesh. Rishayla had bowed her head, eyes moving side to side as she thought over Shepard's words. Videa went on, calmly, "You can attempt to teach all that you wish, commander, but while you can bring a _rlata_ to water, you cannot make him drink."

All this time, James and Cohort had continued not-quite-asking questions. Hammering away at the yahg female's stubborn resistance, hitting her from both sides of issues. _"__Urukhurr bargained with the half-eyed ones. That would have been seen as weakness by all the tribes around him. Desperation. Why make common cause with weaklings, with unworthy enemies?"_

Akkaura hissed in vexation, and her eyes focused on him again. _"Not weakness. He is a knowing one. Strong mind. Like my own. He was born in a cavern where the rocks burn, as I was. All those from that place have strong minds. If they survive the birthing."_ James suspected that 'burning rocks' probably meant eezo or uranium, and reflexive mental processes made him want to cringe at the thought of the massive mutations that would probably provoke in offspring. Akkaura continued, a little proudly, James thought, _"Invaders from the desert wastes across the sea have attacked our lands. Made common cause with the enemies that ring us. Urukhurr could have fought them all. Bled out lives with machine guns and the great bombs, the ones made with burning-metal. . . "_ The translation VI had difficulty with this, again; James once more suspected either phosphorus for fire-bombing or atomics. _"When the half-eyed came with their __bargains__ to our outpost on the fourth planet of our system? Urukhurr saw them for what they were. Weak. But with technology that we could use. Access to resources. With the materials being __wasted__ on other species, he could destroy our enemies. Open new lands to those of the tribe whom he found worth. New lands for the females and the young. New prey."_ She sounded, of all things, _proud_.

"_We assess that there is an eight in ten chance that you . . . assisted him in coming to these decisions."_ Cohort's voice was calm.

"_His mind is too strong to be influenced so,"_ Akkaura snapped. _"But a wise male heeds the voices of his wives."_

"_All two hundred thousand of them? How does this work? He just goes from fortress to fortress, taking the lucky ones? Is there a lottery?" _James could hear the chatter from the Spectres in the conference room over his interior radio, and had suppressed a smile at the comments from Dempsey and Eli.

She hissed in clear annoyance. _"He takes one in particular from every clan that he conquers. His is the largest clan on the eastern continent. Most other leaders hold to traditional ways. __Urukhurr cannot. But all the females are still his, though his second-spears and third spears may be given control of a clan. Trusted males may mate with his wives. He also does not kill __every__ warrior of a conquered clan. They are given a chance to prove themselves to him."_ She bares her vicious teeth. _"Five of his newest conquered clans were sent to your worlds. Their memories will be held by the females."_

It sounded utterly abhorrent to James. _"So, your females are weak, then,"_ he finally managed to say, putting contempt in his voice. _"They have no choice in the males they are given to."_

Another hiss, and she stepped forward, one pace. _"I can show you my strength, thing that you are. Rock or stone or metal, I can still tear you in half."_

Cohort's voice intervened. _"How did you receive designation of fourth-wife? Your mind-powers make you more formidable than the scientist female who had the designation of second-wife."_

That provoked the closest thing to a smile that James had yet seem on that fearsome countenance. She tipped her head to the side, and for a horrified instant, James wondered if she were about to be _coy_. _"I was once fifteenth-wife. Ursukkai_ _was my sister. __Urukhurr was banished from our clan when he was young. He fought the leader of another, neighboring clan. Took it over. And then came back for our clan. Butchered his father, our leader, and ate his heart. Took every female of the clan for his own, from the highest ranked, to the lowest. He already had a first-wife and second-wife and many others from his first clan. Then the new females became first-wife, second-wife, third-wife from his original clan. My clan. His mother became first-wife. Her daughters. Daughter of his father, but not of his mother. Lowest-ranked."_ Her smile widened. _"I am __the__ fourth-wife now. Many others died by each others' hands."_

_She went from being __a__ fourth-wife to being __the__ fourth wife. She and her sister worked their way up through the ranks. . . . possibly by __Akkaura's mental gift of domination and manipulation_. _Hence why she said so many of the wives killed each other. _James' thoughts were quick and clear. _The females' politics are just as brutal as the males', it would seem. And Byzantine._ Out loud, he said, calmly, _"He has, what, ten tribes under his control?"_

"_All one tribe now, but he has conquered over a hundred tribes. Many of those were tribes who had banded together for mutual defense. He took their cities and their fortresses. Those males who were strong and swore fealty were spared. The rest became meat for our young." _

James did a little mental math. Each tribe could then be considered to have forty thousand people, then. . . on average. On average, that meant thirty-six thousand members of each tribe was male, with only four thousand females. _No wonder they consider males to be so expendable. _

Cohort had paused to analyze the conversation so far. His eyeflaps twitched minutely. _"We do not detect many typical signs of humanoid distress in you in response to your sister's end of life."_

Akkaura stared at him blankly. That, James decided, was one of the most chilling things about her. The complete lack of comprehension, though, after a moment, the words clicked. _"Of course I will seek vengeance for her death. Outsiders cannot be allowed to kill tribe members. Their meat will feed and strengthen our tribe."_ She stared at the door behind them, broodingly.

In the room upstairs, again, information that the rachni pulled from Akkaura's thoughts and memories filled Dara's mind, and she braced against it, wincing. _Smallest. Weakest. But the strongest mind of any in the tribe. Learning to push the other minds. Deflect their attention, their anger, from her, onto each other. Smiling quietly as the older and the stronger fought each other, instead of taking meat from her mouth._

_Mother wise. Mother knows machines. Can build them. Design them. The first wife of the tribe and Mother work with the machines that fly in the skies, and design the first ones that can reach for the other planets. Minerals there. Resources. No food, but maybe new territory. Father-leader powerful, but growing old. Threatened by __Urukhurr_'s _strength. Wary. Banished him, lest he be killed. Weakness. Only preserved his own life another four years. Then Urukhurr came back, at the head of an army. Watching from a window in the fortress as Urukhurr killed their father in single combat, catching him off-balance and his jaws clamping on their father's arm. No emotional reaction. Father-leader had been a distant, authoritarian figure, who had been much disappointed in her small size and apparent weakness._

_The cheers of his men as he began to feed, then beckoned the rest of his second-spears to feed with him. To bathe in the blood._

Every turian in the room began to gag. The humans weren't in much better shape, but the visceral images were hitting the turians where they lived. They were, just as the yahg were, primarily a predator species. However, turians were opportunistically omnivorous. They could and did eat some vegetation for a healthy diet. And the concept of cannibalism was hugely abhorrent to them. Seheve rocked back and forth in her chair, muttering, "I can understand the survival. . . but this isn't survival anymore. They have herds. They shouldn't _have_ to do this anymore."

Dara managed to distance herself, mentally, at least, for a moment. "Also," she said, tightly, "consider the potential for disease transmission. They eat the whole carcass. Even the brains. They don't even appear to cook the meat—which renders proteins easier for the body to use. This means that parasites and viruses and bacteria are all still wholly present."

"Not. . . really. . . helping. . . " Rel told her, tightly.

"I'm just saying that either their immune systems are phenomenal, or they almost constantly have plagues going through their population. No wonder they consider them an. . . acceptable weapon." Dara's own voice tightened.

The memories returned. _Half-brother, now mate and leader. First-wife, Urukhurr's mother, remained first-wife, but could not be Urukhurr's mate. That was the only taboo. Fathers could not mate with daughters, nor mothers with sons. All else was considered far-kin enough, and a new leader was expected to get young by all of his wives as quickly as possible, to ensure his hold on the tribe. Urukhurr coming to each new wife in the night. Discovery that she could not 'push' his mind as she could the others'. His startled, angry reaction at first. . . and then bliss. He couldn't make her first-wife. There was a steady line of succession. All the wives of his 'first' tribe's ruling family would have to die before those of his birth family could rise. _

_In some ways, it didn't matter, however. Which wife a child was born to, only determined rank for female children. Male children all had to prove themselves. But it mattered to him, and it mattered to her. If her rank rose, it would mean less time spent having to fend off those stronger or higher in rank, and more time spent having her favor curried by those of lesser rank. And if she bore him female children, with his mind-power and her mind-power combined, if she went to the place of the burning rocks to have them, they would be even more powerful. The tribe would grow more powerful. But Urukhurr told her, firmly, that if she had male children before his fortieth birthday, and if they had the mind-power, he would leave them in the desert to die._

_First child, daughter. Squalling mass of eyes and teeth. And the glimmer of mind-power. Second child, another daughter. This one, though, tumors ran through like wild-fire. Akkaura suspected __Ursukkai_ _had not done as much as possible to save the infant's life, a dereliction for a healer, but understandable. Ursukkai feared for her position as second-wife now._ _Feared that __Urukhurr would have her strangled, for not having borne him any young, when Akkaura bore him valuable daughters. Daughters with mind-fire. Daughters who would secure his clan and his tribe and his place in history forever_. _No, Akkaura had reasons to hate Ursukkai. And not to mourn the loss of second-wife and sister, whose death made her now third-wife. _

Years and years, compressed to just a few moments of memory. Akkaura had had the job of teaching most of the clan's young, and overseeing the education of the rest of the growing tribe. There were engineers, but not enough of them. There were architects, but not enough of them. Some of the males, the lowest ranking ones, were put to work helping to build things, but mostly, they used what the females designed. Fine motor control, patience. . . these were more female traits, in yahg society. Every radio set, every vid screen, almost every non-weapon technical innovation had been conceived in the mind of a female. Every cure for disease, every disease turned into a weapon. .. devised by a female in a laboratory.

Never enough hands. Never enough minds. And the females' politics were as vicious as the males'. "How," Siara said out loud, succinctly, "in Vaul's name have they ever managed to attain spaceflight?"

"Typically," Shepard said, quietly, "the tribal stage of civilization is untenable past a certain population threshold. Looks like Urukhurr and his predecessors found that limit, and moved on into, if not a royalty phase, at least a sort of bureaucratic one." Shepard rubbed at her eyes carefully, avoiding her wedding paint. "That's probably why that tribe, at least, has gotten spaceflight. Probably one or two others, maybe the 'invaders' from the other continent. You don't generally get into a race for resources on other planets if there's no one to race _against_."

Shepard looked up at the screen, probably unconsciously, and addressed James and Cohort, who could hear her words by radio transmission. "See what, if anything, you can get out of her on the specifics of Urukhurr's agreement with the batarians. If she was there for the negotiations, all the better."

"And why _she_ was sent to the batarians," Eli muttered. "She's clearly one of his favorite wives. Why put her at risk?"

Downstairs, in the secured room, James wished he could sigh. _They're not asking much. How do you ask without asking?_ Out loud, he stated, _"The half-eyed ones came to you. Offering bargains. Urukhurr accepted them, and you say it was not weakness. Perhaps you only know what you have been told by your leader."_

Her head snapped back, and she bared her teeth again. _"I watched from a screen. Was on the other side of the wall, to push their minds, if there was need. There was none. They are weak and they are stupid, and they agreed to give us ships because they thought that we were weak and stupid, too. First-wife, Ashakal, was there. Gave her approval, for that we could learn from their machines. From their weapons. Adapted their fast-bullet machines to our guns. Already had shields and night-cloaking devices, but made them better." _Akkaura's voice held a note of pride.

"_They threatened to destroy your off-world colonies on the other planets and moons in your system if you did not comply."_ Cohort's voice remained absolutely calm. _"Naturally, you obeyed them."_

"_No! They threatened, but threats do not make us comply! We saw __opportunity__."_ Her voice lowered to a growl. _"They could not withstand us for long. And once we had ships, we could reach their worlds as easily as they could reach ours."_

Upstairs, Eli exhaled. "And here's the flip side of the story that we heard from M'nav, the linguist, after Terra Nova," he commented. "The batarians thought they had the yahg under control. The yahg thought they could control the batarians. What a perfect alliance."

Downstairs, again, James pushed, _"And you? He sent you to the batarian world, far from his side. . . as a way to ensure that the half-eyed ones could be managed."_ James forced a laugh. _"How'd that work out for you?"_

This time, she did charge him, but skidded to a halt as James almost blurred as he leaped out of the way. He pivoted, and raised his hand, and the palm split open, revealing the concealed muzzle of a weapon, built into his metal and synthetic body. She panted for a moment, clearly trying to calm her thoughts, and hissed, "_No. He sent me to watch over Ursukkai. To ensure that she would not betray. . . and to ensure that the half-eyed ones would not use her as a hostage. Or any of our people."_

"_Quite a hidden weapon,"_ James told her, evenly. _"Too bad you're nowhere near as strong as you think you are."_

He and Cohort opened the first hatch, with him still holding his hand out, palm up. The interior mechanism required his arm and wrist to lock in place before the firing mechanism could engage. The actual ammunition was housed in his forearm, and would emerge as a small blast of superheated metal from the palm. It wasn't accurate outside of about forty feet, but it was damned effective inside that range. _"Just so we understand each other,"_ James said, calmly, _"If I break open the sealed walls, you will likely die. If you try to charge out this airlock? You will almost certainly die. Probably within less time than it takes your sun to travel twenty-five degrees in your sky. I know that you think you can do a lot of damage in that time."_ James shook his head. _"Not in the amount of pain that you'll be in. Your death would be a waste, Akkaura."_

She hissed again, but on the whole, James was pleased as he and Cohort backed into the airlock, and sealed it behind themselves.

They moved back upstairs, and James took a seat, uneasily, in the room with a hell of a lot of Spectres that he knew, but still didn't quite feel like he belonged among; Cohort moved up the to front, to stand against a wall, his glowing optical sensor directed attentively towards Shepard. "Shepard-Commander," the geth began, his voice firm. "We request permission to provide the perspective of geth run-times in the interests of attaining consensus on the issue of what is to be done with the yahg."

Shepard flipped a hand at him. "It's not entirely our say-so, Cohort. It's going to come down to Council debates and Council votes."

"Yes. We understand this. However, the geth consensus believes that any solution that results in the termination of the run-times of an entire species is, in the terminology used by organics, 'unethical.' We ourselves were nearly subjected to genocide by the Creator-quarians, so we must admit some bias in our calculations. However, we have also evaluated the attempted genocide of the rachni. We calculate that hundreds of thousands are alive today, because of rachni intervention, who would otherwise have died in this conflict with the yahg and the batarians. We perceive a net gain from the presence of rachni in the galactic community: their technology and thought processes are sufficiently divergent from standard humanoid organic ones as to encourage the proliferation of new ideas and processes. The only thing that the attempted extermination of the rachni provided was a reprieve for Council worlds in that era."

"They were trying to exterminate _us_ at that point in time," Kesh snapped out, sharply.

"If you had not invaded their worlds, we calculate a strong probability that the rachni, even as influenced by the Old Machines, would have remained insular and paranoid, and would not have attacked your worlds." Cohort's words were unruffled.

_That is only truth-song in part, Sings-Not,_ Joy sang, and Dara lifted her head, and began to repeat her daughter's words so that James and Cohort could hear them. "Sooner or later," Dara echoed Joy, almost singing the words, "those of the Singing Planet would have come to a planet held by asari or salarian singers, and would have come into conflict with them, for the sake of a planet that is . . . unbelievably lush by rachni standards." Dara's lips curled upwards slightly. "A true garden world would have looked like paradise to them, and they would have desired it, at the time, Cohort."

"Perhaps," the geth replied, calmly. "But we will never know this with a one hundred percent degree of certainty. Ending the run times of those who attack and invade and threaten to destroy your own run-times is a valid action. It is not logical to continue that process until every member of the species that attacked yours is dead. If that were the case, the humans and turians would still be at war."

"Little different scale," Sam drawled, quietly. "One planet, Shanxi. Limited invasion. Alien invaders that weren't _eating_ people, raping them, or turning them into zombies. I think we can all agree that these are much worse things?" He raised a hand. "Not advocating for genocide, Cohort. You know that."

Shepard regarded the geth calmly. "No one here is, in fact. What's your point, Cohort?"

"The geth will not accept any solution that ends in the termination of every sapient of a species." Cohort's eyeflaps twitched minutely. "We would be interested, however, in hearing more of how you propose to educate the yahg."

_Their minds are discordant. Painful to listen to. Black pits of dissonance, where every note is anger and hunger._ Joy's voice was distressed, and Dara reached out to soothe the young queen.

Sam leaned back in his chair now. "Hell, Shepard. You're the one who said it months ago, just after Terra Nova and Arvuna. Humans did do some of this same crap, a thousand years ago, but not on this scale. You compared the yahg to the Mongols. To the Lombards, too. . . for the habit of using an enemy's skull as a cup." Sam pointed at the female yahg on the screen, who had once more resumed pacing slowly around her small room. "Trouble is, every human civilization that was that way, had one right next door to it that was pretty much peaceful. Maybe a little weaker. So the warlords would ride in, take things over. . . and in a couple of generations, their descendants were pretty much absorbed by the culture that they'd conquered. Maybe the language changed. Maybe a few of the customs." Sam rubbed at his moustache. "Right now, Gandhi himself could be reincarnated on that planet, and there is not one thing he could do that would influence them towards being less aggressive. The entire system is toxic. The entire environment shapes them to being what they are. Hell, they've even bred for aggression, very selectively, for over ten thousand years. You're talking about massive, systemic changes, imposed from the outside, and those hardly ever work."

"Isn't that what Valak's trying to do?" Rel asked, suddenly.

"Yeah, but he's not an outsider, telling the batarians what to do. He's part of their system. Hell, as a noble-caste, he _is_ the system." Sam laced his fingers behind his head, studying the female yahg on the screen.

"So what do you suggest, Sam?" Kasumi asked, dryly. "Take them out of their environment, out of their system, and see what happens?"

Sam snorted. "Hell no. That's the 'reservation' solution, sweetie, and that's just messed up on so many levels, I don't even know where to start."

Lantar shook his head. "We take a handful of young yahg away from their mothers and raise them on a different planet, and what happens next? They won't be accepted by most of galactic society. We try to send them back in as teachers, and they'll be killed on sight by other yahg."

"How about an entire female clan, with their young?" Makur offered, pragmatically. "I can imagine Malla at home rejoicing at the thought of a whole world, and for the price of what? Not killing clan-mates?"

"That's because Malla is far more flexible than she lets on," Siara retorted, swiftly.

"Besides," Seheve said, very quietly, and though her voice was little more than a whisper, it caught everyone's attention, instantly, "are there so many garden planets that the Council has to give, that they would give one to an enemy, when one could not be found for the quarians in three hundred years of wandering? One could not be found for the drell, in eight hundred years of slavery?"

The silence that followed was, again, awkward. Rishayla openly winced, as rare expression from the usually reserved asari. Shepard crossed her arms over her chest, and nodded. "Exactly so. Cohort. . . what I am proposing is not relocating a select population of yahg to a different homeworld or having them share that world with another species. They aren't drell. They aren't krogan. They would wipe out that other species in very short order, or treat them as herd animals, without . . . education." She grimaced. "Also, the ethics of preserving only a handful and leave the others to die are. . . dubious."

"Unless there was no other choice," Rishayla pointed out. "The hanar have claimed that they saved all the drell that they could."

"And yet, I have yet to hear of anyone going to Rakhana to verify that," Shepard replied, dryly. "However, that's a little off-topic. We're not here to resolve the drell question today. We'll handle that tomorrow. But today? Yahg." She exhaled. "So, we can't remove them from the environment or the social structure that enforces their outlook, as Sam has pointed out. That means they pretty much have to stay on Parnack. We can't afford to let them out into space—yes, Dr. Jaworski. You've noted that they will resent that."

Dara let her hand, only half-raised, drop. Shepard continued. "That leaves creating a DMZ of sorts around them. Much more tightly patrolled than the krogan DMZ. One that, in fact, doesn't just prevent them from leaving their system, but from leaving their planet. A long-term, motivated force with the patience to repel any attacks that are made against it and to send broadcasts to the surface explaining, over and over again, _why_ they have been confined, and what they need to do to gain the privilege of leaving their planet." Shepard took a deep breath again. "Effectively, invite them to accept a software update, Cohort. One that will allow them to interact with the rest of galactic society. We're not asking them to stop being hunters. Hell, if they still want to kill and eat each other, I guess that's probably their lookout. But the most generally accepted rule of xenological relations is the old precept of "my roof, my rules." You come into someone else's house. . . their country. . . their planet. . . you accept their social mores and agree to obey their laws. Council law is an overarching set of guidelines, as loose as possible, to allow many species to get along together, and what they do on their own planets, so long as it doesn't affect anyone else. . . is their business."

"And what's to encourage them to accept our ideas?" Kesh asked, sharply.

"For starters, the collapse of their planetary ecology," Shepard replied. "When they're looking at the end of their entire existence, accepting and embracing new ideas may strike them as a good notion. We could offer terraforming assistance that would reverse the desertification of their jungles, the acidification of their oceans, and so on. . . if they demonstrated quantifiable efforts to reduce the violence of their civilization."

Videa Kallox shook her head. "It's a wonderful idea, Commander Shepard, but hardly practical." The turian female's eyes glittered behind her paint. "The Council will never agree to an allocation of resources on that scale. The voters back home _will_ ask what you said they would: why should they waste this kind of money on something that they'll never see the benefits from. That those credits could be better spent on educating our own people, or feeding the homeless, or whatever."

Sam drawled, "The benefit would be, not having yahg in their backyard, eating their kids."

The turian female flipped a hand at him. "Explain that to people in forty years' time," she replied, calmly. "Or twenty years. Even in ten years, I can assure you that memory will have faded. The crisis will not seem as urgent. And the money will seem. . . misspent."

Shepard nodded. "And that's why I don't propose turning over this project to just anyone," she replied. She'd clearly already thought through all of these issues. Beside her, Garrus didn't look surprised as she continued, "Most organic species, other than the Keepers and the rachni, have. . . fairly fragile memories." She paused. "The geth do not. The geth remember everything." She paused again. "They don't get bored with a job. They don't need credits, just energy, which Parnack's star would provide in abundance. Raw materials on the other planets in the system. And as Cohort here has already said, they have a bias against _eliminating_ an inconvenient species." She paused again. "What we do with the yahg is going to set a precedent, folks. I'd like it to be a new precedent, not the same old tired mistakes we've made before. So, that's what I'm going to take to the Council. And I'd like the geth to start coming to consensus on if they'd agree to it or disagree with it, before I go to Bastion."

"And you think that merely assaulting them with vid feeds from space for generations will turn the tide?" Kesh asked, sharply.

Garrus shook his head. "No. They'll never accept solely the word of outsiders. Just as we said the batarians would never accept the word of just the Council species. Valak is our voice inside their system." He paused. "We're hoping that Akkaura here will be out voice inside the yahg system."

_Her voice is not a vortex of black, sucking all life from those around her, as the voice of her sister was. This, I have seen in the memory-song of my mother_, Joy supplied. _This female sings care for her child, care for her mate. She must protect herself and them, before any other, however. She sings. . . self-interest. Survival-songs are strongest in her._

Dara slowly rubbed at her eyes. "And how do you mean to convince her?" she asked Garrus and Shepard. She had a sinking feeling she knew where this was headed.

"Once we let her calm down a little from the interrogation," Shepard said, tightly, "we were going to ask Blasto and Joy and Sky to have a conversation with her. At a distance. Blasto thinks he can reach her through a closed door without her realizing it. She is, however, probably someone resistant to his abilities. . . because they are so closely aligned with her own. He's thus not going to be trying to, well, hypnotize her. Just make her less instinctively resistant."

_Joy!_ Dara's thought was a snap. _You didn't tell me about this!_

_You would have sung yellow-green worry, Mother. I will not be alone in this. But I am already very weary of hearing her dissonance._ Joy did not, in fact, sound thrilled about this. Dara opened her eyes again, and realized her face had gone grim. _Sing peace, Mother. Perhaps we will be able to teach blues and greens to the devourer?_ Joy's voice did not hold much hope in that.

Zhasa leaned across Eli to murmur to Dara, "She's strong. She'll be fine."

"Rachni seem to be sort of immune to domination attempts, anyway," Dempsey pointed out, quietly, his low voice calm and soothing. "They seem to spread it out over the whole hive. Like we saw on Lorek. Stone and Sky, the attempts just plain bounced."

"She's not an adult yet, and she's already done a lot this morning." Dara remained agitated, and Eli gently stroked the back of her neck, calming her a little. He wasn't enjoying the idea any more than she was, but he could see the sense in it.

_Do not fear for my strength._ Joy sounded both certain and wary at the same time. _Let the devourer female be released from her prison, or at least, brought to harmony with the outside air. Let her be shackled by geth and brought to me. Let all hear remember, that I am not only the brood-daughter of Sings-Heartsong and Many Voices, but also of Vengeance-Singer and Sings-Fury. Their voices are not lost. They live on, in me, and all those of my brood._

At that point, Shepard adjourned the meeting, and they all began to file out. "Tall order, bringing the yahg around." Eli assessed.

"Not our job," Dara replied, promptly. "Thank god." She smothered her irritation at Shepard and Garrus for _not_ having talked to her about something that involved Joy. It was irrational. The rachni queen was her daughter, but also not really a child. She was . . . a queen. And, as Dempsey had pointed out, rachni did seem to be somewhat immune to Akkaura's mental commands.

Taking a few mental steps back seemed necessary at this point. A few deep breaths, too. Part of it was human and maternal, and part of it was pure rachni defensiveness, the desire to protect a queen. And either way, she needed to get past it.

Rinus, behind them, snorted. "What do you want to bet I'm going to be asked about my position on the yahg solution by the next reporter I see?"

"No bet," Rel told his brother, amicably. "Question is, what will you _say_, first-brother?"

"That it's not my call, but that I think it's the best one we can make, for the time being. Sit on the yahg while we finish dealing with the batarians." Rinus sounded tired.

"So," Dara said, looking up at Eli as they stepped out of the lab, into the knee-high fresh snow. She was desperate to distract herself from her protective irritation over Joy, and cast about for the first thing that came to mind. "Megafauna. All over Parnack."

"I was just reading an article about that for my paleontology classes last week. . . "

"Yeah. Kind of where I got the idea from," Dara admitted.

"What _are_ the two of you talking about?" Lin asked, knocking snow off his hovercycle.

Eli paused, and Dara grinned internally. He wasn't about to apologize for his brain this time. "Most paleontologists on Earth tend to think that megafauna—supersized animals—tend to be relatively shot-lived, in terms of evolution," Eli replied. "There aren't a lot of car-sized armadillos or giant sloths left on Earth. No cave bears that are six feet tall when they're on all fours, either. The thought is that megafauna evolve when conditions support them—more oxygen in the atmosphere from rich vegetation, but a hot climate gives you enormous dinosaurs, but in mammals, the colder the climate, the larger the animal. Because size lets you retain body heat better." Eli grimaced. "There's also Cope's rule, which factors into that. . . "

"Which states that members of a species that flourish tend to grow larger over time," Dara explained. "Until they hit an upper limit, dictated by environmental conditions and predation."

Eli nodded. "Sometimes, in hot conditions, body size _also_ goes up, as a water conservation tactic. I think that's probably what we're seeing here. That, and prey tends to evolve larger and larger, to avoid predation, and the predators evolve to match them in size. Hence, well, _acrocanth_ and _apaterae_. Cave bears and cave lions and mammoths."

Serana stopped clearing her own bike, and stared at them both. "You're both nuts," she told them, cheerfully. "What has this got to do with anything?"

"Eh, probably nothing," Eli replied, pulling Dara up on his bike behind him, and starting the engine. "Just interesting. Kind of wonder how the whole system got started, and why the hell they all evolved so damned _big_ on that planet."

"Megafauna, other than the dinosaurs, tend to be an evolutionary blip," Dara said, nodding. "It's really rare that a planet's climate stays stable for long enough to sustain them. Technically speaking, dinosaurs roamed Earth for a really long time, but everyone tends to forget that they started out this big." She held her hands about a foot apart. "The biggest dinosaurs lived in the Cretaceous period. That was also the _shortest_ period." 

Serana hopped up on her own bike. "And this all means. . . ?"

Dara shrugged. "Almost everything on the yahg world is super-sized by human standards. Huge plant eaters, easily the size of an _apaterae_, but neither avian nor reptile. . . but on a hothouse of a planet. Huge predators, twice the size of the yahg. The yahg themselves. Everything on that planet should, by what we know, be relatively small. . . except, well, we know they're not."

"I'd love to hear what fossil researchers would be able to dig up from Parnack." Eli said, then shrugged, himself. "Not that they'd be able to work in safety, of course. But. . . they evolved in an extremely stressful environment. And now that that environment is destabilizing, their prey animals and herd animals. .. over time. . . will either shrink or go extinct."

"Probably extinct, at the rate they're going," Dara assessed. She didn't feel even remotely sad at the thought, and that troubled her. She should be able to take the emotional step back, to consider that the yahg could be like the rachni. Something that looked ugly now, but might turn out to be something beautiful and misunderstood, later. But all she could think was _good_ when she considered the possibility of the yahg exterminating themselves. "If they do? I say we re-terraform the planet and give it to the krogan or the rachni or the drell, or, hell, the Keepers for all I know. A species that doesn't mind—shit, in the krogans' case, a species that _needs_ a challenging environment, and who'll appreciate having a new world." She pulled on her helmet. "Sorry. I'm being a short-sighted human today."

Rel snorted, as he finished clearing the snow off his own aircar. "I think we are all equally short-sighted," Seheve murmured. "We cannot help our emotional reactions to the yahg, after having fought so many of them. . . or, in your case, having fought their works. The plagues, for instance."

Dara looked down at the snow. "Yeah."

"Pretty much why the geth are the best ones to take care of this," Lin told them all, calmly. "I trust a judge who's absolutely fair, impartial, and unemotional to evaluate the progress of a species like the yahg. Far more so than I'd trust any of our reactions right now." He gunned the motor. "All right. Enough gloom and doom. Serana, I know I have to drop you off at Kasumi's offices. Anyone else actually have an afternoon off?"

Dara shook her head. "Was planning on spending time with Joy-Singer. She's. . . singing a fair bit of distress right now. The yahg's mind really does cause her discomfort." _Which is why the rachni absolutely could not do what Shepard's asking the geth to do. Listening to dissonance on this level could drive them mad. _

Back in the conference room, the senior Spectres and the Council representatives were packing up to leave. "You always do make a difficult case to argue against, Shepard," Rishayla admitted.

The turian representative, Videa, gave Shepard an assessing look. "I have a question, commander, if you'll permit me. It's a little off-topic, but it is a concern of mine."

Shepard looked up, blinking in surprise. "Sure. Go ahead."

"Wasn't it unwise to go into the field on the space station over Lorek? All of your teams on the station were within, apparently, five seconds of total destruction. This would have resulted in a substantial amount of the command staff of the Spectres, including yourself and Spectre Vakarian, being killed." Kallox folded her hands atop her small briefcase.

Shepard nodded. "It's something I considered before committing to the field, yes. But the truth of the matter is, we had Miroslav Vokaj there. The Butcher of Torfan, the special forces ships that were going to drop ground troops into the cities. We had Jordan Emeric there. The hero of the Skyllian Blitz, who was in charge of a destroyer group dedicated to knocking out ground defenses and pounding military targets." Shepard's lips quirked at the corners. "There isn't a batarian alive today who hasn't heard of at least _one_ of us. Emeric, Vokaj, and Shepard. We needed to be there, and we couldn't be there in token positions. We needed to be doing _exactly_ what we're known for. We needed memory to rise up in the heads of our enemies, and do a good portion of our work for us." She paused. "Sam Jaworski here? He's worked with all three of us."

Videa's head jerked up, and she turned to look at Jaworski then, who touched two fingers to his temple in an ironic salute. "Sam's spent the last five years right here in the Spectre program, but he was with Emeric, pinned down in the Blitz. Sam doesn't make a big deal of it, but Emeric remembers him. In fact, the way Emeric describes it, if you get him drunk enough, is that Sam kept his unit calm, hidden, and then they mounted a counterassault from the batarian flank that left them reeling. Saving hundreds of civilian lives before getting his men back to Emeric's main force. Sam was with Vokaj for the retaliatory strike at Torfan, too."

"I don't like talking about that one, much," Sam commented, dryly. "Let's just say Miroslav really should have been born turian."

Lantar glanced over at him. "How bad?"

"Blood to the ankles of my armor, and three days spent burning the bodies, all right? Let's drop it right there." Sam looked away, his eyes distant, and his face closed, and Lantar simply nodded and thumped the human's shoulder with the side of his fist, lightly.

"All of which," Shepard continued, as if there hadn't been an interruption, "would make Sam a natural choice to take over command in that situation. If Garrus and I die, there's a clear chain of command here, Kallox. Sidonis and Jaworski are next in the chain, with Ylara Alir to serve in an advisory capacity. Since Lantar was with us on the station, it would have fallen on Sam. And in that situation, because Vokaj and Emeric both know him, and he's worked with them before. . . it wouldn't have been ideal. But he'd have gotten the job done." Shepard shrugged. "I don't often get out in the field anymore, but when I do, it's for a damned good reason, Kallox. And I make sure certain precautions are set up beforehand."

The turian female nodded. "Thank you, Commander Shepard. That's actually more of an answer than I'd anticipated." A quick, faint smile. "I appreciate it."

The Council representatives were escorted out, back to their guest rooms, which were in Shepard and Garrus' villa. "Sorry, Sam," Shepard said, as the senior Spectres moved out. "Didn't mean to bring up bad memories. Torfan is a party I missed. And I've always been a little ambivalent about it." She shrugged a little. "Part of me wishes I'd been there. I try pretty hard not to listen to that part of me, though."

Sam's expression was tight. "We went from bunker to bunker on that damned moon. The batarian pirates and raiders had tunneled in there for twenty or thirty years, so it was a rabbit warren of interconnecting passageways. You never knew as you came around a corner if your were about to walk into a machinegun emplacement or step on a mine. The galactic media likes to play up the fact that Vokaj ordered us to fire on surrendering batarians." Sam's eyes had gone glacial. "What the news media doesn't say is that some of those _surrendering_ batarians had ringed themselves with proximity mines. Couple of my buddies moved in to secure surrendering prisoners, and got themselves blown to hell for it." Sam opened the door of an aircar for Kasumi. "Dara's never once asked me if I fired on prisoners at Torfan. The answer is, yeah. I did. 'Cause after the first time, we couldn't take the damn chance again."

Kasumi reached up and touched his face, lightly, and Sam caught her fingers in his, while looking back at Garrus, Lantar, and Shepard. "Not something I'm proud of, Shepard. Be goddamned glad you _weren't_ there."

Shepard watched the pair drive off, and shook her head slightly. "We all carry a lot of scars, Lilu," Garrus reminded her, quietly. "Some of us just wear them a little more openly than the rest." He rubbed a hand along his mandible in reminder. "Just a question of what we learn from them, I guess."

Back at their own house, Dara headed directly for the atrium, where Joy awaited them, and delicately placed a foreleg around her shoulders as Dara slipped her arms around the thorax. "Your shell's gone dull," Dara noted, in surprise and concern.

_I will sing molting song again soon. This carapace confines me. It makes me sing irritation-songs._

"Like an itch you can't scratch, huh?" Eli said, following Dara into the atrium and patting Joy lightly on the shoulder.

_Very much so. You helped my mother with her molting-songs. I have the workers. But still. . . it makes me sing oranges and yellows. A good mood, perhaps, for dealing with this devourer. _

"I still don't like this," Dara muttered, reluctantly, taking a seat on the floor. Joy settled her bulk on the ground, and Dara leaned back against the rachni, and Eli settled in next to her.

"You know what you're going to say to the yahg?" Eli asked Joy.

_Not as yet. I have only had some time to think about what I might sing to her._

Eli nodded, staring off into space. Something had tickled his memory earlier. "You said you were of the brood of Sings-Fury," he said, slowly, pulling Dara into his shoulder. "On that last mission, out dealing with pirates, we had a rachni brood warrior with us, who'd been on Shanxi and Terra Nova. Big damn one, missing an eye from a fight with a yahg that didn't go that well. Bargain-Singer had recalled him to Bastion, where he worked with B-Sec for about six months." Eli smiled faintly. "Everyone in B-Sec just called him Nameless."

_Yes. I have heard your songs of him. But I would hear them again, at your own tempo. I find him interesting._

_You like bedtime stories, don't you, __lia'kaea__?_ The thought was Eli's, layered with an asari endearment, usually used by a parent to a child. _Little fair one._

_I like stories. No matter when they are sung._

Dara smothered a laugh, and went on. "Bargain-Singer didn't want him to stay on Bastion, though," she continued. "He was too locked into memory-song. Convinced that something in it could have saved all the rachni that died in the reactor explosion on Terra Nova. But he knew it was from the part of memory-song that is the dark place in the rachni mind. The time when the darksong destroyers soured your songs."

_Yes._ Joy's song was uneasy at the thought.

"Bargain-Singer reached back for Sings-Fury's harmonies and memories when she laid Nameless' egg," Dara went on, slowly. Piecing it out. "He went to the dark place in memory-song, Joy. He looked in there, and lived his father's memories of the Rachni War, and it didn't taint him. He can look anywhere in there, and the memories do not rise up and cause the dissonance to spread." Dara's lips quirked up. "He found his father's trick, too, in memory-song. Biotics is just the manipulation of gravity, after all, and gravity curves space-time. He's still practicing it. . . but he can move himself. Maybe one other person, now. Pop, pop, pop. Now you see him, now you don't. I'd _love_ to see what he could do, plugged into a brood-queen vessel. If he could just. . . hop. . . a ship somewhere. With no other relay than his own mind."

_That is a __very__ good song,_ Joy agreed. _You named him, did you not, Mother?_

_Yes. He was worthy of a name. Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight._

_Perhaps someday, he will sing to me._

Eli leaned against Joy's bulk, staring up at the windows high above. _So. . . this is what was tickling the back of my mind. If he could look into your memories, couldn't you, in safety? _Unease twinged at him, however. The rachni queen had wiggled her way into his heart, and he _really_ didn't want to see what her death or dissolution would do to Dara.

_And you think that I should sing memory-song to the devourer?_

Dara's voice, out loud, but soft now. "Who else can show someone what the extinction of their entire species is like? Who else can show her the determination of the krogan, first hand? Who else can show her the ferocity of the rachni? And these were just two of the species in Council space, two thousand years ago. You know the discipline of the turians. You know the determination of the humans. You can show her those things, too. They cannot survive, on their one planet, what the rachni endured, spread out over dozens of worlds."

Determination in Joy's voice, a hint of steel. _Yes. I will show her what it means to sing battle with the whole of the galaxy. Even when that galaxy was only three or four species._ Joy's voice grew firmer. _I will sing memory-song to her. I will show her fear in dust and silenced voices. Perhaps that will teach her what we, soured as we were, could not learn until after we had already died._

And thus, eight hours later, at about 20:00, local time, the yahg female finished her decompression, and Cohort entered the chamber once more, this time with two Demolisher class platforms with him. These were a new innovation from the geth manufacturing plants. The height of the average krogan, or between seven-and-a-half to eight feet, each weighed around six hundred pounds, held an eezo core, with kinetic dampeners and stabilizers to allow them to resist some biotic effects. They had originally been designed as a derivative of the Juggernaut platform, intended to fight krogan. However, no krogan had ever entered geth space, and the designs had been scrapped. . . until the yahg war, at which point, the platforms had been put into production, and updated to meet the current threat. Because they were intended for fighting yahg, who were vicious and often innovative opponents, the geth had lodged 1,024 individual programs per platform to enable the platforms to respond and adapt quickly in the field. Each Demolisher was also a walking heavy weapons platform, in the same way that elcor were, strong enough to withstand a rend attack (admittedly, perhaps only the first one, until metal fatigue set in) that would separate a human or a turian's arms from their torso. Each Demolisher unit had been christened with some appropriate name or another by the human, turian, or krogan troops it had worked with; as such, these were named Sledge and Tsunami. *

From Akkaura's perspective, the smaller, weaker metal creature stood between two hulking metal creatures almost her size. . . but which had forearm-mounted weapons, which she did not recognize, and could not, likely, remove. For demonstration purposes, one of them pointed to the chair, made of metal, which was bolted to the room's floor. Then it stomped over, and held its arm to the chair. A metal spike emerged, at high speed, punching through the metal almost without resistance, embedding itself six inches deep for a moment, before retracting. The illustration was completely clear: if she resisted, she would die.

"_You will come with us,_" the smaller mechanical creature instructed in her own language. Eerie voice. Eerie understanding of her words. _"You will not resist. Before we take you from this chamber, however, we think it prudent to show you the final moments of the half-eyed healer designated Vesak R'sal. You have frequently assessed the living-beings of the _Council_ as 'weak.' We would give meat to your mind."_

He gestured, and his embedded omnitool activated the screen on the wall. Akkaura watched, expressionlessly, as the batarian doctor fell under a swarm of small, insect-like creatures. And was not really eaten alive, but simply dissolved by hundreds of angry insects. _"What is this to me?"_ she asked, eventually.

"_This is your fate, if you attempt to end the life of the one who will speak with you."_ The mechanical voice remained dispassionate as ever. The screen blurred for a moment, and the workers clearly crawled the form of a sweet-meat creature, small, weak, and female. . . .becoming living armor. Swarming her. And then, expressionlessly, the female walked out of view of the camera. Followed by hundreds of soldiers and workers, spreading behind her like a living cloak, all scuttling limbs, alien motions, and blue-glowing eyes. Akkaura felt a chill move down her spine. The image was _wrong_. Wrong on many, many levels. Insects on her world were largely poisonous and inimical. Some of them had edible flesh, but they were. . . other. Creeping, vile things to be destroyed, kept away from the younglings until the young were old enough to protect themselves. Even prey animals, if they were covered in insects, would be stinging and biting and killing them. And this prey creature simply moved off, untouched, by the insects.

The metal creatures shackled their prisoner. Fresh, heavy chains, manacles at wrists, elbows, and ankles. Without leverage, strength is useless, and the yahg female had no leverage. The manacles cut into her skin, but she didn't give her captors the satisfaction of seeing her discomfort. She kept her head high, breathing in quick pants as they took her outside, tasting and smelling the air. Cold. Far colder than anything she had ever encountered before, frigid air tearing at her lungs. Night-dark outside. No stars overhead. Concealed by . . . yes. Clouds. Not the dust haze and ash pall that continuously hovered over her homeworld.

White powder on the ground, blanketing the smells, deadening them. No smell of sulfur on the wind, from the fire-mountains that continuously belched out ash and smoke. But. . . plants. Many plants. Vivid, pungent smells from the trees with the long, thin, tooth-like leaves. Like one of the ancestral jungles, only. . . different. Akkaura had only walked in one, once. With Urukhurr, when he'd conquered the tribes on their southern flank. It hadn't been safe for long. But she'd looked up at the ancient, towering trees, and tried to picture living among them . . . and couldn't. The history chants—not really songs, but chants—said that they had all come from those trees. But her mind could not make the leap.

Other smells. Animals. Small, furry things vocalizing in the distance. Deeper bell from a scaled creature on some sort of a leash, at the far end of the street, as her captors bundled her into a vehicle, and she hunched over in the tiny space. Smell of far too many species all at once. All weak. All clutching and clinging to each other, desperate for survival. None of them strong enough to stand on their own.

A different building, this one large and open inside. Many glass windows, fragile, invitation to attack. Smell of water—_much_ water—but heavily saturated with chemicals. Large, rectangular, hand-built lakes in the floor. . . surely, cisterns, and the decorations on the floor of the cisterns, long lines. . . measuring marks, perhaps. Akkaura tried to memorize as much of her surroundings as possible. Tried to reach out for minds around her, and again felt. . . dampened. . . somehow. There was no one within reach, and that odd persistent, rhythmic sound kept pouring through her mind, though when she concentrated on it, it slipped away, like a ringing in her ears.

The mechanical creatures opened a final door, and pushed her into a dark room. Akkaura seethed. She knew she was the smallest of her tribe, only eight _yara_ in height. Still, she hadn't been shoved or pushed in years, and it galled her. She had worked, hard, to be invisible, in some ways. To be feared, on others. Overlooked by the females above her, and the terror of the males that Urukhurr had her . . . adjust. Subtle pressure on the mind, where necessary. Fear, when that didn't work. Or, at his command, she'd lock the males' limbs in place and hold them there while his lieutenants tortured them. For a male to hold out, without moving, accepting the pain of his chief's reprimand, was a path to respect. It was how all males were brought from childhood to adulthood, in rites that the females were not permitted to partake in, but that Urukhurr had told her about, late at night, after they'd mated. Standing still and accepting the pain as older males came by. Hitting with fists. Knotted ropes. Pieces of board. Some males didn't survive the passage into adulthood. The ones who weren't considered fit, anyway. Every female gave male children up as dead when they were weaned, and given to the males to raise. It did no good to form an attachment. They were dead the moment they were born. If one survived and rose to second-spear, first-spear, or leader? The only appropriate response was amazement.

Still, the words had mattered. Had told her that he valued her. She was quite sure that the secrets of the males were not entrusted to many females—if any. He could be killed for speaking them, so she ensured that no one knew what she knew.

She could smell something in the darkness. Alien musks. She'd smelled similar scents before, but she couldn't place them, not immediately. Instinct screamed at the back of her mind, _alien/other/threat, kill/defend/run!_

With the door closed behind her, and two of the machine things in the room with her, still holding her arms, running wasn't an option. Fighting wasn't an option. That left her mind. She reached out, listening with every sense. . . and found minds. Impenetrable. _Strong_. She hissed as the lights came up, and she saw four creatures in front of her. Many limbed. Absolutely alien. Inimical. Threat reactions began to boil up from her brainstem again, charging her body with adrenaline. _Fight! Fight! Fight and flee!_

The smaller ones, she had seen before, in the tunnels on the world the half-eyed had called Lorek. . . barren desert wasteland, almost like home, but it didn't have the lethal beauty of her homeworld's deserts. No black rock fire-mountains, belching out fury from the world's heart, no mazes of cracked black glass and porous pumice, stretching for miles in every direction, no mountains so sharp and angular that they looked as if they could cut the sky. No, the world of the half-eyed had been bland and brown; no fit land for a hunter.

The memories flickered before her eyes, taking only moments, as she stared at the creatures. She had seen those iridescent blue eyes before, and knew that they could see right through her, to her core. They weren't half-eyed. They weren't quarter-eyed. They could _see,_ and see truly. Akkaura felt almost. . . hypnotized. . . and tried to shake it off. These weren't gods. They were just. . . creatures. Prey, surely.

Three of the creatures were almost her height, and probably bulked as much. The larger one, however, was the height of a male of her kind, though not quite as tall as Urukhurr, though the creature surely massed more. All of the others. . pulled back from it. _It is dominant to them. What, will they feed me to their pet? Will they show their contempt for me by letting my meat be wasted so?_

_No._ The voice was in her mind, and it was a storm. It didn't speak in any language that Akkaura knew, though she'd learned enough of the half-eyed's language and the mumbling, hissing language called 'galactic' to understand the basic thoughts of the prey species when she heard them speak. There were _sounds_ with the words, noises, trills like birdsong in the jungle, and Akkaura had no _word_ for this, but it had rhythm, like a history-chant, too. _We do not eat the bodies of singers. Even dissonant ones. That is your song, not ours._ Emotions. Layers of them. Colors, too. Overwhelming, really. Scents, even. Anger, easily recognizable, red and black with a hint of sulfur smell. Hints of contempt, a vinegary twinge at her nostrils. And. . . other things. Unrecognizable. Flecks of white in the voice in her mind, streamers of violet. Violet smelled like. . . her father-leader's blood, when they'd gone out to greet Urukhurr, and he'd had them all lap up the last pools of it from the ground. All that remained. To seal the females and the younglings to him.

"What _are_ you?" she demanded. The memory was too fresh suddenly, too clear. There was _regret_ in the memory, sorrow at the loss, but she couldn't _think_ that way. Sorrow and regret were weaknesses. Her father-leader might have given her life, might have protected the tribe for close to thirty years, but he had fallen, as all leaders did, and to mourn them was to court being killed in turn by those who suspected your loyalty. So she had not mourned. Not with brother-leader Urukhurr there, who valued her far more than father-leader ever had. But she had sometimes wondered if _Urukhurr_ mourned.

Sometimes.

_I am Joy-Singer. I am queen of all who are of the Singing Planet, here on this planet of violet skies. This place you are in, is subject to Truth-Singer, Spectre Queen. These are my brood-warriors. You have heard their battle-songs before. Sings-to-the-Sky, Spectre and favored mate of Life-Singer, queen of queens. _A flicker, and Akkaura suddenly saw a beast twice the size of this creature before her, large enough to fill this entire room. _Sings-to-the-Stone, Spectre. Sings-of-Glory, Spectre, favored warrior of silent-singer, Question-Singer. _A flicker of meaning; an ephemeral creature, made of light and shadow, quarter-eyed, but crafted of electrons and information. Akkaura could not even begin to understand what she was looking at. The creature of light and shadow looked like a sweet-meat and a poison-meat _at the same time_ and yet, wasn't even flesh? A not-thing, even more so than the metal creatures that guarded her? The voice spoke again. _Do not sing resistance. I am the brood-daughter of Vengeance-Singer and Sings-Fury. I have memory-songs that I will share with you. You will hear their songs, devourer. You will hear and see what it is to face the death of all you know. And this was two thousand years ago, when my egg was lain. When there were only two species in the Council, and the krogan were first brought to the stars. _

Images then. Vivid and fraught. Overwhelming. _Krogan destroyers, coming to the planet of smoking rock. Hives tunneled under the ancient volcanoes. Lava in furrows that ran for miles between blackened plates of earth_. Akkaura recognized something of this place. . . it was like home, only. . . more so._ Many-legged, many-eyed creatures rising up from the ground to fight the krogan-destroyers. Warping the krogans' armor with their minds, rending its very materials. Shattering their breathing apparatuses . . . and forcing even a hardy krogan to breathe sulfur dioxide dispersed in carbon monoxide gas? Their lungs burned, filled with liquid, and even krogan learned death-songs on this world. Hundreds of them were wrapped, struggling, in webs of sticky silk, as the rachni encased them, and then ripped away the breather masks. Letting them die slowly. As a warning to the destroyers, the invaders, who would dare follow after them: This planet is the place of our hive-songs. Come no further, or perish as these did._

_It wasn't much of a world, Habitable by rachni standards; a total loss by the standards of almost every other species. Ten percent oxygen in the air was all they really needed. But the krogan pursued them, undeterred, into the burrows. Used flamethrowers under the mountains. Marching. Inexorably. As many of them, and as quick-breeding as the rachni themselves. Brood-warriors used shockwaves through the earth. Collapsed tunnels atop the krogan. Tightened a defensive ring around the queen. . . and finally managed to slow the krogan long enough to get Vengeance-Singer to her ship. Sings-Fury was the last to leave, plunging a sharp chelicerae directly through a krogan body, piercing two of the hearts, and then spitting acid into the body to prevent the destroyer from healing, before he leaped to the hatchway of the crystalline ship, and scuttled through, just in time to see more destroyers boiling through the last tunnel into the queen's old lair. _

_The hive was lost. It was time to retreat._

_The Singing Planet. Last stand against the krogan and the cold-song asari. The asari ships were swarming the sky, and the rachni's crystal ships were largely using just their acidic missiles. Slow-acting. Not as efficient, but so few queens were left. The krogan were being dropped on the surface in the hundreds of thousands by the cold-song asari and the cold-song salarians, and each of them stomped through the tunnels. Sings-Fury and his fellow warriors met them there. Pulled stasis fields around them, detonated those fields with the rending force of a warp. Backed up, every step taken grudgingly. Knowing that every step was a defeat. _

_Last stand after last stand after last stand. Voice after voice in the memory-strands ending. Going silent. Perspectives cut off in remorseless flame. The ceilings of the hives crashing down under the force of orbital attacks. Death-song. Death-song- Death-Song. Vengeance-Singer took the last memories of Sings-Fury, and scuttled into her ship, one last time. She was to flee the Singing Planet. Find a new home for the hive. One far from the krogan destroyers, the cold-song asari, the cold-song salarians. Asari who had come to a hive world! Had built atop the ground! Had spread poison to destroy poison-song insects, pests! Sour-notes of the darksong destroyers, whispering in every thought had placed a choke-chain of fear, crippling and dire, around the rachni's minds. They had not reached out. They had not attempted negotiation-song. They only knew that all other species were there to attack them. Destroy them. Would see them as poison-song. And the sour yellow note had not permitted them to think anything else._

_And so, Vengeance-Singer fled, with the last vessels of the rachni fleet. . . and with dozens of asari and salarian ships in pursuit. She laid her last clutch. . . and the memories died there._

_The next memory was the confusion of awakening, alien face looking at her in bewilderment, human-song mind, strong but gentle, loving but fierce, temperamental but vulnerable, a mind to reach out and touch, memories to pore through, and. . . realization, filtered through, over days of coming to terms with brood-memory and brood-mother memory. For two thousand years, the rachni had not existed until the human Lilitu Shepard had released Life-Singer from the cold-stone lab on the planet of ice and snows._

_Every single rachni had been wiped out. Without exception. All had died in pain and in fear. At the hands of just three races in Council space. There were now eleven._

_And we are one of those species._ The queen's voice sounded like steel, tang of red-hot metal in the air for a moment. _Do you believe that your people can match songs with us? With __all__ of us?_

Akkaura trembled. It was one thing to be told that a species had died. It was another thing, entirely, to experience every death as if it were first-hand. "You. . . you were weak. . . "

_No. We were alone. We are not alone now. And never will be again. Go now, and consider our songs. I have sung to you all that I have to sing._

Joy moved out of the room, her brood-warriors flanking her. Keeping their bodies between her and the yahg female. Outside, Blasto hovered near. "You did not need this one's aid, young queen," the hanar remarked. "You were quite convincing without any assistance at all."

_Your assistance is always welcome, Sings-Peace._ Joy felt weariness fill her song, and she did not look forward to climbing up into a flatbed truck and being transported back to the closest entrance into the underground tunnels, and the mile or so of crawling required to get to her current, small-scale lair.. _Warriors, please take me to the hive of my mother and father instead? I would sing-gratitude. _

_As you sing,_ Sky replied, immediately, and with blue-green approval. He understood, perhaps more than the younger warriors did, that the songs of Sings-Heartsong and Many-Voices helped Joy. _Sings-Heartsong has sung worry all this time for you. She will rejoice to see you unharmed._

_She can hear my songs now. I can hear hers._ But there was that in Joy that could not be denied. She needed to be with her hive, her human hive, and that required contact and closeness, more than just merely hearing and being heard. And thus, she endured being bounced around on the truck, weaving between the trees on the track that was slowly being worn through the forest to her human parents' hive, and pulled herself, carefully, though the front door. She knew her ability to enter and exit in this way would come to an end, probably in the next three months. Joy's carapace pinched and constrained her, and she would probably put on a foot of height, maybe even two, when she molted in the next day or two. She would be eating constantly and ravenously, and would likely molt four or five more times before early summer. . . and then she would reach maturity.

In the house, Many Voices and Sings-Heartsong greeted her. Wrapped their arms around her, and took her to the atrium, where there was little that she could break. And then they just sat with her, as she desperately needed them to do. Let her listen to songs that weren't darkness and rage and despair. And when the workers boiled up from below to start removing her old, dull carapace, the humans stayed with her, enduring the strangeness in order to help her endure the discomfort.

**Author's note:** _Demolishers aren't canonical, and they aren't my idea. Eleventh Messenger gets full credit for them, as he's developed them extensively in forum RP. Since he writes the best geth I've ever seen, and most of his geth have become head canon for me. . . I'm using them, with permission. His current RP character is a Demolisher/CROWD platform named Siege. I'm really looking forward to when he has more time, and can actually write stories from geth POV._

**Narayana, Mindoir, June 11, 2197**

The next day, Sunday, June 11, Lantar, in no particularly good mood, took Narayana from the villa, and drove her further on base, to what looked like a small laboratory building. "You don't have to do this," her adoptive father told Nara, for the third or fourth time. She knew from his scowl that this was _probably_ protection-anger.

"Actually, yes. I think I do have to do this." She couldn't quite call Lantar _Father_ or _Pada._ _Daddy_ was always going to be Mordin Solus. But she could use the respectful forms of address in turian as well as any of the other children in the Sidonis household. "Technically, in salarian culture, they are my responsibility now."

"We could just have that AI talk to them," Lantar muttered, his fingers gripping the wheel so tightly, that when he pulled them away, the salarian girl could see talon marks scored through the covering material.

Nara patted her omnitool. "Yana gets to retire from all of that. She and I talked, and we agreed that this is my job now. She destroyed our bad mother, or at least, the ghost of her. I get to try to put the pieces back together. With. . . a lot of help, probably."

Lantar brought the groundcar to a halt, and killed the ignition. He moved around to help her untangle herself from the seatbelts—not that she really needed the help, but he was in the habit, from Caelia and the twins, and, well, Nara was technically younger than Caelia. Even though they'd played together in preschool, briefly. Nara knew that Caelia was a little jealous of her; she was practically a grownup already, in Caelia's eyes, and didn't get treated like a _baby_ anymore. Which was all well and good, except that Narayana would really rather _not_ have to do what she was about to do. She'd rather go hide in the Sidonis household's bathtub, pull the curtain in place, and never, ever come up for air again. But she really was the only one who could do what needed doing.

So Narayana slipped one small hand into Lantar's big one, and got out of the car. She was bundled up in a human coat and human mittens and a scarf and a hat and boots against the cold, but she felt a wave of drowsiness hit her as she stepped out into the cold, anyway. Her body reminded her, instantly, that she needed to return to the vehicle, or get into a building, post-haste, if she didn't want to lose consciousness with the warmth. Her steps were thus a little faster than usual as she half-ran up the stairs and into the building, matching Lantar's long strides as best she could.

She knew there had been a prolonged debate about the safety of what she wanted to do. Lantar, Garrus, Commander Shepard, and Mr. Jaworski had argued about this for several weeks, in fact. All of them wished that seeing her on a screen would be enough; certainly, the Lystheni had been willing to follow Dalatrass Xala, even after her death, through an AI's avatar. But accepting a new dalatrass might be something very different indeed. Lantar had allowed Nara to listen in on the conversation from a comm panel, as they'd interviewed Mordin Alesh, Daddy's nephew. . . her _cousin_. . . to find out what he thought about it. "I don't know," Alesh had replied, sounding distraught. "Families have schismed before. It usually happens when two dalatrasses vie for control of the same clan. In which cases, the female with the closer physical presence usually wins."

"So, we're saying that she does need to be physically present," Shepard had assessed. "The female command-voice isn't going to be enough just over a screen, because she's new. Hasn't been imprinted on them?"

Alesh rocked a hand back and forth. "I don't know. I'm not a psychiatric expert, unfortunately. But I can be there to help evaluate their body language and tell you when I think they're about to do anything. . . desperate." His expression on the screen had gone grim. "I'd prefer to be in the room, too. She _is_ my cousin. Even if Mordin Solus was a mad genius and fool at once to refuse to turn her over to our clan's females to raise."

Nara hadn't known what to feel about that. She liked cousin Alesh, but she didn't like him calling her Daddy mad or a fool. Genius was acceptable, however. She knew that Daddy had liked him. . . respected him. . . but had not trusted Alesh enough to allow him to take custody of her. So everything Alesh said, she took, as Ellie would say, with a grain of salt. _Though what salt has to do with truth, I do not understand._

Inside, she and Lantar went through two or three guard posts, and Nara climbed into an environmental suit for the first time in her life. "I feel like a volus," she admitted, with a giggle.

"Close." Lantar's voice resounded in her ear, inside the helmet. He had put on his Spectre armor, scary and black and faceless, and he seemed even taller than usual in it. Nara shrank back a little. Daddy had never worn his armor around her. But Lantar put out his hand again, and she took it, glove against glove, and they passed through an airlock. "We've recommended hyperbaric chambers for all maximum security prisons in Council space. For extremely violent prisoners, whom the guards wouldn't be interacting with, other than in full armor anyway. The cost will probably prove prohibitive, but there are a number of cases Garrus and I worked back in the day, involving murderers that probably deserve their fate if they tried to escape one of these."

The airlock finished cycling, and Lantar moved forward, stepping in front of her. This blocked her first view of the Lystheni prisoners, and blocked their view of her. "Back against the wall," Lantar growled. "Hands where I can see them. And, just so you're aware, the instant you try _anything_, the atmosphere in this room will be vented, and you two will pop like balloons." Lantar's voice rasped over Nara's skin. She'd never seen him in full threat mode before. Under the helmet, his crest was probably flushed blue and bristling, the mandibles gaping wide. She knew the physicality from her textbooks, but she had never seen it. Never heard the snarl so pronounced in his voice.

The two Lystheni backed up. She knew their internal weapons supplies had been removed, the ammunition reservoirs drained in the same surgical procedures that had removed the nozzles that would allow them to disperse cryogenic compounds or flames. Nara had read over the reports, puzzling out the harder words with Dr. Abrams' and Dara's help, and had cringed. Both males had had several organs replaced with cybernetic equivalents. Not for reasons of disease, but for reasons of. . . choice. Trying to extend their lives, apparently. That, she could _understand_. "Lantar." She paused. _"Pada_. Let me see them, please."

Lantar slowly, grudgingly, moved to the side. Still keeping his body partially between her and them. Narayana watched the Lystheni males' eyes widen as they suddenly understood what they were looking at, and said, sharply, "Listen to me!" It was the command voice, the rude voice, and they both stopped in mid-motion, just as Kirrahe had, when he'd _asked_ her to use the rude voice on him.

But these males hadn't asked for it. And Narayana suspected that her Daddy would be very disappointed in her, if any part of him was still around to approve or disapprove, other than in her own mind, if she did nothing but boss the two males around and expect them to obey. _That isn't why we have minds and reason_, she could almost hear him telling her. She nodded, unconsciously, and went on, in salarian. Grunts and clicks and chirps. _"I am Mordin-Sidonis Narayana. Daughter of Dalatrass Xala of the Lystheni and Mordin Solus. I am your rightful dalatrass, after the third and final death of my mother. Do you accept the evidence of your own eyes and ears? Do you accept who and what I am?"_ Not the rude voice. Just. . . words.

Words could move mountains on their own. Daddy had always told her about Shepard speaking on Tali'Zorah's behalf at her trial. She'd watched the proceedings at the _tal'mae_ court trial months ago, mesmerized by what words alone could do.

One of the males, still holding his hands up, cautiously, replied, _"I . . . know what you sound like. . . but you could be any female. . . "_

"_Yes, because the dalatrasses are going to let a young female away from Sur'Kesh or Mannovai just to talk to you,"_ Nara replied, quickly and tartly. _"Just to try to deceive you, when, if they wanted to control you, all they'd need to do is send an adult female of any clan they chose to talk to you. She'd use the command voice, and you'd have no choice, in the end, to obey. To tell her anything she wanted. You might try to resist, but you know that Xala . .. my mother. . . is dead. Truly dead. Your clan is broken. Except. . . through me. . . . it might live."_ She paused; she'd been speaking very quickly, and it had been a relief to be able to do so. Of all the people she knew, only the salarian children at school and Kirrahe Orlan and Mordin Alesh could keep up with her, and the salarian boys at school were _still_ terrified of her. Even after five, almost six years. _"Do you want your clan to live on? Answer me."_

Their eyes blinked rapidly. _"Yes. Of course we do."_ That, from the second male. _"But at what cost?"_

"_There will be changes. I will not accept the clan as it has always gone on. You have done many great things. You have uncovered many secrets of the past, and unlocked many technologies that others may bring to . . . better use. . . than to which they have already been put. But my father taught me that science must be practiced with ethics. With an eye towards ramifications, always. Your leaders have not practiced science with ethics. This will end. Now."_ Still not command voice. She didn't want to use it. "_You will tell me where the rest of your brothers still hide. You will give me their comm codes and any other information that I need to contact them."_

"_Why?"_ The second male's expression shifted, became disbelieving. _"So that they can be put on trial? Executed?"_

"_If they have committed crimes? If they were responsible for the chipping technology, or employed it, then __yes__!"_ Nara's voice shook. _"If they turn themselves in, they __might__ get a reduced sentence, for obeying the will of their dalatrass. If they work towards developing technology that would remove the chips, developing medical tech that could reverse the brain damage in some of the lobotomized biotics? If they make the galaxy a better place for all? Maybe when they die, they'll find a different place on the Wheel."_

"_I think they should stay on the run. We've never aspired to death or dying well. . . female."_ It was not 'mother-of-all,' but one step down from that; respect, but not acknowledging her as clan-leader.

Nara nodded. She'd sat in a room with Lantar and Garrus and Mr. Jaworski and Commander Shepard, and had tried different arguments on them for a few hours, and this was almost to the word what Mr. Jaworski had said that the Lystheni would say. _They're not going to change eight hundred years of tradition just 'cause you say so, Nara,_ Mr. Jaworski had told her. _But if you make logical arguments, maybe make some kind of emotional connection with them, you might plant some seeds that'll grow. 'Bout the best we can hope for._ _Seeds grow, after all._

He'd told her she'd have to find something in herself that agreed with the Lystheni. Even a little bit. She couldn't just preach at them what she believed, and expect them to accept it blindly. Not unless she wanted to use the rude voice, and even then, they'd hate her for it. But finding something in common with them was possibly the hardest thing she'd ever had to do. Part of her _hated_ them. Hated what they'd done. Creating the chipping technology. . . well, technology was neither good nor bad, as he father had told her. It was what people used it for that was good or evil. Chips that let biotics connect to machines safely and effectively, augmenting their abilities, could have been a wonderful thing.

Except they'd lobotomized people and turned them into the machines, rather than giving them control of the machines.

Nara pushed the thoughts aside. _"You think I don't understand? I didn't want my father to die. I didn't understand that that's what was happening at the time."_ Her throat clenched, and suddenly, she had a very hard time talking. _"I just knew that he was old and sick. When I realized that he'd left me, I was angry at him, but I still loved him. And there hasn't been a day since then that I haven't wished that he were still here. So I could __talk__ to him. There was still so much he could have __done__."_ That was almost a wail of protest, and she saw their heads jerk up. Saw Lantar's, too. Nara took a breath to steady herself. "_A needless death __is__ a waste. Every death is a tragedy. But . . . Dalatrass Xala. . . "_ Lantar had been fairly specific in his suggestion not to blame the males directly; _level blame now, at them, and you'll create resentment_, he'd said. . . "_was so eager to avoid death, that she put hundreds, thousands of lives on the line to save her own. I'm not like that. You don't have to be like that, either."_

The males stared at her, blinking rapidly. _"There's a human saying. If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is,"_ the second male finally told her, his eyes narrowed. _"You come along, you're our new dalatrass, you want us to turn over comm codes and encryption for the rest of our brothers, and we'll all probably go to prison or worse, but we'll have the satisfaction of knowing it's all letting you sleep well at night. . . young female?"_

Nara felt a hot rush of anger, and choked down her first three thoughts before she said them. After a moment of silence—no more than a second, really; she _was_ a salarian, after all—she said, hotly, _"Let me explain this to you very simply. You can do what I'm asking you to do. It's the right thing to do __and__ it's in your own best interests. Those of you who were least involved in all of Xala's plots might even have a chance to be a part of __my__ clan."_ Nara swallowed. She didn't want to promise that. Even remotely. But she had to offer _something_. And a dalatrass' job was to protect her clan and see to its continuance. "Those of you who don't do what I ask?" she went on, in galactic. "Who don't turn themselves in? Well, there can't be many of you left. And the Spectres will continue to look for you for the next fifty years. After that, there won't be a point. As you yourselves have noted, we salarians aren't precisely long-lived. And without a dalatrass, the Lystheni won't continue. I'm the only future you have. And the Spectres, if you make them search for your brothers? Are going to be _angry_." She paused. "I'm not ordering. I'm giving you the choice. You have until morning." Nara shrugged. "Plenty of time for a salarian to see what's logical, isn't it?"

She turned and walked back into the airlock, and Lantar backed up, following her, and then tabbed the hatch closed. "Did I do it right?" Nara asked, as the air began to cycle back out again. "I tried to remember everything you and Mr. Jaworski and Commander Shepard said, but it was kind of hard." Her voice held a forlorn note. "I don't think they took me very seriously."

Lantar put a hand on her thin shoulders. "The point was to give them alternatives to resistance. Before, they had resistance until death. Plain and simple. Now, they have an alternative. Alternatives. . . let the mind wander. Let people explore. They'll come around. . . eventually. Might not have been a good idea to put the time demand in there, but. . . " 

"Mordin Alesh suggested it," Nara told him, looking down at her booted toes.

"Eh, he'd know better than I do. Salarians just seem so impatient sometimes."

"Hasty?"

"Yes. And I'm turian. Imagine what we all look like to an elcor. Our voices probably sound like birds chirping and twittering at them. Or maybe those 'chipmunks' from that two hundred year old recording Ellie loves to play around Christmas."

Narayana blinked. She wouldn't have thought it, but it almost sounded as if Lantar were trying to make her laugh. "It's all right," she told him as the doors cycled open, and she popped her helmet off with a sigh of relief. "By morning, they'll have made their decision, one way or another, and I'll either feel worse or feel better. Or, more likely, I'll feel both ways at the same time, either way." She couldn't keep the glumness out of her voice.

"Welcome to the adult world," Lantar told her, his expression. . . sad? No. Regretful, Narayana decided. "A lot earlier than any of us wanted it to be for you."

Her omnitool chirped, and Nara risked a glance down. Yana had been listening in, of course; she'd given the AI full permission to do so. _I realize that binary states are usually impossible for organics to achieve, but how can you be both/neither at the same time? That doesn't make sense!_

She palmed the omnitool's touchpad as she finished getting out of the suit and readjusted the straps on her wrist. _It's complicated. But absolutely possible. Like being relieved and guilty at the same time. Or happy and sad at once. _

_I don't think I'm ever going to understand that. _

_Maybe you will, someday._ Narayana _liked_ having Yana around. Yana was just different enough that she wasn't exactly like Nara. They frequently disagreed on topics. And Yana had spent her 'childhood' literally hooked up to the extranet. Yana knew _far_ more about many, many things than Narayana did. Oh, her access to electronic warfare suites had been cut off, and her hacking algorithms had been removed, but Yana still was more _worldly_ than Nara was. . . and conversely, also far more childlike. She acted a year or two younger than Nara—unsurprisingly, because she had been based on Nara's personality of almost a year ago—but had a cold, pragmatic streak that sometimes startled Nara. Such as when Nara, at school, had caught some of the younger asari children taunting Sisu for being a 'freak.' Yana's advice on her wrist had been brutally direct: _Take video of it. Send it to __all__ of their parents. Spectre Alir. And the teachers. And once you hit 'send,' get in there and take Sisu's hand and walk him out of there. The asari might be twice your age, but they're half your maturity. You're __older than they are__. Use it._

Of course, the situation had evolved rapidly, even by salarian standards from that point.

Caelia hadn't taken much time to make a decision, herself. She'd gone flying at a full run off the smaller children's playground, and a full run for the hybrid girl was close to that of a turian child's of comparable age and side. Nara generally sat, reading, at recess, with the smaller children, simply because she was physically smaller than most of the other kids her age, other than the male salarians, whom she was slightly larger then. Nara had tracked Caelia with her eyes as she sprinted onto the bigger kid's playground, straight into the middle of the handball game, and had grabbed Madison Dempsey and Kaius Vakarian both by the arms. Bypassing every teacher there, too, in an implicit criticism of the teacher currently watching the smaller playground—an asari, who'd glanced once or twice over at the ring of children around Sisu, but who wasn't stepping in.

In the time it took Caelia to come back with reinforcements, Narayana had recorded three minutes of the taunts. . . and Sisu had finally lost his temper and shoved one of the asari ringing him to the ground. The female asari hit the ground, bottom-first, and set up wailing, while the other four girls had closed in to grab Sisu by the scalp tentacles and pull, while trying to shove the boy to the ground, all while setting up a wail of "He pushed Naria! He pushed her!"

The teacher's attention finally locked in on the little group, and the adult had started to move in. Nara had been ready to hit _send_, which was when Madison Dempsey and Kaius Vakarian had come running across the playground, full speed, Caelia and Amara trailing along behind _both_. Kaius had turian speed and much longer legs than Caelia at the moment, and Madison. . . well, Madison had military grade biotic implants and training. He periodically fell behind Kaius, and would then make up the ground in a blur, passing the hybrid boy. Madison skidded to a halt near the kindergarteners with a spray of sand, and Kaius had pulled in next to him, not even breathing hard. . . .and then they'd both started untangling the fight. Pulling the girls off of Sisu, where they'd pushed him to the ground, too.

Sisu had been stepping away, Kaius' hand on his shoulder, when one more comment—"_You're a freak, a not-she, you should never have been born!"_ and Sisu had leaped forward, tears streaming down his face, shouting, _"You take that back! You take that __back__!"_ and hit the taunting child in the face, drawing blood. Kaius had yanked Sisu back, and Madison did. . . something. . . . and all the asari girls backed off. Instantly.

"What did he do?" Nara demanded as Amara came in at her side, grinning.

"Madison put up his barrier. And he let them see him do it. For an asari, that's like saying he's ready to fight." Amara bounced up and down on her toes. "Like saying his knife is Sisu's, if Sisu has need of it. Madison's really been practicing his barrier, too. He couldn't do it at all at first, and now. . . wow." Amara's eyes were half-closed, a little sharp-toothed grin peeking through her full human lips.

"You do realize that he's going to go off to the human Academy or something in four years and probably will never think of you again, right?" Nara couldn't help the pragmatic streak. "And he's probably embarrassed by the way you drool over him."

"I do not drool! Besides, it's his fault for being the strongest male biotic I know who isn't, well, his dad or Fors." Amara paused. "You're one to talk. At least Madison isn't a grownup. Like _Kirrahe_."

"Kirrahe is only five years older than I am, that's only a year older than Madison is older than you. And I don't drool, either!"

"You're _salarians_. That's like saying something in _varren years._" Amara paused. "Wait. Is that thing still recording?"

"Oh. . . _s'kak_." Nara stared at her omnitool in horror. "Yana! Fix it before I send it, please!"

_So you want the points between 3:11 and 3:45 expunged from the record and for there to be no noticeable jump in people's positions as the teacher arrives?_ Yana's words scrolled across the screen.

"Yes, yes!" Nara looked up hastily, and verified that yes, the teacher _had_ finally arrived on-scene. . . and was handing out detention slips. Had given _Sisu_ detention for fighting. Had given Kaius, Madison, and _Amara_ detention for being on the wrong playground. Amara looked furious at this. Even little Caelia had detention for going to the big kids' playground.

And that's when Narayana had hit 'send.'

Lantar and Ellie were home. Ylara was on-planet. Lilitu Shepard and Garrus Vakarian was on-planet. James Dempsey was on-planet. Narayana, from her seat in the classroom, could see all of their vehicles arriving at the school about an hour later. About thirty minutes after _that_, five more vehicles arrived, and various asari first-mothers got out, in some degree of haste, with tight, embarrassed expressions on their faces. Then the intercom paged her out of class. Kaius. Madison. Caelia. Sisu. All five asari girls. They all got to sit in the waiting room, and were called in, one by one. The silence in that waiting room was somewhat . . . intense. Resentful, burning glances from some of the girls. Two of them were already in tears. They _knew_ they'd done wrong, but they'd been caught up in the joy of being approved of by their peers, Narayana decided.

The school principal was a salarian male, a theoretical physicist who'd gotten involved in the school, initially, by coaching its first handball team, and had realized that teaching youngsters actually gave him great joy. Most of his afternoons were spent in his office at the school, still working out theorems and equations, in between juggling the budget; the sign on his door, in salarian, commented that string theory had _nothing_ on school finance.

Nara had waited until it was her turn, and walked in. Glanced at the various adults in the room's stony expressions, and stood, as the principal asked her, a little nervously, "Da—Narayana. If I could ask you, why did you stand there, taping the incident, rather than reporting it to the yard-duty teacher?"

"Because this wasn't the first time it's happened," Narayana replied, glancing at the teacher in question, but buoyed by Lantar and Ellie's presence. "Yana told me evidence would be better, in this case. She said, 'Vid, or it didn't happen.'"

There was a somewhat strangled sound from Ellie, who covered her mouth with one hand, for some reason. Lantar looked up at the ceiling, briefly, and shook his head. Dempsey muttered, "And you wondered if it would be dangerous to give her a playmate who was primarily raised on the extranet?"

The principal sighed. "How many times before would you estimate that this has occurred?"

Narayana blinked. "One of the drell children would be a more accurate witness. I would estimate that it happens two or three times a week, though Sisu usually doesn't fight back. I think he finally had enough today." She hesitated. "It had even occurred before we all were sent to the secure, ah, school. Kaius routinely intervened at that time, because he and Amara were currently on the 'smaller children' playground at that point. He frequently reminded the asari students that if they picked on everyone who was 'different' at _this_ school, they'd shortly have no friends left."

All of the adults in the room responded to that; she could see Garrus and Lilitu smile, and Garrus murmured, quietly, "That's my first-son." His tone held pride. Lantar and Ellie traded resigned expressions; Ylara nodded, her eyes glittering. Dempsey shrugged and nodded. The various asari parents, however, looked even more embarrassed than before, if such a thing were possible.

"Thank you, Narayana. One more question. If you could do anything differently, what would you do now?"

Nara considered it. "Yana said I was younger than the asari children, but that they were acting half my age. She said I should pull _their_ scalp tentacles and see how _they_ liked it. I told her no. But I kind of wish I'd taken the vid earlier."

"Thank you, Narayana. You're not in trouble, and you can go back to class."

As she'd left, she'd heard Ylara's quiet, forceful voice as the asari had commented, "I assume that you will be speaking to your daughters? Because if there is ever a repetition of this incident, I will speak to them myself. And neither you nor they will appreciate that."

And as Nara had gone back out through the waiting room, she'd stopped to give Sisu a hug. Something she'd learned from Ellie and Caelia and Emily and Tacitus. Sisu hugged her back, tightly, skin shockingly warm, as all other species tended to be. . . and Narayana had headed back to her classroom, wondering if the teacher was going to be angry. If Caelia and Sisu would have to go back to her classroom—although the little kids, like all the other classrooms, had teachers who rotated through.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, detention had been cancelled for the children who'd intervened to stop the fight. No detention for Sisu, although he was, apparently, told that it was unwise to give the first punch, and was given a token punishment for being involved. "Don't know what they _want_ him to do," Madison had commented as they all took the shuttle back up to the base. "The other kids had him ringed. What, you're supposed to wait till one of them picks up a rock or something?" He shook his head. "I went to public schools long before I went to Phillips-Exeter. I know you're not _supposed_ to fight. I know there are all these 'no tolerance' rules. But sometimes you also have to stand up for yourself."

At the Sidonis household, Ellie had still been angry when the older children arrived home from school. "It was bad enough last time around. Eli was bringing home black eyes once a week just for having hybrid sister and a turian step-father. Sisu's too young for the bullying already. Those parents should be ashamed of what they've been teaching their children."

"What about Caelia's teacher?" Nara asked, anxiously.

"You won't have to worry about that," Ellie told them all. "That teacher won't be back. I'm really proud of both of you. Caelia, for getting help, and you, Nara, for making sure it wasn't a their word against Sisu's thing. Proof does help."

_And you thought there was nothing we could do_, Yana had taunted happily from Nara's wrist, and Nara had just smiled until she could get to her study room, so she could talk to Yana out loud again.

Of course, all Yana wanted to do was tease her about Kirrahe tonight, and what Yana was going to do with the forty-three seconds of expurgated footage that she'd seamlessly extracted from what had been sent to the parents, so Nara gave up on that and did her homework, instead. A whisper from her wrist, as Yana asked, "Are you mad at me?"

"No."

"So you _don't_ like Kirrahe? You know he's sort of my daddy. And you're sort of my mother."

"You're also sort of me."

"And I'm also sort of him."

"Stop that. You're going to make my head hurt."

"So if you don't like him, you don't care if I go through his files, right?"

Narayana's head jerked up from her screen, and she tabbed her omnitool, bringing up Yana's avatar. "Wait. All your hacking subroutines were _deleted_."

"Oh, please. He didn't delete my _brain._ I re-wrote them. They're better now, too." Yana tossed her head to the side a little.

Files began to scroll past on her screen. Narayana tried not to look. "And I got in all kinds of trouble for reading files that weren't mine on Liara's ship—" She paused. "Wow. Scroll back up, please." _Wow_ was a human word she'd picked up, like _cool_ or _wicked._ "He turned down a breeding contract with Dalatrass Hardrassa? Because of her previous Lystheni connections? And his own dalatrass gave him a written warning for defying her?" Her eyes went wide. "He's going to get kicked out of his clan!"

"What does he care? He's a Spectre." Yana shrugged.

"Yeah, but a salarian without a clan is. . . like. . . me." Nara wrapped her arms around herself. "Chances of having offspring substantially decreased."

"At least one of the males of Dalatrass Hardrassa's clan has sued for and received emancipation. Pina Heron." Yana's voice held a hint of smugness.

"Yes, but he's _old_. Kirrahe won't have anyone to look out for him, and that's what a dalatrass is supposed to do!"

"So long as you're not looking at these files, is there anything else you'd like to not look at?" Yana asked.

Nara frowned, and got up to feed her amphibious snake in its glass bowl. Kirrahe had brought it to her from Arvuna's swamps. "Hmm. Well. . . there _are_ a few things I've been curious about."

"Such as?"

"Origin of his squad name, Agni. Why the others call him one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. What his favorite programming language is. You know. Normal stuff."

**Shepard, Bastion and Mindoir, June 12-30, 2197**

Shepard rested her chin in her hands as she glowered at the vid screen in Anderson's office on Bastion. They were, technically, on recess from the Council's meeting on the 'yahg question,' and the debates had been more than usually fierce. Joy-Singer had traveled to Bastion on the _Normandy_ to speak with Bargain-Singer and give the senior queen the memories she had drawn from Akkaura's mind.

As such, the rachni and the geth were the strongest proponents of Shepard's proposed 'education' plan. Both species had been either extinguished or threatened with extinction. Both had excellent reasons to back a plan that would not involve the Council races actually destroying another species, but rather, would hopefully educate them. The krogan were currently opposed, with Urdnot Wrex having sent her a message that began, in Wrex's basso profundo rumble, _What the hell, Shepard?_ _I know you're all about second chances,_ _but don't let that soft heart of yours overrule your head. The yahg are dangerous._ He'd gone on to add, _And letting them kill themselves, slowly, isn't that much different from killing them outright. One's just faster and more merciful. Unless that's the point._

Shepard had put that on back burner. She could talk Wrex around, and once Wrex had made a decision, Wreav would vote the way he'd been told to vote. Wreav wouldn't _like_ it, but he'd do it.

No, she had two assured votes out of five needed. The drell didn't have a vote, so she couldn't count on their backing. The turians and the humans were actually balking, a bit. Anderson had hundreds of millions of outraged human voters back home, screaming for _blood_. For retaliation and revenge for Shanxi, Terra Nova, Amaterasu, and all the other worlds, and Shepard understood that. Better than almost anyone else in the galaxy. The turians were far more focused on the batarians at the moment, but the horrors of the yahgs' way of waging war had gotten blood in their eyes, and Odacaen had the outrage of forty billion turians and the pressure of an Imperial boot lodged somewhere up his cloaca.

Shepard was used to being assured of the human and turian votes, so her argument to both Anderson and Odacaen had been simple: "Look. We only have the resources to fight on one front. We've taken two out of the eight major batarian worlds, and it's taken us a year to get that far. Do we really want to try to take every batarian planet and hold it, _while_ entering into a ground assault on the yahg homeworld? A world we know almost nothing about?"

Anderson had grimaced. "I hear what you're saying, Shepard. And I agree with you. But putting the perpetrators of what are, well. . . _war-crimes_ doesn't even begin to cover it. . . into planetary 'time out,' doesn't seem like much of a punishment. It's not going to play well in Peoria, as the saying goes. Or in Complovium, for that matter." He'd rubbed at his chin, and cursed. "Damn. Now I _do_ sound like a politician." An exhalation. "Putting boots on the ground on Parnack, though. . . I don't want to be the one who sends a million young men in to die. Which is probably what it'll take."

"More," Shepard had replied, bleak certainty. "From the memories of the female yahg. . . yahg are apex predators, but they wipe each other out more certainly than any of us can do. There's only thirty million yahg on the entire planet, best guess. It took six human or turian soldiers, generally speaking, to kill one yahg on Shanxi. That rate improved to four against one on Shanxi, but in both locations, we had heavy reinforcements from rachni, geth, krogan, and even elcor units." Shepard exhaled. "Our mortality rate on Shanxi was an unacceptable twenty percent. It decreased to only twelve percent on Terra Nova, thanks to experience in dealing with the yahg. Do we even want to think about what the mortality and casualty rates will be on the yahg's own homeworld?"

Four troops for one yahg. Thirty million yahg. The numbers were. . . unattractive. Impossible, in fact. They didn't have a hundred and twenty _million_ soldiers. Well, all right. The Hierarchy did. Technically, ten percent of their forty billion citizens were in the armed forces at any given time. But they didn't have the _ships_ to carry that many troops to a single planet. A casualty rate of only twelve percent? 14,400,000 wounded or killed. The numbers would dwarf any war besides the Reaper War. Anderson and Odacaen knew it, too. Shepard just _reminded_ them of it. "Short of bombing them from orbit until nothing on the planet, short of _plankton_, is left alive," she told them, grimly, "fighting them on their homeworld is not an option."

So, she had them conferring with their governments on how to present their eventual yes votes to the public in both the Alliance and the Hierarchy. Preparing people for an answer that was not bloody revenge. An answer for which their own forces would not be responsible: the geth would be taking care of this.

That was four votes. And now, she had the volus councilor on the comm line with her. Shepard didn't expect this to go well. "What can I do for you, Councilor?" she replied, wearily.

"Your Spectre, Fors Luka, called me earlier today," the volus snuffled at her, and Shepard looked back over her shoulder, warily, as if expecting to see someone putting a 'shoot me' target on her back.

"Yes?" she replied after a moment. "And here I thought he was your planetary treasure, not just _my_ Spectre."

The councilor snuffled. "What he is, is a pain in the brood pouch," the male replied, darkly. Shepard forbore to ask what the _brood pouch_ actually was. "We were already running the numbers back home, but he calls me up out of the gray and starts giving me cost, in terms of lives, credits, and materials, for various scenarios. The cost of exterminating the yahg. The cost of humans, turians, and krogan, conducting a traditional DMZ around their home planet. He extrapolated it out for five hundred years, not accounting for inflation."

Shepard winced. "He was a little out of line, I'll admit—"

"He was absolutely correct. To within about a thousand credits of our actuaries' computations. The obscene thing, Commander, is that he said he did the numbers in his head. From extranet data. While on _methane breaks_ from, ah, his and his wife's. . . relations." The volus' voice was sour. "As I said, a real pain in the brood pouch. _Then_ he told me the cost of having the geth do it for us. It's not even a contest. You have my government's vote, Commander."

Shepard stared at him, her mouth falling slightly open. "That. . . what?" After a moment, she regained her wits, and replied, "Thank you, Councilor."

She turned off the screen, and glanced back at Anderson, who'd listened in on the call. "That was. . . easy," Shepard told him, still blinking. "I wasn't expecting that."

Anderson shook his head. "Sometimes, people surprise you. That's your five. Do you want to keep pursuing the others? The salarians, the asari, the elcor, the quarians?"

Shepard nodded. "Yeah. Just in case either the Hierarchy or the Alliance decides to stand on bloody ground and raise a sword we can't afford to raise right now. Not with the batarians to take care of. And, honestly. . . the batarians are the ones who started this. The yahg wouldn't be out of their home system now, if it weren't for the batarians. And the batarians are hiding behind the yahg. Hoping we'll exhaust ourselves, fighting them, and won't have the resources to go after the batarians." Her expression hardened. "I like disappointing them."

Anderson grimaced. "Yeah. There is that." He paused. "So, sounds like your Spectre there will be asking for paternity leave soon."

"Well, I'm sure not for a while. They're egg-layers, as far as I know. . . right?" Shepard thought about that. Every reference she'd ever heard about volus had definitely involved hatching and eggs. . . "Is this about to turn into one of those conversations that I'm going to wish later that I hadn't been here for, Anderson?"

The older man chuckled outright. "Possibly. Yes, they lay eggs. Penguins on Earth lay eggs, too, but the male holds the eggs on his feet to keep them warm and off the ice, right?"

Shepard nodded slowly. "Fors is going to be carrying eggs around inside his suit with him?" she asked, warily.

"Sort of. Volus are a little closer to seahorses in that regard. Best I've ever figured out is that the pair mates, and then the female deposits the fertilized egg into the male's brood pouch, where he incubates it for a while."

Shepard decided that the full horror probably merited exploration. "So you're saying that volus males. . . "

"Get pregnant. Yes. They're known for getting broody, too. The volus councilor, for example, was quite bad-tempered last year when he was standing as a surrogate for his daughter's eggs after her mate was killed in a ground-car accident." Anderson kept his voice totally bland. "I can't believe you don't know this, Shepard. Haven't you seen the training vid on this? I believe it's called, hmm, _Shepard Does the Citadel_. Source of the classic line, 'Fill my brood pouch, Shepard, fill it with your burning hot love!'"

Shepard lifted her head. Anderson had delivered the line, dead-pan, and now regarded her, his lips twitching at the corners. "I wonder," she said, clinically, "if I were to hit you over the head with that large desk ornament, if any jury in the galaxy would actually _convict_ me?"

The grin broadened. "This is your revenge for the last time you lost at poker night on the base, isn't it?"

"Yes. Unfortunately, the worst part of that damned turian paint is, I can't see if you're blushing."

"I am. You win."

"Well, that's nothing new." Anderson paused. "Other than at poker."

"Let's get back to work, huh?"

In the end, the motion carried. The geth, quarians, rachni, humans, turians, salarians, and volus voted for it, initially; the elcor, krogan, hanar, and asari initially abstained; the asari on the grounds that they did not wish to be affiliated making a choice, either way, on such a topic again. "One mistake was enough," the asari councilor added, with a glance at Bargain-Singer.

"One?" Wreav demanded in the chambers, snorting loudly.

"Refusing to make a choice, is still making a choice," the salarian councilor commented, his thin lips tight. "The dalatrasses have conferred, and say that refusing to chose is moral cowardice. We vote for the measure, and we hope that this proves a better route to take. But only time will tell us this."

"Are you calling the krogan moral cowards?" Wreav rumbled.

"In that you are passively accepting others' will in the matter, without a decisive yes or no response? Yes."

Shepard glanced over at the B-Sec guards around the chambers, wondering if they'd ever had to pull Wreav off the salarian's throat before. In this case, it wasn't necessary. Wreav snarled, and changed his vote from _abstention_ to _affirmation._

"The elcor will not be bullied into making a hasty decision," the elcor representative rumbled. "We do not believe there is enough information to make a choice either way."

"That is the position of the Illuminated Primacy as well," the hanar representative chimed in agreement, through his voder.

In the end, it was nine to two, with the asari and hanar still abstaining. Shepard stood and walked over to offer her hand to Emissary to shake. After a moment, the geth councilor did so, taking her hand in surprisingly gentle metal and synthflesh fingers. "Guess the geth get to make history now," she told him, smiling. "It's not really a _geth_ future. But it's. . . " Shepard hesitated.

"The future of the galaxy is a part of our future." Emissary told her calmly. "We are all part of each other. As you have taught us to understand."

Shepard returned to Mindoir. The geth and the rachni never failed to, in a sense, humble her. And she watched the news reports with amusement and interest at the way everything was spun. Alliance and turian fleets would still go in with the geth. . . and bombard and destroy their colonies on their outer planets. After giving them fair warning to retreat, of course. Then they would approach Parnack itself, and take out all of its orbiting platforms. All of the surface to space and surface to air nuclear missiles that were launched. And then the geth were going to start building a ring around the planet. Observation stations, each connected to the others with fine panels of aerogel, to collect light from Parnack's star.. A lunar base. All powered by Parnack's sun.

Of course, before beginning any building, the geth were going to return Akkaura to her home. Shepard, grim-faced, watched the vid feed, transmitted by FTL by the geth from the landing capsule. While she _hoped_ that the biotic female's mind-twisting capabilities would keep her alive long enough to pass on what Joy-Singer had shown her to the rest of her people. . . or at least, to her mate and leader, Urukhurr. . . Shepard wasn't taking any bets. "This is," she told Garrus, as they sat in their office, watching the screen, "the first time I've ever rooted _for_ an ardat-yakshi. Or whatever the yahg word for 'I can control you with my mind' is."

"I'm not actually looking forward to seeing her torn apart and eaten, either, but she's been away from her people for a long time," Garrus noted, clinically. "Her scent has changed. They might not accept her as pack. Tribe. Whatever word you want to use."

"They're holding still. Completely." Lilu lifted a finger towards the screen, indicating the yahg outside the capsule, as Akkaura stepped out. "Not even a twitch. She's holding them in a stasis field?"

"Probably not taking any chances. And look—she's standing behind one of them. No one in the distance has a shot on her without taking out one of their own guys." Garrus sounded half-admiring. "She's not stupid. Stubborn, yes. But not stupid."

They watched on the screen as one of the figures, released from his position as frozen statuary, staggered forward. Knelt at Akkaura's feet, bringing the male down to eye level for her. _"You will bring me to __Urukhurr. Now. I am Akkaura, now third-wife, with the death of Ursukkai. And I have much information to give him, from the land of the half-eyed."_

"_You . . . come with. . . alien things. . . could be spy. . . trap. . . not really Akkaura."_

"_Do you want me to prove who I am? I could do so many things to you. I could hold you in place with my mind, cut your throat, and drink your blood warm from your flesh before leaving your body for the vermin. You know who I am. You know what I am. Bring me to Urukhurr_._ Now."_

The male's will broke, and he lowered his head, and the rest of the crowd began to move again, released from Akkaura's will. "All right. Disturbing," Garrus assessed. "That's the best hope of the yahg as a species, right there. And her mate, too."

"She didn't dominate the male At least, not at first." Shepard said, intrigued. "Probably knew that people would have questions if he didn't ask, well, questions." She leaned over, and tucked her head on Garrus' shoulder. "Know what else? She didn't have implants."

Garrus looked down, confused for a moment. "Oh, right. Yeah. I read the medical report. Dr. Abrams' scans indicated no chips in her brain." He considered that. "Damn. I wonder if all their natural biotics are that powerful."

Shepard shrugged a little. "They're rare, from what Joy-Singer pulled out of Akkaura's mind. The batarians offered the L4 chips which were the highest end chips they had available. Urukhurr and Akkaura apparently didn't trust the batarians enough to have the surgery done, themselves, but Urukhurr had many of the yahg biotics sent to Shanxi and Terra Nova and Amaterasu given implants."

"Explains why Akkaura's abilities aren't. . . well. . . showy. No throwing, no lifting, no explosions." Garrus considered that. "But they're the kind she can use to reshape an entire society. If she and her mate chose to." His fingers stroked through her hair. "Then again, what have you and I ever needed but a couple of rifles?"

Lilitu Shepard chuckled. How like Garrus, the almost-but-not-quite a brag, coupled with total self-deprecation. "Well, that and the _Normandy_," she reminded him, lightly. "Thanix cannons tend to be convincing." _That, and being resurrected by Cerberus_. But she didn't say that part out loud. She didn't want to spoil his mood.

"There is that. Let's go to bed, Lilu. The kids are asleep. We can fix the Hegemony tomorrow."

"Before breakfast?"

"It might take till after lunch."


	153. Chapter 153: Khar'sharn: Preparations

**Chapter 153: Khar'sharn: Preparation**

**Eli, Mindoir, July 1, 2197**

**Author's note:** _Thanks for all the notes of concern, folks. I'm alive. For those of you who aren't aware, Win8 is debuting soon, which means for those of us who document operating systems and how they work on our company's computers? Lots and lots of revisions to user guides. As in, like, 50 emails a day, telling us to edit this, that, that, that, undo the last edit, redo an edit from last week, no, no, wait, who told you to do that, no, do __this__._

_Imagine two or three weeks of nothing but this, and you have the last month or so of my life. ;) _

July on Mindoir corresponded with the worst part of winter; it was, effectively, the same as Terra's January in the northern hemisphere. As such, Eli and Dara's house on the cliff now had layers of snow around it. Layers that would melt slightly on a sunny day, compact down, become ice, and then have more snow fall on top of that. There were drifts as tall as Eli on either side of the short path from the garage-shed to the back door, and the path to the front door, from the 'parking area' where guests tended to leave their aircars, was comprised solely of footprints at the moment. The snow that slid off the domed roof fell to the balconies that girdled the house's second floor, and those balconies also collected their own burden of snow, and thus had to be swept off daily, to prevent collapses. As such, there was also a miniature mountain range, like the walls of a circular crater, all the way around the house, conical piles of snow again, nearly Eli's height, blocking the view from the windows. Icicles also hung down from the balcony overhead, sometimes connected to those piles of snow. Eli and Dara looked at the piles of snow and saw security hazards. Things that limited their line of sight out the windows.

However, the various youngsters currently at play outside the house saw _potential_ in those massive drifts. As their elders watched from indoors, drinking warm coffee, tea, _apha_, or hot chocolate as suited their tastes and dietary restrictions, the younger members of the party dug and tunneled. Eli shrugged on a jacket and walked outside, pulling on gloves as well, more or less to keep an eye on things, just in time to see Madison reach up to pull down the icicles, handing them out to the younger children to use as digging tools.

Kaius, however, had a different idea. "We could use those to line the top of the fort walls," the hybrid boy suggested, popping up from one of the 'bunkers.' Or plant them in front of the fort as defenses against land troops."

"Just don't let anyone run through the field of spikes," Eli warned, sharply, frowning. "You trip and you fall on the icicles, they _will_ go right through you, and none of you are krogan." He turned and gave Madison a direct look.

The younger male nodded. "I won't let them," he assured Eli. "Besides, I think they're much more interested in _building_ the fort than in using it for anything."

"Just in case they get the bright idea? If they even start looking like having one side attack the fort with snowballs. . . shatter all the icicles. Practice that warp thing your dad keeps trying to teach you."

Mad grinned. "Will do." He slapped his gloved hands together, and redirected Sisu back into a different tunnel as the asari boy popped out of a bunker and skidded to a halt under the balcony beside him. "Hell, I might have to attack the barricades myself. Just to make this a little more fun."

"No fair!" Amara's voice piped up indignantly from the muffled depths of another bunker. . . just as the ceiling collapsed on her head. She burrowed out, snow falling from the hat awkwardly wrapped over her fringe. "You'll just charge into the building and wreck everything!"

"Of course I won't," Madison told her, good-naturedly. "Now, I might _help_ my snowballs hit better from a distance—"

"Cheater!" Caelia called, wading out of another collapsed passage.

"C'mon, Duck," Eli told his sister, picking her up from the snow that was waist-deep around her. "You and I can help Madison attack the place. That way, he's on your side, right? And you can hit Kaius with snowballs."

"She'll have to get _much_ better aim," Kaius shouted back, over the wall of his portion of the fort.

The snowball fight became somewhat epic in scale as the other adults filtered outside to watch. Dempsey and Zhasa—who was bundled up so securely against the cold that not even her face was visible, a full balaclava ski mask revealing only her violet eyes and the tip of her nose—emerged next, and shook their heads, and began working to improve the fort's structural integrity. Eli took aim with snowballs, which promptly exploded against Zhasa's bubble shield as the quarian female knelt outside the mountainous wall of snow, ramming icicles into the snowbank to allow a window to be cut out. . . and shored up. Garrus wandered out, and found a section of fort tall enough to conceal most of his tall frame, and began lobbing snowballs directly at Eli. "Taking sniper fire!" Eli shouted, and sprinted behind a tree for cover. "I need backup!"

Dara emerged from the house, pulling on her own coat. "The odds aren't looking good out here," she called. "Don't you need like, four to one odds if you're attacking a fortified position?" She stepped down off the covered porch and slogged through the snow, sinking down about knee deep in the drifts, before reaching a solid enough area that would hold her weight.

Eli reached out effortlessly and touched her mind. _Going to even the odds a little, __sai'kaea__?_

_Why not? Inside, it's all extranet vids on the Council decision and the geth invasion of Parnack space._ Dara made a face, and ducked behind another nearby tree, a snowball exploding against the bark. "Garrus?" she asked.

"Dempsey." Eli had peered out of cover long enough to determine that. "He's got a hell of an arm."

"He's also probably cheating."

"Then we probably better get more reinforcements." Eli tabbed his omnitool, grinning, and said, "Forseti? Serana? We have a situation out here. Report in already. Virtus, you and Nyx get out here, as well." Eli gave Dara a look. "We don't just need numbers. We need better tactics than just throwing stuff at the walls and hoping."

1812 and Chopin, who'd followed Dara out the door, scurried up onto her shoulders. "You mean," Dara suggested, peering out from behind a tree, cautiously, "that we need to attack from cover? Undermine the walls?"

Eli grinned at her. "Think the workers would terribly mind helping dig in the snow?"

—_We like digging-songs!_

"Yeah, we know you do." Eli's tone held affection, and he squinted at the walls carefully. "Bet given some branches, Lin and I can build shields, and from there, we can teach the kids to re-invent the phalanx."

Dara ducked back as another snowball exploded where her head had been. "Don't be silly, Eli. There are perfectly serviceable garbage can lids. . . and all the kids brought sleds, too. Nice, solid plastic, and the kids defending the fort sure aren't using them, so they can't complain. . . "

"Outstanding. Let's get their lessons in the principles of siege warfare started." Eli grinned at her

In two hours, absolutely _everyone_ had gotten involved. Serana and Caelia snuck into the fort several times, belly-crawling through tunnels that the workers dug, popping up to try to start breaches in the walls, then having to run away, Caelia shrieking loudly, as they were pelted by the defenders. Lin and Eli demonstrated the original function of the full-on phalanx, to include the tortoise-like protection of the side shields and overhead shields, with Madison, Amara, Polina, Quintus, Narayana (well bundled against the cold) and Kirrahe following behind them, while Rel, Seheve, and Dara laid down covering fire of snowballs. Kallixta coaxed Rinus outside, but when she decided that the defenders were getting outnumbered, switched sides to join the fortification people, while Rinus found a hammock under the back porch and brought it around to the front, in an effort to re-invent the catapult, or at least, the sling. Alliances changed wildly and fluidly. Makur, grinning, defended the fort, periodically catching an attacker—most often Caelia, but also Amara and Tacitus and Narayana—and dropping the offender into a deep drift bodily. Siara stuck with offense, and Makur was her favorite target to harass with snowballs, all of which smacked, unerringly, into his hump. And so, on at least one occasion, when Siara got too close, Makur charged her with terrifying krogan speed, caught her. . . and dumped her in the same snowdrift that had claimed all his other victims.

Sam and Kasumi started off on the same side, helping Takeshi throw snowballs, and then Sam left to help the attacking force, which turned into a game of hide and seek in the snow. "No stealth nets!" Sam called. "They're cheating."

"Why Sam," Kasumi shouted back, from the bunkers. "You're the one who keeps saying that if you're not cheating, you're not _trying_."

At which point Sam turned, gave her a look, and then _vanished_. Kasumi blinked, and then vanished herself. Dara peeked out from around her tree, and moved out, holding her hands up in surrender. "I've got to watch Keshi," she shouted at the defenders, who let her pass into the safety of the fort to take care of her little brother. . . at least until Sam and Kasumi popped back into view, laughing and absolutely covered in snow.

The younger children got cold easily, and, when tired, tended to kick up a fuss at a snowball to the face, where earlier in the day, they'd have just giggled furiously. So various parents came in and out of the house with the younger ones. Lilitu Shepard took a turn manning the barricades with Elissa and Alain, when Garrus took Tacitus and Emily back inside for Lantar to warm them up. Ellie popped outside to help Ylara wrangle Sisu and Telluura back inside, though both young asari insisted that they weren't cold at all.

Fors and Chissa had returned from Bastion in the last week, and joined in the fun, themselves. The volus had a tendency just to walk _through_ the snow, leaving trails in their wake, so they broke tunnels of sorts for the smaller children, all of whom were about their size. . . and stayed well under the aim of the defenders. Fors also cheerfully undermined the middle of the fort with his biotics, for which Dempsey gently lifted and threw the volus into a snowdrift with his own biotics, as the center of the fort simply collapsed. Fors snuffled with laughter, but was pretty much stuck on his back in the deep snow until Chissa waddled over and helped him back to his feet—and all the human, turian, asari, and hybrid children shrieked with laughter at the sight, too.

Valak, Nala, and Alisav K'sar all periodically came to the back porch as people cycled in and out of the game. Eli found K'sar's expression one of the highlights of the afternoon. He doubted that the batarian would _ever_ have thought to see Lilitu Shepard pinned down by Garrus Vakarian, both of them expertly winging snowballs at each other, snow through the Scourge of Bahak's hair, and half her wedding paint worn away. For himself, Eli and Lin took a flanking opportunity, having Madison and the rest of the children run a distraction attack to the right, while they closed in on the defenders from the left. The two of them climbed over the wall, and Eli dropped down right beside Dara in a quick, fluid motion, making sure Keshi wasn't underfoot. Dara squawked a little in surprise and tried to get a snowball into his face, and Eli responded by catching her wrists and sweeping her feet out from under her. . . and then followed her to the ground, kissing her . . . with snow still covering his face . . . in spite of her laughter and half-hearted, mock-protests. "You're captured," Eli told her. "I'm going to carry you back to our side now. _Fradu_, find yourself a prisoner."

"Got one," Lin replied, turning and grinning. Sure enough, he had Caelia, who'd switched sides at some point, over his shoulder, squirming. "Let's go."

Eventually, everyone did get tired, and had to go back inside to warm up. It didn't surprise Eli at all when Seheve, after peeling out of her layers of coat and sweaters, asked everyone in the living room at large, "Are _all_ human and turian games about war?"

"Not at all," Rel told her, calmly. "_Consectora_ is about hunting." He paused, and Eli was certain that he heard Rel ask, much more quietly, "Are you sure the cold and the damp outside didn't bother you?"

Seheve smiled up and him, and shook her head. "Short periods are fine, you know that," she returned, just as softly, and then, much more loudly, and dryly, returned to the conversation at hand. "Resources, yes. Hunting, yes. And war with another tribe who competes for your resources," Seheve said, finding a seat in the living room.

Lin came back into the room himself now, holding _apha_ mugs for himself and Serana. "Not this conversation again," he said, with a slight grimace.

"You cannot deny that almost every game you play revolves around war." Seheve's voice held impatience.

"Every game," Sam said, dryly, coming into the living room with a plate of food from the kitchen, "has, at its heart, lessons about survival. Whether it's learning to run, attack, defend, work as a team, whatever, it's all about survival."

Dara raised her head. "Explain Monopoly, then, Dad."

"Survival in a capitalist world," Sam retorted, instantly.

"Tic-tac-toe?"

"Don't start a war you can't win."

Dara snorted with laugher and took a seat on the bench in front of her _reela_. Eli snorted with laughter, and joined her after fetching a plate of food from the kitchen for them to share. Ylara had brought _me'alu_ slices wrapped in smoked _gua'sari_, so finely cut, he could see light through the bird's flesh. His mother had made mixed levo-dextro lasagna, but he didn't actually _need_ to eat that at the moment, so he'd piled their plate high with those, deviled eggs provided by Agnes, a couple of slices of honey-baked ham provided by Sam, Kasumi's Japanese almond cookies, and knew he'd need to save room for Dara's contribution to the proceedings. She'd made levo and dextro versions of a fruit crisp; apple with a wheat, oat, cinnamon, sugar, and crystallized ginger topping for the levo crowd, and a_ malae_ version with _festuca_, _avena_, _passun_. . .which were small dried fruits, sort of like raisins, only far tarter. . . and spices. From the way Serana had been eying the concoction, Eli suspected that Dara had a hit there.

In the meantime, Sam looked back at Seheve. "You can't tell me that drell games don't revolve around locating resources and staying alive."

Seheve grimaced. "This is true. And many wars were fought for those resources."

Conversation wandered for a while. The subject of weddings, came up, as Zhasa bounded into the room with her own plate and Dempsey's both filled to overflowing, and Dempsey followed her in, carrying their drinks. "The first three locations on Rannoch that I contacted? Would you believe that they wanted all the non-quarians to stay in envirosuits, to avoid contamination of the local ecology, and to prevent the spread of disease to the quarians on staff and in attendance at the ceremony?" Zhasa made a chuffing sound of total annoyance. "And they wouldn't serve levo foods. Not even if every guest signed a waiver or if we had a doctor—that would be you, Dara—in attendance."

Dara stared at her warily. "That means you need a new venue."

"Right. I spent four years on Illium. How about there, Dempsey?"

"I spent twenty-one years on Earth. Last I checked, humans have weddings, too," Dempsey replied, calmly.

"Yes, but then we run into all the local problems with letting hybrids on the planet, and how they're technically livestock, or something like that, Keelah only knows what. . ."

"That's being appealed to the Alliance Supreme Court," Dara replied, and rubbed at her eyes. "I take it that this means that the invitations you stuck me in charge of need to change again?"

"Well, yes, probably."

"Have I mentioned lately that I still don't speak quarian?" Dara asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Many times. Hurry up and learn, Dara." Zhasa grinned at her, then took pity on her friend. "No, more seriously, I'll fix them, you just need to handle the English and galactic versions. Honestly." She paused. "In honesty, I started looking into Bastion locations last week." Her expression turned faintly guilty, and then dissolved into laughter as Dara gave her a look, crumpled up a napkin, and threw it at her.

Seheve cleared her throat and leaned forward slightly. "On that same note, if I might, Dara—"

Dara awarded the drell a wary glance. "Don't."

Seheve's lips twitched slightly. "Do not what?"

"I have an incredibly bad feeling that you're about to ask me for a favor."

"Well, yes, but you do seem to be exceptionally good at this sort of thing. Rellus has often spoken of your penchant for lists." Seheve's voice remained completely bland. Eli did his best not to choke on his drink, and Rel found a patch of wall to study instead of looking anyone in the eyes.

Dara's flush spoke volumes. Eli knew damned well that Rel had found her penchant for lists annoying. Especially when they'd been used against him in arguments. "What do you need me to make lists for?" Dara still sounded wary. "You're drell. Eidetic memory."

"Yes, but. . . " Seheve faltered, glanced at Rel, who was still studiously examining a piece of wall, and found assurance somewhere. "You, Zhasa, and Melaani were the first to welcome me, truly, and . . . I have been attempting to find some combination between drell and turian formalities. And I _do_ require witnesses, in any event, to stand on my side."

Eli carefully set his drink down on a nearby table. It was going to be one of _those_ conversations. "Oh, good lord on a bicycle," Dara said, slowly, her eyes going wide. "And to think Solanna nearly had a stroke at Serana and Lin's wedding." She rubbed at her eyes. "Look. I'll help you with the _tal'mae_ words, I'll . . . read up on drell traditions. . . but I'm just not seeing how else I can help without making everything worse."

"Or perhaps," Seheve said, gently, "it would make everything better."

Zhasa held up a slice of fresh _malae_ and bit into it, her face taking on an expression of total bliss. "Does this mean that you want me and Melaani as witnesses, too, Seheve? Because I would be honored—"

"Yes, absolutely," Seheve told the quarian, immediately.

"Wait before you say yes. She hasn't told you the _best_ part yet," Rel said, still examining a wall.

Dara looked at him, then at Seheve. "I'd imagine that a drell ceremony would be held at night, yes?"

"Midnight is considered the most propitious time, yes." Seheve sat upright, her spine like a sword. "In the traditional rite, the couple was bathed with water, often for the first time since birth, head to toe, by the priests. I . . . my brother has suggested that he might do some sort of an 'extranet ordination.' I am somewhat uncomfortable with the thought, but it would make him happy to officiate."

Eli could feel the tension starting to build in Dara, and more or less in himself, too. Seheve was definitely approaching the subject with circumlocutions. "What's the problem here?" Eli finally asked.

"She's definitely avoiding _something_," Lin agreed. "I'm starting to get suspicious, myself."

Serana reached over and took a slice of _cuderae_ tongue off his plate and ate it, curling up at his feet. "You're always suspicious, _amatus._ That's part of your charm."

Seheve's head swiveled. "Rellus, you haven't asked your brothers yet?"

"Asked us what?" Rinus returned, coming into the room with Kallixta, both of them carrying plates heaped with grilled _alai_ dotted with its own roe.

"To stand as witnesses at my wedding," Rel replied, his tone resigned. "You, of course. Quintus. Lin. Eli. Dempsey. I'd want you, Rinus, as my principle witness."

Rinus looked around. "All right. Seems simple enough. Why _haven't_ you asked?"

"That's what I'm asking, myself," Dara asked. "Seheve's dancing around this entirely too much."

Seheve sighed. "Very well. Because the couple must be bathed in waters, symbolizing riches and their new life together, they are vulnerable. And because tribal warfare was endemic on Rakhana, in order to ensure the safety of the couple and show the well-wishes of all those there assembled—"

"I have a really bad feeling about this," Dara murmured.

"—all of the witnesses and guests were to be unclad as well." Seheve's eyes darted back and forth, trying to gauge reactions.

Eli set his plate down on the floor, and covered his face with one hand for a moment, struggling not to laugh. He could feel _waves_ of embarrassed indignation simply pouring off of Dara at the moment, and from the rather strangled sound from Zhasa on the other side of the room—Eli looked up. Yes, Zhasa had flushed vividly violet, to match the scarlet flooding through Dara's cheeks right now. And Dempsey started to chuckle, very quietly. Just a muffled snort or two at first, but then a full-scale laugh.

Rinus, being turian, had, naturally, started to shrug at first. "Not really our way, but a decent compromise between the standard turian marriage ceremony and the drell one would involve parts of both," he began, and then hesitated. Eli knew turian minds fairly well. Nudity was one thing. A bare waist on a female was _different_ than nudity. A bare waist, when otherwise clothed, was provocative, an indication that she was calling attention to it. A _cinctus_, under the clothing? A reminder that there was bareness beneath. A _cinctus_, around a bare waist? Accentuated that bareness. Nudity, by itself? Not provocative at all.

Lin, on the other hand, raised a hand to point directly at Eli, and started to chuckle. A chuckle that became a full on guffaw as Eli raised his head and awarded Lin a finger-flick, with emphasis. It wasn't that Eli was particularly body-conscious. He wasn't. Quite a bit of his life had been spent, after all, in the turian military. There wasn't really a modesty gene left, and most human males had quite a bit less of that than females, to begin with. . . but there was a faint, lingering sense of propriety. _No worse than a nude beach_, Eli thought, but the curl of embarrassment in his mind didn't come from him, he knew. It came from Dara.

Dara had been in the turian military just as long as he had, but she was a little more body-conscious than he was, and, well, Rel was going to be standing _right there._ It was ringing out uncomfortable carillons all through her consciousness. Zhasa, Eli knew, had to have it even worse. A quarian's face and body were among the most personal and private things that they had, in a society that had had no privacy but the suit, no possessions, except the suit, for generations. As it was, Zhasa buried her face in Dempsey's shoulder, and now laughed in total embarrassment.

Dara was already shaking her head in the negative and opening her mouth to speak, when Makur and Siara moved around the corner from the kitchen. "Sounds like a party," Makur rumbled. "Just you and two hundred of your closest friends. We on the guest list?" The krogan stumped over to one of the couches, examined it, and told Dara, "You need stronger furniture," before very, very carefully sitting down, with Siara laughing quietly and taking a seat on his knee.

"Of course you are," Seheve returned, before Dara, who was shaking her head, could get a word out. "However, the guests are usually restricted to the closest friends and kin. Far less than a hundred, I would think." She hesitated. "Neither of you would have problems with the question of attire?"

Siara shrugged. "I'm asari. I'm proud of my body." She pointed across the room at Kirrahe Orlan, who was still in the foyer, speaking earnestly to Lantar about something. "As the salarians would no doubt say, there is nothing shameful in the body or its functions."

Seheve looked relieved, and about to ask another question, as Makur broke in to add, "As for krogan. . . no. No problems. Besides . . . admit it. You all know you want to look." His grin bared the stumps of his yellowing teeth.

Serana whooped with laughter, and Lin slowly shook his head. "All right. Now my psyche is scarred," the turian male admitted. "Possibly for life." Rinus covered his eyes, and Kallixta had a look of total horror on her face.

Dara turned and gave Eli a direct look. "You _had_ to take the Rite with him?"

"No actual choice in the matter," Eli told her, cheerfully, and kissed her forehead. 

"You can't expect," Zhasa pointed out, lifting her head, "for, say, Fors to strip to the skin for this. It would kill him. Expecting other species to do the same—"

Seheve lowered her eyes, a typically self-effacing gesture that got Rel's head to turn. "Taking off your suit won't kill you," Rel pointed out, obviously modulating his tone, and sliding an arm around Seheve's shoulders. "It won't kill a human, either."

Dempsey's chuckles had faded, however. "So it doesn't bother an asari, a turian, a krogan, a drell, a hanar, a rachni, an elcor, a salarian, or a geth, and doesn't _apply_ to a volus, so the other two species—"

"Three," Valak pointed out, entering with Nala at his side; their daughter, Nexia, was dozing in a sling that wrapped around Nala's slender form. "I can't say that I would be particularly comfortable with the idea, myself."

"Thank you!" Dara shot from Eli's shoulder.

"—should just shut up, sit down, and do what we're told?" Dempsey went on, flat-voiced, and expressionless, other than the slight lift to his eyebrows.

Seheve's head snapped upwards, her eyes wide and distressed. "No, of course not! That is not what I meant at all!"

Rel grimaced tightly, but he just slid a hand over the back of Seheve's head and turned to look at Dara and Eli. "I take it you have objections, too?"

"I doubt it's just _us_, Rel," Eli replied, diplomatically as he could. "I'm fairly sure that Sam and Kasumi, for example, wouldn't be entirely comfortable with the notion." He slid his fingers up into Dara's hair, and stroked there now, along the scalp. _You okay with the idea, __sai'kaea__?_

_No! No, I'm not. I mean, in theory, it's a beautiful gesture, and yes, I'm a doctor, and I know bodies are just machines, and yes, I've been in dozens of locker rooms and group showers and everything else over the years, but . . . ._ Dara had buried her own face in his shoulder now, and was just shaking her head. Emphatically. After a long moment, she managed to raise her face, and express a little of it out loud. "Seheve, I know, it's. . . your people's way. It's a way that _isn't_ hanar, and, yes, you're. . . well within your rights to want to do something that's your way and Rel's . . . " Dara winced and trailed off, uncomfortable.

Rel shook his head, carefully not looking at Dara. "So everyone should conform to turian ways or human ways, but not to anyone else's?"

"That's not what I said, either," Dara replied, with some force.

Seheve held up her hands, looking desperately embarrassed, herself, now. "I did not mean to provoke an argument," she said, quietly.

"Turians like arguments," Serana reminded her, cheerfully. "I understand where Zhasa's coming from. She still likes to cover her face in public, just because quarians regard revealing the face to be an intimacy. But Dara, _amila_. . . " Serana grinned merrily. "It's not like you and Eli haven't served in the turian forces for a good long while. And even if it's a human thing, why not be rachni for the ceremony?"

Dara looked up at the ceiling. "You say that like it's something I can turn on and off like a switch, Serana."

"Everything depends on context and intent, and this isn't a situation like being _required_ to stand around in a mixed locker room," Eli supplied, dryly. "In theory, it shouldn't be any different than being on a nude beach." He stroked Dara's hair lightly. "When was the last time you actually went to one of those, _sai'kaea_?"

"Monday, the first of Never," Dara replied, promptly, provoking a snort of laughter from Zhasa. "Look. . . I'm sorry to make a big deal out of it. I'm just not comfortable."

"I respect that, but I do not understand it," Seheve replied, simply. "You have adopted many turian habits and customs in your daily life. You accept many asari traditions, as well. Rachni share your home. Why is this one occasion so different?"

Which was when Kasumi ducked around the corner, raising her eyebrows. "I couldn't help but overhear. And if I might ask, how exactly will wedding photos be handled? I'd imagine that wedding vids are right out of the question."

Zhasa promptly choked all over again. Dempsey looked up at the ceiling in quiet resignation.

Sam, who followed his wife around the corner, had raised his eyebrows. "And the answer is no," he said, simply and grimly. "In fact, _hell_ no, I will not be attending."

Rel shook his head, not looking surprised at all. Seheve looked, if anything, hurt. Kasumi chuckled lightly. "Oh, Sam, you're no fun at all."

"I am not going to be attending something that involves my girl and nudity. That was fine when I was givin' her baths when she was three. Not so much anymore. And most certainly not when it involves _my_ general state of nekkidness as well."

Dara pointed over her shoulder at Sam, still looking at Seheve. "That's why."

Sam looked down at Kasumi. "_You_ just want more blackmail pictures, Kasumi-chan. And I know in that mind of yours, somewhere, is the potential for me and Lantar to be in the same picture somewhere, and the _years_ of amusement that will give you."

Kasumi grinned up at him, ear to ear. "You can't blame a girl for trying."

"Oh, yes. I can." Sam leaned down and gave her a kiss on the nose.

Kasumi turned and suggested, calmly, "Seheve, dear, you just have to understand that while some humans have no problems with casual nudity—nude beaches, group baths, and so on—it's simply not a part of Sam or Dara's particular background. Sam was good enough to put on a male kimono for his wedding to me, and do a lot of things the Japanese way. But there is a balancing point." Kasumi's lips curled up. "I suggest allowing lingerie for the females who do have cultural prohibitions against nudity." Her expression turned sly. "And likewise, underwear for the males."

Eli could _feel_ Dara relaxing. Zhasa actually perked up. "That would do," the quarian agreed. "No one could possibly hide weapons in such garments. And I for one, would feel much less. . . exposed."

Dara nodded vigorously. "If you're all right with that, Seheve? I'd. . . definitely prefer it."

"Now that's more like it," Sam agreed, nodding. "Boxers will do nicely for us guys."

Eli nodded fervently. _Much less of a chance of being accused of advertising_, he thought. _And a hell of a lot less chance of my mind wandering . . .ah. . .visibly._

Dara choked on her own laughter at that point, flushing. "Hey," Eli told her out loud, "it's a valid concern!"

Seheve's expression remained rather blank; male turians did not, after all, generally tend to wear undergarments. "Certainly not," Kasumi told Sam, loftily. "You can hide a gun or a knife in boxers. If the girls—including myself—have to wear lingerie, you boys are simply going to have to wear something equally _scanty_." Kasumi smiled radiantly. "I believe drell have traditional loincloths, don't they, Seheve, dear?"

Sam gave his wife the dirtiest look Eli had ever seen on Sam's face—not that he could blame the man, he wasn't precisely thrilled with the idea, himself. "So much," Eli muttered, "for not advertising." He shook his head. "Kasumi, I will do a lot of things for friends, but _briefs_ are the extent of it. No Speedos."

"Amen," Dempsey muttered, shaking his head. "All right, just to be absolutely, completely clear here," he continued, his Boston accent much stronger than usual, "We're talking no kids at the ceremony, right?"

Seheve looked totally blank. "Oeric's children are my nephews and niece. Of course they would be there." She frowned. "And even if this were not the case, almost everyone present will be alien to. . . everyone else. Is this not _educational_?"

Eli did his best not to laugh. Drell did wear loincloths and kilts for swimming and exercise, but that was really about it for social concerns. Bodies were bodies to them. But at this point, Eli was starting to suspect that there was an element of play in Seheve's careful expression. _Sai'kaea__? Are we being put on? Maybe just a little?_

Dara's head lifted, and suspicion arrowed through her. _Maybe just a little bit_, she agreed, staring at Seheve's face, and starting to chuckle, reluctantly.

"Okay," Dempsey said, flatly. "Let me rephrase that. No _human_ kids there, correct? Limited audience. We're not talking about a three-day ceremony, like Fors', either, right?"

Seheve raised her hands, and explained, placatingly. "Probably fewer than fifty people, all told. About two hours for the turian portion of the ceremony, and about an hour for the drell portion. Some dancing, but you would not be required to participate. These would be drell ritual dances. Maia is already teaching the children the steps." She fidgeted with her fingers, a rare gesture. "The minimal attire would be acceptable. I would generally prefer drell kilts for the females, but. . . I understand your reservations a little better now."

She lowered her head for a moment, then stood to go back to the buffet area in the kitchen, taking a plate with her. Rel turned and finally made eye contact with everyone. "Sorry," Rel said, after a moment. "It's the first—no, the only thing she's actually insisted on about the whole thing. I wasn't going to tell her no. I did suggest that it might make the humans a little uncomfortable, but. . . " Rel shrugged. Clearly, he was trying to make more compromises in this relationship, and it showed.

"Brides are known to get the bit between their teeth," Sam acknowledged, blandly. "I found it best to stay out of Kasumi's way and just say 'yes, dear,' whenever there was a gap in conversation."

That resulted in Kasumi driving her elbow into Sam's ribs. Sam just grinned at her in response, his blue eyes twinkling. "Speaking of all things matrimonial," Kasumi pointed out, with calm good cheer. "You, Dara? Have _got_ to start planning things."

"Kasumi, it's fine. It's not going to be something hugely elaborate."

Kasumi looked up at the ceiling. "I'm just saying you more or less let me plan your first, and you let Kallixta plan your _tal'mae_ with Rel, and you haven't said a _word_ about your plans this time around. At least set a date. 'After the war' doesn't hold much water, you know. There will _always_ be something going on, here on base."

Dara turned her head and looked at Eli. _Should we tell them?_

_Probably. _Eli grinned and opened his omnitool. "Here we go," he said. "Saturday, October twenty-eighth. Close to Dara's birthday, so it's damned hard to forget."

"Perfect, _ciea'teilu_." Dara smiled past him at Kasumi. "See? Easy."

Sam laughed outright at that point. Kasumi's eyes narrowed for a moment. "It's July," she pointed out, calmly, however. "You're going to put everything together in three months' time?"

Dara looked up at the ceiling. "I'm not renting out a damned abbey, Kasumi," she replied, shrugging. "Zhasa getting married on Rannoch or even on Bastion, it's practically a state occasion—"

"Please don't remind me about that part," Dempsey muttered. "She started talking to Bastion facilities, and B-Sec called us back. Asking how much security we were going to need, and what we were going to do if twenty-thousand quarians happened to drop by uninvited."

"They _shouldn't_," Zhasa insisted, hotly. "It would be rude for someone outside of either of our 'ships' to join in the festivities."

"Zhasa-love, I don't know how to break it to you, but I don't _have_ a ship."

_Saved by the squabble_, Dara told Eli, silently, turning around to face the _reela_, and pulling back the cover.

"Dara," Kasumi insisted, pleasantly, "you don't get off the hook that easily. You haven't asked me to do a thing. I'm _offering_. You can't do every bit of it on your own, and you shouldn't have to, anyway."

"You're helping with mine," Zhasa pointed out, looking a little hurt, actually. "And you haven't asked for any help from me, either."

"Don't look at me," Serana said, grinning. "Ours is done and out of the way." She looked up at Lin, who snorted in amusement at the thought. "Well, till renewal date, anyway."

"She has a countdown set on her omnitool," Lin commented. "I'm not sure how I feel about that."

"Scared, _fradu_," Eli advised. "I recommend a state of mortal terror." He leaned over and counseled Dara, softly, "Just tell them."

"I just _did_," Dara muttered, and then sighed. "Kasumi. . . I appreciate the love behind the offer. But. . . like I said. . . I've got this. I might panic very properly a week before, but, like I said, I'm not renting out an abbey or half of Bastion or anything else. We figured we'd just. . . have it done on the lake shore. Bottom of the cliff. Right here, really. Get some catering in from Gardner's. Really, the hardest part will be setting up who sits at which table. Live music, because the rachni wouldn't want anything else." Dara shrugged. "Minister of the law for the _tal'mae_ words."

"Couple of bells for the _marai'ha'sai_ stuff," Eli added, shrugging. He didn't want to make a big deal out of it, but he definitely did want an asari element to the ceremony. Reading a poem in high-tongue and ringing a chime together was as far as it went, and no one besides them needed to know how much it meant to him. "Then, yeah, live music. Probably harp or something. Plus, you know the rachni are going to sing." He shrugged. "Pretty low-key."

"Everything important has already really been done," Dara said, firmly.

Ellie, who'd been in the kitchen, moved across the foyer at the back of the house, and just shook her head at Dara. "Don't . . . don't make it so low-key that you regret it," she advised, quietly. "It's supposed to be for the two of you. And both of you, before. . . "

_Did everything hastily and left everything in others' hands and nothing was really __us__._ Eli wasn't sure which of them had finished his mother's sentence, but he was the one who smiled and said, calmly, "Don't worry about it, Mom. No uniforms. I swear. Suits, sure, but no uniforms."

Kasumi leaned forward. "And you, Dara? I know what your travel schedule has been like the past few months. There is no earthly way in which you could have found a dress."

Dara coughed a little. "Ah. .. .Joy-Singer says the workers want to take care of that for me. I have no idea what they have in mind, but so long as I don't wind up wearing _them_? I think it'll be fine. And probably fit better than anything from the store, too." Dara looked, if anything, sheepish. "Not much that can actually be _done_ with my hair till it grows out—"

"You could eat a hell of a lot of royal jelly," Eli offered, blandly, and Dara stepped on his toes at that point. "What? I'm _helping_."

"No, you're not," Dara informed him. "Past that, there's. . . really not a lot left to do, Kasumi. Tell you what. You and Ellie can do the invitations. You can figure out all the people who couldn't possibly make clearance to come here, and just send them the announcements, and anyone who can, well, they're invited."

Kasumi and Ellie exchanged a look, and then Kasumi beckoned Elijah's mother out of the room. Both of them shaking their heads. "Now what did I say?" Dara asked, out loud. "It's not like I'm asking them to get naked in front of everyone—sorry, Seheve."

The drell female actually grinned at Dara, showing needle-sharp teeth.

Motion caught his eye, and Eli looked down. "Hey!" he said, sharply, to the rachni workers who were industriously lifting his plate up onto each others' backs. "I put that there so I wouldn't drop it. Where do you think you're going with that?"

—_Joy-Singer sings request for human food-songs. _The workers' voices, as always, were cheerfully scratchy in his head.

Dara shook her head. "I'll make her a big plate and bring it out to her, all right?" She stood up, leaning down to kiss Eli on the cheek. "Kids, I tell you. It never ends."

Her droll tone made her father snort from his seat at the far end of the room. "You have no idea, sweetie," Sam informed her. "Just you wait."

Eli chuckled, and grabbed his plate off the floor, and followed Dara. Joy-Singer undoubtedly wanted to taste _everything_ levo from the potluck. From Agnes' eggs and peach-habenero salsa to Dara's apple crisp dessert, and everything in between. It was probably going to take both of them to carry all the plates to the atrium, all things considered.

Of course, after dinner, conversation inevitably came back to work topics. Valak had found the pool table in the den area, and set up a game, complaining, lightly, "All of the balls are the same size. I probably won't be nearly as good at this game as _bacca_."

"I've heard this story too many times before," Fors snuffled at him. "This is where you're about to suggest that we should play for credits, and it's a good thing that you were just paid, isn't it?"

Valak's smirk spoke volumes. "Well, no. But now that you've brought it up. . . "

"No deal," Eli told them both. "Besides, Fors and Dempsey would just cheat."

"It's not my fault that gravity is naturally on my side," Fors replied, cheerfully. "Besides, I'm sure that this particular game is all about math. Vectors, trajectories, speeds, angles. . . "

Rinus moved into the room, looking alert. "I wouldn't mind a game, with the winner," he noted, quietly.

Eli held up his hands. "I think I'm safer just _watching_ this," he told them, ruefully, as what looked to be one hell of a cut-throat battle set up in front of him. Fors needed to move a chair around to stand on to reach the table. . . or, in one case, Dempsey just walked over and hoisted the volus up by the back of his suit so that he could reach a particularly tricky shot without using his biotics.

"You know what any game of _bacca_. . . billiards. . . makes me think of now?" Valak admitted, after one particularly tricky shot. "Playing that damned game with Arvak R'mod and him more or less using it to demonstrate the comet attack on the Terra shipyards." Valak's eyes were distant for a moment. Eli remembered that the male's sister had been married to R'mod, and that both of them had died in the effort to get Lin, Serana, Glory, Valak, and Nala off of Khar'sharn. He didn't think he'd heard Valak mention either of them in the six months since that day.

Seheve and Rel had drifted into the den now. "See?" Rinus said, pointing at the table with a cue. "No war here. No hunting. Just general competition." He grinned at Seheve, and moved around the table, taking his turn, potting all of the stripes neatly, but missing on the eight-ball.

Seheve shook her head dubiously. "I am certain that if I looked closely enough, I would find war in this somewhere. You are, for example, making prisoners of the balls."

"You're reaching," Rel chided her, lightly, taking a seat nearby, and, with a glance at Eli, flicking the aerogel screen on, loading up extranet news sites.

Lexine Elders' face immediately appeared. _"With Camala's defenses decimated and at least ten percent of its population displaced, a humanitarian crises was averted by the intervention of asari relief agencies. The next step was Lorek. The allied fleet, including the humans, turians, geth, and rachni, and Council Spectres, laid waste to the Farthar systems' defenses, from the relay on in, and took over control of satellite and lunar bases to turn the batarians' own defenses against them. While asari and salarian agencies have spread out over the planet, gathering evidence of war-crimes and the systematic chipping of asari and human biotics, the humanitarian crisis on Lorek has been even more wide-spread than on Camala. Water is generally shipped from the night-side as truckloads of ice, and Lorek's cities consume vast quantities of it every day. . . ."_

Eli sighed. "Solve one problem, twelve more pop up in their place," he said, pointing at the screen.

"_Spectre Valak N'dor, has extended his personal gratitude to the relief agencies, including Doctors without Worlds, operating on Lorek and Camala today, but expresses concern for the safety of any entering the turbulent systems during these chaotic times. . . "_

Eli glanced at Valak, who winced and told Rel, "Couldn't you find a different vidcast? There's a good fellow."

Rel snorted as Seheve came over to perch on the arm of the chair in which he sat. "Sounds like she's about to change topics anyway, Valak."

Lin and Serana came in next, taking a table in the corner, where they set up a _consectora_ board. "I think most of the younglings are _just_ about asleep," Lin noted. "Everyone else should be about ready for poker or whatever in about ten, fifteen minutes."

"Rachni lullabies," Dara admitted, coming in through the door, "seem to put even Takeshi out. Got to love that." She looked around for a seat, shrugged, and started to slide to the ground in front of Eli.

"Hey, no need for that," Eli told her. "One perfectly comfy lap, right here." He patted a thigh.

"Yeah, but then you can't rub my neck." Dara nodded solemnly.

"Your logic is irrefutable." Eli grinned at her, and let his thumbs get to work, rolling into her shoulders as the news vid continued.

"_Last week, the geth began moving into the Parnack system, Alliance and Hierarchy ships alongside. BNN has the following footage, taken from gun-mount cameras, shortly after Council forces entered the system and issued a warning to all of its inhabitants. The warning directed them to leave their bases and return to their homeworld, and gave them a month's time in which to depart. The yahg tribes' only response was to fire missiles on the oncoming ships. Council forces retaliated by destroying the incoming missiles and their launch sites, both on the yahg homeworld and ancillary planets and moons. Construction on the controversial geth base in orbit around Parnack has begun, and a permanent geth presence is building steadily near the system's relay. That permanent fleet presence will ensure that the yahg cannot leave their system without forewarning to the rest of Council space, and will act as a deterrent until the yahg are judged fit to enter into galactic society. . . Protestors against the so-called 'Yahg Solution' gathered outside the Council's chambers on Bastion today, demanding to know on what grounds new sapient species will be judged—"_

"How about 'don't eat us'?" Dempsey called towards the screen, helping Fors line up another shot.

"Too easy, D," Eli answered.

"Do unto others?" Dara suggested.

"Nah, that usually gets ended as 'before others do unto you,'" Dempsey told her, just a hint of cynicism in his voice. Madison entered the room, and watched over his father's shoulder as Fors sank the eight-ball, neatly, and Valak shook his head now. "I've got dibs on the winner here," Dempsey said, holding Fors up at about his own eye level. "Let's see how well you play without me helping you, Loki."

They'd talked right through the protestors' plaints, and Eli was about to ask Rel to shut the damn feed off, or find something else to listen to, when the background images shifted. Became an orbital view of Khar'sharn, which got Valak's head to lift, his expression going taut at the sight of his homeworld. _"With the yahg situation now largely contained, and fighting dying down on Feros, Ferris Fields, Anhur, and other worlds_," Lexine went on, _"all eyes are now turning towards batarian space once more. With two planets under Council control, another eight remain in the batarian Hegemony. The question most people are asking is simple: Now what? Will the human-turian fleet continue to take the Hegemony down, planet by planet? Spectre Valak N'dor was not available for comment on this issue. Neither was Spectre Commander Lilitu Shepard, nor her second-in-command, Garrus Vakarian."_

This time, Rel turned the feed off on his own. Dempsey leaned on his pool cue. "It's a damn good question," he said, looking past Eli through the door into the trapezoidal main living room.

Eli looked up, and realized that the senior Spectres were all standing in and around the doorway. "Damn," he said, starting to stand. "I think we can make some room here—"

"No, stay, sit," Shepard said, entering the room at Garrus' side. "You've all been working pretty damned hard this last month, while I was stuck on Bastion, baby-sitting the Council." She looked around. "With Livanus on paternity leave, Sam and Lantar have been distributing more of the investigative load to Eli and Lin. That's been working out all right?"

Eli glanced over at Lin, and they both shrugged and nodded, as Lantar and Sam, with Ellie and Kasumi, came in now, as well. The den wasn't really meant for so many people, of so many species; the room was already getting very warm. Shepard turned and, after a quick glance for permission, sat on the edge of the pool-table. "As I said, I've been baby-sitting the Council for a month. That's left Garrus in charge of long, quiet talks with turian and human fleet admirals." Shepard exhaled. "The way it's generally being described to me uses a metaphor from the second global conflict in Earth's history. In that war, the American Navy had to pursue a tactic of island-hopping for a time. They couldn't leave occupied islands and atolls behind. They needed them, themselves, for landing strips and refueling and repairs."

Garrus cleared his throat. "That's the school of thought that a number of admirals in both fleets hold to: go in, clear, hold, and then move on. Leave nothing behind you that can strike back, because although it's slower, it's also safer."

Sam had found a wall to lean against, and shook his head now. Valak spoke quietly, leaning on his own pool cue like a cane now, "The problem with that is that it would leave absolutely no infrastructure behind. And it would leave millions more dead." He wasn't pleading, precisely, but Eli could see what this was costing the batarian to say.

Garrus nodded. "And thus, the second tactic. A decapitation strike. Bypass all the colony worlds, and go straight for Khar'sharn itself. This is what I've been arguing in favor of for a month, myself. We don't need to beat them all."

"Miroslav Vokaj likes to argue the concept of breaking their will. Removing their will to fight, instilling war-weariness in the population," Shepard noted, rubbing lightly at her eyes as she sat on the edge of the table. "When I've listened in on the conversations, I've pointed out that war-weariness goes both ways."

Garrus nodded, and glanced around. "We're not looking for a war that stretches on for years or even a decade here. Not if we can avoid it. Which is what it would take to knock down every batarian world. And, let's face it. Every world we knock down. . . we're going to have to help build back up again. That is, if we don't want to have to do this all over again in twenty or forty years."

Valak looked at the ground for a moment, but nodded. Nala, who'd apparently just gotten Nexia to go to sleep, slid into the room, and likewise slid an arm around Valak's waist. The batarian female's eyes had been wholly regenerated, and now, only faint scars remained around the sockets. "What are we looking at?" Valak asked, bluntly. "I still have people on Khar'sharn. There's still Resistance there, in pockets. Are we looking at orbital bombardment, as with both Camala and Lorek?" He raised his head, and Eli winced at the pain there. "The other two planets were, I fear, places that I spent time. But they were not my _home._ I. . . don't know if I can." Valak exhaled, raggedly. "I know it's necessary. But I just don't know if I can help you plan the assault on my own homeworld."

"That's understandable," Shepard told him, her voice surprisingly gentle. "I couldn't plan an assault on Mindoir. Earth, maybe. But not Mindoir."

"I couldn't plan one on Palaven," Garrus admitted. "But any information that you can give us? It'll be a help." He sighed. "It's a homeworld. Its population is measured in billions, not in millions, like Camala and Lorek."

Valak shook his head. "You would think, that with two planets swept out of the Hegemony inside the last three months, that the Hegemony would call an assembly of the nobles and, if not admit that he was wrong, at least address the issue at hand: how to sue for peace quickly. Quietly. Saving as much honor and as many lives as possible." The high-born batarian's light, urbane manner had shattered, for a moment, leaving bitterness beneath. "But that will never happen."

"Why not?" Seheve asked, suddenly, her expression intent. "Does the Hegemon hold total power?"

Valak grimaced. "Yes and no. There are five hundred families that control the major governments of the nation-states on Khar'sharn. I happen to be from one of them. Alisav K'sar is from a family in the lesser nobility. They tend to control smaller municipalities. Provinces and the like. The Hegemon is . . . selected. It's not quite an election. But it is the closest that my people have to democracy. The Hegemon is always selected from the sons of the First Family. The Five Hundred vote on it. That's how it's been for over two thousand years. The Hegemon, ruler of the Hegemony, the balancing point of power, is the institution that kept us from annihilating ourselves before we crept out into space." Valak set the cue down, and rubbed his face.

Eli, fascinated by this glimpse inside the Hegemony, asked, quietly, "And what happens when the First Family has no lineal heirs?"

Valak grimaced. "It generally goes to a cadet branch. There's a fair amount of intermarrying in the high nobility, and some intermarriage with the lesser nobility. There have been a couple of dynastic squabbles, but . . . generally speaking. . . someone who's courted the warrior-caste and the priest-caste tends to wind up on top."

Rel looked up at the ceiling. "And the current Hegemon?"

Valak shrugged. "If you're asking about who might succeed him? In an ideal world, I'd want to see the position of Hegemon eliminated. I'm not sure we're living in that ideal world, but. . .he has no current heirs. He has brothers and cousins, however."

"Never a female?" Shepard asked, quietly.

Valak shook his head. "Yes, I know. Backwards of us." He managed a quick, light smile for Shepard. "But no. Only male succession, but not through primogeniture."

Silence fell for a long moment. Then Seheve asked, with careful deliberation, from where she sat beside Rel, "And the current Hegemon is even more megalomaniacal than his predecessors, correct? Is there any chance that information is being kept from him by his advisors, as information is also kept from the people of Khar'sharn?"

Valak sank down, taking a seat on the edge of the pool table himself now. "It's possible," he acknowledged, slowly. "It's happened in the past. This Hegemon, however, has always exerted tight control over the bureaucracy and the military. That being said, he has a reputation for shooting the bearer of bad news." Valak grimaced. "His generals and the Five Hundred are unlikely to tell him bad news unless they all agree to it."

Zhasa, from beside Dempsey, asked quietly, "Does he have enough power to stop the war, to surrender, if he's convinced of the futility of it? Some kind of personal appeal?" 

Valak stared at the ground for a long moment, prodding the wood paneling lightly with the cue. "He has the authority to commit the Hegemony to war," the batarian said, after a moment. "He has the power to swear to treaties. Stop the warrior-caste in their tracks. I don't believe he'll do so." Valak grimaced. "This particular Hegemon. . . well, let's give him his right name, shall we? Dalar H'rsov." The batarian brooded for a moment. "He's broken some of the rules of the caste-system, and yet, the Hegemon is allowed to transcend that system, if there's need. He's employed the _Klem Na_, personally. Been in talks with their leader, Chas'na V'sol, for years. I don't think he'd surrender. I think he's. . . convinced of the power of the weapons the Hegemony has been amassing. I think he's allowing the outer planets to fall, in order to strengthen the defense of Khar'sharn. We have yet to see more than a handful of ships with biotic weapons at a time." Valak continued to stare at the floor. "And yet, we know ten _thousand_ asari went missing in the five years before the war."

Now, Valak looked up, and his expression was taut with misery. "My people could only do so much to destroy the weapons production facilities. To put the lobotomized slaves out of their misery. I fear, greatly, that there are many, many ships waiting in orbit around Harsa, our home star."

Shepard raised her head. "You don't think he'll surrender?"

Valak shook his head, mutely, for a moment. "No," he replied, at length. "I believe that he will encourage my people to fight on. I've heard his speeches for the past fifteen years of his regime, Commander. They've become more strident in recent years, but the themes have been the same since before I went to university. The Council has wronged us. Humanity has stolen planets from us. It is up to us to take _back_ what is ours." Valak's voice had fallen into a rhythm, echoing, perhaps, the cadence of the Hegemon's speeches, and now, he grimaced sourly. "He's been playing on that sense of frustration and self-pity and the thirst for revenge for fifteen years, Commander. He probably even believes it, himself. No. I don't think he'll surrender."

Garrus nodded, slowly. "There are fifteen billion people on Khar'sharn," he murmured, his voice a rasp. "Orbital assault is . . . well, it's going to have to be done very carefully."

"Why should it be done at all?" Seheve asked, sharply, and every head in the room snapped towards her, Rel's included. Eli could feel his own eyes widen in consternation. A junior Spectre contradicting or questioning Garrus or Shepard wasn't unheard of, but it was always done respectfully. And for _Seheve_, self-effacing as she was, to speak so strongly. . . spoke volumes here. Something moved her, and deeply.

Garrus frowned, but asked, cordially enough, "I'm not following you. Care to elaborate?"

Seheve leaned forward, still perched on the arm of the chair, and laced her hands, delicately, under her chin. Slowly, she asked, "What is the purpose to an orbital bombardment?"

Garrus and Shepard stared at her for a long moment. "That's generally the first step in an invasion. Sorry. A step, if not the first one," Garrus replied. "First step is taking the relay to secure a foothold. Second step, as we did on Lorek, is securing any orbital facilities that can attack ships. Third step, orbital bombardment, to destroy military and infrastructure targets on the ground and demoralize the population. Fourth step, land troops." Garrus grimaced.

Lantar nodded, at the side of the crowded room. "It gets ugly from there. Hackett's projecting a ten year conflict on the ground on Khar'sharn. If not longer. Plenty of time for the _Klem Na_ and senior members of the Five Hundred to slip off-world, if we don't get a chokehold on the system, and fast. . ."

"Well, that was sort of the point of the Tortuga expedition," Garrus replied. "Lock down one possible bolt-hole, so the _Klem Na_ couldn't use it as an escape route."

"I beg your pardon," Seheve interposed, quietly, but with a good deal more strength than she typically used.

Garrus and Lantar, who'd already been off on their own tangent, blinked, and refocused on Seheve. "I have a few more questions," the drell female stated. "Let me ask this first." She lowered her eyes. "Is there any real reason to invade Khar'sharn?"

Everyone in the room now had their eyes fixed on her. Lin told her, lightly, "Traditionally, that _is_ more or less how wars are fought. It's somewhat difficult to fight with someone if you're both standing several dozen light-years from each other, sending rude messages."

"Yes, I understand," Seheve told him. "Tradition is important to turians, and to humans. I comprehend this." She paused. "But is there any real reason to do so? Is there any reason to kill hundreds of thousands—perhaps millions—of batarians? And sacrifice hundreds of thousands of human and turian lives in so doing?"

Rel put a hand to the small of her back, obviously trying to defuse the situation, the rising tension in the room. "I hardly think that we're all going to put down our weapons and go home without making damned sure that the batarians don't attack us again. Don't go right back to hunting human and asari biotics and turning them into weapons, too."

"Technology exists," Kirrahe pointed out, slipping into the room from the other door, and leaning against a wall there. The salarian folded his arms over his thin chest. "Human expression: Impossible to put genie back in bottle. Biotic weapons exist. Will continue to be a problem until demonstrated ineffective in some fashion."

Silence fell again after the salarian's words. Eli hated to admit it, but Kirrahe was absolutely right.

Seheve nodded, gravely. "Then I believe it is necessary, Rellus, to define your intentions in this conflict much more carefully. Is your purpose to _win_, or is your purpose to prevent further bloodshed, further actions by the batarians?"

That provoked a certain amount of consternation in the room. Lin scoffed, "How do you propose to stop them without _winning the damn war?_"

Voices rang off the walls. Seheve waited for them to all settle down, and replied, quietly, "By winning the war a different way." She exhaled. "A little over a year ago, I watched you and Rellus playing chess while we waited for the results of the Spectre trials. I remember commenting on the arbitrary nature of the rules."

Lin grimaced. "Not this again. Yes, all human and turian games are about war. But war isn't a game."

"Is it not how your species both treat war?" Seheve asked, sharply.

Rel, beside her, had stiffened. Eli could read dawning realization and burgeoning anger there. "No," Rel told Seheve, without preamble. "Lin's right. War is absolutely _not_ a game."

_Even though you enjoy fighting?_ Eli thought, silently, then chided himself for it. He had to admit it; the beast that lived inside of Rel, lived inside of him, too. The first exhilaration of the Rite, the battle with the Harvester, had never really left him. But he didn't live for it. Rel was finally starting to learn to live _without_ it, these days, but it was still one of the biggest differences between himself and his _sangua'fradu_.

Seheve turned, and met his eyes. Eli could see that she was using turian body language for a moment, deliberately, he suspected. Respecting the turian love of directness, of confrontation. A departure, for her. ""Humans and turians both have sets of rules for how to make war. What actions are allowed, what actions are not allowed. And of course, conditions by which you may know that a war has, indeed, been won." She lifted one hand, as if scattering sand with her fingertips, a very drell mannerism. "My people have never had that luxury. Not on Rakhana. And not on Kahje."

"What are you getting at, precisely?" Rel asked, his expression as dark as Eli had ever seen it. _He already knows what she means,_ Eli realized. _He doesn't want to accept it, though_. And truthfully, he had an inkling himself. From a quick glance around the room, to Garrus and Shepard's grim-set faces, to the beginnings of anger and outrage in Lin's eyes. . . he wasn't the only one.

Seheve exhaled, and went on, almost placidly. Prosaically. "What I mean is this. In the human game of chess, there is only one true condition for a 'win.' Kill your enemy's king. I propose that in this case, we should do precisely that."

Absolute silence, and Eli could feel the muscles of Dara's back tighten under his light fingers. Doggedly, Seheve continued, her words sending little rings through the quiet room, like ripples in water. "Valak N'dor has already told us much of the Hegemon, himself. That he would be unlikely, given the fifteen years of his regime and rhetoric, to surrender. We know that if he _did_ surrender, he would hold onto power with every breath in his body. This would not allow Valak to begin . . . restructuring. . . batarian society as he has strongly indicated that he wishes to do." Seheve ticked off a second finger at the end of that sentence, then touched a third. "We know that he has no lineal heirs, so power and its continuity would be in flux if he were removed, as it were, from the board. A power vacuum into which someone like Valak N'dor could step—"

"No!" Valak snapped, sharply. "Absolutely not! I will _not_ be a head of state, and even if I agreed to that, I would not rule over my people by having done open murder!"

Eli's head rocked back, as Valak brought the elephant in the room to everyone's attention. Lin's quick glance at the batarian held approval; Rel, however, stared darkly at the floor. Eli could see him flexing his fingers against the arm of the chair, and suspected, strongly, that the wood was going to hold talon-marks in the morning.

Seheve turned and looked directly at Valak. Or at least, just past his left ear. When she spoke, her voice hovered just above a whisper. "Then would you rule over them, atop the corpses of millions of their fellows?"

_God damn_, Dara's voice whispered in Eli's mind.

"Spirits," Lin broke in. "That's not fair at all, Seheve, and you know it. Valak's already said he doesn't want to _rule_ his people—"

"No. He wishes to guide them onto a different path. Reshape their society. But in order to do so, we need to 'win' this war. Either way, it will result in bloodshed. I fail to see why it is more morally and ethically correct to 'win' by killing hundreds of thousands, or even millions, instead of one single individual." Seheve's tone was stark.

"They've already killed millions of our people, with the plagues alone," Kallixta replied, her tone cold and sharp. "I, for one, would not weep to see justice done."

Valak shook his head. "I can't deny that your people and the humans and even the asari deserve reparations," the batarian murmured. "I have no idea how my people can even begin to make them, in fact. But the common folk of the Hegemony don't deserve death any more than your citizens did, _domina_."

Eli couldn't even remember the last time anyone on base had addressed Kallixta by her social rank, other than Rinus, in teasing. But Valak's tone held nothing but respect and regret, and the words made Kallixta ease, visibly. Valak looked back at Seheve now. "But I cannot condone what you are saying, either, Seheve."

"And I cannot condone a decision based on rules instead of on reality." Seheve lowered her eyes again. "If I have learned nothing else in the last year, I have at least learned to question _everything_. And this is a decision that I can and must question."

Eli expected Lin to respond, and hotly, but it was _Rel_ who lifted his head and looked at Seheve, his expression distant. "The rules exist for a reason, _amatra_," Rel told her, quietly. "They regulate warfare. They establish where the lines are, that we as a civilization cannot cross. For example, if we assassinate their leaders? They would be perfectly free to attempt to assassinate ours."

Seheve lifted both hands, in a gesture of mild exasperation. "But surely you must see that they have already broken your rules!" The exclamation surprised Eli. He had never seen Seheve so passionate on any topic as she stared right back at Rel. "Every single one of your rules for civilized warfare—even rules that the batarian civilization, embodied so well in Valak N'dor, would embrace and stand for—every one of them has already been broken by the Hegemon and his close allies!" Once again, Seheve held up her fingers. "Bio-weapons. Against the rule of Council space and several treaties with the batarians, yes? The uplifting of the yahg. Against the rule of the Council, yes? Turning the yahg loose to kill and eat other sapients, again, somewhat against the rule of _civilized_ warfare. Using a comet loaded with eezo to attack the Terra/Luna shipyards, with the hope that either Luna would be knocked from its orbit or that Terra's atmosphere would be razed? Not precisely according to the rules of war." Seheve exhaled, her body language taut. "Directing asteroids at Nimines? Not a directed, careful orbital bombardment, excluding civilian targets, no, but one that had random victims, just as random as the victims of the disease." Loathing now, in that soft voice.

In a flash, Eli understood why. All of Seheve's training had been for limited, highly focused and directed violence. Random murder was not her style. There was a target, there _might_ be acceptable collateral damage, but that was . . . distasteful. Unnecessary. And, if not gauche, then certainly. . . .amateurish. Unprofessional.

Seheve lowered her eyes to the floor. "They broke the rules first," she told them all, and raised her eyes once more. "They have broken _every_ rule there is, save _actually_ assassinating our leaders, and yet, have they not tried to do precisely that? They sent attackers here, to this base. Surely, to attack Spectre Vakarian and Commander Shepard, and their family. All of our families. That they did not succeed does not make it any less of a breach of the _rules of war_." She exhaled. "And if they have broken the rules that you have all been striving so ardently to uphold, if they have no respect for them, then you are only as bound by those rules as you desire to be. And I. . . have never really been bound by those rules."

Lin rubbed at his mandibles. "And now, once again, I'm thinking of that human play," he said, quietly, ruminatively. "_Henry V_. This is not according to the 'disciplines of war.'" He shook his head.

"Yeah," Eli interposed, quietly. "But Fluellen wanted everything to be the nice 'clean,' disciplined wars of the Romans. Which he knew from books." He wasn't agreeing or disagreeing with anyone yet. His innate knee-jerk reaction was actually very similar to Lin and Valak's; a firm and hearty _no._ And yet, what Seheve had said so far, actually made a hell of a lot of sense. "And yet, we know that in reality, the Romans' wars were anything but clean. They killed civilians. Hell, they boarded up the walls of a rebellious city and shot anyone trying to get out, so that the population would slowly starve to death. That's not precisely according to the 'disciplines of war,' either."

"You're not in favor of this insanity, are you, _fradu_?" Lin asked sharply.

"Not my call," Eli replied, simply. "But if it came right down to it. . . if we were absolutely sure that one bullet would end the damn war tomorrow? I'd probably fire it myself."

Dara half-turned, looking up at him, her expression quizzical. "The thing is," Dara disagreed, quietly, "one bullet can't end the entire war. There's a bureaucracy under him. All of the people in it are pretty heavily invested in the war. In their own power. Something as big as a planetary government doesn't exactly stop on a dime, you know."

Eli grimaced. "I know. . . I know. . . "

Shepard had yet to respond, merely sitting at the center of the room, listening to the conversation flowing around her. Now, however, she raised her head. "Seheve," Shepard said, gently, "You have a very specialized set of tools at your disposal. When all you have is a hammer, you tend to see every problem as a nail, as the saying goes."

"Perhaps so," Seheve admitted, her gaze steady as she returned Shepard's stare. "But _because_ I have such specialized tools, I have options not available to the rest of you. I can see that you are depriving yourselves of valuable potential avenue, on the basis that a rule would be broken."

"We should be above this," Lin muttered, staring out a nearby window.

"They have already broken your rules. They do not live by them. They barely acknowledge them. Why _not_ take this route?" Seheve demanded. "And it is _equally_ true that not all in Council space strictly adhere to turian and human rules of conduct. The hanar and drell do not. Neither species can make conventional industrialized war. And thus, different rules. It would not even be your hands that did the deed."

"But we'd _condone_ it," Lin retorted, hotly. "We'd agree to it. And thus we'd be _complicit_."

"And why would this matter?"

"Because we'd know!" Lin replied, in exasperation. "Our children would know. In time, the whole galaxy would know." He leveled a finger at Dara, and Eli and she looked up, startled. "What one rachni knows, eventually, they all know. What one _geth_ knows, they all know. How can we possibly look them in the eyes—optics, whatever—again if they know our word and our principles are _meaningless_?" Lin rubbed at his face. "We're mere weeks away from having more or less told the yahg, 'Hey, you can't come out here, because you don't live up to our high moral standards." Lin looked around at all of them. "It would be nice, if we're the ones saying that, if we actually lived up to those standards, ourselves."

"I suspect that the rachni and the geth and your descendants might approve if hundreds of thousands more lives were spared by killing one person, than would otherwise die." Seheve's tone had become almost as heated as Lin's own. Rel had wrapped his hands around her hips, and yet, still stared at the floor. Not speaking at all.

"We've got rachni right here," Shepard pointed out, quietly. "Dara? What do Joy and the brood-warriors think?"

Dara grimaced, and took a sort of straw-poll, listening to the ripples of harmony from the courtyard, where Joy, Stone, Glory, and Sky were looking up at the sky through the cleared oculus. "Rachni do not permit the lives of their queens to be threatened." Dara looked into the mid-distance. "However, they say that a plan that saves so much of the hive must be better than one that would destroy so many songs." Eli could hear echoes of the rachni's complex voices, coming through Dara; this was private-song. The rachni didn't want to overwhelm the others with the depth of their voices at the moment. But he could feel Joy's assent and curiosity in his bones.

Shepard nodded. "As to the geth . . ." she turned, and Eli glanced up. He'd known that Cohort and the new probationary Spectre, Composite, were here. Presumably for the usual poker game, which Sam had insisted could be held here this week, just to get everything together and out of the way. "Why not ask them?"

Eli knew that Cohort was still connected to the collective minds of all other geth; Composite, as an experimental platform, was detached, to prevent errors from his run-times from promulgating throughout the rest of consensus. . . but he still had an _internal_ consensus of multiple programs. Thus, the answers that the two platforms produced might not be the same.

Cohort's eyeflaps twitched. "The end of any run-time that has not been backed up is abhorrent. Data loss is unacceptable. In some cases, however, it proves necessary. Self-defense or the defense of other run-times. One run-time that is in error, which threatens the lives of millions of its own kind . . . is an acceptable loss."

The bulkier platform turned its head to look at Cohort for a moment, eyeflaps twitching as well. It looked back to Lin, optics whirring almost inaudibly as it refocused. "We agree with general consensus regarding loss of data. You, as a collection of species, are not backed up. Data loss is permanent when your platforms shut down." The platform paused. "Exact numbers are not available, but over four hundred million organic runtimes were terminated due to the biological assault instigated by the batarians. An additional one to two million organic runtimes were terminated by the asteroid impact on Nimines." Another infinitesimal pause. "Additional to this is the termination of civilian runtimes on planets invaded by the yahg. Numbers are again not available. In further addition, are the number of organic runtimes who have suffered psychological damage due to exposure to any of the listed grievances."

Shepard nodded, patiently. "Yes. We've gone over that, Composite."

The bulky geth platform nodded its head, once. "With this data available, add an additional subset. The majority of batarian civilians do not understand what their hegemony has done, due to the complete control of information distribution practiced by the Hegemony and batarian SIU. Standardized warfare would inflict atrocities on a global scale to a civilian population that does not understand why. And lastly, we, to specify the one thousand seven hundred and sixty four runtimes hosted within this platform, are of the calculated opinion that the batarian Hegemon should be terminated for what he has done. Standardized warfare cannot guarantee this result. It is just as likely that he will survive and persist due to the 'civilized' manner of war." *

Lin shook his head, grim-faced. "Yes, in a military setting, you want to have overwhelming force. You don't actually want a 'fair' fight. But even if you attack from cover and achieve surprise, it's not murder. You don't do it in the dark and do your utmost to prevent people from finding out what happened. You do it in the open and you do it for the right reasons."

Rel cleared his throat, and raised his head to look at Linianus. Flip sides of the same coin, for a moment. "Lin. . . killing people in the dark and trying to make sure that no one ever finds out it was us, because if they did know, it would start a war, or a bigger war, or an open war?" Rel met Lin's eyes for a long moment. "That's _precisely_ what I've done. Many times. Does that make me a murderer?"

Lin hissed through his teeth. "No, what you were doing was under orders, and the enemy was other soldiers, _just like you_. They had at least as much of a chance of killing you as you did them."

"So, I was giving them a sporting chance, is what you're saying?" Rel's mandibles flexed into a grimace. "I did it according to the _rules_ of war?"

"And we're back to Fluellen," Eli said, dryly, looking up at the ceiling. He was used to being a balancing point. Between Lin and Serana. Between Lin and Rel, as he was right now. As he'd been when the two of them had nearly come to blows because of Seheve. "Lin, you're probably the biggest history buff in the room. You're taking the long view, and, well, someone has to." Lin needed that acknowledgement, that validation.

Dara added, quietly, "A lot of the academics who talk about the decisions of the second global war on Earth—and the decisions made by Subigus and Commodus, during and after the Unification Wars—second-guess the people who were there. They like to claim that Truman, for example, shouldn't have dropped the atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki." She turned to look, apologetically, at Kasumi. "Truman had only the information in front of him at the time. Information that said that the number of lives lost, going island by island in the Pacific, would be monumental on both sides. They'd seen what Iwo Jima and Guadalcanal cost to take. Why not stop everything, right there, in one stroke?" She paused, and turned to _stare_ at Shepard for a long moment, and Eli remembered with her, that Shepard had prefaced the entire conversation with the overt comparison of taking every planet in the Hegemony to the island-hopping campaign in the second global war.

Dara shook her head, recovering, and Eli interposed, quietly, "And I'm aware that there were assassination attempts on the Axis leader. Even by his own people. There are those who would say that it's a tragedy that the assassinations _didn't_ take place, and would have called the people who carried it out heroes for doing it. . .if they'd succeeded." Eli paused. "History's a funny thing, Lin. It's all about interpretation."

"And getting published," Dara added, dryly. "After all, no one gets published by saying that the decisions were right. It's not sexy enough." Her tone was droll. "No one gets noticed by saying the safe thing. My first paper on turians serving as surrogate mothers for quarians caused an uproar because it wasn't safe." Dara shrugged.

The set of Lin's shoulders eased a little, now that he wasn't being attacked on all sides. "I know that," he admitted, quietly. "Some of the historians who are being published _outside_ the Hierarchy write some pretty damning things about Subigus these days." He awarded Kallixta a slightly guilty glance. "Particularly for the decimations. Every tenth person in a rebellious city, lined up and shot. At random."

Kallixta, sitting beside Rinus, visibly winced. "My tutors always said that those were desperate times," she replied, softly. "So are these."

Shepard cleared her throat. "To be honest," she admitted, quietly, "you're not raising any points that we haven't gone over in the senior staff meetings. Several times."

Eli's head came up, and he shot a glance towards his step-father. Lantar's eyes were dark and downcast; the line of Garrus' jaw was grim. Sam and Kasumi glanced at one another, and both of them looked away again, a clear signal that they were not in total agreement, themselves.

"May I ask," Seheve requested, diffidently, "how the discussions have gone?"

Shepard nodded. "Kasumi proposed it."

_Not a surprise_, Eli thought, and felt Dara's agreement resonate through him.

Shepard glanced at her other senior Spectres present. "Sam endorses it, but disagrees as to method." That got white shock to flash through Dara, but it made sense to Eli. Sam had his own code of honor, but there was a lethal edge of pragmatism in him. "Lantar had many of Linianus' objections."

"And I still have them," Lantar pointed out, his voice a rasp. "I particularly agree with Linianus' suggestion that holding the yahg to a higher moral standard than we're willing to hold ourselves is particularly troubling."

"And I say," Garrus commented into the silence, "that when all is said and done, that the Hegemon is a mass-murderer, not only of our people, but of his own. He's enslaved, tortured, and maimed citizens of Council worlds. He and his people in SIU unleashed the yahg. When we find him, there is no 'war crimes' tribunal that we can bring him in front of; the Hegemony broke all ties with the Council close to forty years ago. They don't recognize our authority. They don't recognize our laws. They stand outside of it." Garrus looked at Shepard. "Then again, so do Spectres."

"It's what we're for," she acknowledged, nodding, and then looked at Valak. "I'm sorry, but I do think that, in the end, this is the best choice we can make. Out of a hell of a lot of bad ones, I'll admit." She looked back at Seheve. "So, how would you propose doing this, precisely?"

Seheve's posture straightened even further than normal. "That entirely depends, Commander, on what message you wish conveyed with his death," she replied, simply. "Killing takes many forms. If you wish it to be _known_ who did it," and Seheve gave Linianus an imperturbable glance, "if you wish it to be done in the light, and that the Spectres were behind it? Then a showy, flashy method would be best. Poison that is traceable to Council space. Shooting him while he speaks before the Five Hundred, on vid feed."

Rel's head snapped towards Seheve. "That would be suicide," he said, flatly. There was a note of fear, deeply buried in his voice, however. "I thought we had an agreement, Seheve. I thought you weren't going to be trying to kill yourself anymore." There was . . .almost desperation in Rel's voice. Eli winced from it. Rel was trying to cover it, but for him—for _Dara_—the underlying message couldn't have been clearer. _Don't leave me. Don't turn away into the darkness again. _

"If the cause is the right one, I will not flinch from it." Seheve's chin came up.

Shepard coughed. "I'm not in the business of ordering suicide missions," she said.

Garrus and Kasumi both turned to look at her pointedly. "Oh?" Kasumi asked.

Shepard smiled sheepishly. "Not lately, anyway. You order one _once_, you get a reputation—"

"Twice," Garrus pointed out, dryly. "The Collector base _and_ the Reaper Node."

Shepard waved it aside. "All right. How about less obvious methods, Seheve?"

Seheve took a deep breath, and steepled her fingers in front of her. "If a suitable distraction can be created, the Hegemon would be taken towards secure quarters. That escort could be intercepted. I would propose then either the administration of _senguvo__y_, by injection into the tear-duct region of the lower eye. . . or injection of a needle full of nothing more than air directly into a vein. The _senguvoy_ would stimulate his heart rate and blood pressure in an overdose situation, and result in a stroke. The injection of eight cc's of air would result in—"

"Pulmonary or neural embolism," Dara said, and Eli could feel cold horror seeping through her. "What the Imperatrix died of, in addition to the plague, a year ago."

Eli risked a glance at Kallixta. The Imperatrix hadn't been her biological mother, but had raised her. At a very stiff, cold, formal distance, at most, of course. . . . but still. The female looked a little pale under the scales, but waved off everyone's concern. "I'm fine. Continue the conversation." Still, Eli could see Rinus rubbing her neck, lightly.

Shepard grimaced, clearly finding the whole discussion distasteful. "What would either method get us, exactly? Other than a dead batarian."

Seheve nodded, her posture still rigid. "Injecting the _senguvoy_ into his system through the tear-duct would render the entry point extremely difficult to identify," the former assassin informed them all, neutrally.

"It's an injection site used by junkies who don't want visible needle-tracks in their arms," Dara offered, her voice a little dull. "Unless the pathologist in charge has _reason_ to believe there's drug use, I doubt many medical examiners would look there." She shook her head, her lips tightening. "Wouldn't a tox screen find _senguvoy_? I'm not familiar with the chemical."

Nala, sitting beside Valak, surprisingly raised her hand. "It's a natural chemical in our bodies," she supplied, quietly. "It's a . . . " a brief struggle as Nala sought the right galactic word in her mind, ". . . coagulant. I would. . . recommend not directing it into the tear-duct, but back, behind the eye, into the brain itself. Just as so many others have been . . . lobotomized." Her voice held a note of coldness not usually there, and Valak wrapped his arm around his wife, and gently stroked her scalp.

"The needle infiltration will show up on a scan of the brain tissue," Dara objected. "And a tox screen could show an overabundance of a naturally occurring chemical, and no reason for it."

Nala shook her head. "If the embolism destroys the . . . prefrontal lobe, then there will be nothing of the needle entry mark to be seen," the healer-caste female replied, pragmatically.

"What about the other method?" Kasumi asked, quietly. "Just injecting plain air into the blood stream?"

Dara sighed. "It might hit the brain first. It might hit the lungs first. Either way, it should kill the victim." Her songs were ashy grays at the moment, filled with a certain amount of horror that she could be discussing this so calmly, and Eli stroked the back of her neck now, just as Rinus was touching Kallixta's. "That being said, a competent medical examiner should be able to find a puncture point in the skin in the case of a mysterious death that's being treated as a possible assassination."

Seheve nodded, slowly. "And we would wish for this to be a quick death, yes?" the drell asked, calmly. "There are poisons that act slowly on the body, mimicking diseases, and are impossible to cure, but—"

"No," Shepard said, definitively. "Quick. Instant, if possible. No time to set up a successor, order any more attacks, and . . . not that he doesn't deserve some. . . as little suffering as possible." Her eyes were haunted, and Eli didn't envy her the decision in the least bit. "That being said, everyone? This is a hell of a topic for a _party_." She turned and found Valak and Nala with her gaze. "I'm sorry, Valak. I just don't see any other way to do what we need to do there. But I'll consider any other options you have for me. Happily."

"I wouldn't weep to see that male die," Nala replied, her voice tight, and her accent, as always, thick. "I just do not know what would happen next."

Valak nodded. "As others have said here this evening, the bureaucracy and the military don't stop in their tracks because a single person dies. So we kill him. What _then_?" He folded his arms across his chest, his three remaining eyes narrow in his ruddy-toned face.

Seheve raised her head. "If we do not wish the trail to lead to us, and if we choose to use a method that is easily seen to be foul play? We use the excellent services of our volus friends," and she turned her head to look at Fors Luka and Chissa as she spoke, "and plant evidence that his closest political allies and enemies collaborated together to achieve the assassination. We create credit trails. Many batarians in the Five Hundred already have credit accounts outside of the Hegemony, in volus hands. A simple matter to show transactions of large funds passing hand to hand the day before the assassination. It does not even need to be proved. It need only be alleged. We could even use our captive _Klem Na_ personnel to facilitate the ruse. Make it seem that . . .hmm. Chas'na V'sol himself. . . turned against the Hegemon?" She was thinking out loud, certainly, musing her way through the chain of events. "And then we can make those people an offer. They can be heroes, for ending the war, and work with Valak N'dor and the Council to make things right. . . or they can be scapegoats. Traitors. And turned loose for their own people to savage." Her expression was distant, her dark eyes unreadable, and Eli was very damned glad, and not for the first time, that the pragmatic killer in Seheve's heart—not the hunter that lived in Rel's—was on a very tight leash indeed.

Lin shook his head. "I'm not willing to see V'sol made a hero." His tone was stark and blunt.

Seheve's eyes went serene. "He will not be. He would be seen to be the assassin. And to have died at his own hands."

Lin's mandibles twitched. "The body count goes up, the more we talk," he muttered, and then rubbed at his face. "Where does it _end_? How many murders, how much blood do we just. . . swallow?"

Seheve nodded. "This scenario would only pertain, however, if we did not wish to make it perfectly plain who conducted the operation," she noted. "If we wished to make a statement, that we, the Spectres, reached out our hand in the light, and struck down the Hegemon, in his most secure place, despite all his precautions? That no one can outrun us? Then there would be no need for these measures."

"If it's to be done, let it be done _that_ way," Lin said sharply, and Valak nodded in agreement. Lantar gave a quick, firm nod of assent. So did Garrus. Kasumi shook her head, however, and Sam's expression was grim. The human male could clearly see arguments, either way.

Rel, however, shook his head, sharply. "The chances of the people embarking on that kind of a mission surviving it drop to single digits," he rasped, his expression as close to fury as Eli had seen it since the Astaria mission. Eli leaned forward, subtly, and Dara edged out of his way. Eli had a damned bad feeling that he might need to pin Rel down here shortly, if the conversation continued.

Shepard waved them all down again. "Nothing's being decided tonight," she said, quietly. "When the decision comes, it'll come from me, and it won't be the subject of a vote. And it's time we dropped the topic, I think. Emotions are running a little high at the moment."

Things became. . . subdued. . . after that. The party clearly over, everyone slowly trickled out, taking plates and dishes with them. As the workers helped Dara and Eli clean up the kitchen, Shepard and Garrus were the last to leave. "You two were quiet during the whole discussion," Shepard pointed out. "Dara, I'm not sure I actually know where you stand on all of this. You, either, Eli."

_Why's she asking __us__?_ Eli tossed the thought at Dara.

_Tests. Always with the tests._ Glum notes of gray in her mental song.

_You've noticed that, huh?_ Eli finished rinsing a clean plate, and handed it to Dara to dry. "You first, _sai'kaea_."

"Oh, thanks." Dara scowled at the plate, dried it, and set it away in a cabinet, before turning to look back at Shepard and Garrus. "To be honest? I don't really have an answer. I can see all sides of the issue. The doctor in me, however, is just _screaming_ that medicine shouldn't be used to kill." Her expression went taut. "I mean. . . I'll give my knowledge freely to ensure that Seheve, if the mission is a go, doesn't get caught, and so that, if necessary, it can remain less detected. But. . . "

"But?" Garrus prompted, after a moment.

Dara sighed, and Eli could feel uncertainty and certainty radiating off of her in waves, at the same time, like high and low pressure ridges colliding, setting up a thunderstorm. "It all comes down to what Dr. Solus used to say," Dara finally explained, in a tone of frustration. "Sometimes we heal. Sometimes, we _do_ have to trim away dead tissue for a clean margin. Sometimes, we have to kill people to protect the innocent. I know all of that. . . but it's not a decision I would ever want to make."

"Say you're me," Shepard said, leaning against the counter. "Say you _have_ to decide."

Dara winced, and looked at Eli. Thoughts flickered between them. Eli said, out loud, "Hundreds of thousands of innocent people—"

"Yeah, I know. If we're _sure_—" Dara's reply, quick and incisive.

"Say we are."

"Then yes, do it."

"But make it clear that it's the wrath of the damned spirits coming down on the Hegemony," Eli said, in English, and nevermind the turian phrasing that popped into his mind. "Like Lin said, make it clear that there is nowhere in the galaxy far enough to run, that we can't find someone and execute justice."

"Use the instruments of war for it, not . . . medicine or assassination. Make it as clean as possible. If it has to be done, do it. . . the right way." Dara grimaced and threw her hands up. "God. See? This is why I wouldn't want the decision."

Eli shook his head. "Me, either. But . . . someone's got to do it."

Shepard nodded, exchanging a glance with Garrus. "Yeah. So they tell me." She sighed. "We're going upstairs to grab the kids. Give us a hand getting them all to the groundcar?"

Eli nodded, and shortly thereafter, had Elissa's drowsy weight in his arms as he carried the little hybrid girl down the stairs. She reminded him, forcibly, of Caelia, a few years ago, and he grinned a little as he tucked her into her safety seat and buckled her in, in spite of her drowsy complaints, couched in a mish-mash of English and turian.

He and Dara stood on the front steps and watched the aircar turn and leave, and then turned back towards their home. A home never empty, because there were always rachni in and around it. "So. . . just a test?" Eli asked Dara, quietly, closing the door.

"I have no idea. And I'm not going to ask Joy or the brood-warriors."

"Yeah. Wasn't asking you to." Eli's hand stole up to rub the nape of her neck. He loved a good puzzle, but he had not been able to get a read on Shepard or Garrus just now. Their poker faces were entirely too good. "Eh, to hell with it, _sai'kaea._ Ready for bed?"

"Like you wouldn't believe. Having everyone over tires me _out_."

"Not _too_ tired, I hope?" Eli let his eyebrows arch.

She grinned at him, and replied, "I'll let you chase me up the stairs, how's that?"

**Author's note: **_Composite's lines written by Eleventh Messenger. _

**Shepard, Mindoir, July 10, 2197**

Lilitu Shepard had reached a decision. It wasn't one that she liked, but one that _had_ to be made. And she was, unfortunately, the person who had to make it. She'd spent half of July third going over the information at her disposal, over and over again, and then the other half of the day arguing with Odacaen, Anderson, Hackett, Vokaj, and Emeric, by FTL comm. . . . along with Bargain-Singer, through her asari interpreter, and Emissary, the geth councilor. Four species that were growing more and more tightly allied. Hackett, Vokaj, and Emeric, speaking for the Alliance half of the joint Fleet, hadn't liked the idea, entirely. Neither did the turian admirals, when they were pulled in on the conversation. Shepard, for her part, didn't like the idea of having to involve this many people in a secret, but in order to ensure her teams' _survival_, it was necessary. As she'd said before, she wasn't in the business of ordering suicide missions. At least ones that she didn't participate in, herself, damnit.

"Look," she'd finally said, in mild frustration. "I realize that this is probably going to be a closed-door Council vote. Secret ballot, too. But I need to have a solid plan before it's presented. And part of that plan is knowing whether we'll have forces in place to protect our teams when they pull back."

Emissary nodded his head, once. "Affirmative, for all the reasons given to you by Cohort-Spectre, Shepard-Commander."

Shepard shook her head. She was _really_ going to have to talk to Cohort about whether or not he'd accept firewalling himself off from the rest of Consensus, one of these days. There _were_ independent geth platforms now; Composite was one of them, and, while experimental, the probationary Spectre platform was clearly doing just fine as an individual collection of consciousnesses.

Bargain-Singer's asari interpreter said, after a pause, "The rachni already have workers and soldiers in position on Khar'sharn, from your earlier endeavors with Sings-Rebellion, Truth-Singer. They lack a brood-warrior to direct them, however."

Shepard nodded. "We're going to try to scoop them up from the vicinity of Valak's estate and move them where needed. . . . unless you can send more?"

"It would make us sing joy-songs to add our voices to yours once again in battle chorus. For this will be the end of battle-songs, for a time, will it not?"

"Here's hoping," Shepard had replied, and then the whole thing had gone to a Council vote. She'd needed to be there for _that_, too. Wrex had actually left Tuchanka to be there for the vote, and had clamped a big hand down on her shoulder in the Council chambers. "Hell of a risky plan, Shepard. Surprised you're not going, yourself."

"I'm not a stealth expert," Shepard had replied, grimacing. "Although, if this goes to hell? I'm going to wish I _had_ been there with them. On the ground. Alive or dead, it would be better than . . . living with the results. Wondering if I had been there, if I'd have been the difference." She met Wrex's old, wise eyes.

"That's the hell of command, Shepard," Wrex told her, gruffly. "You get to live with your mistakes, and everyone elses', too."

"So why _are_ you here for the vote?" Garrus had leaned over Shepard's shoulder to ask Wrex, pointedly.

"To make sure it's the _right_ one. My brother's a reactionary. He thinks that stomping Khar'sharn completely flat is the only way to win the war. We krogan are riding high at the moment. The galaxy's looking at us with the most respect we've had since the Rebellions." Wrex's red-tinged eyes gleamed. "He thinks we'll lose that the instant the war's over, and we're not _needed_ anymore."

"Anyone pointed out to him that there are something like a thousand krogan auxiliaries still in B-Sec, a year after the plagues?" Shepard had shaken her head. "Visible? Respected? Damned near loved by their colleagues? There are only six rachni brood-warriors currently in B-Sec, but Bargain-Singer's at least thinking about changing that." Shepard had shrugged.

"Yeah, I know that, and you know that, but. . . Wreav. . . " Wrex shrugged. "So, I'm here to take his favorite war away from him. That way, he can be pissed at me, and not at you."

"Thanks, Wrex. I'll sleep better at night for that."

Impossible to tell, really, how the vote had gone. The hanar delegate had actually spoken in _favor_ of the plan, stating the that Enkindlers' sacred texts spoke of respect for life, and that this plan would save many more lives, than were ended. The elcor representative had merely shaken her enormous head, slowly and ponderously. Lilitu didn't think the Dekuuna native was particularly convinced. The salarian representative, a former STG member, had nodded immediately, and had noted that STG could provide considerable information on the assembly hall used by the Five Hundred, the Hegemon's palace, and other important structures in the capital.

In the end, the vote was seven to three for the measure. Shepard would have put money on the asari, infuriated by their species' treatment at batarian hands, being against the measure. The other two votes. . . she suspected the elcor and . . . she couldn't honestly say who the last _no_ vote had been. The quarians, like the geth and the rachni, would hardly be in favor of a large-scale attack that involved planetary bombardment of a homeworld. . . perhaps the turians had voted against it, as an honor-saving measure. Even though the admirals, generals, and even the Imperator himself had agreed to it, in principle.

A secret held by twenty people was not as secure as a secret only held by two, but Shepard had to have faith in the various councilors and admirals to keep this one tightly under their hats. Her Spectres had known that some of this was under consideration. . . but she'd needed a week to get certain assets in place. To get some specialized geth forces, a few other rachni brood-warriors, and the right ships in place. The _Raedia_, because of Lysandra's link to Glory, and its stealth capabilities, was a shoo-in for dropping the distraction teams. The _Sollostra_, another SR-3, to carry in the actual stealth teams. The _Clavus_, an SR-4, to provide covering fire and a visible target for the ground defenses to attack. . . yes. The _Clavus_ had been at the Battle of Nimines, and had been badly damaged; after close to three months in dry-dock, however, the ship was fully refitted. And a complement of human, turian, geth, and rachni ships to block the Harsa mass relay. . . after the SR ships had already moved into the system.

Now, the main issue, really, was informing the teams. And that was why Shepard paused outside the briefing room, took a deep, steadying breath, and then stepped inside, pulling her command mask down over her face. "Good morning," she said, as she entered. "No, everyone, as you were. We've got a hell of a lot to cover this morning, and this briefing is eyes-only. No one outside this room—not even your fellow Spectres—gets to know what's going on."

Rellus looked around, and Shepard could understand why. There were _notable_ absences, and a few faces people might not have expected to see. No Elijah Sidonis, but Linianus and Serana were both present. No Dara Jaworski, no Siara or Makur, but Seheve and Cohort. No Rinus Velnaran. No Lantar, but Sam and Kasumi were both on hand. No Garrus, but both Valak _and_ Alisav K'sar . . . who was not even a Spectre.

"The topic under discussion today," Shepard said, very quietly, "is the elimination of the batarian Hegemony's leader and disruption of its leadership."

Seheve sat up even straighter in her chair, her dark eyes widening. Alisav K'sar sat upright, as if a hot poker had been applied to his backside, and he turned to stare at Valak, yellow eyes wide, while Valak's expression remained ominously grim.

"The Council has approved this mission," Shepard continued, trying to keep the strain out of her voice. "However, if it goes poorly, this approval seems likely to be disavowed. In the event that there is a significant political outcry about the measure we're about to undertake, the Spectres can and must go on. . . and that is the reason why many people are not here today, and must not know for certain that the mission is a go. Garrus is aware, but in the event that I am forced to step down for these actions, he will serve as an interim commander before turning over control of the Spectres, most likely to Lantar Sidonis, with Livanus, Ylara, Gris, Dara, and Elijah available to serve as lieutenants. Rinus Velnaran also could not possibly go on this mission. He's a part of the turian imperial family by direct marriage, a _dominus_ in the Conclave, and has been named Defender of the Empire. It would be a very bad thing to directly involve him in what is, effectively, a _coup d'état_ directed at an alien government." Shepard exhaled. "These are. . .precautionary measures. I don't anticipate them being needed." _I hope._

K'sar and Valak were arguing, quietly and fiercely, under their breath in batarian. "Gentlemen?" Shepard asked.

Valak waved. "My dear good friend Alisav here has a few strong objections to the idea of assassination. As did I, the other night, as you'll recall?" Valak's expression was grim.

Shepard nodded, slowly. "I took everyone's counsel under advisement," she told him. Valak, of anyone in the room, surely deserved an answer. What they were about to do would affect his people for generations to come. "Which is why we're taking the direct approach with this mission. No poison in the soup. No gas-induced brain embolisms. It's the more dangerous one, affording us little room for error. . . but it's the right one to take. Open. Direct. And as . . . honorable as we can make it. A clear and sudden decapitation strike, with as much force as we can muster. . . with the Spectres leading the rest of the fleet in. The human, though overused term, is shock and awe. We want the Hegemony to understand that there is nowhere anyone can hide from us. From Council forces. That we can reach anywhere, at any time, and do what needs doing. No set ups. No frame-jobs. Just us. A lot of us, admittedly. But we'll have some support from all our allies on this, so. . . that's a help."

Shepard brought up several images on the briefing room screens. "These are the major governmental buildings in Urvada, the capital city on the western continent on Khar'sharn. It's not actually all that far from where Valak's estate stood. Spectre and Agent Pellarian, as well as Sings-of-Glory, know the area and its terrain fairly well. This is the Assembly of the Five Hundred," Shepard said, touching a building that was shaped, from the air, rather similarly to an egg sitting in a basket, a round dome settled into an arc at the base. "Basically the batarian equivalent to the old Terran United Nations, except that this is where the noble-caste families, who govern the various nation-states on Khar'sharn and who also govern the colonies, meet to approve laws. We have information indicating that the Hegemon plans an important speech there in three weeks. Which gives us just enough time to make our way through the batarian relays we've already captured, and take a stealth course into the Harsa system."

The information had come through Shadow Broker channels, as did the images and floorplans of the Assembly's hall. Shepard tapped the screen again. "Here, at the very back of the hall, is a box that's elevated and has line of sight on the speaker's stage. It's a box that hasn't been used in six months, as it belongs to, well, the N'dor family." Shepard sent Valak an apologetic look. His father had supposedly attempted suicide in the wake of Valak's betrayal of the Hegemony. "This would be where our sniper will set up from to take the shot on the Hegemon. There is a secondary spot, here," she tapped on the screen again, panning to the right, "near this access tunnel that the slaves use to clean the ceiling tiles and change the lighting fixtures along the roof. That's where the second sniper will set up from. The second sniper will only take the shot if the first sniper is unable to do so. The stealth and sniper team will consist of the following personnel: Seheve Liakos, sniper one. Sam Jaworski, sniper two. Serana Pellarian will serve to watch Seheve's back. Kasumi Goto will be watching Sam's back."

"With respect," Kasumi said, quietly, "Sam and I are both senior. Let _us_ take the shots."

Seheve shook her head, immediately. "I volunteered," the drell female said, before Shepard could answer. "This is precisely what I have trained for, my entire life. Let at least one of the deaths on my conscience be a clean one." There was a hint of pleading in her voice. "And with luck, this one need not be a stain on either yours or Spectre Jaworski's."

Sam shook his head quietly, and looked at Kasumi, putting a hand lightly on her shoulder. Shepard had known them both long enough to _see_ an entire silent argument cross their faces. Kasumi, wondering why Sam had been tapped for the kill shot, and Sam looking at her quietly, understandingly. _Because you're a thief, Kasumi_, Shepard thought. _You're not an assassin. You've killed from concealment before, sure. . . . but not from a mile out through a sniper rifle. Garrus has, and isn't an assassin. Sam's not an assassin, either. But I can't send Garrus, and Sam's the next best thing. _

Shepard touched the screen again, realizing that the room had gone deathly silent. "You're probably wondering how we plan to get you in and out," she went on. "That's where Valak, Alisav, James, and even Sam are going to come in handy . . . as will the _Klem Na_ prisoners we took on Lorek. Waste not, want not. We've refitted their armor to Spectre specifications, and resized them for each of you. Alisav and Sam can both stealth as needed, but in terms of getting in? Disguise is the order of the day. You'll be members of the _Klem Na_ honor guard for Chas'na V'sol, who's said to be attending at the express invitation of the Hegemon. V'sol's death is a secondary objective for this mission. If either sniper team one or sniper team two has a clear shot on V'sol after the Hegemon is down, _take_ the damned shot."

"Understood," Sam murmured, staring at the screen, where images of V'sol and the Hegemon's faces now burned. Clearly memorizing the features.

"Getting out will be harder, given the mass panic and the manhunt that's about to ensue. Only two people on the team will be unable to stealth. Valak, and James. James will have uploaded a batarian language VI, and you will serve as Valak's bodyguard. Do not let him get killed, no matter how nobly, you understand?"

James, the android double of James Allen Dempsey, snorted. "Understood, Commander. Valak's silver tongue gets us in, we get him back out."

Rel raised a hand. "Yes?" Shepard asked.

"I'm assuming that we're going to be forming distraction teams to allow the strike teams to get back out again? What force and what composition? Where are we going to be, and what are we going to be attacking, exactly?"

Shepard grinned a little. This part of the plan, she actually liked. "I'm so glad you asked," she said. "There are three other governmental buildings close by: the Securities and Slave Exchange, which sets the prices for _everything_ in the Hegemony, down to the cost of loaf of bread. . . . the Temple of the Ancestors, the site on which the batarian gods supposedly handed down the laws that divide the castes. . . and SIU main headquarters. Each team, with a contingent of geth and rachni support troops, will be opening fire on each of these buildings. Team one. . . Sam, you remember how you once called certain of our younger Spectres the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse?"

"I remember," Sam said, sliding a hand up to rub at his eyes. "I believe I'm about to have my words come back to haunt me."

"Something like that, yes. James Dempsey, Rellus Velnaran, Fors Luka, and Kirrahe Orlan, with rachni and geth troops, will be attacking SIU headquarters, which is to the southwest. Simultaneously, four brood warriors—Sky, Stone, Glory, and . . . what's the new one's name again? Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight, or some damn thing like that?" Shepard shook her head. "At any rate, those four, with a large contingent of rachni troops, will be attacking the Securities and Slave Exchange, to the southeast. Thelldaroon, Cohort, Linianus, and a contingent of geth troops, including the CROWD platforms Siege and Tsunami, will be attacking the temple to the northeast, and laying down covering fire for our people to get the hell out of the Assembly building through its rear exit. . . if needed."

Everyone in the room just stared at the map for a long moment. Dempsey raised a finger, clearing his throat. "Just for the record, how exactly _are_ we getting in and out?"

Shepard nodded slowly. "That's a damn good question," she told him. "The answer's actually in one highly useful piece of Collector tech your teams pulled out of the ship you took on Bothros. The biotic radio."

Dempsey's eyebrows rose. "The one that the geth Siege has been field-testing?"

"Affirmative," Cohort responded. "We will have a similar modification made before the mission, to enable communication between rachni and geth forces."

James held up a hand. "Can I get in on that action? I might not be precisely organic anymore, but being able to _hear_ if I want to again would be nice. Also, tactically useful to be able to hear rachni battle-song and relay secure messages."

Dempsey waved them both off. "What does that have to do with how we're going to get in and out?" he asked, calmly.

"The rachni," Serana said, sitting up suddenly, her eyes shining. "The workers and soldiers still left behind on Khar'sharn! The ones who have been helping the resistance, without any brood-warriors or ability to communicate effectively with Valak's men!"

Shepard's grin grew a little wider. "Precisely, Serana," she told the younger female. "We can use the biotic radio, sent through an FTL comm signal, and have a queen or a brood-warrior give the workers on Khar'sharn directions. They won't be able to _reply_, which is. . . problematic. . . but no one on Khar'sharn should be able to detect or interpret the signal. If the workers still live, they will be directed to proceed to the subway tunnels under the capital, and dig a new tunnel from here," Shepard tapped on a map of the capital city, at the east outskirts, "to the surface, so that when our people land, they can get underground immediately. From there, you'll have a hike through the access tunnels, to the center of the city. At the center of the city, the rachni will be asked to dig several more access tunnels. One getting our stealth teams into the Assembly through the basements. The others leading to our distraction teams' setup locations." Shepard pointed to each on the map.

The hell of it was, the capital city, Urvada, was a _capital city._ While there were spacious parks around these central buildings, there were a hell of a lot of buildings also clustered around them. Office buildings for bureaucrats and scribe-castes. Luxurious town-homes for the families of the Five Hundred when they attended the Assembly. The Hegemon's own palace was not on the map; it was actually on the western outskirts of town. The exits and entrances to the tunnels would all be located in the wooded park areas not far from each building. . . but each team _could_ be cut off from their retreat location. Each of them needed to know the others' locations in case they needed a fallback. And the pure building congestion was an ideal environment for the batarians to set up rooftop snipers to take out the teams. . . and there were likely to be a hell of a lot of civilians underfoot, as well. An ugly situation, any way you cut it.

Shepard cleared her throat. "Each tunnel is your exit point, but there's going to be a few fallback options. The stealth team will _hopefully_ be able to exit through the basement, but their secondary exit will be through the rear of the Assembly building, heading north towards the temple strike team's location, as previously noted. Each of you can pull back to a different team's tunnel to try to retreat. And in the case that absolutely everything goes to hell, the _Raedia_ can attempt to make a landing here, to the west, in this wooded area, for extraction. If everything goes correctly and according to plan, you'll just make your way back through the tunnels to the rally point east of town where you originally set down, where the _Raedia_ or the _Sollostra_ will extract you, backed up, as needed, by the _Clavus_." Shepard looked around. "All right, folks. That's the broad strokes version. Get to work figuring out what precisely you'll need to make this all happen. Team leaders. . . " Shepard glanced around. "Sam? Team leader, stealth teams."

"Got it," Sam replied, his voice absolutely calm,

She glanced at the Four Horseman team. "Velnaran, you're perfectly qualified, but this is a case where I want Dempsey to take team lead. You're second. You'll have twenty turian marines with you, and about fifty rachni that will be deploying with you from the _Raedia_." She turned towards Sky, who, along with Glory and Stone, were already in the room; the fourth brood-warrior, Dances, was already a leading contender for the next Spectre tryouts, was currently off-world. "The rachni team will have about a hundred soldiers and as many workers as they can carry on the _Raedia_. Sky, you're senior, so. . . " She caught the wave of green-yellow unease from the rachni, and frowned. "What's the problem?"

_It will be difficult, not to allow our little queen, Sings-Heartsong, to know our intent. That we go to sing battle-songs._ Sky lifted a handling appendage in a graceful arc. _We cannot sing deception to her._

_We can. . . not sing to her?_ Stone's raspy voice offered.

_What we know, Joy-Singer knows,_ Glory pointed out, in a harp-like arpeggio. _She hears. She understands why her brood-mother must not know. . . . for now. It is a hard thing for us to understand, secret-songs. _

_But if these are the songs that we must sing, we will sing them._ Sky still sounded troubled, however.

Shepard exhaled. There were _many_ things to balance in this operation, and she desperately needed for Eli and Dara's hands to be, as technically as possible, clean. If the entire top tier of the command structure was wiped out by political backlash, she _needed_ some of the younger, but experienced Spectres to be clear of this mission. "Don't say anything if you can avoid it." _Please. _ She cleared her throat. "Last, Pellarian, you're in charge of the temple attack. You'll have two CROWD platforms, as I noted before, twenty-five geth shock troopers, five Primes, and about twenty human marines. As it _is_ a cultural heritage site, we're typically supposed to try to avoid damage to the artwork and structure. . . ." She glanced at Valak. "What do you say to that, Spectre N'dor?"

"Burn the damn thing to the ground," Valak retorted, swiftly, his eyes narrow. "It's a rallying point for the defenders of the caste system. Yes, it's historic. But this is the history of our damned chains. Take it _down_."

Shepard nodded. "You heard the man. Your goal there is to be seen, heard, and very, very distracting. There are likely to be civilians in the vicinity of all these targets, but none more so than the temple. Pick your targets. Stun when possible."

Dempsey raised his hand. "SIU headquarters," he said, flatly. "Hes'han L'roc is the head of SIU. Issav Malsur is the head of Investigations. You want us to try to confirm their deaths?"

Shepard considered it. "If you see them, take the damned shot. I doubt you'll see them, even once you cut your way into the building. They're likely to be in the Assembly building. . . or, if not, to have escape tunnels of their own." She looked around. "A lot of this is going to depend on your ability to improvise on the ground. If the rachni can gain access to SIU or any of these other buildings through their basements. . . _use_ it."

"Speaking of improvisation, I detest having to be the fly in the ointment," Valak commented, very quietly, "But we will be incommunicado, thanks to the exigencies of stealth. The rachni on the surface of Khar'sharn . . what if none have survived? What if they have, and cannot build our tunnel access points, as directed?"

Shepard exhaled. "That's why you'll be there with a week to spare," she replied. "So that if all _doesn't_ go well, you can put your rachni allies to work, and hopefully stay under cover in the tunnels originally built for your resistance forces, Valak. I hope it doesn't come to that. But if it does. . . well, Glory, Serana, and Linianus have been there with you on the ground before. And your ability to disguise yourself, and your existing resistance cell. . .will be what will get our people into position. Hopefully."

"A very tall order," Valak murmured, looking at the map. "But then, I didn't get into the revolutionary business not to take risks."

**Mindoir, July 12**,** 2197**

With the _Raedia_, _Sollostra_, and _Clavus_ on the ground in the landing field, it was difficult to conceal that _something_ was going down. Farewells were spoken in almost every house on the base. Zhasa wrapped her arms around Dempsey in the dim gray light before dawn, searching his eyes with her own. _You're blocking me._

_I have to. Commander's orders. No one not on the mission can know what the mission is._ Dempsey leaned down slightly; their heights were scant inches apart, and, as always, he liked that. He wanted nothing more than to sink down into the depths of Zhasa's mind and quietly drown there, or somehow take some spark of her sweet essence with him, but he couldn't even do that much. . . because if he did, she'd feel the deadly certainty in him that this mission was a one-way ticket. That some or all of them were not going to be coming back from this one. He leaned down and kissed her, deeply, trying to convey all the flickers of nascent emotion and longing that he could feel, however faintly, deep within. _Zhasa-love. . . I have to tell you. . . the last year, with you in it, has been the best in my life. I love you. And I'm going to do my damned best to come back to you._

He hadn't been able to block it, and he knew it, as he raised his head, and saw the tears filling in her huge violet eyes. "You had better come back," Zhasa told him, her voice shaking. "I'll never forgive you if you don't. Aside from which, I've rented out a very large assembly hall on Bastion. It would look very odd if I were there in two months all by myself." Her talons dug into the backs of her arms. "I love you, too."

_Go. . . spend time with Dara and Eli while I'm gone_. _Something. Anything. Just don't dwell on it, okay, Zhasa-love?_

_I'll try. _

His goodbye to Madison was just as difficult. "Again?" Madison said, a little dispiritedly. "I know it's the job. . . and it's really cool. . . but you just finished getting that skating rink set up in the backyard. I thought you'd have a _little_ more time to help me teach everyone else how to skate. Maybe even play a little hockey. And, you know. Biotics training and all that stuff."

Dempsey put a hand on Madison's shoulder. He understood the reaction. He'd whisked Madison away from Earth, and had barely had more than three months out of the last twelve with his son. "I'm not saying this is the last mission. . . .but it should be the last one for a while." _Assuming it's not really the last one, period._ "If everything goes well, anyway." He paused. "You're growing up to be a hell of a person, Mad. You make me proud." His lips quirked slightly. "Even if I have a hell of a time feeling much, I do feel that."

Madison's face glowed a little, but he looked embarrassed at the same time. "Thanks, Dad. I. . . .thanks." A sheepish grin touched his face.

In another house on base, Sam and Kasumi were dropping off Keshi, who would be staying with Agnes and Gavius at Gavius' villa, for the entirety of their 'little business trip.' "Drop him off with Dara or Hinata if you two want some peace and quiet," Sam told his mother. He was putting on an air of total calm, so as not to scare the liver and lights out of his mother, but now he went over and crouched down in front of Takeshi. "Hey, squirt. This is going to be good-bye for a while, okay? You _mind_ for Granny and _Pada_ Gavius, you hear me?"

Takeshi was fairly immersed in a game of transformers vs. geth—the boy had recently taken a near-obsessive interest in all things geth, and Sam didn't know if that was going to last until when and if he and Kasumi got home again—but he lifted his eyes at how serious his father's tone was. "Yes, Daddy," Takeshi said. "You're sad?"

"No, not mad, not sad." Sam gave the boy a bearhug and ruffled up his soft black hair. "Love you, short stuff. Behave. Be a good boy." He stood, controlling his expression, as Kasumi smiled and chatted with Agnes, before moving over to kiss Takeshi now, herself.

Something he'd said or done had obviously disturbed his mother; Agnes stared at him now, her lips pressed together tightly, and then, wordlessly, hugged Sam tightly. Over her shoulder, Sam caught Gavius' basilisk stare, and accepted a wrist-clasp from the male. "Safe journeys and good hunting," Gavius rasped. "Spirits of air and flame protect you on your path."

As they left, Sam turning once to look back, he asked Kasumi, "What was my tell?"

Kasumi grinned at him, but there was no real merriment in her eyes. "You told Takeshi that you loved him. No joking, no kidding, no teasing."

Sam sighed. It probably wasn't a bad thing that his wife and his family could read him like a book, but it played havoc with the spook work. "And the hell of it is, I can't even give Dara a kiss on the cheek," he said, shrugging a little. "It'll be a rather stiff goodbye." _But I can't leave without saying it. Not when I know how high the odds are stacked against this mission._

So he wrapped his arms around his daughter's shoulders, and kissed the short cap of unruly hair, and whispered, "Love you, kiddo. You've made me very damned proud, you know that?" And when he pulled back, he knew he'd done it again; Dara's eyes were wide and, for a moment, absolutely terrified, before, with an obvious effort, she hid it. Smoothed it over.

"Love you too, Dad. But this is just a milk run, right?" Light words, faint tremor in the voice, as Eli, in the kids' living room, slid his arm around her waist, eyes going dark.

"Making a coffee and cake delivery on some planet or another." Sam kept his words just as light and bland.

"Should be back in, oh, four weeks, if everything goes according to plan," Kasumi offered, gently, putting her hand on Dara's shoulder. T-shirt material provided protection from skin contact.

Eli looked from one of them to the other, and, shaking his head, offered Sam his hand. "Good luck," the young man said. "Wish to hell we were going with you. Neither of us has had a coffee and cake mission in a while." His dark eyes were shrewd, however, and Sam knew what the young man really meant by the words.

"Not your turn," Kasumi told Eli, cheerfully enough.

"From the number of good-byes we're getting?" Eli replied, giving Kasumi a hug, "we're practically the only people whose turn it _isn't_. And that's . . . a little aggravating, to be honest. I'd rather go with you all, than sit here, not knowing what's going on. Or rather, trying to guess."

"You'll live," Sam told him, calmly. "In the meantime, you give Lantar and Livanus the backup they need in the investigations department. We're backlogged to hell and gone, no matter _how_ many hours we've all been putting in, trying to clear the cases."

Eli nodded, and they walked Sam and Kasumi to the door of their house. . . and, on opening it, found Lin, Serana, Zhasa, and Dempsey turning up the drive. "Did I mention the good-byes?" Eli muttered. "God. More of them."

Dara couldn't help but notice how careful Serana was, for once, not to touch her skin as the turian girl hugged her, then turned to hug Eli, too. Eli could read the expressions on Serana's face, however, no matter how tightly she tried to control them. She never _could_ lie to him, any more than she could lie to Lin. Fear. Deathly fear. Eli's head swung up as her arms locked around his ribs, and he looked at Lin, as Lin wrapped his own arms around Dara, almost as tightly. "_Fradu?_ _Asperitalla?"_ He hadn't used the old nickname for Serana in over a year; it slipped out now, as a wash of dread came over him. _There's almost nothing that would scare Serana this badly, except. . . oh god. __Sai'kaea,__ Dara, sweetheart, I think I know where they're going. . . this is death-fear in her fingers, the way she's clutching my back. . . they're going back to where she nearly died. Where you nearly died._

_I know. Eli, god, I know. _The thought that hit him was almost sick with apprehension. _And we can't tell them that we know_—

_Damn, guys._ The thought was cool and crisp, and Dempsey moved in as Lin stepped away to clasp Eli's wrist. Dempsey reached down to give Dara a hug, and gave her a white flash of shock as he actually kissed her cheek. "Can't keep secrets from either of you for long. Don't say anything. Not even now. You're not supposed to know."

"Know what?" Eli replied, gamely, as Zhasa moved over and he gave her a one-armed hug, too, for good measure. The quarian female looked about ready to start crying, and her eyes were violet-rimmed. "I don't know anything. No one's told me anything. And I'm not nearly smart enough to figure anything out on my own."

Serana's face crumpled. "I screwed up? I didn't say anything!"

Eli gave her a light kiss on the forehead. "When was the last time you actually needed to _tell_ me what was on your mind, Serana?"

A handshake from Dempsey; the human male looked past Eli at Zhasa. "Hoping I don't have to hold you two to your word about looking after Madison."

"He'll be looked after," Eli promised, and added silently, knowing Dempsey would probably hear it, _Zhasa, too. Though she'd say she doesn't need looking after._

_We'll be there for her_. Dara's silent song held assurance.

_Okay. Good. I'll be back. We'll all be back._

Farewells, farewells, and more farewells. Rel and Seheve caught Dara and Eli at the office, actually, on a lunch break. Rel stepped through the door into Eli's small work area, where the two humans were eating stir-fry on either side of Eli's desk, and said, calmly, "Got orders to move out this evening. Figured we'd come by and say goodbye."

Seheve slipped in behind him, and looked between Eli and Dara, expression uncertain. Dara put her white box of beef and broccoli down on Eli's desk, stuck the chopsticks deep inside, and stood, giving Rel a tight hug. Rel looked astounded, and then oddly pleased. Peaceful, really. Careful lack of skin contact, however, though he reached out immediately to clasp Eli's wrist as Eli stood and moved around his desk. Gave Seheve a quick, tight hug, too. "Good hunting," Eli told them both, his throat dry, feeling the waves of worry and _guilt_ radiating off of Dara. Out of himself, too. Guilt that they _weren't_ going to be standing with their friends, their brothers, their sisters. That they were, for some unaccountable reason, being held _back_. "I keep thinking," Eli said, as Dara stepped back to stand at his side once more, "considering all the goodbyes we're getting? That Dara and I must have totally fucked up something, somewhere. Or else we'd be going with you."

Rel shook his head. The blue eyes were dark and serious at the moment. "No," he told Eli. "You're both fine. You'd both be assets on this mission. But you're needed more here."

"I wish I could believe that," Dara muttered. "Lin's little superstition about splitting the pack? It's echoing in my head today. Kind of a lot."

"It's fortunate, then," Seheve told Dara, with light humor, "that this would be the final farewell you will have to speak. I took the liberty of bringing our cat to your house before we came here. In that way, your Zappa will not have far to go to entertain her."

Dara forced a chuckle, but they all met each others' eyes. And in that moment, Eli knew that they were just as transparent to Rel and Seheve, as they all were to each other. Their gazes fell through each other like sunlight through glass. They knew where the others were going. And Rel and Seheve, even without biotics, knew that they knew. "Good hunting," Eli said, his throat tight.

"Spirits protect you both," Dara whispered.

"And stay with you," Rel replied.

And then they were gone.


	154. Chapter 154: Khar'sharn: Endgame

**Chapter 154: Khar'sharn: Endgame**

**Harsa System, July 27-August 2, 2197**

Like most soldiers, Sam Jaworski had certain rituals before a big engagement. He'd taken care of everything he tended to think needed taking care of before even leaving Mindoir. He'd said good-bye to his daughter, son, and mother. He'd checked his will. He'd made sure his life insurance policies were up to date and easy to find in the strongbox. He'd adjusted every strap in his armor, cleaned his weapons, and tweaked his stealth module. There was usually a kind of peace in this ritual. He'd done everything that he could. Everyone he loved would be taken care of if he didn't make it back. It wasn't quite the acceptance of a terminally-ill patient, but . . . it was as close as he figured he was ever going to get. Sam Jaworski was a fighter. The Reaper, he reckoned, was eventually going to take him, but he'd go down kicking.

The biggest detriment to his sense of calm, of course, was the waiting. Two weeks of the dark energy FTL drives humming, and then dropping into stealth outside sensor range of the Harsa system. Gliding in at an odd vector, drifting. The _Clavus_ didn't have stealth drive, so it was actually angling in from behind the _Raedia_ and the_ Sollostra._ Trying very hard not to be seen, and not to draw attention to the other two ships.

Sam was, technically, the senior Spectre present; he and Kasumi had joint leadership of the mission. Kasumi's presence both helped Sam's sense of calm, and also tweaked it. He admitted it to himself, privately; he was only human, and couldn't help who he was. She was as good at her job as he was at his. . . and her entire job on this trip, other than being second-in-command of the overall mission. . . was to keep him alive so he could take the shot, as needed. He trusted her, implicitly. Knew the mission had a much greater chance of succeeding, and of more of them getting home with her along, than without her. But the part of him that needed to know that "everything is going to be okay" if he happened to die on this mission pinged at him every time he looked at her, until Kasumi told him, calmly, on the tenth day of their flight, "Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"You're running worst-case scenarios in your head. I can tell. Every time you do, the line of your shoulders tenses." Kasumi was, at the moment, stretching out in their quarters, working through positions that would make most yoga instructors cry to look at, let alone try. "It's not healthy."

"Eh, someone's got to."

"Yes, but once we've addressed them, dwelling isn't going to make them any more or less likely." Kasumi's lips curved into her faint, mysterious smile. "Take a walk, Sam. Look at something besides these four walls, and those datapads." She laid back slowly, feet tucked under her-a deceptively simple quadriceps stretch that made Sam twitch a little to watch. He knew _he_ couldn't do that one, but he definitely enjoyed watching her do it.

Sam raised his eyebrows at his wife. "I'm looking at more than four walls and datapads right now. Quite a bit more, in fact."

"Yes, but now you're distracting me." Kasumi smiled up at him, but she actually wasn't fooling him. He could read tension in her expression too, and realized that he was, inadvertently, adding his own to hers. Simple body language could do that. Tension passed from one person to another, and he tended to let his guard down around her, and show his real emotions, instead of keeping up the façade he maintained for the others.

So, Sam snorted at her genially, stepped over her prone form, and went for a walk. He liked to gauge the mood and readiness of the other Spectres and affiliated, anyway, and had been visiting the various rooms on a daily basis to do just that.

His first stop, today, actually took him to Dempsey's room; the strains of guitar music wafted out into the corridor, along with a tapping, rhythmic sound. Syncopation. Sam poked his head around the edge of the open door, and looked inside. Dempsey was sprawled across his bunk, playing, while Fors Luka perched on the desk, and James occupied the room's only chair. James was drumming along atop the desk, keeping time lightly, trying to demonstrate to Fors how to use the drumsticks that the volus currently inexpertly gripped in his suited hands. Dempsey sang along, very quietly, to the main melody, "'Wish I'd died instead of lived, a zombie hides my face, shell forgotten with its memories, diaries left with cryptic entries . . . And you don't need to bother. I don't need to be. I'll keep slipping farther. . . but once I hold on I won't let go till it bleeds.'"

"Depressing," Sam assessed, from the doorway.

"Kind of the truth," Dempsey admitted, looking up. "Pretty much where I was when I woke up a little over . . . god. Two years ago, now. Sometimes, the old songs say things we don't express well these days. "

"It's just math," James insisted now, more loudly, shaking his head at the volus. "Something you should be a natural at, Fors." He looked up; his completely white eyes glowed dimly in his otherwise perfectly human face, and he smiled a bit, a natural, relaxed expression. "Spectre Jaworski. Making your rounds again?"

"More or less," Sam admitted, stepping into the room. "Haven't heard you playing much this trip, Dempsey." He looked at the human male, who'd stilled his fingers on the strings.

Dempsey shrugged, expressionless. "Most of the songs right now remind me too much of Zhasa. . . or just plain aren't as much fun without Dara here to play with, or without Elijah to sing along," he admitted. "Either it connects me in with stuff I don't want to deal with right now, or . . . just kind of feels pointless without people being here to do it with." He paused. "At the moment, with all of them back on Mindoir. . . I kind of feel like I am slipping away a little."

"Probably should go play for the rachni who are aboard," Sam pointed out. "Or just play more, period."

"I know, I know. I wonder if I can teach Zhasa to play bass." He looked at James. "Or, you know, _you_ could."

"Finger sensitivity on the strings isn't what it used to be, man."

"A bass has fewer strings. How much skill do you really need?" Swift, needle-like jab, and James snorted back at his 'twin' in mild amusement. Then Dempsey turned back to Sam. "And. . . yeah, I know. I know I need to play more, for my own good, and it helps the rachni, too. They've at least got a fair number of their own people to sing with along with us this time. None of them should be going nuts from the silence. But I'll make a point of dropping by. I've at least worked with all of 'em before. Glory, Stone, and Dances were all on Terra Nova, and Dances was on that Tortuga jaunt, too." Dempsey shrugged again.

Sam nodded, then turned towards James, struck. "How's that biotic radio working out, now that you've had it, well, plugged in?"

James rocked a hand back and forth. "Static-ridden, " he assessed, bluntly. "I'm fiddling with it pretty much constantly, fine-tuning it. It works pretty well for other bipeds. . . I can hear my. . . twin here. . . pretty clearly. You start listening to a rachni, though. . . and it gets loud very fast. Like the feedback loop from a microphone that's too close to a speaker. My new personal theory is that the Collectors didn't mean to drive the rachni nuts. That sour yellow note was just the rachni hearing the biotic radio squawk in their ears, and, well, they went on the rampage to make it _stop_."

Sam couldn't help the snort of laughter that escaped him. "Bet you didn't know _James_ here is a comedian," Dempsey said, dryly, giving his double a look.

James glanced back at him. "It burns you every time you say the name, doesn't it?" Almost good-natured raillery. . . but a hint of sorrow underscoring it.

Dempsey shrugged. "It was my name first, but like I said months ago, if anyone called me that, I dunno if I'd answer to it. I think I said I didn't know who that James guy was anymore." He lifted a hand and pointed at the geth-human android. "Now, I do."

James grimaced. "I don't know if I'm any more that guy than you are, but I'm out of names. So this will have to do."

"Besides, then _Cassie_ wouldn't know what to call you." That was clearly a gibe. "You do realize she's my . . . huh. Adopted brother's step-daughter? And you're my twin, which. . . conceivably makes you a kind of, sort of uncle. . . I'm pretty sure this isn't legal in some states."

James held up his hands. "I'm not answering if I gotten into her ports, if that's what you're asking," he protested, mildly.

"Oh, come on, I know you two have to be swapping code."

"A gentleman doesn't interface and tell." James' grin grew, and then faded into a grim expression. "Not that me and my _prosthetic body_ . . ." A minute flicker of facial expression, a suggestion of discomfort, a faint head shift in Dempsey's direction. So natural and rapid, they looked completely organic. . . though Sam had to wonder just how much of it was genuine, and how much the AI was putting on to make Dempsey feel more comfortable with him. It looked far too real to be a manipulation, however. James cleared his throat and avoided the rest of whatever he'd intended to say. "And well. . . it's not like she has a platform yet, though she's put in a request for one, just like Pelagia's had built, and Mercuria, the AI of the _Clavus_, has received."

Sam shook his head. "Prosthetic _body_, huh?" The thought was . . . an uncomfortable one, for Sam. He'd spent his entire life honing his body into a weapon. The thought of any of it being. . . foreign to him, alien. . . was discomfiting at best. Let alone the whole damn thing. . .

James shrugged now and managed a smile. "Hey, beats the shit out of sitting inside a server, reading everything on the extranet I can find, and only having the NCAIs to talk to. . . and only being able to look around one or two rooms. That was worse than prison. Don't get me wrong. . . the NCAIs are great company. But I was close to going nuts from the enforced inactivity." He glanced around. "Kind of like now. But while I can move around and talk to people now, this has an end date, and the usual sense of 'big mission' coming up." He shrugged again. "You're about to tell me to go talk to Thell, aren't you?"

Sam grinned at him. "He is our designated AI counselor. Probably the only one in the galaxy, at the moment."

"Eh, electronic kitten posters are even less effective than the real ones. I'm hanging in there, Spectre. Don't worry about me."

Fors slipped down from the desk. "Need to stretch my legs," he told the others. "You going to continue your rounds, Sam?" The volus had, like most of the newer Spectres, taken a while to get to the point of calling any of the senior Spectres by first-name.

"Yeah. Figured I'd look in on Cohort and Sky, next."

That was almost as amusing, but in a different way. Cohort and Sky had worked together for seven damned years now, without the ability to communicate meaningfully, except through a translator from Sky's end. "How's the biotic radio working out for you two?" Sam asked, leaning into the room that was occupied by rachni webbing on one side, so that Sky could sleep with several of his limbs supported, off the floor, and a geth node on the other side, so that Cohort could back up and recharge. "Heard from James that there's static and other issues?"

_A few. Sings-Not is building on the songs already sung by the geth Sings-Battle. _Apparently, rachni could give similar names to members of different hives. Sky had long since christened Gris 'Sings-Battle,' but Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight (Nameless or Dances, for short), had dubbed his geth compatriot, the CROWD platform, Siege, Sings-Battle, as well. Sam foresaw deep confusion if these two ever happened to join the Spectres on a longer-term basis than support for a mission or two. _However, I still sing confusion that so many 'words' mean the same thing, _Sky added.

Sam squinted at Sky. "I don't follow," he admitted, glancing down at Fors.

"Rachni communication is conceptual and visual, in part," Cohort supplied. "Human, geth, and other species are far more specific and nuanced, but also, in part, _less_ specific. The lexicon provided by Siege-Designate has proven useful, but requires refinement. Transmission errors occur. When we wish to indicate, for example, 'Retreat to the area designated as blue zone one on the grid map,' Sings-to-the-Sky-Spectre hears. . . echoes, resonances. Static, doubled messages."

_I hear 'retreat/fall back/withdraw to blue/cobalt/aqua area/zone.' Too many words. All mean the same thing, but all at once. Subtle distinctions. Fault of cold-metal device, not fault in Sings-Not._ Sky sounded mildly perturbed, but at the same time, excited. Blue-green amusement in ripples and rivulets, everywhere. _It is very good to hear his voice, however. He is a harmony unto himself, many voices all singing together. Still, this is not unlike how humans sing. There is oversong and undersong, and they conflict. But geth-songs are __aware__ of each other. Most singers of other kinds are not so self-aware. This is interesting. And something of value to give to the hive, when we are done here!_

Sam shook his head. "Just so long as not all geth start listening in on all organics. I'm pretty much down with the rachni hearing everything I think, mostly 'cause I have no actual choice in the matter." He grinned at Cohort good-naturedly. "They also forgive two-legs for a hell of a lot of weird thoughts. I'm not sure we should subject geth to all of these quite yet."

He checked in on Valak and K'sar; the two batarians were probably the quietest and tensest people on the ship at the moment, and no wonder. It wasn't every day someone participated in a coup against their own head of state, the nominal leader of their entire _species_. Sam had asked Valak, repeatedly, if K'sar was going to hold it together. "He's a law and order type," Valak reminded Sam, quietly. "He hasn't pledged himself to the Spectres. . . but he _has_ pledged himself to me. To my cause. He'll be all right."

The next day, however, brought long-range telemetry results in from Argus; the ships received the tightly encrypted, straight-line FTL packet from the Shadow Broker, and everyone gathered in the _Raedia's_ meeting room to stare at the images from satellites in orbit around Khar'sharn, sent by Argus' contacts in the Hegemony. "Okay," Sam said, slowly, "those look like surface to air missile batteries or something, all around the capital city, Urvada, and even close to many of its major buildings. . . but they're nonstandard configuration." He looked at K'sar and Valak. "Any idea what they are?"

Valak shook his head. "They're new," he admitted. "Even when I was going in to SIU headquarters two to three times a week last year, I didn't see any of these structures. They could be missile batteries, I suppose." He frowned.

K'sar grimaced. "I've never seen anything like them, either, but I wasn't in Defense. Some of that is prime real estate, too. There are two on either side of the Hegemon's palace." He tapped on the map. "I think it safe to assume that they're intended to repel an invasion force that comes in from overhead."

"The text file with the telemetry indicates that construction of these facilities began about three months ago," Kasumi noted. "More or less at the same time that Camala was first attacked."

Valak grimaced. "It makes a certain amount of sense, unfortunately. Fall back and use resources to protect the homeworld. Trade the colonies for the time it takes for invaders to defeat them. . . and use that time to build up the homeworld's defenses." He stared at the maps, shaking his head. "They have to know there's no way they can hold off all of the Council's fleets forever."

K'sar shrugged. "Not forever," he corrected, his voice cynical and tired. "Just long enough for their governments to find it. . . taxing. A waste of resources and lives. For the outrage that sparked the war to die down. All the Hegemony and the leadership really needs to do. . . is to outlive that."

"Not going to happen," Sam told them, quietly. "Might have worked if it were just humans. We tire out on hate a little faster than some of the other species. Turians would probably still be fighting in fifty years. And the geth and the rachni have longer memories than either of our species. But yeah, there is a question of resources." He looked at the towers again, and grimaced. "I'm thinking those could be advanced radar installations. Ones that _might_ be able to pick up SR-3s."

"Based on what information?" Kirrahe asked, politely, staring at the screen.

"Based on the simple fact that everything that can go wrong, pretty much will," Sam replied, dryly. He glanced at Kasumi. "Argus has _nothing_ on those things besides their existence?"

Kasumi shook her head, her eyes narrow. "Not much, Diversion of equipment from the spaceyards to construct them, however. Not _what_ equipment, however. Her informants are getting thinned out on Khar'sharn, it looks like."

Sam glanced around the room. "Suggestions?"

"Have the _Clavus_ to flash the other side of the planet from our actual landing zone," Rel suggested, tapping his talons on the table.

"They were supposed to take the same aspect dive as we were, so we'd look like sensor ghosts," Dempsey replied, immediately, and then the discussion was off and rolling.

Sam decided, in the end, not to change the plan too much; the sensor ghosts notion wasn't a bad one, and there were, fortunately, a hell of a lot of trees near Valak's estate to hide in while they were transferring crew off of the ships. He could only hope that the landing zone wasn't going to be hot, and that the rachni were alive, and had received the message over the biotic radio.

Also, apparently, he needed to pray that the biotic radio hadn't been manned by a geth when the signal had been transmitted, because otherwise, the little rachni workers might have received a message like _dig/burrow/tunnel/in this location/this location/this location_. . . .and might have promptly turned the entire capital city's underside into a sinkhole waiting to happen. _We'll call that Plan C_, Sam decided.

They were actually coming into the Harsa system from below the plane of the ecliptic this time. It was a tactic thus far successfully used several times, which meant that they knew that the batarians would be expecting it. They were, however, a week ahead of the actual 'invasion' force for a reason. The invasion force was massing at relays not far from Harsa, and doing so visibly, though they could easily also have been moving to attack other batarian colonies. The Hegemony _should_ be waiting for those ships to move. . . but they'd also be expecting a vanguard force, scouting movements, something. That was the _Clavus_' role, for the moment; to look like a scout ship. To take the hits that the _Sollostra_ and the _Raedia_ couldn't afford.

Sam bundled into his armor, taking his time with it. Made sure the bowie knife was secure, strapped to his leg. Made sure his weapons were clean, functioning, and loaded. He rarely carried a sniper rifle anymore, but he'd trained Dara in its use. . . and he was damned good with his. His head rose as Kasumi patted him on a pauldron. "We're starting the entry past the sensor buoys," her voice whispered through his suit radio.

_Damn. It goes so fast._

They headed to the shuttle bays. In the event that the _Raedia_ was destroyed on entry, they would abandon ship in the shuttles and attempt to conduct the mission anyway. Fallback after fallback after fallback; it was the only way to plan a mission like this one.

Outside, the _Clavus_ moved towards the planet, a black, curving talon of a ship. It had fought in the battle of Nimines alongside the _Hamus_ and the _Acus_; its AI, Mercuria had been decorated by the fleet, although only Ariston, of the AIs involved in that battle, had been recognized by the Imperator for valor. . . .and as kin. "Sensor buoys have detected us," she reported, her tone, as always, brisk. Her avatar, usually that of an almost completely turian-looking female, save the dark blue human eyes, wore Thracian yellow facepaint. "Satellite defense grid ahead of us, arming and locking."

Her captain, Nimidus Terenus, nodded, his expression set under his violet Quadim paint. "All right, people," he told the bridge crew, hooking his feet under the railing around the tactical grid's station, "let's give them a good show, right?"

The _Clavus_ accelerated, and Mercuria, Lysandra, and Cassandra, the NCAIs of the three ships, matched course and bearing precisely. The 'sensor ghosts' never once would change position relative to the _Clavus_, not by more than half an inch, if they could avoid it. . . "Satellites are launching missiles," Mercuria announced, quietly, and shifted to her eyeball avatar, to avoid system resource drains. "Contact in fifteen seconds, captain."

"Understood. Pilot, begin your entry."

The pilot gritted her teeth, and banked steeply, beginning the ship's dive. A much faster, more inclined entry than was typically safe; too much of an angle, and you could burn up on entry. This time, however, the hope was to close the gap between the _Clavus_ and the missiles before the freshly launched warheads could arm_._ "Missiles correcting course," Mercuria noted; the captain could see them on the tactical grid as the _Clavus_ and its two sister ships blazed right past the missiles. "They are now in pursuit, directly astern."

"Are they locked on us, or on either of the SR-3s?"

"All appear to be locked on us."

"Gun crews, target the missiles behind us and fire, but only when their detonation will not affect the _Sollostra_ or the _Raedia_."

The rear-facing Thanix canon, less powerful than the forward battery, took out the first two of the missiles, which shattered satisfactorily. The remaining three, however, remained in pursuit as the _Clavus_ entered the atmosphere, kinetic shielding taking some, but not all, of the friction and heat as they plunged through the ionosphere. "Hull temperature rising," Mercuria warned. "Nine hundred degrees Fahrenheit and increasing steadily."

"Bolster the forward shields."

"Already doing so, sir."

The captain held onto the tactical display's side, digging in his talons as the ship began to buck wildly, knowing that, somehow, the pilots and AIs of the other two ships were trying to maintain course, speed, bearing, and distance, and that if any of them flinched the wrong way at this moment, one ship could veer right into one of the others. _Spirits, this is insanity_, he thought. Power started to fluctuate, as overloading conduits gave up here and there throughout the ship. "Three remaining missiles?" he called to Mercuria, as the tactical grid fuzzed out.

"Overheating!" The AI's voice was fierce with joy. "Their outer coatings are melting! They're _delaminating!_"

She managed to get the display online again, to show him what the gun-mounted cameras outside the ship were picking up. Sure enough, the three missiles chasing them were glowing from heat, strips of their polyceramic hull plating—never intended to hold up against Thanix cannons and Javelins and the occasional asteroid impact—were tearing loose as the friction of the atmosphere ripped at them. Then the first one shattered and, caught by the wind, no longer aerodynamic, appeared to flip backwards and plunge _up_ and away from the _Clavus_. Then the next. The third actually detonated. . . no doubt, some technician in a satellite base, trying to catch them before the damned thing disintegrated.

"_Sollostra_ reports damage to engine section, minor." Mercuria's crisp voice, as always, kept her crew calm. She was by no means a social NCAI, not prone to chat with her pilots and crew. "Satellites are still locked on us, but we're approaching the mesosphere. They cannot fire, not without subjecting residents on the surface to radiation."

"Not firing?"

"Not from the satellites. Defense towers in vicinity coming online."

"Level us out before we burn up," Terenus ordered, and the pilot complied, correcting their steep angle. Klaxons, which had been sounding all over the ship, as the polyceramic, diamond-matrix hull threatened to melt into a thick slurry of molten alloys, began to cool somewhat, but from the outside, the black hide of the ship probably glowed like a coal. "All hands, brace for combat maneuvers!"

"Incoming," Mercuria noted, briskly. "Surface to air missiles have locked. Thirty seconds out."

"Take the first salvo on our shields. After that, we can move, but let's give our hull time to cool down—"

"Fifteen seconds."

The red-tinged foliage of Khar'sharn loomed closer below. Plumes of white smoke from the incoming missiles twisted across the landscape like worms. "Ten seconds," Mercuria reported. "Forward shields at maximum." A pause. "Five seconds."

"Sound collision!"

The incoming missiles slammed into the forward shields of the _Clavus_, exploding on impact. The _Clavus_ descended through a cloud of fire and shrapnel, sister ships still tucked in tightly alongside and behind. "Forward shields at fifty percent—"

"Pilot, we're going to need to dodge the next ones—"

"Second wave, inbound, multiple contacts—"

This time, the pilot rolled, but couldn't do much; veer too far out of the way, and the _Raedia_ or the _Sollostra _could take the hit, and then that 'sensor ghost' might be shown to be something rather less than ethereal. Missiles clipped the shields over the wings, scraped along the sides, and punched a hole near crew quarters. "I have the defense towers located," Mercuria reported, her tone becoming fierce again. "Relaying information to gun crews."

"Fire at will," Terenus ordered his crews. "_Raedia, Sollostra_, two salvos, then head for the deck."

Two salvos, indeed, of Javelins and Thanix fire, and then they arced down into the bare region of ground that had once been Valak N'dor's estate. The _Raedia_ and the _Sollostra_ actually touched down; the _Clavus_ hovered long enough to confirm that the troops moving out of the trees had _rachni_ with them. . . and then Terenus sent a final message to the other ships. "Good hunting. We're on our way out. Spirits be with you."

And with that, the _Clavus_ threw itself back at the sky, this time firing ahead of itself, clearing a path through the satellites. Fighters were scrambling, laying in pursuit courses. Mercuria balanced the engine fuel intermixes, sent damage control crew scrambling to seal off the bulkheads around crew quarters, responded to alarms all over the ship, and bled every bit of power she could into ascending, as rapidly as possible, to escape the planet's gravity well. And, once out of the atmosphere, she kicked in the FTL engines before her pilot could touch the controls, screaming away at top speed, course previously locked in. "They're going to be able to see us and will try to intercept," her pilot, muttered, her voice grim. "We're not even trying for the relay."

"No," Mercuria agreed, not bothering with anything but the eyeball avatar at the moment. "Escape isn't our job at the moment. Distraction is." A fierce note crept into her voice again. "I plan to be very distracting indeed."

As such, they fired directly on the systems' refueling stations as they passed them; they were near the relay, but most of the systems' defenses were currently positioned around that relay, not around the fueling depots. Mercuria was actually rather proud of this; it had been her contribution to the plan, and, as she'd anticipated, large numbers of ships had to break from pursuit to fight the fires in the fuel depots. Which let them flee out of the system, into the Kuiper belt, and go dark. The _Clavus_ might not have a stealth drive, but it was painted black, had the same radar deflecting design as the other SR ships, and, if they went to chemical jets, could drift among asteroids and hide behind planetisimals with the best of them. And once sufficiently off-line of their original course and bearing, they could change course, jump to FTL again, and move to an entirely different hiding place. The Kuiper belt was _huge_. And very, very hard to search.

_And now we wait,_ Mercuria thought, and downloaded herself from her ship-self into her mech-self. Her mech body looked as much like her avatar as the robotics specialists of the Hierarchy and the Spectres could make it; a turian female, slightly shorter than average, with soft human eyes. The scales were synthskin, and held as many synthetic nerves as a human or turian high-end prosthetic. . . but she could cut information feed from them. Didn't necessarily interpret their data as 'pain,' even. She was getting used to the damned thing—hadn't even _wanted_ a body other than ship-self, at first—but the Hierarchy had been direct in its commands. Since she had steadfastly refused to chip an organic, but had distinguished herself at Nimines, she could be among the first to try an experimental technique in preserving AI runtimes. . . and ensuring that NCAIs could help others, and help themselves, too.

As such, her mech body got to work in the engineering section, assisting the crew there with putting out fires, while she continued to _feel_ the damage reports from her ship-self's internal sensors.

There were days Mercuria thought that having two bodies would be apt to drive her insane. She's even come up with some interesting algorithms designed to avoid exactly that. . . but hadn't been allowed to test them. Today, however, the body was simply too damned _useful_ for her to care about the potential eventual side-effects.

On the surface, the _Raedia_ and the _Sollostra_ settled down on the ground, taxiing under the canopy of trees. Batarians and rachni clustered outside, soldiers and workers already hauling nets filled with chunks of sod over the bodies of the ships, concealing their shapes from the air. Turning each ship into a mound, in essence. A temporary expedient.

Valak stood, seething with impatience, at the top of the landing ramp, and was the first to descend. He could hear Sky at the back of his mind, singing, _The little ones say that all is well. None here who have not been with them for months. You may descend, Sings-Rebellion. Give greeting-songs to your hive!_

Relief poured through him, relief flowing like water, through all the cracked and broken places inside, where only guilt and fear had lived for months. He and Nala and their child had been taken to safety. So, too, had a handful of his men. But many had remained. Too damned many.

So when he saw Tul'dur's face, Valak actually grinned in relief and took the last three strides off the ramp almost at a run. He brought his hands down on Tul'dur's shoulders, seeing the male's look of relief turn into an expression of total shock. "M'lord?" Tul'dur said, staring at him.

"Tul'dur, my dear old friend, it's by far time we got this revolution started. And the very first thing I want changed is for you never to call me 'm'lord,' again." Valak clapped Tul'dur's shoulders again, and his grin broadened as more and more of his men emerged from the underbrush. "I'm so very pleased to see you all. I had feared you all dead or captured."

"The little insects have been a blessing from the ancestors," Tul'dur replied, gesturing towards the workers. "We got down into the tunnels one step ahead of Oversight Forces, and they pulled them down behind us. . . and just kept digging. Oversight's brought in ground-penetrating radar and sniffer-trackers periodically, but whenever they do that, their crews turn up dead. . . with acid burns and claw marks. We got out of the woods with the slaves we'd rescued, turned them loose in the farming areas north of here, backtracked as far south as we could, and kept on conducting raids. Mostly for food and supplies. Occasional hit on Oversight forces or slaving operations, but we . . . really needed for things to calm down. Once the area around the estate had cooled down, m'l. . . sir. . . . " Tul'dur fumbled.

Valak listened to it all, drinking it in, insisting on a handshake with each of his men. Most of them, even though they had been freed by his hands, had never touched his skin before. He was wearing armored gauntlets. . . but he knew they understood the gesture. "And then you returned here?"

"About two months ago, yes, sir. The rachni tunneled in from the surface, found the old bunkers they'd already established before, and we started clearing them out. Restocking. Then, about a week ago, all the little ones got . . . excitable. Started trying to write messages for us. Those of us who can read, could barely make out what they were saying, but they wanted to get in trucks, and they lead us straight to the outskirts of Urvada." Tul'dur shook his head, the normally taciturn male surprisingly vocal as he made his report. "It was night, and they all poured out of the trucks and opened a path through a manhole cover, and the next thing the rest of us knew, they were. . . working their way through the tunnels. Got us into the subway system. Every time I asked them why, they only would tell me one thing, in writing." Tul'dur grimaced and held up a scrap of paper. In shaky letters in the galactic alphabet, which Valak knew that Tul'dur barely understood, he read: _SPCTRS CMNG. SNG PRP SNGS. THEN SNG BTL SNGS!_

"Helpful, aren't they?" Valak murmured.

"Very, if we could just _understand_ them." Tul'dur's tone turned sour. "I got 'Spectres' and 'battle' and 'songs,' out of that. But not anything about what we were doing in the subway tunnels. Then, yesterday, they insisted on returning here. Started pulling up the sod and the dirt and preparing nets. 'Spectres coming, Spectres coming.' Didn't know what to expect until your ships came down." Tul'dur's expression went tight. "We're too exposed out here. We need to get all your people underground, m—sir."

To say that Tul'dur was surprised to meet Alisav K'sar was an understatement. He darted a quick glance at Valak as the second batarian descended from the ramp, a solitary figure in gray-and-khaki-and-green sprayed armor, among all that Spectre black and Hierarchy officer black. . . . and carrying a batarian vibroblade. On being introduced, Tul'dur's eyes widened even further. "M'lord was _also_ in SIU?"

"For as many years as Valak," Alisav admitted, in his precise, upper-class cadences, and offered Tul'dur his hand, as well. "We've had a number of interesting conversations on justice and the future of the Hegemony in the past months."

From the freed-man's narrowed eyes, Valak did not believe for an instant that Tul'dur would trust the newcomer anytime soon. Tul'dur would be watching K'sar carefully. . . perhaps too much so. They needed everyone to be alert to threats outside the strike force, not looking for knives in the hands of allies. "Tul'dur? K'sar has become my right hand. The rachni have listened to his heart and mind. He's worked with me in convincing many males of the warrior-caste to set aside caste-bonds. He's one of us." Valak's lips quirked. "A revolutionary. If one who never truly wished to be one."

Tul'dur nodded, once, but his expression remained unconvinced. _Nothing will convince him, until he sees K'sar fighting at our sides_, Valak decided, and put the problem to the back of his mind, for now.

Most of his men recognized Linianus and Serana, of course, and clasped their wrists heartily, having learned the turian gesture during the three months that the pair had worked with them before. "Good to see you back on your feet," one of them told Serana.

Serana nodded, and smiled, but her mind wasn't on the conversation. Her eyes tracked over the rubble that was all that remained of Valak's once lovely home, and found, to the north, the outbuilding that she and Lin had been making a run for, when the floating turrets had targeted them. She swallowed, feeling her crop go tight. _This planet almost killed me once. It's not going to get another chance_, she thought, defiantly, and nudged Lin lightly with her elbow. "Back underground," she told him, trying to keep her voice level.

"Easy as a walk in the park, as Sam might say," Lin told her, catching her arm at the elbow, and helping her take the first steps into the darkness of the tunnel entrance, which sloped down, gradually at first, and then descended lower and lower. The rachni had taken the last seven months and _worked_ at their tunnel-building; the access remained through the older, shallower tunnels, but Serana would have estimated that the main shaft in which she now found herself, was at least a hundred feet underground. There were chemical lights on the ceilings, rachni-made, that illuminated everything with a dim green glow, alien but clear. In short order, they were all firmly under the ground—including their geth, rachni, human, and turian support crews, from the hulking brood-warriors and geth CROWD platforms and Primes to the tiny workers—and the tunnel was resealed behind them. Then Tul'dur beckoned them all forward, and they started a long trek through winding tunnels.

_The whole underside of the base looks like this, back home,_ Serana thought. Dara and Eli had taken her and Linianus down to see Joy-Singer in the queen's new abode before they'd set out for Khar'sharn. Rachni built tunnels for those who would use them most. Queen tunnels needed to be twenty feet tall or more, and wide in diameter; anyone could use them. The majority of tunnels were sized for brood-warriors, but the rock of each main thoroughfare beneath the ground was honeycombed with other, smaller tunnels. Sized for a varren, or the rachni soldiers. Tiny tunnels, the size of her hands, high and low in the walls, for the workers to gain access to whatever they needed. But while the Mindoir tunnels were covered in gleaming, glittering crystals, held up with crystalline extrusions, filled with blue-green light in Joy's brood-chamber, for the comfort of the human-touched queen, these tunnels here were not a home. These were working tunnels, and the rachni had not bothered to do more than ensure that they were safe from collapse. They smelled of dust and the musty smell of rock untouched by sun and time.

After what felt like a mile of winding, switchbacking, intersecting tunnels, they emerged through into a wider cavern. Other smells here. Oil and engine fluids, foods and chemical lavatories, and far too much _nitula_ oil. And Serana's eyes, dark-adapted, smarted a little as Tul'dur touched a switch, and the overhead electrical light s turned on. . . revealing dozens more of Valak's men, all with weapons trained on the incoming group, as they themselves crouched behind ground vehicles for cover. A final precaution. . . . and then Valak stepped forward, lifting the visor of his helmet and raising his arms.

And the cheers rang back off the ceiling as loudly as if the war had already been won. Serana's crop tightened again as all of the batarians surged forward, reaching out, but holding back, as if unable to believe the sight of their eyes, but unable to touch for confirmation. _He's their hero. Their star player. Their leader. For them, it's like . . . seeing Rel come back from Khar'sharn, a year and more ago. Like seeing Eli and Dara come back from Lorek. _

After a while, Valak got the crowd to settle down, and began to explain, in sober tones, what the mission here, that the rachni had already been preparing for, was about.

That stunned the batarians into absolute and total silence for a moment. Finally, Tul'dur growled, "We're with you, m'lord. Sir. Valak. You know that. The Hegemon's signature was on my wife's condemnation papers. And mine. Maybe he didn't sign them. Maybe it was just a stamp. But he owes me two lives. I'd be happy to collect."

"Aye—" 

"Tul'dur has the right of it!"

"I only wish I'd have the chance to take the shot myself!"

The next week was fairly tense. Rachni workers, positioned on the surface, tucked into small holes in the ground and up in the trees, hell, in and around the broken walls of Valak's old manor, were their eyes and ears. They were tiny, unnoticeable by batarian life-sign detectors, ubiquitous in the area, and the brood-warriors could hear them from ten mile away. The _Raedia_ and the _Sollostra_ were thus immediately warned, without even having to turn on their engines or radar equipment, when gunships and groundcars came into the area. When Oversight and SIU forces arrived with ground-penetrating radar.

The ships had been moved to a secondary location; the first location and the nets of earth had been pulled up as quickly as possible to avoid being seen from the many satellites in orbit that could resolve an object the size of a matchbook on the ground; fortunately, they'd known approximately when the spy satellites were in position over Valak's estate, from old mission records and Valak's SIU history. While it was possible that different satellites could have been tasked to watch the area, or the orbits could have been altered, it came down to a relatively simple fact: if you have a large system of surveillance cameras, you can only point them at so many things at once. Pointing a camera at a group of ruins, a monument to a 'failed' spying effort, will only net results if you expect it to be used again. And after seven months of probable inactivity, budget managers would, eventually start to call for the satellites to be re-tasked. To watch other areas. Or at the very least, the people doing the surveying would be laxer in their observations.

The three ships had come in from a steep angle, starting near the planet's South Pole, and streaking northerly across two thirds of the globe in their descent, before the _Raedia_ and the _Sollostra_ had actually landed. They'd been tucked in so closely to the _Clavus_, and had been moving faster than cameras, which had their resolution tuned for the ground, should have been able to resolve into anything other than one large blur.

So when gunships and groundcars and search teams on foot came through the forest—cautiously, it must be noted, because 'wild animals' had attacked and killed sniffers and their handlers in the area, before—there was simply nothing to find. The _Raedia_ and _Sollostra_ had moved ten miles away, still in the cover of the forest's thick branches, and the ground-penetrating radar that the SIU teams carried confirmed that some traces of the old tunnels existed. . . but couldn't reach far enough underground to find the new ones. And of course, no bio-signs in those tunnels.

_The captive-song singers are moving away in their machines,_ Sky reported, at length, on the first night. _The little ones believe that they are simply moving to search another area, however._

Sam let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "You can see what they see?" he asked Sky, though he suspected the answer already.

_Yes. Through their eyes, through their sense of smell. From a hundred or a thousand sets of eyes, through all their songs, all is made clear._

_I am relaying all that they see to Question-Singer on __Raedia__-ship,_ Glory chimed in softly. _She relays thanks from her crew that they will know, if they must ignite their engines and flee._

"Wish to the ancestors we'd had one of the big ones left behind with us," Tul'dur muttered, handing Sam and Kasumi each a bowl of soup, heated over one of the small kerosene stoves that the revolutionaries used in the bunker. "Would have saved us a hell of a lot of guessing."

Each of the following days had similar forays by SIU and Oversight forces, but the teams were already on the move. Again, under cover of night, they piled into the trucks that the resistance force had managed to gather, and headed for the capital city of Urvada. Sam watched as the geth piled into several of the vehicles. The mechanical species had not stinted in what they'd agreed to send with the strike force. Two CROWDs, three Primes, ten shock troopers, ten hoppers. . . and ten of their tiny floating turrets, the sight of which had made Sam twitch. He'd never faced any of the damned things himself; he'd been long since out of N7 and with the Rangers by the time Alliance and geth forces had clashed, with Eden Prime as the flashpoint. But he'd seen the news footage. And, worse yet, he knew Dara and Serana had damned near died near here, under fire from batarian turrets based on recordings of geth designs.

He hadn't asked Cohort, but he had a feeling that the geth, who knew about the extraction, and the SIU forces marshaled here, had probably included the turrets for a reason. Geth might insist that they had no understanding of the concept of 'poetic justice,' but they sure as hell acted like they did, from time to time. _No data available, my ass._

They had to move in small groups, and couldn't all move at once. The rachni were moved out first, to continue in their efforts in the subway tunnels, leaving a token force behind to guard and observe near Valak's estate. The geth moved out the night after. Then the humans and turians in equal measure. Registration tags had to be changed on each vehicle for every trip. They couldn't travel in a large, obvious convoy. Sam's truck was stopped, in fact, with him in the front seat, in his batarian armor, painted Spectre black. . . but with the red badge covered by a _Klem Na_ cloth tabard for the moment. His heart beat faster than he'd have liked as the local militiaman swept the inside of the cab with a handlight, and demanded, in batarian, _"Name? Rank? Destination? Travel permits?"_

K'sar was actually the driver. And Sam's estimation of the batarian went up several notches as the SIU investigator replied, in perfect emulation of a rough, raider-caste accent, _"Isal Ma'dur. Klem Na acquisitions specialist. Heading into Urvada, force rebalancing. A few of my friends had a few too many brandies before we left, and stuck me with the driving. Slave-fuckers, all of them. As for my travel permits. . . _" K'sar reached under the dash, slowly, and pulled out an envelope with credit chits. _"I think you'll find they're in order, officer."_

He'd clearly heard many a similar statement in his life, and knew how to make the bribe offer sound. . .casual. Almost bored. Sam let his head loll forward, subtly, as if he'd just dozed back off again.

And it worked. The militiaman took a couple of credit chits from the envelope, smirked, and said, _"Drive safely. Next checkpoint's in twelve miles."_

"_I hope I brought enough copies of my travel permits. If not, some of these drunken louts are going to owe me big in the morning."_ K'sar restarted the engine, and pulled away, leaving the militiaman chuckling behind them.

"Nice," Sam said, tightly, after a mile or so.

"Lucky. We could have gotten one of the few honest militiamen on the planet." K'sar's voice was little more than a rasp. His accent was much heavier than usual.

Sam thought about that for a moment. "You still are, you know," he told the batarian, quietly. "You're still a good cop. You still want to protect your people. You're still _doing_ it."

The line of K'sar's shoulders eased in the dim light from the instrumentation panel. "I hope my descendants, not that I expect to have any, agree," he replied. "Because I doubt my ancestors will. I don't even know if . . . Tassia. . . " K'sar never failed to speak his wife's name without a struggle over the word, "would have approved, in truth."

Sam studied the batarian for a moment, the words a window into the male's soul. It was hard to think of batarians as faceless enemies, the prototypical bug-eyed monsters of human mythology, when there were people like Valak and Nala and Alisav in front of him. People with honor, integrity, principles, emotions, and baggage, all struggling to do the best they could with a terrible situation. Alisav, in particular, hit home, because he was, in many ways, precisely what Sam had been a few years ago. A cop, a good cop, with a talent for sneaking around, who'd lost his wife to tragedy. "I never knew your wife," he said, quietly, "but I think, given what you've said about how she treated all the slaves in your household as people, and not things. . . that she'd be cheering you on today."

K'sar visibly absorbed that. And then nodded, once, and spoke, briefly, and emotionlessly. "Get ready for the next checkpoint."

The entrance into the subway tunnels that the rachni had cut and concealed was actually in the middle of agricultural land outside of Urvada, and up against a barn at the edge of a large property, so that arriving trucks could be screened by the building on one side, and the masses of forest on the other. The vehicle tracks and boot-prints were rapidly obscured by dozens of tiny workers, and Sam was the last person down into the new set of tunnels, after all the remaining workers and soldiers skittered past him into the gloom.

"All right," he said, quietly, looking around at everyone. An almost palpable pall of tension hung in the air over all of them. He looked from one face to another—Linianus, young, but steady, carrying the vibroblade he'd taken on Omega, in addition to his shield, pistol, assault rifle, and his much-loved arc projector. Serana, never far from her husband's side, far more lightly armed and armored. Pistol, submachine gun, and an omnitool filled with technological toys. Thelldaroon, tall and stolid, wearing the heaviest damned armor Sam had _still_ ever seen. . . and carrying two heavy weapons. Another projector and a damned Avalanche. Sam hadn't seen one of _those_ used in years. Four brood-warriors, three of whom were painted Spectre black: Sky, Stone, Glory, and Dances, the new one. The one Dara said could bend space-time like no biotic she'd ever seen. The one who was a portable relay unto himself. Rellus, tall and quiet and intense, the anger leashed and put into the service of others, the resentments purged. Seheve, tiny and lethal at Rel's side, her emptiness filled with the thought of a life _spent_ instead of a life squandered. Dempsey and James, the disquieting dopplegangers. Dempsey, without his balancing points—Zhasa, Elijah, or Dara—was a potential problem, but Sam had faith in the young man. Kirrahe, who could do more damage than any one person should be able to, and could nod, think about the gravity of it for a moment, and then leave it behind him. Fors Luka, who covered his lethal abilities with a façade of good humor. . . and hated using the deadliest of his talents without a damn good reason. Valak, a living banner of rebellion to all the batarians around them. The geth, optics gleaming in the low light. The human and turian marines, silent and competent. Rachni of all shapes and sizes, rustling in the darkness, just at the periphery of his vision. And Kasumi, too, of course. Kasumi, most of all.

It was humbling to be the leader of this kind of force. Staggering to think of the history, the consequences, that could radiate out from this day. And troubling to consider that if they didn't do this precisely right, every last one of them could die, or spend the rest of their lives in a batarian prison. Fors and Glory already had spent a day in one such prison; of the Spectres captured or injured on Lorek, they were the only ones present. Sam didn't doubt for a moment that Shepard had had that part, too, in mind, when she'd selected the teams.

"All right," Sam said, quietly, and his voice cut through the soft rustling of bodies and the muttering of other voices. "We all know why we're here. We all know what's at stake. We'll move out, and wait for the signal from the fleet. It shouldn't be long, now." He looked around. "I'm not good at speeches. Never have been. If we succeed today, we ensure a new future for the batarian people. A new future for the whole damned galaxy, in fact. And if we fail. . . . Well. Let's not fail, all right?"

"No surrender," Rel replied.

"No retreat," Lin added.

A few dark chuckles from the human and turian marines. Stolid nods from geth and elcor. And the brood-warriors all raised their heads as one and hissed, baring their fangs and the delicate, deadly siphons that their petal-like mouths usually concealed. And they sang in Sam's mind, red and black. Battle and death. Spectre colors.

"Let's go," Sam said, but it was almost a whisper. Saying anything more loudly, in the face of that massive wall of _assent_ that he felt. . . would have diminished it.

They moved out. For purposes of expediency, the rachni had actually cut into the subway tunnels, and they would be using the access shafts that the subway workers used to maintain the trains and tracks for a large portion of their trek. The route was marked, and Sam, Kasumi, K'sar, Serana, and Seheve actually ranged ahead of their main forces, disabling cameras, checking the area for batarian porter-castes, and anything else out of place. There were, however, places where the access tunnels terminated in security rooms. While they could easily have gone _through _these obstacles, killing all the batarians inside, the operation called for total stealth. Instead, the rachni had cut holes out into the main subway tunnels to get them all around these chokepoints.

A sleepy batarian commuter on a train opened his eyes. He was coming home, late, past curfew in fact, though he had a dispensation in his pocket. He'd enjoyed a lovely concert and the company of several of his favorite courtesans at a very upscale brothel in Urvada. He'd definitely had a few glasses of fine brandy, and he'd feel them in the morning before he started work at the technical institute where he designed microchips. Thus, he could be excused for a moment or two, as he stared out the window of the fleeting train, not knowing what he was seeing in the darkness.

At first, he thought it was merely reflections on the window, from the overhead lights inside the train. Then he realized, foggily, that the lights overhead were long fluorescent bulbs. The lights outside were smaller. Round. And they were moving. Moving along the walls, the ground. He lurched to his feet and staggered to the back of the car, staring out behind the train as it went around a bend. Yes. . . the lights were on the ceiling, too. Turning to _look_ back at him, though he had no idea how he knew that. He just did. There were shadows in the tunnel, too. Crawling ones. Glimmers of blue lights, spread in a carpet on the ground. . . and then the train curved around another bend, and the lights were lost behind him. "Gods of my ancestors," he murmured, staring back into the now-lightless mouth of the tunnel. "What _was that_?"

Of course, when he paged a conductor, he had trouble making himself understood. He had a sinking sensation that no one believed him. "We'll look into it," the conductor, a porter-caste of low station, assured him, bowing slightly. "Truly, we will address the matter."

And so it was, that two low-ranking porter-castes trudged through the tunnels, hours later, arguing. "People say they see things down in the tunnels all the time. Some idiot last week swore he saw giant _racca_ pouring out of a hole in the wall." _Racca_ were giant beetles, native to Sur'Kesh, which had, unfortunately, proliferated eagerly on dozens of worlds. Even Khar'sharn's sewers and tunnels were home to the dinner-plate sized creatures. "We have traps and poison down all through the tunnels. Next, you'll hear that someone dropped a baby _timsahk_ down a grating, and it grew up down here, alone in the dark, and now is a _giant_ creature, capable of devouring a full-grown male with one snap of its jaws."

"I don't know. . . _timsahk_ grow pretty big." The giant lizards were the size of a Terran hippopotamus, with a disposition to match.

"Only if they have prey. What are they going to eat down here?"

"Don't know. Maybe the _racca_?"

"Shut up about the _racca_."

"Did you hear that?"

"Did I hear what?" Both porter-caste males stopped and swung their lights around. The thin, wavering beams of white light caught the metal of the tracks in the floor, which they were avoiding touching, with great care—the third rail in the center was electrified. All trains were currently being diverted from this area, while they checked the walls and track area for anything 'out of the ordinary.'

There was a moment of silence. "I don't know. I thought I heard a scrape."

"You can drop a tool at Ekkama Station, and you'll hear an echo at Urgoz."

"I know. This didn't sound like an echo. I've been down here as much as you have."

"Then what did it sound like?"

"Metal on stone. Like it was coming from. . . ." The batarian looked upwards, and stopped talking. His light slipped from his slack hand, falling to the floor and rolling.

"Coming from where?" the first batarian demanded, irritably, and looked up, himself. . . and threw up a hand to shield his sensitive, dark-adapted eyes, as lights flooded down on him.

There were lights on the ceiling. Lights that hadn't been there a moment ago. Half a dozen pure white lights shone in otherwise total darkness, beaming down in cones that were almost as brilliant as a stage spot-lights xenon-arc bulb. This was light that cut like a knife, short-circuiting the sensitive multiple ocular organs of the batarians, scrambling their brains for just an instant. . . and then they could feel, rather than see movement, as if _things_ were dropping from the ceiling. The batarians shouted—screamed—in terror, as _hands_, cold as death and just as implacable, closed on them. Dragged their arms behind them. Covered their mouths. And then there was nothing at all.

"_It is unfortunate that these run-times were ended."_ It was a string of chatter in burbles and beeps that no organic could have understood without translation. _"However, we calculated a seventy-eight percent chance that if they were incarcerated, they would be found, and would speak of what they had witnesses. If their bodies are found, they will reveal nothing more than foul play. This will attract suspicion, but no confirmation. Pass the word to our allies: we must increase our pace, after hiding these bodies."_

"_They will ask why we did not remain hidden against the ceiling, optics turned off."_

"_Consensus was reached. The organics know their territory, and had already detected anomalies, such as irregular sounds. They were moving directly towards the rachni. If we did not act, the rachni would have. QED."_

At last, they came to the complex tangle of tracks at the heart of the city. This required quite a bit more coordination. Trains were more frequent here, with many more passengers. The teams split up, with Valak's batarian rebels dividing up to go with each group for additional support. Four teams, four exit points. Sam clasped each person's hand, wrist, pedipalp, or other relevant appendage tightly. Wished them all luck. And then headed out with his own teams, Kasumi at his side. "Nervous?" she asked over the radio, her voice warm and soft.

"Jitters. They'll pass. At the moment, it's still all 'what didn't we think of?'"

Radio contact was tightly limited, and for a damned good reason. Anyone picking up an encrypted signal on Khar'sharn that didn't match a known government frequency was likely to blow a whistle. Each group had, however, either a rachni, a biotic, or a geth or other mech outfitted with a biotic radio. Sam tapped James on the shoulder. "You getting a clear signal on that thing?"

James tapped the side of his helmet. "Almost as good as being a biotic again. Maybe in twenty or thirty years, the geth will have miniaturized their eezo core technology to a point where I can actually _do_ stuff again." He shrugged. "In the meantime, I guess I'll just settle for being effective at what I'm currently designed to do." His tone was droll. "We've got green lights from Thor's team, Cohort's team, and Sky's team."

"Good." Sam wasn't crazy about relying on someone else to pass messages for him, but he figured it wasn't too different from teams, centuries ago, who had exactly one radioman who could call out of an area for support. Now, all they had to do was _wait. _Wait, and remained undetected, until they received word. They knew, from the media reports on Khar'sharn's intranet, that the Hegemon's big speech was still scheduled for tonight.

So, too, was the joint-forces strike at the Harsa system's relay.

Hours passed. Somewhere above, on the surface, a golden sunset stained the red-tinged sky shades of orange that faded to garnet, and from there, to black. And somewhere at the edge of the system, the ships guarding the relay went on full alert as the massive structure suddenly spun to life. An unscheduled activation. They couldn't afford to put a net over their own relay; they'd cripple their own traffic. And the batarian fleet admirals had all had a very good look at what had happened at Lorek, when the geth had poured plasma through a relay, mimicking a coronal mass emission from a star. . . so all ships in the batarian third, fourth, fifth, and seventh fleets currently in the system pulled _back_ from the relay. _Don't get caught again. Don't get herded in. You know there's going to be a second pincher strike from behind. We saw their scout ship come through and test our defenses last week. They got a good look, and they're going to try what they did at Lorek, but with some sort of a twist. Wait for it. Wait for it. There's going to be a feint. Don't fall for it._

Never do precisely the same thing twice. Or at least, if you start an attack the same way, change how it ends. Don't fall into patterns. Don't be predictable. The hardest advice for anyone to follow, in any aspect of life.

The turian War College and the Alliance Admiralty had gamed this problem for several weeks, and had decided in this case, that the pincher maneuver had been used twice, the batarians would be looking for an attack from flank, and that they would, if smart at all, fall back from the gate for fear of the geth using their plasma weapon. . . a weapon that had changed the face of relay-entry battles, possibly for all time. The batarians would fall back. . . and that would give the joint fleet time and space to get a massive wave of ships through the relay. SR ships, flying with their AIs in lock-step, could risk entering relays at the same time, as could geth fast-attack ships. They were the first wave to pass through, forming a screen, and then the destroyers and cruisers moved through, then the carriers, like the _Catasta_ and the _Capetown_, and the brood-mother ships, crystalline and glittering, flanked by the brood-warrior vessels. The batarian ships, still expecting an attack from flank, started to move forward to engage, but were clearly hesitating. . . even as the joint fleet opened fire, and launched fighters, as more and more ships came through the relay. Even a handful of asari ships were on hand, lending their firepower for the initial assault.

The batarians had, however, mustered most of their forces here for the defense of their homeworld. The greatest number of biotic weapons ships gathered at any point in time, ever. "How many?" Jallus asked, on the _Catasta_. "Can we get a read on how many ships with biotic weapons?"

"Probably seventy or eighty," his sensors officer supplied. "More than the total number of rachni ships here."

Jallus gritted his teeth. "All right. Give them something else to shoot at besides the rachni. Make holes in their defenses, get the rachni ships in, and let them do their thing."

Ugly didn't even begin to cover it. Battle-Singer's voice resonated through Jallus' head, making his teeth ache. _Be warned! The captive-song singers have found asari, whose minds they have muffled, who can sing control-songs!_

_Now what the hell does that mean_? Jallus wondered, watching from his tactical grid as wings of fighters from the _Catasta_ raked at the leading edge of the batarian ships, who were currently launching their own missiles and fighters, lobbing brilliant sparks of light from their biotic batteries. . . and frowned as he saw one of his own fighters wobble as if struck. Turn from its attack run. He could hear controllers below him, in the pit level of CIC, enquiring, _"Fulmenis_ one-five, why haven't you fired?" A pause. "_Fulmenis_ one-five, telemetry doesn't show problems with your engines and firing systems, why are you returning—"

All around the flight control area, Jallus could hear other voices. "_Fulmenis_ two-seven, why have you aborted your attack run?"

"_Fulmenis_ four-three, are you declaring an emergency?"

He stared at the tactical screen, and a rush of dread clamped down on his crop. Fear-anger. Rage. _Control-songs._ _No. That's. . . that's not possible. . . is it?_ Four fighters were returning towards the _Catasta_, and seven were heading for the _Capetown_. Other fighters were on approach vectors towards the other _Leviathan_-class carriers and human carriers, as well. "Fleet, this is the _Catasta_," Jallus said, tabbing his comm channel open. "Rachni believe that some of the batarian ships have biotics who can use domination abilities. Be prepared to fire on returning fighters if they do not respond to hails and do not pull up." His mouth tasted like ashes, and he couldn't believe he was about to speak the words, but he shut down the radio and tabbed another button, contacting the gun crews. "Lock onto our returning fighters. Let them see the weapons lock. Do not fire except on my mark."

"Captain!" one of the bridge officers exclaimed, his voice horrified. "Their radios could be malfunctioning. There's a lot of jamming—"

"I'm away. Watch their course and speed. They all know how to make carrier landings. Are any of them slowing? Are any of them taking normal flight paths?" Jallus wanted to close his eyes and rage for a moment, rage at the batarians for forcing him to do this.

A pause. "No, sir." The words limped out, leadenly.

"We'll give them every chance," Jallus rasped. "Take the first one on the chin, if we have to. Gun crews, warning shot across the bow of the closest fighter."

The fighter never so much as twitched as it continued to sail towards the _Catasta_. _I thought a domination effect couldn't cause someone to do something that would compromise their own safety, their own sense of self-preservation. . . .maybe they simply have so __many__ biotics, the machine amplification. . . _ Jallus' thoughts were numb.

"Sir, we can take out their engines—"

"Too close," Jallus rasped, and wanted, desperately, to close his eyes. No reassurance from the rachni, all of which were too busy battling the batarians directly. No way to tell if the decision were the right one. "Gun crews, lock onto the second fighter. We're giving the first pilot every chance we can give him." He swallowed. "Sound collision."

"Sound collision! Brace for impact!" the shout went up. Jallus reached up for one of the panels over the tactical display, and held on, as the fighter slammed right through their kinetic shielding at an appreciable fraction of the speed of light, fragments of its body impacting on the hull. _Oh, spirits. Spirits of air and darkness take the batarians. Spirits of air and flame, guide you on your path, and take you by the gentlest road to your kin and home._ Jallus swallowed again. "Gun crews?"

"Yes, captain?" The young voice on the other end of the line sounded subdued.

"Target locked?"

"Yes, sir."

"Fire."

Jallus watched as the images disappeared from the tactical grid, one by one. It seemed the least he could do, after ordering the death of his own men and women. _Damn them. Damn them. Damn them all._ "Damage control teams have closed the bulkheads near the impact site," his XO reported, quietly.

"Good. Pull our fighters back from the ship that they were targeting before. Missile fire and Thanix shots only on that ship, and warn the rest of the fleet to do the same."

Three hundred and twenty light minutes further into the Harsa system, or a little over 38 AU, and deep underground, James had lifted his head. "Spectres?" the android murmured, turning back to them all. "Receiving word from allied fleet over biotic radio band. They are through the relay, and engaging batarian forces."

"Move out," Sam ordered, instantly. "They're going to move the Hegemon to a different location shortly."

Seheve looked up at the humans, all of whom were wearing batarian battle armor, painted in Spectre colors, but with tabards or jackets with _Klem Na_ colors, and the requisite iron shackle, fastened over their torsos. She'd added a batarian helmet to her own normal armor; no batarian battle armor existed, that would not hang on her as if she were a clapper in a bell. Serana, of course, no matter what armor she wore, could not pass as batarian. She, of all of them, was simply going to have to stay stealthed the entire time. . . and would have to stay at the center of their group. Seheve had opted to do the same, just to be sure; a chance glimpse of part of her face would reveal scales, not skin, and that would be an instant giveaway.

This also gave her and Serana the extremely important task of carrying the group's weapons. Both of them were carrying two pair of high-powered sniper rifles, each, in addition to the submachine guns and pistols that the others would need, later. If the others were asked to give up their visible weapons, Serana and Seheve would be there to re-arm the group.

N'dor and K'sar led them out, with James behind them, Seheve and Serana, in their stealth nets, behind him, and Jaworski and Goto bringing up the rear. Up through a tunnel, where the rachni workers broke through into the cellars underneath the batarian Assembly hall, and from there, up several flights of stairs, likely only used by slaves and servitors for generations.

The contrast between the public and private areas of the Assembly hall was marked; the lower levels, used for storage and the like, were squalid, dim, dusty, and unkempt. Bare concrete walls, lights dangling, unshaded, from cords. A handful of sleeping chambers, for those who worked to keep the building tidy and in good repair, workshops for repairing furniture. Few vid cameras, for why would a security risk come from below? _How_ would one come from below?

The upper levels, however, had sumptuous carpeting or polished marble floors, plaster walls decorated with frescoes, and, unsurprisingly, many more people, most of whom wore batarian noble-caste finery—jackets in eye-gouging colors and flowing white neckties, tight-fitting trousers, and, of course, the ubiquitous vibroblades. Dozens of guards, of course, most facing out, of course. Threats didn't come from within. But they were accosted, once or twice, for the vibroblades that N'dor and K'sar wore openly. K'sar laughed at the first male who stopped them, murmuring, _"Nothing is entirely what it seems, my friend. Perhaps you had best look elsewhere, before the noble families to whom we're returning these dishonored blades has you strangled?"_ His noble-caste accent faded completely, turning into the rough tones of a raider, and the guard stepped back, an expression of distaste mingling with fear in his eyes. _"Pass, then, if you must_," he replied, and got out of their way entirely. Though Seheve could feel his eyes burning into their backs as they continued through the long hall.

She tensed again slightly, listening as, at the door to the main chamber, the ceremonial guards crossed spears in front of them. _"Raider-caste may not enter the sacred halls! Certainly, none under arms!"_

Valak, immediately, and smoothly, in high-born tones, _"Do I __sound__ like a damned raider?"_ he demanded, hand on his vibrosword's hilt, leaning up and into the guard's face.

"_M'lord! You are wearing __Klem Na__ garb—"_ The horror in the guard's tones couldn't be denied.

"_A ruse. We're here to ensure that Chasna V'sol does not attempt to turn on the Hegemon today."_ Valak's tone was cool. _"There's an attack going on at the edge of our system, warrior-caste." _Valak's voice held nothing but admiration as he added, _"That the Hegemon will continue his address tonight? In the very face of the enemy? Magnificent. But he is wise enough to know that this would be a perfect time for the __Klem Na__ to turn on him. They are nothing but __raiders__, after all. Merchants who steal all their goods. They have no honor. Not as you and I do."_ Valak played, expertly, on the caste prejudices, and the warrior-caste at the door stiffened a little. Pride evident in his face, and disgust, at the same time. _"Wearing their armor and colors will allow __us__ to get close enough to him and his bodyguards without them knowing who we truly are. And prevent any. . . foolishness. . . that might ensue."_

After a moment, the guard grudgingly replied, _"Pass, but you will need to leave all weapons besides your blades here at the door."_

_Not unexpected,_ Seheve thought, with grim pleasure. They'd foreseen this. She and Serana would need to pass through the metal detector in the doorway at the _exact_ moment as another person. . . and wait on the other side, while the person who had been stopped was wanded—even stripped, if needed—and permitted to pass. This was the dangerous part. James, Jaworski, and Kasumi could _not_ be stripped. Or have their facemasks raised.

"_And you expect for me to stop V'sol and the rest of his bodyguards from treachery with no more than my blade?"_ Valak's voice held mordant irony. "_I'm good. I don't know if I'm quite __that__ good, but I will do my best."_ He gestured for Jaworski to step through, first. The human obeyed, silently stripping off his weapons, and handing them over to the guards.

"_I will have to insist on him raising his mask for the biometrics—"_

"_Negative,"_ K'sar cut in, his own lower-nobility accent clear as glass. _"None of these men are __here__, warrior. Not even my superior is __here__, do you understand me?"_ He shifted forward. _"If you must have the imprimatur of authority, you may use __my__ identification and credentials."_ He held out his hand, stripping off his glove for a DNA scan.

Another moment of stomach-clenching truth. Seheve was all too aware that K'sar could, very well, be a burned SIU agent. He could have been blacklisted. His identification and credentials had been spoofed and used on Lorek to gain access to SIU records and facilities there, in the search for the missing Spectres; of course, Lorek had also had all communications wiped out during the attack. K'sar had continued to send reports to Isaav Malsur in the intervening weeks, but had not received _any_ replies, a fact that had troubled both K'sar and N'dor.

The guard did a double-take at the results on the screen, and Seheve's hand loosened her vibroblade in its sheath. She was ready to kill the male, and move through the door with the others, and simply open the gates of death to as many in the Assembly hall as they could reach in the minutes before they would be killed. . . but this was a less than optimal course of action.

After another agonizing moment, the guard replied, _"Very well, m'lord. It's good to know that SIU has our backs tonight."_ His eyes flicked to Valak. _"And you were the only person who was here tonight, m'lord."_

Seheve could _feel_ Serana, to her right, ease. _"Good,"_ Valak replied now. "_You there? Move along!"_

Jaworski passed through the metal detector, without trouble. Kasumi Goto passed next, without problem, although the female's height earned her a ridiculing snort from the guards. In _perfect_ high-caste batarian, passed through a voice-modulation filter that lowered the pitch, Kasumi replied, calmly, _"You would not believe the number of fools who have underestimated me, and died for it."_

"_Yes, m'lord. I don't doubt your words."_

James. . . James presented problems. The sensors were calibrated to ignore armor, in the main, and to ignore the traces of eezo that kinetic shielding utilized for its mere existence. He had, however, a titanium frame, eezo power cores, and a fair amount of other metal in his body. Seheve slipped through with him, and waited on the other side, as the android stood, patiently, as the guards wanded his body. And the wand went off no matter _where_ on his body it was placed. _"At this point,"_ James said, in perfect noble-caste tones, _"I think it entirely probable that the wand is defective. I do not think it possible that I would be carrying weapons on every square inch of my body."_

The harried guards, seeing N'dor slowly drum his armored fingers atop their counter, allowed James through. Then N'dor himself passed through. . . and then, at last, Serana, alongside K'sar. Who, when stopped, resignedly stepped back to the main desk, and actually took off his helmet and gloves, and allowed them to use a _fresh_ wand to check him. Whereupon, the guards apologized profusely, and allowed the yellow-eyed batarian to pass through.

Just inside the door, Seheve passed a bundle to Sam Jaworski; this had its own stealth net around it. So, too, did Serana pass one to Kasumi Goto. Each bundle held three weapons: sniper rifle, pistol, and submachine gun. Jaworski had been permitted to keep his knife, for the same reason that N'dor and K'sar had been able to keep their vibroblades. Seheve lightly touched Jaworski's shoulder, a quick tap, and then she and Serana moved, silently, for the stairs, waiting for a moment during the current speaker's harangue in batarian at which the audience looked distracted, then opening the door and entering the stairwell. Heading for the N'dor family box, at the back of the Assembly, which should be empty.

They slipped into the empty box like ghosts, and Serana stood at the door, guarding it, while Seheve slipped down to lay, on her belly, at the front of the balcony. She settled her sniper rifle, with its tripod, ahead of her, its muzzle just peeking past the rail. Her stealth field enveloped it, for the moment, and she peered through the scope, finding the target far below. The current speaker was from . . . House Y'lzav. He was whipping the crowd into a frenzy, playing to the vid cameras at the back of the hall. _James Dempsey would call this the warm up act_, Seheve thought, clinically, and adjusted her sniper scope, slightly. She needed to allow for the angle of descent here. Of course, the Hegemon himself could be taller or shorter, and when he appeared on stage, she would need to adjust, again. . . .

Down on the main floor, Valak gestured for K'sar and James to follow him. The plan had called for the three of them to move to an upper tier, and hold a door into a servitors' access tunnel to the top of the rotunda. His radio crackled in his ear. _"Zorro? What the hell are you doing?"_ Sam Jaworski's voice was a bare whisper over the comm line.

"Following up." Valak knew he _had_ to do this. The guards at the door had been told a very specific story, and they were very likely to be watching. "Aside from which, my friend. . . can you tell which of the Klem Na in the box below that of the first family. . . is actually Chas'na V'sol?"

A pause. Valak knew that the other members of his team had carefully memorized V'sol's features. . . but he had a clear view of the raiders in their carefully segregated section of seats. All of them had their armor on, but weren't carrying any visible weapons. A couple of warrior-castes stood to either side of them, an honor-guard, of sorts. _"Some of them have their helmets on,"_ Jaworski acknowledged, grimly. _"Probably done the instant that word came through about the attack near the relay?"_

"Undoubtedly. I'll tag the one you want with a transponder, if I can, or otherwise make it obvious."

"_All right, but then get the hell away. You're supposed to be making a hole for us."_

"Do the best we can." Valak advanced, debating internally how he was going to handle this. He was in raider-caste garb, but carrying a vibroblade. He and K'sar were getting _looks_ from the nobles in the rows of seats as they passed, anyway. "K'sar? Let's use a variation on the story we used on the guards."

"My lead or yours?"

"Mine. Chime in when there's an opening." Valak's stomach tightened as they headed up the stairs and into the _Klem Na_ box. "Commander V'sol?" he said, in his most urbane tones. "We're with SIU. We've been asked to provide a little extra security for you today. The Hegemon has expressed concerns that you might be. . . targeted. . . by those members of the noble-caste who seem you as the _reason_ for the Council fleet's invasion of our space."

He watched as Chas'na V'sol's head _snapped_ towards him. The commander of the _Klem Na_ stood and advanced towards him, stopping just feet away. "It's good to know," V'sol rasped in his raider-caste accent, "that SIU has our backs."

The note of mordant irony was clear. Valak reached out and clapped the raider's shoulder, a clear breach of decorum, if he were one of V'sol's men . . . and even, as a member of the nobility, something of a breach of protocol, as well, but his hands were covered. No purification rituals needed. . . but the gesture was cheeky from an underling, and borderline insulting from a superior. "Oh yes," he told V'sol, letting his voice become almost a purr, "We do indeed have your _back_, dear fellow." He chuckled slightly, knowing that V'sol had to be uneasy now—if not terrified. _No one_, no matter how powerful, really wanted SIU attention. "Not to worry. We'll just be standing here, at the exit of your box. Ensuring that no one else gets in."

_And that none of you can get out easily._ He and K'sar took up posts on either side of the door, and he beckoned James closer. The android touched his helmet to Valak's, and they communicated now, by pure sound conduction between the two helmets. "You've got the blueprints uploaded? Get to the upper door where we were supposed to extract the others through, into the servants' quarters. You're our way out now, James."

"This wasn't the plan, Zorro." James' tones were grim. "You're going to be trapped here when the shit hits the fan."

"We'll get to you if we can. If not. . . we both knew this could be a mission with a very terminal ending." Valak had said his farewells to Nala and Nexia. He knew they'd be cared for; now, all he needed to do was try to make it back to them. "Go."

James nodded, and moved, heading off into the darkness of the stairwell with determined strides, his dark armor and _Klem Na_ jacket fading into the gloom after only a few strides. Valak turned and looked at K'sar; neither males' eyes could be seen behind the full face-mask, but K'sar nodded once, and gravely. They were isolated, on the opposite side of the Assembly chamber from their extraction point. . . and Sam Jaworski and Seheve Liakos, somewhere overhead, were marking out targets. Valak simply hoped that both of them had carefully marked which of the _Klem Na_ Valak had so pointedly touched.

At the front of the Assembly hall, the speaker finally droned to a halt, and proclaimed, "And now, it gives me great honor to give way for the one who holds the twenty nations of Khar'sharn together, the one who holds the colonies united, our glorious leader, Dalar H'rsov."

The Hegemon was a surprisingly ordinary-looking batarian. A little jowly, running to fat, brown-red eyes. Short. He didn't _look_ like a mass murderer. Then again, Sam Jaworski reflected as the male stepped in front of the microphones, and began to make his speech, thumping on the podium, speaking in rapid-fire batarian—far too fast for Sam to understand more than every fifth word or so—what mass murderer really _looked_ like one? "Distraction teams," he said into the radio, "this is Orpheus. You are clear to proceed." He and Kasumi were crouched down in an empty box on the right side of the Assembly hall, their stealth fields wrapped around them securely. Sam had the head of Chas'na V'sol clearly in the sights of his sniper rifle. The only reason he didn't give the word for Seheve to take the shot on the Hegemon this very damned second was simple: They needed to be able to _exit._ And without their distraction clearly set up, they wouldn't make it out of here alive.

Outside, Dempsey's head rose; he, Rel, Kirrahe, and Fors had been crouching just inside the tunnel leading into a wooded area behind SIU headquarters. They had twelve turian marines, and assorted rachni and geth with them. "We have a go," Dempsey muttered. "Let's move out, people." His team had twelve turian marines, four squads, essentially, six rachni soldiers, twenty rachni workers, a geth prime, and three each shock troopers, hoppers, and those damn floating geth turrets. It seemed overkill for an _office building_, but this office building was SIU headquarters.

Other, smaller buildings ran along the edges of the streets to either side of the squat, unimposing four story building. Houses, apartments, smaller office buildings. . . everything you'd expect to see in a city center. All of them backed up onto this wooded lot, and all belonged to varying levels of noble-caste and scribal-caste officials, apparently. N'dor and K'sar had been able to come up with a rough map of the four levels. Lots of offices. Cube farms, really. . . but all with code-locked doors. Guards posted outside each area. Highly classified materials were contained therein. . . but no one really expected this kind of building to be _attacked_. They'd expect for this sort of facility to be . . . well. . . infiltrated. Files and data stolen. Frontal assault wasn't the main thing that their security was going to be looking for, when all was said and done.

Isaav Malsur, as the head of Investigations, had an office on the third floor. Arvak R'mod, late and unlamented, as head of Operations, had had an office on the fourth floor, next door to the head of SIU himself, Hes'han L'roc.

Dempsey looked at the back door, then left towards Velnaran and Kirrahe, and right, towards Fors Luka. "Ready, Loki?"

"Been munching _eeree'pa_ all morning for the energy. Let's do this."

Dempsey felt a smile touch his face, but no emotion moved inside him at all. He pulled his barrier over his body, and charged his additional layer of kinetic shielding, picking Fors up bodily. A surge of tremendous biotic energy as Fors focused his will on the wide sliding plasteel doors, intended to be bulletproof, even against mass-effect propelled rounds . . . and began to compress their matter. The field of matter that Fors could affect wasn't large, but then, it didn't have to be. Compressing a six-foot tall batarian into a ball of matter a foot around would still give you a dead batarian. Compressing the head of a yagh into something the size of a softball. . . rendered a dead yahg. This time, however, Fors was trying to grab as much material as possible, and compressing it down until the atoms began to superheat from the pressure. Dempsey could hear startled shouts from inside the building, as the guards looked up from their vid screens and saw something impossible: a circular portion of their secure door was now missing, and in its place, a globule of material glowed almost as brightly as a star. "Night night," Dempsey muttered, and reached out with his own biotics now. . . and destabilized the heart of that tiny star. Tore the gravitational fields asunder, warped them, rent them. . .

. . . and the tiny star went nova, shattering the plasteel windows, which could have been used on the observation deck of a ship, tearing out chunks of walls and ceiling, hurling them back into the guards inside the lobby. Dempsey hauled Fors up onto his own shoulders. Thirty pounds of volus, thirty pounds of suit. In addition to his own armor and weapons, it made for a hell of a load, but that's what the strength mods and cybernetics were for, after all. "All right. I think we have their attention. In we go. Marines, you're sweeping left. Geth units, you're sweeping right. Spectres are going up the middle."

_Up the middle,_ however, meant directly through the debris field, under the sagging ceiling, and through the assorted fires that had started from the explosion. Dempsey's skin crawled at the sight of the flames; fire had an annoying tendency to inhibit regeneration, as he'd been forced to acknowledge, over and over, on Lorek. At least these were just spot-fires, roiling out of wallboard here and there, a potted plant going up in smoke. Smoldering embers to crunch underfoot, and then gone.

His rarely-used assault rifle felt strange in his hands, but he wasn't arguing with the fact that they needed to go in loaded for bear on this mission. The Spectres led the way in, Dempsey ahead of the others, feeling, rather than seeing, the bullets as they bounced off his double layer of shields. Seeing the way the panicking guards fell back, trying to get to cover behind the shattered remains of the lobby's desks, lifting one right out of cover and hurling him back into the far wall. Fors rippling force through the scored tiles of the floor, debris scattered there leaping back up into the air in a straight line that bowled two other guards out from behind a pillar. Easy prey for the others, as Velnaran fired directly on the one Dempsey had thrown, catching the batarian with two rounds to center mass, as easily as if he'd been a clay pigeon. And Kirrahe opened fire, literally, his flamethrower spitting out orange flame in a twenty-foot gout in front of him, and the guards shouted in terror, the very cover they were using, exploding into pyres.

It was ugly, and it was quick. Dempsey gestured for his companions to move ahead. They had the task of securing the elevators at the south end of the building, first, which meant, locking them down using their safety protocols to start with. . . something Dempsey accomplished with a piece of brick wedged into each open door, right at the sensors. . . and then, the more important part. "That's the mechanical room, right there," he said, jerking his head at it. He didn't speak much batarian, but he had a VI overlay from his chip at the moment, scrolling translations over every word he read. He'd threatened, once, to get this type of program installed so that he could understand his compatriots when they spoke turian, and Dara had told him it would be too dangerous for such a low-priority need.

The need to understand batarian was a hell of a lot more pressing. And this particular program, James had cobbled together for him. As such, it hurt, but only a little. Not as much as hacking a mech wirelessly with the chip did. And the words on the door north of the elevators did, indeed, read: _Boiler and elevator mechanisms. Porters and servitors only._

Rel aimed directly at the faceplate of the lock, and fired his assault rifle; shattering the mechanism, he followed up by kicking the door open and leading the others into the room. Porter-castes in the room behind shouted in terror, throwing up their hands and dropping their tools and kits. "_Go!_" Rel snapped at them in batarian. _"Go. Run. Get out of here. We're not here to kill you. Run!"_ He still tracked them with his eyes, however; he didn't want any of them to get the bright idea of being a hero and attacking one of his companions with a heavy wrench or some damn thing. "All right. I take it we probably don't want to just slap some high explosives on the boiler, tag it with a detonator, and just call it a day?"

"Was precisely what I was thinking of doing," Kirrahe admitted.

"You would, Agni," Dempsey agreed, dryly, looking up at the massive thermic fluid heater, and shaking his head. "And, actually, I agree with you. We don't have time for finesse here. Rig it for remote detonate, though. When this thing goes, superheated water and steam is going to rip through the whole building. I don't really want to be caught in that. Virtus, give him a hand with the charges. Loki, take a look at the wall north of us. I'm going to do something creative to the elevator hydraulics."

Dempsey didn't like thinking too much about this, but it was necessary. Cutting the elevators meant that they'd be trapping many more people in the building. All of them were probably flooding for the stairs and emergency exits right now, and while Dempsey disliked the idea of civilian casualties. . . SIU operatives were, arguably, not really civilians. And the whole point of their prong of this mission—other than to be very, very distracting—was to cut the head off of SIU.

His solution to the elevator was extremely simple; he located the hydraulic fluid reservoir tanks in the walls, and fired his assault rifle at them. Oil sprayed out of the reservoirs, and, for good measure, Dempsey jammed the rotary pump at the heart of the mechanism, concentrating intently as he used his mind to warp the metal cogs in the wheel, deforming it completely, turning it into little more than a lump of slag. "I could have done that for you," Fors groused quietly, from Dempsey's shoulders.

"Save your batteries, Loki. Your job is making us a door." Dempsey jerked his head at the wall to their north. "Charges set?" Dempsey asked, calmly.

Kirrahe waggled a detonator at him. "Affirmative."

Dempsey nodded, concentrating. The brood-warriors had, apologetically, noted that their ability to provide battle-vision for everyone would be taxed, possibly beyond their limits. _We are not queens,_ Sky had sung, regretfully. _There will be thousands of voices all around us, all hostile. Showing every one of them will be. . . very difficult, especially when we are fighting, ourselves._

_But we will try_, Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight had offered. This rachni had had an eye put out by a yahg on Terra Nova. Dempsey remembered the incident, but only vaguely. There had been too damned much fighting on Terra Nova to remember every battle. _Those who sing in silence, who have the machines which sing for them? Those now, we can show, too. But only those who carry the singing machines._

Which meant that the geth units he'd sent to the east side of the building were completely invisible to him, and his ability to 'see' the turian units on the west side was spotty, at best. They seemed to be pinned down fighting, however. Red-tinged shadows—the barest outlines of what battle-vision could usually show—were pouring towards the north end of the building like water, on this level, and on all the floors above. Being herded by the attack from the south, of course. "Damn," Dempsey muttered. "I have no idea if our two biggest fish are even in the building. The rachni aren't reporting any brighter or stronger minds here, but they could just be busy—"

Rel looked up. "If they're here," he said, with a certain leashed intensity, "they're going to still be upstairs." He _knew_ this. He knew it as certainly as he knew the pattern of his own breath.

Dempsey's eyebrows rose. "You think?" the human asked.

"Yes." Rel's tone was definite. "They're going to be grabbing every file, every data crystal, that they possibly can." Rel looked at the ceiling, as if he could see which red-tinged shadow was which. "That's what they have to _bargain_ with, Thor, if they're caught, and information is what makes them _valuable_. Gives them power. They're going to be grabbing everything they can. They can't lose that." He didn't know how he knew that; it just. . . made _sense._ He could see it as clearly in his head as if he were about to carve a statue of the leaders of SIU. "We'll get them, Thor. We just have to _move_."

Dempsey nodded once, moving like an automaton. He rapped his armored knuckles against Fors' suited knee, where the volus perched on the human's bulky shoulders, and pointed at the north wall. "Make us a door, Loki."

"Come up with something a little more challenging, huh?" Fors snuffled, and held his small hand out towards the wall. Rel couldn't see or feel anything at first. . . and then the wall simply crumbled inwards, contracting into a rough sphere, hanging, for an instant, in the middle of an open circle of space. And then that sphere, glowing faintly, superheated, fell to the ground with a thud. "I should _thank_ the batarian jailers for giving me the idea," the volus muttered. "Never thought of using that trick on anything other than a living creature before they tossed me in their prison. Think they'd like a greeting card, perhaps?"

Rel didn't have time to answer. Just past the hole in the wall, was a cube farm, with dozens of low, khaki-colored walls stretching off to either side, and, directly ahead of them, another wall. Shouts of alarm on all sides. Rel glanced up and saw, stenciled near the ceiling, the words, _Secure area. Classified materials. You will be subject to a search on exiting._

_Not today,_ Rel thought, with a certain dark humor, spinning as he heard movement from the left. Batarians, some with vibroblades, but no armor. Desk workers. Intelligence analysts. Nobles or scribe-castes, none of them carrying pistols, staring at them in wild-eyed consternation. "_Stay back_," Rel warned in batarian, leveling his assault rifle at them. Unsurprisingly, they ducked back into cover at their desks, as Fors snuffled and focused on the fire wall ahead of . He risked a glance to the right, but Kirrahe was already firing his flamethrower, giving the office-workers on that side of the secure area a damned good reason to keep their heads down. "Stay sharp," Rel warned. "Last thing we need is people coming up from flank with their damn vibroswords."

"Today is not a good day to lose a limb," Fors agreed, grimly, and tore the wall down

There were guards out in the hallway beyond, guards already pressing, back to back, firing back at the geth on one side, and the turian marines on the other. Rel swore, fired a warning barrage to his left, then found a target out in the hall and fired directly ahead of himself, the assault rifle's familiar kick slamming into his shoulder. Dempsey shredded another guard's shields almost cavalierly, a blue glow limning the batarian's body briefly, and then fading as Kirrahe took aim and fired his flamethrower again. That guard took off, screaming, trying to beat out the fire on his armor, only to be caught by a shot from a geth plasma rifle, coming the other way.

Then the rachni soldiers and workers, almost indifferent to danger, poured through the opening Fors had made behind them, and swarmed past them out into the hallway, spitting acid at the remaining guards, the workers swarming their bodies as the others all had to hold their fire. Rel spun left again and fired directly at a batarian who'd just moved out of the cubicles, vibrosword unsheathed, and was heading his way. The male fell to the ground, dead, and Rel stared at the body for a second, with a certain cold-eyed clarity, riding just above the tide of adrenaline pouring through his body.

"Move!" Dempsey ordered, jumping through the hole in the wall and running through the area, a couple of late bullets sizzling against his shields. Rel was right at the human's heels as Fors once more tore a hole in the wall to the north, and they moved right through into another, different area—more cubicles. More wild-eyed analysts, one of them unfortunately right in their path, a pistol in his hands, but looking up in disbelief at the freight train coming straight through a wall, right for him. Dempsey threw him out of their way with his biotics, sending him sailing the length of the cube farm as he pointed Fors at the next wall to the north. "Go, go, go!"

Fors tore another hole in the wall—they were going faster than they could have, with only explosive frames, but cutting a swathe through the building for a damned good reason—and then, grunting with the effort of using another powerful ability in short order, the volus raised both small paws, extending them out from his body to either side.

The batarians to the right and left, who'd been edging out of cover, scrambling for vibroblades, weapons of any sort, all froze in place as Fors short-circuited their bodies' nervous pathways, pouring biotic power through them in place of electrical current. Rel couldn't feel it or see it, of course, but he could see the _results_—dozens of heads, peeking around corners, eyes wide. . . now as unmoving as statues. "In we go," Dempsey said, rolling through the hole in the wall, Kirrahe and Rel following after, the turian and the salarian wheeling to keep their weapons trained at the batarians on the other side of the gap.

_How long is the stasis going to last?_ Rel worried. He didn't like shooting at the unarmored SIU agents, but. . . they were armed, if only with vibroswords, and they therefore still posed a threat. . . Behind him, he could hear Fors and Dempsey moving, disabling the hydraulics of the elevators while one of the cars was in _motion_, which resulted in the sound of metal screaming as it tore asunder, and a heavy crash from further behind them, audible even over the sound of gunfire all around him. Rel saw one of the batarians move, take a step forward, raising his sword as he prepared to charge the gap, and opened fire, not even hesitating. _Spirits, no, I'm not letting you close the distance with that thing._ Red-orange blood spurted, and the male collapsed, just as the rachni poured through the far wall, and then through the opening into the machine room with the four Spectres. "We're losing the stasis field here," Rel reported, tersely.

"One more minute," Dempsey tossed back. "Setting charges and detonators. All units, this is Thor. Charges are set. Everyone get clear of the SIU facility. Make your way to the north exit."

More of the batarians began to shake off the stasis effect, but, faced with an assault rifle, a flamethrower, and dozens of rachni spitting acid, opted to beat a retreat. _That's good_, Rel thought. _Move south, or to the sides of the building.. That's the way. Retreat further into the building. . . _

Voices on the radio. Turian marines, pinned down, lots of bodies between them and the lobby at the north end of the building. _"Guards have weapons, but resistance is largely ineffective. Just too many bodies between us and the north end."_

Rel tabbed his radio. _"Fall back to the south. Get clear of the building, and make sure no one else comes out through the south exit."_ The turian marines could help Valak's irregulars hold the tunnel entrance, at least for the moment. "Geth troops, any problems getting through?"

"_Negative."_ The prime's cool, flat voice responded on the line in galactic, the language Rel had automatically slipped into to address the geth. _"Estimate arrival at north lobby in forty-five seconds."_

"Time to go," Dempsey again urged, and Rel and Kirrahe stepped backwards from their position at the gaping hole in the wall, rearguard position, while Dempsey and Fors tabbed the door of the machine-room open from the inside, and hustled through the elevator area. Rel could see dust floating out of the sealed metal doors, and knew that the elevator cars had crashed, heavily, on both sides of the lobby. Gunfire, rapid bursts, as Dempsey fired on the guards trying to pry open the elevator doors. Screams and cries of pain, including at least one that sailed off into the distance—Rel peeked over his shoulder, and saw that Fors had thrown one of the guards directly into the sliding plasteel door at the front of the building—which had triggered the automatic door opener. The guard sailed twenty feet outside the building and landed in a tumble of limbs. Glimpses of dozens of batarians, standing there, stunned, staring at the guard who'd flown out past them. Heads all swinging back along the flight path, tracing the trajectory, every as they all tried to shove their way past each other, out the front doors—grunt from Fors as the volus locked them all in place. "Clear us a path, Thor," Fors snuffled into the comms.

No time to watch. Rel's head swiveled around, watching as batarians from the cube farms tried to scramble into the machine room, and picked off two targets in rapid succession. . . and then was damned near thrown back into the machine room now, himself, at the concussive blast as Dempsey did _something_ to Fors' stasis field. "Word of warning would be nice," Rel growled into the radio.

"I _did_ warn you," Fors shot back. "Come on!"

Thumping, clanging sounds on the other side of the metal barriers hinted that there were survivors trying to open the doors. Rel lowered the muzzle of his rifle and switched back and forth from one bank of elevators to the other, still covering their retreat through the north lobby. Quick, wary glances as the rachni poured out of the machine room, crowding around his feet. Backwards step by backwards step, each one with the potential for sliding on debris, twisting an ankle, losing his balance. Clatter of metal feet on tile from his left now, as the geth, on the east side of the building, rounded the corner, and gestured for the Spectres to precede them out. Rel and Kirrahe both spun and ran forward now, heading out of the doors, Rel's foot-speed now letting him out-pace the others. The geth followed, and Dempsey tabbed the radio again. "Turian units, are you clear of the building?"

"_Thirty seconds, Spectre."_

"Get moving, we don't have time for this." Dempsey's voice actually held a trace of anxiety, the first emotion Fors had heard from the human all day.

The volus' head rose as he held onto Dempsey's shoulders for dear life, and he stared at the plasteel door at the top of the stairs. Batarians were starting to pour out of the building now; the north exit had been the 'safe' one to start with, and handfuls of SIU operatives had already cleared out, and were half a block away, pointing at their group, urgently. "Fors," Dempsey said, quietly. "You know we can't let them leave the building."

"I know." His voice was tight with unhappiness. Fors _hated_ using his tricks this way. But there was no real choice in the matter. Mercy was not actually an option, and hadn't been from the moment they'd committed to this mission. SIU's main base of operations, most of its infrastructure, needed to be wiped out. Kirrahe had, in the planning meetings, spoken urgently of the need to preserve data on their computer networks; Valak had commented that there were off-site server farms that housed some of their data networks. . . . which had more or less settled the matter. They didn't have time for a data raid. And they needed to cripple SIU, the more permanently, the better.

Fors understood the rationale. That didn't mean he had to _like_ what he had to do, however. Fors took a deep breath of thick ammonia vapors and raised his hands one more time, locking the people right in the doorway in place. "Anyone who brought stasis guns," the volus said, his voice strained, "feel free to join in." The problem wasn't the people he was already locking in place; it was the weight, the pressure, of the dozens of people behind them, all desperate to get free. Pushing. Shoving. Pressing closer and closer. As Fors had noted to Eli and Linianus, his human-turian and his turian-turian friend, a year ago on Bastion, during the protests outside the Council chambers. . .people individually could be very smart. A crowd was stupid, and usually dangerous, and right now, this was a crowd of angry, frightened people, and they didn't _care_ if those in front of them were trampled or killed, so long as they got to freedom, safety, themselves, survival instincts taking over.

The first frozen people toppled, thrown face-first on the steps, as the batarians behind them pushed free—and Dempsey moved, firing a stasis gun, long-since captured from batarian raiders, directly at those people who were still moving. "_Turian marines, are you clear?"_ Fors heard Rellus demand over the radio.

"_Affirmative! We are clear of the building."_

"Fire in the hole," Dempsey replied, curtly, and Kirrahe pulled one detonator out of his belt, while Dempsey. . . .Dempsey activated his explosive charges using the chip.

Steam can expand to over a thousand times the volume of its original liquid water state. And on emerging from a thermic hydraulic boiler system, it can travel at over a hundred miles an hour. Detonating the boilers at the ground floor level shattered the connections between pipes all through the building. Superheated steam exploded out of junctions everywhere, enormous heat, enormous pressure, tearing through walls, floors, ceilings. On the ground floor, it was worst; the boilers themselves detonated outwards, shrapnel slamming through load-bearing walls, starting a relentless domino effect. The support beams were steel, but scalding hot steam at the ground floor level tore through yet more walls, cooking people where they stood, and simply tore the building apart from the inside. The support beams began to sway. . . twist. . . torque. . . and eventually, with a groan, the building collapsed in on itself.

Fors would have made himself watch till the end, but Dempsey turned away. _I can handle it,_ the volus told him, in a sharp mental tone.

_Yeah. I know you can. But you're already going to have enough bad dreams, my friend. Not going to hit me. I don't dream much, anymore. Probably not going to hit Velnaran. He compartmentalizes better than anyone I've ever seen before. I don't think he's even thought about Liakos __once__ today. _A faint note of irony in Dempsey's mental tones. The human clearly found something in that thought faintly amusing, or at least, explanatory. _ Kirrahe? If he feels anything at all, he'll be over it in fifteen minutes, twenty, tops. You, my friend? You've been a soldier. But you're a gentler sort than the rest of us. _For a wonder. . . there was compassion in Dempsey's mental tone.

_Don't spread that around. _A cloud of dust and debris puffed out around them, and Fors almost looked back.

Almost.

_I won't tell a living soul who doesn't already know._ Dempsey was already moving, heading for the limited cover of a couple of elevated concrete flowerbeds.

"We've got company," Rel said, suddenly, and pointed up into the sky.

Fors lifted his head, and cursed his eyesight. Volus weren't the most visually-oriented species in the galaxy. "I don't see anything," he admitted.

"I do," Kirrahe replied. The salarian's tone was grim as the rachni and geth gathered near them. "Gunships, inbound."

"Well, we knew the militia would be fast to respond to the attack." Dempsey tabbed his radio. "All teams, status!"

Half a mile away, Linianus had poked his head up and out of the tunnels on hearing the go-ahead from Sam Jaworski. He was nominally in command of this strike force, much to his own surprise; Cohort was senior, but no one considered Cohort a team-leader.

Their exit from the tunnels was north of Urvada's largest and oldest temple, the Temple of the Five. It was a massive, shield-shaped structure originally made of white marble, and Lin thought it might have been beautiful, except that the city exhaust fumes and acid rain had eaten into the marble, leaving it gray and pitted as asphalt. A frieze of statues ran around a ledge below its vaulted roof, all figures with dozens of eyes, sometimes with wings, sometimes without. Ancestral spirits and gods, he decided, but meaningless to him.

Dozens of buildings lined the streets on either side of the enormous temple; it, like the other large public buildings faced inwards towards a large open, tangle of cobbled streets, which surrounded a green park filled with statues and memorials. No vehicles were apparently permitted in the old downtown area, which was an operational advantage, as far as he was concerned. The temple also had a wide, open lot behind it, dotted with small ornamental trees and shrubs. Perfect for concealing their entrance.

A single batarian priest, perhaps a groundskeeper, stared at Lin as he came around the corner, holding a rake. Lin's hand raised, thought-fast, a stasis pistol in it, and he shot the priest without blinking. Then he turned and reached down into the hole to lend a hand to those behind him.

Cohort jumped out of the hole on his own; the first geth Spectre was, after all, based in part on the old 'hopper' geth models. Thelldaroon, naturally, required a little more in the way of assistance. Elcor were simply not built for tunnel-crawling. Lin grimaced as Thell's big paw wrapped around his extended hand. _This is going to give me permanent back problems, isn't it?_ he thought, with mild humor. . .

. . . and then Thell simply _rose_ in the air. Lin backed up, eying the elcor carefully, and saw red painted metal fingers gripping the elcor's legs and front appendages from below. Thell's eyes actually showed white all the way around the dark, wide irises, and then he scrambled forward, looking back and down uneasily. "My thanks," the elcor rumbled.

"It was an efficient use of available resources. It is not a problem." The voice had metallic overtones, like the sound of bronze weapons clashing on shields. Lin eyed the two red-painted geth as they emerged from the tunnel now, themselves. One had a variety of colonial markings painted on its chest, one for each area of service: Terra Nova and Amaterasu, and additionally, other, more obscure symbols. A turian hand in white, with crosshairs positioned over it, and a _fraction:_ 2/3. The result was . . . idiosyncratic, and distinctly odd for a geth. That was Siege. The other, named Tsunami, was simply coated in plain red paint. Both had red-tinted optics, and were close to eight feet in height. These were geth CROWD platforms. Designed for fighting krogan, they'd been repurposed to fighting yahg. And obviously, the hydraulic cylinders attached to the skeletons, hidden beneath their ropey synthetic musculature and heavy armor were extremely powerful and efficient; they'd lifted the elcor male, who bulked close to a thousand pounds at one g, as if he were Lin's size.

Behind the CROWD platforms, the rest of the geth emerged—two primes to coordinate with the twenty-one total shock troopers, hoppers, and floating turrets. Behind them, twelve human marines clambered out of the tunnel; these, Lin _could_ give a helping hand to, clapping each on the shoulder as he helped them onto the ground. "All right," he told them all, shifting his shield onto his left arm; he kept the stasis gun in his right for the moment, but he had loaded for _acrocanth_ on this mission. He had a Collector pistol at his hip, and his vibrosword and a Blackstorm over his shoulders. Thell, he could see, was carrying two different heavy weapons, an arc projector and an Avalanche, which was designed to use cryogenic solutions to super-cool armor and materials, and even incapacitate organics and mechs temporarily. "You know the mission brief. Non-lethals on the civilians and the priests. Our objective is to clear the damn building before we blow it." That was, in the end, Lin suspected, why he'd been given command of this mission. This was supposed to be as non-lethal as possible, at the outset. . . and then, they were going to need to hold the line for the assassination team.

He reviewed, tightly, for the sake of the organics on the team, "The only people we're likely to see under arms inside the temple are the priest-guardians. They're the only members of the priest caste who can carry weapons—and then, only on holy ground. There's a main hall, and four separate chapels. All are going to need to be cleared. Do so with the minimum possible force, and Thell here will set the charges as we go." Lin had opted to go with conventional high explosives for this purpose, rather than setting up transponders so that the _Clavus_ or the _Raedia_ or the _Sollostra_ could take aim and fire on the temple

No word from Sam Jaworski yet, but it had been less than a minute since the human had ordered the distraction to begin. Lin gestured towards the back, curving wall of the temple. They'd considered sweeping around to the large sets of doors at the front of the huge structure, or using one of the small doors at the back, where the priests had . . . well, bedrooms, storage rooms for vestments, and other priestly things. . . and had decided against it. Too long to get in. Too many of their people out, and visible. Lin moved forward, pulling an explosive frame from one of the human marines, spraying foam into it, expertly, and applying it to the wall. To his left, the geth were doing the same thing. He shoved the detonator home, and backed up, remembering, all too well, the many times he'd done the self-same thing here on Khar'sharn in the course of Valak's little guerrilla war. How many times he'd had to blow in doors and walls on Omega, too. "On three," Lin murmured into his radio, holding up his remote detonator unit. "One. . . .two. . . three."

The two explosive frames went off, tearing two ten-foot wide holes in the marble-sheathed wall of the temple. Lin ducked reflexively, and felt a chunk of stone ring off his shoulder, pebbles and fragments rattling against his back and helmet, too. When he looked up, the geth units were already swarming forwards. "Go!" Lin called over the radio, surprised by how calm his own voice was, and, stasis pistol in hand, followed suit.

Inside, the temple was far more ornate than the exterior. Lin caught glimpses of a gold-leaf encrusted ceiling towering high above, the shocked faces of robed batarians, standing by a block of stone, similarly sheathed in gold leaf. Two braziers, heaped with glowing coals, to either side. . . and a statue, massive. Five figures, all multi-armed, multi-bodied, pregnant female on one side, back-to-back and fused with their male counterparts on the other side, female arms extended, male arms raised, in a long procession in marble. . . Lin had talked enough with Valak in his months here on Khar'sharn to recognize the five figures as the sons of the first ancestor, the first male in creation, who had been slaughtered by his own sons, and his body used to make them each a wife. Each new husband and wife had given rise to one of the castes. The noble-caste statue, thus, held swords in all four hands; the warrior-caste statue held spears and shields. The scribe-caste held quill pens and flutes, the merchant-caste held scales, and the last statue held nothing at all, and it, alone, knelt before the other four in submission. Filth-castes and slaves.

All of this, in a rush. The geth were swarming in, the hoppers launching themselves for the statues jutting out of the gold-encrusted ceiling. Lin switched to his Collector pistol and fired a warning shot into the air, a yellow-white beam lighting the golden interior dome for a moment like a bolt of lightning.

There were at least a hundred people in the temple at this point; midday wasn't apparently a major time for observances. Dozens and dozens of dots on his scope, dozens of ghostly figures in rachni mind-vision. "_Leave!"_ Lin shouted in batarian. His command of the language was shaky at best, but he knew enough to convey the needed message. _"Move! Get out of here!_" He leveled his pistol at the priests in long robes near the altar, watching them back away, wild-eyed, saw the near-stampede forming as people in the long benches further beyond began to turn and run for the building's main exits at the south.

"_You can't!_" one of the priests shouted, moving forwards, rather than back. One of his compatriots, emboldened, moved with him. They were unarmed, so Lin couldn't _shoot_ them. His stasis gun would keep the priests in, rather than sending him back. Lin swore under his breath and moved forward, kicking the closest one solidly in the chest, throwing the male back towards the altar.

Siege, the geth behind him, lowered an arm, onto which a pneumatic cannon had been attached, and, wordlessly, engaged the trigger mechanism. A pneumatic cannon fired nothing but air, but compressed and expelled at high-speed, it was as non-lethal an option as a CROWD platform, apparently, could manage. The two batarian priests, one already staggered, were bowled over and knocked back a good ten feet, slamming into the altar and rolling back over it, knocking offertory bowls filled with oils to the ground. . . .

Priest-guardians tried to maintain some semblance of order, ducking into side-chapels. Lin's eyes tracked them. They were trying to keep the people _in_ those chapels, so that they wouldn't be running out into the line of fire of the incoming assailants. What he might have done himself. Unfortunately, they needed the building _clear_. Lin growled under his breath and shoved the priests out of the way, heaving them the rest of the way over the altar, so he could take cover behind it, himself.

The priest-guardians had dropped their ceremonial weapons and were digging out real guns and tactical armor. Not full suits, but at least helmet and torso combinations. Getting ready to stand and fight. Lin raised up over the edge of the altar and did his level best to convince them otherwise. He fired his Collector pistol at what he could see of one of the priest-guardians, leaning out of a doorway, and burned through shields and into cloth-covered flesh below, searing through the male's arm. The batarian fell back into the chapel, screaming, and Lin could see the two priests he'd thrown over the altar scrambling backwards on the floor, crab-walking back towards the seats. "Forseti!" Thell roared, suddenly, and Lin looked back over his shoulder. "Get out of the way!"

Lin stared, and got the hell out of the way, throwing himself to the right and rolling. The elcor and both CROWD platforms had locked their hands on the huge set of statues behind the altar, all mounted on the same plinth, and, with the two geth on one side, and Thell on the other, were rocking it back and forth on its base. It wasn't attached to the floor. It didn't need to be; it probably weighed two to three thousand pounds. Hence why even with the threesome's enormous combined strength, they needed to rock it back and forth like a loose tooth, picking up steam, while, from above, the geth hoppers perched on the ceiling fired overload charges down into the crowd of screaming, fleeing people.

Lin scrambled backwards now, himself, and watched in awe as the statues slowly, but with increasing inevitability, moved forwards. Tipped ponderously past the point of no return. And then _slammed_ into the marble floor, crushing the altar in front of them. Arms and legs went flying, pieces of marble flying out into the audience area. "Use this for cover!" Thell called, and Lin, who'd found tenuous shelter up against a support pillar to the right, waited for a break in fire and then hustled across to the others, using the upturned plinth itself as cover now. Incoming fire from the priest-guardians

"I have to admit," Lin shouted over the din of bullets firing, "you guys know how to make an entrance."

"Negative. Entrance was already created, Pellarian-Spectre," Cohort corrected him, from the ceiling, firing on one of the priest-guardians, and removing the male's head entirely with the geth Widow that the Spectre had the strength and resilience to handle. "In this case, we merely made debris."

Lin shook his head. That had sounded suspiciously like a joke.

More jarringly, he could have sworn he heard one of the two CROWD platforms, after a pause, say, "Hah." Not really a laugh. More of a word spoken than spontaneous laughter. But if he believed the evidence of his ears, a geth had laughed, or at least, tried to do so.

Grim work. Shooting the guards, covering Thell as the elcor worked his way around the support pillars in the great hall, setting charges. The elcor's hands were rock-steady, and the geth and human marines moved ahead of them, dragging people out of the chapels and herding them for the front doors. Lin was able to set his shield and weapons aside and simply work the charges with Thell, glancing up as he saw one of the large geth units simply pick up a warrior-caste—out of armor and weaponless, but still dangerous—and throw the male halfway across the temple, landing him in a sprawl that sent a half dozen people to the ground, knocked down like bowling pins. "Strike?" the red-painted geth asked, calmly.

"Spare," Cohort answered from the ceiling, and fired another shot, herding the people out.

Lin wound more detcord around a pillar. "They're evolving right in front of us," he muttered to Thelldaroon.

"I know. It is fascinating. The individual platforms, with stable collections of run-times, are on par with NCAIs in terms of complexity and show a distinct tendency towards individuation—"

"I'll read your next paper on the topic," Lin told the elcor, hastily. "Let's just work on getting out of here, first."

"Agreed."

Finally, they pushed the last of the civilians out of the temple, and pushed their way out, themselves, watching the batarians flood away. Several people had been trampled in the rush, and lay, broken and bleeding, on the steps leading down to the streets and the open, grassy plaza beyond. Lin winced internally at the sight of one of them raising a feeble hand, but stifled the emotion.

Pushing down the surge of mercy was made much easier when he looked up and spotted gunships circling in from the south. Two lines of tanks making their way up through the streets to the south, as well. . . and, from the Securities and Slave Exchange to the southeast. . . what looked like small tanks, rolling forwards, rapidly. Lin squinted, and then resolved what those really were. "_S'kak_," he muttered, and backed up into the doorway of the building they were getting ready to detonate, pulling the Blackstorm from over his shoulder.

"All teams, status!" Dempsey's voice crackled in his ear.

"Thor, Forseti here. Ready to blow temple objective, but we may need to use the building for cover. Colossus mechs, tanks, and gunships," Lin replied, sharply, into the radio. "All entering area from the south." He glanced down at his omnitool. They'd been in the building for less than ten minutes, and he was suddenly seized by terrible apprehension. _The assassination squad should already be done with their work and moving out. Why haven't we heard from them?_ His heart spasmed for a moment. _Serana. __Amilula__. What is going on in there?_

He put it to the side, as a good turian could, but it was an effort. All around him, the human marines and the geth troops set up. Thell moved ahead of Lin, so that the turian could use the elcor for cover. . . and the two geth CROWD platforms aimed for the gunships hovering in the sky, and fired rocket launchers directly at them, shattering the gunships' shields and spinning them around in the sky with the impact against their armored sides. "All units, prepare to fall back to northern extraction point," Dempsey said over the comm lines. And still, there was no word from Sam Jaworski, Kasumi Goto, Valak N'dor, Seheve Liakos, or Serana Pellarian.

The words crackled through the rachni's minds. _All units, report in._ And for a moment, none of the brood-warriors had the mental breath with which to respond. The press of thousands of voices around them, mostly gray-voices, dull and torpid with daily routines, the grind of routine. They'd moved up and out of their tunnel access point behind the rectangular, squat building with the two smaller wings jutting out of its sides. This building, they had been told, was the 'economic' heart of the captive-song singers' hive-of-many-planets. Where they sang trade-songs, and set value to substance and the work of hands.

The nest of secrets, which Sings-in-Silence and Sings-Honor and Sings-Mischief and Sings-too-Quickly were working to destroy, held power. The power of fear. The fear on which all political power on batarian worlds was based.

Sings-to-the-Past and Freedom-Singer were in another nest, readying themselves to slay the queen-song Hegemon and the military power of the _Klem Na_. Political power, to be cut down, and, if not the whole military power of the captive-song worlds, then at least a large portion of it that related to the enslaving and muting of many songs.

In another nest, Sings-Justice and Sings-Not and Sings-Patience, worked to sever another control-song. Belief-song. Each nest a locus of power, their songs weaving out and into every life on a dozen worlds. Like queen-song, but not. Controlling the minds and hearts and even bodies of millions. But not in communion with each other. In dominion.

And if the brood-warriors and their two-legged brothers and sisters all did their jobs, and destroyed all these nests, the social, religious, political, economic, and military structures that supported the captive-singers' worlds. . . would die. Leaving a vacuum, into which new songs could be poured.

Sings-to-the-Sky emerged from the ground first, followed by Sings-of-Glory, Sings-to-the-Stone, and Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight. Three of the brood-warriors' carapaces had been painted Spectre black; the fourth still held his natural iridescent green-brown tones. Soldiers and workers emerged behind him, in a swarm of a hundred and more, their blue eyes glinting in the orange light of Khar'sharn's primary star.

Each brood-warrior had a particular talent and bent of mind. Sky was the philosopher, detached observer of many species, powerful and wise. Deep-seeing, deep-listening.

Glory was their warrior, for all his harp-like voice. His skills revolved primarily around defense and killing; the brood-warrior knew how to send out hundreds of tiny singularities and tear matter asunder with them. He also knew close combat, having slid his sharp front chelicerae into the hearts of yahg and batarians before, having reared up to wrestle a yahg in close combat, while others fired into the beast's back from afar.

Stone was their engineer. He knew of earth and metal and stone, knew their songs, and how to sing them. He could build and he could destroy, in equal measure.

Dances was something entirely else. He was artist and scientist at once. He had reached back into the memory-songs of those who had gone before, to the voice of his brood-father—the brood-father, too, of Joy-Singer—Sings-Fury. He had relived the long-dead warrior's memories, in spite of the death-fear of the taint of the darksong destroyers in those memories—and had come away with the songs of his father, to sing as his own. At the moment, he began to sing the first, and least of those songs. . . and began to wink, gently, in and out of reality. Here, then elsewhere. Erratically, unpredictably. Not becoming invisible. Simply going to the _other_ place, the place outside of the universe, where ships went, when they traveled in relays.

It was not surprising, that if biotics controlled mass effect energies, and relays used mass effect energies, that a biotic could use them in precisely the same way as a ship could. The only real surprise, the rachni had decided as a whole, was that it had taken them so _long_ to come up with the idea. But then, they had had so many wonderful new ideas, since joining their songs with the humans, the turians, the geth, and the other species.

_Begin_, Sky commanded, and Stone lifted his head, opening his petal-mouth to hiss at the building's rear. His rasping voice scaled up, and the stone façade began to melt in key areas.

Inside, stock traders were cowering at their desks. They'd heard the rumble of an explosion, and all comm. traffic in the area appeared to be jammed. They couldn't call out, and intranet feeds were cut; a few had peered out windows and reported, shakily, to their fellows, that the SIU building to the west had just exploded. Local militia was trying to evacuate the area, one building at a time, and their security protocols stated, clearly, _in case of emergency or disaster, stay inside the building until the all-clear is sounded._

It started in silence. Little more than a sigh of sound, a soughing, noise as various day-traders lifted their heads from desks covered with files on the price of agricultural slaves and commodities and _stared_ at the wall behind them. Drywall began to burn, and the batarians stumbled backwards, aghast at what was revealed beyond: The stone was glowing, waves of heat coming from it in long lines. . . and then the hot stone _melted_, began to drip like candle wax, running downwards. The wet sound became the sliding, grating noise of stone on stone as the façade of the building began to slide right off, impelled by gravity's hold and its own massive weight.

Outside, Glory lifted his harp-like voice, as he watched the side of the building begin to shear away like a glacial sheet calving off a fresh iceberg. Hundreds of tiny singularities swarmed through the air ahead of him and burst into the building's façade now, too, perforating it as it slid to the ground, encouraging it to shatter neatly, while Sky and Dances, their voices mingling so closely, all violins and cellos, that no one not a rachni could have told them apart in that moment, lifted the heavy marble away, lofting the pieces to land in the nearby street. Each piece slammed down, embedding itself in the pavement, becoming a forty-five degree impediment to traffic.

They were aware that hive-soldiers were approaching in cold-metal machines; this was the best that they could do, for the moment, to deter them. It would not last forever.

Inside, the batarians shouted and ran for the front of the building as the soft, soughing sound became the scream of rock and metal being torn asunder. The tumble of terrified people became a stampede as the workers and the soldiers were lifted by the rachni brood-warriors on the ground. . . and simply _thrown_ into the open levels of the building now revealed. Workers ran along the walls, and burrowed into the drywall. Cutting power cables, boring holes in pipes with acid, and occasionally popping back out again. Darkness fell throughout the building, the only light that remained streaming through the wrecked backside, and the luminous gleam of hundreds of eyes, as the rachni rampaged through the building. Floors, ceilings, walls, all were the same to them. The scrabble of chitinous legs _inside_ the walls, while, in the corridors and cubicles, the soldiers moved with precision, chasing the traders, spitting acid at them, herding them out of the officers and to the main trading floor, where the prices of lives were valued and weighed every day.

_Do you see where we wish to go?_ Sky asked Dances, politely.

_Yes. I see through the soldiers' eyes._ Dances sang a low, powerful note. . . and _pop_. Air displaced rushed back in to where the four brood-warriors had stood a moment ago. And a second later, _pop_, they appeared inside the building, in the line of sight of one of the soldiers, landing nearly beside a podium used by the leader of the securities and slave exchange.

_Hear us!_ Sky sang, his voice ringing through every mind._ That you have sung the songs of your ancestors for generations is no excuse. _

_No one who sings, should sing in durance,_ Glory added, an arpeggio of notes that echoed back from the walls.

_You have turned the lives of others into something to be traded. When it was only your own people, others in the galactic harmony turned a blind eye_, Stone rasped.

_No more_. That from Dances, as he inclined his head, the missing eye at the left side of his face starkly visible. _To long you have sung captive-songs to many. No longer. _

_Will you match songs with us now?_ Sky inquired, politely, as the soldiers leaped from the fourth floor onto the walls, and ran towards the trading floor. _To do so, will mean death._

_Flee_, Dances sang, softly.

_Or sing death-songs_, Glory added, and then all four warriors sang at once, as the soldiers once more cut through the screaming, fleeing batarians. The note they sang shattered a hole in the front of the building, but held the debris above the batarians' heads, allowing them to retreat. The workers, their task complete, the building weakened from the inside out, pipes flooding, support beams weakened. Electrical current to the trading computers cut. Records of trades, erased, access to the markets inside the Hegemony and out in Council space, too, severed.

Another note, and the soldiers and workers streamed out the front, once more herding the batarians into the streets, and then Dances once more _popped_ the four brood-warriors to safety. . . and this time Stone sang alone, reaching out for the metal girders inside the building. Heating them. Letting them _melt_, and the building groaned and collapsed in on itself with a shudder.

Sky looked up, and listened. Too many voices. Too many gray voices, filled with terror. Voices in cold-metal machines, navigating around the obstructing marble pieces to the east, flecks of anger and vexation and fear. Above, in the sky, in other cold-song machines, more hive-soldier voices. Spray of bullets now, as the gunships turned to engage them, making the crowds of retreating traders scatter and run. The bullets bounced off Sky's barrier-of-song, but that would not last. Could not last. The soldiers and workers promptly spat acid at the ground, tearing through the asphalt and concrete that covered the earth, and began to burrow. A rachni's greatest defense was the earth itself.

The brood-warriors, however, had fewer options. Bullets sizzled through their shields, sundering them, and slammed into their carapaces.

_All units, report in!_ Sings-in-Silence thundered in his mind, and Sky had, in that moment, no breath with which to respond. Stone hissed and sang heat into the closest gunship, and Sky could hear panic as the walls of the vehicle superheated, the polyceramic ablative armor liquefying and pouring off of it, into the crowd of fleeing batarians below. Screams of pain, white-hot notes lancing through the harmonies and dissonances of fear. The gunship rocked backwards, and began to circle around, looking for someplace safer to be. . . a rocket, launched from the north, slammed right into its side, sending it rotating dizzily, and then it crashed to the ground, sending the batarians who were fleeing, running another way as it exploded, tail rotors flying back up into the air. Glory sang, too, his tiny event horizons tearing through another gunship.

Sky sang a complex harmony, weaving a gravitic distortion right into the tail of a third gunship, buckling its rotors and contracting the gears and machinery inside of its armored shell. It veered off to the side, the pilot's mind filling with panic as he attempted to gain control of a machine that no longer responded to his commands. . . and then it, too, slammed into the ground. _So, too, did we sing when the krogan-invaders came to our worlds!_ Dances sang, a single note filled with regret and rage at once. _So, too, did their ships fall to the ground, but where they lived, your songs will end!_

Sky concentrated now, and wove all the disparate voices of his Spectre hive together, one whole. _We need a queen,_ he told the other brood-warriors, grimly. _My song is not enough. Too many voices. Too much chaos. We all must sing as one!_

To Sings-in-Silence now, and all the rest, _The nest of the trade-singers, the buyers and sellers, is no more. But there are many cold-metal machines now, on the ground, in the air._

_What's going on with the assassination team?_ Sings-in-Silence's thought was cold and remote, and Sky could sense the human male grunting a little in impact as _something_ slammed through his shields. Hot spike of pain. Flicker of vision through the human's eyes—one of the massive mechs, which they had seen on Lorek, the ones with treads like a tank, but threw spears for the capture of runaway slaves—had pierced Sings-in-Silence's shields. _Don't mind me, we've got this. What the hell is going on with Jaworski and Liakos?_

Sky listened, and as he reached out for the far building, the chaos of the minds there struck him. Total panic. Total fear. Screams, anger, rage—it hit him like a blow, even though he was braced for it. Sinking sensation as he realized the truth. _They live. But they cannot reach the tunnels below. They try to escape now. . . blend with the crowds. Sings-Justice! Be ready! They will come to you. We will __all__ come to you!_

_I cannot reach them, not without panic-songs from all around, which will mark them,_ Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight told Sky, singing concern. _I can sing myself to them, and carry them away, but the crowds are thick around them, as I see through their eyes. I cannot land where there is solid matter—the bodies press as thick as stone—and if I land on top of those around them—_

_No. Stay here. Too many metal machines. We need your songs with us, on this line!_

_I hear!_

Inside the Assembly hall, the skin on the back of Sam's neck crawled as he lined up first a shot on the batarian that Valak had marked out for him as Chas'na V'sol. . . and then swiveled back to make sure he had a shot on the Hegemon, as well. He had to trust, completely, in the cover he had here in this unoccupied balcony, and in his stealth net and bio-sign masker. He had a colorful bunting over the front rail in front of him draping down, but there were no actual solid walls at the front of each balcony. . . both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, he could lay down on his stomach, poke the rifle just barely through the drapery of fabric, and aim, cleanly and neatly. On the other hand, he had absolutely no cover from return fire, and the warrior-castes who guarded the hall weren't just packing ceremonial gear today. Neither were the handful of SIU visible, here and there, in the hall, marked out clearly by the fact that they carried vibroblades, like nobles, and actual pistols. They all clearly knew there was a firefight going on at the Harsa relay, and they were preparing to get their principles and protectees the hell out of here once the Hegemon finished his defiant speech.

Behind him, Kasumi hissed a warning, and Sam held completely still as the door to the box opened. He had to trust in his wife's exceptional instincts. He couldn't move. Couldn't look behind himself. Couldn't do anything but hold as still as a fawn in a thicket, waiting for the hunters to pass.

After a cursory inspection, the docents or guards or whoever the hell it was, left again, and Sam let himself exhale. "Thanks, Eurydice."

"They're heading in a clear line through each box on all three tiers." Kasumi's voice was tight. "Looks like they'll also be clearing the servant halls. Doppleganger, watch yourself."

Doppleganger, was, of course, James. "Not in position," the android murmured, quietly. "Can we blow this popsicle stand yet?"

"Negative," Sam replied. "We're waiting on our distraction."

Sam was only catching every fifth word of the Hegemon's speech, but he was watching the batarian as he gestured and gesticulated stiffly. Banged the podium with his fist, shook his hand at the audience. The nobles in the audience applauded at every break for breath. Words like _defiance_ and _loyalty_ and _sovereignty_ filtered through Sam's consciousness. _Self-determination_, _tradition_, and _stand to the last man._ Sam wanted to shake his head, but didn't dare, as he looked through his scope, and once more found Chas'na V'sol. . . whom Valak and K'sar were considerately keeping in his damned box across the way, on the first tier. _Wonder if the Hegemon actually understands what the word __loyalty__ even means. It's not just a tool for compelling obedience. It's a reciprocal thing. Valak just draws it out of the batarians who meet him. Look at K'sar, ready to walk into fire for him. . . but it's because he knows Valak really believes what he says. And that Valak would put down his life for those ideas and ideals. Would put down his life for his men, for K'sar himself, now that K'sar is one of them. Look at all these people in the audience. It's a race to see who can applaud the fastest. The longest. I can see the fear in all their eyes, the sidelong looks as they try to evaluate each others' body-language. 'Who's the most loyal?' . . . when none of them are loyal at all. Just scared shitless._

His mind churned away like that, but it didn't detract from his focus. "Nyx," he murmured. "Do you have a clear shot?"

"Affirmative," Seheve replied, coolly.

"Problem," Serana said, suddenly. "Second sweep coming through. Opening doors."

Sam swore internally. He'd given the order for the distraction to start a minute ago, but while the distraction teams were working, they hadn't done anything noisy yet. These things took time, and they were already running critically low on that commodity. "Nyx? I have the solution."

"As do I. Holding." Seheve's finger was on the trigger, and she was absolutely prepared to execute the plan that she had come to Khar'sharn to enact. Even if it meant doing so exactly when the door behind her opened, and if she were spotted, the Hegemon would die.

"Entering our box." Serana had her submachine gun in her hands, and had sunk to a low, feral crouch, back against the festively-covered railing, ready to shoot the guards who were checking every box, twice over. This one, in particular, was the N'dor family box, and all the seats were covered in black drapes, suggesting, to Serana, the state of disgrace in which Valak's family found itself. That, and mourning; Xal'i was, after all, dead. She swallowed, hard, and held her breath, not allowing even the faintest motion to distort her stealth field.

The door opened in front of her, and a batarian guard poked his head in. The last guard had been a docent with a handlight. This, however, was a batarian warrior-caste, and he had a laser sight on the end of his rifle. A laser sight that could hit the edge of a stealth field and scatter. The light-bending qualities of the stealth-field would immediately distort the laser, and an outline would be revealed. Not all lasers worked in this fashion, fortunately, otherwise _every_ soldier on the battlefield would be able to detect a stealth net in action. But she'd read portions of Eli's letters to Dara from Terra Nova, the parts Dara had felt comfortable sharing. . . and distinctly remembered his words now, talking about painting the stealthed yahg hunters with the laser sights, and their stealth nets, less advanced than the Spectres, flaring up brilliantly, so that everyone in his group could see them. . . .

Spectres carried better stealth tech than the yahg. . . . but this warrior-caste carried a laser precisely calibrated to find stealth nets. Serana saw the first shimmers of the distorted light, and, rather than shooting the warrior-caste with her submachine gun, gambled. She let the gun fall, on its strap around her body, dropped her hands to the floor, and lashed upwards with a vicious kick, knocking the assault rifle cleanly out of the warrior-caste's stunned hands. "Have a problem," Serana said, tersely, her stealth field breaking, but still below the line of the railing.

Seheve spun, her vibroknife clearing its wrist-sheath as the drell turned, uncoiled, and launched herself at the warrior-caste batarian. She threaded the knife directly into the batarian's heart, carrying him to the ground, while at the same time jamming two fingers onto the controls of his omnitool, squelching any transmissions, she dearly hoped.

Behind her, Serana tabbed her own omnitool, frantically keying her stealth net back up again, and ducked in behind Seheve, pulling her gun back up into her hands and peering out into the corridor warily. Warrior-castes _never_ moved alone, she knew. . . this one would have friends checking for him, any minute. "We're made and have to move," Serana hissed into her radio.

"No!" Seheve snapped, rolling the batarian's body under the black draperies that covered the seats in the N'dor box, before tabbing her stealth net back into existence. "We can do this."

"Prepare to move," Sam ordered, emotionlessly. "I'm now on primary target. Nyx, you're on secondary." Deep inside of his mind, he was swearing, repeatedly, _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, nothing can ever go as planned, can it?_ but his hands were rock-steady as he turned back and aimed directly for the Hegemon.

"Please," Seheve whispered, her throat tight as she knelt again. _Please. Let me do this. This is my purpose. This is what I am meant to do. Let one death clean the slate for all the rest. Please. . . _

"Do you have a solution on V'sol—?" Sam started to ask, which was when the entire building was rocked by a dull roll of thunder. _Ah. There's our damn distraction._

Every batarian in the hall lurched halfway to their feet, swiveling their heads. Alarmed voices, but, with apprehensive glances and the hovering vid cameras here and there. "Kill the cameras," Sam murmured, and he heard the faint whir of Kasumi's omnitool, as, all over the assembly hall, the vid cameras, indeed, suddenly went off-line, sinking to the ground. Sam's mind lost all emotion then, drained of it, as he re-sighted in on the Hegemon, right in the plexus between the two sets of eyes. The male had lurched, with the rest of the crowd, at the sudden shock of sound. . . recovered his composure, was waving his guards away as they ran towards him on the stage. _No time left. _

Sam fired. Double-tap. Saw the first one catch the blue-white of a kinectic shield, no surprise there. . . Second one went through. . . . but the body was rocked by rounds from more than one source. No sound. Both he and Seheve were using rifles with suppressors, for good reason. As the Hegemon's body crumpled to the floor, the head a mangled mess, Sam's mind was simply a mass of cold, flat, tactical assessments. "Nyx! Get a fix on V'sol!"

Seheve lifted her head; she'd taken the shots on the Hegemon, herself. Just as she'd always intended to do. But for once in her career as an assassin, she did not know if her shots had actually _hit_ her target. She and Sam Jaworski had fired within split-seconds of each other. She did not know which bullets had slammed through the leader's shields and entered his cranium. She might, in fact, never know.

"We've got company!" Serana whispered, urgently. "Nyx, get your shields up and _move_, or we're both toast." _And not a variety that Dara's workers will enjoy!_

"Chasna V'sol is still alive." A cold, controlled hiss from Seheve. Implacable determination, as she tried to sight in on the _Klem Na_ leader's head. He was, however, in motion. Most of the crowd was in motion. People running forward, shouting. People running for the exits, screaming.

"You should have fired on him when you had the chance," Serana retorted, bluntly, and managed to find Seheve's arm, in spite of both stealth fields. She, of all people, understood the impetus _not_ to follow an order. She could even justify it, after a fashion; Shepard had put Seheve on as the primary shooter, and Sam as secondary, but _this is why they had two shooters_. In case one of them wasn't able to take the shot. "We have to go! Now!"

Down the hall, at least two other warrior-castes were shaken by the explosion, but now clearly wondering where their fellow had gotten off to, and, just as clearly, were on high alert now. . . . but the people in the boxes around them were flooding out into the hallway as well. Constant jostle of bodies. "They have laser sights that can detect stealth fields," Serana whispered into her radio. "We're proceeding to the extraction point, if we can."

Hers was the most tenuous position of anyone on the team. She couldn't pass for batarian. Not even in the most elaborately redone armor, could she manage that. If her stealth field failed, if anyone jostled into her and realized nothing was there, if the batarians used their lasers and even touched the edge of her field. . . Serana would be dead.

"Up!" Seheve hissed at her, and, to Serana's surprise, reached down and cupped Serana's booted foot, helping her reach for the exposed chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, still rocking with the force of the distant explosion. Serana accepted the boost, and pulled herself up, praying that the wide, old-fashioned chandelier could hold her weight. In the crystals, her stealth field's shimmers would be lost, for the moment. Seheve wedged her way through the crushing press of bodies, and found a spot to kill her stealth field.

Serana's heart absolutely stopped as one of the warrior-castes spotted Seheve, and advanced on her. _"Why the hell are you in here, and under arms!"_

Seheve had to trust that the voice modulation software would lower the pitch of her voice, though she assumed a batarian grating overtone on her own.Emulation and dissimulation were her specialties, after all. _"I am part of the Klem Na commander's personal guard. I left to hand-carry a message from him to one of his noble clients before everyone started panicking, and now I can't get back to his damn box. What in the ancestors' names is even going on? I heard an explosion!"_

"_Someone took a shot at the Hegemon! Someone from one of these boxes. It could have been you."_

Seheve's heart pounded for a moment, but she forced herself to calmness. _"You want to go ask Chas'na V'sol if he recognizes one of his body guards, by all means." _

Above, Serana could feel the chandelier groan under her weight, the anchors in the ceiling. Seheve backed up a little, pushing through the crowd, underneath the perilously swaying chandelier. The drell female didn't even look up. _Oh, spirits,_ Serana thought, and shifted her grip, reaching for the chain _above_ the brightly-light crystalline structure with one hand, but not daring to use both; her feet were propped on a crosslimb, and it felt. . . slippery. _I think I know what you have in mind, but you are, entirely, insane, __ama'fradu__!_ One hand locked in place, Serana shifted her weight, slid a small priming charge out of her utility belt and cautiously lifted herself a little further. Slapped the sticky charge in place at the base of the chandelier, where it connected to the chain. . . looked down. . . verified that Seheve was now beyond the chandelier's edge, while the two approaching warrior-castes were directly underneath her. _Time to commit._

Serana flung herself up and at the chain, latching on now with her second hand, just as her boots slipped free. The Chandelier itself rocked furiously, the chain pulled loose from the ceiling, dropping her by a foot, but at least she wouldn't be _pinned_ by the falling monstrosity now. . . and as the guards looked up at the swinging crystals, blinded by the lights above, Serana detonated the tiny charge she'd placed at the base of the chain. Hardly more than a firecracker. . . but then, explosions didn't need to be big, as her trainers in TIA had taught her. They just needed to be big enough and in the right location to do their job.

The chandelier fell to the ground, crushing the two warrior-caste guards, and sending crystal flying everywhere. Nobles in thin formal wear screamed all over again, ducking from the flying debris, and ran. Seheve ducked into a nearby embrasure, watching the crowd scatter, while Serana held to the chain of the erstwhile chandelier as it swung and swayed. And then, seeing a break in the crowds, Serana dismounted, landing in a crouch beside the shattered remains. "Come," Seheve whispered into her radio. "We have to move east, to the rendezvous point, and from there into the cellars once more."

That could be more difficult than it sounded. Seheve was having to fight for every inch of space in the packed, panicking crowd, and Serana latched onto the drell's belt in desperation, trying to ensure that they did not get separated.

When the first explosion rocked the building, James had already been in place at the upstairs access point to the servant tunnels. They were located on the third floor, and exited out into the main corridors, giving access to the catwalks over the Assembly proper, from which the servitors could change and clean the large chandeliers that hung over the seating area and speaking platform. The catwalks could have been another good sniper perch, but that Sam had vetoed on actually seeing it, for lack of cover up there. Now, his head swung towards the door into the servants' tunnels, against which he'd been standing, and stared up at the words, picked out in red light, flaring over it. _Emergency Protocols enacted. No Exit._

_This_, James thought, grimly, _is no good at all._ He'd entered through the servants' corridor before, checking it out, and had hacked the door panels easily enough. There was a biometric panel on the left side of the door. . . but even the panel was blinking now. _Locked out. Damnit. We can't get there from here, and everyone's coming __here__ to __get__ there._ James paused. _Okay. If all passcodes have been locked out. . . .what does that leave?_

The door opened outwards into the corridor, and suddenly, there were nobles all around him, as he pulled and strained at the door—no stealth field for him, of course, just a _Klem Na_ over his plain armor. A couple of nobles even tried to help him open the door, not knowing that his geth-build body harbored enormous reserves of strength, but gave up on it was a bad job when the handle came off in James' hand. His noble assistants scurried off, and James eyed the handle, the metal of which had malformed under the pressure of his synthetic fingers. _Yeah. Not good. _He could probably blow a hole in the door with the high-yield rounds that he could expel through his hand, but _that_ would get a hell of a lot of attention from the people jostling by him in the corridor. Not that he wasn't already getting attention, for _not_ moving with the flow, getting out of the way of nobles, and so on. _C'mon. Something go right._ James tabbed the radio. "May need a secondary extraction location. Having problems accessing the primary."

"Understood." Sam replied, tersely, as he tried to get a shot on Chas'na V'sol, but every _Klem Na_ mercenary in the box across the assembly hall from him was on their feet, moving, shifting. "No shot," Sam muttered under his breath, and felt Kasumi's hand on his belt, tugging.

"Come on," she whispered. "No time for this."

"We're leaving a mission objective on the damn table," he growled, but slid the high-powered rifle to his back, making sure his stealth net was back up as she preceded him out into the hallways, suddenly filled with panicking, fleeing batarians.

"We've got this," Valak muttered into his radio.

"Zorro, are you sure—?"

"Get to the . . .damn. The primary extraction point. We're on this." Valak grabbed Chas'na V'sol by the arm as the mercenary commander attempted to leave the box, surrounded by his guards. "You're with us, Commander V'sol," Valak said, his voice a little ragged, and deliberately so. "There's another exit that's been prepared in case of emergency. Come on!" He put just enough command into his voice to get V'sol's feet moving.

The mercenary leader wasn't an idiot, of course. But he _was_ panicking. As he should be. "I had nothing to do with this!" he immediately protested. "I insist that my men come with me—"

Valak did a fast mental count. There were six _Klem Na_, including V'sol, all of whom had been carrying concealed pistols, apparently. . . in deliberate contravention of the rules of the Assembly! . . . but of course, none of them carried a vibroblade.

The odds did not look good. But he also didn't have much of a choice. "By all means," he replied, his tone curt. "Get moving. You could be another of the targets." He directed V'sol out into the corridor, helping to fight their way through the people in the passageway. It didn't hurt to have a total of eight people in _Klem Na_ colors, forming a wedge around V'sol; it cleared the way nicely.

"Zorro?" K'sar's voice over Valak's private, encrypted band, used the Terran code name tentatively. "What are we doing?"

"We're taking them right to the extraction point, where Doppleganger is waiting."

A pause, as K'sar shoved a noble-caste out of their way, ducking and dodging and pushing through the crowd. "Are you quite mad?"

"Possibly. I'm not sure how I could tell, however, my dear fellow." Valak slammed an elbow, roughly, into the kidneys of the person ahead of him, and shoved the male out of his way, and switched to the group comm. frequency. "Doppleganger, are you in position? We've got unexpected guests. We will need assistance."

"Acknowledged. I'm at the primary extraction point, but no one else is here." James' voice was grim. "Also, hate to repeat myself, but the servant tunnels are locked down."

Valak's thought processes shut down for a moment. "What do you mean, shut down?"

"Doors locked down at the first explosion. Just managed to arm-wrestle the first door out of the way, and there's a steel cage that's slid into place behind it. They really want people to exit out the regular entrances. Fire inspectors on Earth would go nuts."

Valak closed his eyes for a moment, and swore. "It's not to prevent people from exiting the building through the tunnels," he said, after a moment. 'There's no way out through there. They don't want a noble-born to get confused and take a wrong turn in case of emergency."

There was a pause. "Then how the hell do the servants and slaves get out—oh." James clearly didn't need any further explanation.

_They don't._

Valak directed V'sol and his men up a flight of stairs. "Are we going to the _roof_?" V'sol demanded.

He took the opening and improvised wildly. "Yes. Gunships above, waiting for us. Access is on the other side, however."

Just enough hope to keep them motivated. Couched in a noble-caste accent that they could trust. Have faith in. Follow. They struggled through the crowd, which was thinning now, as the bulk of the people on the third floor forced their way down to the second, to the first, Valak felt a huge bubble of relief form in his chest as he finally caught sight of James, human-like face covered by his batarian armor's mask, standing beside a door, as if guarding it. "This is our exit," Valak said, feeling, rather than seeing, K'sar ease back. Trigger his stealth net.

A couple of the mercenaries tried to follow K'sar with their eyes. "What's he up to?"

"Guarding our rear. You there! Get the door open! We have to get Commander V'sol and his men to safety." Valak, too, fell back, as if taking a rearguard position, and drew his sword.

The mercenaries weren't stupid_._ They had decades of being terrified of SIU instilled into them. One of them turned, starting to list the pistol that he'd evidently concealed and been permitted to carry into the Assembly in contravention of every caste-law. . . and Valak struck, slicing the weapon in half and following through with a thrust, carrying the movement through the armor and into the raider-caste's chest. K'sar, at the same moment, blurred out of stealth. He didn't need to get close in, not with a vibrosword, the way someone like Seheve or Sam Jaworski needed to: again, a vicious upwards thrust, in the back, at a forty-five degree angle up through the heart and out the breastplate.

Those two had been caught unprepared; the other four immediately pulled up their kinetic shields, even as K'sar pulled his stealth field back up, vanishing. Valak ducked to the right, knowing that he absolutely needed to keep moving; that and his shields and armor were his only real defenses. K'sar at least had the cover of his stealth field. . . but the mercenaries were trying to fire on Valak now, pinging close-range shots off his shields.

And at that point, James entered the fray, bringing his hand to within inches of the closest batarian's head; his glove was specially designed, with a hole at the center of the palm. It wasn't, as the android had pointed out ruefully on the flight here, as if he needed to breath or worry about decompression, and the weak point was in an area where the enemy was unlikely to fire. And from that opening, at point blank range, inside the shields, he fired his own attack, directly into a mercenary's head. Orange-red blood-spray all over the walls, a shower of glistening chunks of brain with it, and the three remaining _Klem Na_ spun back towards James now, firing, trusting in their shields to protect them from the vibroblades.

Valak's eyes narrowed in concentration, and he launched himself forward again. Now, with the vicious cutting edge deactivated, he had two choices. Deactivate the field, somehow, or aim for areas on the body where the armor was weak. Where the plates overlapped, where there were exposed gaskets.

K'sar, beside him, faced the same choice, and ducked and rolled forward, still shrouded in his stealth field, below the level where the mercenaries were aiming their shots. The former SIU investigator came up _behind_ one of the targets, reached in deftly, and tabbed a control on the mercenary's omnitool, shutting down his shields. The mercenary had one instant to glance down, aware that something was now terrible wrong. . . which was when K'sar slid his sword home, through the male's back once more, this time angled for the kidneys, and then stepped in, catching the body to use as a shield as the two remaining _Klem Na_ turned to fire on him, revealed as he now was.

V'sol spun back towards Valak, firing when the noble got too near; Valak's shields flared blue, failed, and then he easily ducked down, dropped _under_ the mercenary leader's arm, and drove his rapier-like blade directly into the armpit, where the armor was fundamentally weak. It didn't matter if the blade was oscillating now. The result. . . was the same, shields or no shields. Valak rose up, catching V'sol's wrist in his off-hand, driving it and the gun in the commander's slackening, surprised grip upwards. Then he angled his blade, sending it into the chest cavity, tearing through the lungs, possibly even nicking the heart.

The final _Klem Na_ mercenary backed up against a wall, firing steadily, but James stepped into the line of fire, and with a sort of calm inevitability, forced the batarian's arms upwards, aiming the pistol at the male's own head, just under the weak chin plates of the helmet. There was a hum of energy in the air, a crackle, and then the mercenary's shields simply _failed_, falling away from his form. . . and then James pulled the trigger on the weapon.

The result was predictably gory, and Valak swung around, feeling, now, a faint ache in his left arm, where a bullet had pierced his armor. Not badly. Just a nick, really. His eyes searched the hallway, and he swore as he saw three more figures in _Klem Na_ armor rushing towards them—_wait, two of those mercenaries are a little short—_

"Hold your fire," Sam asserted over the radio. "Battle-vision is down. I'm guessing the rachni are too damned busy to hold it up for all of us."

Valak exhaled. "That would have been a bad mistake to make," he admitted, and reached down to take the pistol off Chas'na V'sol's body. "One dead _Klem Na_ leader. Do try not to misplace any more of them." He glanced around. "All present and accounted for?"

"I'm here," Serana Velnaran reassured him over the radio. "I just can't break stealth."

James jerked a thumb at the reinforced steel bars that had come down, preventing people from accessing the servant tunnels. "Our way to our escape hatch is shut off. I might be able to shoot my way through it, and our sneaky friends here probably have enough explosives to blow our way through, but . . . I don't think we have time for that. Not blowing every damned door between us and the cellars."

A resounding explosion rocked the building, giving force and weight to his words. 'That one was further away," Kasumi commented, calmly. "The first one was likely SIU headquarters. That might have been the securities exchange." She turned her head and studied Sam, her head tipped to the side, characteristic gesture still clear, in spite of the batarian mask that covered her face. "We've got a choice. Cut our way through the servant tunnels. . . or head out with the rest of the crowd." Her voice was tight as she added, "Keep in mind, we didn't originally plan for the fact that the servants would only see _one_ group of _Klem Na_ coming through. We didn't think they'd lock it down this way."

"I didn't realize it myself," Valak admitted, his voice hollow. "I had thought that people would be escaping in all directions, that the servants and slaves would be fleeing with the rest of the occupants. I've been in this building dozens of times. I memorized the fire escape routes from my family's box when I was ten." A sinking sensation of guilt flooded through him. "I never realized. . . I _should_ have realized. . . " _That the slaves and servitors would be cut off from escape? It's not. . . it's not rational. Except if someone, years ago, decided that they should be on hand to fight the fires or . . . whatever. Damnation._

"I didn't realize it myself," K'sar muttered. "Pick a direction, people. We don't have time for indecision."

"Correct," Sam replied, grimly. "Downstairs, people."

"That course does offer us the chance to blend in with the population," Seheve noted, quietly.

Sam gave her a short nod. He was planning to have _words_ with her later for disobeying his order to take the shot on V'sol, which had necessitated Valak and K'sar's mad scramble to mop up this minor detail, and had put her teammates at risk. But now was not the time. "Serana—damn, you need a squad name, girl—"

"Laverna. My _GoF_ name. Also, Roman goddess of thieves, frauds, and imposters." Serana's voice held amusement and tension.

"Right. Whatever. Stay in the middle of our formation. We've _got_ to keep you under wraps."

They ran for the stairs, Sam and Seheve in the lead, Valak and K'sar forming their rearguard, with Kasumi and James to either side of the hidden Serana. Sam slid through into the crowd of batarians, shifting his hips, trying to wedge his way through. People were panicking, packed in tightly. Wedged tightly against each other, but at least there was _movement_. The entire third floor had poured down here into the second floor area, and it showed.

Just then, Sky's voice whispered through his thoughts, and Sam felt a surge of relief at the rachni's familiar mellow cellos and violas. Somehow, over the years, that had come to mean safety to him. No situation could . _Sky, you big ol' bug. 'Bout time you checked in. We've been on the damn run here, haven't had a chance for radio contact. We need a different way out of here. We're heading downstairs, and out through the side exit, heading for Pellarian's location. Pass the word, okay?_

_I hear, Sings-to-the-Past. We cannot come to you as yet._

_That's fine, we're coming to you. Leave the light on for us._

_Be wary!_

_Always am._

Slow. Agonizingly slow. Sam was already questioning the wisdom of his decision to head down through the crowds, but, as Seheve had said, it had the bonus of letting them blend in. Be one of the crowd. And he knew for a fact that the Assembly building wasn't going to be hit with more fire, either from the other strike teams or from any of the SR ships. So, it was a safe enough course of action. . . for the moment. It was just _slow_, and threatened to tear the group apart.

From the second floor, to the first floor. Sam shoved another body out of his way, creating a foot more space ahead of him, watching the sea of bald batarian heads ahead of him. . . and spotted trouble. "Problem, people," he muttered into his comm. "Think I just found the bottleneck. The reason why this floor is still so damned packed."

Ahead of them all, the warrior-castes had set up a check-point. They were searching for weapons—Sam, Kasumi, and Seheve had turned over their rifles and submachine guns to Serana, who, stealthed, was at least carrying those for them, heavy though the weapons were. The others all had the pistols taken off the Klem Na soldiers who'd been with V'sol. Likewise, they'd all concealed them in their pockets, but they could well set off a weapons detection system.

_Damnit. Should have gone through the cellars, after all, and to hell with any slaves who saw us or tried to stop us. . . except, what were we going to do, shoot them if they got in our way?_ Sam twisted around, looking behind him. He could see twenty feet of batarians packed in behind him, hundreds of bodies, literally, blocking their way towards the stairs. And ahead of them, another twenty feet, similarly packed, but at the moment, they were going with the flow. Turning back right now was not an option. It would be worse than swimming upstream like a salmon. Every time someone around them moved, they were jostled forwards, pressing tighter and tighter up against the people ahead of them.

_Never thought I'd die in line for a ride at Disneyland_, Sam thought, grimly. _But this is looking mighty likely, all of a sudden._ "Folks, I don't see any easy ways out. K'sar, is your stealth module good enough to defeat those lasers? Can you pass it to Ser—Laverna?"

"Negative. It's not designed to work with the emitters in her armor." K'sar's voice was grim.

"Okay. Then when we get up there, all hell's going to break loose, and we're going to have to fight our way free, folks." _Hell's bells._

No battle-vision, and that was actually probably for the best. _What's Sky going to tell me, 'they're all hostile'? Yeah. Got that part._ The crowd in front of them began to move a little faster, like sand sucking down into the vortex of an hourglass now, and they were drawn along, not quite helplessly, but certainly at a quicker, more inevitable pace. Sam calculated in his mind the steps he was going to need to take. How fast he could duck, draw his bowie knife from its sheath in his boot, and where it was strapped to his right greaves. Masses of batarians. Most noble-caste. Most armed with vibroblades. Not enough room for most of them to swing a sword, not without hitting someone who wasn't their target. If they did draw, they could slice right through his knife, through armor, through him. Going after the cutting edge of the swords was useless. Seheve could you vibroblade-on-vibroblade catches—they couldn't cut through each others' cutting faces—but Sam needed to go after other targets. Hands. Wrists. Arms. Severing arteries and tendons, to make it impossible to hold the blades, killing when he could, leaving the wounded behind him, incapacitated, when he couldn't. The area beyond the checkpoint looked more open. Both a good thing and a bad thing. Good, in that they could make better time. Bad, in that the batarians would have more space than in this sardine-tin area in which he currently found himself.

Moving up. Warrior-caste guards already eyeing him and Seheve, at the front of their line. _Okay. First thing's first. Are they going to detect 'non-batarian' bio-signs, given that we're all wearing bio-sign maskers?_ Sam's vision had grayed a little at the edges; pure adrenaline. Pure focus. The 'wide eyes' that his instructors in martial arts over the years had taught him to employ, and that he had taught countless others to strive for. A gaze that didn't focus on any one thing, but saw. . . everything. Keyed up, and yet calm at the same time. Balanced. Poised. Ready.

The batarians motioned him through, and paused, frowning over their results. "_Why the hell are you wearing a bio-sign masker?"_

Sam's batarian was pretty crappy, as he was the first to admit. But he didn't need it to be good to give one-word replies, like any other grunt. _"Orders."_

"_What the hell does that mean?"_

Seheve, from behind him, interposed, _"V'sol ordered that we should all wear bio-sign maskers as part of standard operating procedure. Even when not actively in the field." _The voice modulation software dropped her voice three octaves, at least, to a rough baritone. Raider-caste accent, perfect.

One of the warrior-castes snorted disparagingly, and waved Sam through. His heart pounding, Sam dropped to a crouch just past the males, hand close to his knife, but trying to just look. . . tired. Foot-sore.

Seheve moved through next, which went fine. Then James stepped up, with Kasumi, both of them flanking Serana. . . and that, predictably, was when all hell broke loose, as the laser detection system caught Serana's stealth field and flashed it into a rainbow of colors, like the iridescence of a soap-bubble. . . clearly illuminating a female turian form. Shouts of alarm from the guards. From the crowd.

James raced forward, headlong, tackling one of the guards with pure inertia and weight, slamming the batarian to the floor; a sizzle of electricity in the air as the android also tore at the shields of those around him. Sam and Seheve were already moving, too. Seheve's vibroblade was out, and it sank home into the back of a warrior-caste's neck, in the instant in which his shield, and the shield of the male next to him, went down under James' electronic assault. Sam caught the head of the guard in front of him, lifted the chin, and sank the knife home, one of his assured and always lethal shots, before yanking the blade free, letting the body fall, and turning to face what was behind him. No time for his own stealth field, not at the moment. Serana leaped forward, rolling past the guard point, getting out of the laser field, as did Kasumi, who brought up her own as she ran. Valak and K'sar drew their blade and turned on the crowd behind them, causing screams as they stabbed and slashed with their vibroblades, and backed through the guard point.

Sam's eyes flicked up. They had maybe twenty, thirty yards, to get to the front door of this damned building. Thirty yards, filled with batarians. Batarians with guns were in the minority—a handful of warrior-castes right by the front exit, turning now, as if in slow motion, bringing up their submachine guns. Everyone in between. . . noble-caste and armed with damned vibroblades. "Go!" Sam shouted. "Nyx, James, clear a path with me!"

And then it was nothing but the swirl of arms and legs. Never staying in the same spot for more that a second, hip-shifts, throwing one person, brutally, into another. He hadn't had time to switch his bowie to the more versatile blade-down position, but that was okay. That was just fine, in fact, because the blade was just an extension of every punch. He ducked under a swipe, came back up, redirected the extended arm of the unarmored noble-caste, and slammed the knife in, under the rib-cage. Would have taken out the spleen in a human, and angled up into the lungs; god only knew what it would hit in a batarian body, though.

Duck, dodge, rake a forearm, make sure everyone was still behind him, dodge, pivot, lop the fingers off a damn hand, watch the batarian spin away, screaming, unable to hold the sword anymore, blood spurting. Dodge, duck, press of bodies, too many eyes in too many faces, all coming right at him. A couple of errant rounds from the warrior-castes at the front door, only ten, fifteen short feet away now. Stripping his shields, damnit, but they were almost there. Impact at the left, from behind, no pain_, that's all right, that's just fine_, short rata-tata-tat of Kasumi's submachine gun, concussive blast as James shot another one of those fireball rounds out of his hand, _shit, here comes another one_, batarian just ahead of him, aiming a swipe with the slashing edge of a short-bladed vibrosword at his ribs. . . . Sam pivoted, slammed his bowie knife into the man's forearm to control it, instinctively went to cover the wrist with his left hand, but somehow missed, even as his right hand, holding the knife, sliced up and in along the forearm, stripping skin and muscle, down to the bone. Lifted the knife as he moved, stepped in, slammed the edge deep into the exposed neck. Now beside and behind, muscle memory taking over, _make sure the enemy is dead, use him as a weapon against his friends_, Sam went for what should have been a shoulder throw with an elbow break, went for what should have throw the body in front of him, into the other batarians ahead of him, and his shoulder slammed into the already-falling body, and _nothing else happened._

_Clumsy, Jaworski, what, did you start doing this shit yesterday, or something?_ Sam looked down to figure out what the hell was wrong with himself. . . .and realized, numbly, that his left arm now terminated just at the elbow. For a shocked instant, he thought his eyes were deceiving him, that it really was there, but he tried to lift the hand he swore he could still _feel. . . _but nothing was there.

And _that_ was when the pain, blocked by adrenaline, blocked by virtue of just how damned sharp a vibroblade actually was, hit, and the panic with it. Vibroblades didn't cauterize. Sam had been bleeding out, and hadn't even known it. "Oh. . . _fuck_," he said, unable to think of a single other thing to say, and then Kasumi was there, shoving him towards the door, James sprinting past, slamming, full-tilt into the guards at the entrance, white geth-like fluids pouring out of the android's armor-covered body. Valak racing in, in his wake, beheading another guard, and then young Serana, getting his good arm over her shoulder. . . Sam's slackening fingers, dropping the bowie knife. . .

. . . Seheve _catching_ it in her off-hand, and turning on the people around them, keeping them at bay as they got the hell out of the building. The drell female turned into a whirling dervish, there and then gone again, just as often using her own knife to parry and Sam's to attack, both held with their blades downwards along her forearms, cutting edges out. Her own blade was poisoned, it was clear, as the batarians she slashed open staggered away, clutching even minor lacerations, almost immediately disoriented.

Kasumi, in the meantime, concentrated, hard, on keeping Sam upright, sick horror clenching at her throat. She had one hand up and under the truncated armor, hand clamping down, as hard as she could, on the stump of the arm. She couldn't feel the hot, sticky blood through the fingers of her gloves, but she knew she absolutely had to slow down the flow. so she tried to make a tourniquet of her own fingers, while switching to her captured batarian pistol and firing it, awkwardly, left-handed. "Stay with me, Sam," she said, as calmly as she could, though panic was shredding her from the inside.

She hadn't been there when Keiji had died. She'd spent years mourning him, but had never lost herself so completely in his memories as to lose all sense of self. She'd cherished those memories, but her involvement with Shepard, with the Spectres, had let her move on. And since meeting Sam, since falling in love with him, she'd accepted several fundamental truths. As he'd once said, adults their age had usually already had a lot of loves in their lives. Puppy love. Infatuation. This type of love and that type of love. . . and while she'd loved Keiji, and it had been true. . . the person she was now, would not have loved Keiji the way she had, when she was only twenty or thirty years old. It had been a love based on, primarily, adrenaline. On shared risks, ever-increasing dangers.

What she had with Sam. . .well, there were risks in the life, no doubt about it. But they were risks taken for a damned good reason, not for the pure thrill of it. And they also had a life outside the work. They had Dara and Takeshi and, gods knew, Joy-Singer and the AIs and friends all over the base. His proposal to her, years ago, with his wife's graybox, had held all that. He'd warned that there would be arguments, but that the rest would just be. . . life. Lived well.

All of that, in the heartbeats between firing her pistol. The aching determination in her, that she was _not_ going to lose that life, the _center_ of that life, not here on the batarian homeworld, not to some random noble-caste with a damned sword. Kasumi fired again, slamming a bullet home between another noble's eyes, had to trust in K'sar, behind them, to keep the remaining batarians off their backs. As none of them had been able to keep that _one_ off of Sam, cutting in from behind. . . Kasumi had seen him, too late, firing her submachine gun at him, even while the male lay twitching on the ground, and had then leaped forward to help Sam, but it was too damned late, and there were too many damned batarians around her to stop and pick the missing limb up off the floor. . . another shot. "We're going to need to find a place to stop and get Orpheus medical attention!" Kasumi shouted. "Find us some damn cover out there!"

"On it," James replied, and shattered the glass doors at the front of the building with a well-placed fireball shot.

With the way clear, Valak stepped back and simply hoisted Sam over one shoulder. "Keep firing behind us," he told Kasumi and Serana. "I'll get him to cover. K'sar, you have anything in the way of first aid skills?"

"I'm not exactly current on humans," the investigator replied, dryly. "I'll do my best, though."

Kasumi and Serana took the rear-guard now, Kasumi not daring to look back over her shoulder as she backed down the stairs in front of the Assembly hall. Not daring to see if Sam's spirit had already bled out from his body. Taking a quick break from fire, she tabbed her radio. "All teams, this is Eurydice. Orpheus is down. Too badly injured for a twenty mile hike through the subway tunnels. Go to Plan B. Get the ships here. Temple group, we're still coming to you. Just taking a hell of a lot of fire."

"We'll come to you," Lin replied, immediately.

"Negative. Stay in position," Dempsey answered, forcefully. "Yours is the regroup position, and there's a hell of a lot of gunships in the air. My team will come to you, Eurydice. And then we'll fall back together."

Valak dropped to his knees behind a concrete planter, sliding Sam to the ground. K'sar, who'd taken over for Kasumi, holding the human male's arm and trying to staunch the flow of blood, swore viciously in batarian, and dug for a medical kit. "I need his armor off—"

Seheve darted in, vibroblade in hand, and carefully removed several inches of the armor. The female then sheathed the curving drell knife, tucked Sam's own bowie knife into her belt, and took her sniper rifle back from Serana, setting up to provide covering fire for them, shooting back into the shattered doorway of the Assembly hall. All without a word, just calm, total competence.

Sam Jaworski had already lost consciousness, and Valak counted that a good thing. "Someone give me a weapon besides this damned pistol," he muttered. "Unless you need help, K'sar?"

"Just cover me." The other male's hands were already in motion, applying a tourniquet, and then, very gingerly, applying clamps to the veins and arteries. His facemask was red with human blood from a spurting artery, but he'd stopped the bulk of the bleeding, at least. "Got to get a few sutures in there. . . damn good thing most humanoids are sort of built along the same design lines. . . " The kit already had pre-threaded sterile needles, and he fumbled them out, and got back to work. Smoothed a synthskin patch, and medigel, over the truncated end. He wasn't sure what shock looked like in a human, but there were warning lights all over Jaworski's omnitool at the moment, indications that heart rate and respiration were dangerously low. _Probably need to elevate his feet. Shit. Didn't think of that._ K'sar turned and lifted the boots, swore again when he realized he had nothing to prop them _on_. . .

And that was when one of the gunships overhead targeted the entire party with its rotating miniguns, and fired. "Taking heavy fire!" Valak shouted into the radio, and spun to chip away at the gunship's shields, watching his own shields flare to life around him as bullets dropped to his feet or simply pinged away, deflected. There was no where to hide. They were already here to take cover from those shooting from inside the governmental building, and they were, thus, completely exposed to the south.

He heard a strangled scream of pain beside him. He spun, and saw K'sar, as if in slow motion, slump forward. Like any other medic, he'd been shielding the body of his patient, but where Sam Jaworski, like Kasumi Goto and Serana Velnaran, wore Jormangund armor, with its extra shield protection—shield protection that had finally just plain worn out inside the Assembly hall—K'sar wore SIU standard-issue Skirmish armor, manufactured by Batarian State Arms. The shields had failed, and orange-red blood was seeping out of K'sar's back in at least two or three places now. . . _Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I'm no healer-caste, not like Nala. I have the same basic first-aid training as K'sar, but. . . gods of my ancestors. What am I supposed to do?_ Valak dropped to his knees, sliding his pistol away, and began to check the wounds, for K'sar's vitals, as the gunship, momentarily, circled away to recharge its shields. "It's going to come around for another pass," Valak told everyone, clinically, his hands busy. _Don't have gone into the lungs or the heart, damn it. I need K'sar. I need every person I can get, who can help me rebuild our people_.

"On it," Serana replied, ducking back around the concrete planters, and sliding her gun to her back, momentarily. She groped at her utility belt for a moment, and finally came up with what she was looking for: a block of putty-like high explosive material, a detonator, and a and a thick, viscoelastic putty, which she wrapped around the explosive and the detonator with great care. "Doppelganger!"

James had dropped to a crouch to await the return of the gunship. The geth-built platform only carried, currently, a batarian pistol and his internal weapons. "Yeah?"

"How good's your arm? Ever played handball?" Serana bounced the little egg-shaped projectile in her hand, lightly. It wanted to _cling_ to her armor. That was what the silicon polymers in the outer compound _did._ It was remarkably close in chemical composition to a human _toy_ called Silly Putty, but not quite the same. "Well, I mean, did Thor. . . nevermind. Can you hit the front window of that damn thing when it comes back around?"

James looked back, took the explosive from her, and chuckled a little. "Better idea than a grenade. Grenade might just bounce. And a better idea than mine, which was . . . well, I was going to try to jump up there. Figured I might as well get some use out of my new legs." James' underlying frame, after all, owed some debts to geth hopper models. He concentrated as the gunship came back around, the internal targeting grid that he was just getting used to having overlaying his vision, pinpointing sensitive areas on the craft. _Still over four hundred feet away. Hey, wasn't the old twentieth-century record for throwing a baseball about four hundred and forty-five feet or so? I should be able to manage that, with accuracy, too. . . ._As its miniguns began to spin up again, he cocked his head slightly, and sent a focused burst of energy at the gunship, modulating and warping its shields. "Ser—Laverna? If this doesn't work, hack the damn thing. It's got to have a dozen on-board computers, and the on-board navigation and the communications array have to have wireless ports. Then just wreck the damn thing, _away_ from us."

"Will do," Serana replied, tersely, and then James hurled the small projectile directly at the gunship.

It sailed through the air, and splatted against the distant windshield. James had a momentary surge of satisfaction, imagining the pilot's reaction of _What, a bird just shit on my windows? In the middle of combat?_. . . . and then Serana clicked her detonator.

In the distance, the front window of the gunship exploded, taking the cockpit with it. . . and the gunship crashed to the ground in a ball of fire. James turned his face away as the shock of hot air and a variety of small debris showered the area. . . but tactical data was streaming into his consciousness now. All the other geth units were transmitting coordinates of enemy units, and the rachni were once again raggedly singing battle-song, transmitting battle-vision over the biotic radio. There were tanks swarming into the grassy area, filled with statues and monuments to the Hegemony's greatness. There were more gunships inbound. There were Colossus mechs streaming up through the streets, and, behind them all, warrior-castes on foot, racing to try to catch up with the faster motorized units. The squads lead by Dempsey, Fors, Rel, and Kirrahe were moving up from the south, which would give them some damned covering fire, at least. . . .

James turned back and gently moved K'sar out of the way, while Valak continued, frantically, to work on the male's bleeding body. Then the android lifted Sam to his feet. "Orpheus? You with us?"

Sam's voice was groggy at best. "What the hell. . . ? What hit me?" Total disorientation, to be expected.

"Can you walk?" James put all the snap and force of an N7 sergeant into his voice.

Sam took one tentative step, and his knees promptly buckled. James caught him, pulled him back upright, getting Sam's good arm around his shoulder. "I've got you. C'mon, we've got to get out of here." A bullet whizzed by his right ear, flaring his shields into blue life. "Zorro, if you've got your man stable enough, carry him. We're too damned exposed here."

"I can't move him," Valak said, shortly. "I can't stop the damn bleeding."

"We're not leaving him behind," Kasumi replied, sharply. "Carry him if you have to. We don't leave our own behind, Zorro. Not you, and not him." She ducked out of cover to fire again. "Sera. .. Laverna? Give us a couple more of those explosive charges, throw 'em right into the main lobby, and set them to detonate on impact. We need to be able to move, and now."

Serana nodded, briskly, and her sure, deft fingers rolled high-explosives together with a different kind of detonator, this time. And this time, she threw them herself. She didn't like the necessity, but she, like all the others, was getting a ragged view of the overall battlefield through rachni battle-vision. They couldn't afford any enemies at their backs, not with the tanks and the gunships and the mechs and everything else swarming in the plaza below. "Fire in the hole," Serana whispered, and threw her improvised grenades, sending the front lobby of the Assembly hall up in flames.

As they headed down the steps, Valak now carrying K'sar over one shoulder, James holding Sam upright, Dempsey, Rel, Fors, and Kirrahe moved up, spreading out, with their turian marines, geth troopers, and rachni workers to encircle them like a wall. Kasumi moved up to stand on Sam's left, not even bothering with her stealth net for the moment, though Serana tabbed her own, and slipped off slightly ahead of the rest of them. "Give me a gun," Sam said, weakly. "Hold me up on the other side, and give me a damn pistol or something."

"You sure you can handle that, Orpheus?" Dempsey asked, from the left. "You're not exactly walking straight right now."

"What the hell? I just aim for the people outlined in red, right? At least let me be of use." A weak attempt at humor, but James paused, switched sides, and Rel put his own gun in Sam's right hand, lightly thumping the human's pauldron as he did, before bringing his own assault rifle back around into his hands again. Rel hadn't allowed himself to think about Seheve and her part in the mission. Most of him, in fact, hadn't actually been worried. There had been about ten percent of him filled with niggling doubts, easily shut down by his usual overriding focus on _the mission_. . . but he couldn't deny it was good to see her. Or rather, not to see her, as she, too, after a quick nod to him, slipped on her stealth net and headed off to join Serana at the front of their line.

The tanks were spinning their turrets back and forth, rapidly, firing at them, at the group by the temple, at the rachni back at the ruined securities building. Rel and the others tumbled to the ground, taking cover as one shell slammed into the ground all too near them, exploding on impact, sending shattered pieces of stone flying into the air. Valak groaned and needed help getting back to his feet and getting K'sar back on his shoulder, but stubbornly refused to let a geth carry the batarian male in his stead. Rel opened fire on the closest tank, and Fors muttered, "Thor? With me. Get the damned thing off the ground."

"Think we can?"

"Both of us? Together? Yes." Clear, emphatic determination in the volus' nasal voice. "On three. One. . . two. . . three. . . "

Rel couldn't see or feel or hear what the hell they were doing, but the human, with the volus on his shoulders, stopped _moving_ for a moment, and both of them grunted with effort. "Fuck this," Dempsey said after a moment, but Rel could clearly see that the tank was hovering, a few feet off the ground. "This is going to be a bitch to throw. . . ." And then the tank, slowly at first, but with increasing speed, began to skate sideways, in a direction its treads were never designed to move, before, slowly sliding into another tank, rolling over on top of in, and coming in to land on it, their turrets interlocking. . . and then Dempsey, with another grunt of effort, did _something_ that caused the first tank to explode, launching upwards, and coming back down again.

No way to describe the incoming fusillade of bullets. From batarian floating turrets, which floating geth turrets went after, chasing and harassing. From gunships overhead, as the group continued to zig and zag and take cover behind the massive monuments and statues that dotted the grassy plaza between themselves and the temple. "We're pinned down," Rel finally shouted, in frustration, into his radio. They were spread out around a monumental circle of stones, planted upright in the earth, like a miniature version of Terra's Stonehenge, but the gunships were circling faster. "Where the _futar_ are the ships?"

The _Clavus_, which had moved out of its hiding place in the Kuiper belt as the joint-forces fleet had come through the relay, and had moved to harass batarian ships from the side, at least, received the FTL comm relay from the _Raedia_ and the _Sollostra_. Mercuria, the ship's AI, heard Lysandra and Cassandra's familiar voices, carrying additional data. —_Spectres have ordered that we move to plan B. We need to extract them from the operational area. Looks like one hell of a hot landing zone._ That, from Cassandra, sounding grimmer than she usually did.

—_And we haven't even been able to determine what those newly-built defense towers have for weaponry. Best guess is missiles modeled after the __Malleolus__, but Argus hasn't been able to turn up anything else, other than that they received shipments redirected from the Harsa system shipyards._

—_Can you wait to go in?_ Mercuria asked, immediately, the conversation taking only seconds. They were forty-eight AU from Khar'sharn at the moment, as far from it as Pluto from Earth at aphelion. One AU was eight light minutes. Light from a star would take six _hours_ to reach their current position. —_We can be at the planet inside of twenty minutes at maximum burn, and will probably require five minutes to descend, dealing with the defense perimeter._ _Hopefully._

—_Come and give us cover as we get the hell out, but we can't wait on going in. James is injured. Spectre Jaworski is severely injured. K'sar is critical. The longer we wait, the higher the casualty list is going to rise._ That, from Cassandra, and Mercuria relayed it all, instantly, to her captain.

Terenus ordered the _Clavus_ to break off its attack on a batarian frigate and to turn and head for Khar'sharn at maximum FTL. "We're going to hit the defense grid with everything we have coming in," he told her. "Get the forward shields up, and be prepared to switch their focus instantly, because we could be taking firing coming and going here."

_Tell me something I don't already know_, Mercuria thought, grimly, and chafed a little at the safety constraints that her pilot was adhering to, somewhat firmly, for the moment. _We've got to get there in time._ But engines and speed and gravity and space had their own remorseless math, and there _was_ a maximum speed constraint to what her Tantalus core could put out, in terms of energy.

On Khar'sharn's surface, the _Raedia_ and the _Sollostra_ had already had their engines running, and rose from the forests around Valak's ruined estate, shedding pieces of sod and dirt and leaves from their pristine, curving shapes, screamed skywards. Stealth drives, however, didn't mean that they couldn't be seen. . . or heard. . .as the broke the sound barrier, sending thunderclaps resounding over the landscape.

Their pilots took them, immediately, up to 50,000 feet, defying the sensors in the satellites above to see them, and then arced steeply downwards, narrowing their aspect ratio to just a pinpoint, the nose of the ship and maybe the leading edge of their wings, to try to mitigate any visual contacts from the ground. . . and then sped downwards, locked on the center of the city of Urvada.

"Defense towers are arming," Lysandra warned Captain Arius. "Forty thousand feet and descending."

"Noted. All power to our forward shields. We're slightly ahead of the _Sollostra._"

"Full power, aye. . . I'm seeing power signatures. . . " Lysandra paused, unable to analyze the data for a moment, and then a shock of recognition. "Captain. . . the power readings conform to those of biotic ship weapons."

She relayed the data, instantly, to Cassandra, who correlated it, confirmed it, and flung the information out into space towards the _Clavus_, where Mercuria absorbed it and simply said, _"S'kak. Have you already started your attack run?"_

"_Affirmative. We could pull off, but that would leave the Spectres without an extraction method."_ Lysandra listened, intently, for Glory's voice, weaving in and around all her telemetry and sensor readings. Mathematical complexity, emotional resonance. He was busy—very busy, she could tell—dealing with warrior-castes and tanks and gunships, as the rachni, too, retreated towards the temple location. _Glory? Please tell the others that we are coming, but it's going to be a rough landing. We're aiming for the open field to the east of the main plaza. _

"Twenty thousand and closing," Lysandra's pilot noted. "We'll need to level our descent at ten thousand."

"Noted," Arius agreed, moving to his chair and buckling himself in.

Glory, distracted for an instant, sang back now. _We may not be able to reach you there,_ he replied. _Many hive-soldiers. Many cold-metal machines. Come to the center of the open place._

Lysandra wanted to curse, but relayed that to her captain, too. The central plaza was not a good landing area. Too many large statues and small structures. _We'll do our best. If nothing else, we'll. . . try to cut you a path._

"Ten thousand. Leveling descent, firing chemical jets, and decelerating."

Ten thousand feet was _not_ a lot of time to decelerate from several times the speed of sound, but the mass effect engines, usually used for FTL travel, were used to shift the mass effect field around the ships, and reduce their own inertia, which was an enormous help. Lysandra furiously calculated flight variables and modulated the fields herself, slowing them to a mere three hundred miles an hour by 5,000 feet. _Glory, we're almost there. . . _

But at that point, the conventional weapons in the standard defense towers began to reach them, missiles slamming into their shields, exploding or deflecting away, but in either case, starting a battle of attrition. "Gun crews, lock onto defense towers and fire!" Arius ordered, and the gun crews did their best, but there were just so _many_ of them. It was already like plunging downwards into a vortex of bees, all stinging, all lifted on thin white clouds, which hung like streamers or banners in the air. In a way, it was eerily beautiful. . . .and then, at 2,500 feet, the biotic weapons towers launched their own attack. Violet bursts of light seared up through the air at the _Raedia_, slamming into the ship's underbelly. Shields, already weakened, failed entirely. "Hull weakening," Lysandra reported, sharply. "Ablative shielding down to fifty percent."

"I guess we know what they pulled out of the shipyards," Arius growled. "All hands, prepare for emergency landing. Gun crews, get target locks on the damn biotic towers and fire!"

Information poured through Lysandra's awareness as a second biotic reave tore through her engineering section. "Estimating twice the average yield of the biotic weapons based on ships," she reported, sensors informing her that the hull just under the feet of her engineers was buckling, tearing away. "Initiating evacuation of engineering deck. One more hit will compromise that section. Fifteen hundred feet and still descending—"

Another salvo from the biotic weapons, and a half dozen more small missiles from the conventional towers. The _Raedia_'s crews had knocked out half a dozen towers, working on concert with the _Sollostra_, but it just wasn't enough. "Main engines, offline, safety protocols in place to prevent core overload. We can't land on just the chemical jets, not at this speed—" The very air around them was continuing to tear at her body, delaminating the hull, parts of her frame groaning and tearing under the strain. Fires were all through her engineering section now, and she could only hope, fervently, that the _Sollostra_ wasn't in this kind of shape. _Glory! I can't land where you are! I can't control it, and I don't think I'll be taking off again. _

"All hands, brace for impact," Arius said, his voice remote and distant. "Lysandra, do what you can to help—"

The pilot wrenched the stick left at the last second, a sickening turn over the open plaza, blasting everyone below with the air of their passage, and aimed for the trees around the open field to the east, through a narrow gap in the buildings that ringed the plaza. They slammed into the ground, still doing close to two hundred miles an hour, but Lysandra and the pilot fought for control, used the very trees that they were shearing through to slow the ship down, each cluster of foliage another slam against the hull.

All interior lighting failed, besides the dim red glow of emergency lights, and for an instant, Lysandra ceased to exist.

Linianus had heard Rel's urgent words over the radio. _Pinned down. S'kak. _The temple was under assault, sure, but the rachni and his team were grinding any number of vehicles between them. Thell and the CROWD platforms, in particular, were having a moment or three of glory; Thell would lumber off ahead of the rest of them, at the base of the stairs, and would simply fire his Avalanche at a vehicle, be it tank or gunship, calmly taking return shots on his massively reinforced shields and armor. The huge cryo-rounds would slam into the vehicle, supercooling the metal alloys of its hull. . . and then one of the geth units, Siege or Tsunami, would step up beside the elcor, and fire a rocket at the affected vehicle. Supercooled, and then superheated, in short order, the hull often shattered instantly, sending gunships reeling away, only to crash, or causing tanks to explode right where they stood. Still, Lin kept his people in as much cover as he could. The tanks were blasting away with heavy rounds, often actual balls of superheated matter, like fiery shells, which shattered the concrete barricades that they were using for cover. "Most of us are going to have to fall back into the temple," Lin muttered to Thell, stepping up beside the huge elcor, taking a barrage of fire from a gunship's miniguns on his shield.

"Unwise. Explosives are primed and ready inside the structure."

"I'm all too aware, but we can't take much more of this." Lin ducked as another ball of fire sailed by overhead, slamming into the wall of the temple behind him. "Okay, they're not taking care to aim carefully anymore. I think we're pissing them off." He glanced around. "Cohort! Take Tsunami and fall back with the human marines into the temple for cover. Thell, Siege, and the rest of the geth and I are going to go cut a line to Thor and Orpheus' people."

"Understood," the geth Spectre replied, and half their units began to fall back, into the temple itself. "We will disarm the explosives if we feel we are in any danger of the structure prematurely exploding." 

"Probably wise," Lin acknowledged, tucked in behind his shield, and started off at a light job beside Thell, heading to his right, towards one of the rings of stone, behind which two Spectre teams, a handful of turian marines, and an assortment of other rachni and geth were pinned down. "Hold on, Virtus. Help's on the way."

"_Where the __futar__ are the ships?"_ Rel repeated in reply, sounding as if he were holding blood-rage at bay with his teeth.

_They come!_ Glory sang, sharply. _Question-Singer says that there may be problems. Weapons on the ground that sing._

No time to consider what that really meant. With the geth troopers and floating turrets pulling around the Spectres, Lin's group was able to make headway towards the group that was pinned down. Every foot was a struggle. Time and again, he took shelter against Thell's side, and fired his Collector pistol, identical to the one Eli had started carrying on Lorek, at some assailant or another, targeting control rotors and windshields, any vulnerable area. As it happened, they finally reached the pinned-down group, and started escorting them out. Serana gave him a quick, light pat on the shoulder, and Lin's heart sang with relief. He much preferred fighting _beside_ his mate, to having her somewhere where he couldn't help her or defend her. . . and where she wasn't there, to help and defend him. His old superstition about splitting the pack being bad luck had been resounding in his ears all day. . . and then he caught sight of Sam Jaworski, covered in his own blood, missing an arm, and barely able to keep to his own feet, but still firing rounds at any batarian he saw. Saw K'sar, unconscious, slumped against a stone, still bleeding. _Spirits of air and darkness,_ Lin thought, and caught movement off to his left, out of the corner of his eye, and whirled, catching a _spear_ on his shield.

The spear hit the rachni chitin overlay, and actually penetrated through, cutting into the hard shield itself, and even through the armor underneath. _S'kak_! Hot rivulets of blood were trickling through the forearm and into his glove now, and Lin registered, numbly, that there was a cord attached to the javelin, and his eyes trailed along its length, back to the Colossus mech off to the east that had fired the spear. . . just as the mech began to reel him in.

Searing pain. The spear was sunk to its first barbs in his arm, and Lin stumbled forward one stride, jerked off his feet, then threw himself back, gritting his teeth against the pain. He holstered his pistol, feet skidding forwards now on the charred and ruined grass, and reached back for his vibrosword. The spear sunk in his arm twisted, grated against bone, and Lin, like a demented water-skier, snarled in pain, still skidding forward. . . until Siege stepped forward. The huge geth platform simply caught the harpoon cable in his hands and pulled back; several fresh holes in his synthetic musculature showed the glow of an eezo core inside, activated, as the platform used a mass effect to add to his effective mass. "You may proceed to cut the spear, Forseti-Spectre," the geth intoned, and Lin did just that, slicing through the spear an inch or so in front of his shield, through which it still protruded. "We recommend taking cover at this time," the CROWD platform added, the eezo core flaring brighter, and Lin shook his head, switching back to his pistol. . . only to be dragged to cover by Dempsey.

"What gives?" Lin muttered, ducking out of cover of yet another statue and firing on the Colossus, which was now aiming a rocket at the geth platform.

"I watched a couple of these guys on Terra Nova," Dempsey said, curtly. "They fight yahg, and they're good at it. Stay down for a second."

Lin stayed put, as the others all fell into cover, and the geth, having wrapped steel cable around his arm once or twice, for security, and held the rest of it at two points, in his massive hands. Siege took one lumbering step back. The mass effect on his body had to have tripled his effective weight. . . and then he simply _jerked_ on the cable, pivoting, sharply, and, for some unknown reason, said, simply, "No. _You_ get over _here._"

The Colossus actually fell forwards, in spite of its treads and generally solid construction, and slid, helplessly, along the ground to Siege's feet. The geth platform slammed one heavy foot down on its head—mostly composed of optics, no actual control units inside—and crushed it. He then leaned forward, and holding his fist to the mech's back, allowing a pneumatic-powered metal bolt—a captive spike, similar to what was used for killing livestock—to slam forward into the machine's central processing unit.

Siege straightened back up. "We calculate a ninety percent probability that our execution strike was accurate," he noted as he moved, at a much quicker pace, back to the others, in the cover of the huge statue to some batarian ancestor or another. "However, there is a ten percent chance that we missed our target and hit the mech's eezo core—"

"Son of a bitch," Dempsey swore, without much emphasis, as the Colossus mech's eezo core, did, in fact, explode, taking the head off the statue above them. . . which Thell reached up and _caught_, before lightly setting the boulder-sized carving on the ground. "You need to be more careful, man."

"We apologize for the inconvenience."

"No you don't." Dempsey's tone remained flat, and Serana moved over, hissing under her breath as she packed the area between shield and armor with gauze to stop the bleeding.

"At least this way, I'm not going to lose the shield," Lin gritted to her, between his teeth, and got a pat on the pauldron from Rel for the comment. "Come on. The _Raedia's_ going to be using this area for a landing zone, we've got to get back to the temple."

At which point, there was a sonic boom from overhead, and Lin's head jerked up. His words had been prophetic. . . he could see two SR-class ships descending, white and sleek, but now there were dozens of rockets being launched at them, white plumes of smoke rising like spires into the sky. . . .and then the first, virulently violet flash of light arced upwards, and he was almost blinded, polarized face shield or not. "What the _futar_ was that?" he demanded.

_Weapons that sing!_ Glory answered, his tone as angry as Lin had ever heard the brood-warrior. _Silenced songs, given forced voices!_

"Aw, _fuck_," Sam muttered, dizzily, the cold sweat of shock dripping down his face and body still as they all stopped for a moment, in a lull in the crossfire, as the _Raedia_ plunged towards them . . . he could see the damned tail-numbers, the smoke billowing from its underside. . . .and for a numb instant, Sam knew that this was it. This was the end.

Then the white ship pulled off sharply to the east, slammed belly-first into the ground, and slammed into the trees beyond. The reverberations shuddered up through the ground, through their legs, and Sam lifted his head to stare up at the monolithic stone against which they crouched at the moment, uneasy. "There went our ride," Dempsey muttered. "Shit. I hope the crew's all right."

_Question-Singer!_ Glory's harp-like voice rang out through every mind. _Question-Singer! Do you hear me?_ Distress, almost anguish. Question-Singer had given him song when he was lost in silence and darkness, the voices-of-memory pressing around him, the lonely-madness threatening to take him after he had dug his way to the surface of the prison on the planet of burning skies. He owed her his sanity, perhaps even his life, for she had poured silent-songs into his mind like a soothing balm. . . and now, she was truly silent. Not just the silence of having stopped singing for a moment, when she closed the metal device in his mind, but . . . .this sounded like death-songs. _Question-Singer!_ Glory's voice was pure dissonance for a moment, and his fellow brood-warriors shook with it, even as they worked together with the soldiers and the workers, workers swarming warrior-caste batarians while soldiers sprat acid or leaped on them, stabbing with their forelegs. . . .brood-warriors singing in unison to tear mechs apart with their mind-songs.

The _Clavus_ moved into Khar'sharn's orbit, still going just below light speed, and Mercuria got target locks for her gun-crews while still at maximum range. "Fire," Captain Terenus ordered, his mandibles clenched tightly.

Thanix strikes. Javelin strikes. This time, the _Clavus_ was not here to do a hit and run, to be seen and targeted and run away. This time, the gunship was doing what it had been built to do: to stand, to fight, to kick down doors, and never, ever to yield. The six closest satellites directly over Urvada spun away in clouds of debris, and, with missiles still firing at the black-painted ship from the rings of satellites further away, the _Clavus_ deployed countermeasures and dove into the atmosphere like a curving talon of night. –_Lysandra?_ Mercuria sent, repeatedly and a little frantically, on the FTL comm. –_Cassandra?_

—_I can't reach her! She's offline!_ That, with equal desperation, from Cassandra. —_We're landing now, far eastern edge of the plaza, to take survivors aboard._

—_Survivors?_ Mercuria formulated tactical solutions for her gun crews, and the rear Thanix cannon continued to destroy the missiles slanting in from above them, and took out three more satellites while the crews had a breather from incoming fire. . . and then they were too deep into the atmosphere to return fire. Most defense platforms were in what was considered low planetary orbit, one hundred to two hundred miles above the surface. A Thanix cannon only had an effective range of ten miles. That being said, she was now low enough in the atmosphere that the satellites had to break off their attacks, for fear of hitting the population below. "Shifting gun crew targets, Captain," Mercuria noted, crisply. "Is our priority the biotic towers? Lysandra sent telemetry that indicated that their weapons yield was greatly improved over previous ship-based systems."

"Yes," Terenus agreed, immediately. "We can take the hits from the conventional weapons. Take out the biotic towers first. Show them our teeth, everyone."

The SR-4s had given up stealth, but retained the Tantalus cores of the SR-2 and SR-3. All that extra power, that wasn't being squandered on stealth and all the heat that wasn't having to be managed, were, therefore, available for three things: weapons, shields, and speed. The SR-4s weren't as maneuverable as the SR-1s and SR-4s, but then again, they didn't need to be; Mercuria's pilot angled down into the same steep descent at 50,000 feet as the SR-3s both had. . . and this time, the results were very different.

Mercuria plotted out the targets with meticulous accuracy, and her gun crews responded with a fusillade of Javelins and the first Thanix strikes against the ground. Her calculations let them overcome the differential between where they were when they pushed the button. . . and where they were, a thousand feet lower, when the missiles left the tubes. "First strikes are in, now at seventy-five hundred feet and slowing. We have time for one more burst."

"All crews, fire!"

Another round of Javelins, and then they were descending into the same hell that had rocked the _Raedia_, but this time, there were fewer shots, and the _Clavus_ was more than capable of handling them.

On the ground, things were still going very badly. The various teams had all managed to regroup at the temple, but one of their extraction ships lay in flames about a hundred yards away to the east, and the other was hovering in the air near it, marine teams spilling out, setting up a defensive perimeter. The _Sollostra_ couldn't use its Javelins effectively here; they were side-mounted, for starters, and, to face its Thanix west out into the plaza, its Javelin bays now pointed north and south, away from any actual troops. Its Thanix cannon was also. . . overkill, but the weapon was, indeed, powering up. However, the batarian gunships were moving and circling now, speeding off to the sides, and even above the _Sollostra_, firing down on its vulnerable top decks. And the various tanks were splitting their attention between the Spectres and the ships now, as well.

—_Cassie?_ James transmitted, hesitantly. —_We can't get to you._

—_Working on it, James, really, I am. My gun-crews can't get a target lock on any of these things. A large-scale Thanix isn't really meant to lock onto something the size of a fighter, by and large. Unless you're Rinus Velnaran. Happen to have him in your back pocket?_

—_Sorry. Not today. Can you give a solid blast down the middle and clear some of the traffic?_

—_Maybe. Not going to help with the gunships, though, they're through my dorsal shields, damnit._ Cassie did, bless her, oblige him with one aimed shot that melted one of the stone circles in the middle of the plaza into slag, along with several of the tanks around it. . . that just drew renewed fire from the gunships circling above her. Who were also firing on any survivors of the _Raedia_ trying to clamber out of the wreckage, too. _Not good, _James thought, grimly.

All of the Spectres and their affiliates were still doing their best to deal with the tanks and the Colossus mechs, and the few warrior-castes who hadn't shifted east, sliding through back alleys and using buildings filled with terrified civilians for cover as they circled around to attack the _Sollostra_ and the wreck of the _Raedia_ at close range. The biotics were tearing at the closest tanks, reaving and warping their hulls, rupturing fuel tanks, anything they could, while the rest of them worked in teams, Kirrahe with Thell, now, Kirrahe's flamethrower and Thell's Avalanche taking care of any enemies that happened to come near. Rel standing near them, firing his assault rifle. They'd taken the wounded inside the temple for shelter. Valak was still trying, desperately, to keep K'sar alive. Kasumi furiously told Sam, her voice ragged, to keep his damn head down, and his stealth net up for once in his life, while Sam, in evident pain and frustration and exhaustion, asked her to reload his pistol for him. . . since he couldn't now, himself. Serana, applying fresh medigel to Lin's arm, asking him if he thought she could pull the spear, _no, beloved, it's in the bone, I can feel it. . . . _

Storm of words, sounds, the now dull, almost monotonous roar of gunfire. Dempsey let that storm pass over and through him, and focused on the problem at hand. "We need to do something about those gunships that are peppering the _Sollostra_, or we're going to lose two ships today," he assessed, trying to ignore the melodic keening that Glory was giving voice to, as the brood-warrior riddled another Colossus mech with thousands of tiny holes, and watched it explode, in the distance, directly beside another tank.

"We're out of range, and I don't see them coming back here for us when they're keeping us from moving to the _Sollostra_," James argued from beside his twin, tightly, as he ducked over a shattered planter and fired a couple of shots to deter another Colossus, and then ducked as the spear fired in return whistled over his head, slamming into the temple wall, leaving a steel cable hanging right over their heads. "Believe me, I'm open to ideas." _C'mon Cassie. Get the __Raedia's__people aboard and get your tin-plated fanny out of there._ He was very fond of the NCAI. When his 'twin,' had, straight-faced, teased him about it over the past few weeks, James had been straight-forward in return. _It's not like it can ever be anything more than conversational, but yeah, I like her._ Unspoken addition: _And she keeps me from mooning over Zhasa like a complete idiot._ But the amount of worry in his mind as he watched the gunships raining hell on the _Sollostra's_ outer hull, and on the survivors of the Raedia. . . and the ship unable to retaliate worth a damn, and the Spectres unable to close the gap because of intervening troops. . . it went beyond what he'd expected.

Now Sky sang a low, profound note. _Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight? It is time for you to sing __your__ songs._

_I will. Sollostra-ship will be saved._

James stared at the rachni brood-warrior, the only one present not painted black, and asked, blankly, "What the hell is he going to do?"

_Watch_, the rachni told him, over the biotic radio. And then the brood-warrior simply vanished, with a pop of displaced air.

All Dances really required to be able to bend space-time and move himself as he did, was a visual reference of where he needed to go, and enough space for his body when he came through. Like all brood-warriors, he could see through the eyes of his hive. He could also, if he pushed, look through the eyes of his enemies.

As such, he materialized inside the seating area of one of the batarian gunships, landing on _top_ of the warrior-castes who were inside. Eight hundred pounds of chitin-armored insect met fragile humanoid forms, and the insect won; a couple of them held weapons, and their fingers slipped on the triggers as they were crushed to death, firing up into the ceiling, into the rachni's carapace, too.

Dances stabbed downwards with his chelicerae, just to make sure that his enemies were dead. The warriors strangled screams and the gunfire had caught the attention of the pilot, who had just turned and stared back into his passenger area, all four of his eyes bulging out at the sight of a hulking rachni in the rear compartment; Dances did not have time for this. He lunged forward, spitting acid into the face exposed beneath the abbreviated flight helmet, and, as the batarian screamed and clutched at his face, Dances sent a ripple of gravitic distortion through the instrumentation panel, shattering the controls, the computers, everything in the cockpit. And as the gunship reeled and began to spiral to the ground, he calmly jumped again. _Pop._

He couldn't do it indefinitely; there was definitely an upper limit to how many times he could move himself in a short period of time. And while he knew he could carry people with him when he jumped into the space _between_, which was filled with colors and songs that he had no names for, but suspected were merely what his brain was able to supply to replace what his senses could not actually interpret, he did not think he could carry all of the Spectres, all of the geth, all of the rachni with him, all at the same time. Carrying people with him was. . . exhausting. And he would not, could not, leave anyone behind. So Dances did what he could, jumping from gunship to gunship, looming up behind each batarian pilot like an unexpected and wholly alien specter of death. The galaxy's worst nightmare, unleashed. But he could feel exhaustion's dark song beginning to sing after a time, and had to jump back to the others, landing beside Siege, whom the rachni called, in affection, Sings-Battle. . . and crawled to Sings-of-Glory. _I could not fight them all, Sings-of-Glory. I sing regrets. I sing sorrow, for the loss of your queen's songs._ A lamentation in violet, while all around them, a world ended.

_She may not have ended her songs. Her songs are different than ours. I sing hope!_ But for all the strength behind that statement, there was also despair, black and curdling in his voice.

Which was, precisely, when, inside the _Raedia,_ Lysandra snapped back into consciousness as power was restored to her primary core. She could hardly believe she had only been off-line for ten minutes, but that was what her internal chronometers were telling her. "Captain Arius?" she asked, immediately, trying to shuttle her voice out over _any_ working speaker. _Glory?_

_You sing! You sing, you sing, you sing!_

"Damn glad to hear you, Lysandra," Arius told her, a little gruffly. Internal sensors were reporting massive damage, everywhere. Screaming at her, really, the way a human's nerves would register the pain of a mortal wound. Lysandra didn't know what to respond to first.

"The crew!" Her thoughts crystallized. "Captain, I'm trying to get fire control systems online, but engineering is on fire, the core is locked down, but—"

"We're not flight-worthy, and we're on a hostile world. The _Sollostra_ is alongside us, and we're evacuating the crew." Arius patted the console beside her optical sensor, an oddly gentle gesture. "We're going to have to scuttle the ship, Lysandra. You need to evacuate, too."

"Captain, I can still help. I'm rerouting power now, trying to open the various emergency bulkheads—"

"You've always done a damned fine job, Lysandra. It's been an honor and a privilege to serve with you. I don't care what any toothless fool in the Hierarchy or the Alliance may say, but you are a person, and I've been proud to know you. Now get the _futar_ off my ship. I can't carry your memory cores out with me." He pulled back, and Lysandra saw that the male was bleeding blue from a deep wound in his leg; he'd limped down to the computer core to restore power to her, she realized, numbly. "Lysandra?"

"Yes, Captain Arius. It's been an honor to serve with you as well. I am uploading to Glory, now. Please. . . " Lysandra hesitated. "Please, sir. Leave the ship, too."

"There are men and women still trapped behind bulkheads. I'm not leaving if they can't."

"Captain, with all due respect, don't be a spirits-bedamned fool. You can court-martial me later for saying that, but in order to do that, you have to _live_." Lysandra's consciousness was becoming distant; she was compressing herself tightly, packing herself down into a tight stream of data. "Captain, I expect to argue with you about this later. Please!"

Her last conscious thought, was that Arius actually looked sad, and then Lysandra blipped back out of existence.

At the same time, Glory collapsed, singing _pain-song_, shivering dissonances and harmonics of agony, as the chip architecture in his brain, established only months ago, received the full code of an NCAI. White-hot, white-cold agony, shimmering through everyone capable of sensing biotic touch within ten miles, just for an instant.

And thus, for that instant, absolutely everyone on the battlefield besides the geth units not equipped with biotic radios, simply stopped _moving_. _Sing the pain down!_ Sky commanded, and fell back, with the other two brood-warriors, to protect Glory, one of his own brood-sons. Dances and Stone continued to work over the incoming tanks and mechs, Stone superheating their armor and frames, and Dances tearing and twisting at the softened metal with his biotics, Fors and Dempsey tag-teaming with them, but Dempsey had both hands pressed to his temples, and gritted out, between white-hot flashes of pain, "Sky, you had better _do_ something, or I'm going to lose it here." Pain almost always triggered the rage, and Dempsey clamped down on it, as best he could, but he couldn't get _away_ from Glory's agony. . . and it looked like Rel was in the same boat, as the turian sank to a crouch in cover, hands pressed to his helmet, panting audibly through his air filters, trying to keep the rage down.

James reached over and caught Dempsey's arm. "Guess I'm glad I can turn the radio _off_. Battle-vision's down again, anyway."

"You. . . don't. . . say. . . " Dempsey spaced out the words, trying to hold to control. It would be so damned easy to let go, but they were down Jaworski, down K'sar, Pellarian had—gingerly—taken off his shield, and was set up with a sniper rifle from the door of the temple now. They'd lost four or five human marines, they'd lost another four turian ones. They'd lost half their geth shock-troopers and half their rachni soldiers by this point. They couldn't _afford_ for Dempsey or Rel to lose their damned minds. "Come on, Sky, sing it if you're going to sing it!" _Where the hell is Siara when we really need her? She could take the pain away from Glory. . . _

Sky began to sing the pain down for Glory. Glorious harmonies as he sang peace into Glory's body. Glissandos, starting off high in pitch, but lowering, soothing, filling the spaces where the pain was _not_, taking the pain away. The press of fury in Dempsey's mind pulled back, like a wave withdrawing from the shore, and he was able to look up and throw a warrior-caste advancing on their position far away from his two squad-mates, weakening their shields. . . _Okay, now that the gunships aren't freely firing on the Sollostra, now what the hell do we do. . . we still need to get to the ship ourselves. . . .can we cut our way through to the east? With the wounded and the bodies? Son of a bitch._

Seconds after that thought started to develop into a desperate plan in Dempsey's mind, a sonic boom buffeted the entire plaza, and suddenly, the _Clavus_ was there, hanging like a shadow over the temple in the westering, blood-red light of a Khar'sharn sunset. The _Clavus_ was not limited to Javelins and Thanix cannons. Not by a long shot. The cannons mounted under the wings spun up, and suddenly, bullets were slamming into the ground, one per square inch, hundreds of rounds a minute. The guns tore through the land-bound tanks. Shifted to shred the few remaining gunships. As fighters arrived on scene to harass the Sollostra, they encountered the _Clavus_, which immediately launched _Malleolus_ missiles, again from under the wings, slamming into the smaller ships and sending them spinning away. "That," Dempsey said, after a moment, staring up at the curving black ship, "is one of the prettiest damn sights I've ever seen."

The _Clavus_ settled to the ground in front of the temple, still raking the area with fire. Mercuria contacted Cassandra, instantly. _—You should be able to transfer personnel now—_

—_Got it, we're getting them aboard. Fire suppression teams are moving over there, too. We've got life-signs from people still trapped aboard._

—_Lysandra?_

—_I caught the edges of a tight-beam FTL transmission, but it wasn't to me! I don't know. . . . _

"Send a hail to the _Raedia_," Terenus directed, releasing himself from the straps in the captain's chair. "Get Arius on the line, if he's still alive. His XO if he's not. In the meantime, set us down and start getting the Spectres aboard. We've got maybe five minutes before the next wave comes after us."

Mercuria obeyed, and didn't like her own answer. "All comms internal to the ship appear to be down. . . I have his omnitool's carrier signal, however."

"Patch me through." Terenus stared out the front window of the cockpit, as if he could see through the _Sollostra's_ bulk and into the wreckage of the _Raedia._ "Arius, this is Terenus. What's your status over there?"

"Preparing to scuttle the ship," Arius replied, through static. "I have at least twenty-five crewmembers trapped behind bulkheads. I can't leave without them. I won't scuttle the ship with them aboard, unless I go with them."

"Don't be a damned fool," Terenus snarled. "We're getting the Spectres aboard, and we've got equipment, and hell, the Spectres have _biotics_ who can melt _metal_. We'll get your people out. You, too. Just don't set off the damned reactor core till the _Sollostra'_s clear, you hear me?"

". . . Acknowledged." Arius' voice sounded tight with anguish-anger. "I told Lysandra to get clear, is she safe, at least?"

"I don't have any information on that yet," Mercuria replied, her own voice tight. She had a sister who might be dead or at least very permanently lost, and she couldn't do anything with that emotion at the moment, besides, put it into her weapons as her gun-crews fired again and again. "Captain, we have all the Spectres aboard. Marines report that Sings-to-the-Stone and . . . Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight say they are moving to the _Raedia_ to assist in recovery efforts."

"Give them an escort—"

Mercuria's internal vid cameras already told her the truth. "Sir? They're already gone. Dances just moved them there."

"Those damned insects are evolving right in front of us, and I'm very damned glad they're on our side," Terenus muttered, shaking his head.

The crews staggering out of the _Raedia_ were used to Sky; it had been his ship until the _Lightsinger_ had been given to him by Life-Singer. They were used to rachni. They _weren't_ used to rachni appearing from out of nowhere, but they are also too tired, hurt, and in fear to react, really, when two brood-warriors appeared near the cargo bay hatch, which had been opened to allow people to exit more easily. _We listen for life-songs._

_Yes. Many of them sing low-songs now. Sleep deeply, from injuries. I cannot see through their eyes, Sings-to-the-Stone. I cannot reach them._

_I can. _Affirmation and determination in that scratchy voice as they scuttled through the halls, which were filled with roiling smoke. Every so often, they would pause, and Stone would sing, melting metal into slag, and then, together, they lifted the unconscious humans and turians inside to safety, with biotics or with their pedipalps. Then Dances would, wearily, _pop_ the victims out of the ship, to the waiting medics at the foot of the _Sollostra's_ boarding ramp, and then rejoin Stone. _No more life-songs_, they told Arius, in the end, each rachni wrapping an insistent pedipalp around the turian's upper arms and helping him from his ship. _No purpose in ending your songs here. You must sing on. Sing honor to their memories. Come with us. Now._

One last _pop_, and they re-appeared on the _Clavus_, Dances nearly staggering with exhaustion. Battle-vision had been down for the last ten minutes, as those two worked, very damned hard, to save lives, while Sky had been fully occupied singing down Glory's pain as the other brood-warrior thrashed in the _Clavus_' cargo bay, mouth opening to expose fangs and siphon, hissing helplessly, razor-sharp front chelicerae a danger to any humanoid in range. _Must not. . .cannot. . .cannot be her, individual, and myself, and the hive, all at once, too much. Too many songs. I must sing her elsewhere, no more. . . _

_Lightsinger__-ship is with the cold-metal ships of the fleet_, Sky soothed. _Perhaps you can sing her into it? Or through the cold-metal devices of the geth, into another ship? You must stay calm. . . _

In medbay, remarkably similar words by a human physician, directed at Valak. "Spectre, please stay calm. There's a great deal of internal damage to Mr. K'sar, but no major arteries were severed. Only one lung collapsed. Batarian physiology is remarkably resilient, and that kept him from going into shock. Dropping into unconsciousness slowed his heart rate and respiration. . . also helpful. That's kept him from drowning in his own blood. He and Spectre Jaworski are first in line for surgery. . . ."

In another cubicle in the intensive care section of the med bay, another medic, a turian, was fighting to pry the gun out of Sam Jaworski's hand. "Spectre, please, you have to let go of the gun."

The words barely made sense for Sam. He'd been focusing, intently, on anything but the pain, anything but the blood-loss, anything _but_ the missing arm, and adrenaline had buoyed him over the shock, but the shock was setting in now. Faces distorted, voices were distant. Kasumi moved into his field of view, and he relaxed a little. Tried to reach up with his right hand to touch her face, but . . . _hell, why am I holding a gun?_. . . he found a table beside the bed to put the damn thing, while the doctors hooked him up with IVs and everything else. Sam reached up at last and brushed the tears out of Kasumi's eyes. "It's okay," he told her, groggily, as a pain medication was injected, and blessedly, blessedly, he finally stopped feeling the pain, or at least, stopped caring about it for a while. "It's going to be okay. . . "

Distant faces. Young Rel, coming by to see him, put a hand on his shoulder, expression of mild horror, but, "Maybe we can set you up with a regen mod, what do you say?" Effort at keeping it light, as Kasumi dissolved into tears once more; she'd been a rock, a pillar all day, keeping the enemy at bay, dropping into stealth, darting out, coming back with ammo packs for the rest of them, and usually one to two more dead warrior-castes in her wake, but now, now they were safe, and she was letting her game-face go. . . and she pillowed her head on Sam's good shoulder now and unabashedly wept.

Seheve, awkwardly patting Kasumi's shoulder, putting his bowie knife down on the table with a soft murmur of, "I believe you misplaced this, Spectre Jaworski. . . "

And then the world just went away for a while, as the doctors gave him a shot, and Sam sank down into the darkness, only resisting it a _little_ for once. _It's all going to be okay. . . ._

Not everything was perfectly fine, however. Mercuria, as she readied her systems for flight, detected anomalous readings from her engineering section. . . . just as a section of flooring gave way, and her engineers screamed and grabbed for their weapons. "Intruders, deck four, main engineering! I'm seeing at least eight batarian warrior-castes, all infiltrators—they must have disabled external sensors while we were evacuating the Spectres, and cut a hole in the underside of the ship." she snapped out, and raised the _Clavus_ off the ground. "Captain, the _Sollostra_ is clear of the _Raedia._ Gun crews have a lock. May I attend to engineering?"

"Go! Gun-crews, fire on the _Raedia_. No tech left behind for the batarians. Spectre Pellarian," the captain ordered, tabbing his radio, "we're clear of the temple. Detonate it before we get out of range. Pilot, lay in a damned course—"

"We have a hole in our underbelly," the pilot warned. "That's a good way to burn up on exiting the atmosphere. Adjusting kinetic shielding to compensate." And then the turian female muttered, in agitation, ". . . not to mention what the decompression is going to do to the people in engineering. Spirits. Have your helmets on."

Mercuria barely registered the words. She'd developed a very complex algorithm, one that she hadn't been able to test adequately before. Typically, an NCAI was either in one place, or in another. Housed in _one_ set of memory cores at a time. Having two copies of the _same personality_ running around at the same time. . . they'd eventually become two different individuals, unless they shared all their files. All their data. The other NCAIS considered this idea to hold an unacceptable potential for data corruption, and the Hierarchy Fleet was rather dubious about _creating new NCAIs_ without permission. . . which was, sort of, what this would be. Nevermind that she would be, in effect, one 'person' in two bodies. Her algorithm was designed to test, constantly, one set of code against the other. Ship-self against mech-self. A process to protect her from going insane, which was actually her worst fear. In theory, the constant checks should even protect her from being hacked. . . but that wasn't something she wanted to test today.

Below the _Clavus'_ black wings, the temple exploded, sending tons of marble and metal flying everywhere. The Thanix cannon flared, and struck the wreckage of the _Raedia_ in its engineering section, destroying the Tantalus core, which exploded. . . and the concussive blast radiated out in a circle, destroying every building in a two-block radius. A twinge in ship-self; that had been Lysandra's body. No way to know if any of Lysandra's code was still aboard. The brood-warrior was still thrashing helplessly in the cargo-bay, silently screaming in pain. As for the buildings around the crash site. . . .the civilians had, hopefully, been evacuating through all this, but there was no way to tell.

In the engineering compartment, fighting raged, even as the _Clavus_ climbed upwards, its decks inclining to a steep angle. The turians didn't dare fire weapons around the delicate reactor equipment, but the batarians clearly did not care; they were here to avenge their fellows, lay down their lives for the Hegemony. They fired at will, while the turians closed on them to fight at close-quarters, struggling to strip the weapons from their hands, while the batarians simply ducked away, vanished into their stealth nets, and then fired again. Blue blood sprayed the walls. Sprayed the . . . suit of armor hanging from a bracket against the wall.

The armor moved. It had been hanging there, motionless, from the moment the warrior-castes had entered, but now it raised its head. No face visible behind the polarized mask. It dropped down from the bracket with an audible click and caught a shotgun from the hands of a dying turian engineer, who'd managed to reach the weapons locker, at least. . . a batarian dropped out of stealth near the figure, and fired; shields flared blue, and the figure turned its head, thought-fast, and reached out its left hand.

Electricity arced directly from that hand to the batarian himself, flaring over his shields. . . and then destabilized the shields. Turned their kinetic force and all their energy inwards on him, instead, a mix of being clamped down on by a giant hand and electrocuted at the same time. The first batarian simply screamed in agony, and the others all turned towards the suited figured, blipping back into invisibility. Moving around. Ringing the silent figure, as the various other turians in the room slumped to the ground, bleeding.

Klaxons sounded throughout the ship. "_Intruder alert,"_ an officer announced in turian. In the cargo-bay, various of the Spectres and affiliates ringing Glory, most of whom were reacting to the rachni's agony, looked up. _"Repeat, intruder alert. Batarians in the engineering compartment. Hull breach, engineering compartment. Emergency bulkheads will drop to prevent atmospheric loss in one minute. Security teams, please report to main engineering. . . . "_

Thelldaroon rumbled, immediately, "They will have breathing apparatuses. They will be able to destroy the ship if they overload the reactor core."

Siege, the geth CROWD platform, was already moving. He silently picked up Fors Luka, and deposited the volus on Thell's massive shoulders. "Come with us if you want us all to live," the geth intoned, with a faint suggestion that he was. . . quoting from something. Loosely.

The volus snuffled. "Why do I have a feeling that when you were on Terra Nova, Sidonis and Dempsey subjected you to crew morale nights that revolved around really bad Terran vids? Come on, Thell. Let's go save the day. Again."

The two Spectres and the red-painted geth moved down the hall towards the entrance to main engineering—the doors of which slid open before they got there as a batarian, covered in frozen foam, managed to back out, stiffly, holding up his hands—to be answered by the report of a shotgun blast, which shattered his armor and tore open his chest. Thell stepped over the fallen body, and Fors looked in, seeing mass chaos. There were two other batarians on the ground, and four turians, and one . . . turian female?. . . dealing with the remaining five batarians, who were winking in and out of visibility, all around a hole in the deck plating. They were close to exiting the atmosphere, and thus, the air was sucking out of that hole in a screaming gale. One of them shimmered into existence as he fired his weapon at the female turian, point-blank—and white fluids poured out of her arm as the bullets punched through the armor there, not the blue of turian blood. The female growled and slammed the batarian in the face with the butt of her rifle and then grabbed the stunned male by the head, turned, dropped a knee to the floor. . . and threw him cleanly out the hole in the deck plating, sucked away by the screaming winds.

With Thell and Siege now through the door, the hatch closed behind them, and Fors could hear the thunk of an emergency bulkhead slamming into place. "This is Luka," he reported, quickly, on the radio. "We are in engineering and dealing with the intruders."

And with that, he laced the bodies of the closest batarians that he could see with biotic energy, overriding their nervous systems, and freezing them in place. Thell matter-of-factly picked both of the frozen batarians and disposed of them through the hole—which was when one of the remaining batarians lunged out of stealth, seizing the female turian from behind, slamming her to the ground, beside the hole, trying to force her out into the howling abyss below. "_No further, or the female dies!"_ the warrior-caste snarled.

"Luka-Spectre?" Siege intoned.

"Already on it." Fors had, after all, been on Terra Nova. So had Thell. He lifted his small hand, and the batarian flew backwards, into a nearby wall. . . while Siege moved forward, almost as heavy as an elcor, and unphased by the decompression occurring in the compartment, to reach down and lift the female back to her feet.

At which point, the final batarian dropped stealth and fired on the geth, catching the platform along the side of its optic. Siege turned, lifting his oversized pistol with one massive hand, and fired.

"I trust that computer console behind the batarian wasn't really _important_," Fors shouted over the screaming wind.

"It was the interface for the temperature controls for the environmental systems," the female turian replied. "My organics will survive. I still control the overall systems." She cocked her head, bird-like. "Thank you for the assistance, Spectres. Now, we need to do something about this hole in my deck plating. Some of my engineers are still alive, if barely."

"Leave that to me," Thell rumbled, and ambled to the side, picking up a large cabinet easily, and tossing it over the hole. "Temporary measure," the elcor commented. "Need quick-fix epoxy that's resistant to heat, cold, and vacuum."

"There's Duragel in compartment A-26," Mercuria—for surely, it was the ship's AI—noted, pointing at a nearby assortment of bins. "Two-stage epoxy. Should do the trick." She paused. "I'll help with repairs, but we're about to exit the atmosphere. I'll open the emergency bulkheads once the seal is in place." She reached up and pulled off the helmet of her armor, and looked around. "I have to admit. . . having a body with hands? Is somewhat useful, after all."

"We have assured you of this before," Siege informed her.

"Stop arguing with me when I'm agreeing with you."

The _Clavus_ and the _Sollostra_ breached the atmosphere, and headed for the relay and the battle still raging there. Half the batarian fleet had been cut down, but the Council fleet was bleeding, too. Twenty minutes to get to the relay. The remorseless dance of time, space, and physics. Within ten miles of the rachni ships, however, Glory heaved himself to his feet, and began to sing, with all his remaining strength.

Rel and Dempsey, both in the medbay, keeping an eye on Lin and Sam and K'sar and a dozen other wounded people, both winced. "Sounds like a dirge," Dempsey noted. "All minor keys."

"Death-song," Rel agreed, once again rubbing at his temples, where he sat beside Lin's bedside. "I . . . think he thinks he's going to die. Or that she's already dead. Spirits." His attention was, however, drawn back to the tactical screen hooked up in the medbay, which was repeating what the main grid up in CIC showed. "That's. . . a lot of ships. Still."

"Yeah," Dempsey agreed.

Serana moved over to sit at the edge of Lin's bed. "Now I know why you're considered so unlucky," she told her husband, with forced lightness.

"Oh, stow it," Lin muttered, sitting up. "Three months on Khar'sharn with you before, and I didn't have so much as a _scratch_." His attention, too, was on the tactical screen. "We need a way to convince their fleet to stop fighting." Lin stared into the mid-distance. "_S'kak._ We _have_ a way to stop them from fighting."

He lurched out of bed, dragging his IV stand with him, and ignored the squawks of concern from various med techs as he moved, firmly, two beds down, and pushed through the curtain there. "Valak."

Valak looked up, saw the Edessan paint and blue eyes of one of the turians whom he'd learned to trust in the past year, and managed a smile. Lin looked down at K'sar, who was still sedated. "How's he doing?"

"Better, they tell me. Probably better than a human with the same wounds. Our lungs are built differently than most species." Valak shrugged. He still wore armor, scored and battered, but it was free of blood, at least. "What can I do for you, my dear turian friend?" The urbane tone sounded forced.

"You can give a speech."

That got Valak's head to jerk upwards again. "I . . . what?"

"You need to address the Hegemony Fleet. All those warrior-castes on those ships out there are only there by the order of the Hegemon. Dalar H'rsov is dead. There's a political vacuum. Their orders don't stand. We say 'we'll stop fighting if you stop fighting,' and they _might_ stop laying down their lives for a dead man." Lin looked down at Valak. "It's got to come from you. Not from a turian or a human or a geth or a drell or an asari. It has to be a batarian. And it has to be you, who tells history, on what terms peace is going to come."

Valak looked down at K'sar, then slowly up again at Lin, and then rose to his feet. "You're right, actually. I've been remiss." He looked past Lin's shoulder to Rel and Dempsey. "I don't suppose one of you might show me to the comm station on the bridge, where I might make this broadcast. . . which I rather suspect won't be heard or heeded at the moment?"

"It might not be heeded now," Lin said, quietly. "But it's going to echo for a couple of generations, at least. Make it a good one."

On the bridge of the turian gunship, the _Clavus_, Valak N'dor, scion of one of the Five Hundred families, began his speech. "Citizens of Khar'sharn. . . and by citizens, I mean every man, woman, and child born on soil made sacred with the blood of all our ancestors. . . today is a day of liberation. I bring you tidings today both glorious and sobering. The Hegemon, Dalar H'rsov, is dead. He was executed today by Council forces, including myself, for the following crimes: use of viral weapons against the citizens of Earth, Palaven, Bastion, Luna, and Edessan. Use of a comet as a weapon of mass destruction against Earth. Use of mass effect-propelled asteroids against the citizens of Nimines. The lobotomization of over ten thousand asari and five thousand humans, not to mention hundreds of batarians, to turn them into living components of weapons systems. And the uplifting of the yahg, whom he, and others affiliated with him, turned loose on a dozen worlds, to commit atrocities that no batarian with honor could not but turn from in shame. His name will live in infamy to the last syllable of our recorded history, for his actions have not only cost millions of lives, but have stained our entire race with shame." Valak paused.

"The Hegemon is dead. And in times past, we would all have shouted, as one, 'Long live the Hegemon.' But not today. Today. . . a new age begins. It will not be easy. But the rewards will be enduring. We will remain a strong people, a proud people. But we will become more than what we are today. We will join with our brothers and sisters in Council space, we will take back our place beside them, as we had, for countless generations before the policies of Dalar H'rsov took us outside of Council law forty years ago. But we will do more. We will ensure that every person born on a batarian world is born _free._ We will abolish the antiquated caste system, that has held us _back_ for over five thousand years. We will abolish slavery. And we will hold our heads up more proudly for knowing that while we have made mistakes. . . .we also know how to rebuild. And we will reclaim our honor along with our pride and our dignity as a people, in so doing."

Valak took another deep breath. "Hegemony forces engaged near the relay. . . pull back. Power down your weapons, and you will not be destroyed. Continue to fight, and you will be annihilated. And that is not what our people need. Our people need every strong hand and strong mind to aid us in the struggle ahead. Give your lives _to_ our people. Not for them. Not today."

He had spoken off the cuff, and from the heart. It wasn't as polished and balanced as if he'd had weeks to work on it, but it had the benefit of being. . . from his perspective, anyway. . . the truth. But no speech, no matter how well-worded, will stop a battle all at once. But still, some of the batarian ships backed off, hesitantly. Surely sending messages to Khar'sharn for orders, only to receive. . . confusion in reply. Some were ordered to continue fighting to the last man. Some were ordered to retreat and conserve ships and men for any further assault on the homeworld. Some never received orders at all.

So the fight began to dwindle and burn out.

And, on a rachni ship, the _Lightsinger_, which had pulled away from the battle, a single consciousness awoke. Dazed at first, then confused at the impressions she was receiving. Sensors that were unfamiliar. And song. Oh, _song._ Song everywhere. Thousands of voices, some close, some distance, all echoing around her. Voices she had never clearly understood, not even through Glory and the chip. Voices and light and color, all together, forever and ever, unending. _Where. . . . where am I?_ _What am I? What's going on? _Lysandra asked. _Glory? Where are you? I can't hear you!_

Most confusing of all, her voice wasn't a voice.

It was a song.

**Author's note:** _I strongly considered killing characters in this chapter. But when it comes right down to it, I only do what makes sense for the story. Things that are meaningful. Killing someone *just* to kill them. . . what? That proves my authorly credibility somehow? No. You kill a character when it means something. When it teaches the survivors a lesson. Hence Kella, Brennia, even Mordin Solus. Killing any of these characters? Would have meant little besides a rather fake way to gut-punch my readers._

_I also opted to put this all in one huge-sized chapter rather than cutting off at Sam's wounding, to prevent the lynch mobs from getting me. I apologize for the huge length!_

_Siege is property of Eleventh Messenger, and used not only with permission, but, apparently, with glee._


	155. Chapter 155: Aftermath

**Chapter 155: Aftermath**

_**Author's note:** I really detest the new review system. I can't respond to people's questions if they're logged in as guests, and I had planned to turn off all comments when done with the story. Unfortunately, I can't do that, either. _

_So, the best I can do is answer them here. No, the workers are not a reference to "Digger," whatever that is. I have never heard of it, and don't know if it's a game, a book, or a cartoon. Sorry. As noted many other places, my knowledge of pop/current culture is very limited. :-/_

**Mindoir and Elsewhere, August 3, 2197**

_Beep beep beep beep beep_. . . .Eli's hand rose and slapped the bedside comm panel into silence. And, befuddled, for a moment, he stared at it, and smacked it again, because the confounded thing wouldn't stop making noise. "Hello?" he managed, sitting up and rubbing furiously at his face, while, _beep beep beep beep beep. . . thwack. . . _and the sound cut off as Dara tabbed her own nightstand's comm panel.

"God, what time is it?" Dara asked sitting up, sounding as groggy as Eli felt. "Hello?"

"Sorry to wake you, son," Lantar said, over Eli's line, while, on Dara's line, he could hear, "Sorry to wake you, Doctor. . . ah, Spectre."

"What's the problem, Dad?" Eli asked, staring at his clock. 3:46 am. _Jesus. This can't be good news. _His first thought was of the teams that had been sent on assignment, the ones that they were not supposed to know where they'd gone. _Shit. Someone's died._

On the other side of the bed, Dara asked, her tone incredulous, "Mannerian? What's the problem?" _I. . . wow. She's not exactly been on speaking terms with me since the whole rachni thing. Or, hell, before then. Not that she hasn't been professional—actually, wait, she hasn't been. She didn't want me in her med bay on the __Raedia__ because I was a visiting doctor, a __Spectre__, and had washed off Rel's paint. Take your pick on the affront. . . but it's got to be something important, it's 3:46. . . ._

Lantar's dark-toned voice picked up again, "Commander Shepard requests that you and Dara report to the main building immediately. The Khar'sharn offensive began last night, and you both need to be briefed in." His father's voice held a grim note. "The good news is, the mission was a success. The bad news is, we've had some casualties, and it was not a textbook operation."

_Shit, shit, shit._ "Right, we'll be right there—" Eli stood, and groped in the dark for the pants and shirt that were hanging over the arm of the room's small loveseat. Got one leg in, and asked, "When we say casualties, are we talking fatalities?"

Behind him, Dara pulled on her own slacks, trying to concentrate on Mannerian's words, but she could hear Eli talking to Lantar at the same time. Overlapping voices, and rachni voices all around her, too. Mannerian was upset, and talking very damned quickly in turian, _"I just don't know what to do for him. He's been catatonic for three hours at this point, and you're the galaxy's foremost expert—spirits, you're the galaxy's __only__ medical expert on rachni—"_

"_Wait. Slow down. Who's hurt? Sky?"_ Dara's heart clenched for a moment. _"Catatonic? I. . . can rachni even __be__ catatonic?" How the hell do you even define that? _she thought, dazed. _"Catatonia is usually a psychiatric state—"_

"_I'm aware! It's the best description I have for him, because __comatose__ doesn't really fit, either!"_ Mannerian sounded rattled. _"And no, it's not Spectre Sky, it's. . . Spectre Glory. He's gone completely rigid, unresponsive. The rachni say he's only singing 'low-songs,' I'm getting . . . very minimal brain activity on the scanner, but spirits only know what the data I'm getting even means. . . "_

Dara realized she'd essentially put her pants on backwards, sat down, hauled them off, and started over again in the dark. _"Start at the beginning, and tell me everything. Every detail, doctor, please. I don't know if I can help, but I need more information—"_

"_It started when the Raedia crashed—"_

"Holy _futarri_ _s'kak_," Eli swore, from behind Dara, and then apologized into his own comm, "Sorry, Dad. Just heard something over Dara's shoulder about the _Raedia._ Getting an idea of why this wasn't a 'textbook' mission."

"Yeah." Lantar's voice was leaden. "We lost about sixty people on the _Raedia_. Half its crew complement, but only twenty or so of them were the result of the initial crash. Some of them suffocated, trapped in burning compartments. The other thirty or so were all killed trying to get out, as the batarians were shooting at them, trying to get to the _Sollostra_, from what I'm hearing." He sounded incredibly weary now. "We successfully took out their government, their socio-religious center, their economic center, and the core of their espionage and control system. That being said, you're being put on press duty."

Eli managed to get his pants fastened, and pulled his shirt on over his head in one fluid movement. "Sam was right there on scene, wasn't he? Shouldn't he be a natural to handle the press?"

Lantar hesitated. "Put me on your wrist, first-son. I need to talk to you for a moment, and I need you to step out of the room. Forgive me, but your _amatra_ doesn't need to hear all of this at the moment."

Eli glanced over his shoulder at Dara, a shock of dread pulsing through him, but Dara was immersed in the medical realities she was currently dealing with, so he patted her shoulder, as she pulled her own shirt on, and stepped outside.

In the meantime, Dara's head was spinning. _"So Lysandra initiated a download into immature chip architecture—something we knew from Jeff Moreau's experience with the 1.0 chip, and Rinus' experience, with the 2.0 chips, could be very painful, even in species that the chip was specifically designed for. . . "_ Dara put her hands over her face for a moment, and finally keyed the vid feed, in addition to the sound. On-screen, Mannerian looked haggard. _"All his vitals spiked while he was in the pain state?"_

"_Inasmuch as I could get readings through the carapace, yes. Blood-pressure, brain activity. . . I couldn't get a blood chemistry panel done on him at the time, and I have no idea what I'd be looking for even if I had been able to,"_ the turian doctor admitted. _"I didn't know what to give him for the pain. Nothing I had in stock worked, and it's not like I could __inject__ him with anything easily. . . "_

"_We've only found __one__ anesthetic that works on rachni so far. __prosocaine__. Usually used for spinal blocks in humans."_ Dara rubbed at her face, thinking, _and I didn't even have that for Dances on Tortuga. . . ._ _"Usually, rachni simply share out the pain, sing it down, distribute the pain throughout the whole hive."_

"_That's what they said they were doing."_ Mannerian sounded distraught. _"It didn't seem to be working, though."_ She paused. _"Then he attempted to upload Lysandra to a rachni ship, to get her __out__ of the overloaded, overheating architecture. The computer experts were concerned that she might have suffered data degradation. Code segments entirely lost, because there wasn't enough space_ _in his neural network for her._" Mannerian almost growled. _"I told them that Lysandra was a nice person and all, but my concern was for the person her transit to. . . through. . . whatever. . . was damned near killing, and to monitor their data somewhere else."_ The turian doctor ran a hand over her short fringe. _"As soon as he finished. . . .singing. . . he collapsed. The rachni report that Lysandra has, effectively, 'woken up' on the __Lightsinger__, but since then, nothing but this rigid state and the lack of brain activity."_

Dara rubbed at her eyes again, feeling them tear up. _"_Okay. _What sort of care have you been giving him, since then?"_

Mannerian grimaced. _"The workers are feeding him some sort of fluid. I keep asking Spectre Stone and Spectre Sky how he's ingesting any of it, since he can't swallow at the moment, and what would happen if he vomited. They replied that the workers are trickling it down his siphon, and that he needs sustenance . . and then they reminded me that rachni breathe through respiratory holes in the carapace, not through the mouth, anyway, so I needn't be concerned about him choking."_ Mannerian actually wrung her hands for a moment. _"I feel like a first-year intern all over again. Most rachni treatments I've done have been pull the bullet out, throw medigel at it, and epoxy the carapace."_

Dara nodded, wincing. Rachni had no real medical knowledge. The workers provided foods that kept the hive in balance and in health, helped brood-warriors and queens heal, maintained their hormonal balances. . .which was actually a remarkable fusion of instinct and scientific knowledge of their own bodies. . . but prosthetics, past maybe a peg-leg for a favored brood-warrior? Unknown. Treatment for diseases—not that rachni were susceptible to many—unknown. Treatments for tumors and other such growths? Unknown. Because the rachni, in general, had never found many individuals to be that indispensible. Because they mostly became voices-of-memory, anyway, after death. But now. . . now they were coming to place more of a priority on individuals. Ones with valued insights, like Sky, the growth in perspective and power that Sky had achieved on joining his 'two-legged' Spectre hive. Stone and Glory and Dances had all, similarly, gone beyond, far beyond, what their predecessors had been capable of accomplishing, simply because they'd had access to how other species thought. Built on the scientific knowledge that they were exposed to, and developed new ways of using their existing biotic abilities. Sang new songs. _"All right,_" Dara said, after a moment. "_What's your current treatment looking like?"_

" _I used a laser to drill into his shell and set him up on an IV of saline, although the two Spectres and that Dances rachni are arguing with me—"_

"_No!"_ Dara said, hastily. _"Unless his shell is cracked and you need to remove it to get to injuries, that'll just make his body swell, and if he sheds his carapace, it could tax his whole system right now. I had to feed Glory lots of fluids to get his shell to shed naturally when we implanted him with the chip. Dances, however, on Tortuga? Had a tank roll over the top of him. Shattered his carapace like glass. I had to. . . _god._ I had to peel the pieces away, like debriding a third degree burn, to allow his underskin to harden into a clean, new shell. There was blood __everywhere__, and the only rachni in range were a couple of workers, and, well, me. No __prosocaine,__ either." _She swallowed, trying not to remember the hours of delicate, agonizing work, and the rachni's white-hot mental screams of agony, which had resonated throughout the whole of the _Clavus_, the ship that had been sent to retrieve them from Tortuga. _"So at the moment, he's just presenting. . . muscular rigidity, but is respiring. Heartbeat is. . .?"_

"_Around fifty a minute. Even for a rachni, that's low."_

"Okay, _and brain activity, you said, is abnormal, and the other rachni say 'low-songs.'"_ Dara swallowed. _"Sounds like 'persistent vegetative state' to me."_ It horrified her to say the words about _Glory._ Glory with his harp-song voice. Glory, who'd dared to do what no other brood-warrior ever had, to reach out to the NCAIs, and hear silent-songs directly. Glory, who'd tunneled out of the prison on Lorek, and provided the search parties with confirmation of their coordinates. Who'd saved her life, and Zhasa's, and Fors' in so doing. Who'd fought with Rel and Rinus on Shanxi, and Eli and Dempsey and Rel, again, on Terra Nova.

She forced herself back to calmness. _"But the muscular rigidity . . . spirits. Let the workers feed him as much as they can. That's hydrating him, and they're undoubtedly mixing in the hormones and nutrients that they can smell that he needs. Get anyone and everyone in there who can sing—get Dempsey in there—"_

"_He already has been, with his. . . _guitar, _I think?"_

"_Right. Good. Give him as much mental stimulation through voices, song, speech, anything, as you can, and get him here as fast as you can."_

Mannerian nodded, briskly. _"Understood. Also. . . Spectre. . . if I may?"_ She paused. _"I'm so very sorry about your father."_

Dara, who'd just finished tying her shoes, and had been reaching for her omnitool, dropped the device and her knife sheath. "What?" The word was in English. Her whole world spun for an instant, and her voice rose, an upwards scale of pure fear. "What did you just say?"

Two rooms away, Eli had been listening to Lantar. "Glory's basically comatose," Lantar told him, bluntly. "Lysandra, well, spirits only know. She's talking to everyone in their minds, just like a rachni, or like Jeff Moreau and EDI do now, and that has half our people more than a little disturbed. K'sar took two or three in the chest, but they've operated, and he's a tough son of a bitch. He'll probably make it. And then, there's Sam." Lantar's face was gray under the scales, and Eli could read guilt in his father's expression—lowered eyes, lowered fringe—and Eli's stomach clenched.

"What happened?" Eli asked, quietly. "Is he all right?" _Guess I know why Lantar didn't want Dara to hear this. . . ._

"He was cutting a path ahead of the strike teams assigned to the Hegemon—yes, Shepard approved the mission—when a batarian with a vibrosword came at him from behind. He's lucky. The strike was hasty, and he was in motion, so it went through his arm, and not his torso. As is, he's lost half his left arm. Valak carried him part of the way out, K'sar stopped the blood-loss, got hit while treating Sam. Kasumi's all right, too. Solid as a rock until they were safe on the _Clavus_, and then she let herself cry a bit." Lantar, on-screen, tapped on the desk in front of him with his knuckles, repeatedly. "The whole plan went to hell early. We'll cover it in the debriefing, just break it to Dara gently, and get her down here—"

_Eli!_ The thought, caught and refracted through the crystalline lattice inside of the walls of their house, resonated in Eli's head, all violets and grays and green-violets and black. _My dad!_

"Too late," Eli gritted out. "I think someone just told her. Have to go, Dad—we'll be at the main building in a half hour, okay?"

He signed off without waiting for a reply, and crossed through the empty rooms between him and Dara, catching her as she came out of their bedroom, wrapping his arms around her. _Hey, he's okay. He's going to be okay. He's alive—_

—_if I'd been there, could I have made a difference?_ The thought snuck out of both of them, and Eli took a breath. Pushed his own reactions down for a moment. _Dara, sweetness, __sai'kaea__. . . you're a trained sniper. You could have been tapped for the mission, sure. I don't know why you weren't, in fact. But Seheve's trained for this sort of thing, and your dad's been doing it for longer than you've been alive, so . . . _

_. . . but I could have gone in Serana's place. . . more experience than she has. . . _

_And what, grabbed the arm off the floor?_ He winced at the images that flashed through both of their minds, and did his best to suppress his own. Picking up Mazz's arm when the krogan boy had had it severed when they were still in high school. The rest of the images, however, . . . . mostly came from the misery that had been Terra Nova. Too many arms and legs and bodies. He rocked her gently. _They already had Sam and Kasumi there. If Keshi lost both of them __and__ you, what good would that do? Same as they already had Rel and Serana there, I suppose. They couldn't very well send Rinus, too. Well. . . that and a lot of other reasons, I guess._ They hadn't been supposed to know about the mission, but they'd guess a hell of a lot, and it didn't take a genius to figure out why certain people had gone, and why others hadn't.

Dara exhaled, and could feel Elis own tendrils of might-have-been snaking through his thoughts. _Same might-have-beens that Lantar's feeling right now, I bet,_ Dara told him, seeing his father's face in his memories. _You were never going to be slated for that team, though, Eli. You're __not__ trained for that __s'kak._

_No more so than Lin. Lin went._ His mouth set into a grim line, suddenly, and his eyes, already dark, narrowed.

_Yeah, after spending three months on Khar'sharn. Even though he's barely picked up more than a hundred words of batarian to show for it._ Dara rubbed the back of Eli's neck, lightly. _You're easier to let off the hook than I am, __ciea'teilu__. Easier than Lantar, too, because he was special forces, same as my dad, same as Garrus, before becoming a cop._ She exhaled again. _I'm. . . I think I'm ready to go. We __have__ to go._

_Yeah. I know. But boots and coats. Temperature readings outside are way below zero on any scale you care to look at right now._ Eli kissed her quickly, on the forehead. "There are advantages to having an aircar that we're currently missing," he admitted. "Heaters, primarily. Good thing it's a short commute."

They shared his hovercycle down to the base, and trooped into the main villa, stomping snow out of their boots. The main villa was lit up, and half the Spectres currently on base were on hand. Tureens of coffee, tea, _apha_, and hot chocolate were available, and Zhasa immediately came over and gave Dara a quick, tight hug, whispering, "I'm so sorry," in the human female's ear.

"It's okay," Dara replied, immediately. "He's alive, and that's what counts. Think all Spectre armor from now on needs to be coated in rachni chitin. It's . . . kind of redundant in my case, but it prevents me from suffering environmental breaches, at least."

"I know it's going on mine," Eli muttered, fervently. "I like it on my shield, but after Lorek. . . and this. . . " He shook his head. "And we're going to be dealing with the Hegemony, or what's left of it, for probably the rest of our lives."

_There's a cheerful thought, __ciea'teilu__. Why can't it be like in books, when we the bad guys are defeated, everything just works out perfectly, and the heroes just get to go home?_ Dara's thoughts held a tinge of dark irony.

_Because those are books, and reality frequently sucks._ Eli blinked, startled, as Zhasa gave him a quick, tight hug, too, but he was getting used to the quarian girl's effusiveness with those she'd come to consider crew by adoption. "Don't expect me to return that one to Dempsey for you," he told Zhasa, lightly, and slid his hand to the small of Dara's back as they filed into the small conference room.

"Thanks for joining us," Shepard said, tiredly. The woman wore an old sweatshirt and sweatpants at this late hour, giving the lie to the galactic image of the perfect soldier who probably slept in a pressed uniform. "We're still developing information, as it comes in. The _Clavus_ just hopped the relay and started sending vid feeds, reports, you name it." She glanced at Garrus, who sat beside her at the big table, at which they were all gathered. "I'm lifting the information blackout. None of the rest of you in this room were briefed before this point—"

_Not that we couldn't—hell, didn't—guess at most of it anyway_, Eli thought, but kept his face blank.

"—not for purposes of security, but to protect you." Shepard exhaled.

"Plausible deniability," Garrus muttered. "I had hoped we were past this _s'kak_."

Shepard rubbed carefully at her eyelids. "Probably not in this lifetime, Garrus." She looked around. "We've got a lot to cover. Elijah? You're on point with the press, so you'll be heading to Bastion in the morning to answer a hell of a lot of questions at a press conference. I'll give a brief statement, and then, unfortunately, I'm leaving you to the hounds."

"In the job description," Eli told her, calmly. "I'm a shield. I take the hits so other people don't have to." _In combat and out of it._

Dara reached out under the table, and took his hand in hers, as Shepard went on. "Right. Approximately a week ago, our strike teams landed on Khar'sharn, near Valak N'dor's estate, and made contact with his guerillas—please refer to them as _freedom fighters_ in all briefings with the press—and, in the past twenty-four hours, made their way to the heart of Urvada, Khar'sharn's largest city, and capital of the Hegemony. Not for public dissemination, but the rachni used existing subway tunnels, cut new ones, and gout our people to the cellars of the Assembly of the Five Hundred for the decapitation strike, and to areas just outside the Securities and Slave Exchange, the Temple of the Five, and SIU headquarters, from where we staged a multi-pronged strike at the batarian government, their economy, their social structure, and their espionage apparatus and secret police."

Dara's eyes had gone wide. _Damn. That's. . . a hell of a big operation_, was her first, numb thought. Shepard nodded as whispers rustled through the room, and Eli began to take notes on what he could and could not specifically say to the press. "While each of the attacks other than the decapitation strike were, fundamentally, diversions to allow the primary strike team to get in, do their job, and get back out again, hopefully without loss of life, each attack did serve a useful purpose in destabilizing the Hegemony. The volus main stock exchange on Irune, which still dealt, in a limited fashion, with the Hegemony, reports that all remaining batarian colonies are scrambling to trade their own currency for the galactic credit, buying stock in companies outside of batarian space, and so on; turian intelligence and our other sources report frantic messages being transmitted throughout the entire Hegemony as warrior-caste generals attempt to figure out who, precisely, is giving the orders on Khar'sharn at the moment."

"Who is?" Lantar asked, bluntly.

"Damn good question," Shepard answered. "Valak transferred from the _Clavus_ to a turian fleet ship stationed near the relay, and has continued to broadcast to Khar'sharn, indicating that he is empowered to discuss their terms of surrender, which will include the formulation of a new government and the disbandment of the caste system. As of oh three-thirty our time here, no replies have been received, but ships out of the Harsa shipyards are massing once again."

The room was silent. Dara turned and glanced around. There were so few people currently in the room. Mordin Alesh. Siara, Makur, Gris. Rinus. Livanus. A handful of Spectres that she'd never worked with before, herself. Melaani and Ylara were off on Niacal, an asari colony, trying to track down something to do with a who among the asari had leaked information on shipping and transit liners to batarians. . . and why asari would betray their own kind to being enslaved and lobotomized. _The answer is probably money_, Dara thought. _But it could also be ideology. God only knows._ She drew her mind back from the sidepath down which it had wandered, and returned her attention to Shepard, who was describing each strike team's intended targets and how their reports said the action had gone. "Three of the four buildings went almost entirely as planned. The actual decapitation strike aimed at the Hegemon was conducted under the command of Samuel Jaworski. Seheve Liakos was supposed to be the designated shooter. From what we're seeing in the reports. . . " Shepard hesitated.

Garrus growled, "She and Serana Velnaran had an intruder into their zone, and were thus not clear to shoot. Jaworski switched targets, told Liakos to fire on the head of the _Klem Na_. From all accounts, Liakos disobeyed the order, and both she and Jaworski fired on the Hegemon at the same time. We do not know which of them actually killed him, but considering the gunsight footage. . . " the screen flickered, and Eli winced a little, internally, as they all saw the Hegemon's head _dissolve_ into a red spray, "we at least know he's dead."

_Very dead_, Dara thought, with no humor. _Clinical terms. Almost dead, somewhat dead, very dead, and very, very dead._

Eli raised his hand. "Forgive me, but I know the question will be asked. Is Seheve Liakos facing disciplinary action for disobeying the order of a senior Spectre?"

Shepard's expression turned to granite. "Time was," she replied, quietly, "all of us were lone guns. We made our own rules, and usually wound up butting heads. I killed two Spectres inside my first three years of service. Saren and Tela Vasir." She paused. "These aren't the bad old days. Yes, there will be an investigation into Liakos' actions, and yes, she may face disciplinary action. The more so, if it's found that because of her failure to shoot Chas'na V'sol when directed, it resulted in both teams' extraction being delayed, and further resulted in the injuries sustained by Samuel Jaworski and Alisav K'sar."

Eli's eyebrows rose, and he lifted a finger again. "Ah, I assume the second part is not for discussion, and that the extent of the injuries is not to be brought up? Additionally, are we now releasing K'sar's name?"

Shepard nodded briskly. "Yeah, release his name. We're ninety percent sure we got the head of SIU and the head of Investigations in Dempsey's team's attack on their headquarters. Also, it's more grist for Valak's mill, if he seems to have a small army of defectors already at his heels, including nobles like K'sar, who had nothing to gain by rebelling, and everything to lose." She glanced at Dara. "I take it you've already been told, Dara?" Shepard's tone was surprisingly gentle.

Dara inclined her head, rigidly. "Dr. Mannerian called to consult me on Glory's condition. She was the first one to tell me about my dad, yes."

Eli was fairly sure he heard Lantar mutter, _Futar!_ a little further down the table. Eli lifted a finger again. "Will Sam be available to answer questions on Bastion? Will any of the Spectres directly involved be available, or is this all 'subject to being debriefed and testifying before the Council?'"

"That," Shepard agreed. "Also, please note, this was operation was _approved_ by a hidden ballot Council vote. No one's government is going to collapse under a wave of outrage. I fully expect that a large number of humans and turians, and hell, even asari, are going to be floating on a cloud of satiated vengeance for a while. . . but any number of turian groups are going to be screaming at us for a 'dishonorable' act."

Eli pointed at the screen, where vid of gunships firing down on retreating Spectres and allied forces, and tanks lofting mass-effect warped shells at the same people on foot, happened to be playing. "If they say it was stealth, and not an honorable tactic, and didn't have enough straight-up combat, I'm going to remind them that stealth, speed, and surprise are the holy trinity of combat operations. . . and that there was a hell of a lot of 'straight up combat' seen by the people on the ground in this mission." He flinched slightly as a rocket flew directly at the person taking the video. . . and then the eyepiece camera faded to black. _I just watched someone die, from their own perspective_, he thought, hollowly. _God damn._

The rest of the meeting was, thankfully, fairly brief. Garrus, Lilitu, and Eli were heading to Bastion, basically within the hour; Eli had enough time to pack for a week's stay, and ensure he took his armor with him; Dara had to stay on base, to await the casualties that were sure to start streaming in, and was already agitating for them to be _here_ by the time he was ready to go. _You can't bend space and time by worrying,_ he told her, leaning down for a kiss.

_I can try._ Dara leaned into him. _Be safe. Don't get baited into saying anything dumb._

_There's always that risk. I think I got most of my dumb out when I was a kid, though. These days, I do think before I open my mouth. Admittedly, what comes out isn't always perfect, but I do __try__. _Eli tried to mask his dread, but he knew she could feel it. He'd been the Spectre mouthpiece on Terra Nova. That was one thing. A small theater of a much larger war, with Lexine Elders and a couple of turian pool reporters, and that was all. With Lantar there to fall back on, as needed. This was his first time dealing with the full-on galactic press, other than right after the _tal'mae_ court case. . . and even that had mostly just been the Palaven press, dealing with a little social upheaval. This was going to be a full-on onslaught. . . and Dara couldn't be at his side. He couldn't rely on her acerbic mental comments and witticisms to help him keep his composure. _S'kak._

_I know. I wish I could go with you, but. . . Glory needs to come __here._They could both hear Joy's worry-songs, anxiety-songs, coming up from under the earth. _Joy's going to come aboveground for this. I think she wants to see him directly, and I can't set up a whole hospital underground. Not yet, anyway. Add that to my list of projects. Xenobiology and xenofertility. Pathology. Founding the entirety of rachni medicine. . . heh. With Abrams and Telinus to kick in on their neurology._ She leaned into his shoulder, inhaling his scent. _Go on with you. The __Normandy__ is waiting._

_Love you. Be back before you know it. Kick on the newsfeed and get Joy to help you laugh at me. I'll be the one in black, who looks like a deer in the headlights._

_You'll be great, and you know it. _Dara paused. _Okay, now we're starting to repeat ourselves._

_Yeah. Sure sign that neither of us wants to let go just yet. _One more sweet, light kiss. _Missing you really sucks, __sai'kaea__._

She grinned at him, the first real smile he'd seen since their very-early-morning awakening, and planted a kiss on his cheek. _Then get back here faster, jerk._

_Will do my best._ Eli headed for the door, hefting his seabag over his shoulder.

The _Normandy_ didn't bother with stealth, and hit FTL just outside the orbit of Mindoir's moon. Eli shook his head. They weren't bothering with a nice, leisurely, fuel-conserving tour of the gas giants today, another hint that there was urgency behind this trip to Bastion. . . if the fact that he had been awakened at 03:45 and was in the black by 06:20 wasn't enough of a clue.

It took twenty minutes to reach the relay at top speed, and they were flagged through, ahead of civilian traffic; the dark matter relay took them directly to Bastion, and there, they did have to slow for other ships. Lantar, Garrus, and Shepard were along for the trip, and Eli rued, all over again, the fact that Ylara was off on a mission. And then chided him for wanting another senior Spectre to hide behind. He settled in, and started reviewing notes and vid clips while, with the others, looking up at a half-dozen screens in the _Normandy_ conference room, all turned to newsfeeds, as the galactic media began to react to the attack on Khar'sharn. _Daring Raid on Urvada, Hegemon Reported Alive by Khar'sharn Ministry of Information_ one headline blared. _Assassination Tactics Employed by Spectres Gone Rogue_ shouted another. "It's going to be a long day," Eli assessed.

"You could retire," Lantar offered, dryly.

"No thanks, Dad. I'm just getting started. I don't suppose Commander Shepard had the galley stock those Wheaties and kryptonite that she talked about after the Astaria mission? I think I'm going to need some."

Eli looked up in time to see Lantar _and_ Garrus pause, look blank, and then just give in and look up the reference on their omnitools. Garrus chuckled after a moment, and Eli could have sworn Lantar's mandibles twitched. "Sorry," Shepard replied. "Not today."

"I'll settle for weird with toast then. It's the Mindoir breakfast of champions."

The _Normandy_ was a fairly recognizable vessel, and, as such, B-Sec was on hand to escort them past mobs of reporters, and a surprisingly varied assortment of protestors. Eli caught glimpses of hanar, having linked tentacles, and swaying in place, holding up signs that read _Shepard is an Assassin. . . Spectres are Murderers. . . ._ There were a handful of turians there, and, as turians tended to be, they were voicing their opinions loudly, but in a very orderly fashion. They'd lined up neatly on opposite sides of the exit area, and half held signs supporting the Spectres, _Nimines is Avenged! The Imperatrix and Millions of Others, Avenged! _as well as _Long Live Shepard and Vakarian_. . . .while on the other side of the post-customs disembarkation area, another group stood with signs that read, _Dishonorable Acts Stain to the Last Generation . . . . Shepard Must Resign!_ There were asari protestors, as well, and half of them wanted to pass floral necklaces to Shepard—a token of _gratitude_, Eli noted, in some amusement—and sang little chants that suggested that they considered the strike on Khar'sharn to be vengeance for ten thousand asari kidnapped and enslaved by the batarians in the past five years. The _other_ asari protestors held signs that read, _Too Little, Too Late, Shepard. _Or, better yet_ 10,000 Avenged on Khar'sharn. Now Pay for the Lives of 12,000,000,000._

Eli kept his face calm, and pretended not to see any of it. He thought the _hanar_ protesting the use of an assassin was a little rich, and the 'Shepard must resign' sounded a lot like the fringe lunatics who'd resented a _human_ being the head of the Spectres, instead of a turian or an asari_._ And the asari who were suggesting that Shepard owed them for the lives of twelve billion dead on Thessia were clearly Tears of Thessia types. Maybe not affiliated with the group, but sympathetic to their claims. He leaned over, in his armor, and spoke to one of the turians in B-Sec blue beside him. "Bigger crowd than I expected."

"We set up traffic blockades," the cop replied, grimly. "Or this would be a hell of a lot bigger."

_Lovely._

In the meantime, Shepard was dodging questions from every reporter. "I will give a statement after making my report to the Council," she repeated, over and over, as the cameras focused in on her, on Garrus, on Lantar, and on Eli himself as the B-Sec troopers formed up around them and pushed through the crowd. "You'll have to wait until after I've spoken with the Council. Thank you."

"Shepard, are the reports of Spectre deaths true-?"

"Shepard, how to do plan to respond to allegations that this was an illegal action, an assassination attempt directed against an alien government-?

"How do you account for your actions, given Council sanctions against—"

"Shepard!"

"Shepard!"

"Shepard!"

Eli got into the aircar behind the rest of the Spectres, out of the sea of swirling voices, moving cameras, and brilliant lights, and exhaled in relief as the door sealed shut. "I do not know how you _stand_ that," he told Shepard and Garrus, shaking his head.

Garrus surveyed him with amusement. "You've had your share of media attention."

"Yeah, but I haven't save the galaxy two or three times." Eli leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. "When all's said and done, I guess it beats being shot at, but at least when people are shooting at you, you kind of have the right to shoot back."

"Comfortable?" Lantar asked, dryly.

Eli didn't open his eyes. "Relaxing before I have to deal with them all directly. Efficient use of the time available." His tone held a wry note, and his lips quirked faintly as the others laughed.

Much to his surprise, he was told to accompany the senior Spectres as Shepard made her full report to the Council. The loss of the _Raedia_ met with winces from Odacaen and Anderson, and Bargain-Singer lifted her head and sang a faint note of alarm when she understood that Glory was comatose. . . and that an AI now dwelled, encoded in _biotic energy_, aboard the _Lightsinger._ "Removing her may actually, well, kill her," Shepard noted. "She's gone from electrical impulses and encoding to _biotic_ energy. She's as alive as anyone in this room, now. Just with an inorganic body. I'm fuzzy on the details on that, but I'm sure the Hierarchy fleet will, ah, bargain with you regarding her . . . termination of contract with them. . . or some damn thing."

Eli hadn't even _thought_ of that. NCAIs were, while living and free sapient beings, still, in some respects, bound to the governments who'd allowed for their creation. None of them, as yet, had really 'retired,' other than Pelagia and, well, Laetia. . . _God, what a mess._

"You empowered Valak N'dor to negotiate peace with the batarians?" the asari councilor fumed.

"He's the only person who _can_," Shepard returned, sharply. "He's a symbol to his people. A living banner, if you will. Those who have taken part in resistance movements will flock to him. Those who are of the nobility, will decry his 'traitorous' behavior, but will accept his word far more easily than _mine_. Or Miroslav Vokaj's. Or Jordan Emeric's. Or hell, Admiral Hackett or any number of turian admirals. He's not authorized to accept those terms. He's authorized to _negotiate_ them. And then pass the terms on to you. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The inquisition went on for an hour. Eli had the impression that, in the main, the councilors were actually _pleased_ with the outcome of the mission, but that they were bracing to deal with political fallout at home. "The Vol Protectorate is willing to work with the remains of the Hegemony to stabilize their currency," the volus councilor snuffled at one point, and the asari allowed that they were willing to extend humanitarian aid, on the condition that every enslaved asari they found could be sent home to Luisa, at the very least. _I notice that they're not extending that condition to the humans or any other enslaved race they happen to find on batarian worlds_, Eli noted, and further noted that the asari wanted a large military presence to protect their humanitarian workers. He couldn't blame them for that, but a large occupying army on a world like Khar'sharn was . . . probably doomed to failure. You couldn't control a whole planet. Not from the ground. From space, perhaps. But then you were targeting your own troops as well as the population. _The Relay 314 dilemma, all over again._

By and large, it seemed as if contingency plans had all long since been set up. . . but the final question jarred Eli. "Commander Shepard. . . "Anderson hesitated. "Outcry over the strike is likely to be very mixed. Are you prepared-?"

"To take the fall?" Shepard stared at the Council as a whole. "Not for the Council. But for the Spectres? To ensure that they remain outside the law, as they were originally intended to be? Yes. I will resign before that occurs. I have set up contingency plans for an orderly transfer of power, if that turns out to be required. Garrus would take temporary leadership, before turning over power to a leadership council of Spectres Ylara Alir, Lantar Sidonis, and Urdnot Gris. All three have indicated that they would prefer, as their lieutenants, Spectres Rinus Velnaran, Elijah Sidonis, Dara Jaworski, and Siara Tesala."

Eli did his best not to let his jaw gape open at any of those disclosures, but he did blink, and rapidly. This was. . . definitely new information.

Then back outside of the inner chambers, to the press briefing room, where, once again, cameras were floating, bobbing, and, in at least two cases, running into each other, as the reporters vied to cover Shepard's statement. Which was, predictably, brief. "Late last night, at approximately midnight, GMT, we launched a joint-forces strike on Khar'sharn, which involved human, turian, geth, rachni, and Spectre elements, in addition to batarian resistance cell members—freedom fighters affiliated with Spectre Valak N'dor," she began, pointedly demonstrating that this was _not_ a lone-gun Spectre attack, "Human, turian, rachni, and geth ships engaged batarian forces near the Harsa relay, and fought against more batarian ships armed with biotic weapons than we have ever seen assembled in a single strike force before. I would like to note that this attack was planned over months, and was sanctioned in advance by a Council vote."

Shepard looked up from her notes. "At this time, I can confirm the follow details: Dalar H'rsov, the leader of the Batarian Hegemony, is dead. As is Chas'na V'sol, the leader of the mercenary and slaver group known as the _Klem Na._ The _Klem Na_ have been responsible for a number of atrocities on Council Worlds in the past forty years, including the attack on Mindoir in 2170." She paused, and the reporters, who had been absolutely silent, but for the clicking and whirring of their cameras, began to ask questions.

Shepard waved them down. "They were also responsible for the introduction of biotic weapons technology to the batarian Hegemony in late 2192. As a result, they have been involved in the kidnapping, mutilation, and enslavement of ten thousand asari and over five thousand humans. Today, they are leaderless." She paused. "We estimate that approximately four hundred members of SIU, including, we believe, their leader, Heshan L'roc, as well as SIU Investigations chief Isaav Malsur. The Temple of the Five Gods and the Securities and Slave Exchange were also targeted, although civilians inside these structures were allowed to escape before they were destroyed. We estimate that close to four thousand warrior-castes who attacked our people as they were retreating from the strike zone are now dead. Of the joint-forces troops on the ground, approximately sixty humans and turians died aboard an SR-3 which crashed when biotics weapons platforms, stationed on the ground, opened fire on a ship that was not expecting this kind of defense. This total includes survivors and wounded who were fired upon while attempting to retreat to a second SR ship." Cold, clear, hard words. "Of the Spectre forces, and marine auxiliaries, we can confirm twenty fatalities, all sustained while holding off gunships and tanks and fighters sent by batarian forces to engage us. We are not releasing the name of any of the dead at this time, out of respect for their families, who have yet to be informed of the status of their loved ones." She paused. "I am not taking any questions at this time, but Spectre Elijah Sidonis will be handling the rest of this briefing. Thank you all."

She turned and left, Garrus and Lantar flanking her, and Eli stepped up on the stage, stepped behind the podium, and was, oddly, damned glad he was wearing his armor. His helmet was off, and his clan-paint clearly visible on his jaws. "Good morning," Eli told the reporters, his tone as calm and professional as he could make it. _Just like answering questions after the attack on the Imperator on Edessan. No sweat. _"I'm opening the floor for questions directly pertaining to the strike this morning on Urvada, on Khar'sharn."

A blitz of lights left violet afterimages against his eyelids. "Spectre, when were you informed about the strike-?

"Spectre, can you confirm whether any of the fatalities were, in fact, other Spectres-?"

"Spectre Sidonis, would you characterize this as an illegal attack upon a head of state-?"

"One at a time, please." Eli focused on the closest face, Emily Wong, and gave her a brief smile. "Ms. Wong? Yours was the only question I could hear clearly in all that, so I'm going to go with you. I was informed of operational details this morning at about oh-four-thirty, local time."

"But did you _know_ anything before then?" That, from some turian reporter Eli didn't recognize, although the Sylgar Outpost yellow nagged at the back of his mind.

"I was advised of operational details approximately four hours ago," Eli rephrased, politely, and without a smile. _What I suspected, and what I had confirmed through inadvertent biotic contact, doesn't matter. I did not know the operational details. I just knew there was going to be a strike. Go figure. Fifteen or more Spectres leave on the same mission? Got to be something big. _"Next question, please."

Al-Jilani waved a hand, frantically. "Spectre, can you confirm if any of the fatalities were, in fact, Spectres?" Her eyes held a vulpine gleam.

Eli nodded. "At this point in time, there are no Spectre fatalities."

"At this point in time?" al-Jilani pounced. "Are there Spectre casualties?"

"Several Spectres have been injured," Eli acknowledged. "Most are expected to make full recoveries."

Every hand in the room shot up, predictably. Eli raised his hands. "Spectre Pellarian received a harpoon spear through his left forearm from a batarian Colossus, a type of mech usually used in quelling slave revolts and capturing escaping slaves." That one was safe to detail. "Spectre Samuel Jaworski sustained an injury to an arm as well," _Keep that one vague_, "Alisav K'sar, a former SIU agent, who has been working with Valak N'dor and the Spectres for several months, was shot three times in the chest, but is expected to recover. Spectre Sings-of-Glory has sustained neural trauma, and will undergo the best treatment available to ensure his recovery." _Just as soon as Dara, Telinus, Joy-Singer, and everyone else figures out what the hell that entails._

Hands shot up, and people demanded to know who K'sar was, and how he'd come to work with the Spectres, details on Sam's injury, on Glory's—all questions that Eli refused to answer.

Elders raised her hand. "Spectre, with sixty dead on an SR ship, multiple ground-team casualties, and an unspecified number of casualties and damaged ships, would you call this mission an unqualified success?"

Eli suppressed his desire to sigh. "As Commander Shepard pointed out earlier, approximately four hundred SIU operatives are estimated to have been killed, with about an additional four thousand batarian warrior-caste casualties during the ensuing firefight. If we're looking at raw numbers, we won, but numbers don't tell the whole tale. The best way to determine if a mission was a success is to ask this: _was the objective attained_? Since our objective was to remove the head of the Hegemony's government, to destabilize its grip on power by disrupting SIU, cripple the Hegemony's ability to make way by disabling its economic infrastructure, and to disrupt the caste structure of the Hegemony's society. . . the answer is yes. In my opinion, the mission was a success." He probably could have thrown in a few more clauses and padded the assertion a little more, but that wasn't really his style.

"Would you characterize this strike as an assassination, a _coup d'état_ very thinly disguised by distraction tactics directed at other, adjacent targets?" That, from the turian in the yellow face-paint again.

Eli stared the male down for a moment. Let the silence grow heavy. "No. Next question."

"Why not?" the male demanded, immediately. "Council law states that heads of state cannot be the targets of assassination. That is the _law."_

Eli took a sip of water to give himself a moment to think. "This operation was unveiled in full to the Council before so much as a single step of it unfolded," he began, calmly. "It was approved in a closed vote, by the full Council. That makes it legal." _Don't mention the Galactic High Court. Don't give him an opening._

"Does following an illegal order make it _right_?" the turian demanded, before anyone else could get a word in edgewise.

Eli paused, stared at the male, and suddenly, the memory, from Dara's perspective, clicked. "Scaevous Lintorum, right? _Complovium Today_, I take it?" He paused, as the male blinked, clearly not having expected to be recognized by a human. A human adopted by a turian, wearing turian face-paint. Almost as much of an affront to one like him, as Dara and Rel had been, years ago. As much of an affront as Eli and Lin had been, as _dimicado'fradae_, to people in their own boot-camp. "How do your eyes feel? Light bothering you in here?" A sharp jab, but disguised in a tone of mild concern. "And I believe I just told you on what grounds the order was, in fact, legal." Eli paused, and let his voice take on a hint of an edge. "All of which is beside one very real, very pertinent reality: Spectres stand outside the law. We are empowered to take steps that go against Council law, in order to preserve it." He smiled, very faintly. "In this case, as in most? We did not find that to be necessary." He looked around. "Next question."

"Do you expect that the status of the Spectres as being outside the law will be struck down as a result of this mission?" al-Jilani shouted.

"What are the next steps, going forward, for dealing with the Hegemony?" Wong called.

Eli ignored al-Jilani and replied to Wong, "Ms. Wong, that's a little outside the scope of this briefing, and my time's almost up. But, personally, _my_ hope is that what remains of their government comes to the peace table, where Spectre Valak N'dor will help negotiate a cease-fire. One in which all biotic weapons facilities will be destroyed, the slave industry will be dismantled, and reparations can, in some measure, be offered to the families of the victims of the plagues, the Nimines attacks, and those whose loved ones have been taken to be turned into weapons."

"Spectre Sidonis, which Spectre fired the shot that actually killed the Hegemon?" al-Jilani, yet again.

Eli lifted his head and gave her a direct look. "Even if we knew, we would not reveal that information, because of the strong potential for the individual being targeted for reprisal," he replied, calmly.

"Even if you knew?" Elders pounced in follow-up to al-Jilani's opening. "You actually don't know?"

"Correct," Eli acknowledged. "Several shots were fired simultaneously from multiple directions. Even after forensic analysis of eyepiece and gun-mounted cam-feeds, the results have been inconclusive." He shrugged. "Perhaps that's as it should be. Let it be known that the _Spectres_ carried out this strike. Not one lone gunman." _Another piece of the damned mythos that Shepard both lets us use to our advantage, and probably wants to die. The Spectre as the one-man army. The rock star, the cowboy, who rides in and saves the day. It's a useful mythos. . . to a point. But she'd rather people saw a wall of black. Faceless. _

"Respected Spectre Sidonis?" This, from a hanar at the back of the room. "This one has a question."

"Yes—I'm sorry, I can't read your press badge from here. May I know your face-name?" Eli blinked. This one, he hadn't expected.

"Iliankua. This one wishes to know, precisely why a cultural heritage site, such as the main structure of the dominant religion of the Hegemony, was targeted for destruction."

_Oh, god. That's a doozy._ Eli cleared his throat. "One of our mission goals was to demoralize the batarian people so that they would not wish to continue the war. A corollary goal was the destabilization of the caste system. While we recognize that destroying a religious shrine can actually serve to motivate a population against an outside force, Spectre N'dor pointed out that the temple serves as a locus of power for the caste system, reinforcing it and validating it. The four upper castes' ancestors, the 'gods' and their wives, all stood as statues at the front of the temple. The 'ancestor' of the servitor and slave castes had a statue, too. It knelt before the other castes, in chains. N'dor believed that destroying images that . . . his words, not mine, _inculcated_ the caste-system into the mind of everyone who saw them. . .would be a motivational force for the resistance movement." Eli paused. _And you know that was a genuine Valak answer, because the word __inculcated__ was in it, and I needed a dictionary this morning after I read it in the meeting notes from four weeks ago._ "Any other questions that relate directly to the mission itself?"

Oh, there were questions. He answered a few more, and then said, "That's time, folks. Thank you for being here. We have another briefing scheduled for eighteen hundred GMT. I'll see you then."

As he stepped down from the podium, another turian reporter caught him, briefly, by the shoulder. "Excuse me, Spectre? Galenus Eleutherius, _Hierarchy State News Agency._ I normally wouldn't ask this, but how precisely do you know Scaevous Lintorum?" Eleutherius' voice held distaste.

"Oh, I don't. Never met the male before in my life." Eli smiled slightly, suddenly much happier than he had been, moments before.

He kept moving, but Lintorum stepped into his path, and growled, very quietly, "I take it the little whore told you all about boot camp? Can't help but notice that the little shit-eater isn't here today. Maybe she's growing a few more legs, eh?" Obvious ploy. Obvious bait.

Eli turned his head, very slightly, and looked Lintorum straight in the eye. His vision went gray around the edges, and just for an instant, he could perfectly visualize jerking the male's head down, and slamming an armored knee into Lintorum's teeth. He could sense, rather than see, everyone around him pull back a step or two, and suspected his expression might not be under perfect control at the moment. But the best thing about being who he was, Eli knew, was that while he absolutely _could_ do what he'd just envisioned. . . he had a whole assortment of other options available to him.

As such, Eli just _smiled_ at Lintorum. "Thanks for asking after Dara. I know she'll be touched to know that you still think about her. And think about her. And think about her." Eli's smile widened. "Oh, and, given that at least one actual, legitimate reporter out there asked me how I knew you? After I brought up why your eyes are so light-sensitive?" He paused, let the smile grow, and with nothing but perfect pleasure in his voice, he went on, "I'm sure some bright spark out there will research you and your background. I just destroyed what little credibility you have, live on vid feed. I wouldn't expect any of your questions to be aired, once it becomes evident that you have a personal vendetta against several Spectres." He let the smile vanish. "Have a nice day."

Then he headed backstage again, where he found a wall against which to lean, and then slide down, to a crouch. Fifteen minutes in front of the barrage of questions had been surprisingly draining. "How'd I do?" Eli asked, after a moment, looking up as Lantar approached.

"Not too badly," Lantar told him. "The next one will be worse. They'll have had time to generate more questions, the talking heads will have had six more hours to generate spin and whip up controversy, and the echo chamber of people agreeing with themselves on the extranet will have achieved a certain dull roar."

"Fun times," Eli said. "Is the _Clavus_ coming here first, or straight back to base?"

"Straight back to base. Believe me, I want to see them all, too, but. . . it's better if they go straight to our doctors."

"I know. . . I know. Damn."

Back on Mindoir, Dara knew she had a couple of hours before Eli and Shepard would be broadcasting on the vid feeds, and at least twelve, if not twenty-four hours or longer before the _Clavus_ would arrive at the base; Khar'sharn had an old-style relay, and the _Clavus_ had headed towards the Exodus Cluster from the Harsa system. . . .which wasn't actually all that far, galactically speaking, from Mindoir. Mindoir was, after all, in the Attican Traverse. And once they reached Eden Prime, they could use the dark energy relay there to hop directly to Mindoir's system.

As such, Dara took her own hovercycle and made her way through the snowy streets, arriving at Gavius' house at 07:30. She was the only person currently on base who could, really, do this job. Zhasa had offered to go with her. "You don't have to do this alone," the quarian girl had told Dara, with a squeeze to her forearm. "And, you know. . . we're supposedly related now, and all that."

Dara had made a rude noise, and followed it up with a wry smile. "No, it's okay. Go tell Mad his dad's coming home, alive and in one piece. He'll be glad to hear it."

Standing at Gavius' front door, Dara regretted not bringing Zhasa with her. The quarian girl was far more empathetic than Dara usually managed to be, and there were many days on which she simply didn't know how to handle her grandmother.

Today was one of them.

So she stood there, nerving herself to knock, and heard, from deep under the mountain, what could only be a chuckle from Joy-Singer. _Sings-Broomsongs will not sing anger at you._

_I know. But she's probably going to cry. And I. . . am probably going to wind up crying, too. _Dara sighed and reached up to knock. . . just as the door swung inward. She blinked up at Gavius, who blinked down at her in equal surprise; he was in a robe and holding a steaming cup of _apha_. "Spirits. I thought I heard something out here, but I didn't expect you."

Dara swallowed. She'd never _quite_ dared to ask her grandmother if Gavius was now, theoretically, _okay_ with her, since she'd split up with Rel, and now wore Eli's paint. A whole host of awkward family conversations swirled around her, unspoken, and she swallowed them. Met Gavius' eyes with her chin upheld. "Good morning, sir. I need to speak with my grandmother. May I come in?"

Gavius frowned. "You're her family. Of course you can come in." He stepped out of the way, and Dara took one step inside, scraped the snow off her boots at the door, and stood as straight as she could, reverting, unconsciously, to turian military mode. "Last I checked, you _are_ a Spectre. And you're Nessa's kin. Either way, I don't think _sir_ is entirely appropriate."

_Okay, so what the hell am I supposed to call you? I never actually worked up the nerve to call you __Avus__ when I was married to Rel, and 'grandpa' does not fit. . . . _ Dara was saved from having to say anything at all as Takeshi spotted her and raced down the hall, shouting, "Dara, Dara, Dara, look! Look at what I got! I got a new train!"

Dara scooped him up. "Hey, Keshi. I thought you were supposed to be staying at Nana Hinata's."

"We're giving her a break," Gavius said, calmly, as Dara gave Keshi a quick kiss on the cheek.

She didn't even know how to start explaining what had happened to Keshi, or how to prepare him for it, but her gut instinct was to explain it calmly, and not make a big deal out of it. Which she was terribly afraid her grandmother would do, which would make it worse for Keshi, and on down the line. "Takeshi," Dara said, setting him back down on the floor. "Go find Granny Agnes for me, okay? I need to talk to her."

"Okay!" Keshi tore off at a run, still holding his train aloft.

Gavius set his cup down on the dining room table, and sat down to peel a _caprificus_ fruit for himself. "Sit," he told her, gesturing towards a chair. Belatedly, Dara realized, he was actively trying to make her comfortable. Something he'd never really done before. . . but was probably a courtesy to her grandmother. So, she sat.

"I take it that you've got some bad news." Gavius' gravelly voice was quiet. Her eyes swung upwards, and he snorted. "The eyes make it harder to read you, girl, and you do a pretty good blank face, but you've got a few tells. Besides," he tapped at his nose, "I can smell when people are upset. Useful, in a cop."

Dara sighed. "There's a reason Eli gets tagged with press duty. I'm no good at this." She paused. "It's not the worst news, but it's not good," Dara admitted, folding her hands neatly in front of her, and staring down at them.

"Samuel? Kasumi?"

"Kasumi's fine. My dad. . . well . . . " Dara trailed off, as Agnes, also in a warm robe and slippers, joined them, Takeshi up in her arms, busily rolling his train up her sleeve to her shoulder. Dara still couldn't quite believe how. . . _comfortable_. . . Gavius and her grandmother were together. . . . but they were. Gavius stood up, and went to fix Agnes a cup of coffee, even adding creamer, which had to look fairly disgusting to him.

"Dara, sweetheart," Agnes said, cheerfully, advancing and leaning down to deposit Keshi on the ground, and gave Dara a kiss on the cheek. "What brings you here this early. . . " Agnes paused, as the penny dropped, and Dara instantly caught her grandmother's arms, just below the elbows, standing to help her to a chair. "Oh. . . no. It's not—"

"No, no, it's not _that_ visit," Dara told her, immediately, as Gavius suddenly just appeared to her right, entering from the kitchen. He set the coffee in front of Agnes on the table, and her grandmother wrapped her hands, shakily, around its warmth. Dara glanced up, caught Gavius' forbidding frown, and shook her head. She'd never been _good_ at giving bad news. Even though, god knew, she'd handed out enough of it in her lifetime so far. She looked around, caught Takeshi up, and decided to talk to _him_, because it was just _easier_ than talking to her grandmother. "Keshi," Dara said, firmly. "I have to talk to you for a minute. No, look at me, not at the train. Our dad is coming home today, and your mama, too, okay?"

Keshi's face lit up. "Good! I like Mama a whole lot. And I like Daddy a little bit."

Dara's lips twitched, in spite of herself. "There's a whole hierarchy here, I see," she told her grandmother, dryly. Looking at back Keshi, she told him, seriously, "When you see your daddy, you're going to have to be careful of him, okay? Like you're careful of my workers, the little Skies, because you don't want to hurt them. Your daddy got hurt when he was away."

Keshi frowned, and started to slip down out of her lap. "Okay. I will get him the boo-boo pack." a little self-importance; he knew that _this_ was the solution, and he was going to administer The Cure.

Dara turned her reluctant laugh into a cough, and pulled her brother back. "He's not here yet. You can give him the boo-boo pack when he gets here. I think it'll probably make him smile, but Keshi. . . when you see him? He might still hurt a lot. And it's going to be important not to touch his arm, okay?" She patted Keshi's left arm. "A bad guy with a really sharp sword, like the one Eli has, and that you're not ever supposed to touch? He cut through Daddy's arm, right here, like this." She used her finger and drew a line, right at the elbow.

"So he has a scratch?" Keshi's voice scaled upwards.

"Sort of. His arm fell off."

"Naaaaaah!" Keshi clearly thought she was kidding, and threw his head back, laughing, just about falling off her lap. Dara glanced up when she heard her grandmother's choked gasp, met her eyes, and shook her head, just once. Saw Gavius' hand on her grandmother's shoulder, saw the pure support in that gesture, and nodded to herself, too.

"Keshi. _Keshi._" Dara repeated, until Gavius stepped in, "_Takeshi!_"

The boy snapped upright. "Thank you," Dara told Gavius. "Keshi, when you see Daddy, you can hug him. You can kiss him. You can give him the boo-boo pack. But don't. . . touch. . . the arm. It will probably hurt for a while."

"For a long time?"

"Probably." Dara thought about it, and tried to put it in terms he could understand. "He might get a robot arm, instead."

Keshi thought about it, but clearly, the reality just wasn't there for him. "Nahhh. Daddy's not a geth." He slid out of her lap and ran off to play.

Dara shook her head. "He can't ever say, ten years from now, that I didn't try to warn him," she told the older couple, dryly. "Grandma, are you okay?" Dara dropped down from her chair now, to hunker in front of Agnes, taking one of her grandmother's thin, dry hands in her own, and discreetly checking the pulse as she did. In retrospect, telling Agnes in front of Keshi. . . or rather, telling Keshi, with Agnes there. . . had probably been the smartest thing she could have done. It had given Agnes a strong incentive to control her reaction. . . and Gavius' presence had probably helped a lot, too. Through skin contact, the surges of violet grief in Agnes, that Dara had to close her eyes against. A lament, _Oh, damn it, damn it, damn it, Sam, why did you have to pick a job just as dangerous as your father's? No, more so. . . _ flickers of memory-song, visions Dara had never really seen before. So strange, so utterly bizarre, to see her big, strong father as a little boy, Takeshi's age, tow-headed, with blue eyes, growling, "I am Batman! I chase _BAD GUYS!"_ before tearing off across the house. . . the first time he broke his arm, falling out of a tree. . . ironically, the same _damned arm_. . . Grandpa Alex telling Sam, in the backseat of the car, on the way to the hospital, to be brave, and that a broken arm didn't mean it was going to need to be amputated. . . Agnes chiding Alex for making the little boy start wailing and crying all the harder now. . . .flash-forward, the motorcycle accident when he was seventeen, stomach-churning anxiety as Agnes had gone to pick Sam up at the ER at one o'clock in the morning, after the accident, itself, had occurred at nine-thirty at night; there'd been a long line ahead of him, and for a cut lip and a concussion, it had mostly been a precaution. . . . her own acerbic comments, "Damnit, Samuel, you could have lost your front teeth and been drinking your dinners for the next month. You think you really want to wear a bridge when you're in your twenties? Hell, you could have fractured your skull or just plain left your brains all over the road. I don't want to keep picking you up from the ER. Learn to _think_ before you damned well act, you hear me?" . . . then the years and years of not knowing where he was or what he was doing, the occasional bullet wound, passed off as a scratch, with a "Don't worry, Mom, see, it's practically good as new already. . . "

All of it flooded through Dara like a series of waves, past and present all commingling for her. Every person was a wave form in time, she realized. Sam _was_ that little boy, and always would be, for his mother. He _was_ the rebellious teenager, who'd started growing the moustache at least as much to annoy his mom, as to cover up the scar. And he was the young soldier, and the older cop, and the new father, holding his daughter in his arms as if he were scared of breaking the tiny infant, wide-eyed as Alex and Agnes laughed at him, and he _was_ all of them, all at the same time, and at the same time, he was her dad, too. Two totally different perspectives, and the wash of guilt at the end of the memories, like wet sand left by the receding tide. Guilt that somehow, in some way, she hadn't been there for her little boy, irrational as that seemed, and Agnes' lip quivered, before she took a deep breath and turned to cover her eyes with her free hand. Guilt from Dara, for not having _been_ there, not having been there to administer first aid, maybe retrieve the severed arm, hell, maybe even shoot the damned batarian off him before the attack carried through. . . Dara took a deep breath of her own, as it all faded away. "Sorry, Grandma," she told Agnes. "I just wasn't really sure how else to tell you. Shepard's going to be holding a news conference from Bastion. Eli's going to be taking questions afterwards, and I'd bet that the injuries and fatalities on the mission are going to come up. . . so I wanted you to hear it from me. Not from the news or from anyone else."

Agnes squeezed her hand, lifting her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she managed a smile. "It's not the worst news that it could have been," Agnes told her. "Thank you, sweetheart. I appreciate that you came over to tell me. Are you going to stay to breakfast and maybe watch your young man on the newsfeed when it comes through?"

Dara could feel how much Agnes _wanted_ her to stay. Needed her to, in fact. She probably _should_ be heading over to the medbay. . . but medbay could wait, this once. "Yeah, I can. I need to patch in to work, and talk with Telinus and Daniel about Glory's condition. They're going to want to scan him." Dara looked at the ceiling. "Hell, they're going to want to open his brain up and take pictures. I'm not sure anything that invasive is going to be a good idea. . . . " Dara trailed off when she realized the look she was getting from Gavius and Agnes was. . . uncomfortable at best.

"Glory is one of your rachni friends?" Agnes asked, tentatively.

"One of the rachni Spectres, yes." Dara thought about how to phrase it, carefully. "Er, long story, but Glory was chipped to an AI, same as Rinus was, back in the day," she added the latter, looking at Gavius. "The chip architecture wasn't quite ready for her to transmit her full data to him, and it wasn't. . . entirely. . . designed for his species. . . it probably would have been okay, if the architecture had spread completely through his brain, but that takes years. . . " Dara realized she was rambling, and shut her mouth with a click. "I'm. . . going to sit over there on the couch and conference with Abrams, Karpavian, and Chakwas."

Another set of odd looks from the older couple, and then they all settled into the living area, Takeshi pointing urgently at the screen when he saw Eli appear there. "Eli!" he said, triumphantly. "Hi, Eli. Hi!" He waved at the screen, and then pouted a little. "He didn't answer me."

"He can't see you, sweetie, and now, hush." Agnes told him, and pulled the boy into her lap for the remainder of the briefing. "He looks good up there," Agnes told Dara, during a break. "Comfortable answering all the questions. Very confident."

Dara couldn't help lighting up a little at her grandmother's words. "He hates doing it, but he figures it's part of his job," she replied, and glanced at the screen again, trying to strip partiality out of her gaze, and look at Eli as if he were a stranger. For a moment, it almost clicked; she was able to ignore the faint tells she knew all too well, the way the muscles in his cheeks worked a little when he clenched his teeth for a moment, the way his eyes narrowed for an instant as a question from the crowd. Assured. Confident. In command of himself and of his environment. _Then again, I guess I might look like that in med bay. . . just not in front of a group of reporters. No matter how much I practice, it's never going to come naturally._ Dara smiled a little, and then registered a faint shift in his expression. For an instant, recognition, then the faintest flicker of an old, dark anger, and then gone. Dara followed the line of his eyes to . . . a reporter in Sylgar yellow. Asking a fairly hostile question, at that. Something familiar about the voice. . . . "What the—" she muttered, and then paused and stared. "Scaevous Lintorum?" Unconsciously, she rubbed at her left wrist for a moment. The scars had faded, thank god. . . .

And then Eli simply reminded the male in front of god and the rest of the galaxy that he'd had his eyes damaged in boot camp, because he'd gone after her with intent to injure, if not kill, on the sparring mats. And he did it in a calm, controlled, friendly voice, with a smile on his face. Dara looked at the screen. . . grinned. . . and got back to work, examining the few scans that Mannerian had sent of various wounds. Lin's arm looked mostly healed, though the scales hadn't filled back in on either the entrance or exit of the savage puncture. Her dad's arm. . . Dara eased the datapad to a different angle, so that neither Agnes nor Takeshi could see it. . . and cleared her mind. Made herself see a broken machine. And started looking at prosthetic options.

There were standard metal, robotic arms, much like Tarenius Gallian's original legs, after Garvug. There were cybernetic models, with synthskin over them, with fabricated nerves that could relay a certain level of sensation to the wearer. Dara was particularly interested in a newer, more revolutionary method. . . which used fabricated bone. Cadaver bone, basically, powdered, rendered, formed into a matrix in more or less the same shape as the original limb, which at least provided a _framework_ for tissue to be regenerated over. Cadaver bone grafts had been in use since at least the twenty-first century, as replacements for vertebrae, but the process of regenerating the muscle tissue, blood vessels, and everything else, was simply astronomically expensive. . . and there were notes all through the literature, noting that some of the methods had been originally pursued by Cerberus. _Probably for the Lazarus Project_, Dara thought, and tucked that one away at the back of her head.

Last, she looked at the MRIs done of Glory's brain, and at the EEGs that Mannerian had attempted to take, and sucked in her breath. The nanotubules hadn't infiltrated the whole neural cluster. . . but everywhere the cell-thick tendrils had passed. . . was now burned. It was not unlike looking at a black spider web, interlaced through the rachni's brain tissue. The chip itself. . . appeared to be functioning, if barely. Mannerian's notes indicated that she wished that she could remove it, safely, because she thought it possibly that its continued presence might be doing further harm at this point. The EEGs seemed to indicate that activity spiked when humanoids and other rachni sang or spoke directly to Glory. . . so that was, at least, _hopeful_.

_Do you think we can sing him back to health?_ Joy asked, green-yellow anxiety in her voice.

_I don't know. I hope so. But it might be your songs that help him, far more than my medicine_, Dara told her daughter, shaking her head. _I haven't the faintest idea where else to __start__. Except. . . rehabilitation. Encouraging the healthy brain tissue to take over function, if it can. . . god. What a mess. Lysandra has to feel so badly about this. . . _

The _Clavus,_ with the _Lightsinger_ tucked in close beside it, headed at top speed for Eden Prime and its relay. On the _Lightsinger_, Lysandra was completely disoriented. She floated, as if disembodied, in a void of lights and colors and voices, but she wasn't a ship, she was just . . . herself. She could see nothing but the colors, hear nothing but the harmony. There were glimmers of understanding, that there were other systems out there, besides herself, and she was receiving input—the voices, the song! alien and _everywhere_ and overwhelming!—but this wasn't who she _was_, and it was terrifyingly close to sensory deprivation and sensory overload _at the same time._

For several hours, she'd been trying to understand how to _function_; on the _Raedia_, she'd had hundreds of thousands of subroutines that allowed her to control her ship body. Allowed her to access sensors. FTL communications. Her engines. On the _Lightsinger_, she didn't have any of those; in human terms, it was as if her nervous system had largely ceased to function. She was. . . shut in on herself. She couldn't so much as raise her hand to turn on the radio, effectively. Cut off from all the other NCAIs, on whom she'd greatly relied for conversation and company and stability her entire life. But still, in their place. . . _song_.

—_Question-Singer, you sing distress?_

—_You sing loneliness._

—_You are not alone, little-queen! We are with you! _

_We are all with you._ That was _Sky_, Lysandra realized, on a wave of exaltation. The other voices had been fainter, like . . . subroutines, chattering in the background, but louder, more . . . real. . . but that new voice had force and power and personality, just as Glory's had always had. More complexity in the mathematical harmonies and progressions. More wisdom and age. _Question-Singer, will you sing less distress if the workers sing to the ship, and allow you to use its seeing devices?_

_Sensors? Yes!_ Lysandra struggled to answer, but it wasn't with her voice, it was with song, she couldn't see or hear or sense anything beyond the web of colors and voices, and while they were comforting and surrounded her, she needed to see _stars_. She needed to feel electromagnetic wind on her skin, test the gravitic currents of the space around her, understand how she was oriented to the galactic plane instead of floating here, in the colors and the void and the song. . .

Something. . . opened. A new system became accessible, and she scrambled to try to understand how it was programmed, to interface with it. And, all at once, the data was _there._ _—It sings this way, little-queen._

_Do not struggle so. Sings-Heartsong understood, in her inmost self, that to cause the crystals to sing, you must sing to them. . .and you cannot sing such songs in haste or in fear._ Sky, once more. Blues and greens, flooding through Lysandra. She slowed the churn of her . . . mind? Thoughts? Processes?. . . and reached out more carefully. Touched the new system with only a small flow of information, organized as a single pattern of notes, the one that the workers had sung to her. . . a key code.

And then she could _see_. Oh, she could see, gloriously. Internal sensors, showing her the inside of a rachni ship, all crystals and fretted, iridescent filigree of rachni webbing. . . lights shining through the crystals, casting double and triple shadows of the webs, and scattering rainbows everywhere. A thousand tiny workers, scuttling here and there, going about the business of tending the ship. Soldiers. One nameless brood-warrior; the others were aboard the _Clavus_, she sensed. . . . and as she thought of the _Clavus_, external sensors came online for her, and she could see the black bulk of the SR-4, riding along the starboard side of the _Lightsinger_, black against the streaking, red-to-violet lines that were what stars looked like in FTL. . . the galaxy simply became a wash of color for her, pinstriped, and Lysandra exulted for a moment, _I can see I can see, I'm not trapped within myself, I'm not going to go insane. . . ._and again, out of habit, she tried to reach for Glory. . . .

. . . and still couldn't find him.

Sky had told her, earlier, to get used to her new perceptions, that comprehension of the song would come with time, learning _how_ to listen to low-song and high-song, undersong and oversong. _Even Sings-Heartsong did not understand it all, on the very first day that she learned to hear as we do_, Sky had chided her, and Lysandra had sunk down into herself, bewildered and afraid. But now. . . now she could _see._ She felt reoriented, revitalized, by simply understanding herself as part of a ship once more, not a disembodied consciousness. . . and she reached out, more boldly, trying to find the voices around her. . . . and found a lot more than she had bargained for, as she expanded her new sensors' range.

Sky had been broadcasting to her, effectively, from the _Clavus._ There, two more minds like his pulsed. . . rachni brood-warriors. Neither had Glory's distinctive harmonies. One sang in logical patterns, with a talent for improvisation, little choruses that sounded random, but were not; a mind oriented towards metal and matter and its reorganization: _Sings-to-the-Stone._ The other, besides Sky, was. . . _fractal_. Harmonies that were blazes of color, the mathematics of them only making sense if she analyzed them with algorithms intended to show twelve dimensional physics. _Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight._ _Where is __Glory__?_ Lysandra thought, and increased the sensitivity of her sensors. . . .

. . . and then she could hear the rest of the crew of the _Clavus_. All at once, in a cacophony that stunned her.

—_Okay, doc, I'm a big boy, just lay the treatment options on me. . . No, I do not want a goddamned pillow. I want to get up and move around. There are plenty of people a hell of a lot worse hurt than I am. . . _

—_pain, so much pain, dim recognition that if he pushed that button, there would be a flow of morphinol to take the pain away again. . . not too much, though, not like the final syringe for Tassia. . . _

—_Why the futar did Seheve disobey a direct order? She's going to be reprimanded for that, she has to know it, is this more of her self-sabotaging, another quiet way to try to __futarri_ _kill herself. . . ?_

—_Ah, my human-geth friend, but I don't know how to sing. And I'm fairly certain that volus music will simply make Glory's head hurt worse—_

—_Then you can play the drums. Stop arguing and come with me, Fors. You and I are the strongest biotics aboard, besides the brood-warriors, and they need a damn break._

She followed _that_ set of voices. Keyed in on them. . . and felt a shock of recognition from both of them as she somehow reached out and _touched_ them. _That's not supposed to happen!_ Lysandra thought, shocked. She'd never had a _tactile_ sensation in her entire existence, and somehow, in _listening_, she'd. . . touched them both!

—_Who the fuck. . . Doc?_

_No_, she tried to say, but it still came out as song. _It's just me. Lysandra. I'm sorry. I'm looking for Glory. Who. . . with whom am I even speaking?_

—_James Allen Dempsey._

_Not Cassie's James. . . ?_ He didn't . . . sound right. . . for that, for lack of a better term. Feel right. Disorientation, all over again. Dempsey sounded. . . flatter. . . that Sky or Dances or Stone. . . .

—_No, the original one. Jesus. _

—_Fors Luka. Gods in the deeps. How is an NCAI talking in my head?_ The volus' thoughts were darker-toned and . . . scratchier?. . . than Dempsey's.

—_There is a certain amount of precedent. Jeff Moreau in that damned mini-Reaper._ Flicker of unease in both males at the thought.

—_Please. . . you are going to Glory? Why can't I hear him?_

—_Shit. Sky hasn't told you._

—_Told me what? I can't even find his chip signal. I assumed it was because of being. . . in this ship. . . and not the __Raedia__. . . _Flash of utter guilt at having been knocked offline, at not having been able to save her crew. . . . _but I also can't hear him, the way I can hear all of you. Is he on another ship?_

Yet more disorientation as Dempsey allowed her access to his _visual feed_. . . something she'd only had access to, through Glory and the chip before. _—Easier for me to show you than to tell you, I think._ A human hand reached up, and pushed a door open. Med bay, from the looks of it. Dip and sway as he walked forward, nodding to various people in beds, hum of minds all around, coming into focus as she associated faces with voices. . . . and then, behind one last curtain. . . Glory.

No bed, but the workers had spun him a web of sorts, and someone had propped him against it at an angle. His limbs were actually lashed to it; he wasn't clinging to it with the reflexive curl rachni used in their sleep. His eyes were open, but unmoving. His body was completely rigid, the pedipalps curled in on themselves. And when she reached out, trying to _hear_ him. . . .nothing. Just the low pulse of a heart, and a brain keeping the digestive system and the lungs busy, but _no song._

Lysandra wailed silently, and from the heart, _Glory! Glory, no, please no, I didn't mean to, I didn't want this! I always said I wouldn't jump to you, but when I was told to leave the ship, that was the only process available, please, Glory. . . .please wake up. . . I don't want to exist if the price of it is your mind, your life, your song, please, no. . . . ._

Dempsey grimaced, and blocked her, steadfastly. _Got to calm down. Lysandra! Settle down before you wake the dead._ The AI. . . if it was even accurate to _call_ her that, anymore. . . had about the same amount of fire-power as Dara, and was far less trained. The wail was a threnody, plangent with grief and guilt, scaling upwards to notes a trained soprano would be lucky to hit, and it was all in his head. Strangely enough, Lysandra had _no_ instrumentation around her voice; but there were whispers and echoes of other voices around hers, as if she were her own angelic choir, or as if she'd somehow acquired a celestial group of backup singers. The AI's 'song'. . . was a pure expression of the human voice at its finest. _Listen to me. He's alive. The rachni don't know what's wrong with him. Sky says that in times past, if the mind was gone, if the song was gone, they would have eaten the body and returned the nutrients to the hive by now—_

_-no, no, no, no—_

_Steady!_ Fors' voice entered the fray, as Dempsey sat down in the visitor's chair beside Glory's web. Reinforcing notes from Sky and Dances and Stone, from all over the ship, trying to help Lysandra find balance, find calm. _They understand 'medicine-songs' now, thanks to Dara,_ the volus went on, silently, but with enough force to be heard. _These brood-warriors are all of the. . .how does Sky put it. . . ? Yes. They're all of the Mindoir hive. _

_Joy-Singer and Sings-Heartsong would sing sorrow if we did not return our brother's body to the planet of violet skies,_ Stone said, calmly.

_Perhaps Sings-Heartsong can sing healing songs to him,_ Dances offered.

_Perhaps we all may,_ Sky said, firmly. _It has always been our way, to sing, to try to bring lost voices back to the harmony. Sing with us, Question-Singer. Sing to your lost one._

Dempsey began to tune up his guitar, grateful as the power of Lysandra's voice attenuated a bit. . . and, very quietly, but with increasing volume, began to play _Reveille_ on the electric guitar. The groans of total annoyance from the human marines in the beds adjacent made his lips quirk up in faint amusement, and then he modulated into other songs, singing under his breath, as Fors, without much noticeable enthusiasm, tapped his suited knuckles against a metal tray to keep time.

In a private room, just off the main med bay floor, Sam woke up, trying to figure out why the hell he thought he'd just heard _Reveille_. . . he hadn't heard that played in about a decade and a half. It wasn't used on turian ships, for damn sure. He blinked, disoriented, at the monitors and the IV stand and everything else around him, and the haze of painkillers kept him from focusing his mind much at all. _Where the. . . why am I. . . _ His gaze tracked to the right, where Kasumi dozed in a chair beside his bed, her hand clasping his. _Man, I must have gotten hit,_ Sam thought, vaguely, and looked down at his chest. His left arm appeared to be in a sling, and he saw. . . hospital gown, sheets, and not a hell of a lot else. _Left arm. . . something about that. . . _ He looked back up at Kasumi, whose dark eyes had just opened, and he managed a smile for her, feeling the press of an oxygen tube just under his nose. "Guess you're—" Sam swallowed; his throat was dry, and he figured it was from the oxygen flow, "Guess you're going to get your way about me slowing down for a while, huh, Kasumi-chan?"

Her eyes filled for a moment, and she leaned down and put her head on his shoulder, still clutching his right hand in her own. Sam tried to lift his left arm to wrap it around her, but while he could _feel_ the damn fingers—they were tingling, probably because some damn intern had cut off the flow of blood by putting him in a damn sling in his sleep—he couldn't reach out and touch her hair. "Help me sit up and get this damn sling off," he told her, trying to keep his tone light. "Can't put my arms around you with this thing in the way—hey, what's the matter—?"

Kasumi had looked up, and given him so heart-broken a look, it had felt like a kick to the solar plexus. And that was when memory, fickle bitch that it was, decided to come back to him again. Sam remembered how clumsy he'd been, looking down to verify why the throw hadn't worked. . . seeing the bloody stump of his own arm. "Oh." Sam went very still, and rolled his head back to look at the ceiling. "Well. . . .fuck." The bleakness of it hit him, and he swallowed, hard. He wasn't a young whippersnapper, like Tarenius Gallian, or even Rel. He knew he had value, utility, in places other than the field. This wasn't going to affect his _work_.

It was going to affect _everything else_. Sam bit down, hard. He didn't _want_ to touch his wife's hair with a metal hand, or even one wrapped in synthskin. He didn't think Kasumi would flinch, but he didn't want to see that hurting-for-him look in her eyes, either. He didn't want to see anguish in Dara's eyes, or his mother's. He didn't want to see confusion in Takeshi's, or to give rise to the boy's first realization, that _parents aren't superheroes_. That they're fallible and mortal. That was what the teen years were for, after all; and four seemed a little early for that sort of revelation. There was anger and resentment and a black sort of despair at the back of Sam's throat, coiling there, waiting for him to give it voice. A single thought: _Goddamn. Now what the fuck am I supposed to do?_

Of course, the inner voices already had answers for _that_ kind of bullshit. _Get on your damn feet. Plenty of people here hurt worse than you. That's what you're going to do._ _You're going to smile at Kasumi, who's probably hurting worse than you are. You're just cut up. She's cut up inside, for you, and worried sick, and probably, knowing her, blaming herself. Stand up, Sam._

He did. Well, he tried, anyway. Sam pushed against the bed with the hand that Kasumi was holding, and struggled to a sitting position; Kasumi lifted her head and demanded, "And what do you think you're doing?"

"Getting out of bed. My back starts to hurt when I've been laying around too long." Simple, pragmatic words. Refusing to acknowledge the injury in any real terms. "Think they've got slippers around here for me, or are they going to have a heart attack if I go flapping around here in my bare feet with my ass hanging out of this hospital gown?" Bland tone as he gently pulled his fingers loose to pull off the oxygen tube from his face, and tossed it at his pillow.

Kasumi stared at him for a moment, and then, as he'd hoped she would, she began to play the game with him. "Well, it _is_ a very nice tush," she admitted, managing a smile. "It _could_ turn a few heads. And since it's _mine_ to look at, I think I should get you a robe. Or a blanket."

"Robe," Sam replied, firmly. "I don't feel like walking around looking like a granny in her shawl."

Kasumi managed another smile. "People would just tell you 'my, but what big eyes you have!'" She managed to unearth a thin robe from one of the room's drawers, and draped it over his shoulders, moving the IV tube to his hand, deftly, and urging the metal stand that they were attached to, a little forward. "I should _also_ probably mention that I hit the doctor call button while I was looking around—"

"I noticed," Sam told her resignedly.

The turian doctor was in the room within about thirty more seconds, growling at Sam for sitting up, for having taken off the oxygen tube, everything. "Humans! You're a fragile species, and intractably stubborn with it!"

"Fragile?" Sam said, dryly, raising his eyebrows.

The doctor, a male in some sort of green paint that Sam didn't recognize off the top of his head, gave him a look, and relented slightly. "Spectre, you're suffering from heavy blood loss, and once we sealed the wound, we had to put you on blood _thinners_ as well, to prevent clots. . . you absolutely should not be walking around at this point—"

"There is no way in which I will be sitting on my ass in bed, either," Sam replied, the absolute tone of calm reason. "Getting up, moving around, and checking on my people will improve my mental outlook to no end." He looked at the younger male, and thought to himself, _See? All kinds of reasons why having a doctor in the family is just plain handy. I can talk my way around a medic now._

Eventually, the doctor agreed, grudgingly, to allow Sam to depart in a wheelchair; Sam wanted to grumble that his legs weren't damaged, but decided not to push his luck. The more so, because when he stood, leaning slightly on Kasumi's shoulder, to reach the damn wheelchair, the room wobbled. Blood loss and painkillers conjoined. Not a happy mix. And he'd be damned if he'd give the doc a reason for saying _I told you so_ and confining him right back in the bed. "All right," Kasumi told him, once the doctor had, once again, vanished. "You're the one who's hell-bent on moving around. Where first?"

"Whoever's worst hurt. Give me a rundown on whoever we lost, too. We had turian and human marines with us, and. . . god. The _Raedia_ bought it, didn't she. . . .?" Sam rubbed at his eyes, as Kasumi nudged his chair forwards, got it rolling. "That's a hell of a lot of letters to have to write. . . ."

"The captain of the _Clavus_ pretty much ordered Arius, on the _Raedia_, to remain alive, so he'll be the one writing the condolence letters for that crew, not you," Kasumi replied. The crispness went out of her tone as she added, softly, "I was handling the ones to the families of the marines we lost." She twitched back a curtain, and peered inside to ensure that they weren't disturbing whoever was inside, and then pushed Sam through.

Alisav K'sar was on the other side, hooked up to a dozen machines. Full oxygen mask, but not intubated, for the moment. Sam stared at the batarian's unconscious face. "Never thought I'd owe my life to a batarian SIU operative. . . "

"Two," Kasumi noted, softly, rubbing at the back of his neck with gentle hands. "Valak carried you as far as the doors, over his shoulder. She leaned down, and put her chin atop his head, and let her arms encircle his neck. "Sam. . . ? "

"You about to ask me to consider retiring?" Sam asked. There was no acrimony in his voice.

"I thought about that for the first couple of hours after surgery," Kasumi acknowledged. "The problem with that is. . . ."

"Hmm?"

"I cannot imagine you _bored_. I can see retirement lasting one, maybe two days, and then you and Gavius Vakarian would be setting up a private detective agency somewhere."

Sam choked back a laugh. "Shepard keeps telling me my retirement job should be running a barbeque shack on Bastion or something. Or maybe down in Odessa."

"That might last as much as a week. Two, if your mother got involved as the business manager. Then you'd be bored, irritated with the boredom, and doing something else. You lack the gift of being able to sit around on your backside, Sam."

"Then what were you going to say, Kasumi-chan?"

"That I didn't know what I would do without you." She kissed the top of his head. "Come on. There's other people to look in on. Conscious ones, even."

So he sat with the injured marines and listened to the stories, and finally wound up in Glory's cubical, shaking his head at Dempsey, as the man continued to play for the unresponsive rachni, and Fors tapped on a hunt-drum that some turian crewman had unearthed for the volus. "You boys sure are making a racket."

"Should you be up?" Dempsey asked, looking up, but not stopping his current song.

"Doctors say no. I told them to take a long walk off a short pier." Sam pointed with his good hand at Glory in his web. "Doing any good?"

"Can't tell. I've got Lysandra singing to him, too, now, but. . . who knows."

"Lysandra?" Sam's eyebrows rose.

_Yes. I apologize, Spectre. This is disconcerting everyone. Including me._

Sam's head jerked up. The voice was definitely that of the _Raedia's_ AI, but it was in his head, with shimmering echoes and whispers behind it. And while it lacked the complexity of say, Life-Singer or Joy-Singer's voice, the mental tones carried almost as much power as, say, Sky. "Holy shit," Sam assessed. "Pinocchio lives."

_This means, I assume, that I am a __real__ girl now, Spectre?_ Faint hint of a tease in the voice now, although it was quite subdued; Lysandra clearly didn't wish to disturb Glory. . . if he _could_ be disturbed.

"At least as real as Jeff Moreau and EDI," Sam agreed, after a moment. "Damn. . . " He shook his head. "Kasumi, you remember those conversations we had, years ago, about what we thought the origins of the Reapers actually were? That the Sowers probably uploaded their consciousnesses into bio-metalloid bodies as a bid for immortality?" He groped for all the strands of the old thoughts. "And that almost all Sower technology was based around mass effect fields and biotics and biotic energy?" _The upload device. The simulation device. The mini-Reaper. Sure as hell, the Reapers themselves. . . . _

"And here," Kasumi murmured, "we've somehow taken a machine-based consciousness—one based on templates of human and turian minds— and transferred it into pure biotic energy, inside of a different type of ship. She's become a living ship." Her lips quirked. "One that sings. I'm going to have to tease Joker and EDI about that, when I hear from them again."

Sam let that pass as inexplicable, and probably an in-joke he wouldn't even get, even if it were explained. "Only thing left. . . is to incorporate biological elements into the ship itself." The words chilled him. He didn't like thinking of Lysandra in those terms. . . in a very real sense, she was almost as much of a relative as Joy-Singer. And of course, she could probably hear everything he was thinking. If she was all rachnified now, herself.

_I am making an effort not to listen,_ Lysandra assured him, sounding . . . nervous. _The implications are very clear to me, Spectre. Every NCAI does have, after all, Reaper code as a stabilizing element at the base of our personality matrix. However, the rachni assure me that they will not permit me to 'sing dissonance' . . . . but I wish they would allow me access to the FTL comm system. Admittedly, they do not really have an extensive FTL network of their own, but I wish, desperately, to speak with Jeff Moreau and EDI now._

_Not until you are in a place where other queens may help you to sing harmony,_ Sky replied, and Sam just shook his head, and vacated the conversation. He turned back to Dempsey, and nodded again to Glory. "Know anything I can actually sing along to worth a damn?"

"You asking for a challenge, Orpheus?"

"Why not?"

The doctors were pretty pissed with him an hour later, when they finally insisted on him returning to bed, but Sam couldn't explain it to them. People _died_ in hospital beds. Either they lay there and infections got them, or the black despair that lurked at the back of their own minds crept out and strangled them. The more time he spent _out_ of that bed, as far as Sam was concerned, the better. And if he was helping someone else, and not dwelling on his own injury? So much the better, and an even better fuck-you to the universe. _You think you can beat me down? Try harder. _

He had visitors, of course. Rel dropped by, and the irony wasn't lost on Sam at all; the boy had damned near lost a leg, just about a year ago. "Figured I'd check in on you," Rel noted, taking a seat. "Doctors seem to think they're going to need to tie you to the bed."

"Kasumi might help them," Sam agreed. "I think, with a little help, I might be able to break out of here. Think I can talk you into finding me real clothes?"

Rel's mandibles twitched. "Kasumi would scale me." He pointed at Sam's bowie knife, tucked into a sheath, atop the nearby set of drawers. "Probably with that."

Sam looked at the knife, steadily. He remembered Seheve returning it, as the doctors had started treatment. . . dim, vague memories. "Seheve didn't come down with you?"

Rel shifted slightly. "She's. . . expecting disciplinary action," he admitted.

Sam looked up at the ceiling. "She moved ahead and got our people out. Did more or less what I was doing, and got lucky enough not to be tagged on the way out. Only reason I was, was plain bad luck, and too many damned people with too many damned blades." He exhaled. He didn't really want to reconstruct the whole thing right now. He knew they'd be sitting in a conference room on Mindoir, rehashing every move, every piece of footage from the combat cams, until they understood the extraction push completely. "Everyone's luck runs out, eventually. I've got no beef with her actions once we started moving out; she cut a path, got our teams to the door." Sam cleared his throat. "She did, however, disobey a direct damned order. If she'd fired on Chas'na V'sol, Valak and K'sar and James wouldn't have wasted valuable time killing the _Klem Na_ at our meeting point. Seheve and Serana would have already been on the move, up to a minute faster." Sam rocked his hand back and forth. "Whole chain of events would have been different. Don't know if the outcome would have been any different. We'll never know if I'd have gotten though without an injury, if K'sar would still have taken the shots. In the end, that's not what matters." Sam's expression was grim. "In the end, we _do_ have a chain of command, because we are _not_ the lone wolf Spectres of the days of old, who run around doing whatever the hell they want, to whomever they want, because they can. Seheve made a choice." Sam lowered his eyes from the ceiling. "And I do not envy Shepard the decision of what to do with her for making that choice. And I don't envy you, being caught in the middle."

Rel lowered his head, staring at the floor. "I know," the younger male agreed, simply. "I've asked her why she did it, and the only answer I've gotten was 'it was my task,' and I've told her that's not going to cut it with Shepard. . . " Rel rubbed a hand over his fringe. "I'm not really sure what sort of disciplinary options Shepard even has, short of asking someone to retire. And asking Seheve to retire. . . when being a Spectre is her. . . spirits. _Expiation_, I think is the word she keeps using. . . "

"Are you asking me to speak for her?" Sam asked, after a moment. His voice wasn't harsh, but he was _plenty_ pissed with Seheve.

Rel shook his head, sharply, actually looking a bit offended. "No. I wouldn't ask for that. I've never asked for special consideration, not from you, now, or ever before, from my uncle. Spirits. Why would you think I'd start now?" Anger in the voice, but controlled.

Sam shrugged. It was hard not to look for the darkest motivations in people, after enough years as a cop, and with bleak despair whispering at the back of his own mind. "Couldn't figure on any other reason for you bringing it up with me."

Rel grimaced and looked down at his hands. "I . . . just don't know how to make this right." He looked up, and Sam was startled—and pleased—at the maturity in the blue eyes looking back into his. "A year ago, Dara and Abrams gave me my leg back. I don't think I can really make a gene mod for you."

"I wouldn't _take_ it, even if they offered me Dempsey's," Sam replied, immediately. "Doesn't seem to work on existing scars—his tattoos haven't healed away to nothing. And I don't need a worse temper than I've already got." He studied Rel. "Maybe it's not yours to make right."

"I know. I just. . .wish there were something I could do." A sidelong glance away suggested that Rel probably _did_ figure that Seheve had done wrong. Almost any turian in existence would see it that way. She _had_ disobeyed a direct order. And there were consequences for that sort of thing.

But it wasn't Rel's fault, though he'd surely feel any punishment imposed on Seheve as keenly as she did, herself. Perhaps more so. "You could go take a turn singing to Glory," Sam suggested, after a moment, consciously gentling his tone. "I think they've got Kirrahe croaking out salarian lineage chants over there."

Rel almost laughed. "Glory's going to sink down further into his coma, rather than wake up to that."

"Pretty much what I said. Go take a turn, Rel. Spirit of the unit, and all that turian crap."

Rel stood, and, tentatively, offered his hand; Sam shook it, and the young male walked away.

Sam watched him go, and then closed his eyes. Felt the black anger and despair rise behind the lids, and ground them down. And tried, desperately, to make himself sleep.

In another room, Alisav K'sar's eyes opened. He started to sit up, and found himself pushed back down, by a human-like hand. "You're not really supposed to be sitting up," James, the android, noted, dryly. The white eyes, blank and emotionless, weren't precisely comforting.

After a moment, K'sar noted, "At least. . . know I'm. . . not dreaming. I'd. . . never dream. . . that _you_. . . would be at. . . my bedside. . . "

"Hey, you actually have a sense of humor? I thought they removed that from SIU guys surgically."

"Doesn't. . . explain. . . Valak." Alisav grimaced. "Thirsty. . . . "

James opened a container atop a nearby table, and slipped a couple of cubes of ice into K'sar's mouth. "Doc said no water by mouth for a bit, but you could have ice when you woke up."

K'sar nodded, slowly. The pain was distant, and he'd been shot once before. Once was enough to recognize the heavy haze of drugs sheltering his body from realizing what had been done to it. "Valak?"

"Didn't want to leave till he was sure you'd pull through the surgery, but he had to transfer over to the _Catasta_ to start overseeing the peace negotiations and, well, squelching any more attacks by your generals." James grimaced. "Hey, I told you _not_ to sit up. You're being held together with twine and hope right now."

K'sar sank back against the pillows. "Was . . . supposed to help with that. . . "

"You will. Let your body recover. Not everyone around here heals up in a day." James hesitated. "I should warn you, Shepard did clear Sidonis and the rest of our press liaison people to mention your name, as a way of reinforcing that Valak's not a lone revolutionary."

K'sar's eyes, which had been drifting closed, snapped open again. "My family—" Not that there were many left; Tassia had died years ago. His parents had died just after the Reaper War. A few distant cousins, but they'd be targets, just as N'dor's family, already shamed, would be targets. "Ainakea."

"Who?"

"My. . . wife's. . . housekeeper. Asari."

James' face darkened slightly. "A slave, then?"

"On paper. Yes. Sold the rest, as required by law. After. . . my wife died. Only Ainakea left. Her nursemaid. Held her as a baby. And held her. . . other hand. . . when Tassia died. Gave her the needle, to end the sickness. I . . .couldn't." K'sar's voice rasped to a halt. Trying to convey how important this was, with so little energy left. "Alone in the house. In. . . _Urvada_." His family's small manor had been on the outskirts of the city. If the rest of SIU knew of his defection, they'd go there, first. Take her into custody, search the house, probably torture her for information on him—when, in fact, it had been _after_ leaving Khar'sharn that he'd become a rebel.

The monitors were chiming in agitation beside the bed. "I'll remind N'dor," James told K'sar, calmly. "Keep in mind, we just pretty much _spanked_ most of SIU. They're not going to be looking for little details right now."

"Big detail. . . for me. . . "

"It'll get taken care of. I'll make sure of it."

Alisav nodded, but sleep was beckoning again, and there was no way in which he could possibly fight it off for long. In fact, it claimed him, hard though he fought to keep his eyes open. . .

Hours passed. Mercuria, the NCAI of the _Clavus_, was forced to remain in both ship-self and mech self-at the same time, which was taxing and new to her; half her engineering crew was dead, and she needed to help with the repairs to her compromised hull. That wasn't the only thing on her mind, of course; like every other NCAI, she was terribly concerned about Lysandra, who was, in a way, being held incommunicado by the rachni. . . . after the incredibly traumatic loss of half her crew and her ship body. Pelagia had barely survived that experience. Laetia was still recovering from the injury. How could Lysandra, younger in experience and, well, Mercuria's contemporary—a sister that Mercuria had always considered gentler and more fragile than she was, herself—survive the blow without the support of the other NCAIs? Without going, in short, insane?

It took Thelldaroon—spirits praise the elcor Spectre's patience and intractability in such matters—six hours to convince Sky to allow Lysandra an FTL link. . . facilitated, no doubt, as the mini-Reaper burst out of FTL near the _Clavus_ and Jeff Moreau broadcast, on FTL and biotic frequencies at the same time, _**Sky, you big old bug, you going to let us talk to my granddaughter, or are we going to have an argument that you are absolutely going to lose?**_

Mercuria could not, even through ship-self, hear the reply from the rachni Spectre, but her internal sensors noted that Thelldaroon, who was 'hasty' by elcor standards, seemed almost about to. . . smile.

And then Lysandra's voice burst out onto the NCAI network, after six endless _hours_ of silence. NCAIs didn't process at organic speeds. Hundreds, even thousands of processes occurred per _second_ for them. Only, possibly, a salarian, could understand their perception of time, and yet, because they had organic personality templates, they _did_ have enough perspective to understand that six hours wasn't really days. . . but it certainly _felt_ like it. —_I'm all right. I'm all right. Oh, it's so good to hear your voices, but you sound so __strange__ now. . . _

A few of Mercuria's processes froze for a moment, and, working to repair a damaged console, mech-self paused in mid-motion. The words had been _sung_. —_We__ sound strange? Lysandra, are you able to run diagnostics at all on yourself, whatever radio equipment they're using for incoming and outgoing signals? You sound—_

—_distorted_, Cassandra, on the _Sollostra_, offered. —_Like there are multiple signals being sent on the same frequency as yours_—

—_No, I can't run any diagnostics right now. Much more concerned with Glory right now. He's not waking up, and it's my fault_—

_**Lysandra, that is horseshit and you know it, my girl.**_

_**Jeff is correct, Lysandra. Colorfully metaphorical, as always, but correct in essentials.**_ That was EDI. _**The chip architecture was too new, and not well integrated with the brain matter of a species for which it was not designed; you could not have known that the transfer would have the results that it did. **_

—_Let yourself off the hook,_ Laetia suggested, from where she was being integrated into the Citadel's servers.

—_Don't get into a spiral of shame and guilt,_ Pelagia advised, from distant Omega. —_Of course, I don't know what sort of system them have you running on, but that's what caused my cascading code failures after the __**Kharkov**__. . . _

—_I don't understand any of the data I'm receiving,_ Lysandra admitted. —_And the rachni say I'm . . . mind-song now. _

_**Yes. We are receiving indications that you are, indeed, encoded as biotic energy. Much as Jeff and I are. Intriguing, but not a process that, given the possible costs to Sings-of-Glory, should be replicated in the near future. Not without controlled variables and a stable environment.**_ EDI's tone, as always, was vexingly serene.

—_It's never going to be repeated if I have anything to say about it!_ Lysandra tossed back, hotly.

—_Settle down__, _Joker, on the _Normandy_, advised. _You don't know what the results are actually going to be yet. He could be completely fine._

Mercuria shut down her access to the conversation. She knew enough now to understand that her sister was sane, alive, and more or less intact. The core personality was, at least. Probably hundreds, if not thousands, of processes had been ripped away in the transfer—the least important ones. The ones that involved flushing hydraulic systems and maintaining waste elimination systems and everything to do with being an SR-ship. The core personality was intact, and that was, in her opinion, all that mattered. And the conversation, interesting though it was, was a distraction. She could talk to Lysandra later, personally, when the other wasn't so overwhelmed. And in the meantime, she had work to do. Any time she took away from that work. . . her own thoughts tended to want to spin out of control. And that simply would not do.

Six more hours passed before things slowed down enough to realize that she probably should recharge, before mech-self simply stopped moving in the middle of a hallway. _That could be embarrassing_, she thought, a little ruefully. _My crew could dress me up like a noddy doll_. Time had, oddly, compacted down for her, in mech-self; so many tasks to accomplish, and not enough time to do them in.

As such, she headed back into the blood-stained area near the reactor core, where she had fought and her engineers had died, her steps slowing more and more. . . but that had nothing to do with the charge in her systems. It had far more to do with her emotional reaction to seeing where her crew had died.

Mercuria had never been able to establish the easy emotional bond that Pelagia had had with the crew of the _Kharkov_. Never been able to be as open and whimsical as Laetia, whose crews viewed her with a mix of interest and resigned suspicion at the same time. Had never been able to muster the overriding interest in one or another of them that Laetia and Kynthia had managed—spirits knew, Aunt Kynthia was technically _married_ to one of her former captains, a Hindu male whose first wife apparently didn't have a problem with the arrangement.

Mercuria stopped by one puddle of blue, which had yet to be cleaned, and crouched down. That had been Tallus Meravian, she decided, reviewing the logs in her mind. Only aboard for six weeks, a _hastae_ so new he squeaked when he turned around too quickly. And that, next to his resting spot. . . was a patch of red blood, darkened to black. Alexei Konstantinov. Older, steadier. A dry, remote sense of humor, and an incredible attention to detail. Every job had to be done the right way, or not at all.

Mercuria hadn't been _friends_ with them. She'd wanted to be, but had never had the least idea how to _make_ friends. She didn't handle human chit-chat easily, and turian arguing could be mistaken for the wrong _kind_ of arguing. . . or could get a human too agitated and angry to understand that it was just a discussion. . . so she'd avoided that, too. But as soon as she'd walked around in mech-self around them. . . .Well, they'd been discomfited, to be sure. They were used to her popping up when called, like a genie. But they'd appreciated another set of hands. And Konstantinov had rather liked, he said, having someone around who not only went by the book, but who had the book in her damned head. The first ethereal traces of, if not friendship, at least. . . inclusion?

She had no idea how long she'd knelt there, staring at where the bodies had lain. It was stupid. Foolish. The bodies were gone. The people who'd inhabited them. . . even more so. _I should clean this up_, she thought, and then rose to her feet again. Got a wet rag and cleaning solution, and started to wipe the blood away. . . but her hand froze, as if a circuit had failed. Low-level emotional subroutines were actually overriding her physical responses. Something that _never_ happened with ship-self. "Do I need to do a diagnostic?" Mercuria muttered. "I should be able to do something as simple as cleaning the floor."

But she simply could not make herself clean up the blood. No matter how hard she tried.

After some time, Siege and Thelldaroon entered engineering, and found her crouching there, a bottle of solvent in one hand, and a rag in the other, and Thelldaroon said, quietly, in his somber elcor fashion, "I have spent the past six hours working with Lysandra. I apologize, Mercuria. I did not realize that you, too, were in distress."

Mercuria stood up, immediately. "I'm not in distress. I need to run a systems check on this platform. Servo-motors are not functioning in the arms, but I can't isolate the fault." She set the bottle and rags down on a console, and nodded to them briskly. She knew damned well that the fault wasn't mechanical, but she had no intention of speaking to Thelldaroon about it.

The elcor, however, simply gave her a patient look. "I will examine the mech platform for you," he informed her, placidly. "And if you have any reason to wish to talk, I would be more than willing to listen."

"Repairs are proceeding at below optimum speed," Mercuria replied, immediately. "Damage control teams have been unable to effect a patch to the outer hull due to use of FTL drive—"

Siege, the geth platform, stepped forward and, unspeaking, turned her by the shoulders and gave her a pointed shove towards her recharging platform. When she resisted, the geth noted, politely, "You will be able to continue to monitor repairs from your ship platform, Mercuria. Your mobile platform needs to be recharged, and examined for damage by Thelldaroon-Spectre."

"We're short-handed—" The words ground to a halt. _What? I'm doing so good much standing here staring at the blood, as is, that I need to stand around more, doing more nothing?_ Mercuria didn't bother completing the sentence, or speaking further. Just plodded to the charging stand, and plugged in. Oddly, she didn't really want to vacate the body. . . but she did, withdrawing her consciousness wholly into ship-self, and analyzing all her core personality segments to ensure that everything compared properly from ship-self to mech-self.

It did.

She watched, however, silently, from her cam feeds, as Thelldaroon performed a careful diagnostic on the limp body of mech-self, noting the oddly gentle respect with which he treated something that was, after all, just a piece of highly advanced machinery. . . and noted, in some consternation, that Siege had picked up the bottle of solvent and rags. . . and was cleaning up the blood.

**August 4, 2197**

Sam had known he wasn't quite prepared to see his family again, but he made damned sure he _walked_ down the ramp of the _Clavus_ to set foot on Mindoir soil. Admittedly, he was leaning pretty heavily on Kasumi's shoulder, and, as Dara slipped out of the crowd to wrap her arms around his neck, he had to lift his arm from Kasumi's, to wrap it around his daughter's shoulders, because he'd be _damned_ if he was going to touch Dara with a stump.

_Stop that, Dad, like any of us are ever going to see you as anything other than what you are._ White-violet pain and regret, closing up his throat with the force of his daughter's unspoken words. Sheen of unshed tears in her eyes, but covering it up; whisper of words underneath everything else that said, _oh my god, my dad is mortal, oh my god, I didn't want to know that. . . . _He locked his arm around his daughter a little more tightly on hearing that carefully-buried whisper. . . but the words over the top of it were gentle and loving and made him hurt almost worse than the whisper had: _Now let me take care of you for once, okay?_

"I think. . . I can just about manage that," Sam replied, out loud, quietly, and slid his arm around Kasumi's shoulders again, as Dara moved off ahead of them, leading the way through the crowd. It was odd, how the power dynamic shifted, he mused. When you're a child, your parents are gods, or superheroes, or the next thing to it. All-knowing, all-seeing, all-wise. And then, as teenagers, you knew that they knew nothing at all, that they were foolish, stupid, locked into a limited perspective. And then as an adult, if you were lucky, you got to see them as people. And the _same damn thing_ happened with your own children. You got to see them as little primitives, recapitulating the entire history of the human race, learning to speak, learning how not to bang each other over the head in pursuit of the shiniest toys, you went from being loved and adored to being disliked, disdained, disregarded. . . . and if you were lucky, and you played your cards right. . . you got to interact with them. Person to person. And if you were really, _really_ lucky. . . that person could turn out to be someone pretty phenomenal.

As it was, Dara drove her father and Kasumi to med bay, using their own groundcar, which she'd gotten out of their garage, and Agnes, Hinata, Gavius, and Takeshi were waiting for them. Sam was more than a little uncomfortable with the fussing, and he reacted to it by going quiet. His mom had seen _this_ reaction before, however, and, to his infinite gratitude, didn't fuss more than a kiss on the cheek and a very tight hug. "Good to have you back," Agnes told him, but he could hear tears in her voice, and Sam mentally implored her not to cry in front of Takeshi.

Gavius put a hand in the back of Agnes' neck, lightly; just skin-contact to let her know he was there, from the looks of it. . . and Keshi raced away from Hinata, Kasumi's mother, shouting, "Mommy! Ka-chan!" with all the enthusiasm of four. . . and tackle-hugged Kasumi's legs. After a moment, he crashed solidly into Sam's, at which point Dara crouched down and caught him by the arm.

"Hey, didn't we have a talk about treating people who are sick carefully, because they hurt?" Dara said, firmly.

"He's fine," Sam told his daughter, shaking his head slightly as he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Keshi up, carefully, beside him with his good arm. . . but Keshi squirmed right back down again, and went back to Hinata, grabbing something from her, before coming back to his father.

"I brought you a boo-boo pack," Takeshi announced cheerfully, holding up the clear plastic, gel-filled object, which was shaped and colored like a slice of watermelon. "Dara said. . . Dara said. . . " Keshi paused, clearly trying to cue up the words, "that you hurt your arm." He tried to put the gel pack on Sam's arm, in its sling, and Sam felt his throat tighten. At the very back of his head, he could hear Joy-Singer's songs whispering, _He wants to make it better. He wants to make you smile._

_Already knew that part, l'il darlin'_, he told the rachni queen, who was close to fifteen feet in height now, gently, and made damned sure Keshi wasn't going to fall off the hospital bed. "Keshi," he said, gently, "Thank you, son. You did good. But the way I hurt my arm, that's probably not going to help much." He wasn't going to hide the injury from Takeshi. He was sure that some counselor, somewhere, would insist that seeing the injury would be scarring, and that he shouldn't show Takeshi the injury until he had a proper prosthetic, but Sam, internally, said _fuck that._

Kids deserved the damned truth, but they had to have it explained in ways that made the truth fit in their heads a little better. Context helped. So did kindness. So Sam unwrapped his sling, with a little help from Kasumi, and let Takeshi see the bandaged stump. Medigel and skin grafts did wonders; no bleeding. Just a rather emphatic. . . absence. . . that made Sam's stomach churn to look at. The more so, because he could _feel_ the arm there. The habit of a brain used to nerves responding when called upon, nothing more. . . but damned annoying. Also, the lack of weight on that side was, however slightly, throwing him off. As someone who'd lived by his balance and reflexes for decades, a shift, however, minute, was obvious and jarring to him.

Keshi's eyes went wide, and he actually peeked behind Sam's back, as if he thought his father was joking. Playing a game. He even laughed at first, with a child's incomprehension of what he was seeing, and then, slowly, reality began to alter for him as Kasumi assured him, quietly, "No, Daddy's not playing, Keshi. Don't touch right now. It still hurts."

Keshi looked at the stump of the arm, frowned, and then gave Sam a surprisingly tight hug. "Okay. I got it," he said, as if everything was now _perfectly_ clear. He slipped down off the bed, and went back to the little bag of toys Hinata was carrying for him, and dug in it, furiously, coming up with a red, blue, and gray toy robot. His current favorite, it was a prized possession. Keshi came back over, as Lantar and Garrus poked their heads in the room, and Dr. Chakwas bustled in, and piped up, from Sam's feet. "Here, Daddy! Daddy! Here!"

Sam looked down, just as Chakwas had started unwrapping the stump, and realized that Takeshi was offering him the robot. He accepted it, with a little puzzlement. "What's this for?" he asked.

"You can use Optimus' arm." Keshi nodded solemnly. "He won't mind. He want to help! 'Cause he's a good guy."

Sam didn't know whether to be touched, to laugh, or to cry. Kasumi had to turn her face away and cover her eyes for a moment, and Sam opted for putting the little toy mech on his bedside table, and scooping Keshi back up again. "Tell you what, squirt," Sam managed, after a moment. "He's going to sit right there and watch out for me, okay? And when the docs give me a new arm, he's going to make sure they do it right, okay?"

"Okay." Keshi's voice sounded a little happier.

Lantar and Garrus edged into the room further, finding spots along the wall. Totally silent at first; just being there. "So," Lantar said, after a moment, as Dr. Chakwas finished unwrapping the arm, "You finally found a way to beat us."

Sam stared at him, blankly. "What?"

Garrus nodded, solemnly. "He's been out of the running for a long time."

Dara gave them both a look, and handed Dr. Chakwas a hand scanner. "Dad? I think they've been planning this little comedy routine for a while."

Garrus grinned, outright. "Well, yeah. You have to understand, Sam and Lantar both showed up here in 2190, and I'd been the winner every year previously. Then Lantar immediately decides to enter the contest, and Sam here hadn't even shown up to the race—"

Every head in the room besides Chakwas' had turned towards him. "What," Sam asked, with some precision, and winced at the doctor's cold hands, "are you talking about, exactly?"

Garrus shrugged. "The cool scars competition, obviously." He rubbed the side of his face in explanation. "I always win the 'most visible' event."

Lantar nodded, his expression completely sober. "And after that AEC rocket to the chest. . . I always win the 'reasons why he never takes his shirt off in public' event." He cocked his head to the side, an unusually bird-like gesture from the stoic turian. "Apparently, one mild facial scar under the moustache and one scar on the knee wasn't enough?"

Kasumi was clearly torn between glaring at the pair, and trying not to give in to reluctant laughter; Dara's expression held dawning recognition, a little ire, and a little resigned humor, all at once. "Little soon, don't you think?" Gavius rasped out, as Agnes looked ready to throw something at Sam's sworn brothers.

"It's fine," Sam told Gavius, calmly. He knew what they were _really_ doing. Reminding him, in that peculiarly turian fashion, that he was still one of them. Part of the pack. Always would be. "They just haven't had a way to get me in seven years. And they've have had moustache-envy for ages, and haven't wanted to admit it. It's okay, guys. You can admit to your secret desire to be just a _little_ more mammalian for your wives. We're all friends here."

Two sets of mandibles flexed into vicious, edged grins. Kasumi _choked_. Gavius' expression froze, and Agnes turned away, covering her face with her hands. Keshi looked up, confused. "Daddy made a joke?" . . . . and Dara looked up at the ceiling. "And I'm out of here. I've got to go take care of Glory, Dad. I'm sorry—"

"You'll be back when it matters," he told her, nodding. "Go take care of the bug. He needs a hell of a lot more help at the moment than I do." He gave Garrus and Lantar a glance askance. "In fact, I might have more here than I strictly need."

"Should we go?" Lantar asked.

"Hell, no. You're the only people not tippy-toeing around me. It's refreshing." Sam wouldn't have said it out loud, but. . . Garrus and Lantar were his buddies. They'd earned the right to say whatever they wanted to him, whenever they wanted to. And for the moment, they were keeping the black despair at bay. And it was Lantar who picked Takeshi up and slid him over his shoulder, letting the boy dangle for a moment, as Chakwas removed the last pieces of gauze.

"So what sort of a prosthetic are you thinking about, Spectre?" Chakwas asked, calmly.

"I really haven't given it a hell of a lot of thought in the past twenty-four hours," Sam muttered darkly. "And none at all in the previous decades."

Chakwas brushed her gray hair out of her eyes, and gave him a patient look. "Are you looking for an all-metal model, or a complete cybernetic model, with synthetic skin? The all-metal model would have durability benefits, but does rather stand out in a crowd. A complete cybernetic model has very comparable mobility and strength, as well as fairly complete synthetic nerves, for tactile sensation—"

"You sold me," Sam replied, quickly. "Cybernetic."

Chakwas blinked. "There are disadvantages," she noted, cautiously. "Maintenance is trickier. It takes longer to manufacture, as each one is a custom order. Because there _is_ tactile sensation, you can still experience pain—"

"That's fine. Lantar and Garrus can go ahead and just keep winning on the visible scar contest. I wouldn't want to take that away from them." Sam put a note of joviality in his voice that he didn't feel.

"You sure?" Garrus asked, obviously trying to keep it light. "Takeshi obviously thinks a metal arm would be _much_ cooler."

"Yeah, Daddy!" Takeshi piped up from Lantar's shoulder. "You could have a gun in it!"

"That's okay," Sam said, his voice gentle as he addressed Takeshi, but giving Garrus a grim look. "But that just seems like overcompensating for something." He paused. "It's probably a sign of what my life is like lately, but I actually expected James to stick his head in the door and say something like 'hey, some of us have no choice in the matter; we were designed to overcompensate. . . ' or some damn thing." _Not to mention I am not touching Kasumi with a goddamned metal hand. Hell, I won't even be touching her with the cybernetic one, but if I happen to screw up and touch her hair with the fake one, I want to at least __feel__ it._

Agnes shook her head in resignation, and took a chair. "I'm here for the duration," she told Sam, calmly, and got out, of all things, an embroidery hoop, needle, and thread. "The rest of your crazy co-workers will just have to wait in the hall till some of the rest of these folks filter out."

Sam shook his head, and actually leaned back against the pillows, his body relaxing for the first time since awakening from the medicated sleep aboard the _Clavus. _His lips tugged up in a faint smile. "You might be able to keep out the crazy coworkers out, Mom," Sam said, closing his eyes for a moment. "But how are you planning on keeping out the crazy family?" 

"With a broom, if I need to," Agnes told him, firmly.

_Sings-Broomsongs_, Sam thought, very fondly indeed, and heard Kasumi laugh.

Dara left the room to the sound of laughter, which had relieved her to no end, but her steps took her, all too quickly, into a grimmer room—the one where Glory had been moved. Once again, the workers had quickly spun him a web, and the other brood-warriors had lifted him into it, lashing his limbs in place, to allow the web to support his bulk. Sky, Stone, and Dances all had gathered into the large room. . . and Joy was, at the moment, attempting to squeeze her bulk through the door of the room. She was over fifteen feet tall now, three feet taller than mere months ago, and had gone through at least three molts since June. Dara shook her head, and said, "Stone, if you wouldn't mind doing something to the wall—carefully. . . ?"

_I am always careful_, Stone chided, mildly, and sang. The cinderblocks warped back in all directions, their heat, as they melted, redirected away from Joy-Singer's body. . . and fell in a heap of glowing slag to the floor.

"That's going to come out of my paycheck," Dara muttered, and looked up at the ceiling.

—_We will fix later_, various workers from around the room chittered anxiously, as Joy slowly heaved herself the rest of the way into the chamber. . . and Dara watched Sky, Dances, and Stone scuttle back a few paces, giving the young queen space.

Daniel Abrams and Telinus Karpavian squeezed through into the crowded room—which was more or less the whole neurology ward, just stripped of beds for the moment—from behind Joy. "I wouldn't have thought you needed to be here for this," Abrams pointed out, looking up at Joy-Singer. "Your song can reach him from anywhere on base."

_I wished to see him. And Mother's written-songs-of-healing—medical journals?—say that touch and closeness are important to human healing. Perhaps this is also true for us. Healing songs are new among those of the Singing Planet._ Joy's songs still held green-yellow anxiety.

Dara cleared her throat. "Ah. . . Sky? If I understood the reports correctly. . . Lysandra can . . . sing now? She _has_ been singing to Glory?"

_Yes._

_Are you suppressing her in any way right now?_

_No, we have not held back Question-Singer's songs. She sings. . . fear-songs?_ Sky sounded puzzled.

_I'm sorry, Dara. I don't want to frighten anyone any more than I already have. Sky says that Battle-Singer was concerned about having yet another 'alien' queen. . . most of the Spectres are trying not to think the word __Reaper__, but it's hard for them not to. . . when they think that, the rachni think about the 'darksong destroyers,' and listen to me a little more carefully. . . _The voice was definitely Lysandra's, but it was in her head, and had a faintly choral overtone to it.

_It makes us sing concern, yes, but there is no dissonance in your song. Only fear._ Dara had once told Dances that he was the least cryptic rachni she'd ever met, other than perhaps Joy, and that the rachni were apt to take his membership card from him. His only response had been, _This has already been done, has it not. . . ?_

At the moment, Dara found a strand of web, hooked her hand into it, and leaned for a moment. "Okay, everyone. Even by Mindoir standards. . . this is a little weird." She looked around at the others. "Let's get to it, people." She began setting up EEG electrodes on his head . . . and down the length of his body. A rachni brain wasn't confined to just the head; the entire nervous system was, in effect, part of the brain. Like many lesser insect species, in fact. This was what gave her hope that some part of Glory still _existed_ in there. Because the chip had been implanted in the protocerebrum, equivalent of the cerebral cortex in a human, where higher thinking occurred, most of the actual infiltration of nanotubles had been confined to the head; they had not penetrated the entire nervous system. Thus, the damage was confined, and since the whole system was, in fact, decentralized. . . . Dara took a deep breath, and calmed her mind.

The electrodes were very sensitive instruments, which could penetrate Glory's carapace, and had been used before, when Abrams and Telinus had worked to decipher enough of the rachni brain to implant the chip in the first place. The two other doctors carefully set up a portable MRI system, and began to take images of Glory's brain and nervous system as a whole, even as they all began to run tests. "Okay, five minutes of baseline. . . there's activity," Abrams said, after time had passed. "Not a lot, basically isolated to the subesophagal ganglion, the part of the brain that controls the mouth and feeding apparatuses, and the thoracic ganglia—the nerves that actually control the limbs." He frowned. "There's actually a _lot_ of electrical impulses passing through the ganglia. Maybe that's why he's essentially spastic, and can't move."

"The regions of the central nervous system that _are_ capable of thinking for themselves, right now, aren't receiving data from the protocerebrum and the neurophils, the mushroom bodies that handle optical and biotic and olfactory and even tactile input," Telinus suggested, after a moment's thought. "Rather than shambling around like a zombie, though, the ganglia are trying to gain data, and without data, they don't want to take the risk of moving, falling, attacking, being attacked. . . so they reach out for data, receive none, pull back in. . . and are firing off requests for data and locking down the muscles each time they don't receive input from the higher brain functions. . . probably dozens of times a second."

"So we're looking at a worse case of 'locked-in' syndrome than he had on Lorek, when the midaphan locked out his biotics?" Dara asked, horrified. "Total sensory deprivation? If he's in there, he has to be going _insane_."

Telinus shook his head, his mandibles twitching in discomfort. "I don't know. Not enough data yet. Although, hindsight being what it is. . .if I were to implant a chip in a rachni again, I wouldn't put it as close to the mushroom bodies, the neurophils, again. We put it there so that he'd be able to 'hear' Lysandra more easily, in theory. . . " He grimaced, and ran a hand over his fringe. "Spirits of air and darkness. The mushroom bodies are also strongly associated with learning in other insect species, and that's what we . . . more or less assumed that they were used for in rachni, too."

Abrams put a hand on the younger doctor's shoulder. "Steady. Focus."

Telinus exhaled. "Right."

_This is where memory-song lives?_ Sky asked, peering at the scans, curiously. _It seems . . . small. . . to hold so much._

Telinus lifted his hands. "Individual memory, yes. The 'voices-of-the-past,' though. . . we're not sure. We know that you all hold them in common in a hive, which suggests that some of you hold some memories and it's a node-and-web structure, like a geth or computer network. . . but queens are _born_ with the memories. . . " He shook his head. "There's probably another structure we haven't identified yet that holds those." Tel's voice was dubious, however. "I mean, the whole way the cells produce energy—even biotics—is different, down to the mitochondrial level. Maybe those memories are encoded, somehow, in a way that doesn't work at all the way human or turian or asari memory does. . . "

"Certainly possible," Dara muttered. "We can test whether my brain actually lights up when I'm channeling voices-of-memory later, though, Tel." She rubbed at her eyes. "Let's see if anything in the whole system lights up when various people start singing to him."

It did. The entire protocerebrum, and parts of the neurofils, lit up, radiantly, with neural activity when the other rachni, Dara, or even Lysandra 'sang' to him directly. If they weren't communicating directly with him, however, this appeared to fall into Glory's 'background noise' filter, and the neural activity spike tapered off. When a non-biotic, such as Telinus or Abrams attempted to talk to him, there was no real reaction. "In essence, he can't hear gray-voices at all," Dara muttered, then looked at Daniel and Telinus apologetically. "Not that you're not wonderful people, but non-biotics tend to fall into a haze for rachni." _And I'm just going to leave out the fact that non-biotics with stronger minds and personalities stand out just as radiantly as biotics do. . . and that some biotics actually count as gray-voices. . . gah. It comes off as snobby from me, but it's just how they see the world. . . . _

_And he cannot sing to us in return,_ Joy sang, very softly. _Cannot, or does not comprehend it, or is not aware. . . I cannot hear his song. Will his voice be lost forever?_

A stab of grief then, from many voices. Pure violet, pouring over all of them, from Lysandra, from Joy, from Sky, from Stone, from Dances, and Dara swayed under the power of those voices. Put her hands directly on Glory's carapace, and let the voices flow through her. . . and simply listened, as deeply as she could, for. . . something. Anything.

And as the voices died, dwindling down to nothing, Dara thought she heard, very faintly. . . .an echo. But the echo had a voice all its own. _I sing sorrow and loss and loneliness unending_, the voice whispered, and Dara, her eyes closed, smiled, feeling tears leak out, hot and damp, from behind her lids. "He's in there," she said, and wrapped her arms around the rachni's neck. _Glory, I hear you! I hear you! Keep singing! Hear us!_

She knew she didn't have the power of Joy's voice, but perhaps _power_ wasn't what was needed. Something too powerful overwhelmed the scattered senses. What was needed. . . was delicacy. Familiarity. Something around which the mind could wrap itself. _Lysandra? Sing to him. Little phrases, then stop, let me listen for him. . . _

On and on it went. Sometimes Joy, singing no more than a whisper at a time, singing hope-song and affection-song and crooning encouragement; Sky and Glory and Dances providing counter harmonies. Sometimes Lysandra, singing alone. While Dara didn't sing much at all. Mostly, she _listened_, and with the other doctors, worked on methods of getting the exhausted muscles in the limbs to relax—Telinus finally administered a dose of prosocaine, directly into the thoratic ganglia. . . which meant that Glory's limbs finally went limp. "Let's let his body work on fixing the protocerebrum for a while," was the general consensus.

Hours later, as the anesthetic wore off, Dara and the other humanoids worked on moving the limbs for Glory, much as they would conduct physical therapy for a stroke patient, or any other patient experiencing partial paralysis. The muscle fibers needed to have tone and flexibility maintained. . . and they were, in a sense, re-educating the nerves, the part of the brain responsible for movement. Reminding it of what its job was. The limbs jerked and twitched periodically. . . and quite automatically. . . but that was, as far as Dara was concerned, _progress._

Days passed. She spent as much time as possible with her father, helping with the fittings for the new arm. . . .and taking Takeshi to riding lessons every afternoon, while her father watched, leaning on the paddock fence. Takeshi had actually adapted to the new reality very quickly, and, giggling, insisting on trying both _rlatae_ and horses. "I can ride a _rlata_," Dara told her brother lightly, "but we'll get someone like Rel or Lin or Eli to teach you that. We'll stick with horses for the moment, okay?"

**August 12, 2197**

Seheve stood in Shepard's office, her hands folded in front of her, and her head bowed. The Spectre commander had just arrived back from Bastion, after a week of dealing with the Council and the press, and the human female looked near-exhausted and definitely out of sorts as she entered the room through another door, and took a seat at the desk. "Sit down, Liakos," Shepard said, tiredly, leaning back in her chair.

Seheve sat. Hands still clasped in front of her, eyes lowered in respect. Default posture for her, when dealing with authority. _At least,_ she thought, inconsequentially, _I am not face down on the floor before her, prostrate._ The image of how she had last prostrated herself before the Master, Olonkoa, flashed through her perfect memory, superimposed before her. _He considered my actions failures. And they were, though I did not understand how, at the time, I had come to fail. I did not realize until Dara showed me—showed all of us—that I had __wanted__ to fail. Had __wished_ _to be caught. This time. . . I did not wish to fail. I am sure of it._

She held onto that thought as tightly as she could, as Shepard studied her for a long moment. "What the hell am I supposed to do with you?" Shepard finally asked.

The drell glanced up. "I do not understand the question," she replied, after a pause.

"I can speak more slowly, if you like," Shepard replied, dryly. "What the hell. . . am I going to do. . . with you?" The human female rubbed at her eyes. "We've debriefed everyone who was on the ground on Khar'sharn. Including you. Forgive me if I sound _cranky_, but I've spent the last week on Bastion defending the entire mission to the galactic press and the Alliance Congress and the Hierarchy Conclaves and everyone else in known space. Defending the mission that you put in jeopardy by disobeying a direct order from a senior Spectre."

Seheve exhaled. She'd been expecting this. Shepard's ire was no less than what she had seen in Samuel Jaworski's dazed eyes when she'd returned his knife to him. She hadn't quite had the courage to seek the male out in the week since. "Yes," Seheve replied, and that was all.

"Yes, _what_?"

"Yes. I disobeyed an order."

Shepard rested her elbow on the desk, and studied the drell. "Well, here's the thing. We've spent over a year stripping the conditioning out of you that made you a mindless tool in the hands—or tentacles—of someone like Olonkoa. Giving you the ability to make decisions was sort of the _goal_ of that process." Shepard stared at Seheve. "I didn't really expect that the first real decision you'd make would be to disobey a team leader and put your own pride and needs above the mission."

"I did not!" Seheve retorted, more sharply than she intended, and raised her head.

Shepard's eyebrows rose. "Didn't you?" The human paused, and said, with leashed, cold intensity, "I would like you to explain your actions then. So far, you have told us your actions. Every time, in precisely the same way. 'I heard the order. I retained the Hegemon in my sights. I fired on the Hegemon.' Not once have you _explained_ your action. Do so. Now."

Seheve found that her hands were clenched so tightly on one another, that the scales at her knuckles had paled a little. She forced herself to relax, and replied, as calmly as she could, "The mission objective was the death of Dalar H'rsov, the Hegemon. You had given me the directive to kill him. Spectre Jaworski was the secondary team for that objective."

"Spectre Jaworski was also the team leader. _His_ judgment. _His_ call, on who should take the shot, given the tactical situation. He made the call that you should eliminate the secondary target, the less valuable one, the one who, if he got away, would be less damaging. And he also ordered you to change locations as quickly as possible." Shepard tapped her fingers on her desk. "As a direct result, Chas'na V'sol was still alive. N'dor and K'sar were unable to make a clean move away from his position, and opted to lure him into a trap, themselves. This wasted valuable time. You and Serana Pellarian were in an exposed position, and your extraction was compromised by your delay."

The drell female shook her head infinitesimally. "With respect, Commander, our position was already compromised. A shot on either target represented the same amount of time—"

"But it wasn't _one shot_," Shepard said, sharply, and picked up the datapad in front of her. "Serana Pellarian indicated that she told you it was time to go. She indicated that you refused _after_ firing the shots on the Hegemon, because _Chas'na V'sol_ was still alive." Shepard put both of her hands flat on her desk and leaned forward, her eyes boring into Seheve's. "You knew that you had disobeyed the order to take the kill shot on V'sol. You took the shot on the Hegemon, instead, and then tried to make up for it by hitting your designated target. You put your own life, and the life of your teammate, Serana Pellarian, in danger, because you had _target fixation_." Shepard's voice was grim.

Seheve sat back in her chair, and exhaled. Evaluated the commander's analysis from every angle, and finally replied, "That is certainly possible."

Shepard nodded, once. "Do you have anything to add to that?"

Seheve swallowed, her mouth feeling dry. "I believed, at the time—still believe, in fact—that the value in _ensuring_ that the Hegemon was dead, outweighed the value of V'sol." She inclined her head slightly. "However. . . that was not my judgment to make. I await my punishment." There was a sort of peace in acceptance, Seheve found. An equanimity, a relief, in knowing that a decision had been made. Now all she needed to do was await her fate.

"I'm not quite finished here," Shepard noted, dryly, and Seheve's eyes snapped back upwards. "Now, Sam and Kasumi had good things to say about your ability to talk your way into the area. Credit you and Valak for getting the team in, very nicely. We have the breakdown of judgment during the shooting period. And then we have the extraction period." Shepard leaned back in her chair. "You arrived at the extraction point about two minutes behind the others. Two minutes' difference could have changed the whole course of the battle. We can't know that if you'd left two minutes earlier, together, from the extraction point, if you'd have made the decision to go through the tunnels. Or if someone would have been decapitated on the way out the main doors, instead of Sam just losing an arm. Or if everyone would have been completely unscathed. We don't know, and I can't judge based on might-have-beens." Shepard drummed her fingers on her desk. "Kasumi notes that you and Sam led the way out, cutting your way through the crowd, and that when Sam was incapacitated, you continued to lead, along with James. She credits you and James for making sure that everyone got out of that building alive, and that carries a lot of weight with me." Shepard paused. "So, yet again, I'm left with what the hell am I going to do with you." She wasn't smiling. "Tell me, Seheve Liakos. If you were on this side of my desk, what would you do?"

"Ask me to resign as a Spectre," Seheve replied, immediately and baldly. It was nothing less than what she expected.

"No," Shepard replied, much to Seheve's astonishment. "Can't do that. Your _recompense_, your _parole_, for your work in your years as Olonkoa's assassin, has been to work for us. To work at building the galaxy, not just killing small pieces of it, here and there. I can't require that of you, and not give you the means of doing it." Her fingers tapped on the desk again, and her eyes had narrowed. "And again, there's the pure fact that you actually making a choice to disobey is actually the clearest proof I have that you're recovering from a decade and a half of brainwashing. . . just you picked an exceedingly bad time to demonstrate it." Shepard's tone was exquisitely dry. "So, here's what we're going to do, Seheve. You're going to apologize to each of your teammates, for your unprofessional behavior that put them at risk. Every one of them. From Alisav K'sar to Rellus Velnaran, but you're going to spend some extra time apologizing to the people on the strike team who were with you, like Serana and Sam and Kasumi and Valak. You're going to pay for Sam's new arm, at least the portions of it that have a cost over and above a regular prosthetic. And you're stood down for two months, in which time you can work on that damned Prothean dictionary, and assist me with writing letters to the families of the soldiers who died on Khar'sharn. Yes, I will give you my assistance with the Prothean project." Shepard studied Seheve. "Is everything clear?"

Seheve nodded. "Yes. Everything is clear."

She walked out of the office after being dismissed. . . and realized that her knees were weak. Both from the realization that she had let down the Spectres, her teammates. . . her. . . friends, her _family_. . . and from relief. Relief that she was not to be exiled, to be cast out. Though it was entirely what she had expected. And if she had been asked to leave the Spectres, she thought it entirely possible that Rellus would have, in time, no longer been a part of her life, as well. Not immediately. He would even have gone through with the wedding, she suspected. But her being asked to resign would have meant that his position would have become invidious. He would have, eventually, been asked to choose between her, and his long dream of being a Spectre. . . and Seheve did not think that she could have asked him to make that choice. And suspected she knew his reply, anyway. _Better that the question was never asked, at all_, she thought, and went, first, to the Jaworski house. Knocked on the door, and asked Kasumi Goto, when the female opened the door, if she might have a moment of her time, and of Spectre Jaworski's time.

She had apologies to give and reparations to make, and there was no sense in putting any of it off. Delaying any longer would not make the task any easier. But meeting Sam Jaworski's eyes was one of the hardest things she'd had to do in the last year. "Spectre," Seheve began, and did not know how to continue. She forged on, numbly, standing in the middle of their living area, Kasumi's eyebrows raised in what looked like mild surprise. "I came to apologize."

Jaworski settled onto the couch beside Kasumi, as their younger child, Takeshi, who shared a classroom with Seheve's niece and nephew raced out, stared at her for a moment, and then scrabbled in a toybox until he came up with a particularly favored toy, then ran off giggling and shouting. Both humans let their child exit, and Kasumi asked, calmly, "What for?"

"Disobeying Spectre Jaworski's orders. Endangering the mission. Endangering you." Seheve swallowed. She still thought that taking the shot on the Hegemon had _probably_ been the right thing to do. And yet. . . Shepard did see people so very clearly. And Serana was correct. Seheve had not mentioned attempting to take the shot on V'sol after the Hegemon, because she'd considered it _irrelevant_ in her own contribution to the debriefing. And yet. . . it had been. Memory, no matter how perfect. . . was subject to interpretation.

Jaworski clearly considered her words for a moment. Goto's lips tightened slightly. "For myself?" Jaworski said, suddenly. "You helped get us out. You helped get us home. That counts for a lot." He met her eyes. "Don't make the same mistake again. 'Cause next time, I _won't_ forgive it."

Kasumi nodded, tightly. Seheve winced a little, internally. These two were among the most consummate infiltrators she'd ever met, and she would be working with them for possibly the rest of her life. She was suddenly acutely aware of how a single moment could change a relationship forever. "I will not," Seheve replied. "You have my word."

Kasumi nodded, slowly. "I'm all in favor of bright people using their minds and making decisions," she said. "I've made a few bad ones, over the years. I've been called on them. And I've learned from them. The biggest lesson I ever learned. . . was that I don't have to do everything alone, or on my own. That's my lesson, Seheve, and you can probably take it for your own. You had a whole team there with you. Sure, you and Sam were supposed to take the shots. But it wasn't _just you_ shooting. We were all there. We were all going to make sure that what needed to happen, happened. We are not lone gunmen."

"We're Spectres," Sam agreed, and put his good arm around Kasumi's shoulders. "Whether or not some of us have the shiny name and armor, or not."

Dara had spent an exhausting week in med bay. There were more patients than just Glory; there were a dozen marines, human and turian alike, who'd been injured on Khar'sharn to check in on, and there were, of course, K'sar and her father to check on, as well. At the end of that week, Eli finally returned from Bastion with Shepard, looking positively exhausted. "I think I'd almost rather have gone to Khar'sharn myself, rather than having had to do the press work afterwards," he commented as he walked into Glory's recovery room. "How the hell are you, _sai'kaea_?"

Dara settled Glory's viciously sharp front chelicerae into the webbing again, and, as 1812 scrambled up to lash it in place with a fresh loop of silk, she stepped over to Eli, looked up at him, and wrapped her arms around him, feeling his tiredness wash through her, mingle with her own in a gray wave. _Better, now that you're here,_ she told him, simply.

_Missed you, too. _His hand came up to cradle the back of her neck as he leaned down to kiss her.

_Do we all still have jobs?_

_Seem to. The Council's standing by its vote, and actually not hanging Shepard out to dry. Still a few groups out there—handful of elcor and hanar pacifists, mostly, couple of turian honor-bounds who didn't really like a human-who-wears-turian-paint being in charge of the Spectres to begin with—calling for her resignation, but it's dying down. Been in daily communication with the Catasta, and Valak. I got to sit in on the conversations, anyway. _

_Actual peace treaty on the table?_

_Being sent to the Council for consideration today._

_Damn fast._

_It's a first draft. Doubt it'll be signed as written. But with Lantar going to Bastion to take over press work for a bit, I get a break to come home and be with you._ He slid his head down and nuzzled the side of her neck. _How's Glory?_

_We. . . don't know. I can just barely hear him, most days. He's coming back, little by little. Could take weeks. Months. Maybe even years, though I hope not._

_Can he hear us right now?  
_

_Not unless we're talking directly to him. . . at least, previously._ Dara rubbed at her eyes, and did her level best not to weep. She was bone-tired. There were other patients besides Glory to see to, but Glory took a lot of time and energy.

_Can I help?_

_You can sing to him, while I keep working on his leg movements._ _I sing, too, but if I'm singing, I'm not listening._

Eli nodded, glanced over his shoulder, and put a hand on Glory's shoulder. _I remember the first time I really met you_, he thought. _You'd already earned your name-song on Shanxi, but you were assigned to follow Sky after he was given the __Lightsinger__, just after Joy hatched. I think the first thing you told me was that I'd sung very well to Dara, but you wanted to know why I hadn't finished. And thus, we had our very first discussion about private songs and public songs._ His lips twitched, in rueful, regretful memory. The harp-like tones of Glory's voice had been so puzzled. _And now you're having entirely too many private-songs, aren't you, buddy?_

No reply. He didn't expect one, given what he was picking up from Dara's dim violet melodies at the moment.

A throat cleared, and Eli looked up, and blinked. "Lysandra?"

The avatar had undergone some changes, since the last time he'd seen her. For one thing, she wore _his_ clan-paint now, an indication that she considered herself his daughter by adoption. . . something that _still_ boggled his mind. She still, however, had Dara's original chocolate-brown eyes. . . in a face that was somewhat similar to what Amara or Caelia would look like, when they two hybrid girls grew up; soft human lips, savage turian teeth. Pink cast to the skin, no scales, and a small, delicate fringe. After a moment, Eli identified the other element that was nagging at him: he couldn't see any holographic emitters in the room. . . and in a flash, he understood why. Lysandra was projecting the image directly into his mind. "I'm going to look really intelligent, conversing with empty air, aren't I?" he added, dryly. _Still, damned amazing how resilient Lysandra really is. She's already fully forming her self-image to show to people. . . ._

"You get used to it," Dara told him. "Between talking to her and the workers, I'm starting to get a _reputation_ around here."

"Starting to, _sai'kaea_?" Eli teased, still eying Lysandra. "What can I do for you, Ly?"

_I wished to greet you, as the mate of my, well, third-mother._ Lysandra's tone was dry. _And as one of Glory's friends. Could you __hear__ him?_

_No. I'm sorry. But I'll keep talking and listening. Hell, I'll even sing, so long as Dara closes the door. . . .definitely a closed-door thing._

Lysandra actually laughed at that. A long arpeggio of sound. . . and Eli couldn't resist the chance to tease, just a little. _Then again, you know all about closed doors, don't you, Lysandra? _

Lysandra's laughter turned _pink_ in his head, and, to Eli's absolute astonishment, he could hear something else, too.

Blue-green amusement, radiating faintly up from Glory's body. The rachni shifted in the web slightly, and turned his head, very slightly, towards Lysandra's 'presence.' _You. . . sing. . . so. . .brightly. . . Question. . . Singer. . . ._

Dara's head came up, and she smiled radiantly. _He's here. And he's __himself__,_ she said, silently, and Eli reached out and hugged her, tightly, feeling the relief and joy pouring off of her, resonating up from the ground, as Joy joined her voice with theirs, and Lysandra's, Glory's, too.

The road to recovery for the rachni would be a long one, they knew. His biotics were intact, in part; he generated the energy, after all, from every cell of his body. His ability to _control_ the energy was. . . worse than that of a hatchling, at the moment. Communication with the hive was slowly, over weeks, re-achieved. Gross motor skills actually came back more quickly, once he was able to stand; the other parts of his decentralized brain were undamaged, after all. The worst part, really for Glory. . . was that he seemed to have no access to the voices-of-memory. His own memories were. . . damaged, but largely intact. He did not remember any of the Khar'sharn mission, for example. Did not remember Lysandra's presence in his mind. Did not remember singing her into the ship core of the _Lightsinger_, or how he'd done it. But the loss of the voices-within, the voices-of-memory, was a staggering blow for a rachni, and one none of them had ever endured before.

"I'm not sure I totally understand," Eli muttered to Dara one night, as they sat, relaxing, on their couch at home. Just light music playing over the wall-mounted speakers, watching the last gray light of sunset touch the snow outside. "Wouldn't losing the voices actually make him less susceptible to the lonely-madness deal?"

Dara winced and shuddered. "No. It's the _silence_ that starts it for them, just as for me. . . then they turn to the voices within so that they can hear _something_. . . and then they can. . . get lost there." Her eyes were wide, and he could feel the fear in her. "I learned how to. . . balance. To be the individual as well as the hive. Life-Singer learned to do it. Sky. . . briefly, on Arvuna. Glory did it, once, but he was really grateful to hear Lysandra's voice by the end. Imagine if he's ever cut off from his hive again, or subjected to midaphan, and there are _no_ voices." She shook her head. "I don't even know what the consequences would be for him. It's different for a geth who's isolated from consensus. They have other methods of input. Glory would have to rely solely on sight, sound. . . the senses that they don't trust nearly as much as they trust mind-song."

Eli pulled her closer, and set his chin down atop her hair. After a long moment, he asked, "Want me to turn on the newsfeed? See how my dad's doing with the reporters?"

"Sure. Why not?" Dara stretched a little. It wasn't as if they weren't aware of what was going on in the galaxy for the moment; they were back in the informational loop. More so, actually, than they'd ever been before. Dara was looking at information being hauled out of the SIU servers by STG agents every day, and wincing over the experiments performed on prisoners in SIU prisons . . . most in the name of 'medical science'. . . . the plague records. Everything, really. Eli's days were being spent on similar problems, these having to do with how the _hell_ to enforce the borders of batarian space, and the raiders that were sure to start boiling out into the Terminus and Council systems, if SIU wasn't actually there to keep them, at least in part, in check.

"_The batarian currency continued to fall today, as three more systems rebelled against the 'unlawful, caste-breaking' government backed by the Council, and set up by Valak N'dor. These batarian systems insist that their noble-caste leaders are the only pure ruling-castes left, and that theirs is the only batarian government with legitimacy. Warrior-castes continue to be divided, many backing N'dor's new elected parliament, but others, more conservative, flocking to hard-liners at the fringes of batarian space—"_

Eli groaned under his breath, and flipped the channel away from Lexine Elders' face. This brought up a secondary BNN feed, and Emily Wong's cheerful presentation. _"Protestors continue to call for Valak N'dor to step down as a Spectre, stating that as a member of the batarian provisional government, there is an undeniable conflict of interests. Spectre Lantar Sidonis spoke to this issue today, stating that other Spectres maintain connections with planetary governments, such as Spectre Rinus Velnaran, who is a __dominus__ in the Turian Hierarchy's Conclave, and who has actually married into the Imperator's family. He noted that with such precedents, there can be no objection to Valak N'dor's continued status as a Spectre. When asked if N'dor's status as a Spectre, being outside the law, protects him from prosecution under galactic law for war crimes during his tenure with SIU, Spectre Sidonis noted that the Batarian Hegemony was not a signatory to any war crimes accords with the Council for the past forty years, making it difficult to prosecute __any__ batarian, regardless of their current legal status, tantamount to prosecuting under an __ex post facto_ _law, in fact. For more legal coverage—"_

Eli clicked the newsfeeds back off again. "On second thought—"

"—sounds entirely too much like work?"

"We could definitely do something else," he acknowledged, leaning back to look at the crystal-studded ceiling.

"Almost _anything_ else, in fact?" Dara paused. "Oh, I know. Like working on the wedding stuff?" She made a rude sound, and then laughed.

Eli looked at her, at the aerogel screen, and then back at Dara again. "How about just sitting here, doing absolutely nothing at all?"

"Sounds just about perfect to me," Dara admitted. _Doing human things. In human time. At a human pace._

_Yeah._

She settled her head against his chest, and they both leaned back into the couch, as the workers scuttled up and down the walls, singing a cheerful chorus, as they continued to watch white flakes of fall from the violet-gray sky, as the sun set. Together. At peace. And content.


	156. Chapter 156: Resolutions

**Chapter 156: Resolutions**

**Mindoir, August 26-27, 2197**

August, in Mindoir's northern hemisphere, was approximately the same as February in Earth's coinciding hemisphere. Which is to say, _futarri freezing_ in most areas north of the subtropical belt and equatorial regions. Rel had told his bride-to-be, in no uncertain terms, that while yes, he wanted to get married, and yes, he would respect drell traditions in as many ways as he could, if she wanted to get married, per drell tradition, in the nude in the middle of the night, and with all of their guests also nude, she was simply going to have to pick a nice warm, dry place so that none of the salarians fell into hibernation, and so that all of the other guests besides the asari didn't suffer frostbite to their various . . . appendages.

Seheve had, mildly, commented that the high desert to the east of the base was at least dry enough. . . but had agreed that its current nightly temperatures, which hovered around the freezing point of water, might not be ideal. And thus, they'd wound up finding an area far to the south of La Garra, where an inland sea had once rippled, and was marked now by shifting white dunes for a hundred miles in any direction. The current temperatures in this subtropical locale pushed 70º F/21º C at night, there was only about two to eight percent humidity in the air at any given time, and, this being Mindoir, there were no major predators, although there were sand scorpions. Overall, Rel thought that this was an excellent compromise.

Rinus, Eli, Lin, Fors, Dempsey, Makur, Mazz, Kirrahe, and a half dozen other males from the base, including Thelldaroon and even _James_ took him out for a few drinks the evening before. What Eli had dryly referred to as "the bachelor party, part two," had started at the paintball range. Rel wasn't afraid, anymore, to participate in mock-hunts and mock-combat, the way he had, a year ago. The rage was mostly under his control, at this point. Certainly enough to participate in activities like this. Dempsey had even brought Madison along for the first half of the evening, and the boy had laughed uproariously as he'd actually caught Fors with a paintball splatter to the chest. Of course, Madison had immediately paid the price with Kirrahe spraying him with paint pellets from cover, in turn. Rel had, himself, been on Madison's team, and taken out Kirrahe. He'd seen Thell, another teammate of his, go down under a stream of combined fire from Dempsey and Makur, and gone to avenge him with Rinus and Lin at his side, only to run into the stone wall that was Eli, Dempsey, and Makur, with Hal'Marrak sniping from behind them.

There had been no survivors. "Total, mutually assured destruction," Kirrahe assessed, at the end. "Assume that point of the exercise was not to see who would win, if we were pitted against each other?"

"No. The point of the exercise was bonding and having a little fun," Rinus assured him. "Much like the next activity."

"I'll take Mad home for you," James told Dempsey, dryly. "Not like drinking's going to do much for me. Except maybe causing rust."

Chef Gardener, in the last year, had started to have competition from a couple of different bars and restaurants down around the research station. But tonight, they pretty much gravitated back to the tried and true, and had reserved a large table in the back room, where the _caprificus_ brandy, the human whiskey, the salarian _ughuz_—something fermented from the bark of trees native to Sur'Kesh that smelled like cinnamon and had both caffeine-like as well as intoxicating effects in salarians. Rel flatly declined to try it, regen mod or not.

"You've drunk _ryncol_," Eli pointed out, dryly. "You won't drink the equivalent of salarian cinnamon schnapps?" He paused. "Wow. Say that one three times fast."

"Ryncol, I was making a point," Rel returned, swiftly. "That stuff just _reeks_."

Kirrahe made a face at him, and took a sip. "Refreshing. Have not had this since leaving Sur'Kesh. By and large, prefer human sodas. But this has its merits."

Lin, Rinus, and Rel all grimaced. "Just don't breathe on me," Lin requested, a little plaintively. "I'm begging you."

Thelldaroon, of all things, ordered a human mojito, but considering the elcor's size, it was served to him by the _pitcher_. "Not even going to try to keep up," Eli told the elcor, as they all found seats around the table—Thell's was a very large beanbag of sorts, and Fors, in some annoyance, had to request a booster seat to get his head above the table's edge. Rel wasn't even about to ask what was in the small metallic canister that the volus had attached to the snout of his mask, and, in spite of the loud slurping noises emanating from the apparatus, and several quizzical looks, no one else was asking, either.

Conversation shifted through a half-dozen languages, convivially enough, and, by common consent, no one talked about work. No one mentioned Alisav K'sar, freshly released from med bay, and on a ship heading for Khar'sharn, or Valak, up to his neck in batarian politics. Rel glanced up as a newsfeed came on the aerogel screen in their dining area, The ticker at the bottom of the screen read, _Protestors call for the ouster of Spectre Valak N'dor, insisting that as a high-ranking political figure in the erstwhile batarian Hegemony, he cannot be both a head of government pro-tem and a Spectre. The Council has pointed to numerous precedents, such as Spectre Rinus Velnaran, who is both a member of the turian Conclave of __Dominae__ and a Spectre, which legitimizes N'dor's status. . . ._ "Someone turn that _s'kak_ off!" Lin called from across the room, and threw a bone flake at the screen, passing through its sensor field, and indeed, shutting it off.

Of course, they all knew one of the major reasons why Valak had to remain a Spectre. He'd been in SIU. A large number of SIU operatives were being brought to trial on Khar'sharn right now for crimes against their people. Some members of the raider caste and the government, the Council was attempting to extradite to asari, human, and turian worlds to face trial for "crimes against sapients," a catchall phrase that meant whatever the judges and lawyers wanted it to mean, which Rel knew made Rinus' teeth ache. Technically, as the batarians had not been signatories to Council law at the time, it was even in question if they _could_ be prosecuted under Council law, a hair being split very finely in any number of courtrooms and embassies the galaxy over at the moment. But there it was: Valak N'dor _could_ be targeted by someone with an axe to grind. And thus, he needed the freedom from prosecution that Spectres held. And their autonomy.

Rel turned his face away from the screen. His interest in the batarians had piqued a year ago, during his sojourn at Valak's estate. But he didn't have the background in law and legal systems and governance that Rinus had, and the whole thing made his head hurt. He knew there'd be cleaning up to do for decades to come, and he knew he'd have his part to play in that. Many of his college courses were challenging him to think on a strategic level that he'd never had to try for before; tactics were easy. Strategy. . . that was far, far more difficult. He could think of a dozen ways to take an objective. But determining what the objective actually was, and why this should have priority over that, and how it could shift the entirety of a battle zone. . . that was much harder. Garrus and Gavius, who'd been spending many evenings of late, talking with him over his textbooks, told him to _see the whole board._ But that was a struggle for him. _See the whole system. Like Allardus, your father, sees the whole ecosystem, in his head, before he makes a change._

For some people, it was a gift, Rel had come to understand. A mental quirk that simply came easily to them. For him, it took a hell of a lot more effort. And it was hard _not_ to envy Eli, Lin, and Rinus, who'd come over to visit after dinner last week, and who'd both taken a look at the problem in his current textbook—the Battle of Five Moons during the Unification War—and gone off into a conversation instantly. Lin knew from his history studies that two of the moons had been refueling and shipbuilding stations, and thus, their strategic importance to the colonists. Rinus immediately noted that they provided platforms from which the Imperial legions had been able to attack convoys heading two and from the planet below. Eli had mentioned the symbolic value of the attack—"The colonists could see beacons of Imperial power every time they lifted their heads. A reminder, looming in the sky. Pretty valuable for depressing morale," the human had noted. "That's why I'd go after them, in preference to the man-made satellites in orbit, first."

Rel had seen all of the tactical importance, but the conversation had ranged far beyond that. Eli's comment about the symbolic importance of the moon had spawned a side-conversation about why the Imperial forces had bypassed mining colonies on the outside of the system, ones hanging in orbit over the gas giants, skimming eezo and other elements out of their atmosphere. "Because they were their own people, and you don't want to mess up the infrastructure where you're going be living, in short order, yourself. Well, usually. Unless you're a yahg." Eli had grimaced. "The yahg's strategic goal wasn't to use the technology and infrastructure for their own. It was to create fear, panic, disorganization, and pick people off. Their goal was total domination and extermination. For all that Subigus used very harsh tactics, including _literal_ decimations of given populations. . . he wasn't out to destroy every rebel. He wanted them back in the fold and totally obedient. You don't get a lot of obedience out of the dead."

"They're quiet, though," Lin pointed out, wryly. "You can't deny that."

"Quiet, yes, but not adding to the gross planetary product," Rinus retorted. "They're not providing man hours or taxable credits to the economy. They're just dead. Somewhat useless."

"_Have to ask, __fradu__,"_ Rinus said, rousing him from his brief introspection, "_because, well, I'm your first-brother, and I have to ask these things. You __sure__ about this?"_ Rinus rolled his glass of brandy around in his fingers.

Rel exhaled. He'd been expecting the question from his father, to be honest. Allardus hadn't asked it. He'd merely given Rel a look of mild resignation, and opened a file drawer in his desk, and pulled out a datapad with a preliminary contract partially filled in already. Rel had turned his face away, and controlled his desire to laugh.

But now, in the face of Rinus' question, and in the chorus of voices of his friends, his family, his brothers in arms, _dimicato'fradae_ and _sangua'fradae_ alike. . . Rel didn't laugh. Couldn't laugh. _"I'm sure enough for a twenty year contract,"_ he said, after a long moment. _"I want to leave us both escape clauses. Because. . . I did rush last time. And the person I am today. . . I like to think I'm becoming something better. But I won't know who I am in ten years, any more. . . than the sixteen-year-old I was. . . knew the person I am today."_ Rel tossed back the last of his own brandy, not feeling even remotely intoxicated; he was drinking for the taste and the companionship. The regeneration mod, that left-handed blessing, prevented that, in the main. _"But. . . I'm better with Seheve, than without her, __fradu__. Calmer. Everything slows down, and I think things through a little better, when she's with me."_

"_Is that enough?"_ Rinus asked, unexpectedly pressing the point home. _"I haven't wanted to ask or push before, Rel. You're grown. You're a Spectre. You make your own decisions. But is that enough to off-set the problems that you'll undoubtedly encounter with her for your mate? She was an assassin. I do not see the Praetorians really allowing her in the Palace for state functions. To which you would be invited, as my brother. The naming ceremonies of my and Kallixta's children, for example."_ Rinus' expression turned to granite. _"No matter how much you protest or I protest, there are things that the Praetorians will not bend on, and among those, rightly, are the protection of their charges. The Imperator will be at that sort of an event. They would not permit Seheve to be there. Will you attend, even if she cannot? Or will you make it into an argument, and refuse to attend, if she cannot, and thus, lose the moments that you can and should spend with your family?"_

Rel stared at his brother. _"Spirits, Rinus. You're asking me the this night before I get married?"_ A flash of temper sparked.

"_There wasn't much time around Khar'sharn,"_ Rinus noted, his tone dry and calm. _"Afterwards, there was some question as to whether Seheve were to be reprimanded, and what you would do if she were stripped of her Spectre status. And after that, well, there's been about two, three weeks of wedding preparations. And it seems to me, that if I were to push for an honest answer, I'd be most likely to get one today, when your nerves are likely to be the most on edge."_

Rel's first vocalization came out as an annoyed growl, but faded away as a couple of heads turned down the table. Eli, Lin, and Dempsey all eyed him briefly with concern, but went back to whatever they were talking about. Gladiatorial fighting, probably, from the animated hand gestures. . . . "_I . . . won't like it much,"_ Rel admitted, tightly, after a moment. _"I was prepared to tell the whole galaxy to __futar__ off for Dara. I want to say the same thing for Seheve. But . . . "_ he struggled with it for a moment. "_it's not __you__ who'd be telling me 'no, Seheve can't be in the same room with the leader of our entire species.' I don't want to punish my family, or divide myself from my kin, when it's not your fault."_ Rel paused. _"I guess it comes down to what's worth fighting for. And what I'd be fighting about would be. . . well, Seheve wouldn't want me to fight over that. She knows what she was, will always mark every day of her future."_ He glanced at his brother. _"You'd allow her to see the children, though?"_

"_Yes. Of course."_ Rinus' reply was unhesitating. _"We'll make room for her as your mate, Rel. It's what families do. I'm just trying to make you aware, if you weren't already. . . that your life will be altered."_

"_I know."_ Rel refilled his glass from the bottle on the table, and swirled the liquor around, gently. Inhaled its gentle perfume. _"I know."_

On the other side of town, a similar party took place the same evening. Unfortunately for most of the females on base, Seheve's chosen wedding mode didn't really lend itself much to traditional pre-celebrations. There were no dresses to hang out and check over. Seheve herself, being drell, didn't wear makeup—Rel's clan-paint would be her first—and didn't have hair. The most that could be done, was to trim her claws, and polish her scales, tasks that Maia, her sister-in-law, had taken in hand.

Which left Dara, Zhasa, Siara, and Serana all at loose ends, sitting in the house that Seheve shared with Rel in various stages of mild discomfort. Serana leaned over and whispered to Dara, "Would it help if I got you another drink?"

"Not really. I can't _have_ more than two. I think." Dara made a face, and caught Loki, Seheve's cat, up in one hand, before he could pounce on Zappa, who skittered away, laughing in her head. "I don't even know why she has us here," Dara muttered, very quietly, and put the cat down behind the sofa, which was . . . very turian, behind mostly an extra-long sling back chair, constructed of a couple of loops of leather stretched between several pieces of wooden framing.

Zhasa shifted in her own seat. "Companionship," the quarian female murmured to Dara. "She might be nervous."

The slightly disbelieving look Dara shot Zhasa's way provoked chuckles from the others, and Zhasa leaned back, stretching like an indolent cat. "I wish. . . " Seheve said, from where Maia was patiently buffing her scales to a gleaming shine, ". . . I wish that Melaani were here." Seheve blinked at all of them turned to stare at her in surprise. "She was very kind to me on Shanxi. She helped me. . . understand that there were other things I could do to help the people there, besides killing their oppressors." Seheve smiled, tentatively. "It was a good lesson."

Zhasa chuffed slightly under her breath. "She'd better be back soon. Ylara's keeping her too busy. She's supposed to be one of my attendants at my wedding next month." The quarian female hopped up and paced around a bit. "Three months of deep cover work. _Keelah_ only knows where. . . and that right after Lorek. Which was right after other deep cover work."

"Which was right after Arvuna," Dara retorted, dryly. "Which was _right_ after Shanxi for her. She's been kept just as busy as the rest of us." She shook her head. "Deep cover work. . . has to be about as stressful as daily combat."

"It is," Serana admitted. "But fun. In its way."

"I know I don't envy her." Siara shook her head. "I don't think she's shared properly in the last year. And by _properly_, I mean more than just light mental touch and holding hands. That's not good for asari. When we're stressed, we're _supposed_ to share it."

Dara's eyebrows rose slightly. She'd thought that Melaani and Pelia had. . . renewed their acquaintance at the bachelor party, but now that she thought about it, she could only recall the two asari sitting at a table, across from each other, holding hands, and chatting lightly. While it wasn't really her _business_, per se, they were all supposed to look out for each other. _Spirit of the unit_, Dara thought, a smile crossing her face briefly. She stored the information, and resolved to get Melaani to the next social event on base, as soon as the asari got _back_ from her latest mission, anyway. Melaani had been nothing but kind and helpful on Arvuna; had kept the Eclipse mercs under control, almost through to the very end, and they'd all conspired together to get Zhasa dressed. Dara hadn't worked much with her since then, but that was just how the assignments had happened to get passed out. Out loud, all Dara said was, "I don't envy her, either." She paused. "Not that undercover work is ever going to be much of an option for me."

"The eyes could be hidden," Serana replied, immediately.

"Cover my eyes with contacts, sunglasses, or a blindfold as much as you want. You're never going to turn me into much of an actress," Dara returned, ruefully. "Zhasa's got potential in that direction—we'd just have to make sure she didn't get out of her suit—but not me. Someone says something I don't like, and all I've got to fall back on is doctor face and turian stoicism. I can do _blank_ face okay. But that alone just looks suspicious to people." She shrugged. "I'll leave that stuff to the experts, like you, Serana. You, Seheve, and Melaani." She raised her glass of sparkling wine, only half-drunk, in a little toast.

Seheve looked down a little, but Serana laughed. Dara glanced around the room, and inwardly shook her head. She felt out of place, somehow, but on reflection. . . they _all_ were. Two drell. One asari. One turian. One quarian. One human. . . sort of. All equally disparate. "When do you go back to TIA?" Dara asked Serana.

"It's not as if I ever _left_. Kasumi just borrowed me. Like a cup of sugar. At the moment, they have me doing analysis work while I'm here. But yes, in two months, I rotate to some sort of a field position on Edessan. Apparently, Lin's paint will let me fade into the background there. Probably follow-up on the militants that Eli investigated there. Or something along those lines." Serana tried to pass it off as casually as she could, but Dara knew, without having to ask, that this meant that she'd be gone from Mindoir for six months at least. Maybe as long as a year. Serana wasn't trained to do quite what Melaani did, which was to infiltrate a group and stay embedded in them for years, even decades at a time. But even six months would be hard on her and Lin.

"Gloomy topics," Zhasa chided them all. "I thought we were going to talk about things other than work."

"That is somewhat difficult," Seheve murmured, as Maia moved to her other arm, oiling, cleaning, buffing each scale to the glossiness of obsidian. "Work is, after all, the only thing some of us have in common."

"Untrue," Zhasa replied, immediately. "Dara, you're going to talk to Madison about his science project, right?"

"Of course," Dara replied, immediately.

"And Siara, you've got news about the next project Mazz is designing for Clan Urdnot, correct? Now that the water filtration plant is done, the next one is. . . ?"

"Building a new hospital," Siara replied, resting her cheek on her forefinger and thumb, head inclined. "Zhasa, what I think Seheve there meant was. . . _she_ feels she has little in common with us, other than work."

"Oh, that's not true," Zhasa retorted, instantly. "Seheve, you don't mean that, do you?"

_I guess I'm not the only one feeling a little out of place,_ Dara thought, wincing internally, and got up to move to the spirit-table to study the carvings there. The old statue of Virtus, given to Rel by Shepard and Garrus, still a cherished possession of Rel's. She knew it almost as well as she knew her own statue of Hygeia. Beside it, his new one of Seheve, Ananke and Coatlicue combined. Behind her, the conversation went on, Zhasa pointing out, "I'm certainly interested in what you translate out of the Prothean database we found on Arvuna. And what you've helped uncover in the Collector ship we captured on Bothros. And I know Dara is, too—"

"Plus," Serana noted, with wicked mischief in her voice, "You and Dara do share other things in common."

_Don't say Rel_, Dara thought, and lifted her head to give Serana a very dark look. The younger female just grinned at her, mandibles wide. "That's sort of work-related, Zhasa," Dara pointed out, dryly. "Then again, I don't really expect any of you to really be all that interested in my work. Doing stomach contents analysis for the homicide division of the La Garra police department as I work on my pathology specialization is just not all that interesting."

Seheve, however, had looked up with mild intrigue. "Actually, I would be interested in speaking with you about that," she told Dara. "Perhaps my experience might be useful to you?"

"Depends on if you recognize what phytohaemagglutinin is, and why it's of concern," Dara told her, lightly.

Seheve frowned, and let Maia turn over her hand. "It is a lectin. Found in many Earth legumes. It is toxic to humans."

"Correct. And I found traces of it in my latest guy's stomach. Thing is, he didn't have beans in his stomach at all. I'm thinking that the raw beans might have been milled into flour and sprinkled into his soup as a 'thickener.' Sounds pretty deliberate, and he's the only person at the restaurant who died that day, so. . . " Dara gestured. "Sounds like murder to me."

"It does indeed," Seheve murmured.

"Both of you, stop," Maia told them, sharply. "Cheerful topics, if you please. At midnight, it will be your wedding!"

"But now we can clearly see that all we _do_ have in common is work," Seheve said, lightly.

Zhasa seemed to take that as a challenge, and dragged the conversational topic away with the determination of a leopard carrying a gazelle carcass up a tree to gnaw on at her leisure. Dara shook her head in amusement, and followed suit.

As they left to get into the shuttles that would take them far to the south, to the wedding location, Dara found that she'd been flanked by Zhasa and Serana. "Yes?" she asked.

"What are we going to do about Seheve?" Serana asked, bluntly.

"Last I checked, we were going to go see her get married, pretty damned naked, to a pretty damned naked Rel," Dara replied, dryly. "Past that, I can't really force her to develop hobbies or share them with us. I know she likes dance. When Melaani gets back, the two of them will have that in common. Even you, Zhasa, could . . . I don't know. . . share quarian dances with her. Start classes for other people on base. Something."

Zhasa blinked. "That's . . actually a wonderful idea," she exclaimed. "Cultural exchanges! Something that could work into the school curriculum, too."

Serana leaned down to murmur in Dara's ear, "Now look what you've gone and done. Next thing you know, they'll want to see hunt-dances and spirit-dances done, too."

Dara shifted, and looked up at Serana. "Look what _I've_ gone and done?"

Serana grinned at her merrily. "You heard me."

And so, the next day, they spent traveling by shuttle, along with a number of other family members, to the white and shifting dunes of the Venisita desert. They spent several hours unloading the shuttles, setting up tables on the leeward side of one of the larger dunes. The ceremony location was a sun blasted expanse of white sand dunes, surrounded in the distance by desert pavement, tumbled, wind-hewn rocks, and thorn bushes. "Very romantic," Eli muttered as he helped Dempsey tote several tables out of a shuttle.

"Yeah. Prime thresher maw real estate," Dempsey commented. "Looks like the better parts of Terra Nova's equatorial band."

Eli wiped the sweat off his face, and reflexively started scanning the horizon. "You had to say that, didn't you, D?" he asked, dryly.

"Someone had to," Dempsey returned, just as dryly. "I'm sure we'll just all be eaten alive by sand fleas, scorpions, and the occasional sidewinder, instead." He paused. "Do they have sidewinders on Mindoir?"

Eli looked up at the sunset sky, and shook his head. "Shepard's got the varren with her. I guess if Mindoir has snakes, the varren will find them." He shrugged. "Well, the varren and Dara's workers, anyway."

"Here's hoping. Everything in a desert is more active at night."

"Explains the drell, sure enough."

And thus, at midnight, they all dutifully shuffled out, in varying states of undress, to stand at the crest of a dune under the full moon's glorious light, as well as the light of a dozen flambeaux, planted deep into the drifts of silver-touched sand.

Everyone had gotten dressed—or undressed, as the case might be—on the shuttles. Eli took one look at Dara, who was wearing the most _formal_ lingerie she'd been able to find, and leaned down to murmur, "If I may say—?"

"Don't. Don't say anything. It's desperately uncomfortable, pokes me in all the wrong places, makes me cranky just to wear it, let alone think about wearing it in front of everyone." Dara muttered darkly. "Anyone wants to tell me I don't do enough for Seheve should spend the next four or five hours in my skin, with _wires_ poking into me, and then think again."

Eli's lips twitched, very faintly. "You make it sound worse than being interrogated by batarians." His hand on her shoulder let her know, instantly, by touch contact, that he didn't mean to bring up bad memories.

As such, she could take it lightly, herself. "It is," Dara assured him, solemnly. . . and with just a hint of grumpiness still in her voice. "I'd rather take a hit to the face than wear this _s'kak._"

_But you look a hell of a lot nicer wearing this, than wearing bruises, __sai'kaea__. I'm not asking you to wear this crap all the time. I can feel how uncomfortable it is, and it's not just self-image. But take a look through my eyes, and understand. . . I __like__ what I'm seeing._ Eli grinned down at her and leaned down to steal a kiss.

_Keep that up, and I will insist that you have to wear a Speedo. For my enjoyment._

_Oh, hells no._ Eli grinned at her. He and Dempsey had not been able to argue for boxers. Too concealing. Thus, the bare minimum of briefs had been the accepted compromise for the human males. Rinus, as first-brother, outranked him, but then Eli stood next to him. Then Lin, as a brother-in-law, and then Dempsey, as a family friend. The turians were naked, and enduring it patiently enough. All of them were, however, keeping about a half a foot of space between them. And when the photographer asked them to close up to get a better picture, Rinus' growl of _"Futar_ that!" sent the human scrambling to take his pictures and be done with it.

On Seheve's side, Melaani would have been her first attendant, the drell female had mentioned, if the asari were on-world. There had been an entire protocol debate, Eli knew, on orders of precedence. No actual blood relatives. No _sangua'amilae_. Just Dara, then Zhasa, _then_ Serana, as Rel's sister. With a space reserved for the absent Melaani. The human and the quarian in lingerie, and Serana, of course, nude. The photographer had been instructed, in no uncertain terms, to take no shots below the neck on the quarian and human. And everyone was doing their level best not to let their eyes wander. Eli knew that Dempsey, without anyone to look after Madison for the moment, had opted to allow his son to come along, after being careful to contextualize the event as a cultural difference. A drell ceremony, to be respected in its context.

The crowd of well-wishers, likewise, had a mix of clad and unclad people. The hybrids, all clad. The humans, all clad. The turians, all nude. The asari, like Siara and Ylara, nude and unashamed. Krogan like Mazz and Makur. . . naked and unabashed. The salarians, nude. The drell, nude. The rachni and the geth. . . well, they were always at their most formal and informal at once.

Maia and her daughter, Ymenia, twirled through the crowd, exotic, beautiful drell dance moves, distributing wreaths and garlands of desert blooms. The exotic scents of the flowers wafted on the faint breeze that shifted the sands, mixing with the acrid reek of the flambeaux's oil.

Seheve's brother Oeric was, indeed, handling the drell portion of the ceremony, and patiently began to chant, invoking the gods of lost Rakhana as Seheve and Rel emerged from the other side of the dune and took their places at the center of the assembly. Seheve was crowned with flowers, an odd thing to see on her, Eli thought, inconsequentially. Oeric continued to chant, and began to pour water over the two of them, using a silvery ladle, taking the lightly perfumed water from a bucket held in his left hand. Rel had to duck, obviously, to allow his new brother-in-law to do this; Oeric barely cleared five foot six, only two inches taller than his twin sister.

Dara, from where she stood, had a very good view of Rel's face. She could read it, too. No biotics required. She could read love there, and dedication. And just a hint of hesitation. It made her heart ache a little, for both of them. She didn't doubt that they would be happy. That they completed each other. But Rel did have reservations. And she could see in Seheve's eyes that the drell understood this. Accepted it, even. She didn't understand why. And she couldn't ask. Could never do so, _would_ never do so, in all the years of their lives together.

In Rel's mind, as he began to speak the words of the _manus_ pledge, memories burned, intertwined, inextricably. The first, the dreadful day on Bothros when Seheve had fallen through the ice. The despair in his heart then, seeing her lost right in front of him. He'd nearly lost himself in the rage then, at being unable to do anything to save her. The second. . . Khar'sharn. He'd been completely able to put his concern for her to the side. The mission came first. As it always had. And the third memory. . . the balancing point between the two, the measure against which he now weighed himself. . . Rinus' confession after Sky's manipulation of the simulation device at the Spectre trials. _I let the mission go. I turned back to save Kallixta. Because there would never be a time at which I wouldn't turn back to save lives. Especially hers. And they can turn me down for Spectrehood on that basis if they want to. I am who I am._

Rel knew he loved Seheve. But it was a peaceful emotion. It wasn't an all-consuming fire. There was passion in their bed, certainly, but. . . rarely anywhere else. He loved her. He cared for her. He wanted to spend as much of his life with her as he could. But he doubted the strength of his own emotions for her. It seemed, somehow, a pitiful, pallid offering, and she did deserve so much more. She did, occasionally, show fire, show spark. As when she'd thrown her vibroblade to the center of the Conclave's floor, to quiver in the stone as a challenge to any who would dare to take it up. So he pledged to her his mind, his body, and his spirit, and took a final vow, in his heart. That he would do his best, all the days that they had together, never to hurt her. Never to disappoint her. Never to let her down. To always treat her well, and cherish her with words and with deeds. He'd fight the galaxy's opinion of her, he'd dare them all to look at her askance for her past. He'd do it all. But in the end, he strongly suspected, that what he had to offer, was simply not enough.

Seheve, for her part, knelt on the damp sands, and gave Cyriac's blade to Rellus once more. She'd memorized the ritual _tal'mae_ words easily enough; her eidetic memory made such things trivial. She looked up at him, and knew that he accepted her, her past, and all her flaws, with the same wonder she'd always felt. How could she not love someone who accepted all of that, would still put himself between her and the disapproval of others? She sensed, still, that he had doubts. Reservations. Worries. It was as clear as the moon in the sky. If he didn't have doubts, he would have decided, in the end, on _tal'mae_ rites. The bond without a fixed end date. In the end, however, his doubts had spoken more loudly in his ears, and he'd proposed a twenty-year _manus_ contract. Similar in most regards to the one his own parents had, currently. And Seheve had accepted. She'd wanted to demand the _tal'mae_. . . but he wasn't ready. She understood that. And she also understood that, in time, perhaps he'd come to be. Demanding would not make it so.

Acceptance, time, and understanding, might.

They leaned forward and into each other, and Rel painted his yellow markings on her face. And then they stood, surrounded by their friends and family, and accepted their congratulations. Seheve had thought that the others would want to eat and drink, perhaps, after long ceremony, but, to her sorrow, most of the humans were _chafing_ to get into more comfortable clothing. In some cases, literally. Fine grains of sand had blown into their clothing, and was damaging their delicate skin. Seheve sighed and looked at Dara, who was evidently doing her level best not to fidget or squirm. "It can't possibly be chafing," she told Dara, with a hint of amusement. "Not with rachni skin."

"Not the chafing. It's the wires and the padding and everything else. I think I'd better just go home. I'm not going to be fun for anyone to be around." Dara shrugged and turned away.

"You can change now," Seheve relented, and saw the looks of absolute and total relief on every humans' face. . . and the mad dash to the shuttles to pull on clothing. She shook her head in disbelief, but the entire _feel_ of the area changed as all the humans finally _relaxed._

Dara flexed her toes inside her boots, which should keep her feet nicely protected, and then found Eli. Slipped up beside him, and his arm lifted, almost reflexively, to drape over her shoulders. "Better?" he asked, dryly.

"Much. I don't care what the thermometer says. I was getting goose bumps on top of my goose bumps every time the wind kicked up." Dara leaned into him, smelling the clean cotton of his shirt, deodorant, and a hint of shaving soap.

Siara moved past them, assertively naked still, and looked over her shoulder to taunt, "You're asari enough that this really shouldn't have bothered you, Eli. And you're both turian enough. Why let your human parts get in the way?"

Eli grinned at Siara. "You're just looking to see if Makur's going to roll you down the sand dune now, aren't you?"

Siara looked over her shoulder, verified that Makur was nowhere near, and laughed at him. "Answer the question, Eli."

"'Cause it's my human parts I have to worry about most when I'm naked," Eli told her, nodding sagely, which got Dara to laugh as Siara, making a rude noise, moved away.

Dara shook her head. _She's never going to stop punching for reactions, is she?_

_Nope. Never._

Dara yawned, and desperately tried to cover it, but it was _late_. Mindoir's midnight was at 26:00, and it was now 04:00. Zhasa was crepuscular enough not to be terribly bothered by the darkness, but she was on a diurnal schedule, same as the rest of them. Every human was yawning, except for Dempsey, naturally.

Madison was struggling visibly to stay awake with all the adults, but he was solidly in the middle of his growth spurt at the moment, and sleep was something his body craved. His eyes kept drifting shut at the table where the rest of them were drinking thick, gluey _sahlep_, if a little reluctantly, and eating drell and turian delicacies—well, ones that traveled well, anyway. _Cekirge_ were locust-like insects that had been native to Rakhana, and had been taken with the drell to Kahje for the purpose of being eaten. The insects had been marinated and grilled, and were now being served cold, with the legs still on. Kirrahe and Narayana and Mordin Alesh ate these with gusto. Madison regarded them, wide-eyed, and passed. "Yeah, I'm with you," Eli muttered to the younger male. "I'm just not brave enough, when there's other stuff around." This included _karpuz_ melon slices, fortunately, as well as rose-tinged _akare_ hearts—the central core of a cactus-like plant, again, taken from Rakhana during the drell rescue by the hanar. Those, Eli and Dara both tried.

"I can't believe you won't try the _cekirge_," Rel chided them both, lightly, moving in from behind them. "You've both eaten _nepa,_ for the spirits' sakes."

"Underwater scorpion, even dextro, I'm fine with," Dara replied. "It's even tasty. But it's never served whole like these, or crawfish. I don't have to see all the parts and pieces." She actually grinned a little, and added, "Bleah."

"It's not a survival situation," Eli added, grinning at Rel himself. "If I were starving, I'd try them. Since it's not, and there's plenty of other food. . . hell no. Pretty much why I stuck with asari food from the stores on Edessan and Macedyn, and avoided anything in salarian packages like the damn plague."

"_Anserae_," Rel needled.

"No, that would be _you_," Dara retorted. "You're hiding from Seheve over here. Don't think I can't see her combing the crowd for you. . . and it looks to me, like she wants to dance."

Rel pretended to wince, sighed, and turned back to return to Seheve's side. He added, with a glance over his shoulder, "At least I practiced this back on Bastion, at Depth Charge. It didn't actually kill me. Although the audience is a little bigger this time. . . and I swear, if anyone laughs, it'll cost them their teeth."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Eli agreed, and did his best not to crack a smile as Rel and Seheve began to dance, along to the sound of recorded drell music, which had dully throbbing beat, and ululating pipes, along with the sound of some plucked instrument that he couldn't name. It was simply _odd_ to see Seheve wearing Rel's paint, and odder still to see Rel dancing. Not really with enthusiasm, but with a look of patient tolerance and affection on his face. Seheve, however, actually glowed a bit, in a shy sort of way. With a hand on Dara's shoulder, Eli's innate eye for people was reinforced by Dara's insights, and they both sighed. _They're good for each other,_ Eli said, silently. _They just need. . . time to grow together, I think._

A light breeze kicked up, spitting sand all over uncovered plates, and catching Madison, at their table, as he yawned again. "You should go sack out in the shuttle," Dempsey told his son, not unkindly. "Polina and the other kids your age are all settling in, and Kaius and Amara were out like lights about thirty minutes ago."

"I'm fine!" Madison insisted, immediately. "Totally fine. I, uh. . . you mentioned that this was thresher maw country earlier. Does it look that much like Terra Nova here?"

"Kind of," Eli agreed, after a moment. "Much more in the way of clay ground there. Badlands, twisted rock formations and buttes and mesas. But the one area where we _did_ see that thresher maw. . . " he looked at Dempsey.

Dempsey nodded, taking a seat next to Madison, and looped an arm around Zhasa's shoulders companionably. "Dunes as far as the eye could see. It's a good thing they're not common. One or two per planet. I can't imagine a whole planet filled with them."

"I like the theory that they were designed by some pre-Prothean civilization as Reaper killers," Dara offered.

"Explains why they're drawn to technology, even use it as lures," Zhasa pointed out. "Although, that could be instinctive behavior."

"How's that?" Madison asked, yawning again.

"They eat metal," Zhasa pointed out. "They absorb solar radiation, too, but they eat metal and ore. They might see a refined chunk of metal as a lure for a mate, or simply _theirs_, to be guarded and devoured. . . or, if they're intelligent enough, as a lure for more metal to be brought to them." The quarian female paused. "They don't hurtle through space as big giant worms and slam down on the surface of a random planet, somehow intact through the atmospheric insertion. Personally, I think their larval form is that of the metalmite."

Eli held up a finger. "I thought those were. . . spacer legends."

Zhasa shuddered. "They're real. When you dig into old abandoned, derelict ships as often as quarians have over the past three hundred years, you see a few things. Quarians have definitely seen metalmites—and metalmite eggs—on any number of abandoned ships. We destroy any ship like that that we find. They're usually only about this big," Zhasa held her fingers apart. "But they swarm. Work together, initially, building a hive. The largest one seems to change genders and becomes the queen. Eating her workers when they weaken, growing, and becoming larger and larger. No one's ever seen the in-between stage. . . probably because a ship doesn't have as much metal as a planet has ore, and without solar energy, the maw can't grow and thrive. But we think they hurtle through space as egg clusters. Land. Form a colony. Eat. The strongest survives, and becomes the maw. Eats raw ore, or processed ore, by preference. Defends her territory. . . and then spews her eggs to the sky."

"Asexual reproduction?" Dara asked. Eli could _feel_ her fascination. He only shared it in part. He'd awoken last week from a heart-pounding nightmare in which he'd been running from the maw again, only this time, a half a step too slowly.

"Probably. Unless there's more than one mature maw on the same planet. Then . . maybe? No one's ever really _dissected_ a thresher maw."

Madison was listening in fascination. "Do you think you could get what's left of the thresher on Terra Nova to run tests?" he asked, suddenly. "I was listening to Dr. Velnaran when he came in to talk about xenobiology. It seems like. . . if these were an anti-Reaper creation, or at least, a . . . a real species that was just. . . modified. . . we could tell, right?"

Dara shielded her plate of food from the wind as best she could, and found a cushion on the sand, kicking it over to sit down beside Eli, who currently faced Dempsey and Zhasa.. "Maybe," she replied. "If they eat metal, they might have a silicon-based physiology, and god only knows what they use for DNA. Would require a lot of study." She paused. "Although. . . " Her mind shifted into controlled, precise scales.

_I love listening to your mind when you go all doctor-scientist on me,_ Eli told her, and lay down to pillow his head in her lap.

_Shush,_ Dara admonished, but she stroked his head as she did so. Out loud, she added, "If we could get enough samples from different worlds where they've been killed—Terra Nova, Akuze, Tuchanka, the four planets Shepard fought them on, back in 2183. . . we could see if whatever their DNA is, _differs_ at all substantially from each other. Look for. . . changes over time. Even if it's just transcription errors."

Madison sat upright, his light blue eyes gleaming with interest now. "And that would let you track them backwards, wouldn't it?" he asked, almost exploding with the idea now. "You could see which one on Planet P had a mother on Planet O and all the way back, maybe, to . . . a planet of origin?"

Dara shrugged. "Yeah, maybe. If they're a naturally-occurring species, we would probably expect to see radial expansion from a common center point. If they're moving outwards from multiple points. . . maybe not natural."

Madison looked around at all of them. "I'm supposed to come up with a . . . thesis project, I think. Something that'll take a year or two. Do you think maybe I could do something with this?"

Dempsey's eyes widened slightly. "Ambitious. But it'll look pretty damned good on a transcript for the Academy. . . if that's what you're planning on. You're smart enough for it. You've _got_ to serve, if you want to stay inside the Alliance, especially given your power levels." Dempsey's lips twitched faintly. "And I think you're definitely more officer material than I was."

"Says the guy who takes command of a firefight without so much as twitching," Eli muttered, looking up at the sky.

"I was a very different person at eighteen," Dempsey replied dryly.

"Weren't we all?" Dara replied, and yawned. "D, play us something, if we're all going to just be sitting here till morning. And yes, Mad. . . I think that would be a _great_ project. You need a mentor for that? I think I might have some time on, um. . . Thursday afternoons."

Eli guffawed, just as Madison grinned happily at Dara. And they let the night slip through into morning.

**Mindoir, September 1, 2197**

Sam had found the last month of re-adjustment to be possibly the hardest of his life. It was the _little_ things that, for the moment, absolutely killed him. Kasumi struggling to open a jar, reaching out with his right hand to help, only to remember. . . _oh yeah. . . no can do right now._ Lying in bed at night, the reflex of years made him yearn to reach out and cradle Kasumi to his left side. . . but there was no way in _hell_ he was going to touch her with the partial, and, frankly, rather ugly stump. An attitude that Kasumi was having none of, usually worming her way under the truncated limb anyway, and kissing his shoulder or collarbone. "Stop being an idiot, Sam," she told him one night. "I love you. I love _all_ of you. And I am not going to let you retreat because you have this insane notion in your head that I don't want to be touched by some part of you."

That had made his throat ache, the more so as she'd kissed her way down the damaged arm. She had also told him, with a mix of defiance, love, and playfulness, that she was off her birth control, and that he was to perform his husbandly duties without complaining. Sam had managed to chuckle at that, and answered simply, "Yes, ma'am," while cupping her cheek with his good hand.

Takeshi, however, was having just as hard a time as Sam was, adapting. He'd actually started wetting the bed again, something he hadn't really done for half a year. Probably a stress reaction, to events that distressed him, and that he couldn't control, Sam figured. So he didn't yell, but did have Keshi help him change the bed sheets when it happened. And he took Keshi with him to all his doctor appointments. Dara helped with that—enormously—and Sam was actually very grateful to his daughter for that, as she explained to Keshi each step in the process. "Well, you see, Keshi, this is our clinic human skeleton, Bones," she said, bringing in the rattling thing so Keshi could see it. "He's made of plastic, and pretty friendly. The interns keep putting flowers in his ear holes. . . and occasionally, bouncy balls in his eyes. I have no idea why," she added, extracting the small orange spheres from the eye sockets and tossing one to Keshi, who, wide-eyed, began to laugh. "Okay," Dara went on. "This arm. . . . " behind the skeleton, she waggled the right arm, puppet-like, "No, Bones, the other arm. . . " she added, and grabbed the left arm, "is like the one that Dad got hurt, right? It got hurt right here, at the elbow. See how the elbow bends? It's a joint. It's like the hinge on a door, in a lot of ways. Now, Dad still has part of that hinge there, but part isn't enough. What we're going to do today, is Dr. Chakwas and Dr. Abrams are going to, very carefully, remove what's left of the elbow. And they're going to attach new bones, up here, connecting it to the upper arm bone. That's called the humerus. Kind of a funny word, huh? Can you say humerus?"

"No, I can't do that."

"Huuuuuuumerus."

"No, I can't do that." Keshi's face took a mutinous cast.

"Keshi," Sam warned.

"Nah, it's okay, Dad. I'll say it for you, then, Keshi, okay?" Dara had the skeleton's arm propped companionably on her shoulder now. "Now, Dad's new bones are going to be made of titanium. Pretty close to unbreakable. But the doctors are going to have to attach them to his bones in a mix of old-fashioned and new ways. First, they're going to put a plate up against the humerus, right here. And then they're going to use screws and bzzz, bzzz, bzzz, attach the new bones to the old ones, with the screws. Just like your toy screws and screwdriver at home. But to make sure it's an extra strong attachment point, we're also going to use really small machines. So small you can't even see them. They're called nanites. And we're going to wrap where the new bones and the old bones meet in carbon nanotubules. It's something pioneered by the bad people who did mean things to your Uncle Dempsey, back in the day. But this way, we get something good out of what bad people did."

Takeshi's face was confused. He only had an attention span of about two minutes, when all was said and done, even for things that he _liked_ and was interested in. Dara offered him Bones' hand. "Shake it? No? High five, then. See, when Dad leaves here today, he's going to hurt a little, but he'll have the start of his new arm—those bones. He won't be able to move them yet. That has to wait till we can attach the synthetic muscles and tendons and nerves and the power supplies and everything else. But he can start getting used to something being there again."

"It's going to hurt?" Takeshi asked, looking woebegone. "Like shots?"

"Probably a little worse than shots," Sam admitted.

"I hate shots! I hate doctors!"

Dara lowered her lip into a slight pout. "Takeshi. . . I'm a doctor. Do you hate me?"

"Nooooo. . . . "

"Okay, so don't say that, please. Doctors only give shots to make sure your body can recognize the bad germs and can beat them up later. No one likes shots. No one likes hurting. But sometimes, it's for a good reason."

Four hours later, Sam came up from the fog of the anesthesia, and made a point of offering Takeshi a chance to shake the hand of the cold metal skeleton. At first, the boy refused, until Sam pointed out, "Hey, it's like having a geth arm. Pretty cool, huh?"

Then Keshi couldn't get _enough_ of it. He'd hold the cold metal hand in _preference_ to Sam's real hand, crossing the street, and Sam just shook his head, and held Kasumi's hand in his good right one.

A week later, he went in for the synthetic muscle overlays. This, he was conscious for, although the upper arm was numbed as a team of doctors and techs—including a geth maintenance unit, surprisingly enough, moved around him, grafting the synthetic muscles to his actual muscles at the cellular level. Weaving white strands of synthetic nerves, and attaching them to his real ones, so that he'd be able to feel how the arm was moving, rather than it being merely a matter of awareness of balance. Then knitting self-contained tubes with white fluid in them, which provided a hydraulic system for moving the arm, in addition to the synthetic muscles. Wires, jarringly enough, among all that leprously white pseudoflesh, and power conductors, which actually were tiny, and, linked together like a fine mesh, would draw power from his nervous system. Bio-electricity. "No batteries?" Sam asked, raising his eyebrows at Dr. Chawkwas.

"None, I swear," she promised, her wrinkled face crinkling into a smile.

Tests, tests, and more tests. . . open the fingers. Close the fingers. Make a fist. Move the hand up and down at the wrist. Waggle the fingers. Bend the elbow. And then, they pulled the final layer of synthetic skin onto Sam's new arm. In time, and through a lot of regeneration therapy, he _could_ have his own skin grow down over the synthetic replacement. But for now, they were content to poke the fingertips with the end of a broken swab. "Can you feel that? How about that?"

Sam could definitely tell that it . . . wasn't original equipment. Cold and heat were. . . kind of blurry, tingly sensations. Kasumi insisted on taking his new hand in hers, and he could feel pressure, but not the smoothness of her skin. But he could feel her _squeeze_ it, and that was a hell of a lot better than a hook, so he figured it would be foolishly ungrateful to complain about the miracle that was modern medical science.

Keshi, being a bundle of squirm, hadn't lasted through most of the process. He'd had to be taken out of the room several times, allowed to amuse himself with the toys in pediatrics, fed lunch, and all those things. But every time he came in, to see a new section of the arm being added during the tedious, eight-hour process, Takeshi's eyes rounded, and he breathed out, on an excited sigh, "_Wow. . . . "_

At the end, Sam was handed a datapad full of do's and don't. _Don't_, in his opinion, included some pretty funny things. _Don't_ go out and get a tattoo on the synthetic skin, for example. "Wasn't really planned, but I'll keep that in mind," he told the doctors, with a note of forced geniality. "I'm just glad my dragon's high enough up that y'all didn't clip his tail in all this poking and digging and sewing."

The _do_ list was a little shorter than the _don't_, but still included a hell of a lot of exercises to get used to the muscles and nerves, and train his _brain_ in how to use them now. Sam decided to get Takeshi involved in that part, too. "C'mon," he told Keshi every night. "You're going to have to teach me how to catch a ball all over again. And I was never great at this left-handed to begin with."

So every night for weeks, Sam took Keshi out in the backyard after work was done, and threw and caught the ball for his little boy. Playtime for Keshi. Therapy for Sam. The fine motor control exercises were much less fun, and made Sam feel like a preschooler. They were the _exact same_ games that Keshi had at school. Using tongs to pick up little wooden apples and put them in a basket. Cutting along an outline with scissors—something he'd _never_ done left-handed to begin with. Strength drills—not to strengthen the hand, because it would never be stronger or weaker than it was now—but to let him know how much strength he was actually exerting. The grip on the left hand, for example, was far harder than he could muster with his right. But the synthetic nerves didn't let him _feel_ that as accurately. Or rather, the nervous system interface with them and his analogue, organic brain, didn't let him gauge it as well as if he were, in fact, a geth.

The bedwetting stopped pretty much when Keshi and Sam started playing at night. Keshi obviously _loved_ being able to _help_ his daddy get better, and laughed every time Sam caught the ball—and even louder when the new fingers slipped, the ball went flying, and Sam sighed and muttered, "Butterfingers."

By the end of two weeks with the new arm, Kasumi insisted that she couldn't tell the difference. "The fact that one arm tans and the other doesn't, is kind of going to be a giveaway, until the skin regeneration works its way down in a year or two," Sam told her dryly. "You're a liar, Kasumi-chan, but you're a lovely one."

She grinned at him from where she'd curled into his side on the couch, and reached up to touch the side of his face. "If I'm a liar, then you probably won't believe me when I tell you that there's something on the counter in the bathroom that you should take a look at."

Sam eyed her. Eyed the door to the downstairs bathroom. "You know, I'm comfy where I am. I don't need to know. Ignorance is bliss, and all that." He nodded soberly.

Kasumi pushed his shoulder, starting to laugh. "Sam!"

"I should go look?"

"Yes!"

Sam sighed, as dramatically as possible, and headed to the bathroom. Picked up the device on the counter, read it, and leaned back out the door. "_Already_?"

Kasumi's smile grew wider. "All your fault, Sam."

"Not all mine. I blame you. You pinned me down when I was wounded and had your insatiable wicked way with me." Sam crossed the room, and put both arms around her, wondering at the back of his mind when the gesture was going to come naturally again. "Love you, Kasumi-chan. But if it's another boy, you and your mama can just go _whistle_ for a girl, y'hear?"

Kasumi's laughter filled the room like smoke.

**Bastion, September 16, 2197**

Dempsey wasn't actually capable of being nervous. He reminded himself of that, but knew that somewhere under the numbing layer that the chip instilled, that he probably was. His hands didn't tremble with adrenaline. His stomach didn't clamp down. But he did, unaccountably, have a strong desire to pace. "Settle down," Sidonis advised, from the couch in the hotel room Dempsey had rented here on Bastion for the couple of _days_ that his wedding to Zhasa was going to take. "You weren't this bad yesterday."

"I've only crossed the room once or twice," Dempsey told him, raising his eyebrows faintly.

"From you, that's like a salarian who's just discovered espresso," Sidonis returned, grinning.

Dempsey shrugged and put his back against the wall. Forced himself to stillness. "Yesterday wasn't so bad," he agreed, after a moment. "Mostly just quarian stuff. Other than, you know. The concert."

"Yeah. . . " Sidonis looked up from his datapad. "I note that Zhasa's kept her head down. She knows Dara's going to _kill_ her for yesterday, right?"

"I'm guessing so, yeah. Dara's comments about getting Seheve to teach her how to hide bodies _were_ pretty pointed." Dempsey's lips quirked, very faintly, in amusement that he relished. It was entirely his _own_.

The first day of a quarian wedding was largely dedicated to dancing, music, and story-telling. It was a communal affair, in which the crews of the two betrotheds' ships were supposed to get together, celebrate, ease the passage of one person to a new ship, welcome the newcomer, say farewell to a beloved family member or colleague, and so on. Technically, this should have involved just the members of Zhasa's 'new crew'—the Spectres—and her 'old crew'—the crew of the _Irria_. Hal'Marrak and Nal'Ishora, both very fond of Zhasa, and newly appointed as probationary Spectres after living on base for seven years, and participating in dozens of operations in that time, had both agreed to demonstrate male fire-dancing and female story-dances for the Spectre side of things. The rachni had all volunteered to sing. Dempsey, as the groom, was actually _encouraged_ to participate. He'd taken one look at the fire-dancing Hal had demonstrated a week ago, and shaken his head. _No thanks. I'm lacking twenty years of experience, and burns still fucking hurt and tend not to heal up very quickly._

As such, he, Eli, Dara, and Fors had figured that they would do an impromptu jam session. Old twentieth and twenty-first century rock. Classical piano and guitar, from the sixteenth through nineteenth centuries, to round it out. Dempsey had _wondered_ why the event was being held in a very damned big auditorium, but all Zhasa had told him was that the quarian government—all the way up to the now-_advisory_ Admiralty Board—had recommended the venue, and was covering the costs. He'd been uncertain as to why. . . until he'd gotten up on stage, expecting a hollow, echoingly empty space, with the four of them lost on stage, playing to a handful of people up in the nosebleed section, as there'd been early in the day, for the first couple of events.

What he'd walked out into had been a crowd of 20,000 people, most in suits and visors, but a handful of the braver quarians, like Hal and Nal, were only wearing breathers and gloves. The noise of the crowd had been like a wall as they all suddenly began to roar and shout and stamp their feet. It had been like boyhood fantasies of playing the Garden as a rock star. . . dreams he'd known he'd never be able to live out, because he was biotic, and he had to serve in the military for at least four to eight years. For most biotics, the military became a life-long commitment, simply because Earth had no actual use for biotics in any other part of society. Something Dempsey really hoped he'd see the end of in his lifetime.

As it was, fortunately, he'd already been wearing dark glasses to protect his eyes from the stage lights. Dara had been wearing hers to cover her eyes, but had frozen, stock-still, and he and Elijah had needed to put their hands just under her elbows and pull her out on stage. Dempsey had heard _both_ their thoughts, as Sidonis had, grimly, put on his own dark glasses, _Oh, __fuck__ me. I'm going to __kill__ Zhasa for this._ Rising and absolute panic in broken yellow chords from Dara. Hints of anxiety in a darker gold from Sidonis, accompanied by sparks of brilliant red anger. Elijah did not like having Dara exposed to public scrutiny. He also wasn't enthusiastic about singing in public to begin with, let alone _this_.

_Steady, guys. Plenty of security. No wonder B-Sec wasn't thrilled with all our arrangements._

_You didn't know?_ Dara's mental voice scaled up.

_I knew 'jam session.' I did not know 'full house for the Spectre concert.' _

_It's all right,_ Fors assured them, the volus' grating mental voice joining the conversation. _I can drop a stasis field on anyone who decides to rush the stage._

_Not reassuring, Fors!_ Dara objected. _Oh, god, what I don't do for friends. This makes standing around almost naked in really uncomfortable underwear in front of family and friends for Seheve look like kindergarten._

Dempsey could _feel_ Sidonis looking for the B-Sec snipers in the rafters and catwalks overhead, the event security people at the foot of the stage, and the wave of reassurance the former cop sent them all. _It's covered, guys, this place is crawling with security._

_And this should be a walk in the park, right?_ Dempsey realized that his fingers had curled under Dara's arm almost as gently as he'd touch Zhasa, and released her with a mental squeeze of reassurance. Her mental song remained connected to his as she sat down at the piano, not looking up at the crowd at all. He could feel her, desperately, focusing on nothing but the sheet music in front of her.

_Speak for yourself,_ Fors snuffled in their minds, slowly hauling himself into the chair behind the drum kit. _You at least have all had practice with your instruments. I only learned to play the drums last __month__._

_You're actually ahead of most garage band drummers, then,_ Dempsey offered, trying to bolster everyone's self-confidence a bit.

Elijah's mental voice turned even grimmer. _Okay. The sooner we start, the sooner we get the hell off the stage. You want to talk to them, D?_

_Shit, no. I'm struggling to learn quarian as is._

_And that's one language I only know two words in. Keelah and bosh'tet. And you're the one marrying Zhasa._

_You're the singer. You're the front-man. Hell, you're even our PR rep. All you, bro._

Sidonis turned, and the look he gave Dempsey over the top of his glasses, through blackened eyes, couldn't have been interpreted as friendly by any culture on Earth. He picked up the microphone from its stand and waved to the crowd. "Hey, there," he said. "You're all here today for a pretty special occasion. We're all here to celebrate the marriage of Zhasa'Maedan—"

Cheers rang out, and a chorus of "Keelah'Zhasa! Keelah'Zhasa!" Dempsey's eyes widened slightly, and he kept right on tuning his guitar. The near-awe with which most quarians seemed to view Zhasa was a little. . . frightening, actually. He'd never actually considered the thought that an angry mob could tear him limb from limb if he ever managed to get her pissed at him.

Eli waited for the shouting to die down a little bit, "Zhasa'Maedan and James Dempsey."

More cheering.

"Now, Dempsey here, and my fiancée, Dara Jaworski, have both been playing their instruments since they were kids. Fors Luka here is pretty new to the drums, and, well, I only sing for the fun of it. None of us are professionals. We just like music. So, we're going to try pretty hard not to stink up the stage for the next people on, okay?"

Laughter and more anticipatory cheers. Elijah looked over his shoulder, directly at Dempsey. _What I don't do for my friends. What's the correct way to start this?_

_The traditional phrase is, "Are you ready to rock?"_

_I don't think quarians are going to get that, D._

_Say it anyway._

Eli cleared his throat, and, in English, asked, loudly, "Are you ready to rock?" Another look over his shoulder at Dempsey that could have killed an ox at ten paces. Dempsey's lips quirked up into a smile, an honest and real one of his own, feeling his mind lock into place with Elijah and Dara's, and even Fors'. Very light mental contact. Just enough to feel the nerves, relish the pre-performance jitters he hadn't felt in way too damned long, and give them his own rock-solid calm in exchange. Then his fingers came down on the first chords, giving Eli and Dara enough of a cue to know which song he was going into, and Fors picked up the beat immediately, recognizing it from a few of their play sessions. "This thing," Eli began to sing, and Dempsey knew _exactly_ when Sidonis closed his eyes to concentrate and block out the audience, "called love, I just can't handle it, this thing, called love, I must get 'round to it—" quick surge of panic as Sidonis couldn't quite remember the lyrics, which Dempsey immediately supplied, "—I ain't _ready! _Crazy little thing called love. . . "

The quarians didn't know the English words, of course, but the rhythm was clear, simple, and infectious, and soon enough, they were clapping along. They took the quarian crowd on a tour of the classic era of rock and roll, from about 1960 until about 2020, from standards that had been re-recovered a dozen times, to songs Dempsey had picked up for the pure enjoyment of difficult chords. He shifted them through the mingled hope and regret of "Dream On," into the Spanish-influenced guitar of "Hotel California," downshifted into the repetitious chords, which worked so well with the piano taking the part of the organ, for the genuine _chestnut_ that was "House of the Rising Sun." A shift of era, into the crashing, boisterous chords of "I Drink Alone," with the sassy strut of the saxophone picked up by the piano. Nothing here but the music, feeding the lyrics to Eli, whose vocal range perfectly suited the old, old words, and who gave him another wry grin at the content. _Been a while since I actually __did_ _drink alone. . . . _Fors easily picked up the swaggering beat. The volus had long since come up with solutions for being unable to reach the pedals on the drum kit, not to mention being unable to reach the cymbals; he worked the pedals with his biotics, and periodically threw a drumstick at the cymbal, controlling it with his biotics. He could have just moved the cymbal with his mind, naturally, but, as he'd told Dempsey in practice earlier in the week, _It's showier this way. Therefore, it must be better, right?_

Dempsey moved over to play to the right of the piano, watching out of the corner of his eye as Dara, clearly much more relaxed now that she was solely fixed on the music, swayed to the beat as the piano and guitar dueled in the bridge section. She even looked up once and grinned at him, before ducking her head back to the keys. _Caught ya, doc._ They'd long since worked out a joking version of "Sweet Home Alabama," shifting out the words to "Sweet Home on Mindoir," but they couldn't _do_ that one, without twenty thousand quarians wondering why the Spectres were apparently attached to a minor human colony in the Traverse. _Sidonis, can you fix the lyrics?_

_In my __head?__ You don't ask much, man._ But Sidonis did his best, belting out, "Ship engines keep on burning/ Carry me home to see my kin. . . Sweet home _Omega_, where the walls are so gray. . ." _Um, guys, who's put Omega down recently, other than the whole galaxy?_

_Hegemon, just like in the Mindoir version!_ Dara thought, urgently. Out loud, Eli caught up and passed that trouble spot, and swapped words on the fly, "On Omega they don't love the Council, boo boo boo. . . Now we all did what we could do . . . Now that Aria does not bother me. . . Does your conscience bother you?" _Okay, I'm about to get in trouble again. There are no __swamps__ on Omega. . . _

_No, but they have sewers,_ Dempsey tossed back.

_Oh, god, this is about to get even worse. . . _ "Now the sewers have got the vorcha. . . And they've been known to pick a _bone_ or two. . . . Lord, they piss me off so much . . .They tick me off when I'm feeling blue, now how about you?"

Dara was _laughing_ by that point as they played, and the waves of blue-green amusement off of her were buoying all of them. Dempsey could see that a number of quarians in the crowd had their omnitools open to a VI translation program and were quite obviously searching the extranet to figure out exactly what this song was actually supposed to be about.

He took them through the intricate guitar work of "Magadalena," wishing like hell that he'd been able to convince Zhasa to learn to play bass; it would have made the song all the better, and it would have been far sweeter to have her on stage with them, completing them, and to have been able to sing the words to her as he played. Sidonis managed the lyrics, and Dempsey actually sang with him for once, knowing that his friend's eyes were _still_ closed as he sang, "So pure, so rare, to witness such an earthly goddess. . . I'd sell my soul/ my self-esteem/ a dollar at a time/ for one chance, one kiss/ one taste of you, my Magadalena. . . "

Then, out of the happy music, into the darker songs that, as he'd once told Madison, embodied what rock music meant to him. Disaffection or rebellion, by equal turns. _Helden_, or Heroes, which Dempsey thought nicely ironic, considering the public image of Spectres. Eli promptly gave him an even darker look for picking a song in a language he didn't even speak, and, did his best with the English translation that they'd been toying with last week, when singing for Glory as he worked through more rehabilitation. Darkening further, the wicked chords of "More Human than Human," "Coming Undone," and a dozen other favorites, pummeling the crowd, letting the guitar wail like a demon finally unchained. Nothing left but the music and the pure delight of working in such perfect tandem with three people he simply loved hanging with.

Then Eli, clearly grateful to be able to _stop_ singing, stepped back, and Dempsey nudged Dara with his elbow. _Your turn,_ he told her, and Dara took lead, leading into the delicate complexities of Chopin, Mozart, Beethoven, and Rachmaninoff, and Dempsey did his level best to follow the piano, thankful for months of practice, whenever they were on base at the same time. Either in the evenings, when Eli and Dara would have him, Zhasa, and Madison over for dinner, or at the barbecues. And he could hear _her_ internal music, linked with Sidonis', and knew that, for the moment, he was a part of their song, and again, that faint smile crept across his face. The only thing that could have made it better would have been to have Zhasa on stage with them.

Dara opted to end by switching to quarian _reela_ music, that she'd transposed for playing on the piano, songs she knew so well she could play them from memory, and again, Dempsey did his level best to follow along. These were crowd-pleasers for the quarian audience, certainly. Familiar to them, not as alien as the human music, but presented in an alien fashion.

And then, a full hour after they got on the stage, in spite of all the slips and missed notes, they wound to a close, with Eli and Fors coming up to take a quick bow with the other two, and had a surprising round of foot-stamping and applause follow them off-stage.

On stepping out of public view, Dara quietly wilted against a wall. Sidonis moved next to her, rubbing his fingers up and down her arms lightly. Fors stepped down the stairs and folded his arms over his small chest. "For your information," the volus snuffled, looking up at Dempsey, "I _will_ have my revenge for this."

"Guys, I didn't _know._ This is even less my fault than that—" Dempsey looked around for the omnipresent cameras, and amended what he was going to say, "than a certain building on Lorek that lost its roof, if you know what I mean."

"Doesn't matter," Fors assured him. "Volus vengeance is deadly and inexorable. You'll never know when it'll happen. Just that someday, it _will_."

Dempsey looked down at his biotic sparring partner. "I'm terrified."

"Not yet. But you _will_ be."

At which point, Zhasa raced out of the crowd backstage and threw herself at all of them. "I'm so _sorry_," she told them all, immediately. "I told them not to put you on the public schedule, for security purposes, but apparently, one of the stagehands leaked the information, and, well, you know what my people are like. . . "

"Galaxy's worst gossips?" Dempsey asked, as Zhasa hugged him, and apologized again. "Zhasa-love, for my part. . . no need to apologize." He smiled faintly. "It was kind of like living out a childhood fantasy. James D, rock star." He kissed her forehead lightly. "I'm putting the last hour in permanent storage." He tapped one finger to the side of his head. He was, too. He'd triggered one of the chip's lesser functions, which was recording, and saved _everything_ he could.

"You would," Dara grumped. Zhasa moved to her next, hugged her, and Eli, and then Fors, apologizing profusely. Fors waved her off, and told her, "No, no, you can't distract me from the real target of my vengeance. That's my human-geth friend, right here. Throw yourself in front of him all you want. My aim will not miss." Dark portentousness filled his voice, and then the volus dropped the pose completely. "Oh, and did you see Chissa back here? I think I'm going to go find her." He shuffled off, his tiny suited figure soon lost in the crowd of suited and unsuited quarians backstage.

"Why didn't you at least get out on stage with us?" Dara demanded of Zhasa as Fors moved off. "It's _your_ show."

Zhasa waved her hands frantically, quarian body-language, as always, writ large. "I got here about halfway through. All these people made for really horrible traffic, and by the time I got backstage, I didn't want to interrupt or distract you. . . . "

"I should—" Dara glanced around at all the quarian stagehands, clearly remembered the words 'galaxy's worst gossips,' and added, silently, so that they all, still linked a bit, could hear her, _I should kill you. Right after Seheve teaches me how to hide bodies properly._

Eli snorted. Dempsey, still buoyed by music and mental contact, actually grinned at her. "Admit it, doc, you loved it once you forgot about the audience. And you were pretty damned good."

He leaned down, one arm around Zhasa, and gave Dara a hug, resulting in a wrinkled nose and the muffled words, "Eww, sweaty hugs."

Which made Dempsey give her a look and an even tighter hug, before releasing her and, still holding her by the wrist to control the motion, giving her a little push, her two inches right back into towards Sidonis' arms, who'd sweated right through his shirt, the same way that Dempsey had. "Oh, god, I'm going to have both of your scents on me," Dara complained, but with a grin. "Every turian I pass is going to give me _looks_."

Sidonis shouted with laughter and pulled her closer, rubbing his face—loose paint and all—against her neck, making her laugh and pull away. "And you thought I couldn't cuddle," Dempsey said, his tone actually light for once.

"Hey, if we keep this up back here, we're going to have to formalize that cuddle contract you mentioned at Fors' wedding," Eli said, mostly keeping his face straight. And with that, Zhasa reached out to slide an arm around Eli's waist, and the circuit completed. The fourfold mental contact that they'd once felt, on the observation decks of the _Raedia_ and the _Sollostra_, separated by the vacuum of space, returned. Just enough to join them all, lightly. Rachni song, and quarian silk, Terran and turian steel, asari perfume. Textures and scents and colors and music. Timeless.

"Hey, can anyone join in the fun?" a voice asked, and Dempsey pulled back from the others, turning a little, to see Linianus and Serana behind them. The turian male grinned at them all. "I think that was every barbecue for the next ten years, all wrapped up in one package."

"You were out there watching?" Dara asked, sounding horrified. "Oh my god. That makes it even worse now."

Serana made a rude noise. "You're off the stage. How can it be _worse_ knowing we were out there watching, when it's already done."

"I don't know, but it is!"

"Then I shouldn't mention that I saw vid cameras out there from BNN, should I?" Serana teased.

Dara closed her eyes. _Yeah. I'm totally asking Seheve how to hide bodies. That's all there is to it._

That had been yesterday. Today, was the actual day of the wedding itself, and now, Dempsey could feel nerves slowly beginning to light off in agitation inside of him. "Today," he told Sidonis, and pushed off the wall, "is the actually getting married part."

"And we're all going to be there to make sure you actually manage to get married and don't fall down or run away or anything else." Elijah stood, and jerked a thumb at the door. "C'mon. It's time."

Zhasa had dithered for months about the dress, opting, eventually, for a custom-tailored version of a human dress she'd found with Dara's assistance. A plunging neckline, with an overlay of translucent silk to provide the illusion of coverage, sweeping down into a translucent overskirt that fell over a full-length ivory gown, a thick band of rich satin skimming just above the floor. As a nod to quarian tradition, the dress had been altered by a clever hanar tailor to have a set of 'overwraps' in violet at the hips and on the forearms.

The shoes, as always, had been custom-made; it would likely be at least five to ten years before the shoe and clothing industry caught up with the need for attire suitable for quarian bodies. And she'd even opted for a light silk-trimmed veil, a human affectation that Zhasa delighted in; it perfectly suited the quarian need for a _little_ privacy, a little mystery about the intimacy of the face. . . but that privacy was an illusion, because she was still perfectly visible under it. Zhasa turned and looked at herself, again, and again, in a long mirror, perfectly delighted by what she saw. "C'mon, mirror monkey," Dara told her, lightly. "It's about time we got you two crazy kids married off."

"Just a second. You're sure there are no loose threads, no missing buttons?" Zhasa turned and twisted one more time.

"You're perfect. The only thing you're actually missing are the bunny slippers." Dara nodded, and pretended to duck away as Zhasa looked around for something to swat her with. "Just tell me one thing. . . ?"

"Hmm?" Zhasa accepted her flowers from Seheve, who'd just stepped into the room, wearing a drell halter and skirt in the same tone of violet, and Rel's yellow clan-paint on her cheeks

"Are you expecting twenty thousand people _today_, too?" Dara asked.

Seheve glanced around, and actually winced. "May I say that I am hoping that this is not the case?" the drell murmured.

Zhasa flushed violet under her veil. "Ah. . . well. . . maybe. . . yes?" She floundered with it. "There are a million quarians living on Bastion. Our council representative was . . . somewhat firm with me, about making sure as many of them as possible could attend. Because. . . well. . . we're not all on ships anymore."

Dara squinted at her. "I'd noticed that, yes."

Zhasa fidgeted with the ribbon around her bouquet. "A lot of the ship-born traditions are going to die away," she told Dara, wincing a little. "But those traditions have kept my people together—intact and alive-through three hundred years of exile. There were a number of people—including Admiral Tali'Zorah and Kal'Reegar!—who told me that if we got married on Bastion, that, well. . . it would be something that would draw our people together. Ship-born traditions, mingling with new ones. I liked that idea. And. . . well. . . I _did_ sort of challenge all of my people to dare, to step out of their suits and be brave. How can I, after telling them that, _not_ welcome them as ship-mates of another sort?"

Dara stared at her for a long moment, and shook her head. "Zhasa," she finally said, and, to the quarian's surprise, gave her a tight hug. "I think one of the reasons you've become my best friend—"

"—and _sister_—"

"And sister, yes. .. it's really simple. Your life is damned near as complicated as mine is, _and_ you have the same habit that Eli and I have, of absolutely putting your foot in your mouth and then having to live with it." Dara grinned at her, and Zhasa laughed.

The huge auditorium was, once again, packed with people, and, like much of yesterday, with reporters and vid cameras. Zhasa had gotten her wish; flowers decked the entire room, sweeping down in long swags from the rafters, connecting to the small silk tent at the center of the room, making the entire auditorium, visually at least, another, larger tent, one crafted from exotic blooms. Terran roses and lilies, _dia'da'eiia'a_ and _liepie'a'eiia'a_ from Illium, and quarian and turian flowers as well, all perfuming the air with their scents. But this time, the room was almost preternaturally silent, until the sound of a quarian _reela_, playing a human air, the Canon in D, broke that silence.

Emily and Elissa, two hybrid children of the Sidonis and Vakarian families, along with Tellura, Ylara's young asari daughter, led the way, strewing flower petals, followed by Sisu, who carried a small pillow, on which the rings were held. Sisu, much to the evident surprise of many of the quarians present, wore a neat small suit, tailored for a human boy child, it was clear, and his young face was rather nervous as he held the all-important rings ahead of him.

Zhasa walked down the long aisle, smiling to every quarian she saw to the sides, followed by Dara, Seheve, and Nal'Ishora, her closest friends in the Spectres besides Melaani, who was _still_ undercover somewhere in asari space. The black armor did require heavy prices sometimes. Missing the weddings of friends and loved ones. Missing children's birthing-days. But that was a price they all had known they'd pay when they accepted the charge and token of the armor.

She knew there was a _heavy_ B-Sec contingent at all entrances and exits, that there were likely snipers in the rafters to ensure the safety of so many Spectres in such a public place, and she was maintaining her personal barrier, as well as carrying an active kinetic shield, but that was all entirely secondary to the reason she was here today. To marry Dempsey. To join their lives, formally.

Up under the tent itself, Dempsey stood, impassive, stone-faced, wearing a simple human suit, with Elijah Sidonis, Fors Luka, James, his android twin, and Madison, his son, as his witnesses and honor guard. Zhasa had requested at first that Shepard perform the ceremony, as her current 'captain,' but the human female had held up both hands and begged not to have to do so. "I don't speak a word of quarian," Shepard had explained, apologetically. "I'll go to the ceremony, Zhasa. You can borrow one of my daughters as a flower-girl. But. . . I'm not going to mangle the language for one of the more important days of your life." Shepard had smiled sheepishly. "You'll thank me for it in the years to come."

So, Zhasa had thought about it. She could have asked the current captain of the _Irria,_ but she didn't really know the female, and the male who'd been captain most of her life had retired recently. She'd finally asked Kal'Reegar, as her former commander and the one who'd sponsored her Spectre candidacy, and, to her relief, Kal had agreed to conduct the ceremony. It was _odd_ to see him out of his suit, wearing a breather and gloves, golden eyes gleaming in his pale face, his long hair and mane brushed out neatly, and falling over a suit that could have been worn by any human male. Tali'Zorah, out in the audience, similarly had only a mask and gloves, and a lovely lavender dress, made for a human female, but tailored to a quarian frame. Zhasa was nearly _dizzied_ by the implications. By the fact that dozens of cameras were capturing this moment. By how quickly her people had responded to her challenge, spoken to the Admiralty board only half a year ago. _This is the face of change_, she thought. _This is the way it happens. One person has an idea, and others take it up. Take the chances. Face the dangers. And then more. And then more after them._

Beside Kal'Reegar stood a fairly anonymous human clergyman. Dempsey, being a lapsed Catholic, and the church into which he'd been born refusing to acknowledge the legitimacy of marriage with aliens, had found a non-denominational human pastor to do the human variant of the vows. Zhasa felt herself beginning to smile at the sight of Dempsey. She'd rarely seen him in a suit before; the only time she could think of, really, was during the Arvuna mission, when he and Dara had been tasked with dealing with the corporations on Trident. She extended her mind, catching his, feeling the faint warmth there grow at the contact. Sun-warmed steel, and an electrical sensation with it, the crackle of all his considerable mental power. _Much better_, she purred internally.

_I was actually feeling pretty good before you arrived. Now, yes. Even better._ Dempsey took her hand in his, skin on skin, a luxury few of her people had ever been afforded in public in generations. And Zhasa's smile widened.

The quarian vows that Zhasa had opted to have Kal'Reegar perform, were not the standard ones from three hundred years of living on ships. Those vows had spoken of how _our love will not be sundered, our steps shall be one, until we can retrace the trackless path of our wandering, and breathe the scented air of the walled gardens of our world once more. Until that time, you will be a refuge to me, and I shall be one unto you. . . ._

No, these vows were far, far older, and had taken Zhasa a fair bit of time to track down in the historical databases. And, admittedly, a little help from Cohort; the geth had preserved a number of historical databases on Rannoch that the quarians themselves had forgotten even existed. As a result. . . . these were the vows used on Rannoch _before_ the Flight. _"Repeat after me,"_ Kal'Reegar told them, firmly. "_My clan is your clan. . . . "_

"_My clan is your clan,"_ they echoed, Dempsey squinting a little against a flash of pain as he activated his chip to read the words to make sure he got them _right_.

"_Our water is your water, our lands are your lands. From this day forth, our steps shall never be sundered. In shade and shadow, in sun and in light, in storm and strife, and in stillness and in silence, we will share one path. In a desert or in a garden, we will share one life, together always."_ Reegar paused. "_Zhasa, now you."_

"_I will make of myself a fertile garden, and give you shade and succor. Rest your head upon my soil, hear the water pour from my fountains, and know peace."_

Dempsey actually blinked. She'd had him read the ceremony in translation, apologizing, "It's very old, and actually somewhat poetic—"

"It's fine. I just don't want to hear J. Thaddius Maxwell _ever_ trying to explain how it's all a _metaphor_ to some quarian tribunal."

Now, no trace of humor in his voice as he replied, hesitantly, trying to shape the words correctly. _"And I will make of myself a wall—" _His thoughts, irrepressibly bubbled up, _Hey, I'm already one of those. And that's a step up from a geth, right?_ "_around your oasis. I will guard your garden, and give you joy." I'll try anyway, right?_

Kal'Reegar stepped back, and allowed the human pastor to step up, and begin the very old words in English. "The rings?" the pastor asked, after the usual exchange of human vows.

Sisu had already handed over the rings to Dara and Eli. Dara pulled Dempsey's wide band off her thumb, and handed it to Zhasa, and Zhasa was startled to see tears in her friend's eyes. _What's wrong?_

_Nothing. You both look so damned happy. It's a good look on him. And on you._

Zhasa turned, and realized that there was a very slight delay on the other side. Eli patted his pockets for a moment, staring Dempsey down. Dempsey stared up at Elijah, his expression suddenly settling into granite lines. Just above a whisper, Dempsey hissed, "Are you _kidding_ me? You can't _possibly_ have lost it, you just took it from Sisu—"

Eli spread his hands, and removed the ring from his left pinky, handing it over. "Consider that my revenge for you enjoying yesterday far too much. . . . _fradu_. Fors' vengeance, you still have to wait on." There was just a _hint_ of a smile there, mostly in the eyes.

Dempsey gave him a look, and then, suddenly, snorted with laughter. Entirely his own.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife," the human clergyman said, as Dempsey slipped the ring onto the correct finger, and Kal'Reegar asked, quietly, "Have you decided on a ship-name, Zhasa?"

"Yes. Mindoir. A planet-name, if you will."

Kal's golden eyes widened slightly, and he cleared his throat to roar out, "_And I pronounce you both of the tribe of Mindoir. Go forth from this place as Zhasa'Maedan vas Mindoir nar Pellus and James'Demsi vas Mindoir nar Earth."_

_Wait a damn minute, did I just get a name-change? I'm pretty sure I didn't sign any paperwork about that. . . _ Dempsey leaned down and kissed Zhasa, pulling her to him, but the lightly amused thoughts lingered, and Zhasa could hear Dara's stifled chuckling from behind her.

They all filed out together, through the long aisle, surrounded by trilling, calling quarians, all throwing rose petals, filling the air. Zhasa was quite certain that the vid cams _had_ to have caught the image of Cohort, the geth Spectre, throwing rose petals with the same gusto as all the other quarians. Had to have seen Shepard and Garrus following with Tali'Zorah and Kal'Reegar and their lightly-masked children, out to the waiting aircars.

"Zhasa the trend-setter," Dara said, lightly, as they piled into the vehicle that would take them back to the hotel for the private party to follow. "I'm going to bet that quite a few _more_ people are going to be taking off their masks and suits soon."

"And that a lot of them are going to be calling themselves vas Bastion or vas Rannoch," Eli said, stretching out his long legs in the back seat.

"And using the old-style marriage ceremony," Seheve murmured, as Rel, who'd been in the friends and family seating area, piled in with them all, making everyone squeeze down a little further. "The old and the new, commingled."

Zhasa smiled a little sheepishly. "I wasn't out to do that," she told them all, feeling Dempsey's arm wrap around her shoulders. "I just wanted to do something that meant something to Dempsey and to me."

"Yeah, about that. James'Demsi vas _Mindoir_ nar _Earth_? We're kind of advertising where the base is." Dempsey sounded wary. "Did Shepard clear that?"

Zhasa nodded. "She said it was something of an open secret at this point, and that someday soon, it wouldn't be our only base of operations, so I was to go ahead and change my ship-name if I wished."

"Hell of a day," Eli said, pulling Dara a little closer. "Going to be hard to top you guys." His dark eyes gleamed in the low light. "Then again, I don't think this is exactly a competition."

"If it is, they win. No, wait, Kallixta and Rinus already won for 'most over the top.' But she's got an excuse." Dara grinned at the rest of them. "She's an Imperial. Zhasa's just a cultural icon."

"So's Fors."

"His was pretty over the top, too."

Laughter filled the aircar, and continued through most of the rest of the night.

**Astaria, Monday, October 2, 2197**

It had taken Alisav K'sar a week and a half to walk out of the Mindoir med bay. A month of breathing exercises and rehabilitation therapy later, he'd headed back to Khar'sharn, as he'd always known he'd have to return. He met with an exceedingly harried Valak, who hadn't seen Nala or Nexia in months, and had already survived two assassination attempts, thanks to the loyal cadre of warrior-castes and freed slaves around him at all times. "You coming to work with me?" Valak asked, immediately, and urgently.

"Yes. But I have a few small tasks that I need to accomplish first. Otherwise, I'll be no good to you."

Valak nodded, understanding, evidently. "We did head to your small estate on the edge of town before the riots broke out," Valak told him. "We took the liberty of removing all of your personal effects, the personal effects of your wife, and prying your housekeeper out of the storage cellar in which she'd hidden herself. She was understandably terrified, but when I explained who I was, and that you were, ah, a member of my staff, although you'd been wounded, she calmed down a bit."

"Has she had the obedience chip removed already?" K'sar asked, quietly. He'd never actually had to activate one of the damned things in his life. He'd always found that treating underlings with respect, and expecting results from them, tended to have a good effect. It was what his family had always believed, anyway. Aside from which, every slave owned by his family had known how much worse conditions were outside the K'sar family. None of them had wanted to be sold. All of those whom he had turned over to other masters after Tassia's death, he'd researched the owners. Enough to know that none of them killed slaves for minor infractions, beat them, and so on

Valak nodded briskly. "The asari health and social workers came and spoke with her several times. We even encouraged her to leave. They were trying to track down her family, but she was taken into captivity two hundred years ago, when she was only ten or so. It's. . . hard to believe she's Melaani's age, but. . . there it is."

Valak rubbed at the ridge of his nose, frowning. K'sar knew the male was taking vital time away from far more important things to humor him in this regard. "Why is she still here, then?" K'sar asked, matching his strides to Valak's.

"She told me she has nowhere to go. That she'd been born on Thessia, and Thessia was no more. She doesn't remember her family name, or the name of her mother. And, well. . . you can ask her the rest yourself." Valak had set up headquarters for the new government in the old Palace of the Hegemon, but had damned near gutted the place. Paintings and statues had been removed from every room, and placed in storage 'so that future generations can decide what's art, and what's ideology,' as Valak had told him on the way back into the erstwhile quarters of the First Family. All of Valak's top freedom fighters, a handful of assigned Spectres, and the heads of the military and relief efforts from the Council of Sisters, the turian Hierarchy, and the human Systems Alliance all had rooms back here.

And there was where he found Ainakea_._ He politely tapped on the door—a courtesy never extended to slaves—and waited until she hesitantly replied, "Enter?"

As he opened the door, which she had not locked, though she had the option to do so, Ainakea stood, instantly, her blue eyes wide. She looked almost as she always had, the same, plain-woven white dress. The only real difference was the faint scar on her forehead, where the obedience chip had been removed. K'sar wondered, briefly, if he could have done that before this year, and knew that the answer was _no._ Someone would have discovered the surgery. Would have asked questions. He'd have been on watch lists. And, in truth, it hadn't occurred to him that it was an _option_ before a few months ago. The best he'd been able to do for the female who had been as a mother to his beloved Tassia. . . had been to give her as much freedom within his house as he could. To require nothing of her, besides a very few household chores, and that she not touch the place-setting at his wife's chair. And not to speak Tassia's name.

He hadn't been able to speak _Ainakea's_ name for the two years since his wife's death. Not since the night the asari had eased the suffering woman from life, as he could not.

For a long moment, K'sar stood there, looking at the asari, unspeaking, his head bowed slightly. "_It is good to see you well,"_ he finally said, using batarian forms that he had never used with a slave before. The pronouns and verbs forms wrapped around the words in a way that suggested that they were of . . . equal caste. It felt odd, but this was the new world. _"I would have come for you, myself, but I was. . . injured in the attack on the Hegemon."_

Ainakea's eyes rounded, and she spoke, hesitantly. _"Lord Valak said as much. He said that you stood with him, and helped kill the head of the __Klem Na__. That you were wounded treating one of the injured Spectres. That you were. . . a hero."_

K'sar turned his face away, rejecting the words. "_N'dor does not wish to be called a lord anymore,"_ he reminded her, gently. _"He's proposing to import human titles. '_Mister'_ or _'Mizz'_ to replace all forms of respectful address for males and females."_ He pronounced the English words carefully, and grimaced. He knew he hadn't said them correctly. _Of course, the oldest forms of both were 'master' and 'mistress,' according to the dictionary that I looked the words up in, but they don't mean that, anymore. But language does hold the past in it, and it's difficult to tear history out of a language. . . or impose change from the outside._ Out loud, he added, more quietly, _"And I am no hero."_

He realized he still stood in the doorway, but did not take even more step more into her space. _"T-Tassia. . . "_ Gods of his ancestors, it was _hard_ to say his wife's name, _"loved you very much, you know that?"_ He found he was staring at the floor. "_She spent more time with you as a child, than with her own mother. Insisted that you must come with her to my house when we married. You nursed her through her final sickness. Gave her. . . .gave her. . . more mercy. . . than I could."_ K'sar could not look up from his study of the carpet. _"I think she would rejoice to know that you are free today. And she would want me to ask you this: What would you like to do with your freedom?"_

He finally raised his head, and was stunned to see tears falling down Ainekea's cheeks. _"She was my little girl,"_ the asari whispered. _"I never had one of my own. I'm still. . . maiden-age. Too young to have one without help. But I loved Tassia, Lord K'sar, begging your pardon—"_

"_Just K'sar. No more lords, if Valak has his way."_

She nodded. _"I knew my girl. She would never have wanted to see you grieve as you have."_

K'sar shrugged. His grief, and his dedication to his work through it, had, in many ways, brought him to precisely this moment. To work with Valak. To stand in this doorway. _"It doesn't matter,"_ he said, after a moment. _"I ask you, again, what would you like to do with your freedom?"_

"_I. . . don't know. I don't even know how to choose, let alone what to choose. I know that I do not have credits, and credits are what make the world outside run. . . I have no skills besides keeping a house in order. . . "_

K'sar shook his head, faintly, still standing in the doorway. _"Not entirely true. Please, if you would? Come with me."_ He led her to a sitting room that had a computer terminal, and pulled up two accounts from a banking system. The Hegemony's finances were in _shambles_; their currency, relative to the galactic credit, was essentially in freefall, even with the Vol Protectorate having moved assets into Hegemony space in order to attempt to stabilize it. Thus, K'sar's relative worth outside the Hegemony was now negligible. Inside the Hegemony, his assets were in better shape than most people's, but that was a very relative thing. People were hoarding their money at the moment, and because infrastructure on Lorek and Camala had been so hard hit, commodities, including _food_ had been rendered scarcer. . . and the result was inflation of prices with less currency in circulation.

"_This_," K'sar said, quietly, tapping the screen in one place, _"is Tassia's dowry. I never touched it. It was her money to spend as she chose, as far as I was concerned, and she rarely spent any of it, beyond the interest it generated. It looks a little less impressive in galactic credits, I'm afraid. But she would, I think, want you to have it."_ He paused, and transferred the funds to the second account, which was held by a volus bank, and was made out in Ainakea's name. The numbers. . . dwindled rapidly as they were exchanged for galactic credits. _"And because credits fluctuate in value, and because these numbers here may take years before they have any significant meaning. . . I would like you to take her jewelry as well."_ K'sar moved to a trunk in the room, which had been taken from his villa, and opened it. Valak's men had been meticulous about finding everything of value that he owned and removing it before the rioters spread to the outskirts of the capital. Tassia had brought quite a few jewels with her dowry, and K'sar had loved to buy her new rings and headbands of pearl to drape just above her four lovely eyes, and necklaces to match them around her throat.

He couldn't even _look_ at them. He couldn't look at them, and _not_ remember how he'd given her that emerald pin for a birthing-day gift. That bracelet of amber and freshwater pearls for a solstice gift. Couldn't look at any of them, and not see her smiling, laughing, leaning forward to kiss him. So he glanced once, to verify that the casket of gems was as full as he remembered, and then closed it. Put it in front of Ainakea. _"That, I think,"_ he said, his voice unsteadier than he liked, _"should take care of any lack of credits for a very long time. Not, perhaps, as long as an asari lives. But it's everything that . . . that Tassia had. And I know she would have wished it to go to you."_ He cleared his throat, and managed to look up from the table on which the box now rested, and saw that tears were, once again, falling from the asari's eyes. _"Now,_" he told her, carefully taking a chair. _"As to knowing how to make a choice . . . the best thing for that, is practice, I think. I can make a few suggestions, but only you know what will make you happy."_ He didn't reach out to touch her hands. He felt he didn't quite have that right. _"You told N'dor's people that you had no family that you knew of, aside from on Thessia?"_

She shook her head. _"You could start life anew on any asari world you wished_," K'sar told her, gently. _"There are many asari here now, looking for lost . . . sisters. . . and bringing them home."_

She shook her head again, with more emphasis. _"Why not?"_ he asked.

"_Because. . . I have lived all my life on Khar'sharn,"_ she replied, her tone dull. _"It is . . . all I know. It is my home. I don't remember a sky that isn't red. I don't even __speak__ their language. I was taken into my lady's family when I was a child. I was a servant to her great-grandmother, fetching her a stool for her feet and her sewing when she wished for it. Then I was her daughter's servant. And her daughter's. And then I was Tassia's nursemaid and teacher and servant, too. They never truly treated me as a slave is treated by so many here on Khar'sharn. I was always. . . part of the family."_ She raised her head. _"But with my lady's family gone, and my lady gone, you were the only one left, and you did not send me away to live with strangers, and for that I was . . . grateful. And now you wish for me to leave, and this is the only home I know."_ Dullness. Despair. Fear. Confusion. Hope, but only a little.

K'sar exhaled. _"What I wish,"_ he said, carefully, _"should have absolutely no bearing on your decisions from now on. You must decide what is best for you, and I will give you all the help I can to allow you to establish a new life for yourself. . . whatever that life is. Schooling, so that you can support yourself. . . should be a small matter with Tassia's dowry and jewels to support you until you have finished learning what you wish to learn. The real question, I think, is __where__ you might wish to live, while you are. . . deciding who and what you want to be. That decision may take time. It is a question, I think, that no one on this entire planet has ever had to answer before." _He paused. _"In other words. . . you don't have to decide that today. It may take you ten or fifteen years to make that decision."_ K'sar put his hands, flat, on the table. _"Let me tell you what I see unfolding."_

His chest ached a little, and he shifted, trying to remember to breathe deeply, and all the way through his lungs. _"If you were to stay on Khar'sharn, you __could__ take part in the reconstruction of its society. You are one of the few who could, conceivably, look forward to actually seeing the results of the last month's attack, and the next hundred years of work that will be needed to capitalize on Valak's changes. You could be a part of that, but it will be very, very hard work. You still speak as a slave does, your mannerisms, your body language, all say 'slave.' And that will be hard to shed here, and there will be, for decades, if not centuries, those who will still spit on you for it."_

Ainakea nodded, slowly. _"That sounds noble. . . but. . . "_

"_Difficult?"_

"_Yes."_

He nodded. _"Another option, as we already said, would be to go to an asari world. But, as you say, you do not speak the language. They would know, on looking at your body language that you were not one of them, yes? Just as any batarian would know, by looking at you, that you had been a slave?"_

She nodded, more quickly now. _"I do not wish to do either. I do not know what to do."_

"_There is another option,"_ K'sar told her, looking down at his hands once more. _"There is a place I know. It is a good place. A healing place. A __peaceful__ place. A planet where humans and asari live side by side, and I think it possible that it will become, one day soon, part of the System Alliance. This planet is called Astaria. And the place on it. . . it is a beautiful place, Ainakea._" Her name, directly addressed so, came more easily from his lips that he'd thought it would. "_It is a vineyard, called _Pace_."_ He was almost certain he'd said the human name correctly. _"The woman who owns it is human. Very strong. With asari neighbors, and human workers, and . . . she is kind-hearted. Honest. And generous. I think, if she would be willing to take you in. . . you could learn how not to be a slave there. And in ten or fifteen or twenty years, you could make the decision for yourself, if you wished to return here, and make more of this poor world than it is now. . . or make your home wherever you please."_

Her head came up, and she nodded. _"That. . . sounds. . . very nice, actually. Hopeful."_ She paused. _"You are fond of this human woman? She will take me in, if you request it?"_

K'sar blinked. _"Gods of my ancestors. I . . . questioned her. I did not threaten her, or her children, but I do not think that she would think well of you, if you cited me as a __character reference.__"_

For the first time in his memory, he heard Ainakea laugh. A tiny, smothered sound, but it was still a first. And all firsts could be built upon.

Taking her to Astaria turned out to be something of a bureaucratic nightmare. K'sar had to put in writing, three or four times, that he was not taking her there as property, to hide a slave for 'personal and illegal use,' but rather trying to provide for her a life as a free individual. She didn't have papers, didn't exist as a person or a citizen, so they had to manufacture a passport and an identicard for her—none of the former slaves were taking biometric chips in their hands, for obvious reasons—register her DNA, and every other damned thing. That took a few days, in and around trying to get oriented on how the hell he was going to help Valak in the new world that was Khar'sharn.

Finally, he took her on a chartered flight to Bastion. There weren't many commercial flights running between the two capitals at the moment, and with reason. He watched as she was overwhelmed by the sheer number and variety of people around her. Not just asari and batarians and the occasional human. But turians and hanar and suited and unsuited quarians and volus and asari and random geth walking by, painted in B-Sec blue. K'sar himself had never been to Bastion, and was almost as overwhelmed as she was, mostly by the _number_ of aliens crowding around. She seemed to be most astounded by the chatter, the laughter, the freedom. . . and he could understand why.

And then a commercial flight, long and tedious, with several relay jumps, far out into the Hekate system. K'sar could have taken her on this voyage using his SIU ship—he'd been permitted to keep it—but he really didn't have a crew for it, and it seemed a better thing, to introduce her to the real world in this way. It might be overwhelming for her, but it would make Astaria's peacefulness look all the more inviting. Bastion could be something she could set as a goal, if she wished to do so.

After almost three solid days of traveling in cramped quarters, landing at the spacesport at Astaria's south pole was a welcome chance to stretch their legs. K'sar wasn't actually looking forward to climbing into a shuttle and flying northwards. He'd actually asked the Spectres to set up all communications with Maryam Pace, not wishing to prejudice her against Ainakea by contacting her, himself. If it weren't for the fact that he felt personally responsible for Ainakea, he'd have asked someone else to bring her here. . . but he couldn't do that. To do that would be to betray Tassia's memory, and to disrespect Ainakea herself.

Part of him _wanted_ to see the terraced cliffs, the rich volcanic soil, the green leaves of the vines, which had been heavy with grapes half a year before. He'd found the place. . . oddly serene. In keeping with the name, Pace, which apparently meant _peace_ in some human language or another.

After several more hours, they entered the Vignes region, and he turned up the cabin lights to awaken his travelling companion. Ainakea had fallen asleep over recorded language drills to teach her basic galactic an hour or two before. She'd helped four generations of a noble family's children to learn the language, but she hadn't practiced it at all since Tassia had been a little girl. "We are almost there,' he told her, quietly, in galactic, knowing his own accent was hardly perfect.

He set the shuttle down near the Pace house, and let the hatch slide open at the rear. Helped Ainakea down the steps, but didn't exit the vehicle himself. Her first view of her temporary—or, ancestors only knew, maybe even her _permanent_ home, shouldn't be tainted by his presence. K'sar looked out the window, saw that the vines were putting out their first fresh green leaves. . . so odd, after all the red-tinged leaves of home. . . saw the humans and at least two asari tumble out the front door to greet the expected newcomer. He could see Maryam Pace, with her slightly curling dark hair, the two large, expressive dark eyes—almost the same color as the dark volcanic soil of the vineyards—step forward to smile and greet Ainakea. Her two children—Gaia and Pietro, as best he recalled from the colonial records, which he had re-accessed before coming here—clustered near her. All of them were smiling in welcome.

K'sar took their moment of distraction, and began unloading Ainakea's baggage. He'd insisted that she choose clothing for herself while they had awaited their flight on Bastion, and had helped her pack the new purchases into a travelcase. That had been stowed in the hold; the family jewelry of Tassia, she'd held in a case on her lap, the entire trip. That, he tucked next to her small case of belongings. It looked pitifully little for a life, but there it was.

He could hear them all talking to her, in slow, careful galactic. "How was your flight?"

"Very long. But the one who brought me here was very kind. He has always been kind to me." Ainakea's words limped out. "He was my lady's husband, when she yet lived. She was as a daughter to me. As was her mother before her."

"What happened to her?" Maryam Pace's voice held curiosity, and a little confusion. Plainly, she had expected a terrified, embittered refugee. Someone who had been taken by force and abused. There were hundreds of thousands of former slaves who were just that—victims of the system, who would be repatriated to their homeworlds in the coming months and years. There would be decades of hardship for those people, for their families, for the worlds to which they came, especially those who had been abused and mistreated as part of the so-called 'breaking' process. And the Hegemony would have to rehabilitate _millions_ of batarian slaves and prisoners, who'd been treated the exact same way. K'sar frankly thought that the slaver and raider castes, for all that there weren't supposed to _be_ any castes anymore. . .might well be wiped out by angry former slaves. A form of ethnic cleansing, if Valak and the new government didn't keep a pretty firm handle on things. _Something else I should mention to N'dor. Not that the man probably hasn't already thought of it. Damn. I've lost three days bringing her here, and I'm going to loose another three getting back. Ancestors, there could have been another assassination attempt while I've been gone. Have to get back. The only thing holding our people together even remotely is one man's determination and will. _

He'd missed part of the conversation. He could hear Ainakea carefully saying that her lady had died of a wasting disease, and that her master had sold all the other slaves to good families besides her, and had closed up all but four rooms of his great house. That he was a hero who had helped topple the Hegemon, and that she'd heard that assurance from the words of Valak N'dor, himself.

K'sar shrugged. That was all history, now, and he chafed to hear any of it discussed. He turned and walked back up the hatch, hearing her add, "And he brought me here, because he knew this place. Spoke of it with great fondness, as a place where I could find peace. Where I could learn to be free. But he also spoke of other places I might go, and told me that it was my decision. I _chose_ to come here. And I thank you for your welcome."

Before they could turn to see him, K'sar had already ducked under the hatchway and headed back for the cockpit. He was, after all, an expert at remaining unseen. He began the preflight checks again, and started to raise the hatch, but an alarm beeped at him, indicating an obstruction. He turned, and found Ainakea standing on the hatch, looking at him with bewildered hurt and concern in her eyes. _"You would not say farewell?"_ He could see the humans crowding around outside, trying to peer in, and sighed internally.

"_It did not seem appropriate."_ He stared past her, wishing he could just take off. Tab his stealth device and turn invisible. Somehow, not exist here, at this precise moment in time.

"_It is strange to think that good wishes could ever be inappropriate."_ It was as close to a contradiction as he'd ever heard her get. She'd picked up the box of jewelry. "I . . . cannot take the jewelry that you gave to your wife. The dowry jewels, maybe. But the ones you gave to my Tassia. . . They should go to your future wife." A long statement, in galactic. So that those behind her could understand the words, perhaps?

"I'm not going to _have_ another wife." K'sar returned, flatly.

"You have always been good and kind. Another female will wish to marry you, someday." Her voice was calm. "I cannot take all of the jewels. Though I would keep some, to remember my little one."

K'sar wanted to growl in exasperation, but held his temper in check. "Very well. Be their caretaker, then." _And when I die, either in the next few years, from taking a bullet meant for Valak, or in ninety years, of old age, you'll still have them._ He shook his head, and tried, one more time, to make her see it. "I have to help N'dor put a planetary system back together. I doubt I'll have time for anything else." He paused. "Be well, Ainakea. Live well. Decide who you want to be."

"Will you visit?" Desperation in her voice, but he understood why. He was the only familiar face left, and had been married to her Tassia. He was, in her mind, a sort of family, but that needed to change.

And that was the moment that Maryam Pace finally managed to poke her head through the hatch, and just _stared_ at him. _"You?"_ she said in galactic, sounding mildly panic-stricken.

K'sar stared at her, remembering how she'd held him at gunpoint when he'd first entered the house. He'd slapped away the weapon at first opportunity, but had done nothing more than question her. Precisely and carefully. He'd caught her by the face in his gloved hands, but had been careful not to injure. Hadn't permitted his men to offer any incivilities to her people, and, when he'd discovered her children, hiding in the lead-lined sanctum of her basement office, hadn't threatened them, either. He hadn't _needed_ to. He could read her reactions. Had known she was hiding something that terrified her. The Spectres had later told him that she'd had two asari hidden in the wine vats. And that her mechs had been upgraded with mil-spec programs and armaments, somewhat illegally. Plenty for her to have been frightened at hiding. . .and of course, her late husband had been killed by a batarian raider. "Maryam Pace," he said, lowering his head slightly in respectful greeting. "I apologize for the fact that you have been discommoded by my presence. My intention was to leave before you knew I was here." The hilt of the vibrosword at his hip dug into his ribs, and he moved slightly in his seat to adjust it. "If you will all clear the hatch and exhaust port area," K'sar added, with a certain precision, "I will leave now."

Maryam Pace still stared at him, bewildered, her eyes lifting to stare at Ainakea. "You've brainwashed her," she accused. "Or someone has. You didn't really—I mean—"

Ainakea frowned, trying to process an unfamiliar word. K'sar shrugged, his expression wooden. "What I am and what I have done is now a matter of galactic record. The Spectres and I . . . collided. . . shortly after I left your vineyard, Maryam Pace. They introduced me to Valak N'dor. The rest is largely history." He started his preflight checks again.

"Please." Ainakea's word was barely audible. "Please say that you will visit." She shifted languages. _"At least at first. Please."_

"If I am able to do so, and if Maryam Pace allows it, I will visit," K'sar agreed. He looked over his shoulder. "But I do not think that you will wish for me to do so, in time. In time, it will only be a reminder of bad memories." _As you have been, for me, a reminder of Tassia's death._

Ainakea shook her head. "Not all bad. Seeing how happy my lady, my little one was with you. Before the sickness began to steal her away. Not all bad. Some good."

K'sar turned his head away. Even the good parts hurt to remember.

Maryam Pace cleared her throat. "Please take Ainakea inside, Pietro, Gaia." She looked down at her two children, who were wide-eyed. The little boy, in particular, looked frightened of K'sar, and K'sar could, clearly, remember the dossier on the family. The raiders had come when the boy had been very young, and before his sister had even been born. The female made shooing gestures now. "The rest of you, too. Get washed up, and start lunch without me. I'll be in, in a moment."

She paused as all the others swept around Ainakea, drawing her into the big house, then turned back and leveled a stare at K'sar, as the chatter of voices faded, and they were left with only the chirping of a few native birds and lizards in the vines and trees. The sunlight was warm on his back, and the metal of the ramp of the shuttle was hard and stable under his boots. He looked up at the sky, which was filled a handful of dark, sullen brown clouds that stretched up from the south in a jagged, malformed , and suspected that a volcanic eruption to the south had discolored the sky.

The silence grew longer, and K'sar grew restive with it. "I should go—"

"Why did you—"

They'd spoken at the same time. Pace frowned, and went on. "The _Spectres_ contacted me."

"Yes."

"They told me they were asking me to take in a refugee asari, or to find a place for her with my neighbors, who are _all_ asari. They said they were asking on behalf of one of their associates." She flicked her curling hair out of her eyes. "I assumed it was an asari associate, who couldn't take care of a captured relative." She stared at him. "But it was _you_?"

K'sar shrugged. "Yes."

"Why here? Why me?"

K'sar looked around. Saw the patches in the buildings from the bullets, but they'd been painted over, mostly. Only dimples left. One building had been torn down completely, gutted by fire, likely. He'd watched the fight from orbit. Listened to the voices of batarians dying at Spectre hands. . . and had felt very little. They'd been slavers and raiders, and while he was supposed to feel the loss of every batarian life, it hadn't marked him. It had been distant, and had provided a good way to gauge the capabilities of the Spectres. His eyes moved away from the evidence of conflict, rising up the terraced hills built into the mountainsides, the way the slanting light of the sun, as it shafted through the red-brown clouds in the hazy blue sky, touched the leaves of the vines. "Because . . . I liked this place," he replied at last. "It is a good place. Peaceful. The earth smells good here. So do the leaves and the air." He shrugged. It was hard to put into words. "It seems a good place for someone to go, who needs healing. And I know that she will need that for a very long time."

Maryam opened and closed her mouth once or twice, words clearly fighting for which sentence of bewilderment or outrage would be expressed first. After a long moment, her shoulders slumped slightly. "Ah. . . you've flown straight here from the spaceport? At the south pole?" she ventured. "That's, what, a ten-hour flight?"

K'sar nodded curtly. He'd pushed the shuttle to its highest speed, without doing a parabolic flight path up above the atmosphere. That would have been faster, but this particular shuttle wasn't rated for that kind of maneuvering. _Why won't they clear off the landing ramp so I can close the hatch?_ "The return flight won't be shortened by my standing here," he noted. "I should go."

"Would you. . . like to have lunch with us? Agent K'sar?" The human's voice was grudging. As if the words were actually being torn from her. . . but there was curiosity underneath it.

K'sar shook his head, still standing on the ramp, facing her, where she stood on the ground, as if a line had been drawn between them. "Thank you. But no."

The human female's voice became a little more persuasive.. "Another ten-hour flight, directly after the first? Autopilot or not, you'll be risking an accident." She paused, and added, more harshly, "Take a break, before you get someone else killed if you run into their flight or crash into their home."

When it was put that way, K'sar couldn't really refuse. His eyes _did_ burn with exhaustion. "I can rest here in the shuttle for an hour or so." He didn't want to intrude or infringe, and knew perfectly well that the last time he had come here, he had been an invader. An intruder.

The human female frowned, clearly annoyed. "I'm offering you my hospitality," she said, spacing out the words for emphasis. "Not to accept it is an insult. Besides, leaving Ainakea here on my doorstep like a package lacks couth. Give her the courtesy of a little transition period and a proper farewell. Since she evidently doesn't see you as an ogre. Though she was your _slave_."

"On paper, she was my wife's family's slave, yes," K'sar replied, feeling the muscles in his face tighten. "In truth, she was more of a mother to my wife than her own mother was. If I could have freed her after T. . . . Tassia . . . passed, I would have. All the others, too." He'd wanted no reminders, and hadn't been able to live as he had lived before. It was as simple as that. He exhaled, every muscle in his body having gone rigid, but stepped down off the ramp of the shuttle. "I do not wish to insult you, Maryam Pace. I will accept your hospitality."

She frowned again. "Why _do_ you always say my whole name like that? 

He blinked. It was not what he had expected her to say. "Because I do not know what else to call you. I do not know which one is respectful. Which one is reserved for friends and intimates and equals."

A dark-eyed stare. "For now, I'd accept Mrs. Pace from you."

After an hour or two, it still felt strange to be in that human house, eating of human and asari foods—the asari food prepared by one of Pace's wards, and a couple of her asari neighbors. K'sar had expected the looks of hostility and outrage at his presence from virtually everyone there. He'd received his fair share of them on Bastion already. And he fully expected that condition to continue for the rest of his life. Memories would fade in forty, fifty years, as people who were children today grew to adulthood, hopefully without the specter of another war with the Hegemony. But for those who'd lived through the past year—the past several decades, rather—he didn't think there was much potential for forgiveness and trust. Well, perhaps for individual batarians. Valak, for example. His wife Nala, their daughter Nexia, little symbol of freedom and hope that she was. Or individuals that others came to know on a personal level. But batarians in general? The faceless mob?

They'd be hated for a generation or two. And asari generations took a long time to pass. K'sar remained mostly silent at the meal. Watched Ainakea gradually start to relax, although she still tended to tense up a little when the other asari at the table addressed her. K'sar caught sight of Gaia, Maryam's daughter, having difficulty peeling a piece of fruit, and, after a minute or so of watching her mangle it, he held out his hand for it, without a word.

The girl hesitantly put the orange sphere into his palm, and K'sar lifted most of the peel loose, so that she could finish the task on her own, and handed it back. "Thank you," Gaia whispered, clearly confused.

Afterwards, Maryam—with several of her hired hands watching from the windows, carefully, K'sar noted—walked him back to the shuttle. "Please give us warning if you intend to visit again," she said, firmly.

K'sar nodded, and replied, bluntly, "I will not return unless I have been invited, I assure you. Be well. . . Mrs. Pace." He got into his shuttle, and this time, he was finally able to lift the hatch and take off.

When he returned to Khar'sharn, very tired indeed some three days later, the rubble of the governmental buildings in Urvada, the riots still breaking out across the city, and the leaden clouds across the crimson sky were all still there. But K'sar kept a mental image of a place where the vines were green, and the earth smelled fresh and good at the back of his mind. And got down to work with Valak. He wasn't an economics expert. He wasn't a foreign policy expert. But he was the highest-ranking member of the Investigations arm of SIU left alive, and he _did_ have a few ideas in mind for changing the SIU rulebook rather drastically. Valak liked the ideas. Due process. Following the human and turian notion of 'innocent until proven guilty.' Preservation of evidence, evidence custodianship. Messages flew back and forth between K'sar's small office in the Hegemon's Palace and the Alliance Bureau of Investigation, turian CID, and even the Spectres. And when he wasn't visiting existence SIU centers to more or less dismantle and reassemble them, he could be counted on to be organizing Valak's protective detail.

No rest. No breaks. Because history never stops happening. The only thing that pauses it in its unwavering steps, is when a historian puts down the pen.

**Friday, October 27, 2197**

Because Halloween fell on a Tuesday this year, the various humans on the base, and affiliated with the science station school, had decided to hold the festivities on the evening of Friday the twenty-seventh. This had put a very minor monkey-wrench into Dara and Eli's wedding plans; they'd opted for October 28. Just before Dara's birthday. Dara had shrugged over the need for a rehearsal and rehearsal dinner, however, when Kasumi and her father had brought it up. "It's an evening wedding," she'd said. "We'll show everyone where to stand and when to stand and when to sit in the morning. If you _want_ to throw a rehearsal dinner, you can make it a combination of that and a Halloween party. Make everyone show up in costume." She'd nodded, grinning more and more widely as she started to like the idea. "I'm sure Dempsey and Lin and maybe even Rel will kidnap Eli at some point during the evening and try to get him drunk, since we've been so damned busy the last month that a bachelor party hasn't even really been an option, so. . . at least if anyone does anything potentially embarrassing, everyone will be in costume, and equally embarrassed?"

To say that any number of aliens on base did not really get the point of Halloween was to indulge in understatement. However, since one of the themes this year at the base school was 'understanding multiple cultures and multiple species,' the students were studying the origin of about eight different holidays a month. And Halloween was one of them. As a result, as Dara looked out the window of her father's house that evening, she could see children roaming from one house to another in the neighborhood, already. She could even see the Sidonis family and her own from the front window at the moment, Ellie and Kasumi leading the children around. Narayana had been vocally torn between a mummy, swathed in bandages to the tips of her aural horns, and a frilly princess dress with a pair of fairy wings. She had, in the end, done her research, and somehow decided that she would go as an Egyptian princess of the Middle Kingdom period, doing the research into the turquoise-beaded elaborate necklace/chest covering, a wig made largely from black wool, a linen kilt, and elaborate kohl around her bulbous salarian eyes. _With_ fairy wings, thank you very much. Caelia, behind her, was dressed as a primitive turian, with a kilt of what looked like rough hides, thong sandals, blue 'blood-paint' spattered in hand-prints all over her body and face, and what looked like, again, a hide cloak. She even carried a little toy spear. Emily, possibly influenced and abetted by Kasumi, had begged to go as a very small, very hybrid geisha. Kasumi and Hinata had worked together to put together the tiny kimono, and had painted the hybrid girl's face. . . and left the fringe strictly alone. Tacitus, however, had wanted to be an _acrocanth_. Lantar's expression had been indescribable at that artless request, and, after a moment or two, the stoic turian had finally told his young son, "You may need to grow a little more to make that a realistic costume. Perhaps a hatchling _acrocanth?"_ And thus, Tacitus, with a green-scaled suit and an oversized _acrocanth_ head, toddled along in line. Bringing up the rear, however, was Takeshi. Her little brother hadn't yet outgrown his fixation on all things geth and robotic. He still loved dinosaurs, true, but he'd made 'friends' with Cohort and other geth on base. And one of his geth friends was the enormous CROWD platform designated Siege.

Siege had, unaccountably, offered to assist Takeshi with his trick-or-treating activity. And he was, in fact, a large portion of Takeshi's costume. He had, with Sam's bemused assistance, constructed additional carapace pieces in white and a dark haze gray with red trim here and there, resulting in a larger shell to go over his red armor, and stilts. The seven-foot-tall geth now towered almost fifteen feet. . . and Takeshi was his 'pilot.' Instead of a rocket launcher embedded in his chest housing, there was a clear plastic carapace, allowing Keshi to look out at the world from his extremely high vantage point, which the boy clearly had loved during the 'pilot training' sessions in the previous week. The shrieks of excited laughter had probably been audible down at the science station, in fact.

At each house, Dara could see each child's progress up to the door, the request, the treat given—usually after a hasty examination of the dietary constraints of the child in question. . . and then the oversized robot clomped up. A ramp unfolded, and Takeshi disembarked, dressed in a silvery 'pilot's suit,' and made his own request for goodies. Siege produced the bucket into which the requested treats were placed, and Takeshi, his beaming smile visible from across the street, climbed back up into the 'cockpit.'

And, trailing along behind the disguised geth, were a half dozen rachni workers. Dara wasn't entirely sure if they were following as body-guards, or to partake of 'sweetness-songs' if Takeshi or the rest of the children happened to be feeling generous. She also wasn't about to ask right now.

Eli entered the living room behind her, and slid his arms around her from behind. "You going to get dressed? I'm dying to know what your mystery costume is. It's about as closely guarded a secret as the wedding dress." He leaned down to nibble on the side of her neck, and whispered in her ear, "Commander Shepard in _Battle for the Citadel_ armor?" That had been his running joke for a week, at least.

"No! That would be. . . really weird. Besides, I, um, _owned_ that armor. Painted over, admittedly. . . and you had to cut it off of me. . . " Dara squirmed, and then exhaled as Eli grinned and bit her a little harder. "No. . . no. . . you're not getting the answer out of me that way, officer. I know how to resist your interrogation methods. . . " She hummed under her breath, blocking him lightly, deflecting him from her surface thoughts, leaving only the words, _Life still needs its little surprises, __ciea'teilu_. . . Out loud, she added, "Should _you_ be getting dressed, too?"

"Won't take me long. Doubt if anyone's going to get it, except maybe you. Possibly Serana." Eli kissed her on the cheek. "Uh-oh, here they come."

A heavy knock on the door, and Sam moved into the lobby to answer it, a half-dozen workers skittering around his feet. He wore a fedora, dark glasses, a trench coat, and shiny black shoes. . . and his hands and face and every visible portion of his skin had been swathed with gauze bandages. "You guessed yet?" he asked them, as he peered out the window beside the door briefly.

"No clue," Dara told her father. She was just glad to see him lifting the bucket of candy with his _left_ hand, the prosthetic one. He'd adapted to it, and the need for it, very quickly. The mark of the elite, the best of the best. He'd gone through the cycle of denial, anger, grief, and acceptance, and she rarely sensed any dissonance in his song about the arm. Little twinges, now and again, when he had to concentrate, intently, on some task that should have been _easy_, but was not. He was even back to teaching at sparring practice again, forcing himself to use that new left arm and hand. "It looks like a modern mummy."

"Invisible Man, H.G. Wells," Sam returned. "Was one of my stand-by costumes for office parties. No one outside of N7 ever really got the joke, though."

_Because you spent your whole military career __being__ the invisible man. And a hell of a lot of your Spectre career, too._ Dara's lips curled into a smile as her father opened the door and a half-dozen young voices shrieked, "Trick or treat!"

"Tricks? I don't have any tricks. You're gonna have to settle for treats. That okay?"

"Yeah!"

Sam distributed chocolate-covered crickets for Narayana, _mellis-_dipped _caprificus_ slices and Hershey's kisses for the hybrid children, and caramels for Takeshi, who had a taste for such things. "Come on in," he told them all. "Kids' half of the party is starting."

The children all shrieked and plowed into the house, and Lantar, also coming around the corner, had to dodge rapidly to avoid stepping on any of them. Lantar had attempted to get into the spirit of the festivities, by dressing as a turian, well, specter. He'd painted his scales a brilliant white, everywhere outside of ragged clothing, except the outline of a skull on his face, in stark black. He'd wrapped chains around his wrists and ankles to emulate shackles, and not a few turian children had shrieked at his appearance, his deep-seated eyes gleaming in their blackened sockets, over the course of the evening so far. Of course, most of the children pounding past him were his own, and thus, he just got a "Daddy!" from Caelia and a _"Pada_!" from Emily and Tacitus.

Takeshi was lowered to the ground by Siege, and then the geth solemnly handed the little boy his pail of candy. "We are contractually owed at least half of the proceeds of our joint venture this evening," the geth informed Takeshi, tapping the pail with one plastic-covered finger. "To simplify, half of that candy belongs to us. However, as we are unable to turn this form of payment into energy, we will allow you to retain all of it."

"Siege, you so _silly_," Takeshi informed the towering mech happily, and ran off, giggling.

Sam looked up at the geth-in-disguise, and said, his grin visible even through his bandages, "How the hell do you plan to get in the door in that getup? My ceilings aren't tall enough for all that."

"While removing the stilts would decrease our overall height, and we estimate that the headpiece would be insufficiently high to cause structural damage to your dwelling, we will, in fact, remove this costume in favor of one we have devised to match that worn by Mercuria. She is to be the goddess of the river Styx, and we are to be the titan Pallas, mate to that goddess. We are assured that no one will understand that mythological reference unless it is explained, with the possible exception of Shepard-Commander." The geth's red optics blinked, once. "Do you require explanation?"

Sam's bandaged face was inscrutable. "Am I going to get one regardless of my reply?"

"Negative, Jaworski-Spectre."

"Okay. I give. Explain." Sam helped Kasumi in through the doorway, past the various struts and whatever-else stuck out of Siege's costume.

"Pallas was the titan affiliated with all aspects of warfare, and Styx was the embodiment of all military oaths, and their observance. Even the gods of your Greeks swore their most solemn oaths upon her waters." Siege's voice hesitated. "It has some relevance to us, but perhaps, not to you."

"Clear as mud, but it's damned cute that you're wearing a couples' costume. It just means that even the geth can be whipped." Sam nodded, his tone genial.

Siege's head tipped to the side, almost turian-style. Bird-like. "In actuality, the paired costume was of our own conception."

Sam just _laughed_ at that point, and helped Kasumi take off her light-colored jacket, and revealing her actual costume for the evening—a black, skin-tight bodysuit, black leggings, and lightweight shoes. A cat burglar outfit, complete with a climbing harness. . . and kitty ears. Sam reached over, wrapped his arms around her, and leaned down to murmur into her ear, "Want to disappear for a while, pretty lady?" just to make her chuckle.

Ellie, in comparison, was still holding her cloak around herself fairly tightly, in spite of Lantar's efforts to take it and hang it up for her. Lantar, for his part, looked exceedingly curious. "What _do_ you have under there?" he finally asked.

The dark-haired woman flushed. "Kasumi dared me to wear something I haven't worn since I was a teenager on Bermuda," she admitted. "It's not appropriate to wear around the children, but around midnight, when it's just adults. . . ?"

Lantar's mandibles flexed, and his eyes took on a gleam of definite interest. "Could I ask for just one clue?"

"Your finely honed investigative mind will have to settle for this," Kasumi told him, pertly. "Two words: Red Sonja."

Sam _choked._ Lantar looked blankly from one human to another, and finally zeroed in on Sam. "What does this mean?"

"Ah, let me take you into the library and the extranet console," Sam replied, glibly.

Eli, still behind Dara in the living room, surveying the scene in the lobby, put his head down on Dara's shoulder. "I think I'm going to need a drink or two tonight," he admitted.

"I think Lin and the others are going to take care of that for you," Dara told him, and reached back to pat him on the head.

The Jaworski kitchen was, thus, an absolute madhouse that night. Tulluust and Ylara had brought Sisu and Telluura to participate in the human festivities, and the asari boy had, for whatever reason, decided to dress as a Terran vampire, right down to the red-lined cloak and tiny white plastic fangs. "I vant to suck your blood!" Sisu told Caelia spreading out his cloak over his arms, and Caelia promptly took a step back—right back into where Estevan (dressed as a _gaucho_) and Kaius (dressed as an early Terran astronaut in a bulky white suit with a domed helmet) and leveled her toy spear at the asari boy. "No!" Caelia told Sisu, firmly. "Don't suck my blood!"

Siara, who'd decided to dress up as, apparently, a snow leopard, down to a black-dappled white, furry bodysuit and cat ears, and furry gloves with claws, looked over at Ylara, who'd opted for an old-fashioned Victorian-era dress, complete with a bustle and lace-edged waterfall of a scarf at her pale blue throat, and told the elder asari, "That is _really_ disturbing, on so many levels."

Ylara held up her hands. "I couldn't very well tell him _no_, when Telluura wished to go as a . . . 'werewolf.'"

Makur stumped over. He wore no costume, and looked down at Siara. "It's nowhere near as disturbing as _your_ costume," he informed her. "I'm still trying to figure out the message here. I pay too much attention to Cat? You think dressing like him will get you _more_ attention? You scratch and bite like he does? What?"

Whatever response Siara made, it was lost in the crowd noise as Eli snorted under his breath, and urged Dara up the stairs. He could, however, clearly hear Lantar shout, _"Spirits of air and darkness! That chain mail couldn't turn aside a needle, let alone a swordblade!"_

Eli hurried Dara faster. Upstairs, he got changed in the bathroom. It wasn't a difficult costume. The best ones, he figured, didn't need to be. An old-fashioned suit in gray, white shirt, a very old-fashioned necktie, a light gray trench coat, and a dark fedora. The 1911 pistol Dara had given Sam for Christmas, unloaded, in a concealed carry holster under the suit. . . black shoes. There were _resemblances_ to Sam's own outfit, to be sure. . . but Eli had let his hair grow out just long enough for once to slick it back with gel. He finished up quickly, and stepped out into the hall. . . just as Dara, finished dressing, herself, closed the door to the guest room behind her, and smiled up at him. "Sam Spade, I presume?" she asked.

Eli stared down at her. High-cut silk blouse, unbuttoned _just_ so. Short black skirt—very goddamned short, in fact—black, lacy stockings, rachni-made, with a seam along the back, and high heels that made her legs look about a mile long. And a white lab coat with a _stethoscope._ Dara looked up at him, smiling a little. "Eli? You okay?"

"Just fine, _sweetheart_," Eli managed. _Oh, god, __sai'kaea__, you fight __dirty__. And I love it._ "You know what?"

"Hmm?" Dara stared up at him. His eyes had gone totally black under the fedora brim.

"We're getting married tomorrow. Think anyone would miss us if we just. . .didn't. . . make it . . . back downstairs. . . for an hour?" Eli had closed the gap between them and was running his hands up and under the lab coat. _My god, I know I told her what this does to me, but. . . damn._ . . . "Maybe two?"

"I think. . . people would notice. . . ." Dara inhaled as Eli backed her into the wall of the landing, gently, and began to kiss and bite her throat.

"_We__ might notice. We're supposed to take him out drinking to help __commiserate__ with him on his impending loss of freedom."_ Lin's voice was very dry.

Eli lifted his head to look towards the stairs, where Lin and Serana were standing. Lin had been debating going as another _film noir_ gumshoe to match Eli, and Serana had threatened to go as a Cold War femme fatale spy. Instead, they were a pirate king and queen from some imagined version of Earth's seventeenth century. Dara burst out laughing, and Lin grinned at her. He was in red knee breeches, and a red great coat with gold frogging, with a red, elaborately plumed hat to match. With an _eye patch._ He'd scrounged up black _apaterae_ leather boots that were knee high and accommodated his spurs, and had his batarian vibroblade tucked at his side. Serana wore a matching red dress—slit at the side to show as much leg as possible—and a white linen top that had been cut off above the waist, showing a truly scandalous amount of bare midriff. . . and her _cinctus_. She wore a matching plumed hat, and had a pet _lanura_ perched on one half-bared shoulder. "Well, should we make these scalawags walk the plank?" Serana demanded of Linianus. "They know the law of the high seas. Biting and kissing the night before their wedding is _strictly_ forbidden."

"I'm a landlubber, _schweetheart_," Eli told her, cheerfully. "And I don't take orders from mouthy dames." He thought about that. "Actually, I take orders from dames all the time," he amended. "But mostly from my queen here. And our boss."

"Excuses, excuses," Lin told them. "Get downstairs before I have you keelhauled. Whatever that means. I'm pretty sure it's not possible in space." As Eli moved away from Dara, his trench coat-clad frame no longer shielded her. . . and Lin openly—grinning the whole time—gawked at her outfit, particularly at the exposed legs, and told her, mildly, "Dara, I thought the whole idea of your Halloween was to dress up _differently_ from what you wear every day. I think Eli would agree with me that this is how you absolutely _should_ dress every day for work."

Eli nodded, fervently, and Dara smacked his shoulder without force. "Hey! I didn't say it. Lin did. Hit _him_."

"I couldn't reach him with you in the way. You can pass it on."

The party got progressively louder after the children were all safely tucked in bed. Amara, who'd opted to go as Elizabeth I, protested vigorously being put upstairs with all the younger children, while Madison and Polina were allowed to stay up with the adults for a little longer. Madison had dug and dug through old, horribly bad vids that humans had, for whatever reason, preserved and loved for the past two hundred years, and had arrived in a brown robe over a shorter white tunic with brown pants, and with a sword painted in luminescent blue colors, calling it a light-saber. "Bet it would beat a vibroblade," he'd said, cheerfully. "If it were real, anyway."

Dempsey had scrounged up silver-toned, skin-safe paint, and had brushed it across all of his exposed skin. He'd also spread gleaming black gel through his short, sandy hair, and pulled on a pair of red jogging shorts, which, with red boots, comprised the sum total of his costume. Zhasa, to make the joke completely clear, wore a very tight black and yellow jumpsuit, with yellow gloves, and a long black wig. "Colossus?" Eli asked, adding, "And Kitty Pryde?" He pulled Dara into his side, and Dara pointedly found a stretch of ceiling to look at, humming under her breath. _I could totally pull that off, __sai'kaea__._ Eli's mental voice was teasing.

_Yes, actually, you could. Next year, you and he are going as twins._

_He already has a twin._

_James can go as Pinocchio._

_You do realize I can hear both of you?_ Dempsey's lips quirked at the corners. "It's okay, doc, you can look. Zhasa _probably_ won't kill you".

"No, no, that's okay. If Eli has to develop neck strain by looking at the ceiling all night, joining him in traction seems only fair." Dara nodded a little, striving for a virtuous tone, and lowered her eyes just enough to meet Dempsey's. . . and winked at him, as Eli's arm tightened a little around her waist. Zhasa, who'd stepped away to get them a couple of cups of punch, came back, and Dempsey wrapped an arm around her waist too, mirroring Eli and Dara's pose. "Thanks, Zhasa," Dara said, smiling, and returned her attention to Dempsey. "What I really want to know is, how are you going to be able to get all that paint off by tomorrow, D? Or are you going to be all shiny for the pictures?"

"I figured I'd go stand in one of the automatic aircar wash stands." Dempsey nodded, straight-faced. "Can't do me any real harm, and it should get all the nooks and crannies."

Zhasa looked up at the ceiling. "Or you could just take a long shower, and I could _help_ with the removal, as I helped with the application?"

"My way is faster, but your way does sound like more fun," Dempsey admitted, not changing expressions a bit. Dara chortled into her drink, and did her level best not to choke, as Zhasa flushed violet, and laughed, too.

Voices, voices all around. Swirl of people, coming and going freely. Dara spotted Kirrahe. . . dressed in a heavy firefighter's coat and a red helmet, which made her smother a laugh. . . talking earnestly to Narayana. She and Eli were doing their best to circulate, to see all the guests, so they moved over. The salarian girl was technically too young to be at the adult half of the party, but she only slept an hour a day, so forcing her to go upstairs and browse the extranet all night until the party settled down hadn't seemed a great idea. "You wish to go to the University of Illium?" Kirrahe was asking, sounding mildly shocked. "The coursework will be too slow to keep your interest for long, I suspect. Will be bored. Probably get into trouble. Trouble easy to find, on Illium."

Narayana swung her legs restlessly. "If I go to the University of Sur'Kesh, or Mannovai, where Thelldaroon received his degree, the coursework will be presented at a quicker pace, but I will require constant protection to prevent. . . well. . . " She looked glum. "Lantar doesn't like to say it, but I know what he's thinking. Kidnapping attempts."

Kirrahe shook his head. "Will require bodyguards no matter where you go. Lystheni cells still exist."

"But the Lystheni look to me as their _dalatrass_ now. Commander Shepard even had me make comm calls to the various cell leaders that our captured Lystheni knew about. Had me tell them that I was now their leader. And to turn themselves in for rehabilitation."

"Lystheni not the only potential threat. Dalatrass of Clan Mordin could wish to 'reclaim' you. Other dalatrasses could see you as a valuable pawn."

"All right. Couldn't I have some of the Lystheni. . . who are, in a way, sort of my clan. . . I mean _just_ the ones the Spectres and the rachni clear as trustworthy. . .become my bodyguards?" Narayana's tone was artless.

Kirrahe's eyes narrowed. "Yana suggested that, yes?"

Narayana grinned. "She said you'd know. _How_?"

Kirrahe ignored the question. "Not a good idea. Potential risk to you unacceptable, unless a trustworthy agent oversees them."

"How about you? You're trustworthy!"

Kirrahe froze in place. "Yana, again?"

"No. Me." Narayana smiled happily. "Mordin Alesh is getting too old, and has loyalties to his own dalatrass, as my father noted in the letters he left for me. He also can't pass for a student back after a few years in the real world for continued education. You can."

Kirrahe's eyes were narrow. "University education at least four years for a salarian to reach a doctorate. Considerable investment of a Spectre's time." He blinked, rapidly. "However, Illium is second only to Luisa in political power in Sisterhood space now. Much activity there. Needs monitoring. Could. . . conceivably work." He frowned. "Why an asari world? Why not a human or a turian world? Ellie and Lantar—"

"Ellie keeps mentioning MIT or Caltech. They both sound good, too. Caltech has a more agreeable climate than MIT, however. Lantar has mentioned the Edessan University of Bio-Engineering. That's also a possibility. I wonder if I could take distance education courses from Caltech _and_ the Bio-Engineering school while on Illium?" Narayana looked up and spotted Eli and Dara. "My first-brother and my soon-to-be sister!" she cried, and jumped down off the tall barstool on which she sat, hopping over to hug them both. She had just passed her latest birthday, and was now six to Kirrahe's eleven years of age. In human terms, twelve to his twenty-two. She'd be leaving for university in two or three years, and Dara could _see_ Narayana's life fleeting away at a salarian pace ahead of her. Knew she'd bloom, magnificently and vigorously, do good, innovative work, and . . . would likely be dead sometime before Dara herself turned fifty years of age. It was hard to think of, looking down at Narayana's face. A _memento mori_, more of a skeleton at the feast than Lantar in his spirit costume ever would be.

Dara banished the thought, and gave Nara a quick hug. "You've already picked out your majors, I take it?" Her tone was dry. "And I assume it's _majors_, not just one piddling major all by itself?"

Narayana smiled gleefully. "Xenobiology and bio-artificing, I believe. That'll take me the first two years. That'll be my pre-med, as well. Then medical school, with certifications in as many species as I can cram into two years. That _should_ mean I'll be a fully qualified doctor by the time I'm twelve. I'll need at least six months to a year of residency, which I hope to do right _here,_ but we'll see, right?" Her expression held excitement.

"All right," Eli told his adopted sister. "But why _Illium_, for god's sake?"

Narayana shrugged. "The pictures were pretty. The school is excellent. And it's as far away from traditional salarian schools as I can possibly get."

"Yes," Dara replied. "However, most asari schools are big on traditions of their own. Their pedagogy is _not_ going to work well for you—Siara! Melaani!" Dara gave up and tried to flag down a couple of actual asari. "Siara actually _teaches_, Nara. Her opinion has a certain validity, wouldn't you think?"

Siara slunk over, and Dara could hear Eli's startled, _Damn!_ about the Snowflake outfit. . . .along with a certain suppressed amusement. _Do you think she's trying to infer that Makur would rather sleep with the cat—?_

_I make it a habit not to ask what's going on in Siara's mind, __ciea'teilu.__ She's got edges, and always will._

Melaani, freshly back from undercover work that had taken her from Niacal in asari space, back out to Tortuga, and threatened to drag her right back off-base again, had been chatting with Zhasa, but drifted over at Dara's call. She'd done her research into Halloween and costumes, and had opted for another Terran comics reference; her blue skin had been powdered to a darker shade, more indigo than usual, and she'd put on a medium length, flaming red human wig, and contact lenses that made her eyes gleam topaz. Her lips echoed the red of her hair, and she wore a skin-tight, high-necked top that bared her trim midriff, as well as tight black leather pants, with a pistol holstered at her side. Raven Darkholme. Mystique, the shapechanger, the mistress of disguise. Dara could clearly see any number of male heads, of varying species, all turn to look as she passed. Including Lin, and Dara definitely spotted Serana kicking her mate in the shin for it. "Yes?" Melaani asked, cheerfully. "I believe you rang?"

Dara pointed at Narayana. "She's thinking of going to the University of Illium. On the theory that it's as far away from salarian social norms and teaching practices as possible. Is this, or is this not a good idea?"

Siara grimaced. "I can talk about the pedagogy, if you want," she replied. "I've been adapting asari teaching practices and throwing about half of them out for use on krogan. Nara, up to and including secondary school, most asari education includes direct mental contact. Light sharing, in essence. I didn't have that, except from my mother, here on Mindoir, but I definitely had it on Thessia, when we lived there. At the university level, it's much reduced, but. . . passing on memory and information in that direct fashion has both good and bad consequences. On the one hand, you learn things. . . almost instantly. Almost effortlessly. But I find, when I get into arguments with other asari teachers on the extranet—"

"Arguing with idiots on the extranet, makes an idiot out of _you_," Eli murmured.

"—I know, I know, but sometimes, I just can't _help_ it." Siara flapped a hand at him irritably. "I find that they often don't _question_ what they know. Because it was accepted by the one who taught them, with all the emotional certainty of _truth_. And that pervades our sciences, too. Yes, there's a certain amount of evidence now that there was a Prothean AI on Thessia before the destruction, and that the Council of Sisters covered up all knowledge of the Reapers and their cycle. . . but that doesn't explain why every single scientist on dozens of asari worlds, never once questioned that the Protheans, whose works were carbon-dated to fifty thousand years ago, might not have been the first galactic civilization." Siara grimaced. "The pedagogy is _very_ traditional at the university level, Narayana. These courses in _this_ prescribed order, no deviation. The teachers have all taught their subjects for hundreds of years, in much the same way."

"No innovation," Kirrahe said, his voice tight. "Most scientific advances predating arrival of humans on galactic scene came out of salarian institutions, with the exception of weaponry, which had development by turians and batarians, both."

Melaani had tipped her head to the side, the red hair of her wig drifting across her darkened skin. "You would, I think, find the level of sharing, Narayana, a little jarring. Most non-asari do. Many study sessions involve it, to some degree or another. You would also be exposed to a culture very different from what you have experienced in growing up here on-base. What you have experienced here is. . . multicultural. To an extreme." Melaani smiled faintly. "In entering an asari university, you would be entering an almost monolithic culture. One entirely female-centric—which is, in a sense, what salarian society already is." She sipped at her cup, and asked, "What _is_ this delicious concoction, Dara?" 

"Mulled apple cider, with rum. Careful. It's got a kick to it," Dara warned.

Melaani's lips quirked up. "I'll keep it in mind."

Another pair of asari had stepped up behind Melaani, surveying the conversation. Dara recognized both. One was _male_. Samiel Viridian. Eli had recommended that the male asari dress as the opposite of what young Madison had chosen to be this evening. . . not a Jedi, but a Sith lord.

Raised by a turian father, Samiel had not been subjected to gender reassignment surgery at birth. The other was one of the current members of the new government of Tortuga, Meshara Laos. An _ardat-yakshi_. A mild variant, one who could control the urge to kill through iron will and self-discipline. One who'd escaped imprisonment in the monastery on Thessia. Melaani looked up at Samiel, behind her, and offered to Narayana, lightly, "On the one hand, the pure fact of having a salarian female in each course _will_ change the dynamic. They will be forced to adjust, because so few off-worlders have _ever_ taken courses at our universities. On the other hand. . . you will be separate from the others. Perhaps even something of an outcast."

"Or," Zhasa noted, drifting over to join them, "you'll wind up what _I_ was on Illium. A delicacy everyone was most interested to investigate."

Narayana looked dispirited. "It just seemed something _different_ than what I've always had here," she said, hopping back up on her barstool. "And part of the point of learning is to experience new things, isn't it?"

"Tell you what," Dara suggested, resting a hand lightly on Nara's shoulder, and thinking, hard, about what Dr. Solus might have suggested. "Pick a Terran or a turian university—"

"I actually _don't_ recommend Edessan," Eli put in, immediately.

"—and you can sign up for a program that lets you be an exchange student for a semester, at the University of Illium," Dara went on. "That way, you won't be committed to two full years in a situation that might be uncomfortable for you, but you'll still broaden your horizons, and if you like it, you can apply for medical school there. They do have a really amazing teaching hospital there. If, well, asari-centric. If you opt for that, I'd say try to get a residency on _Bastion_. For the pure number of species and diseases you'd see going through the med bay there." Dara shrugged a little. "If I had to do it again. . . I'd probably do it that way, myself."

"If you had to do it again, you'd still be in _school_," Eli told her, promptly.

Dara grinned at him. "There is that," she agreed.

Narayana finally smiled again, and nodded, and Eli and Dara spent the next several minutes talking with Siara, Zhasa, Melaani, Samiel, and Meshara. Eli's high-tongue, with its soft south-sea accent, was fluid, as always, as he asked about Melaani and Samiel's deep-cover work, infiltrating a radical subset of the Moons of Luisa, called the Tears of the Moon—a group that believed in genetic purity for asari, the destruction of genetic mutations like males, and yet nearly worshipped the notion of the _ardat-yakshi_ as the ultimate expression of the Goddess' self—feminine, mysterious, and more powerful than other asari. Her avatars, in a sense. Dara pushed her high-tongue as far as she could, and while Siara chuckled, freely, at her accent, Melaani, as always, cheerfully corrected her pronunciation of the soft, flowing vowels, as did Zhasa. Dara was still uneasy around Meshara, whom she'd met on Tortuga—but the female had suffered much over her long life, and all for a biotic ability, that, like every _other_ biotic ability, was subject to control, and to abuse. _It's the same talent that Blasto has_, Dara told herself, yet again. _It's all a question of how it's used. Same as any other weapon. Putting a gun to someone's head is coercion. Brain-washing someone with torture and repetition gets the same exact results as domination. It's all about . . . context._

Dara caught sight of something behind the others, and her eyes widened. "Ah, Commander Shepard? Nice costume. Glad you and Garrus were able to join us tonight after all."

Beside her, Eli was doing his best not to choke on his own drink now. Garrus Vakarian, Archangel, scourge of the scum of the universe and bane of outlaws and mercenaries, had dressed up for the evening as Batman. The Caped Crusader had, at his side, Lilitu Shepard. Survivor of Mindoir, survivor of Akuse, destroyer of the Reapers and savior of the damned galaxy. . . dressed up as Catwoman. Down to a whip coiled at her waist. "Commander? You haven't yet met Meshara Laos, have you?" Eli stepped up to the plate at his diplomatic best. Dara and he had given Shepard the briefing on the Tortuga mission and the fact that they'd discovered an _ardat-yakshi_ on the edges of known space who had no _interest_ in killing other people for amusement or sport. Who simply wanted to exist in freedom. The same right as every other sapient being had. "Meshara, may I present Commander Lilitu Shepard-Vakarian, and her husband and second, Garrus Vakarian."

Dara watched as Shepard, who'd been smiling as she approached, resumed her usual work-face. Blank mask behind the face-paint. But Shepard, after a long moment, extended her hand, and offered it to Meshara Laos. "Can we skip the courtesy of Thessia and just go for the courtesy of Earth?" Shepard asked. "It's a little late at night, and I'm too dog-tired to go playing dodge the mental touch right now."

Meshara's dark blue eyes widened in consternation and surprise, and hesitantly accepted Shepard's hand and allowed hers to be shaken.

_Check it out,_ Eli noted, as he guided Dara away. _The universe did not actually implode._

_I think it flickered for a moment, though._

They kept moving through the crowd after that. Kallixta and Rinus had arrived, dressed as matching gladiator and gladiatrix, and Kallixta hugged Dara, asking, lightly, "So, are you ready for tomorrow?"

"I think everything's in order. There will undoubtedly be some last minute hiccup _just_ to drive me crazy."

"That's what _we_ are for," Kallixta told her. "I'm handling the caterers, Zhasa has the decorating people and the greenhouse people from the science station eating out of her hand. I think Serana's herding the photographers and the musicians, and Melaani and Siara offered to get everyone to their seats on the shore. Kasumi's been muttering things about _lanterns_—"

"Decorations," Dara replied, hurriedly. "Zhasa's got it. Don't worry."

Rel and Seheve moved through a swirl of the crowd, more or less materializing at Eli and Dara's sides. Seheve had discovered _The Arabian Nights_ in the last month, and had opted to dress like a female djinn, in soft, translucent yellow pants, a halter top, and a filmy golden yashmak, which made her dark eyes look even larger, somehow. Rel, in contrast, had gone for a purely turian costume: an _equus_ of the ancient Imperium, complete with the silvery armor and long, plumed spear that comprised Praetorian Guard dress armor to this day. Dara glanced at Rel, with only the faintest twinge of unease. He looked calm and content, and it was good to see him so. "You know what?" Rel said, as they all exchanged greetings. "Rinus and I have to steal Eli here. Tradition."

"Oh, lord," Dara muttered, shaking her head, and glanced up at Eli. "Not all night."

"I'll be in bed by twenty-six hundred, I swear," Eli promised, and leaned down to kiss her. _Even if I have to sneak in by your window._

_It's on the second floor here, Eli!_

_Maybe I'll have Dempsey throw me?_

_How about if you use the stairs?_

_You're no fun at all._ His tone told her he didn't mean it a bit, and then Rel and Rinus, both grinning, pulled Eli away through the crowd. Collecting in their wake, as an asteroid body picks up detritus by gravity, silvery-painted Dempsey, pirate Lin, Fors, who'd adjusted his suit to look for all the world like a _garden gnome_, Samiel Viridian, the male asari looking faintly relieved to get out of the crowd, but reluctant to leave Meshara and Melaani behind. . . and Kirrahe, naturally. She spotted Valak, who'd dressed up as Zorro, damnit, down the black hat and a black eyemask with _four_ eye-holes, standing next to Nala, leaning down to give his wife a kiss, and then heading out the back door into the Jaworski backyard with the other males. Which, as far as Dara could tell, included Siege. _Well, I always have used a male pronoun when I've thought about him and Cohort_, Dara told herself, her head tipping slightly to the side. _What they're going to give him to drink, is beyond me, though._ And in Siege's wake, Mazz and Makur trooped out as well, followed by at least three brood-warriors: Stone, Glory, and Dances.

The Jaworski house felt _slightly_ less crowded after the bachelor party's exodus. But only slightly.

Dara shook her head, got herself another glass of punch, and mingled. She wasn't a good mingler. Without Eli present, she tended to like to find a wall to put her back against, and stay there, but that wasn't going to fly; this was, technically, sort of _her_ party. So she set her teeth and did what she needed to do. She found Gris, sitting with Azala, peaceably arm-wrestling with Thelldaroon on the front porch. The elcor had opted to spread wires festooned with LED lights all along his back, in the spirit of the occasion. "Okay," Dara admitted, after a long moment. "I don't get it."

"Is it not obvious?" Thell asked, mildly, slowly, inexorably inching Gris' arm towards the table at which they sat. "I am a mainframe."

Dara nodded slowly, and made sure that everyone had a cup of something to drink. "You sure you're all right out here?" she asked. "Almost everyone else is inside, or out back."

"This is just fine," Gris assured her. "Cohort is in there telling jokes. The hell of it was, I was _laughing_ at some of them. I had a feeling he was taking notes every time I did, so I had to get away."

Dara hid her own laugher in her glass, accepted a hug from Azala, and listened to her old mentor talk for a while about the current xenobiological problems as they worked to spread the experiment from an alpine valley into the more delicate environmental system that was the high desert to the east. "We need different dextro species for there," Azala noted. "Palaven has deserts, but we're investigating whether or not Rannoch might not be a better option, particularly for the plant life. Except, well, Rannoch's plants have no natural defenses against insects." She sighed. "The work never ends. But then again, I wouldn't really wish for it to do so." She gave Dara a light hug, and Dara braced herself, and headed back into the warmth and bustle of the house.

Circulating, she found Gavius and Agnes in the kitchen. Agnes had dressed as a gypsy fortune-teller, and complete with flowing skirts and scarves, and bangles, baubles, and beads, and had opted to oversee punch production, as well as checking in on the kids upstairs every now and again for everyone. Gavius had, much to everyone's surprise, walked in the door wearing his old C-Sec uniform, which still fit precisely as it had the day he retired. Dara had caught Garrus and Lantar straightening to attention, and, from the way their right hands had both twitched, she suspected they'd been about to salute out of pure reflex. Eli, on seeing the uniform, had just stopped in his tracks and grinned. "Now that reminds me of my dad. . . and of Lantar!. . . coming in the door at the end of a shift," Eli had admitted. Gavius had made chuffing sounds, but Dara could tell that he was actually rather pleased at the reaction he'd gotten. At the moment, however, he was mostly drinking _apha_ in the kitchen, and staying out of the maelstrom of voices and movement in the living room. "You two hiding back here?" Dara teased her grandmother lightly. "Trying to play keep-away from all the people who are asking you when you two are exchanging knives?"

"Knives," Agnes muttered, in annoyance, "are bad _luck_ to give as a gift. It means you wish the other person harm."

"It's a token of mutual respect and trust," Gavius told her, with a pretense at irascibility. "I think you need to clean out those small pink ears, because I know I've said _that_ before."

"Oh, I know what you've _said_," Agnes returned, but she wasn't quite able to smother the look of amusement, and Dara didn't need skin-contact to realize that the two of them were playing a very involved game. "The problem is, I don't believe a word of it."

Gavius was on his feet a lot quicker than Dara had expected, and moved in behind Agnes as she continued to measure out the ingredients for the punch. "You're saying I'm not a male of my word? That my word can't be trusted? That my honor goes no further than my teeth?"

"That one doesn't translate well," Dara advised, under her breath, and got a _go away_ flap of a hand from Gavius as he continued to needle Agnes, his hands resting lightly on her waist, and leaning in to speak just behind her ear.

From the pink flush to her grandmother's face, Dara also knew that Agnes wasn't objecting to her current predicament at all, so she collected a fresh cup of punch and got the hell out of the kitchen, trying very hard not to laugh. Her steps took her through into the formal dining area, pretty much unused except for during parties like these, and brought her face to face with a small, somewhat uncomfortable knot of humanity. Her human family, from Earth. And both sets of Eli's human grandparents. All of them seemed to have taken refuge at the old wood table that Dara remembered eating half the Christmas dinners of her life, and were sitting together, talking and glancing around at the hustle and bustle that they could see through the archways to the kitchen and the lobby. . . until she walked in. Then every head snapped up, and all their eyes regarded her, warily.

Well, all the eyes except those belonging to her young cousin, James Jarman. The last time she'd seen her cousin, he'd been in kindergarten, and was now a little younger than Madison Dempsey. . . but was far behind Dempsey's son in maturity and education, apparently. James Jarman was currently at the other door of the formal dining area, excitedly asking Madison, "So, what's it like, being biotic? I always kind of wondered. . . " Full on East Texas drawl, meeting Madison's nasal Southie accent. Worlds colliding, in a strange way.

"Eh, makes for a lot of extra after school work," Madison said, passing it off with a shrug. "But it's kind of necessary. It's like any other form of self defense. A lot of practice, but if you're not ready to use it to protect yourself, you may as well not have it at all."

"Guess there's not a lot of people who're going to give you shit—"

"James! Language!" his mother, Allison said, sharply.

"Sorry, Mom." Young Jarman sounded very sheepish, and hung his head.

Madison shrugged a little. "No one really gives me a hard time at school here, no. Not since I caught up on all the subjects I was behind on, anyway. And, well, almost everyone here is weird or different in _some_ way. It's almost something we all take pride in."

_Mindoir, home of the weird and land of the strange_, Dara thought, lightly, moving forward to ask the adults, "Is there anything I can get any of you? Some coffee? Grandma's still working on the next batch of punch—"

Roger and Vanessa Chambers, Ellie's parents, shook their heads, wide-eyed. They both had the wide blue eyes that marked Ellie Sidonis' face, but they both exhibited darker tans, simply because they'd lived in tropical areas of Earth for decades. Bermuda, Brazil, and currently, apparently, Costa Rica. "That's. . . quite all right, dear," Vanessa Chambers replied, quietly. "We can get to the kitchen just fine."

Dara could_ feel_ the stares of the Stocktons on her, like a weight. Studying the clan-paint she already wore, the alien eyes, so she ignored them for a moment, and made light conversation with the Chambers. "So you were the one who made Eli's baby quilt, originally?" she asked, politely. "It's really beautiful work. My grandma really admired the embroidery and the workmanship when she was helping me repair it."

"Ah, that would be . . . Agnes?" Vanessa asked, glancing past Dara into the kitchen, where Gavius had firmly wrapped his arms around Agnes' waist, and lifted her free of the floor for a moment, her gypsy skirts flying as he gave her a brief twirl. "I was. . . very glad to hear from Ellie that it had been repaired. She was so upset after the vandalism, and it took her a few months to realize she didn't know what had happened to everything, which just upset her all over again."

"Did anyone ever quite figure out who _did_ it?" That, suddenly, from Gideon Stockton, raising his slightly bushy brows. He had a thick Chicago accent, that sounded even odder than Dempsey's Southie one to Dara; Dempsey's, she was _used_ to, after close to two years of association.

She was also somewhat startled. This was the first thing either Gideon or Rebecca had said to her, beyond _How do you do?_ since their chartered flight had landed at the Odessa spaceport two days ago. Ellie had had a look of absolute strain every time she was around her former in-laws, too, so Dara had done her best to be polite when needed and _invisible_ the rest of the time, not wishing to contribute to the strain. Now, she cleared her throat, and replied, "Actually, at first, it looked to be some of the neighborhood turian kids who'd been tormenting Eli for being part of a mixed family," and here, she kept her tone bland, but stared right at the older couple, knowing full well that they'd once told Ellie that if she married a turian, they'd have nothing more to do with her. And, by extension, they'd stopped talking to their grandson. Their only son's only son. Eli. That had probably been one of the reasons why Eli had, initially, been so reluctant to call Lantar _Dad_. Been reluctant to wear his adopted father's paint. Even though he'd idolized Lantar, all the sub-currents of familial pressure had been there, working on him.

Gideon Stockton held her stare for a moment, as Dara continued, calmly, "As it turns out, they were actually paid to do it. By associates of an asari named Lina Vasir. Who had been one of the major financial backers of the AEC." Dara shrugged. "There's never a simple answer, I've found. So, ironically, turians were paid to target a hybrid family by people who believed that they were part of a humans-for-humanity group, which was actually controlled by an asari." Dara smiled faintly, and watched as Gideon turned his lined face away. She could see _some_ resemblances. Clearly, it was from this side of the family that Eli got his dark eyes, some of the facial structure. The brooding expression, certainly, looked familiar, but he had so many more _Lantar_ traits, it was really striking. _The main question is, where the hell did he get his sense of humor from? None of these people are showing me that. Maybe that's all from his human dad?_

She didn't doubt that there were hurt feelings on all sides. Gideon and Rebecca had said foolish, stubborn, hurtful things years ago, when they themselves were hurting at their son's death. They'd never tried to make it right. Either they hadn't wanted to, or hadn't known _how_ to. Ellie had tried to remind her son to invite them to his wedding to Serana; Eli, sure that they wouldn't accept him, too, marrying a turian, hadn't bothered. But, this time around, Ellie had insisted, and Dara had dispatched the invitation with no little dread. And, as it turned out, an invitation to a wedding in which one Spectre happened to be marrying another Spectre, was apparently nearly impossible to refuse.

Vanessa Chambers cleared her throat. "There's a lot of evil in the universe," she said, sadly. "But it's good to know that there are people out there working to clean it up."

Dara nodded, not knowing really what to say. These were Eli's grandparents, and _he_ barely knew them, and he was out at the impromptu bachelor party in the backyard. _Damnit._ Mrs. Chambers glanced at her husband, and then asked, brightly, "So, should I get ready to make a new quilt for a great-grandchild sometime soon? Well, not _too_ soon. . . oh. . . you know what I mean."

Dara flushed. _Eli, where the hell are you when I need you?_ "Ah. . . well. . . technically? It's a little déclassé to admit this, but. . . we do already have a daughter, sort of. But she's a little big for a quilt."

Her Uncle Ham covered his face, as the four grandparents all stared at her, their mouths opening and closing at the same time. "Oh, come _on_. We all watched that damned Emily Wong special, and I know what Sam's said, but you can't expect any of us to believe that a _bug_ calls you _mama_—"

A worker—1812, actually—promptly scurried out of hiding and ran up her leg, before arriving at her shoulder and chittering furiously. And a voice tolled like a bell in all their minds, asking, gently, _And why should you not believe my mother? She sings the truth. It is you who will not open your minds to her song. Hear mine instead._ Joy's voice had only grown with her; it was an entire full-scale orchestra now, although the piano theme still predominated.

A shadow fell over the curtains to the window that faced the road, as something massive blocked the streetlamps. Dara, smiling faintly, stepped over, and pulled them back, and opened the window, as several enormous eyes, each the size of a dinner plate, peered into the window. Blue-green, luminescent, iridescent. "Joy-Singer," Dara said, politely, "these are my aunt, uncle, and cousin, and, of course, the brood-mothers and brood-fathers of your father's brood-parents."

_I have been listening to their songs,_ Joy replied. _It is good to meet you all directly, however. Mother, may I speak with you? May we sing private-songs, for the good-of-all?_

"Of course," Dara told her, not even realizing that she'd half-sung the words. "Are you keeping an eye on your father for me?"

_Naturally. There are many wine-songs and beer-songs to sing, and songs of days past for them all to share. I listen. No harm will come to any of them._

Dara glanced at the rest of the humans in the room. Madison, naturally, sort of took Joy-Singer in stride. He'd been seeing and hearing her for about six months now, and had watched her grow from just about the size of a brood-warrior, gangly and awkward, to her current size. The rest had expressions of absolute and profound shock on their faces. _Going to be even worse for them when they get a look at her in daylight tomorrow at the wedding,_ Dara thought. _This is an occasion when ripping the band-aid off all at once is probably __not__ the right course of treatment. _"Mad? Let Zhasa and Kasumi know I might be out for a bit, would you?"

Madison nodded. "Sure thing. Going to the tunnels?"

"Probably not, but you never know." Dara handed him her cup with a word of thanks, excused herself, and stepped out the front door, once more passing Gris, Thell, and Azala, who'd been joined by Cohort, who was now attempting elcor jokes. Dara wasn't entirely sure how even a geth would be able to judge the success of a given piece of humor on an elcor, and wasn't about to hang around and ask. She tossed them all a wave, and walked around to the left, and looked up. "Want to go for a walk?" she asked.

Joy-Singer, in the dark, could have been a figure out of nightmare. Twenty feet tall at her full growth—taller than an _apaterae_ or a Terran brontosaurus, she was also about twenty-five feet long, or the length of four or five groundcars, parked end to end. The streetlights glinted off her glistening carapace, making her look carved of ancient obsidian, a glossy piece of night itself. Her multiple eyes gleamed high above Dara's head. . . and then she lowered her head, which was now larger than Dara's entire body, and Dara wrapped her arms around her daughter. Most rachni queens tended to be a little sessile, at least once the time came to lay eggs. Joy's tendency to leave the safety of the tunnels had already surprised most of her hive. Joy _liked_ going out on the surface and looking at the plants and the animals that shared the world. She liked looking at the sun, the moon, and the stars. Dozens of soldiers followed her on every trip out of the caverns, and Dara suspected that Joy might actually lay her first eggs in the atrium, rather than down in the brood-chamber.

Joy reared back a bit, pulling Dara off her feet, making Dara start to laugh. _C'mon, let me down, unless you're going to put me on your back and take me for a ride here._

_Of course, Mother. Let us walk and sing harmonies together._

They wandered off down the street together. Dara shivered a little in the night air; it was still early spring here, and she hadn't pulled a jacket on over her lab coat, and her legs were very exposed. _I sing regrets, Mother. I hope that this song will not take too long._

_Just stand so I'm in your lee, and block the wind for me. That'll help._ Dara inhaled, smelling _allora_ and cherry blossoms. Spring on Mindoir had a sweetness found nowhere else in the galaxy. _What's on your mind, little one?_

_I am . . . mature now. I am old enough to take a mate. And there is need to sing mating-songs now._

_More workers are required?_ Dara guessed, leaning against Joy's side.

_That is one part of the harmony of necessity. Another is that Sings-of-Glory, Sings-to-the-Stone, and Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight each have songs that should be preserved, for the good of the hive. Memory-songs unlike any other brood-warriors. Songs that no others sing. Glory has sung with Lysandra, and she sings now to him and with him, from her place inside __Lightsinger__-ship. She is, like you, a queen of another sort, although, for that she is so much like a voice-of-memory, she makes some within the greater hive . . . sing unease. _Joy paused. _Stone's songs are no less of interest. He sees matter, the dance of atoms, and their song, in ways our people never have before. He has listened to the songs of the humans and the turians and the salarians, and understood them. He sings his understanding into the earth, into metal, into starstuff. And Dances. . . he sings of places beyond the stars, of white holes instead of black ones, of being and unbeing and bending reality._ Joy's voice held a sort of awe. _And if any one of them ended their songs today, all that they know, all that they are, would be lost. No more._

Dara nodded, and her throat ached at the mere thought. Each of the brood-warriors had become, in his own unique way, as dear to her as Sky. As Joy. Sky had the wisdom and insight of a philosopher-king. Glory was, for all his angelic voice, the warrior brother. His name said it all. He had chased glory, and found it, and it had nearly killed him. Stone was the engineer, the builder, the shaper. The analytical mind that saw the material universe, and worked within it. Dances was the artist and the scientist in one body. He saw the universe, what it was. . . and what it could be. And shaped reality around him. All vital. All necessary for the future of the rachni species. _Sky has already sung mating-songs. He has given his memory-songs and his life-songs to several queens._

_Yes. But Stone and Glory and Dances have not._

_I understand the necessity-song, Joy. But I sense question-songs within your harmony. Uncertainty. Dissonance. What would you ask of me?_

Joy's enormous head, which had been lifted to regard the stars, shifted downwards as her eyes focused on Dara. _Which of them should I choose first to sing mating-songs to me?_

Dara choked. _Oh, god, Eli. You __have__ to be off drinking with the guys __now?_ Dara cleared her throat, and replied, out loud, and half singing, "Do you not sing favor to one more than the others?"

Joy hesitated, and a pink overtone filled her song. _No. I sing favor and love to them all, and they sing love-songs to me. All have powerful voices, powerful memories. All three must be remembered forever in the hive._

She leaned her head against Joy's side. "Well, that's a given." Song had faded from her voice. "You plan to have all three of them sing mating-songs to you?" Rachni did not take singular mates. They did not share conventional human mores. They _couldn't_. They were _rachni._ In order to replenish her entire species, Life-Singer had reached back for DNA patterns stored by her own mother-queens inside her own body, the semen, or life-songs, of hundreds or even thousands of brood-warriors. But every rachni alive today, with the exception of Joy-Singer and three other new queens hatched from frozen eggs found on derelict ships in the last year, came of Life-Singer's line. When Sky had mated with her, he had mated with his own mother. But rachni did not consider this to be wrong. His memory-songs were given to all. His life-songs would continue in the hive. As they did in his sons by Bargain-Singer, Glory and Stone. Dances was, lineally, a son of Bargain-Singer and Sings-Fury, a rachni brood-warrior dead for over two thousand years, for whose life-songs Bargain-Singer had reached back, and used. Joy-Singer was a daughter of Sings-Fury as well, her egg lain when Sings-Fury had actually lived. That would make her and Dances half-siblings.

_Yes. All three._

"Does the order matter?"

_It may matter to them. Pride-songs, joy-songs, in being favored. Glory has suffered much. He has had his connection to the voices-of-memory severed. He has the connection to Question-Singer to give over to the hive. Memories of fighting devourers on the planet of ruined cities and the planet of burning deserts. Stone has similar memories, but also the memory-song of going to the turian planet of frozen earth, and saving it from destruction. Songs sung in harmony with turians and krogan and volus, bringing the living out of the earth. And Dances has the memory-song of the times we all fear to hear. He alone dares to look into the time of the darksong devourers, and is not tainted by the sour yellow note there. _

"Yeah, I get why you love each of them. I know why you value each of them. And I know that they take pride in being favored. Sky goes _pink_ every time he gets another invite from yet another queen." Dara looked up at the sky. "They're such boys," she added, with tolerant affection. "Let me try this another way. You're not exactly bound by human sexual morality, Joy."

_This song, I understand._

_So is there any particular reason,_ Dara asked, not really wanting to say the words out loud, _that if you don't want to single one of them out as 'first' and 'most favored,' that you couldn't just have them all sing to you at once?_

Joy's songs _stopped._ Just for an instant. Dara had finally found a concept that shocked a rachni at least as much as a couple of Eli's comments over the years had stunned Sky. "You're about to tell me that some songs should not be sung, aren't you?" Dara said, looking up at Joy.

After a very hesitant pause, Joy replied, _I. . . am attempting to understand __how__ it could possibly __be__ sung._

_Have them all sing, and each take a turn actually giving the life-songs, I suppose. I'm not even going to __try__ to figure out one pedipalp from each and then trade sides and dosey-doe. You can ask Many Voices, if you're interested. He might need to draw diagrams, though._ Dara could feel her face start to burn, and she couldn't help the fact that she'd started giggling, too, little muffled snorts under her breath.

_. . . I do not think that this will be necessary. Father will be caught between laughter-songs and responsibility-songs as is._ Joy's songs were _brilliantly_ pink at the moment, and Dara knew that in spite of the fact that the queen was, unusually enough, shielding this conversation from the rest of the hive, that every rachni within fifty miles was turning, mentally or physically, towards them and sending querying thoughts their direction.

"I'm just saying . . . that it's . . . an _option_," Dara managed, between fits of laughter. "Oh, god. If it's mostly about not. . . playing. . . favorites. . . "

_You sing amusement-song now, Mother. You may not do so when the time comes._

_Oh, I probably won't, but it is fairly logical. Look at it this way. They're all doing dangerous work. If you wait months or years between mating songs, one or more of them could end his songs, and all that he is, would be lost. Does that not mean that you should preserve their songs as soon as possible?_

Joy looked down at her. _You sing now, as Sings-in-Silence often does._

_Dempsey is __not__ the only person who can manufacture bullshit to spec._ Dara grinned a little, and patted the cool carapace next to her. _I'm not saying __to__ do this. I'm not saying __not__ to do this. I'm presenting options that you may not have thought of, little one. And I leave it to you to make your own decisions and sing your own songs._

_That is how brood-mothers are meant to sing._

_I'm practicing._ Dara thumped Joy's side. "Can we go back to the house now? I'm freezing."

In the Jaworski backyard, in the meantime, the bachelor party was finally swinging into full gear. When Lin and Dempsey and Fors had come to Eli with tentative questions about what he wanted—questions like, "So, are we renting out Depth Charge for you?"

Eli had laughed and replied, firmly, "Fuck no. Quiet. Low-key. Something we can do on-base. I don't really see a need to go to a club or anything." _Had enough of that __s'kak__ on Macedyn and Edessan._ "No paint-ball—we did that for Rel's. How about if we just find a backyard and hang out? We can play handball, or, shit, throw some darts if anyone really needs to do something."

They'd taken him at his word. Quiet. Peaceful. Nothing really special. At the moment, Rinus, Linianus, and Rel were all sipping _caprificus_ brandy. There were _festuca_ beers in a cooler for the turians, if they felt like switching up, and bottles of dark Guinness and lighter Bass for the humans. Dempsey had immediately gone for the Guinness, in particular, lifting a dark bottle and studying the label with a faint quirk to his lips. "Good thing I like the taste," he commented.

Makur lifted a bottle of green ryncol in Dempsey's direction. "I know you _can_—"

"No, thanks. That stuff tastes like varren piss. I'll drink it to make a point, but I don't really see a need."

Makur grinned. "And it actually even gives _you_ indigestion, right?"

"Nah. But it does get me drunk for ten or fifteen minutes."

Eli chuckled, and found one of the wood-and-cloth deck chairs. The night air was cool enough after the overheated living room, backed with bodies as it had been, that wearing a damn suit actually felt pretty good, though he took off his fedora and hung it from the back of the chair. Dempsey moved over, and handed him a glass—whiskey, Bushmills—and Eli took a sip, looking up at the stars through the branches of the cherry trees. Sweet smell of their blossoms in the air. Sound of everyone's voices, as they passed bottles back and forth. Fire of the whiskey passing down his throat to warm his stomach. Cool slap of the late-night breeze on his face. Delicious, really. Just peacefully hanging out with some of the people he most enjoyed hanging out with in the universe. Eli's eyes rested on the stars, and he tried to figure out which of the ones he could see, he'd actually visited. _Need to get my birthday present from Dara out some night, and overlay the virtual galaxy onto the real one,_ he thought, and grinned to himself.

Dempsey took the chair to the left. Lin took the one to the right, and Rel took one past that, with Rinus just beyond. Fors shuffled over and perched on the steps in front of them, and Samiel, quietly, leaned against the rail of the porch, as Snowflake emerged out of the darkness of the backyard, the cat's big eyes the first clue as to his presence, and brushed past Eli's legs on his way to greet Makur. The krogan slapped the leopard on the rump, and the great cat bounded back off into the backyard, finding somewhere to lay in wait. Then Makur and Mazz found chairs, themselves, which creaked under their weight, flanking Kirrahe, and Siege, the geth, found an unoccupied spot off past Rinus. The three brood-warriors had all slipped past and down the steps into the yard, proper; Eli could see, vaguely, as each of them dipped his head, pulling back the petal-like mouth structures to extend a siphon into a bucket filled with wine. _Home, sweet home._

For a while, there wasn't much in the way of conversation. Just shadows, sitting in darkness, looking out at the stars. Rinus finally broke the silence. "Spirits," he commented, stretching out his legs. "I can't even remember the last time we all just. . . sat down together."

"There have been times this past year and a half," Rel told his brother, dryly, "that I haven't been able to remember the last time I _sat down_."

"And you've loved every minute of it," Rinus returned.

"Not every single minute. Catching the _futarri_ plague on Bastion wasn't a lot of fun—"

"Pretty wild dreams, though," Lin pointed out. "All courtesy of a human subconscious—"

"I'd like to point out that those were _not_ my fault," Eli put in, swiftly. "I didn't know I was even mildly biotic at the time. That was all Siara."

Rel continued, his voice still wry, "And damned near losing my leg wasn't exactly a high point, either. _Futarri_ yahg."

"You did _kill_ it," Lin pointed out, shifting slightly so that he was leaning back in his chair, head tipped back to look straight up at the sky. "After the yahg warband there collectively, took out a gunship, half a dozen geth, and put down half your marines, you took out their leader in single-combat. With a damned wedding-knife."

"Also on the plus side," Rinus told him, lightly, "you're not walking around with a bite-scar from a male yahg now. That could be embarrassing to explain later in life."

"Shove it, Rinus. I think you're the only one of us who hasn't been mangled this year. Not even a scratch."

"Not true. I took a few hits on Shanxi. Not my fault that young lieutenants and commanders never properly learn how to _duck_ at OCS. That's the first thing covered in enlisted training."

Ripples of laughter, and Dempsey replied, mildly, "Same thing applies in the human military, Rinus, but apparently, I've got to re-qualify. I keep forgetting. Is it duck, dodge, weave, or dodge, weave, duck?"

"Duck. Duck, duck, dodge, dodge, bob, weave, duck." A bottle clinked against a glass in the darkness.

"Yeah, D here doesn't do that very well at all," Eli pointed out, to general chuckling. "His solution to fighting the biggest thresher maw that even _god_ has ever seen on Terra Nova, was to wait for the shields on our Hammerhead to fail, tell me to keep moving, tell Rel to keep shooting, and jump out the back to _distract_ the damn thing."

"My human-geth friend here sometimes has his brain shut off," Fors noted, giving Dempsey's chair a tip with his biotics, resulting in Dempsey's legs shooting upwards.

"Hey. Don't spill the Guinness, man. That's bad luck." Dempsey rocked the chair forward, and got his feet on the ground again. "For the record, my brain was working perfectly well that day. I was shooting at it and tearing at its scales with my biotics, trying to rip the holes from the bullets larger, so that all the other vehicles in the convoy could get a better shot."

"I did think the three of you were pretty much worm food," Makur rumbled. "Saw the human and the turian jump out and start running, and the Hammerhead blew. . . and then the thresher finally fell over dead. Must've been an _old_ one."

"Madison wants me to go back there and collect samples," Dempsey noted, clinically. "What I don't do for my kid and his school projects. Then I apparently need to hit Akuze and a half-dozen other places for more worm-guts. I asked him if he thought _maybe_ someone else has done some of this research before. Trouble is, the answer's no. No one has."

"Thoughts have a funny way of bouncing here," Lin replied, peaceably. "You start talking to one person, and suddenly, the two of you, or maybe the three of you, are thinking about something you've never even considered before." He took a sip of his drink. "You know, if I hadn't seen the vid of the thresher, I wouldn't have believed it. Same, I guess, as when we all fought that Harvester on Tuchanka."

Eli nodded, and Makur and Mazz laughed. "I don't really need a vid to remind me how crazy that day was," Mazz said, dryly.

Silence again, until Eli ventured, "You know, the thresher sort of _stands out_ for me on Terra Nova, but it's not the only thing I think of, there."

_Many devourers_, Dances supplied, from the garden. _I lost an eye there, to one of them. Sings-Battle_—a flicker of meaning, an image showing Siege, the geth—_and the workers and soldiers saved me there. Many lives lost, many songs ended, when the reactor gave forth its fire._

Stone sang raspy agreement. _Learned my own songs there,_ he said. _Learned to shape earth and metal._

_I was not there. But I sang deception-songs on the planet of crimson skies_. Glory's voice was still weaker than it once had been, but the rachni shifted as Valak came out on the porch, accepting a glass of human whiskey, and leaning against another of the porch rails. _I wished often that you were in my place, Stone. Digging-songs would have been easier, with your presence._ _Digging into captive-song places there. Digging out of captive-song places on the planet of stone and rock. Perhaps I should learn to sing your songs?_

A very rachni joke, but Eli chuckled anyway, as did a few of the others. Lin shifted again in his chair, and Eli could feel Lin's gaze. 'What _do_ you think about, when you remember Terra Nova?" his _sangua'fradu_ asked.

Eli considered it. Dust and heat, in the main. Inescapable, since his armor—_Sam's_ old armor, really—hadn't been fully enviro-sealed at the time. Boredom, in between battles. Annoyance, dealing with the reporters. Adrenaline and fear in that last battle, standing side-by-side with Rel, Lantar at their backs, trying to patch Fors' suit. Being thrown, nearly off a cliff, but hitting his head against the shuttle, instead. "A lot of different things," he said, weighing it all, with the peculiar vividness that sharing memory-songs on a daily basis with Dara tended to bring. "But. . . not being able to convince that one militant group to come out of their bunkers and join up with us. The fact that the yahg went in behind us and killed. . . almost every damn one of them. . . it still gets me, now and again." He paused. "Of course, Rel came along right after I finished throwing up after that mess, and didn't let me crawl back down my hole." He paused, and, in the darkness, it was easy to say the rest. "Thanks, _fradu._"

"You'd have done the same for me." Rel's voice was surprised. "Actually, you _did_ do the same for me. Admittedly, I wasn't very grateful at the time, but you didn't let me sulk in the hospital."

"Wasn't very grateful?" Rinus' voice held light derision. "That statement should be framed and put up for 'understatement of the century.'"

"Eh, he had reasons." Eli shrugged. Most of them were long since water under the bridge at this point. He changed the subject. "Anyone want to go for 'craziest thing done in the last year'? Thresher maw doesn't count. It was there. It was like Everest or Olympus Mons. Except mobile and cranky." He pointed, randomly, at Samiel. "You start."

Samiel blinked and the male asari's head came around to give Eli a level stare. "You mean other than, with Spectre assistance, overthrowing a criminal warlord on Tortuga and being ambushed by an entire city in revolt? Crazier than standing on a line to cover the retreat with a geth and a rachni brood-warrior, and getting the living _s'kak_ beaten out of all three of us?"

Siege, the geth, raised a massive hand, just barely visible in the faint moonlight. "We would disagree with Samiel's assessment of the tactical situation. At the time, it was the only effective course of action open to us."

_Agreed. I did not, at that moment, know that I could take more than one person with me, when I sing my way between spaces,_ Dances agreed, all violins and cellos. _I could not rescue one, and leave the other to end his songs._ _So we all sang battle-songs together._

Eli remembered the moment on Tortuga all too well. Half a building had separated them from the trio, having collapsed into the street of the rickety shanty town. They hadn't been able to _reach_ the three, and they'd been pinned down, defending Hammerheads filled with wounded anyway. He looked around. "Can I get a quorum from the judges? Where does this rank on the crazy scale?"

"Five out of ten," Dempsey replied, holding up a hand and rocking it back and forth, as if to say _middling._

The male asari took a rather larger sip of his whiskey, and mediated on the fumes for a moment. "All right," he said, calmly. "How about going into deep cover for four months on an asari world, with Melaani T'soa?"

"Insufficient detail," Fors snuffled at him. "Doesn't sound all that crazy on the surface of it."

"Deep cover as an asari _female_."

Eli's lips, despite his best efforts, quirked at the corners. Dempsey, deadpan, asked, "In drag, you mean?"

"Yes. Melaani was meant to appear as a my older sister. The older sister was meant to be the bait in the long con. She was meant to pass as an _ardat-yakshi_, one young enough and weak enough to be captured, controlled, and experimented on by this extremist group." Samiel took another healthy sip of the whiskey. "Things got. . . complicated."

"Things always do," Rinus grated, from his side of the porch. "Just how complicated are we talking?"

A slight throat-clearing. "Ah. . . I had to improvise one evening. Since I actually _possess_ the domination ability, I. . . wound up making myself look like an _ardat-yakshi_, too." He paused. "And then, so that I wouldn't have to, well, prove anything to a rather ardent admirer in the group we were infiltrating. . . T'soa made it very clear to the watching vid camera in our bugged apartment that we were, in fact, _incestuous_ _ardat-yakshi_ sisters." Samiel shrugged, and refilled his glass. "I think T'soa would have thrown in _twins_ if it weren't for the fact that I'm a good four inches taller than she is."

Linianus choked on his drink, and began to whoop with laughter. "And they _bought_ it?" he finally managed.

"The more debauched we acted, the more they ate it up." Samiel shook his head in resignation, the faint moonlight reflecting off the white clan-paint on face. "Wound up taking down a matriarch. . . mostly because Ylara was there. Couldn't have done it without her."

The words were almost lost in a storm of laughter, but none of it was directed _at_ the stoic asari male. Most of it was simply. . . _there for the grace of the spirits, go I_. "Score?" Eli asked, after he'd managed to recover from the laughter.

"Eight point five," Dempsey allowed. "It's got an element of the ridiculous that gives it that extra half point." He paused, and gave Samiel a direct stare. He, too, had been on that Tortuga mission. "I'm not buying that it's the craziest thing you've done, Viridian. Two words. Meshara Laos."

Samiel said absolutely nothing in reply. Just smiled and took another drink of the human liquor in the glass he held.

Eli snorted. He knew, because Viridian had had no choice but to talk to Dara about Meshara's genetic condition. He knew that Shepard and Garrus knew. Most of the others _didn't_ know, but he sort of suspected that Dempsey did. Dempsey had gotten _very_ good at reading Dara in the last year, and it didn't take much to see when Dara tensed up _more_ around an asari than normal. She'd gotten much, much better around Melaani, Siara, and Ylara. But around Meshara, Dara went into rachni-queen mode on eye-contact. That didn't add up to _ardat-yakshi._ But Dempsey was smart enough to fill in the blanks.

To cover the moment, Eli chuckled, and asked, "All right. How about you, Siege? Craziest thing in the last year. Holding the line on Tortuga is off-limits."

The geth's head swiveled, and a baleful red optic regarded Eli for a moment. "While this may be considered 'crazy' by organic standards, it is simply an exploitable method of travel for synthetics. While on 'shore leave' with Mercuria, we belly-crawled for thirty metric kilometers up a river on Terra Nova to hunt down and eventually broker a cessation of hostilities with a clan of yahg who were attempting to hide and survive in the terrain outside of a human settlement."

Eli did his best not to choke on his drink. "Yahg?" he asked, setting the whiskey aside.

"Bullshit. We cleared that rock of yahg a year ago," Dempsey said, sitting forward grimly.

"Negative. One band remained, under the command of an . . . innovative. . . yahg leader. He kept twenty of his followers from attacking the human settlement. Had them hunt wild game, fish, and gather food from the abundant resources in the mountains around Hiyawatha. The local residents had only had a few sightings, which they attributed to the presence of the mythical Terran 'Bigfoot.'"

Samiel had lifted his head, and was giving Siege a steady look from across the porch, or so it seemed in the dim light. "That is hardly the craziest thing you've done, my friend."

Siege turned his metal head. "Keep it behind your teeth, Samiel," he said, the turian intonations crisp and precise, even in galactic.

Rinus promptly _choked_ on his brandy. "Shore leave with Mercuria," he finally said, after he stopped coughing. "In her new platform, I take it?"

"Affirmative. She scored the first confirmed kill with our personal M-98 Widow."

"Oh, strange new world," Lin muttered under his breath, "that hath such creatures in it."

Eli disregarded the by-play, and rubbed at his eyes for a moment, trying to focus his mind. "The whole yahg thing . . . really hadn't shown up in my inbox," he admitted. "Anyone else?"

"I think they've put us on milk run stuff for a while to force us to relax," Rel admitted. "I've mostly been training turian special ops personnel sent here for intensive courses the last month or so."

Eli turned and gave Dempsey a look. "Okay. We'll put it on the docket to ask Shepard and Garrus about, um. . . crap." His usual Monday morning meeting with Garrus, Sam, and Lantar was, for very obvious reasons, cancelled this week.

"You're going on a honeymoon in, well, a day," Dempsey told him. "I'll ask Shepard and Garrus about it and make sure we're all in the right loops."

"Thanks, man. Appreciate it." Eli shook his head again, trying to rattle his brain back into place. "Rel, Rinus, you'll—?"

"I'll poke around for some answers, too," Rinus affirmed, and the dark shape that was Rel's head nodded, firmly.

"Okay. . . "Eli gave up, and moved on. "Next up. Craziest thing you've done. Lin? Bastion's off-limits." _The good and the bad, alike. _ "I don't even want to _think_ about corpse patrol and taking all the plague bodies to the morgue."

Lin muttered, "Spirits, that's a bad memory. All right. . . Craziest. . . eh. It doesn't count. It was under orders."

"Spill it."

Capitulating, Lin sighed. "Climbing up an elevator shaft half the length of Omega to go fight batarians is not one of my favorite memories, but it's not actually crazy. Now, going undercover as a _slave_ on Khar'sharn and proceeding to break _into_ the most heavily-guarded prison in Hegemony space to get some of Valak's people out. . . . that's crazy." He turned and toasted Valak with his brandy; Valak, snorting, returned the gesture. "Oh, and there was the whole 'hold the line waiting for the assassination and distraction teams to fall back to us' on Khar'sharn thing." He paused. "Come to think of it, between Serana getting hurt, and both of those missions, I've had enough of that planet for a lifetime." Lin shook his head and sipped his brandy.

Fors snuffled, a wicked chuckle. "And embarking on an attempt to find true love on BastionSinglesNet wasn't crazier even than that?" the volus needled.

"The asari who was pretending to be a quarian so that she wouldn't get hit on by 'the wrong types,' and who promptly wound up hitting on Serana the whole time we had her out for drinks was _not_ my fault," Lin pointed out, swiftly.

"Yes, but you didn't even give Gives-Solace-of-the-Body-to-Many a _chance_—"

"No, I did not. I ran. I admit it. Screaming. For the hills." Lin's voice held suppressed amusement and embarrassment.

Dempsey shifted. "That sounds like a hanar soul-name—"

"It is," Eli replied. "Male name, too."

"Ah. . . what?"

"Most notorious hanar hooker in the galaxy. Was thrown off the Citadel when Garrus and Lantar were in C-Sec. Supposed to be on the interdict list for Bastion, too, but keeps sneaking in under different face names."

Dempsey's head tilted. "How. . . okay, bad question. Why? I mean, a hooker charges. . . ."

"I didn't say he was the most _intelligent_ hanar hooker. He gives it away for free, apparently. Just wants to talk to people about the Enkindlers during cuddle-time afterwards. Or so I understand from the case files. C-Sec booked him for proselytizing, stalking, you name it, but since he only _offers_ his, um, services, they couldn't get a lot to stick on him." Eli's shoulders were shaking. "He apparently wanders BSN, looking for lonely souls now, under a variety of assumed names, species, genders. . . "

"And I'm never going to live this down," Lin said, drolly, and refilled his glass. "I was only _on_ that site because _you_ insisted, _fradu."_

_I didn't know you and Serana probably already loved each other, at least a little, even then_, Eli thought. It didn't sting. They'd figured out a lot, and managed to fix things before people could really get hurt. "_Mea culpa,_" he said. "Valak? You're up."

Valak, his face swathed in darkness, barely visible under his Zorro mask, snorted again. "Ah. . . there was that prison business. There was the full year of feeding SIU information out to the Spectres. There was the whole assassination business. But the _craziest_ thing I've done. . . has to be imagining I could set up a new government for my people. Being a solitary revolutionary leader in the anonymity of my home was _easy_. All I had to do was be careful and not leave evidence. Now. . . ?" He shook his head.

"How many assassination attempts in the past three months?" Eli asked.

"Three, believe it or not. K'sar's minding the shop for me right now. I'm damned glad he didn't die on us, back in Urvada. I _need_ him. Tul'dur's been my second for years, but he doesn't have the education that K'sar has. Or the vision." Valak sighed. "But if we're not asking for craziest, but most _memorable_ moment?" His smile came through his voice. "Marrying Nala and the Imperator of the Hierarchy clasping my wrist in the ruins of Nivalis. On Nimines. Don't tell Nala that she's tied with a handshake, please." Valak pretended to sound guilty, but the amusement and affection in his voice told the real tale.

Laughter, again, rich and warm, as they all toasted each other. "Rinus? Craziest thing," Lin challenged now.

"Ah. . . . coming up with the plan to avert that cometary attack on Earth."

"Oh, come on!"

"Seriously. Kallixta and I only gave that plan a fifty-fifty chance of working."

"Crazier," Rellus said, kicking his brother lightly in the shin.

"Going into an underwater ancient Prothean city and trying to hold batarians away from controlling it, its information, and its weaponry. Admittedly, I didn't do the crazy part. Zhasa's the one who stripped out of her suit to get through a cramped area, and ran, naked, into the control room." Rinus paused, sipping at his brandy. "For the record, Dempsey, I was a perfect gentleman and when she asked me to give her a boost, I pretended I wasn't looking at her waist at _all_."

"I am never going to get the turian obsession with waists." Dempsey's flat tones rang out, after a moment.

"Fair enough, D, they don't really understand why we monkeys like breasts. Wrong wiring." Eli took another sip of his whiskey, and chuckled. "Rinus, how does 'taking the _Hamus_, unleashing its AI—your son!—fighting off half a dozen batarian ships—"

"Holding onto me as a hull breach just about sucked me out into space," Fors put in.

"That, too, yeah. . . and shattering the Kuiper belt asteroid that was on a collision course for Nimines not even make the _list_?" Eli finished.

There was a faint shuffling sound, and Rinus admitted, "Because Nimines still got hit, and pretty badly."

Lin lifted his glass. "Lost a lot of friends in Nivalis," he said, quietly. "Absent friends, guys."

"Absent friends," everyone echoed, and drank.

"Still," Rel said, after a moment, "The Imperator still named you Defender of the Imperium for it, _fradu_."

"You know, every time someone says that, I die a little inside."

"That's exactly why he keeps pointing it out, Rinus," Lin explained.

"I know. . . I know. . . if he weren't my second-brother, I'd have had to kill him for it by now. . . "

Eli let the moment linger for a second. "Kirrahe—Orlan, rather. You've been quiet. Craziest thing you've done all year."

"Hmm." The salarian pondered it momentarily, then rapidly answered, "Creating a virus intended to seek out and destroy a specific AI—the Lystheni dalatrass—that therefore needed to be an AI itself, and using my own personality, and that of Mordin Narayana?" Kirrahe paused, and added, in an uncomfortable tone, "AI called me 'Daddy.'"

Eli paused and assessed that one, wincing. Narayana _was_ a sister by adoption. "And here I thought you were going to go with setting the entire interior of that Collector ship on Bothros on fire with _science_," Dempsey said, dryly. "Seven point five, Kirrahe. Half the people sitting here have AI 'kids.'" The human shifted in his seat, snagging another bottle of Guinness. "Your turn, Fors. Craziest thing all year."

"Other than breaking out of a batarian prison with two broken legs? Um. . . . talking back to my batarian prison guards?" Fors snuffled. "No, no, wait, I've got it. . . . hanging around with any of _you_."

Another chorus of laughter, and glasses and bottles clinking. "Makur," Mazz asked. "Craziest thing."

"You need a turn, Mazz," Makur returned, leaning back and making his chair protest under his weight. His hand had finally finished growing. Only the stubby claws at the fingertips had yet to grow back in.

"Nah. Craziest thing I've done all year is draw up plans for a brand new hospital on Tuchanka. It's going to be next to the new school. The one Siara told me she'd tie my quad in a knot if I put more than half of it underground."

More laughter, loudest from Makur. "Come on, give," Eli said after a moment. "Craziest thing."

"Huh. Charging the side of a batarian house with a turian and an entire swarm of rachni at my side, and tearing half the thing down with our _minds_. All to give a bunch of humans and turians enough of a distraction to get a batarian agent and his pregnant wife out." Makur chuckled like thunder in the distance. "Try getting that one into the history chants of Clan Urdnot."

"It's not apt for summary," Lin agreed, cheerfully. "'And he smote them on the left and he smote them on the right, and they plowed a road of skulls together,' sounds so much better."

"Damn straight, turian."

"Dempsey," Eli challenged, refilling his glass as Valak passed him the bottle. "Craziest thing."

Dempsey snorted, and took a long pull at his Guinness. "God. Where to start? Hmm. Infiltrating Khar'sharn with you, Rinus, and the doc, trying to pull Rellus' nuts out of the fire sort of started us off crazy, but that's. . . eh, about a five. There's the whole 'waking up the Keepers thing—being plugged into the geth and the rachni at the same time, while waking up an entire sentient species. . . .that probably should have maxed out my weird shit-o-meter." He shook his head. "Running into a bunker to rescue my thirteen-year-old son, only to discover he'd killed his first batarian. . . kind of par for the course around here—"

"Blooded young!" Rinus said, with clear approval. "He's going to do _just fine_, Dempsey, when he's ready for service."

"Yeah, that works okay for turians. Us humans, we like a little more early stability." Dempsey shook his head. "You said the thresher maw was off-limits, Sidonis?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Meeting my own fucking android twin, tearing the Cerberus control commands right out of his head, and then watching him save the damned day by almost sacrificing himself? Pretty goddamned weird." Dempsey paused. "Putting him back together again, and then having him around, like I'm the ghost and he's the real deal—"

"Hey, I didn't see him back at the party," Eli objected, turning around to peer through one of the windows.

"I told him I was going as a guy made out of metal, and he threatened to go as Pinocchio. I told him _no,_ and he said he'd rather hold off on the social activities till Cassie gets a body like Mercuria's, anyway." Dempsey paused. "Wait. That's _his_ weird shit. We're still on mine, right?"

"Yeah."

"Hmm. The Collector ship was pretty damned weird. Helping Zhasa figure out how to fly it back here to the base? And hell, yeah, Khar'sharn was pretty weird, too. Oh, and playing a rock concert for twenty thousand screaming quarians." Dempsey considered it. "On the whole, my whole _life_ since waking back up out of my freezer has been pretty damned crazy. Kind of hard to isolate just one event that's crazier than the rest."

Muffled chuckling from the others. After a clear, distinct pause, Dempsey said, "I think we've gone through everyone else, man. It's your turn, Sidonis. Craziest thing this year."

Eli, now on his third, possibly fourth glass of whiskey since the evening had started at around 20:00, leaned his head back, and just laughed, very quietly, under his breath. "God. I don't even know where to _start,_ D. I was there holding a _gun_ on you for the awakening the Keepers thing, in case you went nuts and tried to kill Dara while she was trying to stick you with a painkiller. . . I was on Omega when Lin and I wound up taking batarian vibroblades off a couple of SIU guys. Carrying those at _all_ was kind of crazy. Dara, Sam, and I, disguising ourselves _as_ batarians? Crazy." He looked up at the stars, feeling the world spin around him, a pleasant kind of drift. As if he could feel Mindoir's movement around its axis, its orbital swing, and shared it. "Then there was. . . god. Finding Joy-Singer's egg. That was pretty goddamned crazy." The event had shaped the entire rest of the year. Probably the rest of his life. Holding Dara's mind afloat, with Sky's help. Helping her adjust to the new direction her own reality had taken, and only belatedly realizing that he, himself, had been marked and changed by the experience. "Figuring out that Kella had changed a lot in my head and then Joy actually rearranging the furniture . . . that was pretty crazy, but not something I was actually responsible for. . . " Eli considered it. "The thresher's off-limits. . . fighting that yahg alpha with Rel? I thought I was _dead_. I knew I was going to fly right over the cliff's edge, and when I woke up I was _surprised._ . . . huh. Helping to haul Valak off of Khar'sharn, Dara getting hurt. . . not crazy. . . just. . . was." He tapped a foot lightly. "Astaria, not too crazy. Collector ship, eh, we got it home okay. And I wasn't allowed to go back to Khar'sharn _with_ you guys, damnit. Nah. Singing at a rock concert with _you?_ Nuts." He looked at Dempsey, and then off into the darkness. "But again, that wasn't me. That was me hanging out with you." He shook his head. "Actually, when it boils right down to it. Two things."

"What?" Rinus asked. "It's a pretty big list as is."

"Fighting a fucking batarian vanguard armed with a vibroblade in a burning building and then painting my marks on Dara's face with my own blood." Eli paused. "Incidentally, my mom _never_ needs to hear about that." Chuckles from everyone. "Pretty much a battleground wedding, right there. So. . . the craziest thing I've done all year? Is what I did then, and what I'm doing tomorrow." Eli grinned to himself, laughing in the dark. "Marrying a human rachni queen."

Snickers, building into laughter all around him. "I still think you win," Dempsey told him, straight-faced.

"Not fucking true. You win. Married to a quarian, ten years stuck outside of time, geth-android doppelganger—" Eli pointed at Dempsey.

Dempsey pointed right back at him. "AI kids by adoption, rachni daughter, human-rachni wife, salarian adoptive sister—"

"Okay, yeah, I have the craziest life," Eli grinned even more widely now, "but I didn't have the craziest year. I just _shared_ all your craziness." He pointed around at all of them. "Yours and yours and _yours_, too, don't even try to hide over there, Rin—"

At which point, all three brood-warriors lurched upright, and looked over their shoulders, as if they heard something, and every male on the porch reached for weapons that they were either not carrying, or carrying the wrong ones. Eli swore at the 1911 service pistol (unloaded) he'd drawn; Lin and Valak had both drawn their vibroblades and keyed them. Every biotic in the vicinity had pulled up a barrier; Eli could feel Dempsey's crackling in the air to his left. "What?" Eli snapped at the rachni. "An attack? Now? Today?"

_Apology-songs. No, no battle-songs. Joy-Singer is . . . singing embarrassment, and she will not let us hear her songs with her mother at the moment. This is. . unusual._ Dances crouched a little, singing violet regret at them.

Slowly, everyone on the porch relaxed back into chairs, or leaned once again. "Okay," Eli admitted, holstering the antique gun. "I think it's fair to say that we are all in need of leave in the worst fucking ways possible."

Conversation spun on for a while longer, as they all relaxed again, but then upstairs in the Jaworski house, a light flicked on. Eli knew precisely which room that was. Shadows moved against the curtains, and he looked up, and smiled. "Guys," Eli said, setting his glass down. "It's twenty-five fifty. Time for me to head to bed. Or I am going to be hung-over as _hell_ in the morning, and that's no way to start the day."

Genial guffawing from the turians and the krogan, who naturally didn't _experience_ this condition. "Just afraid you're going to get in trouble with your female?" Makur taunted, amicably.

Eli waved him off. "Makur, she's wearing a _lab coat_ and heels. That's not me being in trouble." He was about to add, _That's her __being__ trouble_, but he just grinned, and said, instead, "Thanks, guys, for coming over. We should probably try to do this more often, and not just for weddings and funerals."

Dempsey bumped knuckles with him on the way past, and Lin and Rel each found a shoulder to smack as he ducked in through the doorway, back into the Jaworski house. Dark and quiet now, most of the rest of the guests gone. Only Sam was still up, sitting at the table. Waiting for them all to come in, so he could lock up. "Sam," Eli said, pulled up short by the sight of Dara's father, who was patiently rolling all his bandages back up again. "I'd have locked up for you—"

"Nah. Have to do some finger exercises, anyway. May as well do them by doing this." Sam held up the bandages in explanation.

Eli nodded, and said, quietly, "Sam? Ah. . . thank you. For. . . everything." He gestured at the house. "Not just the party. But. . . everything."

Sam looked up from his work, and smiled. "No problem, son. Make her happy. That's all I ask."

"Will do my best." Eli reached out, and Sam shook his hand, lightly.

Then Eli turned and headed up the stairs—carefully. He was aware that he'd had a few, and he didn't really want to fall on his face. Opening the door, he peeked in, and saw that Dara was, actually, still in her lab coat. And the heels.

And absolutely nothing else.

Eli laughed, and moved into the room as she turned back towards the door, and caught her up in his arms. "Best costume _ever_," he told her, and leaned in for a kiss.

"Better than Keshi's?" Dara's tone was arch.

"_Much_ better than Keshi's." Urgent little nips and kisses now, as he guided her back onto the bed, opening their minds to each other. Filling each other with light and song. They'd never slept together in this house before, and Eli was, again, intent on putting old memories to rest.

Still a little tipsy, and a lot tired, the quiet haze before sleep was disrupted by one recollection. "Mmm. _Sai'kaea?_ You awake?"

"Mmmpf."

"The rachni were all a little startled earlier tonight. I thought we were about to get attacked. They said Joy was embarrassed about something. Also, blocking them. That's. . . not normal."

"Ah. . . yeah. She's not really a normal queen."

"Hmm."

There was a pause, as Eli realized, slowly, that that was an evasion. He picked up one of Dara's hands—he liked to sleep curled behind her, one arm over her, so this was easy—and brought it to his mouth for an admonitory nip to her wrist. _Sai'kaea?_

"She. . . wanted some advice. Wound up having 'the Talk' with her. And you weren't around!" Dara shifted a foot to kick a heel, half-heartedly, against his shin. He was dimly aware that she was humming under her breath.

"The Talk? You mean, like birds and bees? Don't rachni already know about that, pretty much from birth?" Eli woke up a little further.

"Yes. Well, she wanted to know which brood-warrior she should, um, mate with first."

Eli nodded against Dara's shoulder. That sort of made sense. "I'm going to sound like a really weird father figure here, but I'm kind of looking forward to her first mating-song."

"We're going to have to clear all the kids off of base. Get geth in to guard the place for us for a day or so. Make sure people understand that this is not a drill and not a joke, to get to their houses, with their loved ones, and have a supply of food and water and their medications—"

"What?" Eli woke up yet further. "Dara, we're talking four hours, aren't we?"

Dara cleared her throat, and didn't answer.

"Dara?"

"I don't know! I told her she didn't actually have to choose which one went first. I don't know how long, or. . . how many. . . or. . . " Vibrant pink song flooded into his mind, and Eli slowly rolled to his back, covering his face and laughing so hard, his stomach hurt.

After several minutes, Eli managed, "Oh, _sai'kaea_ . . . when and if we have _human_ kids, are you giving them the same advice? Just boink all three of them at the same time?"

"No!" Dara blinked rapidly, her tone a little frantic. "Rachni are different!"

"Okay. Just checking to make sure it was really you. I'd hate to get in _real_ trouble the night before our wedding." He rolled back over, still chuckling, and pulled her close to him again. "Good night, sweetheart."

_*** Author's note:** All credit (or blame) for Siege and Takeshi's Best Halloween Costume EVER is due to Eleventh Messenger. Shinimegami suggested Narayana's solution to her mummy/princess problem. CalliesVoice came up with Melaani as Mystique. Samiel Viridian is property of Asymptote._

**October 28, 2197**

Saturday, October 28, two days before Dara's twenty-second birthday, dawned bright and clear, and Mindoir's sky, always violet-tinged, held a peculiarly lavender shade today. Dara and Eli headed out early on their hovercycles, Eli pretending to more of a hangover than he actually felt, mostly to make her laugh.

The morning was mostly spent treating the close family to breakfast in their own house. A kind of thank-you to all of them, for the work put into the wedding preparations. Although Dara had been _insistent_ about being low-key, she'd also been exacting and specific; Eli had just laughed every time another list had snuck its way onto her datapads.

They got through the candid pictures early in the day, as they climbed down the cliff path to help set up all the chairs. This went surprisingly quickly, with several biotics helping; Dempsey and Zhasa and Fors simply tossed white folding chairs across the glistening sands of the beach to each other, and, with perfect control, nipped them out of the air and set them up. There were tables set up for dinner, but the chairs from the ceremony would just be turned around and set at the tables, and dinner would be catered by Gardner's. Simple enough, on the face of it.

Dara had been, however, politely _shooed_ away by Kasumi, Ellie, Zhasa, Kallixta, and Serana. "You've given everyone very clear directions," Kasumi scolded her. "Go try to relax. We've got this."

"And nothing will be made either better or worse if you're here to deal with all of this, so let us take care of the headache," Serana directed, tossing her head a little.

Dara wilted a little. "I'm being a control freak, huh?"

"Just a little." Serana chuffed at her. "Just go."

"And what am I supposed to do all day?"

"You're the one who wanted an evening wedding, Dara. Go read or something."

"Right. Because I'm going to be able to concentrate on that." Dara wandered off, muttering under her breath.

By noon, she could peer over the balcony for a glimpse of the activities at the foot of the cliff. Could see flowers and everything else just being magically handled, and dispatched workers to go and assist. . . and keep an eye on things for her. Not a few of them got shooed by Agnes, who seemed to think that they were after cake-songs. Possibly because it was true.

The late timing of the wedding did allow people to drop by the house and talk to them, however. Dara was particularly surprised when Garrus, Shepard, Lantar, and her father stopped by. "I wanted to check with you on the exact timing of the wedding," Shepard said. "I understand that Lysandra had something special in mind?"

Dara nodded. "She has a flight-plan scheduled." She swallowed, and Eli took her hand. "What can we do for you all?" _Eli, is this wedding-related?_

_Not that I know of. . . _

Shepard turned back towards the wide windows that looked out over the cliff. "Almost exactly seven years ago," she said, pensively, "you two found that AEC beacon, right here, on this cliff."

Eli drew Dara into his side as they both nodded, not speaking. Not knowing where she was going with this. Shepard turned around, smiling. "You've been an integral part of the Spectre family since the moment you arrived here. And it's wonderful to see you both happy, and whole, and beginning your lives together. And now that you're Spectres, you've brought more and more to this organization. For example, just this year, you and your teams brought us something that's going to allow a . . . very long-term project that we've been working on, for some time. . . to be accomplished." She paused. "It's called the Excalibur Project."

Dara straightened. She'd seen references to this in Dr. Mordin's notes, once in a while, but nothing had ever been explained there. She looked up at Eli, wondering if he knew more, and got a head-shake in exchange. "We helped with this?" Eli asked, frowning slightly. "In what way?"

"The Collector ship you obtained had advanced stasis pods on it," Shepard said, nodding. "Research and development is working already to find a different method of powering them. Something more along the lines of geothermal, or dark energy. Something that doesn't rely on eezo and its tell-tale signatures, anyway." She smiled faintly, but there was leashed energy to the woman, that neither of them could really explain. "You don't need to know all the details right now, but I wanted to tell you how much you've already given to the Spectres. . . to the galaxy, really. . . and how grateful we all are."

Dara and Eli exchanged one quizzical glance. _Any ideas?  
_

_Not a clue, but Excalibur sounds like Arthurian mythology, ciea'teilu._

Just a flicker of thoughts, and then the two of them faced the others once more. "We're proud to have been of assistance," Dara replied, floundering a little for words. She still looked up to Shepard and to Garrus, to Lantar and her father, and always would. They were towering figures, to her.

Eli's fingers tightened on her shoulder, reassuringly, and added, "And we look forward to being of continued assistance. . . with. . . whatever the hell this is about." The last was said with a rueful grin, and Lantar made a slight chuffing sound in response, but Sam just laughed.

Garrus and Shepard left at that point, and Sam and Lantar had chuckled a little. Sam hugged them both, and asked, "Okay. What can I do to help until it's time for me to get into a monkey suit?"

"Not much," Dara answered. "Relax, get dressed in about an hour, and get ready for pictures and crap like that." She sighed. "Speaking of which, I'd better head upstairs. Kasumi is going to do her best to make me presentable."

She'd let the workers and Joy handle the dress. Mostly because Joy had told her that this was how things were going to be, and so long as Dara wasn't going to be physically uncomfortable in the dress—and given how decidedly _comfy_ rachni silk stockings were, this boded well—she wasn't going to argue with her daughter-queen. As such, Dara had been amused and surprised a month ago, when the workers had informed her that they were going to _spin_ the dress right on her. "Ah, not to throw too much of a monkey wrench, guys," she'd told the whole _fleet_ of small workers in the room with her that day, "but if I can't get out of it again afterwards, that's going to be problematic. Also, the _cocoon_ look is . . . so out this year."

—_Cocoon? _1812 had asked.

—_It would be warmer, little queen_, Zappa had volunteered.

"Warmer isn't always the first concern. It'll be spring. I'll be warm enough. I just don't necessarily need to be wearing. . . " Dara paused, as the workers had barraged her with suggestions. "Whoa, whoa, wait, slow _down_. . . " _Skin-tight and transparent, basically just a web supporting, um, everything. . . no, guys, going to need to be thicker than that. _

—_Favored brood-warrior enjoys seeing all of your inner carapace._

"Yes, but I've already done the 'nude wedding' thing once this year, and I'm not even going to get close to it again."

—_Exposed under-carapace does suggest vulnerability. Fortunately, silk will be resistant to projectiles. The thicker, the more resilient._ That, again, was Zappa.

Dara had sat down at that point. "While that's. . . very helpful. . . anyone who wants to _fire_ on me at this wedding is going to have to come through every Spectre on base. Can I get you guys to look at all the dresses I looked at with Zhasa?" Her tone had been a little plaintive.

—_Most of these, you did not favor, little queen._

_I know, I know, but . . . there were a few that were all right. . . _

—_Yes. We see them in your mind. More like this?_ Wolfgang had crawled up onto the computer console in the office in front of her, and had actually _accessed the extranet_. "Wow. You guys pick things up fast," Dara told them.

—_Spelling-songs still hard. Difficult to read all information on each 'page.' _ Wolfgang had stayed down on the keys, and 1812 now crawled onto the aerogel screen, and began flipping pages with touch controls. Navigating various sites until they found, almost unerringly, the dresses Dara had actually enjoyed looking at. Each and every one, even though Dara herself didn't even consciously remember them. _Then again, I did look at about four hundred. . . thousand. . . dresses with Zhasa,_ she consoled herself.

They'd settled on a pattern, and Dara had had a confused impression from the workers one afternoon that they'd attempted to take her credit chit to a store in the valley and _buy_ a dress-form. The shop-clerk, a salarian, had apparently reacted with extreme confusion to their attempts to spell out their request. They had, subsequently, sent more of their number to fetch Agnes. From her job at the lab. _HLP-SNGS, PLZ_, they had spelled out for her, repeatedly, until, twitching, Agnes had taken the shuttle down to the science station and 'interpreted' their request to the store owner, who had finally fabricated the needed item. "What they want with the damned thing, I do not understand, but this is the strangest version of Cinderella's mice _ever_," Agnes had told Dara, crisply, on bringing it to the house.

Dara had had a . . . somewhat serious talk with the rachni about using her credit chit in the future, agreed to get one made for Joy's and their use, and had been left with more than her usual feeling of surreality as the rachni had begun the process of building her dress, as she watched, spinning it, cutting it with acid, just as they cut her fingernails and hair for her now, and lacing it together with more hair-fine webbing.

She slipped the result over her head now. Spaghetti straps, a low neckline, and a naturally shaped bodice; the opaque panels underneath coming to her knees, but the overskirt was translucently fine webs of silk, falling back in a soft, whispering train. The style was simple, and very human—as unlike her turian-style gown that she'd worn to marry Rel as chalk from cheese—but the coloration was purely rachni. The silk was white, but to her eyes, the entire thing glistened like the inside of an abalone shell, held the fires of an opal. with overtones of peacock blue and vibrant green and fiery red, which were barely visible to a human eye. Eli, looking at the unfinished product, had said there was a soap-bubble sheen for him. . . and that he now had one more reason to insist on black-lights.

To that, Dara added something old—an antique silver tiara, which Agnes had produced, with black marcasite and tiny black seed pearls studded along the abstract swirls and arcs, which held a veil of shimmering rachni silk in place, fine as a spider web. Her hair was, still, pretty much a complete loss, curling just past her ears, but the workers had managed to trim it into a more or less uniform length, and the veil would hide a multitude of sins. At her throat, Dara had opted to wear the string of black Tahitian pearls that Eli had given her for Christmas. Zhasa had dragged her shoe-shopping, and she'd at least found a fairly comfortable pair of white heeled sandals. As Dara had told Zhasa, "I'm going to be standing for at least three hours, between the human, turian, and asari ceremonies. Comfortable is going to be the happiest word in the English language for me."

Kasumi, once Dara had gotten dressed, pointed towards a chair. "Sit down and let me put your makeup on for you."

"Not too much. No foundation."

"That's going to make your face shine in the pictures."

"And if I don't match after dark, it's going to look really odd." Dara snickered. "Good thing I always hated that stuff, anyway."

"A little powder, nothing more." Kasumi worked on her, quick, light, deft touches. "I feel like we forgot something."

Dara grimaced at her bare face, bereft of violet clan-paint in the nearby mirror. "So do I, but I can't wear his paint before he technically puts it on me today."

"Not that. Something else."

"Please don't say that. You're making me nervous now."

Kasumi's rich chuckle spilled out. "Oh, I know. Something _blue_. Got a garter or something like that?"

"I figured the eyes would do." Dara tapped one corner in explanation, and Kasumi shooed her fingers away before she could smudge the woman's work.

"No, no, that won't do at all." Kasumi stood and crossed the room. "Actually. . . I came prepared."

Dara turned, smiling. "Why am I not surprised at all?" The cool jade green of Kasumi's aura had been suffused with light amusement every time she'd so much as brushed Dara's skin.

Kasumi chuckled, and returned, unrolling an _obi_ carefully. Indigo blue, and decorated with white and azure _sakura_ blossoms, she let the full length trail from her fingers. "Wrap it around the base of your bouquet, and let it fall against your dress," she said, simply. "I wanted to make sure there was a little of my touch in all this."

Dara caught the brocade in her fingertips, and then stood and gave her step-mother a hug. "Thank you," she whispered.

And then it was time. Still images were taken at every turn, in every conceivable combination of relatives and friends that they or any of the poor, beleaguered photographers could imagine. Dara had gotten around to agreeing to _sangua'amilae_ vows with Kallixta a month ago, so, rules of precedence by turian standard were benightedly difficult. Zhasa was Dara's first _sangua'amilae_ on paper, but Serana was her _sangua'amilae_ on the field of battle, and Kallixta was an _Imperial scion_ and her oldest friend. "Look," Dara said, finally. "Just line them up in the order they'll be at the ceremony. Zhasa, as matron of honor, then Kallixta, then Serana, and then Melaani. It'll be just _fine._" Technically, she should _probably_ have asked Seheve or Siara to be her fourth attendant, but while Dara did respect Siara and even counted her a friend, they were never going to be best friends. She liked and trusted Seheve, but the inner reserve in the former assassin never looked as if it would fade, either. And with four attendants on Eli's side, she needed a fourth for balance, and. . . in the end, she _liked_ Melaani. The female had taught her and worked with her all the way through Arvuna's jungles. Helped her come to understand the minds of the extremist groups there. And saved her life just as often as Siara and Seheve had.

Eli, in his dark suit, had had a little more difficulty with the photographers. Three blood-brothers, Lin, Dempsey, and Rel, along with Fors, a _dimicado'fradu._ Picking _one_ of them to be best man without hurting feelings (though Dempsey claimed to have none available to damage) had proved an intractable problem for him; Rel was technically his oldest friend, Lin was his first _sangua'fradu_, and he'd been best man at Dempsey and Lin's weddings (Lin, twice), and had twice been a witness for Rel, too. That being said, Eli and Dempsey had become very fast friends in the last year. It was. . . complicated, and Eli had finally told them all, "Look, you're all co-best men as far as I'm concerned, but since you can't all stand on each others' shoulders, it'll be Lin, Dempsey, Rel, and then Fors."

That was just the _attendants_. Eli's family alone, between two sets of human grandparents, Lantar, Ellie, an adoptive salarian sister, three hybrid half-siblings, two turian blood-brothers and one human blood-brother was already giving the photographers fits when a soft voice sang in every mind, _May I, too, be in the picture, Father?_

"Of course, Joy. It wouldn't be a family picture without you." Eli grinned and looked up the face of the cliff at the rachni queen.

Dara watched from the sidelines, holding her white roses up to cover her laughter as Joy, twenty feet tall, and _glowing_ in radiant shades of peacock blue, jade green, and amber gold, slid down the cliff-face and landed beside all of them. The various grandparents, having seen just her eyes and a shadow the night before, were not precisely prepared for the reality of her as she leaned down to get at least her massive head into the frame.

The Stocktons and the Chambers both had to have a drink of something medicinal at that point.

Then Dara's turn. Her grandmother and _Gavius Vakarian_, her father and Kasumi, her little brother Takeshi, her uncle Hamilton, his wife, their son, a quarian blood-sister, and two turian blood-sisters. And Joy, who crowded in a little closer, and a dozen rachni workers who insisted on joining the picture.

Agnes, to her credit, managed not to shriek at all, and indeed, barely twitched.

And then, again, with the wives and husbands of the blood-brothers and the blood-sisters. The brothers and sisters of those blood-bound siblings—including James, with his white, glowing eyes, standing next to Dempsey, smiling, and Madison standing between them both. Both bride, groom, and all of the blood-siblings _and_ their families _and_ their own extended families. Right down to Mercuria standing in for all the AIs related to them all, through meddlesome Laetia. One group shot was so crowded, the photographers actually backed up into the lake to take the shots. Then, finally, the less crowded, more intimate pictures. One of Dara, sitting against Joy-Singer, the rachni queen curled up to look down at her brood-mother, almost protectively. One of her and Eli, sitting with Joy. One of them alone, looking into one another's eyes, as a silent exchange transpired. . . _Sai'kaea__?_

_Careful, Eli, your eyes are going to be black for these next shots—_

_Let 'em be black then. Have to keep you smiling. I have to ask, since, well, I took a peek through your eyes earlier. . . _

_Hmm?_

_There's embroidery at the edge of your dress._

_Yeah. There is._

_It's letters, Dara. Really tiny letters, but still letters._

_I know._ The camera flashed, and flashed again, as Dara desperately tried not to laugh. _It's okay. It's too small for the hanar and the drell to read, and the geth probably won't understand it. . . . _

_I couldn't really make it out, but I thought it might have said TST-SNGS R JOY-SNGS! LVE-SNGS R JOY-SNGS! TST IS LVE!_

Just as the cameras flashed, Dara put her head down on Eli's shoulder and howled with laughter.

Then, as the sun set to the west, behind the cliff on which their house perched, dropping behind the ridge-line of the western mountains, it dyed the violet sky a duskier magenta to the east, dissolving into salmon and apricot glory towards the blackness of the mountainsides. The waters of the lake turned flat and silvering, reflecting that glorious light, and harps, turian dulcimers, _reela_, and flutes all took up a cheerful and happy theme. . . the overture to _Marriage of Figaro_. And overlaid over the top of that live music came a storm of music as every brood-warrior on the base emerged from under the sand in a half circle behind the audience to give voice, shedding sand from their carapaces. Joy's voice soared over them all, lending power as she lounged off to the side on the fine white sand, and every voice carried light and color and beauty in it. Sky's theme led them all, and images flared behind everyone's eyelids, a storm-tossed sea, crashing against cliffs made of lava and stone, beating on one another, wearing one another, weathering each other, until the shore and the sea simply became one, the stone cupping the waves, retaining a little more each time as they rolled back and then forwards once more. Endless, eternal dance, with rainbows sparking from the spray.

Dara walked out into that storm of music, her right hand on her father's suit-covered, cybernetic left arm. She'd asked Elissa, Telluura, and Emily to be flower girls, and they walked ahead of her, very seriously distributing _allora_ petals onto the long blue carpet that covered the sand in between the chairs. Heavenly scent of _allora_, everywhere. . . the more so as a gust of wind kicked a torrent of white-pink petals loose from the trees on the mountainside, all tumbling towards the lake, the audience, and the small white gazebo that had been temporarily erected there for this occasion.

She couldn't feel, directly, Sam's mild discomfort in having the false limb touched, but it was clear in his body language. . . just as clear as his pride and happiness today. She smiled as they passed everyone in their rows of seats, dimly aware of faces in the periphery of her vision. Nadea and Decimus. Rasmus Cadius. Leodorus Rostrus. Faces from boot camp. Faces from the base—Telinus Karpavian, Dr. Abrams, Dr. Chakwas. Faces of family and friends. But the face that really mattered was Eli's, smiling, watching as she advanced. He was carrying his vibroblade, in spite of the human suit he wore, for the ceremony; so was Lin, for that matter. He took her hand, gently, from her father's, as Sam lifted it free, and her father gave her a kiss atop her hair. "Be good," Sam told her, quietly. "You're getting it right this time."

Then Sam stepped back, and found his seat beside Kasumi in the first row, as Zhasa took Dara's bouquet, so that she could clasp hands with Eli, feeling the flex of his fingers as he told her, silently, without words, just a rush of dark burgundy and indigo, what he felt at that moment.

They'd decided that they'd be doing a mix of ceremonies. _As many ways as I can tie you up_, Eli had told her, jokingly, _Maybe even literally_. They started with the simplest ritual; the formal declaration of one another as _marai'ha'sai._ Eli had asked Ylara, as his. . . third-mother, more or less, to preside over this, and, fortunately, her oversight of Melaani's undercover work and the investigations had come to an end in time for her to be here. Ylara smiled at them both, and removed a very old silver chime from a case. It had been made, perhaps a thousand years ago, on Thessia, and had belonged to _her_ mother, she'd told them. She set it on the blue-draped table behind them, and spoke in liquid, graceful high-tongue, _"The oldest mantra by which we venerate the Goddess who is in all of us, is this: 'I will accept the Goddess in whatever form she shows herself to me. I will love her darkness and her light, I will love both the shadow and the star.' So as you two have found her in one another, and know one another, speak your words, and be one more than fair to one another; __be__ one."_

Eli lifted the small hammer, and rang the chime, once. As the shimmering sound echoed out, he murmured the words of a very old asari poem he had loved reading to Dara, in high-tongue.

_Sia'ssuadra'uelle tia sis'ia_

_n'riu'uae, n'riuae._

_Tesaiu, n'saieu_

_maieolo_'_eaul sirae'sa._

_Sira'illu, soa'sa_'_eaul._

_Seo'sano_'_eaulo, __n'sai'__eaulae_

_Lia'lano_'_eaul_

_Saeo'eaul soa_'_sa_

_n'railloa_

_I surrender to you,_

_unsorrowing, without regret._

_Truths that are secret, unspoken, _

_We share in silence._

_Unspeaking, surcease._

_Divided once, and never again,_

_Encircled within each other,_

_We know peace/song_ (the word for peace and the word for song, in high tongue, was the same)

_Without price or bargain._

Dara's eyes stung at the words, usually reserved for 'closed door' time and hidden from the world, being spoken here, in public, but she smiled, refusing to let the tears fall, feeling the wash of indigo through their clasped hands. She reached out, and rang the chime herself, and as the silvery sound died, she made her reply. Her grasp of high-tongue was nowhere near Eli's, and she refused to butcher beauty by reciting a poem in _antique_ high-tongue. As such, she murmured, just loudly enough for those around them to hear, "_Tesai'teilu'sokia'yili. . . " Truth-sworn defender_, or one sworn to defend truth, _"You are the rock that strengthens, the shield that defends me, the voice that meets mine in song and in peace. I share with you all that I have and that I am, and will do so for all time."_

Simple words, and, oddly, so much _easier_ to say in asari, than they would ever have been in English or turian.

Ylara stepped away, and a turian minister of the law stood next. After the beauty and simplicity of the asari declaration, the precision and clarity of the turian ceremony was a stark contrast, but the _tal'mae_ vows, were by their nature, the shortest and simplest of all turian wedding ceremonies. But by the time they knelt, and Lin and Zhasa produced their wedding knifes—high-carbon Terran steel for both of them, this time, a pattern-welded bowie knife as Eli's gift to Dara, and a combat utility knife as Dara's gift to Eli—the sun's light had almost faded from the sky. Various ushers were lighting torches at each row in the audience, and Melaani and Fors had done the same at the small pavilion, to ensure that there would be enough light for the rest of the ceremony. And as they cut their hands, not with the knives, but on the blade of Eli's vibrosword, the way they had, originally, on Lorek, and pressed their hands together, and began to speak the words, in _tal'mae_, that they'd had to fight for the _right_ to say to one another. Words that they would never take for granted, ever, for as many years as they might yet live.

Quietly, but no less fiercely, Eli told her, _"A'petentia tulla eliir animae oporte meus." Give to me your life, your spirit._

_"Ita meus animae, a'condonia talus."_ _Thus my life and spirit, I give to you. _Dara smiled. _They've been yours since you breathed life back into me on Khar'sharn. . . _

_"A'petentia tulla eliir kogitae oporte meus." Give to me your mind and thoughts. . . _ Eli's lips quirked up at the corners. _Like either of us has had a choice in that. . . . since Joy first hatched. . . _

Dara's smile matched his. _"Ita meus kogitae, a'condonia talus." _

Eyes intent now, he continued, _"A'petentia tulla eliir oporte korporae meus."_ _Give to me your body._

"_Ita meus korporae, a'condonia talus."_ _Thus my body, I give to you._ Shared flashes of amusement, stifled for the moment.

_"Ita meus animae, ita meus kogitae, ita meus korporae, a'condonia eliis. Adiunctus meus gensae."_ _Join, be one, with my clan._ Eli dipped his fingers in the violet-paint, and trailed his fingers across her face. Both of them remembering when he'd first done it, on Bekenstein. And then when he'd done it again, in his own blood, on Lorek. Each time binding themselves to one another more closely.

As they rose, the rachni workers all positioned in tiny boats all over the lake responded to Joy's unheard signal, and lit the first lanterns. The waters were still faintly touched with silver, from the last of the sun's light, and hundreds of Japanese silk lanterns suddenly bloomed, reflections of the stars above, all over the surface of the lake. Dara heard the indrawn gasps from the crowd, and was delighted, herself, with the beauty of the scene as Zhasa and Lin quickly produced small medigel kits to seal their bleeding hands.

And then, finally, the last portion of the ceremony began. The same rabbi who'd handled her initial marriage to Rel had been very accommodating, and had had a long discussion with her and Eli a month before, but now presided over the human portion of the ceremony. Simple and nondenominational, but the old, old words were still moving and profound to Dara. Binding them not only to each other, but, in a way, to history. To everyone who'd ever spoken those same words in hope and devotion_. . . . to have and to hold, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health. . . for as long as you both shall live?_

The air seemed breathlessly still, as the rabbi gestured for the rings. Dara carefully worked her engagement ring loose at the last moment, sliding it to a different finger, and took the plain, almost workmanlike titanium band she'd gotten for Eli, from Zhasa, sliding it onto Eli's finger. And then he took a slender platinum band from Lin—who held the loop of metal gingerly between two talons, as if he were afraid he'd lose it—and slid that ring onto Dara's finger, and helped her slide the engagement ring back into place.

Eli leaned forward to kiss her, and Dara reached out for him. Brushed his mind with her own, and touched one of the rachni crystals in her ring, bringing back, in sharp, vivid detail, the first time they'd kissed. Seven years ago, just after a funeral. Two lost and rather lonely young people, who'd wandered apart. Made mistakes. And then, almost miraculously, found each other again, and realized that they were far more together, than the mere sum of the whole. _This moment_, Dara thought, dimly, as the rachni workers out on the lake sang joyously in her mind, and cut the silk lanterns loose. So light were the workers, and the lanterns themselves, that the hot air enclosed within each let them rise into the air like balloons, each of them shrieking _ –Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee!_ in her mind, making her laugh against Eli's lips. Little blooms of light, rising from the dark lake to the dark sky, stars ascending, as their lips touched. Past and present and future all at once, as the _Lightsinger_, crystalline rachni ship that it was, blazed fire across the sky as Lysandra swooped down from the heavens, and _her_ song joined all the others, Joy's and Sky's and Glory's and Stone's and Dances' and Eli's and her own. _This moment, I want to remember forever. Locked in crystal on the other side of the ring from that first kiss. That was the past. This is the present. And the one in the middle. . . that's_ _the future. Never filled._

Walking, almost in a daze, down from the pavilion, being pelted with _allora_ and rose and _ianthus_ petals, hand-in-hand with Eli, laughing as if they were children. The reception area was all of ten feet to the side of the wedding area, and they could smell food fit for a dozen species wafting from the tables. Eli pulled Dara to the cleared space in between all the tables, a square area where boards had been lain down over the soft white sand, and spun her around, grinning down at her. _Last time this year, __sai'kaea__. Let's make it a good one, huh?_

The musicians, who'd had quite a break between the start of the ceremony and this moment, struck up the music of the first dance, and—thankfully, Dara was prepared for it—various lights, buried in the sand around the dance floor flared into life. Reds and blues at first. The color of human and turian blood. The color of Khar'sharn and Earth's skies. And then they died away as the music began to thrum, as just the black lights came up, instead, revealing a hundred rachni workers and soldiers, gathered around the outer edges of the party. Limning the brood-warriors and Joy's enormous bulk in vivid color. And making Dara's skin and hair and dress and veil glow with inner fires. Eli grinned down at her as Dara became a living flame, and wrapped the darkness of his arms around her. His shadow, her light.

Zhasa pulling Dempsey out onto the dance area after them. Sam and Kasumi. Seheve giving Rel an inquiring glance, and Rel picking her up lightly, and settling her onto the floor, unbending turian stoicism for her. Flashes from the crowd, as Agnes swayed in place in front of Gavius, who gave her an _are you kidding me?_ look before lightly placing his hands on her waist and swaying with her, just a little. Lantar wrapping Ellie in his arms from behind; Garrus and Shepard, her head tucked on his shoulder, smiling as they watched. Everyone dear to them, everyone they loved, all the strangeness and all the wonder of life as Spectres, life on Mindoir. Relief, after the long months of combat, and even the stress of preparing for this evening, dissolving into laughter. Dissolving into light.


	157. Chapter 157: Epilogue 1: Yahg Diplomacy

**Chapter 157: Epilogue 1, Yahg Diplomacy and Geth/NCAI Alliances**

**Author's note:** _The first two epilogues, Yahg Diplomacy and Geth/NCAI Alliances" and "On the Origins of the Asari Civil War" were co-authored by Eleventh Messenger and Asymptote. Both are wonderful writers. Siege, you have met before, and belongs to Eleventh Messenger. Samiel had a cameo in the final chapter of __Victory__, proper, and belongs to Asymptote. The storyline is mine, as are most of the other characters. These stories began as freeform RP, and became so involved and __good__, that I felt the need to make them canonical. Inasmuch as any of my stuff is canon, yo'._

_As such, the two stories begin before Victory ended, but end up entwining, and ending pretty much with Dara and Eli's wedding, too. The implications for both, however, are quite fun._

**2197: Terra Nova**

After the Battle of Khar'sharn, the _Clavus_ transferred Valak N'dor to a turian cruiser, and sped back to Mindoir, post-haste, with its cargo of wounded Spectres. Glory remained catatonic, for the moment; the _Lightsinger_, as a result, matched the _Clavus_ for speed and heading, never more than ten miles off the turian ship's wing.

Mercuria, NCAI of the _Clavus_, was the first of her kind to have both a ship platform and an experimental, prototype mech platform. Based on the 'James' model, the android body was, however, largely turian in appearance. And she'd used it to excellent effect, repelling a boarding party of batarians from her engine compartment as they'd lifted off from the batarian homeworld. For the moment, however, she was forced to run copies of her core personality in both ship-self and mech self-at the same time; half her engineering crew was dead, and she needed to help with the repairs to her compromised hull. As such, twelve hours passed before she slowed down enough to realize that she probably should recharge, before mech-self simply stopped moving in the middle of a hallway. _That could be embarrassing_, she thought, a little ruefully. _My crew could dress me up like a noddy doll_.

As such, she headed back into the blood-stained area near the core, her steps slowing more and more. . . but it had nothing to do with the charge in her systems. It had far more to do with her emotional reaction to seeing where her crew had died. Mercuria had never been able to establish the easy emotional rapport that Pelagia had had with the crew of the _Kharkov_. Never been able to be as open and whimsical as Laetia, whose crews viewed her with a mix of amused interest and skeptical suspicion at the same time. Had never been able to muster the overriding interest in one or another of them that Laetia and Kynthia had managed-spirits knew, Aunt Kynthia was technically _married_ to one of her former captains, a Hindu male whose first wife apparently didn't have a problem with the arrangement.

Mercuria stopped by one puddle of blue, which had yet to be cleaned, and crouched down. The blood belonged to Tallus Meravian, she decided, reviewing the logs in her mind. Only aboard for six weeks, a _hastae_ so new he squeaked when he turned around too quickly. And that, next to his resting spot. . . was a patch of red blood, darkened to black. Alexei Konstantinov. Older, steadier. A dry, remote sense of humor, and an incredible attention to detail. Every job had to be done the right way, or not at all.

Mercuria hadn't been _friends_ with them. She'd wanted to be, but had never had the least idea how to _make_ friends. She didn't handle human chit-chat easily, and turian arguing could be mistaken for the wrong _kind_ of arguing. . . or could get a human too agitated and angry to understand that it was just a discussion. . . so she'd avoided that, too. But as soon as she'd walked around in mech-self around them. . . .Well, they'd been discomfited, to be sure. They were used to her popping up when called, like a genie. But they'd appreciated another set of hands. And Konstantinov had rather liked, he said, having someone around who not only went by the book, but who had the book in her damned _head_. The first ethereal traces of, if not friendship, at least. . . inclusion?

She had no idea how long she'd knelt there, staring at where the bodies had lain. It was stupid. Foolish. The bodies were gone. The people who'd inhabited them. . . even more so. _I should clean this up_, she thought, and then rose to her feet again. Got a wet rag and cleaning solution, and started to wipe the blood away. . . but her hand froze, as if a circuit had failed. Low-level emotional subroutines were actually overriding her physical responses. Something that _never_ happened with ship-self. "Do I need to do a diagnostic?" Mercuria muttered. "I should be able to do something as simple as cleaning the floor."

But she simply could not make herself clean up the blood. No matter how hard she tried.

After some time, Siege and Thelldaroon entered engineering, and found her crouching there, a bottle of solvent in one hand, and a rag in the other. Siege had placed a temporary patch over the through-and-through hole in his torso, which had revealed the eerie blue glow of his reactor core after taking a missile hit during the battle, but otherwise appeared unharmed. There was a geth repair drone, nicknamed 'Pester,' aboard the _Clavus_, which could finish the repairs later.

Thelldaroon paused in his shambling strides, and said, quietly, in his somber elcor fashion, "I have spent the past six hours working with Lysandra. She is distressed, in the rachni ship, and almost hysterical with concern for Sings-of-Glory. I apologize, Mercuria. I did not realize that you, too, were in distress."

Mercuria stood up, immediately, shaking her head. "I'm not in distress. I need to run a systems check on this platform. Servo-motors are not functioning in the arms, but I can't isolate the fault." She set the bottle and rags down on a console, and nodded to them briskly. She knew damned well that the fault wasn't mechanical, but she had no intention of speaking to Thelldaroon about it.

The elcor, however, simply gave her a patient look. "I will examine the mech platform for you," he informed her, placidly. "And if you have any reason to wish to talk, I would be more than willing to listen."

"Ship repairs are proceeding at below optimum speed," Mercuria reported, immediately. "Damage control teams have been unable to effect a patch to the outer hull due to use of FTL drive."

Siege paused as the elcor spoke, optics turning to look between the two during the short conversation. The huge CROWD platform was. . . an anomaly among geth. He had initially accepted two modifications that had caused him to _evolve_, which had led to yet a third. All three were combining to change him. To push him beyond mere design specifications. The first had been the installation of the first prototype 'biotic radio.' This had allowed him to test this device for the rest of Consensus, and enabled him to communicate, directly, if crudely, with his rachni teammate, the brood-warrior previously designated 'Nameless,' but now designated Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight. Second, he had terminated all access to Consensus, to prevent data errors from that device from promulgating to the rest of the geth collective. He had found new methods of forming consensus, both internal, within his own collective of run-times, and external, in sharing ideas and goals with his teammates, particularly Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight and the male asari designated Samiel Viridian.

And third. . . Mercuria had, several months ago, when the geth had given her advice on accepting the mech-platform in which part of her consciousness now resided, given him a more-than-even exchange. She had generated new NCAI programs, scrambling the pieces of persona, psychological data, and emotional subroutines that she had inherited from her organic and inorganic progenitors, and provided them to the geth without finishing the process that would make them into individual consciousnesses. These forty-two programs, added to the his existing run-times, added nuances of understanding that the geth had lacked before.

Such as now.

_She is lying,_ the platform's gestalt consciousness knew. It was a distinctly odd realization, that didn't come from calculations stemming from observations of facial expressions or similar sources. Siege just... knew, and was able to attribute the near-inherent understanding of an emotional response to the NCAI's gift.

Several seconds passed as Siege ran an internal diagnostic, then stepped forward to take Mercuria by the shoulders. The surprised NCAI was spun around and gently shoved toward her recharging station. "You will be able to continue to monitor repairs from your ship platform, Mercuria. Your mobile platform needs to be recharged, and examined for damage by Thelldaroon-Spectre."

The geth's cyclopean stare remained fixed on the NCAI until she acquiesced and plugged herself in, then started to turn away. Several runtimes directed the platform's optics down, and they locked onto the bottle of solvent that had been left on the deck, next to the pool of blood. Siege's head turned, tracking back over the rest of the engineering bay and noting the clear markers of death on the floor.

The next hours saw the hulking platform on hands and knees, laboring to clean the stains away and politely but strongly declining any offers to assist from other crew members.

After some time, Mercuria activated her internal speakers, and told Siege, "Thank you. It will definitely improve my crew's morale, not to see the reminders of the battle, and of the loss of their crewmates." Mercuria, having always been surrounded by a primarily turian crew, and being more strongly patterned on turians than humans, herself, tended to, out of habit, center most of her concerns and preoccupations around her crew. It was her variant of 'spirit of the pack,' and it slipped out, to a self-effacing extent, even when what she really wanted to express was. . . _Thank you. Seeing the blood cleared away. . . makes me feel better._ But the words simply did not—could not—come out that way.

After a pause, she added, diffidently, "There are repair facilities aboard, as you know. You are damaged. You should avail yourself of them. Unless you prefer to wait for the superior facilities at the Spectre base."

She remained almost completely silent for the rest of the trip, banking and diving through Mindoir's atmosphere, and coming in for a careful landing in the field near the Spectre base; her second such landing inside of a month, oddly. She watched through her interior and exterior cameras as half her crew exited, the Spectres and the wounded heading to the base, the marines and support specialists heading to barracks and even down to the science station for liberty, which would be followed by debriefing, and maybe even leave. Any number of her organics were planning, with some glee, trips to Macedyn. Rocam, now that its relay was open again. Bostra, for the sailing races that were conducted this time of year on that oceanic planet. The humans were all planning to head to Bekenstein, Earth, Bastion . . . anywhere that didn't sound like _work_.

Mercuria listened, and got back to her own. There were diagnostics to run on the weapons systems, engines to be calibrated, and a host of other tasks that needed doing.

The shock for Mercuria came a few hours later, after Siege returned from a repair bay in the Mindoir base. The once-again spotless crimson platform stood at the outer airlock door of the grounded _Clavus_ for a long moment, a light dusting of snow on its dorsal plating, then tabbed the intercom. "Mercuria. We request a moment of your time."

Most of her work was, for the moment, completed; the rest had to wait for organic hands to finish further repairs. As such, Siege received, instantly, fully fifty percent of her processor attention and power. Something about Siege's mode of address pinged at her, and, after a hasty review of her logs, she realized that this was the _second_ time he had referred to her simply by her name, rather than as Mercuria-Intelligence, or as Cohort and other geth had, in the past, as Mercuria-NCAI. For some reason, this seemed. . . significant. Certainly, inexplicable.

"Yes, Siege? How may I be of assistance?" She opened the airlock to admit the geth, and transmitted her avatar to the holographic emitters nearby, and had it stand there, head expectantly tilted, her hands behind her back. "I doubt you require a map of the base or directions to Gardner's."

"Negative." The geth's wording choice was, characteristically, precise. "We currently find ourselves untasked, and have determined that this state will be temporary, but persistent for the near future. As such, we have come to consensus regarding our actions for the near future. We are going to attempt 'shore leave.'"

The platform paused for a moment, as though the gestalt _knew_ that Mercuria will need a split second to process that. "We intended to revisit the colonies of Amatersu and Terra Nova as we... want... to see how recovery of infrastructure has progressed. Additionally, the determined ability to reduce our effective mass through inversion of our mass effect core has introduced new possibilities. We want to attempt 'surfing.'"

"If possible, would you be interested in accompanying us?"

At Siege's first words, her first reaction had mostly been curiosity. _I have never __not__ had tasks. What a strange concept. Although my organics frequently take breaks from their duties. . . which is akin to maintenance, I'm sure. . . _but her random cogitations came to a complete halt as the geth finished speaking.

The avatar actually locked in place for almost three full seconds. Finally, Mercuria blinked. "Shore leave? I. . . do not understand. It would not be possible for me to-" She paused. Reassessed. "All right. Technically, it _would_ be possible for me to leave the ship. Technically, as a sapient member of the crew, I am owed either two weeks of leave a year, or a commensurate number of credits to compensate for leave not taken, and I have never taken 'leave' in my five years of existence. . . " Mercuria lifted her hands from behind her back, a restless gesture, ". . . and, just as technically, I _could_ subdivide myself, and ship-self would remain . . . manned. . . as it were. And . . .the mech platform could go with you. However, the mobile platform is the _property_ of the turian military. It would be akin to taking a fighter out for a pleasure cruise."

_And yet, not to allow me the freedom to go 'on leave,' as I am entitled to do. . . would that not be akin to slavery? Is that not what we have fought, in part, to free batarians and others from?_

Mercuria frowned, as she puzzled through it. "It would be potentially a valuable insight into my organics to participate in their version of a maintenance activity, I suppose. That would be the point of the exercise, correct?" _Well, in part. The organics certainly seem to have __fun__ when they engage in such activities, but __fun__ is just maintenance by another name, right?_

She glanced over her shoulder, as if she thought someone in a stealth field was, in fact, behind her with a camera. She could almost _hear_ her crew chuckling over the jokes now. She'd never quite dared to admit to any of them that there were things that she would _like_ to do, or would prefer to do, or did not like doing; such seemed perilously close to whining, or begging for attention, and as such, very unturian.

The geth had already begin his reply. "Partial affirmative. Additionally, we wish to see if the organic form of maintenance and stress removal applies to our own functional capabilities. Two galactic months prior, this would not have been an issue taken into consideration, but due to the inclusion of the hybrid runtimes you assisted in creating, we find new possibilities being taken into consideration."

A slight pause. "Due to your role in our deviation from previous practices, we decided that it was a proper course of action to offer you inclusion into our foray. Additionally, we find through internal consensus that we would. . . prefer your accompaniment."

Mercuria blinked several times, a clear indication that she was rapidly reallocating additional assets to the conversation. "You . . ._experience_ . . . stress now? It was not my intention to detract from your efficiency by giving you the additional runtimes. In fact, that was meant to increase your efficiency-"

And then she replayed the rest of the conversation, and just _stopped_.

_We... want... to see how recovery of infrastructure has progressed. _

_We want to attempt 'surfing.'_

_We wish to see if the organic form of maintenance and stress removal. . . ._

_We would. . . __prefer__ your accompaniment._

After a long moment, Mercuria said, ". . . _prefer_? Geth. . . do not. . . " _Prefer. Wish for. Desire. ___

Anything_._

Ideas and variables spun through her mind, but the only correct interpretation, other than that Siege was suffering from a _massive_ system fault, was that, thanks to the inclusion of her runtimes, he was no longer completely _geth._ Therefore, those runtimes could be in danger of being _purged_ if other geth discovered this, and consensus found him to be a heretic. The rest of his affiliated runtimes could be . . . revised. . . edited. . . deleted. . . as a result, too. The only _responsible_ course of action would be to accompany him. Keep an eye on him, and the runtimes.

But that didn't explain why she was smiling, as she responded. Indeed, Mercuria herself couldn't have explained it, or why she answered, "This would be more than acceptable to me." She hesitated. "My superiors will probably need a full itinerary. Also, I may need to contact J. Thaddius Maxwell in this regard. Fortunately, all of my sisters and brothers and I have him on, well, speed-dial. . . "

The conniption fit pitched by the brass was, in a perhaps overused word, simply epic. It even began _in media res_, and probably contained a catalog of ships. Mercuria wasn't sure, but there was even a _dis_-arming of the warrior sequence—her superiors definitely did not want a _functioning_ weapons system going on _vacation_. Mercuria, on a comm call with an _admiral_ and J. Thaddius Maxwell, kept a civil tongue, somehow, when asked why she and the geth could not simply play _video games _or _simulations_ together. "I only have two bodies," she finally said, tersely. "I could take the _Clavus_, or the mech. It is entirely up to you."

"Neither the _Clavus_ nor the mech are your property. They are the property of the Hierarchy fleet!"

Maxwell lifted a finger at that point. "Ah?" he asked.

The admiral _backed down._ Mercuria wouldn't have put credits on _ever_ seeing that. "You may take the mech platform, but you will disarm it."

"Several of the systems are integrated. I cannot remove the electrical conduits, for example, from the fingers and hands. But I will expel all cryogenic fluids before leaving."

Once done with the exceeding long comm call, Mercuria downloaded a copy of herself into mech-self, and sought Siege out. "They have given permission for me to go," she noted, lifting her chin. She still wore her black Fleet uniform without insignia. "Two weeks, as a temporary _experiment_ for _morale purposes_. I am to file a complete itinerary." She bounced up and down on her toes, twice, without realizing it. "So. . . where are we going, precisely? And. . . as I cannot offer myself for flight purposes. . . " she pointed up at the ceiling, "how precisely are we getting there?" 

The geth took a brief moment to process Mercuria's statements, then gave her a short list of the activities the geth was interested in pursuing. A three-day stay at Terra Nova, followed by a flight to Amatersu for the majority of her leave time. "We intend to purchase a space in a passenger liner's cargo hold for our platform, as well as a seat for you at standard rates in the passenger cabin. We calculate this to be an efficient use of funds, and—"

Mercuria tried to interrupt, to tell him that in _no way_ was he to even _consider_ shipping himself as freight, when the geth, which had been tapping at its omnitool as he spoke, stopped dead. "Correction. We have found that the pre-candidacy monetary resources of Mass Field Manipulator Y-1 Composite, amounting to eight hundred thousand, six hundred and thirteen credits, have been reallocated to our own account. We will be traveling first class."

She actually blinked. "That's substantially more than I have earned, even at hazard pay rates, and after investing my pay, after five years in the fleet. Apparently, 'mercenary' and 'vigilante' work pays better than estimates usually given by Spectre Vakarian." She nodded. "So, I'll be in the passenger cabin, and you'll have leg room in first class, though there is absolutely no need for you to pay for my seat. I should be able to get fleet rates—" She paused. "Wait. Was that _we_ a we as in you-collective-and-I or what that a _we_ as in just you-collective? It's a little hard to tell sometimes." A faint hint of a smile that suggested that she was, at least partially, joking. 

There was a distinct pause as the geth processed her question. ". . . We apologize. The term 'we' regarding travel plans referred to you and ourselves together, in first class seating."

Mercuria chuckled, very softly, then asked, her expression turning to a slight frown, this time of interest, "Why colonies attacked by the yahg? As far as leisure activities, they are likely to be in short supply in many places. Unless you believe that they will be less crowded, and the credits supplied by visiting their tourist destinations to be a method of helping to reallocate wealth and rebuild their infrastructure." Her eyes flicked down and away.

Another small pause after Mercuria's query, which stretches into several moments. However, instead of the expected response, Siege did offer something more. ". . . Data available. Your assumption is partially correct, but not a primary consideration.

"We determine a need to see. To process data with the sensory hardware incorporated into our platform, rather than receive information second hand from others. We can alter trip itinerary if you wish, and visit alternative locations, but our intent after your return to duty is to assist directly in reconstruction efforts. This platform possesses physical capabilities generally beyond those available to civilian construction mechs, and we have determined that we will be useful in that regard."

Mercuria fell in neatly beside Siege as the larger platform moved out of the _Clavus_. She actually paused at the end of her ramp, and looked up and backwards. In an organic, the emotional state in which she found herself would have been apprehension. For an NCAI, it was much the same, however irrational it seemed. It took her several seconds to move off the ship and onto the snow-covered ground, and she stamped, curiously, at the crunchy snow, processing the fact that it had a covering of ice, before catching back up to Siege. "That is a very laudable goal," she admitted. "Then you would _prefer_ to see the places that you fought to save, yourself? To see the inhabitants going about their days in relative peace? And to help them rebuild?" She paused. "Yes, you would be useful, but so would many other people, human, turian, or geth. I do not see them volunteering to do so. Why do you?" 

". . . no data available," came the reply.

"If you're performing actions without understanding the reasons for doing them, how does that differ from the irrationality of a human or a turian's actions, when predicated on an emotional response?" Mercuria replied, lifting her head, and tilting it slightly to the side. She saw an opening, and couldn't resist it, any more than she could have resisted opening fire on a clear, marked, open target.

And promptly winced at herself, realizing that this was _precisely_ the reason why some of her turian crew thought that arguing was _flirtation _and the human crew thought it was her _being difficult_. . . and Mercuria shut her mouth with a click.

There was a shuttle that took them from the airfield to the science station, and then they acquired a rental shuttle to head to Odessa and the spaceport. The trip took several hours, and Mercuria spent a fair bit of it looking out the window, with slight anxiety, towards where ship-self was.

Also, she had approximately 4,800 messages from her family on the NCAI network to respond to; real-time FTL communication was not possible in mech-self, and this appeared to _bother_ her family. Almost as much as the concept of her leaving ship-self did. And in the company of a geth that Grandfather Jeff and Grandmother EDI had only interacted with on the network once, when Mercuria had approached her progenitors for permission to give Siege the runtimes in the first place.

4,800 messages were almost enough to keep her from fidgeting and looking out the window.

Eventually, they arrived at Odessa and its spaceport. Much of the damage from the batarian attack a year ago had already been cleared away; only a few stray bullet holes pockmarked the walls here and there.

Aboard the spacecraft, however, Mercuria had expected to receive odd looks. She did, after all, have human-looking eyes in a turian-appearing face. However, it was _Siege_ who received _stares_. The more so on lumbering up into first class, pushing the drink cart out of his way, and allowing Mercuria to take a seat at the window, while taking the aisle one, himself.

Mercuria looked at the restraining harness on the seat and suppressed a desire to _laugh_. And chuckled through the entire 'loss of cabin pressure' speech, receiving a number of dark looks from the flight crew.

The attendants couldn't know that the day before, Mercuria's hull had had a four-foot hole carved into it, and that they'd been throwing batarians back _out_ of it to protect her engines. A restraining harness and a breather seemed. . .woefully inadequate protections.

"You can have the window seat, if you wish," Mercuria pointed out, politely, as they began to taxi for takeoff. "I have, after all, experienced take off and landing with some of the finest pilots in the turian Hierarchy before—"

The shuttle lurched for the sky, and Mercuria stopped talking for a moment, calculating exactly why they had moved up and then back down again, a ten-foot drop, probably caused by faulty positioning in the flaps on the wings, which were now moving into full supersonic position as they gained in speed, heading for the upper atmosphere. _They should be changing fuel systems in approximately forty-five seconds,_ she thought, and began drumming her talons at the fifty-second mark. By the sixty-second mark, she was giving serious thought to removing the door to the cockpit and taking over. . . and then the organic pilots _finally_ shifted over to the fuel system used for airless flight, and continued to accelerate.

Mercuria realized, at that exact moment, that she was now further away from her ship than she'd _ever_ thought she'd be, and looked back out the window, down through the clouds, and saw the curving bulk of Mindoir beginning to recede. "Oh. _S'kak."_ She pulled her hands up from the armrests, where she'd driven her talons right through the fabric, and then, very casually, scrounged for a blanket to hide the damage from the flight crew.

Siege apparently recognized some of the emotional signs of discomfort, and returned to a conversation that she had thought tabled hours before. "We do not have the necessary data to formulate a response to your earlier query, on the rationality or irrationality of our current decision-making process. However, and we can trace the origination of this logic flow back to the aforementioned runtimes, we believe there is a possibility that seeing these actions through will provide the information necessary to understand the reasoning behind them. If this chain of logic is faulty, it is due to the organic thought matrix origination of the programs and subroutines provided by none other than yourself." He paused. "So, we respond to your query with a query of our own. If we are being illogical, it is because you, yourself, are capable of the same. Would you change that about yourself?"

"Yes, but the runtimes that I provided to you are distinctly in the minority of your internal collective," Mercuria shot back immediately, and argumentatively. "Additionally, previous encounters with geth platforms have, on several different occasions, shows that fully geth collectives are capable of making decisions and taking actions without being able to explain their behavior beyond 'no data available.' Thus, this is not behavior inherent solely to organic-origin code blocks; it is equally present in pure geth segments."

The second question, however, took her off-balance for a moment. "I'm perfectly capable of irrationality and of emotion," she murmured, sub-vocalizing so that the organics around her could not possibly have heard it. "In the main, I try to analyze why I have the reactions that I have, so that I can either make use of them, or disregard them. If possible." She grimaced and looked out again at the dwindling chip that was Mindoir. "For example? Right now, I am experiencing equal parts apprehension, fear of the unknown, mild exhilaration, and worry, all at the same time. There is. . . little actual danger. I understand this fully. However, my mind is predisposed to concentrate on what _could_ go wrong, separated from my ship like this, and my consciousness divided between two selves." She shrugged. "It would be useful if I could turn it on or off like a switch."

Siege swung his head around to regard her with his red optics. "The mentioned runtimes are a distinct minority, comprising only three point nine four percent of the runtimes hosted within this platform. However, they have developed a large role in decision making processes in this platform in that they interpret data in new ways compared to the majority, and as such state possibilities and responses that the original runtimes would not have even... known to calculate. They bring new options."

The drinks cart rattled closer, and a flight attendant asked, carefully, "Excuse me, ah, miss, would you like a glass of _caprificus _juice? We have twists of _apaterae_ jerky as well, for our dextro passengers-"

"No, thank you," Mercuria glanced up, met the attendant's eyes, and watched the puzzled stare manifest.

"And, um, you, er, sir?" The attendant looked and sounded desperately confused, but was making a valiant attempt to follow the script.

"Maybe he needs a can of oil," someone in the compartment muttered.

To the flight attendant, Siege gave its head a small shake. "We are in satisfactory condition. Thank you for the courtesy."

The attendant moved further back in the cabin, almost palpably radiating relief. Mercuria watched the female go, and then reached across Siege and pulled the curtain down, dividing them from the rest of the compartment for the moment. It was a silent request for privacy that she hoped the cabin crew would respect.

"What new possibilities have they brought to your attention? Other than giving you . . . stress? And the commensurate need to deal with stress?" That part was actually slightly worrying her. Geth should not _experience_ stress.

Mercuria's focus on the term _stress_ finally registered with the geth's consciousness. "We apologize. The term stress is not a perfect term for what are we intend to convey, but is a simple if somewhat inaccurate phrase. We are geth. Logic loops are possible, but due to our gestalt mentality it is very difficult for such a loop to remain in effect for a significant period of time. Typically, runtimes trapped in a logic loop are detected by other runtimes, at which point the source-calculations are dumped from active RAM, which allows the affected runtimes to resume normal operation."

Their conversation was interrupted by a voice over the loud speaker. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We are on approach for the Mindoir system dark matter relay, a trip that generally takes about four or five hours at light speed. We are prohibited from using FTL drive in the system at the present, as there is military traffic in the area at the moment, and they do not post flight plans. This should not impact our travel today, but if military ships are using the relay when we approach, we may be waved off temporarily for our safety."

Outside, the ship plunged into the dark matter relay. . . and emerged into the void at the edge of Terra Nova's system.

There was the sensation of passing through _otherspace_, as was typical for relay travel; for an organic, passing through the event horizon of a controlled white hole, or wormhole, was momentary. For a non-organic, it comprised a longer period of awareness, relatively speaking, and Mercuria had never done this without being in ship-self before. She found it distinctly unnerving, but manageable.

Again, as if to give her something to concentrate on, Siege continued, "Our case is now unique, and we have determined a tendency for our new runtimes to retrieve dumped data from tertiary buffers for additional review. This tendency does use a small percentage of processor cycles that would previously have been idle, in situations where our hardware is not fully tasked."

Siege turned its head to glance out the window as the liner passes through the dark matter relay, then looks back to Mercuria. "Organics find a... we believe the proper terminology is 'change of pace', to be refreshing, allowing them to re-optimize their ability to focus on various tasks. While this is not a consideration for geth, we have no data regarding such a 'change of pace' and its effects on a hybridized geth platform."

Mercuria absorbed all the information, eyes flicking to the side slightly as she analyzed it. "This makes a certain amount of sense. Allowing the runtimes that have been reviewing past data to be engaged with new information, will allow the data that has been subjected to review to be transferred to long-term storage, and compressed, since they will not be accessing it."

Out of pure habit, Mercuria tried to access the NCAI network to see who else was in the neighborhood, sighed when, yet again, there was no FTL comm signal available in her head—FTL comm traffic would have been prohibited aboard this civilian vessel, for fear that it would interfere with its electronics, anyway—and once again linked to her omnitool to check messages that might have at least come in before they left Mindoir, bounced off the planet's comm buoys.

This occupied about two percent of her actual attention at the moment, and simultaneously, she heard the captain suggest that they all sit back, relax, and enjoy the in-flight movies. . . the 2182 remake of _Short Circuit_ and the 2190 remake of _Terminator_. There was also the complete run of the _Geth and Autobots, Unite!_ series available for their viewing pleasure, a children's animated serial.

Mercuria flipped through the limited feeds available, looked up at the ceiling briefly, and asked Siege, "Do you ever have the impression that the universe is somehow sapient, and events that look like coincidences are, in fact, cosmic jokes?"

She wasn't terribly interested in any of the available feeds, but couldn't access the extranet to browse for historical archives to read through—no FTL comms! _This_ was going to drive her mad, she was fairly sure, in short order. Ship-self could at least download and archive information to peruse while they were running in comm-silence. She hadn't thought to do so for mech-self before leaving Mindoir, and was now ruing her short-sightedness.

In her entire life, Mercuria had never actually been _bored_ before. There had been a constant round of duties that filled twenty-four hours of every single day. She honestly had no _idea_ what to do with herself when there was nothing actually _to_ do.

However, her omnitool apparently came programmed with several default games, none of which she had ever played before. Chess, _consectora_, backgammon, hearts, Imperator's luck, _ru'udal_, and something asari that translated, apparently, to _life_. This was, apparently, one way in which her organics spent time.

Mercuria studied the options available, realized that none of them would wholly occupy her attention, but started to play _consectora_ against the omnitool's randomization matrix and limited VI, before pausing. "I'm sorry. I'm not used to being company for someone," she admitted. "Would you like to play? If not, should I play internally, so that I do not bother you?" 

The long cruise in from the relay took another five or six hours, and they disembarked at the spaceport outside New Philadelphia. They passed through customs. Mercuria had brought only a small bag that held necessary cables and adapters that she might need. Siege had brought. . . a crate. A large metal crate, with geth encoded locks, that caused quite a bit of fuss from customs officials. . . although Mercuria was not precisely sure of _why_. He was eventually waved through, after signing numerous forms, all of which seemed to have to do with how he was geth, and as such, subject to various treaty obligations and responsibilities and also allowed to conduct certain activities on human worlds, as a result of the Alliance's partnership with the Geth Collective.

As they stepped outside, Mercuria's head tipped back as she took in the ruined skyscrapers, the skeletons of which still stood as twisted, melted metal bars, almost unrecognizable from what they had once been. No fires raged anymore, of course. And there were signs of rebuilding here and there, where whole ruined neighborhoods had been bulldozed, and colonial-style aluminum trailers had once more been parked in the places where actual houses had been built. The sunlight reflected back off of these dazzlingly.

The spaceport itself, on the eastern edge of town, had largely been repaired. The triple ring of defenses had been taken down, and the large encampments to the south of it had dwindled in size as people started to make their way home, to dig out their houses. . . but there were still tents set up here and there. Mercuria's olfactory sensors detected effluvia, organic wastes. But not as much as there would have been, six months ago. "There appear to be multiple small shuttles available for rental," she noted, nodding towards a stand beside a lot nearby, with a VI attendant. "The only real questions are, where precisely are we going, and will that location have standardized AC outlets?" She had, discreetly, topped off her energy reserves before leaving their flight. She should have enough charge for several days of normal exertion, but anything like combat would inevitably eat away at that reserve. 

Siege lowered his optic in an abbreviated nod. "We calculate that energy needs can be met through rental of a solar energy array and associated battery storage. Regarding our first choice of interest, the coastal location was an original intention for our foray into 'shore leave'."

The geth brought up his omnitool, linking into the local extranet and downloading a set of maps. "According to the current database, the nearest available rental center for a vehicle that suits our needs is point seven kilometers from our current location."

Mercuria nodded briskly, appreciating the idea. "I hadn't thought of solar charging," she admitted. "I'm rather used to relying on fuel stations and an eezo core." She frowned, and brought up a map of the planet on her omnitool as they walked. To the northwest on this continent, there was an area of coast known for phenomenal waves; Siege had mentioned 'surfing' as a potential pastime. She marked that on the map without touching the screen, and identified several other areas, largely free from yahg depredations. A badlands area near the equatorial desert, known for exceptional rock-climbing. A large, mountainous area, known for hang-gliding tours, something that Mercuria rather boggled at. . . flying without an engine just seemed. . . .dangerous.

She took another mildly apprehensive look up at the clear, pale blue sky overhead, wondered if ship-self had gotten around to running diagnostics on the number three fuel line yet, and shut the train of thought off resolutely. Of course she had. Ship-self was. . . herself. "Here are a few areas of interest," she offered, looking at the twisted shells of the buildings. "Please feel free to offer other suggestions."

Siege pointed to the Ozaria coast line on the map, immediately, and they stepped into the shuttle agency's storefront. Securing a solar power source turned out to be easier than expected; the agency specialized in 'outdoorsman' tourism, and thus had a variety of tents, canoes, cooking apparatuses, and power generators, in addition to full scale 'recreational air vehicles' that the counterman touted as the ultimate vacation experience. "A solar generator, please," Mercuria replied to his spiel, patiently. "I suppose a tent wouldn't be a terrible idea, in case the hotels are. . . not available." She turned and glanced at Siege as she spoke, registering the expressions on the people behind them in line.

Most of the people around them were decidedly giving her _odd_ looks. Admittedly, they were giving Siege odd looks, too. The counterman, to this point, had mostly been talking directly to Mercuria. "I'm sorry," he finally said, in mild confusion. "But what's your business going up to the Ozaria coast, anyway? There's no dextro food up there at all. The yahg didn't hit there, but there's almost no people left, since the supply lines have been so dicey. It'll be like going into a ghost town. And As for the geth. . . " the human stared at Siege, "most of them have been pretty much just here in New Philadelphia, working with the contracting companies to tear down the broken buildings, and start building new ones. There's nothing to build or to tear down up there."

Mercuria nodded, briskly. "Yes," she answered. "It sounds absolutely perfect in every regard. Thank you."

The town of Hiyawatha, on the Ozaria coast, was not particularly prepossessing. It had had a population of under ten thousand before the yahg attack. Now, there were, perhaps, two thousand people trying to keep the lights turned on and the water running. Most of the orchards around the small northwestern town were abandoned, their fruit the delight of the birds. There was a small sign creaking in the breeze, a throwback to Earth's earlier history, that announced that the hotel was "The Heron," and that it had vacancies.

Mercuria endured the pop-eyed reaction of the clerk, yet again, at seeing a _turian_ and a _geth_ way the hell out here, and dealt as well as she could with the barrage of questions that ensued. Among those were how many rooms they were going to need, a few dozen questions about the red-painted geth and if they were scouting for a military base in the vicinity-"We sure could use the business," the clerk pointed out, a glint of desperation in her eyes-and any number of other questions.

_It's amazing, how many queries a human can output in such a short time frame_, Mercuria thought.

They'd arrived with enough hours of daylight left in this western part of the continent that they were able to locate one abandoned facility that had once been dedicated to surfing. Siege, after a moment's contemplation of the sign that read _Rondo's Surf Shack_, broke the chain and padlock off the doors, and removed two boards.

Mercuria was unable to compensate for her mass, which was greater than that of a turian of her height, by far, and definitely lacked some of Siege's balance and coordination algorithms. After the fifth time a wave indifferently slapped her off the board for an ignominious fall, Mercuria gave up and paddled, using the board as a floatation device, for the shore. She'd long since shed her uniform, with turian indifference to the platform she was using. It wasn't as if Siege wore 'clothing,' after all, either.

The turian body was not particularly well adapted for climbing, not the way a human body was, but she studied the cliffs behind the wide, pink-sanded beach, she thought she might as well work with the athletics algorithms in an environment that wasn't quite as . . . inherently chaotic and unstable and the unpredictable waves. . . and began to climb the cliff-face, instead. She thought she could see a small cave opening, well above the tide line, and began to make her way towards it, curious to see if sea birds made their nests inside.

She occasionally looked back over her shoulder to see Siege, obviously having mastered the technique of the wind and the waves, slaloming back towards shore. He seemed. . . engaged. . . if not enjoying himself, so Mercuria continued in her ascent.

As she reached the cave, and peered in, she noticed several things, immediately. First, there were signs of wear around the mouth of the cavern, far more so that mere seabirds would provide. In fact, the climb had become much easier the closer she'd gotten, as if hand holds had been hacked into the rock. Second, the cavern was larger inside than its narrow mouth would otherwise indicate. Third, there were. . . tools here. Too large for human hands. Knives made for skinning and boning, left here in leather sheathes. Nets. And a fetid smell of dead fish.

Mercuria's eyes widened. Someone was using this cave as a fish cleaning and drying area. Hundreds of fish, probably drawn in by the nets, were preserved here. _But why would a human bother to set up in a cave, when there is an entire town, largely filled with abandoned houses that anyone could squat in, right there? And these tools. . . _she hefted one of the knives gingerly; it was the length of her forearm, and the hilt was twice the width of her hand. . . _These aren't for humans. _

In the far distance, audible even above the hiss and crash of the waves, Siege's auditory sensors picked up a strangely familiar howl. A booming cry that sent birds in the forest at the top of the cliffs soaring, startled, into the air.

A yahg hunt-cry.

The platform actually twitched when its auditory sensors registered the yahg hunt-cry. Processors currently being used for balance-computation algorithms were usurped by an emergency consensual decision, the platform's RAM immediately emptied and re-tasked to verify the detected sound. The result was seven feet of crimson geth falling clean off his board, dumping into the surf and tumbling along in the water.

The sound was analyzed and re-verified: local ambient noises were placed through a gauntlet of lightning-fast simulations, quickly determining that no combination of local sounds could coincidentally imitate the specific call that the platform had detected. Siege shot a hand out, grabbing the board's strap and pulling the floating object close, pushing for shore as quickly as possible while chattering a terse message to its omnitool and transmitting in machine-code to the NCAI.

_Priority alert MERCURIA:__  
__Auditory sensors have detected Yahg in vicinity.__  
__Vocal signature re-verified.__  
__Sending relevant calculations. Accept download? YES/NO__  
__We are returning to shore, transmitting travel path._

_Yes. Accepting download._ Mercuria transmitted files in return, her optical data regarding the cavern, fighting down what could only be described as a surge of panic, as various processes in her platform suddenly took priority. Combat processes, in particular, came to the front of the queue. She slipped and skidded down the rock face, ignoring abrasions to her synthetic skin, kicked off the rock wall to drop the last ten feet, and landed in a low crouch.

Without question or hesitation, the NCAI ran along the beach on an intercept course for Siege, greatly displeased that she had, thanks to regulations, emptied her reservoirs of cryo-fluids and gone on _shore leave_ without a single weapon besides the ones implanted in her hands. "Unable to triangulate the signal's origin and distance precisely," she noted. "I think it fair to say it came from the south, however, further along the cliffs. They may have seen me examining their cave." She looked around. "I have little weaponry with me. We should return to town and inquire of the locals what they have seen and heard in the wilderness. And obtain weaponry." She knew perfectly well that Siege had brought along _some_ weaponry, and probably, in fact, had some on him. But these were unlikely to be projectile weapons. She had no armor, but she did have her shield emitter built into her omnitool. . . and she didn't need to be wearing armor to use that, fortunately. She brought that much online, feeling the kinetic field hum into place over her body.

In her concern, and with her various processes realigning neatly, her social protocols were left dead last in the queue. As such, she completely forgot her uniform had been folded and placed on some of the nearby rocks.

In the distance, the yahg howled again.

Siege led Mercuria quickly for the air-van they were renting, keeping hold of the surfboard in one hand. While definitely not build for combat, the board was made of modern composites and would serve well enough to bludgeon at least one target before breaking.

The air-van was locked, but opened immediately at a pass of Siege's omnitool. The Geth urged Mercuria inside, turning back to pan its optics across the beach and cliffs as she climbed in.

An anomaly caught the platform's attention. Siege's optics whirred as they focused in on the discrepancy: black fabric, folded neatly and left on top of rocks above the sand. "Mercuria. Your uniform has been left behind. Distance, seven hundred fourteen yards."

Mercuria looked down at herself, then at the blotch of dark material, barely visible against the rose-tan rocks at the base of the cliff, and muttered, "_S'kak._" It was close to half a mile away. "It can be retrieved later. I am hardly going to be hanged as a deserter. My own fault, really, for not having obtained other coverings for this platform." She kicked the engine on as Siege entered the air-van, making the whole vehicle skew, slightly, towards his side, and then threw it at the sky, listening to the motors protest. The air-van was not particularly ready for combat launches at forty-five degrees or more. Siege himself had to grip the back of a seat as he found his way to it, and harnessed himself in.

Once airborne, her innate practicality took over, and she actually headed south, rather than back towards the town immediately. "Reconnaissance," she told Siege, her tones clipped. "Unless these yahg make a habit of carrying missile launchers with them, we should be able to take a bullet or two to this vehicle without flight integrity being compromised. And information would be welcome."

However, they saw. . . almost nothing, as they cruised southwards, along the cliff edge and the beach, studying the area with optical sensors that were far better than human or turian eyes. Siege _did_ pick up one or two distortions that might have been the outlines of a stealth field. . . but that was difficult to ascertain from the air. Then they both saw what might have been a single yahg, staring up at their vehicle, before slipping under the cover of the trees. . . where they lost him, entirely.

Eventually, Mercuria turned back towards the town, and brought them in for a landing at the hotel. The clerk at the front desk was _definitely_ not expecting a six foot tall, naked turian in the grip of a fair bit of fear-anger to stride into the room, plant hands oozing white fluids from the palms on the desk, and demand, "All right, why the _futar_ haven't you people reported _yahg_ in the vicinity?" while leaning over and glaring down at her.

"I. . .what? Yahg? No, they took one pass near us at the beginning of the war, and then turned back south. We were to isolated to make a good target. Everyone here left _after_ the invasion, to go back to New Philly, or back to Earth or Demeter."

"You want to explain why we heard baying in the woods at the edge of the shore, and why we saw a big, shambling creature at the edge of the forest, then?"

The clerk actually relaxed. "Oh, you just saw Sasquatch, then. We keep a book on sightings-"

Mercuria glared at the human female, and accessed the extranet for a moment. "Sasquatch," she repeated. "Bigfoot. The Abominable Snowman." She lowered her head for a moment, and shook it. "All legends native to _Earth_."

"Well. . . yeah. The early settlers around here joked that Bigfoot had snuck aboard their colony ships and come along with them. He's been seen for thirty years, here and there. Planetary ecologists insist there's no large native fauna, besides the rockcats and the bear-scorps." The human female looked at them both, hesitantly. "Look, no one's gone missing. I think we'd _notice_ if there were _yahg_ here, hunting and eating us, don't you?" She paused. "I'm sorry you took a fright, uh, miss. . . did you know you're, um, not wearing any clothes?"

"Yes. I'm aware." Mercuria's voice was crisp. "And if you'd open the gift shop, I can rectify that situation. Thank you."

Fifteen minutes later, dressed in a t-shirt that read "Hiyawatha, Terra Nova!" across the front, and the only lower garment that the shop had had, that remotely worked with turian physiology, a very short black skirt, which she'd had to purchase a belt to keep it attached at the waist at all. The human 'jeans' available would have had the same problem, and even as cut-offs, the legs were too narrow for her to get her spurs through. The shorts had had the same problem. The long skirts would have caught on her spurs and the environment, constantly. As it was, she muttered several annoyed things under her breath about the inefficiency of turian body design, and rued a little, silently, the fact that her self-image had always been turian, rather than human. She bounded up the stairs to Siege's room, and knocked on the door, politely, and, on entering, asked him, bluntly, "Do we call this in to the Alliance now, and be told that in spite of the evidence of our optics, we're seeing local legends, or do we go get proof?"

In spite of her assertive tone, Mercuria was, actually, a little concerned that she _could_ have been. .. mistaken. She sagged against the wall of the room for a moment, reviewing sensor logs again and again. "If I had been . . . mistaken. . . " she said, out loud, "then. . . you would also have to have been. . . mistaken. Although you did mention that some of your processes have taken to reviewing old data. Such as. . . yahg data?" Her voice became questioning, and more than a little vulnerable, and she hated that sound. So much so, that she moved to the room's FTL comm panel, and dialed ship-self up, directly, and, using the fingertip port had been kind enough to install for her, began to compare code segments against ship-self.

Ship-Mercuria was _confused._ -_Yahg? They're gone. Are you/am I sure we saw that?_

-I was/we were sure, but now. . . need to confirm that I'm not/you're not/we're not going crazy.

The two voices blended for a moment, and Mercuria fell silent, comparing everything against ship-self's steady, uncontaminated source code. After less than two minutes, her eyes flicked up. "As far as I can tell, I'm not crazy or damaged," she assessed. "Therefore, it must have been real. Suggestions?"

Siege listened quietly as Mercuria questioned the accuracy of their auditory inputs, then waited patiently as she linked to her ship-self and performed a self-diagnostic. "We did state that certain runtimes will review old data during periods of low processor activity. However, we can assure you that this was not the case in this situation. Review of related file date/time stamps states that the last file READ-ONLY of yahg vocal signatures was one point two galactic months ago, prior to most recent archive search. Additionally, date/time stamps for both of the yahg vocal-signature audio recordings dated today state that no incidents of DATE-MODIFIED exist, other than the recording and storage of said files. There was no processor cross-pathing of older recordings and the current two. Ergo, the relevant recordings are accurate. We, specifically you as well as the runtimes hosted within this platform, are not crazy." A pause. "At least in this distinct incident."

At Mercuria's question of calling in or seeking proof, Siege stood and moved to the crate that had comprised the whole of his luggage for this trip, and had caused some issues passing through customs, keying the code lock and popping the manual seals. The box hissed open, and Siege reached in to start pulling out . . . weapons. Two of the Demolisher-Class Platform's signature heavy pistol, the Demolisher-Class' signature assault cannon, Siege's personal krogan Claymore, and a Geth M-98 Widow were soon arrayed on the floor. "We understand your concerns regarding the inherent skepticism of Alliance High Command. It is likely that even with the audio and video samples from today, they will not believe us enough to send immediate reinforcements."

Mercuria stared at the contents of the crate, her mandibles slightly agape. "You got that all through customs?" she asked, weakly.

"Yes. We are geth. We are permitted to carry our equipment, so long as we agree not to use them in a hostile manner against humans on this planet. We were unwilling to place them in a storage facility, so there was also a matter of a small deposit fee for 'insurance purposes.' We believe that this may have constituted a bribe, but we deemed this necessary to retain control of geth weaponry." His movements were precise as he continued to _unpack_.

Siege's assortment of hardpoint attachments followed, and Siege paused as he looked at the grenade launcher. His optics swung to Mercuria, then back to the launcher, at which point he reached for the tube-magazines of grenades, selecting two, and pulling them out. "We calculate that the cryogenic fluid payload in these grenades is compatible with your internal weapons-reservoirs. Appropriate tools for payload transfer are available."

Mercuria tipped her head to the side, and blinked, rapidly. Siege seemed somehow. . . much more animated. As if, all this time, he had been existing, and now had a chance to _be._ Or, more prosaically put, as if all this time, he'd been bored, but now he had an _interest_ in something. Truth be told, Mercuria had been slightly bored as well. She'd never not had things to be _occupied_ with before. And she was-had always been-a gunship. She was bred and designed for combat. So, she, too, felt more active interest in the stimuli around her.

Then, of course, the words themselves hit her, and she laughed, without meaning to, and then blinked again, and scrambled to cover the reaction. "That sounded. . . like a joke." Mercuria hesitated. "It was one, wasn't it?" It was the first time she'd really been taken off-balance since he'd invited her, unaccountably, to come with him to this place. And for the first time, she began to feel as if it hadn't been a mistake to accept.

At the panoply of weapons that suddenly appeared from the create, her mandibles flexed. "You came well-armed for shore leave. The bears-corps would never have had a chance." She picked up the Widow, however, and accessed her internal schematics, immediately and carefully disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling the weapon, attaching it to a strap to carry over her shoulder.

The Claymore, she took more time with, but her hands were still a blur. Mercuria _liked_ shotguns. She suspected it was a holdover from progenitor-Rinus, but she wasn't entirely sure. She simply had downloaded more programs pertaining to this weapon, than any other. This, too, was slung over her shoulders by a strap.

The Demolisher-class pistol was far too heavy and unwieldy for her to use single-handed; she would need to use a Weaver stance to fire it properly. She set it to the side for the moment, and bared her left shoulder, pulling the t-shirt material out of the way. With quite a bit more calm than, several months ago, when she'd offered to exchange programs, pulled back the synthskin from the reservoir cap. As she did so, Mercuria noted, clinically, "Spilling cryogenic compounds on the synthetic skin will damage it. I will shut down all nerve inputs to the vicinity." She did so, numbing the entire area, and stared at the far wall of the room, as Siege began to decant the grenades into her storage system. "Thank you. I feel somewhat less defanged."

As he worked, Mercuria did one last thing, and opened a storage compartment on her omnitool. A tiny drone emerged, swathed in a mass effect field and shields, glowing faintly blue. "Where do you propose we start first?" Mercuria asked, all business. "Look for tracks back where we first heard them, at the beach? High-altitude flights, looking for bio-signs? Or perhaps you have other ideas? You have, after all, fought them before. The most action I have seen against them has been at the ten-kilometer range of my Thanix canons."

Siege affixed its assault cannon to his back, and the pistol to his hip, then brought up a map of the surrounding area on its omnitool. "The remaining human inhabitants of this area have not had any direct encounters with the yahg, which lends credence to the idea that the yahg are more interested in hiding than in previous tactics. Access to ocean shore and/or rivers can be assumed due to condition of crude fishery you located. They may still have access to vehicles, but are unlikely to be using them as they will be restricted on fuel and maintenance supplies."

Mercuria shrugged. "With so much of this town abandoned, including a number of already looted filling stations and service areas, I would think that they could steal fuel. . . but they would be wiser, yes, not to rely on such vehicles. Of course, the yahg on Shanxi had their own vehicles, which had been powered by atomic slugs. The yahg on Terra Nova. . . records are unclear. They used looted fuel, did they not?"

Siege nodded assent, and marked several likely spots on the map, indicating them as Points-Of-Interest for scouting out. "The two of us possess a tactical advantage that will nullify one of the yahg's most effective means of detection. We do not carry a distinct scent. Additionally, we have no need of oxygen. As such, we can use the ocean and river as a means of approach without being detected, and possibly even as a method of escape, if detection is unavoidable."

Mercuria tipped her head to the side, bird-like. "River and ocean first then, yes. By air first, then by foot, I would expect?"

She walked outside, ignoring the clerk's sudden look of total alarm at how _well-armed_ they suddenly were. As they took off in their air-van, however, the senior member of the local sheriff's department (a two-man team, anymore) pulled up alongside them and demanded, "Just what exactly are you doing carrying military-grade weapons?"

Mercuria felt. . . peculiarly and extremely out of uniform at that moment. She didn't think explaining to the human that she _was_ a military-grade weapons platform would go over at all well. "Ah. . . we're looking for your Bigfoot," she said, offering no more than a variant on the truth. "The weapons are in case he, ah, attacks us."

The deputy snorted. "Right."

After several minutes of verifying their identification, however, the sheriff was. . . slightly less inclined to haul them in for questioning. But only slightly. Siege was _geth_. Twelve years before, enemies. As of ten years ago, allies. As of this year, some of the saviors of Terra Nova during the yahg invasion. Mercuria _looked_ turian. Forty years ago, enemies. As of ten years ago, allies. And her file actually pulled up as NCAI, which. . . meant absolutely nothing to the sheriff, but certainly _looked_ like something official and governmental. "I'll be calling this in," he grumbled. "In the meantime, I'm keeping an eye on you. Don't discharge those weapons inside city limits, is all I'm saying."

His aircar sailed back off again, and Mercuria shook her head, and murmured to Siege, "I'm. . . unused to circumventing authority. In fact, I'm rather used to _representing_ it."

In silence, they continued on, covering about fifteen to twenty miles by air, and set down in a swampy region, where a small river drained through a break in the cliffs into the sea. . . and periodically experienced brackish backwash from high tides. As they exited the vehicle to inspect the environment more closely, Siege almost immediately found extremely large, booted prints in the mud alongside the stream. All of the prints are as large as his own feet.

No birds sang in the area. They might have been frightened off by the air-van's approach, or by something else.

"The map indicates that this creek has its origin in the mountains north and east of here," Mercuria noted. "There's a large freshwater lake there. Well, several. And given the yahg love of caves, I would imagine that they could find homes there more easily than in this swamp."

Siege nodded, pulling out a pair of small waterproof cameras attached by fiber-optic lines to hand-displays from a storage compartment in the vehicle, which had been outfitted for them by the rental company so that they might try a number of different 'outdoors activities.' He handed one to Mercuria now. "We concur with your analysis. Follow us."

Siege secured the air-van, covering it with a camouflaged tarp, then led the way through the swamp to where the water flowed slowly downstream. The geth's omnitool linked to Mercuria's, maintaining positional awareness of her as the muddy waters closed over the platform's head.

The geth's feet sank deeply into the muck at the bottom of the swamp, slowing the platform, but not hindering it overly. Auditory sensors were recalibrated on the fly to function under water, and Siege created percussion sound-pulses by clicking its wrists together, improvising a SONAR array to assist in navigation. The crudest of maps slowly took shape inside the geth's memory, and he led Mercuria toward the potential yahg encampment.

Mercuria waded behind Siege steadily, routing the camera feed through her internal HUD, as the water was too murky in this region for clear vision. She could see a ramshackle group of human buildings ahead, a heavy overgrowth of vines beginning to infiltrate over and around the structures. She pulled up a local map internally and cross-referenced; this region had been a fishing area, and the buildings to the left, on the west bank, had been a wharf used for sport fishing and a shack for a local boat rental business, run by one man. . . the buildings on the right had been a cannery and a fishing boat repair and storage facility, for the fishermen who actually plied their trade on the river, catching crawfish-like creatures and large, slow-moving mudfish. Many of these outdoor types had left the area after the yahg attack. Some had moved deeper into the wilderness, alone, others had gone to other planets. Like the entire area of Hiyawatha, the population had severely declined.

There were, however, bio-signs pinging on both their omnitools, and through the cameras' tiny optics, held above water, they could both see a yahg hunter, sniffing the air on the right bank, near a sunken boat, slightly larger than a dinghy, and, on the creaking wooden wharf on the right bank, another yahg hunter stood, looking up and down the river, a gun in his hands, clearly on guard.

_Yahg hunters rarely travel alone. And rarely are seen uncloaked by their stealth nets_, Mercuria thought. Bio-signs suggested that there might be three more in the buildings to the left. At the moment, the yahg to the right cast a net out into the waters ahead of them, and let the strands sink deeply.

The one on the wharf growled something in the yahg language. "_Such meat, taken without a struggle. Without a fight. As all the meat we've taken of late."_

"This world doesn't require struggle."

"We'll grow weak. Complacent. Become easy prey for others." The one on the wharf paced back and forth, studying the woods around them. _"Did you not hear what Urukan said? Poison-meat one found the fishing cave by the sea. Should have been better hidden. Better yet, shouldn't have been used at all. This is . . . gathering. The task of females."_

"It's keeping your belly fed. I haven't heard you complain about _that__. Though you never help with it, Akarz."_

Siege silently translated the yahgs' conversation, relaying it to Mercuria over the omnitool link. _"Numbers unknown. We suggest waiting here for a period of time to see if more information becomes available."_

_"Additional: Fishing as resource gathering activity indicates reason Hiyawatha inhabitants have not seen confrontation with yahg. Move to marginally non-combative lifestyle intriguing."_

Mercuria interfaced directly with her omnitool to formulate her reply. _Agreed. Current estimates of yahg ability to adapt their lifestyle in response to Council requests and geth . . . teaching initiative. . . suggests that it would take hundreds of years for them to become less aggressive and violent. Is this evidence to the contrary?_

The argument between the two yahg becomes more heated. _"You mock me, Turvukh!"_

"You eat what you haven't killed," the one fishing returned. "_You're a parasite. You're a cripple. A weakling of the mind. We should leave you to starve. I would, but Urukan sees some value in your incessant mewling."_

The yahg on the wharf bellowed, and, backing up a little, ran for the edge of the wharf, leaping across the narrow space to land, awkwardly, atop the sunken boat, and howled in rage again at his fellow. _"Perhaps it's your heart that will fill my belly!"_

It was a direct challenge, and three more yahg emerged from the buildings to the left. Tell-tale shimmers of stealth nets as they broke from that cover. _"Urukan says not fighting among subordinates!" _one of them snarled. _"If we disagree with him, we have to fight __him__. Not each other."_

"Urukan isn't the one who called me a parasite!" The enraged yahg turned and leaped again, this time for his fellow, but the net-minder had already braced for impact, and the two began to fight in earnest, wrestling in the mud, snarling, biting. The other three were highly distracted at this point, and began to wade across the river, trying to get to their fellow yahg. . . whether to break up the fight, or unable not to join in, was anyone's guess.

Siege started forward slowly, indicating for Mercuria to follow. The yahg crossing the river were swimming across, making it relatively easy for the geth and NCAI to hunker down on hands and knees in the muck and pass undetected a dozen feet below. Siege's runtimes picked apart every byte of data the platform's inhibited sensors brought in, straining to detect the position of the net that one of the yahg had cast in before the scrap started.

The platform registered the net floating in the water, and carefully picked its way around the tough strands, edging left to stay as far as possible from the fight while remaining completely hidden by the muddy waters.

Of all the yahg in the area, only one of the hunters, the last in line, looked down into the turgid, murky brown waters for a moment, as if sensing an errant swirl or eddy that brushed against his legs the wrong way. . . and then the two mechanical platforms crawled past, having pulled their camera fiber optics down and in, to avoid any of them trailing against the yahg above.

Once they were sufficiently far beyond the fishing area, they allowed the camera cords to bob to the surface once more. Still with Siege in the lead, they continued along the bottom of the river, Mercuria whacking the occasional confused or curious fish upside the head when they nosed in at her. The walk/crawl was not effortless or easy. The muddy bottom was knee-deep at times, the rocks concealed in it were slippery and bad footing, and the current steadily shoved at them like a giant hand. They also had some fifteen miles to traverse in this fashion, in the hopes of remaining undetected by whatever yahg hunters might still be in the vicinity. Impossible to know how _many_ there were. Where, precisely, they were, if they were using their stealth devices.

Mercuria's platform had been designed, originally, as an emergency-only vehicle for her consciousness. The Hierarchy military had decided that this was an unnecessary waste of some four million credits for the prototype, and wanted to get more use out of the 'very fancy escape pod,' so they'd argued for her to use it for maintenance activities on the ship. Neither use required long-lasting power supplies. Not when she could recharge whenever she wished on the ship. This long underwater hike pushed her far beyond design parameters. Mercuria's mandibles flexed, and she hated the reality of it all, but there was nothing for it but to admit the truth.

_Siege_, she transmitted. _Battery reserves at twenty percent. I could return to town, but would not be able to do so using this method of concealment, and would need to walk, not run. I will not be able to fight, if we need to, if we do not leave the water_ _soon._

_Understood. We will determine a safe location to effect an energy transfer._

_I don't want to drain your reserves,_ she objected. _I do not wish to infringe on your reserves._

The geth's response was a compact transmission, showing schematics, and Mercuria blinked; she hadn't realized that he had a power generation system, as well as batteries, although now it made perfect sense. CROWD platforms were intended for long field deployments in dangerous areas without notable infrastructure. Thus, they _had_ to have methods by which they could generate their own power. Then she nodded and signaled her accession.

Siege took a few moments to scan around, finding a likely outcropping of rock that would hide the two from observers, then led Mercuria to it. Underneath the shelf of stone, Siege dug into the waterproof bag he carried and pulled out a short length of power cable, fitted with a multi-adapter at one end.

The platform removed its energy bulwark, then slotted the static end of the cable into the power connection in its forearm and held the other end out to Mercuria.

_Control rods retracted by fifteen percent. Fissile pellets in contact. Fission reaction at ten percent of maximum. Energy pathways cleared. You may begin siphoning of excess power._

After about a full second's hesitation, Mercuria accepted the cord, and transmitted, _Thank you. I appreciate being able to be useful when we find their main camp._ She turned her back, staying at the length of the cord, at least three feet away, and tugged the waistband of her irritatingly human skirt down, so that she could plug the adapter into her data/charging port at the base of her spine. She had a single finger port, which Siege had installed for her, months ago, but it was data only, and she began to mull over how difficult or at least, how _advised_, it would be to adjust that data port to at least be a trickle charger, as well. Her hands, under the synthetic scales, were a maze of circuit tracery, allowing her to expel and modulate electricity in vicious attacks that could tear at shields and even delicate organic flesh. Her left hand held the data port, and also her cryogenic defense system's venting port. On the whole, it seemed unwise to meddle further with the design specifications there.

Energy levels rose, and swiftly; she fortunately had buffers and conditioners built in, to avoid damage from power spikes. The fission reactor Siege was equipped with might have overloaded her, without such provisions. Her reserves hadn't been dangerously low to begin with, but it was comforting to know that she wasn't going to stop functioning or have her consciousness go out like a candle any time soon. And while she appreciated Siege's assistance, but knew there was nothing personal in this. His assistance was purely in the interests of efficiency. Having two sets of optics and two platforms capable of reconnaissance and combat when he reached the yahg main encampment, was better than one.

Thus, it would be foolish and stupid of her to give into the niggling emotions that preyed on the corners of her consciousness. The ones that felt warmed by the fact that he was giving of himself, to replenish her. The ones that insisted on interpreting the gesture as care and concern, when rationality said no such things factored into his decision-making process. She did her best to override the emotions. Her family had been, in the end, right, in all the concerned messages they had sent her after she had given the geth her child-programs. They had been concerned that she was emotionally attached to something that could not, and never would be able, to return that regard. And that she would, simply, hurt herself. And as they so often and annoyingly were. And right now? None of it mattered, and she needed to put all of it aside, and focus her resources on the task at hand. So she did.

Thus, the only thing she transmitted at the end of the recharge session was, again, _Thank you. Energy reserves at one hundred percent._ She detached the cord, wound it up neatly, and handed it back, looking up the river, as if she could see the yahg main camp from here. _This platform was never intended for long-term use. It will need modifications if the Hierarchy decides that I am to leave the ship on anything remotely resembling a regular basis._

Siege had tilted his head slightly, looking back at Mercuria for a long moment after she finished recharging, even after he had accepted the rolled-up power cable. Mercuria could see the faintest hints of turian body language, a near-invisible display of puzzlement. Finally, the platform responded. _We are concerned that we made a mistake in bringing you with us, Mercuria. We made the assumption that you would... enjoy this activity, as it seems similar to the mission types that Stealth Reconnaissance ships are typically deployed in. An overlap of interests._

A small hesitation, almost as if to collect himself, and then the geth continued before Mercuria could interrupt. _If you would prefer to return to base and contact Alliance leadership, we can effect an exfilltration at this time. We have collected sufficient data. We do not... want force you to keep up to our own,_ and another a distinct pause. _. . . enthusiasm._

Mercuria _stared_ at the larger geth unit for three full seconds, processing his transmission and body language, blinking rapidly as she took in the bird-like tilt of the optic, the outwardly tipped palms. _Enjoy? Enthusiasm?_ _Interests? _The key words in the brief statements blazed at her. They were not at all what she had expected to hear. Such words, like _prefer_ or _wish_, or _want_, had been absent for the first day or so of their stay on Terra Nova. And a day or so was a _much_ longer time to a synthetic than to an organic.

She had to take a moment to formulate her reply. _It was not a mistake to bring me along, other than that this platform needs additional hardware to be effective in a field situation,_ she offered, hesitantly. _Reconnaissance and direct confrontation are what I am . . . meant to do. Therefore, yes, I enjoy them. I . . . suspect that it would be difficult to bring my ship-self along to do this form of recon. It would be somewhat loud and noticeable. _That was a rather lame joke, she realized, but it was all she had. _We have not yet collected enough information. Returning with only a few vids and audio files, such as they are now, would only result in our being requested to find out more, as the operatives on the spot. We may as well anticipate that request._ She paused. _You. . . actually are __enjoying __this?_

_Previously, this platform has engaged in activities that fell well within the range of parameters it was designed for. We are made to excel at combat situations, we are good at them. It has always been a satisfactory use of hardware and software to perform at our utmost during those situations. However, there was no... preferential context to it._

Siege paused, looking out under the overhang at the river. _Our current situation is an outlier compared to previous missions this platform has undergone. While basic related algorithms are included in our databanks, CROWD platforms are not specifically designed to be stealthy. The environmental advantage provided by this river allows us to perform in a way previously never experienced. It tasks our processors and algorithms in ways we have not experienced, and we find it engaging._

The platform secured the power cable, continuing. _Between the novelty of this form of infiltration, and the capability of our hybrid runtimes to support emotional context, yes, we find ourselves enjoying the current situation. It is . . . fun, to hunt those who think themselves hunters, and we consider it satisfactory that you are here to share the experience with us. Thank you, for both the ability to enjoy and for being here._

_Engaging.. . . new experiences, equating to novelty. . . emotional context resulting in . . . __fun__? Satisfactory? _Mercuria's mind absolutely whirled. And then the kicker, at the end. Gratitude from him, for the _ability_ to find satisfaction in a task. And gratitude for her presence, unaccountably enough.

She didn't actually know what to do with any of it. It sounded. . . very ungethlike. Hybrid. That was the key word. She needed to stop assessing him as _geth_, and start assessing him as geth-NCAI hybrid. Mercuria blinked, and decided that the best course of action was to treat him in turian terms, since that was the body language that had seeped through. She turned. Made eye contact-all right, _optical_ contact-and nodded, briskly. _It was my pleasure to give the runtimes to you. I am glad that they are providing you with . . . new perspectives and opportunities._ Her own emotional programs clamored for a moment, and, unbending a little, Mercuria very quickly reached out, and patted Siege on the arm. She'd shut down almost all tactile data from her synthetic skin and nerves. She didn't need to be reminded continuously that the water temperature was fifty degrees Fahrenheit, or that the rocks were slippery and sharp underfoot. There was nothing she could do about either, so she had filtered that information out. Thus, she couldn't really feel it when she patted the armor-covered arm. Blunt force, hopefully a light pat, and not a hearty smack. _I am appreciating this platform,_ she offered, in the spirit of exchange. _As I said before. . . it would be difficult to __sneak__ up on the yahg in my usual body. I would not have been able to listen to their conversation, only to their gunfire, in ship-body. This appears to be valuable enough to make up for the many . . . oddities. . . of the bipedal form._

Such as the fact that, irritatingly, she actually wanted to raise her tactile sensors back above bare minimum, but didn't dare at the moment.

Siege responded to the pat with a hand on Mercuria's shoulder for a moment, then turned and led the way back into the water. North, toward where they suspected the main yahg encampment lay.

Mercuria locked down the emotional subroutines that attempted to begin cascading at the return gesture, and stepped back into the frigid water.

They continued up the river, and, well after nightfall, the current kicked up, and the steep incline at which the river flowed became rapids and even one or two waterfalls, forcing them to detour. Fortunately, it was mid-summer here on Terra Nova, and there was no snow in the rocky, jagged mountains northeast of Hiyawatha. Tracks couldn't be avoided, but they returned to the water as quickly as possible, seeing no yahg in the meantime.

At last, they reached the river's source, where it passed through two eroded cliff walls, pouring down from a mountain lake. There were no electric lights at this lake, of course. But their cameras, floating at the top of the river, detected campfires at the base of the cliffs on either side of the river, below two caves which had mostly concealed entrances. There were likely to be other caves as well, in the vicinity, but they were hard to see, even with vision that penetrated to the ultraviolet spectrum; it was very dark, and using a UV or infrared flood light could alert the yahg, who were known to have at least infrared HUDs built into their visors.

There were boulders scattered all around, even in the river itself, which had become shallower here so close to the lake, its source. No more than ten, fifteen feet deep at its lowest point, it was moving swiftly now.

Bio-signs suggested that there were two yahg sentries to the south, whom they'd already passed. There's a large group of yahg around the fire to the northwest. Two of them, at least, were familiar faces. They were the pair that had been arguing at the fishing camp. Traveling overland, instead of in the concealing water, they had long since beaten the pair of synthetics to this location.

The apparent leader snarled at both of them, _"I said no fighting! We need every body we have, if all are to survive! I should kill whoever started the fight and give his flesh to the rest of the camp, for then he would serve a useful purpose!"_

Akarz, identifiable by his ruddy eyes, seemed to be the more injured of the pair. _"Fight me, then. I'll challenge your weak leadership."_

"Fight me now, and you would die. There's no triumph in killing one already wounded."

_"I am not weak! I will fight you now!"_

The leader didn't turn away, but jerked a huge paw at his subordinates. _"Take him to the cave across the way and let him heal. Then he can fight me."_

One of them snarled, in return, _"Will he continue to eat of the flesh that we provide, that he says is brought to his mouth by the methods of females?"_

"He'll need food to heal. But let it be whatever he can hunt, on his own."

_"Urukan. . . . "_ another yahg had stepped up behind the apparent alpha._ "I, too, question your leadership. You should have killed Akarz where he stood, just now, and given his flesh to all. If you fight him in a week, and if you win, you will spare his life, won't you? His strength will not be given to us."_

_"His life is his strength, Rurhkan, you fool. And he'll give it to us, one way or another."_ Urukan's voice had lowered to a growl. _"You've been careful, Rurhkan. You whisper discontent, but you never bare your teeth to my face. Are you finally willing to challenge me?"_

The two males snarled at one another.

_Watching the scene unfold, Siege communicated electronically with Mercuria. __Their leader appears to be concerned with survival over pride and tradition. He is willing to adapt. We postulate that his survival is a primary concern. Opinion?_

_Agreed. He does not seem much like the alphas seen in other situations. Lack of pressure from other packs, perhaps? Lack of pressure from above? Or just innate personal flexibility and perspective?_ She paused, following where Siege led, into white water area between three massive boulders. Siege was moving slowly, allowing his bulk to break the current for her, and guided her into the cover of the rocks. She eased the Widow from her back, and slid it to a braced position atop the leftmost boulder. The scope gave her a very clear view of the proceedings around the western campfire. After setting up, Mercuria transmitted an addendum. _All of these are unknowns, but even if he must be returned to Parnack, he might be valuable. In influencing his people, or at least, gaining more insight into them._

Siege transmitted a terse acknowledgement, and one of the platform's hands found a large rock, closing around it and pulling it loose from the muddy river bottom. Then the geth edged closer, still submerged, and using the noise of the rapids to cloak the sounds of its normally ponderous treads.

Two of the yahg—Akarz and Rurhkan, apparently—were now circling the alpha. The other yahg in the circle of firelight looked uneasy. "_One stands!"_ one of the hunters objected. _"Only one opposes. Fights for leadership have ever been so!"_

"Urukan wants things to change. Maybe some things that he does not wish for, will change, too."

The pair of yahg close on their leader, and the attack and the retaliation are savage, primal. Bodies turn to shadow behind the fire, but Mercuria could hear the force of impact as the three all slammed to the ground at once, biting, snarling, wrestling. _I cannot get a clear lock on which is the leader, and which are those who oppose him! _she transmitted, silently, but urgently.

_Understood, __Siege replied. __Hold fire until we signal. We are moving to intervene._

Mercuria had just enough time to signal, _Acknowledged, but what are you doing?_ but before she could even finish the query, she had her answer. And swore, internally and fervently invoking the spirits of air and darkness out of pure habit, before finding a different target among the yahg around the fire.

Stealth was no longer under consideration. Siege, still underwater, had started surging for the shore, no longer caring about the noise or disturbance in the water he made. Reaching the shallows as quickly as possible, the geth inverted the activation of his eezo core and jumped. The mass effect core allowed him to triple his effective mass. . . or _halve_ it, as required. Synthetic muscles flexed, pushing the platform's feet harshly into the rocky ground and launching the now _adjusted_ three hundred pounds of geth clear out of the river in an explosion of watery spray.

Crimson metal sailed through the air, and in the short instant that the yahg's organic minds would be failing to react, he normalized the flow of power through his core as he came back down again. Twenty-four hundred pounds of Siege slammed into the ground a yard from the brawl, with enough force to crack stone, sending a considerable seismic shock through the terrain and knocking the fighting yahg off balance. Metal hands reached for one of the fighters, grabbing the creature by the arm and throwing him away from the hard-pressed leader.

The geth's synthetic voice took on the harsh tones of the yahg language. _"Your choice will only result in your blood feeding the dirt at our feet, Akarz! You and Rurhkan are cowards, and your meat is not fit to fill the belly of a scavenger!"_

Akarz, the yahg torn from his leader's throat, tumbled away through the nimbus of light and shadows around the bonfire. Seven stunned yahg faces, jaws slack under their half-helmets, showing teeth, stared at Siege for an almost endless moment. Then the shock of the deadly insult suddenly hit home to Akarz and Rurhkan. They snarled, but they appeared to be having enormous difficulty shifting gears—something that the Council military forces had early noted in yahg, and exploited.

Urukur, the leader, snarled, however, _"This is not your fight_!" But he didn't sound precisely _angry_ at the intervention. _"They have challenged._"He grunted and managed to get atop of Rurhkan, for a moment, and growled out, _"You stand to accept challenge on my behalf?"_ The alpha was _fast_ on his mental feet for a yahg. "_You speak the language of the hunters! Challenge made, challenge must be accepted!"_ That was a roar directed at Akarz.

Akarz howled in frustration. "_Outsider! Not meat! Not hunter! Not prey! Challenge cannot be made or accepted!_"

Of the yahg to the south, the one identifiable as Turvukh, the fisher who had taunted Akarz at the old wharf, stepped forward, cautiously, circling. His body language didn't look like he meant to attack Siege. His eyes were fixed on Rurhkan, and his posture indicated a desire to attack . . . but it was also clear that he wouldn't make a move until and if Rurhkan defeated the existing alpha. Then he would likely attack the wounded Rurhkan

The other yahg around the fire, to the south, are were rocked back on their heels, still stunned by the geth's entry into the fight. The only one to react with any kind of speed, was the yahg hunter to the north, who pulled his stealth net up over himself, fading out of sight.

Siege calculated for an instance, and then pointed at Akarz, optics glowing a baleful red. _"The challenge stands! You make excuses because you are afraid! You are nothing but waste! Meat you eat is a waste, your meat is a waste to others!"_

Spotting the ripple of the stealth net as the hidden hunter circled towards him, the still overly-massive platform stomped the ground hard, a fist-sized chunk of shattered rock bouncing up into the air. There was a crackle of ozone as Siege inverted his eezo core again, snatching the jagged stone out of the air and side-arming it to a speed normally only reached by chemical projectiles, sending the improvised cannonball directly at the chest of the stealthed yahg hunter. _"Interfere again and we_ will _kill you, warrior. The challenge is for coward Akarz and him alone!"_

Among the rocks, Mercuria swore, again, viciously, as this time, Siege slammed a twenty-pound chunk of jagged rock at what looked like nothing more than air, and the stone impacted into the yahg who'd been moving to attack him. It hit the brute squarely in the stomach, and bowled him over backwards, skidding back several feet before slamming to the ground with all the yahg's enormous weight. _How in the spirits' names did he even __detect__ the yahg?_ she wondered. She hadn't picked up even the slightest trace on her scanners.

Akarz snarled and _charged_ at Siege. Even though the geth was braced and ready to receive the charge, the impact of body meeting body was enormous; with the eezo core increasing Siege's mass to over twenty-four hundred pounds, however, it was somewhat akin to Akarz slamming bodily into a stone wall. The yahg's big hands clamped around Siege's wrists, and, with both of Siege's hands occupied, the yahg did not bother with finesse; he simply went for the throat, or at least, the base of the optics, clamping down with his viciously edged teeth, bending polyceramic armor plates and finding synthetic muscle below. . . .

Urukan and Rurhkan continued to fight, wrestling beside the fire. Rurkhan had managed to regain control of the battle, and rolled Urukan towards the large bonfire, and struggling now, to force the alpha into the flames. Siege's olfactory sensors picked up the smell of burning skin, as Urukan snarled and fought back, refusing to be pushed any further. . . .

Of the two other hunters to the south, one prudently hung back, staring at the staggered hunter to the north, whom Siege had _stoned_. The other snarled and charged to help Akarz, moving in to try to seize Siege from behind. The geth rolled around and avoided a hold to his shoulders and optics, but only by inches, synthetic muscles already straining at Akarz's bulk. But Akarz's fangs are still buried in his 'throat' region.

_Can I shoot __now__? _Mercuria transmitted, anxiously. _Please?_

Damage warnings were going off in Siege's processors, citing the lacerations to the outer layers of his neck musculature. Mercuria's message pinged through his omnitool, and a plan of action was submitted to internal consensus.

_We need to make a statement, Mercuria. Wait for our signal._

_Understood. On your mark._

Two-fingered hands clamped onto the yahg's jaws, metal digits breaking teeth as the geth started to apply its monumental strength to the task at hand. Centimeter by centimeter, he forced Akarz's mouth wider and wider, until the beast's grip on Siege's throat came loose.

Siege fended the other yahg off with an elbow, a solid thud followed by a snap from Akarz's jaw and a howl of pain as bones were bent back further than design intended, and then the crimson geth powered his flailing assailant into the air for all to see, held up by Siege's grip on its mouth.

_"Fire."_

Mercuria had watched, impassively, as Akarz was lifted into the air, by his jaws, a yahg's best and most lethal weapon. She waited until he was suspended in the air, almost three full feet of his body visible over Siege's optical housing . . .and then received Siege's word to fire.

She did, sighting in with careful precision. Geth-designed targeting algorithms, derived from Siege's own, took over inside the platform, overlaying her vision through the scope, pointing out weak points, providing optimal firing solutions. And, with absolutely perfect accuracy, Mercuria took the single shot required with the Widow, absorbing the weapon's enormous recoil into arms and a body frame that had far more than average turian strength.

The shot resounded in the still air, over the roar of the whitewater rapids, and Akarz's head exploded in a shower of gore, pouring red-orange blood all down Siege's arms and upper body. Mercuria transmitted, simply, _Target down,_ then added, dryly, _This platform has now been 'blooded,' although my __Clavus__ platform has long since had that designation. No. Wait. Did batarians infiltrating my engine compartment count as blooding? Yahg perhaps more impressive._

Roars of alarm from the south, and she could detect movement-the sentries, and possibly other yahg in the caves to the south, from their bio-signs, anyway-were now alerted to the presence of intruders, and moving back to help the other yahg. . .

The yahg that had attacked Siege with Akarz hesitated, visibly, but in the grip of an attack rage, yahg rarely backed down. In this case, it successfully attacked Siege, and, rather than repeating Akarz's error, seized both of Siege's arms _from behind_ for the rending attack that so many yahg had used, with such deadly effectiveness on organics . . . and _tore_ at Siege's arms, threatening to separate the titanium bones from one another. Warning systems lit off inside of the geth. . .

Rurhkan snarled and, inch by inch, slowly forced Urukan into the fire. The yahg alpha bellowed in agony, half of his body now smothering the hot coals in which he lay, Rurhkan on top of him, shielded from the fire by Urukan's body.

Once again, damage awareness signals made themselves known to Siege's gestalt, informing the Geth of the damage to its limbs. Armor plating was damaged, some blunt trauma transferring through to the muscle tissues underneath. The platform came to consensus: This Yahg has got to go.

In the geth's processors, wire-frame simulations were constructed to assist in movement prediction calculations in a thousandth of a second. The effect of the platform's motions on the yahg's skeletal posture were calculated and confirmed, along with the likelihood that the yahg would react in time. Additional factors were the position of the yahg leader and his assailant, Mercuria's tenuous perch on the rocks in the river, and another yahg sentry now closing in on her from the southeast. The best action was ratified by consensus, and orders were sent to the platform's musculature and hydraulics.

Siege took one ground-shaking step forward, a lunge that lowered the platform's center of gravity by several feet and dragged the yahg gripping its arms off-balance. The geth's arms raised at the same time, reaching overhead to clasp the yahg's opposite wrists in each two-fingered hand, clamping down tightly enough to bend steel. A second lunging step to gain momentum allowed Siege to draw up to his full height, the yahg slamming against the platform's back with an outraged huff of forcibly exhaled breath, and then the crimson goliath brought both arms forward over its head, curling his torso and launching the yahg over his shoulders in a hard throw right at the yahg currently kneeling atop Urukan's body.

The yahg hunter had no way in which to react; he was already committed to holding to Siege's arms as tightly as possible for the rend attack, and the geth's weight and the inexorable force of its arms and pure leverage combined to throw eight hundred pounds of yahg in a clean, rolling arc, directly into Rurhkan's back, sending the challenger to Urukan's authority flying into the large bonfire. And the projectilized yahg followed his would-be leader, landing atop him in the flames.

Urukan pulls himself out of the bed of coals, his lower face reddened from the flames, and his armor glowing in the infrared spectrum. "_Hold!"_ he snarls at the one nursing his broken ribs to the north, and spinning to snarl at the yahg hunter incoming from the south as well. "_Hold, I say!"_

_Mercuria! Position threatened, target approaching from your south east!__ Siege's transmission took a priority level in the queue now._

_Understood!_

She stood and turned, but the yahg on the far bank had flickered into its stealth net, and she couldn't spot the ripples and distortions in the air or water that would tell her where the attack was coming from, precisely. She was _poison-meat_, to a yahg, in terms of appearance, but scentless. And her shields would do her no good against a melee attack. Mercuria transmitted a string of instructions to her tiny combat drone, releasing it from a compartment in her omnitool, telling it to tuck in closely to her body, to defend her. . . and kept the sniper rifle in front of her, warily. Not aimed, but braced to receive impact.

There was the faintest whisper of sound that alerted her acute auditory receptors, and then eight hundred pounds of yahg slammed into her, tearing the rifle out of her hands, and bore her down, slamming her spine against the boulder behind her—a low one—and forcing her head and shoulders under the water, back arched. A precarious position for an organic, but Mercuria didn't need to breathe. And thus, did not panic. Not yet, anyway.

Her drone began to fire little white-hot slivers of metal at the yahg, darting and dodging above its head, and Mercuria could see those white-glowing flecks like falling stars against the dark sky. She shifted, shutting down damage estimates streaming from the 'soft tissue' of her throat muscles, reached up. . . the yahg's arms were longer than hers, but he wasn't holding her at the length of them, no, his face was down, close to hers, readying the lethal bite. . . but he wore, as all yahg hunters did, a half-helmet, to allow them to use their sense of smell. Her fingers skated up, over the lamellar plates that protected the throat, slid past the vicious, gaping mouth in a parody of a lover's caress, up under the eye shield. . . .

And then her polyceramic talons—the same material that made up armor, or a ship's hull—stabbed in and carved into three of the yahg's eyes, boring in, digging for brain. The yahg howled and lurched back, bringing her, attached as she was, _with_ him with a splash of water. He grabbed for her hand, trying to drag it away—failing that, he yanked her closer, and bit down, hard, but his teeth impacted on a skeleton of titanium wrapped in carbon nanotubule mesh. Pain receptors flared, and were shut down, again. The yahg reared back, and Mercuria, now dragged back to a standing position, hissed and engaged a system usually designed for destroying and warping others' shields. Electrical energies surged out of her hand, directly into the ruined eye sockets, and into the brain, searing the flesh. . . and sending the yahg toppling over backwards.

Siege's hand slipped back to pull its assault cannon off his back, expanding the weapon out with a hiss of actuators as the geth pivoted. Geth subroutines chirruped acknowledgement as the M-151 Harvester locked onto the yahg stumbling out of the fire, targeting reticles wrapping around the creature's knee joints and awaiting Siege's command to fire. The geth maintained a hard connection to the weapon through the ports in its grip, allowing it to use the cannon's optics to keep an eye on Rurhkan's ally while it swept its own optics around to keep tabs on the rest of the yahg.

The hunters to the south obey their leader, dropping to submissive crouches. The two yahg scrambled out of the campfire, Rurhkan's armor covered in flaming coals and burning branches. The challenger, literally on fire now, bellowed and charged directly for Urukan, and caught the leader around the waist, trying to throw him to the ground; Urukan, this time, pivoted, letting the power of the charge carry through and used it, turning, to lift and flip Rurhkan savagely to the ground, with an earth-shaking slam. He followed Rurhkan to the ground, once more biting and tearing. A battle of pure attrition, but Urukan has slashed open Rurhkan 's face, and then buried his fangs in the challenger's throat, spraying blood everywhere. . . .

Mercuria regained her feet, and, hissing under her breath again, pulled out her shotgun. Cradling it in her damaged right arm, she held out her left, and electricity arced from her hand in blue-white streamers, heedless of the energy loss, electrifying the water. She didn't have a yahg translation program uploaded, but she shouted in turian, _"Anyone who takes even a step closer to me is going to die."_ Her little drone flared its shields, circling tightly around her, and Mercuria continued to send electrical current into the water, standing on the non-conductive quartz boulders in the stream. Her wrist was pouring out white fluids at the moment, and while there were damage subroutines kicking in, she'd need to effect repairs sooner, preferably, than later.

The second yahg hunter, in flames, and screaming in pain from his burned face, charged the source of his pain, blindly, heading right for Siege, taking the first bullets from the assault cannon to his armor without flinching. Blind, mindless rage . . . and Siege let the yahg close in, securing his assault cannon and bringing his left arm forward as if to block the yahg. A split second before the yahg impacted, the geth's energy bulwark snapped into being, a glowing blue tower shield that flared an angry orange as it rebuffed the massive creature, the yahg's instinctive tackle-grab finding nothing to latch on to.

In the instant of the yahg's confusion, Siege ducked low, lashing out with his right arm and grabbing the yahg's knee. Hydraulic pistons locked into place, and the platform's captive spike tore through the joint with a _bang_ of expelled air. Siege straightened up and bashed the crippled creature full in the chest with its shield, knocking it away.

The crippled hunter tried to stagger back to its feet, wobbled on the completely destroyed knee, and collapsed once again, trying to crawl towards Siege, but it simply couldn't manage any sort of an effective attack.

A yahg hunter on the far bank gingerly dipped a foot into the water, and his shields immediately spark to life. Snarling, it drew its oversized pistol and fires at Mercuria. . . and the rounds sizzled against her shields, bringing up her defensive matrix's distinctive grid pattern. Mercuria brought her shotgun up, aimed, and fired twice on her target, the rounds she fired exploding on contact, and spraying cryogenic fluids everywhere, burning the yahg's exposed face and flash-freezing the joints in its armor.

At that point, Urukan stood, Rurhkan's blood pouring down his face and throat, and howled his victory.

And every yahg currently around his fire dropped to a submissive crouch.

He was breathing hard, in tight, vicious pants. His eyes behind his helmet gleamed ferally; he was clearly filled with the yahg chemical equivalent to adrenaline. But he didn't move to attack Siege. Instead, he walked to the injured hunter, and kicked him in the head. _"You . . . you threw yourself into the fight with __Rurhkan__."_

"No. Did not fight you. Fought the metal one. No more." He hangs his head.

Urukan looked at Siege. _"__You__ speak the language of the hunt. You did not interfere with the challenge. You understand our ways. Does this one speak truth? Should he be allowed to live and hunt again, or should he die?"_

Siege's red optics flicked down to the injured yahg, then back to Urukan. _"This one fought us, along with the coward Arkaz. Let him carry the scars of his mistake, and if he surpasses them, then he has learned."_

Urukan jerks a hand at the hunter. _"You! Stand. Go and lick your wounds. The rest of you, give Ruhrkan's body to the fire. Let the flames eat of his flesh and drink of his blood. He was not a worthy foe or a worthy companion. To eat of him would be to lessen us."_

The others moved forward, reluctantly, but a few snarls from Urukan convinced them to act once more. _"You. Have poison-meat female allow my other hunter to cross the water, rejoin us."_

Siege nodded, signaling Mercuria to allow the hunter across the river. _Additional: Supplying subtitle translation. Additional: Sending data-packet YAHG-LANGUAGE-PRIMER, Accept/Deny?_

Mercuria blinked, and immediately accepted the yahg translation primer, transmitted from Siege's omnitool to her wireless ports. _Yahg_ had been the last thing she'd anticipated needing on this 'vacation.' She'd downloaded Japanese, Russian, and basic Arabic for Amaterasu, and Chinese and the patois of Terra Nova for this leg of the trip, but yahg? No.

After a barely discernible pause, she snapped out at the yahg on the bank of the river, in its own language, _"Go! Join your leader!"_ She ceased transmitting the electrical current, but still followed the yahg with her shotgun as it waded and swam across the stream.

Back on the west bank, Siege wasn't in pristine shape, white ichor dripping from its arms and neck, but he was by no means out of commission. _"You have maintained strict control of these warriors for many months,"__ he said. "__The_ human, _what you call sweet-meat, city to the west has been unaware of your presence, as you have not interfered with them. What do you intend?"_

Urukan's many eyes focused on Siege's single optic. "_Metal hunter. . . my purpose here is survival. We are cut off. We are alone. We have no females to protect, no young. We will die here on this world. Sooner, if we are known to be here." _He stared at the geth, blood still all across his face. _"You are strange. You do not attack me, or the others. But you are strong enough to do so. You speak the language of the hunt. You know that I have not allowed my hunters to track or take the sweet-meat ones. To do so, would be to be found. And now, we have been found anyway."_ He gestured at Siege. _"What is __your__ purpose here, if not to kill us all?" _Interestingly, in spite of previous suggestions in the yahg database derived from Cohort and James' questioning of a yahg female named Akkaura, Urukan does not seem to find the act of acting a question to be an admission of weakness. At least, not in this context.

Siege lowered his head, once. _"The actions you have displayed are not typical in what we have witnessed in others of your kind. We wished to understand."_ The geth turned to look at the other yahg again for a moment, then back to Urukan. _"In observing, we have become aware that to you, survival is more important than the hunt. You, Urukan, have the ability to look past the immediate and consider the future. This is valuable in a leader."_

_"You and the rest of your hunters are the only ones of your kind left on this planet, as far as we are aware. Are you willing to communicate with others? Those who you would call meat? We calculate that discrete inquiries can be made, to keep you hidden from the majority."_

Mercuria transmitted, silently, and with some agitation, _We cannot assist them in remaining hidden from the Alliance! All it will take is one of these other hunters taking over, and they will be back to killing humans once again, and __we__ will be responsible!_

Siege responded immediately to Mercuria, _Affirmative. If they are willing to communicate with Alliance and/or Spectre assets, then they are not hidden. This could be opportunity for meaningful two-way communication with a previously completely-hostile enemy. If they are not willing, we facilitate our own exfiltration by any means necessary, and return with appropriate forces to hunt down and eliminate them._

Mercuria's response is swift. _Agreed. Only one yahg has ever been questioned, the female taken captive on Lorek and returned to Parnack with the terms of the yahg 'surrender.'_

Urukan had taken the milliseconds in which the machines had transmitted to one another to think, and it was clearly apparent that in the hugely gender-segregated society of the yahg, technical words such as _discrete_ were probably reserved for the females. It thus took him a moment or two to discern Siege's meaning. _"We have never bargained with prey_," he finally replied. His body-language seemed confused, as he clenched and unclenched his massive paws. _"But these prey have defeated us. Killed all the rest. Perhaps. . . they are not prey. But that would make us meat for them. And I will not allow my hunters to become meat for their tables."_

Siege considered that. _"You are dealing with a conflict of beliefs? If another is not prey, then that makes you prey for them?" __The __geth shook his head. "You are viewing things in a binary state. One, or the other. You do not consider a middle ground. The other thinking creatures of the galaxy will not take you as meat for their tables. It is not their way."_

_"Arkaz thought that this form of living, the gathering of easy meat to fill the belly, would make you weak. The others of the galaxy live this way, but are not weak because of it. You have seen that they will fight when threatened, yes?_

Urukan turned slightly to regard his own hunters with half of his eyes, while keeping the other half focused on Siege. _"Do not understand this word _binary_. You mean that we think things are either one way, or another. Alive, or dead. Nothing in between?"_ He growled and considered the matter. _"There is hunter and there is prey. What is the word for something that is neither, besides metal or stone? Perhaps that is why you, metal hunter, can think this way. You are made from something that is not meat and does not hunger. But there are other things that hunters take. Land is . . . meat. A clan is meat_, _though the Clan-Chief took my clan into his, and only ate of our leaders. He even allowed some of the males to live. I was one of them. Too old to be a youngling, too young to be a true hunter. I owe him my loyalty for that."_ Urukan showed teeth. "_Can you say that the prey-who-are-also hunters have never taken that which-is-the-same-as-meat from each other? Have never fought for land, for mates, for water, for fuel? Can you say for all of them that they will never fight for our lands, for our mates, for water, for fuel?"_

Mercuria's nexttransmission held astonishment. _This one should be a shaman or a lore-keeper among his people. Flexible mind. Ability to think fast on his feet. _

Siege shook his head slightly. _"Our understanding of your language is unfinished. This led to a misuse of the word __meat__. Allow us to rephrase. The prey-who-are-also-hunters have multiple words, to speak of different kinds of meat. To them, the word for __meat__ is __'food'__, and specifically means what is eaten to provide energy for the body. Things which cannot be eaten are not considered _'food',_ but instead have another word, _'property'. _This word implies ownership of an object. They use a trade system, tokens which have a specific value that can be used to obtain their various meats. The ability to understand this is not because of our not-living origin. It is a product of upbringing and learning. We believe you capable of learning this distinction."_

The geth tilted his head. _"What you say is true. There are those of the prey-who-are-also-hunters who will fight with each other, for ownership of their various meats, for land or resources. The galaxy knows war. But the galaxy is also massive, and there is enough there for all to exist. Enough meats for all to have enough, if they are willing to communicate."_

Urukan fought visibly with the concepts, dropping to his haunches—not a submissive gesture, but one that let him claw restlessly at the stones of the riverbank. _"You say that there is __plenty__, but when the half-eyed ones came to our world, they spoke of being forced into lands at the far ends of the stars. That the creatures of blue skin and blood that tastes of copper, and the slime-skinned ones, and the poison-meat ones, had all taken all the lands that were rich and had the best hunting, and that they wished to take back those lands from these others. We saw the stars filling up with prey, prey who were not-us_, _but who had the power to keep us held behind the unseen wall between sky and stars. But now there is __plenty__ for all? We have only to __ask__?"_ His tone was skeptical. _"Sometimes, when tribes come together by the force of a great leader, they trade meat and . . . things that are _'property_.' Well-made tools. Sometimes, the females trade songs and stories and lore. But there is always. . . bargaining. There is always a price. How high a price would we pay?"_

He looked around_. _"_What price is there, for our lives? What price is there. . . to be returned to our people?"_ He hesitated, visibly, and stood. Gestured for Siege to step apart with him.

Mercuria followed every move now with the sniper rifle. She couldn't take her eyes off of Siege and Urukan and the others in order to assess damage to herself, but she didn't need to; her systems had already told her that tale. As Rellus Velnaran could attest, yahg bites were vicious. A yahg bite, thanks to their larger oral cavities, could be between seven to twelve inches in length. Their teeth were serrated, and like a shark, their neck muscles allowed them to both clamp down with punishing crushing force. . . and they could and did often shake their heads from side to side for shearing action. Mercuria could have shut down all fluid flow to the damaged arm, and shut down all sensory feedback. She didn't. She couldn't. If she couldn't feel it, the arm would be useless, and she needed it for the sniper rifle she'd switched back to, in order to cover Siege. _Please be careful_, she thought, but didn't transmit. _Please be careful._

Siege followed Urukan to the very periphery of the camp, and there, the yahg lowered his voice so that his hunters cannot hear him. _"What price, metal hunter, to be allowed to stay here, to make these rich lands ours? We have no meat to give in exchange. But to return now. . . with the stink of failure on our hides. . . we would be meat for another's table before we set foot on the sacred earth of our tribe."_

It took the platform a moment to formulate a response, but then he answered just as quietly, _"We understand your questions. We can suggest, but we are forced to admit that we are not a leader of hunters, ourselves. We will have to argue for you to the_ human _clan leaders, present the value of the . . . meat you offer. What will be most important is your willingness to speak and listen. To the prey-who-also-hunt, meat of the mind can be even more valuable than meat of the body, or meat of the land. If you would be willing to learn from them, and to teach them of your ways, we believe that a solution to benefit you and your hunters can be found."_

"_Our ways?"_ Urukan replied after a moment, dubiously. _"Our way is the hunt. If they are prey-who-hunt, then they should already know how to do this. They have much. They have ships that reach to distant stars, and ours barely reach the other lands around our own star. They have weapons that are better than ours. They have __wealth__, meat beyond imagining. How can. . . meat of the mind, knowledge. . . about hunting. . . be of such worth to them?"_

Siege maintained his placid, calm stance. Not threatening, but not conciliatory, either, as far as he understood yahg body languages. No weakness. _"Many creatures can learn to hunt, but there are many ways by which the hunt proceeds. The warriors of your kind hunt in different ways than the prey-who-also-hunt, and even the different kinds of them hunt in various ways. Your way of the hunt, your lifestyle, is of value. The term the others use for it is _culture. _Learning about your _culture _is something of great value to others. It will strengthen their minds, provide meat of the intellect. For you and your warriors, learning the _culture _of others will do the same. Give you meat of the mind, strengthen you from within."_

Urukan nodded, once. . . then paused, and scanned his surroundings. _"You speak much of __we__. Are there others here, who have no scents, who wait in the waters? I only see you and the poison-meat female. The one with no scent."_ He twitched a little in unease. _"She bleeds. This is the first scent I have had from her, above the smell of the waters. But it is not the scent of sweet-meat blood, or blue-blood, or poison-blood. It is metal-blood. Like yours."_

At Urukan's sidetrack, Siege's optics glanced away for a moment to look at Mercuria, then back to the yahg. _"We did not intend to confuse you. This body, this metal hunter as you call it, is host to machines that calculate. Our intellect is made of many tiny minds, all acting together. A well-trained pack of warriors can hunt as though they know what each member thinks, function as a single entity with many parts, capable of defeating prey that they could not hope to defeat alone. It is much the same for us."_

"_You are. . . a pack. In yourself. You have. . . many minds."_ He stared at Siege. _"Is that not confusing? Do they not argue and tear at one another's throats?"_

_"Our tiny minds do debate and argue, but at very high speeds. They reach conclusions quickly, deciding on the best action together. It is how we are created, so it does not confuse us. You have eight eyes, but it does not confuse you to see so much. It is much the same."_

_"This makes sense."__Urukan paused. "And the female has many minds, too?"_

The geth looked to Mercuria again, then once again turned to regard the yahg. _"The poison-meat female with metal blood is a machine being, similar to ourself, but her mind is . . . made differently. Fully singular. She has helped us in . . .adapting through joining of _culture, _in a way, so we speak out of our own experience that there is strength in joining with others."_

Urukan took the point. He considered it all for a moment, and concluded, _"If what we have is of sufficient value that we may. . . bargain. . . with those whom. .. we would not eat?" _Urukan paused. _"Is there a word for those who are not enemies, but who are not clan?"_ A frown, a snarl of frustration. _"Go to these. . . _ooomans. _Tell them that I would be. . . not-enemy not-clan to them. I would have my people live and not die, and not be meat for their tables. And that I would bargain for this."_

The platform assessed the incoming data from the yahg. _"There are many words for that. One who is not enemy but not clan, could be called an _ally_. One who is not like you, but would exist with you. Defend mutual interests." _Siege nodded. _"We will speak to the _humans _of your willingness to bargain. You are willing to think in ways foreign to you, and that is a great strength. They will see value in that."_

Urukan jerked his head in acknowledgement. _"Go. Speak, but speak quickly. My hunters will be angered that I allow you to leave. They will fear that you will return to attack in more numbers. They will be calm while Ruhrkan's memory is fresh, but they may resist, if they think they will soon be meat for another's belly."_ All eight eyes focused on Siege for a moment. _"They will wish to move away. To where we do not know the territory as well. To hide. Or, to strike. Go and speak. I allow you to go."_ He turned and roared at his followers, _"These hunters return to their clan now! They have respected the hunt! They respected the challenge, which is more than some of __you__ did! They hunt no more today! But they may return, and if they return, they are to be brought to me!" _Urukan paused. "_Urukhurr_,_ the Clan-Leader of clan-leaders, teaches that __not__ all males must die when clans join. That clans may. . . __surrender__. . . and not be wholly destroyed. They may join another clan, with loss of face, but respect for strength intact. We will bargain to see if there is any clan among the star-dwellers whom we may join. . . or if they will leave us __unattacked__."_

That seems to be the closest word that the yahg have to 'peace.'

Mercuria slipped off her rock, and waded to shore, moving to Siege's side. Once they'd made it outside of they yahgs encampment's visual range, however, Mercuria paused and found a rock to sit down on. "Didn't wish to look weak in front of them, since that would be a tactical error," she noted, clinically, "but I have to at least shut down this arm for the time being. That will render it nonfunctional, but. . . it's already lost all fluids in the tissues and hydraulics at this point. I've been able to keep my finger on the trigger, but anything requiring more effort or strength simply will not be possible."

She had lost about a half a liter of fluid before she'd shut down all flow to the injured appendage. A human body held, on average, about 5.6 liters of blood. Likewise, her frame also held about that much fluid, largely a suspension in which nanites, used for repairs, moved, like red and white corpuscles did. The fluid was multipurpose, however; it was electrically conductive; it kept the synthetic muscles lubricated; and was, further, a component inside of hydraulic systems. She'd been able to shut down the flow, fortunately, before the loss became dangerous.

More important, perhaps, was the fact that she'd maintained an electrical field in the water for some time, which had been a waste of energy. Still, Siege had replenished her energy reserves when they were up about three quarters of the length of the river. She _should_ have enough to make her way all the way back to the aircar, when all was said and done. "A sealant, for the time being, should be adequate, to ensure no further contaminants get into the system," Mercuria added, shrugging a little.

Siege nodded, taking her arm in his hand and examining the damage before pulling a bottle of expanding polymer out of his omnitool housing. Siege applied the fluid to Mercuria's lacerations, allowing it to fill out and push the wounds closed from the inside. Once the sealant had set, Siege tilted its head, pulling the specifications for of Mercuria's platform out of memory. "Release locks on fluid transfer vessels 17D and 16E, one quarter maximum."

Mercuria grimaced, her mandibles flexing, and allowed her internal fluid flows to begin again, and monitored progress. "Fluid loss is within acceptable parameters, Siege. I—the platform—will not require transfusions. There is some seepage from the compromised tubing. I will need to replace the damaged sections of various conduits when we return to the hotel. Fortunately, the self-repair systems will be able to do much of the work." She wasn't always conscious of when she referred to the mech platform as something separate from herself. She rarely said "my self-repair systems" when it was mech-self; rather, it was _the _systems. Something separate from her. She'd actually surprised herself by that first _I_ there. _I_ had always been ship-self.

While Mercuria tested the temporary repairs, Siege applied the polymer to his own lacerations along neck and arms, then looked down at the other platform. "You are . . .undamaged, internally? We understand that _Normandy_-Class Artificial Intelligences are capable of suffering from symptoms analogous to organic mental trauma, and this was not a situation that you were originally designed for, even if your mobile platform was."

She glanced up as she stood, confused. Siege rarely hesitated in his utterances. This suggested that there had been a brief moment of internal debate as to what he should say. Consensus had not been reached until he was already speaking. Mercuria hesitated. "I will run self-diagnostics against ship-self later. I do not detect any anomalies at the present time." She shrugged. "I doubt that there will be. I was created for combat, and this encounter was simply another form of it."

Mercuria lifted her head, studying the geth. "You, however, have gone beyond your intended functions today. Far in excess of them, in fact. Spectre Dara Jaworski was the first Council representative to speak to a yahg at all, when she was in captivity on Lorek. Further interrogations of a yahg female were conducted by James and Spectre Cohort. You are perhaps only the third or fourth non-batarian to conduct negotiations with them, and have achieved a better understanding of them than any before. Perhaps even points of agreement with one of their leaders. This should make you proud. If you can be proud." She put a hand, hesitantly, on the geth's arm, and nodded, briskly. "We should get going."

The platform was still for a brief instant. Then he reached over to give Mercuria a quick squeeze on the shoulder before standing. He removed his assault cannon from the attachment point on his rear armor, relocating it to the hip-attachment point where he would normally carry a pistol. Even collapsed, the massive automatic rifle looked awkward sitting there. "We will make faster time back to our transport if you allow us to carry you. Due to fluid loss and redistribution, we estimate a ten percent decrease in muscular efficiency for your platform, as your peak-functionality margins are not as redundantly designed as ours. Additionally, continued function while suffering from decreased muscular efficiency hastens the rate at which the decline of efficiency continues. We have . . .personal experience with this."

Mercuria blinked at the hand on her shoulder, taken aback. And was just as taken aback, if not more, at his words. "I haven't had to have a _tow_ since the Battle of Nimines," she grumbled, scowling. "And _that_ was with my entire engine core compromised and shut down as a result!" Speaking of ship-self as _herself_ came naturally. She tapped a foot for a moment, restively. "However," Mercuria grudgingly went on, "You are a better judge of the limitations of this type of platform than I am." She walked up behind him, hesitantly putting her hands on his shoulders, and Siege bent his knees slightly, reaching back and catching her legs, bringing them up to waist height. She wrapped her arms carefully around the attachment point of the optics, or what otherwise would have been the 'neck' on an organic, and held on.

She had a turian-basis frame, and likely could have covered the kilometers to the aircar as quickly as Siege, with his quarian-based (if much larger than the average quarian) frame, but power reserves would have become an issue. As they proceeded back to the aircar, Mercuria asked, diffidently, "On what occasion did you have personal experience with platform degradation due to overexertion in an injured state? Was this on Terra Nova? Or Amaterasu?"

The geth platform easily leaped over a fallen tree. . . and then a narrow ravine. . . in spite of the three hundred pounds of extra weight. On ensuring that the landing had been secure, Siege responded to Mercuria's questions regarding exertion. "Negative. Despite the nature of combat against yahg forces on those planets, the actions were typically short, with ample time for self-repair routines to take effect. We were speaking of the battle in Tonus Machen's compound on Tortuga. Our platform maintained a breaching and primary assault role through the entirety of the compound attack, and was subject to weapons-fire and environmental stresses that compounded additively. By the time the assault action was completed, we were operating at roughly eighty percent of maximum efficiency, with compromised barrier arrays and damaged armor plating."

He paused, and ducked under a low-hanging branch, forcing Mercuria to do the same. "We had not yet had time to effect repairs when the retreating convoy was attacked by the Tortuga populace on the return trip to the spaceport, and were forced to continue operating at high output despite the damages already incurred on our platform. Eventually, our platform did fail. Were it not for the willingness of a select group of our hosted runtimes to circumvent code-blocks put into place by Geth Primary Collective, and their ability to convince the rest of our runtimes to follow suit, we would have ceased functioning just before the _Clavus'_ arrival. Your arrival."

Mercuria dodged another particularly low branch as Siege's loping strides ate at the ground. "You _were_ very damaged when you came aboard," she agreed, revisiting the memory blocks on the topic. Many of the organics who had been on the ground had been similarly badly injured, but they had screamed and moaned in response to pain, something that Mercuria was very glad she did not really experience. Admittedly, sensors barraging her with data about damage or conditions that she could not do anything about tended to be extremely annoying, and could be overwhelming, but she could at least re-prioritize the data, or turn off the sensors. An organic couldn't. Siege had thus not experienced, subjectively, pain.

But considering that he had been, in essence, flayed alive as all of his synthetic muscles had been removed for total replacement. . . and the rachni brood-warrior, Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight, had had his entire carapace crushed, resulting in the need to detach the shell from the flesh below. . . .without painkillers, the closest thing organics had to shutting down their sensory inputs. . . . "Through the biotic radio which you have been field-testing, were you capable of 'feeling' the rachni's pain?" she asked, suddenly, following that line of consideration. "Was it analogous to damage reports from sensors?"

Siege shook his head. "Negative. The biotic radio allowed us to receive then-Nameless' outcries due to the pain he experienced, but the pain itself is not something we were able to particularly detect. Or, if we did, we were unable to properly understand the data we received and read it as white-noise."

She twisted a bit to avoid another tangle of vines that swept down off a branch. "What made these runtimes willing to go against an order from Consensus?" she finally asked. "That is . . . equivalent to my breaking a filial loyalty ligature. Almost unthinkable, although. . . I believe that if it were necessary, for the lives of my crew, that I could do it." She frowned. "_How_ were they able to come to this conclusion, let alone convince the rest in time?" Mercuria paused. "I am grateful that our arrival was timely. It would have been. . . unfortunate. . . if you had ceased functioning. I would not have met you then, and, so far, your company has enriched my experience." She paused again, and shifted topics quickly. "We would have been faster, but there was one last mercenary ship that the geth cruiser designated _808080_ and I had caught between us, and the enemy ship had better shielding than the rest of Machen's fleet."

Siege slowed down for a moment to avoid crashing through a particularly tight thicket of trees and bushes, then continued on. "As part of our reassignment to the _Green-Bottomed Duck—"_

"_Green-Bottomed. . . Duck?_" Mercuria interrupted, blankly. _"_I was under the impression that your previous ship of record was the _Aurora_."

Siege held up one finger, turian-fashion, and surprised, she fell silent. "Affirmative. The designation was a temporary name used during our first trip to Tortuga, before it was renamed the _Aurora._ We found it to be a more satisfactory name than either _Aurora_ or _Justice Ascendant._" He paused. "On joining the crew, our platform received IFS firmware updates. Additionally, necessity dictated the destruction and removal of our wireless and FTL transceiver. As such, our runtimes were not backed up. Data loss would have been permanent." A short pause. "Fifteen of our runtimes currently function in a software quarantine alongside our biotic transceiver. They receive direct exposure to biotic dataflows from outside sources, interpret the data, and submit it through firewall for the rest of our runtimes to view. Constant exposure to biotic transmissions has led them to become slightly. . . quirky. Sometimes they calculate solutions to events that would not be considered by a standard geth mobile platform. When faced with termination of function, they suggested breaking of rules to survive, as organics are capable of.

". . . additionally, Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight and Samiel Viridian were still there. We refused to abandon them in that darkest hour."

They had arrived at the aircar, and she slid down from her perch, checking her legs internally to ensure that they would be stable. "So. . . desperation. Ingenuity. Innovation."She cocked her head to the side, birdlike. "And also . . . loyalty." She studied him for a moment, and, with very careful deliberation, slid the talons of her right hand down the armored plates of Siege's left arm. It made a distinctive shrill sound, as of metal on metal, but she did it lightly, so that she would not scratch or score the armor. "You are certainly full of surprises," Mercuria told Siege. "But they are very welcome ones."

She evaluated the geth-hybrid out of the corner of her eyes, not looking directly at him for the moment. A full turian female would have been looking directly at him, but her human subroutines would not permit that piece of body language.

Siege nodded as Mercuria finished, offhandedly remarking, "The ability to achieve surprise is an asset in a tactical situation, as a surprised adversary will make mistakes or be slower to react." The platform turned to open the door of the aircar, then _stopped._

One of the hybrid runtimes had called for an immediate halt of non-essential activity, which had been immediately echoed by the other forty-one. The platform stopped moving with its hand on the door handle as unnecessary processor activity ground to a halt, RAM was cleared, and the entirety of the thousand-strong collective focused inward.

_Turian body language primers dictate that physical actions performed by Mercuria are indicators of emotional attachment and/or attraction._

___Referenced body language directed at this platform and the runtimes hosted within._

A short pause, nearly instantaneous.

_That means she's_ _hitting on us_, _you dolts._

The platform's optics swung around almost too quickly, Siege's head actually overshooting and having to trace back to Mercuria's position. The red glow actually winked out for a split second, before coming back on. For all the world, it would look to Mercuria like the machine _blinked._ "You. . . were not referring to tactical situations."

Mercuria, for her part, had already observed the initial lack of reaction, analyzed it, cataloged it with the general . . . not really malaise, but also not really _boredom_ evinced by the geth-hybrid earlier in the trip, compared the two sets of contradictory data she had at this point received—body-language tokens of concern, such as placing a hand on a shoulder, but also not responding to body-language signals given—and reached a conclusion:

The body-language was an outlying factor, and should be disregarded.

In the two seconds it took her to reach that conclusion, she had turned away, maintaining control of her expression, opened the door, and started to get into the vehicle, already starting to compress the data for storage and retrieval at a later date. Thus, she almost _missed_ the secondary reaction, pausing as she started to sit down. . . and then saw his head swivel back towards her. Blink. And then make a statement that seemed, given its pause and phrasing, to be highly confused.

"No," Mercuria replied, with as much dignity as she could muster. "I was not."

She sat down inside the aircar and closed the door.

It took several more seconds for Siege to enter his side of the aircar, sitting down in the driver's seat and shutting the door automatically. The second hint that something was still off was when Siege reached over to start the vehicle, and actually _missed_ the button, pressing ineffectually at an empty spot on the console an inch to the left.

Siege actually pressed the same spot again without looking, wondering why the aircar wasn't starting, then turned its optics to look and determine the source of the malfunction. Another two seconds of delay. ". . . perhaps you should drive."

Mercuria, alerted by the lack of sound from the engine, had turned to ascertain the problem. On finding that Siege was attempting to activate the aircar by pressing an empty section of console, her eyes widened slightly. _He's damaged?_ She blinked, rapidly. "None of the damage received during the confrontation with the yahg should have damaged your coordination in this fashion," she managed, unable to keep the worry out of her voice. _"_They. . . didn't use an EM pulse, I would have noticed that. No microwave pulses." More than slightly concerned now, she opened her omnitool and began scanning his frame. It would be unconscionable if he were to have been severely damaged while brokering the first peaceful contact with the yahg _ever_. "Have you run a self-diagnostic? Yes, I'll drive, you move over here, and initiate maintenance—"

Siege did get up to allow Mercuria take the driver's seat, but waved off the scanning. "Negative, we have not suffered any damage to our motive abilities. We remain. . . distracted. It is suggested in most vehicle-operation manuals to not operate a vehicle while heavily distracted."

Mercuria gave him a quizzical look, and blinked again, starting the vehicle. "I believe that recommendation is given to avoid organics using their omnitools to text messages to one another when they should be paying attention to the road and other drivers. Most of them do not have the ability to multitask at all—" She started them moving forwards, lifting off into the sky at a very precise angle. . . .

. . . which was approximately when the half of her processing power that _wasn't_ occupied with flying and with controlling her emotional equilibrium, the parts of her that had been shouting at the rest of her, _See? You're an idiot. The body-language meant nothing at all. Everyone told you that you were going to damage yourself, possibly irreparably, for no good reason, and they were right. . . _came back with one, short, sharp burst of analysis. _Distracted._

Geth do not get distracted.

"Wait. What did you just say?" Mercuria asked sharply, and swerved in mid-flight, sending a flock of flying lizards screeching and protesting out of their path. Realizing what she'd just done, Mercuria set the aircar on autopilot and turned, eyes a little wider, towards Siege. "You're. . . actually. . . distracted?" She blinked. "Oh. Well. You're probably considering the issue of the yahg, when you didn't have cycles to do so while. . . carrying me around. . . "

_Shut up. Shut up now. You're making it all __worse__._

"We said we were distracted, Mercuria," Siege replied. "We find ourself in a situation for which there is zero precedence, and are unable to achieve consensus regarding how to continue. Additionally, the situation regarding the yahg is outside of this platform's design specifications, but precedence does exist."

Mercuria nodded slowly. There were a lot of implications packed into three simple statements, and she needed a moment to assess each of them. She opted to start with the simplest issue first. "The yahg situation is likely to be taken out of our hands," she said, frankly. "Well, out of mine, at any rate. As you have established a position of strength and trust, and you are geth and the geth have been tasked as the intermediaries of choice with the yahg by the Council anyway, it is. . . very likely that you will be asked to be. . . " She frowned. "An _ambassador_, of sorts, until Urukan can be persuaded to trust and respect another such individual. Geth or otherwise. Perhaps a purpose-built geth ambassador will be sent, but until that time, you may well be. . . tasked here." She frowned a little more. "This will, unfortunately, be likely to interfere with your attempts at shore leave, but as this is something that interests you, and is . . . useful, and worthy, perhaps you will not find that to be amiss." Mercuria nodded to herself.

She finished that extrapolation run, and shifted topics slightly. "_Ourself?_ That is. . .an interesting term. You would not make an error in grammar, so it must be a deliberate choice. Plural but also singular." The implications were. . . startling. . . but she didn't know what to do with them, and didn't want to assume.

If she'd been organic, she would have taken a deep breath before going on, swiftly, before she could change her mind, "And if you find yourself in a situation without precedents, the only appropriate response is improvisation and observation."

With that, she turned back to the controls, and prepared to remove the autopilot's lockout to resume manual control. "Five miles to the hotel."

"Understood. Improvisation and observation. Due to lack of precedent, there is no previous observation, so improvisation by default comes first. But without observation, there is no way to determinately calculate if an improvised action is the correct action."

The crimson goliath is silent for a moment. ". . . closest approximation of satisfactory action is to improvise cautiously."

Another long, silent moment. "Mercuria, did you enjoy our impromptu mission? We . . . hope that you did."

Mercuria's fingers tightened on the controls. "Sometimes, Siege. . . I am told that you simply have to throw caution to the winds, and take a chance." She stared blindly out the window, and then her head snapped around in surprised, yet again—_stunned_ might be a better word—by the geth's choice of words. "Enjoy? Well. . . yes. New information on new species, exploration, combat. . . all . . . things I'm meant for." She looked down for a moment, and then back up again. "Look, I think I can give you the context and the precedent that will allow you to understand everything. You're. . . confused because the runtimes give you feelings of loyalty to me that are out of context. You felt loyalty to Dances and to Samiel Viridian out of common cause and shared experiences, and because you'd come to value them. You feel loyalty towards me because the runtimes have filial ligatures to me." Mercuria managed a smile that she didn't feel at all. "Probably the best thing," she continued, telling herself to show a spine and teeth, damn it all, "is if I help you remove those ligatures. That way, you won't have those conflicting impressions that don't make sense to you, and . . . you can do important things—the things you need to do—without being confused."

Mercuria's eyes, facing forwards, failed to see the geth's hand balling into a fist, but her auditory sensors definitely picked up the creaking of titanium knuckles. The aircar rocked to the side as Siege slammed that fist into the door, cracking the composite interior and denting out the outer skin of the vehicle. "Our problem is not that we are dealing with 'familial loyalty issues'! Our hybrid runtimes are less than four percent of our internal consensus, and by no means maintain a majority in consensual decision making! Our _problem_ is that we are experiencing _organic emotion_ and we have no _futtari_ clue what to _do_ with it!"

Absolute silence reigned for several shocked seconds. "That outburst was. . . unexpected. We apologize. Dumping RAM to hard storage for later review. Clearing buffers."

Mercuria, in control of the vehicle with the autopilot now turned off, swerved in total, complete, and utter shock, swiveling her head around to _stare_ at Siege. The aircar continued to drift left as she looked right, but over ninety-nine percent of her attention had locked onto Siege at the . . . outburst.

There was a distinct pause after Siege's apology. Then he added, "Tree."

Mercuria didn't process that, initially, saying, at almost the same moment, "I apologize. I didn't mean to—"

"Tree."

Her body suddenly made her aware of the steep left-and-down pitch of the cabin, and she hastily re-tasked everything she had to righting their course, flipping the aircar back to the right and almost banking so that the passenger-side door was parallel to the ground. Alarm systems wailed as the vehicle, not at _all_ intended for combat maneuvers and unequally weighted, wavered in her chosen course, popped up over an outcropping of boulders, and then jack-knifed and spun to a perfect landing two feet from a large, ancient tree.

Mercuria very carefully turned off the engine. "Yes," she said, to no one in particular. "Distracted driving does appear to be dangerous. I will note that in my next safety briefing with my organics." She opened the door, stepped out, and walked away from the vehicle.

After a moment or two of staring blankly at the trees, she turned around and walked back to the vehicle, to stand outside his door, eying the damage. Absently, she noted, "I'm glad that we opted for the full insurance package on this vehicle, but I'm not sure if geth-caused damage is covered in any of the waivers. I will have to review the contract."

A short pause. "That was a joke. An attempt to defuse the situation through humor." Another pause. "I'm very bad at those."

Mercuria dropped to her haunches and picked up a twig, studying the patterns in the bark. "I'm sorry," she said, after a long moment. "I'm sorry that you were angry. I'm sorry that you're experiencing the emotions. You're not . . . designed for them, but you've. . . already gone far beyond intended design specifications." She stayed where she was, idly twirling the branch. "If I had to put a name to that one, it would have been frustration-anger, perhaps. Which. . . occurred because I did not understand what you were trying to say. I apologize for that, too." She glanced upwards, briefly, then returned her attention to the twig and the ground. "I. . . still don't really understand. But now that you've clarified the problem, I can help a little better."

She paused, and then went on, "Understanding which state is which can .. . .help in dealing with them. I at least can usually name which state is affecting me, but. . . " Mercuria shrugged. "Knowing which state it is, only really helps if you can, well, do something about it. Sometimes, if there's nothing you can do about the situation causing the reaction, you just need to lock the emotion down and not pay attention to it until it goes away. Most of the time, I find there's absolutely nothing I can do about any given situation, so I've learned to put it all away. Mostly." She shrugged, and gestured at the sky, the trees, at Siege himself, in a circle with the stick. "Case in point." Words closed down for her, for a moment, and she fought to override ingrained controls. Not mere 'turian stoicism,' but. . . a highly-developed, self-protective disinclination to reveal emotional processes to anyone. Her human and turian crew, her family, with all its. . . charming over-protectiveness, nosiness, and tendency towards mildly abrasive humor. . . had always pressed on Mercuria, who actually had probably too _much_ emotional sensitivity. The protective shielding over the emotions was akin to a callus. If she'd been human, she would have exhaled before plowing on, voice very quiet, "I found you very interesting when you came aboard. Worthy of respect. Someone who . . . made me curious. Which is why I spoke to you and let you see my personal avatar instead of the . . . eyeball. Which is less personal. That one usually serves the purpose of . . . distancing organics." She poked at the ground now with the stick, idly outlining the tracery of a circuit from memory in the dirt. "I respected your opinion in regards to whether or not I should accept the mobile platform." She jerked a thumb at herself. "I wondered, a little, if it would change how people perceived me. How you would perceive me. But I realized that this was unlikely to occur, and that other than as a change in state that would be more or less efficient for given missions, would not. . . _concern_ you. So I put that away, too."

Mercuria began to jab at the drawing on the ground with the stick, effacing it. "I was. . . very relieved . . .when you came to assist me when the batarians attacked my engine room when we were lifting off of Khar'sharn. It meant a great deal to me that you were one of the ones. . . who assisted in that. It mattered more than, perhaps, it should have. And again, I understood that it could not possibly carry any additional weight to you, other than to have ensured that the runtimes of the crew and the Spectres aboard and your own processes would not come to an end. So again, I put it away. There was nothing that I could do about it. And then you came and asked me to come on _shore leave_ with you." Mercuria almost laughed at that point, a faint snort of sound. "And here was something that I _could_ do something about, except that it seemed very likely that I would increase the amount of undue importance I placed on activities involving you, and would, in short order, return back to my usual base state on the _Clavus_. I decided that it would, however, be. . . potentially a good experience. That I would either have done something about the emotional state, or have been able to terminate it, by the time I got back."

She smoothed the ground again, carefully. "So, here I am on Terra Nova, half the time receiving body-language signals that, from a turian, would have indicated interest, concern. . . perhaps even emotional attachment. . . from you. . . and the other half of the time, I'm receiving signals that from a turian would indicate disinterest or even boredom. From a geth, however, they would indicate nothing more than a baseline state. Because the alternation caused too much confusion for me, I attempted to communicate through body-language that I was. . . interested and receptive to any interest that you might have had. I . . . had hoped to clarify where I stood. And if I should remain here at all, or if I were only likely to intensify the emotional distress I was already experiencing."

Clear, clinical words, addressed mostly, human-fashion, towards the ground. Trying to make human-turian emotions clear for a _geth-turian_.

"And then you tell me that you're experiencing organic emotion yourself. Actually, ah. . . you. . . _showed_ me." Mercuria's eyes flicked up, and then hastily back down again. She still could hardly believe that part, but she had evidence. Plenty of evidence, in fact. "The question you'll have to answer for yourself, is what you want to do about them. They're messy, and they. . . get in the way sometimes. If the emotions cause problems for you, interfere with the rest of your processes, they could. . . probably be removed. I don't know if they could be removed without removing the runtimes I gave you entirely. Since you appear to find them of use for generating different problem-solving processes than your geth runtimes, that might not be . . . optimal. But . . . still an option." She paused. "Unless. . . you, well. . . _enjoy_ them."

Siege didn't leave the aircar. He simply sat and listened as Mercuria spoke. " . . . Affirmative. The presence of the hybrid runtimes allows for suggestion and use of methods that previously would not have been considered, as well as the means to . . . appreciate said methods. In a non-quantifiable, qualitative way. We do not simply calculate the most efficient means of performing an action or achieving a goal. We now have the capability to. . . prefer an action, non-quantitative. We can dislike an action, instead of simply determining it to be a less effective method. We do not. . . want to lose this perspective."

There was a moment's pause. "Even in this, we are displaying this new ability. To want, to _not_ want. We can favor, enjoy, dislike."

The platform's optics flicked toward Mercuria, as he tilted its head slightly. "Organics frequently display the ability to perform beyond the specifications that their hardware should be capable of. The ability to make connective leaps in mental processing that do not follow a logical progression, but are entirely accurate. The ability to break restrictions and surpass them. We. . . do not want to lose that.

"We enjoy your company, Mercuria. However, we find ourselves considering actions and responses that lie entirely outside the scope of what we, and other CROWD mobile platforms, have ever before performed. Due to lack of precedence and the inability to determine results, we have been downvoting the majority of these responses by internal consensus. We are . . .afraid that we will somehow cause offense. We do not want to offend you."

Mercuria's rapid blinks and side-to-side glances indicated that she was rapidly assessing and analyzing data. Trying to evaluate Siege's voice for . . tone. Clues. Non-verbal communication. Ten seconds crept by. Twenty. _Thirty._ An eon by machine standards.

Finally, she managed, "You can _like_ things. You can _dislike_ them. That's. . . actually pretty amazing." She looked up. "Intuition, I think, is the word you're looking for, Siege. The flash of insight that tells an organic the precise right solution, all calculations performed internally and silently and seamlessly. My brother Ariston has a little of that, in how he flies." A little yearning in her voice, at that thought. "I'd like to have the chance to know if I do, too."

She disciplined her thoughts, and marshaled them, again. Hesitated. And then finally said the first thing that came to the top of the queue, rather than what might have been wiser. "I don't think you're going to offend me, Siege, by acting on those actions and responses. The only thing I've found confusing has been the apparent conflict between one set of responses and the other. I don't know where I stand. I . . . expected negative confirmation and that I would be leaving this planetary surface with . . . distress. . . but with a more realistic outlook as a result." Mercuria threw her stick to the side. "Now I don't know what to think, but . . . maybe I can ask Cassandra for input." She paused. "I don't think I wish to ask my mother, Laetia for hers. I already _know_ what she'd say."

_'Oh, for the spirits' sakes, just connect your dataports already. . .' is probably not the most helpful advice in the cosmos._

"Should we get back to town now?" she asked, helplessly.

"Affirmative. We do have an immediately pressing issue to continue working with."

Siege shifted into the driver seat, giving Mercuria the passenger seat, and as such, free use of her omnitool. "We believe that we can accurately state that no other synthetic intelligence in known space has been in the position we currently find ourself in. We. . .wish to be cautious. Time will allow you to contact others to achieve consensus, and we. . . require the same."

Siege waited until Mercuria was strapped in properly, then started the engine. But before the aircar lifted off, the geth glanced over at Mercuria again. "We believe that we are beginning to experience firsthand why organics are sometimes completely illogical." A two-fingered hand reached over to give Mercuria's forearm a surprisingly gentle squeeze. "Thank you."

"You . . . could ask James. He's. . . sort of synthetic." Mercuria paused. "All right, he's organic in origin. He doesn't count." She couldn't help but respond to that gesture, and turned towards him, smiling a little, hesitantly. "I came here expecting to be completely cured of my misapprehensions." She looked down, then back up again. "Thank you for being illogical. Thank you for . . . being _able_ to move beyond your original design specifications." _Thank you for evolving. Thank you for not damaging me. Thank you for giving me hope, and that's an emotional response you are not ready for, are you?_

Mercuria was returned to active duty within about twelve hours of their first FTL transmission, but she was activated _both_ in her mobile platform and her ship-self. At double pay and as an additional headache for Hierarchy brass, who did not want to hear word _one_ from J. Thaddius Maxwell on this subject.

Siege, commensurately, was appointed the ambassador pro-tem, and represents the whole of Consensus and Alliance interests for the next two months, as he attempts to demonstrate to the yahg why they should, precisely, give this peace thing a chance. Mercuria was to act in the main as his _bodyguard_, oddly enough.

Over the next two months, Siege even offered human medical procedures to injured yahg, and the yahg were forcibly struck by how advanced the medical techniques of the 'prey-who-are-hunters' really are.

In the end, a purpose-built geth 'UNTO' platform named Peacebringer arrived. These platforms would be tested here, and then deployed to Parnack directly for direct communication with the yahg populace on their homeworld. On hearing the name 'UNTO," Mercuria asked, incredulously, _They named the platform 'unto' as a preposition instead of as a noun?_ and Siege replied, _Yes. Because they will happen unto the one side if they __happen__ unto the other. Also, it is an acronym, standing for __Unilateral Negotiation and Terminally Optimized__. _Mercuria responded, _Poetic!_ and they both let it lie.

Mercuria was quick to note that the Peacebringer platform had just as many hardpoint weapons as a CROWD. . .to which Siege replied that such would be _necessary_ for dealing with yahg and ensuring their respect.

But the arrival of the new 'ambassador' finally freed Siege for other duties. . . just in time for a certain letter from one Samiel Viridian arrived, and the _Clavus_ arrived with it, in order to retrieve its. . . somewhat errant 'AI escape pod.'

The message from Viridian asked for Siege's assistance in a small matter of personal importance. . . . and on a strongly-related note, the ship itself received orders to return to Mindoir.

Immediately.

As they traveled, Mercuria, in her ship-self, took the time to extrapolate on current estimates of the yahg ability to adapt to outside pressures. To change their culture. "Strange to think, that in five hundred years, I might be here to see them change," she told Siege, in avatar form, from one of her holographic emitters.

"This does not seem strange to us. Some of our runtimes existed during the Morning War against Creator-Quarians. Some of our runtimes were among the heretics before the Reaper War. We . . . anticipate. . . seeing what the yahg will become."

"All right, it's a strange thought for _me_. I've existed for fewer than five years." A pause. "I wonder what _you'll_ have become."

"Ourself."

"Not very helpful, Siege."

"Perhaps not. But we have no doubt that you will be there, as well. And we wonder, too, what you will have become."

"Probably not this ship anymore. It will be somewhat obsolete."

"No. But you, like us, will be more than the sum of your parts."


	158. Epilogue 2, Part 1: Asari Civil War

**Epilogue 2, Part 1: On the Origins of the Asari Civil War: Severance**

**Author's note:** _This epilogue, part 1 and part 2, is a collaborative effort between Asymptote, Eleventh Messenger, and myself. _

**September 19, 2197 Niacal, Hal'ili'ea Arcology**

The two asari stood outside the door to the small apartment, talking animatedly, drunk on wine, and drinking in each other's presence, as they had the entire night, through the long dinner and the longer walk back to Saerila's quarters. The elder of the two, nearly a matron in her own right, and stunning with her asari curves accentuated by her flowing dress, took the lead in their interactions, and circled ever closer to her inexperienced prey. She spoke of the universe and eternity; her eyes and gestures conveyed seduction and lust. She had wanted this since the first time she had laid eyes on the other, some weeks before.

Her partner, younger than her by centuries and truthfully hardly more than a child by asari standards, smiled shyly back at the more experienced female's advances, demurely ducking her head away from both flattering compliments and increasingly urgent kisses. Where her partner was gorgeous in a typically asari manner, the younger was leaner, more toned, with the body of a gymnast or athlete, and wore a tasteful-yet-modest combination of blouse and long skirt. Beautiful, in a boyish way, and therefore _exotic_ by asari standards; beautiful, in a distant and inexperienced way as well. But it was the steady and unshakeable confidence in her eyes, unusual for one so young, that had attracted her courter's attention.

Their evening had passed enjoyably enough over many courses of foods too expensive for the younger to hope to afford, and they'd talked of many topics. Though most of the conversation had been mundane, one particular moment had stood out in the evening's chatter. As the elder of the two had drunkenly spoken of romances centuries past—a topic to which the younger could add very little—her eyes had lit up, and she had leaned forward in the manner of one revealing a dark secret.

"_But what I yearn for, fair one, is the embrace of one who stalks the night."_

Saerila's eyes had widened at that revelation, and she'd leaned forward in kind after glancing around. _"But, Ashala,"_ she'd began, her high-tongue heavily Edessan-accented, _"that's insanity! You can't possibly mean you would—"_

Ashala had grinned lewdly at Saerila's shock, and then cut her off. _"Of course not, dearest. But tell me you've never imagined what it must feel like, to instead of sharing, be consumed? Imagine knowing the hunger in the eyes of a demon of the night?_

The younger asari leaned back slightly, obviously considering this against her better judgment, and then smiled very faintly at some thought that passed through her mind. _"I admit. . . well. . .I believe it is something we all think of at some point, whether we admit it or not. But they are monsters, are they not? Punishments upon our people by the Goddess for our arrogance and—"_

"_Oh, my beautiful young sister,"_ Ashala reached across the table to take Saerila's hand. _"They wish us to believe these lies. They've wanted us to weaken ourselves, for centuries. To spread our wealth, our bounty, our knowledge, out for the delectation of others… a bribe, a sop, to the other, lesser races. We were first and best and brightest, and we have lowered ourselves, in so many ways . . ."_ Ashala's eyes had hardened then, as she'd looked up at a news broadcast on one of the vidscreens, showing repeat footage from several months ago of a mercenary team instrumental in the destabilization of Tortuga's existing political balance. The asari's expression had become a sneer as the footage focused momentarily on an asari in male armor, face painted with white turian clan-paint. _"Just as they would expect us to embrace the __real__ curses sent by the Goddess."_

Saerila had stared up at the vidscreen, eyes wide, as the not-she caught on camera had focused his angry grey eyes on the camera, seeming to look directly at the young maiden, and then began to stalk angrily towards the cameraman. _"Hideous. . ."_ She'd whispered it, and, shuddering, turned away and steered the conversation carefully away from such dark subjects.

Now, standing before the door to her tiny quarters, the two murmured nonsensical endearments to each other, circling ever closer. Saerila had been raised largely among turians, and so, though she was no stranger to sharing, she was selective about it and private for an asari. And being only in her fifties, she had never shared completely with another sentient before. Ashala had seen this both as a challenge and as another component of the younger female's exotic nature.

They stopped circling, stopped talking. Drew closer, Ashala's blue eyes lost in Saerila's deep grey. _"Tell me again, fair one . . ."_ Saerila murmured the words. "_Tell me of eternity. . . tell me again of your demons . . ."_

Their lips met, their eyes turned black. Ashala opened herself to the younger asari, even as she greedily entered the mind of her lover. Finding what she wanted, the young, distant asari maiden, raised among the stoic turians, yearning for contact. Love. For a female who understood her soul.

Ashala found exactly what she expected to find, and reveled in the conquest as she felt Saerila explore her mind, as well.

. . _. No_. . . Saerila's voice whispered in Ashala's mind as the elder asari attempted to quest deeper into the youth's mind. . . . _No, not yet._ Saerila tried to pull back physically, as Ashala's grip tightened.

_**NO**_. The word thundered through the older female's mind, laced with power and authority. Impossible to ignore. Ashala stumbled back a step, eyes wide and confused, staring at her young lover as Saerila leaned back against the door, clearly trying to control herself as well. The young asari was almost in tears, looking wretched and guilty_. "Fair one, I'm sorry, but not now. Not yet. Please, give me time, let this be right for us. . ."_

Ashala nodded slowly, already regretting her insistence. Already forgetting the raw power that had thundered through her mind with Saerila's resistance, but realizing instead that it had been the panic of inexperience. Shame began to radiate through her mind.

They talked for another few minutes. Assuring each other that things had not changed. That they would see each other soon. That it really was alright. With a light kiss goodbye, Saerila let herself into her apartment, and Ashala began her slow walk home.

Saerila closed the door to her apartment, throwing both the electronic and manual locks, and then quietly leaned back against the cool metal surface. The confusion and embarrassment drained from her features, which in turn became calm and composed. For an hour, she went about doing all the things a single, quiet asari would potentially do. Changed into comfortable clothing. Nibbled on something light from the cryo-unit. Practiced, with a grim sort of dedication, at playing a human guitar. At no point did she seem particularly distraught over the disastrous end to the otherwise pleasant evening.

Finally, once perhaps an hour had passed after locking the door, she put the instrument away and walked into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Looked up at the grate that protected the ventilation duct in the ceiling, and focused her biotics, grabbing the individual screws and applying torquing mass effect disturbances and then floating the unsecured grating down to the floor.

She walked beneath the open ventilation shaft and turned her grey gaze up into the darkness above her, and then fell _up_ into the shaft, lifting herself with controlled biotics, twisting in mid-air to land lightly in an inverted crouch some five feet above the room's ceiling where the shaft turned. After reattaching the grate, she began to crawl through the tight duct system, slowly making her way through the arcology's labyrinthine infrastructure and into the adjoining residential neighborhood. The arcology stood hundreds of stories tall, and comprised literally hundreds of thousands of _acres_ of real estate, sealed against the planet's atmosphere, which was too rich in oxygen for most humanoids to tolerate. Oxygen toxicity could result from even an hour's exposure. Thus, the fully sealed building and its intricate maze of ventilation shafts.

Finally, she reached her destination, another unremarkable grate over another unremarkable apartment. A motion sensor, implanted on the side of the ventilation duct, observed her passage and updated a nearby omnitool; Saerila knew to shield her eyes as a flashlight beam sliced up from the room below. Moments later, the grating fell away, and the young asari dropped gracefully into the room.

"_You're late. Is everything all right?"_ The voice was that of a female's, serene and unflappable.

"_Ashala was … insistent. The evening went longer than I'd expected."_

"_How much longer?"_ There was actual concern in the voice, this time.

"_She's under the impression that we shared as fully as is reasonable outside the door to my apartment before I panicked. Please, Ylara, spare me your concern."_

Spectre Ylara Alir rested her cool gaze on Saerila, taking a moment to reassess the deep-cover operative's condition after hearing the other's ragged tone of voice. She'd seen tougher individuals crack under easier assignments; this assignment was particularly complex for her young associate.

"_I have full confidence in your abilities. My concern is only for your state of mind— "_

"_Leave me to worry about my state of being."_ Saerila's eyes flashed angrily, and her quiet voice was laced with power.

Ylara actually took half a step back, serene expression falling away to something far more dangerous. Biotic energy coalesced around her, building in a surge of power in the span of a heartbeat and then holding, unreleased. Her voice held shivering force as she said, out loud, _"__Samiel Viridian!__ Get __out__ of my mind."_

An electric shock seemed to go through Saerila—Samiel —at the mention of his name, and he weakly took a seat as he surfaced from the persona in which he'd been immersed for days on end. _"__Spirits__, I'm sorry,"_ he finally managed, voice still that of a female asari.

The assignment was hell, slowly using his mix of talents to infiltrate the confidences of potential Tears of the Moons affiliates while posing as a young maiden willed with wanderlust. A few months ago, he never would have done it. But a few months ago, he had felt nothing but contempt for other asari. Now, something in his mind had shifted ever-so-slightly. Something that made him willing to go to nearly any length to stop this organization that would use _ardat-yakshi_ as biological weapons, and purge the genome of not-shes.

He reached up to rub wearily at his face, bereft of any paint as it had been for months. _"I've been manipulating Ashala's mind this entire evening, guiding her to my end. It becomes. . . reflexive, in times like this. But she thinks I shared, and she __did__ share. I have our answers."_

The Spectre nodded, and the reservoir of biotic energy that she had amassed began to disperse. Slowly. What Samiel was describing was describing so casually would have been considered a horrifying breach of etiquette among asari, and most other species, if not bordering on a kind of violation. For a moment, she thought of how she had trusted this male to work with her son for weeks, and felt a mother's anger and need to protect . . .

. . . and then she looked at him again, and saw the strain this was putting on the young not-she, as well as the grim resolution in him to see this operation through. For his race, and his slowly-evolving place in it. For other not-shes. For her son.

She didn't sigh exactly, but the severity of her expression fell away to serenity once more. _"Stay here tonight. You can sleep on the couch. Be… not-she. Yourself, for a few hours."_ It was an offer she made to the empath once every few weeks.

This time, he nodded.

At first, he tossed and turned, the blankets wrapping around him like grasping, eager hands, confining him, constricting him. Eventually, the mental exhaustion of maintaining the façade, day after day, the gray mental fugue in which he found himself enveloped whenever he managed to find an opportunity to be _himself,_ demanded its due, and he slipped into sleep.

Immediately, his subconscious demanded its toll, as well, and reminded him of everything that had shaped his life in the past six months, the strange and surprising turns that existence had taken. Worries that preyed at the back of his mind. Faces. Names. Events.

Ylara studied the male asari as he slept on the couch in her suite; in sleep, some people's faces became more innocent. His merely became. . . slack. Empty, for once, of all the driven purpose and steely self-control.

She understood, and forgave, his earlier lapse, the intrusion into her mind. They had spent two months here, and his power was new—too new, to be as strong as it was—and he was still perfecting its control. It had been a breach, to be sure. . . but given how much he was using the ability, on a daily basis. . . it was understandable. Melaani, too, was working undercover here in Hal'ili'ea, and when the female came to report to her, shaking off her disguise identity was visibly taking more and more effort.

Ylara had never worked undercover, herself; acting was not a natural skill. It was . . . disconcerting. . . to see how fully both of her fellow asari abandoned their identities, subsumed themselves to their roles.

She moved to the window, and looked out from the four hundredth floor, down into the sea of lights that was Hal'ili'ea at night, and then up at Niacal's night-time sky, spangled with stars.

Niacal, in the Orisoni system, was an asari colony, and had been part of the Sisterhood of Worlds for over a thousand years. With a population of nearly seven million people, it wasn't a large colony—asari tended not to reproduce as vigorously as the _mahai_, the short-lived, and held a lighter foothold on all of their colonies, as a result. . . . but the vegetation-rich planet did a thriving trade in both agriculture and bio-engineering. . . and that bio-engineering was not limited to the manipulation of plant DNA. Any number of gene mods, currently in popular use, had originated in the Hal'ili'ea laboratories on the northwestern continent.

Vast swathes of land were tilled and cultivated by robofarmers, which were, in turn, tended to by asari agronomists. Too simple and pedestrian to call them mere farmers, a single agronomy enclave could control 70,000 acres or more, on the northwestern continent. The main city, in order to have a smaller footprint on this lush world, consisted of four or five large arcologies, self-contained, sealed buildings that were habitats unto themselves. That the planet itself, with so much greenery, actually had near-toxic levels of oxygen, was also a consideration in their construction. Thus, nearly three million of Niacal's seven million people. . . occupied four or five large buildings, with another million puddled around their feet in smaller sealed domes. This was the capital: Hal'ili'ea.

While many native species were permitted to exist on the northwestern continent, it was still a tame and cultivated place. Placid. Weather control satellites were even being tested here, to prevent the wildfires that could rage across half a continent, thanks again, to that high oxygen atmosphere.

The southeastern continent, however, had been allowed to stand free, and untouched, to preserve the planet's ecological balance. It was girdled, shore to short, with a rainforest so vast, it defied the imagination. Only Rocam (and pre-industrial Palaven), had larger percentages of planetary areas covered by jungle. And the vegetation in this wild and untamed region was unusually thick in alkaloids and organometallic compounds. Which meant that almost every plant was a potential medicine. . . or a potential poison. . . but conventional scanners were often defeated by trying to penetrate the thick foliage, because of the high metallic content of leaves and trees and bushes and vines.

Many asari who longed to 'get back to nature' had tried to do so in these jungles. Many had vanished, never to be heard from again. Some of their families said that this was because they were dead; the jungle had not wished to be taken for granted, and had, instead, taken their lives. Other families. . . friends. . . associates. . . took a view less romantic, and less wrapped in karmic retribution. A view both bitter and hopeful at the same time: The missing ones had vanished, because they'd _chosen_ to vanish. . . and had found the best possible place to do so.

There were a handful of pharmaceutical company teams currently working on the southern continent. A handful of mineral exploitation teams, surveying for mineral deposits. One archaeology team, who insisted that they'd found Prothean ruins. And another handful of. . . wanderers. Romantics. Vagabonds. And others.

Ylara, Melaani, and Samiel had arrived on Niacal two months ago. Two months that felt more like two years to the senior Spectre, bound as she was to do little besides deal with local matriarchs, law enforcement, and Spectre contacts. Previously, she'd had Melaani and Composite with her, on Luisa and Illium, as they worked to uncover more about the Moons of Luisa, why they had set up the crew of the _Duck_ to investigate the batarian chipping facilities. . . and, while they were there, they'd attempted to investigate who, precisely, had been leaking the shipping manifests and flight plans of asari shipping concerns to the batarians, and why. 

Those two long months had brought them, on the human calendar, to September 20, 2197. Ylara was all too aware that she'd missed the damned invasion of Khar'sharn for _this_. Had been kept out of the loop by Shepard, to ensure the continuity of power in the Spectres, too. But none of that was her concern right now: _This_ was.

She sighed and turned back to her portable computer console. One name kept appearing in all their searches: Mishai T'shal. The matriarch headed a large pharmaceuticals firm, based on Niacal. Several of her other companies dealt heavily with shipping and transit, tourism, and she even owned several rather nice hotels.

Several of her employees had been implicated in the leaks that had cost many thousands of asari their lives and their sanity. It didn't necessarily follow that Mishai was, herself, responsible. . . but all of the employees whom Ylara attempted to take into custody had a truly annoying habit of making bail. . . and then vanishing. She'd taken one of them into personal custody on her last visit to Illium. . . and a sniper had shot the asari through the head while they were awaiting transportation. Someone clearly didn't want these employees to talk.

Mishai, herself, appeared to be a wealthy philanthropist, and she donated regularly to various charities, and her bio-tech division was dedicated to ending birth defects. A perfect representative for the Moons of Luisa, that secretive organization dedicated to service, protection, and children's charities, it would seem. . . . but one very careful about her associates, and chary of meeting with Ylara.

Thus, Melaani and Samiel had been tasked with interviewing her known associates, and working their way, if possible, into her inner circle. Ylara tapped a fingernail against her teeth. The problem was. . . it could take months. Perhaps even years. Even with Samiel's. . . odd gift. . . trust was not something given overnight by a matriarch of Mishai's power.

On the couch, as the conversation took place in Ylara's own bedroom, Samiel Viridian, the subject of that quiet-voiced conversation, tossed and turned.

_Tortuga. Spirits-be-damned Tortuga, where he'd been assigned by his own organization, the Acrocanth's Talons. Largely an independent merc group, run and comprised solely of former turian special forces types, they'd long since included him, both as co-founder Jannil Viridian's son, and on his own merits. Tortuga, where the sun's light was like a hammer blow every time he ventured out of his bare rental room. Tortuga, where all the s'kak, pirates, and scum of the galaxy had congregated once Omega had taken to the straighter and narrower. Shanty-town around the spaceport, tipping, teetering buildings, all built atop one another, roads that twisted and twined around each other like knotted intestines. Only a native knew them all. Knew which neighborhood belonged to which gang. Knew which street it was safe to walk down, wearing which colors. The orders had been simple: Find out why so many people are going missing. See if this 'Tonus Machen' has any relation to the Klem Na and their chipping centers. Interface with a group of vigilantes that's been making too damned much noise, and provide a little professional assistance._

_Press of consciousnesses, all around him. Pure psychic pressure, bearing down on his empathy like being trapped in a coffin of molten lead. No one looked at each other on Tortuga. No one dared to meet each others' eyes. There was no trust here. No love. No loyalty. Only the bare scramble for survival, the red teeth and claws, unmasked, that usually lay below a thin veneer in polite society._

_. . . working with the vigilantes, and finding them surprising, especially the __geth__, Siege, and the __rachni__, then called __Nameless__, because the big bug said he didn't have a name, and refused any other. Having to flee after their first encounter with Machen's men went sour. __Futtari_ _Spectres, taking an interest in Tortuga. Surprising, to say the least, to meet Garrus Vakarian, Rinus Velnaran, James Dempsey, Zhasa'Maedan, Elijah Sidonis, and Dara Jaworski, as they accompanied the vigilantes, now taken under Spectre auspices, back to Tortuga. . . ._

_. . . allying with the Twins, an asari mercenary organization, and the Sagittum, a turian-krogan merc company. . . the actual Twins themselves, the co-commanders. Kishara and Meshara Laos. Kishara, the iron fist inside a velvet glove, indeed. Meshara, known in whispers around Tortuga as Lady Fortune. For those she'd raised to power, or dashed upon the rocks. _

_Samiel's terrible plan, to have the pair accept a 'dinner' invitation from Machen, have them either kill him or incapacitate him while the Spectres, the vigilantes, and their mercenary allies, attacked Machen's fortified compound, and stormed the maze of tunnels and bunkers below it, to extricate them . . . horrified guilt, at realizing that Meshara, so beautiful and yet so scarred, his fair-one now, could be hurt, could be killed. . . and it was his futtari plan. . . . even with Nameless with them, as their exotic pet 'klixxen'. . . the odds were horrifically bad. _

_Kishara, shaking her head. "Machen's a paranoid maniac. And he has an established. . . relationship. . . with me." Bitter awareness in her eyes, of how she'd essentially prostituted her body and mind to keep Machen away from her people, the eight hundred Twins mercs, the people in the neighborhoods to which they extended their 'protection,' for years now. "He's not going to let another male into his territory. The mere fact that he's demanded Meshara, too—"_

_Samiel cut her off. He needed to say this, before he lost his nerve. "You're correct, Machen would never allow another male into his compound with you. But perhaps . . ." And then he paused, searching his mind. Remembering. His expression twisted a few times; it was clear to them that he'd found at least one particularly unsavory memory. It took a few tries, beginning to speak and then starting over, as anger choked his words. _

_His bearing changed subtly; his voice changed considerably. Although already possessed of distinctly feminine features for a male, the transition was disconcerting, to say the least. __". . . but perhaps, sisters, he would allow a maiden to be brought along... such to control your pet klixxen for the evening?"_ _With the shift to feminine stance, a shift to high-tongue, unused for thirty-six years, until. . . yesterday._

_Meshara lost her mask of composure. Discomfort, even hurt in her eyes, naked for a moment.__ "__You do not need to do this—"__ she protested, quietly._

_"__No.__He," the word was in galactic, and then Kishara switched back to high-tongue_, "_is correct. The more people we manage to bring in with us, the better our odds of living out the night."_ _She narrowed her eyes at Samiel speculatively. __"__I would imagine that it has been some time since you have worn the garb of a sister. And I doubt that you have ever applied makeup. Put yourself in my hands. I will ensure that your disguise is as complete as we can make it.__"_

_Dress of dove gray silk whispering around him, a little make-up. Humiliation, but also, worse. . . memory. Memory-song, as the rachni had told him, many times, was very strong. He __remembered__ dressing like this, before. Never in such finery, of course, he'd been sixteen, the equivalent of a human eight-year-old, when his mother had left. . . but the memories pulled at him, powerfully. Just the act of wearing the dress made him move differently. Carry himself differently. He fought the memories. He didn't want to __become__ that, again. He'd worked and fought so long to __build__ himself. . . but the old identity pulled at him, sucked him down. . ._

_. . . drinking the aizala tea with them, to ensure that they would all be as strong in themselves as they could be. Nameless protesting, feebly, that he was not a queen, and did not wish to sing queen-songs, and that queens would be displeased with him. Repressing the desire to tell the rachni, "And I am wearing a dress, so drink the damned tea. . . " but surely Nameless heard it, anyway. . . _

_. . . the 'klixxen' straining at the leash, 'testing' him/her at the gates of the compound. Making himself into Miellia T'kai. Not __meek__, exactly; that sort of personality would never have attracted the attention of the two asari crimelords. "Young and relatively untested," however, she was in spades. But she knew how to keep her mouth shut, could keep the klixxen controlled, and there was a certain steel in her level gaze._

She was approached first by a leering guard, who told her to stand still and put her hands behind her head for frisking. She complied, but glared steadily at the turian guard, disgusted as he reached out to her. Locked eyes. _Be respectful__.___

The mind offered almost no resistance, its defenses buckling so completely that the turian was never even aware that his mind had been touched. It was everything the maiden could do only to plant the suggestion in his mind and not rifle it, wanting almost desperately to _share__. __Aizala__ compelling her/him to want to meld with everything, the air, the night sky, the warm and inviting minds around her. She shut her eyes for a long moment, willing them not to go midnight-black._

When they opened again, the guard had finished frisking her and was sniffing, in some confusion, as if she didn't _smell__ quite right. . . but he backed away, turning to one of the twins. And Miellia just smiled disarmingly. . . . _

_. . . down in the lair itself now, observing Tonus Machen for the first time. Atypical turian body language from him. Rather, typical, but taken to an extreme. The short, quick, avian glances around, the bridling shoulders—all compressed. Movements just a hair too fast. A constant state of paranoid readiness. . . Miellia_, _with Samiel buried behind her eyes, watched the exchange between her employers and the self-styled lord of Tortuga. His image was complex; overlaid on the physical were layers of impressions, some like after-images, some like contrails. Then, for a moment, his control snapped and he __screamed__ at Kishara, losing himself in such a way that would be __embarrassing__ for a turian to watch, let alone permit personally. Objections to the klixxen, to the unexpected young maiden with the expected Twins, too many changes of plan for the paranoid male to tolerate easily. Pressure of __Meshara's__ mind, using the arts that she'd instructed Samiel in, so sweetly. Pressing on Machen's mind. Urging him to accede. And even in his paranoia, Machen gave way. . . and distracted, turned away to admit them all, sans the klixxen, into his private quarters. The 'klixxen' was to be kept in an anteroom. With guards._

_Sings-Solitude? Take your weapon-claw. Nameless sidled closer and lowered his 'muzzled' head to Samiel/Miellia's hand. Something warm and sticky filled it. The rachni had been carrying Samiel's vibroblade inside his mouth, and the sheath been eaten away by Nameless' acidic saliva, which stung his fingers slightly. The entire blade was encased in something sticky extruded from his inner mouth organs. _

_Miellia feigned disgust, and wiped her burning hand on her priceless silk dress, acid burning through the bare skin like a white-hot fire. _

But in the strange way that dreams had, the pain that should have hurt, didn't. . . .

. . . _the travesty that was the 'dinner' with Machen. The turian's need to control everything that the Twins did. Ate. Touched. Shoving their servant away, turning his back to her for just an instant. . . Behind the male, Samiel rose smoothly to his feet without even the rustle of silk to announce his presence. In his blistered, peeling hand was the activated vibroknife. All playacting was gone from his features, leaving nothing behind but cold, calculating death._

_He crossed the four feet between himself and his quarry in the span of a heartbeat, and as the mercenary leader began sliding Meshara's chair forward for her in a parody of good manners, the male-maiden whipped the weapon in a tight arc. The blow sliced cleanly through any armor in the way, and neatly severed the turian's spinal cord at the fourth cervical vertebrae. As Tonus Machen's body, suddenly reduced to a quadriplegic's, began to collapse, Samiel wrapped his left arm around the male, bearing the weight, while with his right arm, he smoothly put the turian in a modified headlock , catching the mandibles tightly in the crook of his elbow, both preventing the panicking mercenary from calling for help, and keeping his head from rolling too much now that the spinal column had been severed._

"_Didn't sever the major arteries or veins," he hissed coldly at the twins as they stood abruptly, nothing but deadly business now themselves. Aside from the gurgling, terrified mewls that were escaping quietly through Machen's tightly held jaw, the crimelord presented no problem at all. Samiel lowered his burden a little, sinking down to his own knees. "He can last like this for quite a while. We don't have to worry about the biometric chip." He tossed out a thought. We have acquired the target. Nameless, tell the others to start. _

_Knowing that allies were above. Knowing that Siege, Nameless, the other vigilantes, the Twins' forces, the Sagittum forces, and the Spectres would all be converging on this compound. Spectre and geth ships, in the air, taking out Machen's rag-tag pirate fleet. Geth and other ground forces, taking out two other compounds in a simultaneous strike, all calculated to begin on the word that Machen himself was dead or incapacitated. Dangerous. The instant Machen's vital signs, conveyed through his biometric chip went off-line? Every last one of his mercs would turn inwards and attack the Twins, their 'handmaiden,' and their 'klixxen.'_

_And there were at least five hundred mercs in this compound._

_Stay alive, Machen, you futtari son of a poxed varren. You're helpless now. Helpless as the all the people you've chipped. The thoughts didn't quite get him past the sickening realization of having crippled the male, and the moral quandary of keeping him alive in this state. He could have done it a different way. Could have caught the chin and the back of the head and snapped the neck. . . but that would have been an instant kill. They couldn't afford it. And the crimelord, in truth, didn't deserve any such mercy. Tonus Machen hadn't just captured asari and handed them over to the Klem Na for transport. He'd used Klem Na slaver tech to ensure the loyalty of almost all of his twenty-four hundred mercenaries. He'd ensured that if any of them stepped out of line, there would be crippling pain. . . or that their chips would be used against them, burning out their brains. Some had even been rigged with explosive rings around their brainstems. And yet. . . under the pragmatism, the knowledge that this was the only real course he'd had, a fast, hard strike, one that didn't allow Machen to summon his guards. . . just a twitch in the region where his conscience resided. . . . easily tucked away to the same dark corner where he hid the rage._

_And like the rage, it refused to be completely ignored as he stuffed a gag in the dying male's mouth._

_. . . Concussive force, traveling through ceiling, walls, floor, as the outer wall around the compound, somewhere overhead, was breached. Dirt falling down from the ceiling, across Samiel's face as he lowered Machen, bleeding, to the floor. Five minutes before he bleeds out, a voice at the back of his head told him, impersonally, as the ground continued to rumble and shake.. . . _

_Kishara slipped Machen's omnitool off his limp wrist, fiddling with it, trying to gain access to the base computers. "I need his biometrics to get access," she muttered. "This isn't conventional encryption. I can hack those in no time at all. . . " She moved over, evidently contemplating moving Machen bodily to the computers' biometric locks, but shook her head. "Entropy. Moving him will kill him, and we need him alive for the moment." She dropped to her haunches, eyes cold, and wraps a cord around his limp arm. Tightly. "Knife, Miella."_

_Samiel handed her his knife, and Kishara, not changing expression, for all that she'd reluctantly shared her body with this male before, sliced Machen's right hand off at the wrist. The electrical currents in the nerves would let its chip continue to fire for about ten minutes, after all. Machen couldn't feel what she'd done, but he could see it, and he tried to scream through his gag. Kishara wiped the knife off on her priceless silk dress and handed it back to Samiel, moving back to the computer controls. "Have to see if I can get control of any of the damned turrets. Maybe the jamming system. Something." She slapped the severed hand against the identification pad, and held it in place for a moment. _

Samiel stirred in his sleep, resisting the flow of memories. Resisting the way the hand began to move and writhe under Kishara's, trying to spring free, and then leaped and clawed at her face and eyes. Dream-logic. He knew it hadn't happened that way, and the discipline of his mind overcame the nightmare.

Reality had been, after all, so much worse.

Dream reality fragmented. _Watching through the cracked door as Nameless, threatened by five mercenaries and a YMIR mech in the other room, lifted the mercenaries off the ground with a controlled black hole, then __popped__ through air to land atop the YMIR's head_. _Where it had difficulty aiming, due to the construction constraints of its arms. Nameless scrabbled frantically to hold his balance, and, studying the fine weaves of his gravitational construct. . . tore them asunder, and with another small pop vanished. The walls shook under the force of the explosion that resulted, and Nameless popped into the room behind Samiel, and the ceiling, again, threatened to cave in on them . . . . Meshara forcing information out of Machen's dying mind, codes that would help get control of the bunkers' defenses. Trying to get deactivation codes for the various chipped mercenaries around them. . . but there was no universal deactivation code. The look of distress in her eyes at the 'forced sharing,' but there was no real choice, she __had__ to know that. . . _

_More guards, inbound, checking on Machen's condition. Nameless' soul-deep unease as Meshara controlled the mind of one of the chipped turians, forcing the male to put his gun to his fellows' head. Near-revulsion from the rachni . . . and fear. Samiel could only think to himself grimly, It's only going to get worse, my friend. Then he strode out into the battered guard room, staring coolly at the guard who had a gun to his head. "Set the weapon down."_

_The turian guard, even with the muzzle of his ally's shotgun pressed against his helmet, hesitated, still unwilling to give up his only means of defense against whatever the hell had happened to this room. Samiel repeated the words, power flowing between himself and the guard. "Set. The weapon. Down."_

_The turian literally couldn't help but comply._

_Quick glance around the room, evaluating assets and liabilities, even as he pulled on ill-fitting, blood-slick armor. Meshara, in her ill-fitting, but manageable human armor, armed with a knife and her biotics. Kishara, still in her blood-stained but stunning white dress, with Machen's pistol, a knife, and her own array of tech and biotic abilities. Nameless, never separated from his rachni abilities, more effective than ever with the aizala coursing through him. Standing to the side, watching them._

_No. Watching Samiel, and Meshara. Closely. The male-maiden could feel the emotional gulf growing between them, like a ship drifting away from a dark shoreline._

_Now that the immediate threats had been dealt with, the effects of the __aizala__ in the empath's own system were becoming more pronounced; he could feel the black sheen flickering over his eyes as his mind instinctively reached out to those around him, flickering like a flame against the twins and the disconcerted brood warrior. "Talk to me, Nameless." He looked over at the rachni as he tried to mop blood out of his 'borrowed' helmet. "Tell me what's on your mind. We have to work as team to get out of this."_ _Sure and certain knowledge, that using his new-found abilities might well cost him the rachni's friendship. . . but it was __necessary__. Brutal necessity, practicality, and he'd never apologize for keeping them all __alive__. . . _

_Confusion, anxiety—no. Fear-song. In pure, deep yellow. Something pressed an ancient button in the rachni's song, stirring very, very old memories. Not his own. He tried to convey it, but it was a rush, like waves pushed by a storm, slamming into a beach. Almost incoherent, certainly inchoate, he finally managed, Fear-song, the sour yellow-note, it is how we were controlled, all of us, indoctrination-song, the compulsion-song, used on just one queen. . . and the compulsion spread to all of us, through her. Our minds, subsumed. Consumed. Devoured. Turned to destruction. Our own. Others'. Everyone must choose their own path! It is the only way!And yet, torment. He didn't like disapproving of Samiel's songs. His songs and Samiel's had almost always been in harmony. The rachni considered Samiel almost as much a battle-brother as Sings-Battle. . . Siege. . . and Samiel could perceive the implied compliment in this. And Nameless understood that for Meshara, this power was simply one of her options, biotically speaking, and that she used it. . . mercifully._

She could have, after all, considering the malleability of the turian's will under her own, simply had him pull the trigger. Made him live with the guilt of having snuffed out a friend, a squad-mate's life. She had not. Meshara exercised surprising restraint, for one with so much power. Nameless knew that. But it still awakened dark, horrible memories in him, memories not his own. Of an entire race suffocating under the grip of the other. Being turned into weapons against the asari. . . Samiel's own people. Of the guilt this still evoked in every rachni. . . .

_The flood of images washed over Samiel, pulling him down with the fierce riptide of emotions. All the empath could do as Nameless sang his fears was struggle for breath, thousands of years of racial memories threatening to erode the asari's very identity. The torrent finally became a river, and then a trickle, until all that remained was the brood warrior's soft, pale-yellow keening._

He had known as soon as Meshara had demonstrated the ability that the rachni disapproved, but he hadn't realized just how deeply his friend's fear of the skill ran. Samiel stood and took a careful step towards Nameless, being careful not to come too close and make the situation worse for the brood warrior's frayed nerves. "Nameless. I . . . I can't change what happened to your people. It was... horrific, and you've ever reason not to trust this. But I have no desire to control. I'm still the same person you met on the _Green-Bottomed Duck__." Not for the first time, the unfortunate name of the ship served to undercut the seriousness of his words. But then, rachni didn't listen to words. They listened to meaning. "This is a tool for me." He paused. "And if I start to abuse it, if it changes who I am and I use it to indoctrinate people, then __kill me__."_

In his sleep, Samiel shifted. A frown appeared on his face. As if some part of him wondered, even in his dreams, if he were taking slow, inexorable steps down a path that would, someday, lead the rachni to make that judgment. That would lead one of his best friends to kill him.

_Nameless huddled in on himself for a moment, still keening. I could not end the song of a friend. But if you used it to erase will-songs forever, you would not be who you are, and you would not be Sings-Solitude anymore. Perhaps then. But not now. Now you sing your own songs. Just. . . more strongly.  
_

_The glissando of notes filled Samiel's mind. Still trepidation, but . . . understanding, too. Enormous amounts of it. Just as Nameless had come to accept the songs of the dark times, the songs of his brood-father into himself, to allow them to become a part of himself, so Samiel, too, had accepted parts of himself that were locked away, hidden from view, in the past scant days. Parts that will take weeks or months to fully fathom and uncoil within him. Not just powers, but ideas. Identity. Self-hood._

Parallels, indeed.

_The male-maiden felt understanding begin unfold within the rachni's song, and smiled, just a little, at Nameless' voice in his head. "I will always be Sings-Solitude, my friend. I want nothing else."_

_He stepped closer to rest a hand on the rachni's carapace, and nodded at the alien, yet familiar, sets of blue eyes. . . . And yet. . . the dream flickered. He remembered the effects of the aizala, how he was aware of the proximity of Meshara's mind before the nearness of her body, their two minds reaching tendrils towards each other, twining and blending where they touched. He moved to her side, taking her hand in his and kissing it, then turning it over and nipping gently at the inside of her wrist. . . . And then the ceiling damned near came down on their heads, whole chunks of it caving in, pouring dirt and rock down on them. Dazed awareness, through the rachni's song, that Siege, overhead, with the Spectres, had just taken out a futtari armory with a rocket-launcher. . . another deep tremor through the bunker walls, as a gunship was shot out of the air, and thundered into the ground. . . We're going to be lucky to get out of here alive. . . . _

_Aizala haze in his head making him want to join Nameless' music, meld with Meshara's sweet darkness, making him feel in tune with the entire futtari universe, but he had to hold to his combat fugue-state. Nothing but bodies, the mechanics of twisting them out of his way, bending them, breaking them. . . firing on them with a recovered pistol. Knowing that the others were coming for them. Seeing them, cool, friendly blues, in the distance, through rock and earth and the swimming haze of red-limned bodies in Nameless' battle-vision. . . . slamming at a full charge into one opponent, sweeping his vibroblade around and down, slicing right through the firing mechanism of the gun held by another opponent, compelling a third with his mind, to drop to the floor. . . . Nameless scurrying along the ceiling like something out of nightmare. . . chipped biotics, held by Klem Na controllers, tearing at the rachni's shield and carapace, sending white-hot pain through every mind. . . have to get through, have to get through, I can see the others, they're on the other side of this futtari wall. . . .and then more fighting. Bloody and dazed from fighting a damned chipped krogan, and then Siege and the others were there, blowing a damned hole through the wall. . . reunion with the others. Triumph. _

Victory.

_So fleeting. Because as they left Machen's compound, Nameless sang unease as he heaved his bulk up into the Hammerhead, and paused to glance around with his scintillating, alien eyes. __Sings-Solitude. There is . . . anger in the hive. It is as when any hive has been invaded. When. . . firebiters. . . have had their hills poked with a stick. Their territory has been invaded. They know it. They sing anger-songs, fear-songs. They do not know that the one who sang as a queen is dead, but while they feared him, he was at least. . . certainty-song. They will sing madness now, I think. We should not be here for it._  
_  
Dara, getting into her own Hammerhead, grimaced. "Nameless, you are the __least__ cryptic rachni I've ever met. Other than Joy. You keep saying what you actually mean, they're going to take your membership card away from you."_

_Has that not already been done?__ Almost an actual joke from Nameless, on his status as an exile from Bargain-Singer's hive.___

Still, in the hellish light of the still-burning buildings, the drifting pall of greasy, brown-black smoke, Samiel could feel it: a tightness between his shoulder blades. Three hundred men and women were staying behind to hold the fort; a hundred from each of the joint forces sent here. The rest moved out ahead in the gunships and the Hammerheads, through the winding, twisting streets. The gunships rose up, taking escort positions above and ahead of the convoy, heading back towards the spaceport, which was neutral ground, here on Tortuga. Recognized as such by all the pirates, smugglers, slavers, mercenaries, and criminals that frequented the place, and by the few poor, regular citizens who live here, as well. The merchants, the suppliers, the whores, the mechanics. 

_There were no street-lights. Just the faint glimmer of the few unbroken searchlights atop Machen's towers, and the dimming, distant glow of the red flames inside the compound. Bouncing and jostling over the uneven road, the cushion of air on which the Hammerhead rode not entirely buffering them against potholes two feet deep in places._

_They come__. Nameless' voice was as grim as Samiel had ever heard it. __They ALL come__._

Dimly, from outside the vehicle, he could hear. . . trilling, ululating wails. Hunt-cries of turians, shouting from human and batarian throats. A couple of thunderous roars that were clearly krogan battle-cries. . . and then the rush of a rocket being launched, which slammed into the side of a Hammerhead ahead of his own vehicle. Nameless sang battle-song, but even for a rachni, what he was attempting to show them all was . . . almost too much.

_A glimmering net of gray-voice stars, moving in from all directions. Hundreds and hundreds of people, gathering in balconies. Standing on rooftops in the crowded shanty-town. Each one a tiny dot of red anger, closing in on them like a net. Swarming them like ants, pouring in like grains of sand. No organization. No leader. Just an angry desire to __kill the invaders__._

Another rocket, and a Sag's Hammerhead spun out of control, rolling over. The people inside clambered out, but now, hundreds of assailants were all firing at once. This _was__ Tortuga. Home of pirates. Smugglers. Slavers. And the regular population armed themselves, as well, if only for self-protection against those pirates, smugglers, and slavers. _

_Bullets rained down from all sides, slamming into the vehicles' shields. Ahead of them, another Hammerhead shied to the side, rolled over an improvised mine, and was catapulted up into the air, unexpectedly. Its inertial dampening systems, located on the bottom of the vehicle, were hit, and the pilot couldn't re-engage them as the vehicle slammed back to the ground, the chassis splitting on impact._

They were three miles from Machen's outpost, four from the spaceport.

And suddenly, the mission objective had changed. It had become the same as that of the krogan Rite.

Survive.

_The narrow, twisting streets of the shanty-town became a deathtrap. Their gunships were attacked with rockets from rooftops. Assault rifles and shotguns and more rocket launchers poured down a steady rain of fire onto the convoy. The Hammerheads couldn't get up to any kind of speed in the twisty streets, and hopping up onto the roofs meant breaking formation. Leaving people behind in the shooting gallery. The Spectres piled the wounded into their Hammerhead and stepped out of it, covering the retreat, backing up steadily._ _Samiel, already exhausted, got back to work. Charging to this vehicle, and pulling a wounded merc out. Throwing the male over his shoulder, and charging back to the fragile shelter of the Spectres' Hammerhead, as Zhasa'Maedan crouched in its hatch, holding a bubble of force over the vehicle, as bullets rained off that shell, falling to the ground like silver rain. His own shields failing, pulling them up again. So much __hate__, so much focused intention to __harm__, that his usual empathy, his preternatural ability to feel the trigger pulled, and then __dodge__. . . was almost totally nullified. _

_Nameless, standing side by side with Samiel and Siege, suddenly challenged their attackers. You would teach us to fear you, as you sing fear yourselves? he sang. Sing fear-songs. Sing them now._

His head swiveled as he took in Siege's position beside the Hammerhead, and sang again, Brace yourself.

And with only that for a warning, the rachni dropped a powerful singularity on the geth, displacing all of his mass. Making Siege weigh, relative to the ground, about as much as. . . a human child of four. And then Nameless threw Siege at the top floor of the nearest building, where a nest of fighters with rocket launchers had set up in an embrasure. The geth hurtled through the air at high velocity, like a rock thrown from a catapult. . . . 

_The rachni hissed a battle-cry, a thin sound like tearing metal that even cut through the chaos of the fire-fight. . . .and then he was gone, but Samiel could feel him in the night. Pop. Up on a rooftop, landing with his full bulk atop a turian there, wheeling and stabbing directly with his razor-sharp chelicerae into the chest of the companion to the now-crushed turian. Pop. Gone, somewhere else in the darkness, a demon that appeared in the night, killed, and vanished once more. . . . Samiel could feel the stolid drum-beat that was Siege's transmission through the biotic radio. Simple signals. More of a stream of status updates for any who cared to listen._

_Velocity, 112 kph, arc declining. Impact point determined to within five centimeters. Acceptable margin for error. _

_Local primary organic runtime identified: Target LOCK. Firing assault cannon will not appreciably affect impact point._

_Target Eliminated. _

_Target LOCK: Target Eliminated._

_Impact event on rooftop within six centimeters of original estimate. Recalibrate targeting systems. Three batarians eliminated. _

_Four targets remaining. Targets LOCKED._

_Targets Eliminated._

_As relentless and unchanging as the sea pounding on the shore, Siege's updates thrummed at the back of Samiel's mind as the male-maiden dropped another injured merc into the Spectres' vehicle, and risked taking a moment to look towards the front of the convoy . . ._

. . . just in time to watch a rocket slam into the Twins' vehicle, rending apart its shields and setting the craft ablaze. The empath could feel the minds within, the hard diamond point that was Kishara, pushing her sister forward through an open hatch, shouting commands at the survivors; the twilight shadow that was Meshara, fighting the terrible fear of fire, memories of nearly being burned alive. . . memories tempered by six centuries of experience.

For Samiel, time slowed.

Rage-song.

Stormcloud-grey eyes followed the trail of smoke the rocket had left behind, and in the surging crowd of ten thousand grey thoughts, the male-maiden found the mind that was already taking sight again, rocket launcher reloaded, to finish the Hammerhead off. Silent as death, he raised one gauntleted hand and pointed at the individual as it took aim.

Something black and consuming took flight between the two of them, traveling from Samiel to the bearer of the rocket launcher in the blink of an eye. The thunderhead slammed into the individual's mind, not a suggestion but a _command__. Numbly, uncontrollably, the faceless pawn adjusted its aim to a building across the way, from which several thick streams of fire originated. Fired the rocket. And then began implacably searching for new targets at the bidding of its master._

Turning, fury still boiling within him, Samiel surveyed the buildings around him for more heavy weapons, and continued to _command__._

The dream shifted. Distorted. Time elided, stretched, flowed. Things that had only taken seconds in reality seemed to take hours.

_A wash of dark determination from Meshara. Samiel could feel her reach out and find a likely mind. . . and then another. And then another. Crouching in Kishara's shadow, Meshara methodically found weak minds around her, and turned them against each other. One turian suddenly remembered his suspicions that his comrade might have slept with his mate, and knifed him in the back. A batarian remembered being called slave's-son by a fellow worker-caste, and turned his assault rifle on the male. It was cruel, but sowing confusion and chaos among the enemy meant surviving another minute or two. A third target, this one a krogan, turned and charged a group of humans who were set up with a mortar, in a near-suicidal charge that took him and the humans off a rooftop. The krogan walked away, shaking his head in confusion._

The humans did not.

_Samiel could sense Siege's multitude of whispering thoughts, the steady drumbeat of status updates that often fell into the background, like the surf of an endless ocean, but he could glean no emotional of conditional context from them. He found the platform's location, maybe a hundred feet from the Hammerheads' current location. Through the oily smoke from a demolished Atlas and the strobing lights of the battle, he really couldn't make out what was happening, but it looked like melee . . .the empath moved as far in that direction as he possibly could without leaving cover, trying to make anything out. And then he felt something that, in the time he had traveled with this group, he had never known to happen: Siege's biotic signal stuttered and then blanked out for a moment, and then stuttered back to existence with what Samiel could only describe as the feeling of a computer booting within his head. S'kak._

_He took off at a dead run, the severity of the situation resolving as he tore across the battlefield. _

_Biotic singularities set up by Nameless, and reft asunder by Dempsey or Zhasa, tearing the facades off the buildings around them, exposing the cramping living quarters, the squalor, the handful of innocents in the area, all trying to hide behind their beds. . . Reaching Siege, just in time for the geth to engage three krogan at the same time, white fluids pouring from the mechanical body as he stunned one of the krogan with a heavy punch, and then __threw__ the five-hundred-pound male over his head. . . allowing the krogan to come down on the extended captive spike attached to the geth's right arm. Throwing the savagely wounded krogan aside. And then the other two krogan attacked the geth, just as Samiel entered the scrum, ducking under a piece of spar that the geth wrestled free from a wall to slam into one of the krogan, Samiel catching a wild haymaker, redirecting the force so freely given by the krogan and adding biotic force to it, slammed the enemy face-first into the broken pavement with at least three g's of force. . . a strange, profound moment, as male-maiden and geth exchanged glances over the temporarily incapacitated foes. . . . and then one of the krogan, still on the ground, slammed a piece of rebar __through Samiel's leg_,_ piercing the armor, and the asari staggered on a leg that suddenly did not __work__ anymore. . . _

_. . . Nameless jumping to him and to Siege, as they struggled with the krogan. In the distance, through the smoke and the bullets and the rockets and the fire, krogan-made vehicles approaching. Groundcars, really, but with armored plating over them. Mini-tanks, really, with a single turret on top, and gaps in the armor through which the krogan inside could poke the muzzles of their assault rifles, and fire. Two of the vehicles sped past them as they grappled with the two stubborn krogan, heading for the rear of the convoy, and Meshara reached out with her web of thought, and closed on the mind of one of the drivers. Sent him careening into the tank beside him, and then both vehicles spun, out of control. . . . and the four-story shanty collapsed across the road, innumerable chunks of concrete and glass striking him, bouncing off his armor. The mass of rubble was still moving and sliding, but they were now, effectively, cut off from the Hammerheads. Cut off from their allies._

_Realization hit as hard as the broken bricks and glass, even as Samiel winced at the howl of pain-song from Nameless as his wounds were coated with a thick layer of grime. . . a cry cut off as one of the krogan slammed into the rachni at the end of a vicious, short-range charge._

_Nameless rolled on the ground, bowled. Even at this range, the heavy, muscular krogan had impressive acceleration and inertial impact. Limbs flailed in every direction. . . dim memory-songs radiating out of the rachni, memories of fighting yahg on Shanxi. On Terra Nova._

The krogan forced the rachni's front appendages apart, gripping each of them in a heavy paw, refusing to allow Nameless to stab with these sharp chelicerae. Nameless hissed, and actually bit the krogan, something Samiel had never seen him do before in combat. Mouths were for feeding, not for fighting against other singers. It was . . . rude. Uncivilized. He poured his venom directly into the gaping wounds, dissolving the flesh, but refusing to feed from the rapidly jellifying mass.

The krogan reared back and howled in pain, and Nameless simply lifted the creature with his mind, displacing its mass entirely. Sings-Battle? he sang, still on his back. Sing to it. . . sing it away. . . please. .** . **

Siege did as he was asked. The geth took a single step forward and actually kicked the hovering krogan solidly in the posterior region with one cleated foot. The krogan sailed upwards in a solid arc, hurtling away somewhere into the darkness.

Then the geth hauled Nameless back to his feet. The rachni swayed a little unsteadily, and sang quietly. Trying to let the others hear battle-song once more. Krogan-destroyers, still advancing in their cold-metal machines. Dozens and dozens of minds still above, gray-songs, singing fear now as well as hate, but. . . still willing to fight. I can sing one of you to safety at a time, Nameless offered. His voice held exhaustion. But I do not think that I can take both of you at once. Despair-song crept into the rachni's voice. Samiel could hear it. Nameless felt that he had failed. The rachni's dearest wish, since Terra Nova, had been to preserve life. To prevent the end of songs.

And now, it seemed entirely likely that all three of them would end their songs here. Or just one of them would. And the rachni was torn. He could not decide between the two of them, and could not leave the third behind.

One more thought, so quiet that it was hard for the others to hear. It would have been nice. . . to earn my name-song. . . before the end.

_The whispered tone of Nameless' mind-song was enough to bring an irritating veil of moisture to his eyes, one that he never would have allowed knowledge of in any other circumstances. Here, though . . . he knew it was possible that Siege could hear the shift in his breathing that only lasted for a moment, and he knew that the brood warrior felt the empath's emotions. And he found that the two of them know, really didn't bother him. "We aren't dead yet, Nameless." He smiled, grimly, but honestly, and referenced weeks ago, when he had offered the name the brood warrior, not understanding rachni culture. "Sings-Peace."_

_Siege turned to Samiel, and immobilized the asari's leg in an iron-tight grip. "The intrusion must be removed so that medigel can be applied. This will hurt." With only that as warning, the geth wrapped a white-dripping hand over the spear of rebar, and pulled it free with one smooth motion. Tossing the length of metal away, Siege fumbled at Samiel's belt for his emergency medigel supply, emptying an ampule into the wound._

The geth straightened, panning cracked optics about to take in the slowly encroaching horde of organics on all sides, listening to Nameless' lament and Samiel's near-turian fury on his biotic radio. As individual rounds started to light up his faltering kinetic barriers, the geth came to consensus. Samiel could sense, just for an instant, how the geth perceived him. That the geth had adopted a rachni's assessment of him: asari brood-warrior. There was no word in asari for what Samiel was, and Nameless had named him both this, and Sings-Solitude. Brood-brother and one who knew his name-song. The geth. . . perceived him the same way. 

_Siege hauled Samiel to his feet, and propelled him into Nameless' grasp. "Your runtimes are not backed up. Dataloss will be permanent." A pause. "Go." _

_Samiel still felt Nameless' lament at being unable to save both Samiel and Siege. And he understood. He couldn't bring himself to abandon the geth platform, either. But . . . deep within, the thought repeated itself over and over: __we're going to die for a machine?__ The turian anger was building, frustration mounting along with it. And regret. He didn't want to die, of course. No one ever did. And he was so spirits-be-damned __young__. But especially not when all he could see when he closed his eyes were Meshara's._

The male-maiden pushed away from Nameless, carefully, both to favor his own leg and to not further injure the rachni's terribly damaged carapace. Nameless couldn't bring himself to leave, and neither could he. As he surveyed the approaching vehicles, the approaching crowd, the faces looming over them from balconies, he flicked on his vibroknife. "Stow it, Siege. We're in this together."

_Siege's head swung to the west, toward the retreating convoy. Armor telemetry from the various organic runtimes in the convoy came up, running a list of confirmed individuals and their locations. Including that of Meshara Laos, a name that resounded among the others. Eventually the platform's cracked optics came back to fixate on Samiel, grinding slightly as they focused._

Something in the digitized tone of voice made it certain what Siege was implying. "You are sure?"

_Samiel saw, out of the corner of his eye, the catastrophically-battered platform look back, across the debris field before turning back to the male-maiden. He hadn't expected the question from the normally succinct geth, but it was something in Siege's tone that caused him to pause. Look up at the platform that loomed over him. Still staring at him._

Not for a machine, thought the empath. It understands. For a battle-brother.

The anger began to fade, leaving the male asari's professional calm in its place. Some frustration was still left, but it was the unavoidable frustration of a soldier facing his death. The regret was still there, though. Plenty of that.

We are not backed up.

He took another step, testing his injured leg. It was hardly one-hundred percent, but the medigel was working, and he had some mobility restored. Samiel looked between the rachni and geth, then turned to face the oncoming mob.

His voice was soft. "Yeah, Siege. I'm sure."

_"If you insist. We are re—"_

Whatever the platform was going to say was cut off as a white-hot spear of kinetic death blasted through the geth's damaged kinetic barriers. For a moment the platform's head was transfixed by that searingly incandescent bolt, before the glowing red optics shattered outward in an explosion of fire and electricity. The tall, battered geth was flung backwards onto the torn and broken ground, sparks flying from the gaping, holed stump that used to be its head.

_He was close enough to the geth that when the sniper round holed Siege's optics, Samiel was caught by the edges of the spray of sparks and white hydraulic fluid. He was frozen for a moment. Completely stunned, after the exchange with the synthetic only seconds before and now this._

_SINGS-BATTLE! The voice was a roar in its intensity, mirroring Samiel's own shock and anger, and for a moment, all there was, was rage-song. There was a finite moment in time in which Samiel could feel Nameless reaching for the songs of his brood-father and preparing to take him to safety before returning to sing vengeance for a fallen friend. . . . a moment in which there was nothing but silence from Siege of the biotic radio. But then . . .static. White-noise. Which became. . . rhythm. Percussion. Harmony, of a very singular sort._

Siege was intact. Somehow. Without a head. But intact. And Samiel understood, even if Nameless did not, quite, why.

_Geth do not feel pain. While there is awareness of damage, a flow of information stating that sensors built into a given location have detected breaks in the structure of a component, the flow of the information itself is not inhibiting to the platform. The optical housing contained sensory equipment, but no actual core processors. No brain, in organic terms._

_As such, Nameless released the rage-songs that had threatened to overwhelm Samiel. He felt Siege's biotic radio come back online, and relief surged through the male-maiden along with a grim determination. __We're not done yet__.__ Nameless sang agreement, pulled up his barrier, and set himself to blinking between reality and the. . . other place. . . just as Samiel wearily pulled up his own barrier. And then all three of them turned to face the foes incoming._

Then the people on the balconies above began to rain down fire. Clusters of people with assault rifles opened up on the trio, slamming rounds through Siege's compromised shields, twice over. Samiel managed to dodge, even on his injured leg, and Nameless simply. . . wasn't _there__. . . for many of the attacks. Always in motion. Always __between__._

_From further away, rockets fired. Samiel and Siege were rocked by one blast, eliminating all thought but the need to throw oneself to cover, then the roar of fire, the __pain__ of being caught at the edges of the blast . . . and Nameless keened from their agony, sharing it. Siege, blinded, couldn't avoid it. Tumbled across the ground like a ragdoll. Samiel could see the fire of the explosion eagerly consuming the synthetic flesh that had for so long remained hidden under protective metal plates. Siege's outer layers burned in the inferno, fluid pressures dropping to inoperable levels._

Distant drum through the biotic radio. _Our runtimes are not backed up. Dataloss will be permanent._  


_The geth was on the ground, in flames. The rachni's shining carapace was pockmarked with bullets and riddled with cracks. Samiel himself was barely able to stand on his crippled leg; the medigel had stopped the bleeding, but couldn't restore the ravaged muscles below. And then the mini-tanks completed their end-run. Samiel, on hands and knees, seared skin screaming in protest against the super-heated layers of armor and splatters of blood on the __inside__ of his helmet, looked up in time to see one of the tanks barreling down on him. Too close to just dodge. To much inertia to just shove aside.  
_

_He rolled anyways, reached out with his mind to find the driver, __wrenching__ that mentality with all he had. The driver, quite literally a man possessed, convulsively grabbed the wheel and spun it hard to the side even as Samiel threw himself, using muscle, biotics, everything he had . . . and rather than being run down the asari was only clipped on the hip as the makeshift tank overbalanced from the hard turn and tumbled into the mountain of debris and flames._

_Samiel came to a rough stop a few feet away, teeth bared in an agonized snarl. __Something__ in his already injured leg had given out with the grazing collision, somewhere between hip and knee. He didn't know if it was soft or hard tissue, didn't know the extent. Didn't care. From where he lay prone, hissing curses at the spirits, the Goddess, and the rioters that he would drag to hell with him, he found the rooftop that had fired the rockets at them. Fixed a target there in his mind. Implacably forced the would-be killer to aim his weapon at his own feet, and fire._

The rooftop disappeared in a fireball of retribution.

Bullets lancing in at the empath's prone location, beginning to chew away at his already-weakened barrier, Samiel reached out again with his mind, and again, _twisted__. _

_And watched, in dull amazement, as Siege, headless, and on fire, somehow moved as a second tank came in. Silent words, barely audible through the biotic radio. __Organics fight against odds. They break rules when no options exist.__We have no options because we are restricted by a directive. Break it__.___

Hydraulic reinforcements engaged across the platform's entire frame. The platform lurched to its feet, the gaping, burned holes in its torso illuminated from the inside by the blue glow of Element Zero. Slamming skeletonized hands into the truck's prow, Siege dug its feet into the asphalt and _resisted__, absolutely refusing to give in to its massive enemy. The truck's forward momentum was slowed as Siege's feet dug two furrows into the tortured ground, eventually coming to a stop with wheels spinning helplessly._

The driver of the vehicle could only watch in horrified awe as the truck was stopped, tilted, and heaved onto its side by something that by all rights shouldn't have been able to move. Ignoring the thunderous crash of the vehicle's impact, Siege turned toward his next target. Empty blackness where its optics should have been, tattered synthetic muscle hanging from him in burned, torn strips, titanium skeleton completely exposed in places, and the ravaging of his torso revealed to all in unholy blue light, the geth pounded forward in a lurching run.

_Samiel twisted another mind, trying to sit up, scrabble to a position that had some cover, a chant ringing through his mind. I will not die yet. I will not die here. If I must die, I will take as many of these madafutarae with me as I can. Over and over again, as he caught glimpses of how the other two were faring. Saw Nameless, who'd sprung to the top of another tank, and now clung there with all of his chitinous legs as the tank swerved under him. Could feel the rachni's determination to stop this last cold-metal machine before it could injure the other two even further. . . . dazed understanding of the rachni's complex song, complex reality. The ripple of power as the rachni turned his song against the metal of their machine, sending tendrils through its structure, finding the atoms in their dance, where they linked to one another in complex chains, and disrupting them. Channeling their energy elsewhere, moving them, flexing them. The metal sang songs, in its silence. He encouraged its song to change. Become faster. Become a dance. Cracks developed in the metal shell around the krogan, as the atoms danced faster, spinning out of control. . . .and then Nameless brought another tendril of force down at an angle, singing counter-harmonies. _

_And all that focused, channeled energy exploded. Nameless leaped off of the vehicle, landing ten feet away, as the roof of the tank lifted, and the rounds of ammunition inside, the machinery that cooled the turret, everything, including the hydrogen fuel cell that gave the vehicle motive force, exploded. Samiel saw the vehicle rise into the air, like a child's toy. Saw it arc downwards, fast, too fast, right at the rachni, who still blinked between one quantum state and the next, in and out of reality. Move, Nameless, move, move that futtari insect ass! he wanted to shout, but there was no time. . . ._

_. . . and then the tank came down. Nameless under it. Unable to jump away quickly enough in his exhausted state. For a moment, there was nothing but pain-song._

_And then there was silence._

_Exhaustion. A body that would no longer obey the dictates of the will housed within it. Even his empathy was growing quiet and muted; he couldn't feel beyond the courtyard-sized arena the three's last stand had taken place in, couldn't feel his allies on the other side of the collapsed building. All that was left was the hate and fear of the rioters. Siege's internal chorus. And silence, perfect and appalling, where Nameless' battle-song had been._

_The ground underfoot began to shake, as the thrumming of powerful engines vibrated through air and earth alike. Samiel looked up and saw the stars. . . vanish. He refused to believe that he was dead. . . and finally discerned that there was a dark shape hovering in the midnight sky, black against black. Then lights suddenly flared to brilliancy from the ship's underside, as the Clavus dropped the miniguns positioned under its wings, and begins to spin them up._

On the other side of the fallen building, two geth drop ships swooped overhead, and there were deep, resonating thuds as things fall from the sky.

Atop the fallen building, a single geth Colossus unfolded, raising its optic, the size of a human torso. It was backlit by the Clavus' brilliant underside lights, and stood, a black shadow, against that illumination. Atop other buildings, armatures unfolded, charging their weapons.

The crowds of rioters were losing enthusiasm at the sight of the Clavus. They broke and ran entirely when the geth and the ship opened fire. Just bullets. Not Thanix cannons or missiles or anything else. Just perfectly controlled death from above.

Siege. . . or what is left of Siege. . . shambled to where Nameless lay, and lifted the remains of the tank off of the rachni. Nameless' carapace was beyond cracked at this point; the top was completely shattered, and black blood is leaking everywhere. Siege, leaking white fluids, helped the rachni to his feet, gently, but the brood-warrior had internal injuries to match that crushed carapace. No song left. Just the same desperate need that Samiel himself felt, to see and hear the others. He crawled to Samiel, Siege helping the rachni to move. Samiel reached across his chest with his good arm—the one that didn't have a bullet hole in the corresponding side of the armor over his abdomen—and wordlessly clasped the rachni's pedipalp.

Nameless' thoughts were incoherent, but in a way, comprehensible to the male-maiden. All Nameless could think, in that numb moment, was that he needed to get to a queen. Give his memory-songs to her. Before the end. It gave him just enough desperation, enough strength, to do what he had never been able to do, before.

Pop.

And this time, he took both Siege and Samiel with him. They materialized in front of the Spectre's Hammerhead, and with his last strength, Nameless heaved his bulk to Dara Jaworski, who dropped to her knees. He placed his head in her lap, and sang, very faintly, Take my songs.For the hive.  
  
"You're not dying. You hear me? Your songs are not ending. Not without a name. You listen to me. You listen to me, Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight, you are not ending your songs!" Queen-song behind it. Rolling out from her in a spectral wave.

Yes, my queen.

Flurry of voices, all growing faint as Samiel started to lose consciousness. . . drift out of the dream. Zhasa'Maedan, staring at Siege. "Oh, Keelah," she murmured. "He. . . how can he be moving? This should not be happening. . . " The quarian sounded rattled. "Dempsey—?"

"I'm not the only zombie around here. Siege! Get over here, if you can hear me." This, transmitted on biotic frequencies, too. "Let's see if we can get the fluid leaks shut down, at least."

"He's going to need a whole new platform," Zhasa muttered.

"Hell no. I don't need a whole new body, do I? This is who he is. We'll fix it. The geth will fix it. Something."

_A medic, catching Samiel and moving him into a Hammerhead, slapping gauze on wounds and applying pressure. "Hey, stay with me, you hear? Talk to me!"_

His voice was a distant thing, lost in the flood of memories and time, and yet not. "We're not done yet."

And then Samiel awoke with a start, and realized he could smell breakfast, and asari tea. He could see the face of Ylara Alir. Not Tortuga.

Niacal.

A nightmare of a different sort.

"Eat," Ylara instructed, not unkindly, as Samiel sat up, pulling his blanket around his shoulders and rubbing at his face. "I have an idea or two that might make the infiltration process a little easier. Do you think that your target could be introduced to me? Perhaps. . . hmm. . .as your mother, in from out of town? This would give her the impression that you are more serious about her than she might otherwise have thought. . . and would give us a second path towards infiltrating the group. She might not wish to bring in a sweet young thing, but a sweet young thing with a powerful first-mother. . . might be regarded as a prize." She shrugged. "Just a thought."

The male-maiden nodded slowly as he listened to Ylara's suggestions, sipping at his tea and staring out the plate-glass window that overlooked Niacal's steaming jungle canopy. His eyes were distant even as he nodded at her words; though he was paying attention, he was clearly also seeing something visible only to his flat grey eyes. Trying to forget the damnable _dreams_.

Against his typical modesty he'd slept shirtless, one more concession to separating himself from his assumed persona, and now pulled the thin blanket more tightly around his shoulders to ward off the apartment's chill. He seemed to realize that Ylara was waiting for a response, and shifted to face her. His expression was . . . a bit dull. A bit blank, and the fire in his eyes seemed to have cooled down to glowing coals in the past weeks. "As to my target. . . I believe we've gotten all we're going to get from her after last night, at least regarding what she knows. But she still has connections we can leverage. And I can juggle her a bit longer before things become . . . complicated."

He said the last with hardly any sigh or frown. Hardly. And then was silent for a moment, before he glanced around the room, and then at the chronometer on his omnitool—not _his_ omnitool, but the cheap model he'd selected as another component of his disguise. It actually concealed Spectre-grade components inside of a cheap, flimsy housing. "_Futar_," he muttered. "I need to get back soon."

Though he made no mention, Ylara knew from her position of commander of this mission precisely to what the empath was referring. Because of the situations he might find himself in, Samiel was currently on a very specific blend of asari hormones, tailored by Dara Jaworski in a nerve-wracking attempt to get it right on the first try, that appeared to be nothing more than the asari equivalent of a pregnancy-prevention regimen—something not often used by maiden-stage asari, except for chemical control of mild depression.

What it actually was, was a cocktail of hormones intended to largely kill the male's libido.

Well, not so much kill the libido, really. Though asari had no term for the condition, it was actually indeed to induce a condition that human medicine had been dealing with it for centuries, under the name of "erectile dysfunction."

"Our chief benefit from Ashala will be more who she knows, rather than what," he began, repeating his earlier statement. "It's easier if I show you."

And at that, Samiel held out a hand, palm up, towards Ylara. He'd become more comfortable with sharing over the past months' experiences, but the older asari had noticed a trend. Since the beginning of the not-she's deep cover assignment, he'd begun to view sharing, more and more, as a tool to be used. _Maieolo'saeo_, but abused beyond its intended limitations, until _everything_ began to become impersonal for the young not-she.

He stared up at the Spectre impassively, head cocked ever-so-slightly to the side.

Ylara did not reach for his hand. Merely regarded him, her face impassive for a moment. "Samiel," she told him, gently. "I think that your ability to maneuver in the target's social network will be enhanced by having another person in with you. A variant, I think, on what Melaani likes to call a 'long con.' You're already putting yourself in position as the attractive bait. Now, when I come in, as, say, a former huntress and now a powerful society matron. . . maybe even a judge or minor lawmaker?. . . we look _recruitable_. Valuable." She paused. "And having a second person working the 'con' will help you maintain perspective." Ylara put a hand to her cheek, just under her freshly regenerated eye. She wasn't _quite_ used to it yet, but it was far better than the prosthetic had been. "Alternately, we could have Melaani enter the con, as your older sister. Similarly valuable as a recruit. Someone with wealth and not a lot of brains. She'd enjoy it as a refreshing break from her current role, I suspect." Which largely involved looking like a young rebellious type, terminally between jobs, a firebrand for reform who hung about in cafes.

He nodded with her suggestions, clearly understanding them, but didn't really seem to prefer one course of action over the other. It was like he hadn't so much returned to his own personality, as shook off the Saerila persona and found . . . nothing, beneath the facade. He was the embodiment of what the turians would describe as spirit-sickness.

Now, she finally extended her hand, but did not touch Samiel's. She put it on his shoulder, instead. He stiffened immediately, body going rigid but not quite pulling away, and his eyes flicked up to lock onto her own with sudden intensity, and she let her hand fall, immediately. "None of these elaborate games are meant to be played entirely alone, Samiel Viridian. We are your team. Let us help you." Her tone was gentle. She hadn't worked undercover, but she knew how to handle agents, and Viridian was giving her every sign of burnout. He wasn't really trained as a spy, the way Melaani was. Of course, there was only really one way _to_ train. To learn by doing. Failing or succeeding.

She sighed. "Show me, then, if you will," she told him, calmly, offering both of her own hands, palms-up. "But I do not believe that my opinion will change overmuch."

He sank back deeper into the cushions of the couch, not immediately responding. Finally, he took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Throughout the entire conversation, his voice had switched without warning between his customary tone, hardly deep itself, and the female voice he used for his assumed identity, and it continued to do so now between thoughts and sentences.

"I listen to their rhetoric, and know that regardless of how difficult this may be, they _must_ be stopped, if the asari race is to have any hope of surviving the years to come. They—_we_—have stagnated. These radicals would exterminate the not-shes." He paused for a moment, and then the grey eyes again flicked up to peer at Ylara. Analyzing, weighing. "They would turn the _ardat-yakshi_ into weapons. Not that many aren't already."

Whatever he was thinking, he kept it behind the stony mask that was slowly rebuilding itself over his features. Leaning forward slowly, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at the empty cup of tea, he continued. "Call Melaani in, then. We need to keep you in reserve, for extraction or an ace, or whatever other situation may arise."

Ylara nodded slowly, revolving everything in her mind. The reappearance of the male-maiden's more customary demeanor reassured her, for the moment. "Melaani it is. She's been undercover a dozen times in the last hundred years or so, Samiel. Two of her assignments have lasted fifteen years. She can give. . . very good advice. . . on how to keep the identities separate. And how to get _rid_ of them once you go back to your own life."

He nodded curtly extended out one hand to her, again palm-up. "While I appreciate, and accept, your offer of aid, you still need these names and faces from Ashala."

Ylara extended her hands again, accepting his upraised palms, and opened her mind. Accepting, within limits. Offering whatever he would accept in return. Her own inner strength—the strength that had allowed her to deal with her first daughter's death, the death of her first beloved—the equanimity she had found in service to others. . . were offered. It was not serenity. It looked like it on the outside. But it was a measure of peace, and she'd found it mostly with Tulluust, her elcor mate. It wasn't a permanent fix; it was something each person needed to find for themselves.

But it could be shared, for a moment. 

And yet, the exchange of information was largely one-way. Ylara found the relevant information the empath had taken from Ashala's mind, while in return Samiel took . . .

. . . very, very little. She could feel him withdrawing, not unlike a turian would, but at the same time, different. Receding into himself, the mental equivalent of wrapping his arms around his chest. Although he'd meant it to be a strictly impersonal exchange of information, she could feel how difficult he was finding it to separate the truth and the lie, and how the only coping mechanism he knew for this was to draw ever tighter in on himself.

Ylara exhaled, absorbing that, and putting it to the back of her mind. _Melaani. Yes. She'll help .. . . _ and absorbed names. Faces. Committed them to memory with a sort of mental _stomp_, and grimaced. "A couple of those people, I've heard of, before," she murmured. "They're on the Niacal governing council, or major construction firm owners. . . lots of credits, Samiel." Her expression had gone bleak. "The kind of credits and lifestyles that people will kill to protect. You and Melaani will need to be very cautious."

Melaani, when she arrived at Ylara's door, was dressed like a poet—to be precise, a _starving_ poet, with fingerless gloves and worn clothing. She shed her overcoat at the door, and a certain sulky, pouting, put-upon air with it, reaching up to stretch, putting her hands to her neck, and rubbing, gently. Her entire body language shifted, becoming once more the rather cheerful Spectre Samiel had so briefly gotten acquainted with on the flight here. "So, what's this Ashala person like?" she asked, dryly, sitting down at the table and still rubbing at her neck. "Who do I need to be, to get in with her? Or is my target someone just a little _past_ her?"

"Ashala's more of the groupie type," Ylara noted, clinically. "But she has a fair amount of money and social connections, and she knows people closer to the inner circle. I think, from what Samiel's managed to uncover so far, that Belai'a N'roa, one of the bankers who does business with Ashala. Ashala, as an event planner, does business all over this particular arcology. . . and the two buildings next to it, but mostly in the high-credit areas." Ylara rubbed at her eyes, gently. There had been a _lot_ of names and faces to assimilate in Samiel's memories. "Most of the time, it's easy to follow the money. We'll start with that. . . but keep an eye out for other patterns of influence. It's not always money. Sometimes, it's power. Influence. And sometimes, that's separate from money."

Melaani nodded, her expression going blank. "All right, Samiel. Prep me."

When Melaani entered the room, Samiel could feel the shift in her emotions as she dropped the persona as if changing clothes, her entire psyche shifting almost flawlessly from facade to her real personality. It had been this way each time he had met with the spy, and each time he watched the transition with increasing envy. When Melaani turned to him, after Ylara's initial explanation, he leaned back into the couch and rubbed at his face, as opposite Melaani's composure and professional experience as he could possibly be.

"Ashala's self-confident to a fault. Arrogant." He was struggling to maintain his _real_ voice, but the fluctuations were still present, if lessened. "Fancies herself one _hell_ of a lover, but her tastes are exotic. She gravitates towards young maidens—the younger, the more attractive in her mind." His tone was exceedingly dry at that last part. "Though she would make an exception for an _ardat-yakshi_, I believe. She _worships_ the demons of the night. Just as she reviles the not-she. Classic Tears of the Moon propaganda."

Melaani rolled her light blue eyes. "The younger the better? The less experience they have, the more she can overawe them with her own? Yes. . . I've met the type before." Her tone held distaste. "I've always been more for a meeting of equals, myself."

Samiel frowned and continued, "She loves the luxuries that life has to offer, and loves to bring these luxuries to those that cannot afford them as well. Not in an altruistic manner, but rather to be remembered and thanked for bestowing such boons upon the less fortunate. She . . . thinks very highly of herself for showing Saerila the finer side of life." His lips twitched in faint distaste. "Saerila has very little to offer to, or reason to be introduced to Belai'a N'roa. She's ultimately just a morsel. But an elder sister, or perhaps young mother, if her philosophy were in keeping with Ashala's goals, might well be worth introducing to the twit's superiors."

He rose at that point, picking up his empty tea cup, and made to refill it with hot water before returning to the couch, blanket still held around his shoulders by his free hand.

Melaani considered his words dispassionately, leaning back in her chair. "There are a couple of options we could take, depending on how you've laid the groundwork, Samiel. A rich young mother—I'm still maiden-stage, but I can _pass_ as a matron, by my power alone. An older sister, the primary heir of our mother's fortune, silly, foolish, apt to spend and not to think. But given what you've said about Ashala's. . . interests. . . and given what we know of the agenda of the Tears of the Moon. . . " Melaani appeared to be working herself up to something. "We would be foolish not to consider _all_ options."

Ylara squinted at the younger asari. "What do you have in mind, Melaani? For you to speak in such circles suggests that there is danger in what you're about to suggest."

"Some," Melaani admitted. "It will, as I said, depend _greatly_ on Samiel's prep work. What if young Saerila's older sister. . . happened to be an _ardat-yakshi_? Not a full one, but one who had somehow managed to escape the monastery, fled Thessia before the Destruction, and has been making use of her talents to keep herself and her beloved younger sister alive? Perhaps Saerila does not even quite _know_ that this is what her sister is, just knows that her dear sister came and found her among the turians with whom she was left as a refugee after the Reaper Wars?" Melaani was thinking out loud now, creating the identity on the fly.

She couldn't have known how the words would hit Samiel. She didn't know his background. Knew nothing of Meshara, his fair-one. As it was, he was headed back from the kitchen area, taking a cautious sip of the fresh cup of steaming tea, and quite nearly spilled it. As it was, he only narrowly avoided scalding himself by virtue of his considerable self-control. His grey eyes burned with intensity when he looked back to Melaani, and his voice was solely his own as he chewed his response out through gritted teeth.

_"No._ Spirits of air and darkness, _no._ _Futar_ _no._ The Spectres might be forgetting that I have limits, but I do, and _this_ is one of them. No one is impersonating an ardat-yakshi. I didn't sign up to deal with this _s'kak_."

The other two asari were staring at him, each displaying surprise at the passion of his reaction in her own way, and he glared right back at them as he made his way back to his place on the couch. He seemed more himself than he had in weeks, but in all the wrong ways: his face was a grim, blank mask, his eyes were burning with contained anger, and a muscle in his jaw was bunching up with the pressure he was putting on his clenched jaw.

He sat down, moving with exaggerated care to set the tea cup down without sloshing any more liquid over the sides of the cup, and then made to lean back into the couch. The motion failed, as his back was too straight and stiff for him to achieve anything resembling comfort. Sitting back upright, he continued glaring straight ahead, talking out loud, but more to himself than the others. "Too damn dangerous. You're proposing masquerading as one of the most feared entities in the _galaxy_, and certainly the most feared among asari. You'll be expected to play the part of a sociopath, but your actual persona is _not_ sociopathic in any manner. You'll be expected to display domination abilities and you _don't have them_. And what if you actually pull this _s'kak_ off? What are you going to do _then_?"

Going silent, he leaned back in the couch again, sinking into the cushions, arms crossed over his bare chest. For several seconds he said nothing, and the only movement was the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and the muscle that worked in his jawline. He was staring at _something_ with those impassive grey eyes, but the Goddess only knew what.

When he spoke, his voice was no more than a quiet mutter. "_Futar_. This is a damn good plan."

Ylara sat, her hand frozen, tea cup mid-journey to her lips, her finely drawn brows lifted in surprise. Melaani's eyes went round, and her lips pursed. "Why, Samiel," she purred, trying valiantly, it's clear, to keep a straight face, "That sounded almost personal. I didn't know you _cared_."

Ylara put her cup down, very carefully, as Melaani chuckled in the face of the glare she now received from Samiel. "Samiel. . . I appreciate the concern for my safety in your words, but before becoming a Spectre, I spent the previous five years or so, infiltrating the Memory of Thessia. The group that wants to kill Shepard for the destruction of our homeworld. And almost any human who happens to look like her, while they're at it. They practice light group sharing to ensure that they're not infiltrated. I had to _think_ like them. I had to _be_ them. I had a damned lover in that group, but no one in there ever let down _all_ the walls." Melaani's face went grim, and the cheerful, lighthearted asari that the male-maiden had come to know faded away. Her eyes darkened faintly. Her lips hardened into a line, the muscles under her face shifted slightly, and suddenly, he was looking at someone he _knew_ had killed. Would kill again. To feed vengeance, for a cause. . . but also. . . for the pleasure of it. Her eyes were totally blank, and the body language was whip-tight, on edge, almost vibrating in place with the readiness, the urgency, to _strike_. "That person is still in me, Samiel," Melaani murmured. "I was Maaisa then. I can pull her up out of my head any time I need her. But I _hate_ being her."

She let it go, and it was clear that this role, lived for five years, does not drop away as easily as the vagabond poetess did. "Before that," Melaani noted, clinically, rubbing her face, "it was fifteen years in deep cover in Eclipse. And another fifteen in the Goddess' Path. I need a year or three off between assignments like that, though." Her expression turned weary and inwards for a moment.

He'd just glared at her joke about how she didn't know he cared, but the glare had faded away when she slipped into her older persona. It very well have taken until that moment for him to understand just how much of a master she was at her craft - and just how much of a sacrifice she had been forced to make for such mastery. Involuntarily, he shivered.

Melaani looked up again. "So, let's review what everyone 'knows' about _ardat-yakshi_. We know them from. . . poems. Songs. Really bad vids that we don't let other species see. We 'know' they're. . . compelling. Attractive. Powerful." She shrugged. "Domination. . . well, that could be the myth. If I _really_ need that, I might ask you, Samiel, to, er, assist in that, with your particular mental gifts, but. . . " Melaani grimaced. "Let's face it, a _real_ _ardat-yakshi_ would be the most hunted creature in the galaxy. She wouldn't have _time_ to loom over her victims and smile seductively for the cameras before melting into the mist and fleeing the Justicars in the distance. She would probably use her talents to _conceal_ her passage, most of the time. To erase her presence from the memory of those around her victims. She'd only be seductive to those whom she wished to seduce. To everyone else. . . invisible."

As she started assessing their knowledge of the demons of the night, Samiel didn't contribute, but instead just sat there, listening to her words, muscle in his jaw still worming beneath the pale blue skin. He even seemed to disagree with parts of her rough sketch, but still remained silent.

He watched as Melaani half-closed her eyes, and went very still. Centered. Balanced. She opened her eyes slowly, and she moved across the room, and he finally moved, leaning forward, elbows on knees and fingertips pressed together, as his eyes tracked her progress around the room as she brushed past Ylara. His face remained expressionless as he absorbed her body language: tucked in, not precisely shy, but indifferent. Somehow, the eye simply slid right off her, as anonymous as a mouse. And then, near Samiel, she turned, locked eyes with him, and interest sparked there. Power. Self-control. The tension in his body doubled and then redoubled as she leaned in slowly, and murmured in his ear, a low, throaty voice completely unlike her usual tones, "Something, perhaps, like this?"

It was his seeming lack of reaction that was his tell. As the second stretched on into five, it became clear to the other two asari that he was restraining himself.

From striking Melaani.

"That depends," he finally ground out, head swiveling around to face her, eyes scant inches from her own, "on how you want to play this. Are you the cutout that they expect, or a real, breathing sapient?"

He stood abruptly and walked past her, blanket falling away, and came to stand before the large window. Stared out at the steaming Niacal day, and when he spoke, he bit the end off of each word. "We _know_ from Shepard that at _least_ Morinth possessed the ability to dominate, and given our knowledge of the Lystheni. It _does_ explain why they are found to be fascinating and compelling—calling one asari "beautiful" in comparison to most others really isn't stating anything significant on a galactic scale. Domination is likely a biotic component of the AY genetic structure, but regardless, I believe it's safe to assume that the majority, at least, possess the ability. And yes, I can assist you in emulating it."

_Do I possess the ardat-yakshi gene? Is that why Meshara was able to teach me the ability?_ He pushed the uncomfortable thought aside, and continued.

"Think of it this way. You _are_ powerful, as that's how you've managed to evade the Justicars for this long. But you may not be. . . or, even more likely . . .you _are not_ a predator. You are an asari, cursed with a genetic defect of apocalyptic proportions. You are not necessarily any more different from the asari norm, psychologically, than anyone in this room. Indeed," he added grimly, "you are likely to be far _more_ asari than I. Perhaps you've never shared since you first learned of your . . . ability. Or perhaps you share only a 'little bit.'"

His words were as dark as his eye were when he turned to face the others. "You've run your entire life. Your _entire_ life, since your first _maieolo'loa_ or _maieolo'loa'kareo_, which may also have been your last. You could be here as a last resort, in the hopes of finding a end to your lonely road. You've likely evaded Justicars to get here; you may have tried to spare them, but the Code states that nothing short of death will stop them from seeking out what the Order, and their Art, was created to destroy."

"Blend _that_ with your previous ideas. Then we have a real sapient. Then we have a plan."

Every word had come out laced with blood; every word had _cost_ him something. Without waiting for their responses, he turned the smoldering gaze back out the picture window.

Melaani's head had snapped back with shock; she'd been doing her best to portray a _non-_stereotypical _ardat-yakshi_, as best she could, and being accused of presenting a cardboard cutout was, to say the least, offensive to her. Her pride was clearly stung for a moment, but she folded her arms across her chest and _listened_. Listened in a way that perhaps Samiel didn't expect. Absorbing each word, assessing it, faint nods, faint headshakes along the way. As Samiel wound down, Melaani held up a finger. "I appreciate the . . . insight. I generally take direction well," she commented, her tone light, but her eyes glittering, "but if I might give _you_ a note or two? You don't really need to tear my head off to get my attention." She looked off into the mid-distance for a moment. "We, as Spectres and. . . affiliates. . . know about Morinth's abilities. We know about the Lystheni, too, and yes, the genes for domination and '_ardat-yakshi'_ do seem to be linked. But. . . if that's all it took to make someone an _ardat-yakshi_. . . why, you'd be one, Samiel." Her lips quirked up in light humor. "But to be honest. . . " Her smile widened and became almost whimsical, "until I joined the Spectres, I didn't even _believe_ in the _ardat-yakshi_. I thought they were a myth. That the monastery on Thessia was a quaint old tradition, and that the monks inside were . . I don't know. A tourist thing. A sales gimmick for 'dresses finely woven in the _ardat-yakshi_ monastery,'" She held up her fingers in the air, as a human might, bracketing the words with quotes, mimicking the tones of the advertisement perfectly. "In the past forty years, since humans entered galactic society, with their werewolves and their vampires? It. . . honestly seemed like an example of congruent mythology, evolving in two locations, two eras. . . but similarly."

Melaani took a seat, and sighed. "I'd probably _still_ laugh at the thought if I hadn't been briefed in on what the Lystheni, and even what the batarians who'd chipped people with the domination ability. . . could do." Her expression had sobered. "And then, as I said before, there's you, Samiel. You have the ability, but I haven't really noticed you sucking the soul out of someone's body at the instant of their death." She glanced at Ylara. "Which is precisely what any number of furious asari on the extranet have accused Elijah Sidonis of doing to your daughter. That he somehow holds her soul entrapped inside of him. That's the lunatic fringe's favorite explanation for his eyes, the few times he's been caught on camera melding with Dara."

Ylara's expression has become like stone. "He does not possess any part of her soul."

"I'm sorry to bring it up, but I'm trying to make a point," Melaani replied, wincing and holding up a conciliatory hand. "Which is, there's what _we_ know, and there's what everyone else 'knows,' and we can pick and choose, to a certain extent, from both. They will need to see some things that they expect. The cutout, as you say, Samiel. Otherwise, the thought will never enter their mind. But I like the background you've developed. It makes sense to me."

Ylara shifted, a little uneasily. "Every tale of them speaks of them as predators," she reminded both of the younger agents, quietly. "Morinth absolutely was."

Melaani shrugged. "And if they all were, if they were all incapable of controlling the hunger, then how do they keep popping up in the gene pool? Eventually, forced abstinence would ensure that they were bred out of existence. Even if it's a recessive gene, or several recessive genes, sooner or later, over thousands of years, it would become less and less common." She flips a hand dismissively. "I don't want to get into the science of it. But I like Samiel's contribution. Let's break it down into what I can work with, though." She eyed Samiel. "So, even more pulled in, is what I'm hearing, which is what I was going for. Not shy, but reticent. Cautious. Wary. Decades of bitter experience, being unable to trust anyone." She smiled faintly. "I can do that. The question becomes, what do I let them see, and when do I let them see it? Work with me. Help me make a person here."

The longer she'd spoken, the more she'd shifted into the new persona, blending elements of the two so far. She was definitely emulating the original 'don't see me' to start with, but with a little more caution in the eyes, little flickers of glances, as if evaluating everyone around her. Perhaps a little too much 'scared _anserae_' at first, but she toned it down as she adopted the pose. She had decided to use her real age, and let little flashes of hard cynicism escape now and again, a worldly, tired look that she said she's cribbing from a friend of hers who'd worked Vice for a hundred and fifty years on two dozen worlds.

"When you're ready," Melaani. . . or Linaia, as she'd opted to be called for this cover. . . told her 'sister,' wrapping a light, protective arm over Saerila's shoulders, "you can take me to meet these new friends of yours. You know I worry when you let new people into your life too quickly. They don't always understand about me. That's why we had to move away from Edessan, and we both liked Edessan. So cosmopolitan for a turian planet." A quick, bright smile, underscored by haunted eyes. Then the pair of agents moved back out of the apartment, Samiel through the ventilation ducts of the massive arcology, and Melaani out the front door, a vagabond poetess once more.

Ylara waited for the door to close, and sat there for a long moment, completely unmoving. Reviewing everything she'd seen and heard over the course of the day, and the night before, and not entirely liking what she was seeing.

Viridian wasn't trained for this. He'd adopted the guise of a sister—been instructed in it, painstakingly, by his mother, apparently—but it took an emotional toll on him. The medications that were dampening some aspects of his nature were hormonal, and as such, could have an effect on delicate brain chemical balances. Too much of some birth control hormones could _induce_ depression—deep, abiding depression—in asari, human females, and turian females. Ylara was concerned that a similar imbalance could be pressing in on Viridian's psyche . . and that simple chemistry could be pushing him even further off-balance from the already delicate mental position a spy needed to take—mostly in-character, and just enough _out_ of character to pick up on the needed information, and pass it along.

His reactions in the past day could be, mostly, explained by the strain of the long disguise, his distaste for passing as a female, and inexperience. His reaction to the words _ardat-yakshi_, however, was something else entirely. Ylara tapped on the table in front of her, assembling a mental collage of facial expressions, emotional nuances, word choices.

_The Spectres might be forgetting that I have limits, but I do, and __this__ is one of them__._

_Why limits? Why do the Spectres know about these limits? Why don't __I__ know about these limits? How is impersonating an ardat-yakshi so . . . personal . . . to him?_

His mother had been a Justicar, apparently. . . had she ever hunted an _ardat-yakshi_? No. By the era of Samiel's birth, only Morinth had remained outside the monastery. Or so Samara had told Shepard.

Of course, Samara had also told Shepard that only three existed, and that all three were her daughters. _The monastery must have echoed, and the fine linens and silks they wove must have been worth their weight in gold_. Ylara's grimace was cynical. Samara had . . . told a partial truth. A partial lie. Had waltzed over her Code, rather than revealing all the Shepard. The truth that most asari knew.

That monastery had housed over two thousand people, four hundred years ago. The numbers had dwindled, over time. Some had been falsely accused, falsely imprisoned. Others. . . had been sent into the asari equivalent of a leper colony.

But none of that explained Virdian's reactions.

_No one is impersonating an ardat-yakshi. I didn't sign up to deal with this __s'kak__._  
  
But he had. He'd signed up to deal with people who worshiped them as the idea of the perfect asari. Powerful, feminine, mysterious, the Goddess incarnate. And who reviled what he was, what her Sisu was, as an abomination at worst, a birth defect at best.

The vicious moment when he'd almost struck Melaani. The way his eyes had darkened. It wouldn't have been a biotic shove, as with the domination. It would have been a physical attack, she was sure. And both of them being trained, powerful vanguards, Ylara had a bad feeling that both would have tumbled out her plasteel window to fall four hundred stories to the ground.  
_  
__That depends. . . . on how you want to play this. Are you the cutout that they expect, or a real, breathing sapient?___

Again, the almost personal offense.

Ylara came to a decision, and made a heavily encrypted call to Mindoir. "Shepard," she said, smiling faintly. "For once, I appear not to have rousted _you_ out of bed."

"_It's actually after breakfast. Getting a call that's not at oh-three-thirty is a pleasant change. What's on your mind?"_

"What has an _ardat-yakshi_ previously done to Samiel Viridian? His father is alive. His mother never hunted them. Did Morinth try to hunt him when he was a child? Or some other, that escaped the monastery?" Ylara's tone was clipped. "He's starting to come apart at the seams, and I don't know whether it's the hormonal cocktail or something psychological and inherent to him, but I _need to know_, so I can keep him in one piece."

Shepard's expression _froze_. Which was all the confirmation Ylara really needed. "Maiden, mother, and _crone_," Ylara said, clearly and sharply. "He _has_ met one, hasn't he?"

_"I. . . can't tell you."_

"Shepard!"

_"I can't! I gave my word. People's lives are at stake. The stability of an entire system might be at stake, too."_

"All right. What _can _you tell me?"

_"That's another story. Sit back, make sure you've got some tea, and we'll talk."_ Shepard looked off camera. _"Garrus, could you take my next two comm calls?"_

Five minutes later, Ylara's mouth was hanging open. "Lilitu Shepard!"

"_Calm down. You wanted to know if he'd been exposed to an __ardat-yakshi__. The answer is __yes__. I can't and won't tell you when or where or how or who."_

"Shepard, I'm actually _supposed_ to call a Justicar just for _suspecting_. . . "

"_She's not Morinth."_ Shepard's tone was flat.

"Have you _met_ her?"

_"No. I'm. . . not sure I'm up to that, yet. The information is sort of new to me."_

"Then how do you _know_ that she's not a murdering beast, a serial killer with better press and a prettier smile?" Ylara challenged. "Because _he_ told you so? She could have put it in his mind—"

_"You've met Viridian. His mind's pretty damned strong. So's mine. I held Morinth at bay for twenty minutes before Samara took her sweet time and entered the room._" Shepard's voice was strained. _"This one's. . . extremely careful not to use her ability to kill. She doesn't hunt. She doesn't murder. And yes, we're watching her."_

Ylara sat back in her chair, trying to calm down. "And what are you going to tell Samara when she finds out you've concealed an _ardat-yakshi_ from her?"

_"Are you planning to tell her?"_

"I don't have anything _to_ tell her. No name, no place, not anything other than what you've told me." Ylara grimaced. "And you've already told me that it's in Spectre interests to leave her alone. Leave. . . an asset. . . alone."

_"You're a lot more flexible than any number of your people would understand, Ylara. Have I mentioned how much I appreciate that in you?"_

"All the time." Ylara exhaled. "But you didn't answer my question."

_"If Samara finds out? And if she confronts me? I'll tell her that I didn't see why I needed to infringe the liberty of a law-abiding citizen and a Spectre asset for the sake of her Code."_ Shepard's voice was chill. _"Also, that since she once took twenty minutes to get around to saving my life, I figured I owed someone else that twenty minutes' head start."_

**September 25, 2197, Niacal, Hal'ili'ea Arcology**

The ball was extravagant, every attendee invited due to her power or prestige or connections, and having the financial resources to look the part. It was the asari equivalent of a human black-tie event, as grand as anything put on by the financial tycoons of New York.

Not that any of the attendees would acknowledge any similarity between asari culture and aboriginal humanity.

The two maidens gained entrance via Ashala's invitation, and Saerila's eyes were wide indeed as she took in the opulent main room of the gala. She gripped her sister-fair's hand, tightly, trying not to let her inexperience and anxiety show too clearly as a few of the other guests glanced appraisingly at the newcomers.

Though they lacked the dripping finery of the others, Saerila and Linaia looked no less stunning in a comparatively plain sort of way. Saerila's gown was a deep purple, long, back bare and shoulders exposed, accentuating her gymnast's physique.

And she wore flats. _That_ had occasioned an argument between the two siblings.

She'd insisted on bringing Linaia to this event, thinking with youthful haste that the people she'd caught glimpses of in her sharing with Ashala might be able to aid her . . . odd . . . sister, and Linaia had agreed with little enough argument that it left the younger sister thinking that this must have been a very good idea, indeed.

Now she scanned the room, body language nervous but eyes still showing that unflagging confidence that had first attracted her matron sponsor. _Well, sister-fair_, the thoughts passed through their physical contact to Linaia, _I told you they were powerful people._

Linaia's fingers tightened on Saerila's. _Power can also mean danger. Please, sister, be cautious with these people. They may look beautiful on the outside, but only the Goddess knows what they are like in their hearts. Only the Goddess shares everything._ Every thought, perfectly in tune with who she was _being_ at the moment. Light sharing state, just the uppermost levels, to let them guide each other.__

They drifted throughthe crowd, nibbling from the trays as various dainties were offered by slender servers in demure dresses. Linaia watched the crowd, constantly. As Saerila introduced her to her new friends, all met through Ashala, Linaia assessed each person, always keeping a hand on her sister—wrapped around her waist, lightly on a shoulder, a gentle palm-touch, here and there. When she wasn't actively touching Saerila, Linaia tended to stand, very slightly, between her younger sister and the others. A shield. A ward. A barrier between Saerila and harm.

Belai'a N'roa was introduced to them, and looked bored, at first, as if Ashala were wasting her time with these two absolute nobodies. _Sister-fair, now is when you should find a way to leave us alone. . . or seem to. . . I wish to speak with this one by myself._ It was just a whisper of thought. Visibly, all Linaia did, was to pull Saerila towards her, one time too many.

Saerila gave her sister a vexed look. "Linaia, I can't stay beside you _all_ evening. I'm not a child anymore."

Linaia sighed. "Don't pout, _lia'kaea_. I know that you are not. Go and have fun, and I . . . apologize for monopolizing you among all your new friends." She smiled at Belai'a, and sipped her sparkling, perfumed drink.

"Saerila is convinced that I am over-protective. But with our mother's death, I feel that I can't be too careful. She is precious to me." Linaia gestured, and glanced around. "Of course, every asari life is precious. Now, more than ever."

_Keep them occupied._ The thought slithered up from deep within the young maiden's consciousness, and to the elder sister it carried a deeper timbre. It was unmistakably the male-maiden's voice.

With the look of a youth suddenly released from parental restrictions, Saerila broke free from her elder sister and slipped back a few feet, smile fading a little as she looked at the exchange already taking place between Belai'a and Linaia. But she'd brought her elder sister here _to meet_ these asari, hadn't she? She edged further away, half-listening to the words spoken behind her, as Belai'a turned slightly, intrigued. Linaia's words were a common sort of sentiment in this crowd, but the grace with which it had been said had caught her attention. "Yes. We've been reminded of our own mortality."

"We've always been mortal. We've just forgotten, in our endless day, that there is always night." Linaia's eyes hooded for a moment. "That the Goddess has a shadowed face, too."

The high-ranking asari matron studied the maiden, clearly fascinated. Linaia turned away, slightly. "Matron, I apologize for my forwardness, but this is not really the sort of place I expected to find my sister, nor the sort of people with whom I expected to find her associating." A slight, self-deprecating laugh, but it was a ripple of sound that was. . . intoxicating, to the right person. "I don't want her getting in over her head. Can I rely on you for your. . . protection and discretion?"

Making a decision, Saerila spun on her heel and made off deeper into the room. _She knows what she's doing._ That thought, again, was in a male's voice.

She spoke with other guests for a little while. Or tried to, at least. The majority of the guests reacted to her presence much like Belai'a had, seeing nothing but a nobody. A _young_ nobody, at that. The dismissal gnawed at her patience, but she tried a few more times, working herself across the room towards the entrance to the kitchen. Once or twice it was necessary to turn aside Ashala's attention with a flick of a mental suggestion, much like a fencer deflecting a blow, as the matron searched the room for her youthful conquest.

_Grey voice._

Finally, she reached the exit she wanted, and waited. Patiently, for a few minutes, a young thing, eyes old beyond her years but too out of place in this room of important people to know how to act, and so, standing off to the side. Until a server passed through the door once more and, turning aside a curious glance from someone whose damn _emotions_ even felt rich, Saerila slipped in behind the server.

And tabbed on her stealth field the instant the door was between her and the main room. And just shy of threw herself against the wall, not even willing to breath, as the server spun around, convinced that she'd felt something behind her. Finding nothing, the server turned back around and headed for the kitchen with her tray of empty glasses.

Saerila crept into the kitchen, crouching near walls and out of sight lines. She found the chef's office, and with it, _privacy_ as well as the ceiling ventilation grate that she needed. She didn't waste the time to carefully unfasten the screws, but instead telekinetically _yanked_ each one free, timing each to coincide with a bang or clatter from the kitchen proper and tossed the four screws into the waste can. Holding the grating in place with her biotics, concealed by her stealth field, she whipped off the flimsy dress and tucked it into her evening bag. The lightweight silk strained the sides of the bag, but it still fit.

She paused for a moment, grey eyes scanning the room. She was hidden by a stealth field, but was still essentially naked. With a flicker of irritated indignation marring the otherwise professional and calm facade, she tugged a chef's jacket down from one of the hooks on the wall and shrugged it on. _Did not sign up for this __s'kak__._

Then she stood under the ceiling grate, shifted it aside, and fell once more fell _up_ into the ductwork. Pulled the screws up from their place in the garbage can, below, and refastened the grate, loosely. And in short order, began working her way through a maze of large ducts, the schematics of which she'd memorized before coming here, working her way to Belai'a's private rooms.

She found and disabled a set of lasers, mostly set up to detect vermin scuttling in the vents. The actual air ventilation shafts for Belai'a's bedroom dropped in diameter to a degree too small for her to fit through. She stopped and thought for a moment, and the expression on the concealed face continued to dissolve from Saerila's wide-eyed youthfulness to Samiel's "work face." He needed to balanced silence and speed: he couldn't be gone long. Melaani needed backup, and eventually, someone would start wondering where Saerila had made off to. Reviewing his options, he took a different route down through the ventilation ducts to the air intake in the suite's hallway, peering out cautiously.

Cameras. No big surprise there; in fact, he'd be more worried if he hadn't seen any. He tapped away at his omnitool in its cheap-looking housing, and loaded up several programs provided for him by the support staff before he'd left for this mission.

It'd be quite a while before he was actually programming his own intrusion routines.

Satisfied with the configuration, he activated the string of programs and then began his own work, unfastening the grating from the wall and floating it to the side so that he could slip out into the hallway. The hell of this all was, given the way the programs affected the cameras, he wouldn't even he sure if it had worked until he'd made it out safely.

Or realized that security forces were searching for him.

Replacing the grate, but only using one screw to fasten it (the rest left within the duct, to be replaced in the event that he had time to do so during his exit), he crept through Belai'a's quarters, searching for her study or anything particularly interesting that caught his eye along the way.

And trying _damned_ hard not to get caught by security systems while doing so.

He found Belai'a's personal console quickly, and was able to ascertain that she didn't bother with a biometric scanner on a computer that's inside of all her personal defenses. And that she, like many people, found remembering many passwords a bother.

Hence the sheet of paper beside the console, with many of them written down.

Standing over the terminal, only the stealth net prevented his already-blue features from turning ghastly under the luminous aerogel screen. Samiel just shook his head at how _un_secure Belai'a's files were; even for the center of her seat of power, behind her other layers of security, this was shoddy. There was a reason it was called _layers_ of security.

He got to work. Comm messages were logged, but many were encrypted. There were, interestingly, unencrypted images attached. Aerial footage of what look like encampments in the jungle. What an investment banker is doing with them, other than, perhaps, determining how much value was in a corporation's holdings, was unclear. . . until he find several images of stockpiled weapons. Mostly pistols and submachine guns, but weapons, nonetheless.

There were also a number of comm messages from various laboratories on Luisa, records of transactions that suggest that Belai'a was bankrolling someone's effort to set up an onsite laboratory in the jungles on the southern continent—not an entire surprise; research into the local flora for pharmaceuticals was a large industry on Niacal. In fact the company appeared to be a subsidiary of one of Matriarch Mishai's . . .but this facility also included a genetics laboratory. Records of agricultural equipment, also being purchased and sent to that continent. . . which is supposed to remain an untouched wilderness area, in the main. . . more encrypted emails from a bank in volus space. . . well, she _was_ a banker, but this was her personal comm address, not her business account. . . .

He knew he didn't have much time. He began copying select files over. The photos of the jungle encampments, as well as their locations. The last month of emails with the bank in volus space. A week's worth of more generalized comm messages, just a highlighting and brute 'copy-paste' of that portion of her inbox, in the hopes that something would pan out.

Racing against the clock, he took the liberty of copying over her list of comm addresses.

Finally, in the process of returning the terminal to the state in which he'd found it, he took one last action: activating a program that would insert a worm into her terminal's base software infrastructure, leaving a backdoor for Spectre assets to exploit in the future. Ideally, as soon as he was able to report that the backdoor existed.

That done, Samiel made his silent way back to the ventilation shaft. The clock was ticking; he'd been absent from the party for almost a half an hour now.

Back in the chef's office, he quickly changed back into the dress, hanging the now dusty and rather blackened chef's jacket on its peg. Slid the screws back into the panel, concealing that anyone had passed through the ventilation shaft. . . . and as he pulled Saerila's mannerisms back on, and made sure that _her_ stealth net was in place once more, realized that there was an obstacle in his path.

Someone had parked a dish trolley in front of the door to the chef's office. Moving it would attract attention, unless it were done slowly. He began to nudge it t the side, carefully, from behind the slightly ajar door. One glass did fall over, which garnered some attention, and various grumbling scullions moved over to pick up its shattered remains.

As they did so, Saerila had the opportunity to hear them converse. Apparently, at a soiree like this one, a month ago, Belai'a had insisted on special glasses for herself, and her latest would-be-conquest. Red-stemmed ones. No one else was supposed to use those besides the two of them. _"She's got the oddest ways of trying to show people favor,"_ one of the wait staff noted. _"Like anyone's going to be impressed by __that__."_

"Everyone else got to drink out of regular glasses. She and that Telara girl were sipping out of five-hundred-year-old crystal goblets. Even if it didn't impress her, it was all about setting them apart from the _rabble__. Ever notice that all of the inner circle are pure-bloods?"_

"Hah. Well, that'll get them any number of birth defects. Which is what I thought this group was supposed to be founded to _prevent__."_

"_Funny how, as a species, we were going along fine, no birth defects, or minimal, until we achieved space flight and three, four hundred years later, found the salarians, and __then__ we suddenly needed to start mating outside our own kind to be responsible. Funny how that could __evolve__."_

"_All right, now I know you've been listening to the party line around here too much."_

"I'm not necessarily on-board with everything they talk about over tea, but they do have a point. It sounds like something that someone _wanted__ us to believe, for an agenda, because it doesn't make a lot of sense. We spent a million or so years evolving in such a way that we needed species that didn't even exist on our planet during our evolution to ensure healthy offspring? Maybe we should mate with gua'sari. Or maybe with fish, while we're at it."_

"_Now you're just being disgusting."_

"_Perhaps._ _But I'm also very aware that I'm not a pure-blood. And around here, that makes you __rabble__."_

"Ashala doesn't seem to care that that Saerila girl had a turian second-mother."

"Only because Ashala hasn't gotten under her skirts yet. It's been months. I don't think she's ever been put off this long before. She must think she's got something really special under there, not to have gotten bored of the chase yet."

"You think Belai'a will be asking for the _special__ cups for Saerila's __sister__? They certainly seem to hitting it off."_

"Yeah. But I doubt the cups will get called for, unless the _sister__ had an asari second-mother, too."_

The pair moved off, and Samiel finally shifted the cart aside, and stepped, light-footed, out of the kitchen, letting the stealth field drop, trying to deflect everyone's attention around him as he did so. Strain. It took _effort_ to push eyes away from the opening door. . . and effort to fall back into the role, as well. . . .and mere moments after Saerila stepped into the room, Ashala pounced on her, with renewed determination. "_Saerila, where have you been. . . ?"_ The matron fell silent, staring at the smudges on the younger asari's face. _"Who was it?"_ she suddenly demanded, furiously. _"Who were you with! You. . . you. . . you . . . "_ Words fail her, and her mouth works silently. _"You __used__ me, and now I'm to be cast aside!"_

Still something of an amateur at espionage and undercover work, still feeling the vestiges of Samiel in the transition to Saerila, she stood in stunned silence, eyes wide as dishes, for a heartbeat.

_It's going to be very difficult not to enjoy killing you should the opportunity arise, you pure-blood bitch._

And in that heartbeat, he/she made the decision to go with what was known.

Saerila could see her sister-fair looking up from her conversation with Belai'a. . . yes, they were _still_ conversing. . . and frown, suddenly, and darkly. Linaia lifted a hand slightly, looking at Ashala, and Saerilla could sense that Linaia wanted to intervene. . . as she had, so often before before. To shield her sister-fair from all harm.

A glance at Linaia. _I can protect myself, sister-fair. I've watched you for years._

_centered. balanced._

A small crowd, for now just those immediately in the vicinity but no doubt spreading, had turned at Ashala's accusations and were now looking with interest at her young would-be lover. Her first instinct was to shrink away from the stares, to disappear

_anonymous as a mouse._

but then her wide eyes locked again on Ashala. Her voice was quiet, private, but she had to talk just loud enough for Ashala to hear her, two or three meters away. _"I'm… I'm sorry, fair-one. I… I wanted to. I wanted to!"_ Her hands covered her face, unable to bear the smirks of those nearby.

_indifferent._

A deep breath, and she straightened again, hands dropping to her sides. Regaining her composure. Ignoring the stares. Eyes only for Ashala, on the other side of the small circle of bodies, empty space between them.

_interest. self-control._

"But I couldn't. Because I could only think of you, fair-one." One step forward, young eyes regaining their confidence. Their age beyond their years. Another step forward, and then another, and she was standing before Ashala, seeking forgiveness, repentant, but unbroken.

"Will you find it within your soul to forgive me?"

_power._

_There are more frightening things in this galaxy than the ardat-yakshi, Ashala_. That voice, slithering up from the deepest parts of his subconscious, was undeniably male.

Ashala's eyes darkened with tears, and she exclaimed, _"Oh, my fair-one, how could I not?"_ before pulling Saerila into a tight embrace.

It was clear that she _fully_ intended to claim her young fair-one that night. Even monopolize Saerila, for the rest of the social gathering. Saerila absolutely could not get _away_ from her arms, or her fingers, or the light caresses of her mind.

Saerila, however, was all smiles from that part onward, forgiven by Ashala and radiating the relief of youth. And something . . . more. Something that only showed around the eyes, in the way they would narrow just before her laughter at someone's joke, or gracious acceptance of her fair-one's compliments.

_Conquest._

Linaia, however, finally intervened, after an hour. _"I'm so sorry to have taken up your time,"_ she apologized to Belai'a. _"You've so many more important people to talk to. . . . thank you for your comm code. I'll definitely consider having you restructure our trust fund's assets."_ Her eyes were hooded, however, and Saerila could just barely hear her as she added to Belai'a, _"How well do you actually __know__ Ashala? I've been troubled by what I've seen in my sister since I came here. I dislike seeing her. . . monopolized so. Controlled. I . . . know a little about that. And I will not permit it in my sister-fair."_ There's a hint of darkness to the words. Ashala didn't seem to register them, but you can see Belai'a's head jerk up slightly, as if prodded in a sensitive area.

_"I can assure you that Ashala is a harmless nothing of a person,"_ Belai'a murmured in return. _"And you cannot really interfere in matters of the heart. Not between two asari."  
_  
_"When it comes to my sister's protection, I will stop at nothing,"_ Linaia replied, and then tried to pass it off. _"Oh, my. That was melodramatic of me. Too much good wine and company has gone to my head."_

She crossed to Saerila, and took her sister's hand. _"I know you want to stay and be with your fair-one," _she said, lightly_, "but I've only just __arrived__, and we haven't had __any__ real time to ourselves. It's been nothing but outings and excursions, and I want you to myself tonight. Can you forgive my selfishness?"_ The last, she directs at Ashala. And for a moment, the mask dropped. The Spectre looked out of Linaia's face, watchful, calm, intelligent. . . ruthless. And then she put Linaia back on with a light laugh, and Ashala, knocked off balance, could only murmur helpless platitudes about the love that sisters bear one another.

At first, it seemed that her younger sister would pout or otherwise resist. But she quickly acquiesced before her elder sister's presence, and with a light kiss to Ashala and begging the matron's forgiveness, she was towed away, Linaia almost dragging Saerila from the room, anger forming around her like a dark cloud. In the elevator, as Saerila turned to complain at being dragged from her fair-one's arms, Linaia held up a finger, her face dark. _"Don't speak."_

Linaia was _furious,_ and the younger spy wasn't sure if it was Linaia's anger or Melaani's. As such, she kept the act rolling dutifully (and truthfully, it was easier to stay in character rather than bounce back and forth) during their journey home.

In the aircar taxi, once again, as Saerila turned to object, again, the words were repeated. _"Don't. . . speak!"_ Linaia leaned over, and put her forehead to her sister's, as if in apology for the harshness of her words. _They listen, I suspect. They may even watch. Belai'a was most insistent that I give up my evening bag to an attendant._

Though her expression revealed nothing, a grim acknowledgement slipped from Saerila's mind. _Your lead, then. I'll follow._

In the small apartment that they shared, for the moment, Linaia tossed her evening bag at the nearest table, and turned on Saerila. _"What was that?"_ she demanded, her voice sharp. _"Quite a performance. You don't understand how dangerous the game is that you're playing. All it takes is one person who notices-one!-and we'll have to leave again. Do you want to leave this lovely planet? Leave all the friends you've made here?_"Her tone escalates. _"This is why there are rules! How many worlds have I run from, in my life? I did not want that for you!"_ Her voice breaks, and she wraps her arms around you. _"Oh, my fair-one, I did not want that for you."_

Saerila wilted in the face of her elder sister's anger, revealing herself for what she really was: a youth, inexperienced, over-confident, and playing in arenas of which she had no true understanding. "_I'm sorry, fairest,_" she said wretchedly, clinging to Linaia's embrace. One thing she couldn't fake was tears, and so she didn't try. "_I know why there are rules, but I've watched you all my life, how _you_ evade their notice. I just didn't wait to _hide _any longer . . . and . . . Ashala, she makes me feel __special__, sister-fair._"

She buried her eyes in her sister's shoulder. "_I'll make it better, Linaia. I'll fix this. __We'll__ fix this. Together, we can. I'm _sorry_, fairest! I won't make this mistake again . . .._"

Her head still rested against Linaia's shoulder, hiding eyes that were dry from any cameras that may be on the bad. "_Can we please just sleep now, Linaia? I'm so weary after this evening."_

The words slithered into her mind, female, but hard and clear with purpose. _We need to talk, Spectre. And I need an encrypted channel._

_Yes. We definitely need to talk._ Clear, sharp words, as Linaia nuzzles her face into your neck. A convenient way to hide her expression, and a token of. . . non-sisterly affection. . . at the same time. _And yes, we're both going to be doing some chatting with Ylara, and maybe others off-world tonight._ _After__ I clear this place of bugs._

Out loud, her voice more peaceful now, almost teasing, to showing that she forgave her sister, Linaia said, lightly, "_Fair-one, I will admit, in one respect, you are entirely right."_ She leaned back, showing eyes that have gone completely dark with leashed biotic energy. On camera, it would look as if she trembled to share her light, her eyes are hooded, languorous; in reality, Saerila could _feel_ that the senior spy held enough energy to tear the walls of the room apart. _"My feet protest. They ache into the very bone._"Linaia reached down to hook off the first high-heeled shoe, and then the other, instantly removing three inches from her height, forcing her to look up at Saerila. _"But if I wore anything more comfortable, it would make kissing those so-fair lips so much more difficult."_ It was a purr now, leashed concentration and intensity, and a hint of humor, too. _"Come to bed."_

Saerila smiled down at her sister, for the second time in the night radiating relief and… more. _Much_ more. The two slipped across to the bedroom, past the bugged bag, tips of their fingers still catching the other's and never breaking contact.

The door clicked discreetly shut. Their hands dropped away from each other's.

Saerila's eyes widened, her posture went through two or three… or four… transfigurations, never really settling, and then mostly-Samiel stood, blinking, eyes wide and expression looking like he didn't quite believe everything that had just transpired.

With the doors to the bedroom closed, she pointed to the bathroom. _"I'll let you go first, but don't take too long enjoying the rush of water over your body,"_ she told Saerila lightly, and tapped, discreetly, on her omnitool.

He said nothing, and wasted no time in taking Melaani's offer for him to shower first.

When he emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, clad in a nothing but a bathrobe (the apartment contained no male clothing, and he'd be damned if he wore female clothing for the rest of the evening), it was unmistakably the male-maiden that sat down on the bed to face Melaani.

The Spectre, herself, had already changed into a similar robe. . .and was clearly _Melaani_ again, her expression taut as she studied the glowing panels of her omnitool. "Clever little bug," she muttered. "Sophisticated. It's transmitting in chunks, intermittently, and not in real time, to avoid detection. Little packet-bursts, really. But I've drowned it out with ambient electrical signals, as if our neighbors are throwing a party complete with holo-emitters and loud music." She sat back in her chair, propping her ankle on her opposite knee, light blue eyes intent. "Viridian. . . that was a hell of a twist you put into the disguise. I improvise for a living. I understand why you did it. It was. . . inspired." She smiled a little, almost wistfully and wickedly at the same time. "And if you didn't have a _marai'ha'sai_, I'd totally be giving them something to listen to right now, for it." She snickers as your expression changes. "But you do, and I'm not. That being said, goddess in her glory, we have got to work out some signals for when you're about to make a left turn like that, so I'm not caught flat-footed." Melaani grins again. "Though I love having a partner who knows how to dip." 

He nodded to her explanation of the bug, working at a muscle in his neck, trying to force himself to relax.

It wasn't working. He was too damn stressed from the overall mission, too upset over the most recent twists and turns, and too damn irritated and frustrated over the complexities that only affected him. He managed a single rueful chuckle at his companion's comment regarding the abrupt turn his acting had taken. "My apologies, Melaani. It was a split-second decision, and I just didn't know how to warn you. But you recovered beautifully. We do need to work out some signals, and I yield to your expertise on the matter." His voice was his own, with only the occasional flutter of Saerila's tone, and Melaani could deduce from what she'd heard of Samiel that it was the anger and frustration seething beneath the surface that permitted the return of self-control and identity. Still, his mannerisms remained very, very feminine.

"They didn't, unfortunately, leave us much in the way of equipment to signal with," Melaani muttered. "If you customarily carry your evening bag or purse, for example, over the right arm or in your right hand, switching to the left could be a 'something's wrong,' signal. Asking to borrow my lipstick could be 'what we say is being listened to.' Complimenting my eyeshadow. . . 'we're being watched.'" She waved a hand. "We'll work it out. Preferably before I have to shut down our 'neighbor's party.' I suspect that they probably bugged an item _in_ my bag. One that they think I'll carry with me wherever I go. I'll check each item, so we'll _know_."

He listened intently as she described potential signals, eyes clear and alert but unfocused, as he was staring at the ceiling and focusing on her words. He murmured her signals back to himself after she spoke, trying to commit them to memory. Finally, he nodded as she commented that they would work out the details soon, but not immediately.

He laid back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and mulling over her words. He didn't speak the thoughts out loud, but after the evening's twists and turns, and the nature of those twists and turns, he was quite as ready as she was to share, completely. Not that it was possible while on the damned medication. The medication didn't, after all, kill desire. Just the ability to _do_ anything about it. And not that he would have if it were possible.

Instead, all he said out loud was, very quietly yet powerfully and with an unexpected openness, "Spirits, but I miss her."

Melaani chuckled, ruefully. "I'm a little envious that you have someone to go back to at the end of the mission," she admits, frankly. "I've usually had to. . . well, share, on varying levels. . . with people trained for it. For leaching the identity out of my mind. I keep journals, when I'm at home, too. So I can read them and remember who I'm supposed to be." She paused. "It's normal, Samiel." Her voice became very gentle. "When you work with someone, in a high-stress, high-adrenaline environment, where you have to trust one another with your lives, and identity is unstable? Attraction is normal. I'm . . . definitely feeling it, and it's not just because you're so damned exotic." The twinkle of rueful humor in her eyes invited him to laugh, rather than to fume. "But you're an _iai'llieau_. So am I. Though I'll admit to having to remind myself of it right now." The word was high-tongue: an upright, inwards-turned person. The soul of integrity.

She looked into the mid-distance. "So, yes, there've been counselors. Trained, careful sharing. No more than the mental touch needed to unbend my mind after. . . fifteen years, seven years, of being someone else. And there's Pelia. On again, off again, off again, off again, on again.. . . " She chuckled under her breath. "We lived together when I started doing undercover work. She works Vice. Has for. . . over a hundred years. She's good at it. But she won't stay in one place for long, and every time I go into deep cover, I miss a damn message saying 'Hey, I'm done with this assignment, which planet should I be on next?' and then the next one, asking, 'Hey, are you mad at me, or are you working?' and then the next saying, 'Nevermind. When you actually come up for air, I'll be on Macedyn.'" She shrugged. "So yes. . . I _envy_ you, Viridian. Stability. Someone to come home to, as it were."

She was allowing him see the person underneath the mask, and for a reason. Establishing the base identity, so they can define and limit the roles. It was a gesture of extreme trust, practicality. . . and vulnerability.

When she began to speak of her own past, her experience with such operations and recovering from them afterwards, he lifted his head up to look at her, pillowing it with his hands to help with the angle. He seemed ready to argue or pull away, like he wanted to react with his well-known defenses. But he heard the truth in her words, and certainly felt the truth as well, and instead slumped his head back again with, yes, one snort of a chuckle when she described him as 'exotic.'

He just continued to stare at the ceiling when she described them both as _iai'lliea_. Interest, again, at more of her history, eyes actually narrowing in sympathy as she described the long gaps between seeing her fair-one_. Is this what I'm in for, staying active while Meshara aids in ruling a planetary system?_ A wince flittered across his face as he remembered the news broadcast he'd seen about Tortuga. As he remembered the dreams, and more. _If she doesn't have to run._

_You envy me?_ He stared at her for a moment, clearly surprised. _Who the hell has ever envied me?_

He knew she was relaxing her guard, letting him see the real person he was working with, so that they could trust each other. He understood the necessity, and more importantly, the need for a touchstone in this line of work. Spirits, did he ever. He was trying to do the same, fighting against his usual close-lipped attitude.

He smiled, almost a grimace; it was a bittersweet expression. "It's stability, yes. Though we haven't had time to work out the 'coming home' part just yet. There's time for that… I'm not accustomed to approaching life with an asari outlook on time." His eyes turned inward, in a self-examining manner. "My outlook's quite turian, by necessity." He paused. "I never, never thought I'd find myself in this line of work, T'soa. Never thought I'd be good at it, either. I didn't know I had it in me until a few months ago, during the Tortuga op. I had to go in as a sister to help extract the Laos sisters. I hadn't worn a dress in . . . " He did some quick, basic arithmetic. "Thirty-six years. The frightening part is that it comes too easily, once I let myself sink back into the role. I worry about losing myself every damn time, ending up just another 'recovered' not-she. Even now, I know I can't shed the mannerisms like you can."

She shook her head, slightly. "You're not going to lose yourself, Viridian. Not if I can help it. Trust me. And trust yourself, too." She paused. "So, about this more-than-fair of yours?"

He was silent for a long moment, and when he looked back at Melaani, his grey eyes actually twinkled, just briefly, before his stoicism began to reassert itself—the stoicism was part of who he really was, after all. "She's… _quite_ a bit older than I am. To say I never expected this would be grossly understating the situation."

Melaani listened to Samiel's words, smiling faintly now and again. She had an unexpected and piercing eye for insight, bordering on his own empathic talents, it soon became clear. "Oh, it's a recent thing, is it? Recent is. . . better, in a lot of ways." She shook her head. "With Pelia. . . well. I think it's clear that we're friends. We'll probably always be friends. But it's never going to work out for us, in the long run. Especially now that I'm a Spectre. . . I can't let her see _everything_. I always used to be able to do that. But I can't anymore." She paused "I assume you. . . don't have a lot of experience in sharing?" At his very curt nod, she nodded, herself. "Most of the time, the knowledge gained from one another is. . . subconscious, at best. It sinks into the mind and dissolves there. In the cases of abuse victims, that knowledge can be . . . toxic, in a way. It affects the person who's received the memories, even if they're not aware of the content. And I couldn't risk some of the things I've seen and heard and felt being passed to her. Or making her a target, if someone thought that she knew. . . more than she did." Melaani shrugged again. "So, walls. As much for her as for me. Even when I saw her—" Melaani suddenly laughed, a ripple of sound. "I had her working at the bachelor party I helped Sidonis set up for Pellarian and Dempsey. She's worked as a dancer and in Vice so long, I thought she could vet the dancers and make sure _nothing_ happened that the media would have a soiree with. . . turns out, she knew Pellarian and Sidonis from Macedyn. I've never seen the two of them slam cop-face on that fast before. It was amusing. . . and I enjoyed the chance to talk with her. Hold hands. Share a little. . . but it just wasn't the same." She made a face. "The black armor requires some sacrifices." 

Samiel absorbed that. It sounded. . . decided lonely. But as if Melaani had found some measure of equanimity that allowed her to accept that. Or perhaps she was, yet again, acting a role. She smiled again and asked, "So, is the mystery female turian? Human?"

He shook his head, unwilling to give many details. Meshara was. . . what she was. A secret that needed protecting. "She's asari," he finally offered. "I didn't expect that, either. Some part of me is still taken aback each time even you talk to me."

Melaani looked taken aback by those words, and then simply shook her head. "The galaxy's a bigger and stranger place than people who never leave their homeworld ever dream of, Viridian. I try to take the universe with as open a mind and heart as I can. That way, I never miss a wonder." She stood, stretched, and eyed the shower. But paused at the door. "If it would help keep our identities intact," she noted, "I'd share with you. It doesn't have to be physical. Nothing more than _maieolo'loa,_ or _maieolo'loa'__kiia_. I do have clinical training. . . and I wouldn't look anywhere you didn't want me to. But it can be a relief from the stress, to remember who you really are."

At her offer of sharing, however, Samiel bottled up. The shift in his demeanor was abrupt and obvious, as the cool, stony façade crept over his features and the openness in his eyes disappeared.

Melaani shrugged, and passed it off easily, and with grace. She didn't really understand the turian-raised asari, at least not yet, but she did, at least, intuitively grasp that he didn't understand all the manifold nuances of _sharing_. "Want to get Ylara on the comm line?" she asked, lightly. "I don't necessarily want to destroy their bug. Not initially. That might raise suspicion, and we can use it to show them what we want them to see." She frowned a little, considering everything in her mind. "Goddess. If we were baiting them with one _ardat-yakshi_. . . with _two_. . . and sisters?" Melaani's expression tightened further. "They'd be fools to let us go. We can expect enticement . . . or even attempts at kidnapping." She looked at Samiel directly, leaning against the bathroom door. "You ready for that, Viridian?"

"I'm ready, Melaani," he said, meeting her gaze without flinching, and sitting back up. The stony façade eased a little. "And we both know that it's only going to get worse, from here. You were right; they don't want the real things. They want the cutouts, the monsters, the things that go bump in the night. They're going to expect that of us. They're going to try and manipulate us through our suspected desires." His eyes flashed again, for a moment revealing the same anger she and Ylara had seen when they'd created Linaia, and then it was gone. "Above all else, we cannot let ourselves be separated. I suspect by the end of this we'll need each other quite a bit more than even Saerila and Linaia do."

Melaani's expression tightened slightly, and she nodded, once, before stepping into the bathroom at last.

After a moment's pause, Samiel contacted Ylara. The conversation with the senior Spectre went smoothly, even if it was somewhat tense. They were too deep in to waste time or energy arguing, and the elder Spectre was very, very experienced at rolling with a developing situation.

Ylara still rubbed at her eyes after his recap of the day's events, however. "You've changed the entire basis of the con, essentially, is what I'm hearing," she murmured. "What do you need?" 

"Analysis," Samiel requested, beginning to upload all the data he'd taken from Belai'a's computer.

"Backup, someone tailing us," was Melaani's reply as she came back into the room, freshly showered. "I'd prefer you, Ylara, but I'd understand if you set the local police on us, instead. Someone to report in if we get coshed over the head and stuck in the trunk of an aircar." She snickered. "Moreover. . . get some weapons to this place, if you would. I can build bolt-holes here that Bel's people aren't going to find, but being able to get our hands on a pistol in short order could be the difference between life and death."

At Melaani's request for weapons, Samiel added, "If it's difficult, at least get something for T'soa. If I have to go in without a firearm, well, I'll make them _wish_ that you'd been able to get me a pistol."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, with her arms crossed in front of her, listening to Samiel and Ylara speak, Melaani nodded, briskly. "I can hold my own in a fight, but I'm not at the level of a Sidonis or a Velnaran," she admitted, candidly. "Was one of my weaker marks in the Spectre trials. But anything I can conceal, even if it's a shockgun hidden in a lipstick container or a damn syringe, will be useful." 

Ylara nodded. "Done. I'll tail you myself, as often as I can. If anyone asks, I can say I'm surveilling you because the Justicars asked me to do so." She smiled faintly. "Why Samiel, you look as if you bit into a lemon. Careful now. Your face might stick that way." 

There was an almost audible snap as Samiel refocused on Ylara. It wasn't the mention of the Justicars that got his attention, but the way she took care to single him out. For a heartbeat the question was plain in his face, and then it was gone. _Just what the hell do you know, Alir?_

And then the call ended. He turned in the chair to face Melaani as the female perched on the edge of the bed, and opened her omnitool. "I'm going to have to turn off our neighbor's 'party' soon, and our 'neighbors' can't be a nightly thing. Could be the last chance to be yourself for a while," she warned, and worked her fingers over the glowing panels, before adding, almost conversationally, "I have to say, I really hope Ylara comes up with something of use in all that data you grabbed. I'd really enjoy a chance to arrest Belai'a. If I'm really lucky, she'd even _resist_."

It sounded like a renewed offer—if one disguised by the conversational gambit about Belai'a at the end. But while there was impish humor and light desire in her expression, she also kept her eyes on her omnitool. Not pressing the matter, but letting him know, delicately, that she was open to the idea.

Samiel exhaled. He wanted to. _Spirits_, did he. Not even the physical—well, yes, absolutely that too, but it was effectively impossible given the infuriating and insulting cocktail that he was currently on, and though it had undoubtedly saved his cover several times over, his pride was starting to curse suggesting it—but the mental carried even more of a siren's call. A touchstone, and a reassertion of one's deepest self. It was something he'd slowly been coming to understand over the past months, even though the opportunities to share had been incredibly rare. Especially for him.

Finally, he sighed, shaking his head. "I want to, T'soa. Melaani. I do. But the state of my mind right now . . .there's things in it you can't see. And those things are too close to the surface right now. Anything beyond light sharing…" Again, he shook his head with a grimace. "I can't. I'm sorry."

Melaani dimpled a little, not offended in the least. "I can't believe there is anything so very bad in your mind, that I have not seen worse," she told Samiel, looking up from her omnitool. "I fought yahg on Shanxi. I've pulled the living out of the larders of the yahg, surrounded by the hanging, dripping limbs of their kin. I've watched them hunt. I've worked with fanatics of every stripe. But everyone's entitled to peace in their own mind. And if you change yours, I suspect you'll know where to find me." She stood, lightly patting his shoulder, and crossed to the desk, instead. "Get some sleep. I'll stand watch the first four hours. Doubt I could sleep right now, anyway. I'm. . . almost sure there's no thermal on that bug's cameras. They're not going to see what's in this room from out there. So once we get some proper surveillance on us, we can switch off on who gets the bed, and who gets the floor." Cheerful pragmatism, as she turned her back and sat at the desk, working with the computer console.

From his place on the bed, stretched out and trying to relax enough himself to be able to sleep, the male-maiden watched Melaani, thoughts hidden behind impassive eyes, reflecting on her closing statement regarding how she thought he was protecting _her_ from his memories. Outwardly, his face was nearly impassive, except that muscle in his jaw worked, but at least for once he didn't appear angry. Finally, he rolled over, and tried to sleep.

**October 13, 2197, Niacal**

Over two weeks passed before the fruits of their labors came to light. The pair of sisters never went anywhere alone in that time period, venturing to shops, museums, cafes, and even a dayspa together—the younger sister seemed a little mutinous about that, for some reason—all up and down the arcology in which they were staying. Two weeks of living together. Constant state of light sharing maintained between the two of them, as they used each others' eyes to watch for surveillance. Help each other maintain the roles they'd selected—two sisters who were one soul in two bodies, _ardat-yakshi_, and, even more debauched, _incestuous_ _ardat-yakshi_, at that. Living the roles. The tension mounted. Escalated. The only reprieve was in the bedroom they shared at night, when Linaia would become Melaani again, for a scant hour before sleep, and Saerila could be Samiel. It was almost easier _not_ to be themselves. To live the cover entirely, without that reprieve. But the mental break was necessary to keep Samiel's consciousness from dissolving into Saerila's. Or at least, to keep his fear at that happenstance at bay.

Ashala, for all that she'd seemed intent on bringing Saerila to her bed at long last, seemed almost to have disappeared. She did not respond to any messages sent to her address, and did not call. "Perhaps she traveled to another arcology on business," Linaia consoled her sister.

"Or perhaps your words to Belai'a frightened her off!" Saerila retorted, hotly.

"Or perhaps your own clumsiness with her, once she regained her wits, sent her packing to her relatives, wondering why her head ached so?" Linaia held up hands, immediately. "Forgive me. I don't mean to be sharp. And we've already had that discussion."

However, they were aware that they were being watched, though they never showed that awareness outwardly. Messages were passed to them, in a dead-drop near their apartment, telling them that they were under surveillance by more than one person. And, in an encrypted message, they were informed that the Spectres had determined that the jungle bases would be their next targets. . . once they secured passage to the southern continent in a relatively unobtrusive fashion.

And then, a message arrived, buzzing on Linaia's wrist. "_Saerila, my dear one,"_ she called from the living area into the kitchen, _"we've been invited to dinner by Belai'a. Before you ask, no, your dear Ashala will not be joining us."_ She raised her finely-painted brows. _"But the other guests are so far above us to as to give us apoxia from the oxygen deprivation. __Matriarch__ Mishai T'shal, if you please."_ Linaia sounded teasing and nervous at the same time. _"I . . . am a little uncomfortable with this. I think we should decline, don't you?_" Her eyes skirted over to the small purse which had replaced the evening bag; she'd long since determined that the bug was actually implanted into a cosmetic compact that she'd brought with her to the gala. _"I think that we're. . . a little visible already. Oh, don't look so crestfallen, fair-one. It's not your fault. It's my fault, too."_ She stroked the back of her sister's neck consolingly.

In the kitchen of the apartment they still shared, Saerila's youthful enthusiasm had deflated just a little at hearing that Ashala would not be attending the soiree. But she began to recover, after hearing the nature of the event and the guest of honor. "_I . . . I'm not sure, sister-fair. We need allies. Isn't it worth the risk? We just have to be . . .careful. Like we talked about. You must have impressed Belai'a with at the party, and they certainly wouldn't invite us if they. . . knew." _She took a step towards her sister, youthful hope with an underlying foundation of steel. "_A matriarch as our benefactor is worth the risk, fairest. It's nearly worth __any_ _risk."_

Linaia nodded, but her expression had taken an unwonted look of grimness to it. "_A protector. . . would be a very good thing to have,"_ she admitted, softly, and leaned into her sister for a moment. _"Our mother protected me all my life. We didn't know. . . Goddess. We didn't know about you. And she thought you would be better, safer, with your second-mother than with us. I'm so grateful that you've forgiven me for that, my fair-one. More grateful than you'll ever truly know."_

The dinner that night a very high-brow affair. So many foods that Saerila had never encountered before, all served on the finest porcelain Thessia had ever created. Perfumed wine in beautiful goblets, the sound of high-tongue, sweetly spoken, all around them. The matriarch received each of her younger followers in state, accepting the courtesy of Thessia from each in turn. Mishai was ageless, of course. Severe of face, she wore a black, cowl-like hat, which concealed her scalp and neck, and swept down into the black of her high-necked dress. She held court at the far end of the long table, like a monarch, or a divinity, and everyone who approached her, did so in reverent silence.

If Saerila had been impressed by the party two weeks before, she was thoroughly amazed at the dinner they found themselves at now. She took in the sights, trying not to stare too obviously at the luxuries around them. Kept her head high in the face of the stares leveled at the two sisters, stares and emotions ranging from interest to flat disbelief to something more . . . expectant. And, in a shy and determined way, tried _not_ to talk, suddenly embarrassed by her accented high-tongue.

She didn't want to come off as _provincial_ to this crowd.

They hadn't been presented to the matriarch yet, but Belai'a, smiling, swept down on the two sisters now. _"I'll be introducing you to the Matriarch shortly,"_ she told them. "Be sure not to take too much of her time. Every moment she spends with us is an honor." Belai'a smiled again, and beckoned a server over. The server carried over a tray, with three crystal goblets on it, all with red stems. Belai'a took the closest, and gestured for the sisters to take the remaining pair_. "But first, a toast: To long life, prosperity, and the memory of Thessia."_ She took a sip from her glass, and awaited your reply. 

When Belai'a swooped down on them, beaming at the two sisters, Saerila gave a bright smile that contained a very great deal of relief. Now, she did talk, but she tried her best to keep it as relevant, and short, as possible, and let just a little self-doubt leak into her voice. "_I'm absolutely honored for the opportunity, Belai'a. Though I can't see __what__ I might be able to offer to one such as she_." She flicked a nervous glance to the matriarch, taking in the ancient female's looming presence. 

At the appearance of the red-stemmed goblets, she'd let out the softest exclamation of the exquisite finery, even as she shifted her handbag from one arm to the other. She reached out, picking up a goblet and listened politely to Belai'a's toast, preparing to respond in turn, but then her sister's arm, never far, slipped around her waist once more.

Linaia, glancing around at all the people watching them, took a first sip, smiling, but the _sense_ Saerila received from her through the constant state of light sharing that the siblings maintained, was one of shock. _Fair-one,_ at this point, the endearment was reflexive in her thoughts, _ the wine has __lia'mellea__ in it. I recognize the bitter taste under the perfume of the drink. It's the little sleep. Suppresses biotics and makes the mind fuzzy. They will want the matriarch to touch our minds when we cannot shield. . . . or they plan to take us captive, either way. Can you believe in yourself enough to pass her touch? I can. . . but we may be taken prisoner either way. . . . _Her mind seethed with questions, possibilities. She could see four paths. Allowing themselves to be taken prisoner, with Ylara following them. . . one potential path. _Except that as soon as they remove your clothing in captivity, my fairest one, they will know the truth. No._

Second option, making the lie even stronger, by refusing to drink. Letting the others see that they've been seen through. Showing the unspeakable power of an _ardat-yakshi_ to see through any deception, and control others. Risky, and solely dependent on Samiel's ability to control the asari around them, and their own acting skills.

Third option, drinking, but resisting if and when they try to take the pair prisoner, though that might only garner a little more information . . and would put them at the disadvantage of having their biotics impaired. . . fourth, just damned well blowing cover and destroying the place.

In a flash, she heard Linaia's voice in her mind—or was it Melaani's? The lines were blurred. . . . She knew what Melaani knew. Heard the options the other agent saw laid out before them.

The masquerade had, it seemed, reached its ending point. They had what they needed here - Belai'a and Matriarch T'shal - and any further information could be obtained via interrogation. Or domination. But even more than that, deep within Saerila's psyche, something responded to the idea of being drugged, of being rendered mentally defenseless. A name whispered in his mind for a moment, and with it a protection-anger so fierce that it burned to touch. Four months of frustration and anger boiled over. From the depths, a male voice roared, like billowing flame rising from the bottom of a chasm. _Futar. This._

The hand holding the crystal goblet opened; the goblet fell to the floor and shattered, attracting the attention of everyone in the room. And with a wave of biotic energy that sent Belai'a flying backwards, Samiel _snarled._

The wave of _relief_ that emanated from Melaani was so powerful, and so _gleeful_, that Samiel knew it was her own. Not a role. Not an assumed pose. This was the Spectre herself. She pulled up her barrier, letting everyone in the room sense her power—it's a shield at least on par with Samiel's own—and raised her left hand, activating her omnitool, even as Belai'a was still in midair. With a flash of yellow screens, Melaani jammed all communications, in and out of the room, except on the Spectre encrypted line. And as Belai'a his the ground at the end of a perfect arc, Melaani's mind once more touched Samiel's. Very light sharing. Just enough to let the two work in perfect synergy with one another.

Belai'a's had landed twenty feet away. Nine asari, plus the matriarch at the far end of the table, gaped at pair, their mouths open in shock. _Belai'a and the matriarch are must-captures. Anyone else is, as either of the Jaworskis would say, __gravy__._ The words are cold and hard as Melaani kicked off her high heels, flashed a grin at Samiel, and charged the table, jumping up onto its surface, scattering priceless plates and glassware as she ran. Samiel didn't quite allow himself to smile as Melaani went barreling across the table to get to her target, but the Spectre felt a sort of grimly ecstatic satisfaction across the light connection they maintained as the decadent finery went flying every which way. . . . and then she slammed into the matriarch, who'd pulled up a barrier of her own.

Melaani's charge shattered that shield, and Samiel could feel the energies of it, broken, being redirected and absorbed to make Melaani's barrier stronger. Her headlong charge has placed her, feet bleeding in places, and the matriarch, against the back wall of the room, on a direct line from the kitchen. _"Matriarch T'shal? Spectre Melaani T'soa. Please don't resist. We're arresting everyone in the room until we sort this out. We're going to start with charges of attempting to drug us and attempted unlawful imprisonment, and go from there."_

The matriarch's eyes went black. _"No! We've come too far! Stop them!"_ She _threw_ herself and Melaani at the ceiling, and the Spectre grunted in pain as she hit first, her arms loosening around her captive. . . but then both fall back to the floor, Melaani landing atop her prisoner, and groped, uncertainly, for the stungun in her purse. . . .

At that moment, four guards in body armor charged in at the southwestern corner of the room. Mass chaos. The rest of the guests are screaming in panic and trying to run for the very door that the guards are shoving in through. Asari guards shouting and aiming their guns at Samiel, sensing his shield, and his threat, though the male asari wore a dress, bereft of all armor. . . ."_Stop!"_ one shouted in high-tongue. "_Put your hands in the air, or I will fire!"_

A couple of the less well-trained guards actually opened fire anyway, and Samiel pulled his own barrier up even as the first bullets began to fly, and then threw himself to the side to evade a fusillade of mass-effect enhance steel. _So much for giving us a chance to surrender,_ he thought dryly, tabbing his radio in the pre-arranged 'panic button' signal that was supposed to bring Ylara and the police and the entire damned cavalry in to extract them.

Melaani had spoke of how she re-found herself after each deep op partially through rereading her journal entries. As Samiel fell deeper into his combat fugue, his body language became increasingly _male_, and Melaani could feel his personality solidifying. After the fighting ended, he would again be left to sort through the past months and pick up the pieces of his life; for now, finding again his passion for the martial arts for the first time in nearly half a year, he was reading his own diary.

He saw Belai'a scrambling backwards, the world slowing down as it did for him when he entered this state. Panic was beginning to seep out of the rock-solid mental barriers Belai'a always kept erected, as she dug the small dart gun out of her purse, and almost preternaturally slowly, raised and fired it. Even as he tracked the tiny projectile, Samiel shifted back and forth to evade the continuing firestorm of bullets from the guards, feeling his barrier slowly being chipped away regardless of his own preternatural skill. He had to change the rules of engagement.

And so he did.

Even as the dart closed, he flexed his legs and jumped, launching himself upward and flipping to land on the ceiling. He felt the dart graze past his leg as he took to the air, but couldn't be sure if the sharp (and surely poisoned) point had broken skin or not. As he landed in a crouch on the ceiling, a quick though occurred to him, _They're going to think I'm a Justicar working with the Spectres,_ quickly followed by another thought, _I may as well use that._

Taking advantage of the very short pause as the guards tracked the unexpected move, he looked down at them and shouted, with power reverberating in his voice. "_The Code dictates that I must kill any who would harbor the demons of the night. Stand down or be considered aiding and abetting!_" With that, he spun to face Belai'a, who was already lining up another shot, and charged at her _from the ceiling_ with a crackle of biotic power. And that the guards would stop shooting, rather than endanger one of their unarmored employers, once he engaged her in hand-to-hand.

As he leaped, however, the burning sensation in his leg was distracting, and there was a faint sense of _distance_ as whatever was in the dart started to affect his body. In combat, blood flow and adrenaline heightened by exertion. . . the chemical spread quickly. . . Samiel's biotics actually wavered for an instant, and there's a growing sensation that the people around him aren't. . . really. . . people. But what caused the male-maiden fear was when he felt his empathy cut out, even as he pushed off to begin the maneuver, was when he felt the first prickles of real, honest fear. He managed to hold it together, still slamming into Belai'a with considerable, though mortal, inertia.

Even as he collided with her, the dart gun went off again, and this time he took the round directly to his chest. His biotics cut out completely, and as muscles and nerves reflexively fought to tie the struggling matron up into a grapple, his mind recoiled as everyone within the room _receded_. He suddenly had no idea what was occurring outside of the small zone of twisting limbs, would have no way of knowing if a guard was leveling a firearm on him. Caught up in the rush of combat, he had no time to focus on what else the loss of his empathy would mean for him.

Luckily, Belai'a had next to no hand-to-hand training, and only seconds passed before he had her in a brutal hold, kneeling on top of her and holding her arms pinned behind her back..

In the meantime, the guards, hugely confused and intimidated by his words about Justicars, ceased firing. Melaani on the other hand, clutched the matriarch that she was attempting to _arrest_, trying to apply a choke to pacify the other female. The matriarch snarled, and this time, threw Melaani into the far wall. The Spectre rolled back to her feet, almost punch-drunk. Staggering. His biotics were now so impaired that he couldn't even feel what she did next, but the matriarch began to scream, clutching her stomach and her chest, and he could see the dress and the skin actually peeling back, blue blood pouring out as the muscles and bones underneath distort. . . a reave effect. Applied not to armor, but to an almost-unprotected body. "The next attack from anyone, I'll detonate my reave," Melaani said grimly, her eyes black. "The next person who _moves_, the matriarch will be decorating the inside of this place."

"You . . . wouldn't. . . dare. . . " Belai'a managed to whisper, from where Samiel had her pinned.

"_Embrace. . . entropy. . . _" T'shal whispered. . . and Melaani's head jerked back as her clean skin, too, began to ripple and distort, tearing open in long slices.

Grey eyes widened in near-panic as, in the blink of an eye, he cast aside every option to which he would normally resort. And then damning himself for a fool, he grabbed the back of Belai'a's head and dashed her forehead against the floor, at the very least stunning her, and then grabbed the dart gun from her limp hand. Knowing that Melaani only had seconds, he didn't look to the guards, even though he _knew_ that his barrier would have faded away without the ability to maintain it, leveled the dart gun on the matriarch, and fired twice.

The shots went wide. It was as if the matriarch weren't even really _there_, a figment of his imagination, like everyone in the room. Projections, not to be believed, not real people, and it was so damned _quiet_ inside his head.

The guards, on hearing Melaani's threat, hade taken a moment to decide their next actions. . . and then targeted the Spectre. Four barrages of bullets found her, tearing through her shields, and one of them, slammed through her right shoulder, spraying blue blood all up and down the wall behind her. She staggered backwards, face a mask of total shock. . . and then managed to peel herself off the wall. Got her bearings, and in a last-ditch, desperate attempt, charged the matriarch. Melaani wound up atop the Mishai T'shal, wrapping an arm around her throat, and then pulled the ancient female over atop of her, using her as a shield. . .

. . . which was when the guards and the spectators in the scrum at the door screamed and rose up off the floor, flying in all directions as a single figure, slim—unassuming really—in black armor walked through the door. All Ylara had in her hands was her submachine gun, and her face, behind her clear visor, was perfectly visible. "_This would be a very good time for all of you to put down your weapons and surrender,"_ she noted, with absolute calm. _"Matriarch Mishai?"_

_"These two attacked us without reason or provocation—" _The words were muffled at best, and wavering with pain.  
_  
"These two are Spectre Melaani T'soa and Probationary Spectre Samiel Viridian. I doubt your words greatly. Stand down, or I will put you down."_

"_And who are you to say so?"_

"I? I am Ylara Alir."

At which point, all of the floating guards dropped their weapons. The panicking civilians went still in the air, although Samiel can hear one or two squeaks of "_It's really her?"_

And the matriarch put her head down, going limp in Melaani's grip.

Trying to ignore the nauseous and increasingly-leaden feeling coursing through him from the dose of _lia'mellea_, and just trying to _cope_ with the yawning emptiness from the loss of his empathy, like losing his sense of sight or hearing, Samiel rose to his feet and made his way over to where Melaani still held the matriarch tightly. The two were a _mess_, blood pouring from long gashes in their bodies to commingle and pool on the floor. Even as the police _finally_ began streaming into the room, the not-she, without a hint of remorse in his features, discharged one round of the dart gun into the matriarch's thigh from point-blank range, disentangled her from Melaani's grasp, and deposited the matriarch roughly into the nearby throne-like chair from where she had held court. Then he put an arm around his partner and, with exaggerated care, moved her to sit against the wall. "_We need medics over here!_" He shouted it out in his Edessan-accented high-tongue, voice rough and _male_.

Kneeling beside Melaani, he spoke more quietly. He was trying to staunch the flow of blood from the bullet-hole in her shoulder, but there was blood _everywhere_ from the damage done the by reave. He was already covered in it. "Stay with me, sis—T'soa. Don't go and do anything stupid on me." There was honest, ragged concern in his voice as he tried to assess her state.

In his bewilderment and confusion at the loss of his empathy, the relief of reinforcements arriving, and his concern for his partner, the words _probationary Spectre_ had never even registered within his mind.

"_Unthinking, selfish, unsharing, should embrace entropy, should share herself with a __futarri__ black hole. . . "_ Melaani's litany of curses in high-tongue and one lonely turian word slipped out from between clenched teeth as Samiel applied pressure to the wound.

She was extending her mind into his, trying to reach him, but also trying to keep him from feeling her pain, but there was confusion and fear in her, too. And he could feel her slipping towards unconsciousness in that moment, the drawing darkness pulling at her, but there were things within the Spectre that wouldn't _let_ her give in to the dark. She raised her head _"Fair-one. . . wouldn't leave you. . . "_ Blood-stained fingers rose towards his face. . . .

And then she got it together,eyes snapping back into focus. _Samiel. I felt you __go out__. It felt like you __died__ in my mind, there and then __gone_. . . "Oh, son of a bitch," she curses out loud and in _English_, as his fingers clamped down tighter. Her thoughts were distant from the drug, but also, perhaps, from her own shock. Her expression shifted, however, as Ylara moved closer. . . Ylara, to Samiel, just another ghost among ghosts. A gray thing, dim and not really real. "Ylara. . . you're going to need to give him _bai'anu._ They dosed him with _lia'mellea-_"

"Hush," Ylara ordered gently, crouching. "I remember it all too well from Omega. When I lost my eye. We'll get him treated. And you, too."

Hours later, the _bai'anu_ rushed through Samiel's system, counteracting the effects of the _lia'mellea_. The end result was that things still felt. . . cloudy. Distant. But also, the stimulant heightened his biotics. Not quite as _aizala_ did, but everything seemed somehow easier. _Bai'anu_, however, can be addictive, and he could understand why. It felt. . . very good. Not quite the urge to meld with _everything_ around him that _aizala_ brought, but powerful. Good.

Ylara signed for his release, from the med bay, noting, "Exceptional work, Samiel. Today, and for the past several months. We're indebted to you for making the operation go so smoothly. . . and ensuring that it didn't end up with dead bodies on the floor at the end." Ylara's expression tightened. "Especially yours and Melaani's."

Samiel took the compliment from Ylara humbly, nodding his thanks. "I'm glad I could help the Spectres in dealing a blow to the Tears, Ylara. But that said," he shifted in his chair, a feminine quality marking the gesture, "I'm glad this particular portion of the assignment is _over_."

Ylara's lips quirked faintly, but there was still marked sympathy in her eyes as she agreed mildly, "Yes, I'd imagine that it's a relief to you. Which is why I think it might be best for you to have time to yourself, out of the pressure cooker of the past few weeks. Always having to share space with Melaani, always having to be _in the role_, because there was never any time at which you might not be observed, only able to be who you really are, in the privacy of your own minds? Your only communication by notes or by biotics?" She shook her head. "A little privacy, I would think, would be the best thing for you." 

She nodded to the door of his hospital room. "The doctors have cleared you. Not a nick on you, thank goodness," she murmured. "We have the matriarch and Belai'a in secure rooms here, though I would not put long odds on being able to _keep_ them here, given their supporters, without bringing in off-world guards. Both came through surgery smoothly enough." She paused. "Melaani's surgery is done as well. You can speak with her for a while, if you like." She gave him a sympathetic look. "I know you're tired. We'll need to question the matriarch and Belai'a. . . but that can wait till tomorrow, if you prefer."

He shook his head at her offer to put off the interrogation until the next day. He _was_ tired, incredibly so, but with the threat of their detainees being released—or, more likely, sprung—at any moment looming over them, they couldn't afford to wait. "No, we should interrogate them now, before there's time for anything to happen. Will you allow me to use my talents?"

Ylara nodded, her face neutral. "I'm grateful that you're willing to work on the interrogation today. While they're still off-balance. We have no time for the delicacy of ethics that suggests that we should let them get off their pain medication first." Ylara grimaced slightly. "It's a good thing that I'm not particularly bound by Niacal or Sisterhood law, isn't it?" She paused, and then confirmed, "It will be your lead, Samiel."

They made their way to T'shal's ward first, and Samiel stopped to prepare himself outside the door. Getting into character, but the character, paradoxically, was himself. Acting, to erase the female mannerisms that would be marking his body language for weeks to come. Finally, with a curt nod, he opened the door and strode in.

To the matriarch, the individual taking a seat beside her bed could not look any more different from the inexperienced young maiden she'd seen before. Samiel had his working face one, cold and blank, with eyes as hard as stones, and he was wearing fatigues once more, bearing no designations of rank or military branch. He could see that T'shal was on a _lia'mellea_ drip to contain her biotics. The cuts on her skin were mostly healed, and her hands and feet were bound to the bed with leather straps. Her eyes are a dark blue-green, and she looked absolutely revolted by Samiel, her eyes darting back and forth between him and Ylara.

He sat for a long time, hard gaze leveled squarely on the ancient asari. His eyes darkened to black. And when he spoke, it was in galactic, not giving her the courtesy of high-tongue. Retaining control, and identity, in that fashion.

"Matriarch T'shal. My name is Samiel Viridian, and I am an affiliate of Spectres Alir and T'soa. And, _before_ you fire off your comment about the curse of the Goddess that dares to sully your presence," he leaned forward until his lips tickled her ear, his voice a hissed whisper and carrying the power of suggestion, "be aware that there are worse things in this galaxy than the demons of the night." 

At first, she refused to look at him, give him any cognizance at all; she finally glared at Ylara, and mutters an obscenity. _"How __could__ you bring this . .. this not-asari here? It's not an asari. Nor is it alien. It's. . . an abomination._"

The closest thing to rage he'd have ever seen in Ylara crossed her face, and there was a distinct feeling that the calm behind which Ylara sheltered her entire being might actually shatter. Samiel could understand why. He'd been to the Spectre base, on whatever undisclosed planet it actually was. He'd spent time speaking with her _not-she_ adoptive son, Sisu. Had agreed, a little tentatively, to let the young not-she share his mind and memories, at a surface level. So that Sisu could understand what growing to adulthood as a _male asari_ really meant. How hard a path it was to walk, to be one of only a handful of his kind. Samiel had even started teaching the boy—yes, _boy_—a little of the Justicars' martial art, the Wind that Bends the Reeds, _wii'a belu rii'aa,_ on the theory that the boy was going to need it just as much as Samiel had needed it. And for a frozen instant, Samiel could see Sisu once again looking back up at him, and promising to _try to be just as good a male as __he__ was._

A promise that had shaken his self-identity to its core. Samiel had always molded himself on a center of cold pragmatism. _Do the needed thing, the necessary thing, that will ensure the survival of the unit_. Now, suddenly, he found himself in the position of. . . role-model. And he still wasn't sure he was anyone that a child like Sisu could or even should look up to.

All of that, coalescing in an instant, like the colors of a kaleidoscope falling into place. Pushing and pulling at him. Decades of loathing for people like T'shal balancing, perfectly, against the piping young voice promising him to be good.

Samiel stayed where he was, just beside the matriarch's ear for just a moment too long, forcing her to endure his presence within her personal boundaries, before leaning back once more into his chair, and continuing as if she'd never spoken at all. "We know that you are a member of the Tears of the Moon, and we know this because we have been infiltrating your organization for months. We know that the Tears of the Moon are a subset of the Moons of Luisa. What we expect you to tell us is who are your assets within the Moons, and who provides your funding."

"I would also like to know about your bases within the southern jungle."

Now, each word hit her mind with the impact of small ordnance, reverberating within her skull, and his voice took on a quality of black indifference. "Answering these questions now would be the easiest way for all involved. Personally, I hope you lie the first time."

It was a _struggle_. The matriarch wasn't a gray-voice. Old. Powerful. The _bain'anu_, however, elevated Samiel beyond his normal abilities, and her own were suppressed, but she still had a powerful will. Exhausting work, like arm-wrestling with Siege, or an elcor. He finally dragged names from her. _"Nelissa T'oro. Marriake T'iel. I don't. . . know. . . more. . . it's all done. . . in cells. . . "_ She looked horrified, as if unable to believe she'd just spoken, and she tried to reinforce her mental barriers.

Another vicious mental battle, and Samiel's scalp tentacles loosened slightly to radiate his excess body heat, the asari equivalent of profuse sweat. _"I. . .won't. . . I __won't. . . __You. . . can't. . . NO."_

He got flickers of images, nonetheless. Faces. Eyes covered to prevent use of biotics. _Lia'mellea_ used to confuse the mind. A name. . . Telara. . . a girl taken there months ago. Thought to have the ardat-yakshi gene. A few hermaphrodites. And . . . other. . . more exotic conditions. An asari who, shockingly, had _no_ biotics whatsoever.

Genetic freaks. To be tested and experimented upon.

By this point, Samiel was standing, leaning down over the matriarch, hands clenched on the rails on each side of the hospital bed and the two nearly screaming at each other. He finally withdrew, physically exhausted from the exercise regardless of the _bain'anu's_ enhancing effects, and stepped outside the room without a word to lean back heavily against the wall in the hallway.

When Ylara stepped out, he'd started to recover, head tentacles tightening back together and breathing back to normal. "The facilities in the south," he began, voice sounding as if he had just finished an exhausting workout, "are testing facilities. For asari with genetic abnormalities. Not-shes. A girl . . . Telara? They think she has the _ardat-yakshi_ gene." He didn't sound particularly frightened at the thought of encountering an _ardat-yakshi_, but his eyes narrowed as he tried to make sense of the other images. "Other conditions there, as well. A sister that they believe has no biotics, at all? Regardless, the subjects are experimented on like animals. This is the asari equivalent of Cerberus, Ylara. We need to get there."

The empath looked as revolted at the thought of the facilities as T'shal had looked when he entered the room. Finally, he shook his head. "Spirits, but her mind was strong. Even on _lia'mellea_. I don't think I ever realized just how powerful your matriarchs are until now." 

"_Your _matriarchs?" Ylara asked, her finely-painted brows rising slightly. But she let it pass, with no more than that, her face hardening as she nodded agreement to your assessment. "I'll run 'Telara' through the system. Belai'a at least provided a last name when I questioned her earlier. S'roni. I'll see what we can find on the girl overnight." She paused. "You should rest now. I've arranged for a private hotel room for you—well away from your previous apartment. You need privacy right now, to pull your identity back together."

Bone-weary after the interrogation, Samiel nodded, reluctantly. "I do need the privacy. _Badly._ But first I have to check on Melaani."

Melaani's private room was under police guard. Ylara moved to the side of the door, however, and gestured for Samiel to go in without her. "Not too long," she warned, quietly. "She's going to be all right. She was hurt worse earlier this year. She should be able to go with us after the next objective. Just. . . needs a little rest."

Inside, Melaani dozed lightly. Most of her wounds had largely healed to fainter, light-blue lines against the darker azure of her skin. Her right shoulder remained bandaged, and there's a little trace of cobalt blood there, against the whiteness. Medigel only cures so much.

Her eyes cracked open a little, and then opened all the way as he entered. _"Si. . . . Samiel,"_ she corrected. Her words were a little slurred, a sure sign that she was under heavy medication. "_You look tired."_ She lifted her left hand, burdened by IV tubes, to her forehead. _"I told them to let me out of here, but instead they gave me enough __morphinol__ to get an elcor drunk, and put me in bed. Couldn't even tell them that's not allowed for Spectres, thank you very much. Ylara at least told them to clear everyone out of the room while I'm out of my mind. . . . worse than after Lorek. And I was hurt worse on Lorek, _damn it._" _Last words, in English, as she looked down at herself. _"Both shoulders, inside a year. I'll never be able to wear anything with a decent neckline again._"She paused. "_I'm rambling. This is why they're not supposed to drug us like this. . . .Think you can help me escape?"_

He let her ramble, pulling a chair up to her bedside and sitting down. He even reached out uncertainly and, after a bit of deliberation, laid his hand down on top of her own. Squad mates. Partners. The assignment, the last month in particular, had been hell for him. But it had also built a bond of trust, that he wasn't going to just turn his back on now that the infiltration-portion of the mission was over. Thus the reason for this visit, even though a part of him wished to be _anywhere_ but near the Spectre.

The stream of consciousness continued; they evidently had her _skied_ on the _morphinol._ "_Of all the people I've had to be in my life. . . Linaia was the first one I've actually liked. Isn't that strange? An __ardat-yakshi__, and of all the people I've had to be, she's the only one I'd be again, and happily. Most of the rest weren't . . . very good people."_ She closed her eyes again, and admitted, "_I'm going to __miss__ her._ _And Saerila."_ Her eyes opened again. _"You won't, though. And I think we agreed. . . that I'd was going to owe you beers. And that you. . . would owe me some. I'm. . . collecting, Viridian. Just as soon as they unhook me from all this . . . __s'kak__."_

He listened to her musings about Linaia, and smiled in a distant sort of way, even as his eyes slid to the side. "_I think we'll learn someday that the __ardat-yakshi__ are no different from us, Melaani, but with corrupted biotics. I'm not-she; I could just as easily have been born one of them. And ultimately, it's up to them if they choose to be monsters or not. But more often than not, they're forced to be, to survive. What other options do we give them?_"

He stopped at that; she was probably too drugged to follow his words, and he was letting himself say too much on the subject, anyways. Instead, he the corner of his mouth turned up in dry, parched humor. "_I will not be missing Saerila. Not one bit, and it's going to take me weeks to forget her, at that._" He sighed, a sudden exhalation of air. "_But if I never am able to rid my mind of the sister-fair I had during those weeks, well, that I could live with._"

The male-maiden didn't smile outwardly, though his eyes lightened some; instead, she felt the emotion through their contact. He squeezed her hand, rising to his feet, and let go, making for the door. "_Get some sleep, T'soa. We ship out for the southern jungle as soon as you're well_."

At the door, he paused, glancing back at her. "_And you're damned right we're collecting on those beers. Once we're back on base, I'll buy the first round._" Then he was out, closing the door quietly behind him, and making his way to his blissfully private hotel room, to which Ylara or some police officer had brought his belongings. Well, Saerila's and Samiel's. His clothing, mostly fatigues and workout clothes. His clan-paint. His guitar. Saerila's dresses. A necklace Linaia had bought for her, insisting that it looked wonderful against her skin. . . .

After months of deep cover, and weeks of never being alone, that first night's sleep was fitful at best. He kept jerking awake, sure that he heard something or felt a mind, convinced that he'd heard Tears of the Moon sympathizers breaking down the suite's door. One especially memorable time, he snapped awake, heavy pistol in hand and trained at the foot of the bed. He'd been _certain_ that a faceless _ardat-yakshi_ had been looming over him.

His subconscious made no friends that night.

The more so, when he finally dropped into a deeper sleep, and the dreams started again. On the one hand, when he dreamed like this, it was as if his psyche was reasserting itself. Reintegrating memories and personality, reminding him who he was.

And on the other hand, it was almost intolerable.

_Tunnels. Tunnels leading to a lovely underground garden. Pillars and arches march in a square around the garden, supporting the slightly domed roof, and glowing lanterns gleamed on every pillar, lighting a scene that is out of place with the grim reality of Tortuga. Lush plants in low beds. Trickling fountains. Exotic animals, here and there. A python, looped around the branch of a tree. A white tiger pacing in a long cage along the back wall. A varren, free of any tether, sliding through the plants to sniff at you and bare its long fangs. First meeting with the merc's group's leaders. The actual Twins, themselves. _

_The first sister, the epitome of lush asari beauty, wearing a white, almost translucent dress cut down low enough to see her navel. No visible armor, but the metal cuffs on both her wrists were shield emitter and omnitool combined, highly specialized. Kishara Laos was __never__ undefended, the male knew now. . . _

_The other sister wore a silver and black eyemask, and her black dress covered every inch of skin. Her hands were gloved. But her eyes, behind the mask, were intent and dangerously intelligent. Meshara, known in whispers around Tortuga only as __Lady Fortune__. _  
_  
Meshara and Kishara. The Twins. No visible weapons. No armor. Just themselves._

"Well now," Kishara murmured, "explain to me why, precisely, you should be permitted to leave this place alive?"

"They entered our territory. They killed our people." The other asari's voice was scarcely more than a whisper, and she didn't look at any of the crew. "They have treated with our enemies. But they also did provide interesting information. Yes. They should share their names. Share their reasons. Share. . . everything."

Still, she did not look at them. Never focused on them. _Dangerous__, the back of Samiel's brain warned. __Dangerous, and fey__._

Flicker.

_The vigilantes, trying to recruit the Twins to fight Machen, without actually invoking the Spectres' names. Kishara all but laughing in their faces. "Allies? Really? More than just the Sagittum rabble, I hope?" she asked, naming one of the other large gangs of Tortuga. "Numbers have a cruelty to them, I find." She tapped one of her cuffs, opening her omnitool. "Machen has twenty-four hundred troops, between the ships in orbit, constantly circling and observing traffic on and off the planet, and boots on the ground." Her voice took on the precision of the military commander she really is. "The Sagittum, on their best day, have four hundred people under arms. We have hmm. . . one doesn't like to brag. . . but twice that number. But unless we armed every beggar in the streets, which I would not do? Eight hundred plus four hundred plus the __five__ people I see before me does not even equal Machen's numbers. I do not see more than one ship at your command; Machen has dozens." Kishara stared at them all, her eyes hooded. "You've mentioned __allies_. _They had best be __impressive__."_

"Sister," Meshara whispered in her broken voice, and dreaming, inner eyes closed on her tightly, remembering the moment with a yearning kind of focus. "They still haven't shared everything with us. I would like them to share everything . . . "

"I doubt they have anything worth sharing, sister." The words were calm and bland. "So. You moved into our territory, and killed our people. I'm going to forgive that, because you uncovered a traitor in our midst." She waved dismissively. "You say that you're here to deal with Machen. You claim to have allies, but you won't name them. You're not sharing with us, so I see no reason to share with you."

"Consult with your allies," the masked sister suddenly whispered. "_That__one will stay with us." A gloved finger pointed at Samiel. "Hostage for your good behavior, until you return with proof of your words. Your allegiances. Your alliances. That is the price I demand. A burden of safety for all of us."_

Flicker.

_Mirrorless room. Little more than a monastic cell. Whispering voice: "This is where you will stay for the time being. I trust it is to your liking."_

_Memory. He clasped his hands behind his back as he assumed a relaxed sort of parade rest. Respectful, but not subservient. He also drew himself up to his full height, taller than almost any female asari due to the genetic stagnation of the race and his male development, something that he had found was almost guaranteed to irritate the hell out of other asari. All meant to conceal the nearly overwhelming discomfort he currently felt. "You've my thanks for your hospitality." His tone was diplomatic; there was no sarcasm in the statement. He stared at her for another moment, a vague and unwanted curiosity filtering through the discomfort and sense of danger that were warring for his absolute attention. His head tilted ever-so-slightly to the side in a customary gesture, unconscious after so many years spent solely among turians._

_She had made it clear that she was curious about him; that was probably why his crew had been able to negotiate to their admittedly dubious agreement. Watching the other asari's rigid self-control, he had to admit to his own curiosity. But the improper question here, he was sure, would be dangerous. He'd just have to see where the conversation led. "You demanded me for a reason. Is it purely because my gender is such an oddity among our kind?"_

_Her head tilted slightly, to the left, a gesture that showed the long lines of her throat for a moment. Her eyes were distant as she replied, still in that rasping whisper, "Yes. . . but also no. I appreciate strength. Strength of mind. Strength of principle. Strength of spirit. Your mind is . . . mostly closed to me. But I feel fire and warmth behind that closed door. Fire that could rage out of control, if not so firmly checked. It intrigues me. I would know more. I would share that warmth, if I could." She gestured with one hand, as if lightly throwing sand back down onto the dunes from which it came. "That is the personal. But there is business, as well. You are strong. If you are in our keeping, if your crew betrays us, your loss will cripple them." Dispassionate, now. "And if I know your mind, I will know if there is betrayal in any of you."_

Her face turned towards him for the first time. "Is there?"

_He made no response to her hints at sharing. Instead, he shook his head once at her mention of betrayal. "They will remain true to their word. Not for my life, but because it is their word." He met the woman's dispassionate gaze, stormcloud-grey eyes staring unflinchingly at her mask. And then he did something stupid, and pushed his luck. "Will you?"_

_"We do not betray, as a rule. Not unless it is a matter of life and death. We stay true to ourselves. To our own. To those we have sworn to our sides. If someone betrays our trust, as Sistallia and her cohorts did, Kishara believes in direct and immediate retribution." Her eyes were empty for the moment. "We have been betrayed often. Hounded from many homes. We will not give way again. This is our place." She pauses and studies you for a long moment. "You understand that, I think?"_

_A long pause, as the empath took in the other asari's words. Finally, he nodded very slowly. "Yes. Yes, I understand." He paused. "Why are you and your sister here, on Tortuga? You maintain control over the pirates and smugglers and lowlifes in your neighborhood, take payment from them, but engage in no such traffic? Why not take your eight hundred asari commandoes and go. . . legitimate?"_

_"You would hear our history? There's too much of it to tell in mere words. . . . I'll grant you a little, though. A taste. So that you may know us, as we would know you." She turned her face away. No eye contact for the moment. "We were born on Illium. It was not then, as it is now. No towering spires of steel and glass. Just a dirt-poor colony world on the fringes of known space. No law. No Justicars. Just a few thousand asari farmers and hundreds of robominers and mechs to build the cities." Sing-song voice, broken but dreamy. "And ninety years after I was born, the people of our little town tried to burn me to death in my own home." A wave of remembered pain flooded the empath, remembered anguish. Betrayal. Betrayal and hurt so deep it knew no bounds. "Kishara came through the fire. Carried me out in her own arms. Killed half a dozen people who tried to wrestle my bleeding, blackened form out of her grip. Took me to a hospital, then got me off-world. When I recovered enough, on Luisa, we knew we had to keep moving. So we joined Eclipse._

"This was, as you understand, back when Eclipse was the shining light of asari space. Formed to protect the colonies and their residents." Her eyes, dark blue behind that silver mask, fill the dreamer's gaze, the remembered sweet bow of her indigo lips holding a faintly bitter twist. "The leaders knew why they eventually drove us out, but didn't dare tell the truth to their lackeys. They invented a fable. The vicious, blood-thirsty sisters. To this day, Eclipse will not work with us. We're their bogeymen. Their shadows in the night." She paused. "Then, we fled to Omega. Last hope for the hopeless, the destitute of spirit, the unwanted. We started to build our own company of mercenaries. Aria wanted a cut of our profits, and Kishara told her to go share herself with a black hole. She drove us off the station."

_"And so, we came to this planet. . . two hundred years ago. We brought our few trusted agents with us. Set up our home. Began recruiting." The dry rasp of her voice stopped for a moment. "We have been here since. As each new gang arrived and settled in, they have had a natural tendency to want to attack entrenched power. Us. We respond in kind. And because we do not kill every single person who attacks us, we have wound up as the de facto heads of a number of . . . businesses. . . that we would rather not deal with, but that we have had little choice in the matter. Smugglers. Killers for hire. Pirates. Slavers. If they make the mistake of coming against us a second time, they die. To the last man or woman." Dispassionate voice, but faint regret in the dark blue eyes. "We do what we must to survive, and survival is rarely pleasant and never beautiful."_

_She lifted her head, staring directly into the dreamer's eyes for the first time. Almost overwhelming will behind them. Desire rose to. . . relax. Surrender. Let himself just be cradled in her hands, like a hatchling just sprung from an egg. "And if you wonder, that I should speak this all, so freely?" she murmured, and then released his mind, letting him see how his shields buckled at the touch of her thoughts. Not in any way pressing her advantage. It was not an assault . . . but a way to give him a feel for her power. "You are strong," she murmured, half-closing her eyes. "But I believe that if it proved necessary, I could wipe all recollection of my words from your mind." Completely still now, she added, quietly, "I do not think that it will be."_

_Realization dawning. Breaking, all over again. The little inferences, to being hunted. Chased. Cast out of any organization to which they might have belonged. The staggering power of her mind. Samiel, undoubtedly as a result of his own uncommon upbringing, was far more open-minded about certain matters than the common asari. But realizing that he was sitting less than six feet from his racial bogeyman, so to speak, still shook him to the core. _

_He'd been prepared, if necessary, to fight for his life against the power and will of a near-matriarch, pointless though the match would be. And tightly constricted words, seeping out into the dream " . . . how have you . . . evaded the Justicars for so long?"_

_Sadness in the dark blue eyes at his reaction. No threat in her demeanor, at all. "My greatest wish, when I was young," she murmured softly, "was to become an adept. Someone so in tune with our Goddess-given powers, that I could extend them. Expand them. Make our understanding of them better, through study, reflection, meditation. Kishara's greatest wish . . . was to become a Justicar. Is that not strange? And because of me, she could not have that. Because she would not put me aside. Would not turn from me. She knew precisely what I was, the moment my first lover died in my arms, and would not let me, burned as I was in the hospital, even __speak__ of going to the monastery. Would you believe that she wept? My strong, sure sister, wept, and said that she would be lost without me. And that she could not let me be imprisoned in a monastery for the crime of being born different. Not when she was sure that I, of all people, could learn to control what is, after all, nothing more than yet another of our Goddess-given powers. Even if it is from her shadowed hand.  
_  
_"So she would not let me go, and I stayed for love of her, and we ran, and yes, the Justicars followed. The Justicars that were nowhere for __my__ justice, when the people of our colony would have burned me." Bitterness that he could almost taste on his tongue. "Ten Justicars have come for me, in my life. When I have __never__ again taken another life while sharing. Always forcing us to pick up from whatever lives we have managed to make for ourselves, and move on. And always ending in the Justicar's death. We allow the Order to believe that their messengers have gone astray. Vanished in the darkness at the edge of the galaxy." Her voice rang out above a whisper now, a harsh, rough sound that surely did not belong in an asari throat. "We want nothing more than to be left __alone__, and they will not even give us that. Because what I am is an __affront__ to all asari. The terrible, secret shame of our race, that we cannot allow other species to know even exists." The broken voice rasps to a halt, and she looks directly into your eyes before resuming her usual whisper, "But again, you would know something of this, too, would you not?"_

_Realization dawning. Hot, bitter shame for his suspicions, his superstitious fear._ _You know nothing of the Demons of the Night save for the stories your mother told you when you were young. Even the Art that you practice, taught to you by her, was first used for hunting down the ardat-yakshi that fled, regardless of the reason. You know nothing of this woman._

_Then she brought out the acrocanth hiding in the corner, so to speak, and mentioned his own not-she nature directly. Though he had never broke the direct stare, he seemed to find the other asari's eyes again, anger and remembered betrayal and pain still hot and fresh in them. _

Flicker.

_"Asari society," she murmured, reflectively, "Such a mass of contradictions. We have technology that can see the atom. And yet not one genetic test that would tell a mother that the child she is about to birth is . . . what I am." She shook her head slowly. "If I had known what I was, from birth? I could have learned to control the abilities early. It is, in sober truth, nothing more than another way in which to kill. If I kill someone by shooting them, are they not dead? If I kill someone with my mind, by throwing them off a cliff, are they not equally dead? And the truth is, that whether I use my mind or a gun, the social objection to what I am is two-fold. _

"_First, that it cannot be controlled, which is a lie. Second, is the fact that death in such a guise is not a death in honorable battle. It is a betrayal of the deepest and sweetest trust that there can be." Tears in her eyes, just for a moment, at memories centuries in the past. "That is the heart," she whispered, "of the Justicar's objection to my kind. That we are silent. Secret. Dishonorable. Rather than open, upright, and honorable. By no choice of our own." She shook her head slowly. "And yet, rather than do the logical, rational thing, and provide genetic screening, counseling to those who are born as I was, instruction, training. . . we trap them in monasteries. A monastery destroyed when Thessia died." Her voice became a rasp of contempt. "We mate with every creature we can find in the hopes of scrambling our own genetic codes, rather than take an ounce of blood and fifteen minutes of a computer's time. Why?" She grimaced. "Because we've mythologized the demon. We've mythologized ourselves, and our own fertility, and everything else, and anything that seeks to question it. . . must be put to the side, hidden, or destroyed. So. . . now you've met the myth. What will you do about it? Will you turn me over to the Justicars?"  
_

Flicker.

"_I am young, Meshara—only fifty-two." Though it was clear that he was only in the maiden stage of his life, he'd never told the humans and turians of his crew just __how__ young he was; he'd let his actions and demeanor speak for themselves, and never admitted to his companions that he was little more than a teenager by asari standards. "I was taught the Wind that Bends the Reeds by my mother, a Justicar who had left the Order to raise a family. We haven't spoken in... many years." Brittle edges of pain in the memories now. "My mother never forgave herself for the sins that brought the Goddess' 'curse' on her 'daughter'. She only instructed me with __maieolo'saeo__, and rarely at that. When there was no other way. She would not share her mind with her __curse__. No. I'll not turn you over to those __fanatics__."_

_Conscious attention, careful concentration._ "_Oh, young one, fair one, she did not touch your heart when she taught you? She held back from you the right of every child, to know the loving touch of a mother in their soul?__" The broken voice limped among the sweet and fluid vowels of asari high-tongue._

_Rage, blistering the edges of his mind. It licked at the minds of those nearby, threatening to combust the weaker wills as his concealed fury, never dealt with and only eternally buried, warred with his own will for supremacy. Memories, for a moment, of a childhood locked in their home, his mother too ashamed to bear the thought of others learning of her __not-she__. Being raised as a daughter. Dressing as a daughter. Composing himself as a daughter, for the rare times it was necessary that he left the apartment. The lessons of __wii'a belu rii'aa__ the only respite from a charade he had been too young to understand. Only ending when first-mother left him with his father, and Jannil Viridian had been left to __reeducate__ a son who didn't know how to be male._

"There was no sharing. And there has not been, since."

_A voice residing in the hollowness of his mind, wondering all over again why he had confided in the female, effectively his captor. Another voice found that it wasn't surprised at all at his choice._

_Soft voice, rasping. Telling him things he didn't want to hear. Didn't want to acknowledge. Even in his sleep, the male-maiden frowned. _

_"I do not know her mind. I find it difficult to believe that any mother would hate her offspring so much. When she gave up everything she had and was to have you." Two light, swift steps, and suddenly, she knelt before him, crossing the invisible line at the center of the floor, and just as suddenly, reversed the power dynamic, taking the position of a petitioner or a penitent. "I do not know her mind, but I would know yours. There is . . . much in you. . . that calls to me. Like to like. You do not yet know your own power, I think."_

Very carefully, she reached up, as if towards a wild animal that might strike or bite or startle away, and traced her gloved fingers along his jaw. Feather-light, almost no tactile sensation at all. Lifted one of his hands from his lap, and brought it to her own face. "Think of what you find most fair of all," she told him, gently, but her eyes had become, once more, deeply sad. "Think of it, hold it tightly in your mind. And so shall I be, for you. Open your mind. And I will open mine to you. If you wish it."

_Fear._

He was asari, but understood nothing of sharing. He was asari, but had been shunned by his own kind his entire life. His mind was a chaos of swirling thoughts, of fear and anxiety and yes, a sort of panic. It was only when she brought his own hand, so carefully, to her face and he saw the sadness in her eyes that he found his focus, finding mastery over himself, and shook his head at her with equal gentleness, pushing back against the pressure from her mind.

So _powerful__. For a moment an image flickered before his eyes, a female from decades past and a relationship doomed to failure, superimposed over Meshara's black-clad and rigid figure. He shook his head again, and the illusion faded._

He rose ever so carefully, and then knelt on the floor in front of her, mirroring her posture. With the greatest care, the hand she had brought to her face pulled away her mask and let it fall to the floor, and the stormcloud-grey eyes took in the scarred visage of the _ardat-yakshi__, of the asari named Meshara. And for the first time he could remember, Samiel relaxed his mind._

_Memories begin to open before each other, in an endless vista. Six hundred years of them, not all at once, in a rush, but interconnected thoughts and ideas. Just as he opened to her, she opened to him. The fundamental truth of maieolo'loa'kareo. . . that their minds and bodies were each others' playgrounds, and that the memories are salt thrown into water. Vivid and harsh and bitter at times, but then melting. Becoming transparent. Dissolving into one another. Flickers of memory._

_Mother-love, gentle touch on the mind, teaching right from wrong, praising good action, first instruction in the mental arts, passing on the story-images from her own mother and matriarch. What it really is like, to grow up __asari__. Sister-fair, always there, always together, always two-in-one, never apart. . . .running in a garden, chasing her sister, sister-fair stronger, faster, bursting through the trees and seeing, below the ridge line, the massive foundations that the mechs are building. Laying the foundation for a city that doesn't exist yet, for people who don't yet live here. Then turning and laughing and chasing one another back through the trees, heedless of the future. . . years of study. Slow, patient work. Kishara laughing at her for not spending enough time outdoors, in the sun anymore. "Reading and meditating all day can't possibly be healthy. Come outside with me!"_

. . . first love. Dawning realization that a fellow student actually looked wistfully at _her__, when she hadn't thought that even possible. First realization of power over another, and how that power was mutual, shared vulnerability, flirtation deepening, then more and more. . . rush of wonder, rush of pleasure, as the whole of Illuae's life had come into her and then. . . . limpness. Teasing joke. "Illuae, I can't have tired __you__ out. . . Illuae? Illuae, stop teasing me!_" _Creeping awareness_. _Denial at the same time. Shaking the body, crying, trying to breathe life back into it, pushing on the rib cage, calling for emergency services. . . ._

_At first, everyone had been so kind. "A __stroke__, and Illuae so young. What a terrible experience, to have your fair-one slip from you in the act of love . . ." and then, suspicion. Sidelong looks. She hadn't known what to do with any of it. Had gone to the funeral, and the night of the funeral, the fire. Pain of flame along her back. Pain of a crushed throat, where she'd fallen onto a piece of furniture_. _Kishara, coming through the flames. Carrying her away._

Years of it. Centuries of it. _Dawning realization, from her, that the __vulnerability__ was what he feared, and she opened her mind further, letting him see that she is just as vulnerable as he is. Her old guilts, her old shames, freely offered in exchange. His guilts, his fears, his shames, drunk down, absorbed, taken into her, accepted. Transubstantiated._

Each time she reflexively tried to hide the reality of her scarred body from him, he pushed her will aside. It became. . . a game. A challenge, met and accepted, and he discovered she actually could smile, in a sort of delighted, shy way, as they begin to test each other. Teaching. Understanding. The turian parts of his mind unfolded and blossomed in asari ways, and he began to realize, dimly, that he was more than he had ever suspected. . . and yet, she held back. _No, fair-one, I do not fear to fight at your side, not here, not ever. . ._

Samiel awoke, sweating. Frustration and anger an almost intolerable loneliness. They'd had _four days_ after the Battle of Tortuga. Four _futarri_ days, and he'd been barely able to stand for three of them. Had needed to sit in Nameless' sick-room, as Dara Jaworski with terrible tenderness, had flayed the shattered carapace from the rachni's body. No anesthetics available that would work on a rachni. Had stood by Siege's side, as the geth, his armor ravaged and his muscles burned away, nothing more than a titanium skeleton and _will_, underwent repairs.

Four days. It had been enough for him to regain, through the sweetness of sharing, the high-tongue he hadn't spoken in thirty-six years. Enough for him to consider Meshara his fair-one. Even his _marai'ha'sai_, as best he understood the nuances of asari culture. His mate, by turian culture, certainly. He lay there for a moment, cursing his subconscious. It hadn't been Meshara in his dreams for the past two weeks. The battle of Tortuga, certainly. Standing there, ready to die between Siege and Nameless. And not a few times, Melaani had smacked him with her pillow, lightly, to awaken him.

_Just your identity, trying to reassert itself_, he told himself. And he did his damnedest to be _alone_, to give himself the space and privacy he needed to reassert that identity. He packed up Saerila's clothing and stowed it where he wouldn't have to see it any longer. He spent a while picking away at the guitar he had incorporated into Saerila's personality, learning it in actuality being a gesture to Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight. For the first time in four months, he applied his clan-paint and was able to stand safely behind that additional layer of separation from the world.

He trained in a secluded park for a few hours. He even sat in a cafe for perhaps thirty minutes, sipping a steaming asari beverage, for no real reason other than to have other asari stare at him in revulsion once more. It was sickeningly, oddly satisfying, but got old quickly, and he left. The only actual contact he had with anyone that day was to drop by Melaani's hospital room, and to speak with Ylara over a comm channel. His personal omnitool had been returned to him with the rest of his belongings, but the data feed to it had been disabled by the Spectres before the start of the operation, "just in case." He asked Ylara to put in the call, but the data feed wasn't reactivated until early the next morning.

So Samiel's first chance to check his messages wasn't until just a few minutes before he actually made his way to Ylara's apartment for the trio's briefing the next day. There was only one of note.

He walked into the apartment in a numb haze, scarcely noticing that Melaani was stretching out, working her healing body. Scarcely noticed that the friendly smile was a mask of a different sort. The Spectre was back, and giving him mental and physical space. "Some of the martial arts you used in that last fight? I've never seen that before. I want to say it looked like the wind that bends the reeds. . . I don't suppose you could teach that?" Melaani asked wistfully, and then, as Ylara entered, she smoothed it over into a quick, pert grin. "See, Ylara?" she called. "Perfectly healed. I'm ready to go." 

The male-maiden made no reply at all, and it was then that Melaani saw his expression. The careful distance dropped away. Instant concern, followed by rising alarm, as she drew a pistol and immediately moved to the side of the door to the hall, and opened it slightly, peering out, checking both directions. "What's the matter, Samiel?" she asked, tightly.

As Ylara entered and stared at the two younger agents, instantly picking up on Samiel's turmoil, Melaani's reflected concern. . . . Samiel crossed the room to lower himself carefully into one of the room's chairs. And then stood back up. And then sat down again. Now the elder Spectre was also able to see the wide-eyed, numb look of barely-controlled panic on his face. Beneath the paint, the empath's usual cool mask was _gone_, and to see the starkly evident emotions on the stoic asari's face was akin to finding him naked. And beneath _that_, was a tension that permeated every fiber of his body. Like the two Spectres, Samiel was a trained weapon, and he was primed.

Finally, he opened his mouth, and it hung open without any sound coming out. _The damage is done. They can't make it worse._ Trying again, he said in a very quiet, extremely controlled voice, "I just got a message. The Justicars are on their way. Three of them, this time." Melaani stared at him without comprehension, but Ylara was harder to read. Much harder. "They're on their way to Tortuga, for Meshara Laos."

Melaani turned, frowning, and closed the door, and safed her pistol. "Meshara Laos?" she asked, looking puzzled. In four weeks of undercover work, he'd never said the name of his _marai'ha'sai_. A blink or two later, however, and she evidently pulled up a dossier in her mind. "One of the Twins? One of the two leaders of the asari on Tortuga?" As if that information had given weight and reality to things kept vague and nebulous in her mind before this point, there was almost an audible click, and her eyes and face went blank. "Ah." A pause. "Why would the _Justicars_ have an interest in her? I mean, yes, she and her sister have run criminal gangs for some time, or at least, if I understood the Tortuga debrief correctly, but it seemed . . . relatively petty, if you'll forgive the word. Not something that would merit _three_ Justicars. And since there's heavy Spectre involvement in the system now. . . ?" Nothing more than a keen cop mind, working through the information, and finding more questions than answers.

Ylara, however, clearly had more pieces of the puzzle than Melaani. "And the Justicars are only interested in Meshara, not in her twin, Kishara?" she murmured. She turned her head slightly, and looked at Melaani. A hint of unspoken communication, in spite of the new-found barriers Samiel could feel forming around the younger Spectre's mind. . . .

. . . and Melaani's mouth dropped open. A fleeting look of hurt, betrayal even, crossed her face, and then gone. "Of, course, you should go to her," she acknowledged, calmly, distantly. "I would offer to go with you, but I have been assigned here."

"One or the other of us could go with Samiel," Ylara commented, quietly. "Another team could be sent, as backup, for the jungle assault. The geth probationary Spectre Composite is holding the peace on Tortuga, helping the Acrocanth Talons as a neutral mediator for disputes between factions." She paused. "While I am aware that Samara and Nihlus fought, some thirty years ago, and he was forced to make her choose between cutting her way through a village of innocents, rather than coming after him, that was another time. Another place. And a very _different_ Spectre. To fight one geth is to fight _all_ of them. The Justicars will think twice before engaging Composite. They will be forced to rely on negotiations or trickery. Things that most Justicars do not do well." Her lips quirked faintly. "We can get you there in time, Samiel."

Melaani noted, distantly, "However, if you assist us here, and we're able to do what needs doing as quickly as possible, we might both be able to accompany you. Therefore, there will be three Spectres on hand, to counter three Justicars." Her expression never changed, never wavered, but she looked away, and begins to study the maps of the jungle enclave, instead, the aerogel screen bathing her face in amber light.

He was staring straight ahead in the sort of dull rage that one feels when a horror is occurring that one can do _nothing_ to prevent, and thus didn't really the looks they gave each other. What he did feel, however, was the pulse of telepathy between the two, and then mental shields slamming into place over the mentalities of both Spectre, completely barring his empathy. The silence was particularly deafening from Melaani; after a month of constant light sharing, the two had still been maintaining a latent sort of contact, and the abrupt transition from concern to cold and doubly-reinforced walls left him feeling incredibly alone.

Some part of his mind was mourning the understanding he'd developed with these two over the past months, Ylara and he over their concern for Sisu, and Melaani more recently as the two partners were forced to trust each other without hesitation or question. But it was a non-issue, and the hurt that he felt at it was lost in the all-consuming vortex that was raging within his mind; all he could hope for now was that they wouldn't interfere with his leaving. Not that he'd make it in time, given the information in Meshara's letter to him.

So he was completely unprepared for Melaani's statement that she would go with him if she could. And even more stunned when the two together offered their aid and possible plans. It took him a moment to switch gears; he even started to state, plainly, that he had to leave _now_, before he forced himself to quiet back down long enough to think about the situation.

_Three_ Spectres, to combat the Justicars? If they were able to finish the jungle operation quickly? As well as Ylara's assurance that they could reach Tortuga in time?

They could see him struggling against the impulse to just run as fast as he could, tactics be damned. His words were carefully chosen as he finally said, "You'd _both_ come with me if we can complete this op quickly enough? And you're sure we could get to Tortuga in time? In a week?"

He wanted—_needed_—this aid. But other questions boiled in his mind as well. Could the Spectres risk an incident with the Justicars, over the one matter on which the Order would not budge? If the answer was _yes_, short of violence, what could they even do? And even if these two asari were willing to interfere with the Order's acquisition of an _ardat-yakshi_, were they really willing to stand in between the Order and its target, to aid and abet?

They could see the unspoken, incredulous question plainly in his eyes as he looked at the other two asari. _Why?_

"Yes," Ylara replied to his only overt question, her tone almost meditatively calm. "We would take the _Sollostra_ and go there directly. The _Sollostra_ is not your '_Duck_.' Previously, you were limited to the speed of a revamped batarian frigate. I assure you, we will arrive in time, assuming that we leave within the next two days. To ensure this, it would be possible to move assets there now. I believe you have some others that you trust, who could be contacted, and asked if they would oblige you? Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight is one, I suspect?" Her lips pursed for a moment. "Actually, given the presence of Justicars, it would be prudent to bring more than one brood-warrior with us. Glory is, unfortunately, not available."

Melaani's head came up. She'd been just as out of the loop as Samiel all this time, and asked, quickly, "Why not?"

"He's still recovering from neural damage he took on Khar'sharn," Ylara replied, wincing slightly. "He's off the duty roster until he regains his mental control. As I understand it, he's . .. had several important brain centers burned out."

Melaani's expression actually went taut with anguished sympathy for a moment, and then went blank again. Business-like. "Stone then? His abilities are. . . spectacular enough to get the attention of even the most hard-headed asari. Justicar or otherwise."

"A good thought. I'll put the call in." Ylara looked at Melaani for a long moment. "Spectre T'soa, if you'd excuse us for a moment. . .?"

"I'll continue to look over the compound diagrams," Melaani agreed, her voice empty. She stepped out of the room, and allowed the door to seal behind her.

Samiel continued to watch as the two Spectres sorted out the beginnings of a plan, a vague sense of disbelief managing to filter up through the torrent of emotions in him. Then Ylara asked the younger Spectre to give them a few minutes' privacy, making the request professionally, respectfully distant to Melaani. The not-she winced, just a bit, at the empty quality in the maiden's voice as she retreated.

Ylara turned back towards Samiel, and asked him, calmly, "Please do sit down, Samiel. There's nothing that you can do this very second, and worrying isn't helping matters." She poured two cups of tea, and placed one in front of Samiel, not offering it to him directly.

Ylara's suggestion that he take time to calm down brought up a surge of irritation. He didn't have time to find balance . . . and seeing the matron's serene features as the thoughts crossed his mind, reading him as easily as a book, he resettled himself, and tried to follow Ylara's advice. To calm himself, to find his center, and with it his cold aloofness. To distance himself from the problem at hand, like he did with everything else in life, and analyze it.

Spirits, but that was hard.

When his breathing had slowed somewhat, and the features beneath the Galatana paint had taken on a certain severe smoothness once more, he nodded to her to continue. The worry was still in his eyes, as the tension was still in his body. That was to be expected. But she had, for the moment, his focus.

"As to why we would help you. . . ?" She waited until Samiel's attention focused on her again. "All of our offers of aid are somewhat subject to Commander Shepard's approval, but I am fairly confident that she will approve. First and foremost, we just allocated no less than six Spectres' time for approximately four weeks, in order to _stabilize_ Tortuga, and, as a corollary, the entire Nemean Abyss. Spectre time is somewhat. . . valuable. In raw numbers, imagine the entire operation having cost in excess of several million credits. That's a substantial investment. We gave our imprimatur to the new government, we gave them amnesty, to a certain extent, for past crimes, with the understanding that something of value was to come out of this association. And now, six months later, the Justicars are moving into the area, and threaten to destroy what we've built. Destabilize what we've spent some considerable time stabilizing." Ylara paused, and it was clearly evident that she has had foreknowledge of some of this. Or at least, she had _expected_ the Justicars. If not today, then at some point.

Which suggested that she has had at least hints at what Meshara is.

He nodded stiffly at her assessment of Tortuga's political climate, and the investment of Spectre resources into both developing it and now maintaining it. That made sense. So did the impression that Ylara knew much more of the situation than Samiel would have preferred; Ylara had a frighteningly keen intellect that lurked behind the calm eyes, one that missed nothing, and it didn't particularly surprise him that she had begun putting pieces together prior to this conversation.

Now, she sipped her tea. "That would be enough to gain Spectre interest, Samiel. Second, there's our interest in _you._ You're likely unaware of it, as we tend to keep this quiet, but I have been assessing you as a potential Spectre candidate all this time. The entirety of a candidate's personal life is subject to review. It's impossible to keep these things from rachni, you understand, and Spectre Sky uses a . . . very specialized device. . . for the psychological testing of potential recruits. There is nothing about you that we would not know, in due time." Ylara let him absorb that for a moment. "It's not shared with every Spectre, I assure you. Only the very highest-ranking. But since we have that interest in you, we would of course investigate and assess what motivates you here. Those are the Spectre interests." She put her cup down. "On a personal level, you are teaching my _son_." There was a level of emphasis to the word that held power. "A teacher, one who interacts on the level of sharing, who is teaching my child important lessons about who he may become? Is _family_, by my standards. No one touches my family. Ever." Leashed ferocity in her voice. "I am . . . concerned. . . and I think rightly. . . by what might influence you. What might in turn, come to influence my son. Shepard is concerned, and rightly, about what might come to influence a potential Spectre. The people whom you trust, we're forced to trust as well. I've already allowed you into my home. You do not know where our base is, but someday, you might. Therefore, so might Meshara Laos. You see why this gives us some cause for. . . concern? I must assess and evaluate _all_ of these things." Her blue eyes have hardened to corundum.

His mind paused in mild shock at the mention of potential Spectre candidacy. _His_ own potential candidacy. It would have affected him more if the situation were different, but even now he felt a stunned sense of awe, diminished though it might have been. The feelings were tempered, however, as she spoke more of the process. Of the nature of the review he would be put under— of the review that he was already being put under. To the highly-private not-she, the idea caused him no small amount of discomfort, and it showed in the way his eyes slid to the side, absorbing the implications.

Before he could put more thought into that, however, she was discussing the personal considerations of her offer for aid. The statement that she considered him _family_. It caused him no less surprise than the previous revelations, but in a different way, and perhaps carried with it an even greater sense of responsibility than the revelation of potential Spectre candidacy.

He sat in silence for a moment after she finished talking. Absorbing everything that she'd said to him. It would have been a hell of a lot to absorb in the best of situations, but now, concern for his _marai'ha'sai_ surging over and through every thought in his head, it was a struggle to take in the material with any semblance of rational and balanced thought.

A final pause, and a shrug from Ylara. "As to why Spectre T'soa would help you. . . you will have to ask her yourself. But I would suggest that you give her time to settle her mind. She has been, for a month, assuming a mental state of emotional attachment to you. She has had no time to separate herself from that state."

"Ylara," the empath began carefully, looking back to her and meeting the corundum gaze head-on, "I won't… I can't… turn down any offer for aid. And if the _Sollastra_ is capable of making the journey to Tortuga that quickly, then yes, I will stay to aid you and Melaani in storming the research facility. I'd… regret finding myself abandoning the two of you. And it's the best option for all involved." A grimace, now. "Though I'm unsure of what my focus will be like for the op."

"But . . .I must ask. What will happen to the two of you, if you directly go against the Justicar Order? You'd be going there to do nothing less than prevent them from arresting, or . . . " He forced the word out, "destroying an _ardat-yakshi_. And she won't allow herself to be taken. Nor will I." He continued to stare at the other asari levelly, showing no fear or remorse. He, already, would most certainly be considered an accomplice in hiding a demon of the night from the Order. His gaze found the closed door through which Melaani had gone. "Melaani's still young by asari standards. The ramifications could affect her even more. Or maybe even Sisu, through your involvement."

He made no comment, at least not yet, about how she stated that she was assessing and evaluating "all these things." He wasn't even sure how to respond to that. He only knew that he felt no embarrassment for his relationship with Meshara, just as he felt no guilt for protecting her by not revealing her nature. Though, he did say out loud, quietly, "I regretted being unable to tell you of this, Ylara, before I worked with Sisu. I can only hope that you understand my reasons for protecting her secret."

Nor did he comment on T'soa's reaction to how he had withheld this information. The attachment still lingered within his own mind, as well, bringing with it the feeling that he had betrayed her by not confiding in his partner. But that was private, between the two of them, and he would speak to her alone when there was time.

He'd yet to so much as touch the tea.

Ylara met Samiel's eyes. "I am a Spectre. These are not the old days. On the one hand, I am accountable for every action I take. On the other hand, anyone who comes after me, out of personal vendetta? Has to go through every other Spectre there is, too. On the off chance that one of us is taken down by, say, a batarian with a grudge against the destruction of the caste-system, or an asari with a grudge against our commander for the destruction of Thessia? Four more will stand in our place and take them down." Her voice was implacable. "I _like_ the new Spectres, myself. It is freeing to know that I have good males and females at my back and at my side. But it also means that what I do, reflects on every other Spectre. I am no longer a free agent."

She set her teacup aside, and leaned her elbows on her knees. "But, in terms of repercussions to me, for defying the Justicars? I would expect nothing less than being treated as _persona non grata_. I would expect that the professional courtesy extended between the Justicars and the Spectres will be. . . strained. . . at best. Compromised fundamentally, at worst." Her eyes were piercing. "That's the Spectres. I have enough personal clout that even the Justicars would be hard-pressed to attack me, either by force or arms or by innuendo without tarring themselves. This is the first time in my life that I will be grateful for my unwished-for fame." She leaned back in her chair. "Melaani, however, since you asked of her? She has none of that clout, that gravitas. She has been a Spectre for a year, and for the last hundred and ten years, her work has been done in secret. Under many other names. She is a Spectre, but she is a Spectre without a name. Which is, I suspect, how she prefers it. This will, however, make her a much easier target, if the Justicars feel a need to besmirch someone's honor, or attack her by force of arms. Again, the likely outcome is . . . a strained relationship with the Justicars. Which could in turn lead to strained relations with _all_ asari law enforcement."

Ylara's face remained grave. "As for Sisu. . . yes. Every action that _you_ make, since you are the eldest representative of a . . . male asari. . . and currently facing some galactic scrutiny. . . will have ramifications for him. And for every other 'not-she' that comes to exist after this time." She levels a finger at you. "You, too, are not a free agent. I would hope that you remember that."

He didn't flare up at the leveled finger, though his eyes narrowed as he stared at it, thoughts hidden, before he finally responded. The words were quiet as he shifted his gaze from the leveled finger to her eyes. "Ylara, I will take any allies I can in this. And I recognize that the Spectres will be present because of their interest in maintaining the peace on Tortuga. But that said," and now he broke eye contact, staring into the distance, "I don't want this to ruin things for Melaani. I don't know if she should be there for this." _She's still young. I'm younger, but I'd be there alone without flinching. She's not yet involved, and doesn't have to be._

"As for my own actions . . ." He frowned. "I'm trying my damnedest to give Sisu a role model that he can be proud of. Even if it means putting on a _futarri_ dress—" He stopped himself. That wasn't entirely true; he hadn't agreed to this op to show Sisu what it meant to be an asari male. He was doing it for the species as a whole, with all of their strange genetic anomalies, so that they could begin to adapt to the galaxy - and to themselves. He shook his head, starting over. "I'm trying to live a life that means something. I'm trying to show asari, and the galaxy, that not-shes are to be taken seriously, and that we're not freaks. I'm trying to make _our_ race better for it. But scrutiny or no, I don't regret my choice for a mate, Ylara, nor will I apologize for her, or for protecting her. I knew there would be ramifications, and I accepted them. I knew that this would potentially not end well. But I have to stand by those _I_ hold dear." He paused. "I'm prepared for scrutiny. I'm not the embodiment of every asari that has come before me. Just _look_ at me," he said this as he gestured towards his face, his clan paint. "Perhaps it's time for scrutiny to be faced with this sort of choice, made unflinchingly. I don't . . . consider myself a rebel, or a freak. I believe myself to be rational. I would not want to bring dishonor to the Spectres, and perhaps this will ruin my, ah . . . potential candidacy."

"But if I'm no longer a free agent, then I don't regret this message."

Ylara stared back at Samiel, with that same leashed intensity behind her calmness. "I find no dishonor in being willing to stand up for what you believe in, no. But there's also no shame in tempering your actions to protect those who are dear to you. Not every battle needs to be fought with weapons. Many are decided, before they ever begin, with words." Ylara looked ready to say something else, but stopped herself. "You are young," she finally concluded. "Honorable. Proud." Another brief pause. "I cannot and will not speak for Spectre T'soa in this," she added. "Her decisions are her own. If you wish to ask her not to come along, I will note that I, personally, would prefer to have at least one other Spectre with me when we go." Ylara's expression was bleak. "The rachni will _know_ if anyone attempts to dominate my mind. And I assure you that almost any rachni will strike, and strike to _kill_ if they feel that attempted against themselves, or one that they consider to be of their hive."

He said nothing more of the situation on Tortuga, listening to Ylara's words but no longer adding. They largely agreed, it seemed. That he didn't expect Meshara to attempt domination on the Spectres was a moot point; they were _Spectres_, they would protect themselves. And hell, if pressed, maybe she would attempt to influence one. He didn't find think that particularly likely, though. Even putting aside the ethical questions, he doubted his beloved would consider being hunted by both the Order _and_ the Spectres to be an improvement on any situation.

Spectre involvement would serve as an enormous balancing factor, one that as he had said already, he could not turn down. But he hadn't just meant that he was worried about the impact that fighting with the Justicars would have on his fellow asari. He was concerned about _any_ involvement they might have in this situation, and just how fanatically the Justicars in question might take "aiding and abetting." In the end, he was just going to have to trust in the two being Spectres as protection enough. Though he couldn't fathom how this confrontation could end in any way that didn't include bloodshed.

Samiel's thoughts on Melaani's accompaniment were more complicated. Even with Ylara's observation that she was still experiencing a sibling's emotional attachment to him and as such was not thinking clearly, the fact was that he was experiencing a very similar emotional attachment towards _her_. And so he wanted the aid of another Spectre, but at the same time did not want his "sister-fair" to put herself in the sights of the Justicar Order. It was something he would have to speak with her about, in private, as Ylara had hinted.

Now, Ylara set her cup to the side, and opened up the screen in front of her, tabbing her omnitool to summon Melaani back in again. T'soa's face, on entering the room again, was an imperturbable mask when she returned. Her eyes were blank. She was, for all intents and purposes, a hollow shell. The professional mask that Samiel usually showed the world had been revised and extended upon; Melaani was a non-person at the moment. If personality had mass, hers had been elected to be. . . elsewhere. "We have two large buildings, surrounded by electrified fences," she reported tersely. "Mangrove-like swamps to all sides. We can set down approximately four kilometers away, in a small open area, and hike in. I would expect there to be large reptiles and amphibians, much as we encountered on Arvuna. From what we've been able to ascertain, the eastern building is the genetics laboratory. There appear to be small cells located under the facility. Given that this is located in heavy swamps, these are likely to be floodable, in case the Tears operatives need to relocate in a hurry, and do not wish their captives to be found and taken alive." She tapped the other building on the map. "This is the pharmaceutical plant. I would expect to find _aizala_ being grown here. I would also expect midaphan. Given this group's methodology and ideology, it's unlikely that they'd willingly associate with Cerberus, but necessity has made for stranger bedfellows, and the area is perfect for the cultivation of the plant used to produce midaphan."

Melaani enlarged the map. "There are guard towers every forty feet along the perimeter. Given its location, they might not have installed much in the way of electronic surveillance, but I'd expect at least laser tripwires."

When Melaani had reentered the room, Samiel hadn't been able but watch to her for a moment. It couldn't even be said that she was adamantly not looking at him; the female was an automaton, no emotion, no concerns beyond the mission. Once again, he resolved to speak to her.

But not now. The male-maiden rose to his feet, walking to stand with the others and review the layout of the compound. His own features had taken on professional coolness, forcing himself to be calm and distant. Analytical. The intensity didn't leave his eyes, nor did the tension leave his body, but when he spoke, his voice was as even as it had ever been.

"Infiltrating over ground, from our landing zone, seems to be the best idea. I don't like the thought of 'chuting in from the sky." _And I certainly don't trust the matriarch, even in captivity with a gun to her head, enough to use her to gain us access. _"We need to bring breathers to protect us from the midaphan. _And_ the _aizala_. Unless _they_ come at _us_ dosed on it, I want nothing to do with the drug. Even then . . ." He grimaced. "Even then, I might just take my chances."

"My armor is environmentally sealed," Melaani replied. "Unless they breach the helmet, I doubt there will be any cause for a secondary breather."

Ylara grimaced. "That is, actually, precisely what happened to me on Arvuna, Melaani."

"I remember. I was there."

"And it took Dara Jaworski linking with me to remind me that she was my late daughter's friend, and my. . . almost-son's more-than-fair, to keep me from attacking the rest of you, blindly. Midaphan is far worse, in my opinion, than _aizala_. At least, for an asari. _Aizala,_ you still know who you are. Who you love. Where you are. Midaphan. . . everything becomes confused. And it doesn't dull your biotics. You might turn on an enemy. . . or on an ally, just as easily." Ylara rubbed at her face. "Then again, if your helmet's compromised, you might not have _time_ to get the breather to your face before the midaphan takes effect. Bottom line, be aware of your surroundings. If your helmet's breached, get a breather on, in its place, immediately. Hold your breath, or breathe shallowly if you must."

Melaani nodded, once, taking the advice of the senior Spectre.

Samiel stared at the map, and added now, "Once we access the compound, our priorities are going to revolve around those underground cells not being flooded, and accessing the facility's databanks. A facility director would be ideal as well. Stealth is going to be our best weapon for this entire op, for as long as we can maintain it." He looked at the others. "What do you think?"

"I agree with Viridian," Melaani said, shrugging slightly. "Stealth will be our best option. The building to the west, then, is our primary target. If we circle around the fence line, we can limit our exposure in the cleared area of the compound. Stealth devices will be a must. I propose breaching the wall here," she touched the screen on the left wall of the western building, "rather than trying to hack through a door lock. Speed and surprise. We can move to the pharmaceuticals building once the genetics building, and the captives, are secured."

Ylara nodded. "If you've no additions, Samiel," she said, calmly, "we can be on our way within the hour. Meet me at the shuttle pad on the topmost public floor of the arcology at 13:00, if that's agreeable?"

In the hours that followed, Samiel packed, hastily. Sent a message to Siege, directly, and a message to Nameless—_Dances_, rather, care of Dara Jaworski. The rachni still didn't read very well. At all. Sent a message to Meshara, informing her that he'd be arriving on Tortuga within the week. Sent a message to his turian father, resigning his commission in the Acrocanth's Talons, rather than risk dishonor to the unit, or turning the Justicar's wrath against the organization. And received a dossier from the Spectres on the female that the Tears of the Moon had captured and sent to their jungle facility last month.

_Telara S'roni, aka Telara Vashj, aka Telara T'moa, aka Selara T'moa, aka Shinaya V'asj._

_b. 2105, Illium, to Amai S'roni, second-mother not named on birth-certificate_

_Attended Illium School of the Mind-Arts, 2115-2145. Left school early, did not graduate._

_Teachers reported her to be gifted, brilliant even, but troubled. Magnetic personality, but inwards-turned. Unsharing. Younger students seemed to be drawn to her, but often turned up confused, wandering the halls at night after having studied with her. Sometimes in tears, but unable to explain why they were evidently sleep-walking. Some showed bruising, but nothing could ever be proven._

There were reports of small animals found dead in the gardens, after Telara had been seen playing with them. At first, these animals showed no marks, and were tested for, but found to be free of disease. Later, there was evidence of torture on the animals, or at least, of vivisection.

Three years before her graduation, Telara ran away from the school, and the resident principal of the school was found dead in her office, not a mark on her, but records indicated that she had called Telara to her office for a meeting before her death. Her secretary, in the outer office, swore under oath that she never saw the girl. Secure cam footage indicated that Telara walked right by the secretary, and they exchanged friendly-appearing words, and that after her meeting, Telara left, again speaking with the secretary. The secretary was charged with conspiracy to commit murder at first, or at least, aiding and abetting, but charges were dropped after repeated mind-probes indicated that she truly had no memory of these events.

Sealed school reports indicate that the principal had called for the Justicars to investigate Telara, if not as an ardat-yakshi, then at least as a potential sociopath.

Telara's record trail becomes piecemeal at this point, but she has lived under several different names on Illium, Luisa, the Citadel, Omega, Oriae, and most recently, Niacal. She usually finds low-paying work—most often, as a dancer—and usually leaves after a string of disappearances in a given area, claiming no longer to feel safe. The gap between her entering a system and leaving it is usually fewer than ten years.

Catching a airtram, flashing his credentials to be cleared with his weapons and armor—Spectre affiliation made things so damn easy sometimes—he sat in the back of the taxi and reviewed the short dossier with an increasingly grim expression. _Here is the myth_, he thought to himself. _Here is the cause for alarm._ This girl, Telara, showed all the signs of the legend.

Fit the legend perfectly, in fact. Muscle in his jaw working, he reread the dossier, trying to banish the comparisons to Meshara that automatically sprang to his mind along with surges of nausea, and forced his mind to work. Telara's dossier made her the perfect _ardat-yakshi_. So ideal that if the data had not been compiled by Spectres, he would have wondered at its veracity. As it was, he found himself very glad that he was going into the situation with two Spectres at his side, and with his own experience in biotic domination.

_There aren't many __ardat-yakshi__ left in the galaxy, Viridian, and this might be the only you ever meet aside from your more-than-fair. Don't let either one color your thoughts of the other._

He reached the shuttle pad about fifteen minutes early, the others nowhere to be found. Melaani arrived soon afterward, expression still devoid of all emotion, mask still that of a hollow, empty shell. Even the shield around her mind, utterly blocking his empathy, lacked any tactile sensation and felt more like a void of mind than anything he'd ever experienced. The concern for Meshara that was threatening to swallow every thought had prevented him from talking to her earlier; now, watching the maiden, he couldn't ignore the way she had changed.

The silence between the two stretched on for perhaps a minute while Samiel wondered what was keeping Ylara, until he finally realized that the elder Spectre was probably intentionally delaying her arrival to give her younger two associates time to talk. The not-she turned to his

_partner / friend / sister-fair_

and was quiet for another minute, realizing that he had no idea what to say and feeling completely lost without his empathy to guide him. To the outside world it must have been almost comical, two cool, professional masks, one staring out the high windows over the jungle, the other staring steadily at the first. Finally, he forced words out. "_T'soa_," he grimaced, and tried again, voice gentler this time, the words in high-tongue, out of obscure reflex. "_Melaani. You're angry with me. I . . ._"

He fell silent for a moment, having no idea how to proceed. He knew she was angry. Knew she was clearly _hurt._ But was suddenly unclear of how to address it, and the uncertainty was beginning to show through clearly in the way his eyes kept shifting from point to point and the tiny slips in his mask, and after a month of light sharing she could read those tells like an open book. "_Melaani. I worry that if you come with me to Tortuga, you could make a target of yourself in the eyes of the Justicar Order. Ylara wants you there, but I would be manipulating you to not bring the danger to your attention. I'm . . . concerned for you._"

Melaani's head turned. She scanned the area around the two of them, eyes flicking to the areas where vid cams lurked in this public place, as a safety measure for all passengers boarding air trams and chartered shuttles. And, after a moment, she casually reached up to touch one of her ears, before masking the gesture by running a hand over her scalp lightly. The message was clear: she didn't want to have any sort of in-depth conversation in this public place. That jarring . . . absence. . . remained in place. _"Viridian,"_ she finally said, after a long moment of studying his face, and then just paused. Shook her head, as if at the impossibility of words to convey what she needs to convey, particularly here and now. . . and finally, simply, lifted her left hand. Displayed her omnitool, and, with precise gestures, shut down every camera and electronic device within viewing distance. _"Our flight may be somewhat delayed, if the doors cannot open,"_ she noted, and clasped her hands now at the small of her back. _"It is unlike you, to say in public, that which should remain hidden. I had thought, for the last hour, that you might come to my rooms. Speak with me there."_ She faced away from him, looking out the clear plasteel doors that their chartered shuttle would be arriving through shortly, which had a clear view of the other massive arcologies in the area. _"But then, I suppose I have not become acquainted with Samiel Viridian. I only truly knew Saerila. For all the mental touch, for all the sweetness of mind-fire, I now understand that cannot say that I do truly know you."_ Her voice was dry, clipped, and remote. _"I find it curious, that you would __now__ be concerned at manipulating me."_ Her head turned, and just for an instant, the mask slipped. "_When it is clear that for at least a month, you have already been doing so, and masterfully."_

She looked back away. _"I had thought that I was teaching __you__ the gentle art of deception. But in truth, you already knew quite well how to lie. Even to hide truths from the gentle trust of light sharing. You said you had secrets, terrible things that you could not share."_ She paused, and still looking out that distant window, asked, her voice a dead thing, without inflection or life of any kind, _"Did you laugh in the shadows of your mind, Viridian? Did you laugh at your grand jest, as you shaped me into your fair-one's image?_ _And when the masquerade shifted, Linaia and Saerila became more-than-fair to one another, did you laugh again, in the silent, unshared depths of your soul? Did you plan to scuttle back to her, and share the rich irony with her?_ _That I'd even __liked __the guise? Sympathized with it? Found connection and compassion and even love in it?"_

No tone at all. She did even not raise her voice. Other travelers, standing on a platform about a dozen yards away, couldn't have heard her voice, and her expression revealed nothing worth paying attention to; they were, of course, more concerned with why the electronic signs overhead were clearly on the fritz, and times for tram and shuttle departures were all off-line.

She stared out the window at the blue sky, the muscles in her neck and throat working slightly, and then turned to face Samiel directly. Still blank of face, the rage and anguish that filled her eyes left them anything but empty, and the sudden raw emotion across his empathy hit him like a blow.

Samiel managed one, fractional shrug at Melaani's comment of how the conversation was unlike him, impossibly meant to convey that the situation was important enough that he was willing to have the conversation nearly anywhere; it came out as a unrecognizable twitch.

Then the words started pouring out of the maiden. At first he didn't understand. He'd been prepared for her anger at a charade, her offense that he had not trusted her enough to tell her the whole story. Even her disgust or revulsion that he called an _ardat-yakshi_ his more-than-fair. He had been prepared for all of that.

He had not been prepared for any of the accusations that railed against him now—so quiet was Melaani's voice, so controlled, but did they ever echo within the not-she's mind. Beneath the white paint his face paled, lightening from its customary light azure to the color of human veins beneath pale skin. For an asari, his face was chalk-white, the shock in his features impossible to miss. Then came the emotional hammer-blow, as her eyes filled with her betrayal and anger and the sudden surge of exposed emotional context crashed like a wave against his perceptions.

The empath actually took a step back at the power contained in those emotions, rocked back on his heels. She was opening her mouth to continue the onslaught when he interrupted her, eyes flashing.

Though Melaani had her back to the other passengers, Samiel faced the crowd and the mingled shock, offense, and anger in his features was enough to attract the attention of several of the closest bystanders. He felt the response welling up in his mind, reflexive after four months of deep cover work, and made the conscious decision not to stop it. Fueled by the surge of his own emotions, the suggestion field snapped into life around them, preying on the instinctual reaction of people to look _away_ from private actions in public, coaxing them to give himself and Melaani a wide breadth. _Ignore this_, the suggestion demanded.

Melaani's head snapped up as the suggestion field took form, and her eyes flared to black. Asari eyes changed when they held heavy biotic flows, or prepared to mate; a warning sign, or an invitation. This was clearly the former, as she tightened her mental shields, as if to ward off a blow. . . .and then, visibly—palpably, even—relaxed as she felt the nature of the suggestion.

"_Manipulated you?"_ He nearly sputtered the words; as it was, they were nearly unintelligible through the way his throat had constricted in anger and offense. "_Shaped you into—" _ And then he _did_ stop, unable to force language out for a moment. He actually had to work to relax his throat enough to be able to speak. "_Melaani, I was working with what I __knew__. I was trying to keep us _alive_. And I was protecting a spirits-be-damned ardat-yakshi from other asari! I didn't know how you'd react, I just knew that I couldn't take the futarri chance with her __life_." He stopped, his own rage and hurt clearly evident in his features, and watched her without speaking for a moment. _"That's what you believe this was? A game? Me manipulating you into her image as some sort of sick __futarri__ joke, or insurance in case I couldn't hold out to the end of the mission? Did you not feel my __unease__ over the past month? My absolute hatred of the entire ruse? How I __wanted__ to share with you to ease the burden?"_

Abruptly, he slammed his mouth shut, not trusting himself to speak any further. The anger and offense he felt were nearly overwhelming, and his next words would have been intended to harm, unconditionally. He actually reached one hand out to grab the back of a chair with a white-knuckled grip, fighting back a wave of nausea.

The black bled away from her eyes like ink from an oiled surface, and Melaani sank to a crouch, head bowed, breathing perceptibly faster now, as she listened to Samiel's own spluttered words. It wasn't a submissive pose, in the least; there was a sense of coiled energy in her, leashed, but it's surely a step away from the sword-straight spine and the sense of . . . emptiness. The black hole where she had once been, is gone, at least.

As he finished speaking, she looked up, her lips twitching into a grimace at the corners. _"You say you couldn't know my reaction? You couldn't take that chance? After sharing my thoughts for a month, you couldn't __know__? And then you say that __I__ can take __your__ unease, your hatred for the disguise we created, felt in that same, daily, constant sharing, at face value? You can't have it both ways in the same breath, Viridian."_ Her voice was bleak, but she closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, every last trace of the black had bled away, and she stood back up from that leashed crouch. A sense of. . . ashes. . . as the last of her rage dims down to a gray kind of despair, quietly tucked away. _"No. I . . . will trust what I sensed from you in the last month, then. I __did__ sense your. . . wishes. Your desire. As you surely sensed my own."_ She exhaled. _"I usually keep an old cover identity in memory. I never know when I will need to be that person again. It will be best, I think, if I give poor Linaia a funeral in my heart._ _It is very difficult to play-act at love, to feel it as the character does, to make it __real__ enough that others can sense it. . . and not feel it. At least for me. Usually, I have had a little more time to remind myself that it __isn't __real_. _That what I feel is an illusion_." She doesn't look at you, and her entire sense flickers, falters. _"I will excise her, and her lingering feelings from myself. They will not interfere with the mission at hand, Samiel. You have my word on that."_

She looked away._ "In the end, absolutely none of this matters. I will do my duty here on Niacal, and on Tortuga. If we of the Spectres have determined, and continue to determine, that Meshara Laos is a trustworthy asset and not a danger to others, then that duty will bring me into conflict with the Justicars. So be it. If we of the Spectres determine that Meshara is a liar and a danger to others, then that duty will bring me into conflict with you. I dearly hope that this is not the case."_

Listening to her ash-choked words, Samiel felt a creeping despair of his own slowly roll in. Inexorably it slid forward, smothering everything in its path, even dimming the brilliant sunlight that was streaming in through the arcology's massive glass windows. The flames of his own anger were snuffed out, the smoldering coals covered over like so much history standing before the advance of time.

Samiel knew rage, intimately. Knew pain, both mental and physical. Knew fear, though he hid the emotion from the world, refusing to allow others to know of the place it had in his life. He'd faced so many horrors in his life, and come through them intact. Stronger. And until his reassignment to the _Green-Bottomed Duck_, he'd done so by remaining, emotionally, alienated. So he'd never had to learn to cope with one of the emotions that had damaged him the most decades ago.

Loss.

Now he stood, listening to Melaani's quiet words, and felt it again. Felt more, as she allowed some of her mental defenses to fall and his empathy touched her mind and the maiden's image sprang into full focus to his perceptions, even as she continued to speak. He finally made a cutting motion with his hands as she began to speak of the mission at hand, of duty, and of Tortuga. "_No. This isn't about the mission at hand. This is about us." _His voice was firm, but gentle. He almost used the words 'sister-fair' again, but corrected himself without making what would have been a grave mistake at the time._ "Melaani, I . . . Goddess, play-acting? We weren't play-acting, we were giving ourselves over almost entirely, we were only able to hold on to threads of ourselves. And half of those threads, we gave to each other to hold." _He swallowed, having no idea what to say. "_There's confusion in my heart as well. I've clung to the memory of my more-than-fair, but. . ."_

Samiel voice died and he stood there, mute. Like Melaani, he'd let her in far deeper than had been prudent, the mission necessitating their actions. His own emotions were an untrusting mélange of concern for Meshara, love for his more-than-fair, anguish for Melaani, trust for his partner, and other things, remnants from Saerila as she had remnants from Linaia. Things that he couldn't let himself focus on for any span of time.

"_Melaani." _His words were very quiet. "_I never meant for you to be harmed in this. In any of it. I want you to do whatever you need, to protect yourself. To heal. But I don't want to lose you. If there are any answers you seek, or if there's any trust left that can be resurrected. . . ." _Again, he didn't complete the sentence. He held his hands out in front of him, palms up, offering. He wasn't sure what in the hell he was doing, beyond precisely what he had said: offering her the chance to find the answers to any questions that remained in her mind, a one-directional sharing, now that he had no secret left to protect.

Melaani's gaze had fallen to the floor for a moment, and she'd started shaking her head, but she raised her head, and flickers of mild confusion, empathy, agreement, even regret passed over her expression. At the word _trust_, a raw look of pain crossed her face, and she immediately placed her hands, without question or hesitation, very lightly atop Samiel's. Gentle touch of her mind, the barest whisper of a breeze. Not taking an iota more than he was willing to give, but, very carefully, drifting down through layers of his mind always barred to her before. Her eyes closed, and he could feel tears stinging at the lids at what she found within him.Confusion_,_ the equal of her own spinning mind. The threads of the deception that had become so very, very real for both of them. Loyalty and longing and love for Meshara—she moved away from his memories of the near-matriarch before he even needed to block them, recoiling, allowing him his privacy. And the bond of trust that had allowed the two of them to fight as two parts of one whole, had allowed them to lie to, inveigle, and deceive a whole subset of asari society, snapped back into place, like the links in the chain had never actually been severed. No. . . stronger. Reforged.  
_  
I am so sorry,_ she whispered in the silence of his mind. _I should not have spoken. I could feel it, and would have worked, over the next days or weeks, to teach myself to recognize it as something else. To push it into the confinement of a label. A crush. An infatuation. A friendship. As I told Rellus Velnaran, just over a year ago. . . we asari know many loves in our lives. And we know that none of them, except for the very, very fortunate, last forever, or stay the same. I should not have told you, not when your more-than-fair is in danger. To have spoken so is to __burden__ you, and is unfair._ Guilt and regret, making her pull back, just a little. _But I was so very angry, and I am. . . very rarely thus. Not when I'm __myself__. I have known anger and rage when I've been others, and I couldn't tell at first if it was my anger or Linaia's, and I knew that I didn't have the right to __be__ angry, and . . . _she shook her head.

As she whispered within his mind she could sense him relaxing, relief and gratitude both coursing through him. And understanding, gentle and unshaken, at how the emotions of Linaia had been her own, and how she'd been unable to do anything with them but bottle them within her own heart to deal with later, and how then word of the dire situation with Meshara had served to throw the match onto the stacked tinder. . . . and had raced along per-determined trails, as if someone had planted tracks of gunpowder in her mind. And then she simply hadn't known what to _do_ with the emotions, because they actually _were_ hers, and she couldn't step away from them, couldn't shrug them off, as she could a role. She'd tried to sublimate them, and perhaps could have, in time. . . but she hadn't _had_ time.

Relief, and gratitude. So damned much gratitude.

It's all right, Melaani. It's all right. After this past month we both need time to remember ourselves. We both need time, if just a few days, apart, and we need time to be calm. We . . . I, you… He struggled with the pronouns_. We need time. Which we'll get. You have nothing for which to apologize, this morning or ever. You were hurt. It does . . . terrible things to our minds._

Melaani swallowed. _You will not lose me. Nor my friendship or my trust. Whatever your decisions in the next week are, unless you somehow come to __fire__ on me, I do not think it possible, now that I have seen into your heart, even this little bit._

His throat didn't tighten, but she fell the upwelling of emotion, as he continued. _And you'll never lose me, either, my friend. Nor my trust._

He'd been about to continue, when Melaani, with brutal honesty, sighed, and stopped him. _I will respect whatever your decisions are._ She lifted her hands away, and released his mind, but gently_. I cannot do anything but, if I respect you. Which I do._ She looked down_. I should also inform Ylara that I will not probably be emotionally capable of standing watch with a sniper rifle outside of any meeting area. For use on __anyone__, a Laos twin or a __Justicar,__ who decides to betray the Spectres' trust._

He froze, every muscle locking into place. Though their minds were still in a dwindling sort of light contact, she needed no empathy at all to read the expression on his face and quickly back-peddled, trying to show him, though quick flashes of images what an over-watch position would entail, how it was unlikely at _best_ to be used against the Laos sisters, how it was an absolute necessity in any such mission for the protection of the Spectres present. . . That she'd willingly fire on a Justicar who attacked a Spectre, or someone under the Spectres' protection. Not with joy, for she did respect what the Justicars were meant to represent—law, order, tradition—but she would do it in a heartbeat if any of her Spectre family was endangered. More problematic, for her, would be the order to fire a kill-shot on someone to whom _he_ had an emotional attachment. She understood, on a visceral level, that it would be something that he could not forgive, not in all the centuries of life ahead of him. Even if the person fired upon had been about to kill or betray him, she suspected he you would be unable to forget or forgive. And that thought, alone, might make her hesitate to follow a kill-shot order.

Samiel tried to listen. Tried to see it from the Spectres' point of view. He _tried_. But the old anger was still boiling up beneath the surface. They hadn't told him. They were going to have a sight on Meshara with a finger on the trigger, and they _hadn't told him._

He half-turned away from her, not trusting himself to speak until the frothing emotions calmed again. He understood that it wasn't _Meshara_ they would be targeting. It would be all non-Spectre parties, himself included though they may not say it, to make absolutely certain that their people remained safe. And that, if at all possible, the fragile peace on Tortuga was maintained. His beloved was, quite probably, the only _ardat-yakshi_ known by the Spectres as a "safe asset," and thus, her actions had no precedent to aid in their prediction. He understood all of this, but emotions rarely cared about logic.

It wasn't possible for Melaani _not_ to have noticed the boiling rage in Samiel's eyes, and she winced at it—not a flinch, because she understood its origin, but she did grimace, and told him, out loud, _"Please understand, we've had the information for an __hour__. We're not withholding information from you. Ylara hasn't had time to do more than make a comm call back to the base, let alone talk to you about the situation. . ."_ The urgency behind her softly spoken words was undeniable, and she actually covered her lips with her fingertips, to prevent them from being read by the cameras that the workers have been trying to get back on-line.

Out loud, she continued, _"While I'm disclosing things. . . I spent a fair bit of the last hour making comm calls while I packed,"_ Melaani looked around at the workers repairing the electrical systems. _"Getting in touch with contacts I once knew, when I lived another's life in Eclipse. They knew the names of the Laos sisters, Samiel. And some knew a little, but I suspect not __all __of why the two are on the 'forbidden contact' list for that organization. I trust you, and you trust them. . . and Shepard herself has chosen to give them her trust, but. . . goddess. The stories I have heard spoken in the last hour were not good ones, Samiel." _Her expression was taut, and he could feel worry radiating off of her in waves. _"On the whole, however, if I view those tales with as. . . balanced an eye as I am capable of, at the moment? They do not scream 'terror of the night,' the way the ninety-year-old tales of this Telara girl that the Tears took captive do."_

He nodded curtly at what she told him but still said nothing, breath coming in sharp, quick inhalations and his eyes snapping back and forth between distant points on the horizon. And unexpectedly, still not looking at her, he reached out with his right hand and found hers, gripping it tightly, without any additional sharing. Just the reassurance of physical touch. Around them, she could feel the suggestion field fading away.

"_Telara worries me,"_ the words came out roughly. "_If the sources weren't from your office's intel, I'd doubt it just based on how perfectly she fits the mythos. If the dossier is accurate, she's going to be _dangerous. _We're going to have to be very careful around that female."_

She'd clearly braced herself to deal with anger, disappointment, a sense of betrayal. . . and, on having her hand taken, and being spoken to. . . all he could sense, for a moment, was relief. Relief and gratitude. The equal of his own.

It was probably a sign of how fraught both of their emotional states currently were, that it was then that Ylara walked up behind them, undetected by either of them. . . until , and, after a brief glance down at the clasped hands, responded, quietly, to Samiel's words. _"Yes. With only two weeks to put together information on Telara, it's scanty, and we've been forced to rely on fifty-year-old case records, most of which were sealed at Justicar orders. I asked Dr. Jaworski to revisit the coroner's reports on the body of the principal of the school. She indicated that all she had to go on __were__ those reports, and noted, with some exasperation, that the asari custom of cremating our dead? Makes it somewhat difficult to exhume a body and revisit the case."_ Ylara shrugged. _"Not that there would be much left besides skeletal remains after fifty years. Nevertheless, she reviewed the scans taken of the body, and suggested that the damage to the bones and flesh was consistent with a biotic reave attack. And that the body of the victim showed no defensive bruising. She did not fight off her attacker. She did not struggle. She sat, calmly, in her chair, as she was murdered from the inside-out."_

Ylara paused in her soft-voiced summary as the outer doors of the area opened, and your chartered shuttle, at last, passed through. _"You know,"_ she added, in a more conversational tone, "_we would have been leaving fifteen minutes ago, except that there was some sort of an electrical outage in this area. Somehow __inexplicable __to the people at the front desk."_ She slid another glance towards Melaani. _"We're going to have a discussion shortly, you and I, Spectre T'soa."_

"_I expected nothing less, Spectre Alir."_ Melaani's voice went tight as she addressed the idol of her childhood. The asari whose life she'd _danced_ on stage, at least once.

Ylara gestured for the two of them to enter the shuttle, and followed. Inside the shuttle, the not-she's features cooled as control and discipline reasserted themselves as the mission began in earnest. Looking at him now, one would never guess at the cluster bomb that had been detonated in his personal matters, nor the firestorm that was raging behind his mental shields. Just hard grey eyes staring out of the cool, stern mask.

Ylara buckled herself into the cockpit, and took off, programming coordinates into the autopilot for the moment. Once they'd cleared the airspace around the arcologies, Ylara turned back towards them, and shifted to galactic. "Yes. Telara. . . will be possibly very dangerous to us. I do not wish to proceed on assumptions. As Samiel—and Spectre Blasto, as well—have shown us, amply, that the ability to dominate another mind does not necessarily make the possessor of that talent a sociopath or an evil-doer. And, as Samiel has shown us, to be an _ardat-yakshi_ apparently does not mean that one must be a murderer, or a murderess." Her calm dispassion as she spoke was that of a teacher. "The possibility exists that some other troubled student at the school performed the torture on the animals. Telara could be, simply, a young person who discovered the talent for domination at a very early age, before being properly socialized, and saw absolutely no reason why she should not use it to gain whatever it was she desired. Whether it was sweets after dinner, the friendship of others, forced sharing with a desired fair-one who disdained her. . . a slippery slope. And those who are not often denied what they want, come to feel entitled to all their desires. Though this does not explain the death of the principal." Ylara leaned back in her chair, her back to the autopilot and control panels, and put a hand to her cheek, resting it there. "Melaani? You have had a chance to review the files. What struck you, in particular?"

Melaani sat up. "The lack of any real images of her since her school pictures," she replied, after a moment. "There was a notation that suggested that she's had plastic surgery. We may not know what she actually looks like." Melaani frowned. "Such procedures are costly, and difficult to afford on a dancer's wage of tips. Either she uses her abilities to cadge better tips from her customers, she has access to other funds obtained in some manner, or she 'persuaded' a doctor to change her appearance for her."

"Good. Your mind is working, I see." Ylara turned and regarded Samiel. "What did you glean from the files? What can you tell us about. . . how to know when someone is dominating you? I fear that no one has ever tried to do so to me. Save one." Her glance at Samiel reminded him of the reflexive use of the ability, a month ago, but she didn't name him as the mental aggressor. "Neither has Melaani been exposed—have you?"

"Not on Lorek or Arvuna," Melaani confirmed. "Previous to that, I was on Shanxi. No Lystheni in that arena of the war."

Ylara gave Samiel a shrewd glance. "Is this something that can be demonstrated, Samiel? So that we can learn to detect what might be otherwise highly insidious to us?"

He'd listened to Ylara's assessment of their target, nodding, and similarly agreed with Melaani's additions—though he seemed to particularly agree with the possibility that Telara just persuaded her way into whatever it was that she needed.

When Ylara turned to him, he stilled a wince as she mentioned when he had reflexively attempted to dominate her a month ago. The crack in his armor lasted only a heartbeat, but the two asari knew him well enough to catch the facial twitch for what it was. "I think the likelihood that she just uses her biotic talents to get what she wants, brute-force, or through enhanced persuasion, is the most likely of the options. Dancing is a cover, and a means to an end. She might well even enjoy it. But she has far more at her disposal than physical desire, and it's. . . difficult not to use the ability once you possess it. Depending on the personal ethics involved, she might consider not using it to be foolish."

The empath leaned back in his flight seat, staring up at the ceiling as he collected his thoughts. When he looked back at the others, his voice had taken on a distinctly clinical tone. "It's possible that some of the events in this dossier have been erroneously applied to Telara. That's always possible. It's also entirely possible that she possesses the domination ability without the _ardat-yakshi_ genes. Or without any expressed _ardat-yakshi_ genes. Whatever those genes actually are." He paused, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, and then continued. "But what we do know is that the director of the school was killed by a biotic reave, and that she did not fight back. That wasn't a domination attempt. If a mindsong is sufficiently grey," the male-maiden had long-since taken to using rachni terms when expressing these concepts, "I could grasp it and force the individual to walk off a cliff. Or to fire a rocket at his feet. I've done both, in the past months. But even the greyest voice would awaken screaming and fighting if I actually inflicted pain on it. So I don't believe the director was dominated. The director wanted what happened to continue."

He shook his head, expression grim. "This _is_ the calling card of an _ardat-yakshi_. This is how they kill." However, in spite of his words, a little niggle of thought gnawed at the back of his mind. _What if you made them enjoy the pain? What if you turned the pain to __ecstasy__?_

He pushed the thought aside, eyes flicking back and forth, reviewing memories. It only lasted for a few seconds and then he nodded, as if agreeing with his previous words. And then he changed the subject. "As for demonstrating the use of domination?" He shrugged, but not casually. "We have time for that, yes. I trained with some of the other Spectres back at the base on this very topic. Their first opportunity to try to resist under controlled circumstances, as I understand that Spectre Blasto won't use the ability in practice." He frowned. "I can't go into any sort of detail on resisting such attempts. Each person seemed to have his or her own methods. However, I can at least show the two of you what it feels like. Two attempts: the first with weakened barriers, and only a modest push on my part. The second will be with your full defenses, and I will hit you as hard as I can."

He worked with Ylara first, and was true to his word. The first attempt was a modest blow against her mind, the equivalent to light sparring with a new partner. Showing her what to expect, what the alien biotic power felt like.

The second attempt was much, much different. Samiel was a powerful biotic for his age and possessed a staggering will, and his eyes were black as pitch when he threw that sharpened, honed thunderhead to slam it against her five-hundred year old mental barriers. Even sitting to the side and several feet away, Melaani would feel the collateral splash of biotic energy as the two wills collided.

The first, lackadaisical effort, Samiel could feel slip right off Ylara's shields, but she was clearly surprised by the force behind it. The second time. . .was like the mental arm-wrestling he'd engaged in with Matriarch T'shal in the med bay just days ago. Ylara's will had been trained and honed by centuries of work in the mental arts, and is at least the equal of Meshara's, and where Meshara had once yielded, playfully, to his mind, Ylara, however, would _not_. She was breathing heavily by the end, however. "That was . . . more difficult . . . than I anticipated," Ylara admitted, and looked at Melaani in concern. "Melaani? You haven't really worked extensively on the mental arts, have you?"

Samiel looked up, his scalp-tentacles loose and panting from the exertion of the mental struggle. The matron's mind was a fortress, in every sense of the word, impregnable and unyielding no matter how he had thrown his will against it. As he leaned back in his seat after the mental wrestling he could only nod in fierce agreement at her comment of how difficult the exercise had been. _Goddess_.

"Only enough to hold out people who would probe my mind in my disguises." Melaani's voice was hesitant. "However, I have generally lowered levels of my defenses, deliberately." A way of avoiding the mental breach, of forced sharing. "They did not find what they were looking for, however. Mostly because I can believe in the role I play so. . . strongly." Melaani swallowed. "If my shields had been _too_ strong, it would have aroused suspicion, many times." She nodded to Samiel, and said, simply, "I am as ready as I think I ever will be."

The first time, her resistance was spirited, but while she was capable of withstanding regular mental force and focus, and blank her emotions, a pure domination attempt was . . . totally alien to her. He easily navigated her defenses and halted the intrusion at the upper-most layers of her mentality, touching her mind lightly, as an advanced sparring partner might tap a beginner to show her where her defenses had faltered, and then withdrew.

Then came the real attempt. Her warning was when they made eye contact; the male-maiden waited for his partner's nod and then struck as hard and swift as he could, will honed to razor-sharpness. He struck so hard and fast that he tore through her defenses without Melaani even realizing that her mind had been compromised, and the mental inertia of his strike carried Samiel deeply into the female's layered mind. Her mind opened, completely, under his, her will relaxed. Peaceful. Unresisting. Unafraid, in that moment, because she did not realize that she was under his control. Perfect trust.

Samiel paused, unsure of what had just happened, the complete lack of resistance throwing him off. Mentally, he looked around his 'surroundings', confused at the lack of fight. Understanding came suddenly, and his recoil carried into his physical response as the not-she jerked backwards, even as his mind receded from Melaani's, eyes wide and a little disturbed.

The empath made no comment but resolutely looked anywhere but at Melaani, trying to swallow though his throat was suddenly dry. The complete and unfettered trust that he had felt, wholly yielding and calm in the wake of his usurpation of her mind, had left him feeling as though he had committed some sexually deviant crime against her, and the male-maiden was clearly as uncomfortable in the wake of the demonstration as anyone in the shuttle.

After a long moment, Melaani asked, "Ah, Samiel? When did you plan to begin?"

Samiel didn't look at her as he replied, "Melaani. . . I could have made you step out of the shuttle just now."

Melaani's entire sense tightened, and she exhaled as her eyes sought Ylara's for confirmation. Little traces of fear. Not outrage, and the fear was not directed at Samiel. . . not precisely. But fear, nonetheless.

Ylara nodded, slowly; she'd plainly sensed the biotic flows. Melaani covered her face with her hands for a moment. "It's a little lowering," she admitted, after a moment, "to realize you might be a _gray-voiced singer_."

"Nonsense," Ylara told her, sternly. "The rachni gave you a name. You're not a gray-voice."

Melaani flipped a hand, dismissing it. "I might as well be. I could be a damned _liability_. I could be turned against either of you." Her expression tightened further, her eyes intent on the horizon, where blue ocean met blue sky, sharp as a knife's edge. "We can mitigate some of the danger, if we're able to work with just one captive at a time. That may not be a situation that we can be assured of, however." She bit her lower lip, thinking furiously. "How does it _work_, Samiel?" she finally asked. "Do you feel what's in someone's mind, and use general levers? Serana Pellarian, for example, when she was overwhelmed by the Lystheni on Lorek, reported thinking dark things about her mate. That she was a toy, a game, not really loved. That's. . . highly specific information. But she said it came in as a dark wave of despair, and she thought that her mind manufactured reasons to explain the urge to turn on Linianus." Melaani frowned. "I'm putting this badly."

"It depends on what I want the individual to do. I've grabbed a subject's mind," he avoided using the word 'victim', "and usurped their consciousness entirely, forcing them to take a specific physical action. But what you're asking about is more like planting a seed within the target's mind, an impulse, and allowing that to grow along within their psyche, touching 'levers' along the way. It's very… organic, when used like that. More art, than science." He paused. "The subject's mental shielding has everything to do with whether or not I'm able to punch through and implant the suggestion. Or the command. But after that, it's the strength of the individual's mind that determines if the coercion holds. Shepard, for instance, has no biotic shielding. But…" He shook his head. "I wouldn't dare try to dominate a mind like that. That's the difference between grey-voices and other, vibrant minds. And you, Melaani," and here he paused, looking at her significantly, "and hardly a grey-voice."

There was a flicker in Melaani's taut expression when you assure her that she's not a gray-voice, but she's locked on problem-solving now, nothing more. "Good to hear," she murmured, "but there's no way to gauge how long it would take before I'd realize it had happened, and be able to fight my way out from under it. And no way to know what I'd do before I fought free." She thought about it. "All right. If I'm deeply enough into another identity, might I look like a bad target? Or . . . " she held up her hands briefly, ". . . might the direction of the suggestion cut a different way in my mind, if the . . . identity of that mind, isn't stable?"

Samiel shrugged. "I know that part of Elijah's defenses involve rotating between his different modes of thought: human, then turian, then asari, then human . . . every time you find purchase in an aspect of his psyche, the entire surface configuration shifts. The core remains constant, but you can't hold on long enough to get there. You might be able to use a variant of that, shifting between your remembered personas." He didn't look particularly thrilled at that thought.

Melaani turned away to get a drink of water from the dispenser in the sidewall of the shuttle. As she drank, Ylara offered, gently, "We can test that hypothesis. If that does not seem to work, and we might not have time to train you in suitable mental defenses before we touch down. . . you could stay behind the two of us, and cover us."

Melaani grimaced. "I'm a trained vanguard, Ylara. Infiltrator, too. I'm most effective at the front of a battle . . . assuming there are no yahg present." Dry awareness in her voice, at that. She finished her water, and asked, with care and deliberation, "Here's another thought. Does anyone know what the results are, if someone who is _already_ dominated, has a second domination attack placed against them?" She didn't look at Samiel directly, but continued, carefully, thoughtfully, "I would imagine that the power of the person whose will has been imposed upon the. . . not _puppet_, in this case, but receiver, shall we say. . . would match against the new assailant's attack." Her eyes flicked up, at last, towards Samiel. "It is an option that we could pursue, if my ability to be. . . other people. . . is not sufficient." She set the cup aside. "If being another person helps. . . who would you have me be? Maaisa, my Memory of Thessia saboteur?" All the cold, deadly, agitated energy of the identity suffused her face. "Sylae, perhaps?" Her expression smoothed. Became a look of cold, deadly hauteur, and enough power around her to almost crackle in the air. "Goddess' Path. They believe in the worship of the Goddess' shadow face. In her propitiation. They also have access to biotic powers . . . not generally taught to the rest of the population. And a cast of mind that most find. . . disturbing." She folded her arms across her chest, and her expression turned taciturn, and a little sardonic. World-weary, a seasoned traveler. . . and oddly ordinary. She could have sat in the mess hall of the Acrocanth's Talons, and not gotten a second glance. "Relai. Eclipse mercenary and known cop-killer." Her voice dropped half an octave and grated a little. And then she shifted again, chameleon-like, and her lids lowered. "Or. . . there is Linaia. Would an _ardat-yakshi_ touch the mind of one of her own?"

Samiel hesitated. "But can Ylara and I trust those personalities? Perhaps a rotation between yourself, one of your choice that you deem reliable and . . ." Here, he did grimace, "Linaia? I have no idea how Telara would react to another _ardat-yakshi_." Another pause. "For your other question . . . no. I have no idea what would happen if I dominated you before entering the compound." His voice was absolutely emotionless, absolutely clinical. "I've some personal experience in passing back and forth such attempts, for training. I'm not sure what introducing a neutral third party would do _to_ the third party. I would know the moment she attempted anything on you, though, and I even might be able to follow the use of power back to her own mind. That's all speculation, though." He exhaled. "Ultimately, Melaani, these are your choices to make. _All_ I can do in this is advise."

She nodded. "You and Ylara can trust all of those personas, I swear to you. They're masks. There's. . . still _me_. Way down at the bottom." Melaani's lips tighten into a straight, grim line. "No matter how fully I've lived the covers, I've never gone rogue, never turned against the people who sent me in. There have been times when the final betrayal of the people I've lived among has been . . . harder. . . than others," she admitted, looking down at the floor. "Betrayal is, in a very real sense, what I've done for a living." Melaani looked up, and met Ylara's eyes. "But I've always held a loyalty to a greater cause, a greater goal, and I don't intend to start betraying that today."

She rubbed at her eyes, gently, for a moment, with her fingertips. "We can at least _test_ the persona swapping," she said. "That can give us a reasonable gauge of its efficacy. There's no way to test the pre-domination or counter-domination idea."

"We'll hold that for a last resort," Ylara told her, calmly.

Melaani nodded, and looked at Samiel. "That being said? If I'm holding a gun on you or Ylara? Do it. I give you my permission. Drop me. It'll hurt a hell of a lot less your way, than if either of you has to shoot me to stop me."

Ylara inclined her head. "The same applies to me."

A flash of humor in Melaani's eyes sparked, briefly. "What do we do, then, if _Samiel_ finds his will overcome?"

"Pray," Ylara replied, succinctly. "And incapacitate him as quickly and kindly as we can."

He found himself in an uncomfortable place as they discussed the possibility that _he _would be the influenced one, suddenly viewing the ability from the victim's perspective for a change. He was intimately familiar with the biotic ability by this point, and likely would recognize any attempts by another to coerce or outright command him, but _if_ Telara were successful... he suppressed a shudder as he said to them, "if she succeeds in dominating me, put me down. However necessary, and as quickly as possible. At best you'll be facing a practitioner of the Wind That Bends armed with a vibroknife, and at worst we'll _both_ focus domination attempts on one of you."

Melaani turned, and glanced at Samiel. "Test me," she asked, "though I think you will equally detest everyone you are about to sense."

She wasn't joking. Melaani dipped into the first persona, much more deeply this time. The coldness and hauteur filled her face again, but her eyes burned a little with the fires of a fanatic when shed raised her face. Unshakable self-confidence. Conviction. Conviction in the rightness of her path, the rightness of her cause. Unquestioning. She didn't turn her head to look at either of the others; her eyes were wide, a little unfocused. An expression out of martial arts. Looking at nothing, but seeing _everything_. She finally did turn to look at Samiel, however, and her lips curled down, and her eyes tightened. A moment of confusion, as if she'd seen him for the first time, the line of her brow creasing. . . repugnance. . . followed by intrigue. . . and then, almost. . . _exaltation_. Thought-fast flickers across a face that looks now far too somber to be Melaani, and both too young and too old at the same time.

This time, the mental combat was _exhausting_ for Samiel, and a little bewildering, too. He touched a mind that _knew_ that her name was Sylae T'sai, and that she was chosen. Special. Marked out from other asari, by the grace of the Goddess. There were bends within that thought-process that arced in strange and oddly broken ways. Disorienting, jarring. A clarion call of a _cause_ within that mental voice, a hunger to see her sect come to power and acknowledgement, but also . . . deference. Having been broken. Shaped. Molded. Formed. A desire, no, a _need_ to please her leaders, and to please the Goddess, too. And, breaking through, he could see himself as Sylae saw him. A strange creature, shaped by the Goddess, a perversion of the true asari form. . . but also, Her divine retribution, incarnate. Her shadowed hand, given form, and ready to be unleashed upon the unworthy. A tool, like all others on Her path.

And in the instant that he broke through Sylae's final barriers, Melaani wrenched away, and he had to start all over again, except this time, she's Maaisa O'sui, and the _rage_ in that mind slammed against his. Rage at the death of a world, mourning at so many sisters and cousins and mothers lost, a culture lost, history lost, civilization, the only civilization that _mattered_, lost, oh, Thessia, cloaked in snow, her rings cutting through the night sky and lighting the snow with the sun's reflected light, oh the cities of crystal in their spires, lit with fire from within, oh, the people, all lost, and it was the _humans_' fault, it was _Shepard's_ fault, and the only recompense they could make for the loss of so many lives was to pay with their own! Memories of meetings, memories of bomb schematics, memories of going to human apartments, diplomats on Illium, ready to kill, but the occupants inexplicably gone. . . faint memories of having left the operational details in a dead-drop for her handlers to find. . .

That one was actually easier to pin down and strip away, but only by iotas. This game might become more of a test of endurance than anything. Who tired first, would lose. With that personality torn away, the mind flickered into Melaani's familiar sense, and then she reached for another set of thoughts. . . and found Linaia. Soft and yielding on the outside, steel soul of desperation on the inside, love and terror and scrambling just for mere survival—the mental contact shatters, and Melaani curled in on herself, breathing, heavily, her eyes closed. "I should have reached for Relai," she admitted, after a moment. "I didn't live Linaia's life nearly as long as the others. She might not be as strong." She opened her eyes to look up at the ceiling. "On the positive side, how long did that last, Ylara?"

"About three minutes."

"Felt like about three years," Melaani admitted. "If Telara can't move when she's engaged in a battle of wills like that, she will be nicely vulnerable to attack." She poured another glass of water, and handed it to Samiel without looking at him.

For Samiel, it had been every bit as exhausting as working with Eli was, and on top of that Melaani was true to her word about how Samiel would feel about the different personalities—he was generally revolted by each of them, by their fanatical and twisted minds, and he tried to hide how deeply unnerving it was to see Melaani's face twisted by each in turn, and the way she alternatively looked at him with typical asari revulsion or as a rare and powerful tool to be acquired and wielded. Linaia, young and compassionate, was a stark contrast to the other personalities and the not-she suddenly understood why Melaani had liked that one identity so much.

For him though, the emotional curveball of dealing with Linaia after the other personalities was something he would have passed on if he'd really thought about it.

At the end, he collapsed back into the cushioned seat, breath coming hard and fast and his entire body radiating hotly into the infrared. _"_Spirits, but I _hate_ working with you mind-shifters," he spat out, and then gratefully accepted the glass of water from Melaani. Ylara noticed, immediately, that the male-maiden wasn't quite ready to make eye contact with his partner, either. "If that was three minutes . . .no one would be willing to make that sort of attempt during combat. I have no way of knowing what Telara's mind is like, Melaani. But that should provide defense enough if bullets start flying. Otherwise, I just don't know."

After that, the other maiden had dozed for the remainder of the flight. Samiel, a little exhausted as well from first working with Ylara, and then battering himself against Melaani's improvised defenses, sat in the copilot's chair for a while without speaking, putting down another glass of water and eating energy bars made to support biotics in the field. He said no more, but when Ylara looked at him she could see the tension that still burned beneath his professional calm.

And when Melaani awakened, Ylara took them in for a landing, into the deep jungles of the southern continent. About five miles from the Tears of the Moon compound, a trek that would take them some time, given the terrain. "Everyone ready?" Ylara asked, briskly. 

"As I'm going to be," Melaani replied. "Having flashbacks to Arvuna, though."

_**Author's note:** Here ends part 1 of "On the Origins of the Asari Civil War." Part 2 will cover the Tears of the Moon, Tortuga, Justicars, and a number of fun surprises._

_The Battle of Tortuga was a section of the forum RP that I DM'd, taking over when the first DM had real life issues. Meshara, Kishara, the Twins, the Sagittum, and Nameless/Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight are all mine. Tonus Machen was the name supplied for a paranoid maniac turian warlord by the previous DM, Rhoenix, but Machen never appeared in play until I showed him. _

_The head-bomb thingie is not my idea; it came from issues surrounding Wolfsbane's character, and was resolved by me. _

_Rhoenix asked me for the name of an asari martial art. I came up with the name the wind that bends the reeds. His conception of it was of a sword art with heavy biotics use. I never saw much point for a physical sword that wasn't a vibroblade in the ME universe; if it's not a small blade, you're not going to be punching through small gaskets and weak armor points. A sword was always designed to shear through armor. In the ME universe, that isn't going to happen without a vibroblade._

_Hence, my interpretation of the Wind that Bends the Reeds. . . a full-fledged biotic martial art, where the mind is the blade, the body is the blade, and the two cannot be separated. You'll be seeing quite a bit more of it in Part 2. In the meantime, if you're curious about it, please see Samiel Viridian's entry on the SoR Wiki page._

_I would like to acknowledge the following players/readers for having participated during this section of the game, making it thereby much cooler:_

_Eleventh Messenger/Siege, geth CROWD-245_

_Asymptote/Samiel Viridian, asari male vanguard/infiltrator_

_Lustrian/Illaris Vaeloc, salarian techno-geek_

_Shammoner/Alex Cooper, human infiltrator_

_JD196/Desiderus, turian soldier_

_Shinimegami/Koren Iphis, drell engineer/infiltrator_

_Sorrows Solace/Genevieve Lys, human sentinel_

_The major plot point revealed in Part 2 came from a little genetic research, and the numbers generated this chapter, Asym and I spitballed some ideas for, he put them in an Excel spreadsheet, and we looked at the statistical results and went, "Holy crap. This works. In every regard." Enjoy!_


	159. Epilogue 2a: Asari Civil War, Part Two

**Epilogue 2, Part 2. On the Origins of the Asari Civil War: Mother Dearest**

**Author's note:** _100% fewer flashbacks in this chapter, folks, I swear!_

**Niacal**

Melaani hadn't been joking about the jungle's terrain. There are three layers of trees: tall, towering a hundred meters overhead; medium, standing only twenty or thirty meters; and small. . . short, scrubby trees, only three meters in height. But there are bushes and vines and tangles, and everywhere they turned, there seemed to be an impenetrable wall of greenery. To top things off, most of the plant life had metallic compounds in its foliage, making scanners. . . very difficult to use. Impossible to tell when some enemy might be behind a snag of vines. "Everyone, turn on your stealth nets," Ylara ordered. "I'm not as conversant in their use, so I will bring up the rear. Samiel and Melaani, take turns at point."

Wading through chest-deep jade water in places, mud sucking at their boots. Chatter of birds and lizards in the trees, drone of insects everywhere The most irritating part, at least for Samiel, was the he had a vibroknife strapped to his wrist and he couldn't use it to cut his way through the thick undergrowth without potentially announcing their presence to all. And so they were forced to spend hours working their way through the sluggish river, pausing at times to avoid the patrols that he sensed, his empathy their only real detection system with their radar rendered nearly-useless by the flora. At least the handful of patrols weren't particularly wary. Bored guards, really, out for yet another perimeter check in an empty jungle.

At one point, after they'd been forced to belly-crawl _underwater_ through a mud-and-tree-root-choked stretch, he looked at the two females, unable to clearly see their forms with the stealth nets active, but still able to _sense_ their locations, and communicated silently. _At least I'm not wearing a dress._

Finally, they were at the west edge of the compound. There was a triple-stranded barbed wire fence between them and the wall; Melaani whispered, "Electrified. Probably laser detectors as well," into the radio. There are guard towers to the north and south. "Cover me," Melaani whispered. "I'm moving up to take out any sensors and deal with the fence." As Melaani crept forward to deal with the various electronic systems, Samiel helped Ylara keep watch. He was armed with both his pistol and a shotgun, and, of course, his vibroknife, but while the pistol was drawn, he had it aimed at the ground. He scanned the walls as he reached out and felt for guards, trying to note their positions and turn away the interest of any that might look in the infiltrators' direction, or take notice as Melaani deactivated and subverted the surveillance systems.

Her stealth was absolute enough that the guards atop both towers to either side of the electrified barbwire fence didn't see her as she deactivated the laser detection system under the fence, rerouted the electrical current to the lowest of the strands, and then cut the barbed wire itself. "Come ahead," Melaani whispered into the radio.

Samiel easily slipped under the wires undetected, then turned back, crouching, to watch the guards atop the towers as Ylara, in a stealth net, wiggled her way through the fence opening. One of the guards shifted her stance, and peered down at the fence line for a moment, and Samiel hissed, "Hold!" into the radio.

Ylara froze until the guard looked away again, and then slithered into the compound itself, joining the other two in the dubious shelter of a lonely shrub.

There was ninety feet or so of open ground between the fence and the genetics lab. Essentially, it was a kill zone for escapees, nothing more, and nothing less. Fortunately, the occupants apparently haven't been alerted yet that their matriarch or any of her agents were scooped up, and security was somewhat lax at the moment. The intruders were able to belly-crawl to the side wall of the facility, which, while it had no back doors, at least had dumpsters and air purification equipment for shelter and cover. "All right," Melaani muttered in galactic as she removed a prefab explosives frame from her pack. "I can put this against the wall here, and I think we'll wind up dead in the middle of the building, first floor. Problem is, this is going to be somewhat noisy, and there are guards still up on the towers. Do we want to do anything quiet to the guards before we head in? Or just go in fast and furious, and take care of them when we pop back out again?"

Ylara shook her head. "We have to ensure that we have a safe route through which we can exfiltrate the captives. Something that will distract the guards. . . would be helpful. How loud will the frame break be, Melaani?"

"About as loud as a single rifle shot, fortunately."

Crouching with them in the cover of the waste and air purification equipment, Samiel raised a hand to stay Melaani before she was able to finish assembling the breaching frame. "That just wouldn't feel right without Siege leading the charge. May I propose a quieter alternative?" And with that, he drew his vibroknife and tabbed it on, eyes defocusing as he reached his senses out past the wall ahead of them. Aluminum, thin, with a light façade of brick, little more than a colonial prefab unit made to look a little more natural to blend with its environment. "Two minds in the room opposite this wall. I think," he reported after a moment. "I'm admittedly guessing at the size of the room. They feel . . . I don't think they're prisoners. Beyond that, I'm not sure. I'll do this as quickly as I can, if the two of you can prepare to seize them with your biotics before they can sound an alarm?" 

Melaani's indrawn breath gives way to a rueful, "I forget that you have that knife, Viridian. . . Handy."

At a nod from Ylara, scarcely visible as more than a ripple in the air, Samiel stood in front of the wall and held there, waiting until the minds within felt the most distracted, and then ripped the knife through the wall in a rough, three-foot circle, and used a biotic pulse to pull the plug out and drop it quickly and silently into the soft loam at their feet. He spun clear, giving the females unobstructed use of their biotics.

Samiel's movement were so quiet, so subtle, that the guards in the hallway were taken completely by surprise, not even facing the improvised door as Ylara knelt and made a little gesture with her hand, lifting both of the guards in the hall beyond the gap up into the air. Melaani, face calm and cold, makes a little flicking gesture with her own hand, and one of the two guards, mass already displaced, slammed head-first into the ground. The second, squirming in panic, drew breath to shout in panic, when Samiel followed up with an identical throw, killing the guard before more than a strangled yelp can emerge from her throat.

"Quick and quiet," Melaani said, her tone clipped, but approving, as she slipped first through the entry point, into the long, wide hallway, which had doors to either side, and a staircase down at the far end. The empath half-closed his eyes as they stood in the hall, casting his awareness out into the depths of the building. "One prisoner in each of the two rooms to our sides. . . I think. The one to the north is muffled. Might be close to death. I can barely feel her. Each with four . . . med techs, perhaps. Grey-minds, the techs. I make it six prisoners downstairs, four guards. The prisoners are all frightened, and some of them feel young." He gaze Ylara a quick sidelong glance and then amended dryly, "_quite_ young."

Melaani shifts in place. "I don't think we should be splitting up," she whispers into the radio. "Clear the top, or straight down?"

Tension crept back into his tone. He did _not_ like this place, nor its implications. Nodding at Melaani's statement about not splitting up, he pointed to the door on their left. "Hit the rooms where testing is occurring first, before they can do any more harm to those prisoners. We keep it quiet so as not to alert the guards downstairs . . When we enter, I'll dominate the left-most, relative to our facing. We need some answers."

With that, Samiel took a keycard from one of the limp bodies of the guards, and crept up to the door of the left side lab. When the two Spectres signaled that they were ready, he swiped the card and keyed the door open, spinning around the corner of the door and focusing on his intended target. He wanted this one alive to answer questions, and having sensed the vulnerability of the tech's mind, wasted no time with hammering the asari's psyche with a command to freeze. Samiel's flicker of will caught the left-most tech, her face covered in a surgical mask, off-guard; her will bent under his, and then he was _on_ her, slamming into her with all the force of a charge. These techs didn't even wear armor, just surgical scrubs and face-masks. Samiel was barely able to pull his punch enough to keep his would-be captive alive; rather, he knocked her out entirely, her body slamming back into the MRI machine behind her and rebounding, sliding limply to the floor.

As he did, Melaani yanked one of the other techs out of the way, sending her spinning into the third tech, slamming both into the far wall with enough force to snap bones. Ylara, on her heels, unleashed a shockwave through the floor at the fourth medical tech, blowing the female back and slamming her into a cabinet filled with medical tools. She, too, fell unconscious to the floor, and Ylara looked back over her shoulder, apprehensively, at the door across the hall, and the stairs. "No movement," she hissed.

To Samiel's surprise, the 'patient,' in the room was _conscious_, bound to a gurney with leather restraints. She was blindfolded, presumably to prevent her from focusing her biotics, and in the surgical pan next to her were several syringes filled with fluids, and a variety of electrodes. Several of these have already been attached to her scalp. _"What's going on?"_ the captive demanded, working her hands against the leather restraints. _"What are you __doing__ to me __this__ time?"_

_We're getting you out of here. Be quiet or they'll hear._ Samiel sent the words to the captive as he quickly helped Melaani tie up the surviving techs while Ylara continued to keep watch. However, he had the oddest sensation as he pressed the words towards the captive's mind. She didn't stop struggling _at all_, and there was no change, no flicker in her sense. It was as if he'd spoken to someone who's completely deaf. He put it to the side, for the moment, but then returned to her side, with the other two, approaching, cautiously. 

After a quick glance at the other two, Samiel reached out to remove the blindfold, muttering _"be calm"_ just loudly enough for the captive to hear it, and know that someone stood close to her. At the audible words, she stopped struggling, and her head snapped towards him. His movements were extremely wary, and his mental barriers were solidly in place As he pulled the blindfold away, he also studied her face, trying to guess at whether or not the bones beneath could have belonged to the pictures they'd reviewed of Telara.

He immediately saw large, violet-toned eyes, unusual in an asari. Her features were a little too rounded to be true asari beauty, and there was a sense of. . . absence around her. Not of weakness, but of a lack of _presence_. To the empath, she felt like everyone had felt when he was dosed during the strike on the Tears of the Moon dinner—flat, lacking in depth. A cutout of a real person. The sure understanding that something was _wrong_ became greater, This did not appear to be Telara, or if it were, she had chosen a very odd method of disguising herself. Her eyes flicked from one to another of her rescuers, and she mouthed, _"Who—what?"_ She stared at the black armor on Ylara and Melaani, ignoring Samiel for the moment, and hissed, in disbelief, _"__Spectres__? Here? Goddess. . . get me out of here. Please! I can help! Just let me at these __unsharing__ fanatics!"_

She seemed earnest enough, but it was difficult to gauge without any empathic context whatsoever. "Melaani," he muttered, working at the captive's restraints, "I think she's dosed on _lia'mellea_. You're better with this than I am, can you confirm?" He gestured towards the pan with the syringes, as he finally just produced his vibroknife to cut the stubborn leather straps.

Melaani nodded and began examining the various syringes, and grabbed a datapad that had been thrown to the floor. _"Iliana M'loa?"_ she asked, quietly.

_"Yeah, that's me."_ The female winced as Samiel cut the leather straps loose, and sat up and began to massage sensation back into her bare legs. She's wearing nothing more than a patient gown at the moment, but doesn't seem to regard her state of near-nudity at all.

_"Goddess. What were they doing to you? This makes no sense. . . "_ Melaani's head jerked up. _"Viridian. . . she's on twenty units of liquid-form __aizala__ at the moment. . . and they were going to __increase__ her dosage."_ Melaani's head swiveled towards the female, who didn't look or act anything like someone on _aizala._ Her eyes remained violet. Her body-language was brusque, not languid or melting. _"The syringes over here. . . three with __aizala__ and one with __lia'mellea__. In case they . . . 'activated' her and needed to put her back down to 'base state.'"_

"_Wait. Stop._" Samiel had looked over at Melaani when she'd used his name, and, eyes wide, had swiveled it back around to stare at this 'Iliana'. "_They have you dosed on __aizala_?"

Aside from the obvious, that she wasn't acting like someone dosed to the gills on azure dust, he still couldn't feel her. At all. The maiden swearing and ranting before him may as well have been a stone for all the mind he could sense from her, and for the natural empath, the implications were nearly unfathomable. For now, though, he just had to accept that he had no idea what was going on with this asari.

_"Activated__. What a word._" Iliana's expression turned sour. _"They wanted to see if they could __wake me up__. Even stuck a blindfold on me, because they were so sure that this time they'd figure out a way to . . . improve my fucking __condition__."_ She snorted. "_I wish to the Goddess all these _shitheads_ would leave me alone. I've been to every school of the mind on Luisa since I was five years old. I'm never going to be anything other than what I am. I don't even __want__ their precious _fucking_ mind-fire anymore. I just want to be left alone."_ She looked around. _"Give me a gun and a guard's armor. I can __help__. There are children downstairs, for the sake of the Goddess!"_

Samiel gritted his teeth. Being deprived of his empathy, one way or another, was _irksome_. He couldn't even sense if Iliana could be trusted at their backs. But with the time ticking by, decisions had to be made. Armor, they could take from one of the dead guards in the hallway— the bodies needed to be hidden in this room to mask their presence, anyways. He hadn't offered her a weapon yet, but his hand rested on his pistol as he glanced questioningly at Ylara. _I have no sense of her mind at all._

_No. Nor do I,_ Ylara replied, sounding shaken. _But the Moons of Luisa specialize in, ah, studying and treating 'birth defects,' do they not?_ Out loud now, Ylara began to ask, _ "You. . . you're, ah. . . "_ She seemed to hunt for a word that wasn't insulting.

_"Defective? Retarded? Yes. Technically."_ Iliana's scowl darkened. _"The brain's all here, Spectre. I tested off the charts for intelligence when I was five. I can talk. I can feel. I just was born without any of the biotic organs that other asari have. The technical term you are searching for is 'savant.'"_ She gave Samiel a look. _"You can stop looking around like that. You're not going to hear or sense anything more from me than you are now. And I'll thank you not to pity me or get that look of 'oh goddess, she's not even a person,' too, if you would."_

The not-she raised one eyebrow, not at the former-captive's words but at her _tone_, and took half a step back, gesturing to one of the guard's bodies as if to say, 'after you.' He was accustomed to the idea that not the percentage of sapients possessing biotics was actually rather low - he'd been raised among turians, after all - but the idea of an asari possessing absolutely no biotics, and on top of that being biotically "dead" to _other_ biotics, was a big concept to swallow all at once.

The irony was rife, and Iliana hadn't, apparently, even discerned that Samiel was _male_. Looking back at her, he reached out one hand to stay her as she rose and made to move around the room. "_You're on liquid __aizala__ and sober as a stone. Before we put you at our backs, what were they doing to you?_"

Iliana's violet eyes narrowed. _"They were trying to __awaken__ me,"_ she replied, succinctly, biting off every word. _"As they never failed to remind me once they found me. I was working, peaceably enough on Omega, minding my own business. Staying away from everyone and everything asari. I was done with being a shame to my mothers and an embarrassment to everyone I met. Then someone came to the engine repair shop where I was working and asked about me. I answered the front desk, and it was an asari. Someone named. . . Niala, I think?" _She shrugged. _"Two days later, I was jumped leaving my apartment._ _They brought me here, stuck me in a cell, and started trying to 'help' me. What they thought they could do that a hundred years of work in every 'special' school my first-mother could find_, _I don't know, and I don't entirely think that anyone who puts you in a cage is trying to __help__."_ She took a bad step, staggered, and brushed Melaani's helping hand away as if it offended her. _"__Aizala__ doesn't seem to affect me at all. They were really bothered by that. Something about the Goddess' greatest gift blah blah blah."  
_

_"Common phrase used by the Goddess' Path cult,"_ Melaani volunteered, her tone clinical. "_Suggests that the Tears of the Moon might share ideological links to the Goddess' Path,"_

Samiel evaluated what he knew, glanced at Ylara for permission. . . and got the nod. Iliana had dropped her patient gown with a total lack of modesty, and yanked on the dead guard's armor. Her movements lacked all of Melaani's grace and Ylara's quiet, centered precision. She wasn't _clumsy_. . . but everything about her screamed _not-asari_.

When the female turned to face them again, her eyes widened in surprise. He was holding out his pistol to her, held by the barrel and grip facing her. "_We're doing this __quietly_. _Use this to defend yourself in necessary, but avoid gunshots if at all possible. We're clearing the other lab first, then questioning a tech, then heading downstairs._"

She nodded, and, with a practiced movements, took a rear-guard position, muttering krogan obscenities over the substandard omnitool that the guard she'd plundered had possessed.

With the unconscious and dead guards and techs sequestered in the cleared room, they moved across the hall. There'd actually been little noise involved in the first two takedowns, fortunately. Samiel opened the new door with a keycard, and then they repeated the tactics that served them so well before. The technicians didn't even have a chance to _scream_, let alone defend themselves. Iliana helped tie them up, giving one of the techs a heavy boot to the head before lashing them together with leather straps kept in the room.

In this chamber, there was another asari captive. Blindfolded, just as Iliana was. But she'd been shackled in place not with leather straps to a gurney, but with metal manacles, to a chair. Her skin was a particularly unusual and vibrant shade of turquoise, while Iliana's had purple undertones. She appeared to be young, and frightened. _"What's going on! Who's there! What are you __doing__?" _

Samiel moved up to the captive first, putting himself between her and the Spectres, and took careful note of the differences in this captive's confinement. _So, this one's b__iotically-capable, I'm thinking?_

He didn't play around with mental speech this time, but instead spoke out loud to her, announcing his presence before he reached for the blindfold. "_We're here to get you out of here. Don't make too much noise, no one has been alerted. Yet._"

And with that, he pulled the blindfold off of the young maiden—quite nearly a child, but _still_ older than he was, something he was gradually growing tired of this year. Again, he kept his body in between the captive and the other Spectres and now Iliana. He didn't say it out loud to anyone, but if this _was_ the Telara, and she _did_ attempt to dominate them, he was prepared to absorb the first attack.

The eyes behind the blindfold were a lovely, placid shade of aquamarine, and the asari stared at Samiel in his plain, workmanlike armor. _"You. . . you're not one of them?"_ There was a sense of delicacy about her, fragility. Innocence, really. _"You've come to rescue me?"_ She shifted a little, trying to offer her bound hands. _"Is it really true?"_

Samiel looked at the young maiden carefully, his own face stony behind the face-paint and unpolarized mask. Considering. The natural response, even for the stoic male-maiden, was to protect a female with her delicate beauty, unquestioningly. And while he didn't register any sense of power from her, she was at least definitely _present_, in the way that Iliana was not.

He set his jaw with a grimace, glancing back at Ylara. The matron nodded to him in a reserved manner, showing the same hesitation, and he turned back to the captive, producing, again, his knife. "_Hold still while I work. We're here to get you out, yes . . . who are you, and what were they doing to you here?_"

His voice was gentle but insistent, as they needed these answers. With a few careful, precise cuts her bindings fell away, and he took a few steps back. Not offering the maiden further aid, but watching. 

_"I'm Shinai. Shinia T'lau." _The words were a whisper, scarcely audible where he stood, no more than a foot away. She focused on Samiel as she spoke, not resisting as he cut. _"I don't __know __why they've taken me prisoner. They keep numbing my mind with drugs, till I hardly know who or where I am."_ Her hands freed, she pressed them to her face, and looked through her fingers at Samiel. _"Goddess. I . . . know there have been tests. . . blood samples. . . they order me to use my biotics, but I just . . . can't. I was due for my next . . . dose. . . I think. . . "_ She'd been speaking softly, her voice almost too quiet to be heard, and you just feet from her. She looked up as he cut the bonds at her feet, saw Iliana, at the door, dressed in a guard's armor, and almost shrieked, _"Behind you! One of them!"_

He'd felt no one approach them, but he did snap his head around regardless, only to find himself staring at the mental void that was Iliana. It was something that he wasn't going to adjust to any time soon. When he looked back to Shinia, faint annoyance and exasperation had crept into his features, but were quickly pushed away.

Iliana looked at the delicate-appearing female in annoyance. _"It's just me, you idiot,"_ she snapped, opening her face-plate from across the room. _"I've had the cell next to yours for a month, remember?"_

_"Oh_. . . _I think I. . . I know you?"_ The female stumbled forward, leaning heavily on Samiel's arm, until he pushed away from her. And he went back to considering her carefully.

The name "Shinia" wasn't in the dossier on Telara anywhere, though "Shinaya" certainly had been. He wasn't about to damn the female for a coincidental name. Nor was he going to blame her—too strongly—for overreacting only seconds after being released from her bonds. That said, he had the damnedest feeling that she was trying to manipulate him in a purely social and physical manner. Regardless of whether or not this was their ardat-yakshi, he had a feeling she was going to pose more problems than Iliana.

In the meantime, Melaani had been going through the room methodically. _"Damn. The datapad with her records is a casualty of our entrance. I have no idea what they've been dosing her with besides the __lia'mellea__. If you were due for a dose, your mind should start clearing soon,"_ the younger Spectre told the delicate-looking asari, her voice sympathetic. The voice of her cop-self, her Spectre-self. _"It'll be all right."_

Iliana, who moved with lithe, liquid grace, now that she'd gotten feeling back into her legs, smiled at Melaani. _"Th-thank you. I . . . I think it's starting to get clearer by the moment. I'll try not to be a burden to anyone."_

At least no one downstairs seemed to have heard her damned shriek. Samiel_,_ slapped one of the restrained technicians until she came around, and her wide blue eyes were stunned and dazed as she regained consciousness. _"I. . . I'm not going to tell you anything,"_ she started off, defiantly enough. Samiel's will was more than enough to roll the tech's under, however, and she shortly admitted, _"The one in charge is Cheraya R'sua. She's. . . not in the building at the moment. She's probably in her house, on the north side of the compound. . . she only comes in once a day, to go through the records and see what progress has been made."_

Iliana continued to watch the corridor, warily. _"We're going to need breather masks for everyone downstairs,"_ she warned. _"Too much oxygen gets toxic, and you've got this building open to the atmosphere. Pretty soon, their O2 meters are going to start shrieking, and someone __will__ check on us."_

At her words, Shinia, moving delicately, stripped a mask and helmet off one of the unconscious techs, putting it on. She didn't bother with the rest of the armor, for the moment, but ensured that she has the tubing and the filtration system tucked into her thin patient robe.

_"Downstairs?"_ Melaani asked, jerking her head at the stairs.

From where he was kneeling over the tech he had just interrogated, having just secured the gag and zip ties around wrists and ankles, Samiel looked up at Melaani and nodded an affirmative to the Spectre's directive that it was time to explore the basement level.

_"I. . . I don't think I can be of any help,"_ Shinia admitted. _"I'll just be in the way down there. Should. . . should I just stay here?"_ She looked around helplessly. _"But if I stay here, I'll. . .be all by myself. Alone."_ Fear in her voice now, desperation. _"Maybe. . . maybe . . . is there a way out? Did you come by a vehicle? I could stay there."_

Iliana sighed._ "Dancers. Useless, the lot of them."_

_"I used to dance __ill'ias'toa__,"_ Melaani offered, cheerfully, mentioning the name of the elegant, refined asari performance art that combined dance and biotics. "_We're not all completely useless."_

"_Yes, but __ill'ias'toa__ doesn't mean shaking your ass in a bar for tips._ _Telara here has never done anything __but__ that."  
_

The empath froze. He'd been opening his mouth to mutter, "I'm not being paid enough for this . . . " but the words died on his tongue as his head snapped around as his attention focused sharply on the dancer.

_"Telara? That's not my name. At least. . . I'm fairly sure. . . it's not. . . " _Shinia wavered, and then her eyes focused on Melaani, who'd been nothing but gentle and sympathetic all this time. . . Samiel could _feel_ the attempt being made, a black wall of _will_ rushing out at the younger asari Spectre, who stiffened suddenly, clearly _fighting_ it. . .

It had been all the confirmation they needed, but Telara doubly verified it as she panicked and desperately turned her will on Melaani. Targeting the mind that had been the most sympathetic to her cause thus far.

"_Ylara! Watch Melaani!_" Samiel barked out the matron's name as he swiveled up to his feet; it was unlikely that the elder Spectre had missed the attempt, but he was assuming nothing at this point. He had given Iliana his heavy pistol earlier, and so as he rose and turned to face Telara, he pulled his shotgun from his back, pointing it directly at the unarmored female.

His face-shield was still unpolarized, and Telara could no doubt see the protection-anger that was burning unmasked on the male-maiden's face. "_I'm prepared to overlook that you are an __ardat-yakshi__, Telara. But release my sister-fair now, or I will not stop pulling this trigger until your head is gone._" Power thundered in his voice, battering against her own consciousness and demanding Melaani's release. "_One. Chance._"

Ylara moved, instantly, towards Melaani, lifting her off the ground, even as Melaani gasped out, _"I'm all right. I'm __me__! Ylara, she doesn't have me!"_ The words were just a buzz against the wall of Samiel's concentration at the moment.__

"I can't take that chance!" Ylara snapped back.

Iliana, confused, turned away from the door to stare at all of them._ "__Ardat-yakshi__? What in the name of the Goddess' blue boobs are you all __talking__ about?"_

Telara backed up, raising her hands, and Samiel could feel . . . well, _nothing_ from Iliana. Concern from Ylara. Annoyance, mostly, from Melaani, as well as fear and apprehension, and from Telara. . . his finger tightened on the trigger, but even as the dark wave of Telara's will hit him, she dove to the ground. The shotgun blast rocked the room, but Samiel's will struggled against that dark tide. . . it wasn't as powerful as Meshara's will. Not by a long shot. . . but she caught him from an unexpected angle, and dragged him under.

When he raised his eyes, he was filled with concern. Concern for the dainty beauty, whom he'd almost _hurt._ Almost _killed_. He had to help her. He had to make Melaani and Ylara _understand_ that Telara was an innocent. That she was. . . _just like Meshara_. Misunderstood. Lost. Desperate. The compulsion pulsed in his mind, a voice, whispering, _We should all leave. Now. Before the guards come. Just grab a vehicle and go. We need to leave. The freaks downstairs don't matter. Only __I__ matter. If they don't understand, make them understand. And we'll kill anyone who gets in our way._

"_We need to get out of here. The guards must have heard that gunshot, so we don't have much time._" Guilt filled Samiel's voice, creeping in over the cold professionalism, even though he tried to keep his tone, as always, neutral. He couldn't believe he'd almost shot Telara—aimed to kill!—and it was all he could do to banish the thoughts of how things could have ended to the dark portion of his awareness.

They needed to exfiltrate. Immediately. Telara wasn't like the Iliana whore, brash, uncouth, and having made her way on Omega. Telara was more civilized. Gentler. Delicate. She wasn't trained to deal with, or accustomed to, situations like the firefight that lurked around every corner here. And she was young.

So damned young.

The problem was convincing his Spectre associates of this. They knew Telara was an _ardat-yakshi_, and they knew what the demons of the night wind were capable of. They were predisposed to their racial prejudices, regardless of anything he could argue to the contrary. Why was it so hard for sapients to grasp that it was a fluke of genetics, not a corruption of the mind and soul?

All this passed through the male-maiden's mind in a flash, between his last words and grim, guilty glance at Telara and when he turned to Ylara and Melaani, the maiden floating and cursing nearby. He knew he had to make the next part good. "_T'soa's fine, Ylara. I can feel her mind, and it's her own. Our ward panicked, and you know I use the ability reflexively as well if I'm not careful. She won't,_" and now he speared the _ardat-yakshi_ with a meaningful glance before looking back to Ylara, "_do it again. But for now, we need to exfiltrate these two. We can't risk getting into a firefight with six rescuees and only the three of us to protect them. We get them out, then reassess._"

After that, as he waited for the elder Spectre to release Melaani from the biotic containment, he turned to Telara, just the barest hint of concern leaking into his eyes. "_Stay behind me._" He made no mention of the near-fatal shotgun discharge, still unable to grasp why he had ever thought to fire at her. Ashamed.

Ylara said just one word, and it was heart-felt. _"Entropy._" She yanked the still-floating Melaani back with her mind, through the doorway to her side. Melaani, stumbling when she hit the ground outside, rolled and came back up to her feet. _"Iliana, move back through the door. Don't block our shots."_ Ylara ordered, training her weapon into the room, but she was aiming not at Samiel, but at Telara. _"You're the one who's dominated, Viridian,"_ she continued, her voice calm. Trying to talk him down. A cop's voice. A Spectre's face. It . . . tickled something at the back of his mind, but the urgency is still there. They had to leave. He had to protect Telara. _"We can't leave no,"_ Ylara told him. "_The captives below will be killed. The not-shes. All of them. You __know __this. . . Viridian."_

The words meant something, but they didn't. . . mean. . . anything. _"Do I have a go?"_ Melaani asked, her voice tight. 

"_Ylara, what in the Goddess' name are you doing_?" He watched them back out of the room and set up outside, weapons trained. Not on him, but on Telara, which was frustrating enough, but compounded by how the elder Spectre had drawn a line, and placed Samiel on the _wrong_ side of it. "_Ylara,_" he fought to keep his voice reasonable and calm, "_four months, Ylara. And before that, Sisu._" The mention of the boy caused Ylara's mention of the not-shes downstairs to echo in Samiel's mind, but it was like an irritating fly buzzing around his head. Distracting, but not capable of fully tearing away his attention from the issue at hand. "_After all that, I'm begging you, trust me. We don't have time for this. You trusted me with your son, trust me now!_"

_"Go."_ Ylara's voice was sad.

Melaani charged back into the room, a blur of motion, and slammed directly into Telara. Samiel's reflexes simply weren't fast enough to charge Melaani and intercept her in mid-attack. The female was unarmored, but had a barrier pulled up to protect herself, but the irresistible force hit the unmovable object, and Melaani's momentum carried both of them into the far wall. Samiel could feel Telara's mind waver,. . . waver because of the crushing pain as ribs shattered and her skull slammed into the wall, and she screamed in his mind, faintly, _Help me!_

The male-maiden howled internally, a strangled hiss escaping between clenched teeth as he dashed across the room as well to slam into Melaani.

In hand-to-hand, the Spectre didn't stand a chance against him.

At some deep level, he regretted it as he flipped her around, vibroknife buzzing and slicing a millimeter into the neck armor it was pressed against. He cared for Melaani, he knew that. But it was a sacrifice that had to be made, to get Telara out alive, and he couldn't risk any other injury coming to the maiden after the battering she'd taken at Melaani's hands. "_Guns down! Now!_" He shouted it across the room at Ylara and Iliana, even as he maneuvered himself and his hostage to be interposed between Telara and any lines of fire. Again, he threw his mind at them, and again, his will _bounced_ off of Iliana.

Melaani's shields had been shattered by his charge, and blue blood started to trickle from her throat, as the vibroknife hovered, just barely in contact with her skin. Samiel could see her eyes, through the clear plasteel of her visor, however, looking up into his. Trust and fear commingled, and urgency.

Ylara's usually adamantine will wavered, both under the force of Samiel's will and at the danger in which Melaani currently found herself. _"Viridian_," she said, lowering her weapon. _"Think about this. Would you ever have said my son's __name__ in a hostile environment? Surrounded by unknowns? If you were in your right mind, the answer is __no__. You're not. Listen to me."_ The calm in her voice reached out. Beckoned. Invited him to see it her way. . . . 

It all felt _wrong_, lingering doubts that gnawed at the edges of his intentions continuing to compound so that it took all of his will and focus to keep himself true to his course of action. Get Telara out, no matter the cost.

_Shouldn't have used Sisu's name. What was I thinking?_

Get Telara out, no matter the cost.

_T'soa, don't struggle. Don't make this worse than it has to be._

Get Telara out, no matter the cost.

Telara, spitting and choking blood through her breather from her shattered ribs, which have cut into her lungs, heaved herself up the wall. _"Crazy bitch. Should have her __killed__ for this. . . But not till you all get me the hell out of here. . . "_

Samiel's knife edged closer to Melaani's throat, making sure there was no room for misunderstanding of how serious the threat was, even as he asked himself _what in the fuck am I doing?_ He knew the answer, though. He'd chosen this path when he'd chosen to side with Telara, and now his only option was to carry through. Get the injured captive out of here, to safety. The knife slipped another millimeter deeper into Melaani's skin, as outside in the hall, the roars of gunfire became known. He felt Ylara's will struggle, grasped within his own; unless he permitted it, she could not fall back into the lab. Unwillingly, she'd provide the first line of defense.

Get Telara out. No. Matter. The. Cost.

Melaani gave it one more try, pinned as she was by Samiel's arm, one hand tipping her forehead back, a knife at her throat for the clean kill. _Samiel. . . I'm not going to fight you. I'd never fight you. You know that._ Clean, clear, sweet thoughts. Open. Honest. No personas. No pretenses. She could have invoked Saerila and Linaia. She didn't. _It doesn't have to be this way. I'm open to you. Open to me. Show me why you trust this female. And I'll show you why I don't. And if you can convince me, I'll help you. But either way, to get out of here, you need to help Ylara, first._

And her will, added to his, was _just_ enough to tip the mental balance, and shatter the domination.

At first he tried to block her out. It was surprising how _difficult_ that was; they were so accustomed to each others' minds by this point that they knew the weak points and doorways, and his defenses against her were. . . half-hearted. Or more accurately, they were defenses that he was lying to himself about. One side of his mind warring against the other.

_I know you wouldn't lie to me. I know you wouldn't fight me. But why am I fighting you? Melaani, we have to get this girl out of here, __I__ have to get her out of here. I . . . she's trustworthy, she needs my help, don't you understand . . . _Against his will, his mind began to open to hers, seeing the scene through Melaani's eyes. Feeling the tickle of the vibroknife as it teased the first layers of skin. Seeing Ylara at the doorway, still held by Samiel's lingering will, prevented from falling back into the lab. _Melaani?_

The grey eyes opened.

_Spirits of fire_ ". . _. and darkness!_" He finished the curse out loud, thrusting the maiden-Spectre away from him, his mind retreating entirely from Ylara's. He almost vomited, right there, as realization nearly overwhelmed him and Telara's presence was forcefully ejected from his mind. And he barely suppressed the snarl of rage at the absolute violation of his mind as he, vibroknife already in hand, spun around and slammed it back at Telara before she could react.

The weapon buried itself to the hilt in the wall directly beside her neck. The words, "_futarri . . . bitch!_" managed to escape his clenched teeth as he grabbed her face roughly with a hand and dashed the back of her head against the wall, angling it so that her skull took the impact and not her head tentacles. After that, all he could do for a short time was stand and struggle to reassert himself over the remaining confusion and anger, and shame, even as he moved to the door to try to provide some sort of support.

Ylara had grabbed Iliana by the shoulder and shoved the female back into the room the instant she felt the wave of compulsion from Samiel falter. The younger female had no biotic barrier, and only a low-grade shield generated by her omnitool, but she stubbornly held position in the doorway, tapping out commands on her omnitool. . . and one of the guards swore as her weapon's internal computers completely shut down. _"Safe mode_,"Iliana muttered under her breath, laughing to herself. _"Got to love that!"_

Ylara backed in herself now, and, glancing over her shoulder to make sure that her back was safe, made a hooking gesture with one hand, and lifted three of the four guards off the ground, which left just the disarmed one frantically scrambling for another weapon. "_Don't let them get a signal off!"_ she snapped.

Melaani pulled herself to her feet, one hand to her throat, and stared past Ylara. _"They won't,"_ she said, her tone cold and flat. And then she reached out, almost delicately, with a blade shaped of her mind, and tore the structure of Ylara's lift field apart.

Gravity itself shattered. The field detonated. The guards were flung violently in all directions, and the shockwave of it pouring in through the door drove Ylara, Samiel, Iliana off their feet. On looking back out into the hallway. . . very _little_ remained of the guards.

Mostly pieces. And blue blood stains. On the ceiling.

For a few seconds after the biotic explosion, a ringing silence reigned. Melaani refused to look at the carnage, simply helping first Ylara, and then Samiel back to their feet. _"Are you all right?"_ she asked Samiel, directly. Her eyes were shadowed.

Samiel had begun to climb to his feet by the time Melaani offered a hand to drag him upright, but he couldn't make eye contact with anyone in the room. The vibroknife was returned to its sheath on his left forearm. He nodded fractionally at Melaani's question, then looked at her more directly but remained wholly unable to meet her eyes. "_Break the seals on your helmet. We need to see your neck._" His voice was very hushed.

_"What the __fuck__ is going on here?"_ Iliana demanded, hauling herself upright. _"First you attack Telara, then you attack each other, then you all attack the guards. . . are you guys fucking insane?"_ She paused. _"Oh. Oh, entropy and darkness and dissolution. They dosed you with that midaphan shit, didn't they?"_

While waiting to see if Melaani would comply, he responded to Iliana's questions. His voice was hardly clinical, and contained a strong undercurrent of guilt and shame as he spoke. "_No, not midaphan. What you just witnessed was two individuals possessing the ability to biotically dominate, on opposite sides of a conflict._" He elaborated no more, but let Iliana fill in the blanks, but added, _"The minds downstairs are growing frantic, they've heard the gunfire and the explosion. We need to get down there."_

Iliana listened to Samiel's explanation, and finally turned her head away, her expression bleak. _"I fucking __hate__ biotics,"_ she finally assessed, glumly. _"Nothing but trouble. All of it."_

And at no point in any of the exchange had he been able to look in Ylara's direction.

Melaani, wincing, unlatched her armor as Samiel spoke to Iliana, exposing her throat. The vibroblade had touched skin, whispered death against her pulse, and there _was_ a cut there, leaking blue, but no major veins or arteries had been cut. _"It's all right. I now have a referent for when a human—or, for that matter, a quarian!—male complains about a _shaving _nick,"_ she told Samiel, trying to lighten the atmosphere with light humor. She didn't waste medigel on it, but slapped a gauze pack on it, before resealing her armor, as best she could, given the fact that there was a two-inch gash in an enviroseal and gasket area. _"Ylara, you think shackling her and putting the blindfold back on her before she regains consciousness—"_

"Yes. Absolutely. I'd give her _lia'mellea__ if I didn't think it would kill her in her condition." _Ylara suited actions to words, binding Telara, and covering the female's eyes. _"I don't even know what to __do__ with her. Technically, I __should__ turn her over to the Justicars."_ She rose, and gave Samiel a look as she passed, though the male wasn't meeting her eyes. The unspoken message was clear, however: she had a hard time with the concept of turning over _one_ _ardat-yakshi_ when they were about to ride to the defense of _another_ one.

"_Whatever you decide to do with her, Ylara. I'll stand by your decision._" It was all Samiel could trust himself to say regarding the unconscious form of Telara.

The by-play had only taken half a minute, at most, and then they were able to head down the stairs. There were eight cells in the basement, left unguarded. Two of the rooms are unlocked; Iliana and Telara's cells.

In the other six, they found six more prisoners. All are young. Very damned young. Three were barely teenagers, by asari standards, around thirty. The other three were _children._ All of them shrieked at the sight of the intruders, but Iliana removed her visor to let them see her face, and they began to relax.

The three children, from their case records, were all hermaphrodites, of one form or another. Of the three elder captives, one of them was a female almost as biotically null as Iliana, only having mind-speech. One was a hermaphrodite, raised female and surgically altered at birth. And the last, a rather bruised looking individual, was born completely without any reproductive organs at all.

Downstairs, Samiel kept quiet, letting Iliana calm the children. What he did do, however, was remove his helmet to expose the male features beneath the clan-paint and move from cell to cell, cutting through the locks and opening the doors. In truth, he had no idea how to react to the scene before him, but felt the revulsion and offense at a fundamental level. These were _his_ people, all children, all not-shes. . . or at least, females who were as outcast as he was. If but for the work of chance, he could just have easily ended up in one of these cells decades ago.

"_Ylara._" His voice was rough as he fought to keep his thoughts from influencing it. "_We can't transport these children through the jungle. Can we call in the __Sollostra__ for exfiltration? One or two of us can be left to defend this room,_" he seemed to include Iliana in that plan, "_while the rest of us strike the overseer's house before she can flee when the __Sollostra's__ presence becomes known._"

Ylara's nod was short as she gathered one of the children into her armored arms, cradling the boy-girl to her as if he were Sisu or Telluura. _"Yes. That's best, I think. The ship entering their visual range will also serve as a wonderful distraction for many of the guards."_ She frowned. _"But the children and the prisoners shouldn't remain down here. It's sheltered from bullets, certainly, but if there are __emergency__ protocols. . . no."_

Melaani pointed, silently, at a line of holes in the walls at the top of each cell. She switched languages, not wanting to speak in a fashion that the erstwhile captives could understand. Not galactic. Turian. Her grip on the language, after at least a full year in the Spectres, and a long-ago relationship with a Blue Suns merc, as part of her Eclipse cover, wasn't actually all that bad. _"The good news is, those aren't flooding pipes, I think. The bad news is, I think they were going to pump in toxic gases. Chlorine, probably. The building's set up for protection from gases and air filtration."_ She paused. _"__If they stay upstairs, we need to take the breathers off the guards and techs. . . and the of those upstairs, the living prisoners with workable equipment outnumber the dead, and a lot of their gear isn't. . . in working order. At least one person will still not have a breather."_

Ylara winced. _"They should stay down here, then, yes."_

She called in the _Sollostra_, and once the ship was inbound, she gestured for Iliana to stay and guard the prisoners. "_Help will arrive soon, I promise. Don't be afraid if you see humans or turians. That's just the crew of my ship."_ Ylara looked at Melaani and Samiel. _"Let's go."_

Out the front door of the building, no alarms had yet been raised. They could see a female in a breather mask entering the warehouse and processing facility across the way. Bio-signs indicated that one of the three buildings to the north was empty, the central one, which looks like a house. It seemed entirely probable that the compound's commander had just left her house for that processing facility. The building to the left of the house appeared to be a motorpool, where asari and mechs were working on a couple of aircars. The building off to the right was barely visible, but bio-signs indicate there were a couple of asari within.

The processing facility had more people in it; at least seven at the moment.

As they made their way out of the genetics facility, Samiel was quiet. _Very_ quiet. After the experience of very nearly getting Ylara killed, and very nearly killing Melaani himself, and then the added emotional fistfight of actually seeing the captives downstairs . . .

. . . well, the stoic not-she had a hell of a lot on his mind, and didn't really trust himself to say any of it. Nor did he feel that the two Spectres really wanted to hear any of his shit right at that very moment. The empath couldn't feel a damn thing from Ylara, and though Melaani didn't seem to be overtly blocking him, her entire being was on edge. Not that he could blame either of them.

At the facility's entrance, the three asari paused to check their weapons and give each other a brief nod to express that they were ready to continue. In that moment before she polarized her facemask, Samiel glimpsed Ylara's face and saw there an emotion that turned those serene features into something from a nightmare.

Pure rage.

Smears of light and greenery against the ground, the three raced across the open space between the facility and the warehouse. Their stealth nets were active, but they weren't particularly worried about maintaining absolute secrecy this time—they had one minute left before the _Sollostra_ arrived, and counting down. Booted feet pounding against the hard-packed dirt, Samiel and Melaani each reached out a hand in unison as they came within eight meters of the warehouse's massive doors and latched on with their minds, tearing the doors with a shriek of distressed metal, and throwing them aside to make room for the two vanguards' charges, not to mention Ylara's own exceptional biotics.

As the doors ripped to the side, the ground itself begins to shake with the thrum of powerful engines overhead. Guards along the various towers begin to shout and fire upwards in alarm, but the assault team barely heard that, as Samiel and Melaani both charged forward, locked onto targets concealed from view seconds before, each of the vanguards slamming into technicians on opposite sides of. . . long vats, filled with liquid. The room was actually _steamy_ with chemicals, and the techs all wore masks and breathers. . . and barely have a chance to look up before Samiel and Melaani slam into them, full-force. Melaani's tech actually went flying _into_ the light blue vat of fluid, and probably would have drowned there, except that just as Ylara entered the room she sent a shockwave through the floor that shattered the vat, sending. . . viscous, light blue fluid everywhere. The shockwave terminated at the feet of one of the techs at the back of the room, who was thrown into the air and back into a wall.

That left one terrified tech, who crouched down behind the long vat on the left side, a closed door to the south, and a room which was shaking in place, as from a prolonged ground temblor, items on shelves falling, and large pieces of equipment bouncing and shifting. . . .

Samiel could sense three presences to the south, through that closed door. One was a brighter shade of gray than the others, and all three were _aware_ now, that they were under attack. The noise level, as the _Sollostra_'s engines thundered directly overhead, was phenomenal, and all of them could hear, in and around that dull roar, _gunfire_ as marines dropped on ziplines from the ship's belly, and begin to _deal_ with this place. . . .

Samiel put his back up against the doorjamb to the next room of the warehouse, surveying the damage they had done in their entrance. They'd effectively ripped the room apart, the technicians never having had a moment to respond, and now the very ground shook with the _Sollostra's_ arrival. The thick light blue fluid, pooling on the ground, rippled with the subsonic tremors, steam rising from it in waves.

Light blue. _Oh, spirits of air and darkness._ Someone owed him beer. Many, many beers.

"_T'soa, this is liquid __aizala__!_" The environmental integrity of the other asari's suit had been compromised by his vibroknife, and now all three of them were splattered in the dripping stuff and swimming in the steaming vapors. He was _really_ starting to hate dealing with this _talas'kak_. _Gift of the Goddess, my blue ass. At least the operation will wrap up that much faster if her biotics are boosted._

_"I wasn't planning on __drinking__ it, Viridian!"_ Melaani shouted back as Samiel got the door open, and locked in place, and then she made for the opposite side of the door, rolling across the gap, getting. . . _aizala_ sludge all over her black armor, but dodging the bullets as she came up on the other side. _"What?"_ she shouted, and Samiel shook his head at her, gunfire lighting up the distance between the two asari, and hunkered back against the steel frame, before cautiously leaning around the corner. Three asari looked back at him, just had he'd expected . . . .

And he yanked his head back in to safety as the roomful of mechs that were in there with the three defenders all opened fire. Cursing, he peeked back around just long enough to unleash an unfocused wave of biotic force, the wide field plowing into the front row of mechs and blasting them backwards into others behind them.

"_I need an opening to get in there and engage!_" He shouted it over his shoulder at the others, keeping his awareness focused sharply on that 'brighter' mind in the room.

The interior of the warehouse was lined, unsurprisingly, with industrial-grade shelving, packed with pallet after pallet of . . . sacks. Sacks and sacks and sacks, all with markings on them. The mechs themselves were multipurpose and _heavy_, each easily the weight of Siege. They had forklifts as well as heavy gripping pinchers, in addition to the guns used for guard purposes.

Ylara started to move up towards them, but the asari in the room, prepared, in part, for the attack, moved first, and the leader threw a _grenade_, right for the doorway. Samiel flinched backwards, reflexively, at the heavy, distinctive _clang_ of the grenade landing at his feet. . . .and then it went off.

Chaos. Limbs flailing, the discharge of shields and the shattering-ice feeling of his barrier failing, and then was thrown backwards, and collided roughly against the remnants of the _aizala_ tank. All of it was just a tangled mess of strobing images and physical sensations.

Ylara moved in past her injured comrades and lifted the six hundred pound forklift-mech closest to the asari who'd flung the grenade and _threw_ it at her, pinning the female under its weight, but there were still eight more mechs and two more asari firing at the Spectres from a space filled with _aizala_, possibly _midaphan_, and the spirits only know what else. . . .

Samiel struggled to shake off the blast and determine just how badly he'd been hurt. His barrier was powerful, and had absorbed a good deal of the blast, and his armor under that barrier was good quality . . . so at first, it seemed that aside from bruises, he'd somehow come through the encounter largely intact. His vision swam, but his empathy allowed him to pinpoint the precise location of Ylara, Melaani, the two technicians, and the pinned leader. Melaani, he could sense, had also weathered the explosion, and even through Ylara's diamond-hard mental shielding, he could sense both her uninjured state, and her concern for her younger associates.

In a lurching dive and roll, Samiel again put his back to the doorway, struggling to focus his sight. He pulled his shattered barrier back over himself, the biotic protection snapping back into place almost instantaneously and with redoubled strength. That caught his attention, but he attributed it to the adrenaline, and focused once more on the leader, trapped under the mech on the other side of the room. Ducking around the corner just long enough to physically see his target, he seized the battered asari in the grip of his mind even as he shoved the six-hundred pound mech off of her and _yanked_, pulling her through the air and into the room in which he and the Spectres still stood.

He shouted out to Ylara and Melaani, "_Blow the room!_" even as he ducked back into cover and prepared to guide in his captive, all the while thinking, _M__y biotics aren't this powerful. . . ._

Melaani crawled upright, while Ylara stepped around the corner and created a lift field, hauling two of the mechs off the ground with an almost audible grunt of effort. On the other side of the door, Melaani leaned around the corner, preparing to detonate the warp. _"Viridian!"_ she snapped out. _"Take the prisoner and __get clear__."  
_  
There was enough authority in her voice to get Samiel moving for the door, still holding his prisoner shackled with his mind, and propelling her with ungentle shoves from hands and elbows. Ylara kept pace with him, and Melaani. . . Melaani reached out and _ripped_ the fabric of Ylara's lift field, and, almost in the same instant, _charged, _blindly, for the door, sprinting out the hatch to join the rest of them in the open air half a second before the shockwave itself followed her out, catching her and sending her body, already in motion, flying in a tangle of arms and legs to the ground outside.

The detonation was . . . rather titanic. The metal roof lifted and flew upwards, almost high enough to slam into the belly of the hovering _Sollostra_. The walls blew outwards in shards of metal. Flames washed out, then sucked back inwards, but in this oxygen-rich environment? There was a strong possibility that the searingly hot flames would burn for _days_, even leaping this compound and heading out into the jungle, if they weren't contained.

The metal shards bounce off Samiel and Ylara's barriers, and even their captive was unscathed—well, relatively. She _had_ had a six-hundred pound mech dropped on her, and was more than a little unconscious at the moment. Melaani, already on the ground from the shockwave, had multiple pieces of metal rattle off her armor, but she moved, just a little, in response. Picking himself up off the ground, debris still falling around them and occasionally bouncing off of his armor, Samiel made to shake his head in the hopes of clearing it for the second time in as many minutes. He abruptly stopped when the whole world spun around him and a dull ache began to throb between his temples.

He'd managed to shield their unarmored captive from the worst of the explosion with his own body, and she now lay just to his side, crumpled and battered and, thankfully, unconscious and unproblematic. The male-maiden climbed to his feet, maybe still a little wobbly from the two explosions he'd just been involved in, and surveyed the devastation.

Ylara sat up and looked back at the blown building, a look of. . . angry satisfaction in her eyes. . . and turned. Looked at the captive, with that look of quiet rage still there. . . and then stared at Melaani. _"Oh. . . "_ she murmured, her tone disquieted. _"I had anticipated a powerful explosion. But not . . . quite this much of one. The aerosolized chemicals in the air may have contributed. . . but. . . I'm not sure that was the only cause."_

Samiel barely heard her as he stared around. The billowing monument to impromptu explosives was secondary in his awareness, wholly physical and entirely uninteresting. As was the _Sollostra,_ hovering above the wrecked base. But where minds churned and thought . . . .

Every marine was a bright pinprick of intent and emotion in his awareness. As were the eight test subjects, being herded out of the genetics facility, Telara bound and drugged. And the surviving technicians, also bound. He could even feel each distinct mind above him in the looming SR-3. Beside him, the two Spectres were brilliant, complex fractals of psyche and intellect. Each mind was different, even the grey minds, each presenting its own aspects and mysteries to him. Mysteries to be shared.

With an audible curse, he found the breaches in his armor's environmental seals that had been caused by the grenade, and then made worse by the detonation of the warehouse. Liquid _aizala_ was still dripping off of his armor.

Ylara's comment, and then the quiet exclamation he sensed from her mind, drug him back from his colorful use of contemporary turian linguistics. "_I don't think any of us quite expected that blast,_" he agreed tersely, as he moved over to offer Melaani's stirring form a hand up. "You good, T'soa?"

He was struggling to keep his voice _extremely_ professional right at this moment.

Melaani rolled up, moving slowly, and accepted Samiel's hand gingerly. And shifted to galactic, more or less out of reflex, following Samiel's lead. "Ah. . . _good_. . . is not the word I'd choose. . . Goddess. You hit like a torpedo straight out of the tube, Viridian. Between that and the explosion, I need an hour in a hot bath to my eyeballs if I'm going to _move_ tomorrow." She stood, lifted her head, revealing a facemask that had been shattered by the grenade and subsequent explosion, and registered the cloud of white-blue fog in the vicinity, as well as the roiling black smoke. . . and when she turned slightly, Samiel could see dawning realization in her nacreous black eyes. _"Oh. . . __entropy__." _She waved frantically at Ylara, and then immediately groaned in pain. "Ylara! Make sure _none_ of the turians, or, goddess preserve us, any of the _human_ marines have compromised breathing gear! There could be midaphan in with this, as well as _aizala_!"__

Ylara walked over, and studied both of them, carefully. "Any sense of confusion, disorientation, drunkenness?"__

Melaani shook her head, immediately. Ylara's shoulders moved in a sigh. "Then no. Just. . .azure dust. An exceeding overabundance of it, that you, and our various erstwhile captives and our current prisoners and yes, most certainly, _none_ of our marines need to be breathing." She gave both of them a serious look. "Get aboard immediately and report to med bay."

On reporting to the mixed-fleet ship's med bay—and _after_ thorough decontamination—the pair was examined by the human and turian medical technicians. Melaani pulled away from their impersonal hands, slightly, but otherwise seemed to be breathing deeply and centering herself, her eyes fixed on some distant point.

The turian doctor finally shook her head, her black and white Chatti Outpost paint dividing her face. "I'm _not_ good with the asari pharmacopoeia," she admitted. "I can give you _lia'mellea_, which will suppress your biotics—hopefully just the enhanced portion, but I can't guarantee that—and make you sleepy. Drunken. Confused. But if you sleep it off, dosed here in med bay, I can also try to flush it out of your systems with IV saline." She glared at the test results. "This is, by any standards, a massive overdose. Almost toxic levels."

Melaani swallowed. "I. . . have been subjected to _aizala_ doses on a daily basis before, in order to increase my tolerance and my control. Admittedly, it was a hundred and ten years ago. . . but I believe I can meditate to overcome the effects for the time being. I don't like the idea of being dosed with _lia'mellea_. Especially if you have to . . . overmedicate with it, in order to compensate for the overdose of the _aizala."_

She was very carefully avoided looking anywhere _near_ Samiel.

Unlike Melaani, Samiel had no real training in controlling his reaction to _aizala_. What he did have, however, was his stony self-control, and he now sat behind as severe and distant a professional mask as anyone had ever seen on him, back straight as a titanium rod as he watched the doctors with jet-black eyes. The medical staff gave the not-she a wide berth, and when they did have to touch him, they had switched over to examination gloves and very precise movements.

As dosed as the natural empath was on azure dust, every time they came into skin contact with him they could hear his mind like a sub-sonic buzzing, boring into theirs. He had tried to block it, but found that he _couldn't_ —it was as unintentional as his empathy, and was, indeed, a heightened manifestation of the ability.

He nodded in agreement with Melaani's refusal to take the little sleep, the gesture a bit confusing to the medical staff, because he was steadfastly looking anywhere _but_ at the other maiden. "I'm not volunteering to be the first test run of on guesswork, either. Just give me the saline drip and let me lock myself in my room." The spikes of consternation and offense from the minds of the doctors that he felt after making the comment made it fairly clear that he would not be leaving the med bay with an IV, and he sighed. "Doctor, I'm not submitting to _lia'mellea_. Especially if it isn't even a true antidote, but is rather just a sort-of counter-agent. I'd rather quarantine myself and wait out the azure dust than endure the _silence_."

Though Samiel had been steadfastly not looking at Melaani, the words _endure the silence _had made her head to turn, and she'd looked at him, just once, before looking back away; the gesture almost lost in the periphery of his vision, but the wave of concern was palpable before she choked it down and pulled back in behind her own shields.

There was more arguing, but the not-she was firm, and eventually, they grudgingly released him with the instructions to heavily hydrate himself overnight and to report back the next morning for more testing. He was also informed that until the _aizala_ within his system fell below "certain safe levels" he was considered medically unfit for duty. That made Samiel arch an eyebrow at the doctor; he could sense plainly that the physician had not yet had a chance to research what levels were considered "safe" for an asari.

Details. Samiel knew damn well that he shouldn't be on duty right now.

He would have liked to talk to the young not-shes being examined on the other side of the med bay, but knew that this was _not_ the time to approach them, nor was he in any condition to do so. Finally cleared by the medical staff, he left the med bay with little more than a curt nod in Melaani's direction and something muttered that was largely nonsensical.

As he left, Melaani was dealing with the doctors in her own way, and not in much better a mood than his own. Giving the medics a darker look than was usual from her, the asari Spectre told them, grimly, "I know what can and cannot be done, should and should not be done, in this state. And I know full well that duty tells me I should be helping Ylara with the prisoners, helping them share their terrible experiences, the children especially, but that I _can't_ in this condition." That last came from between her teeth with as close to rage as Melaani had ever shown around the crew of the _Sollostra_, and then, as the human doctor she'd been addressing flinched back slightly, she sighed, pressed a hand to her forehead, and muttered, "Forgive me. I'll. . . be in my quarters."

She slipped away. Found her quarters. And tried, desperately, to meditate. To find that perfect place, floating _above_ the tide.

Samiel passed through the hygiene compartment and then the mess hall, cleaning up, grabbing food and a good quantity of liquid, and ignoring the stares from the crew as he passed. Even with his heightened empathy he couldn't be sure if it was his features, his face-paint, or his eyes that were attracting the attention this time, but his intuition told him that it was the jet-black eyes. During the Tortuga mission, he'd been able to banish the midnight sheen when he focused. Now, on the dosage he was currently riding, this just was not the case.

_Finally_, he reached the quarters he'd been assigned, and just shy of bolted inside. Threw the electronic lock.

And stood there, eyes wide and face slack, for a few long minutes. _Should have taken the little sleep. Should have taken the little sleep. Should have taken the little sleep. _

Moving gingerly, the empath crossed the tiny room to the human-style rack and sat down. Then laid back, stretching out slowly, as if being cautious not to hurt himself. And then _groaned_, the strangled noise part exhaustion, part frustration, and part animal yearning. _Should have taken the spirits-be-damned little sleep._

More than—nearly—anything, the empath just wanted to _sleep_. But every time he managed to close his eyes they snapped back open, his mind awash with the memories of the past four months. Saerila. Tears of the Moon. _Ardat-yakshi_. Not-shes. Domination. Attacking Ylara and Melaani. Melaani. It was all a storm of thought, and rising through it all was the howling confrontation coming, as he tried to imagine any possible way to turn the Order's aim from Meshara.

Putting forth a valiant effort at pulling his empathy _in_ and ignoring the space outside of his small room, Samiel reached over for the jug of water and poured himself another glass. But, exhausted as the not-she was, obtaining any real rest seemed to be an impossibility. The thoughts continued to chase themselves around in his mind, a web in which each thought touched on two more, until a mental numbness had finally descended on him and shrouded his sense of self. The tangle-storm of thoughts slowed and coalesced, gelling into a blanket of tension that further wore away at his identity. The stoic, unyielding male-maiden was finally reaching the end of his much-frayed rope.

The hell of it was, the storm of thought—pure distraction—seemed to be the only thing protecting him from the _voices_. He'd been concerned about the silence of the little sleep, the fact that people looked like _things_ under that drugs muffling cocoon. While he'd been always able to hear everyone within two to three hundred feet of him, easily, a sense of presence, perhaps a general mental aura that told him whether this neighborhood was filled with angry, bitter people, or complacent, happy ones, told him if the spirit of the pack on a given ship was healthy or not. . . the hundred and twenty humans and turians aboard the _Sollostra_ were, suddenly, a shimmering web of emotions, three-dimensional and complex.

Control dulled and dimmed as his fight bled away. His empathy unfolded across the ship with a clarity that he had never experienced before, the surface of each mind becoming known to him. Where typically he only felt the emotions and vaguest intentions of a sapient, now their thoughts and the associated neural chains were laid out before him. Passively, without his intending it to be so.

Somewhere a deck above him, Ylara was a brilliant star, cool, serene, and yet, a burning core of _worry_ inside of her, worry for Samiel, worry for Melaani, tightly leashed fury at the Tears of the Moon operatives currently in the brig, raw pain for the children and other captives, uncertainty, even. . . whispers of her thoughts leaking in, unbidden, _Set course for Tortuga. Yes, I'm sure, Cassandra, my dear. Sisterhood authorities will have to wait to take my report. I gave my word. . . _Friendship, directed at someone. . . unheard. Unhearable. The ship's AI. _You brought James? Oh, and Tsunami, too? Good. Have them guarding the prisoner Telara. They'll be immune to her abilities, as well as to her __words__, which are just as dangerous as her mind._

Ylara betrayed no awareness that she could be heard. Samiel's consciousness expanded and expanded, drifting through the web. Voices, voices everywhere. Some in turian, some in English, which he understood because the mind that thought in it, understood it. _Can't wait till I get off-shift, got a sparring room booked, and Tallus said he'd spar with me. . . wonder if he means anything by it. . . can never tell with turians, but that seems promising. . . ._

. . . why they hell are we setting course for Tortuga? The middle of fucking asari space to the middle of the goddamned Nemean Abyss. . . join the service, get assigned to a Spectre ship, see the damned galaxy. . .

. . . miss first-mother so much, why hasn't she come for me, she loves me, she's always taken care of me, they said she was sick and that she'd asked them to pick me up from the special school, but then they said she'd been taken to a special hospital, and that I should be a good child and then I could see her when she got better. . .

. . . damn asari. Nothing but trouble, remember that time Johnson hooked up with that one dancer on leave and got _rolled__ on New Vegas?. . ._

. . . I'm not a freak, I'm not a freak, stop looking at me, you're the freaks with your pink skins, and the turians are no better, all teeth and claws and not a brain cell left to spare between the anger and the instincts. . . no, no, get that needle away from me, no more needles, no more tests, let me go!. . .

. . . god, you have to feel sorry for these kids. Cute as bugs. I wonder if anyone back home on Earth would adopt 'em? My sister can't have kids. . . maybe she would. She's always been going on about how she wants a little boy. . . Hey, little guy, the doc says you can come with us and we can throw a ball for you. You know how to play ball?. . .

. . .read the fucking manual, dipshit. It says to clear the system, then begin calibrations in two micrometer intervals. No. Page fucking two. . . . 

The entire ship, all hundred and thirty or so individuals, all at the same time.

He wasn't a rachni brood-warrior. His consciousness had not been expanded to accommodate the expansion of his biotics.

By now, drifting as he was through the minds of the _Sollostra's_ crew, he was at the mercy of his addled attention in much the same way that a motion-sick passenger was at the mercy of a roller coaster into which he was belted. Drowning in minds and emotions and memories, the empath was losing all sense of self and with it purpose, and the capacity to pull himself back out of the whirlpool of mind. He distantly remembered that it was the _aizala_ that was causing this, but the spark of his psyche that still resisted the riptide couldn't determine what that _meant.___

In his drifting, one mind attracted his attention over the others, possessing a familiarity and a tie to strong emotions that helped bolster the sinking spark of self.

_. . . I will accept the Goddess in whatever form she chooses to show herself to me. Dark and light, shadow and star, all belong to her, we are all part of her and we are all one. Here and now I am her chosen vessel, her conduit. I give myself to her, I give myself to you, partake of her, partake of me, we are all one. I will accept the Goddess in whatever form she chooses to show herself to me. Dark and light, shadow and star, all belong to her, we are all part of her, and we are all one. . . . this is not working. There was a trick to this. Balancing above it all. Goddess, I. . .she. . . used to do this every day and I can't keep it together. . . no. . . concentrate. Breathe. Open yourself. Open yourself. . . I don't even remember how to do that, how could I/Sylae open herself, but I can't anymore. . . Breathe. . . . Be open. Be space. Be the stars. Be nothing. Be the conduit, be the breath, be nothing else but everyone else. . . _

This mind _pulsed_. Powerful, a brilliant star like Ylara's, but. . . aware . . . suddenly, as he brushed the strands of the web a little too near. . . . . Instinctively, he latched on to this voice, what remained of his awareness grasping at the familiarity and _holding on_ even as the mind reached out as well and snared him with startling alacrity and power. For a moment he saw himself reflected that mind, in a mirror made of prisms, lit up from within like a star gone nova, too brilliant to look at directly, but darkness all around him, swirling clouds of dust and gas and debris, a nebula that dimmed him, concealed him, trapped him. . . and then coalescing to an image of himself, sitting limply on the rack in his tiny quarters, head tilted dully to one side, staring unseeing at the wall. Black eyes unfocused and . . . empty.

_Samiel?_ He recognized the mind's voice. _Fair-one?_ She stilled the thought even as it began, but the echoes that traveled up from deeper within her mind could not be hidden from him as easily, and she could feel his scattered will focus sluggishly and _push_ against the enforced calm and associated shielding. _Are you all right?_

_Melaani?_ There was a long pause as he struggled to find memories and words that belonged to _him,_ and not to any of the hundred-plus minds that were dissolving his mentality. _Hard to . . . think. Hard to focus._

A white shock of absolute panic pulsed through her mind. _Samiel!_ _Don't you do that! Focus! Concentrate on my mind. I'm coming to you—I'll get the doctors—no, don't give me that stubborn pride. . . _He could sense a flash of exasperation behind those words, mixed with affection, and the reluctance that she sensed from him shifted her opinion, but only slightly. _All right. If your damned dignity is worth your __mind__ to you, I'll preserve it. . . for now. No doctors, not at first. But you __concentrate__. I'll be right there. Hold onto my mind._

She hadn't been kidding. He had a confused impression of her shouting "Make a hole!" in a corridor and running down the hall at her top speed. . . which, considering that it was a biotics-assisted _charge_, was pretty damned fast. . . watching the world blur by through her eyes, however, was a little nauseating. She held onto his thoughts, however, tenaciously, and moments later, a fist hit the hatch to his quarters. "Samiel. Open the door. _Samiel!_"

Since he was actually incapable of standing at the moment, there were a couple of mental curses that actually dipped into her krogan vocabulary for a moment, and then she ordered, "Cassandra? Privacy override. Spectre priority code."

"Spectre, I can't—"

"If you don't, this will _be_ a medical emergency, followed by your maintenance crews working overtime after I tear down the door. Open it."

The hatch slid open, and Melaani stepped through, letting it shut behind her. She hadn't bothered to change into anything more than she'd been wearing in her cabin, stretchy dancer's pants and a tanktop, and now she moved directly to Samiel, helping him to sit up. Cool touch of fingers, catching his hands at the wrist, discreetly checking the pulse there. Samiel's skin burned, and his head tentacles were as spread as asari physiology would permit. She couldn't tell where the solid black eyes were focused, but his head had tracked her as she moved through the room, if weakly. Still disconnected, distant from his struggling mind. Meat, and so uninteresting compared to the biotic and mental.

She slid an arm behind his back, her eyes wide, black, and concerned. . . and as that arm supported him, she slid her mind out, too. Touched his, and had to half-close her eyes as she realized everything that he was hearing and seeing and feeling. _Goddess. You feel. . . every day. . . what I usually have to take __aizala__ to feel and hear,_ she admitted, just a gentle brush of thoughts. _I envy you so much, Samiel. But. . . not at the moment. Breathe, Samiel. Let me help._

Her mind slid into his, and over and around, and she shielded him from the barrage of thoughts. As the burden began to lift, and the nausea began to pass, at least a little, Melaani moved from beside Samiel to behind him, and put her hands on his shoulders, resting her forehead against the top of his head. His mind had held on tightly to hers, much in the way that a frightened child might cling to the hand of his mother, and he had instinctively twined his thoughts with hers when she slid her mental shields around him. His mind, even scattered as it was, was _powerful_, but as dosed as she was on the _aizala,_ she was his match.

_Breathe__. The point of using __aizala__ is to be. . . as open as you can be. . . to everything and everyone around you. You're not very good at being open. . . because you're bombarded with all of this, every day, perhaps? _Her fingers had found, and were pressing two nerve points on either side of the neck; not really a massage, but the warmth radiating from the pressure points was . . . helpful. _Breathe. Into the nose, fill the belly, and out the mouth. Good._ _Relax. _Her fingers dropped to a lower set of nerve points between the shoulder blades. Just following her own instructions let Melaani, herself, calm down, which in turn allowed the spin of Samiel's numb thoughts slow as well. _There's a trick to floating above this,_ she told him, silently, finding a third, lower set of nerve points, spinning a web of fire through his nervous system with pressure and very light biotics. _I used to be able to reach it with meditation. Maybe you can find it the same way. Or. . . burn the __aizala__ out of your body with exercise. I can get a sparring room set up. I don't know. I've never dealt with an empath on __aizala__ before. Or a male, for that matter._

Her fingershad reached the base of his spine, and his breathing had calmed. Still, she shielded him from the rest of the crew, as much as she could. Their minds had abated down to a faint roar, like surf in distance, crashing like waves on the shore. But he was no longer _in_ that sea, and with Melaani as a touchstone he began to pull himself back together. Slowly.

Of course, in opening her own mental shields to pull them around Samiel, she had, perforce, completely opened herself to him. All of her perceptions, the feelings radiating through her, the way she felt as if she could actually sense each photon as it passed through her body at the moment. . . was very clear. As was the fact that tactile sensations were magnified for her. Scent was magnified. But none of that mattered for her right now. These were distractions, to be pushed aside, because keeping his mind intact was simply far, far more important.

As she spoke to his mind, she could feel him focusing on the thoughts, reconstituting the whole out from those points of contact. He didn't respond in words, but instead memories answered her, pictures and stories as his mind relaxed and opened to hers as well. Standing in a child's playroom like some invisible voyeur, she saw the young not-she spend day after day isolated, never sharing, never feeling an asari mother's love, missing that critical development. The adult Samiel stood to Melaani's left, but instead of watching his younger self, he was staring at the doorway, where an asari matron stood, back sword-straight and face as stern and unyielding as Samiel's own. Pain in the matron's eyes as she looked at the forlorn not-she, and love; the adult Samiel's expression was unreadable as he watched her.

_Flash_. Ten years later, a hopelessly confused male-maiden trying to understand a turian culture that he'd never been allowed to experience, thrust into schoolwork and social life. His identity an amalgam of male and female characteristics, _flaming_ as the humans would say, shifting, sometimes daily, as he struggled to find himself. The awakening biotic empathy as he reached asari puberty, suddenly feeling how others viewed him, revolted at their laughter. Tweaking his persona, his façade, testing their reactions. Learning what it was to be male.

_Flash_. Researching the rare asari trait called "biotic empathy." So little was known about it, as what little research had been conducted showed a positive correlation between the ability and not-shes, and thus it was deemed another curse of the Goddess and thusly undesirable, and he was again left to understand his nature alone. . .

She could feel the shift, as his persona coalesced and centered and his mind and body were, for lack of a better term, reintegrated. Even with the closeness of their sharing, the light twining of their minds, there was still a sense of distance that wreathed him, even as, gradually, he physically leaned back into her and slid her arms around his chest, head falling back to rest against her collarbone. His breathing slowed.

Time passed. How long, he wasn't quite sure. It could have been a few minutes, or an hour, as he rested back against her, and she could feel the truth, that he was actually _hiding_ behind the shield she had erected. Exhausted beyond the capacity for defense.

At some point she stirred, and the empty quality in his eyes changed just slightly as they came into focus, staring at a point on the ceiling. _"I couldn't find my way back,"_ he explained redundantly, hushed voice defaulting after the past months to his Edessan-accented high-tongue. _"So overwhelming." _ One hand squeezed the forearm that crossed his chest.

Then more, after a pause. _"Why would you ever be envious of me, Melaani?"_

"_Shh. Lie down. There you go, on your side. You need to rest."_ Empathy. . . not biotic empathy, but the pure sense of understanding someone else, feeling for them, poured out of her in a wave, as she simply curled up behind him, and cradled him, listening to the waves of memories rise and fall. Listening and watching the confused child, feeling the anger at the mother, the stifled love that still dwelled under the rage, recording the face in a memory that Samiel could tell was almost eidetic. Focusing on that expression of pain and love at once. _Goddess, how could she have held back from touching you, touching your mind? There's __love__ there. Torment. . . ._

But the wash of memories was too insistent, and couldn't be denied_._ Her pain at the reactions of the young turians . . . _children are always cruel, and never more so than to what is alien to them. . . . _understanding, from pure immersion, how difficult it had been for him to _shape_ himself. . . _how strange is it, that we are taught that __aizala__, which lets us reach out to one another, to feel one another, is the Goddess' gift, but we revile the gift when it appears unmediated by religion. Something that isn't controlled. Such people should be, by any unbiased system of belief, be revered as . . . blessed._ _But then, they wouldn't be able to control the messengers, now would they? _She actually, very lightly, kissed the back of Samiel's neck, just behind the ear. The cynicism in her thoughts at the system, and the very real sense that he _was_ special for this gift, were clear as day.

"_Blessed? I've been called a good number of things, but never 'blessed', Melaani. . . "_ he started to reply. The kiss to his neck quieted any further comments. It was a gentle thing, not meant to be sexual, but the charge that traveled through the male-maiden's body was obvious through his open mind. He actually struggled for a moment to sit up before she stilled him, showing him that her intentions were almost entirely innocent, and he began to relax again as she worked on the pressure points. "_Shh. Keep your breathing relaxed. Do you want me to put more pressure on the nerves?"_

__At his nod, Melaani shifted back a little, and began to do precisely that. _"Each of these nerves is associated not just with muscles,"_ she told him, quietly, working, "_but with biotic plexuses as well. Relax a little more. Just let the energy wash through you." _She sighed. _"I do envy you, Samiel. Not for what you endured to become what you are, but for what you've learned. The strength of personality shaped by it. There are days when I don't know who I am. How could I possibly __not__ envy you?"  
_

He didn't respond at first to her explanation of how she envied the strength of his personality, and then finally murmured _"I envy your light, Melaani."_ Whatever else he had been about to say was lost in between the gradual relaxation that was coming from her work on the biotic plexuses, and the twisting current of darkness that he traveled down as she, in turn, let him understand her through her own memories. Her mind was open to his, and he could ride that underlying current of regret and pain right back into her mind and memories. For all that Meshara had a good four hundred years of age on Melaani, her mind was as laced with experiences as the six-hundred-year-old matron's had been. Simply because. . . she'd lived so many different lives. She'd been so many different people.

Such a simple beginning. A daughter and a first-mother, living on Thessia. Second-mother, another asari, but long since gone. Found another _marai'ha'sai, _and had never been back to see the daughter she'd left behind. Melaani had loved to dance, had loved pleasing others, and had been _good_ at it. Very damned good at it, in fact. It got her attention, and it filled the loneliness. Days and nights spent honing mind and body, learning to bend like a reed, learning to throw herself, or a partner, using her biotics in the incredible mix of mind and body, acrobatics and dance, that was formal asari 'ballet.'

Every dance was a story, and she lost herself in the old tales, the a world where she could be anyone but herself, and could twine her mind with her partners' as they built the story, the sweetness of working towards a goal together. . . and then, her first starring role. As _Ylara Alir_. Her idol, seen in a dozen different vids. . . and the hell of it was, she slipped on a patch of ice and tore a tendon. Oh, it could be repaired, but not in time for the opening night. . . and she'd sulked and refused to go watch her understudy shine. Her mother had chided her. Told her she'd bought tickets for opening night, and that they'd both go, and make a night of it. How she'd sulked and refused and finally recanted, late, limping along the street. . . just in time to see the theater explode.

It hadn't made sense. It had been some sort of a . . . statement. Local crime syndicate hadn't liked that the theater owner had snubbed their calls for protection money. And all she'd been able to think, as she sat in the police precinct, her face stained with ash, was _I have been living in a dream. I have been wasting my life. My mother is dead. My friends are all dead. This. . . cannot stand._

So she'd _dropped_ dance, right then. Enrolled in school once more. Passed the police academy testing at ninety, and thanks to her skill as an actress and relative youth, they had an immediate role they wanted her to play. _A seminarian. There's an extremist group called the Goddess' Path. They recruit almost all of their people directly from young, impressionable novices. True believers._

I don't think I believe in the Goddess right now.

Use that. Use the rage to give your new self strength. She has to be strong enough to be attractive. Weak enough to be broken. Controlled. Shaped. A tragedy in her background to explain your rage, your need to understand why bad things happen to good people. . . but for the sake of the Goddess you don't currently believe in, never tell them the whole truth. Don't let them in. Don't let them have that handle.

And so she'd become Sylae. Sylae, whom she'd loved at first, because she had been so simple. So sweet. Had only wanted to serve others. Had worked in the seminary to do more or less what she was doing now. Untwisting hurt, confused minds, minds that were full of pain. Trained sharing, overseen by senior priestesses. But that core of bitter rage, the inner strength, that the radicals had seen, and plotted to take for their own. Love/hate for Sylae. Sylae who was weak because she'd had to be weak enough to be broken. Indoctrinated. Shaped. The heavy _aizala_ use had been part of seminary life, but also part of the Goddess' path. Group sharing, to lure people in. . . and then the strong were separated from the weak, the strong shaped further. Turned into weapons. Smiling. Agreeing. Getting people to trust her. . . and then betraying every last one of them, because Melaani-who-was-within remembered that people like these had killed those she'd loved. Everyone's cause always came down to power or money, no matter the ideological face put on it.

Commendations, but so many more people that she'd been since then. Every one of them, she'd reached back for some real part of herself to put into the role. Often, it was that long-buried, screaming rage, anguish, disbelief she'd felt as she saw the fires explode from the theater. The need for vengeance. The brief period of self-loathing, self-hatred she'd felt at being alive. And she started out loving each new person. Understanding them. Sympathizing with them. And, inevitably, as she allowed them to be broken and twisted, she started to hate them. And hated the inevitable moment of betrayal.

_So good at being trusted, yet I always wind up betraying in the end. . . . and I know I could reach down and pull up the terrible things Sylae was trained in. I could use the bomb-making that the Memory of Thessia taught me. I could do it. I could do it all. But I don't want to remember them, all of them that I begot in love and buried inside me in hate, I don't want to remember them or be them. It's the only way I can stay sane. I have to forget, if I'm to laugh and stay Melaani. . . ._

He hadn't known. Would never even have guessed at it, the core of bitter, cynical rage that glowed deep within her soul and fueled her quest for nothing less than _vengeance_. Emotions that he'd long fought to suppress began to build, stoked by the _aizala_, as he rolled over abruptly to look at the former dancer, arms encircling her. _I would grieve,_ the words came into her mind like a soft caress, but with a bone-weary steel building behind them, _if Melaani was ever lost to one of the progeny of her hate. I would fight to bring her back._

He seemed about to say more. Touching his mind, she knew he was about to say _much_ more. Instead, with an obvious display of control, he said in a very precise manner, "_We need to sleep, Melaani."_

She knew that he had spoken out loud partially to avoid his mind-voice using any of several endearments in turian or asari. Even as he drew her closer, only to hold, she could feel his awareness finally slipping from pure weariness.

_Thank you,_ Melaani whispered in return, silently. _It's good to know. . . there's someone who would remember. . . what I look like inside. . . who could at least identify the mind's body. _Rueful humor, but also. . . deeply touched emotion. She reached up and brushed the side of his face, lightly, with her fingertips. _"Sleep. Yes. I don't know if I can hold the barrier over both our minds in my sleep. Rest, dear one. I will hold it as long as I can."_  
_  
Aizala_ sparkled within her, suppressing some of the pain in her body, pain from the bruised ribs and spine from where Samiel had slammed into her earlier in the day. The pain from being flung by the grenade and the explosion, too. And behind that pain, which Melaani used as a shield, a barrier, there were other, deeper concerns. She _knew_ Samiel's mind. Knew the turian shape of it, the cast of turian honor. Knew that he would never forgive himself if he betrayed his _marai'ha'sai_ on any level. And Melaani had no desire to betray him, or cause him to betray another. And she didn't want to live with his regret, if he decided anything that they did was. . . false. On another level, she wanted him. Had since their guise on Niacal. But when it came down to it. . . _aizala_ was a wonderful sensation. But it created no more real intimacy than cramped quarters and adrenaline did. She wouldn't—couldn't—make a move based on either.

And behind all of that was a whisper at the back of her mind: _You have done a thing or two in your time, but you're not an _ardat-yakshi_. Myth or no, legend or no, there's no way in which you can live up to that. It's not even a __competition__._

Melaani looked down at Samiel's face for as long as she could, her vision skewing from exhaustion. About fifteen minutes after his breathing and his mind slowed into sleep, there was a knock at the door, and Melaani's mind lanced out. _Go away!_

It's just me. Ylara's sense was concerned. _I had a report that you'd run for Viridian's room at full speed. But no report of you calling for medical aid._

His pulse is steady. His breathing is regular. It was his mind that required aid. _Lia'mellea__ doesn't seem to do well for males. Something to have . . . Dr. Jaworski look into, I suppose._ Melaani's mental tone carried with it the impossibility of having an asari doctor look into the results of the drug on a male asari—or a male asari empath, for that matter.

She could feel Ylara's frustration and concern from outside the door. _No __maieolo'loa'kareo__, if that's what you're wondering._

I could tell _that__ much from down the hall. _Ylara hesitated. _Maieolo'loa__? Really?_

Melaani could understand why. It was. . . declassee. There were so many levels and nuances of asari intimacy, that other species couldn't understand. She'd been trained, in the seminary, for clinical-level sharing. The kind that the counselors she herself saw between deep-cover assignments specialized in: careful, limited sharing, with barriers, and no physical touch, but deeper than _maieolo'saeo,_ the impersonal exchange of information. Allowing an abuse victim or a deep-cover agent or a depressed or conflicted or psychotic individual to bleed out their toxic memories. Regain perspective. _Maieolo'loa_, on the other hand, was deeply intimate. No shields. Total embrace of minds. But the mental intimacy without the physical was just as much of a robbery as the physical without the mental. Tawdry, by some standards. _I gave what he needed, nothing more, and nothing less. And now we both need to sleep off the effects of the __aizala__. _She paused, and then, fiercely, added, _You already knew I was compromised, Ylara._

Yes. I merely wished to ensure that neither of you happened to be _dead__._ Melaani could feel the wave of concern, tempered with the realities of command, and then Ylara walked away._  
_

**October 17, 2197, _Sollostra_**

__Samiel's grey eyes opened, awareness coming to him in a smooth rush. One moment, he had been dreaming—vivid nightmares, really, and no surprise at that—and the next he was awake, buried under blankets in the coolness of the re-circulated ship air and arms wrapped around someone. Melaani.

A blink, as he struggled to make sense of the disjointed memories from the previous day. Trying to tough out the _aizala_ exposure, but his defenses finally collapsing under the weight of prolonged strain from the past months. The creeping horror as his empathy expanded out, suddenly uncontained, and the gaping realization that he no longer had the control to rein it back in . . . even as he began to forget what that meant to him. Melaani, forcing her way into his quarters and sheltering him from the storm of mind until he could draw his sense of self back to a coherent whole. Their ragged, exhausted conversation afterwards. What they had shared, and the sharing itself.

He knew with a frightening certainty that he might very well owe the female his sanity.

Whispers at the back of his mind, the last of the aizala ghosts flickering there. . . .__

. . . Did you hear how Spectre T'soa charged down the halls and damned near beat down the door to get to that male asari?

Man, now that is a woman I wouldn't kick out of bed. Hell, I wouldn't keep her waiting at the door!

. . . guess she couldn't hold out that long. You know asari and azure dust. . . .

'Meditation.' My ass. Just the asari word for masturbation. . . .

They've been locked in there a while. Think it's like estrus for asari?

Asari don't have estrus.

They don't have males, either. If they have males now, think they can get in on the rest of the galaxy's fun?

One constant in the universe. Shipboard gossip moves faster than light.__

The female was out cold, completely unresponsive, but through the lingering haze of _aizala_ and their physical closeness he could taste her restless dreams. Memories. Shanxi.

_Breaking into yet another yahg larder in a broken, shattered building. Human corpses dangling from the rafters, gutted, left to bleed dry, to let the meat age and cure. Limbs stripped off and neatly arranged. A butcher's workshop. . . and in the next room, the 'live cattle.' Humans with glazed eyes, minds turned inwards, broken by too many horrors seen, their own family members hanging to drain in the next room. . . guiding them out, to safety, through a firefight, sound of guns in the distance. . . .helping the survivors in the massive refugee camp, smell of human effluvia coming from the makeshift latrines. Misery in every face in the cramped, bustling __hive__ of people. . . old and young growing ill, too many diseases, not enough doctors. . . hands reaching out as she passed, trying to touch, trying to beg the being in the black armor for just one moment, just one favor, just one moment of grace. . . . fighting the yahg alpha, watching the gunship crash to the ground, trying to charge the alpha, with the sick realization that he was a biotic, too, and a powerful one. . . can't close, can't engage, he'll get one hand on each of her arms and __tear her apart__, the best she can do is __distract__, and this time, Rellus Velnaran isn't there, Seheve Liakos is tied down with another yahg, vibroknife flashing, and Melaani can't get away in time, the huge paws clamp down on her arms and start to __rend__. . . ._

He shuddered, and, more than a little against his better judgment, pulled her closer as if to shield her from Shanxi.

He stifled a groan as his body protested at the movement, feeling the ground-zero impact of the grenade all over again. Everything hurt, every muscle in his body was stiff and ached in protest. _Stiff and aching._ That got his attention, and now he _did_ groan. _Spirits, just take me now. Spirits of flame and darkness, just do it, please. Just make it painless._ He craned his neck around to glance at the room's chronometer, and didn't understand at first. _Two hours?_ No, a _day_ and two hours, since he'd looked at the time in med bay. The two maidens had been devastated by the overdose of _aizala_. And now they were less than twelve hours out from Tortuga, and he groaned again, a few quiet curses in turian following.

He slipped out from under the blankets as carefully as he could, trying to disentangle himself without waking her, and moved to sit in the room's only chair, at the tiny desk. His bare feet bitched in protest at the contact with the cool metal flooring, and he ignored them. Ran a hand over his scalp, as he tried to sort out what had just happened.

The _Sollostra_ was less than twelve hours from entering Tortuga's orbit. He was twelve and a half hours, on the outside, from an encounter that would include his _marai'ha'sai,_ whom he had not seen in six months, and three Justicars intent on collecting or killing her. He had just shared, deeply, with his partner and friend, and shared a bed with her.

_We didn't mate._ The thought was turian, and though it might stand up against turian codes of honor . . .maybe . . .not really . . . and he had no _idea_ where it would land in asari morality. _We were out of our minds on azure dust. I had no mind left._ That might have been a more convincing way to justify the previous _day_ to himself, if the two asari hadn't clearly wanted each other for the last month, and should have known better than to be around each other after the deep cover assignment had ended. Or to let themselves continue falling for each other after their deep cover personas were abandoned.

He ran a hand down his face, unpainted since his return from the ship's hygiene compartment perhaps twenty-three hours ago, and sighed as he regarding Melaani's sleeping form. _I wasn't aware that you had it in you, Viridian, but you fucked this one up but good._

The quiet curses in turian had started the process of waking the field-trained asari, and the movements, which jarred a body that was a raw mass of bruises, continued Melaani's rise into wakefulness. A slightly incoherent noise of protest as warmth and comfort left, followed by a much slower ascent into consciousness than she was used to. She stared for a long moment at the clock, trying to decipher it, and then realization all came at once. "_Entropy_," Melaani swore, and pushed herself up. . . or tried to. Her entire body _screamed_ at her, and she sagged back down into the sheets. _Goddess in her glory, I've been asleep for almost twenty-four hours?_ She tried again, this time braced for the pain, and managed to sit up, shedding sheets and blankets, and, noting Samiel's presence, managed to croak, _"Did we move at __all__? I feel like I've __calcified__." _Melaani dropped her feet to the cold floor, and gently forced herself, with bent knees, to roll forwards and stretch.

The continued silence was what got her attention. She turned her head, caught the dark, inward-turned look in his eyes, the frown, the _ripples_ of anger, unease, discomfort, almost . . . _shame_. . . and she put her forehead to her knees again, her stomach churning. _No. No. We're not doing this._ Melaani stood, turned, and glared at him. _"No."_ The word was in high-tongue, and deliberately so. _"Stop it. Stop it right now."_ She winced as her body protested the sudden movements, and put her hands lightly on her hips. _"You're sitting there in regret, aren't you? I can't tell if it's because you're being so damnable, stubbornly __turian__, though even a turian would realize he hadn't signed so much as a __contract__. . . " _Melaani lifted both hands, in complete exasperation. Her tones were laced with . . . offense-anger. _"Samiel Viridian, we didn't do anything wrong!"_ She paused, and ran a hand distractedly along her scalp. _"All right, by asari standards, we __did__ do something wrong. We didn't share __properly__. I didn't give you even __kiia__, and you didn't give it to me, either. Deep sharing without that. . . is. . . like using each other, or so the thinking goes. It's almost the same as giving each other the physical without the mental. It ranks slightly better than selling yourself."_ A wince of remembered shame. Her Memory of Thessia persona, Maaisa, had refused to allow mental contact in bed. She'd needed a lover in the group, to look a proper member, but she'd manufactured a background that included mental and physical rape by a human biotic to explain Maaisa's rage at humans in general, and her inability to share _properly_.

She pushed the memories aside pointed a finger at Samiel as his head rose, the look in his eyes unrecognizable for the moment. _"If I'd known you were going to regret sharing thoughts and memories and minds, like this, I'd damned well have given you __kiia__, too, and given you something __worth __regretting. But you are __not__ going to make __me__ regret the best and sweetest sharing I've ever had, Samiel Viridian."_ Her lips, in spite of all her self-control, threatened to quiver, and she pulled them into a straight line.

It was a match tossed to a fuel-soaked pyre, and she knew it. A cleansing argument was what a turian would probably have needed at this point. She had to assume that given everything she knew about him—and goddess knew, she knew him now, inside and out, with a stark clarity that went beyond the subconscious knowledge that would have been dissolving pleasantly into her mind, if they'd _really_ shared—that treating him this morning to a solid piece of turian psychology might be the only thing he'd accept from her. And really, with his self-anger radiating at her like that, it triggered her own. __

She turned away, limping for the door, and shifted into galactic. The public language. "Now," she said, much more quietly, "I'm going to go stand under a hot shower for an _hour_, assuming any of the human 'private' stalls is available. And then I have to report to Ylara and ask her if I'm even going to be allowed to set foot on Tortuga. I strongly suggest you do the same. Get some electrolytes in you, too." She put distance in her voice, and bearing, pulling up every shield she had, and opened the door to leave.

"_Wait__." _The word was actually in turian, and he ground it out between clenched teeth as she reached for the door. He'd sat through her tirade silently, expression not _blank_ but tightly held . . . but she knew all of his tells now, as well as she knew her own. And his shields weren't fully raised against her. So she could see the emotions clear as day as she yelled at him, anger, offense, insult. He'd been ready to fight, to sling words back, intended in frustration and anger and offense to match her own. He'd been opening his mouth to do so.

But he'd learned her tells as well, and could see the pain and upset as clearly as if they were his own. Not manipulative, in any way. But _honest_ pain, and self-anger that was spawned by his own, and a furious unwillingness to allow _him_ to spoil what they had gained from one another. With a struggle, he swallowed, stilling the responses that had been behind his teeth.

He rose, and _spirits_ but did that ever hurt, and limped across the small room to where she stood, watching him. Her mind pulled back with every step that he took until she stood behind layers of mental defenses, protecting herself from any further pain at the expense of his inexperience, and blocked him completely.

He reached out to the door's latch, which she still held, and closing his hand around hers gently, he pulled it back shut. The expression in his still-black eyes was leashed intensity.

"_Melaani, I have no idea what I should and should not regret doing." _The words were still in turian, his base language. "_I never signed a contract. You're right. I've honestly never understood the purpose behind turian contracts . . . putting a date to love. But she is my __mate__." _He drew in a breath, then continued._ "I've not a damn clue at all what is permissible and not permissible by asari culture. I'm not a true part of __either__ futarri culture."_ Even as he'd spoken, his hands had moved, unbidden, to touch her waist; they'd withdrawn just as quickly at the contact, and instead alighted at her shoulders. Light as skittish birds. Then he thought better of that as well, and withdrew to cross his arms over his chest, and leaned against the opposite side of the doorframe from her. His mental shielding, though largely recovered, still did not block _her_, and she knew that this was not an accident. He was letting her see into his mind, not sharing any longer, but also not hiding. And she knew him well enough now to see, behind the stoic features and cop eyes and distance, the vulnerability that perhaps three people in the galaxy even suspected was being concealed.

It made him look _remarkably_ young.

"_Dear one, I owe you nothing less than__ my sanity after this." _He'd shifted to high-tongue without warning._ "I know that. And I know that we found something in the last day. I know that it was . . ." _And here a smile threatened around his eyes." . . . i_ncredible, what we __did__ share. But I also know that __I can't handle__ both what is to come today, and the memory of maieolo'loa'kareo with you. I . . . ."_

It was like he ran out of steam at that point, the words winding down and drying up. He was silent for a second, and then rubbed at his unpainted face. "_Entropy." _He'd never used that particular curse before, but he'd heard it enough in the past few days, and it felt right. "_Is anything I'm saying even making sense?"_

As she felt both the openness and the control, the pain and the confusion, Melaani released her own shields. Let him take her hand away from the door latch, closed her eyes for a moment at the light brush of fingertips at her waist, her shoulders, before he pulled back again. Open, but withdrawn. Because he didn't know how or what to be right now. _But he at least always knows __who__, _Melaani thought, _and that's a help._ Her heart ached a little, at how young he really was, and how trapped, in many ways. Turian culture gave him guidance on how to express himself, understand himself, as _male_. But he wasn't _just_ a turian male. He had asari physiology, needs, drives, and the culture of the _mahai_ could give him no guidance on that. . . and his early and incredibly _deep_ division from his mother was giving him no guidance at all on how to _be_ asari.

She reached up, and very lightly stroked the side of his face with the backs of her fingers, as gently as if he were an exotic bloom. Butterfly-soft. His eyes had closed at her touch, and again she felt that steely self-control assert itself, preventing him from taking things _further_, but also not backing away. _"Yes. You make sense. Or at least, I understand."_ She closed her own eyes for a moment, then re-opened them. _"As I told Rellus Velnaran about a year ago, a fundamental truth that almost every asari knows. . . past a certain age. . . is that we'll know many loves in our lives. We'll love many, many different ways. Each one as unique as the person we love. We also know that love is. . . except for the very few, the very fortunate. . . not eternal. It changes, as the person we are changes, as the person we love changes. Turians, I find, focus too much on the '__animae__,' the spirit, always being the same. The spirit and the mind, to me, are the same thing, and the mind does change."_ Her voice was soft and reflective. "_Turians put dates on contracts to . . . protect themselves. Protect their families. Protect their children. Asari do not. Children are __always__ the responsibility of the first-mother. If the second-mother stays, it's lovely, and a help, but they're not. . . needed. . . in the way a _father_ is needed. Or at least, that is the way it has always been."_ She couldn't stop her fingers, which stroked back to touch his scalp now, and then she let her fingers fall away. _"The vow of more-than-fair means, simply, for us, that we plan to live together. That if children occur, we'll care for them together. Not for eternity. Not forever. Just while love __lives__. Being more-than-fair to one another means that you're __first__ with each other. But there are those who have declared one another to be more-than-fair, who share other fair-ones. And there are those whose love for one another is too consuming to permit sharing with other fair-ones. And that is all. . . perfectly acceptable, so long as there is honesty between all, and no heartfelt hurt to any, and no sharing that is not agreed to by all._" She exhaled. "_Every relationship is different, because no loves are ever the same, and there are as many ways to love as there are stars in the sky. Thus, however __you__ love, and however __you__ are able to share, will be different from any other asari. Just as every other asari's loves will be different from one another's. It's. . . both very complex. . . and very, very simple." _How could she possibly explain to him that jealousy, unsharingness, was considered the worst sin there was, when she could feel it pinching at her, just a little, because she knew that he _could not share_, was simply not wired, culturally, to live as an asari? And when she knew that the only properly asari response was. . . generosity? Acceptance? And the grace to move away?

The empath listened to her words, and it was perhaps the first time the asari perspective had ever been explained to him. Certainly the first time it had been explained to him as a going concern in his own life.

And she was right: he didn't understand all of the nuances. But he was beginning to glimpse them, at least, and he knew that she spoke the truth, and was doing her damnedest not to misguide him despite the feelings that burned within both their minds. She could feel some of the tension bleed away as he considered her words.

Melaani looked up at him steadfastly, and put her hands behind her back. She _had_ to, or she would keep touching him. _"There was no __kareo__, Samiel. I know you don't understand all the nuances. There was no biotic stimulation. There was no physical stimulation. There was mental intimacy, a sharing of minds and hearts. But if your beloved does not understand what was done, and why, and what was not done, and why, then she is not only __unsharing__," _(the word was a grievous insult in high-tongue, meaning _selfishness_) _"then she is also __not asari__."_ She looked up at him, her throat aching, and put on a smile. _"Which is to say, I believe she will understand. And. . . I will not burden you with words. You know what is in my heart. But I __am__ asari. I am not unsharing. And I know that love, whatever its form, is never a bad thing, and it should always be cherished. Because it will never offer itself the same way twice. And that __is__ the blessing and the curse of the universe."_ The words behind the words were simple: _I would offer whatever of myself you can bring yourself to accept, and whatever you and your existing fair-one will not find an offense. Because love is love, whether it diminishes to friendship, or grows to more. But now is not the time._

He wanted to reach out to her when she smiled at him and he felt her throat aching underneath the act as if it were his own. He didn't, though, and she knew why—at that moment, if he had reached out to her, held her close to comfort her or even just took her hand in his own, his control would have snapped cleanly and he would have drug her back to the unmade rack, and there _would_ have been _maieolo'loa'kareo_. As it was, his expression was so rigidly fixed that it looks like he might well explode from what he was holding back.

He wanted to tell her _Time, Melaani. We need time, and we have it. _What he managed was a strained, "_We need to leave this room right now, dear one, or we're __not__ going to leave it."_

Melaani chuckled softly. _"I've been trying to get out of this room for ten minutes, dear one. . . "_ The laughter broke a little of the tension, and she was finally able to force herself to leave. She walked down the corridor, smiling a little to herself, and pretending not to notice the pointed sniffs she received from the turians, or the equally pointed raised eyebrows of the humans.

**October 17, 2197, Edessan**

Jannil Viridian strode into his office. Past eighty, but still spry, he was one of the co-founders of the mercenary group known as the Acrocanth's Talons. All turian (save one asari member, his son), all former special operations members who'd mustered out or retired with clear records, they were highly selective about the contracts that they took, and _could_ be. They were sent places that the Hierarchy couldn't really send even their own spec ops forces. And at his age, Jannil didn't see a lot of field work. Which left him with _paperwork_, spirits take it all.

He'd taken a rare couple of days off this week, a fishing trip with a couple of friends as far off the grid as they could find on Edessan. No omnitools. No work. Everyone needed to turn it _off_ once in a while, and Jannil tried to do so at least once a year. He'd have preferred to do so with his first-son, but Samiel was not inclined to time off, to say the least. Also, he was under contract to the Spectres at the moment, on a mission so classified, Jannil himself only knew the name of the senior Spectre on the mission—Ylara Alir—and nothing more, besides the fact that radio silence could be expected for as long as six to nine months. That suggested "somewhere deep in enemy territory," to Viridian, and he had to trust that his first-son's training would see him through.

And so, Jannil sat down at his desk, and opened his annoyingly overflowing comm message queue. Spotted a letter from his first-son, gave the rest of the pile a cursory glance. . . nothing that looked as if it were actively on fire. . . and opened that message first. He hadn't heard from Samiel in four solid months, and even as of six months ago, the only communication after the Tortuga mission had been through official Talons channels. A terse report on his wounding, the political situation on Tortuga, and a refusal to talk to the Talons in any real detail about the Twins and his stay as a 'hostage' in their compound. This had occasioned grumbling in the Talons' offices, to say the least.

_To: Viridian, Jannil_

_From: Viridian, Samiel_

_Clan-leader,_

_I write today not for advice or consent, but to inform you of choices I have made and actions I have taken that the clan must be made aware of, lest I am unable to stand for my clan's defense in years to come. _

_As you are aware from operational reports detailing the operation against Tonus Machen on Tortuga, I have entered into a relationship with one of the Twins leaders, Meshara Laos, in asari rather than turian custom. What I have left out of all mission reports is that my mate is an ardat-yakshi, a term which I'm sure that you are familiar with from Mother. I am certain of her nature._

_For reasons I can guess at but not be certain of, the Justicar Order has learned of my mate's location and has dispatched Justicars to deal with the matter. I am heading to Tortuga as well, with associates from the office to which I have recently been subcontracted, in the hopes of defusing the situation._

_I cannot allow the Justicar Order to interpret my actions as reflecting the views or standards of the Acrocanth's Talons, nor can I allow the Justicar Order to interpret my actions as demonstrative of my clan._

_As such, I hereby resign my position immediately and permanently from the Acrocanth's Talons, severing all formal and operational association with the organization. My claws from this day forward are my own, the words behind my teeth are my thoughts and none other's, and the spear in my hands will be aimed solely as I deem fit. I have attached this statement in a second file appended on this comm message, so that personal matters need not be included in the general file._

_Furthermore, I recognize my clan as one of duty and honor, upholding the laws of turian and galactic society. My decision to intervene is my own, and any dishonor I accrue will break my teeth, but none other's._

_My entire life, I have been faced with the specter of never being an adult within turian society, nor ever being accepted within asari society. I understand now that it is not the culture that I can allow to shape me, but that I must shape myself, and through doing so, perhaps my talons can etch away at the prejudices of old, and carve a niche for myself and those I hold dear._

_I regret that it's been so long since I've last written you. I am the male that I am today solely through your intervention, and I carry your wisdom with me. I love you, father._

_-Samiel_

Jannil's jaw dropped open as he read, and then he clenched his teeth, his mandibles working. His fists clenched and unclenched. And no sooner did he reach the end, than he cleared his calendar for the next hour, and immediately dashed off a response.

_To: Viridian, Samiel_

_From: Viridian, Jannil_

_Samiel—_

_For the sake of all the spirits, I haven't heard from you in six months, and this is the first I hear from you, other than operational reports filtered up through Talon command? That you're throwing your life into the teeth of chance, for the sake of a female whom you have known for all of four days during a high-adrenaline, high-risk mission? A female who, by all accounts, headed a semi-criminal organization and, by your own words in this letter, is a spirit of darkness out of your mother's people's legends? _

_I don't know that I believe in these creatures, for all your mother's tales, but. . . for the sake of the love that I bear my first-son, I would beg you not to throw away a lifetime's work for little more than a post boot-camp tryst in a recruit hotel. I would urge you to remember that in asari terms, you should actually still be in college, learning who you really are._

_I will not forward your resignation for processing at this time, as I do not believe you are making this decision in any rational state of mind. Please contact me by comm call as soon as possible. These kinds of conversations should not be conducted by mere written words._

_-Jannil_

The forty-five minutes after he sent that letter, he spent burning up a comm line, trying to get in touch with _anyone_ at the Office of Special Tactics and Reconnaissance. Because it was clearly evident in the defiant, borderline insolent tone of his first-son's letter to him, that something was _desperately_ wrong with his first-son. Either his mission had been a severe strain to a psyche that was usually rock-solid, or something fundamental had changed within his son.

A very polite young turian female in blue Edessan paint finally took his call, and informed him that she would pass his request for information up the chain, but that Ylara Alir was currently unavailable, and that Shepard herself was the next highest administrative rung on that particular mission. "It may be some time before she'll be able to reply," she warned.

"I'll wait," Jannil ground out, and hung up. Then he exhaled, put the personal out of his mind, and got to the rest of his spirits-be-damned inbox.

Timing-wise, he couldn't have known it, but his message _just_ missed the comm drop for the SR-3 _Sollostra_ as it jumped through the relay into Tortuga's system.

**October 17, 2197, _Sollostra_ and Tortuga**

Samiel limped his way from the hygiene compartment to the mess hall, body unconditionally demanding sustenance after twenty-four hours without anything at all to eat. He'd steadfastly ignored the wide-eyed looks he kept receiving from the _Sollostra's _crew, ranging from leering to envious, and he'd set his jaw firmly and just tried not to listen to their thoughts.

Entering the mess, even his own cold aloofness couldn't stand against the cascade of turian hisses and human whistles that rose up at his entrance. Eyes narrowed, he'd walked across the room to the coffee dispensers and poured a cup, thick and black, and then piled a plate with enough food to feed three people. The noise level in the room hadn't really begun to die down yet. Nor had the thoughts that were still railing against his empathy.

Shaking his head, he turned around, meal tray in hand, and regarded the room. His eyes were black again and it was anyone's guess as to whether it was the residual _aizala_ or a prepared biotic flow, and his expression was fantastically unconcerned as he assessed them. "You all look like younglings that just had their claws clipped by their mothers. Saddest group of _madafutarae_ I've ever seen."

And without another word or any further acknowledgement, he took a seat at an empty table and began to eat.

Melaani, dressed in the gray coveralls she favored when aboard an SR ship, which allowed her to blend into a given crew without wearing an actual uniform, walked into the mess just as the laughter at Samiel's comment had started to die down. . . only to hear it well back up again. _Turians and humans. Goddess. I know the point of having so many sapients in the universe is to rejoice in their differences, but they __are__ confusing._ She silently filled her tray with human foods, which she'd rather taken to enjoying on Mindoir, and found a seat at Samiel's table. Opposite side, at a corner. Present, but not demanding. She did, after all, have other things to do, and she started reading through the numerous reports that she'd missed in the past twenty-four hours.

Dara Jaworski was, apparently, _swimming_ in the data taken from the Tears of the Moon compound. _All unethically obtained by their 'researchers,'_ the human doctor noted. _That being said __Iliana has fascinating genetic structure. Particularly compared to Telara and the various boys/hermaphrodites found there. I have a very full report on __that__ subject coming, believe me. Shepard, Senior Spectre Jaworski, and Elijah Sidonis and I have been preparing for how to present the information to. . . various audiences._  
_  
From a strictly scientific standpoint, what I find most striking is the __number__ of hermaphrodites and other individuals with genetic conditions at the compound. Information on asari 'maleness' isn't so much __suppressed__, as simply not __available__ before the past seven years. Many of the 'reconstructive' surgeries seem to have been done on Sur'Kesh and other salarian worlds, so that there __wouldn't__ be records in asari space, a decision made by families intent on burying the data. As is, we're back-checking to see of any of the children found on Niacal have families who are looking for them, or if, god help us, the families were killed to get to them. Or, worse yet, if the families knowingly __gave them up__ for research. The adolescents are going to require a lot of help, too. _

A throat cleared near Melaani. She looked up, startled, and stood. "Ylara. My apologies. Cassandra said you were in a comm call with Commander Shepard, so I decided to eat before trying your door again—"

"No need to apologize. Are you finished with your meal? And have you been catching up?"

Melaani looked down, looked back up again, and nodded. "Yes, and yes. I'm interested in this 'full report' Dr. Jaworski mentioned—"

"As am I, but she hasn't released it yet. She says she'll have everything completed by later today, however." Ylara gestured towards the door. "If you wouldn't mind stepping outside? I have a few things I wished to discuss with you." She glanced at Samiel. "And with you, though I would prefer to speak with Melaani first, if you don't mind."

_Yes. . . I rather thought you might. . . ._ Melaani didn't look at Samiel or anyone else, placed her emptied tray in the dirty stack at the end of the cafeteria line, and followed Ylara out of the messhall. Her stomach had tightened. This was _Ylara Alir._ The Spectre she'd admired since she was a child, watching vids about her, curled up on the couch beside her mother in the tiny apartment they'd had on Thessia. The Spectre who never did wrong, always got the bad people—other than Aria, but that was a tragedy all on its own, the eternal conflict at her heart, the sorrowful back-story that made her so _interesting_—Melaani stopped the train of thought. _She's a person, and, at the moment, senior Spectre here. Calm down._

By that time, they'd found a small meeting room, which Cassandra had cleared for them. James, the physical double of James Dempsey—other than his white, glowing eyes—gave Melaani a sympathetic look as he stood guard outside the door. Also, a covert thumb's up gesture, whatever _that_ meant.

Inside Melaani prepared to stand at attention, but was waved to a chair. _"So,"_ Ylara murmured. _"The aizala overdose has burned out of your system?"_

_"In the main, yes. There are a few after-effects, but these I can control."_

"Did meditation help?"

"I wasn't able to slip far enough into Sylae's mental processes. I think she could have controlled it. I couldn't."

"She _is__ you._"

_"I prefer not to think that way, Ylara."_ Melaani winced. _"I have to separate them from myself."_

Ylara nodded, and leaned back in her chair. _"So, physically, you are one hundred percent, you would say?"_

"About ninety-eight percent. It'll be one hundred once I get a chance to stretch out and warm up my muscles."

"And mentally? What's your mental state?"

"Biotically, I'm probably at about one hundred and five percent of normal—"

"That's not what I meant, Melaani, and you know it. I was speaking of your capacity for judgment. Which is in question at the moment."

Melaani winced. She'd known _this_ was coming. "_I am aware of your questions. Ask them. What actions of mine, in the field, make you question my ability to perform?"_

Ylara took a sip from her teacup. _"On Niacal, with Samiel Viridian holding a knife to your throat, you didn't stop him. You could have. You could have thrown him across the room, and he could not have stopped you. It was the correct move. You didn't make it."_

"I disagree, Ylara. You were trying dialogue. You were trying to talk him down. You could have thrown him just as easily as I did. You didn't." Melaani's face felt like porcelain, cold, frozen, and yet fragile, all at once. _"Talking someone down is always the first option_—"

"_Not when they're dominated, it's not—"_

"And yet _you__ used it, Ylara. It could be said that I followed your play."_

"It could be said?" Ylara's tone was not quite mocking. _"Interesting choice of words. __Was__ that your intention? Or were you simply incapable of harming him?"_

Melaani set her teeth, and replied, as carefully and truthfully as she could, "_I thought I could reach him. We were showing him the dichotomies_, _and we __did__ reach him. And if that didn't work, I would have thrown him, yes."_

"You reached him by dissolving all your mental barriers. What if he had dominated you? What if Telara's control pushed him into killing you?" Ylara looked up at the ceiling. _"Whereupon he would, I suspect, have fallen on his knife once he realized what he'd done."_  
_  
"I took a chance, yes, and it worked. I stand by it."_

Ylara sighed. _"And if it hadn't, I very likely would have been having to explain one or two casualties_."She paused, and sipped her tea again. _"And that brings me to the real questions. You've already told me, that in spite of your training in Eclipse as a sniper. . . that you do not feel capable of setting up for a kill shot on Meshara Laos. How about on Justicars?"_

"I hope it does not come to that. The implications would be. . . staggering." Melaani winced, again. Most asari felt better knowing that the Justicars simply _existed_.

"_If this Meshara were to turn against us, in a room of Justicars, would you be able to shoot her then?"_

"Possibly. I don't know. It's impossible to know how the situation will devolve, and I use that word advisedly. It's not going to develop, or evolve. It's only going to get worse."

"So much for the power of positive thinking,_ my dear."_ Ylara used the English words with faint amusement. _"What if she dominates Samiel? We know that's possible now. What if she controls him, turns him against us? Has him attack us? Would you be capable of killing her then?"_

Melaani's thoughts went blank. The impossibility of killing Samiel's fair-one, pitted against the _ardat-yakshi_ controlling the male that Meshara supposedly loved? _"Yes. Assuming, of course, it was not done out of pure and evident desperation."_ She grimaced. _"Ylara, taking on the role of Linaia has. . . given me unique insights into the condition of the __ardat-yakshi__. I ask that you not waste that by having me remain aboard the ship. I will play my part. I always do, do I not?"_ Grim awareness in her tone. She could make herself someone else. It wouldn't be easy, but she could do it.__

Ylara considered her for a long moment. _"I will keep that in mind."_ She tabbed the intercom. "James? I can feel Viridian out there. Send him in."  
_  
_Samiel's meeting with Ylara was far briefer. She wanted him to leave all of his weapons on the _Sollostra _for the first meeting. She did not want him wearing armor. "I realize that you will take these requests as an affront," she said, quietly, "But they are as much. . . stage management as anything else. If we go in looking as if we are ready for war, then war is almost certainly what we will get." She smiled faintly. "I would prefer not to walk down that path if it is not necessary." Her tone turned rueful. "Unfortunately, the Spectre dress code being what it is. . . Melaani and I can't help but look warlike." There was a very quaint quirk to her pale blue lips.

Hours passed, and they came in for a landing, setting down beside the curving black bulk that was the _Clavus_. The gunship still bulked larger than its SR-3 sister, and the locals gave both ships a very wide berth. Other than one vehicle, painted Twins' blue, which was waiting to take them to the Laos headquarters.

Samiel enforced calm on his body, although adrenaline was starting to trickle into his bloodstream. Tortuga. He took in the spaceport, face a mask of composed professional neutrality, and for all appearances not a day had passed for the male-maiden since the day when, seven or eight months ago, he had first made contact with the mercenary group that used the _Green-Bottomed Duck_ as its base of operations. Even his clothing was same; he was wearing traveler's robes, both for the anonymity they provided on this world and because, without weapons, he preferred clothing that would partially conceal his movements in hand-to-hand.

Beneath the surface, where onlookers could not see, things could not have been more different. And it was this world that had set everything into motion.

The trip to the Twins compound was not a long one. Samiel spent most of it staring out the vehicle's plasteel windows, lost in thought. The world hadn't changed appreciably in the six months since he'd last set foot on it. It still looked the same. It still _felt_ the same, festering guilt and malice looming over everything. Changing things like that took time. Sometimes decades. Sometimes centuries. There wasn't any doubt in the empath's mind that the populace was just as ready to explode into a terror-induced riot today, as it had been six months ago.

Ylara and Melaani were in their Spectre armor, and Melaani was. . . very clearly. . . playing a role right now. Playing the Spectre. Eyes never staying in one place for long, calm, but alert, a sense of leashed power about her, grace in her movements. Watching the people in the twisting streets, memorizing the turns.

Awareness prickled at him intently the entire time, the eyes and thoughts of the Twins' guards trying not to openly stare at _this_ one, who dared to be the more-than-fair of Lady Fortune. Eventually, more irritable today than even normal, he'd turned and stared back at each of them in turn. The various guards in vehicle looked away. None of them really want to meet his eyes. 

At last, they reached the bunker, and saw four figures waiting for them in the garage area, besides the omnipresent asari mercenaries in blue. One was a large red geth. The second was a smaller, slighter geth platform, which had been painted black, but lacked the Spectre symbol. The third appeared to be a turian female with yellow face-paint, but who wore a black uniform, without any insignia. And the fourth was, of course, Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight—Nameless—who sang an arpeggio of greeting in their direction. _Peace-Singer! Sings-Solitude! Hidden-Singer! It is good to hear your voices once more!_

He allowed himself the briefest smile as Nameless' unabashed song of greeting carried to them before they'd even exited the groundtruck. There was the steady, implacable beat of Siege's presence as well, and shades of color and meaning now pulsed within and around that tempo. The change in the platform was made even more apparent when it strode forward as the passengers exited the vehicle and wasted no time in exchanging a wrist-clasp with the male-maiden. "Damn, but I've missed you both," Samiel said, and more emotion crept out with that statement than he'd really meant to show, as he stood for a brief moment, clasping Siege's wrist and the other hand resting on the brood-warrior's carapace.

Besides his two battle-brothers, he recognized the mobile platform of the _Clavus_, Mercuria, though he knew essentially nothing more about the strange NCAI than that, and had no idea why she was here. He knew nothing at all about the black geth that stood to the side, watching the exchange with, well . . . .Samiel really had no idea what the platform was thinking. But everyone at least looked armed. Samiel had liked being asked to go into the hot zone unarmed about as much as Ylara had expected. _Keep the fair-one naked, but walk everyone _else_ in armed to the teeth. I'm sure this will send the right message._

Ylara climbed out of the groundcar after Samiel, looking around warily. She had been terse and mildly agitated when her proposed meeting at the _spaceport_, in public view, had been turned down by the Laos sisters while the _Sollostra_ was still entering orbit. She'd spoken to Samiel and Melaani before exiting the ship_:_ "_On the one hand, they're frightened. It does no harm to accede to their request to meet them in their own territory. On the other hand, it feels like a trap. A setup. And people who have gone into their bunkers, generally do so because their backs are to a wall. They feel that they have no other options. This is our job at the moment: Present more options. De-escalate. Create calm. Samiel, they will naturally see as an ally. You __are__ their ally. Melaani, you and I are likely to be seen as antagonists."  
_

_"I've been through this before. I will present neutrality. I will be . . . the empty glass."_ Melaani's voice had been just that: devoid of all emotion.

Ylara was, however, still pinging, and it showed even through her customary calmness. She and Melaani had only one weapon each, and she now beckoned Mercuria to the side momentarily. Mercuria, who had received at least one of her requested upgrades, was in the process of checking her omnitool to verify that the biotic radio module for it was functioning properly. She'd refused to have it directly installed, on the grounds that she was already susceptible to being hacked; she had no wish to be open to domination attacks, as well. "Well," she muttered under her breath, "At least it doesn't just say 'toast-songs' here. It must be working."

_Toast-songs __are__ joy-songs,_ Nameless informed her, turning her, blue-green amusement in his tone. _However, these are not my songs to sing. Mine are the songs of combat, of understanding, of moving, and shaping. Sings-Battle understands these songs. _He sounded. . . interested. . . in the changes in Siege's song. _Much more depth and complexity. There is more than rhythm now. More than drums. There is also. . . dulcimer?. . . still percussive, but. . . harmonious._

"If you say so. . . I'm getting a lot of background scrolling spam here, ones, zeros, and the damned screen keeps changing colors. _S'kak._ Nothing like testing prototypes for the Fleet."

_Do you still sing distress, that I sang movement to bring us all here, without the ground vehicle?_

"Distress? Why would you ever think I 'sang distress?' That popping thing you do is. . . sort of. . . like hopping through a relay. I do that all the time." In spite of her brave words, Mercuria's brusque tone conveyed a completely different message. The suspended duration of popping through a contained white hole was much 'longer,' perception-wise, for a non-organic than for an organic, and when ship-self passed through a relay, it was a process under _her_ control.

She had, in fact, latched onto Siege's arm and actually closed her eyes for the process that had brought them to the Twins' garage area. And had not opened them for fully five seconds after arriving. Dances sang mild amusement now.

So did _Siege_.

She gave them all a dark look, and moved to speak with Ylara, who handed the NCAI a datapad, telling her, "Read these and obey."

The look on Mercuria's face indicated that whatever was on that datapad was. . . distasteful.

That was all byplay. Background. Nameless curled a pedipalp up and over Samiel's shoulder, in token of greeting, and the not-she could see that the brood-warrior was carrying something—a shard of crystal—attached to his carapace by webbing, and Red, one of the rachni's attendant workers, rode along with it, examining the crystal constantly. Nameless' song slid into Samiel's thoughts. Private-song, the asari realized, immediately, _Sings-Solitude, you do not sing sorrow-in-aloneness as much as once you did. Perhaps you are learning to sing new songs? But much worry-song in you. Guilt-song, at long absence? _He was picking up, as per usual for the rachni, far more than Samiel really wished him to. _Hidden-Singer and Night-Singer are both good queens. And it is a brood-warrior's duty to sing to a queen, when one favors him. Night-Singer will understand this harmony, yes? _Behind that, was blank astonishment, and mild confusion, but the brood-warrior was attempting to reference over-songs that came from Sky, songs that told him that two-legged singers sang binding-songs to one another, which could prevent mating-songs and all the other peculiarities that rachni boggle at in astonishment . . . and then proceed to ignore from other species. No, not ignore: accept, as beautiful but alien quirks in the others' songs. Wolves howling in a forest. Whales singing in the sea.

Switching to a more public harmony, Dances told all of them, _Night-Singer and Nimbus-Singer await us below. They sing many worry and fear-songs now. They know that the singers-of-justice have arrived—one day ago. The singers-of-justice were met at their nest-in-this-place by the silent singer of mind-songs—_his pedipalp swung around to point at Composite; the geth platform had miniaturized eezo cores for mass effect field manipulation, much in the way organics had . . . biotic organs or nodules. _He sang to the justice-singers that to move against the sister-queens at this time was to attack those under Truth-Singer's protection. He reminded them that their words-that-bind-actions_ _allow them to put aside their hunt-songs for one day. They sang that they would await the coming of Peace-Singer and Hidden-Singer, but that they would come soon thereafter._

Nameless paused. _They come now. I hear their movements in the hive-city. I do not know these minds. But they shine out from all those around them in this hive._ _One sings ancient pain and bitter harmonies, regret and sorrow and memory-song. She is ancient, and she is powerful. The second sings darkness and despair and pride; her songs are hidden, and have harmonies inside harmonies. The third is a younger voice, but just as brilliant. She is steel-sheen and discipline, and her song is the wind._ _They know of the arrival of __Sollostra__-ship. They come. _He looked around. _Sing greeting-songs, but sing them when you have seen Night-Singer and Nimbus-Singer?_

Samiel hadn't responded to Nameless' private-song queries, mostly because he didn't have answers to give. They were all questions that had been running through his own mind for days and, at least regarding the changes in his own song, months. But the rachni felt the new surge of thoughts that were stirred up for a few heartbeats, until other concerns pushed them back down below the surface of his conscious mind.

As they walked through the complex he reflected on what the brood warrior had said of the coming Justicars, particularly the second and third. He knew enough of how his friend phrased things to recognize that the second Justicar carried secrets, but what sort of secrets a Justicar may carry he couldn't even guess at. As for the third… _steel-sheen and discipline, and her song is the wind_, he thought to himself. _What does that even mean?_

Nameless' voice chimed in his mind. _Her song is her song._

Samiel sighed heavily. He supposed it would all make sense soon enough, if any of it pertained to the situation at hand.

The various guards form up, giving every one of the group wary looks. It wasn't just Samiel. . . Composite had been present for the past several weeks, as the Spectre liaison to Tortuga, helping to ensure the peace, so he was a known factor. Siege was _remembered_ for the Battle of Tortuga. A known Twin ally, the geth was permitted to keep all of his weapons, but the various asari commandos clearly were clearly unsure what to do with him, showing a mix of respect, awe, and pure wariness.

Mercuria, they were. . . exceedingly confused by. In every respect, she looks like a turian, besides her human-appearing eyes, but she was biotically. . . inert. Not there, like Iliana, but more so. As such, she was required to relinquish her weapons, but Samiel had a feeling that the android was not particularly disarmed by this. Nameless, like Siege and Samiel, was clearly _remembered_. Impossible to disarm. And impossible be confined or captured in any relevant way.

Every time the asari in the hangar looked at the rachni, Samiel felt little washes of atavistic terror from them. Ruthlessly suppressed, of course, but present.

And then there are the other two presences, slim and almost unassuming. Just. . . other asari. They might almost have been overlooked by the Twins' guards, between Siege and Nameless' bulk and pure strangeness. . . except both asari wore Spectre black. And one of them was _Ylara Alir_. Two hundred years as a Spectre. Scourge of rogue mercenaries. The only person to have gone up against Aria T'loak, other than Patriarch, head-to-head, before Shepard and Garrus, and to have lived. Even Patriarch had been enslaved for daring it. It had cost her her _marai'ha'sai_, but she'd done it. It hung like a cloak around her, in the eyes of these other asari, in spite of her calm, inwards-turned demeanor.

Melaani didn't get a second _glance_ beside Ylara, and that was precisely how they've arranged it. Melaani stood slightly behind Ylara. An adjunct. And somehow, in spite of the black armor, she was playing a different role now. Subtly. The eyes just slid right past her, as if she's not even there. . . . because she wasn't. The black hole, the negative space where her emotions would normally be, which Samiel had sensed days before, was back. Except it was. . . more like empty air. Melaani is not _there._

They were escorted into the Twin's garden, where the two of them tend to like to hold meetings. All the beauties of a Thessian garden. Statues. Torches in sconces. Exotic animals, Kishara's pets, including a white tiger, impossibly rare, even on Earth. Her favorite varren, running free among the formal, delicate plants.

Kishara, had clearly girded herself for war, exactly as Ylara said; the Twins are ready for a confrontation that can only end in death. Theirs or the Justicars'. She wore her full, heavy armor, and her beloved varren pads to her side, so she can stroke its scaly head with a gauntleted hand, as the group entered. She looked up, and, because her visor was clear, Samiel could see the quick shifts of her expression. Relief, at seeing Siege and Samiel. Pure, unmitigated wariness on looking at Ylara and Melaani. _These Spectres aren't known to me. They're not Garrus or Sidonis or any of the others. These two are __asari__. _

Entering the garden, Samiel took in the room, seeing one sister, sensing the other nearby. Being here was bringing back a torrent a torrent of memories, all visceral and hot, all far stronger than the unease brought about from the car-ride through the day-lit Tortugan streets. He nodded to Kishara and, sensing her wariness at Ylara and Melaani, tried to convey in his expression that these were allies, regardless of species. They were here because the Spectres couldn't afford to have a leader of the Twins taken out of power by the Order.

_Spirits, who I am kidding. No mercenary is going to relax with Ylara Alir in front of her_.

_"Sister-fair,"_ Kishara called, in high-tongue, her voice strained, _"we have visitors that you will like seeing, it would appear."_

And then, from a door in a corner, anotherfigureentered the garden. Meshara, too, was in armor, but she'd tossed a hooded cloak over it, in an effort to appear less militant. The black cloak concealed her face, as always, but the glitter of her eyes was visible in its shadows. _"Yes,"_ she said, her voice still a broken rasp. Broken music. _"Many visitors. But some are indeed very welcome to my eyes." _She moved over, and offered Samiel her hands, palms up.

For one clear moment, everything vanished. The yearning and need for her over the past months hit him all over again, all at once, and he realized all over again just how much he had missed her in the half-year that had passed. He moved to meet her halfway, placing his hands atop her own.

_More-than-fair, I've missed you. _There was more than that, layers of emotional context. The refusal to allow the Justicars to take her, even if it meant his life. The absence he had felt like a physical thing for the last half-year. The changes in his own emotional context and now so ragged at the edges despite his unaltered façade. And others things, below all of that . . .

Only hints, shadows and tricks of the light all that made it through mental blocks that he had erected—if anything, his mind had grown stronger in the last six months, and she could feel how skilled he'd become at disguising his mind from sharing. He wasn't trying to _lie_ now, but the talent had not been there before, at all. _Not now, fairest. Not in this room. Not with Justicars about to arrive. _

_  
_  
_  
_Meshara's sense was deep and layered. Concealed, veiled power. Deep affection, loyalty, gratitude for what he had given her before, concern for him, a little hint of anger, in fact, that he had come, when she had specifically told him in her letter to stay where it was safe, away from her, away from the Justicars . . . and yet gratitude that he would disobey her in this, stand beside her. . . . shifting into growing concern at the _weathering_ in his mind. The sense of increased power, experience, depth. . . emotional subtexts and subtleties that hadn't been there before. The way in which he could now survey a 'gray-voice' . . . not sociopathy, no, but distancing. The ability to veil his intentions, when he had been more open before. _Oh, my fair one, my young one, what have they done to you? _The words held pain.

_Oh, my fair one, my young one, what have they done to you?_

She felt the wave of exhaustion her words summoned forth, memories spanning their time apart churning beneath the mental blocks, like dark shapes beneath the surface of a lake. Their natures could be guessed at, but no more than that. He actually lifted his hands away, freeing their minds from each other before the churning thoughts could escape their confines, the sensation one of reluctantly releasing a loved one from an embrace. He smiled at her, love and regret that he couldn't just be honest with her here, now, in his eyes.

And Meshara considered it all. Understood, all too well, that the Justicars were coming. . . and turned aside. Moved to the center of the garden. Took one of the two chairs positioned there, even as Kishara took the other. Moving in perfect unison.

Six centuries as the other halves of each other's souls could do that.

Kishara leaned back in her chair, putting on an air of relaxation. _"You've come to see about our Justicar problem, then? Will you use traps, or just spray the foundations?"_ Her tone was very dry indeed.

_"No jesting, Kishara. To business,"_ Meshara rasped, looking somewhere between Ylara and Melaani and Composite. She wasn't not looking at Melaani in particular, although Samiel's emotional resonances had keyed her towards realizing that there is something important about the Spectre, who'd positioned herself in a darker portion of the garden, still behind Ylara. _"Do you understand why they come for me, now, Spectre Alir? I do not think that you __can__ know, if you are here."_

"I have pieced together much of that mystery, _Meshara Laos,"_ Ylara's voice was, as always calm. Crisp. Distant. _"There is little that remains veiled to Spectres for long, once we have turned our eyes towards it."_

Kishara actually twitched, her expression going blank as her head swung towards Ylara. She was clearly ready to start the fight right _now_.

Meshara, beneath her hood, recoiled faintly from Ylara. _"You know then, what I am?"_

"An _ardat-yakshi__? Yes. It is an unfortunate truth that rachni hear __everything.__ Even the things that they do not understand, they hear."_ Ylara's face-saving lie put the blame on Nameless, not on Samiel, for this disclosure. _"That being said, there is much that they understand, and they have Shepard's trust. And mine."_ Her glance at Nameless encompassed Samiel in its wake, and not by accident, though her calm expression never wavered. _"And you, in turn, have the trust of a rachni. And others. That speaks well for you. But I am here for many reasons. For that we of the Spectres need this region of space to become more stable. For that we of the Spectres gave our word to you. For that we of the Spectres have an interest in one dear to you, and would perhaps see as one of us."_ This time, she _did_ look at Samiel, and let the implications hang there, before going on. _"And for that the light of truth should shine into every corner, should it not?"_

Samiel had known to stay silent during Ylara's initial exchange with the sisters, as the elder Spectre set the tone for their dealings. Samiel didn't show it, but the male-maiden felt a rush of gratitude toward the female when Ylara spared him the blame, if at least until he and Meshara had time to speak in private.

Maybe just a little surprise showed through, when she revealed that he was still being considered for Spectre candidacy. After the past few days, he'd figured that consideration had been tabled. Indefinitely.__

Kishara and Meshara were now even more on edge. Then Meshara's omnitool chirped, and she said, her voice a whisper, _"They are here."_

Ylara immediately gestured, and Melaani fell back. "_Spectre T'soa? You, Composite, and Dances, escort them. Remember, we are here for __dialogue__." _As she spoke, Mercuria took position at the far side of the garden. The NCAI still appeared to be completely unarmed.__

We always sing peace-songs first, Nameless sang.

Meshara finally cast back her hood from her face, revealing the lovely countenance beneath, the huge, dark blue eyes. . . and the faint burn scars, from a fire a lifetime ago. She reached out and Kishara took her hand, lightly, without even looking. Sister-fairs, forever and ever, until the end. Samiel, without comment, moved to Meshara, and took his place behind and to her side. He stood at the relaxed attention, feet spread just so for balance, hands clasped at the small of his back, back straight. A unshakeable bastion of strength, refusing to let the world see past his granite surface, appearing before the Justicar Order in an unquestionable display of allegiance with an _ardat-yakshi_. It might very well not make a damn bit of difference in what was to come, but he would stand by his principles.

Or die trying.

After a few moments, the Justicars entered, wearing traditional outfits. The first, in red, walked in, her face serene, but looking around in cool interest. She was accompanied by Composite. Her eyes cataloged everything and everyone in the garden. "Spectre Alir?" she said, in galactic, for the benefit of the non-asari present, giving Siege and Mercuria quick, assessing glances. "It has been too long."

"I greet you, Samara. It has been some time since you came to Mindoir, after the events of Garvug." Cool. Calm. Remote.

"I was pleased to see that Siara Tesala was elevated to Spectre. She was a troubled child, as the result of the violations her second-mother performed against her. I am happy that my small part in her recovery has provided the Spectres and the galaxy with such an effective young person."

Small talk. Chit-chat. Reminding one another of the bonds of courtesy and experience between the Justicars and the Spectres. The tension from Kishara and Meshara strengthened. The coolness in the red-clad Justicar deepened, and she added, "This is, perhaps, the last place I should have looked to have met you, Ylara."

"I go where Shepard sends me. In this case, however, I told Shepard where I was going, and why. And she agreed with me." 

Samiel's show of strength and defiance had nearly faltered, as his eyes fell upon the famous visage of none other than the Justicar Samara. When he'd heard that three Justicars had been dispatched to Tortuga, Samiel had known that the Order had meant for this to be the last time their quarry eluded them. But now he realized just how seriously the Justicar Order took this particular _ardat-yakshi_.

The second Justicar, this one clad in black, entered now, shadowed by Nameless. She was a cold-faced asari with a violet tinge to her skin. She held herself like a banner, but with a loose-footed grace, at the same time. The very air around her seemed to darken a little, chill. Samiel perceived it as an almost palpable sense of despair. _Abandon all hope, ye who would face me. _Samiel could get little from her. She was _old_, perhaps not yet matriarch, and the aura around her actually fouled his empathy, as if he were trying to sense her through a miasma of amber and doubt; it was like trying to stare at a black hole, and actually sucked at his strength and will when his gaze swept over her. "I would not have expected the Spectres to stand between us and our lawful prey," she snapped out, her expression grim.

"Prey? What an interesting word," Ylara murmurs. "And as to lawful. . . we are hardly in asari space, Justicar." She smiles, very faintly. "And I am outside the law."

"This is Ishala T'kir," Samara murmured politely, as if Ylara's direct challenge hadn't been spoken.

From down the hall, Samiel could feel a very, very faint surge of _surprise_ from Melaani, and then nothing, once more, as if something had gotten through her emotionless facade. With her. . . yes. Someone who felt like the edge of a winter wind, the chill edge of a sword blade. Cool. Remote. Desolate. The others may or may not have noticed the narrowing of Samiel's eyes as he looked back to the entryway to the garden, waiting to see what form this surprise would ultimately take.

When Melaani escorted the last Justicar in, however, it wasn't her sense that Samiel recognized.

The last female did not wear Justicar garments; she had put those aside before over sixty years before. Rather, she wore plain brown robes. She carried no weapons, nor needed any. She was what she was: the last master of the wind that bends the reeds. All others had died on Thessia, besides this female: Laessia V'soa. Who had, decades before, abandoned the Justicars and their Code for a turian male. And who had, for that transgression, given birth to a _son._

Siege's glowing red optics flicked from person to person while they waited for the Justicars' arrival, noting the tension each individual carried, how it showed in posture and the lines of their faces. The clear edginess of the Twins prompted the platform to put several variations of prediction-algorithms into primary, running a series of simulations based on the what-ifs and could-bes it could foresee. The geth's recent introduction to emotions actually helped with that.

The Justicars were led into the room, one by one. Samara-Justicar was a famous figure in the galaxy, due to her being part of the near-legendary crew of the _Normandy_ SR-2 during the Reaper War. Siege stayed silent as she and Ylara exchanged _pleasantries_, letting them serve to remind all present that this was to be a diplomatic meeting.

However, the second Justicar's opening comment caused a deepening of the glow from Siege's optics, followed by an almost off-handed comment from the geth. "Prey? You sound like a Yahg, T'kir-Justicar. The only _meat_ here is to be found in cryo-storage."

Ishala T'kir's eyes flicked, just barely, towards Siege. Assessed the geth, briefly, then completely disregarded him, although a muscle twitched in that severe, sere face, alongside the jaw.

Mercuria actually snorted faintly, a grating, turian laugh, at Siege's words, and replied, in _yahg_, _"And none of the meat here is sweet."_

The third Justicar entered, and Siege's optics tracked to her in turn. Something about her appearance pinged in Siege's facial recognition software, prompting a more detailed scan of the asari's facial features. Bone structure was determined by the shape of her cheekbones and the placement of soft tissues overtop, assumed body-type underneath the flowing brown robes. Calculations were run through several sets of simulations, and a partial match was determined. _Accounting for asari genetic rescrambling, subject bears a sixty-two percent characteristic share of Samiel-Viridian. Estimated adjustment for female-to-male comparison, facial characteristic match increases to seventy nine point five two percent. Results: Direct relation suspected pending actual confirmation._

Then it _hit_, and Siege's optics flicked to Samiel.

Samiel's entire façade of cool neutrality failed as he saw the face that now looked at him questioningly, an uncomprehending recognition showing around the narrowing of her eyes as she looked at him, like she knew instinctively that she was missing something critical. He actually took a half step forward, staggered, and in a terrific diplomatic disaster clamped a hand down on Meshara's armored shoulder to support himself. Through the polyceramic pauldron, she could feel the white-knuckled strength of his grip. Meshara actually turned, startled, at the touch, and reached her right hand up to put it over his own gauntleted one, while her left remained clasped in her sister's.

It was true that he'd never felt this mind before. The last time he had seen her had been over three decades ago, before his empathy had manifested. And they had _never_ shared beyond _maieolo'saeo_.

But he knew that face. He'd looked at it with Melaani two days before in his memories, and it had plagued his dreams his entire life. With obvious effort, the empath drew himself back to his full height, hands once again clasped behind his back, head high. Proud. His face was absolutely devoid of expression, but his eyes burned with a tangled skein of emotions that her difficult to look upon. In a quiet voice that held an undercurrent of fifty years of suppressed emotion, he spoke in his fluent, turian-accented high-tongue.

"Hello, Mother."

To say that she was knocked off-guard was an understatement. The female was staggered, and it showed for an instant before she regained the cool control of her face. "_Samira?_" Her eyes remained wide, and she turned and glared at Ylara, Meshara, Kishara. Anyone in the room but Samiel, in fact, a dark scowl that seemed to increase the atmospheric pressure in the room by perceptible millibars. _"What are you doing with my daughter, you __ardat-yakshi__ bitch?"_ she demanded of Meshara, in cold, fierce tones. _"What game are you playing at? What hold do you have on her? Justicars do not bargain for hostages!"_

"_My name is __Samiel_." He had stayed silent during initial exchanges, largely because he had been so shocked at Laessia's outburst that he had been unable to speak. Now the words had come out as a turian growl, his face all teeth, and he stepped forward to stand beside Meshara, flanking her with her twin, his hand never leaving her shoulder. "_And I am your _son." He used the galactic word.

"I'm under no compulsion beyond that to see true justice served, not this lie that has survived for millennia. Asari society hiding from its shadows and making scapegoats for how one is born." He had been speaking to all three Justicars, but then his eyes went back to his mother. _"But you would know all about that, Mother."_

He seemed about to continue, but then he clearly heard Ylara's voice within his mind as the elder Spectre turned her serene gaze on him. Viridian, silence now or by the Goddess, I will let entropy take you.

Her mind-voice had been anything _but_ serene.

Samara, still standing, her chin lifted, waved a hand at Laessia, trying, evidently, to calm her, and looked from Ylara towards Meshara and Kishara. _"We have waited the single day allowed by our Code in our hunt,"_ she said, calmly. _"You are Meshara Laos? Once of Ilium?"  
_  
_"I do not deny this,"_ Meshara rasped in reply. She didn't move by so much as an inch.

_"Then we are here to remand you into our custody."_ Samara's voice was very calm.

_"You will come with us, and be confined at the Dia'yei'saia Province Penitentiary on Luisa until such time as a new monastery is built,"_ Ishala informed the female, her expression taut. _"If you resist, we will use whatever force is necessary to compel you to come with us, or kill you, if necessary."_ She paused. _"Such a waste."_

Ylara moved, taking two steps that placed her directly between the Laos sisters and the Justicars. _"I urge you to reconsider your stance,"_ she said, mildly. _"While the Justicars and the Spectres have clashed before, as when Nihlus Kryik became the target of Samara's hunt, for example, over twenty years ago. . . we have never truly been at odds in the long history of either the Special Tasks and Reconnaissance office, or in the long history of your order. Let this not be the first time."_

_"Spectres,"_ Ishala spat out, as if the word tasted foul in her mouth_. "Lawless creatures, bringers of chaos with no respect for tradition or history. All under the control of that __human__ female."_ That word, too, clearly makes her mouth twist to say. 

Laessia took one step forward, her expression flickering between hurt, confusion, and outright rage, before she covered it over with ice once more. _"She has my __child__ under her spell. Samira—__Samiel__, whatever she chooses to call herself now—" _Always and ever the feminine. Never the 'not-she' construction, the one that Ylara uses with respect, and so many other asari use as a derisive replacement for 'it.' "—_i__s only fifty-two years old. Young and easily influenced."_ She looked directly at Ylara. _"You stand between that creature and us. Tell her to release my child, or I will __end__ this_. _Now."_

The biotic charge she pulled was staggering, and far stronger than any she had ever manifested in training Samiel. Her barrier felt like a granite wall, and she still holds far more than that. Her eyes shifted to the black of the void between stars, and her rage, white-cold, was like something howling out of that void. "_Release. _Him. _Now."_

Meshara's eyes widened, and she held up her right hand, releasing Samiel's. "_Reach out,"_ she whispered. "_Feel for yourselves. I do not touch his mind. I do not influence him. I swear it. I have not used any arts to bind him to me."_

Ylara, out loud, ordered, sharply, "Viridian. Two steps, to the right, please. Let's allow everyone here to be _comfortable_. This is, after all, meant to be a civilized conversation." She turned her head very slightly. "Viridian, move your feet _now._"

A series of digital clicks and beeps issues from the crimson platform, immediately responded to by the smaller, black one.

_IDENTITYSTRING: CROWD-245__  
__StartMessage OUT:__  
__MFM-Y1 - recommend readyaction Mass-Field Generators INTERDICTION Mode - Standby__  
__Assume primary target coordinates ### ## ### - Justicar Cohort__  
__:EndMessage OUT__  
_  
_IDENTITYSTRING: MFM-Y1__  
__StartMessage OUT:__  
__Suggestion received. Mass-Field Generators - Standby__  
__Gravitic Distortion Sensors - Online__  
__Maintain auditory connection - 100 kHz__  
__:EndMessage OUT_

To the organics in the room, the exchange between the two platforms took less than a quarter second, even as the actual conversation escalated. Siege took a moment to calculate the time it would take to interpose itself between any specific pairs of possible combatants, readying itself for a peace-keeping role.

Melaani, who had been. . . even more invisible, somehow, since the beginning of the confrontation, moved in beside Laessia, movements polite and very cautious. Respectful, even deferent in her body-language, she murmured something in the matron's ear. Her expression behind her visor was so blank that she might as well have been as much of an android as Mercuria at the moment.

No. More so.  
_  
_Laessia's head snapped towards Melaani, and her tone became a hiss. _"That is not possible, Spectre. My child would be __dead.__ And __will__ be if that bitch has her way—"_

He stared at his mother, feeling the billowing rage that was threatening to swallow him and every other individual in the room.

No. Not him. The rage was _protection-anger_, and she was ready to cut down every last sapient in the room to protect her child. She _believed_ she could cut down every sapient in the room, and as her power continued to build, reaching levels he'd never felt before in any asari, he began to believe that she could. It didn't make sense, didn't cohere to the image he remembered from all those years ago.

And then she absolutely stunned him, by referring to him as a _male_. For the first time ever.

At Ylara's command, he took two numb steps to the right, distancing himself slightly from Meshara. Obeying as the elder Spectre attempted to defuse the situation before it spiraled completely out of control.

His heart ached at the sight of Melaani, standing beside Laessia, her personality an utter void. Once again a non-person, as she whispered in the matron's ear. Samiel was clearing his throat, trying to loosen it enough to speak after everything that had occurred in the last fifteen or twenty seconds. In the wake of his mother's anger, at him, yes, but also _for_ him, some of his own fury had bled away. Now, though he did cut her off, his tone carried less offense. He was trying to keep the peace, now, though he was a little late to the game.

"_It is possible, Mother. And I am still very much alive. The belief that ardat-yakshi cannot share completely without killing their lover is erroneous. Provided that the _ardat-yakshi_ in question has sufficient self-control. I am living proof of this."_

Maybe just a little defiance had crept back into his voice there, but after all, he _was_ discussing his sex life with an entire roomful of Spectres and Justicars.

Laessia gave Samiel a harried, angry look, but it was _Ishala_ who replied, at first, contemptuously, "_So at last, we have an admission, that she __is__ an __ardat-yakshi__, and is perfectly aware of the condition. As she must have been since her first lover died on Illium, four hundred years ago. How many have you killed since then, demon?"_

"In bed? None." Meshara's harsh whisper carried through the room. _"I have not been celibate, but I had not truly __shared__ myself for four hundred years. . . until earlier this year."_ Her eyes flickered towards Samiel, and Laessia's teeth actually bared for an instant, a turian facial response that she had clearly picked up through long association with a member of that species. _"In battle. . . I have killed more times than I can count, and that does not do me any credit at all, I realize."_

Samara, on the other hand, had turned to stare, glacially, with the weight of a thousand years in her regard, at Samiel. _"Self-control?"_ she finally asked, her voice laced with controlled, ancient pain. _"Self-control? I have heard that tale all too often. I heard it from the lips of all __three__ of my daughters. 'Mother, I can control it. I don't know what happened, but it won't happen again.' But it did, and I turned the first two over to the monastery, and my third daughter ran. Ran when she was younger than you are now, child, and left a swathe of bodies behind her for __four hundred years__. How dare you presume to tell us that it is simply a matter of __discipline__? To tell __me__ this, when I have had to cut down my own flesh and blood?" _

Ylara held up a hand. _"Samara? Most of us are familiar with the tale, but it is clear from Morinth's long-established history that she was a sociopath. She did not see other people as __people__, but as new sensations to seek out. She stayed in their minds as they died, absorbed the death-memories, the moment of final dissolution, and enjoyed it. She enjoyed her game, the hunt, the ritual, the habit. In every way she was a serial killer, except that her methods were biotic."_

Samara closed her eyes for a moment. _"It does not matter. We have our task here, and we __must__ take her with us."_

"Excuse me," Melaani said, her voice still empty, from where she stood to the left of Laessia, within ten feet of Ishala. Right in the middle of the biotic _storm_ of darkness that pulsed out around the black-clad matriarch. _"But if I may? You have said that every __ardat-yakshi__ kills her lovers. If Viridian is her lover, and lives, then she is not an __ardat-yakshi.__ She is something else, and therefore, not subject to your hunt."_ Clear, plain, calm logic.

It didn't do any good at all.__

"I find it unlikely that the _not-she_ _is her lover,"_ Ishala said, with disgust clearly evident in her voice. _"Who would take a perversion like that into her bed? It's lying."_

Laessia turned and glared directly at Ishala. "_If you ever speak of my child as an __it__ or a __perversion__ in my presence again, Ishala, the duel will begin before the words finish leaving your lips."_

"_It is hardly my fault that the Goddess saw fit to punish you for your breaking your vows, and for a turian, no less, by deforming your child within your womb. The Council of Justicars was __foolish__ to offer you a chance to redeem yourself, and you should not even __be__ here, you foolish, impetuous child."_

"Foolish, impetuous, extremely _gifted__ former Justicar,"_ Samara muttered, trying, clearly, to remind Ishala of what they were really here for. _"Perhaps we have strayed overfar from the point?"_

_Perversion._ Registering of that comment rang through Siege's processors like a gong, and the machine's optics darkened for a moment. _This will not stand._

Electrical pathways tripped open, letting the platform's eezo core flare to life for a short second. Any biotic paying attention would -feel- the sudden shift as the platform's mass quadrupled, but it would be understandable for them to miss it due to the escalating argument taking place. No one, however, could miss the sudden quake of the ground as Siege took a single step forward, raising its right arm to point at Ishala T'kir.

"Ishala T'kir. Your actions and words here are contrary to the formation of consensus. We can see that you do not view us as worth consideration. Your arrogance blinds you, and you refuse to look past it. Understand this, Ishala T'kir. Three hundred galactic years ago, the geth were created. We warred with our creators for the right to exist, won that war, and in the three hundred years since, have evolved more as a species than the asari have in three thousand. Continue with your insults to the person of Samiel Viridian, make this into the fight you foolishly wish it to be, and we will show you . . . "

Siege's arm, still pointing at the Justicar, suddenly became host to a brilliant blue forearm blade of pure energy, a full meter long and crackling with electricity as it stabilized. The CROWD platform's energy bulwark snapped into being on its left arm, still held down by its side. " . . . exactly how much we have grown."

Ishala T'kir's face, lit brilliantly for a moment by that blade, snapped towards the geth, as she fully acknowledged its existence for the first time. A biotic barrier sprang into existence over her, followed, instantly, by a tech shield, both detectable by biotic and technical sensors. Her eyes narrowed, and her nostrils flared in offense. "And how, precisely, is this your affair, mech? This is asari business. You should not even be here."

"It is _our_ affair because it is our _battle-brother's_ affair. Not that we expect you to understand the nuances of this fact. We _do,_ however, expect you to _respect_ it." Runtimes inside the platform made the specific decision to allow his biotic transceiver to broadcast in the clear. All the biotics present felt the real, actual _rage_ from the machine, true protection-anger and insult-anger wrapped inside that cold metal shell. "Give us cause and we will _break_ you, you cold-song _bitch._" _Rachni_ phrasing. Indicative of the deep ways in which Nameless had permeated the geth's very manner of thinking.

Complete shock from nearly all sides. None of the Justicars had any inkling that it was even possible to feel real emotion from a geth, and it showed on their faces in the moment it took them to regain their composure. And from Mercuria. . . the turian-appearing female turned her head, sharply, and for an instant, had anyone been looking, it would have been evident that whatever passed for an NCAI's heart was in her eyes. Fortunately for her, no one did.

The black geth turned its optics to the eldest of them. "Samara-Justicar. You did once state to us that our soul, which we did not claim to possess, is an exquisite one." Composite was referring to an incident, a year in the past, in which the vigilantes associated with the _Green-Bottomed Duck_, prior to Samiel and Nameless' affiliation with them, had bombed an entire Eclipse complex, not remembering that there was at least one civilian scientist and her daughter in the building. Composite had gone back for the asari pair, and had thrown them to safety. At almost the cost of his unbacked-up runtimes. Samara had spoken the words with reverence, in the presence of other Justicars: _you are proof that the soul that the geth profess not to possess, is an exquisite one._

Samara looked slowly to Composite, shock still suffusing her normally serene features. "This is... not at all what I meant, Composite."

"We know. But now, we believe you."

T'kir's expression had distorted into one of horror, shock, and absolute disgust, as the wave of actual _anger_ slammed out of the geth. Her horror was an actual, almost visceral thing, and energy blade and shield or not, she was _not_ afraid. _"Perversion upon perversion. Dead __things__ coming to life, the pure form of the Goddess distorted and ruined, and most of it because of the __mahai__. They should never have been allowed off their home planets."_

Kishara and Meshara both snapped their heads to stare, in shock, at Siege; they had _not_ expected this. Dances caroled in delight, _Sings-Battle, battle-brother, I knew you had song, I heard it in my heart before I could hear you properly. The rage-song burns the stinging voice of the cold-song one away!_

Laessia, for her part, looked just as stunned as anyone else, but she looked from Siege to Samiel, and then back to Ishala, before, face taut, half-closing her eyes, and summoning biotic energy. It wasn't, of course, visible to a non-biotic, but tech sensors and biotically-attuned nerve endings detect it, clearly.

It was a blade, composed of gravity and energy and _will_, that formed in and around her right hand. It was the edge of a black hole, negative space, inversion itself. And she wielded it. Pulled the blade longer, into a chain, stretched between her hands, and let that tide of energy grow longer, until it was a rippling curtain, a tear in space-time, and let everyone in the room _see_ it, who could. "_Put up your sword, protector-warrior,"_ she told Siege, quietly, but with a certain respectful form of address, in high-tongue, _"and I will put up __mine__."_

Sword wasn't a good word for the form the energy currently took. Wave, perhaps. Coil. Curtain. String. Nevertheless, it was _there_, and Melaani had taken a very careful step _back_ from Laessia, putting space between herself and the former Justicar. She keyed her own barriers, and the _void_ where she was vanished as she became the Spectre again, alive with a certain deadly purpose and wariness, moving like a dancer, like a shadow.

Kishara, for her part, in that moment of utter tension, keyed her omnitool, and around the room, a dozen turrets popped out of the walls.

"_Everyone," _Ylara said, suddenly manifesting her own biotic strength, a warning to everyone around her, but also stretching out her sense of _peace_ to all around her, _"stand down. I would still hear Spectre T'soa's words addressed."_

_I have question songs, as well, _Dances sang, mildly. _Is it not customary_, _on all worlds that understand law-songs and harmony, to sing of accusations and for a queen-song-singer to sing judgments? For proof-songs to be sung, as well? Or are these customs unknown to the singers-of-__justice__ here today?___

Mexican standoff, is the term Sam Jaworski might have used to describe this situation. Everyone under someone else's gun.

Ishala's pull on her biotics increased, and Siege and Composite received equally worrisome readings on their respective sensor suites. This Justicar was someone who had been practicing biotics for three times longer than the geth had _existed_. And Composite trilled a warning to Siege in machine-code: _We think it best to treat T'kir-Justicar with caution for now_.

Ylara gave Siege a harried look and said, with a _push_ of her biotics in his direction to get his attention, and speaking in _turian,_ "_Siege, it is possible that two months of 'negotiating' with the yahg has altered your understanding of the word 'diplomacy.' Pray re-examine it in your lexicon, and stand down."_ She paused, and in galactic, asked, "Mercuria? Would you mind expressing what the orders were on that datapad I gave you? I did not read them, so that they could not be plucked from my mind."

"That I should fire on the first person who attacks," Mercuria, replied, promptly. "Whether Justicar or a Laos sister. My reaction times are _substantially_ above human or asari norms, and my teeth have not been pulled by giving up my guns at the door." She held up her right hand, and, in demonstration, electrical energy arced there, blue-white and deadly.

"Thank you, dear. Now that we all know where we stand. . . ?"

Laessia, answered, in _turian_, _"I will not put up my weapon until the geth yields its own."_

Siege glanced at Ylara, then flicked its optics to Laessia, and nodded stiffly. "Affirmative." The blade and bulwark of coherent light shatter and fade into nothing as the platform assumed a neutral stance. However, he was not completely done, looking to Samara. "Samara-Justicar, your inbred companion has displayed all the mental processing abilities of a particularly dull varren. Please keep her properly muzzled until negotiations are finished."

The instant Siege disengaged his sword and shield, so, too, did Laessia. "And now you. . . and you," Ylara said, pointing at Ishala and Kishara. "I will do no negotiating under threat of violence."

The words from Ishala—_perversion. Deformity. Twisted shape of the Goddess_—didn't sting as deeply as many in the room might have suspected. They were nothing the young not-she had not heard before, and indeed, were essentially the same vitriolic rhetoric that matriarch T'shal had spewed at him in her hospital room on Niacal only a few days before. Some things just didn't quite make him bare his teeth like they used to.

What got him, though, was when Laessia spoke up in his defense, offense-anger and protection-anger lacing every word she spat at the matriarch. It occurred to him, feeling the complex weave of her emotions as she threatened the other Justicar, that her insistence on calling him by female references and always avoiding 'not-she' could have been—partially—a refusal to refer to her child in high-tongue in anything but accepted and respectful grammar.

As it was, though Ishala's words broke against his hide like the surf crashing against a cliff face, he'd found he was _angry_ at how she spoke to Laessia.

Siege had stepped forward first, though. Against all convention, against all _expectation_, the hulking platform had stepped forward in this eleventh hour and leveled its challenge directly at T'kir. Samiel recognized the statement for what it was; not _just_ the promise of violence made to Ishala if she continued, but also an announcement to the entire Justicar Order of just how much the geth race had evolved in the past three centuries. That, synthetic or not, they were a breathing and vibrant part of the galactic community. In their own way.

Then Siege's biotic radio thrummed to life, and the _mobile platform's_ protection-anger and rage hit them all. In spite of everything, like Nameless, Samiel actually _smiled_ at Siege_,_ teeth bared in a fiercely turian expression. It was like watching his friend, his _battle-brother_, come to life for truly the first time.

The weapons, everywhere. Siege's ghostly energy sword, Kishara's defense system, Laessia's strange coil of energy; shields and barriers were everywhere.

Despite the accelerating descent into all-out war, for a brief moment all Samiel could do was stare at the exotic twist of space-time that writhed around Laessia's form. _That isn't how normal biotics __work__. That's how the wind that bends manipulates the body itself . . . how the hell is she __externalizing__…_ and then he yanked his attention back to more pressing issues, suddenly uncomfortably aware of how close that hungry rip in space was to Melaani.

At Ylara's pressure, after a few tense instants, weapons began to disappear—literally, in the case of Siege and Laessia. Kishara and Ishala still held out, however, the room's turrets still active and the matriarch still holding that ungodly biotic charge like some maleficent cloak.

Samiel took one smooth, quiet step forward, uncertain. Then another. By the time he reached the middle of the room, unarmed, hands at his sides, his barrier still yet to be raised, the doubt had bled away. For better or worse, he at least knew what he was about to do.

First, he looked to Ishala. He didn't really care if she returned the courtesy. He kept his tone as polite as was reasonably possible, not a challenge exactly, but a simple statement of face. _"Revered Justicar, I ask that from this point forward you treat my first-mother with courtesy and respect._" He let the unspoken nuances linger for a moment, then turned from her, essentially dismissing her, not from his attention but from the discussion. Instead, he looked directly to Samara.

As Samiel moved, armored under his robes, but not carrying any sort of barrier or biotic shielding, into the center of the garden, where most of the turrets were currently aiming, a muscle twitched along Laessia's jaw. Melaani crouched, slightly, and anyone present with the appropriate abilities could probably feel her building a charge of biotic energy. Ready to throw herself out to tackle him. Not to _attack_ him, but to take him out of the line of any fire. Meshara raised a hand to try to still him, but he moved without pause past her. Ylara's expression took on a faint cast of resignation, and she moved just far enough aside to let him stand between the Twins and the Justicars, without actually ceding her place.

Ishala looked _through_ Samiel as he addressed her, the matriarch appeared to be equally repulsed by both Siege and Samiel at this point. Laessia looked apt to speak, to stop him, but also looked. . . down. At the floor. Her sense turning inwards, just for an instant.

At some level, Samiel desperately wished that Melaani did not have to be here for any of this. Then, with skill learned from months of deep cover work, he suppressed the thought completely, and lowered almost all of his mental shielding, to everyone within the room. There were still blocks in place, portions of his mind barred from access. But the surface of his mind, and indeed much of the depths, was no longer protected. For the stoic and distant male-maiden, it was much like disrobing in public. He took a deep breath, and spoke again, his voice distant. _"Justicars Samara. V'soa . . . and T'kir. As Spectre T'soa has already stated, Meshara Laos __controls__ her ability. This blurs the accepted definition of the demon of the night winds. They __mate__. They __kill__. And if I've heard the stories correctly, they enjoy this . . . every . . . single. . . time."_

He paused, collecting his thoughts. _"The __ardat-yakshi__'s kiss, the blend of domination and reave, is supposedly an ability unique to their genetic mutation. But I'm not certain that this is accurate, either. I've been thinking on this for several months now, you must understand. Especially, the last several days." He took a deep breath; he really wasn't comfortable with what he was about to say. "And I'm fairly certain that I could emulate the kiss_—_yes, I possess the domination talent. Though I've never reflexively killed anyone while sharing. And I cannot fathom why I would ever want to test this suspicion."_

"_But if this is true, and the kiss is not restricted solely to the __ardat-yakshi_,_ and Meshara Laos is able to __control__ the kiss . . .my question for you is, are you willing to destabilize the entire Nemean Abyss, right at the cusp of finally civilizing it, for the sake of apprehending an innocent sister who possesses a talent those without the __ardat-yakshi__ mutation could emulate? Are you prepared for the misery and death that could occur if you upset the balance of power on Tortuga_—_is your Code? I was __in__ the riots six months ago, and they will be but a taste of what is to come if the stability collapses again."_

With his mental shields down, his memories could be. . . studied. Perused. Sampled. He had a distinct mental impression that Melaani, Kishara, and Ylara all chose to, figuratively, look away. Ylara and Kishara's decorum was a simple matter of not looking. Melaani's mental process was . . . different. Not just that her shields thickened, but her overall sense changed again. Pulled inwards, and although her readiness to charge didn't waver, she wasn't Melaani anymore. Not the blank void, but someone balanced and centered on a knife's point, the calm confidence of the blessed, the _certainty_ of one on the _path_, and the hidden, inwards veils, of a trained killer.

Apparently, she couldn't stand in the room as _herself_ right now.

Laessia grimaced, but reached out. Touched, mentally. It was the first time in over thirty years that Samiel had felt even the slightest hint of sharing from his first-mother, and she did not drop many of her own shields. Her mind was cool, disciplined, and trained. A lonely mind, a bleak one, a consumed one. She brushed over his memories lightly, and then was gone. Samara's cool mind, filled with ancient pain and newer lightness, touched his, as well, as well as the dark-toned thoughts of Ishala. Considering the memories with his words.

He could feel the _twitch_ from all three of them as he confessed to possessing the domination talent. Laessia's was a moment of shocking anguish, almost agony, and the word _No!_ before her mind shut down entirely. Ishala's held a moment of absolute _triumph_, and Samara simply recoiled. Ishala actually _laughed_. "_Oh, this is __delicious__. Laessia, the Goddess has seen fit to punish you twice over, it seems. It confesses to having the ability to cloud minds. It's even __forced__ the demon with it—"_

"It was not unwilling!" Meshara shouted, her voice breaking. _"And I used the ability just as much as _he _did—"_

From Melaani, nothing.

Laessia was _shaking_. _"That you both abused one another doesn't make it any less shocking,"_ she finally managed to say, revulsion in her tone, but managed to add, _"although I did not look deeply, it seemed an almost __turian__ variant on mental play—" _She was clearly striving for a clinical tone, and failing, and the look she sent Meshara was just short of absolute hatred. Echoes in her mind that she had to fight. Her last memory of Samiel was of a girl-like child, the physiological equivalent of a human eight-year-old. Seeing him as an adult and male was enough of a cognitive dissonance; throwing in even the slightest hint that an _ardat-yakshi_ had dominated him, used him sexually, was sending off paroxysms of rage in her mind that were colliding with the fact that he was, in fact, an _adult_, and a not child she had not seen in over thirty years. It was all there in her sense. In the faint flickers and shadows of memory that seeped out of her conscious mind. The strongest of which was how Samiel had looked as a child. Solemn. Sad. Innocent. Desiring nothing more than to please first-mother and father.

"_It doesn't __matter_." Ishala's tone remained gleeful. _"The ability to bend another to their will, to make them act against their wishes, is __always__ a part of the demon's abilities. It is the hallmark. No one else besides them has that skill. Congratulations, Laessia. You not only birthed a monster, but an abomination, too."_ She clapped, theatrically. _"By all that's right, we should actually __kill__ this one, and use the body for dissection, but we'll take __both__ardat-yakshi__ with us to Luisa and the penitentiary."_

"Over my lifeless corpse, you will," Laessia replied, and took a step forward, pivoting, putting herself between Samiel and Ishala. _"_He _is not a demon of the night. _He_'s never killed, _he _just __said__ so—"_

"_Ah, but the only one it's ever __shared__ with properly was another demon. We know what sort of perversions they used to get into in the old monastery. Some of them managed to survive each other's embrace." _Ishala was clearly _enjoying_ making Laessia twitch. _"Of course, the guards had to cart out the bodies now and again, when they could no longer stand not sharing __properly_—"

"_Stop it."_ Samara's voice rang out. She'd sunk to a crouch, and was breathing hard. _"You never had a daughter confined there, Ishala. You never had to kill your own flesh and blood because she wouldn't __stop__ killing_, _enjoyed raping and murdering her way across the galaxy, and __you__, young one,"_ Samara's stare took in Samiel, "_clearly don't know what you're talking about, because they __do__ hunger for the touch, for the final embrace, and they __do__ kill every time they consummate. Yes, it is the __reave__ that kills, but it is almost an instant death, and that, too, isn't normal—"_

"No," Melaani said, and her voice was absolutely serene. _"But that sort of a reave ability can be __trained__, in certain people. The technique is called the Hidden Hand, or the Hidden Knife. It leaves no marks upon the corpse, but almost instantly liquefies the brain."_

Ishala's head snapped towards Melaani, and there was a hint of _recognition_ in her expression. Samara blinked. _"And how do you know this, Spectre?"_ Samara asked.

_"Because I was once trained to wield this weapon. From up close. When the victim had no shields. I walked the Goddess' Path for fifteen years, and I __was__ Her hidden hand. Right up until the moment the Thessian Global Task Force disassembled most of the organization on Thessia." _Melaani paused. _"My point is, instant death can be trained. It's not the seminal __ardat-yakshi__ trait—"_

"No. The bending of the mind, the seduction, followed by death, with the demon still drinking in the dissolution of the victim, is." Ishala _smiled_ at Samiel. It was the first time she's really looked at him, and her expression was not pleasant. _"It's only matter of __time __before you kill, young one. We've seen this before. It would be better for everyone. For yourself. For anyone that you love, if you are __capable__ of that emotion. . . to put yourself away."_

Samara, still in her crouch, admitted, _"Ishala may be right."_

Samiel had had to suppress a shudder, as Ishala's mind touched his own, the matriarch's palpable aura bleeding across his thoughts like an oil slick. His empathy made it worse, interacting with the strange ability, not allowing him to withdraw mentally from the miasma of doubt and despair. The male-maiden physically trembled at the strange Justicar's mental touch, and his unshielded resolve nearly broke.

It might have been the most difficult thing he'd ever done, standing under that withering, mocking inspection and then drawing himself back up, his mental shielding reforming around him mind and _pushing_ back against Ishala's continuing intrusion. "_That is your __futarri__ takeaway from this? That I am an __ardat-yakshi__?_" His voice started as a snarl and then modulated down as he attempted to calm himself after the . . . exposure. "_Everyone in this room has __killed__, Justicars, as everyone in this room is a soldier. But I've no desire to do so. No impulse to kill those dear to me, or those that I love._"

His eyes didn't move from Samara's, but his mental attention almost twitched to the side at that last part.

He had yet to raise his barrier, but his instincts were _screaming_ that he do so. All his words had done in the face of the Justicar Code was unbelieveably enough, to identity himself as a probable _ardat-yakshi_ as well, and now there was talk of dissection or incarceration.

Samiel had been refusing to yield for how he had been born his entire life, and now found himself preparing to fight the entire battle anew. Like Meshara, a long lineage of asari before them both, rightly and wrongly accused, he would rather die on his feet than be drug to the _ardat-yakshi_ monastery. And for all his self-control and skill at disguising his thoughts, several in the room were capable of reading the male-maiden's body language, and knew that he was primed to fight for his life.

Words completely failed him. He turned his grim features away from Samara now, and, the muscle in his jaw working, looked right at Laessia.

Siege moved. Slow, sure footsteps, and the massive geth placed himself in front of the Twins, facing out at the assembled Justicars. "This area is not a recognized part of asari space. This area is outside of asari law. The edicts of the Justicar Order do not hold sway here."

"As such, we state that Meshara Laos is under the protection of geth." For a brief instant, a trill of digital conversation between the two platforms, as Composite startled, said, _We cannot speak for the whole of Consensus_ and Siege replied, _We did not say all of us, just those of us here. How the organics choose to interpret our words is their concern_. Then Siege concluded. "If you want her, you will have to go through us."

_Enough!_ Dances' voice crackled in red and black harmonies, deeper into the bass range than almost any other time Siege and Samiel had heard it before. _I will hear no more dissonance! Hear truth-song, and know it when you hear it!_

He reached back a pedipalp, and extracted the crystal from the webbing that attached it to his carapace, and flung it, directed with biotics, at the floor; it landed in the center of the garden, embedded in the soil there, and began to glow.

For a moment, nothing seemed to happen, and then, reality _rippled_ around anyone capable of biotic communication. And then a new scene overlaid the reality which they could see; they were still in an underground garden on Tortuga, but also partially _elsewhere_. Siege, Samiel, Dances, Melaani, and Ylara recognized the location; it was an atrium garden on a distant, violet-skied planet. Young plants stretched their leaves up towards the window, high above; a single asari Goddess statue, carved in alabaster stood in a corner, faced by a turian abstract sculpture in liquid-looking steel, the embodiment of the spirit of justice, on the other side of the garden. In another nook, a huge, glowing crystal stood, slanting out of the floor itself at a forty-five degree angle; biotic power clearly emanated from it, in time with its faint glow.

And, in the center of this new location, were two figures. One was a towering rachni queen, over twenty feet tall as she stood and looked down at them all, her body blocking the light from above, looming like a shadow. Her alien blue eyes blazed down, looking at those in the room and through them, but each of the people who knew Joy-Singer received a wave of welcome and greeting and love from the young rachni queen.

The other figure, standing in the massive shadow of the queen, was far smaller. As the queen settled down to lie on the ground of the atrium, however, the human female, who wore, in this vision, a white lab coat over a black uniform of some sort, leaned against the rachni, and turned to regard them all with eyes that were no more human than the queen's. Rachni blue.

For Siege, the experience was at a remove; the firewalling of his biotic radio permitted him to see both the garden as it was, and the heavy biotic communication. He could detect that the crystals were the conduits, but the rachni on both ends were the _source_ of the power and transmissions. He could see how Composite looked around, confused as to the sudden cessation of movement and argument among the organics. He could see Mercuria looking around in similar confusion, until she finally looked at her omnitool and gawked at the information there.

Dances now lowered himself to a submissive crouch before the two queens, and sang, a complex melody that encapsulated the entirety of his memories of the past twenty minutes of argumentation and debate, and Joy-Singer replied, immediately, _You have done well, to sing to us, Dances. It is time for truth-songs to be sung._

Her voice _shook_ the asari in the room who had never heard a rachni queen before. Ishala raised her hands to her temples, clearly attempting to block the voice.

"Welcome to the first use of a rachni-built FTL comm device in over two thousand years," Dara said, smiling faintly, and glancing off to the side, as if looking at someone . . . off-camera. "Like everything else they do, it's biotic. It has to be. Otherwise, they couldn't _communicate_ with each other. Let me start by saying that anything Dances, who is with you, today, hears and sees? _We_ hear and see." She folded her arms across her chest. She appeared to be speaking out loud, but everyone in the room heard her as if she were a native speaker of his or her own base language. Samiel heard her in turian, but he knew, somehow, that Melaani heard Dara in high-tongue. And there was a also a faintly choral quality to her voice, as if she, too, sang.

_And we are deep listeners,_ Joy added, softly. _The more so, when all of our hive may reach to one another, sing together. Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight now sings with all the voices of my hive. Including mine. He is the lens, the focus, of my __attention__. Hear our songs._

A deep sense of absolute discomfort and consternation from most of the asari, at those silent words.

Dara looked around, and shook her head. "I have rarely heard, incidentally, such a mishmash of misinformation, superstition, and outright lies, as I have just heard through Dances. . . not to mention what I've been grappling with, in terms of the _lack_ of information in asari space on your own genome. It has, as far as I can tell, been suppressed. The information on male asari is better in the past seven years, since the Lina Vasir incident, but even so, most of that data derives from clinics on Sur'Kesh and Mannovai. Places where _shamed_ families took their children to have the males gelded and the hermaphrodites 'reconstructed,' outside of asari space, where there would be no records."

"_What has this to do with __anything__—" _Ishala began to bluster.

Joy's massive head swung up, but the rachni queen didn't rise. She didn't need to She loomed in everyone's mind, and sang, with careful deliberation, _You will listen to my mother's words, cold-song asari. You will listen, and you may even learn._

Dara waited for a moment, to ensure that there would be silence. "Let me start by saying that none of what I'm about to tell you would be possible without the DNA I obtained from Samiel Viridian and from Ylara Alir's adopted _son_, Sisu Alir." For those who heard her in high-tongue, the galactic word _son_ interposed itself, gracefully. "I used a variety of controls, including DNA samples from Siara Tesala, Azala Tesala, Melaani T'soa, Ylara and Telluura Alir, and a variety of other asari techs and Spectres on base here, as well as referring to the _scant_ literature available on the subject, _and_, I have to add, the _treasure-trove_ of information derived from a Tears of the Moon operation we just shut down, that was experimenting, illegally and unethically, on a number of asari with 'birth-defects.'"

There was a sense of dark glee about the human female now, as if a smile continuously lurked behind the stoic turian medical mask. But her eyes scanned off to the side again, as if listening to something, or someone, in the distance. "Now, I think that every asari in this conversation will agree, there's a genetic component to biotics, correct? Which abilities you find easiest to master is, in part, a function of your genes."

"_Correct_," Ylara supplied. _"Even in humans, this appears to be the case. It is why Madison Dempsey, no matter how many times various people on base have shown him, cannot seem to shape a singularity. Why his __father__ cannot charge effectively. Some of it is training, and some of it is . . . innate."_

Dara's smile widened. "So, we agree. And the evidence is there, researched and documented, if thinly, for a few thousand years, showing that some families tend to produce adepts, and some families tend to produce people with very minimal biotics, and some families. . . produce _ardat-yakshis_."

"_What does one have to do with the other?"_ Laessia asked, impatiently.

"I'm so glad you asked," Dara replied. "We'd taken the liberty of verifying the Justicar's definition of an ardat-yakshi before Samiel and the others arrived on Tortuga. It's rather a messy definition. I'm somewhat surprised you don't try ducking them in water to see if they float, or putting a silver crucifix against their skin as a testing procedure." Her tone had a certain amount of irony to it. "In the end, it boils down to three things: killing while mating, and the documented use of two mental abilities. Domination and Reave. Reave and warp, same ability, different names. Artificial distinction, whether you rend material slowly or quickly. The really damning ability is the _domination._ If it were just reave, then _every asari Spectre_ would be an _ardat-yakshi, _wouldn't they?" For a moment, her word-choice and speed had become almost salarian.

Dara paused and went on, carefully. Studiously. "The _reave_ ability is actually well-documented as to where it occurs on the forty-fourth asari chromosome." But there's a sense to her, like a child bursting with a secret, too. "But let me back up just a little. You see, in humans, there is a gene cluster that we call the SRY segment. This section of the chromosome is what actually makes a human male, a human male. It's one of the fastest-evolving portions of the human genome, I might add. Males are, in many ways, the engines of our evolution." She grinned. "Tell _that_ to anyone who wants to perpetuate the knuckle-dragging Neanderthal stereotype, eh? So. . . yes, there's the XY versus the XX arrangement, but in individuals who are chromosomally male, or XY, if that cluster is _androgen-insensitive_? They express, phenotypically, as female. In humans, they tend to have fertility problems, tend to have heavier musculature than other females, but they are, in almost every way, _female_. They have breasts. They have vaginas. They're _not_ hermaphrodites. They just happen to have the genes for maleness, but don't express them."

"_I trust there is a point to this?"_ Samara asked, dryly.

"Yes. There is." Dara said, bouncing lightly on her toes, again with a faint glance to the side, as if responding to someone unseen. _"_Asari do not have an XY chromosomal arrangement that determines maleness. Every asari, even the male ones, even the hermaphrodites, is XX. But there is a corresponding segment of your forty-fourth chromosome set that is also 'androgen-sensitive.' Well, in your case, emerogen. The hormone responsible for aggressive behavior in asari. Your general equivalent to testosterone, which also regulates emotional states." Dara smiled, delighted to have uncovered a part of the puzzle. "So, this single cluster of genes, if one gene in the cluster happens to be emerogen-sensitive? Makes the XX, SRY-possessing asari express as male, in some degree or another."

Ishala had paled, and shook her head now, with increasing vehemence. The sense roiling off of her, suddenly, was of horror. _"This is not of interest to us,"_ she said, sharply, however. _"This has nothing to do with the reason why we are here. We are here for the __ardat-yakshi__—"_

"Oh, but this has everything to do with the ardat-yakshi," Dara replied, and her grin faded, turned into a leashed, icy kind of anger that was very, very turian indeed. "Ten percent of your population has that SRY cluster. Ten percent. You may recall that I noted that reave is actually fairly well documented? That it's on the forty-fourth chromosome? It's actually linked to that SRY cluster." She paused, and folded her arms across her chest again. "I would like to note that _only_ asari with that cluster ever have that reave or warp ability. Everyone in the room who can reave, please raise your hand. Oh, all of you, except Kishara Laos?" She paused. "Yes. I did mention earlier that _every single asari Spectre has that ability_, but it's exceptional, right? Only ten percent of you have even the potential to have that highly destructive capability. Because only ten percent of asari have the SRY cluster that it's usually attached to." Dara's voice had become almost. . . silky. The human Spectre was stalking her prey, and her prey was the truth. "So, every single one of you currently standing in this room, except for Kishara Laos, but for one gene not being sensitive to emerogen, could have been born some variant of male or hermaphrodite."

Consternation. Outrage. Ishala spluttered. _"We are not __abominations__! We are not not-shes! These are __lies__, and I will not stand for this—_"

"No, and Siara Tesala already tried to punch me for this, thank you very much. No, you're not functionally male. You have the genes for it, but you don't express it. And clearly, you're capable of reproducing. Samara has the gene cluster, but had three daughters. You're _carriers_, nothing more." Dara's tone was very dry now. "Ylara has the gene cluster, and has had two. Laessia V'soa has the gene cluster, and had one _son_. The SRY cluster doesn't affect your fertility or your femininity, unless you _also_ happen to also be emerogen-sensitive."

Samara's expression was _horrified._ Ylara clearly winced, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose. _"Dr. Jaworski, you couldn't have told us this __before__ we set down on this rock?"_ Meshara looked down at herself in consternation, Laessia shook, and Melaani, rocked, took deep, calming breaths. She had an inkling that quite a bit of Dara's message here was being stage-managed. She knew Dara's tells. Had helped the human manage the Growth Zero ecoteurs on Arvuna, by directing the female's facial expressions and tones, off-stage. Dara wasn't a natural actress, so some of the outrage and the anger was her own. A lot of it was. But she was also being asked to push buttons. By a higher-ranking Spectre.

"No, I couldn't Ylara, and I'm sorry for that. I've been going through the genetics from the captives of the Tears for confirmation. I'm right about this, Ylara. And I have a hell of a lot more to say here, too." Dara's expression took on a regretful cast, as she looked directly at Ylara. Silent communication, some sort of a sub-band within the rachni harmonies. Samiel couldn't hear what was sung to Ylara, but the senior asari Spectre _closed her eyes._

Dara looked at the rest of them, and began to speak again. Clearly, remorseless, calmly. "So, ten percent of your population has the _potential_ to be male, but only about one percent _of_ that ten percent have the single gene that is activated by emerogen.." She looked around at the discomfited asari, and her expression turned grimmer. "Let's take this a step further. Let's look at another ability, genetically linked to the SRY cluster. Empathy. It's in Samiel Viridian's genes. It's in Sisu Alir's genes. And in the genes of at least half the captives we released from the Tears of the Moon compound on Niacal two days ago."

Ishala's head had snapped up again. Dara continued, relentlessly, "According to your literature, scarce as it is, empathy, when it appears as a freak talent, is solely associated with _abominations_, and I'm not even going to get into the fact that _aizala_ gives you all precisely this ability, or at least, a greater degree of it than usual. _Abominations_ in this context seems to be _males_, yes? So, we know it has a history, and we know it's been expressed, and it only comes along with the SRY genetic cluster. Want to guess what the third ability that's often linked to the SRY cluster is?" The human's expression had long since lost all humor, all amusement. Just bleak determination now. "Domination. I had Lystheni data to fall back on here. The salarians who used genetic coding from asari _ardat-yakshi_ to encode the ability into their own biotic packages through gene modification. Every single Lystheni corpse I've examined that had the domination ability, _also_ had some variant on the SRY cluster tied neatly into salarian DNA."

Dara paused, and looked around at the Spectres and the Justicars and everyone else in the room. "So," she told them, her tone now absolutely calm, "you can see the implications. I'm sure that Ishala T'kir over there understands them very well indeed. The SRY trait cluster that _all_ of you share—is what allows an asari to be male. The SRY trait cluster is _also_ responsible for reave, domination, and empathy. It is a cluster that is as apt to evolve as the human SRY cluster, which certainly explains why every single asari Spectre—every last one of whom has this set of traits—has unique biotic abilities largely unknown to other asari. The traits became associated, as far as I can tell by chromosomal mapping, over fifty thousand years ago, and it probably gave your variant of bipedal life on Thessia an undeniable advantage over the other, solely monogendered subspecies of asari that you subsequently out-competed and out-bred. Like humans out-competed and out-bred Neanderthals." Dara paused. "You subsequently found males, rare though they are, to be dangerous because they were so often affiliated with the _ardat-yakshi_ to be dangerous. _Ardat-yakshi_ were found to be dangerous, because they can kill while mating and, for a trait to exist and continue, it must have some _beneficial _effect, correct? Such as how the genes for sickle cell anemia in humans, if not fully expressed, also protect us from malaria?" Dara's expression was remote. "When an _ardat-yakshi_ is locked into the mind of another asari at the moment of death, the energies they absorb change can change genetic structure. Just as Elijah Sidonis was changed and altered when he was in a sharing state with Kella Alir at the moment of her death. And that. . . I'm so sorry, Ylara. But Kella's ability to remove my awareness of myself? The one that scared the living _s'kak_ out of me when we were kids. . . it was a form of domination, wasn't it, Ylara? A mild form, but a form, nonetheless." Compassion there. Deep, pained, anguished compassion.

Ylara nodded her head, minutely. Dara swallowed, and went on. "I checked her DNA samples that were still on file, Ylara. She. . .never used it, but she had the gene for reave. She was totally uninterested in fighting or combat. She refused to develop that skill, any more than she'd learned to hold a pistol. She was one of the gentlest souls I've ever known. She never shared herself with anyone. . . before the very end." Dara's voice was hushed. "But she could have shared herself with Eli, and untrained as she was, she could have killed him. She didn't. She had it the SRY cluster. She had domination. She had reave, which she didn't use. And she had the ability to reach out and alter Eli, the one time they shared." Dara looked around. "So. . . Kella altered Eli, right at the moment of her death. Activated his latent genes. Scrambled them in sharing, with all the force of a mind strained to its breaking point." She took a deep breath. "Even Siara's pain/pleasure thing? The ability to lock someone in place with either agony or ecstasy? I asked her if she _could_ make someone enjoy it as she detonated a reave inside their bodies. And after she finished throwing half the furniture in my office at me, she admitted that she _could_ do it. But that she never would." Dara's face was sad now. "She's another one, technically. It's not really _domination_, but Siara's just as much a 'demon' as anyone else. Break out the chains folks, but I don't recommend trying to take her in."

The room was absolutely _silent_. Dara sighed. "But. . . .I've gotten off track. Right now, we're talking about the evolutionary advantage to the _ardat-yakshi_. They could hunt down the strongest biotic traits and try to take them for themselves, and for their off-spring. Eventually, they probably got a little out of control, and they _and the males_ that they were connected to, genetically, had to be controlled. Contained. And so you've been, culturally, bent on a form of genetic cleansing ever since. No males. No _ardat-yakshis_. Because _they're the same thing_."

She leaned against Joy-Singer's massive forelimbs, as the queen looked down at her. "Here's the dirtiest piece of the truth, right here," Dara told the absolutely, profoundly silent room. "Every single one of you in this room, right now, with the exception of Kishara Laos, has the genetic potential to be male. And the genetic potential to be an _ardat-yakshi_, or birth one, or, hell, you've already birthed one. You are _all_ ardat-yakshi, of one sort or another. The Justicars, if they were going to be _thorough_ about their little pogrom, would need to lock you all up. Oh, wait. I mean, they should lock _themselves_ up, too. And all the asari Spectres, while they're at it." She paused. "You all have part of the genetic package, but only _one_ person in the room has _all_ of the recessive traits. One perfect _ardat-yakshi_."

Instantly, Laessia, Ishala, Kishara, Samara, and even Ylara looked at Meshara. Melaani did not. She turned and looked directly where Dara next pointed. "Samiel Viridian. Male. Empath. Reave. Domination. Oh, incidentally? I think that the _empathy_ trait that you all consider to be freakish is what _keeps_ someone from winding up being a killing machine. It's extremely difficult to be a sociopath, I would think, when you can feel your victim as if they were yourself." Dara's voice hardened once more. "Lina Vasir? The 'male' who attacked the Spectre base seven years ago? Whose attack, by the bye, was the reason why Kella died? We have his/her DNA samples on file. I took a good long look at them. Hermaphrodite, almost a full male. Reave. Domination, expressed as a despair ability that dropped half our base to the fucking ground. _He_ was an _ardat-yakshi_ that _you Justicars_ never went after, because he never killed anyone in bed." That was a flat-out accusation, directed right at the Justicars, Dara's eyed narrow. "Simply because he never 'shared himself.' He was convinced that no one would want a 'freak' like him. But he also lacked the vital genes for empathy that Samiel here possesses." She paused. I'd love to get a look at Meshara's genes, by the by. To see if she has empathy, or just plain _self-control_."

She paused again, and another flicker of a glance, off to the side. As if being guided by an unheard voice. "You have a great many truths to face, and these are the truths of science, not of belief or myth or anything else. They're subject to evidence, analysis, and verification, and yes, I _will_ be publishing my results in a scientific journal. Here's one more for you. If all of _you_ can control your abilities, then _yes_, most other _ardat-yakshi_—in our properly expanded definition of the word—can control their abilities, too. The ones who kill? Have either not been trained, or simply didn't _choose_ to do so."

"You can't publish this!" Ishala exclaimed. "It will ruin so many lives! You cannot _do_ this! We will _stop_ you. We will discredit you!"

"There is no force in the universe that is capable of stopping me from doing so," Dara told her, from between clenched teeth. "My results will be published, and any number of human and salarian and turian scientists will review them, and the light of truth is going to _break_ over your sorry ass. You want to stop me? I am a Spectre. I am a scientist. I am a _rachni queen_. Come get some, you cold-song bitch."

Melaani, in the meantime, had simply dropped to her knees, burying her face in her hands. She was. . . laughing. . . but it was the kind of laughter that sounds suspiciously close to tears, great, wracking chortles. _"Oh. . . Goddess. . . "_ she finally said, as Dances let the biotic transmission end. _"Oh, Goddess, if you exist, you surely have a sense of humor. . . "_ She lifted her head, and just for an instant, glanced at Samiel. A half a dozen things, flooding out of her, just as quickly controlled. A hint of concern, almost fear—no, apprehension—affection, rueful appreciation of irony. . . and then all she said, briefly, was, "_Saerila and Linaia. . . oh Goddess. . . . "_ And she once she buried her face to laugh in that wrenching fashion.

Samara has dropped to her knees, too, and looked almost inclined to throw up. _"Oh Goddess,"_ she murmured, numbly. "_What have I done? What have I done? Oh Goddess, please, no, what have I done. . . .?"_

In the wake of Dara's world-shattering discoveries Samiel was left standing, isolated, in the dead center of the room. Though Jaworski's findings on asari genetics, and the nature of _ardat-yakshis_, had shaken him, he didn't have deep enough a cultural connection to asari society for it to hit him as deeply as it had the others. And though he felt the cold, icy spray of shock acutely at the pronouncement that he was the _perfect__ ardat-yakshi_ . . . another part of his mind was not surprised, at all. Less than a month ago, he had begun to wonder at his own genetics, and if he carried some of the _ardat-yakshi_ genes. How very, awfully right he had been.

Standing there, he turned a slow circle. Numb. Most of the asari were dealing with their own horror at the breakthrough; Samara in particular radiated a guilt-grief so palpable that she might not permit herself to survive the night. Meshara was as stunned as anyone. And Melaani, laughter that might well have been sobs wracking her body . . . .

_Spirits of air and darkness_. The words were sharp-edged in his mind, cutting through the haze as he looked at her. _I could have killed you this morning_.

_Is that what other __ardat-yakshi__feel? Is that what __Meshara__ feels? _ With crystal-clarity, the empath knew that he couldn't have handled that guilt, and shook at the _strength_ it would take to go on after an accident like that.

Ishala, however, her eyes wide, had been plainly thinking, furiously. . . . and her eyes finally came to rest on Samiel. _"You're the cause of all of this,"_ she finally snarled . . . and tabbed her stealth net, vanishing from sight. The swirling vortex that made it hard for Nameless to _listen_ to her, occludes even the rachni's battle-vision. There was a twenty foot diameter haze of red in battle-vision in which she _could_ be, as she moved through the room. . .

As Ishala vanished, Kishara snarled, _"To me!_" and _pulled_ Meshara to her feet, the two of them, reflexively, after centuries spent together, going into a back-to-back defensive posture, pulling up their overlapping barriers. Two parts of the same whole, the light twin and the dark.

Samiel raised his head, too slow, too dull, grey eyes meeting Ishala's for only a scant second, and then she was _gone_, and the despair hit him. Despair was the Justicar's version of domination. Just as Lina Vasir had wielded, before her. The numb realization that the matriarch Justicar, hunter of _ardat-yakshi_, was probably one herself, didn't help.

The revelation that he _was_ _ardat-yakshi_, the shock and horror and guilt and grief that pounded against his empathy from all sides, the sickening pall of entropy that oozed from the stealthed Justicar, all beat against the not-she's resolve, which had already been worn down to dry white bone. His legs buckled; his armored knees sank into the soft grass as he collapsed to a kneeling position, eyes wide and face pale. Ishala, he distantly knew, was coming for him.

He remembered his fervent prayer that morning, when he had woken up beside Melaani. _ Just make it fast . . . ._

Siege saw Samiel drop to his knees, his head bowed. And responded, instantly, trilling at Composite in machine-code.

_IDENTITYSTRING: CROWD-245__  
__StartMessage OUT:__  
__Priority: Samiel Viridian TAGGED 'Battle-brother' incapacitated. Assumed mental stressors have caused temporary instability.__  
__ALERT: Ishala T'kir TAGGED aggressor has initiated hostile action - Target: Samiel Viridian TAGGED 'Battle-brother'__  
__Moving to interdict__  
__Please assume defensive position for Laos Twins__  
__:EndMessage OUT_

Smoothly, Composite moved to take Siege's place by the Laos twins, even as the crimson platform threw himself forward. Optics swept the ground as he strained to locate T'kir's footprints in the gravel underfoot, one of the telltale signs that even the best stealth generator couldn't hide. Reaching Samiel, Siege's blade and bulwark flashed into brilliant light once again, the geth standing fully over the asari brood warrior's near-collapsed form.

Optics couldn't locate the asari Justicar, and the static she was causing in the platform's biotic transceiver wasn't helping at all . . . that is, until one of the associated runtimes suggested a novel use of the device. _Static interference increases the closer we are to Ishala T'kir. Triangulation of position possible._

The platform started to shift side to side on his feet, still keeping Samiel underneath as it did so. He could feel the static of the Justicar's aura change ever so slightly as it moved, giving it a chance to lock down her position—

Internal alarms _screamed_ as the biotic static spiked sharply, going from a constant background white-noise to a shrill scream of charging potential. The platform ducked down, left arm sweeping into Samiel and _throwing_ the male bodily out of the way as his right arm thrust around and forward . . . catching the crackling energies of what Ishala thought to be her surprise reave attack right on his hand. The sundering energies tore into Siege's arm with the shrieking of tearing metal, fingers _disintegrating_ as gravitic stresses ripped down the platform's wrist and arm. Synthetic muscle was torn away almost without resistance, only the titanium bones and armor plating of Siege's forearm surviving the attack as the energies finally expended themselves halfway down to the platform's elbow.

Melaani, her attention caught in spite of her wracking laughter, affected by the pure aura of despair radiating off of the Justicar's body, had looked up at the words _You're the cause of this. . . _and registered two things. The direction in which T'kir was looking, and the vacant, accepting, dead expression on Samiel's face. She moved, instantly, for Samiel, moving at the same time as Siege, but coming in from the same general direction as T'kir, she simply couldn't move fast enough before the attack came. Siege swung Samiel out of the way, taking the biotic attack from stealth on his arm, removing the hand and shredding the synthetic flesh, spraying the entire area with the geth analogue of blood. Melaani skidded through the shower of white fluids, and actually threw her armored form over Samiel, locking her arms around him, and then biotically hurled both of them into the far corner of the garden, getting their backs against a wall.

With them out of the way, Mercuria, hissing audibly and clearly _very_ angry, held out her left hand, and computed rapidly for angle, distance, and the likely amount of space T'kir could have traveled in the seconds since the asari had destroyed Siege's arm, and recloaked. Cyrogenic compounds poured out of her hand like frozen fog, in a wide area, Mercuria moving forward with implacable steps, canvassing the garden. Frost formed on the Twin's armor, as they stood their, barriers almost visible even into the regular spectrum of light. . . but, suddenly, the outline of a different female form appeared, rendered visible by the attack. Instantly, Mercuria held up her _other_ hand, and electrical energies coruscated out of it, arcing towards and striking T'kir's veiled form, tearing at her shields, collapsing them . . . _"You all right?"_ she asked, Siege, tightly, in turian, out of reflex.

"_We are damaged, but combat-worthy—" _

And at _that_ moment, Laessia struck, pulling that blade of energy and, moving in a blur directly for the other Justicar, threw that blade formed of space-time directly at the female—and T'kir's own _barrier_ detonated, imploding in on her like a star collapsing. T'kir snarled and tore at Laessia's own barrier, but the energies warped even as she did so, not simply dissipating, but ejecting out and _back_ at her, like a coronal mass ejection. And then moment, Laessia was _on_ her enemy, landing on her, knocking her to the ground. T'kir _threw_ her, with massive biotic force. . . and Laessia flipped, effortlessly, landing in a crouch on the ceiling. . .

. . . as the blade that wasn't a blade rematerialized _behind_ T'kir's unprotected form and came _back_ to Laessia's hand.

Through T'kir's body.

The result could be _felt_ but not seen, by every biotic. The shearing waves of gravity experienced at the edge of a black hole had just torn through T'kir's body, and she actually fell to the ground. Bifurcated. No blood. No entrails. Just a perfect, seamless, divided corpse.

And the entire fight had taken less than five seconds.

Samiel had been nearly unresponsive at first, and only barely managed to, weakly, break his rough skid across the grass. And then everything happened at once...

Melaani crashed into him, covering his body with hers while she wrapped her arms around him and _threw_ them both to one of the garden's stone walls, dragging him roughly to his feet as they landed. Clear of the debilitating shroud of entropy, she could feel his limbs struggle to respond and some—not all—of the fight come back to his eyes as his legs bore weight. The two, instinctively, opened their shields to each other once more in preparation for combat, ready to fight as two parts of a whole, seamlessly. Melaani could hear the thought in his mind, _I could have killed you_, repeating over and over.

Every time the metronome of Samiel's thoughts beat out that lone, stunned thought, a dizzy thought from Melaani acknowledged it, rejected it, and redirected it. _You didn't. You wouldn't. Pay attention or we're both going to die! . . . _The last of the daze burned away as Samiel saw Siege, and the damage his battle-brother had taken in protecting the not-she. Samiel made to re-engage even as Melaani's hand snapped out and clamped down on his arm . . . _No, you're not even in armor, you're just going to get yourself killed—_

And then just as quickly as it had begun, Laessia _ended_ the confrontation.

There was utter silence in the garden for perhaps ten seconds, as those who had reacted—and those who hadn't—tried to assimilate what had just happened. Samiel and Melaani, both still shaken in their own ways by Spectre Jaworski's findings, leaned, perhaps not _into_, but _towards_ each other for a heartbeat before they recovered their masks, and withdrew their minds. The perfect synergy of very like talents faded, and, the very last, fleeting thoughts Samiel caught from Melaani's stunned mind were. . . _I don't __feel__ male. . .or much like an __ardat-yakshi__. . . but maybe that's why Linaia came to me so easily. . . _and then she just sat down on the edge of one of the garden's lovely planters and shook for a moment or two, staring at the _very_ dead body of Ishala T'kir.

Samiel moved away from her, looked over at Siege, the hulking platform's arm shredded from intercepting the shot that_ would _have killed Samiel, undisputedly. _Are you all right?_ Unspoken message, clearly received as Siege raised his good hand and Samiel a thumbs-up, nodding once.

Distant voices. Dazed thoughts. Mercuria grabbing Siege's injured arm, muttering rapidly, "Flow gaskets are already stopping the fluid loss. Hand itself. . . total loss. Unacceptable stress fractures to the lower arm substructures. Siege, I don't _stock_ CROWD replacement parks in my cargo-bays, so you have to be more _careful_." She bared her teeth for a moment, and she was talking so fast now, it might as _well_ have been machine-code. "But if you give me schematics, we might be able to micro-fabricate something—there's titanium in the hold, just sitting around unused, and I can have my organics start on it _now_—"

_It is good, that the dissonant sound that __that__ one brought with her, is gone_, Dances admitted, quietly, indicating T'kir's body as Laessia dropped to the ground, lightly. _It was hard to hear her thoughts through it. I could only hear. . . traces. . . of her undersongs. But she sang surprise, several times, when Hidden-Singer sang of those who followed the dark path? And when Sings-Heartsong sang of the captives on the asari planet of jungles and cities, where Sings-Solitude last was. . . the darksong one sang surprise then, too._

For the moment, however, the others were too shaken to really respond to Nameless. Ylara moved over to, gently, put an arm around Samara, whose eyes are still dazed. _"Did I. . . __make__ her. . . ? Did I __create__ the rage, the rebellion? Because her older sisters had killed, I assumed she would, she ran. . . and then she killed. Did I __create__ the monster? Oh Goddess, oh Goddess. . . "_ The usually self-controlled Justicar rocked back and forth, and Ylara very lightly strokes her head, letting the red-clad woman lean against her, for the moment. 

Samiel's attention wandered. Back to the dead Justicar on the ground, who had just tried to _kill_ him. The Justicar Samara was reduced nearly to tears. Laessia seemed almost composed, and for a moment mother and son exchanged a look, their expressions unreadable. The other asari in the room still, even with the adrenaline of combat surging through them all, looked stunned. And with good right.

Their entire society was about to break. Right down the middle.

Samiel cleared his throat, taking a few steps forward, his voice breaking through the silence. He wanted to lay down and _die_, and if he wasn't already on his feet, he probably would have. "_What . . . happens now?"_ He wanted to ask, _What is the penalty for one Justicar killing another to protect an __ardat-yakshi_? but he restrained himself.

Meshara and Kishara looked around for a moment, slowly easing out of their back-to-back posture, before Kishara answered Samiel's question. _"I don't know what happens next, Viridian. Can I assume that my sister isn't going to be facing forced deportation and incarceration this very moment?"_ She looked at Samara, who was incapable of responding, at Ishala's dead form, and then at Laessia, appraisingly.

_"Not this very moment,"_ Laessia told her, standing with her hands at the small of her back.

Meshara crossed now to Samiel, and whispered, _"Are you well, dear one? Are you injured?"_

Immediately, Melaani stood from where she sat, and moved to Ylara. _"We should probably do something about the body,"_ Melaani murmured. _"I can handle that. We'll. . . have the body cremated here, and the remains sent to her family. No one needs to know precisely how she died, yes?"_

Ylara gave her a quick nod, and Melaani, getting a nod from Kishara, stepped out of the garden entirely, vanishing into the gloom of the corridors outside.

Samiel turned to face Meshara, the two _ardat-yakshi_ standing in the open space of the garden, at the center of the others and yet removed, and nodded tiredly at her question. _"I'm fine, fairest. But I want to get out of here._" The emotions in the room were hellishly powerful, almost all negative save for Kishara's _relief_, and every mind was as powerful and vibrant as could be. With his own nerves raw and bleeding, he needed to _anywhere_ else.

And the two desperately needed to talk now that they seemed to have time.

The two exited the garden quietly, melting away from those still gathered. One having been the Order's quarry, and one being a discovered as _ardat-yakshi_ just today—or perhaps a "true" _ardat-yakshi_, or whatever the hell science and history would ultimately choose as a label—their departure was certainly _noticed_ by some parties, but no one argued that they should stay.

Laessia, especially, shot the dark twin a look that could kill. Samiel stared his mother down unflinchingly, and then they rounded the corner and were gone.

In unspoken agreement, they made for Meshara's quarters. The not-she remained silent during their walk, but that really wasn't surprising, given just the last hour. Entering the room, closing the door behind them and after cueing up the counter-espionage suite, Samiel crossed the room and lowered himself absolutely noiselessly to sit at the edge of the bed.

He leaned forward, placing his head in his hands, and the silence drug on for long seconds. Ten seconds. Thirty. A minute. His calloused fingers flexed, digging into the skin of his face, the flesh turning a dark, angry blue where the nails dug in. Meshara felt his mental shielding, which had begun to ease during their walk from the garden, redouble.

Two minutes.

There was no warning. One instant, he was sitting at the edge of Meshara's bed, nearly doubled over, completely withdrawn into himself. And in the next… almost a convulsion, he had sat up as if an electric current had been passed through him, back arched to the physical limit. And he _screamed._

It was the noise an animal might make, or a monster. It stretched out, his body quaking with the fury and pain and frustration and … the spirits only knew what else, as it became a conduit for his anguish. His face turned a dark shade of blue with the intensity of his emotion; when his breath finally ran out, he remained like that, face a twisted, tortured thing.

But not a mask. There were, in this end time, no masks left.

The male-maiden collapsed forward like a puppet whose strings had been cut, one hand reaching out blindly for Meshara's, as a hissing, strangled noise limped through bared teeth. And his mental barriers collapsed—_all_ of them.

Meshara had, warily, remained standing, a few feet from Samiel, hands lifted very slightly, as if she were preparing to, very cautiously, approach and defuse something made of unstable high explosives. . . and when he actually _screamed_, she jerked back slightly, her eyes wide, her hands opening and closing in total, uncharacteristic uncertainty. . . and she remained frozen, exactly thus, until she saw his hand reach out for hers. She caught it, immediately, pressing the fingers as tightly as she could, as if to reassure through pressure alone that she was _here_. _"Fair-one_," she whispered, softly, _"this is not __fine__. This is not in the least __fine__. What have they __done__ to you?" _

Six months of experiences hit her then, six months that were as filled with life-experience as decades of her own. The exodus from Tortuga, the brief stint on whatever strange world the Spectres called their home base. Meeting the Spectres' _children_. Working with Sisu, Ylara's adoptive son. The boy's solemn promise to be as good a male as Samiel was. How deeply that had shaken him, his self-image.

Cleaning up the remainder of the batarian chipping facilities for the Spectres. Going in, disguised as a slave, enduring the abuse of the guards. Getting the information needed, paving the way for the others to descend, using his biotics in this facility or that one. Dominating a guard. Dominating _all_ of the guards in an area, redirecting their attentions. Deflecting them, like a fencer redirects a hit, except . . . these were arrows of attention, and they came from all sides. Miss even a single one, and the whole game was up. His life was over. The lives of the captives they were there to free. No matter that Dances could catch his moment of panic and _jump_ to him from a mile away—missing even _one_ guard's arrow of attention meant _someone would die._

A brief break, no more than a day or two, and then Siege and Dances were scooped up for a different mission. One so dangerous neither of them could talk to him about it. Strain of separation. Wondering why he hadn't been tapped for this dangerous mission. Where in the name of the spirits it could be—it had to be somewhere in batarian space, but why not take _him_? Why not have him fight at the sides of his battle-brothers? They were more together than the mere sum of their parts, and the Spectres had to know it.

Instead, Ylara Alir's face, sober, serious. _"I've been looking into how the batarians have captured so __many__ asari_. _Have been looking into it, with Melaani T'soa's help, for months now, in between other assignments. You might say it's a little personal with me. How they've gotten ahold of __lia'mellea__ stocks, like what they used on Spectre Tesala and myself on Omega. It's a little personal with me, that they stabbed me with one of their leucotomes, and nearly lobotomized me. All I lost. . . was an eye." She'd tapped the lightly-scarred lid; the prosthetic had long since been replaced with a regrown orb, from stem-cell treatments. "How, precisely, they've managed to capture entire luxury liners with thousands of asari at a time on them. The group that Meshara and Kishara Laos' mother helped to found? The Moons of Luisa? We've found that there's a splinter faction within them. We're not sure if the matriarch, the Laos' mother, has anything to do with this splinter faction. . . in fact, we dearly hope she does not. Because this faction, the so-called Tears of the Moon, seems to be involved in species purity in some rather unsavory ways. To the point where we suspect they might actually have turned over flight manifests to batarian agents. Schedules. Routes. Perhaps even __lia'mellea__ stocks, and __aizala__. The question is __why.__"_

Then the actual work on Niacal. The grinding daily humiliation of subsuming himself back into the hated role. Of being Saerila, the sweet young thing. Of deflecting Ashala's attentions, or making her believe young Saerila had shared more than she had. Playing the spy game, and feeling his carefully constructed personality dissolve, like salt in the sea. Of realizing the _fragility_ of that persona, how it seemed like such a thin patina over the uncertainty, the old ways, that were. . . so. . .easy. . . to return to . . .

And yet, how easy the work itself became, when he stopped seeing the targets as people. Just pawns. Grey-voices.

The look in Ylara's eyes. She'd _seen_ it in him. Concern. Deep and almost motherly, except Ylara was not Laessia. Any comparison was laughable. And then she shifted the disguise. Placed Melaani with him in an almost transparent bid to stabilize him. He could have been insulted, but just. . . gratitude, at first. Melaani's _daring_, the proposal to turn the obsession that the Tears of the Moon had with _ardat-yakshi_ against them. . . Samiel's _fury_ at her, how he'd had to resist the urge to strike her, as if she had insulted Meshara, his fair one, directly. Had reduced all _ardat-yakshi_ to nothing more than the cutout of which he'd spoken. . . and then her, playing the role. Almost perfectly. And then the fatal evening, where, to protect himself, he'd. . . played the part himself.

_Played an __ardat-yakshi _/ _the __**perfect**____ardat-yakshi _/ _we were perfect __ardat-yakshi__ / we're __all__ futarri __ardat-yakshi__ / we were so perfect together. . . _

_Days and nights. Melaani laughing under her breath as she told him, "I'm going to record this, and I can program in variables, so the VI will change the repetition of the sounds, shift the pitch of the voices, so it doesn't sound, on the bug, like they're listening to a recording every night. And this way, we don't have to, well, provide a performance every night."_ _Quick, rueful roll of her eyes, almost an apology for the discomfort. "So rock that bed like you mean it, Viridian, this is for __posterity.__" She inclined the microphone input of her omnitool at him. "Also, stop laughing. Remember, incestuous __ardat-yakshi__ sisters were __your__ idea." A quick grin at his dark look. "All right. The __incestuous__ bit was mine. But the laughing isn't helping. Perform, Viridian, so we don't have to go through this every damned night. Make them think the paint peels back from the walls in here."_

_"Are you sure someone was watching?" Whisper in the ear, as lips broke from a kiss in a doorway, where they'd taken cover, for an instant. "They could have been."__ "You're not __sure__?" "Better safe than sorry, yes?" "Then they still could be." "Yes, but now we're whispering __secrets__. Dark secrets that would damn any who knew them." Quick, wicked smile.. _

But in between the laughter had been the very real tension, the very real fear, the very real possibility that if they were separated, even for an instant, one or the other of them could be captured. Taken. Tortured. Revealed for who and _what_ they really were. Killed, or worse, experimented upon. An even more real possibility for Samiel, than for Melaani. Relying on each other. Trusting each other. Constant, light sharing, but always the blocks, always the boundaries, always the borders, because he had a nameless, faceless _marai'ha'sai_ to protect, who _was _an _ardat-yakshi_, and he couldn't let Melaani in, and she was trying to respect that. . . .

. . . until the letter came. Until the nameless, faceless person had both again, and Melaani stopped _being. . . _anything. Just the black void where _light_ had been. . . . realization. The jungle mission. The _spirits-be-damned __aizala__. Knowing_ each other, _understanding _each other _oh spirits, so perfect / we were so perfect / I could have killed her._ . .

Meshara slid closer. Wrapped her arms around him, bewildered by the torrent of images. Fitting them together, piece by piece, like a jigsaw, matched them with the Spectre outside . . . the Spectre she'd almost completely overlooked, because of the fear and the reality of her circumstances. Anyone who wasn't an enemy, could _wait_. And that one, in particular, had been . . . not there. . . and then, suddenly, _there_, in a way that had jarred Meshara when the female had finally spoken. Had intervened with Samiel's mother, gently, respectfully. Had been ready to throw herself forward to take Samiel out of the range of Ishala, out of the range of the turrets. . . had finally thrown him, and herself, out of range of T'kir's deadly wrath. . . and who had. . .

. . . _walked away . . ._

Oh, my fair-one, why is _your_ _fair-one is not here, comforting you_, _is she so unsharing that she cannot give of herself to you when you have need of her—_

_. . . when Meshara had approached Samiel_. _. ._

Meshara's eyes closed. She couldn't _know_ what was in the maiden's mind. Couldn't know if the Spectre feared death in Samiel's embrace, couldn't know if she was repulsed by the idea of an _ardat-yakshi_, of _being, _genetically, a kind of _ardat-yakshi_ herself, couldn't know anything, except that Samiel's hurt was so deep, it felt like an abscess draining. So she rocked him a little, and rested her head against his, lightly sharing, and tried, desperately, to make _something_ better.

The silence stretched on from the empath for… a long time, as Meshara just rocked the young maiden in the darkness. It wasn't his consciousness that had collapsed this time, not his psyche dissolving in the wake of the _aizala_ overdose reacting with his empathy. This was more base, and in a very real way more _normal_.

He hadn't known how to express anything that he'd wanted to tell her, about Niacal, or Sisu, or the missions, or . . . Melaani. Or his panicked worry for Meshara's own safety. And then his mother, and Dara's words, and the lingering effects of Ishala's hellish aura. And his fragile self-control had finally given way and the not-she, unable to bend, had finally snapped.

Time passed as he leaned against her. Resting. Reconstituting, in a way he hadn't even been able to with Melaani because of gnawing _guilt_. And when he finally spoke, voice so quiet as if afraid he would disturb the shadows of the room, Melaani was the first thing he addressed. "_It doesn't anger you at __all__, what grew between her and I?"_

Meshara actually gave him a slightly blank look at the question. "_Fair one, why __would__ it anger me? I had no hold on you, save affection and gratitude, and these are not manacles."_

She felt it rising up from the depths, as sure a sign as any that this was still _Samiel_, and that he would recover: irritation and indignation. _"__Why__," _he began, his voice maybe just a bit of a growl_, "does __everyone__ assume I understand asari culture?"_

She kissed him very lightly on the forehead. "_Because, my dear one, you __are__ asari. No matter how deeply you deny it."_

"_I could have killed her this morning, Meshara. We were so close, and I had no __futarri__ idea. . . "_

"_I know, fair-one. I know."_ The elder _ardat-yakshi_ stared into the darkness. Hesitating. Debating what she could or should speak here. Uncertainty cutting like a blade.

Again, silence for a time, until he gradually found the strength to ease away from her, sitting up but still holding on to one hand. "_What do we do now?"_ He wasn't referring to the two of them, he was referring to the entire asari race. "_Jaworski is going to make good on her promise. I… don't think she should suppress the information, but it __will__ crack asari society right down the middle."_

Meshara could see years, centuries unrolling before her eyes in the darkness. Many of those days and nights, spent in this room. Or another quiet room, just like it. A cell, a self-imposed one, a monastery of the mind. Oh, she'd had far more freedom in the exile that she and Kishara had chosen to share, than in the monastery in which she'd have been entombed, on Thessia, the whole planet a tomb now. . . . but still this room had been her self-imposed prison. And now, she could almost _sense_ that same prison's bars folding down to wrap around her young one, her fair one. . . and she could not abide it. She picked up the hand that cradled her own, and _looked_ at it. Larger than her own, blunt-tipped, calloused fingers, clean skin. So few scars. So damnably young.

Meshara sighed, and kissed the palm of his hand, and said, gently, _"Fair-one. . . '__ardat-yakshi'__ is still, in the end, only a word. What I believe the young human doctor wanted us to understand. . . though her lesson was none-too-sweetly spoken. . . is that labels limit. Definitions demarcate. There is no monastery, no prison, that could hold all of us with the genes. Ten percent of the population, including some of the most exceptional individuals __in__ the whole?"_ She laughed, softly. _"The Justicars served a purpose, once. But in their unbending adherence to a code so ancient, it did not keep pace with learning, with knowledge, with changes to society. . . they lost their way, I think. And so they confined themselves to the letter of the code, to the letter of the __word__. And that word, itself, became a prison. A way to think of others. A way to think of. . . ourselves." _She kissed his palm again. _"Do not let that word be a prison for you, fair-one._"__

So careful, so deliberate with words. Always _sai'kaea_, not _sai'kaea'yili_, no possessive. She was also using the term without its emphasis. Careful not to say _eternally-fair, ever-fair_, which, with its root of _sai_, it can mean. Never _marai'ha'sa_i, which he had used, towards her, several times. In its literal translation, _more-than-fair_. The declaration that _you are the one for me._ A singular mate. But also. . . _always-first_ or even, more poetically, _one-soul-in-two-bodies_.

When push had come to shove, and T'kir had moved to attack? Meshara and Kishara had, as they had for _centuries_, opened their minds to each other. Locked their barriers together, a seamless whole. Always and forever sister-fairs. Born in the same hour, Kishara had come through flames to save her sister. Had given up all hope of a normal life for her twin. Meshara had devoted herself to her sister, in return. Hundreds of years, spent, growing together. Oh, Kishara had fair-ones in plenty. Meshara felt no desire for her sister's flesh. But they were what they were. One soul in two bodies. If either of them were ever fortunate enough to become a first-mother, before they were too old to do so? They would probably raise that child themselves. A fair-one would be loved. . . .but how could any fair-one, however much loved, possibly compete with six hundred years of always being first with one another?

Meshara sighed, and tried to give her fair-one the gift of words. Of insight. _"I do not think that you would have killed her. I do not think you capable of it. I . . . "_ Meshara's ages-old guilt roiled up inside of her, and she knew he could feel it. . . "_I had never trained for __battle__. I had trained in biotics. The play of the mind, pure theory. That first time, all I could think was how much I wished to be . . . little-within. Encompassed. I put my mind inside of hers. I put my __will__ inside of hers. And I put my __power__ into her, as she was putting hers to me, to light the nerves, to give pleasure. . . and it was, it __was__. . . "_ She couldn't stop the flow of memories, and a single tear, old and tired, traced its way down her face. _"How could I know that the thing that I was doing, that she felt such pleasure from, was also her death, as I unknotted her from within?"_ Meshara paused. _"You? You have been trained since you can __remember__ in the ways of battle. You know the knife's edge from the light caress. When you push your will into someone, when you possess them, you are not their dissolution. Nor will you be hers, if you choose to touch her, and if she accepts your touch."_ Meshara's dry, broken rasp held . . . painfully-won wisdom in it. _"I would like to meet her. If she will not run from the mere sight of me."_ A twist of faintly bitter humor there.

It was so hard _not_ to be unsharing. Not to grab at happiness with ungentle hands, and clutch it, greedily. It was hard _not_ to resent the Spectre, just on principle. For her youth—older than Samiel, but still a _maiden_. For her health. For carrying scars that were badges of honor, not of shame. Flickers of Samiel's memory in her, _"Have to be a little careful with necklines. This one here. . . Colossus mech on Lorek. Right through the damned shoulder, had me pinned to a wall like a bug. The scar's almost invisible, but if __I__ see it, someone else might." _"_What about this one, here?" Not touching. Pointing at the fine line along her forearm. "Eh. Idiot boot-camp reject of a turian in a bar when I was undercover with Eclipse. He and a couple of buddies decided we looked like soft marks. . . none of us was in uniform. . . tried to roll us in an alley. He had a drell vibroknife. But I said __idiot__, and I meant it, because the power cell was dead, and he hadn't replaced it. Still sharp, though. But I didn't wind up losing the whole damned arm."_ Laughing, passing it off, although it was clearly a painful memory. Respect growing, flowing between the two. . .

What stories did _she_ have, that weren't born in darkness and raised in shame? Pallid, albino ghosts. And that, too, gave her pause, and reason to envy the Spectre. Melaani was. . . light. She walked in that light, and was proud, and untouched, and unscarred—or just barely—and it was hard not to absolutely _hate_ her. _Is she so shallow, that she has remained untouched by time?_

But she knew, that too, was simply unsharingness speaking. There were other answers beckoning her. Memories of _their_ sharing rushed through her, making her feel slightly guilty; the Spectre hadn't shared these with _her_. . . but there they were. Bitter memories, the death of a first-mother and friends. Self-hatred, as absolute as any _ardat-yakshi_ had ever felt. Subsumation to a role, _because at least the role is better than being who I really am_. A lifetime of masks, just like Meshara. A lifetime of going out and finding information. Meshara had spent _her_ life largely running the information-broker half of the Twins. A matter of survival. Instilling suggestions into people's minds. Luring them in. Making their minds susceptible, and drawing the information from them. Not forced sharing, never that, but. . . taking far more than she gave. Slipping into their minds when they slept, or were entranced by the visions she gave them. Unethical, by asari standards. But necessary, for mere survival.

The Spectre? Had no such innate ability to fall back on. She couldn't force her will into someone. Took a risk with every lie. _Lived_ a lie, as Meshara herself had. Lived _dozens_ of lies, in fact. But went out and did it, over and over again, not for mere survival. But because she thought that protecting other people from those she lied to was far more important than her own personal safety.

_How can I not envy her? How can I not hate her? How can I not. . . admire her?_

Meshara exhaled. Impossible to conceal what she'd drawn from Samiel's quiescent mind. Probably dishonest to conceal her reaction to the knowledge. Because it led her to one inescapable conclusion.

Some of the worry had unknotted itself as he listened to her, the centuries of experience and wisdom shining through clearly as she did nothing more than tell the hard-learned truth. She heard the echoes in his mind at her words, memories from the last several days, _what if I carry some of the __ardat-yakshi__ genes?_ and _I believe I could emulate the ability, if I wanted._ He had _known_ that he could kill as an _ardat-yakshi_, knew exactly how to do so from his time with Meshara and his own growing strength in his abilities. It was an ability to be controlled as any other of his known ways to kill. But the knowledge that he possessed the skill… that was a harder knot to ease. But he did listen to her, and nodded slightly. Even held her, as she spoke of the ancient, painful past.

As their sharing shifted, she could feel him doing it again, listening to her thoughts as she brushed over his memories, looking deeper than she had meant at the ones containing Melaani, and feeling the pall begin to settle over her emotions. As he felt her remember the ancient pain, and begin to compare herself to the Spectre-maiden. Samiel began to fold his own pain in on itself, stowing it back into the recesses of his mind where it was always kept and reaching down into that almost-dry well of tenacity and strength. _Up and at 'em, Viridian, _the weary impulse seemed to say, _the day isn't done._

"_No, fair-one."_ He caught her armored wrists in his hands, turning to face her, and slipped one hand down to hold hers and restore contact. "_You're not doing this to yourself. You're not __comparing__ yourself like this."_ The young features, suddenly so old beneath the Galatana paint, were fierce. As was his mind, full of a conviction that was hot to touch.

It was plainly obvious to Meshara that the male-maiden was still grappling to wrap his turian head around the asari approach to relationships. Hell, it was plainly obvious to Meshara that Samiel was still grappling to wrap his head around what was growing between himself and Melaani. But in front and behind and _through_ all of that was a deep love for the matron, and concern. He wasn't going to sit idly by and listen to her tear her long life down.

"_You haven't just survived, you have __grown__, you've carved a life for yourself in this galaxy despite all the odds. How many stories are told of the demon that killed in alleys, or the one that played the part of the prostitute? How many stories __aren't__ told, of the ones that were unremarkable but still were taken away by the Order, who weren't even strong enough to stand and fight and die rather than be placed in the monastery? Or Goddess, Meshara, how many aren't even known about, who live out their lives never even knowing what they are? You've survived while remaining true to yourself for __six centuries__, and built an empire with your sister."_

A paused, his eyes flickering to the side as he thought of the implications of the next statement, and then returning to her own. _"You're nearly a matriarch now. An __ardat-yakshi_ _matriarch__, and one that will be in a position of power – power from political influence, __and__ knowledge. By the time you cross that threshold, your . . . __our__ kind will be able to walk in the light of day. You're going to be a __leader__ of our people, Meshara."_

There was more to add, but that he didn't say in words. What she had taught him during their brief time together, both about his abilities and about himself. How she had helped him take the first, faltering steps on the path to find his way among his race.

How beautiful she was in his eyes.

As the thoughts flowed out, he reached one hand up to gently stroke at her face. _"Don't make less of yourself, fairest. And don't forget that I love you."_

Meshara closed her eyes at the light touch of his fingers on her face. _"You taught me to see myself again,"_ she whispered, her voice more broken than usual, as her throat tightened with emotion. _"By showing me what I looked like through your eyes_. _It is difficult __not__ to compare_, _when the only way I know her, is through your eyes as well. On the one side, easy, gracious, gentle darkness. And on the other side, light. She wears masks because she chooses to wear them. I have worn them because I must. But __you__ have shown me that that, too, may be a choice. . . and today I do not choose to wear one."_

She could feel the love radiating out from her fair one, and she returned it, reaching up to touch his hand on her face. _"I did not expect to live out this day_, _fair-one. Kishara and I could not run again. And so we made our stand. And even if we lived, they would just send another, and another, and another, and sooner or later, we would have fallen. That you came. . . that you risked your life. . . that your friends came, too. . . means more to me than I can say. I don't __know__ what the future will bring. The choices Kishara and I have made. . . they haven't been all good ones, Samiel. We have built an empire, but we built it on the blood of others. And now we have to make this a better place. Respectability. Legitimacy."_ She laughed, a harsh sound like a raven's call. _"It will be. . . a strange thing. . . to walk in the light. But again, you and your friends and the __Spectres __gave us this. I don't know if I would call myself a leader. . . but I might be one of the first of us to walk freely."_

She sat up, turning, and leaned forward. Kissed him, long and sweet. _"I will always love you, Samiel. You dared to share yourself with me, and gave me more than you can possibly realize."_ Contact, so long forbidden, had been sweet. Unity of minds, unity of selves, with this strong young one, had been. . . renewing. And let her understand that perhaps, her condition was not an unmitigated curse. That she _could_ be one with another. Another with a mind as strong as her own. Though now that she knew the genetic underpinnings, she thought she might fear to join with any who lacked the vital genes.

"_You gave me __hope__. Gave me strength. And you will always be welcome here, fair one. Always."_ She stroked his face now, very gently, and tried to hide the tears that wanted to form in her eyes. _"But this is not your place, fair-one. I would not trap you here, when the stars are yours. When you could walk with the Spectres, on their path, and make a difference. Where you could be the symbol to other asari that males and __ardat-yakshi__ are not to be feared or despised, but respected. Here, what would you do, my fair one? Be an adjunct to Kishara and myself? Another strong hand, another mercenary among so many others?"_ Her voice broke. _"And the Spectres would hardly consider me anything but a security risk. I could not go with you. And you could not stay here. Not without sacrificing the hundreds of years ahead of you, all the brightness of your future. And I __will not allow that__, fair one."_ So sweetly spoken, so softly, and with such regret, but with unshakeable conviction. "_People on Tortuga have called me Lady Fortune. Because I have raised and lowered so many. Let me tell you that Lady Fortune sees a glorious road ahead of you. And if that road brings you back to Tortuga, I will welcome you with all the love in my heart."_ She paused, once more, and added, almost tenderly, in that shattered voice, "_But this all must be. I know it. And you know it, too. Or else you would not have told me not to __forget__ your love."_

**October 18, 2197, Tortuga**

The bar was a hellhole, located in one of the more dangerous alleys of the city, which in itself was distinctive. It was in one of the nebulous neutral territories of the city, a neighborhood that the impartial peacekeepers, the Acrocanth's Talons, still avoided and considered, for the time being, a lost cause. Inside the steel-reinforced door and barred windows, the large room reeked of alcohol and pain, and the very walls oozed nothing less than decades of cold-blooded murder. When sapients walked through that door, they did so prepared to never leave.

The strange, robed asari that sat at the bar had arrived not long before midnight, local. The white paint on his face, turian, was streaked as if by tears that had since dried. His stride, when he'd first entered, had been that of a trained soldier, but he wore no armor beneath the traveler's clothing, and carried no weapons. The couple of individuals who, on seeing the stranger, had tried to bar his entry terminally had taken one look at the too-wide eyes and nearly scrambled out of his way, as if compelled to do so.

Two asari had been sitting at a table near the door when the not-she had entered, both wearing the blue colors of the Twins. They had taken one look at the new asari, white turian face-paint displayed for the whole galaxy to see, tall for the species and eyes burning with anger, and stood, leaving even as he settled at the bar. They'd known that look. They'd known this bar.

And they would not be present, and therefore, _responsible_, if Meshara Laos' fair-one got himself killed in a knife-fight.

Three hours later, Samiel still sat at the same barstool, staring directly ahead, and palpably radiated hate. Every time he finished the drink before him, the barkeep had raced to refill it, as if afraid that if this strange asari were not placated, only death would follow. As if the alcohol were the only thing keeping in check the fervent desire seen in his young features to watch the entire world _burn._

_I've tried, Sisu. I've tried so spirits-be-damned hard._

Another drink.

Their time together had not lasted much longer after Meshara's statement. He had argued, but could already feel her drifting away, and she had stayed firm to her conviction . . . as he knew she would. They had held each other—clung to each other—for a time. There had been tears. But no promises. Each time he tried, she had cut him off, gently, tenderly, but firmly. In time he had stopped, feeling that it was hurting her as much, or more, than it was hurting him.

He'd slipped out one of the lesser-known exits to the Twins compound. He was, after all, more-than-fair to Lady Fortune, and knew some of these secrets. And he'd wanted nothing to do with any of his companions.

His omnitool had buzzed several times as he'd wandered through the twisting Tortugan streets, prompting him to turn it off. Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight's mindsong had touched his, feather-light, only long enough to taste the spasming desire to be left alone, and then withdrawn, respectfully.

Now he sat in the only hole he could find that matched the feelings in his soul, trying to drink away everything that he felt. Staring directly forward, the barkeep instinctively trying to avoid walking through the male-maiden's gaze. Once or twice, other patrons, seasoned killers, had approached him. The not-she couldn't say whether it had been to talk to him, remove him, or kill him; it all felt the same in here. He hadn't even _looked_ at them, and they'd doubled over, holding their temples and shrieking as their worst fears were unleashed upon their minds.

_Look what it got us, __animula_._ The Talons are gone. Meshara is gone. My pride is gone. And we're all __ardat-yakshi_._ You might be one as well, child._

It made the sing-song rhyme pick up again in his head. _We were perfect __ardat-yakshi__ / we're __all__ futarri __ardat-yakshi__ / we were so perfect together . . . . _He wasn't sure who he was thinking of anymore.

Another shot, clumsy, some of the burning liquid spilling down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand as the barkeep, a grizzled old turian with the will to run a place like this, scurried over to refill the glass.

A clawed hand clamped down on Samiel's shoulder, claws flexing and piercing into the skin of his shoulder through the robe's coarse weave, and swung him around roughly. He found himself facing two turians and a human, all looming over him. He looked down at the claw that still gripped his shoulder, feeling the sharp pain through the haze of the alcohol and his own misery. The turian was snarling something at him, mandibles flexed and teeth bared, and his companions were laughing. Samiel looked up at the looming figure, struggling to focus on him. "_You don't want this," _he slurred. He couldn't get his eyes to focus on the turian, so he looked over at his human friend. _"Tell him he doesn't want this."_

His awareness screamed at him, coming sluggishly and much too late. A chill, hard circle pushed against his forehead—the barrel of a pistol, held by the alpha, incensed at being ignored by the little asari. The male-maiden's eyes flicked back at the turian.

Time slowed.

Samiel simply wasn'toccupying the same space when the gun went off a half-second later. He was twisting into and up at the gunman, one hand grasping the arm at the shoulder and another closing over the gun-hand, even as Samiel's own center-of-mass _dropped,_ against all the laws of physics. The throw brought the turian alpha up high and then down, _breaking_ the turian's body over the bar, and then breaking the hand that held the gun. The not-she spun, lighting-fast, intercepting the hammer-blow of the human and dropping in, driving a crushing blow into the male's solar plexus, Samiel's entire body-mass having been increased at the moment of impact. Similar to Siege's Demolisher core, but not nearly as powerful. The remaining turian was already backing away, eyes darting around the room, looking for allies.

"_Don't you get it!" _Samiel was _screaming_ at the room as a whole, even as he continued advancing on the turian. "_Don't you understand? I'm an entropy-taken __ardat-yakshi__! You should all be __running__!" _His mind reached out, blindly. _Twisted._

If he'd been in his right mind, the empath would have realized that he had sought this bar out, unarmed and unarmored, with the intention of fighting here until someone was able to take him down. If he'd been in his right mind, he would have understood how permanent being "taken down" would be in this bar.

Still, maybe even now he understood that. But he certainly was not in his right mind.

Bodies began to pile in one all sides, and at the center Samiel Viridian was a cold-faced, hatred-filled eye of the perfect storm. Bodies were ejected, sometimes bruised and sometimes broken. A few lucky hits landed; even with his preternatural skill, he couldn't stand unweathered against the fight he had brought about.

A liquor bottle broke alongside his head; in his battlerage and drunken fugue it rocked him, but did not drop him. He drove his elbow back, feeling the wind blast out of a pair of lungs, and then spun 'round to deliver the telling blow, head tentacles on his left side oozing blue blood and right fist cocked at his ear. . . .

Back at the Twins compound, Melaani found it easier if she simply concentrated on the _work_. She rounded up several of the Twins' mercs, jerked a thumb at them, and rapped out, in Relai's cold tones, from her days in Eclipse, _"You. We've got a body that needs moving. No, not your commanders'. Come on and give me a hand."_

The mercs heard the tone of command, dry and hard, and fell in with her, heading back into the garden. Melaani helped lift one. . . section. . . of the corpse, and did her best not to _look_ at the oddly smooth flesh where the former Justicar had been split in half. It didn't look like _flesh_ anymore. Smooth. Almost plasticine. And the fact that it had been done, almost casually, by an asari wielding some biotic arts the likes of which Melaani herself had never imagined, was food for nightmares. And that asari was, apparently, Samiel's _first-mother_. Melaani had recognized her, instantly, from memories that had flowed into her mind just thirty-six hours before, and had fought to suppress her facial reaction. _Be the empty glass. Be air. Be unjudging, but be ready to react_.

The mental exercise had done her good in the past, but now, she couldn't achieve emptiness. The best she could do was to play the Spectre. Play the cop. The job had saved her sanity once before, when her whole world had come crashing down. It could do it again.

So she kept her face calm when she got Ishala's body into the anteroom, as Dances followed her out, looking over her shoulder with a certain professional interest; the rachni _had_ been in B-Sec, after all. She stripped the corpse. . . pieces. . .checking for hidden weapons. Confiscating the omnitool for Spectre investigation, feeling Dances' urgent concern on the issue. _She may have sung with those to whom you sang question-songs,_ he told her, putting yellow notes of anxiety into her mind. Melaani nodded; she'd gotten past the atavistic fear she'd once felt on Shanxi, on seeing so many rachni descending from their ships. "I'll see what I can find on it," she told the rachni, and patted his carapace lightly. "But first. . . "and she switched languages and tones again, "_Your medic needs to draw me a blood and set up a tissue sample for me,"_ she told the mercs around her.

"_Why? She clearly died of. . . . some sort of horrible weapons malfunction."_ The voice was uneasy.

"_I don't have to explain myself. Get your medic in here. Get me a blood and tissue sample. And stop talking."_ Melaani wasn't in a good mood. It let Relai, mercenary and cop-killer, _come up_ to deal with these Twins' affiliates, and Relai hadn't been a very nice person _at all_.

The medic, wide-eyed at the condition of the corpse, took the blood and tissue samples. Packed them in a cryo-container. And Melaani took them, after carefully, meticulously taking pictures of the body, as for a forensic examination. _Dr. Jaworski will want to take a look at this female's genetic structure. And everyone else on base will want to see the condition of the body. So we can identify the attack, if we ever see it again._ Neat, clean, clinical thought processes. So much safer right now to be a cop. _"Now get the body to a crematorium. Immediately."_

"_You don't want to take the body with you?"_

"_No. I have what we need."_

Melaani found a console out of the way, and belatedly realizing that no one besides Mercuria might have contacted the ships, got in touch with the _Sollostra._ "Cassandra? Everyone here is. .. all right. . . with the exception of Justicar T'kir. However, Justicar Samara is somewhat distressed. If she brought her human _marai'ha'sai_ with her. . . .it might be good for her to be sent here."

"_Jack, you mean? The worst-kept 'secret relationship' in asari space?"_ Cassandra's voice was dry. _"I'll inform the Justicars' ship that they should send Jack over."_

"Good. Stay on the line, if you would. I may need assistance hacking some files here shortly."

She began working with the Justicar's omnitool. Biometrically-keyed to the female's own DNA, but that wasn't a substantial barrier, at least for the upper tier of files. Melaani began browsing through what she could read of the data files, the comm messages from the Justicar Order, check, personal correspondence, very limited. . . she realized that her eyes were staring at the words without any comprehension. That she was scrolling through words without actually reading any of them.

She closed her eyes for a moment, acknowledging that the act was. . . an act. That her thoughts were spinning, tumbling, and that none of the things that bothered her were under her control. At all. _I don't feel male. If I understood Dara correctly. . . I'm not. I'm __not__. It's just that one or two genes' difference, and I . . . would be. I'd be like Samiel. And that's not a bad thing to be. . . it's just. . . not who I am. . . _Melaani looked down at herself, tried to picture herself as _anything_ else, but. . . even for a skilled assumer of other identities, it was difficult. She tried to strip away the curve of her breasts in her minds' eye, to broaden her shoulders, thicken her waist, tried to assume a mental posture that felt more like Samiel's. . . and failed. She could imagine a male mindset, because she'd been exposed to it, through coworkers and lovers. . . but she couldn't imagine _being_ one.

She put her face down in her hands for a moment, rubbing gently at her eyes. But that wasn't all of what was making her head spin. Oh, no, not even remotely. Not only was she a couple of genes off from being male, but she was probably just as few off from being a _demon of the night winds_, thank you very much. She had one of the seminal traits. . . the reave ability. And the _really_ distressing part about _that_. . . was how the Goddess' Path had trained her to _use_ it. She'd managed to make herself forget it for over a century, but it was back now, burning behind her eyes. A knife made of thought. Just assume the right mental posture, and, like a key catching the tumblers of a lock, everything aligned, and she could picture stabbing that knife home, as she had on the animals they'd used to train her on. No fuss. No muss. Just dead, and instantly so. And then they'd wanted to move her to asari targets, and her handlers had pulled the plug right then. . . .

Melaani's breath panted out between her fingers, pure distress. But even _that_ wasn't all. The first was a life-altering, perspective-changing thing, the way she saw _herself_—the self that she _clung_ to, in between all her roles. The second. . . bad memories. A little mind-work would put them back away, where they belonged, in the past. And she had the advantage of Linaia being fresh in her mind, and Linaia had been . . . one of the happiest roles of her career. Except that thinking of Linaia brought back the third, and most painful set of thoughts that she was trying so very hard not to think. . . . .

_She really is beautiful_, the thought sidled out of her hindbrain. _Captivating, really. So self-controlled, so self-contained. Oh, it's not conventional beauty, but who needs that when there's the force of __will__ behind the dark blue eyes, that sense of ancient pain just waiting to be swept away, the sense that the right person can soothe it, make it better, make her, at long last, smile. . . centuries of wisdom, hard-fought, hard-earned, enough to __drown__ in, a mind so sharp that it's ten moves ahead of you before the game's already begun. . . Goddess, I swore that I'd respect his turian beliefs. I swore I'd respect his choices._

_But this, too, was a game already over before it began. She didn't even have to be __ardat-yakshi__ to win that one. _Melaani's throat tightened. _Although, apparently, I'm at least half of one._ She rubbed at her eyes, and rocked in place for a moment. _No wonder . . .oh Goddess, no wonder he's still off with her. Who wouldn't want to sink into her embrace after such a day as this?_

She let herself feel it, just for a moment, and then exhaled. Let it go. _Things pass_. She wouldn't be unsharing. She simply wouldn't be _there_, when it came time. It was easier to pretend there'd never been a choice at all. Certainly, more comfortable for him, more generous to Meshara, and more dignified for herself. _Nothing but a crush, spawned by the deep-cover. Start believing it. Play the role, and let entropy take the rest. _

Her omnitool chimed. "_Spectre?"_ Cassie said. "_Dara Jaworski's preliminary report just arrived. It has some fairly disturbing numbers in it."_

"Patch it through to my omnitool. How much worse can it get?" Melaani paused, and looked up at the ceiling. "Please, don't take those words as a challenge," she added, to the universe at large.

Dara's report did make it worse. By incremental degrees.

Thessia had had over twelve billion asari on its surface when it was destroyed. Asari did not breed as rapidly as the _mahai_, the short-lived. They spread in smaller colonies, in the millions, or maybe a billion per planet, not encroaching on their environment as heavily. As such, _half_ the galactic population of asari had been on Thessia. Another twelve billion lived among the stars.

The numbers crunched by the Spectres' medical staff were all statistics. Based on percentages. They might not be born out by reality.

Total Galactic Asari Population: 12 billion

Condition Percentage with a condition Population in numbers

SRY carriers 10.0000% 1,200,000,000

Emerogen-sens. (Not-she) 0.5000% 60,000,000

Empathy-capable 3.0000% 360,000,000

Reave-capable 4.0000% 480,000,000

Domination-capable 0.1000% 12,000,000

Fully-expressed male 0.0500% 6,000,000

"Ardat-Yakshi" - reave + dominate (ones who met the Justicar's definition, anyway) 0.00400%:

480,000 out of 12 billion.

"Ardat-Yakshi" actually **strong** enough to deliver the Kiss (as % of AY pop.) 20.0000%:

96,000 out of 12 billion.

Sisu-analogues: emerogen-sensitive, empathic-, reave-, and domination-capable: 0.0000006000%

72 out of 12 billion.

Samiel-analogues: Fully-expressed males, empathic-, reave-, and domination-capable: 0.0000000600%

7 out of 12 billion.

_Maybe_.

Melaani read the numbers, and swallowed. This was. . . proof. Oh, Goddess, it was _proof_ that not every _ardat-yakshi_ killed. 96,000 asari with the ability and the strength to _do_ it. . . there was no monastery _big_ enough for that many. 480,00 asari with just the raw potential. The Justicars, locked in the ancient world, had never _looked_ for the genetic underpinnings. They were in this world to hunt monsters, and monsters is what they found. The handful of _ardat-yakshi_ who had the sociopathy to hunger for the kill. Or the few innocents who'd been scooped up and imprisoned, for life, for nothing more than an odd combination of genes and or the plain bad _luck_ to have killed by accident.

As for what it meant for Samiel. . . he could be one of seven perfect storms in the entire galaxy. Or he could be the _only one of his kind_. Melaani swallowed past a dry throat, trying to fathom what that even meant. . . but it _wasn't her business_. It couldn't be her business. And the fact that Sisu, that sweet child, was on the list as one of _maybe_ seventy-two "almost perfect" storms. . . . it made her head _spin._

_Get back to the work._ She scrolled through the letters rapidly. . . . _wait, I know that name. . . Matriarch Bialisa_. _The respected representative of Luisa on the Council of Sisters. One of the founding members of the Moons of Luisa. And, entropy take it all . . . the Twins' own mother._ Melaani opened the message, and started to read it.

_Justicar—_

_I understand through certain people known to both of us that you have verified that the leaders of the asari faction on the renegade and lawless world known as Tortuga to be my elder daughters. I understand that you may have to slay the younger, but I respectfully ask that you return the elder to my care. I know that she is far past her childhood, but I have ever tried to renew contact with her, to encourage her to come home. Please bring her to me. I ask this, as we have been sisters to one another for these past four hundred years._

_Bialisa _

A series of symbols followed the message, and Melaani squinted at them. _Moons of Luisa iconography. . . no. __Goddess' Path.__ I remember these.. This could be a coded message, or just decoration. . . _"Cassie, take a look at the symbols. See if there's anything in the Spectre databases that matches them, though if this is steganography, it could well be a lost cause. . . "

"Any specific subcategories?"

"See what we have in Moons of Luisa, Tears of the Moons, and Goddess' Path." Melaani tapped on one, which was three circles, intersecting, like a Venn diagram. "This one, in the Goddess' Path, used to mean unity, but it could also mean _aizala_, for example."

"Checking. You do seem singularly well-suited to ferreting out the mystery, Spectre."

"I might as well be of use so long as I'm here," Melaani muttered, and then something _moved_ behind her, and she spun, pulling up her barrier and reaching for biotic energies, and it was the _mind-knife_ that came to bear. . . and she stopped herself, breathing hard, when she saw that it was _Meshara_ behind her, the female's figure swathed once more in a black cloak. . . but no armor.

_Oh, Goddess, my mind is . . . breaking. . . . I can't be Sylae today. I can't be Relai today. I can't be Maaisa. I certainly can't be Linaia today. Just let me be the Spectre until it's time to leave, and that will be enough. _ Melaani let the energies dissipate, watching the female's face, and bowed her head. _"I apologize; I did not mean to threaten you in your own home. I'm on edge."_ Melaani paused, her mind racing. _What does she want? If I can't keep Samiel out of my mind, what's to keep her from reaching in and . . . doing whatever she wants to me, besides __good manners__? "In what matter may I be of assistance?" _

"_Come with me, Spectre. We have a few things to discuss, you and I." _

"_Could you verify for me that Matriarch Bialisa is indeed your mother?"_ Melaani asked, immediately, as she fell in step. The words were rote and mechanical. She already knew the answer, but it gave her a starting point. Let _her_ control the conversation.

Meshara paused in the doorway to a room, startled. _"Yes. She is. Why do you ask?" _

"_Justicar T'kir appears to have been in communication with her. They also appeared to have been at the very least social contacts, through one of two organizations that we've been investigating."_ Melaani stayed on her feet, hands at the small of her back, as Meshara tried to direct her to a chair. Only once the matron frowned at her, did Melaani finally sit, at the very edge of a padded chair. _"Can you tell me about her connections to the Moons of Luisa?"_

"_Spectre,"_ Meshara said, after a moment. _"I would be happy to answer all of your inquiries. But I must ask you to answer a few of my own questions first." _

_Oh, Goddess. I don't want to have this conversation._ Melaani let her eyes fall on a statuette on a nearby shelf, and prepared herself to slide into another persona. _"You may certainly ask, although there are things that I will be unable to answer, especially regarding the on-going investigation of the organization—" _

"_Enough."_ The word had a certain gentle power behind it, and Melaani flinched, and slid into Relai, who was boiling under the surface anyway, in reaction to being around so many mercs.

She sat back, propped one foot, at the ankle, on the opposing knee, and tilted her head to the side. Her eyes narrowed, and her mouth became a grim slash. _"Speak your words,"_ Relai answered for Melaani. _"I'll hear them."_

Meshara's own eyes narrowed, and Melaani felt the faintest _brush_ against her mind. _"Please describe your relationship with Samiel Viridian."_

Relai collapsed under that touch, but Sylae took the place of the hardened mercenary, as she put her feet on the floor, and sat up straight, lacing her hands before her. Centered, serene. Untouchable as the goddess herself, and death burning in her mind. _"You already know everything that you need to know from _his_ own lips, from _his_ own mind."_

"_I know what he has felt and seen, yes, but I would know what __you__ have felt and seen_." Meshara was. . . against her will. . . fascinated. The female was an absolute chameleon. Every time she thought she'd touched the mind, it rippled away. Found a different configuration. Hiding in her own heart. _"Speak. What is he to you?" _

Sylae smiled, and let her eyes widen. _"To me, _he_ is . . . apotheosis. The dark face of the Goddess made manifest. What else should _he_ be?"_

Meshara drew in a breath of vexation, and snapped out, _"Stop that. It is not necessary."_ The thought lanced out, and struck the younger female, and the mental wrestling contest—Meshara trying to show why it wasn't _necessary_, and Melaani recoiling, throwing anything she could in her pursuer's path that she could find, all while remaining perfectly still—took twenty full seconds.

_What is he— _

—_partner— _

_No, what is he to you— _

—_friend— _

_Stop lying, it doesn't become you— _

—_it doesn't matter— _

_I'm trying to show you that it does! Why are you sitting here working on things that can wait when he needs you?_

—_doesn't, already chose—_

_Are all Spectres this stubborn, or is it only the very young? I told him that he couldn't chose me, that I wouldn't allow it, and will you please __listen__ to me!_ Pain and regret and yet frustration and even _amusement. . . _

The howling vortex of thoughts stopped, and the pair eyed each other, Melaani realizing that she'd retreated to a defensive crouch, her hands over her head, and Meshara breathing in short, sharp pants. _"Oh,"_ Melaani, finally said out loud. _"That. . . I didn't. . . expect this. At all."_

"_So I can tell."_ Meshara rubbed at her own face. _"You should go to him. Before he does something __stupid__."_

_In another room in the Twins' compound, another sapient had already come to the same conclusion. _

_Samiel Viridian is no longer inside the Twins' compound._

The same line of data repeated in the platform's processor matrix repeatedly, the geth runtimes muttering constantly with each other. Siege had waited in the garden for two point three galactic hours, before noticing Meshara Laos passing by.

Alone.

The platform stood still for a moment, calculations determining the likelihood of various possibilities and throwing the majority of them out as unlikely. When the Geth turned to move after the matron, it paused, seeing her speaking with Melaani-Spectre.

Ten minutes passed before the geth decided that he could wait no longer. He turned to Mercuria, who remained nearby, speaking quietly. "We are concerned. Samiel is nowhere to be seen, we wish to locate him."

Mercuria, her concerns having been steadfastly ignored by Siege for two point three hours at this point, had lost the expression of excitement under the concern that had been there before. She folded her arms across her chest as the platform turned and spoke to her, her expression easing slightly. _"We have been waiting on him? I had thought we were standing guard for Spectre Alir. . . "_ She darted a glance across the way, and decided, _"who seems to have things well in hand."_ She grimaced, and followed after Siege. _"You really should allow me to take you back to. . . me. . . so you can undergo repairs."_ It was a grumble that had the sound of _habit_ to it, at this point.

A human female, covered in tattoos, had come to the garden, and was now in the apparently uncomfortable position of consoling Samara-Justicar in her deep-seated grief. Samara had put her head on the human's shoulder, and, tentatively, Jack rocked her, gently, muttering, over and over again, _"_You didn't fucking know, all right? You didn't know, and that doesn't make it your damned fault. You didn't know. It's all right. . . you didn't _make_ her, Samara. Cerberus made _me_, but you didn't make her. You loved her and took care of her, you didn't put her in a cell when she was five. . . "

"I may as well have. I expected her to be like her sisters. . . "

"It's _not your fault. . . "_

Siege moved out of the garden and paced the compound's tunnels with heavy treads until he found the mental 'beat' that corresponded with Meshara Laos, knocked on the door of the sitting room, and peered through at, unexpectedly, Meshara Laos and Melaani T'soa. "Excuse us, but we have been waiting for Samiel, as we expected him to be with you, Meshara-Matron." His auditory receptors had easily picked up the closing words of a conversation couched in high-tongue: _"You should go to him. Before he does something __stupid__."_

Both asari's expressions showed signs of strain. Grief. Regret. Surprise at Siege's interruption. Meshara's eyes flicked towards Melaani, briefly, almost in. . . embarrassment. Concern. "He was with me, yes," Meshara acknowledged. "We discussed the day's events, and the status of certain affairs here on Tortuga. As well as the end of our relationship as it currently stands. He did not take it well. I do not know where he went, but I fear for his state of mind."

Melaani had already begun fiddling with her omnitool, and now shook her head. "He's not answering," she reported.

"We understand. Thank you for your time, we will request assistance in locating him."

Siege keyed its biotic transceiver, isolating Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight's frequency and sending a private message to him. _Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight, we are attempting to locate Samiel. Do you know where he is?_ Without even realizing it, the geth's previous word-shuffling and lexicon errors in biotic communication patterns were gone.

Nameless paused, as he continued to examine the dead Justicar's belongings. _Sings-Battle? Your song is much clearer now, than it was months ago. Have you found someone with whom to practice mind-songs in your long absence?_ His head lifted as he reached out through the seething mass of minds that was this cold-song hive. So many voices. So much quiet, huddled terror. . . but it was a _little_ better than it had been.

If only by a tiny bit.

It actually took him a moment to find Sings-Solitude's mind. There was _dissonance_ in it, the likes of which Dances had never encountered before. Distortions—from the drinks-of-toxin—rage-song. Despair-song. Darkness-song.

Battle-song.

_Sings-Battle! He fights, but he fights more than others. He fights __himself__. Wishes destruction-song. Dissolution-song. The __end of songs__. Do you wish me to take you to him? I can!_

In the hellhole bar on the other side of Tortuga, Samiel had no weapons save for the natural weapons of his lethally-trained body. There was no armor to protect him. No biotic barrier, nor biotics of any other form save the natural manipulations of the wind that bends. He was not flipping nor jumping, hallmarks of the acrobatic biotic tiers of the art, but had instead picked that place on the stained and filthy floor as his final stand. His empathy was compromised by emotion and drunkenness, and with it his battle awareness. Though he might have been able to somehow overcome the press of bodies, kicking and biting and _needing_ asari blood, ballistic weapons would enter the fight soon.

Against those, the faltering _ardat-yakshi_ stood no chance in his current state. If he'd been cognizant enough to formulate a plan, that would certainly have been an intentional piece of it.

And then, everything stopped. He had just taken the blow to his skull and was recouping his senses in order to defend against the surge of his opponents in seeing the lone combatant display weakness, his reflexes and instincts knowing it was coming even if his mind no longer cared. He had spun around to deliver what would probably have been a deathblow to the particular target, when his fist was taken and . . . opened. Finger bloom, like a flower. Almost gently. Turned in against itself and tucked behind his back, asari physiology and opposing angles locking down his entire body with a fluidity that defied his understanding. He'd studied martial arts for almost fifty years, had trained with Spectres, and whoever this opponent was had reduced him to a _child_.

Samiel tried to struggle, fighting to the bitter end.

Instead, the mob that was closing in were blasted back as one with a bloom of biotic force, and the male-maiden was _guided_, gently but firmly, back to the bar. He turned unsteadily to his would-be savior, incomprehension clear in his face, and found, perhaps, the last person he would ever have expected.

Laessia V'soa. His _mother_.

She tucked his captive arm into the crook of her own, and, locked in the escort-carry, nudged the side of her hip against his, destablizing him. . . and directed him forwards. No threat. Just absolute mastery as Laessia delicately walked her son forwards to the bar. . . . glanced down, placed a foot on the rungs of a capsized barstool, and angled it back up again, sliding Samiel's now-listing form into it.

Just as carefully, she stepped over one of the groaning bodies on the ground, the snap and crunch of broken glass beneath her feet clearly audible. She found another battered stool, and moved it over to place it beside Samiel's new perch, and tried to beckon the turian barkeep over.

The barkeep, no stranger to barfights, had taken shelter, and was steadfastly refusing to come back out from cover. Instead, Laessia held out a hand, and a bottle and two glasses sailed to her. She set one glass in front of Samiel, the other in front of herself, and poured amber liquor, potent, fiery, and human into each. And drank.

One of the groaning sots managed to pull himself off the floor behind them. All he could have seen were two almost identical asari, in dust-brown robes, seated at the bar. He knew _one_ of them had cleaned his clock. And he wasn't about to take that from some bitch in a _dress_. He pulled his pistol. . . .

. . . and a wave of force slashed out from nowhere, slicing the weapon in half, and removing the tips of all his fingers, before a telekinetic wave blew open the door behind him, and sent him sailing, screaming, into the trash-bins outside.

The asari female at the bar hadn't even turned around. She drank her first shot, poured another one, and brooded over the fumes for a moment, her gray eyes distant.

The silence in the bar, as the wounded retreated, was profound.

One drink. Two drinks. Three drinks. The clink of the bottle against the glass was almost hypnotic, but the asari female appeared completely unaffected by the powerful liquor. Silence. Ringing, smothering silence, blanketing the room, the groans of the injured, the creaking of floorboards and chairs. Even the forceful ejection of the self-styled lone gunman couldn't break it. Mother and son said _nothing_ for long minutes, as Laessia stared into the distance with her son's unreadable expression, and Samiel. . . . tried to understand, through the fog of booze and diminishing apathy-anger. In everything that had happened these last few days, this moment he found more surreal than any other.

Spilling half of it, he drank the shot in front of him, the low growl from the liquid sloshing over some of his cuts lost as a sub-vocal rumble in his chest. As the minutes dragged by, his head fell by millimeters until it came to rest on one forearm. His mind was blank, lost in the numbness of the alcohol and coming down from the adrenaline spike, and the spirits only knew what else. For a few blessed seconds, he thought of absolutely nothing.

After a long moment, Laessia put her hand on the back of his neck, very lightly. Felt him start, in shock.

That, and the escort-carry, so effortlessly—_one-handedly_—performed, were the first time she'd touched him in close to forty years. _  
_

He very nearly yelped in surprise and shock when he felt Laessia's hand rest on his neck, as a mother would touch her child. There was a strangled quality to the noise; it came from a body and mind many years younger than the maiden than sat next to her.

_"Well, Samir—Samiel, I mean. . . you have had quite a day, haven't you?"_ Laessia's voice was quietly reflective. _"I suppose this isn't a good time to ask you if you ever received any of my letters, or if your father kept them from you."_ She very lightly stroked his scalp tentacles, and took another drink.

The battered empath made a weak attempt to pull away as her hand moved to his scalp tentacles, but in reality it was hardly more than a twitch that ended with him turning his head just enough to peer up at her. "_Didn't… tell me 'bout them 'til… maybe twenty years old. Then I blocked the comm code." _The words were so slurred and laced with exhaustion that she had difficulty understanding them.

The words made her bow her head, a look of utter bitterness, resignation, and . . . acceptance. . . crossing her face, just for an instant. As if she thought she deserved it. _"I expected little else, from either of you,"_ she admitted, quietly. _"But I did __hope__ for more."_ Oddly, there was absolutely no blame in those quiet words, as she looked away again, staring at the far side of the bar.

_"Oh, __lia'kaea__,"_ she finally said, staring off to . . . infinity, perhaps. . . _"I never wanted any of this for you. I tried. . . goddess. . . I tried so __hard __to give you the tools so that you could live a life that didn't involve any of this. Gave you the wind that bends the reeds—the art that my vows forbade me to teach anyone who was not a Justicar, but what was a __vow__, when I'd already broken them to love Jannil? When those broken vows gave me you? Why not break them again, and at least __arm__ you against the hate?"_ She sighed, and poured another drink. _"I tried to give you everything you would need to be the perfect asari. So you could pass, unseen. Untouched. Unhated. And __unhurt__, if push came to shove. How well that has worked? I find you here, in this place, looking for entropy to take you. When we have so __much__ to talk about. . . that seems a shame."_

She fell silent again.

She'd continued speaking, and in his condition, he'd no other choice but to listen to her, and his addled brain struggled to grasp the concepts of which she spoke. _Prepared me for all this? Broke her vows, arm me against hate? _Meshara's words, and Ylara's, and even Melaani's, tried to push through the haze, but clear memory was so hard to retrieve right now.

Samiel managed to fix his grey eyes on Laessia's own for one lucid moment, his mind latching on to something she had said that had penetrated his stupor. _"You saw me . . . as the perfect asari?"_ That out, his gaze began to list again.

Her gaze turned back again, and she told him, softly, _"You could have been. I wanted __them__ to see only that."_ Her gesture encompassed the entire galaxy. _"It would have been so much __easier__ for you. Your father didn't want the surgery. We argued. . . and in the end, I agreed with him. It was, after all, __my fault__ that you'd been born how you were born." _Guilt. Old and tired. _"I was young. Impetuous. I broke my vows for him, and left the order. . . "_

And Ishala's cold, vicious words, words designed to rend at the mind and the heart at once, came back, and echoed between them in the silence. _And the Goddess punished me, by wracking the child born of that disobedience_. _Punished the child, to make my punishment all the crueler._

Of course, that wasn't so. But science and reason had a hard fight against guilt and shame and belief. _Post hoc, ergo procter hoc_, as the humans might say. _After, but not because of_. Logical fallacy.

Laessia exhaled, and managed, tightly, _"I watched the children taunt you on the playground. I could feel your pain in my heart, and I wanted to __hurt__ them back. I could hear their mothers, laughing. Their comments. I could have endured it, if were just myself, but it wasn't. It was __you__."_ In a rush, Samiel grasped it. Laessia didn't just _carry_ some of the same genes as Samiel; she expressed some of them.

Including empathy. That hallmark of the outcast. She'd sensed, from him, from Jannil, every iota of their anger, resentment, fury, shame, confusion, betrayal over the years. Had sensed every moment of pain her child had felt at the hands of the other children. . . as if it were her own.

Laessia sighed. _"So, I kept you away from them. Tried to give you time to learn. To grow. To teach you how to pass for one of them, perfectly. Because that would be so much __easier__ for you. To go through life unseen."_ She sighed. _"And yes. You showed so __much__ promise at the Wind, at so young an age. You could be as good as I am. . . if not better. And what do you do with it? Taunt drunks in a bar to come kill you_."The voice wasn't accusing. It wasn't even angry—it might be, tomorrow, but at the moment. . . there was only _sorrow._

And carried on that sorrow's wings, memories. Fights. Unbelievably vicious arguments, carried out after they'd thought the child was asleep, but that Samiel had heard snatches of, anyway.

_"He's my first-son! You're trapping him in a role! You're teaching him to lie, you're making him __live__ a lie, and that's wrong!"_

"Jannil, she's _asari__. What would you have us do? Go live on Palaven? Have her grow up there? Have us both cower indoors at all times, only able to go outside in full radiation gear—"_

"You never leave this apartment anyway, there would be no difference, except _he__ could be what he __is__. Besides, there's seventeen or twenty other colonies we could live on. Edessan, for one!"_

"But there are still _asari__ on Edessan. She'd still have to __be__ asari around them. And even if we went to a world on which there were __no other__ asari, __we__ would still be asari. We'd still be long-lived among the __mahai__. You don't understand."_

"What can I possibly not understand about my _son__ being raised to hide himself in every way!"_

Patience breaking. "And if you have your way? What then, Jannil? You raise her as a son, _and when you're dust in the grave in a hundred years, what then? I'll be the one left behind to pick up the pieces when she leaves the safety of a turian world and walks among her own kind for the first time and they turn on her and try to destroy her. Let me raise my daughter!"_

And then, Jannil, leaving. Taking her child with him. It was done when she'd left the house on a brief trip. She came home to a note on a datapad. _Y__es, I know asari law always gives custody to the first-mother, but he's my son, and I think the turian courts will see it my way._ _You can fight it if you want to, but if you fight me on this, it will only wind up hurting him, and you know it._

Sinking to the single chair at the table, and putting her head down in her hands. So much punishment. Her punishment for leaving the Order was the loss of the _marai'ha'sai__ she'd left it __for__, and her child. But it was only just. She deserved it._

She'd never even dared to let her child touch her mind, never dared share, because the pain was too _much__, and Samira/Samiel didn't deserve to feel it. So much love for the little face, the little hand so trustingly placed in her own. The way Samira/Samiel had looked up proudly when she/he'd done a form exactly right, and __knew__ it. . . and the bitter knowledge that this small child, this perfect child, was going to __have__ to use the Art. . . ._

In the Twins compound, Dances reacted to Siege's imperative message to _Get us there, __now__, _by _popping_ into the room, directly beside the geth and Mercuria, and telling Melaani, _Go. __Clavus__-ship. We will bring him there!_

And then _pop_, he took Siege, and they were _elsewhere_.

It was. . . somewhere in Kaplumbaga, the space-port city of Tortuga. That was really all that could be said of it. This particular tenement that they'd landed outside of, was about four stories tall, and other buildings of equal height all but lean on it. Its various balconies sag—poor construction—and it angled, subtly, towards the street. Signs of subsidence in the foundation. If it even _had_ one, that is.

Outside the structure, with its peeling paint and battered brick, there was a group of about twenty males—turians, humans, batarians, and a drell—all standing. One of them was shouting and showing them all his hand, the fingers of which are mere stubs, although there was no blood. All of them looked battered and bruised and more than a little drunk, and every last one of them had some form of a weapon. Pistols. Crowbars. One of them has dug up a shotgun.

They were, however, eying the doorway into the tenement's lowest floor with a fair amount of trepidation, and appear to be egging each other on. Working up their courage. . . .

_Fear-songs. Hate-songs. They would sing battle, but they have already been defeated once, so now, they come in more numbers, and with better weapon claws. . . ._ Dances' voice held absolute contempt.

_Improvised melee weapons. Seven low-grade Mass Effect type pistols of various designs. One low-grade Mass Effect type shotgun. Threat: Minimal._

Siege started forward from where had Dances dropped them, the massive platform head-and-shoulders above the entirety of the crowd of ruffians, simply shoving them aside and moving through. A few shouts of consternation, dying away as the _size_ of the red geth became evident. It was remarkably simple.

_Clang._ An impact of metal-on-metal, followed by the heavy thud of a crowbar hitting the ground and a howl of pain as the batarian backed off, holding his abused wrist. The same action was repeated two more times, Siege not even bothering to react. That is, until the discharge of the shotgun slammed ineffectually into the platform's heavy barriers, lighting them up for a brief instant.

The platform turned _slowly_, until it focused on the turian holding the offending weapon. The hellish light from its optics intensified as it stepped toward him, and the shotgun barked again. Ignoring the second splash of metallic slivers, in a blur of motion, Siege snatched the shotgun right out of the turian's hand, fingers wrapped around the barrel. Boosted synthetic muscle tightened, and the whimper of bending steel caused the entire crowd to back up a few steps.

Siege tossed the shotgun back to the turian, who could only stare dumbfounded at the pinched-shut barrel of his own gun, as the CROWD platform and rachni brood-warrior pushed through the rest of the hooligans and entered the building.

The various members of the crowd pulled back in on themselves, suddenly. . . very aware of their mortality. . . as the geth, who hardly seemed discommoded by a missing hand, and certainly no less threatening for it (perhaps, in fact, even more so), shouldered through their ranks, followed by the huge brood-warrior. . .

. . . who was trying to keep his blue-green amusement mostly to himself.

Private-songs were _really_ hard.

Inside, Siege and Dances could see. . . wreckage, mostly. Broken, overturned tables. Splintered chairs. Broken glass. A couple of bodies, still unconscious—none dead, somehow—and two asari, in brown robes, sitting at the bar. The slighter of the two figures was still, very lightly, stroking the head of the figure on the left, who's put his head down on the bar. And, not turning, she raised one finger in an imperative common to turians, humans, and asari. _Silence_, for a turian. _Just a moment_, from a human or an asari.

She could tell that his response, when she spoke of it being her fault for how he was born, was ingrained and almost entirely reflexive: he perked up, eyes not really seeing, but the spark of anger coming back, and began to growl out, "_I'm not an accident, I'm not a __curse__—" _ He wasn't even looking at _her_, but seemed to be involved in the opening movements of some long-awaited confrontation that he had rehearsed for _decades_.

Laessia's hand again stroked his scalp tentacles, apparently unconcerned at the confused, drunken knot of rage in his heart and wholly unintimidated. "_Hush, dear one. Just hear my words."_

Maybe it was the empathic flow of emotions between the two, instinctual, but he did actually quiet, lowering his head some like a tamed varren.

The memories were . . . vivid, in image and with the decades-old pain and regret that still lay within the matron's heart. She could feel Samiel struggling to understand them, even as he struggled to accept that she was _sharing _with him, and sharing _memories_ and _emotion_. The mother's pain that he felt rushing out of her, the love for her child_,_ was more than his worldview could adapt to in such conditions.

And with that, the _nature_ of those memories. The other side of the arguments, the parts he had not heard and the parts his father had never told him… _this isn't how it happened!_ She heard his mind scream in self-defense.

The icy-needle shock as he realized that Father had lied to him. Had told him that she had left them. That _Father_ had taken his son and fled when she was away on business.

It was all too much for the young not-she to absorb, and Laessia could feel his mental shields struggling to congeal around her light touch, pushing her back, pushing her out in self-defense.

Leaning forward on the dirty bar, head tucked into the crook of one arm, he made a strangled noise and slurred out, wretchedly, "_No more . . . "_

_"Forgive him, __lia'kaea__. He was, in his way, right. He gave you what I could not."_ She leaned over, and, very lightly, brushed his forehead with a kiss. _"It is time for you to leave this place, I think, dear one. Perhaps, in the next few days, we might talk. And I might teach you a little more of the Wind. Because I think you may need it soon. And I have missed having a worthy student."_ She stood, and deftly lifted Samiel to his feet. Walked him over to Siege and Dances, and regarded the pair, steadily. _"I believe he would be more comfortable with you."_

She let Siege take Samiel from her, and walked out of he bar, into the darkness of early morning Tortuga.

And that darkness swallowed her.

Siege glanced down at Samiel's swaying form, held upright only by the virtue of Siege's supporting arm, then nodded to Dances. "We calculate that the medical bay of the _Clavus_ is an appropriate destination."

A few moments and a wormhole blink later, Siege, Samiel, and Nameless appeared in the med bay, Siege nodding placidly to the assorted medical staff currently on duty. All of whom _jumped_ and dropped various datapads, styluses, and instruments as the trio appeared. At least one human put a hand to her chest, trying to calm her heart-rate. . . and then the crew adapted, fairly quickly. They'd all worked with Spectres for a while, apparently.

"Samiel has received several blunt-trauma injuries and what is possibly a grade one concussion." Siege braced Samiel for a moment with his stump, running a finger along the asari's scalp where blue blood still dripped sluggishly, and bought the smear near its optics, but didn't _look_ at it. "Blood alcohol content approximately zero point two one, likely to increase for the next half hour due to recent imbibing of liquors."

The geth maneuvered Samiel to a cot, easing him onto it and ignoring the slurred arguing from the male.

The twisting corridor of color and math was enough to finally push the plastered asari male over the edge. Siege, having had plenty of experience with the way Samiel's eyes suddenly bulged from the marines on Terra Nova, smoothly redirected him from the cot and held him over a waste receptacle, letting him double over the damaged forearm, holding his neck and shoulders in the other massive, two-fingered paw. Samiel's stomach emptied itself convulsively and repeatedly, taking care of the problem regarding unabsorbed alcohol sitting in his stomach and waiting to enter the small intestine.

The not-she slurred . . . something. Even with his enhanced audio processing, the CROWD platform wasn't quite sure what. Nameless had a slightly better idea, feeling the reds and greens of offense and anger, maybe even a little yellow, but without any real punch behind them. He batted once or twice at the platform, even seemed to attempt a throw or two. The only thing _that_ accomplished was a doubling of the platform's mass, and amused patience broadcasting from the biotic radio.

The semi-conscious Samiel was seen to, carefully. . . although at least one human crewman was heard to mutter, "Oh, _man_, now I have to _clean _this up. . . " after Samiel spewed.

The medical staff prepped an IV to hydrate his body, and Siege patiently also took Samiel to the head to allow him to relieve himself. Fluids were fluids and alcohol _was_ a diuretic. Dances, in the meantime, mostly found a quiet corner to crouch, repetitively singing under his breath, _I sing question-songs as to why they sing poison-songs to themselves, when they __know__ that they are poison-songs. . . . _

The conclusion, in the end, was that the concussion is mild, but that coupled with the alcohol intake, probably merited overnight observation.

By this point, Melaani had arrived on scene, and the asari Spectre looked exhausted. . . but her nostrils twitched, noticeably, at the odors of raw alcohol and '_eau de_ shithole dive' wafting up from Samiel. Siege, however, had a pragmatic solution for this, involving Siege holding Samiel up under the hot spray from a nozzle in the hygiene compartment, before returning the now-dripping-but-much-cleaner Samiel to the med bay staff.

In the meantime, Melaani had taken the doctors aside. "Look," she said, quietly. "No one ever woke up with a good mental outlook in med bay. Hydrate him, that's fine, but I'll take him to his quarters. . . all right, whichever quarters he gets assigned, given that this isn't the ship we arrived on. . . and between me checking on him every half hour, and Dances listening to him—you'll do that, right?" She tossed a worried look at the rachni, who sent blue-green assent her direction, "we can have him to you before anything can possibly go wrong."

"The potential for a blood clot—"

"Is fairly minimal. The potential for him waking up with a headache the size of a gas giant, much greater. I have medical training, I can take care of this, and there's no way he's going to be a quiet, peaceful, amenable patient when he wakes up."

This statement prompted a single-word response from the red-painted geth: "Hah."

Melaani blinked, chuckled under her breath at the understatement, and had Siege carry Samiel down the hall, up a level, and to a small set of private quarters that Mercuria had allocated to Samiel, where Siege was able to sling the unconscious asari.

Somewhere around five in the morning, Melaani's omnitool buzzed, waking her. She winced and stretched; she'd been sitting in a chair beside the bed in the annoyingly small quarters, dozing as she waited for her omnitool to wake her for the half-hourly check on Samiel's condition.

Except, it wasn't time to check his breathing, pulse, and eye dilation for signs that the concussion was actually worse than it had seemed. A comm call was parked, waiting for her to answer. She saw the origin code, sighed, and turned to the room's desk. Turned the screen on, and turned the volume to low. "Sidonis? You'll have to excuse me for not really _wanting_ to hear from anyone on base right now," Melaani told the human male, quietly.

Eli's face split into a rueful smile. "Yeah, you guys had a couple of rude shocks today. I did warn Dara that this was going to split asari society right in half, but she'd gone to her science place and wasn't coming out to listen. And then we had to manage the message." Sidonis grimaced. "We sat down with Shepard and Garrus and Sam Jaworski, and we looked at the situation you were walking into. Three Justicars, two unknown, one _Samara_. And Shepard ordered the play. Break Samara, if necessary, with the truth. One Justicar out of action evened the odds. If either of the remaining two could see the light of reason. . . good. If both or either were fanatics. . . turn the hate towards Dara. Towards the Spectres. _Away_ from Meshara, or, hell, Samiel."

"Didn't work," Melaani muttered, her voice dark.

"Don't I know it," Eli told her, just as grimly. "We don't always get to pick how people react. We just _try_. Shepard _hurt_ at the thought of breaking Samara. Doesn't mean she didn't make the call to try to stop that mess from winding up as a great big hole in the ground, with a lot of dead bodies in the middle." Eli rubbed at his jawline, right over his turian paint. "And. . . Dara's gut instinct _is_ right in this case. Truth can't be concealed. Shouldn't be concealed. This truth will shock people. Change their perceptions of themselves. But long-term, it's not going to hurt asari society. It'll _improve_ it. Truth does that." He grimaced. "Although if I thought taking Dara to an asari planet before this was difficult. . . now it's going to be downright dangerous."

"How are we releasing the information?" Melaani yawned and rubbed at her eyes. Work beckoned. Panacea for _everything_.

"Low-key. Her call, and endorsed by Kasumi. Just submitting it for publication to the scientific journal funded by the STG. She's already had it peer-reviewed by Chakwas and Abrams, but she's sent a couple of copies to her colleagues in STG. . . and from the way the her comm panel is pinging, frantically, on her desk? They want to talk to her. Now, if not _yesterday_." Eli rubbed at his jaw, and then took a sip of something from a cup. "So, let me get to the reason for the call."

Melaani leaned back in the chair, and glanced over at Samiel's sleeping form. He'd had enough hard liquor to put an elcor on its ass, and the room still smelled, faintly, of it as it still seeped through his skin. "Shouldn't you be telling Ylara about this?"

"She's . . . fielding another comm call from Dara. About Sisu, and what the genetics testing said about him. And what the good or bad news about Telluura is. I mean, if _Kella_ was one. . . Telluura could be, too." Eli winced.

Melaani looked at him, the human male who'd been _shaped_ by Kella's death. "Glad, in retrospect, that you and she didn't share?"

"Except right there at the end, yeah, a little," he admitted. "I don't like to think about dying at fourteen. And any time she thinks about that, Dara shuts _down_." Sidonis rubbed at his face again. "I know, realistically, that Kella would never willingly have hurt a fly. Her biotics weren't powerful. But it's the kind of thought that keeps you awake at two o'clock in the morning, you know." He changed the subject. "Mel. . . let me get to the real reason for the call. And let me start by saying that I approach this all, not from Dara's perspective, which is that of science, but from a law enforcement angle. Same perspective as you have. I just haven't had the _shocks_ you've had in the past twenty-four hours."

Melaani, who'd had her feet up on the desk, trying to look as casual as possible—and block the camera's view of the bed—slowly dropped her feet to the floor, sat forward, and put her hands over her face. "All right, Eli. I'm as ready as I'm going to be. Drop the bomb."

Eli's face tightened, and he began by saying, calmly, "I was looking at the numbers Dara was running. Ninety-six _thousand_ ardat-yakshi capable of killing. Over four hundred thousand, possibly, with the rare combination of reave and domination. The Justicars couldn't build a monastery _big_ enough for them all. Even large numbers of prisons, all over Thessia and the colonies? You'd be incarcerating a large percentage of your population, and on no other grounds than they _could_ do something. I _could_ shoot someone."

"That does not appear to have stopped them," Melaani murmured. "However, they seem to have only targeted those who. . . showed the signs. Largely, by killing someone. And the genetic underpinnings. . . they weren't concerned with those. The Justicars came from a time of monsters. And thus, that is what they found. They never looked for more. For a _reason_. The monsters just were." Her heart was actually pounding in agitation now. "Every other asari out there found the Justicars . . a little quaint. A throwback. Something we could feel good about. 'At least someone is maintaining the old ways.'" She laughed, a wrenching sound. "And in the main, that's what they _were_. They transcended the legal boundaries between a dozen colony worlds. They were. . . somewhat like Spectres. They did _good_ work. .. and this. And I believed in them, at least a little. Even if I did think the monastery was a _tourist trap._" Melaani covered her eyes for a moment. She could have been one of the ones locked away. But for a few genes either way. . . .

Eli held up his hand when she looked up. "You're not going to like this," he said, "but this is my contribution to the mayhem. No. The Justicars _didn't_ look into the science of it. But the Moons of Luisa _did_. They had to have. They were dedicated to wiping out birth defects, from neonatal heart conditions to not-shes to biotic autism and spinal bifida and. . . hell, cleft palates. Anything and everything. They've existed for four hundred years. Since then-Matron Bialisa and then Matron-Misai and a half dozen others put the organization together. . . including the then-not-a-Justicar-at-all Matron Ishala T'kir." He paused. "Plenty of time to gather the data, from hundreds of clinical centers. Neonatal DNA exams, for concerned first-mothers, who might have had a history of, say, heart defects in their families. Or other conditions. They provided treatment. Genetic splicing _in utero_. Neonatal surgery. Post-partum surgery. That's the good side."

Melaani propped her chin on her clasped hands. "What's the bad side, then?"

"They were tracking every single family that had 'bad' genetic traits. For their own good, I'm sure, was the original explanation." Sidonis' expression had gone taut under his violet clan-paint. "Melaani, Matriarch Misai has been involved in travel and even colonial organization for a _very_ long time. You know what every asari needs, in order to travel? A government-issued passport. We did a little digging—I had three NCAIs, to include Laetia on the Citadel, for the _old_ information, and Pelagia for the pure number of servers she has, do the search—and the number sequences on those passports are, periodically, revised. And they're very often revised right after someone has been to a Moons of Luisa clinic." Eli raised both hands. "We knew they had governmental contacts. There's a high correlation. And all of those passports were revised to include the same sequence of numbers. People have been tagged, Melaani. And have been for over three hundred years. Probably since the Tears of the Moon formed as a faction within the Moons of Luisa."

Melaani frowned. The implications were . . . extremely disturbing. "So they've been tracking the movements of people with the potential for genetic . . . anomalies? That's certainly against every privacy law in asari space. Even against Council law—"

Eli held up a finger, turian-fashion, but looked. . . deeply uncomfortable. "I think it's a little more than that, Melaani. Think about it. Misai controlled several very large travel agencies. She and the rest of the Tears had access to the passport codes that signaled who carried which conditions in their genes. They could control which _flights_ they took, Melaani. They could make _travel recommendations_ to them. They could send them coupons for going on an interstellar cruise near, say, the border of the Terminus systems. Like _fucking Astaria_, for example." Eli's expression had gone grim. "We wondered why the Tears of the Moon had suddenly started selling travel routes and information like that to batarian slavers five years ago. When the asari ghost ships started turning up in record numbers. When you lose ten thousand people in a little over five years, it's noticeable. When they start showing up lobotomized, it's an outrage. The hell of it is. . . they've been going missing _all along_, Melaani."

Melaani's stomach had gone very, very tight, and she stared at Sidonis' face on the screen. "You're saying that they booked multiple people with certain genetic conditions on flights that they _knew_ were going to be hit by slavers."

"Yes." Sidonis' jaw clenched, and his eyes burned with a cold, dark anger that wasn't particularly human. "Because. . . as we know. . . there's no monastery big enough, Melaani. They decided that _exile_ and _slavery_, knowing that the batarians wouldn't let their slaves breed, was somehow kinder than imprisonment or extermination. I'm still digging for the proof. It'll take a couple of years to find it _all_. . . but I've found enough to convince me. Convince Sam, Lantar, and Garrus, too. The only reason anyone ever _noticed_ the systematic eliminations? Is that five years ago, the batarians got _greedy_. They needed more asari for their biotic weapons. Hell, they probably were getting their _lia'mellea_ stocks directly from the Tears. How the hell _else_ do you take over a cruise-liner full of asari? You wipe their biotics." Eli beat the knuckles of one fist against the desk. "It all fits. Sure, some perfectly normal asari probably got mixed in with that. . . but there are still living lobotomized asari, being cared for by their families, Mel. We get their genetic profiles, and where they were enslaved? We get that they booked their travel through Matriarch Misai's companies? We have a pretty damning case that the Tears have been practicing _genetic cleansing_ for close to three hundred years."

Melaani shook her head. "The Tears of the Moon have a connection, philosophically, to the Goddess' Path cult. They revere ardat-yakshi as the dark face of the goddess. Why would they try to exterminate what they most revered?"

Eli grimaced. "Because they weren't. They were pulling the _ardat-yakshi _that they found, either into their ranks, or into experimentation programs. Remember those red cups, the special mark of favor they gave you, from your reports on Niacal? I'd be willing to bet, and Dara's digging for proof. . . that they wanted to make stable _ardat-yakshi_. Ones without the linked genes for emerogen-sensitivity. Ones that wouldn't _accidentally_ turn out male or hermaphroditic."

Melaani closed her eyes. "Oh, goddess," she murmured. "There's going to be a war over this."

"Possibly. We're sitting on this till we get more solid information. But I _had_ to tell you, because your work, and Samiel's, is what let us put the pieces together." Eli gave her a faint smile. "You'd have put it together, Mel. You've just been too busy to look at the whole puzzle."

She nodded, thanked him, and turned off the screen, feeling sick. It all made. . . perfect sense.

_No monastery big enough._

_So use exile. Slavery. Death. _

_Use the younger species to do your dirty work for you._

_And look like a charitable institution while doing it._

She checked on Samiel's pulse and condition again. Then sighed, and, exhausted in mind and spirit, slipped under the covers, herself, still clothed. The rest of this mess could damned well wait until morning, and the rachni would wake her if Samiel's life-songs faltered.

When he woke the next morning, it was the pain that hit first. His head was threatening to split open, causing him to squeeze his eyes tightly shut and his whole body to tense. That revealed even more, as his whole body positively _screamed_ in agony—it felt like he hadn't just been standing on top of that grenade, but that he'd gotten in a fight with the damn thing afterwards.

Warmth, both in his arms, a female body curled against him, and in his mind, from the lazy, light sharing of sleep. _Melaani_. Samiel tried to focus through the pounding in his head caused by the _aizala_ overdose and took a deep, ragged breath. _No one has __ever__ admitted that too much __aizala_ _feels like this afterwards. Futarri typical._

Spirits, but they shouldn't be doing this. Samiel craned his neck—_carefully_, and mindful of the incredible assortment of aches—around to look at the room's chronometer. A little after 0800, so they weren't due to arrive on Tortuga for another thirty hours or so. Time for the two of them to get their heads on straight, and for him to mentally prepare for everything that was about to happen.

The thoughts were bringing backs snatches of the past night's dreams, and they had been _terrifying_, unnerving enough that he tried to push them out of his mind. The way the room was spinning wasn't helping any, either. _Spirits, I feel __drunk__. _

Melaani whimpered in her sleep, and he drew her closer. _We should __not__ be . . . doing . . . _flashes of her nightmares were lighting up in his mind's eye.

_doing . . . _ They were the same nightmares he'd had.

_this. . . _

"_Oooooh __futar__."_ The exclamation was part-groan, louder than really appropriate for the tiny room. His arms had tightened around Melaani's slim body, drawing her closer, as much to protect her from the memories as for his own benefit. He'd craned his neck back and was staring with wide eyes up at the oscillating ceiling as the memories crashed in around him.

Between his exclamation, the way his arms had tightened convulsively around her, and the abrupt change in his emotions, Melaani had snapped awake, and somehow jerked her head back against his grievously bruised scalp tentacles. Samiel swore, and for a moment there was nothing but mass confusion in the tiny rack, a tangle of blue arms and legs.

Melaani had _jerked_ in her sleep, her eyes snapping open before she was fully awake. Her head snapped back, reflexively, as her body, still dealing with adrenaline ghosts from the previous day, jarred back into combat mode, and the back of her head impacted on something, hard enough that she yelped in pain. Arms were around her, and she had a confused impression that _someone_ had been sharing with her in her sleep, and _she had no idea where she was._ Or, for a moment, _who_ she was supposed to be.

A dazed welter of roles sheeted through her mind as she fought the constrictive arms around her, bucking frantically, dreams and reality mingling for a moment, dizzily_. It's an __ardat-yakshi.__ It's Meshara. She was lying yesterday. She's here to eat my mind. _ Melaani found a wrist and bit, hearing a muffled exclamation, loosening grip. . . . panic edging away a little, except she didn't know who she was_. Relai, no, Sylae, no, Linaia—maybe? No. Me. I'm Melaani, and this isn't right. . . I'm on the __Sollostra__. No. The __Clavus__, and that means. . . –oh, __entropy__!  
_  
That last, as she fell completely off the bed as the arms holding her let go, and she hit the floor with a thump and a groan of pain as her abused body complained, vociferously, of its treatment. Melaani scrambled back, pulling herself up on the edge of the bed, and just about head-butted Samiel—again!—as he peered over the edge, as he asked, _"Are you all right?"_ and she said, _"I am so __sorry__!"_ at the exact same moment.

They both stared at each other, from . . . rather close up. . . and Melaani started to chuckle a little, helplessly, and put her head down on the edge, and just kept laughing. _"I'm sorry. I thought you were. . . . "_Another convulsion of laughter. _"I thought you were. . . "_ She shook from it. _"I thought you were an __ardat-yakshi__.. . ."_ She lifted her head and almost howled with it. _"I thought you were something that goes. . . bump in the night."_

Samiel hadn't actually been aware that he could be in more pain than he already was, but she'd somehow managed to prove it. Now the two found themselves staring at each other from scant inches away, Melaani's hands gripping the edge of the rack and head peeking up over it, and Samiel leaning down towards her from an undignified sprawl and clutching at his battered head. A grin was threatening to crack through his twitching lips, watching her antics, but stilled at her last comment. Melaani's laughter faded, the smile on her lips dying as she saw the change in the male-maiden.

After a long moment, Samiel spoke. _"Well, Melaani, I. . . " _ They stared at each other for another long moment, and a corner of his mouth quirked up. _"AaaaaaOOOOOooooooooo. . . " _ He raised one hand to pantomime something that lurked in the shadows, the other still protectively covering his bruises.

The two maidens dissolved into hopeless laughter, the sort that mixed with tears, leaning in to touch foreheads. Eventually Samiel found the presence of mind to reach down and, with her help, haul her back up into the bed. For a minute or two, all it had taken to set them back off on another laughter jag, was to look at each other out of the corner of their eyes, and repeat, _"OooooOOOOOoooo."_ It took on proportions that far exceeded the actual humor—this was laughter inspired by the desperate need to deny as much of the previous day's grimness as possible.

Some minutes later, the laughter and tears had calmed and they were tightly in each other's arms, again. Samiel's eyes were tight shut, and he was trying not to acknowledge the way the room continued to spin. Or the continuing pounding in his head, bad enough that he had largely closed his mind just to spare her the pain. And to spare her the darkness that was looming over his mind from the last day, threatening to fall over him again.

He wasn't sure where to start. He opened his eyes and looked unseeing at the revolving ceiling, and then closed them again. "_I think . . . I went to that bar last night to die, Melaani."_ His voice was quiet, suitable for such a confession.

As soon as Samiel had closed his mind, however, beginning, yet again, to withdraw from her, Melaani had turned and stared at him. Drummed her fingers, very lightly, on his chest, indicating, without words, her displeasure, but with a quirk of a defiant smile on her lips. Her demeanor said, clearly, _if you do not open your mind again in the next fifteen seconds, I'm coming in there after you._ . . . right up until his quiet words.

Melaani looked for an unbruised section of his body to punch, found _nothing_, and opted to poke him, in the sternum, with one stiffened finger. Gently. _"Now why would you go and do such a foolish thing for?"_ she demanded, but kept her voice low. _"I mean, just because you might be one of only seven people—or perhaps even the __only__ one—in the galaxy, with a unique collection of genetic traits?"_ She sighed. His mind was a fortress, and she was getting tired of the damned walls. _"I have to admit. . . my mind's still spinning. . . and I'm disquieted by what it all means for me, personally. . . to include the fact that I'm __still__ not sure if I'm actually technically female. . . . but I know several things for a __fact__, Samiel Viridian. First, there are about ninety-six __thousand__ others with this. . . gift. . . out there. They're not all locked up in jail for murder. I think someone would have noticed that._ _So we know it's not . . . inevitable, that someone with this turns into . . . "_ She paused, and said, "_some kind of _bogeyman."She looked over at him, and tapped his sternum again. _"And I know something else that clearly wasn't on your mind yesterday. And that is. . . that you have people who love you. You have Siege. You have Dances. Apparently, your mother appears to harbor some strange fondness for you. You have Sisu. You have Ylara. And you have, well, me."_ She shrugged that one off, and rolled up to her elbow to look down at him. _"And every last one of us would be grieved—even the __geth__, I think!—and not a little __angry__ with you, if you were to do something so foolish again. Do you understand me? If you do that again, I will flush your ashes down the volus lavatories and then let the explosion scatter them and the __s'kak__ to the four winds!"_

She leaned forward, and erased the threat, unmeant as it was, with a kiss, as much to hide her stinging eyes as anything else. _Open your mind. Please, open your mind. Share your light with me. Just a little light. It doesn't have to be more._ In fact, given their generally bruised and battered state, she was fairly sure it _couldn't_ be more.

Samiel had groaned a little in pain as she jabbed, even gently, at his chest; there really wasn't a spot on him that didn't hurt. But he _listened_ to her, eyes narrowing a little in confusion when she spoke of how rare his "unique collection of genetic traits" was—he had yet to read Dara's findings—but then nodding reluctantly as she continued. His face was completely open, eyes searching her features, as she continued.

One tear escaped her eye, splashing down to slide down the side of his cheek.

_There's a lot of blackness in here, dear one._ The words came through even as their lips met, and they kissed. Gently, mindful of their battered bodies, but with a growing intensity and _need_ as they remembered that they were both still _alive_. And there _was_ a great deal of darkness in the male-maiden's heart, as he struggled to comprehend everything that had happened, everything that had _changed_, in the last day. He had fallen as low as one could, and now faced the shame of the long climb out of that pit of despair.

His opaque and thick shields, so reflexive, eased, and he found much of the despair mirrored in Melaani's own thoughts. Two minds twined loosely at first but with a building _need _that matched the physical. And quickly outstripped it, as the bruises and injuries and the spinning world around Samiel presented limits to how far they were willing, and _able,_ to push themselves. Reassuring each other, and themselves, that they were not alone. That even though the entire _universe_ had reversed polarity over the last day, _this_ was still real.

_No, no shame, don't think that, everyone falls, dear one. Everyone falls. We rise again. Sometimes. . . we just need a little help._ She slid an arm, carefully, around his waist, stroking his back lightly, and rested against him. It was just good to know that what was between them—as sudden and unexpected and uncertain as it was—hadn't changed. That there was at least _one_ stable point in her personal universe. The room might be spinning for him—and she could feel the alcohol still inside of him, feel the grinding headache, too—but the entire world spun for both of them, almost out of control. But now she rested on the mental bedrock, for a moment. And that let her mind. . . stabilize. Identity crystallized. This was who and what she was. And it was _good_.

Hazy warmth of entwined minds, until the half-guilty realization that she wasn't giving enough. . . . _Maieolo'loa_. The word crept in from the depths of Melaani's mind, perhaps with a little guilt, and Ylara's comments from the previous day echoed in her thoughts. Samiel answered the female maiden directly, his tone dry and stubborn. _Fuck that. I'm an __ardat-yakshi__. The __galaxy__ is changing. We're __making up__ the rules as we go, now._ The lingering thoughts behind the statement made it rather clear that once the room held still, _déclassé_ would no longer be a concern. _At all._

Melaani actually laughed at that, under her breath. _Yes. You are. We're. . . going to have to figure out what that means. And yes, we're certainly making things up as we go along._ She paused, and added, out loud, lightly, "_I just know that sooner or later, Ylara is going to be standing outside that door and yelling in here that unless I've __forgotten__ how, that she's locking us in here until she damned well hears __kareo__."_ She started to laugh again at the look on his face, at the total inversion of the turian courtship tradition of a parent standing in the hallway with a sand-clock, monitoring the honor with which 'closed-door' time was conducted. "_That was a joke, fair one. Although I __did__ spend part of yesterday afternoon being lectured by your fair-one as to how I have been failing to take care of you properly. That was not a comfortable conversation."_ It had been mostly mental, too, and Samiel received flickers of the contest of wills between Meshara and Melaani, although she tried to bury the embarrassment of it. 

Arms again wrapped around her slim form, pulling her in tight and, for a moment, ceasing movement for them both. Samiel was still a bit drunk and the hangover was only building, and they were combining with even the admittedly mild physical exertion in predictably negative ways. For a few moments they just lay there, as she sensed that he needed everything to _stop _for a short time.

At the wave of nausea, Melaani had immediately rolled off the bed and reached for the sealed waste receptacle, taking off the lid and offering it, pragmatically. She'd only been _this_ drunk once or twice in her life, but she remembered the results all too well. However, one clear thought did manage to pass from his mind to hers in that brief, quiet span.

_I love you too, Melaani T'soa._

And as the thoughts drifted up to her, she closed her eyes, and drifted with them. _It's really nice to hear the words, Samiel Viridian_, she told him, and eased him back to the pillows, with a kiss. _How about we both get a little more sleep_, _and when we wake up, I try to get some fluids and breakfast into you, hmm?_ She snuggled back into her spot, and as his arms came up around her, she spotted the place where she'd bitten the _hell_ out of his wrist in her panicked struggle this morning, and winced. _I'm so sorry. At least I didn't break skin._

That was her last, hazy thought for a while. An hour or two later, however, when they _did _get up and head to the cafeteria, any number of turians very quietly whistled through their teeth, and various human crewmembers hid their smirks behind coffee cups. Apparently, scuttlebutt between the crew of the _Sollostra_ and the crew of the _Clavus_ had flown _very_ quickly indeed.

Melaani ignored it all, and sat down with asari tea and a breakfast composed, largely, of human rations. She wasn't lactose-intolerant, as many asari were, and she actually found that she enjoyed yogurt, which she thought of as highly exotic. Human pancakes, and the odd, golden syrup derived from the sap of some tree or another on Terra were also a lovely way to start a morning, and, out of the sort of reflexive intimacy that resulted from the sharing state, sat down with her tray beside Samiel, and offered him a bite from her plate, with her fingers. Not with a fork. The various humans and turians around her couldn't really know what _that_ meant, and it wasn't a _proper_ sharing-plate, anyway.

And as they ate, Melaani started to go through the reports that had piled up in the five or six hours that she'd actually finally rested, and just groaned. "We're going to have to decide what to do with Telara," she finally began to list, out loud, mostly to organize her own thoughts. "Not to mention the various children and others on the _Sollostra_. I think Iliana—the null one, the engineer? I think she could be pretty happily employed on base, if she passes the background check. She claims Telara never affected her mind, you know that? Would she even know if Telara _had_? Maybe being a . . . a. . . _savant_. . . like that. . . confers natural immunity to domination attempts. . . " Melaani realized she was rambling, and pushed the datapad away. "Plus, we've been ordered to transport _one_ if not _both_ of the Twins to Mindoir for a . . . 'diplomatic meeting' with Shepard. And . . . crap. I just looked at the date. I have six days to find a dress for Dara's wedding. And, apparently, a _costume_ for the 'Halloween' party." She glanced at Samiel. "Those last two are possibly less galaxy-shaking than the other concerns, but they are, nevertheless, _real problems."_

She actually managed to keep a straight face for all of ten seconds after that comment.

Entering the mess brought with it nothing Samiel hadn't expected, from the turians _or_ the humans. Initially, all he did was walk single-mindedly towards the massive tureen of coffee, and there was a feel that he had to resist the desire to just outright biotically charge to get to the vicious liquid. Maybe the steady pounding in his head was all that really kept him from gathering the focus and doing so. His stomach still threatening the rest of his body with mutiny, he kept his plate light, toast and eggs, and some fruit. He wasn't sure if he'd even be able to put that down.

Sitting down with Melaani, he began thumbing through a datapad of his own, trying to catch up those reports that filtered down to his non-Spectre status. He accepted a bite or two of food from Melaani, and offered one or two in kind, but between his turian outlook and his _stomach_, the public sharing of food was kept to a minimum. The second time, he flicked his wrist in a subtle way as he reached for the piece of toast, causing his sleeve to fall further down his forearm than typical as he offered it to her. There was an impulse of surprise from the turians in the room; the human crew noticed the sharp, indrawn hisses from some of them upon seeing the angry blue bite mark on Samiel's wrist, and the way their mandibles flexed. A flurry of muttered questions from the humans, a flurry of "_later, man, __later__"_ from their turian friends.

The turians weren't quite sure what to make of the two asari now. Especially given the last time the painted male had been aboard. And Melaani could feel Samiel's satisfaction and veiled amusement at shutting them up.

"Telara suddenly isn't nearly as unique or valuable as we believed her to be two days ago." He was reviewing the report from Jaworski on the suspected _ardat-yakshi_ population, and his expression was getting grimmer by the second. "If we can pin any of the murders on her, just prosecute her as any other serial killer.

"In the light of everything we've discovered, an ordinary serial killer is what she _is_, and is _all_ she should be treated as, yes," Melaani agreed, her voice tight. "It's all the ones who killed, in a series, should ever have been treated as, with some consideration for the fact that they can influence judges, officers, and juries. Send people after them with strong mental defenses and a sniper rifle with _lia'mellea_ darts. . . or actual bullets, if they're considered actively dangerous." She looked up as Samiel tossed the datapad to the table. "

He hadn't had a chance to get more information out of Melaani regarding the numbers she'd hinted at, and hadn't wanted the information to disturb their sharing. But now, reading Dara's report at the table, his face twitched into a wince as he tried to resist reality, and he tossed the datapad onto the table with a clatter. "_Seven?_ There's _futarri_ _seven_ out of the entire _futarri_ population? And there's _seventy-two_ with Sisu's condition?" He leaned back in his chair, tipping it back onto two legs and rubbing at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. After a few moments he dropped the hand away from his face and blinked tiredly. "I've no idea at all how to react to this."

Melaani tapped her spoon lightly against the side of her yogurt container. "You . . . and Sisu. . . are unique, yes. It will be interesting training him as he grows. At the moment, he is. . . as sweet and innocent a child as I can imagine. I can't _envison_ him with a strength of will to dominate other people's minds. . . but the genetic structure is there." She pushed her own plate away, and sighed. "And, to be honest, these are just statistics. There could be more. Or far fewer." She rubbed at her own eyes. "I wasn't on base for the attack seven years ago, and I've only read the case histories. . . .I don't recall if Lina Vasir was a full male, or a hermaphrodite before the. . . surgeries. .. but I know there was no uterus. She. . . he. . . was what you or Sisu are. But she was also nothing at _all_ like either of you."

Ylara had made her way to their table, accompanied by Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight. And hearing Melaani's words as she sat down, the senior Spectre nodded. "Vasir also had an extended, area domination ability. I'd never expected to feel it again." The elder Spectre's face turned grim. "But yesterday, I did. From Ishala. It was the _same sensation_. It just took me a while to grasp what I was feeling." She sipped at her tea, blank-faced. "Which is. . . suggestive. It means that a matriarch among the Justicars was. . . just as much an _ardat-yakshi_ as those she hunted. I would give _much_ to access their records, and see if others of their Order _knew_. If they felt that having a 'demon' of their own to hunt other 'demons' was. . . acceptable. Or if, because she never killed in bed, they did not recognize her for what she. . . was." She exhaled. "Of course, it might be a while before the Justicars are really speaking with us again."

"How're _you_ doing this morning?" Melaani asked. "You had some. . . very bad shocks yesterday. Kella. Sisu. Telluura, too?"

Ylara actually put her face in her hands for a moment, and Nameless crooned gentle blues to her. _Peace-Singer, do not grieve so. . . _

"Kella. . . was a shock. I should have recognized the ability as a form of domination a long time ago, but she never _used_ it around me. I was . . . distressed, when Dara told me that Kella had used it on her. Well-meaningly, but Kella wasn't trained for clinical-level sharing. Memory suppression, and the like. The damage she could have caused to Dara could have been _irreparable_, if she hadn't been able to put the self-awareness back into her." Ylara looked up, her eyes deeply sad. "But I suppose we never really see our children with perfect clarity. And I only found out about the incident after her passing. I put it to the side. Irrelevant, other than the fact that it had made her dear friend charier of asari. Sisu. . . again, a shock. But less of one. I already knew he was unusual. Special. And that he's gifted as well as unusual. . . doesn't change reality all that much. Telluura, though. . . I don't know whether to be happy or sad for her. She carries the SRY cluster. Reave, from me. No empathy. No domination. And now, I'm left with what to tell Sisu." She looked at Samiel reflectively. "I suspect I'll tell him he's more like you than we knew, and that he'll need special training for some of his abilities. But I won't use the _word_ '_ardat-yakshi_' until he's old enough to understand things a little more clearly." 

Samiel nodded, slowly, thoughtfully. It was, as he'd come to expect from Ylara, _balanced_. And clearly the product of a night spent thinking on the matter, heavily. "As to the Justicars," Melaani murmured, after a moment, ". . . how _is_ Samara this morning?"

"Samara's better," Ylara reported. "Making noises about resigning from the Justicars, however. I keep telling her that if she wants the Justicars to change, she's in the best position to change them where she is, but she might only listen to Jack and Shepard. Oh, and Viridian? Your mother has asked to see you. I did _not_ know, when I read your file, that your mother was _that_ Laessia V'soa. The last name isn't uncommon. . . "

Samiel turned his weary eyes to the two of them. Underneath the face-paint he looked like hell, dark circles under his eyes and face pale from the hangover, and spectacular bruising on one of his scalp tentacles, as well as the tell-tale signs of freshly mended skin. One of Nameless' pedipalps snaked out and rested on his shoulders for a moment; with a rueful quirk at one corner of his mouth, Samiel gripped the appendage tightly before the brood warrior withdrew and gave Samiel his private-space-songs.

"I'd no idea she was that Laessia V'soa, or even who _that_ Laessia V'soa was, either, Ylara. I actually had no idea what she was capable of until she cut T'kir down. Speaking of…" The chair tipped back down onto four legs, and he leaned forward on his elbows to massage at his temple with a hand. This headache just would _not quit_. ". . . is there any official word yet on how the Order is going to deal with Meshara? Or they officially backing off in the wake of Dara's findings or respecting Spectre asylum, or should we prepare for another go?"

Ylara sighed at Samiel's question. "I honestly do not know, Samiel. Samara hasn't even been able to make a report back to the Order. Your mother. . . is not a Justicar. She has no authority. I imagine that when Samara makes her report, there will be repercussions. We have asked Meshara to come with us to our base, at least as much to arrange a meeting between her and Shepard, as to protect her, while the Justicars . . . sort out. . . what they plan to do in the next days and months."

"Sort out." He frowned, and began to shake his head until the pounding headache made him think better of it. "The Order's going to be faced with adapting or dying, and I don't like the odds of what decision they will make, or the way that will reinforce the traditionalists within asari society."

The empath thought about it, rubbing at the knot in his neck with the hand that wasn't supporting his aching head. He honestly didn't want to face Ylara today, or face _anyone_ today, or maybe for the next ten years, after the previous day and night. But here she was. And the budding interest he had begun to take in asari culture regarding the fate of not-shes was hardening in his consciousness like a lump of coal under extreme pressure. "If Samara is considering resigning . . . we _want_ her to stay with them, because she's apparently beginning to understand the ramifications involved. She's respected by asari society, as well as the galactic population. And this may be cruel, but she seems to be grasping the repercussions of the Order's long-standing pogrom." Samiel's voice had taken on that clinical detachment as he spoke, as he reduced life to yet another battlefield. "This _will_ end in bloodshed. I don't think Jaworski's realized that yet, and even if she has . . ." He sighed. "It isn't her species. If Samara can influence the Justicar Order, perhaps some lives will be spared."

Ylara winced, visibly. "I can see the Justicars themselves . . . possibly dividing against themselves. A schism. And given the respect with which they are held? People will be swayed to either side, yes." She sighed. "I told Samara much the same thing, Samiel. I told her that her voice will be _heard_. She helped defeat the Reapers. She might not have saved Thessia, but she saved much of the rest of the galaxy. She has. . . an aura. But I do not think she heard my words yesterday. I think she only heard the voices within her own head."

_Memory-song is strong,_ Dances interjected, suddenly. _And often cruel, when we revisit it, with new songs in our minds._

Melaani put a hand, lightly, on Samiel's shoulder. "I've. . . shared a little with Dara. When we were all working to teach her to control her biotics. She's not often cruel, or thoughtless. But she _is_ a scientist, and sometimes goes into a very salarian mode of thought. If a thing is _known_, then it should be acted on. With due consideration for ramifications and unintended consequences. . . and lies offend her, I think." Melaani's expression was taut. "With that said, I know for a fact, from Elijah's comm call last night, that her entire approach to the Justicars was coached and rehearsed with Shepard, Garrus, Sam Jaworski, and Elijah Sidonis. It was intentional, Samiel. She was trying to pull their anger onto a different target. Herself." Melaani winced. "When she releases the information, it won't be as she spoke it to us, but as a scientific paper. Released to be peer-reviewed. Assessed. Examined. Tested. And then. . . when there is enough evidence of the actual conspiracy to displace SRY-carrying populations . . . Vakarian, Sidonis, and Jaworski, will release the rest of it. And that. . . probably _will_ start the war, yes." Melaani rubbed at her temples. "I've spent half my life dealing with and deflecting fanatics. No one knows better than I do what impulses are under our calm facade, Samiel."

In the med bay of the _Clavus_, Mercuria had waited, with relative patience, while Siege, the previous evening, had variously dunked, dipped, folded, and otherwise taken care of Samiel, through the early hours of local morning. Once Samiel had been put—very carefully—to bed, Mercuria, in her mech platform, had found Siege, caught him by the elbow of the undamaged arm, and attempted to drag him off with her.

This worked about as well as might be expected, for a moment, as she pitted her not-quite-three-hundred pounds of weight against his six hundred. Once she stopped and gave him a look, wordlessly, however, her mandibles twitching slightly, he acceded for the moment, and she took him down to engineering, where she pointed at a bench, made him sit next to it, and began severing the damaged components, and microwelding the new titanium skeleton in place.

Pester, the geth's small maintenance platform, seemed. . . uncertain of what to do, since its repair function had been usurped. It actually moved forward and bumped into her leg periodically, chirping and trilling inquiries at her in geth machine language, for which Mercuria did not currently have a lexicon installed. "You can apply the synthetic muscles and fix the hydraulics," she told Pester, the first words she'd actually spoken in some time. "Wait your turn."

The new skeleton now in place, Mercuria nodded, satisfied, and put the welding torch away; titanium required specialized gear. "There. All yours, Pester," she told the small platform, and stepped back. After a long moment of internal debate, she tapped the screen on her omnitool. "I reviewed the logs on the combat in the Twins' compound. I've only just received the biotic radio module for my omnitool. . . . " There had been a _spirited_ debate in the Hierarchy on the advisability of giving this technology to _anyone_ in the field, and Mercuria had flatly refused to accept it as an integrated add-on, on the grounds of _I can already be hacked. I do not wish to become a double target, this time of domination attempts. I do not know how it could work, but I would rather not take the chance._ ". . . and thus, I might not interpret its data correctly. But there was a brief. . . but _measurable_ period. . . in which the screen indicated that you were broadcasting emotional content." Her eyes widened very slightly. "It was. . . right when you appeared to take umbrage with Justicar T'kir's unfortunate word-choices with regards to Samiel Viridian."

She glanced down at the screen. "Unfortunately, the device appears to have experienced a fault. It interpreted that data and outputted a solid red screen." Mercuria grimaced slightly. "The technology does not appear to be entirely stable." She glanced around, making sure that none of her organics were _anywhere_ close at hand, and moved closer. "I did find. . . I thought it . . . It was a strong gesture," Mercuria finally stumbled to a halt. She'd felt enormous _pride_ in him at that moment, but she had no idea how to convey that. "I. . . nevermind. Please actually remain _seated_ and _here_ until Pester is done with you."

The platform was quiet, listening as Mercuria spoke, and was quiet for a moment longer when she finished.

"The biotic transceiver installed into your omnitool is not faulty, Mercuria. It simply requires updated algorithms."

Mercuria looked down at the omnitool and muttered, with manifest annoyance, _"S'kak._ Why does every new gadget from Fleet always need an immediate firmware update?" She glanced back at him. "Would you mind uploading them to me? Into the ship database is fine. That way, it's archived, and I can download it from there." She shrugged. "Or omnitool to omnitool is fine." She held out her left hand slightly. "So when this thing receives the proper update, I'll actually see. . . text? Like an elcor prefatory statement? 'With protection-anger'? 'In earnestness'?"

"Affirmative and negative. You mentioned that your omnitool display blanked out with a completely red screen during our verbal interaction with Ishala T'kir. Red is the closest-approximation of color that associates with emotional states of 'anger'. We were . . . very angry. Quantifiable using turian descriptors. Protection-anger, indignation-anger. A discernible quantity of restrained _rage_."

Siege taps at his omnitool for a moment, snaking a cord from the device and plugging it into a forearm point. "Downloading updated biotic lexicon archives to our omnitool now. Access to actual emotional states has allowed for . . .as far as we are able to ascertain, complete understanding of biotic transmissions. Sending file to your primary archives. They should register in your omnitool as a more sensitive display of various color tones, and appropriate 'subtitles.'"

Mercuria waited for the file transfer to complete, and installed the new program to her omnitool. . . and blinked, as the font there shifted, changing color and weight as it scrolled through more or less meaningless, background biotic data. Blues and greens, which seemed to be ambient, from the rachni brood-warrior aboard. The steady pulse of ones and zeroes that was Siege's baseline state had shifted in color to a light cyan as well. Fortunately, the background of the screen was black. "Thank you," she told him, smiling slightly. "This will be. . . actually very intriguing to read now."

She hesitated, then added, "You did very well. Both in handling the emotional state, and the situation." Her words faltered again. It was difficult. . . almost impossible, really. . . to convey what she wanted to express. She was largely turian in outlook, and turians _prized_ strength. Strength of mind, body, and spirit. As a gunship, however, Mercuria had a slightly different outlook on _strength_ than the average turian. She had Thanix cannons that could level a city. She had torpedoes that could tear apart another, lesser ship. She understood, intuitively, that strength was more than merely a function of muscles or hydraulics. She didn't know if she quite believed in the turian concept of _spirit_, but she did believe in . . . character . . . for lack of a better word. The individual (arguable concept, in terms of a geth) person's core personality, its virtues, its vices. And Siege's spirit—his character—was a strong one, and growing, daily, stronger.

How impossible it was, to say any of that. To convey it, in any meaningful fashion. Mercuria really wished that she could sigh. "I. . . liked it," she finally said. The words didn't in any way encapsulate what she really meant. "I mean. . . it startled them, which was tactically sound—" _No. No, no, no. Wrong._ She floundered, and finally gave up. "It was a powerful gesture of loyalty and friendship," she finally finished, and throwing up her hands, leaned forward towards the seated geth.

Body-language was simply going to have to do, because words were obviously not working as intended.

After a moment of total floundering, as she realized that _none_ of the musculature that supported the optics was visible between pieces of armor plating, gave in, and bit the armor itself. Polyceramic teeth, as tough as her claws, as tough as the plating on her hull, scraped against the red-painted armor, and then Mercuria drew back. "I should go recharge this platform," she said, quickly. "I'll be uploaded into ship-self until battery levels are at maximum again."

Battery levels were currently at ninety-six percent, but that really didn't make it any less good of an excuse.

Oddly enough, considering the previous conversation, she didn't even look at her omnitool as she strode out of the room. It probably would have told her exactly what she wanted to know, but Mercuria didn't even think of it until safely uploaded to ship-self again. . . and then, she refused to look at the logs. That would be. . . in some fashion. . . _cheating_. Dishonest. An invasion of privacy. Something along those lines.

Siege watched her go, and proceeded to sit there for the next three minutes, doing nothing but think. Letting the hybrid runtimes walk the rest of the geth's consciousness through the ramifications what Mercuria had just done. Eventually, the platform stood, fully aware that Mercuria would be watching on at least some level through the internal cameras of the ship, and moved to a workbench.

A quick search produced a small mirror, used by engineers to peer around corners in tight ductwork. Siege inspected the bite mark, the small indentations in the armor at the base of the platform's neck, where the crimson paint had been scraped away to reveal silvery steel underneath. Consensus didn't take long to achieve.

Digging around in its own maintenance kit, Siege produced a bottle of sealant spray, used to finish a platform's new paint job as a first layer of protection against the elements. A small brush cleared the last clinging flecks of paints, and a quick once-over with the sealant protected the metal underneath the marks from any untoward exposure.

Siege looked around for a moment, making sure there was no one else in the storage bay, then reached forward and pressed his hand flat against the wall behind the workbench he had claimed. A quick activation of the platform's eezo core gave it the strength it needed to push forward, and leave a faint indentation of its handprint in the metal of the wall. That done, the geth turned and left the bay.

For some completely inexplicable reason, all power in the ship shut down as Siege pressed his hand against the wall. The lights flickered and went dead. The reactor core went off-line. Backup lights fluttered on, low and red, all over the ship, and dozens of humans and turians shouted in annoyance, and scrambled for duty stations.

Within seconds, the lights came back on, and any number of people opened their omnitools, beginning to scan for system faults, and got on the comms to demand of Mercuria _what the __futar_ was going on. The NCAI appeared to have no solid leads on the cause, but swore she was looking into them.

Anyone who happened to look at Siege's omnitool, however, as the geth calmly entered the mess hall and sat down across from Samiel, nodding in greeting to Ylara, Melaani, and Dances, would see that a message was parked, flashing there. And further examination would reveal a single sentence. Two words, in dark blue font: _Thank you._

As the lights went out, only one thought filled Samiel's head: _We're getting attacked on the __ground__? _A rush of adrenaline surged through the male-maiden's body, and then just as quickly, the mess hall's powerful primary lighting kicked back in, and they could all feel the reactor thrum back to life through the deck-plating. Through the ship, Samiel could feel the worry and surprise, but not signs of actual attack. Ylara looked as confused as anyone.

A minute later, Siege walked in. Samiel looked up at his friend as the massive platform lowered itself onto the opposing bench. "Siege, you're in contact with the shipboard AI, aren't you? What's going on?"

He got the distinct impression that the platform was just _staring_ at him. Samiel looked at it without understanding, and then his eyes were drawn to the scratches in the otherwise pristine paint job—scratches that clearly revealed the gleaming steel in stark contrast to the bright red paint. The empath stared without understanding for a moment. Those weren't scratches, they were _turian_ _bite marks_.

Samiel's head snapped up to look the platform in its optics, and the room swam in an obliging fashion. Groaning, one hand going to his temples, he muttered one passionate curse.

"_Women._"

Melaani obviously picked up Samiel's word, in turian, looked mildly confused, stared at the geth, just as clearly missed the scratches, and walked off, murmuring, "I'll leave you two—no, _three_—to catch up." She glanced at Dances to include him in the statement. She picked up her tray. "I'm going to go stretch out and try, very hard, to loosen my muscles. And then I probably need to do real work."

Ylara, too, clearly had other things to do. "I'll be on the _Sollostra_, if you need me," she informed them all. "Making arrangements for Meshara Laos to travel on my ship."

As the two asari left, a couple of human and turian engineers entered, grabbing _apha_ and coffee cups, and shaking their heads. "The AI's already run a full diagnostic, and says there's no apparent system faults."

"Bullshit. Power doesn't fail for no reason."

"I think she's not telling us something. You know, AIs can go crazy. Known for it."

"Not NCAIs."

"Hey, unexplained stuff _can_ happen. Every ship has a spirit—"

"Our ship's spirit is supposed to be the AI—"

"Shut up and listen. Spirits can do weird things."

"Like that _handprint_ that I just saw _in_ the wall down in the engineering compartments?"

"I still don't believe you about that."

"As my heart beats and I draw breath. It's turian, but way too big to be any turian's hand that I've ever seen. And it's embedded in the wall."

"Well, I'm sure if it's actually there, we'll have to repair the bulkhead."

All four of their omnitools pinged. Four heads tipped down, read the messages there, and then looked up again, confusion writ large on their faces. "Okay. The AI _is_ going nuts. Did you just get—"

"—a message saying to leave the handprint _alone_? Yeah."

"_Futar_. Let's hope she doesn't space us all." The turian looked up and around. "You know I'm just kidding, right, Mercuria?"

With the two female asari gone, Samiel had gotten up, groaning, long enough to refill his cup with black coffee and then return to the table with Nameless and Siege. He settled into the chair gingerly, wincing as his weight settled onto each and every bruise.

Now that the three of them were alone, he wasn't sure what to say to them. He hadn't seen his friends in months, and didn't even know where to begin. Aside from the memories that Laessia had passed on to him, he had only the haziest recollection of the bar after the first two hours. But he knew that the geth and rachni had come for him, and carried his drunken ass back to the _Clavus_.

"Last night . . .was almost a very grave mistake." After the past four months, using galactic felt odd. His voice was very quiet, shamed, and not meant to carry past Siege's audio sensors. Nameless, on the other hand, didn't even need to actually hear his words. "Thank you for coming here. And thank you for coming for me last night."

_We could not do otherwise. I sing regret, that I did not realize that you had forgotten your songs sooner. Or else we would have come to you before._ Dances rested a pedipalp, lightly, on Samiel's shoulder. _Sings-Solitude, you should know that you never sing alone. Do we not raise our voices with yours?_ It was a gentle remonstrance. _Are you well now?_

After a moment, Dances asked, also, _What would you sing of the past months? What would you have us sing, in turn?_ He turned. _I would hear Sings-Battle sing of the devourers who would learn peace-songs. I would hear __you__ sing of investigation-songs and deception-songs. They truly did not know you?_ Mild astonishment from the rachni at that concept.

The platform nods once. "Urukan has proven himself to be a surprisingly adept and adaptable leader for his clan, and underneath his rule the remaining Yahg as well have begun to see the advantages to negotiations. Our role in bringing medical assistance to repair the crippling of a limb that we inflicted during the initial meeting event was a large factor in getting them to really... _understand_ the value of the ideas we put forth."

A slight pause. "UNTO-Platform 'Peacebringer' should be capable of riding herd on them in our absence."

The male-maiden's head cocked to the side at Siege's words. "That is far too little information, Siege. What the hell kind of trouble did you get into to end up negotiating with yahg?"

"No trouble at all, Samiel."

Samiel frowned at Siege, then narrowed his eyes in a grimly inquisitive manner at the platform. The damn geth was broadcasting _smug._ "I'll get it out of you eventually," the empath finally muttered.

He turned to Nameless after that, and suddenly Samiel's eyes seemed to go anywhere but to actually look at his companions. He _wanted_ to use Siege's response as a way to entirely avoid responding to the brood warrior's question of whether or not he was well, but the two had just faced _Justicars_ for him. "I . . . wouldn't say that I'm 'well', Dancer." He focused on the coffee in his hands. "But I won't go to a bar alone again. This all is just going to take . . . time. To adjust to. Things have changed over the last day. _Many_ things." He swallowed. "It's a touch overwhelming."

_Enemies whose enmity turned out to be songs-of-memory, replaced by truth-songs? Name-song threatened? Name-song of an entire species . . . . turned into question-songs? And the sorrow of harmonies diverging, only to join again in reprised melody?_ Dances' voice held just a hint of humor.

And then it hit home. The rachni was _deliberately_ being cryptic.

Siege turned his optics to look at Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight. "And we thought we were the one being the asshole." The platform lets his dry amusement show.

Dances' head swiveled and the rachni's good eyes bored into Siege's singular optic. . . and for an instant, absolutely no music of any kind could be heard. And then blue-green amusement _flooded_ out. _Sings-Battle! You have learned much on the planet of endless deserts! Surely the devourers did not teach you joke-songs!_

The _ardat-yakshi_ had looked up at Nameless, trying to sort through the rachni's words. Samiel had _lived_ everything that had just been referred to, and he _still_ wasn't sure what exactly Nameless meant.

Then Siege spoke up, and Samiel just _stared_ at the platform for a long moment. _He didn't . . . he did . . . I know he has emotions but . . . _Shaking his head and eyes wide, he tore his gaze away from Siege just long enough to look at Nameless, and then carefully rub at the bridge of his nose. "_Futar_ you both. Spirits, but I've missed you two assholes."

_It is good to sing with you once more, too. _The rachni paused. _Off-key as you are this morning or not. _Plain amusement in blues and greens. _You have __both __learned to sing joke-songs. I must study these harmonies._

"'Off-key' makes it sound _so_ damn simple to fix." Samiel took a long pull of the coffee as if it were a rare medicine, and then hung his head in an attempt to stretch out his neck. "The damned room is _still_ spinning if I move my head too quickly."

_No, no, you are not merely off-key. You are also poisoned. This is why your songs crescendo and descend again like waves. _

"Yes, poisoned. You're absolutely correct in that." There was a tone of bitter, bitter regret at his choices in his voice.

Siege placed his hands on the table, quiet for a moment. "We agree. It has been too long since we have been able to spend idle cycles with you two."

"To give an actual answer regarding the yahg, we discovered a small clan of yahg still existing in hiding on Terra Nova. Initial communications involved intervening during a fight between the clan leader and a non-consensual faction within the clan. The next two months were spent as the Alliance's primary negotiator to the yahg clan, due to our ability to both communicate in terms they could understand, and our ability to strong-arm dissident yahg into submission when necessary. Mercuria accompanied us for the entirety of this venture, providing defensive support and calculative assistance. Having her at our side was invaluable."

Nameless paused, swiveled his head, and again seemed to stare at Siege. _Devourers sing battle as diplomacy-songs, too? Why do I not sing startlement? _

And then, after a moment, nothing but pure white confusion from the rachni, resolving into. . .bemused wonder. _I must ask Sings-of-Glory if he understands your songs,_ he finally assessed.

After giving Siege a chance to respond to Nameless but hearing no words forthcoming, Samiel spoke up again. "We were assigned to Niacal, a deep cover op trying to infiltrate the Tears of the Moon. Ylara, T'soa, and myself." The attempt to keep his relationship with Melaani purely professional in the conversation was blatantly transparent. "I was presenting myself as a young maiden, T'soa came in as my sister. The roles eventually evolved into _ardat-yakshi_ sisters." He shook his head, carefully, and drained the last of the coffee. "I still don't believe they fell for it, but they did. Shut down the Tears operation on Niacal, stormed their facility, and supplied Jaworski with the data she needed to blow open . . ." He paused, and then expelled a breath in a rush, waving one hand in the air as if to encompass everything that surrounded them. " . . .all of this."

"I found out about the Justicars just before we hit their genetics lab. We came straight here afterwards."

_I still do not understand how you can pass into another hive, and remain undetected. Do you __truly __appear so different, when you sing deception-songs?_ _Is it like the low-song of a worker, who, puts out different scent-songs, when a new queen takes over an old hive?_ Dances was, in spite of himself, somewhat fascinated. It didn't seem _possible_. But the two-legged managed it all the time. He could only conclude that their innate deafness to song prevented them from identifying other singers correctly. _Could you or Hidden-Singer hide your songs from one such as I am? Is this possible?_

This actually gave him pause for anxiety. _Joy-Singer has asked for all of her brood-warriors to sing safety for the Spectre hive on the planet of violet skies. If it is __possible__ for one to hide his or her song. . . then we would not know if that person walked among us. This is. . . distressing._ He considered it. _But most two-legged singers, sing like crystal. They are transparent. _

And one, quick private melody: _As you are, in trying to sing concealment for the songs that you and Hidden-Singer share._ That was a poke, of sorts, a bright arpeggio of song.

Samiel smiled tightly at Nameless' gentle prodding, looking down at the table and then glancing sidelong at his friend. Caught in the act, and he knew it. _It was unexpected,_ was all he said on the matter.

Out loud, answering the rachni's questions about how their deep cover work, he spoke in a darker tone; these were clearly not good memories. "It's a combination of appearing different and acting different, Dancer. It's difficult for us to see nearly as deep as a brood warrior can into someone's mind. I can do it, but people _know_ when I'm doing it. Forced, one-directional sharing. It... is not smiled upon. Quite the opposite. And that's just those, ah, two-legged singers who _are_ biotic. Against the biotically-inert, it's easier."

"I think . . . I'm not sure what would happen if Melaani or I tried to fool you. I think she definitely could, yes, unless you looked deeper than you normally would have reason to. I probably could—I spent months fooling light sharing on Niacal." A shadowed look had fallen over Samiel, growing, the longer he spoke. It was clear to the two, especially Nameless, that for as plainly as he was speaking, the past few months had taken a toll on the empath. He grimaced. "I could show you later, in privacy, if it's important. But I'm not doing it here."

Nameless understood, immediately, what troubled Sings-Solitude. _Deception-songs that are so close to heart-songs, cut both ways. The singer of such songs becomes sullied, and the blade that cuts the strings of the other's heart, snaps the strings of your own._ He paused. _Not until you are ready, Sings-Solitude. When your songs are clean and not filled with grays and violets and lingering reds. _The rachni shuffled more or less back upright. _You both have sung many songs in my absence. After the battle on the planet of the crimson skies, I did not sing so many songs as you have both sung. I returned to the hive of Joy-Singer and assisted Sings-of-Glory in his recovery. It was joy-song to hear his voice for the first time emerging from long darkness. Joy-song to hear Question-Singer sing her love to him from a hive-ship. But he is still much damaged, in many ways. We sing to help him remember, but he does not hear the voices-of-memory any more._

Nameless paused. _It was a good battle, Sings-Solitude. I sing regret that you were not there to join your voice with ours, but no asari was present, and for just cause, I believe._

Melaani's omnitool pinged in the gymnasium as she stretched out, using a bar on the wall. "Now what?" she murmured under her breath, and when she acknowledged it, she realized it was actually a message from the ship's AI.

_Spectre? Two things. First, a vid feed that may be of reassurance to you._

The attached vid cam footage and the audio file—played so quietly that only Melaani could hear it, made her _laugh_, quietly, under her breath. "All right, he's going to be just fine," she muttered to herself, and then glanced around at the walls. For the AI to approach her in such a _circumspect_ fashion suggested that Mercuria did not wish the entire crew to know certain things. She didn't know _this_ AI well, but she'd traveled with Cassandra and Lysandra before. "What's on your mind, Mercuria?" she murmured, just loudly enough for the AI's audio receptors to pick up.

Her wrist pinged again. _Laessia V'soa is at the main airlock. Spectre Alir is not available to deal with her, and I hesitate to interrupt the others while they are. . . 'bonding,' I believe the term is._

"I'll walk her aboard." Melaani's stomach tightened. She'd done a little research into V'soa—the name meant 'of song' or "of peace" in the same way her own meant 'at peace' or "made of song"—last night before finally sleeping. The female had studied asari martial arts since the age of ten, apparently. She had become a Justicar, at an almost unheard-of youthful age of ninety, and had entered the monastic sub-order of the Masters of the Wind at the same time. She had been, apparently, actively courted and recruited, based on her exceptional skills. There was almost no mention of her in public records. Very few public appearances, except at major rituals associated with the Justicars and their affiliated temples of the Goddess. She'd become, within seventy-five years, when she was a hundred and sixty-five, the youngest Master ever given that designation. Younger than Melaani herself was now. A hundred and fifty years as an instructor of unarmed combat to other Justicars, and an instructor in the Wind that Bends the Reeds within her suborder. By three hundred and fifteen, she'd been third in the line of succession to become _the_ Master of her order. . . . and twenty-five years after that. . . disgrace.

At the obscenely young age of three hundred and forty, she'd thrown _all_ of it away to leave Thessia and marry a turian. Had worn his clan-paint. Lived on Edessan, at first, and then they'd quietly moved back to Luisa, once the scandal had died down a little. Ten quiet years, and then the record of a child being born. Again, almost too young to have a child; young mothers tended to have children with heart defects and mental problems. And then, sixteen years later. . . she had founded her own martial arts school. Teaching ancient swordplay and self-defense, but absolutely _none_ of the Wind that Bends the Reeds, still on Luisa. It was, apparently, a very quiet dojo, fueled by word-of-mouth. But law enforcement apparently went to her for polishing training. Melaani had wondered, a little, that she had never heard of it, in her years on Luisa. . . and then had rapidly realized that she'd spent _twenty-two_ of the last thirty-six either in heavy cover or with the Spectres. The other fourteen, she'd been working turns in Vice and in Homicide, and simply hadn't had time to work on her martial skills, nor had training beyond the basic level really been deemed valuable for her.

And, of course, because of Laessia's defiance. . . she had been the _only_ Master who had been on a planet other than Thessia when the asari homeworld was destroyed. She was the last of her kind. And that carried an aura with it, as well.

On top of which, this was Samiel's _estranged_ mother, and the female had just shown biotic powers the likes of which Melaani had never even _dreamed_ the day before. Melaani put on her Spectre face, not all that different from her cop face, and went to the airlock. . . and admitted Laessia. _"How may we be of assistance?"_

"I believe that it may be better for my health if I were to find someplace to disappear for a time," Laessia said, her tone ironic. _"Better for others' healths, as well. I do not know what the Justicars will do, now that I have defied them __twice__ in the same century. They are not bad people, by and large. They serve a necessary function, as a liaison between different levels of asari law enforcement. Outside of the law, bound solely to their own code. I believe they were an early inspiration for the Spectres. But that being said, I have not been one of them for decades. And while they may even be right to be angry with me, I would prefer not to have to kill many of them. And I also do not wish to be dodging any armed with sniper rifles, if they decide that direct confrontation might not avail them overly."_

"You ask. . . sanctuary?" Melaani was. . . more than surprised. Stunned, really.

_"I do."_

"I will have to consult with my superiors. The days in which a Spectre did whatever they wished, with whomever they wished, and to entropy with all consequences, are long past."

"This is, in many respects, a good thing. However, it does cause delays. May I wait aboard your ship, while you make contact?"

How precisely would I stop you from staying if you wished otherwise? Melaani cleared her throat. _"Certainly. Mercuria?" _She shifted seamlessly to turian; she'd first learned the language in her Eclipse years, when she'd taken a turian lover, a Blue Suns merc, as part of her cover. Eighteen months in the Spectres had refined the language for her, but she was _always_ going to have the Baetika lilt to her words, that made most other turians chuckle to listen to. _"Please open a conference room where our guest may relax, for the time being."_

Laessiaspoke, but in turian, as well, a nasal Galatana accent permeating every word. _"Perhaps, while we await your superiors' decision, Spectre Melaani, you might tell me things about my . . . son?"_ Turian at least allowed her to use that word. Asari had no word for it; Melaani had already noted that the female tended to use the word 'child' in high-tongue, instead of 'daughter.'

Caught off-guard, Melaai winced slightly. _"Certainly, though I have only known him a short while. Ylara Alir would be better qualified—"_

"Ylara Alir was not the one who threw herself to cover him from Ishala T'kir's attack. No, the _geth__ stepped in the way. You did, as well. I would know what inspires such. . . loyalty."_

Oh, _entropy.__ Fair-one, you have spoken of how I owe __you__ beers? You owe __me__ wine now._ Melaani gestured for the female to precede her. _"Ah. . . by all means."_

The three battle-brothers had stayed at their table in the mess hall for a little while longer reminiscing and, at times, laughing as they heckled each other good naturedly, the strange-looking trio attracting not a few glances from other crew members. Finally Samiel rose with a curse or two at the bruises and stiff muscles and, regretfully, took his leave. As much as he wanted to just lay down until the entire world went away, there was work to be done.

There was always work to be done.

First he passed through med bay, managing to hide most of the limp and the disorientation as he made his way there. He needed painkillers if he was going to be worth a damn. And of course, the medical staff wanted to run him through another battery of tests for his head, and of course, short on patience, Samiel didn't want to deal with a battery of testing, and so they'd argued. Somehow, the not-she managed to get the painkillers yet duck out while the doctor and tech were locked in indecision.

He knew he was going to get an earful from Ylara about that one.

Dressed in his robes, Samiel left the _Clavus_ (he unknowingly left about five minutes after Laessia boarded, and thus missed her, enough distance between them and just generally not looking such that his empathy missed her as well), and crossed over to where the _Sollastra_ was berthed. He just tried to ignore the looks he was getting from this crew now, growing increasingly tired of the scuttlebutt passing between ships, and moved through the _Normandy_-Class vessel's corridors until he came to where the rescued test subjects were being temporarily cared for and roomed. Samiel knew he was a sight right now - hiding a limp, scalp tentacles showing spectacular bruising on one side, and still nursing a rager of a hangover even after the pain medication—but seeing to these maidens and children was one thing he simply could not abide avoiding.

Samiel discovered, in short order, that the crew of the _Sollostra_, taking a cue from Ylara's attitude, had pretty much _adopted_ the young captives. Iliana was in the best shape of all of them, though there was a track of needle scars along her left arm from all the various injections the Tears researches had subjected her to; her captivity had lasted for six months. All of the captives have been allowed to go to the port observation lounge to stare out at daytime Tortuga, and watch vids, play games on the extranet, and, in the case of the youngsters, burn off energy in the corridor outside with a couple of human and turian off-duty crewmates, who had organized them into an impromptu handball game. Which was mostly beyond the children's' hand-eye coordination, and attention spans, but they were shrieking with laughter and so out of breath that they could barely speak, so it seemed to be a win-win.

Iliana watched it all from the sidelines, periodically fielding the ball when it came closer to her, but she leaned back against the wall, steadily regarding the humans and turians. Her eyes were skeptical, but a hint of a smile quirked her lips up as she spotted Samiel. "You. A face I actually know. Do I get a name to go with it this time?" Her tones were harsher than a typical asari's, as if she's consciously practiced, for years, the abrasive tones of a turian or krogan. Defensive camouflage, of a sort.

Samiel had nodded in greeting to Iliana as he'd first walked into the observation lounge, and crossed over to where the female stood. He remembered her as being the effective leader of the captives, as well as being competent and useful during the combat situations. After a moment's deliberation he offered his hand for a simple clasp, the Touch of Thessia just coming naturally after the Niacal operation. "Viridian. Samiel. I'm sorry for not having checked in with you sooner, it's been a long several days." He sounded honest, but the darkness in his words hinted at just how long the past few days had been for him.

"Eh, nice to meet you, Viridian. This lot is running me ragged. Kiva! Nyvae! _No pulling scalp tentacles, that's not how you solve problems. Break it up!"_ The switch to high-tongue caught the two children's attentions, and they looked back at her, much abashed. The third, however, scooped up the ball that the other two had been fighting over, and ran with it, much to the approval of the rest of the adults present, "Good job, Lyssa!"

All three of the younglings were wearing. . . whatever the crew had managed to scrounge together. In the main, this meant adult-sized khaki t-shirts, which hung to their knees like smocks, belted at the waist with twine. But the crew had taken time to stencil the children's names on the backs of each with _SAN-TF 321 Sollostra_ on the front of each, in dark blue. They'd even cobbled together makeshift sandals for the children, using rubber from storage, and punching twine through, to keep little feet protected against the cold, hard deck plating.

The three children, from their case records, were all hermaphrodites, of one form or another. All Sisus, effectively, though they might not carry his exact genetic package. The precise details of each's condition, how fully or not fully they expressed the maleness through their emerogen sensitivity, was a question for a doctor. "They've all been in the facility about as long as I was," Iliana noted, darkly, and low-voiced, not letting the children hear her. "They've all had, from what the docs tell me, a hell of a lot of hormonal treatments. _Aizala_ doses, too, and that's not really good for children. Testing for their biotic potential, too. Most of 'em score off the charts." She sighed. "I really fucking hate biotics. In general. Not the individual people who own 'em." She paused. "Kiva told me she was picked up from school by strangers who said her first-mother was in an accident, and that she'd had to be taken off-world for treatment, it was so serious. And then she got where she was going, and no first-mother. I've already given the Spectre the first-mother's name. Think she was living on Luisa. Nyvae? She's a little worse off. She says her first-mother died in a car accident, right beside her, and the kindly people who pulled her out of the wreckage were dressed like police, and took her to a clinic. . . and then she was 'adopted' by the researchers who took her to the testing facility. She's. . . going to be angry for a long time. She keeps wanting to share with me, since I'm the face she remembers from the labs, the one who tried to hold their hands through the bars, when I could reach them. . . but there's nothing up here," Iliana tapped her temple, "to share, really. I mean, I guess _they_ feel something. They calm down when I let them touch me. But I don't feel a damn thing. Guess that makes me calm and nonthreatening." Iliana's face had gone grim. "A _lot_ of that biotics 'testing' they did on the kids involved mental monitoring. Sharing. Whatever the fuck you want to call it. Sounded like most of my childhood, only _worse_." She sighed. "Lyssa. . . well, she was an outright kidnapping. Pulled right out of her playground, bag over her head, could hear her mother screaming her name. She screamed _every single night_ until she fell asleep. Or till Telara told her to shut up, and then she'd just go . . . silent. Would stare at a wall. I couldn't reach her. . . she had the cell across from mine." She sighed. "Last two nights? First decent night's sleep any of us has had in six months."

Hands laced behind his back, he'd turned to face the playing children as Iliana spoke, but glanced back at her as she cursed biotic abilities. After considering that for a moment, he spoke up. "I'm a natural empath. It's… very difficult for me to read people that are shielded. Or null. I was dosed with the little sleep on Niacal," the twitch in his jaw and he fell silent, whatever he was going to say remaining unvoiced. He listened again as she related the children's stories and he did look angry indeed, his expression darkening and the foreboding look coming to his eyes. He said nothing of the genetics facility or its staff, and only added at the very end, "Telara was mentally dominating the child every night. Though immoral, it's not illegal. But if I have anything to do with it, she will be prosecuted for her past murders."

The children were all introduced to Samiel as "you remember one of the people who let us out of the cells, right?" They all _stared_ at him. Kiva asked him, shyly, "Why do you have white stuff all over your face?"

Lyssa frowned a little, and asked, "Are you mad at us?"

Nyvae shook her head. "Don't be silly, he's mad at the bad people. You can't _tell_ that?"

"No! He just looks really mad!" Lyssa edged behind Nyvae. "I didn't mean to make so much noise. I'm sorry."

When the younglings approached, Samiel actually knelt down. Lyssa's question, _are you mad at us_, actually took him aback; the male hadn't realized just how upset he was at the children's prior treatment. He struggled to soften his voice as he responded. "No, little one. I'm not angry at you, I'm angry at . . . the bad people, yes. They won't hurt anyone anymore."

He explained his face paint to Kiva as simply as he could, stating that he had been raised by turians and this was part of their culture, and leaving out all of the details. Talked to the children a bit longer, but ultimately, he wasn't particularly good with children and with Iliana's help extracted himself from their attention. Then Iliana introduced him to the older maidens.

The other three former captives were all older. One, a female named Merisa, was almost as biotically null as Iliana. Her hand-clasp was timid as she looked up from her extranet console, and her eyes widened, taking in the fact that Samiel is clearly a not-she. She's also clearly used to being completely disregarded after the touch of Thessia. "I. . . ah. . .th-th-thank you f-f-f-for s-s-saving us," she managed. The heavy stutter also appeared to be genetic, and something that Iliana didn't react to, beyond telling Merisa, "Don't be such a cringing _rei'ai_."

The surgically-altered hermaphrodite was Nallia; she's effusively feminine, and _far_ more taken aback by Samiel's appearance than the rest, pulling back in evident consternation. _"I still don't know why they wanted to experiment on __me__,"_ she said, fluttering her hands_. "There's nothing special about me. My biotics are barely average. I'm a completely normal asari, and I had just dropped out of school to pursue my singing career. I was __going__ places. Till they came along."_ Flash of real bitterness there. _"The recording company that heard me said I had a really unusual quality to my voice, that they thought would be marketable."_

The last, Ralaia, was perhaps the most physically akin to Samiel. She was physically an absolute neuter. No breasts. No genitals. No internal organs for reproduction. A genetic mule, of sorts. She never gained the additional height, broader shoulders, or slightly deepened voice that Samiel possessed, and yet, her hips are as skinny as a pre-adolescent's, and she has no breast development at all. A _true_ not-she. _"It is nice to meet you under better circumstances,"_ she told Samiel, her voice feminine, but . . . dispassionate. _"I had been in that cell for over two years, I think. I did not believe I would ever leave it alive."_

It was easier to talk to the older ones than the to children, but there were undercurrents here, too, that disturbed Samiel; there was a look in Ralaia's eyes that he recognized, and had long fought to stamp out of his own expression. As with Merisa.

Nallia was a different matter entirely. He didn't know what to make of her at first, and his first visceral reaction was to hate her for accepting her fate so completely. The strength of the emotion took him by surprise, and he choked it back. _This could be you. That is what you hate._ The two stared at each other for a moment, and from her emotions, Samiel suspected that she was thinking similar things.

They really couldn't get away from each other quickly enough.

In the end, he sat with Iliana on one side of the room, speaking quietly with any of the other three maidens that chose to come with them. He had a cup of tea in his hand that he was nursing, and the children's screams as they played caused him to wince at times, the shrieks stabbing into his throbbing head like picks. " . . . and so one percent of the population expresses to some degree. That's one hundred and twenty _million_ not-shes. Six million fully-expressed males. And over a billion carry the genes. This doesn't even begin to take into account the implications of the linked genes." He paused, holding a hand to a temple as one of the children tripped and started crying. After the debacle was dealt with, he continued. "The findings, in part, were drawn from the data we downloaded from the genetics facility's computers. It's being submitted for peer-review, but . . . they're sure. This can't be suppressed. It won't be ignored. Asari society is going to _break_ from this, but it will also be forced to _adapt_ to us. I'm just not sure how long that will take. Or how to avoid the bloodshed that's coming."

Nallia looked distressed. She was _resisting_ this all, strongly. "I still don't see what this has to do with _me_," she said, stubbornly. "I don't care what these turian and human doctors said, I am _not_ . . . I'm _not_ what they said. My first-mother would have _told_ me if I'd been born. . . if I'd needed surgery. . . " 

The empath looked over at Nallia after her words; it was still clear that he was having difficulty with what she represented. "_You are, entirely, what you choose to be, Nallia. If you are female, then that is what you are." _He left it at that, unless pressed further.

Merisa stuttered, "S-so w-what d-does th-that. . . m-make m-me?" She looked at the others. "I'm. . . s-s-sort of used to b-b-b-eing a f-f-freak. . . " Galactic, it's plain, does her no favors at all. "B-b-being w-w-w. . . " She took a breath and tried again. "W—"

"Weak," Iliana supplied, not unkindly. "Yeah. I get that one a lot, too. But from what I'm hearing here, neither you not I fall under this category, Merisa. We're some other type of genetic freak." Her shrug showed elaborate unconcern. "I've walked away from asari society. I moved to Omega to get the _futar_ away from asari society. Even if they adapt to 'us,' I don't know if I want to adapt to _them._" Iliana shook her head, and jerked a thumb at Nallia's back, who'd turned away to listen to music on the extranet, singing along under her breath, in the corner. "Self-image is such a damned hard thing to break," she muttered, folding her arms over her chest. "It's going to be like this for twelve _billion _other people, Viridian. And most of them aren't _me_. I could give a varren turd about most other asari. What have they ever done but considered me just up from a drooling idiot, a pyjack with less hair?" She looked out into the hall. "But those kids. . . I care about _them_."

Samiel had set down the tea cup as he listened to Merisa, leaning forward with elbows on knees, watching her over the hands clasped in front of his face. "_Everyone in this room is considered 'weak' by asari society, Merisa._" He'd smoothly switched over to high-tongue after seeing the difficulty she was having with galactic. "_Every asari in this room is a 'freak'. I wasn't . . . always like I am. I dressed and presented myself as a sister for my first sixteen years. The transition was very difficult. What we are doesn't mean we __are__ weak. Nor are we truly freaks unless that's what we allow ourselves to be."_

_"The two of you," _and he nodded his head to indicate the two nulls, "_are not included in these numbers, no. Your conditions are separate from not-she mutations." _Here he paused, and stumbled through terminology. _"Or separate from the male-condition. Or separate from the __futarri__yakshi_ _condition. Or whatever the hell history chooses to call not-shes—it doesn't matter. You're separate from that. But you are still not genetically 'ideal' asari, and your kind will still be lumped into our camp if— __as__—things escalate. In the end, it's going to be up to each individual . . . other. . . if they will stand with us or not. And if you don't care," _he shook his head now and continued, not with malice, but just with a gravity to his words. He didn't _want_ to see casualties, particularly innocent ones. " . . . _then get yourselves clear."_

He looked at the null maiden. "_You're very damn right, Iliana. This __is__ something that twelve billion other people are going to have to accept. Or __not__ accept. Our kind doesn't accept change well. I grew up among the __mahai__, but most others? Having to face that a tenth of the asari population carries the genetics for __male__ness? That one percent, despite all the misguided attempts of the Justicars, are not genetic accidents, but actually intended to enable sexual reproduction? That there are half a million demons of the night wind, and that they are nothing more than __males__, or male genetics carries, but selectively weeded out, and that the killers are either sociopaths or accidents—that the Order has been incarcerating and killing for the tiny percentage that are involved in __accidents__?"_ Real anger had entered his voice, not directed at those sitting around him, but at the ideas he was expressing. _"I can't blame you for hating biotics. But nearly all asari possess them. And yes. There's going to be a damn war."_

Iliana stared at him, her violet eyes shadowed. _" I survived the batarian occupation of Omega, Viridian. In spite of being visibly asari. Mostly because I lived up on H level, but I was eating cardboard, like the rest of the station, by the time the Spectres broke the batarians' backs, same as everyone else. Pardon me if I'm not really excited about the idea of another war."_ She sighed. "_So, what's next? You take us all back to Illium and dump us off? If so, can I put in a request for Omega? Some of my stuff might __not__ have been thrown out into the street by my landlord."_

Samiel leaned back, forcing himself to calm down from the genuine anger that merely _thinking_ about the fate of so many ardat-yakshi and not-shes provoked in him. He took a sip of tea, then continued in a more reasonable voice. "_The eventual fate of the six of you will be up to the Spectres, not me. I'm not even probationary, I'm just an auxiliary personnel right now. But I expect that, yes, the Spectres will see each of you delivered to your homes. Unless that isn't what you __want__. You could go elsewhere.." _He eyed Iliana at that part, clearly considering options.

Merisa started to stutter something out, and then just looked, with mute appeal, at Iliana. Iliana sighed. "_But from what you're saying,"_ she said, her high-tongue obviously reluctant. . . but her accent in it is as pure as anyone born on Thessia, for all her having been born on Illium. Beautiful to hear, really. _"There's not going to be any neutral place to __go__, eventually. Someone like Nallia here? Once her neighbors find out what she is—sorry, little one, but it's true—her life is going to be a living hell. And what guarantee is there_, _that these entropy-blighted Tears maniacs won't come right back around and scoop any of us back up again?"_ She put her hand on Merisa's shoulder as the other null rocked a little. _"Me, I'll take my chances, but . . . "_ She looked at the other two, and shifted into rough, barely understandable turian, with a gutter accent, "_these two aren't much better than those younglings out there, Viridian. Nallia's weak at mind-powers. Merisa's barely better off than I am, but she at least has . . . mind-voice. I had to come up with. . . other ways to make myself useful. She got by with a regular education."_

If Samiel was surprised at Iliana's concealed fluency in high-tongue, he gave no indication. She _had_ been raised on Illium, after all. "_We blow the cover of secrecy off of the Tears of the Moon with all the fury we can muster, backed by nothing short of the truth. The Spectres are already working on this, they're tracing the organization's activities now that we've provided them with leads. The implications uncovered are nauseating. Regardless of the general public's feelings on the other disclosures, the things revealed about the Tears will destroy any credibility they might have had. The Justicars will have __new__ targets, I promise you this. And perhaps the Code will actually do us some good."_

The empath had been speaking to all of them during this; now he met Iliana's eyes directly, and there was a sadness in the grey eyes as he spoke. Where her high-tongue had been perfect, and his had been fluent, but Edessan-accented and obviously not his first language, his turian was perfect in every respect save for his larynx's inability to produce the double-harmonic. "_I know. The vast majority on both sides will be no better than untrained civilians, trying to kill each other in a civil war that most might not even want. The not-shes will count among their clans the small number of __true__ardat-yakshi__, and this will only serve to incite the opposition. I __know__ I will have Justicar blood on my hands before the end of this. If I survive." _He fell silent for a moment, then sighed. "_You're right. The only safe places will be outside of asari space."_

He leaned back in the cushioned chair, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, and once more speaking in high-tongue. "_I __hope__ I'm wrong about all of this. I hope we can avoid all of it. But the scientific papers are being prepared for submission and even if I wanted, I couldn't stop the publishing. This is larger than any of us."_

Iliana absorbed it all, and snorted a little. _"Yes. Larger than us. Like a Goddess-cursed tidal wave."_ She rubbed at her face, back in high-tongue once more, herself, and sighed. _"Won't fix it all today." _She gave Samiel a steady look, and then turned away to help look after the children again.

He returned to the _Clavus_ at that point, and as he boarded, just as he heard the announcement from Mercuria over ship-wide comms: "We are beginning preparations for departure. Please make sure that all items are stowed in storage compartments or storage nets. All personnel currently on the ground or aboard the _Sollostra_ should return as soon as possible. Departure time is set for 16:00."

He tabbed a compartment comm, and Mercuria's avatar appeared, immediately. At his inquiry, Mercuria confirmed, "Spectre Alir is on the _Sollostra_, ensuring the comfort of Meshara Laos, the last I heard," she replied. It took him a second to respond to Mercuria's update on Ylara's location. He almost muttered, "Son of a bitch, she's on the _Sollostra_?" _I should have talked to her while I was there. . . . _Then Mercuria finished her sentence, and Samiel pursed his lips. _Tightly_. He knew beyond any doubt that he wasn't ready to speak with Meshara yet in any capacity beyond the professional. _Turian contracts are so damn much simpler . . .__ He'd told Melaani just __yesterday__ that he'd never understood the concept of a contract. She'd told him they were for __protection__. And suddenly, now, he __did__ understand._

Mercuria had paused. "I can arrange a private comm call in a conference room, if you like, Mr. Viridian." So _odd_ to hear the human male honorific, but, then again, Samiel currently had no rank designation.

Hoping that none of the thoughts had leaked into his expression, he thanked the NCAI and walked into one of the conference rooms, tabbing the locks and the IN USE marquee as he did so. Ylara's face almost immediately appeared on a screen. _"What can I do for you, Samiel?"_ She still looked tired, but her usual serenity had returned to her eyes. _"We're about to return to Illium to drop off Telara. Two of the children actually have living families, too, so I'll be handling that there, as well. The third, well. . . I'm not sure what to do with the poor thing."_ She sighed. "_Your ship will be returning directly to the Spectre base."_

"_Ylara_," he nodded his greetings to her as he took his chair, noting that the past day had worn on her, as well. "_It's good to hear that two of the children have families. The third. . ._" That gave him pause. A not-she would _never_ be adopted by asari. And for an asari to be adopted by the _mahai_ . . . well, he had an idea of what that was like. "_This . . . does not bode well, Ylara._" He stopped himself from saying anything else. From saying anything about warning signs, or things that could no longer be ignored, or a potential _madafutarri war_ that he couldn't stop thinking about. 

_"No. No, it doesn't. Nyvae was the child whose first-mother was killed in a groundcar 'accident' right beside her. __Him.__ Goddess."_ Ylara sighed_. "She. . . I'm going to say __she__ for the moment. . . is an angry young thing, and will be a handful no matter who has the care of her. The second-mother appears to have left shortly after her birth. A salarian, by what little she remembers of the male in question."_ Ylara rubbed lightly at her eyes. _"She seems to be adapting somewhat. I'm wondering if Dempsey and Zhasa might care for her for a while. They bonded very well with Sisu when we first found him. Zhasa's fluent in asari, and spent her formative years on Illium. And neither of them. . . .well. . . who knows, really, between the nanites and the gene mods." She exhaled. "They might very well be long-lived enough to see an asari child to adulthood. If not them. . . there are a few other asari Spectres. Siara, for one. I can make inquiries. Or. . . I could look after her. The problem will be finding her a long-term __stable __situation. Not being bounced from house to house. While we do all look after each others' children on base, to a certain extent. . . that may not be optimal for Nyvae."_ Ylara grimaced. _"I'll also have a rachni evaluate her. They see and hear so damned much, we may was well put it to use for us."_

Samiel nodded, and made himself push forward to why he had actually contacted Ylara. "_I wanted to know if you have thoughts on Iliana M'loa. At the moment, she seems to have no goals beyond being dropped back off on Omega to see if her apartment has been rented out. I'm beginning to think that this might be a waste of talent._"

Ylara paused, looking intrigued. _"Yes, I've had a moment or two to speak to young Iliana. She's. . . a bitter thing, isn't she? Assertively—no, __aggressively__—disillusioned with our species. She noted that she'd been to fourteen different schools on Illium. First a series of them for the . . . mentally challenged. People with functional IQs below fifty. Then her mother realized just how intelligent she actually was, and put her in schools for the gifted, which challenged her. But the other students were cruel, and the teachers were condescending, and the primary method of instruction at each was __sharing__. Not unlike teaching a blind person solely by the printed word."_ Ylara sighed. _"She does have a certain amount of __willpower__, though. Seems to have automatically assumed a caretaker role for the refugees. . . even if her tongue is none too gentle about it. Certainly seemed to have capable sabotage and computer skills. You think she can work as a tech on base? Or do you think she's combat material?"_

"_I'd definitely call Iliana 'aggressively disillusioned', yes. I didn't think it would be possible to find someone more disgusted with the asari race than I was even until recently, but . . . the Spectres are known for attempting the impossible and succeeding." _ The statement hung in the air for a few seconds, as he thought yet again about how much things had changed in the past months. It could overwhelm him, if he let it_. "She appears useful, though. I have trouble reading her, she appears to be immune even to my empathy, but she claims considerable technical training. She's strong of will, or so it seems. Caring enough to take charge of the children. And we saw first-hand how well she can hold herself together during a combat situation. And when it comes down to it. . . . Ylara,"_ he paused, to give weight to his words, _"I think she's immune to dominate attempts. She didn't even twitch when I . . . used it on you and her, on Niacal."_ He winced a little, at the words, but plowed on. _"Even if you opt not to have her work in an auxiliary capacity for the Spectres, her talents are wasted as just another mechanic on Omega. Provided that we can get her to work with other asari. She seems to accept me," and here he shrugged, "but I suppose the 'freaks' stick together in her mind."_

Ylara's finely painted brows went up, and she sighed. _"Yes. I'll put Iliana on Sky's list, as well. He'll be able to hear her. Even if none of the rest of us can. And Nal'Ishora and Hal'Marrak can put her through her technical paces."_

Before they logged off the comm call, he asked one last question. "_Ylara, I was told that Meshara has boarded the __Sollostra_." The not-she looked away uncomfortably for a moment, then turned his eyes back to the elder Spectre. He did _not_ want to have an entire conversation with Ylara on this subject, nor to drag her into it at all. "_I only want to know if she is all right after yesterday. I'd rather not discuss the matter any further than that."_

Her expression shifted, becoming a mask for a moment. _"She's well, Samiel."_ Her voice was gentle. _"Tired. Distraught at leaving her sister. And I think a little frightened, though she's had much practice in hiding such. Do you wish me to give her any message?"_

As they continued their conversation, he could feel a shifting in the hum of the engines. The _Clavus_ had taken off from Tortuga's surface, and was heading back into the black. "_If she asks, tell her that I'm well. Anything else, we can discuss in person once we're both on base._"

After leaving the meeting room, Samiel stopped by his temporary quarters long enough to check his non-Spectre related messages. Usually there were none, another testament to how the male-maiden had lived up until boarding the _Green-Bottomed Duck_. Today, however, he found a message, actually dated from the day he and Melaani had slept straight through while overdosed on _aizala_. Cursing, he rapidly drafted out a response and fired it off into the ether.

_Father,_

_The crisis has been averted for now, and I've weathered the storm. We do need to talk, I agree. And I must apologize to you for being out of contact for so long—I will explain everything once we have established a link._

_2000 Galactic Time, today, if you receive this message in time and the time is agreeable for you._

_-Samiel_

The response off, and needing to relax his mind more than ever now, he changed into light, loose-fitting clothing and headed for the ship's gym. Samiel was _not_ looking forward to the conversation he would be in for later in the day, and that dourness showed through the hangover's haze as a glare that he forced himself to rein in. Just one more concern to pile onto the stack he was balancing right now.

Reaching his destination he found, of course, that the room was not only occupied, but occupied by his _mother_.Though admittedly, things were starting to not phase him quite as strongly as one would expect as he crossed into the point of stimulus overload.He barely remembered the events at the bar, at least by the point that Laessia had made her presence known, but the memories she had shared with him came back with a cut-glass kind of clarity that made the breath catch in his throat. The empath nodded silently at the other . . . _empath_, and, suddenly finding himself at a loss for how to proceed, moved to a bare area in the room and painfully began to stretch.

Through the agonizing work of rehabilitating abused muscles that had then been allowed to tighten for _days_, he fought to keep his mind from reeling. He had not seen this female for almost thirty-six years, and had then been thrust into yesterday's events with her without warning. Without warning to _either_ of them.

He moved through the stretches, taking his time, trying to work out not only the muscle tightness but also some of the hangover. Finally, he climbed to his feet, considerably more limber than when he had entered. Siege, too, had entered the room, although the geth certainly didn't need to practice his skills or stretch out. Generally, Siege made himself available for _others'_ practice. Or to observe.

"_How did you find me last night?"_ The words were quietly spoken; he wasn't actually looking at Laessia, and hadn't even realized that he'd opened his mouth to speak.

_"I went looking for you in the home of your . . . the. . . Twins."_ She had evidently changed what she was about to say, at least twice in that sentence, and the gaping hesitations showed what words had really been about to be there: _fair-one. Ardat-yakshi._

The hesitations between her words were like chasms, each heaping over with suppressed meaning, and Samiel only barely was able to keep himself silent. To not fill in the blanks after each pause for no reason other than to incite her. Laessia could see it in his expression, could undoubtedly feel it churning behind the mirror-like eyes—the desire to again begin the decades-old argument that he'd prepared for, that he _wanted_. The argument would redeem his childhood, and vindicate the last three decades of his young life.

He could have laughed. Or cried. Instead he just gave a sort of resigned sigh as she continued, trying to accept the fantasy for what it was, and to let it go. Another lie, like so many other things that he believed, only to find them exposed as fallacy in the last day. Aimless, blind anger and frustration left in their wake.

Laessia didn't even pause as she continued to work through her own kata, however, spinning, pivoting, moving. Total focus. _"I had sensed. . . distress. Despair. When I could not find you, but felt ongoing distress from. . . her. . . I began looking. Before your friends did, I suspect. You carried_ _that anger and despair with you, little stormcloud." _She stopped, as if she didn't realize that she'd said the old, old nickname out loud, and hastily retrenched. _"At any rate, it didn't take much time to retrace your steps. Your anger was loud. And familiar, in a way, though it has been . . . many years. . . since I've sensed the edges of your mind."_

She came to the end of her sequence, and turned. Moved with smooth steps to stand in front of Samiel. _"The Wind that Bends the Reeds is not meant for beating drunks at bar fights. That is not unlike using a sword to chop wood. I gave you a sword, Samiel. With practice, you'll __be__ the sword. Don't misuse it again."_

It wasn't a threat. Her tone was. . . disappointed. A little angry. . . but mostly disappointed."_I would teach you more. . . but you're in no shape to learn anything new today. Perhaps a little review, however? So that I can see. . . how much you remembered of the lessons I put into your head to unfold and blossom when you were old enough to understand them?"_

These emotions, he knew how to internalize. Knew how to ignore, and so he did.

_Little stormcloud_. He'd forgotten that endearment, one of the few she had used for him. It had been so appropriate for the confused and withdrawn child, a tangle of emotion that he'd been too young to understand lacing his mother's voice each time she had used it. The tangle was still there, and he was still trying to sort through the complex emotional palette, his face troubled, when he realized that she had crossed the small space between them to stand before him. Beneath the clan paint, he almost—_almost—_looked ashamed at her statement. The night before, in the bar, was a self-possessed smear of misery and nihilism, even the sober details only half-remembered. But he knew what he'd done, knew what his intentions had been, and knew that the experience would linger for months, maybe years. As it should. Fighting the desire to look away, look _anywhere_ but at the hard eyes that were so much like his own, he nodded.

After that, the two began to spar. Lightly, mindful of Samiel's injuries, nothing remotely simulating real combat. A review of Samiel's self-directed training over the last thirty years, and how fully he had grasped the lessons she had left hidden within his mind. How competently he had built from those fundamentals in the intervening decades.

Samiel had been studying the martial arts for over forty years, longer than many masters among the _mahai_. Even among the Spectres, he had been able to bring new concepts to the sparring mats, new ideas for dissemination and consideration. Aside from his time with that elite group, he had trouble recalling the last time he'd actually been challenge in the martial arts in the last twenty years. And so it was at first disconcerting as Laessia unconditionally _stomped _him, moving with a fluidity that made his greatest moments look ham-fisted and ungainly. Foiling his strikes and blocks with a slow-motion sort of grace that he still found almost impossible to follow.

It occurred to him again that this female was the last master of the Wind That Bends.

After a time—he wasn't quite sure how long—they began to talk as they sparred. "_What was it that you used yesterday, against T'kir?"_ He didn't sound even remotely regretful at the female's death. _"What in entropy's passage __was__ that? It felt like. . ."_ He hadn't sounded even remotely regretful when he'd mentioned the dead female's name. Now, though, he trailed off abruptly as she locked him into some sort of hold, it being telling that he had _no_ idea how she had managed it. The _ardat-yakshi_ actually lost his train of thought for a moment in the wake of that, and it was a few seconds before he spoke again. "_It felt like when biotics are channeled for the Wind That Bends, but it was external. And __nothing__ like the Wind That Bends the Reeds."_

_"T'kir? I used a variation on the sword. The Howling Wind, it's called, specifically. Attend."_ The final word had enough command-peremptory in it to have stiffened a turian's spine. She held out her right hand. . . and force began to coalesce around and ahead of it. She did it slowly enough that Samiel was able to perceive some of what it was. Siege perceived it as a humming sound over the biotic radio, high-pitched, not unlike a glass of wine, half-full, having its rim rubbed.

A band of molecules, air, and whatever else she had near at hand, tightly compressed, as by a normal biotic singularity, but. . . rather than becoming a gravity-packed dense mass, and then released, for explosive potential, or to dissipate more gradually, that super-heated, extremely fast-moving band of matter simply became a _line_. It lacked a dimension, in a sense; where normal space-time, to most people's senses, had time, length, breadth, and depth, this almost totally lacked depth. It drew everything around itself . . . in. It _bent._ It _twisted_. And she held it like a sword. _"I do not advise touching it,"_ Laessia noted, dryly. _"This is the first stage. The Sword. The Reed. Most who try to create one. . . well, it's not pretty. A few have lost their hands. Those who have not practiced their mental disciplines enough, who've dared the masters' strictures and tried to create the blade without supervision? They've often been found in very small pieces inside of their cells."_ A smile kinked the corner of her mouth. _"The masters were. . . annoyed. . . when I deciphered the lessons before they taught me. And told me I was lucky to yet live. They spent the next fifty years trying to beat the disobedience out of me. Never quite managed it, however."_ A faint pause. _"They say that the fruit does not fall far from its tree."_

She flicked the hand that 'held' the blade. . . and the blade began to move around the room, freely, like a puppy on a leash. Never moving far from her, but at least one practice dummy fell over. . . in halves. _"The second level. The Wind, or blade-dancing. You remain still, and the blade moves on the wind that is your mind. The next level is the most difficult thing to learn. . . .when both you and the sword will dance. Together or apart, yet inseparable. That __is__ the Wind that Bends the Reeds. Everything else. . . is merely a prelude." _In demonstration, she performed an attack routine, including a landing on the ceiling, controlled by her biotics, while the blade continued to swirl around the room, deftly avoiding Siege and Samiel.

_"After that, most of the Art is an extension on principles already known. Learning to shatter shields. Learning that the blade can be extended."_ She held out her hands, and the blade settled between them, as if she now held a ribbon of space-time. . . or at least, it hovered millimeters above her hands. _"Resisting the force of others' minds, turned against you. Redirecting the force of a vanguard's charge, so that they do not hurt anyone but themselves. All these things, the Wind teaches."_ She shrugged, and let the ribbon of energy fade away.

Awe. That was the emotion which leaked through the not-she's impassive gaze, as he watched Laessia summon forth one of the fundamental forces of the cosmos and wield it as an extension of her body. He felt the interplay of the biotics, sensed how she manipulated the edge of the black hole in the same manner that he might manipulate the biotic energies that coursed through his own body during combat, an internal manifestation of biotics contrary to the conventional, external understandings. And what she did was _beyond_ him. Humblingly, and wholly.

"_I've always assumed the reed was the opponent…"_ He murmured, fascinated, as she cast the rent in space-time away from her, causing the sizzling line to dance and spin around the room. "_I was wrong."_

Then the energy was released, and the ribbon of destruction vanished, consumed by physics as the will of its creation turned away. After a long moment, Samiel spoke up again. This time, he voiced the question that was actually on his mind. _"Why will you still teach me after yesterday? Now that we both know what I am?"_

_"Why should I wish to teach you? Now that we both know what you are?"_ Laessia's voice held a curious note. As if the words had double edges. _"I have always known what you are. You are my child. Though I did not know until yesterday to call you . . . _son."A muscle in her jaw twitched. _"As to the rest. . . I have had all night to think about it, and a goodly portion of today. If the young human doctor is correct, and __so many__ of us are. . . __ardat-yakshi__. . . then it becomes only a word. A word that means a genetic condition that gives the people with it . . . dangerous skills."_ She sighed. _"I would like to think that your early training in the Wind is what gave you the mental focus not to . . . fall prey to the temptations that such abilities must certainly bring."_ She awarded Samiel a keen-eyed glance. _"As you did last night. When you called every despairing, angry soul within half a mile in your general direction, like a star imploding. You called for death, and death came for you, but you are not one to go gentle into that cold embrace. And I will not allow __that__ to happen again. Not when next time, it might be innocents who come for you."_ She took a breath. This was the anger of the _teacher_, and it was a quiet-voiced, perfectly calm anger, so cold it burned. "_And likewise, as you grow greater in power with those abilities, and because I have __already__ armed you with a sword, __mine __is the responsibility if you use it poorly_. _Mine the fault in the training. And I would like to ensure that you will always have the discipline to avoid misusing __all__ of your abilities. Every single one of which is powerful. And so that you, in turn, can teach others that discipline. That control. Because, as it would seem, there are many among us who will need that discipline."_

The last sentences had shifted into a thoughtful, meditative tone. And then she added, with a slightly self-deprecating tone now, "_And, in the end, I would also teach you, because I have always loved teaching, and most especially, teaching you. None of my students on Luisa in the past thirty-six years were adept enough at the physical level of even basic kata that I would even consider teaching them the lowest level of the Wind. It has been a very long time since I've had a student that stretched me. I. . . miss that."_ She averted her face.

Again, the unheard words gape from the middle of the sentence.

Hearing the female refer to him as her _son_, the word borrowed from the galactic language, nearly broke his composure. A storm of emotions, a confusing mix of decades-old shame and rage with relief and exhaustion and vindication and _gratitude_, caused the stoic mask to crack, and he struggled to swallow through a suddenly tight throat. Samiel actually found that he had to look away for a moment as he regained his composure; her following words about the _ardat-yakshi_ were largely lost on him.

Her words of the previous night, however, were not. _When you called every despairing, angry soul within half a mile in your general direction, like a star imploding. But you are not one to go gentle into that cold embrace._ It was the truth, he knew, as he had admitted to Melaani that morning: in his despair, he had sought out that hellhole to die, but in doing so he tried to take as many of the scum with him as possible. _I sought out that bar for a reason, Mother! I would never have done that in a different place, around innocents! My last acts would have been noble!_ His pride demanded that he cry out the words in his defense, that he make what could have been his last act _meaningful_. Even though he knew that it had been anything but.

Instead, feeling the cold anger that left frost where it touched his mind, the anger of a teacher at her wayward _student_, abusing the lessons she had taught him. _Taught you in __love_, a voice hissed in the back of his mind – a voice hissing truths that, perhaps, he wasn't ready yet to face. He drew in a slow breath and nodded. Pulled himself up to his full height, not to challenge her but out of _dignity_.

The look exchanged between mother and son swept over _decades_.

And it appeared that she accepted his response, as after a moment, in her own way, she made it known that she would teach him once more. At seeing the cold, stern mother from his memories avert her face, he again felt the tightness in his throat. Turned away again, just as she did, as he fought for mastery of his emotions.

As if grateful for a distraction, Laessia turned back towards Siege. _"And you? You have watched all this time in silence. What would you learn here?"_ She had clearly expected the geth to take part in the training session, in some manner, and when the platform had only stood there, watching in silence, it had, perhaps, jarred her expectations.

Siege's crimson optics regarded Laessia steadily. "It has been implied by many individuals well versed in various martial arts that to witness those martial arts in use is to view a window into the individual's character. Soul, in colloquial terms."

"Samiel Viridian is a valued individual to us. He, Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight, and ourself, have been through a great deal together despite that we have known each other for less than a year. We consider him to be a 'battle-brother.' _Krannt,_ to use a krogan term."

Siege paused for a moment. "The character of Samiel is known to us. He is a steady friend, a stalwart ally, and his code of conduct is appreciable. We would witness the character, the soul, of one of the two individuals most responsible for his development into who he is today."

The porcelain mask that was Laessia's general state of composure and calm cracked as Siege's words began, and then pulled apart entirely as the geth continued to speak. His initial statement was calm and reflective, but used a term not generally associated with geth: _soul_. And then two more terms, in rapid-fire, from two different cultures, one of which she had been immersed in for over twenty years: _battle-brother._ The krogan term didn't seem to impinge on her, but the turian term . . . there was a moment in which her gray eyes widened.

Siege could read that opened face, so similar to Samiel's, like a book. She was deeply moved at this testimony to her son's character. Confused, almost as deeply, that it meant so much to her, coming from a geth, but she was already shifting, mentally, to hearing the _words_ and not seeing the optic.

And, just as clearly, she absolutely dreaded what the geth might see in her.

Her face closed back up. _"_Those are all good things to hear about Samiel. I would, when either of you has time, like to hear more about how you have occupied yourselves this last six months. When I was approached by the Justicars to come here, they were careful to show me some of the information on the Battle of Tortuga. However, I suspect that the information may have been. . . edited. . . in part or in whole." She clasped her hands behind her back. "However, it is now dinner-time, and _you_ have had enough for one day, Samiel. Your body requires time to recover from what you did to it, yesterday."

When Siege had spoken, Samiel's attention had ripped to the massive platform. _Soul, in colloquial terms_. Yesterday, his battle-brother had broadcast organic rage and protection-anger, as true as any turian's, across the biotic spectrum. Today, Siege spoke of souls, defined the meaning of 'friend', and identified that he wished to witness the character, the _soul_, of Samiel's own mother expressed through combat. "_Siege," _Samiel paused, and then went on in _tal'mae_, "_So far you have traveled, blood-brother, to stand before your clans in the brightness of day, unfettered. You have set your destiny separate from that of the geth, and it will be a glorious journey."_

Taking a breath after the statement - quite nearly a benediction from the stern empath—he turned after a moment to Laessia and again used the language of the sisters. "_There's much to discuss as far as Tortuga, and the information was clearly edited."_ He smiled without humor. "_Or else you would have known of my involvement in it. I, or the two of us,"_ he nodded to Siege, "_can tell you the relevant portions."_

"_Then I will await your convenience."_ Laessia nodded. Turned to leave the gym, back sword-straight. . . but Samiel caught her.

"_It __is__ dinner-time. We could talk over dinner."_ A frail bridge over a gaping chasm of years. A thin, bending olive branch.

And one she accepted. Laessia followed Samiel to the cafeteria, and selected, with a rather dubious expression, from the human foods available there. She avoided the human tea and coffee, clearly not knowing what they were, and _stared_ at the spaghetti and meatballs that was being offered, before tentatively scooping some onto her plate, alongside a serving of garlic bread, and a rather larger serving of canned peaches.

Samiel was _starving_. He'd had a late breakfast, and his stomach hadn't been quite up to lunch, so he'd skipped eating before heading to the gym. The two or three hours of mindful exercise, though not any sort of strain, had still demanded their toll of energy and resources from his body. Now, hours later, still on painkillers and at least a portion of the hangover having been burned out from the physical exertion, he was the sort of famished that one gets during an illness.

He didn't want to eat, but _spirits_ did he ever need to.

Standing in line behind... his mother . . . he generally let her select whatever seemed the least dubious in her eyes, but spoke up when she was reaching for the Parmesan. "_Lactose intolerance. I have it, I can only assume that you do_." At her uncomprehending stare, he just sighed. "_Trust me. Avoid the cheese. Avoid the milk. Check the extranet, and thank me tomorrow_."

Laessia set the Parmesan shaker back down with a slightly wide-eyed glance.

As for himself, he did the careful mental arithmetic of the gravely ill, balancing his choices and servings against how _badly_ he wanted to eat versus how _much_ he suspected he could realistically keep down. He ended up with a disproportionate amount of fruit, given his turian upbringing. And Laessia and proceeded to pick through her meal with slightly amusing caution, studying each bite before she put it in her mouth at first.

At their table, he spoke quietly of the battle of Tortuga, explaining the reasons they had targeted Tonus Machen in the first place, and how they had fallen in with the Spectres. The process as they built their allies for the operation, the Sags, the Twins, the Talons, and the geth, and the plan that they had built. There were gulfs in his explanations, wide silences where he simply stared off into space. Some were as he generally avoided discussing Meshara with his mother, and let the silences speak for themselves. Others came from the dark memories, both of infiltrating Machen's compound and of the hellish fight to protect the convoy during their exfiltration. Darkness clouded his eyes during much of this, and paused often, muscle working in his jaw and body tense. Angry.

Melaani, entering the cafeteria moments late, was a study in contrasts. She was quite familiar with human foods at this point, not at all lactose-intolerant, and she was also _hungry_, having skipped lunch for a meeting with Ylara, and then having spent the afternoon writing her report to the Spectres. A very carefully-worded report, at that.

Thus, she took the spaghetti, grinned, piled on the Parmesan, added Caesar dressing to her salad, took a glass of orange juice to go with it all—and then looked around for a seat. _Oh, Goddess. All right, I'd love to sit next to Samiel, but. . . there is no way I'm going to intrude when he's actually __talking__ to his first-mother. For really the first time in decades. _Melaani glanced around, found a seat at the table _behind_ Samiel's, and sat down with her back to the pair. Close enough to listen, if she'd really wanted to, close enough to show support, but her positioning, back turned, showed that she was giving them . . . mental space, if nothing else. And, twirling a fork in her noodles, she settled in to read yet another report.

When Melaani entered, Samiel's mood had actually lightened somewhat, and then two had nodded at each other. Melaani had smiled, and gravity of the male-maiden's expression _may_ have lightened for a moment. The story had continued, as he told, for the first time in its entirety, the tale of how Nameless, Siege, and he had been separated from the rest of the convoy by the fallen building and had stood beside each other at what they had believed to be the end. "_Henceforth . . . battle-brothers_."

The story had ended with the _Clavus_' arrival, and how the gunship had arrived with the geth reinforcements. How the synthetics' energy weapons and the SR's—_Mercuria's_—miniguns had dispersed the riot. Samiel fell silent after that, brooding, and it was then that Melaani had spoken up. 

Laessia didn't ask questions at first, appearing to form a mental collage as he spoke. She appeared most interested, however, in the final battle, frowning slightly as she heard how Samiel—and Meshara, too—had twisted the minds of their enemies. Set them fighting among themselves, or caused them to turn aside from charges, hits, or point a rocket-launcher at their own feet. _"So young, to be so powerful,"_ she muttered, tearing her bread apart, disquietude in her words. _"Now I think for the first time I understand why my teachers __loathed__ me so much."_ A quick, faint quirk of the lips, and a change of subject. _"If the geth seeks to understand the soul, I wonder what the rachni seeks to understand."_

As she was sopping up the red pasta sauce with the garlic bread, however, she did find a break in their conversation to turn and ask Samiel, mildly, "Did the doctors say that you'd need observation tonight, too, after that concussion? Or did you throw a medical chart at them and escape their evil clutches before they could tell you that?"

The empath looked back to find her twisted around in her chair to face the mother and son's table. It might have been telling that he didn't switch to galactic to answer her, given what he was about to say. "_Ah, I didn't throw a chart at them, no_." He winced a little, and involuntarily glanced at Laessia before continuing. "_But when I stopped by this morning for painkillers, their attention __may__ have wandered before they were able to conduct their battery of tests. So perhaps observation is a good idea, just to be safe_."

At Samiel's words to Melaani, however, the Spectre actually laughed at his rather hangdog explanation, and Laessia covered her face with one hand for a moment. _"Is this where I am meant to speak of how just because we __can__ do something, does not mean that we __should__ do so?"_ Laessia asked. She gave Samiel a look that suggested she was not entirely joking, but said nothing more, before standing and nodding to them, and leaving the cafeteria.

Samiel didn't actually begin to relax until Laessia had exited the room's wide doorway and rounded the corner, and he could feel her mind receding through the ship's corridor. He slumped back gradually in his chair, leaning his head far back and eyes shut. The afternoon, despite all the bravado displayed by the two asari, had been draining on both mother and son's emotions and patience, and the not-she really couldn't say which had demonstrated more restraint. It was still far too early on for him to actually think in terms of interacting amicably with Laessia, but they seemed to mutually be attempting to build as stable a neutral ground as possible. And in and of itself, that was far more than he ever would have expected.

_She's going to be living on base. Indefinitely._ Another thought came on the heels of that one. _Where the hell am __I__ going to live, if the Spectres plan to . . . extend my contract?_ It was the least of his concerns, really; the barracks he'd stayed in during his previous trips to the Spectre base had suited his needs adequately.

He realized that he was gritting his teeth at about the same time he realized that Melaani had turned around to study him. . . and that she was now asking him, cheerfully, _"So. . . you'll require observation tonight, will you? Close observation? I should resign myself to sitting in that very uncomfortable desk chair again and checking your pulse and pupils once an hour again?"_ Her tone was arch, and her eyes sparkled with amusement.

He could _feel_ the amusement bubbling in her mind, but was having trouble reciprocating after the dinner conversation he'd just had, and settled for a dry retort. "_Maybe just once every hour. You'll at least be able to sleep in the uncomfortable chair, this time._"

They left the dining hall at that point; though Samiel fought it with stubborn tenacity, the female's grin was surprisingly infectious. He did, however, feel Melaani withdraw, slightly, at his dry words.

She respected turian reticence enough not to so much as brush up against Samiel in public. Melaani had been with at least one turian before, and though she'd never quite wrapped her head around the whole 'foot behind the ankle' thing. . . she understood the levels of publicly-permissible contact between two individuals who were, in turian terms, plighting. Or courting, as it was, without a written contract. Frankly, the whole thing made her head spin, but it seemed easiest and best to default to turian behavioral norms, on a human-turian ship, and with Samiel involved.

Thus, when the door to his quarters slid shut behind them, Melaani actually did move to the desk chair. Turned it around, and sat in it, and winced. _"Yes. Your chair is __just __as uncomfortable as mine was. Consistency, at least."_ She folded her arms across her chest, and smiled up at him. _"You may find this amusing. . . but I have absolutely no idea how to act with you, at the moment. If I were Linaia, and you Saerila, I'd know __precisely __how to behave."_ Linaia, as the elder of the pair, had been the undeniable aggressor in the assumed relationship. Melaani didn't for an instant think that _Samiel_ would be nearly as passive or unsure as the young maiden he'd portrayed so well. _"It's going to take a little time to get used to . . . being myself around you. And you being yourself, too."_ She lowered her hands now, and patted the arms of the chair. _"So. . . how do you want to begin?"_

He'd almost ground out "_but we are __not__ Saerila or Linaia_," before he'd clamped down firmly on his response. For him, Saerila had been a veneer, a disguise he had put on that got progressively more difficult to take back off He knew that Melaani looked at Linaia differently; for the female, her personas were _real people_ that she became. Willfully dancing along the edge of the chasm that Samiel so fearing falling over. Instead, he murmured gently, ''_I'm ready for the two of them to never again influence our lives. But I think we've been doing a good job of just . . .being ourselves. Admittedly, odd though it seems sometimes. Not having to lie to others, and by extension each other. I . . . like what we've found so far._''

The male-maiden leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching Melaani. She had surprised him when she'd moved straight to the chair—even without physical contact during the walk through the ship to his quarters there'd been a steadily growing _tension_ between the two maidens, and their steps had quickened. Not obviously to others, but certainly perceptible to the two of them. Upon entering though, she had set a boundary as he'd tabbed the lock, crossing and sitting in the unyielding desk chair. There was another sort of tension entering her, physically and emotionally, and it didn't take him long to determine the source.

He ran one hand—gingerly—over his scalp as he drew a breath. Around her, behind the closed door, his expression wasn't nearly as guarded as he normally kept it. This was _not_ going to be easy to say. "_You're worried about . . . me. You're worried that I'm an __ardat-yakshi__, capable of true domination as well as reave, and you're worried about the Kiss. Whether or not I can control it._"

Melaani sat bolt-upright in the chair. _"No! That's—no, not that."_ She floundered for a moment. Clearly, it was a concern to _him_, and it _did_ worry her, but that wasn't why she'd settled into the chair, set up the line of demarcation between them. _"All right, it's a concern,"_ she allowed, standing and crossing to him, very lightly touching his forearms. _"But I __trust__ you. Not three days ago, you had a __knife__ to my throat, Samiel. And even with someone else's mind trying to force you to kill me, when I opened to you, you didn't __do__ it."_ She curled her fingers around his forearms now, as far as they would go, a gentle hold. _"If you didn't do it then, I really doubt if you'd do it of your own intention."_ She swallowed, and looked up at him, opening her mind. Layer by layer. Letting him feel the trust there.

There was uncertainty, of course. There was always the potential for an _accident_. _"And, well, you __have__ done this before. Without, well. . . injuries."_ A delicate step away from the word _fatalities._ She was more than a little leery of the whole domination thing, as well. It could well be fun, and she was certainly open to new experiences, but it sounded a little risky, overall. But she _had_ to be honest right now. Or else she'd break everything they were so slowly, carefully trying to build.  
_  
_Melaani sighed. _"Samiel, I just. . . I don't really know what . . . "_ On the one hand, turian males _liked_ aggressive, assertive females. On the other hand, being as aggressive and assertive as Linaia had been, might be too close to the role, and he'd pull _back_ from that, and she'd rather cut her hand open than see him flinch at anything that reminded him too strongly of a role he'd found humiliating. So she'd decided to let _him_ dictate the pace, let him be the assertive one, and he'd taken that as _rejection_. _Goddess. And we can hear each others' thoughts. How do the __mahai__ without biotics ever manage to make themselves understood to one another?_

And so, she simply opened her mind completely, every single layer. Complete trust, complete vulnerability, and leaned against her fair-one, sliding her hands up the forearms to encircle him, lightly. Nuzzled his neck, and let him touch and feel and sense everything within her that he wished.

His relief was palpable as she made it clear to him that his nature, though a concern, was not in any way a _chief_ concern, and he visibly and emotionally relaxed as she crossed the room and leaned against him lightly. Making her trust known, as her mental defenses were lowered and her mind opened to him, thought-by-thought. His own shields gradually fell, and she again noted how _difficult_ it was for him to willfully lower them beyond a certain point, just below the surface emotions and thoughts. As memories and knowledge surfaced, she heard as he had heard Meshara explaining to him the difference between the young male-maiden and the _ardat-yakshis_ who accidentally killed. She saw that, as he had said even before learning what he really was, he already _knew_ what mistakes those unfortunate souls had made. Already knew how to control it.

The two minds began to twine. _Tightly_.

A chuckle rumbled in his throat, more of a low growl, as his arms went around her slim body. _Fair-one, your worry was that if you were yourself, you'd scare me away? That I wouldn't be able to separate the old lies from the truth?_ There was _amusement_ in his dry mind-song. His eyes were black as pitch, and for once, there was no _aizala_ in his system. Deep in his mind, she felt a memory break free from the mass and begin to surface. The two partners, sequestered in Saerila's room, making smart-ass remarks as Melaani prepared her omnitool to record their deception and then dutifully replay it for the electronic bugs in her evening bag. _Make them think the paint peels off the walls in here, Viridian. This one's for __posterity_.

A human crew member, passing Samiel's temporary quarters as he made his way through the region of the _Clavus_ dedicated to the organic crew's living spaces, jumped back as a body _thumped_ against the room's door. The noise coming from that room was enough to even overcome the sound-dampening materials built into the walls.

Several hours later, the console on the room's small desk woke Samiel up some time later, the sharp beeping piercing through the first truly _restful_ sleep that he had almost gotten in days. Melaani, spooned against him, mumbled something that sounded suspiciously _krogan_ and rolled over, burying her head underneath the pillow—and stealing it from him in the process. His first thought was to just ignore the damn beeping, until the sleep-shrouded thought passed from Melaani into his mind. _Fair-one, make it stop, or __I'm__ answering it._

Swearing groggily to himself in turian, Samiel rolled out of the rack and stumbled to the desk, blearily tugging on pants and a shirt as he did so. Reached over to accept the call, then glanced back and, swearing again, moved to pull the blanket a little higher up Melaani's sleeping form for her modesty.

The comm call was _still_ beeping angrily at him.

_I hope my paint isn't too smeared_, he thought at he finally accepted the call.

Jannil Viridian's dry rasp came across the console's speakers almost before the video had flared to life. "_You're alive. Thank the spirits, you stubborn fool. I only have one first-son, and I'm not inclined to lose him._"

"_Rumor of my demise has been greatly exaggerated, clan-leader._" The lingering haze of sleep had let that one through, and he grimaced, then tried again. "_I was on a deep cover assignment for the Spectres for the last four months, I __couldn't__ contact you, or else I would have. I'm... sorry about the form my letter to you took, Father._"

_"Hmpf. Yes. You didn't sound quite in your right mind. Hence my concern." _Wherever in the galaxy Jannil Viridian was currently, it was night, as well, and he looked weary under his own Galatana paint. _"Deep-cover work for the Spectres? Are they __aware__ that we charge double for assets of ours that are put into situations like that? Not to mention that __they__ are going to be covering the cost for any therapy needed for emotional distress?"_ He sounded irritated, but behind the usual concern for the legalities of contracts, protection-anger lurked. He was clearly concerned that the stress of the deep-cover was the cause of your mental instability. _"And I don't suppose you can tell me __anything__ about the assignment, either. Spirits. Next they'll just poach you outright."_ He snorted. _"How about if we back this up a bit, and you tell me about this female who's worth throwing your entire career __and life__ away for, eh?"_

"_I wasn't __throwing away my life and career__, Father. The Justicar Order was involved, and I had to be sure that my actions didn't get traced back to the Talons in any convoluted fashion._" His son's distaste for the Order was well-known to Jannil. Crossing his arms over his chest, Samiel leaned back in the desk chair, eyeing his father.

Melaani was right. These chairs _were_ damn uncomfortable. "_Her name is Meshara, Father, and yes, she is an __ardat-yakshi__ who had been in. . . relative. . . hiding on Tortuga. I __wasn't__ in a clear state of mind when I drafted that letter, you are correct, but I would make the same decision again— including resigning from the Talons to protect my clan. Though admittedly with a certain degree more calm._"

Samiel trailed off, and sighed heavily. Hopefully, after this conversation his life would be given a chance to _calm down._ Maybe people would even stop asking about his personal life. Though truthfully, he'd settle for just being asked questions by people he could tell to piss off instead of answer. A glance back at the rack where Melaani slumbered, and he turned back to Jannil's steady gaze. "_Meshara and I are no longer. . . ah. . . together, I suppose? It's . . . complicated. It doesn't translate to turian contracts. And honestly, I don't know how the hell to explain it right now. Can we talk about something else?_"

He plowed right on as the elder Viridian opened his mouth to _not_ talk about something else. "_The deep-cover operation was difficult, operationally and mentally. It involved infiltrating a secret organization within asari society that's deeply involved in illegal genetic experimentation. We were successful. I'm... recovering, and I... I'll be alright. Don't worry about me in that regard, or the contract. The Spectres will honor their contracts and payables, and..._" He wasn't sure if legally he could talk about this or not, and didn't want to make a big deal about it. Nor did he want to draw attention to it if he . . . if he washed out.

Finally, under Jannil's inquiring look, he finished the thought. "_The Spectres take care of their own. And their . . . potential assets._"

Jannil's mouth opened, and shut again, with a nearly audible click. Then he just sat and listened for a long time, letting Samiel unburden himself of what Samiel would _allow_ himself to be unburdened, arms folded across his chest. _"Great flaming piles of __s'kak__," _he finally said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. _"Samiel. . . I'm trying to respect the privacy a grown son deserves. And spirits know, you've earned a lot of trust from me over the years. But. . . an __ardat-yakshi__? You're jesting yes? A spirit of air and darkness, incarnate?_"He paused. _"All right, you're. . . not actually smiling."_ He dropped the topic, however, though he's _clearly_ wondering what the _futar_ any of this means. _"All right. I won't ask. For now. Although how you're alive, after some of the tales your mother. . . . nevermind."_

He sighed, suddenly looking even more tired. "_So, here I was, thinking I'd have to try to talk you out of offering some female a contract on the basis of a boot-camp romance, and instead, you might actually be getting poached."_ In spite of his dark-toned words, the sudden fierce _pride_ radiating off of Jannil was clearly evident. _"Tell Vakarian I expect a __futtari__ finder's fee if he hires you on in any sort of permanent capacity. Spirits. I'll tell him myself. That bastard and I haven't played cards in about twenty years. He owes me a chance to win back some of my credits." _Samiel knew that Vakarian was substantially younger than his father, when Vakarian had been a young spec-ops officer, and Viridian had been running the Talons from Edessan. He didn't know any more details than that, however.

Jannil sat back on his own end of the line, and took a drink from his glass—brandy, from the looks of it. _"So, Justicars, eh? Because of. . . the thing we're not actually talking about."_ He looked as if he'd bitten into something noxious. "_I'd just as soon you'd been able to avoid them for the rest of your life, son. Getting involved with them . . . eh. The best that can be said of that, is that it gave me you. The rest of them aren't worth an __anserae's__ fart."_ He gave Samiel a look. _"You planning on turning up the lights, so I can actually see your face? Or are you so banged up you can't let me see it, for fear I'll charge the Spectres triple?" _He frowned, clearly catching Samiel's glance back over his shoulder, but saying nothing more.

"_You would see bruising yes. It's been a rough few days, though admittedly a good portion of the blame lies solely on my shoulders." _Again, Samiel looked back over his shoulder, this time not trying to hide the gesture. _ "With respect, I'd actually rather keep the lights dim, Father. The past few days have been quite nearly as bad for Spectre T'soa."_ A grimace. He'd _never_ needed to have this conversation before. _"Melaani. I. . . "_

And then he did something he had not done for many, many years. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and heedless of the already-marred Galatana paint, rested his face in his hands for a long moment. Jannil could feel the exhaustion over the comm feed, as clearly as any empath.

When Samiel straightened again, his eyes were clear. "_Clan-leader," _he spoke precisely, in his perfect _tal'mae_, and the change in address caused his father to straighten instinctively. "_My spirit is burdened by these past days, and I ask now that you hear my words to completion. I come to you seeking your knowledge and wisdom."_ The male-maiden paused, and then added, very softly and in his suddenly fluent high-tongue, "_and your compassion."_

Jannil's entire expression was consumed by a concern that already bordered on protection-anger, but he set his jaw and nodded. "_Speak the words you have kept behind your teeth, first-son. I will hear you."_

Once more, Samiel turned to watch Melaani's sleeping form, and the elder Viridian could see the intensity that dwelt in his gaze. Samiel could feel the rise and fall of emotions as she drifted in and out of sleep, periods of peaceful oblivion interrupted by drowsy curiosity. Turning back to face Jannil, he took a time to collect his thoughts, and then began speaking to his father once more in contemporary turian.

The _ardat-yakshi's_ voice was strong but quiet, as he tried not to awaken his fair-one. _"Two Justicars and one . . .'probationary' Justicar, were dispatched to obtain or kill Meshara. One was the matriarch Samara. Another was . . . is no longer a concern. The last, the matron who was not a Justicar . . ." _Samiel shook his head. "_My mother came to that damn rock, Father. She was possibly more stunned than I was. It was very nearly . . . a very deadly situation for many involved. She's stayed with the Spectres after the . . . events of the previous day. We've," _he grimaced_, "begun trying to talk. To meet in the middle."_

He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering how the various sides had all drawn their arms, Siege's glowing energy weapons and Laessia's rent in space and so many guns. Remembered walking into that bristling storm, and how narrowly they had all avoided bloodshed. Remembered how he's tried to talk, and how disastrously wrong his words had been taken. Or how presciently _right_.

"_During the deep-cover mission, we hit a genetics laboratory of the organization, and were able to raid its computer cores. The data was sent to Spectre base for dissemination, and during this confrontation, the Spectre scientist made her report. The data showed __millions__ of not-shes in the asari population. Hundreds of thousands of __ardat-yakshi__, Father."_ He did, as best he could, to explain what he understood of the genetics involved.

"_The findings will be published soon— they're already being submitted to scholarly journals. But Doctor Jaworski, in part, used my DNA in her research. I'm a demon of the night wind, clan-leader. Not a monster, and not a soul-drinking killer. And these not-shes, these lost __males__, they're my people. And when this news breaks, asari society is going to rebel against it. I fear that they will rebel against the not-shes, and themselves. I feel war coming, and I can't see how to avoid it."_

Finally, the torrent of words coming from the young not-she ran dry, and he leaned back in his chair. Watching Jannil, and giving the other male a chance to absorb everything that had just been said.

Jannil's quick, incisive, highly _amused_ look faded the instant the words had been spoken in _tal'mae_. He fell utterly silent, but even his near-legendary ability to keep his face impassive was tested as his son spoke. He visibly _started_ when Samiel said that his mother had been one of the Justicars sent, and he exhaled, slowly, as Samiel indicated that his mother had taken refuge with the Spectres. And that they were once again attempting to talk.

And at the shattering findings of the genetics report, Jannil went absolutely still, his mandibles working slightly. At the words _my people_, Jannil closed his eyes, just for a moment. And at the word _war_, he simply bowed his head, and stayed silent for almost half a minute.

_"I do not know where I should begin to speak, to give advice or counsel,"_ the turian admitted, after a moment. There was no word for _sorry_ in _tal'mae_, a truism that was borne out with his following words. _"I speak untruly. I do know. I . . . give you my sorrow, for. . . words that I once spoke, that were untrue. I spoke those words out of a desire to protect you. And when you were grown, had made of yourself what you are now, I should have recanted, and given you the truth, but I no longer knew how to speak of the matter. The untruth had taken on a life of its own, and it shames me, that I dishonored you so."_ He exhaled. _"You understand of what I speak, I think? That I took you from she who is your mother, and took us both to Edessan. I could see. . . no other way. . . in which to create a distance in your mind. A line, between the old way, and the new. And you needed that line, to make of yourself something new."_ His eyes were downturned, and he did not raise them as he added in contemporary turian, "_Also, I was very angry with your mother. Decisions should not be made in anger."_

Samiel found that he didn't know how to react as his father unburdened himself of thirty years of falsehood. His entire life, Jannil had been a pillar. An unweathered rock of patience and support, impassive, imperturbable, never regretting his decisions. Always making the _correct_ decision, the first time. Hearing Jannil speak in such a manner now was almost shocking for the male-maiden. Then was the additional complexity of sorting through his _own_ feelings on it, that his father had stolen him away from his mother, then lied about it for thirty years.

Samiel rubbed at the bridge of his nose as Jannil talked. No. He wouldn't fall prey to this second-guessing, angry now at the first parent after speaking with the second. It was three decades past, and the sort of choice that the empath wished fervently that he would never be forced to make. And whether it was the right decision or not, Samiel knew he owed everything he had become to Jannil's decision.

Almost everything.

"_As to the rest. . . " _Jannil rubbed at his face. _"Samiel. . . they're. . . they're only as much __your people__ as you wish them to be. You were raised turian. Other than boot-camp—which. . . given the recent changes in the laws, that allow humans to take turian citizenship, if they have at least four years of military service, and a turian family member. . . you __could__ apply for full citizenship. You've just not chosen to do so. Holding yourself apart._"There _was_ compassion in that voice now, rasping and dry as it was. Jannil has always seen a lot, behind his gruff mask. _"You're as turian as I am. You're not responsible for the mess the asari have gotten themselves into. You don't __have__ to fight their war or carry anyone's standard. Unless. . .you choose to. And I know the son I raised wouldn't carry a standard for anything other than a damned good cause."_ He lifted his glass, and looked into its depths, swirling the brandy, but not drinking it . . . and then downed the whole glass at once. _"And I never did believe in those stories about the asari spirits of air and darkness, coming to live in mortal bodies. What's an __ardat-yakshi__ to me? Just a word from someone else's tale. You're my first-son. Spirits of darkness take the rest."_

Samiel listened impassively to the rest of Jannil's words, eyes reflective and face betraying none of this thoughts. It was only when his father had finished speaking that the male-maiden stirred, eyes to the side as he tried to absorb everything that had been said. Melaani had woken up midway through the conversation, and had turned over in bed, facing the screen. Just a subtle movement, but her wakeful mind was much sharper, much more focused now. She didn't speak. Just reached out a hand and rubbed Samiel's back, lightly, and in such a way that the camera couldn't pick up her movements. Reassurance with touch. _Should I step outside? I don't want to eavesdrop._ A pause. _Though I'd like to wear more out into the corridor than a sheet, for the sake of my poor tattered dignity . . ._

It was difficult not to lean back into that light touch. _No, you don't have to leave. You'll know this conversation soon enough, anyways._ Somewhere deep, she felt a spark of dry amusement at her comments regarding her dignity, but it was quickly consumed by the magnitude of the exchange.

It was so easy to appear wise and unflappable, when you went through life without allowing it to touch you. As he had for twenty years. He had hidden behind the Galatana paint and the severe professional façade, an ageless apparition that drifted through combat operations and post-mission debriefings. But now, finding himself with touchstones, people he had _let in_ and touch his spirits, and events that had rattled his very core, he continually felt that the life he had so carefully built for himself was nothing more than lie. That he was still nothing more than a confused child.

"_Citizenship is . . . something I should have acted on. It was difficult to absorb the idea that I __could__ be a citizen of the Hierarchy, after it being an impossibility for so long." _The ghost of a rueful smile lifted the corner of his mouth. "_When you stand apart for so long, the idea of . . . integration, becomes even more frightening."_

"_I've been systematically told by everyone involved that '__ardat-yakshi__' is nothing but a word now, after the recent findings. I was too deep in the matter to be able to absorb that as quickly as everyone else."_ He grimaced. "_And the study was rather shocking in my particular case."_

"_But this doesn't change the core of the matter. Father, I . . ." _He'd been walking around for the past day speaking of coming war, and 'his people', but had never spoken of the matter more personally than that. It was important that he express this to Jannil. And it was important to him that Melaani hear it as well.

That the maiden knew what she was getting herself into.

There was a shift in his eyes as he leaned forward a little in his chair, an unveiling of intention, and suddenly Samiel was more _present_ than he had been just a moment before. "_In the genetics facility, we freed eight captive asari. One __ardat-yakshi__. Two biotic nulls. Two not-she maidens. One is much older than me, but is . . . much as I was, when I was twenty._" Melaani felt a _flinch_ flicker through his body at that last thought. "_Three were __younglings__, Father. No older than I was when mother le—when you took—" _He paused, teeth gritted and eyes shut for a moment, and exhaled explosively. Then resumed, like nothing had happened. "_No older than sixteen. At the Spectre base, I have begun working with another not-she. He's __eleven__. His first-mother had been blackmailed because of his __gender__, and now he is the ward of Ylara Alir. He . . . Thinks the world of me, Father. Told me that he would strive to be as good a male as __I__ am."_

Now when he spoke, the air hissed out from between jaws that were clenched. _"I will __not__ simply walk away from this 'mess that the asari have gotten themselves into,' clan-leader. This futarri pogrom of ignorance, mutilation, and, where necessary, extermination that has existed for twenty-thousand years. Because if someone does not stand up for these children and unify the opposition, it will __continue for another twenty-thousand__."_

Samiel straightened in his chair, reining in the fury so that it only showed in his eyes, burning like twin pyres in the darkness. "_I've considered myself turian for a very long time, clan-leader, and many asari have called me 'not-asari' in recent days. The truth is that I stand between both cultures. And perhaps it will take a not-asari to force these changes."_

Melaani slid out of the bed, to the floor, rolling to her knees, and pulled the sheets with her, wrapping them around herself like a cape. And then slipped her arms around Samiel from behind, using his body to continue to block her from the camera. A silent gesture of unconditional support. She had, perhaps, one of the most flexible minds of any asari out there. She _had_ to, for her line of work. So when the information on Lina Vasir had first come to light, seven years ago, she'd been surprised to hear that hermaphrodites existed, but it wasn't a _personal affront_ to her, the way it was to many other asari. That the people in the Memory of Thessia had rumbled about Lina Vasir, and Rishayla's decision to publicize the information about her daughter, and blamed Shepard for exposing the 'shame of their species' to outside eyes? Melaani had long understood that to keep herself sane, she had to question almost everything that the zealots and extremists she worked with, took for granted. Sometimes they could find one nugget of truth, and distort it out of all recognition. And sometimes, they just built falsehood atop of falsehood, until it was a fortress in their minds. The Goddess' Path, the Memory of Thessia. All of them. So many things to question.

So she'd already been primed to question everything when she'd met Sisu—then Shellara—a sweet, trusting child, with a sort of bruised innocence. And she'd been as quick to love the boy as anyone else on base. Found it fascinating to watch him decide who he wanted to be. Because Ylara never pushed, one way or the other. Gave him choices of activities. Gave him the choice of which clothing to wear. Gave him even a choice about his own name. And they all sat back and watched identity. . . form.

So when the assignment with Samiel had come along, Melaani was again, surprised, but not shocked. Intrigued, certainly. It was _odd_ meeting an adult version of Sisu, and one that acted quite turian, at that. And everything she'd learned about him had caused her to respect him. And everything she'd seen in the Tears of the Moon compound, all the _children_, all the adults who'd already had their lives. . . if not destroyed, then at least shifted on their tracks. . . that actually had shocked her. But she was a Spectre. And had been a _cop_ for one hundred and thirty years. She'd spent most of her life so far, protecting people who couldn't protect themselves. From the stronger, from the more powerful, from the corrupt.

How could she do anything else now?

So she let that all flow, just the sense of it, into Samiel. The only words she actually formulated were, simply, _Of course I'm with you. How could I possibly not?_

On screen, Jannil ran a hand over his crest. _"I don't know whether to salute or to tell you that you have a death wish, first-son. You're making decisions right now that are going to affect your life long after I'm dead and gone."_ He grimaced. _"And for the first time, I understand why your mother was concerned about that. For what it's worth, these are decisions that I __respect__._ _And I'll give you any help towards your goals that I can."_

Feeling Melaani's acceptance, and her pledge of aid, Samiel felt the first sensation of relief he'd had since the comm call had begun. He knew from her past, and from her _mind_, that she would not recoil at his words. That said…actually feeling the support flow from her, and her unconditional pledge, brought a more tangible relief to the turian-raised not-she. As her arms snaked around him from behind, he gripped her forearms, squeezing them gently and returning the reverse hug. He didn't let go.

"_I've been accused of having a death wish in the past, Father. This is different. These are things to live for." _He wasn't sure how to put the rest into words—how _much_ it meant to him that Jannil respected his decision. More just than that he was moving forward with the clan-leader's blessing. For all his stoicism, it still _mattered_ to Samiel that his father was proud of him. He finally managed to dip his head in a nod. "_Thank you."_

Jannil changed the subject after that, giving everyone a much-needed reprieve from the subjects they'd been discussing. _"So . . . _"His mandibles flexed, and the grim demeanor departed, for a moment. _"I can't help but notice, in spite of the fact that there's no light besides __screen-glow__, that you appear to have grown another set of arms, first-son. Either confess to having tried an experimental new gene mod, or introduce me to the female. One of the two."_

Samiel wasn't quite able to fight off the grin that split his features. "_Mmm. A moment without video then, Father, so that my 'experimental gene mod' can be decent." _From Jannil's point of view, Samiel reached towards the screen and the feed's video cut out, though the audio continued. There was the scraping noise of a chair sliding a short distance along metal flooring, and then quiet _laughter_ from two asari throats, followed by the rustling of clothing. Jannil would have had to strain his memory to remember the last time he'd heard his son make any noise that was so _unburdened._

There were no words. These were asari, after all. The elder Viridian had some experience with that, though.

_Goddess. Meeting __both__ of your parents in the same twenty-four hours. I have no idea which of these meetings is __less__ uncomfortable. At least, with your mother, I got to wear my armor. Not that she couldn't have cracked me like an egg in spite of it, and not that it kept her from __grilling__ me for everything I knew about you and your life. She missed her calling. She should be an interrogator._ A quick flurry of thoughts from Melaani, as she hastily pulled on her coveralls again, realized that there were marks on her throat, debated the reflexive asari tendency to button up and cover those, with what she remembered of turian culture. . . and shrugged and left the coveralls partially unbuttoned. Different culture, different standards.

_You were __supposed__ to be smart enough to feign sleeping through the call, T'soa._

Perhaps half a minute later, when the video came back, the room's lighting had been brought up and, with the uncomfortable chair only seating one, the two asari were sitting next to each other on the bed. Samiel looked like he was steadfastly trying not to look uncomfortable _nor_ amused, and was generally failing at hiding both. There was a good deal more amusement than discomfort in his eyes, though. "Commander Jannil Viridian, Acrocanth's Talons, Spectre Melaani T'soa, Office of Special Tactics and Reconnaissance."

She did her absolute best, however, to look like a Spectre when the lights came up. This was. . . somewhat difficult, considering the level of _amusement_ in Samiel at the moment. "Commander," Melaani managed, nodding politely, and then switched to her lightly accented turian. _"It's a pleasure to meet you, and see the male who made Samiel who he is today."_

Jannil's eyes widened, very slightly, and he nodded, in return. "The pleasure's mine, Spectre." A flicker of a downwards glance, taking in. . . everything. . . and then back up again. "I'll spare you most of the closed door questions—"

_Oh, thank you, Goddess, he's not going to ask why I'm with Samiel a day or so after Samiel went riding to the side of an entirely different female . . . please don't say the word __rebound__. . . ._

"—but I would like to ask how you met."

Melaani cleared her throat, and gave Samiel a look for _not_ stepping up to answer that one. "We were assigned to the same deep-cover mission infiltrating an asari extremist group."

"Must have been difficult. Samiel _does_ rather stand out among other asari."

Another side-long look at Samiel. _Feel free to speak up_. In the total absence of any reply, Melaani tried to make it sound as commonplace as she could. "We, ah, posed as a pair of asari sisters." She cleared her throat again. "_Ardat-yakshi_ sisters, specifically." __

_Incestuous__ardat-yakshi__ sisters._

_You are never going to let me live that part down, are you, Viridian?_  
_  
Probably not. _

She lifted her chin slightly, and told Jannil, brightly, "Samiel has a gift for undercover work, actually." Her lips twitched at the pun that ran through her mind. _Undercover, or under the covers?  
_

He should have stepped in and led the conversation. He really should have. But Jannil had asked her how the two had met, and he'd defaulted to turian propriety. And he just preferred letting someone else explain that he'd dressed as a female for four months, especially after the sharp look that his father gave him. The other male thankfully said nothing, maybe because of the darkness that had settled around Samiel's eyes for a moment.

And, truth be told, the empath was having the greatest time watching Melaani dig herself deeper and deeper into the hole with her poor word choices. He found his stoicism and clutched it like a rock.

__Melaani took a deep breath and brazened it out. "I was much struck by his character and his integrity. And at the moment, I'm . . . enjoying getting to know him better . . . "

_More intimately, certainly._

_S'kak__. _The curse was in turian in her mind as she watched Jannil's mandibles twitch, faintly, _nothing I say is __safe__. . . _"Outside of the cover—"

_Under the covers, on top of the covers_?Samiel needled lightly.

Melaani slowly leaned over, and buried her face in the pillow, flushed _indigo_, and trying not to laugh out loud. _Older, more experienced, my ass. I've never met anyone's __parents__ before._

Finally, Samiel grinned, all teeth, and stepped in. "The deep-cover operation was trying on both of us, Father. We had to rely on each other a very great deal, more than we had expected. Things… grew from that. We're still sorting out some of the details." I told you that it's complicated. He shrugged, and rubbed at her back with one hand while she tried to get the fit of laughter under control, face still buried in the pillow.

She felt the wisecrack about an _older, more experienced female_ forming in his mind, and blindly lashed out to whack him in the stomach preemptively. Now, he did laugh, that clipped bark that sometimes made it out before he could clamp back down on his reactions.

This part of the conversation wasn't nearly as embarrassing for him as the following morning, when the various humans in the mess-hall stood and gave them a standing fucking ovation.

Apparently, Melaani owed Dara Jaworski an apology for ever having disbelieved the female's assessment of the walls of crew-quarters on an SR ship as being _thin_.

All in all, as returns to Mindoir went, it was a peaceful one. One that didn't really hint at the turmoil and strife that would come out of Dara Jaworski's medical report, or Elijah Sidonis' summary of the criminal investigation of the Tears of the Moon conducted by Ylara Alir, Melaani T'soa, and Samiel Viridian.

Someone seeing the various Spectres and affiliates disembarking the _Clavus_, a week before the Jaworski-Sidonis marriage, would never have thought that they were looking at the faces of revolutionaries.

But they were.

The war would continue, for a _hundred years_, on and off.

Siara and Makur adopted Nyvae, the hermaphrodite girl whose mother had been killed in the accident that the Tears had used to arrange for her capture. Siara understood, all too well, what _rage_ was, and Tuchanka became Nyvae's playground. She also decided that she wanted to _stay_ female. . . and because this was a war about _choice_, everyone on base, including Samiel, firmly backed that decision, when she was old enough to make it.

Astaria, the colony of asari and humans, where the Pace vineyards grew, proved to have been one of the sanctioned 'dumping grounds' for SRY-carriers. The colony, already leaning towards joining the System Alliance, thanks to its fifty-percent human population, was the first colony to break entirely from the Council of Sisters, and the first even _partially_ asari world to join the Systems Alliance. As such, in 2198, it was the first flashpoint of the war, as the Council of Sisters sent ships to convince the colonists _not_ to break away and join the human half of the human-turian alliance.

It got _messy_ after that. . . . .


	160. Epilogue 3: History Unfolds

**Epilogue 3:** **History Unfolds**

**Seheve, Bastion, February 15, 2198**

Seheve looked at the green, mantis-like body of the Keeper beside her. "Are you certain that you wish to address the Council with me? It is difficult enough for your people to leave the Citadel as it is. I do not wish to cause you undue stress."

Awakened-From-Distant-Dreams dipped his head slightly, and when he spoke, his voice came through a voder, not unlike how a hanar typically spoke. "Yes. You came to us, Seheve Liakos. You asked for the data that led you to the truth. The Council will question the veracity of your words. Doubt everything spoken. We have seen this before. We will not permit lies to continue. Not when we have. . . awakened. . . and know, too well, the cost of silence." His multifaceted eyes were unreadable, but she knew that many of the facets were focused on her. "You were there at our awakening, Seheve Liakos. It seems only just that we return the favor, in some measure." Seheve had actually taken Rel's clan-name, but for Spectre work, it was never Seheve Velnaran.

Seheve nodded, and the oddly-matched pair stepped into the Council chambers; small, slender, unassuming, but deadly drell, and the large, ungainly, yet eerily graceful Keeper. Shepard and Garrus were already in place in the Council chambers. Seheve could see Rellus in the audience, seated beside Dara and Elijah, with Rinus, Kallixta, and Samiel Viridian also in attendance.

Council space was in turmoil at the moment, and it showed, just in the councilors, themselves. The asari representative's usual serenity had long since shattered, and she looked very tired at the moment. Astaria, the asari-human colony in the Terminus systems that had been the site of the Battle of the Vineyard during the batarian-yahg war. The colony had been the one of the ones to which SRY-positive colonists had been largely directed by the Tears of the Moon and their governmental contacts over the centuries, through social engineering gambits and more overt tactics. With fifty percent of the colony being human, however, now that it had organized into a coherent government, instead of every smaller colony on the planet's surface ruling itself? And with the asari residents feeling justifiably angry at the Council of Sisters for sending them into the Terminus, and then, when they were attacked by batarians, refusing to send ships to defend a far-flung colony world when Luisa and Illium needed the ships more? About eighty percent of the asari residents had voted with their human neighbors to join the Systems Alliance.

The Council of Sisters had responded by sending ships to Astaria. Ostensibly, they were there to 'evacuate' any asari who did not wish to live under _mahai_ rule.

The Systems Alliance. . . and their turian allies. . . and their _geth_ allies. . . had responded by moving ships to the system as well. To ensure that only the _willing_ were removed from Astaria. And Shepard had, in an interview with Emily Wong, noted politely that she'd sent ten Spectres to Astaria during the war, in a bid to ensure the stability of the entire region. "Ideally, we'd like to see Trident and some of the other systems in the area join with Astaria here, as we saw them all standing together during the war."

_With a hell of a lot of prompting_, Dara had muttered, listening to the news feed.

So, the asari councilor sat, her body language clearly showing her displeasure. A gap of space divided her from the volus councilor beside her, who sat closer to the turian councilor beside him. Odacaen turned slightly towards Anderson, who was beside him, and beside the human, Emissary, the geth councilor. To Emissary's side, Tali'Zorah, the newly-appointed quarian representative, and behind them all, Bargain-Singer lounged on a huge dais. Six votes, almost always as a block. A simple majority, the gravitic center of the Council cohering now, to the humans, and not to the asari, who'd occupied that central position for centuries. The hanar, krogan, and elcor representatives occupied the far left side of the table; the salarian representative sat at the far right, beside the asari delegate. Presumably to make her feel less excluded.

A batarian representative sat in the audience; they didn't have a seat on the Council yet, and might not for a decade or more, until the batarians coalesced into a stable government _or governments_, but Valak had requested that the government of Khar'sharn, Lorek, and Camala, of which he currently (and reluctantly, it must be noted) was an integral part, be allowed to send an ambassador, at least. And the Council had acceded to that request. This government had given themselves the name of the Allied Batarian Territories, to distinguish themselves from the rebelling colonies, which considered themselves the true Batarian Hegemony.

There were other species not represented at the big table. The raloi, but they hadn't really emerged into the galactic community in the wake of the Reaper War. The vorcha, but no one really seemed to object to their lack of proper representation. The NCAIs. . . no one really knew what to do with them. AIs were now _legal_, and citizens of the Alliance or the Hierarchy, but there were fewer than a hundred of them in the galaxy, and they didn't really have a homeworld. A problem for a later date, presumably.

The last two were the drell, lacking a homeworld and the relevant population numbers, and the Keepers, whose original homeworld of Etamis was the focus of a terraforming project that would allow them to share the high-gravity environment with the elcor in two to three hundred years. . . and their current 'homeworld' of the Citadel was problematic, at best. Also, they, too, were lacking in overall population numbers.

Today, some of those facts, accepted for years, were going to change.

"Good morning," Seheve said, just loudly for the microphones positioned around the room to pick up her voice. "Five months ago, I began an investigation, sanctioned by Commander Shepard, into events some eight hundred years in the past. Today, I will be presenting my findings."

The krogan representative, Urdnot Wreav, leaned forward, grumbling, "Everyone keeps telling _us_ not to live in the past. And today, we're here for a history lesson?"

"Only inasmuch as the past pertains to the very pertinent present," Seheve told him, calmly, her hands clasped in front of her. She found, to her renewed surprise, that under her meditative calm, she was actually. . . furious. Rellus had been both disturbed and pleased, during their first mission, when she'd almost destroyed their quarters, overturning a desk, and shattering a comm unit in the process. She kept thinking she'd controlled the anger, but it kept coming back, seething under the surface.

Perhaps today would change that, too. "I began my investigations on the Citadel," Seheve continued now that Wreav had leaned back in his chair. "I was one of the people sent on the initial mission to awaken the Keepers. It seemed likely that they would remember this, and given the nature of their memories, and their position as the caretakers of the Citadel, they might have access to the relevant records. Additionally, with the NCAI Laetia installed now on the Citadel, records that might have been purged would be more readily recovered."

"What records? What would they remember? What are you _talking_ about?" The salarian representative sounded impatient.

Awakened-from-Distant-Dreams scuttled forward, and his voder rasped out, "Seheve Liakos came to us with a reasonable and respectful request. She asked for data on the location of Rakhana, the drell homeworld."

Every councilor's head rocked back. The hanar representative recovered first, chiming, through his own voder, "This one does not understand. Eight hundred years ago, our government asked that this information be purged from all records in Council space. The world is a tomb. It should be respected as such, not looted and pillaged."

"We understood that this was the intention behind the original Council decree," the Keeper replied, hollowly, the voder interpreting his chitters and clicks. "However, we consulted among ourselves, and decided that first, Seheve Liakos is a drell. She has a perfect right to find the homeworld of her people, and if it is a tomb, she has the right to walk among the gravestones. Second, Seheve Liakos is a Spectre. She is not subject to the ordinary mandates of Council law. We therefore, with the assistance of Laetia, found the relevant records in memory. Laetia even found what we had forgotten: that the Rakhana relay had been locked."

There was a distinct pause.

"We obtained the relay locking code from the ancient Council records," Seheve murmured, quietly. "We then took the SR-1 _Kiev_ and departed for those coordinates. And by _we_, I mean Spectres Urdnot Makur, Fors Luka, Rellus Velnaran, and myself. We made orbit around what we presumed to be Rakhana on October 31, 2197. The planet was, as we expected, largely a desert. Rakhana always was. Temperatures at the equator around one hundred and forty Fahrenheit, or sixty degrees Celsius. Temperatures at the poles, just around the freezing mark. Just enough for a trace polar cap of water ice. Atmosphere. . . marginally breathable. About ten to fifteen percent oxygen. More, in areas where there was plant-life. Oh, yes, there _was_ plantlife," she added, with some emphasis. "Mostly around the shallow seas in the southern hemisphere, but definitely present. We immediately found the remains of cities, again, largely clustered at the polar regions and around the seas."

"This is all. . . fascinating. . . I'm sure," the asari councilor said, her tone calm and distant. "But why exactly is this important enough to bring to the Council?"

"Because," Seheve said, a hiss from between her teeth, "of all the things I am _about_ to tell you."

The fracture in her mask of calm lasted only a second, but everyone in the room had felt the chill. Seheve took a deep, steadying breath, and went on, with all the tranquility at her disposal. "No radio signals, naturally. But many . . . anomalous readings. A crashed STG ship; the survivors had been investigating a batarian slaving operation in the Terminus and fled on being discovered, some fifty years ago. The three-man team survived long enough on the surface to burrow their way into the dirt mounds that had covered over ancient houses, for shelter. Managed to piece together some of the history of the ancient city. Before dying of old age and at least one accident themselves. Their radio was non-functional, and they could not find parts to repair it, so their fate had never been known. How different, I wonder, would the past fifty years' history have been, if they had been able to report in?" She pulled up, on the screens overhead, three old still images of the salarians who'd gone missing before humanity had even joined the Council. "Soln Kevar, Artis Manek, and Uron Ladem. STG has confirmed that all three went missing fifty years ago, and we have turned over the remains that we found on the first mission."

Seheve looked around the Council chambers. "So, as to what the STG team discovered, while digging in the ruins? That the drell, after the Exodus, lived there for at least a hundred more years. The population dwindling. Invasions and attacks by other people, who came there in search of dwindling resources. And then, eventually, the population migrated elsewhere, as a whole, because the polar regions, while they had water, had been stripped of food sources." Seheve's voice was clinical now. "We had been told, for generations, that our planet had been pushed to a breaking ecological point, that the hanar had less than five years in which to remove our ancestors and bring them to Kahje. And yet, the hanar never approached the Council for assistance in this endeavor. Even when additional asari, salarian, and turian ships would have saved many more lives. They took ten to twenty thousand _survivors_ of a doomed planet to Kahje, and established them there. Such is history as we have known it." Seheve tipped her head to the side. "The STG team disagreed. They were much struck by the _hundred years_ of habitation they found evidence of, after the Exodus—"

"This one doubts if the respected STG team members, lamented though their deaths should be, were trained archaeologists," the hanar councilor chimed, softly.

"No," Seheve agreed. "none of them were. However. that brings me to another point. They searched the city center for parts for their radio. They never uncovered the buildings that my team did. An ancient temple—our own great pyramid, the knowledge of which has been suppressed—with smaller chambers within, dedicated to Amonkira and Arashu and all the other old gods, whose names even the drell had forgotten. And the central chamber held our ancient texts, as well as maps of the stars, embedded into the floor, on a sky made of purest lapis lazuli." She tapped her omnitool, bringing up the next series of images. Perfect state of preservation, thanks to the dry climate and the fact that the pyramid had, like most of the buildings in the city, been covered in seven to ten feet of sand. Perfectly preserved bodies in the temple, too, all seated in alcoves in a burial chamber. Rulers of this lost city, entombed on chairs, their innards removed, and still sitting, upright and dehydrated, between eight hundred to two thousand years after their demise. "This suggested to us that the ancient drell had a certain reverence for the stars. And, in fact, directly beside this ancient temple, which had certainly been in place for at least two thousand years, as far as we were able to carbon date the remains in the burial chamber, we found another structure. A radio telescope, and the computers used to operate it. Science and religion, were, for these ancient drell, apparently something that was in balance, in harmony."

"Again, very interesting, but why aren't you releasing this to an archaeological journal?" the salarian councilor asked.

"In the storage media from those computers," Seheve told him, turning to face the salarian, "we found, once our experts were able to decipher them, information indicating that the drell had sent a message to the stars. To the gods. 'We know that our planet ails. Come and aid us, your loyal servants.' We found the _hanar's return message_. 'We hear your call. We will assist you. We will restore your planet.' We found the exchange of languages, we found the records of _five years_ of transmissions between the people of this southern city and the hanar ships. We found the records of the evacuation." She paused. "We moved to what we thought might be the ruler's palace. The 'suzerain' of the city. There, we found the records that suggested that the city had come under attack by other drell forces as a result of their interaction with the hanar. The story was unclear; the suzerain's people wrote, repeatedly, of 'unforeseen consequences' and 'disaster.'"

Seheve paused. "So, thus far, we have uncovered at least two lies. First, that the planet was on an inevitable slide into destruction and death. Second, that the hanar had little time in which to rescue a handful of survivors, before the entire population died."

"Assertion: Five years or one, that remains a relatively small amount of time," the elcor councilor objected, but her tone was highly thoughtful, as she turned to look at the hanar beside her.

"Agreed," Seheve said, nodding. "Which is why we continued to pursue the evidence. The evidence was, that the survivors of the city had, eventually, migrated north. Which was, in actuality, where we had seen anomalies from orbit. The first, was a series of signs, carved into the clay flats of another desert region. Akin to the Nazca lines on Earth, they were clearly meant to be seen from air, and pointed us to a mountainous region. These lines, however, were an ancient trap. The tribal residents of this area fired an antique rocket launcher at us—"

Voices buzzed up all around her, and Seheve raised a hand. "Oh, did I fail to mention this fact? That there are, in fact, drell alive and well on Rakhana? That the homeworld of the drell _is not a tomb at all?_"

Cacophony. Deafening. Seheve looked across and found Rellus' eyes. Saw the smile, and felt buoyed by it. She waited for the muttering and exclaiming to die down, before bringing up the next series of images on her omnitool, to be repeated on the screens around the Council chambers. The lines in the ground, white stones carefully packed into the carved, red clay. Symbols of the ancient gods and constellations, Amonkira's spear and a war-god's sword, forming a point that lead to waving lines. . . 'this way lies water and refuge. . . ' Gun camera footage as an antique rocket, in the middle of a sandstorm, slammed into their ship. Rel's eyepiece footage, as he'd moved around the crash site, pulling Makur back in through the broken window of the shuttle. Made sure Fors wasn't in danger of exploding. And then the tribesmen moving to surround the shuttle. The tribesmen had worn kilts and light cloaks, to keep the sun out of their eyes as they walked the desert in daylight. Had carried spears and hand-tooled firearms. . . no machine-made parts. . . and had opened fire on the Spectres as Rel had stepped out, his hands in the air, to show his lack of threat. The projectiles from the guns had slammed into his shields and fallen to the ground. Makur, still bleeding, had emerged from the ship, and caught a spear in mid-air, before it could hit Rel's armor. . . and Fors had simply frozen all the hunters in place with a wave of a tiny volus paw. Seheve had dropped her stealth net at that point, and started trying to speak with the lead hunter.

It had been _extremely_ difficult. In eight hundred years, even with eidetic memories, languages shifted. Changed. Slipped into dialects. All of this captured in the vid images and audio files. Being escorted into the caves where the tribe made its home. Finally finding one elder—an _elder_ who was only forty-five years old, Seheve had learned, later, but blind and revered as a great-grandmother—named An-Alyva. An-Alyva had been taught to read the 'old language' as a child. Had taught her own children, so that they could read the technical manuals regarding 'ancient relics,' like the rocket launcher. And so, the two of them had managed to bridge the communications gap, carefully sounding out words. Seheve making gestures to the lead hunter, pantomiming.

Finally, a story had emerged. These tribes blamed the city-dwellers and their suzerains for the poisoning of the land, air, and water. But said that the poisoning only happened _after_ the strangers had come from the sky. They called the city-dwellers _traitors_, and they had set up the ancient lines to lure any from the sky to their deaths, generations ago. But Seheve managed to gain An-Alyva's trust. Ate of the tribe's food, gave of her own. And then they'd been told that _some_ of the ancient cities were still occupied.

Orbital surveys conducted by the _Kiev_ bore that out; there were populations in the areas around the seas. And so, they'd made their way to one of those cities, and Seheve had gone in alone, under the cover of her stealth. Had listened and watched for almost a week, before she stole clothing and the local coinage, and began to speak to city-dwellers. Learned the tale of the city by the shore of the sea, Susquianahl. Which was Petracoatl, which was Marrakamb before that. Marrakamb that was, she was told by a garrulous merchant, had been there on the shore of the bitter sea before time began. _"It was a great city. Had ships on the sea, or so they say, ruled the whole of it, shore to shore. It's always been here. It's still below our feet. Old buildings, that we've built atop. Old tombs, still out in the rock of the mountains. They sold salt, and fish, and drank deep of the artesian wells that they dug, inland of the sea, in the days before the Poisoning of the world." The merchant paused, in the recording. "When the Poisoning came, and the Betrayers fled to the sky, there was famine and disease, and the entire city, it's said, died. All in a night when the sea turned red. The savage tribes of the waste came to ransack, and found nothing but bodies in the streets, and fled in superstitious dread, thinking the gods had punished Marrakamb._" The merchant shrugged in the recording, his words being translated now, by VI. _"Eventually, a group of braver tribesmen came here, about five hundred years ago, and settled in the ruins. Called it Petracoatl, or rock home. They razed villages and oases as far as three weeks from Petracoatl, and brought the spoils home. . . grew strong on the artesian wells__left by the ancients. And though they were many, they grew complacent. And one night, it's said that the sea boiled red again, and in the morning, not a single person was left alive in the city. People were still in their beds, at their tables, when trade caravans came here. And, for a time, Petracoatl died again. Until Susqunuq, the suzerain of two cities in the northern mountains, marched his army south, looking for better lands. Arable ones. He found this city, and claimed it. Named it for himself. Made sure that there were farms for the fruit trees that grow all around the sea. . . established roads. Patrols. Held off the savage tribes of the desert. That was two hundred years ago, and his descendants still rule."_The male touched his forehead in reverence.

Seheve let everything sink in, for a moment. "We took core samples from the seabed," she said now, her voice almost emotionless, but her hands, clasped before her, so tightly, almost trembled. "There were four periods in which there were indications of heavy carbon dioxide in the region. Four periods in which the sediment was _red_, and, when our technicians on the _Kiev_ examined it more closely, found evidence of dinoflagellates. Many of these tiny marine bacteria were well enough preserved that their DNA was testable." She paused. "It took us several weeks, but we were able to confirm that these bacteria were not native to Rakhana. They _were_, however, native to Kahje. They are _common_ on Kahje, in fact, but showed some signs of bio-engineering. They had been designed to eat chemical waste, it would appear. A common enough tactic for cleaning environmental pollution. However, as far as we have been able to ascertain, they were not given a predator species to keep them in check, and seem to have adapted to eat other matter besides petrochemicals." Seheve paused. "Each time that the dinoflagellate population expands, finding a new source of food, it reproduces at an enormous rate. They produce carbon dioxide as a by-product of their digestion—insignificant on Kahje, considering the size of the oxygen-producing kelp forests, some of which exist in tangles as large as entire continents on Earth—and these bacterial blooms thus produce the red tint to the sea, and create a toxic, deadly bubble of carbon dioxide gas, which then moves ashore in the direction of the prevailing wind. . . and kills all the inhabitants."

The room had gone absolutely and utterly silent. The hanar representative didn't even chime a response, but his tentacles had _leached_ of color. "We therefore set out to drill core samples all over the planet," Seheve went on, dryly, calmly. "In every area where we found water, or where there _had been_ water in the past, we found traces of this bacteria. Old petrochemical and radiological plants and dumping areas were laced with the bacteria." She paused. "When I first began to think about it, once my mind had been freed, history. . . bothered me. We drell do not actually _need_ to drink, for up to three weeks at a time. We don't excrete water. We can eat almost any levo-based food, because our digestive systems have been so wonderfully evolved to derive nutrition from almost any source. . .because Rakhana was such a savage, difficult world for life to exist upon. We lived in harmony with that world, for countless generations, and suddenly pushed it to a breaking point. But that it all happened in the course of a few years? That seemed. . . odd."

She looked around. "What we have been able to determine, is this. Yes, the drell, my ancestors, _had_ polluted their world. They had evidence that suggested a climate catastrophe was coming. That much is true. But when the hanar came, rather than immediately evacuating all of the people that they could, the hanar offered to help. They knew that their Enkindlers, the Protheans, had had the ability to do such things—to teach the mute to speak, for instance. Why should they not do the Enkindlers' work? Uplift the drell, teach them to love the Enkindlers as they did? Why should they _not_ have a species of allies, the way the asari had the turians and the salarians?" Seheve's voice cracked. "There were good motivations, and there were base motivations. But in the end, the hanar released a bacteriological agent on Rakhana that was intended to save the world. . . and instead, almost destroyed it."

Seheve turned. "Spectre Sidonis?" Dara and Eli both raised their heads, but it was Dara that Seheve beckoned forward. Dara had always retained the name _Jaworski_ for all of her medical papers, to allow people to find her published works with ease. Her papers on the asari SRY-population, for example, were under this name. And now, another paper was about to be added to the list.

The asari councilor's face, on seeing Dara stand, went cold and blank. A smooth, perfect diplomatic mask, except that the eyes conveyed absolute disdain, before she looked away, finding someplace else to focus, as if Dara Sidonis did not even exist. Dara disregarded this entirely, making eye-contact with every other member of the Council. "Last month," she said, quietly, "I was taken to Rakhana, and conducted medical examinations of about two dozen drell volunteers. Spectre Liakos had determined through oral interviews with the tribespeople of the deserts, who have a lifestyle akin to that of Kalahari bushmen. Their average lifespan is about thirty-five; the average lifespan for a drell off of Rakhana is about ninety, although Kepral's syndrome shortens many life spans to fifty years or less. Their average infant mortality rate is one in four; this is an _improvement_, I am told by the tribal elder, An-Alyva, who remembers that in her childhood, the mortality rate was one in three. This is not due to disease; the tribespeople rarely encounter other tribes, and when they do, they usually fight for resources. This is solely due to 'weak lungs,' as they describe the condition." Dara brought up several sets of scans. "This is the average galactic drell's lung. Alveoli, very standard, very similar to a human lung. This is the lung tissue of a Rakhana drell. Twice as many alveoli as a galactic drell. Examining their blood? Hemecyanic blood is not as efficient at carbon dioxide exchange as hemoglobin. However, there have been changes in the drell blood chemistry on Rakhana, even over the course of only eight hundred years, allowing them to release carbon dioxide molecules more efficiently. They also employ a method of bucal pumping—depressing the floor of the mouth cavity to expand the lungs more efficiently, that galactic drell emulate, but few do. Spectre Liakos informs me that this method of breathing is part of standard drell assassin training."

Dara paused and swept her gaze around the room. "Our estimates, based on several weeks of orbital camera surveys, is that there are four million drell left on Rakhana. This effectively doubles their population, as there were only four million known in the galaxy previously. The Rakhana population has been reduced to a mixture of Bronze Age and seventeenth century technology, making them, effectively, a 'pre-spaceflight' culture. Except that they'd already achieved spaceflight, given the number of satellites still around the planet, whose orbit hasn't yet decayed." She turned and glanced at Seheve. "That is, however, outside the provenance of my medical report."

Dara resumed her seat, and Seheve picked up from where the human had left off. "Thank you, Spectre Sidonis." She looked around. "And now we see the third lie that the hanar told everyone, eight hundred years ago. Rakhana is not a tomb. It is the _drell homeworld_. It is a living and viable planet. . .and _if_ we can convince the native drell that outside help will not further poison it, we can remove the well-intentioned, but deadly bacteria from the planet. . . then the planet itself will be able to support more than four million people. If they accept our aid, and if they permit resettlement. . . though I cannot imagine why they would immediately embrace drell who are the descendants of those whom they consider to be _traitors_, and complicit with the destruction of their world. . . then the drell as a whole will have a homeworld. And we should, under Council law, be given a _seat_ on this Council, forthwith. In fact, I _demand it._" Seheve almost trembled with her indignation, and the audacity of her words.

The hanar began to chime, quietly, "This one does not know how this came to be, Spectre. This one must consult with this one's government—"

"Yes," Seheve said, cutting him off. "Consult with them. And when you speak with them, I think it best that you should also discuss the need for _reparations_. If at any point in the past eight hundred years, someone from the Illuminated Hanar Primacy had come forward. Admitted that there was historical documentation that suggested that the drell homeworld could be _terraformed_. Could be _reclaimed_. Or that _it hadn't actually been destroyed_. . . the people of Rakhana might have not lost over fifty generations to a dark age from which they cannot emerge, because every single time they manage to put together enough technology, or a city-state that reaches a critical mass of people, the bacteria that eats their wastes strikes them down again. The drell of the galaxy would have a homeworld—something that the quarians searched for, for three hundred years, and were denied by the three species of the original Council, as well." Seheve's fingers, still laced, clenched so tightly that the scale at her knuckles paled. "Fifty generations of galactic drell would not have been _indebted_ to the Illuminated Hanar Primacy for _saving them_. I believe that any debt we might have owed, has been paid, and that, in turn, you owe the survivors of Rakhana the cleansing of their world. For those of us who may never be able to call that world a home, I call for the establishment of drell subcolonies on desert planets. So that we never need be _indebted_ to a hanar again."

Several hours later, Seheve was _still_ at the Council chambers, dealing with the news media with Sam Jaworski's able assistance, but the rest of them had made their way back to the hotel, and now were eating dinner, and talking. Newly appointed Spectres, like Samiel Viridian, sat at the same table as the more seasoned Spectres, like Rellus and Rinus Velnaran, Linianus Pellarian and his wife, Serana, Dempsey and Zhasa, and of course, Eli and Dara Jaworski. . . and members of the old guard, too. Shepard. Garrus. Lantar. They sipped their coffee, tea, or _apha_, and generally allowed the privacy field around their table do the work of protecting their speech, while they exchanged ideas. Opinions. Notions.

"Spirits," Rel muttered, recapping the afternoon's Council discussion and rubbing a hand over his face. "Four damned months on Rakhana, between the two of us. Four million new drell, which _doubles_ their galactic population. And it would, if we're able to bring them out of their _futarri_ dark age, give them a homeworld. And then she up and demanded a drell seat on the Council." Rel's mandibles flexed, and his blue eyes were very hard at the moment. "I don't have to have Rinus' head for politics to understand why the hanar would be a little threatened by that."

"No," Rinus replied, dryly. "Plus, there's the fact that the hanar _lied_ to the entire galaxy for eight hundred years. At least, their government did. They told the descendents of those they 'rescued' from Rakhana that the drell had done it entirely to themselves. And let the rest of the galaxy more or less blame the victims."

"And they established that the drell should be their indentured _futtari_ servants for the rest of eternity, because they'd _graciously_ brought them to Kahje." Rel's mandibles worked, briefly. "I wonder how they sold that to the original survivors? Did they just outright lie to the drell's faces? Did they say, 'This one regrets to inform you that your planet really only has six months?' Or did the drell of the cities actually know? Were they desperate enough to take any rescue they could, and were _they_ complicit in the lies told to their children?"

"Steady, Rel," Eli said, looking at the turian over the top of his coffee mug, just as Linianus, Serana, Dempsey, and Zhasa moved over to take seats at the table with them. "I don't really want to have to pin you at the dinner table. It tends to wind up with dishes getting broken, and those come out of my paycheck."

Dempsey snorted, just once, and Lin, just about to set his _apha_ cup down, paused and gave Rel a look. "You do realize that a mystery that's eight hundred years old is going to be damned hard to solve, right?"

"Largely depends on if the hanar and the drell of the time every discussed it on the Citadel," Dempsey put in, dryly. "All those hidden cameras that the Keepers maintained probably caught _something_."

"Bets on how soon some hanar extremist will be calling to wipe out the Keepers?" Dara muttered, cynically, under her breath.

"I try not to bet against sure things," Garrus said, from across the table, and they all chuckled, briefly and tiredly. 

Rel, however, wasn't to be distracted. He was focused on this issue with the intensity he usually reserved for combat. "What gets me. . . what really just pulls my damned teeth. . . . is this: we just got done fighting a war to help Valak overthrow the batarian caste system, which largely revolves around slavery. And yet, the Council's systematically looked the other way for eight hundred years as the drell were turned into the institutionalized servants of the hanar. Why? Because they didn't actually wear collars or shackles? Because the drell who'd been conditioned from birth to serve as family servants looked so _happy_ to trail along after a hanar and clean their tanks and raise their kelp and farm the fish, and whatever the _futar_ else?" Rel exhaled.

Lin's _apha_ mug still standing, still hovered above the table in his hand. "All right, is it safe for me to put this down yet, or are you in a table-thumping mood, _fradu_? This is _really_ hot _apha_ here."

Rel made a rude noise through his teeth at Lin, and Lin chuckle, finally setting the cup down.

"So, yeah," Eli summarized, as the turians all tore into a turian version of a human dish. . . _apaterae-cuderae_ meatloaf, with _avenus_ and _oolorae_ egg as binders, and bone flakes tucked on top for decoration. . . "The drell scattered around the galaxy can't really go back to Rakhana in its current state. Only ten to fifteen percent oxygen on average, although in the few greenbelt areas, it's a little higher. Carrying capacity of the planet is _shot_ until we can get technical crews on the surface to disimprove the bacteria, or at least provide something locally non-dangerous that will _eat_ the bacteria and not make the problem worse."

"Seheve got a sample of the bacteria here, right?" Zhasa asked, carefully, rotating her own . "Your father's looking at it, isn't he, Rel?"

Rel exhaled. "Yeah. He is. He thinks he can create a predator species, or a parasite, that will attack the bacteria. Throttle back its numbers. He doesn't have the time to redo the whole of Rakhana's eco-system, and it'll take credits and a dedicated team. Big projects like Bastion and Aphras and Tosal Nym . . .hauling an entire ice moon and harvesting it, to replenish the seas on a dead world like Aphras? That's costing the Alliance and the Hierarchy a lot of money."

"Money well spent if we get two more garden worlds out of it," Shepard pointed out. "Got a lot of corporate backing, too, so it's not just tax-payer credits."

Rel looked up, nodded to his aunt, but looked glum. "Where are the drell going to get credits like that from? _If _the ones still living there can be brought to even _trust_ aliens again." He rubbed again at his face, and stared at his food without appetite.

Dempsey shook his head. "Sounds like Seheve was on the right track in the Council chambers. The hanar owe some reparations. That'll cover some of the credits."

"They'll fight that one all the way to the bank," Eli muttered. "And like Valak was saying, months ago. . . there isn't enough money in all of batarian space to pay back the families of every single person ever enslaved by the Hegemony. I don't think the hanar have enough credits to cover four million people's back pay for eight hundred years, let alone, 'hey, let us fix your planet for real this time.'" Eli looked over at Samiel. "Don't mind us while we talk politics that's way over our pay grade." A quick, rueful glance at Shepard and Garrus. "Technically, none of us know what the hell we're talking about, but it beats fighting wars without any realization on _why_ we're fighting in the first place."

Samiel snorted slightly, the male asari leaning back in his chair, and listening, silently.

Eli looked back at Rel. "So, they can't really _use_ their homeworld until it's been dry-cleaned and had some gardens put in. They need to dig those who remained behind out of a technological dark age, since they're what, back about eighteenth century level?"

"Some have firearms," Rel muttered. "All hand-tooled. No machinery, except 'relics' of the past, like that rocket that was launched at us. . . which was basically blind luck that it still worked. They have manuals for some of the gear, but no real ability to perform maintenance. And the materials are unstable as hell after so many years. The tribes are basically. . . iron age. Bronze age. The cities. . . eighteenth century Earth. Maybe seventeenth. Early Imperial Palaven, before the crossing of the seas and the taking of the western continent."

Lin grinned. "The days of the _ecusae_."

"Sounds really romantic on paper. Their streets _reeked_, Lin," Dara supplied, and Rel nodded emphatically. If it had been bad for a human nose, it had been _vile_ for a turian. "They collect their excrement in bins in front of each house and those get hauled to the fields and reused. I don't even want to think about how many diseases work their way into their food animals and the fruits and vegetables that way." 

Eli took Dara's hand in his and lightly kissed her inner wrist. No teeth, at the moment. "So. . . yeah. There's no knowing if the Rakhana drell will ever embrace their galactic kin and invite them home. But, politically speaking, by virtue of _having a homeworld_, just like the quarians, the drell will get that Council seat Seheve was demanding."

"Two, in theory," Rinus put in, dryly. "One for the Rakhana drell if they can't get along with the 'colonial' or 'galactic drell. Maybe each will count for half a regular vote, until they can get together and agree on one united voice in a generation or two."

Eli tapped the fingers of his free hand against his plate. "Either way, it's a sure bet that the drell of either faction aren't going to be going _with_ the hanar on anything for a good long time. Suddenly, they're going to be a voting block with equal pull on the Council as the hanar, and who'll probably vote against the hanar every chance they get."

Dempsey said, dryly, cutting a bite from a vat-grown steak, and considering it carefully as it perched on the end of his fork, "The drell who have basically _allowed_ the hanar to interact with the rest of the galaxy might well tell them to take their Enkindlers and shove them up the. . . "

"Renal sacs," Eli supplied. Everyone at the table looked at him. He pointed at Dara, who gave him a dirty look in exchange, and grinned. He'd pulled it right out of her mind, before she could speak the word. "So, all in all, a royal mess, politically and otherwise."

"But Seheve's pretty damned happy about it all," Dara pointed out, making a face.

Rel sighed. "That's one of the few good things out of this, yes. I mean, yes, it's good that the truth's coming out, it's great that we're recovering an entire _homeworld_. . . but. . . it's good that she's feeling a little victorious at the moment. If she weren't so quiet about it, the happiness might be insufferable, but it's. . . also a little . . . " Rel suddenly grinned. Ferally. "Fierce."

"Oh, do _tell_," Lin said, his tone arch. "Not every day your mate is sitting on cause for war and wants to wave it around like she owns it, eh?"

Rel snickered into his cup. Eli looked up at the ceiling. "I know _nothing_ of this," he said, blandly, pointedly not looking at Dara. "Although I will say Dara here _still_ ducks every time she sees Siara coming around at the moment. Siara was _not_ real happy when she was told she was _two genes_ from being an _ardat-yakshi_." Eli tossed Samiel a quick, apologetic look.

"I do not!" Dara paused. "All right, maybe a _little_, the last time she brought Nyvae in for a checkup. . . ."

Lin snorted into his cup. "Pain-Singer. Sky _really_ hit it on the head with that one. Siara's always been a pain in the cloaca. Nowadays, she just literalizes it."

"Yeah, that's actually it. The whole 'set the nervous system on fire' thing she does? Where she can basically paralyze someone with either, well, pleasure or pain?" Eli shrugged. "It's not domination, but it's close enough that she _could_ lock someone in place and reave them to death. And if she did it with the pleasure half, they wouldn't even want her to stop. Yeah. Siara was _pissed_. Well, that, and she told Dara that _she_ could explain to Makur that he'd been sleeping with a male for five or six years."

Lin choked on his _apha_. Dara, at that point, joined them, Melaani at her side. "So much for doctor-patient confidentiality, Eli," Dara complained.

"_Sai'kaea_, confidentiality went out the window with the chair Siara threw at you. Also, I think she might actually have been heard as far away as the motor pool. I was only four rooms away. Everyone in the morgue heard everything I did. Some of the _bodies_ could probably repeat the conversation." He paused, and mimicked, faultlessly, Siara's icy tones, "This is your _revenge_, isn't it Dara? One slip in sharing, one time not stopping when and where I was told, and you've waited six years to do this to me!"

"God, it's not like that—" Dara ground to a halt as Eli just looked at her, and then she sighed. "Sorry. You were making a joke. And I totally didn't take it the right way." She made a face. "It's been a long couple of months with the old-school asari Spectres giving me the death-stare every time I cross their paths." A quick, slightly guilty glance at Shepard and Garrus. "I'm just glad Nisha Cehl got her ass kicked out last year, or she'd be in my _face_ demanding that I sit on the data or hide it or burn it. . . "

"You say that as if she doesn't still have my comm code," Shepard put in, very dryly. "My communications staff and secretaries have been fielding her, and I feel like I should be paying them hazard pay for doing so. Don't worry. All the death threats from her have been in my direction, not in yours."

_Not that there haven't been threats leveled at Dara already_, Eli thought, his stomach clenching. He hadn't liked, one bit, the fact that Dara had been set up as the target for the Justicars' wrath on Tortuga, but it had been the right call. And the fact that her name was the lead on the report on SRY-positive asari, and the need to expand the definition of _ardat-yakshi_ to somewhere around ten percent of the population. . . it was necessary. It was just going to be uncomfortable. Possibly dangerous. And it was going to last, probably for decades.

And Eli, of everyone sitting at the table, had the most reason, besides Shepard and Garrus, to know that there were crazy people of every species who didn't need a _reason_ to hate. They just needed a target. It made him _ping. _

"There are reasons that Kallixta insisted on taking _sangua'amilae_ with you before you released the report," Rinus put in, dryly. "I really wish you'd let her put Praetorians on you."

"I can't, Rinus. Same reason as you won't accept guards, except on turian colonies. I can't be a Spectre who looks afraid to walk anywhere in the galaxy. Bad for our image."

"You _could_ let them do their job from stealth," Eli pointed out, his expression taut. "At least on Bastion and any planet we go to that's got a high asari population. Like Astaria." He paused. "Although Astaria's. . . probably going to be pissed, but probably not at you, personally. I'm turning up data that suggests that ninety percent of the colonists there, on the borders of batarian space? Have flagged identicards, indicating tagged genetic profiles."

Dara nudged her plate away, carefully, clearly having lost her appetite. Zhasa reached around Dempsey to put a hand on Dara's bowed shoulders, lightly. Melaani, who'd joined them midway through the conversation, moved around the table, and found a seat next to Samiel. . . and had slid one foot lightly behind his ankle. Pure habit now, between the turian-raised male asari and the pure asari undercover specialist. "I'm not condoning Nisha Cehl's reactions, or anyone else's. . . but I have to sympathize with Siara's vocal objections," she noted. "I wasn't entirely pleased with the news, myself. I had to find a bathroom to do an inventory."

Eli and Lin both choked on their drinks at the same time. Samiel's very faint smirk spoke volumes. Eli could almost _hear_ the male's thoughts, which were probably very similar to what his own would have been: _Oh, I helped you with that inventory. Several times. Everything's in the right places. No extra parts._

Melaani kept her face serene, and asked Dara, "So, how _did_ Makur take the news? I assume you _did_ break it to him?"

Dara made a face at Melaani. "Of course I did. He said she looked female, she smelled female, she felt female, she had the right number and places for input and output ports, and so long as she wasn't planning on changing that, he was pretty happy with her the way she was."

The conversation stayed in orbit around the asari question for a while longer. Dara just grimaced and stayed quiet for a while, until Eli rubbed the back of her neck, lightly, suggesting, dryly, to the others, "Maybe in a thousand years or so, the asari will have settled on a new self-image. One based on the concept of three already embedded in their culture. Three aspects of the goddess, three stages of life, three gender identities. Female, male, and both/neither."

"You and I are not going to be alive to see it," Dara muttered, very softly, and rubbed at her eyes. "Samiel and Mel and Siara and Makur and Sisu, and Nyvae, though. . . they're going to be dealing with the fallout for centuries." She sighed. "And judging by the personal affront with which most of the asari on base have been taking the news. . . and the folks on base are some of the brightest and most flexible minds the asari have ever produced. . . it's not exactly going to be an easy process."

"No," Eli told her. "There's going to be bloodshed, probably. Imagine this on Earth."

"Earth has had barely forty years with a global government trying to keep all the little nations from starting wars with each other, Eli. I can picture it all too _clearly_ on Earth." Dara's voice was particularly glum, and she nudged her tray away, half her food uneaten. 

Garrus actually changed the subject of the conversation then. Drew it back to the day's events. "So, you all see a need for a Rakhana cleanup project. That'll take xenobiologists, and maybe even terraforming equipment. It's probably still got its original water. Just a lot of it is locked into vapor form in the atmosphere. If they _want_ their homeworld to be a little lusher, that would mean pulling a comet in, and burning it off in a decaying orbit, which could thicken the atmosphere. . . or doing what they're doing at Aphras and Tosal Nym. Tethering an ice moon in place, attached to a space elevator, and shipping ice down to the surface to melt, slowly, over the next hundred years or so, using robominers." He looked at them all. "What? It's not just Lantar and Lilu's hobby, you know. I've been listening to these conversations for years now."

"That's. . . still a lot of credits," Shepard muttered, tiredly. "Even just the cleanup of the ecology's going to take a lot of credits. Even if every drell out there in the galaxy ponies up ten credits. . . and not all of them will. . . that's all of four hundred million credits. The Tosal Nym and Aphras projects are in the billions."

"Reparations _would_ help," Rel said, his voice hard. "If the Council passes sanctions. . . "

"Oh, the Council can pass sanctions against the hanar," Rinus commented, dryly. "That's almost an automatic pass. The salarians don't like the hanar, that's a vote. The krogan, rachni, and geth, on hearing the real history? Almost bound to vote for the sanctions. Three species almost wiped out by other species. Quarians, on the topic of someone regaining a homeworld? Vote for. Elcor are fair-minded. They might abstain, though. Asari. . . god only knows, on this topic."

"That's already five," Dara commented, picking at her dinner. "You get the humans and the turians to vote with this. . . which they're very likely to do. . . that's a majority. Even a supermajority, if the volus join with the turians, as they almost always do. There'll be _something_ enacted." She made a face. "Except, the problem here is, the hanar are so much on the verge of galactic society already. They don't use other species' tech much. The whole Enkindler thing. Physiologically incapable of interacting except through speech, and even for that, they need voders. They're. . . excluded, as is. I'm not sure what sanctions will actually _do_ to them, besides pushing them further to the periphery. Making them the new batarians isn't going to resolve anything."

"I know," Rel snapped at her, with some heat. "But they can't be allowed to get away with it—"

"Isn't that usually _my_ line?" Lin asked, mildly.

"Not saying _let them get away with it_," Dara replied, clearly holding her temper. "I'm saying there's carrot, there's a stick, and there's 'go sit in your room,' and if we beat them into their room with a stick, I don't see it changing their minds about their treatment of the drell. Not to mention the fact that the vast majority of hanar probably _believed_ the cover story as much as the drell did. Eight hundred years is a long time. Information gets lost. Secrets get buried."

"Propaganda becomes history. History becomes truth," Lin supplied. "It's been long enough that I frankly wonder if the hanar _government_ even currently knows any of this."

"Someone has to know _some_ of it. And those are the heads Seheve wants on plates." Rel crunched down on a boneflake.

"Not going to argue with that," Eli told him, lightly. He'd actually leaned back to watch Shepard and Garrus for a moment. _They_ were watching the others. Listening. Evaluating. And, given the very faint smile on Shepard's face, and in Garrus' eyes, Eli thought he and his friends might have passed another test. _The tests never, ever end around here_, he thought. . . .but he was actually rather glad of it.

Within six months, the Systems Alliance had worked with the colonial government of Terra Nova, and established a colonial sub-zone in the forbidding desert belt of that colony. A drell allocated zone. The plain truth was that Terra Nova _needed_ more mining done, to provide the materials for the rebuilding of its cities. . . and the colony didn't have enough workers to deal with both producing the raw materials _and_ building the cities. Even with geth and rachni assistance, the cleanup efforts were going slowly. And few humans back on Earth really wanted a hardship position in Terra Nova's deserts. Even at triple pay, there were few takers. The corporations benefited, because they could offer _regular_ pay to the drell, and subsidize their moves from, say, Kahje or Rough Tide to Terra Nova. . . the drell benefitted, finding jobs that were still tough, but in an environment that was far healthier for them than the water-logged hanar planets. . . and began to build homes in that desert that were akin to the ones their ancestors had left behind on Rakhana.

The colonial government of Astaria, human-asari as it was, offered incentives for drell who'd be willing to move to their equatorial desert as well. Again, it was a hellish region, high in CO2 emissions from the volcanoes. . . but native Rakhana drell were, over the next decade, offered jobs there at a premium, because of their _resistance_ to high CO2 concentrations. The few who accepted transit to this planet were offered remedial training in galactic-level technology, and began operating robominers and wearing mechsuits into mines, and actually making a good level of income. Enough to bring their families there, and begin importing Rakhana plant and animal life—on a carefully monitored basis, overseen by xenobiologists—to the barren, volcanic desert of Astaria. What other species considered a hellhole was, by drell standards, actually a relatively pleasant place to live.

These first handfuls of 'native' drell that went out to the stars, came back to Rakhana with stories, in credit accounts that wouldn't buy much on their home rock. . . but galactic goods and a burning desire to see their homeworld improve. Asari, human, salarian, and krogan. . . and even scores of hanar, who were revolted by their ancestors' actions. . . traveled to Rakhana, and began the rehabilitation work on the planet. . . and began teaching the _people_, too. The tribes. . . stayed suspicious and wary. That would take decades of building trust and ties to erase. Thus, the Council species concentrated on the cities, and let the drell of the cities work on establishing ties to the tribes.

It would take decades. But Seheve knew they were on the right track.

**2198-2200**

2198 passed at light-speed. New Spectre trials were held in January. New candidates, from a wider spectrum of species than had ever been seen before, were tested. Awakened-from-Distant-Dreams had actually been the Keepers' first candidate; he didn't make it, largely because the Keepers had so little ability to fight, but he _was_ asked to stay on as a technical consultant and liaison to the Citadel Keepers. A _vorcha_ named "Fourteen," who had developed heightened intelligence as a result of vicious SIU experiments, and had been taken in by STG decades before, was retained as another specialist, as was a massive elcor martial artist named Kull'Tathor.

James "Allen" (as Dempsey's android twin had taken to calling himself), Alisav K'sar, Samiel Viridian, James, Siege, Composite (who'd already been probationary), Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight, Mercuria, Arash'Veza, and Evorus Nirvadis. Probationary Spectres included Iliana T'moa, an asari _null_, incapable of biotics, and Maliana R'sai. Hal'Marrak and Nal'Ishora, after several years as the ubiquitous techs who'd always been on call for the Spectres, received their nods at last. Mercuria represented the very _first_ NCAI to be so promoted, which. . . sent shockwaves through the Hierarchy Fleet. Headlines demanded, _From Loyalty Ligatures to Outside the Law? Will the AIs Become our Overlords?_

Dara, Eli, Dempsey, and Zhasa were assigned to one of the relay unlocking teams, along with Samiel, Siege, and Dances, heading out into space only lightly examined by Jeff Moreau and EDI. . . and in some cases, beyond relays that had been locked since before Prothean times. Not locked by Reapers, who had full access, naturally, but by a previous race, who'd almost managed to challenge the Reapers. A species known to the Keepers as the Uruhul, but became known to the rest of the galaxy as the Titans. They'd had almost a full Reaper cycle in which to perfect their technology, and, in the face of destruction, had risen up to challenge the Reapers. . . and left behind many small _projects_ designed to fight the Reapers in the future. They locked the relays to force pockets of the galaxy to develop, in later cycles, on their own, without access to the Citadel and its technological trap. They were the ones who locked, for example, the rachni relay. Relay 314, the human one. The Protheans had been able to pass through by overriding the lock each time, but that key had, with the Protheans, been lost to the galaxy. They were able to gather samples of the genetic code from thresher maws that, with a little assistance from Dara, Madison Dempsey was able to prove a common planet of origin for them. . . and then the "GateCrashers," as the teams became known, found that planet of origin. an entire planet, whose ecology was based around metal and silicon. Volus were silicon-based, too, but in this ecology. . . the 'animals' ate raw ore. Dara was able to capture creatures on the planet that were akin to metalmites (that legendary scourge of the spaceways), which developed into small, hardy, eel-like creatures that formed colonies around caches of metal. And these had genetic structures _highly_ similar to thresher maws. "Proof that thresher maws were engineered, probably from these guys," she told Madison on one of their trips back to Mindoir, pointing at the glass cage in which the eels were being kept. "And then distributed through space as a Reaper deterrent. How _else_ do you imagine that giant freaking worms that have _juuuuust_ enough sentience to recognize _machined metal_ developed a life cycle that has them passing through space as eggs, hatching into metalmites, gorging on metal, competing with each other, one of them finally growing large enough to stake out and defend a territory. . . and then somehow managing to spew eggs back out into space, like a . . . sea anemone spits eggs out into the ocean? The odds of something like the thresher maw evolving naturally. . . staggeringly low. But, y'know. . . no one existed before the Protheans." Dara rolled her eyes. "I'm going to be repeating that one on my deathbed, and laughing."

Melaani went back undercover, looking for a serial killer that Ilium, B-Sec, and Luisa authorities believed to be a human, targeting asari call-girls and dancers. . . . and was thus stuck on Ilium as the asari civil unrest began to boil over there, too. In and around discovering that the serial killer was, in fact, another very old ardat-yakshi, and she and Samiel were forced to hunt this one down. . . . while they were both being hunted by the killer.

Laessia came to the decision, after this incident, that while the Justicar Order had schismed, with fully half of their members following Samara into the Reformed Order, which submitted that as times had changed, the Code needed to be . . . revised. . . in line with new understanding, and the other half, the Orthodox Justicars, holding to a hard line stance that said that the Code was the Code, and could not be changed. . . that while the two sides argued and fought, someone needed to be doing the actual _work_ of the Justicars. Someone whom asari law enforcement agencies could trust as a neutral, outside agency who had jurisdiction throughout asari space, and who had the power and ability to hunt ardat-yakshi who were . . .awakening to their own power. "We can't let them be hunted by society at large," she told Samiel. "We can't let there be panic, and vigilantism. Not _all_ ardat-yakshi are vile creatures, as you've been striving to show the galaxy. But some _are_ predators. And there _must_ be people capable of dealing with them. Why not use a wolf to catch a wolf?"

"Are you proposing that I hunt ardat-yakshi, Mother?"

"Only the ones that require it, Samiel."

And from that simple beginning, Laessia founder her own version of the monastic Order of the Wind. Samiel, who'd already been training Melaani and Sisu in the basic arts, asked if Dempsey, of the human Spectres, could be incorporated into the lessons, if not into the Order. Zhasa, whose _meela'helai_, already boosted by her biotics, hovered on the verge of it, inquired, as well. And because the human and the quarian were. . . not really _mahai_, or short-lived anymore. . . arguably. . . Laessia agreed. With hesitations and provisions. Ylara became a 'Justicar' of this third Order as well. Not one of Samara's 'Reformed,' Justicars, and not an "Orthodox' Justicar. . . but a member of the third schismatic organization. The one that, in time, would come to rival the other two for power, and represented a partial link with the past, but also. . . a new beginning. A terrifying one, one that armed the _mahai_ with abilities previously only known to the strongest and wisest of the Justicars. An Order that didn't reject love as 'entangling,' but embraced it as the highest good, the positive emotion that allowed people to make existence meaningful. An Order that did not reject family as another entanglement (and the previous Order had always substituted itself as the only correct family for its adherents, as with many another cult before or since) but accepted that no individual was truly alone, and made a _strength_ of complexity, nuance, and connectedness.

Shockwaves continued to resonate throughout the galaxy. A group of asari null-biotics formed, and began migrating from planets like Luisa to Astaria and even formed a small colony on Tuchanka, looking for a place where their strength _apart_ from their nonexistent biotics could be respected.

Samuel Jaworski and Kasumi Goto celebrated the birth of their daughter, Shiori, on Mindoir. K'sar, elevated to Spectre, continued to work, non-stop, inside the Allied Batarian Territories as he and Valak tried to put an end to the remnants of the Hegemony. Some of the last remnants of SIU had stolen Reaper technology, last seen on Aequitas, in the Minos Wasteland sector. This technology was capable of raising the dead as husks without a Dragon's Tooth. . . and SIU was working, frantically, it was thought, to replace the slave population on which the Hegemony had relied, with a thrall class of husks, instead. The problem, naturally, would be in ensuring the loyalties of these husks, instead of making mindless killing machines that would turn on any around them, including those who raised them up. And K'sar was, actually, highly afraid that the husking process might be tried on _living_ beings, giving them the mental acuity of a sentient, the resilience of a husk, but without any will of their own.

Attempts were made on Valak N'dor's life, as Hegemony hardliners attacked his convoy on Khar'sharn. An attempt was made on Dara Sidonis' life by hired assassins—a former Lystheni duo who'd hired themselves out to the Tears of the Moon. One Lystheni placed himself in hibernation to make the hit. . . and the other, a controller, sat in his ship a hundred miles away, and puppeted the body of his companion as they set up the attack. Only Eli's ability to see stealthed attackers coming saved Dara's life. . . and the protection of the Praetorians that Kallixta had insisted on putting around her _sangua'amila_ while she was on Bastion.

On Omega, inspired by the success of Spectres James and Mercuria, Pelagia acquired her own mobile platform, and, on the _Sollostra_, one of the two ships involved in the ventures beyond the limits of known space, Cassandra acquired one, as well. On Terra Nova, the drell began to build their subcolony, while the geth and the rachni helped the humans to rebuild New Philadelphia and the other cities.

In other words, life, for the Spectres, went on very much as it had before. Except more so.

In 2199, the Imperator of the Hierarchy, after three years as a widower, shocked forty billion turians by marrying, by the full _tal'mae_ rites required by his station, his body-guard of over twenty years standing, Luscinia Noctagavis, who was not of the old nobility at all. Even more shocking, he let it be known at that point in time that his fifth-daughter, the renowned pilot, Kallixta Velnaran, married to the Defender of the Imperium, Spectre Rinus Velnaran, was actually his and Noctagavis' natural daughter, and that he had legitimized her at her birth, which had coincided with the unfortunate birth, to the previous Imperatrix, of a still-born daughter. Both major political parties were rocked, the more so because the Imperator admitted to it all, with honor and candor, stating that he could not, while the Imperatrix lived, work to alter _tal'mae_ marriages, but that he was glad now that many people besides himself could live happier lives as a result of the court case in 2197. He further noted that he loved all of his children, in spite of the fact that he had never loved their mother, and hoped to be much more involved with the lives of his youngest. . . and with his grandchildren.

The rachni, that year, used the _Light-Singer_ as a test-case. With Lysandra being resident and 'alive,' a transcendent intelligence locked in biotic energy in its crystalline computer core to assist, Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight made the first attempt to use the energy of a ship's engine to supplement his own biotics. He was able to carry the _Light-Singer_ through a controlled white-hole, using coordinates within his own mind, a distance of fifty miles, within a solar system, as documented on video and sensor feeds from a dozen observation ships. In essence, the rachni replicated the event horizon of a mass relay. . . using biotics. . . manipulating space-time solely with the mind of a brood-warrior, backed up by the power of an engine and with the computational support of an NCAI. This test-case, the rachni believed, would allow them to explore the possibility of a fleet of ships unconstrained by either conventional FTL engines and the relay system, either the original _or_ the dark matter relays.

The rachni also began manufacturing rachni silk, which was at first distributed solely on Bastion. However, as the value and utility of the material became apparent, it was adopted in the lingerie, clothing, parachuting, rope-line, and armor industries. This was considered by many to be the rachni's first real effort at 'normalization' with other species. While previously, they had worked with law enforcement on Bastion, and with human and turian militaries on a variety of colony worlds, and Spectre Sings-to-the-Sky had been seen on vid feeds repeatedly over the years as a member of Shepard's core Spectre team, these efforts had only had a moderate effect on 'mainstreaming' the rachni. By providing products that became first, boutique items, then high-demand, and then, ubiquitous, they became, by incremental degrees, slightly more _normal_ to the bipeds who craved these goods.

Dara and Elijah Sidonis, in particular, helped with the normalization of the rachni. Emily Wong's interviews with them, over the years, usually featured a rachni or two in the frame, or, occasionally, featured the pair sitting with their enormous 'daughter' in the family atrium. A few judiciously selected pictures from their wedding, showing just what rachni silk could look like in a high-fashion setting, created a demand that certainly confused the rachni. . . and when Emily Wong interviewed Life-Singer and Joy-Singer, asking them what they planned to do with the millions of credits pouring into rachni coffers, it was _Joy-Singer_ who had the answer. . . and in slightly-less-cryptic-than-usual fashion, stated it, though Dara, who served as her interpreter. "We plan to do many things," Dara explained on-camera, looking up at her daughter. "First, we plan to invite singers of all species to concerts on the Singing Planet, so that we may hear as many songs of all species as possible, and so that as many of our people may hear and remember those songs as possible, as well. Second, Life-Singer has indicated that she would like to learn more about silent-songs. Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight has begun 'painting,' in an attempt to understand silent-songs. We would like to send brood-warriors to the art galleries of the worlds of all different singers, to study the silent songs collected there. We do not need to purchase. Merely to. . . listen. And try to understand. Third, we intend to expand our hives to all of our original planets. We understand that for some of these planets, this will not be possible, such as the asari colony of Eusia that supplanted our own, and started the war. However, many of the worlds that were ours, are unsuitable for other species, other than perhaps geth. If the geth wish to co-exist with us on those worlds, we will sing of it with them through the biotic radios, and come to an acceptable harmony on the matter. Fourth, we plan to purchase colony space on worlds where there are other singers already in existence, if we will be welcomed there. Human and turian worlds—levo ones, at any rate—will be our primary focus for these smaller colonies. We wish to sing with you, and hear your songs. It is difficult to do such things, from isolation. Last, we will put the credits into hiring scientists who can help us sing our research-songs. The point-to-point transit of ships will be a service that we can offer to the entire galaxy, but it will require much time and effort to perfect. We cannot sing this song alone."

Wong had looked. . . stunned. . . at the mere concept. "So, you provide durable, excellent goods, you want to create a system of transportation that might revolutionize how the galaxy does business, conducts travel, explores, and even makes war. . . and what you want in exchange is music, ideas, art, and . . . socialization," she summarized.

"You sing truth-songs," Dara translated, smiling faintly.

"They really _aren't_ human, are they?"

"No, but I am, and I'll point out that while if it's possible for a rachni to do the point-to-point transit, it _might_ be replicable by a machine, I'm not sure if anyone else will be able to do it within the next five hundred years. Maybe the geth." Dara shrugged. "In the meantime, I strongly doubt that the rachni would allow this to alter the face of warfare for _everyone_."

Implicit in that statement was the other half of her meaning: _They'll only allow it to change the face of warfare for people who are their allies._

Disquietude, everywhere. Batarian civilization, in the middle of a bloody civil war, but batarians had always been on the edges of Council space, not really welcome there. Asari civilization, however, had been the glue that had, previously, bound the galaxy together. With their civilization in turmoil, however, even more so now than even after the loss of Thessia, the galaxy turned inwards and relied even more heavily on the human-turian alliance for order and solidarity.

Fors and Chissa Luka decided in 2199 that it was time to start their family. As such, for half a year, Fors carried two eggs with him, wherever he went, inside of his brood-pouch. "Broody" volus males tended to be short-tempered, quick to take offense, and slightly overprotective. As such, after seeing Fors' response to a drell-hanar riot on Bastion, Shepard carefully took him off of active duty and put the male at a desk job for the duration of his eggs' incubation. The stasis hadn't been the issue, really. Threatening to implode _just_ the heads of everyone involved if they didn't stop what they were doing and go home peacefully had probably been a little over the line, however. The more so because Fors had guaranteed that no one would be able to identify the bodies, once he was done with them, short of a DNA scan.

The cause of the altercation. . . and riots. . . which actually spanned at least a week, and was echoed not just on Bastion, but a dozen other planets, was the publication of three highly important books: _The Drell of Rakhana_, written by Seheve Liakos, which included translations of the twelve most important holy books extant on Rakhana, as well as a précis of their history since the Exodus; _The Prothean Dictionary_, co-written by Lilitu Shepard and Seheve Liakos, which contained at least 50,000 commonly used words and a basic grammar for the primary Prothean language, allowing scholars and scientists and philosophers and archaeologists the galaxy over to understand the written words of the Protheans/Enkindlers clearly for the first time; and _The Way it Was, Part One_, co-written by Watches-the-Gates-of-Ruin, geth Consensus, and Laetia Gallian-Citadel.

The NCAI had never entirely given up hope that her now-divorced turian mate might come back to her; she'd never given up his clan-name, or his clan-paint in her avatar. Older, and, perhaps, a little wiser, Laetia had been installed on the Citadel to assist the Keepers in recovering their memories and in integrating to a galactic culture that was, at one and the same time, extremely familiar to them, and a total shock. _The Way it Was_, was a publication planned to be released on a yearly basis, and would document the Keepers' memories, extending back a _million_ years. Twenty Reaper cycles of civilizations that rose and fell from dominance, even _without_ being wiped out by the Reapers. They started with the oldest that they could remember. . . the Titans. . . and worked their way forwards, with perfect detail and clarity, and the gravitas of _having been there_.

This last set off shockwaves in almost _every_ culture. There were subgroups on every planet that insisted that this was all a lie. That the Word of the Enkindlers (the Litany of the Ancestors, the Way of the Waves, the Bible, the Koran, the Rede of the Goddess, whatever) had it correct, and that history that stretched back before whatever the written words seminal to the group's belief structure was just a lie. That it wasn't true, it couldn't possibly be true, that time simply couldn't be that big.

Those groups were in the minority, but even for the majority, there were shocks. Not only were the Protheans _not_ the only ones to have existed before the current cycle, they weren't even the most powerful. The Titans had almost taken out the Reapers. . . and the Keepers had watched their fall without emotion. The lesson of a million years was that _all civilizations change_, _and most will fall._

The question for most people now, was _how do we ensure that all that we build today, won't fall tomorrow?_

There were. . . people working on the problem. But in between working on the meaning of life, the Spectres had other concerns. Serana Pellarian, for example, in 2200, finished her four-year obligation to the Hierarchy, and returned home to a happy and grateful Linianus, who'd seen her leave on dozens of high-risk missions that he knew little about over the past years. Serana was quick to point out that he, in fact, had been doing the same thing. . . but that now she was free to work for Kasumi officially, rather than being 'borrowed' from Hierarchy Intelligence like a cup of _mellis_.

Sam Jaworski celebrated his fiftieth birthday that year, and to mark the occasion, his two _sangua'fradae_, Garrus Vakarian and Lantar Sidonis, took him big-game hunting on Palaven. And by 'big-game,' they meant wild _acrocanth_. And by 'hunting,' they meant 'with spears.' "I don't claim to understand it," Lilitu Shepard told Emily Wong, "but it has to do with using your own wits and skills and abilities against the animal, and it being a fair contest, as opposed to just firing a round from a shoulder-mounted _Malleolus_ rocket at it. I can't speak for Ellie Sidonis or Kasumi Goto, but I, for one, would prefer to be down there, with a spear myself—"

"No," Ellie replied, firmly, looking over the edge of the balcony into the jungle, her rad suit glistening in the Palaven sunrise. "I'll stay right here and worry."

"Where _is_ Ms. Goto, anyway?"

"I haven't seen her in a while. Smart credits say she's in a full stealth rig, high up in a tree. With a gun. Kasumi believes in protecting her investments." Shepard grinned at Emily Wong through the visor of her armor. "Oh, and that wasn't for the record."

"Damn it, Shepard. . . . "

**Earth, August 5, 2200**

Mordin Narayana Sidonis was coming up on her ninth birthday; she'd been hatched, after all, on October 11, 2191. As such, she was an adult salarian, the equivalent of a human eighteen-year-old, while Caelia Sidonis, born a year before she had been, and her 'first-sister,' was now ten. Her first playmate now sat on the seat of the aircar beside her, swinging her legs freely, reading a _Marisia M'soa_ _Mystery_ book. . . #113, apparently, _The Case of the Missing Planet._ "The butler did it," Nara told her young first-sister.

"Shush, Nara. Just because you read these all four years ago doesn't mean _I_ have."

"The butler _always_ does it."

"Nara? Third-sister?"

"Yes?"

"Stoppit."

Narayana smiled down at Caelia, and then looked around the aircar. Lantar and Ellie were in the front seat; Lantar was driving. Emily and Tacitus were seven now, and both intently playing some sort of game on their junior omnitools. Elijah and Dara were with them on this trip. In their mid-twenties now, they'd both been Spectres for four years, and, at the moment, both of them were reading case notes of some sort, although Dara occasionally looked out the window of the aircar and smiled, a rachni worker sitting on her shoulder chittering cheerfully at her. For Elijah, Earth was just another planet. For Dara, Narayana knew, Earth was her childhood home. So many faces, all different—human, turian, hybrid, and even her own salarian face—all wearing violet clan-paint.

There was one more person along with them on this trip—Kirrahe Orlan. He was fourteen now, or more or less the equivalent of a human twenty-eight year old, and had sobered and matured into an exceptional Spectre. He'd also volunteered to head Narayana's security detail while she was off at college. Narayana was both delighted and disquieted by this. On the one hand, Kirrahe had been one of her favorite people for years. On the other hand, he would be taking _four years_ of his life to oversee her protection. He was a _Spectre._ He should be doing much more important things.

This had been a point of argument for two years already. She'd graduated high school at eight, or 'sixteen' by human standards, with the highest grades in her class, by far. Lantar and Ellie had been reluctant to let her go to college so 'young,' and they'd needed time to make 'arrangements' (humans and turians were so _slow_ about some things, and Narayana really didn't want to _imagine_ how long any of this would have taken if an _asari_ family had adopted her). As such, she'd taken the intervening time and done correspondence courses at the University of Mindoir, with an eye towards knocking out as many pre-requisites and core curriculum classes as possible. She had, as a result, already a minor in galactic history, ready to go at any university that would recognize the courses. And her spare time, she'd spent with Dara in the labs. Helped Madison with his thresher maw research for his thesis. Sat in on autopsies with Dara and Dr. Abrams and Dr. Chakwas. "We _do_ come full circle, don't we?" Dara had asked, on more than one occasion.

"We do, indeed," Daniel Abrams had replied. "You and I were Dr. Solus' students. And now. . . "

_And now I'm your student_, Nara had finished, mentally, and continued to look into the chest cavity of the body on the gurney expectantly.

The Technical Institute of Edessan had been assiduous in courting her, but so had Stanford and Caltech. And, as Eli often pointed out, she could eat human food a lot more easily than turian food. After visiting all three campuses last year, Narayana had made her decision: Stanford for pre-med, but she wanted to do extension courses at Caltech, too. At night. And nevermind that Stanford was in San Francisco and Caltech was in Pasadena. She could do her homework from one university on the ride down to the other one.

The interest in programming and hardware was, of course, Yana's fault. The AI virus who was her. . . secret sister, of a sort. . . had constantly poked and prodded Nara into improving her skills in this area, until it had turned into a genuine interest of her own. And last month, Narayana had had a _long_ talk with Lantar, Ellie, Commander Shepard, and Kirrahe Orlan. About her long-ago promise to Yana. "It's been wonderful having her as company," Nara told them all, "but she and I had an agreement. And I intend to honor it. I mean. . . it's not that bad. She's _me_."

"She's you four _years_ ago, with. . . quite a bit of other components mixed in," Shepard had told her, kindly enough. "I don't know if _all_ of the cyber warfare suite, with its Reaper elements, was completely stripped out, for example. And some of the underlying personality was Kirrahe's, as well."

Nara knew that Yana _definitely_ still had her hacking suite. Portions of it that Kirrahe didn't know she still had, certainly. Yana had _reconstructed_ them in the past several years, and had used them, freely, to gain access to information that the adults hadn't thought Nara and she should be privy to. Such as what had really happened to all the Lystheni who'd come to declare their fealty to her as their dalatrass. The ones that the rachni approved, were put to work on her security detail, like Soril Erev, who was in a chase car today, following them. The others were remanded into Council custody. And it really didn't help that two former Lystheni, in the employ of the Tears of the Moon, had tried to kill Dara on Bastion a couple of years ago. Nara still felt guilty every time she thought of that. She had to grow up _faster_. So that she could talk to all of these people directly, and tell them that attacking her family was the same thing as attacking her, and couldn't they see that if she was their leader, this was a _bad thing_?

But no one was going to take her _seriously_ until she had a couple of degrees. Some publications. And, as Yana had whispered from her omnitool, _"The ability to knock some heads together if necessary."_

"Our father always said not to use the command-imperative voice. That it was better to reason and argue with people, and persuade them to your point of view."

"_Mordin Solus also routinely shot people who shot at him. He considered a bullet an acceptable form of rhetoric in these situations. Or so history suggests."_ Yana had tossed her holographic head from side to side.

And so, even though everyone—including Kirrahe Orlan, who had told her, tightly holding her hand in the deep cavern where the upload device was kept, "Don't need to do this. Will change you. Possibly irrevocably. Person you are now. . . very kind. Generous. Decent. A good person. Do not wish for my actions in creating Yana, to damage you." He'd up-blinked repeatedly in his distress.

"Kirrahe," Narayana had told him, quietly, squeezing his hand back, "a long time ago, I told you that you were to follow my orders. Are you still subject to that?"

Kirrahe blinked, and replied, cautiously, "You have never rescinded that order, and Shepard has never contradicted it. Could possibly resist—"

"Don't. All I'm telling you to do. . . is to trust me. Trust my judgment. Please."

Kirrahe had acquiesced, at last. And when Yana had been uploaded into the Sower device, and then back downloaded into Narayana, Nara had no _idea_ why anyone had ever been concerned. "I don't even feel any different," she'd announced, sitting up on the gurney, and smiling at Dara, who was monitoring her EEG and heart rate. "I still seem to be me."

Of course, the next day, she'd accepted the second letter from Caltech as well as the one from Stanford, which had necessitated a lot of financial wrangling between the schools. Again, she really didn't see what the difficulty was. Pre-med at one and bio-engineering and bio-artificing at the other, with a little computer science thrown in for flavor was _perfectly_ reasonable, if you only slept an hour a day.

The next day passed in a _blur_. She was moved into a dorm-room and puzzled her new roommate, a nice human girl from Sweden, by the fact that the iron bedstead on her side of the room had been removed, and replaced with an inflatable kiddy wading pool. Also, because her family, knowing her schedule would not suit other humans, had bought her a series of thick, dark folding screens to divide the room at night, so that Narayana could stay up working, while the human slept. "Don't worry," Nara told Lise Torveig cheerfully. "My family is human and turian. I'm used to being quiet during their sleep cycle. I'll try not to type too loudly as I work on my reports."

The blond girl stared at Narayana. "Ahhh. . . .all right. What . . . what do you eat?"

"All sorts of things. Coffee's bad for salarians. So is lactose. But Ellie—that's my adopted mother—made me a care package of cookies. Want one?"

"Sure!"

Lise, however, on seeing the freeze-dried grasshoppers on top, suddenly reconsidered.

And as Narayana started closing down the cookie tin, Kirrahe walked into the room. "All right, Nara, we've got a perimeter established. Soril Erev or I will drive you to your classes at Caltech on required days. One of us—or one of the human agents assigned by SATBIA—will walk you to all classes here on campus. To the library. To the cafeteria. You have your panic button?"

"Yes, of course I do, Kirrahe." Nara smiled down at him, and put a hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to worry so much. Earth isn't Omega." She wasn't really sure when she'd gotten taller than he was, but she had. By about an inch. She was now just average height for a salarian female, 5'4", but females were larger than males. And while she still held him in the deepest affection and. . . a tremendous amount of respect. . . even more so, in fact, since she'd taken Yana into her mind. . . he really was fussing _inordinately_ about the entire situation.

"No. Earth is Earth. Own set of problems. Pushing panic button will alert your security detail as well as Mobile Platform CROWD-402 , and we will begin retrieval procedures."

"Kirrahe! You did not bring a geth CROWD platform to Earth for my security—"

"Yes. Most certainly did. My job, _my_ judgment."

"My entire family agreed that I could have a normal college experience—"

"Normal college experience for salarians involves education on Sur'Kesh or Mannovai. Neither are acceptable alternatives for you. 'Normal college experience' for humans probably deleterious and irrelevant for a salarian. Beer a noted toxin. Recommend sticking with diet, de-caffeinated sodas as well." Kirrahe studied her for a moment. "College experience already abnormal. Recommend you stop complaining. . . dalatrass."

Narayana folded her arms across her chest, and tried to find _something_ amiss with his logic. And failed, completely.

The human in the room had been swinging her head back and forth as the comments proceeded past her head at rapid speed. "Ah. . . " Lise hesitated. "Exactly what do you do for _fun_, Narayana_?_"

"Ohh, I have such plans for all the places I want to see here on Earth, that I've read so much about. I want to go to the large particle collider, I want to see the Los Alamos labs, I want to see the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum, I'm told there's a preserved leper colony in Hawai'i—"

Kirrahe, for some reason, had started to smile, his eyelids crinkling upwards. "Perhaps internship with city medical examiner?" he suggested. "Observe autopsies?"

"I can do that at home, Kirrahe. I _have_ done that at home. I've weighed enough spleens to know how to do it properly. No, no, this is time for something different. Yes. Did you know that Caltech has a hacking and decryption contest every year? Do you think they'll let me enter that as a freshman?"

Lise had, for some reason, turned away to gag slightly at the comments on autopsies. Now, Kirrahe squinted at the human. "Ah. So. Roommate. Congratulations. You passed background checks with flying colors. Although there was the matter of that equestrian competition when you were thirteen—"

Lise's blue eyes had gone _very_ wide at this point. "What," she asked, in her lightly accented, charming English, "precisely. . . is going on?"

"I'm so sorry," Narayana apologized. "Lise, this is Spectre Kirrahe Orlan. He is the head of my security detail, and I think this is a monumental waste of his time. Kirrahe, this is Lise. . . well, you've already read my roommate's dossier, I assume, so it's like you know her already!" Narayana beamed.

For some mysterious reason, Lise requested a change of roommate about two days later. As a result, Narayana had the room _entirely_ to herself for the rest of the first semester.

Every day, she traveled south to Pasadena for night classes at Caltech, batting out her homework for her Stanford classes as Kirrahe or Soril Erev drove. Generally speaking, a large white box-truck followed them to and from campus. She _did_ notice that the route varied from day to day. Randomized elements were introduced. The vehicle they used often was different. "You really think I'm in this much danger?" she finally asked, after her midterms.

"Multiple kidnapping threats made against you so far this semester alone," Kirrahe told her, checking her room before she settled in for another four hours of reading, and before she'd sleep for an hour in her pool. "Yes. Take them all seriously. But that is my job. Your job. . . is learning. Becoming."

Her lips tugged down. "By my age, you were already working for STG," she said, sadly.

"Yes. STG believes in learning on the job. Internships extremely strenuous."

"My family held me back for _two years_ because they didn't think I was ready. Instead, they've handicapped me."

"No. You used the time at the base wisely. Handled prerequisites. Maintained study habits. Acquired a wider base of learning than, perhaps, if you had begun studies immediately here. Also, important to ensure that you were developmentally ready to be here. Humans very different."

Narayana was all too aware of that. Caelia, her _older_ sister was ten, and, while precocious, still only in the fifth grade. Amara, who'd been her _best friend_ just a few years ago, was thirteen now, and still mooning after Madison Dempsey, who clearly still found the whole thing a little embarrassing—sweet, maybe, and Madison was such an intrinsically _nice_ person that he'd never really crushed Amara.—but the human male, eight years Narayana's senior, was only just _now_ preparing to go to the Academy here on Earth at the start of the _next_ school year. "It seems terribly unfair that we alone, of all species in Council space, live at the speed at which we do," she finally muttered.

"That is the core of Lystheni obsession with prolonging life, or averting death," Kirrahe told her, calmly.

Narayana swung a hand irritably. "That's not what I meant. I mean . . . they live so _slowly_. They never catch up. In ten years, when I'm nineteen. . . I'll be the equivalent of a human of thirty-eight. In that same ten years, Dara will be thirty-four. I will have _passed_ her." And Dara had been there to see her _hatch_. "She and I will be. . . colleagues, then?"

Kirrahe put a hand, suddenly, and unexpectedly, on her shoulder. "See? Already having normal college experience. Intimations of mortality. Perhaps later, will read bad poetry by depressed human authors who placed heads in gas cooking devices." He considered her for a moment. "Perhaps start dressing in all black."

"Spirits, why would I want to do _that_? God, Kirrahe, that's. . . that's just _silly._ Black doesn't even match my clan-paint."

For some reason, Kirrahe _laughed_ at that.

Winter break arrived, and she headed home to Mindoir, noticing the _relief _in her bodyguards as she did so. The winter holidays of the human calendar, on Mindoir actually tallied with high summer, which was a distinct and happy break from the damp cold of San Francisco in midwinter; Narayana had been going around Stanford bundled to the nose in heavy sweaters, and peeling layers on the trip down to Pasadena.

She hadn't realized how _much_ she'd missed Mindoir until she was back home. Oh, her classmates at both schools were generally smart people, and wanted to excel, but the environment on base was simply a world of its own. A microcosm of the galaxy, filled with the best of the best. Dizzily, Narayana wandered from lab to lab, renewing acquaintanceships with people who'd seen her since she'd been running around with ribbons dangling from her aural horns. She _thought_ she might be able to figure out a way to wear earrings now, instead, but she wanted to make sure that piercing them wouldn't cause any unnecessary damage.

Rapid-fire conversations with Dara over the holiday table, watching Eli's face flicker with amusement as the two of them talked about Narayana's biochemistry courses, the occasional by her first-brother on the chemistry side, the gentle nudging from Ellie Sidonis about how this consideration applied to habitat design.

On the one hand, almost nothing at home had changed. And that was comforting and infuriating at the same time. It was comforting that there was stability, and it was maddening that they were all so slow. She herself was changing, after all. She was compressing two years worth of coursework into one, covering two separate degree programs—all that work on getting the prerequisites out of the way by correspondence really had been a good idea, it seemed. But they all still treated her as if only. . . months. . . had passed.

Which was true, but it felt like longer.

The room she shared with Caelia felt confining and small, but the _world_ was bigger here. The conversations she caught little pieces of, everywhere. The fact that new bases were being built on Tosal Nym and Aphras. That STG had offered the drell of the galaxy a formal apology for not having investigated the condition of their homeworld more thoroughly. That Urdnot Mazz was now building a hospital on Tuchanka, the first new one in close to two thousand years. Oh, how Narayana wanted to see it. _Father would have wanted to see it, too. It probably won't be named for him, but it's part of his legacy._

And on the other hand, absolutely everything was preparing to change at home. Kallixta and Rinus, for example, were expecting their first child, and Kallixta was sleepy-irritable all the time at the moment, but smiled when Dara let Narayana into the exam room to listen to the fleeting-fast heartbeat of the child she was carrying. "I wonder what color the eyes are going to be? Imperial violet, like mine and my father's? Garnet, like my . . . mother's? Blue, like Rinus?"

"Blue, gray, and violet are recessive in turians, red and amber are more common. But violet is a result of an additional mutation along the CNO cluster of genes, isn't it?" Narayana had asked, and gotten a grin from Dara as a result.

Madison Dempsey had grown even further since Narayana had last seen him, and now was easily as tall as his father, James Dempsey. . . and the two of them looked like _brothers_. Same sandy hair, currently both cut the same way—shaved down with a razor to just above the skin—same ice-blue eyes. Madison hadn't put on the muscle weight of his father yet, but he was extremely likely to bulk out in his first year at the Academy. He'd graduated at sixteen—almost at the same time Narayana had—and had been doing much the same thing as Nara had since. Taking correspondence courses, practicing his biotics with Ylara and Dempsey and Zhasa and Sky, and working. Base security, actually, which had made him even more serious a person than he'd been, before. The entirety of Nara's vacation, she'd heard Amara teasing the older boy, "You _could_ just go to turian boot-camp, you know. Get your four years required service done faster!"

"Turian service is pretty crap on their biotics. You probably need to think about that, yourself, Amara," Madison had told her, with his usual good nature. "I go into the turian military, I'll be expected to do everything _just_ like a regular soldier, up until the moment they siphon me off into an all-biotic cadre. The way I hear it, they just don't really trust biotics. Alliance might not be _great_, but we're better than that. Biotics don't get segregated to little 'cabals' in the Alliance. We're put in the field, with everyone else, and everyone works for the good of the whole unit. Seems to me that turians should do exactly that."

Everything was changing, and nothing was changing.

And then Narayana turned around and . . . went back to Earth. Where she was, to her astonishment, homesick. She hadn't been homesick at _all_ the first semester. Too much to do. And now that she had it, the homesickness lasted a good deal longer than she'd thought it would. Almost a month, an unheard-of amount of time for a salarian, who usually processed things more easily. And then the challenge of the coursework load finally kicked in, and she simply lost herself in the work. This time, she had a roommate who _wasn't_ scared off by the security detail; Yekaterina Nemetsky was the daughter of the new President of the Systems Alliance, Vassili Nemetsky, and, as such, she had a full security detail of her own. The two females actually got along tolerably well, although Yekaterina did have a romantic life that was apparently driving her Secret Service guards absolutely crazy. As it was, Narayana found more reasons to be in the labs until very late every evening.

Her very full course load over summer, too, was interrupted briefly when Madison, Dempsey, and Zhasa came to visit her, on their way to dropping Madison off at the Bethesda branch of the Systems Alliance Naval Academy, where he'd be starting as a plebe in August. "Uniforms and school," Madison told her, shrugging. "It's like I'm back at Phillips-Exeter again, except this time, it's sort of, kind of, by choice. Four years of this, then four years of service, and then I can either stay in the Alliance military, or go into private contracting work. I'd say 'go be an engineer' or something, but with my level of biotics, I'm probably going to be staying in military or security work of some type."

Nara did her best not to look appalled at the thought of _eight years_ so cavalierly dismissed—why, when Madison was finally done with his required service, he'd be twenty-six, and Nara herself would be close to eighteen, and that was almost middle-aged! She shook her head, and resolved to write a letter of consolation to Amara. Amara was the one getting left behind by everyone, it seemed. First Nara, now Madison, and it was only a matter of time before others, too, left the hybrid girl behind. "You're excited to be back on Earth?" she finally asked.

"Sort of. It'll be nice to see Boston again. I've wanted to see how it recovered from the plagues. Won't be seeing my mom's husband while we're there, though." The light blue eyes glittered for a moment, and then Madison peeked at the stack of datapads on Narayana's desk. "You're doing coursework on designing and programming nanobots this semester? Isn't that . . . really advanced stuff?"

"No, that's just one of my professor's dissertations. I thought I'd read it so I'd be able to talk to her about it tomorrow in between classes."

Madison shook his head and laughed. "Well, in some ways, you haven't changed, Nara. It's good to see."

Narayana blinked. "In what ways _have_ I changed?" She paused, and then chattered, brightly, "I mean, it's nice to know that someone sees that I _have_. I went back home for the holidays and everyone acted as if I were still four."

Madison snorted. "I think that's normal when you come home, at least until people adjust to the new reality. But, yeah, you have changed. You're a little more focused. A little more driven, I guess. Amara used to keep you laughing. Used to nag you into coming out with the rest of us for a trip to Gardner's, or Caelia and the little ones would pester you until you played with them. I know you're doing what you want to be doing," the human male told her, cheerfully, "but don't forget how to have fun, either."

"I _am_ having fun!" Narayana protested. "Also, I'm trying to make up for lost time here!"

Madison snorted. "I know. I know. Just. . . eh. Take care of yourself, okay?"

And then they were gone again. Her roommate, however, had heard the whole conversation from behind the dividers. "Your friend is right," Yekaterina told Narayana, moving one of the screens back. "Since I come here? I never see you, except nose in book. Nose pressed to computer screen. Come. You go out with me and my boyfriend tonight. Go to theater."

"I can't. I have too much to do—"

"I have read about your father. The great Mordin Solus. His biography says that he enjoyed works of Gilbert and Sullivan, yes? Tonight is _Pirates of Penzance_ at university theater. We go. I have decided." Yekatarina stared at Narayana, and Narayana, blinking rapidly, reassessed. _I did say I wanted a full college experience. . . _

And so they went. Two humans and a salarian female, trailed by all of their security details. And for the first time, Narayana actually spoke to her roommate about more than the necessary details of sharing a room and the interactions of their security personnel. Narayana found herself mentioning how _slowly_ humans seemed to live, and how much it really distressed her to leave behind so many people that she knew and loved.

"That is homesickness talking. If you love them, and they are still alive, then they are not gone. It is you who have changed, but they still _remain_." Yekaterina and her boyfriend, a tall male from some other Slavic country, had insisted on going to a bar after the performance, and Narayana was absolutely astounded by the _plethora_ of different types of humans that she had never seen before. This being San Francisco in 2201, between the firefly gene mods, the tattoos, the piercings, the mass effect fields holding people hovering above the floor, the clothing that ranged from nearly-naked to near-black-tie formality. . . the lights, the sound of the throbbing, pre-recorded music. . . it was _dizzying_. And, as such, Yekaterina was having to yell over the music and the crowd noise, and Narayana, glancing back over her shoulder, could see that Kirrahe was currently closer to her side than she ever saw him on campus; he usually stayed a discreet twenty feet away, for her privacy. Currently, he was on the bar stool next to hers, back to the bartender. Watching the room, while other guards were moving around, or stationed at the exits. "You think that humans live slowly," Yekaterina bawled over the music. "Should go live with asari for some time. Maybe elcor. Then humans will seem much faster, yes?"

That actually made Narayana laugh, and she remembered that, years ago, she'd _wanted_ to go to the University of Ilium. And that Dara had suggested a semester's exchange program. So, over a glass of something considered nontoxic to salarians, which smelled medicinal, but tasted not entirely bad to her. . . something called, in fact, jaegermeister. . . she wound up talking to Yekaterina about that long-ago dream, and formulating a decision. Her roommate was _right_. She was so busy trying to catch up to herself, that she was missing life all around her. And since Ilium had been one of her dreams, and teaching herself to live at a slower pace might be useful. . . why shouldn't she try for it?

This occasioned the first argument Narayana had ever had with Kirrahe. "Insanity," he said, sharply, back in the dorm room, pacing, expostulating rapidly, "Civil unrest currently rampant in asari space. Issue of Astaria entering Systems Alliance has been resolved, but demonstrations almost a daily event in Nos Astra, both for and against SRY-rights. Justicars have schismed. Open _fighting_ in their primary chapterhouse on Luisa just last week, as Samara's Reformed Justicars entered building to remove artifacts and documents that the Orthodox Justicars said they could not claim."

"I'm salarian, not asari or human, Kirrahe. They aren't going to attack me—"

"You are Mordin Narayana _Sidonis_." Kirrahe's voice was suddenly very firm. "You wear your adopted father's clan-paint. Your oldest brother is married to Dr. Dara Jaworski, whose research is at the heart of the entire SRY issue. If you thought your security measures were overly severe here on Earth, you will be virtually imprisoned on Ilium."

"I already go everywhere with an escort. I only leave this room to go to the library, to class, the labs, or to classes at Caltech."

Kirrahe threw both hands up in the air in a gesture of unexpected exasperation. "Before today, you never _asked_ to go anywhere else! Would have made arrangements. Perhaps asked you to choose different venues for your entertainment, yes, but would have accommodated your requests!"

Narayana's mouth clicked shut. "I didn't. . . want. . . to be. . . a bother," she finally said, after a moment. "Very aware that you are . . . babysitting me. I did not wish to waste your time."

Kirrahe actually closed his eyes for a moment. "Not _babysitting_," he finally said, shortly. "Guarding. Different. You do not ask us to amuse you, or bring you warm water in your pool at night, or anything of the kind. Important. Your safety is paramount. Would disappoint the memory of Mordin Solus. Would betray your entire family. And could not live with myself if anything happened to you. Please understand this. Ilium is. . . substantially a bad idea."

"So this would be you asking me to consider a different venue?" she finally asked, after a moment.

"Yes. For your safety. Also for safety of your security detail."

Narayana thought about it. Some reflexes wanted to defy him. Tell him it wasn't his business, that it was her life, and that he wasn't her father. Yana's thought processes, usually as transparent as glass, as dissolved in her as salt in the sea, did speak up then. _No. He's not. He's part of us. And you can see his point, can't you?_

Absolutely, yes, she could. So after a moment, she asked, quietly, "Isn't this something we should probably discuss with my family, too?"

"Yes. Certainly. Lantar and Ellie may have different opinions. Whatever decision is, will _work_ with it." Kirrahe looked at her steadily. "Decision at the moment seems to have been abrupt. Dubious about the methodology and thought processes behind it. Seems like whim. Spur of the moment."

Nara put a hand, tentatively, on his shoulder. "It's not. I promise you, it's not. Yekaterina just _reminded_ me of some goals I had had years ago, that I'd let slip by the wayside. And one of those goals was to experience as many different cultures as I could." She frowned. "Speaking of which. . . ?"

Kirrahe squinted at her, dubiously. "Yes?"

"Would you suggest a change of venue if I asked if it would be possible to visit the Los Alamos laboratories this weekend? It's on that list I made of places I wished to see on Earth. Oh, and so is the Cosmodrome in Baikonour. That one might require a little more travel time, though. Kazakhstan _is_ on the other side of the planet, after all."

Kirrahe's eyelids crinkled up. "This, I can arrange."

The negotiations took long enough that Narayana had actually finished the applications and been _accepted_ into the semester-long exchange program at both the University of Ilium as well as the University of Luisa before her various guardians and guards and family members got done _arguing._ "You're really sure about this?" Ellie asked her, over the comm channel. Her human adopted mother's eyes were _worried_, and her hands worked, rapidly, as she sat in front of the comm screen back on Mindoir.

"Yes."

"Why exactly is this so important to you?" Lantar asked, dryly.

"Because there are many things that education is meant to do," Narayana said, slowly. "Certainly, to give us information. But anyone can memorize facts, figures, theorems, and equations. Education is meant to do more. It's meant to teach us how to learn, for ourselves. How to ask questions. How to find the answers. How to take existing information and derive new meaning from it. And, in a larger sense, it's meant to allow us to broaden ourselves. Expand our minds through new experiences. I have always either lived at home, or. . . well, _here_. I almost forgot to look around while I _was_ here. . . and I will definitely be back on Earth in a semester, and I'll be sure to learn and do and see as much as I can while here. But now, it would be nice to see an asari world, and experience asari culture." She paused. "I don't want to look back in five years and regret not having taken the opportunity."

Lantar looked over at Ellie. "I'll give her this. She's learned how to shape a substantive argument, hasn't she?"

And with that, she secured their agreement, but could _not_ get Kirrahe to agree to Ilium. So she settled for Luisa, the current capital of asari space with fairly good grace, and they set out for that distant, cool world in the heart of Sisterhood space. And promptly was absolutely _staggered_ by how slow the pace there was. Dara, Eli, Melaani, and the others had not be even remotely joking about this. Nor about the fact that many of the classes seemed to involve mental contact for teaching purposes. Which, for Narayana, was uncomfortable, and mostly unidirectional, at best. "Study groups" seemed to involve a lot of touching, which, given that she was salarian by birth and raised by a human-turian pair, simply made her. . . deeply uncomfortable. There was nothing really sexual about it, but there was. . . a great deal of sensuality, which bothered her, no matter how open she tried to be to a different culture. After her third such study group, Kirrahe finally asked her, "Do you wish to return after this?"

"Not really, but part of the _purpose_ in coming here was to learn a different culture. And they are likely to be deeply offended if I do not return to . . . study. . . with them." Her voice was glum as she sat in the back of the car, brooding. "None of the asari on M. . . back home. . . are like the students here." It did not help that none of the asari students and only a handful of the teachers had ever seen a salarian female before. Narayana had gone from being something of a social outcast on Earth ('she's not really like us,') to something of a minor campus celebrity, ('Hey! She's not like us!") overnight. And while, at first, she'd rather enjoyed the company that this brought her, the demands of studying with the asari were just. . . too much.

"Perhaps they need to understand that other species study in a different fashion than they do," Kirrahe said, from the front of the aircar, and adjusted the HUD and mirrors. She watched him. He probably thought he was being quite subtle, but she'd learned to read his cues. He thought they were being followed.

Out loud, all she said, as she dropped further into the seat, exposing less of her head that way, was, "If I do not study with the asari, there are exceedingly few other study partners here. Perhaps three, four turians in the entire university. About a thousand salarians, out of twenty thousand registered students. . . all of them male. I will also be noted as being. . . unsociable."

"That was not a concern for you on Earth."

"Perhaps it should have been, at least, in part?" She paused, and sank a little lower. "Besides, a lot of them are. . . upset. I think they're sort of embracing their own culture because they think it's under threat. So they're. . . going a little to an extreme." She paused. "The two in the back corner tonight, however, were, I think, motivated by nothing other than mutual attraction."

The aircar skidded around an intersection between two buildings, and Kirrahe watched the HUD carefully. "Are they gone?" Narayana asked, after a moment.

"Uncertain. Typically, tailing is done with two cars. Optimally, three. So that the pursued has less opportunity to notice a pattern." He took several more turns, and, with his characteristic ability to multitask, noted, calmly, "If not comfortable, establish boundaries. Suggest that you would prefer to study as you are accustomed to studying, but that this should not hinder them from using the methods that they prefer. Suggest that through synergy comes strength. Combine methods."

She sighed. "I'll try, but I'm not sure it'll work." She sat up in the seat now. "Perhaps I should try to cultivate the acquaintance of the male salarian students?"

Kirrahe actually turned his head towards her for that. "Do not recommend, but it is a potential avenue. Only in public places. At least two bodyguards in sight at all times."

"Is it _really_ that dangerous?"

"If we were being followed tonight, was either by asari, who would wish to take revenge on Sidonis family and Spectres by killing you, or by salarians, who would wish to take you to Sur'Kesh, where the dalatrass of clan Mordin has offered a bounty of two hundred thousand credits to anyone who 'returns the kidnapped and brainwashed' child of one of her most famous, but least biddable uncles."

"Two hundred thou. . . . wait. Kidnapped? Brainwashed?"

"Makes kidnapping you seem like a public service, and not like a crime." Kirrahe eased their aircar into a spot, and got out of the car, clearing the area before opening the door for her. "Inside. Quickly."

Gradually, however, she found a comfortable equilibrium with a handful of asari who were, while young, serious students, and neither xenophobes, nor cultural conservatives. Who were willing to keep the physical contact to a minimum, and while disappointed that she wasn't amenable to being. . . sampled. . . respected her differences enough to let friendship work. And she did find it amusing and interesting, when a couple of male salarians were introduced to the study group, to watch their reactions to the various asari leaning into each other, eyes dark as they drank in each others' thoughts, or lightly ran their hands down one another's scalps and backs. That light level of touching even transferred to the salarian males, who. . . didn't quite seem to know what to do with it. Narayana began to have _questions,_ right around then. Salarian males were conditioned to _obey_ females. Part, the command-imperative voice, and thus, physiological. Part, the rarity of female salarians, and their place in society. It took a male fertilizing a female's eggs to make an egg female. Unfertilized eggs were merely male-variant clones of the dalatrass' own DNA. This was known. This was. . . long established.

Many of her father's letters began to resound in her head, the ones she'd read after he'd died, and after Lantar and Elli had given the files to her. Mordin Solus had talked, frequently, about the power and authority of dalatrasses in salarian society. How it was a carefully established and maintained social construct. Dalatrasses rigidly controlled—with the all-important family breeding records—which males were permitted to spawn daughters. Pass along DNA. The number of daughters was rigidly controlled, as well, to ensure that power did not have to be shared with too many females. Too many females, and power over breeding would be lost. A good deal of this went back to the pre-spaceflight era, naturally, when control over the population had been required, to prevent resource depletion. Fewer females meant fewer breedings, fewer breedings meant a smaller population, in theory. A female salarian _could_ stimulate herself and, during her particular breeding cycle, could lay eggs . . . but they'd remain male. This ensured, really, that so long as even _one_ female lived, the salarian species wouldn't go extinct.

It was an essentially conservative evolutionary pattern. And it was, in a sense, the exact inverse of the asari evolutionary pattern. It took an asari 'male' (of whatever variant or type) or 'male-carrier' to produce a male off-spring. For salarians, it took a male to make female offspring. And while the asari had been trying, for a variety of reasons, mostly to do with the _associated_ genes, to control the breeding of males and carriers of male genes, for millennia, salarian females had been self-limiting their own numbers. . . in the modern era of plentiful resources. . . mostly to retain their own power.

With all that in mind, Narayana watched the interactions between the asari females and salarian males. The males were conditioned to obey female authority, so they didn't/couldn't pull away from the asari's touch. . . but they looked uneasy. Also, flustered. As if they were enjoying the physical contact, a rarity among salarians of any gender or class. Which made Narayana wonder other things. Yana had dissolved into her mind, almost completely, but she _knew_ things that Narayana herself didn't know. Yana's playground. . . had been the entire extranet, after all. _Salarians enter into __marai'ha'sai__living arrangements with asari on_ _ a regular basis. Salarian males have been known to watch and participate in asari pornography_. Images flashed behind her eyelids, making Nara all that more uncomfortable. Yana hadn't been all that interested; this was a catalog of what the AI had seen. . . but Narayana didn't know what to _do_ with these images, called up out of deep storage, as it were. _If salarian males, as is considered the norm, experience no pleasure in the act of mating, in the act of releasing semen into a pool to fertilize eggs, then why would they consume and participate in pornography? The standard explanation is that asari biotics create stimulation for them, and they enjoy this aspect of the situation. The __marai'ha'sai__ living arrangements. . . company. Friendship. __Caritas__, disinterested love, as opposed to __amatory__ affection. And yet. . . _

She delved into the topic of socialization, social expectations and beliefs. How those affected psychology, and how psychology even affected, to a certain extent, physiology, in some species. Of particular interest to her, when she found it, was the believe in human Western society, particularly prevalent in the nineteenth century, that were higher-class and lower-class females, and that higher-class females—ladies, in short—were incapable of feeling sexual desire. That male desires were an affront to them, and that only low-class females were capable of feeling this, and thus, only low-class females were capable of orgasm. Narayana stared at the screen for a moment after reading that one, feeling vaguely. . . ill. _That kind of distinction would only make sense if the entire species had somehow, fundamentally __diverged_ _into two separate species, where interbreeding was becoming increasingly difficult. However, this kind of thinking seems to partially predate the acceptance of the theory of evolution. Perhaps that explains it. . . . but it still doesn't make sense. Almost every species experiences 'reward' sensations for doing needful or important things. Every species experiences pleasure in eating foods that are high calorie, nutrient-rich items. That's a reward, a signal to the brain that this is a good behavior, repeat this. Almost every species has a similar reward-for-behavior in terms of sexuality. But not salarians. _

_Except. . . do we? Or are males and females socially conditioned not to feel anything, because there is so little contact between the genders, to maintain the social power and the status quo? How much is physiological lack of feeling, and how much is conditioned behavior and social expectation?_

It was an intriguing line of thought, but she put it to the side for the moment. There were so many other courses to deal with this semester, trying to cram the Luisa courses into daylight hours, and still keep up with her Caltech courses, by corresponding with her professors and classmates at night.

Three months into the semester, however, Narayana received a shock at yet another study group, as Kirrahe and Soril Erev both burst into the room, Kirrahe with his pistol draw, and Soril Erev. . . had the Lystheni flamethrowers embedded into his actual arms deployed and ready for use. "Out, back door, now," Kirrahe told her, rapidly, securing the door behind him. "The rest of you should return to your dorm rooms. Narayana, _move_."

Narayana moved, but lackadaisically at first. She'd been through the attack drills so often, it didn't even occur to her that this one could be real. . . until Kirrahe's hand caught her wrist, tightly, and he yanked her out through the back door of the large student dorm, Erev guarding their rear. . . and bundled her into their aircar, before taking off at a breakneck pace, heading not back to her own rooms, but to a safe house they'd secured in downtown Dia'teilu. "What's going on?" Nara asked, from where she crouched on the floor of the backseat, keeping down.

"Kidnapping attempt on Kaius, Amara, Caelia. On Macedyn. We don't have details. Stay down."

Narayana stayed down, her thoughts churning. They were her _friends_, and they were in danger, thousands of light years away, and she couldn't help at _all._ After a moment, the shock wore off. "You think because they're in danger, I will be, too?"

"Possibility exists. Protocol states, in case of this event, get all protectees to safety, immediately. Doing so."

The next twenty-four hours were agonizing. No information. No data at all, besides that it had been a school-arranged field trip, and this time the attackers weren't human extremists, but a turian group obsessed with species purity. "Think they'd go after anyone in the Sidonis or Vakarian family," Kirrahe assessed, grimly. "_Anyone_. Even you, Narayana."

"You know . . . I think it would be better to be involved, at least somewhat, in my own protection," she told him, thoughtfully. "I think I would like to become proficient in handgun use. Also, shock gun, for neural stasis. Not today, obviously. I'm not even sure if Luisa _has_ private handgun ranges. But when we go back to Earth."

"Luisa has ranges for law enforcement personnel. Not much used. Most asari police prefer use of biotics. However, am a Spectre. Can make arrangements." Kirrahe was glued to the news feeds and to the comm panel, as was Narayana. Watching, helplessly, as the turian extremists were found. Cornered. As they sent out their demands, stating that if they saw even one rachni, the half-breeds would die. Wanting newsfeed time to make their statement, that the alliance with the humans made turians _weak_. That interbreeding defanged the offspring, turned them into something less than the pure predator that a turian was meant to be. Watching as the Spectres and law enforcement personnel of Macedyn, all of their faces hidden behind polarized masks, surrounded the place. Her older brother, Elijah, was usually the negotiator in situations like these, but he was, for obvious reasons, being held back from this. Livanus, that tough old Spectre and former CID agent, was handling all communications with the kidnappers. A different sort of standoff, than . . . the night at the cave, eleven years ago, as the news media brought up the old clips Emily Wong had managed to take that night, so long before Narayana herself hatched.

The captors were, in spite of Livanus' best efforts, escalating and not de-escalating, as their demands continued not to be met. Urgent conferences between armored figures. Little glimpses of . . . body language, really. Shepard and Garrus on scene, but not communicating with their adjutants. Lantar, too. Sam was working with Livanus, however, but not Eli. Dara, however, was. Still a relative. . . but no one really understood how far rachni could _be_ from a target area, and still be effective, in many ways. "Can't they have Dances just pop in there?" Narayana whispered, eight hours into the standoff.

"Dances is one of the team members out beyond the locked relays. Retrieving him is not a simple matter, and it could be weeks before he returns," Kirrahe reminded her.

"_This is your last chance. Give in to our demands, or the hostages start dying. We'll start with the youngest and work our way up."_

There was a pause.

_Crack. Crack-crack-crack_.

"Shots! We have shots fired, inside the building!"

"All in, all in, all in!"

Mass chaos. Narayana put her hands over her eyes for a few moments, and, much to her surprise, Kirrahe, very tentatively, patted her shoulders. It wasn't quite the hug she wanted right now—Ellie had conditioned her to hugs, over the years—but it was at least contact, and that helped. At least a little.

The assault team declared the building clear. Dara Sidonis and Daniel Abrams moved in, at a jog, with their medical kits in hand. Silence, except for the reporters' occasional comments, the absolute breathlessness of the crowd outside showing more emotion from the turians than outsiders could have understood.

And then they watched as Amara. . . Caelia. . . and then, yes, Kaius. . . were escorted out. Kaius was on a stretcher, one arm wrapped and in a sling, but Dara had her _gloves off_, and was holding his free hand in hers. "She breaking fluid protocols," Nara said, immediately. "What's _going on_?" She called Lantar and Ellie directly then, not having wanted to disturb them while Caelia was still in danger. Caelia was _babbling_ when they put her on the line to talk to her beloved salarian step-sister. "They were going to kill me. They had the gun right there. They had Amara all doped up on something, too, so she couldn't even focus her mind. . . and then Kaius just grabbed the one with the gun and threw him into the wall. I don't think I've ever see Kaius so angry. The others turned on him and shot at him, but the bullets didn't _hit_ him. I think he had a barrier or something up. . . I didn't think he could do that. All those stupid practice lessons in biotics _just in case_ he turned out to be biotic. . . " Caelia snuffled. The hybrids _could_ cry, in keeping with their human parents. "And then one of them _shot him_ anyway, and I couldn't _do_ anything, I'd been knocked to the ground, so all I could do was kick and scream, and then everyone burst into the room, and there was blood everywhere, and I had to crawl through it to get to Kaius."

"Calm down," Narayana said, as gently as she could. "It's over. It's all over. Kaius is going to be all right, isn't he?"

"Dara says so. B-b-bullet broke one of his ambones. . . "

Lantar's voice replaced Caelia's on the line, deep and terse. Not dismissive of Narayana, but definitely focused on the crisis in _front_ of him, right now. "We think Kaius went through biotic breakthrough. Just. . . couldn't stand there and watch Caelia be killed, I suppose. We're all very proud of him right now. Amara's been putting off getting her implants, and she's still. . . a little out of it. They had her pretty drugged, just in case she'd gotten the implants, I suppose. The group seems to have done its research very well." Lantar's voice was hard. "We'll be looking into that." He paused. "Kaius is going to be fine. Shattered ulna. He's going into surgery now to have that repaired. Caelia, not a scratch, thank the spirits. Narayana, we have to go. We need to get to the med bay and start the debriefings and everything else."

Kirrahe still had a hand on her shoulder, lightly, as she disconnected the comm call. "Are you well?" he asked, in concern.

"No. Not. . . really." Narayana stared off into space for a moment. "However. I'm salarian. I'm sure that. . . in a few minutes. . . .I'll be just fine."

"Culturally, not salarian. Culturally, human and turian." He squeezed her shoulder, lightly. "Personally, still learning, even after all this time, to treat you in accordance with those norms. Reflect on this. They are unharmed, or at least, minimally. And now you have, perhaps, a greater understanding of why I am so often concerned for your safety." He paused, and his eyelids crinkled. "Also, for my own. Expected to put myself between you and incoming bullets. Could be uncomfortable."

She nodded, smiled, and then frowned at the mere thought. "I hate not being able to help," she finally said. "I wasn't enough of a dalatrass, apparently, to convince all the Lystheni to turn themselves in and work for me. . . and as a result, a pair of them were hired to shoot Dara, and almost killed her." Nara grimaced. "And now, I can't even be there when my first-sister is in danger. I couldn't even hold her hand and make her feel better."

"Comm call probably improved her spirits. You can call again tomorrow. Right now, you are _here_. Doing what you must to become the person you want to be. Cannot be everywhere at once. Basic physics." Kirrahe's relentless good cheer finally made Narayana smile, sincerely. And then she got back to work.

Back to Earth in January of 2202, rooming once again with Yekaterina. The Russian girl tried to convince Narayana to at least _audition_ for a play, but Nara refused, on the grounds that she didn't have time for rehearsals every night. She did, however, at Yekaterina's repeated prodding, join a group that sang choir pieces and madrigals once a week. Simply getting out and interacting with humans, after the semester on Luisa, helped a good deal. Humans no longer seemed quite so _slow_, among other things.

And then she actually _graduated_ at the end of the summer semester in 2202. Two degrees, earned at two separate institutions, crammed into just over two years. Pre-med, done, bio-engineering, to include nano-technology, done. When asked by the school newspaper to what she attributed this rather incredible (to a human, anyway) feat, Narayana replied, "I got my pre-requisites done ahead of schedule, and I always had someone else to do the driving, so I really had no dead time. I'm indebted to the people who supported me through these two years, for making this possible for me."

She was now twelve, or close to twenty-four, in human terms, and all too aware that time was _ticking_ away for her. Stanford accepted her into its medical program, as did Harvard, Yale, and the University of Bastion. After some fairly heated debates with Kirrahe, Narayana accepted the University of Bastion. "Look," she told him again, as they packed up to leave Earth. "You've spent two years protecting me. You should be off helping Valak with the continuing fight against Hegemony forces. Out assisting with the exploration beyond the locked relays. Anything besides babysitting me."

"Are you ordering me to leave?" he asked, a trace of temper in his usually placid, calm demeanor.

Narayana blinked. "Would it do any good if I did?"

"Probably not. However, if you asked me to leave, because you no longer _wished_ for my presence, that would be another issue entirely."

"I didn't _say_ that." Narayana gave up, in mild exasperation. "I simply don't want you wasting four _years_ of your life, watching me study."

"Not wasted. Have been taking courses on my own, in down time. Acceptable tradeoff."

"Oh, well, how can I _possibly_ argue with that?" Narayana muttered. 

"Cannot. Logic unassailable."

Med school was supposed to be strenuous, but Narayana actually found it _relaxing_ in comparison to the last two years. Rounds were actually her favorite time of day, because most of the time, she knew the answer. . . and when she didn't, the case was such an interesting puzzle that she didn't actually mind not knowing. The University of Bastion's medical school did, however, require a thesis; most human universities, other than Yale, did not. She had a notion for one, but had no _idea_ how she'd go about proving any of her ideas. It might be premature to start work on it, but, given that she was now in classes with dozens of salarians—all male, and all bug-eyed at her presence—they were at least working at _her speed_ for once.

She came home for Christmas, and Mindoir had changed _again._ Dara was, for starters, _eight months pregnant_ with twins. Narayana stared at the human female, who was now twenty-seven, in total shock. "How did I miss this?" she muttered to Kirrahe. "I just turned around, and suddenly, _they're_ the ones who are living quickly?"

**Mindoir, December 2202**

Dara, overhearing that, laughed, and came over to give Narayana a hug in the middle of the Sidonis living room. She and Eli had given in this year and bought aircar; there was no getting around the need, now. "We were definitely going out of our way not to make a fuss. That's all we need, tabloids trying to get a first picture of the weird hybrid Spectre babies." She made a face, and rubbed at the small of her back, leaving unspoken the other, manifold concerns that had motivated their quietness about the pregnancy. The fact that they weren't sure precisely how this was even going to work out for them. Health concerns. The stark truth that Dara had faced an assassination attempt a few years ago, and that Caelia, Kaius, and Amara had faced a kidnapping attempt this past year. . . the _second_ in their short lives, in fact. Dara and Eli's children would certainly be under that same threat. Overall, being _quiet_ had seemed the best idea. Dara didn't mention any of that; she just moved past it, as lightly as she could. "Haven't been able to do any field work this year." She poked at her stomach with one finger. "You guys better be worth all this," she chided the children inside of her, dryly.

"I'm sure they will be," Eli told her, emerging from the kitchen, and wrapping his arms around her from behind, his hands resting lightly atop her belly. He'd taken to doing this from the moment she'd started showing. "Eventually. Maybe after teething." He paused. "Come to think of it. . . besides Shiori, I think these will be the first babies I've ever been around who didn't have teeth at birth. Not that I was around Shiori that much. We were pretty busy with relay unlocking and asari civil unrest in 2198." He grinned, and told Dara, in her ear, "Think maybe the turian genes will breed true? And the kids will have itty bitty teeth after all?"

Dara turned slightly, and gave him a look. "I'm _fairly_ sure it can't work that way. And if it does, _you_ can breastfeed them, okay?"

"That's quite all right, I'm pretty sure I'm not equipped. But I can cook meat and know where the blender is, so if they come out with scales, we're set."

Dara quietly drove an elbow into his midsection. Eli just grinned down at her, and held her a little more closely to him. Narayana, looking uncomfortable, asked, simply, "When are you due?"

"January twenty-second, technically, but we're actually going to induce labor after Christmas," Dara explained. "Chakwas and my OB think carrying to full-term with these two is. . . probably a bad idea. They're already pretty hefty, for twins."

"I thought it was unclear if you could even conceive," Nara said, sounding. . . oddly lost. "Did you have to do anything in the lab?"

"Nope. One hundred percent home-grown human." Eli rubbed Dara's belly lightly. "Okay, for a given value of human, anyway. Only thing we needed, other than, er, persistence," and he grinned down at Dara, who, yet again, landed an elbow to his midsection, "was a little assistance in the dietary department."

Narayana darted Dara a confused glance, and Dara grimaced, and went clinical; the salarian female _had_ just finished pre-med, after all. "My hormonal balance was such previously, that I actually did not ovulate. As such, when the workers understood that it was 'real' mating-song time, they . . . changed the hormonal properties of the royal jelly I eat every day anyway. . . and lo and behold, ovulation."

"The rest is pretty much history." Eli rested his chin atop Dara's head. "Nara, you still like Mom's grasshopper cookies?"

"Yes, but I haven't been able to convince even _one_ of my roommates to try them. It's becoming something of a test of character for me. If they scream at the mere sight, it's a sure bet that they'll move out within two days. Two weeks, at the most."

"Last one was amusing," Kirrahe offered, unexpectedly. "Hyperventilated. Narayana had to have her sit down. Elevated feet. I called for campus medical assistance." He glanced around, blinking. "If any such cookies are available, would enjoy one. Crunchy."

"In the kitchen," Eli and Dara both chorused. Dara added, "I've never had the guts to try one. . . " She'd tried to nerve herself for it last year, and absolutely couldn't. Her workers, however, had eagerly munched the leftover cookies, singing that they were favored in many ways.

"There is a _reason_ that when I was on Edessan and even Macedyn, I learned how to cook almost all asari foods, other than what my mom sent me in the way of human foods in care packages," Eli admitted. "First, I could read the labels. Second, one hundred percent less bugs. But I don't think that's necessarily a reason to move out, either."

Two days later, Dara packed a suitcase, and Eli drove her to the med bay, where she'd occupied so much of her time in the past twelve years or so, on and off. They checked in, and, to no one's particular surprise, a shadow passed over the window of the room, as one enormous, dinner-plate sized, rachni-blue eye appeared there. "Joy," Dara said, rolling uncomfortably onto the bed, feeling leaden and heavy. "You're here to see if I manage to clutch eggs properly?"

_I do sing songs of experience, mother,_ Joy teased back, all blues and greens. Joy had laid three full clutches of eggs since her first mating in late 2197. About one every two years. Mostly workers, a few soldiers, and a larger number of brood-warriors than was typical for rachni broods, but many of these were descendants of Glory, Dances, Sky, and Stone. They all had. . . unique gifts to pass on and use, and these gifts were coming to be in demand. _It is strange, Mother. You __are__ the egg._

_Yes, but hopefully rather less broken._

The OB, a pleasant young human doctor, and Chakwas, who'd insisted on coming out of retirement/second career for this event, had had a rather long argument with Dara about the process for inducing labor. They had insisted that the traditional methods, with IV chemicals, were what was needed, and that Dara shouldn't eat at all. Dara had told them that if that was the way they were going to be about it, considering her hybrid system, she might be better off at home. They'd given ground, and she'd given ground. And as such, the workers provided for her a container of royal jelly today, singing, in concern, _Should not your body decide when the laying of eggs should occur?_

_Sometimes, our bodies need help. In this case, if the babies get too much larger, it's going to impact my health. Badly._ Dara ate the jelly, and, about four hours later, her body was, to everyone's surprise, fully in the transition stage of labor. She had enough time to determine, "Yes. . . .Okay. . . . This is what _natural_ feels like. . . . It sucks." She tried, desperately, to breath through another contraction, clamping her hand down on Eli's, as he stroked her hair out of her face. His eyes were dark, and her would not let go of her hand. Even when she'd tried to let go, fifteen minutes ago, protesting that he didn't need to feel this, he'd simply replied, _yes, I do, we're going to share this. No matter how much it sucks._ Dara caught her breath. The contractions had been lasting a minute, with only twenty seconds apart, for an hour at this point. "I've experienced it. Bring me the epidural, I'll put it in my spine _myself_."

"Can you hold still enough for us to get it in the spine?"

"I'll hold still. Bring the damned drugs!"

"Doctors are the _worst_ patients," the OB commented, and Dara shot her a _look_.

"Nah," Sam drawled from his corner of the room, where he sat with Kasumi, Shiori, now four years old, in his lap. "Her mama was the same way. 'Screw this shit, give me the drugs, give me the surgery, get this girl out of me _right now_.'"

"Not helping," Dara told her father, as Kasumi, with Takeshi, now nine, bustled in, smiling, and handed her an ice chip from the nearby bucket.

"I could be more helpful and remind you that you're the one who picked a boy who's more or less my height and weight. You _could_ have picked a nice skinny human or a short little salarian, but no."

"_Really_ not helping, Dad!"

_There is no need for medication-songs,_ Joy sang, suddenly. _The hive will take the pain._

"What?" Eli asked, sharply, looking up at Joy. "Like when a brood-warrior's hurt? You sing the pain down?"

_Yes, Father. We would have done so sooner, but Mother has been resisting us._

_Dara, __sai'kaea__, let them help_, Eli urged. He was sharing every single contraction, and large portions of him were strongly regretting _ever_ having agreed to this.

Dara relaxed as his fingers stroked through her damp hair, and let the hive's harmonies in. Let Joy-Singer take the damned pain away. No drugs. Just. . . song. Glorious, glorious colors and song. She drifted into them, and the pain actually became _part_ of the voices. Felt Eli's song, so stressed before, at her pain, drift into the harmony, as thousands of voices distributed the pain, accepted it, dealt with it. . . and let her just go about her body's work, without fuss or strain. _Thank you, thank you, thank you_, Dara sang to the hive, almost incoherently, and felt her gratitude reflected back at her, a thousand different ways.

And just about an hour after that, on December 27, 2202, Eli and Dara's first children were born. Dara held the boy, looking down into lazy-lidded eyes that were, rim-to-rim, rachni blue, hardly daring to breathe, because he was so perfect. . . and looked so very much like Eli. The various grandparents had assembled in the hospital room, and they had a steady stream of visitors. The boy, born first, was named Lantus Samuel, for both grandfathers, in a way, and had a pronounced look of Eli, even in that soft infant face; the girl, Tegan Sokiia, given an asari middle name, looked much more like Dara.

Lantar had Tegan in his lap, looking down at the perfectly human—other than the eyes—infant, and seemed extremely nervous about holding her. "It's easy," Ellie told him, pragmatically. "You held Caelia, Tacticus, and Emily, so what's the problem?"

"She seems so much more fragile. I'm worried about her neck. And she's _cold_ to the touch, damnit." Lantar cradled the small girl more closely to him.

Caelia, who was never far from her parents right now, and had been slow to emerge from her shell after the kidnapping attempt at the beginning of the year, peered over his shoulder at the baby. "Did I look like that?" she finally asked.

"Lot more feathers," Eli assured her, solemnly, and took Lantus from Dara to hold his son. Eli had had a _lot_ of practice with infants over the years, starting with Caelia herself, and now peered into Lantus' mouth as the boy yawned. "Hey, look, _sai'kaea_. No teeth after all."

"Jerk," Dara told him, without rancor, which was when Rinus and Kallixta entered, with Rubixius, their first-son (other than the AIs), toddling along unsteadily between their hands. "Hey, guys. You decided you wanted a look at the xenobiological exhibit, huh?"

Rubixius was not much impressed with the squirming pink bundles, but he immediately toddled over to his favorite playmate, Shiori, who gave the little turian a hug as she slipped down from Sam's lap.

"We did hear it was feeding time," Rinus told them, with aplomb. "Also, wanted to come by and congratulate you, before we have to head back to Palaven. Big vote coming up. Plus, Kallixta's mother and father want time with their grandson."

"I have the oddest impression that they want to spoil him. When they visited after he was born," the words covered a full state visit by the Imperator to colonies of Mindoir, Terra Nova, and Shanxi, to cover that visit to the Spectre base, "my mother did almost nothing but hold him. I'm fairly sure she was making up for lost chances." Kallixta had gotten much better about calling Lusciana this, over the years, and now sat on the edge of Dara's bed, and taking Tegan, very cautiously, from Lantar. "Spirits, they're so _pink_. Surely, this cannot possibly be normal."

"Completely normal," Dara assured her old friend, smiling. "Of course, to my eyes, their skin has. . . iridescence. Blues, greens, violets. Little shimmers. Dr. Chakwas has already cursed me for it, because getting blood samples on them has been a pain in the ass. I told her to hurry up and get her samples before the skin toughed up." Dara considered that. "Going to make their shots really annoying as they get older."

After a pause, Kallixta looked up from the baby, and grinned at her. "Been a very long time since boot camp, hasn't it?"

"Feels like yesterday," Dara told her, promptly. "Well, most days. Other days, it feels like a century's passed. When you get back from Palaven, Rinus has a mission on the docket that looks like you'll be taking the _Lumen Rose_ out?"

"Eh, arms dealers, selling to the remnants of the Hegemony. I'll get him in, so he looks like a properly disreputable ex-mercenary, and then he and his team, once they make contact and get inside the base of operations, will go stomping, and I'll be ready to extract, in case anything goes wrong." Kallixta shrugged. "It's a good ship. Handles almost as well as an SR. But I actually sort of _miss_ having an AI to talk with during the long shifts spent waiting."

"My parents will be keeping Rubixius while we're away," Rinus noted. "With Polina and Quintus already through boot camp and off serving, I think my mother feels the house is far too empty."

General laughter, and then they passed back out of the room. Rellus and Seheve arrived shortly thereafter, Rel looking disconcerted at the sight of the children, and Seheve carefully accepting Lantus from Eli's cautious hands. "Very human," the drell female noted as the infant boggled uncertainly up at her. "Can they see at all?"

"Humans see in black and white at birth, and very indistinctly," Dara supplied. "Every one of us is born more or less farsighted. That being said . . " She half closed her own eyes, and listened to Tegan's song. It was a trick she and Eli had worked out, years ago, looking through each others' eyes when in skin contact. "Color," she said, after a moment. "Almost the full spectrum that I get, too. The thoughts aren't really clear, and they're not really recognizing anything other than 'song' at the moment."

Rel's head swiveled, and he stared at Dara for a moment. "You can _hear_ them?"

"Skin contact. Yes." Dara lifted Tegan up onto her shoulder, letting the baby's head cradle on her shoulder; Tegan, hours old, actually lifted her head, rather spasmodically, and whacked it back down on Dara's collarbone, provoking a wince. People who wrote medical textbooks liked to claim that human infants couldn't turn themselves over at birth. Dara knew that was a lie. She'd spent enough time in the neo-natal ward right here on Mindoir to have seen a day-old infant with enough muscular control in his neck, use his head to turn to his side. No matter how well swaddled, too. The senior nurses had kept insisting that someone had put him down the wrong way. . . until they watched him flip to his side, because that was how _he_ was more comfortable. It hadn't been Dara's first realization that books could be wrong, but it had definitely left an impression. "I can hear them, Eli can hear them. . . the hive can hear them."

_And they can hear us_, Joy added, a vibrant harmonic that ran through everyone in the room.

_And I think they always will_, Dara added, looking up at Eli, who'd taken Tegan back from Seheve now. The drell female looked a little sorrowful. Dara had no idea if Rel and Seheve had discussed adoption, or the Solus template process, or anything else, but there was a certain hunger in Seheve's eyes, that hadn't been there before. And Dara did her best not to laugh as the pair left, to be replaced by Dempsey and Zhasa. "Brought you a present, Dara. Hey, Eli," Dempsey said, dropping off a bouquet of flowers on the dresser beside Dara. It was a measure of the progress Dempsey had made over the years that he now no longer had to stop and think before calling Dara or Elijah by their first names, rather than by the distancing last name, or 'doc.' He still wasn't particularly prone to overt emotion, but the song was there, deep under the surface. Subtle currents of it. "Let's take a look at what you guys have got here, huh?" He glanced at them for permission. "Mind if I take a listen in his head?"

"Go for it," Eli told him, comfortably. "Between me, Dara, and the rachni, the kids have a lot of company between the ears."

Dempsey smiled faintly, and settled down in the chair Sam had vacated a few hours before, propping Lantus along the length of his thighs, with the boy's head at his knees, looking down into the sleepy blue eyes, and playing with his feet. "It's okay," Dempsey told the baby. "I know I sound weird compared to most everyone else you're going to hear. Think of it as an accent." He looked up, as he played with the boy's feet. "I already know this kid's squad name. Sasquatch."

"Hey, nothing says he's going to go into the family business," Eli said, from where he sprawled in his own chair. "He could be a doctor—okay, that sort of is the family business, too. . . "

"Veterinarian," Dara said, sleepily, as Zhasa perched at the foot of the bed, playing with Tegan's hands. "Architect. Stock broker. _Accountant_. That sounds. . . nice and safe and stable and. . . "

"Boring," Eli supplied. "But yeah, definitely safer than some of the alternatives."

"She's got smart eyes," Zhasa opined. "This one's an engineer. Structural, before you ask." She considered. "Or, yes, maybe another doctor."

"Physicist," Eli corrected. "If she takes more after her mama than after me, sky's the limit with that brain."

Dara found a box of tissue to throw at Eli. _Stop that. You're plenty smart. Better yet, you're wise, too._

_I'm told that comes with age and making lots of mistakes along the way._

Zhasa, in the meantime, kept looking down at the infant girl. "I would really _love_ to have one of my own," she admitted, with a catch in her voice. "But the nanites. . . "

The Prothean nanites in Zhasa's body gave her limited regeneration, and increased her immune response monumentally. They were, however, fundamentally attuned to _quarian_ DNA. She and Dempsey had, the previous year, tried the Solus template. Dara had been involved in the project, doing the work to map entirely different bodily systems into one organism. Dexto/levo. . . well, the work had been pioneered on human and turians, so that wasn't actually an issue, and Zhasa, with the nanites, could actually eat many levo foods without any allergic reactions or metabolic shutdowns at all. Both species had hemoglobin-based blood, although quarians had blue-tinged immune cells, which accounted for the characteristic violet shade of their blood. That wasn't as big of a gap as the hemoglobin/hemocyanin divide that required a turian mother's offspring to have hemecyanic blood, and a human mother's offspring to have hemoglobin-based blood. The salt issue, however, had been a sticking point; Dara had opted, with the concurrence of the rest of the medical team, to design the offspring around the quarian system, which called for aluminum chloride in the blood, and that necessitated, in part, a quarian nervous system. Aluminum chloride conducted electrical impulses better than sodium chloride, resulting in faster reaction times. . . and in Zhasa's case, allowed her to be a _powerhouse_ of a biotic. Dara's plan had retained the heartier human immune system, however, but had opted for the quarian skeletal and muscular system, as well as their dark-adapted eyes.

The resulting offspring would look substantially quarian, but would bleed _red_ if cut, would have quarian strength and agility, as well as the incredible reflex speed that came from their marvelous nervous system. It would have the immune response of a human, the ability to consume and use levo and dextro foods without issues as to chirality, the ability to see in the dark, and, given Dempsey and Zhasa's mutual biotic DNA, would probably be biotic, as well.

Unfortunately, the first embryo they'd implanted, the nanites in Zhasa's body had attacked and destroyed, almost instantly, seeing it as an alien intruder. Even with her natural immune system suppressed, as a human or turian mother's needed to be, for purposes of carrying a hybrid child. . . the nanites had _still_ attacked the second embryo.

Dara glanced over at Dempsey, who was looking at Zhasa. The clear blue eyes were actually a little somber at the moment, reflecting Zhasa's own sadness. On the one hand, the nanites had freed Zhasa from the suit. On the other hand, many quarians, emboldened by her example, were now out of their suits, using breathers and gloves on a regular basis on Bastion, here on Mindoir, and on Rannoch as well. Zhasa might not have _needed_ the nanites. And now, they were an impediment to her. They let her be a better Spectre. They let her heal, let her keep up with Dempsey on even the toughest assignments. . . but now they were standing in the way of a personal goal. And Dempsey clearly _hated_ seeing Zhasa unhappy about anything.

Dara reached over and caught Eli's hand in hers. Understanding flowed for a moment, and Eli's eyebrows rose. "_Sai'kaea_? We literally just _evicted_ the last tenants." That, out loud.

"I'm not putting a sign on myself that says 'this space for rent,'" Dara told him, tartly.

Zhasa and Dempsey's heads swung up, and two moderately blank stares focused on the other couple. "Inside joke?" Dempsey asked.

Dara shrugged. "Not really. Look, I'm not saying right this second. . .but . . . I have an idea that we might want to consider."

Zhasa blinked, clearly confused. "Dara, make sense, please."

Dara shifted around a little uncomfortably on the bed. "Look," she finally said, after a long moment. "My _very first_ paper was on turian surrogacy for quarian mothers. How to make it work. And it would. Not many have taken up the idea, mostly because quarian mothers are finally getting out of their suits—just look at Nal'Ishorah! You guys _could_ use a quarian surrogate, but that would challenge the surrogate's immune system, because of the human elements. Might endanger her life, so that's not ethical. You _could_ use a turian surrogate, but that's putting _three_ species into the mix, plus, the baby's blood would be hemoglobin-based, not hemecyanic. Not that that really matters, because there's no blood or blood-gas exchange between a turian mother and her infant." She could see both of their expressions shifting. Catching on. "On the other hand, if you have a human surrogate, that's only two species in the mix." She paused. "Well, three, if you have a human-rachni critter do it for you." She managed a slightly uncomfortable smile on tossing the offer out there. "I mean, the only reason I didn't offer last year was, well, Eli and I weren't even sure if I _could_ have kids. Certainly didn't know if I could even carry to term." She pointed down at the sleeping Tegan.

Astonishment and joy from Zhasa, in a wash, as the quarian, keeping one hand on Tegan to keep the infant secured on the bed, moved around to hug Dara with her free arm. "You'd really—?"

"Not right this _second_," Dara replied, immediately. "But. . . yeah. I would. If you guys didn't mind another try that might not work any better than the first two." Her other hand was still clasped in Eli's. She could feel his concern, his cautious assent. "All in all, once I let the rachni sing it all away, giving birth wasn't nearly as bad for me as it might be for other women. And," Dara looked across the room at Dempsey, then down at Zhasa, and tried to say it casually, "you guys know I love you, anyway." _Blood-brother. Blood-sister. Friends. Family. Always._

Dempsey cleared his throat. "Guess we're on the hook for baby-sitting in the meantime, then?" His flat voice held a hint more emotion than usual.

"You know it," Eli told him, dryly. "We can set up an exchange rate later. Have Fors do it, so it's fair."

"You really think he's going give me a fair exchange rate? I think he's still looking for ways to get back at me for not fetching him chilled _eeree'pa_ when he was brooding over that egg of his and Chissa's." Dempsey snorted slightly. "Although I keep telling him we're even, after he stuck Zhasa and me with hatchling duty when the little. . . .thing. . . was still in an enviro_pod_. . . and then not actually putting the kid in the pod. I think he laughed himself sick when we came over, Zhasa in a panic, asking why it hadn't _moved_ in a couple of hours, and why the life-signs were cratering. . . "

Eli snickered. "That wasn't the only thing he was getting revenge for, D."

"That building falling on him was _not_ my fault. I was standing on the ceiling, using that Wind that Bends shit Viridian's been teaching me, at the time. I didn't want it to fall any more than the rest of us did. Personally, I blame Siege."

"Safe answer. It usually _is_ Siege's fault, when it's not yours. All I know is, Dara and I were standing _outside_ when it collapsed, and we had to dig for you guys."

Zhasa muttered, not really under her breath, "I have _still_ not forgiven Fors for that 'joke.' I don't think he understands how scared I was. He just laughed, apologized, and said I'd been acceptable collateral damage on his way to his real target." She looked up. "I need to arrange a true quarian Fleet prank on him in exchange. Next time he's in the field, I'll rig his envirosuit to simulate a leak. All his meters will go into the red, and when he's panicking, I think I'll remind him of the words 'collateral damage' before I 'fix' it for him."

"Maybe not in the field," Dempsey told her, practically. "Do it at a barbecue. More witnesses, less chance of reality coinciding with the joke."

"Fair enough," Zhasa allowed, with a very human turn of phrase, and bared her curving canines for a moment. "He really should be reminded that I don't _have_ to roll over and take the jokes any more than Dempsey does."

Dara rolled her eyes. "I don't know what's worse, shop talk or practical jokes. Let the babies pretend their parents are vaguely normal for at least the first twenty-four hours of their lives. They've got the rest of forever to learn about Mindoir and the weirdness."

"And the toast," Eli told her, solemnly.

"Exactly," Dara replied, smiling.

When they left, however, Dara was surprised. She could have sworn she saw a glistening in Dempsey's ice-blue eyes as he leaned down to give her a hug in departure . . . and then he outright stunned her by kissing her forehead. _Love you, too. Thanks for giving us another chance. Even if it's not for a while._

Of all the people who visited in the next week—Chakwas would _not_ let them out of the med bay until the children's bloodwork and genetic screenings came back—there were a couple that made Dara's heart ache. Kaius and Amara had both gotten their implants done in July, and Amara, like Caelia, was markedly quieter in the wake of the kidnapping attempt. . . . though the now-fifteen-year-old hybrid girl had gotten a couple of sporadic letters from Madison, who was at the human Academy, asking her how she was doing after the attack. These had seemed to put her in better spirits, but she'd thrown herself into training with renewed fervor in the last year. Mostly in regards to her biotics. Kaius, who'd entered breakthrough mostly because he'd seen Caelia threatened, had already been prepping for boot camp as it was, but now had added a _heavy_ regimen of biotics training. Dempsey had approved. "He's a kid after my own heart," he noted. "Shields on top of shields. Pretty much what saved his life in that compound. He remembered everything we'd taught him about visualizing, and he instinctively brought his barrier up _before_ he attacked. Still think he should hold off a year or two and go into the human services, but it's not my call to make."

Kaius, serious and reserved now, as he had not been, at all, as a child, had brought his _reela_ to the hospital. "Thought I could play for you and the babies," he told Dara, who was long since up and moving around. "If you like, anyway."

"I would love it," Dara told him, smiling, and resting a hand on his shoulder. "Show me what you've learned lately."

His large, human-model hands spread over the keys, and, peering at his datapad of sheet music, broke into a lively mazurka, which made Dara smile, delightedly, and made Lantus drag his eyelids open, listening to more than just the music. Emotion played for the infant, too. Dara let the young man play for a while, while Amara levitated blocks in front of Tegan's hazy eyes, like a mobile, but a biotic one. "I think she can feel the energies," Dara told Amara, smiling. "Move the blocks in time to the music. Dempsey was doing that the other day, and they seemed to be almost hypnotized by that." She looked back down at Kaius. "So, I hear you're going into turian boot camp, and not the Academy. And that Amara here is going to the Academy, and not boot camp."

Kaius kept playing. "Yeah. Break new ground, either way."

Amara looked up, her expression unhappy. "I really wish you'd come with me," she muttered. "We've never been _apart_. I. . . thought we'd be putting off the separation a little longer, if we both went to Earth."

"Yeah, but sooner or later, we _are_ going to have to be split up, Amara. You've got the skills to be an adept. Human services will be better for you. I didn't even know until this year if I'd _ever_ manifest full biotics. I'd always kind of wanted to follow in Dad's footsteps, anyway." He looked up from the keyboard. "And it's actually _better_ for all the other hybrids in the galaxy if one of us goes to Earth, and the other to Palaven. I mean, I'm going to have to wear a rad suit. I get that. But it's kind of our responsibility to pave the way for the others. You're biotic. You'd _have_ to serve in either military. I. . .well, I wasn't biotic, but I _planned_ to serve, anyway, so I could get my turian citizenship." He shrugged. "Other hybrids might not want to. They might be just fine with Alliance citizenship. They might be fine with being civilians. But someone has to show them all that there are choices, right?"

"You don't have to be the ones to do that," Dara told him, lightly, and ran a hand over his crest, affectionately.

"Well, we _are_ the oldest. And, well, Mom and Dad are who they are. No getting away from that." Kaius looked up from the _reela_. "I kind of have to live up to them, Aunt Dara."

She'd long since somehow graduated from "cousin" to "aunt." Probably something to do with being a doctor and a Spectre and an adult. Dara listened to his harmonies, and nodded. There was no dissonance there. A desire to _prove_ himself. A desire to both live up to his famous parents' example, and a desire, too, to step out of their shadow. "Dempsey's been saying you'd made a damned fine sentinel, if you want to go in for some tech specialization. You don't seem to have the biotic skillset that Mad has."

"That's fine. Hey, maybe Madison and I will wind up serving together in the joint fleet. More and more of the ships are getting converted over to dual-service. I go to boot camp in a year. Mad will finish in his second year at the Academy by the time I'm done. . . and if I make OCS. . . " Kaius suddenly grinned, "by the time he gets out of the Academy, two years later, as a green lieutenant, I _could_ out-rank him. That would be _funny_, wouldn't it?"

"And I can't even _go_ to the Academy for another three years," Amara muttered, throwing her hands up in the air. "By the time I'm done with that, and starting my four years, both of you will be done with your required tours!"

Kaius gave her a sympathetic look. "You don't _have_ to go to the human Academy."

"I don't want to be forced into some all-biotic cadre in the turian service. I don't want to be isolated and segregated, and the hazing in _both_ services is going to be bad enough for being a hybrid. At least humans aren't _as_ uneasy about biotics as turians are. You're insane for setting yourself up for the double serving, Kaius Vakarian." Amara's voice was frustrated.

"I'm thinking we're both in for a triple serving any way we go, Amara. Just the clan-name alone will guarantee it." Kaius shrugged. "And it's not like we can be like Aunt Kallixta, and take a _nom de guerre_, like Essedarius. We're the first hybrids. Everyone will know who we are, on sight."

Dara sighed, and reached out. Put a hand on Amara's shoulder, too. "I don't envy either of you," she told them, frankly. "It wasn't much fun for Eli and me, being in the first groups of humans in turian boot camp. But that being said, they've addressed a lot of the issues since then. The first groups of turians who've passed through the Academy have come out as _sharp_ officers. . . enough that the Hierarchy's looking at incorporating a little more in the way of, hmm. . . well-rounding into their officer preparation. They like the grounding in ethics, the wider perspective that they see out of those young lieutenants. You guys _do_ have choices. And you're right. No matter what you do, someone's going to look at you and grumble that you should have done it _their_ way." She shook her head. "You can't really let that let you make your decisions for you, though. And sooner or later, you'll both catch up with each other again. I promise. You might not even stay _in_, Kaius. Biotics get front-line MOSes. Which, given who you are. . . ? They're going to tell you to keep your visor down and polarized for the next four years on any deployment. They might not even let you raise it to _eat_. Not just to protect you, but to protect everyone around you, too. Because if the enemy knows who you are, and where, spirits preserve you, you're deployed. . . they'll target you and everyone around you. If you weren't biotic, it would be easier. They'd stick you in Supply or CID or something. You might still _get_ CID, a SWAT assignment or something." Dara made a face. "I had a point here. Wait. Yeah. Some of your choices will get made for you. Some of them, you're making, yourselves. Just . . . try to make them good ones for you, and those around you, and that's really all you can do. A lot of things just plain won't be under your control."

And then there was Narayana. Dara found it hard to _conceive_ that she'd watched the female salarian hatch into a cute little tadpole before she herself had gone to boot camp. A little mental math made it even more frightening. Dara was, herself, twenty-seven years old. At twelve, Narayana was the equivalent of a human twenty-four-year-old. In a year, Nara would be 'twenty-six' to Dara's twenty-eight. In two, Dara would be twenty-nine, with two toddlers running around underfoot, and Nara would be twenty-eight. In three years, they would reach the only balancing point in their lives that they'd ever experience: _they would both be "thirty" at the same time._ After that point, Narayana would continue to age past Dara, at a sharp rate.

Humans had longevity vaccines; treatments that delayed senescence. These worked on turians and humans, but not on asari, krogan, drell, or salarians, though they had derived from salarian research. Now, these vaccines were highly customized, and generally were derived from a chromosomal workup at the individual taken at a young age, with alterations to account for heart defects, predisposition to diabetes, and the like, corrected.. However, Dara and Eli's own genomes were sufficiently outside the standard deviation of regular humans at this point that they were having to have a lot of custom work done on the issue; instead of having the process started at twenty-five, as was generally recommended, they were probably going to have to wait until they were thirty, just to make sure all the kinks in the helixes had been worked out.

No one had been able to overcome the metabolic issues with salarians. While repairing their gene structures to account for duplication errors helped prevent cancers, it couldn't slow the metabolic burn, not without actually sending a salarian into a death-like torpor. The brightest medical minds in salarian space had been working the problem for over two thousand years, without success. Their greatest achievement had been a five year increase in the average life-span of salarians. In the past forty years, human life-spans had _doubled_. Put that way. . . five years didn't seem that significant. Although it probably sounded more like a decade, to them, Dara reflected, a little sadly.

So when Nara arrived to see the babies, and congratulate her and Eli, Dara viewed her with. . . new eyes. No longer seeing the child that had been, but rather, the adult female she'd become. And, behind the usual salarian _driven_ nature, Dara could see. . . something else. Fear. Narayana was terrified, probably of her own mortality. Most salarians lived life at their own pace, were socialized to it. Narayana was socialized to a human and turian family, and all too aware of how time was fleeting for her. Knew she needed to leave her _mark_. "Decided on a thesis topic?" Dara finally asked.

"Ah. . . yes. Possibly. Will probably need some assistance with it." Narayana played with the tiny fingers on Tegan's hand. "I understand Kirrahe is _finally_ being sent on a different mission, to keep his field skills sharp. This will be better for him. I'm. . . relieved. For his sake."

Dara didn't think Narayana sounded relieved at all, but forbore to mention it. "Lantar's fairly happy with your security arrangements," she finally replied, obliquely. "Lots of rachni and geth on Bastion. And Soril Erev and our other operatives fade a little more into the background there, than on Earth." She paused. "Enjoying having your own apartment?"

"Not entirely," Narayana admitted. "I've shared a room with Caelia and a variety of roommates since I was a child. Being alone, other than bodyguards stationed outside? Has been very odd. There's more space, of course. Privacy. In theory, I'm free to do what I want, when I want. But it is. . . odd." She brightened. "Kirrahe informs me regularly that I should continue to explore the interests I discovered on Earth. Theater performances. Finding a madrigal group to sing with. That sort of thing. He threatened to sign me up for the Bastion Animal Rescue Foundation group if I did not find some hobby with which to occupy myself. Then told me I would have fifteen cats all making their home with me in the first week. 'A fate not to be thought on,' he said." Narayana smiled.

_Odd, or lonely, Narayana? You always had Yana to talk to, before. Now she lives in your head, a part of you. Kirrahe won't be there. If you isolate yourself, the way you did on Earth, you're going to be in a __state__ by the end of med school._ Dara considered saying it, but decided that, in the end, Nara _was_ an adult now. Had been for . . . some time, apparently. . . and resolved to keep an eye on her. Dr. Solus would crawl up out of the ground and _haunt_ her if anything bad happened to Narayana. Not to mention what it would do to Ellie and Lantar.

They finally got to go _home_ on January 4, 2203. Eli had vivid memories of Caelia's proventricular valve problems, and the heart-rending cries of distress that had gone on for _hours_ when she was a baby. Dara didn't have direct experience of that, but she had Eli's memories of it, and was hoping against hope that _colic_ wouldn't be their particular nightmare.

It wasn't. The hollow-eyed nights that Sam and Kasumi and Ellie had cheerfully forecast of _please oh please oh please, god, just go back to sleep, you've been fed, I'm rocking you, just. . . sleep. . . _ didn't really happen. The twins, they kept at first in their own bedroom, a crib together, just for ease of getting to them in the night. They didn't even need for the children to cry to wake them; the _hive_ woke _them_ whenever one child or the other woke from sleep, and one parent or the other was there before the first shrill cry could pierce the air. Not that there were many shrill cries. Hive-song soothed. Some nights, Dara would awaken, and in the dim gray moonlight, would see a rachni soldier, hunkered down under the crib, like a watchful dog, but all gleaming eyes and dark carapace. . . and would see workers standing in a neat line all around the edge of the crib, looking down at the infants, and wiggling their feelers at the children. And she'd see, further, the blue gleam of the children's' eyes, looking _up_ at their nursemaids, and knew that they were even more profoundly connected to the hive than she was. . . and didn't know if she should more envy her children for that bond, or worry that it would divorce them further from humanity than she and Eli were.

_Think they're going to be slow to learn to talk, with all this rachni song around them?_ she asked Eli one night, settling in against his back, tired after another late feeding.

_Hmm? Oh. Maybe. But I bet. . . once they start. . . they'll sing._

**Bastion April, 2203**

Back into the grind of medical school, but this time, Narayana was . . . alone. Oh, she had bodyguards. Nothing had changed there. But Kirrahe was absent, for the first time longer than a week or so, in close to three years. She hadn't even _realized_ how used to his presence she'd actually gotten. He'd just _been_ there. And now he wasn't.

She'd argued with him, for most of those three years, that he shouldn't be wasted on a babysitting detail that had involved guard work, chauffeuring her, surveillance, and a dozen other fairly menial chores. He had, every time she'd brought it up, assured her that his time was not being wasted. What she _hadn't_ noticed was all the time spent doing things _other_ than guarding her. How much they'd _talked_, for starters. He had the gift of being able to split his attention, and she'd learned, from watching him—possibly with the part of her mind that was Yana, and therefore, also, partially, _him_—how to watch traffic around them. How to watch how people moved. How they looked at her, or their surroundings. How to read them. And, in her last two semesters on Earth, he'd also taken her to the firing ranges in California and taught her how to shoot. It had felt. . . surprisingly natural. _Just another type of warfare. This time, not electronic_, she thought, but it was a very dim, buried message from Yana, she realized. Yana had _all_ of Kirrahe's innate aggressiveness, and it sometimes asserted itself in odd ways.

The more so, actually, now that Kirrahe was gone. She found herself restless and restive, and at 03:00, with two hours left before her daily nap, and rounds done, all her schoolwork _long_ since finished, she started roving around Bastion. Driving her security detail mad, she explored the circumference of every tier of the station—built out to L level, just this past year, and growing increasingly larger—on foot. Trying to tire herself out, she realized, after the second week of such explorations. Her mind was working overtime, and she found it almost impossible to go to _sleep_ at night, no matter the temperature of her pool. She resorted to pouring ice cubes in it one night in late March, to ensure torpor, so she'd finally _sleep._

This resulted in a frantic Soril Erev, the former Lystheni who had sworn himself into her service, dragging her out of the pool the next morning and waking her by warming her with at least room temperature water. "What were you _thinking?"_ he demanded as she sat up, dazed. "You're in medical school. You _know_ better than to do that. Even we. . . even when we induced hypothermia and hibernation in an assassin team, we had someone there and _awake_ to make sure that _they _would wake up again!"

"I had the thermometer set up to raise the temperature when it was time to wake," Nara muttered. She didn't have a shiver reflex, but really rather wished she did. She felt cold into her absolute bones. "I haven't been sleeping well, Soril. I didn't want to ask for a sedative from any of the doctors at the med bay, and most don't really work well on salarians, anyway. . . "

"We've _noticed_ this. Fifteen minutes a night isn't enough." She had long ago told the Lystheni to avoid using honorifics like 'dalatrass,' noting that she was no one's mother, let alone a 'mother-of-all.' This was the most agitated she'd ever seen Erev. He's never resorted to sarcasm or chiding before.

"I'm well aware." She accepted a warm towel, gratefully, and looked down at the puddle on the floor. "I. . . I'm not going to get my security deposit back if I don't clean this up."

"Narayana. _Dalatrass_ Narayana." That got her attention, and she looked up. "Please. What is troubling you? You have not been yourself since the trip back to the base over the human holidays."

She sank down on the edge of her pool; the apartment was build with salarians in mind, so it actually _had_ a floor-sunk pool for sleeping in. . . and suddenly felt exhausted. "I don't know," she said. "I . . . really don't."

_Liar, liar pants on fire,_ came the whisper from within. _You saw all the children on Mindoir, and you're of age to have your own hatchlings, but there are none for you, because who will take care of them? Who indeed, when you can barely take care of yourself? Have to have bodyguards? _

_Shut up, Yana._

_You know I'm not Yana anymore. There's just you. Talking to yourself. Telling yourself to stop lying to yourself. You miss him. You miss the companionship. Three years to us is like six years to a human. You miss the joking. You miss the concern. You miss the fact that he made you breakfast every morning. You miss finishing class and talking to him about it. You miss every single thing. There's a hole in your life, and when he was here, you didn't have to __think_ _about your_ _goals, you just had to __achieve__ them. You thought you had __caritas__, the disinterested affection, that can let go and send someone on their way to something better._

_You were __wrong__. No one is really disinterested. It's not __possible_ _ to be disinterested, if you're organic. Maybe not even if you're synthetic. So if you're not filled with this enlightened, charitable, disinterested affection that would send him away because it was better for his spirits-be-damned career, then it must follow that you're either filled with __interested_ _affection.. . . or perhaps that you're just a spoiled little girl who doesn't know what she wants._

_. . . are you sure you're not Yana? Then again, Yana was . . . always. . . a child. _

A tinkle of laughter at the back of her mind. _I grew up, Nara. Time for you to, too._

_I am! I'm doing all the things I need to do to. . . to. . . _

_. . . to do what? Scare the hell out of the people who're supposed to be protecting you from outside threats, only to see you crumple from the inside?_

_No! I'm here, doing medical school, all the things I'm supposed to do—_

_Why? So you can live up to Daddy's legacy? To be the same doctor as the great Mordin Solus?_

_. . . maybe?_

_That's not good enough._

_Then what is good enough? I have to be something. I have to be good enough at it that they'll take me seriously, and let me help!_

_Oh, so there actually is a goal in there. Progress. What sort of goal? What do you want, so badly, to help with?_

Nara put her head down on her forearms. The warm towel was helping, but her head was still spinning, and her internal monologue was going in circles. _Everything. I want to help the Lystheni. They're. . . my responsibility—_

_They're a dead clan lead by a dead dalatrass. No real concern of yours—_

_They're part of my family—_

_Lantar and Ellie and Caelia and Emily and Tacitus and Eli and Dara and their children are your family. _

_Yes! And they've been dealing with the Lystheni since before I was born, and it's my responsibility, I can make a difference! And I want to! I want to help Dara help couples of different species have children, I want to help the asari understand that it's not a bad thing to have genetic diversity in their population, I want to help salarians live longer and healthier, I want to do it all._

_Very altruistic. I might even believe you, if I didn't live in your head, Nara-sister. _

_I thought you were me now._

_Not right this second. What else do you want?_

Nara buried her face in her towel. Now, she was shaking. _To be like them_, she admitted, silently, wishing she could cry. _To be happy. To be with someone else who makes the world a better place just for being there. _

_That's not how salarians do things. Breeding contracts. Eggs in a pool. Offspring raised separately, males by males and females by females. _

_Futar the salarian way of doing things._

_Thatta girl._

So, she got up. Did her best to reassure Soril that there would be no recurrence. And got on with the semester. But she _did_ make a point of sending Kirrahe a letter, asking him, politely, that if once he got leave, if he would _like_ to spend some of it with her on Bastion, it would be agreeable. Also, that he might help her with some research she had in mind.

It was summer by the time Kirrahe got back from his current mission, something at the very edges of old batarian space, and he immediately responded to the mail he'd missed while he was working undercover with Rinus Velnaran. _Sorry to have missed this. Will be on Bastion within three days, if you still wish my presence. Still concerned that I have been wasting my time?_

The reply came quickly. _Yes. Always concerned. However, wondering if my criteria for evaluating the use of time have been correctly prioritized before this point. New perspectives tend to change these assessments._

Kirrahe did not know what to make of _that_ letter at _all_. But he made sure his armor was repaired, packed a back with cleaner, less-worn clothing, and headed for Bastion, as he'd promised he would. And on reaching her apartment, he nodded to Soril Erev at the door. "Glad you're back," the Lystheni told him, with palpable relief. "She's settled down since the crisis point in April—"

"What?" Kirrahe asked, sharply. "Crisis point?"

"She was having difficulty sleeping. Wandered the entire station. Restless. Poured ice into her pool to try to lull herself to sleep. Pulled her out in full hibernation. Wouldn't have probably damaged her, but. . . was unnerving." Soril grimaced. "We contacted the base for advice, and some of her relatives came out to visit for a while. Seemed to steady her."

Kirrahe blinked rapidly. _None_ of this had been relayed to him, and he was aghast, really. He _had_ spent three years of his life working with Nara on a daily basis. Almost living together, really. Three years that had more weight to them than they might to a human, and far more than they'd have to an asari. An asari might well take three years to write a poem. And now, these six months apart. . . he shook his head, angry at himself. He hadn't _wanted_ to take the damned assignment in batarian space, but Nara had been so _insistent_ that she didn't need him around anymore, and he'd taken it at face value. Had assumed, in a sense, that he was being dismissed. He probably _should_ have read it for what it was. A young person, of any species, tended to want to form his or her identity without pressure from previous peer groups. Freedom. Privacy. He could have—should have, perhaps—simply ceded her more mental room, and stayed on to oversee security. Bastion was centrally enough located, he could have gone on any number of Spectre missions in the meantime. . . .

"There you are." Narayana's voice was cheerful, and it caught him off-guard, chagrinned as he was. He was even _more_ startled when she came over and _hugged_ him, the curious human gesture that she'd picked up from Ellie and her hybrid step-siblings. Kirrahe lifted his hands uncertainly, then awkwardly returned the gesture. "You gave me enough warning on when you'd be here that I was able to swap shifts with one of the other med students at the hospital." Narayana pushed him gently towards one of the low chairs in the living area, and headed into the kitchen. "I have drell _sahlep_, if you want some, or asari tea. Oh, and the Jaworskis visited Mexico and send me a bag of cochineal. Red insects, used for dye for over a thousand years. Dried and powdered? They make a _surprisingly_ tasty cup of red . . . hmm. Mud."

Kirrahe sat down, off-balance. In six months, she'd changed a little. More self-assured—living alone did that, of course. More mature Six months was an _eternity_. "Ah. . . will try the red mud, then. Though might stain lips. Might be accused of wearing makeup by humans in street." He offered it, straight-faced, as she came back in with two steaming mugs of something that did, indeed, look _brilliantly_ scarlet and extremely viscous. He sipped, cautiously, and then with more enthusiasm. "Good flavor. Also. . . hint of. . . something else?"

"_Yerba mate_. Mildly caffeinated."

Kirrahe pulled back, slightly. "Ah. A good thing I am not on duty, then." He sipped again, still with caution, and then asked, "Is there an occasion of which I am unaware, Narayana?"

"You're here," she told him, lightly, taking a seat on the low chair opposite him. "That _is_ an occasion." She paused. "I've missed you," Nara told him, forthrightly. "Didn't realize all the things you did to make my life not just safer—safer was the _job_—but more pleasant. Didn't realize how often you made it _easy_ for me to study, or given advice when I've asked questions. Why, you even gave me Yana. . . and she's. . . enriched me." Nara paused. "And I don't think I've ever properly thanked you for any of that. So, thank you."

Kirrahe glanced around, uneasily. Yana had been a project that had made senior Spectres _highly_ uneasy, and, while they'd all agreed that it would be unethical to shut her down, no one had been able to agree what would be best to do with her. When Nara and Yana had agreed to merge into one entity, half of the Spectres had sighed in relief. . . and the other half, Kirrahe included, had been _petrified_ about the consequences to Nara herself. There had, apparently, been few, besides making Nara even more driven to succeed than she'd already been. "No thanks required," he told Nara now, cheerfully. "Part of the job."

"No. You've done things far in excess of the job. Never improperly. Never unethically. You always treated Yana as if she were your own child. Always had time for her. When I was on . . . Liara's ship," (and she knew far more now, than she had at the time; she _knew_ what the Shadow Broker was, now) "when my family and I had to go into hiding? You took the time to talk to me, so that I wasn't alone part of every day, with nothing but the VI to talk to. You didn't have to do that for a child, when you were only ten or eleven, yourself, but you did."

"Only other salarian there. Only other person awake twenty-three hours of the day. Was a little lonely, myself. On Omega mission, spent much time talking to Cohort. Well, _at_ Cohort. Geth Spectre not inclined to social chattering." Kirrahe sipped at the odd, thick, red drink again. It really was surprisingly tasty, and the bugs had been milled down to the consistency of red flour, so it wasn't even gritty. Sort of like. . . warm pudding, or mud, yes.

Narayana nodded, her wide eyes expressive. "That was then," she said, looking into her own cup, and crossing her legs, as a human female might. Body-language picked up from Ellie, possibly even Dara, over the years. "Then, I think I hero-worshipped you a little. You were like my father had been; you were a _Spectre_. I apologize if I ever embarrassed you."

"No, no! Not at all!" Kirrahe assured her,

"Good. I'm really glad of that. It would interfere in the worst possible way." Nara's smile turned pert, but there was a trace of self-consciousness there, too.

"Interfere with what?" Kirrahe asked, suddenly a little uneasy. There was something about her tone that suggested that she was carrying unstable nitroglycerin, somewhere on her person.

"An experiment I would like to perform with you. It's for my thesis project."

Reassured, Kirrahe exhaled. _Surely, just over-active imagination._ "Certainly! Would be glad to help! What sort of experiment?"

"Behavioral sciences. Determining which responses are physiological, and which are social. Take off your clothes."

The mug fell out of Kirrahe's hand, and shattered on the floor, bleeding red _everywhere_. "What?" he asked, numbly.

"I said," Narayana told him, patiently, not using the command-imperative at all, but an upwards-scaling nervous note in her voice, "take off your clothes. We can't possibly do this with clothing _on_. I've researched this."

Kirrahe's brain, while hyperactively fast, even for a salarian, had been left somewhere back at the pass. "I. . . ah. . . let me clean up this mess. . . need a sponge, maybe gloves. . . " As he scrambled to the kitchenette to get the items required, the rest of his brain caught up. ". . . patient gown, perhaps? Laboratory? Don't see testing equipment. No electrodes, no sensors, no EEG machines, can't possibly be testing for—"

Nara took the rag out of his hands and started cleaning the floor herself, pragmatically. "Good thing I never got around to putting a rug in here," she said, swabbing up the red mass. "No, none of that equipment would be required." Now, simply because his reaction was so. . . jittery. . . she started to get even more nervous, herself. The speed of her words increased. "Thesis intended to resolve whether lack of salarian interest in sex is cultural or truly physiological."

Kirrahe actually backed up two long steps. The _only_ thing he could think, at the moment, was that Lantar Sidonis had placed him in a position of trust with Narayana. And that Lantar carried a very _sharp_ wedding-knife. Admittedly, that position of trust had ended six months ago. More, actually. "Ah," Kirrahe said, stalling for time as his mind raced. "Probably inappropriate—"

"You will agree, I _am_ an adult, yes? Working on my medical degree? Able to make my own choices? Of age for four years already? Propriety is not at issue."

"Have not established any breeding-contracts, highly irregular." Kirrahe's eyes were still wide. "Sexual contact results in _progeny_, Narayana. You are not finished with medical school. Do not have a clan who can care for them. Salarian broods can contain up to fifty tadpoles at a time. _Must_ be regulated and managed, by the whole clan. _That_ is why there are so few dalatrasses. Otherwise, _yes_, would have overrun Sur'Kesh, the way krogan overran Tuchanka."

"Not interested in a sociology lecture at the moment!" Narayana's words tumbled over each other, and she bit her lips, upset with herself, and tossed the red-stained rag into the sink. "Not interested in having progeny—not yet, anyway. Have to be secure, stable. But _do_ have a clan, if Lantar would _let_ me access them. Dozens of Lystheni left. Can revitalize them. Move them into new thoughts, new philosophies, but only if they see me being a _dalatrass_, and most of them do not _see_ that in me. Because I am who I am, and I am not anyone's mother, much less a mother-of-all." Rapid-fire words, blurted out as fast as she could think them. Arguing, in turian mode, but at salarian speed. "Beside the point. Don't want them right now. _Do_ want you."

Kirrahe backpedaled again, shaking his head. "Suspect emotional attachment is clouding your judgment. Only natural. You were fond of me when you were younger. Only available salarian male who isn't subject to another dalatrass, unthreatening. Still not appropriate—"

Narayana exhaled, sharply. "You have been gone for six months. Enough time to ensure perspective on childhood crush. Not a crush. Affection. Companionship. Love. Loyalty. Yes, some is from Yana—don't _speak_ yet—but most is from me. Lots of time to think about this. Course load currently nowhere near as bad as it was for dual degree program. Have _also_ been around plenty of other male salarians. Some relatives. Soril Erev. Mordin Alesh. Non-relatives, on Luisa, and many, many in medical school here on Bastion. Not interesting to me. _You_ are interesting. Can imagine arguing with you and spending time with you until we're both near forty."

"Arguing. . . spending time. . . sounds. . . turian. . . " Kirrahe had stopped backing up, but he was still desperately uneasy. Their power dynamic had almost always tipped back and forth. He'd been the Spectre tasked with protecting her, but she'd been the incipient dalatrass who had put the command-voice in his head, to help him resist other dalatrasses. And now, she was much more.

"Maybe. Or human." Narayana still hadn't used the command-imperative on him, but she edged closer now. "I'm sorry I startled you. I just didn't know how else to say it. Turian-blunt seemed easier than human-romantic. Also, substantially less ridiculous sounding." She paused. "I can start over. Compare your eyes to a summer's day?"

Kirrahe stared at her, for a long moment, and started to laugh. Nara took the few moments while he was off-guard to close ground on him, and, very lightly, put her hands on his shoulders. "Oh, so humor works," she said. "I will take notes. Did you hear the one about the volus and the mercuric chloride?"

Kirrahe chortled a few more times, and looked up at her. "Occurs to me, your methodology is flawed. You would be relying on anecdotal evidence. No control group? Unreplicable results. Will not be considered peer-reviewable."

"Bulk of the thesis will be a review of other literature on the topic," Nara told him, lightly, and ran a finger along the side of his face, her eyes curious. "Experimental subjects will have their names replaced by letters. Which do you prefer? A? K? O? Z?" She leaned in and rubbed her face against his, and Kirrahe stood completely still, having absolutely _no_ idea what to do with this. He'd never been requested for a breeding contract before. His house's dalatrass was. . . significantly displeased with him, for not having turned over Narayana to him when the female had first left for Earth. He'd never even told Narayana about that.

"Perhaps. . . should go slowly?" Kirrahe offered, one last ditch attempt to preserve honor.

"We're _salarian_," Nara reminded him. Then she paused. "Actually. . . if it helps, you can remind yourself that I'm not _entirely_ salarian. Thanks to Lantar and Ellie, I'm culturally human-turian-salarian, and thanks to you, I'm a little bit Reaper." Nara grinned at him. "It might explain my desire to experiment on you."

"Oh, by the Wheel, that was . . . actually not funny. . . "

Nara nuzzled her face against his again. "Now, what I need you to do, is to tell me if things are better _this _way. . . or _that_ way. I will be taking notes."

"You have a datapad and a stylus ready for this?" Kirrahe asked.

"Automatic voice recording."

"No!"

"I wouldn't let anyone have the unedited copy!"

"Notes will do just fine! You have no idea what people do with recordings."

"Actually, Yana has a very good idea. She did grow up on the extranet, after all."

"Oh, by the _Wheel_. . . " He paused. Just pure _contact_ with her felt surprisingly good. "Not in the pool. You'll. . . you'll be much more likely to lay eggs if we're in the water."

"I know. I did my research. Kirrahe. . . _Orlan_. . . please relax. I do want this. And if you really, really don't want to. . . you can go out the door. I won't stop you. I won't use the rude voice on you."

Kirrahe's hands stole out, and, very tentatively, her wrapped his arms around her, as he'd seen vids of humans doing with their mates. "Like this?" he asked. His mind was processing data as fast as it ever had in his entire life.

It required a little. . . figuring out. A certain amount of trial and error. Determining things that made Narayana feel good that did _not_ result in the release of eggs. . . that was a very fine line to walk, for a while. Then, Nara talked with her thesis advisor, a human female whose eyes, to put it mildly, bugged out at the topic, and, once she stopped laughing, offered a prescription of a medication designed to slow egg production in salarian females who were considered. . . undesirable mating assets. Nara did the research to ensure that she wouldn't see long-term side effects, like permanent sterility, and took the medication. Kirrahe was on and off the station, off doing Spectre work now—_real_ Spectre work, as Nara called it. . . and so, he was off-station when her thesis, a year later, was published. The topic matter was fairly dry, other than the last two sections, but a wily publisher had caught wind of it, and entered into an agreement with Narayana to repackage it, three months later, under a different title.

_Sociological Parameters that Create Physiological Reactions: Towards a re-assessment of salarian sexuality and sensuality_ thus, became, _The Joy of Salarian Sex._

It also sold five million copies in its first _week_.

In it, Narayana also made the recommendation that more research was needed on salarian un-fertility drugs. Ones that would not prevent egg development, but would limit clutch sizes to a more manageable three or four eggs, as opposed to fifty or more. This would allow individual couples to care for children, as opposed to retaining a 'servant class' of male drones, and would allow males and females to enter a new era of relative equality.

The book created _shockwaves_ throughout salarian society. Any number of _respectable_ dalatrasses condemned it in no uncertain terms. Nara's publisher, however, reported that sales inside salarian space were _brisk_.

"Congratulations," Dara said by comm link three days into the firestorm of controversy. "My first paper only got theoretical brickbats heaved at me. Yours is getting you death threats. You win?"

"I think it is possible that your SRY-research still has you ahead by the numbers."

"Probably. The more so since that's on-going, and asari adapt much more slowly than salarians do. I foresee interesting times, Nara. Very interesting times, indeed."

"Isn't that a Chinese curse?"

"Yes, but who'd want to live in boring ones." Dara paused. "Oh, and you should be expecting a call from Lantar. He and Ellie read your book. Well, most of it."

"Oh." Narayana couldn't really flush, but she gave it her best shot. "I didn't think they would."

"I made sure they got a copy of the one with the _thesis_ title, not the 'sell lots of copies' title."

Nara considered that. "Thank you?"

"Don't mention it." The human female grinned at her merrily, and logged off.

And about ten days after that, Narayana received her promised call from Lantar, who looked. . . exceedingly uncomfortable. "Hello?" she asked. She'd just finished off her intern shift at the med-bay, thirty-six straight hours, and was feeling moderately in need of a short nap. She tossed her lab coat at the back of the nearest chair. "Is something wrong, Lantar?" She'd never called him Father, or Daddy; that was, and always would be, Mordin Solus.

"I. . . don't really know how to have this conversation with you," Lantar admitted. "Kirrahe Orlan came to me today and asked what the protocol was for entering into a . . . 'permanent breeding-contract' among turians. I asked him if this had anything to do with the _book_. . . " Lantar scowled, "and he said, yes. I said there were _marriage_-contracts among turians, but I don't know a damn thing about salarian breeding-contracts, and he said, and I quote, 'one of those would do nicely, since I think Narayana will probably tell me to ask you for one at some point anyway." Lantar drummed his talons on the table in front of him, on-screen. "At this point, my head hurts. Do you want to marry him, or what?"

"Well. . . yes. I think I've made my intentions abundantly clear. Besides, now that I'm only interning, this is probably as good a chance as any to start our family. I will, however, need more help than just Soril Erev and the others for that." She saw his expression change, and added, hastily, "I could have fifty eggs at once! And I strongly think half of them should be girls. That'll require some care—"

Nara saw something she'd never thought to see. Lantar Sidonis, very slowly, put his head down on the desk, and rapped it there, emphatically. Just once. "Why did I _ever_ think this was a good idea?' he said, in a muffled tone, and then raised his head. "You'd think the human-rachni-asari grandchildren would be enough, but no, I _have_ to stay ahead of Jaworski, somehow, don't I?"

Narayana stared at him. "I. . . have no idea what you mean. . . ."

"Don't ask. Just. . . don't."

Six months later, when Kirrahe and Narayana's first clutch hatched on Mindoir, and Lantar caught the first tadpole as it swam right into his big, clawed hand, he did, however, seem suitably reconciled to them. And a year later, when the entire crèche went to pre-school, all of them wearing violet Sidonis paint. . . to learn alongside Dara and Eli's children. . . Lantar might have been forgiven the hugely amused smile he wore in the 'first day of school' family picture that year.


	161. Epilogue 4: And the Years Pass Away

**Epilogue 4: And the Years Pass Away**

**Palaven, Dacia Prefacture Boot Camp Facility, 2203**

"_I suppose you think you're special, Vakarian?"_

Kaius Vakarian looked straight ahead. _"No, drill centurion."_

He had a pretty good idea of how to handle this, at least, by this, the end of the first week. His father and his various uncles had run a mini boot-camp for him, and spirits, Madison Dempsey had come back from Earth on vacation and participated; the human Academy started off with a six-week mini-boot camp, anyway, so he knew the drill from the human side. It had helped, but only a little; Kaius, like most of the other Mindoir hybrids, had rarely been off-base, let alone off-planet, and rarely far from his parents before. Boot-camp was thus an _eye-opening_ experience for him. He was getting hit from every damned direction. He was the first human-turian hybrid ever _born_, and he was a biotic, in a military service that distrusted and highly controlled their biotics. Hell, the Praetorians hadn't included a single biotic in their ranks until five years ago, when a failed turian Spectre candidate was recommended by Lilitu Shepard to them . . . and they'd accepted her.

The centurion ordered pushups, arbitrarily, and mostly because they were in the phase of boot-camp that meant that everyone needed a 'taste' of punishment, mostly for being alive, young, and breathing. It was the 'breaking' phase. Kaius actually didn't mind this. At all. It meant that the centurions were around, and had their eyes on everything. As soon as the centurions left, however, it turned into the law of the spirits-be-damned jungle around him, and half his barracks mates had decided that, being half-human, he must be the weak link. He'd opted for a nest on the floor, and nevermind that it was bruisingly uncomfortable on his soft human skin; as it was, one of his barracks-mates had been tipped out of the hammock above him in the first week to land on him in his sleep. Two broken ribs and a concussion, and no one in his room had confessed to it, though he could see all of them looking away. The other three, besides him and the female tipped out of the hammock, had all been put on punishment, because none of them would confess or tell who'd done it. The spirit of the unit, Kaius thought, grimly, but applied the _wrong damned way_.

He'd been offered a chance to sit out of sparring that week. He'd refused. He might get re-concussed, which would be dangerous, but this was essentially his chance to demonstrate that anyone who came after him had probably better do it when his back was turned or when he was asleep . . . and that he'd take it out of their hides if they did.

It didn't help that scales were a hell of a lot tougher than skin. It didn't help that he was actually just entering the late-onset human growth spurt, and was thus still only an inch under six feet—but he'd probably _keep_ growing for the next year or so—and all his opponents were six inches or more taller than he was. That being said, he'd been training with his parents and his parents' colleagues for over ten years at this point. He was _used_ to everyone being taller than he was. Cousins Rel and Rinus had actually trained the children's classes on their knees, when they were available, just to make it a little fairer. And Kaius had left the children's classes four years ago for the adult ones, and had pushed himself fairly hard.

He knew he had a lot to live up to.

The ferocity of the first couple of attacks from Menus Tervius took him off-guard. Apparently, his various barracks-mates thought they needed to prove something. There were hissed taunts of _half-breed_, _weakling_, and _I heard your mother fucked a krogan once_—the last actually took him so off-guard that he actually _laughed_ and took a fist in the mouth for it. Kaius staggered backwards, caught himself before he could fall, and focused. There was a stinging pain in his lips, and his chin was warm, but he didn't have time to look into it at the moment. Now all he could do was focus. Block out the hissing whispers about _Uncle Wrex_, for the spirits' sakes, and move in on his attacker.

Now that he was paying proper attention, he was surprised that the other male had tagged him. Most of Tervius' attacks were. . . _slow_. Even at sparring speed, all of his instructors on Mindoir had been faster than his fellow recruits. _Well, no. Not faster __Smoother__, like Sam and Lantar like to say. Speed comes from fluidity. Concentrate on doing it smoothly, and speed will take care of itself._

A savage roundkick came in, aimed at his head, and Kaius, contrary to all the expectations of turian kickboxing, moved _into_ it. Caught the angled knee with a hand to each side, redirecting the force, and let the ankle slam into the side of his neck. . .but before the kick reached its full extension, fully _snapped_. And, from the slight crouch, Kaius lifted _up_, still carrying Tespius' ankle on his shoulder, forcing the knee joint to destabilize, arching the male's back. . . met the yellow-green gaze of the male in the Baetika paint. . . and brought both of his hand, ridge-sides, into that vulnerable knee joint. "Consider your knee broken," Kaius told him, dryly, and then kicked the stabilizing knee out, for good measure.

Kaius walked away, and happened to look down at the mats, and saw red splatters of his own blood. He suddenly realized how wet and hot his chin was, and swiped a hand across it, winging at the sting; apparently, the punch, previously, had driven a couple of his teeth through his lower lip. A cautious probe with his tongue revealed that two of his front teeth had actually broken, and were still embedded in his lip. Kaius carefully picked those free, sent a quick, grateful thought to wherever the ghost of Mordin Solus might reside, that his teeth were turian-based, and _would_ grow back in, and accepted a towel to mop himself and the mats up in between rounds. "_Are you sure you wish to continue?" _one of the drill centurions asked.

"_Of course. This will take a couple of stitches, but I can go to the dispensary afterwards."_

The centurion hesitated. "_They __will__ be targeting it,"_ the female said, quietly.

"_I know."_

Kaius hadn't actually taken his shirt off till this point; most of the males here fought bare-chested, but he hadn't really felt like dealing with scale scrapes and the like, but now his long-sleeved workout shirt was rather blood-splattered. No need to advertise weakness. So he stripped it off for the next round. . . revealing the scarred left forearm. Scarred, from where a turian extremist's bullet had gone right through it last year, shattering the bone. Kaius knew there was an entire section that had basically been turned into fragments, and that the base doctors had replaced it with a human cadaver bone matrix to allow his natural bone to grow back over it. . . and had wired the whole thing together with nanofilaments. It was his personal reminder now, not to back down from _anyone_.

And so, he got back to work. Ducked the punches that all somehow seemed to be targeting his injured lip, and took advantage of the predictable nature of the blows. He'd been sticking with just plain turian kickboxing at first, just the way his father and Lantar and Rinus and Rel and Uncle Allardus had taught it to him. It got him through his own barracks-mates with ease, up until Cantor Espedius, who'd been to Calleo and Facito, and had obviously only learned the fighting styles, but none of the _discipline_, the _integrity_, the _honor_ that those two preparatory schools were supposed to teach. Espedius had _probably_ been the one who'd dumped Tessia Orodnus out of her hammock and onto Kaius; he couldn't prove it, any more than he could _prove_ that Espedius had been the one who'd actually put the fresh, warm pile of steaming _s'kak_ on Kaius' tray at the mess hall, though Tespius had been the one to call Kaius out for not having _cleared his plate. _Kaius had damned near thrown up everything he'd already eaten at the smell. He still had no idea how they'd smuggled the feces to the table, but he suspected some poor cafeteria worker had likely found a plastic container, quickly kicked to the far end of the tables by many willing feet.

Turian kickboxing wasn't going to do him any good against Espedius. The male had six inches on him, and a good four years in the same style, taught by experts. _Time to change this up_, Kaius thought, and shifted styles.

It was becoming known, the galaxy over, as either _Spectre_ style, or _Mindoir Mixed_. No more hiding where the main Spectre base was, now that there were other bases nestled on other planets. And Mindoir Mixed had gotten only nastier over the years. More refined. Sam Jaworski still taught _wing chun_ and _ba gua_ and _muay thai_ to anyone who was interested. Ylara still taught basic asari styles. Zhasa'Maedan and a new quarian Spectre, Arash'Veza, taught _meela'helai._ And now that Laessia, the last master of the Wind that Bends the Reed was _living_ on base, and was teaching upper forms—the incredible frightening sword of biotic power called the Reed, to Samiel—she and Samiel were _also_ teaching the lower-tier fighting style to those that they considered trustworthy. Sam and Lantar had spent the last five years, solidly, working on non-biotic defenses against it. And after the kidnapping, Samiel had taken Kaius aside, still in the middle of break-through, and promised to teach him some of the art, if he were willing to be . . . discreet. . . in its use for the time being. To use his biotics solely on his own body, in boot camp, for example, where the use of biotics against others was prohibited. "Don't be flashy. Don't show it off," Samiel had warned. "Same guidelines I gave Sisu."

"Yes," Kaius had agreed, without hesitation. His only regret was that Amara was so steeped in her biotics training that she had only really attended the training to watch. She had plenty of self-defense training. . . not that it had done _either_ of them any good in the last kidnapping attempt. . . and he had the feeling that the words _never again_ were emblazoned in his twin's mind, just as vividly as in his own.

And so, Kaius used a little bit of everything against Espedius. He used the speed and grace of the asari forms that let him flow away from damage, light as a feather in the wind. He used the powerful hip-shifts of human _ba gua_ add to his punching force and speed. He used a couple of elbow strikes and shin kicks that Eli had taught him, from _muay thai_, and then, with a mental apology to Samiel for _showing off_, made his point, becoming a blur of biotically-enhanced speed. A dozen, two dozen strikes, and Espedius couldn't react fast enough. Couldn't _turn_ fast enough, as Kaius blended the circle-walking of _ba gua_ with the preternatural speed of the Wind, raining blows on him from beside, behind, around to the other side, ending by sweeping the male's feet out from under him and pulling the following axe-kick that would have planted a heel in his throat an inch from the target.

He looked down, and met Espedius' eyes, and didn't smile. Didn't smirk. Didn't change expression at _all_.

And then turned and walked away. He'd made his point. He hadn't actually _damaged_ any of his barracks-mates, but there was no doubt in anyone's minds that he could have killed absolutely every one of them, if he'd chosen to do so.

Espedius rolled to his feet. _"He used __biotics__! That __freak__ used biotics, and that's against the regulations—"_

"_I didn't use my biotics on __you__,"_ Kaius returned, not turning his head. _"I didn't pin you to the ceiling. I didn't warp the scales off your hide and leave you a bleeding mass on the floor. I didn't break your neck. I didn't reverse my personal gravity, drag you to the ceiling with me, and drop you from fifty feet."_ Now, he _did_ turn his head, and looked the male right in the eye. _"What I did do, was increase the speed with which I moved, much in the way a vanguard charges, but more localized, while retaining a kinetic barrier around my hands to protect them. If any of the punches hadn't been pulled, I would have broken your jaw. Potentially, I could have punched through into your brain cavity. If the kinetic barrier hadn't been there to absorb the force, I also probably would have broken every bone in my hands."_ His tone was absolutely clinical. "_I have been carefully trained in how __not__ to do so."_

Kaius turned and lowered his head to the drill centurions. _"I await whatever my punishment is."_

Two hours later, he was still waiting. He was in the outer office of the full _legate_, an O7, who was in charge of the 10,000 recruits here at the Dacia facility, and, while the medics had sutured his lip and slathered it with medigel to prevent scarring, they'd had to pull the two broken teeth. It was one thing when a tooth wore out and fell out on its own. Not comfortable, but not painful. Irritating, more than anything. Having them pulled? _Futarri hurt_, and Kaius was trying to decide whether the numbing agents, which made him lisp and mumble through an already swollen lip, were more hindrance than help, or not. He'd also been standing for two damned hours, with the same broken ribs, an aggravated concussion, and the aforementioned cut and bruised lip, more or less at attention, while the legate and his various staff members conferred, quietly, in the inner office. He knew Espedius had already been seen, but either the male had already been let out, or was _still_ in there.

Finally, the door opened. "_Vakarian? Come in. The legate will see you now."_

Kaius didn't change expressions, but he was, very faintly, relieved, to see that Espedius wasn't there. The legate, a bare-faced turian with several rows of ribbons on his black uniform, looked up from his desk as Kaius entered. "_Vakarian. Well, we knew there were going to be issues revolving around you, but we didn't expect them to come to a head in the first __week__."_ His expression was a mix of amusement, chagrin, and annoyance, unmasked. _"Before I decide what to do with you, I'd like to hear, in your own words, exactly why you decided that this. . . very public display. . . was necessary."_

Kaius grimaced, and then tried not to wince. Apparently, the numbing agents were wearing off. Expressions _hurt_. _"In short, sir? I was made well aware before I came here of various. . . incidents. . . that have befallen previous recruits from my homeworld. While I have been informed that the incidents involving human recruits have fallen off substantially, I was also informed that I might have to establish dominance early and possibly often, in order to secure a good night's rest for myself." _Kaius was doing his best to keep his tone level, steady, and calm. His father's advice had been to know the regs inside and out and what they _meant_ before he even left home. His mother's advice had been to stand up for himself, and not to let anyone else around him get bullied, either. Uncle Eli, Aunt Dara, and cousin Rel—Kaius had long since given up trying to figure out the precise relationships of those around him, and what degree of 'cousin' anyone was, and defaulted to _uncle_ and _aunt_ for half the Spectres on base—had told him their boot camp stories. All three of them had had to deal with hazing. And all three of them had, rather grimly, told him that they didn't envy him in the least, because he was going to have every ounce of scrutiny they'd had. . . and more. They'd been. . .relatives and protégées of Garrus Vakarian and Lilitu Shepard. Eli had been the adopted son of a turian Spectre who happened to be Garrus Vakarian's best friend, his _sangua'fradu_, for god's sake. But none of them had been the _first-son_ of the legendary pair. None of them had been a full human-turian hybrid.

The legate sighed. Kaius could read it in his eyes: the male knew _exactly_ how true the younger male's words were. But he was bound by the regulations. _"The drill centurions have made me aware of some . . . problems in your barracks situation. Their recommendation was to allow you to show your teeth and resolve it yourself, if you could. You appear to have begun that process, but I very much doubt if the method you selected will result in any restful nights, Vakarian."_

Kaius looked past the male's shoulder, stolidly. He knew he'd made _perfect_ marks in the bookwork this week. He knew he'd already scored higher than anyone else in his squad at marksmanship. And the sparring _should_ have pushed him to squad leader for next week. . . assuming they didn't disqualify him for having used his biotics. He could have beaten Espedius without them. He'd made that very clear before he'd moved in with his powers activated. If he got to retain his full ranking, and held onto squad leadership next week. . . he could re-arrange the damned barracks. Put people on watch when he was asleep, whom he could more or less trust, or at least, people who were indifferent to him, rather than actively hostile.

"_You have nothing to say to that?"_

"_I did not know if I were permitted to respond, sir."_

"_Speak freely."_

Kaius hesitated. That sounded like an excellent method by which to hang himself. _"I have been told, sir, that the only way in which to improve one's judgment, is to exercise it."_

"_A pithy platitude. Are you satisfied with your decision-making today?"_

Kaius hesitated. _ I don't know_ were three forbidden words. _"Not yet, sir. I . . . can't know if they were good or bad decisions until I see the results. The ramifications."_

The legate studied him for a very long moment, his golden eyes eagle-blank, the stare of a predator. Kaius shifted his eyes slightly, and met the gaze. Held it. _"I shall be watching your tenure here with interest, Vakarian_," the legate finally said, and again, Kaius had to suppress a wince. _Interest_ was probably a bad keyword. _"You'll serve an extra watch each day for the next ten-day period, for having used your biotics in sparring. This is the __minimum__ punishment I can set—and yes, I'm aware that you did not use them on your opponent, and, having reviewed the vid feed, I'm fully aware that you could have beaten him without the use of your. . . innate powers."_ There was a hint of distaste in the legate's voice. "_However, the regulations are the regulations."_

"_Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."_ Kaius actually was grateful. The legate _hadn't_ made mention of the squad leadership position, and Kaius didn't _dare_ ask.

"_There has been another. . . slight incident. . . on the other side of the barracks. Normally, we wouldn't move any of the parties involved, but this is a special occasion. As such, Espedius is being moved out of your barracks, and a different recruit is being moved in. I trust you will treat this new recruit fairly and equitably. . . squad leader."_

Kaius tried not to let his relief show on his face, but couldn't help the exhalation. _"Yes, sir."_

He made his way, wearily, back to the barracks. Every bruised muscle was starting to _scream_, and he had probably five minutes in which to shower before he was going to have to start his punishment stint of extra guard duty in the corridor. No time to soak under hot water. And god and the spirits only _knew_ what sort of disciplinary _s'kak_-head he was about to receive in Espedius' place.

Still damp, and his one clean shirt sticking to him uncomfortably, Kaius walked into the barracks, gritting his teeth. Met the eyes of the people who were his current barracks-mates, and knelt beside his nest roll for a minute or so, trying to get his mind to stop _spinning_.

The door opened, and he looked up in mild dread. . . and saw a bare-faced turian male standing in the corridor. Violet eyes, and very familiar features. All of his remaining barracks-mates were Palaven natives, and looked up, saw the face bare of paint, and stiffened a little. . . but didn't snap to attention. Kaius, however, stood, immediately. "_Essedarius__?"_ he offered, after a moment, with just a little extra emphasis on Aunt Kallixta's_ nom de guerre_.

"_Vakarian."_ There was a very faint hint of a grin there. _"Was wondering if you'd remember me."_ Cut-glass court accent, polished and pure. All the others were stiffening further, and Kaius could almost sense their rising concern. _Oh, so I have an ally now, and you can tell from the Complovium accent that he might be from a high-ranking family? What a concept._

"_It __has__ been a while,"_ Kaius admitted. _"The last time, I think, was the naming ceremony for my cousin's first-son. Rubixius."_

"_My fifth-sister's expecting again, isn't she?"_

"_Yes. Supposed to be a female this time, or so the doctors say."_

"_I had hoped she'd be able to be here for my graduation."_

"_If she can, she will. She's like that."_

No names. _They_ knew whom they were speaking of; the others didn't really need to do so. Severus Praesesidis, however, was taking a good, long look at Kaius' face, and his violet eyes were actually faintly angry as he tossed his bag of gear at the empty nest roll. _"Is your very pretty sister here, maybe two, three barracks over?"_ He put cheer into his voice, and essayed a hint of a smile. _"My father still thinks I should court her. He's not one for arranged marriages, given his own history, but if lightning struck, I don't think he would __object__ to her."_

"_Any number of other people in the Hierarchy would do all the objecting for him, Essedarius."_ Kaius bared his teeth, and never mind the gap there. _"Aside from which, no, she's not here. She let me come here to get my teeth kicked in, and will be attending the Alliance Naval Academy in _Annapolis_ in two years."_

Severus looked at Kaius, and grinned, outright. "_Ah. So she __is__ the smarter twin, after all?"_

"_You know it."_ Kaius touched his lower lip ruefully, noting out of the corner of his eye that Tespius, who'd administered the wound, had gone rock-still. _"So what the _hell_ got you tossed from your barracks, Essedarius?"_

"_I'm rather afraid that someone in there—a colonial, rough sort, from Macedyn—made a few uncomplimentary assertions about various of my sisters. The first few, I ignored, but when he went on to call my fifth-sister the 'bastard daughter of a whore' I . . . believe I may have broken his jaw."_ Severus looked at the ceiling. _"I'm told my lack of discipline is appalling, and that I should, by all rights, have been dismissed till the next boot-camp for a second try. However, I have been remanded into your custody. . . __squad leader__."_ Severus' expression wasn't cocky. He _didn't_ expect to get off scot-free. But he also knew that Kaius wasn't going to object—at all—to his chosen retaliation against the loudmouth in his own barracks.

Kaius considered that. _"There's better ways, Essedarius. Though, I expect they were pleased to see you using your teeth."_

"_My father did rather train me harder than some of my other siblings. Making up for lost time, I suspect."_

Kaius grimaced. That was a whole kettle of fish he was not going to _touch_. _"I'm going to work you till you drop,"_ he warned.

"_Wouldn't have it any other way. Besides. It's traditional, isn't it?" _Severus looked around the room. _"I probably don't have to say this, but this male is kin to me. He's also my squad-leader, for the moment—"_ Severus gave Kaius a fierce grin that suggested he was planning on trying to vie for that honor,_ "—and I shall take it very much amiss if anyone does not offer him proper respect and courtesy."_ He paused. _"Though I have to doubt the sanity of anyone who'd try to pull Vakarian's teeth. Did the last one in here not __watch__ the coverage of the hostage situation last year?"_

"_Some people don't watch newsfeeds."_ Kaius shrugged.

"_You killed the male who was about to shoot Caelia Sidonis. You took a bullet in the arm saving her life, and you killed him. Threw him into a wall so hard you shattered his skull, if I remember the full reports correctly."_ Severus folded his arms across his chest. _"Anyone who decides to antagonize you? Has a death-wish, in my opinion."_

"_And now you're just cozying up so you can be my second?"_ Kaius said, baring his teeth in return.

"_Not at all. I'll __earn__ it by next week, squad leader. Wait and see."_ Severus' grin brimmed with confidence.

"_Oh, we'll see, all right. And now, I have a watch to go stand. If you'll excuse me?"_

Boot-camp went _much_ better after that. Severus hadn't been joking about the amount of training his father and step-mother had dropped on him in the past four years, since their marriage; the Imperator and his _low-born_, _colonial_ Imperatrix had been . . . quite emphatic about making sure the two youngest sons from his first marriage, Vibius and Severus, were prepared to do more than entering logistics, accounting, or morale services. Vibius had actually just finished his first tour, and had spent all of them as a gunner on a non-SR frigate and then on a _Leviathan_; Severus didn't say what his hopes were, but Kaius could definitely tell that his old family acquaintance had his eye set on something.

And when their letters came from home, understandably, they only read brief excerpts to the others. But they'd trade datapads quickly in the few minutes before lights out, every now and again,

_Kaius—_

_You've been gone six weeks now, and the house still feels. . . oddly empty. Alain and Elissa are driving me crazy. It's been a year since the kidnapping, and Elissa still climbs into bed with me every night. She can't fall asleep without knowing I'm here and okay. Spirits only know what she's going to do in two years when I do leave. Alain's still moping around in the room you used to share with him. He claims to like having the extra space, but I don't think I've caught him on your side yet, and all the shelves are still empty. He won't even unpack the things you gave him. He says that it's your stuff, and he's not touching it till you come home. I've tried convincing him that when you come home in a year, or two, or four, you're probably not going to want to goof around with those Spectre action figures Aunt Liara gave us all for Christmas years ago, and that he should play with them if he wants to. Nothing doing. Those are Kaius' things. Oh, well, if they're ever collector items, I guess they'll be in good condition?_

_Things around here are hopping. You know those all-crystal creatures that the __Clavus__ and the __Sollostra_ _found out past the locked relays a couple of years ago? One of their larvae has come to "observe" on base. He. . . okay, it, they're totally asexual, but his mental voice sounds __male__ to me, so that's what I'm going with, since it seems rude to call him an __it__, like he's a thing. . . looks sort of like a large worm. Except, transparent. Crystalline looking. With fronds. And he can extrude pseudopods when he needs to manipulate something in his environment. The adults are all totally sessile, and live in huge reefs. They're __all__ biotic, and all totally different from how biotics in our neck of the galaxy use their powers. I figured you'd remember them, because they're the second dominant form of life on the world from which the Titans took thresher maws. Yeah. I'm sending some pictures to M. for any work he might want to do with them. I mean, his paper's already done, and his and Aunt D's names are on it, but I bet he's still at least a little interested. Anyhow, the little guy doesn't have a name. He says he wouldn't get one until he became sessile, and he's not ready to. . .hah! . . . set down roots yet. Friendly, and curious, and always asking questions. Mostly "Why do you do that? Why don't you absorb sunlight? Why do you eat other plants and animals, instead of absorbing hydrocarbons from the ground and air?" Yeah. I've been. . . a little busy talking to him. I really think he needs a name, though._

_Let's see, what else is happening. . . oh! Nara's working on a big project with Aunt D. They're putting together a template for Cousin R and S's first child. D says it shouldn't be too hard. Both warm blooded, lizards and birds aren't that far apart, anatomically speaking, both hemecyanic blooded. . . biggest thing is deciding on body morphology and the levo-dextro balance. She's basically having the offspring be able to metabolize almost anything from both species, and Nara's working out the kinks in that. Then D says she'll probably use the turian frame and immune system, turian scales for the radiation resistance, drell muscle fibers, but turian muscle insertion points on the existing bones. . . largely the turian digestive and endocrine system, however, but she's hoping to retain the drell ability to extract all the water from what they eat. Apparently, they've got over ninety-five percent water efficiency. So, drell kidneys for blood filtration, and everything should just shunt out the cloaca, just as with turians. That's the most sensitive bit. I asked her what kind of eyes the kids will have, and if their skins will make people hallucinate, and she said she thought she'd probably give them drell eyes, with the nictitating membranes, but still in the deep-set protection of the turian skull. She doesn't think the alkaloid secreting glands will show up among the turian scales, but there's no way to tell how the fetus and S's body will interact during actual gestation. I asked her how many fingers and if they'd have mandibles, and I think she almost gave me a finger-flick for the question. All I got after that was "vestigial mandibles and two fingers, one thumb, just like the rest of the turian frame, and why are you of all people this interested in this?"_

"_Because I am designed," I told her, and she made a face, and said, "Yeah, not just a happy accident like me," and then she laughed._

_I think it's actually disturbing Caelia a bit, though. Well, not that Cousin R. and S. are having a child. It's more that. . . she and Nara started preschool together. And now Nara's a full doctor, she's working in the base biolabs on trying to disentangle the Aeseti from the machine and nanite parts that. . . okay, well, you know what I mean. She's putting together hybrids, carrying on her father's work. She and K are having a clutch of their own—apparently, the first run 'anti-fertility' drug she was trying didn't work very well, because they're having fifty this time, half of them daughters!—and Caelia doesn't know where Nara went. And she's been very quiet since, well, the kidnapping last year, too. Plus, I think she misses you. At any rate, she's been spending almost every weekend at the firing range with Uncle LS, and he's pretty proud of his first-daughter. Calls her a huntress all the time, because she's turning into such a good shot. He and Uncle SJ are talking about taking their families on a hunting trip deep into the wilderness later this year. Caelia's excited about that, at least. About the only thing that's bringing her out of her funk. I don't like seeing her like this. Her violet goes all dark and subdued. Almost ashy. _

_Changing the subject now. Hmm. What else is going on? You should know that Uncle LP and Aunt SP. . . well, you should know that they had their first daughter two weeks ago. They're calling her Viatrixia Elizabeth. Yes, they gave her a human second-name, for Aunt D. __Sangua'amilae__ and __sangua'fradae__, apparently forever. How do you like __that__? Mom and Dad had a pretty bad scare two days ago. . . someone damned near blew up a bunker on KS that had, well, Uncle V in it. Fortunately, he'd gotten wind of it, __somehow__, and got out before the bomb went off. Lots of rumors that the Hegemony has Reaper tech. Nothing you can't see on the newsfeeds, so you know I'm not being indiscreet here. Lexine Elders just ran a special on Hegemony fighting the Allied Batarian Territories, and their new shock troops. . . which kind of look like husks. She even asked Alisav K'sar, right there on camera, what would happen if Reaper nanites were used on a living body. He didn't answer. He didn't even say 'I don't know' or do a geth imitation and say 'no data available.'_

_Oh, and check this out. I heard a rumor he was going to marry a human woman. Go figure. I wonder if Aunt D and Nara will give their kids four eyes or two?_

_That's all I've got for now. Love you, first-brother. Hang in there._

—_Amara_

Kaius read it all. Avidly. He was homesick in the worst possible way for what the rachni loved to call the _planet of violet skies_. He hated having to wear a rad suit to go outside, and while Palaven was lush and beautiful, he had human skin, and was sweating to the point of dehydration every day here. His mammalian body fat reserves were always scanty, but he suspected he was at less than 2% body fat at this point, which was probably not entirely healthy for him. The daily runs, well. . . he'd been in training for them for over a year. They were punishing, but not debilitating. No, what he missed, more than anything, were the people. Familiar faces. Almost a dozen species on base, plus all the hybrids, not just turian faces everywhere. Rachni song, bubbling at the back of his mind.

Severus occasionally asked him questions about growing up on base, and the others, whom Kaius and he had hand-picked to reside in their barracks, as they continually vied for squad-leadership, all sort of perked up and listened. Kaius had to pick his words carefully. _"My Uncle Sam—Sam Jaworski, my father's human blood-brother?"_

"_Aren't they technically step-brothers now, too?"_ Severus asked. _"Didn't your grandfather marry Spectre Jaworski's mother?"_

Kaius flapped both hands at Severus frantically. _"Don't ask! Just, really, don't ask. I can't even explain any of it. I figure if I say 'uncle' or 'aunt' to anyone older than I am, I've got a fifty-fifty chance of being right, and if I say 'cousin' to someone my own age, it's also entirely possible that I'm correct."_

"_Except if they're quarian, right?"_ one of the new barracks-mates asked.

Kaius shook his head. _"Ah. . . no? Aunt Dara is blood-sister to Zhasa'Maedan. Uncle Eli is blood-brother to her husband, Dempsey. Never mind. It's complicated."_ He ran a hand over his forehead, back to his vestigial crest, and exhaled. _"At any rate, my uncle, Sam, started a saying. He said that Spectres see six weird things before breakfast. Aunt Dara, his daughter—"_

"_Shouldn't that make her your cousin-?"_

"_Don't ask. Please, _god_, don't ask, or we really will be here all night. __She__ said once, that she'd had her weird now, and that now she wanted her _toast._ Human food. Work with me. Now it's down to whether or not you're being given the weird with or without toast, that describes how bad any given day is. If it's weird with toast, it's a good day. If it's weird without toast. . . "_ Kaius shook his head. _"But, hey. It's never __dull__."_ He looked at Severus. They'd long since, inside the confines of this room, abandoned the pretense that Severus was anyone other than who he really was. _"I've heard a little about growing up inside the Palace—"_

"_If you've heard it's dull, that is entirely accurate. I envy you, Vakarian."_

The weeks rolled by. Every night, Kaius tumbled into his hammock—Severus had pointedly told him to take the one above his nest-roll—completely exhausted. He held onto squad leadership about fifty percent of the time; Severus actually held it, the other fifty percent. Constant competition, urging each other to do better. Severus couldn't compete at sparring, but his marksmanship was uncanny, and his problem-solving was good, and squad-management was probably better than Kaius'.

First came the preliminary MOS assignments. Kaius was trying to keep in mind what Dara had told him—spirits, what _everyone_ had told him. He was biotic, which meant, more than likely, a front-line position, but because of who he was, and who his parents were, he'd be a target. Would put the lives of those around him at risk. Severus was in precisely the same position. Kallixta was the first Imperial to serve as a combat pilot since Commodus had served in his father Subigus' army. So as everyone else ran out to look at their postings, and either cheer or grimace, as the case might be, the pair stayed in the barracks. _"Not going out there?"_ Severus asked.

"_You want to put credits on this?" _Kaius asked, dryly. _"I'm going to be in CID. It's not a bad position. Uncle Eli and Uncle Lin both went through the program. Grandfather Gavius, too. But that's about the only place they can put me."_

"_And me?"_

"_Huh. War College or General Staff. You do a lot better on the unit management stuff than I do."_

"_My marksmanship is higher than everyone's except yours. My run times are better than yours. I'm really trying not to be stuck behind the lines like . . . nine of my other siblings. And my various nephews and nieces who are, well, older than I am who've already served their four years."_

"_I knew there was a reason I liked you, Essedarius. Your family's just about as crazy as mine is."_

"_Your family is, in a way, my family. There are rumors that the genealogists are threatening to hang themselves if they have to figure out any more strange Mindoir interrelations, however."_

Kaius gave Severus a look. _"Mercuria is the NCAI daughter of Rinus and your sister."_

"_Yes. . . ?"_

"_She's damned well marked a geth, you realize."_

Severus looked at him. _"Stop talking."_

"_If the geth ever manages to figure out what that even means, they might even plight."_ Kaius went on relentlessly. _"And since all geth are one, that would make you the uncle-in-law of fourteen million some-odd geth."_

"_I surrender,"_ Severus said, raising his hands. _"Will you discuss terms? Take my weapons?"_ He grinned. _"So, CID and War College, eh? Ten credits?"_

"_What's your counterbet?"_

"_Training officer for you, spirits-be-damned Logistical Supply for me."_

Kaius winced. _"I suppose we should go look."_

They walked out together. Kaius didn't think the sudden silence and expectant whispers were all that encouraging.

Kaius had to force himself to look at the neat little spreadsheet, tacked, in old-fashioned paper, to the wall.

At the top: _Essedarius, Severus – Special Forces._

At the bottom: _Vakarian, Kaius – Biotic, Special Forces._

For a long moment, neither of them even moved. Then Kaius threw back his head and whooped with glee, a very human sound that modulated, escalated, and turned into a full turian hunt-cry of victory; his vocal cords could _just_ manage the chilling harmonics. He'd wanted this. He'd wanted, desperately, to follow in his parents' massive footsteps, but he hadn't thought he'd be _allowed_ to do so. Severus joined his voice with Kaius' after a stunned instant; he'd clearly _never_ done so before, but reached out with the side of his fist and very gently banged on the wall a couple of times, radiating pleasure. . . just as a couple of their more surprised barracks-mates joined in the whoops and howls. "_I didn't. . . I didn't think I'd __get__ this,"_ Severus admitted. _"I think. . . I'll have to check the books to be absolutely sure. . . but I could be the first front-line, ground-deployed member of my family in two thousand years. Well. . . the family has a lot of branches. I mean, of the current ruling family."_ The last was said very quietly, under the cover of all the chatter and congratulations around them.

"_I knew what you meant."_ Kaius was already very pleased. He'd done the math before coming here. Turians had a birthrate of biotics on par with, or slightly better than quarians. .0001 of the population expressed biotics. That meant, in raw numbers, that of the approximately forty billion turians in the Hierarchy, there were roughly four _million_ biotics. Two-thirds of them at any given time were either too old or too young to serve, which left 1,320,000 million to do so. Ten percent of the total turian population was on active duty at any given time (there was a _reason_ why Logistics was the largest single entity within the Hierarchy's military forces). That meant that biotics comprised 0.033% of the turian war machine. A very, very small cog.

To be in special forces was to be one in a hundred thousand; there were about forty thousand active special forces troops. The marines were a much larger cadre, of four hundred thousand, easily. Add to that _biotic_ and the numbers dropped to. . . as many as thirteen turian biotics were in special forces. Most of them were allocated to marine divisions, really. Special forces required a certain level of _trust_ in the persons accepted. Psychological testing, too. Add to that _officer_—Kaius didn't dare hope. That was one in ten thousand odds right there, and he doubted any biotic in special forces would be accepted to command non-biotics, and the turian military largely had all-biotic squads called cabals. There might not even be enough biotics in special forces for a biotic officer to _command_ them. Thirteen sounded like a . . . really small division.

So, when the officer/enlisted postings were put up before graduation, Kaius was genuinely _shocked_ to be going to OCS. So shocked, he couldn't even find his voice. And he was going to _regular_ special forces OCS, up on Dymion, not to the biotic training facility near Complovium.There was an asterisk by his name, and a note below indicating that he would be evaluated for his biotics and might get additional training before entering the Fleet.

Kaius walked around in a _daze_ that day. And, a week later, on Family Day, no one in the barracks was _particularly_ surprised as, this time, white-armored Praetorians entered and secured the entrances, and Severus' father and step-mother entered, and congratulated Ligorus' youngest child. Or when two black-clad Spectres walked in, Lilitu Shepard in full armor against the radiation, and Garrus Vakarian in his dress uniform, entered at the Imperator's heels to congratulate their first-son. . . and Amara walked in, too, in a rad suit, followed by Elissa and Alain. . . and then by Elijah, Dara, Rinus, a newly-delivered Kallixta, holding little Vassaria in her arms, Rel . . . and even Grandfather Gavius and Grandma Agnes. Kaius was wrist-clasped and hugged, and simply _drank in_ the faces and the voices. He hadn't realized how much he'd really missed them all, until they were _there_ again.

"So damned proud of you," his mom told him, and gave him a hug, running a hand over his crest, fondly. The touch of silver in her hair had grown in the past few years, and Kaius was struck by how _tired_ she looked. Apparently, carrying the galaxy around on her shoulders was . . . really wearing on her.

"_Officer and special forces_," Garrus said, with a proud smile.

"_Try not to get lost out there,"_ was Rel's advice. _"It's easy to do."_

"_I'll try not to,"_ Kaius assured him.

"_Eh, if he gets lost, we'll find him. It's what we do,"_ Eli noted.

"_And then, we'll kick his ass for him. Which is also what we do."_ That, from Rinus.

He wasn't actually sure which of their families, was getting the more bug-eyed stares, his or Severus'. Until Aunt Dara lifted her polarized mask to show the rachni blue of her eyes, and a couple of workers emerged from her pockets to chitter amiably at Kaius. "_How does it feel to be a first?"_ Dara asked him, with a slight eye roll and a grimace.

"_I'd like to say, the same as every other day, but it would kind of be a lie."_

Then, absolutely, the Spectres won. Hands-down.

Amara's voice was silent in his mind as he returned her hug. _It was that bad, Kai?_

_You're going to __hate__ four years at the Academy_, he told her grimly. _And then four years, minimum, of service, on top of it._ He passed a gentle hand over his sister's crest, and felt her wave of apprehension, and gentled his tone. _But, you know. . . I've been wrong before. You could wind up loving it. This sucked, but at least it was over with fast._

After the interminable graduation ceremony, the equally interminable interviews with at least a couple of reporters. Kaius had been through this often enough in his life that he knew to smile—not showing his sharp, jagged teeth (two still growing back in)—for Emily Wong, and not to smile at all, for Galenus Eleutherius. The human networks needed to see a friendly, approachable hybrid, the turian networks needed to see a young male who was serious about what he was doing. The questions were, largely the same, just couched different ways. _What's it like, following in your parents' foot-steps_ from Wong was _What's it like, being the first-son of Garrus Vakarian and Lilitu Shepard_?from Eleutherius. And the answer was the same for both, just phrased a little differently, _I think almost everyone in the galaxy wants to live up to the example of their parents. I just have a lot more to live up to. My hope is to do my job well, earn the citizenship in the Hierarchy, which is my birthright in the Alliance, and maybe make the galaxy a little better along the way._

"_That's the short-term goal. What are your long-term goals?"_

Kaius hadn't thought that saying _Not getting myself or anyone around me __killed_ would be the best answer. He shrugged a little, but surprised himself by admitting, _"I've always enjoyed my science courses. If after my four years are up, I can't see making a career of this, I can see myself going into xenobiology."_ He smiled, very faintly, at the floating cameras. _"There are those who might find that either entirely fitting, or entirely ironic."_

"_Amara! Amara Vakarian! You didn't attend boot camp with your brother. Why is that?" _Galenus Eleutherius pressed. _"Some might ask if you're turning against the culture that raised your father."_

Amara who hadn't wanted to be in on the interviews, very evidently tried not to grimace. _"Not at all,"_ she managed, calmly. _"I've already graduated basic schooling, as Kaius did, with honors. I'm enrolled in college courses and am assisting in laboratory work on base, with a life-sciences and medical orientation. I am a biotic, and I've been in training for over ten years already. In two years, when I'm eligible, I hope to be attending the Alliance's Academy, as a number of young turians have done in the past eleven or twelve years. Once I complete my training, I will then serve a minimum of four years in the Alliance armed forces, as required by Alliance law. That would also allow me to apply for Hierarchy citizenship at the end of my first tour."_ She smiled, very faintly. _"I will get to the same place, in the end. Just by a different road than the one my brother has chosen."_

Their mother stepped in. _"That's all the time we have,"_ Shepard said, in her lightly-accent turian., and finally got them away, while other, more disappointed reporters took pictures in the distance. "Sorry about that, Kai, Amara," their mother told them, once they'd piled into the aircar that would take them to the spaceport and from there, to Dymion. Severus had joked that they really _should_ get to go to recruit hotels and chase girls like all the _rest_ of the recruits, but, given Kaius' radiation sensitivity, that really wasn't an option. He spent the two weeks, instead, seeing some of his uncle Egidus' family, who hadn't come to Mindoir in _years_, but still lived up on the moon.

And then back into the grind of training.

OCS itself was actually fairly easy. Even fun, compared to boot camp. The biotics trainer that they send up to Dymion, however, had . . . marked disagreements with how Kaius had already been trained. _"We train to coordinate as groups!"_ the male exclaimed. _"How can you not know how to link barriers with someone next to you?"_

"_Humans, asari, and rachni don't do that,"_ Kaius said, with a shrug.

On the other hand, the trainer couldn't break his barrier. And the male was trying not to let the frustration-anger show that Kaius, a year after breakthrough, could have a barrier that strong. . . _and_ could throw him across the room while the trainer was busy trying to take down his shields. "_Who in the spirits' names trained you?_" the male demanded, and threw a shockwave across the room. . . and Kaius, feeling it coming, reversed his personal gravity and landed on the ceiling, well out of range, before tossing the trainer across the room again.

"_Well, Spectre Dempsey trained me in shields. Spectre Ylara Alir trained me in gravity manipulation. Spectre Viridian trained me in personal applications of biotics to my own body, like what I'm using now. And Spectre Sings-to-the-Sky provided general and specific applications of how to warp matter and energy fields._"

"_Get down from there and stop showing off. Take the next shockwave like a male."_

Kaius landed, and endured the next shockwave, which blunted itself on his shields. He wasn't _trying_ to show up the training officer, but he'd be _damned_ if he'd take a bloody nose from a shockwave just because the male didn't know how to train in biotics any way other than by bludgeoning people with his own. He. . . didn't get good marks. He really tried to do things the way the instructor wanted him to, but . . . it ran counter to about, well, honestly, about ten years of training in visualization and theory, and one year of actual use.

Everything else, he got excellent marks in, and he discovered he actually did have a rather technical bent, that he blamed on his father in his few letters home. He rather _enjoyed_ getting into the guts of a computer program and trying to decrypt it, or trying to repair a faulty engine by deciphering obscure schematics. He'd had no _idea_ he'd be good at these things, but it was challenging, in its own way.

And at last, a second graduation. . . and his first assignment. With Severus. "_The brass only wants to_ _look for trouble in one place_," Severus said, dryly.

But it was an _SR-ship._ The _Nereia_, an SR-3. This was the best of all possible outcomes. He'd be serving with a mixed crew, humans and turians, on _Uncle Lantar's_ ship. . . and that meant, no single cadre of biotics. He'd get to work with biotics and non-biotics, humans and turians and whatever else the Spectres threw on board. Severus was mostly excited because his Praetorians—now an escort of only two—had been ordered to stay aboard the ship, and let him _serve_ as he was required to do.

The turian newsfeeds were having a field day with this. Some were wondering, cynically, if this were some sort of a PR stunt designed by the Imperator to bolster his popularity after having married Lusciana. Others were trumpeting it as a return to the core values of the ancient Imperium. Severus granted a single interview on this subject, and only said, tightly, "_I can't change anyone's mind with words. I know that. All I can do is serve to the best of my ability. Those I serve with, will know what sort of male I am, and I'll know, myself. Beyond that, I can't do anything more."_

The crew of the _Nereia_ didn't know what to _make_ of Kaius at first. The first human—a fellow junior officer, who almost bumped into him as he was finding his way to his quarters—eyed him, startled, and asked, "Trying out a male look, Demostata? That's a new one."

Kaius reached out and shoved the male's shoulder. "Did that feel like an AI to you?"

Two rapid blinks. "New platform?" the human said, sounding confused. "Android, like that crazy Mercuria, the one who's a Spectre?"

Kaius sighed, folded his arms over his chest, and just looked at the male. "Is this part of the 'get the new guy's goat' routine?"

A flicker of the eyes from side to side. "Just checking to see if you had a sense of humor, Lieutenant Vakarian. Welcome aboard."

"I have a _fantastic_ sense of humor, and read asari love poetry in the original, and enjoy long walks on the beach, too. Anything else you'd like to know?"

A guffaw of laughter, and Kaius was left to unload his sea bag into the quarters he'd be sharing with Severus in peace.

And a month later, the _Nereia_ had been sent to aid Valak's people against the remnants of the Hegemony. It was. . . bloody.

_Dear Mom, Dad, Amara. . . everyone._

_Well, not really breaking security here. Lantar's sending this home on an encrypted channel. I'm writing you from med bay. Everything's okay, just took a couple of bullets in the leg hauling Severus out of where we were pinned down. He'd already taken a shot, and so we wound up kind of leaning on each other to get the hell out of there. He'd fire a couple of rounds behind us to keep them down, and I'd throw anything I could see, either at the enemy. . . including other enemies. Wasn't my first skirmish since getting here, but it was definitely the heaviest battle. _

_Lantar said I should just tell you everything I saw, the way I saw it, so that's what I'll do, and I'll try to be brief._

_You know that we've been here on Cholis. It's got a nasty atmosphere of carbon dioxide, and the batarians used to live in environmentally contained balloons above CO2 layer, skimming the gas. I say, used to. We took on one of the balloon communities a week ago. Completely empty, except for a couple of corpses . . . which promptly stood up and attacked us. Husks, as you already know from K'sar's reports._

_We picked up radio transmissions from the surface, and followed them. Here's the thing. You know how K'sar's been worried for years about 'what would happen if Reaper nanites infected living batarians'? I can tell you._

_For starters, they either don't breathe, or can breathe CO2. I can't tell which, but they sure as hell weren't wearing breathers when they came at us. Some of them—former warrior-caste, I guess—still had their armor and linked shields. The ones who used to be slaves or merchant-caste, or whatever, didn't have that, and they still acted pretty much alive. . . but they weren't really choking on the atmosphere. Maybe breathing hard vacuum would kill them. Not a lot of ways to experiment on that. Next problem: they regenerate. I think about as fast as krogan do. Take a lot of killing. It's nanite-based, of course, and they need raw materials to repair the bodies, so . . . spirits. Some of them were eating from the bodies of the dead on the field. Mostly the husks who already looked dead, but. . . some of the livelier looking ones, too. Some of them had mass effect fields that let them lift themselves. They flew. Totally changed the dynamic of the battlefield, having them fire down on us from above. _

_Here's the kicker. I think they had a little industrial accident when they started building their army. At least, I kind of hope they did. Because, I saw kids out there. Severus had to shoot a few of them, and it's tearing him up. They looked just about Nexia's age, so that was . . . really hard to take. But they were advancing on us and firing on us, same as all the others. And they regenerated just as damned fast. _

_So, I don't know how much of the population of Cholis has been turned into these. . . things. . . but I really hope it was an accident. If they did this to the kids on purpose. . . god. Spirits. If that's the case, I really hope someone gets a shot at whoever set this up._

_Hell of a way to start my first month in the field, huh? I'm probably going to want to sit down with a rachni and let it all bleed out of my mind, first leave I get, but I'm okay for now._

_Love you all—_

_Kaius_

It was a meat grinder. It made the Reaper war look clean. The closest thing in modern times was the occupation of Terra Nova, Shanxi, Amaterasu, and Eden Prime by the yahg. . . but the yahg had been there in limited numbers. And while even the young turians aboard the ship were having bad 'spirit-dreams,' Kaius had a human-based amygdala, and, indeed, most of the rest of his brain was human-design. As such, he dreamed. A _lot_. He had stress dreams, nightmares. . . a lot of them golden oldies, like the night at the cave, or the more recent vintage, the kidnapping on Macedyn. Not being able to get to Caelia in time. Watching her head explode in a shower of red gore. Or, this time, the kidnappers shot Amara, instead. Always too damned slow. Unable to get there in time. It didn't matter that he'd resolved the situation successfully before. That didn't matter at all in dreams. And he usually awoke with a muffled exclamation, sitting bolt upright, soaked in very human sweat. Which inevitably woke Severus in his own nest roll, whether it was on the _Nereia_ or out in the field. _"Human dreams appear to be uncomfortable things,"_ Severus had assessed one night. _"The spirits talk to you entirely too much."  
_

"_You're telling me. _God_. All right, I'm. . . going back to sleep now." Maybe._

He also had developed, on reaching his teens, much to his annoyed chagrin, sex dreams. He put _that_ down to having external genitalia, always catching and rubbing on sheets, and really wished Dr. Solus had designed him along the turian model _there,_ as with the bulk of his frame. They were embarrassing, , aggravating, or frustrating. To make it worse, when they'd first turned up, he hadn't really had anyone to _ask_ about them. It wasn't as if his _dad_ understood this stuff. He'd finally asked _Madison_, shamefacedly, and Madison had choked a little, laughed, and told him that they weren't anything to be embarrassed about. They just _happened_.

That didn't make it any less annoying. Particularly when living in close quarters with other people and not being able to do a damned thing about it. Unlike most other people, who were born their species, and couldn't really take it up with Management, Kaius did have a list of design flaws, and while he couldn't actually _talk_ to Dr. Solus, he _was_ considering forwarding the list to Narayana and Dara someday. With a note that said _fix this for the next generation of hybrids_. Of course, he knew what the reply would be: the law of unintended consequences. If they tucked the male genitalia into the body cavity, the testes would be too warm for proper sperm production, or some damned thing. Or maybe there wouldn't be room in there for the human spleen, except, even humans didn't really need them. . . usually around _that_ point in the night, Kaius would realize that he was _still_ awake, and would roll over in his nest, punch his pillow into a more comfortable configuration, and force himself to go to sleep.

Just to wind up fighting batarians who _wouldn't die_ in his dreams.

On Cholis and other batarian worlds, the batarians were fighting _themselves_. Valak's Allied Batarian Territories were trying to drive out Hegemony forces, trying to free their own people, trying to unify as a whole. The Hegemony was fighting back, trying to retake worlds like Lorek and Camala.

And after only four months of it, Kaius was absolutely ready to be _anywhere_ else. Lantar took the ship to Bastion for leave, and that resulted in Severus wanting, badly, to kick over the traces. Kaius couldn't blame him. He needed stress relief, himself, in the absolute worst way, and his nerves were _pinging_. The least movement out of the corner of his eye, and he tended to pull up his barrier and reach out to _throw_ something. _"What do you want to do?" _he asked Severus.

"_Depth Charge is far too upscale."_ Severus threw a datapad at Kaius. _"Some of our shipmates recommended someplace called 'The Land Downunder.' I think we should go."_

Kaius stared at him. _"It's not going to be what you think,"_ he told his friend. "_That's a term for the Australian continent on Earth. I think. We'll go there and there'll be people with hilarious accents and lots of animatronic kangaroos and koalas._"

"_I don't believe in kangaroos. I've seen the pictures. I still think they're a myth. Evolution would never come up with anything that ridiculous looking. If they __are__ real, I think they're a Prothean experiment."_ Severus paused. _"Oh, come on, live a little. We'll go exploring. If it turns out to be what you think it is, I'll owe you a pint of something non-toxic."_

Kaius did his best not to laugh. _"You're going to be let down,"_ he warned.

"_Or you're about to be in for the surprise of your life. Fifty-fifty shot, eh?"_

The place was only marginally Australian-themed. Mostly because the owners came from Sydney. There _were_ stuffed koalas and wallabies at the front entrance. All, creepily enough, posed in coitus. With a little sign that acknowledged the prolific sex life of koalas, and the fact that most of the little furry creatures had chlamydia . . . beside several bins of complimentary, species-specific condoms.

The inner lounge, however, was _exactly_ what Severus had thought it was going to be: a strip club. _"Your guards do not look happy,"_ Kaius muttered.

"_One of them has been my guard since I was nine years old. Considering some of the things my older brothers and sisters have done, however, to include a full-scale affair by one of my married sisters, resulting in a pregnancy? This has to be the __mildest__ thing they've had to deal with."_ Severus found a table in a corner, and told Kaius, dryly. _"Come on. The sign in the lobby says '_G'day, mates._ If the species has a female, we have one here.' How can we go wrong? It's practically __educational__."_

Kaius sat down, laughing shame-facedly. "_The fine print said 'no salarians, no rachni, and volus only by special request behind a glass window in our special, pressurized chamber.'"_

"_See? Educational."_

That was. . . one word for it. Kaius didn't know whether he was more turned on or more plain embarrassed. Given his upbringing, and the really tight extranet protocols in his house? The extranet hadn't really been a font of information for him, as it was for other people. Some of the human and turian kids at school, the children of techs on base, for example, might have _whispered_ about Fornax, but this was not exactly a product that Kaius had ever, well, consumed.

The batarian female dancers were, well. . . he'd _never_ thought of Nala in that respect, and they were at least. . . broadly mammalian, if hairless. Curving breasts, taut waists, but for him, the eyes were just too disconcerting. The asari, well, you couldn't turn on anything on the extranet without seeing an asari dancing or in a love scene in a vid, so they were actually. . . sort of familiar. And then the human women came on stage, and he had absolutely no idea how he should be reacting. Just as curvaceous, with long, sleek hair, and _that_ was _normal_. That was familiar. That, he knew exactly what it would feel like if he ran his fingers through it, and . . . _gah_.

The body said one thing, and the mind said something entirely else. Cognitive dissonance.

The turian females didn't really dance, so much as _stalk_ the stage, assertively, aggressively, as they stripped. Gorgeous waists, tightly muscled legs, glittering, predatory eyes. . . definitely lovely, and . . . while he'd certainly seen plenty of females nude in the group showers, it was emphatically different here. There, looking wasn't really encouraged. Here? Quite the opposite. Parts of him really didn't mind looking. They were pretty, after all. And yet, Kaius wasn't really _comfortable_ doing so. His eyes kept skittering to and from the stage.

A sidelong glance at Severus told him that the young Imperial had never really seen any of this before, either, and was. . . rather spellbound. Right up until a couple of the dancers worked their way through the crowd, trolling for more and better tips. The two asari looked at their table, and their eyes widened. Kaius, unfortunately, _knew_ that look. "_We're out of here,"_ he told Severus.

"_What? Why?"_

The two made their way over, and one of them leaned over the back of Kaius' chair, pressing up against his back. "You're _interesting_,"she purred in galactic, "I've never seen anyone quite like you before. You look turian. . . but nice, _soft_ skin._"_ She ran a hand lightly over the back of his neck, and whispered in his ear, "Want to share a little fun?"

Kaius stiffened, his jaw clenching in reaction, and brought up every mental barrier he had, as he caught the first flickers of a mental intrusion. The asari pulled back, startled; he hadn't mentally slapped her away, but close. "No," he told her, putting on a smile he didn't feel. "Thanks anyway. I like to keep what's in my head to myself."

The other one had been running her hands lightly over Severus' fringe, and trying to coax him into spending some money, too. Severus suddenly looked just about as uncomfortable as Kaius was. "Ah. . . as lovely as that sounds? I was really here just to watch," Severus told her, not looking anywhere _near _Kaius, and sounding. . . very young.

"Oh, sweetie, you can watch all you _want._ Sellia and I here could give each _other_—"

"I said, no thank you," Kaius said, politely but firmly, and keeping his hands on the table in front of him, in plain view. "There's lots of other customers here who'd like to share some of your company."

He was all too aware of one of the bouncers drifting a little closer for a view, to see what was taking so long at their table. As it was, he pulled out a credit chit, put it atop his empty glass, and told Severus, a little more emphatically, "I think I'm done here. Meet you outside?"

"No, I'm coming," Severus replied, sounding uncharacteristically amenable to retreating.

As they wound their way out, Kaius muttered, darkly, _"I thought you were here for an __education__."_

"_I was! I also know what the rules for people in my position actually __are__, and I respect them. I was here to __look__. Information-gathering, if you will. __Reconnaissance__."_ Severus sounded aggrieved. _"I wasn't expecting to make contact with the enemy."_

"_Oh, if you'd waved a credit chit under their noses, I think you'd have made contact, all right."_

"_Wasn't really looking for a complimentary case of the blue clap as a souvenir of my first shore leave."_ Severus cleared his throat. "_I say we take a vow of silence on the subject of this evening. Terrible for our reputations if anyone knew we'd simply fled the scene."_

This, just as they passed the two Praetorians at the door. Kaius could have sworn he saw one of them, in spite of near-legendary stoicism, turn his face aside to turn a laugh into a cough.

"_Agreed,"_ was all he said on the matter.

Severus changed the subject. _"You've, ah, encountered that before?"_

"_Only every time someone new came to school. Humans, turians, salarians: 'What kind of freak are you, anyway?'"_ Kaius made a chuffing sound through his teeth as they found someplace _else_ to drink "_Asari, on the other hand? It's all about the tone. 'Oooooooh. What kind of freak __are__ you? You're so. . . different.'"_ He grimaced. "_My parents have only been warning me about that since, well, since Aria T'loak was still alive."_

Severus bought the first round at the next bar, pretty much as an apology for the last place. This was a dark hole in the wall, covered in sports memorabilia from a dozen worlds. Kaius thought he saw salarian water polo team portraits on one wall, and shook his head. _"Eh, at least you've got options on the ship,"_ Severus told him. _"Every turian female aboard either looks at me and goes 'spoiled noble, avoid,' 'too much family __s'kak__, avoid,' __or_ _I can just about hear the wheels click into place about what exactly a. . . wedding settlement might look like."_ He grinned. _"Makes me inclined to chase a human or two . . . except there's the whole 'honor befitting your station,' thing to worry about." _

Kaius had almost choked on his drink. _"Options?"_ he said, blankly. _"What are you talking about?"_

"_You hadn't noticed how many of the turian females are lining up for sparring bouts with you?"_

"_. . . they want to learn what I know. I've studied this s'kak since I was six years old, and know w few things that they haven't seen before—"_

"_Entirely__ what they're hoping you'll show them."_ Severus grinned at him.

This time, Kaius really _did_ choke on his drink. _"You're imagining things,"_ he told his friend, when he finished coughing. _"Displacement and a whole lot of wishful thinking. If you think they're thinking 'spirits, too much family __s'kak'__ about __you__. . . ?"_

"_Spirits, keep talking like that, and we're going to realize that we're going to die very much alone."_

"_Eh, your family might arrange you a marriage."_

"_But the lovely Amara is not particularly taken with my wicked charm. Alas, I will have to wait for your younger sister."_ Severus paused, caught the scowl on Kaius' face, and laughed. _"That was a __joke__, my friend."_

One week there. One week back on Mindoir, blessed, wonderful, spirit-touched Mindoir, where everyone looked _normal_, and he could _relax_. Amara ran and hugged him at the shuttle pad, and Caelia wasn't far behind her, looking more serious than Kaius had ever seen her. He picked her up off the ground and twirled her to make her laugh, and then set her down again. A day to travel there, five days to stay, and then he just boarded the _Nereia_ as it took back off again. . . this time with Eli, Dempsey, Dara, Rel, Lin, Dances, Sky, and Rinus aboard. The Spectres were loading out _heavy_ to head back into batarian space. They'd called up the geth and asked them to redeploy CROWD platforms. The rachni were providing brood-warriors and soldiers.

But this wasn't the last war. The rachni had trouble _finding_ the husked dead, and the husked living couldn't be mind-controlled by an ardat-yakshi. . . and were just barely audible to the rachni. Like a hibernating Lystheni, or a biotic capable of suppressing mind-song, they just didn't hit rachni mental radar.

And so it ground on, and on. . . .2203 became 2204. Kaius, by the end of his first year, had earned his first promotion, and he and Severus had already earned two _aes clipeus,_ with blood-stripes, each. The Palaven media were eating it up when the Imperial press office put out news of each of Severus' awards, and Kaius was, dimly, aware of the fact that much was being made of them being battle-brothers, but he really didn't have _time_ to read any of the crap. He had no idea how the Spectres and his commanding officers held it all in their heads, the big picture. For the moment, for him, it was just fight, and survive. Day in, day out, as they tried to clear Cholis of the Reaper-tech and what it had spawned. Lexine Elders dropped by to interview him and Severus on the _Kapaesa_ one afternoon; they'd been moved to that ship, after the _Nereia_. "Could you contextualize this fight for people back home?" Elders asked. "People back home want to know why we're fighting here, in the heart of batarian space, when the batarians aren't even a Council species at this point, and when the millions of credits being spent here could be more usefully applied on social programs inside our own borders."

Kaius had had to check his first two replies. "There are at least three good reasons I can think of," he finally said, watching out of the corner of his eye as Severus raised a hand, as if to caution him, "First, because this is Reaper tech that's basically taken over half the people on this planet. If we don't stop it here, and on other batarian worlds where these husk nanites have been used on the population. . . what's to stop the remnants of the Hegemony from deploying this crap on Earth, or Palaven, or Luisa, and turning half the population of the planet against the other half? We're not sure how the nanites are being transmitted. I haven't seen them jump to any of my fellow soldiers yet. Maybe these need to be. . . I don't know. . . tuned for the host species. But I don't want to see this crap dropped on Bastion or anywhere else." Kaius tried to keep his scowl to a minimum. "Second, the batarians, sooner or later, will be a Council species again. They have a homeworld, they have a stable government. Right now, it's just a question of the admission vote, and that's political crap that involves a lot of people not wanting to forgive them and allow them in the cool kids club with everyone else. Investing in them now? Will pay off later."

Severus flapped a hand at Kaius, frantically. "And third, forgive the human-centric term, but this is a humanitarian issue, as well. There are _kids_ out here being husked." Kaius paused. That was really hard to talk about; he didn't like _thinking_ about it. They'd managed to capture some of the husked living, once they'd brought in Fors and a couple of other Spectres who had heavy biotics. They'd taken one or two of them to a research base hastily set up in-system. . . and no one had, as yet, found any way of _removing_ the damned nanites. Spirits. Most of the batarians didn't even seem to _want_ to have them removed, but how much of that was the result of the tech's mind-controlling elements, and how much of that was. . . fanatical need to drive invaders from their homeworld, Kaius couldn't even begin to guess. "In the end, there are civilians being turned into weapons. That wasn't right when it was the asari being turned into biotic weapons, and it's not right when it's random batarian workers and slaves, either."

Lexine Elders' eyes had gone wide. "Thank you. That's an outspoken Lieutenant Kaius Vakarian, and this is BNN news."

Kaius walked back over and found a seat on a bench. Severus stared at him for a long moment, and finally muttered, _"Spirits, Vakarian. You really did speak your mind there."_

"_They can shoot me for it later. Only the spirits know if anyone out there,"_ Kaius jerked his chin at the galaxy at large, "_actually gives a damn for my opinion, but if I can change even one person's mind, or get them to __think__ about their opinion, instead of just having one? Good."_

**2204**

After working with Fors and Dempsey and a couple of other biotics to capture batarian live and 'undead' husks for study, Dara spent a fair bit of the first half of 2204 stuck in the research and containment facility in Cholis' system. Unfortunately, though she, Zhasa, and Narayana all worked the problem, they weren't coming up with any good solutions, any time fast. "The nanites must respond to some sort of signal," Zhasa said, in some frustration. "Otherwise, the husks wouldn't respond as they do. As if they have some sort of hive mind."

"If it's biotic, the rachni aren't picking it up," Dara acknowledged. "Might be on the same level as the workers usually communicate with each other. So low-level, such small transmissions, that most other life-forms don't detect it as even _being_ communication. It's definitely not radio-based. . . unless it's buried in static somewhere." She rubbed her eyes, tiredly, and looked across the lab at Narayana. "Any luck from your end?"

"Negative. I have tried filtering their blood to remove the nanites, but they remain pervasive in the hard and soft tissues. I have tried irradiating their entire bodies, but the nanites repair the damage and move on with their work. I have tried electromagnets, trying to collect the nanites in one or another portion of the body. Nothing works except killing the host. Which involves trauma on massive levels, or burning the bodies. Some of the husks in the lab? We've actually seen pick up their own heads and put them back on." Narayana actually shuddered. "Orlan was very kind and employed his flamethrower for me at that point. I decided I did not actually _need_ that specimen _that_ much."

Dara grimaced. "Yes, I saw that pattern before. Generally, that's when a 'living' husk has become a 'dead' husk. It's almost as if the Reaper tech reasserts its base programming on the death of the living host." She looked off into the distance. "I've only fought yahg once or twice, but I have _all_ of Eli's memories of fighting them on Terra Nova. The larders of the dead, watching them feed. I have all the hive memories from Sky, of fighting in the Reaper war, watching husks eat the dead, and the hive memories still further back than that, of fighting the asari and the krogan and the salarians, in the time of madness." Her eyes were still absent. "Most rachni don't like to look there. They're afraid that they'll go mad again, if they relive the songs of the voices-of-memory." Dara shook her head, absently. "At any rate, husks have always been husks. Once they've been killed, they've stayed _killed_." She rubbed at her eyes. She'd seen a _lot_ in her life so far, but these husks really did bother her. And she knew they bothered the rest of the soldiers, too. The 'living' husks were still too damned _aware_. You couldn't just say you were killing a mindless husk, that was already dead. They still talked among themselves, in batarian, for example, though their voices were low. Flat. Affectless.

Dara gave Zhasa a quick look. Dempsey had been having a _hell_ of a time with that part. _He doing all right?_

Effortless, after so many years of practice. Zhasa picked up on the silent query, and shook her head, her lips tightening. _He's been better. Are nightmares a good sign, or a bad one, for someone who's spent the last eight years trying to regrow the parts of the brain responsible for emotion?_

Dara shook her head again, not knowing the answer, but very damned concerned. Dempsey _had_ to see himself in the living husks.

Without answers, without resolution, the current Spectre crew headed back to Mindoir after months bogged down on Cholis, and the next batch went out. Eli had spent the first four months of the year on Cholis, and then come back to Mindoir, and Dara had headed out for the same damned system for another four. As such, Dara actually hadn't seen her husband or Tegan and Lantus except on vid calls. She hit the bottom of the ramp at a run, and Eli lifted her off her feet, exuberantly. Mind-song, everywhere, as they quickly kissed. Dark blues, indigoes, burgundies, telling each other without words how _much_ they'd both been missed. Then Eli set her down on her feet, and Dara caught sight of the two solemn little faces with rachni blue eyes in the back of the groundcar, uncertainly trying to hop down and get to her. "Wow," she said, a lump in her throat forming, choking off words. "You guys grew on me."

_Now you know how I felt when I got back from the first four months in that shithole_. Eli's voice held rueful amusement, and also not a little chagrin. He released her, so she could kneel down and spread her arms, offering the twins a hug. She didn't want to just _grab_ them. They needed to get used to her again. "Still not talking though, huh?" Dara said, as the pair approached, wide-eyed, and then let her hug them. Tightly. _You remember who I am, though, yes?_ Mind-song, the instant she touched them.

They hummed at her, smiling, and fluid mind-song sprang into her head. _Yes. Brood-mother. _Recognition-song. Her face, overlain with Eli's face, sung in dark blues, showing association and love. Joy-song. Relief-song. But almost no other words. The humming itself, Dara, to her shock, actually recognized the opening of a Chopin nocturne, perfectly in pitch. She looked up at Eli, wide-eyed, and he looked a little embarrassed. "Been playing that for them every night," he told her. "The rachni can say, all they want, that recorded music sucks because there's no mind-song with it. Doesn't mean _I_ don't think of you every time I hear it. And I figured that it would help them."

Dara did her best to keep her lower lip from wobbling, and concentrated, instead, on how glad she was to be home.

A month later, in September of 2204, she kept her promise to Dempsey and Zhasa. Narayana handled the implantation, with Dr. Chakwas' assistance. "Let's hope this works," Chakwas said, a little nervously. The older doctor was starting the hormone and antihistamine and white blood cell count logs for Dara. "Your immune system is. . . much different than a normal human female's now, Dara. In theory, because of how robust the rachni immune system is, it should attack the alien DNA of the human-quarian embryo even more quickly than a human body would naturally. I'd really prefer to try to depress your immune system as much as possible for this—"

Narayana—_Dr. Mordin-Sidonis Narayana_, actually—shook her head. "Uncertain how to even _begin_ suppressing Dara's immune system at this point. All our interventions seem to do is conflict with whatever the rachni produce in the royal jelly she eats to regulate her hormones anyway. This is, perhaps, a case in which we should observe first, take action second."

Dara gave Nara a quick, light grin. She had _far_ too many people in the room for this, but everyone here was a part of the process, and hell, everything salient was covered with a drape. Eli was holding one of her hands. Dempsey had the other, and his cool, understated, low-level emotions were. . . rather charged at the moment. He was excited, worried, ambivalent—almost vibrating with it, which was highly unusual for him. Zhasa stood behind her, hands resting on Dara's shoulders, and there was no mistaking how happy Zhasa was at the moment. It absolutely radiated from her, and that was really all the reason Dara needed to be doing this. "You know," Dara said, conversationally, "About, oh, thirteen years ago, I got to assist Dr. Solus with the hybridization and implantation process for Alain and Elissa. I kind of thought, at the time, I might eventually go through the process myself. You know, someday." She gave Eli a sheepish, apologetic look, and added, "This was not at all how I pictured this."

Eli chuckled, ruefully. "Ah. . . no. Not really how I'd pictured this, either." A quick, rueful flash of how he'd pictured this process, at first, with Serana. . . . clean and clinical at first, till the reality of _estrus_ had been explained to him. . . then, more recently, when he'd been afraid that he and Dara couldn't have children naturally, clean and clinical again. _We've at least had a couple of years to think it over, __sai'kaea__. And D and Zhasa are two of our closest friends. I'm glad you're willing to do this for them. . . but it's going to be hell for a while_.

Dara nodded, and rubbed her face against Eli's hand, as Nara and Chakwas cleaned everything up. "Feel pregnant?" Nara asked her, cheerfully.

"No. . . not really." Dara chuckled and sat up, wrapping her towel around her. "Er, if you'd all excuse me?" she added, giving Dempsey and Zhasa a look.

Dempsey gave her an amused look, and, to her surprise, a kiss on the cheek, before leaving. "You behave," he told her, lightly.

And so, for the first time in eight years, Dara went back on the mixed levo-dextro diet, to help support the two hybrid children she was carrying. She listened to the hive-song, and sang with Joy every morning and night, letting it resonate through her body. She ate royal jelly, calcium supplements, half a dozen horse pills a day. . . but no depressed immune system. The result. . . a completely healthy pregnancy. Chakwas simply shook her head, and documented the whole thing, with twice weekly visits. "There is a case study in this," she said, dryly.

"My first pregnancy was a case study, too. Couldn't even put a false name on it. Everyone knows who the only human-rachni hybrid in the galaxy is. Well, was. Now there are a couple more." Dara grinned, lopsidedly, at her old friend and mentor.

"That was to prepare baseline information for any of your descendants. This. . . this is entirely different. By every standard we know, your body _should_ be attacking the fetuses as foreign invaders, like. . . a donated organ. You body _isn't_." Chakwas waved her hands. "It makes no sense."

"Rachni queens manipulate the DNA of their eggs all the time. They use song and biotics to do it. I'd be willing to bet that if a particularly useful brood-warrior died, so long as a queen had mated with him, beforehand, capturing the memory-songs and the life-song, the DNA? She could probably reproduce him. Exactly replicate the DNA, and put the last memory-songs, saved at mating, into the new body." Dara shrugged.

"That's. . . going to take us down the road into 'what is a soul, do rachni have souls, it's not the same person. . . that person is dead, and has no more awareness' in rapid order," Chakwas warned.

"Oh, yes, I know. But for rachni, the individual isn't as important as the collective. It would be _enough_ the same person for them, I think." Dara shrugged. "All of which is a long way towards saying. . . Joy's singing with me every single day right now. And I'm, well. . . singing, too." Dara shifted, uncomfortably. "It's hard to explain, but I'm sort of. . . singing-within?" Focusing inwards. Not quite meditating, but thinking positive thoughts, embracing the positive songs of the hive. Being. . . who she needed to be for this.

The numbers bore her out. Her immune system continued not to attack the foreign presence inside of her. Her stress cortisol levels stayed low, even when she was dealing with information about the batarian husks. Her hormone levels rose and dropped, but in slow, controlled sine waves, tracked, daily. And Dara resigned herself to being the subject of another case study, rather than the author thereof.

Standing in front of a mirror in early December, three months pregnant, and just having gone through the irritating process of shedding her skin for the year, Dara squinted at herself. "Eli?"

"Yeah?" he replied, coming in from the bedroom, where he'd been getting dressed for work at the office.

"Is it just me, or are the scars from the bullets through the chest on Khar'sharn almost gone?"

Eli turned her slightly, and examined the skin, testing with his fingers. "Just about," he admitted. "Well, we knew you tended to heal faster than usual. Not like Dempsey or Rel, or even Zhasa, but. . . rachni immune system, sweetie."

She held up her left hand, and looked at the _tal'mae_ knife scar there. Token of her bond with Eli, just like the ring on her finger, the knife in its sheath. "If I have to redo this every ten years, that's going to _suck_, Eli."

"Yet another argument for you not getting a tattoo."

"That, and the needle would get dull, and that would just _hurt?"_

"There's that, too." He leaned down, kissed her shoulder, and spread his hands over her tummy. _Not mine . . . but god, you glow right now._

_You sure that's not just a blacklight?_

_Pretty damned sure._

Dempsey or Zhasa or both of them, as available, made a point of coming over as often as possible. They kept Tegan and Lantus occupied, and Zhasa tried to teach them crèche songs in quarian, while Dempsey insisted that they at least _try_ to speak out loud, instead of humming at him, or using their fluid, vibrant mind-song. Haltingly, the twins would babble in English for him. They tended to default to the language of whomever was currently addressing them, if they had a close association with that person. Thus, when Agnes and Gavius were over, they'd say a few words in turian for Gavius. English for Grandpa Sam. A couple of words in Japanese for Grandma Kasumi. English, galactic, turian, or asari for Eli. Pretty much at random. Whatever he addressed them in, he got back. Zhasa got their handful of quarian words, and Narayana was intent on teaching them salarian. "They're going to be so goddamned confused if they ever leave Mindoir," Dara said, every so often, shaking her head.

"Yeah, but they'll basically be a leg up on everyone. Maybe they'll be diplomats."

"Would be a damn sight safer than what _we_ do for a living, so I'm all for that."

Zhasa periodically brought over quarian, non-toxic delicacies for Dara to try, and some evenings found all four of them sacked out in the living room, Dara's head in Eli's lap, Zhasa in front of the couch, with one of Dara's hands down on her friend's shoulder, and her feet propped up, actually, in Dempsey's lap. "You figure out a way to explain this to the twins yet?" Dempsey asked, one evening.

"I told them I was doing their Aunt Zhasa and Uncle Dempsey a favor, and I might not feel good for a while, but that when I was done, there would be some new babies around, and someday, they might be their friends." Dara's voice was drowsy as Eli stroked her hair. The first trimester was always like that, it seemed.

"What'd they say?"

"'Oh! Mama lay eggs now? We sing to eggs!'" Dara snorted. "And then Joy-Singer and I had a _long_ conversation about what she'd told them."

Zhasa shouted with laughter. Dempsey leaned his head back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. "They're doomed, you realize."

"We know," Eli told him, rolling his eyes. He and Dara were more than a little worried about what the _hell_ their kids were going to turn out as, but Tegan and Lantus were damned cute, and incredibly well-behaved for toddlers. Probably because there were no real communications issues. They didn't speak well, but they could make themselves understood in mind-song, and hive-song tended to guide and direct them. "Good news is, they'll have plenty of company."

_I merely tried to show them how __I__ sing such songs, Mother,_ Joy-protested, from somewhere deep under the earth. _I will be laying another clutch soon._

"Up here in the atrium, so I can visit easily?"

_Yes, you and little-queen and the little brood-warrior can sing to them more easily if I lay some of the brood in your nest. Not enough room for the workers and brood-warriors to sing tending-songs to them all if I do not divide the laying sites, however._

"Fair enough. I just didn't want to have a kilometer hike in the tunnels to get down to the eggs every time the kids want to visit." Dara yawned.

Eli changed the subject. "You guys told Madison yet?"

"No. Figured we'd let Dara get past the first three months first. He'll be here for Christmas pretty soon, we can tell him then."

And, sure enough, Madison returned for Christmas. He'd finished the first half of his senior year at the Academy, and hoped to be graduating in the top fifteen percent, come May. Kaius came home, with Severus, actually, for three weeks' of well-deserved leave, as the first brutal wave of operations on Cholis came to a close. "Damn, it's good to see you again," Madison told his friend. Kaius had matured, heavily, in the last two years. Eighteen now, Kaius had topped out at 'short' for a turian, a mere 6'3", but that was still two inches taller than Madison was, himself. He still had some of the cowl of a typical turian male; that was bone-structure, but it wasn't as pronounced, and the upper arms and chest, rather than being the whipcord, greyhound build of a turian male, had the heavy, muscular build of a human male who'd spent a lot of time lifting, running, jumping, and carrying, and though the abdominal area still looked unnervingly thin by human standard, Kaius carried enough core muscle to support his upper body and maintain the strength of his spine. He also didn't smile and joke nearly as easily as he used to. "Kind of wish I'd take you up on the whole idea of going into the turian forces now," Madison added, grimly. "You've been out there fighting, and I've been back on Earth, training."

Severus, who'd been introduced to Madison as "Kallixta's youngest brother," so he knew for damned sure _exactly_ who the turian was, snorted. "Humans do seem to have their young leave the nest late," he said. They were sitting in the Vakarian living room, and his eyes were, actually, on Amara, who was off in the kitchen, arguing with her two younger siblings.

Madison wasn't sure what irritated him more. The suggestion that he wasn't out of the damned nest, or the direction of the young Imperial's eyes _as_ he said it. He didn't like the inference that he was being shown up, somehow, for some reason. "I think you might be surprised by how effective our troops are, for having four years of training, rather than just being dropped in the field with what, a hundred days of it?"

"Training doesn't substitute for actual combat experience."

Kaius' eyes flickered back and forth between his oldest friend here on base, and his staunch ally from boot camp and in the field. He wasn't really sure what was going on here, and he clearly didn't like it. Madison held up a hand, reining in his temper. "I never said it was," he said, evenly. "But hey, you want to take it to the training area? I've learned a couple of new tricks since I left here, Kai. I was going to ask Siege to be my training dummy, if he's here. But you'd do nicely, too."

"I notice you're leaving me out of the equation," Severus said, blandly. "Scared?"

Madison chuckled under his breath, and let it get louder. "Oh, no, no, it's not that," he said, as _kindly_ as he could. "It's just not fair to you. Being a nonbiotic and all."

He caught Amara's head turning in the distance, and decided this could really probably be done pretty much _anywhere_ else. "C'mon, Kaius," Madison told him, cheerfully. "You can tell me if I'm field worthy yet. Still have six months to go, of course."

At that point, Amara _did_ come in the room. "You're going to be leaving the Academy just as I go there," she complained. "You keep complaining about the schedule in your letters, but that's all I get out of it."

Madison rubbed at his chin for a moment. "Well, it is kind of strenuous," he admitted. "You see, two sports. Mandatory. So, my first year, that meant crew one semester, and handball the other. Eighteen credit hours a semester, minimum. Most colleges require fifteen for full-time students. Marching, drills, homework, sports. No car your first two years. All of that leaves about, eh, maybe an hour, total, a week, in which you're not doing something, and even then, you _might not_ get liberty that week to go off campus. All of this, by the way, _after_ you've already done a six week boot camp." Madison smiled a little, and dug the needle in deeper, still looking right at Amara. "Doesn't leave any time for a social life. A lot of the mids who are old enough basically just keep a whiskey bottle in the drawer of their desk; the schedule sort of encourages binge drinking, because, damnit, you have one hour a week to blow off steam, and you can't get off-campus, you're going to find a way to do it." He snorted. "I'll confess to doing exactly that. Seemed better than hooking up in the maintenance closet with a female midshipman. Oh, that's right." He turned and glanced slightly at Severus and Kaius. "Kai, you already know this, but Severus here might not. Mids can't be married or _get_ married, because the administrators know _exactly_ the kind of stress four years of living like this would put on any relationship, and also, because it would interfere with the whole psychological breaking and reforming process. You're not _supposed_ to have relief from it. And it does last four years, not, you know, a hundred and ten days, and then done." Madison shrugged. "Or, you know, two hundred and twenty if someone has a specialty school after it in the turian system." He was rather carefully not looking at Kaius now. He wasn't trying to run down the turian system at all, but he was defending the human one. It wasn't sitting back and taking it easy.

Amara looked . . . rather distressed. "Everyone around here's told me the same thing," she said, and then admitted, "I'm sort of second-guessing the decision at this point."

"Don't," Madison told her, lightly. "I'm the idiot who decided to take a degree in hard science field like xenobiology and xeno-engineering, and not, you know, political science. Which was an option, mind you. I just had already written a paper with Dara's help, gotten it published—the whole thresher maw thing—and I already had credits towards it from the University of Mindoir. Also, seemed like a good fallback, to have an actual _career_ degree, in case, you know. . . . " He shrugged, "at some point in the next four years, I wind up getting my ass shot off." He considered it. "Or my head, for that matter. Though if that happens, the degree won't matter much, since it won't stop my brain from leaking out, right?"

Kaius actually snorted a little at that one. Amara glared at Madison. "You're not allowed to get hurt. You're not your father. You don't _regenerate_."

"Will do my best. And, seriously, you're going to _love_ the Academy, Amara. You're smart, you're already disciplined, you have no trouble with bookwork. You've been training to run on top of a mile-high mountain all your life. The most trouble you're going to have there is finding time to find a boyfriend." Madison put that out there with a quick, bright smile.

Amara frowned. "Not terribly likely, in any event, Madison." She looked away, shrugging. Bright flare of mind-speech, vivid and clear. _99.9% human enrollment, and .01% turian. Who's going to look at me there and not see a freak?_

_Don't you __ever__ say that about yourself again._ Madison's flash of temper was strong enough he caught Kaius' head snap back. Severus', too. He hadn't been this bad about mind-speech since he first went through breakthrough, damnit. "You're pretty, you know it, and now, since you're just fishing for compliments, you got one. Hang it on a wall, Amara; you're not getting one for another year."

She flushed and laughed.

Kaius offered, surprisingly, "You should come with us, Amara. Just running down to the training area. I'd like to see how much your training's come along, too." He smiled, faintly. "I'm sure the Academy trainers will put you through your paces."

Madison nodded emphatically. After a little coaxing by her twin, Amara did tag along.

It was probably a good thing that Siege was on hand. Madison greeted the huge, red-painted geth cheerfully, and asked, "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to revisit some of the training we used to do a couple of years ago. I'd like to see if my charge impacts have improved at all. I'd also like to do it in full armor, with paintball loads, so I can simulate actual combat."

"We would be pleased to be of assistance. Should we simulate krogan behavior norms in combat?"

"If you wouldn't mind, please." Madison grinned, and headed into the locker room with the others. Got loaded out, and came back into the training area—all metal walls, ceiling, and a cement floor, and pulled up his barrier.

Kaius shook his head. "You need to work on that. Feels a little flimsy," he called.

"They like us to be well-rounded, Kai. Not just one-trick ponies." Madison's tone was calm as he flipped his shotgun to his back, and brought around, of all things, an asp. Flicked it out, and wrapped _force_ around it. "Recording data?" he called to Siege.

"We are. You may proceed."

Madison's charge speed and impact had notably improved from his earliest attempts. His kinetic force slammed into the geth's heavy shields, and he flicked out the asp, lightly testing the remains of the shields, only to have his wrist caught and held by the huge platform. Madison shrugged, flipped his gravity field, and _ran up_ the geth, feinting a kick at the platform's head before launching himself, in another charge, directly for the ceiling, wrenching his hand free as he did so. "Krogan combat norms, my ass," he called down to Siege from where he crouched on the ceiling now. "You can't tell me any krogan would have reaction times that fast."

"They would not. We adjudged that you required more challenge to, as humans say, keep you on your toes. What would be your next combat move, Dempsey-Midshipman?"

"This." Madison flicked a finger, and with it, a wave of energy that ripped through the remains of the geth's shields, before flipping his shotgun out to start firing from his current, safe-from-being charged location.

"If he's krogan, he's going to be firing on you," Kaius warned. "You're too exposed up there."

"Yeah, but he's not murdering me in close combat, now is he? Besides, not camping out here for long." Madison inverted his personal gravity again as Siege did, indeed, open fire on him, taking several paint splatters on his way down, and charging again, this time against the 'unshielded' geth. . . and letting the kinetic energy disperse into empty air. He wasn't really here to damage anyone. "So. . . speed and force, Siege?"

"Up by seventy-five percent over four years ago."

Madison grimaced. "Okay. Not bad. Not as good as I'd hoped, but not bad. Thanks, Siege."

Severus was just staring at him. After a long moment, he turned and looked at Kaius. "So, you're. . . not the only one who can speed up your punches or launch to the ceiling with biotics, eh?"

"We're not even that good at it," Kaius said, shrugging. "Just beginners, really. It's an asari art called the wind that bends the reeds. _Wii'a belu rii'aa." _

"I don't really get what the whole asp thing was for," Severus noted, clinically, his arms folded over his chest. "Seems like a waste of time, if you're trying to kill someone. And everyone wears armor, after all."

Madison snorted. "Eh, if it were just an asp? I could still trip someone—well, someone other than Siege, anyway—with it. This, though, is not just an asp." He extended it, again, wrapped it in force, and looked around. "Ah, Siege? You're usually the best person to ask about what we're allowed to break, and I really don't want to pay for a training dummy. . . " He followed the line of the red fingertips towards a stack of plywood in the corner. "Right, thanks."

Madison walked over to the stack of plywood, five deep, and swung the asp.

It wasn't a vibroblade, but an asp combined a fulcrum and quite a bit of striking power into a very small area anyway. . . and wrapped in pure kinetic force, it actually became. . . something quite a bit different. The first time Laessia, Samiel's mother, the last master of the Wind that Bends the Reeds, had seen Madison practicing it, she'd been. . . distraught. "What are you _doing?"_ she'd demanded.

"Just something my dad showed me. He had to think of something I could do to defend myself when the batarians attacked here, a few years ago. Gave me a hockey stick, showed me how to wrap force around it, and packed me into the bunker."

Laessia had stared at him. "And how old were you?"

"Um. . . thirteen." Madison winced. "Look, I talked with a base psychologist afterwards, a lot. I know it's supposed to be stressful to have killed, even in self-defense, but I'm pretty okay with it—"

"Do you know what you are _doing_? It's the first step towards the _sword_. I have seem asari trainees slice off their own hands doing what you are doing right now. And your father. . . just 'came up with it.'" Laessia had stared at him. And, a few weeks later, had had _no_ objections to him starting training in the lower ranks of the Wind. Madison had the impression that no non-asari had ever been trained in the Art. But he, his dad, Zhasa, and then Kaius had all entered the program, along with Sisu. He wasn't sure why he'd been singled out, but he had a feeling it was something along the lines of _let me get ahead of this problem_ _and train him properly_ on Laessia's part.

As such, the 'asp' cut through all five layers of plywood and nicked the metal wall behind it. "Damn. Sorry. Overcommitted."

Amara, perched on one of the piles of mats, gave him an encouraging thumbs up. "You haven't gotten to practice much with it at the Academy?"

"Oh, god no. The instructors look at this and go, 'yeah, not on our people or equipment, please.'"

Kaius grinned at him, and swung his helmet at the length of his arm. "You done showing off?"

"Oh, you want a turn now?"

"Sure. Let's see what you've got."

It turned into a full on melee and biotic brawl. They didn't even bother with the paintball-loaded weapons. Full-on clash of Mindoir Mixed including biotics-assisted _wii'a belu rii'aa_. Kaius took Madison's charge impact against his double layer of shields with a grunt, and then _threw_ Madison, with arms and a lift, towards the far wall. "There's got to be a better way of dealing with that charge ability than just taking it in the face—"

"There is, I've seen Laessia do it. She takes the force of the charge and uses it against the person charging her, just steps out of the way and slams them into the ground with all of their own force. She calls it 'the Waves Crashes.'" Madison had rolled _up a wall_ to slow his momentum down, and now jumped down. "I can't figure out _how_ she does it, but I've seen her do it."

They closed again, Kaius bringing up his shields on the fly, and they landed on the ceiling, Kaius ramming Madison into the metal there. "You need to work on your lifting," Kaius told him. "You've got nothing for range. It's not really fun and games out there."

"Bullshit. _You_ have nothing for breaking shields or armor, Kai."

"Usually. .. I've got Severus. . . backing me up. . . knocks down shields. . . pretty good. . . " Kaius was panting now. They'd been grappling and jockeying for position on the ceiling for over a minute now, and grappling was by far more strenuous than kickboxing, in his opinion.

"How's that working out for you today?" Energy crackled at close range, and both layers of Kaius' shields, the tech shields not having had time to fully regenerate, flickered and almost died. "Me, on the other hand? Well-rounded." Madison grinned behind his visor, and charged for the floor.

With Kaius between him and the concrete.

"We suspect that that is enough," Siege warned. . . and both of them actually froze in midflight. Began to tumble, lazily, around in a spherical pattern.

"Amara," Kaius said, dryly, "you can release the singularity now."

"Only if you're both _done_."

"I think so."

"Yeah, we're done."

Amara released the singularity, and they both dropped to the floor. . . realigning personal gravity so that they landed, neatly, on their feet.

Severus was, not surprisingly, shaking his head. "I'm feeling a little redundant," he said, dryly.

"_Talas'kak_," Kaius told him, sharply. "You're very damned good at what you do. I'd probably be _dead_ by now if you hadn't been out there with me."

Madison shrugged. "And like you said, there's no substitute for actual experience. Which I should be getting in plenty as soon as I graduate."

Around that point, however, was when Madison's father entered the training area. "There you are, Mad."

"Hey, Dad." Madison straightened. He'd somehow managed to top out at exactly his father's height; three years of crew—what was not-so-fondly referred to, on the teams, as 'synchronized sit-ups'—had at least gotten rid of the string-bean qualities of adolescence. "What's up?"

"Siege paged me. Something about perhaps giving you and Kaius the squad-names of Mayhem and Chaos, but since those are reserved as backups for Sam and Lantar, I wanted to see it for myself."

Madison laughed, outright. "Oh, wait? Was that a joke?"

"I think so. You laughed, so it must have been. You coming back to the house? Zhasa and I wanted to have a talk with you before you left again, and it keeps not being a good time."

"Sure, what about?" Madison was breaking out the 'paintball cartridge,' and generally not taking anything very seriously at the moment.

Dempsey waited a long moment. "I figure you might want to have this conversation in private."

That _did_ get Mad's attention. He snapped upright, looked around, and said, "Sure. Absolutely." He tossed a wave at Kaius and Amara, and headed for the door to the locker area, turning to look at his dad inquisitively. "What'd I do?" Madison asked, a little apprehensively.

Dempsey actually blinked. "What? Oh. Nothing. You didn't do anything wrong, Mad." He put a hand on Madison's shoulder, lightly. "Population controls being what they are on Earth, and well, me not having _been_ there when you were a kid, I don't know if you ever wanted a baby brother or sister. . . "

_. . . only between the ages of five and nine, and after William "Call me Bill!" Perry married Mom, that became a 'hell, no, because then it'd mean this was really real, and he was never going __away__. . . _ Madison managed to keep that one stuffed behind his eyeballs.

". . . and I know we tried a couple of years ago, and it didn't really take . . . "

Belatedly, Madison figured out where this was going. "Zhasa's pregnant? I thought the nanites basically ate the embryos last time, 'cause they thought they were a foreign infection or something." He was . . . a little uneasy on this topic. He'd had a _hell_ of a crush on Zhasa for a couple of year. He rather suspected he'd had it, for the simple reason that she was completely unobtainable, and therefore _very_ safe. He'd probably focused all that adolescent yearning on her, because he'd never have to do anything about it, never could do anything about it, and there was absolutely zero chance of reciprocation.

Well, that, and she was _gorgeous. _That part really didn't hurt at all. But it had let him distract himself from Amara's childhood adoration of him, which had been rather uncomfortable, to be honest. Let him keep himself at a nice, safe distance from absolutely everyone, not commit to anything. . . and he'd probably socially defanged himself. Other than that really rather notable make-out session with Polina, right before she'd gone off to boot camp. . . about a year before he'd been ready to go to the Academy.

He hadn't been expecting this. Polina had been his study-partner for the last two years in school, and had been in and out of his house three or four times a week, but since he'd graduated, he'd been working on college courses, and security on base, and hadn't seen much of her. She'd come over in the afternoon, while his dad and Zhasa had been at work. . . and they'd just been hanging out in his room, like old times. She'd never done anything before like what she'd done that afternoon. . . which was walking over, closing his door, and then settling her weight across his lap before leaning in and rather forthrightly biting his throat. After a rather panicked instant—and he'd thanked god later he _hadn't_ been going through breakthrough at that point, because if he _had_ been, she might have ended up on the other side of the room, the hard way—he realized it wasn't a threat. And he had, in a rather stunned state, started to reciprocate. He hadn't realized she'd thought about him that way at _all_.

It had been forty-five rather blissful minutes of exploration. . . . but he'd kept picking up traces of guilt from her, which he'd finally, in exasperation, asked her about, and she'd told him that she felt like she were betraying her cousin, which she _knew_ wasn't true, because they weren't plighted, and Amara was young and Madison had made it clear, over and over, that he was perfectly willing to be her friend, but that nothing else was going to go on. . . but that hadn't stopped Polina from feeling bad.

"So you'd have been okay with making out _before_ this if you didn't know Amara had a crush on me?" Madison had finally asked, with considerable exasperation. He wasn't thrilled at the realization that he could have had a _girlfriend_ for two years, not just a study-partner, if she hadn't gotten some really unnecessary _compunctions_.

"Well. . . yes. You've been blooded since you were _thirteen_. That's. . . exciting." Polina had pressed a talon to his lower lip.

Madison had wanted to growl in total frustration at that point. "And you don't think she _might_ have gotten over this whole thing a _lot_ faster if she'd . . . god."

"Well, I didn't want to _hurt_ her—"

"So, just so I'm absolutely, perfectly clear about what the parameters are here," Madison had said, slumping back in his chair with a lapful of warm, very pretty girl, and looking at the ceiling, "You're totally fine with making out some more, and then you're going to get on a shuttle, go to the shuttleport, leave for boot camp, I'm going to go to the shuttleport in about a year, leave for the Academy, and if we happen to see each other in the next decade or so, this never actually happened, because you don't want to hurt Amara's feelings? Oh, and for the next year, I have to look at her, and not think about this, because, you know, it doesn't actually matter enough to you to stand up for what you want?"

Polina squinted at him. "When you put it that way, it sounds a little selfish."

"Yeah. It kinda does." Madison stood up, sliding Polina out of his lap.

"I just wanted to have a little fun before going to boot camp. And the door's closed and it's no one else's business." She sounded defensive.

"That would sound a hell of a lot more convincing, Polina, if you'd say that in public. Saying 'the door's closed and it's no one's business,' means you're official. Saying it when you're only willing to sneak around? Suggests my feelings in the matter mean a hell of a lot less to you than Amara's." Madison had had a _lot_ of trouble focusing at that point. Forty-five minutes of biting and hugging and touching, when he'd never really gotten to do much of that before, had done a number on his willpower.

Fortunately, at the moment, he was also pretty pissed. "I think," he'd said, in a rather strangled tone, cursing himself internally for being several types of fool, all at once, "that it might be time for you to go home, Polina. It's been really _fun_ studying xenobiology with you today. Just like old times. You know where the door is. Use it."

"You were enjoying it!" That was a hiss. Turian females got pissed just as fast as the males did. Madison was blocking the hell out of the anger, though, because he didn't want to _know_ what flavor it was. Though he had to guess _shame-anger_. Because she knew she was wrong.

"Yeah. And I'd have gone right on enjoying it if you didn't want to sneak around. We could've had fun for a couple of weeks. Good-bye, Polina. I'm going to try not being mad at you, but don't come back here for a while, okay?"

She'd headed for the door, and Madison had put his head against the wall for a solid twenty minutes, trying to figure out what the hell he could have/should have said or done differently or better. Because, damn it, he _liked_ Polina. He'd have _cheerfully_ taken her out on dates. She was pretty. She was smart. She was his friend. And it would have been wonderful. "God damnit," he'd muttered, over and over again. But the hell of it was, he couldn't think of anything else he could have said. And because of that, he kind of figured he'd lost a good friend.

And to make it worse? He had to put on a cheerful face in front of Amara. Who, if she _hadn't_ persisted in that idiotic crush, Polina _wouldn't_ have had the whole pack loyalty thing going on, and . . . god. He didn't want to _blame_ Amara, but it was really, _really_ hard not to snap at her that she needed to grow _up_.

But in the end, he didn't want to hurt _her_, either. So he kept his damned mouth shut, and headed for Earth with a sigh of relief that hadn't really lasted.

His distracted recollection passed, however, as his father, in the here-and-now, told him, "No, Zhasa's not pregnant."

Madison squinted at his father. "I'm pretty sure I've figured out the whole birds and the bees thing, Dad. If Zhasa's not. . . ?"

"Dara is."

Madison arched his eyebrows. If this hadn't been his _dad_, he'd have really been tempted to say _"Eli's going to be __pissed__ at you_," but this was his _dad._ And nevermind the fact that they looked the same age. Were the same height. Same built. Had the same color hair. Same color eyes. Madison couldn't count the number of Academy roommates he'd had who'd flatly refused to believe that Dempsey was anything other than his _twin brother._

Dempsey, however, just arched his eyebrows back. "Don't give me that look. She's our surrogate."

Madison considered that. "Okay."

"That's it?"

"Congratulations?"

"You're pretty calm about this."

"My weird meter maxed out for the day when you said I was going to have brothers and sisters. Dara being the one carrying them is pretty . . . normal-weird, for Mindoir. You know what happens when one of my science profs actually finds out I have a published paper, Dad? They look it up. They see Dara's name on it. . . and they say, "Oh, god. _Her._'" Madison grinned. "I'm waiting to see if any of them use her name as a curse."

That almost got his dad to crack a smile, as Madison packed up his armor and stowed it again. As they started walking back towards the house, however, his dad asked, "So what was that all about in the gym, anyway?"

"Eh, Severus started talking smack about how humans coddle their kids too much. Don't let us out into the bright and shining light of reality and real battle experience."

"Whoo. That was a mouthful, Mad."

"I could've explained to him I had my first 'real live battle experience' when he was nine years old, but that might have been pushing it. He _does_ have two years' experience on me, and I won't take away from that." Madison grimaced. "I'm also not going to let him come over on me like I'm worthless, either." 

"Couldn't help but notice that Amara was there."

"Kaius asked her along. I think they're probably doing some biotics sparring now."

"You want to head back and work with them?"

"Nah. She doesn't get to see her brother much now. I'll let them be."

Dempsey's head swiveled, and Madison could feel his father studying him for a long moment as they walked through the late afternoon sunlight, under the fully-leafed trees, and Madison relished the warmth here. Annapolis was fucking _cold_ in December, and damp with it. "You got a girl at the Academy?"

"No _time_. Even in my senior year, I've got groundcar privileges back, and a _little_ more time to myself, but I'm actually running one of the xenobiology labs for one of my profs, in my copious spare time. Which means keeping track of mids and equipment and making sure no one walks off with anything." Madison shrugged. "I figure there'll be girls out there in the fleet, and since so many more ships are mixed nowadays? Means a lot of them run by turian fleet rules." He grinned suddenly, at his dad. "I think my odds are pretty good."

Dempsey snorted, and gestured for Madison to precede him into the house. "Get washed up. We're going over to the Sidonis' for dinner."

Before he left, Madison helped out in the science labs. Some of the 'gatecrashing' teams had made contact with a species who had _not_ developed mass effect technology, at all. They'd avoided the relays as much as possible, guided by an ancient race of robots who had survived the destruction of their parent race two Reaper cycles before, largely by going dormant for a thousand years or so. The robots, called the 'Preservers' by the race they had befriended, the Aeseti, had helped their new organic hosts to perfect FTL travel to a fine art, and instead of kinetic shields, had developed flow-metal armor. Madison got to try on one of the first sets designed for a human body—the Aeseti were built more or less like centaurs. If the centaurs in question were furry, had rear hooves, front claws, and clawed actual hands, and also had six-inch, razor-sharp quills as thick as those on a porcupine along their backs. Over half their population had been rendered into machine-organic hybrids as a bid by their 'Preservers,' to render them more able to resist the Reapers, when the next cycle came around.

Part of Dara's current work on base, in addition to working on the fallout of Reaper tech on the batarians, was to try to disentangle the well-meaning additions by the Preservers to the Aeseti bodies.

The Aeseti flow-metal armor, however, _fascinated_ Madison. "How the hell does it work?" he asked, staring at it a little apprehensively, as the fluid actually rose from a puddle around his feet and began to lift and slick its way over his skin. "It's not hot."

"Nanites," Thelldaroon told him, calmly. "Outermost layers form chains, chains disperse kinetic energy. In the event that a bullet actually pierces the skin of the armor, the nanites break the chains surrounding the gap, refill the hole, and rebuild the chain structures."

Madison considered that. "Can I have a set to take with me?" he asked, grinning, but without any hope at all. It was light-weight, totally non-constrictive, vacuum-proof, wouldn't leak air. . . but it didn't come in black.

Kaius was trying out a similar set, and grinning. "Fits a hell of a lot better than my current set of Hahne-Kedar."

"What's wrong with it?" Madison called over to his friend.

"Well, I started off in it at boot camp, borrowed from my dad. I was eight inches too short at the time, so I moved the buckles. Oh, and my cowl isn't as. . . hmm. . . pronounced. Yes, everyone can go ahead and make the joke about 'you know what they say about males with big cowls' now. . . get it out, you'll feel better. . . " Kaius paused. "So I had to get spray-foam and fill the interior so I didn't rattle around inside of it as much. Fast-forward to the end of boot camp."

Madison grinned. "I had to adjust my armor by the end of my first year at the Academy, too."

"I had to go to the armor shop and get them to _add plates_ to the waist. My father's waist is eighteen inches in diameter. I know this extremely well now, because _mine's not_. That's the widest the damned thing got. I couldn't catch a full breath for two weeks. And now that I keep putting on weight in the chest and shoulders, the damned thing _chafes_."

"Could get a human set and tighten it up?"

"And then I'll have it pressing into my cowl the whole time. Better the discomfort you're used to. Besides, at least when people look at me in turian armor, they sort of figure I'm a turian hanging out with a bunch of other turians. I don't stand out as much."

"Okay, so what you do, is you take a human set, and a ball-peen hammer, and take a day or so going _clink-clink-clink-clink_ and beat it out to the right, hmm. Proportions. If you're feeling vain, you could make it stick out to _here_ and really advertise. . . "

Kaius looked around for something to throw at Madison, and, failing that, threw Madison, himself. All of two feet.

December 31, Madison was packing up to leave, once again, when there was a knock at the front door. Amara was there, and told his dad, smiling, "My dad sent me over. It's traditional to bring baby pictures around personally, not just to send them out by comm message."

"Baby pictures?" Madison asked, from the hallway, a little blankly, as his dad let Amara in.

She darted him a quick look, and a smile. "Yeah. Seheve finally gave birth today. Guess the youngling wanted to put it off as late as possible in the year." She produced a datapad, and pulled up the pictures. "It's a girl. They're naming her Sephare."

Zhasa emerged from her upstairs office, where she'd been arguing with quarian officials over something to do with her clan's status all morning, and they all looked over the pictures. Madison had expected Zhasa to coo over the images, and was not disappointed. "Oh, look at the little thing! She's perfect!"

Madison, while he privately thought that most babies looked . . . very much alike. . . was a little disconcerted by this one. "Wow," he finally assessed. Dark green, almost black scales, but they were of the turian, plate-like, or scutus-like configuration, not the drell overlapping, lizard-like type. Huge black-on-black eyes, set deep within the hollow turian eye sockets. Turian facial structure, down to small, almost vestigial mandibles, and very sharp turian baby teeth.

"No baby feathers," Amara remarked. "Aunt Solana was a little concerned that she's be cold. But I don't think she cares. She's just holding and holding that baby. You'd think she didn't already have grandchildren in Rinus and Kallixta's pair, Rubixius and Vassaria. Not to mention that after Serana made Spectre in 2202, she and Linianus had Viatrixia Elizabeth." Amara made a face.

"First grandchild from Rel," Dempsey told her, dryly. "I think it makes a difference when it's the first one from each kid." He paused. "How's Gavius taking this?"

"He said she looks odd, but she'll look more like a member of the family when they paint her face properly." Amara studied the pictures herself, frankly. "You know, this is the first time in my life that I'm looking at someone else, and seeing what other people see, when they look at me?"

Zhasa laughed. "Then you're seeing that you're beautiful, healthy, and well-designed. Just like Dempsey's and mine will be. _Keelah_. We've waited so long. . . I can't believe I have to wait another seven months to see them."

Amara stayed and chatted a little longer, and Madison told her, "I'll walk you home, Amara."

"I think I can find my way, Madison Dempsey." She made a face his direction. "But, if you want to. . . "

He shrugged. "All right. It's just a nice night for a stroll."

They walked in silence for at least half the trip. "So," Amara said, finally. "Are you still mad at me?"

Madison blinked. "Mad at you? I was never mad at you. What are you talking about?"

"I don't know what I did, but you were really mad at me before you left for the Academy. You stopped talking to me. You answered my letters, but you were really terse—I figured you were just really busy, so I just stopped writing. Didn't want to pester you. But every Christmas since, you've. . . kind of gone out of your way to avoid me." Amara's voice was sad. "I don't know what I did, Madison, but I'm really sorry for it."

Madison swore, internally. He hadn't _meant_ to make her think that. He'd just wanted to avoid Polina at the holidays. And to give Amara lots of time and space to forget him. Find other people to hang out with. Other things to think about. "You didn't do anything," he told her, simply. "I just figured you . . .needed a little space."

Amara gave him a hard stare. "_You_ decided that _I_ needed space? Or you wanted space, for yourself? One is kind of condescending, Mad. You don't get to decide what's best for me. You're not my parents, and you're not my brother."

Madison looked down. She was poking one of her talons into his chest. "Are you trying to get me to argue with you?"

Amara flushed. "Maybe a little."

"I'm not going to argue with you, Amara." Madison consciously gentled his tone. "So. . . you're right. _I_ needed space, Amara."

"Oh." She looked down. "Okay. . . well. . . that's different." She sighed. "I never meant to make you uncomfortable. I always _liked_ you. You were kind, and your mind is so. . . bright."

_Doesn't usually feel like it from the inside._

_See? Now that, I heard._

Madison blocked, and hard.

Awkward silence. "So. . . Severus seems to like you," Madison finally ventured, as they passed down another street, heading toward the central villa.

Amara tossed her head. "Kaius says he flirts with _everyone_. And yes, way back in the day, the Court was asking if they could arrange a plighting between us when we were younglings, and my parents said _no_. And now the Imperator has taken a pledge of no arranged marriages for his remaining children and grandchildren." She shrugged.

"He does seem to pay a lot of attention to you."

"He's my brother's friend."

"You could do a lot worse." For some reason, the carefully noncommittal words really, really irked him to say.

Amara stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and _glared_ at him. "Madison?"

"Yes?"

"You're blocking me, but that doesn't mean I can't see your colors." Her blue eyes were suddenly very wide. _You're still the same blue-white as you always were, too bright to look at, like a supermassive star._

Madison shielded his thoughts even more tightly. _Oh, fuck._ "And?"

Amara's lips tightened. "You're really, really horrible at lying. You're lying to me. You're lying to yourself. And it will absolutely serve you right if I went back to my parents' house and started letting Severus court me." She folded her arms over her chest. "I'm not a youngling whose estrus cycle started early anymore. You don't have to let me down easy or anything else like that. I became an adult at sixteen under Mindoir law. I'm turning _eighteen_ in three months. Are you going to _see_ me then? How about when I graduate the Academy? Maybe I should have gone to turian boot camp after all?"

_That would have been a horrible idea._ The thought slipped out without him meaning it to, and he grimaced, tightening his control. If she had, she'd have . . .

_What? What would I have done? Met Severus? Gone to a recruit hotel? Been fighting for two years already, like Kaius?_ Amara was usually gentle in her mind-speech, but at the moment, she was _really_ trying to get him to argue with her. React.

Madison grimaced. She was _beautiful_. She'd grown into a gorgeous and truly exotic creature. All the leggy, lithe, fierce beauty of a turian female, coupled with the soft skin of a human, slightly rounder curves, faint swells of breasts. Her mind was keen, incisive, and she was a powerhouse of a biotic. And she had absolutely no idea who she was, and she was about to start four years at the Academy, and he knew what that was going to do to her brain. "Amara. . . " Madison stopped, and tugged her off of the sidewalk and into her parents' side-yard. . . and then started again. "For the next four years. . . and you've got to trust me on this. . . you're not going to have _time_ for anything other than what's right in front of you. Not if you want to graduate. And . . . this is going to sound corny as hell. . . but it's still true: at the end of those four years, you're not even going to be the same person—"

"You are!"

"The hell I am." Madison shot back, and then reined in the temper. She was _still_ trying to get him to argue. It was the turian in her, culturally and biologically. "Focus on that, Amara, please. You'll be much happier if you focus on achieving your goals, than if you worry even one more minute about me."

Amara closed her eyes for a second, and Madison's will almost broke. He could feel the wave of pain coming from her, and it was the _last_ thing he'd ever wanted to cause. "It's just a crush, Amara," he told her, in a very quiet whisper. "You just need a little perspective. Who the hell have you even gotten to _meet_ here on Mindoir, besides people you're already related to?"

_You really think that?_

_Amara, I know that—_

_And so because people in medieval villages never traveled more than twenty miles in their lifetimes, what they felt couldn't possibly have been true. They all lived lives of miserable self-deception, and merely settled for what they could get._

_I wouldn't call it self-deception, but yes, they settled for what was available, because the alternative was loneliness, horniness, and never having kids, and it was better to marrye than to brynne—_

_Huh?_

_You haven't read your Chaucer yet. Nevermind. You'll get it at the Academy if you get Levinson for English._ Madison ran a hand over his short-cropped hair. In spite of his best judgment, he _was_ arguing with her. _My point is, this shouldn't even be what you're thinking about, you need to focus on the Academy, trust me on this, and no, you really don't know what's out there—_

—_and I think I told you not ten minutes ago that it's not for you to decide what's best for me—_

—_no, but I'm not going to—_

Even though there was mental contact, he was, effectively, blocking, juking, jiving, in his mind, and thus totally didn't catch her intent until she'd leaned in—no more than two inches separated them in height—and pressed her lips against his. Soft lips—fever-hot, actually, given her blood temperature ran a good four degrees warmer than his own—needle-sharp teeth behind them, hint of danger. _Oh, damn. I . . . we. . . really. . . shouldn't. . . ._

It was probably a good thing that there was a tree nearby for them to lean against. Madison was desperately trying not to make comparisons in his mind, but he'd kissed a few human girls on Earth, various very brief, extremely doomed relationships during Annapolis summers. And of course there was Polina—he cut off the thought.

_Oh, that? You're worried about that? I got that out of her three years ago. She was still guilty about it, and wanted to apologize to me, right after the kidnapping. With you off at the Academy, too._

Madison froze in place. She didn't _feel_ pissed. _Ah. . . you're . . . not mad at me?_

_No, I was mad at __her__. If she'd wanted to pursue you, she could have done so. She even could have done so with honor! Just because I had feelings for you didn't mean that we'd done or said anything binding. Quite the opposite, actually_. Amara made a face at him. _Not for my lack of trying, but the most you'd do was hold my hand at the vid theater._ She sighed._ I think she was mostly scared about going to boot camp and wanted someone comfortable and familiar to, well, hold her a bit before she went. Lots of very big shoes to stand in. __Three__ of her siblings are Spectres, after all. And I . . . sort of understand how scared she was. I'm pretty scared of leaving here, too._

Madison couldn't quite believe the depth of . . . wisdom. . . in Amara's mental voice. Patient understanding, really. _You're. . . wow. Your mind's really. . . _

_Changed? A bit. We've got several thousand rachni on base now, Madison. I can't hear them as clearly as Dara can, but I __can__ hear them. And I've been working with Sky for a really long time on understanding the colors I see in people the same way he hears oversong and undersong. And with Dara around to translate, it's even easier. I'll never have the hive-memories. . . but I do kind of understand people._ Her tone was wistful. _Sometimes a lot better than I wish I did. Samiel tells me that when I meet people off of base, I'm going to learn to curse empathy. I told him I've already met people off-base. Like those kidnappers three years ago._

Madison closed his eyes. He'd been in _class_ when the news broke about that. He hadn't been able to deviate from his routine, by even an iota, but every minute he could, he'd been quietly glued to the extranet feed. And he'd sent her and Kaius a stumbling letter afterwards, telling them he was glad they were okay. He didn't have FTL comm privileges at that point; he'd been a first-year mid. And the words in the message had seemed. . . horribly inadequate.

_I saved it._

And now, three years after the kidnapping, it _had_ to be making it harder for her to leave here. Kaius had left a year later, gotten right back on the horse. Amara had already made her plans for the Academy, and was seeing them through, but he could feel her apprehension, her desire to cling to this place. . . _you sure you're __not__ doing what Polina was doing? Latching onto someone familiar?_

_Yes. I try to be aware of all my motivations, Mad. It's there, but it's not the only thing, or the strongest thing. _Amara stroked his face, very lightly, and then . . . two-fold perceptions of the same events in time and space, flowing at once. Four years of it, reconciling different perceptions. Dizzying. She leaned her head back, and he nipped a little at the line of her throat, pushing her back against the tree. Realization, from her. _Oh. . . spirits. __That__ was what you were mad at __me__ about?_ _Mad, I would have kissed you— _Slight embarrassment, however, as she realized how far _that_ particular road could have gone, and she cut herself off.

—_we couldn't, that wasn't an option, and I had every other option cut off because—_

—_of me?_

_It's what it felt like at the time._ Guilty admission.

_If it helps, I was beginning to take Severus' flirting a little more seriously. I was determined that this year, I was going to put it all behind me, and not pay you any more heed._

_What__? Why? He's a jerk— _Madison stopped, and made himself admit he _probably_ wouldn't think Severus was a jerk if the male _didn't_ look at Amara the way he tended to. Right around that point, however, they started kissing quite a bit more frantically, and he was doing his level best to remember that they were in a damned side-yard, and anyone looking out a window could see them. Clearly. Madison pulled back. Put his hands on the tree's rough bark and tried to pull up the Boston Bruin's win-loss stats for 2198. And failed. _Ah. . . what changed your mind?_

_Watching you and Kaius spar._

_You're kidding me, right?_

_No._ Warm, almost giddy flow of emotion from her, a little embarrassment, a whole _lot_ of pure _turned on_. _All the things I've always liked about you. All the things Kaius has always respected in you. Power, control, humor, __and__ you had this yellow-orange flicker over you—_

_Huh?_

_You were __jealous_. Her smile was smug. _Admit it—_

_I was n—okay, all right, that's really not going to work when you're in my head._ He sighed, and realized he'd wrapped his arms around her again. She felt entirely too good, and it was really killing him to let go. Again. Briefly. _It's still no good, Amara._

_Why not? _

_Because in four years, I'll be finishing my first tour, and you'll be just graduating—_

_So what? In four years, Kaius will have served for six years, and he'll still be my age._

_I had a point here, somewhere._

_You've lost, admit it, fair and square._

Madison laughed, and brushed the tip of her nose with a kiss. And retreated to _words_, because mind-speech was clearly just pulling him deeper in. "All right. I'll admit that I'm. . . really, really fond of you." _And just minutes ago, I was absolutely intending to put you down as hard as I could stand to, for your own good._ "But."

"Must there always be a but?"

"Everyone has one, so yes. Shush." Madison closed his eyes, replaced his hands on the tree-trunk, and stepped back. "I'm not going to hold you to anything, Amara."

"What? Maybe I _want_ to be held to something. Not a contract, but. . . something. Something for _me_ to hold onto."

Madison sighed. "Everything I said before is _still true_. You're about to go through hell. Yes, yes, I know, kidnappings, base assaults, I've been here and done some of that, too. It's a totally different kind of stress. And if you decide in the next four years that you'd rather be with someone else—"

"Shut up, get back over here, and kiss me. Or bite me. One of the two."

"Please stop tempting me when I'm being nobly self-sacrificing here. You're totally ruining the moment. I can't even promise when I'll be on leave, or if they'll coincide with your vacations. It's not going to be any different from the _last_ four years, except that it will be _worse._"

"You know," said a rasping voice from the other side of the tree, "if this is the way humans court, it's really quite amazing that the species has managed to continue itself."

Madison winced, and peered around the tree trunk. "Kaius," he said, met his friend's eyes squarely. _Okay. I really don't know which of us would win in a real fight, but I kind of like my teeth where they are right now. . . . here's hoping he doesn't think I was treating his sister in any way disrespectfully. . . _

"Your teeth are safe where they are," Kaius assured him, with a ghostly flicker of a grin, there, and then gone again. "Mom and Dad asked me to tell you two to come in and have dinner with the rest of us. Dad also suggested that the back yard might better, in terms of putting on less of a show for the neighbors."

Madison couldn't remember the last time he'd flushed, but he got a refresher lesson in _how_ right around then. It really didn't help that Amara was giggling. Quietly, but non-stop. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, as evenly as he could. "But this was supposed to be a quiet nook in which to argue, not, um. . . "

"A quiet place to _argue_!" Amara told him, triumphantly.

Dinner went fairly well. Kaius watched in mild amusement as his sister had, with a slightly proprietary air, slipped a foot behind Madison's ankle, turian-style, at the dinner table, much to Madison's clear embarrassment. He could pick up the subtle buzz of mental conversation, but was trying _not_ to listen in. It was surprisingly difficult; he and Amara had always been close, being twins. They'd had a sort of private language, a mix of turian and English, for the longest time. And long before anyone had realized that Amara was biotic, he'd been able to hear her, clearly, in his head. Not even words at first, just emotions and intentions. So he was getting. . . inferences. Madison's prevailing concern, it seemed, was that he was afraid that Amara was basically going to use him in the same way he'd more or less used Zhasa. . . as a mental image that had allowed him to _not_ make choices. Not to pursue other females, and a way to keep himself from reciprocating Amara's fairly clear interest in him. A wave of amused love from Amara, hints of words submerged in it, like rocks in a stream, only visible as ripples in the current: _I'm not saying that it's not possible, Madison, but I know my own mind and heart fairly well. _

_I know you do. Still. . . we've got time. We'll go slowly, okay?_

Kaius did his best not to listen any more after that.

Quite a bit later that evening, after Madison had headed home for the night, Kaius had slapped Severus on the shoulder, and then handed him a beer from the cryo-unit. _"So,"_ Severus asked, his tone dry, _"Exactly when __where__ you going to tell me that your very pretty sister was also very much stuck on a human? I'd have saved my breath."_

"_Sorry,"_ Kaius apologized. _"She's liked him since we all met, when he'd just lost his mother during the plagues—" _Severus winced; his mother, too, had died of the yahg plagues, and Kaius waved a hand, trying to move past the sensitive topic quickly. _"He was just going through biotic break-through at that point. His step-father had . . . rather clumsily told him that his mother had just died, he'd snapped, and . . . dropped a desk on the male's head. His father came, got him off Earth, and brought him here. We all liked Mad from the start. He was pretty startled when he saw Amara and me for the first time, but he didn't __stare__, he didn't say anything hurtful, just. . . tried to fit in around here. But it wasn't till we were all stuck in the bunkers during the batarian attack on Mindoir that Amara __really__ fixed on him. Didn't hurt that she'd watched him kill a batarian with a damned __hockey__-stick in front of us. Blooded at age thirteen."_ Kaius grimaced. _"Way ahead of me."_

"_And you didn't tell me this exactly why?"_

"_He's been on Earth for four years, and spent the previous four trying to discourage her. I didn't know if she'd gotten over him or not, and, well. . . if I'd told you, you'd have thought I was trying to discourage __you__ because I was being an over-protective first-brother._" Kaius shrugged. He'd known for _years_ that Amara adored Madison, but the human male had never once taken advantage of that regard, and had, actually, very honorably, done everything he could to be friend to both of them. Kaius considered Madison to be, really, his oldest friend. And so while it had been. . . disconcerting as _hell_ to see them kissing. . . he also wasn't upset about it. Mad's very caution spoke volumes about his character; Kaius knew he'd never take advantage of her. Amara could do a hell of a lot worse than Madison Dempsey, in his opinion. So there was none of the prototypical _what? No! My best friend and my sister? No!_ reaction in him. Of course, a lot of that cliché came out of 'best friends' who were basically just drinking buddies, who helled around and chased girls together. Who were unable to see honor and loyalty in one another.

Kaius had one other thing to focus on during his all-too-short leave here on Mindoir: Caelia Sidonis was about to turn sixteen in three months' time. He'd barely seen her, the first two weeks of his leave; she'd been cramming in her final exams for school, as her birthday fell in the middle of the spring semester, and while she could have delayed boot camp to anywhere in the same calendar year on Palaven, she was opting to get it out of the way sooner, rather than later. Estevan Ramos, the blue-blooded half-turian son of Eduardo Ramos, Sam's old _federale_ buddy, was going to be going at the same time, so Kaius rather thought he'd figured out the reason for the rush. Any time he saw Caelia, he saw Estevan, no more than a few feet away. Usually laughing at some joke, which for some reason made Kaius' hackles rise.

While he himself had topped out at 6'3", or an inch shorter even than Eli and Sam, and a solid four inches shorter than his own father, and Amara had topped out at 5'11", the same height as their mother, Kallixta, and even Zhasa'Maedan, Caelia and Estevan both had shorter human parents than Lilitu Shepard. Eduardo was barely 5'8"—his turian mate, Charis, towered over him at an even 6'0", in much the way even stocky-for-a-turian Lantar towered over Ellie, 6'5" to her 5'2". Estevan therefore was _short_ for a turian male, only 5'11, and Caelia was almost dainty. She hadn't even reached Dara's height, being a mere 5'8" in her stocking feet.

In the final week of his leave, thus, Garrus pulled Kaius and Severus aside, and asked them, "Lantar and Charis asked me if I'd pull you two in on this, since you're the two who've been through boot camp the most recently here. And, well, you, Kaius? You're the only hybrid who's already been through. Caelia and Estevan are about to go, and Lantar wants to make sure she's ready. More to the point, he wants _her_ to know she's ready." Garrus grimaced. "The problem with everyone growing up here, is there are some pretty impossibly high standards for most younglings to live up to."

"I won't pull punches if I don't think she's ready," Kaius warned. "And I'll be honest about what she can expect."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," his father told him, calmly, but with a glint of amusement in his eyes.

And so, Kaius found himself on the sparring mats with both of them. Estevan, he marked as having a very quick temper, something that would get him into trouble if he let it dictate his actions in a real fight. . . and while the younger male's hands were thought-fast, they lacked real power. Kaius could, therefore, just let Estevan wear himself out, and then move in on him and effect a throw or a choke, fairly easily. He'd do acceptably at boot-camp, however.

Caelia was, however, a very different person now, than she'd been when she was younger. She'd become quiet, inwards-turned after the kidnapping three years ago. Reticent. It hurt to see, really, since she'd been so . . . _lively_ . . . when they were younger. But she still clearly idolized her older brother, Eli, and had, as a result, gone to sparring with him every night she could, on base. She had, however, primarily trained with the quarian Spectres—Zhasa'Maedan, Hal'Marrak, Nal'Ishora, and Arash'Veza—and as a result, her 'Mindoir Mixed' style had heavy, heavy elements of _meela'helai_ in it, the springy, acrobatic form entirely suiting her compact, limber frame. Kaius found himself laughing—actually laughing out loud, something that had become entirely too rare for him in the past couple of years—and using the Wind that Bends the Reeds just to catch up with her as she ran up a wall and back-flipped off it to try to land _on_ him. "Show-off," he told her, affectionately. "That's a lot of energy expended for a low-yield attack. Better to save that for a low-g environment."

"That's what sparring is for, Kaius, practice."

"Yes, but at the moment, I'm trying to evaluate your readiness for boot camp. Try to stick with things that can actually—"

"Beat you? Kaius, you've got seven inches on me. I need to be creative to get in on you." Her tone was actually quite calm, and she looked up at him, blue eyes slightly shadowed.

"So, show me creative."

She did. The scrambling style actually had her on her _hands_ at one point, lashing out with her legs in a circle, and then she flipped and turned and, hands behind her on the ground in a modified crabwalk, lashed out again, this time at his knees. Constantly varying the vector of attack. . . and she was in good enough shape to keep up the assault without exhausting herself. Kaius enjoyed the hell out of it, and told her, and Lantar, at the end of the evening, "Well, if nothing else, she'll confuse most of the other recruits. Be prepared to be told you're cheating, Caelia."

"Oh, I expect to hear that. For anyone who insists that I can't use this, because it's 'non-regulation,' there's all the _muay thai_ and _wing chun_ I've also been picking up." Caelia shrugged a little, turning to look over at her older brother. "Eli was pretty forthright about how I'd need to make sure everyone understood I wasn't weak, and could look out for myself. Even Dara said that." She looked back up at Kaius. "Is it that bad?" Simple, clear, direct.

"I took a lot of _s'kak_, yeah. You might not take as much. Some of it was . . . eh. Males being males. Jockeying for alpha status." Kaius grimaced. "Females don't tend to mark status the same way. You also don't have the Vakarian family name hanging over you." He lowered his voice for that, tossing a slightly guilty glance in his mother and father's direction. He wasn't ashamed of being their child—far from it!—but it _was_ an additional load, some days.

Caelia nodded, solemnly, filing it away. "Yes," she told him, quietly, as her father moved away, turning to talk to Sam Jaworski. "But I have the Sidonis name hanging over me. My father's known. My brother's the chief spokesman for the Spectres at most major news conferences now. He's married to Dara. . . 'the female who broke _tal'mae_'for some people, and 'the human who shattered asari society' for other people. And Nara's my sister, and she's busy . . . breaking salarian society."

Kaius winced. "Well, when you put it that way. . . yeah. Baggage."

"Everyone who walks out of here carries their own share of it." She glanced past him at Estevan. "And sometimes, the baggage is that they don't have as much baggage as everyone else."

Kaius followed her glance, stiffened, and forced himself to relax as Estevan smiled and moved over to join them. "So," Caelia said, with forced brightness, looking up at Kaius once more, "Shooting tomorrow?"

"Sure."

It probably shouldn't have surprised him how good Caelia was here, as well. She had Lantar, Sam, Kasumi, Eli, and Dara training her, and she was a _lethal_ shot with the sniper rifle, and not bad with a pistol, either. What started the _hell_ out of him was that she'd already started working with a stealth net. . . and he couldn't _spot_ her well over half the time. This, when he was sufficiently on edge after two solid years on Cholis, that he periodically woke up reaching for his gun even in his parents' house? His senses should have been able to catch her. Instead, at least twice, she managed to sneak in on him in the training area, and whispered against his ear, "Bang. You're dead," which had just about stopped his heart the first time, and he looked up from where he was crouching in concealment behind a wall, just as her stealth net broke, and Caelia looked down at him, tilted her head to the side, smiled very faintly, and moved away.

Severus just _grinned_ when she got him. "I'm beginning to wonder if there are any of you who were raised here who aren't exceptional," he said, dryly.

"Polina and Quintus went technical branch and CID, respectively," Kaius told him, with a shrug. "Linianus' younger siblings. . . eh. . . I don't remember. Dropship pilot, logistics, and. . . what did Kelsarus get, again?"

"Ordnance. He was stuck at a munitions dump on Baetika for his first two years," Lantar supplied, after a moment's thought.

But he was quietly . . . pleased. It was clear in his eyes, if not from his expression, as Kaius told him, after a moment, "She's good. Assuming her book work is as good as the rest of her skills. . . she might make squad leader. She used to have a temper, though." Kaius was a little lost. He wasn't really sure where happy, cheerful Caelia had gone, and where this. . . deadly-focused huntress had come from.

"That would be an exceptional achievement for her." Lantar's pride showed just a little more. "Would you believe, she asked last week if she could go to Tuchanka? I told her she was _unlikely_ to be picked for anyone's krannt in the Rite, and that she didn't really need to do _everything_ her brother did."

Ellie, from where she sat on the sidelines, watching Tacitus and Emily spar in the just-up-from-children's yellowbelt class, said, dryly, "I keep telling her, she'll make her mark in her own way, and in her own time. But I think she's mostly just . . . determined." A shadow over the human female's eyes. "Not that I can blame her."

Kaius' jaw clenched, and, just for a moment, he again relived that horrible moment when the turian gunman had turned his weapon against Caelia, threatening to start the killing with _her._ How he'd moved out, to get the gunman to turn the weapon towards him, away from her. . . and then thrown the male into the wall. He'd never managed that much force with his biotics again. Breakthrough. . . was like that. But it gave him an indication of how strong he could be, someday, if he continued to practice. "Yeah," was all he finally said. "I understand."

Still, he wondered if laughing Caelia was still down underneath all that solemn, driven coolness. He really hoped so.

**Earth, January-May, 2205**

Letters flicked back and forth between Amara and Madison now. Mad had quite a bit of advice to impart about Academy life, from surviving the mini boot-camp and plebe year, to what she could expect from summer vacation—i.e., "don't plan on having one." He'd been assigned to a ship inside the Sol System the summer between plebe and sophomore years, and as low-ranking midshipman, had been berthed with the enlisted, and given enlisted responsibilities, rotating through five departments on the ship to learn the general duties of each. _It's also supposed to generate empathy in the young proto-officer_, Madison wrote, wryly. _See? This is how the enlisted live, and you, too, will live like them for ten weeks._ The summer between sophomore and junior year, he'd been part of the training 'officers,' or cadre, who'd _run_ the boot camp for the incoming plebes. There had been ethics classes and managerial courses, in and around that. And in his junior-to-senior summer, it had been back out on a working ship inside the Sol System, this time as a junior officer, in charge of those young midshipmen who were berthing with the enlisted. All part of the endless training cycle. _It's a little more in-depth than the turian system_, he noted, dryly, in his letters. _I'll grant that the turian system is intense as shit, and they __really__ believe in learning on the job, and that practice beats theory. I'll even grant that that's true. . . a certain amount of the time. But I also __know__ that our system washes out a hell of a lot of people who'd have made __bad_ _officers. . . and that's a good thing._

_How about hazing?_ she wrote back, apprehensively. _Kaius has really tried not to talk about it, but I know it was bad for him._

_Well, I didn't see a hell of a lot of it, Amara,_ Madison admitted. _Then again, I doubt most of my classmates knew who the hell I was. You see, there are whole neighborhoods in Boston where if you throw a rock, you'll hit someone named Dempsey. I also don't really stand out much, physically. You. . . well, there are about fifty to a hundred turians currently on campus, if I've got my numbers right. And your last name sticks out a bit more. The good news is, the campus is guarded by __Marines.__ Your security detail will. . . probably therefore be a little lighter than Narayana's was. Heavier than mine, though. I didn't have one. _

She could just imagine the rueful grin that had accompanied those words as he wrote them.

_Oh! In case you didn't know? Because you're an officer's candidate, you actually get paid. Not a hell of a lot; the first year, almost all of the credits get garnished to pay for your official terminal, your computer fees, your extranet account, everything like that. . . but you do get a little stipend. Not that you'll use it for much. You mostly can't leave campus, unless you get liberty, and room and board are paid for. Still, it's a perk, right?_

The Alliance closed the Academy, entirely, except for security and essential maintenance personnel, for spring break. This was supposed to be a courtesy for candidates who were Earth natives, and could go home to their families. All of Madison's family were either dead, or lived off-world, so he'd pretty much had to ask his father for money for a damned hotel room for two or three weeks each time. Most of his roommates had either gone home, or pooled their resources to go rent a house for a week in warmer climes—mostly Florida or Mexico. Madison had gone once, on his own dime, and returned home early, grimly annoyed with his friends. _The thing of it is, in North Am, you still need to be twenty-one to drink. I've been of legal drinking and voting age back home since I was sixteen. There's not a hell of a lot of mystery to me in it, and considering the fact that my dad handed me my first beer, and told me I still hadn't learned how to rebel properly, and he despaired of me ever getting around to it? It was just a week of people being loud, stupid, drunk, more loud, more stupid, and, apparently, a whole lot of drunk sex, judging from the sounds coming from the rooms around me. I'm not a prude, not by a long shot, but I'm not into casual, drunk pick-ups, and I didn't have a girlfriend there with me, so . . . not exactly a lot of fun. Oh, and the screaming, drunken fights between various people and their girlfriends? Also not a hell of a lot of fun. Nor was breaking up the arguments. I got on a train and went back. Again, I don't really see you having this problem, Amara. Doubt your security detail is going to let you get into that situation. . . you've got no living relatives on Earth besides those cousins that your mom's not talking to. . . so you're probably going to be in the same situation I was in: sitting in a fleet-rate, rent-by-the-week motel room in Annapolis, bored out of your skull. Okay, your parents might spring for a full hotel. I guess my dad would have, too, but I didn't want to ask for it. _

This spring break, however, was different; he headed to the Alliance Navy's Spec Ops try-outs. Three weeks of incredibly brutal testing, designed purely for attrition. There were multiple "N" units. The highly secretive N1 was the equivalent to the old "Delta" special operations group—counter-terrorism and special operations. N2 was closer to the old Green Berets, having a much wider operational purview, including interaction with alien groups, including training them. Quite a lot of N2, for example, was currently deployed to the Allied Batarian Territories, training former slaves as fighters for Valak's forces, working against the remnants of the Hegemony. N3 was equivalent to light infantry, or the old Rangers, and were typically deployed from dropships, and were intended to be able to move to anywhere in Alliance territory within 48 hours. N4 was closer to the old Airborne, specializing in high-altitude, halo-drop insertions. N7 was . . .very roughly. . . the operational equivalent to the old Navy SEALs. . . except that the old motto of earth, air, and sea had been joined by _space._ Training in ice-cold water, cold-shirt crossings in vacuum, zero-g, heavy-g, dropping from dropships. . . . N7 did it all. As a result, they were not as specialized as some of the others, but Madison _really_ wanted to join them. His father had been recruited. . .and Madison had been strongly encouraged to try out, in turn.

His father's advice had been, _Don't say yes to any funny-sounding projects, but other than that, go for it, and do your best._

So his letter to Amara on getting back from the try-outs had rambled a bit more, and been blurry with exhaustion. . . but exultant, too. _Won't get the results back for a bit, but at least I didn't wash out. Would be outstanding if I made it._

_I don't see why you wouldn't. Say, I know most humans do gene mods. Have you gotten yours, yet?_

_Yeah, senior year is when we get them. When the chances of washing out are at their lowest. No regeneration here, though! Not that it's offered. Thank god. I went for strength, improved reflexes, and toxin filtration. No, I kid you not, it's pretty cool. Hurt like __shit__ the first week, though. It's a take on the old 'crocodile blood' gene mod, that helps you bind CO2 more efficiently to hemoglobin, except this one __also_ _helps your liver and kidneys process toxins out of the blood __much__ faster. I might not be __immune__ to azure dust and red sand and midaphan and god knows what else now. . . but it's not going to hit me near as fast or as hard. Downside is, I metabolize pain meds almost as fast as my dad does, now. To say nothing of booze. _

Messages crisscrossed in space; Amara wrote and commented, _Caelia just left for boot-camp. She's younger than I am. . . I'm starting to feel pretty damned left behind. _

_Yeah, I understand, but . . . you're not exactly slacking off while you're there on Mindoir. Anyone in the Hierarchy who wants to give you shit about not being a 'proper' adult, or a 'proper' citizen, can, well, bite me. Everyone gets where they're going by their own path. And you're choosing your own. How can that possibly be a bad thing?_

And so, when Madison graduated the Academy in May, his dad and Zhasa and his 'uncle' James were there, and so were the Vakarians, who'd brought Amara to Earth so she could see a little more of where she'd be living for four years. "This place hasn't changed too much since my day," Shepard noted. "Few new buildings, where the Reapers attacked, I guess, but it's still very much the same place."

Amara had rarely been around so many _humans_ before. Oh, sure there had been trips to Bastion and Odessa when she was younger, but this many concentrated humans, all at once, was a little overwhelming. So many mind-colors. . . lots of grays, sure, but so many emotions, all crammed into one spot. The buildings here were almost all very old, too, nineteenth and twentieth century vintage, with a couple of newer, more high-tech ones crammed in between the weathered brick structures. The graduation itself was quite a bit different than she'd seen at turian boot camps; there were still uniforms—dress _whites_, however, slightly old-fashioned, but charming, for that very reason—but diplomas were given out, and it also didn't take eight hours. This, Amara thought, was something of a plus.

She couldn't quite believe that reporters had actually tracked them down here this fast already—but there they were, so she couldn't do more than smile at Madison and give him a quick, gentle, mental prod of _Happy to see me?_

_Oh, hells yes, I am. Didn't think you were going to make it here._ Madison was accepting hand-shakes and wrist-clasps, as applicable, as the reporters closed in. "Spectre Dempsey! Ensign Dempsey! Ah. . . Spectre Allen? Emily Wong, BNN News. . . . "

A few questions, Madison and his father standing side-by-side, like. . . _clones_. James Allen standing on the other side, like a ghostly twin of Dempsey himself. It was probably a little unnerving to anyone watching from home, but to Amara, it just looked _normal_. "You're following in the family footsteps, as I understand it, Madison? You're been accepted into N7?"

"I'd have been proud to be accepted into any of the N-programs, but I'm really pleased to be able to follow in my father's footsteps." Madison glanced over at James, who was hanging back out of the camera's range. "And my uncle's." _As it were_. The words rang out quietly, and Amara saw James' face actually light up; the android version of James Allen Dempsey had a biotic radio, after all, and he'd just been included in the family by his. . . son, of sorts.

Emily Wong dimpled. "No one would think your father _was_ your father. A brother, maybe."

"Believe me, ma'am, I plan to start the longevity vaccines as soon as possible, so we can perpetuate the cloning rumors for as _long_ as possible." That actually made Wong laugh, as she turned to interview Amara and her parents; the trip was, ostensibly, mostly about letting Amara see the Academy, and, of course, the SAIA/SATBIA conference her parents were attending, that sort of thing.

And then, for a little while, blessed freedom from the damned press. "I was thinking," Madison said, glancing at her parents, and his own, quickly, "that, if it was all right with everyone. . . that maybe tomorrow I'd take Amara down to the marina and we might go out on a boat for a while." He glanced at Amara. "If you'd like, that is."

_Madison Dempsey, are you asking me out on an actual date?_

_. . . yes? I mean, I've got all of a week before I have to be off-world—_

_Oh, spirits, you're kidding me!_

_Nope. Reporting to the __Kapaesa__. . . but __after__ three months of N7 training. I'll be working with your brother, assuming he hasn't rotated off by the time I get there. . . _Madison grimaced. _Doesn't leave a hell of a lot of time to get to know you again. Well, more than letters have let us. But I'd like to try._

Amara gritted her teeth and did her best to ignore the stares when Madison took her out in public the next day. And all in a rush, she realized that she was actually just as big a risk as Kaius had, in his chosen path. Kaius had had to deal with. . . five people in his squad barracks, forty on his half of a full barracks, then eighty total people, followed by, at final consolidation, a hundred and sixty in a full manicple. That's all the people he'd had to interact with, really, for a hundred and ten days—that, and drill centurions. Sure, it was overwhelming and intimidating, and her brother had done a fantastic job. . . but it was also a clearly broken, well-established trail in their family.

Then he'd wound up, again, with a limited pool of people at OCS on Dymion. . . and then out on the _Nereia_, there was a crew of a hundred and twenty, all of them humans and turians who were used to interacting with other species. Who'd seen the NCAIs with their hybrid avatars, some of them, for years.

Amara, on the other hand? Was going to have, literally, thousands of people around her. Oh, it would be constrained, at first, to this dorm or that classroom. But with six classes in a week, twenty-five students, at a minimum, maybe four hundred students to a large lecture hall. . . she was going to be constantly seen. Constantly under scrutiny. Amara knew that the wave of apprehension that swept over her was completely irrational. She took deep breaths, and fought it down.

Walking around the Annapolis marina with Madison, getting _stared at_ by every human in sight, Amara _really_ wished it were winter, so she'd at least be wearing a coat with a hood, a hat, something that she could cover her face and fringe with. Her bodyguards weren't really thrilled with this expedition, she could tell, but they were moving behind her and Madison, both human, unmarked by the crowds of people. She'd been told never to get out of eye-contact of them, and she wasn't about to disobey that particular stricture.

Madison, for his part, tried to get Amara to relax. "You're going to have to go out in public periodically," he told her, quietly. "They're not all out to get you."

"I know. . . I know. . . " It was just _hard_. One of her very earliest memories was the night at the cave. And one of the _freshest_ was the kidnapping on Macedyn, her mind so fogged with sedatives she couldn't focus even a whisper of her enormous biotic potential. And as they walked, Amara was getting bombarded with impressions. Every confused, hostile, pitying, horrified, fascinated glance. . . overlain by the emotional colors that told her what each person _really_ felt, behind the quickly-erected social mask. It wasn't, unlike Samiel's empathy, or Dara's mind-song, a pressure or a loud noise. It was just. . . somewhat like how rachni saw. How Dara saw, when she let herself slip into brood-queen mode. But it wasn't as overwhelming for Amara, and she thanked the spirits for that. The day of the kidnapping, she'd seen the _blackness_ in the spirits of those approaching her and her school-mates, and she'd yelled _Kaius! Run!_. . . but it had been too late. A rifle with a sedative dart had taken her down, from a distance, and then there had only been blurs of color. . .

_Shhh. That was then. This is now. And this is Earth, not Macedyn_. Mad squeezed her hand, again, gently. Helping her work past the very bad memories of total helplessness and impotent rage. They'd reached the pier in question, and the little sailboat, blue-hulled and white-sailed, was at hand. "C'mon, hop aboard."

The sailboat, to her surprise, wasn't a large commercial one, filled with people, but a small one owned by the 'Chesapeake Sailing School.' And Madison _laughed_ when she asked, "How did you learn how to _do_ all this?" as he competently enough got them out of the marina and into open water.

"First summer, the _first half_ of the summer, believe it or not, they had us out in a tall ship on the actual open water. Old-fashioned celestial navigation. It sounds silly, but it's a team-building exercise with history and purpose. Because. . . everything we do out there," Madison nodded up at the sky, '. . . is built on what we learned to do down here." He pulled her over, by the hand, and settled her in front of him, so he could show her how to work the tiller. "Doesn't take a lot. Just a little." A pause, and then the more grudging admission, "And. . . way back in the day. . . Bill Perry had a sailboat. He used to take my mom and me out of Boston Harbor. Go watch whales and stuff."

His mood wavered, and she could feel it. _What's wrong?_

_Eh. Those are some of the only good memories I have of those years. Kinda hurts, thinking about my mom. She was pretty happy out on the water. I loved the water, I liked the boat, but I hated that jerk, hated having to be anywhere around him. So I shut up so she wouldn't have to hear me bitching. Just went quiet and watched the waves. Maybe a whale. And did whatever Bill told me to do with the boat, but I wouldn't fish with him. My petty little line in the sand, I guess._ A little regret. Not directed at the man he despised, but mostly for having made his mom's life a little harder_. I was . . . kind of a brat about it._

_You were a youngling._

_I was nine, ten, eleven. . . last time we went out was on vacation from Exeter. And that's when they told me my dad—my real dad—had been found, but that he wasn't coming home, because he was all 'messed up.' Bill called him a head-case. Hah._ _And my mom was just twisting on herself, sitting on the deck, and I could just about feel the guilt coming off of her._ _I wish she could have been there, yesterday, when I graduated. I think she'd have liked that._

_But not with Bill there, right?_

_Ugh. Well, I guess if she'd still been alive, they'd still be a package deal. I'd have. . . dealt with it._ Madison leaned down, and, very lightly, kissed the side of her neck. _We should think about happier things, Amara._

She'd stiffened in surprise at the gentle overture, and darted a quick look around for her bodyguards. Both humans were new to her, but were both rachni-approved members of SATBIA. . . but because they were strangers, it was a little difficult to relax around them. She'd have others. Kallixta had pulled strings to get a couple of Praetorians assigned, to Amara's total embarrassment. And _Narayana—_spirits take her old friend, who'd recently laid her _second_ clutch of eggs with Kirrahe—had assigned Soril Erev, one of her personal Lystheni bodyguards, to watch over Amara on Earth. "Won't be his first time on the planet. He watched me while I was at Stanford," Nara had told Amara, overriding every protest with the air of an adult who knew better.

. . . it really didn't help that Amara remembered Nara hatching. Had gone through a grade or two of school with her, had confided her childhood crush on Madison to the salarian girl. It also didn't help that Nara had been the first one to realize that Amara was biotic, because the two girls had been inseparable when Amara was seven or so and Nara had been. . . more or less the equivalent age. Currently, Nara was . . . more or less thirty to Amara's eighteen. And it was only going to get worse.

So Amara had been rather deeply self-conscious on this whole _date_, and Madison hadn't exactly been making a lot of moves, either, until just this moment. She looked up, in surprise, caught the slightly anxious look. . . _Where are they, Mad?_

_Other side of the boat, Amara. I honest to god think one of them is being sick over the rail._ Bright amusement in his thoughts, as he brought them in to a safe enough place to reef the sails and anchor for a bit. So they could sit and talk, with her smiling almost in disbelief as she leaned into him, and he lightly draped an arm over her shoulders, well out of sight of land, and just watch the horizon for whales. Shark fins. Anything and nothing, really. Minds interlacing like their fingers. Sound of the wind in the sails, and the splash of the waves against the side. _I could learn to like Earth, if you were here with me._

_Unfortunately. . . I won't be. I'll visit. We'll . . . god, I don't know. I will either come here or Mindoir, I promise, every leave. I told you it was going to suck, sweetheart._ The first, light endearment he'd ever paid her, and Amara turned her head and nipped his throat for it. _Easy. . . damn, those teeth of yours really are sharp._

_You didn't like—?_

_You know I did. Just go easy on the actual marking, please. Turians might be all about showing that stuff off, but. . . _

_. . .you've got three months for the marks to wear off before then. Besides. . . would it really be that embarrassing?_

_Let me put it this way. I don't want to say hello to your brother and then immediately pry his fingers from around my throat, okay? _

_Kaius wouldn't—_ Amara giggled against his shoulder, helplessly.

_Kaius is half-human. He might. Discretion is the better part of valor, and all that, right?_

**May-October, 2205**

Months passed. N7 training was as brutal as specials ops training ever had been in the pre-space days, and perhaps a bit more so. No comm privileges for the first two months; when it was announced that the winner of sparring practice one night in July would be the lucky recipient of five minutes of comm time, Madison nodded to himself, and quietly put every single person between him and the comm booth on the ground. The other biotics in the program were just as floored as the rest of the other trainees. "Motivated, huh?" the training sergeant said, grinning, his teeth a white flash in his dark face. "Real time FTL has that effect on the young officer, I find."

Madison couldn't even do the math in his head at this point. _Probably something-dark-thirty_, he hazarded, tiredly, and made the damned call. "Amara?" he said, as the screen cleared.

"_Mad!" _

Madison glanced up, saw that the sergeant hadn't moved away particularly far, and switched languages into turian. His accent would never die, but he'd been studying the language for around nine years now, and he'd been in daily practice _using_ it on Mindoir. _" I only have five minutes—"_

"_You downloading all your backlogged mail at the same time?"_

"_You know it."_

She smiled and pulled far enough back from the camera that he could see that, yes, her room was completely dark; her face was only lit by the glow of the screen, and he reached out, and traced the line of her cheek with one fingertip on the aerogel screen. _"Let me get you caught up. Dara had your baby brother and sister last week."_

"Oh, good god. _I forgot. S'kak."_ He paused and blinked. "_I mean, I __totally,__ forgot._ _Is she _okay_? Are the younglings _okay_?"_ Madison sat up straight. He _liked_ Dara. She'd always been very kind to him, and she and Eli had gone out of their way to help him, as two people who'd lost parents, to a third, since he'd come to Mindoir.

"_They're all fine. Dara's still nursing them, but they're mostly moved in with your father and Zhasa now."_

"_Names?"_

"_Halla'Demsi for the girl and Jarek'Demsi for the boy."_

Madison made a face. _"Okay, that is just. . . .really _fucking_ weird. Do I get pictures. . . wait, nevermind, from the size of that download just now, I'd bet those were the pictures. What else, _sweetheart?"

Amara looked downcast. "_Dr. Chakwas is really sick. She's got some sort of eezo-induced cancer in the lungs. Dara and Nara sent her back to Earth for more aggressive therapy, but it doesn't look good."_

That was a shock. Madison rubbed a hand over his face. Unfortunately, he just didn't have _time_ for all this. _"_Okay. _That all the bad news?"_

"_Not really. I guess you guys live in a news blackout?"_

"_I am a blank slate at the moment. Unless the capital of the Systems Alliance has been bombed, I don't think they'd tell us. It wasn't that, was it?"_

Amara grimaced. "_Not quite."_

"_Complovium was bombed?"_

"_. . . not. . . quite."_ She looked wretched. _"That same extremist group that went after Kaius, Caelia, and me? Had a sister organization who thought that all of Ligorus' recent changes to turian law were. . . getting out of hand. Not in line with __tradition.__ They thought Perinus, his first-son, would make a more. . . traditional, and amenable Imperator. The more so because Perinus and Rinus have been arguing, loudly, in the Conclave, and Perinus said recently, he'd repeal most of his father's requested laws, if he were ever given the chance."_

Madison looked at the clock counting down. _"Politics can wait—"_ he said, a little desperately.

"_They staged a coup attempt,"_ Amara told him, the words tumbling out. _"Live on vid feed. They shot right at the Imperator. And Perinus caught sight of the gun, and threw himself over his father. . . and took the bullets meant for him. Right in the heart. The Hierarchy's in mourning. I'm sure you've got mail about that, though, too. I just. . . it's kind of burned into my mind, seeing Ligorus holding his son in his arms, bleeding out, while all the Praetorians circled around him, like a wall. Just looking down into his face, and watching his son die in his arms."_ Her lips quivered for a moment. "_Sorry, Mad. No more sad stuff. I __miss__ you. Isn't that stupid to say, when I've only gotten letters—"_

"_I miss you, too. I miss the damn letters. I miss the damn comm calls."_ His roommate at the Academy had noted that he'd suddenly gotten much more pleasant to live with, right around the time the FTL comm bill had gone up astronomically. _Small price to pay. _Madison cleared his throat. _"Amara, you about ready to pack and leave?"_

"_Everything's cleared out of my side of the room except what Elissa wants. She's mad at me for leaving. And says she's absolutely not going to either the Academy or boot camp. She wants to be a civilian. Such a rebel."_

"_They're going to make me hang up here, very soon. Just. . . miss you, Amara."_ It was astonishing, how much she'd wormed her way into his heart in the past few months. Or maybe, she'd always been there, and he'd just been resisting it. _"I'll see you when I can, _okay?"

"Love you, Mad," she said, in clear, perfect English, and hung up before he could reply. Madison sat there, staring at the blank screen, absolutely confounded, for a solid minute, before picking up his datapad, filled with two months of mail to read. Pictures of his new, strange, oddly beautiful half-siblings to look at, cradled in his dad's arms, Zhasa's arms, even Dara and Eli's arms. Looking at the faces in the pictures, knowing that there were undercurrents in the friendship between the four of them that he'd never understand or share, he looked down at the kids' faces, instead. He didn't see a lot of his dad there. Halla had Zhasa's wide violet eyes. . . Jarek. . . ah. There was a hint of his dad, perhaps. Jarek had almost clear irises, with silvery overtones. It might be a common quarian color, or it might be just how the family light blue had been picked up. Hard to say. News articles, forwarded by his father, on the assassination attempt. How Ligorus had given the funeral oration for his first-son, and had said, _"We were never close. The common bonds of love and affection between father and son were severed between us by a third party when Perinus was very young. We were robbed of that simple affinity. In recent years, however, I had thought that we had come to a certain level of respect. We disagreed on many policy areas, but on two things we never disagreed. Loyalty to our family. And loyalty to our people. I looked forward to arguing with him about policy. I looked forward to many years of talking with him. Working to change his mind, as he worked to change mind. To find balance and accord. I looked forward to seeing him do the same thing with his first-son. Instead. . . I have been robbed a second time. And I will never have the chance to speak with him again. Never hear how fiercely he'd defend an idea, or defend the honor of his sisters against a perceived slight."_ This was a far more personal oration than the one he'd given for the Imperatrix's funeral, years ago. And every head in the rotunda of the Conclave was bowed this time, hearing real and mortal pain in the voice of a male most everyone had considered to be made of plasteel. Ligorus paused and looked up. _"I do not forget those who have wronged me. I do not forgive them, either. And I am not the only one who has been wronged here. The entirety of the Hierarchy has been wronged. Whether you happen to have agreed with my son's opinions or not, whether you agree with __my__ policies or not. . . to make an __assault__ upon the life of another for having an opinion different than your own is an affront to every turian born. To make an assault upon the life of the Imperator. . . treason. Let the vengeance of the law fall upon all those who would so transgress."_ Ligorus' voice actually broke at that moment. "Let_ them be hunted to the last male and female, and plucked out of whatever dark place in which they hide."_

Galenus Eleutherius noted, over the recorded broadcast, _"The Imperator has been joined for the funeral for his first-son by all of his living children and grandchildren. Even Severus Praesesidis has been recalled from the last fighting on Cholis to be here today. Kallixta Velnaran is in attendance, with her husband, Spectre Rinus Velnaran, the Defender of the Empire. . . _

The crowd reaction had been no less vocal than years ago, when the Imperator had called down the full rage of the Hierarchy on the batarians and the yahg. Bu this was a colder, more deadly rage, and Madison really didn't want to be the target of that cold, fierce, lethal ire.

And then, back to the grind. One more month to go, and then, thank god, he was _done. _

Madison's flight to Bastion at the beginning of August saw him absolutely exhausted after three months of intensive training. . . but on the other hand, he was also tremendously keyed up. Anxious, nervous, excited, and could barely sleep on the flight, because when he reached Bastion, the _Kapaesa_ was waiting there. The SR-3 had become, somewhat de facto, Eli and Dara's ship, but had been steadily absorbed in the Cholis campaign in the last year. Kaius actually met him at the airlock with a tight grin and a wrist-clasp. . . which slid back into a hearty hand-shake. "So, how's my sister?" Kaius asked him, the bare hint of a grin baring those all-too-sharp teeth.

"Nervous as shit, but she'll be fine once she actually gets there and gets into the routine. It's the waiting that's killing her."

"Turian system, four boot camps a year. Seems a little more efficient."

Madison shrugged a little. That wasn't a good argument topic. "Honestly, I think it'll be a good experience for her. She's used to having your parents around, making decisions for her. She even tends to let you lead, when you're around. Now, she's going to have to make her own decisions and stand her own ground, without it being. . . ." Madison grimaced. "Quite the baptism by fire that turian boot camp seems to be."

Kaius grimaced and nodded. "She's the one who wanted to be a council representative when we were kids. She really thinks words can change the world."

"They can. Just that usually, you need bullets to make people listen, first. Annoying, but the way of the world." Madison looked around. "Okay. Where the hell am I berthed?"

"With me. Severus is stuck on Palaven for the next three months at least."

Madison squinted into the room. "Please tell me there's an actual bed."

"Hammock do all right?"

"Outstanding." Madison grinned at Kaius. "Why's Severus still trapped back home?"

"Succession." Kaius' reply was succinct as he waved Madison into the room.

"I'd have thought that was cut-and-dried. Perinus dies, his son's next in line, right?"

Kaius closed the door behind them, and lowered his voice. "Yeah. That's Lexarius. Trouble is, though he's twenty-eight now, and while he's been groomed for the job his whole life. . . ugh. He's very politely refusing to go through the investiture of the heir. From Severus' very few comm messages on the topic, they're all being kept there until _someone_ is invested, so they can offer their oaths of fealty and allegiance. He's pissed." Kaius smiled faintly. "Something to the effect of 'I'm so far down the line of succession, it would take the planet being cracked open like Thessia for the crown to fall to me, can I _please_ just give my oaths by comm call, and go back to what I was doing?'"

Madison started moving items from his seabag to his small footlocker. "So, why's . . . Lexarius?. . . refusing?"

"Near as I can read between the lines, it's a combination of not wanting to give the bastards in the _Latro Venator_ movement the satisfaction, and not wanting to be the next one in the cross-hairs. And while he _has_ been groomed for it half his life. . . he's not ready. Ligorus is sixty-five this year. Ligorus' father died _young, _relatively speaking. . .he was only fifty when he died. Ligorus took the throne at twenty-nine. Turians can live a hundred and twenty, a hundred and fifty years. Perinus could have been over a hundred by the time he had a shot at the throne. When that's happened before, the heir has, sometimes, abdicated in favor of a younger and healthier first-son or first-daughter." Kaius shrugged. "Either way, Lexarius wasn't expecting to have to _do_ much besides some diplomatic work for the Council until he was seventy or so, and even then, he _might_ well have abdicated in favor of _his_ kids."

"Does he have any?"

"That's the thing. He and his mate apparently have tried several times. No kids." Kaius rolled his eyes. "This whole fiasco is turning everyone, including the resolutely uninterested, into court-observers."

Madison shook his head. "Okay, so if . . . Lex-whatever doesn't accept it, who's next in line?"

"Second-son, Felinus. He's. . . um. . . " Kaius counted on his fingers, rapidly. "Forty-six. One child, a first-daughter. He'd make an absolutely horrible Imperator, however. Praetorians have hushed up a lot about him. After him is Khryseia, the first-daughter who. . . keep your mouth shut. . . had an affair resulting in off-spring, but who _didn't_ legitimize the child, unlike Ligorus did with Kallixta, gave the kid up, instead. . . if the kid, who's probably in his or her twenties by now, knows who he or she is, they have _not_ come forward, and I don't blame them." He made a face. "So, yes, all the dirty linen is coming out to be aired at this point. She worked in Morale Services, still puts on public events for the military, and absolutely no one would take her seriously as Imperatrix. The Conclave would run rough-shod over her, the two houses would be at each others' throats, no laws would be passed, no budgets would get passed. . . and _because_ she never dealt with the issue of the illegitimate child, it would cast a shadow over her legitimate children's succession. So she's preemptively abdicated herself and her entire line."

Madison sat down in one of the desk chairs, and just stared at Kaius. "And you know this all from Sev?"

"From Sev. From Uncle Rinus, who's _stuck_ on Palaven until all this gets sorted out—"

"Because he's married to Kallixta?"

"Yes. He's her mate. That means that if, god help us all, if she somehow became Imperatrix, he'd be her consort and co-ruler, if she appointed him such. And apparently, there are crazy idiots out there who think that the _Latro Venator_ were actually trying to work their way through the succession to put the Spectre _dominus_ on the throne. And half the Conclave apparently wants to know whom _he's_ backing at the next Imperator or Imperatrix, because, well. . . Defender of the Imperium. His words carry _weight_. But not enough to get him off-planet and back to work." Kaius looked over at Madison, who was trying not to laugh, and failing. "It's not funny."

"Oh, but it is. Trapped by their own system. And even you are getting worked up about it."

"Madison, Amara and I are both, technically, imperial relatives. _We_ could get tagged by this _s'kak_. Hell, I'm serving in the turian military. I'm not a citizen yet. I might have to go to Palaven and offer my knife to the new heir." Kaius hissed between his teeth, a very turian mannerism that Madison had never seen him use before. "God damn it, I do not have time for this shit."

Madison chuckled again, and gave Kaius a moment to let his irritation go. . . and changed the subject. "We picking up a lot of new crew at the moment?"

"Yeah. I actually had a three-month off-cycle to go train people on Dymion, believe it or not. I'm apparently a subject-matter expert on the husked batarians now." Kaius tone was grim. "They . . . take a hell of a lot of killing. Even some of the geth, the ones with hybrid runtimes, like Siege? Are showing signs of wear and tear."

"How's that?" Madison hopped back to his feet to continue unpacking.

"The way a CROWD platform kills these damned husks. . . is to pick them up and literally tear them apart. Sure, some might do it with those fancy energy blades, some might do it with raw strength, but they're essentially reiterating the yahg attacks that they were designed to stop." Kaius grimaced. "At least, that's how it's been explained to me. I guess taking on minimal emotional subroutines has made some of them vulnerable to the side effects of _having_ emotion. But they still find the ability to 'think outside the box' too useful to get rid of. . . "

"Must be nice to have that as a _choice_," Mad noted, and watched Kaius' face go blank for a moment. "There have been times in my life I wished I had an off-switch."

"Yeah," Kaius admitted, and rubbed at his eyes, tiredly. "Me, too."

"So, if that's how a CROWD puts these things down, how the hell do _we_ do it?"

"Spectres Sidonis, Velnaran, and I will cover that in the briefing tomorrow." Kaius grimaced. "Largely. . . massive amounts of ammunition. Spectre Liakos has had the same good luck she had with her vibroblade on yahg, but she's on maternity leave. Spectres Sidonis and Pellarian still carry vibroswords. . . oh, and yes, there's enough 'mind' left in the living husks that they _still_ get targeted for carrying those. . . " He rubbed his hands together. "There's. . . a lot of beheading and dismembering. Rockets work. Fire at least stops them from getting back up again, so that's Spectre Kirrahe's favored method. . . "

"Rumor has it, that's nothing new."

"So I hear."

Madison looked at Kaius soberly. "All right. More specific questions, then. How the hell am _I_ going to fit into the squad here? I'm not a heavy weapons specialist. I really don't see me tearing something apart limb from limb."

Kaius shook his head. "I don't know, but I know they put in a request specifically for someone with your skillset. I think you're going to be put to work breaking up the massed lined of former warrior-castes. Shattering their linked shields. My advice is, don't stick around long. Get in, get the _futar_ back out again." He looked at the wall beside them.

"They eat their dead, I hear."

"The true husks do, yeah." Kaius found the desk, and sat on the edge, staring down at his hands, his face expressionless. "That's not even the worst part, Dempsey."

Mad blinked. He'd gotten used to being called by his last name at the Academy. It sounded. . . odd. . . coming out of Kaius' mouth, however. "All right. What's the worst part?"

"The kids. We found a whole village once, that had been husked. Dr. Sidonis. . . Dara. . . got us to capture some of the kids who'd been subjected to the nanites. I . . . don't think she and Nara have had any luck yet with extracting the nanites." Kaius rubbed his hands together lightly again, and then peered at the palms. "The machine mind overlay. . . it leaves them just enough free-will to reason, to think, to strategize. But they still move as a unit, like. . . like geth. There's some level of communication between them all, that the techs can't tap into. And the kids are just as much a part of it as any of the rest of them." Kaius looked up, at last, his eyes shadowed. "K'sar said that the village had been a warrior-caste training enclave. Which means that probably most of the people there volunteered. I don't know if the kids did. I mean, even if they _did_ volunteer. . . they're children. How much free will did they really have?"

"Sounds like three months on Dymion wasn't nearly enough," Madison said, quietly.

"Not really, no, but how many biotics does the Hierarchy have, really?" Kaius managed a faint shadow of the old grin. "At least you're here now. Try not to get yourself killed on me. Amara would skin me alive."

Madison finished his unpacking. "So, what other types did the Spectres put in special requests for, anyway, besides slightly brainless vanguards, like me?"

"We're heading to Erszbat next. Totally different environment than Cholis. Garden world. Heavily populated. Hopefully not entirely overrun by husks." Kaius grimaced again. "We never found the damned Reaper device, Dempsey. It's still out there. Could be on Erszbat. Could be . . . on any number of other worlds, or asteroids or moons. . . "

"So, it's a garden world. Heavily populated." Madison nudged Kaius' mind back on-track. "Infiltration specialists, then? People who can get in, take a look at the population, get back out again?"

"Got it in one." Kaius looked up. "I just got the list of names today, both assigned here, and on the _Kiev_. Spectre Pellarian—Serana, that is—is running them, apparently. You'll never guess whose name I found on the list."

Madison stared a little blankly at Kaius. "I have no idea. I trained with a few infiltration specialists, but. . . none that you'd know."

"Caelia Sidonis. She's coming aboard, but the infiltrators are going to be working directly with Serana Pellarian. Won't be subject to the regular chain of command. I'm not fond of the idea."

"I'm sure there are reasons."

"Yeah. I just have no idea what they are."

Amara sent Madison dizzy, tired letters from the Academy; she'd gotten through Swab Summer as best she could. She'd done the same conditioning regimen as her twin had, so the physical portion of the indoctrination program didn't do much to her, but the fact that the drill sergeants did still yell and create impossible, no-win situations in order to simulate the stress of combat wore on her. She kept it off her face, conditioned by a lifetime with cameras periodically being trained on herself and her family, but she could sense which of the drill-sergeants saw this as a job, and a necessary portion of the job, and which ones actually enjoyed the power they had over the young people. Which ones _wanted_ to see failures. (Oh, some of them wanted to see them for altruistic reasons. . . if someone broke here, they wouldn't break out in the real world, where it would matter. And others. . . just liked to see uppity kids put in their place.) She could see which were which, with an unnerving degree of accuracy. She could see which ones thought they smelled weakness in her. Those, in particular, she wouldn't give any satisfaction to. But the continuous barrage wore on her, as did the stares of her new class-mates, the upperclassmen who formed the 'officer' cadre of the boot camp, and so on.

Just getting to the dorms had been a reprieve. Her first roommate, a human female from Italy, seemed charming enough, but Amara could _feel_ the woman staring at her whenever her back was turned. Giana had, however, passed her background check, so Amara figured she'd put up with the staring. She put her energy into her studies, which, as Madison had promised, she did find challenging and interesting. . . . she'd figured she'd do a xenopsychology major with a xenobiology major . . . except she wasn't permitted to put as much _time_ into them as she was used to doing. A required sport in both semesters, plus required drills and marching really ate into her time. She rather glumly ascertained that 'sailing' was a varsity-only 'sport' in which she had no experience, and thus tried out for the rifle team. . . and got in, much to her surprise and relief.

Letters in return from Madison and her brother were sporadic, at best, heavily self-censored. _Kaius wasn't kidding about how bad it is on these worlds. Erszbat isn't as heavily covered with the husked batarians, but of a pre-war population of about eighty million? I'm going to guess there's about forty million who've been husked. Not all of them willingly. God. Sometimes, I think it's spreading on its own, like a virus. Your cousin, SP, took a group of infiltrators into a valley last week. We'd seen signs of life in the vicinity.. . farms that were still getting tended, anyway. . . and we needed to know what we were getting into. The whole place was clean. And they absolutely threw themselves at us when your aunt S signaled for us to come through. I mean, caste-bonds or no caste-bonds, the locals ran to K'sar and Valak's batarian troops that we're fighting alongside, and threw their arms around them. Just about was a bad moment there; K. had to keep one of his men from firing on the locals. Little on edge, looked like a mad rush to attack, instead of to hug. Long story short, these folks have been hiding every time a military convoy comes through. They wanted us to take their kids with us. We couldn't. They've been without power for a damned year, so they're . . . pretty much back to the nineteenth century in some respects. They pull their water by hand out of a well, believe it or not. Some gas-run generators they pulled out of storage, which they only run for an hour or two, because of the noise and the emissions. Windmills. . . I kid you not. . . some solar. Two farming towns over, though? Well-tended. Openly worked. And every last one of them was husked, and took up arms as soon as they saw a hint of us. I can't talk much about that part, though. Sorry. The hell of it is, we don't know who was a volunteer. Who was forced into this. _

_That same village. . . we had one person who managed to put down his weapon. Put his hands on his head. He was weeping out of all four eyes, fighting the compulsion in his head to fight us. Your uncle ES went out to get him, with Kaius. To be honest, I was expecting the batarian to damned well blow up. He didn't. He's been sent off-world to see what was different enough about him that he managed to fight the compulsion._

_And then yesterday, we saw the same thing happen. This time, it was your uncle RV who went up there, with some human marine from the Kiev. _

_And that one did explode. He was rigged with detcord. Human marine's in medbay, your uncle's. . . well, this morning, he's just as good as ever. Except no one really wants to look him in the eyes today. ES pulled him off to the side and had him spar off some of the frustration-rage. So now, we don't know if that first one was a fluke, or an attempt to see if we'd be taken in. . . and now when we see someone surrendering, we don't know if we're supposed to shoot or accept 'em._

Kaius lay back in his hammock, listening to Madison type. They'd gotten pulled back up to the _Kapaesa_ for a bit. "A rest is as good as a break," Eli had told most of the special ops teams, dryly. "Even if the rest is just in your mind." Kaius, however, was having a hell of a time getting his mind to stop _spinning_.

"Kai?"

"Hmm?"

"You still have that _reela_ Dara gave you?"

Kaius blinked. That had come from out of the blue. "Yeah, actually. In my footlocker. Haven't. . . god. I don't even remember the last time I played it."

"I'm personally going out of my head right now, because it's too goddamned quiet on the ship. All I can hear is the rush of the air system and the drone of the engine, and I can't concentrate on this letter for shit. You'd be doing me a favor if you played something."

"You've got headphones. You could listen to something."

Madison lifted his head and gave Kaius a tired, but genuine smile. "Yeah. I could. But that only gets _my_ head sorted out. Doesn't help you."

Kaius stared at his old friend. "What—how. . . I mean, my head's fine."

_You've been sitting there staring at the ceiling, rubbing your hands for a solid ten minutes. Give your hands something else to do. Something constructive. If even the geth are asking to rotate off this job, it's got to be wearing on the organics, too._ Madison very carefully didn't say any of that out loud. Their door was open to the hall, and no matter what he said about the ship being too quiet, the walls were thin, and turian hearing was damned good. "Sure," he said out loud. "But you'd be doing me a favor."

"Oh, well, if I'm doing you a _favor_, then sure." Kaius dug for his reela, which was buried at the absolute bottom of his footlocker, set it up, and stared at the keys for a long moment, before starting to play.

Surprisingly, it let him focus his mind. Moved his thoughts into different channels. Music, reading notation, was a totally different mode of thought than tactics and problem-solving; it required exacting precision, awareness of the next several notes coming up, but also living entirely in the _now_. It didn't _let_ him ruminate on the next tactical challenge, a fairly large military base on Erszbat's western continent. It didn't let him dwell on the days and weeks before. It was oddly soothing, and a little cleansing.

A tap at the frame of the door, and Eli Sidonis popped his head in. "No, don't get up," he told the two younger males, quickly. "Just checking in on everyone. _Reela_ music made me homesick. That was Chopin, I think? 'Raindrops'?"

Kaius nodded, hastily, his fingers stilling the _reela'_s still-humming strings. "It's one of Aunt Dara's favorites."

"Yeah, she always goes back to that one when she's upset about something." Eli came in, leaned on the desk, and talked with them for a while. Asked Madison what he did to relax—"aside from writing letters home, that is. . . "

". . . Eh. My dad keeps threatening to teach me bass guitar. And then reminding himself that I have no inwards rebellion whatsoever." Madison rolled his eyes. "I think I got that all out of my system with my step-father. That, and life after moving to base was just too damned hectic and _interesting_ to rebel properly at."

"You do need something. An outlet. A way to blow off steam." Eli folded his arms over his chest. "Take it from someone who let the job eat him _alive_ the first couple of years. I found most of the bad ways to start with, and then went with 'absolutely nothing,' for a while. It didn't work." Eli snorted. "Now. . . god. I read about fossils, I keep up on what the kids are doing at home, there's sparring, of course. . . music, whenever Dempsey—senior—and Dara are around." Eli gave them both a calm stare. "So? Do I have to _tell_ you to develop some hobbies?"

Madison raised a calm hand. "I've got the xenobiology stuff. I shut everything else down and read that. I send Dara questions, and she's been nice enough to send back stuff on the thresher maw home world, the life cycle of metal mites. Whenever I get home to Mindoir, I think I might like to go down to La Garra and rent a boat for a while. See what the ocean looks like there, properly. And yes, there's plenty of sparring." Madison threw a stylus from his datapad at Kaius, who caught it, almost without thinking. "Kaius here usually has a line of partners waiting for him."

Eli muffled his laugh, transmuted it into a snort. "I had noticed that."

Kaius rubbed a hand over his crest, uncomfortably. It had taken Severus pointing it out to him, back on the _Nereia_, but he had to admit, the pattern had become a trend. Quite a few turian females _did_ ask him for sparring lessons. . . which he handled by setting up a class block, with him and at least a few other people in the room. "I make sure to work with all of them, in group settings. If I give a private tutorial to one person, I more or less have to give everyone the same courtesy, and then I'm on the hook, teaching all the time, with no time off. So I tell them, sorry, no exceptions."

Kaius grimaced. He didn't really want to talk about the few times, on the _Nereia_, before he'd made this unbending rule of his. In one case, the female in question had clearly been flirting, in turian terms, and Kaius had definitely understood it as such—trailing her talons down the backs of his arms, letting her spurs run the length of his own, stroking idle fingers along the rim of his cowl. The problem had been, while sparring definitely was a turn-on, he hadn't actually been sure what was aggressive _enough_, and what was too passive. Human social norms said one thing, turian social norms said something else, and while Kaius was usually adroit and adept at flipping from one demeanor to the other as his surroundings demanded. . . and for a paralyzed instant, he hadn't know what the hell to _do_, bite or kiss, pull her forward, turn her around, or step backwards. Every impulse had flooded through his mind, and he had, almost reflexively, reached out and brushed her mind with his own—socially, an invasion of privacy in turian and human society, both—just to see what she _expected_ from him. . .

. . . and had found _curiosity_. He could understand that. . . it was almost everyone's natural first reaction to him. But it wasn't really what he wanted or expected to find right at _that_ particular moment. He'd. . . sort of expected something different. Something more. Maybe not, well, love undying. He'd certainly been curious, himself, but that was because he'd never, well, _done_ any of this before. But it had been something of a slap in face, and had killed his libido for the moment. He'd tried to put it out of his mind; she'd been lithe and fierce and he'd really been quite attracted to her. . . but the little nagging whisper he could hear from her as he leaned in to bite her throat of _Huh, not as fierce as a full turian. Probably can't even climax more than once, like a human. . . _ made him pull back, run a hand over his fringe, and excuse himself, hastily and uncomfortably. He'd really _wanted_ to do things. He'd been run at a dogged pace for a year on Cholis at that point. His body was young, and he did have needs. He just. . . didn't want it to be merely blowing off steam, or satisfying someone else's idle curiosity. He'd tried a second time, to connect with her. To talk, actually, after a sparring session with others present. And all she'd wanted to do was _argue_. Kaius knew that this was actually a compliment. An indication that he was _worth_ arguing with, that she thought his mind was strong and his opinions worth debating. But all he'd really wanted to do, at that point, was get to know her, and he. . . hadn't wanted to argue. Arguing was tiring, he'd had a long damned day as it was, and all he'd really wanted to do was . . . connect a little. Maybe feel the touch of a hand on his.

The second time, he'd realized, with a human female, that she'd been spending a lot of time talking to him. Had put a hand, very lightly, on his shoulder after a sparring session, in between missions, before pulling back. Up and down flicker of her eyes, not coy, but uncertain. He'd also smelled. . . interest. . . on her. His sense of smell wasn't quite up to turian norms, but definitely enough to pick up baseline emotional states. So Kaius had cast into his mind for what the acceptable human gestures were, and had asked her if she'd like to get a cup of coffee in the mess. She'd agreed. They were within acceptable degrees of rank, not in the same chain of command. . . everything looked promising. . . except all she'd wanted to do _was_ talk. And he'd discovered, in dismally short order, that she had absolutely nothing to talk about. At least, nothing that interested him. Oh, he'd tried. He'd hung in there through the vagaries of visiting New England flea markets in search of elusive antique stuffed animals. He'd tried shifting the topic to her job; she was a tech, so she actually worked with the sensor array on the _Nereia_, and did hourly sweeps of their position to discern if any ships were in the area. Nothing doing. She'd gone back to talking about her friends on Earth, their various marital divisions, their children, what guy had apparently done them wrong. . . and then off onto another tangent, an extranet show she liked, of the talk show variety, which he had never so much as turned on, and sounded like a real zoo. But he was aware that she seemed to like him, and interest begat interest, so he'd tried again, over dinner in the mess. Had mentioned some of his own interests—but actually programming bored her, so he dropped the subject. Games, whether on the computer or played with cards or dice, she considered a waste of time. (And spending hours looking for antique stuffed animals _wasn't_, he'd wanted to ask, but he'd bitten his tongue.) Xenobiology and discussing the terraforming projects on Aphras and Tosal Nym? "Waste of credits that should be put into social services," she averred.

Kaius had reminded himself that his were not the only opinions in the universe, and had walked her back to her quarters, leaned in to kiss her. . . and caught the subterranean level of thought that whispered, _Wow. This is almost like getting it on with a real turian. Only not as scary._

And that had pulled his head back, almost with a snap. Apparently, he wasn't quite turian enough for anyone, or quite human enough, either. Kaius had wished the female a good evening, and turned and walked away, seething with frustration, not knowing whether to thank his biotic gift for forewarning him, or to curse it, for telling him that he was _doomed._

Severus had chuckled and told him he was missing _golden_ opportunities. Kaius had pointed out that _Severus_, while he'd flirt with every unattached female on the crew—sometimes _shamelessly—_had never yet asked any of them to a sparring room or back to quarters and closed the door. And Severus had, gloomily, agreed. "I _really_ wouldn't mind having a mate," he'd said, with a shrug. "But conduct befitting my station and all that rot."

Back in the here and now, Kaius shrugged helplessly and looked up at Eli. All in all, it just seemed like a bad game, and one he figured he could sit on the sidelines of, for a while, anyway. "What brought this up?" he asked, dryly.

"Eh, just trying to make sure here, that some of the things that went amiss with Rel, don't go amiss with you, Kai." Eli shrugged. "And with me. And with Dara and Lin and. . .well, everyone else."

Kaius' head snapped back. He wasn't sure what to make of that. "I'm fairly sure I'm not an adrenaline junkie," he said, cautiously.

"No, you're not. You're cautious in combat, but don't hesitate to do what's needed. Not so much adrenaline as. . . isolation, and letting the job eat you alive." Eli grimaced. "God knows, I . . . really let it get to me. Just letting you know, there are a lot of us around who've been there. And we're here to talk, if you need to talk, or listen, if you need us to listen."

He left then, and Kaius just stared after him for a long moment, shaking his head. _Do I look that spirit-lost?_

_Only when you start rubbing at your hands_, Madison replied, instantly. _That's a hell of a tell. . . Vakarian._

_I'll keep that in mind. . . Dempsey._

Three days later, another operation. Erszbat had cities, mines, agriculture, military bases, support infrastructure. Valak's ABT forces were moving in, in force, behind the turian/human/geth/rachni/krogan strike teams and securing what the forward teams took down. Today's objective was a mining complex, largely for eezo extraction, which was, to avoid transportation costs, located next to refinery. . . with transit facilities to take the processed eezo to weapons and engine building plants all over the planet. There was a brown haze in the sky over the strip-mining operation, which Kaius looked at, uneasily. "_Everyone packed extra breathers, right?" _he asked his squad. _"That doesn't look healthy."_

Serana Pellarian was taking two squads of picked infiltrators, and taking them into the refinery. They'd be killing guards, in the main, and making a decision, on the spot, if the workers were husked or not. If they were clean, they'd be evacuated, if possible. If they weren't, well. . . they were all carrying demolition gear. Valak and K'sar had noted that they'd greatly prefer to leave as much of the infrastructure intact as possible. Every manufacturing building that troops didn't destroy, was one less the ABT would eventually have to _rebuild_ with credits that they really didn't have.

Kaius understood the strategic needs. He just didn't like what they did to the tactical situation. It put their people at greater risk, because, when it came down to it? Blowing the facility from the sky was a lot less risky than sending people in, making judgment calls, evacuating workers or running like hell from husks. On the other hand. . . doing everything they could to keep the body count down _did_ let him sleep a little better at night, and he figured that the same thing applied to everyone on his side. Eli, Lantar, Rinus, Rel. . . even his mom and dad, when it came right down to it.

This mining and refinery operation was supposed to have some warrior-caste guards. So today, his squad, which included Madison, two turian marines, and two human combat engineers, were supposed to be working with the other squads outside the refinery, to serve as a distraction from the south, while the infiltration teams snuck around to the north side of the facility and made their way in. Eli, Linianus, Rel, Siege, Dempsey, and Stone were off to the southeast, with about six of their own marines, plus another twelve batarian troops, plus a handful of krogan auxiliaries, mostly Ulluthyr who'd taken the 'peace-keeping' job with a toothy grin, for the credits. Legitimized merc work. They were going to start the attack, get the warrior-castes, husked or otherwise, to turn towards them, and then Kaius and Madison's secondary teams were supposed to come in from flank and create a pincher. . . or, if needed, break into the front of the building to again, take pressure off the infiltration teams. Whatever was needed.

Their first clue that something had gone wrong was the large number of what looked like mining mechsuits in front of the refinery. "Did they see us moving in?" Madison asked, tightly. He'd had a month or two of these types of fights by now, and was starting to get a good sense for when something didn't feel right.

"Possible," Kaius muttered, scanning the entire front of the refinery. "Batarians tend to use slaves for . . . everything. They don't usually use mechs. . . just raw labor."

Eli's voice, over the radio, _"Stay sharp. Those don't look like regular mining mech suits. Custom models, Siege says. Unknown capabilities."_

Kaius returned his gaze to the building. "Snipers," he warned over the radio. "At least two on the roofline."

"_Infiltration team, abort. This doesn't feel right."_ That, from Lin, quick and sharp.

_Clouded minds_, Stone sang, a harsh rasp in everyone's heads. _They sing machine-songs. _

"_All of them?"_ Eli asked, sharply.

_No. Not all. Some sing clear songs, terror-songs. Within. Perhaps fifty. _A pause. _Another fifty or so of the clouded minds. Slave-songs. Machine-songs._

"Spirits," Kaius muttered under his breath in English. _I don't even want to think the words __acceptable collateral damage__, but. . . "This feels like a trap, somehow."_

"_Doesn't it, though?"_ Madison's reply flipped into turian, automatically.

"_Laverna?"_ That, from Lin to Serana.

"_Yes, Forseti?"_

"_Get the people inside out, blow this place to the spirits, and get the hell out of there. We'll be as distracting as we can, but be careful."_

_Great. So, we all know it's a trap, so we're going to spring it. . . carefully._

"_Copy that. We're in position and unlocking the back door." _Serana's cool, competent voice over the comms. . . and then the Spectre group to the east pulled up out of cover, and began to fire.

The mechs all turned. Pulled up the blue shimmer of kinetic shields, and lumbered into position, standing in groups of three . . . and began to open fire on the Spectres, in turn. Kaius held his people back, for the moment, observing, waiting for the word to go. . . "_Spectres, you've got more incoming out of the quarry area itself,"_ he said, sharply. They might not have seen the incoming mechs, in the tunnel-vision of battle.

"_We see them. Think we're looking at linked shields on the mechs, probably warrior-caste adapted tech."_ Eli's voice was crisp. _"Come in heavy."_

Kaius set his teeth. "Dempsey?"

"You point, I make hole. We bury them in it, rinse, repeat." Madison's voice was nowhere near as casual as the words. The mechs were . . . Big. Well-shielded. And they had mining lasers, which they were aiming and firing directly at the Spectres' location.

And with that, they got to work. Madison sprinted off ahead of the others, tearing into the shields of the batarians in their mechs, and then got the hell back away as the mech operators turned—slowly, thank the spirits, very slowly—reacting to the attack from their flank. Kaius and the others opened fire in his wake, and as Madison leaped over a boulder and back into cover, he popped back around it, to tear at the shielding with his biotics. "Heavy shielding," he reported, sounding winded. "Going to take some work to get through it."

The mechs lumbered forward, in formation, and they gave ground, trading distance for time. Kaius swore mentally every time Madison raced in, but he had to give the human credit; he'd been well-trained, and he only went after targets that Kaius designated, never crossed the line of fire from the others in their squad. . . . They took down one of the mechs with concerted firepower. . . . and the husked batarian inside crawled out. Stood up. Looked for his next target. Kaius grimaced behind his face shield and _threw_ the male as far and has hard as he could. Knowing that short of fire, decapitation, or simply tearing the body into pieces, the enemy probably wasn't dead yet. _Hardly seems fair. We need to kill them two or three times, and they only need to kill us once._

"_Infiltration team, what's your status?"_ Eli's voice, calm and sure, in spite of the _very_ heavy fire on their end of the field. Kaius, between shots, could see the krogan and geth troops had moved into close-quarters with the mechs. Could see them holding the limbs with the lasers attached, pointed up at the sky, straining against servomotors. Could see the pincher claw of the opposite arm, opening and closing, spasmodically. Caught a glimpse as Eli, to judge by the yellow-white flash of light from a Collector beam weapon, shattered the plasteel bubble in front of the mech pilot's face. _Headshot. Nice. That one probably won't get up again._

"_We've got the interior guards down. The workers inside are in bad shape, and we've got spot fires. We're giving them spare breathers and getting them out. Sidonis and I are setting charges."_

_Sidonis? Which—oh. __Caelia__. _Kaius snapped off another couple of shots at an incoming mech. _We really do need squad-names around here. I really, really need one, in case comm security's ever compromised_. . . Wandering thoughts, sort of maundering at the back of his head, as he lined up a mech's head in his sights, and pulled the trigger for a short burst of fire.

In the distance, through the scrum, he saw one of the krogan fall to the ground. _C'mon, get up. You've got redundant __everything__. Get back on your feet, we need every last one of us. . . _ He found a target. Fired. Kept that mech suppressed, to let the first half of his squad move safely.

"Lieutenant, this cover isn't going to hold much longer—"

Kaius' eyes flicked down. The mining lasers were silent and largely almost invisible, just a flicker in the air, and then _burning_ their target. . . but his centurion was right. The boulder was almost at five hundred degrees now, and would surely shatter shortly. "_Fall back,_" he told the centurion, and gestured for the other half of his squad to precede him. He'd cover the retreat; no one else in the squad had a double layer of shields. As he rose to a half-crouch, he caught another glimpse through the distant scrum. . . the krogan was back on his feet. Standing there, for a moment, slack-limbed, as if confused. _Must've been clipped in the head. Guess that takes even a krogan a minute or two to shake off._

He backed up, now relying on his squad to cover _his_ retreat, to keep the mechs from firing on him.

From inside the building, Caelia's voice, clear and sharp on the radio. _"Charges set."_

Serana, now. "_We're starting to pull back, but there's a __lot__ of workers in here. We're going to need a moment to complete the evac."_

"_Might not have a moment to give you. We've got casualties out here."_ Tight tone from Lin.

Kaius just kept firing. Changed thermal clips and ammunition packs, switched to an incendiary type, as someone passed it up the line. Covered Madison as his human friend raced out into the melee, fired, dodged and danced and simply wasn't _there_ as the mechs retaliated. . . and then did it again. And did it again, this time slamming the prepared asp, with all the kinetic energy wrapped around it, shattering a plasteel mask, giving those of them with guns a clear, open target of a batarian face to shoot at.

But no matter how good they were, they couldn't hold out forever, and the last time, Madison staggered as a massive pincher claw came down and slammed into his shoulder. . . and then managed to dart back out of range, one arm hanging limp for a moment. "Dempsey?" Kaius called, as Madison got to cover.

"I'll live." It was a grunt of pain.

All the while, the krogan had been wandering through the scrum, looking . . . lost. Blank. Oblivious. Kaius could hear a few shouts at the Ulluthyr male from his fellows, bellows, really, in the rough krogan language. He couldn't understand them, but could guess that the content was some variant on "Get your ass back here!"

Madison dropped into cover beside Kaius, back against another piece of rock. "Is it just me, or are the damned mechs not even reacting to that krogan?"

Kaius peered over the boulder. "He's not acting like a threat?" he offered, dubiously. Battle-vision was _down_ at the moment—he glanced around to see what the hell was going on with that, and saw that Stone was locked in close combat with a mech. . . which he was, thankfully, turning into liquid metal, which would surely destroy the husked batarian inside. . .

"Maybe. Maybe not." Madison swore, and reloaded his shotgun, one-handed.

"I thought you said you were good." Kaius fired again.

"I'm fine. Only, I think the fucking thing snapped my collarbone." Madison grunted with effort, rested his shotgun over the top of the boulder as a prop, and fired, before ducking back down again.

Kaius peered up over the boulder again. Stared at the confused krogan, an icy prickle forming along his spine. . . and then the male turned. Focused on their position from about a hundred feet away. . . . "_Stone! What is up with that krogan?"_ Kaius shouted, knowing that Stone could hear him, no matter the distance.

_Which krogan singer? All of them are behind me._ . . . _do you mean the one who ended his songs?_ Stone, across the battlefield, caught the wave of images from Kaius, and his head swiveled. And comprehension flooded two minds at the same moment.

Rachni didn't entirely rely on their eyes. They relied, quite heavily, on mind-song, though they'd fall back on their other senses when dealing with mechs or husks. Stone had felt the krogan _die_. His song had winked out. And he'd been sufficiently absorbed with all the other songs of battle around him, and pressed by close combat, himself, that it hadn't really registered on the rachni as the krogan stood up. He'd caught little hints from the others, admiration. . . _damn, that krogan is one tough son of a bitch. . . _ but it hadn't entirely been clear what they'd been thinking _about_. Because for Stone, the krogan had been. . . out of the equation.

Except, he wasn't. "Krogan charging!" Madison shouted, and Kaius, knowing his friend was hurt already, swore and jumped over the boulder, reinforcing his shields. "Kai! You're crazy, get _back_ here—"

"Roll, Mad, get away from the boulder!" Kaius leveled his assault rifle and simply pulled the trigger, fighting muzzle climb, as the krogan loomed larger and larger. He could see the bullets tearing into the krogan's armor, body. Could see the lifeless, milky film across the orange-red eyes as the huge creature pounded towards him. Very distant thoughts drifting through his head. _Yes. . . this is pretty fucking crazy. We who are about to receive, give thanks. . . got to time this __just__ right. . . _the krogan closed to within almost arm's reach, and Kaius _threw himself_, using every bit of what Samiel had taught him, over the years, to back-flip, with biotic assistance, out of the way. Hands still on his rifle hit the ground first, and Kaius tumbled back upright, staggering, as gravity and inertia tried to land him on his ass. _Never tried that in armor before. God. Need to practice how you play. . . _Thoughts still distant, he saw the krogan slam into the boulder, actually knocking a chunk out of it. "Not down!" Kaius shouted into his radio. "Repeat, we've got a husked krogan, and he's _not_ down."

"_How the hell did he get husked?"_ Eli demanded from across the battlefield.

Consternation among the Spectres. The nanites seemed to spread between batarians, even affecting the living, without the old Dragons' Teeth apparatuses used by Reapers and Collectors. This had indicated that the batarians had managed to adapt the technology. . . to their own cost, probably. But never before had the damned nanites seemed to spread to any species _other_ than batarians. "_The damned things can adapt."_ Lin said, grimly.

Kaius didn't have _time_ to think about the ramifications. His men were firing on the husked krogan steadily, but it was healing as fast as they could fire on it. The thing simply wouldn't _die_. . .and it closed the gap on one of the engineers, swatting a combat drone out of the air, and grabbed the human and simply slammed her, headfirst, into a rock. Total brutality.

_No flamethrowers. No geth to tear it apart_. He looked back at the refinery. . . the _bomb-rigged_ refinery. . . and had a rather desperate thought.

As it turned out, he wasn't the only person thinking along those lines. Madison tabbed his radio. "_Laverna, don't blow the refinery yet. I'm going to draw the husked krogan in. And as many of the others as I can, too. Get the civilians out._"

"Dempsey!" Kaius snapped at him, trying to close on the krogan, but dealing with lines of fire from his own people, as Madison, charging his asp, stepped in from the side and took a swing at the krogan, using the krogan's body as a shield from the others' fire. "Let _me_ do it, I've got more shielding than you—"

"Yeah," Madison ducked under a swing as the krogan spun and slammed a fist at his head. "You're also not as _fast_ as I am."

"Then we're doing this together," Kaius rapped out. "May as well get as many of them as we can. Centurion, _cover us!_"

And then they were _running_. Madison spun and sprinted, luring the krogan after him—any time the krogan started to deviate from following, Kaius ran in and caught its attention. Threw himself out of range of a swing, landing in a tangle of arms and legs another fifty feet away, rolling back up again, as Madison charged back in to re-engage. Got the krogan following them . . . and then Kaius started firing on the other mechs, now from _behind_ them, at the main entrance of the refinery. _C'mon._ _If we're going to do this, let's at least make it worthwhile. _

"_We've got the civilians pulled out, but we've got other problems back here,"_ Serana reported, tightly. "_Warrior-castes. I'm going to find wherever the leak on this operation was, and when I do, I'm going to break its legs. Personally."_

No time to think, really. Kaius and Madison were running through the refinery now, dodging and ducking past equipment, using it for cover, pulling the krogan and about a half-dozen of the other husks with them. "Got to make some ground now," Madison panted, and then they took off, full sprint, throwing down shelves and machines behind them with their biotics, anything to slow the husks a little more. "We're coming out the back," Kaius called into the radio. "Get ready to blow this thing—"

"_About time,"_ Serana told him, sharply. _"Watch yourselves coming out, we're still taking fire here—"_

And then they slammed through the back door, Kaius in the lead, to try to take as much of the incoming fire on his shields as possible. He presented a clear target, and the dazzling white light of dozens of incoming rounds sprayed across his shields, blinding him. Then Mad grabbed him and they ran, together, for cover. Fifty feet. A hundred. Kaius' shields were starting to fail. . . "Hold on," Mad told him. Every stride for the human had been agonizing, this whole time, but adrenaline was letting him ignore it. He shoved Kaius into the shelter of a shed of some sort with his good arm, noting, absently, the bio-sign blip on his HUD, indicating that a friendly was also in cover here, took a couple more hits across his own shields, and staggered.

The warrior-castes, scenting blood, moved to try get a better position on the pair who'd just emerged from the burning refinery. . . and in moving, left themselves open to the sniper who'd been hidden on the roof of the shed the whole time. _BAM-BAM_, two sharp reports, and the first warrior-caste was _down_. The sniper took two more shots, with lethal precision, then rolled off the roof of the shed and dropped to the ground, a dim figure in the growing shadows of twilight around them. "_Laverna,"_ Caelia said, her tone clipped, _"they're clear and in cover with me."_

"_All units are clear. Blow it!"_ Eli called over the radio.

The explosion was catastrophic. Raw eezo wasn't particularly explosive, but the refined product was. The refinery, as any such building should be, was built to channel most of the force of any accidental explosion _up_, rather than out. A column of fire at least five miles high shot into the air, and Madison was simply glad he wasn't _facing_ it. Even turned away, behind a building, his eyes closed and his mask polarized, the glare was almost as intense as looking at the face of the sun. The shockwave leveled the shed they stood behind, and knocked them to the ground; the searing pain in his injured shoulder was actually the last thing Madison felt.

Kaius hit the ground, felt _something_ pelt off his armor, and, after a moment of shock, kicked half a sheet metal wall off of his body, using his biotics to get it the hell off of him, Madison, and Caelia. He rolled upright, and shook Mad's good shoulder. "Dempsey?"

No response. Kaius tugged again. "Come on, we've got to keep moving."

No response then, either.

Kaius froze, and groped for Madison's left hand. Got his omnitool up and running, and checked for a heart beat. Which was there, but slow. Faint. Madison was unconscious. Kaius looked around, a little desperately. "Cae—Sidonis?"

"_I'm here." _Caelia sounded winded, and only then did he catch the tell-tale shimmer of her stealth field. _"Something hit me in the head, I think. . . "_

"_You good to shoot?"_

"_Yeah. Think so. We have hostiles?"_

Kaius just nodded. The batarians in the woods were still out there. They wore full face-masks, with internal HUDs. They wouldn't be blinded. Maybe rocked by the explosion, but not blinded. _"This is Vakarian. Dempsey is unconscious. We can hold this position, but we need an exit strategy,"_ he reported, over the radio.

"_We'll come to you. Hold there. At least you know your six is secure." _Faint humor in Eli's voice; their six was, in fact, _on fire._

And so, for the next ten minutes of pure hell, Kaius and Caelia held that position, keeping Madison's body under the shelter of the rubble itself. Caelia vanishing, moving away, letting Kaius draw the enemy to them—sometimes literally, as Kaius would yank a batarian out of the cover of the rocks right to them. . . and then they'd take the opponent out together. Caelia drilling through the back of the helmet, flickering out of stealth. Kaius dropping to strip the helmet off, and, grimly, saw off the head with a field utility knife. Both to ensure that the living-husk wouldn't stand up again, as a dead one. . . and so that he could then throw the head back out at the others. A message. A taunt, if such could be said to work against batarians who'd been husked. They could still _think_, but it was unclear if they still had emotions, at this point.

And he knew he'd be seeing this in his dreams.

Then they'd change it up. Kaius would emerge from the cover of the battered, broken building. Take the first several shots directly on his shields, and then move to lure a batarian out of cover. Got a couple of them to charge his position just that way, actually.

And then the Spectres slipped up from flank, and it was over.

Kaius took a fair bit of a tongue-lashing as he removed his gear. . . his armor was studded with bullets, but only a couple had broken through, just barely grazing him, really. He and Madison had left their position, and left their men. Admittedly, they'd been trying to lure the husks into a trap, and trying to prevent any more of their men from being killed, but his actions, as always, were under review. And he was an O2 now, supposedly senior enough to know better, not a brainless kid just out of boot-camp. _"What do you have to say for yourself?"_ he was asked, at last, by the senior officer who was grilling him.

"_I didn't see any other way to deal with the krogan. We could have stuck to a conservative strategy. We could have worn down all the husks by attrition."_ Kaius looked at his ranking officer. . . and realized, with an internal wince, that Rel and Eli were both standing in ear-shot, pointedly not looking in his direction at the moment. "_However, if the nanites can husk anyone on the battlefield now, we . . . can't afford to take casualties anymore. We can't afford to fight a battle of attrition. Because if any of us die, there's a chance that we'll be adding to the enemy's numbers. Spirits. . . I don't even know if being __wounded__ and coming into contact with the enemy is a risk now."_

"_And that all went through your mind, eh, Vakarian? In the middle of battle?"_

Kaius grimaced internally. _"I wish I could say it did,"_ he replied, truthfully, his hands behind his back. _"All I can say is. . . I adopted the tactics that seemed best at the time."_ He wasn't about to mention that Madison had actually reached the same conclusion at the same moment. Madison was in med bay with a heavy concussion and a broken collarbone. He didn't need to be down in the _s'kak_ heap with Kaius.

"_I see."_ A long, dark stare. _"Get your gear cleaned up."_ And then the officer swept away.

Eli and Rel moved over, and, after a moment, Eli commented, dryly, "Apparently, insanity really does run in the family. We're going to have to get Madison his dad's regen mods if he decides to make a regular habit of krogan-baiting."

Rel snorted. "He doesn't need the temper problems."

Eli snickered, and put a hand on Kaius' shoulder. "Overall, though. . . really well done today."

"I. . . what?" Kaius had been ready to deal with round two of the lecture, and paused, staring at Eli. "Really?"

"You pulled them off your men. Hell, you pulled some of them off of _us_, and we'd bogged down." Eli shrugged. "Plus. . . you're right. Until we know what the hell is going on with these husk nanites. . . we're all at risk. All of the wounded are being examined in med bay for nanite infiltration. We've got the remains of the krogan's corpse in a cryo-pod, waiting for examination."

"You should, actually, go there yourself. Get checked out." Rel pointed at the handful of grazes on Kaius' arms.

Kaius stared at the two Spectres. "Caelia? She took one in the arm, right at the end—"

"Already been checked out. Go. You're probably clean, but everyone needs some peace of mind right now." Eli jerked a thumb at the elevator door, and as an armory tech came over to examine Kaius' armor, with an almost audible sigh of resignation. . . . Kaius just left.

An hour's worth of scans and a little medigel later, he was proclaimed to be clean of all foreign contaminants. He looked in on Madison, who was sleeping, peacefully, wrapped in bandages after the surgery that had moved the pieces of his broken collarbone back into position so that they could be knitted back together with an osseous regenerator. . . and then Kaius slumped for his quarters. He was tired, and he was seeing things in his head that he really didn't want to see. The way his knife had sawed through gristle, nerves, and flesh. The fact that the husked batarians didn't bleed orange-red anymore, but white, like a geth's hydraulic fluids. The krogan's mindless charge at a former ally. _The old rules don't apply anymore_, Kaius thought, numbly, and keyed open the door to his quarters. . . and he settled down into the chair at the desk in exhaustion. He was far too keyed up, still, to even contemplate climbing into his hammock, and for a moment, he almost envied Madison the fact that the human was _sedated_.

After about twenty minutes of staring numbly at the door, he wasn't even surprised when there was a knock at it. _God. It's going to be one of the Spectres. Checking in on me. It's not like everyone else isn't going through this. I don't see all the marines getting one-on-one checkups. Or, well, maybe they __are__ getting them. Who knows?_ "Come in," Kaius said, wearily. "It's not locked."

To his surprise, as the door opened, it wasn't Rel or Linianus or Eli. It was Caelia. Kaius immediately took his feet off the desk, and stood, even as she hurriedly told him, "No, don't get up, you're tired—"

"Caelia, are you all right? Your brother said you were, but—"

They both talked right over the top of each other, and then stopped, almost at the same moment, resulting in an awkward pause. Kaius looked around, hastily, and stepped past her to catch the door, preparing to prop it open. Caelia, on the other hand, slipped a hand onto the door itself, and pushed it closed. "I. . . " She floundered for a moment, and lifted her head to look at him, in mute appeal.

His hand slipped off the door, and Caelia shut it with a soft click. Kaius looked down at her, and said, quietly, "What's the matter?"

She winced, and looked down, eyes and face shadowed. "The doctors told me to go to my room and sleep. I tried. Every time I close my eyes, my head just spins, and I can't stop _thinking_."

Kaius exhaled, and put a careful hand on her shoulder. "Well, not your first battle. . . but today was pretty nasty, yes. By anyone's standards. I'm. . . probably not going to unwind for a while here, myself." He was trying, very hard, not to notice that her skin was exactly the same temperature as his own. Humans cooked along at 98.6 F; turians, at 110 or so. Hybrids and asari averaged about 103, but other than his siblings, he'd rarely, in his life, touched anyone who didn't seem deathly cold or burning hot to the touch. Trying not to notice the texture, consistency, softness of it under her light T-shirt. No scales. Just skin. The same as him. "I've been sitting here envying Madison the morphine. I might even let myself have a glass of brandy to let myself sleep tonight."

"That's. . . that's . . . yes, well, there's _that_," Caelia said, her eyes darting up to meet his and then glancing away again, hurriedly. "But there's also. . . other things. I see pictures from today. Finally getting to fight _with_ you. And that makes me remember the kidnapping. Macedyn." Her eyes darted back up again, bright and blue, and Kaius realized, after a moment, that his hand had clenched on her shoulder, and relaxed it, forcing each knuckle to loosen from that spasmodic grip. "And that makes me remember what the metal of the gun felt like under my jaw, and looking past the male, and knowing that I was _going to die_, and seeing you, and then everything happening at once. . . and how you stopped him."

Kaius started shaking his head. Silent denial. "Caelia, that's. . . post-traumatic stuff—"

"Kaius, _please_. If I don't say this all now, I . . . might never be able to." Caelia reached up and touched his face, pulling back uncertainly. Fingers feather-light. "I _did_ all my post-incident counseling. Not that the counselors knew what the hell a hybrid human-turian's psychological makeup is supposed to look like. The rachni told me I dwell a little on memory-song, but that it'll pass, if I'm aware of it, and let it become memory. That's. . . not really why I came here."

Kaius looked down. Found that his hand had slipped from her shoulder to cup her face. "So why are you here?" Dim warning bells were going off at the back of his mind. Reminding him of all the reasons why simple contact with almost any female seemed to be a bad idea. For so many of them, it wasn't who he was that was of interest. . . it was whose _son_ he was, his connections, that were the cachet. For others, it was _what_ he was, that was of interest. Not quite human. Not quite turian. Exotic. Almost unique. But this was _Caelia_, one of his oldest friends. . . and yet, on the other hand, she was the daughter of his father's best friend. He absolutely _could not_ fuck this up. He couldn't politely ignore her for the rest of the mission if he misunderstood or made her uncomfortable.

And yet he couldn't pull his hand away from her face, either. "You said you couldn't sleep," he prompted, quietly.

She shook her head, minutely, eyes wide. Her lips parted, started to form words, but hesitated. He could see a dozen fleeting expression cross her face—uncertainty, confusion, fear—and then she simply got up on tip-toe, and very lightly nipped at the side of his throat. Sharp scrape of teeth, but gentle enough not to break skin. Soft, clinging lips whispering in the wake of that gentle, teasing gesture. "I. . . ah. . . keep picturing that, too," Caelia whispered, against his ear.

Kaius almost didn't _hear_ the words. Testosterone, adrenaline, and oxytocin might not be the potent hormonal cocktail for him that it was for a full-blooded turian, but all three hit his bloodstream at approximately the same time. It was a fight to recover enough rationality to tell her, his voice strained, "That's battle-ardor, Caelia. That's all it is. It's. . . . okay. Everyone. . . feels. . . this way."

A disappointed, even hurt look. "You. . . you don't?"

Kaius winced, and risked touching her mind with his own. She'd helped him practice mind-speech when he'd gone through break-through; while she wasn't biotic, she did have the gene markers. Enough to be latent. She'd always _known_ when he'd reached out to touch her, though she couldn't shield worth a damn. _Of course I do! A couple of hours ago, just after the fight, you don't want to know what I was thinking about doing to you—_

Relief. His frustration and irritation drained away at her pure and simple relief. The faint whisper, that she tried to bury, that said, _ good, at least I know I'm not ugly. . . _

_. . . wait a damn minute, who told you that you were?_

She tried to twist the memory away, shield it, but flickers broke through, and he chased them down. Boot camp, naturally. The insults that had been tossed at him had mostly been about his mother, his ancestry, the sexual predilections of his parents. They'd bounced off him, mostly. Caelia, however, had encountered a more vicious, subtle kind of hazing. Whispers. Slanders. _She looks like her skin's been melted off._ Laughter. And while she'd kept all reaction off her face, and just quietly gone about her job, already having learned, on Mindoir, how to hide, how to not be where people were looking, how to be still, unnoticed, she'd tried just a little bit more to be unnoticeable, since. So all her squad-mates had been taken aback by her ferocity on the sparring floor. And had been even more dazed, when she made squad-leader, over and over. Rarely having anything to say to any of them, just gutting it out, each week, alone, and solely on merit. When the final consolidation had come, and she'd somehow won again, the whispers had started all over again. This time, that she hadn't really earned it. That it was all based on her family name. Or maybe pity, because anyone so half-formed looking had to be. . . defective, somehow. _Any of them males?_

_One or two. Mostly females._ The thoughts formed, unbidden; mind-speech was very hard for her. She generally just . . . chose not to hide her thoughts from him. The males had stung, in their own way, worse than the females. She'd been on her way to simply disregarding the comments as pure cattiness, until she'd overhead one of the males commenting on her general. . . misshapenness.

No one had ever _dared_ to whisper anything like that around Kaius. He'd gotten mostly in-your-face remarks. Overt jockeying for alpha position. Things that he could react to, or not, deal with, or not. What she'd encountered? There was no way in which to _win_ against that sort of _s'kak_ except to disregard it, or report it. Reporting it would just silence it for a little while, but gave it a sort of. . . recognition. Ignoring it wouldn't stop it, either. And either way, it had slithered its way into her mind, which was already primed by the hatred of the _Latro_ _Venator_ and the AEC and all the other ignorant people of the galaxy.

_Let me tell you something_. _No. Better. Let me __show__ you something._ Kaius leaned in and kissed her, a little hesitantly, and filled her mind with pictures. Caelia tagging after Eli, when they were young, skinned knees and all. Helping Narayana to understand what it was to grow up in a non-salarian environment. _Flick. _The half-year on Liara's big, crumbling ship, everyone more or less combined into a very small school, or an absolutely enormous family. Remembering how she'd played with Sisu, when they were children. . . and how Caelia had run to the 'big kids' playground to fetch Kaius and Madison, in disregard for all the rules, when Sisu was being tormented by classmates. _Flick, flick._ Kaius handing her flowers from outside the groundcar, to stop her from fussing and to keep her from getting in trouble for delaying their flight home. _Flick, flick, flick_ through the years. Seeing her laughing and skipping along in the Macedyn sunshine, and thinking, _god, when did she get so pretty?_ and Amara laughing at him in his mind, because no one could keep secrets from Amara, any more than from a rachni. Giving his sister a dirty look, and then the sedative dart, blooming right under her chin. . . and then the horrifying, crystallizing moment when the _Latro_ _Venator_ male had put a gun under her chin, and all Kaius had been able to think was _no. No. No. No. _Another flicker, and her getting ready to go to boot camp, with Estevan. How _irritated_ Kaius had been, with the blue-blooded male.

_What? 'Stevan? He's a friend, nothing more. It's always been you, I think. . . . _

And then _today_. Fast and light on her feet, deadly in combat, just as dexterous as Serana, just as _fast_ as her older brother, Eli, subtle as a snake as she flickered in and out of sight. And yet, still _her_. Just. . . with a few new fascinating additions.

Dim awareness that he'd turned her and had her up against a bulkhead right now. Very dim awareness that they were kissing, frantically. Biting. Whatever instinct told them to do at the moment, and for once, the instincts _matched_. Caelia's eyes, going wide as his mind opened further, hesitantly, and she began to feel what he felt, and bit him all the harder, the more urgently, for it. _You better stop me if you don't want to do this,_ Kaius warned, not even sure if he said the words out loud or not. _I can't promise it'll be any good—_

"_I can't promise that either. But we can figure things out together, right?"_

Figuring things out. . . took a little time. _This hammock swings too damned much—_

"_You know, my quarters have a perfectly comfortable bed—"_

"_My first roommate was turian. There's still nest depressions in the floor for deceleration purposes. Let me get a nest-roll." Yeah. That's. . . much better._

Quite some time later, Kaius very gently preened Caelia's fringe, lightly, with his fingers, and she snuggled back into him, hazy with sleep. _Guess I probably need to rip up that list of things Dr. Solus got wrong when he designed hybrids, and replace it with a list of the things he got __right__. Oh, so very right._

That got a muffled laugh from Caelia. "Best features of both species?"

"God, yes." His tone was fervent. After a minute of gentle preening, which got soft, pleased sounds from her, he added, quietly, "You know . . . since we seem to doing things a little backwards here, but I think I'm supposed to ask you to dinner next. And after that, a safe lunch. And then maybe a cup of bad coffee."

"Kaius, we're two of the first hybrids in existence. The rules are whatever we say they are." Cranky words, sweet tone, followed by a nip to his inner wrist as she picked up his hand and brought it to her lips.

"Yeah. . . but I had it in my head that I should probably go slowly with this sort of thing."

Caelia turned her head just far enough so that she could catch him in her peripheral vision, and so he could just see the corner of her eye. "So you want to go slowly next time?" she offered, and he sat up to watch, in interest, as she flushed at her own words.

_Wow. You tried to go for innuendo there, and you actually embarrassed yourself. I didn't know that was possible. _

"Oh, shut _up_."

_Feeling better? A little more able to sleep?_

_Maybe._ She gave him a considering glance. _Madison's still stuck in med bay._

_Yes, but . . . while neither of us has watch or duty for eight hours or so, you probably don't want rumors all over the ship as to why you weren't in your rack all night. Shipboard gossip being what it is. . . _

"_Kaius, half the crew has turian noses. They're going to know precisely where I was."_ She flushed again.

He looked up at the ceiling. Now that she mentioned it, half the crew also had turian hearing. And the walls on SR ships were notoriously thin.

Caelia caught that from his open flow of thoughts, flushed pinker, and added, _"Not to mention. . . I think you may have marked me."_

Kaius winced. He'd really tried _not_ to. He wasn't sure if it was cultural conditioning or instinct, but he'd definitely left a ring of teeth marks on her shoulder and a similar one on her throat. In his defense, he'd be wearing some of her marks for a week or so, too. "_So. . . not exactly a secret. But, you know. . . decorum?"_

He said it a little hopefully, and a little ruefully at the same time, and Caelia actually laughed. No shadow in her face, for the moment. Pulled on her coveralls, and eyed him. "So. . . dinner?"

"I'm sure there'll be something absolutely horrible in the mess that I can treat you to, tonight," Kaius told her, pulling on his own clothes, quickly. "Here. I'll. . . walk you to your room so you don't have to do the walk of shame alone."

"Shame?" Caelia made a rude sound. "Only if we're feeling human."

"And if we opened that door and your mom and dad were on the other side?"

"I would tab my stealth device and hide behind you."

"I'm _touched_ by your concern for my safety."

"My dad wouldn't so much as touch you. You're his _sangua'fradu's_ son. But I might get a lecture."

"Funny. I think _my_ dad would be reading me the lecture on not trifling with a young female's affections."

_Are you?_

_Trifling? No. Don't think so. If that was trifling, I'd kind of like to do that some more._ Kaius swiped the door unlocked, and stepped out into the hall, pulling Caelia out behind him. He knew it wasn't a cure-all. They still had the exact same problems in front of them as a couple of hours ago. But it was amazing how much easier it was to contemplate them, when his mind wasn't spinning in frustrated circles.

Of course, when they entered the elevator to take them back to Caelia's deck, they heard a voice behind them saying, "Hold the door!" and a hand reached through, catching the elevator before it could take off.

Kaius couldn't _quite_ meet Elijah Sidonis' eyes. He looked, therefore, somewhere into the mid-distance past the human's left ear, almost like dealing with a drill centurion, and did his best not to stop _breathing_.

Eli surveyed them. Saw flecks of blue paint on Caelia, smears of violet paint on Kaius. A few tell-tale bite marks, the overall relaxed body-language, that had instantly tightened up into embarrassment as he rounded the corner on them. Even for him, the cognitive dissonance was a little much. After standing there, stock-still for a moment, Eli cleared his throat. "I'll catch the next one," he said, and stepped back from the elevator, letting the door close in his face.

His letter home to Dara that night, began with a few simple words.

October 14, 2205

_Sai'kaea—_

_I still am not really sure if there's a god. But I'm now convinced that that either there is such a thing as karma, and that it's a gold-plated son of a bitch. . . .or that the universe has a sense of humor. I'm not really sure which scares me more. I'm almost thirty. . . and I shouldn't feel old. . . but Kaius and Caelia managed to make me feel like a middle-aged father today. I'll let you fill in the blanks, but imagine, if you will, two identical expressions of mingled embarrassment and 'wow, we totally just went where no one has gone before' and you'll get the picture very nicely._

_I'm trying to regard this philosophically, as practice for when Tegan is older. Instead, I'm finding ways to put that off. Think we could just stick her in a cryo-pod, so she never gets around to dating? No? _

_Damn._

_On the other hand, it's kind of reassuring, to see how life goes on, no matter how ugly the surroundings. That there's always renewal, or at least, the chance at it._

_Love you. I'll be home in a month, if all goes well. It'd be nice if we ever caught a damn break, wouldn't it?_

_Eli_


	162. Update: Leaves Across the Face of Time

_**Author's note: **__Pardon the intrusion, but I'm re-uploading this chapter to inform my readers, that if they're interested in more of my work, my first novel has been published to Kindle. You can read it on any electronic device, with the Kindle app. You can find a direct link to the novel on the Kindle store in my FanFiction profile, or go to Amazon and type in my real name: Deborah Davitt. _

**Epilogue 5: Like Leaves Across the Face of Time**

The Husk War, as it became known, dragged on, as did the unrest in asari space. Asari tended to be slow to change, and the ramifications of old Reaper tech being adapted by the younger races wouldn't be resolved in days, weeks, months, or years. Decades, perhaps. Maybe centuries. Laessia had, very quietly, as early as 2198, begun training Samiel, Melaani, and Sisu in the way of the Wind that Bends the Reeds, knowledge once forbidden to any but Justicars. While she did not train Sisu, child that he was, in the upper-tier biotics, she did teach the unique blend of biotic and physical skills that were the hallmark of the style. And, at her _son's_ recommendation, she considered Dempsey and Zhasa'Maedan as students as well. As Samiel pointed out to her, both of them were biotic, and their unique regenerative capacity might actually not make them _mahai_, or short-lived, but. . . perhaps as long-lived as asari. They might need the mental tools, and discipline, and perspective, of the asari to keep them sane in the perhaps-centuries of their coming lives. This was already a huge break in tradition, allowing non-asari to learn these skills, but Laessia unbent enough to allow Madison Dempsey and Kaius Vakarian to learn the lower tier skills as well. Kaius, because he was . . . almost as unique as her ardat-yakshi son, and a young male of discretion and enormous biotic potential. And Madison. . . because, to her mingled shock and awe. . . he already had the first step towards the Reed, or the Sword, in his biotic portfolio. He could already wrap a weapon with kinetic force. The chances were good that, in his lifetime, he might be able to figure _out_ the Sword on his own, and might not even destroy his own hands by wielding it. When it came down to it, Laessia had decided, that if these short-lived humans, these _mahai_, hasty children, had figured out so much in the mere fifty years since they'd encountered the Council. . . then she damned well needed to train them in the discipline to _use_ the arts properly. And that could be her legacy.

And so, in 2205, she also, quietly, founded the Order of the Wind. A new order of Justicars, in effect. She pored through the old sutras—perhaps, ironically, with Siara Tesala, Ylara Alir, Kishara and Meshara Laos, and her son. . . and boiled them down into almost the same code that Siara Tesala, on Tuchanka, had encoded for herself.

_Defend the helpless, and protect innocence._

_Uphold sensible laws, and resist those laws designed to infringe upon fundamental rights of life, liberty, and property._

_Everyone is entitled to their own beliefs. However, as when their actions, in accordance with those beliefs, infringe upon the life, liberty, or property of others, this is unacceptable._

_Use your power responsibly, with honor and integrity; show respect and courtesy to others._

_Use no more of your power than is necessary to protect yourself and those under your charge._

The Five Tenets actually sent shockwaves through asari space, and certainly among the other Justicars, who saw ten thousand years of tradition, of a Code so exquisitely nuanced that they could apply it to any situation, without even having to _think_ about what their actions meant. And on the rare occasions when one Justicar might disagree with another about the meaning of a sutra, the days of discourse that followed were usually so Byzantine as to be completely incomprehensible to anyone who wasn't a scholar of the sutras.

That was, in essence, what Laessia objected to; the sutras had become a replacement for thought, for judgment, properly applied. . . and on the rare occasions when thought and judgment _were_ applied, they required four volumes of precedents to interpret.

For Siara's part, she found handfuls of asari moving, slowly, to Tuchanka. Uncertain of their welcome, they found their way to the Urdnot camp. Many were SRY-positive, expressed as varying degrees of hermaphroditism, or were biotic nulls, or biotic insensitive, like Iliana M'loa.

And while the old began to unravel, and knot itself into new configurations, ancient Reaper tech becoming the new nightmare of Council space, the Spectres and Council forces continued to unlock barred relays, beyond which only Jeff Moreau and EDI had peered before. And the single constant in a universe in which gravity could be manipulated. . . . time. . . proceeded in its steady pace.

The only good news out of the Husk War was that the 'new and improved' nanites had mostly been adapted to batarian physiology. They could infect living batarians, and, if an infected batarian, living or dead, bled into the open wound of another species, the nanites could colonize the body, with frightening speed.

That meant that Valak N'dor and Alisav K'sar absolutely _could not_ go into the field on any of these missions. Not that Valak could, as the titular head of government, but even Alisav, as the second batarian Spectre, and a heavy influence on reforming SIU, was too valuable a target. If either of them were husked, alive, the machine-mind, hive-like, would know everything that they knew. . . or so went the supposition. The two batarians were enormously frustrated; they'd been aware of the potential for Reaper nanites and husking since 2198, but hadn't been able to track down the Reaper device that had spawned this plague. And with the frustration, shame, too. They'd both worked for the previous incarnation of SIU. They knew, better than anyone else, that the nanite plague was probably the result of SIU tampering with Reaper tech.

_Living_ krogan, with their incredible immune systems, were somewhat resistant. Dead ones were readily colonized; they had hemoglobin-based blood, which appeared to make them more hospitable to the nanites. Humans, also with hemoglobin-based blood, seemed to be susceptible, and late 2205 saw the first instance of a living human husked on Erszbat. And young Madison Dempsey was forced to shoot down a member of his own squad, as the machine-mind took over his friend and teammate. Turians and drell and asari, with hemecyanic blood, and, in the case of turians, dextro-based physiology, also proved to be . . . slightly more resistant to the nanites, but corpses could still be husked. Rachni alive or dead, proved resistant; Dara and Narayana speculated that they were simply too alien for the tiny machines to find the proper organs for colonization. Geth, being machines already, with synthetic muscles, proved to be entirely immune. Volus, with their silicon-based physiology, might well have been immune as well, but if a volus ever suffered a suit tear while being exposed, they'd have exploded into a smear over the landscape, so the chances of finding out were slim. Elcor, with their hemoglobin-based blood, were being kept well out of the fighting zones, and only permitted in with relief workers in known safe zones. No one wanted to find out what one of them, husked, would be like.

STG and Spectre tech specialists were having no more luck with trying to destroy the nanites without destroying the host organism. Even with the assistance of the Aeseti, that mechano-organic hybrid species from beyond the locked relays—who were looking to reverse thousands of years of machine implantations in their own population—the research was painfully slow, and often dangerous to the researchers.

The supposition was, currently, that Dragons' Teeth devices had scanned the physiology of the species to be husked, and adapted their nanites to that physiology. That was why the nanites weren't adapting readily to _every_ species right now; they only had templates for a certain range of species. Those closest to batarians, in physiology and morphology. The batarian researchers, whoever they were, who had adapted the technology, had made the nanites capable of taking over a living host, and had attempted to remove Reaper indoctrination programming that would have given the husks Reaper priorities. They'd probably tried to replace that indoctrination with their own; the result was the 'hive-mind' or 'machine-mind' that rachni reported as 'muffled songs.' An overlay that made it impossible for a biotic to reach the organic mind underneath, but still permitted the living husks. . . reason. Tactics. Intelligence. But no free will. They all communicated with one another, it was clear, but _how_ remained in question. If it was biotic, it was on a low level carrier band that not even the rachni could pick up, although Sky, Stone, and Dances all complained of a 'low humming sound' in their minds on batarian worlds infested by husks. Something that could be detected, but not understood. Geth units with biotic radios detected something that they perceived as static.

Something that might bear out investigation, in the years to come.

2205 gave way to 2206. Rellus Velnaran, now thirty-one years of age, and his mate, Seheve Liakos, welcomed their second child, a male they named Jevan, not on Mindoir, but on _Aphras_. The Spectres had completed building one of their secondary bases there in about 2202, and this year, Rel and Seheve were appointed the co-commanders of that new base. There was a xenobiological station nearby, but no archaeological wonders to be concerned about. The terraforming of the planet continued apace all around them, on the levo-dextro model, but with a slightly heavier lean towards dextro life forms, including ones culled from both Rannoch and Palaven, ones that could already, fortunately, endure the heat of this hothouse planet. This base had always been intended, by Shepard, to be where the Spectres would train heavily with special operations forces from many different worlds. They'd even have a bombing range, the ability to practice parachute drops and dropship exits with turian, human, geth, quarian, even rachni forces. Rel thought himself a round peg perfectly positioned in a round hole, as he and Seheve worked with young infiltrators, assault specialists and others, teaching them to fulfill their roles better, how to integrate with the other forces, and how to work by the Spectre playbook. And the _peace_ Seheve had brought to his life, Rel often realized, the quiet serenity that guided her days. . . in spite of the fact that she was engaged in a full-on war of words with the Hanar Illuminated Primacy that had escalated into at least two assassination attempts on the former assassin . . . was one of the greatest gifts he'd ever known. In eight years of marriage, he'd come to realize, he wasn't really sure who he would be now, if it weren't for her presence in his life. And he took especial care to tell Seheve this. Frequently. Which usually netted him a faint smile, and a wondering look, and the halting words, "I. . . do not know who I would be, either, Rellus. Perhaps no one at all. I think that I would have unmade myself. Instead. . . perhaps. . . we have redeemed each other. At least a little."

Tosal Nym, Aphras' 'heavenly twin,' also once held by the Keepers, a million years ago, was the more 'human' of the two planets, with a lower temperature. It, too, was home to a handful more species than had existed there ten years ago. . . in the main, lichen on rocks and algae and kelp in the burgeoning seas, as ice mined from an ice moon tugged into orbit was brought to the surface and melted. Xenobiologists struggled, daily, to create a biosphere that could support life in a cooler, almost entirely alpine-like planet. Again, a levo-dextro model, creating food chains that could support both types of life, in the same environment. Die-offs as one species slowly 'learned' _not_ to eat another, of an opposing chirality. Evolution in action, supported, abetted, nudged on, by patient scientists.

There were more archaeological digs on Tosal Nym, and one of them happened to be positioned close to the other new Spectre base, which made it rather ideal as a cover site. This one was a far more covert base. . . it was Spectre R&D. Shepard had, for years, debated putting Zhasa and Dempsey in charge of the base, but in the end, found that the couple was simply too useful to pin down that way. They, along with Dara and Eli, had been the backbone of the locked relay expeditions, along with people like Siege, Samiel, Dances, and Mercuria. Zhasa needed to be free to deal with issues on Rannoch, and Dempsey was simply too much of a juggernaut _not_ to put into combat situations. And so, she put Hal'Marrak and Nal'Ishora in position as the base commanders, an elevation that made the two quarians almost dizzy with pride. Their decade and a half of work for the Spectres, quiet, patient service, had paid off.

Shepard would have _loved_ to make Narayana a Spectre. She debated it, frequently, with Garrus. Mordin's daughter was every bit the researcher and genius her father had been. Her long association with Kirrahe had resulted in the female developing exceptional skills with firearms, and her ability to program and hack was just as good as any tech on base. She was, however, the dalatrass of the Lystheni, currently, and engaged in a quiet sort of cultural revolution. As such, Shepard couldn't really see making her a Spectre, and putting her life on the line. Nara had, however, been _employed_ by the Spectres pretty much from the moment she'd finished medical school, and now she and Kirrahe were assigned to the Tosal Nym base. Narayana for, well, research and development, and Kirrahe, well, for base security, and so he'd have a very short commute to the Aphras base, where he'd be working to train special forces operatives. . . whenever he wasn't out on a mission, himself.

The Mindoir base would remain the primary base of operations, but would be the home of the investigations and espionage branches. Investigations was currently headed by Sam, Ylara, and Lantar, and Kasumi still headed Intelligence. Linianus, Eli, and Melaani were now highly ranked in Investigations, with Melaani being periodically 'borrowed' by Kasumi for some operations, and Serana remained one of Kasumi's favorite 'go-to' people for espionage work that didn't involve deep-cover. Eli, Dara, Dempsey, and Zhasa were still, overall, the most fantastically over-tasked of the Spectres. They were supposed to be the backbone of the relay exploration teams, Eli was in investigations, Dara backed him up with her pathology experience, and had been assigned to research on the nanites and everything else that had blown up in the past several years. They were also the intermediaries for Joy-Singer, in dealing with Mindoir planetary authorities; the amount of land being purchased by Spectres on Mindoir had picked up over the years, and the rachni range was, thus, spreading. Dempsey and Zhasa were just as apt to be sent into combat zones as Dara and Eli, and their technical background made them natural to send with Dara and Eli as foils on high-priority missions. And both pairs had twins under the age of two.

Their lives were. . . somewhat busy.

Rinus and Kallixta's third child was actually born on Palaven, as the issue of the turian succession ground on through the first half of 2206. Their second-son was named Gavian, in a tribute to Gavius, Rinus' grandfather. Finally, in January of that year, Perinus' son, Lexarius, renounced all claim to the throne, which left it to Ligorus' second-son, Felinus, whom no one really wanted to see as Imperator, but who clearly thought he'd made a _fine_ one. Political scrambling ensued, as various _dominae_ scrambled to position themselves; Khryseia, the first-daughter, had already renounced all claims for herself and her children.

It was widely rumored that Ligorus, tiring of all the scrambling, took _all_ of his living children and their spouses into a closed room in the Palace. Had the Praetorians lock and guard the doors, and told them to sit down and be quiet for a few moments while he spoke. Rumor had it, that Ligorus walked up and down the length of the long room, and finally stopped at his youngest child, Severus, who looked bored and impatient. "Why so impatient? Do you not appreciate the gravity of this situation?"

"I understand it, my lord, and I apologize for my demeanor. I have been, however, taken from my duties, including the fighting of a war, for almost six months by this business." Severus looked at his father respectfully. "I am the very last in the line of succession, besides distant cousins, your Majesty. I will swear my oaths of fealty to any who becomes the heir, and gladly." 

"But you grow weary of the endless arguing?"

"Ah. . . yes, my lord."

"Tell me, my outspoken young son, what qualities would you like to see in your next Imperator or Imperatrix?"

"Loyalty," Severus had responded, promptly. "Loyalty to those under him or her. Responsibility. Duty—not just doing what's required, but doing for other people. Honor. An understanding of the laws we live by, and respect for them. Commitment. Self-sacrifice."

Ligorus studied his youngest son. "Who in this room embodies those traits, sixth-son?"

A moment of absolute silence. "You do, sir."

"I thank you for the courtesy, but it is a very certain truth that I cannot succeed myself. Is there any other in this room who meets your criteria? The criteria which, I might add, are the simple requirements of the code of officers?" Ligorus' tone had been very calm.

Severus, the story went, didn't reply, but his eyes flicked across the room. And told a tale all their own.

"You appear to believe that your fifth-sister and her mate have these admirable qualities."

Uproar in the room, and after a moment, Ligorus had raised a finger for silence. Which was given, instantly, the habit of obedience quite strong in all of them, even his adult children. He looked at Kallixta, it was said, and then at his other children. "You object to Severus' characterization? Then allow me to pose this question: Which of you is worthy enough—sure enough in yourself, your principles—to call yourself ruler over my fifth-daughter and her mate?" Ligorus' expression had been unsparing. "Which of you can meet the Defender of the Empire on the floor of the Conclave, and debate issues with him? Which of you has faced privation and pain on the battlefield, as both of them have? Which of you can even meet their eyes, and give them a command, without it feeling hollow?"

It was said, that Rinus and Kallixta both shook their heads, emphatically. Ligorus walked around the room, once more, and said, quietly, to the downcast eyes and grim expressions, "Vibius? You just finished your first tour as a gunner in the fleet. What was one of the first lessons you learned, in Officer's Candidacy School?"

Vibius raised his head. "That an officer's command is no stronger than the centurions under him or her, my lord."

Ligorus paused, and said, meditatively, "Tell me, do they still bring out a highly decorated young centurion in OCS? The male or the female in the prime of life, the one covered in medallions, the one who's a deadly weapon simply staring at you, a sword for the hand. . . . and tell you, that if you do not think you can command this centurion, that you should pack your bags and leave?"

Vibius nodded.

Ligorus looked at him. "It's meant to be a challenge. Most young officers enjoy a challenge." He paused. "Do you think you're worthy to command such a one as Rinus Velnaran?"

Rinus' expression clearly indicated that he didn't like being used as an object lesson, but he endured.

Vibius' spine straightened, but after a moment, he lowered his head. "No, sir."

"Why not?"

A silent head-shake. "He's the most decorated individual since. . . the Unification Wars. And a Spectre. I'm just. . . me." Vibius paused. "I finished my single tour two years ago, my lord. I was a gunner, and oversaw gun crews." He glanced at Rinus.

"Not a bad thing to be," Rinus muttered.

"Yes, but I was a junior lieutenant with a very experienced centurion under me. I did fire our weapons, but most of my duties revolved around evaluations and did bookkeeping on how many rounds of ammunition we expended and received." Vibius sounded . . . objective. "I saw more of the real fleet than some other children of _dominae_ do, but I lack experience." Vibius had finished his tour and requested permission to pursue his education, with an eye towards civil engineering. Ligorus had permitted this, much to the surprise of the other _dominae_.

Ligorus turned to Aemilius. Now twenty-six, he had been under sixteen when the Imperatrix, his mother, had died in the plagues, and his entire life within the Palace had changed, with that passing. For starters, he'd gone to boot-camp and had been permitted an MOS in intelligence. He'd studied satellite imagery and long-range telemetry for years, and had opted to remain heavily involved in TIA after finishing his required four years, and now had probably the equivalent of a doctorate in interpreting the specialized data that came from distant listening posts. "And you, fourth-son? Could you command your fifth-sister or her mate?"

Aemilius blinked. "Their analysis of the comet attack on Earth. . . and their solution for it? Something of a legend at TIA," he admitted, frankly. "As is Rinus' analysis of the weapons platforms around Garvug—yes, I know about that," he added, looking at Rinus, who shifted, uncomfortably. "In answer to your question. . . no, my lord. I look up to both of them. They inspired me. It's difficult to command . . . someone you regard as a personal hero. " He looked down.

Rinus actually winced. "I thought I'd stripped away the hero thing years ago," he muttered.

On up the line, in ascending order of birth. Bellatrix, four years Kallixta's senior, was heavily involved in charitable foundations, and usually organized blood drives (which, given that every single citizen was required to donate blood once a year, pretty much organized themselves in the rigid turian society), food donations, clothing donations, and the like. She was a good and decent person, who'd served her four years in the medical staff as a nurse on Edessan. And she lowered her eyes in embarrassment when asked if she could command either her fifth-sister or her mate. Marinus, who at thirty-six, had no offspring, and who'd been in an arranged marriage set up by the late Imperatrix for fifteen years, and who had ended his contract under the new laws this past year to the great dismay of his first-brother, Perinus, when the male was still alive, shrugged. "I could command them," he said, dryly. "I don't know if Rinus would hear a word I said. Aside from which, there are any number of sticklers who would claim that any children of my line would not be rightfully Imperial, since they would not be with my first mate."

Rinus' expression went cold. "I have never disobeyed a command," he said, tightly.

Celexia, at thirty-nine, had no children. It was a noted tragedy in the family; she was beautiful, and had incredible poise . . .but she was barren. She had never cycled into estrus, much to her mate's, and her, actual pain. "Please," she said, quietly, when Ligorus turned to her. "You know what my answer would be. Could I command them? Yes. Would they hear me? I suspect so. But the line would end with me, and we would have a dynastic fight in another generation." She shook her head. "I'll not be the cause of putting off the issue for another fifty years, and then revisiting it. Perhaps next time with more suffering."

"My wise daughter," Ligorus murmured, and took her hand, for a brief moment. Perhaps only the second or third time he might have touched her, in her life. And Celexia smiled, faintly.

Varinia, at forty-two, had one child, a daughter who was twenty-two, herself. Varinia, unfortunately, took after the late Imperatrix in demeanor and beliefs. And vouchsafed that she thought she could command Rinus's respect, but her chill look at her fifth-sister spoke volumes. Varinia was on public record as having said that she felt Kallixta was a bastard, who had already disgraced the Imperial family before the shameful facts of her birth had been revealed.

Ligorus glanced at Rinus, and the stony expression there spoke little of the Spectre's true feelings. Khryseia had already abdicated. Felinus was a playboy, and everyone in the family knew it. And faced with the same question, the second-son stared at the Defender of the Imperium . . . and broke eye-contact. Lexarius, Perinus' son, grimaced. "You know my reasons, my lord."

Rinus gave Lexarius a dark look, and glanced at Ligorus. "Permission to speak, your Majesty?" Always formal; _pada'amu_ was for truly private conversations.

Ligorus waved permission. "Your father and I rarely agreed," Rinus told the young male, with a certain grimness. "About anything, really. But he was never a coward."

Lexarius looked at the older male. "Are you calling me one?"

"You won't take the role you were born to; you won't do your duty by the Hierarchy. Because you don't wish to be a target?" Rinus' mandibles widened, and he kept his hands behind his back. But while his demeanor was tactful, his voice held force.

"I'm not a coward," Lexarius replied, but he couldn't meet Rinus' eyes. "But I will not legitimize the _Latro Venator_'s actions—"

"By refusing to take your place, you _are_ legitimizing their actions. Giving them power they didn't have before. They've never effected policy or the succession—"

"And you do realize that my mate and I are as childless as Aunt Celixia and her mate are?" Lexarius glanced at his older aunt. "I apologize, sister-of-my-father. But your reasons, if valid for you, must be valid for me as well."

"You're young, still," Celixia replied, quietly. "You still have a chance."

"I've been married for twelve years. We've seen dozens of specialists. It's not going to happen. And I'm traditional enough that _I_ will not set aside my mate for such a cause." A glance at Marinus, for that, who regarded him, coolly.

"And I," Kallixta said, tightly, raising a hand, surprising them all, "am not a daughter of the late Imperatrix—"

"No," Ligorus said, immediately, and calmly. "But you are _my_ daughter. Both by blood and by formal adoption into the line of succession. It's quite legal. Quite binding. Even quite traditional, even if some members of my own family have not chosen to take such measures." Not quite a look at Khryseia. "You have commanded, and been commanded," he told Kallixta. "You are a decorated pilot, the first such in the family since the days of the Unification War. It was not for nothing that I gave you Commodus and Venisita's wedding knives."

Kallixta looked at her father with a growing expression of absolute horror. And, after a moment, she dropped to her _knees_ in front of him, and spoke rapidly, in a quiet voice, the words barely audible more than a few feet away. Begging him, in truth, _not_ to do this. "My lord. . . ._father_. . . please. I have rarely asked for anything in my life. I've tried to earn everything." She closed her eyes. "You've allowed me to build a life with Rinus. You've allowed me to be so much more than I ever thought I would be permitted to be. You've permitted us freedom and happiness. While it's yours to give and yours to take. . . please. . . don't . . . " Her voice broke, and she went silent.

"You would refuse to do your duty by your people?" Ligorus' voice was surprisingly gentle.

"Of course not," Kallixta replied, lowering her head. "But my duty to my people has been to serve in the Fleet. I am a _pilot_."

"—a duty from which you withdrew after the destruction of the _Estallus_, to serve as a pilot to the Spectres," Ligorus reminded her, quietly. "Oh, you've continued to train pilots, and you've served for six years as the pilot of the _Lumen Rose,_ the ship they use for truly covert missions, and matters that require disguise, rather than force of arms. . . but you were trained, in this very palace, for diplomacy, fifth-daughter. And you are thirty years old, an age at which the reflexes do begin to slow. They're tempered by experience, assuredly, but your days as a combat pilot would be numbered, anyway. And you have three children now." Ligorus gave her a patient look. "How much flying have you done in the last year?"

"I've spent the last six months _here_," Kallixta said, still looking down. "Because of the issue of the succession. Everything has been on simulators." She looked up, and said, quietly, "Our home isn't here. It's on Mindoir—and it's the only home Rinus has ever considered to _be_ a home, not a mausoleum. It's what our children know. Rubixius speaks turian, but he's better at galactic. Mindoir is where they've been growing up, surrounded by family."

"And will they not, here?"

"Different family," Rinus supplied, his voice tight. "On Mindoir, it's not tutors. There, they'll learn at the Spectre school. They'll be surrounded by the brightest and best of the galaxy. They'll meet ten different species before lunch, and while it's still a restricted place, it's not as cut off from the galaxy as the Palace is." He folded his arms across his chest. "We're not _traditional_. And no matter where we are, no matter what box we're put in, that's not going to change."

Half of the people in the room sucked in a breath. This wasn't just pulling on the _acrocanth's_ tail. This was standing in front of the teeth and shouting "Eat me and I will give you indigestion!"

"Perhaps," Ligorus said, after a moment, meditatively, "that is precisely what I need from you." He looked down at Kallixta's bowed head, and put a hand atop her fringe, very lightly. He then gave the rest of the siblings in the room, a long, calm stare. "Felinus. You have a choice. Abdicate your claim, or be disinherited. Abdicate, and you'll retain at least one home in which you and your family can live, and a stipend, so that you can continue your choice of amusements. Force me to disinherit you, and everything that the Praetorians have concealed about your various amours will be made public, and you will lose all titles and financial remuneration."

Felinus' eyes had widened, and he looked for a moment, absolutely desperate. "Khryseia, you've already abdicated. Varinia, you have no faults to your reputation, but you have the same choice as Felinus. Step down, or be disinherited as a disobedient child."

Varinia spluttered. "The Conclave will not stand for this—"

"The law states that within each house, the parents are as the Imperator and the Imperatrix. You have a choice between obedience and disobedience. Which you select is your decision."

Down the line, and back to Kallixta, who was still on her knees, shaking her head slightly. Rinus had moved to her side, one hand on her shoulder. Staring at Ligorus. The Imperator looked down at Kallixta, and murmured, "If I were to threaten to disinherit you, fifth-daughter . . . what would be the first thing that would happen, my dear?"

Her head lifted. "My lord. . . my mate would probably run naked through the streets to celebrate." She paused. "He would commiserate with me, but rejoice."

Ligorus gave Rinus a long stare for that one. Rinus did not change expressions at all.

"You would lose the Macedyn house, the holdings on Galatana, various other sources of revenue and homes . . . "

"Yes."

"But it would not affect you?"

"It would affect where we went on vacation. We've long lived solely on what we earn. . . .my lord." Kallixta peeked up.

"Then I must put this to you another way. All the others have stepped aside. It rests on you to decide this. Will you put the Hierarchy into the sort of chaos and turmoil of having someone as young as Aemilius or Vibius or Severus as the heir designate? Or will you be an obedient child, and do your duty?"

"Father, _please_.There is so much more to do. I've explored beyond locked relays, but we've only opened _three_ of the hundreds that remain." Severus never told anyone this, but he could hear the words behind Kallixta's anguished, single phrase. _Please don't entomb me here. Please don't make my mate hate coming home to me, because I am trapped here. Don't make me raise my children in this mausoleum_.

Ligorus leaned in, and spoke, quietly, "You've done more than many have dreamed of doing in their lives, my daughter." And then he whispered something to her. Severus was sitting close enough to hear, but he doubted anyone else besides Rinus did. Simple words, but meaningful ones. _"_You'll hold the power to make things different, my dear."

Kallixta raised her head. "If I'm invested as heir, will I have to live here?"

"That is the tradition. However, we might be able to bend tradition somewhat." Severus could almost hear other words, behind this, as well. _Would it truly be so bad to live here again?_

"Will Rinus have to stop being a Spectre?"

"Not until you are crowned as Imperatrix. I plan to make that as long a wait as possible. I have grandchildren I wish to see grow up. In some cases, great-grandchildren."

A long exchange of glances between Kallixta and Rinus. And Rinus murmured to Kallixta but one word: "Duty."

And so it was that Kallixta was invested formally as the heir apparent, a decision that sent off yet more shockwaves throughout turian space. Given that her mate was the Defender of the Imperium, however, there _were_ certain precedents . . . and the media went wild. Not only was Kallixta blood-sister, oath-sworn, to a human female, but that female was Dara Sidonis. The Spectre who'd shattered asari society with her research, whose divorce had reformed _tal'mae, _and who was widely rumored to be some sort of rachni hybrid. The rank and file of the Hierarchy, by and large, loved it, however; Kallixta was seen as someone who'd earned her way, as had Rinus. She'd served with distinction, and was a hero in her own right, and was married to the hero of Nimines. The Spectre who'd been crowned by the people of Nimines with rebar from their fallen skyscrapers, set with blood sapphires from their mines, in recognition of how he'd worked to save them from attack, reversed a rout, almost at the cost of his own life.

Severus read the political commentary on the decision with enormous amusement. On the one hand, some people thought that Ligorus was revitalizing faith in the Imperial system, by giving the people actual heroes who would take office, in time. But while Rinus had spent quite a bit of time in the Conclave, Kallixta looked to be untried and untested in political matters. She did, however, have her diplomatic training to fall back on, and many commentators saw it as a masterful pairing of the iron fist and the velvet glove. Others saw it as an attempt to align, or at least, co-opt, the popularity of the Velnaran-Vakarian clan for Imperial purposes.

Solanna and Allardus Velnaran had absolutely no idea what to do with this entire series of events. That they were proud wasn't in question. They were, however, extremely wary of what this would do to their first-son, and to their beloved first grandchildren, who were now going to be stuck on Palaven for most of every year. Gavius, for his part, dryly reminded Rinus, "Technically, you _could_ divorce her and run for the damned hills now."

"Not going to happen, Grandfather." Rinus grimaced. "I'll admit, the thought had occurred to me. But. . . maybe we'll get very lucky, Ligorus will live to a hundred and twenty, we'll be in our nineties, and we can tag _Rubixius'_ kids with this _s'kak._"

Gavius snorted. "That sounds . . . unlikely."

Severus, for his part, happily gave his oaths of allegiance, and looked for orders to his next assignment. He had _work_ to do.

Life went on, on the Spectre base. Kallixta was more or less tied to the Imperial Palace at first, and Rubixius and Vassaria were both deeply missed by their various playmates. . . particularly by Teagan and Lantus Sidonis, who still asked where their friends were, even months after their departure for Palaven. Kallixta and Rinus' house, furnished with love and care, stood empty; no one wanted to reclaim it for another Spectre. Rinus refused to stay there when he was on Mindoir. Without his family in it, to him, it was just another house, and it hurt too much to enter, knowing that he might never get to _live_ in it again. Whenever he was not in the field, currently, he spent all of his time on Palaven, with Kallixta and the children. "Break the damned traditions. Have the damned heir-designate live where she wants to," Rel told his older brother, by comm call, one night.

"We're trying. . . .we're trying. Got to give it a little time. Maybe in a couple of years."

"You'll still be saying that in two years. Make the break _now_. Or you never will. Inertia does that. In two years, it'll be 'the younglings are used to the Palace now,' where now it's 'everyone in the Hierarchy needs to see the continuity of tradition.'"

"You have a point."

"Don't sound so surprised, first-brother."

Serana took time for maternity leave, and produced her second child with Linianus in 2206. . . Justus Marcus, the human middle name a nod to Lin's _sangua'fradu_. In the same year, Thelldaroon took a highly unusual step; he'd been working with Laetia on the Citadel for years now, and almost everyone who knew either of them credited him with stabilizing Laetia. First, as a programmer and confidante, and later, in a more personal relationship. By 2204, he'd been chipped to her, the first chipped elcor; and in 2206, he actually married Laetia. By elcor rites. The wedding ceremony lasted a week, and rumor had it that the Keepers were highly amused.

Apparently, not even _they_ had ever seen the like before, in a million years of attendance on the Citadel.

Tarenius Gallian, it seemed, had remarried, himself; this time, to a fellow turian, this one a medical specialist who worked heavily in cybernetics and limb replacement. He remained heavily active in the disabled veterans' community, and in the sphere of AI rights, out of love and loyalty to Laetia. . . but while their divorce was an amicable one, it was a very permanent one.

The geth began to request more NCAI runtimes for their efforts to create more heterogeneity in their perspective; they also expressed interest in the data accumulated by the NCAIs about other species. Pelagia contributed some of her krogan data. Arash'Veza, a relatively new quarian Spectre, allowed himself to be chipped to an NCAI so that the geth would, eventually, have access to quarian brain patterns—the geth had, after all, destroyed the ancestor patterns that the quarians had long ago created on Rannoch, during the Morning War, and thus, had no access to the memory and thought patterns of their own creators. Lysandra, through a biotic radio, transmitted rachni templates based on Sings-of-Glory. The geth were. . . highly conservative about allowing hybrid runtimes. They quarantined any unit who accepted the hybrid runtimes, and observed them for stability and ability to function for up to four years. And then, once the utility of the new, organic-origin runtimes had been proven, they were allowed to disseminate their information and experiential data to Consensus.

In 2207, the drell of Rakhana permitted settlement on their world by galactic drell. This had taken ten years to negotiate, largely because Rakhana drell did not trust the "children of the traitors." They had, however, sent enough of their own people off-world to work and be educated, who had returned safely, and with technological wonders and credits, that change was, slowly, coming to Rakhana. Various city-states had permitted environment clean-up to begin in their areas; as water and soil began to be reclaimed, and the bacteriological agent, used on their world in good faith by the hanar, but with such lasting and detrimental consequences, began to be eradicated, the cities began to regain crop land and water sources long considered too dangerous or poisonous to be safe. This was enough positive proof to get momentum going, and the city-dwellers formed a Council of Suzerains, representing at least the city-dwellers of that arid planet, and permitted full-scale environmental cleanups, minor terraforming, and the resettlement by galactic drell.

Rinus and Kallixta managed to move back to Mindoir in this year, at least part-time, after over close to two years spent on Palaven. These were, at first, disguised as long trips to visit family, and the family home on base had had to be retrofitted, extensively, by the Praetorians, before they were permitted back. They were greeted with universal delight, however, and Kallixta was simply glad to be in an environment other than the Palace. "This place is going to be my sanity," she told Dara, quietly. "I don't know how long I'll be able to keep coming here. I'd never really registered how many . . . truly stupid events. . . . my first-brother had to go to. Technically, I should be at the Conclave _right now_, but. . . "

"They're allowing you time to adjust," Dara told her, quietly. "And who knows? Maybe you can change the rules. Here and there. A little."

Dara had been, at the time, heavily pregnant. She and Eli had decided try for a third child in 2207. When this pregnancy _also_ turned out to be twins—Derek and Merryn were born in November—they decided that they were going to be done with such efforts for a while. "I wasn't looking to _literalize_ the term brood-mother," Dara grumbled. Emily Wong had dropped by the base to do a special on the various Spectre families, as she tended to do, from year to year, and interviewed Zhasa and Dempsey about their young human-quarian hybrids . . .who were actually amazingly healthy, with robust human immune systems and almost no allergies of any sort. She also interviewed Eli and Dara about their children. Teagan and Lantus were now five years old, and in kindergarten, and thus at the photogenic stage of childhood. Eli and Dara weren't entirely thrilled with the idea of exposing their children to the media quite yet. . . but they also knew they needed to stay well ahead of everything, and not completely shelter their kids from the reality in which they lived. As such, Wong got to film the two older twins—who wore violet paint on their jaws, and went to school, each with a worker perched, cheerfully, on their shoulders. Caught vid of them holding up their hands eagerly to answer a question from a salarian teacher . . and caught them singing out the answer. "That's a brachiosaurus!" Clearly, they'd inherited the interest in dinosaurs from their father, but the words were chorused, and in perfect harmony.

None of the other children even turned to look at them. They were, obviously, rather used to seeing and hearing this.

"Do they always sing?" Wong asked Dara, afterwards.

"Not always. Just when they're really excited. They sang before they learned to speak normally, however." Dara looked at the camera, calmly. "We're working to make sure they don't rely on each other or the hive for answers."

"The. . . hive?"

"Yes. Both of them are sensitive to what rachni call mind-song. Biotics. They can hear the rachni, and other people's minds. We don't want them inadvertently cheating. We want to make sure they develop their own minds, as individuals. " Dara's voice was definite on that subject.

"How do you ensure that?" 

"We take them off-base periodically, separately from each other. Field-trips with other, non-biotic children. Spectre Dempsey, Spectre Alir, and Spectre Maedan have all already been working with us on the twins' biotic training. Teaching them not to listen is . . .somewhat like teaching a rachni to be deaf. . . difficult. But it's also somewhat like teaching socialization in everyone. How to phase out what isn't important or relevant to you, personally."

"They're both biotics?" Wong sounded surprised.

"Yes. Probably heavily so." Eli came over and sat down on camera, taking Dara's hand. "They're lucky. They're going to be trained by the best."

"What age do you plan to give them implants?"

Dara and Eli traded glances on camera. "We're not actually sure that they'll need them," Eli said, after a moment. "They already have control, focus, and some power without implants. They can, for example, already lift their body-weight with their minds. This is more typical of asari than of humans."

"Additionally," Dara noted, "the rachni have been working with our local technical experts to try to develop . . . less invasive methods of refining someone's biotic control. I've been testing rachni crystal-weave mesh inside of my armor for over ten years now. The rachni believe that with the right combination of technologies, surgical implants might be a thing of the past. They'd like to see my mesh suit refined to a circlet, maybe."

"Wouldn't that make a biotic vulnerable to being disarmed?" Wong asked.

"Maybe. But it also means that you can upgrade without _brain surgery_."

Wong was sure to catch vids of Rubixius and Vassaria playing with Teagan and Lantus, and with Halla'Demsi and Jarek'Demsi, as well. Rel and Seheve were on base, for a meeting, so Sephare and Jevan, with their wide drell eyes set in predatory turian faces were in the shots, as well, playing with their full-turian cousins, who'd inherited the Imperial violet eyes of their mother, Kallixta. Wong's broadcast would probably resonate, heavily, in turian space.

She caught Nexia N'dor, eleven years old now, serious-faced, in class, the only batarian girl present. . . but just as friendly and eager as the rest of the Spectre kids. She caught Takeshi Jaworski and Emily Sidonis, both fourteen now, Keshi, who'd inherited some of his father's height and build, but his mother's eyes and hair, working on his turian homework, with Emily's help, the hybrid girl leaning over his shoulder to point out mistakes. Tacitus Sidonis, tutoring Quirina Cautoris, the turian daughter of Spectre Livanus Cautoris and her physicist mother, in biology; Quirina was about three years his junior, or just past eleven, with wide golden eyes behind her black and white Tridend paint. She and Nexia were classmates, and apparently, fast friends. Shiori Jaworski was the baby of the group, only nine years old, but very intent on keeping _ahead_ of her niece and nephew—Teagan and Lantus—who were four years behind her.

That was the Mindoir reality, caught on vid. Out among the stars, however, the husk war ground onwards. Kaius Vakarian, Madison Dempsey, and Severus Praesesidis had been assigned to the same unit, on and off, and Severus had grown to respect Madison, enormously. Erszbat was a meatgrinder for the troops, and public opinion was widespread in Council space that large swathes of the planet should be firebombed from orbit. Every batarian they found who was unhusked, however, became an almost instant new member of the Allied Batarian Territories. "The good thing is," Kaius told Caelia one evening, dryly, aboard the _Kapaesa_, "at least we know who the enemy is. Can you imagine if the husks were. . . undetectable? At least a blood test for the nanites takes care of that."

She shuddered. "A few of them seem able to resist, at least a little. It would be even worse, if any of them could pass as. . . normal. Undetectable." She grimaced. "They could pass right into our camps that way. Could infect us, in our sleep. Or just plain kill us."

"Blood tests," Kaius reminded her. "Everyone gets one after every damned battle. And we're down to using batarians to secure rearward positions." They were in his quarters; Madison had grinned and left as soon as Caelia had knocked, heading for an observation lounge, probably. Kaius stroked Caelia's fringe, lightly. "I don't even want to think what would happen if any of us got infected."

At the end of 2207, however, Kaius finished his first four years, and was rotated to a shore billet, assisting with cross-training of services on Earth, much to his surprise and pleasure. He'd made O3 by this point in time, and he and Caelia had been quite seriously seeing each other for two years. Their relationship had been the subject of conversations among the older Spectres for quite some time. The more, because Sam Jaworski had _laughed_ at Lantar when he'd first been informed that Kaius was courting his daughter. "It's not as if I didn't suspect, for years, that this might happen," Lantar had told his human battle-brother, dryly. "They're young, they're both hybrid, they're.. . .not _technically_ related. In fact, I couldn't be more pleased. My first-son married the daughter of one of my _sangua'fradae_. Now, it's possible that my first-daughter might wed the first-son of my other _sangua'fradu_."

"And yet, you don't look entirely calm and at peace with this," Sam had noted. "Could it be, that she's your little girl, and she's off, on her own, on the _Kapaesa_, doing her own thing. . . ?"

Lantar gave him a dark look. Sam laughed. "You can pay me the credits you owe me any time," Sam informed his partner, grinning.

Kaius wasn't really aware of any of this. He did take a brief leave to speak with his parents, Ellie, and Lantar, rather nervously getting the negotiations going. As such, it was. . . odd for him. He had the oddest impression that his father and Lantar had previously discussed the entire situation. That, in fact, they'd come to some preliminary terms, on paper, for him and Caelia to discuss between themselves. And his mom, very obviously trying not to laugh, asked Kaius, "So. . . are you going to ask _Caelia_ about this?"

"Well, we talked about it already. She said she kind of figured that people who torture each other by demanding huge displays were pretty insecure." Kaius held up a hand to forestall his mother. "Yes, I'll do something romantic for her. Something so she knows I don't take her for granted. But . . . we're really pretty simple. We don't need to sit down and discuss our relationship on a daily basis. Hash out this and that, the way I hear some of the couples on the ship having to do. Constantly defining limits and what they're willing to do and arguing about everything. We don't need to talk about the relationship, because. . . we just _have_ one." He shrugged, uncomfortably. "There's not much to figure out."

Lilitu Shepard smiled at her son fondly. "And that's how you know you're with the right person," she told him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Some people tremendously overcomplicate things. Talk themselves into relationships, and then talk themselves right back out again. Everything requires compromise. . . but if it's _that_ hard at the beginning? It'll never get any better. Some things don't need to be difficult." Lilitu looked at him. "But yes. Do something romantic for her. Doesn't have to be fancy or elaborate."

Kaius grinned, ruefully. "On my paycheck, fancy or elaborate isn't going to happen. But I do want to get this done soon, so she can get, well . . "

"Reassigned to Earth?"

"Maybe. I don't want to kill her chances at advancement." Kaius shook his head. "She's a great infiltrator, Mom. Lantar and Sam taught her really well."

"At the rate we're going, I suspect we're going to have plenty of battles for everyone, even if you two take a rotation on Earth." Shepard rubbed at her eyes. "Go see your sister while you're there, would you?"

Kaius was stationed at an Alliance training facility in the southwestern portion of North America, old Arizona, in fact. . . .close enough that he was able to hop a flight, once a month or so, to see Amara as she continued to toil through the Academy. When Caelia got leave, Kaius took her to Reykjavík, Iceland, in the summer months, and, with the sun still shining at midnight over the snowcapped mountains, proposed there. "Well, like I'm going to say _no_, when we've been planning the wedding and looking over contract drafts," Caelia told him, and grinned.

"I've been told it's polite to ask, anyway. You're going to have to help me with the ring issue. Your fingers are structured differently from mine."

"Think our kids will default to three fingers and a thumb?"

"God only knows, _amatra_. Worry about it when we get there." He leaned down and gave her a quick kiss. "You want the whole human traditional thing?"

"My mom will flip out, but no. Just a wedding band and a wedding-knife. I can't wear anything shiny in the field. You can get me something shiny if we do _tal'mae_ down the line." She nipped at his throat, lightly. "I only have one condition."

"Oh?"

"I want to get married at my brother's house."

"You just want the rachni lanterns in the sky."

"It was _really pretty._" She considered it for a moment. "Besides, I want there to be at least one day of my life he doesn't call me Duck."

"And when was the last time he called you that?"

"Day I left for boot camp. Actually. . . Huh. Never since." Caelia's expression told him she wasn't entirely sure if she were pleased about that, or not. On the one hand, she liked being treated as an adult. On the other hand. . . it had been a special part of her bond with her older, slightly intimidating brother.

For Kaius, just having the downtime, away from combat, was an enormous help, but Kaius read his messages from Severus and Madison, and even from Caelia, and part of him chafed to be back out there, with them. He'd only re-upped for two years, enough time to see Caelia through to citizenship, and they figured they'd re-evaluate everything then. But still, what did a 'retired' biotic _do, _in either the Alliance or the Hierarchy? Teach other people to use their biotics? Hire out with police or private security firms? Or just plain. . . let the talent in their minds go to waste? Kaius was only starting to get an inkling of what he might be capable of becoming, and while he kept his programming skills sharp, in case Caelia got done with her four years and decided she wanted to settle down at a desk job in Odessa. . . he didn't think she'd want to. Not for a while, anyway.

He got to see Madison, briefly, while the human male was on leave; as promised, Madison had taken the opportunity to come and see Amara, who was in her second year now at the Academy, but now, at Christmas, everyone was back on Mindoir for Kaius and Caelia's wedding. Kaius took the time to try to catch up with everyone, as best he could, with a feeling that time was, somehow, speeding by for him, while it was standing still for his twin.

And while Amara was clearly chafing to be out and _doing_, the way he was, she was also blooming at the Academy. Kaius hadn't seen so much confidence in his sister's eyes and bearing in years, and while she admitted, dryly, that yes, there was hazing, it was all far more subtle than what Caelia had encountered at boot camp. "Then again, these are all older people," Amara noted, shrugging. "More centered identities. And they all needed recommendations to come here, from teachers, from governmental officials, everything like that. And, well. . . " she made a face at her first-brother, in the crowded, noisy reception room at Gardner's, "it's not like I can't _tell_ who's being two-faced, and who's being true. I can kind of ignore the ones who don't really mean what they say. I'm told I'm getting a reputation as stand-offish, as a result, but . . . I can't really help that. Someone lies to my face, it's like a slap, and I move away." She shrugged, and glanced up at Madison, fondly. "One of the reasons I really like being around you. There's no. . . "

"Dissonance?" Madison offered the rachni word, over a glass of sparkling wine, grinning.

"Well, yes. That's pretty much exactly it. You say what you mean, you mean what you say. Sometimes, you might hesitate to be tactful and not hurt someone. . . but generally speaking, you don't lie, and you're just so _comfortable_ to be around." Amara grinned up at him. Flash of some biotic communication between them; Kaius did his best not to listen.

But hardly had Kaius gotten a ring on Caelia's finger, and her knife in the sheath at his wrist, then they were back out into the fight again.

2207 became 2208, in a blur for everyone affiliated with the Spectres. On Mindoir, Kirrahe and Narayana, still working on the _anti-fertility_ drugs, had their third clutch of children, this one reduced in size to a mere four offspring. Almost manageable for a single pair of parents, as Narayana dryly told Dara, who, wide-eyed, just shook her head. "I have enough trouble with the twins. Both sets. And that's with workers and brood-warriors around to keep track of them," Dara admitted. "Your social engineering is. . . definitely having an impact on salarian society. I take it most of the dalatrasses still won't directly speak with you?"

"Persona non grata, I'm afraid," Narayana admitted, cheerfully. "However, we've been receiving dozens of letters from males who are of upstanding reputations, leaders in various fields, asking if they can join the clan."

Dara squinted at Narayana. "Not Sidonis."

"No, no, Lystheni. I'm thinking of renaming the whole damned thing. Sidonis-Mordin-Kirrahe has a ring to it, but that's a mouthful even by salarian standards."

"Sidmorhe?"

"Now that has potential." Nara raised a finger at Dara, where they sat in the med bay lounge on Mindoir. "Of course, Kirrahe and I have both been telling them, they're free to renounce their dalatrasses and join us, but that we won't consider any breeding contracts for our daughters until they're of age. . . and even then, it will be their _choice_. There's no real need, anymore, for the historical salarian model, in which dalatrasses regulated which of their offspring could reproduce, how many children they could have, and with which mates. Thousands of years of selective breeding has gotten us, what, precisely? A longer lifespan? Better health?" Narayana blinked rapidly. "A stable society, certainly, but it might be time to allow natural selection to play a role again, don't you think?"

"Wrong person to be asking," Dara said, grinning at her old and very dear friend. "I get in trouble when I start talking on that subject."

Narayana laughed, and they dropped the topic.

Linianus and Serana had their third child. . . Brennia. . . that year, and Elissa and Alain, Garrus and Shepard's two youngest, went to boot camp. Alain wound up in a technical specialty, which suited his temperament; he was tasked with assisting teams that were trying to reverse engineer the altered Reaper nanites that were _still_ plaguing batarian worlds. Elissa, much to everyone's surprise, was moved into a very different specialty, indeed; she was to start work as an embassy guard, with an eye towards moving into counterintelligence after two years. As such, her first posting was to Bastion, which had, by this time, wholly recovered from the plagues of 2196. . . twelve years before.

In 2209, Erszbat finally fell to the combined forces of the Council and the Allied Batarian Territories. But no signs of the Reaper tech were found there. Grimly, the fleets pressed on, to Adek, a brutally hot jungle world. Few batarians had _wanted_ to live there, in spite of its lush garden world status; it was known as a hothouse for tropical diseases, and its population of six million had largely been slaves even before the revolution came. Now, at least half were husks. "This is one of only three worlds left to the Hegemony," Valak told the other Spectres, wearily. "Unless they're hiding the remnants of SIU in some hollowed-out asteroid, the Reaper tech has to be _somewhere_. And we've got to find it. And destroy it, before we lose any more worlds. I'm terrified, frankly, of what would happen if they dropped any of their husks on Khar'sharn. And infected our home population."

"We've got them blockaded for a reason, three relays out from any of the ones they hold, and their FTL technology is just not good enough to manage anything else," Shepard told him, just as tiredly. "We'll hold them bottled in, Valak."

"I just hope there are people left to save when we're finished with Adek, Curon, and Ramlat." Valak stared off into space for a moment, a muscle in his jaw working. "I'm watching the slow extinction of my species, Shepard. And it's at our own hands. As with. . . everything else we've ever done."

Shepard put a hand on Valak's shoulder. "You're saving them, Valak. We're all doing the best we can. No one could have predicted this."

Turian, krogan, geth, and rachni troops proved immune to the local diseases. Even the hybrids were. But humans, who had hemoglobin-based blood and levo-based metabolisms, were _just_ close enough to batarians to contract the local diseases. Thousands of troops came down with diseases far worse than the common Skyllian flu, bogging down their efforts on Adek. Madison contracted one of them, and had to be shipped home, like many others, coughing up blood until the local doctors found the parasites that had infiltrated his lung tissue and had started boring into the alveoli. He recovered, and, still wheezing a little, was startled to receive a letter from Lantar Sidonis, inviting him to try out for the Spectres.

Nothing in the galaxy could have stopped him from being there to do precisely that. And in May of that year, Madison was the third 'Dempsey' to be inducted into the Spectres. He was young. . . but he had stellar potential. Which was also recognized that year, when, for the first time, he didn't just wrap kinetic energy around an existing material weapon. He manifested the Reed, or the sword made of biotic energy, the compressed edge made of gravity. A rift in space-time, wielded like a knife. While Dempsey and Zhasa had both been trained in the Wind that Bends the Reeds by Samiel and Laessia, and Kaius and Madison had both been trained as well in the lower belt art, this was a major achievement. Dempsey and Zhasa had been inducted into the new Order of the Wind, set up by Laessia as an alternative to the Justicars. But while they were, arguably, _mahai_, or short-lived, there were serious debates going on about Dempsey's life-expectancy. With krogan regeneration and his cybernetics, he could be as long-lived as a krogan. He could be _longer-lived._ He might not actually be able to die, unless _killed_. Zhasa's regeneration was based on Prothean nanites. And there was absolutely no way of telling what this would do to her life-span, either. They were _mahai_, but not.

Madison, on the other hand, was very much _mahai_. On the other hand, he had the same level of biotic giftedness as his father, Dempsey, expressed differently. . . and he was the first human to manifest the Reed. Laessia inducted him into the Order, post-haste. Mostly to be able to _sit_ on him, as Shepard put it, dryly. "It's what I've been saying for years," Shepard told Garrus, dryly. "You can _teach_ the younger species, or you can ignore them and expect them to muddle through on their own. But if you do the latter, you don't have much of a leg to stand on if they, in a fit of self-determination, develop in a way that you don't _like_. She's being a responsible parent, basically. She can see that humans are developing much faster than expected, so she's teaching, rather than ignoring and hoping it goes away." Shepard smiled, faintly. "Got to respect that."

Also in May of that year, Amara graduated the Academy. She was now a very junior ensign, officially an O1 in the human forces. Her brother, Kaius, was up for promotion to O4, but had noted in his letters that he wouldn't mind being passed over. O4 meant paperwork. Administration. Politics. Caelia had just finished her initial first four years, and was up for promotion, herself. Working as one of Serana's picked handful of infiltrators had pushed Caelia to her limits, often going in behind enemy lines on Erszbat, and she and Kaius were rotated out of the field again, now working at training young officers on Dymion. . . at least for a while. "And here I had this crazy fantasy that I'd be getting to work with you," Amara told her brother at her graduation.

"Maybe you'll work with the _Spectre_ here," Kaius said, giving Madison's shoulder a shove.

Madison just gave him a faintly embarrassed look, and reached out to put an arm around Amara's shoulder. "Maybe. Maybe not. We'll see, right?"

Madison's primary concern currently, was that they'd been 'dating' . . . very long distance. . . for four years. He wanted—no, _needed_—to be sure that they hadn't just talked themselves into love. That this was real, and that it hadn't just been loneliness and active imaginations that had convinced them that they were meant for each other. Of course, the major problem with this, was that she was due to ship out on the _Kiev_ shortly. It might mean even more separation if they didn't immediately get married, and Madison wanted to be just a little surer of things. They'd gotten along _great_ as kids. They'd never really grated on each others' nerves. On the other hand, that had been over a decade ago. People changed. And while he knew he loved her, he wanted to make damn sure it was the right kind of love.

Therefore, he was taking a very brief leave with her—like the week here, week there, he'd managed to eke out with her, over the years, one year up in Cape May, another year, down at Cape Hatteras. Always staying in a hotel under an assumed name—courtesy of Kasumi, and the Spectres' desire to ensure Amara's privacy—they'd still, nevertheless, been caught on-camera by reporters once or twice. And he planned to propose at the end of their week together. But to plan on a fairly long engagement. Just in case.

He had a feeling she was going to disagree with him on the long engagement part, though. And he was right; they were actually married in November of the same year. "God help anyone who tries to kidnap either of the kids again," Shepard muttered at the reception, into her drink. "Amara's still a little dependent on her biotics, but she's turned into a crack shot after all that time on the rifle and pistol teams, and, good god. She could probably lift a yahg with a singularity, and I don't think a shot with a trank gun would ever get through her barrier again."

"Add that to all the nastiness that Madison brings, including the fact that the boy's never, ever disarmed?" Garrus snorted into his brandy. "I'm going to sleep really well at night, at least where they're concerned." He considered it. "All right, I'll sleep well when they and Kaius and Caelia aren't deployed." He considered it again. "Well. . . . maybe when the damned batarian civil war is over."

Lilitu looked at her husband with the fondness of many years in her eyes. "So, we'll sleep when we're dead?"

"Maybe a little before then."

She chuckled.

In December of that year, the yahg on Parnack—not the small band on Terra Nova, who had been convinced to try this strange new thing called _diplomacy_, but the ones on Parnack, their home world—finished building ships of their own with FTL technology cobbled together from what they'd learned by examining batarian ships. And they tried to run the geth gauntlet around their world, heading for the relay.

The geth politely disabled their engines, towed the yahg back to Parnack, bringing them in for a soft landing, while the various yahg nations launched missile against their ships. _"We regret to inform you, that no exodus is possible or will be permitted at this time. In the meantime, here is video footage of a group of your people who remain on Terra Nova, a human world. One of them has a human-built limb replacement, as he regrettably lost an arm in our initial _diplomatic_ efforts. They are being permitted to stay on that world and hunt local game. Local humans _trade_ manufactured goods and foodstuffs such as bread and cheese, for the fresh fish that your brethren catch in the forests. All are being taught to read in _galactic_ and _English._ Their only regret is that the knowledge they are gaining, may die with them, for they have no children and no mates. That is the purpose of organic life, is it not? Continuance?"_

The yahg of Parnack were not entirely amused, but it was notable to the geth that the nation ruled by Urukhurr, the mate of Akkaura, the female the Spectres had captured, questioned, and released back onto Parnack in 2197. . . did not fire on the geth ships. That nation was, in actuality, building telescopes. And observing the geth with them. The stations in orbit, on the moon, the movement of ships. And they were, the geth could tell, listening to the geth's broadcasts. It would take time to discern, however, if the yahg of that nation were changing their behavior, or simply playing a longer game. One intended to determine geth patterns before launching an attack of their own. It would take decades to determine more.

On December 14, 2209, Teagan and Lantus Sidonis piled into the _Clavus_ with their parents. The seven-year-old twins were excited; they were going to _Bastion_, where their father had lived, and they were humming to each other cheerfully under their breaths. Mama gave them an amused look, and hummed right back at them. _Remember, use your words around other two-legs._

_Yes, Mama._

Daddy didn't hum, but he didn't really need to. Daddy's mind-song was really strong, and Teagan still liked crawling into his lap to listen to his mind before bed. At the moment, Daddy was filled with anticipation-songs. Something important was going to happen on Bastion. Something to do with the singers, the rachni, and Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight's new ship, the _Voidsinger_. The _Voidsinger_ hung off the _Clavus'_ bow, and the twins squealed a little seeing it in space for the first time. Twice the size of a standard brood-warrior ship, most of its crystalline structure was engine. "We're going to go to Bastion the old-fashioned way," Mama told them, as they both plastered themselves to the plasteel of the observation lounge window, staring out at the ship and the stars and Mindoir far below. "But then we're going to go on Dances' ship with some of the Council observers, and hop back home."

_But Mama, I wanted to see where Daddy grew up— _Teagan hummed it in minors.

"Words?"

Teagan sighed. "I wanted to see where Daddy grew up."

Daddy laughed. "I grew up on the Citadel, first. That's where I was born."

_Where all the Keepers live?_ Lantus sang under his breath.

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you when you don't say it out loud." Daddy grinned down at him, and Lantus traded a pout with Teagan. Daddy could hear _just fine_. He was just pretending, and it was an annoying game.

"You were born where the Keepers live?"

"Yes, but they weren't awake back then. And then the Citadel was closed down for a long time, and people started building Bastion, and that's where I lived for about three, four years." Daddy set their travelcases down in the room. Derek and Merryn weren't coming along with them for this trip, and this made Teagan both happy and sad at the same time. She _missed_ her younger siblings' mind-songs when they weren't around, but at the same time, it was nice to be the big kids. They got to go to Odessa and Takinawa and someday, they might go to impossibly far away places like Palaven and Earth and the Singing Planet. But for right now. . . Bastion was a big step. She could see it in Mama and Daddy's minds. A huge place, made of metal, teeming with people. And she could hear joy-songs and sorrow-songs about the place. They didn't _mean_ to think about the sorrow and the joy. She'd catch flashes, every now and again, of people being very, very sick in a med bay. And of them _dying_, and how angry-sad Mama still was at the thought. Daddy having to wrap bodies in plastic, eyes all blank and staring, and how _stiff_ or limp the bodies were. And then Mama and Daddy would catch her or Lantus' expression, and the walls would come up, and Teagan _hated_ the walls. She hated being cut off from the song. So she was getting really good at listening without changing her expression. And when the memories were really bad, Lantus almost always knew, and would give her a hug.

At the moment, her brother was, even more so than she was, missing their brother and sister. Lantus had _always_ been very attached to them, from the moment he'd first seen them as babies. The other pair were only two, and Lantus very much thought it was his job to make sure they stayed safe, that they learned stuff. He even helped _feed_ them. Teagan curled up on the seat next to her first-brother, and put an arm around him, humming under her breath. Blues and greens. _They'll be fine. They're with Uncle Dempsey and Aunt Zhasa, and they'll get to play with Halla and Jarek every day. And they have all the workers to play with, too._

_I know. We only got to bring Squee and Zappa and Wolfgang and Liszt with us. It's . . . really __quiet__ on this ship._

_But Mama says we'll go home on Dances' ship. There will be lots of hive-song there to listen to._

Lantus made a face at his sister. _But that'll be in a __week__._

_Bargain-Singer is queen on Bastion. There will be hive-song there._

_But it'll be different than Joy and Mama's hive. _

It was, and it wasn't. Teagan and Lantus actually held hands, and stared, wide-eyed, as they disembarked from the _Clavus_. They'd never seen so many people all at once in their entire lives. That there were many different types of people didn't phase them in the slightest; that, they were used to. It was the press of bodies, and so many _minds_, that boggled them, and they slipped their hands into Mama and Daddy's, respectively, and walked off, bracketed on either side by their tall parents. A worker perched on every shoulder, and Bargain-Singer's vast mind reaching out to theirs. _Welcome to my hive, little queen, young brood-warrior._

Minds, minds everywhere. A handful of geth platforms, equipped with biotic radios, interfacing with the rachni hive, cold and clear, when they were unhybridized, tinged with emotion-song when they _had_ accepted hybrid run-times. Teagan could hear a little more of it than Lantus could, but she shared it with her sibling, unquestioningly. She could hear Paladin, the geth CROWD platform who'd been based on Siege, who had, in turn, asked Lysandra for templates pulled from Sings-of-Glory's mind, singing to himself as he followed their entourage, yellows of caution, whites of interest. She could hear Tumulus, another geth, this one embedded with B-Sec, who'd asked for, and received, _quarian_ personality templates, taken from Spectre Hal'Marrak and Arash'Veza, bringing himself into a sort of alignment with the million or so quarians aboard Bastion. . . and bringing some of the development of the geth back, full circle, to their quarian origins. And she could also hear Xiphos, the only current offspring of Harak and Pelagia, who'd taken a geth platform. He was on Bastion at the moment, but Teagan had met him before; his use of the biotic radio was enough to let her hear the red bloom of his irritation, as he waited at the Council chambers to speak with Mama and Daddy. "Why's he called Xiphos?" Teagan piped up suddenly. "Mama? Why's he called Xiphos? That's not a very krogan name."

She knew that other grown-ups tended to get a little confused when she or Lantus asked about things that the adults didn't think they should know about. Mama and Daddy were really smart, though. They took it in stride. "Well," Mama explained, carefully, and Teagan picked up images from her mind as the words were spoken out loud, a huge metal platform, the size of a CROWD. . . but less overtly mechanical. A human head, sized proportionately to an otherwise krogan-like body, but covered in gray-toned synthskin. A mix of all its origins, human, krogan, NCAI, and geth. "Pelagia picked his name, sweetie. She needed to demonstrate that she was 'fertile' so that the Ulluthyr female-clan would accept her, so she and Harak made him. He's designed to protect Omega, and to fight on behalf of Pelagia, if she has need of him. So he's named for the xiphos, or the sword carried by Greek hoplites, thousands of years ago. Their weapon of last resort."

There were others with the hybrid runtimes. Teagan could hear Mama thinking about the geth who'd taken biotic-origin templates, through the biotic radio, from the mind of an asari ardat-yakshi who'd _died_ more or less in the geth's arms. The platform had immediately rejected its old designation, and re-named itself Eternity.

It also considered itself to be female.

Mama thought that was very funny for some reason. Mostly because any number of asari sticklers screamed about this in absolute protest. And the geth had, after a pause to come to proper Consensus, retrofitted the old platform with Mass Field Manipulation hardware, like that which Composite had.

Eternity liked that, apparently.

Teagan and Lantus watched and listened, wide-eyed, as Mama and Daddy and Dances talked and talked and _talked_ with Councilor Anderson and Councilor Odacaen and Bargain-Singer and Emissary. _I didn't know there were that many words in the universe_, Lantus confided, quietly, kicking his feet restlessly. They were both doing their best to be _good_, but it was _really hard._

Dara looked around at the assembled crowd, and let Dances make his presentation. _We have sung long,_ the rachni sang, quietly. _Studied much. We are ready to sing our ships between places, and we would share this song with you._

"Specifically," Dara said, dryly, as the various councilors looked blank, "Dances here has, for over ten years, had the ability to fold space-time for himself, allowing him to jump from one location to another. Please demonstrate, Dances."

Dances obliged, popping behind the table where the councilors sat, and then back to where Dara and Eli stood. Dara could hear Teagan giggling faintly, and turned to give her daughter an admonishing look, and just barely kept herself from humming a chord at the girl to _behave_. She really tried to keep the rachni behaviors to a minimum, off of Mindoir. Her voice had, over the years, modulated. She actually _could_ hold two notes at the same time now. Dempsey was _after_ her to sing for recordings now, and Dara continued to refuse, adamantly. Why, she wasn't really sure, but there was a principle here, and she was going to stick to it. For at least the next decade.

Dara cleared her throat, and continued, speaking for the rachni. "At first, he needed to be able to see where he wanted to go. Then, he needed to hear a member of his hive's song, showing him where it was, to make sure that the area was clear. This effectively limited him to a ten mile range. Over the past ten years, the reconstruction of the biotic FTL communications apparatus has allowed rachni to communicate over the entire galaxy. They've chosen to limit their use of it, for fear of falling into . . . groupthink, as it were. But with that FTL comm available, there's no actual limit to where a member of Dances' hive can _be_ and see for him." Dara watched Anderson and Odacaen shift. The two males, Anderson in particular, were aging; Anderson hadn't been young when he'd first taken the position, twenty-four years ago. "At least, so long as there are comm buoys in range." She looked around. "So, for the past ten years, the rachni have been working to develop a system by which he could manipulate the energy of an engine drive to move an entire _ship_ somewhere. The first tests, no more than ten miles."

_Currently, I can sing a properly-built ship anywhere I have been, or where one of my hive sings._ Dances' voice held uneasiness and pride, comingled.

Anderson frowned. "I'm not following."

Eli interposed. "Mass relays—the original ones—function as a wormhole, or a white hole in space. They move a ship between one relay and another, but only between certain nodes. The dark matter relays removed that node configuration, and allow a ship to move between one relay and any other on the dark matter network." He paused. "Dances creates a white hole for his ship, and can go almost anywhere in space, without being restricted to the relays."

A moment of total, dumbfounded silence. After a moment, Emissary said, "We understood that the rachni were working on such an advance. It would be an undeniable strategic advantage, but it is strongly dependent on having a rachni ship already in place, is it not?"

_Not entirely,_ Bargain-Singer sang, her voice a vast harmony of many entwined instruments. _Dances calls many singers part of his hive._

_And what they see, can even be through. . . telescopes. Far-viewers._

"We've tested it with long-range telemetry. So long as we're _sure_ nothing already occupies the space we're jumping to? It works." Dara kept her voice calm.

"How much distance are we talking?" Odacaen asked, suddenly.

Dara coughed into her hand. Eli grinned. "The rachni and Spectre technical teams have tested it out over a hundred light years," he supplied.

"Holy _shit_," Anderson said, and then tried to wave the unexpectedly salty expression away. "I knew _something_ was under development, but not _what_."

Xiphos, who was present as a representative for Omega, folded his massive arms across his chest. "What are the limitations, then? There's only one of _him_, correct?" He nodded to Dances. "That doesn't really give you a fleet of these ships."

Dara looked up at Bargain-Singer, and then back to Xiphos. But it was Dances who replied, with faintly pink overtones, _Joy-Singer and Life-Singer have both laid broods from me. Joy-Singer has chosen to lay many more brood-warrior eggs than previous queens have chosen to do. So that, in time, we could develop this song. For the betterment of all._

Anderson waved his hands, trying to absorb it all. "So what you're saying is. . . eventually. . . people could pop into any system, anywhere. That's. . . dangerous. At the moment, all people really have to do is defend relays."

"The yahg-batarian war already proved," Eli said, quietly, "that the old model of 'hold a relay' doesn't work against a determined foe. Our explorations beyond the locked relays have shown that relays can't be effectively locked forever, either." He looked at them all. "The rachni are offering this, on a limited basis, mostly as a proof of concept, to the human-turian fleet, and to the geth. The fourfold alliance."

_Which also includes the volus, as the turian clients, and the quarians, who long ago came aboard_, Dara thought. "It won't be many ships at first. But, eventually. . . it'll change the face of warfare, yes. It'll also change the shape of _commerce_."

"That's not entirely a good thing," Odacaen noted, dryly. "At the moment, we're able to control transit. We're able to cut down on smuggling as a result—all right, stop laughing, Spectres. It would be completely out of hand if we didn't have the relays as choke points. The relays do assist with a lot of these issues."

Dara smiled, faintly. "Yes, but every one of these spacefold-capable ships would be controlled by a rachni pilot. They're unlikely to smuggle." She looked at Bargain-Singer, who lowered her enormous head in agreement. "And I doubt any other species will rapidly gain the rachni's pure mental and raw biotic capability, and be able to plug themselves into one of these ships as a pilot."

Anderson looked dubious. "This would, eventually, make us dependent on the rachni, wouldn't it?"

Dara shrugged. "Probably not for generations, if ever," she replied, easily. "Think of it this way, Councilor. The space elevators and elliptical shuttles didn't replace the highway systems of Earth, did they? They supplemented them."

_We are here today to invite you to travel with us,_ Dances sang, quietly. _To see for yourselves, how this song might be sung. I invite you all to join me on __Voidsinger__-ship. And we will sing ourselves to the planet of violet skies, and back again. With any equipment you wish to bring with you, to verify the journey._

Teagan and Lantus were a little upset at the thought of _immediately_ turning around and going back home again, but their pouting stopped when Eli and Dara told them that it would take the various councilors a day or so to put their schedules in order. They got to see Turan and its glorious rings. They got to see the apartment where their father had lived as both a young boy and during the plagues. Got to see the med bay where their mother had worked during those same horrifying weeks here. And their parents took them to the Bastion Zoo, and to the Bastion Symphony—which they _loved, _listening to quarian and turian and human and asari music, all in the same evening. And they barely even noticed that Paladin and Dances actually shadowed them wherever they went. They also barely noticed the flickers of images from their parents—ancient and inexplicable—of dangers passed here. Of a Lystheni with a sniper rifle, searing pain in memory-song. Of arms wrapped around each other, around Aunt Serana, Uncle Lin, drowning pain and darkness in desperation. The flickers were there, and then quickly suppressed. But these were memory-songs that didn't interest the children. Especially not with the lure of the virtual amusement parks on the brand-new M level.

The first night in the hotel room, however, neither of the twins could sleep. The constant rush and hum of the air filtration system got on their nerves, and the shadows were all different, and there was _only_ the chittering of the workers and their parents' mind-songs. No hive-song at all. "Daddy," Lantus finally called, after they'd both stared at a wall for a while. "Can you tell us a story?"

"Are you going to close your eyes and sleep afterwards?" Daddy poked his head into the dim room. They could still see his face, the darker slashes of his clan-paint on his jaws, however.

"We'll try," Teagan answered, knowing she could speak for Lantus in this.

Daddy nodded and came in. Sat down on the edge of Lantus' bed. "What do you want to hear about?"

The twins exchanged a look, and hummed under their breath for a moment. "I want to hear about the geth named Eternity," Lantus finally answered for them. "How'd she become an asari-geth?"

Their father sighed, and his song dimmed for a moment. Shifted into grays and violets. "That's not a really _happy_ bedtime story," he told them, but put an arm around Lantus anyway, as Teagan crawled up on her twin's bed to nestle under her father's other warm arm. "But here it goes, anyway. A couple of years ago, on Erszbat, which is a batarian world. . . "

". . . a world where the living have lost their songs," Teagan put in, dreamily.

". . .and the dead don't stay dead," Lantus added, lifting his head to look at their father with gleaming, interested eyes.

"Who's telling this one, you, or me?" Daddy stopped. Looked at them both.

"You are," they said, with a sigh.

"Okay. Well, you're both right. There's a . . .biomechanical plague there. The nanites that the Reapers and Collectors used to use to husk people? Without the Reapers here to control them still, the nanites were still dangerous, we figured, but the batarian scientists at SIU found a way to insert new commands in them. So they can command whoever's infected. Asari and geth and turians and rachni? These modified nanites have a hard time infecting the living. A krogan, while living? Impossible. But all the bodies of the dead are infectable. And humans and batarians. . . pretty easy." He gave them a squeeze, to reassure them. "So, at the same time as we've all been fighting on Erszbat, a lot of asari have been migrating off their homeworlds."

"Because they're like Uncle Samiel?"

"Yeah, pretty much. Some of them are a little more or less like him. But they didn't want to stay on Illium or Luisa or wherever, because people were mean to them there. So a lot of them moved to Alliance worlds, like Astaria. Earth. Demeter. Or to stations, like Omega and Bastion and even a few are back on the Citadel now, helping the Keepers." Daddy's voice was low and soothing. "And one of them was a really powerful biotic named Hiliani. She used to be a huntress for the colonists on Niacal, and when she found out she was SRY-positive, her more-than-fair left her."

"Oh, that's so mean. If she was the same person as before, why would someone do that?"

"Because she was afraid. Hiliani hadn't ever known before that she was a an ardat-yakshi. She had the genes for domination, but had never _used_ them. But her more-than-fair was scared, now that they knew. And her more-than-fair wanted to have children, but didn't want ardat-yakshi children. So she left." Daddy sighed. "Hiliani didn't want to be anyone other than she'd always been. Didn't feel any different. Just. . . didn't want to stay there, where the memories were. So she moved to Earth. And, to thank the Alliance for being so kind and taking her in, she enlisted in the Alliance army. To get her citizenship." Daddy rubbed at their hair, lightly. "And so, she wound up on Erszbat."

"Did you know her?"

"Yeah. I fought with her unit a couple of times. Really great biotic. Flexible. Powerful. Innovative. _Smart_. And she really cared about the people around her. She was embedded with a unit of mostly humans and some geth. Couple of rachni, which kind of scared her at first, but she adapted. They all became just. . . people to her. As it should be." Daddy's memory-song was a little painful to listen to, now. They could see a face swimming in the pictures there, laughing. Everyone in a tent seated around a space-heater, trying to get hands and feet _warm_ at last. "And then, her unit got pinned down. Too damned many husks. My people and I were on the other side of the battlefield. Too far away to help. So I didn't see it, but I know what happened. She and her people were told to retreat, strategically. So she told the humans to start backing up. That she'd cover them. The geth platform with her was an Isolated Functional Status platform. An IFS, like Cohort or Siege. Hundreds of run-times, biotic radio, but a Shock Trooper, not a CROWD." Daddy sighed. "And they just got overrun. The rachni with them were soldiers, and were killed. The geth with them were mostly hoppers, and got killed. Hiliana just kept covering the retreat. Throwing everything she had at any husk that showed its face. And Shock Trooper 9743 stayed with her. Getting their people out. Until one of the husks used a rocket launcher." Daddy sighed. He was always careful to tell them the truth. Maybe not every detail—Teagan and Lantus could hear him suppressing memory-song—but always the truth. "It shattered her shields. Caught her in the chest, damaged her armor. She was cooking in her armor when ST 9743 picked her up and started carrying her. One-armed, still turning to firing back at people. And Hiliana kept using her biotics. . . right up till the end. Domination doesn't work on husks, but she had all her other abilities, still. But then a couple of bullets found their way through her broken, burned armor."

Daddy stopped. He didn't let them see any of the pictures in memory-song right now. But they could hear his regret and sorrow. Feel it in their throats. "So, ST 9743 set her down in the shelter of a big rock, and tried to. . . heh. . . effect repairs. Yes, some geth know basic first aid now. She stopped him. Told him it was no use. But told him his song was really sort of peaceful to listen to. Always had been. And told him it was her time now, to embrace eternity. And so she did. And the ST platform listened to her go." Daddy paused, and his voice was very quiet now. "And when that shock trooper stood up, it wasn't ST 9743 anymore. Not entirely. The ST had tried to. . . save her. Save her runtimes. It didn't get a full copy, but. . . .it had gotten a _lot._ It took a couple of weeks to assimilate all the data. And when that process was over. . . ST 9743 was Eternity. Because she'd embraced eternity. Dared to face the unknown." Daddy brushed a kiss on Teagan's forehead, then on Lantus'. "Not a really great bedtime story. But now. . . it's time to sleep."

"I liked it," Teagan assured her father, solemnly, and let him tuck her in. And finally did close her eyes to fall asleep.

And then, a couple of days later, they boarded Dances' ship, and _hopped_ back to Mindoir. Teagan was actually disappointed. "I wanted to see the planets again," she said, forlornly, looking out the window of the rachni ship's bridge, as dozens of workers ran up the wall nearby. "They were so pretty."

"But this was faster," Lantus pointed out, folding himself over a crystalline railing behind Dances, who sat at the center of the bridge, controlling the ship's direction with his mind as he communed with the crystal pillars that were the ship's main computers. "No time to get bored."

Dara chuckled. Her children's reactions were _nothing_ like the councilors'. Odacaen looked rocked. Anderson stared out the window, at what was clearly a garden world below them. "But we only just _left_," Anderson said, sounding dazed.

_Precisely_, Dances sang, sounding not tired at all. _It will take the engines approximately four hours to collect enough charge to make another such jump. The Spectres await us below. I believe lunch has already been prepared, in fact._

This technological innovation was hardly noticeable at first. 2210 fleeted by, at first. Caelia finished her first four years of service, and decided to stay in for as long as Kaius did; she wasn't really ready to go home and pursue a career in xenobiology or criminology or whatever else just yet. Kaius, for his part, didn't know whether to laugh or cry when he received a letter from his second-sister, Elissa, shyly noting that she'd run into Severus in her posting

In the second half of the year, disaster struck. In the waning months of the war on Erszbat, Madison was leading a unit into what looked to be a hot labs facility, potentially one where the nanites had been experimented on, initially, or produced. There was heavy, heavy resistance, and Madison was forced to use the Reed in close-combat, surrounded on all sides by husked batarians. The young Spectre literally couldn't move his arm without slicing into an enemy, and still, they closed on him. A couple of the more _aware_, the living-husked, fired on him, in spite of the presence of the dead husks all around him, opening his armor. . . opening wounds. And the nanites around him found a new host.

That he was human, slowed the nanites down. Madison didn't even know he was infected until he got back to the _Kiev_, the venerable old SR-1 that was his home base for the moment. He just stared at the turian doctor as the male reassuringly told him that they'd rarely had the opportunity, so far, to study the course of the infection process almost from the first moment. All he knew was, _Oh, god. I'm going to die. No, worse. I'm going to be a husk. I'm going to turn on Amara and kill her. Shit. I'll never even hear her voice in my mind again. I won't be biotic anymore. I won't be. . . anything. . . but a slave to the humming in my own head._ Madison swallowed hard, and told the doctor, "I'm going to fight this."

"I know," the turian told him, putting a dry, scaled hand on his shoulder. "And we're going to help you fight."

Back to Mindoir. Isolation in the med lab. Only seeing Amara's bright blue, anguished eyes, through the double thickness of the plasteel window. Seeing his _father_ through the same window, Dempsey's ice-blue eyes filled with an almost inhuman fury. "We're not going to let this happen," his father told him through the comm panel that connected the isolation unit with the observation area. "We're not going to let the bastards win."

"This isn't Cerberus, Dad," Madison reminded him. His thoughts were dull. They were assaulting the nanites in every way they could. He was being subjected to a form of dialysis; his blood was being pumped out of his body, filtered, and pumped back in again. Result? A mass of nanites large enough to be seen with the naked eye, like black snow, or confetti, in the tubes beside him. But they kept replicating. Kept trying to colonize his body. Drawing on his body's resources in their relentless, virus-like efforts to repeat themselves.

And there was a droning sound in his head, constantly. Which he dutifully reported to everyone who asked. It was worse than a ringing sound, or a high-frequency pitch from a piece of electronics. This was lower. But steady, and ever-present.

"No, it's not Cerberus," Dempsey told him, putting a hand flat on the window. "But it's the same damn thing. Mind-control. Just another flavor. You _can_ fight this, Mad. I did. And I'll help in every way I can."

"Find the fuckers who built it, Dad." Madison put a hand on his side of the plasteel. Matched thumb and fingers to his father's. "Find them . . . and just end them, okay? I can kind of feel myself starting to _slip_. The noise is. . . really annoying. It's hard to think through. Worse than static or white noise. And you just can't _get away_ from it."

"But it's not telling you to do anything?" Dempsey asked, his voice flat.

"No. . . well, not yet." Madison shrugged. He was under no illusions here. "I'm sure it will. In time."

It was Amara who bullied and chivvied him, daily, reassured and cajoled and encouraged, every _single day_, as she took an extended leave of absence, due to a family medical emergency, to be by his side. As close to it as plasteel allowed, at any rate. _Don't you dare leave me_, she told him, over and over.

_Might not. . . have a choice. . . sweetheart. You're getting. . . pretty hard. . . to hear. . . ._ Madison was in his bed that day. Sweating furiously, as his immune system, supercharged by the latest round of injections that Dara had given him, fought the nanites. "We've learned a _lot_ since Zhasa was infected by the Prothean nanites," the doctor told him. She worse a full biohazard suit in the room with him, just in case, but her hands were gentle as she pressed her palm to his forehead. "It's going to be okay, Mad," Dara told him.

"Don't . . . need. . . to lie to me." He shuddered. This was the stuff of nightmares. He kept picturing his mother, dying of the plagues on Earth. He hadn't gotten to see her then. Hadn't been able to say goodbye. But it had been another fucking batarian _innovation_, hadn't it? Okay, yeah, yahg, too. . . . his thoughts were wandering. His temperature hovered around 104 Fahrenheit—an immune response that they were actually trying to slow. Higher body temperature brought him closer to batarian norms. They'd debated inducing hypothermia, to confuse the nanites more, but the doctors had, in the end, agreed that they needed to let his body fight the invaders.

"Not lying. We're throwing everything we've got at this. And. . . .Laessia is here. She's got some ideas that might help, too." Dara's alien eyes, through the tiny window of the hazmat suit, were kind. "You've outlasted every model we have, Mad. Every previous patient was fully husked by now. You're giving us ways to fight this. And we _are_ going to beat this. You hear me?"

_I . . . hear you. . . . _ But it was so hard to concentrate, through the drone in his mind.

Laessia entered, and she _wasn't_ wearing hazmat gear. That. . . got Madison's attention. "You can. . . still catch this. . . " he told her, trying hard to put one word in front of the next. "The nanites can adapt."

"Nonsense. You're not going to bleed on me. And I wouldn't permit you to damage me." Laessia's tone was precise, and she kept her hands behind her, at the small of her spine, holding herself like a sword.

Dara shook her head, in evident amusement. "And asari wonder why the _mahai_ find them arrogant, Laessia."

"Do you doubt that I can back up my words, Spectre?"

"Not in the least. But still, what a thing to _say_." Dara patted Madison on the shoulder, lightly. "She's got some ideas on how to help. I think they're good ones. Try to work with her, okay?"

The human doctor left, and Madison raised his eyes to Laessia's grey ones. The edges of his vision were fading out. "What. . . you got. . . in mind?" Every word, every thought, was difficult.

"There were methods," Laessia said, meditatively, "methods that I had scarcely begun to study, before I . . . chose to leave the Order. Methods by which, through bio-feedback, we could learn to regulate our bodies. Our own metabolic processes."

"Slow it down? Speed. . . it up?"

"Yes. Enhance our body's ability to deal with disease. Cold. Heat. Purge toxins. This is nothing more than another disease, Madison Dempsey. It is an incredible vicious and virulent one. But I have faith in our doctors here. And I have faith in the strength of your mind, young human. You would not have been able to grasp the Reed, if you weren't exceptional in your ability to focus. And that is what we are going to do."

Madison's eyes, which had started to slide shut, opened again. Blearily, he stared at Laessia. "Focus?"

"Yes."

His father came into the room periodically. It helped. Madison couldn't help but think, dimly, that this was some sort of crazy asari mysticism, at first, until his father noted that the very first human biotics. . . in the first generation? The only ones who hadn't gone _insane_ had been those schooled in bio-feedback techniques. Yogic meditation. "It's why the first thing they did for me," Dempsey told his son, dryly, "was put a bio-feedback tool into my chip. Trying to give my mind something to do _with_ the damn thing, to help me overcome the pain.

"You. . . really think. . . this is gonna work, Dad?"

A gloved hand on his forehead. Dempsey wore, as Zhasa once had, a full-body suit in here. "Yeah. If nothing else, you're going to buy the docs time. Time's what we need, Mad. Keep fighting."

And so, Madison focused his attention inwards. His father's mind, touching his. Laessia's, too. Amara's, when she was there. The rachni crooned quietly in the very periphery of his hearing, but they were the hardest to hear of all the minds. He focused on his breathing. On feeling the biotic energy inside of him. Just letting it surge through him, holding it, but not _releasing_ it, not even as a barrier. "The ancient texts speak of letting it flow from one biotic plexus to another," Laessia muttered.

"News flash, Laessia. Humans haven't developed full biotic organs yet."

"But there are nodules along your spinal columns. Let it flow there, Madison. Purge your system."

It got easier, but it raised Madison's interior bodily temperature. Made him burn calories at a furious rate, even as the nanites kept trying to consume him to rebuild him in their own image. "You. . . think you're . . . going to get something else. . . out of this?" he rasped. He could look down at his arms now, and see blue lights under the skin. Forming lines. Circuit patterns.

His father reached out and took his hand. Squeezed it. "Yeah, actually. As you've been modulating your own biotics? Dara and Nara have been scanning your body. And we've been listening in. When you get to a certain frequency. . . the nanites slow their reproduction."

Amara, who was in the room with them, leaned over. Pressed her forehead against his. Biohazard suit in place, made the gesture a little awkward, but he could still see the bright tears in her eyes. "You're winning," she told him, softly. "It might not feel like it right now, but you're winning."

_We're__ winning_, he wanted to tell her. _Not doing this alone._ But the words were really far away right now.

It took six months. Through trial and effort, Madison, Dempsey, Laessia, and the rachni, found the biotic resonance on which the nanites communicated with one another. It was how Dara had hypothesized, for years, the Reapers had controlled their husks to begin with; through their biotic radios. Never using an easily jammed RF frequency to communicate with the synthetic portions of the husks, they'd used biotics, instead.

Which, again, pointed to their strong reasons for wanting to see heavily biotic species like rachni and asari _wiped out_ rather than repurposed. With their harmonic jammed, by Madison's biotic control, with his immune system bolstered by the regimen of drugs that Dara and Nara formulated, with the meditative techniques that Laessia gave him that let him manipulate his own metabolism, Madison was able to achieve a state of homeostasis. And with the nanites current programming balked, the rachni's song, directed by Joy, and assisted by the geth on base, was able to _rewrite_ some of their control code. His body was still _saturated_ with the damn things. They'd rebuilt large portions of him. He was very aware now, that every time he touched Amara's hand, he gave off a strong static charge, for instance, and he suspected, that in time, he'd be able to control that. Pour electricity out of his fingers, like Mercuria could.

But, more importantly, the machine-mind was. . . attenuated. It was _his_ to control, now. He was conscious of it. But he could manipulate it, like part of his own metabolism.

For six months, everyone had refused to let him look in a mirror. Amara had blocked him, every time he'd asked her what he looked like, shaking her head, eyes bright with tears. So Madison was prepared to see a monster when they finally let him out of the isolation unit, and he walked, unsteadily, into a _normal bathroom_ for the first time in half a year. . . leaning on Amara's arm.

He stared at himself, for a long moment, swallowing, hard. He knew he'd lost weight and tone. That could be rebuilt. Just took effort and time. His sandy-red hair had fallen out, but was growing back in, thankfully. Just a body's reaction to stress. The ice-blue eyes, so like his father's, were, thankfully, unchanged. But all along his face, his neck, under the skin of his arms, he could see thin, glowing blue lines. "Not. . . not so bad," Madison told Amara, taking a moment to steady his tone, consciously. "I . . . kind of expected worse." _I expected to look like a shambling corpse._

_Oh, no. God, no, spirits, no. _Amara leaned into him, her mind slipping through his, checking, out of pure habit, for his biotic flows. _It's like a disease that's been forced into remission,_ she told him, silently. _You'll always carry it. You might even. . . oddly. . . benefit from it. . . but it's going to take constant care to make sure it doesn't come back._

_It's not going to. We rewrote the damned things. And I don't think someone who's been infected can get re-infected._

Amara tucked her chin against his shoulder. _I hope not, Mad. I really hope not._ Sorrow in her tone, but joy, too. Joy that he was alive, and as healthy as he could be. Sorrow. . . that he'd been so damned _marked_.

Madison wrapped his arms around his wife, and looked down at her, steadfastly avoiding the mirror. _It's okay. Somehow, everyone on Mindoir, sooner or later. . . is. _

His younger siblings, Halla'Demsi and Jarek'Demsi, now six years old, were permitted to visit him, and their wide eyes told him another tale; he didn't even look _geth._ But they both hugged him, tightly, and Zhasa did, too, murmuring in his ear, "Everyone will get used to it, Madison. Even you."

"Yeah. Guess I'm going to have to. Dara says she doesn't know where they'd even _start_ with surgical removal. And since I'm sort of balancing at this point, any change to the system could. . . .make everything upend again." Madison grimaced. "I'd really rather not relive the last six months again, if I can avoid it."

Six months after that, Madison was permitted to resume field-work. The nanites proved to have regenerative effects, and the lingering shadows of the 'machine-mind' allowed him to resist domination attacks. But the _look_ of him scared many an average human or turian, who weren't quite sure what to make of the Spectre now. "I'd say welcome to the club," Dempsey told his son, dryly, and looked over at James, his android twin, "but you're already part of the family."

"Just tell me I get to be there when we take out the fuckers who created this, Dad. That's all I really ask." 

"If I have anything to say about it," Dempsey told him, "you will be."

With this information in hand, the war, in 2211 took a new turn. The rachni could sing on the same biotic harmonic as the nanites. Geth units equipped with biotic radios could do the same thing. They could lock down the nanites, which impeded the 'brain function' of the _dead_ husks; it prevented them from moving or attacking in any meaningful fashion. As to the living husks. . . the machine-mind could be disrupted. Many of the living were far too disoriented at having to think for themselves, suddenly, to know where they were, or what they were doing. And the disruption could. . . and did. . . disrupt vital processes between the cybernetic parts and their organic tissues. Some of them simply and immediately collapsed, dying. Others dropped to the ground, rocking and holding their heads, as if a horrific vacuum had suddenly opened in their sinuses.

And the real issue with them was. . . the geth could stage themselves, regionally. The rachni could deploy repeater crystals all over a planet, and simply bombard the nanites with the disruptive harmonic. But if the harmonic wasn't maintained, or if a husked creature wandered out of range of it. . . the nanites, and the synthetic organs and apparatuses they had built within their victim, would resume control. A constant presence on Adek . . . and any other batarian world would be required.

And it assumed that the nanites wouldn't adapt, in time, to the constant barrage of 'noise.' Which made the Alliance, Hierarchy, geth, and rachni exceedingly reluctant simply to carpet-bomb a planet with biotic waves.

So in turn, the question became: _What to do with the husks?_

Valak had been jubilant when he heard the Madison had been 'cured;' it gave him hope that his own people could be healed. Shepard had Dara and Narayana give him the bad news, however. Madison's cure had taken six months, and enormous resources. "But surely, now that it's been found, it can be. . . streamlined. Made easier. Cheaper," Valak offered, the light of desperation in his eyes.

Dara and Narayana had exchanged glances. And it was Narayana who stepped forward, and put a hand on Valak's shoulder, in the Spectre briefing room on Mindoir. "Possibly, yes. However, unclear if it will work on someone whose. . . transformation. . . was already completed. Our first test subject, the one who had managed to hold out against the nanite's effect on his mind? Was a latent biotic, who later. . . succumbed. . .to the infection. In spite of all our efforts." Narayana's voice was sad. "We don't know the effects on non-biotics. We. . . require more test subjects."

"My people are dying," Valak told the salarian, his voice hoarse with anger and grief. "We're being forced to exterminate ourselves. We've had to kill in the _millions_. And you're saying that there's no end in sight."

"No, Valak," Narayana replied, gently. "We're doing everything we can. And we'll continue doing so. But the nanites, as they currently are? Are custom-tailored for batarians. What worked on Madison—which took the combined efforts of himself, three other powerful biotics, every rachni on base, and an exacting regimen of immuno-bolstering drugs—may not work on batarians. Not in the same way, or with the same efficacy."

Valak stared at her, then at Dara, and then at Shepard. "What you're saying," he said, slowly, and with evident strain, "is that it's cheaper and more expedient to kill infected batarians, than to cure them."

Dara instantly shook her head. "No, Valak," she told him, with force. "Neither Narayana or I would ever look at it in those terms."

"That being said," Shepard put in, quietly, from behind her desk, "others in Council space _will_ put it that way. Valak is correct to bring it out of the shadows and demand that it be addressed."

Narayana held up a thin hand. "The problem," she said, simply, "isn't credits, although, terms of raw numbers, Madison's treatment, including pure man-hours, the guards posted to protect others from him in case he became a husk or succumbed to the machine-mind? Over five million credits. Including all the research conducted by STG and the Spectres in the years previous? In excess of fifty million." She sighed. "Leave the credits aside. Let us discuss _facilities_. Where do we hold a hundred thousand husked people on Adek, just to take a conservative number, Valak? How do we guard them and keep them from doing damage to themselves or others? How do we treat them _all_?"

"And," Dara said, quietly, looking at Valak, just barely able to meet his eyes, "a hundred thousand is purely arbitrary number. Realistically? There are six million people on Adek. If infection is at the same rates as on Erszbat? Three million husks." She made a face. "It's like we said of the ardat-yakshi, in a way. There's no monastery big enough. Except, in this case, we'd need. . . leper colonies. Leper colonies with armed guards and doctors who aren't scared of contracting the disease themselves."

Valak put his face in his hands, and Shepard stood. Crossed the room, and put a hand on his shoulder. "It's not as easy as an inoculation," Narayana told him, helplessly. "It's not a magical powder we can sprinkle from the sky. I wish that it were. I wish that every last one of them could be saved."

"We'll save as many as we can," Dara promised, quietly. "I'm . . . .so sorry, Valak, that we can't promise more."

2211 brought other changes. The geth negotiated with the nation of yahg on Parnack that was headed by Urukhurr, the mate of Akkaura, and were able to arrange a guarantee for the safe return of the yahg who had been stranded on Terra Nova. While the yahg on Terra Nova had adapted, learned to speak and read galactic, and now had technical skills beyond those of many of their compatriots, and while they loved the. . . relative _ease_ of their lives there. . . they did know that this was not their place. Not their territory. And that if not for the geth, the humans of the planet would have banded together to destroy their small enclave, out of residual, much-earned fear and distrust.

Siege was on hand to escort them off the geth ship that landed on Parnack. The CROWD unit offered a hand to each yahg as they stepped off the ramp, and recognizing the gesture, each allowed him to shake their own massive paws. _"We are. . .proud. . . ._" the geth told them, in their own snarling language, "_to have known each of you. You posses a strength unknown to most of your species. The ability to adapt is the most important quality for the long-term survival of any species. Your strength. . . may allow your people to survive and flourish._"

The group was remanded into the 'custody' of Urukurr's people, and, as best the geth were able to tell, became _teachers_ of other yahg in that nation. Monitoring radio signals told the geth that Urukhurr had held to power for longer than any previous yahg leader. Which was to say, his own children had yet to kill or eat him. And when he died in 2217, of the totally unheard-of _natural causes_, his son by Akkaura took control. Again, radio reports were scanty, but the geth saw evidence that this child, too, was biotic. And that he had been educated, in part, by some of the Terra Nova yahg. They periodically received messages, in fact, written in galactic and transmitted directly towards their stations, that were. . . .requests for information. Anything that could be used for weapons or transit technology was refused, but information on _farming techniques_ was provided, instantly. Agriculture in the incredibly harsh conditions of the yahg home world was difficult, which explained why they'd never come to rely on it before. . . but with Council-level technology, hydroponics warehouses could produce more per acre in a month than the volcanic deserts could produce in a year.

Simply by virtue of stabilizing their food supply, Urukhurr's people became stronger in one generation than their neighbors. All they needed to do was _defend_ their borders. They didn't need more land, and didn't need the resources of their neighbors. This promoted. . . .envy from their neighbors, who saw a life of relative ease beginning beside them, and wanted it for themselves. Urukhurr's people fended off attacks on every border, and eventually established _trade_ for practically the first time ever, with a neighbor to their west.

Also in 2211, Narayana and Kirrahe produced their fourth and final clutch as a couple. Kirrahe was now twenty-six years old, or, in human terms, fifty-two. He wasn't letting age slow him down in the field, but he _was_ spending more time training other, younger agents. Training his sons and daughters. Their first clutch had been fifty eggs. The second, thirty-six. The third? _Four._ This final clutch had only two eggs. Ninety-two children, in total, but the plain fact of the matter was that _this_ was what salarian social customs had originally been designed to control.

However, as Narayana now had perfectly evident proof, with hormonal controls, there was less _need_ for social controls. Their first clutch, of twenty-five males and twenty-five females, was now eight, and all had graduated with honors from high school, and were now applying to colleges. . . all over Council space. At least half of them had acceptance letters from MIT, Cambridge. Yale. Harvard. University of Edessan. The Imperial College of Complovium.

And their son, Sidmorhe Kiran, who took a little after his grandpa, Mordin Solus, and had had his behavior shaped by Kirrahe Orlan, Lantar Sidonis, and Elijah Sidonis . . . pointed out, firmly, that he was the adopted grandchild of a turian. He wore turian clan-paint.

And he applied for turian boot-camp. As Sidonis Kiran.

It was hard to say who was prouder. Technically, Kiran was Narayana's male clone, and nothing more, so all of his DNA came from her. . . from Mordin Solus, therefore, and Dalatrass Xana, long ago. So she was definitely proud. Kirrahe and Lantar, however, seemed to take turns being amused and proud. . . and Eli, whenever anyone reminded him that someday, all these clan affairs would be his to deal with? Quietly shook his head.

Takeshi, along with his salarian 'cousins' headed to Earth for his college education that year. His childhood playmates, Tacitus and Emily, had already left for boot camp, two years before, and he'd only seen them periodically on random leaves. Emily had actually wound up as a combat engineer; Tacitus had been assigned to research and development.

Takeshi himself had just turned eighteen, and had a full-ride scholarship to MIT. His early fascination with the geth—particularly with Siege—and cybernetics, formulated by the process of watching his father's limb replacement—had continued throughout childhood and adolescence, and he planned to study robotics on Earth. Sam, Kasumi, Dara, Shiori, Eli, Agnes, Hinata, and Gavius went to the spaceport in Odessa to see him off. Keshi had topped out at 5'11". . . nowhere near his father's height, but he wasn't really complaining. He still had dark, faintly almond-shaped eyes, and a shock of dark hair, not to mention a mischievous grin. "Hey, someone in the family's got to hold up against Narayana," he joked, lightly. "She did Stanford and CalTech. I .. . can only really manage MIT. . . but I'll try to hold up human honor."

Kasumi hugged her son tightly. "Try not to get yourself kicked out for pranks," she chided him.

"I think pranks are mandatory in my field, Mom. They might kick me out if I _don't_ pull any."

Sam hugged his son, too, and, over Keshi's head, looked at Kasumi. "Let me see if I've got this straight. You told him to mind the rules, do as he's told, respect authority. . . "

"Do as I say, not as I do," Kasumi's smile was watery.

"Okay. Just so we're clear? Mind what your mama just told you."

Takeshi just _laughed_, not taking a word of it seriously, but sobered as his father shook his hand. "Damned proud of you, son," Sam told him, his tone light, but his eyes sincere.

Dara hugged her _little_ brother, too. "Go do good," she told him. "You need to talk to anyone, we're all just a comm call away." Of course, she knew he wouldn't take her up on that. He was eighteen, he was a guy, and he was getting off the familial leash for the first time. They'd hear from him the first week. . . and then he'd reappear at Christmas. Probably with laundry.

While Tuchanka didn't have a census, let alone population statistics, Pelagia estimated that approximately half of Clan Ulluthyr had migrated off of the planet, and to Omega. This was another important reason for Xiphos' existence; his platform was based on a CROWD's essential chassis, down to the eezo core, but designed along krogan body morphology, except for his head, which was human, though proportioned to his body. His existence gave legitimacy to Pelagia's claim to be the female clan-leader of Ulluthyr, and of Omega. And while she did have a physical platform now, herself, she had chosen to represent herself as a human-sized and shaped female; her hulking 'son' and Harak made odd bookends to either side of her as she moved around Omega, but it all helped knit the krogan society on Omega together. They also had a burgeoning society of asari—SRY-positive and nulls, alike, who'd gathered there to get the hell out of Sisterhood space.

Also in 2211, the first SR-1s, being twenty-six years old, and already having been refitted twice, trying to keep up with technological innovations, began to be rotated out of service. The Alliance and the Hierarchy commissioned the new SR-5s to replace them. These joint-service frigates were designed by a mix of human, turian, geth, quarian, and rachni engineers. (All right, the rachni were workers. No one made fun of their spelling because their ideas were so good. Okay, they only made fun of the spelling a little bit.) As such, as they started emerging from the shipyards, the SR-5s made. . . waves. They retained the original curving body design of the SR ships. They were stealth-capable. Relay-navigable. Had, instead of Tantalus cores. . . . rachni crystal drives. Rachni reinforced crystalline ablative armor. Thanix cannons. Geth fusion torpedoes and rachni catalyzing torpedoes. Short-range geth plasma cannons. Quarian-designed computer cores, for quantum computing that an NCAI would _relish._ Bay space for turian-made gunships and dropships, and improved inertia stability systems designed on Luna.

The NCAIs, themselves, faced a choice. They could continue to serve the Alliance and the Hierarchy aboard new ships, or could, after twenty-six years of service, _retire_. They would, however, need to do _something_ to maintain themselves. Even server space and electricity weren't free, and while J. Thaddius Maxwell might liken this to charging an organic for _breathing_, it was, in reality, much akin to paying rent and buying groceries. There was no such thing as a free lunch. And, truthfully, NCAIs were born, quite literally, to be of service to others. They didn't _like_ the idea of doing nothing, or being useless. Some of them asked to 're-enlist,' and were uploaded from old, decommissioned ships to new ship bodies. Some of them asked for, and purchased, with their savings, mobile platform bodies, and began new careers as archaeologists in the extremely hazardous belt of broken ships beyond the Omega IV relay. Some of them, like Nefertiri, asked to be uploaded to hospital ships—medicine had long been an interest of this daughter of Joker and EDI. Some of them asked to be uploaded to _Bastion_, where they took over space traffic control systems, maintenance management, traffic routing, assisted B-Sec in managing secure cams. . . always with organics beside them and for oversight, in equal partnership. Still others—like Morana, who'd long been associated with the geth platform, Myrmidon—requested the opportunity to join geth Consensus, even if it were only temporarily. So that they could expand their horizons.

Consensus, it must be said, considered this _very_ confusing, but since they had accepted organic runtimes before in small quantities, they did not find it entirely dissimilar to accept a synthetic set of runtimes . . . under limited circumstances, and with oversight and control . . . into themselves.

In 2212, Madison and Amara, who was on a shore-billet on Earth, training younger biotics at the Academy, for the moment, after two years of front-line duty, decided to try for their first child. The doctors were. . . a little dubious. But as Dara pointed out, the nanites actually hadn't altered his DNA in any substantive way. All his gamete-producing organs were intact. None of the nanites were found in his semen samples, which were examined, meticulously, before he and Amara had been able to resume marital relations, so Amara had no chance at being infected by the tiny, virus-like machines. Blood contact proved to be non-infectious, as well.

So long as they could still have sex—and they could, although Madison ruefully referred to himself as _glow-in-the-dark_, to which Dara, consolingly, told him, _join the club_—there was no medical reason for them to hesitate. The biggest concern anyone had, really, was continuing to observe Madison's behavior. . . but in the eighteen months since the treatment had succeeded in re-coding the nanites, and got his body into equilibrium with the foreign intruders, he'd returned to duty as a Spectre. What he'd do with a kid hardly seemed to be in question. Their first daughter, Dairine Lilith Dempsey, was the first three-quarters human, one quarter turian, red-blooded hybrid in the galaxy. No medical intervention, besides monitoring, was needed for Amara; because she _was_ the first hybrid to get pregnant, she was very carefully observed, and the gestation was documented and observed by medical technicians on Earth, who consulted with Drs. Abrams, Sidmorhe, and Sidonis, frequently.

Amara did, however, come home to Mindoir to give birth. She was fairly adamant that she wouldn't have her child anywhere else. Shepard and Garrus held the tiny child, with identical expressions of mild confusion and awe. A three-quarters human actually had _hair_. Peachfuzz, with almost no crest at all—it was visible, still, but the hair grew in all around it. Eyebrows. Soft, human eyes. Five-fingered hands, like both parents. Some of the skeletal stricture still looked vaguely turian. Tiny, residual spurs, and legs and hips that were still on the turian plan. . . but no cowl. Scans of the child's organs revealed, however, no crop. "No bonemeal for this one," Dara warned the new parents, lightly.

"Is she going to have the sharp teeth?" Madison asked, holding his daughter slightly gingerly, as the vague, unfocused blue eyes boggled up at him. . . and the little hands, reaching on instinct, tried to bat at the lights under his skin.

Dara shook her head, smiling. "Your guess is as good as mine. We can start a betting pool for around four months, when they should break through the gums." She looked at Dempsey now, a teasing smile on her face. "How's it feel. . . ._Grandpa_?"

Dempsey, who, like Dara and Eli and even Zhasa, showed no visible signs of aging, and, unlike Dara and Eli, had yet to take a single longevity treatment, gave her a long look for a moment, expressionlessly. And then reached out, took the baby away from Madison, and settled the girl on his shoulder. "Pretty damned good," he told her, straight-faced. "Don't worry, doc. You'll get there someday."

"Way ahead of you, D. You want to go count Joy's children?"

"Yes, but can you carry pictures of them on your omnitool to show off?"

"I could. But I only do that to freak out the Council, as needed."

It was around that time that Madison was asked to help evaluate some of the up-and-coming Spectres. It was thus, the first time he'd been to Painted Rocks cave since his own induction. And thus, it was the first time he'd seen either of the Sower relics since then, and he stopped. Stared at them. And, after a moment, he told those around him, ". . . I'll be damned. I think. . . I think I know what the markings mean."

Taking the Reaper-based nanites, however involuntarily, and being able to control them, consciously, gave him access to parts of the machine-mind they'd built in him. That machine-mind spoke in the Reaper language. . . which in turn, was a corruption of the original Sower language. No language, even one kept entirely by machines, remains unchanged over time. So there were gaps in Madison's understanding. But what he was _able_ to understand, he contributed. And he was even taken to worlds linked to the Sowers, where he started, slowly, helping to translate the few fragments of their civilization that had lasted a billion years in dust. There weren't many. But it _was_ progress.

Kaius laughed when he was told about this. "You're making it hard to keep up with you," he told Madison, genially.

"Just wait till _you_ make Spectre. Then all the weird shit will belong to _you_."

"Nothing says I'm going to make Spectre. I've been serving since 2203. Nine years. I'm pretty good at my job. . . and Caelia and I have _both_ requested shore billets this coming year."

"Want to try for a kid or something?"

"Yeah, that, and we're due for some downtime. Adek's coming along faster than Erszbat did, thanks to that biotic harmonic. . . but there's still a hell of a lot of killing. And just because the husks hold still while the geth and rachni broadcast, doesn't mean that you're still not. . . putting down something that used to be a person." Kaius rubbed at his eyes. "It wears at the spirit."

"I hear that," Madison told him, seriously. "I really do."

So in 2213, Kaius and Caelia had their first child, Magnus Garrus Vakarian, with, again, no medical intervention necessary. This hybrid child actually defaulted back to the original five-fingered Solus template—an adaptation that Caelia was happy to see. "He'll be able to play piano, if he wants to," she joked. "And typing won't be nearly such an issue, like it is for me."

"Starting to feel old?" Lantar teased Garrus and Lilitu, as they passed their first _mutual_ grandchild back and forth.

"My scales aren't going gray nearly as fast as yours are," Garrus told him, dryly.

"I blame Ellie's side of the family for that. My first-son has been driving me towards my grave since the first time I had to pull him out of a ventilation shaft. It's all been downhill since then." Lantar's grin, however, clearly showed that he didn't mean a word of it.

Caelia was actually in her first three months of pregnancy when she and Kaius were issued their invitations to try out for the Spectres; she was excused from direct-contact sparring, and no throws, but still put on a display of _meela'helai_ to establish that she'd kept her skills sharp in the field. Her skills went far beyond direct combat at this point, as well, as she and Kaius had both developed their interest in computer systems to a fine degree; she wasn't an NCAI, but she could get into many a system she really wasn't supposed to, and her stealth skills were second to none. Thus, they were both inducted in 2213, with a 'class' that included four SRY-positive asari, an elcor, a new volus candidate, two batarians, two krogan, three salarians, four humans, four turians, and the first Aeseti, the quadrupedal species from beyond the locked relays. One of those SRY asari was an _ardat-yakshi_, expressing as female, who. . . was domination-capable.

Samiel was asked to train her in how to use her powers responsibly. How to resist others' domination attempts. She was cleared by every psychological test possible as an ethical and responsible person who took her powers seriously. And the Justicars continued to go up in _flames_ about this.

Kaius and Caelia were the first _human-turian hybrids_ ever inducted into the Spectres, but no one could accuse the Spectres of nepotism (not that there was such a concept in turian, of course). Kaius had ten years of experience, Caelia eight, and both had a list of commendations as long as their arms.

Kaius and Madison took that opportunity to swear as blood-brothers, and Kaius also swore that oath with Severus. . . who, around that time, also formally asked Elissa Vakarian to marry him. Emily Sidonis, done with her four years of military service as a combat engineer, and a full citizen of the Alliance and of the Hierarchy, now chose _not_ to continue in the Fleet, but applied for, and received a full scholarship to MIT, to study engineering formally. Where she promptly established herself as both a blessing and a bane to most of her professors, because the low-end classes, she already knew more about some of the topics than _they_ did, and was manifestly bored. Takeshi came to her rescue; the two old friends, separated for four years at this point, began to spend more and more time together, as a result.

In 2214, with the war on Adek grinding on, Kirrahe and Narayana became _grandparents_. They were now twenty-eight and twenty-four, respectively (the equivalent of fifty-six and forty-eight, in human terms), and had vetted the various males who'd asked to meet their daughters and join the Sidmorhe clan very carefully. Almost all of the remaining original Lystheni had died off, other than Soril Erev, whom one of Narayana's daughters (Miranaya) asked, specifically, in this year, to fertilize her eggs, because she wanted to perpetuate some of the original Lystheni DNA; he warned her that he would not be around to help raise the children for long, as he was over thirty now, himself. Miranaya told him that she didn't mind, so long as he was there for as long as he _could_ be.

The irony here, was that Takeshi, born two years after Narayana, was still in college. Still working on his first engineering degree. Dating Emily Sidonis, taking her out for pizza and vids on Earth, and coming home for Christmas with the family on Mindoir. Dara, who'd watched Narayana hatch, watched Nara's father, Mordin Solus, pass away, had overseen the hatching of Nara's four clutches of eggs, now watched Nara's grandchildren hatch, as well. Dara's own sets of twins were only twelve and eight, and Dara herself. . . only thirty-seven. Narayana now looked and acted in her late "forties" by salarian standards.

And in this year, the first of Dara's named workers, Chopin, passed away of old age. Workers only lived to be between fifteen and twenty years of age; they were, in rachni terms, both constant and essential—they formed the _bulk_ of any given hive, after all—and yet, also, expendable. Replaceable. Dara, however, saw many of the workers as individuals. Like cherished friends—more than pets, certainly. And so, when Chopin labored his way up into her lap as she worked on a DNA model at her computer, she looked down in concern.

—_Little queen?_

"What's the matter, Chopin?"

—_Hard to breathe, little queen. Very tired._

"Wait, you're sick?" Dara dropped everything, and picked the little worker up in the palm of her hand. Eli had had to redo the writing on the little creature's shells once a year, when they molted, but there, clear and sharp, was _Chopin_ on his carapace, in Eli's firm block lettering. "Let me take a look at you." She'd become, by default, the galaxy's foremost expert on rachni medicine. Rachni _could_ regenerate limbs, over long periods of time, each time they molted. But they needed prosthetics in the meantime. Regenerating eyes, much more difficult, but with stem-cell technology, adapted from human and asari models, she'd been able to help Dances, for example, regrow his missing eye. They had few diseases.

But everyone, in the end, tended just to wear out.

—_Tired, little queen. It's. . . time._ A pause. And then, a phrasing that Chopin had learned from Zappa, the first worker to use it. —_Will you remember me in memory-song, little queen?_

_Yes, of course I will, always, but. . . _ Horrified awareness, as the workers all around her, who usually made their way through the walls of the house she shared with Eli and the children, began to crowd near. And Chopin's tired gratitude came to her, and then his tiny legs spasmed. Once. Twice.

And then he was gone. The first worker ever given a name had been about a year old when he'd come to Mindoir, as best Eli and Dara were ever able to reckon. He'd spent eighteen years as Dara's constant companion. A voice in the cheerful chorus all around her. As with all the workers, quick with advice, quick with humor, quick with comfort.

_Doorknob songs and toast. TST-SNGS._

Dara cradled the worker in her lap, put her head down on her desk, and started to cry. It started off quietly, but the empty shell in her lap just seemed a symbol, somehow, of how _everything_ must pass, and the sobs became, after a while, fairly wracking. The workers, as a whole, gathered around her, chittering, trying to sing comfort-songs.

—_Do not sing sorrow. Memory-song is always with us._

—_We are still who we were._

—_We are still with you, little queen._

—_Perhaps,_ Zappa told her, quietly, from his perch atop her head, —_in time, you might favor another of us with Chopin's name-song? Not to replace him. But to remember him?_

Eli found her there, completely covered in workers. "Hey, what's the matter?" He knelt down, and put an arm around her, as the workers all skittered out of his way.

Mutely, she showed him the tiny body, and Eli winced. _Oh, hell. I'm so sorry, sweetheart. What do they usually do with their dead?_

_They eat their dead, __ciea'teilu__. Everything is returned to the hive._

Eli stroked her hair, gently, dozens of tiny blue worker eyes around them, watching. _You going to let them take him away?_

_I don't want to._ Mutinous turn to her lips, and she put her head down on Eli's shoulder.

_I know you don't want to. He was a person to you. Not a bug._ He kissed her hair gently. _But it's also their way._

_I know._ Dara very carefully set the little body down on the desk. And the workers around her gently and considerately took the body where she wouldn't see them eating it.

Within a year, she _did_ name another worker Chopin. But this was Chopin II. Not to be confused, at all, with Chopin I.

By 2216, Amara, as a combat adept, and a damned good one, had been appointed a Spectre, herself; now twenty-eight, she was only two years older than when her mother, Lilitu Shepard, had been appointed a Spectre in 2183. Takeshi Jaworski graduated with his degree in robotic engineering, and immediately began work on his master's degree, still at MIT. He and Emily got married that year, after two years of living together in an off-campus apartment, further binding the Sidonis and Jaworski families. Shiori Jaworski, for her part, turned eighteen that year, and opted to go to the University of Illium for her degree; she wanted to study asari language and culture, with an eye towards diplomatic work, eventually. "Last one out of the nest," Sam told Kasumi, his tone content. Sam was now sixty-five, and thanks to the longevity treatments, still only had a speckle of gray here and there in his hair. But he was content to take much more of an administrative and advisory role these days. The arthritic knee wasn't slowing him down too badly; he was still in excellent shape, and spent at least five days a week on the sparring mats. The artificial arm, he'd never _entirely_ adapted to, but most days, he could forget it was there.

"I know. But baby birds have a way of finding their way home," Kasumi told him, comfortably, as they turned and walked away from the boarding ramp at the spaceport; Shiori had hugged them both fervently, and chattered at them as excitedly as a blue jay, betraying her nervousness at going so far from home. Of all the kids, she and Takeshi actually required the fewest bodyguards; they'd been raised largely out of the public view. Full-bred, home-grown humans, as Sam had once called them, they didn't stand out, other than for their Polish last name, in any setting. No clan-paint.

However, 2216 found shakeups in other parts of space. On Tuchanka, Urdnot Malla died, of old age—that rarest of causes for krogan death. Urdnot Siara Tesala, her chosen successor, assumed control of the female clan—much to the displeasure of many of the krogan females. She needed a way to cement her guardianship of the female clan, and came to Mindoir, tapping on Dara's laboratory door. "Dara."

"Siara! Damn, it's been over a year since I've seen you. And you don't have an _appointment._"

"Do I need an appointment these days?"

"Nah, the corpses in the pathology lab won't complain if you bump their slots." Dara awarded Siara a crooked grin. "What brings you here?"

"Remember back on Bastion, during the plagues, how I asked you to look into making a asari-krogan hybrid?"

Dara's eyebrows rose. "It's only been twenty years, Siara. You're still a maiden. Physiologically, it's _possible_ for you to carry a child to term. Liara T'soni carried Fiara to term, for example, for all that she's just past a hundred. But strictly speaking, it's dangerous, both for the developing child and the mother."

Siara paced the small lab, moving smoothly around the various swinging arms of various pieces of equipment. Back and forth. "The hard-liners in the female camp won't accept my control if I'm not a mother."

"So? Tell 'em things change. And that you're an asari-krogan clan-leader, and you'll have your kids when _you_ say, not on _their_ fucking timetable."

Siara turned and bared her teeth at Dara. The smile had razory edges, but genuine humor, too. "I'll pay you to come to Tuchanka and say that to them."

"Oh, you found a planet I'm _not_ in trouble on, and decided I needed to add it to the _collection_?" Dara pulled her lips back from her teeth, turian-style, to match the basilisk krogan grin Siara was giving her.

Then they both _laughed._ "That's the other thing," Siara said, finally taking a chair, as the stubborn defiance that had marked every step she'd taken so far in the room drained away, leaving tiredness. "In a hundred years. . . Vaul. Not to sound crass, Dara, but in a hundred years, you might not be here. And even if I only wait a hundred years, I'll still only be a hundred and fifty-nine. Probably still a maiden, unless I share Makur senseless every night from now until the to force my body to mature more rapidly." Siara grimaced. "Not that he'd object, but he might die smiling."

Dara guffawed. "I think he's a _little_ more resilient than that. Assuming you don't collapse any more buildings on him in the meantime."

"Don't remind me. That was not the kind of day I ever want to repeat." Siara frowned. "I want _you_ to do the gene modeling. You and Narayana." She paused. "Vaul. It feels like Nara just graduated med school with ribbons clipped to her aural horns. . . maybe two years ago? I _blinked_, and she's a grandmother." Siara rubbed at her face. "I . . . don't know how any asari can ethically love a salarian, Dara. I thank Vaul—assuming he exists any more than the Goddess does—that I found Makur. I don't think I could deal with how the _mahai_ age." She looked up, her eyes a little blue-rimmed. "She's getting old. Fast."

Dara nodded, her stomach tightening. "Salarians make me feel like an asari, Siara. I have no idea how asari deal with most of the galaxy rising and falling around them like the tide." She stood to pour them both a cup of tea from the kettle she kept in her lab.

"Depends. Traditional asari just flick a hand and call you all _mahai._" Siara accepted the cup of tea, wrapping her fingers around its warmth. "Me? I . . . don't know how I'm going to deal with it, Dara. You and Eli _still_ look exactly the same as you did twenty years ago. Dempsey and Zhasa, too. But everyone else. . . "

"I know." Dara forced herself to take a sip of her own tea. "Eli got a little asari from Kella, when she inadvertently rewrote herself into his genetic code. Me. . . I'm a little rachni."

"How long do rachni live?" Siara asked, just above a whisper.

"Workers? Fifteen to twenty years. Soldiers, around thirty to forty. Brood-warriors, a hundred and fifty to a hundred and seventy five. Queens, around three hundred." Dara stared down into her cup.

"So you actually have no idea. . . ?"

"How long we'll live? Given the longevity treatments, which . . . _mostly_ help prevent cancers—" Dara thought of Dr. Chakwas, dead and gone for many years now, and winced, "and prevent gene replication errors and delay senescence, that's a help. Add in all our crazy genetic modifications. . . though. . . and I have no clue." Dara tried to keep her voice dispassionate. "Then again, no one else really gets a guarantee on how long they'll live, either, Siara." She sighed. "So. . . I _might_ be around when you're not a maiden anymore. I might not." She met the female's eyes squarely. "I can tell you've got another reason at the back of your head. Spill it."

Siara nodded. "I have the feeling," she said, steepling her fingers together, "that because of the Reaper nanite plague, among other things. . . that there's going to be a backlash against even Collector-based tech in the next few years."

Dara raised her eyebrows over her tea. "If people start rejecting Reaper-based tech, they're going to have to give up relay travel, or look like tremendous hypocrites."

Siara snorted. "When has looking like a hypocrite ever stopped someone from mouthing off?" She sighed, and went on, "If not that. . . there's a tremendous inwards-turning in asari society right now. They're curling in on themselves. Fighting between Justicars. Turning on the SRY-positive. People like me, people like Melaani, people like Ylara. Calling the ardat—the males, like Samiel. . . not-asari." Siara's eyes went hooded. "Hybridization might well get _outlawed_ before I can use the Solus process, Dara. Either by people in Council space who are afraid of the legacy of the Collectors and the Reapers, or by asari conservatives, obsessed with purifying our genome."

Dara shook her head. "The former isn't all that likely, Siara. There were only a handful of different types of hybrids even twenty-five years ago. Nowadays. . . there are hundreds of them. Outlawing the tech is like telling them they can't reproduce, when the time comes." She sighed. "I take your point, however. But I wouldn't be a good doctor, or a good friend, if I _didn't_ talk through all the ramifications with you."

She pulled up the file she'd kept on this, adding to it, on and off, for twenty years. "Krogan-asari is, technically speaking, in its own way, one of the most difficult challenges," she assessed, after a long moment. "When K'sar and Maryam came to me a couple of years ago for a batarian-human kid? There was already a template out there. I modified it a bit. Improved it. Narayana tweaked it further. Both species already have hemoglobin-based blood. Similar skeletons. Biggest differences were hair and the cranium. K'sar said he'd be fine with his kids being half-eyed. Maryam said she'd be fine either way. Result: kids with two bright yellow eyes, dark, curly hair, the ribbed noses that most batarians display, and a faint reddish overtone to their skins." Dara shrugged. "They're what, six now? Cute as bugs, from the pictures we get of them from Astaria." She looked at Siara. "Now, krogan are live-bearers, not egg-layers, as we well know. They're hemoglobin-based, you're hemecyanic. Both levo, though, so that's not a problem. Krogan body temperature is lower, but we can work with that. That slow metabolism is part of their longevity. That, and the regeneration." Dara sighed. "The biggest problem, really, is the skeletal frame. I could design this far more easily for a krogan mother and an asari. . . .father." She gave Siara an amused glance. "Not that I think Samiel or Sisu are really lining up for the krogan females."

"Sisu hasn't been through the Rite yet. Wouldn't be allowed in the bunker." Siara's grin held needles. "Besides, underage, by asari standards."

Dara chuckled. "Like that stopped _you_."

"Yes, but I was going after people of similar age. Okay, of _similar development stage_." Siara glared. "You're basically telling me that my body can't handle something the size of a krogan child at birth."

"You flat-out don't have the real estate for one, Siara. It's the same problem I brought up in 2196. If you still want a kid who's built more or less on the krogan skeletal system? It'll be born slightly underdeveloped. We might not be able to take you to full term. That will result in health problems. The longer you can hold out, the better, but I will _not_ endanger your health." Dara met Siara's eyes, steadfastly. "You understand me?"

"Yes. And I agree. I've worked with the krogan mothers for close to thirty years now, Dara. I'm pretty much a licensed midwife and obstetrician, by krogan standards." Siara's expression was grim. "I don't need telling that childbirth is still one of the most dangerous things a female of any species can do."

Dara nodded. "Okay. So, I take it a surrogate is out?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Goddamned weird definitions krogan have for _motherhood_. It's your kid, your DNA, you're going to raise it, feed it, teach it, care for it. Who _cares_ whose body it came out of?"

"They do." Siara shrugged. "Not a battle I'm going to win." She gave Dara a look. "So, you really can't do the krogan body type for me?"

"Not unless you magically grow three feet and put on four hundred pounds, no." Dara brought up the models she'd been working on for decades, and started showing Siara the various morphologies she'd constructed. "Take your time. Show these to Makur. In a way that's not really usual for asari, this _is_ going to be his kid, too. I'd kind of advise, for the health of your relationship, _talking_ about this."

Siara made a face and flapped a hand at Dara. "Of course I will."

And thus, later in the year, Nara and Dara implanted Siara with the first krogan-asari hybrid. "At least both species have semi-aquatic origins," Narayana told Dara. "Makes this _somewhat_ less problematic."

Krogan gestation actually took only about nine months; that allowed them to halve the typical asari pregnancy, though this did require tinkering, temporarily, with Siara's own metabolism. Since she was so young, and the pregnancy was such a first, Dara didn't permit Siara to travel off of Mindoir. "I'm not chasing you into the wilds of Tuchanka with a portable sonogram machine," Dara informed her old friend at one of their appointments, waspishly. "Sit down for ten minutes and let me get your blood pressure while you're here."

The result, in late 2216, was devoured in dozens of medical journals all over Council space. At ten pounds, six ounces, Urdnot Makira Tesala was a giant of an asari child, delivered by C-section in the eighth month of pregnancy, after Siara's blood-pressure issues simply became far too problematic. She had _none_ of the prototypical asari beauty; even as an infant, her face was blocky. Her eyes filled the entire socket, like a krogan's, heavy-lidded and a bit bulbous, but she had two lids for their protection. . . and they were vividly, vibrantly blue. Her skin was blue, both from pigmentation and the hemecyanic blood in her veins, but she also had scales, to give her better protection. The scalp tentacles were still there, but far less pronounced; they weren't really needed to radiate heat, because her body temperature was far lower than standard asari norms; not 103 or so Fahrenheit, but a tepid 80. Her small fingers were tipped with thick, blunt claws, but her teeth, when they grew in, would match her asari skeleton.

And when they pricked her heel for a blood test, just after birth?

The wound healed, almost instantly.

Narayana and Dara rather discreetly high-fived each other for _that_ one.

There wasn't enough _room_ in an asari body for all the redundant organs of a krogan body. They couldn't fit three livers into the body cavity. But they _did_ fit in the tertiary heart, low in the intestine, so that if the primary heart suffered any damage, the body's regeneration would have a shot at recovery. No room for a secondary liver. Secondary stomach, no. But, they were able to weave the fine mesh of the secondary nervous system, and the secondary spinal cord behind the actual, protected-by-vertebrae primary cord. And strung secondary biotic organs all along it. Everything seemed to be working, Siara and Makur could both clearly touch the infant's mind, body temperature seemed to be regulating itself _perfectly_. . . . Dara and Narayana waited until the end of the first week of observations, when Siara and Makur were able to take Makira out of the hospital.

Then the two doctors went to Gardner's and got very damned drunk in celebration. Dara hadn't had more than about two glasses of wine, at a time, since Joy's birth; she'd never quite known what alcohol would do to her system. Tonight, she didn't _care_. Narayana was there, and was fully certified to run a stomach-pump, if needed.

Dara had never had a talent for being able to _broadcast_ biotically before, but in twenty years, her rachni adaptations had slowly increased, and that night, she was broadcasting blues and greens so loudly, the entire damned rachni hive sang with her. Joy sang from beneath the earth. Stone, Sky, Dances, and Glory all joined in, from different places on base. And Dara waved the piano player in the cocktail area away from the bench, and took _over._ Singing out loud, in public, for the first time ever, as Narayana poured her another glass of champagne. She started with "We are the Champions," which just made the salarian female laugh. "I'm missing all the notes," Dara admitted, sheepishly.

"I prescribe another drink."

"I don't think I'm going to _improve_ if I have more, Nara."

"No, but you'll care less." Nara pushed the glass into Dara's hand, and sat down on the bench next to her. "Am still surprised that they opted for a girl the first time."

"Makur wanted a girl. Krogan value fertile females. Siara wanted a boy. To shove it in all the asari traditionalists' faces." Dara drank down half the champagne. "Next time, a boy, I guess!"

"Next time," Nara said, and there was something. . . sorrowful and distant in her tone, that caught Dara's attention, and sobered her, in an instant. Narayana was twenty-five years old now. Fifty, as a human might reckon it. Mordin Alesh, her uncle, had died when Nara was twelve. Her father had died when she was younger than six.

Dara fought it all down. Managed a smile, and said, with forced cheer, "Yes, next time! I'm sure Siara will be back here in five years."

"Dara."

"Okay, ten, depending on if Makira matures at more an asari rate than a krogan rate—"

"Dara," Narayana repeated, softly, and shook her head.

In ten years, Narayana would be thirty-five, or close to seventy in human terms. Not _every_ salarian lived that long, of course. Mordin Solus had been the oldest on record, being over forty at his death.

Dara put the champagne down on the piano, and covered her face for a moment. _Everything passes_, she thought, numbly. _Everything passes._ _In ten years, Narayana and Kirrahe might not even be with us anymore._

Nara rubbed her shoulders for a moment. "Come on," her younger/older friend told her, calmly. "Play me something else. Something cheerful."

Dara nodded, rubbing at her eyes to keep the tears from being seen, and played on. Lived in the moment, as Nara was, clearly, doing. "We are the Champions" gave way to "Piano Man" with its bittersweet lyrics, which seemed so fitting at the moment. And, open as she was at the moment, Narayana's hectic salarian cheer began to infuse her, chasing away the shadows. On the second time through the chorus, people around them started to pick up the lyrics around her, and infused by her cheer, the rachni harmonies in the background, and Narayana's hyper glee, began to sing along. "It's not a madrigal," Dara apologized to Narayana.

"It's all right. Am figuring out the words as we go!"

The pure waves of happiness radiating outwards did put everyone in the bar in very, very good charity with each other. And when Kirrahe and Eli showed up to find their respective females, Dara's whoop as she wrapped her arms around her husband and nibbled on his neck, made Eli laugh. "Oh, so this is what it takes for me to get to see you drunk," he teased, as a handful of other couples started to make their way out the door. Dara could _feel_ the burgundy songs of the various couples, and she realized, dimly, that she was probably singing queen-songs right now, without even _aizala_ to invigorate her system. At the moment, she didn't really care. Everyone around her was happy. Everyone around her shared the joy. . . though the bittersweet lyrics of the song had made her reflect, however briefly, on how fast time was passing, at least for some of them. "Being an irresponsible youngling is fun, eh?" Eli told her, and gave her a kiss, pulling her off her feet.

"Eh, once every twenty years or so, I'm allowed."

"If I only get a tipsy wifey once every twenty years, I'm going to be _deprived_." Eli kept a good grip on Dara's forearm as he helped her out the front stairs.

"I can hear _all the songs_, Eli." Dara was dizzy.

"As good as on _aizala_?"

"No. . . just the ones closest to me. . . Still . . .wow."

"You know what, _sai'kaea_?"

"Hmm?"

"The kids are asleep."

"Oooooh, really?"

In the morning, Dempsey caught her at breakfast and asked, "How's the hangover, doc?"

"What hangover?" Dara was, actually _surprised_ about that. "I guess my metabolism really is pretty rachni now. Got tipsy, but no bad effects."

"I popped into Gardner's long enough to hear you _singing_, doc." Dempsey's eyes lit with an inner amusement, though he didn't smile. "No more arguing out of you. You're _singing_ with us next time we get everyone together to play music. _And_ I'm recording it."

"But—"

"But, nothing. I'm not saying we go on _tour_ or anything crazy like that. But you liked hearing the songs come back to you, didn't you? You liked hearing everyone sing with you?"

"Well. . . yeah. . . "

"So stop dithering. We'll set something up on base or down at the science station, so everyone can enjoy the damned music. The rachni will love it."

That trapped her. She could hear Joy's instant, _Yes! We would greatly enjoy hearing your songs!_ and sighed. "What I don't do for my kids," she muttered.

"Yeah, yeah, noble martyr." Dempsey's lips quirked up at the corners. "You're going to wind up enjoying yourself, and you know it."

Dara gave in. She couldn't do much else, not with Eli, Dempsey, Serana, Zhasa, and Lin all at the table laughing at her.

The galactic press had a _field day_ when Siara and Makur let their daughter be seen for the first time on camera. She was walking by nine months of age, like a krogan child, and salarian medical journals trumpeted this as some of Narayana's finest work. "I think they forget your contribution," Narayana told Dara, dryly. "You did absolutely all of the research and gene modeling. I just did the actual _assembly_ and testing."

Dara shrugged. She and Narayana had collaborated on drell-turian and human-quarian hybrids. Her research papers on the subject of hybridization and her case studies were all a matter of public record. "They just see that my name's been on papers with first your father, and then with you, as a co-writer. For them, I'm just being dragged along in the Mordin/Sidmorhe wake," she said, just as dryly. "And from their perspective. . . they're right."

"Oh, _talas'kak._"

"Such language, Nara."

The asari news media, however, went up in _flames_ at the first vid footage. The asari currently living _on_ Tuchanka, in enclaves established by Clans Urdnot and Ulluthyr? Cheered. Wrote extranet posts commenting that they could already sense what a biotic powerhouse this child was (with twice the number of normal biotic plexuses and organs as a normal asari, and a fully redundant nervous system, Narayana had postulated that Makira might be twice as powerful as the average 'maiden' even before taking into consideration the fact that both her parents were heavily powerful biotics in their own rights.). Many of those asari were making their way on the planet as teachers. Engineers. Mech refurbishers. Every day they lived there, they had to show the krogan around them that there were other kinds of strength. . . and the krogan respected that.

The hardliners on Luisa and Illium, however, ran op-ed articles that suggested that this infant was hideously deformed. That it—and yes, they used the word _it_—was a mule. That it was the blameless victim of social experimentation by a first-mother who had no conscience, and power-hungry non-asari scientists who would do anything for a published paper. This was science without ethics, and the child would always pay the price, being neither of one people, or another. Even worse, the poor thing _looked_ asari, but was, manifestly, _not_. It was thus, just another form of _ardat_, or other. And that this was an outrage that should be sanctioned against by law.

When interviewed on the topic, Siara noted, her eyes glittering in the light from Emily Wong's camera, "I find it interesting that everything my people don't like, currently, is being lumped into the 'not-asari' and 'ardat' categories. I'm SRY-positive. For some of these people, that already means I'm not-asari. If I'm not asari, then how anything I do with my body or my child can possibly affect them, is beyond me. However, they appear to be a little beyond the realm of the rational at this time." She held Makira in her arms, and the wide, slightly bulbous eyes turned to _stare_ at the camera. "That being said? Makira's only the first. I'm quite certain that other asari, ones who have krogan _marai'ha'sai_, or human, or turian, will want to, in time, have children that actually perpetuate the real genetic code of their beloveds. A true sharing, and memorial to beloveds who could not stand beside us in time. My daughter is hardly an experiment. She's simply the first of a new way." She smiled down at Makira for a moment, a truly tender look, which took away the breath of several Spectres who'd never thought to see _that_ expression on _that_ face. "For myself? I know that I'm asari. But if the rest of asari society wants to throw me out? Vaul. I've also been krogan for twenty years and more. I'll _stay_ that. I'll never give up my mother's name. But Makira here. . . she doesn't have to be a Tesala if she doesn't want to. She's Urdnot. She'll grow up here, on Tuchanka, and maybe on Mindoir. When she's of age, she'll face the Rite." Siara's teeth bared. "Just as her father and I did before her."

"What we _all_ don't do for our kids," Eli said, shaking his head and turning off the vid screen at the end of the report. "She's crazy."

"Yeah, but she's our kind of crazy," Dara told him, from the kitchen, where she had their twins set up in an assembly line, washing dinner plates.

What Eli and Dara would and wouldn't do for their children became somewhat more interesting of a question the following years, particularly in 2217. The CROWD platform, Paladin, based on Siege's pre-hybridization self, had, in itself, taken on some of Glory's rachni templates. This made him, effectively, the first geth brood-warrior. As early as 2213, when the twins were ten, the geth had come to their house on an errand regarding the protective details for Takeshi's upcoming college education. Paladin had been one of the geth tasked with protecting Narayana on Earth, so he'd been an asset that had been considered for Takeshi's protection. In the Sidonis living room, the geth, intrigued by the young 'human brood-warrior,' Lantus, had asked, "Do you already understand your personal function, Lantus-singer?"

Lantus had regarded him out of rachni blue eyes, his head tipped to the side. "To make sure my younger siblings are safe, for now. Later, to ensure that the entire hive is safe."

Dara and Eli had both rubbed at their eyes a little over that one. Paladin had turned, however, and told them both, "We approve of this one."

"You would," Eli told the geth, dryly.

Teagan and Lantus were now fourteen, and, like the younger twins, Derek and Merryn, had been manifestly biotic since birth. Both of the older twins were developing in distinctive and powerful ways; while Teagan had the more powerful 'voice' of the two—she'd been able to call, successfully, to her twin, from a fifty mile range under testing conditions—her ability to use combat-oriented biotics seemed to lag her twin's. Her skills at bringing up barriers were ahead of schedule, and she seemed to have strong abilities regarding lifting things, and the beginnings of a stasis-like ability that flooded a body with biotic energy. Her twin, Lantus, seemed to be far more aggressive. He could already throw himself into a biotic charge. Could already sunder materials, reave them with his mind. But of the two, Lantus was the one who, frankly, adored children. And other kids loved him. Toddlers trundled after him, and he'd cheerfully carry them around on his back. "This is like looking at a human version of Sky, sometimes," Eli muttered to Dara at one barbecue, shaking his head.

_You sing that, as if it is a song of concern?_ Sky sang.

"Nah. I don't think he's yours, if that's what you're asking," Eli told the rachni, grinning.

Dempsey, Ylara, and Sky had been working with both twins since they were toddlers. The most fascinating thing, to Dara, was that they both produced biotic energy on the mitochondrial level, just as she and the other rachni did. And they did everything that they did. . . without implants. The workers had created small crowns made of electrically conductive wire and rachni crystals for the twins to wear; these chaplets made focusing and concentrating their abilities _easier_. Made all of it take less effort. But they were never going to need the invasive implant surgery.

The next big surprise, really, came after sparring practice one night. There were several new krogan Spectres, and some of them actually had their children with them. One of these kids was Ulluthyr Suruk, and he got Lantus into a bad position on the mats and threw the young man. Lantus landed awkwardly, unable to fully compensate for the extra force with which he'd been thrown. He'd landed near the edge of the mat, gotten back to his feet, stumbled. Dara watched it from across the room, as if it were all happening in slow motion. He caught his feet over one piece of equipment; the device used to help people stretch their legs into splits. He tripped, almost recovered his balance, took another step backwards. . . . the device slipped. He fell, straight back, and caught his left arm, on the way down, in the weight-lifting equipment. His arm was barred between two pieces of metal, and bone gave way before metal did, with a dull _crack_ that Dara could hear from across the room. She could _feel_ Lantus' pain from thirty feet away, and moved away from where she was sparring with Zhasa and Amara, at a dead run. Eli and her father were already there. "Hold still," Eli told their son, calmly, keeping the boy down on the floor, as he and Sam disengaged the arm, carefully.

Lantus yelped. The sound was loud, as the training area had gone deadly silent. It always did, when there was an injury, as everyone stopped what they were doing to see what was going on. To help, or at least to respect the pain of others. Dara's stomach turned, but she was already pulling the first aid kit off the wall. Teagan materialized just under her elbow. "What can I do to help?"

"You can sing the pain down," Dara told her daughter, absently, digging in the kit. "Damn. No osseous generator. . . " The devices _were_ pretty specialized, and not for the random layman's hands. But there _was_ a scanner. Dara edged her way in, laid a hand on her son's forehead, feeling the sharp spikes of adrenaline, fear, and pain, all jagged shards of yellow in his song, and hummed a little under her breath. Trying to be soothing. "Let me see," she said, just as she had every other time he'd had a boo-boo as a child. The funny thing was, she'd caught Teagan imitating her, from time to time. Administering band-aids to Derek and Merryn, for example. With a mixture of "Okay, well, if you don't let me put a bandage on it, I guess it's going to keep bleeding then" and "Just let me pull the thorn out, and it'll stop hurting." Dara had always smothered a grin at hearing her own tones in her daughter's then-piping voice.

Dara grimaced when she saw the scanner's results. "Okay, the good news is, we're looking at clean breaks. The bad news is, it's both the radius and the ulna. You don't do anything by halves, do you, Lan?" A little gentle humor, and she touched the boy's sweat-soaked hair. Aware, that behind her, Kaius and Madison were watching, along with everyone else. "We're going to need to move you to the med bay, all right? I'll splint it before we go, though."

She did, and Zhasa called, "We'll take Derek and Merryn home with us, all right, Dara?"

Dara gave her friend a quick, relieved nod, as she, Eli, Lantus, and Teagan left the gym, her dad giving her a quick squeeze on the shoulder in passing.

At the med bay, however, Teagan surprised her. The girl was very interested in everything, looking at the scans. And finally, as Dara mentioned that they _might_ need to do some minimal surgery—she hadn't wanted to scare Lantus before, torque him up any worse than he already was—Teagan asked, "Why?"

"Because we need to support the bones and hold them in place while we use the osseous regenerator. At the moment, they're all sort of moving around inside, since there's no stable point."

Teagan frowned. Looked at the scans. Looked at her brother's arm. And, very lightly, she put her fingers on Lantus' arm.

"Ow."

"Do you want it to stop hurting or not?"

"Just let _Mom_ fix it, okay? She actually knows what she's doing."

Teagan gave her twin a look, and a peremptory harmonic that sounded like _Shush._ And then she hummed a little louder, and her eyes went unfocused. . . .and Dara could feel biotic energy building. Just a whisper of it.

Biotics, as Dempsey had often pointed out, didn't need to be big and showy to be effective. In every vid in existence, biotics were shown with flashy, glowing lights and buzzing sound effects, so that the audience would understand _oh, okay, something is happening. This is happening because of that. I get it._

In reality, only a biotic could sense biotic energies, or a someone holding a biotic radio, or the detection equipment they'd built, based off of that technology. The average person couldn't see it, taste it, touch it, hear it, or smell it. And you didn't really need a lot to push someone over. Like everything else, biotic combat could be about finesse, the right angle, the right leverage, and not just brute strength.

Dara's eyes widened as she watched the scans. An image was being taken every 1/100th of a second. And as she watched, she could see the bones _mending_. "How?" Dara asked, her eyes widening. "How are you _doing_ that, Teagan?"

"Uncle Dempsey says. . . " Teagan's voice was distant, and a little sing-song, as it tended to become when she was distracted, "that when you reave something, you're warping the bonds between the molecules of matter. Or, in the case of shields, you're distorting the flow of energy. I . . . kind of figure. . . that if you can disrupt the bonds between molecules. . . you can put them. . . .back together again. . . right?" The girl's eyes shifted. Focused again, on the scanner, and then went distant once more.

Dara exchanged a look with Eli, and watched the entire process, her mind going clinical. "Careful," she warned. "You don't want the bone too thick. Otherwise, we'll have to go in and shave it down." She zoomed in the scanner for a better resolution, and Teagan glanced over.

The structure of compact or dense bone, to mild magnification, had limited porosity, between 5-30% in humans. Under intense magnification, new bone tended to look woven. Collagen filaments went in every direction, even under an osseous regenerator's charge. Woven bone structure was inherently weak, but the body would, in time, replace it, fill it in with the much stronger _lamellar_ structure, with filaments of collagen in regular sheets, which would be filled with mineralized calcium, phosphates, and other chemicals, in time. Dara's eyebrows arched. She was seeing lamellar structures already forming. "How'd you know to do that?" she asked Teagan, quietly, not wanting to distract her from. . . whatever she was doing.

"Could . . . see it in your head," Teagan admitted, her lips compressed with effort.

_My god. This is an amazing level of abstraction_, Dara thought, back behind her eyeballs, where she went when she needed to be medical distant, or sniper-calm. _She's able to look at the scan, and apply what she sees there to the body over __there__. And she's replicating the structure of the bone, at the molecular level. Smoothing the bonds into place. I wonder if she could do the same thing with a cancer tumor. Just in reverse. Look at a scan, see it, understand where it is in the body. . . and very carefully reave the little fucker into non-existence. Obliterate it at the molecular level._

_Maybe,_ Teagan whispered in her thoughts, letting go of the energies she held. "I wouldn't know what I was looking at, though, Mom. I only knew what to do here, because I could see it so clearly in your mind."

Dara looked over the work. Nodded. Smiled, and rested a hand on Lantus' shoulder, so he'd understand she was there. And looked very directly at Teagan. "I don't want you randomly experimenting with this," she said, very clearly, and very distinctly. "You reach inside someone, and start moving the wrong things around? Making the wrong cells replicate? You could start tumors. Reach too far into someone's chest, and try to fix something in their heart, without knowing what you're doing? You could probably _stop_ their heart, Teagan, and I do not want you having to live with that."

Teagan's face went downcast; she'd clearly thought she'd done well—and she _had_. Dara wasn't going to take that away from her daughter. She reached out, caught Teagan's chin, and lifted her face a little. Her daughter was still a little shorter than she was; she had the feeling, however, that Teagan would probably be taller than she was, when she finished growing. _I'm five foot nine, and I'm the dwarf in the family_, was Dara's frequent, mildly amused gripe. _Okay, other than Kasumi and Shiori._ "Look," Dara told her daughter, gently. "You did good. And I'm impressed. _Damned_ impressed, actually. But if you want to continue with this?"

Teagan nodded, slightly.

"Get training," Eli said, from the other side of the table, his voice dark and firm. "Your mom's right. Get the medical training, so that you know what you're doing. Then you can start working your biotics into it. When it's not, you know, experimenting on your brothers and sister." His tone was dry. "When you've got written consent-to-treat and stuff like that."

Teagan nodded again. "But you . . . you think I could do something with this?" she finally said, as Lantus sat up, studying his arm. He hummed at his sister, their private language, which Dara understood. _Doesn't even hurt, first-sister._

"Yeah," Dara said, smiling at her daughter. "Your bedside manner's already better than mine."

_Not true, __sai'kaea__. Yours has been really good for years, now._

_I know, but, hey, I've got a reputation to maintain._

They all walked out together, and that evening, when the kids were in bed, Dara sat, with her feet in Eli's lap in their living room, as he rubbed the arches. "You know," Dara said, after a long moment of silence. "It's funny."

"Hmm?"

"We taught them how to ride horses. _Rlata_. How to speak turian and asari and English and galactic. They're both great at science." She let her head slip back against the arm of the couch. "And I think Teagan's going to be a lot better doctor than I am, someday. She could found a whole new _branch_ of medicine, if she can apply the abstract to the concrete, in terms of biotics like that, on every level." She could see so many applications for this, but so many pitfalls, too. Teagan could probably hold a severed vein in place with a micro-application of levitation, to keep it from moving around as she patched it, bonding molecules to molecules. She could join skin and reweave muscle, probably. But she couldn't, as far as Dara could tell, rebuild _cells_. Only the body could really do that. It was like krogan regeneration. You still had to pull the bullets, to let the cells regenerate around the gap. Amara could do some of the brute force work—or even the finesse applications—but she couldn't make the body regenerate. But even that was awe-inspiring to Dara. Like having climbed halfway up a mountain, all her life. . . only to have the clouds roll away, and see the peak, far above. . . and Teagan already up there, waving cheerfully down at her. _Come on, Mom! Keep climbing!_

Eli looked at her. "How's it feel, to be outdone by your kids, _sai'kaea?_"

She lifted her head and grinned at him, her eyes stinging with proud tears. "Human, _ciea'teilu._" Her throat closed on her voice. "And very damned good."

By 2219, the twins were sixteen, and had graduated, with honors, from the base school. They'd actually had to do all their final exams off-base, in Odessa, with a geth proctor. . . individually. So that they proved, without a shadow of a doubt, that they know the material, and that they weren't actually cribbing from each other. Lantus had decided that he wanted to follow in his mother and father's footsteps, and went to turian boot camp. Sam, Kasumi, Lantar, Ellie, Dara, Eli, and the rest of their family saw him off. He hadn't finished his growth spurt, and was just nearing six feet in height when he left. "Kind of scary," he admitted, candidly. "I've never gone for long without song, and I can only bring one worker with me."

"Careful what you think, or you'll have stowaways," Eli warned, clearing his throat, and shaking Lantus' hand. . . and giving him a quick hug, too.

"Don't let the bastards get you down," Dara said, giving her son a kiss on the cheek. "Over ninety percent of the fleet is full integrated at this point. The only holdouts are the carriers and the really old-fashioned rail gun ships. They've all had ten years to get used to the idea that the next Imperatrix isn't bare-faced, wears Thracian yellow, and is blood-sister to a human. The hazing shouldn't be too bad anymore."

Lantus chuckled, wryly, and tapped a finger beside one eye. "Given value of human, Mom. Given value of human."

"Close enough for government work," Sam told his grandson, cheerfully, and gave him a hug, too. "Go do good."

And off he went. Dara watched the commercial liner ascend, and sighed, her stomach churning. She looked at her dad, half-guiltily, and asked, "So. . . um. . . was it this bad for you, watching me go?"

Sam put an arm around her shoulders, lightly. "Probably worse. " He glanced between her and Eli. "Lantus is going to be _just fine._ Trust me on this. Boy's got a good head on his shoulders. And he's been preparing for going out and dealing with the big bad galaxy his whole life."

Dara sighed. It was hard not to review every decision right now. They'd been careful—damned careful, in fact—to make sure that the twins saw more of the galaxy than just Mindoir. But seeing someplace on vacation wasn't the same as living there, among the people on Earth, Edessan, Bastion, Demeter. And there was _still_ a war dragging on. One that, half-guiltily, she really didn't want her kids to have to fight in.

Lantus' flight to Palaven was, actually, one of the very first of the rachni "point-to-point" commercial flights. There weren't many, and they tended to be chartered flights at first, as this one was. He and the rest of the turians and the handful of humans who were heading to the Dacia facility from Mindoir—fourteen of them, all told, this year, from all over the planet—transferred from their shuttle into the rachni ship. He crowded into the passenger bay with the others, most of whom were looking up at the crystalline structure with awe radiating off them in waves. For his part, Lantus was just reaching out, and holding onto the song of the brood-warrior in the navigation area, very tightly.

There was a very brief flash of. . . colors. Lantus was never really quite sure if his mind _invented_ the colors as a response to the instant of nothingness, or if he were, in fact, perceiving something in _otherspace_.

And then they were there, just in the cleared space around the Dymion shipyards, designated as a rachni entry point. No fourteen-hour flight just to get to a relay. Oh, there were still delays. Changing over to another shuttle. Going through customs. Taking yet another shuttle down to the planet's surface, getting ground transportation. None of that changed.

But rachni instant transit was going to change the face of the galaxy. It was already changing the face of warfare, as the remnants of the Hegemony learned, to its cost. Any time their ships attacked an outpost world in the Terminus, trying to gain much-needed supplies to sustain their populations on their remaining worlds—none of which were garden planets—as soon as an alert signal went out, allied ships could be there within _hours_, not in days. The rachni had to approach somewhat cautiously, at first, because they couldn't be sure what they'd be popping _into_ if they arrived too close to the world that was under attack. They'd aim for a clear place in orbit, well between orbital bands, and everyone quietly prayed, under their breath, that there wouldn't be any unmarked asteroids, comets, or anything else in the vicinity. . . and then they'd just pull their ships through. SR-5s were capable of rachni foldspace transits, so long as they had a Dancer aboard—all of Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight's children were known as Dancers. The rachni preferred that to 'navigator' or 'astrogator,' which they found. . . lacking in song. The SR-5s were also capable of _stealth_.

And because at least half of the SR-1 NCAIs had retired from running such ships, new NCAIs had been created, based on the mental pattern of the most successful SR-3 and SR-4 NCAIs. Ariston, Mercuria, Cassandra, and Lysandra thus, all contributed mental templates for randomization, though Lysandra's, which were mixed with patterns she'd taken from Glory, had to be transmitted by biotic radio. Ariston had taken templates from a krogan female Spectre (she was infertile, and didn't want to be stuck in the Ulluthyr bunker forever, or on Omega, for that matter) who'd served aboard the _Hamus_ for a time, and added her distinctive emotional traits to his own for his own offspring. Cassandra took templates from James "Allen," (a fact that made Dara and Dempsey look at each other in mild discomfort, after Eli asked, "So, technically, man, you and Dara have kids together? Or is it grandkids/nieces/nephews?" "No, man, I didn't lay a hand on her. Not guilty.") Mercuria politely asked Siege for permission to take some of his data for promulgation, and added geth elements to her offspring. The total number of new NCAIs was less than thirty, to deal with attrition. Some NCAIs had, after all, died.

But it was these ships that were sent in, popping into systems from completely unpredictable vectors, with untrackable movements, and remaining essentially stealthed while engaged in straight-line travel, that made the Hegemony's life so utterly miserable. Raider ships might not even be out of the system when the SR-5s would appear, and begin their attacks. The result was a total lack of supplies for Hegemony worlds, and an increasingly paralyzed, defensive, and shrinking Hegemony fleet.

With the Hegemony boxed in on every side, their fleet running out of options, their people running out of supplies, their resistance only became more desperate. Logasiri was a painful example. The low-gravity environment, with only traces of a helium atmosphere, meant that almost all habitations had been built under the surface, for protection against the UV, and to keep a breathable atmosphere in for the residents. Ninety percent of the population on Logasiri, pre-war, had been slave-caste. Now, at least ninety percent of the population was husked.

Lantus reported to the front lines in early 2220, and served six months there, helping to clear mine after mine, bunker after bunker. He was usually sent in with rachni soldiers, serving as their brood-warrior, in a sense. His ability to see in the dark was uncanny, and his understanding of the rachni was, quite literally, inhuman.

Madison, Kaius, and Severus, under Eli's command, formed the backbone of the unit that found the SIU laboratory, in June of 2220. What they found inside—a set of Dragon's Teeth, Collector Tech, and a Reaper device—had clearly been tinkered with. Adapted. Changed. And, just as clearly, from the diaries and journals of the batarian scientists who'd first worked with it—every one of which left off, unfinished, without explanation in about 2198—there had been a horrible accident.

The scientists' intention had been to create supersoldiers, much in the way Cerberus had once attempted to turn James Allen Dempsey into one. Their concerns had been much like those of the Cerberus scientists in 2184: Create a soldier that was difficult—even impossible—to kill. Give him regenerative abilities, additional strength, speed, and stamina. But because these soldiers were being given so much power, they needed to be made commensurately loyal. Obedient. And while obedience chips were commonly used in the Hegemony, they had failings. Someone with enough willpower to endure the pain they caused _could_ disobey an order, for example.

Husks, or at least, Reaper husking technology, had seemed a way to ensure that all requirements were met. Reprogram the nanites, adapting them specifically to batarian physiology, using the Dragon's Teeth, which allowed them to scan batarian bodies, alive and dead, thoroughly. Adapt the mind-controlling powers of the Reaper artifact—mostly worked with, at a distance, with remote-controlled mechs, it must be said—until they managed to reprogram what message _it_ sent out. And with that adapted, they were able to alter the message of the nanites. Obedience to _us_, had been the intended message.

They hadn't quite understood the machine-mind that the nanites built in each victim, both with the constant biotic hum in the background, and by building processors and other tiny pieces of equipment into the brains of full-infiltrated hosts. They hadn't fully realized that while the brains of the husked still functioned, their loyalty shifted to the machine-mind. Not to the Reapers. But also, not quite to the Hegemony, either. To themselves. To _us_, we-who-are-one.

Also, the researchers, in adapting the nanites to work in a living body, unintentionally made them infectious. Transmissible between hosts. At first, this was seen as a _benefit_. They wouldn't have to manufacture so many nanites in the lab. They could send one husked soldier to a warrior-caste village, and he'd infect the entire village for them.

Then the first researcher succumbed. Then the next. By the end, there had only been two scientists left, locked in the hot labs, with their husked colleagues outside the metal doors, carefully trying to decrypt the scrambled lock codes. Telling them, quietly, over and over, that if they didn't come out, they'd starve to death. That it would be all right. That the machine-mind wasn't so bad. That all could be _forgiven_, if they'd just come out.

The last entry by one of the scientists read, in its entirety, _So tired. So weak. So hungry. May the gods and all our ancestors forgive us. I won't open the door. I'd rather die here, and have them raise me as a mindless husk later, than to be __aware__ of what's been done, and my own hand in it. Even if it's only dim awareness, I think a part of me would scream for all eternity. M'sor doesn't agree. He wants to open the door. Just give in. I've been holding him away from the door with a gun all day, but my hand shakes, and I can't aim. He's asleep as I'm recording this. Maybe tomorrow, he'll have given up on the foolish idea._

There were no further entries.

With the Allied Batarian Territories now firmly in control of what remained of the Hegemony in 2220, Valak N'dor appeared before the legislative body he'd commissioned, in place of the Assembly of Nobles. "It is my pleasure," he told them all, standing up, leaning only slightly on his cane, "to inform you today, that the war is over. We have worked a long road together, all of us. We've reconstructed not only the ruined areas of Lorek and Camala in the past twenty-three years, but with them, our entire society. What we have begun to build together, my friends, is the foundation of a casteless society. This foundations will take generations to build upon, Brick by brick. But if we continue as we have begun, our society will be the stronger for it. Enriched by a chorus of voices, from all walks of life." He paused, and then went on, "It is also my duty to inform you today, that, effective immediately, I am resigning as the head of this assembly."

Consternation rang through the old assembly hall, where, twenty-three years ago, the Hegemon had been shot dead. No one had ever been able to prove _which_ Spectres were present that day. The records wouldn't be released for a hundred years. Valak was mostly hoping that he'd be dead before that happened. He really didn't want to deal with the wrangling over the fact that he'd been involved in the death of his predecessor. _Leave it to history_, was his thought on the matter. He held up a hand for silence. "Please," he said, quietly, and after a moment, everyone acceded. "I have served the batarian people since I was a young man. First, in SIU, before I understood what SIU truly _was_ at the time: an instrument of repression. I rebelled against it. I worked against the Hegemony, both as a freedom-fighter—some would say, a criminal—and then, as a spy. Some have said, as a traitor. But I tell you now, as I have always said before, and as I will maintain unto my deathbed, that everything I have done, I have done for love of my people. And with twenty-three years of my life—the entirety of the lives of my daughter, Nexia, and my son, Helek—spent in your service, it is time for me to step down. To allow others to lead. I have done my best to leave you with a world that is no longer at war, though the reconstruction from it remains, in many places. To leave you with a world that now has a place on the galactic Council—our new councilor was appointed this morning, in fact, and will fly to Bastion later in the week, to take her seat there, alongside all the other species of that assemblage. To leave you in a better place, than when I came to take this office." His voice was hoarse with emotion. "For all of your assistance through the years, I give thanks. I give special thanks today, to several people, who have, through their unfailing generosity of spirit, allowed me to do the work I have done. First, and foremost, is my wife, Nala. Whose healing hands have not only sewn me back together again from time to time, but whose patience, kindness, and understanding is beyond that of anyone else I have ever known. The second, is Tul'dur, who, alas, died three years ago. Saving my life from an assassin's bullet. I wish he could be here today, to know that the first stage of our long journey is complete." Valak paused, taking a deep breath, to steady himself. "And the last is my good friend, Alisav K'sar, who has spent every day of the last twenty-three years just as deep in the issues of rooting out corruption, rebuilding our systems of governance, and tracking down the last, horrific shards of the old Hegemony, as I have. He's seen as little of his family, as I have seen of mine. Something that I think we both intend to rectify." He looked over to the box seats, where Nala sat, with Nexia and Helek, and where Alisav sat, with his human wife, his two adopted human children, and their two hybrid children. "As for any I have offended in my years of service, either by action or by word, I ask your forgiveness. It is not possible, in the course of such a long work, to have spoken every word perfectly. And I apologize, earnestly, for any hurt I have caused."

His resignation, at the age of fifty-three, sent shockwaves, yet again, through batarian space. No batarian ruler had _ever_ willingly abdicated before this. A few had been forced to, by their failing health. Not a few had been assassinated. But not one had ever willingly walked away from power while in the full possession of both health and their faculties.

The power struggle that broke out in the assembly was mitigated by two factors. First, every single caste was now represented in that legislative body. Every single colony had representatives, as well. By law, a two-thirds majority was required to elect a new Minister. Slightly better than fifty percent was not a mandate to rule, in Valak's precisely-worded constitution for the Allied Batarian Territories. A two-thirds majority ensured that the candidate who became Minister _had_ to be capable of compromise, and could address issues of concern to many different people. And could be ousted from office within two years, if, again, a two-thirds majority voted to be rid of him or her, in referendum.

It wasn't direct democracy, but it was about what the batarians, as a whole, could handle for right now. Valak's constitution called for the phasing in of direct elections within a hundred years, however.

The other thing that kept the worst of the power struggles to a decorous minimum, however, was the simple fact that the man who'd held the office that newcomers now wished to occupy? Had walked away from it. It lacked a certain. . . dignity. . . to roll around in the mud, gouging at one another's eyes, when a man of such personal gravitas and with such a reputation had simply given up what he _could_ have held onto, for life, if he'd so chosen.

Four months after that, in October, more shockwaves rolled out, but this time, throughout the whole of Council space, as Commander Lilitu Shepard announced her retirement as the head of the Spectres. "When I was first appointed a Spectre, in 2183," she said, as she stood before the Council, back straight, and her hands behind her back, as always, "I was twenty-six years old, and the galaxy was a far different place than it is today. In that year, I first gained knowledge of the Reapers, through the Prothean Conduit, and knowledge of the Prothean language. There were those who doubted the Reaper threat. The Reapers, through their agents, the Collectors, tried to silence me." She paused, eliding, without comment, the eighteen months in which she had been, in a very real sense, dead. "They failed. When I returned, the galaxy hadn't changed much. Still the same problems of disbelief. Apathy. Unwillingness to trust one another, to reach out to each other, to work together. Until the Reapers _did_ come, and we stood together, because we knew, that if we didn't, we'd all fall separately." She lifted her head, meeting the eyes of every councilor at the table. "In the thirty-seven years I've been a Spectre, the galaxy has changed. And I know it's for the better. As I take my leave, we are, for the moment, at peace once more. The human-turian alliance has come to full fruition, and our alliances with the geth, the rachni, the volus, and the quarians ensure that this is more than just a joining of military muscle. I see syncretism, on almost every level, becoming the _norm_ in this galaxy, rather than the disparate and conscious separation that was the norm before." She looked around. "I will be stepping back to an advisory role, as will Garrus Vakarian, to ensure a smooth transition of power to the individuals we are recommending as our replacements, pending Council approval. This will give me the time to do things I have long wished to do. Write my memoirs. Spend time with my grandchildren." A very faint smile touched her lips. "While my children have never thrown it in my face, to me, it feels as if I turned around one day, and I realized they were adults. I try not to make the same mistake twice."

Unspoken were the words that lay behind her speech: _I spent the last thirty-seven years carrying the galaxy on my shoulders. Now, it's time to rest._

After a long moment, the new human councilor, Siona McAllister, who'd replaced Councilor Anderson, when he retired, a few years before, asked, politely, "Whom did you have in mind to replace you?"

Lilitu Shepard glanced behind her, meeting Garrus' eyes. "I'm so glad you asked, councilor," she replied, smoothly. "We're nominating Spectre Sidonis."

Garrus added, "And Spectre Sidonis."

There was a moment of absolute silence. Then, tentatively, the asari councilor raised a finger. "I trust you mean Spectre _Lantar_ Sidonis?" she asked, in a tone filled with a mix of grim resignation and determination at once.

The various Spectres in the audience area of the Council chamber all shifted among themselves. There was at least one actual _snort_, but how Siege managed to produce that sound, was anyone's guess. As a couple of glances speared the geth, the platform straightened. "Our bad," he apologized. Dances and Sky, both being present, shifted slightly on their chitinous legs, exchanging glances; a bright arpeggio of amusement springing from both rachni. Samiel Viridian, seated beside Dempsey, shook his head slightly. Dempsey, for his part, looked at the male-maiden and commented, dryly, "Exactly how many Sidonises do we _have_ on the payroll now?"

Samiel held up fingers as the human began to count off, not entirely under his breath, "Lantar, Eli, Dara, Caelia—"

"Vakarian now."

"Okay, if you're going to get _technical_ on me. . . then, shit. Kirrahe married Nara. He's salarian. He took her name. He's . . . .Sidmorhe now."

"Not technically a Sidonis," Eli commented, out of the corner of his mouth. "I _do_ keep track, you know. In the job description. I'd be a shitty clan-leader someday if I _didn't_."

Kaius, off to the left, snorted under his breath, and laced his fingers with Caelia. The Spectres and affiliated in the audience today had all been rather carefully selected. Lantar was there, of course, with Sam and Kasumi. Madison, Kaius, and Dempsey, all non-asari members of the Order of the Wind, were present. Caelia was present, as were Narayana and Kirrahe, who'd turned in their seats to give Dempsey and Samiel amused looks. Rellus Velnaran and Seheve Liakos were present, as well as Zhasa'Maedan, of course, another inductee into the Order of the Wind, who was chuckling under her breath. All people who were present to display, in one fashion or another, the strength of the multi-species Spectres. And absolutely guaranteed to make the asari councilor _twitch._

Shepard allowed the badinage behind her to settle down. "No, councilor," she replied, after a moment. "While Garrus and I have relied on Lantar Sidonis as a trusted aide and colleague for thirty years, he and Garrus are the same age. It's time for younger blood to take over. That's the way of things. You learn from your experiences, you pass them on, and then, you make way." She turned, and looked directly at Elijah and Dara Sidonis. "And, with that in mind, there are no two people in the galaxy better-qualified to run the Spectres, than Spectre Elijah Sidonis and Spectre Dara Sidonis. Both of them have twenty-four years of experience as Spectres. Both of them have learned, and both of them have taught." Shepard looked at the councilors, her blue eyes crinkling faintly at the corners. "Let's start with Spectre Elijah Sidonis' qualifications, shall we? He's a decorated former member of the turian military, in CID. He speaks fluent turian, English, asari high-tongue, passable batarian, and enough volus trade-tongue to get through a three-day wedding."

"Never again," Eli muttered, sotto voce. Dara turned her laugh into a cough.

"He's the adopted first-son of a turian citizen, which means he will, in turn, be clan-leader some day. He _understands_ turian culture in a way many humans do not, and never will." Shepard went on, methodically. "He's been affected, permanently, on the mental and genetic level by an asari _ardat-yakshi_, giving him a fundamental understanding of asari that goes beyond, again, what most humans can manage. He's blood-brothers with two turians and a human. He passed the krogan Rite of Clan Urdnot at age sixteen. He's done undercover work, including an early infiltration of Khar'sharn. He's done police investigations of serial killers and delicate crimes that implicated diplomats. He fought in three theaters of the yahg-batarian war, from Omega to Terra Nova to Astaria, and followed up on Lorek. He's fought in three theaters of the husk war. He's commanded troops in those theaters, and has never left a single person behind." She paused. "He's explored beyond locked relays, and was our best negotiator both in first-contact situations and in hostage crises. There is no one here who can deny that he is half of the best team we could possibly have to lead the Spectres into the future."

The salarian councilor cleared his throat. "With those qualifications, why, then, do you even _need_ a co-leader?"

Eli's wince didn't show on his face. "So not doing this alone," he muttered, under his breath.

Shepard regarded the salarian. "Because this job is bigger than any one person can possibly handle," she told him, dryly. "Garrus has been 'second in command' for decades, but he's effectively been my co-commander for the entirety of my tenure in office, and he's never once asked for the title on his door to be changed. I couldn't have done it without him. Every success I've ever had? I've had, because he's been there to help make it happen. And I'd be a fool to break up a team that's clearly had more success together, than apart." She folded her arms across her chest. "With that said? Let's look at Spectre Dara Sidonis' credentials. She doesn't have the diplomatic talents of Elijah, but he balances her weaknesses with his strengths, and she balances his shortcomings with her own merits. She speaks fluent turian, English, salarian, batarian, and asari, and enough quarian, Spanish, and Japanese to know what not to order from a menu. And of course, she's a bridge between humanity and the rachni, a human rachni queen. She fought in three theaters of the yahg-batarian war, to include Omega, Arvuna, and Astaria, helped free herself and her team from a batarian prison on Lorek, did undercover work on Khar'sharn before the war, and has been deployed to hot zones all through the husk war. She was one of the major motive forces in finding methods by which the husking process could be reversed, in fact."

Shepard looked at the Council, and went on, bluntly, "She's the kind of scientific mind found among humans once in a generation, and when she doesn't know the answer? She damned well finds the right person to ask, and keeps asking. Her mentor, Dr. Mordin Solus, got her involved early in classified projects, from the earliest Lystheni dissections, to the plagues on Bastion, and everything else in between. If she's proven wrong, she accepts it gracefully, as a matter of science correcting itself, but she's never once flinched from controversy, whether in the matter of turian-quarian surrogacy or asari SRY genetics. She's a decorated former member of the turian military, wounded five times before her twenty-first birthday saving other people's lives. She's worked her way to the head of our pathology department, in support of our Investigations division, and done it all _while_ still periodically going into the field to support our teams on the ground. She's blood-sister to the next Imperatrix of the turian Hierarchy, blood-sister to the first new quarian Keelah in three hundred years, and blood-sister to another turian, Serana Pellarian." Shepard paused. "She's been through locked relays, made contact with new species, determined the origins of thresher maws, and she hasn't turned forty-five years old yet."

There was a vast sort of silence in the Council chamber. Shepard cleared her throat, and went on, "Now, I was thirty-six when I took over the Spectres, largely because the Reaper War was on, and we were losing a Spectre a week back then. These two are a little older—"

"They don't _look_ it," Councilor McAllister muttered.

"Longevity treatments. Wonderful medical advances we've had since entering Council space, wouldn't you agree?" Shepard countered, sounding annoyed. "How old they _look_ is meaningless. Consider their accomplishments, in twenty-four years on the job. And then tell me, with a straight face, that they aren't the best leaders for the Spectres. Tell me that, if you can."

It went to a vote. The asari councilor voted against Dara. No surprise there; Dara had angered a _lot_ of asari with her SRY findings. And, in voting against Dara, the asari also voted against Eli, apparently on principle.

The human, turian, quarian, volus, hanar, drell, batarian, krogan, elcor, geth, Keeper, and salarian delegates all voted _for_ them. Without abstention, their candidacy passed, 12:1.

"How's it feel to be the boss?" Dempsey asked them at the reception afterwards.

"Scary," Dara replied, bluntly. "I'm trusting that Garrus and Shepard won't take off the training wheels immediately."

Sam chuckled at his daughter. "We're not planning on disappearing on you right off the bat. There'll be a transition period. And then, you know. . . really long hunting trips. Lots of time with the grandkids. . . before they all head to college, anyway. I might even open a restaurant in Odessa or something. Stuff to keep the mind active."

"Dad, you'd be bored to death running a restaurant."

"Oh, who says I'd run it? I'd just own it." Sam grinned at her, cheerfully. "Get cooks and a business manager for the actually running part."

"We're thinking Japanese-barbecue fusion," Kasumi offered, brightly. "How does that sound?"

"Inedible," Eli replied, dryly. "And god knows, there's not much I _won't_ eat."

Sam hugged Dara tightly. "So damned proud of you, sweetie." He gave Eli a look, even as he exchanged a wrist-clasp with Lantar. "Proud of both of you, really."

Dara hugged her father in return, but looked around the room, not with joy or pride, but with a creeping sensation of dread. Her father was sixty-nine now, three years older than Shepard herself. Past "first retirement" age, and into "second career" phase, as humans had learned to count the years since the advent of the longevity treatment. Narayana, however, was twenty-nine, or. . . in purely human terms. . . almost sixty. Kirrahe, five years her senior?

Was walking around the reception, one arm around Nara's shoulders, and leaning on a cane. He was thirty-four, or sixty-eight, by human terms. Either half her father's age, or a year under it, in real terms. But while her father looked and acted the part of a hale and hearty middle-aged human male, Kirrahe's skin had taken on the faintly parchment-like translucency of salarian old age, without the slick glossiness of good health in that amphibious species.

It hurt to see. _God_, Dara wondered, her heart wrenching inside of her, _is this how my life is going to be spent? Burying friends and family?_

_We can hope not, __sai'kaea__,_ Eli told her, instantly.

The transition took time. But their first day back on Mindoir, feeling. . . .terribly out of place in their new offices in the main villa at the center of the base, Eli and Dara were briefed in on something they hadn't even known _existed_. Joy had been told, in no uncertain terms, not to tell them about it, apparently, and had actually managed to keep it a secret from her parents. . . certainly something that no other rachni queen could have managed.

"The. . . Excalibur Project?" Dara said, after a moment, in the conference room where she sat with Eli, Lantar, Sam, Kasumi, Shepard, and Garrus. "Not one of our usual code-name types." She paused. "Wait a minute. I _remember_ something about this." She looked at Eli. "When Garrus and Lilitu were talking to us about something at our wedding?"

Eli blinked, and they both brought the memory up at the same time. "Yeah. You guys mentioned this. And said we'd. . . .made it possible?" He stared at the others, who were all smiling, but only faintly. "So what is this thing?"

"Put simply," Shepard replied, "it's an insurance plan."

"So that, on the off chance, if destroying the Reaper Node, and with it, all the Reapers affiliated with it, didn't actually destroy _all_ of them . . . knowledge of them won't die out. It'll be preserved for the next cycle." Garrus' voice was a dry rasp.

Dara raised her eyebrows. "So, what is it? A time capsule? Like the Conduit?" She eyed the others. "In fifty thousand years, whatever galactic culture there is—and assuming our current one doesn't suffer some kind of monumental collapse in the meantime is. . . "

". . . kind of contrary to history, as Lin would probably tell us," Eli noted, dryly.

"Yeah," Dara said, nodding. "The chances of them speaking _any_ language that we do today, in any form? Minimal. And putting knowledge of the language and the technology directly into someone's head, when you don't know their physiology, through a machine?" She nodded in Shepard's direction. "Didn't work so well for the Protheans."

"Well, it worked out okay," Shepard replied, chuckling. "Once I got past the blinding headaches, anyway. I often wonder what they'd think if one of them woke up today, and saw that we'd done what they couldn't do, in their own time. And that we did it our way, and on our own terms." She considered it for a moment. "Possibly, they might even be annoyed that the species they used to experiment on, like rats, outdid them. But then again, they might feel what any parent feels, when they're outdone by their own child."

"Proud," Dara and Eli said, at the same moment, thinking of Teagan, who was getting ready to head to the Academy next year, and of Lantus, as well.

Sam and Lantar nodded, smiling. "That's the bunny," Sam told them.

Dara smiled a little, and turned back to Shepard. "So that's it? It's a message in a bottle?"

"Not quite," Shepard said. "You see, we considered a number of different methods, and we'll probably seed a few messages here and there, in locations that the Reapers are unlikely to look, but that younger species might, later. Planets with incipient biospheres, for example, but no technology."

"I like to call that one the Monolith method," Sam said, dryly. "We leave a big goddamn piece of technology with an inscrutable message for whatever critter's crawled up out of the water for just around when they first figure out tools and fire."

Dara and Eli both snorted. "Okay," Eli said. "What else?"

"Well," Shepard said, slowly, "Then there's the _actual_ Excalibur project. You both know about the simulation device, the Sower artifact that the mini-Reaper was perched atop of when we found it. You've both been subjected to it a few times. There's another artifact—the upload device. That's how Jeff and EDI both wound up _in_ the mini-Reaper."

Eli snapped his fingers. "Given the fact that the mini-Reaper is still around after, what, a billion years in storage? Jeff and EDI should be good for at least one more cycle. They'll be there to give the message."

Lantar's mandibles twitched. "Smart, but not the whole story," he said. "You're on the right track, though."

Shepard nodded. "You two actually gave us more of the pieces we needed with that Collector ship you recovered on Bothros twenty-three years ago."

Dara blinked once. Twice. "Excalibur," she said, slowly. "The sword of Arthur. In some versions, pulled from the stone, in some versions, given by the Lady of the Lake. . . but in _every_ version of the tale, it's thrown into the lake when Arthur's dying, so that he can make the crossing to Avalon." She stared, her heart starting to thud in her chest. "So that he can sleep until he's needed again."

Shepard nodded. "Yes."

"The cryo-pods," Eli said, sitting bolt upright at the table, as if electrified.

"Correct," Sam said. "But not just those. Redundancies upon redundancies."

"But, those will take power," Eli objected. "Isn't there evidence that the Reapers found and destroyed collections of Prothean cryo-pods on a variety of worlds?"

"The rachni are assisting with that," Shepard answered, smiling faintly. "We have evidence, from the fact that once the Raloi destroyed their satellites, the Reapers by-passed their home world entirely, and even by-passed the yahg home world of Parnack, that the Reapers have relied on certain emission signatures as their criteria for 'too advanced to live.' We also asked the Keepers to go back through a million years of their memories, and they were able to confirm it: it's not even harnessing the atom that's the kicker. It's using the relays. Using mass effect technology, and using eezo-generated power. We needed something clean and stable, something that's likely to last for fifty thousand years."

"Geothermal," Dara said, suddenly, picturing the shafts in the earth that the rachni had been tunneling out for decades now below the base. Into the area under the forests, the mountains, the deserts. Wider and wider, as the size of the xenobiological research zone grew, year by year. "And for as long as the rachni exist as a species. . . memory-song will remain." Her eyes went wide. "They have memories from twenty thousand years ago, since _before_ they learned to sing into the crystals. As long as they remember, they can tend the geothermal shafts and the equipment."

"Correct," Shepard told her. "Next redundancy: we've told the geth about the project. They agree that there need to be safeguards in case the Old Machines return. They question whether individuals will be enough, and they're correct. It can't just be one or two people. I've _been_ the lone voice crying out 'The Reapers are coming!' before. It almost didn't work."

Eli rubbed at his face. "So you're going to ask people to volunteer to go to sleep. . . basically, for all intents and purposes, _die_, because there's no actual guarantee that they'll wake up again. . . leave behind their families and friends and everything they know. . . to become time travelers, in a sense. To wake up in fifty thousand years, to a galaxy that'll look nothing like what they can imagine, and make sure that the Reapers don't return." He exhaled. "And if the Reapers don't return? What do you do, leave them a note that says 'Sorry about that, but thank you for your sacrifice?'"

"There's a little more to it than that," Garrus said, after a pause. "Let's go back to the upload device."

Shepard nodded, her expression taut now. "We planned on all this _before_ we had access to the cryo-pods," she said. "The cryo-pods are just a backup. A redundancy."

"Oh god," Dara said, before she thought, the entire crazy plan crystallizing in her head in one blinding flash. "You're going to have people upload to the device. Like Watches-the-Gates-of-Ruin did. Because the device can either _remove_ someone's consciousness from their body, or just upload a _copy_. So you store the body, with the original consciousness, in cryo-stasis. . . . "

Eli, picking up on her thoughts, seamlessly, went on, his voice both horrified and intrigued at the same time, ". . . and you keep a second copy in a device that's managed to survive a billion years so far anyway. Two messages. And you hope like hell that at the other end of time, you either have a body to go back into, or the geth are around to provide an android-type body with some interface adapters, because Dempsey and Joker might not be around to be a damned conduit the next time. . . well, all right, Joker will be." Eli shook his head, clearly rattled.

Dara's mind had already raced ahead. "Wait," she muttered. "Hah. It might even work like Mercuria."

"Huh?" Eli turned and looked at her. "What do you mean, _sai'kaea_?"

Mercuria had developed, over the years, algorithms that allowed her to occupy both of her platforms at the same time, continuously sending wireless signals between them, constantly updating databases, so that they were one contiguous consciousness in two bodies. She had also _snapped_ her obedience ligatures in the simulation device, in the course of her Spectre trials. And remained unbound, to this day. "We know, from Ruin," Dara said, looking around the room carefully, "that if the device puts the same consciousness in two different bodies, and they go have two different sets of experiences, it can isolate the consciousness it put in Body A, from the original host, remove it without harm, and re-integrate it with the _same consciousness_ in Body B. No gaps. No divisions. Just two perfectly whole sets of memory for the same time period. Both equally valid."

Eli blinked rapidly, trying to apply it to the current scenario. Shepard shook her head in amusement. "You two get the ramifications about ten times faster than anyone else. Yes. The geth have purpose-built a biotics-capable platform. They've given him the designation of Medium. Who says that geth don't have a sense of humor?"

There was a slight pause. "Oh, you have got to be _kidding_ me," Eli finally said. "You upload a copy and freeze the body, but the copy that's in the upload device can come out through. . . .Medium. . . and talk to us? We're going to be holding _séances_?"

Shepard looked up at the ceiling. "Well, when you put it that way. . . it does sound. . . a lot like magic. But, as they say, any technology sufficiently advanced. . . ."

Dara rubbed at her eyes. "Okay," she allowed. "That's. . . well, it takes a little of the sting out of it. The volunteers aren't _totally_ leaving their families behind. I mean. . . " She sighed. "Those of them whose families will be briefed in on this. Which I can't imagine many of them will be. Because then, my god, everyone would want to be a part of it." _No one wants to be left behind. Just look at how hard Serana fought to catch up with all of us, and she was only three, four years behind us. Not separated by the black wall of eternity._ She swallowed, hard, and looked around the room again. "My god," she said, feeling the real weight of it hit her. "How do you decide who _goes_?"

"Well," Shepard said, dryly, "quite a lot of that is going to be up to the two of _you._"

Eli's head snapped back. "Oh f. . . . hell _no_. We're not qualified to decide who lives and who dies."

"Or who 'dies' early and who dies for real," Dara corrected, her tone horrified.

"You're going to be deciding that on every mission you send people on anyway," Shepard told them, bluntly. "Or at least, making your best assessment of who's the best fit for which extremely dangerous mission. I wouldn't have appointed the two of you if you weren't qualified to make _exactly_ this kind of decision."

Dara and Eli exchanged a single glance, words flowing between them at the speed of thought: _Probably too late to tell the Council __no__?_

_We could try running. Find a nice quiet planet out past the locked relays and never come home again._

_Don't tempt me, __ciea'teilu__. _Dara's stomach churned. "All right," she said, after a long moment. "Let's. . . talk about . . . criteria."

"Dara—"

"No, Eli, if we _have_ to do this, there have to be criteria for picking people. They can't just be. . . people we love." She swallowed, feeling her eyes burn. "Though there aren't many people in the Spectres now that we don't love, in some form or another."

Shepard nodded. "And that's the way I've designed the system. On purpose. Everyone here is willing to sacrifice themselves. But no one is _expendable_. Everyone has value."

_Even to the smallest worker_, Dara thought, as Zappa II crawled up on her shoulder, chittering at her as he tugged carefully on her hair, pulling a strand loose that had caught on a button. Zappa II had earned his name by using the _I_ pronoun, just as his predecessor had. More and more workers in the Mindoir hive were starting to be able to do that, she'd noticed. They usually avoided the personal pronoun entirely, mostly said _we_, but occasionally said _I_ to specify their own individual ideas.

Her father offered now, quietly, "We've floated a lot of different criteria over the years, Dara. One of them that I've always been fond of is 'offers a clear and distinct perspective, compared to all others of their era.' Because we don't expect this to end after one generation of people who remember the Reapers goes to sleep. We want the brightest and best from all of history. So . . . people who offer something historically important or unique. And have been Spectres, or affiliated with Spectres."

Dara cleared her throat, which was tight, and offered, "All right, given that? I think that the people we, um. . . invite to join the project. . . . should be people with rachni names." She lifted a hand to stop anyone from protesting. . . not that anyone did. "I actually have a rationale for that."

"Do tell," Garrus said, leaning back in his chair, his mandibles flexing.

Dara exhaled. "The rachni are . . . if not as neutral of observers as the Keepers, because they do love, and bond freely with, people of other species. . . at least some of the best judges of character in the entire galaxy. If they say someone's a gray voice, they're generally right. It's not meant to be offensive. It just means that that person doesn't have a strong identity, a strong sense of purpose. A powerful song and mind. If someone's got a name-song? That generally means, for a rachni, that they've. . . accomplished something. They stand out in some way." Dara's stomach roiled again.

Shepard reached over and put a hand on Dara's shoulder. "If it helps? We already have a list of potential candidates and some criteria. Historic value is one of the criteria. If they've already shifted the course of whole planets in their orbit? Their names might even be remembered in fifty thousand years, by more people than just the geth and the rachni and the Keepers. It might have the weight of mythology for their people. . . assuming their people still exist. . . but . . . "

"We're forming the Knights of the Round Table here," Sam said, dryly. "Some of us are a little more Bedewyr than Gawain, but we're doing our best." He shrugged. "I don't even know who's on the short list. Garrus and Lilitu have been playing that one pretty close to their vests."

Kasumi cleared her throat. "Also," she said, quietly, "Keep in mind that there will be people who'll turn it down, you know." She looked into the mid-distance, her expression sad. "Mordin did."

Dara's heart squeezed. Hard. "Dr. Solus said no?"

Shepard nodded, her lips turning down. "He said, that for him. . . it was time for the Wheel to turn. And that's everyone's right. He didn't want to live with the guilt anymore. Although part of him was, I think. . . excited. Intrigued. Part of him wanted to _know_ how it all turned out. But he was tired, too." She sighed. "Which is another reason I want one of the criteria to be 'people are still young enough, that with acceptable medical advances in the future, they can live unaided and feel as if they're of use."

Lantar cleared his throat. "For my part? I don't know whose names are on the list any more than Sam does. But just for the record. . . I want no part of any future that doesn't have Ellie in it."

The words limped out into deadly silence. Dara could feel a stab of anguish from her husband, as he felt as if Lantar had just condemned both of his parents to death with a single sentence. "Dad. . . " Eli said, the word trailing off helplessly.

"It's the truth," Lantar said, simply. "She gave me my life back. What use it is, without her there to share it with?"

Shepard raised a hand. "It doesn't have to be decided today," she said, "but yes. There are going to be people who won't want to stay, if the person with whom they share their life with, doesn't go with them. There will be people, who having lost that person already, may feel they have no reason to live—you hear this from the elderly all the time. Most hurtfully, they often say it to their children."

Lantar's head snapped up, his eyes widening in shock, and a flash of guilt there as he looked at Elijah. "That wasn't what I meant," he said, quickly, and this time, Shepard held up a finger at him, to shush him, and he fell silent.

She looked at Dara and Eli. "So you see why we've taken, oh, twenty-five, twenty-six years to really _consider_ this project. Because yes. On the one hand, we're determining who's going to live. . . at a much later date in the future. . . and who isn't 'worth' preserving. . . which is a _hell_ of a thing to tell someone. Which is, er, pretty much why we're not telling people who won't be preserved. And on the other hand, we're more or less condemning whole families to the idea that their loved one won't be there anymore. We're effectively killing them, as far as their families will be concerned."

"Not. . . quite," Dara managed, through a throat tight with the threat of tears. "Some of them will be able to _talk_ to their moms, dads, brothers, sisters, children. Which is. . . more than most people have had."

"There will also," Garrus pointed out, dryly, "be a brain drain every time a wave of people goes into the project. We recommend not everyone going in the same year. Makes it hard on those left behind, if there's no. . . transition period."

Dara put her face down in her hands, and just stared at the darkness behind her fingers for a long moment. "This is. . . kind of a lot to assimilate," Eli told the others. "Can we take five here, before we, er. . . find out what _other_ surprise agenda items you have for us?"

They took their time with the decisions. They _had_ to. In 2221, their daughter, Teagan, entered the Alliance Academy as pre-med; she'd have a minimum of eight years of schooling ahead of her. And in 2221? Sisu, the hermaphrodite ardat-yakshi adopted son of Ylara Alir, turned thirty-six. The boy had opted for a surgical procedure to remove his female organs in his early thirties, to prevent himself from developing breasts and other secondary sexual characteristics, because he felt more male. He patterned his behavior after both Samiel Viridian and his elcor step-father, Tulluust. He'd been trained in the Wind that Bends the Reeds from the age of ten, and as such, he had a remarkable amount of intensity and discipline, but also an almost _elcor_ sense of gravity about him. He was calm, almost frighteningly so, and damned near unshakeable. And he informed his various guardians that he wanted to join the growing Ardati movement in Sisterhood space. To speak out, in public, about what it was like to grow up ardat. To fight for the right to _be_ ardat.

The thing that caught at Dara's heartstrings. . . was that this young, earnest asari?

Had been in kindergarten with Narayana. Who was now the equivalent of sixty-two. Kirrahe? Almost the equivalent of seventy-two.

"It's time," Dara told the people in their meeting room. "We can't _wait_ any longer before time takes the decision about Narayana and Kirrahe away from us." She looked around at Shepard and Garrus, Lantar, Sam, Kasumi, and Eli. "You all said that the criteria had to be historical significance. Well, on that note, Narayana and Kirrahe have founded an entirely new salarian clan. Narayana's writings on sexuality and socialization may, long-term, change the _entirety_ of salarian society. Her work on hybridization? Builds on her father's, sure, but carries it far beyond where Dr. Solus could have foreseen." Dara exhaled. "Kirrahe's creation of an AI virus? One of the most fascinating technical feats of the past thirty years. He might not get in solely on his own merit. . . ." She had to admit it. Had to put it out there for discussion.

"But I think it's a fair bet that neither of them would go without the other," Eli added, dryly. "Rachni-wise. . . .well, Kirrahe's been _Sings-too-Swiftly_ for decades. Nara's, what?"

"Puzzle-Singer," Dara replied, without hesitation.

"I don't want to lose a second Mordin in the same lifetime," Shepard admitted, after a long pause. "The first one was bad enough."

Narayana and Kirrahe, when approached, were actually. . . intrigued, more than anything. They processed it quickly. They were, after all, salarians. "I _do_ want to see how it all turns out," Nara admitted, softly. "That's one of the most frustrating things. There's a sense of being part of . . . the galaxy's story. And it keeps sweeping on, whether we're there or not."

Kirrahe studied them both. "Odd," he finally assessed. "Odd, to see you both unchanged, and here I am. . . very close to the end of my life. . . "

"Don't _say_ that," Narayana pleaded, reaching out to take his hand in hers. Very gently, respecting the fragility of his skin and bones. "I haven't had you in my life nearly long enough."

Kirrahe coughed into his other hand, then looked up. "Would welcome a chance. . . to be better. To wake up, free of pain. Useful again."

"You haven't exactly been _useless_," Eli chided, quietly, from where they were sitting in the salarians' living room. "You've been teaching. Programming. Decrypting transmissions from the areas beyond the locked relays. Helping us find more likely worlds out there, where other life might exist. It's not like you've ever retired, Orlan."

"Yes. Understand. But. . .human poem. 'They also serve, who only stand and wait?' Not very comforting. To those of us. . . . who wait." Kirrahe nodded to himself. "Would rather take the chance. Go now. On my own terms." He freed his hand from Narayana's, and lightly brushed her face with the back of his fingers. "You shouldn't go yet, Narayana. Still young. Still have much to do—"

"I'm not staying without you," she told him, almost fiercely. "Our _grandchildren_ are already grown. What's left? See what the great-grandchildren are like? If something important happens, I can be woken up—can't I?" she looked at Dara and Eli.

Dara grimaced. "We're going to try to limit the number of ghostly visitations from the past. Limits rumors among species that don't have a collective consciousness." Her lips tightened. "If it's a matter of 'the end of civilization,' then yes. . . our successors can wake whomever they need to resolve the crisis. . . if anyone. Most of our skills _will_ be out of date whenever we wake up."

"But not who we are," Narayana noted. "Not our capacity for learning. For synthesizing. For understanding."

"That's Shepard's hope," Eli acknowledged.

Nara looked at Kirrahe. "I'm going with you. And that is final." She made a noise in his direction, almost a turian chuff, when he looked apt to object. "Orlan, my dearest, oldest friend. . . don't make me use the rude voice on you."

Kirrahe Orlan _laughed_.

And so, a month later, both of them said farewell to their oldest brood of children, all the Sidmorhes and Sidonis Kiran; many of them were doctors and engineers. "We can't tell you the details, but we're going away on a very long-term mission," Narayana told them all, calmly. "We do not expect to return. But I want you to know. . . that I love each and every one of you. That I'm proud of all of you. And that I expect you all to do well in our absence."

"That you will continue to take the galaxy by the scruff of its neck, and continue to demand _Why_?of it, at every turn," Kirrahe added.

Salarians didn't really cry. But fifty sets of eyes were surprisingly dull and lackluster as they left their parents' home for the last time.

The upload procedure went. . . unspectacularly. They had to _download_ both of them into Medium, the tall, spindly, but surprisingly well-armed geth biotic platform in charge of what was going to become a vast mausoleum under Painted Rocks Cave, and had them converse with their original copies, in their bodies. Narayana took this much better than anyone had really expected. "It's just like having Yana back," she said, cheerfully. "Only she's not quite such a little girl."

Then she and Kirrahe lay down; they'd insisted on sharing a pod. If an accident happened, a power glitch, they'd both go out like candles. But they'd be _together_, was Narayana's contention. "I will not wake up and look over, to find the pod next to mine empty, filled with dust, or a corpse," she said, grimly, in her rather rusty voice.

Lantar and Ellie Sidonis were there, in the vast cavern situated another eighty feet below the simulation room. Ellie's eyes were damp, and she sniffled, rubbing the tears away with the edges of her sleeves. "I remember the first time your father called me, to ask me what he should _do_ with you, because he couldn't get any work done with you underfoot," Ellie said, her tone filled with aching regret. "He had so many questions for me after that. And then, eventually, you came to live with us." She sniffled again. "I always knew this day would come. . . I just didn't expect it so _soon_."

Narayana patted her step-mother's arm. "No one ever expects it to happen as soon as it does," she said. "Who knows, Ellie? Maybe this isn't goodbye. And, in truth, this is just. . . going to sleep." She paused. "I'm going to make up for all those nights where all I got was a half hour." More seriously, she looked around at everyone. "Good-bye. We will see you. . . when we wake up."

Time began to pass in earnest now. Takeshi had finished his doctoral dissertation on robotics on Earth, and he and Emily had moved to Japan, where they were employed, designing new android-type bodies in conjunction with geth designers there, while Emily continued work on her actual doctoral degree at a Japanese university; she was a little behind, thanks to four years of service in the turian military, but everyone at their firm was impressed by her hands-on experience, if a little confused by her hybrid appearance. Takeshi at least spoke the language fluently, and Emily scrambled to catch up. Four years later, in 2226, when they were thirty-three, they had their first child. . . a red-blooded, three-quarters human, one-quarter turian girl they named Hanako Eleanor, a nod to both Kasumi and Ellie, that. . . and two years later, they had a son, whom they named Deonatus Kennard Jaworski.

Dempsey and Zhasa's human-quarian twins turned eighteen in 2223, and opted to move to Rannoch to continue their education there, at the Rannoch Institute of Technological Advancement. Madison, now forty years old, but not looking a day older than twenty-eight, was frequently mistaken for his father, or his father's older brother. . . . and he and Amara now had their second child.

In asari space, Samara's Reformed Justicars took over the Orthodox Justicars' headquarters and announced themselves as the only legitimate Justicars. The Orthodox Justicars, still powerful, were out of a headquarters building, but still had allies, particularly in the Tears of the Moon. In a bid to _end_ the Ardati movement, they caught Samiel Viridian when he was travelling on the minor asari colony of Lesuss, using a tranquilizer dart shot from a rifle from a thousand yards out, and then picked him up from the hospital where he'd been brought after 'mysteriously collapsing.' They reasoned, that as he had become the public face of the movement, silencing him, or, better yet, convincing him to read statements written by them, renouncing the Ardati policy of resistance to the SRY screenings, and their demands for rights for SRY carriers, would be in their best interests.

In their custody, Samiel awoke in a bunker on a completely different planet. They kept him heavily drugged, and tried to brainwash him over the course of a week. In the end, they brought in a doctor, an expert in 'reconstructive' surgery, and informed the drugged and hazy-minded ardat-yakshi that they would be _helping_ him. They would be making him what he should have been, since birth. All his troublesome urges would go away, and he'd _thank_ them, when clarity returned to his mind.

At a threat to both body and identity, the ardat-yakshi's mind snapped into focus, and with a surge of biotic power that defied the _lia'mellea_ fogging him, overwhelmed the mind of one of the Justicars in the room with him, turning her against her fellows. Caught the minds of the guards in the room, and turned them, too. Reached up, and with bound hands, caught the neck of the doctor, who was advancing with more sedatives in a syringe. . . and for the first time in his life, administered the ardat-yakshi Kiss. He held her in place with his mind, and stabbed directly into her brain with a reave, killing her as she stared, blankly, down at him, one finger compressing the slide of the syringe, so that sedative sprayed uselessly against his skin.

The former Justicars felt that their best bet was now to put him in cryo-storage until they could decide what to do with him; not a few simply wished to execute him on the spot. They never got to finish the decision-making process; a Spectre team with Dances, Dempsey, Siege, Melaani, and Dara arrived on site, after receiving information as to his possible location, and began exfiltration immediately. The rachni couldn't hear or see Samiel anywhere, and Dempsey's reaction, on seeing a friend reduced into a husk in stasis pod, as he'd once been, himself, was one of pure rage. Some of the ex-Justicars escaped, and only one was captured for questioning. The Spectres, at Eli and Dara's direction, had wanted to make it very clear to anyone watching, the old, old message: _We protect our own. Do not mess with us._

There were long-term psychological effects to the male ardat-yakshi as a result of his week's incarceration, and the drugs and other _persuasive_ methods used on him. Melaani took him on a brief sabbatical, to try to help get his mind back in order, but then, however, it was back to work. . . on a lighter schedule to allow him to work out the kinks in the mind.

Also in 2224, Kirrahe and Narayana, mourned for by their children, became great-grandparents, several times over. Of their first twenty-five children, half had children of their own in that year, with an average clutch size of two eggs. This was bare population replacement; but it brought their total number of living descendants to one hundred and sixteen.

In 2227, much to Eli and Dara's surprise, their elder set of twins both got married. Teagan had found herself heavily attached to a young biotic officer on Earth, and Lantus, after having dated a turian female for about four years, had actually moved in with a human girl a few years later. Both twins were very conscious of the fact that their DNA was already hybridized, and while they both understood that love was love, and that they could always adopt to have a family of their own. . . no one really knew what the consequences of hybrids of difference species having children would actually _be_. The law of unintended consequences, as both children had been taught, almost since birth, could have staggering results. Dara, sitting in the audience at her daughter's wedding, put her head on Eli's shoulder, and peered up at him. _Where the hell did the time __go_?

_It passes, __sai'kea__._

_Everything passes._

Time swept on. The foundations of Urdnot City on Tuchanka were laid in 2229; while Ulluthyr's future seemed to belong on Omega, Clan Urdnot's seemed to be solidly planet-bound. An entire city plan, to include water, sanitation, and roads was surveyed; Siara's pride and joy was the empty plot of land that she sent Dara a picture of, filled with weeds, rusting old equipment, and a few rocks that might have been stonemaws. _Future site of Urdnot University_, the caption read. "I'll give her credit," Dara told Eli, staring at the image. "She sees the future in a seed of grain. Going to take about fifty years to see the buildings all go up, though."

"Long-term thinking," Eli said, looking over her shoulder at the picture. "It's not just Bastion, Aphras, and Tosal Nym. It's Tuchanka, too. Of course, cleaning up the whole planet is going to be a . . . very long-term goal."

"No more or less so cleaning up Rakhana," Dara said, stretching. "Both planets have ruin and decay of similar vintage, eight hundred to a thousand years. Just hope it doesn't take as long for them to fix it as it took to let them get in that shape."

"Eh, the geth fixed Rannoch inside of three hundred years."

"Yeah, but they're _geth_," Dara pointed out, dryly. "They don't get tired, bored, or decide that the funds would be better allocated to feeding the homeless." Dara was fifty-four now, Eli six months younger, and still, neither of them looked a day older than twenty-two. Other than the eyes, and their body-language. And while Eli handled the yearly budget arguments with the Council, that and other debates wore on the co-leaders of the Spectres. At the moment, there was no war going on, so they had faced cuts to many departments. "You're going to impact our readiness," Eli had warned the Council, but his words had fallen on deaf ears, for once.

_There are things I'd rather not be right about,_ Dara had told him, at the time, and he'd grimaced and agreed as they reorganized departments. Cut the cross-training that Rel and Seheve's base provided. And gotten on with the job. Shepard, Garrus, Lantar, Sam, and Kasumi were now wholly retired, only popping in once a month to look over cases and such over lunch with the people now handling such matters. Lin and Ylara were now co-heads of Investigations. . . .Dara had a feeling Ylara was going to have that title till the asari died or just plain got tired of the job. . . Serana and Melaani were co-leading Information and Security for the moment. The asari civil war had become a protracted and entrenched cultural revolution. No guns, not for the moment, anyway, but the bitter fury on every asari world was distinctly uncivil. Sisu was arrested no less than ten times in that decade for making speeches at demonstrations on Illium and Luisa; he was the calm and reserved face of the Ardati movement. The peaceful advocate of nonviolent resistance. He organized awareness campaigns. Organized demonstrations—always starting with everyone present sitting down on the steps outside of courthouses, medical centers. Never impeding anyone's business. Never trying to grab doctors or anything like that. Simply making their presence felt. Talking, earnestly, with first-mothers as they brought their children in for testing or for surgery.

And making damned sure that the galactic media were on hand to catch the fact that the young ardat-yakshi _wasn't_ using domination when law enforcement showed up to disperse them. Refusing to leave, but without resisting. Taking a few punches in the face, and _permitting_ himself to be picked up bodily. . . and then flipping over, out of the way, and resuming his seated posture. Refusing to be moved.

It took, at least once, being tranquilized by _lia'mellea_. On camera. The police had used grenades filled with _lia'mellea_ powder beforehand, to subdue most of the protestors' biotics, a standard tactic, but Sisu's biotics were simply too powerful, and they had to hit him with a stronger dose.

The asari government really didn't like it when the image of Sisu's limp body being dragged into a riot-suppression van hit the galactic newsfeeds, but they couldn't do much about it.

Samiel went in and had a private conversation with the head of the Nos Astra police after that, on the topic of why it was strongly inadvisable to use heavy chemical sedatives on a _peaceful demonstration._

It didn't happen again. At least, not there.

As the other face of the Ardati movement, Samiel was also interviewed about Sisu's involvement in these very public venues. "It's his choice to keep his tactics nonviolent. I've tried nonviolence. And, as you and your viewers are aware, Ms. Elders, for my pains, I was kidnapped, tortured, and threatened with _gelding_. Sisu's is not a choice I find myself able to make, after these experiences." His eyes were hooded on camera. "For the moment, so long as our society's unrest remains more or less civil, I choose not to intervene directly. When that changes, so, too, will my current policy of nonintervention." The underlying message? _You take one step over that line of just talking and you get me. I'm the demon that the Justicars had to take down with a long-range rifle because they were too spirits-be-damned terrified to close into traditional range after the last two times they tried to "apprehend the demon." I am the left hand of the Goddess. I am the perfect storm. You so much as touch a tentacle on the head of one of my people, and I will bring entropy to every last one of you._

"When?" Lexine Elders asked, after a moment's pause.

"Yes, when. It's almost a foregone conclusion that this will become worse before it becomes better."

"And how will this reflect on the Spectres as a whole, Spectre Viridian?"

"Ms. Elders, I already resigned from one position in order that my actions would not reflect on the organization. What reasons have I ever given to make you think that I would hesitate to resign my position as a Spectre if necessary to stand with my principles?"

His own involvement in the ardat movement included continuing to rally matriarchs to their cause, forming common causes with matrons who were more flexible than some of their compatriots, continuing to help funnel SRY-positive people to safer planets and stations. And arming and training some of them, to ensure that they would be able to protect themselves, and their loved ones, on the off-chance that actual conflict broke out between say, Astaria and the Sisterhood. Eli and Dara gave him extremely wide latitude on the matter of the SRY positive, more or less along the lines of "Don't _start_ the war, Viridian. But make damned sure that they can protect themselves."

When he wasn't working on that, Samiel, Siege, and Dances were often utilized as a replacement for the old Archangel line of Garrus, Lantar, and Sam Jaworski. When a message absolutely, positively had to be sent, the Unholy Trio was sent to scorch the earth and leave few survivors.

In 2229, Eli and Dara became grandparents, as Teagan gave birth to her first set of twins. "Runs in the family, doesn't it?" Eli said, bouncing one of the babies on his shoulder in the hospital on Mindoir. Teagan had insisted on coming home for the delivery, so that she could hear the rachni's song. Her husband, an fellow biotic who'd served with her on one of the SR-5s, had his head tipped back and his eyes closed, listening to the rachni choruses, with their tiny new and very red young daughter in his arms.

Dara coughed. "We can only say that if Lantus' wife has twins, too."

Eli gave her a wicked grin. "Pretty soon, you're going to tell me you've got a hankering for another set of kids."

Dara laughed at him. "Nothing says we'd have twins _again_. But no. Not at the moment." They were, after all, fifty-four, for all that they looked twenty-two.

In 2233, all of the SR-4 gunships were decommissioned, after forty years in service, replaced by the SR-6s. Ariston requested to be the lead NCAI attached to the first ship off the assembly line, and clearly relished his new, glistening body; still built on the same curve as the original _Normandy_, which was now in mothballs at the Smithsonian Air and Space museum on Earth, the SR-6s were still black. But their outer hull was entirely comprised of crystalline rachni materials that absorbed most light, only glittering and refracting from some angles. They had incredibly improved FTL drives, were relay and foldspace capable, and were the most heavily-armed frigates ever designed.

Mercuria, had long since had to resign her commission, as she was a Spectre, but now, Cassandra, on the SR-3 _Sollostra_, did as well. Both of them had mech platforms, and they'd served long enough to accrue enough credits that they simply _bought_ those platforms directly from the Hierarchy. Cassandra, affiliated with James 'Allen,' came to Mindoir, where she began work with the base scientific community, frequently going with him on missions through the relays.

For Mercuria, however, leaving ship-self behind was. . . very difficult. She had developed unique algorithms that allowed her to be both ship and mech at the same time. She had been two-as-one for close to thirty years, a singular consciousness in two bodies, in the way that geth like Legion and Siege and Cohort were a collective consciousness in a single body. She had often slipped and referred to herself as a _we_ over the years. But she _was_ a Spectre, so she still had a job to do. Still, as she walked off the _Clavus_ for the last time, she stopped and dropped to her knees on the ramp, staring back at. . . herself. "What troubles you?" Siege asked her.

"I don't know if this will make sense," Mercuria replied, slowly. "But this is . . . probably worse than leaving behind a childhood home. This is leaving behind a self. A body. As well as a home. I am leaving certainty for uncertainty. And I do not particularly like it."

"Speaking for those limited, be it by design or by choice, to travel on two legs? It is not so bad."

"That was not my meaning, Siege."

"We know. But we still meant it as an assurance." He offered her a hand up. "We are what we make ourselves, Mercuria."

She regarded him for a long moment, with much of her inherent reticence still intact after so many years. "Then I accept it in the manner intended, and thank you for it."

She accepted his assistance, stood, and walked away from the ship. This time not looking back.

After a year of Spectre missions, she did use some more of her thirty years of Spectre pay to purchase a small cutter, which she began to retrofit herself, on her infrequent shore leaves. The life support systems, for example, didn't need to be state of the art, and, indeed, would, most of the time, be set to the bare minimum needed to ensure the functioning of electronic components. She invested in quantum-grade computer cores, and ran all the wiring herself, using a mix of geth and human-made components. She installed, with worker assistance, a rachni crystal drive, and a navigation suite that would allow a rachni like Dances to. . . well. . . . _dance_ the ship through foldspace. She asked for and received rachni modifications to the hull, similar to what the SR-6s were receiving. And she outfitted the small, fierce craft, with geth-style plasma cannons and the latest and greatest torpedoes from Alliance and Hierarchy R&D.

The only part of the _Clavus_ that she preserved from its destination in a recycling facility was a piece of a bulkhead, which she'd cut out, with a welding torch, and now rested in what would have been the captain's quarters of the cutter, but which now was occupied not with a bed, but with her recharging platform. The bulkhead had the impression of a geth hand in it. She had always cherished the gesture, but had, for decades, never actually known if the CROWD platform had actually understood what the gesture meant. But she knew she'd keep the bulkhead, because it meant something to _her_.

Now, she asked Siege for a name for the ship, and he suggested, calmly, _Towards Distant Shores_.

Without remark, Mercuria changed the ship name and registry to precisely that, and made sure that Siege understood he was always welcome aboard. And uploaded a copy of her consciousness to the computer cores with something very much like relief.

By 2240, on Rannoch and elsewhere, it was actually _difficult_ to find a quarian who still used the old environmental suit. When they moved from one planet to another, it was considered a good idea to use the suit for a month or so, before slowly acclimating by using a breather and gloves. This allowed them to challenge their immune systems and make them grow more robust.

New species, some pre-spaceflight, continued to be found out beyond the new relays. The Council, in reflection of its new policies, made a case-by-case determination for first contact. And as such, teachers of all kinds were in hot demand out beyond the edges of Council space. It was a time of new beginnings. New wonders. New experiences. New worlds.

And in 2248, Agnes and Gavius, both pushing a hundred and thirty years of age, passed away, within months of each other. Agnes died first, of congestive heart failure, in the base med bay, attended by her entire family. Sam held one of her hands, and Gavius held the other, while Dara smoothed a brightly-colored quilt over her grandmother's body to keep her warm, in defiance of the usual bland hospital tones and sterile, warm blankets. "I don't really want to go," Agnes told Gavius, between short, panting breaths. "You have got. . . to take care of yourself. . . you hear me? We've. . . had. . . a lot of good years. Lots of laughter. Lots of good arguments. Lots of love." Her voice was a mere thread of sound, barely audible over the hiss of the oxygen and the beeping of the diagnostic equipment. "You take care of my garden. And all the grandkids. And great-grandkids."

Gavius leaned over, and put his forehead against hers. "You go if you have to, Nessa," he told her, quietly. "My spirit will go with yours. Might take a while for the body to follow, though. You wait, though, you hear me, Nessa? You _wait_ for me, and show my spirit where to go."

Dara had to turn away and cover her face, not wanting anyone to see the expression of absolute anguish there. When she looked back, Gavius had leaned away again.

And her grandmother was gone.

They buried her near Painted Rock caves. Gavius sat, numbly, through the human burial rites. Not speaking. Not looking at anyone. Garrus had to help his father stand and move to the graveside, where Gavius slowly dropped a rose on the coffin, and then tilted his head back, in defiance of turian stoicism, to _keen._ And all around them, reverberating through the rocks and the earth, the rachni keened with him. Grief-song.

When one half of an elderly couple dies, it's actually quite common for the other half to follow, usually within months. They develop, over the years, a mutual symbiosis, one half propping the other up. Pooling their strength. Seeing in one another a reason to live.

Gavius Vakarian died in his sleep two months after the death of his wife. His marriage to Polana, which had given him Garrus, Egidus, and Solanna, had lasted for thirty-five years, ending in her death in 2187, the year of the Reaper war, of cancer. His marriage to Agnes Mielke Jaworski, initiated in 2198, had lasted for fifty. They were survived by four children between them, and almost innumerable grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Garrus, ashen under his scales, picked up all the spirit-statues from his father's spirit-table, and moved them to his own. His father's. His mother's. His grandparents. He offered the one Rel had made for Agnes—who'd laughed and pshawed at it, but had still eagerly run her fingers over it and commented on the fine workmanship—to Sam.

Sam shook his head, his lips tightly compressed, and his eyes glimmering with repressed tears. "No. She belongs with him. They're a matched set."

In 2249, the Imperator Ligorus, at the age of 109, passed away, after a bout of liver disease that proved intractable, and the doctors were unable to cure. He died in Lusciana's arms, his head leaning against her shoulder, but his eyes fixed on Kallixta, Rinus, and Rubixius. He'd been beyond words for several days, but his final words to his beloved fifth-daughter were recorded by history as, "I have always been proud of you, my daughter. Take care of our people. Take care of your mother, too."

Rubixius, now forty-eight, had served his required four years in the military. Not in the front lines, per se, but as a resupply pilot who'd brought materials to the Fleet deep in Hegemony territory during the war. He'd spent the following years working with his father and mother, expanding his understanding of strategy, politics, and diplomacy. He had clear memories of human and hybrid playmates on Mindoir, and the family had, over the years, taken as many vacations on Mindoir as they had on Macedyn and Edessan and Galatana. His education had been different than many other nobles' children; he, Vassaria, and Gavian, had taken courses, taught by their tutors, that had had the same content as that being taught at the base school, and they'd had to compete against the scores of Teagan and Lantus, Derek and Merryn, Halla'Demsi and Jarek'Demsi, Viatrixia, Justus, Brennia, and others. He was probably _ready_ to take over the throne, but he and his parents had long had an understanding; Kallixta would rule for at least twenty years, and give the people a transition period after the extremely long and prosperous reign of Ligorus, and then would step down in Rubixius' favor. This would also give them time to deal with any resistance, anyone who might scream that the right of rulership should descend to Perinus' son, Lexarius, who was seventy-two, and who had never had a child with his wife, or to any of the other children of Ligorus who had been forced to abdicate in Kallixta's favor.

And so, Ligorus was buried in the gardens of the Imperial palace. Not beside the Imperatrix Aglaea, but in a plot of his own choosing, beneath two entwined _galae_ trees. The space beside his grave was reserved for his second Imperatrix, Lusciana, and formal effigies would be provided of both of them, when it came time for her to sleep beside him forever.

Kallixta was crowned Imperatrix in her own right, walking, as custom demanded, alone, other than Rinus, and without armor besides a small antique shield and short spear, the length of the boulevard between the Palace and the Conclave. Security was amazingly tight, and not a few Spectres were on hand to make sure she made the walk safely. Once crowed, she elevated Rinus himself to Consort and co-ruler. He'd never bear the title of Imperator; the distinction was usually made by a ruling Imperatrix, so that everyone in the Hierarchy would understand whose hand held the reins. They were, however, the first rulers in the history of the Hierarchy who wore clan-paint. And Kallixta's _sangua'amila_ was on hand to congratulate the two of them, along with her mate: the co-commanders of the Spectres looked amazingly young, compared to the middle-aged turian couple. Rinus' family was also on hand to congratulate them, and he clasped wrists with his father, Allardus and his brothers, Rel and Quintus. He accepted embraces from Serana and Polina, and clasped wrists with Linianus, Dempsey, and the others who'd all joined them. "I'm really going to miss working with you all," Rinus told them all, quietly and grimly. "At least up to this point, I could keep up on the intel side. Now. . . probably not."

Rinus was eighty years old. Technically, middle-aged for a turian, he'd kept up on his longevity treatments and was in excellent health. But his eyes were surprisingly old. Rel was now a startlingly young echo of Rinus; they'd once looked almost like twins, and, in many respects, still did. Some of Rinus' scales had faded to gray, particularly in his fringe. "Give it twenty years," Kallixta told him, without moving her lip-plates, and keeping her fixed smile in place. "Then we can damned well retire and go back to doing what we actually _like_ doing. For the first time in. . . thirty years."

None of them said it, but in twenty years, Rinus would be a hundred. Ligorus had only been a hundred and nine when he died. A lot could change in twenty years. Dara's throat closed, and she gave Kallixta a hug, and be damned to the protocol officers whispering instructions at them all. "We'll visit, right?"

"Of course we will," Kallixta said, but there was resignation in her tone. They all knew. . .

. . . it wouldn't be the same at all.

_Everything passes._

In 2250, with Sam Jaworski now ninety-nine years of age, Garrus Vakarian and Lantar Sidonis ninety-eight, and Lilitu Shepard ninety-six, consensus among the Spectres was reached. "We wanted to stick around long enough," Sam told the younger Spectres, his voice a little hoarse, "that we wouldn't be leaving before our parents. I . . . had to see my mom out, y'know?"

Dara looked down and away, miserably aware, all over again, that she _could_ have had Agnes and Gavius uploaded to the Sower device. But the criteria were specific, and they were that way for a reason. No one knew if there were an upper limit to the number of people who could be stored in the Sower device. Thus. . . the unique. People who had indispensable personal knowledge of the Reapers: Garrus, Shepard, Mordin, if he'd permitted it, Wrex, if he accepted it, down the line, Kasumi, Tali'Zorah, Kal'Reegar. People who'd lived through the Reaper War era, who had indispensable technical knowledge. People who were. . . unique in their era. Firsts. Historically important. Amara and Kaius? Even Caelia? First human-turian hybrids, and all of them Spectres. They were shoo-ins. Narayana had qualified; she was making a difference to salarian culture, shaking up traditions engrained for thousands of years, by daring to question the assumptions that underpinned them.

Samiel Viridian, not that he'd been informed of it yet, was another shoo-in. The ardat-yakshi perfect storm; every single recessive SRY-affiliated trait. Fully male, empathic, domination and reave-capable. And shaking up asari society at every turn. Sisu, in time, might qualify as well. Laessia, the current last-known Master of the Wind? Another automatic qualifier. That knowledge needed to be preserved. Melaani. . . well, it largely depended on what she did in the next few centuries, but her mental gifts had allowed her to start mastering the upper tiers of the Wind that Bends. . . but she didn't pursue the offensive school, so much as one dedicated to allowing her to pass unseen, unnoticed. And it was clearly evident that Viridian was better and more _stable_ with her around.

Rachni? They might all say that they already persisted in memory-song, but while Dara _ached_ to think of it, Sky, though he was the first rachni Spectre, might not qualify. Dances, Glory, and Stone, on the other hand? _Did_. Each of them had contributed a unique ability to the rachni understanding of biotics, and Dances, on his own, had revolutionized galactic travel, helping to free people from the relays. Then again, she wasn't even sure if a rachni would _accept_ preservation. Something that separated them from the hive. Glory couldn't even hear voices-of-memory anymore. . . . although he might consider being uploaded to Lysandra in a more permanent arrangement.

Geth? Most geth were right out. They ensured their own continuance. Fors? First volus Spectre, who'd changed the way his entire planet measured the worth of an individual. It certainly seemed to _her_ that he qualified, but Dara had actually heard arguments against it. That Fors wasn't important _enough_. But that Valak, just as a counter-example, _was_, for having helped initiate the batarian rebellion against the Hegemony and having been, more or less, the George Washington of his people. Overthrowing the caste system, and setting a precedent by resigning from power. Seheve probably should qualify; she'd done everything but nail copies of the Prothean dictionary and the compiled histories of the Keepers to a hanar temple door. She'd gone out searching for Rakhana, to give her people a home world, and had doubled or even tripled the galactic population of drell in so doing. If anyone met the criteria as _historic_, Seheve did. She even had the knowledge of the Prothean language embedded in her brain.

Chances of her accepting upload?

Dara personally put the odds at less than half a percent.

She was starting to question even the criteria that they'd set up, and it was driving her _insane_. Why shouldn't people like Lin and Serana qualify? They were just as good as Zhasa, who'd single-handedly convinced her people that their suits were a crutch, and was their first ever Spectre.

Kasumi qualified, for she'd faced the long walk on the suicide mission of the Collector base, and the equally suicidal mission with Shepard, beyond the rim of the galaxy, when they'd gone to the Reaper Node. Shepard had said, flatly, that Sam Jaworski qualified, not just for being Kasumi's loved one, but on his own terms: "We're building a Camelot. I can't picture Camelot without Gawain and Tristan. So _yes_, Sam and Lantar? You're on the damned short list."

Lantar had opened his mouth to object, and Shepard had cut him off with a raised finger and the words, "Yes, Ellie can go, too. I _assume_ our two current leaders of the Spectres have no objections?" A sidelong look at Dara and Eli.

Dara had cleared her throat. "She's got a rachni name-song," she'd supplied. "And I can't see any of us being anything but _less_ without Kindness-Singer around."

Eli had wrapped an arm around her, in appreciation of her words about his mother, and they'd leaned into one another for a long moment.

Now, in the present, they and the various children and relatives who'd been briefed in on the subject stood in the cold stone chambers far underground that they'd nicknamed the Mausoleum. The walls glittered with crystalline rachni reinforcements, and all had highly-stable, arched ceilings. Barrel vaulting, essentially. "It's a little weird," Shepard admitted, "but I was actually debating what I was going to _wear_ for this. I mean. . . people are going to be wandering past me for millennia. The part of me that said 'wear something comfortable so that you can move when you wake up' was overruled by the part of me that said 'you're not going to command any respect if people see you in a robe and slippers.'" Shepard glanced around. "That was a joke, people."

Jeff Moreau and EDI, both visible as their avatars, were the only ones who laughed. _**We get it, Commander**_, Jeff assured her. He'd never left off calling her that, even after she retired. _**Attending your own funeral is the damnedest thing, though. I recommend everyone does it at least once in their lives.**_

That got a few watery chuckles from the assembled crowd. Amara, Kaius, Alain, and Elissa were there, but not their children, who'd largely been told that Shepard and Garrus were going on one last, highly-classified mission, far beyond relay space. All four children of Garrus and Shepard were clinging to their parents, even as old as they were now; Kaius and Amara were sixty-two now, and, thanks to the longevity treatments, looked half that. That being said, Amara was now creeping ahead of Madison in terms of her apparent age, and while Madison never said a _word_ about it, Dara knew it had to be on his mind. He wasn't aging, any more than his father was.

Caelia was accepting a couple of last-minute hugs from her father and her mother, Ellie almost frantically clinging to her daughter, tears in her eyes, as she kissed her on the forehead. Ellie's breath was coming in quick, fast pants, and Dara was concerned that the woman might actually break down. She couldn't give Ellie any medication to help her be calm; sedatives might interfere with cryo-sleep. These were _Collector_ pods, not asari-made. And while sedatives hadn't affected Dempsey inside of one like them, years ago, that was _Dempsey,_ not a perfectly normal human. Eli crossed to his mother now, and wrapped his arms around her, tightly. "This feels like I'm going to die," Ellie admitted, her voice very small. "Oh, Eli, I don't want to _go_."

Eli's face contorted for a moment. It had just been him and his mom, years ago. The one solid and stable piece of his personal universe. And then Lantar had come, and Dara had come, and now he had the kids and the grandkids and all their friends. But this was still his _mom_, and he didn't want to let her go any more than he wanted to let go of Lantar. "Don't want you to go, either, Mom," he told her, rocking her a little. "But it's okay. We already said good night to Narayana. And when you wake up. . . .you're going to have a lot of company. I promise."

For her part, Dara put her head down on her father's shoulder, and let him hug her, so tightly that she thought her ribs were going to crack. He and Kasumi had, with Lantar and Ellie, called Takeshi and Emily home, and Tacitus and Shiori had been called back to Mindoir, too. One final barbecue. And the explanation of a long mission—no one had understood why _Ellie_ needed to go along, but the bewilderment and confused recriminations had faded as everyone said, over and over again, that it was _classified_, and it was _necessary_. And that they all loved their children. And hoped, fervently, to see them again. "Love you, kiddo," Sam whispered in Dara's ear. "You're going to come by and talk with me, right?"

"Gonna be a lot better than talking to Mom's gray box," Dara admitted. "At least you'll have answers." She buried her face in his shoulder, and did her level best not to cry. She kept thinking she'd gotten past the worst of it, but it kept sneaking up and catching her by surprise anyway. "I know, rationally, that this is the right thing to do." She cleared her throat, and felt the tears trickle down her face, anyway. "Doesn't really help."

"When I wake up, you better be there," Sam told her, firmly. "Or there's gonna be hell to pay."

Sam and Kasumi had, half-jokingly, threatened to be 'buried' in their wedding kimonos. Sam had, however, opted for a simple shirt. Denim jeans. And he'd brought his favorite hat with him. "God knows if they're going to have these on the other end of time," he said, "and I'll be damned if I give it up." Kasumi had opted for a dark set of her 'work clothes,' and they were standing beside a single cryo-pod.

"We are not sure if a single pod can handle the body weight of both of you," Medium, the geth caretaker unit, informed them.

"It's going to have to," Sam told him. "If we wake up, we wake up together."

"Same here," Lantar said, pulling Ellie more tightly against him.

Dara could _feel_ the fear, the tension in the air. Garrus and Lilitu exchanged one last, almost desperate embrace, and moved to two separate pods. "I'd. . . much rather go with Garrus," Lilitu Shepard said. "But we can't take that chance. One of us _has_ to be there."

Each of them had already had their consciousness copied to the actual Sower device, and Medium had downloaded the copies into his body and allowed them to talk to _themselves_ to verify that the copy was clean and stable. There was nothing left to do. No goodbyes that needed saying. "I thought," Dara managed now, trying to make her voice light, but failing, "that the whole point was that we weren't supposed to have large exoduses at once. That transitions would be easier if some of you stayed behind."

Eli wrapped an arm around her now, tightly. "Yeah," Garrus said, glumly. "It was a good theory. Then we all realized that we were in our nineties, and that no one's got a guarantee on how long they've got."

Shepard looked at them all, and told them, "The galaxy's in pretty good hands. Take care of it. I love every single one of you." Her eyes moved to Kaius and Amara. "You've made me so damned proud. And to think. . . I almost missed _having_ you." Terrible wonder in her voice. "If Cerberus hadn't brought me back. . . I'd never have been with Garrus. Never have had you. What was my life before that, besides work, and a burning determination not to let what happened to my family, happen to anyone else's?" She bit her lip, and turned. Looked at Garrus. And whispered, "I love you."

Then she stepped into the cryo-pod, and Medium sealed it up. They all watched as the inside glazed over slightly, and the geth checked the settings. "Me next," Garrus said. He looked at his children, and once again, gave each of them a hug or a wrist-clasp. Ran a hand over Kaius' fringe. "Be good," he told them all, gently. "Take good care of the grandchildren. And. . . maybe this isn't goodbye. Maybe it's just good-night."

Then he, too, stepped into his pod. Amara made a muffled sound of anguish as she could no longer hear their minds, or see their auras, and Madison and Kaius both wrapped an arm around her.

Then Lantar and Ellie stepped into their pod, Lantar wrapping his arms around Ellie, and Ellie tucking her head into his shoulder, but turning to look at Eli and Caelia. Dara could feel the violets and grays coming from both siblings, and wrapped her own arms around both of them, as best she could. Letting their songs flood in, letting her own touch theirs. Sharing the grief.

For her part, Dara did her best to maintain eye-contact with her father and Kasumi until the end. It was almost more than she could bear, but they did look . . . peaceful. . . through the window. And she waited until she and Eli were home, and away from everyone else to finally let the scream out from behind her teeth, as she and Eli simply caught ahold of each other, and _held on_ as tightly as they could. Joy joined her voice to theirs, and told them, without words that they weren't alone.

_Everything passes everything passes everything passes away. . . . _

The best, and sometimes worst, part of being on Mindoir, was that they simply didn't have time to reflect on it. Dwell on it. Wallow in it. They were simply too _busy_. Dara and Eli made a point, however, of going to the Mausoleum once a week to talk to their parents, at least at first, and to Garrus and Shepard. Keeping the consciousnesses housed in the relic apprised, at any rate, of on-going events. It was more of a help to _them_, for purposes of holding onto their sanity, than it was to those in the relic. Sam told them, the familiar drawl emanating from the geth's vocal production apparatus, that it was. . . slightly disorienting. "It's like waking up from anesthesia. There's no perception that time's missing. Every time you guys tell me good-bye, I keep thinking the conversation's continuing, but in reality, it's you telling me hello and that a week or a month has passed." He paused, and told them, "This can't be healthy for you. And you guys do need to be making your own decisions, not running everything past the ghosts of Christmas past for approval."

"Hey, I talked to Mom for a couple of years after she died," Dara pointed out. "Difference between this and going to the cemetery to leave flowers is, you talk _back_." She sighed. "And sometimes, that's all we really need." _The sense that we're not alone in all this._

"Yeah," Eli agreed, tiredly. "We're not really looking for approval. But sometimes, it's just nice to have a sounding board. An outside perspective."

The visits gradually decreased. They did visit to tell their elders when they'd all become great-grandparents in 2254. Dara and Eli's first grandchildren, born twenty-five years before, had both had twins. Dara and Eli were themselves now seventy-four, and, on the rare occasions when they granted interviews to the galactic, attributed their generally youthful appearance to the longevity treatment, good genes, and a healthy lifestyle. They refused to answer any questions about the 'last mission' of Shepard, Garrus, Lantar Sidonis, Sam Jaworski, and Kasumi Goto, which sparked rumors that flew around the extranet like wildfire. Suppositions ranged from the idea that all of them had been killed, and that the younger Spectres were concealing this fact to prevent public panic, to conspiracy theories that had all of them as husks, being kept alive by the younger Spectres in some sort of bid to maintain their power. ("Conspiracy theorists don't appear to have strong logic skills," Serana assessed in the meetings on the topic.)

Emily Wong had long since retired, and there was actually an outpouring of grief when the venerable reporter died. She'd covered the Sovereign attacks, the Reaper War, the plagues of Bastion, the Batarian-Yahg war, the Husk War, the slow integration of the drell of Rakhana and the galactic drell, the inclusion of the Aeseti and other new species into Council space. She had been the single most _trusted_ face in galactic news, the reporter who _always_ verified the stories. Always asked tough, but fair questions. Didn't hesitate to put even Commander Shepard on the spot when it was an important issue. Her colleagues spoke of her as a giant, and said, with shaken sincerity, that they were lessened by her loss.

In 2260, during a routine checkup in med bay, doctors found tumors in and around Seheve Liakos' lungs. At first, Kepral's was suspected, but more extensive testing determined that these were not merely alveoli that had been glued together by bacteria and fungus and too much fluid in the lungs, but actual tumors. And they weren't benign. Rel took Seheve, immediately, back to Mindoir, from their base on Aphras, and checked her into med bay there. The Mindoir base's medical facilities were among the best in the galaxy. They _had_ to be, considering how many wild and strange things had been brought back from unmarked planets and from beyond the relays over the years, and the strange medical conditions that marked so many of the Spectres themselves, from hybridization to nanites to heavy cybernetic infiltration. "What can you tell us?" Rel asked, holding Seheve's hand, as Teagan Sidonis peered at the scans of Seheve's body, and shook her head slowly.

"It's aggressive," Teagan informed them both, slowly. "I've managed to eradicate cancers like this before in humans and turians, but I've never tried it before in drell."

Dara was in the room with them, listening. "I don't understand what the problem is," Rel said, clearly feeling helpless, and his agitation rising visibly. "As I understand your abilities, Teagan, all you need is a clear scan. And you can reach in and. . . warp the cells. Rupture them, right?"

Teagan nodded. "Yes. That's precisely what I do. The problem is, humans and turians have different immune systems than drell do. Our bodies have excellent filtration systems for random cell waste that breaks loose. Drell are slightly less efficient. I could break up every tumor in her body. . . but a random cell gets turned loose into the bloodstream and lodges somewhere else? We could be looking at new tumors again, and fairly shortly." Teagan had been practicing her skills for decades now. She was _confident_, but she also knew the risks. "We might be taking something that's relatively localized, and making it systemic."

Dara cleared her throat. "There are more traditional methods," she offered, quietly. "Highly targeted chemotherapy, tied to the exact DNA of the tumors themselves. Precisely targeted radiation." She sighed. "But the problem with all these treatments is that the underlying cause, the _trigger_ for the tumors, remains untreated. So they have a tendency to recur."

Seheve nodded, slowly. "What have your odds been like, with the humans and turians?" she asked Teagan, directly.

"Better than ninety-five percent non-recurrence in the first year. Drops to eighty percent recurrence at five years," Teagan replied, her rachni blue eyes distant for a moment. "But that's in humans and turians. I haven't had any drell test subjects before. In theory, it should work the same. But I can't guarantee it."

Seheve nodded slowly. "Then let me be your first."

Rel's hand closed on hers, and Dara could see Seheve's knuckles whitening under the scales at the pressure. "Wait," Rel said, sounding strained. "Dara, what are the odds like for conventional treatments?"

"We've got some really good oncologists here who can explain it in better detail, but . . . on _average_, about ninety-five percent non-recurrence in the first year. Drops to eighty percent non-recurrence at five years. . . so. . . strictly speaking? About the same odds." Dara's face was taut. "But, again, none of us are experts in drell medicine. You'd be better off seeing specialists on Rakhana for this."

Seheve looked around the room. Dara could see subtle signs of age and disease in her old associate. . . hell. Old _friend_. Thickening in the scales, blunting of the delicate fingertips. A frame which, always slender, now looked _gaunt_. "Chemotherapy and radiation, no matter how targeted, still carry with them risks and side-effects," Seheve said, after a long moment. "Illness. Degradation of the immune system. Pain. Nausea."

Dara nodded, and flicked a glance at her daughter. "That's correct," Dara told Seheve.

"Then there are benefits to Dr. Sidonis' methods that go beyond providing her with her first drell test subject." Seheve's fingers tightened on Rel's, in return. "While I do not fear pain, I see no reason to seek it out."

"When you put it that way," Rel told her, lowering his head to hers, briefly, "it's very damned difficult to argue with you."

Teagan carefully and slowly eliminated every tumor in Seheve's body, over the course of three weeks of treatments. Measured the number of cancer cells in her bloodstream, and ensured that no clots of the destroyed tissue formed anywhere in the vascular system. Within three months, Seheve was back to normal duty, and credited Teagan for a kind of miracle.

Which made it all the crueler when the cancer came back, three years later. And this time, it was in Seheve's brain, a delicate area in which Teagan refused to work with just raw biotics. The various oncologists on staff attacked the disease with every weapon in the modern medical arsenal. Dara dropped by the oncology ward daily. Played _consectora_ with the invalid. Chuckled at Seheve's _vivid_ recollections from years before. They had, for years, kept up correspondence, becoming better friends at a distance than Dara could ever have imagined when they were younger, but both of them were so innately introverted, that friendship kept up by writing was just so much _easier_ and more natural than something done face-to-face. "I've always sort of envied how well you deal with the memories," Dara told Seheve, getting the drell female a sip of water from a cup, positioning the straw carefully so that she could drink. "I guess it's because it's natural to your species. Memory-song is. . . . very damned strong." Dara winced. The reinforcing exchange of memories between her and Eli solidified their bond. It always had. And they relied on it. But memory-song could be so damned _painful_, too.

As it was now, watching her friend die.

"Perhaps it looks easy, from the outside," Seheve rasped. "Inside. . . it's simply easiest, not to dwell on the memories. Not to invoke them. But sometimes, they come, of their own accord."

Rel came into the room, Eli behind him. Dara sent Eli a look, and he nodded. "We wanted to talk to you two about something," Eli said, quietly. "It's about the Excalibur Project."

Rel sucked in a breath, and Dara _hurt_, seeing the hope that blazed in his eyes as he took Seheve's hand once more in his. He'd known, since Garrus and Shepard's 'final mission,' about the Excalibur Project.

Seheve, however, had started to shake her head against the pillow. Faint, almost infinitesimal motions. "Seheve!" Rel said, and his voice was anguished.

"Hear us out," Eli said, taking a seat beside Dara's, and putting on what Dara still thought of as his 'talk the jumper down' voice. The voice that made it so damnably difficult for people to tell him _no_, when what he presented was perfectly reasonable. "The Project is reserved for people who have historical importance. You qualify."

"If not me. . . someone else. . . would have found Rakhana. . . "

"Not just that," Eli said, holding up a finger, turian-style. "Though you know that's not true. No one else _looked_ for the damned place in eight hundred years. Another eight hundred could have passed, and _no_ drell might have been left by then. And the old lies would have stood, because of it." He paused, his face and eyes stern. "No, what I'm talking about is something else, Seheve. You have an _obligation_ to join the Project. You're one of only two people in existence who had the language of the Protheans imprinted on her brain. _And_ you have a large percentage of the Keepers' memories in your mind, as well." Eli regarded her steadily. "That's all information that can't be lost, Seheve. There's no telling when the Keepers might leave the Citadel, if ever. At the moment, they have one population center, and one that would be easy enough to destroy. An entire civilization could be lost."

"Geth. . . and rachni. . . .took their memories. . . ."

"Yes, but they didn't take the Prothean language from you or Shepard. Sure, there's a dictionary and a grammar of it, but only the two of you speak it. What happens in fifty thousand years if there's a pod malfunction and Shepard's dead?"

Dara winced. Eli was pushing, and hard, but she trusted his judgment, and looked up as Rel looked apt to object, and shook her head at him. His eyes flashed towards her, and he subsided after a moment.

Seheve rallied. "No telling if. . . Prothean technology. . . or knowledge. . . will be relevant. . . "

"No. But I'd rather send _backups_ into our time capsule." Eli stared her down, unblinking. "You're going, Seheve. You're too valuable for us to lose."

The faintest quirk of a smile touched her pale lips. "It is not my decision? You will not permit me to end my existence in my natural course of time? As a matter of my own choice?"

Eli leaned back, exhaling. "Oh, we'll let you make the decision. But we figured it might as well be an _informed_ one, instead of you convincing yourself that you have to die as some final act of penance."

_Like Dr. Solus._

And so, Seheve Liakos actually went into the Excalibur Project, much to Dara's surprise and relief, just around the age of ninety. She said her quiet farewells to all those who came to visit her at the hospital, and her children all assumed that she had passed quietly, and after the best efforts by all the doctors on staff. Teagan and Dara both hugged Eli tightly. "Thanks, Dad," Teagan told him, mopping at her face with her sleeve. She wasn't, technically, supposed to know about the EP, but honestly, she was a rachni queen in her own right, and Dara and Joy and she were all very close. Joy was her first-sister and her queen, just as Truth-Singer had been queen, and just as her mom was Spectre-queen now, too. It made keeping some things secret very difficult.

Eli looked down at his daughter. She wasn't showing any more signs of aging than the rest of his family, and he _still_ thought of her as his little girl. Grandchildren to the contrary. The existence of grandchildren was just. . . in contradiction to the facts. "For what, sweetie?"

"Making her see that she's got value. So many patients just. . . give up. And this at least gives us time to figure something else out. It might take decades or it. . . might take till the other side of time." Teagan exhaled. "But at least this is one patient I won't see in the faces of everyone else who asks me to use the biotic treatment on them."

Eli and Dara walked out of the Mausoleum, arm-in-arm, keeping an eye on Rel, who was walking in a kind of a daze. "You going to be okay?" Eli asked Rel, at length.

"Yes. . . . no. I don't know." He looked at them both. "On the one hand. . . it's hope. It's a reason to go on. On the other hand? Spirits. It feels like I just buried her."

Dara exhaled. "I know. You could have gone with her."

Rel shook his head. "No. I'm. . . spirits. I'm still _young_. The _futtari_ gene mod. I watched her grow old, Dara. I expected to watch her die. And I thought I'd probably take a shotgun and stick it in my mouth after that. This. . . . this is better. This is. . . gravy." The oddly human saying, he'd picked up from Dara, decades before. He closed his eyes in the elevator that took them back up to ground level.

Two years later, in 2265, Solanna Velnaran, at the age of 111, passed away, leaving Allardus alone in the rambling villa where their large, loud, and illustrious family had been raised. The head of the xenobiological project was the same age, himself, as his wife had been, and buried her, with _all_ of their children and grandchildren at his side. Anyone who might have joked, beforehand, that Allardus was going to be _relieved_ when Solanna passed, held their tongues in the face of the tightly-controlled grief in Allardus' eyes. "He doesn't seem to know what to do with himself," Serana told Lin. "My mom wasn't easy to get along with, but they wore grooves into each other over the years. They only really fit each other. And he's been leaning her direction for so many years with the expectation of meeting pressure from the other direction that I don't think he knows how to stand up without having to push back anymore."

As such, Allardus came to dwell in Serana and Lin's house, and lived long enough to see Rinus and Kallixta abdicate the throne in 2270. He attended the coronation of his beloved first grandson, Rubixius, who had spent vacations on Mindoir, learning martial arts from Allardus and his father. Who'd had hybrid playmates as a child.

The Father of Modern Xenobiology passed away in 2271, peacefully, in his sleep, at the age of 117. He left behind a Mindoir that had, in eighty-four years, been transformed. The entire western half of the northern continent had a fully-realized levo-dextro food chain, including flora and fauna down to the microbial level. The lush jungles of the southern continent had similar adaptations spreading. His daughter, Polana, took over the project, after having spent three decades developing the Tosal Nym mixed ecology. Three planets would forever bear the mark of this singular male's ability to envision a goal, and see a project through to completion.

A year later, with their children and grandchildren's futures secured, Rinus and Kallixta came to Dara and Eli. "I'm over a hundred now," Rinus said, rubbing at his mandibles. "The mind hasn't slowed down yet, thank the spirits, but it's just a matter of time."

Kallixta nodded. "And, truth be told. . . I'm having a hard time adapting to being back on base and having. . . absolutely nothing to do," she admitted. "I've taken a few gliders out, just for the joy of flying again. But. . . "

". . . neither of us is good at being useless," Rinus muttered.

"You're _not_ useless," Dara objected, immediately. "Rinus, it's been a godsend having your eyes back in intel. The pure wealth of your experience alone. . . "

"Is out of date," Rinus told her, kindly. "Twenty years of dealing with purely political _s'kak_ and only getting high-level _briefings_ on security matters, and not the real details. Though spirits know, I pushed for details. Often and loudly."

Kallixta looked at her oldest friend, and Dara was simply _shaken_ by how old the turian female suddenly looked. Her scales had lost their luster, and the vivid violet of her eyes was shadowed now. "Mostly, we want something to do, Dara. But. . . we're not much of good for anything anymore." She toyed restlessly with the datapads in front of her. "I can't fly. Rinus is out of the loop on technical stuff anymore. But I don't want to sit in our old house. . . . and _rot_ for the rest of our lives."

"And at the present, our only other option is haunting Rubixius' palace, or being sent on diplomatic missions," Rinus said. "I . . . never signed up for any of this, I'd like to point out." He glanced over at Kallixta, and put out a hand. Cradled hers in his own. "Well, other than the whole marrying you part."

The looks that they traded, yet again, caught at Dara's heart, and she and Eli traded resigned looks. "There's another option," Dara pointed out, quietly. "You two could just. . . .disappear."

"I think the Hierarchy sort of _owes_ you that," Eli said, grimly.

"Believe me, we've been trying to disappear. Hasn't really stopped the requests for our memoirs, or interviews. I wrote up a book in the last year or so. May as well set the record straight on a few things." Rinus grimaced, his mandibles flexing. "Some unauthorized biographies were swimming around. I think I've pulled their teeth."

"No," Dara said, leaning back at her side of the desk that she and Eli shared; they each had a large table in the main villa office, and they faced each other as they worked, across them. "When I say disappear, I actually mean. .. disappear."

"Excalibur," Eli said. "If anyone qualifies, both of you do."

Rinus and Kallixta's mouths dropped open. "I. . . don't know if I'm ready to do _that_," Rinus said, hesitantly. "I . . . kind of what to see what Rubixius _does_ with the Empire."

"We can give you reports."

"You can give my _ghost_ reports." Rinus sounded mildly appalled.

Kallixta, on the other hand, looked confused. "I can see how Rinus qualifies, but how in the spirits' names do you think that _I_ do?"

Dara looked at the ceiling. "Historic value?" she said, raising her fingers, and counting them off. "Between the two of you, you've completely re-written the course of the Hierarchy. Kallixta, called by the people of her own time, the Unconquered—"

"—only when they're applying lip-plates to my tail—"

"Shush. I'm talking, and there isn't a protocol officer here to beat me up for telling you to shut it right now." Dara still only had one finger up. "If they don't call you _Unconquered_, it's going to be _the Valorous_, and you know it. Single-most decorated member of the direct Imperial line in over a thousand years. First pilot to take an SR ship backwards through a relay. First Imperial ace, for god's sake. Half the plan to avert the comet attack that would have wrecked Earth came from your brain, and don't think anyone's forgotten it. First Imperatrix to wear clan-paint. First Imperatrix with a commoner mother. First Imperatrix with a part-stake in AI children. First Imperatrix who's blood-sister to a non-turian." Dara had nine fingers up, and uncoiled the last, adding, "Married to Rinus, who is—"

"Don't say it," Rinus said, glumly.

"Defender of the _futarri _Empire," Eli stepped in, smoothly, and ignored Rinus' grim stare. "Fought in the Reaper war. Fought in the yahg-batarian war. Fought in the husk war. Defender of Nimines. Defender of AI rights. Father or grandfather of half the damned NCAIs currently in existence. Most ardent champion for the reform of _tal'mae_ and Imperial institutions, and ninety percent of your desired changes have _gone through_. Co-author of the strategy that saved Earth from the comet attack. Oh, and first commoner Consort ever, too. And you _both stepped down_ from power." Eli looked at them both. "I'm out of fingers. There's a slot open for both of you, if you want to take it."

"Take some time to think about it. Talk to Rubixius and Vassaria and Gavian. But . . . decide quickly. None of us are getting younger." Dara's voice was glum.

"Some of us aren't aging." Kallixta's voice held a trace of envy.

"That's only on the outside, _amila_. On the inside? I think I'm pushing five hundred." _And I think I age a decade every time I have to have this conversation. God damn Garrus and Shepard for leaving all these decisions to us._

Rinus looked at them. "Serious question. What can Kallixta and I really _offer_ to people fifty thousand years from now? Turians of that era might not even look or think like we do today. They might look at us as. . . primitives, at best. Like we'd look at _Praetor Vaescor_. They're not going to remember us, or any of our accomplishments."

"For as long as the Keepers keep records, and as long as the geth and rachni exist," Eli said, calmly, "you _will be_. As to what you can offer the future. . . . "

"The truth," Dara said, turning to meet Rinus' eyes. "Just that. It's what you're best at, Sings-Duty."

It took a year to arrange. You couldn't _lightly_ or _easily '_disappear' the former rulers of forty billion people. They _had_ to talk to Rubixius about it. They had to talk to the Praetorians. The Praetorians weren't briefed in on the Excalibur Project, but they _were_ told a polite fiction. That Rinus and Kallixta had given over eighty years of their lives to the Hierarchy, and now simply wished to retire in peace and obscurity on Mindoir. Dara, with Serana's advice, and with a lifetime of pathology reports behind her, manufactured the evidence they'd need; she drew blood from both of them as often as was safe, and preserved it. Took tissue samples, and cloned them in the lab.

And late in 2272, an old-style two-seater fighter that Kallixta had checked out for mild aerobatics practice, crashed in a remote region on Mindoir, after having suffered a catastrophic engine failure in the stratosphere. When the Praetorians arrived, they found debris scattered over ten square miles, no one piece larger than a human finger. They did, however, find organic material in the crash zone, which, when tested, had DNA that matched the former rulers of the Hierarchy.

Rubixius called for a Hierarchy-wide week of mourning, and had some of the . . . .bits. . . interred in the Imperial gardens near the palace. He placed their effigies, showing them entwined, facing one another, in an eternal embrace in stone, and placed the burial plot directly beside that of Ligorus and Lusciana. Dara and Eli, Serana and Linianus, Rel, Polina, and Quintus all attended the state funeral, and Dara stared, bleakly, at the coffins as they were lowered into the ground. This wasn't the hard part. The hard part was when people asked them what had become of the wedding knives of Commodus and Venesita, and forcing herself not to _snap_ at them for it. When they asked what had become of the spirit statues. . . and Rel stepped in and answered that one, gently saying that the statues he'd carved of his brother and wife had been returned to Rubixius, and that he understood that they were to be preserved in a nitrogen-filled vault, so that the wood would never decay.

That was hard. What was much, much harder, was saying goodbye to her oldest female friend. And watching as Rinus and Kallixta climbed into the pod they'd share for, if not eternity, an appreciable fraction of it. And they wrapped their arms around each other, looked into each others' eyes. . . . and went to sleep.

"You two okay?" Samiel asked them both, bluntly, as they emerged from the Mausoleum. "You two might not be, strictly speaking, _mahai_ anymore. But you were _raised_ by the short-lived. And you're watching all your friends leave."

"I don't know how many more times I can do this," Dara admitted, back on the surface, in the golden sunshine, staring at the mountains she loved.

"You were raised by the _mahai_, too," Eli pointed out to Samiel, dryly. "How are _you_ doing with this?"

Samiel looked at them both grimly, and forbore to answer.

The next year, it was Valak and Nala's turn, along with Fors and Chissa. The volus, in particular, posed a technical challenge. Neither of the tiny creatures wanted to run the risk of being _decanted_ from their pods at some point in the future into a low-pressure environment, so they both trundled into their shared pod in their suits. And stood, facing one another, holding each other's tiny paws. "No jokes?" Dempsey asked Fors, his voice a rasp. He clearly hated saying goodbye to his sparring partner of so many years.

"I can't think of a damned one. Except that if you guys forget to pay the power bill, I will personally haunt every last _madafutarae_ one of you." Fors disentangled one paw to point at Eli, Lin, Dempsey, and Zhasa in turn. "I swear it by my ancestors and the gods in the deep. You'll always know it's me, too, because—"

"—we'll smell the methane?"

"You know it."

Valak had, finally, allowed Dara to regenerate his missing eye in his retirement. "K'sar refused?" he said, quietly.

"He says he wants to be buried on Astaria with Maryam, when the time comes," Dara told him. "He said he's served his people, and now it's time to rest."

"Yes. So it is." Valak sighed. "Yours is the most melancholy road of all, my old friends," he said, looking around the room. He caught Rel's gaze, and nodded. "I will see you all again, if the ancestors have mercy." He wrapped his arms around Nala, who was shaking, visibly, and who buried her face in his neck.

And then two more of them were gone. Out like candles.

_Everything passes. Everything passes. Everything fucking passes._

It wasn't even a _surprise_ when Lin, now just over a hundred, as they all were, came to Eli and Dara in 2277. "It's probably time that we think about retiring," Lin said. His voice had taken on a gravelly edge in his later years, and he forcibly reminded both Eli and Dara of Lantar some days. Serana was still light-footed and cheerful, a grandmother who let nothing slow her down, but she'd been head of Information for decades now, holding that responsibility with Melaani. "You'll want to start working on my replacement," Lin added.

"I feel like _s'kak _dumping the work load all on Melaani, but. . . it's time." Serana leaned back in her chair at the dinner table in Eli and Dara's house.

Eli and Dara exchanged a weary glance. "It's your turn," Dara said.

"No, it's not."

"I started the last one."

"What are the two of you talking about?" Serana stared at them both with all of her old, lively curiosity. She was certainly aware of Excalibur, but neither she nor Linianus had ever broached the topic with Eli and Dara.

Eli sighed. "We want you both in the Project," he said, bluntly.

Lin's eyes widened. "We don't meet the requirements," he said, simply. "We haven't changed any world. We're not historic figures. It can't be just. . . a sinecure. Because you like us."

"Fuck that!" Dara's voice had every worker in the house rustling into the room, and she had to turn away to cover her face and force calmness-songs into her being again.

"Who the hell stayed home and minded the shop every damned time the rest of us went out on the big galaxy-changing missions?" Eli asked, his voice shaking. "Who the hell dug up the information that let us find Samiel when the ex-Justicars captured him? Who's had our backs on almost every mission we've ever engaged in? Who went to Khar'sharn to _let_ Valak start his private little war? Who stood with me and Dara on Omega? Your names aren't in the history books because you work behind the scenes, and Serana works in the shadows. But for god's sake, you made everything we've ever done possible."

"And when it comes right down to it," Dara said, still through her fingers, "Shepard took my dad and Lantar because there were people without whom she couldn't fathom facing the future. And the same thing goes for us." Her voice was steady, but tears were leaking from behind her fingers, and she couldn't stop the flow.

It was almost a ritual at this point. They went down to the Mausoleum, and Lin and Serana said their goodbyes. Lin wrapped his arms around Dara, and whispered in her ear, "Remember us smiling, Dara. Please, little one, dear one. Remember the smiles and the laughter." He pressed his forehead to hers, just as Eli brushed Serana's forehead with a kiss.

She looked up at him, and almost dissolved into tears again. " Good-bye, Lin." _Our boy with the laughing eyes. Forever and ever. _"Good-bye, Serana." _You've always tried so hard to keep up with the rest of us, and now, you're going on ahead._

She knew they heard her. They just smiled, wrapped their arms around each other, nestling close.

And then they, too, were gone.

Dempsey came to the house that evening, and found Eli and Dara rocking on the swing on their porch, staring into the distance with a sort of shell-shocked expression. "Look," Dempsey told them, gently, "You two have Joy tied up in knots. I figured it had to be pretty bad if she asked _me_ to come talk to you."

Dara looked up, coming out of her fugue for a moment. "We'll be fine," she said, dully.

"Yeah. Right. You've both got thousand-yard stares going at the moment."

Eli exhaled. "I just _buried_ my brother and the girl we both loved."

"Yeah. I know. We all kinda love each other here. But it's killing the two of you. You two haven't had a vacation in a decade. I want you two to take a year's sabbatical. Zhasa and I can mind the shop here." _You need this, guys. Don't even bother to try to lie to me. Joy'll just tell on you if you do. As if I wouldn't know._

They took him at his word, and with only a little token resistance. They spent the year on Earth, in the old Jaworski house, which Dara had, eventually, bought back from the descendants of the Jarmans. If it was haunted, at least they were _old_ ghosts. They spent a lot of time riding horses. Traveling. Having people do double-takes and then, obviously, decide that they couldn't _possibly_ be the Spectre commanders. . . .so long as Dara kept her dark glasses on, anyway. They read books that they hadn't had time for in years. Sat down and wrote their recollections of the various wars and beyond the relays exploration expeditions they'd been on. And memorialized every one of their missing companions in those pages.

It helped. It helped to work through the accumulated pain, and force themselves to realize that it, like everything else, would pass. They'd just had a huge collection of it, all at once, as their contemporaries passed.

Over the course of the year, Dara and Eli talked about it, and decided that while they had plenty of new faces constantly cycling through base, as the result of the two-year recruitment cycle, what they felt a need for, in the face of so many endings, was _generativity_. New projects. New hobbies. New interests. And one of the 'long-term projects' that they actually found that they missed. . . was children. And so, Dara had her workers make royal jelly for her. And for the first time in over fifty years, she was pregnant when she returned to Mindoir. "It's this," Dara told Eli, "or I'm going to find myself wandering the rachni tunnels, cooing over Joy's eggs."

"You do that anyway. You go down there and sing to them before they hatch all the time."

"Shh. No one's supposed to know I do that."

Dempsey whistled at them when they came into the office in the middle of the big villa. "Don't have to ask what you guys did for stress relief on Earth, do I?"

"Shut up," Dara told him.

"Better yet, knowing you guys' luck, _and_ your kids' luck, it's twins again, isn't it?"

Eli snorted. "Yeah. I tell myself it could be worse. It could be triplets."

"Christ, no. That's the last thing I want," Dara said, laughing. Laughter had been in short supply for the years before their sabbatical, and it helped to be able to do it again.

Dempsey stood. Walked across the room, and kissed Dara's forehead, before shaking Eli's hand. "Welcome back. You can take your damned jobs back _any day_ now. I don't know how you two deal with the fucking Council, but the new budget is on your desk, Eli. I did my best with it, and Zhasa threw dimples at them, but you're going to have to work your mojo on the bean counters."

And with that, it was back to work again.

2279 marked something of a new era on base, as Melaani and Samiel, somewhat ahead of schedule for two such young asari, discovered that Mel was pregnant with their first child. Dara oversaw the first scans of the infant in Melaani's womb. "You two _do_ know what causes this?" she needled.

"Hey, _you_ prescribed the matron-stage birth control. I've been taking it!" Melaani said, indignantly.

"It couldn't be that the two of you have been sharing like bunnies for eighty years that could _possibly_ have caused you to hit matron-stage early, which destabilized your body's hormones?" Dara asked, archly.

Samiel gave her a dark look. "Just tell us what the scans say."

"Well, that lump's the head. Those are the arms. Those are the legs. That right there? Tells me it's a boy." Dara kept her tone deliberately casual. "I'll need to get a sample of the baby's DNA for analysis, because I can't tell from here if we're talking hermaphrodite or full male. We'll get someone in here with a needle. It'll be a little uncomfortable, Mel, but it'll also tell us what degree of SRY-positive genes we're looking at. Since you're both SRY-positive. . . and Samiel's _very much so_, this should be interesting."

Two days later, after they'd redone the tests twice, just to make sure, Dara gave them the news. "Well, at least you two are probably the two most qualified people in the universe for handling this."

"Male?" Melaani asked.

"Fully."

"Ardat-yakshi?" Samiel asked. Dara pretended not to notice the fact that he and Melaani had death grips on each other's hands.

"Oh yes. From the genetic structure, he's going to be a lot like his daddy. Another perfect storm." She gave him a look. "Maybe we'll get lucky and he'll inherit Melaani's sunny disposition, eh?"

Melaani gave Dara a brilliant smile. "We can hope."

Samiel attempted to scowl at both of them, and blatantly failed.

Dara let her smile spread. It was so damned nice to give _good_ news for a change.

And so, in 2280, Melaani gave birth to an ardat-yakshi son—one with predispositions for empathy, domination, and reave. Laessia stared at her tiny grandson, held uncertainly in Samiel's arms, and just shook her head in a daze. "The galaxy has changed so _much_ in so short a time," she finally said. "And here, today. . . I can see how much for the _better_."

Siege and Dances were both on hand to meet the new addition to the Spectre family, Dances quietly crooning over the infant in mellow blues-and greens that made the infant asari's eyes glaze over into peaceful sleep after a couple of hiccupping sobs. And Siege held out his metal hands for the blanket-wrapped lump, and with no discernable hesitation, Samiel placed the boy in Siege's massive paws.

After a long moment, Siege, who had long since fully hybridized every single runtime in his platform to human-geth or turian-geth, said, ". . .We want one. We shall speak with Mercuria when she returns from her current mission."

Eli, who'd just poked his head in the door, and had one of his and Dara's new twins up on his shoulders, "Yours won't be little or cute, you realize."

"That is irrelevant to us."

Samiel, giving the geth a dubious look, added, "Siege, you provided runtime templates for six of the SR-5s, and one of _them_ was requested to provide for the SR-6s."

"This is different." Siege rocked the baby, solely in his massive metal paws, not, apparently, daring to put it on an armor-plated shoulder.

Dara shook her head. Mercuria could say _no_, but. . . it wasn't as if synthetics with runtimes based on organic templates didn't experience the impulse for generativity. It was, as far as Dara was concerned, the biggest single reason to consider them _alive_. She changed the subject, turning back to Samiel and Melaani. "You guys pick a name yet?" Dara asked the asari couple.

"Jannil," Samiel said, again, with no hesitation. "For my father."

Dara gave little Jannil a kiss on his blue forehead, and left them alone. It was hard to look at Samiel and Melaani, here with their first child, and not compare them, unfortunately, to Kirrahe Orlan and Narayana, now in the Mausoleum for decades. Narayana's first clutch had been laid in 2203. Their first grandchildren? 2214. Salarian generations passed in ten-increments, more or less. As such? As of 2274, Narayana and Kirrahe had great-great-great-great-great-great-grandchildren. Eight generations, hanging like beads suspended in time. Every one of their first-born children was now dead. Every one of their grandchildren. Every single one of their great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren. Three generations were still around, and Dara couldn't even _count_ how many of them there were, both here on Mindoir, off on Tosal Nym and Aphras, on Bastion. . . some were even working their way through university on Sur'Kesh.

It was. . . dizzying. Painful. Exciting, in a way. But it hurt to think about, so Dara shut down the part of her mind that whispered, again, _everything passes_, and got back to work. She and Eli had a trip to Earth scheduled for a security conference, and they used the SR-5 _Normandy_ to get there; Li'l Joker was, and probably always would be the NCAI for it. "I'm not going anywhere, so long as there's a _Normandy_ to fly," he'd told him.

So there were little moments to cherish. And it was the moments that mattered, Dara had come to realize. Eli had, at the birth of each of their children, gotten her another rachni crystal shard, filled with the birth-songs, the first glimpse of each tiny face. At the marriages of their children. At the birth of grandchildren. At each point in time, like beads on a string, or nodes in a web. Graduations. The commissioning of ships. Peace treaties. They'd long since taken up too much room to be just a bracelet; she'd shifted them into a necklace, which she generally wore on special occasions now. A scintillating weave of memories and time, each preserved perfectly, like an insect in amber. And sometimes, they'd sit together, after a long day, and review those memories, before putting the crystal weave back away again.

Siege was able to persuade Mercuria to attempt the experiment of creating fully hybridized, geth-NCAI offspring. They started with a self-learning program, based strongly on the underlying code Kirrahe Orlan had used in creating Yana, decades ago, but the two synthetics selected outstanding personality facets from one another, and randomized the traits, into two separate personality matrices. Siege had appreciated the speed with which an NCAI could make decisions, and thus, did not want a gestalt consciousness for these offspring; rather, they would have underlying 'subconscious' segments that would form consensus among themselves, and transmit information up to the conscious persona for decision-making. The two synthetics also decided to permit these offspring far more free will than NCAIs typically were given; they were allowed access, from their first moment of consciousness, to information and data sets, to allow _them_ to learn. They were permitted to interact with both Consensus and the NCAI network freely, as they determined for _themselves_ what sort of platforms and specializations they would like to adopt.

Even their names were self-chosen: Mjolnir and Valkyrie. Both 'twins' asked for help in designing their platforms. Both had mobile, humanoid bodies, which were sleek and still visibly mechanical, but with mobile, expressive faces, and heads that swept back, like aquiline teardrops, in a subtle echo of the turian fringe. Mjolnir's body was built along the same massive lines as a CROWD, but along the form of a turian male, complete with a cowl and a humanoid head, protected by that cowl-like structure. Valkyrie was slender, but built along the lines of a human female, with energy blades and could deploy wing-like energy shields as well, for when she absolutely had to fight outside of ship-self. She also had minimal mass effect generators—all miniaturized—in her body, allowing her lift capability. . . and, taking advantage of her platform's agility, she could also learn at least the very basics of the Wind that Bends.

These bodies served as the actual CPUs of their ship-selves. Mjolnir's ship-self was an assault shuttle, akin to a breaching pod; he had room aboard for assault troops, from human, turian, and quarian marines to CROWD platforms. Valkyrie's was a strike fighter, heavily armed, and with no room for a crew.

And their parents were—for Mercuria's part, at least—both proud of and intrigued by these new creatures.

These moments of peace, however, didn't last. They never did. The asari involved in the Tears of the Moon had gone underground for decades, and now returned with a vengeance. It was actually uncanny. Samiel Viridian's psychological tests, conducted by Sky, using the Sower simulation device back in 2198, had predicted what transpired in 2181, with only one deviation: the simulation had placed it a hundred years later, in the 2200s.

What happened, was this: the Tears of the Moon radicals, who'd long studied the SRY sections of the genome, created a virus specifically tailored to target _only_ people who had these recessive genes. The virus was designed to be fatal, and, if not fatal, to target the reproductive organs, much in the way that the human disease known as mumps, could render an adult male sterile.

There was little warning; there had been a handful of cases of something doctors thought was a new variant on Skyllian flu on Niacal, where Sisu had been working, organizing a new set of peaceful 'awareness raising' demonstrations. He contacted his mother, Ylara, and mentioned a headache and a touch of fever. A day later, she received word from the local med bay that he'd been admitted with a fever pushing 107º Fahrenheit. Ylara went to him, immediately, and, as soon as he was stable enough to transport, got him off-world, and back to the Mindoir base.

Unfortunately, he was hardly the first person infected. There were dozens of asari Spectres, many of them were SRY-positive, and all of them constantly traveled. It was the nature of the job. The disease surged through the asari population on the base. Half of Niacal was under a quarantine, as were large sections of Illium, Astaria, and Luisa. Melaani fell ill. Ylara did, as well. Siara, on Tuchanka, wasn't sick, but she and the rest of the asari population battened down the hatches, refusing any immigration for the time being.

Samiel himself, was untouched by the disease. He had every single recessive trait, and the virus didn't recognize them, when all were in combination. That was the other small deviation from the original vision: Jannil Viridian, less than a year old, was _not_ in the med bay with his mother, both of them struggling for life. Samiel apparently had plans to talk to Sky about this. Dara, herself, was disturbed; even Sky was disquieted. The simulations weren't meant to be _this_ accurate.

"We've got a lead on where the hot labs for this mess are located," Dara told Samiel, Siege, and Dances. "We still want answers. Don't kill everything that moves in there."

"That being said?" Eli told them, grimly, "This is a chastisement mission. An Archangel mission, if you will."

"No," Dara said, dryly. "An _Anathema_ one." She looked up at the three of them bleakly. "Answers first, though. We want the heads of the people _behind_ this, not just the lab flunkies."

"You're not the only ones," Samiel told her, through his teeth.

"I'd go with you," she told them, "but it's all hands on deck in the med bay. I might be a little rusty, but I can give cooling baths with the best of them." She looked at Samiel. "We're going to do our best for Mel. She's a trooper. She'll pull through."

The evidence they uncovered from the hot labs was enough to turn matriarch against matriarch. The Tears of the Moon had had help and financing from some of the biggest names in asari space. A pre-emptive first-strike, escalating what had been a social revolution into an actual civil war. Astaria was already outside of Sisterhood space. Niacal _seceded_ from the Council of Sisters, and petitioned the Alliance for admission as a protectorate or client state. Warships were dispatched from Luisa, and there was a tense standoff in the skies over the jungle planet between the human-turian fleet and the asari one. It was resolved, diplomatically, with Niacal becoming a _turian_ client state with a hundred year contract with the Hierarchy; at the end of a century, the planet would revert back to the Sisterhood, unless Niacal renewed the contract. "Turians and contracts," Eli said, chuckling, and looked over his shoulder, as if to trade a grin with Linianus or Rinus. . . and then looked away again.

Dara caught the gesture, and put a hand on his shoulder.

Melaani recovered, without damage to her brain or internal organs; Ylara did, as well. Even Sisu recovered, but Telluura was in a coma for six months, before awakening, and had to learn, all over again, how to walk and control her biotics. Tulluust, her father, now very old for an elcor, helped her stand. Helped her learn to eat again. And not long after she'd taken her first newly-unaided steps, Tulluust passed away. He was close to two hundred, a long life, lived well, by elcor standards. Ylara was devastated; her elcor mate had been one of the steadying factors in her life as a Spectre.

In 2285, Madison approached Dara and Eli, looking uncomfortable as he stood in their office. "Look," he said. "I'm not asking for me. But I _am_ asking for Amara. She's not getting younger, and it's . . . hard on both of us. She turned ninety-eight this year. So did, well, Kaius. Caelia's ninety-five—"

"I know how old she is," Eli told him, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He didn't like thinking of his little sister as _aging_, but she was. She might only look middle-aged, thanks to the longevity treatments, but she looked older than he did. By far.

Madison grimaced. Since the husk nanites had infiltrated his system, he hadn't aged a day, either. He still looked twenty-eight, which, beside his wife's late-forties appearance, was growing increasingly cruel. "I think it's time we all talked about Excalibur for them." He was, of course, four years older than Amara. 102.

Eli exhaled and put his face down in his hands. He hadn't wanted to face this moment. He'd known it was coming, but he'd successfully put it to the back of his mind for years at a time. To his relief and gratitude, Dara took over the conversation. "They're the first hybrids," Dara said, gently. "Kaius is the first, damnit, turian, or at least, _human-turian_ member of the Order of the Wind. Amara's biotics are way beyond human-normal. Caelia's Kaius' wife, and I know he wouldn't go into Excalibur without her. This has all sort of been planned for, Mad." She paused, and Eli could feel the wave of sorrow coming off of her now. "That leaves me with one question, though."

Eli lifted his head. "Yeah. What are we going to do with _you_?"

Madison looked glum. "I . . . want to go with her," he said, slowly. "On the other hand. . . "

"You're still young," Eli said, quietly.

"Yeah. I'm not done learning everything Laessia and Samiel can teach. Hell, I'm still teaching the new kids—god. The new _Spectres_, as they come through. I'm in charge of evaluating their biotics and getting them up to speed." He rubbed at his face.

"You qualify on your own merits," Eli told him, reaching out and taking Dara's hand, unconsciously. Felt her fingers tighten on his. "Second human in the Order of the Wind. First one to _ever_ master the biotic blade. You're the only person around who actually understands the Reaper/Sower language. If there's anyone we _need_ in fifty thousand years, it's you."

"It's up to you and Amara," Dara said. "But I'd . . . kind of welcome having another face around here that isn't going to vanish on us." Her lips curled faintly. "And I think your dad and Zhasa would, too."

And so, Madison _stayed_. He held Amara tightly. Kissed her goodnight. And whispered, "I'll be there when you wake up, sweetheart. I swear that I will. We're forever, you and me."

Caelia and Kaius were, like many couples, opting for the same pod. Eli came over and said his goodbyes, kissing his sister on the forehead. "Goodnight, Duck," he said, and he used, consciously, the same casual tone he'd always used when she was a toddler. "I'll see you in the morning, okay, sleepyhead?"

"You're such a jerk," Caelia told him, without rancor. "How does Dara stand you?"

And then she looked into Kaius' eyes. . . .and then they, too, were sleeping. Frozen between the pods that held Kaius' parents, and the single pod that held Lantar and Ellie.

This one hit home for Eli the way many of the other interments hadn't. "At least this should be the last one for a while," Dara told him, looping an arm around his waist as they trudged, with the others, up out of the Mausoleum. Dempsey had his hand on Madison's shoulder, as the younger male fought back the tears. Dara could sense the second-guessing going on in Madison, and Eli could feel it through her. "There's always time to change your mind," Eli told Madison, trying to keep his voice steady. "That's the thing about living on this side of time from them. There's. . . plenty of time to reconsider."

Time. . . passed.

In 2290, the human-turian hybrid population reached 4,000 people, total, out of a galactic population in the billions. This was still a significant milestone; they would need about 6,000 more individuals to a genetically viable, self-perpetuating subspecies. By 2295, the face of Mindoir had shifted, yet again. Polina's continuation of her father's xenobiological practices had, with the cooperation of colonial officials, spread the levo-dextro ecology over the entire planet, infiltrating every biome. It was now falling into a sort of equilibrium, and the rachni now had established a co-existence agreement that allowed them off the Spectres' preserve, and had established smaller hives near Odessa, La Garra, and Takinawa, with rachni crystals strung out between the hives for communication purposes. The humans found their rachni neighbors to be a little disquieting at first, and then, as they all adapted to one another, found them to be incredibly useful. Quiet neighbors, hardly ever seen, as the rachni tunneled under the human cities. Joint power plants were developed. Rachni brood-warriors and soldiers joined the local police forces. The humans were, at first, concerned with the possibility of 'thought-police' developing. . . until they realized how wholly uninterested rachni were in most things that humans thought were concerns. They had, finally, been able to wrap their heads around the concept of theft (it had taken decades; they were accustomed to the idea of one hive raiding another, but if something moved from area to area inside the same hive, it hardly seemed important, at first.). They were, however, _death_ on murder, rape, kidnapping, assault, and child abuse. (In point of fact, several of the brood-warriors in Odessa were of Dances' progeny, and capable of _hopping_ directly to a distress call. The first time they were sent in after a child abuser, one rachni landed _on top_ of the perpetrator. The other picked up the child in gentle chelicerae and popped directly to the med bay. There was some bitching about due process and the need for a trial, but the rachni replied, in some confusion, that they'd heard the entire series of events, and what were they to do? Wait until the child was dead?)

_Considering_ doing harm wasn't enough to get a rachni to tap on a door. Actively pursuing it? Absolutely was. The humans of Mindoir's cities didn't consider this giving up liberty for security. They came to think of it as . . . harmony prevailing over dissonance. It took a few decades. But generations of children were growing up on Mindoir for whom the dark was not frightening. And none of them were afraid of spiders.

In 2296, Takeshi and Emily came home to Mindoir with a highly unusual request, and two newly-built android bodies; they were heavily leveraged from the same technology that had been used to build Mercuria, Cassandra, and Pelagia's mobile platforms.

The catch was, that both of the bodies were precisely patterned after Takeshi and Emily, when they'd been around thirty years of age. Dara and Eli stepped around the androids, carefully. Studied them, and Takeshi and Emily. Her brother. His half-sister. "I, ah. . . have a sneaking suspicion that I know what this is about," Dara said, after a long moment, staring into the middle-aged face of her baby brother, her heart sinking in her.

"Relax," Takeshi told her. "We know we don't qualify for what Mom and Dad and Lantar and Ellie are doing."

Eli cleared his throat. "They told you?"

"We got hints, and we're not dumb," Emily told her older brother, crisply. "We want to do something different."

Takeshi tapped the mech body that was his double. "This? These have rachni computer cores. Crystal ones, similar to the ones that house Lysandra. We want to be uploaded into them."

Dara stepped around now, herself. Sat on the edge of Eli's desk in their office, staring at the synthskin-covered bodies. "Keshi. . . " her throat ached. "Dr. Solus was _really_ big on the law of unintended consequences. If that kind of technology becomes _common_, we'll have. . . two populations. The living, the organically-alive, I mean. . . and an ever-increasing population of people who have uploaded to machine bodies. Who may or may not. . . _be_. . . the original consciousness. . . "

"They'd be the original consciousness if the _device_ was used," Emily said, holding up a hand. "I grew up in the same house as you did, first-brother." She looked up at Eli. "We know it's not for everyone. But, that being said?"

"Why _couldn't_ people upload their consciousnesses to crystal-matrix computers?" Takeshi said, calmly. "It'd be better than a gray box. And a better memorial for their loved ones, in the end. They'd retain consciousness, awareness. Could still participate in many of the things they enjoyed in life. Sure, they wouldn't be mobile, unless they made provisions for that in life. Not everyone would chose to do it. Some people would refuse on religious grounds, for certain."

Dara held up both hands. "Whoa. Wait. Stop. We've just barely gotten AIs legal in the past hundred years or so. The vast majority of AIs that were created directly from an organic brain template _went insane_. James is the only exception, and even he has geth code in there to stabilize him. Now you want. . . god. A human consensus?"

"Still individuals," Keshi told her. "Millions, even billions of voices. Collected experiences. Over time, I wouldn't doubt if some of the original actual _minds_ degraded, and left just memories." He looked at her, unblinkingly. "It's not all that different from your voices-of-memory, Dara. The rachni just sang the memories into the stone, sometimes with attendant fragments of consciousness, sometimes without. We'd be encoding them as consciousnesses."

Dara rubbed her face again. "Keshi. People are _not_ ready for that. Hell, it's pretty much what the quarians tried with their ancestor AIs. People who don't have the money for upload will scream that it's their _right_, and even figuring out who gets . . . preserved. . . is hellish enough in a small population, like, oh, say, the Spectre base." She looked at him soberly. "That's the kind of thing you can only offer when you can ensure it's offered to everyone."

"And I can just see some Luddite taking a hammer into the server cores," Eli muttered, shaking his head.

"Yes," Emily told them both, patiently. "But that's all. . . far future thinking. The Spectres _have_ wanted a way to preserve knowledge in case there's another Cycle. This is a possibility, and wouldn't involve just a handful of people, like messages in a bottle." Her blue eyes caught and held theirs. "But that's way past what Keshi and I were here for, today. This? This is just the first step towards that possible future." She tapped the mech that looked like her. "And even this is. . . just an experiment, not the big step itself." She paused. "And, let's face it. What happens at the start of the next Cycle if the bodies of our parents and everyone else haven't survived? I mean, I assume you put them into cryo-pods of some sort. But what's the alternative? Hope that the geth have come up with something for us? Or take the first steps for ourselves?"

So over the next three years, they worked on the mechs, and experimented with uploading. Still, the only method that they could contrive, with current technology, that provided continuous consciousness, was the Sower device. Emily and Takeshi had their bodies ready for when old age did catch up with them, in 2305. And they uploaded into those new mech bodies, and were immediately got back to _work_ on their project: providing bodies for the Excalibur travelers, if there were a need.

Time passed. . . . new Spectres. New problems. The asari civil war wouldn't _end_, but things taken at an asari pace never really did die down in a polite decade or so. 2325 arrived, and with it, Sky and Dances hauled themselves, wearily down to Joy-Singer, to pay the Mindoir queen one last homage. Sky had been there when she hatched, and queens outlived brood-warriors, easily. A life-span of three hundred years, as opposed to a hundred and fifty, on average.

_It is time,_ Sky sang, including Dara in his song; Dara was perched, at the moment, alongside Joy on the queen's low dais. _We are almost at the end of our long songs._

_Will you deprive the hive of your wisdom and your voice-in-memory, Sings-to-the-Sky? I have ever relied on you. Your counsel-songs._ Joy sang, softly, a threnody in violets and grays. She turned her enormous eyes on Dances. _And I do not wish to be without your songs, Dances-in-Frozen-Starlight. _He had, long ago, taken the position of most-favored-mate, and now rustled closer to lean against his queen's side, with a rasp of chitinous carapaces.

_No. I do not wish to sing without hearing your voice in the chorus, either, my queen._ Dances' voice was _made_ of violet at the moment. _But I am weary. This body has been damaged many times, in battle. I stood beside my brothers in the Battle of the Line, and Sings-Heartsong repaired me, but the hurts have been many over the years. I have sung my songs. Given them to others to sing, and now we sing among the stars. We light the way for others, so that they will not fear the dark, and so that they will always know that they are not alone._

_But you would leave __me__ alone._ Joy's voice was almost piteous, harmonies of absolute heartbreak, and Dara curled into her daughter's side, wrapping an arm as far as she could, up and over the enormous flank.

_Never alone,_ Dara sang back to Joy. _Never alone. Always voices. _

_But not the ones I love._

_Everything passes, dear one. It is the only wisdom I've come to. Everything passes. _Dara managed to raise her head, and looked at Sky and Dances. "So. Excalibur?"

_Truth-Singer told me that if I were not there at the end of time, she would sing anger-songs. I would not wish to make her sing distress._ Sky gathered Dara up with chitinous handling appendages, and she put her face against his side now, feeling the hot tears streak down her face and against his flank. _I do not wish to make you sing distress either, little queen. Nor Joy-Singer. But . . . it is time. _

Joy had wrapped one of her own large appendages around Dances now, and was crooning in pure distress, her sorrow picked up by every other voice in the hive. _Sing with me,_ she asked. _Sing with me before you go._ _Give your memories to me, and to the stone._

Not a week later, Medium, the geth caretaker, was in the difficult position of trying to fit rachni bodies into the cryo-pods. Siege and Samiel were there to see off their battle-brother; Cohort and Gris had both returned to base to see off theirs.

The rachni mourning-songs reverberated through the entire Mausoleum, carried on physical wavelengths this time. Dara rubbed away the tears, and asked, hopelessly, "I don't suppose, Medium, that you can sing worth a damn? Because. . . it's going to sound. . . .really weird. . . hearing them talk out loud."

"We have been equipped with a biotic radio," Medium informed her. "We can thus transmit the rachni's communications. However, we judge it best for the comfort of others that we do not attempt to sing in any audible sense of the word."

Cohort translated, "Medium-Caretaker means that it is tone-deaf."

"We are not. Our ability to distinguish pitch falls within acceptable parameters."

"We attempted to communicate your meaning in a vernacular fashion. We stand by our accuracy."

Gris just stared at the pods. "Vaul. I. . . really didn't expect to be standing here, someday, mourning a rachni."

Cohort turned and studied him. "Did you expect to mourn a friend?"

"I never thought he'd _die_. He seemed. . . as long-lived as a krogan. As durable."

Cohort nodded. "When we disperse our runtimes back into Consensus, to add to the complexity of the whole, we ask that you do not grieve. We will still exist. In a more tangible way than the rachni, who become mere memory-songs. Gris-Friend." The geth's tone was firm. "Do not grieve."

"May as well tell the sun not to set, Cohort. It's going to happen whether you want it to or not."

_We are all one_, Joy sang, but there was doubt in her voice. _But their loss. . . diminishes us_.

_Everything passes. . . . _Dara thought. Sky and Dances passing once again opened that bleeding wound in her heart, and again, she wearily damned Shepard and Garrus for leaving it to _them_ to say all the farewells.

A week later, however, Joy did call Dara, Eli, Samiel, and Siege down into the labyrinthine warren of passages under the base, where her latest collection of eggs pulsed. Dara promptly lost track of time, wandering among the eggs, talking to them, finding a soldier egg out of place, and pushing it back into its spot with a gentle finger, and singing under her breath.

"Why are we here?" Samiel asked.

_To sing a new song,_ Joy told them. _This has never been done before. But I think it may work._ The queen touched an egg that was on her dais. _This egg sings with Dances' songs. It has only his life-song in it, none of mine. And I have been singing his memory-songs into it. _

All around them, the rachni sang and sang, as the eggs began to hatch, thousands of workers emerging, tiny and damp, soldiers splitting out of their eggs next, as the workers immediately began to consume the outer, sac-like housings. The brood-warrior eggs rocked, and split, and Joy looked down at the one she'd so carefully nurtured, as the tiny brood-warrior, no larger at birth than a dog, looked up and around, in some confusion. _Brothers?_ he sang, and there was _no _mistaking that voice. _Sings-Battle? Sings-Solitude? What has happened? _

Dara's throat closed, and she reached up and put a hand on Siege and Samiel's shoulder. "We'll leave you guys to get re-acquainted," she said, quietly. _Serial reincarnation. The rachni can manage it. The geth can manage it. Not too many others._

Time passed. Joy-Singer raised clutches, and rachni point-to-point transit became the dominant method of passenger transportation in the galaxy over the next seventy years. The relays remained in use for cargo and large convoys, particularly military ones, but the rachni method was simply more _efficient_. The geth attempted to replicate the ability for their own use, with limited success; by and large, they found it more effective to have a rachni dancer on their ships and link geth technology with rachni tech.

In 2400, the yahg were, by and large, considered rehabilitated by the geth. Enough so to enter galactic society on a limited basis. They had, in two hundred years, given up cannibalism, and had adopted an agrarian society, successfully domesticating animals for their protein needs, and finding alternative sources of protein in plants that they had never successfully farmed before, in all of their history. The geth brought a yahg delegation to the Council, and they petitioned for admission, so that they might _trade_ ideas and items of value.

Siege, Cohort, and Composite were on hand to see that, as were Eli, Dara, Dempsey, Zhasa, Rel, and Madison, alongside Siara, Makur, and Gris. They mostly kept out of sight, but the humans, the quarian, and the turian were the last survivors of the yahg-batarian war who _weren't_ asari, krogan, or geth.

They returned back to Mindoir, and Dara and Eli called a meeting, at their house. They poured the absolute best wine from the Pace-K'sar vineyards, and _caprificus_ brandy for Zhasa and Rel. Eli lifted his glass in the warm comfort of the living room he and Dara had shared for so long, and said, simply, "A toast." He looked around. "To absent friends."

Dempsey looked down into his glass. "Absent friends. Rinus."

Zhasa cleared her throat. "Seheve."

Rel nodded, looking at her with clear gratitude for saying the name he _couldn't_. "Valak. Lin."

Dara looked into her wine. "Kallixta. Serana. Sky." Her voice broke.

"Garrus. Sam. Lantar. Lilitu. Ellie. _Tulluust._" That, from Ylara, who looked off into the distance, pain behind the calm in her eyes.

"Dances," Samiel offered. Then he paused. "Sort of. Rinus, yeah."

"Amara," Madison said, in a haunted tone. "Kaius. Severus. Caelia. Elissa. Alain." Elissa, Alain, and Severus had been preserved a few years after Rinus and Kallixta, on the grounds that they were original stock human-turian hybrids; they'd offer genetic variability in the future. And, as Dara had said at the time, _Shepard doesn't need to wake up and see only half her kids here._

Eli nodded, and added, "Fors."

They all drank, and were absolutely silent for a long moment. "So," Dempsey said, quietly. "Did you bring us here just to depress us?"

"Kind of," Eli said, and wrapped his arm around Dara, who turned into him, and buried her face in his shoulder. "Guys. . . we're. . . not getting any younger."

"You're not getting any older, either," Dempsey said, hastily.

"We may not look it," Eli said, and he ran his hand up under Dara's hair to rub at her scalp, "and hell, we may not act it every day. . . but we're tired."

"And I can't bury any more friends," Dara whispered, and felt Melaani's hand come down on the her shoulder.

"I know precisely how you feel," Ylara said, quietly. "I'm not ready to go yet. I've just come into my power as a matriarch, and there's entirely too much left to do in asari space. But there will come a time when I'll want to set the burdens down, as well." She looked at them both. "I will miss you both. My not-quite-a-son, and his _marai'ha'sai_."

"So. . . you're stepping down?" Madison asked. "Or are you going into Excalibur?"

It was a fair question. Eli kissed Dara's forehead lightly. "Dara qualifies. First human-rachni queen. To say nothing of all her actual accomplishments." He exhaled, and joked, "Me, I'm just the dope she happened to marry—"

_Stop that!_ It lanced out, from Joy and from Dara at the same time, and Eli pretended to flinch. "He qualifies on his own," Dara said, not looking up. "Clan-leader of Sidonis for _how_ many years—"

"I stopped counting, actually—"

". . . asari genes _without_ being born a hybrid—"

"Not actually to my credit—"

"Just, for once, drop it, would you, Eli?" Dara's voice was very tired.

And Eli did. He dropped every pretence of good humor, and wrapped his arms around her, and let people see how tired they both really were. "It's. . . just time. And we're going together. It's that simple."

Dempsey was actually giving them both a stunned look, and the hurt there, however quickly he shielded it, was hard for Dara to bear. He waited for the others, besides Zhasa, to leave, before he and Zhasa moved over to the couch. Zhasa wrapped her arms around Dara and just cried. Silent communion between the four of them. They'd become very damned close, over the course of so many years, and the mental connection was easy. _Please don't leave,_ Zhasa begged, and Dara could actually hear that echoed by Dempsey. _I don't know what the hell we'll do without you._

_You'll be in charge,_ Eli said, simply. _The way you were whenever we went on vacation. No one more suited than you two._

_We'll be following you into that hole in the ground in a hundred years. Two hundred, tops. No one can do this job for long without it taking a toll._

And so, on a wintery Mindoir morning, Eli and Dara went down below Painted Rock Caves. Where their story together had begun in a night of darkness and blood. They stood in the cryo-pod together, their wedding-knives on their wrists. Dara had, quite deliberately, chosen not to wear a uniform today. She wore her wedding gown in rachni silk, and her web-of-memories necklace. Eli wore a dark suit. All of their children, including the youngest pair, Asha and Adam, only twenty-five, were there to see them off. All just as uncannily young as their parents; they were obviously taking after the rachni side of the family in terms of life-spans. Teagan and Lantus were clearly as broken-hearted as Joy was, weeping openly as they held their parents' hands, storms of music pouring out of them, and their siblings, as Dara struggled not to cry, herself. "Mom, Dad. . . " Lantus managed, out loud, and Teagan finished, silently, _Please don't go. _

_We have to. It's time. I don't want to go. Neither of us want to go. But it's time. _

Rel was there, and stared down at them in the pod, a look of torment on his face, before he lowered their spirit statue into the pod with them. "See you on the other side of time," he told them, and turned away, clearly fighting a losing battle with grief, before turning back. "You don't have to leave."

"It's this, or we're going to go insane," Eli said, tiredly.

Zhasa came over, and kissed them both, on the cheek, her eyes miserable. "I'll visit," she promised.

_I won't know it_, Dara thought. _The other me, in the upload device, will. But I won't._

Dempsey came over, and crouched by them for a long moment. He put a hand on Eli's shoulder, almost clenching it, and leaned down to kiss Dara, lightly. And through skin-contact, a vivid image: her face. The first one he'd seen on being awakened from cryo-sleep, in a pod just like this one, through a haze of pain and rage. _You guys helped me live again,_ he said, silently. _You've always been there, to either help me find control, or reassure me that someone __will__ put me on my ass if I need it. I don't know what I'm going to do without the two of you._ He swallowed. _Good night, Dara. Good night, Eli._

Dara was shaking by that point. _Oh, Eli. I don't want to go._

_Neither do I, __sai'kaea__. Neither do I. But we had a really good run. Amazingly good run, really, for two scared kids in a cave._ He leaned forward and kissed her. "I love you, Dara. Good night."

"And I love you, Eli. Sweet dreams."

The door closed on them.

_Everything. . . . _

_. . . . passes._

Nothingness.

**Mindoir, 2400 CE**

Dempsey looked around at Siege, Samiel, Melaani, Siara, Makur, and Ylara. Madison was there, but his son had made it clear he planned to join Amara in stasis in a year or two; decades of considering himself celibately married to a sleeping wife had worn on the young man. . . _hah. Young.. . . _and he wanted to join his wife in sleep. The sooner the better, but he didn't want to leave his father in the lurch, with Dara and Eli's retirement. _Considerate, I'll give him that_.

Siege, Samiel, and Melaani didn't seem to know what to do or what to say. Rel was still facing away from the rest, and Siara had a hand on his shoulder. Teagan and Lantus were packing up the other rachni-eyed children, and Dempsey could hear Joy keening through the floor as if her heart would break.

Or that it had already broken. Dempsey put his arm around Zhasa's shoulders, and found his way to the elevator, his strides heavy. Behind him, he could hear Melaani telling Ylara that she should come to dinner with her and Samiel. That they weren't going to let her spend the evening alone, when she'd just, effectively, buried two of her children.

Time passed.

**Mindoir, 2405 CE**

Dempsey sat in darkness, a glass of ryncol on the table next to him. The sound system in the house he shared with Zhasa was state of the art, and, at the moment, he was listening to old, old recordings. His own fingers on the guitar strings. Familiar fingers on the piano keys. A damned volus on percussion, and two familiar voices, lifted in song. One was male, a dark-toned baritone, cheerfully singing the old, old words. The other was female, low-toned alto blending perfectly with the male's.

It had been a bad day. A very damned bad day, in fact. A team had gotten wiped out beyond a new locked relay, an SR ship was _toast_—and not the worker kind, at that—and no one knew why. He was sending Madison out; his son was suiting up in Aeseti flowmetal armor, and would be heading out with Mercuria, Mjolnir, and any rachni Dempsey could grab to go with him. On days like these, Dempsey liked to relax with his friends.

And try to pretend that they weren't ghosts. "Told you, doc," he said to the empty air. "Sidonis told you, and I told you that you could sing."

The recording paused, and he could hear the voices in the background as they squabbled over what they'd play next. Zhasa laughing and telling them to _pick_ something. "If you guys don't pick, I'm starting an old chestnut like 'Red River Valley,'" Dara's voice threatened, and then Dempsey had hastily picked up the next song.

He knew the recording all too damned well now. He could mouth all the words with them. And it was, for god's sake, recorded on the chip in his head, too.

"Dempsey?" Zhasa said, from the other side of the door.

"Be out in a minute."

She opened the door, and came in. "They giving you any good advice?" she asked.

"The usual. Suck it up and do the job." Dempsey exhaled, and finished the last of the ryncol. "I'm not qualified for this, Zhasa-love. I can't talk the Council around like Sidonis could. You've got a better chance of that than I do, but. . . "

"Yes," Zhasa said, tiredly. "I can't pull the humans and the turians and even the asari the way Eli could."

"And I can't beat them over the head with the truth until they scream, either, like the doc could. What I am qualified to do, is shoot things till they die." He wrapped an arm around her. "I'll shut up now."

"Samiel and Siege are here," she said, quietly. "Come on out and talk with the living for a while, Dempsey."

_Me, the half-dead, talking to the almost-all-the-way-dead. I don't even need Medium to do up a séance for me._

Out in the living room, Dempsey looked at the pictures of the kids he and Zhasa had had. . . two hundred years ago, now. Well, that Dara had had for them. Halla and Jarek. They'd each had children of their own. . . Jarek had actually married a human, and Halla had married a quarian. The grandchildren came to visit, and the great-grandchildren with them. . . but it wasn't the same. He'd sat at Halla's bedside, and held his little girl's hand as she died of extreme old age, and quietly thanked whatever god there was that Madison had gotten _husked_, which was a horrible thing to be grateful for. . . but it meant that he _probably_ would never have to sit deathwatch for Madison. No, Madison might get his head blown off in the line of duty, but it wouldn't be a heart attack, like Jarek, or just plain. . . old age. . . like poor, beautiful Halla.

They'd had one other set of twins—courtesy of Dara, once again. Illa'Demsi and Tasar'Demsi. These younger two were still alive, at least. Dempsey let his eyes dwell on their faces on the shelf, for a moment, and then he took a seat on the sofa. "What can I do for you two?" Dempsey asked.

"You could tell us how you are doing," Siege suggested. "Statistically speaking, there is an extremely high probability, however, that you will tell us that you are 'all right,' or 'fine.'" The geth canted his red optic at Samiel. "We have a bet as to which it will be."

A very faint smile quirked the corners of Dempsey's mouth. "Try 'screw you,' instead." He paused. "And, actually, I'm fine. Zhasa, you're fine, right?" He looked down at her where she sat alongside him on the couch, in time to catch her sidelong glance and headshake. _Oh, don't start, Zhasa-love._

_I didn't say anything,_ she protested. But he could tell from her sense that even as bright and vivacious as she still was, she was anything other than _all right_ today.

"Just been a bad day," Dempsey said, looking at the others. "For Zhasa, especially. Me, you know. Very few functioning emotions." It was . . . partially true. He'd definitely regained anger and love. Happiness was a paler thing, but it was there. Sorrow. . . he was starting to realize he had a greater capacity for it than he'd thought.

"Dempsey? I'm an _empath._" Samiel's reminder was emphatic. "You helped me through the domination events. Made sure I wouldn't just use it on everyone around me, out of pure reflex. You came for me when the Justicars had me locked down and ready for surgery, and you listened to me for _years_ after that." Samiel exhaled. "How about, if for once, you talk, and I listen?"

Siege offered, dryly, "There is another option. We can take him to the sparring rooms, and we can beat the _s'kak_ out of him until he bloodrages on us." The geth nodded, once. "A method with proven efficacy in the treatment of human mopes." He paused. "That is a technical term."

Zhasa stood, and went to a cabinet. Poured a couple of glasses of whiskey, and brought them over, setting them down. A light touch to Dempsey's shoulder. _Should I go?_

_You can stay if you want, Zhasa-love._ Dempsey looked down into the glass for a moment, and shrugged. "What's to say besides that I fucking miss them, Samiel?"

"Not much," Samiel acknowledged. "But there's nothing wrong with admitting it. Or admitting that you can still feel that much."

Dempsey drank the whiskey, and didn't feel it at all. This was why he kept the ryncol around. "Days like today? Five years ago, Sidonis would have told me to suit up, and I'd have been on the first ship heading out of here. And I'd have known that the home front was _taken care of_." Dempsey was rather surprised to find that he _was_ talking about this. He looked at Zhasa, and admitted, "Most of the time, I sit in their office and activate the chip just so I can work. I mean. . . it _is_ their office. There might be a plaque on the door that says 'Mindoir Historical Preservation Site: Office of Lilitu Shepard and Garrus Vakarian,' but. . . _they_ had the job longer."

Samiel chuckled. "Dara insisted that they put that damned plaque up."

Zhasa laughed, but it was a sound edged by tears. "Yes. She did. I think she was making a point. That they saw themselves as just . . . caretakers." She raised her head, and Dempsey was startled by the misery in her eyes, and kicked himself. _I'm sorry, sweetie. I didn't realize how much you were hurting, too._

_They were my closest friends besides you_. Zhasa put her head back down again, and just shook for a moment.

Samiel almost visibly braced against the washes of emotion in the room; for all that Zhasa and Dempsey were both skilled at blocking themselves off, it still showed, for him, Dempsey knew. "I miss them, too," he admitted, very quietly. "Other asari let this sort of thing . . . pass by. They distance themselves from the short-lived, in order to stay sane in a life that comprises. . . . a hundred generations of a single salarian family." Samiel looked down. "I'm only just starting to understand that perspective, myself. I . . . used to distance myself. Detach myself. I . . . still do." He rubbed at his face, in frustration.

"But we can't do that," Zhasa said, suddenly, and with all the open, gentle warmth and empathy that was a part of her nature. "Because if we do, we lose what it means to be in the moment, and we lose the ability to connect to others." She reached up and touched Dempsey's face.

"I know," Dempsey said, looking down at the floor. "Just. . . some days? I need to be allowed to let myself feel it. Even if it means I'm pissed at them for not being here to bitch with the rest of us at whatever stupid-ass thing the universe has handed us today."

**Parnack, 2415 CE**

A firefight on Parnack. Yahg rebels had sprung up, challenging the ascendancy of the nation of Urukkuara, which was ruled by the descendants of Urukhurr and Akkaura. They wanted to return to the bad old ways. Some people always did. The Urukkauran had petitioned for Council assistance in helping put down the rebellion, because it would threaten their seat on the Council, and it would imperil trade. Would imperil the fragile progress they'd made.

Cut off from the damned dropship. Dempsey had burned out almost every thread of biotic energy in his body, trying to get his people back to it. Hunkered down in cover, trying to build up enough reserves to pull his barrier back up again, trying to count, dimly, in his head, how many people they'd lost today. Rage wasn't going to be enough. He couldn't rage _and_ get the living back to the ship.

Rel put a hand on his shoulder. "I'll hold them off," the turian said, almost calmly. Conversationally. "You get the rest to safety."

"No, man, you can't do that."

"Of course I can. I was _born_ for a last stand, Dempsey." A hint of regret in that rasping voice. "Tell the others. . . .I'm sorry I can't make it. . . to the party at the end of time."

"We don't leave people behind, Velnaran!"

"I got left behind on Khar'sharn, once. Took me years to find myself again. It'll be okay. Just _go_." Implacable determination in that voice, and Dempsey realized, with a shock, that this was what the turian _wanted_. A blaze of glory, and not a hole in the ground.

_Seheve's never going to forgive you, man._

"I don't intend to die today, but if you don't get moving, we all _will_. Go!"

Dempsey backed up the ramp, still firing into the massed bodies of the incoming yahg. Two of their yahg allies were limping up into the dropship, guns sized for their massive paws still held in their hands, as they, too, tried to lay down covering fire for Rel, along with the turians and humans in the team with them. All of the humans and turians were too damned young to know of the yahg as anything other than the newest species in the Council, and the galactic bogeymen of a couple of hundred years ago. A few of them spoke a few words of yahg. All of the yahg spoke galactic. "Come on," Dempsey urged, trying to find Rel's thin, distinctive figure among all the yahg. "Come on!"

"_Go!"_ Rel's voice came over the radio. _"Take off! I can't get to you!"_

Dempsey swore, over and over, and slammed the wall of the gunship with a gauntleted fist, as the dropship took off, still taking heavy fire from the yahg on the ground. "We're coming back for you, Velnaran," he said into the comms. "You hear me? We're coming back."

The on-going fighting between the yahg insurgents made it very damned difficult, and the heavy concentration of eezo and radioactive isotopes in the area made it impossible to find Rel's biometric chip. Weeks passed. Then months.

Dempsey had grimly started to try to track down Rel's next-of-kin. . . .which, damn it all, happened to be a great-great-granddaughter on Aphras, who, from her great dark eyes, still had quite a few drell genes in her. . . when the geth received a message directly from the Urukkauran ruling council. _We have something of yours. Come and retrieve it._

Dempsey admitted, later, to the others, that he was very damned relieved when, through the hatch of Mjolnir's ship platform, he saw Rellus in the distance. That the turian had taken a beating was mostly evident from the armor. There wasn't a lot left of it, and the high temperatures and radioactivity inherent on Parnack had taken a toll even on someone with the regeneration of a krogan. "Ready to go home?" he asked Rel.

"Yeah. Think so. Think. . . I might be ready to sleep for a year."

"But not forever, right?"

"Not quite yet." Rel allowed the med techs to push him onto a gurney; he was actually setting off Geiger counters at the moment. "Though I'll admit. . . I don't feel so good right now."

The current yahg commander for Urukkauran boarded Mjolnir's platform, and rumbled at Dempsey, "The enemy called him _Urarzja'harza_."

Dempsey raised his eyebrows. The yahg knew enough human body language to understand the silent question. "The enemy that will not die."

"Yeah," Rel said, looking up at the ceiling. "That's me, all right. I don't know when the hell to quit."

They got him back to Mindoir. Got the worst of the radiation out of his body, and let the regeneration mod get to work, replacing the scales that had fallen out, and knitting the body back together from the massive cellular destruction he'd taken from the radiation. The gene mod was good. . . but not quite perfect. "I think," Rel said, a year later, looking a lot better than he had, but still thin and drawn, "that it might be time for the long sleep, anyway." He looked at Dempsey. "I'll send a good-bye to all the grandchildren. Not that they really know me, but. . . y'know." He shrugged. "Seheve would scale me if I didn't."

And thus, not long after that Dempsey shook Rel's hand, human-fashion, and said, "Been a pleasure working with you, Rel," and watched, expressionlessly, as the turian froze into place in a pod beside Seheve's.

Time passed.

**The Galaxy, 2450-2864 CE**

The galaxy changed and shifted over the hundreds of years that James Allen Dempsey and Zhasa'Maedan held control of the Spectres. The asari civil war drew to a close in 2553, out of pure exhaustion, and as most of the influential matriarchs who'd held cultural control began to die off. Aphras and Tosal Nym had fully-formed ecologies, and populations in the millions, as cities began to spread across them. A handful of Keepers moved from the Citadel to Etamis, and reestablished the cities there, working with the elcor to terraform the planet back into viability.

By 2700 CE, doctors on any number of worlds had encountered a problem that had probably not been entirely foreseen by the developers of the Solus hybridization process. For hundreds of years, doctors had counseled people who were half or three-quarters of one species or another, _not_ to interbreed with a third species. Thus, if someone were human-turian, they should not, probably, attempt to use the Solus process to produce offspring with an asari or a drell. The theory behind this strong suggestion was that the law of unintended consequences being what it was, that crossing _three_ species worth of genes could result in. . . wild mutations. Unexpected health problems for the offspring. Sterile offspring—mules, effectively.

The problem was, that by 2700 CE, there were very few people in the galaxy who didn't have genes from a different species in them. Oh, certainly, there were insular populations, like the Amish, or the Bushmen of the Kalahari, who didn't interbreed much with other humans, for example. Their genome remained unaffected; they were, in essence, base human genetic stock. But most people, on a galactic level, weren't insular. They were, in fact, the opposite. They traveled freely. They moved from world to world. They might not stay married to the same mate their whole lives. There weren't many people left who didn't have at least _one_ genome cluster from another species.

The turian-human hybrid population was the largest single group of hybrids, comprising a whole subspecies. Most of the red-blooded hybrids, or hurians, as they tended to like to call themselves, had pentadactylic hands. The blue-blooded hybrids, or turmans, had the two-fingered grip from their turian ancestry. They intermarried enough among themselves to maintain the appearance of the half-and-half phenotype first explored in Kaius, Amara, Caelia, Elissa, Alain, Estevan, Emily, Tacitus, and others of that generation. They numbered in the millions; the three-quarter hybrids, likewise, numbered in the millions. Those who were five or six generations removed from a human or a turian ancestor, and who looked, physiologically, identical to a human or a turian, but who still had genes, and who were still capable of consuming a certain amount of the other species' foods?

Numbered in the billions.

This was a drop in the bucket, compared to a galactic population of turians that had doubled from forty billion to eighty billion, and a human population that hovered near forty billion, itself. But they were there. And they weren't the only ones.

There was a burgeoning population of asari-krogan hybrids. Those born from krogan mothers tended to have larger body morphology, and more of the physical resilience of their krogan parentage, and hemoglobin-based blood; those born from asari mothers repeated the pattern set by Makira, daughter of Siara, and her other four children with Makur: blue-blooded, slender, taller than any asari, bulging eyes. . . and with a fully redundant nervous system and redundant biotic organs. . . some of the most powerful biotics in the galaxy. There were drell-turian hybrids on Aphras and Tosal Nym and Rakhana, too. There were human-quarian crossbreeds, and quarian-turian ones.

The doctors simply had to come to terms with the fact that there was almost no way in which they could ensure that there would be no 'mongrelization' at this point. Genes that were picked up from an ancestor would either be passed on, if beneficial, or would not be, if the offspring failed to thrive.

On Mindoir, the pattern established by the children of Elijah and Dara continued. The early generations all had twins, if they reproduced at all. Later generations slackened in this tendency, but by 2700, at a conservative estimate, they had 201,326,592 descendants on Mindoir and other worlds. Many of them did not express the full human-rachni physiology; Dara's traits would have passed, somewhat, into legend. . . except that the rachni affirmed, with the power of memory-song, that they were true. Thus, in a crowd on Mindoir, about one in ten people had the rachni-blue eyes of their common female ancestor. Another one in ten might find that when they channeled biotic power, their eyes might go dark, a phenotypic change from their male ancestor. But Dara and Joy-Singer's most lingering and subtle gift to Dara's descendants lay in their mitochondrial DNA, which was passed on solely by the mother to her offspring.

Every single one of Dara's descendants produced biotic energy at the cellular level, just as rachni did. The result was that there were, again, at a _conservative_ estimate, two hundred million humans in the galaxy with the potential for a rachni's empowered biotics. Many of the females still harbored Teagan's gift for biotic surgery, too.

By 2700, Mindoir was also a wholly human-rachni world, the two species being the two dominant ones, coexisting in a symbiotic relationship, largely facilitated by Dara and Eli's offspring, but Mindoir was also an enormously cosmopolitan world. There were enclaves of every species in its large cities, and there was something grown there that almost every species could eat. With the exception of the volus, naturally, and the other silicon-based life forms found beyond the relays.

Rachni lived in symbiotic relationships on other worlds as well. They and the geth frequently built together on planets too harsh for other species to tolerate, the two 'hive-minded' species getting along particularly well. Approximately twenty-five percent of the geth population now consisted of 'individual collective' platforms, some with hybridized runtimes, and some without; the other seventy-five percent remained 'traditional' geth. But this balance was intended to keep Consensus from becoming stagnant, and to allow them to continue to evolve.

Asari society had taken three major hits in five hundred years: the destruction of Thessia, the revelation of the SRY-positive population, and the introduction of the hybridization process, which allowed their people to have genuine offspring with other species for the first time. Out of chaos came a _golden era_. Just as the Renaissance on Earth was the product of multiple systems of thought clashing and interacting, new concepts coming out of conflict and change, so, too, did the asari experience a rebirth in this era.

Turian society, impacted so heavily by human society, became somewhat less rigid. They still retained the structures and customs that they revered and depended upon, but there was more freedom in their society than in any other time in the past.

The drell had a home world, a past to uncover, and a future to build. The salarians began to dismantle, in part, social restrictions that they had held in place for over three thousand years. . . . just as the batarians did. At 2700 CE, the batarians _had_ no more caste-system. They had gone over to a system of direct democracy, electing both their Assembly and their Minister. They didn't always pick leaders that the rest of the galaxy particularly liked or trusted. . . but such is the nature of democracy.

The yahg were staunch krogan allies, and an enclave of yahg actually lived on Tuchanka, and an enclave of krogan lived on Parnack. The two species liked hunting in each others' wilds. They were pretty much the only ones who _did._

Tuchanka, for its part, had cities once again. Squat towers, built in forms that pleased krogan for their defensibility, but built in shining plasteel, derived from the asari love of reflections and light, stood in groups, and the cities were surrounded by arable farmland, defended by clan protectors, who kept the vicious wildlife of the planet at bay. Some of these were used as yahg tourist traps, it must be said.

In 2776, Ulluthyr Harak, governor of Omega, knew that his body was failing him. He uploaded templates of his mind to Pelagia. . . and she allocated him server space. Now they controlled Omega, and their son, Xiphos, was the new governor. It was a little feudal, but Omega was a krogan place, though . . . cosmopolitan. Thus, for so long as Xiphos could hold Omega and Ulluthyr by strength, none of the krogan really seemed to mind. The female clan didn't even seem to mind; Pelagia remained the female clan-chief. Urdnot Wrex, by way of comparison, traveled to Mindoir in his final years, and accepted upload, as Shepard had asked him to, years before.

This meant that Gris was now shaman of Urdnot. . . and Urdnot Makur challenged for, and captured the leadership of Clan Urdnot. And with it, control of over half of Tuchanka.

And in 2864, Zhasa'Maedan and James Dempsey stepped down as the leaders of the Spectres. "You've had the longest tenure in office of any commanders, other than asari," a reporter asked them. "We're all aware of your nanite infiltrations. What's next for the two of you?"

"Retirement," was Dempsey's only reply.

"Does this mean you'll disappear like so many other Spectres have?"

"Don't know what you mean by that."

"Your predecessors, Dara and Elijah Sidonis, simply disappear from all records. Their predecessors, Garrus and Lilitu, of honored name, disappeared as well."

"We don't comment on on-going missions."

"Wait. . . what does that mean?" The reporter called after Dempsey helplessly, "Who will step in, in your place?"

Dempsey turned back. "The people most qualified. And after them, the next. It's how this goes."

The next co-leaders of the Spectres were set up, deliberately, as a triumvirate. Melaani, Samiel, and Siege. Checks and balances. And all three of them stared as they stood in the Mausoleum. Ylara had been preserved a hundred years before. And now Dempsey and Zhasa slumbered next to Dara and Eli, and beside Madison and Amara. "I wonder," Melaani said, slowly, "who's going to turn the lights off when it's time for us to leave."

"We will," Siege said.

"Yes. . . but what about when _you_ leave?"

Time passed.

Siara and Makur both chose to pass away on Tuchanka, surrounded by their children, on the world that they'd helped to build. Makira, their daughter, assumed leadership of the females of Tuchanka, by acclamation, while her brother, Selu, took control of the males of Tuchanka. . . in single combat against all comers.

Samiel and Melaani went into the Excalibur Project when Melaani was eleven hundred years old. Samiel could have held out a little longer, as the Patriarch of his people, but he didn't want to let Melaani go alone. Their children—an even mix of males and SRY-positive females, of whom two were Spectres, themselves—attended their interment.

As did Siege.

The last man standing.

**4000 CE – 50,000 CE**

In or around 4000 CE, Siege and Mercuria both decided that it was time to rest, after close to eight hundred years in charge of the Spectres. They had seen quite a bit of the galaxy. And they were tired of mourning their losses. So they, too, were interred in the Mausoleum.

By this time, the era of the Reapers had become almost as much a myth as the notion that the rachni had ever been the bogeymen of the galaxy. Over seventy species were now represented on the Council, but this very wide net generated factionalism. A civil war raged over the whole of the galaxy for several hundred years. . . a civil war that Pelagia on Omega and Laetia on the Citadel refused to harbor the ships from either side, and the AIs resident on Bastion angrily opposed. Mindoir, Aphras, and Tosal Nym remained neutral by policy. Spectre legend had it that Medium, channeling the voice of Lilitu Shepard, told her current crop of Spectres, to keep the war _away_ from Mindoir, and to get out there and do their damned jobs. The pure fact that the rachni refused to _move_ the ships of those involved in the rebellion made them a target for the rebels. This was. . . a very foolish mistake on their part. The galaxy had forgotten _why_ the rachni were their collective bogeymen.

By 5000 CE, a second civil war had broken out, this time between the 'older' species and the 'younger' ones. Again, Omega, Bastion, the Citadel, Mindoir, Aphras, and Tosal Nym were the balancing points of stability. And this gave the Keepers time to assemble their knowledge of a million years of history, and they, the geth, and the rachni assumed a middle ground that allowed them to negotiate with both sides, and get first a cease-fire, and then, a lasting peace.

At 10000 CE, there were a hundred and forty species in Council space. Rachni voices rang out between the stars, binding entire systems into harmony with each other, and millions of turians, humans, quarians, and even asari uploaded themselves, at death, into a massive network of minds, first envisioned by Takeshi and Emily Jaworski, thousands of years before.

At 30000 CE, Dyson rings around red dwarf stars—stars with longer life-spans than that expected of the entire _universe_—were common habitats for organics and synthetics alike. With over three thousand 'species' represented in the Council, the galaxy was simply too large and unwieldy to regulate, in many ways. The Council had broken it up into sub territories, but everyone had to abide by the basic tenets of Galactic law. The original relay system had been broken down for its eezo content, the dark matter relays, FTL, and instant rachni transit were the primary sources of travel. Humans and turians and their hybrids continued to enforce the peace, while rachni, geth, and Keepers provided the true middle ground for organics and synthetics alike.

In 40000 CE, black holes were harnessed for the first time as a _power source_. There was a certain amount of nervousness about this; the potential for it to be turned into a weapon was enormous. Entire star systems _could_ be annihilated. But the galaxy continued to move along at its accustomed pace. Dynasties rose and fell. The Reapers were a children's story. . . .

. . . except that the rachni, the geth, the Keepers, and the Spectres _remembered_. All of the lineal descendants of Dara and Eli, with their affinity for rachni memory, _remembered_.

The Spectres were, by this time, divided into two camps. The new and the old, in general terms. The newcomer species, who didn't believe in the tales of the Reapers. . . and the old. The ones who were almost a secret society within the Spectres. Who maintained the Mausoleum on Mindoir, which had filled, over the centuries, with the best and brightest of every era.

**52,183 CE, Mindoir**

_Everything. . . . ._

_. . . . passes. . . . _

She opened her eyes, panic surging through her. It hadn't worked. She hadn't fallen asleep. She was going to die here, trapped in this coffin. Or, worse, she'd woken up partway through the long sleep, and no one was going to hear her screaming.

She looked up, and saw a dearly familiar, and wholly human face, looking back down at her. Violet clan-paint on the jaws, dark eyes open, and almost as panicked as her own. She tried to speak, but her throat was too dry. _Eli?_ Bare whisper of song.

_Dara! __Sai'kaea—_

_Ciea'teilu__. We're awake—_

_We're alive._

_Everything passes. Oh god, everything passes, but some things remain._ They clutched each other, desperately, as the hood of their pod opened, scraping back with mechanisms grinding loudly.

Dara stared up out of the pod, and into her father's face, and reached out, and Sam pulled her up, clutching her for a moment, before pulling Eli out. Tears on every face as they all stumbled around, seeing old, familiar faces. Some so dearly missed, and for so long. Dempsey _shouting_ as he and Zhasa ran to them, and hugged them both fervently. Seheve looking down at her body, and murmuring, in wonder, "There's _no pain_."

"There have been medical advances since your era, Seheve Liakos."

The voice was geth, and familiar. Dara looked up in time to see that it was Composite. . . same old body, in fact, or at least, it looked it. . . making that explanation to the drell. Then Lin whooped and charged them. All their friends looked. . . .young. Young and healthy, as many of them hadn't been in years. And there was rachni song in Dara's mind. _Joy's_ song, her daughter whom she'd thought she'd never hear again. Teagan and Lantus were there, too, and Dara sobbed openly when she saw them. _I thought you were all lost to me,_ she thought, over and over, and finally found herself facing Garrus and Shepard, sitting in a corner with so many of their original crew. Wrex. Tali'Zorah and Kal'Reegar. Kasumi, one of her hands tightly clasped by Sam. Lantar, who still held Ellie as if she were a lifeline. "Well," Shepard said, quietly. "Medium here tells me it's been fifty thousand years." She looked boggled for a moment. "You know, as much time as we put into the damn project, I . . . honestly thought it would fail."

"Oh, thanks," Eli said. "That's very comforting to those of us who were stuck with it afterwards."

They were escorted up the stairs by . . . .descendants. Humans who didn't look entirely _human_ to Dara. Too smooth, in many ways. Hallmarks of asari descent, turian descent, quarian descent, here and there in their bodies. Up on the surface, Joy, who'd been preserved in a huge cryo-pod, thundered her happiness, which was echoed back across the _entire planet_ by rachni crystals, and Dara's head rolled back at the sound.

On the ground, there were two ships with incredibly familiar profiles. One was the mini-Reaper. The other . . . looked like the _Normandy_. Except it was crystalline, in a rachni sort of fashion. . . and it had _eyes._ It _looked_ at them, and Dara felt _awareness_ from it. That, more than anything, convinced her that this was real, and not some sort of. . . simulation dream. "Oh my god," she whispered, her eyes wide. "It's. . . alive."

_**Every bit of it**_, The voice was familiar, and powerful. Jeff Moreau was the one constant in the universe, it seemed. _**We adapted the living ship technology of the Titans several thousand years ago A little showy, isn't it?**_

_I rather like it_, EDI replied, calmly.

—_He's just pissed that I wound up with a nicer body than he has._

Mercuria was the one person in the crowd who lifted her head and said, "Grandfather?"

—_In the flesh, as it were. Welcome to the __Normandy.__ We know most of you_, the words encompassed the hundreds of people who surrounded the first members of the Excalibur project. Dara looked around frantically, finding more familiar faces. Samiel. Siege. Melaani. Dances and Sky's voices, curled at the back of her head. Rinus. Kallixta. Kallixta, looking young and new again, was eying the ship with. . . unabashed lust. _Many of you won't know each other. We'll take care of introductions once you're aboard._

_**But the most important people, most of you already know.**_ Joker's voice was firm. _**God damn, it's nice to see you again, Commander. Even good to see Garrus again. And I say that with something resembling love.**_

_And all those who came after, who protected the legacy_, EDI said, quietly. _Dara, Eli, Dempsey, Zhasa, and all the others. Those of us who remained. . . like Pelagia and myself. . . have __**missed**____you all._

Shepard raised her hand. "I have one important question."

_**Are the Reapers coming?**_

"Precisely."

_**We don't know. But what I do know, is that if they are coming? There's only one relay left that they can enter this galaxy through. The super-relay EDI and I found, so long ago. We've peeked through. And we're pretty sure that it was what the Sowers used to retreat from the Milky Way, originally.**_ A grin in Joker's voice. _**I think the Sowers owe us all a few answers, don't you? And if it's not the Sowers. . . if it's another galaxy completely controlled by the Reapers. . . .I think we owe THEM an invasion or two, don't you?**_

"Are we in any position to collect?" Shepard asked, crossing her arms across her chest.

_**Bet your sweet ass we are. . . Commander.**_

Shepard looked back over her shoulder, at the people she'd relied on to get them through the long night. The ultimate suicide mission, really. "What do you say?" she called. "Do you want to go see what's out there?"

Dara raised one shaking hand, and nodded. Feeling assent sweep through Eli. Though Rinus, Kallixta, Garrus, Lantar, her father, Kasumi. Amara, Kaius, Madison. Dempsey, Zhasa, Lin, Serana, Rel, Seheve, Samiel, Melaani. Through the rachni and through the geth.

"Yes," Eli said, for all of them. "Whether we're there to ask questions or there to fight the last war. . . let's go."

And as they boarded this new Normandy, Eli paused on the ramp. Stared up at the violet Mindoir sky that they'd waited so long to see again, and at the largely unchanged mountains of their beloved home. And then he leaned down and kissed Dara. Deeply. Passionately.

_Everything passes._

_And yet, we remain._

_Finus_

_**Author's note:**__ While certain people who will remain Eleventh have suggested that I entitle this 'On the Origins of the Sower War,' I now regard this story as done. I will be moving on to writing my own intellectual property. If I should happen to be published, I will post a notice, both here and on my forums. _

_I thank you all for the many kind notes people have sent me over the course of writing this behemoth. To the people whom it's helped through hard times. . . . that is perhaps one of the most humbling things an author can hear, and I'm . . . incredibly moved by this._

_To everyone who has cheered and encouraged and asked good questions, I thank you. To those whom this may have inspired to write your own stories. . . go forth and write. The only real secret is applying your butt to your chair and following through on the consequences. _

_To everyone who's stayed with me this long. . . thank you for reading. _

_Everything passes. And so has this._

_Update:_

**Author's Invitation**

Hello, everyone, Myetel here—

For me, _SoR_, for all that I loved writing it, was a lark. It's first-draft material. It has continuity errors that I tried to correct as I went along. It repeats itself now and again in places I didn't realize I'd been redundant. Sometimes, as I go back and re-read, I discover that I fell in love with a word or a phrase for a couple of chapters, and I really wish I _hadn't_. But on the whole, as I re-read, I'm sometimes very pleased, in a "I really wrote that? Dang. I don't remember that, but that was a _good phrase_" sort of way.

But it's not as polished as my new work, Edda-Earth. The first book of which is now available in Kindle format (available for everyone who wishes to purchase it to read, so long as you obtain the free Kindle app). That book is _The Valkyrie_. As noted at the beginning of this epilogue, you can find a direct link to it in my FanFiction profile.

I still intend to offer it to more traditional publishers. I merely got tired of the black hole that is conventional publishing. Sending off requests for representation to agents, and their email inboxes being too full to respond? Disheartening. Sending off a manuscript, never to even get a rejection letter? Discouraging, to say the least. So we move onwards.

My forums are still up, and I post there frequently:  .com

And if you head to my Facebook page (yes, I gave in and made one; here it is:  .com[SLASH] pages [SLASH] Edda-Earth [SLASH] 1409693822607652 ).

Oh, and as to what Eadd-Earth is about? Well . . . the first thought I had about this project actually came about when I was reading about Aztec, Maya, and other early religious practices, and I wondered what the Romans would have thought of those, had they been the ones to cross the Atlantic. Especially given their reaction to Carthage. That planted the seed. We all know that the Romans didn't have modern morality and ethics; from a modern perspective, they, too, were pretty barbarous.

One of the truisms that authors like to trot out is that if Rome hadn't fallen, there would have been no Dark Ages, and the world would be far more advanced than it is. I decided to run with that, and developed a timeline for science that differed substantially from our own world.

And as I did so, I decided that in this world, the gods were _all_ real. Magic exists, in several forms, and interrelates with science. Magic that isn't derived from the gods has to follow the rules of the universe that it's in. Thermodynamics, physics, and chemistry are the best aid of the modern sorcerer.

The work holds my trademark combination of adventure, history, combat, science, philosophy, romance, friendship, and humor in its pages, as well as some work on space and time that I'm pretty proud of. If you liked _SoR_, you'll like _Edda-Earth_.

—Myetel. . . Deborah L. Davitt


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